toblameforit | the flames are all long gone

the flames are all long gone

There's a Stark boy sprawled on the couch at Milliways. Black T-shirt, blue jeans, one bottle of beer in his hand and three of its depleted fellows lined up on the table beside him. His identity is not in question, particularly not to someone who knows the origin of the bruises slowly fading from the side of his neck.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

It's Tony's eighteenth birthday at home. Milliways turns up at the end of the evening, when Obadiah has begged out of continued celebration with claims of old age (at which Tony scoffed), having to get up for an actual job in the morning unlike some people (which Tony announced was boring), and finally mention of still having a little recovering to do (at which Tony sobered a little, and Sherlock said nothing so loudly that Obadiah could hear him from across the room).

It is true that he's a bit tired, and he briefly considers closing the Door again and hoping Milliways takes the hint.

Then he spots the boy on the couch and changes his mind, smiling and stepping inside instead.

Tony looks up, brightens, and waves.

"Hey, Obie!"

Obadiah goes directly over to the couch, taking a seat and kissing Tony's temple.

"Evening, Tony."

He grins, straightening a little, and tips his head back to finish that fourth beer.

There is a faint reddened smudge on his neck, placed directly between two of those bruises. Four more across from it, marching down the line of his throat, all of them on clean skin where they will be most visible. Someone's hand has been on Tony's neck, has pressed hard enough to leave marks, and has done it in as deliberately unambiguous a way as possible while still being subtle enough to escape immediate notice.

Tony, of course, doesn't have a clue. He sets his empty beer down beside the rest and grins with genuine innocence.

As messages go, it's not an especially discreet one. But then, it's obviously not supposed to be.

A slight frown flickers briefly across his face.

...yeah, that, Tony doesn't miss.

He reaches over to tip Tony's chin up, not ungently.

"I see you mentioned our conversation before to Sherlock," he says mildly.

He blushes.

"Oh my God, Sherry," he mutters with exasperated affection.

"Not very subtle, is he."

The look he gives Tony is mostly wry.

Tony grins ruefully and gives him a quick kiss.

"Yeah, uh."

(He lasted about a minute and a half from the moment he stepped in the door of his room to the moment he opened his mouth and said, You're not gonna like this.

Sherry really didn't.)

"I told him we'd talked about it. He said good call."

(Actually, his exact words were Damned right I would have killed him. I still might. Tony flatly told him not to. Eventually, he agreed.)

"Didn't think he'd get so high school about it, though." His hand rises to touch the fresh marks. He can't feel them, but he knows they're there; he remembers very well how they happened. How gentle Sherry was, how safe he felt. It occurs to him that maybe Obie wasn't the only person that was a message for.

Obadiah's answer is very dry.

"Should I ask him for a list of the extracurricular activities I'm allowed to pursue?"

Tony... blushes again!

Obadiah studies him thoughtfully.

His fingers are still hovering just under Tony's chin; he presses them into place again as he asks,

"Or maybe a list of extracurricular activities you're allowed to pursue?"

"Oh boy," he murmurs.

But his own hand finds Obie's shoulder and rests there, just beside the trailing edges of the scar hidden under his shirt.

"Look," he says, and he finds as he does that it's true, "I trust you."

Not to have his best interests at heart, hell no. But to more or less take care of him. To prefer him alive over dead by a long shot.

"I know you do," Obadiah murmurs. "That means a lot to me."

His hand eases up under Tony's chin, fingertips just barely brushing the skin.

His eyes flutter closed; he smiles.

Stops.

Opens them again.

"Does it?"

- damn. The birthday celebration earlier threw him off. Not only is there no need to lay it on so thick with this Tony, it's even a bad idea. This Tony knows enough to notice.

How did he lose track so easily?

Still, this isn't unsalvageable. Yet. He switches tactics, letting his hand fall away and his expression turn more serious.

"It does," he says. "Things in my world would have played out a lot differently if you hadn't trusted me. That does matter to me."

He snorts. "Okay, I'll buy it," he says wryly. "And look, I know bullshitting me is probably reflex by now, but could you try to quit it?"

Tony hasn't forgotten how this all started. Something real. Well, he got that. Got a lot of that. Is the supply starting to run out? He hopes not.

Obadiah rubs his forehead ruefully. (There's more authenticity to it than there is to a lot of the gestures and looks he uses with others.)

"Sorry," he says. "We were celebrating your eighteenth birthday back home. I started running on autopilot about halfway through. Guess I forgot to turn it off."

"Happy birthday to me, I guess."

Obadiah smiles.

"He seemed very happy," he says. "He didn't look like he was planning on slowing down any time soon when I excused myself."

"Of course. Shit, you guys are in New York? Did he fly to Montreal?"

"This weekend," Obadiah says. "Under the circumstances, he preferred to have me around on the day itself." Tony has been a bit clingy since the Galen incident.

Obadiah doesn't mind.

"...yeah," he says quietly, squeezing Obie's shoulder a little where his hand still rests there. "I'll bet he did."

Obadiah smiles fondly, touching Tony's hand.

"He's all right," he says.

"Good."

He smiles back, equally fond and a little sad.

Obadiah kisses his forehead.

Sherlock can leave all the messages he wants. Obadiah still has a claim on this Tony, as much he he does on his own.

Tony leans in close, his hand sliding from Obie's shoulder to wrap lightly around the back of his neck, and kisses him.

It is a very definite kiss. Sherry isn't the only one around here who can deliver an unambiguous message.

In this case, Obadiah can make an exception to his preference for keeping the show they put on downstairs slightly more ambiguous. For a moment or two. His own hand moves around behind Tony, to rest at the small of his back.

He makes a contented little sound into the kiss.

'Safe' isn't exactly the first word that comes to mind, but that's okay. It doesn't have to be. Just as long as it's on the list at all.

"So," he murmurs, pulling away just far enough to let the words out, "your place or mine?"

"I imagine we're less likely to meet with disapproval in mine," Obadiah says, only a little dry this time.

"Yeah," he concedes. "I'd figure he'd just go away if we were in there when he got to the door, but—" his hand touches his throat— "I'm not so sure now." He leans in for a quick kiss. "Your place it is."

That's fine with Obadiah. It isn't the concession it might seem like. He prefers to use his own room for Milliways hookups; Sherlock is providing an excuse to keep to that.

"All right, then," he says, getting up to lead the way.

Tony follows only a step behind.

By now, the third time, he barely even thinks about how weird it is. It just makes sense. Tony loves Obie, and as much as he is capable of it, Obie loves him back.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

the flames are all long gone

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject