I think that your brain got trapped in a feedback loop of arousal and you took the best way out. It's fine, we obviously both needed it, probably you more than me. And it was-
[Amazing, his brain supplies, but Tony can't just come out and say that.]
Really fucking good. So, you know, a very solid virginity losing experience, A+, well done.
[Tony is suddenly acutely aware that he's in the middle of an emotional minefield, and there's no way out short of blowing himself up. Metaphorically.]
Steve's brain zeroes in on those few choice words and suddenly his overwhelming emotion is anger. That's just as well, because underneath that is a gut-wrenching level of disappointment that he can't possibly hope to process this close to Tony.
He needs his thoughts and feelings to be his alone again. ]
Right. Well, I'm glad we both got what we needed. [ He spits out, not sounding very glad at all. ] You should really get Strange on the line before we get trapped in another loop.
[On one hand, this is probably for the best, because Tony doesn't need Steve to imprint on him like a duckling or something when there are better people Steve could be spending his time on now that he's cleared the hurdle of sexual intimacy.
On the other hand, it makes Tony feel exactly like he did after Steve walked away from him in Siberia, after he walked away from Steve when he returned to Earth, and it's a shitty feeling that he'd never wanted to experience again, except that it was always kind of a certainty with them.
The anger is something Tony could tell is Steve's even without knowing it. He's too tired to be angry about falling into the same pattern again, the same old trap. This time, he's just sad - but it's a sadness that carves through his body like a knife, that hits him with the precision blow of vibranium to his ribs.]
Yeah. I'll do that.
[Tony can't bring himself to look at Steve, so he just brings the mug of lukewarm coffee up to his face and drinks instead.]
[ Sadness threatens to drown him like an arctic wave. It doesn't occur to Steve that a fair fraction of it could belong to Tony: he's convinced that Tony doesn't care that deeply, and the way he doesn't even bother to look at Steve reinforces that belief. ]
Great. [ That's as much as he manages to say through clenched teeth. He drops down to pick up his fallen Pop-Tart and tosses it forcefully into the trash, letting the cabinet door slam shut behind him. He needs to get himself under control, he knows that. Unfortunately, when he makes it back to his room, the first thing that greets him is his unmade bed, a mocking reminder of everything he had and already lost.
He heads for the bathroom, hoping some cold water on his face might calm him down. He's not angry at Tony, he's angry with himself. But it's himself who looks back at him from the mirror, and in his anger, Steve forgets the consequences until after his fist breaks through his reflection. ]
[After Steve leaves, it takes Tony roughly thirty seconds to find a bottle of scotch in the kitchen, and he ignores the pain in his hand long enough to get the cap off. Steve can't just let him be sad in peace, he has to put up with all of his goddamn anger, too - and Tony does even stupider things than usual when he's angry. The better option is to drink till he can't see straight.
He's on his second or third pull straight from the bottle when pain spiderwebs across his knuckles, and it's only sheer fucking luck that Tony doesn't fumble and drop the bottle on the tile.]
You fucking idiot, [Tony snarls under his breath. He clutches the bottle in his scarred hands and stalks to Steve's room, taking another swallow of liquid courage before he barges in.]
Here's an idea, could we maybe keep the physical pain to a minimum? I mean, both of us, I'm obviously at fault here, too, and- did you punch a mirror? Fuck, Steve.
[Yeah, Tony knows Steve will heal in about five minutes, but that doesn't keep him from radiating concern when he sees the situation in the bathroom.
I forgot. [ Steve says in a strained voice. For just a moment, he managed to forget the great cosmic joke that the two of them have become, and this is what he did.
Blood spatters against the tile as it drips from Steve's sliced knuckles. Broken shards of glass are pooled behind the faucet. On closer inspection, it appears he might have punched through the wall behind the mirror too.
None of it bothers him as much as Tony standing in the doorway looking— and feeling— so concerned. Right now he'd give anything to be alone with his own emotions, ugly as they are. Anything not to have to feel Tony caring so strongly. Caring so much that if Steve didn't know any better, he'd let himself be fooled again into thinking that just maybe there's something there.
But he does know better. Jesus, Rogers, give it up. Even for him, this level of hanging on is pathetic. ]
It'll heal. [ He says it more for his own benefit than anything. If he can manage to stop picking at the wound in his heart, maybe that will callus over too. ]
[Well, at least the first aid kit is still out from earlier. Tony just sighs and closes the lid of the toilet to sit on it, propping the bottle between his thighs as he grabs the small box.]
