Work Text:
I know you say that there's no-one for you
But here is one, but here is one
Here is one
* * *
The first thing Steve notices is the smell.
He’s an old fashioned man, but he’s also the kind of person who doesn’t judge someone for those petty things. Still, he finds a bit disconcerting that Anthony Edward Stark smells of flowers. It’s one among quite a few things about that man that confuses Steve when he meets him, and it certainly doesn’t help to get their relationship off to a good start.
But there are far more important issues to focus on. Like a pangalactic war to try to avoid. So, while they're arguing into the Helicarrier, Steve files that detail as one of many eccentric rich quirks, and puts it aside.
The second thing Steve notices happens just a few days later.
The whole of humanity has just escaped annihilation thanks to that patchy group of so-call-superheroes who call themselves 'the Avengers'. But mostly thanks to Tony Stark, who’s currently lying on the ground unconscious. New York is half destroyed, but they manage to save the day, and Steve would like Stark to see it himself, for Stark to see what he has been able to do. But he doesn't wake up. Then Hulk rips off the front plate and lets out a growl and‒
It lasts as long as the blink of an eye. Stark wakes up with a start and‒ his hair with him?
It doesn't make any sense, but Steve really thinks he saw them moving, as if for a moment they took life.
The adrenaline is high, the relief at seeing Stark still alive makes him dizzy. It's the post-battle stress, he says to himself. It must be that.
The third thing Steve notices happens after so long that in the meantime he has almost forgotten about everything.
They are arguing in the Bartons' courtyard, and in the most heated moment of the discussion, when Steve smashes a log of wood with his bare hands, a white and pink flash blows in Tony's hair, the air between them suddenly smelling of asphodel.
Then Laura comes to ask Tony for something, and Steve just stays there. He watches Tony speechless as he walks away, the scent of flowers still in his nostrils.
The adrenaline is high, but not so much as to imagine asphodels in Tony's hair.
There’s no time to investigate, no time to reflect. They have something else at stake ‒ there is always something else, dammit ‒ and Tony is almost always in armor. No smells, no flowers ‒ nothing that would make Steve question his own sanity.
Except that, at the end of it all, when he and Tony are saying goodbye ‒ when Steve hears him talking about how he'd like to drop everything and build a farm like Barton did ‒ the wind blows between them bringing the smell of wildflowers. And when Steve looks at him, he thinks, certainly in a moment of total madness, that he shouldn't be surprised by now. He should expect it, to see wildflowers bloom and fade into Tony's hair.
No?
Steve goes to Helen’s office a few days later. When all the reports have been filled in, and all the meetings attended, and all the press conferences addressed. When all of Captain America's duties are resolved, Steve goes to her and asks to get checked out.
Complete check-up, whatever is on her mind is fine.
Helen is puzzled, but she doesn't object: it’s hard to find someone of the team voluntarily to be checked.
"Are we looking for something in particular?" she only asks.
"Neurological reactions under severe stress."
And the following days Steve surely doesn't get bored. Helen makes him spend them in her laboratory, subjecting him to an impressive series of physical exercises, with a whole arsenal of electrodes stuck on him.
And in the meantime, there were the questions.
"How much does it hurt, from one to ten?"
"What’s your worst memory related to your times of hospitalization?"
"Choose one from these three weapons."
"Is this hot or cold?"
"Spell the names of all the Howling Commandos."
“You're sinking into the ice with the plane. Explain how you feel."
The questions hurt him more than the exercises he's forced into, but Steve was never the kind of guy to back down. He’s the one who asked for this, after all, so he grits his teeth and goes on, answering back every question.
Helen buzzes around him, reading indecipherable data on the monitors and writing notes on her tablet. Her focused gaze doesn't reveal anything. She eventually sends him home, telling him to come back the following Monday. She has to process the results.
Steve waits for that Monday as back in the 40s, when he was waiting for some test that would have confirmed his health was doomed. Maybe the serum worked on his body, but was the mind lost as a counterweight? Or maybe those seventy years stuck in ice damaged his brain?
When he enters her office, Helen is already there waiting for him, and she doesn't have a reassuring look. Steve braces for the worst.
"You're perfect."
"Sorry?"
"Clinically, you are above any other human. Well, as far as we know."
