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cap_ironman2009-01-11 12:09 am
jazzypom.livejournal.com) wrote in cap_ironman2009-01-11 12:09 am
Entry tags:
Ghosts (616 fanfic) R
Title: Red Zone: Ghosts
Author: jazzypom
Rated: R for language and concepts (naughty words. frottage.).
Summary: There are some ghosts that make Tony wary. Steve was almost one of them.
Disclaimer: Characters and situations are the property of Stan Lee and Marvel Comics. No profit is being made off this fan-written work.
Beta'd: No, but ruthlessly self edited. There are no crimes against grammar here.
Notes: British spellings. Story doesn’t fit into the larger narrative I’m writing. Boo. This part refers to the text Avengers Red-zone, circa 2003. Approximately 6000 words. A shout out to empty_splendor and jynx for bullying me into doing this fic already (even though it's like, 6000 words not in the Stark fic I should be writing. Bah.).
There are bits of dreams that play across Tony Stark's unconscious, images for a party of one. The most dramatic scenes of the Avengers' latest adventure, chopped and spliced together at a dizzying pace, like a trailer from a summer blockbuster.
The air sharp with the cloying, medicinal sweet smell of gas. It stings the eyes, irritates the mucus membranes.
Tony Stark is light headed, his breath stuck in his lungs; his heart is racing. His muscles are spasms of pain due to lactic acid build up. The dead weight of the armour entombs his limbs, forcing his movements to a crawl. It would be easier to curl up and -
Tony shakes his head, blocking out the white noise that is a skirmish between T'Challa and the Red Skull, focusing on the face before him.
Steve is too still, his jaw discoloured, his lips battered. Swallowing fear, Tony pushes on, a pained half crawl to Steve’s side.
No, you're not dying on my watch, Tony grabs at that grim mantra, lets it beat through his thoughts like a war drum. Captain America doesn't die on my watch.
His mind mercilessly ticks over from that scene into another.
Restrained by strong fingers, refusing the sedative that T'challa's physician has in his hand. The walls sear his retinas with their white glare, his mouth is welling up with fluid, and Tony swallows blood-tinged spittle.
I just need to know if Steve's okay. Please, I just... please.
There is an exchange of glances between Jack of Hearts and Antman, before Jack gives a short, sharp nod to the doctor.
Then, there is Steve, sitting on the side of the bed, having his vitals checked out and joking with the young, blushing medic. Tony's hand pressed against the glass, knowing that he cannot go in, but Steve is alive.
Black.
On a shudder of breath, Tony jackknifed upright, the bed sheets pooling around his waist and hips. Fully awake, his eyes searched the room, scanning and accessing his surroundings out of habit. Dim light washed through the room, highlighting the paisley print sheets, half-drawn drapes at the windows, and the pale colour of the bedroom walls.
Well, hell. Tony thought, forcing himself to breathe normally. He knew the surroundings quite well. It was the Avengers Mansion. Yesterday, he remembered speaking to T'challa, and both men coming to an understanding of sorts. Power recognised power, and yesterday, respect came with that recognition. Then he had gotten another dose of antibiotics and-
He had been out cold for- he brought a hand to his face, running fingers along his jaw, and felt the beginnings of stubble along his cheeks and throat.
"Thirty six hours."
"Shi- Vision," Tony swore, as his team-mate loomed out of the shadows in a swirl of red and green. "Next time, give a guy some warning?"
"Anthony," Vision replied in cool metallic tones. "The Avengers thought you'd prefer to convalesce here, instead of the infirmary wing downstairs."
"Steve -?" Tony asked, forcing his voice to remain neutral, but the slight tremor must have given his thoughts away, what with Vision moving to comfort, in his own way.
"It's three am; everyone is down for the night. Including Captain America. I was directed to stay by your side until you awoke."
"Yeah?" Tony absently rubbed the nape of his neck, feeling the soreness there. "I'm awake, you can go now."
"Do you require any assistance in getting out of bed? You've suffered a slight -"
"No," Tony said, before he realised how curt he sounded, and gentled his tone. "No thank you, Vision. I'm okay. You turn in."
Vision, good ma- android, did not press. There was almost a solemn courtly tilt of his head, before he adjusted his body density to fade into the wall.
Crazy, Tony shook his head gingerly. He never stopped trying to figure out how Vision did that.
Absently, he felt the bandage across his forehead. Not that he was vain (much), but he hoped the cut would not leave a scar. It was bad enough doing business deals looking rough. He could explain his pallor away by implying that he had bad fish at Turtle Cove in Barbados, but a facial scar was a whole other beast.
Tony was up, a bit uneasy on his feet, and made to move before he felt a tug on his chest. Absently, he yanked the plug from his heart. He had been on recharge for over twenty-four hours, and felt … it was hard to explain. Far more than well rested, almost… buzzing.
I should be knocked out more often, Tony smiled ruefully.
His eyes scanned the room, zeroing in on the pyjama bottoms and a white t- shirt at the end of the bed. Then a stop at the en suite bathroom to wash his face and gargle with mouthwash (an ingrained habit) and he was off.
The house had the comfortable quiet of people asleep. Tony noted this by the fact that his footsteps did not echo when he walked; he could hear the rustle of people moving around in their bedclothes, the air in this house shared by many. Tony had been intimately aware of the sort of hush when it was empty and hollow, after his parents died.
The house held ghosts, he had always thought, descending the stairs in light, quick steps. Not the spectral types that Stephen Strange battled with, nor the supposed lost souls that spent their lives in limbo. No, there were simpler ghosts, which lived in this house. They were of a life past, of regrets.
They lived in his head, stirred to consciousness by sense and touch memory.
There was the Steinway in the parlour for starters, still smelling of beeswax and lemon, the patina of age making the wood buttery smooth under fingertips. If he closed his eyes, and stood still, he could hear his mother's voice over his giggles as they played Taps, the notes choppy and disjointed, due to him sticking his fingers wherever there was sound. Unfortunately, Tony had a tin ear. He would be a competent pianist, but not good.
He still remembered his mother's keen disappointment when he showed himself to be more adept at the soldering iron than scales. It was another regret filed with the rest of them. Tony's fingers hovered over the keys, before he pulled them away.
Here was the banister, where he and Tiberius slid down, head first, daring each other to go faster, risk more.
Hijinx, teasing, laughter.
There were the sure bonds of friendship, reinforced by ‘liberating’ his father’s finest scotch from the liquor cabinet and drinking spirits at the foot of the stairs. The house had been their summer empire, conquests made at the time of night when the parents were in bed, because that was a part of the thrill. Resolutely, Tony turned his mind away from those thoughts, because nostalgia of friendship had never softened the pain of its betrayal.
In its place, he remembered being eight, sitting on the bottom step, watching the parties that his parents threw with abandon. There was the swirl of skirts, the varying scales of laughter trembling on the air. The light winking on crystal champagne flutes at tips of fingers.
Tony would sit on the step, taking in everything, until Jarvis (it was usually Jarvis) caught him. There would be a smile, then a indulgent shake of the head by his butler, before the the young master was frog marched upstairs.
Absently, Tony rolled his shoulders and shook his head. His shoulders were still sore, and he had an idle thought of going to the kitchen and getting some painkillers. Then going into the workroom that he installed and just... tinker. But it had been a while since he truly spent the night at his family’s home, and –
There was a light on in the study.
The doors were ajar.
Senses on full alert, Tony listened, and waited – no sound. Immediately, his mind started constructing various scenarios, and the best ways to react.
Could he rouse the Avengers in time? How did the intruder get past the perimeter alarm? One intruder or many? The only weapon he had to hand was house slippers. Unless the intruder was an over-sized puppy that needed to be house broken, he was out of luck.
Even then, he was barefoot. So, yeah, out of luck.
Easy Stark, Tony told himself. You’re getting paranoid.
Stealthy Tony moved towards his father’s study, his fingers grazing against the heavy wood of the doors he knew well. Slowly, he leaned his body against the door, hoping that the wood might shield him … just in case.
After a mental count on three, Tony slipped into the room, assuming the position for combat: arms ready to swing, weight shifting to the balls of his feet. Only to feel torn between the twin urges of relief and self-annoyance when he took in the sight before him.
The source of light was a lamp to the far side of the room, where it beamed over the prone figure asleep in the armchair, the rest of the room thrown in varying swings and echoes of shadows. If the scruff of blond hair did not give him the first hint of who was sleeping in the chair, the shield at the side of the armchair would have done.
