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cap_ironman2008-11-17 07:57 pm
music-est-vita.livejournal.com) wrote in cap_ironman2008-11-17 07:57 pm
Entry tags:
The Cowboy and The Socialite (4/8)
Author: music_est_vita
Betas: the magnificent bitchy_merlin and moonangelchan
Title: The Cowboy and The Socialite (4/8)
Rating: Pg-13
Genre: Harlequin Romance
Italics indicate thoughts.
Disclaimer: They don't belong to me and I'm not making any money off of them, Marvel is.
Summary: Two years after the American Civil War, the rich, young, spoiled socialite Tony Stark is sent away to the Avengers Ranch by his father. While he is there to "learn to be a man", he meets a group of Civil War veterans his father employs. He catches the eye of one Captain Steve Rogers, who wants to know the secret Tony is hiding behind his eyes.
Warnings: AU, cheese.
AN: I'm sorry this took so long... I meant to have this up, like, three weeks ago but rl and nanowrimo hit me hard.
Chapter One: http://community.livejournal.com/cap_ironman/92673.html#cutid1
Chapter Two: http://community.livejournal.com/cap_ironman/103414.html#cutid1
Chapter Three: http://community.livejournal.com/cap_ironman/131808.html
Tony had manged to escape from Jan's party without any of the guests outside of Jan, the Richards family and the Avengers discovering his connection with "Iron Man"; he had spent the entire carriage ride home pleading exhaustion to avoid questions. He didn't want any pity from the Avengers (considering that the circumstances revolving around his armor were as pathetic as the futile escape attempts of a defenseless baby deer when a wolf approaches), and he had no idea what the hell Steve was thinking. At least, Tony had no idea as to what Steve was thinking about him. Tony knew that Steve would be planning a way to incorporate Tony's abilities into the ranch, and he would be trying to figure out why Tony dressed up in an iron suit. This meant that eventually, Steve was going to want have a serious conversation with Tony.
Tony was characteristically dreading it, and decided to act upon what he usually found to be the best avoidance strategy. His firm jaw was set and injured innocence poured off him in waves as the ceaseless and unending turmoils and pain of his shattered, fragmented, and generally broken heart engulfed him once again. His luscious dark-as-being-blindfolded-in-the-woods-during-midnight eyes were now hazy with the agonizing enormity of the decision he was about to make: he was going to get rip-roaring drunk. Gloriously, utterly, and totally inebriated on the golden liquid.
And so it was that Tony skulked off like a minx to imbibe his alcoholic beverage of choice, a particularly strong 120 proof whiskey which he kept in a golden hip-flask, planning on wallowing in his epic and incurable self-loathing and guilt in (his manly) forlorn solitude. Alas, misery loves company and Tony found himself bumping into Hank, who was also attempting to sneak stealthily off, like a ninja in the night, to drown his innumerable sorrows. One thing led to another, as these sorts of things often do, and the two downcast, distressed, and despondent young men found themselves drinking together in a widespread and verdant field, just outside of the ranch.
Morosely, an extremely intoxicated Hank recounted the heart-wrenchingly awful tale of his woes to Tony . Truth to tell, it was really only one woe - but one woe of such incredible clout that it had so many facets as to be qualified as "woes". That, however, was not the point. They all revolved around one Ms. Van Dyne.
"I always admired her, you know, for her mind. I hate talking to someone who doesn't understand what I'm talking about, and hell would freeze over before I would marry someone I can't talk to," Hank asserted, almost at the point of intoxication where words began to slur.
"But why would she ever be interested in someone like me? Look at who her father is! She is as lustrous and beautiful as a butterfly in the heart of summer, and I'm just some worker drone ant grubbing in the mud." With this morose conclusion, Hank took another large, manly swig from his poison, Woodford Reserve bourbon, from his battered, old hip-flask(because true men drink from hip-flasks). He let out a large sigh as this last slurp of the heady elixir pushed him past the point where he lost all proper prosody.
"Aaand b-besides, even if I was in a pos... prose? pos-position! Even if I was in any position to court her, she wuddnt like me. I'm the bug boy! What woman would be int-interested in me?" With this he fell back from his sitting position to look up at the sky, as though the illustrious and sparklingly bright stars had the answers to his problems.
Tony nodded his head with all the wisdom of a drunken sage and murmured, "I know how that is, wanting someone untouchable as Pandora's box."
Hank boggled at him, the alcohol in his system having long since killed his inhibitions and good sense, and replied, "You're thinking about the Captain, right?"
Tony, who had been making a valiant attempt to rise from the ground on which he sat, fell flat on his face (albeit gracefully as a sparrow on the wings of dawn). Pushing himself up in another shaky attempt to stand, he retorted unconvincingly, "I have NO idea what you're talking about."
