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cap_ironman2010-02-10 05:27 am
revenant-oozi.livejournal.com) wrote in cap_ironman2010-02-10 05:27 am
Entry tags:
Fic: "For This"
For This
By revenant_oozi
Rating: PG
Warnings: Language
Summary: Tony drunkenly finds his way to Steve's, but isn't met with the usual warm understanding... or pity-fuck.
Its sometime after three in the morning when Steve hears Tony stumble through the door of the apartment, a string of curses accompanying the clumsy entrance. Steve groans with the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, first of all because his friend was tumbling all over the sparse apartment, meaning he may need to make sure his one couch and coffee table weren't broken. Secondly, he can tell Tony has been drinking.
Deciding his passive method of hiding under the pillow isn't the best to deal with the situation, Steve clicks on the beside lamp, adjusting his pajama pants as he finds Tony in the kitchen. He looks tired, rooting through cabinets with little coordination but a determined focus, "Where ya keepin' the... whatever ya drink these days?" Steve can see his hands shaking.
"What time is it, Tony?" He rubs at his eyes, sounding less angry about being woken up so early and more about why Tony is drunk and not passed out at home at this hour.
"I dunno..." Apparently Steve has nothing real to drink - and why would he, after the behavior his friend has been displaying lately when it came to responsible consumption - instead he grabs a beer someone left in the fridge and settles against the wall, though his leaning is a little more dependent than usual. Steve snatches the bottle before he can get a second sip and downs it in one go. "Thought ya didn' drink on a school night?" Tony tries to smile, but it comes out far too tight. Steve shrugs for the observation, exhaling heavily after setting the empty bottle down, "Who cares, obviously you don't."
Theres some venom in that voice. Tony has heard it before, but not often. And especially not often enough to be used to it. It didn't fit his friend and made his skin creep a little.
"I don' need any'a your pipedreams tonight, thanks." Its not the right response, but Tony isn't about to delve into the issue himself. The way he doesn't quite focus his eyes on Steve as he answers him isn't a good sign for this discussion to go smoothly.
"Anthony..." The name comes out in a warning tone, and Steve doesn't stop him as he reaches for another beer. "Steven." He retorts, the last letter of the name lasting a little longer than it normally would, and once again, he's pushing it. "Tony. You know you can come here anytime, any reason," Tony settles onto the floor, leaning back against the cabinets and seemingly ignoring the words directed at him, "But don't come here like this, not unless you want-" Steve doesn't get to finish his statement. "I don' need yer help."
"Fine, Tony. Fine." Apparently too tired to deal with it right now, Steve tosses the bottle underhand and stands, heading back towards the bedroom door as the glass shatters on the other side of the kitchen.
He doesn't get to make it to the door though, as the second his hand touches the knob, there is a considerably less sarcastic voice sounding almost needy.
"Do you think they hate me fer this?"
Steve hesitates turning around. He knows the cycle of Tony destroying himself, whether it was women or alcohol or anything else. He'd be a bitter, distant bastard most of the time, but for just a few moments, sometimes, he'd get almost get needy, a little of whatever feeling he was trying to drown making one last gasp for air on the surface.
Turning around, Steve looks no less indifferent than he did before, arms folded, leaning against the door, intent keeping his instinct to nurture and coddle and protect at bay this time. Tony looks like he might be sick.
"Yeah, I do."
Tony isn't sure what kind of an answer he was expecting, but that probably wasn't it. Steve would take what was thrown at him until he was ready to bust, but he could throw it back just as hard if he put his head to it.
When Tony doesn't respond to the blunt answer, he continues, "I think they're fucking pissed that this is what you do to yourself because of everything. Sure you gave up smoking, and one night stands, but you can't call trading one vice for another an improvement, whadda you wanna do next huh? You tried meth yet? Sounds good, lets go with that, check it off the list! Here I got some some X in the silverware drawer-"
Steve is cut off by Tony slamming a fist through one of the wooden cabinet doors behind him, slowly pulling it out after he seems to realize what he's done, but Steve doesn't seem to give a shit about the demolition.
"You're not the only one who lets people down you know."
Finally, the man with the bleeding knuckles looks up at his friend, though Steve has taken to looking at the floor instead. He swallows dryly, broken glass forgotten on the floor, waiting a moment before speaking again with that almost embarrassing slur that rides shotgun with the drinking, "You're all I got, Steve." Tony has never given such a straight statement in his life.
Steve unfolds his arms, still not looking at the mess sitting across the room, or the alcoholic bleeding on his tile floor, "Yeah? Well sometimes I wish you'd remember that you're all I got, too." And with that, he's closing the bedroom door behind him, and Tony is left alone in the kitchen. A half hour passes before he hauls off the floor and out the door, surprisingly not stomping or slamming doors on his way out, maybe focusing on the meeting he has or whatever tomorrow night, or maybe in consideration for Steve trying to sleep.
It doesn't matter, Steve can't sleep now to save his life. He's never been more upset with Tony, but he's never been more worried either, and there is no way he's going to do this all over again, especially when the man is too stubborn to help himself or ask for it.
With a heavy sigh, he rolls out of bed for a second time, padding into the kitchen with his phone in hand, heading straight to the fridge and pulling out whats left of the beer and pouring it down the drain as he dials a number he doesn't use often, but one he couldn't forget for the life of him.
"Just... call me if- no, when he gets home? Thanks, Pepper."
And Steve knows, even if Tony destroys all his cabinets, even if he has to throw a thousand beer bottles, he's always going to leave the door unlocked and Pepper on speed dial. Because Steve doesn't hate him, not for this.
