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Steve watches Tony covertly in the glow of the firelight, eyes tracing over Tony’s animated movements as he trades jokes with Jim on the opposite side of the camp. His eager gestures are easy to memorize. If only they were just as easily captured on the page.
Steve tightens his grip on the edge of his sketchpad as he turns back to the paper in front of him, stretching out his legs so as to better balance the weight of it on his knees. His pencil hovers over the page, ready to make its mark, but Steve pauses just before it hits the paper, heaving a quiet sigh.
He’s good at his job - there’s no question of that. Steve knows that Tony and Jim had had misgivings about taking him on as their illustrator at Pepper’s recommendation while she broadened her scope to chronicle other journals as well as Marvels. They had probably doubted whether Steve could survive a mission without collapsing or losing a limb, but he’s proven that he can pull his own weight, and the editors have been more than happy with the visuals he’s provided for new issues over the past few months.
Drawing Tony Stark as the adventurer who fears nothing and no one, the hero of Marvels, has never been a problem for Steve. But there’s something about Tony in his quieter moments, when he’s standing still just long enough for Steve to try and read him, something that Steve can’t quite decipher.
Tony Stark has proven himself to be more of an enigma than Steve could have ever imagined.
He takes one long look at Tony, noting the minute details - the sweep of Tony’s eyelashes against his cheek, the sharp jut of his chin, the movement of his throat as he tosses back another sip of whisky from his flask before leaning against Jim with a grin. Steve bites his lip and puts pencil to paper for one more try, pressing very lightly on the page.
Steve loses time in his focus. It’s only until a familiar humming pulls him out of his reverie, minutes or perhaps hours later, that he realizes he’s not alone.
Steve turns to his right to see Tony sitting next to him. His eyes are fixed on Steve’s face, his expression unreadable, and Steve's heart jumps into his throat as he moves reflexively to cover his sketchpad with one hand, hoping that it’s too dark for Tony to see anything.
It would be easy to excuse it as practice, of course. He’s done enough sketches of Jim and Pepper for this not to seem out of the ordinary. But for some reason, a part of Steve balks at anyone else seeing these attempts, especially Tony.
He imagines trying to explain it, the way he feels when he sees Tony put away the job for a little while and smile just for himself, when he spots Tony looking at him across their campfires and how he’s still trying to figure out how to express that through his art. Something very much like panic lodges itself in his ribs, though he’s not sure why.
Steve sees Tony tracking the movement of his hand. Perhaps it’s a trick of firelight, but for a moment, Steve swears that Tony’s face falls in response.
“Don’t worry, Steve, I’m not going to steal your secrets.”
Steve’s head snaps up. He opens his mouth to speak, but Tony’s expression is open and relaxed, far from accusatory, and Steve swallows the sharp retort of denial waiting on his tongue.
“The others have turned in already. I said I’d take the first watch,” Tony continues, voice low. “You should get some sleep.”
Steve drops his sketchpad down beside him before glancing at Tony, who’s now turned away from him. He wonders if he should apologize for acting defensively when Tony startled him, but he knows Tony will brush that off without a second glance. He shifts a little, his knee knocking against Tony’s, and something warm settles in his stomach when Tony doesn’t move away.
“I’ll stay up a while, keep you company.”
“Suit yourself, Steve.” The hesitant smile that Tony aims in Steve’s direction is more than worth the loss of a couple hours of sleep, even if Steve grumbles about it in the morning.
Steve nurses his drink as he turns in his seat to survey the crowd behind him. They’ve been trying to track down the possible location of an alleged secret map to the ruins of Camelot for weeks, though Steve thinks it’s more than likely another false rumor. Tony had asked Steve along for this meeting with an informant, but Steve had lost him in the crowd soon after they walked in.
He takes another sip of his drink and fiddles with the edge of his paper napkin, brushing a finger over the small sketch he’s been working on in the half hour since he deposited himself at the bar. It’s of Tony, It’s of Tony sporting his hat and bowtie. A sharply-cut suit is a rare look for him, though he looks just as dashing and suave in it as he does on the cover of a Marvels’ magazine, if Steve does say so himself.
Steve sighs and tears at a corner of the napkin. It’s a decent enough sketch at first glance, but there’s still something missing, perhaps something in his smirk or hooded gaze.
As if summoned by Steve’s thoughts, Tony suddenly appears next to him, one hand on his arm. There’s a pinched edge to his smile that smooths out when he sets his eyes on Steve. Something tight and careful in his posture leaves Steve feeling on edge, even as Tony maintains an outwardly calm expression.
“There you are, Steve!” Tony exclaims.
Steve knows immediately from the note of false cheer in Tony’s voice that something’s wrong. “I was just telling the lovely Miss Carlota here that although I am heartbroken to leave her presence, we unfortunately have urgent business that requires our attention and must bid her farewell.”
“Yes, indeed.” Steve grips Tony’s shoulder with one hand.
He leaves it there as he stands up from the bar stool, Tony’s hand still tight around his arm. The brunette next to Tony fixes her eyes on where his hand is resting, her mouth stretched out in a taut line, but she says nothing. “I was just about to go looking for you when you found me,” Steve adds.
He meets the woman’s seething glare with a carefully blank expression, wanting nothing more than to take Tony’s hand in his and pull him away from her searching gaze.
