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cap_ironman2008-07-07 12:31 am
smilingskull.livejournal.com) wrote in cap_ironman2008-07-07 12:31 am
Entry tags:
Hey look, fic!
I wanted to write something, but was idea-less, so I skipped on over to one of my favorite places on the internet: The random word generator! The word I got? Microwave. So here is a sort of ficlet that started out trying to be about microwaves but ended up being more about burritos.
Title: Microwave (or Burrito)
Pairings/Characters: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Rating: G/PG
Fandom: A combo of Movie!Verse and New Avengers, post Extremis.
Warnings: Fluff. This is basically all fluff (With a burrito throw in for good measure).
Word Count: ~ 780
Disclaimer: No own, no profit. 'Tis all good.
Tony Stark’s kitchen has the same windows that run through the living room (and most of the rest of the house, for that matter), floor to ceiling, the same ones that let light spill across the polished cement floor whenever possible. Steve likes it when it’s sunny in the kitchen; it warms it up a bit. Otherwise, it’s all smooth, polished steel and flat fronted cabinets that are ridiculously edgy in design. The table in the breakfast nook (It’s too big to be a nook, but that’s still what it gets called) even matches, the same minimalist design.
When Steve wakes up at some crazy hour of the early morning one day, his first thought is that Tony is missing from bed. Blinking sleepily, Steve stares at Tony’s side of the bed for a good couple of seconds before sighing and sitting up, fully intending to have to drag Tony out of the garage. Once again.
But instead, when he gets to the bottom of the stairs, it’s not the garage that’s leaking light into the main part of the house, but the kitchen. Steve raises an eyebrow, and, moving softly, his sweatpants making more noise against his legs than his feet against the floor, he follows the light, trailing a hand along the wall next to him.
The lights over the breakfast table and industrial range are on, giving the kitchen a soft feeling for once. The windows are an inky black, and sitting at the island on one of the stools is Tony. He’s lazily drinking a Red Bull (which Steve would protest about, but knows that at this point in Tony’s crazily caffeinated life that the substance has little effect on him) and the microwave is happily humming, the little bulb on the inside glowing.
“’Morning.” Tony mumbles, resting his forehead against the top of the Red Bull can, his arms splayed on the counter top. It looks like an uncomfortable position, especially with the metal rim on the can pressed into his head, but Tony doesn’t seem to mind. For one so vain and extremely quaffed in public, Tony can be incredibly lazy behind closed doors. Especially at early hours of the morning when he hasn’t been up for three straight days tinkering with all sorts of tech.
“It’s too early in the morning for it to officially be the morning.” Steve pronounces. He hoists himself up on the counter next to Tony, ruffling his hair affectionately. Tony makes some noise of contentment at the back of his throat as the microwaves beeps and a voice calmly informs them that “your food is done”.
“Do you know how odd it is that even your microwave talks?” Steve informs Tony, who just shrugs and moves languidly off his stool, stalking over to retrieve whatever he was microwaving. Steve watches him walk, marvels at how controlled and calculated his movements are even when he’s half asleep. The muscles in his lower back shift as he walks, and Steve is reminded just how much power hides and hums underneath Tony’s skin.
Tony pops open the microwave, and fishes out a burrito, the frozen kind that tend to come from places like 7-11, before shutting the appliance with a dull metallic sound and taking a bite of burrito.
“Well.” Steve laughs, “I never thought you to be one who likes things that start out frozen and end up tasting disturbingly good after a few minutes of heating.”
The grin on Tony’s face is indolent as he makes his way back to the island and takes a seat on the stool next to his original one, sitting between Steve’s legs and propping his elbows up on Steve’s knees. He turns up to face him as he takes another bite.
“Funny, I figured you would have known that. After all, I happen to like you.” Tony replies, and offers the burrito to Steve. It takes Steve’s sleep addled brain a few seconds to get it, and then he just rolls his eyes before taking the offering of once-frozen food.
“The liking,” He says between bites, “Is mutual.”
“Well hey, how about that.” Tony yawns, stretches his spine and arches his back before resting his head on Steve’s left leg. Steve just grins down at him, and runs fingers through Tony’s hair, feels Tony turn his head a tic to lean into Steve’s hand.
“I really love that burrito.” Tony mumbles against the grey cloth of Steve’s pants. He can tell that Tony is about three seconds from falling back asleep, can hear it in his voice. Steve bends down, kisses the top of Tony’s head and simply says, “I really love you too."
