When The Lord Closes A Door
Title: When The Lord Closes A Door
Characters/Pairings: Steve/Tony And perhaps a bit of Steve/Sam but not really
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Kissing. Gay demon kissing.
Spoiler alert: Up to "Rebellion"
Summary: Another one of my "Scenes I wish we'd seen on the show because then I wouldn't want to write them and they'd probably be better", this is a continuation of the fight in the circle room.
A/N: Ah yes, watch me steal more philosophy from Terry Pratchett. What can I do, the man's inspiring.
Disclaimer: I don't even own the DVDs. Which is unfortunate, really.
He catches up with them right before they go out the door.
Tony’s closer, and Sam is, for all his earlier posturing, clearly not all that responsible for any of this, and looks even more bemusedly uncomfortable than normal.
And then Tony’s looking at him with those eyes…those “I love you, but you’re wrong,” eyes.
Those “Aren’t you sweet to think your way will work” eyes.
Those “Oh, honey,” eyes.
Those eyes that he’s getting a little tired of.
Well, the eyes he never gets tired of, but the expression…
“You’re not doing this,” he keeps his tone even, as Tony huffs at him and makes a half-hearted attempt at a soothing smile.
“Steven-”
“No,” and he glares, feels a slight temptation to change, but subdues it. It’s unnecessary and it’s uncomfortable. “You are…you are not going to be that stupid. You are not going to…to get Sam,” and he glances over to the kid, who has a hand on the doorknob but looks like he isn’t entirely sure how it works. “In trouble like that. Because it won’t be that easy, it….it’s not supposed to be easy, okay?”
“Steve,” Tony sighs, his head falling back against the wall in exasperation, even as he keeps his arm across his chest, “It’s foolproof.”
“Oh, yeah,” he can’t help rolling his eyes, “Yeah, I’ve never heard that before. I’ve never seen foolproof go completely wrong.”
“We have Sam this time,” Tony hisses, “We have Sam because you thought he could help. And yeah, you know? I think he can. I think we can, if you’d just-“
“Just what? Go along with you getting yourself…I don’t even know what he’d do to you, but-“
“I don’t have time for-“
“For what? For me?” and they are closer than before, too close, and he can feel his voice getting higher. Shuts his eyes, and takes a breath, before opening them again.
“Exactly,” Tony spits out, moving toward the door.
There are times when he forgets.
That they’re not human, that this isn’t their home, that the world will keep spinning and changing and dying around them for, he figures, centuries to come.
Because he’s fallen in love, with the life they’ve been leading, with the friends they have, with their apartment, with their jobs.
Like he falls in love with Tony, every morning, (and that’s something else; he’s gotten so used to mornings, to time, to calculating things that way), when they have breakfast, when they drive to work.
And now there’s…this.
It’s a risk, it’s uncertain, it’s wrong.
And it’s going to go wrong; he knows it’s going to go wrong.
Good deeds, kindness, that’s right, he knows, he keeps that faith, like he should’ve kept the other.
Tries to keep himself from anger, from the wrath born of entitlement that landed them both in this situation to begin with.
But he is angry, he realizes, when he pushes Tony against the wall.
Is angry when he ignores the eye-roll, the we don’t have time for this expression, the body ready to push him away.
Is angriest, perhaps, when his automatic, his human (and function, really, has fallen to form, here; the water’s taken the shape of the pitcher) reaction is to curve against familiar angles, kiss him, possessively.
Predictably, without any real premeditation, just instinct.
Instinct that isn’t exactly his, but who’s he to argue?
Just the heavy press of lips against each other, bump of teeth because they’re almost like teenagers sometimes (not that he’s been one; it really seems like a waste of a body, there, to try it out), still not quite used to these bodies.
And yes, Tony’s kissing him back, pretty quickly, because he’s just as much conditioned for that as he is, trying to slip a hand around his waist, another around the back of his neck, but the minute he pulls away it’ll be back to his stupid plan and just…no.
So he grabs those hands away, gives an almost (well, really) petulant push at his shoulders, and presses in again.
And he’s breathless. Always is.
Because that’s the thing with bodies, they require air and that’s the thing with living, it makes you want to keep doing it.
Not more feeling than…before (and he tries not to think about it, because before is a distant land, and the path back runs through a minefield) but different.
Real feeling, the only kind of feeling there is, in this world, of flesh instead of light and senses beyond simple awareness.
Taste and scent and color, texture, and how could you not just…love that.
He’s gone native, sure as anything.
Feelings that go beyond the flesh they’re inseparable from.
Emotions that run from extreme to extreme.
Which is how he can be angry right now (and boy, is he angry, because…idiots), even as he’s having trouble keeping upright, blood rushing in all different directions and heart beating extra fast, probably just to cover for that, and careful hands on his hips, and he can feel, prickling the back of his neck, the wide-eyed blue gaze of the poor kid who just happened to get himself pulled into something that he’s not meant to have anything to do with.
