(no subject)

[chimneypot.livejournal.com]

Author: chimneypot

Title: what a piece of work is a man

Rating: r

Pairing: Steve/Tony

Word Count: 3206

Genre: angst! so much angst.

A/N: set in the iron man movie-verse, with the obvious addition of the avengers.

Summary:

“What piece of work is a man!” says Tony, with his arms spread wide before the crowd stretched below them on the street. “How noble in reason! How infinite in faculty! In form and moving how express and admirable! In action how like an angel! In apprehension how like a god! The beauty of the world! The paragon of animals!”

It goes like this:

Tony’s drunk again, weaving between furniture, banging his shin off an aggressively modern end-table, nearly falling. His arms pinwheel comically, but there’s nothing especially funny about the situation. In fact, it’s making Steve feel sick. He’s talking, always talking endlessly. The half life of stars; he’s telling Steve how music and machines, mathematics and methamphetamines, they’re all fragments of the same magic. He tells Steve how the body’s sense of self is the most fragile sense, how its map of itself can be destroyed with very little effort. When you’re drunk, the body-map is one of the first things to go. It’s the reason people can’t walk in a straight line or touch their noses when they’re wasted. “The body, it’s such an imperfect machine,” Tony slurs, his eyes gleaming in the moonlight like hazard lights. “So easily fooled, Steve. So easy.” He extends his hand and flexes it, slowly, and it’s as though he’s in the lab examining a failed experiment. His lip curls slightly in derision. “But so much fun, too.”

If Steve’s honest, he hates that look. That superiority, that superciliousness, that coldness. It’s even worse when Tony levels it at himself; Steve’s caught him making that face at his own reflection. Lip curled, derision in every line of his face, and the same expression staring right back at him. All that brilliance turned against himself.

“Our imperfections are what make us ourselves,” Steve says quietly. “They make us human.”

“Circular reasoning.” Tony is always lyrical when drunk, always eloquent. He’s given lectures to powerful men like this. “We are human because we are imperfect, and we are imperfect because we are human. I remain Tony Stark because of my failings, not despite them. How sad. Sophistry. We can exceed this.”

We don’t need to.”

Tony only narrows his eyes, and Steve hears his unspoken response: Yes, but I do.

With Tony there’s always a yes, but.

“We don’t need to exceed this,” Steve repeats, and in response Tony leans down and rolls up the leg of his trousers. There is blood running down his shin, and he looks up at Steve and cocks an eyebrow. The room is dark and lightless, the bluish moonlight filtering through the blinds, and all Steve can see is the line of his cheekbones, the sharp curves of his jaw. His eyes are colourless and even drowned in alcohol, they’re still frighteningly intelligent.

“You see?” he says softly.

Steve sees, all right.

 

*

 

Right about now, it’s Tony: 1; Steve: 0

 

*

 

It goes like this: 


They’re at some sort of charity function being held in the name of Stark industries, and Tony’s arm is wound around the waist of some pretty blonde. He’s the picture of elegance in his tuxedo, a man born to wealth and luxury. Steve may have been created in the image of the American dream all those years ago, but it changed while he slept, and now Tony with his false smile and his carefully measured gestures and his slightly unsteady walk, well, he’s taken over pretty well. He whispers something in the girl’s ear and she smiles and giggles, going red. A perfect equation: if he uses the right words at the right time she’ll go home with him tonight. Like the consummate scientist that he is, Tony’s been experimenting most of his life, and by now he’s found the right formula of smiles and sex appeal and silence. She’ll most likely fuck him tonight. Just like he’s been expecting.


It makes Steve feel sick.

He smiles and shakes hands and talks to a girl who looks wholesome and blonde but is probably neither. The party slips past him easily, mostly registering as white noise. He doesn’t really like these events, if he’s honest; he’d really rather be doing something than standing around talking to Katie, or maybe her name’s Kathy.

Later he goes upstairs to one of the unused conference rooms to have a break from the heat and clamour. He opens the door and Tony’s standing at the window, his face lit up by the harsh halogen of the huge Stark Industries sign glowing before him.

“Tony,” he says softly, and Tony jumps and turns.

“Steve-o,” he greets. “O, captain, my captain.”

Up close, he can see the dark trail of blood oozing from Tony’s left nostril. Tony’s pupils are huge and dilated, diluting into the blue of his iris, and his smile is jerky and leaves his face as soon as it arrives.

