If You Were Here (Tony Stark x Reader)

Part 8

Stairs... fucking stairs. Years of bedrest have left your behind on your cardio. The way down is blocked, a flurry of red dots that can only mean security guards swarming all of the floors, sealing them as they go. You are left going up the stairs.

You stop for a breather at the next landing. One more floor to the top, but geez are you even going to make it that far? Your legs ache, your chest burns with each labored breath. You're not going to make it another flight before they catch you.

You push your way out of the stairwell and into the hallway of offices. The sound of boots on stairs echoes behind you. Not a lot of time, then. You push at doors until you find one that opens, then rush inside, closing and locking it behind you. It's a bare office, the kind with big glass windows and a desk that it's impossible to hide behind. Voices sound from the hallway. You look around frantically, finally settling on the window.

You rush to it and pull upwards. It sticks. The voices grow louder and doors slam from the hall. Fuck, shit, damn—anywhere would be better than here right now. Your eyes land on the office chair. Hoo-boy...

It takes a few staggering tries to pick up the chair. The first time you swing it at the window, it makes a loud bang, but doesn't do much of anything else. You swear. Then you try again. A crack. Again. A bigger crack. Again.

Cold air roars in through the broken glass. You squeeze through, wincing as some of the sharp edges scrape against your skin. It takes a few tries to correctly place your foot on the narrow ledge outside. You scoot to the side as the door to the office opens with a bang. Over the wind that howls through the skyscrapers, you hear men calling to each other. This isn't going to be a good hiding place, not with the gaping window. You shimmy along the ledge, pressing as flat against the side of the building as you can, and round the corner.

You glance upwards. There's only about twenty feet between you and the roof. That has to be safer than balancing on the ledge until help arrives, right? The large stones that make up the façade of the building provide ample hand holds. Okay, this can work.

You kick your shoes off, and wiggle your toes into the closest groove. The stone is freezing against your bare skin. You shut off that part of your sensory cortex. That kind of information really isn't going to help you right now.

You think back to a rock climbing class you took in college. Push with your legs, don't pull with your arms. One step up, then another.

A new inquiry comes in, Tony's private channel to your phone from the suit. <Cheshire, where are you?>

Your grip tightens as you respond, wasting precious concentration on splitting your awareness. "Good question." Only forty floors up, hanging on by my fingernails.

<You don't know?>

"Kind of busy, right now."

A series of swears materialize in your mind, a staccato sequence of ones and zeroes.

Your muscles are on fire. Holding yourself on the wall is difficult enough, even without the ten feet you still have to climb. You try to block out that set of pain receptors, but they bleed through your defense. There's not a choice, there's nowhere else to go at this point.

Deep breath. Push with your legs. Step up. Arms ache, legs ache, lungs on fire. Deep breath. Push with your legs. Step up. Arms ache, legs ache, lungs on fire. Deep breath. Again.

You crawl over the ledge, scraping skin off your arms and stomach, but finally feeling safe for the first time in two floors and twenty minutes. You lay on the roof, chest heaving and desperately clinging to consciousness. Losing your grip on your body right now would be super-duper bad.