Gently, Tony drew the doors shut.
Fast asleep, his form slumped in the comfortable chair, book splayed open across his chest, held there by his linked fingers. The lamp light turned the fair fuzz on his arms and fingers to gilt. Steve was in a comfortable grey sweatshirt, sleeves rolled up to elbows, jeans and bare feet, ankles crossed on the Ottoman in front of him, his chest rising and falling gently, because he was fast asleep.
Steve, Tony thought, shoving his hands into his pyjama pockets as he looked at his friend.
Steve is too still -
Tony shook away that mental image, and focused on this one.
No need for a feather or a mirror, old chum, Tony told himself and for the first time in thirty-six hours, the hard knot that had lodged in his chest dissolved.
For the first time in a long time, Tony found himself cataloguing his friend’s features. Steve’s lashes were fair fans against his cheeks; his features were regular, a blade of a nose, a nice mouth that was mostly healed. There was the pulse that beat strong and steady at the base of his throat.
Then there was Steve’s body.
Tony Stark had always envied people who lived in their bodies; the twist and power of muscle and movement reflexively responding to the inhabitant's will.
His physique was not just for show, Tony knew, his eyes noting the musculature of Steve’s arms, the glimpse of the taut abdomen between the hem of Steve’s shirt and the waistband of his jeans.
For the first time in a long time, Tony truly wondered what it must be like; moving without rigid metal protecting you in the heat of battle, having nothing between you and death but razor sharp instincts and a shield. To know that if you wanted to flip and twist and manoeuvre just so, your body did as bid; all parts working in perfect integration. No exertion wasted, every action purposeful. At best, Tony Stark was a barely tolerated guest in his own body, what with his fragile heart condition, battered by the ills of a former drinking problem.
Jesus, to think, that a day and a half ago, there might been a world without Captain America, without the man, Steve Rogers.
To think- and Tony's musings were cut off by images of thirty six hours ago, of him frantically giving Steve mouth to mouth, frantic with the fact that it might be another life that he failed to save.
Another ghost in this house of ghosts.
Tony sighed, absently rubbing his temple with his pointer and middle fingers. It was going to be one of those nights.
“Hey,” Steve said, in greeting.
“Hey,” Tony replied with a friendly smile, hoping that Steve did not notice his discomfort. “Interesting book of the month you have there.”
Steve blinked owlishly once, his eyes went from blurred to sharp slits of blue in seconds, as he turned the book around in his hands to look at the cover.
Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand.
“I never took you for an Objectivist Libertarian.”
“I thought it was mythology,” Steve admitted with that easy grin. “But then I just thought I’d finish it. It’s another thing I missed.”
When I spent all those years in ice, was the punch line to that unsaid joke.
“How are you feeling?” Tony asked, noting the fact that Steve’s eyes were still their clear blue, with normal sized pupils.
“I’m fine,” Steve stretched, his arms arcing over his head; his shirt moving up another inch or so, revealing more muscle and skin. “You?”
“I’m fine,” Tony responded, dragging his eyes away from Steve’s stomach to his face. “A bit dopey from the antibiotics, but fine.”
In the silence that greeted that exchange, Steve’s eyes scanned the room.
The study had belonged to Howard Stark. Unlike the other rooms in the house, this one had been relatively untouched by the interior decorators. The walls were clad in heavy water wallpaper done in a leaf green. The floor was the rich warm glow of cherry wood, done in the distinctive geometric mosaic of squares and triangles, with jewel- coloured rugs strategically placed at selected focal points. An entire wall of the study filled with books, some so old and well preserved- according to Tony- that their pages had yet to be cut.
The few touches of the twenty first century in this room were the spanking new flat screen monitor on the old Victorian desk, and the speaker phone.
Tony crossed over to the desk, and leaned against its edge. The computer monitor was near enough to hand, and Tony stroked it as if one would a favoured pet.
More comfortable with the now, Steve noted, than the past.
Silently, Steve did his own assessment of Tony. He seemed okay, a bit pale from the antibiotics and whatever gas the Red Skull used. He was currently sporting a five o’ clock shadow in addition to his van dyke. His cheekbones stood out more than usual, and mentally Steve noted that he needed to remind Jarvis to ease Tony into eating more. The bandage at his temple was freshly changed, and worryingly, only a few shades lighter than Tony’s skin.
“Why did you do it?” Steve asked, wondering where that thought came from.
“Sorry?”
“You put yourself at great risk-"
“To save a team-mate.” Tony’s voice was careful. Deliberately smooth. "Isn't that what we signed up for?"
Yes, Steve thought, but...
“Would you have done it for Sam?”
“I’d have done it for anyone.” Tony said, his eyes flickering at Steve, before drifting to one of the rugs on the floor.
“Tony-"
“No more ghosts,” Tony raised his eyes to Steve’s.
“This house has so many, Steve,” Tony said, his eyes clear and grim. “Captain America wasn’t going to be added to it, not on my watch.”
The weight of the words settled into the stillness of the study. Steve, who normally had the odd stirring speech or two on tap, was at a loss.
“You know,” Steve began, shifting his position with an easy movement, from supine to perching on the edge of the armchair, ready to state his case. “The lives we lead, well, some of us are bound to fall in battle.”
“I know,” Tony nodded, his fingers slowly drumming on the surface of the desk. “I know.”
“It can’t be helped,” Steve’s voice was gentle; one team-mate bolstering another, a friend offering shared wisdom.
“I know,” Tony repeated on a breath, as he lifted his head to look at Steve, his eyes stormy with emotion. “It was you Steve. Captain America is a lot more important than a product sprung from the philosophy of Ayn Rand.” The smile was lopsided and self-mocking.
“There’s only one Tony Stark,” Steve said, and Tony laughed, as he pushed himself from the desk, moving towards a knot of books on one of the lower selves of the library.
“Every life’s important,” Steve said, trying a different tack, still looking at Tony. Wondering at his friend's odd mood. “It takes being in a Great War to see it, and a few intergalactic invasions to bring the point home.”
“The Red Zone,” Tony pressed his thumb and middle finger in the space between his eyes. A short, sharp shake of his head, and Tony’s eyes cleared. Steve himself was momentarily mute, as he briefly genuflected on the events that brought them here.
If it had been successful, The Red Zone had been an audacious plan of bio-terrorism superseding the ten plagues of biblical proportions. Although the term smacked of hyperbole, there was no other word for it, but biblical. For one man to want to rid the earth of ‘unspeakables’ – and coming so close- Steve had had a bad time of it. To fall at his feet to Red Skull, only to be saved by a literal breath - by his team-mate.
It had shaken him much more than he cared to admit.
After battering his body in the gym for hours, still choking on his own perceived impotence, Steve gave up and went to look in on Tony. He found Jarvis in Tony’s living quarters, sitting by Tony’s bedside, his shoulders bowed, as he searched Tony’s face for some signs of movement, holding his hand.
“Everyday, when he goes out, I always wonder if this will be the day Master Tony does himself a harm,” Jarvis patted his employer’s hand, which was almost as pale as the sheets.
Master.
As far as Steve knew, custom dictated that you stopped using the honorific 'Master' once the male scion turned sixteen. Then, again, to Jarvis, Tony would always be a Master. Tony would always be a young man, if not a child.
“He did well, Jarvis,” Steve said, laying a hand on Jarvis’ shoulder. “Tony helped turn a great evil away.”
Jarvis smiled faintly at Steve’s comment. “I don’t think Tony would ever use that word.”
“No,” Steve agreed. “He wouldn’t.”
“I know Tony can be… bloody minded,” Jarvis squeezed Tony’s hand. “But he’s-”
“He’s ours,” Steve said, squeezing Jarvis' shoulder. In many ways, Jarvis was as much a part of the team as he was. Far braver too, considering the fact that Jarvis was a normal man functioning in a world of super-powered heroes.
“I’m just glad that the house had no additional ghosts today,” Jarvis murmured as he rose to go. “There’s been enough.” He left Steve there, standing at Tony's beside. Soon, Steve left too.
"I can’t promise you anything,” Steve continued, shaking head to clear his thoughts to focus on Tony, and the now. “But I’ll try not to be another ghost in this house. When I do fall, I’ll do it far from here. In the middle of down town, or off planet –" Steve raised his palm to shoulder height. “Scout’s honour.”
