Avengers Imagines

Don't Look Back (Pt. 3/6)

At the doors of Stark tower, Steve was verified in regard to his identity. He was also scanned for items he didn't even know was possible to conceal on one's person. Finished and satisfied with the ordeal, a certain disembodied voice guided him to the living room.

Situated there was Tony - or trying to be situated, more precisely - fluffing the cushions on the couch, shoving stuff out of sight and, of course, fixing his hair while he was at it.

"Sorry for dropping in unannounced. I was having a rough day." Now that the fog of hysteria had lifted, Steve could see how the situation was not the most ideal. Even if that were so, Tony did not let it show. Instead, he enveloped the distressed man's giant physique in his arms. "Bullshit. I'm always looking forward to seeing you."

Steve was warmed by the affectionate gesture. He quickly pecked the smaller man's head as he pulled away. "I can see that by how long it took for you to let me in."

"Oh, come on! I had to tidy the place up for when my boyfriend comes over." Tony justified, with a grin that ran from one ear to the other. He tried to guide Steve towards the open-floor kitchen, but Steve's mind had taken to the couch - more with the concept of comfort it presented than anything else. Also he was very distracted by the term Tony had used to refer to him. "Boyfriend, huh?"

Steve was seated on the couch, which was not what Tony wanted but there was hardly anything he could do about it. So he made the most nervous gesture a human being could make -he finger-gunned. "Okay, you stay there, I'm going to get you something to eat. You look like you've been chased by feral dogs."

"None taken." Steve watched Tony waltz over to the other side of the counters, into the kitchen. The way his frame of mind had changed by the virtue of that single person was surreal to him. He leaned back into the couch and felt something crinkle under the cushion behind him.

It was an old newspaper clipping. Steve smoothed it out and went over the headline. An image was illustrated below it. "Reminiscing, were we?"

"Huh?" Tony called out from the kitchen, his voice muffled. Steve read the large, bold letters inscribed on the paper aloud. "Stark family spends summer at lake house in Colorado."

"Where'd you find that?" From the inflection of Tony's voice, it was clear whatever had been in his mouth was reflexively spat out. Steve, on the other hand, was immersed in the grainy image printed on the newspaper - composed of three adults, two men and a woman, and one child, in the foreground of what he presumed to be the lake house. "Those your parents?"

"Uh-huh." Tony was right behind the couch, munching likely on the very food he had promised his boyfriend. Steve seemed not to notice, entirely preoccupied doting over a face in the picture he had managed to identify - younger than he was used to seeing but familiar all the same. "And that you?"

"Uh-huh." Tony reciprocated in the same monotonous manner. Steve craned his neck, flashing a dazzling smile. "You were so cute. I could just eat you up!"

"I was twenty-one. Now give me that!" Tony lunged forward but Steve was faster. He held the piece of paper at an arm's length, curiously pointing to the only unfamiliar face remaining. "And who's that?"

"The help." Tony groaned in defeat, collapsing on the couch. Steve scooted closer to him. "They asked for pictures of your help? Also, now that I'm thinking it through, you employed children?"

Tony leaned on Steve's shoulder, pulling the man's burly arm around him. "No, it's their child. We never wanted the help to feel lesser than us so we let them bring their families along on vacations and stuff. And my parents never minded it if any of the children got into the pictures."

"Just when I thought you were perfect already." Steve pulled the man in his arms closer, pressing his lips to his temple. The foreboding that had enveloped his soul seemed fleeting. Tony closed his eyes, relishing the contact. The air fell into placid silence, broken abruptly in a matter of a few seconds, by Tony jumping to his feet. "Damn you and your vile charms, Steve! I forgot I had pasta on the stove!"

Laughing like children, the two men sprinted for the kitchen. Thankfully, the pasta had not burned, or boiled over. In one swift motion, Tony turned off the burner and pulled out a knife from one of the drawers. "See, if you weren't rooting around in my stuff I would have had the tomatoes ready by now."

He chose a ripe tomato and proceeded to do what was meant to be chopping but Steve would beg to passionately disagree. His blue eyes were framed with a raised eyebrow. "What are you doing?"

"Chopping tomatoes. Why, you wanna do it?" Granted Tony made the offer in words, no physical action was taken to back it up. Steve pulled him away from the counter by his waist. "I don't want to but apparently I'm going to have to. Look at them! They're not chopped, they are just squished into slimy goo."

"You want to teach me how to chop my tomatoes, pretty boy?" Tony turned, playing into the pre-existent inertia of Steve's pull and allowing himself to be drawn closer. Steve was immensely struggling not to stare straight at the lips of the man he held. "I want to do so much but ranked by priority, yes, tomatoes first."

Steve twirled him around, their bodies dancing together. Something about Tony was different. Good different. You different. He caught himself just in time, forbidding the thought from settling in. His hands slipped down to Tony's wrists, steering his movements with the knife.

Everything too late. His mind had lost all placidity. Steve was buzzing with the sensation of thousands of tiny needles pushing into every inch of his skin. Beneath his fingers, where he should have been feeling Tony smooth skin, he felt jagged edges. Scabs.

There was too much his mind had processed in too little time; too much he had pushed deep within, forcing himself into a normal reality. His mind was muddled - circuits of events shorting in the dark, the consequent light illuminating indecipherable answers.

Scabs. Nails. The woman at the funeral coming at him. Tony forcing himself between them. Tony shoving the woman off. A scuffle. Tony clicking his tongue. Injury. Scabs. Something else his cognizant had registered that he could not remember for the life of him.

What was the bit that did not fit?

"I have to go." Steve withdrew himself abruptly. He headed for the door - refusing to make eye contact with Tony, he could text him later, he had no answers for him at that moment anyway - hoping he could figure his way out of the building.

There was one more place he needed to be at before the night came to an end.