Archive of Our Own

Lie to yourself about this and you will
forever lie about everything.

Everybody already knows everything

so you can
lie to them. That's what they want.

But lie to yourself, what you will

lose is yourself.
Then you turn into them.

- Queer, by Frank Bidart

Steve faces the flag, flanked by two lines of Eagle Scouts, here to be recognized at the White House for outstanding charitable service.  Betty told Steve that his only job was to stand by the flag, say the Pledge of Allegiance, and look good for some pictures.

Good media attention for the Ultimates.  It's a simple ceremony in the Rose Garden.  It's not supposed to be hard.

Nobody tells Steve they changed the words in the pledge.  As everyone else recites under God, Steve stumbles forward to indivisible.  It's immediately too late to go back and fix his mistake.

They've amplified his voice with a tiny microphone clipped to the lapel of his army greens.  Everyone hears it.

The press pool hisses in a susurration of predatory glee.  The sound crawls into Steve's stomach and sits there like a lead weight.  They're going to suck him dry for this, he can already tell.

Later, he reads that the Pledge was amended in the fifties.  Since then, it's become an act of protest among school children to leave it out, or to refuse to stand for the Pledge.  They're unhappy with religion, unhappy with America.

It was an honest mistake.  Steve feels irrationally angry that a youthful act of rebellion of has been forced upon him by accident.  He wishes things would stop changing.  He thought coming home from the war would mean a return to normal.  It should be placid and fair.

A month ago, he knew the words to the Pledge of Allegiance, and his friends were young and alive.

A month ago, he thought he could still go home.

"Hey, baby, you look like someone pissed right in your wheaties," Tony says, sidling up to him in the Triskelion mess the next morning.  "What happened?"

Steve grunts, unwilling to encourage Tony to use more pet names.  The news is playing on a television screen across the mess, and Steve can see the anchors laughing at him, at a closeup of his face right after his mistake, which is twisted up like he's tasted something bad.  Tony's right about Steve's transparently foul mood, Steve supposes.

Tony puts down a bowl of plain yoghurt and sits next to Steve.  It's a surprisingly spartan food for Tony.

"Stark," Steve says, stirring his spoon around in his oatmeal, first one way, then the other.

"That tastes better when you drizzle maple syrup on it," Tony says.  "If you bat your eyes at the lovely lady who serves up the scrambled eggs she'll rustle up one of those little plastic tubs they hand out on pancake day."

"I'm fine," Steve says.

Tony purses his lips, looking down at his own breakfast.  "It's okay to have a little joy, Steve.  And call me Tony."

Steve searches for a thread of conversation to catch ahold of, something that won't end in Tony running circles around him with popular culture references that all blur together into a boring stream of things that don't make sense.

"You visited the space station," Steve says eventually, because he remembers that from the news.  Tony had given most of the interview upside-down, grinning like he was having the time of his life.  Joyful.

"I did," Tony says.  "Fabulous, isn't it?  There's people in space all the time.  Right now!  Living up there, going seventeen thousand miles an hour."

"They must feel awful special."

Tony shrugs and licks yoghurt off the back of his spoon.  Steve watches the flash of his tongue and for an instant thinks about skin.  The indecency of the modern age is clinging to him more and more.

"Nobody knows their names," Tony says.  "Who cares if you're the four hundredth person who's been to space."

"What are they?" Steve asks.

"Hm?"

"Their names," Steve says, shorter than he wants to.

Tony shoots Steve a sly smile like he's learned something secret and delicious.  Steve scoots his chair closer to the table and busies himself with a bite of bland oatmeal.

"Peggy, Valery and Sergei," Tony says.  Steve listens while he describes each one in turn, and Tony's not crass about it at all; he seems to genuinely admire them as fellow scientists, even the woman.  Steve makes approving noises, so Tony keeps talking, easy and fluid in conversation, like he knows that Steve needs someone else to help fill the air.

"The Russians used to have a space station too.  Called it Mir, for peace.  People don't give them credit for poetics, but I always liked that.  Names mean a lot."

"Iron Man," Steve says, thinking about the name Tony chose for himself.

Tony laughs.  "We're not all imaginative."

"Strong, impregnable, but with a human being inside.  A weapon with a heart," Steve says slowly, working through the symbolism.

"Well, when you put it like that, Captain," Tony says, turning his head away.  Steve thinks he may be blushing.  "I have a proposition, actually, which is why I came by."

Steve stiffens up.  Tony wouldn't proposition him, not in public, that's not decent.  He'd have to say no, he'd have to shout, make a scene, make it obvious that Steve Rogers isn't like that and doesn't take kindly to that kind of joke.  

It doesn't bear thinking about what else could happen.

"We're still trying to recruit Thor; Nick thinks you and I may have more luck than he did.  There's an avant garde found-footage DJ show we think Thor will be enjoying tonight out in Brooklyn.  Good chance to chat without flying all the way to Norway."

"Oh," Steve says, stupid with surprise.  He'd just assumed — why had that been the first thing he'd thought?  It had to be Tony.  It's what he's wearing: rings, delicate and clearly expensive, one on his left forefinger made out of beaten silver and two on his right hand, inset with what must be diamonds.  Steve looks at his own hands, squared-off and clumsily large.  On Steve, rings like that would be ridiculous.  "Sure, anything I can do to help."

"I'm delighted," Tony says, looking genuinely pleased.  "It'll cheer you up, pumpkin."

"Thor isn't here," Steve says after one loop of the bar at the club.  The place is packed, but people eddy around Steve to give him some space.

Tony smiles indulgently at him.  "This is upstairs," he says, like that means something.  "You look like a total cop, Stevie, nobody's letting you in anywhere important like that."

Steve surveys himself.  He's in civvies — perfectly normal.

Tony scans Steve up and down and cracks his knuckles.  "Let me," he instructs, and takes off Steve's camo overcoat.  He drapes it over the bar with a wink, a nod, and a hundred dollar bill that says it'll get taken care of.  Then he unbuttons the top four buttons of Steve's shirt, leaving it hanging open over his white undershirt.  Tony hums while he works, rolling up Steve's sleeves and tucking a cigarette behind Steve's ear.  He slides the rest of the pack and a lighter into the back pocket of Steve's jeans, and then he's done.

"There," Tony says, patting Steve on the bicep.  "Serviceable.  Now you blend."

Steve raises his hand to re-do at least one button on his shirt, but Tony swats him away.  Steve stuffs his fists into his pockets instead, feeling immensely silly.

Tony doesn't look silly.  He's simultaneously covered up and completely exposed.  Dark, wine-colored jeans, tight enough that's it hard for Steve to keep his eyes above the waist, and a long-sleeved black shirt.  There's a square silk scarf tied high around Tony's neck, loudly floral.

Steve tries to think about it as donning stealth gear for an infiltration mission.  Now properly outfitted, they can sidle through the crowd (it pushes closer to Steve now, touches brushing against his side and sliding across his shoulders) and to a staircase on the far side of the bar that Steve hadn't noticed before.

Tony guides Steve with a hand on the small of his back.

Steve understands immediately why cops are not allowed downstairs.  There's a haze of smoke in the air that doesn't smell like tobacco, and he sees the surreptitious dart of pills and money changing hands.  He frowns at the dance floor, where people are dancing to what Steve is reluctant to call music.  Steve's reluctant to call the indecent press of bodies dancing, for that matter.  A semi-circle of padded booths sits in front of a raised stage; neither the people in the booths nor the people on stage are wearing enough clothing.

There's a lot of men; not so many women.

"Chin up, soldier," Tony says, chucking Steve under the chin as he does. "You go see if Thor's hanging around the bar in the corner, and I'll check the VIP booths.  We'll survey the dance floor together."

"Good plan," Steve agrees.

Without Tony he feels unmoored, buffeted around by strangers.  Steve finds a corner next to a huge stack of speakers and stations himself there, scanning the bar for Thor's bright hair.  He doesn't see anything.  He wishes Tony would come back. 

After too long, Tony returns.  "Didn't see Thor, but it's not a complete loss," Tony whispers in Steve's ear.  "The man at the booth is talking about a protest at NATO headquarters and I expect I can wheedle some information out of him."  Tony winks when he says wheedle, and Steve feels a protective jab of disapproval.

"We should check the dance floor," Steve suggests, because Tony said they'd do that together.

Tony nods, and then takes Steve by the hand and pulls him into the fray.

It's overwhelming.  The crowd is so dense that Steve can only see the faces of a few people at a time.  People keep pressing close to him, using their bodies in an attempt to draw him along with the beat.  Steve can't push them away.  All this strength is useless here, and he wanted to help Tony with this recon effort but he can't, he's bad at this.

Then Tony's back in front of him, glaring at a woman with green hair who's been much too close to Steve for comfort.

"Hey, hey, don't worry about the other people.  Dance with me," Tony says, tugging on the open edges of Steve's shirt.  "They'll leave you alone if you have a partner.  I'll lead, don't fret."

Tony gets in close and scans the crowd over Steve's shoulder.

"Let's work our way across, back towards the stairs," Steve says into Tony's ear, already feeling steadier.  Tactics — that's why Tony's breath is on his neck.  Steve feels as much as sees Tony's nod, his hair brushing Steve's ear.

Dancing with Tony is overwhelming, distracting.  Mind on your own work, Steve admonishes himself.  They're searching for Thor to persuade him to join the Ultimates.  This is just — just blending.  Tony smells like gin and stomach acid.  It was chemo for him today, and he must feel absolutely rotten, but here with Steve he looks good, bright and happy.

It's hard to deny him that.

Steve hears better than other people, and has a knack for picking words out from background noise.  It's useful for relaying information in the field under heavy shelling, and it means Steve catches the words when Tony privately murmurs, "Shit, Steve, I could unwind you."

Tony's voice makes Steve feel raw, like sandpaper of wanting has been rubbed along him from neck to thigh.  It feels wrong.

Then Tony slides one knee between Steve's legs and rolls his hips.  A gasp escapes Steve's mouth, and Tony looks up at him, lips parted, eyes bright and dancing.  Then he grins and puts one hand in Steve's back pocket, dragging Steve in and close until they fit together.

It's part of their cover.  It's Tony having a little too much fun pushing Steve's boundaries.  If Steve makes a scene now he'll be admitting to Tony that he can't play ball.  So instead of pulling back and snapping at Tony to have some dignity, Steve allows it.  He allows the hand on his ass, and he allows his own awkward grip on Tony's hip, and he allows Tony's smile.

The flash of the camera is invisible among the pulsing strobe lights.

Steve sees it at the newspaper stand on his way to SHIELD the next day.  CAPTAIN AMERICA: GODLESS HOMOSEXUAL?  SEE FOR YOURSELF!  PHOTOS INSIDE!

Dread seeps into him like muddy water into worn-out combat boots.  He and Tony the previous night; someone must have seen them working together.  Dancing.  It wasn't — they're wrong — but it looked — Christ.  Steve feels clammy all over, disgusting, exposed.  He has to make this stop somehow, right away, he has to get away from all of this.

He thought the press made a fuss over his stumble on the Pledge.  That will be nothing compared to whatever photos they have now.

Steve keeps his head down the rest of the way into work, shoulders hunched around his ears like that'll keep him safe from the rumor mill.

Betty Ross grabs him by the sleeve as soon as he crosses through the doors into the Triskelion.  "Conference room, now."  In her free hand she has a copy of the Daily Bugle.  Its ugly headline echoes in Steve's head like a sniper shot.

At least Betty is on it.  Betty Ross is ruthless, and she's managed worse than this.  If anyone can save him from this public relations nightmare, it's her.

Betty sits Steve down at the empty table, then brings him a bottle of water.  Steve drinks, thankful to have something to wet his throat and to do with his hands.

"Is everyone late?" Steve asks.  He's not relishing explaining to Nick Fury how he got himself into this situation, but he'd rather just get it over with.

"Just one on one for now," Betty says.  "I need you to look at these so you know what we're dealing with."

She opens the paper and pushes it along the table until it's sitting in front of him.  The photo is dim but horribly crisp.  Steve looks sweaty, staring at the man pressed against him with his mouth slightly open in lust or awe.  At least most of Tony's face is covered.  A corner of his goatee is visible, nothing else.  But the photo shows, without a doubt, that Steve is dancing with a man, in a club like that, and worst of all, Tony's hand is still there on his ass.

"Oh God," Steve says.  He closes his eyes, unable to look any more.

"How do you want to play this?" Betty asks, taking the paper back.

Steve grits his teeth and straightens his spine.  He's still the man who planned to marry Gail.  The dream of cherry trees and a little two-story house had been his, it had been real, he had wanted that!  That meant he was was normal: a good man who would become a good husband.  The ice has taken a lot from him but it won't take this.

"That picture must be of someone else.  Not me."

"Oh?"

"I'm not some kind of pervert," Steve says, too loudly, hands clenched into fists in his lap.

Betty steeples her fingers and gives him a long look.  She knows, of course, that it's him in the photo.  It's not some blonde guy who spends a lot of time in the gym making time with some fella who has aspirational facial hair.  Betty's good enough to know the real thing.

"Of course the photo is a fake," she says smoothly.  "I'll draft up a statement for the press, condemn this as a character smear.  I'm sorry this is happening to you, Steve.  It's a dirty play."

"Thank you," Steve says, so stiff he thinks if he opens his jaw the bones might crack.

"I'll be in touch," Betty tells him.

By the next day, Betty's careful statement has made it to all the respectable news organizations.  Speculation still runs wild, but Steve feels better, more in control.  It's going to be okay.

Tony rings Steve about halfway through the day.  He wants to meet Steve at the Stark Industries offices.  Probably to make plans in case photos of his face surface too.  They can discuss together how to sweep everything neatly under the rug.

When Steve arrives, Tony is sitting behind his glass-topped desk, a glass of scotch by his elbow.  He has the newspaper out in front of him, and he looks like hell.

"Hi Tony," Steve says, as gently as he knows how, as he lowers himself into the chair opposite Tony.  "I suppose you've seen the photos by now.  I want you to know I don't blame you at all."

He's decided it wasn't Tony's fault.  Tony is flamboyant, modern, uninhibited.  It was Steve's job to lay out his own boundaries and he failed.  Steve is the weak one.

Tony takes a deep breath and picks up the newspaper, hands not entirely steady.  The thin pages rustle; Tony gives them a sharp shake to cover it.  It shields his face, leaving Steve staring at an article explaining more rumblings about terrible weapons hidden in Iraq.  Then Tony reads aloud, in a clear voice:

"Captain America represents the values of our country.  The recent allegations about his sexuality are specious and designed to smear an American icon.  Captain Rogers regularly attends the Church of Saint Agnes and invites the citizens of New York to attend worship with him this Sunday, April 14th.  God bless America."

