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cap_ironman2010-12-26 11:57 am
Happy Holidays, majik_grape!
Author:
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cursor_mundiUniverse: 616, specifically Armor Wars
Rating: PG
Warnings: Mild hurt/comfort
Beta:
deviouslint took a look at it!Summary: Jim Rhodes can rock a purple rhinestone manicure. Tony thinks it adds a certain je ne sais quoi to his look. Steve over-thinks everything, gets spontaneous, saves the day...and it all comes back to the red thong.
Parings: Steve and Tony
Word Count: 4680-ish
A/N: For
Son of A/N: Referencing a good portion of the Slashy Moments List, and the Armor Wars, especially events in Iron Man vol. 1, # 223, 228, 238 , 243.
Only when he was flat on his back, oxygen mask pressing uncomfortably across his face, the soft, deep breathing of the unconscious Vault guardsmen the only sound in the room, did Steve actually start to think about Tony Stark again. As a man; as a person; as something other than a high-level threat to national security.
Funny; staring up into the blank eye screens of the Iron Man armor, he could see nothing of Tony’s face — but he could see into his soul. They'd both lost, today. Tony could move, but he was trapped in his armor, trapped by his armor and his designs and his own mind; Steve couldn't move, and he wondered, as Tony reached across him to press the negator against the guardsman slumped limply against Steve's own chest, if that was why he could suddenly see Tony so clearly.
Steve had been in love often enough to know why his throat felt tight when Tony turned away and left the room. It wasn't even much of a surprise — he'd always known, at least a little, that he and Tony had something special. But he had his duty, and as red and silver armor passed from his line of sight, Steve closed his eyes and hardened his resolve.
It was easier to quarrel with Tony than to talk with him, after the Vault, but that didn't mean Steve didn't miss his best and oldest friend. He still had to consciously remind himself that he couldn't talk to Tony about the odd skip in the motorcycle's engine; couldn't just sit down on a couch arm at a meeting and lean comfortably against Iron Man's shoulder, the faint hum of transistors and body-warm metal resonating pleasantly against his own scale mail. It was petty, and Steve wasn't proud of it, but he hoped that Tony missed him as well. How, Steve wondered, had it come to scheduling meetings at popular scenic overlooks, a carefully-calculated equal number of miles away from both of their regular routes?
Rounding the curve of the Pacific Coast Highway, sweet salt air tugging at his coveralls and creeping under the seal of his helmet, Steve felt his lips curl briefly — Tony was early. Normally it was Steve who waited, Steve who made the appointments — or broke into Tony's house, his conscience remind him with a brief pang — but this time, Tony was early. And he was present in a way he hadn't been for weeks; no suit, no ties, just tight jeans that made Steve shift a little on the motorcycle's saddle as he pulled up next to the silver convertible. And a fashionable shirt — Steve felt his heart soar for a moment, hoping that Tony was sending him a message with the color; should he take him up on the invitation, or was it too soon? — before Tony glanced over his right shoulder to greet him solemnly, regret and resolve deepening in his voice as he spoke.
Too soon, then. But at least Tony wasn't hiding behind his sunglasses.
Steve cursed himself for a coward as he pulled off his helmet, exposing his face but hiding himself behind their responsibilities. Their friendship had survived so much — surely Steve could put aside his own desires and wait for Tony to heal. Tony was wrong: it did matter, to Steve, who was in the Iron Man armor. Tony deserved the opportunity to resolve his issues, address his guilt, feel alive and safe and free; that was the true blessing of the armor, for Tony. Steve couldn't find it in his heart to judge Tony's overreaction too harshly. He hoped, as he shook hands with his closest friend, that Tony could read the true meaning in his declaration of loyalty and trust.
