[So here's the thing: Steve Rogers, Captain America, actual Nazi-punching hero who has saved the world (and the universe) more than once, is terrified of dates. More specifically, asking people out on them, but also probably the action of dating itself if he got that far. (He's been on double dates before, but those don't count; Bucky had coaxed girls into bringing along a friend for him, but they nearly always ended up more interested in Bucky than Steve.)
He knows that after admitting his feelings to Tony, the logical next step is a date, but, at the same time, that feels too weird to him. Dates are for getting to know someone, and there's no one he knows better than Tony Stark. (Because he's kind of an idiot sometimes, it doesn't occur to him that there are other reasons for dates, that maybe the woman he's trying to romance would, in fact, like to be romanced.)
Maybe he lets the topic fall by the wayside for a week or so because he doesn't actually know what to do and he's overcome by sheer awkwardness, and maybe that means he ends up not talking to Tony again till they're suited up and fighting some AIM goons who think that souping up zoo animals is somehow a good idea.
It's not, and although they get most of the menagerie wrangled pretty quickly, Steve ends up disarmed and cornered by a bear that is way bigger than it should be. He catches a flash of scarlet out of the corner of his eye and prays that it's Tony; though he might not admit it, there are times that technology comes in handy.]
Mind lending a hand here, Stark?
[The bear swipes at him, and Steve dodges the paw, tackling it in the stomach. It feels like tackling a furry brick wall.]
[ Despite Steve's assertions that dinner wasn't necessary, Tony had decided to read between the lines. No, taking someone on a date before having sex with them wasn't a rule of nature, and plenty of happy and healthy individuals bypassed that step of courting and skipped straight to the main event. It was Tony's opinion that Steve could use a little courting, though, not because of his origins but because of his timeline. Tony knew more than enough about Steve's past—thin, frail, and single to tall, strong, and busy as hell fighting a war. There had been romance, but little time to act on it—then into the ice and, after thawing, back into the fight. So maybe Tony isn't the kind of man to wine and din everyone he falls into bed with, but he was damned if he wasn't going to give Steve that base courtesy.
Plus, it had been fun to test his skill with chopsticks.
Now, though, he's faced with the heavy tension post-dinner and pre-whatever it was they were going to get up to. Steve hadn't been entirely forthcoming about his desires, but he's stated them later rather than never. As Tony drives them away from the restaurant and towards Stark Tower, he contemplates his potential courses of action. ]
Since they didn't have many desserts to pick from, want to come up for a nightcap?
[He might not have come straight out and admitted it, but it was nice to have someone actually taking him out. Dating - apart from the double dates Bucky set him up with, and those were more like two girls vying for Bucky's attention - had never been in the cards for Steve. Nobody had wanted him before the serum, and after...well, they'd never had the time.
These days, there are more than enough people vying for attention, but they all view him as some kind of status symbol, or else they're more interested in the myth than the man. Steve thinks (hopes) that Tony might be the exception to that - and if it turns out he isn't, well, on one hand, he'll have wasted a lot of time nursing a stupid crush, but on the other, at least he'll have picked someone good for his first time. (Assuming the rumors are true, anyway.)
Dinner's bled some of his nerves away, but Steve's still hyper-aware of everything, still half-hard with anticipation. He hopes he isn't imagining the almost palpable tension between them, that it isn't all one-sided.]
Depends on what kinda nightcap it is. [He tries to sound suave and seductive, but that's apparently the kind of thing that works better if your last name is Stark; Steve just sounds like the awkward dumbass from Brooklyn who thought fondue was an innuendo. He coughs and shifts in his seat.] I mean, I'd like that. [And he means it; even if nothing else comes of this, it would be nice to at least get closer to Tony when they aren't on Avengers business. God knows he could use an actual friend or two.]
[ Tony can definitely relate to the feeling that people are interested for the wrong reasons. Since he was old enough to know what seduction was, women and men alike have been looking to snag time with the Stark heir for all sorts of perks—expensive dinners, private vacations, company stock, or in the worst-case scenario, a chance to sell their story to the tabloids. Tony hadn't always been smart enough to care about it, but as he ages and gains experience, he finds that such trysts aren't as thrilling anymore. Maybe he's going soft, but middle-aged Tony Stark wants something more meaningful than a good fuck and an early-morning NDA signed by a hungover PR nightmare.
So their situations aren't exactly the same, but they can relate to one another. It's the same phenomenon of actors dating within the industry to find someone who understands the pressures of fame and the stress of finding someone trustworthy to date. For superheroes, there was the added layer of trying to keep their identities hidden for the lucky few that manage to keep their real lives a secret. Tony had fucked himself over there, but he doesn't regret it for the most part. He wonders if Steve ever wishes he could bury his connection with Captain America in exchange for a normal life, though.
All of this is to say that the date is nice. They draw looks, of course, but by the point in his life, Tony's become practiced in the art of not acting out in public. He can't escape the playboy title he'd held for years, so now he just tries not to feed into it if possible. It's not entirely easy when he's in public with a hot young thing like Steve Rogers, but he manages to keep his hands to himself at least. ]
Whatever kind you want. [ If Steve wants to try his hand at cavalier seduction, Tony is more than happy to humor him. He doesn't do a bad job of it, either, but he's so earnest that he can't commit and instantly adds a more genuine reply to Tony's offer. It makes him smile because honestly, Tony doesn't want to date another version of himself when honest interest is much more appreciated. ] How about we start with the standard definition and go from there?
[Thankfully, he's had Chinese takeout often enough with Nat that he's skilled at using chopsticks, so Steve doesn't have to worry about fumbling his food in front of all the onlookers. And he's not surprised by the crowd, either; he might be a private person, but he's also learned that absolutely nobody will respect his wishes for privacy. He gracefully poses for selfies, signs napkins, the whole shebang. While part of him wonders about the headlines that are inevitably going to appear, he's learned that there's no point in worrying about it; whatever happens will happen, no matter what he does.
(Though if they'd had privacy - squeezed into a booth at a hole in the wall place, perhaps - he might have ventured a touch or two. So it's arguably better this way.)
Earnest and awkward he might be, but Steve isn't as much of a squeaky clean boy scout type as everyone thinks - as evidenced by his willingness (eventually, anyway) to ease into more risque texts to Tony. Part of that is a serum-enhanced sex drive that's been repressed for far too long, but part of that is that he simply isn't as naive as everyone wants to believe. Sure, all of his knowledge might be second-hand, but it exists. He's even done a little more digging in preparation for this, although delving too far into that particular corner of the internet gets scary fast.]
Gonna break open a bottle of the good stuff for me? [Steve's smile is a little wry.] 'Cause I'll warn you, I might not be very appreciative. Before the serum, I couldn't even manage a glass of beer. I had a few drinks during the war, but it wasn't anything to write home about. Cheap stuff, usually.
Now that I know that, maybe I'll just tell you it's the good stuff. [ He chuckles and shakes his head, already pulling into the underground garage beneath Stark Tower. Living in the middle of the city is convenient, and he wouldn't trade it for anything, but it does cut the time to build tension or sooth nerves down to a minimum. Maybe that's for the best tonight, considering Steve doesn't seem very practiced in this part of the dance. It's true that everyone gives him the pure, boy scout reputation that comes with being America's poster boy, but Tony knows better than that. Even before he'd been able to coax him into exchanging sexy text messages, Steve's romance with Peggy Carter had been in the back of Tony's mind. Consider him surprised to find that Steve was interested in men as well.
Parking the car, he cuts the engine and looks over at Steve with a much more genuine smile. Tony is a master of hiding his emotions for the sake of his outward image, but in the safety of his own car in his own building, he can let some of that melt away. He's also learning that he's safe to do so around Steve. ] We don't have to drink, though. I've got ice cream, or movies, or a California king bed.
tony glances up from the ruined mark iii faceplate he's working with. on another monitor, beside the one with the mark iii model, reads the result of the analysis: "no identifiable match found." below the words lies the dna readout of the strands of golden brown fur that tony picked off his clothes a month ago during the helicopter ride out of that afghan desert and promptly forgot about until now. in his defense, building the armor consumed his thoughts, then with everything that happened after...
tony frowns. he's not equipped for this sort of analysis, knowledge-wise. "forward the data to dr. alan douglas. see if he gets any bites, literal or otherwise," he tells jarvis.
dr. alan douglas does not, in fact, get any bites. the dna of the fur is unrecognized anywhere in the world's zoological records. a mad scientist's amalgamation of human male and lion is the best douglas can surmise. "do you have any further information for me?" he asks curiously over the video call.
tony thinks of the hazy dream of a lion-man's face as he lay dehydrated and injured after exploding his way out of the ten rings's capture; the dream of soft fur against his cheek, of a clawed hand (paw?) so big it engulfed his entire head as it helped him drink. "... nope!" he says, and that ends that.
with a company to raise from the ashes and terrorists and weapons to turn into ashes, tony shelves the mystery of the lion man. but the possibility has wormed its way in and nestled, a quiet constant in the back of his head: what if it wasn't a dream? when he's talking up the investors about the company's new direction, what if? when he's detecting and removing old land mines in the mark iv, what if? what if?
there's someone else out there who saved me.
he happens to return to that area as iron man, a few miles from where he was held, farther into pakistan and in the pamir mountains. his mission is to eradicate the cache of weapons he located in another ten rings cell. it's night, so the explosions make for a spectacular light show. the ten rings are completely helpless against the armor. though this is a different cell, and each cell operates independently, tony rains fire down on them with prejudice.
once every terrorist is either dead or has fled, tony checks the site for remaining caches. he'll need to sweep all nearby caverns, too.
[He doesn't know how long he's been like this. Years, he thinks; time blurs, time spent in a cage, time after he escaped and ran away. He could mark the days, the months, the seasons if he cared. Sometimes he thinks he should, because time is a human concept. But deep down, he doesn't want to keep track of an eternity.
The man he finds at the edge of the desert interrupts his routine. Carefully, he nurses him back to health, brings him food and water. He keeps his distance, makes sure he's still in a state of delirium or half-consciousness when he's cleaning his wounds or coaxing him to drink. Once the man's healthy enough to move on, he carries him to a different cave while he's asleep, leaves him there like he's a wounded baby bird he's setting free.
And, like the birds, he doesn't expect to see the man again. He puts him from his mind and goes back to his solitary life in the mountains. Men have been more active at the fringe of his territory lately, and it worries him. There are some small villages, a few groups of nomads, but these are organized men with weapons, and they settle in caves. (It would be so easy to take care of them, he knows. So easy to creep in at night and surprise them, to rip and tear until bodies litter the floor. He's done it before - but he came here to stop doing that.)