Tony smacks the paper down flat, face twisted with absolute fury.

"Do you want to explain to me what the fuck this is?"

"It's a press release," Steve says carefully.

Tony throws himself out of his chair, grabbing his drink and knocking the paper askew.  The sports section slides onto the floor with a limp thump.  "Did you have anything to do with drafting that?"

"I — what?  Betty helped me.  I thought it was very diplomatic."

"Diplomatic, I — " Tony breaks off to down his drink, one hand slashing across his throat to keep Steve from talking.  "You bastard."

"I don't understand why you're so angry."

"Oh, fuck you!  Can't have anyone think you're a faggot, huh, Rogers?  Real brave.  Real fucking American hero, you are."

Steve pushes out of his chair, feeling his face heat up.  "I'm not!" he shouts.

"Not what?" Tony asks, lip curling.  "A fag?  A cocksucker?  A homosexual?"  He says the last word with a lisp, cocking one hip to the side and fluttering his fingers in Steve's direction.  Steve flinches away from the mean caricature.  He's nothing like that.

"I'm normal!" Steve yells.  "I had to tell everyone I'm normal!"

"You made that plenty clear," Tony sneers.  "Great job, there.  Just about said being gay is un-American and against God's will, too.  What next, going to come out in favor of conversion therapy?"

Steve crosses his arms over his chest.  He doesn't even know what conversion therapy is, how can Tony accuse him of being for or against it already?  Tony presses two fingers against the bridge of his nose and pours another glass of scotch from the office sidebar.  He doesn't offer Steve anything, just takes a long sip, eyes closed.  Can't Tony see that Steve hates himself enough already, all on his own?  He doesn't need the whole nation jumping on board.  He can't live that way.

"It is," Steve says.

Tony levels a flat stare in Steve's direction. "What."

"Against God's will."

Like a striking snake, Tony draws his arm back, then whips his cut-crystal tumbler straight at Steve's face, still half-full of liquor.  Steve catches it reflexively.  Scotch drips over his fingers and down his wrist.

Tony's face is pale with rage.  His chest heaves like he's been running, like he can't get a breath.  Steve stands his ground.  He sets the glass upright on Tony's desk and shakes his hand dry, waiting for Tony to gather himself.

Finally, Tony shakes his head once, icy calm settling over his shoulders like a cloak.  "Oops.  Clumsy.  I'll clean that spill up myself."

"Tony?"

Tony regards Steve with cold eyes.  "Get out."

The Army introduces Steve to a recently commissioned officer named Joseph Brighton, and suggests that he meet Joseph somewhere outside of work for a chat.

Joseph is clean-shaven and blond like Steve.  He has delicate hands and pale grey eyes.  They buy lunch from a counter selling pizza, paper-thin and greasy, for a dollar a slice.  It's still odd to Steve, living in a New York where a dollar is practically the smallest unit of change.  Coins used to be worth something.

They eat sitting six feet apart on a concrete ledge.  It's an unseasonably warm day, but only in the sun, and they end up squinting at each other, awkward in the glare.

"You thought about dating anyone?" Joseph asks, while he wipes orange grease off of his fingers.  "Lots of nice girls in New York, and I bet it'd be nice to have someone on your arm for all those fancy dinners they throw you."

"Not in particular," Steve says warily.

Joseph grimaces.  "Might be a good idea.  Get out there.  Keep you from getting lonely.  Stay warm at night."

"The Ultimates are enough company for me," Steve says.  "Jan takes me to the pictures most weekends, and tells me her husband doesn't mind.  Mr. Stark — "

Steve breaks off, feeling stupid.  Tony isn't talking to him right now; there was no reason to bring him up.  It'll be strange if he doesn't finish the thought, so he soldiers on.

"Mr. Stark showed me some museums, and the highway system.  America's got a lot more roads these days.  A man could drive all the way across the country on paved roads, I heard."

Joseph folds his napkin over in his hands, not looking at Steve.  The way he fidgets reminds Steve of Tony, the way Tony's always occupied with some small object, something to adjust or align or deconstruct.

"It's an honor to speak with you, Captain Rogers," Joseph says carefully.  "You mean a lot to all of us who serve.  I want you to know — nobody gets investigated these days.  But you can't talk about Tony Stark like that right now, and I meant it about finding a girl."

"Are you implying something about my personal life?" Steve asks, his hackles rising.

"I'm not saying nothing more than I was told to say.  But there's a piece of legislation from ‘bout ten years ago, Don't Ask Don't Tell, that you might want to look up.  And you need to know that cameras are tinier than they used to be, and lots of people've got one."

Steve bares his teeth.  "That photograph is a goddamn fake.  I'm not a queer," he snarls.

Joseph flinches, a visible jerk of pain.  Then he looks down at the grease-stained napkin in his lap, his hands resting limp on his knees.  "Of course, sir.  Neither am I."

Then the photos of Tony start to surface, but this time he's not with Steve.

The first set is on one of Tony's private yachts.  Tony is wearing almost nothing, only a tight black speedo and a billowy white coverup, so fine and translucent that the telephoto lens can pick up the ports in Tony's chest and arms where he links into the suit through the fabric.  He's golden and relaxed, eyes hidden by tinted sunglasses.

Also, Tony is kissing a man.

The man is blond and broadly built.  Tony's arms twine around his shoulders, his fingers digging into the man's muscles.  He looks like he loves it.  Photo after photo: Tony laughing, hands on the other man's jaw, his chest, pulling him closer and closer.

Then there's more, a different man, still blond, still muscled, trim waist and square jaw.  This time someone's secretly photographed him using a spy camera in a limousine.  Tony must be coming back from a black tie event.  His tuxedo is undone, tie loose around his neck, and the man is kissing his neck.  Tony's eyes are half-closed in pleasure.  He has his fingers fisted in the stranger's hair.

The tabloids almost forget Steve's indiscretion in favor of rabidly chasing Tony Stark's multiple male affairs.  LADYKILLER TO BOYTOY?  STARK SHAMELESS!  Several outlets propose that the first picture was just a particularly good Captain America look-alike.  Common wisdom becomes that Tony is hopelessly in love with Steve, and is taking out his unquenchable lust for his teammate on blond body-builders across the country.

It doesn't help that Tony refuses to put out a statement denying anything.

Steve doesn't understand.  It was bad enough for him to get wrapped up in the rumor-mill, but now there are two people on the team with public relations nightmares.  Rumblings start about Hank and Jan, and they're married.

Joseph Brighton sends Steve a letter that radiates relief, politely thanking him for meeting him.  It's evident the Army is convinced that this is another Tony Stark problem, and not something they need to be concerned with.

But Tony keeps doing it, new leaks every week, and Steve decides it needs to stop.

Steve gets a chance to speak with Tony after one of Fury's debriefs about escalating tensions in the Middle East.  They're still trying to get Thor on board, and he's strongly opposed to American interventionism, but the military wants more options.

Tony lingers after the meeting, idly sipping his coffee and frowning at the notes he's taken.  "Something fishy here," he says to himself, tapping his pen against his lips.  "What's rotting in the bottom of this barrel, hm?"

"Stark," Steve says, sharply.

"Rogers," Tony says, not looking up.

"We need to talk about you and the press."

"Mmmm, no, I don't think so," Tony says, eyes still on his notes.  "Personal life, not your business, so on and so forth."

Steve slams a fist on the table, finally making Tony jump.  "You're making it Ultimates business.  You're — you're, flaunting.  Don't act like it isn't on purpose."

Tony leans back in his chair, lacing his hands together behind his head and stretching.  It pulls his shirt taut over his chest and stomach, showing off the toned lines of him.  Steve knows exactly what Tony looks like without his shirt on.  Everyone does.  It's been all over the papers.

"I'm flaunting what, exactly?" Tony asks, voice edged with challenge.

"You know exactly what!"

Tony grins like a shard of glass.  "Maybe I want to hear you say it."

Steve rolls his jaw back and forth, trying to find words that won't make his mouth feel dirty.  "You need to stop being — obvious — with men.  In public.  If you need to do that, do it where it won't affect the reputation of the team."

"I'm out there rescuing your reputation, in fact," Tony points out.  "Since you value it so highly."

"You should care about yours."

Tony sighs, then stands up from his chair.  He gathers his things deliberately, stacking them neatly in a sleek briefcase.  The pen he slides into his breast pocket, unhurried.  Then he heads for the door, weaving smoothly around Steve.  "I should, but I don't," he says with a smile.

"You're not leaving.  We're not done," Steve says, and grabs Tony by the shoulder.

It's a mistake.  Tony wheels around, all the aloof dignity evaporating from his face in an instant.  He smacks Steve's hand away, hard enough to sting.  "Do not touch me," Tony snaps in Steve's face.  "You forfeited that privilege the second you let Betty Ross print your vile statement."

Steve fists his hands at his sides.  "You have to stop," he repeats.  "For the team."

Tony regards him sharply, focus snapping into place like Steve's suddenly become more interesting.  "No, not for the team," he says slowly.  "You're here for you.  How does it feel, darling, now the other man in the picture is someone else?"

The bottom drops out of Steve's stomach, leaving him with nothing inside him but a cold void.  His body knows what it wants to fill it.  He remembers, vividly, how Tony's hips felt when they ground against his own.

Steve's breath catches in his throat and his dick twitches.  Tony knows.  Steve tightens his fists.  If Tony gets any closer, he'll —

His fist is cocked back before he can finish the thought.  Tony flinches away, which is what Steve wanted.  That was the point.  Then Tony recovers and catches Steve's stilled fist in both hands.  Steve can't breathe.

"So violent," Tony drawls.  "If you didn't want me to kiss other men, you only had to ask."

"No," Steve says, because that's not what he meant.

Then Tony brings Steve's fist to his mouth and kisses his knuckles.  He makes it into a mockery of chivalry, lips wet and open, sucking slightly against Steve's skin.

Steve tears himself away, almost stumbling in retreat.  He cradles his hand to his chest like he can hide it from Tony, from himself.  His knuckles are cold where Tony's mouth wetted them.

"Thought so," Tony says.  "Have fun with that denial, American Dream.  I don't know how much farther it's going to take you."

With a twinkle of his fingers, Tony picks his briefcase back up and leaves the room.

The thing is, Steve's always known.  He's just good at not thinking about things.  It's a useful skill, tramping through the mud, the echo of someone else's neck snapping still in his hands.  Steve knows what the right thing to do is, and if there's inconvenient weakness inside of him, well, it's best to ignore it and get the job done.

Tony is making Steve's desire harder and harder to block out.

Steve decides if he can't ignore it, he'll fix it.  So he pulls a hat low over his hair and flips his collar up and goes to the library, looking for a solution.

It takes longer than he'd like because he can't ask a librarian, and he has to move to a different shelf every time another person comes along to browse near him, but he finally finds a book that has what he needs.  Conversion therapy.  The phrase sounds familiar for some reason — Steve snatches at the connection until he gets it — Tony's office, spilled scotch, Tony spitting the words at him like a curse.

The book on conversion therapy promises a solution to save Steve and other men from the psychological damage of homosexual desires and the brutality of gay sex.^[1]

The author calls it orgasmic reorientation.  It doesn't look painful at all.  The book says that instead of associating homosexual thoughts and behaviors with negative feelings, the subject can take the positive feelings associated with homosexual urges and simply map them onto a different body.

He's supposed to take care of himself normally, enjoy it, think of — of men — and then at the moment he's about to finish look at a picture of a beautiful woman.  Preferably a naked one.  The psychologist assures the reader this causes the mind to associate pleasure with women instead of men, and encourages heterosexuality in the patient.

Steve can do this.

Steve always tried hard not to masturbate.  When he does, he's very careful to think of nothing at all, just the feeling of his hand on his cock and nothing else, no pictures, no sounds.  The one time with Gail had been the same.  The sensation of skin, the smell of his leather uniform, wetness and warmth.

Still, it's been easier if he doesn't.  But this way, if it's supposed to help, then he can, and he can think of whatever he wants.  It almost sounds nice.

So on the way home he buys a skin mag, like he's supposed to.

Steve sits himself down at his dinged up kitchen table, the things he needs spread out in front of him.  Tissues, hand lotion, glossy magazine.  It felt too strange, doing something medically necessary in the comfort of his bed, so he's going to try it here.  This way is safer, somehow. 

Steve stares out the window, presses his lips together, and fondles himself through his khakis.  It feels okay.  He remembers Tony in the mess hall, telling him to have a little joy.  Tony wouldn't mind if — if Steve — he can think of whatever he wants, it won't hurt anyone.  Tony's been thinking of Steve while he fucks those men who look like him.

Steve unzips his pants and closes his eyes.  How would Tony do this?

He brings his free fist to his mouth and bites between his second and third knuckles, where Tony had kissed.  His teeth press down hard enough to bleach the skin bloodless.  That'll leave marks, Steve thinks, ashamed.  It hurts and that's what he deserves.  Pervert.

In Steve's mind Tony's hands encircle his wrist, pulling it away, soothing the place he's bitten.  No, Steve, don't.  Gently.  Tony would unbutton his shirt, revealing Steve's bare chest.  He could run his fingers, hungry, over Steve's pecs, and push Steve backwards and down until he was sitting.

He could be on Tony's yacht.  The sun through the kitchen window is warm, and it makes Steve imagine sprawling back under a brittle blue sky, salt spray stinging his skin, Tony straddling his lap.

Steve dumps lotion into his hand and takes his cock out of his briefs, finally getting harder.  Thin white cloth drapes over Tony's shoulders and falls over Steve, tickling his thighs.  In the fantasy, Tony does things softly.  He runs a fingertip over Steve's cheek, a ghosting touch, and smiles.  I'm going to unwind you.  Steve fists his dick faster.

Tony's healthy.  He's put on weight, and his skin is warm and sun-kissed, no ashy pallor, no powdery dusting of makeup or blush on his cheeks.  Kiss?

Yes, yes please, Steve thinks, letting his mouth fall open.  Tony kisses him and it only tastes like the ocean, not liquor, not illness.  I'm sorry.  I made you so angry and I didn't mean to.

Cautiously, Steve imagines Tony's hand on his cock.  Tony's hands are meticulously cared for to hide the callouses and cuts he gets in his workshop.  His nails are always neat and trimmed, buffed until they shine.  They would make a handsome picture together.  Steve groans and shifts in the chair, making the legs creak.  He lets his knees fall open wider, his pants awkward around his upper thighs.

