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Title Behind Every Great Man...
Rating PG-13
Fandom Marvel
Pairing? Hints of Steve/Tony, but nothing happens
Word Count 1459
Genre A little angst, domestic fluff
Disclaimer I own none of these characters
Summary Tony and Steve have a chat late at night
Author's Note This is for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
seanchai :D
Also, I actually have no idea in what context Tony learns the truth behind his parents' deaths (or if he learns at all). I simply read it in the bio they had in the back of the Director of SHIELD TBP, but haven't come across in my backlog of readings yet. So, uh, yeah.
Steve wasn't surprised to find Tony Stark sitting at the kitchen table at four in the morning. It was common to find the inventor staying up all hours in the night working on some project for Stark Industries or fiddling with an upgrade for the Iron Man armor. What did surprise Steve was that he didn't seem to be working on either of these things – there were no papers, no blueprints, no schematics spread out in front of him. It was simply Tony, hands wrapped around a mug of what Steve assumed was coffee, dressed in the same clothes Steve had seen him in before he went to bed.
He had learned years ago that Tony had a troubling habit of going without sleep for several days on end. No doubt this was one of those occasions.
Steve hesitated a minute. Normally, Tony welcomed the small distraction that company gave him from whatever complicated design he was laboring away on, but Tony wasn't working on anything at the moment. Perhaps he just wanted to be alone.
Eventually, Steve stepped into the kitchen. If he wanted to be alone, he would say so. Steve greeted him in a soft voice. Tony grunted in reply.
He crossed the kitchen, fetching himself a mug from one of the cabinets. He poured some coffee into it, the liquid hot and freshly made from what he could tell, then went to sit in the chair next to the other man.
Steve blew on the coffee to cool it before taking a sip. A silent moment passed between them. Finally, Tony spoke:
“Today is my mother's birthday,”
“Oh,” Steve said, understanding. Tony didn't speak much of his mother, but knew how much the woman meant to her son.
“You know, I owe everything to my father,” Tony went on, staring at the grain in the table, “He made me what I am today. He built the company that brought me my success. I owe him everything, and yet,” he looked up to meet Steve's eyes, “I never have any trouble sleeping on his birthday.”
Steve watched him sip from his mug. He couldn't help but wonder what exactly he had meant by the statement that Tony's father made him the person he is today. Did he mean the billionaire playboy businessman part of him? The heroic and selfless Iron Man? Or the self-loathing alcoholic? Steve couldn't help but think that Howard Stark had a hand in creating all three of those aspects of his son's person.
“It's my fault that they died,” Tony said nonchalantly, setting his empty mug on the table.
“Tony,” Steve couldn't help but sigh. He had to admit that Tony's ability to find a way to blame himself for anything was amazing, if not frustrating and painful to watch, “Can you honestly say there was some way you could have known the brakes were going to--”
“It wasn't the brakes,” Tony cut him off.
Steve blinked. While he had been trying to catch up on the sixty-something years worth of history he had missed, he had gone through the old microfilm newspaper archives they had at the library. He had seen articles on the deaths of the Starks, and everything had said the brakes on the car had malfunctioned.
“I mean, it was,” Tony clarified, “there was a flaw with the design of the brakes, and it was the brakes that caused the wreck, but,” Tony seemed suddenly flustered, as if he had tried to explain this before only to have someone brush him off.
He took a breath, then started again, “I wasn't exactly enthusiastic about following in my father's footsteps,” the frustration that had painted his face a moment ago was replaced by a smile that Steve knew had anything but humor behind it, “One of my father's competitors figured I would sell the company once it passed on to me. So they decided to give me my inheritance sooner than I normally would have gotten it.”
Steve's coffee mug suddenly shattered and Tony jumped visibly. It took Steve a moment to realize that he had actually broken the glass himself.
“Damn,” Steve cursed, the pain from the burning coffee finally hitting him.
Tony was to his feet first, going over to the sink and turning the cold water on. Steve stuck his hand under the tap. As the brown liquid washed down the drain, it revealed that a light red burn covered most of his left hand.
“Keep your hand under the water,” Tony told him before wondering off somewhere.
Steve looked back over his shoulder to the table. Coffee dripped down onto pieces of the ceramic mug on the floor. He hadn't even really been conscious of his anger. He had felt it building when Tony began to explain what really happened to his parents, knowing where the story was leading from the moment he mentioned one of his father's business rivals. But even he was surprised by his own reaction.
And it wasn't even anger over that the Starks' apparent accident was really murder. It was anger at the fact that these faceless people had made Tony blame himself for his parents' deaths.
Tony returned with a small first aid kit. He set it on the counter wordlessly, then began to clean up the mess.
“I can do that,” Steve told him, watching him towel up the coffee.
“It's all right,” Tony replied, stooping down to get the floor, “Just keep your hand under the water.”