He's become used to the explosions and lights in the night. (It stirs something in the back of his mind, burnt-out buildings, the shriek of shells, but the memories are dim.) The camps are good for salvage, he's discovered, and man-made goods come in handy. He's already taken several large bags of rice from the caves and taken them back to his storage; rice helps him make the most of meat and stretch his diet out. Now he's loading up a pack with smaller rations and blankets; a few of them are already full. In his wake, he leaves a trail of wrecked weapons - every time he finds a gun next to a body, he crumples the muzzle by squeezing it in one paw. He has strong feelings about guns in his territory - he doesn't know if these could hurt him, but he doesn't want to find out, either.
He hears footsteps in the cavern, and his ears swivel in the direction of the noise. These are heavier than most humans', and they make a strange metallic noise against the rock. He crouches, tensed to spring, his tail lashing around his ankles.]
[ "hold off the hounds for like fifteen more minutes tops. i'll be cleared out by then," tony is telling rhodey over the comm link inside the iron man helmet. "i have plans tonight, and they involve less generals and more hot tu–oof!"
the sensors pick up the second presence the moment he turns the corner, but too late: massive bulk barrels into him and knocks him down. the armor clangs heavily against the cavern floor. tony, for his part, stares up wide-eyed at the lion's face growling at his mask.
"tony?" rhodey calls.
tony keeps staring.
that's him. he's real.
"tony!"
"yup, roger that," tony gasps. "fifteen and i'm out. bye."
he ends the call.
the lion-man, all olympic-weightlifter seven feet of him, has him pinned by the upper arms. tony can still use the repulsors by swiveling his wrists, and while he can't break the lion-man's grip (not even with the thrusters, tony figures; he remembers iron monger's strength dragging him down), he has a wide arsenal of other tools to harm or stun the thing enough to escape.
but he's not attacking. and he saved me.
even if the lion-man could break through the armor, which tony doubts, not with the improvements he's made (he feels invincible), tony doesn't think he'd be harmed so long as he poses no threat. he relaxes. ]
[He bares fangs longer than a man's hand, his golden eyes narrowed and his whiskers bristling. Nice kitty, indeed. But the man in the suit - at least, he assumes there's a man in there - doesn't seem inclined to harm him. He's suspicious as hell, but he relents enough to let him up.]
No, [he growls in response.] I'm not a nice kitty.
[But the man speaks English - American English - and he's obviously the one who's been clearing out the camps. He might be a potential threat, but he doesn't appear to be an enemy, not at first glance. His gaze travels up and down the suit - still prone on the floor - and he dismisses him and goes back to rummaging through the supplies.]
[ iron man heaves himself up, knees bent and one elbow on them, leaning back on his hand. tony watches first the hud, fascinated, as it feeds him information and then the lion-man himself. there's no known (available) record, not even a reported or rumored sighting of a humanoid lion before. could there be more like him? a whole tribe, hiding under humanity's collective noses?
there's still a job to finish, tony reminds himself. they both need to get out, and soon. iron man clanks into a stand. ] Not with the Ten Rings, are you? 'Cause I'd hate to give PETA a reason to ride my ass.
[ the water reflects himself back at him, complete with his annoyed frown. tony stands submerged up to his chest on the edge of the pool's deep end. he's finally addressing this little ... problem of his. he's iron man, right? his head and face being underwater should mean nothing. what if lina wants to go swimming sometime? he doesn't want to freak her out like he did simba. (he enjoyed their date a lot. when they got to his house, they ended up drinking wine and talking the whole time. she was a steadfast debater. after she left, the good feeling, while less pronounced, lingered, unlike when he leaves some random girl[s] in his bed and the good feeling evaporates.) he wants to be able to enjoy the water like he used to. come the spring and summer months, what, is he gonna avoid surfing because he's spooked by wiping out? no. he's tony stark. he's...
tony huffs and bounces on the balls of his feet to hype himself up. the waves crack apart his reflection, the lights from underneath refracting in broken lines. this is as far as he's made it, despite being drawn to leaping into the deep end first thing. but here he goes now. here he goes–
he's barely under for a second before his legs and arms jerk him back up. tony swims over to the pool edge and rests his arms on it, spreading a puddle on the concrete, gulping air like he's out of it. his hair drips in his face and the reactor sits too heavily in his chest, but there's no harsh arabic in his ears, no jolts of electricity surging through him. not really, at least. ] Okay, that wasn't so bad, [ he gasps. ] Take two. [ breathe. ] One... two...
[ with a deep breath, tony shoves himself down with the heels of his palms under the lip of the edge and his fingers clutched over the top. he's eerily still, until his hands curl into tight fists and his arms stretch straighter, forcing him deeper under. ]
[He's heading back to his room after dinner when the light reflecting from the pool catches his eye. It's strange to see something like that at this hour, so he pokes his head into the vacant guest room to see what's going on. Tony's the only other person there, so it should be safe.
He watches a couple of attempts, enough to reassure himself that Tony isn't trying to drown himself or something stupid like that and he doesn't need to rush out there immediately to save him. Which is good, because he definitely can't do chest compressions without shattering Tony's ribcage.
After about the fifth try, he pushes the door open and pads outside to sit by the side of the pool.]
