if_inconvenient | (no subject)

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&badtouch

(no subject)

There's a Stark boy sprawled on the couch at Milliways. Black leather jacket, blue jeans—these are indeterminate signs. The white button-down shirt with the top button undone says Sherlock; the nearly empty glass of whiskey on the table next to him says Tony.

The deciding factor, although you'd have to get fairly close to see it, is the scar on the left side of his neck.

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The bruise from Howard's beer bottle went deep - it's still darker in color than it should be a week after the fact, and was sore as hell for the first couple of days. It's easily hidden under the sleeve of his shirt, though; once the ache faded, Obadiah stopped giving it much thought.

He's pleased to find Milliways on the other side of his office door. This visit, he decides, is going to go a little better than the last one did.

Oh.

Lovely.

Sherlock considers ignoring him, but the thought of being mistaken for Tony by this man is intolerable, however brief the confusion would be. So he abandons his drink at the couch and crosses the room without any particular effort at stealth to inspect Obadiah for subtler signs of his latest venture's outcome. The newly healed bites are obvious enough: it happened and he survived it. And his conspirator was quite enthusiastic about draining him slowly over the course of three or four days while he awaited rescue.

He pauses at the Bar to order a drink before turning to survey the room.

- Ah. Well, he's gradually getting closer to who he really wants to see, if one thinks in terms of generations.

"Sherlock," he says pleasantly.

His scrutiny is brief but intense, although not quite to the degree it was with Tony.

More statement than question by far: "Worked, did it?"

Obadiah smiles, reaching up to loosen his tie.

"Like a charm."

With a slight smile and a nod to his scars, "They are even more impressive than mine."

Obadiah adjusts his collar, running his thumb over the scarring as it becomes more exposed.

"I worked hard for them," he says.

"It is quite the collection."

His hand rises to his own ragged little mark, then falls away again without quite touching.

Thoughtfully: "May I have a closer look?"

Obadiah - hesitates, for a second.

(He's anticipated this question, or something similar to it. Just not from Sherlock.)

(He doesn't -)

"If you like," he says lightly.

Sherlock steps closer and looks. Just looks.

After a moment, when he has counted all the layers, he nods. "Thank you," he murmurs. "The Sherlock in your world does not have a set of his own, I am inclined to guess."

He does not tense up even slightly as Sherlock steps closer. That would be a ridiculous overreaction, involuntary or no, and he will not allow it.

He does stop breathing, though, without noticing until the lack of oxygen makes itself known.

Ridiculous.

"No," he says. "He's a little luckier than you."

Sherlock, for his part, does not make any outward sign or communicative gesture to acknowledge Obadiah's reaction. He steps back when he is finished his inspection as though he finds their close proximity distasteful—which, to be fair, he does.

"If he were a little less lucky," Sherlock says dryly, "he would not be your problem any longer."

Obadiah's drink is sitting on the Bar, waiting for him. He picks it up, saying,

"A man can dream."

"Dream on, then. Luck is never the driving force in these matters."

Only the first bite, of all of them, was delivered violently. That says nothing, of course. Cooperation and coercion are impossible to distinguish without further evidence, and somehow Sherlock cannot imagine Obadiah Stane putting up a fight he knew he would lose. Not unless he were genuinely desperate.

How desperate would one get, in a situation like that, without the certainty of rescue?

Desperate enough, sooner or later. Even Obadiah, patient and manipulative as he can be.

The question is, would that desperation have set in while he was still capable of offering any kind of meaningful struggle? (Maybe. Maybe not.

The weakness of blood loss had taken its toll faster than he had expected. That had been alarming.)

"That," Obadiah says, "is very true. Only fools count on it." (Or discount it entirely.)

He takes a long swallow of whiskey.

He smiles.

"And on that note, I'll leave you to await your touching reunion with Tony."

Obadiah smirks.

"You're sure you don't wanna stick around?"

Sherlock smirks right back.

. . . it has to be said, he didn't see that coming.

It does not, however, have to be said out loud.

"If Tony doesn't object, of course."

Well.

As things stand, Obadiah is going to find out eventually. May as well let it be now.

"I sincerely doubt that he would," he says, grinning. "But I'll leave you two alone this time. Wouldn't want to intrude."

Really.

- well, of course. What else would a Stark do with a clone of himself? Maybe the surprise here should be that Tony ever lets him out of bed.

Obadiah chuckles into his glass.

With a smile of utmost innocence (not), he turns away.

Obadiah watches him go.

He doesn't stop by the couch to collect the remainder of his drink before he heads upstairs.

About an hour later, Tony emerges from the stairwell.

There's nothing out of the ordinary about him. No sign either way about what might have happened during that hour. But he looks around purposefully as he enters the room; he knows Obadiah is, or at least was, here.