"It's all right, it's perfectly natural. Homosexuality shows up in many animal species. For example, the male fruit fly will mate with other male fruit flies if there are no female fruit flies around. Well... they only do that if they're drunk, but that's beside the point. I don't mean that you should only sleep with men when you're lacking drunk and you are women. Wait! I mean, because you're lacking women and you're drunk." At this point, Hank's attempts to reassure Tony had failed to the point of hilarity, and Tony burst out laughing, and was soon followed by Hank. Their moment of manly male bonding thus led to a deeper understanding of each other's eternal souls, and they drank until the pale ivory moon was high in the blanket of the dark velvet sky.
At approximately one in the dew-soaked morning, elsewhere on the ranch, Steve jerked violently awake to do his usual "make sure everyone is still alive" circuit (the war had left him with some odd habits) and he noticed an obdurate scarcity of one insect aficionado as well as the drastic and unforgivable lack of the second half of his soul. Steve's heart plummeted through his stomach when he noticed their glaring absence. However, his fear was replaced with purpose immediately; Steve was determined to find out where his bosom buddies were. He decided to be proactive, and thereupon he summarily summoned the not-inconsiderable resources of his conglomerate mental faculties and cataloged what he knew about Tony's inimitable and endearing characteristics at this hour. He knew Tony liked to drink at night, but he usually commenced that particular act in his troglodytic, secluded room. If Tony did, by chance, go out, he always returned by the stroke of midnight: one thing Steve found riveting about the melanoid-haired young inventor was that he hated being out in the bounteous country fields for any longer than absolutely necessary.
Steve marched smartly out of the ranch house and surveyed the vast fields surrounding the building. There was a spring in his step, and a determined thrust to his well-hewn chin, as he started to minutely inspect the perimeter of the yard. Suddenly, he detected the stentorian sound of raucous laughter. He tramped towards the noise, and eventually came across two very intoxicated Avengers. Hank, being the slightly more coherent of the two, was attempting, and failing epically, to help Tony up from his prone position on ground. Tony, however, was simply too drunk to even stand; his wide chestnut orbs were brimming with confusion as the world tilted up and down around him. Hank looked helplessly up at Steve, confused for a moment, until his expression changed to one of the utmost crushing guilt. "You were doing that thing - you know, the thing.... the thing where you make sure we're not dead, weren't you? Shit! I'm sorry!" he blurted out in a quavering voice.
Steve just shook his head ruefully, as though all the sorrows of the world lay on his broad, muscular shoulders, and replied in a voice as deep as the winds, "It's fine. Just, if you're going to do this again, can you at least inform me of your plans first?"
Hank nodded his head in agreement and then looked over at Tony, who had given up on standing upright and was lying on the ground, staring disconsolately at the eternal night sky. Steve just sighed and sadly shook his head at how such a perfect and luminary individual could exhibit such self-destructive behaviour. He then knelt and gently gathered Tony into his strong and mighty arms, much the same way as a groom would pick up his blushing bride (although unlike said bride, Tony was anything but virginal).
Steve had started to walk purposefully back to the ranch, with Hank stumbling along behind him, when something caused him to stop dead in his tracks. His chiselled face bore an expression of shock and surprise. Tony was nuzzling his face into Steve's chest like a cat, and Steve had the sudden urge to do all sorts of improper things to Tony as a result. Steve could feel his ears burning, like steak that has been left for too long on a barbecue. Thank God it's so dark out, was the only coherent thought in his mind. After suppressing some of his more basic urges, Steve looked over at Hank, to make sure he hadn't noticed the sudden change in Steve's demeanour. I hope Hank thinks I paused to wait for him to catch up, he thought to himself.
When they finally arrived back at the ranch, Steve turned to Hank. "I still expect to see you at dawn tomorrow," he said, his deep voice grave.
Hank nodded, then saluted his Captain and stumbled blearily off to bed. This left Steve standing in the dark desolate hallway holding Tony. A very drunk Tony. A mostly unconscious Tony. A very attractive and absolutely... Once again Steve put his thoughts on hold, determined not to take advantage of Tony -even if only in his thoughts-, despite the horribly powerful temptations he was faced with. Fortunately, Steve was a pillar of morality, and did not so much as ogle Tony. Summoning his solidarity, he walked down the hall, turned right, and paused at the third door on the left - Tony's room. However, try as he might, Steve could not for the life of him figure out how to open the door. Even after he had gotten the keys, the locks remained a mystery. There were too many of them, and at least half required some other activation process.
Steve's shoulders drooped slightly when he was forced to concede defeat, and he decided to give up his bed to Tony for the night. As he was walking back to his room, Steve bumped into Dr. Donald Blake. "I heard you go out, and I was worried there might be some trouble..." the doctor murmured.
