A/N: What you need to know to read this story: It's set in Avengers: Age of Ultron, and it fills in a bit of the time after Tony and Nick chat in the barn.
I apologize in advance for a bad pun, a 90's music reference, and a song lyric I borrowed. Let me know if you spot any or all of the above. ;)
Keep my heart inside your hands
Beating, leave it in your grasp
Keep it, it's yours to understand
~ Jacob Lee, Heartstrings
Clint's wife lured Tony to the barn with a tale of woe about an ailing tractor. Not much surprised Tony anymore, especially Nick Fury lurking in said barn, waiting for him. Now, after the illuminating chat he'd rather not have had with his least favorite one-eyed menace, Tony's feet took him out of the dark barn, practically running up the steps of the Barton house's wraparound porch and back into the house—holy shit, he still couldn't believe Clint had a house, in the country, no less; a farm; a wife; kids—and Tony's chest still felt like it was sandwiched in a vice, his pulse slamming behind his eyes in a way that promised to resolve into a headache.
Fury was right; the worst part of the nightmare vision the Maximoff kid had shown him was that he'd lived while his team—his friends—lay dead or dying around him.
In an attempt to breathe past the crushing pressure in his chest, Tony leaned against the blank section of the wall by the door in the entryway of Clint's house. As his eyes closed, he briefly wondered where everyone else had gone, but he could hear the creaks and groans of the house as people moved around on the upstairs level.
He was...so tired. Uncomfortably aware of his own body and its inherent fragility. Flesh, tendon, and bone were so very fallible. The fatigue was a constant, nagging companion, dragging down his brain, his muscles—the very marrow in his aching bones.
As often as he teased Steve about being an old man, Tony knew the truth. There was a persistent twinge in his lower back and an odd clicking in his left shoulder whenever he raised that arm. Of course, it might help if he could manage to sleep for more than ninety minutes at a stretch without jolting awake. Uninterrupted sleep: what a luxury.
"Why do you think it is that you keep waking?" had asked the therapist Tony didn't see nearly as often as he probably should.
"Don't know." He had shrugged and scraped his palm across his mouth; over the scritch-scratch brushstroke of his goatee. "Too much on my mind, maybe."
"Like what, Tony? What's on your mind?"
His trembling hands dropped to the armrests of his chair and gripped tight. "Aren't you supposed to tell me that?" He tried to smile; the way his skin felt stretched tight across his face, he didn't think he succeeded. "Isn't that what I'm paying you for?"
Behind his therapist's rimless glasses, a single dark eyebrow winged upward.
He stared at her, right leg jiggling up and down as the nondescript office clock on the wall marked off each second like a series of timed explosions; she stared right back in silent contemplation. He knew from bitter experience that she'd wait him out.
A droplet of sweat caught in the divot above Tony's lip.
The purse-size dog crouched at his feet shook itself, its collar jangling a discordant rhythm.
Tony had launched his body out of his chair and bolted from the room.
"Hey, Mr., what's your name?" asked an unfamiliar voice, yanking Tony out of the maelstrom of his thoughts, "Daddy told me, but I forgot."
He blinked. Tried to shake the thick fog from his head. In looking down, Tony found Clint's daughter gazing back at him, eyes bright, with an inquisitive tilt to her head, her slender fingers tugging at the ends of one of her braids where it dangled over her shoulder in a blonde rope. Unfortunately, her hair reminded him of Steve's; it was maybe a half shade darker. And there went his traitorous brain, spinning out of control again...
Fuck. Steve was so pissed at him for not mentioning Ultron sooner that he'd ripped a damn log in half—which, yes, was insanely hot, Tony admitted in the shadowy recesses of his hindbrain—but was mostly just a testament to how disappointed he was in Tony and his fuck-up #9,283. That Steve was angry wasn't the worst part, though; he could accept that fairly easily. No, the worst part would be— ding ding ding —his disappointment, incised in the hard line of his soft mouth. That disappointment, while understandable, made Tony's gut twist and burn, acid in his tender throat. By now he should be used to being a disappointment—to his parents, to Pepper, to Rhodey, to a depressingly long list of people—to living down to the low expectations people had for him.
It shouldn't matter. It shouldn't bother him.
Hint: it did.
(But Steve hadn't seen what Tony saw. At least, not as far as Tony knew. In no universe would Tony be able to just sit by and wait for that vision to morph into reality. Fuck his life, he was never going to be ready to again imagine the slaughter of Steve and their team.)
Soft mouth, hard line.
Steve's mouth, well, Tony didn't have any data to prove it was soft, just his admittedly hyperactive imagination. They'd never kissed, and hoo boy, at the rate at which Tony was digging his own grave, they never would. Not that there had ever been much chance of that happening.
Tony could deal with that; had accepted it as incontrovertible.
(It was one thing to know he couldn't have something. It was entirely another to stop wanting it.)
But sometimes, like earlier when they'd chopped wood and argued in Clint's yard, with fresh air, green fields, and Steve's eyes set like gems against an endless backdrop of blue sky wrapped around them, Steve's thick shoulders crept up toward his ears, muscles kinking into layered knots Tony would have considered it a privilege to unwind with his fingers, and Steve got a pinched look around his eyes and between his brows. Tony could not handle that expression; could guess it was a physical manifestation of the worry and inclination toward duty and obligation that must have snowballed in Steve's mind.
After all, they were friends now, with missions, meals, and movie nights bridging the previously infinite distance between them. Given enough time, data, and yes, sweet, sweet caffeine, Tony could crunch through it and recognize patterns. Through that pattern recognition, Tony now knew how his friend's mind worked.
Tony remembered a night when he had just finished wiping his grease-stained hands on a rag, and subsequently his workshop had filled with the tangy scent of tomatoes and cooked garlic. Saliva filled his mouth; his stomach loudly proclaimed its displeasure at not being attended to in, oh, at least 36 hours. Give or take.
Food.
A swivel of his stool and there behind him waited Steve, tall and strong and hotter than any person, man or woman, should be, wielding a weapon so powerful Tony had no choice but to succumb: a tray dressed with a plate of chicken parm, a steaming bowl of ziti, and the pièce de résistance―garlic bread, the top a buttery gold that Steve, damn him to hell and back, knew Tony wouldn't be able to resist.
Tony held his clasped hands in front of him, shameless and beseeching, and loosed a plaintive whine.
Smirking, Steve held the garlic bread in front of Tony's mouth and let him take a bite. A single bite, that's all he got before Steve walked away―narrow hips a tick-tock sway that somehow managed to be both inviting and no-nonsense―without even watching to see if Tony followed him.
"Steeeeeve. Have mercy," Tony pleaded. "Please. I'm hungry."
Steve liked to cook. He tried out new recipes every week, and Tony of the rest of the gang were the beneficiaries. More importantly, he cooked well .
Those massive shoulders shrugged, and Steve deigned to flick Tony a glance. "I bet you are. Scrub your hands with soap, especially under your nails. Then come to the kitchen." His solid, measured footsteps paused. "Better hurry, though," he added, his voice a study in casualness. "I don't know if Clint and Thor left any brownies."
"You made brownies?"
"Mm-hmm. Double fudge brownies."
"With the―" Tony wiggled his fingers. "With walnuts?"
"Yes, Tony. With walnuts."
"Oh ho"—he allowed his voice to dip into a purr—"star-spangled sweet cheeks." Tony pinched Steve's shoulder, wishing he could kiss it instead. "You saucy minx."
That earned him two things: 1) an honest-to-goodness, head-thrown-back laugh from Steve that had displayed the elegant line of his throat and filled Tony with a warm glow that not all the dessert in the world could have given him, and 2) one more nibble of garlic bread.
"Shut it, Stark," Steve had replied, and a prickle of delight had shivered down Tony's spine when he heard how the Brooklyn in Steve all but erased the "r" in Tony's last name.
Steve led their team on the battlefield. But he took care of them when they weren't off on an op, too, counting it as one of his responsibilities to check in with all of them and see that they ate and slept and trained regularly. Tony and the other Avengers teased him about being a mother hen, but Steve took their ribbing without complaint, sometimes blushing prettily and always smiling one of those crinkly-eyed smiles that made Tony's breath hitch. All part of the job, he said.
Steve was damn good at his job.
That's why on days like today, during those moments when Tony could decipher the fear and responsibility carved into Steve's usually stoic face, Tony had to breathe deep, clench his hands into fists, and silently recite the digits of pi for as long as it took to restrain himself from reaching out and curving his rough palms around that unyielding jaw. In those moments, Tony's pulse beat a steady refrain: Steve, Steve, Steve.
He wanted nothing more and nothing less than to return the favor; to be the caretaker for once, and smooth with his fingertips the tense lines from Steve's young-old, careworn contradiction of a face.
Aside from demolishing a dozen heavy bags in their training room, how did Steve deal with everything they witnessed, dealt, and dealt with—the raw destruction; the death; the lives they desperately wanted to save but couldn't? For Steve's sake, he hoped he handled it better than Tony, who no sane person would ever mistake for a paragon of healthy emotional coping.
For that matter, who, if anyone, helped Steve deal?
Atlas had nothing on Steve Rogers; still, Tony wished he could lean in until their shoulders pressed together, loan him what limited strength he had, and say, "You don't have to bear the sky's weight alone."
(What's mine is yours to leave or take...)
He never did, though; Tony knew better. He'd have better luck asking the ocean to freeze its tides.
With a sigh, Tony tried to blink from his mind vivid and endless flashes of Steve, and the hellish images of him and their dead friends. He rubbed at the bowstring tension in his chest, felt it twang, and tried to marshal his fractured, fumbling thoughts, and focus on Barton's daughter. She'd asked him a question, hadn't she? Oh, right.
"My name's Tony. Who are you?" He should have remembered her name. He wanted to remember it, but it wasn't coming to him right then, caught in the detritus in his head.
"I'm Lila."
"Sorry, Lila. I probably should've known your name already. Sometimes stuff gets mixed up in my head."
"That's OK," she replied, expression placid, but he had the sense she was assessing him. "It happens to me sometimes, too."
"Hmm. So what do you do when it happens to you?"
"Sometimes I get frustrated and cry." Lila's arms swung out in an arc in front of her, pushing a small gust of air toward Tony. "Do you do that, too?"
"Um." He angled his head down and stared, unblinking, at a dark, swirling knot in the wood floorboards beneath his feet. "Yeah," he said, thinking of the bottles of scotch hidden in his workshop and in his bedroom drawers, "I do." He swallowed convulsively, trying not to think of long showers spent huddled on the stall floor, back turned to the scalding spray while his teeth chattered, and his own face, hidden behind his hands and wet with more than just shower water. "But I try not to cry too often." He looked up again and inhaled slowly, concentrating on the tiny mole set on Lila's left cheek an inch or so beneath her eye. "Because sometimes I don't know if I'll ever be able to stop."
If anyone asked, he wouldn't be able to explain why he'd answered so honestly. For some reason he had. After, the vice in his chest loosened a rotation or two.
"That's silly."
"Is it?"
"Yeah. Nobody cries forever." Her voice spilled out matter-of-fact
Tony felt his lips twist. Into a smile or a grimace, he couldn't guess. "No, I guess not."
"But if you feel that sad, you should try to remember what my dad tells me."
"Which is…?"
"Everybody makes mistakes. And It's good to ask for help when you need it."
"Huh." Tony let the heel of his shoe tap the floor in a syncopated beat. "I had no idea your dad was so smart."
"Maybe you don't know him very well."
"You know, kid, I think you could be right about that."
Lila held her hand out to him, then, young face serious, and he just stared at it for a minute, unblinking.
He licked his dry lips. "What are— What are you doing?"
"Mom says you're supposed to shake hands when you meet someone new."
"Oh, yeah, well, your mom's right," Tony replied, exhaling, with a little twitch of his shoulders, and finally took Lila's offered hand. His own swallowed it, which was bad because then all he could think about was Barton dying when Tony could have saved him, and Lila and her siblings growing up without their dad, and—
"...So can I?" she said, releasing his hand. Tony had no idea what she'd just said; his thoughts had once again grown more tangential thoughts and morphed into a tangled, multi-headed beast.
"Huh?"
"Can I paint your nails?" she asked, the expression on her upturned face patient.
Tony made a little face and tapped a finger against the side of his nose, considering her request. "I guess that depends."
"On what?"
"What color do you want to paint them?"
"I have six nail polish colors. You can choose"—she pulled her lower lip between her teeth and narrowed her gaze at him—"three." Her expression suddenly cleared, and the dazzling, dimpled smile she flashed Tony told him she thought she was being super magnanimous. Maybe it was fanciful, but for a microsecond, he thought he glimpsed Clint in that smile, and Tony found himself inexplicably charmed.
The pressure in his chest eased another degree.
"When you put it that way, sure, kid," he said and clapped his palms against his thighs, "you can paint my nails. But only on my left hand."
"Why not on both your hands, Mr. Tony?"
"Just Tony," he corrected. "Sometimes, lately, I bite my nails on my right hand. Bad habit. I don't know about you, but I sure don't want to eat nail polish. I mean, I'm sure it tastes great, but..."
"Ew," she replied, nose scrunched. "OK. I'll only do your left hand." She slanted him a quick sideways glance. "Maybe your toenails, too," she added, oh so casually. The effect was belied by the impish grin that curled her mouth.
Tony dropped his head back and laughed. He gave one of Lila's braids a slight tug, surprised to find how pleasant the cool strands were gliding along his fingers. "Fingers first, wee Barton. Then we'll see about toes."
Apparently satisfied with his response, Lila nodded once, snagged her pert fingers in the rolled-up sleeve of Tony's flannel shirt, and marched them both into the kitchen.
"All right, kid," Tony said with a sigh, dropping into a sturdy chair and stretching his legs out in front of him. His mouth ticked up as he surveyed the broad, scarred wooden kitchen table in front of him, taking in the scraps of unlined paper scattered across it. To his right sat a dented cookie tin spilling over with a profusion of wide and thin markers and pens. "Now that you've got me right where you want me, what are my color choices?"
Something poked him from his seat; he stuck his hand under his thigh and retrieved the offending objects: a toy tractor and a pair of child-safe scissors. Had this kind of creative, chaotic mess been a normal part of life in his house when he'd been a kid?
No, it hadn't, he thought, and the smile dropped from his lips. His father hadn't allowed it.
Barton and his wife were clearly doing things differently. Rubbing at his forehead with one hand, Tony cradled the tiny tractor with its equally tiny wheels in his other palm.
"Wait right here," Lila replied with a brisk pat on Tony's shoulder, and he closed his hand around the tractor before he turned his head to look at her. "I'm going to get the nail polish from Mom's bathroom."
Swallowing past the dusty lump in his throat, Tony gently set the toy tractor on the table and gave it a push, sending it careening into the cookie tin of markers. "How about this? You get the nail polish; I'll get my tablet. We'll meet back here in"—Tony twisted his wrist and made a show of peering at his watch—"oh, five minutes. Then Operation: Add Some Flare to Tony's Nails can officially commence."
"OK, Tony." Lila giggled, and Tony found himself smiling back at her, the weight trapped behind his ribs just a touch lighter. Until she propped her small fists on her hips and leveled a terrifying scowl at him. "But if you're not here, I will come find you."
"Yes, ma'am," he replied and snapped her a smart salute he would've died before he let Steve see.
Right then and there, Tony vowed to make sure that Lila and Steve didn't have an opportunity to get better acquainted. Should Lila Barton and Captain Furrowed Brow join forces, Tony would be in deep shit.