“Two jokes in one night? Impressive,” Tony laughed, and both men flinched at how brittle it sounded. With a shake of his head, Tony crossed his arms and rested his head against the bookshelves, eyes gazing skyward. From where Steve sat, he had a low angled view of Tony's face. The jaw line roughened by stubble growing in, his lower lip being worried by his teeth. There was the clean line of Tony's throat, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed.
Tony’s eyes were clear, but still troubled, and suddenly, Steve knew.
“You’re still reliving it then.” It was not a question.
“Yeah. After sleeping like the dead for all that time, it’s ironic. I’m awake, and that’s all I see.”
“But, you've gone through this before," Steve began," the crossing, that situation with your alternate self. It shouldn't-"
“It's not that. It was you Steve,” Tony’s voice was a hushed whisper, as if to speak any louder would tempt the fates themselves. His eyes suspiciously bright, his jaw clenched. “You were in front of me, and I almost didn’t get there in time. I almost-"
“But you did.” Steve said, rising to move towards Tony before stopping at an arm’s length from him. “That’s all that counts.”
“And one day, if I don’t? If I can't?"
“We can’t think like that,” Steve lowered his voice to match Tony’s. “If we did, we’d … freeze, I guess. We just can’t.”
For a long moment, Steve found himself on the receiving end of a long, searching look from Tony. Then, Tony nodded, palm up as if to say, okay. It was an argument that neither of them won. They took the chance every time they went into battle, and sometimes, team-mates never came out on the other side. If nothing else, wars had taught him that. Still, just because you yielded to the vocation, and accepted death as a distinct possibility, it did not mean that you stopped thinking about it. It was a personal equation for each individual. Steve did not have the right to impose his views on a deeply personal conviction.
Nevertheless, Steve reached out, because that is what friends did.
“How can I help?” Steve asked, touching Tony’s shoulder, absently kneading the knot of muscle there.
Tony cocked his head at him, giving Steve that pointed look he knew very well. Steve steeled himself for the answer, knowing that he would still be surprised at whatever answer Tony gave.
“Alcohol or sex.”
Despite himself, in spite of the fact that it was strange speaking to Tony while leaning against bookshelves at God’s ayem in the morning, Steve smiled. It was good to know that some things never changed.
"A few years ago,” Tony smiled faintly, his eyes still sober. “I’d use alcohol to take the edge off, chase it with about half dozen willing females.”
"Pity,” Steve said, keeping his voice neutral while he still kneaded Tony’s shoulder, and bit by bit, felt the tension ebbing under his fingers. “I can’t help you.”
“You're a hard man, Mr Rogers." Tony smirked briefly, laugh lines fanning from the edges of his eyes, incorrigible to the end. "I’d be no use to the ladies anyway. Not tonight.” Tony rolled his shoulders at the comment.
Steve had an inkling of Tony was going through, when the mind tried to rationalize madness by making sense out of it, looping assorted images throughout various states of consciousness. Ironically, the same self-coping mechanism drove some people crazy, and Steve had known some soldiers who sought some external comfort, be it chemical or physical.
Any distraction helped to stop thinking for a while, to feel.
Tony’s mind was always on, ticking over problems, envisioning various solutions, seeking angles, unearthing explanations. It demanded constant stimulation, no matter the source. As a result, Steve was not surprised at Tony’s propensity for losing himself in someone or something else. Perhaps- Steve had always thought - that was how he found himself.
No, he could not give Tony alcohol or sex; but perhaps, he could do the next best thing.
Steve reached for Tony, and they suddenly were clinging to each other, Tony’s fingers twined in the fabric of Steve’s shirt, his head nestled in the space between Steve’s shoulder and neck.
“It’s like little aftershocks, half the time,” Steve murmured, his lips and nose against Tony’s temple, feeling the warmth of Tony’s breath on his shoulder.
“You think the worst of the memory is gone – and then -”
“They’re still there,” Tony picked up the thought, his voice strong. “When I play taps on piano, or stand at the base of the steps.”
“Little ghosts.” Steve agreed, holding Tony in a one armed hug, his other hand still on his friend’s shoulder. Steve did not know how long they stayed like that; probably civilizations rose and fell in that stretch of time, maybe only a few moments passed.
Steve only focused on when Tony's breaths stopped being this short of ragged, when his fingers relaxed their vice grip within the folds of his shirt, eventually ending splayed against his chest. Tony responded to touch like that, used it as a sort of grounding.
Steve felt Tony starting to shift, and slackened his grip. Tony took a step back, Steve’s hands on his shoulders, their foreheads almost touching.
Absently, Steve moved right his hand from Tony’s shoulder, placed his palm against his cheek, and gently stroked at the smudges underneath Tony’s right eye with the tip of his thumb. Tony’s eyes drifted closed, and Steve felt the jolt of Tony’s skin and hair as Tony absently nuzzled his palm. Tony's eyes were dark under hooded lids and thick eyelashes, his face thrown in shade.
Before Steve could catch his equilibrium under Tony's intense regard, he was blind-sided at the rush of blood to his groin sparked by the tips of Tony's teeth and tongue scraping the pad of his thumb.
All at once, the currents in the air shifted. He felt the heat and weight of Tony's stare, the need so thick that he could almost splay his fingers and feel the throb of it. It took Steve a moment to recognise what this was; something as necessary as breath, and as dangerous as ill judgement.
God help him, it took him only a blink of an eye to accept what came next.
“You need to rest,” Steve murmured inanely, his fingers made to brush the bandage on Tony’s forehead, only for Tony’s fingers to close around his wrist, holding it there. Steve’s eyes dropped to Tony’s hand. For someone on the mend for just over a day, Tony’s grip was surprisingly strong.
“I’ve been sleeping for thirty-six hours,” Tony’s smile was sardonic. “The next time, I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”
When Steve dared to think about Tony in those dark times that had yet to pass, he remembered the devil-may-care gleam in Tony’s eyes; hot, bright things in a face of shadows.
Or the fact that when he shifted, his lips brushing against Tony’s, Tony gave as good as he got. Probably even better, as Tony angled his head just so, minimising the clumsy fate of first kisses with an ease that came from long practice.
Still, it was not a smooth move. Hands trying to find purchase on shoulders, seeking heated flesh under T-shirts. The jounce of teeth that had them breaking apart for a second, just staring at each other, and Tony’s wet, broken hiss of pain when pinned against the bookcase a little too forcibly.
“Show me,” Steve’s demand was no less urgent, despite his whisper.
With shaky fingers, and Steve’s help, Tony’s t-shirt came off, and Steve saw the archipelagos of healing bruises, moving from the colour of overripe plums to sickly yellow along Tony’s shoulders, arms, and his sides. The bruises were so vivid; they were not even hidden by the light thatching of Tony's body hair. They were a result of the armour hydraulics shutting down, and Tony literally fighting against inertia within the metal casing.
“Tony-” Steve started, his fingers ghosting over bruises on Tony’s shoulder, unable to speak.
Tony shook his head. “No pity.”
“No.” Steve agreed, before touching Tony’s face again. Dragging his thumb across the chapped lower lip before he leaned forward to kiss him once more, tasting the mint of Tony’s mouthwash, and metal, feeling the bite of Tony’s fingernails on his upper arm, the nip of steel in his chest.
If Tony had been less needy, he would not have allowed it.
If Tony’s blood had been a bit cooler, his synapses not shorted out by the shock of new flesh; he would have detailed to Steve the finer points of hurt/comfort etiquette. No kissing on the lips, especially not with the gentle weight of his hand against his partner’s face, or gently brushing against bruised lips as if handling glass.
Yes to the scratch of Steve’s fingernails on his back. Tony’s pulse skittered when Steve nipped at that place between neck and shoulder, still tender from thirty-six hours ago. The pain-pleasure of Steve’s mouth there electric, had Tony’s breath tripping in hitches and starts. No to halting, open mouthed kisses on bruises, because gentle touches left marks on body and heart, whereas heated touches dissolved like hundred proof alcohol on skin.
It wasn't just pleasure, there was ache too : the spines of books in the book-stand digging into his skin, its shelves cutting into his shoulders, skin and vertebrae as he angled his hips flush against Steve's. Steve's fingers a vice grip on his hips, each finger a pad of steel with the blunt edges of nails digging in. There would be marks tomorrow, a minor sacrifice for right now. With each kiss, each touch, that held Steve near, the emptiness inside him faded, disappeared.
