ironmonger | (no subject)

He allows himself to look ruefully amused.

"I wasn't sure it wouldn't blow up in my face," he says, confessional.

"All right. I think about it sometimes. That's what fantasy is for. Things you can't or won't do in real life. I like to indulge in the fantasy that I could get you off no matter what."

That definitely has an effect. A positive one... more or less.

(Tony looks very like Sherlock right now. Standing straight, chin up, face calm—perhaps the word is: uncompromising.)

"Yeah?" he repeats, softer now. Thoughtful. The tight anxious feeling, the hollow growing in his chest, hasn't gone away, but he's not really scared. Just nervous. And he's starting to let himself think about why.

Yes.

He nods.

"Like I said. I like it when you enjoy yourself."

"Yeah, you keep mentioning that part," Tony observes.

He pauses for a moment as though marshaling his words, and then says, "Are you trying to make this nice? Because it's not nice."

It's a lot of things. Very possibly hot; very possibly intoxicatingly hot. But nice? No.

"No," Obadiah says readily. "It's not. But that's the part that . . . keeps my attention. That's the core of it. Without that, it's just . . ." Boring.

He shrugs slightly.

"Not about you anymore."

—oh now there's a thought that—no. Moving on. Because no. This is going to stay a conversation about Tony because anything else is too depressing to contemplate.

He moves away from the door at last, rests his hands on Obadiah's shoulders, and gives him a very quick, very gentle kiss.

"So," he murmurs—still steady, still thoughtful, only barely nervous— "I guess we should talk, huh."

He smiles a little, reaching up to stroke Tony's cheek. It's a light, affectionate touch.

"I guess we should."

Tony leans into it slightly, not quite smiling back.

"'cause I think maybe we could work something out there," he says quietly. "If we both know what we're doing. If we both know the risks. We could both get hurt, and I don't want that to happen. But I do wanna know where this goes."

And he trusts Obie. That part should be obvious from the fact that he is standing here talking about this.

"Of course," Obadiah murmurs. "We'll have to be absolutely sure to be on the same page."

He is more than willing and prepared to do all the necessary legwork, before and after, with such a payoff. He cannot have this go wrong.

"I mean, if we fuck it up bad enough you could end up dead, and I—" his voice catches— "really don't want that. And I don't wanna get all messed up, either."

Oh, there are a million ways this could go horribly wrong. And yet Tony isn't thinking to himself what a bad idea it is. He's not thinking about how Obadiah could so easily use it to hurt him. He's thinking that he wants it to work, that they're going to do it right or not at all, that he loves Obie and trusts him and that if they pull this off it's going to be amazing.

"Yes, I don't want myself dead, either," Obadiah says, a bit dry, before turning serious again.

"And I don't want to do any damage to you. That's been more or less the point from the start." Taking care of the one issue takes care of the other; if he doesn't harm Tony, the threat to his own wellbeing is irrelevant.

He really does smile at that—at the second part.

"I know."

Obadiah smiles back, kissing Tony's forehead.

"There's always a chance to change our minds if we realize it's not going to work."

"I know," he repeats. The smile fades, but he still looks fond, still looks happy.

"So—wanna sit down, get drunk, and talk about kinky sex?"

"Sure," Obadiah says agreeably. "But talking only."

Which Tony knows, of course, but alcohol isn't known for improving people's impulse control. Especially people named Stark.

And Sherlock wasn't wrong about the marks; best to keep them hidden until they're a little less obvious.

"'course," he says. And he really does mean it. And he really does know how to get drunk and talk about kinky sex without actually having any, thank you, Sherry.

"I'll get the whiskey."

"All right."

Obadiah will just make himself comfortable in the meantime.

This evening is turning out to be better than he could possibly have hoped.

A minute or so later, Tony is settling in beside him on the couch, passing him a glass (the one that's just a little more full) and leaning comfortably on his shoulder.

He doesn't say anything immediately—too many questions; he doesn't know where to start. But that's okay. They'll get to it. They'll get to all of it.

Obadiah takes a moment to savor the drink, the moment, the warmth of Tony leaning against him.

Eventually, he says,

"I suppose we should start with your limits."

"I'm not sure we should, actually," he says, slow and thoughtful. "I mean, I don't... I don't know them that well."

A pause, to think about exactly what he means by it, and then he continues:

"I can't think of anything you would do that I wouldn't want you to."

He knows Obie's not going to kill him; he knows he's not going to walk away with anything worse than some bruises, and bruises are okay. So that's fine.

"And if we find anything while we're at it, that's what safewords are for."

Every once in a while, the fact that he genuinely wants to keep this Tony's trust is a frustrating one.

For a brief moment, this is one of these times. Tony has no idea how open he's just left himself. It would be so easy to leave it that way, to just take what he's being so innocently offered. Easy, and deeply satisfying. Tony would never see it coming.

But Obadiah makes a thoughtful sound, and sips his drink, and the moment passes.

"I don't mean just physically," he says. "I mean - well, the scenario itself. What level of realism can you tolerate?"

He goes still for a moment—just a moment. Because he's thinking about it.

It scares him a little; it turns him on a lot more.

And his conclusion is, "I don't know." And a little smile and a sip of whiskey and, very quiet, "More than you think I can."

Obadiah looks at him. The look is mostly fond, with an edge of something else. It's a good thing he's gotten off already tonight; it'll make it that much easier for him to focus.

"You understand," he says with affection, "that I'd rather err on the side of caution here."

The pressure is back, forcing his heart farther into his chest. Weird way to feel nerves.

His smile widens anyway.

"I know. And I love you."

There's no real need to say the second part, no reason, but he couldn't not.

He smiles back.

"I know," he says. "I just don't want it to cloud your judgment. Your ability to evaluate yourself, not me."