After the doctor had spoken, Steve noticed the black medical bag he was carrying in his left hand. Aware of the awkwardness of their current predicament, Steve quickly explained the situation to his friend. When he got to the end of his explanation he ended up falling into the old habit of calling Blake by his nickname. "Thor, I have no idea what to do with him. I mean, is it even safe for him to be in this state? And why would he want to get this drunk?" Steve's blue spheres of ocular perception glistened like a deep blue pond quivering in the wake of a storm. He was a mother bear to Tony's bear cub, full of worry and an instinctive need to protect.
Thor, responding to Steve's quandaries, said, "The amount of alcohol he has imbibed has the potential to be quite dangerous - especially to someone whose constitution is as fragile as that of Mr. Stark; I would suggest finding someone to watch him while he is unconscious. Many men have died for no good reason, only because they have choked on their own vomit. I would also suggest watching his breathing, to make sure he doesn't have alcohol poisoning. If you would like, I can watch him. I have plenty of experience with this sort of thing."
Steve hugged Tony's motionless body closer to his broad, firm chest. "I'll watch him," he insisted, trying to smile reassuringly but failing miserably.
Blake just patted his Captain on the shoulder and replied, "I'm sure he'll be fine with you looking out for him, but just as a cautionary measure, be sure to lay him down on his side and leave a bucket nearby. When our Iron Man wakes up he'll have one hell of a headache and his stomach isn't going to be too happy."
Having said this, the doctor retreated to his own room, and Steve continued on this path. He opened the door with difficulty; Tony was completely unconscious at this point, and could offer no help as Steve tugged futilely at the doorknob. When Steve finally got the monstrous door open, he proceeded slowly over to his bed, with a grace befitting a much smaller man, and lovingly placed Tony down upon the soft, downy, fluffy, heavenly mattress, as though the limp inventor were made of the most delicate crystal money could buy. Not to say, of course, that Steve could ever put any monetary value on Tony's life; it was simply too precious.
Steve then pulled up a chair and began his midnight vigil over the young heir's prone body. He had water nearby, and he grabbed a chamber pot for any bile that would come as his dear coffee-eyed inventor awoke. Steve's iridescent, watchful eyes didn't leave Tony's lithe, supple body until the poor alcoholic began to stir. As Tony woke up, his first thought was something approximating awekraaalks. However, upon mustering the barest shreds of coherence, he came up with: Fuck, my head. Which was promptly followed by Where am I? Oh. It smells like Steve. Mmmm... His last thought was punctuated by a soft humming noise.
Steve had no idea how to react, so he just waited until Tony fully opened his eyes. Tony was looking for all the world like a newborn kitten in this instant was the only thought running through Steve's mind. Their eyes met for one eternal breathless second, before Tony's face paled visibly. His late night activities had caught up with him like a derailed train. Steve noticed the look on Tony's face, and he shoved the chamber pot in Tony's general direction not a moment too soon. Tony soon lost all the contents of his stomach as violently as the Niagara Falls looses water.
Steve, hating to see his eccentric genius in any amount of discomfiture, no matter how small, immediately rose and got a wet cloth, with which he gently bathed Tony's face and tried tenderly to help soften the hammer-blow of his hangover. Despite Steve's efforts, Tony's head felt like a piece of metal in Hephaestus's forge, beaten over and over by the lame god's hammer, not sure why the blows came or how it might end up; the metal would take any abuse given to be part of whatever masterpiece the volcano god was constructing.
After many seemingly endless minutes, Tony sat up completely and looked into Steve's worried blue eyes. Tony smiled and tried to make a joke out of the situation, or rather, out of himself. He was cut short by Steve who admonished him, with his jaw set in a determined manner, "I don't want you to put yourself down like that."
Then Steve was off to another side of the room, and Tony almost keened without his immediate presence. When Steve returned he brought with him a clean spare shirt, and offered it to Tony with a smile, murmuring something about knowing how it feels to be in the same clothes for too long.
Tony snatched the offered shirt and began to change without a second thought, his mind having the approximate consistency of slightly runny scrambled eggs when he heard Steve's intake of breath, sharp as a butcher's knife. Shit! He's seen my chest. Now he'll think I'm weak, and ugly and- His thoughts were cut off by "That must have hurt an awful lot, did you design the chest... thing... while injured? That's what the scars look like..." Steve's voice was hesitant, obviously afraid of scaring Tony off with his verbatim, and yet the concern was evident is his sapphire blue eyes.
"Ah- Yes. I was injured at the time, but I had help. There was a Chinese doctor, Yinsen. He had read about electromagnets, and he put one in my chest to keep the shrapnel from the original wound from entering my heart. I upgraded it later, but it still looks fairly... severe." Tony responded, he sounded almost reluctant to tell his tale, even to Steve(who he secretly loved more than life itself, but Steve doesn't know this yet, so SHHH!).
Steve asked the questions Tony expected and dreaded: Why was he in a combat zone? How bad was the damage? What happened to Yinsen? and the worst question of all: Why couldn't your father help?