"Tony-" Steve murmured, resting his brow against Tony's own, and Tony saw the sheen of sweat on Steve's face, his forearms. The tremble in his limbs as he tried to be gentle with touches and holds.
That was another no.
No names, not even in the thick of it, because names made this perilous.
It made it harder to pretend that whatever this was never happened.
However. It was something to hear his name under these circumstances. In Steve's voice thickened by want, instead of exasperation. The syllables of his name on ragged sighs when his fingers easily found zipper and freed hard, heated flesh and cupped it. It was its own dark thrill, to push Steve to blaspheme - "Jesus, fuck" - before Tony was literally hauled from the bookcase and thrown on to his grandfather's rug. Another shift of bodies, Steve impatiently shrugged off his sweatshirt, leaving nothing but skin and muscle.
Steve was broad, shoulders blocking out the light as he covered Tony's body with his own, over him, on him. So close that everything was an impression on the senses. The gilt of hair along Steve's forearms the taste of salt on his tongue and lips as he scraped his teeth along Steve's Adam's apple. Little secrets stirred the blood; the smell of soap and resin in oddly intimate places, the spot behind the ear, or in the crook of elbows. There was the weight of Steve's body pressing his into the pile of the rug, his thighs being nudged apart by Steve's knee. Then the world narrowed to heat and pressure of Steve's arousal against his. Tony was drowning, keeping time to a desperate beat.
"Steve, just... oh fu-" Tony breathed, squeezing his eyes shut as everything hit him at once from all angles: the shards of pain stabbing into his back and shoulders, the scrape of Steve's nails on his forearms from Tony's writhing, the moist puffs of Steve's breath in his ear. It was too much to take in, to hang on. His orgasm tore through him like adamantine claws- sudden and devastating, leaving slashes of heat and ice in their wake. He bit Steve's shoulder, feeling the strain of muscle and tendon and power under his lips as Steve stilled for a second all force and bone, before he shuddered, and collapsed on Tony. Another welcome sensation.
They wouldn't talk about this, Steve knew.
He knew it as sure as he felt the warmth radiating off Tony's body beside his. Both men half lying on the rug, its pile cushioning their backs from the wooden floor. Steve's shirt was still off, somewhere, their blood and bodies cooler now, their trousers adjusted, although still sticky.
"What's your agenda for today?" Tony asked conversationally, and Steve had to admire the calm of it. As dangerous as ill judgement, the thought came to Steve's mind, mocking and unbidden.
"Gym, then I have to run a few errands. You?" Steve said, eyes scanning the ceiling, before turning his head towards Tony. Tony still had his eyes trained on the ceiling, worrying his lower lip with his teeth. Tony's hair was a rat's nest, his body now had new bruises, new marks to go with the others. The angry pink of a whisker burn on Tony's shoulder, the finger marks on Tony's hip. The bracelet shaped marks on his wrist. Steve tore his eyes away, and focused on the roof again.
"I have to chase down a few things myself," Tony shifted, linking his fingers across his chest. "I've some patents to query, some designs to look over. Shareholders to hold at bay. I'm out of here at nine o' clock. I'll get Happy to swing by and pick me up."
"About that..." Steve began, "Jarvis asked T'challa's physicians to check on you, at -"
Tony briefly closed his eyes. "Nine o' clock."
"Sorry." Steve said, not feeling sorry at all.
"How did Jarvis get Wakandian physicians to agree to make house calls?"
"He has his ways," Steve smiled.
"I'm fine," Tony started, voice taut. "Jarvis didn't need-"
"Like you said," Steve's voice was mild, and a result, the remark stung more. "No more ghosts. Not even yours, Stark."
"I-"
"No buts." Steve said, shifting himself into a sitting position. "Besides, it's Jarvis. He asked. Give him that. Please."
Tony shifted his eyes from the roof to look at Steve. For a moment, Steve expected mutiny, or at least some sort of argument, by Tony's frown.
"I'll think about it," Tony's voice was clipped.
"Good man," Steve gave Tony a bracing pat on his shoulder, before holding out a hand to help him up.
"I'm going to bed, I have to be up in a couple hours. You?"
"I'm good," Tony said, waving Steve's hand away. "I'm going to stay here for a while."
Tony felt the spring of the floor under Steve's feet, heard him scuffle around for his sweatshirt; saw him shrugging into it, from the corner of his eye. The easy movement of his deltoids as Steve tugged the sweatshirt over his head. While he moved amount, Tony pushed himself up, assuming a lotus position, raking his hands through his hair, only making it stick up even more.
Steve found his book, took his shield and moved towards the doors of the study.
"Steve," Tony said, half way to raising his hand in a sort of half wave before he placed it on his thigh.
"Tony." Steve said, standing at the door, waiting.
Tony drummed his fingers on his thigh, and thought of the best way to say this.
The silence was there, Steve giving Tony the level gaze that he perfected over years of use to keep recalcitrant team-mates in line. Tony shook his head, wanting to laugh at his willingness to violate his own protocol of hurt/comfort.
Instead, he sidestepped and said the next best thing.
"I'll do it. I'll meet with T'challa's people, give 'em the blood work, and make sure that the antibiotics are doing what they’re supposed to do.”
"No more ghosts."
"Not today, anyway."
"No," Steve agreed with a fond smile. "Not today." He left, closing the doors behind him with a soft click.
Tony waited a good ten minutes, until he was certain that Steve would not be coming back this way very soon. He pushed himself up, wincing at the soreness of his joints.
Yowzah, he would have to take it easy for a couple of days. He walked around to his desk, booted the laptop.
While the computer was loading and humming through its start up protocols, Tony opened the top desk drawer and stared for a minute. It was still there. With steady hands, Tony placed the sealed bottle of Johnny Walker blue on the desk, while the computer thrilled its readiness for anything in the background.
By now, Tony should have been tearing though correspondence, but he stood there, thinking about ghosts.
There were good memories in this house, and Steve just gave him another one. A middle finger to all the bad ones. A memory as scalding as the wash of whisky down his throat; potent enough to take the edge off when life's angles got too sharp. It would never happen again, Tony knew. He had been lucky enough to get this in the first place.
Alcohol or sex, Steve shied from offering him both. In many ways, Steve had offered something better.
Warmth, comfort and heat. Profound reminiscence.
That was more than enough.
Strangely comforted, Tony tucked the sealed bottle away in its usual place, lowered himself in his father's chair, opened up his email and set to work.
Fin.
Author: jazzypom
Rated: R for language and concepts (naughty words. frottage.).
Summary: There are some ghosts that make Tony wary. Steve was almost one of them.
Disclaimer: Characters and situations are the property of Stan Lee and Marvel Comics. No profit is being made off this fan-written work.
Beta'd: No, but ruthlessly self edited. There are no crimes against grammar here.
Notes: British spellings. Story doesn’t fit into the larger narrative I’m writing. Boo. This part refers to the text Avengers Red-zone, circa 2003. Approximately 6000 words. A shout out to empty_splendor and jynx for bullying me into doing this fic already (even though it's like, 6000 words not in the Stark fic I should be writing. Bah.).
There are bits of dreams that play across Tony Stark's unconscious, images for a party of one. The most dramatic scenes of the Avengers' latest adventure, chopped and spliced together at a dizzying pace, like a trailer from a summer blockbuster.
The air sharp with the cloying, medicinal sweet smell of gas. It stings the eyes, irritates the mucus membranes.
Tony Stark is light headed, his breath stuck in his lungs; his heart is racing. His muscles are spasms of pain due to lactic acid build up. The dead weight of the armour entombs his limbs, forcing his movements to a crawl. It would be easier to curl up and -
Tony shakes his head, blocking out the white noise that is a skirmish between T'Challa and the Red Skull, focusing on the face before him.
Steve is too still, his jaw discoloured, his lips battered. Swallowing fear, Tony pushes on, a pained half crawl to Steve’s side.
No, you're not dying on my watch, Tony grabs at that grim mantra, lets it beat through his thoughts like a war drum. Captain America doesn't die on my watch.
His mind mercilessly ticks over from that scene into another.
Restrained by strong fingers, refusing the sedative that T'challa's physician has in his hand. The walls sear his retinas with their white glare, his mouth is welling up with fluid, and Tony swallows blood-tinged spittle.
I just need to know if Steve's okay. Please, I just... please.
There is an exchange of glances between Jack of Hearts and Antman, before Jack gives a short, sharp nod to the doctor.
