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cap_ironman2010-10-10 09:12 pm
jazzypom) wrote in cap_ironman2010-10-10 09:12 pm
Entry tags:
two wee fics
Author:jazzypom
Title: Answers on a Postcard and Things Left Unsaid
Fandom: Avengers Marvel 616
Beta: *carebears never did this stare*
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Steve Rogers, Tony Stark
Rating: All PG, all the time, bb.
Word count: : 2000
Summary: Steve travels with Tony on business trips; and Steve and Tony have downtime.
Disclaimer:Characters and situations are the property of Stan Lee and Marvel Comics. No profit is being made off this fan-written work.
A/N: *taps microphone* *coughs* Is anyone here? I've been over in![[community profile]](https://s.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
fic_promptly answering a few prompts. Come on over and leave a few prompts.
Answers On A Postcard
It started out, like these things did, with a casual offer.
"I have a meeting in Barcelona tomorrow, wanna come?" Tony's voice matter of fact, as if someone said, "Hey, wanna share a cab?"
They were in the study in the Avenger's mansion; Tony standing behind the hunk of a desk, its surface smooth and bare, save for the pieces of paper in front of him, a pen and a lamp. He shuffled some papers together, scribbling his signature in triplicate. Steve knew that once a quarter, Tony checked through the accounts of housekeeping, just to make sure that Jarvis wasn't in danger of running out of money for the day to day operations relating to the mansion.
"I wouldn't want to impose."
"Never an imposition, Steve," Tony tucked the signed papers into their leather folder and closed it with a snap. "Come on, say yes."
Barcelona was a city of drama and contrasts; from broad cobblestoned walks under blazing sunshine, to narrow shadowed alleys. The wonder of Museu Picasso as Steve paid homage - he was too much an art student to consider this a visit- as he roamed from room to room. Noting Picasso's careful boyish shadings of a sure classical talent, before his haring off to brilliance, and beyond.
The Sagrada Familia, Gaudi's ode to faith materialised into a church that had the wild lines, bold colours and the softened edges of a dream, each additional tier stacked towards the sky, another notch of getting closer to God.
The trip topped off by a meal at El Bulli, two hours from the city and thirty four courses later of sheer gastronomical art. The textures of food an explosion of the tongue and a delight to the eye.
"Hold this and spray seven times on your tongue before tasting," Tony directed as he held the tiny silver atomiser to his mouth, sprayed the mist on his tongue, and swallowed the sphere of jelly. Steve followed, and the taste was hard to describe: a collision of tart, a trace of vinegar, with a hint of wood smoke and tumeric, chased down by beetroot. Technically, it should have tasted terrible, but it was far from the truth of it.
"This is-" Steve paused, unable to come up with words, as the waiter placed a sculpture that looked like a profile of a wave to him. A gesture for him to break a piece of it off, and he did, only to realise that it was cornbread. Its surface as crisp as a snapped salute, the inside soft as air, and the taste - reminded him of home baking, with its hint of buttermilk. Overwhelmed, he tried again. "This is -"
"A restaurant where there's only room for eight thousand reservations a season, compared to the two million people who apply," Tony sipped at his juice, its colour iridescent in the lights.
"I never figured you for a foodie, Tony."
"Food is just another example of better living in chemistry," Tony explained, his fingers forming the gestures to capture the feeling in the words as he spoke. "There's the use of hydrocolloids that allow delicate fruit or vegetable purées to be transformed into a dense gel, and techniques like spherification, creating a resistant skin of liquid—like their spherical martini olive. It's not just food here, that they do, it's science masquerading as art."
At the end of their - experience- because it hadn't been a meal, Steve stopped by a stall that sold maps and postcards. He chose a postcard of the sugar coloured sand and the ultramarine and froth of the Mediterranean.
Each postcard now a snapshot of a different memory; The postcard of the Tower of London, when Tony rented an entire tour bus for them to be driven around the city's landmarks, the distinct chime of the bells of Big Ben, the new silhouette of The London Eye along the Thames. The sky grey and low, in a way that only London could manage.
