Happy Holidays, jazzypom!

[cap_ironman_fe]

Prompt #3: So, Fury, being the guy that he is, drops Tony and Steve in the middle of no where, USA, with the proviso that they either learn to get along by the end of the trip, or both will be kicked off the team. Heh.
Author: Secret Santa
Universe: movies - what the heck- make me love movie fic, anon.
Things prompter would like to see: snarky repartee, a small town USA vibe. Home made cherry pie!
Things prompter doesn't want: Schmoop

A/N: The fanart is my entry because I can’t write. The following is not a really fanfic but the scenario I had in my mind when I was drawing and I typed it down after I realized that my fanart didn’t quite convey the idea.




“Do you know what boredom means?” Tony asked from the living room, his voice loud in the relative silence Steve had lost himself in as his hands went through the constant motions of pitting the cherries.

Steve paused briefly and considered the question. There was little Steve could remember doing in the past before his enlistment other than being sick and getting beaten up a lot. Then life picked up afterwards and there had been no free time to do anything.

No, Steve supposed that he understood the meaning of boredom on an abstract level but had never quite fully experienced it or that if he had, he couldn’t recall it.

Steve looked Tony over. The other man had his bare feet on the couch and his knees up to his chin, his toes curled and sinking into the thick cushion, and his hair all mussed up as if he’d run his fingers through it repeatedly. The fire was dying out in the fireplace but Tony looked warm and comfortable with the purple throw wrapped over his shoulder and around his front like a cocoon.

“It means not having internet access or TV or Jarvis, Happy and Pepper. My phone doesn’t even work. Why do I have to be in South Dakota instead of warm California and with you instead of Natasha or Thor?” Tony finished with a flourish of his hand and turned his head to the side to look at Steve.

Reminding himself that they were supposed to get along until S.H.I.E.L.D. picked them up at the end of the week, Steve decided not to dignify Tony with an answer, gave him his back and turned on the oven.

By the time Steve returned to his earlier activity, Tony’s attention had been channeled to his phone and he was rocking a little.

“Turn up the heat by ten percent,” Tony said to no one in particular a few minutes later. The fire wasn’t going to start by itself, Steve thought and picked up another cherry.

“Do you think we can go to the town again and pay a visit to the club there? Or we can go to Canada. Nick Fury won’t know if we go to Canada.”

“He will.” Steve cleared his throat. “I will.”

“Oh, you work for him. I thought we were in this together,” Tony accused but there was no heat in his tone. “Do you want to knock me out and watch ‘Supernanny’ when I don’t behave also? Do I look like I need someone to look over my shoulder and make sure I don’t mess up? No, actually. Don’t answer my questions,” Tony finished, tossed his phone to one side and dropped his head backward so that he was looking up at the ceiling, the languor etching along the lines of his body.

“I think we can get along really well— in my bed. That is what Nick Fury wants, isn’t it?” Tony asked after a long stretch of silence which Steve was starting to believe could remain that way through the evening.

“If you’re bored to the point of making such a wild assumption, why don’t you help me making our dinner?”

“Our dinner?” Tony both sounded and looked surprised as if he hadn’t expected it. And here Steve was thinking about making him a cherry pie.

“That’s what I said,” Steve replied, slightly irritated, ripped open the box of dry pasta and poured the content into the boiling pot of water on the stove. It took a few minutes for Tony to meander over and look curiously at the pot before stirring it with a spoon, trying to look useful.

“How do you know if it’s cooked?”

“The instruction on the box says eight to ten minutes.”

“And what do you do during those eight to ten minutes?”

“You make the sauce,” Steve answered, finished removing the pit from the last cherry and started measuring out the right amount of salt, sugar, almond and butter.

By the time Steve was done adding all the ingredients into the wooden bowl containing the cherries and paid attention to Tony again, the front of Tony’s white shirt had a damp patch as if he’d tried to scoop the pasta out and got hot water splattered over him.

Steve frowned.

“I… I was trying to measure the heat transfer to verify your theory on the cooking time...” Tony’s voice trailed off and he somehow managed to look both embarrassed and proud at himself.

Steve didn’t know whether he wanted to yell at him or ruffle his hair. Instead, Steve fished out an apron from one of the drawers to give to Tony and then on a second thought, took it back from him and helped him to put it on, carefully tying the string around his waist and herding him to the opposite counter with a hand on the small of his back.

Do not let Tony near the stove, Steve told himself.

“Steve,” Tony whined. “Is this a star?” Tony half-turned to him while pulling at the top edge of his apron.

“Yeah, it’s a star.”

“And it’s white.”

Steve didn’t know the point Tony was trying to make but Tony didn’t give him the time to figure it out.

“Is it a Captain America apron? Is this yours? Am I wearing your clothes?” With the barrage of questions, Tony’s hands moved to his back, undoubtedly trying to untie the little bow Steve had made.

“Don’t…” Steve grabbed both of Tony’s wrists and pulled them to his chest not quite gently in his haste to stop Tony. “It’s an apron with a white star but it’s /not/ mine,” Steve told him and tried not to add, ‘but I don’t mind if it is.’

