Your mother wipes away at your forehead; it is crusted with deep, dark blood whose origins you are uncertain of. Your mother doesn’t care. She only cares that you’ve gone out and got yourself hurt again.
“He made fun of Lisa Lee. She told him to stop and I told him to stop but he wouldn’t listen. Lisa tried to hit him but then he shoved at her. It was rough. So, I told him he was nothing but a dumb coward. That’s when he pushed me down in the middle of the stairs,” you whisper softly. Your mother’s brow, the color of straw and hay you’ve never really seen before, knits together.
“Oh, Steve. You’re always falling, aren’t you?” she sighs, but she’s smiling and you don’t have to hear her express her pride in you.
-
You didn’t think it would happen so fast. You thought it would be more agonizing than this. And yeah, everything is slowing down – but it’s all a blur. There’s the orange sky, Peggy’s voice, and your mother singing to you.
And then there isn’t.
You’re always falling, aren’t you?
-
It’s funny until it isn’t. Whenever someone says something that even has a hint of bad language, they all snap their heads around and stare at you and wait. What are they even waiting for? A frown? A look of horror? A reprimanding ‘language, guys, watch your language’?
It’s funny because in the twenty-first century, it’s a widely known fact that people are smart. Smarter than they have been for centuries. Smarter than they’ve ever been, what with the influx of new inventions.
You can agree to some extent, of course. Everything is so goddamn convenient now, and that serves as a testament to the above thesis. But then, people are still as dumb as ever.
“Fucking hell,” Clint mutters as Bruce tends to his arm. It’s a Monday which means that somebody decided to take over the East Coast of America again and everybody is crankier than usual. “Shit shit shit, that hurts!” Clint hisses.
“It shouldn’t that much,” Bruce answers mildly, smiling as he dabs at the wound.
“Fuck you and your fucking Zen attitude – wait, I take that back,” Clint says quickly as his eyes dart toward you.
Everybody pauses.
Tony speaks first, as always. It’s only been just over a year since waking up but you learn fast. And you’ve learned that everything about Tony is eclectic. He is zaps and zooms and endless energy that you want to –
“Watch your language there, Clint. Steve might have –”
“I might have to what?” Your voice isn’t supposed to sound as tired as it does.
“Might have to wash his mouth out,” Tony finishes lamely. He brushes a thumb underneath his chin. You’ve watched him do that countless times. He does it when he’s nervous, and every time it happens you want to lift his chin and –
“Fucking shitfuck hell cunt bitchface,” you exhale and spread your arms out with a stiff smile.
Bucky looks vaguely amused but mostly proud, hiding his smirk with his metal hand.
Tony’s face lights up and his grin is blinding.
That’s when they start clapping slowly (thanks to Nat) and stop acting like you’re an innocent lamb.
-
When did you even start calling each other by your first names?
You know it must have been after your first battle together. It was after your palms shoved against his shoulders, after “put on the suit”, after bearing witness to him falling up, up, up.
He was golden and tattered and dead.
But then he wasn’t.
He was Iron Man.
And then he was Tony.
-
Most days, someone isn’t trying to destroy the universe as you know it. (Does anybody truly know the universe, anyways?) On those Most Days, you tend to find yourself doing a lot of things. Some days, you spend with Bucky humiliating Clint and Sam on Mario Kart. Other days you spend with Nat shopping or taking her to the salon or on one occasion, going to a fair you were both kicked out of for making ten kids at the bumping car station cry. That was not one of your proudest moments.
For a good fraction of those Most Days, though, you end up lounging around on the couch Tony keeps in his workshop.
Today was supposed to be one of those days.
“Sorry, what?” You ask stupidly, staring at Tony who is standing at the entrance to the workshop with a baseball cap in one hand and a pair of glasses in another.
“We’re going to have hot dogs today.” When you don’t say anything to that, he makes an irritated harrumph sound from the back of his throat. “You know, the sausage things sandwiched in between two buns of greatness –”
“You sound like you’re describing something else entirely,” you cut him off with a smirk.
“Shut up.”
It turns out, not to your total surprise, that there is something miraculous in the hot dogs offered beside a bowling alley near Harlem.
“The hot dog stand guy Marcus revels in hot dogs,” Tony tells you in between bites, “Hot dogs are his religion.”
“If hot dogs are his religion, then he must be the Pope.”
“He’s the Dalai Lama, actually.”
“Accurate,” you say, pointing what’s left of your hot dog toward Tony. His lips twitch before curving into a familiar half-smile.
“How’d your date go with Sharon?”
“Bucky crashed it halfway through,” you say slowly.
“Oh shit.” Tony’s stopped eating his hot dog.
“’Oh shit’ is right.” You laugh, and it’s a faint sound that lingers between you for a few moments. “He tried to help.”
“Is there going to be a third date, then?”
“Uh,” you start before throwing the tin foil and paper away, “Next question, please.”
“Did you want a third date really badly?”
Good one. You spin on your heel to face him and your mouth does this thing where it’s trying to smile but not succeeding too well.
“I didn’t want it that badly, no.”