Steve's cock is desperately hard, betraying how much Steve likes this fantasy.  Tears prick in the corners of his eyes, because he wants this, he can't help it.  Tony tells him odd things about the future to cheer him up; he offered to fly Steve to the Air and Space Museum because he was so excited to show Steve the little orange plane that broke the sound barrier; he doesn't tell Steve to watch television shows or movies or demand that he get caught up, just offers little things he thinks will make Steve happy without expecting Steve to do any homework.

If things were different, Steve would take care of Tony, too.  Steve could touch him, take his dick in hand and see if pleasure would smooth the lines of care away from Tony's face.

He's getting close, orgasm building tight and hot, deep in his pelvis, and he wants to stay in the breezy dream with Tony but he's not supposed to.  The whole point is to wake up and teach his body to work correctly.

Steve drags his eyes open and uses his dry hand to open the Playboy.  He keeps up the rhythm he's set with the other, focusing on maintaining the climb to orgasm while he flips through the pages looking for a nice picture.  Breasts, Steve thinks determinedly.  Breasts are sexy.  The woman in the magazine has large ones.  They're the same size as each other, symmetrical, set high on her chest.  He's almost to the point of no return, he's close, so he stares forward and imagines burying himself between her legs except it twists, inverts itself, and it's Tony between Steve's legs, pressing up and in with clever hands and a hard cock and Steve comes.

He shakes through it, making soft, wet, embarrassing noises.  He's made a mess, on his shirt and the edge of the table.  Steve's going to have to eat dinner sitting in this chair.  He'll still be able to smell sex, and he'll remember his shameful, intoxicating wish for Tony to be inside him.  Steve doesn't know how he'll manage an appetite.

Obviously he did it wrong.  It's only the first time, he reassures himself.  Next time he'll do better, and not at the kitchen table.  It wouldn't be like that, anyway, if Tony fucked him.  The book said it was violent, not nice.

Steve doesn't know why his eyes feel so hot.  He has a plan.  Everything is going to be okay.

Steve keeps at the therapy, makes himself do it every day.  The bathroom is best, sterile and easy to clean.  He shouldn't think of Tony every time, but he's weak, so he does.  He gets better at looking at the magazine and thinking only of smooth airbrushed flesh while he comes.  Every time he sees Tony in passing at SHIELD or on missions it sends a frisson of lust down his spine and into his cock.  Steve keeps waiting for the technique to start working, to make things easier.  It has to kick in soon.  It has to.

Betty Ross cleans up another publicity mess — this time it's Bruce.  Steve can't shake a sickening uncertainty about her strategy.  The only good to come out of it is that Thor joins the team.

Tony sends a terse email from his official SHIELD account to all of the Ultimates.

Will be unavailable for Thursday morning meeting.  Appearing on The Rosie O'Donnell show, 11am.  -TS

Fury reschedules the team meeting, so Steve stays home and watches Tony's interview.  He waits impatiently through the opening set, then a Broadway musical number, and finally after several breaks for commercials, Tony saunters onto stage and sits in the plush red armchair next to O'Donnell's desk.

Tony's wearing a smart black suit with an eye-searing magenta shirt underneath.  Steve wants to roll his eyes, it's so obnoxiously Tony.  They chat pleasantly, and then Tony leans in and grins at the camera.

"Now, you had some interesting news for us earlier this month," he says.  "Something that starts with D and ends with Ike."

O'Donnell laughs.  "I am a dirt bike, good catch!  So, what about you?  There's been a lot of buzz buzz, if you know what I mean."^[2]

"Stark Industries is an equal opportunity employer, it says so right on the paperwork.  So it makes sense that its CEO would be an equal opportunity lover."

"Phew, there it is, right out there in the open, folks.  Mr. Stark is here for your ladies and your fellas."

Tony looks...happy.  He's kicked back in his chair, laughing along.  When O'Donnell's stage team wheels out a giant cardboard cutout of a cartoonish, shirtless man with blond hair and a six pack, Tony plays along, standing up to drape himself over its flat shoulders.  He kisses it on the cheek and then winks at the audience and makes as if he's palming its ass.  Steve's heart wants to pound out of his chest.  His head is rushing with why, why?  That's supposed to stay a secret, it's always a secret!  Steve can't shake the feeling that Tony is inviting something awful to come down on him, and he's doing it with a smile.

"Are you afraid of how this will be received?" O'Donnell asks, when Tony sits back down.

"Oh, Rosie, afraid?  Me?  I'm always afraid.  I'm rather good at it, I suppose.  You can't fight horny grey abominations and fly into burning buildings without being afraid."

"You don't look it."

"Practice, darling."

"So, the Ultimates —"

Tony interrupts, waving the question away.  "Are fine.  The whole unit cohesion argument is — can I swear?  No?  Pity — it's horse crap.  It's a garbage protest peddled by homophobes who can't catch up with the modern world.  Nobody on the Ultimates strikes me as that kind of person."

"Not even Mr. 1940s?"

Steve winces.  Rosie O'Donnell is like Tony.  She can't have liked Steve's statement to the press very much either.  Maybe she was as mad at Steve as Tony had been.  Tony could savage Steve and O'Donnell would help him.  Or worse, Tony  could make a joke, just to start up all the rumors anew.

"Total gentleman," Tony says easily.  Steve blinks at how smoothly Tony lies, easy as a fish cutting through water.

O'Donnell waggles her eyebrows.  "Is he the gentleman for you?"

For a split second, Tony looks terribly sad.  Then he turns it into a rueful grin and shrugs.  "Well, I wouldn't say no, of course.  You've seen him."

"Dirt bike over on this side of the desk, remember," O'Donnell says, spreading her hands.  "Not really my area."

"Oh come on," Tony says.  "You're gay, not blind."  He gives the studio audience a meaningful look, silently asking them to support his position.

She relents, and they all laugh — Tony, O'Donnell, the audience — and Steve can't help feeling that they're all laughing at him, the old homophobic relic who can't fix himself and can't get with the times.

Steve gets to the re-scheduled afternoon team meeting early through force of habit.  He stops outside the door when he hears the yelling.

"That boy killed himself!" Tony shouts, his voice furious.  There's the sound of someone pounding their fist on the table.  Steve doesn't know what they're talking about.

Fury's voice, measured and calm.  "That has nothing to do with the — "

"The hell it doesn't!  Listen to yourself, the hell it doesn't.  You put out a statement that Captain Fucking America hates gays and not a week later a kid — he was a child, Fury, he was fourteen — was dead.  You think I wasn't going to do anything about it?"

It's like being hit with a mortar.  Steve can't breathe, he feels like there's wet straw stuffing his lungs.  He had no idea.  Nobody had told him — oh God, God forgive him — he didn't think it would hurt anyone.

"This month you have made my job extremely difficult," Betty Ross says, clipped and annoyed.  "The scandalous sexual history of Tony Stark will bring every reporter down on my office.  The Ultimates don't need any additional scrutiny; you already understand Bruce's situation."

"Your stunt won't bring him back," Fury says.

"There's more than one gay kid in America, you callous fucks!"

"Next time you want to pull this kind of thing, you clear it with us."

"No," Tony says, venomous.

"Tony, be reasonable.  Compromise," Fury says, still calm.

"If Cap's too tangled up in his own moral bullshit to come out, Iron Man will.  Give them one superhero who isn't afraid to be like them."

Steve's knees threaten to buckle, and he leans back on the door, trying not to collapse.  His fault.  It's his fault.  At any moment Tony is going to storm out of the room, too furious and frustrated to listen to Fury and Betty trying to pretend that they haven't participated in a travesty.  Maybe Tony will hit him, scream in his face, slam a coffee mug into the side of Steve's head and let the liquid scald him, beat him with it until broken shards cut his skin. Steve deserves to hurt for this.  He should be torn open.

Steve runs.  He needs to get away, needs to do something to fix this, force himself better.  He has a magazine in his locker, a new one with proper pinups that he thought might work more efficiently.  He bought it on his way to the meeting and stashed it to bring home that evening.  It's not the right thing to do but it's the only thing Steve can think of.

He slams his way into the men's bathroom, barely private, not caring.  He locks himself in the farthest stall and sits down on the cold porcelain.  He'll look at the magazine the whole time.  It'll be a punishment.

With a too-dry hand he yanks his limp cock out of his pants.  All he can think about is Tony's angry, hurting voice.  His dick feels dead in his fingers.  Steve pulls on it, his hand dragging rough and painful over the delicate skin.

The woman in the magazine is wearing a polka dot swimsuit.  She's pulling it down to reveal most of her breast.  It looks unnatural, unyielding, bulging against the elastic of the suit.  Steve spits on himself and tries to get hard.

It's not working.  He can't get it up.  All he can feel is chafing and guilt.

Steve bends almost double, squeezing and twisting his hand and all it does is hurt.  He can see Tony's face going cold after he threw the glass of scotch at Steve's head.  The kid Steve killed was alive, then.  He should have been in school, his first year of junior high.  Did the other students bully him?  Did they push him and leave bruises and spit in his face, call him a queer and a fag and a sissy boy?  Did they sneer and tell him that Captain America wanted him to die?

Had he been happy when he saw in the papers that his hero was dancing with a man?  Steve took that away from him, and now he's dead.

A sob shakes out of Steve, burning in his throat.  He's sorry, he's so sorry, he shouldn't have ever been photographed with Tony.

All he's good for is killing things.

Steve cries and works his useless cock until it's red and aching.

The door to the bathroom opens and Steve freezes, clapping a hand over his mouth to stifle the sounds he's making.  He holds his breath so his lungs can't betray him.

Someone walks to the sink with quick steps, turns on the tap.

The man is muttering, splashing water on his face.  The tone is familiar — it's Tony's voice.

"Fuck them," Tony says quietly to himself.  The words are thick.  "I can't do this, I can't, damn these people."

Steve's lungs spasm, and he gasps loudly for air.  It comes out as a wretched, tearing sob.  He struggles to breathe, horrible and mewling, unable to stop.

"Hello?" Tony asks, footsteps tentatively approaching the stall.  His knees bend as he peers under the door of the stall.  Too late, Steve realizes he's wearing his uniform, complete with unmistakable red boots.

"Steve?" Tony asks, voice even more concerned.

Gently, Tony pushes on the door.  The lock jostles and slips free of the catch, because Steve is damned and everything is broken, even his privacy.

Steve looks up at Tony, his face wet with shame.  His pants are still down, his hand stilled on his dick.  He sniffs, his nose dripping freely.  He's disgusting in more ways than one.  The lewd magazine is open, half-resting on his lap, right there for Tony to see.

Tony's sharp eyes flick over Steve's sorry state, brow furrowing in confusion.  Steve knows Captain America is not supposed to jerk off to pornography in public.

"Honey, what are you doing to yourself?"

"The psychologist, in the book, said it would change me."  Steve's voice hitches, almost too broken to get the words out.  "You mentioned it.  Conv — conversion therapy.  I have to look at — at — "

Steve waves the gross magazine weakly and drags on his worthless dick to demonstrate.

"Oh — God, Steve, no, that doesn't work," Tony says, looking like he might cry, too.  "Don't, don't," he says, reaching out his hand like he'll do anything to stop Steve from touching himself.

"I killed a boy," Steve sobs.  "It's my fault and I can't make myself want women and it's all wrong.  I wish they'd never found me."

Tony kneels in front of Steve, right on the bathroom tiles.  He carefully pulls the magazine out of Steve's numb fingers, making it disappear somewhere.  He touches Steve's knee, tentatively rubbing his thumb under Steve's kneecap.  "I wanted to save you from learning about that."

"I should have known," Steve says, pathetically grateful that Tony is touching him, even though Steve is foul and deserves none of it.

"You heard my little spat with Fury and Betty, huh?"

Steve nods.

"It's not on you.  I promise.  I'm stupid, I shouldn't have implied that it was.  I was angry."

"What do I do?" Steve asks.  He sniffs again, a little steadier under Tony's hand.  He's starting to shiver, all spent.

Tony sighs and pats Steve on the side of his knee.  "Honestly?  I don't know.  C'mon, pull your pants up and let's get you a drink."

"Won't help.  I can't get drunk."

Tony smiles, only a little wobbly.  "You haven't gone drinking with me."

Tony takes him home.  The first view of the penthouse apartment is sterile and grand, but Tony leads Steve by the hand into a small den, which is decorated with warm wood paneling and dark leather, golden uplighting along the walls giving the whole room a soft glow.  Tony bundles Steve into a soft cream-colored robe with the initials T.S. embroidered on the breast.

Then he produces two cut-crystal glasses and a full bottle of aged single-malt.

"No frills tonight.  Just the good stuff, neat," Tony declares, and hands Steve a rocks glass.  It's a different set than the one from Tony's office.  The lines of it remind Steve of the Chrysler building, all neat arcs and triangles, one piece of New York that hasn't changed.

Tony pours two bottles of scotch into Steve before he starts to feel it.

"You're no cheap date," Tony says, warm and amused.

Steve lets his head fall back onto the couch cushions, the edges of his body feeling blurry.  The knots in his chest are looser now, easing from an impossible cramping clench into deep yawning sadness.

"You invited me," Steve reminds Tony, pushing the sorrow down and away.

"I did," Tony says, smiling into his drink.

Steve has imagined Tony so many times, sometimes just like this.  Steve leaning back on a couch, fine leather cool against his neck.  Tony would slide to his knees between Steve's thighs — Steve remembers Tony kneeling in the bathroom and flinches away, no, no, not that.

Steve rubs his palms against his thighs, the terrycloth of Tony's robe rough under his hands.

"You want to tell me what all that before was about, hm?" Tony asks, swirling the last swallow of his scotch around the bottom of his glass.  The cut crystal winks golden light back at Steve.

"I'm a homosexual," Steve says, squeezing his eyes shut against the admission.

"I know."

"I don't want to be."

"I know that too."

"I didn't want to do any of the things with the shocks.  The book that said I could use — uh — masturbation — the psychologist said he didn't agree with the painful ways.  He wanted to make it better; he said I'm not broken, just sick."

Tony rubs a hand over his face and then finishes his drink.  He refills his empty glass, then tips the bottle towards Steve, silently asking if he wants a top up.  Steve holds out his tumbler and Tony splashes liquor into it.  "Davison, right?  That's his name, the man who developed that theory.  He thought he was doing right by his patients.  Maybe he was.  If the other option was torture, maybe he can be forgiven."

"I didn't want anyone to get hurt," Steve says.  "Nobody but me."

"I don't want you to hurt either," Tony says, voice edged with something heartfelt.  

Steve shrugs.  "I'm made for it.  I heal from everything."

The corners of Tony's mouth tighten, but he doesn't respond directly.  Instead he says, "Davison feels horrible now, you know.  Eventually spoke to one gay man who was happy with himself and changed his mind.  He admits all those conversion techniques don't work.  None of them do anything but harm."^[3]

"I hoped," Steve says.  His head feels heavy.

