[He knows what it cost her to reach out. How much more it costs her to reach out to him.
To give when he's already taken too much from her.
He's not afraid of her, not really. He used to be. Before he finally accepted he was really just afraid of himself. Always had been. Always will be. Just couldn't stand knowing someone else knew it now, too.
So he reaches out, takes the steps, closes the distance, and laces his fingers through hers as he joins her at the window. Still staring out at nothing. Feeling everything.
He wants to laugh. Or cry. Or crack his forehead against the glass. So he just stands still, hyper-aware of how small her hand feels in his. How deceptive that is. How good it feels to accept comfort he doesn't deserve. Or maybe give it.]
[It had always been easy to hate Tony Stark when Pietro had stood there. Their pain had run through them, back and forth, a closed circuit. Her anger runs out of her now, homeless and bleeding away, never enough to fill her, no matter how much bubbles out of her heart and her memories.
It's one thing to know how many long hours he's put into his machines, but as he does the unthinkable and accepts, silently, her gesture, it's another to feel it. The roughness of his palm, the pattern of callouses from tools, little imperfections that could be natural or could be the remnants of scrapes or burns.
The work is branded into him. It's...startling, to find how deep it runs. It makes her fingers close on his hand, her thumb trace once over the back of his before it stills again.]
[He's not worthy of the acceptance he feels in the small, simple gesture of her hand squeezing his, the smoothing of her thumb over the back of his hand. It's too comforting.
He's made up entirely of scars like armor. When he'd said it all those years ago, he hadn't meant it metaphorically, but it rang true all the same. He was his work. He is Iron Man. Armor with a very squishy, breakable, broken core.
A quiet, breathy laugh escapes him before he can even consider holding it back, and he catches sight of his reflection before he slides his gaze to look at hers. He's smiling. It almost hurts to.]
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no subject
To give when he's already taken too much from her.
He's not afraid of her, not really. He used to be. Before he finally accepted he was really just afraid of himself. Always had been. Always will be. Just couldn't stand knowing someone else knew it now, too.
So he reaches out, takes the steps, closes the distance, and laces his fingers through hers as he joins her at the window. Still staring out at nothing. Feeling everything.
He wants to laugh. Or cry. Or crack his forehead against the glass. So he just stands still, hyper-aware of how small her hand feels in his. How deceptive that is. How good it feels to accept comfort he doesn't deserve. Or maybe give it.]
no subject
It's one thing to know how many long hours he's put into his machines, but as he does the unthinkable and accepts, silently, her gesture, it's another to feel it. The roughness of his palm, the pattern of callouses from tools, little imperfections that could be natural or could be the remnants of scrapes or burns.
The work is branded into him. It's...startling, to find how deep it runs. It makes her fingers close on his hand, her thumb trace once over the back of his before it stills again.]
I think I am over my time now. We are even.
no subject
He's made up entirely of scars like armor. When he'd said it all those years ago, he hadn't meant it metaphorically, but it rang true all the same. He was his work. He is Iron Man. Armor with a very squishy, breakable, broken core.
A quiet, breathy laugh escapes him before he can even consider holding it back, and he catches sight of his reflection before he slides his gaze to look at hers. He's smiling. It almost hurts to.]
I'll put it on your tab.
[Yeah. They're even.]