Hurt
“I, uh… also have to use the… the bathroom,” you said, clearing your throat.
Tony nodded — looking down at that blanket you held defensively over your lap. “Alright. Take your time.”
You stood, still holding your blanket over your thighs to conceal them. Tony’s eyebrows knitted together at that. He had been waiting for you to drop it and let him see why.
Something was wrong. Your thighs were a hotspot and you were hiding them for a reason. Tony just didn’t know what. He didn’t like it when you hid things — being so painfully open about hiding them and still not telling him what was wrong.
Tony waits a few seconds, sitting on the couch, before he hears the door to the bathroom shut, then he quickly stands.
It was invasive and frankly rude to snoop, Tony knew that. But he was concerned. He didn’t want to jump to any conclusions about anything either.
He peeked around some corners of your apartment, being as quiet as he could manage.
He goes to the bedroom, looking at the surfaces of the nightstand, dresser, shelves. Nothing too suspicious — nothing that would give him clues.
Then he saw the hamper. The towel that had blood stained on it. It made his stomach churn sickeningly — just thinking about the possibility that you were — doing that.
You. You.
Why would you do that? Hurt yourself? It hurt him.
He picked the thing up, examining it with a frown.
He knew it was bad, but not this bad. He didn’t want to believe it. He didn’t. There was another explanation.
But… just in case…
Tony looked around the room some more, letting the rag go back into the hamper. He moved to a shelf and plucked your pocket knife off of it, pocketing it.
It was theft, but he didn’t want you to be around sharp objects if… if you would be doing things to yourself.
Tony hurriedly made it back to the living room when he heard the toilet flush, plopping back down on his spot the moment you reappeared in the room.