The touch sent electric tingles up his arm and along his spine, and as Tony enveloped his hand with the strong grip that had surprised Steve the first time they'd met — he'd paid too much attention to the superficial flash and charm of the businessman, not enough to the brilliant designer and engineer whose mind, and fingers, had made it all possible — Steve found himself thinking of all the old fantasies and speculation he'd accumulated when they were both Avengers. Perhaps the shirt was an invitation, perhaps Tony was wearing that wonderful scrap of red fabric under his jeans, waiting for Steve discover it under the layers of shirt, belt, denim. Tony was positively cradling his hand between his own, and for a moment, as the Pacific rustled their hair and whipped at their collars, Steve could see it all unfolding in Tony's eyes.
A gull swooped by, calling loudly, and the moment broke. He wanted to stay, try to make good on his promise to listen and be a better friend, but despite his casual clothes Tony was positively thrumming with tension and the need to be alone. As Steve threw one leg over the motorcycle, he shot a last look over his own shoulder — Tony stood back-lit against the glorious blue of the ocean, hips angled ever so slightly towards Steve even as he stared quietly at the road beyond the pull-off. His sunglasses were down, green-tinted plastic as effective a mask as Iron Man's advanced circuitry, and Steve smiled.
He'd gotten that moment with Tony. Tony had his back; for the rest, Steve could wait.
Steve hadn't expected to see Tony in his favorite coffee house, tucked away at a back table heavily shielded by an enormous living art installation of ferns, hibiscus, and other plants too exotic for Steve to name. But the sleek silver briefcase peeking out from behind the installation's frothy greenery was intimately familiar, and Steve fancied that he could identify Tony from his shoes and ankles at a hundred yards.
Time to bury the hatchet once and for all, and formally state his intentions. It was a clear sign: Tony's appearance in the coffee shop, on a day Steve had intended to draw just for his own pleasure...even if Tony had to work — and he always had to work — Steve knew they'd both enjoy the afternoon in the other's company. A smile tugged at his lips as Steve traced his eyes up Tony's ankles and along the crisp slim lines of his dress slacks. The suit jacket was slung over the back of the cafe chair and Steve imagined that his tie would be slightly loosened. The chiaroscuro between the crisp white of his dress shirt and the dark shadows on his throat, as he bent his head slightly towards his work...the sketch would be magnificent.
Steve was just heading over to say hello, balancing his cup of coffee in one hand and sketchpad in the other, when he caught a glimpse of the man sitting with Tony — Jim Rhodes, who Steve had last seen in person in the Rockies, days before they'd broken into the Vault. Rhodes had gone along with Tony's plan, agreeing to disguise himself as Electro and working from inside to disable the Vault's defense systems so that Iron Man could enter undetected.
Steve's grip on the pad tightened, briefly. Jim Rhodes was the last person Steve wanted to talk with at the moment; and he was the last person Steve wanted talking to Tony, for that matter.
There was a free table nearby. Steve ducked down on the other side of the installation, hidden by the wild foliage and dim lighting — it was his duty as Iron Man's teammate to make sure his partner wasn't about to hare off on another wild tear to collect his stolen technology. Or that Rhodes wasn't inciting him to — Steve stopped that thought, immediately, and put his sketchpad down on the table, absently pulling a pencil free from his pocket. Rhodes had been a good friend to Tony when Steve had failed. And if it took skulking behind a fern to figure out how to be the sort of friend Tony needed, then Steve would do it.
Steve traced the pencil over his pad, idly, paying less attention to his artwork than the man just a few feet away. What was the best way to convince a man like Tony Stark that he needed Steve Rogers as a lover? Tony had enough people just throwing themselves at him, all the time, and he complained about it often enough to Steve. So maybe confessing that Steve couldn't stop thinking about whether or not Tony was wearing that red thong — under his business suits, under his jeans, under his armor — wasn't the best possible approach. It had to be something unique, something that Tony couldn't possibly misunderstand, and yet it couldn't scare him away, either...
The pencil moved swiftly across the paper, and Steve let himself sink slowly into his own thoughts as his hands kept busy. The conversation on the other side of the green wall seemed to be mostly business — Steve could do that, he talked shop with Iron Man all the time; no, that was the problem, he had to be a better friend than Rhodes, offer something more — but then it took an odd turn. His pencil stopped. Steve leaned back and stared at the fern in confusion.
