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Tony observed a lot of the time. It wasn’t anything that seemed to occur to others, as they watched him pontificate on this or that or the other. Hell, most of the time the general populace thought he was completely unaware of the effect he was having on other people. He wouldn’t continue to offend them otherwise… right?
No, Tony knew exactly the effect he had on others, and hell if he didn’t like pushing those ever present buttons.
What Tony didn’t understand could fit on the needle of a very small pin. At least he thought so. But If he had to point out one thing, person, or place that mystified him, it would have to be Steve.
Captain freak’n America. He was a genuinely good person. Only someone who wasn’t, but who was kind of envious of that, would really be stymied. Tony always wanted to be the good one, but it seemed hot wired into his very being to be argumentative and pushy, he was never going to be like Steve.
Steve regularly left the tower to do “kind works”, like building houses for the homeless or rescuing kitties from trees. He also, though this completely confused everyone, answered his fan mail.
Every Friday, bar Doombots or Mutant ducks (hey, it was a thing!), would sit at the kitchen table and read every letter sent, answering each and every question, cooing over adorable kids dressed like him and the other Avengers. He had a scrap book. It was a thing.
Anyway, SHIELD scanned every package so no bombs would get through (and there had been a couple- mostly addressed to Tony though), so he had no compunctions over opening packages. Every once in a while there would be some sort of a plush toy, or knit something or other (honestly, he had sweaters and scarves and oh, so many things decorated in the American flag it was a bit repetitive).
Tony would sit on the counter sometimes and just observe Steve flipping through his mail. It seemed to settle the man, like if the rest of the general populace thought he was worth writing to, then maybe he was really ok. Like the skinny kid from Brooklyn was worthy of some kind of trust.
Tony would have, and had before, snorted at the fact that sometimes Cap didn’t feel worthy of the trust or the adoration. Tony had grown up around adoration and fame, he knew the value of a man who honestly had the ability and the right to commandeer trust. One look at the man and you knew he’d steer you in the best direction possible. He very rarely had cause to debate a call made on the field, and when he did it was because of something mechanical, something he had insight on. Then Cap adjusted with the information gathered and would make a different call.
So Tony was sitting on the counter, an oversized mug of coffee in his hands, as Steve just sat with his eyes watering every once in a while. Sometimes, when a comment pertained to Tony, he’d read it out loud. Tony, who had a staff of people to read and bring important things to his attention, would listen to Steve congratulate him on stopping something or other or fixing this space-time thingamabob, would smile softly and let Steve get back to his adoring public. At the very bottom of the pile was a bulky package, Tony was betting a red sweater, maybe a star on the chest. But when Steve finally got to it and slipped the fabric from the envelope it wasn’t knit.
It was a fabric close to jean, but not quite. A very nice cerulean blue, and some buckles dangled as the man held out the length.
It took Tony a second, but when his brain finally engaged he was… speechless. Speechless for approximately 5 seconds. That’s what it took for his mouth, without any internal editing, spouted out, “You have to try that on.”
“What is it?” Steve asked, eying the fabric, the buckles, the stitched on white stars, dividing the pleats, the pouch… Oh gods the pouch. It was tooled in the style of his shield. Tony was in awe.
“Oh, you have to put that on!” Tony jumped off the counter and grabbed the fabric. Without any warning his arms went around Steve’s narrow waist and flung the object around, carefully bringing the buckles to the side of his waist and fastening them in place.
“You’ve got the idea, go, if you have to be modest, drop trou and get back in here. I have to take a picture of you wearing that for the genius who made it!”
“Is this…?”
“Yes. Yes it is.”
“But I…”
“No! You take a picture of every ill-made hideous sweater any grandma on the street knits you. You are taking a picture of this!”
As Steve’s cheeks blushed a brilliant scarlet he turned on his heel and stalked from the room, the object half belted and fluttering behind him.
Tony could have kissed the fan who decided to send that marvelous item of clothing. Even when Steve returned, everything buckled correctly, sans pants, his boots laced up with just a hint of sock, Tony still shook his head.
“Loose the shirt.”
“What?”
“I mean it! These people are very serious when it comes to correct fashion with these things. Trust me, it doesn’t have the same effect if you don’t loose the shirt.” Tony continued to wheedle, even after Steve tried to protest again. “C’mon, it’s not like you have anything to be ashamed of.”
“Tony…”
“Please?”
It was an awkward silence that followed. Tony didn’t like the sound of that word falling from his lips, and Steve had never heard anything like it from the man before.
“Look, just… you know what? Never mind, I’ll leave you alone. You are obviously not comfortable in that, I’ll just… yeah, I’m going now…”
“Tony,” Steve breathed as the man started for the door. “Just, just for a quick photo, okay?” He waited patiently, waited for Tony to turn back around.
Tony, in the meantime, took a deep breath, twisted his torso around and watched silently as Steve pulled his t-shirt over his head.
Steve was standing there, under the overhead kitchen lights, in nothing but a blue kilt, white stars appliquéd in between the pleats, a pouch in front that resembled his shield with an uncanny ability to make what was hidden behind fabric seem just slightly obscene. His muscles rippled, there was no other word for it, as he tossed the flimsy white shirt aside, and the way his hip bones delicately jutted from the waist just emphasized how extremely built the man was.
He blushed, slightly, and that did nothing to detract from just how distracting his form had become. Tony had to swallow back any and all thoughts that might make Steve grab his shirt and stalk from the room.
Steve cleared his throat and jumped Tony from his distracting musings.
“So, where do you want me?”
“What?” Tony coughed, a host of thoughts occurring, one right after the other.
“For the picture? Where should I stand?”
“Umm…” he chuckled, brain reengaging. “Just up against the window. Backdrop New York, seems good. Not too distracting, but not boring like an emo blogger against his bedroom wall, you know?”
“No, I don’t know. But okay, sounds good, I guess.”
“Don’t you trust me?” Tony interjected a bit of teasing into his tone, trying to even out against the obvious gawking that had occurred earlier.
“Of course I trust you Tony,” Steve replied, with his most engaging ‘of course’ smile.
“Smile like that,” Tony instructed as Steve moved across the room.
“What?”
“Just a nice smile, turn a little to the, right? No, my right, your left… Chin up a bit, flex… all right.” Tony started snapping pictures with his phone, waited for the second when Steve would relax. It always took him a moment, when they were doing publicity stuff, when attention was being paid to him specifically, to stop being so stiff.
And… there.
On an exhale, rueful and slightly charming grin, blushing just a bit, one arm in front flexed slightly, the other behind a bit, his abs shining against the light. A guy in a kilt…
Captain America in a freak’n kilt.
How awesome was that?
Written during one gin-fueled evening after watching Lartist-at-work… he’s selling the print people, check it out!!
http://lartist.myshopify.com/products/kilted-captain-america