STUBBORN

Stub·born (stbrn)

1.

a. Unreasonably, often perversely unyielding; bull-headed.

b. Firmly resolved or determined; resolute.

2. Characterized by perseverance; persistent.

3. Difficult to treat or deal with; resistant to treatment or effort.

Steve looked over his half formed sketch of some unknown night sky. A luminescent full moon hung low on the pages horizon, the velvety deep blue of the background dotted through with the radiant burst of micro-stars, all waiting to be put to shame by the gleam of yet absent red and gold.

For a moment he contemplated starting the focus of the sketch, but ultimately decided that the five hours he'd already been drawing were enough for the time being, the slow throb of well-earned muscle fatigue creating a welcome heaviness in his hands.

Dropping the book gently to the floor, he turned, drawing his legs up and curling down into the soft grasp of the battered seat, somehow cradled by its warm familiarity, despite dwarfing the small couch.

It was an odd couch. Steve was half convinced, (despite knowing he was being ridiculous) that it had special 'magic-future-techno' properties.

Take now for instance.

His six foot frame was snug in the seat of the couch, his legs drawn up tightly against his body, and although he wasn't uncomfortable, it was clear that there wasn't an inch to spare in any direction. Yet he knew by experience (plentiful experience) that if Tony were to join him, there would somehow, inexplicably be plenty of room for the two of them to curl together on the soft upholstery.

Thor, Bruce, Steve, Clint and Natasha had all somehow sat side-by-side on the thing one evening while they'd silently waited to ambush someone who had decided it had been prudent to skip med-check after having had half a building dropped on him.

It practically swallowed Tony whole whenever he was curled up on it, wrapped in a Steve and/or Dummy provided blanket, just the top of his tangled mop of hair visible over the arm.

Yet that awful evening Steve had heard a completely uninformed TV presenter announce that tragedy had struck the Stark Empire once again, this time with the death of owner 'Tony Stark', he'd bolted to the workshop, sure that he'd seen Tony there about an hour before. Sure enough, he'd stepped through the door, Tony's name on his lips, only to have his eyes drawn to Tony's form, sprawled larger than life across what appeared to be an oddly tiny couch.

So yes. Suspicions about that couch.

A movement caught Steve's attention, dragging him from his nonsensical thoughts. The sudden stretch was too large to be explained by the repeated turns of whatever minuscule tool Tony was using and Steve watched as his lover reached blindly for the coffee mug balanced precariously on the workbench edge, the genius's attention not lifting from his other hand.

Steve knew for a fact that the coffee was stone cold and unappetising, a greasy film no doubt formed across the top, yet Tony didn't even pause. He gulped down several mouthfuls and through some miraculous display of peripheral awareness, returned the mug semi-safely to the bench.

Shaking his head in equal parts affection and exasperation, Steve glanced at his watch, unsurprised by the 2:20am time stamp. The coffee was the remnants of the same mug he'd pressed into Tony's hand when he'd traipsed down to the workshop at around 10 o'clock last night.

He'd offered it as an enticement, hoping to convince Tony to follow him upstairs to bed, in return for the caffeinated incentive. Although not quite all he'd hoped for, Steve had settled for the warm lips and coffee infused kiss he'd been rewarded with.

He'd known convincing Tony that it was sleep-time was a long shot when he'd attempted it; past efforts at this level of fatigue had resulted in very little success. Still, he'd deemed it worth a shot.

He'd attempted, at hour 27, to cajole Tony into bed with a less than subtle promise of more than just sleep, and that had worked. At least until the 'more than sleep' became 'just sleep', and then Tony had slipped out of their room and back down to his workshop.

There was always a tiny chance that Tony could be coaxed into sleeping, but never when he was working on the team's equipment, and considering the soft sheen of his own shield beneath Tony's hands, Steve was pretty sure he had no chance of convincing Tony that it was time for a break.

Not that he allowed that to stop him from trying.

Hour 32 had devolved into a mild argument, the one that both of them knew by rote, and wasn't so much an argument as a statement of position.

"Tony, you've been awake for over 30 hours – you need some sleep."

"Can't, busy."

And the same thing again, in twelve or more variations, until Steve had finally thrown up his hands and left the workshop, which was almost always the guaranteed outcome.