All right, get a wet washcloth and then get down where I can reach you. You think there are any glass splinters in there? I can't get them out with both hands fucked up.
[At least the booze is starting to make things softer around the edges, but damn, he really didn't need the ghost of Steve's pain in a hand that's only had the edge taken off by pain reliever.]
[ It's a toss up of dread and frustration as Steve watches Tony settle into his seat, very clearly not intending to go anywhere. He considers asking Tony to leave him alone, but then he'd be setting a precedent for refusing first aid care, and Tony would be the first to take advantage.
At least his anger seems to be ebbing away, replaced by a soft, floating sort of feeling that seemingly came from nowhere. His movements feel slow— like his body is a few seconds behind his brain, or perhaps the other way around— as he retrieves the washcloth and takes a seat on the cold tile in front of Tony. ]
What? [ He asks belatedly, having somehow forgotten what Tony had asked him. ]
[With a surprisingly gentle touch, Tony picks up Steve's hand and starts wiping the blood off. He starts with the drips that run down his wrist and arm, working his way up to Steve's hand.]
Glass splinters in the cuts. I'm inclined to think the blood probably washed any small ones out, but if you have any larger ones that your skin heals over, it's gonna be a shitty time later. Well, maybe not as shitty for someone like you, but I'm not gonna enjoy it. God, I hope you didn't break any bones punching through the fucking wall.
[I'm not worth that kind of pain, he almost says, but doesn't.]
I punched through drywall, not stone. Nothing's broken. [ Spoken like a man who has been known to run through walls on occasion. He has also broken enough bones to recognize the pain of a fracture, and this ain't that. In fact, the pain has started to dull much faster than Steve expected. He is grateful for that, mostly because Tony has to share in the consequences of Steve's thoughtless actions. ]
I'm sorry. [ For whatever reason, the words come easier than they would have just minutes before. As his anger fades, so does some of his stubbornness, and he can see clearly enough to know that he owes Tony an apology. He'll think it's for the pain in his hand, and Steve will let him believe that, because he can't fathom explaining that he regrets getting angry with Tony for not feeling the way Steve wishes he did. That's neither right nor fair. ]
Yeah, yeah, your bones are made of vibranium, I get it.
[Tony waves it off like it's no big deal - and it isn't, really. If Steve says his bones aren't broken, then he believes him. He sets down the washcloth to take another drink, then gets out the gauze and the rubbing alcohol.]
This is gonna sting.
[Hey, just because Steve doesn't get infections (probably) doesn't mean Tony isn't going to observe proper wound care. He handles this like a professional, although his experience is - shockingly - mostly from treating himself. He sucks a breath in and braces himself as he starts cleaning Steve's wounds, glad that the edge of the sting is filled by the alcohol.]
Ohhhh shit.
[Maybe not enough of it. Ow, that hurts like a motherfucker.]
[ Tony ignoring his apology is the least surprising outcome. Steve doesn't press further; he needed to say it and now he has. That's enough for now. Given how their last conversation ended, Tony probably has the right idea anyway.
He hisses at the sting when Tony begins disinfecting his wounds. ]
[It's not that Tony ignores Steve's apology, he just doesn't know how to acknowledge it. Steve apologizes for a lot of things, and Tony knows they're all genuine, because that's just how Steve is. Must be that Irish Catholic in him. Tony's never been good at accepting apologies - it takes more grace than he really has - and usually he just wants to move on.
Except this is something where they probably shouldn't.
The bandaging itself isn't as neat as it might usually be; Tony's doing everything with his left hand, which is already less dexterous even without taking the scar tissue into account. But it doesn't have to look pretty; it's mostly there to stop blood from getting on everything, since it's not like Steve has to worry about anything else.
When he's done, Tony just keeps holding onto Steve's hand, staring vaguely into space as his thumb rubs idle circles on the palm.]
I'll have to see about getting someone in to clean this up.
Thanks. [ Steve doesn't offer to clean it up himself. He is perfectly capable, he still has one good hand, but he's learned that Tony extends olive branches by giving. He doesn't want to turn it down.
In the end, Steve is going to have no one to blame but himself. He could have put a stop to all of this before it even started. He knew, even then, that his feelings about Tony weren't casual. But he wanted whatever he could get, and he's still making that same mistake now, leaving his hand in Tony's because he isn't ready to break contact.
