Tony doesn't really think about it until he’s here, half-naked, lying in bed with his head on Steve’s lap, talking to him.
He glances down at his chest, where the arc reactor glows an electric blue and lights up the forked-lightning map of scars spanning his entire abdomen, and he thinks about it.
He’s never thought of himself as someone who has… body image issues. He knows what his arms look like when he works in a tank top, muscled and toned; he knows what his hips and thighs look like in a suit, firm and nicely curved; he knows what his eyes look like in pictures, wide and brown—pretty, people say. Gorgeous. Hell, there are even people who look at the calluses on his palms and appreciate the rawness of a workman’s hands.
He knows he can be attractive, so he’s never thought about it.
But now, he thinks about it. After Afghanistan, in darkened rooms and dim-lit hallways, he set boundaries—shirt stays on, everything else can go. People will ask questions if they see, and his experiences—his past, his pain—are frankly none of their businesses.
Somewhere along the way, he’s forgotten that for the first month after the caves, he refused to look into mirrors, and when he accidentally caught a glimpse of himself he’d feel sick to his stomach at the sight. The spider web of pinks and reds felt foreign and intrusive on his body, and they were twisted, warped, ugly.
But he had no way to get rid of them. He couldn’t magic away layers and layers of scars and tissue on his skin, nor could he never look at a mirror again if he wished to remain remotely presentable as the CEO of Stark Industries; so as the scars started turning from angry reds and purples to silvery and white, he got used to them. They became part of him, pale constellations of trauma criss-crossed on his chest, and he knew they were there and not attractive, just like how he knew his toned arms and curved hips and honey-brown eyes were there and not unattractive.
Granted, he’s never had to compare all of this to a beefy, two-hundred-and-forty-pound super soldier with straw blond hair and bright blue eyes and miles and miles of smooth, unblemished skin.
It makes Tony feel strange, like he shouldn’t belong here in this room, on this bed. He trusts Steve with his whole life, and he had (mostly) no qualms about shucking his shirt off and relaxing in Steve’s arms while they talk about everything and nothing as evening turns to night; but surely, this throws things out of balance? Surely, all the damage on him and in him and around him would ruin the scale somehow, because Steve—well, he’s Steve. Not perfect, but in Tony’s firm opinion, nearly so.
Surely, he’s just about used up any pinprick of luck he’s ever had to be with someone so good and kind.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Steve says, his fingertips scratching gently against Tony’s scalp.
Tony blinks and realizes the soft lull of conversation has faded with his wandering thoughts.
He hesitates.
“These,” he eventually says, taking Steve’s hand and guiding it over the rises and dips across his chest. “They’re not pretty, are they?”
He lets go, but Steve doesn’t stop tracing his fingers over the crooked lines. “No scars are pretty.”
Tony considers it. “Did you—were you weirded out, when you saw?”
Steve looks down at him, eyes so, so blue, then he leans down and kisses Tony on the lips. When he pulls away, he says, “Surprised? A little. Weirded out? No.”
“No?”
“No. They’re part of you, aren’t they? And I love all of you, fancy descriptions be damned.”
That draws a laugh from Tony. “You don’t think they’re ugly? Like you can’t bear to look at them too long?” he presses, gazing up at Steve, searching for honesty.
Steve gives him it. “No. I could look at them all day; trace them and map them until I remember every shade and placement of every single one like I remember the rest of you—the lines on your palms, the freckle behind your ear, the ring of gold in your eyes.”
Tony smiles. “That… that would be nice, I think.”
Steve leans down and kisses him again, on his forehead, his temples, his eyelids, his nose, then his lips.
“I love you,” he says, pressing the words into Tony’s skin like a truth, a promise.
Tony gazes up into blue, blue eyes and thinks about his scars and Steve and how it all seems to fit less strangely within the cosmic well of emotions rising in his chest, and believes him.