"Thanks, but... it doesn't make sense?"
"Steve." Helen sighs and stares at him frankly, "If you'd told me what you think the problem could be‒"
He stiffens and she raises a hand as if in a sign of peace.
"It doesn't have to be me."
Steve frowns: "You are my doctor."
“Yes, and I have many specializations. But I'm not a psychologist. "
"What?"
The next words, Helen says them very carefully.
“If we exclude any biological factor, what is left is this. And I'd be a bad doctor if I didn't tell you."
Steve realizes that she’s right. He also realizes that in such a world, with all what he represents and the unknowns that his life holds, relying on a psychologist could be a risky move.
"Thank you."
"Steve‒"
“No, I'm meaning it. Helen, thank you. I’ll think about it."
"Alright." she doesn't seem convinced, but still she avoids pressing him, and he’s grateful for it, "Whenever you want. I know some very professional therapits."
"Thank you." he says again.
Steve knows that any choice he makes will be risky. But he also knows that making a choice without first considering all the possibilities is a leap in the dark. And he wouldn't be a good strategist if he didn't carefully consider everything before making a decision.
Steve gives himself a time margin: six months. They fit inside a calendar, he can count them with just more than one hand, and he can carve out the necessary time.
Six months. Then, if he doesn't come up with anything, he'll go back to Helen.
*
Honestly, Tony would have expected everything but this.
Sure, he and Steve are going well in that kind of relationship. Sometimes they keep stepping on each other's toes, and their argues are always a big thing. But each time they take a step further and, yes, it can be said that from their despite-team-mates they have gone to more-that-willingly-colleagues, to the point of reach what seems to be a true friendship.
It’s not uncommon to see them joking together, in those quiet moments between one mission and another. Which, considering Cap's depressing sense of humor, borders on a miracle. But hey, he’s trying his best, Tony recognizes it. And as much as he’s a champion of sarcasm, well, he finds more satisfying to humor Steve than to hit him.
So, despite having completely different schedules and practically the opposite of sleep patterns, they still manage to hang out together. Like working out or watching a movie with the team and stuff like this.
All good, all perfectly understandable. The boy woke up after seventy years of freezing and no longer has anything in common with today's world, he no longer has anyone. It’s natural for him to emotionally lean on them. Tony knows what it means to be alone, he knows what it means to desperately seek affection outside of strict family ties, and in spite of a wary disposition. So, no, he certainly won't be judging him.
It’s not that he judges him, in fact. It’s that he’s bewildered about some of his choices, nothing more.
He’s confused when Natasha asks Steve if he’d like to train with her and he answers that he just wants to chill reading. He even waves a book in his hand. But then what happens is that Steve goes down to the lab to do ‒ who knows what? The book is usually soon forgotten and later Tony will have to send Dum-E to return it to him. The rest of the time Steve just keeps buzzing around him, touching things he shouldn't touch, asking questions that distract him from his work. Tony appreciates the company, really, but he doesn't understand.
He doesn't grasp why when the guys go out to eat Steve declines, saying is not hungry. When, in fact, ten minutes later he shows up to Tony with something to eat. And Tony, who hasn't eaten but coffee and energy bars for about ‒ ten hours? ‒ pounces on it hungrily. Whatever he’s currently doing can wait until his stomach is full again. Steve looks satisfied, Tony doesn't understand why he feels satisfied that Steve looks satisfied.
Tony wonders what’s going through his blond, charming head when he stays down there with him, drawing under the artificial lights of the lab. He just seems totally out of place. And Tony is objective enough to think he's damn boring while he works. Boring and gruffy and wild. Anyhow, certainly nothing fascinating. Nothing worth staying indoors for hours, surrounded by cables and computers and Tony's constant muttering to himself. For God's sake, someone like Steve is made to be outside, in the open air, under the sun. He gets claustrophobic to see a big boy like him locked up down there.
It's all so fucking confusing.
"FRIDAY, call Platypus."
Tony is lying on the worn out couch down in his lab, a wet patch on his eyes burned from too much work, and a glass of centrifuge in his hand. He finishes it just before the phone call is taken, and hands the empty glass to Dum-E.
"Do you think he’s into me?"
"Dammit Tony, it's two in the morning!"