“Seriously, Jim, you've got to give it another try. It doesn't have to always be purple and rhinestones.”
Steve feared his eyebrows were attempting to escape into his hair. He smothered a cough into his sleeve and took a sip of his coffee, got the pencil moving idly across the page.
“Didn't mind the purple, Chief, toldja that. And I ain't gonna argue that it got it the way, 'cause it didn't.” Purple what? Purple was a complimentary color to red, sat right next to it on the color wheel. Surely not —?
“It did look good. You wore it well, it's discreet but makes a statement if you let someone notice. What's the problem, again?” The thong. It couldn't be. Surely Rhodes wouldn't wear...and yet...
Rhodes sounded bemused as he answered: “The sharp tip, that was the problem — could scratch up all sorts of sensitive stuff.” The relief was so strong, Steve nearly snapped his pencil in half. Between one thought and the next, he was berating himself for jumping to conclusions.
Tony's laughter was a welcome sound. “Just what're you sticking your fingers into, exactly?” Scratch that, Steve decided wildly; there was plenty of evidence here, and none of it was good.
“Lotsa small holes, Chief, as you damn well know.”
Steve stared intently at his coffee, and absently scratched his knee with his pencil. Disappointment bubbled deep in his chest, and he swallowed hard. He'd waited too long, given up too many chances. Rhodes saw Tony every day, bantered with him, spent hours in his company, saw him naked, clothed, in armor...and Tony didn't mind, not one bit.
Tony's smirk was audible. “Well, just as long as you don't keep losing your mind every time you look into a pair of baby blues — I get you into enough trouble already.” Steve barely prevented himself from snarling, lip pulling back until he hastily smoothed his face.
“Yeah, you've got that right, Chief. Look, you really want to get buffed and painted up with me, I can do that. You free tonight?”
The ferns rustled; Tony must have nodded. Steve scowled fiercely, and hated himself for his cowardice. He should have just barged in, sat down and made himself at home.
“Great, it's a date. You call Rae, let her know we're coming. I'll go grab the car — you've got that 3 o'clock, and Mrs. A's gonna have my head if I let you play hookey.”
“Fine, fine. I'll be right out, I just have to put all these papers away.”
Steve barely heard Rhodes respond, because he was too busy ducking his head down into his coffee cup and praying that neither Rhodes or Tony would see him — or at least mistake his red cheeks for one of the hibiscus blossoms. Extraction and camouflage had never been his strengths, and he blushed brighter at the memory of some of the disguises he'd come up with in the war.
The ferns and shrubs on the installation shivered gently, and Tony's briefcase lifted up and moved near the edge of Steve's table. An elegant wing-tip nudged one of his own heavy boots. Caught. Steve looked up so quickly he jostled the table, and hot coffee splashed over his hand. He'd had no more time than to shake it, once, trying to flick off as much liquid as possible when Tony clamped his elegant white linen handkerchief over Steve's hand.
“Thanks,” Steve mumbled, trying not to feel like a utter fool — and failing miserably. Peak of human perfection, indeed. The coffee was already staining the pristine cloth, and this close Steve could see as well as feel the quality of the material. Luxurious, completely practical yet extremely expensive and tasteful — Tony Stark, encapsulated in a little square of fabric. At least it wasn't purple. Steve flushed again, thinking of another square of fabric he'd much rather have in his hand.
“No problem,” Tony said, and his voice was tight, like he was — Steve glanced up, bangs falling into his eyes. Tony's face was peculiarly blank, but his eyes...his eyes were flicking quickly up from the table to meet Steve's own gaze.
Tony was speaking again, gesturing with a pair of sunglasses in his left hand, and Steve belatedly pulled his attention back to what he was saying.
“...and we'd always welcome another, Rae would love to get her hands on you, I'm sure. And you could use it, too. You'd look great. So.”
“Uh,” Steve said, cleverly — just what was the correct social protocol for answering a proposition including purple (why not red?), rhinestones, multiple participants...? By the time his brain engaged and he'd opened his mouth to actually reply, Tony was leaving. Silver flashed at his wrist as the man checked his watch and frowned, striding away from the table.
“Don't worry, Steve,” Tony threw back over his shoulder, smirk firmly on his lips and mischief in his eyes. “I won't think you're less of a man than Jim if you don't get a manicure or salon haircut.” Mirrored aviator shades slid over his eyes, and he turned away.
The door slammed shut as Tony left the cafe, and Steve glanced down at his pad. For the first time, he saw what he'd been drawing — Tony in the thong, Tony's eyes, Tony's cheekbones in high relief as the trace of a smile danced across his lips.
Tony had seen it all. So much for subtle — Steve wondered if he could drown himself in a coffee cup.
Steve'd gotten worried when he'd called Tony's office and been told that Tony and his personal staff had suddenly vanished while in Hong Kong on business. They'd arrived on time, but failed to make their next check in with Stark Enterprises. That in and of itself was suspicious; but there had also been reports of increased activity among the Mandarin's operatives, reports of rampant police corruption in Hong Kong, rumblings all along the West Coast about potential business mergers and deals involving Tony's company, and finally, news that some slip of a girl was claiming to be Tony's finance.
Steve smiled at that last; clearly his sources weren't infallible.
By the time Steve had pieced together what was going on, Tony and his people were already in the air and leaving the Mandarin's scheming behind. Steve chewed his lip for a moment, staring blankly at the cement wall in front of his desk. There were several air strips that Tony used for his various planes and business dealings. Too many. Rhodes was probably piloting, too. Steve paused, and then shrugged and grinned. Breaking into Tony's house had worked before. This time he'd make it a real challenge and go up the cliff face, get into the house from the ocean view balcony. At night. Not even Rhodes could manage that without jet boots.
Steve snatched his trench coat off the back of a chair and shrugged into it before he could berate himself for such foolishness. It would be good exercise, and a nice break in routine. He'd take his motorcycle to a lookout a few miles from the house, then jog up the beach to the little protected cove that served as Tony's private beach. From there he could climb the cliff and go up the back of the house as it hung over the ocean.
The sea air felt wonderful through the double layers of uniform and coat, and the ocean lookout was deserted. The path was steep, but completely empty; so was the beach, and Steve had a nice jog to Tony's little cove, the moon shining lightly on the sand and glinting sharply off the peaks of the waves. The shield was riding a bit high on his shoulders; he resettled it under the coat before he began his climb, happily dodging the sensors that Tony'd warned him about and looking for the ones that were new since they'd last talked shop.
The climb was strenuous, and Steve was grateful — it had been increasingly hard not to think about Tony, and what Tony might have in this house. For a moment, as Steve hung by one hand, searching for his next hand hold and his legs spread wide to rest on the only possible toe holds, he wondered if the thong was there. Perhaps he'd take a look, while he waited for Tony — he'd blown all chances of subtlety with his sketchpad, weeks ago in the coffee house, so maybe he should just keep at it. Tony hadn't objected, after all. Steve could see the tableau, now, his mind wandering as his body climbed — same chair as last time, when he'd come to confront Tony about his actions during the Armor Wars, but this time instead of flinging the shield back in Tony's face, he'd extend a hand, open it as Tony stepped forward, let the thong drape across his palm and spill over his fingers.
All too soon he was flipping over the balcony ledge, crouching low as the moon briefly came out from behind some quick-moving clouds. From there, it was easy to silently pick the lock on the French doors — there was a brief flicker of light from around the far side of the house, and the rumble of a high performance engine. Steve smiled, and stepped into the house. No time to arrange the scene, maybe he'd just — glass.
Steve looked down. There was glass on the floor, crinkling under his boot. The house had been broken into; the intruder could be in here, right now, and Tony was about to come through the front door.
