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playboy_philanthropistMiddle of the night - good thing that all the music practice rooms need is a keycode, and you have a little baby Steinway all to yourself. Some are older than others, a little dented around the corners, but there’s one with a nice dry sound right at the end of the hall. He cycles through a couple of pieces, and cycles again, and finally settles on a Rachmaninoff, because why the hell not.
He makes his way through the music with no real intention, skipping and repeating sections at will, and soon he realizes, mostly from the prickle at the back of his neck, that he’s being watched. Again. He smiles and murmurs, "I was wondering when you'd show up."
Hands rest on his shoulders from behind. “I heard the music,” the young man says, his lips brushing Tony’s ear. Those hands slide over his chest, arms loosely coiling around his neck, and the tune shifts without Tony meaning it to. His fingers dance over the keys in Salieri’s Piano Concerto in C Major and a frown creases his brow at a vague memory of pain blooming in his chest. He stops playing. “Oh, you don’t have to stop on account of me.”
“Do you know how hard it is to play with someone hanging on you?” Tony says, pushing his thoughts away and tilting his head back to look at the young man (longer black hair; it’s deep in winter and nobody bothers with a haircut). “Sit.”
The young man sits next to him on the bench, his back to the keys, and Tony continues where he left off on the Rachmaninoff piece. It’s still kind of difficult with this weight leaning more and more onto his arm and this mop of black hair drooping tiredly onto his shoulder. J-lab must be tough, Tony thinks, and then he snorts, because, hell, it’s J-lab.
Then, about one-hundred and fifty measures in, the young man scrambles up from the bench and rushes to the door. Tony stops, and looks over to see him peering through the thin window into the hallway, and then he jerks back, and pins himself flat against the wall - as out of sight as he can be in this small room.
“Hey, what - “ he starts to ask, but stops as the young man raises a hand in the universal symbol for shut the fuck up. He gets up and goes to the window, looking down both ends of the hallway, and there’s no one - but he looks over to see his friend shaking, giving the opposite wall a thousand-mile stare. Tony frowns and reaches out, touching his arm above the elbow. “Hey,” he tries again, “whoever it is, it’s gone, okay?”
For a moment, there’s a palpable feeling of relief, but then the young man falters, and despite Tony’s attempt at holding him up, his knees buckle, and he slides down against the wall, and Tony moves right along with them, until they are sitting side by side on the floor with their knees drawn up tight. “...do you want to go to Medical?” he asks, and the young man gives him a sharp look, to which Tony shrugs. “I’m just asking. Or we can sit here.” The young man presses his forehead to his knees, but his arm remains entwined with Tony’s, keeping him close, and Tony resigns himself to this. “Okay,” he says as he gets comfortable against the wall. “We’ll sit.”
It’s nice, really; the silence lets him think. He leans his head back against the wall, his eyes closed. The door jostles and they both jump. It jostles again with the second, third, fourth, fifth, and sixth number of the code, and Tony’s arm begins to feel comfortably numb where black fingernails are digging into his skin. “No,” he thinks he hears, and Tony shifts to better be between his friend and the door when the handle turns against the lock.
The door jostles again. It’s the wrong code. He stays still, waiting for the next keycode and entry attempt. The handle doesn’t move. Everything is quiet. The seconds tick by and curiosity outweighs caution. He pushes himself up high enough to peek through the window with some effort, ignoring the vicious tugs on his arm to yank him down. He tilts his head to look down the empty hall, his forehead nearly against the glass. Gone. He relaxes. A reassuring smile graces his lips as he looks down at his friend when the figure fills the window.
Tony’s eyes snap up and go wide in terror. He can’t breath. Can’t hear anything over the pounding of his heart. Can’t think for once, which is pretty miraculous. Everything falls away and all he sees is darkness. And stars... A million constellations and galaxies he doesn’t know. It’s so cold. He’s falling -
And falling.
And falling.
And strong arms wrap around his chest from behind, and that oh-so-familiar voice whispers in his ear, tired and quiet, “You’re such an idiot, Stark.”
Tony shot up straight in bed, his breathing ragged and his heart hammering against the arc reactor. He reached a shaky hand up to trace his fingers against the cold metal, trying to get some grounding and stability from its presence and glow. He was safe. He was at home. That was one good thing about the view, it really didn’t let you forget fully where you were. Even so, he had to repeat the words in his head far too many times. The lingering fear... It was worse than his other nightmares. That pure flight or fight instinct was still hammering through his veins in a way that was too reminiscent of Afghanistan. He scrubbed his hands over his face before sliding out of bed. He grabbed a glass of water from the bathroom before padding into their sitting room. He sunk down into a chair, pulled up a computer screen, and sipped slowly at his water, trying very hard to resist the urge for something stronger. Much, much stronger. One glass per night alone... Which had so many loopholes to exploit. That he’d already exploited. But he was trying...
