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[ingeniar]

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USERNAME: STARK

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backdated to post-j'accuse

[rehandle]

[ The walk to the house is almost as potent as the night of the marks, and for all the wrong reasons. Stephen is almost silent, a grave air to the set of his face and any answers kept short. Shadowheart isn't with them. He can't blame her after the way he's been this week. The only real surprise is that he's not making this walk alone.

They make it back. It's a building they've lived in for a little over a month now and the only home they've ever shared, and maybe it's this thought or maybe it's the sight of Tony's back as he goes to replicate that first bonded night's routine of water before bed, but the overworked tendon of Stephen's resolve snaps.

He reaches out, lost child in the dark, catches fingers into coarse wool to keep him from straying too far. Not knowing what to do with him once he's caught him but not wanting to leave him to pull away or turn to watch him crumple, Stephen closes the gap, brow dropped against his hair and reaching around to take a fresh handful of the knit at Tony's front, unsteady breath spilling down over his nape. ]

[ingeniar]

[ It's been a shitty day in a string of shitty days. Tony grew tired of the game shortly after it started and hasn't warmed back up to it since. He avoids it as much as he can, retreating to the smithy or the cottage with his phone, uncharacteristically, ignored. The smell of death on the wind makes him feel panicky and useless; he spends his nights drafting suits of armour he can't make, using up precious sheets of paper reworking the designs over and over.

He has to turn up to the voting, though. If it wasn't a town rule, something in him makes him want to go. He's pretty sure it's not natural, but that doesn't mean he can ignore it. He sits near the back, unhappy and fidgeting, eyes fixed on Stephen and Shadowheart in turn, occasionally tracking the faces of his colleagues, people he's known for years -- or thought he knew, at least. It feels like watching some horrific play, with actors pretending to be his friends and companions.

On the walk back, he's as silent and unhappy as Stephen, though his failures seem much less personal. It's easy to slip back into that routine, making the place as secure as they can for the night, working their way around a little house that's on its way to becoming familiar.

He's running the faucet and about to turn and ask if Stephen wants some tea before they try and fake sleep for a few hours when the man himself interrupts. The arm that roughly grips him feels strong and desperate, a man reaching for a life raft in the middle of the ocean. Tony shuts off the tap, reaches up to rub his palm over Stephen's knuckles instead. Bows his head, letting himself become the curve around which Stephen can find purchase. ]

Hey. [ Reassuring, or trying to be. ] Hey, come on.

[ He threads his fingers through Stephen's and tugs his hand up a bit to fit it more firmly over his own heart. ]

Could be worse.

[rehandle]

You want to tell me how?

[ It's not a real request. The bid to calm him down is only that, and he appreciates it, for all he can't leave it unchallenged. Tony's hand finds his hand, his fingers find his fingers, and he replaces his vice grip on fabric with a tight hold on the hand holding his.

Tony's heart beats against the back of his curled fingers, and he scrunches his closed eyes and buries his face a little further, tucks his nose in against warm skin. ]

I'm sorry. I can't stop, I'm—

[ Helpless, helpless as he had been that first night when Tony took his hand to ground him, helpless as they both are now. He understands a little better than he ever could've done before the strain Tony was under in that ship in deep space, the yawning terror of being just a man in the face of the inevitability of pending oblivion.

It's selfish, what he's doing. He's no more equipped to help with this than anyone else here, but he's making enemies left and right, draining himself to the point of aggravated exhaustion, taking it out on the only people he could really make a difference being available to support. ]

Would it make it easier if I did?

[ He's not the only one suffering through this. Busy playing detective, he's left both Tony and Shadowheart to fend for themselves. ]

[ingeniar]

Hey. Come on. We don't give up.

[ It sounds kind of silly and small to say it there, in their dark and quiet little kitchen, but it's also the truth, and one of the few things that's been helping Tony himself stay upright.

He lets go of Stephen's hand, but only so he can turn around, bullying his way into the space he wants to be in by just making it happen. Face to face in the dim shadows, he frowns, reminded of their journey hurtling towards Titan. ]

Sure, it's easier when the bad guys make it more obvious. [ He reaches up with both hands, sets his thumbs to Stephen's temples and strokes back over those wings of grey into his hair, holds onto him like that. ] Sure, we're kind of out of practice. And stuck without any magic or useful tech that's not a goddamn.. Tamagotchi. And we're facing something weird and terrible that's killing our friends. But that doesn't mean we give up. I'm pretty sure that's not what your monk guys in Outer Mongolia or wherever taught you, right? Even when we think we're down, we're not out. We don't let ourselves be out. We keep trying, don't we?

Come on. [ He softens a little, touching Stephen's cheek instead. Gently, though there are still lines between his brows, tension gathered in the corners of his mouth. ] I need you to not be out, right now. I need that. Our girl needs it. Stephen.