"I bet you did.  But life's not fair, sweetheart.  We carry on anyway."

There's a drip of scotch on Tony's hand, where he was careless pouring for Steve.  Tony considers it, shrugs, and licks it away, his tongue a pink flash against his skin.  He puts two wet fingers into his mouth, cheeks hollowing as he sucks them clean.

Steve makes a pained noise of want.

Tony notices, and his eyes flash, just a little evil.  He draws his fingers out and then pushes them back in, obscene, lips pulling into a smile around his knuckles.

"Don't — " Steve begs.

"So," Tony says, pulling his fingers free with a showy pop, "what did you think about during the part before the trashy heterosexual pornography?  Spill for me, Steve, let a sick man have this small pleasure."

Steve feels his cheeks heat up and hides his face in his glass.  He's made a tactical error; he's drunk and horny and in Tony's space.  Unbidden, Steve wonders if Tony's ever jerked off on this couch, sprawled comfortably in just a robe, hand working lazily on his cock, all his masks dropped in the privacy of his own home.  Steve'd always imagined that Tony would be noisy and showy in bed, wanting his partner to hear all the fruits of their efforts, but alone maybe Tony would be quiet, reduced to unvoiced sighs and involuntary shifts of his body.

Now Steve can add Tony sucking off his fingers to whatever fantasy he likes.  Maybe Tony'd do that too while he took care of himself, imagining a cock — Steve's cock — in his mouth.

God, Steve's drunk.  He's thinking about Tony's cock when he needs to be coming up with a lie and staving off a very embarrassing erection.  The train has just about left the station on the latter problem.  Steve bites his lip, not thinking about it.

"Tell me, tell me, tell me.  Please.  I'll beg for it.  All I want before I die is to know what splendid gay thoughts America's finest soldier enjoys while he cleans his gun.  One naughty fantasy.  I'll even settle for vanilla.  What's your go-to?  Something classic, a handie between platoon-mates in the woods?"

Steve bites his lip.  Why not, he thinks wildly.  He's already mortified.  It's a dumb idea but Steve's had most of two and a half bottles of scotch and he's going stupid with it.

"You," he says.

Tony takes a short breath.  "Oh, Steve," he says, like Steve's just pulled a knife out of him, the words like hot blood.

"Always you," Steve whispers, and somehow admitting it is electric and arousing as well as terrible.  He's hard in his uniform pants, Tony's robe inadequate to cover him.

"You're a Gordian knot of issues, Rogers."

Tony sets his scotch down on the side table and shifts around until his knees are tucked up under him, angled towards Steve.  He reaches out and touches Steve's cheek, turning his face in his direction. 

Helpless, Steve leans into the touch.  It's warm and real, better than Steve thought it would be.  Tony scratches his fingernails all the way down Steve's jaw, rasping against Steve's stubble.

Tony leans in.  Steve watches with wide eyes, unsure if he should touch too, almost unable to breathe.

Tony tilts his head to the side, fitting their faces carefully together, lips a hair's breadth away from Steve's.  Tony fills in Steve's negative space perfectly.  Tony teases, hanging delicately in the space between kissing and not kissing, leaving Steve to teeter on a knife's edge.

Finally, Steve gives in and tips his chin up a crucial fraction to meet Tony's lips.  Tony hums in satisfaction and slides one hand around the back of Steve's neck, holding him still.  His mouth is a soft, intoxicating pressure.

Steve carefully lifts one of his hands from where they've been fisted in his lap and splays it over Tony's thigh instead.  The touch makes Tony shiver all the way up into Steve's mouth, and the kiss gets deeper, wetter.

Tony's tongue licks along the edge of Steve's teeth, coaxing his mouth farther open until Steve feels like Tony's inside him.  He bites Steve's lower lip, dragging his teeth over it until Steve is tingling and sensitive, then licks into Steve again, soothing him.

Steve knows he's clumsy and stiff.  Their bodies stay a chaste distance apart.  Tony's still sitting back on his heels, leaning forward just enough to reach Steve's mouth.  Steve's pinned by just three points: Tony's hand on Steve's neck, Steve's hand on Tony's thigh, Tony's tongue in Steve's mouth.

Finally Tony pulls away, mouth kissed pink, breathing barely heavier than it was before.  Steve pants, wrecked.

"There," Tony says.  "Now you know what it feels like."

"It's good," Steve says, trying not to shake.  He doesn't know how he'll survive, now that he knows what he can't have.  It's not fair that Tony gave him a taste just to prove a point when it's everything Steve wants.  "Lord save me."

"Of course it's good," Tony says, wicked.  "I'm Tony Stark."

Steve grasps for Tony again, but Tony pushes him gently away.  "Uh-uh. You're drunk, toots."  Steve makes an annoyed sound of protest, but Tony holds firm.  Steve doesn't know when he'll get another chance.  He can't just stop when he knows it'll be almost impossible to start again.  Right now, he'd let Tony do whatever he wanted to Steve.  Tony could go all the way, even if it stopped being gentle, if it hurt, even if it was as nasty and brutish as two men together was supposed to be.

He wants to tell Tony to take him apart, piece by heaving piece.

But Tony's will is set, and Steve is hopeless at seduction, too nervous and inept to use his body to change Tony's mind.  Tony pats Steve briskly on the back and takes away his drink.

"I'll set you up in the guest bedroom and let you sleep it off."

Tony chivvies Steve off the couch, down a short hallway and into a simple bedroom, minimally appointed in black and white.  As soon as Tony's gone Steve has a hand down his pants, stroking fast and desperate with only his precome to ease the glide.

It doesn't take much.  It's a relief to just let go without fumbling for pornography he doesn't even enjoy.  Steve comes imagining Tony's fingers, soaking with smoky scotch, fucking into his mouth, Tony's knuckles bumping Steve's lips as he shoves them deep, the pads of his fingers heavy on Steve's tongue, alcohol burning his throat.

He shudders and grunts as the pleasure is punched out of him, and doesn't know if he hopes Tony can hear him or not.

The public reception of Tony coming out is mixed at best.  A handful of angry protestors show up at the doors to the Triskelion, yelling scripture through megaphones and holding up signs.  A woman holds up a square of poster board with IRON MAN HAS AIDS painted on it in red block letters.

Steve searches the internet for AIDS.  He finds a definition of the disease in an online encyclopedia, but that doesn't explain why the lady had that sign about Tony.  Steve keeps looking, until he opens someone's personal online diary — viewable to the whole world, which Steve doesn't think is particularly sensible — and it says awful things about AIDS and the people who have it.  Strangers can respond at the bottom of each page, and they do: they swear at the writer, call him a homophobe and a bigot.  The angry commenters have their own diaries with very different sorts of opinions, and links to history that wasn't in the encyclopedia.

He stops reading an hour later, sick to his stomach.

Nobody tells him the ugly things.  They act like Steve never lived through the Great Depression or got measles along with every kid on his block, like he can't handle it.  Even Tony tries to protect him from the parts of the modern world he doesn't think Steve will like.  He didn't tell Steve about Aaron Forrest.

Steve had looked up the boy he'd had a hand in killing the morning after he'd gotten drunk on Tony's couch.  Aaron had been sandy-haired and knobbly, too tall for the narrow width of his shoulders.  He reminded Steve of himself at that age.  Some horrible people called the Westborough Baptist Church showed up at his funeral and made a scene.  Steve hadn't even known it was happening at the time.

The protestors give up after a few days, drifting away to go yell at someone else.  Steve notices while he's sorting through the office mail that Tony's getting more letters than usual.  A lot of them have bright stickers, rainbows and unicorns, addressed in young, studious handwriting.

All the Ultimates get fan mail: heartfelt letters from people whose families they've rescued, requests for autographs, joke wedding invitations (Steve responds to these with a polite handwritten note on the RSVP card.  Tony occasionally deigns to reply by tucking a condom into the pre-stamped envelope).  This seems different.

Steve notices that Tony keeps those letters separate.  He tends to have one or two tucked into his folder of notes at Ultimates meetings, and he runs his fingers over their edges whenever Fury or Betty mention the media.

Tony's handling things in his own way.  He's loud, sugary, and off-putting; he reeks of alcohol, gin one day, rum the next.  He ignores his SHIELD detail and bribes the janitors outrageously to eavesdrop on people he doesn't like.

"No, absolutely not," Tony says when his current SHIELD liaison chases him down in the hallway, waving a weapons contract.  Steve stops on his way to his desk and leans on the wall to watch.

"Last week you said you would sign this."

Tony sniffs, unimpressed.  "Changed my mind."

"Look, Stark, you need to dry out and straighten up."

"But I'm not straight, handsome," Tony says, tapping the side of his nose and winking.  "See you in the east hangar after work hours if you want a demonstration."

Then he breezes off down the hall, leaving the SHIELD agent scowling after him.

"Fuckin' useless drunk faggot," he grumbles, and spits on the floor.

Steve pushes himself away from the wall and places himself between Tony's retreating form and the agent.  He looks pointedly at the spittle on the tile, then at the agent's badge — Kepler, not difficult to remember — and finally meets the man's eyes.

"Care to repeat that?" Steve asks lowly.  He wonders if the cold rage inside him is bleeding into his voice.

Kepler snorts and rolls his eyes.  "You know exactly what he is."

Steve hits him.

The punch catches Kepler squarely in the throat.  Cartilage crunches and the man stumbles backwards with a wheeze.  He lands heavily, jarring the contract out of his hands.  It fans out across the floor.

"Say it again," Steve growls.

Kepler presses himself backwards, cowering against a closed door.  He holds one hand out in front of his face like he can push Steve away, the other cradling his neck.  His mouth opens in a silent plea, no, no.

Steve kneels down and collects the fallen pages, stacking them neatly.  "Say the word, soldier," Steve orders quietly, thumbing through the contract, checking the page numbers to make sure everything's in order.  "Tell me what you called Mr. Stark, or I'll hurt you."

The agent's face twists, an ugly cowardly thing baring its teeth in a trap.  He tries to speak, coughs, and tries again.  "He's a fag," he hisses through his busted throat, lurching over the consonants, "and a cocksucker."

"Thank you," Steve says, folding the contract into thirds before rising and tucking it into a belt-pouch.  He'll talk to Tony later, and ask if it's actually important.

Then he kicks the man in the ribs, quick and vicious and satisfying, and walks away.

Tony swings by Steve's desk less than half an hour later.

"I have the contract you wouldn't sign," Steve says, passing it over to Tony.

Tony rifles through the pages and plucks out a few sheets of dense print.  He stuffs those into his briefcase, then hands the rest back to Steve.  "You keep this safe for me," he says.  "While I find out what's in the bits they tried to keep me from reading."

"They — what?"  That couldn't be right, SHIELD wouldn't try to trick Tony into signing a contract he hadn't seen.

"Don't worry about it.  Yet."

"Fine," Steve says, tucking the mostly-complete weapons contract under a stack of reports where it'll be inconspicuous.

"There, good, that's sorted.  Now!" Tony says, hopping up to perch on the edge of Steve's desk, kicking his heels, "I heard you were defending my honor in the hallway earlier."

"He was out of line," Steve grunts.  He should have known Tony would find out about his display almost immediately.

"He has a crushed hyoid bone."

"You work here.  People can't go around calling you a — a fag,"  Steve insists.  The word feels dirty on his tongue.

"Steve, I am a fag," Tony says, careless in the way that means he's hiding something underneath.  "It's not namecalling if it's true.  Hell, you would have said the same a month ago."

Steve's stomach twists.  He wouldn't have — he — he's not sure.  "They can do better than that.  I can — I should be better," he rasps, voice failing on him.  He wants to punch a wall until his hands bleed.  His teeth are going to chip from grinding them.

"Hey, hey, hush," Tony says, ducking his head down to meet Steve's eyes.  "You don't know which way is up right now, hm?  I shouldn't be taking the — ah, let's say the atmosphere — here at SHIELD out on you."

For a long, unshielded moment, Tony looks sick, drawn thin and tired by illness.  "Thank you for punching him," he says eventually.  "I hope he can't eat anything but soup for a month."  

Finally, Steve knows what to do.

It takes Steve a long time to decide what to wear, longer than picking what he's going to say.  He won't wear the Captain America outfit; for this, he wants to be Steve Rogers.  The least controversial thing would be a suit.  Steve's knows the uniform of the politician, code as stringent as anything in the military.  Navy jacket, white shirt, blue or red tie, flag pin at the lapel.

What Steve wants to do is put on his pinks and greens, and in the end, he chooses to go in that.  The full Army dress uniform is starchy and uncomfortable and right.

It was laughably easy to get an interview on 60 Minutes.  The reporters agreed, more reluctantly, to keep his appearance quiet and exclusive until it's ready to air.  Betty and Fury are going to have his head for pulling the same stunt as Tony, but Steve won't let them twist up what he needs to say.

Captain Steve Rogers prefers to keep his private life private, but he wishes to make it clear that personally, he supports the LGBT community.  That's it.  Steve doesn't have to tell them anything about himself.

They make him leave his cards in the green room.  "You'll be fine," the stage manager in the green room assures him.  She gives him water, crackers, and a Tums.  Steve takes them all with rote gratitude.  "Lesley is on your side, Captain Rogers.  She wants to learn what you think.  Think of it as a collaboration, not a confrontation."

Steve chews the Tums, swallowing as it turns to dry chalk in his mouth.

The set is made up to look like a cozy office: bookshelves on the walls, red leather armchairs.  The effect is ruined by the camera in Steve's face and the heat of the studio lights making him sweat under his collar.  He sits straight in his chair.  He wonders if he looks nervous.

Lesley Stahl sets about putting him at ease, asking him simple questions about the Ultimates and how he likes modern life.  She smiles at him and it makes all the sharp lines of her face beautiful.

"Your teammate, Tony Stark, recently came out as bisexual.  Given your reaction to rumors about your own preferences, I'm curious as to how you feel about that."

The question feels pointed in a way that's worse than he expected.  There's no answer that won't make him a target.  The consequences for telling the truth are no more or less dire than the consequences for giving up and lying again.  Steve licks the back of his teeth, squares his jaw.  Ms. Stahl watches his face with knowing eyes, two steps ahead of him already.

"There are pieces of American history I had to learn on my own," Steve says, grating through the words like he has a mouthful of gravel.  "People expect me to be an idealist, and a traditionalist."

"Are you?"

"It's more complicated than that."

"And how does that relate to issues of sexuality?"  Steve can tell she's used to people eeling away from her, and she wants to keep Steve pinned to the butcher block.  He's getting there.