Tablet in hand, Tony returned to the kitchen to find Lila waiting for him. The section of the table where he'd been sitting had been cleared, and now a sheet of newspaper―real newspaper, of all things―lay over it. True to Lila's word, six bottles of nail polish stood at attention in a neat row: dark purple, stark black, bright red, sparkly silver, gold, and―Tony squinted―what appeared to be blue. A blue that was a pretty close match for Cap's uniform, he thought with an internal wince.
"Soooo," Tony said, brows raised, "I choose three, right?"
Lila nodded, a big grin pushing up the apples of her softly rounded cheeks.
"OK, kid." Tony set his tablet on the table, then snapped his fingers three times in rapid succession. "Give me red, give me gold, and"―with a flourish, he swept a courtly bow―one that he'd likely picked up from Thor, that great golden retriever of a god―at Lila and found himself inordinately pleased when she clapped a hand over her mouth and let loose a peal of tinkling giggles―"if it pleases you, Lady Lila, you shall decide upon the last color for me."
"That's easy," Lila replied, stepping up and reaching a hand toward the table, "I pick...blue."
"Huh. Really? Blue?"
Captain America blue.
"Yeah. That's my favorite color."
"All right then." Tony gave in gracefully. "Blue it is."
"Sit there," Lila said, motioning toward the chair Tony had sat in earlier, "and put your hand right there." She patted the newspaper, indicating where he should leave his left hand. "And hold very, very still."
Tony could take orders without arguing. Sometimes. This just happened to be of those times. Maybe because he currently had a pint-sized taskmaster.
"I'm going to do a pattern," she said, tapping his nails. "Blue." Tap . "Gold." Tap . "Then red." Tap .
"You're the boss."
"I know I am." A look of intense concentration unraveled across Lila's features as she uncapped the first bottle of polish. "Daddy tells me that all the time."
"Hmm." Just then, Tony glanced up and found Laura Barton watching them from the other side of the kitchen.
She started to speak. "Honey, I don't think that Mr.—"
Her words cut off when their gazes met, though, as Tony shook his head in a tiny motion, trying to communicate without words that it was fine. She smiled then, eyes kind, and walked to the refrigerator.
His tablet forgotten, at least for the moment, Tony's focus trained on Lila, who had her tongue caught between her teeth as she brushed polish over his nails. In place of the pressure that had throbbed in his chest earlier, there was now a pleasant warmth. He gave a startled jump when a glass was put down in front of him.
The nail polish swiped over the middle of his finger. "Tony, you have to hold still," scolded Lila.
"Sorry. I'll try to do better." His gaze moved to the glass. "What is that?" he asked Laura, who now stood by the table.
"Iced peppermint tea with just a touch of wild honey."
He narrowed his eyes. "Does it have caffeine?"
Laura laughed. "No."
"Sounds fake," Tony retorted.
"Oh, Clint's told me all about you, Tony"―here Laura's gaze flickered over his face, shrewd but warm, lingering near his eyes; maybe on the shadows underneath? He couldn't say for sure―"I don't think more caffeine's what you need."
"What is it you think I need?" he asked, curious but also wary of what her answer might be.
Her mouth opened and shut; clearly, she was considering her words with care. Several more seconds passed in quiet while Laura's eyes drifted to her daughter and then returned to Tony. "Rest," she said, expression serious, one hand splayed against her stomach, and ouch, there again was that pang in Tony's gut.
A smile eased over Laura's face, and she held up her own glass of tea. "Just try a sip. If you don't like it, you don't have to finish. Promise." By the time she got to the last few words, her voice had taken on what Tony suspected was a hint of maternal persuasion.
To his surprise, Tony actually wanted to do what she'd suggested.
Oh, they were good, these Barton females.
Tony's gaze dropped to the abundant curve of Laura's belly, and even as the strain in his chest eased, a pang of something else jangled in his stomach. With a shrug, he lifted his glass with the hand that Lila wasn't painting and clinked it against Laura's glass. "Cheers," he quipped.
"Cheers," Laura replied.
The first sip hit Tony's tongue on a cool wave. He held it in his mouth for a few seconds, absorbing and analyzing the component flavors. Crisp and minty, with the barest suggestion of sweetness to counter the bite. He swallowed, then immediately took another sip. "Oh, that's good," he conceded, placing the glass back on the table and tapping his fingers against it. "I like it. Even if there's no caffeine."
"I did the first coat," Lila said, urging Tony's attention back to her. "Wanna see?"
He dipped his head and took in the promised pattern of (slightly uneven strokes of) blue, gold, and red on his nails, along with the jagged stripe of blue on his ring finger. "Hey, thanks. It looks awesome," he said, curling his hand this way and that before turning a genuine smile on Lila.
She preened a little under his attention, straightening in her chair as her face lit up. "Can I do your toes while we wait for the first coat to dry? Pretty please? With a whole bucket of sugar on top?"
"A whole bucket, huh?" Tony nodded slowly, pretending to think.
"No." She widened her eyes dramatically. "A mountain ."
"Kid, I don't know how anyone could say no to that," said Tony, already starting to take off his shoes and socks. "I definitely can't." He rolled up the legs of his jeans a few turns.
In the meantime, Lila dragged her own chair closer to Tony and covered it with newspaper. "Put your feet here, and I'll sit in that chair," Lila said, tipping her head toward a third chair.
"Well, I'll leave you to it," Laura said, voice gleaming with suppressed laughter. "Good luck," she added over her shoulder, walking away.