“But you liked her?” Tony is avoiding your gaze now, his brown eyes burning into the hot dog in his hand.
“Yeah.”
“She’s an idiot then,” Tony murmurs. You pretend not to hear.
-
You look just like your father, people used to tell you. It sucked since you had no idea what he looked like. Well, this isn’t necessarily true; your mother had a picture of him on her bedside table. It was framed and had frayed corners.
And you could see, in a way, how you looked like your father.
You look just like your father, people tell Tony. He tenses just slightly every time he hears it or sees it in someone’s eyes. You hate that you caused that once. Because really, he doesn’t look Howard Stark any more than you look like Joseph Rogers.
Tony looks like Maria, who you met once before she even knew Howard – back when you were on your tour before you tasted the truth of war. Maria was all grace and sweet smiles. Dancing came to her like fighting came to Peggy. She was kind and beautiful.
Tony doesn’t dance often – well, he does but him ‘jamming’ to ACDC doesn’t count. Sometimes though, when you’re lying down with your legs propped up on his couch and you’re in a half-asleep haze you see it. It’s like visual white noise otherwise; the similarities between Tony and his mother. But as he’s working, as he is in his own element (pun intended), the fluidity in which he works and the focus he drowns himself in is all Maria.
You don’t plan on telling him this.
-
“You know,” you say one night after a long battle against a Voldemort-esque nemesis whose name was strikingly similar to Umbridge, “I don’t think of you as ‘like Howard’.” It’s four in the morning so really it isn’t night but you’ve collapsed into the couch with your cowl lying abandoned on the floor and your suit is clinging to you.
Tony’s back is facing toward you but you watch the muscles underneath his Black Sabbath shirt tighten like knotted cords.
“That’s great,” he says, his voice raw and strangled. “I mean, you might have to get your eyes checked by Bruce in the morning considering …”
“Considering …?”
“I mean, Steve –”
“You have Maria’s eyes.” You won’t remember any of this clearly in the morning except for the way Tony’s shoulders go slack at the mention of his mother. You close your eyes as you continue. “And when you move, you move like her. With this, uh, grace. Like you’re made out of water – you just flow.” A dry laugh escapes your lips.
“Oh,” Tony exhales.
You don’t hear him.
When you wake up, JARVIS informs you that Tony’s ‘at a meeting’ and your mother’s words pound into your skull.
You’re always falling, aren’t you?
-
Tony avoids you for about four days. You are sorely tempted to override his system – which he did give you authority to do. Instead, you wait.
On the fifth day, you knock on the glass door leading to the workshop. In your hands are a tray of shortbread cookies with red and green sprinkles, a cup of coffee, and a CD. It takes six more knocks for Tony to stop pretending he can’t hear you and another seven for him to let you in.
“Hey,” you start to say.
“What the fuck are those supposed to be,” Tony says loudly just as you start to speak. He points toward the cookies.
“They’re cookies.”
“They’re a travesty.”
“They’re Thor’s.”
“It’s not even Christmas.”
“It’s Christmas Eve in two days.”
That shuts him up.
But then, you’re quiet too. Your fingers tighten around the edges of the tray. It’s pink and has a naked cherub dancing underneath a disco ball. It was a Christmas present last year from Sam.
“I came here to –”
“Thanks for the cookies and other shit,” Tony cuts in with a vague gesture toward the tray. Then, he promptly returns to his tinkering. You try not to clench your jaw.
“Tony.”
His fingers tap, tap, tap away at his keyboard.
“Tony.”
Tap. Tap. Tap.
“Tony!”
“What?” he snaps. You stare at him – at his brown eyes, the violet crescents underneath them, his stray gray hairs, and his soft mouth with rosy lips pressed together in a thin line.
“I’m sorry for what I said to you the other night,” you say and each word is a stone thudding against the bottom of your stomach. You won’t look at him now. Can’t. “Clearly, it made you uncomfortable and it was probably inappropriate. I just. I wanted you to know that even though you look like him, you’re not half as hard as your dad. Not as … Your mother was soft. Kind. Your mother was great, Tony. And you are, too. It’s okay to be …” You draw in a shaky breath, and let it go.
You leave.
-
“Good morning to you, New York City and have a Very Merry Christmas!” The news anchor’s voice is crisp and fills the empty room. Why the hell did you agree to having a TV in your room again? And why did you leave it on? You rub at your eyes blearily and have a moment of quiet reflection that doesn’t last very long.
Because then you see Bucky standing at the edge of your bed with a wide, boyish grin you’ve spent years trying and failing to wipe off his face.
“It’s too early for this,” you tell him before thrusting a pillow at his face. The headache you have sends waves of pain throughout your skull.
“It’s never too early or too late, Steve,” he replies with a grave tone and an even graver expression.
“Am I missing something here?”
Bucky raises an eyebrow.
“You’re missing Stark in your arms, that’s for sure.”
You got drunk off your ass on xmas eve. Congrats, is what Nat’s text reads. You gape at it, with Bucky sniggering next to you as you sit on the edge of your bed.
How is that even possible???
