Fic: Pulsepoint (1/1)
Title: Pulsepoint
Rating: R
Pairing: Tony/Rhodey
Word Count: 765
Summary: He is still Tony Stark, only not quite. A little post-Afghanistan ficlet for gottalovev, on her birthday. Spoilers for Iron Man (2008).
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: For the absolutely marvelous gottalovev on her birthday: bonne fête, my dear, and wishes for a beautiful year to come -- you deserve nothing but the best! I’d hoped to make this a bit longer than it is, but my list-of-doom has been getting me down, writing wise. Hopefully, this is okay as a little bit of a gift for you, to celebrate your special day :D
Pulsepoint
The sands of the desert stick to him, adhere to the film of grime that coats him like a second skin -- the sweat and the blood and a tear or two, shed for loss, for hope, before the glow in his chest could chase it off; bitter dreams, all of them. All of it.
Everything.
The water is a luxury, an entitlement; and it’s almost shocking how the schism in his own mind surges forth beneath the spray -- he is Tony Stark, he thinks, though his muscles strain, give in different places now; though he yearns for the scratch of wool and the touch of silk, for a stained cot and Egyptian cotton in the very same breath. Though his heart beats harder, and his breath comes quicker, and he’s a lighter sleeper than he ever was before -- even so, he still notes the swell of a breast beneath a female officer’s uniform, still craves the slip, the smooth rush of Scotch down his throat.
He’s still Tony Stark, just not quite like he was; not like he remembers.
He towels off, shrugs on clothes -- and he doesn’t think twice of having clean ones, new ones, until some time after the moisture, the beads of water that linger on his skin have soaked up into the fabric, like they were never even there. It’s weird, that he can hear the dull roar of conversation beyond where he stands -- barefooted, heartbeat still stuttering hard against his ears, hot against the steam of the shower -- and the words, the back-ends of phrases are things that he knows, can understand: English, American English, and fuck if it doesn’t sound foreign as hell.
Jim’s waiting for him -- of course he is -- eyes wide and filled with emotions that Tony’s never known how to read, can’t even decipher as one’s he’s picked up over the last months because his reflection scares him; he knows his feelings in his pulse, and it’s racing -- inefficient, unrefined. It’s instinct without care, without restraint that drives his fingers to the side of Rhodey’s neck, cupping and jabbing without grace; he can read the throb against his touch, and knows he’s not the only one, he’s not alone in this.
Not alone, not anymore. He needs this.
There is no why.
Jim’s hand -- broad, steady grip -- covers the reactor in a moment, reduces it to a whisper, the floating impressions of the sun against the backs of eyelids; all dead in good time, and Tony has to remember how to speak, except that no -- no, he doesn’t. There don’t have to be words.
So he pushes them back against the bed -- and it’s a fucking bed, a real one, and Tony feels out of place on it for the space of a second before he remembers, before it all comes back like riding a goddamned bike -- and he reminds them both that he won’t break, can’t break; s’already broken.
The message is clear, even if the delivery is muddled.
They move slow, so slow; his heart moves fast, and the room is dark save for the way that the soft arch of Rhodey’s lips catches blue, cold in the stray beams, even as Tony fears -- of all moments -- that he’ll die of want, of thirst here and now. He drags, digs nails against Jim’s shoulder blades, moans without a sound and draws blood, he thinks; smears sweat against his palms as he rides the crests, the ebb and flow. He tastes salt and breaks the skin of his lip with his teeth; when he stops breathing, he almost feels alive.
Rhodey spreads out next to him, his skin catching moonlight where Tony sits in shadows, and he’d kill for a fucking smoke if his lungs didn’t burn so bad; he hasn’t smoked since college. He feels winded, reborn, and he’s half new and half old; half light and half dark -- half strong and half shattered. Half here, safe. Found.
And half still lost somewhere, stumbling around with everything and nothing held tight in both hands, ready for the fall.
But it’s warm, the place between, and he feels solid for the first time in months, years; and the dichotomy, maybe, isn’t such a burden. The schism, he thinks, can afford not to be bridged.
Dawn comes, and they have to leave; he regrets it, but knows that for all of him that walks away, there’s just as much that stays.