Good thing the water's heated, [he says mildly when Tony surfaces next. Sure, Malibu isn't exactly cold, but a pool at night still isn't a pleasant place without a heater.] I don't know if I could figure out how to make chicken soup.
Jesus! [ tony hisses in surprise, flapping backwards in the water, his heart rabbiting. eyes shut, he practices the breathing yinsen taught him again. there's no threat here, just simba. even if simba knows about this weakness and can easily overpower him with weight alone and hold him under–
he's making progress. tony can swim around underwater. the moment his lungs ache even the tiniest bit, though, he kicks to the surface. he can hold his breath for longer, but his hindbrain starts yelling, mayday! mayday! staying under after that point requires concentrated effort.
how long was simba watching, anyway? ] I'm not torturing myself, if that's what you're thinking, [ tony grouses. he's getting tired of being called crazy. ] This is just ... exposure therapy.
[That's it, a hum that rumbles in his chest. He doesn't know the first damn thing about therapy - the kind Tony's referring to - but he's fairly certain that's not what a professional would recommend. On the other hand, he knows instinctively how hard it is to admit to a weakness, even when you're trying to overcome it.]
Suppose that's a more literal method of drowning your problems.
[Not that he's noticed anything about Tony's drinking habits. Of course not.]
[ tony glares and breaststrokes to the shallow end, where he can at least sit on the steps with some dignity while he waits for simba to leave. contrary to popular belief, he doesn't always need an audience. this is definitely one of those times. simba probably just needs to report whatever next thing is too small for him, which turns out might be the house itself? tony supposes the gion needs to exercise somehow. ]
Cabin fever already? [ he sits on a step in the water and slicks back his hair. ] Pretty much the whole promontory. Secluded beach, too. Stay on the southern side of the hill and you'll be fine.
[He and Tony settle into a comfortable pattern of almost-domesticity. At Thanksgiving, he watches Tony enjoy a full meal with all the trimmings; he's happy with the lion's share (haha) of the turkey, which is reduced to a pile of bones by the end of the meal. Memories stir deep in the recesses of his brain, but nothing concrete, nothing he can latch onto.
After Thanksgiving, Tony surprises him with a new mattress - it's not necessary, he tries to tell him, he's perfectly happy with his arrangement on the floor - and although he has to stay out of the way while it's installed, he has to admit, it is pretty nice. And finally he gets pants, and even though Tony has to custom tailor the holes for his tail, god, it's nice to wear something other than a bedsheet or a cobbled together loincloth.
Though it's December, it's still southern California; there's a slight chill in the air at times, but not one that he feels - and nothing compared to the mountains where he'd been living. He stretches his muscles with a run along the beach, the roar of ocean waves in his ears, the crunch of sand under his paws. At one point, he shucks his pants briefly and runs on all fours for a few minutes - while he clings to humanity as much as possible, he can't deny a certain satisfaction in really running at a speed no real lion could manage, the wind streaming through his mane. (He'll have to use conditioner to get the tangles out later.)
Once he puts his pants back on, he keeps jogging along the cliffs, in the grassier areas of Tony's property. He's a little uncertain of how long he should stay out here, worried someone might see him somehow - Tony's assured him the closest neighbors are nowhere near close enough to see him, even accidentally, but a well-honed sense of paranoia is what's kept him alive all these years, and that's why he loops around and heads back to the house once he's managed to shake the worst of the cooped up feeling from his bones.]
[ "funny how you return just when your office hours are ending," pepper muses over the call, her photo in a corner of the hud. she at least sounds in a good mood since his recent stint in germany gained good press and better business. let that be a lesson to any competitors who think they can outmatch the armor in anything, tony thinks. this particular bozo thought his jet pack could out-maneuver iron man. puh-lease.
"i know. it's tragic," he says while flying. he passes over a yacht, having dropped lower the closer to home he's gotten, dume point and his house growing larger on the horizon. "who else can simon bother about budget approvals if not me?"
"coincidentally, me," pepper drawls.
the hud alerts him first: it frames simba jogging across the grounds and zooms the picture in beside pepper's photo. the gion's been looking better these past few days. more spring in his step. mane's even got a bit of luster to it.
"–be up at seven," he hears pepper say, but he's already veering to the other side of the house, where simba is, not straight into the garage like he planned. what's the harm in saying hi?
"you keep me on track, potts," he praises, a little emptily considering his change of plans just now. bless her, she tries. "nine it is."
"seven, mr. stark," she says, a smile in her voice.
he agrees to disagree and they end the call amicably as iron man descends. simba slows and stops at his approach. tony circles around once to cool the jets and scan the area to be safe, for the gion's sake. it comes up clear; no one can view them even if they were watching his return. iron man flies down, reverses the stabilizers for a stop, blowing up dust and bits of rock, and hovers at a safe distance to the ground, in front of simba. ]
Thank God you're here, [ he greets through the mask before the jets stop blasting. ] I have something of utmost importance to ask, and only you, at this moment, can answer it. It's a big one.
[Tony's been gone for a day or so doing Iron Man things, but he's used to that by now, and JARVIS is good enough company. Right now, he's teaching him about apps and the other things his tablet can be used for besides reading, and the AI doesn't delve deep into jargon the way Tony tends to. But he also enjoys the human company when Tony's at home, the way they comfortably banter with each other, or just hang out and watch something. Sometimes they just sit on the couch or Tony's bed while Tony has a drink, sometimes he coaxes Tony into eating something. (He's also getting better at cooking, courtesy of JARVIS.) He's even watched a couple basketball games with Tony on his inordinately large TV.
