Knit Me A Pony: Status Message Here

I demand you write more of the Steve/Ton college AU. Because.

Mmkay, have a bit of it.  There’s actually the tiniest hint of the plot in it.

“Look, Steve!  Astronaut alcohol!”

Steve just stared at his roommate.  He’d told Tony that he didn’t mind if he used his chin-up bar while he was out; he hadn’t expected to come home to find him hanging upside down, drinking vodka from a tube he’d managed to duct-tape to the mouth of a bottle. “… how is that astronaut alcohol?”

“I’m upside down,” Tony said patiently.  ”Also, it’s very very cold.  Like space.”

Ah.  So he’d been drinking for a while, then.  Steve sat down on the floor so he was more or less face to face with Tony, resting his elbows on his knees.  ”Do I want to know where you got the IV rack?”

“No.”  Tony beamed like he’d just won an award.  ”A nurse.  Well.  Nurses.  Nurses are great.  They feel sorry for you more than most people.”

“And you milk that.”  It was a testament to how long they’d known each other that Steve was more amused than horrified at this point.

“Like a space-cow.”  Tony rocked back and forth a little, enough to get himself swinging.  ”You know, this is really good for my thinking.”

“It seems to be.”  Steve sighed again and moved to get up.  ”Why do you get women to feel sorry for you, anyway?  I’d have thought you’d like to impress them.”

“Because,” Tony said.  ”Because of Pepper.”  His moods really were fast as mercury when he was drinking; he’d gone from giddy to dark and sour in the space of a sentence.

“Who?”

“Remember how I told you not to Google me?”  Tony waited for Steve to nod. “Well.  Google me.”

“And Pepper?”

“Yeah.  Sure.  Whatever.”  Tony shifted again so he was swinging even harder.  ”Except first?  Get me down before I throw up.”

Right.  Steve hurried to lift Tony off the bar and get him back right-side up, letting the vodka drip into a little puddle on the floor as he tried to put Tony on his feet.  ”Can you stand?”

To his credit, Tony made a valiant attempt at getting his knees straightened out before he went limp against Steve’s chest.  ”Nope.  I’m dead,” he said, sounding far crankier than most dead men would.  ”Bed, huh?”

“Bed,” Steve agreed, easing him over there with an arm around his waist, bearing most of his weight with one arm.  ”But no laying down.  You’re sitting up until we get you some water and toast.”

“No toast.  Pop-tarts.”

Steve propped a positively sulking Tony up amongst his pillows.  ”Fine.  Pop-tarts.  As long as you eat.”

“You’re lucky I like you.”  Tony patted Steve’s face with a hand, attempting fond but more or less managing to just mash his nose a bit.  ”I’m not bad you brought up Pepper.”  He narrowed his eyes as he tried to process that.  ”I should call Pepper.”

“You know the rule.”  Steve checked Tony’s pockets and rescued his cell phone.  ”No calls ‘til the hangover.”

“I don’t get hangovers after pop-tarts.  Or nurses.”

“Of course you don’t.”  Steve pocketed the phone and grabbed the trash can from under Tony’s desk.  ”Now you sit here and hold this and I’ll get you pop-tarts.”

“Roger, Rogers.”  That made Tony giggle, and then laugh.  ”I should call you Shirley.”

Steve just turned away with an amused shake of his head.  ”Pop-tarts, coming up.”