Work Text:
Delete. Delete. Delete. And again.
Tony sighs. He treats his hair to the same mean, tired messing up and pulling treatment he's indulged in the last half-hour, day, week. Two weeks of SI out-of-country, over-the-top schmoozing at the Shanghai 2020 Green Earth Summit, also known as Pepper's ultimate torture device. A month away from home, alone in his hellish hotel room - luxurious bed, 50 sq feet bathroom, penthouse suite - he can't stand it anymore.
He's been trying to email Steve every night for the past week, tired of rushed, timezone futzy calls in the middle of either of their nights. And he's failing. Everything he writes is either overly whiny and he can see Steve rolling his eyes from all the way across the ocean, or overly detached like he's trying too hard not to show how fucking much he misses him, and Steve would either see right through it or be hurt by the tone of it all.
It fucking sucks.
The bar under the TV is calling Tony's name so hard it's like he can hear it, but that's a no-no. Goes against the drinking alone and for no special occasion ban he's put on himself and that Steve supports emphatically. But damnit, a good glass of whiskey sure sounds delightful just now.
"Hope you're doing good, running Romanov ragged on the mats and Barton out of his mind with how good your cookies are. Miss you. Asia's not my terrain." After several drafts, that’s all Tony sends in the end, and goes to bed hoping the universe will let him will the next two weeks to their closure.
If only.
It's another 300 years and half a million handshakes and plastic smiles later before Tony is sitting in the plane back, furiously typing his "do-not-send-me-anywhere-again-until-2023-onward" demands to Pepper, his knees bouncing and his heart beating fiercely in his chest. Fucking finally.
He'd texted Steve when he boarded and again when home sweet home starting to show its familiar shapes through the window, and he does it again as he gets in the car at the airport. It's 2am, so he's not too surprised Steve isn't answering, especially given the fact that he's only due home tomorrow - the wife of the last investor he was supposed to meet got sick with the flu or some same crap, thank God. Happy's hug already helps to ground Tony - the way he doesn't say another word past his "Where to, Boss?" is perfect as well.
All his words are for Steve, everything he's got going in his mind, is quieted by the simple, and overwhelming need to see, and touch, and be with him. It's ridiculous. It's good he kept himself in check and didn't send the goddamn sonnets he found himself writing during the past months. He's missed him so much. What the fuck.
Six years is a long time to fight off one's feelings. The fact that it took the most life-threatening, earth-ending battle of their lives for both of them to stop being idiots leaves its trace, or so Tony guesses - not like he's trying to find excuses for himself, but maybe he is. He's always on the romantic, overthinking everything side of love when it comes to commitment, but this is some next-level madness if you ask him. Which he'd rather you don't. Showing his cards too early to Steve was a risk he wasn’t willing to take.
The streets of New York are alight with the same bright and colorful lights as always, the people still out are either partying or hurrying home from late-night jobs and Tony breathes in the scent of Happy's leather seats. Almost there.
Happy leaves him in the garage of the Tower, a "laters Boss" all he says before he's gone and Tony skips to the elevator. He taps his foot on the floor, sings to himself songs he doesn't remember the lyrics to. All he sees is the bright point of light that goes from floor to floor, until he's here. The apartment is dark, the rooms empty of anything but the feeling of home that Tony's craved so much, but it's not what he needs just now, it's not enough. He walks, light on his feet, until he's reached his bedroom, his and Steve's bedroom.
There he is.
Steve's sleeping soundly, his arms circling his pillow and his head buried in it, naked back reflecting the little night lights they keep to chase nightmares away as well as that of the bright blueish light of the projector's light. Tony manages to wrench his gaze away from Steve's peaceful face to look at whatever Steve was watching and stops dead in his tracks. His breath is punched-out of his lungs as he stares at the array of tabs open right on the wall, the little StarkIron browser icon duplicated a dozen times across the projector's span.
"J, what the fuck?" Tony hisses quietly, his eyes going from one tab to another, his mind distantly registering the fact that Steve has fallen asleep to this.
This being every last attempt at writing emails Tony's made over the course of his Asian trip. Every discarded draft is right here, every start of a love letter, of a crying mess of words, every sentence he's forced himself not to start with 'love of my life, can't you see' and Tony feels himself blushing so hard it's not even funny.
"I took the liberty of forwarding your attempts at communication to the Captain in your absence, Sir." J.A.R.V.I.S. answers and Tony's eyes go wide with...anger? No that's not it. Shock either. Shame? Not really. He's embarrassed. That's it. That's all. Damn.
"You're an A.I. Jarvis, you aren’t programmed to take liberties." Tony snaps, almost. And if J.A.R.V.I.S. could laugh, his voice would certainly sound the way it hints at now.
"True, Sir. I was only following my Keep Capsicle Warm program protocol, indeed."
"Your… You mean you did this for Steve?"
"Yup. He sure did."
Tony startles as Steve talks. Fuck.
"Hi there," Tony waves, he feels sheepish, and exposed, and so happy to be in this room, under this man's gaze, the cocktail of emotions makes him a bit dizzy.
"Come here, Shakespeare," Steve winks.
Tony huffs. "You're going to make fun of me for the rest of time and beyond aren't you?" He asks but goes to Steve all the same.
He kneels on the bed before he can straddle Steve, looping his arms around his neck and letting Steve bring their foreheads together.
"Damn, this feels good." Tony whispers.
"Yeah, it does." Steve smiles, "And no, I won't."
"You won't?" Tony draws back, "That's one golden occasion here, Cap, can't miss it because you're too nice."
"I'm not too nice. I'm too in love with you." Steve bites his lip, only the night toning down the flush Tony could swear spreads on his cheeks. "I've read these every night since the first time your tried to write them." he admits after a while.
And Tony just has to kiss that shy smile off his face now, doesn't he? And so he does.
"Gotta say, though," Steve whispers a long while after, when they're naked, and ready to fall asleep, together this time, "I was starting to worry, quoting Whitney Houston is a step too far, even for you."
And the little shit laughs. And Tony can't blame him.
'I wanna run to youuuu, oh oh ooooh ohh, I wanna run to youuuu…'