So by now, he knows Tony well enough to guess at what he's going to ask, even without being able to see his face or read his body language. But he raises his brows anyway, pretending to be surprised.]
[ prior to this, around the time tony finished modifying simba's pants, tony had his hair cut–about an inch off his bangs and elsewhere trimmed closer to his head to help with the sweaty, curly mess it became after hours in the armor, for convenience's sake more than anything. if commented on, he said something offhandedly about the helmet hair to simba, but mainly asked if he thought lina would like it.
so maybe it comes as no surprise when, now after landing and with a deep breath, tony removes the helmet, combs his fingers through his flattened bangs, and with grave concern asks, ] How's my hair?
[He blinks. That's...not strictly what he expected, but it's not a real surprise when dealing with someone like Tony, who's vain about his looks. Problem is, he's personally not the kind of guy who's great at judging things like that.
(The question itself stirs echoes in his memories, the scent of pomade, the feeling that he knew someone who used to ask him that regularly. But the wisps of memory are ethereal things, slipping away as quickly as they'd come.)
Dragging himself back into the present, he eyes Tony's hair. It's still sweaty, but not as unruly as it was before he got it cut. Probably acceptable.]
[The next couple of weeks pass fairly uneventfully. Tony's in and out on a typically irregular schedule, the weather dips down to something that might almost be considered chilly to someone who hasn't spent decades in the mountains, Dum-E helps him string Christmas lights in the workshop one night while Tony tinkers. He tries some simple side dishes - cooked vegetables, mostly - and they presumably aren't awful, because Tony eats them.
On Christmas day, they watch a movie that Tony insists is traditional - something about a kid and his family. He can't really tell why it's a classic, but he's obscurely pleased when Tony relaxes enough to put his feet in his lap during the movie. After Tony leaves for his party, he watches some black and white movie with Jimmy Stewart. It's no Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, but it still strikes an emotional chord with him. He's quiet and thoughtful, and he goes to bed before Tony gets home.
The next week is pretty much the same. Tony occasionally touches his shoulder or arm, and he gives a couple of gentle nudges or friendly claps on the shoulder in return. He feels like something else has thawed between them, but maybe Tony's just feeling festive because of the season.
"Don't wait up," Tony tells him before he leaves for a New Year's Eve party - and he doesn't. He doesn't even bother to stay up till midnight; one year is much like every other to him. When Tony gets home, he's curled up in bed sleeping.]
[ deep into the night, jarvis suddenly announces, "my sincerest apologies, but mr. stark has requested your presence. it is 2:13 a.m. on january 1st, 2009..." the usual routine upon waking follows. ]
[One ear twitches at the smooth British accent, and then he cracks an eyelid open. JARVIS keeps talking - the weather forecast as usual, like he cares what the weather is at 2 am - and eventually informs him that Tony is in the game room. He eyes his nest of blankets longingly, but eventually levers himself up out of the warmth (although he does grab a lighter blanket to take with him, less for temperature regulation than for comfort).
He pads softly through the halls, catching the faint sound of music well before he gets to the game room.]
Did you bring the party with you? [he asks sardonically as he enters. The tip of his tail twitches back and forth, but he's otherwise relaxed.]
[ tony brightens and opens his arms in welcome. he's behind the bar counter, sleeves unbuttoned and folded up; collar unbuttoned, too, down to the reactor. a flute of fizzy champagne on the counter matches the one in his hand. the music–instrumental and jazzy, with strong percussion and plenty of brass–comes from jarvis's hidden speakers at a volume just low enough for conversation. ]
Hey-o! There he is. There's my favorite musclevore. [ not quite what tony intended to say, says the confused pinch of his brow, but he quickly fixes it with another smile. ] Happy New Year!
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
for fireretardant
He knows that after admitting his feelings to Tony, the logical next step is a date, but, at the same time, that feels too weird to him. Dates are for getting to know someone, and there's no one he knows better than Tony Stark. (Because he's kind of an idiot sometimes, it doesn't occur to him that there are other reasons for dates, that maybe the woman he's trying to romance would, in fact, like to be romanced.)
Maybe he lets the topic fall by the wayside for a week or so because he doesn't actually know what to do and he's overcome by sheer awkwardness, and maybe that means he ends up not talking to Tony again till they're suited up and fighting some AIM goons who think that souping up zoo animals is somehow a good idea.
It's not, and although they get most of the menagerie wrangled pretty quickly, Steve ends up disarmed and cornered by a bear that is way bigger than it should be. He catches a flash of scarlet out of the corner of his eye and prays that it's Tony; though he might not admit it, there are times that technology comes in handy.]
Mind lending a hand here, Stark?
[The bear swipes at him, and Steve dodges the paw, tackling it in the stomach. It feels like tackling a furry brick wall.]
no subject
Plus, it had been fun to test his skill with chopsticks.
