a/n: I apologize for the word vomit. This is just a vignette of Steve and Tony from Steve's POV. Also this is my first Avengers fic so...I'm really sorry. (u_u')
He drums his fingers on the tabletop, not out of impatience, but an unconscious twitch—a need to be in motion. He pauses only to take a sip of warm soda from the can, but then the tapping commences, and soon it's accompanied by the slight nod of his head.
I imagine him conducting a symphony in his mind, conjuring up the violinists in the seat next to me, and the rest of the string instruments in the booth behind us. Perhaps he'll add a harp, but it'll be too big to fit anywhere other than positioned at the end of our table where the waitress has come back to stand.
His head turns in a single fluid motion and he nods at the rapidly diminishing coffee in my mug, a universally understood signal for a refill. She's long since stopped asking if we needed anything else; we've been occupying the corner booth of her diner since her shift started.
I resume sketching a set of hands on the sketchbook in front of me, adding to my collection of sensory organs that grace its pages. I haven't allowed myself to draw an entire body or even face, but rather I've focused on small subjects, detailed and elaborated them until I was perfectly satisfied. Naturally, I'm never satisfied.
His fingers resume pecking at the table as if giving the paling yellow linoleum chaste kisses, and I think maybe he'd play piano in our diner orchestra.
"What are you drawing over there; is it eyes again?" He asks with a sudden need for human contact or a more entertaining distraction than pretending to write sheet music. I can never be quite sure.
When he shifts his weight forward to get a better view and catches the shape of arching fingers, he leans back and quickly drops his hands in his laps with an overwhelming sense of self consciousness. "Sorry," He says.
I shrug, but that doesn't seem like a proper reply. He doesn't need to apologize for such a thing. We continue on in silence for another three minutes, except I'm consumed with counting the seconds that tick by rather than sketching anymore. There's something about the way that Tony is regularly a selfish bastard, and yet I glimpse him in moments like these, completely unaware of his actions and desiring—no needing the company of another.
"Don't be," I mutter. I resist adding, "You're my muse," for both our sakes.
"What?"
"D-don't be sorry," I say as my brow furrows and I lean over my sketchbook and start furiously shading in the corner of the page, worry sinks into me because maybe Tony had developed an advanced technology linked to his arc reactor that allowed him to read minds. Nothing would make me more fearful than a psychic Tony, for many, many reasons. I press too hard in my anxiety and the lead in my pencil gives way with a soft clicking sound. So instead I set it neatly down by my sketch book and reach for my coffee mug.
I've developed the awful habit of drinking caffeine on nights I can't sleep, as if this would help me find rest or at the very least chase the nightmares away.
Tony runs his hand over the stubble on his jawline and scratches at his neck. He's a series of nervous ticks and unconscious movements. I imagine he's developed these as a careful façade for the public. If you look from a distance he seems fine, but once you get close—once you squint and pay attention you can see the stillness in his dark eyes.
He's hopelessly lost in his thoughts and it's nights like these I feel closer to him than ever.
The nights we find each other wandering through a mansion that's laced with shadows, shadows that feel like they're reaching towards you, breathing on the back of your neck, brushing tenderly over the hairs on your arms.
So instead of busying himself with the limitless projects in his lab, we search out somewhere quiet and brightly lit. Somewhere that's far enough away from the nightmares in our bedrooms.
It's odd to see Tony in this setting, far from his cradle of technology. But here in this muted diner, 3 miles west of the mansion, is the only place I feel close to Tony Stark. And this fondness for a man I used to loathe had begun seeping into our daily lives, training, and missions, in which I find myself momentarily frantic at the end of a long battle when I don't see him picking himself up from the wreckage right away.
Finally we look at each other and decide it's time to head out, so Tony pulls a pristine leather wallet from his jeans pocket and drops a twenty on the table. Much more than coffee and a soda are worth, but that's the kind of person Tony is.
He feels like a burden to the people he lingers with too long, and I feel like that's why he always promises to pay for me. So we nod a goodbye to the waitress as we head out the glass door, a tiny bell jangling at our departure.
"Hey, wanna take the long way home through the park?" He asks, and I know this isn't a question. It's a prayer that we won't have to go back just yet. Because going back means loneliness and isolation and more nightmares.
