gadgeteerphilanthropist:
iamthefirechild:
She bites her lip, holding in the temptation to ask, “Where did the bad shadow touch you?” Instead she relaxes her weight onto him even more, breathing deeply. “Shhh,” she soothes, “You’re safe. There’s nobody here but us, I promise. Whatever it was, it’s gone.” She wants to cheat, but that’s only going to make him annoyed instead of terrified. “Come back upstairs with me and try not to think about it?”
“Because I can just magically forget it happened,” he snarks dryly, but he does at least lift his head off of the worktop. One hand comes up to pinch the bridge of his nose as he mumbles, “Need to find some advil.” He drags his hand through his hair, as if he didn’t look disheveled enough at that point. After a moment, he points out, “For someone who wants me upright, you’re remarkably on top of me.”
She slides off his back, reluctantly, because he’s warm, panic notwithstanding. “I just want you to feel safe. I can take the headache away, if you’d rather.” And if she’s /doing/ something to help, then the leftover nausea will go away — she hopes. “There, look, I am no longer on top of you.”
gadgeteerphilanthropist:
iamthefirechild:
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.
“I—” He comes to an abrupt halt as he tries to figure out what…actually happened. A haunting? Psychic assault? Magical assault? “…don’t know,” he finally finishes. Some of his tension has started bleeding away, but he’s still hunched over, shoulders still rigid. “It was like there was someone in here. He touched me.”
She bites her lip, holding in the temptation to ask, “Where did the bad shadow touch you?” Instead she relaxes her weight onto him even more, breathing deeply. “Shhh,” she soothes, “You’re safe. There’s nobody here but us, I promise. Whatever it was, it’s gone.” She wants to cheat, but that’s only going to make him annoyed instead of terrified. “Come back upstairs with me and try not to think about it?”
gadgeteerphilanthropist:
iamthefirechild:
“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.
gadgeteerphilanthropist:
iamthefirechild:
There is very little weirder than someone else’s absolute terror suddenly fountaining in the back of her brain. It’s not as hideously overwhelming as a stranger’s fear — or maybe it is, just in a completely different way. The response it triggers in her is /hers/, instead of simply her body reflecting someone else, and that’s worse.
She drags in a breath, and another, and shoves the adrenaline-induced nausea away by main force. “Tony?” she says, uselessly, into the silence of her own rooms, and gets up, almost blindly stumbling toward the door and the elevator.
The elevator takes her to the workshop without needing any specification, and Jarvis remains silent, save for a brief, -I suggest speaking softly,- just before the elevator doors open.
By that time, Tony has bent over the worktop, hands still fisted (albeit not as tightly) and forehead resting against the cool surface as his headache—not so bad as he thought it would be, but still bad enough that crawling under the worktop like some sort of nocturnal critter is still looking like a half-decent idea—throbs dully in time with the humming and buzzing of the lab equipment. He shifts slightly, but otherwise gives no sign of acknowledging her entrance.
“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.
There is very little weirder than someone else’s absolute terror suddenly fountaining in the back of her brain. It’s not as hideously overwhelming as a stranger’s fear — or maybe it is, just in a completely different way. The response it triggers in her is /hers/, instead of simply her body reflecting someone else, and that’s worse.
She drags in a breath, and another, and shoves the adrenaline-induced nausea away by main force. “Tony?” she says, uselessly, into the silence of her own rooms, and gets up, almost blindly stumbling toward the door and the elevator.
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