Now, though, he's faced with the heavy tension post-dinner and pre-whatever it was they were going to get up to. Steve hadn't been entirely forthcoming about his desires, but he's stated them later rather than never. As Tony drives them away from the restaurant and towards Stark Tower, he contemplates his potential courses of action. ]
Since they didn't have many desserts to pick from, want to come up for a nightcap?
no subject
These days, there are more than enough people vying for attention, but they all view him as some kind of status symbol, or else they're more interested in the myth than the man. Steve thinks (hopes) that Tony might be the exception to that - and if it turns out he isn't, well, on one hand, he'll have wasted a lot of time nursing a stupid crush, but on the other, at least he'll have picked someone good for his first time. (Assuming the rumors are true, anyway.)
Dinner's bled some of his nerves away, but Steve's still hyper-aware of everything, still half-hard with anticipation. He hopes he isn't imagining the almost palpable tension between them, that it isn't all one-sided.]
Depends on what kinda nightcap it is. [He tries to sound suave and seductive, but that's apparently the kind of thing that works better if your last name is Stark; Steve just sounds like the awkward dumbass from Brooklyn who thought fondue was an innuendo. He coughs and shifts in his seat.] I mean, I'd like that. [And he means it; even if nothing else comes of this, it would be nice to at least get closer to Tony when they aren't on Avengers business. God knows he could use an actual friend or two.]
no subject
So their situations aren't exactly the same, but they can relate to one another. It's the same phenomenon of actors dating within the industry to find someone who understands the pressures of fame and the stress of finding someone trustworthy to date. For superheroes, there was the added layer of trying to keep their identities hidden for the lucky few that manage to keep their real lives a secret. Tony had fucked himself over there, but he doesn't regret it for the most part. He wonders if Steve ever wishes he could bury his connection with Captain America in exchange for a normal life, though.
All of this is to say that the date is nice. They draw looks, of course, but by the point in his life, Tony's become practiced in the art of not acting out in public. He can't escape the playboy title he'd held for years, so now he just tries not to feed into it if possible. It's not entirely easy when he's in public with a hot young thing like Steve Rogers, but he manages to keep his hands to himself at least. ]
Whatever kind you want. [ If Steve wants to try his hand at cavalier seduction, Tony is more than happy to humor him. He doesn't do a bad job of it, either, but he's so earnest that he can't commit and instantly adds a more genuine reply to Tony's offer. It makes him smile because honestly, Tony doesn't want to date another version of himself when honest interest is much more appreciated. ] How about we start with the standard definition and go from there?
no subject
(Though if they'd had privacy - squeezed into a booth at a hole in the wall place, perhaps - he might have ventured a touch or two. So it's arguably better this way.)
Earnest and awkward he might be, but Steve isn't as much of a squeaky clean boy scout type as everyone thinks - as evidenced by his willingness (eventually, anyway) to ease into more risque texts to Tony. Part of that is a serum-enhanced sex drive that's been repressed for far too long, but part of that is that he simply isn't as naive as everyone wants to believe. Sure, all of his knowledge might be second-hand, but it exists. He's even done a little more digging in preparation for this, although delving too far into that particular corner of the internet gets scary fast.]
Gonna break open a bottle of the good stuff for me? [Steve's smile is a little wry.] 'Cause I'll warn you, I might not be very appreciative. Before the serum, I couldn't even manage a glass of beer. I had a few drinks during the war, but it wasn't anything to write home about. Cheap stuff, usually.
no subject
Parking the car, he cuts the engine and looks over at Steve with a much more genuine smile. Tony is a master of hiding his emotions for the sake of his outward image, but in the safety of his own car in his own building, he can let some of that melt away. He's also learning that he's safe to do so around Steve. ] We don't have to drink, though. I've got ice cream, or movies, or a California king bed.
(no subject)
(no subject)
tale as old as time...
tony glances up from the ruined mark iii faceplate he's working with. on another monitor, beside the one with the mark iii model, reads the result of the analysis: "no identifiable match found." below the words lies the dna readout of the strands of golden brown fur that tony picked off his clothes a month ago during the helicopter ride out of that afghan desert and promptly forgot about until now. in his defense, building the armor consumed his thoughts, then with everything that happened after...
tony frowns. he's not equipped for this sort of analysis, knowledge-wise. "forward the data to dr. alan douglas. see if he gets any bites, literal or otherwise," he tells jarvis.
dr. alan douglas does not, in fact, get any bites. the dna of the fur is unrecognized anywhere in the world's zoological records. a mad scientist's amalgamation of human male and lion is the best douglas can surmise. "do you have any further information for me?" he asks curiously over the video call.
tony thinks of the hazy dream of a lion-man's face as he lay dehydrated and injured after exploding his way out of the ten rings's capture; the dream of soft fur against his cheek, of a clawed hand (paw?) so big it engulfed his entire head as it helped him drink. "... nope!" he says, and that ends that.
with a company to raise from the ashes and terrorists and weapons to turn into ashes, tony shelves the mystery of the lion man. but the possibility has wormed its way in and nestled, a quiet constant in the back of his head: what if it wasn't a dream? when he's talking up the investors about the company's new direction, what if? when he's detecting and removing old land mines in the mark iv, what if? what if?
there's someone else out there who saved me.
he happens to return to that area as iron man, a few miles from where he was held, farther into pakistan and in the pamir mountains. his mission is to eradicate the cache of weapons he located in another ten rings cell. it's night, so the explosions make for a spectacular light show. the ten rings are completely helpless against the armor. though this is a different cell, and each cell operates independently, tony rains fire down on them with prejudice.
once every terrorist is either dead or has fled, tony checks the site for remaining caches. he'll need to sweep all nearby caverns, too.
he gets to work. ]
no subject
The man he finds at the edge of the desert interrupts his routine. Carefully, he nurses him back to health, brings him food and water. He keeps his distance, makes sure he's still in a state of delirium or half-consciousness when he's cleaning his wounds or coaxing him to drink. Once the man's healthy enough to move on, he carries him to a different cave while he's asleep, leaves him there like he's a wounded baby bird he's setting free.