 

“Stark Industries,” he says. “We’re making such a difference, Steve. We’re doing such good. All these celebrities can sleep easy tonight, huh. We all can.”

 

“Your nose is bleeding.”

 

“What? Oh, sorry,” Tony says, not sounding even slightly sorry. He withdraws a handkerchief, wipes under his nose neatly, and in a second it’s like the blood was never there.

 

“What do you think you’re doing?” Steve asks, and Tony smiles out of half his mouth and says, “Oh, come on, sourpatch. It was all the rage in the eighties. Probably the only good that came from that decade too.”

 

“You’re not being funny, Tony. This isn’t funny. Where’s your date? Do you even know her name?”

 

“She’s in the bathroom, and I’d say the only reason that she even knows my name is because it’s usually preceded by the word “billionaire”. It’s a mutually detrimental relationship. See, right now, I can’t really feel most of my face, but in the morning she won’t really be able to walk. So we both lose. Or win. Whichever way you want to look at it.”

 

“I’d rather not,” Steve says. “You’re being disgusting. What are you doing, Tony? I mean really, what do you actually think you’re doing?”

 

“Doing the best with the soul I’ve been given,” Tony says, and frowns. “I’m sure Captain American wouldn’t understand. And what are you doing here, Steve? I mean, a charity event, shouldn’t you be having the time of your life? I have a feeling this is for orphans. Isn’t that right up your alley?”

 

Steve leaves.

 

*

 

Tony: 2; Steve: still right at 0

 

*

 

Steve’s pretty certain Tony never used to be this bitter. He’s sure he remembers the Tony Stark who wanted to be a better man – who kept trying, at least. He remembers the Tony Stark who used to stay up with him nights, whose face was the first he ever saw. He remembers the Tony Stark who never played games; who was difficult, sure, and definitely challenging, but who was always honest with him. What he can’t remember is when this started to change, or why. And Tony looks at him sometimes with such openness, and sometimes with such revulsion, and both of these expressions hurt equally.

 

“What piece of work is a man!” says Tony, with his arms spread wide before the crowd stretched below them on the street. “How noble in reason! How infinite in faculty! In form and moving how express and admirable! In action how like an angel! In apprehension how like a god! The beauty of the world! The paragon of animals!”

 

He turns to face Steve with a bitter sneer on his face. “And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust?”

 

Steve leaves.

 

*

 

It goes like this:

 

Aside from when he’s on the battlefield, he feels best when he’s shooting the shit with the rest of the Avengers. His best friendships have always been with his comrades-at-arms. Tony calls it his soldier superiority, but it’s not that he feels like he’s better than civilians. You can’t feel like you’re better than the people you’re trying to protect or you grow to resent them. He just has more of a connection with people who know how it feels to live day-to-day, who know what it feels like to face death.

 

“Stark,” Clint says. “just can’t be bothered with hanging out with us. He tries to bullshit that he’s too busy but he’s always got time for a party. He’s just too fucking high and mighty. Can’t be bothered with common folk.”

 

“I don’t think it’s that,” Steve protests. This is familiar ground. They’re indebted to Stark and they need him. They’re grateful to him because they have to be, but very few of the Avengers are big fans of him. Very few are paid-up members of the Tony Stark fanclub, and much as Steve hates to admit it, it’s probably best this way. Tony Stark is not a man you want to trust implicitly. It’s dangerous. If Steve is a noble gas, then Tony is an unstable compound, liable to combust. Tony himself does not implicitly trust Tony Stark.

 

“Oh yeah? He thinks he’s so fucking smart. He bankrolls this operation because it makes him feel better about the rest of his life. All he has is his money and his fucking machines.”

 

“Did you see him the other day?” Peter pipes up. “I came over at like, five o’ clock and ran into him, and he was drunk. Like, really drunk.”

 

“Guys,” Steve says. “Can you please stop talking about him? He might have problems but he’s a good man. You know that as well as I do. Talking about him like this will only create rifts between us and we don’t need that. The best team is a united one.”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Clint says, and Steve can see that they’re not willing to let this go. It’s not necessarily about Tony: it’s difficult to have to constantly work with anyone, let alone someone you’re trusting with your life with on a regular basis. Tomorrow it could be Steve they’re talking about. It’s natural, and if Steve doesn’t remember this level of in-fighting and anger from the war, well, then it must just be nostalgia.