After explaining the reason why he was there - he had gone on a business trip for his father - and how the damage should have killed him. Tony choked up, his chest constricting around his wounded heart, when he described The Death Of Yinsen. Steve wished dearly that he could wipe away the guilt in Tony's eyes, but he knew in his heart of hearts that this was a wound too deep for him to heal.
Finally Tony began to explain the reason his father had not come to his aid, getting more and more frantic as the explanation wore on. "They asked for half a million dollars; my father could easily pay four times as much, but h-he refused. They shouldn't have even k-known I was traveling, only my father and a few trustees in his company knew. I used to think, that despite all of my failures as a son, my father would try his best to keep me alive... -if only for appearances sake- but I was wrong. He cares more about the opinions of his advisers than he does for me. Why shouldn't he? I'm worthless. One of the advisers told him it would look bad to give in - I don't know who it was that said this, but I've never really cared to know - so he refused to pay the ransom money. I created the suit so Yinsen and I could escape, but he- he... he died in the escape."
With his explanation over, Tony bolted like a startled deer out of Steve's room, determined not to let Steve see his tears.
…………
Hank was humming happily as he knelt knee-deep in mud, collecting ants from an anthill that he had just found. He had started out the day watching cows, but somewhere along the line he had become distracted (this was a frequent enough occurrence that it was generally understood that whomever was assigned to work with Hank would end up working alone if Hank caught sight of a bug he liked).
Hank was so distracted by his Dolichoderus mariae Forel that he didn't notice when the exquisite Jan Van Dyne rode up astride a majestic black stallion named Logan - although his viciousness to anyone Jan disliked had earned him a less-then-proper nickname - to where he was examining his beautiful insects. Jan hopped off of her horse, strode over to Hank, and leaning down next to his shoulder, whispered in a voice that would - Hank thought later - be much better suited to the bedroom. "What sort of ants are those?"
Hank nearly jumped out of his skin hearing Jan speak, her soft bell-like voice ringing in his ears. He blushed vivaciously, and ended up blurting out everything he knew about the bugs. "Dolichoderus mariae Forel. This species nests in soil, preferably sand, forming small mounds usually at the base of a shrub or clump of grass. Occasionally, nests are under stumps or logs. It shows a preference for grassy areas or old fields. Colonies can be quite large (up to tens of thousands of workers), and they can be seen foraging in conspicuous files. Nests are polygynous."(1)
Hank blushed and looked away, feeling like an idiot. Why can't I just keep my mouth shut? He was about to start looking for excuses to duck and cover when Jan started asking more questions about the ants. Hank happily answered and the two young intellects ended up discussing a variety of topic from the habitats of insects to their molecular structures. Hank felt he was admirably composed, given the circumstances; but when he stopped talking for a moment, he chanced to glance down and noticed something that made his previous thought process stutter to a halt: Jan is wearing trousers. I can see the outline of her legs. I wonder if women ever trip over their own skirts? Embarrassed, Hank looked away immediately, focusing on his ants and blushing hard enough to start a forest fire.
Jan noticed the look he was giving her and grinned, secure in her femininity. She had hoped he would notice, and she was worried when he hadn't responded. "If you're wondering about my clothing choice, you should try walking around in a dress. Then, you'd understand why this is much better attire for riding!"
He looked up at her again and his blush spread most profusely at their close proximity. When did she get so close? Hank wondered, and said out loud "I would imagine that they are - I have no idea how women can wear them all day..."
He trailed off and looked down again, his shyness back in full blow. He heard Jan moving, but nothing really registered in his clouded and confused mind; when he looked up again, they were face to face and Jan was so close that Hank could feel puffs of her angel-sweet breath on his cheek. His blush had reached a critical point. Hank was just about to ask what the hell was going on, because Jan was really close, and he could feel the dusky softness of her breath and wow, she was even more beautiful up close I didn't know that was possible -- and then Jan kissed him. After the few seconds it had taken Hank to realize that this was actually happening, he passed out.
Jan giggled.
……….
Tony was sitting in a field, far away from the cattle's current path, trying to forget his pitiful life. He was depressed, ashamed and drunk once again. How could I cry in front of Steve? Now he'll think I'm a coward, a weakling. He'll want nothing to do with me! Tony's self-destructive mind railed on and on at him, furthering his conviction that his secret love now hated him. At the same time, a small part of him, the blasted ever-hopeful part, said Steve's so... selfless. Surely he won't think less of me.... But this part of his mind was quickly drowned out. Which was rather a shame, because this was this part that was using evidence to back up its point. Steve wasn't the sort of person to think less of a man who would cry when he felt such deep and soul-tearing pain.
As per standard with Tony's luck, it was in the middle of his musings that a man dressed in charcoal grey snuck up behind him - stealthy as a panther padding softly through a dark warehouse full of black fabric - and forced a rag over Tony's mouth. Tony's last thoughts, as he struggled futilely against his assailant, were Chloroform? Oh, shit, before his world went black.
site: http://www.cs.unc.edu/~hedlund/ants/
citation on site: (Creighton, 1950a: 332, MacKay, 1993b: 101-102).
