ironmonger | (no subject)

There is a longer period of quiet. Tony is curled up half on his side, shuddering periodically when it gets to be too much, which is often.

For some reason the thought his mind settles on is of doing this to Sherry. Enforced idleness plus enforced stimulation—he'd crack, and fast, probably much faster than Tony will, but if you timed it right he'd crack in the very very good way.

Probably about how Tony will.

He shudders again, but he's smiling.

Obadiah listens closely for any and all sounds from the bedroom.

He doesn't expect Tony to be difficult to hear once he gets going, but it would be a shame to miss too much of the warm-up.

It is a surprisingly long time before he even moves again.

(It was a very engaging train of thought.)

But now he's not thinking exactly, and what he's doing that isn't thinking is happening in little flashes, quick transitory fragments of sense memory—the taste of steel and Obadiah's fingers inside him and the sound of his own voice sobbing helplessly and the very sudden, very physical knowledge of his pulse starting to race when he first saw the gun.

So he shifts again, and once he's started he finds it very difficult to stop, because there is absolutely nowhere he can go and nothing he can do to get away from this. He already knows that. He proved it a while ago. But he can't keep the knowledge in his head and although this frantic squirming is the opposite of helpful he's doing it anyway.

Just as he's beginning to wonder a little

(he's a patient man, but he'd have to be a saint to stand out here and know what's waiting for him in there and not feel at least a twinge)

he hears Tony start squirming again, and this time it keeps going.

Obadiah smiles to himself and sips his drink.

He manages to make himself go still again and stay that way for not quite half a minute, through the application of a staggering amount of willpower, but it doesn't last. When the squirming starts up again this time, there is whimpering to go with it.

The one clear benefit of being out here is that he isn't required to maintain a show of iron self-control.

When he hears Tony start to whimper, he shudders.

It's a soft, pleading sound, and it's getting louder. God knows who he's trying to plead with. Certainly not Obadiah, who isn't here

(except he is, he's listening to every second of this, Tony knows he is, it's fucking wonderful)

and couldn't be expected to care even if he was.

Obadiah takes a long, slow sip of whiskey, closing his eyes as though he were listening to fine music.

This time, it's exhaustion that stops him moving, and it only means there are fewer extra noises competing with his strained, desperate voice.

Obadiah puts his free hand in his pocket. Best to resist temptation.

And eventually, those sounds trail off too, fading into soft ragged breaths and the occasional broken moan.

Obadiah's glass is empty by now, but he doesn't refill it. He just holds on to it.

He'll give Tony a few more minutes.

Those few minutes are simultaneously competing for the best and worst few minutes of Tony Stark's entire fucking life.

His various noises become slightly more muffled when he turns over onto his stomach and buries his face in the tearstained pillow.

That'll just about do it, Obadiah decides, putting his glass down.

He opens and closes the door again, but doesn't bother with the shoes. Tony will be too far gone to notice and he doesn't feel like dealing with them.

He takes a slow breath, then calmly goes back to the bedroom and pushes the door open.

Tony doesn't react to the sound of either door. It's debatable whether he hears them on any kind of conscious level. He is just a little bit preoccupied right now, you see.

"Did I tell you you could do that?" he asks mildly, leaning against the doorjamb.

He goes from limp with exhaustion to tense and motionless almost instantly.

Then he shakes his head.

"I can't even trust you alone for five minutes," Obadiah says scoldingly.

(It's been a lot longer than that, but never mind.)

He walks over to sit down on the bed, getting a fresh pair of gloves out of the box.

"Honestly, Tony, haven't you learned a single thing today?"

Tony shivers, but is otherwise afraid to move.

"I'm sorry," he tells the pillow.

"You should be."

Obadiah reaches over and turns the plug off, then starts working it out with impatient little tugs.

(He puts plenty of exasperation into his body language and movements to amplify the idea that he's being forceful and direct Tony away from noticing that he isn't really being all that rough as he removes the plug.)

The effort is wasted at first because Tony isn't looking, but he glances back over his shoulder after a few seconds and watches. Helplessly. It feels even more impossible going out than coming in, and he is just as powerless to do anything about it.

He's well aware of Tony's eyes on him, but for once doesn't look at him to make eye contact. He focuses instead on the plug, lips pressed together.

Once he's gotten the thickest segment out, it's much quicker going, and it isn't long before he's dropping it into another, smaller box tucked discreetly back against the wall. Maybe he'll make Tony be the one to clean it later.

"Turn over," he says shortly.

Shaking a little, keeping his eyes on Obie's face as much as he can, Tony obeys.

"You were doing so well, too."

Once Tony is on his back, Obadiah straddles him again, the same position as before.

"I'm very disappointed," he says, and puts his hands around Tony's throat.

He closes his eyes. His lips part slightly. He exhales, then breathes in again slowly, waiting all the while for Obadiah's hands to close and the flow of air to stop.

It's not that he's not afraid; he is. He just... surrenders anyway.