[ once he's gone, tony sighs and rests his back against the chair, the hand cradling the glass lowering to his thigh. from the kitchen drifts in the quiet clinking of dishware and then the faucet running. sometimes the water hits against wood or metal, ringing duller or brighter–the telltale signs of washing. the sounds soothe some part of him. his shoulders loosen.
idly, while looking down, tony tips the glass toward himself. an easy answer to "what next" is to get drunk, but once that passes, what then? he shifts the red brandy around inside like maybe answers will float to the surface or he can peek them at the glass' bottom, but it mostly just reminds him of blood, which he's seen more of tonight than in his entire life. you'd think someone who's designed methods of death for over ten years would have come across a higher volume of it.
he's not a fighter, a soldier, an adventurer, or a demon-infused master assassin. if he returns to the blacksmith's and the venatori snatch him up again, nothing he can do will stop him from falling under their spell.
what would you do, dad? he wonders, reaching for that familiar guidance. molded through an amalgamation of his memories and the newsreels, his father appears as an imposing titan, not because of stature, but because of importance and legacy. one tony was meant to carry on. "you're supposed to be smart, aren't you?" his father huffs. "figure it out."
afterward, the specter watches him. the silence from it spreads around tony like a great chasm, an expanse, empty on all sides, and with no footsteps to follow. ]
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idly, while looking down, tony tips the glass toward himself. an easy answer to "what next" is to get drunk, but once that passes, what then? he shifts the red brandy around inside like maybe answers will float to the surface or he can peek them at the glass' bottom, but it mostly just reminds him of blood, which he's seen more of tonight than in his entire life. you'd think someone who's designed methods of death for over ten years would have come across a higher volume of it.
he's not a fighter, a soldier, an adventurer, or a demon-infused master assassin. if he returns to the blacksmith's and the venatori snatch him up again, nothing he can do will stop him from falling under their spell.
what would you do, dad? he wonders, reaching for that familiar guidance. molded through an amalgamation of his memories and the newsreels, his father appears as an imposing titan, not because of stature, but because of importance and legacy. one tony was meant to carry on. "you're supposed to be smart, aren't you?" his father huffs. "figure it out."
afterward, the specter watches him. the silence from it spreads around tony like a great chasm, an expanse, empty on all sides, and with no footsteps to follow. ]