He is, though, angry, not happy, not sympathetic, or at least not just those things, and he’s also kind of in need of air.
And he breaks the kiss; has to, can’t keep time at bay with one, not forever.
But he is angry, so it’s with one last bite at a swollen lower lip, one last huff of annoyance.
“How’s that for fang?” as much a growl as anything half-panted, half-gasped, really can be, which he’ll be the first to admit, because he should be honest, is not much.
It’s a sign of strength, that he can pull away at all.
Even with Tony looking down at him, caught between beaming (the crinkles around his eyes give that away, always do, no matter the incarnation) and scowling, which is hard to take seriously, when it’s been used with only slightly less intensity at the news that his favorite TV show has been cancelled.
Even with his heavy, warm breaths brushing against his face, lips speechless and close, still so close, before they’re not anymore.
“Oh, and Sam?” he turns, to see the young man (the kid, he’s just a kid), hand on the doorknob, stunned.
“Try not to get yourself killed, okay?” and he steps closer, gives in to a last temptation, a sudden impulse.
Another kiss, quick and chaste and friendly, even if not quite so welcome in that demographic, against soft lips that open in surprise and stay that way even as he pulls away.
“Sorry about that, kiddo,” he smiles, before turning away. “Won’t happen again.”
“Steven,” he hears, and he tilts his head, glances over his shoulder.
Tony still leaning against the wall and staring at him, Sam blinking furiously like he’s trying to take in a wealth of information he’s not quite ready for.
“Yes?” polite and okay, maybe a bit snitty, but he’s still mad.
“When I get back…”
“When you get back? Yeah, we’ll see about when you get back,” he moves to the hall closet.
“Steve? What are you…what-“
“It’s cold out,” he says, before throwing the jacket (birthday present, for the given meaning of birthday) at him. “Wouldn’t want you to freeze to death.”
And he turns away.
Walks away, like it isn’t the hardest thing he’s done, for a while, if not ever.
Doesn’t watch them leave, but knows Tony will forget to lock the door, because he always does.
But when he goes to do it, goes to slide that…that deadbolt home, like they had anything worth stealing, that they couldn’t get back, that they couldn’t keep someone else from taking…he can’t.
Because he knows what he has to do, and that’s always going to be opening the door.
*
Characters/Pairings: Steve/Tony And perhaps a bit of Steve/Sam but not really
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Kissing. Gay demon kissing.
Spoiler alert: Up to "Rebellion"
Summary: Another one of my "Scenes I wish we'd seen on the show because then I wouldn't want to write them and they'd probably be better", this is a continuation of the fight in the circle room.
A/N: Ah yes, watch me steal more philosophy from Terry Pratchett. What can I do, the man's inspiring.
Disclaimer: I don't even own the DVDs. Which is unfortunate, really.
He catches up with them right before they go out the door.
Tony’s closer, and Sam is, for all his earlier posturing, clearly not all that responsible for any of this, and looks even more bemusedly uncomfortable than normal.
And then Tony’s looking at him with those eyes…those “I love you, but you’re wrong,” eyes.
Those “Aren’t you sweet to think your way will work” eyes.
Those “Oh, honey,” eyes.
Those eyes that he’s getting a little tired of.
Well, the eyes he never gets tired of, but the expression…
“You’re not doing this,” he keeps his tone even, as Tony huffs at him and makes a half-hearted attempt at a soothing smile.
“Steven-”
“No,” and he glares, feels a slight temptation to change, but subdues it. It’s unnecessary and it’s uncomfortable. “You are…you are not going to be that stupid. You are not going to…to get Sam,” and he glances over to the kid, who has a hand on the doorknob but looks like he isn’t entirely sure how it works. “In trouble like that. Because it won’t be that easy, it….it’s not supposed to be easy, okay?”
“Steve,” Tony sighs, his head falling back against the wall in exasperation, even as he keeps his arm across his chest, “It’s foolproof.”
“Oh, yeah,” he can’t help rolling his eyes, “Yeah, I’ve never heard that before. I’ve never seen foolproof go completely wrong.”
“We have Sam this time,” Tony hisses, “We have Sam because you thought he could help. And yeah, you know? I think he can. I think we can, if you’d just-“
“Just what? Go along with you getting yourself…I don’t even know what he’d do to you, but-“
“I don’t have time for-“
“For what? For me?” and they are closer than before, too close, and he can feel his voice getting higher. Shuts his eyes, and takes a breath, before opening them again.
“Exactly,” Tony spits out, moving toward the door.
There are times when he forgets.
That they’re not human, that this isn’t their home, that the world will keep spinning and changing and dying around them for, he figures, centuries to come.