Tony merely wrinkled his nose at her retreating back. He reached for his tablet, thinking he could do a little work or reading, but then thought better of it. Leaving the tablet untouched, Tony settled back in his chair with a contented sigh. As Lila swept the first stroke of polish over his toenail, Tony's eyes grew heavy before finally drifting shut. He'd just close them for a minute or two...
Sometimes he thinks he never left that shadowed cave in Afghanistan.
It's dark there. Cold. Tony sits vigil next to the golden-haired man: Steven Grant Rogers. The one whose life he saved when he removed the shrapnel from his chest.
The one who is currently hooked up to a car battery.
The one who is shivering violently in his unconscious state, pained whimpers falling from his chapped lips like chips of ice that hit the uneven ground and shatter on impact.
The man's eyes shoot open, and they are the bluest eyes Tony has ever seen. He glances down at the mess in his chest, then throws his gaze—blue as the hottest part of a flickering candle flame—to Tony.
That's when the screaming begins.
A cacophony of sound dragged Tony awake. "Steve!" he tried to shout, but the word came out a strangled breath of air.
Laughter crackled around him, and his head jerked up so abruptly he almost fell out of his—
He blinked.
—chair.
Strong hands caught Tony just under his shirt, warm against the skin of his waist, and gently eased him back in his chair.
Where was he?
Back in the cave.
He ignored the machine-gun contractions of his heart; noted the quaint jar of cut sunflowers in water that graced the table in front of him.
"Easy there, fella."
That voice washed over Tony, carrying a feeling of safety with it.
No. Not in the cave, then.
It came back to him then, along with a soreness in his neck. The Barton farm. Lila and her nail polish. Iced peppermint tea.
Fully awake now, Tony put on his game face before he craned his neck to look up at Steve, who was still standing very close to his chair. Steve returned his look with a wrinkle etched between his brows. Not a wrinkle of disappointment, Tony could tell, but of concern. The latter hurt him worse.
"Why the long face, Cap?" Tony asked, pitching his voice light and playful, and watched Steve move back a few steps. "Whatcha think of my mani-pedi"—he wiggled his left hand and both his feet—"and my"—he yanked out one of the objects he could feel restricting his hair, and pretended to preen—"new 'do?" Apparently, Lila had taken advantage of Tony's nap and been more industrious than expected. Tony found he didn't mind being the little girl's guinea pig.
Before Steve could respond, Clint hopped onto the table and brandished his phone. "Say 'cheese,' mother—"
"...you're the love of my life, but please get down from the table. Right now."
"Language."
"Birdbraaaaaaaain," Tony said instead, canting his head to the side with a huge grin and cheesing for the picture until he heard the telltale click.
"I'm sending that to the Avengers extended group chat right now," said Clint with an evil smile as he soared off the table and landed in a graceful crouch on the floor.
Tony groaned. The extended group chat happened to include Rhodey, Pepper, and Maria Hill.
Sure enough, his tablet pinged a few seconds later.
"Maybe TMZ, too," said Clint with a broad wink at Tony, who stuck his tongue out at him in return. "Sorry, sweetheart," he added, turning toward Laura and looking not at all remorseful, "needed a better angle for the shot."
"Haha, Clint. Just remember"―Tony paused for effect, then quirked an eyebrow and went in for the kill―"who makes your weapons. Maybe your arrows are due for an upgrade." He twirled a long and imaginary mustache and attempted to appear appropriately villain-like. "Say, one that makes your arrows burn off your eyebrows every time you use one of them."
"Now that's just low, Stark," said Clint. "And petty."
"Meh." Tony shrugged. "Evil genius."
"Daddy, I want to be in the picture, too." That was Lila interrupting their byplay and peering up at Clint with a frown of consternation painted on her face.
"Sure thing, sweetheart," Clint replied.
"Clint Francis Barton, don't even think about getting back up—"
"FRANCIS?!" said Tony, slapping his thigh with a thwack and chortling with ill-concealed glee. "Oh, man. I guess Fury left that juicy tidbit off S.H.I.E.L.D's servers, too." Tony flicked Clint a barbed grin.
Clint just narrowed his eyes at Tony. "All right, Lila. Go stand by Tony."
"Yes, please. I need a picture with you, Lila," Tony said. "You make a great stylist. Will you come work for me?"
"Absolutely not," replied Clint, not allowing Lila to answer for herself. "Not in this lifetime. Or the next. Or—"
Lila stomped across the floor and stopped next to Tony, hands rooted on her hips. "Dad, you're not the boss of me!"
Tony tried not to laugh at the magnificent scowl on her face; he lost the battle when Clint's mouth opened and closed several times but not a single sound came out.
Lila's eyes danced as she leaned in a little closer and said,"If you pay me enough, I'll come work for you, Tony."
"Deal," Tony replied, and he couldn't help the smile that stretched across his face.
The click of a phone shutter sounded, but when Tony turned he found Nat with her phone up, lips twitching at the corners, and a single immaculately shaped eyebrow arched. With Nat that was as much of a sign of approval as he was likely to get. At least she didn't have something pointy aimed in his direction.
Tony's tablet pinged again, so he swiped the screen to life and looked at the pics Clint and Nat had sent out on the group chat. In the second pic, he was looking up at Lila with what appeared to be a fond expression. Nat had captured the blinding arc of Lila's mischievous smile; staring at it sparked a flash of longing, fierce and unexpected, in Tony's chest.