Betas: the magnificent bitchy_merlin and moonangelchan
Title: The Cowboy and The Socialite (4/8)
Rating: Pg-13
Genre: Harlequin Romance
Italics indicate thoughts.
Disclaimer: They don't belong to me and I'm not making any money off of them, Marvel is.
Summary: Two years after the American Civil War, the rich, young, spoiled socialite Tony Stark is sent away to the Avengers Ranch by his father. While he is there to "learn to be a man", he meets a group of Civil War veterans his father employs. He catches the eye of one Captain Steve Rogers, who wants to know the secret Tony is hiding behind his eyes.
Warnings: AU, cheese.
AN: I'm sorry this took so long... I meant to have this up, like, three weeks ago but rl and nanowrimo hit me hard.
Chapter One: http://community.livejournal.com/cap_ironman/92673.html#cutid1
Chapter Two: http://community.livejournal.com/cap_ironman/103414.html#cutid1
Chapter Three: http://community.livejournal.com/cap_ironman/131808.html
Tony had manged to escape from Jan's party without any of the guests outside of Jan, the Richards family and the Avengers discovering his connection with "Iron Man"; he had spent the entire carriage ride home pleading exhaustion to avoid questions. He didn't want any pity from the Avengers (considering that the circumstances revolving around his armor were as pathetic as the futile escape attempts of a defenseless baby deer when a wolf approaches), and he had no idea what the hell Steve was thinking. At least, Tony had no idea as to what Steve was thinking about him. Tony knew that Steve would be planning a way to incorporate Tony's abilities into the ranch, and he would be trying to figure out why Tony dressed up in an iron suit. This meant that eventually, Steve was going to want have a serious conversation with Tony.
Tony was characteristically dreading it, and decided to act upon what he usually found to be the best avoidance strategy. His firm jaw was set and injured innocence poured off him in waves as the ceaseless and unending turmoils and pain of his shattered, fragmented, and generally broken heart engulfed him once again. His luscious dark-as-being-blindfolded-in-the-woods-during-midnight eyes were now hazy with the agonizing enormity of the decision he was about to make: he was going to get rip-roaring drunk. Gloriously, utterly, and totally inebriated on the golden liquid.
And so it was that Tony skulked off like a minx to imbibe his alcoholic beverage of choice, a particularly strong 120 proof whiskey which he kept in a golden hip-flask, planning on wallowing in his epic and incurable self-loathing and guilt in (his manly) forlorn solitude. Alas, misery loves company and Tony found himself bumping into Hank, who was also attempting to sneak stealthily off, like a ninja in the night, to drown his innumerable sorrows. One thing led to another, as these sorts of things often do, and the two downcast, distressed, and despondent young men found themselves drinking together in a widespread and verdant field, just outside of the ranch.
Morosely, an extremely intoxicated Hank recounted the heart-wrenchingly awful tale of his woes to Tony . Truth to tell, it was really only one woe - but one woe of such incredible clout that it had so many facets as to be qualified as "woes". That, however, was not the point. They all revolved around one Ms. Van Dyne.
"I always admired her, you know, for her mind. I hate talking to someone who doesn't understand what I'm talking about, and hell would freeze over before I would marry someone I can't talk to," Hank asserted, almost at the point of intoxication where words began to slur.
"But why would she ever be interested in someone like me? Look at who her father is! She is as lustrous and beautiful as a butterfly in the heart of summer, and I'm just some worker drone ant grubbing in the mud." With this morose conclusion, Hank took another large, manly swig from his poison, Woodford Reserve bourbon, from his battered, old hip-flask(because true men drink from hip-flasks). He let out a large sigh as this last slurp of the heady elixir pushed him past the point where he lost all proper prosody.
"Aaand b-besides, even if I was in a pos... prose? pos-position! Even if I was in any position to court her, she wuddnt like me. I'm the bug boy! What woman would be int-interested in me?" With this he fell back from his sitting position to look up at the sky, as though the illustrious and sparklingly bright stars had the answers to his problems.
Tony nodded his head with all the wisdom of a drunken sage and murmured, "I know how that is, wanting someone untouchable as Pandora's box."
Hank boggled at him, the alcohol in his system having long since killed his inhibitions and good sense, and replied, "You're thinking about the Captain, right?"
Tony, who had been making a valiant attempt to rise from the ground on which he sat, fell flat on his face (albeit gracefully as a sparrow on the wings of dawn). Pushing himself up in another shaky attempt to stand, he retorted unconvincingly, "I have NO idea what you're talking about."