"A bunch of kids in my building got sepsis one time.  These public health officials came around to give everyone smallpox stabs, but they did something wrong.  Playmate of mine burned up from the inside.  I wake up, and vaccines are safe.  Nobody would use the same knife on a hundred tenement kids."

Steve takes a deep breath.  He wrote this all out on his cards.  He's using his past to explain, to build up a picture that makes sense.  "So when I found out about the AIDS crisis, I was angry.  That didn't have to happen again.  It shouldn't have happened again!"

Stahl nods, her expression very carefully neutral.  Steve shouldn't have shouted, he's not supposed to shout in front of women.  Jan took him aside and told him that, told him he was too big to lose his temper, even if it wasn't at anyone.  It was frightening, she said.

"Why do you think the AIDS crisis was handled the way that it was?"

"Because it affected homosexuals."

"That's very strident from someone who implied that being gay was un-American in a public statement."

Steve's face heats with shame.  He tries to recite what he'd prepared ahead of time.  Those words had been safe; deliberate, not revealing.  "I — I would like to say — I support all LGBT individuals in our country.  I support Tony Stark.  I — "

The lights are too hot.  The format of 60 Minutes is for politicians and CEOs, people who talk fast and fill air.  Steve's not like that, he can't make words out of nothing.  Stahl is unfazed by the silence.  Is his face transparent enough to entertain the hungry audience?  Will they let him squirm forever and then edit it out of the final footage?

I support Aaron Forrest, Steve thinks, wretched.  Too late, Rogers.

"There was a boy."

Steve's voice sounds dead in his own ears.

His hands on the arms of his chair are too tight.  The wood is creaking.  If he moves them to his lap he'll grip his knees instead until he has bruises, until his kneecaps break.  Across from him, Stahl blinks in confusion, momentarily off-balance.  He's gone too far off the script.

"Captain Rogers?" she asks.  She glances at the camera operator, drawing her finger across her throat, cut, cut.

"No, no!" Steve says.  "Keep filming.  I need to say this.  I need it.  Please."

Stahl makes small motion for him to go on and sits back.

Steve stares at the wood grain of the bookshelf.  It's freshly cleaned, but there's dust in between the spines of the books.  Nobody reads them.  They're just there for show.

"The boy was Aaron Forrest.  He was fourteen.  There are probably several people responsible for his suicide, but one of them is me.  He killed himself after he read my statement in the newspaper.  A statement that I allowed because I was afraid."

He can't do this.  He can't not do this.

"Captain America is not supposed to be gay," Steve says.  "It's not supposed to be like that."

Stahl's face is frozen in amazed horror.  She looks like she can hardly believe the story that's fallen into her lap.  Steve hopes she wins a Pulitzer, he doesn't care.

"But if I wasn't a coward, Aaron would be alive.  If Captain America, a goddamn soldier, a superhero, had half the spine of Rosie O'Donnell or Tony Stark or a kid who got bullied in high school until he died, I would have just said I was a homosexual!"

"Are you saying that you, Captain Steve Rogers, prefer men?"

"I believe I just made that clear, ma'am."

"Only men?"  Steve's head swims, and he resists the urge to tug at his collar.

"Only men."

"And how long have you known that you're not straight?" Stahl asks, starting to recover.

"Always," Steve says.

"So why are you coming out now?"

"Isn't it obvious?  I killed an innocent!  It's not right!" Steve yells, shouting again, he needs to stop shouting.

Lesley Stahl flattens her mouth and Steve remembers that she faces down powerful men for a living.  "The reception to Mr. Stark opening up about his sexual preferences has been tumultuous.  What do you think the reaction will be to the news from you?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Will you have a response for the religious right and other conservative groups?  The image of Captain America has been embraced by many as a symbol of the traditional values that they hold very dear."

"I know that the way I am is a sin.  If they want to tell me I'm not right with God, that's not new information to me."

Stahl raises her eyebrows.  "Do you believe that the Bible condemns homosexuality?"

"Yes," Steve says, confused by the fact that she needed to ask.  That was obvious, everyone knew that.  "It also condemns the murder of children.  I know which is more important to me."

"That answer was...very candid.  Thank you.  One last question, Captain Rogers.  What are you going to do about Don't Ask Don't Tell?"

"That's not up to me," Steve says, too weary be angry over one last indignity.  Later, maybe he'll find some rage that this, too, is being taken from him.  "If the Army wants to issue Captain America a dishonorable discharge, that's within their power.  I can't stop them."

"You. Walk with me.  Now," Fury demands, storming past Steve's desk not eighteen hours later.  Steve rubs a hand through his hair and stands up.

"I haven't done anything I'm not allowed," Steve protests, although his stomach is sinking.  He'd hoped he'd have a reprieve, at least until his disastrous interview aired.  The editors at 60 Minutes told him it'd take them at least a week to fact-check and edit it into a coherent piece.  He tried to apologize for his scattered interview, but was politely told this was a normal part of the process.  They planned to interview the Forrest family, he was certain.  They might even try to get Tony involved, which makes Steve's head swim with an unidentifiable, raw emotion.

Wildly, Steve realizes he wants Tony to find out what he did from him, not from Lesley Stahl.  He wants Tony to be proud of him.

"First, political actions in uniform are not allowed."

"Sir, I haven't made any statements about particular candidates or political parties."

"Do not interrupt me, Rogers.  Second, the Army is going to flip its lid.  Stark they can handle, it's been tacitly accepted that he sluts around with whoever he wants.  You, on the other hand, no."

Fury plows through a cluster of chattering SHIELD agents, leaving them wide-eyed and instantly speculative.

"Third, I would have appreciated if you did not make it so blindingly obvious that you're fucking Tony Stark."

Steve sputters.  "That is not happening!"

Fury turns his head and narrows his eyes.  "So he's fucking you, then?"

"I'm not sleeping with Tony!" Steve shouts.

"It sure sounded like it."

Steve doesn't know how that happened.  What did he say wrong?  He barely talked about Tony, that wasn't the point at all.

Fury directs Steve into his office and slams the door behind them both.  Fury's space is decorated sparsely with black and white photographs.  There's a cup of coffee and a partially-dismantled pistol on his desk.

"Sit."

"I'd rather stand, if it's the same to you," Steve says stiffly.  He likes to take his lumps on his feet.

Fury anticipated that, apparently, because he points at the chair.  "It is not the same to me.  Get your ass in the chair."

Reluctantly, Steve sits, feeling immediately smaller and weaker.  The chair swivels loosely, the cushion too soft underneath him.

"I am going to make something very clear to you, Rogers.  There is nothing you can keep secret from me, and if I say you're on a tight leash, you are to stay at heel.  I like you.  I don't want bad things to come down on your head."

"It was right," Steve says through clenched teeth.

"In this business, being right isn't our top priority.  We're burying that interview.  It doesn't see the light of day, you don't get stripped of your rank, and we all get to maintain that the majority of this team is straight-laced, normal, and uncomplicated."

Steve's chest tightens like someone is slowly twisting a vise around his ribs.  He knew there would be consequences.  He knew.  He thought he was ready.

He wasn't ready at all.

"You can't stop me from doing another interview," Steve says.  "You can't cover up everything."

"I'll lock you up, if I have to," Fury replies.  "Until you get over this fancy of yours, you either do what I ask you to or you cool your heels behind bars."

"You can't do that."

"I can, and I will, if you don't fall in line!" Fury roars.

Behind Steve, the door slams open with a bang.  Steve jumps, reaching to snatch the gun off of Fury's desk before he realizes it's Tony, flushed from running.

Tony snaps his hand out to catch the door with one hand as it rebounds back towards him.  Steve stares at him in wonder.  Tony's smiling, but underneath the mask Steve can tell he's rigid with outrage.

"Stark!  Out!" Fury shouts.

"A little bird told me that you were being an asshole," Tony says, venom-laced.  He closes the door delicately behind himself and nods to Steve.  "Looks like they were right."

"This is not your problem, Stark!"

Tony doesn't deign to respond to that immediately.  Instead he examines his tie, picking off a speck of lint and adjusting his tie pin.  "Mmmmm, isn't it?"

"If you leave now, I won't make it your problem."

"Is it Don't Ask Don't Tell?" Tony muses, walking past Fury's desk to peer out the window.  He wipes at a smudge with his thumb, frowning slightly.  "I have a stable of the most talented lawyers in the country at my fingertips.  I can think of four constitutional challenges to DADT off the top of my head.  With Captain America as the injured party — do you honestly think I can't make this little difficulty go away?"

"Tony," Steve says, aghast at the legal costs Tony is willing to casually throw out in Steve's defense.

"That's not the only consideration," Fury growls.

Tony sighs dramatically.  "Don't be a homophobe, Fury, it's passe."

Fury fractionally subsides, and Tony turns his attention to Steve.  "That aside, do you want me to kill the story?  I can push them to only keep part of it, spin it in your favor, anything you want.  I know things about Les Moonves that he would very much like to keep in the dark.  I'll ruin anyone for you."

"No," Steve says, keeping his eyes on Tony, clinging to his gaze like a lifeline.  Be brave, Captain, don't give up because things got a little hard.  "I want it to be out there.  The way it is.  The truth."

"There," Tony says with a predatory smile.  "I think that's very clear."

"You know that in the eyes of the public, this means that Iron Man and Captain America are an item," Fury says, still angry but starting to relent under Tony's incredible ability to make anyone bend before him.

"I'm not bothered," Tony says.

Steve crosses his arms over his chest.  "It's an acceptable consequence."

"Lovely!" Tony says, clapping his hands together like he's a hostess about to declare that the quiche is out of the oven and everyone should pick up their champagne and make their way to the breakfast nook.  "We'll be going, then."

Steve stands up with as much dignity as he can muster and follows Tony away from Fury's office.  Tony leads Steve through three sets of locked doors and a secure elevator, using his palmprint to open each of them.  Finally, they arrive in Tony's workshop.

With a rattle of computer keys, Tony locks down the doors.  Fury can't ambush them here.

The place is strewn all over with discarded pieces of Tony's armor.  A laser-cutter machine whines to itself in the corner, cutting sheet metal into precise shapes and throwing sparks into the air.  In the center of the room the Iron Man suit stands tall, wreathed in long black cables that reach all the way to the high ceiling.  There's catwalks up above them, and above that is the giant circular hatch Tony uses to fly off once he's suited up.

The hatch is cracked open, letting in a shaft of sunlight.  Tony jerks his head towards a stool, inviting Steve to take a seat.  Steve settles onto the stool; Tony sits down heavily at the feet of the armor.  He rests his forehead on one fist and sighs.  The beam of sunshine lights him from behind, bright enough to strike brown notes into his black hair.

"That sucked," Tony says, without lifting his head.  "What an asshole."

"You didn't hear the half of it," Steve says with a bleak laugh.  Fall in line, soldier.  Be straight-laced, normal, and uncomplicated.

Steve wants to stroke the slumped line of Tony's shoulders, draw his head up, and kiss him soft and happy.

But he can't.  The first time he let Tony touch him it was because they were undercover; the second happened because Tony was proving a point.  There's no way Steve can touch Tony again only because he wants to.

"I didn't realize that people would think — think we were together.  I didn't mean that," Steve says.  Tony may have said he didn't care, but he says that about a lot of things that cut him deeply.

Tony just shakes his head, rocking his forehead against his knuckles.  "I'm amazed at how far you'll go when you think something's right.  Fuck, Steve, that interview was a lot to watch."

"You saw it?  Already?"

Tony huffs a small laugh.  "Like I said — Moonves is a nasty man, and I've had him by the balls for the past five years.  I probably didn't get to it before Fury did, but I'd bet I was close."

"I miss having secrets," Steve grumbles.

"Curse of the modern world," Tony says, not without sympathy.

"I meant it," Steve says, suddenly worried that Tony doesn't know that the things he'd told 60 Minutes hadn't been empty.  "You have my support."

"You know, punching a coworker in the throat pretty much got that message across."

"Don't be like that," Steve sighs.

"So, now I have your approval even though my lifestyle is a sin?" Tony asks, the question lightly edged.

"Lots of things you do are sins," Steve says, not rising to the bait.  He said what he said.  "Same as me and everyone else."

"I hope a little more sin than everyone else."

Steve snorts in surprised laughter, and then Tony's laughing too, a quiet sound with a hint of a wheeze at the end.  This must be what his real laugh sounds like, when he's genuinely amused and not playing a part for other people.  The knowledge that he sees more of Tony than most people washes over Steve with a satisfying glow.

"You can stay here and talk to me until Fury has left the building," Tony says.  The words are technically an offer but his tone is demanding.  "Honestly, I need some background noise and you need to stay out of sight while Fury works out his pissiness on some hapless underlings.  Say anything — what you had for breakfast, did you see interesting things on your ridiculous morning run today, what do you think of Jan's new haircut, have you watched any movies lately, I'm not picky."

Steve had eaten oatmeal for breakfast.  He put maple syrup on it, along with a few almonds from the salad bar.  It was a habit by now; he hadn't even thought of Tony at the time.

"I watched The Bourne Identity," Steve says.

"Did you like it?  Doesn't Matt Damon look like an attractive two-by-four?"

"The action was over the top."

Tony leans back until his head thumps against the shin of the Iron Man suit behind him, and smiles.  "Excellent.  Tell me more pedantic inaccuracies in this lighthearted summer blockbuster," he says.  "Indulge me.  I deserve this."

Steve spends the evening complaining for Tony's benefit.  He feels his anxious mood fade away as Tony clanks around the workshop fussing at his various engineering projects.  When Tony's computer beeps with a message from the doorman that Fury has left the Triskelion, Steve's certain that everything is going to turn out all right.

Then the 60 Minutes interview airs and Steve's world explodes.

As an act of self-preservation Steve doesn't look up what time it will go on TV.  He doesn't need to spend half an hour feeling the eyes of a million Americans on his back.

He knows when the interview ends because his phone starts to ring.  Steve gives it a leery glance.  Should let it go to voicemail.  But the caller ID says it's Gail, and she deserves to say her piece.  He can honor that, at least.  Steve picks up the phone.

"Hello?"

"Steve?" Gail says, and her voice is so old; in Steve's mind she has the same face as always, this rasp of age issuing from Gail's perfect, young mouth.  It's going to hurt every time, until she dies.  When she's dead he can remember all of her the way she was, without the real woman intruding.

"Gail, I'm — I know it's a shock."

"You didn't tell me.  Would you ever have told me?"

Steve grips the phone handset hard enough the plastic squeaks against itself.   "I never cheated on you, I promise.  I would have married you, Gail, I'd have made a good husband and given us a proper family."