Because he’s fallen in love, with the life they’ve been leading, with the friends they have, with their apartment, with their jobs.
Like he falls in love with Tony, every morning, (and that’s something else; he’s gotten so used to mornings, to time, to calculating things that way), when they have breakfast, when they drive to work.
And now there’s…this.
It’s a risk, it’s uncertain, it’s wrong.
And it’s going to go wrong; he knows it’s going to go wrong.
Good deeds, kindness, that’s right, he knows, he keeps that faith, like he should’ve kept the other.
Tries to keep himself from anger, from the wrath born of entitlement that landed them both in this situation to begin with.
But he is angry, he realizes, when he pushes Tony against the wall.
Is angry when he ignores the eye-roll, the we don’t have time for this expression, the body ready to push him away.
Is angriest, perhaps, when his automatic, his human (and function, really, has fallen to form, here; the water’s taken the shape of the pitcher) reaction is to curve against familiar angles, kiss him, possessively.
Predictably, without any real premeditation, just instinct.
Instinct that isn’t exactly his, but who’s he to argue?
Just the heavy press of lips against each other, bump of teeth because they’re almost like teenagers sometimes (not that he’s been one; it really seems like a waste of a body, there, to try it out), still not quite used to these bodies.
And yes, Tony’s kissing him back, pretty quickly, because he’s just as much conditioned for that as he is, trying to slip a hand around his waist, another around the back of his neck, but the minute he pulls away it’ll be back to his stupid plan and just…no.
So he grabs those hands away, gives an almost (well, really) petulant push at his shoulders, and presses in again.
And he’s breathless. Always is.
Because that’s the thing with bodies, they require air and that’s the thing with living, it makes you want to keep doing it.
Not more feeling than…before (and he tries not to think about it, because before is a distant land, and the path back runs through a minefield) but different.
Real feeling, the only kind of feeling there is, in this world, of flesh instead of light and senses beyond simple awareness.
Taste and scent and color, texture, and how could you not just…love that.
He’s gone native, sure as anything.
Feelings that go beyond the flesh they’re inseparable from.
Emotions that run from extreme to extreme.
Which is how he can be angry right now (and boy, is he angry, because…idiots), even as he’s having trouble keeping upright, blood rushing in all different directions and heart beating extra fast, probably just to cover for that, and careful hands on his hips, and he can feel, prickling the back of his neck, the wide-eyed blue gaze of the poor kid who just happened to get himself pulled into something that he’s not meant to have anything to do with.
He is, though, angry, not happy, not sympathetic, or at least not just those things, and he’s also kind of in need of air.
And he breaks the kiss; has to, can’t keep time at bay with one, not forever.
But he is angry, so it’s with one last bite at a swollen lower lip, one last huff of annoyance.
“How’s that for fang?” as much a growl as anything half-panted, half-gasped, really can be, which he’ll be the first to admit, because he should be honest, is not much.
It’s a sign of strength, that he can pull away at all.
Even with Tony looking down at him, caught between beaming (the crinkles around his eyes give that away, always do, no matter the incarnation) and scowling, which is hard to take seriously, when it’s been used with only slightly less intensity at the news that his favorite TV show has been cancelled.
Even with his heavy, warm breaths brushing against his face, lips speechless and close, still so close, before they’re not anymore.
“Oh, and Sam?” he turns, to see the young man (the kid, he’s just a kid), hand on the doorknob, stunned.
“Try not to get yourself killed, okay?” and he steps closer, gives in to a last temptation, a sudden impulse.
Another kiss, quick and chaste and friendly, even if not quite so welcome in that demographic, against soft lips that open in surprise and stay that way even as he pulls away.
“Sorry about that, kiddo,” he smiles, before turning away. “Won’t happen again.”
“Steven,” he hears, and he tilts his head, glances over his shoulder.
Tony still leaning against the wall and staring at him, Sam blinking furiously like he’s trying to take in a wealth of information he’s not quite ready for.
“Yes?” polite and okay, maybe a bit snitty, but he’s still mad.
“When I get back…”
“When you get back? Yeah, we’ll see about when you get back,” he moves to the hall closet.
“Steve? What are you…what-“
“It’s cold out,” he says, before throwing the jacket (birthday present, for the given meaning of birthday) at him. “Wouldn’t want you to freeze to death.”
And he turns away.
Walks away, like it isn’t the hardest thing he’s done, for a while, if not ever.
Doesn’t watch them leave, but knows Tony will forget to lock the door, because he always does.
But when he goes to do it, goes to slide that…that deadbolt home, like they had anything worth stealing, that they couldn’t get back, that they couldn’t keep someone else from taking…he can’t.
Because he knows what he has to do, and that’s always going to be opening the door.
*