And, like the birds, he doesn't expect to see the man again. He puts him from his mind and goes back to his solitary life in the mountains. Men have been more active at the fringe of his territory lately, and it worries him. There are some small villages, a few groups of nomads, but these are organized men with weapons, and they settle in caves. (It would be so easy to take care of them, he knows. So easy to creep in at night and surprise them, to rip and tear until bodies litter the floor. He's done it before - but he came here to stop doing that.)
He's become used to the explosions and lights in the night. (It stirs something in the back of his mind, burnt-out buildings, the shriek of shells, but the memories are dim.) The camps are good for salvage, he's discovered, and man-made goods come in handy. He's already taken several large bags of rice from the caves and taken them back to his storage; rice helps him make the most of meat and stretch his diet out. Now he's loading up a pack with smaller rations and blankets; a few of them are already full. In his wake, he leaves a trail of wrecked weapons - every time he finds a gun next to a body, he crumples the muzzle by squeezing it in one paw. He has strong feelings about guns in his territory - he doesn't know if these could hurt him, but he doesn't want to find out, either.
He hears footsteps in the cavern, and his ears swivel in the direction of the noise. These are heavier than most humans', and they make a strange metallic noise against the rock. He crouches, tensed to spring, his tail lashing around his ankles.]
no subject
the sensors pick up the second presence the moment he turns the corner, but too late: massive bulk barrels into him and knocks him down. the armor clangs heavily against the cavern floor. tony, for his part, stares up wide-eyed at the lion's face growling at his mask.
"tony?" rhodey calls.
tony keeps staring.
that's him. he's real.
"tony!"
"yup, roger that," tony gasps. "fifteen and i'm out. bye."
he ends the call.
the lion-man, all olympic-weightlifter seven feet of him, has him pinned by the upper arms. tony can still use the repulsors by swiveling his wrists, and while he can't break the lion-man's grip (not even with the thrusters, tony figures; he remembers iron monger's strength dragging him down), he has a wide arsenal of other tools to harm or stun the thing enough to escape.
but he's not attacking. and he saved me.
even if the lion-man could break through the armor, which tony doubts, not with the improvements he's made (he feels invincible), tony doesn't think he'd be harmed so long as he poses no threat. he relaxes. ]
Uh, nice kitty?
no subject
No, [he growls in response.] I'm not a nice kitty.
[But the man speaks English - American English - and he's obviously the one who's been clearing out the camps. He might be a potential threat, but he doesn't appear to be an enemy, not at first glance. His gaze travels up and down the suit - still prone on the floor - and he dismisses him and goes back to rummaging through the supplies.]
no subject
[ iron man heaves himself up, knees bent and one elbow on them, leaning back on his hand. tony watches first the hud, fascinated, as it feeds him information and then the lion-man himself. there's no known (available) record, not even a reported or rumored sighting of a humanoid lion before. could there be more like him? a whole tribe, hiding under humanity's collective noses?
there's still a job to finish, tony reminds himself. they both need to get out, and soon. iron man clanks into a stand. ] Not with the Ten Rings, are you? 'Cause I'd hate to give PETA a reason to ride my ass.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
no subject
tony huffs and bounces on the balls of his feet to hype himself up. the waves crack apart his reflection, the lights from underneath refracting in broken lines. this is as far as he's made it, despite being drawn to leaping into the deep end first thing. but here he goes now. here he goes–
he's barely under for a second before his legs and arms jerk him back up. tony swims over to the pool edge and rests his arms on it, spreading a puddle on the concrete, gulping air like he's out of it. his hair drips in his face and the reactor sits too heavily in his chest, but there's no harsh arabic in his ears, no jolts of electricity surging through him. not really, at least. ] Okay, that wasn't so bad, [ he gasps. ] Take two. [ breathe. ] One... two...
[ with a deep breath, tony shoves himself down with the heels of his palms under the lip of the edge and his fingers clutched over the top. he's eerily still, until his hands curl into tight fists and his arms stretch straighter, forcing him deeper under. ]
no subject
He watches a couple of attempts, enough to reassure himself that Tony isn't trying to drown himself or something stupid like that and he doesn't need to rush out there immediately to save him. Which is good, because he definitely can't do chest compressions without shattering Tony's ribcage.
After about the fifth try, he pushes the door open and pads outside to sit by the side of the pool.]
Good thing the water's heated, [he says mildly when Tony surfaces next. Sure, Malibu isn't exactly cold, but a pool at night still isn't a pleasant place without a heater.] I don't know if I could figure out how to make chicken soup.
no subject
he's making progress. tony can swim around underwater. the moment his lungs ache even the tiniest bit, though, he kicks to the surface. he can hold his breath for longer, but his hindbrain starts yelling, mayday! mayday! staying under after that point requires concentrated effort.
how long was simba watching, anyway? ] I'm not torturing myself, if that's what you're thinking, [ tony grouses. he's getting tired of being called crazy. ] This is just ... exposure therapy.
no subject
[That's it, a hum that rumbles in his chest. He doesn't know the first damn thing about therapy - the kind Tony's referring to - but he's fairly certain that's not what a professional would recommend. On the other hand, he knows instinctively how hard it is to admit to a weakness, even when you're trying to overcome it.]
