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[ingeniar]

telepathy | letters | action

content warning: some threads may be nsfw and contain references to drinking, violence, character death

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[rehandle]

[ It's— horrible. Each passing second worse than the last as he grips Tony firm, works to oppose his bids to get clear, his urging pleas. One tube pulls free of his body and Stephen pays no mind to the way its contents spill over bedsheets, trail a line down the leg of his pants as he lets it drop to the floor, focus on stemming the bleed that itself seems only halfheartedly interested in spreading through the cloth packed against the wound.

And then the fight goes out of Tony entirely. And that's almost worse. Stephen's focus raises to his face as he speaks in a voice that sounds so helpless, so lost, that he almost yearns to force the tube back in beneath his skin to let him find some peace.

But the itching is coming back. And it's a symptom of something neither one of them understands yet. He can't let himself get caught up in the delusion - he can't. A fresh red band moves to replace his hand clamping down over the cloth, and with a brief snatch of clarity Stephen clamps the remaining tubes with the same method. Stops the flow.

Then his freed hand is a cradle for Tony's head, fingers through damp hair and palm a cushion for his skull, thumb hooked around an ear with its pad pressed to his cheekbone. ]

I'm going to help you. I'm going to help you, Tony. It's always worse before it's better. You have to let me help.

[ingeniar]

[ In the fog of paranoia and blood loss, Stephen's hand is a beacon and an anchor, a holding point for Tony's consciousness. He leans into it, looking up into Stephen's face, a childish vulnerability in his expression, wanting to hope and trust that he's right. Wanting, so very badly, to believe that he can help.

But -- ]

No. You can't help. Unless you help me get them out. [ He licks his dry lips and doesn't pull away, or move; he doesn't have the strength left to do it, or to resist very much at all. ]

You need to fix it. Help me do it. Or you're just gonna.. let me die.

[rehandle]

[ There's a moment where he thinks it might be enough. Where he thinks he sees some shift in Tony's face - hope, or maybe just plain exhaustion - that'll see this part over. See him place trust, stop the battle.

The moment passes. Stephen blinks with the vehemence, the certainty in the statement, drawing back just a little as if buffeted by it.

But so be it. If he needs to do this against his will, he'll just have to see it done. Stephen shifts, hand still a careful cradle, the other arm hooking the bands holding Tony's wrists together over his forearm as behind him tubes lift from their containers to drip residue into glass and bowl and floor in a bid to prevent any worse spillage when Stephen guides Tony around and down, controlling his weight with that hooked arm, settling him back onto his bloodied bed. He only eases his hand free once Tony's head is safely in his pillow.

Then it's onward to the second tube, new cloth ready to soak up tired blood. ]