Rating: R
Pairing: Tony/Rhodey
Word Count: 765
Summary: He is still Tony Stark, only not quite. A little post-Afghanistan ficlet for gottalovev, on her birthday. Spoilers for Iron Man (2008).
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: For the absolutely marvelous gottalovev on her birthday: bonne fête, my dear, and wishes for a beautiful year to come -- you deserve nothing but the best! I’d hoped to make this a bit longer than it is, but my list-of-doom has been getting me down, writing wise. Hopefully, this is okay as a little bit of a gift for you, to celebrate your special day :D
Pulsepoint
The sands of the desert stick to him, adhere to the film of grime that coats him like a second skin -- the sweat and the blood and a tear or two, shed for loss, for hope, before the glow in his chest could chase it off; bitter dreams, all of them. All of it.
Everything.
The water is a luxury, an entitlement; and it’s almost shocking how the schism in his own mind surges forth beneath the spray -- he is Tony Stark, he thinks, though his muscles strain, give in different places now; though he yearns for the scratch of wool and the touch of silk, for a stained cot and Egyptian cotton in the very same breath. Though his heart beats harder, and his breath comes quicker, and he’s a lighter sleeper than he ever was before -- even so, he still notes the swell of a breast beneath a female officer’s uniform, still craves the slip, the smooth rush of Scotch down his throat.
He’s still Tony Stark, just not quite like he was; not like he remembers.
He towels off, shrugs on clothes -- and he doesn’t think twice of having clean ones, new ones, until some time after the moisture, the beads of water that linger on his skin have soaked up into the fabric, like they were never even there. It’s weird, that he can hear the dull roar of conversation beyond where he stands -- barefooted, heartbeat still stuttering hard against his ears, hot against the steam of the shower -- and the words, the back-ends of phrases are things that he knows, can understand: English, American English, and fuck if it doesn’t sound foreign as hell.
Jim’s waiting for him -- of course he is -- eyes wide and filled with emotions that Tony’s never known how to read, can’t even decipher as one’s he’s picked up over the last months because his reflection scares him; he knows his feelings in his pulse, and it’s racing -- inefficient, unrefined. It’s instinct without care, without restraint that drives his fingers to the side of Rhodey’s neck, cupping and jabbing without grace; he can read the throb against his touch, and knows he’s not the only one, he’s not alone in this.
Not alone, not anymore. He needs this.
There is no why.
Jim’s hand -- broad, steady grip -- covers the reactor in a moment, reduces it to a whisper, the floating impressions of the sun against the backs of eyelids; all dead in good time, and Tony has to remember how to speak, except that no -- no, he doesn’t. There don’t have to be words.
So he pushes them back against the bed -- and it’s a fucking bed, a real one, and Tony feels out of place on it for the space of a second before he remembers, before it all comes back like riding a goddamned bike -- and he reminds them both that he won’t break, can’t break; s’already broken.
The message is clear, even if the delivery is muddled.
They move slow, so slow; his heart moves fast, and the room is dark save for the way that the soft arch of Rhodey’s lips catches blue, cold in the stray beams, even as Tony fears -- of all moments -- that he’ll die of want, of thirst here and now. He drags, digs nails against Jim’s shoulder blades, moans without a sound and draws blood, he thinks; smears sweat against his palms as he rides the crests, the ebb and flow. He tastes salt and breaks the skin of his lip with his teeth; when he stops breathing, he almost feels alive.
Rhodey spreads out next to him, his skin catching moonlight where Tony sits in shadows, and he’d kill for a fucking smoke if his lungs didn’t burn so bad; he hasn’t smoked since college. He feels winded, reborn, and he’s half new and half old; half light and half dark -- half strong and half shattered. Half here, safe. Found.
And half still lost somewhere, stumbling around with everything and nothing held tight in both hands, ready for the fall.
But it’s warm, the place between, and he feels solid for the first time in months, years; and the dichotomy, maybe, isn’t such a burden. The schism, he thinks, can afford not to be bridged.
Dawn comes, and they have to leave; he regrets it, but knows that for all of him that walks away, there’s just as much that stays.