Steve had his shield over his arm before his coat hit the floor. He stuck to the shadows, and silently blessed Tony for preferring a sparse decorating style in his personal homes — the Mansion's elaborate furniture made it difficult to skulk silently along the wall.
The new house was well laid out, and Steve realized that the broken glass he'd encountered would be visible from the front door. Pretty clearly the intruder meant to be seen after Tony had entered the house — but if the glass was here, then the intruder would be on the other side of the room. Draw Tony's attention as he walked through the door with the glass, then come at him from the dark...a simple trap, but effective all the same, and all too likely to work.
Steve spared a moment to wonder why the intruder hadn't seen him, yet, but hoped he still had surprise on his side. He stepped into the shadow cast by a piece of art and looked into the dark of the house, searching for any hint of the intruder. The crunch of expensive leather shoe soles against the grit of the cement outside the house warned that he was out of time — Tony was coming into the house, now, and exactly as Steve had predicted, Tony's gaze slid over Steve's shadow and caught on the glass, glittering coolly in the moonlight.
The shadows played beautifully over his face, and for a moment Steve was distracted by the smooth slide of cheekbone and brow, bright eyes shadowed in the darkness. The door latched suddenly — Tony hadn't pushed it — and Steve tensed, stepping forward even as the intruder made himself — herself — known.
Tony's voice echoed in the empty house as he turned away from Steve, facing forward and slightly to the left of the entry way. “It's over, Kath. There's nothing to discuss.” Steve crouched, slightly, sliding the shield into position in the palm of his hand. Tony was a private man; Steve wasn't about to get in the way of this, but there was something about the way the woman moved, something about her posture that screamed of threat and violence to Steve, even as she seemed to be calm and collected. Tony clearly wasn't worried, but there was something —
Her arms came up in a sloppy Weaver firing position, and Steve reacted without thought.
The shield sang as it flew towards the woman — was she A.I.M., or something new? — as she fired, and Steve dove headlong at Tony, hitting him in a flying tackle with Steve's shoulder tucking cleanly into Tony's side. His left hand wrapped firmly around Tony's waist as his right came up to wrap around Tony's head to cushion the impact of his fall. The training they'd done together for years clearly had not been wasted: Tony went limp as Steve hit him, allowing Steve's momentum to carry them to the floor smoothly, bodies rocking up as they hit and skidded along the floor. The carpet burns were going to be hideous, Steve thought absently, even as he rolled Tony further along the floor, releasing him swiftly and whirling up to lunge towards the woman. She was shaking her left arm, and tried to swing the gun up into position one handed. Steve noted with alarm that she didn't seem to see him at all, her focus unerringly on Tony's position — the Mansion's cluttered floor plan would have been a blessing, right now, and the banks of clear glass windows let moonlight stream into the building, highlighting Tony — and Steve stamped loudly with his left foot, going up onto the toes of his right and propelling himself forward.
Steve tucked his head down and aimed for her firing arm with his left shoulder. The gun went off as he hit her solidly, and she shrieked as they fell. Her scream ended with a huff of breath being forced out of her lungs — he hadn't bothered to cushion her fall — as she hit the ground solidly on her back, head bouncing off the carpeted floor. She lay still, and Steve groped for the gun with his left hand, pulling it away from limp fingers and absently flicking on the safety lock. He tucked the gun into his belt, and checked the woman — threat neutralized, she wasn't going to be moving for a while yet.
Only then did Steve turn to check on Tony, and his heart nearly stopped. There was blood — but it was only a flesh wound, high on his right bicep, and Steve caught his breath at how very close Tony had come to a chest shot, straight through the left side of his breast unless Steve's calculations were off. The blood gleamed wetly under the clear moonlight, and Steve took a step forward, glancing down at the carpet for more glass. The window was cracked and skewed from a central radiating point, bullet proofing holding the glass together.