"It's all right, it's perfectly natural. Homosexuality shows up in many animal species. For example, the male fruit fly will mate with other male fruit flies if there are no female fruit flies around. Well... they only do that if they're drunk, but that's beside the point. I don't mean that you should only sleep with men when you're lacking drunk and you are women. Wait! I mean, because you're lacking women and you're drunk." At this point, Hank's attempts to reassure Tony had failed to the point of hilarity, and Tony burst out laughing, and was soon followed by Hank. Their moment of manly male bonding thus led to a deeper understanding of each other's eternal souls, and they drank until the pale ivory moon was high in the blanket of the dark velvet sky.
At approximately one in the dew-soaked morning, elsewhere on the ranch, Steve jerked violently awake to do his usual "make sure everyone is still alive" circuit (the war had left him with some odd habits) and he noticed an obdurate scarcity of one insect aficionado as well as the drastic and unforgivable lack of the second half of his soul. Steve's heart plummeted through his stomach when he noticed their glaring absence. However, his fear was replaced with purpose immediately; Steve was determined to find out where his bosom buddies were. He decided to be proactive, and thereupon he summarily summoned the not-inconsiderable resources of his conglomerate mental faculties and cataloged what he knew about Tony's inimitable and endearing characteristics at this hour. He knew Tony liked to drink at night, but he usually commenced that particular act in his troglodytic, secluded room. If Tony did, by chance, go out, he always returned by the stroke of midnight: one thing Steve found riveting about the melanoid-haired young inventor was that he hated being out in the bounteous country fields for any longer than absolutely necessary.
Steve marched smartly out of the ranch house and surveyed the vast fields surrounding the building. There was a spring in his step, and a determined thrust to his well-hewn chin, as he started to minutely inspect the perimeter of the yard. Suddenly, he detected the stentorian sound of raucous laughter. He tramped towards the noise, and eventually came across two very intoxicated Avengers. Hank, being the slightly more coherent of the two, was attempting, and failing epically, to help Tony up from his prone position on ground. Tony, however, was simply too drunk to even stand; his wide chestnut orbs were brimming with confusion as the world tilted up and down around him. Hank looked helplessly up at Steve, confused for a moment, until his expression changed to one of the utmost crushing guilt. "You were doing that thing - you know, the thing.... the thing where you make sure we're not dead, weren't you? Shit! I'm sorry!" he blurted out in a quavering voice.
Steve just shook his head ruefully, as though all the sorrows of the world lay on his broad, muscular shoulders, and replied in a voice as deep as the winds, "It's fine. Just, if you're going to do this again, can you at least inform me of your plans first?"
Hank nodded his head in agreement and then looked over at Tony, who had given up on standing upright and was lying on the ground, staring disconsolately at the eternal night sky. Steve just sighed and sadly shook his head at how such a perfect and luminary individual could exhibit such self-destructive behaviour. He then knelt and gently gathered Tony into his strong and mighty arms, much the same way as a groom would pick up his blushing bride (although unlike said bride, Tony was anything but virginal).
Steve had started to walk purposefully back to the ranch, with Hank stumbling along behind him, when something caused him to stop dead in his tracks. His chiselled face bore an expression of shock and surprise. Tony was nuzzling his face into Steve's chest like a cat, and Steve had the sudden urge to do all sorts of improper things to Tony as a result. Steve could feel his ears burning, like steak that has been left for too long on a barbecue. Thank God it's so dark out, was the only coherent thought in his mind. After suppressing some of his more basic urges, Steve looked over at Hank, to make sure he hadn't noticed the sudden change in Steve's demeanour. I hope Hank thinks I paused to wait for him to catch up, he thought to himself.
When they finally arrived back at the ranch, Steve turned to Hank. "I still expect to see you at dawn tomorrow," he said, his deep voice grave.
Hank nodded, then saluted his Captain and stumbled blearily off to bed. This left Steve standing in the dark desolate hallway holding Tony. A very drunk Tony. A mostly unconscious Tony. A very attractive and absolutely... Once again Steve put his thoughts on hold, determined not to take advantage of Tony -even if only in his thoughts-, despite the horribly powerful temptations he was faced with. Fortunately, Steve was a pillar of morality, and did not so much as ogle Tony. Summoning his solidarity, he walked down the hall, turned right, and paused at the third door on the left - Tony's room. However, try as he might, Steve could not for the life of him figure out how to open the door. Even after he had gotten the keys, the locks remained a mystery. There were too many of them, and at least half required some other activation process.
Steve's shoulders drooped slightly when he was forced to concede defeat, and he decided to give up his bed to Tony for the night. As he was walking back to his room, Steve bumped into Dr. Donald Blake. "I heard you go out, and I was worried there might be some trouble..." the doctor murmured.
After the doctor had spoken, Steve noticed the black medical bag he was carrying in his left hand. Aware of the awkwardness of their current predicament, Steve quickly explained the situation to his friend. When he got to the end of his explanation he ended up falling into the old habit of calling Blake by his nickname. "Thor, I have no idea what to do with him. I mean, is it even safe for him to be in this state? And why would he want to get this drunk?" Steve's blue spheres of ocular perception glistened like a deep blue pond quivering in the wake of a storm. He was a mother bear to Tony's bear cub, full of worry and an instinctive need to protect.