Tony pulls aside the patch just to look at his watch.
"Oh. Sorry. But in your opinion it could be that he’s‒"
"Seriously?! Go and ask him, once and for all! "
"Who is?"
“Hi Pepper. Did I wake you up?"
"Oh my God! Tony, it's‒"
“Two in the morning, I know. Look, I was asking Rhodey‒"
"Goodnight, Tony."
"No! Come on, wait!"
"I’m shutting off the phone!"
“And you say you’re my best friend?! Shame on you!"
The line goes down, and Tony would like to have a shell cell phone to close dramatically. Sometimes Stark technology is too advanced even for him.
He gets up from the couch, walking around the room blindly, the patch still pressed to his face.
“Throw it all away. I don't want to find anything." he orders Dum-E gesturing towards the workstation, “And this time for real. I don't want to see you with fetishes hidden around."
The robotic arm sets out to carry out its task with what seems to be little enthusiasm.
"'Go and ask him' blah blah blah." he mutters to himself in a mocking voice.
Tony leaves the lab heading to the kitchen, getting rid of the patch in the first bin he finds along the way. It's two in the morning, as they kindly informed him. Not that it makes any difference to him, but apparently to the rest of the world it does.
He’s quiet at the Tower. And that's also why he likes to be late. The hallways are empty and silent, barely lit. There’s no danger of running into anyone.
Tony has a pretty intense social life, sometimes he just wants to be left alone. Usually people close to him understand and accept this. Happy is the latest in a series of chauffeurs he fired for being too nosy; then he found The One, someone who knew how to stay in his place while getting when the time was right to take him for a double cheeseburger. Rhodey knows ‒ and thank God he tolerates too ‒ Tony’s mood swings, which lead him to compulsively search for him after weeks in which he may be ignored. Pepper is just a saint.
And Tony is also smart enough to guess what it is that makes him do so. With the father he had it’d be difficult to come out mentally stable. Unfortunately, to admit it would mean that he needs to go to therapy and, no, thank you, one thing is to understand the problem and quite another to face it. There are things that he’s not ready to discuss for now. He can build an arc reactor out of junk while he’s held hostage to terrorists, but baring his soul is something outside his comfort zone, even if it involves paying an unknown professional.
So here’s Tony, in all his glorious and annoying incoherence. Whether you like him or not, that's how he is. At least this way it's easier, he thinks. It’s not like other people are choosing not to love him, it’s that he makes himself unbearable ‒ unlovable. Because, he thinks, it must be difficult to love someone like him. No? Only a select few could make it.
That's why Tony doesn't understand.
In the semi darkness of the kitchen he opens the fridge, squinting his tired eyes against the light. He stares at the food as if it could give him an answer. He takes out the peanut butter and clears his throat to set the voice.
"Steve, are you into me?" he shakes his head closing the fridge, "Geez, no, too direct.”
He rummages through the drawers for a spoon.
“I'm plagued with a doubt and only you can‒ nah." he stops again while opening the jar, “Hey, Cap! How are you? Just wondering if‒ ugh!” he sticks the spoon in the jar,“ Hey‒ hey! Hello, Cap."
Tony eats a spoonful and sighs, leaning against the kitchen counter.
“Hi‒” he hesitates, biting his lips, “Steve. Hello. Look, I might as well be wrong, I'm not perfect even though I look, but... uh... I get this vibe from you? And maybe‒ maybe‒"
Tony's voice goes tiny and tiny and tiny. Because, come on, he doesn't believe it either. And why risk it, anyway? They managed to build a good friendship, after all. Things are going okay, aren't they? What more does he wants?
"God… so fucking pathetic."
Tony eats another spoonful and then leaves the spoon in the sink, puts the jar back in the fridge. When he gets out of the kitchen, the room smells of heather. And he doesn't notice Steve.
*
Steve didn't want to eavesdrop. He had only gone into the kitchen for a glass of water, finding Tony there was a surprise. Though in retrospect it shouldn't have been, knowing his unhealthy habits. And Steve wanted to greet him, for real. That wouldn't be the first time they met in the kitchen at an ungodly hour of night, Tony still awake for some kind of project and Steve sleepless because of a nightmare.