Steve knew that his hand would be fine within a day, day and a half at most. Steve also knew that Tony knew this as well. But he didn't feel like protesting.
Tony picked up the larger pieces of ceramic, then wrung out the coffee-stained towel into the sink next to Steve. Finally, he took a broom and dustpan out of the small closet where Jarvis kept the cleaning supplies.
“I didn't know the rich boy even knew what a broom was,” Steve let a smile play on his lips.
Tony gave him a cross look, but knew the blond was joking, “I learned long ago that if I don't clean up a mess myself, Jarvis would end up blaming it on me no matter what.”
Steve was reminded of a time Peter has somehow spilled an entire box of cereal. When Jarvis inquired, Peter (jokingly) blamed it on Tony, who had been in an entirely different room at the time. The butler had then proceeded to call Tony in and (much to the amusement of the other Avengers and to the horror of Tony himself) gave him a lecture that mirrored one that Steve's own mother had given him when he was ten.
Tony swept the entire kitchen, making Steve hop out of the way so he could get to the area by the sink. He dumped the collected debris in the trash, then put the broom and dustpan back in their places.
“All right,” Tony tossed him a clean towel. He rolled up his sleeves and washed his hands while Steve patted his burned hand with the cloth.
When he was done drying his own hands, Tony dragged Steve over to where he had left the first aid kit. He opened it, taking out some kind of ointment. He squeezed some of it out onto the back of Steve's hand, then began spreading it.
There was a dull pain as Tony worked the crème over the burns, but Steve couldn't help but feel a small comfort as Tony's fingers passed over his. The dark-haired man's hand were scarred from countless fights with supervillians and various wrestling matches with the machines in his lab, but they were gentle. And experienced, Steve realized, like they had done this many times before.
Tony wiped his hands with the cloth. He retrieved some gauze from the kit, then began to wrap it loosely around Steve's hand.
“Good to go,” Tony told him once he had finished, moving passed him to wash his hands again.
“You have to do that a lot?” Steve asked, turning to face him.
Tony nodded, “Every once in a while,”
Tony dried his hands on another clean towel. He turned and leaned back against the counter. Arms crossed, he looked at the table, as if picturing someone there.
“When I was seven,” he said after a moment, “I burned my hand on an engine. My father told me to shake it off. My mother taught me how to bandage it.”
Steve moved over to Tony's side, understanding perhaps why Tony slept well on his father's birthday but not his mother's. He placed his good hand on the other man's shoulder.
“She taught you well.”
Rating PG-13
Fandom Marvel
Pairing? Hints of Steve/Tony, but nothing happens
Word Count 1459
Genre A little angst, domestic fluff
Disclaimer I own none of these characters
Summary Tony and Steve have a chat late at night
Author's Note This is for
seanchai :DAlso, I actually have no idea in what context Tony learns the truth behind his parents' deaths (or if he learns at all). I simply read it in the bio they had in the back of the Director of SHIELD TBP, but haven't come across in my backlog of readings yet. So, uh, yeah.
Steve wasn't surprised to find Tony Stark sitting at the kitchen table at four in the morning. It was common to find the inventor staying up all hours in the night working on some project for Stark Industries or fiddling with an upgrade for the Iron Man armor. What did surprise Steve was that he didn't seem to be working on either of these things – there were no papers, no blueprints, no schematics spread out in front of him. It was simply Tony, hands wrapped around a mug of what Steve assumed was coffee, dressed in the same clothes Steve had seen him in before he went to bed.
He had learned years ago that Tony had a troubling habit of going without sleep for several days on end. No doubt this was one of those occasions.
Steve hesitated a minute. Normally, Tony welcomed the small distraction that company gave him from whatever complicated design he was laboring away on, but Tony wasn't working on anything at the moment. Perhaps he just wanted to be alone.
Eventually, Steve stepped into the kitchen. If he wanted to be alone, he would say so. Steve greeted him in a soft voice. Tony grunted in reply.
He crossed the kitchen, fetching himself a mug from one of the cabinets. He poured some coffee into it, the liquid hot and freshly made from what he could tell, then went to sit in the chair next to the other man.
Steve blew on the coffee to cool it before taking a sip. A silent moment passed between them. Finally, Tony spoke:
“Today is my mother's birthday,”
“Oh,” Steve said, understanding. Tony didn't speak much of his mother, but knew how much the woman meant to her son.
“You know, I owe everything to my father,” Tony went on, staring at the grain in the table, “He made me what I am today. He built the company that brought me my success. I owe him everything, and yet,” he looked up to meet Steve's eyes, “I never have any trouble sleeping on his birthday.”
Steve watched him sip from his mug. He couldn't help but wonder what exactly he had meant by the statement that Tony's father made him the person he is today. Did he mean the billionaire playboy businessman part of him? The heroic and selfless Iron Man? Or the self-loathing alcoholic? Steve couldn't help but think that Howard Stark had a hand in creating all three of those aspects of his son's person.