Then, there is Steve, sitting on the side of the bed, having his vitals checked out and joking with the young, blushing medic. Tony's hand pressed against the glass, knowing that he cannot go in, but Steve is alive.
Black.
On a shudder of breath, Tony jackknifed upright, the bed sheets pooling around his waist and hips. Fully awake, his eyes searched the room, scanning and accessing his surroundings out of habit. Dim light washed through the room, highlighting the paisley print sheets, half-drawn drapes at the windows, and the pale colour of the bedroom walls.
Well, hell. Tony thought, forcing himself to breathe normally. He knew the surroundings quite well. It was the Avengers Mansion. Yesterday, he remembered speaking to T'challa, and both men coming to an understanding of sorts. Power recognised power, and yesterday, respect came with that recognition. Then he had gotten another dose of antibiotics and-
He had been out cold for- he brought a hand to his face, running fingers along his jaw, and felt the beginnings of stubble along his cheeks and throat.
"Thirty six hours."
"Shi- Vision," Tony swore, as his team-mate loomed out of the shadows in a swirl of red and green. "Next time, give a guy some warning?"
"Anthony," Vision replied in cool metallic tones. "The Avengers thought you'd prefer to convalesce here, instead of the infirmary wing downstairs."
"Steve -?" Tony asked, forcing his voice to remain neutral, but the slight tremor must have given his thoughts away, what with Vision moving to comfort, in his own way.
"It's three am; everyone is down for the night. Including Captain America. I was directed to stay by your side until you awoke."
"Yeah?" Tony absently rubbed the nape of his neck, feeling the soreness there. "I'm awake, you can go now."
"Do you require any assistance in getting out of bed? You've suffered a slight -"
"No," Tony said, before he realised how curt he sounded, and gentled his tone. "No thank you, Vision. I'm okay. You turn in."
Vision, good ma- android, did not press. There was almost a solemn courtly tilt of his head, before he adjusted his body density to fade into the wall.
Crazy, Tony shook his head gingerly. He never stopped trying to figure out how Vision did that.
Absently, he felt the bandage across his forehead. Not that he was vain (much), but he hoped the cut would not leave a scar. It was bad enough doing business deals looking rough. He could explain his pallor away by implying that he had bad fish at Turtle Cove in Barbados, but a facial scar was a whole other beast.
Tony was up, a bit uneasy on his feet, and made to move before he felt a tug on his chest. Absently, he yanked the plug from his heart. He had been on recharge for over twenty-four hours, and felt … it was hard to explain. Far more than well rested, almost… buzzing.
I should be knocked out more often, Tony smiled ruefully.
His eyes scanned the room, zeroing in on the pyjama bottoms and a white t- shirt at the end of the bed. Then a stop at the en suite bathroom to wash his face and gargle with mouthwash (an ingrained habit) and he was off.
The house had the comfortable quiet of people asleep. Tony noted this by the fact that his footsteps did not echo when he walked; he could hear the rustle of people moving around in their bedclothes, the air in this house shared by many. Tony had been intimately aware of the sort of hush when it was empty and hollow, after his parents died.
The house held ghosts, he had always thought, descending the stairs in light, quick steps. Not the spectral types that Stephen Strange battled with, nor the supposed lost souls that spent their lives in limbo. No, there were simpler ghosts, which lived in this house. They were of a life past, of regrets.
They lived in his head, stirred to consciousness by sense and touch memory.
There was the Steinway in the parlour for starters, still smelling of beeswax and lemon, the patina of age making the wood buttery smooth under fingertips. If he closed his eyes, and stood still, he could hear his mother's voice over his giggles as they played Taps, the notes choppy and disjointed, due to him sticking his fingers wherever there was sound. Unfortunately, Tony had a tin ear. He would be a competent pianist, but not good.
He still remembered his mother's keen disappointment when he showed himself to be more adept at the soldering iron than scales. It was another regret filed with the rest of them. Tony's fingers hovered over the keys, before he pulled them away.
Here was the banister, where he and Tiberius slid down, head first, daring each other to go faster, risk more.
Hijinx, teasing, laughter.
There were the sure bonds of friendship, reinforced by ‘liberating’ his father’s finest scotch from the liquor cabinet and drinking spirits at the foot of the stairs. The house had been their summer empire, conquests made at the time of night when the parents were in bed, because that was a part of the thrill. Resolutely, Tony turned his mind away from those thoughts, because nostalgia of friendship had never softened the pain of its betrayal.
In its place, he remembered being eight, sitting on the bottom step, watching the parties that his parents threw with abandon. There was the swirl of skirts, the varying scales of laughter trembling on the air. The light winking on crystal champagne flutes at tips of fingers.
Tony would sit on the step, taking in everything, until Jarvis (it was usually Jarvis) caught him. There would be a smile, then a indulgent shake of the head by his butler, before the the young master was frog marched upstairs.
Absently, Tony rolled his shoulders and shook his head. His shoulders were still sore, and he had an idle thought of going to the kitchen and getting some painkillers. Then going into the workroom that he installed and just... tinker. But it had been a while since he truly spent the night at his family’s home, and –
There was a light on in the study.
The doors were ajar.
Senses on full alert, Tony listened, and waited – no sound. Immediately, his mind started constructing various scenarios, and the best ways to react.
Could he rouse the Avengers in time? How did the intruder get past the perimeter alarm? One intruder or many? The only weapon he had to hand was house slippers. Unless the intruder was an over-sized puppy that needed to be house broken, he was out of luck.
Even then, he was barefoot. So, yeah, out of luck.
Easy Stark, Tony told himself. You’re getting paranoid.
Stealthy Tony moved towards his father’s study, his fingers grazing against the heavy wood of the doors he knew well. Slowly, he leaned his body against the door, hoping that the wood might shield him … just in case.
After a mental count on three, Tony slipped into the room, assuming the position for combat: arms ready to swing, weight shifting to the balls of his feet. Only to feel torn between the twin urges of relief and self-annoyance when he took in the sight before him.
The source of light was a lamp to the far side of the room, where it beamed over the prone figure asleep in the armchair, the rest of the room thrown in varying swings and echoes of shadows. If the scruff of blond hair did not give him the first hint of who was sleeping in the chair, the shield at the side of the armchair would have done.
Gently, Tony drew the doors shut.
Fast asleep, his form slumped in the comfortable chair, book splayed open across his chest, held there by his linked fingers. The lamp light turned the fair fuzz on his arms and fingers to gilt. Steve was in a comfortable grey sweatshirt, sleeves rolled up to elbows, jeans and bare feet, ankles crossed on the Ottoman in front of him, his chest rising and falling gently, because he was fast asleep.
Steve, Tony thought, shoving his hands into his pyjama pockets as he looked at his friend.
Steve is too still -
Tony shook away that mental image, and focused on this one.
No need for a feather or a mirror, old chum, Tony told himself and for the first time in thirty-six hours, the hard knot that had lodged in his chest dissolved.
For the first time in a long time, Tony found himself cataloguing his friend’s features. Steve’s lashes were fair fans against his cheeks; his features were regular, a blade of a nose, a nice mouth that was mostly healed. There was the pulse that beat strong and steady at the base of his throat.
Then there was Steve’s body.
Tony Stark had always envied people who lived in their bodies; the twist and power of muscle and movement reflexively responding to the inhabitant's will.
His physique was not just for show, Tony knew, his eyes noting the musculature of Steve’s arms, the glimpse of the taut abdomen between the hem of Steve’s shirt and the waistband of his jeans.
For the first time in a long time, Tony truly wondered what it must be like; moving without rigid metal protecting you in the heat of battle, having nothing between you and death but razor sharp instincts and a shield. To know that if you wanted to flip and twist and manoeuvre just so, your body did as bid; all parts working in perfect integration. No exertion wasted, every action purposeful. At best, Tony Stark was a barely tolerated guest in his own body, what with his fragile heart condition, battered by the ills of a former drinking problem.
Jesus, to think, that a day and a half ago, there might been a world without Captain America, without the man, Steve Rogers.
To think- and Tony's musings were cut off by images of thirty six hours ago, of him frantically giving Steve mouth to mouth, frantic with the fact that it might be another life that he failed to save.
Another ghost in this house of ghosts.
Tony sighed, absently rubbing his temple with his pointer and middle fingers. It was going to be one of those nights.
“Hey,” Steve said, in greeting.
“Hey,” Tony replied with a friendly smile, hoping that Steve did not notice his discomfort. “Interesting book of the month you have there.”