But then he overheard his name, he smelled heather, and something clicked in his brain.
Steve sneaked back to his room and is now lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling without rest. The six months he has given himself have almost ended, a resolution must be taken. Whether he's just insane or not, something has happened in the meantime. Something that obviously isn't just affecting him. And it wouldn't be fair to Tony to keep it from him.
So the next day Steve goes down to the lab with his sketchbook clutched in his hands. It takes him a while to make up his mind and cross the threshold. And he’s halfway amazed to see Tony in there, working like nothing has happened. As if something must have changed after what Steve casually heard him say the previous night.
Of course nothing changed. At least from Tony.
"Hi Cap."
Tony greets him with the usual bright smile, and the usual sunflowers blooming in his hair. Then he brings his attention back to his work and the sunflowers recede, making room for the comings and goings of multicolored blossoms that weave in his hair when he's working on something. Steve is used to it by now, but he’ll never stop liking it. He will never stop being amazed.
"Hi. Can I stay here for a while? I’m bothering you?"
"Very much. You're a ravishing distraction."
Steve smiles to himself as he joins him. Tony throws at him those kinds of flirty jokes all the time. After last night they have taken on a whole other meaning.
"What are you working on?"
Mottled roses and dandelions.
"Are you really interested or just damn bored?”
Steve leaves the sketchbook on the workstation, watching him while he works.
"I’m always interested in your work."
Daffodils. Tony takes a glance at the sketchbook.
"What are you up to today? Something new to draw?"
Steve leans against the workstation, casually moving the sketchbook in the process. The sheets open like petals, letting something be shown. Charcoal on textured paper, brightened by splashes of color.
“I've drawn enough. I don't feel like it anymore."
He’s staring at Tony, now, and at the multicolored carnation show he is putting on, while his gaze travels between the sketchbook and Steve and then back to the sketchbook.
"Okay, what's going on?"
Tony speaks cautiously, the carnations shrinking back in shyness, making way for tiny maple flowers. Steve wonders if he's aware of it: does he do it on purpose, or it’s completely spontaneous?
"Why... are you staring at me like that?"
Steve bites his lip when he sees what it’s blooming.
"Peonies. You do this often. Even if not as much as sunflowers."
Tony’s breath falters, his eyes going wide. The succession of flowers blooming and fading in his hair is too chaotic to keep up with.
"What‒"
Tony glances at the sketchbook and then snatches it quickly, as if Steve hadn't left it there on purpose. He put some distance walking backwards, the sketchbook open in his hands, an astonished gaze traveling between Steve and the drawn sheets.
"Do you notice when you do it?"
"Yes. No. I notice it but I can’t control it."
Tony's voice is shaking, Steve pulls away from the workstation and takes a few steps towards him.
"Stay there." he points a finger at him, "How long‒ oh my God‒"
No flowers now, but pointed brambles and dry branches. Steve immediately sprints forward.
“I told you to stay there! Don't come near! Don’t you ever think to come near!"
The thorns among the brambles move threateningly. Steve has to force himself not to reach him.
"How long have you known? Why didn't you ever tell me? Has anyone seen these?"
Steve raises his eyebrows: "That's a lot of questions."
Tony closes the sketchbook and slams it on the table.
"And what the fuck did you expect, exactly?!"
Silence. Yarrow sprouting among the brambles. Steve can feel his fury and flinches a little.
“You don't have to‒ God. Nobody, nobody has seen them, Tony. You want to destroy them? Then do it, and we’ll never talk about it again." Steve wouldn't want it, but if that's what Tony wants he would never stop him, "It’s on you."
"On me? It’s on me?! Fuck no! Now you're gonna‒" Tony presses a shaking hand to his mouth, lavender suffocating the yarrow, brambles still there, "You're gonna tell me how long you have known."
"The Battle of New York, after you fell from the wormhole."
"What‒"
The brambles are now dotted with white poppies and yellow adonis buds.
"I mean, there was that time a few days before, too, when we first met." Tony is deathly pale and Steve is seriously worried about him, “But I just smell it. Does it count? I don’t know."
Tony turns around with his hands in his hair, which are now full of lavender.
"Why are you only telling me now?"
