Work Text:
The room was quiet for once, a rarity even on Tony’s kindest days. There was no blasting music echoing in the hollow cavern that was his workshop, no obnoxious drilling and banging even, nothing so distracting and harsh. Instead, the silence was filled with delicate tapping, gentle clings of metal, typing of keyboards, and waving of hands to manipulate complicated holograms.
Stephen knew it was partly for his benefit.
He now had his own small space claimed by a discreet desk and bookcase, Tony’s unspoken invitation to join him in this room, in his sanctuary, and it was perhaps the greatest gift anyone had ever offered him.
He was supposed to be studying, examining the ancient scroll, but he had abandoned it long before, eyes fixated on something quite different and downright intoxicating. Watching Tony work was something to behold, a sight that was as captivating as a conductor in front of an orchestra.
Yet, even that wasn’t what held every inch of his gaze, not exactly.
Tony’s hands. They were magnificent to watch, especially in moments like these when those rough, calloused fingers, achieved complicated maneuvers on a tiny mechanism currently seated before him. It was breathtaking, Stephen’s own aching fingers twitching alongside his lover’s, a yearning that was downright painful in his chest.
Stephen had realized early on that he had a…proclivity for watching Tony’s hands, and not just when he worked either. The man’s hands were like an extension of his entire personality, ridiculous as it seemed.
They were his life force. They were the very things that made Tony so brilliant, his ability to create, control, destroy, live. They were the reason he was Iron Man, the reason he could save the world over and over again. But that wasn’t all, no, not even close.
Anyone who spent even an hour with Tony knew how he liked to use his hands when he spoke, liked to express himself with them in grand gestures, and even small ones, which were significantly more important.
Then there was the man’s tactile nature.
Tony was always touching. Stephen had learned quickly that Tony’s favourite method of affection wasn’t words but touch, always hugging, reaching for his hand, pressing against the small of his back, running a hand over his neck, through his hair, resting on his thigh. He was always right there, and Stephen had learned quickly to recognize it. The warmth that was his overheated skin, the roughness indicating a mechanics hand, the incredibly gentle grip.
Stephen loved it all. Could spend hours simply examining those hands, had done so on countless occasions while Tony slept, unawares of Stephen’s attentions. More often then not he fell asleep cradling Tony’s hand in his broken ones, holding it tightly to his chest, strangely comforted by the feeling.
Stephen could admit that for a time he had watched the way Tony’s hands would build and perform complicated maneuvers with barely concealed envy. It was like watching the life that was torn from him with one stupid mistake, being reminded of what he could have done.
That was on his worst days, usually he could remind himself of everything he wouldn’t have done without losing his hands.
“This can’t be more exciting then that scroll of yours.”
Stephen blinked, coming back to the present where Tony was leaning on his worktable, a teasing smile on his lips and lightly smoking device in front of him.
“I was just waiting for Dum-E to inevitably douse you.”
Tony’s head swiveled to look behind himself, clearly having forgotten that Dum-E was turned off for that very reason right now. He glared a moment later when he realized it and Stephen offered his own weak smile.
Tony seemed to search his eyes before quietly putting out the little fire and rounding the table. Stephen watched silently as Tony came to stand in front of him, and when he slid a hand through his hair, he found himself leaning into it. Tony kneeled, that hand sliding down to cup his jaw and Stephen couldn’t help but tilt in to place a soft kiss on the man’s wrist.
He didn’t miss the furrow of Tony’s eyebrows, the slightest downturn of his lips, and wasn’t surprised when he spoke, “you’ve been getting lost in that head of yours too often lately,” he murmured.
Stephen shrugged because it was true and because he couldn’t help it. Tony’s thumb began a gentle swipe against his skin, the callouses making the sensation rough and utterly heavenly.
This.
This was what Stephen loved most about Tony’s hands. The tenderness in which he touched him, knowing that they were made for hard-work and a harder life, yet never once had his touch been anything but careful and considerate of Stephen’s own aching body, every touch feeling like he was something precious instead of scarred.
It often satiated the flames of envy to know, as Tony had said so many times in hushed tones and gentle smiles, that those hands belong to him, that he would do use them to give Stephen everything he needed, everything he wanted, even so simple as the feeling of their warmth caressing his own cold and broken limbs.