Chapter Text
Everyone’s making a fuss over nothing. Steve’s had more than his fair share of falling into vacuum, and really, it was only a matter of time before he’d do it with a malfunctioning suit. It’s only been a few minutes since he’d arrived on board the Iron Advance but he’s already regained coordination and feeling in his hands and feet.
“You drink that up,” Natasha says, nodding at the cup in his hands, courtesy of Happy and the Iron Advance hangar’s drinks dispensary. Why didn’t they have one on the Furtherance? Oh well.
Steve squints at the steaming mug in his hands. “Don’t you have a black box to decode?”
“It’s on my list,” Natasha says. “After making sure the Captain hasn’t frozen to death.”
“C’mon, it’d take more than a space jaunt to freeze our Cap,” Clint says.
“Oh, so this is typical of y’all,” Rhodey says. “Is that what I’m hearing?”
While the others erupt into what is no doubt a fruitful discussion on what is and isn’t the norm of the two crews, Steve focuses on the drink. Truth be told, he thinks it’s not mainly the drink, nor the blanket on his shoulders, that’s making him feel better and raring to go.
It’s the excitement of where they are, all of them, on the Iron Advance. Although losing a good ship will sting for a long time, Steve has always kept his focus forward and onward and upward, through his military career and Sol service and wars that lost their purpose long before their momentum.
Better to be in the here and now, on a ship that belongs to trust allies, and especially…
Actually, there he is.
Steve thinks he might’ve developed a hypersensitivity to the color combo of red-and-gold. Just seeing it at the corner of his eye makes him perk up, as it does now, thanks to Tony’s marching across the hangar, his armor’s boots surprisingly light on the metal walkway. Steve wondered earlier where he’d gone off to, when everyone else had landed. Even now, Tony isn’t approaching them, but is instead walking towards a metal rig by the bulkhead.
Steve feels himself ready to get up and call out – Tony, where are you going?
But then Tony turns, stepping backward into the rig, and the armor opens.
The armor opens – Steve had no idea it could open like that, and he thought it was a far more difficult process what with how he’s never seen Tony so much as take off his helmet – whereby plates and flaps do a complicated but seemingly effortless dance around its human pilot, who then steps out.
Its human pilot, who is Tony, who steps down onto the grate.
He is – that is – that’s Tony.
Steve can’t say he’s never wondered what Tony looks like inside the suit. He’s wondered a lot, but he’s also figured that it didn’t matter, because Tony could look like anyone and he’d still be wonderful – funny, smart, sarcastic, and such a good guy when he’s not feeling self-conscious about it.
But Steve now realizes that he had developed some mental images of Tony that persisted. Namely, the strong association of Tony with the red-and-gold armor meant that Steve’s been thinking of the man underneath as having the traits of that armor, too – shiny, glossy, perfectly crafted like the amazing creations he makes.
But Tony’s not perfectly-crafted and glossy. He’s just… a guy. He’s a human being with messy hair, unkempt overalls and workshop stains on his arms and hands. A human being with clever brown eyes, a goatee over a chin that hints at a smirk, strong arms and tapered waist, plus all of above in a single package that is breathtakingly touchable and relatable and vulnerable in ways that the armor isn’t.
One thing remains true between the armor and the man underneath: they’re both beautiful.
The man rather more, though.
The man’s also scowling at him. And is turning away, muttering an instruction to the Iron Advance’s computer under his breath.
Steve should say something. He must say something. But all his brain can summon up is a variation of, Oh wow, which is neither useful nor witty, and Steve wants to be witty.
“I got your shield,” Tony calls out at him. “You’re welcome.”
“Oh, that’s—” Steve starts to get up, but pressure on his shoulder keeps him sitting. This is a sorry state of affairs, because Tony leaves without even a glance back, as though Steve’s the only one who feels the weight of this historical moment, because it is a historical moment.
“That’s…” Steve realizing that he’s still staring down the doorway Tony disappeared through. “That’s Tony.”
“Yeah,” Rhodey says slowly. “I’m pretty sure you’ve met.”
Steve blinks rapidly, as though a fog is just rising out of his brain. He quickly busies himself consuming the drink in his hands, and ignores the sound Natasha makes behind his back.