So, remember when I said "Eventual Tony/Steve"? Yup, we are not there yet.
Drop me a line and let me know what you think ^^

They stand in the middle of Captain America's living room, looking at the street through what used to be a wall. A giant slab of cement is rammed through the TV, the couch is singed by—is that? Yeah. Repulsor beams.

Well, shit. That's kind of awkward.

He steps over the head and shoulders of an alien carcass to peer down onto the street, where the sirens of a smashed car are still wailing. The floor is splattered with blood like some kind of modern art deco leading into the kitchen, where a pair of disembodied legs rest innocently against the fridge. Tony doesn't remember smashing into this particular apartment, doesn't remember the lack of microwave or the old-fashioned kitchen timer with bells on top, but that's because all he really remembers is the smell of burning Chitauri meat being circulated out of his helmet and the satisfaction of crunching bone.

He remembers Clint's voice in head, and Captain America and the extra-spicy pleasure of killing an alien that had the jump on a team mate.

Tony sneaks a careful look at Rogers' glazed eyes as the man kneels, hands fumbling with papers that've been scattered across the ground, some of them still smoldering gently. Not papers, sketches.

He bends over to help, scooping the rest up into his arms, trying to shake off the settled layer of soot. The topmost drawing must have been a portrait, there's a hole burned right through the lower half of a masculine face. He winces—definitely repulsor beams. Looking closer, he realizes with no small amount of shock that not only is it a portrait, it's beautiful. The slope of the nose. The delicate crease between eyebrows. The dark hair tangled from wind or restless hands or sleeping too late.

For a moment Tony is caught between inhale and exhale, gut clenching with the knowledge that this is a picture of him.

Except, of course it's not. He breathes out.

The dark hair is too short on the sides, the slope of the nose too flat, the shape of the head slightly different. He's seen his face plastered across enough magazines covers and company memos to recognize himself. His gut doesn't unclench, though.

Here you go, Tony says, pushing the sketches toward Rogers who clutches them to his chest like he's drowning, eyes still glazed over, thumb tracing the burned edges like a wound and Tony has the sudden feeling he is intruding on something that's not his to see.

Thanks for walking me home, Rogers says through barely moving lips, toneless like an automated message, I can take it from here.

His words are cold, chilly. Tony bristles out of instinct, mouth opening to fire off a cheap shot, a distraction while he tightens his composure. Offense is the best defense, right? But he grits his teeth against the response trying to force its way out of his mouth and gambles instead. Look, he says, rolling for the double sixes, you can't stay here. Let me set you up at Stark Tower.

Is that an order, Stark? Rogers' sneers at him, eyes hard as they turn to meet his, fingers clenched white around his sketches. Before the rejection impacts, Tony has a absurd moment where he wants to say, careful, you'll wrinkle the paper.

And then it punches up through his stomach, hot in his chest like acid or Happy's cooking or heartburn, Rogers using his height to the full advantage to look down on him. Okay, he gets it: Captain America and Ironman might work together but that's where the line is drawn. It'll get better, he'll get used the intensity of this dislike. For now though, Tony just is why he never got into gambling, see? Bad karma. Tony closes his eyes, wishing for the schnick of his faceplate, for the way his suit keeps him from having to touch the world. He just isn't good at humans.

Fine, princess, he says reflexively, retreating back into himself, personally, I think you need all the beauty sleep you can get. But then again, if seventy years didn't fix that face of yours, we can probably give up now. Wait, it's the inside that counts, right? Don't worry, nobody puts Baby in a corner. You'll be all over the news tomorrow, just like old times.

The cultural reference is just unnecessary, but it helps him get a grip as he scrambles to dig his nails into this thing called self-control. He's out the door and half-way down the steps before Rogers' answer rings out after him.

For some of us it's not about the fame, Stark. But that's okay, I'm sure someone will spare you an interview or two.

And then he's outside, trying to stand up straight and call Jarvis and breathe at the same time. Hands on his knees, dizzy from anger and accusation and I tried to fucking die for you asshole. The car alarm is still wailing in the background. Something crashes and then everything is quiet, except for the pulsing of his heart in his ears. Even when he stops shaking enough to pull out his phone, his voice is still rough, like he's been thoroughly choked for a while.

Throat raw, spine aching, Tony says—take me home Jarvis.

Usually flying is the one thing he can always rely on to clear his head, letting the slits of his suit open just enough for the wind to rush through and keep his thoughts from swallowing his brain. It's not working tonight though and he barely registers the fact that he's crossing the state line of California until he's touching down outside of his house in Malibu. Jarvis says quietly Pepper is waiting for you inside and opens the door for him.

Pepper is not just waiting for him, she is drunk.

And he is so not equipped to deal with this tonight, or ever. He didn't even know she could get drunk, has witnessed her tipsy less times then he's saved the world from supervillians and not for lack of trying.

Tony, she says, tear tracks carved into her face. You called me and I didn't pick up.

Oh, Pepper, he answers, letting his suit fall away from him, and tries to hold her. She places both hands against his shoulders, bracing herself. She is careful not to touch his arc reactor. Usually it's more subtle, more natural, but he's been noticing for weeks now how she finds excuses to pretend his reactor doesn't exist, picking out shirts thick enough to block the light, curling away from the press of metal at night. And now, coordination shot to hell, she places her fingers carefully to only touch the parts of him that are human.

I thought you were dead, she says, hiccupping, Why didn't you call me again?

I wasn't sure if you would be asleep or not, he whispers into her hair and when spoken out loud the logic of his reasons crumble away. She laughs and it's not a pretty sound. I'm sorry, Pepper, next time I swear I'll do better.

Next time, she says, words cut loose from the wreckage of her voice.

Next time, he promises and misses the point entirely.