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Tony didn't like his hands. Well. He liked having his hands and he liked working with them, because well, an engineer kind of needs those things in order to actually fabricate their ideas. So, kind of essential. What he hated about his hands was the marks on them. The callouses, the cuts, the burns, the scars. Reminders of his past, how he's screwed up before, how he's failed. He hated the feel of the callouses on his fingertips, knuckles, palms. Hated the way they scratched against things he touched, hated the way they dulled his senses, making things appear harmless when they were actually quite deadly. He hated them.
But Steve's hands were different. They weren't calloused and scarred like Tony's; they were soft and gentle and big and warm. There was no speck of freckle or mark that jarred the perfection that were his hands, Tony could look forever and never find a mark. Tony could watch Steve get a cut on his palm, and the next day it would be gone. He liked watching Steve's hands as he did, well, anything. The way his long, charcoal dusted fingers would sweep across a page, leaving art in their path, the way they created so many beautiful things with aids in form of pencils, pens, paints, markers, anything he could get his hands on, really. Tony likes watching as they grip a spatula above a sizzling pan, stir fry being tossed about careful not to burn or spill. Tony likes holding Steve's hands, feeling the warmth seeping into him, feeling the careful way they touch and hold, the gentle caress of Steve's thumb against Tony's knuckle.
He loves holding hands until he remembers how much he hates his own. And Steve loves holding hands, too, so Tony remembers this a lot.
Steve may or may not be finding out, but he confronts Tony one day as their lounging in Steve's room, Steve busying himself with a charcoal piece on his custom made drawing table (from Tony, obviously), while Tony works on some simple schematics and looks over some calculations that Pepper sent his way, laying down on Steve's bed.
"Why don't you like holding hands?" it was just an innocent question and deserved an innocent answer. But Tony fucks things up. It's what he does.
"I just don't, okay?"
"What, is it too childish for you or something?" Steve sounds frustrated. Like he's been thinking about this a lot and it's just finally gotten to him, "I mean, we used to hold hands all the time, now you won't even touch me for very long."
Uh oh. Now was time for Tony to say something good because that slight wavering tone at the end of that sentence tells Tony that Steve is insecure about something. And when Steve gets insecure it doesn't end up good. Tony's up in a flash, walking over to Steve with his hands raised, cupping Steve's face and forcing him to look at him before he can divert his gaze and keep it there. Tony can see the insecurities flitting across Steve's face, too quick to catch if you weren't looking hard enough. Tony was.
"No, no, it's not like that, nothing like that," Tony coos, brushing his thumbs over those strong cheekbones. He feels Steve shiver a little at that and smiles down at him. One more brush of his thumbs and-- oh. He registers the dull scratch of the callouses on his thumbs, the slight catch of a scar, the dull roar of a burn on his palm that never quite regained feeling. He senses all the imperfections and quickly snatches his hands away, squeezing them into fists at his side. He tenses at the downright frustrated look on Steve's face and knows it's only moments before he blows.
"That. That right there. What the hell is that, Tony?" He says, exasperation clear on his tongue. Tony thinks he can hear sadness, "Is there something wrong with me? Did I do something that makes you not want to touch me?"
Tony sees the pleading look in Steve's eyes, sees the way he wants to understand but just can't. Tony tries, "It's not that. It's not you. Nothing is wrong with you," then taking a deep breath, "It's me okay? I'm pretty screwed up if you haven't noticed. So, sorry for being messed up." and then Tony turns on his heel and does what he does best.
He runs away.
Tony tries not to dwell on it. The way Steve's face completely crumpled when he told him he was messed up, the way Steve stood as soon as Tony turned, arms outstretched as he tried to reach for Tony. But Tony's been running away for a long time, he's an expert, he knows what he's doing.
He locks himself in his workshop, but he doesn't work. No, he just sits down on the couch, rests his head in his hands, feels the callouses, the burns, the tingling, the scars, and wills himself not to cry. He and Steve haven't even really been together long, okay no, they've been together an eternity for all Tony's concerned about. This is the longest relationship he's ever had and it was all going great. But then Tony's hands had to get in the way.
Maybe he could chop them off and make himself a new pair? Wait, make himself the new pair first and then chop his off. That would work. But before he could even begin to think up the design, Jarvis interrupts with a polite, "Sir, Captain Rogers in requesting permission to enter the lab."
Tony sighs, curls himself into a ball before laying sideways on the couch. He really doesn't want Steve here right now; he'll probably end up saying something stupid and Steve will get upset and leave him. Tony would not be able to handle Steve leaving him.
Alas, the next thing he knows, Steve is kneeling down beside him, his big blue eyes staring at him with a mixture of concern and worry, and Tony's trying to remember if he told Jarvis to let Steve in or not. "Tony?" Steve's lips form the word and it looks so delicious and right and wonderful coming ot of those soft pink lips that Tony wants to kiss him.