Steve blinked owlishly once, his eyes went from blurred to sharp slits of blue in seconds, as he turned the book around in his hands to look at the cover.
Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand.
“I never took you for an Objectivist Libertarian.”
“I thought it was mythology,” Steve admitted with that easy grin. “But then I just thought I’d finish it. It’s another thing I missed.”
When I spent all those years in ice, was the punch line to that unsaid joke.
“How are you feeling?” Tony asked, noting the fact that Steve’s eyes were still their clear blue, with normal sized pupils.
“I’m fine,” Steve stretched, his arms arcing over his head; his shirt moving up another inch or so, revealing more muscle and skin. “You?”
“I’m fine,” Tony responded, dragging his eyes away from Steve’s stomach to his face. “A bit dopey from the antibiotics, but fine.”
In the silence that greeted that exchange, Steve’s eyes scanned the room.
The study had belonged to Howard Stark. Unlike the other rooms in the house, this one had been relatively untouched by the interior decorators. The walls were clad in heavy water wallpaper done in a leaf green. The floor was the rich warm glow of cherry wood, done in the distinctive geometric mosaic of squares and triangles, with jewel- coloured rugs strategically placed at selected focal points. An entire wall of the study filled with books, some so old and well preserved- according to Tony- that their pages had yet to be cut.
The few touches of the twenty first century in this room were the spanking new flat screen monitor on the old Victorian desk, and the speaker phone.
Tony crossed over to the desk, and leaned against its edge. The computer monitor was near enough to hand, and Tony stroked it as if one would a favoured pet.
More comfortable with the now, Steve noted, than the past.
Silently, Steve did his own assessment of Tony. He seemed okay, a bit pale from the antibiotics and whatever gas the Red Skull used. He was currently sporting a five o’ clock shadow in addition to his van dyke. His cheekbones stood out more than usual, and mentally Steve noted that he needed to remind Jarvis to ease Tony into eating more. The bandage at his temple was freshly changed, and worryingly, only a few shades lighter than Tony’s skin.
“Why did you do it?” Steve asked, wondering where that thought came from.
“Sorry?”
“You put yourself at great risk-"
“To save a team-mate.” Tony’s voice was careful. Deliberately smooth. "Isn't that what we signed up for?"
Yes, Steve thought, but...
“Would you have done it for Sam?”
“I’d have done it for anyone.” Tony said, his eyes flickering at Steve, before drifting to one of the rugs on the floor.
“Tony-"
“No more ghosts,” Tony raised his eyes to Steve’s.
“This house has so many, Steve,” Tony said, his eyes clear and grim. “Captain America wasn’t going to be added to it, not on my watch.”
The weight of the words settled into the stillness of the study. Steve, who normally had the odd stirring speech or two on tap, was at a loss.
“You know,” Steve began, shifting his position with an easy movement, from supine to perching on the edge of the armchair, ready to state his case. “The lives we lead, well, some of us are bound to fall in battle.”
“I know,” Tony nodded, his fingers slowly drumming on the surface of the desk. “I know.”
“It can’t be helped,” Steve’s voice was gentle; one team-mate bolstering another, a friend offering shared wisdom.
“I know,” Tony repeated on a breath, as he lifted his head to look at Steve, his eyes stormy with emotion. “It was you Steve. Captain America is a lot more important than a product sprung from the philosophy of Ayn Rand.” The smile was lopsided and self-mocking.
“There’s only one Tony Stark,” Steve said, and Tony laughed, as he pushed himself from the desk, moving towards a knot of books on one of the lower selves of the library.
“Every life’s important,” Steve said, trying a different tack, still looking at Tony. Wondering at his friend's odd mood. “It takes being in a Great War to see it, and a few intergalactic invasions to bring the point home.”
“The Red Zone,” Tony pressed his thumb and middle finger in the space between his eyes. A short, sharp shake of his head, and Tony’s eyes cleared. Steve himself was momentarily mute, as he briefly genuflected on the events that brought them here.
If it had been successful, The Red Zone had been an audacious plan of bio-terrorism superseding the ten plagues of biblical proportions. Although the term smacked of hyperbole, there was no other word for it, but biblical. For one man to want to rid the earth of ‘unspeakables’ – and coming so close- Steve had had a bad time of it. To fall at his feet to Red Skull, only to be saved by a literal breath - by his team-mate.
It had shaken him much more than he cared to admit.
After battering his body in the gym for hours, still choking on his own perceived impotence, Steve gave up and went to look in on Tony. He found Jarvis in Tony’s living quarters, sitting by Tony’s bedside, his shoulders bowed, as he searched Tony’s face for some signs of movement, holding his hand.
“Everyday, when he goes out, I always wonder if this will be the day Master Tony does himself a harm,” Jarvis patted his employer’s hand, which was almost as pale as the sheets.
Master.
As far as Steve knew, custom dictated that you stopped using the honorific 'Master' once the male scion turned sixteen. Then, again, to Jarvis, Tony would always be a Master. Tony would always be a young man, if not a child.
“He did well, Jarvis,” Steve said, laying a hand on Jarvis’ shoulder. “Tony helped turn a great evil away.”
Jarvis smiled faintly at Steve’s comment. “I don’t think Tony would ever use that word.”
“No,” Steve agreed. “He wouldn’t.”
“I know Tony can be… bloody minded,” Jarvis squeezed Tony’s hand. “But he’s-”
“He’s ours,” Steve said, squeezing Jarvis' shoulder. In many ways, Jarvis was as much a part of the team as he was. Far braver too, considering the fact that Jarvis was a normal man functioning in a world of super-powered heroes.
“I’m just glad that the house had no additional ghosts today,” Jarvis murmured as he rose to go. “There’s been enough.” He left Steve there, standing at Tony's beside. Soon, Steve left too.
"I can’t promise you anything,” Steve continued, shaking head to clear his thoughts to focus on Tony, and the now. “But I’ll try not to be another ghost in this house. When I do fall, I’ll do it far from here. In the middle of down town, or off planet –" Steve raised his palm to shoulder height. “Scout’s honour.”
“Two jokes in one night? Impressive,” Tony laughed, and both men flinched at how brittle it sounded. With a shake of his head, Tony crossed his arms and rested his head against the bookshelves, eyes gazing skyward. From where Steve sat, he had a low angled view of Tony's face. The jaw line roughened by stubble growing in, his lower lip being worried by his teeth. There was the clean line of Tony's throat, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed.
Tony’s eyes were clear, but still troubled, and suddenly, Steve knew.
“You’re still reliving it then.” It was not a question.
“Yeah. After sleeping like the dead for all that time, it’s ironic. I’m awake, and that’s all I see.”
“But, you've gone through this before," Steve began," the crossing, that situation with your alternate self. It shouldn't-"
“It's not that. It was you Steve,” Tony’s voice was a hushed whisper, as if to speak any louder would tempt the fates themselves. His eyes suspiciously bright, his jaw clenched. “You were in front of me, and I almost didn’t get there in time. I almost-"
“But you did.” Steve said, rising to move towards Tony before stopping at an arm’s length from him. “That’s all that counts.”
“And one day, if I don’t? If I can't?"
“We can’t think like that,” Steve lowered his voice to match Tony’s. “If we did, we’d … freeze, I guess. We just can’t.”
For a long moment, Steve found himself on the receiving end of a long, searching look from Tony. Then, Tony nodded, palm up as if to say, okay. It was an argument that neither of them won. They took the chance every time they went into battle, and sometimes, team-mates never came out on the other side. If nothing else, wars had taught him that. Still, just because you yielded to the vocation, and accepted death as a distinct possibility, it did not mean that you stopped thinking about it. It was a personal equation for each individual. Steve did not have the right to impose his views on a deeply personal conviction.
Nevertheless, Steve reached out, because that is what friends did.
“How can I help?” Steve asked, touching Tony’s shoulder, absently kneading the knot of muscle there.
Tony cocked his head at him, giving Steve that pointed look he knew very well. Steve steeled himself for the answer, knowing that he would still be surprised at whatever answer Tony gave.
“Alcohol or sex.”
Despite himself, in spite of the fact that it was strange speaking to Tony while leaning against bookshelves at God’s ayem in the morning, Steve smiled. It was good to know that some things never changed.
"A few years ago,” Tony smiled faintly, his eyes still sober. “I’d use alcohol to take the edge off, chase it with about half dozen willing females.”