Thor. Isn’t he so generous? :)
You groan at this and throw your head back.
“Why is this my life?”
“Would you rather be frozen underneath the ocean on Christmas Day?” Bucky asks calmly.
“Please tell me I didn’t do anything too embarrassing. Or terrible.”
The silence serves as the best holiday comfort.
“Nothing terrible,” Bucky insists as you stand and start to pace. “Really, Steve. You’re fine. You were fine.”
“Why’d you mention Tony earlier?”
“He, uh,” Bucky begins as he runs a few fingers through his matted hair and wow, he must have had a fantastic Christmas Eve, “he kind of took care of you last night?”
“What.”
“You were somethin’ else, Stevie.”
“Did he have to knock me out?” You’re beginning to hate how your voice has risen practically three octaves. Bucky shakes his head vigorously.
“No! He just – he kind of –”
“Oh my God, just tell me.”
“You kissed him.”
-
So, you’ve lost count of how many times you’ve fucked up in your life. But there are around five huge regrets you are unlikely to forget:
1) The time you got both Bucky and your mother sick. Thanks, germs
2) Not being able to save Bucky
3) Not being able to take Peggy out on one date
4) Making ten kids cry at a bumper car station at a fair because of your winning streak
5) Drunkenly kissing Anthony Edward Stark on Christmas Eve – and it wasn’t even under the mistletoe
The sixth is unofficial: Not kissing Anthony Edward Stark on Christmas Eve while sober (See: #5). You don’t come up with the sixth one for a while, though. Not until Boxing Day.
-
On Boxing Day, you override his system at ten in the morning.
“What the fuck,” Tony splutters as you stride toward him with a lot more purpose than you thought was in you.
“I’m sorry,” you’re about to say before you notice how half-dressed he is and the exhaustion in the slump of his shoulders. “Did you even sleep?”
“No?” Tony says with a mild, half-assed glare that reads something along the lines of ‘I’m not normally kissed by my drunk best friend who isn’t supposed to get drunk ever and then sleep peacefully afterwards’.
“Right.”
“Right.”
“Right, well,” you say, swallowing down your apology once more. “You should have.”
“I should have,” Tony echoes. His face has now contorted into a very familiar expression. This one you can read with ease: ‘What the fuck are you saying?’
“I’m sorry,” you finally blurt out.
“For?” He’s turning away from you now.
“I didn’t mean to kiss you.” The words tumble out of your mouth with surprising speed and it must hit Tony too because he flinches visibly.
“You didn’t mean to kiss me.”
His voice is ragged now and your chest seizes up with regret.
“No, I mean. Tony, I didn’t mean to kiss you like that,” you elaborate. “I didn’t mean to kiss you when I was drunk or if you didn’t want to kiss me back. Really, I didn’t mean to kiss you if you didn’t want to kiss me at all. I didn’t mean to put you in such a position. And I did. I’m so sorry for that. I’m supposed to be your friend, and that was a dick move.” When he doesn’t say anything, you keep talking. “I’m supposed to be your friend but I’ve wanted to kiss you for months now.”
Tony is staring at you now, lips parted in an ‘o’.
“I’ve wanted,” you breathe, “I’ve wanted to kiss you. And to –” you break off and duck your head so that your chin dips in toward your chest. It’s a bad habit; you’re not small anymore. You can’t make yourself small anymore. But hey. Muscle memory. “I’ve wanted to do so much to you. With you.”
“What,” Tony says faintly.
“I’m sorry. I just needed to say that. Just like I needed to say the Maria thing the other day. And how I need to tell you how beautiful you are when you’re here covered in filth,” you press on. “I need to tell you this because it’s true. All of it. And,” you pause to breathe and your lungs feel like they’re engulfed in flames, engulfed in this honesty that strips you bare, “I need to tell you that I love you.”
You stand there, inches apart. Silent.
Then the chasm between you widens as Tony shakes his head.
“No,” he says.
All the oxygen in you disappears.
“You’re still drunk. You have to be. Or magically induced to say crap like that.” He laughs, but it’s empty and you want nothing more than to flood him with – with something. With security. God, with love. “You can’t love me. And if you do, you won’t.”
“Uh, here’s the thing about love – it tends to stick around.”
“Oh, fuck you,” Tony says vehemently. “Then you won’t stick around because you don’t –”
“Tony, if this isn’t love – what I feel for you – then what the hell is it?” You pinch the bridge of your nose before looking up at him. There it is: the thumb pressing into his chin. Thoughtlessly, you reach forward and place your hand on his cheek. “I’m not drunk, no magic is affecting me, and I love you.”
“You love me,” Tony says, testing out the words in his mouth.
“Yeah,” you say with a soft laugh. “I do love you.”
“Oh.”
“Mmhm,” you hum as you press a gentle kiss to his forehead.
“Steve?”
“Yes?”
“Two things: Belated Merry Christmas and how exactly did you mean to kiss me?”
You grin and for technically the second time, kiss him.
It tastes like gold, sending a current through your bones and you finally feel yourself fall.
“Merry Christmas, Tony.”