"How could you!  Marry me when you didn't love me, when you could never — "  Her creaky voice breaks off, and she sniffs to compose herself.  It's a terribly familiar sound.  When Steve went overseas she'd sniffed back tears the same way, smiling ruefully at herself.  Oh me, she'd said, making a fuss.  And Steve had touched the end of one of her perfect curls with his too-strong hand and sworn he'd come right back.

"I loved you," Steve vows.

"Not the right way."

"No," Steve says, his voice thick even to his own ears, "I figure I didn't do it right at all."

She sniffs again, and Steve hears Bucky in the background, asking if she's alright.  Gail covers the speaker and calls out, muffled, that she's fine, then tells Buck to go rake up the leaves that are bothering her in the lawn.

"Is there a man now?" she asks, clear again.

"No," Steve reassures her.  Tony doesn't count; Tony is never happening again.  "There won't be any men."

"You'll be alone?" Gail asks.

"I can't control what I want, but I can control what I do.  So that's how it will have to be."

"Oh, Steve, God.  I feel so awful.  This isn't how I wanted our lives to turn out."

Then she begins to cry in earnest, and Steve stands there, helpless, listening to her try and fail to compose herself.  There's nothing he can say to make it better.  He's trapped by his own nature and can't do a thing about it.

Later, he has the dubious honor of being discharged by the President, and it's not even the worst phone call of Steve's day.  The President doesn't seem to enjoy it very much — it might be the worst one for him.

When Steve tries to go outside, he's beset immediately by reporters, conservative protesters, and gay activists.  The reporters want juicy details.  The conservatives want to skin him alive.  The activists can't decide if they want to drape him in a rainbow flag and parade him around the West Village or scold him for his faith and his previous conduct.

Steve locks the door to his apartment and doesn't come out.

He wonders if he's fired from SHIELD, too.  They can't take the serum from him, surely, they can't strip him of his body along with his rank.  The possibility drapes over him like a cloak of dread.  This body, this strength — it's become his.  Without it he won't know who to be.

On the second sleepless night, Steve cracks.  The angry green numbers of his digital clock keep ticking upwards and he can't settle.  He's stupid and wrong inside and he feels wretched, dirty, wrong.  He ran out of eggs the night the interview aired, so he's hungry, too.

The most abominable thing is that he wants Tony to save him.  Steve lies flat on his back on his bed, bare except for a fitted sheet.  He's kicked all the blankets onto the floor and thrown the pillow at the clock in a fit of pique.  With a groan, he reaches for the nightstand and grabs the cordless phone that sits there waiting for emergency calls.

He types in Tony's personal number, letting himself indulge in the fantasy that Tony would come when he called and make this all better.  He even lets his thumb hover over the call button.  Why not let Tony see him in all his weakness?

Steve drops the phone on the mattress, disgusted with himself.  The dial tone moans quietly at him.

Instead of asking for help, Steve drops to the floor and does a hundred sit-ups.  Then he does a hundred push-ups.  Sit-ups again.  Push-ups.  He keeps going until the sky goes grey with dawn and he feels wooden, clammy with sweat.  His muscles cramp, torn up from over-exertion.

Every breath makes his core burn and clench, and he thinks this wasn't such a good idea either.

Steve tips over against the side of the bed and tries not to retch.  The phone is less than a foot from his nose.  Tony's number stands out, dark on the glowing screen.

Aching all over, Steve presses call.

"Steve?" Tony's voice asks, raspy with sleep.  "It's — fuck, Steve, it's not even five yet, I'm not at my prime."

Steve can't say anything.  His throat closes up, prickling with dryness.

"Steve?  Hello?  Goddamn man with his goddamn cheap apartment, even the phone lines don't work.  My dick has the worst taste.  Steve?  Can you hear me?  No?  No.  I'm hanging up and calling back."

"Don't," Steve manages.

"Whoa, okay, sure," Tony says.  "You're there.  That'll teach me to talk about my dick on an open line."

"I shouldn't have bothered you," Steve says.  Having a reaction to Tony is too much work.  "I'll hang up."

"Oh no you don't.  You're going to stay exactly where you are until I get to you.  Do you understand?" Tony asks, steel ringing in his tone.

"Sure," Steve answers.

"Wait for me," Tony orders.

Steve nods — it hurts, he's used all his muscles to their limit — and ends the call.

Tony stands outside Steve's door, alternating between banging on it and threatening to come back with a locksmith or a blowtorch, until Steve gets up and lets him in.

Tony's less than put together.  He's in jeans and a puffy windbreaker, one lock of hair sticking out over his ear.  He holds a steaming styrofoam cup of coffee in one hand.  When he lays eyes on Steve he lets out a huge breath, then shoulders his way into Steve's apartment.

"So.  On a scale of one to falling the fuck apart, how much worse than I was expecting are you dealing with being a newly out gay man?" Tony asks, without pausing for pleasantries.

"You didn't have to come," Steve says.  He hurts.

"Bullshit.  Go sit down.  Drink a Gatorade.  You look like hell."

Steve lets himself fall into the small armchair by the window.  It's a half-hearted shade of grey-green, nothing sophisticated or expensive, and Steve hates to think what it looks like through Tony's eyes.

Tony nods in approval and disappears into Steve's kitchen.  Steve hears the clunk of his refrigerator opening, followed by disapproving noises from Tony and the clink of glasses.  "Pasteurized cheese product?  Really?" Tony marvels to himself.  "This is upsetting."

Tony returns with a glass of orange juice and presses it into Steve's hand.  "I'm fine," Steve protests again.

"You're transparently a catastrophe," Tony says.  "Take it from a master of being fine: you're not it."

Steve lifts the orange juice to take a drink and winces.  Tony catches the twitch, eyes sharp.

"Explain that," he demands.

"Too many push-ups," Steve says, unable to make eye contact.

"How many push-ups is too many for you?"

"Couple thousand," Steve admits.

Tony drags a chair from the kitchen table over to Steve's armchair and sits down heavily next to him.  "See, not fine."

"President Bush himself called to tell me I wasn't allowed to serve anymore," Steve says, his voice edging into wildness in a way he doesn't like.  "That didn't make it better."

"The ACLU started drafting amicus briefs for this case the second you were photographed with me," Tony says gently.  "If you want to pursue a lawsuit to get back in, it'll hit the Supreme Court like a ton of bricks.  And you'll win.  We'll win."

"I don't want to be me," Steve says.  "I'm all wrong."

"No, peaches, you're alright."

Steve pinches the skin of his forearm and squeezes.  It's better than crying.  Tony notices and puts his hands in the way, easing Steve away from himself.  His fingers are deft, smoothing Steve's skin until he stills.

"How about I give you a distraction for a minute," Tony offers, easing out of his chair to crouch in front of Steve.  Steve blinks at him.  He'd like to be distracted — he'd like to feel anything else — but he doesn't know what that would be.  "Get you out of your head up a bit, okay?  Then we'll talk."

Tony puts his hands on Steve's thighs, easing them apart so he can kneel between them.  Steve sucks in a breath, and then Tony presses his face right into the space between Steve's clothed legs, without kissing him or touching him anywhere else.  Steve jerks in shock.  That's too brazen, that's not allowed, Steve didn't get a chance to think.

Tony rocks into the thin fabric covering Steve, open-mouthed, then looks up through his lashes.

He's right there, just giving it up.  Like it doesn't mean anything, just a trick to pacify Steve.  Or worse, a bargaining chip, so the next time Tony feels sick or bored he can cash in this favor with Steve and expect him to — to —

Tony kneads Steve's thigh with one hand, pushing him farther open.

All Steve's wearing is a pair of ugly plaid sleep pants with holes in the bottom of the pockets.  Tony rubs his cheek into Steve's inner thigh, like he can't get close enough.  He groans in approval when Steve's dick starts to fill, and kisses it where the shaft presses against the fabric.  "Nice and easy," Tony whispers, his lips brushing against Steve.  "It's not all bad, honey.  You don't have to think too much, don't worry about me, it'll be one thing about this whole mess that doesn't hurt."

Steve can't deny he's thought about this.  He pictured the yacht, with its white lounge chairs.  Imagined laying back on the crisp cushions and smiling as Tony crawled over him, kissing his his way down Steve's chest.  Steve would run his hands along Tony's toned back, relishing in the clean shapes of his muscles, until Tony shimmied all the way down and slid his mouth over Steve.

"Ah, Tony, ah — "

"There we go, you're beautiful."

In Steve's mind it stays a temptation and not an act.  There nobody can hurt him or demand things from him; there nobody knows.

Tony hitches himself up and gets Steve's waistband in his teeth, glancing smugly up at Steve when it makes him gasp.  All Steve can think about is Tony's mouth and the gnawing shame in his gut.

With all his will, Steve puts a hand in Tony's hair.  He breathes in, out, then shuts his eyes and shoves Tony away.

"No."

Tony's hands leap away from Steve like he's been scalded.  "Or not," he says, tone acidic.

Blindly, Steve pulls the woolen blanket off the back of his chair and bundles it up on top of his lap.  His aches have returned, throbbing from his rigid cock to the pulled muscles in his neck.

When Steve opens his eyes, Tony's moved all the way across the room, his back turned.  Every line of him is hard and offended.

"I can't do that," Steve says.  "I can admit what I want, but I'm not — I just — I've decided.  I don't need sex to live.  I won't have sex with a man.  It's dirty, and wrong, and, and, brutal."

There's a long beat of silence.

"Brutal?"

"It's sodomy."

Tony makes a choked-off noise of pain and fury.  "Would it kill you, Rogers, to learn the absolute minimum, most basic elements of anything before deciding where you stand?" he snarls, hands curling into fists at his sides.

"You don't understand," Steve pleads, because surely Tony can see that this is killing him.  He's so lost.

"You're right.  I don't understand you," Tony says.  He still won't turn to look at Steve.  "I don't understand me either.  I come for you every time, and every time you eventually find a way to make it hurt and I — I swallow it.  I shouldn't do this to myself."

"No, I didn't — "

"If you think I would ever, ever, brutalize someone I was having sex with, then — God.  Fuck you, Steve."

"Tony, please."

"Read one thing!" Tony shouts, rounding on him.  "One thing that wasn't written by a motherfucking conversion therapist.  Learn anything!  Then you can come back to me.  Bring me a goddamn book report, you piece of shit, and maybe I'll be able to look at you again."

With that Tony slams out of Steve's apartment, throwing the door shut hard enough that it rattles the plates in Steve's cupboards.  Steve wonders if Tony's going to walk past the gaggle of reporters on his way out.  He wonders if he cares.

Steve puts his head in his hands and lets himself shake.  His body is already healing itself, soothing away the cramps in his muscles.  Everything is ruined.  He's set farther back than he was the moment they pulled him out of the ice, and this time the only person he has to blame is right here, shivering in his own living room, trying not to cry.

When Steve asks if he still has a place on the Ultimates, Fury snaps at him that he's pissed, not stupid, and tells him to get back to work.  The relief barely cuts through Steve's misery.

Tony informs the Ultimates that he will be away on pressing business in San Francisco. Steve learns via Jan, because Tony refuses to be in the same room as him. The Triskelion buzzes with rumors of a lovers spat. Even Hank and Jan rib Steve over it.

"You're extra grouchy when you need to get laid," Hank says, and slaps Steve companionably on the back.

Steve grunts a noncommittal reply and strides off to the gym.

Tony doesn't disappear completely. Iron Man still appears at training exercises. His helmet stays on, and he refuses to stick around for debrief.

There's sand in the seams of the armor sometimes, ground into the cracks, dusty and tan. Tony's clearly got a plan he's keeping under his hat, and he doesn't trust Steve enough to loop him in.

It stings, despite how much Steve deserves it.

Steve chews on Tony's angry words for a long time.  Read one thing.  Steve can do that if it will ease the hurt on Tony.  Tony doesn't show pain easily, always hiding what actually hurts him behind a smokescreen of feigned injury, and yet he'd yelled at Steve in honest agony. The look on his face before he tore out of Steve's apartment had been horrible. Steve thinks maybe he was wrong; maybe Tony's offer to get on his knees for Steve had meant more to him than he'd let on.  It hadn't been just a balm to soothe Steve's misery.  And Steve had rejected him, pushed the heel of his hand against Tony's forehead and wrenched him away. Tony wasn't a man to be spurned lightly.

Tony had his pick of anyone he wanted and he'd chosen Steve and then Steve acted like he was disgusting. After promising to support him.

Steve's an idiot and a liar.

So with heavy feet, Steve goes to the library.  He keeps the collar of his coat flipped up and pulls a baseball cap over his hair.  

He starts where he has a toe-hold, with the AIDS activists.  They feel familiar to him; their rage against injustice makes sense.  They, too, fought a battle where the deck was stacked and the only way to win was to break the rules of engagement.

We have been carefully taught to hate ourselves, the pamphlet says.^[4]

They hate the police, and the military, and President Reagan.  But they love each other fiercely, so fiercely that they rage over that, too.

Steve picks up more books, after that, memoirs and things labeled Queer Theory, titles that would never have been allowed somewhere as public as a library.  Children come here and look at picture books on the first floor, and yet here he is reading about a man's delight when he discovered gay sex for the first time.  Steve stacks his finds on a wooden table tucked back behind the reference shelves and throws his jacket over top of them to hide the titles from anyone passing by.

He reads more than just one thing, and finds lines that echo within him.

A man ought to be free to find his reason. Not that freedom alone will serve it up: it requires the gods' own fury of luck to get two people to meet. But when it finally happens, two men in love can't rejoice out loud — joy of the very thing everyone burns for — without bracing for the rant of prophets, the schoolyard bully, and Rome's "intrinsic evil."^[5]

Steve feels like someone's hooked a finger into his guts and unwound them, viscera that eyes shouldn't touch laid wet and naked on the table.  These strangers he's never met know his secrets because they're hiding the same things he is, and have been for decades and decades.

Lie to yourself about this and you will forever lie about everything.^[6]

He discovers Robert Mapplethorpe's photography, glossy and beautiful in black and white.  Two men in plastic golden crowns cradle each other in an eternal dance.  A tousle-haired young man with dark hair stares out of the page.  Steve flips through it, entranced, and then goes one page too far, sees what's depicted, and slams the book shut in surprise.  They printed a picture of an erect cock and put it in a library.^[7]

Steve peeks at the pages again, holding the book only a quarter of the way open and sticking his nose into the narrow space between the pages.  Inside the section titled CONTROVERSIAL are pictures of hard, naked men.  Shot with the same sophisticated lighting and smooth curves as the earlier still lifes of lilies, there's a man with clothespins on his nipples, a man sliding a dildo into his ass, a dick straining against tight leather pants.

