[fic] SHATTER (1/1, R)

[known-the-eyes.livejournal.com]

Title: Shatter
Author: known_the_eyes
Pairing/Characters: Steve/Tony
Rating: R
Genre: Hurt/comfort
Word Count: ~675
Summary: Glass breaks. People break, too.
Author's Notes: Set in some vague future where Steve's back. A friend convinced me to work on this instead of doing my physics homework. I've lurked here for a while, but this is my first fic, so do be gentle. :) Much obliged to neptunedream for betaing!

As a child, Tony Stark loved to look in the mansion’s glassware cabinets. They held endless rows of shining glasses; the oddly shaped cocktail glasses and champagne coupes that promised nothing but fun, the old-fashioned glasses made of cut crystal whose absence would warn him to avoid his father that night. The champagne flutes, cool, slim, and elegant, were his favorites, because they reminded him of his mother's hands.

Once, Tony read that wine glasses would shatter when subjected to a wave of sound at the perfect frequency. He found a pair of earplugs and took a brandy snifter he hoped no one would miss (it was chosen in rebellion; plump and short-stemmed, it looked like a guest from one of his father's parties) to try it out for himself. Nothing happened, at first. But soon the stolen glass began to quiver, its sides flexing in-out, in-out, in-out-in-out-in-out until at last they cracked and shuddered apart. The flying glass cut Tony's cheek and Jarvis rebuked him softly while affixing the Band-Aid, but Tony had done it for science. And privately, he thought the shards were kind of pretty as they caught the light.

*

For various reasons—mass destruction being the most popular way for super-villains to get off, booze being as good of a suicide weapon as any, windows and mirrors being better targets for aggression than people he doesn’t actually hate—Tony has seen a lot of broken glass since then. He doesn’t like it so much anymore.

*

To Tony’s wonderment, he is on his knees, feeling new scar tissue ghosting against his back as Steve moves—Steve, who looks paler and more worn but alive, alive, alive. Steve nibbles at the sweet juncture of Tony’s neck and shoulder, and it’s almost too much to bear. Grinding his forehead down into the pillow, Tony clutches at the sheets with a desperation he has lately reserved for shots of whiskey and babbles at a breakneck speed. For once, even he doesn’t know what he’s talking about; sensation conquered cognition long ago. His blasphemies escalate into shouts, his obscenities degenerate into whimpers, and all the while he orders Steve not to stop, entreats Steve never to stop, begs Steve never to stop ever again until somehow it half sounds like a prayer of thanksgiving.

Abruptly, Steve does stop. Tony whines, but now Steve is pulling away, actually pulling away from him. Now Tony can think again, but he sure as hell wishes he couldn't.

Just a moment passes, but it feels like an eternity. Steve asks him to turn onto his back. Tony complies with more fuss than is strictly necessary, repositioning the pillow and smoothing the sheets before he settles himself. When at last he can bring himself to meet Steve's eyes, what he sees sends a shiver down his spine: there were some evenings, years and years ago, all too rare, when Howard and Maria Stark used to look like that, smiling over a pair of clinking Bordeaux glasses. All the universe seems to have fallen still. Tony isn't breathing.

Murmuring something about wanting to do this the right way, Steve reaches down with one strong, calloused hand to cup the side of Tony's face. His thumb strokes the place on Tony's cheek where, before Extremis, there was once a tiny, white scar. In his touch there is an infinite gentleness, as if Tony were some fragile glass treasure.

Tony knows he is no treasure, but maybe he is made of glass, because as Steve and the world slowly start to move again, Tony feels clear and clean like he hasn’t since he can’t remember when, all his fears and doubts wiped away for now by Steve's honest, tired smile. He is almost trembling under Steve's touch; he doesn't know why he isn't actually shaking, because he can feel something begin to resonate inside him, can feel the vibrations, can feel it oscillating faster and faster, can feel the fractures as they run through him. There in Steve's arms, he shatters, and the beauty returns anew.

 

(I'd love you forever if you commented, especially at my journal.)