fluff

[simmysim.livejournal.com]

Title: After Spring
Rating: PG
Summary: Steve wants to upgrade his relationship with Tony.
Word Count: 3000
Author's note: Fluff. It's got all the depth and complexities of this. Thank youuu onewayfreak as always. :D



Howard Stark's been dead and buried a good ten years.

Steve's known it almost as long as he's known Tony, but the fact's never particularly frustrated him before, and if he was honest, shouldn't really frustrate him now. The man was cruel, from all he's heard. Unrelenting. He would not approve of what Steve has to ask.

There's always Morgan Stark, but Steve drops that idea before he finishes thinking the name.

Rhodes has known Tony for years but that -- doesn't sit well with Steve. Neither does Pepper, for obvious, previous love interest reasons. Maybe Happy? But then he's come full circle.

Of course, the obvious was staring him in the face the entire time, and Edwin Jarvis barely glances up from the half-filled kitchen sink when Steve says he'd like to talk. He's about to push the issue, ask the man to take a seat at the table, when he's handed a towel in a silent request for him to dry. Steve complies, figures this fits, in a way.

"Now, what was it you wanted to ask, Steven?" Jarvis asks, obviously more amused than anything at Steve's unease.

He pauses. He knows what he wants to say, and he knows how to say it. It's just getting it out, something he's never had a problem with before. Jarvis is patient at his side.

"You know how much I care about Tony," he starts.

Peripherally, he can see Jarvis's hands slow their rapid, efficient movements, but Steve keeps his gaze on the plate in front of him. It's an old, chipped dish, a favorite, a set that's survived three Avengers headquarters, and good lord, he's got to be more nervous than he thought if he's waxing nostalgic about kitchenware. "We've been together for almost two years now, and the lives we lead -- you don't want to miss a chance when you've got one. I'm not going to. I'm going to ask him to marry me, and I'm here to ask for your blessing."

Jarvis hands have dropped in the dirty water, staring at Steve in outright shock, jaw slack and all, and he'd relish this moment-- really, there aren't many moments the well-traveled man gets stunned silent-- if only it weren't concerning something so very crucial.

"I wouldn't -- it's hardly my place," Jarvis finally sputters, turning off the faucet.

"Tony's told me more than once you were more of a father than his actual dad," Steve says, plucking the cup from Jarvis's limp hands, drying it. "I'm asking you specifically. It would mean a lot."

"You have to know my answer is yes," Jarvis practically laughs, still flabbergasted. "You're probably the best --" he stops short, closes his eyes then smiles. "Yes, you have my blessing a thousand times over. Have you set a time?"

Steve's only thought it. He hesitates again, because hearing it spoken out loud, to Jarvis, someone who's known Tony his entire life, will make it real in a way only picking out the ring had so far.

"There's a car show he's been looking forward to. I made reservations at Berdin after." It sounds so simple, and Steve's just beginning to understand the huge productions made of proposals nowadays, the writing in the sky, the renting out advertising space, interruptions of newscasts and professional performances. It feels like there should be more, and a distraction would be nice, something to pour all his energy into.

But all that's really involved is a yes or a no, and Steve's never been one for pomp.

Jarvis nods, perfectly composed again and back to his dishes. "And when that doesn't work?"

"I thought I'd try to drag him out of his lab. Make a meal, picnic on the roof," Steve says. Under the stars sounds corny, but he seemed to enjoy it last time, Steve pointing out constellations he was fully aware Tony already knew the names of. A slightly reduced chance of some criminal interfering there, too, but they'd probably find a way regardless. "If that gets interrupted, something in his lab." He won't appreciate being pulled out three nights in a row.

Steve's made countless contingency plans; he's willing to wait months, if that's what it takes to get it right. What worries him is Tony's answer.

"You won't need it as far as Tony's concerned," Jarvis laughs when Steve prods him for a well wish. "But good luck."

*

Tony circles a deep gray car that Steve guesses is supposed to look unfinished and minimalist, but glistens too much to be anything but painted, polished and primed.

"The Pagani Zonda," Tony says reverently, and Steve's been paying enough attention to his rambling to know that this is pretty much the whole reason they flew all the way to Los Angeles. The company had apparently been outright cruel with information on their new model, saving it all for an unveiling at this car expo, and the ploy had worked. The area around the newly revealed auto is thick, the entire convention converging on the spot the moment of the unveiling, murmuring in varying forms of approval and disgust, Steve finds himself putting a hand on the back of Tony's neck, just to keep from losing him.

"God, Steve, look at it," Tony breathes. "This is art."

And after all that fuss, Steve is honestly confused. It doesn't look like something he couldn't find the pieces to in Tony's lab. "You could make this," he says.