That's the other thing about being Irish Catholic: he's a glutton for punishment. ]
[Tony hunches in on himself a little, pressing his forehead against Steve's fingers. He's silent before a few more moments before he starts to speak haltingly.]
I didn't mean to imply you made the wrong choice or didn't have an active choice in the matter or...whatever. I just- I'm not good enough for you. [He lifts his eyes to meet Steve's gaze.] I know you aren't perfect, and I'm not trying to make it sound like you're some marble statue on a pedestal. I just think you could find someone better than me. Someone who doesn't pick fights with you all the time, for starters.
Oh, Tony. That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard you say.
[ Steve sits up on his knees and places his good hand against Tony's cheek. He is distantly aware that normally someone would have to drag the words he's about to say out of him, and even then, it might not work. But they come with an ease now that he's afraid to question. ]
There isn't anyone better than you. Not to me. Even when we're at odds and can't stop fighting, there's still— there's no one else but you.
[Oh. Tony's stunned into silence, and all he can do is blink tears back, although he will never admit to it. He can't fathom that Steve would actually want him - not in terms of a lifelong relationship, which by definition involves spending extended non-homicidal periods of time together, although probably he won't have the strength to needle Steve if Steve just continually fucks him to the point of exhaustion-
Okay, yeah, he's definitely going off on a drunk tangent there. The point is, Tony doesn't understand why Steve seems to want him, but gift horses, mouths, etc.]
I was fucking miserable the whole time we weren't speaking, [he admits while blinking his eyes like there's something in them.] All I did for years was drink and mope and complain about you to anyone who would listen. I'm pretty sure they weren't fooled at all.
They offered to fit me with a new suit, in Wakanda. I wouldn't take it. I wore out the suit you made me, and then I kept wearing it.
Stopped shaving, too.
[ Sure, there were practical, international fugitive related reasons for his beard. But it also worked for him during a time when he couldn't stand to see his own face. A time when he would've given anything not to be the man who left Tony in the tundra, defeated and alone. ]
[ Steve forgets what he was going to say. It doesn't matter, whatever it was. Tony is kissing him again, and this time Steve can't write it off as being caught up in the heat of a moment, this is wholly intentional. Real.
He reaches down to pull the bottle from between Tony's legs and set it on the floor. With that out of the way, he can press himself up as close to Tony as possible. He digs his hand into Tony's hair as he deepens the kiss. ]
[Tony has his own opinions on how things should be (big surprise), and he just scoots forward and lets himself fall into Steve's lap. It's much better - a more comfortable seat, for one thing, and they're on the same level, and they can press up against each other all they want. The move isn't terribly graceful, but that's what happens when you have two fucked up hands and have to rely on gravity to do your dirty work.]
Too bad telepathy isn't an option, [Tony muses when they stop to catch their breath.] Imagine me talking in your head.
[This would actually be the worst punishment imaginable for everyone but Steve.]
You wanna drive me crazy. [ Steve says, sounding breathless and dazed in the best possible way. He wouldn't survive Tony in his head, he's sure of that. As it is, he felt like he could burn up from the inside from the mere suggestion Tony planted in his mind about beard burn, and he was speaking aloud then. Good think Steve loves a challenge. ] Tell me what you're thinking anyway.
[A normal person might take this opportunity to vomit up a decade's worth of buried sentiment, all the feelings Tony's thought about in quiet moments at night and then shoved behind a locked door like one of those storage closets that threatens to unleash an avalanche on the hapless idiot who opens it. Tony has never, ever been a normal person.]
Well, at just that moment, I was thinking about how if I had telepathy, I'd say dirty things in your mind while you were in line at Starbucks, for example, and I'd be like "Oh, Steve, that pumpkin spice latte is hotter than the way you moaned my name when I swallowed your dick last night" and you'd get embarrassingly hard in public and not be able to do anything about it till you got home, but then you'd probably get your revenge when I was in a board meeting and start telling me everything you wanted to do in excruciating detail and I'd just be stuck there staring at investors for, like, an hour.
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[Amazing, his brain supplies, but Tony can't just come out and say that.]
Really fucking good. So, you know, a very solid virginity losing experience, A+, well done.