"Pity,” Steve said, keeping his voice neutral while he still kneaded Tony’s shoulder, and bit by bit, felt the tension ebbing under his fingers. “I can’t help you.”
“You're a hard man, Mr Rogers." Tony smirked briefly, laugh lines fanning from the edges of his eyes, incorrigible to the end. "I’d be no use to the ladies anyway. Not tonight.” Tony rolled his shoulders at the comment.
Steve had an inkling of Tony was going through, when the mind tried to rationalize madness by making sense out of it, looping assorted images throughout various states of consciousness. Ironically, the same self-coping mechanism drove some people crazy, and Steve had known some soldiers who sought some external comfort, be it chemical or physical.
Any distraction helped to stop thinking for a while, to feel.
Tony’s mind was always on, ticking over problems, envisioning various solutions, seeking angles, unearthing explanations. It demanded constant stimulation, no matter the source. As a result, Steve was not surprised at Tony’s propensity for losing himself in someone or something else. Perhaps- Steve had always thought - that was how he found himself.
No, he could not give Tony alcohol or sex; but perhaps, he could do the next best thing.
Steve reached for Tony, and they suddenly were clinging to each other, Tony’s fingers twined in the fabric of Steve’s shirt, his head nestled in the space between Steve’s shoulder and neck.
“It’s like little aftershocks, half the time,” Steve murmured, his lips and nose against Tony’s temple, feeling the warmth of Tony’s breath on his shoulder.
“You think the worst of the memory is gone – and then -”
“They’re still there,” Tony picked up the thought, his voice strong. “When I play taps on piano, or stand at the base of the steps.”
“Little ghosts.” Steve agreed, holding Tony in a one armed hug, his other hand still on his friend’s shoulder. Steve did not know how long they stayed like that; probably civilizations rose and fell in that stretch of time, maybe only a few moments passed.
Steve only focused on when Tony's breaths stopped being this short of ragged, when his fingers relaxed their vice grip within the folds of his shirt, eventually ending splayed against his chest. Tony responded to touch like that, used it as a sort of grounding.
Steve felt Tony starting to shift, and slackened his grip. Tony took a step back, Steve’s hands on his shoulders, their foreheads almost touching.
Absently, Steve moved right his hand from Tony’s shoulder, placed his palm against his cheek, and gently stroked at the smudges underneath Tony’s right eye with the tip of his thumb. Tony’s eyes drifted closed, and Steve felt the jolt of Tony’s skin and hair as Tony absently nuzzled his palm. Tony's eyes were dark under hooded lids and thick eyelashes, his face thrown in shade.
Before Steve could catch his equilibrium under Tony's intense regard, he was blind-sided at the rush of blood to his groin sparked by the tips of Tony's teeth and tongue scraping the pad of his thumb.
All at once, the currents in the air shifted. He felt the heat and weight of Tony's stare, the need so thick that he could almost splay his fingers and feel the throb of it. It took Steve a moment to recognise what this was; something as necessary as breath, and as dangerous as ill judgement.
God help him, it took him only a blink of an eye to accept what came next.
“You need to rest,” Steve murmured inanely, his fingers made to brush the bandage on Tony’s forehead, only for Tony’s fingers to close around his wrist, holding it there. Steve’s eyes dropped to Tony’s hand. For someone on the mend for just over a day, Tony’s grip was surprisingly strong.
“I’ve been sleeping for thirty-six hours,” Tony’s smile was sardonic. “The next time, I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”
When Steve dared to think about Tony in those dark times that had yet to pass, he remembered the devil-may-care gleam in Tony’s eyes; hot, bright things in a face of shadows.
Or the fact that when he shifted, his lips brushing against Tony’s, Tony gave as good as he got. Probably even better, as Tony angled his head just so, minimising the clumsy fate of first kisses with an ease that came from long practice.
Still, it was not a smooth move. Hands trying to find purchase on shoulders, seeking heated flesh under T-shirts. The jounce of teeth that had them breaking apart for a second, just staring at each other, and Tony’s wet, broken hiss of pain when pinned against the bookcase a little too forcibly.
“Show me,” Steve’s demand was no less urgent, despite his whisper.
With shaky fingers, and Steve’s help, Tony’s t-shirt came off, and Steve saw the archipelagos of healing bruises, moving from the colour of overripe plums to sickly yellow along Tony’s shoulders, arms, and his sides. The bruises were so vivid; they were not even hidden by the light thatching of Tony's body hair. They were a result of the armour hydraulics shutting down, and Tony literally fighting against inertia within the metal casing.
“Tony-” Steve started, his fingers ghosting over bruises on Tony’s shoulder, unable to speak.
Tony shook his head. “No pity.”
“No.” Steve agreed, before touching Tony’s face again. Dragging his thumb across the chapped lower lip before he leaned forward to kiss him once more, tasting the mint of Tony’s mouthwash, and metal, feeling the bite of Tony’s fingernails on his upper arm, the nip of steel in his chest.
If Tony had been less needy, he would not have allowed it.
If Tony’s blood had been a bit cooler, his synapses not shorted out by the shock of new flesh; he would have detailed to Steve the finer points of hurt/comfort etiquette. No kissing on the lips, especially not with the gentle weight of his hand against his partner’s face, or gently brushing against bruised lips as if handling glass.
Yes to the scratch of Steve’s fingernails on his back. Tony’s pulse skittered when Steve nipped at that place between neck and shoulder, still tender from thirty-six hours ago. The pain-pleasure of Steve’s mouth there electric, had Tony’s breath tripping in hitches and starts. No to halting, open mouthed kisses on bruises, because gentle touches left marks on body and heart, whereas heated touches dissolved like hundred proof alcohol on skin.
It wasn't just pleasure, there was ache too : the spines of books in the book-stand digging into his skin, its shelves cutting into his shoulders, skin and vertebrae as he angled his hips flush against Steve's. Steve's fingers a vice grip on his hips, each finger a pad of steel with the blunt edges of nails digging in. There would be marks tomorrow, a minor sacrifice for right now. With each kiss, each touch, that held Steve near, the emptiness inside him faded, disappeared.
"Tony-" Steve murmured, resting his brow against Tony's own, and Tony saw the sheen of sweat on Steve's face, his forearms. The tremble in his limbs as he tried to be gentle with touches and holds.
That was another no.
No names, not even in the thick of it, because names made this perilous.
It made it harder to pretend that whatever this was never happened.
However. It was something to hear his name under these circumstances. In Steve's voice thickened by want, instead of exasperation. The syllables of his name on ragged sighs when his fingers easily found zipper and freed hard, heated flesh and cupped it. It was its own dark thrill, to push Steve to blaspheme - "Jesus, fuck" - before Tony was literally hauled from the bookcase and thrown on to his grandfather's rug. Another shift of bodies, Steve impatiently shrugged off his sweatshirt, leaving nothing but skin and muscle.
Steve was broad, shoulders blocking out the light as he covered Tony's body with his own, over him, on him. So close that everything was an impression on the senses. The gilt of hair along Steve's forearms the taste of salt on his tongue and lips as he scraped his teeth along Steve's Adam's apple. Little secrets stirred the blood; the smell of soap and resin in oddly intimate places, the spot behind the ear, or in the crook of elbows. There was the weight of Steve's body pressing his into the pile of the rug, his thighs being nudged apart by Steve's knee. Then the world narrowed to heat and pressure of Steve's arousal against his. Tony was drowning, keeping time to a desperate beat.
"Steve, just... oh fu-" Tony breathed, squeezing his eyes shut as everything hit him at once from all angles: the shards of pain stabbing into his back and shoulders, the scrape of Steve's nails on his forearms from Tony's writhing, the moist puffs of Steve's breath in his ear. It was too much to take in, to hang on. His orgasm tore through him like adamantine claws- sudden and devastating, leaving slashes of heat and ice in their wake. He bit Steve's shoulder, feeling the strain of muscle and tendon and power under his lips as Steve stilled for a second all force and bone, before he shuddered, and collapsed on Tony. Another welcome sensation.
They wouldn't talk about this, Steve knew.
He knew it as sure as he felt the warmth radiating off Tony's body beside his. Both men half lying on the rug, its pile cushioning their backs from the wooden floor. Steve's shirt was still off, somewhere, their blood and bodies cooler now, their trousers adjusted, although still sticky.
"What's your agenda for today?" Tony asked conversationally, and Steve had to admire the calm of it. As dangerous as ill judgement, the thought came to Steve's mind, mocking and unbidden.
