Secrets Don't Make Friends

Chapter 8: The Henvengers

Chapter Eight:

Tony awoke gradually to the sound of birdsong.

A soft morning breeze ruffled the ends of his unkempt hair, as the warm touch of sunlight kissed the bare skin of his shoulder before moving gradually up to his face. Tony groaned, eyes shut tight, and turned on to his stomach and buried his face into the soft feather pillow. He breathed deeply, a contented smile flirting on the corner of his lips, as he inhaled the musky scent of Alpha.

Tony could not remember the last time he had woken up so peacefully, or had felt so rested. It was as if for a brief interlude he did not have to worry about any of the things that were weighing him down, grinding him away until he felt like soon there would be nothing left. He could take all of his worries and all of his pain and hang it up at the door, like doffing a hat or a cloak.

Right now he was too sleepy to think or to worry. He pulled the down comforter over his shoulders, luxuriating in the warm cocoon he was making for himself. He paused, his brain firing awake finally, as he realized he was not in a room he had never been in before. This was not the couch, his favored sleeping space, nor was it his room at the end of the hall.

Opening sleep fogged eyes, Tony blinked away the cobwebs of sleep and lifted his head from the pillow he had buried it in.

The room was bright, the windows thrown open wide to let in the summer morning air. The breeze ruffled the long white curtains, making them dance across the hardwood floor. There was a well worn rug in the center of the room, a soft blue and gray, a dresser against the far wall next to a bookcase that was bursting with books.

To the left by the windows was a small desk. Art paper and charcoal, water color paints and paintbrushes, were lined up neatly on its surface. Tony swallowed thickly, his gaze darting to the bed beside him. There was an ident in the pillow next to him, the covers on the bed rucked about. The bed itself was large, king sized, with a navy blue coverlet and white, soft, sheets. Perhaps the most important feature was that it smelt overwhelmingly like Steve.

Tony bolted upright, his heart in his throat, the covers falling to his waist.

He looked down and breathed a sigh of relief to find himself still clothed in his wifebeater and the pair of Steve's sweatpants that he had let him borrow when he hurt his ribs weeks ago. Tony didn't have a pair of sleep pants because, usually, he preferred to sleep in the buff. But that was at his home in New York or Malibu with a state of the art security system that would put the white house to shame. And did. Hands down. Rather than sleep in his boxers Tony had pilfered Steve's clothes shamelessly.

A small thump from the room next door drew his attention, as did the sound of muffled voices. Shaking off the embarrassment of falling asleep in Steve's arms last night after a mental breakdown and subsequent panic attack, Tony shucked the covers off of him and swung his legs determinedly over the side of the bed. He took one last look around the room he had never been allowed in before.

It was bright, simple, with clean lines. His gaze was drawn to the desk. Unable to help himself, Tony was nothing if not curious, he edged close to the desk until he found himself standing in front of it. He could still hear the gentle murmur of voices next door, the soft creak of the floor as things were moved around. He knew he didn't have much time and yet... his fingers found their way to the polished wood surface of the desk, ghosting over the utensils that Steve had touched and used and cared for. His fingertips dragged across the stack of paper, fanning through the pages, curiosity peaking as he found sketches and drawings in Steve's steady hand.

Tony remembered that Steve had been good at art in school.

How could he forget?

Shame heated his cheeks as he recalled the many times he had held up one of Steve's prized sketches and torn them into confetti right in front of him.