ironmonger | (no subject)

(no subject)

It's been a little longer than Obadiah might have liked since Milliways's last appearance - long enough that the bites on his neck have healed over with shining new scar tissue. They can be mostly hidden with a carefully arranged collar, and he does that during the day, especially at work. His disappearance created enough gossip as it was. No need to provide fresh material.

He's not doing that now, though. He's loosened his tie and tugged down his collar, because here there are certain parties whose reactions he's very interested in.

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"Meetings are boring," he says with that old familiar grin. "God save me from meetings. Give me a bottle of Jack and a drafting pen any day."

Obadiah shakes his head a little.

"See," he says, "if it had been me, the company would have gone under within a year."

(There's a slight edge to his voice, despite the way he smiles. He can't quite seem to contain it.)

He looks wry.

"I know."

Another surprise. This time he deliberately exaggerates his expression into one of shock.

"Careful, Howard, I'm starting to think being dead suits you."

Howard gestures expressively at himself, taking in the unwashed clothes and the unshaved chin and the nth beer of the day.

"I've had damn little to do other than drink and feel sorry for myself."

"I hear there's a brothel upstairs."

He's never used it.

(He also hears that the security is good, better than it is down here.)

He looks wry again.

"Haven't really felt like it."

"My god," Obadiah says, "you really are having a hard time with this, aren't you?"

(He can -

No.)

"I really am," Howard admits.

"Poor Howard."

(That edge is back in his voice again.

Which Howard is this? Whose world?

Does it matter? He's dead.)

This time, he catches it, and gives Obadiah a questioning look.

He's dead, and there's no reason to pretend -

And at least two people who can tell him the truth. And will, if they run into him.

And - why not be honest with himself? - he's fucking fantasized about the look on Howard's face if he ever found out.

Obadiah leans back casually, stopping a passing waitrat to order a drink. As he does so, he says,

"Do you remember that night I asked you how you'd go about causing a car wreck without anyone noticing?"

He doesn't.

And then he does.

And then he sees it all unfolding in his head, the conversation overlaid with the reality—you'd need just the right spot—

(flare of headlights on asphalt turned to blackness)

—out of the way, where no one would look until you were finished—

(the wheel spinning one way in his hands, the world spinning another)

—a steep incline next to the road, above or below it, the work is the same either way—

(couldn't see her, couldn't see anything, but he could hear her scream)

—you've got such a morbid sense of humour sometimes, Obadiah, I swear.

"...Jesus," he says, his voice tight, his hands white-knuckled and shaking on the arms of his chair. "Jesus Christ, Stane."

Obadiah watches him think, watches as it all comes together in Howard's mind, watches Howard's expression shift as he realizes that his best friend in the world wasn't.

"You should have listened to me a little more often, Howard," he says softly.

"Obviously not," he snaps. "I thought it was me, you bastard I thought it was me!"

One more connection flickers into his mind, and he snatches up his previously forgotten beer bottle and takes a swing at Obadiah's head.

It isn't exactly the reaction Obadiah had been expecting, but he's not the one who's been spending who knows how long drinking and not sleeping. He's just enough faster than Howard to get an arm up and block the blow.

"It was you, Howard!" he snaps, trying to grab for the bottle. "You think I wanted to do it? I gave you every chance! More than you deserved!"

Undeterred, he pulls back and tries again. He is no faster the second time.

"Fuck you. I don't care what you thought you wanted! I trusted you and you murdered me!"

James has been on duty all of fifteen seconds when the shouting starts. He's still pinning on his badge as he runs to intervene.

He gets there in time to stop the second blow, pulling the bottle out of Howard's hand and twisting his arm behind his back (firmly, but not roughly) as he yanks the man back and up to his feet.

"Hi!" he says brightly. "You boys care to join me in the security office to finish this little chat?"

Howard growls, but he doesn't struggle particularly hard. Not like someone who's desperate to finish what he started.

James keeps a firm grip on him, but it doesn't get any tighter. He nods to Obadiah.

(He recognizes (http://americas-son.livejournal.com/4872.html?thread=759304#t759304) him immediately, but doesn't say anything.)

"You too," he says. "Self-defense or no, let's get this sorted."

Obadiah gets up from the sofa and follows, resisting the urge to rub at the spot where the bottle hit. Even if Howard can't see the gesture, Obadiah still won't give him the satisfaction.

He's not the one in trouble, though. He didn't do anything wrong.

In the office, James asks Howard,

"You going to play nice if I let you sit, or should I just bung you in the cell right off?"

His tone is mild, even polite. Howard doesn't strike him as the type to keep being a problem.

"No, I'm done."

James is very right. Howard is in no way inclined to continue the fight, if you could call one and a half swings with an empty beer bottle a fight.

"All right."

James lets go and steps behind the desk, gesturing to the chairs in front of it.

"Have a seat, then, both of you."

He rummages in the desk drawers for a form and a biro.

"All of space-time to choose from," he grumbles, "and we're still stuck with the paper part of paperwork . . . Right." He points the biro at Howard. "I'll have your side of it first. And your name."

He heard what Howard was shouting and he's far from unsympathetic.

"Howard Stark," he says, dropping into a chair and gesturing sharply to Obadiah without looking at him. "I'm dead. Got drunk and drove off a cliff with my wife in the car. This asshole just told me he arranged the cliff. Because I didn't listen to him often enough."