"Gym, then I have to run a few errands. You?" Steve said, eyes scanning the ceiling, before turning his head towards Tony. Tony still had his eyes trained on the ceiling, worrying his lower lip with his teeth. Tony's hair was a rat's nest, his body now had new bruises, new marks to go with the others. The angry pink of a whisker burn on Tony's shoulder, the finger marks on Tony's hip. The bracelet shaped marks on his wrist. Steve tore his eyes away, and focused on the roof again.
"I have to chase down a few things myself," Tony shifted, linking his fingers across his chest. "I've some patents to query, some designs to look over. Shareholders to hold at bay. I'm out of here at nine o' clock. I'll get Happy to swing by and pick me up."
"About that..." Steve began, "Jarvis asked T'challa's physicians to check on you, at -"
Tony briefly closed his eyes. "Nine o' clock."
"Sorry." Steve said, not feeling sorry at all.
"How did Jarvis get Wakandian physicians to agree to make house calls?"
"He has his ways," Steve smiled.
"I'm fine," Tony started, voice taut. "Jarvis didn't need-"
"Like you said," Steve's voice was mild, and a result, the remark stung more. "No more ghosts. Not even yours, Stark."
"I-"
"No buts." Steve said, shifting himself into a sitting position. "Besides, it's Jarvis. He asked. Give him that. Please."
Tony shifted his eyes from the roof to look at Steve. For a moment, Steve expected mutiny, or at least some sort of argument, by Tony's frown.
"I'll think about it," Tony's voice was clipped.
"Good man," Steve gave Tony a bracing pat on his shoulder, before holding out a hand to help him up.
"I'm going to bed, I have to be up in a couple hours. You?"
"I'm good," Tony said, waving Steve's hand away. "I'm going to stay here for a while."
Tony felt the spring of the floor under Steve's feet, heard him scuffle around for his sweatshirt; saw him shrugging into it, from the corner of his eye. The easy movement of his deltoids as Steve tugged the sweatshirt over his head. While he moved amount, Tony pushed himself up, assuming a lotus position, raking his hands through his hair, only making it stick up even more.
Steve found his book, took his shield and moved towards the doors of the study.
"Steve," Tony said, half way to raising his hand in a sort of half wave before he placed it on his thigh.
"Tony." Steve said, standing at the door, waiting.
Tony drummed his fingers on his thigh, and thought of the best way to say this.
The silence was there, Steve giving Tony the level gaze that he perfected over years of use to keep recalcitrant team-mates in line. Tony shook his head, wanting to laugh at his willingness to violate his own protocol of hurt/comfort.
Instead, he sidestepped and said the next best thing.
"I'll do it. I'll meet with T'challa's people, give 'em the blood work, and make sure that the antibiotics are doing what they’re supposed to do.”
"No more ghosts."
"Not today, anyway."
"No," Steve agreed with a fond smile. "Not today." He left, closing the doors behind him with a soft click.
Tony waited a good ten minutes, until he was certain that Steve would not be coming back this way very soon. He pushed himself up, wincing at the soreness of his joints.
Yowzah, he would have to take it easy for a couple of days. He walked around to his desk, booted the laptop.
While the computer was loading and humming through its start up protocols, Tony opened the top desk drawer and stared for a minute. It was still there. With steady hands, Tony placed the sealed bottle of Johnny Walker blue on the desk, while the computer thrilled its readiness for anything in the background.
By now, Tony should have been tearing though correspondence, but he stood there, thinking about ghosts.
There were good memories in this house, and Steve just gave him another one. A middle finger to all the bad ones. A memory as scalding as the wash of whisky down his throat; potent enough to take the edge off when life's angles got too sharp. It would never happen again, Tony knew. He had been lucky enough to get this in the first place.
Alcohol or sex, Steve shied from offering him both. In many ways, Steve had offered something better.
Warmth, comfort and heat. Profound reminiscence.
That was more than enough.
Strangely comforted, Tony tucked the sealed bottle away in its usual place, lowered himself in his father's chair, opened up his email and set to work.
Fin.
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I just love the Red Zone arc, and I love how deeply this delves into the aftermath of that. The hospital scenes are so vibrant, and the exploration of Tony's feelings afterward--of both Steve and himself--are spot on.
Also, Tony's line about "alcohol or sex"--perfect. :)
I also find it quite funny and random that we both posted tags to Red Zone within a few minutes of each other. :D
LOL.
Also, Tony's line about "alcohol or sex"--perfect. :)
That's the Stark I grew up with. XD
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Cheers for reading
*Goes back into fanfic writing navel*
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One thing, though.
"Here was the banister, where he and Tiberius slid down, head first, daring each other to go faster, risk more.
High jinx, teasing, laughter."
High jinx should be hijinks, :)
thank you
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Tony Stark had always envied people who lived in their bodies; the twist and power of muscle and movement reflexively responding to the inhabitant's will.
Especially for an ordinary guy surrounded by superheros, the idea of a body that responds to his commands with all the power and speed he wants - give interesting insights into his constant quest to build himself a better body.
Cheers
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Tony should know about the Walk of Shame *snerk*
Cheers for reading. :D'
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Cheers
:D
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And I love this fic. It's hot and melancholy (a rare and favorite combo) and has some beautiful language. I love how blunt Tony is when he talks about sex and alcohol, and what a contrast that bluntness is compared to his rather lyrical thoughts. My favorite:
There was the Steinway in the parlour for starters, still smelling of beeswax and lemon, the patina of age making the wood buttery smooth under fingertips. If he closed his eyes, and stood still, he could hear his mother's voice over his giggles as they played Taps, the notes choppy and disjointed, due to him sticking his fingers wherever there was sound.
Dooode, you bought Red Zone?
Ahem.
I love how blunt Tony is when he talks about sex and alcohol, and what a contrast that bluntness is compared to his rather lyrical thoughts. My favorite:
D'awwww. Cheers, mate.
Re: Dooode, you bought Red Zone?
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This was beautifully written, psychologically astute, and very atmospheric. And hot. I loved it!
Cheers for reading
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Cheers! Thanks for reading
Reviewing very late, so late OMG
If the scruff of blond hair did not give him the first hint of who was sleeping in the chair, the shield at the side of the armchair would have done.
I love the fact that Steve brought his shield with him to *sit around in the study in sweatpants* Feeling insecure about something, Steve?
At best, Tony Stark was a barely tolerated guest in his own body, what with his fragile heart condition, battered by the ills of a former drinking problem.
This is actually a really good point - Tony's in good shape for your average thirties-ish guy, given all that crime-fighting and combat training he does, but he's put his body through hell for his entire adult life, and you don't do that without consequences. Unless you're Wolverine, of course.
“I thought it was mythology,” Steve admitted with that easy grin. “But then I just thought I’d finish it. It’s another thing I missed.”
Trust me, Steve. You didn't miss much in this particular case.
“Would you have done it for Sam?”
“I’d have done it for anyone.” Tony said,
I really like Steve asking this question, and Tony's answer - because he *would* have done it for anyone, of course, but in this instance he very specifically did it because it was *Steve* and it's not that hard to figure it out (plus, while Steve and just about any of the other Avengers would also have risked certain death to save someone, it has those familiar suicidal vibes when Tony does it).
In many ways, Jarvis was as much a part of the team as he was. Far braver too, considering the fact that Jarvis was a normal man functioning in a world of super-powered heroes.
Yes. This. *loves Jarvis*
“But, you've gone through this before," Steve began," the crossing, that situation with your alternate self. It shouldn't-"
I like Steve thinking, at first that Tony's nightmares/fear were about almost dying - rather than immediately realizing they're about losing him. It's a completely reasonable assumption to make, especially after the… um… interesting plot that was the Crossing.
“Alcohol or sex.”
I love how blunt and open Tony is about his weaknesses here. *shakes head* I'd say that he really needs to get himself another coping mechanism, but then we wouldn't have gotten Steve sexing Tony (temporarily) better *grins*
They were a result of the armour hydraulics shutting down, and Tony literally fighting against inertia within the metal casing.
And this is just a nifty explanation for how Tony got all beat up.
Hello! Never late!
Heh, no declarations of love, I'm afraid. With these two (especially Stark) you get the feeling that they can't ever say it, because to say it, it will break the bubble, burst the charm.
Alas, as much as I liked this fic, it isn't a part of my Stark story I'm trying to talk myself into writing.
I'm glad that it worked for you, really. :D