Tony laughs, slaps him on the arm and goes to look at it from behind. "I knew the front grille was going to be wider. Those rear air intakes, though, those are bears. It's still gorgeous though, you're still beautiful, Zonda." And yes, addressing the car. Watching Tony enthuse, lighting up with a childish sort of glee, Steve's struck with a sudden urge to propose right there and then.

It's possible Tony wouldn't have even noticed, however, circling around it again and out of sight.

"Should I be jealous?" Steve asks, loud enough to be heard over the still buzzing crowd.

"Yes," is the immediate answer. "I should be, too. If you could have sex with any car, it would be this car, and you know it," Tony says, tone worryingly frank. "You can admit it, it's okay, I understand."

*

"You're jealous."

Tony rolls his eyes, shaking his head, but he is. It's Steve's fault, he really shouldn't compare anything to the Iron Man suit that doesn't end in the suit's favor, and he ought to know that by now.

"I didn't mean it," Steve says.

"It's okay," Tony says, graciously. "It's a very attractive car."

"We both know your suit is sexier than anything there."

"It is," Tony nods. Steve had expected some disaster to strike at the show, being a perfect set up and all, the large amounts of intensely expensive objects laying around, two superheroes off the clock. When the worst that occurred there was this tiff and slight boredom -- easily kept at bay by the night's plans, and Tony's unbridled enthusiasm -- he figured the flight back would get derailed.

But the plane landed, the trip to and from the tower uninterrupted. The wait staff had held their more secluded than not table. The main course had even been delivered in a timely manner, and if they manage to get through dessert without any sort of world crisis or arch villain or bank robbery -- Steve might actually end up proposing. In just a few minutes. He watches Tony poke at his sauce covered cheesecake with a fork, then stab it directly in the center, and the room's suddenly a few degrees too hot. He really hadn't expected it to go without a hitch. He hadn't expected it so soon.

"Steve?" Tony asks, around the mouth full of cake. "You alright?"

"Yea--"

There is an explosion. Their table, and consequently them, suddenly rocks to the side, falling hard on the floor, the sudden blast scorching the side of his face and drowning out every noise save especially high pitched screams.

Steve can't say he's happy to see a herd of men in ski masks spill through the new, still flaming entrance to Berdin, but there is an odd sort of relief, battling with disappointment.

*

The topic of marriage has only come up between them once, in passing, long enough ago that Steve had still thought the man piloting Iron Man was someone other than Tony Stark. It had been a short, bitter sentiment, the metallic echo giving it rather depressing sense of finality, "I'll never be able to marry."

But they'd been much younger then, Steve's fairly sure his opinions have changed since. And although he hadn't pressed at the time, it had sounded more like some self-imposed restriction than a personal dislike of the idea.

This line of reasoning had made so much sense when Steve went ahead and got the ring, but worry has been picking mercilessly ever sense, and what Steve had acknowledged as a distant possibility now seems a daunting reality. Even so, there's too much to be gained for him not to try.

It's not the specific ceremony Steve's after. It's the gesture of it that's important, the promise it makes. He's ready for this -- a gesture that tells Tony, Steve's stopped looking at or thinking of anyone other than him. What they have is real and permanent, that it's safe for him to start building a real future with Steve, putting trust in him, relying on him, and that Tony's willing to give all those things in return.

And he really -- really wants Tony to wear his ring. Obviously, he couldn't give his mother's ring. But she'd been born in December just as Tony had, and the jeweler he'd taken it to had found no difficulties in carefully extracting the intricately laid, tiny rubies, and setting them in a traditional man's wedding band. Gold and red, it fits so well.

He really wants to be able to put the frame of her ring back into storage.

The city's been throwing a fit all day, a series of incidents just big enough to require their attention, but still small enough to be more annoying than serious. Steve started the day listening to a college student's reasoning for hanging a gigantic swastika from the Statue of Liberty ("It's symbolic!") -- a street level crime that's more Spiderman's expertise, but Steve thought he ought to field that one -- and ended (hopefully) with a minor fire in Bronx.

The meal Steve wanted to make completely fell apart -- not enough time, and he underestimated a few of the recipes. Tony's easily impressed with any home cooked food, however, no matter how simple, and is surprisingly easy to coax up onto the roof after their exhausting day.

He takes one look at the set up and laughs. "Where do you even get watermelons this time of year?"

"The grocery store?" Steve asks; what's wrong with watermelons?

"It's a very . . . summery spread," Tony says, but drops down close to Steve and grabs a corn on the cob all the same. "Is this to make up for yesterday's disaster?"