He just needed to take his mind off of everything for moment. He’d just surf the net a bit. Maybe work on some schematics. Just an hour or two and then he’d go back to bed... Hopefully...
He makes his way through the music with no real intention, skipping and repeating sections at will, and soon he realizes, mostly from the prickle at the back of his neck, that he’s being watched. Again. He smiles and murmurs, "I was wondering when you'd show up."
Hands rest on his shoulders from behind. “I heard the music,” the young man says, his lips brushing Tony’s ear. Those hands slide over his chest, arms loosely coiling around his neck, and the tune shifts without Tony meaning it to. His fingers dance over the keys in Salieri’s Piano Concerto in C Major and a frown creases his brow at a vague memory of pain blooming in his chest. He stops playing. “Oh, you don’t have to stop on account of me.”
“Do you know how hard it is to play with someone hanging on you?” Tony says, pushing his thoughts away and tilting his head back to look at the young man (longer black hair; it’s deep in winter and nobody bothers with a haircut). “Sit.”
The young man sits next to him on the bench, his back to the keys, and Tony continues where he left off on the Rachmaninoff piece. It’s still kind of difficult with this weight leaning more and more onto his arm and this mop of black hair drooping tiredly onto his shoulder. J-lab must be tough, Tony thinks, and then he snorts, because, hell, it’s J-lab.
Then, about one-hundred and fifty measures in, the young man scrambles up from the bench and rushes to the door. Tony stops, and looks over to see him peering through the thin window into the hallway, and then he jerks back, and pins himself flat against the wall - as out of sight as he can be in this small room.
“Hey, what - “ he starts to ask, but stops as the young man raises a hand in the universal symbol for shut the fuck up. He gets up and goes to the window, looking down both ends of the hallway, and there’s no one - but he looks over to see his friend shaking, giving the opposite wall a thousand-mile stare. Tony frowns and reaches out, touching his arm above the elbow. “Hey,” he tries again, “whoever it is, it’s gone, okay?”
For a moment, there’s a palpable feeling of relief, but then the young man falters, and despite Tony’s attempt at holding him up, his knees buckle, and he slides down against the wall, and Tony moves right along with them, until they are sitting side by side on the floor with their knees drawn up tight. “...do you want to go to Medical?” he asks, and the young man gives him a sharp look, to which Tony shrugs. “I’m just asking. Or we can sit here.” The young man presses his forehead to his knees, but his arm remains entwined with Tony’s, keeping him close, and Tony resigns himself to this. “Okay,” he says as he gets comfortable against the wall. “We’ll sit.”
It’s nice, really; the silence lets him think. He leans his head back against the wall, his eyes closed. The door jostles and they both jump. It jostles again with the second, third, fourth, fifth, and sixth number of the code, and Tony’s arm begins to feel comfortably numb where black fingernails are digging into his skin. “No,” he thinks he hears, and Tony shifts to better be between his friend and the door when the handle turns against the lock.
The door jostles again. It’s the wrong code. He stays still, waiting for the next keycode and entry attempt. The handle doesn’t move. Everything is quiet. The seconds tick by and curiosity outweighs caution. He pushes himself up high enough to peek through the window with some effort, ignoring the vicious tugs on his arm to yank him down. He tilts his head to look down the empty hall, his forehead nearly against the glass. Gone. He relaxes. A reassuring smile graces his lips as he looks down at his friend when the figure fills the window.
Tony’s eyes snap up and go wide in terror. He can’t breath. Can’t hear anything over the pounding of his heart. Can’t think for once, which is pretty miraculous. Everything falls away and all he sees is darkness. And stars... A million constellations and galaxies he doesn’t know. It’s so cold. He’s falling -
And falling.
And falling.
And strong arms wrap around his chest from behind, and that oh-so-familiar voice whispers in his ear, tired and quiet, “You’re such an idiot, Stark.”
Tony shot up straight in bed, his breathing ragged and his heart hammering against the arc reactor. He reached a shaky hand up to trace his fingers against the cold metal, trying to get some grounding and stability from its presence and glow. He was safe. He was at home. That was one good thing about the view, it really didn’t let you forget fully where you were. Even so, he had to repeat the words in his head far too many times. The lingering fear... It was worse than his other nightmares. That pure flight or fight instinct was still hammering through his veins in a way that was too reminiscent of Afghanistan. He scrubbed his hands over his face before sliding out of bed. He grabbed a glass of water from the bathroom before padding into their sitting room. He sunk down into a chair, pulled up a computer screen, and sipped slowly at his water, trying very hard to resist the urge for something stronger. Much, much stronger. One glass per night alone... Which had so many loopholes to exploit. That he’d already exploited. But he was trying...
He just needed to take his mind off of everything for moment. He’d just surf the net a bit. Maybe work on some schematics. Just an hour or two and then he’d go back to bed... Hopefully...
