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He's holding you now, your back against his front and unyielding arms wrapped around your waist. This is a man not used to having what he wants, but is always ready to fight for it, you muse. The thought is sad and lonely, so you snuggle back, basking in the cold feeling of his skin. It's a little uncomfortable, as you've always been inclined towards warmth, but you don't care. He's more important than creature comfort.
For all the apparent closeness, you don't understand him anymore than you did yesterday, or the day before. You wonder if even he himself understands any better than you. Oftentimes he does things just for the sake of doing things, with no clear motives or purposes. Like now, clutching at you like a boy refusing to part with his favorite toy. You're not complaining.
Loving him is like waiting for clock hands to overlap. For one brief moment, you catch a glimpse of - of some sort of possibility. How things could be. A chance, a sliver of hope. Then the faster clock hand moves on and the clarity just…fades. You don't know who he is once again.
It's a dance. A routine, a cycle.
You just want it to break.
You've never been satisfied with what you have. It's what makes you a brilliant inventor, you command the driving forces, envisioning things as how they could be instead of how they are. You reach for the future.
And with him, you know there could be a future. Not in an abstract sense, either. You want to fall asleep in his arms and wake up before him so you could rouse him with a kiss. You want to have dinner together every night, with you cooking and him being ordered to set the table because everything messes up when he steps foot in a kitchen; you've seen it happen. You want to introduce him to Earth wonders, one thing a day everyday, starting with maybe actually getting him to call this place Earth instead of Midgard. You want to drag him to the lab, poking at him and this impossible thing he calls magic, to see how it works. You want to tell him everything that makes you you, and in turn learn about his skeletons in the void, how they suffocate and strangle, in waking moments and in sleep. You want an anchor when your mind takes you back to drowning in the desert, and his voice to ground you during your bouts of panic and can't breathe.
You're Tony Stark, and you've never been afraid of wanting things.
You're afraid of not getting them.
Sometimes you look at him and think, how did it get to this point, because you can function by yourself, but you no longer want to.
You want to reach out, cradle this tender thing to your heart and never let go, but you know he has to reach out too. It's not something you can do by yourself. With you being who you are and him being who he is, it's not a thing that can be rushed. Rub the magic lamp, make a wish and it will come true - you wish you could run with that.
Letting out a small sigh, you turn around to face him. Practically craning your neck just to look into his eyes, damn frost giant. You press your lips to his before he can open his mouth and make some undoubtedly irritating remarks about your height; you've heard it all before.
You're not patient by any stretch of imagination, but this thing, you will wait. As long as it takes, even.
You have a feeling it will be worth it.