ASS-Guardian: Very fetching hair and nail ornamentation, friend Stark!
Tony thumbed back a series of kiss emojis and:
Tony! Toni! Toné: Miss you much, LYLAS, etc. etc. Hurry your ass back here, Point Break.
Smirking, Tony returned his attention to the other occupants of the kitchen. "Hey, where'd everybody go?" Steve was the only other person left in the room. He now sat in the chair Lila had used earlier. "Guess they couldn't handle this much fabulousness," Tony muttered, waving a hand at himself.
"I wanted to talk to you."
"Again? Can this wait, Cap?" Tony rolled his eyes. "Seriously, I'm not ready to have you tear me a new one just yet. Once a day's enough to keep me nice and regular, thanks."
Lips quirked in a frown, Steve rose and leaned toward Tony. "Sorry," he murmured, breath brushing Tony's forehead, and he was suddenly so close that Tony nearly stopped breathing. What was he doing? "I can't talk to you while you're wearing these"—Steve's hands moved carefully through Tony's hair; Tony bit back a moan when Steve's fingers grazed his scalp—"butterfly clips in your hair."
Steve worked the clips out of Tony's hair with as much grace and efficiency as he displayed on the battlefield, never pulling too hard. Tony knew it hadn't been very long, but by the time Steve placed the last clip on the kitchen table, tried to straighten Tony's hair, and dropped back in his chair with a very satisfied There, Tony was chewing his lips and trying not to squirm in his seat at Steve's proximity and Steve's thorough hands.
Steve stared down at the floor, not meeting Tony's eyes, and, oh. That didn't bode well for Tony. "I heard what you said to Clint's daughter." His voice was a low, small thing that froze Tony when he heard it.
He licked lips that were suddenly bone dry. "You're gonna have to be a little more specific, Cap."
"I heard what you said about crying." His gaze lifted to Tony. "About thinking you might not be able to stop sometimes."
Face hot, Tony drummed his fingers against the table and let the silence deepen around them. "You—" His voice came out in a rough croak, so he cleared his throat before he tried again. "You eavesdropped on me?" he asked, not bothering to keep the note of betrayal from his voice.
"No, I…" Steve leaned into Tony's space and placed a hand on Tony's knee.
Scowling, Tony pushed away. The chair scraped against the floor, an ugly sound in a pretty room. Not looking at Steve, Tony shook his head and unrolled the cuffs of his jeans. The lower half of his legs being bare left him feeling more vulnerable than he wanted to feel around Steve just then.
"It wasn't on purpose, Tony."
"Explain."
Instead of looking at Steve, Tony stared at the flowered wallpaper and light wood all around them. Quaint. But unexpectedly pretty and appealing to Tony's eyes, too.
"Enhanced hearing." Steve gestured at his ears. "I hear…lots of things."
Oh. Lots of things. Tony could well imagine what some of those "things" might be.
"I try to filter things out, but it doesn't always work. Look, I was at the top of the stairs, and you were talking to her near the front door. I heard what you said and then I backed away. I… I tried not to hear anything else," Steve said.
But Tony finally brought his attention back to Steve's face, and there he saw the words Steve hadn't actually spoken: Believe me. Please.
Tony felt himself soften. "OK. Fine. You hear some things you're not supposed to. The serum gave you all this…stuff. Not your fault. I get that." He shrugged. "So there must be lots of things you hear that you don't let on that you know about, Steve. Why tell me what you heard me mention to someone else in a private conversation? Why not pretend you didn't hear anything? It's not as though I would've known any better."
"Because I worry about you, Tony, " Steve said in a great rush, eyes wide, blue, and so very earnest. A soft laugh escaped his mouth; it sounded anything but amused. "I am worried about you." He paused and scratched the corner of his mouth. "I know I can seem a little...judgmental sometimes, but—"
"A little, Mr. Judgey-pants?"
Steve looked hurt at that, but Tony wouldn't take it back. He'd told the truth as he saw it; he wasn't going to apologize for it.
"I know I'm hard on you, Tony. Maybe too hard sometimes. I'm sorry…It's...I care, OK? You can talk to me, you know," he added, softer, shifting in his chair. "What we do, it's...it's hard. Really hard."
"Yeah, it is. And I do too, worry about you, I mean."
Steve looked stunned. "You do?" he asked slowly.
"Uh, yeah, we all do, you big lug."
"Why?"
"Why do you think?" Tony shot back.
They stared at each other in a fraught silence. Steve was the first to break it. "You're a teammate, Tony, but you're my friend, too."
"Then be my friend. But I don't need you to be my therapist."
"Friends talk, don't they?"
"Yeah," Tony said, on a sigh. "They do."
"Then— Listen"—Steve brought his chair closer to Tony's and dropped a hand to Tony's knee; this time Tony shivered but didn't pull away—"when this thing with Ultron is over—"
"Feeling optimistic, Rogers?" Tony grinned and let his hand fall to cover Steve's, aiming for ostensibly accidental, or barring that, at least casual.
