Aftershock

The Post-Credit Scenes

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Steve

Six months later

I'm not sure if I'll ever be able to fully predict Tony's next move, though I can say with decent certainty that I've gotten better at rolling with the punches. He has a way of keeping me on my toes. (Exhibit A: the signed copy of The Life of Iron Man he gift-wrapped and hand-delivered to me the other day. It's now sitting on my coffee table as promised.)

I've been staying with him for a while as his leg heals and he constructs a workable prosthetic. I tried to tell him that rest should be his first priority, not that it means much to him; I can't keep him lying down for any length of time unless I crawl in bed with him. For the sake of both of our productive adult lives, I've taken to lending a hand in his workshop. Passing him tools, angling the light, kissing the back of his neck when he hunches over something tiny...he seems to welcome the help as well as my distractions.

It took a few prototypes for Tony to settle on a design that he's satisfied with—a fleeting sentiment, anyway— and for the swelling to go down enough for him to start constructing a more long-term model. He's nearly done, save a little tightness in the knee joint that puts some extra spring in his step, literally and metaphorically. He revels in the extra mobility regardless.

As for myself, when I'm not hovering around his station, I fill the time by helping him pack. I learned quickly that out of the two of us, I'm the only one that packs with any semblance of organization, so I took on the role of head supervisor. Helping him cull, organize, fold...and scolding him when he throws a bunch of junk into a box without batting an eye.

It works. We work.

Somehow it's still surreal. Especially when it finally comes time to start moving things into the tower; Happy's been managing it in Tony's absence, so it looks largely the same as it did last time I saw it, though I can't say I ever felt more welcome than I do now as I'm helping my boyfriend rearrange his furniture.

"How does it feel?" I ask, perching on the arm of his leather couch.

Tony's spinning in place, arms outstretched, drinking in the familiar decor. He nods his approval once he completes a full rotation. "Not bad, not bad. A little empty, but we can take care of that pretty easily, no?"

I raise an eyebrow. "'We', huh?"

"Hey, you didn't think you could get out of unpacking, did you?"

I wrap my arms around his waist and tug him close. "Of course not. You'd never unpack anything if I didn't oversee it."

"See? You know me so well."

I laugh and plant a couple kisses in quick succession—first on his lips, and then a couple on his cheek and neck for good measure. He hums and rakes his blunt fingernails through my hair, which is something he's taken a liking to doing lately. He likes that it's grown out a bit in the last few months, and seems personally offended if I mention my need for a trim.

I draw back to look at his face. For the first time in quite a while, he seems relaxed. At peace. Radiating calm satisfaction. "What's next on the docket?"

"Takeout: a reward for a hard day's work. I was thinking Antones?"

"Antones doesn't do takeout."

"Oh, what a shame. Guess we'll have to go out for a nice sit-down dinner, then."

"Mhm, truly disappointing."