"It's different," Steve murmured, as he observed the bustle and heave of people as they went about their business. "It's hard to believe that the Blitz ever happened."
"We war, we destroy, we rebuild. That's the way." Tony lowered his head a second, before looking up and out. London as the way of big cities, had ambient noise as its soundtrack. The hum of cars, the blare of outraged horns, the savoury scent of onions. The distant diction over the tannoy as tour guides pointed out London's attractions on other tour buses. People cheering on others who were running a marathon. An active, alive city, defined by the people who lived here.
"You aren't in munitions anymore, that's not you."
"But it was me, and that's the point."
"We change, and there's the distinct possibility that when we do, it's for the better," Steve made to pat Tony's arm, but left his hand to linger there, as he felt Tony relax by degrees into his touch. "London is the embodiment of that."
The night view of Victoria Harbour from the Starline Ferry, with the bedazzled form of skyscrapers super imposed on the rugged mountains in the background of Hong Kong, mysterious shadows in the dusk.
"You ever feel like going to Disney World?"
"No."
"You don't know what you're missing, Steve. Mickey Mouse, Donald Duck-"
"I'm already travelling with a mascot."
"Harsh. You offer a man a lift, and he never gets off." Tony laughed, his features lit and shadowed by the ambient light on the deck of the boat. The choppy laboured notes of the engine now faded into the background ambient noise, and Steve joined in. It was a great, shared moment. As soon as they lit on shore, Steve grabbed two postcards from the nearest vendor.
On their way back from Grand Cayman, Steve tapped the edge of the postcard with his finger. It was a cheerful photo: a school of stingrays underwater, swimming and nibbling around the bare legs of a tourist, their mouths open in some semblance of a grin.
"If you wanted a souvenir, you'd have only had to say, Steve."
With the edge of the postcard, Steve tapped Tony on the tip of his nose, his face warmed by the surprise and delight in Tony's grin.
"This is plenty," and it was. "And look ma, no customs charges."
"That's the reason I have you around."
Steve placed his postcard in the inner pocket of his jacket, leaned back in his seat and waited for their plane to land.
Fin.
Things Left Unsaid
Between the frigid days of spring, before the dog days of summer with its humidity and heat, this is the best time to be in New York.
After a mission (off world or on), Tony finds himself in the gardens of the mansion. The sun is setting, edging into the uneven horizon of the buildings, throwing them into stark silhouette. Dusk arrives - a delicate hue of purple before it edges into a deep shade of midnight blue, pin pricked by stars- brings a soothing breeze.
Tony's chased out of his room and into the gardens by Jarvis, with a fond smile and wave. At this point, its a much loved silent film: Tony's tweaking, twiddling with the delicate machinery of his armour, Jarvis knocks on his door, and gestures outside.
Once outside, Tony stands on the bottom stair on the tier of steps which descend into the garden. He tucks his hands into the pockets of his slacks, raises his chin so that he feels the gentle kisses of the breeze against his cheeks and neck, and stands there, eyes closed until Steve comes around the bend. The debriefing is done, mistakes are already hashed out in the war room, and here in the gardens, with their distinct topiary, and various statues isn't the place for bicker. It isn't even the place for noise, although in a city, the noise never leaves one; but the gardens, with their accompanying foliage and fountains, filters the sirens, horns, and general city ambient noise into a distant, pleasant hum.
Steve sits down, unfolds his newspaper and starts to read. Tony, with a much exaggerated sigh, sits beside him, their thighs near enough for them to feel each other's heat, but not near enough to touch. While Steve reads the paper, his eyes scanning the pages, Tony uses the time to observe Steve; the familiar profile, the set of his mouth when he touches on a particularly grim newspaper article, giving way to a grin when he reads the daily syndicated funnies.
Steve reads until there's no more light, and with a rustle of papers, they are put away. The statues and the topiary in the garden are now golden; illuminated from the lights landscaped so cunningly in the garden, that they can't be seen, only their effects are witnessed, with everything bathed in a warm, golden haze.
Steve says nothing, Tony allows himself to think about nothing, as they look out and beyond. Each man alone in his own thoughts, and probably they might be shared ones, but Tony never knows, nor does he feel the need to ask; because happiness is a friendship where nobody feels the need to occupy anybody else.