Thor, responding to Steve's quandaries, said, "The amount of alcohol he has imbibed has the potential to be quite dangerous - especially to someone whose constitution is as fragile as that of Mr. Stark; I would suggest finding someone to watch him while he is unconscious. Many men have died for no good reason, only because they have choked on their own vomit. I would also suggest watching his breathing, to make sure he doesn't have alcohol poisoning. If you would like, I can watch him. I have plenty of experience with this sort of thing."
Steve hugged Tony's motionless body closer to his broad, firm chest. "I'll watch him," he insisted, trying to smile reassuringly but failing miserably.
Blake just patted his Captain on the shoulder and replied, "I'm sure he'll be fine with you looking out for him, but just as a cautionary measure, be sure to lay him down on his side and leave a bucket nearby. When our Iron Man wakes up he'll have one hell of a headache and his stomach isn't going to be too happy."
Having said this, the doctor retreated to his own room, and Steve continued on this path. He opened the door with difficulty; Tony was completely unconscious at this point, and could offer no help as Steve tugged futilely at the doorknob. When Steve finally got the monstrous door open, he proceeded slowly over to his bed, with a grace befitting a much smaller man, and lovingly placed Tony down upon the soft, downy, fluffy, heavenly mattress, as though the limp inventor were made of the most delicate crystal money could buy. Not to say, of course, that Steve could ever put any monetary value on Tony's life; it was simply too precious.
Steve then pulled up a chair and began his midnight vigil over the young heir's prone body. He had water nearby, and he grabbed a chamber pot for any bile that would come as his dear coffee-eyed inventor awoke. Steve's iridescent, watchful eyes didn't leave Tony's lithe, supple body until the poor alcoholic began to stir. As Tony woke up, his first thought was something approximating awekraaalks. However, upon mustering the barest shreds of coherence, he came up with: Fuck, my head. Which was promptly followed by Where am I? Oh. It smells like Steve. Mmmm... His last thought was punctuated by a soft humming noise.
Steve had no idea how to react, so he just waited until Tony fully opened his eyes. Tony was looking for all the world like a newborn kitten in this instant was the only thought running through Steve's mind. Their eyes met for one eternal breathless second, before Tony's face paled visibly. His late night activities had caught up with him like a derailed train. Steve noticed the look on Tony's face, and he shoved the chamber pot in Tony's general direction not a moment too soon. Tony soon lost all the contents of his stomach as violently as the Niagara Falls looses water.
Steve, hating to see his eccentric genius in any amount of discomfiture, no matter how small, immediately rose and got a wet cloth, with which he gently bathed Tony's face and tried tenderly to help soften the hammer-blow of his hangover. Despite Steve's efforts, Tony's head felt like a piece of metal in Hephaestus's forge, beaten over and over by the lame god's hammer, not sure why the blows came or how it might end up; the metal would take any abuse given to be part of whatever masterpiece the volcano god was constructing.
After many seemingly endless minutes, Tony sat up completely and looked into Steve's worried blue eyes. Tony smiled and tried to make a joke out of the situation, or rather, out of himself. He was cut short by Steve who admonished him, with his jaw set in a determined manner, "I don't want you to put yourself down like that."
Then Steve was off to another side of the room, and Tony almost keened without his immediate presence. When Steve returned he brought with him a clean spare shirt, and offered it to Tony with a smile, murmuring something about knowing how it feels to be in the same clothes for too long.
Tony snatched the offered shirt and began to change without a second thought, his mind having the approximate consistency of slightly runny scrambled eggs when he heard Steve's intake of breath, sharp as a butcher's knife. Shit! He's seen my chest. Now he'll think I'm weak, and ugly and- His thoughts were cut off by "That must have hurt an awful lot, did you design the chest... thing... while injured? That's what the scars look like..." Steve's voice was hesitant, obviously afraid of scaring Tony off with his verbatim, and yet the concern was evident is his sapphire blue eyes.
"Ah- Yes. I was injured at the time, but I had help. There was a Chinese doctor, Yinsen. He had read about electromagnets, and he put one in my chest to keep the shrapnel from the original wound from entering my heart. I upgraded it later, but it still looks fairly... severe." Tony responded, he sounded almost reluctant to tell his tale, even to Steve(who he secretly loved more than life itself, but Steve doesn't know this yet, so SHHH!).
Steve asked the questions Tony expected and dreaded: Why was he in a combat zone? How bad was the damage? What happened to Yinsen? and the worst question of all: Why couldn't your father help?
After explaining the reason why he was there - he had gone on a business trip for his father - and how the damage should have killed him. Tony choked up, his chest constricting around his wounded heart, when he described The Death Of Yinsen. Steve wished dearly that he could wipe away the guilt in Tony's eyes, but he knew in his heart of hearts that this was a wound too deep for him to heal.