"Something like that," Steve says, and Tony abandons the corn after two bites for a barbequed rib, and maybe it is a little out of season, more appropriate for a Fourth of July picnic, but it's good food anytime.

Steve picks at the food idly. Hungry, but his stomach clenches with nerves. This might actually work. The roof is secluded enough, and surely any crisis can wait a half hour for them to finish. Once Tony starts for desert, that's when he'll pull it out. He hasn't planned what he's going to say, exactly. He figures the words will come to him when the time is right, as they always have before.

The food goes slowly. Tony's got no reason to be nervous, but he's obviously not hungry, only on the roof to humor Steve. He's finally leaning forward for the dessert when he stiffens. Blinks, then nods shortly.

"What is it?" Steve says, pulling his hand from his pocket, from the case, just in case the ring decided to flit off, considering how long this was taking. He's duly familiar with the signs of a message received through Extremis.

"See that light?" Tony asks, leaning close to get Steve's view, pointing up. And yes, Steve can just make out a small, glistening star. "That's a comet on a collision course with earth."

Steve sighs. Stands. "Is the Quinjet prepped?"

*

The comet had been less a collection of rock and dirt and more an invading alien race, but just as easily dispatched. Steve's thankful; it gave both Carol and himself something to hit as hard as possible; Carol always looking for a reason to do as much, and Steve feeling especially pent up.

He's very well aware there is nothing particularly charming in Iron Man's repulsors blasting alien invaders in two, but Steve's heart swelled with affection at the whoops of victory all the same.

He really needs to get this out of his system. The last thing he needs is to start cooing at Tony's every mundane action.

As expected, Steve's attempts to pull Tony out of his lab for a third night in a row were met with protests, and finally, flung scraps of metal.

Collapsing in front of the television hours after admitting defeat, Steve had figured on postponing his next attempt until tomorrow, when Tony's exhausted figure pads toward him. Fingers and arms spotted with grease, he drops limply on top of Steve without a word, no doubt smearing thick, black smudges on both Steve and the couch.

A smile and a shift, the position is easy and comfortable, even considering Tony's rather discourteous achieving of it.

He can't honestly say he's bothered, though. Steve really does love Tony's fingers -- he's made the observation a lot lately -- and often toys with them in the rare chances he's given, moments of stillness between their frantic, precise work. Extremis healed the scars he'd grown accustomed to, but they're still the familiar shape; long, narrow fingers and long, narrow palms, short, cropped nails, and he's so used to Steve grabbing them to toy with, he doesn't so much as twitch when Steve lifts them from their perch on his chest.

He rubs his thumb over the left ring finger, and it's without thinking, without anything beyond a sudden need to see the ring there, feel it when he holds his hands, twines his fingers in Tony's, that he starts pulling it out.

What he's doing becomes very real about the time he starts pushing it on; this is hardly ideal, but Steve refuses to let himself stop, heart pounding, nervous in a way he hasn't been in years.

Nervous like the fragile man he was born as.

Tony doesn't even tear his rather sleep-glazed stare from the screen until the ring pushes past the last knuckle, the gold already smudged slightly black with grease, and far from annoyed, the sight cheers Steve.

He wriggles out from under the other man, keeping his hold on Tony's wrist, maybe a bit too firm.

"Steve?" He frowns slightly, attempting to tug his hand free, investigate what Steve's just slipped on there. He stops when Steve gets on one knee proper, still refusing to release Tony's hand. They're eye level like this, Tony on his back, Steve on the floor beside the couch.

He's certainly awake now; Tony's face-- his entire body-- is frozen, eyebrows up just slightly, mouth parted, as if listening to some distant noise. But his eyes are trained on the ring.

Steve can't quite bring himself to ask, and the silence stretches.

The words, for the first time, the only time it truly matters, are failing him. All he can think is that Tony's trying come up with a way to say too soon or too much or too old fashioned or any number of toos that mean taking the ring off. He brings Tony's hand to his mouth, kisses the finger lightly.

Tony blinks. He sits up, stands, pulls at Steve's shirt until he does too; still refusing to release his hand. He searches Steve's face for a moment, his own expression impeccably composed. Then he turns, and pulls Steve along, to the bedroom.

~*~*~*~**~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~**~**

After catching their breath, after they've managed to make it onto the bed, after they've settled and Tony stares at the ring while Steve stares at Tony staring at the ring, Steve gets enough wit about him to point out, "You didn't actually say yes."

"You didn't actually ask."

Oh, bother. He wants to get out of bed, do it proper, but that would mean releasing Tony's warm, solid presence from his chest and he's got his priorities straight. "Will you--"

"Yes."



GO READ THE WEDDING NIGHT