Title: Microwave (or Burrito)
Pairings/Characters: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Rating: G/PG
Fandom: A combo of Movie!Verse and New Avengers, post Extremis.
Warnings: Fluff. This is basically all fluff (With a burrito throw in for good measure).
Word Count: ~ 780
Disclaimer: No own, no profit. 'Tis all good.
Tony Stark’s kitchen has the same windows that run through the living room (and most of the rest of the house, for that matter), floor to ceiling, the same ones that let light spill across the polished cement floor whenever possible. Steve likes it when it’s sunny in the kitchen; it warms it up a bit. Otherwise, it’s all smooth, polished steel and flat fronted cabinets that are ridiculously edgy in design. The table in the breakfast nook (It’s too big to be a nook, but that’s still what it gets called) even matches, the same minimalist design.
When Steve wakes up at some crazy hour of the early morning one day, his first thought is that Tony is missing from bed. Blinking sleepily, Steve stares at Tony’s side of the bed for a good couple of seconds before sighing and sitting up, fully intending to have to drag Tony out of the garage. Once again.
But instead, when he gets to the bottom of the stairs, it’s not the garage that’s leaking light into the main part of the house, but the kitchen. Steve raises an eyebrow, and, moving softly, his sweatpants making more noise against his legs than his feet against the floor, he follows the light, trailing a hand along the wall next to him.
The lights over the breakfast table and industrial range are on, giving the kitchen a soft feeling for once. The windows are an inky black, and sitting at the island on one of the stools is Tony. He’s lazily drinking a Red Bull (which Steve would protest about, but knows that at this point in Tony’s crazily caffeinated life that the substance has little effect on him) and the microwave is happily humming, the little bulb on the inside glowing.
“’Morning.” Tony mumbles, resting his forehead against the top of the Red Bull can, his arms splayed on the counter top. It looks like an uncomfortable position, especially with the metal rim on the can pressed into his head, but Tony doesn’t seem to mind. For one so vain and extremely quaffed in public, Tony can be incredibly lazy behind closed doors. Especially at early hours of the morning when he hasn’t been up for three straight days tinkering with all sorts of tech.
“It’s too early in the morning for it to officially be the morning.” Steve pronounces. He hoists himself up on the counter next to Tony, ruffling his hair affectionately. Tony makes some noise of contentment at the back of his throat as the microwaves beeps and a voice calmly informs them that “your food is done”.
“Do you know how odd it is that even your microwave talks?” Steve informs Tony, who just shrugs and moves languidly off his stool, stalking over to retrieve whatever he was microwaving. Steve watches him walk, marvels at how controlled and calculated his movements are even when he’s half asleep. The muscles in his lower back shift as he walks, and Steve is reminded just how much power hides and hums underneath Tony’s skin.
Tony pops open the microwave, and fishes out a burrito, the frozen kind that tend to come from places like 7-11, before shutting the appliance with a dull metallic sound and taking a bite of burrito.
“Well.” Steve laughs, “I never thought you to be one who likes things that start out frozen and end up tasting disturbingly good after a few minutes of heating.”
The grin on Tony’s face is indolent as he makes his way back to the island and takes a seat on the stool next to his original one, sitting between Steve’s legs and propping his elbows up on Steve’s knees. He turns up to face him as he takes another bite.
“Funny, I figured you would have known that. After all, I happen to like you.” Tony replies, and offers the burrito to Steve. It takes Steve’s sleep addled brain a few seconds to get it, and then he just rolls his eyes before taking the offering of once-frozen food.
“The liking,” He says between bites, “Is mutual.”
“Well hey, how about that.” Tony yawns, stretches his spine and arches his back before resting his head on Steve’s left leg. Steve just grins down at him, and runs fingers through Tony’s hair, feels Tony turn his head a tic to lean into Steve’s hand.
“I really love that burrito.” Tony mumbles against the grey cloth of Steve’s pants. He can tell that Tony is about three seconds from falling back asleep, can hear it in his voice. Steve bends down, kisses the top of Tony’s head and simply says, “I really love you too."
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Also, why did I never think before that Tony's microwave would talk? Of course it would talk. It seems so obvious now. :O
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awwwwwwww
you killed my coherency, deal with it
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The picture of tony resting his forehead on a can of redbull made my brain really happy for some reason :D
this was really cute
Redonkulously late feedback from new comm member
Oh, and also, I loved all the descriptions of Tony and his kitchen.