Once again, Tony voices their goodbyes and then they make their way quickly towards the open door. Once they’re half a block from the bar, Tony breaks his silence to thank Steve for the rescue from an overly ardent admirer, a mixture of relief and discomfort in his voice.
A hot flare of protective anger wells up in Steve, and he nudges Tony’s shoulder gently, wishing he could offer Tony any sort of comfort.
Tony only releases Steve’s arm once they’re around the corner. His hand brushes against Steve’s bare wrist for one brief moment. It’s nothing, a mere accident, but Steve feels the touch like a brand on his skin all the way back to the office.
“Drinks, dancing, friends, my dazzling presence… What more could you want, Steve?” Tony fiddles with the knot of his tie, peering encouragingly at Steve from under his eyelashes before returning his attention to his suit once again. “How will we enjoy ourselves without you?”
Steve flushes and rubs nervously at the back of his neck. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll do fine, Tony.”
He appreciates the invitation, but parties have always been either a source of boredom or embarrassment for him, and he doesn’t think the party being thrown for Marvels’ tenth anniversary edition will be any different. Pepper has been dropping hints about it for over a month, and Rhodey had assured him that it really wasn’t all that bad, if you avoided the right people. Although Steve hates disappointing his friends, especially Tony, he won’t be swayed into changing his mind.
Most likely he’d end up on the sidelines, watching Tony in the arms of a different suitor for every dance, and while Steve’s never really been one for dancing himself, the thought of Tony turning on his effortless charm for interested partners leaves a sour, bitter taste in his mouth.
“Are we really so tiresome that you’d prefer the company of a good book and a stiff drink to a night on the town with us?”
Tony sounds frustrated now, his movements jerky and sharp as he pulls even harder at his collar. Steve decides to put him out of his misery.
Putting his book aside, he stands up and strides over to Tony, motioning at him to lift his chin. “You must be dreading this party to want me to go so badly, hmm?”
Usually Tony can also tie a perfect Windsor knot without batting an eye, courtesy of Jarvis' strict guidance, but Steve refrains from mentioning this out of tact.
“Something like that,” Tony says, subdued, as Steve leans forward to help him with his tie.
Once he’s made sure it’s perfect, Steve steps back with a satisfied smile. He looks up at Tony, only to find Tony already looking at him, a dark, indecipherable look in his eyes that almost makes Steve lose his footing.
After a moment, Tony clears his throat. “So, how do I look?”
“Perfect,” Steve says, ducking his head. He doesn’t understand why, but as he looks at Tony, it feels like his heart has suddenly flown into his throat.
Tony nods, wrenching his gaze away from Steve’s as he walks over to the doorway.
Then, before Steve can say another word, Tony is gone, only leaving behind the heavy clang of the door slamming shut behind him.
More than one picture of Tony dancing at the party makes it onto the next morning’s newspapers. Using one of the photos, Steve attempts to replicate Tony’s expression on paper. It’s almost perfect, for once. Tony looks content, if a little bored at being the center of attention, his smile bright and flawless.
Steve misses the tiny lopsided grin he saw on Tony’s face sometime ago. It was the one and only time he’d tried to teach Steve how to waltz after they’d gotten soused on too much whiskey.
The drawing ends up in the wastepaper basket before the end of the night.
“What the hell were you thinking?” Steve hisses furiously, dabbing at the thin red scratches on Tony’s face. His voice falters a little as he remembers the feeling of panic punching a hole in his stomach when he’d raised his head to find Tony motionless beneath him.
“I was thinking that the boulder was coming straight at you and you were going to be crushed,” Tony replies dryly, wincing as Steve presses a little harder on a deep cut on his forehead in retaliation.
“You should have yelled for me to move, not thrown yourself at me to get me out of the way,” Steve retorts, his breath hitching in his throat as he forces himself not to raise his voice any further.
“There was no time. I couldn’t… if you…”
Something in Steve’s chest breaks wide open at the quiet despair in Tony’s voice, and he presses a hand to his heart. He looks up at Tony. Suddenly it hits him, as clear as daylight, exactly what he’s been missing all along.
It’s like not being able to understand a picture until you turn it the right way around. And then it’s there in front of you, impossible to mistake for something else. Like looking into a partial reflection and seeing the rest of it, even without the light.
“I didn’t know,” Steve breathes out in a whisper, awed. All this time, every time Tony’s looked at him in a way Steve couldn’t understand, every time his expression had eluded Steve's art, that’s what it’d meant.
It’s Tony, in love. With Steve.
All this time, Steve didn’t know his own heart until he saw Tony’s clearly. Now that he has, he doesn’t understand how it took him so long to see it when it was there all along.
Tony’s laughter is soft against his palm as Steve smooths his hand carefully over Tony’s cheek.
“And here I thought I was being more than obvious,” Tony says, his voice turning shy. “Does this mean… Steve, do you…”
Steve presses a finger to the edge of Tony’s mouth and leans in close. “I do. I love you.”
Tony leans down to kiss him, and Steve’s whole body thrills in response.
When they break apart for air, Tony’s smile is a small, impossibly beautiful thing. The smile of a man in love.
Steve can’t wait to spend the rest of his life capturing it on paper in a thousand different ways.