He wasn't overly concerned; they'd been through this process so many times that Steve knew almost all the ins and outs of Tony's slow immersion into the unavoidable need for immediate sleep.

At some stage after 50 hours, he knew Tony would devolve beyond merely being tired, right into pure exhaustion, and Steve would simply be able to shepherd, if not literally carry, his lover to bed.

Yet, despite knowing that Tony would inevitably end up sleepy and clingy and perfect, Steve still tried to avoid reaching that stage. He absolutely adored the vulnerable and endearing persona of his lover, but would never be able to just accept it as the best option, not so long as Tony had to basically wreck himself before getting to that state.

This particular night (morning) was vexing Steve more than a little, as Tony had been awake some 42 hours and according to past experience, the genius should have been at the stage where he was stifling yawns, fumbling tools with shaky imprecise movements and blinking heavy eyes.

So quite naturally, he seemed completely wired.

His narrowed brown gaze had been concentrating closely on the fine-motor facilitation upgrades for hours, hands steady, and movements smooth and sure as they kept up with his whirring mind.

Steve would blame the caffeine, but he was pretty sure his lover was somehow both addicted and immune.

There was still a chance, however minute, that this wasn't approaching what Steve hoped it wasn't.

He had a feeling that he wasn't going to be dealing with Tony in his adorable plaint state, nor his usual graceless tumble into bed, his mouth sour but brown eyes beckoning in their heavy warmth.

Instead, with a feeling of dread, he was beginning to suspect the presence of a 'different' Tony, a new persona. This one rare, in that Steve had only experienced him a handful of times before, and could with good grace, admit that of all the aspects of Tony's personality he'd dealt with, this was the one he hated most.

Okay, that was a blatant lie.

He didn't, couldn't, hate any of Tony's masks or persona's.

This one was just his least favourite, so far.

This Tony was an unholy pain in the ass, belligerent, argumentative, mule-headed and seemingly uncaring of the fact that Steve was worried because his lover may not have slept in more than 40 hours.

And even more annoying (and more unusual) than all that, was the fact that this Tony didn't have any of the usual signs of being tired, and so Steve couldn't even push his agenda by pointing out how fatigued Tony was.

Because he didn't even appear to be exhausted.

Except he was, undoubtedly so, perhaps even more so that when he fell into his 'sleepy-Tony' persona, because the thing about this most recent persona was the occasions when Tony would sudde-

The sound of the tiny tool turning gently, repeatedly against metal stopped suddenly and Tony fell completely still – it was what Steve had both been waiting for and hoping didn't occur.

Steve knew, just knew, that Tony, upright on the stool at the bench, one foot propped on the foot rest and the other dangling free, tool still in hand, poised over where the other was still holding the leather strap of the shield tightly in place - was asleep.

During the second or third encounter Steve had subconsciously named this persona, 'Ultra-Stubborn-Tony'.

And even now, the seventh? Eighth? Time, Steve still had no idea how to deal with this particular Tony.

The first time had been during a crazy work binge Tony had gone on in the immediate aftermath of Clint getting hurt during one of their battles- the result of an arrow head failing to load-out from his quiver.

Despite the archers wounds being mild (relatively), and the fact that the arrow load-out mechanism had been of S.H.I.E.L.D design (pre Stark consultancy days), Tony had still thrown himself head first into the re-design and fabrication of something better, refusing to even come up for air, let alone food or sleep.

The first 15 hours or so, the others had let him be, knowing that Tony wasn't the only one shaken up by what could have easily been a hell of a lot worse than a simple wrist and shoulder sprain, the genius just had the added benefit of being one of the only ones who could actually do something about it.

When he'd failed to show for movie night that evening though, Steve had wandered down to the workshop, expecting to find Tony so caught up in his work that he honestly didn't have a clue as to the day or time. Instead he'd found, and subsequently left to his inventive creativity, a very focused, determined and unable to be distracted Tony Stark.

