R is for Resolve

[odi-amo.livejournal.com]

Title: R is for Resolve
Author: odi_amo
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2,700
Notes: Wow, better late than never, I guess. Sorry this got posted so behind schedule, but due to operational commitments I was actually putzing around the ocean when my date came up. Blah. Thanks in advance for any comments, but I'll be putzing around the ocean again for a few weeks tomorrow, so any replies to comments will be far far late in coming. And without further ado... rawk on (-_-)\m/
Summary: Steve receives a depressing revelation, and Tony's there to keep him from falling to pieces.

 

Steve concentrates on breathing. In and out. In and out. His hands are solid fists at his sides. The urge to strike at something is a tangible knot in his chest. He stalks around his apartment, trying to just breathe, fighting down the anger and disgust. The file folder sits on a table in his living room, undeniable in its reality. 

He feels like doing something stupid. He stands in the middle of his apartment, and the indecision is so great that he’s momentarily unable to do anything but stand there and fight internally with himself, the rational part that knows exactly how stupid it would be to give in at war with the undeniable part of himself that’s just pure rage.

He stalks over to his house phone and dials. 

When Tony picks up, he sounds hassled and distracted. “Stark,” he says, like he didn’t even bother to glance at the caller ID before picking up.

“Tony, it’s Steve,” Steve says, and in a detached sort of way he’s amazed his voice sounds as calm as it does. There’s a sudden cracking noise and it takes Steve a moment to realize it’s the sound of the plastic phone in his hand being crushed by his tightening fingers. He lets out a long breath and loosens his hold. 

There’s a long pause where Tony doesn’t say anything, then the distant sound of a door shutting is audible through the connection. “Is everything alright?” Tony asks, and he sounds more focused this time.

“Everything is fine.” Steve says, and he has no idea why that’s the first thing out of his mouth. It’s almost automatic, and since there’s no taking it back, he ploughs on. “Could… are you free tonight?” Steve has no idea what to say, just that it’s not something he wants to discuss over the phone. It’s not something he can discuss over the phone. 

Steve thinks that Tony sounded anything but available, but Tony responds, “I- yes. After eight. Can you wait that long?”

Steve glances at his watch, which reads 18:32, and he thinks about it, honestly thinks about it. “No,” he says. 

Tony breathes; Steve can hear the sharp exhale. “Half an hour?”

“Yeah.” 

The connection severs and Steve carefully puts the phone back in its cradle. He stares at it for a moment, before he walks back into the living room.

He’s back to staring at the table with the file folder. The span of a few heartbeats passes, five or six of them, before Steve gives in and lashes out, slamming his foot into the table. It breaks down the middle like it was made of toothpicks. The file folder falls to the floor, half-spilling its contents across the carpet. Pictures glare up at him, and Steve tries to breathe. In and out. In and out. 

Maybe half an hour was too long. He didn’t think he would be this emotional, this angry, but maybe this was just the culmination of long months of too much build up and too little release. He doesn’t lose control like this often, and the wild intensity of his emotions would frighten him at some other time, but now all he feels is rage. It burns in his chest, and his gaze feels narrowed and tight, like he can’t see properly, can’t see anything but those damn pictures…

He destroys a coffee table next. Doesn’t even think about it, just strides over to it and picks up it like it was a bag of feathers and hurls it into the wall. The noise it makes as it ruptures into a dozen pieces is loud and satisfying and he watches the small cloud of plaster that leaks out of the cracked wall slowly dissipate. He knows he shouldn’t even as he does it, but if he doesn’t find some kind of release, he’s going to do something really, really stupid. Like put on his uniform and leave his apartment and god help anyone he runs into out there. 

Half an hour is an eternity. He manages not to destroy anything else, which is a good thing, because he doesn’t exactly have a surplus of furniture in the first place. He just passes the remaining time pacing and trying to breathe. In and out.

Tony is only five minutes late. He knocks on the door, but doesn’t wait for Steve to open it. Just knocks and walks in and stops in the living room, pausing a moment to take in the strewn remains of splintered wood, and the file folder that’s still scattered over the floor. 

“Steve?” he asks.

Steve is standing at the window, looking out into the street. He turns when he hears Tony’s voice, and his eyes rake up and down Tony’s form. He has a slightly disheveled appearance, an un-tucked dress shirt and suit slacks, tie missing and the first two buttons undone, his sleeves rolled. There’s a tightness around his eyes and a harried expression on his face that he doesn’t quite manage to hide. 

Tony, at the same time, gives Steve his own once over. He takes in the crossed arms, the hands balled into fists, the simmering rage that must be burning in his eyes.