“Would you have done it? Go to someone and say straight to them you constantly see flowers sprouting from their hair? Damn, Tony, I thought I was going insane!"
Tony laughs hysterical.
“You are not insane. Definitely."
"Well, thank God. The last resort was a shrink."
Tony snorts: "You’re not the type."
Steve frowns at him, though he’s smiling too.
“How do I feel that’s not a compliment?”
Tony raises his hands: “Hey, I’m not the type too.”
There is still the workstation between them. With a couple of bored waves Tony gets rid of the holograms, so they can face each other now, still at a safe distance. His breathing is unsteady and his eyes elusive, tiny white rosebuds are making their way through the lavender.
"Sunflowers?"
"Mh?"
"You said that I often‒" Tony vaguely points to his head, "That they're sunflowers."
"You pull them out every time you see me." Steve watches him curiously as the hawthorn joins the rosebuds, "Didn't you ever notice?"
"If I look at you, I can't look at me." Tony gestures between them.
"Can’t argue with that."
Tony picks up the sketchbook again and opens it, leafing through the sheets. And slowly, so slowly, he moves again around the workstation. He seems so wary, almost like a wild animal approaching. Steve forces himself to stay still, too scared of making him run away again to make even the slightest movement.
"I learned a lot about the language of flowers."
"You don’t say."
Tony is careful not to look at him. The peonies are there again and Steve has to stifle a chuckle.
"Stop feeling ashamed."
"Oh, that’s‒!" Tony's gaze snaps on him, his cheek burning red, "You're not the one who has his emotions in plain sight under the eyes of your crush!"
That confession comes unexpected. Steve sucks in the air in surprise and looks at him with wide eyes. Acacia blossoms mingle with peonies and Steve is out of breath.
“Tony, it's‒” he swallows, “It's gorgeous. Do you even realize how gorgeous it is?”
Tony rolls his eyes and sighs in frustration.
"My eyes are down here." he points a finger at his face.
"Sorry." Steve gives him an apologetic look, "I've never seen them so close. "
“I do know how gorgeous it is.”
No, Steve thinks he doesn’t know. Not for real.
“But that’s not the point. You shouldn't be able to see it. Nobody should."
"Why?"
Tony leaves the sketchbook on the workstation and sighs. Lemon blossoms shyly dot his dark hair now.
"You'll take me for a completely lunatic." he muttered, rubbing his face in his hands.
"Tony."
Steve ventures to take a step forward. His hand hesitates for a long time before daring to squeeze around Tony’s, causing hawthorn to bloom.
“I went into the ice for seventy years and survived. I met an alien demi-god who throws lightning and flies with a hammer. I fought against monsters from outer space and an army of robots. Not to mention our lovely doctor, who has a habit of becoming a green giant with some anger problems."
"Get to the point." Tony chuckles, looking at him from under his lashes, and Steve, oh, he has already seen that look a few times but never enough. Never enough.
“Tony, I see flowers in your hair. And I'm just happy I'm not crazy. "
Steve looks at him and thinks he has never seen him so insecure. So Tony. It's easy to not grasp certain nuances when you don't get to know the real man behind the armor, and Steve doesn't mean the Iron Man suit.
"Have you ever heard about dryads?"
"The nymphs from Greek mythology?"
He nods: "Those ones."
Tony's hand is still in his while he tells him everything.
How his mother was like him, and before her his grandmother, and even before her her great-grandmother, and so on, back for generations. How it's unknown which was the first one, but sure is something that has been passed on in his family since the dawn of time. How it’s present only in the female line, so no one expected Tony to inherit it.
How ‒ and by now Tony is talking while ostentatiously looking away, his cheeks tinged with red like the roses blooming in his hair ‒ only few people could see it.
"Who?"
Steve has an idea, but he needs Tony to tell him. He needs to hear it from Tony's voice.
"Tony?" he tilts his head to catch his eyes, "Who can see it?"
Tony bites his lip, clearing his throat. Hawthorn and red tulips are showing off in his hair.
“Well, it's not‒ it's not entirely clear. People who… care a lot about me, I suppose?”
It feels like he’s carefully choosing his words, like he’s carefully choosing what emotions bring out.
“My parents could. And Jarvis too, bless him. Now… Rhodey, yes. He started to see it many years ago. And he’s currently the only one."