"Starting to, Stark," he replied, a small but genuine smile wreathing his lips and curving his eyes, and oh yeah, there in the missing "r" was the Brooklyn that never quite left Steve Rogers. The combined effect was entirely too much for poor Tony, and that was before Steve deftly turned his hand on Tony's knee so that their fingers were now loosely laced together. "Anyway. As I was saying before someone interrupted me, after Ultron and before the next potentially world-ending crisis, let's hang out."
They were kinda sorta holding hands, him and Steve. By most current standards that was tame, but at least in the privacy of his own head, Tony could admit there was something almost unbearably intimate about it—about touching the same warm palm and fingers that Steve drew with; shaved with; touched his—
His brain was headed down an extremely dangerous path. "Fine. But fair warning, Cap"—Tony squeezed Steve's hand to take any sting out of his impending words, then released it and slouched back in his chair, hooking his bare foot around one of the rungs of Steve's chair—"I'm not talking about my feelings. Not unless you decide to tell me why 3:30 am often finds you either staring at your hands or doing crosswords and sudoku in the kitchen."
Off Steve's rising flush and dismayed glance, Tony winked and rubbed a hand over the bristles on his chin. "Don't you look at me like that, Steven. You hear lots of things"—Tony spread his hands and turned his palms up in a questioning gesture—"I see some things."
"Fair enough...By the way, I like the nail polish."
"Yeah?" Tony eyed his toenails. "Clint's kid did a good job."
"It was nice of you to let her," Steve said, his face an echo of the approval in his words. "That picture of you and her—I'm going to make it my new phone wallpaper."
"What? You actually know how to change your wallpaper?" Tony flashed Steve his best skeptical face.
Off that look, Steve rolled his eyes. "Shut up, Anthony ."
"Ugh." Tony gave a mock shudder of disgust. "Hush your mouth, you. Here I thought we were having a moment, and then you had to go and ruin it."
"Seriously? That's how it's gonna be? Like you ever shut your mouth when I ask you to."
"Yeah, I do."
Steve raised an eyebrow at Tony.
"What? I do. Usually."
Steve's face took on a comical look of disbelief. "Tony."
If he wasn't trying to prove a point, Tony would have laughed. Instead, he folded his arms over his chest. "OK, fine." He rolled his eyes. "Sometimes I do."
"Tony ."
"Oh, all right. I almost never do."
"I know that."
Tony smirked. "But that's only because you never give me something better to do with my mouth."
Oops. Tony really, really hadn't meant to say that―and a not insignificant part of him was the teensiest bit worried about how Steve would react. But especially with Steve it was deeply satisfying to get the last word, and given that he'd said it, he'd see it through; no point in backing down now.
Sometimes you had to fake it till you made it. If going to MIT at 15 had taught him anything, it was that.
Shock widened Steve's eyes. A pretty wash of pink stained his handsome features. Both rendered meaningless any discomfort Tony might have felt.
While Steve gaped at him, Tony took advantage of the moment to slide his phone out of his back pocket. "You should see your face right now, Spangles," he crowed, not bothering to hide his amusement. Still grinning, he switched on the camera on his phone and snapped a pic of Steve's gobsmacked face. "That can be my new wallpaper," he said for Steve's benefit.
Steve shook himself, appearing to come out of his stupor. He straightened, shoulders going back, and the vibranium in his spine revealed itself. That was the only warning Tony got. "Does that mean you've thought about something better that you could be doing with your mouth, instead of using it to argue with me?" The tip of Steve's tongue, tiny and pink, flicked out to moisten his lips, and Tony found himself leaning forward, rapt, chasing the motion. "Hmmm. Good. 'Cause I sure have."
Oh.
Tony probably should've remembered that while Steve might not have been as quick-tongued as he was fleet of foot, Tony's favorite grandpa could be almost as sassy as Tony himself—and more importantly, Steve never, ever backed down from a challenge, explicit or implied.
It was a dangerous thing to underestimate one's friends; more dangerous, sometimes, than to underestimate one's enemies.
Steve's voice had dropped into some low, rumbly thing that twisted Tony's stomach into strangely pleasant knots, and oh, Steve was flirting. With Tony. Steve was flirting with Tony.
He stooped, bringing his face close to Tony's. "If it's alright with you, I'm gonna kiss you now."
(This…This was what Tony got for playing chicken with Steve Rogers.)
When Tony didn't say anything, Steve smiled, teeth flashing, and Tony licked his lips and fixed his eyes on the pink curve of Steve's mouth.
"Blink twice for yes, once for no, Tony," Steve said, his voice limned in warm amusement.
He's laughing at me. Speak in haste, repent at leisure.
Tony decided not to be offended. Instead, he quickly blinked twice―and let himself freefall into the blue expanse of Steve's eyes.
Steve laughed openly then, and Tony didn't dare close his eyes, just watched him get closer and closer and more and more blurry, scarcely able to believe what was happening, until Steve was laughing right against Tony's mouth, very warm and very real.
Not a dream.
Not a fantasy.
Not a drunken hallucination.
Not the result of Asgardian mischief.
Only at the first touch of Steve's lips did Tony, at last, allow his eyes to fall shut.
Tony had seen far too much to believe in fairy tales or hope for miracles. The kiss wasn't a panacea; Ultron still ran amok, and that was Tony's responsibility. He had nightmares about wormholes, and death, and peering in a mirror or down into an endless bottle of Glenlivet and worrying that in the end, he'd become his own worst nightmare—Howard Stark.