[Tony is suddenly acutely aware that he's in the middle of an emotional minefield, and there's no way out short of blowing himself up. Metaphorically.]
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You more than me.
Steve's brain zeroes in on those few choice words and suddenly his overwhelming emotion is anger. That's just as well, because underneath that is a gut-wrenching level of disappointment that he can't possibly hope to process this close to Tony.
He needs his thoughts and feelings to be his alone again. ]
Right. Well, I'm glad we both got what we needed. [ He spits out, not sounding very glad at all. ] You should really get Strange on the line before we get trapped in another loop.
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On the other hand, it makes Tony feel exactly like he did after Steve walked away from him in Siberia, after he walked away from Steve when he returned to Earth, and it's a shitty feeling that he'd never wanted to experience again, except that it was always kind of a certainty with them.
The anger is something Tony could tell is Steve's even without knowing it. He's too tired to be angry about falling into the same pattern again, the same old trap. This time, he's just sad - but it's a sadness that carves through his body like a knife, that hits him with the precision blow of vibranium to his ribs.]
Yeah. I'll do that.
[Tony can't bring himself to look at Steve, so he just brings the mug of lukewarm coffee up to his face and drinks instead.]
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Great. [ That's as much as he manages to say through clenched teeth. He drops down to pick up his fallen Pop-Tart and tosses it forcefully into the trash, letting the cabinet door slam shut behind him. He needs to get himself under control, he knows that. Unfortunately, when he makes it back to his room, the first thing that greets him is his unmade bed, a mocking reminder of everything he had and already lost.
He heads for the bathroom, hoping some cold water on his face might calm him down. He's not angry at Tony, he's angry with himself. But it's himself who looks back at him from the mirror, and in his anger, Steve forgets the consequences until after his fist breaks through his reflection. ]
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He's on his second or third pull straight from the bottle when pain spiderwebs across his knuckles, and it's only sheer fucking luck that Tony doesn't fumble and drop the bottle on the tile.]
You fucking idiot, [Tony snarls under his breath. He clutches the bottle in his scarred hands and stalks to Steve's room, taking another swallow of liquid courage before he barges in.]
Here's an idea, could we maybe keep the physical pain to a minimum? I mean, both of us, I'm obviously at fault here, too, and- did you punch a mirror? Fuck, Steve.
[Yeah, Tony knows Steve will heal in about five minutes, but that doesn't keep him from radiating concern when he sees the situation in the bathroom.
Hold that thought, he's taking another drink.]
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Blood spatters against the tile as it drips from Steve's sliced knuckles. Broken shards of glass are pooled behind the faucet. On closer inspection, it appears he might have punched through the wall behind the mirror too.
None of it bothers him as much as Tony standing in the doorway looking— and feeling— so concerned. Right now he'd give anything to be alone with his own emotions, ugly as they are. Anything not to have to feel Tony caring so strongly. Caring so much that if Steve didn't know any better, he'd let himself be fooled again into thinking that just maybe there's something there.
But he does know better. Jesus, Rogers, give it up. Even for him, this level of hanging on is pathetic. ]
It'll heal. [ He says it more for his own benefit than anything. If he can manage to stop picking at the wound in his heart, maybe that will callus over too. ]
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All right, get a wet washcloth and then get down where I can reach you. You think there are any glass splinters in there? I can't get them out with both hands fucked up.
[At least the booze is starting to make things softer around the edges, but damn, he really didn't need the ghost of Steve's pain in a hand that's only had the edge taken off by pain reliever.]
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At least his anger seems to be ebbing away, replaced by a soft, floating sort of feeling that seemingly came from nowhere. His movements feel slow— like his body is a few seconds behind his brain, or perhaps the other way around— as he retrieves the washcloth and takes a seat on the cold tile in front of Tony. ]
What? [ He asks belatedly, having somehow forgotten what Tony had asked him. ]
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Glass splinters in the cuts. I'm inclined to think the blood probably washed any small ones out, but if you have any larger ones that your skin heals over, it's gonna be a shitty time later. Well, maybe not as shitty for someone like you, but I'm not gonna enjoy it. God, I hope you didn't break any bones punching through the fucking wall.
[I'm not worth that kind of pain, he almost says, but doesn't.]