Then Tony hadn't shown up for breakfast the next morning, and by lunch the understanding and acceptance had started to give way to concern and worry. Strangely though, when pressed, he'd eaten the provided sandwich and drank the glass of water with no fuss…

Tony was amendable to being fed, wasn't blasting music, hadn't lambasted Dummy once the whole afternoon that Steve had been in the workshop, hadn't groused about the impromptu one man 'gawk at Tony' party from the vicinity of his couch…

He'd just refused to stop working.

It had happened around hour 30; early by all successive standards.

Tony had been a riot of movement for the previous 20 minutes, checking, and rechecking the load-out of the 'problem' arrow, when suddenly he'd just…stopped.

The arrow was still held between two fingers and the quiver clutched in the vee of his arm, but his usually animated face was smooth and his eyes closed.

It had taken a moment for Steve to notice and establish that Tony was actually asleep, the suddenness of the change drawing his attention from the quiet conversation he'd been having with Dummy.

Steve had then made the fairly reasonable assumption that if he simply woke Tony, the genius would realise exactly how tired he was and head to a bed to get some proper sleep.

Of course, that would only be applicable to a fairly reasonable person.

Tony had brushed him off with a snarled "just thinking" before turning straight back to his work.

Steve hadn't been impressed, but knowing his lover well enough to realise that this was about Clint and near death and a whole myriad of other things, had simply let it go at the time.

Thankfully though, the full extent of the nature of this particular Tony wasn't realised until a later date, for the design of the quiver and arrows was deemed complete only half an hour later, and upon delivery, the usual sarcastically charming Tony had allowed Steve to coax him upstairs.

The second time, Steve had attempted to pick him up and move him.

And the third, and fourth.

Each had been met with the same level of success, namely – none.

As soon as he'd registered being moved, Tony had immediately woken and demanded that Steve leave him be, that he was "busy" and had to finish the task he was working on.

The fourth time, Steve had made the mistake of pressing him, concern heightened because Tony had been awake some 50 hours and was still recovering from a nasty chest infection.

The situation had quickly devolved into a particularly nasty argument, at least on Tony's behalf, and Steve had been introduced properly, to the belligerent and mule headed nature of this particular persona. By way of Tony demanding that if Steve couldn't wrap his serum enhanced understanding around the importance of this work then perhaps he'd best just head back to the gym.

Steve had contemplated just leaving, but the sudden coughing fit had stayed his hurt feelings and he returned to the couch, telling himself that it wasn't personal, that this was just the result of Tony having being ill and kept abed for the past week and a half…

The fifth time, which had happened to be only minutes after the fourth, Steve had done nothing.

He'd told himself that his lack of action was because he didn't know what action to take. Waking Tony didn't work, nor did trying to carry him to bed. Tony wasn't pliant and amiable like Steve had come to expect from this many hours without sleep, and nor was he the Tony that Steve could cajole/bribe/persuade.

Steve just didn't know how to deal with such... mule-headedness!

He deliberately ignored the little voice that told him his lack of action was in direct correlation to the hurt he had felt from Tony's apparent disregard for his intelligence.

He'd simply watched with a slightly sour taste in his mouth as Tony had suddenly nodded off at his workbench again, not five minutes after the previous time.

Equal parts worry, anger and exasperation had warred within him. Tony really should have been in bed asleep, not working on…whatever it was he'd deemed so important.

Technically though…Tony was sleeping, right?

Maybe he should just leave him?

And then Tony's had relaxed and the screw driver clutched in his left hand had dropped to the floor with a clutter and Tony had woken with a start, his eyes had flown open and he'd jolted to his feet with a shout.

Despite the death glare he'd received for his troubles, Steve had thought it quite funny (and quite a soothing balm to the lingering sting).

He hadn't though it funny the next time, when it was Tony that had fallen to the floor with an impressive bang.

Especially when the genius had somehow managed to pull the red and gold chest plate and half the lower armour down on top of himself.

Steve had rushed across the room, and helped his lover extract himself from beneath his inanimate suit of armour, easily lifting the hefty pieces back onto the workbench. Steve had then swept Tony up as well, sitting him carefully on the bench beside his armour.

Pressing in close, Steve had run searching fingers over the lump he could already feel forming at Tony's hairline, he'd deemed it to be mild, but not in the mood to deal with any more belligerence, he'd said, "Bruce or Bed."