What was a kiss but two mouths pressed together?
Tony had done that more times than he could count and fewer times than people might have thought; still often enough that a kiss like that one, without any tongue and nearly chaste, shouldn't feel remarkable.
But Steve —kind, strong, and so good it made Tony ache with the yearning to be a better person—was kissing him.
It was Steve in front of him, and the bulk and heat of his sturdy body, of all that solid muscle, for a handful of comforting moments served as a bulwark against Ultron, against every enemy ever at the Avengers' gate, against the poisonous things in Tony's own mind. Not much made Tony feel tiny, but there with Steve right then, he did. He felt viscerally aware of the size difference between them. To his surprise, he found he didn't mind. On the contrary, that awareness swept a delicious heat through him. He felt...safe. Safe and wanted. Though the feeling might prove to be ephemeral, Tony vowed to savor it for as long as he could.
Steve's hands, large and capable of violence, cradled Tony's face with care, as if Tony was made of something delicate and breakable. As if, despite Tony's numerous mistakes, he was still someone worth cherishing.
Steve's thumbs slowly stroked his cheeks and dipped to rub a tortuous path to Tony's beard, making him shudder and arch into the kiss.
Steve's teeth nipped at Tony's lower lip, and a gasp fluttered from Tony's mouth, feather light.
Steve's shoulders rose, huge and hot, under Tony's clutching hands. Tony's fingers tightened on Steve, and as they did, he felt Steve tremble, a fractured sound falling from his warm mouth. (Tony did that.)
That made all the difference in the world.
That made it a kiss unlike any other kiss Tony had shared.
And maybe, just maybe, it was a sort of miracle after all because, for a change, Tony's chest didn't tighten with panic or pain or flat-out fear.
No, not any of those things.
As he tasted Steve for the first time, Tony realized with something akin to wonder that that effervescent sensation cascading behind his breastbone was undiluted joy.
He almost felt like he could breathe freely.
Tony wouldn't be the one to end the kiss, he decided, rubbing his lips back and forth against the corner of Steve's mouth. No, he'd happily give and give and give and take and take and take... Tony'd burn like that forever if he could.
So it was eventually Steve who pulled back with a deep sigh and leaned his mouth against Tony's forehead. Tony's heart still beat hard enough that it seemed like he could taste it in the back of his throat.
"I know that's not exactly what you meant by giving you something better to do with your mouth, but it's probably best not to skip all the steps in-between," Steve said, and Tony could do nothing but let his head fall back and laugh from deep, deep in his belly.
"Thank you, Jesus. Finally. If I had to watch you make goo-goo eyes at Cap one more time—" Clint ducked into the kitchen, wearing a shit-eating grin. "But also, gross, guys. Please—not in front of my salad."
"Oh, fuck that shit, Legolas. I do not make 'goo-goo eyes' at anyone." Steve straightened from his slightly awkward stooped position; Tony's hands dropped to Steve's hips and thumbed a meaningless pattern there. He thought Steve shivered. Hmm. Interesting. Brain working, Tony filed that tidbit away for later.
"Wanna bet, Tony? Here, I'll just call Nat. We'll see if she backs me up on this. Oh, Naaaat," Clint sing-songed, with a positively evil look on his face.
Tony shuddered. "Shut your piehole, pigeon-face. And look, if I have to put up with you sitting on my couch and scratching your nuts while you binge watch Shahs of Sunset, you can—"
"Language," Steve said, his voice sounding lower and thicker than usual, and to Tony's great disappointment, walked away. "Gentlemen, we still have work to do," he added over his shoulder.
Tony ignored the admonishment and craned his neck to admire the hint of a swagger in Steve's step; that definitely hadn't been there before, he was sure, because he'd enjoyed many a time of watching Steve walk away. "But, but, is that all I get, Cap? Come on, there wasn't even any tongue."
"Oh, now he speaks... That's all you get till I take you out to dinner, Stark."
From somewhere in the kitchen came obnoxious retching noises.
"That's what you get for being a peeping Tom, Francis," Tony shot back, refocusing his attention on Clint.
"It's my house, dumbass!"
"Ha. Yeah. And we all know who's running it."
"For sure. Laura and Lila," Clint replied without any visible hesitation.
"Glad we finally agree on something, Birdbrain."
"Yeah, yeah. Don't get all sappy on me, Stark. I'm still billing you for the case of bleach I'm going to need to erase the image of you making out with Steve."
"How come I'm the person getting blamed for that? Go bug Cap." Tony made shooing motions at Clint. "I'm the innocent party here. Steve's a menace; he kissed me ."
"Uh huh. And you weren't into it. At all. In fact, you were so repulsed you immediately pushed him away, right? Right? What was that, Mr. Goo-Goo Eyes? Even with my aids in, I couldn't quite hear you…"
Huh. So maybe Clint had a point, not that he needed to know that. Tony wisely chose to remain silent.
Thank you so much for reading; feedback, follows, etc. are always welcome. If you've any comments you'd like to share, I would be thrilled to read them. Writing gets lonely; it'd make me smile to hear from you. :)
Though this story is too long for that community, it was written in response to slashthedrabble's prompt #505: Anxiety.
If you need Captain America: Civil War to be more painful, I suppose you could pretend that any or all of this fic actually happened in canon.
You can also find me at Tumblr, under the username onlymorelove.