 

He leaves and walks into Tony standing in the corridor. His stomach drops and he says, quickly, “Tony, come on. You know that they –”

 

“– meant every word?” Tony smiles sardonically. “Yeah, Steve. I know what they meant. I don’t blame them.”

 

“You can’t – Tony, you can’t possibly agree with them,” Steve says, but Tony’s already walking away from him.

 

*

 

Tony: 2; Steve: 1, in a Pyrrhic victory sort of way.

 

*

 

Tony keeps drinking and fucking blonde girls and passing out on bathroom floors, and Steve just keeps picking up after him.

 

*

 

It goes like this:

 

He goes over to Tony’s house to check some documents, some piece of machinery Tony’s been working on. Jarvis lets him in – and he’s gotten used to it, but he doesn’t think he’ll ever be completely happy with the whole robot-butler thing – and when he walks into the living room, the first thing he sees is Tony, shirtless and lying spread-eagled on the floor. He looks dead. Steve rushes over to him, automatically checking for blood, for wounds, but Tony coughs, shakes his head, and raises himself up on his elbows. He looks dazed and disjointed. His eyes are slightly unfocused.

 

“Are you okay?” Steve asks. “What happened?”

 

Tony lets himself back onto the floor with a gentle thud. “Nothing. A party. Whatever. I think I’m going to throw up.”

 

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Steve shouts. “I was worried, Tony. I thought you were dead. Do you think this is normal? Do you really think this is acceptable behaviour? I’m not putting up with this.” He gets up from his haunches, makes to leave, but Tony wraps a hand around his ankle. He looks down. Tony’s face is the colour of cigarette ashes, with dark gutter-coloured circles in inverted arcs beneath his eyes. The bright, bright machinery of his heart hums steadily in his chest.

 

“I really think I’m going to be sick,” he says quietly.

 

In the bathroom Steve rubs his back while he throws up into the toilet. Afterwards, Tony slumps against the white marble of his huge, beautiful bathroom, resting his elbows on his drawn-up knees and hanging his head in the dark space he’s created within himself.

 

“I feel awful,” he murmurs, and Steve can’t quite bring himself to say you brought this on yourself so instead he just rubs Tony’s shoulder quietly.

 

“What are you doing to yourself,” he says instead. It’s not a question.

 

“I’m sorry,” Tony says without looking at him. “I’m sorry you had to see this. But I’m okay. I’m really okay.”

 

“Really? Because if you were, you wouldn’t be doing this. But what I don’t see,” Steve says, “is why you keep doing this. You’re a brilliant man, and more importantly, you’re a good man. You’re the best friend I have and you can’t even see why. You’re so smart and yet you can’t even see that. I know that Tony Stark is a good man, so why don’t you?”

 

And Tony just raises his head and smiles his flashbulb smile and says, “Yes, but he could be better.”

 

*

 

Tony: 2; and Steve, well, he’s not really certain he wants to play anymore.

 

*

 

Tony’s not really doing so okay anymore, and Steve is running out of answers.

 

*

 

It goes like this:

 

He doesn’t see Tony for a few days until he gets a call from Pepper. Tony’s in hospital. Is it the – no, Pepper says. They got an emergency call, some bomber, and Tony went rushing out without waiting for backup. Nothing serious, some cracked ribs, but he was lucky to escape with his life, really.

 

“He didn’t even let anyone else know,” Pepper says, sounding close to tears. “It was like he was trying to get himself killed.”

 

Steve breaks the speed-limit on the way to the hospital.

 

Inside, Tony’s looking more cheerful and less hungover than Steve’s seen him in awhile. There’s a big red jagged line stitched up down the side of his face, and his ribs are all wrapped up, He’s flirting with a pretty blonde nurse; somehow, they always seem to be blonde. His smile teeters when he sees Steve’s face, and collapses altogether when Steve pushes her from the room and draws the curtains.

 

“I can –” he begins, and Steve says, “Shut up.”

 

In the car back from the hospital neither of them speak. He pulls up at Tony’s house and Tony, with a nervous side-glance, makes to get out of the car.

 

“Wait,” Steve says. “Tony, this is it.”