Finally Tony began to explain the reason his father had not come to his aid, getting more and more frantic as the explanation wore on. "They asked for half a million dollars; my father could easily pay four times as much, but h-he refused. They shouldn't have even k-known I was traveling, only my father and a few trustees in his company knew. I used to think, that despite all of my failures as a son, my father would try his best to keep me alive... -if only for appearances sake- but I was wrong. He cares more about the opinions of his advisers than he does for me. Why shouldn't he? I'm worthless. One of the advisers told him it would look bad to give in - I don't know who it was that said this, but I've never really cared to know - so he refused to pay the ransom money. I created the suit so Yinsen and I could escape, but he- he... he died in the escape."
With his explanation over, Tony bolted like a startled deer out of Steve's room, determined not to let Steve see his tears.
…………
Hank was humming happily as he knelt knee-deep in mud, collecting ants from an anthill that he had just found. He had started out the day watching cows, but somewhere along the line he had become distracted (this was a frequent enough occurrence that it was generally understood that whomever was assigned to work with Hank would end up working alone if Hank caught sight of a bug he liked).
Hank was so distracted by his Dolichoderus mariae Forel that he didn't notice when the exquisite Jan Van Dyne rode up astride a majestic black stallion named Logan - although his viciousness to anyone Jan disliked had earned him a less-then-proper nickname - to where he was examining his beautiful insects. Jan hopped off of her horse, strode over to Hank, and leaning down next to his shoulder, whispered in a voice that would - Hank thought later - be much better suited to the bedroom. "What sort of ants are those?"
Hank nearly jumped out of his skin hearing Jan speak, her soft bell-like voice ringing in his ears. He blushed vivaciously, and ended up blurting out everything he knew about the bugs. "Dolichoderus mariae Forel. This species nests in soil, preferably sand, forming small mounds usually at the base of a shrub or clump of grass. Occasionally, nests are under stumps or logs. It shows a preference for grassy areas or old fields. Colonies can be quite large (up to tens of thousands of workers), and they can be seen foraging in conspicuous files. Nests are polygynous."(1)
Hank blushed and looked away, feeling like an idiot. Why can't I just keep my mouth shut? He was about to start looking for excuses to duck and cover when Jan started asking more questions about the ants. Hank happily answered and the two young intellects ended up discussing a variety of topic from the habitats of insects to their molecular structures. Hank felt he was admirably composed, given the circumstances; but when he stopped talking for a moment, he chanced to glance down and noticed something that made his previous thought process stutter to a halt: Jan is wearing trousers. I can see the outline of her legs. I wonder if women ever trip over their own skirts? Embarrassed, Hank looked away immediately, focusing on his ants and blushing hard enough to start a forest fire.
Jan noticed the look he was giving her and grinned, secure in her femininity. She had hoped he would notice, and she was worried when he hadn't responded. "If you're wondering about my clothing choice, you should try walking around in a dress. Then, you'd understand why this is much better attire for riding!"
He looked up at her again and his blush spread most profusely at their close proximity. When did she get so close? Hank wondered, and said out loud "I would imagine that they are - I have no idea how women can wear them all day..."
He trailed off and looked down again, his shyness back in full blow. He heard Jan moving, but nothing really registered in his clouded and confused mind; when he looked up again, they were face to face and Jan was so close that Hank could feel puffs of her angel-sweet breath on his cheek. His blush had reached a critical point. Hank was just about to ask what the hell was going on, because Jan was really close, and he could feel the dusky softness of her breath and wow, she was even more beautiful up close I didn't know that was possible -- and then Jan kissed him. After the few seconds it had taken Hank to realize that this was actually happening, he passed out.
Jan giggled.
……….
Tony was sitting in a field, far away from the cattle's current path, trying to forget his pitiful life. He was depressed, ashamed and drunk once again. How could I cry in front of Steve? Now he'll think I'm a coward, a weakling. He'll want nothing to do with me! Tony's self-destructive mind railed on and on at him, furthering his conviction that his secret love now hated him. At the same time, a small part of him, the blasted ever-hopeful part, said Steve's so... selfless. Surely he won't think less of me.... But this part of his mind was quickly drowned out. Which was rather a shame, because this was this part that was using evidence to back up its point. Steve wasn't the sort of person to think less of a man who would cry when he felt such deep and soul-tearing pain.
As per standard with Tony's luck, it was in the middle of his musings that a man dressed in charcoal grey snuck up behind him - stealthy as a panther padding softly through a dark warehouse full of black fabric - and forced a rag over Tony's mouth. Tony's last thoughts, as he struggled futilely against his assailant, were Chloroform? Oh, shit, before his world went black.
site: http://www.cs.unc.edu/~hedlund/ants/
citation on site: (Creighton, 1950a: 332, MacKay, 1993b: 101-102).
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