Silence reigns supreme for a few minutes, then—
“Can’t you just, I don’t know, do your thing and fix it?” He asks, offering the bulky pieces to the seething brunet.
“Just, like, do your science-genius thing and—“
“You— it’s not just a broken clock!” Tony shrieks, an almost demented look in his eyes. His left arm shoots out, violently gesturing toward the window— through which Scott can see a bewildered George Washington, somehow still dignified in stance as he tries to converse politely with who can only be Aristotle; heavy robes sweeping the ground as the philosopher frowns at the powdered wig upon the former (future?) President’s head.
“You quite literally shattered the very concept of time, not to mention the balance of space! The fabric of our universe is in tatters and you think I can fix it with a clock?”
“Tony,” comes cautiously from the corner, and Steve wipes a hand over his face.
“We don’t exactly have another option at the moment.”
For a moment, the soldier looks every inch his hundred years, a frustrated grimace twisting his lips. He heaves to his feet, eyes avoiding the window as he takes a step further into the room.