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I'm sorry. [ For whatever reason, the words come easier than they would have just minutes before. As his anger fades, so does some of his stubbornness, and he can see clearly enough to know that he owes Tony an apology. He'll think it's for the pain in his hand, and Steve will let him believe that, because he can't fathom explaining that he regrets getting angry with Tony for not feeling the way Steve wishes he did. That's neither right nor fair. ]
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[Tony waves it off like it's no big deal - and it isn't, really. If Steve says his bones aren't broken, then he believes him. He sets down the washcloth to take another drink, then gets out the gauze and the rubbing alcohol.]
This is gonna sting.
[Hey, just because Steve doesn't get infections (probably) doesn't mean Tony isn't going to observe proper wound care. He handles this like a professional, although his experience is - shockingly - mostly from treating himself. He sucks a breath in and braces himself as he starts cleaning Steve's wounds, glad that the edge of the sting is filled by the alcohol.]
Ohhhh shit.
[Maybe not enough of it. Ow, that hurts like a motherfucker.]
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He hisses at the sting when Tony begins disinfecting his wounds. ]
Yup. That smarts.
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Except this is something where they probably shouldn't.
The bandaging itself isn't as neat as it might usually be; Tony's doing everything with his left hand, which is already less dexterous even without taking the scar tissue into account. But it doesn't have to look pretty; it's mostly there to stop blood from getting on everything, since it's not like Steve has to worry about anything else.
When he's done, Tony just keeps holding onto Steve's hand, staring vaguely into space as his thumb rubs idle circles on the palm.]
I'll have to see about getting someone in to clean this up.
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In the end, Steve is going to have no one to blame but himself. He could have put a stop to all of this before it even started. He knew, even then, that his feelings about Tony weren't casual. But he wanted whatever he could get, and he's still making that same mistake now, leaving his hand in Tony's because he isn't ready to break contact.
That's the other thing about being Irish Catholic: he's a glutton for punishment. ]
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I didn't mean to imply you made the wrong choice or didn't have an active choice in the matter or...whatever. I just- I'm not good enough for you. [He lifts his eyes to meet Steve's gaze.] I know you aren't perfect, and I'm not trying to make it sound like you're some marble statue on a pedestal. I just think you could find someone better than me. Someone who doesn't pick fights with you all the time, for starters.
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[ Steve sits up on his knees and places his good hand against Tony's cheek. He is distantly aware that normally someone would have to drag the words he's about to say out of him, and even then, it might not work. But they come with an ease now that he's afraid to question. ]
There isn't anyone better than you. Not to me. Even when we're at odds and can't stop fighting, there's still— there's no one else but you.
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Okay, yeah, he's definitely going off on a drunk tangent there. The point is, Tony doesn't understand why Steve seems to want him, but gift horses, mouths, etc.]
I was fucking miserable the whole time we weren't speaking, [he admits while blinking his eyes like there's something in them.] All I did for years was drink and mope and complain about you to anyone who would listen. I'm pretty sure they weren't fooled at all.
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They offered to fit me with a new suit, in Wakanda. I wouldn't take it. I wore out the suit you made me, and then I kept wearing it.
Stopped shaving, too.
[ Sure, there were practical, international fugitive related reasons for his beard. But it also worked for him during a time when he couldn't stand to see his own face. A time when he would've given anything not to be the man who left Tony in the tundra, defeated and alone. ]
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I saw pictures of you with the beard. [A pause, and he lowers his voice.] I kept imagining you giving me beard burn on my thighs.
[There goes the moment, rip.]
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Mmm, and the hair, too.
[Without giving Steve a chance to answer, Tony tilts his head just enough to capture his lips in a kiss.]
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He reaches down to pull the bottle from between Tony's legs and set it on the floor. With that out of the way, he can press himself up as close to Tony as possible. He digs his hand into Tony's hair as he deepens the kiss. ]
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Too bad telepathy isn't an option, [Tony muses when they stop to catch their breath.] Imagine me talking in your head.
[This would actually be the worst punishment imaginable for everyone but Steve.]
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Well, at just that moment, I was thinking about how if I had telepathy, I'd say dirty things in your mind while you were in line at Starbucks, for example, and I'd be like "Oh, Steve, that pumpkin spice latte is hotter than the way you moaned my name when I swallowed your dick last night" and you'd get embarrassingly hard in public and not be able to do anything about it till you got home, but then you'd probably get your revenge when I was in a board meeting and start telling me everything you wanted to do in excruciating detail and I'd just be stuck there staring at investors for, like, an hour.
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