By revenant_oozi
Rating: PG
Warnings: Language
Summary: Tony drunkenly finds his way to Steve's, but isn't met with the usual warm understanding... or pity-fuck.
Its sometime after three in the morning when Steve hears Tony stumble through the door of the apartment, a string of curses accompanying the clumsy entrance. Steve groans with the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, first of all because his friend was tumbling all over the sparse apartment, meaning he may need to make sure his one couch and coffee table weren't broken. Secondly, he can tell Tony has been drinking.
Deciding his passive method of hiding under the pillow isn't the best to deal with the situation, Steve clicks on the beside lamp, adjusting his pajama pants as he finds Tony in the kitchen. He looks tired, rooting through cabinets with little coordination but a determined focus, "Where ya keepin' the... whatever ya drink these days?" Steve can see his hands shaking.
"What time is it, Tony?" He rubs at his eyes, sounding less angry about being woken up so early and more about why Tony is drunk and not passed out at home at this hour.
"I dunno..." Apparently Steve has nothing real to drink - and why would he, after the behavior his friend has been displaying lately when it came to responsible consumption - instead he grabs a beer someone left in the fridge and settles against the wall, though his leaning is a little more dependent than usual. Steve snatches the bottle before he can get a second sip and downs it in one go. "Thought ya didn' drink on a school night?" Tony tries to smile, but it comes out far too tight. Steve shrugs for the observation, exhaling heavily after setting the empty bottle down, "Who cares, obviously you don't."
Theres some venom in that voice. Tony has heard it before, but not often. And especially not often enough to be used to it. It didn't fit his friend and made his skin creep a little.
"I don' need any'a your pipedreams tonight, thanks." Its not the right response, but Tony isn't about to delve into the issue himself. The way he doesn't quite focus his eyes on Steve as he answers him isn't a good sign for this discussion to go smoothly.
"Anthony..." The name comes out in a warning tone, and Steve doesn't stop him as he reaches for another beer. "Steven." He retorts, the last letter of the name lasting a little longer than it normally would, and once again, he's pushing it. "Tony. You know you can come here anytime, any reason," Tony settles onto the floor, leaning back against the cabinets and seemingly ignoring the words directed at him, "But don't come here like this, not unless you want-" Steve doesn't get to finish his statement. "I don' need yer help."
"Fine, Tony. Fine." Apparently too tired to deal with it right now, Steve tosses the bottle underhand and stands, heading back towards the bedroom door as the glass shatters on the other side of the kitchen.
He doesn't get to make it to the door though, as the second his hand touches the knob, there is a considerably less sarcastic voice sounding almost needy.
"Do you think they hate me fer this?"
Steve hesitates turning around. He knows the cycle of Tony destroying himself, whether it was women or alcohol or anything else. He'd be a bitter, distant bastard most of the time, but for just a few moments, sometimes, he'd get almost get needy, a little of whatever feeling he was trying to drown making one last gasp for air on the surface.
Turning around, Steve looks no less indifferent than he did before, arms folded, leaning against the door, intent keeping his instinct to nurture and coddle and protect at bay this time. Tony looks like he might be sick.
"Yeah, I do."
Tony isn't sure what kind of an answer he was expecting, but that probably wasn't it. Steve would take what was thrown at him until he was ready to bust, but he could throw it back just as hard if he put his head to it.
When Tony doesn't respond to the blunt answer, he continues, "I think they're fucking pissed that this is what you do to yourself because of everything. Sure you gave up smoking, and one night stands, but you can't call trading one vice for another an improvement, whadda you wanna do next huh? You tried meth yet? Sounds good, lets go with that, check it off the list! Here I got some some X in the silverware drawer-"
Steve is cut off by Tony slamming a fist through one of the wooden cabinet doors behind him, slowly pulling it out after he seems to realize what he's done, but Steve doesn't seem to give a shit about the demolition.
"You're not the only one who lets people down you know."
Finally, the man with the bleeding knuckles looks up at his friend, though Steve has taken to looking at the floor instead. He swallows dryly, broken glass forgotten on the floor, waiting a moment before speaking again with that almost embarrassing slur that rides shotgun with the drinking, "You're all I got, Steve." Tony has never given such a straight statement in his life.
Steve unfolds his arms, still not looking at the mess sitting across the room, or the alcoholic bleeding on his tile floor, "Yeah? Well sometimes I wish you'd remember that you're all I got, too." And with that, he's closing the bedroom door behind him, and Tony is left alone in the kitchen. A half hour passes before he hauls off the floor and out the door, surprisingly not stomping or slamming doors on his way out, maybe focusing on the meeting he has or whatever tomorrow night, or maybe in consideration for Steve trying to sleep.
It doesn't matter, Steve can't sleep now to save his life. He's never been more upset with Tony, but he's never been more worried either, and there is no way he's going to do this all over again, especially when the man is too stubborn to help himself or ask for it.
With a heavy sigh, he rolls out of bed for a second time, padding into the kitchen with his phone in hand, heading straight to the fridge and pulling out whats left of the beer and pouring it down the drain as he dials a number he doesn't use often, but one he couldn't forget for the life of him.
"Just... call me if- no, when he gets home? Thanks, Pepper."
And Steve knows, even if Tony destroys all his cabinets, even if he has to throw a thousand beer bottles, he's always going to leave the door unlocked and Pepper on speed dial. Because Steve doesn't hate him, not for this.