 

Tony doesn’t say anything.

 

“Either you ask for help or you sort this out yourself. I can’t – I can’t keep helping you. You have responsibilities and you have duties and what’s more you have a duty to yourself. And I’ve tried, Tony. I really have, and I can’t get through to you because you won’t tell me what’s wrong. So you can consider this my final warning: either you ask me, right now, for help or you get out of this car and you don’t come back until you’ve sorted yourself out. Do you understand me? Am I being clear?”

 

For a minute Tony looks like he wants to cry. There is a trail of dried blood on his chin. Then a smile spreads over his face – that cold, hateful smile, mechanical and bright as his heart – and he says, “Absolutely crystal, Cap,” and climbs out of the car.

 

*

 

Tony: right back to zero. Steve is pretty certain that nobody’s winning at this stage.

 

*

 

He doesn’t see Tony for two weeks. He ignores the worried looks the other Avengers give him and focuses on saving the world. It’s easier than saving Tony Stark.

 

*

 

It goes like this:

 

It’s some charity thing, again, and Steve walks in on Tony kissing a tall blonde man. He tries to leave, but Tony’s already seen him, and he freezes, all but pushing the man away from him. All of a sudden it makes perfect, horrible sense. Crystal, as Tony himself might say.

 

Steve leaves before Tony gets a chance to.

 

*

 

It’s not really a game anymore.

 

*

 

It goes like this:

 

A week goes by, and then one night Tony shows up. It’s cold and raining and his hair is plastered to his face and he’s not entirely sober. He doesn’t look like billionaire genius playboy Tony Stark anymore. He just looks a mess.

 

“Is this you asking?” Steve says, and Tony nods briefly and leans in, very hesitantly, to kiss him.

 

Steve pulls him back by his shoulders and Tony starts talking, like always, I’m sorry and I can explain and I’ve had a lot to drink and I’ve got nothing to lose anymore and I’m sorry and I just thought – I just thought –

 

“Tony,” Steve says. “Shut up.”

 

“Yes, but –”

 

“No, shut up. Listen to me. You can’t –” he rubs a hand through his hair.  “I’m not the answer to everything, Tony. I can’t,” and he wants to say, I can’t fix you but he can’t say that so instead he settles on, “I can’t fix this. I’m not – I can’t save you, you know?”

 

“I’ve tried everything else,” Tony says. “It couldn’t hurt.” But he hesitates and this time it’s Steve who kisses him, long and soft. When he pulls away, Tony’s eyes are warmer than he’s seen them in awhile. More human.

 

“Is this what you really want?” he says, and for once in his life Tony doesn’t bother with trying to explain. He just nods.

 

“All right then,” Steve says, and he grabs Tony and kisses him harder this time, fiercely. It doesn’t feel like the most right thing he’s ever felt in his life and it doesn’t feel like he’s coming home. Tony tastes mostly like scotch and a little bit like blood. Mostly it feels a little bit like drowning, but Tony’s more alive than he’s been in months, pulling at Steve’s shirt, running desperate hands through his hair.

 

In bed it’s awkward and their bodies mostly don’t fit. Tony’s too drunk to be anything but messy and Steve, if he’s honest, has thought about men like this before but has never acted on it. It should be perfect like in the movies but it’s really, really not. At one point Tony falls off the bed and lies there in stunned silence for a second before beginning to laugh, and that’s when it starts to feel real. He hasn’t heard Tony laugh in what feels like months.

 

Steve begins to laugh too, mostly in relief, and he pulls Tony up off the floor and they lie there together, shirtless and stripped to their underwear, laughing hysterically.

 

“Maybe we should try this again in the morning,” he suggests finally, panting, and Tony stops laughing and turns his head to Steve, suddenly serious.

 

“Will you still be here in the morning?” he asks quietly.

 

“Christ, Tony,” Steve says. “You know I wouldn’t.”

 

“Yes, but you’re you. And I’m me. And I wouldn’t blame you – I wouldn’t –”

 

Steve kisses him and Tony finally stops making excuses.

 

*

 

In the morning, Steve wakes up first. Tony is lying on his back, breathing quietly, soft slats of sunlight striping his face. Steve presses his ear against Tony’s chest, to his cold, mechanical heart. Even though he can’t hear it beating he smiles anyway and goes back to sleep.