Fin
jazzypomTitle: Answers on a Postcard and Things Left Unsaid
Fandom: Avengers Marvel 616
Beta: *carebears never did this stare*
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Steve Rogers, Tony Stark
Rating: All PG, all the time, bb.
Word count: : 2000
Summary: Steve travels with Tony on business trips; and Steve and Tony have downtime.
Disclaimer:Characters and situations are the property of Stan Lee and Marvel Comics. No profit is being made off this fan-written work.
A/N: *taps microphone* *coughs* Is anyone here? I've been over in
fic_promptly answering a few prompts. Come on over and leave a few prompts. Answers On A Postcard
It started out, like these things did, with a casual offer.
"I have a meeting in Barcelona tomorrow, wanna come?" Tony's voice matter of fact, as if someone said, "Hey, wanna share a cab?"
They were in the study in the Avenger's mansion; Tony standing behind the hunk of a desk, its surface smooth and bare, save for the pieces of paper in front of him, a pen and a lamp. He shuffled some papers together, scribbling his signature in triplicate. Steve knew that once a quarter, Tony checked through the accounts of housekeeping, just to make sure that Jarvis wasn't in danger of running out of money for the day to day operations relating to the mansion.
"I wouldn't want to impose."
"Never an imposition, Steve," Tony tucked the signed papers into their leather folder and closed it with a snap. "Come on, say yes."
Barcelona was a city of drama and contrasts; from broad cobblestoned walks under blazing sunshine, to narrow shadowed alleys. The wonder of Museu Picasso as Steve paid homage - he was too much an art student to consider this a visit- as he roamed from room to room. Noting Picasso's careful boyish shadings of a sure classical talent, before his haring off to brilliance, and beyond.
The Sagrada Familia, Gaudi's ode to faith materialised into a church that had the wild lines, bold colours and the softened edges of a dream, each additional tier stacked towards the sky, another notch of getting closer to God.
The trip topped off by a meal at El Bulli, two hours from the city and thirty four courses later of sheer gastronomical art. The textures of food an explosion of the tongue and a delight to the eye.
"Hold this and spray seven times on your tongue before tasting," Tony directed as he held the tiny silver atomiser to his mouth, sprayed the mist on his tongue, and swallowed the sphere of jelly. Steve followed, and the taste was hard to describe: a collision of tart, a trace of vinegar, with a hint of wood smoke and tumeric, chased down by beetroot. Technically, it should have tasted terrible, but it was far from the truth of it.
"This is-" Steve paused, unable to come up with words, as the waiter placed a sculpture that looked like a profile of a wave to him. A gesture for him to break a piece of it off, and he did, only to realise that it was cornbread. Its surface as crisp as a snapped salute, the inside soft as air, and the taste - reminded him of home baking, with its hint of buttermilk. Overwhelmed, he tried again. "This is -"
"A restaurant where there's only room for eight thousand reservations a season, compared to the two million people who apply," Tony sipped at his juice, its colour iridescent in the lights.
"I never figured you for a foodie, Tony."
"Food is just another example of better living in chemistry," Tony explained, his fingers forming the gestures to capture the feeling in the words as he spoke. "There's the use of hydrocolloids that allow delicate fruit or vegetable purées to be transformed into a dense gel, and techniques like spherification, creating a resistant skin of liquid—like their spherical martini olive. It's not just food here, that they do, it's science masquerading as art."
At the end of their - experience- because it hadn't been a meal, Steve stopped by a stall that sold maps and postcards. He chose a postcard of the sugar coloured sand and the ultramarine and froth of the Mediterranean.
Each postcard now a snapshot of a different memory; The postcard of the Tower of London, when Tony rented an entire tour bus for them to be driven around the city's landmarks, the distinct chime of the bells of Big Ben, the new silhouette of The London Eye along the Thames. The sky grey and low, in a way that only London could manage.
"It's different," Steve murmured, as he observed the bustle and heave of people as they went about their business. "It's hard to believe that the Blitz ever happened."