“It's my fault that they died,” Tony said nonchalantly, setting his empty mug on the table.
“Tony,” Steve couldn't help but sigh. He had to admit that Tony's ability to find a way to blame himself for anything was amazing, if not frustrating and painful to watch, “Can you honestly say there was some way you could have known the brakes were going to--”
“It wasn't the brakes,” Tony cut him off.
Steve blinked. While he had been trying to catch up on the sixty-something years worth of history he had missed, he had gone through the old microfilm newspaper archives they had at the library. He had seen articles on the deaths of the Starks, and everything had said the brakes on the car had malfunctioned.
“I mean, it was,” Tony clarified, “there was a flaw with the design of the brakes, and it was the brakes that caused the wreck, but,” Tony seemed suddenly flustered, as if he had tried to explain this before only to have someone brush him off.
He took a breath, then started again, “I wasn't exactly enthusiastic about following in my father's footsteps,” the frustration that had painted his face a moment ago was replaced by a smile that Steve knew had anything but humor behind it, “One of my father's competitors figured I would sell the company once it passed on to me. So they decided to give me my inheritance sooner than I normally would have gotten it.”
Steve's coffee mug suddenly shattered and Tony jumped visibly. It took Steve a moment to realize that he had actually broken the glass himself.
“Damn,” Steve cursed, the pain from the burning coffee finally hitting him.
Tony was to his feet first, going over to the sink and turning the cold water on. Steve stuck his hand under the tap. As the brown liquid washed down the drain, it revealed that a light red burn covered most of his left hand.
“Keep your hand under the water,” Tony told him before wondering off somewhere.
Steve looked back over his shoulder to the table. Coffee dripped down onto pieces of the ceramic mug on the floor. He hadn't even really been conscious of his anger. He had felt it building when Tony began to explain what really happened to his parents, knowing where the story was leading from the moment he mentioned one of his father's business rivals. But even he was surprised by his own reaction.
And it wasn't even anger over that the Starks' apparent accident was really murder. It was anger at the fact that these faceless people had made Tony blame himself for his parents' deaths.
Tony returned with a small first aid kit. He set it on the counter wordlessly, then began to clean up the mess.
“I can do that,” Steve told him, watching him towel up the coffee.
“It's all right,” Tony replied, stooping down to get the floor, “Just keep your hand under the water.”
Steve knew that his hand would be fine within a day, day and a half at most. Steve also knew that Tony knew this as well. But he didn't feel like protesting.
Tony picked up the larger pieces of ceramic, then wrung out the coffee-stained towel into the sink next to Steve. Finally, he took a broom and dustpan out of the small closet where Jarvis kept the cleaning supplies.
“I didn't know the rich boy even knew what a broom was,” Steve let a smile play on his lips.
Tony gave him a cross look, but knew the blond was joking, “I learned long ago that if I don't clean up a mess myself, Jarvis would end up blaming it on me no matter what.”
Steve was reminded of a time Peter has somehow spilled an entire box of cereal. When Jarvis inquired, Peter (jokingly) blamed it on Tony, who had been in an entirely different room at the time. The butler had then proceeded to call Tony in and (much to the amusement of the other Avengers and to the horror of Tony himself) gave him a lecture that mirrored one that Steve's own mother had given him when he was ten.
Tony swept the entire kitchen, making Steve hop out of the way so he could get to the area by the sink. He dumped the collected debris in the trash, then put the broom and dustpan back in their places.
“All right,” Tony tossed him a clean towel. He rolled up his sleeves and washed his hands while Steve patted his burned hand with the cloth.
When he was done drying his own hands, Tony dragged Steve over to where he had left the first aid kit. He opened it, taking out some kind of ointment. He squeezed some of it out onto the back of Steve's hand, then began spreading it.
There was a dull pain as Tony worked the crème over the burns, but Steve couldn't help but feel a small comfort as Tony's fingers passed over his. The dark-haired man's hand were scarred from countless fights with supervillians and various wrestling matches with the machines in his lab, but they were gentle. And experienced, Steve realized, like they had done this many times before.
Tony wiped his hands with the cloth. He retrieved some gauze from the kit, then began to wrap it loosely around Steve's hand.
“Good to go,” Tony told him once he had finished, moving passed him to wash his hands again.
“You have to do that a lot?” Steve asked, turning to face him.
Tony nodded, “Every once in a while,”
Tony dried his hands on another clean towel. He turned and leaned back against the counter. Arms crossed, he looked at the table, as if picturing someone there.
“When I was seven,” he said after a moment, “I burned my hand on an engine. My father told me to shake it off. My mother taught me how to bandage it.”
Steve moved over to Tony's side, understanding perhaps why Tony slept well on his father's birthday but not his mother's. He placed his good hand on the other man's shoulder.
“She taught you well.”
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