Steve tries hard not to find his stubbornness to avoid his gaze unnerving and at the same time adorable.
“And now you too, apparently.” Tony's voice pitched up a little, “And I‒ I'm grateful. About this. I'm so grateful." he nods at their still joined hands, “It's beautiful, really. That you feel this for me. I didn't expect it. At all."
Gardenias. Steve's heart tightens.
"No? Why?"
Tony shrugs.
"Because... come on! You can have only one Rhodey in your life. You tolerating me like he does?" he laughs nervously, "Wow! It's‒ wow ! I just‒ I have no words. I hope you’re well paid! You are paid, right?"
Steve rolls his eyes at his usual self-deprecating sarcasm.
"I’m not tolerating you like Rhodey does."
"Yeah, I mean, reality is he doesn’t tolerate me at all. In fact, it’s just me that won’t let him go. I’m so clingy that‒"
"Tony."
Tony shut his mouth and stares at him, his chin raised defiantly, the air now full of amaryllis scent. 'Let's see if you really do it' those eyes seem to say, 'Let's see if you dare to say it'.
“I don't care about you the way Rhodey does.”
"No?"
Tony licks his lips and Steve can't help but follow the motion of the tongue with his eyes.
"He’s your best friend." Steve raises a hand to cup his face, thumb brushing over his cheekbone, "I don't want to be your best friend."
Tony, of course, is looking for words, but for once he can't find the right ones. So he just stares at him speechless, his lips parted and his eyes full of painful hope. Steve thinks he looks twenty years younger and can't believe he's the one who caused that.
"I want to be the one who kisses you and finds out what flowers you make bloom."
Tony's gaze falls on his mouth. And Steve has time to catch the scent of roses and forget-me-not before closing the distance between them. Tony is tense, for a moment they can't help but stand there, with his hands clawed into Steve arms and their lips pressed together, stuttering breaths mingling over their skins.
"You can see it? You really can? It’s not‒ it's not some articulate and cruel joke, is it?" he murmurs frantically over Steve’s lips, "I’m dreaming?"
"Not a dream, though it feel like one." Steve lays his forehead on his and sighs inhaling the flowers scent, “I can see it. I always have. Can I‒ God, Tony‒ can I touch you?"
Tony's breathing falters to resume unsteady. He nods, and that's enough.
Steve lifts him effortly and seats him on the workstation, making space between his legs. Tony wraps his arms around his neck and pulls him down, exposing his neck to his kisses. The soft skin under his ear is inviting and Steve takes it between his lips and sucks, slipping his hand into his hair, his fingers sliding like silk between the rose petals. The moan that escapes Tony’s lips is faint, almost shy. He clings to Steve and presses, presses desperately, as if he were afraid of him suddenly disappearing. Steve grabs his face and lifts it to kiss him again, to take all that desperation off him. He’s there for Tony, to welcome his tongue in the warmth of his mouth and make it his.
"You taste like honeysuckle."
Steve remembers his summer as a child, warm evenings under the gold sky, stealing the flowers from the hedges of rich people’s houses, pulling out the pistil full of sweet nectar and sucking it.
"And is it good?"
Tony's tongue flickers out to lick at his lips, and Steve moans softly.
"What else about you tastes like honeysuckle?"
Tony gasps as Steve pushes him down. A slap clears the table from all the sundries, including the sketchbook. The sheets fall, scattering all over the floor in multicolored spots.
Dozens of portraits, all of Tony with his hair in bloom, alongside some notes, question marks that don’t need to be answered anymore. Steve's fingerprints where he blended the characoal, stroking the paper wishing it was Tony's skin.
In the lab there’s so much scent of flowers.
*
Later, much later, Tony will wake up in his own bed.
If he doesn't remember what happened a few hours ago, Steve's warm body sleeping behind him would bring his memory back. And even if that wasn't enough, Tony would just need to move to feel his muscles screaming for revenge.
Sure he's a fit guy: he can't be Iron Man without a strict daily fitness and yoga schedule. But being an Avenger doesn't include certain, uh, physical activities that he wasn't used to doing so much anymore. Moreover, physical activities that, when performed with a super-soldier with super-stamina ‒ and super-something-else ‒ can easily reduce a poor man into a state of pleasant but extreme exhaustion.
