“Tony?” It’s dim, and she can hardly see him. “Are you … where are you? What /happened/?” His fear is infecting her voice, which shakes. “Is everything okay?” It’s a /stupid/ question, but she can’t help herself. There’s no one else in the room except the two of them, there’s nothing but him and her and an emotionless computer and she can’t see anything at all that might have inspired such a fantastic spike of fear.She still wants to throw up.
One hand uncurls, so he can lift his arm off of the worktop, signalling to her where he is, followed by a muffled, largely unintelligible, “Over here.”
That’s all he says for a long moment, his hand falling back to the worktop with a quiet thump. The dreadful moment passed, but he still finds himself hearing the laughter and thinking of black eyes, and another shiver races down his back.
Finally, he manages a still muffled, “Not really,” followed by a short, sharp laugh, rather self-deprecating and entirely humorless.
She winds her way over to him and drapes herself over his back, his fear and her fear still entangled in her mind. “What happened?” she repeats, hands closing over his. “Everything was fine, and then it /wasn’t/.” She buries her cold nose in the nape of his neck, shoving aside haphazard curls.