Steve doesn't think it constitutes much of a controversy.  There shouldn't be pictures like that in a book: that's pornography, not art.  It goes too far, frankly.  Inappropriate.  And yet — Steve turns back to the photograph of the men holding each other, and he stares at it for a long time.

Vulgarity and kindness, drawn in the same hand.

He can't check out any books or look things up on the internet because it'll leave too much of a trail.  The 60 Minutes interview is one thing.  The world knowing that he's looked at pictures of naked men, knowing which pictures — that's untenable.  Instead he comes to the library every few days, until he feels like he's worn a track in the carpet in front of the gay and lesbian section.

Finally Tony comes back to New York for more than a twelve hour stretch, so Steve sits down at home and writes out what he's found, longhand on plain printer paper.  It takes him five sheets, front and back, the words clumsy and unsure.  He transcribes a few quotes from memory, because they describe his feelings better than his own words can.

Then he seals the pages in an envelope and takes the subway to Stark Industries.

Tony's receptionist recognizes him the second he walks through the door and leans in like a bloodhound on the scent.  She's nicely put-together and strangely frightening.

"Mr. Rogers," she says, and Steve almost reminds her, Captain Rogers, ma'am, before he remembers she's correct after all.  "Mr. Stark is in a meeting."

Steve frowns and pats at the letter in his breast pocket.  "I'll make an appointment for later then," he allows.  He can wait in a cafe until Tony is free, or even come back tomorrow.

The receptionist treats him to a long, calculating glance.  Steve squares his jaw and stares back.  "That won't be necessary," she says.  "You can wait upstairs in Mr. Stark's office.  Suite 1701, I'll unlock the door for you from here."

"Great, thank you," Steve says, brow knitting in confusion.  She smiles with bright teeth and calls the elevator.

As soon as he's out of a normal person's earshot, Steve hears the receptionist dial her phone with the practiced click of fingernails on a keypad.  "Deb, you will not believe who's here for Mr. Stark.  Of course I did!  Tell Yolanda — no, you're right, tell Eddie, his lunch break is at the same time as ours — to glue his eyes to the security cameras.  I know.  I know.  He is."

Steve missed the moment when he traded his privacy for the chance to talk to Tony, but it can't be helped anymore.  Then the elevator dings and he's whisked away under the hungry watch of Tony's gossip-seeking employees.

Tony's office has several comfortable places to sit.  There's a small couch by the windows, and a few ergonomically shaped office chairs arranged around a sleek table, currently covered in blueprints weighted down by various blocky prototypes.  It's an intimidating place, but it's also functional, not just for show.

Steve chooses to stand.  

Tony steps into his office twenty minutes later, in the middle of a call, thin cell phone pressed between his shoulder and his ear.  "You're upset.  You're yelling, sweetheart, you shouldn't yell, it's bad for your vocal cords, your voice will go all shrill — yes, I know that's sexist, no more sexist jokes, I took the training, I assigned the training — "

Tony sees Steve.  "Hold," he says, and snaps the phone shut.

Steve pulls what he's written out of his pocket and offers it to Tony.  "I wanted to give this to you in person," he says.

"And what's that?" Tony examines his nails, pushing idly at his cuticles.  Seeing him for the first time in weeks makes Steve's heart go loose, unknotting like silk slithering through his fingers.  Tony's keeping his eyes down and his body tilted away from Steve, only presenting a narrow silhouette.  In a fight Steve would be watching for the knife on him.

If Tony put a hand on Steve's shoulder and pushed down, Steve thinks he'd go to his knees without question.  He'd lean his forehead against Tony's pant leg and whisper I'm sorry until something healed between them.

Steve takes a step forward; Tony takes an equal step back.  He hides the retreat by heading for the expensively stocked bar in the corner of the room, selecting a tall green bottle with a gold label.  He pours a slug, then opens up the flavor with a drip of water.  The smell of rich, aged scotch permeates the room.  Steve remembers Tony throwing the same rocks glass at his head, and Tony licking liquor off his own fingers.

Steve sets the letter down on the corner of Tony's desk and laces his fingers together behind his back.  "I didn't mean to make you so angry," he says.

"Thanks, that makes me feel all better.  You can leave at any time."

"If I go, will you read the letter?"

Tony pouts, lips a practiced moue.  "I was thinking I'd soak it in this very expensive single malt and burn it.  Save myself some pain."

Steve squeezes his hands together behind his back until his knuckles creak together.  "I did more reading," he says.

Tony almost looks up at him, but catches himself and looks down at the envelope instead.  He touches it with one finger, sliding it towards him along the glass-topped desk.  Steve wrote Tony on the front in formal script that only shakes once, along the tail of the y.

"And what did you read?" Tony asks, his voice still tight.

"Everything the library had."

Tony's eyebrows jump upwards.

"I didn't like all of it," Steve admits.  The honesty's hard.  "But some of it I did. And I wrote it down for you," he finishes, and that's harder.

Tony tips his head back and laughs, then wipes his eyes.  "Oh God.  Is this because I told you to write me a book report?"

"I thought that was what you wanted," Steve says, both surprised and stung.  It's not fair for Tony to laugh when he was trying to do what Tony asked of him.

"This is going to be a hell of a read," Tony says, waving the letter in Steve's direction.  "Captain America does queer book club, fuck me."

Steve takes that as an indication that Tony isn't going to light anything on fire.  But delivering what he'd written was only step one.  That was the easy part, the part he didn't have to say out loud.  He takes a deep breath, then stalls on the exhale, air bunching up in his throat.  It takes another try before he can speak.

"Tony — " he says, low and already stumbling, " — I did you wrong.  I'm, God, I'm sorry.  I'm so sorry."

Tony's head whips up.  "What?  Stop.  You never fucking apologize.  It drives me crazy."

"I'm apologizing now," Steve says, gritting his teeth in misery.  "I should have listened to you, instead of Betty and Fury and — and — goddamn Dr. Gerald Davison.  You're better than them, and I'm not.  I'm sorry.  Again.  I'm sorry."

Steve runs out of words and stands there, chest heaving, winded by a handful of sentences.  Tony stares at him, poleaxed.

Eventually Tony shakes his head and smooths a hand over his goatee.  "Today is very confusing," he says with a small frown.  "Confusing and surprising, two things I don't like.  I need — I need a minute.  Go sit down.  Over there.  And be quiet."

Steve walks blindly to the small couch next to the window, sits, and makes himself go still.  He finds the place his mind goes in a sniper's blind, watching without moving, turning into something invisible.

"Don't look at me," Tony demands.  Steve swallows and fixes his gaze on his knees.

Tony makes a small ragged sound, breathy and uneven in the middle, and says nothing.

Then he sits down at his desk and ignores Steve.  Steve hears the chime of his computer booting up, then the rustle of pages, and has no idea if Tony's even thinking of him.  Tony will get to him eventually, he comforts himself.  He's used to being told to hurry up and wait.  He focuses on slowing his breathing and heartbeat.

The machine-gun chatter of Tony typing goes in fits and stops.  He flips through pages so quickly Steve can't imagine that he's actually reading anything on them.  Be still, be still.

After longer than Steve expected — it has to have been at least forty-five minutes — Tony sighs.  He gets up and pads over to Steve, his footfalls soft on the rug.  Steve finally raises his eyes, not minding the crick in his neck, and takes Tony in.  Soft grey pants with a narrow pinstripe, gold belt buckle, white shirt, navy tie printed with a delicate fleur de lis pattern, jacket in the same fabric as the pants, white pocket square.  The points of his collar are secured with a gold bar, framing his throat.  Steve feels absolutely disheveled in comparison.

Steve's gaze halts at Tony's mouth, too afraid to stray higher.

"All of that research got at least a few things through your concrete skull," Tony says.  Then he drops a flash drive into Steve's lap.  "Here.  Finish your education."

The flash drive contains a series of video files.  They're numbered one through ten.  The only other file on the drive is a text document named README.  Steve opens that first: it has instructions from Tony.

"Watch these in private.  Absolutely do not bring one of your dogshit Playboys along for the ride.  This is the good stuff, don't sully it with airbrushed trash.  Go in order and don't skip any because you're curious.  And, sweetheart — make sure to enjoy yourself."

Steve suspects that these are the kinds of videos people watch in bed, with their clothes off.  He ignores the way it makes him feel that Tony picked out pornography specifically for him.  Determinedly not thinking about it, he fixes himself a dinner of sausage with peppers and onions.

He spends two hours reading in the sad grey-green armchair (not thinking about Tony kneeling), then showers (not thinking about his naked cock), brushes his teeth (not thinking about anyone's mouth, his or otherwise), and tosses his laptop and the flash drive onto the quilt and situates himself between the covers.  After a moment he reconsiders the logistics of his position, gets back up, finds lotion and tissues, and carefully arranges the sheets around himself so nothing will get too messy.

The first video is in crisply lit black and white, two men in what's clearly a professional photo studio.  They joke with the unseen cameraman, peeling their clothes off piece by piece.  "Can you see my love handles from this angle?" says the taller one, and his companion rolls his eyes and puts his hands on the other man's hips, squeezing and caressing.

Finally they're both down to tight boxer-briefs, and they drape themselves over each other, touching and petting for the camera, openly conscious that someone is watching them and obviously delighted about it.

They kiss for a long time.  Steve knows what that part is like, and he touches his lips to better recall the feeling.  Then one of them kisses the other's nipple, and making him arch into it, eyes half-closed in satisfaction.

Steve's never really considered his nipples, except as an ancillary part of his chest and an annoyance when they chafe under his shirt while he runs.  He thumbs one out of curiosity, and his body responds with a warm, insistent thrill.  He does it again, tries rubbing in circles and scratching with his nails.  On the laptop screen the handsome men kiss each other's necks, nipping with their teeth and soothing with their tongues.

It ends too soon.  Steve wants it to be longer, to see what they did next — if they would touch — but there's nine more clips, and Steve supposes Tony has provided him with an accelerated course.

The film quality of the second video is much lower.  It's shot on a home video camera, the colors washed-out, the sound crackly.

There's only one man in the frame, already completely naked, sprawled on a couch.  "Okay, I'm ready, you pressed record, right?"

"Yeah, I think so.  The red light?"

"Uh-huh, that means we're live."

"Touch yourself, gorgeous."

"With pleasure."

The man's cock is already hard, bobbing above a dark thatch of pubic hair, and he ghosts his hand over it with a groan.  "Mmmmmm, I'm so hot for it."

Steve copies the motion and finds that his dick is already hot and leaking against his stomach without him even having to stroke it to fullness.  He can't help imagining Tony watching him, filming him, roughly whispering suggestions.  

"No, slower; make it last for the video."

"I can't, uh, uh, c'mon, I'm close," says the man with the hand on his cock, his hips twitching up off the couch with effort to get off.

Steve realizes that he's embarrassingly close too and pulls his hand away so he doesn't come with eight videos to go.

Finally, the cameraman lets his companion finish.  His body jerks with it, on and on; he makes a mess of come on his bare chest.  He smiles ruefully at himself, then drags his fingers through his own spend, smearing filthy patterns across his belly.

"God, you're so sexy."

"Fuck yeah I am.  That was great, come over here and kiss me."  

The video cuts out, and Steve's left staring at his desktop background, heartbeat loud in his ears.  

He opens file number three.  A couple jerks each other off, gasping against each other's skin and sharing clumsy, open-mouthed kisses.

Four has a blowjob in it.  Steve can't help touching himself again while he watches.  The man sucking cock looks almost like Steve; did Tony pick this one for that reason?  Tony's watched all of these.  He must have pleasured himself, too, while this video played in the background.  Did Tony think of Steve's mouth on him while he fucked his fist?

Steve watches the intoxicating slide of stretched pink lips and wants.  He opens his mouth, grasping at the feeling of being filled.  Curious, he slips two fingers into his mouth, pushing them deep and sucking, bobbing his head with the motion.  It could be Tony.

He comes without planning on it.  It yanks through him, like someone's pulled the ripcord on his body.  By the end of it his thighs are shaking, and he's dripping a little.  Steve pulls a face at himself.  That's excessive.  But if Tony had been watching, well, Tony might have found it attractive.  Steve would like that.

The oral sex on screen has finished.  The two men are cuddled up next to each other, relaxed and happy, whispering things to each other that the camera can't pick up.  It wasn't degrading or mean at all.  The man who had just come into the other man's mouth scratches his chest hair and stretches, content.  The other lays a gentle kiss on his lover's shoulder and jerks himself off lazily, unhurried.  When he comes it gets on his partner's ass.  The man jumps in surprise, startled out of his post-coital nap, and then grumbles in mock-outrage.  He gets a kiss as an apology, and they laugh about it together.

Steve shuts the laptop and wipes himself up.  Even when he was reading about sex, he didn't know it would be like that.  Maybe the actual act of sodomy would be different.  Handjobs and sucking each other off could be good for both partners, but more than that, surely, turned punishing and sadistic.

He decides to try the next videos tomorrow.  Tony hadn't said anything about watching them all at once.

The next night Steve's impatient to go to bed.  He stops before he clicks video number five, shame washing over him.  Here he is, flushed and already at half mast because he's excited about watching gay pornography.

You're gay, darling, Tony's voice whispers.  What other sort of pornography are you supposed to like?

Put that way, well, Steve can't deny it sounds awfully logical.

The man in video number five talks to the camera like Steve's there in the room watching him.  He grandstands just like Tony, showing off as he undresses, complimenting himself and playing up his delight at every sensation.

"If you're really looking to have a good time, there is nothing, nothing better than some ass play.  So that's what we're doing today, because let me tell you, girl, I am dying for it."

Steve watches nervously as the porn star lifts his leg and holds one knee up against his chest, and then traces his fingers over and around his asshole, wriggling in pleasure.  His cock bounces heavy and thick against his raised thigh.

When he slides one lube-slick finger into himself, he throws his head back and lets loose a showy groan.  "That feels fan-tas-tic, I wish there was some hot young stud here to give it to me, with those big workman's hands, he'd take care of me, worship me, and, oh, mmmmm, yeah, there.  There."

Steve eyes the video suspiciously, looking for a sign that the man's only pretending to have the time of his life.  Some of the more exuberant cries are definitely exaggerated, but his dick is straining, hot and red, the whole time.  He adds another finger and fucks himself with it until his hard cock bounces against his stomach.

Eventually he gets out a dildo, black and imposing, and pushes that into himself, sighing and describing the stretch.

Steve is not going to try that.  This video isn't as good as the others, and he's disappointed.  He knew it wouldn't all be nice.

Despite that, Steve's still interested in getting off, so he dutifully queues up the next file.

