Aftershock

The Spontaneity Of Tony Stark

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Steve

It's been a few days since I've heard from him. I'm trying to not freak out, to practice patience...which translates to taking out my worries on a punching bag rather than pacing a hole in my apartment floor. My fist isn't hitting hard enough today, though. Distractions have a way of seeping through.

I've lived my life based on predictability and singular goals. Enlist in the war. Make a difference. I suppose that second one hasn't changed much, though I suppose I hadn't counted on it the impact it'd have on my own life. I've always been a constant of my own right, turning my nose up at Tony's unpredictability, instability, his rash decisions. He exists in the gray area, and myself in the black and white.

But since the final snap, since Tony nearly tore himself apart from the inside out for the sake of humanity, since I realized the intention behind his actions...the colors seem blurrier than before.

Grayer than before.

I throw an underhanded punch. The bag swings backwards, and I counter it with double the force. Somehow, it's still not enough to knock it off its chains.

There are times when I feel like my rigidity is who I am, at my core. But there are other times when I wonder if it's who I should be. What is it like to live like Tony? To allow a little spontaneity into my routine? What is it like to love him?

I wonder if he'll give me the opportunity to find out.

My phone rings while I'm blotting the sweat from my forehead. I check the caller ID—Tony's face stares back at me, that blurry selfie he took when he put his contact in. "Hello?"

"Do you have ice skates?"

I falter. Everything I considered saying to Tony once we finally talked again has fallen out of my head, replaced with a single question: "Ice skates?"

"Yeah, do you own a pair?"

"Uh...no?"

"What size are your feet?"

"Why?"

"Because I'm gonna buy you some ice skates, dummy."

"No, I mean—why ice skates?"

He sighs, long and dramatic and too close to the microphone. It crackles in my ear. "Because we're going skating tonight, obviously. Come on, doll, keep up."

The concept of keeping up with this conversation has long since been out of the question. "Is this a prank call? Are you gonna ask if my refrigerator's running next?"

"No, I'm going to ask, what size are your feet?"

"Tony."

"I'm gonna keep badgering you until you tell me. Don't say I didn't warn you."

"...Eleven."

"Cool, thanks. Be there at 6. Bundle up, buttercup, I don't wanna make another capsicle."

"Wait—"

And then he hangs up. I stare at my phone for an extra moment, trying to process what just happened. And then, slowly, it dawns on me; if I wanted to experience the spontaneity of Tony Stark, I suppose I've bought myself front row seats.

⋅☆⋅⋅☆⋅⋅☆⋅

Tony takes me to a campground in the woods just outside the city. It's closed for the season, but according to Tony: "They still let you skate on the pond, though." He assures me of this while he's clambering over the wooden fence, which is sporting a sign that very clearly says 'closed, keep out'.