The glass had become smeared and ruddy long ago, making everything on the other side seem like it was in a fog. Tony still wiped at this side with his frayed sleeve, rubbing until it squeaked then shuddered as weight slammed against it through the fog. Tony still flinched back and folded his arms protectively across his chest before muttering apologetically, "I know, dude," with a shrug. They were all hungry. Drooling and frantic, Hank threw himself against the window again and clawed at the glass, trying to reach the movement he could see, leaving more of his decayed skin behind like the tattered wrist of Tony's sleeve. Anxiously, Tony chewed the narrow crest of his thumbnail, studying Hank as he wore himself out and eventually sank to a crouch, staring blankly at the dirty glass, his mouth hanging open. They weren't getting anywhere like this. Tony turned his back on the window, looking over his littered bench and wondering where to start again.
Maybe with some lunch. Circling the table, he found a pot amongst the papers and dishes and dipped his finger into it, finding a hard crust on uneaten beans. That was probably edible. There was an elegantly tall, white candle amongst the study as well that he lit by the barely glowing ember of their tiny hearth and took back to the workbench and the bunsen burner. It was lunch time, right?