"We war, we destroy, we rebuild. That's the way." Tony lowered his head a second, before looking up and out. London as the way of big cities, had ambient noise as its soundtrack. The hum of cars, the blare of outraged horns, the savoury scent of onions. The distant diction over the tannoy as tour guides pointed out London's attractions on other tour buses. People cheering on others who were running a marathon. An active, alive city, defined by the people who lived here.
"You aren't in munitions anymore, that's not you."
"But it was me, and that's the point."
"We change, and there's the distinct possibility that when we do, it's for the better," Steve made to pat Tony's arm, but left his hand to linger there, as he felt Tony relax by degrees into his touch. "London is the embodiment of that."
The night view of Victoria Harbour from the Starline Ferry, with the bedazzled form of skyscrapers super imposed on the rugged mountains in the background of Hong Kong, mysterious shadows in the dusk.
"You ever feel like going to Disney World?"
"No."
"You don't know what you're missing, Steve. Mickey Mouse, Donald Duck-"
"I'm already travelling with a mascot."
"Harsh. You offer a man a lift, and he never gets off." Tony laughed, his features lit and shadowed by the ambient light on the deck of the boat. The choppy laboured notes of the engine now faded into the background ambient noise, and Steve joined in. It was a great, shared moment. As soon as they lit on shore, Steve grabbed two postcards from the nearest vendor.
On their way back from Grand Cayman, Steve tapped the edge of the postcard with his finger. It was a cheerful photo: a school of stingrays underwater, swimming and nibbling around the bare legs of a tourist, their mouths open in some semblance of a grin.
"If you wanted a souvenir, you'd have only had to say, Steve."
With the edge of the postcard, Steve tapped Tony on the tip of his nose, his face warmed by the surprise and delight in Tony's grin.
"This is plenty," and it was. "And look ma, no customs charges."
"That's the reason I have you around."
Steve placed his postcard in the inner pocket of his jacket, leaned back in his seat and waited for their plane to land.
Fin.
Things Left Unsaid
Between the frigid days of spring, before the dog days of summer with its humidity and heat, this is the best time to be in New York.
After a mission (off world or on), Tony finds himself in the gardens of the mansion. The sun is setting, edging into the uneven horizon of the buildings, throwing them into stark silhouette. Dusk arrives - a delicate hue of purple before it edges into a deep shade of midnight blue, pin pricked by stars- brings a soothing breeze.
Tony's chased out of his room and into the gardens by Jarvis, with a fond smile and wave. At this point, its a much loved silent film: Tony's tweaking, twiddling with the delicate machinery of his armour, Jarvis knocks on his door, and gestures outside.
Once outside, Tony stands on the bottom stair on the tier of steps which descend into the garden. He tucks his hands into the pockets of his slacks, raises his chin so that he feels the gentle kisses of the breeze against his cheeks and neck, and stands there, eyes closed until Steve comes around the bend. The debriefing is done, mistakes are already hashed out in the war room, and here in the gardens, with their distinct topiary, and various statues isn't the place for bicker. It isn't even the place for noise, although in a city, the noise never leaves one; but the gardens, with their accompanying foliage and fountains, filters the sirens, horns, and general city ambient noise into a distant, pleasant hum.
Steve sits down, unfolds his newspaper and starts to read. Tony, with a much exaggerated sigh, sits beside him, their thighs near enough for them to feel each other's heat, but not near enough to touch. While Steve reads the paper, his eyes scanning the pages, Tony uses the time to observe Steve; the familiar profile, the set of his mouth when he touches on a particularly grim newspaper article, giving way to a grin when he reads the daily syndicated funnies.
Steve reads until there's no more light, and with a rustle of papers, they are put away. The statues and the topiary in the garden are now golden; illuminated from the lights landscaped so cunningly in the garden, that they can't be seen, only their effects are witnessed, with everything bathed in a warm, golden haze.
Steve says nothing, Tony allows himself to think about nothing, as they look out and beyond. Each man alone in his own thoughts, and probably they might be shared ones, but Tony never knows, nor does he feel the need to ask; because happiness is a friendship where nobody feels the need to occupy anybody else.
Fin
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Cheers :D