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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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."

James didn't react to recognizing Obadiah Stane, but he does respond to Howard's name - his expression softens from official to genuinely serious as he makes the connection.

Tony and Sherlock's dad. Doesn't that just bloody figure.

"All right," he murmurs, jotting down notes in shorthand.

When he looks up again, the look he turns on Stane is none too friendly. He understands a bit better now why Cal told him so coolly that Stane deserved his fate.

"Your turn."

Obadiah doesn't care what kind of look he's getting. He's in the clear. He can't be punished for anything outside of Milliways here.

"That's more or less accurate," he says. "There are a couple people here who know the truth, so I thought he may as well hear it from me. I didn't realize he'd react so badly."

He casts Howard a sweetly concerned glance.

"Don't be too rough on him, he's not usually the violent type."

"Neither are you," he snorts. "Too chickenshit to just shoot me—had to blow out a whole road instead."

"Oh, don't think I wasn't tempted," Obadiah says. "At least once a week. But if I had a nickel for every time someone thought about shooting you, I could have just bought the company right out from under you."

Howard has to laugh.

"You got that right."

"All right," James interposes, "that's all I need."

He jabs the biro at Stane. "You get out. And keep your bloody nose clean because I will be waiting for an excuse."

He turns to Howard. "Unfortunately, Mr Stark, that's violence and outside business I've got you on, so I'm going to have to keep you a bit longer."

He likes doing security at Milliways almost as much as he likes (used to like) working for Torchwood, but he hates when situations like this crop up. The letter of the law versus the spirit. Unfortunately, unlike with Torchwood, this is bullshit doesn't count as a loophole.

Obadiah stands with a certain kind of smug dignity.

"Believe it or not, Howard," he says, "it was good to see you again."

And then he strolls out.

Howard shakes his head.

"Yeah," he mutters when Obadiah is well past the door, "you too."

Then he gives James a shrug. "Whatever, it's not as though I've got somewhere to be."

"Minimum I can give you is a day," James says. "It's not too bad. Worst complaints I get are about the boredom."

He signs his name to the document and puts the biro down.

"If it helps," he says, "he got sucked into hell in my world a few months ago."

His eyebrows shoot up.

"Not really," he says after a moment, "but thanks."