saltburnt inbox 2.0

[rehandle]

WELCOME TO THE SALTBURNT NETWORK

USERNAME: itsakindofmagic

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[rehandle]

Yeah.

[ingeniar]

Could have gone better.

[ The whole.. thing. ]

[rehandle]

Thanks. I hadn't noticed.

[ingeniar]

Could also be worse.

[rehandle]

And it will be, soon enough.

[ingeniar]

Starting to see why you're still awake.

I made you something. Want to come out and see?

[rehandle]

[ A little flip of surprise. Nerves and a childish, fizzy warmth.

It's been a hell of a 24 hours. He's still frustrated, still has things to say - but sometimes you just need things to be easy. ]

👍

[ And in a minute or two there are muffled footsteps on the stairs as somebody pads down them. ]

[ingeniar]

[ Downstairs, the living area is illuminated by a single oil lamp. Tony's sitting on the couch, leaning over his project and the reason he's still awake -- a hand-carved wooden chess set, simple but carefully made. He's just putting the finishing touches on a bishop with a scrap of sandpaper as Stephen arrives. He sets the piece on the board and brushes a few little curls of wood shavings and sawdust into an empty tin cup.

Without glancing up: ]

Hey, Not-Sleeping Beauty. Pick a hand. [ He scoops up a piece from each side, juggles them quickly back and forth, hides them in closed fists and holds them out. ]

[rehandle]

[ Whatever he was expecting, it isn't what he gets. Stephen comes to a stop some few paces from Tony, staring at what he's working on, frown delicate as he takes those last few private seconds to try to adjust. Acclimate himself to the gesture set out before him, carved from wood and time with practiced hands.

I made you something. He'd anticipated necessity. A distraction in its unveiling, yes, but something made because Tony deemed it needed making: weaponry, protection. He did not come prepared for this.

It's late. He's tired. So faint lines still crinkle the skin between his brows when he steps forward, reaching out an open palm to hover under one of Tony's closed fists, ready to catch whatever drops while sparing him the burden of touch. ]

[ingeniar]

[ The required hand opens, dropping a white pawn into Stephen's waiting palm. Tony doesn't look surprised at the outcome, sitting back a bit on the couch and setting his black knight back in place. He gestures for Stephen to go ahead and make himself comfortable. ]

I'm up 2 against the Cloak, by the way.

[rehandle]

[ The other side of the chess board is abruptly not where he wants to make himself comfortable. What he wants to do is fold to his knees, rest his head against Tony's shoulder and stay there until one or both of them are dead.

Instead he closes his hand around the pawn, feels the shape of it press into the soft of his fingers, and settles down to play. A smirk clears some of the frown from his face (the rest lingering like a child's puzzlement at something seen for the first time) at the mention of the Cloak, a friend so far away he'd almost forgotten it's safe at a house just a long walk through the woods. ]

Yeah? [ Putting his pawn back into play - then moving it, to start the game. ] Mental note to give it more coaching.

[ingeniar]

[ Not the first time either of them have spent some time proverbially whistling through the graveyard. Tony tries not to let his attention linger on the tension in Stephen's expression, the dark circles under his eyes. Instead, he watches those deft fingers, still enjoying the small satisfaction of having helped make those movements possible, even by accident.

After a moment, he makes his own move. ]

Or not. Considering the, you know. Fact that it's 2 down. [ A brief glance up at Stephen, waiting to meet his gaze. ]

So, you want to talk about it?

[rehandle]

No.

[ He can feel Tony's eyes on him, and it's also too early in the game to need to spend as many seconds as he does looking at the board. But eventually, move made, he's got no choice but to heave a sigh and meet his gaze. ]

I'm the king of the assholes. What's there to talk about?

[ingeniar]

Since when is that new?

[ He holds Stephen's gaze for another moment before he relents, drops his attention back down to the board, gives him back the relative privacy of not being observed. Hands clasped loosely between his knees, he studies the pieces. ]

Someone has to be. Hate that it's you. But someone has to be.