"Sure," I say with a forced pep. I fall in step beside him and we walk in a contented silence before we get to the small park and Tony veers over to a little bench just off the path. We sit down next to each other and Tony sighs with his eyes clothes, pressing his back flush against the bench. His arm is resting against mine, but he doesn't seem to notice. Or maybe he does and just doesn't care.
I make sure to keep perfectly still because I don't want him to become aware of the touch and pull away. It's not that I want to be touching Tony specifically or anything, but sometimes it's nice to feel another person is there, sometimes it keeps you grounded. Your mind can't convince yourself you're alone.
"So what was it tonight, Cap?" He says finally, and I can't tell if he really expects me to answer.
I count to 120 and then I do, "Do you ever feel the weight of everything bad that's ever happened in your life come down on your chest in one blow? And the only thing you can think about is that every awful memory has one thing in common—you."
I let that sit there with no further explanation, and with Tony I know I won't need one. He seems to be fairly unintuitive when it comes to social interactions of a meaningful nature, but pain was something so universal that even Tony can understand.
"Steve," He says and there's empathy in the way he says my name. There's kindness. "You know I used to think—okay I still think that everything is my fault. But that's because it is. See bad things happen to everyone, it's what you do with them that decides what kind of person you'll be."
His brows knit together tightly, "I used to think all those things had killed me. I used to curse it—I burned with a need for revenge. Because it killed the person I could have been, and I used to sit against the wall in the dark imagining myself finishing the job. I had so much blinding pain haunting me I needed a release. But instead I boarded up that dark hole and I said I would never think of it again. I wouldn't speak—wouldn't feel. And I didn't. I numbed it with shots of Novocain and harsh laughter. I struggle instead to feel anything at all. Any real connection to the people that threaten to walk out of my life is replaced with sharp apathy. I used to think it killed me. But I finished the job."
My chest ached with that revelation—the man I once thought to be so selfish was only trying to defend himself and nurse his wounds. Before I could reply with any form of comfort he was up and stretching out his back, arms outstretched high above him like a man who's found God. "Come on, let's head home, Cap."
That was it, the end of story time with Tony. Bits and pieces of him were revealing themselves to me in the form of glass shards that no one else, but perhaps Pepper were willing to pick up. That's the thing about Tony, the only way he'll understand you care is if he sees you bleed for him.
And then it's a week later and Tony stumbles into my bedroom unannounced and not asking. He's got a bottle of gin and two tumblers in his hand and I jerk up to a sitting position, questioning if this means we're friends in Tony's eyes.
"C'mon Cap, how's about we stay in tonight mmm?" By the way that he's slurring and grinning at me I know that he was sitting alone drinking the first half of that bottle before the alcohol decided to insight my company.
"Tony, how much have you been drinking?" I ask slightly bemused by the way he crawls across my bed and sits with his legs outstretched before him next to me. He just smirks and pours me a glass.
"Let's just say, you've got some catchin' up to do."
I shake my head as I take the glass from him; I didn't bother reminding him that alcohol did nothing to me. A fact Tony himself had once tried to correct by laying out plans to make a spirit stronger than the super soldier serum. Of course Pepper did everything in her power to nip that idea in the bud before Tony gave himself alcohol poisoning.
He stares at me blinking for a moment, giving a pointed look at the glass in my hand and then my mouth. "Oh, right," I tip the glass back and sucked the sharp piney liquid down. I didn't particularly mind not being able to drink most days, considering how awful alcohol tastes anyway.
Tony excitedly grabs the now empty glass from my hand and set himself to refilling it. "Tony, what's wrong?"
He hands me back my glass, now full, and raises his, "Cheers!"
"Tony."
"Mmm? What?"
"What's wrong?" I ask because I couldn't yet tell if I was witness to a happy Tony or a severely depressed one.
"Nothin', I just found this bottle and I figured I'd better not let it go to waste." I study him carefully, but he didn't wear the raw signs of his demons so I relaxed and set the glass down on my bed side table.
"What about you, Cap? You're up awfully late; you weren't spanking the monkey now were ya'?" Tony asks with a smirk more devious than usual under the influence of the gin.