Tony breaks the gaze and looks at the file folder, which is near his feet. His eyes trace the words Project Winter Soldier, before he stoops down to pick up one of the photos off the floor. 

Steve says, “Don’t.”

Tony pauses, hand hovering over the photos. A second later he ignores Steve’s command and plucks one at random out of the pile. 

It only takes two strides for Steve to reach Tony and rip the picture out of Tony’s hand, wrapping his fingers around Tony’s wrist in a grip like steel and twisting. The pressure will leave bruises, Tony knows, and his wrist tells him in no uncertain terms that it’s not meant to bend that way.

“Steve,” Tony says levelly, as the paper flutters to the floor. 

“I don’t want you looking at that.” Steve says roughly, and one of his feet is standing on the pile of photos, and he kicks them, watches them skid across the carpet.

Tony tugs his arm, the one Steve has his grip on, and Steve looks down at it, as if seeing it for the first time, and he lets go, pulling his hand back like Tony’s skin burns. 

Tony rubs his wrist, slowly, grimacing. “Are you alright?” Tony asks, and he sounds tired, and maybe a little disoriented.

Steve grits his teeth, says, “I’m fine,” which is a blatant lie, but Tony doesn’t believe him for an instant anyway. 

“Yeah, this whole thing really screams ‘fine’ to me.” Tony retorts, words clipped. “Sit down.”

“Tony-” 

“I said sit the hell down.”

Tony’s words are full of venom and his eyes are bright and hard. Steve slowly takes a few steps back, until his calves bump up against his couch, and he slowly sinks down onto it. 

Tony watches him like a hawk, tension squaring his shoulders, and when Steve sits, Tony bends down and collects the scattered pages of the file folder. Steve makes a noise, and Tony’s eyes flash up to his face, expression flat and unforgiving, and Steve puts his hands on his knees and curls his fingers into fists around the loose fabric of his pants. And breathes. In and out.

When Tony has all the pages in a neat pile, he walks over to the couch and sits down next to Steve, close enough that their thighs are brushing and their shoulders touch. 

Tony begins to read.

It takes him a while - he has to stop and flip through the scattered mess to find the next page each time. Steve makes the mistake of glancing down once in a while, to see where Tony is at. Each time the black rage given new life, each time the urge to get up and do something is almost overpowering. He wants to knock the folder from Tony’s hands, because there’s just something profane about Tony seeing this. As Tony flips through page after page, the whole thing steadily becomes more real. It’s all spread out there, in undeniable black and white.

He fights down all these urges and waits for Tony to finish, in a sort of vague, unacknowledged hope that maybe Tony will know how to deal with this, because Steve sure as hell has no idea. 

Eventually Tony finishes, closing the file folder slowly, with exaggerated care. He stares down at it for a moment, wordlessly.

He tosses the file folder onto the shattered remnants of Steve’s table. It lands haphazardly in the middle of the splintered mess, a few pages half-falling out. Steve is practically shaking with pent-up emotion. 

Tony sighs, reaches forward and tugs at one of Steve’s hands, pulling the fingers loose from the tight fist they make. He threads his fingers through Steve’s and just sits there, gripping his hand. He doesn’t say a word.

Steve’s jaw is stiff with tension. Steve tilts his head back, looks up at the ceiling, and tries to say something. Tries to think. Eventually, after a few moments, he says, “All this time-” but chokes off, unable to continue. He can’t say it. All this time, it’s always time, and someone is always taking it away from him- 

He breathes out, long and slow, and Tony’s thumb traces the arc of his hand, and he thinks, irrationally, that if Tony knew right at this moment how badly he wanted to go out and tear something to pieces with that very hand, he wouldn’t be able to look him in the eye.

Their thighs are still brushing, and Tony’s a warm weight pressing against his side. Steve lets his eyes slide closed, and a silence stretches out. Steve thinks that Tony should have said something, a condolence, a reassurance maybe, but for his part, Tony just gripped Steve’s hand and didn’t say a word. He feels grateful, because he doesn’t think he could have handled the lie that everything would ‘be alright’. 

So Steve sits there, because while the urge to get up and act is almost overpowering, he doubts Tony would let him, just as despite all his rage he doubts he could muster the resolve to break that point of contact where their fingers are threaded together. The silence stretches, filled only with the sound of his breathing. In and out. In and out. And slowly but surely, he feels the tension leak out of his shoulders, draining away into the silence, and it might have been an hour, or maybe three. All he knows is that his anger, all of his rage and resentment and disgust eventually burns out with nothing to fuel it, and he left feeling tired and drained.

Steve turns to look at Tony. Tony’s head is tilted slightly to the side, his eyes closed, his breathing slow and steady. He’s fast asleep, but Steve can still see the lines of tension on his face, and when he looks down at where their hands are still joined, he can see that Tony’s wrist is swollen, and faint finger-shaped bruises are beginning to darken on his skin. 

