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Aug 28, 2011 02:24


steve makes tony look like an idiot.

they can be talking about the gods damned weather, and steve will get this look in his eyes or let his gaze drop from the horizon for a mere second or the corners of his mouth will twitch and he looks like the fucking god of compassion - something ridiculous like that that makes tony want to chuck himself off the roof of the nearest building - and it makes tony feel about two inches tall and like the physical manifestation of pandora's box. being around steve makes tony feel like he's still the thirteen year old kid that had been going to dungeon and dragons camp since he was five, who was all limbs and teen-loathing and acne and too smart for his own good. it does not matter that tony graduated MIT at fifteen, survived being a POW in Vietnam, turned Stark Industries into the multi-billion dollar Stark International it now was, was Secretary of Defense of the United States of America and is a recovering alcoholic before his thirty-fifth birthday. none of that matters. it just doesn't.

everything is insignificant compared to steve rogers.

the first time he catches himself babbling "i'm so sorry"s, they've just come back from one of the nine realms and he's distracted by the agitated buzzing of the lightning inside thor's skin and steve is looking a heartbroken mixture of shocked and relieved. everyone is there, which makes it more embarrassing than it should be, but they've just fought alongside a dragon against a goddess of death, for fucks sake. tony's adrenaline is through the roof: thrilled for a mere moment that no one is blaming him for things, that no one is shooting him a vicious look or calling him a traitor and stepping away from him. surrounded by friends, by allies, steve is grinning and just like that tony is essentially calling him his messiah, his muse, his greatest influence and biggest weakness. he puts peter parker to shame. they hug. tony wants to cry, but he's cried enough for steve rogers. he instead resists the urge to get in close, to press his nose to the line of steve's neck, and is placated when thor gets inbetween them, a great arm around each of their shoulders. tony would be flushed with an immense sense of triumph if it wouldn't be so telling; tony stark refuses to be read like a book.

even in his element - calf encased in a bit of new armour he's making adjustments on, hands filthy, jaw clenched in concentration when he's not muttering observations to the open air; everything smells like hot metal and it's almost comforting - he's still thrown off-guard by the lab door opening and emitting a steve rogers in civilian clothing. tony's thankful steve is not in his new commander rogers outfit. it looks good on him - his commander's garb does, dark (almost black) blue that makes steve's eyes all cliched blue steel - but it doesn't look right. it doesn't have wings.

"shellhead." tony can hear the smile in steve's voice, and perhaps because of that he refuses to look up until he's made some final inane adjustment. his own smile in reply is tight-lipped; it makes him feel guilty. steve doesn't deserve that. steve doesn't deserve any of what's bubbling inside tony right now. it's a bad habit: this instant apprehension and hostility. he's embarrassing himself - but hey, it is not the first time. popping the leg piece off, tony sets it on his work desk and reclines in his chair, steepling his fingers dramatically and the wry smirk steve shoots him makes something in his chest clench. fuck.

winghead, he means to say, but he settles for an awkward "commander" that leaves a bad taste in his mouth and he scrambles to rectify it. "rogers. steve. hey." tony stark is the epitome of smooth.

ugh going to go drown myself in avengers now and doritos and forget everything that has ever happened concerning meager attempts.

tony stark is a fuckhead, write write write, the avengers

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