"I don't like my hands."
There. He said it. Bracing himself for laughter and mockery, he tenses, watching Steve with a critical eye, daring him to do so much as smirk. Steve only tips his head to the side, a small smile lighting up his face. Why the hell is he smiling?
"I love your hands."
And Tony kind of freezes, his body less tense and more in shock because what? Steve can't like his hands, they're imperfect, they're scarred, they're worn and old and dirty and ugly and horrible and the texture of them is all messed up and more often than not they're cold and clammy instead of warm and comforting like Steve's. Steve's smile widens and Tony realizes he just said that all out loud.
"You're hands are not ugly, Tony," Steve says because that's obviously the most important part of what Tony had just confessed. Obviously. "They're beautiful."
And if that kind of takes Tony's breath away, so what? He's still stubborn, his fists are still clenched up against his chest, arms tense in order to keep them where they are instead of where the want to be: all over Steve.
As if to make his point, Steve takes one of Tony's hands, easily breaking through all of Tony's precautions and opening his fist up so his palm is facing upwards. Steve's eyes leave Tony's face now, and they look down at Tony's hands. He turns them over, eyes carefully studying all the marks, all the imperfections, all the things Tony hates. Strangely, it doesn't make Tony feel self conscious, doesn't make him want to hide or squirm or try to get away. He sits and lets Steve look; he lets Steve realize how much there is to hate about his hands.
But then Steve does something Tony's heart was definitely not ready for. He opens Tony's hand flat again and presses the softest of kisses right to the center of his palm, over top of a scar that Tony got when he was little and decided that he would clutch the metal right after it had been welded. He had gotten more scolding than medical attention for that one.
"You're hands tell a story," Steve said, words muffled by Tony's hands. Not enough to jumble his words, but just enough to call if muffled, "It's something I missed out on. There is no doubt in my mind that if I hadn't gotten frozen, I would probably still be a big part of your life. Everything would have turned out differently, if I were there, and I don't know if I would want you differently but, I'm getting side tracked," he huffed out a laugh, looking up at Tony as he turned Tony's hand and pressed it to his cheek.
"I want to know what happened to you. Why did you become an engineer? Why do you like it? How can you handle it? I mean, God knows you hurt yourself a lot working down here. You're bound to get scars," his eyes are too blue and too serious. How did Tony get stuck with this? "And I love them. The scars tell me stories, even though they can't tell me what happened, they show me that things did. You did things, you took risks, you might have hurt yourself in the process, but I love it. I love the feel of your hands, the callouses show me you've worked hard to get where you are, the scars show me you tried over and over to get the perfect results. I love your hands."
They were silent. Tony could read through the lines, and Steve knows, Tony can tell. Tony shifted, moving around until he was sitting in front of Steve. Any other time Tony would be thinking dirty thoughts, but right now was too intense, too wonderful, full of too much emotion. Tony's gutter mind wouldn't ruin that now. He puts his other hand on the other side of Steve's head, cupping it effectively before leaning down to meet Steve halfway in a kiss. They didn't kiss much, Tony wanted to take things slow with Steve because he didn't want to mess anything up, but this kiss was full of love and wonder and want and need. It was everything Tony craved and more.
Steve surged forward slowly, hands resting on Tony's knees as he pushed himself up off the ground and into Tony's space. Tony didn't stop kissing the other man until he had a lap full of Steve, arms crowding around him, nothing but Steve anywhere Tony looked. He wouldn't have it any other way.
"I love you," his voice faltered. He'd never been more sure about anything in his life. Steve was the one, he most definitely was, because who else but Tony's one would be able to make Tony demise his hands less with just words? Simple spoken words jumbled along with meaningless other words at that.
Steve smiled, turning his head to press a kiss to each of Tony's hands and then leaning down to kiss Tony's forehead, nose, cheek, and then a slow soft kiss on his lips. When that kiss slowed into breathing and nothing more he whispered back, "I love you too."
His voice was so sincere it hurt. Tony struggled not to break down into a sobbing mess, "But if you ever have a problem with anything ever again, Tony Stark, if you dare to keep it from me there will be consequences."
Tony laughed, moving his arms so he was holding Steve around the waist, tugging him in close so he could bury his nose in the other's shoulder. He breathed him in, "Okay, okay. I got it. Consequences. Scary."
A hand ran through his hair; soft, gentle, warm. Long almost delicate fingers, perfect and pristine, void of any marks natural or unnatural. Everything Tony wished his hands could be, but was secretly comforted by the fact that the owner of those perfect hands loved his own imperfect ones. "I mean it, Tony. Tell me."
Tony nodded, a hasty shake of his head that rubbed his nose and lips along the fabric clad shoulder, "I will."
And you know what was weird? Tony meant it.