“My clothes won’t fit you anyway because you’re…”

“I’m what?” Tony lifted his chin and puffed his chest out. ‘Small’, ‘short’, and ‘cute,’ were the words on Steve’s tongue but he swallowed them down before they could spill out, counting Tony’s pulses and feeling Tony’s wrist bones under his fingers.

“…different. Your body structure is different,” Steve said, congratulated himself on his chosen word but then, Tony smiled at him and Steve’s breath suddenly was caught in his chest.

Releasing Tony quickly, Steve jerked open the utensil drawer to grab a scraper spatula and passed it to Tony along with the cherry bowl. “Stir the mixture gently and really well.”

Then, Steve busied himself by draining the pasta, putting a saucepan on the stove and going about to make the alfredo sauce.

“This tastes really good, Steve,” Tony said after a moment during which Steve had managed to find his bearings. “Cherries, strawberries, blackberries, raspberries… I like them all. Can you believe that there’re people who are allergic to strawberries?”

Steve made a non-committal sound, added some grated cheese to the pan and placed the bottom crust on the baking dish. Finally, finding himself with nothing else to do, Steve turned to check on Tony.

A good portion of the cherries was gone, undoubtedly consumed while Steve was not looking and Tony was licking the juice off the spatula, his lips red and distracting as his tongue swept over his bottom lip every now and then.

“So, what are we going to make with the cherries?”

“Steve?” Tony asked again when Steve gave him no answer.

“Um… I’m thinking about a cherry pie.”

“Why do we waste perfectly good cherries to make a pie?” Tony ate another cherry, completely unrepentant and he must have read something on Steve’s face because suddenly he looked guilty.

“I didn’t realize… My mother made me a pie once when I was sick.”

“What? God, no. That’s not the reason. I used to work at a bakery with Bucky.”

Tony looked even more upset and Steve could see that Tony was shifting through his vocabularies to find comforting and non-offensive words to say to him or just apologizing a lot without sounding apologetic. Steve was five seconds away from doing something regrettable and making Tony shut up whatever he intended to say.

“Why do you have to make everything so complicated? Winter, hot cocoa, warm pies…. they make a good combination. I’m making a cherry pie but it could have been an apple pie, lemon, chocolate, or pumpkin pie. They were selling some off-season cherries so a cherry pie is what we’re having. That’s all there is to it. My mother didn’t know how to bake and Bucky didn’t like cherries.”

“Oh.” Tony’s mouth made an adorable little circle in surprise and there were smears of red around his lips and on his cheek.

“You’re a mess.” Steve heaved a sigh and reached out to wipe Tony’s face with his hand but caught himself, grabbed a paper towel from the dispenser for him instead and ushered him out of the kitchen and to the dinner table.

There was little work left to do. Steve scraped the content of the bowl into the dish and placed the top crust on it. By the time the pie was in the oven, the sauce was also ready and Steve fixed them two plates of fettuccine alfredo and fetched them two glasses of cider.

“It looks very good, Steve.” Tony beamed as Steve placed the plate down in front of him and Steve couldn’t help the fluttering pleasure from the compliment. Before Steve fully enjoyed that very welcoming feeling, however, Tony sniffed his cider in distaste. “We need some wine and not this fake fermented alcoholic beverage.”

“We don’t have any.” Steve sat down opposite Tony and unfolded his napkin.

“I want some coffee. I’m very sure we have coffee.”

Pushing his chair back, Steve went to the kitchen to pour Tony a cup of warm cocoa from the pitcher.

“This is not coffee.” Tony stared at the content of the cup as if it offended him.

“It’s very good cocoa,” Steve countered and leveled a hard stare at Tony to stop any incoming demand or complaint. “Drink it.”

Tony huffed but dropped his eyes and titled the cup until his tongue could skim the tiny bubbles on the surface. Then he picked up the cup, drank a little and again which pleased Steve greatly.

Afterward, dinner was pleasant with Tony making quite good company in silence and Steve was enjoying both the time and the sight when Tony suddenly stopped eating and a little crinkle appeared between his eyebrows as he stared transfixed at a point on the table.

“Is it a dinner date?”

“It’s not. We’re not dating,” Steve answered smoothly.

“Okay,” Tony agreed and went back to his food. The silence lasted a moment longer before Tony continued. “But you like me, right? You find me attractive.”

Steve felt Tony’s eyes on him and the challenge to say the opposite, took a few seconds to drink from his glass before looking at him, taking in the earnest expression, tracing the shape of his eyes and nose, the upturn curl of his lips and the contours of his face, drawing him on an imaginative canvas with his mind eyes.

“You remind me of Howard.”

Tony visibly faltered but stubbornly refused to look away. “You’ve been nice to me today and even made me dinner. You want me,” Tony insisted.

Steve thinned his lips at the appalling logic. “Have it ever occurred to you that not everyone does something nice for you because they want to sleep with you? You’re both my teammate and my friend’s son. I’m responsible for your health and safety.”

The hurt flashed by so fast in Tony’s eyes that Steve thought he was imagining it. Tony’s voice was flat and emotionless as he thanked Steve for the dinner before standing up and walking away. It wasn’t until Steve lost the sight of Tony’s retreating back that he realized they had forgotten to tend the fireplace.