Tony had shot a dark look up at him from beneath hooded eyelashes, but had seemed to think better of arguing when he caught a glimpse of the steel in Steve's own answering gaze.

The gentle fingers at his forehead and arm wrapped securely around his waist also stayed his tongue, and with a sigh Tony slipped from the bench, sliding down Steve's chest to slow his decent to the floor as he answered, "You always have the best ideas…To bed, then."

It was both capitulation and as near to an apology as Steve was likely to get.

That last instance had been several months ago, and now, watching Tony across the room, Steve was not really sure what to do.

He'd always been a fast learner, but for some reason, braining his boyfriend into a better mood didn't seem like a sound strategy.

Getting to his feet quietly Steve padded across the room, stepping over the several nuts and bolts that his game of fetch with Dummy earlier had left strewn across the floor. Reaching the bench, Steve stepped up to the right and stopped, looking down at closed eyes and smooth features.

Tony was definitely asleep.

Thinking quickly, Steve slowly reached out and lightly lay a hand over Tony's closest, the one clutching the small tool. When his touch didn't event warrant a murmured response, he gently eased the…screwdriver/spanner/wrench… thing, from Tony's grasp and set it quietly on the bench.

So far, so good.

Tony's other hand was clenched around the leather strap that made up the hand hold on the shield, and Steve was wary to try and remove the small digits from their apparent death grasp.

His grip looked fairly secure in the strap and the shield itself secure on the bench and so Steve decided to leave him be for now, although made a point to remind himself that in the instance of Tony staring to fall, braining by the comparatively sharp edge of his shield would be even less fun than that of the Ironman armour.

And then, unable to either wake Tony, or move him…Steve just stood there, ready to catch him should Tony suddenly list.

20 minutes later, and Steve was leaning against the bench, caught up in the roughly scribbled sketch forming beneath his fingers on some ripped, stained scrap of paper, the still vaguely recognisable Stark Industries logo branded across the top.

He'd captured his shield, and Tony's hand caught up beneath the carefully maintained leather strap, small compared to his own grasp… and yeah, so apparently he was a little bit possessive about that particular hand on that particular shield.

He was working at getting the stubby fingernails just right- well maintained, yet absolutely filthy- when he was startled from his close perusal by a sudden weight plastered down his left side.

Steve easily recognised the familiar press of Tony's body against his own, but looking down, he was still somewhat non-plussed by the image.

For all intents and purposes, Tony was still sitting on the stool, but he'd swivelled his entire upper body and just slumped.

If Steve's conveniently placed six foot frame hadn't been present, the genius would have slumped the fair distance to the concrete floor.

Taking in the precarious balance of his position, Steve wrapped an arm about Tony's waist, murmuring a soothing agreement as Tony huffed a breath of warm air against his chest.

And god, wasn't this just stubborn in practice.

To work himself so vigorously, without rest, either physical rest, or mental rest…never taking even a moment away from the strain of constant thinking. To get so beyond tired, so over-tired, that he literally couldn't keep his eyes open another second… and still adamantly refuse to just let go.

Tony in practice.

Unsure what to do, waking Tony still seemed as much of a bad idea as it had 20 minutes ago (more of a bad idea – Tony was plastered against him right now), yet, surely he should try to get Tony to bed. He really needed to work out a way to deal with this particular Tony, and fast.

And then he stopped.

Stopped thinking, stopped wondering.

Because apparently, Tony had just given him a way.

Tony was sleeping, safe (and quite frankly, as far as Steve was concerned – where he belonged), and to be honest, for as long as Tony was here, asleep, Steve really couldn't think of anything he'd rather be doing than standing here.

Didn't have anything better to do than draw where his lover hand, talented, and versatile and so very, very sinful, was curled possessively about Steve's own shield.

Except… looking down at the feather light touch against his waist, and seeing Tony's other hand settled loosely against the waist band of his jeans, his thumb disappearing up under white cotton, Steve decided he might just draw that instead.

A/N - please Read and Review :)

Now one of three... non related one-shots.

Coming (very) soon

Part 2 - "Guilt" (100 X the Angst)
Part 3 - "Anguish" (1000 X the Angst)

No beta used, and while I did my best, I really appreciate any help with glaring errors to make my stories better.