Suppose that's a more literal method of drowning your problems.
[Not that he's noticed anything about Tony's drinking habits. Of course not.]
Hey, how much land do you have out here?
no subject
Cabin fever already? [ he sits on a step in the water and slicks back his hair. ] Pretty much the whole promontory. Secluded beach, too. Stay on the southern side of the hill and you'll be fine.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
no subject
After Thanksgiving, Tony surprises him with a new mattress - it's not necessary, he tries to tell him, he's perfectly happy with his arrangement on the floor - and although he has to stay out of the way while it's installed, he has to admit, it is pretty nice. And finally he gets pants, and even though Tony has to custom tailor the holes for his tail, god, it's nice to wear something other than a bedsheet or a cobbled together loincloth.
Though it's December, it's still southern California; there's a slight chill in the air at times, but not one that he feels - and nothing compared to the mountains where he'd been living. He stretches his muscles with a run along the beach, the roar of ocean waves in his ears, the crunch of sand under his paws. At one point, he shucks his pants briefly and runs on all fours for a few minutes - while he clings to humanity as much as possible, he can't deny a certain satisfaction in really running at a speed no real lion could manage, the wind streaming through his mane. (He'll have to use conditioner to get the tangles out later.)
Once he puts his pants back on, he keeps jogging along the cliffs, in the grassier areas of Tony's property. He's a little uncertain of how long he should stay out here, worried someone might see him somehow - Tony's assured him the closest neighbors are nowhere near close enough to see him, even accidentally, but a well-honed sense of paranoia is what's kept him alive all these years, and that's why he loops around and heads back to the house once he's managed to shake the worst of the cooped up feeling from his bones.]
no subject
"i know. it's tragic," he says while flying. he passes over a yacht, having dropped lower the closer to home he's gotten, dume point and his house growing larger on the horizon. "who else can simon bother about budget approvals if not me?"
"coincidentally, me," pepper drawls.
the hud alerts him first: it frames simba jogging across the grounds and zooms the picture in beside pepper's photo. the gion's been looking better these past few days. more spring in his step. mane's even got a bit of luster to it.
"–be up at seven," he hears pepper say, but he's already veering to the other side of the house, where simba is, not straight into the garage like he planned. what's the harm in saying hi?
"you keep me on track, potts," he praises, a little emptily considering his change of plans just now. bless her, she tries. "nine it is."
"seven, mr. stark," she says, a smile in her voice.
he agrees to disagree and they end the call amicably as iron man descends. simba slows and stops at his approach. tony circles around once to cool the jets and scan the area to be safe, for the gion's sake. it comes up clear; no one can view them even if they were watching his return. iron man flies down, reverses the stabilizers for a stop, blowing up dust and bits of rock, and hovers at a safe distance to the ground, in front of simba. ]
Thank God you're here, [ he greets through the mask before the jets stop blasting. ] I have something of utmost importance to ask, and only you, at this moment, can answer it. It's a big one.
no subject
So by now, he knows Tony well enough to guess at what he's going to ask, even without being able to see his face or read his body language. But he raises his brows anyway, pretending to be surprised.]
Oh? What's that?
no subject
so maybe it comes as no surprise when, now after landing and with a deep breath, tony removes the helmet, combs his fingers through his flattened bangs, and with grave concern asks, ] How's my hair?
no subject
(The question itself stirs echoes in his memories, the scent of pomade, the feeling that he knew someone who used to ask him that regularly. But the wisps of memory are ethereal things, slipping away as quickly as they'd come.)
Dragging himself back into the present, he eyes Tony's hair. It's still sweaty, but not as unruly as it was before he got it cut. Probably acceptable.]
It's fine?
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
no subject
On Christmas day, they watch a movie that Tony insists is traditional - something about a kid and his family. He can't really tell why it's a classic, but he's obscurely pleased when Tony relaxes enough to put his feet in his lap during the movie. After Tony leaves for his party, he watches some black and white movie with Jimmy Stewart. It's no Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, but it still strikes an emotional chord with him. He's quiet and thoughtful, and he goes to bed before Tony gets home.
The next week is pretty much the same. Tony occasionally touches his shoulder or arm, and he gives a couple of gentle nudges or friendly claps on the shoulder in return. He feels like something else has thawed between them, but maybe Tony's just feeling festive because of the season.
"Don't wait up," Tony tells him before he leaves for a New Year's Eve party - and he doesn't. He doesn't even bother to stay up till midnight; one year is much like every other to him. When Tony gets home, he's curled up in bed sleeping.]
no subject
no subject
He pads softly through the halls, catching the faint sound of music well before he gets to the game room.]
Did you bring the party with you? [he asks sardonically as he enters. The tip of his tail twitches back and forth, but he's otherwise relaxed.]
no subject
Hey-o! There he is. There's my favorite musclevore. [ not quite what tony intended to say, says the confused pinch of his brow, but he quickly fixes it with another smile. ] Happy New Year!
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)