Tony grinned shakily up at Steve, dark hair falling rakishly over one eye, curls in wild disarray. He was favoring his right arm, tucking it close in to his side even as he pushed up with his left elbow. Steve reached him as he propped himself against the wall under the window — too close for comfort, Steve thought wildly, that woman had excellent aim — and opened his mouth.
Whatever Tony had to say, it could wait. Steve swooped down, clamping one hand over the wound to help slow the bleeding, and wrapping the other around Tony's neck, gloved fingers raking up into the man's hair. Lips pressed hard against lips, and Steve swept his tongue into Tony's gasping mouth, ruthlessly pressing his advantage. The scratch of Tony's carefully-groomed mustache against Steve's upper lip stopped as Tony angled his head and leaned into the kiss, fighting for control. When they pulled back, a few breathless moments later, Tony's eyes were dilated and his full lips were red, glossy with Steve's own saliva.
“Who — ” Steve swallowed, and tried again to catch his breath. “Who is that woman, Tony?”
Blue eyes flickered over Steve's left shoulder, glancing back into the room. “Urh — that's...that's Kathy Dare.”
Steve hooked his fingers under Tony's chin, pulling the man's gaze back to meet his own eyes and exposing Tony's throat. “The girl who's been in the gossip columns, saying she's your fiance?” he asked calmly, fingers skimming down to hook under the knot of Tony's fine silk tie. It would do nicely for a bandage until he could find a medical kit or get an ambulance to the house.
“Yes,” Tony said, trying desperately to focus on Steve's face. The tie fell away from his throat, and Steve whipped it out from under the crisp white collar, slapping it over his left hand and drawing it tight. He moved his hand out from under the tie and wrapped it over Tony's jacket sleeve, pressing tightly.
“Keep your arm up — good,” Steve said, as Tony obligingly lifted his arm, as in tune with Steve as if they'd trained together yesterday instead of months ago. “Why's she breaking into your house with a gun if she's your fiance?”
“Because she's not,” Tony said flatly, voice cold. “It was never serious — well, not for me — but Kath's always been...I guess she's always been a bit off. I never thought she was this unstable.”
“Breaking and entering is bad enough,” Steve agreed, tucking the ends of the tie into themselves and bracing Tony's arm with his own hand. “Keep that elevated — yes, that's bad enough, but add aggravated assault with a deadly weapon... Tony, Dare's aim was really good. You'd have taken a hit right about here,” Steve tapped Tony's chest, about heart-height and just on the left side of his breastbone, “and that would have been it. Paralysis if you were miraculously lucky, bullet in the heart if you weren't.”
Tony shivered, and Steve laid a hand on his cheek, rubbing softly over one sharp cheekbone with his leather-clad thumb. He leaned forward, and pressed their foreheads together, breathing the same air. “That was too close, Tony. Too close. From now on, go with me, ok?”
“Ok,” Tony breathed, and Steve smiled, darting his tongue out to touch Tony's lips gently. There were sirens in the distance, winding in and out of the wrinkles of the hill, drowning out the roar of high performance engines running at full throttle. The soft and distinct sounds of a Stark Enterprises helicopter were louder, and Steve knew they had only moments until Rhodes charged in with the police hot on his heels.
“So,” Steve said playfully, shifting around to crouch in front of Tony instead of straddling his lap, “what's your position on red silk underwear?”
Tony was still laughing as Rhodes burst through the door, and Steve turned to meet him, a smug smile on his lips and Tony's warm breath next to his ear.
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Yeah Steve, you keep reminding yourself that.
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Glad you enjoyed! :D
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(I will also echo the others: the links are a brilliant touch, but however you coded them, they all start with a link to the C_IM comm that needs to be deleted before they'll work.)
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(LJ borked up my surprise, but Valtyr fixed it -- ze thinks it might have been a smartquote issue. *sighs at LJ*)
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Well, he did make a convincing old lady during the war xDDD
LOVE. I love Stalker!Steve, and his lover side ain't bad either.
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Thank you! :D Fortunately, Stalker!Steve uses his powers for good.