Steve feels empty. He reaches up with his free hand and brushes an errant strand of hair off Tony’s forehead.

Tony stirs. Steve retracts his hand, watching Tony’s face. Tony shifts, his grip on Steve’s hand flexing, and his eyes slowly open. Steve looks at him, trying to find something to say. Tony blinks at him a few times, shaking off sleep.

Tony saves Steve the trouble of putting his thoughts into words. Tony, almost absently it seems, reaches up and threads his fingers through the hair on the back of Steve’s head, tugging him forward until their lips meet. 

Tony’s response before had been silence, and Steve is glad of that now. He feels the warm weight of Tony against his mouth, the goatee scratching faintly at his skin, and knows that this isn’t something he’d wanted tarnished by his feelings of anger and disgust. Tony’s tongue traces his bottom lip and Steve parts his lips automatically, and then Tony’s heat fills his mouth and Steve forgets about thinking.

Steve’s only got one free hand, because he still can’t bring himself to unlace his fingers from Tony’s, so he begins the process of unbuttoning Tony’s shirt one-handed, working with skilled, deft fingers. Tony shifts his weight, half-rising off the couch, leaning forward so Steve has to lean back, and then Steve’s back connects with the seat cushions. Tony straddles him, settling over Steve’s hips, and Steve likes this position. He likes the security of Tony’s weight pressing him down. 

Tony pulls out of the kiss, remaining close enough that Steve can feel every exhalation of Tony’s breath flutter against his lips. The last button comes undone and he traces one hand up Tony’s side, the skin smooth and warm beneath his fingers.

Tony groans softly, dipping his head down until their foreheads are pressed together. His eyes slide closed, and he just breathes. Slowly, and Steve notices that it’s a lot slower than it ought to be for someone engaged in what they’re currently doing, especially since Steve’s heart is starting to race. 

“Tony?” he murmurs, hand pausing on Tony’s side. 

Tony hums, his thumb gently stroking back and forth through the hair by Steve’s temple.

Steve pushes Tony lightly, enough so that he can get a good look at Tony’s face. Tony’s eyes slide open half-lidded, and Steve asks, “Are you alright?”

Tony just looks at him, blinks slowly, and says somewhat wanly, “Didn’t have time to charge before I came over.”

Steve’s brow furrows, his lips twisting into a frown. Even though he knows that Tony doesn’t like it, Steve trails his fingers up from Tony’s side, across his chest, until his palm is resting against warm metal. Tony shifts uncomfortably, but doesn’t pull away.

“Tony,” he says, voice low, a hint of warning in the tone. 

“ ’s fine, Steve. It can wait ‘til morning.” As if to prove a point, Tony dips down and presses another kiss to Steve’s lips, slow and languid, and then pulls back to press another one to Steve’s jaw. “ ’m just tired,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against Steve’s skin as he says it.

Steve lifts his free hand up and rests it on the back of Tony’s neck. “Come on,” he says, “We’ll go sleep in the bedroom.”

Tony hums in annoyance. “You don’t want to sleep,” he mutters against Steve’s neck. His tongue snakes out and runs along the length of Steve’s throat, and Steve’s breath hitches. 

“Tony,” he breathes, “I can wait.” 

“Is that so?” Tony asks, and he shifts his weight across Steve’s hips, and Steve makes a noise in the back of his throat.

“Tony,” he repeats, and manages to muster something of authority in the tone, knowing that Tony is just trying to distract him. 

Tony huffs against Steve’s neck. “Fine,” he says softly, and gently bites at the skin of Steve’s jawline before pulling back.

Steve knows he made the right call when they slowly extricate themselves from the couch and Tony wavers ever so slightly when he reaches his feet. Steve tightens his grip on Tony’s hand and tugs him towards his bedroom. He gently pushes Tony onto the bed, their joined hands finally releasing. Tony doesn’t bother climbing beneath the sheets, simply lying loose-limbed on the mattress, seemingly content to fall asleep in the unbuttoned remnants of his business suit. Steve stands next to the bed, tugging off his shirt before climbing in next to Tony. 

Tony rolls, until his head is lying in the crook of Steve’s shoulder and his arm is stretched across Steve’s chest, and a moment later his breath evens out to sleep.

Steve lies awake for at least another hour, because he still can’t get Bucky out of his mind, and every time he thinks about the contents of the file folder in his living room, he can’t quite quell that surge of disgust. It’s easier to ignore, though, if he just focuses on his breathing, in and out, perfectly timed with Tony’s warm breath against his cheek.