Not that Tony is complaining, at all. He just thinks that if this thing ‒ what ‘thing’? He doesn't want to give it a name for now, thank you very much ‒ if this thing goes on he has to take a few more supplements and scheldule some training aimed to improve his endurance.
"Mmmh."
That’s the super-soldier behind him. He's waking up and Tony would like to turn around to look at him, because he suspects that Steve Rogers with a morning beard and bed hair must be that kind of stuff that tempts a nun. But Tony is also very aware of the fact that this is the 'day after', and he has never been good at managing the 'day after'.
"Hey!" Tony yelps.
Seems like Steve has his methods for managing the ‘day after’. That includes manhandling Tony to turn him around and plaster him on himself, just like a rag doll. Tony feels a bit insulted: after all he’s Iron Man, what the fuck! Not that a few hours ago he'd been particularly bothered by being manhandled by him.
"Stop thinking." Steve grubles.
He runs his fingers through Tony’s hair, scattering the multicolored blossoms.
"I can’t." Tony takes advantage of his position to hide his face tucking it under Steve’s chin, "Anyway you wouldn’t‒"
The words derail. They haven't said that yet, even though it's so obvious ‒ perhaps for that very reason. Tony doesn't want to think about it, otherwise he's sure his heart will explode, and since it's connected to an arc reactor that wouldn't be a good thing.
"You wouldn't like me if I weren't like that."
Steve chuckles softly, the vibration spreading between them like a wave of unexpected sweetness.
"That’s right, doll."
Oh my God. Tony's petulance is countered with old fashioned flirtation. He’s so screwed.
Steve's hands don't stop stroking him. His hair, his back, his arms. As if to quiet his tormenting thoughts. And Tony already knows it’ll be impossible for him not to get used to that. Completely unsolicited and suffocating cuddles from a man who, dammit, Tony has always admired him from afar believing that he’s not even remotely worthy of his thoughts. And instead, here he is: Steve Rogers giving him the best cuddles of the 'next day', after giving him the best sex of his life.
"Tony."
“Okay okay… ah. Here it is."
Tony braces himself to be able to look at him. Which is not very smart considering that, yes, his suspicions were right: Captain America is a breathtaking sight even just woke up. And Tony's dick wants to let the whole world know.
"Good morning."
Steve smiles at him knowingly and Tony just wants to wipe that smug expression off his face with a punch, though he thinks that he’d just dislodge his wrist. On the other hand, Steve's hand has slipped on his ass and now he's fondly squeezing a cheek. Tony remembers very well what those hands did a few hours earlier in the same area of his body, and that doesn't help him at all.
"Have you ever seen what you bloom out when‒"
"No." he blurts out both annoyed and horny, "I know you think I'm a hedonist, but when I’m having sex my first thought is not looking in the mirror like a narcissistic psychopath."
“I don't see you as a hedonist, Tony. No more than many other people, anyway."
Tony rests his chin on his closed fists and puts on a pout. However much he manages to keep it in the current situation.
"Poppies."
"Mh?"
Steve brings a warm hand to his face and strokes his lip until the pout fades away.
"They're poppies when‒ you know." he bites his lip, suddenly shy, "When you come."
"Oh."
Tony is not blushing like a little girl under the gaze of her crush who’s asking her to the prom. Absolutely not.
The air between them smells of wild flowers. Steve looks up to admire the buds and Tony closes his eyes as he brushes the petals with his fingers.
"How about these? Have you ever seen them?"
Tony turns his head to rest it on his chest. Under his ear is Steve's heartbeat, in front of his eyes is the wall mirror. Tony hadn't seen them for a long time.
"When I was a child, maybe."
Steve's heart speeds a little.
"You know, I think‒"
Steve’s voice wants so badly to be sure but in reality it falters. And Tony smiles: it’s nice to feel like he can read so clearly his emotions too, sometimes.
"I think I saw them, once."
Tony sighs, closing his eyes while remembering that day. They both seem so different since then.
"I know."
Steve's hand silently seeks his and entwines their fingers.
"I want to see them again."
Tony is usually better than that, he’s usually able to hold back the sobs while he cries.
"I want to see them forever."