"Weren't what?" I ask dumbfounded. How drunk could Tony be?
"You know chokin' the chicken, beatin' the meat, havin' a toss, the Brits would say…"
"Tony, I have no idea what the heck you're talking about I think you should really slow down an—"
"Oh jeez, Cap! Were you touchin' your Johnson, it's a damn euphemism for masturbation you space cadet." Tony rolls his eyes in aggravation and takes another heaping gulp from his glass.
"No! Gosh, no—I wasn't! Tony, jeez…" I felt my face flush and I hoped in the darkened room Tony wouldn't notice, or at least he'd attribute it to the gin instead of my embarrassment. If Tony really assumed I'd been doing that, why on Earth would he barge into my room and climb into bed with me.
"Oh don't get your panties in a twist, Miss America, everyone does it," Tony eyes me over the rim of his glass and the temperature of my face continues to rise.
"Well I don't, so you shouldn't—"
"What? No wait, are you joking? I mean for real, boy scout, you're telling me you've never given yourself a wank before?" Tony seemed utterly flabbergasted by the idea that not everyone committed to the sexual deviancy that Tony was so keen on.
"Can we not talk about this, I'd really prefer we not talk about this."
"Right, hold on," Tony clumsily leans over me to place his empty glass and gin bottle on the night stand before turning to me. "Never, like never?" He's shocked and too close for comfort given our current topic. I can smell the juniper on his breath and can see in the dim light that he needs a shave.
"No, kind of busy saving the world and all, oh also there was the whole frozen for a lifetime bit where I was otherwise occupied." I say sarcastically, but even I know that's just an invitation in Tony's language.
"You aren't always busy; you're not busy now," He breathes.
I try to swallow, but there's a lump of something stuck in my throat, probably Tony's integrity. But his lips press against mine with a lumbering slowness, a slowness that's allowing me time to stop it—to pull back—but I don't. I'm frozen in my spot, something my body is so used to doing, and I let Tony's lips tentatively press against mine, waiting for me to break us apart.
I don't, and for Tony that's just as good as consent, so his hands push against my chest and it feels as if his lips are the Jaws of Life, ripping my mouth open so his tongue can slide in and save me. And I welcome the touch; the feel of being wanted—needed even by the hungriness with which Tony is kissing me. His teeth nip at my bottom lip and this is entirely new, but not unwelcome. There's something fiery and passionate with the way Tony kisses, something in the sharp taste of alcohol and the hint of cigarette smoke I can taste in the corners of his mouth.
His hand trails down my chest, down my stomach, and I gasp at him. His lips slice at my throat like a dagger, and each place his fingertips fall on my skin burns me like the lit end of a cigarette. I can't breathe when he's this close; he's a fire raging, and he's burning through all the oxygen faster than if I was made of paper.
When he's done with me I'll be nothing but ash, and I'm strangely hoping that he leaves a trail of dark marks across my skin, like memories that will still be tender by morning.
I wake a few hours later, Tony's slow breathing in my ear as his chin rests on my shoulder and his arm wraps neatly around my waist. We're folding in on each other like the corners of pages bookmarked for later.
I don't want to wake him because Tony may try and bolt in a very Tony like way. And then suddenly I'm afraid of falling back asleep in case I wake up again without him.
That's when I know I want him, not just for the sake of loneliness or fear. Not for the empathy we can give each other, but for all the kindness I see buried in him and how downright human he is despite the protective coating Ironman provides or the persona a billionaire playboy lets him hide behind.
I want the way he teases me for being out of date, despite living in the most technologically advanced house on the planet. I want the way he only calls me Steve in moments of tenderness. I want him, tongue and teeth just under my jawline. I want him composing symphonies with his fingertips tapping on tabletops at 4 in the morning in some diner that's lost in a back alley of Brooklyn.
Tony stirs momentarily and his eyes spring open, confused and then afraid as he recognizes me.
"Shhh, just go back to sleep, it's still early," I reassure him before letting my head rest back on my pillow. I feel the stiffness in his body uncoil.
My thoughts are muffled by sheets and heavy lidded eyes, but all I want is the sound of his tight hugs echoing in my body's memory. I want to feel the ache of his tired muscles and hold him up.