* * * *
His plan would have probably worked better if he had stopped drinking at some point.
He remembered, albeit a bit vaguely, that he had put the armor on, dancing next to DJ-What's-His-Name, before ceremoniously tumbling off the stage and landing straight on his face. There had been scotch involved somewhere in between. A certain amount of scotch, and Tony didn't remember much afterwards. He only recalled being dragged away by two strong pairs of arms. Then there had been a pack of ice at his temple and ever since, he has been sitting suit-less on one of the couches on the far side of the room. He had no idea what time it was or what he must looked like—the party was still definitely going on around him, though. The music was too fucking loud and too fucking much and couldn't he just die now? If there was ever a good time for dying, it would be now. Now would be brilliant.
"I'm going to sit with him, you go have fun," a very female and very resigned voice said.
"I don't need to–"
"Go, Steve." The fierceness behind Pepper's voice left no room for discussions. It never did. "He just needs a second. No need for your night to be ruined."
He heard a deep sigh and then it was just the two of them. He leaned to the side, breathing in Pepper's sweet scent and nuzzling her neck. "I looove your freckles, have I told you that?"
That... probably had not been what Steve had had in mind by 'not leaving anything unsaid', but it was the thought that counted, right? At least he'd come clean in the freckle-department.
A long sigh shuddered through Pepper's lips. "You mean, before today? No. Today? About twenty-three times, Tony."
He waggled his brows suggestively. "I love them. They're preeettyyy."
She pursed her lips, moving forward until he was fully leaning against her, wrapping her free arm around his waist. He met her eyes tentatively, his lips quirking upwards into a grin. "I thought you were ignoring me."
"It's physically impossible to ignore you," she said softly.
"Good," he mumbled, settling in. It was so nice to be with her. Nice... and safe... and—not at all what he wanted.
God, this wasn't what he wanted.
His eyes darted over the crowd, focusing on Steve's every move. He was sitting at the bar, nursing a drink and talking to Rhodey of all people. They both had this extremely serious look going for them and Tony wanted to laugh, because he was so screwed if the three of them ever decided to team up on him.
He stared at Steve's back, always from afar and always at his back, and it was crazy. God, he knew this was crazy. He was dying, for fuck's sake. He couldn't fall in love now. His plan had been simple: get drunk, get courageous, and get closure. Tonight was supposed to be the night he settled all scores. He needed resolution; he needed solace... what he did not need was one more person he would disappoint by dying.
But he couldn't stop his eyes from drifting and couldn't tear them away from the prize at hand. The golden color of Steve's hair, the insane width of his shoulders, or anything that did everything to accentuate his masculinity and nothing to allegedly remind Tony that he was supposed to not even look at him.
Rather, his first thought was: I haven't had sex in months.
And that was the alcohol speaking—he was well aware of that. Sure, Steve had had his cock's attention from the start; but seeing him now, and running on both alcoholic confidence and the knowledge that he really had nothing left to lose, seemed to do little more than remind said part of his anatomy that it hadn't known any love in a long time—aside his left hand, maybe.