The next video — the next video is good.  It's a couple again, which Steve's finding he likes, and they're sunning themselves beside a pool.  It reminds Steve of the pictures on Tony's yacht.  Their golden skin is perfect and dewy.  One dives into the pool, and when he surfaces at the edge of the water it's straight into a kiss.  His wet hair tangles in the other man's fingers, falling in messy dark locks.

"Wanna fuck?  It's a nice day for it."

"Sure do."

Steve laughs aloud at the frankness of it.  Both men smile, pleased with themselves and their mutual desirability.  They stretch out on lounge chairs, trading kisses for a while, then progressing to oral sex.  Steve runs one of his hands over his chest, then down his belly.  He plays with his own pubic hair for a while, building some anticipation, then starts to pull gently on his cock.

The man who's still wet from the pool stands up and fetches a towel from a nearby pagoda and lays it on the concrete beside his partner's lawn chair.  Then he kneels and hooks one of his partner's knees over his shoulder.  He licks his cock, root to tip, a few times, then kisses it lovingly on the head.  Steve bites his lip.

Then he drops his head lower, sucking on the other man's balls, and lower still, until his tongue presses against his lover's asshole.

"I know you like that, you filthy animal," he says, shooting a smug grin upwards.

"Shut up and keep eating my ass, c'mon, don't be a tease."

Steve shudders.  He didn't know — that's not allowed.  But the man is doing it, right there on camera, and his partner's face is twisted up in ecstasy, his heel pressing insistently into the meat of his shoulder to encourage him to keep going.  "More, more, fuck, give me something," he begs.

Tony would never — Steve would never — but — what if Tony begged.  What if he demanded, in the voice that reminds Steve that Tony is a CEO and a ruthless fighter and he's used to getting whatever he wants.  

Steve twists in the bed, his body hungry for more, while on the screen the man switches from eating his partner out to sucking his cock again, and slicks up one finger.  He pushes in, and Steve watches the other man's body yield.  He deftly fucks his finger in and out, and sucks with the same rhythm.

"I'm gonna — can I do it in your mouth?"

The man comes while his partner swallows it all down.  When it's over he sits back on his heels and preens over his own skill at pleasuring his lover.

Fingers aren't the same as a cock, Steve thinks.  They're smaller, more controlled and dextrous.  Tony's hands would be talented, more talented even than the porn star's.

Video seven is only a minute and a half long.  It opens and one man is already inside the other.  They rock their hips together, face-to-face, and stare into each other's eyes.  They look like they love each other. 

Steve thinks eight is the same couple in a different position:  this time the man getting fucked is cradled in the other man's lap.  They kiss and grind together, all wrapped up in each other.  This is sodomy, Steve insists to himself.  These men are committing the worst of all sex acts.  It's supposed to hurt.  They're not supposed to be happy about it.  A man with a cock in his ass doesn't smile and whisper I love you, you're perfect, never stop, never leave.

In clip nine it's them again, but harder, the man on top setting a faster rhythm.  Steve knew it, he knew it wouldn't last, and he keeps watching, waiting to be proven right.  But the other man winds his arms around his lover and urges him faster, deeper inside him, his mouth slack with pleasure.

Steve closes his eyes and listens to moans of frantic encouragement and the sound of flesh meeting flesh.  Everything he'd been told about men who loved other men had been a lie, and he'd thrown that lie in Tony's face because he bought it.  He'd implied that when Tony did this with his own partners it was a terrible violent act.  He'd accused Tony of hurting the people he loved for a few seconds of carnal pleasure.

He expects the last video to be one more recording of men making love, a final nail in the coffin of Steve's convictions.  He scoots up more comfortably in the bed, determined to make this one count.  If he doesn't come before he finishes this video, he can always go back to the one by the pool again, or re-watch the home video where the man jerked off while his lover encouraged him from behind the camera.

Video ten is different.  One of the men is fully clothed, and the other wears only a harness strapped around his shoulders, not so different from the one Steve uses to carry his shield.  

The clothed man wraps one hand in the other's harness and drags him forward.  The man in the harness goes easily, utterly pliant, and melts when he's kissed roughly, when the commanding man invades his mouth with his tongue.

One kiss makes Steve more aroused than the last three clips of actual sex.

With only a gentle tap on his shoulder, the man in the harness goes to his knees.  The clothed man runs one hand through his hair, pleased and proprietary.  Steve chokes off an embarrassing groan and bucks off the bed, working himself faster and faster.

"Do you want to suck my cock, baby?"

"Please, yes, please," says the man on his knees, crossing his wrists behind his back and leaning forward, hungry.

"I'd love that, too," the man says with a voice like dark honey, and Steve's done, he's finished, he doesn't even have to see the man take out his cock before he spills over into hot white pleasure, his orgasm chasing itself from his dick, up his spine, down to his fingertips and around to his cock again.

"Educational, he says," Steve grumbles, sprawled sexed-out and stupid on the bed.  He sure knows more than he did two nights ago.  What he's going to do with that knowledge is a goddamn mystery.  "Fucking hell."

Steve feels blown empty.  There's a void where all the shame should be.  

It's selfish and prideful to go against the will of God for his own pleasure.  The things he wants are strange and unnatural, and a stronger man might have resisted.  He shouldn't know better than the Bible what's right for a man to do with his body. 

But for the moment those ideas are just words.  He can think them without feeling.

Instead the words of other gay men bloom within the echoing place inside Steve, a hot ember of their furious love.

By the end of the next week, Steve has watched video number ten all the way through to the end several times.  In his weaker moments he even wondered if he could ask Tony for a few more like it.

But Tony's vanished, off on business in San Francisco again.  Steve waits impatiently for when he'll return.

He's pleasantly surprised to catch the moment Tony comes back; the Iron Man suit zips past the Triskelion windows while Steve's eating lunch alone, staring out over the city.  Steve drops his fork in excitement, then tells himself sternly to pull himself together.

It will take Tony at least half an hour inside his workshop to get out of the suit, so Steve has plenty of time set himself up on an intercept course.  He feels stupid plotting an elaborate scheme to catch Tony in the hallway, but the Ultimates won't let him out on anything but training exercises, so it's not like he has anything better to do.

Steve hopes Tony doesn't hole up in his workshop for the rest of the day.  Sometimes he goes straight from flying to tinkering and then flies off again without setting foot outside as himself.

Instead, Steve is barely in time to catch Tony.  As Steve gets out of the elevator Tony comes storming down the hallway, his hair still wet with green shock-absorption gel, face scraped up and bleeding over one eyebrow and across the bridge of his nose.

"Tony!" Steve shouts to get his attention.

Tony startles, hard, and almost trips over his own feet.  That's unlike him — Tony usually moves with understated grace, even when he's half pickled with drink.  "Shit. Fuck," Tony swears, steadying himself.

Steve jogs over to him, holding out his hands to steady Tony without even thinking about it.  He stops a foot away, remembering that Tony probably doesn't want to be touched — not by Steve, at least.

Tony stares blankly at him, face slack with something horribly like despair.  "Not right now, Steve," he says, so weary it makes Steve's body feel heavy with empathy.  "You're my favorite hopeless homophobic virgin, I promise, but right now, I want to go home.  I want to rinse the taste of sand out of my mouth.  I want to get drunk, and finally, I want to pass out, by myself, in my extremely sumptuous bed, with my shoes on."

"Let me make sure you get there."

Tony squints at him.  The movement cracks a drip of dried blood that's run into the hair of his eyebrow.  "I can defend my own virtue, Rogers.  I'm not a nice man," he says slowly, like he's explaining to a rather slow toddler that the stove is hot.

"At least tell me what happened," Steve insists.

"The investors are savage in San Francisco."

"Bullshit, Tony."

Tony pinches the bridge of his nose, then looks at his fingers in alarm when they come away dotted with blood.  "You don't want to hear about the things I've been unearthing."

"Try me," Steve says, crossing his arms over his chest.

Tony groans.  "You are so fucking stubborn.  Why me?  What did I do wrong in a past life to deserve being interrogated by Steve Freedom-Rings Rogers in a hallway with green gunk drying in my pubic hair and blood coming out of my face?"

"I owe it to you."

Tony's shaking, a muscle jumping under the sweat on his neck and a fine tremor visible in his hands.

"Something's wrong," Steve coaxes.  "You're rattled."  Fighting Nazis abroad, he would have called it a sure sign of combat exhaustion.

"What, you going to offer me your arm to lean on while we wait for the car and drape your coat over my shoulders?"

"If you want."

Tony scoffs.  "What next — you wash my hair and rub my poor sore feet?"

"Yes."  Steve's heartbeat picks up for no reason.  Tony squints like Steve's pulling a dirty card trick and Tony hasn't figured out which shirt cuff hides the queen.

"Blow me."

"I would," Steve whispers.  If Tony told him to drop to his knees in this hallway, he'd think about it.

"Okay, well," Tony says, "I honestly wasn't expecting you to call that bluff."  Steve lifts his chin and prepares to take whatever cutting thing Tony says next straight on like a man.  But instead Tony's mask slips, then falls, and he looks like he's so lonely it's starving him.

"Take me home," Tony says.

Tony doesn't touch Steve while they walk out to the towncar, but as soon as Steve's shuffled into the back seat Tony flips around to straddle him, his knees pressing into the leather seat on either side of Steve's hips.

Steve opens his mouth to ask if the window are tinted and if the privacy divider is really sufficient here, but Tony puts a hand over his mouth to shut him up.  He slides his palm across Steve's face until his thumb grazes Steve's open lips, then presses it into his mouth, between this teeth.  Tony grips him, fingers on his chin and thumb pressing behind his bottom teeth.  His jaw is neatly immobilized.

"I need this, so if you want out make it clear right now."

Steve narrows his eyes at the implication that he'd renege on his offer.  As an answer he closes his lips around Tony's finger and sucks, licking around the fingernail.

Tony's face lights up with feral glee at Steve's reaction.  He pushes his thumb farther into Steve's mouth, rubbing the pad of it over the flat of Steve's tongue and along the tops of his molars.  Then he grabs Steve by the chin and pulls him forward.  His thumb sweeps over Steve's jaw, wet with spit.

Tony kisses with teeth, not bothering to start soft and dry this time; he holds Steve in place with one hand on either side of his head, setting Steve at whatever angle suits him, and licks and pushes and bites.  Steve opens his mouth and lets him, and lets him, and lets him.

Tony shoves up against him until he's pressed up against Steve from shoulder to groin.  He smells, frankly, terrible.  The impact-absorbing gel has the same pungent, fruity odor as antifreeze.

Steve lifts a hand and wipes a drip of gel off of Tony's neck.  Tony pulls a few inches back to look at him, quizzical.  His lips are kissed red and his pupils are wide in the dim backseat light.

"Neatening you up," Steve explains.

"Ah," Tony says, like Steve's revealed something important.  "Later.  Right now, open," Tony demands, and his fingers are in Steve's mouth again, heavy on his tongue.

Steve closes his eyes and goes with Tony's motions.

"You're easy for it," Tony says, wondering.  "All that work breaking you down and then underneath you want so badly."

Of course he wants it.  That's always been the problem.  Steve bites down on Tony's fingers, annoyed.

"What, you want your mouth back?  Too bad, I'm enjoying myself.  God, look at you."

Steve expects he doesn't look very much like himself.  He's an upstanding man, a man's man, the kind of man who doesn't let a flighty queer like Tony Stark do whatever he wants to him in the backseat of a black car.  Tony kisses his neck, and Steve lets out a breathy, unvoiced sound.

It feels good to not be himself.  Steve can be someone else for a while, someone who does what Tony wants because Tony needs this.  He said so.

Also, Steve is hard as hell in his pants, so there's that.

Tony eventually gets bored with Steve's neck and goes back to kissing Steve's mouth.  Steve puts his hands on Tony's hips and lets them rest there, heavy, grounding himself against Tony.

Too soon, Tony stops abruptly, climbing off Steve without preamble.  "We're almost there.  Get presentable, chop chop."

Steve tugs his collar straight again and tries to see in the reflection of the car windows if Tony's left marks on his neck.  He can't tell — his skin feels sharp and alive where Tony's bit him, but the darkling reflection in the glass isn't clear enough to see if there's bruises.

Beside him, Tony twitches his cuffs straight and wipes his damp fingers on the seat.

"No helping the green gunk and the scrapes," Tony sighs.  "I'm a swamp creature."

Steve doesn't think that changes anything, really.  Tony is beautiful and devastating, persistently tempting even in the worst condition.  Steve clears his throat.  He can't say that out loud without mortifying himself. 

"I think you're plenty handsome," he says instead, then focuses on the door handle.  It's, well, it's black.  Wrapped in leather with neat topstitching.  It's not very interesting.  Steve could yank it open and roll out of the car.  They're moving at a sedate pace; he probably wouldn't even get road rash if he timed it right.

"Thank you," Tony says, softly.  He uses a hand to tip Steve's face towards him and kisses him once gently on the lips, then frees him.  "I think you're handsome too, and I like touching you very much."

Steve stares dumbly as Tony leans forward to check where they've pulled up.  "We're here."

Tony ushers Steve into his penthouse as the sun finally goes all the way down.  

The grand windows let in the blue-orange of late twilight.  Tony throws his jacket at one of the pristine white couches and stretches his back, grunting as his spine pops.  A portion of the weight that hung on him in the Triskelion lifts now that he's back in his home territory.  Steve adjusts the front of his pants again, uncomfortable after walking in from the elevator.

Steve removes his own jacket and folds it over one arm, at a loss for any place to hang it.  Tony takes it from him and throws it at the couch as well.  Then he steps in close and kisses Steve.

Tony works Steve's shirt open with clever fingers, then yanks it untucked from his pants.  "You don't need this," he says into Steve's mouth.  Steve shrugs out of the sleeves obligingly and Tony disappears the shirt, leaving Steve in a thin white tank top.  Steve's about to protest that he'll need that back eventually, but Tony's wandering hands find one of his nipples and tweak it.  That effectively shorts out Steve's complaints.  He catches Tony's mouth again and loses himself in the hot slide.

Tony taps Steve twice on the cheek to get his attention.

"You're nice and warmed up now," he says, grinning.  "So, I would like a bath."

Steve makes a wordless noise of protest as Tony draws away.

"Well, come on then," Tony says.

Tony peels his clothes off as he walks, unselfconscious, and also unconcerned with leaving a trail of laundry behind him.  Steve resists the urge to pick it up and find a hamper to stow it in.

The bathroom is ludicrous, large and lit softly pink.  With a reflexive awareness of his surroundings, Steve takes in aged brass fittings, well-tended houseplants, and colorful tiles.  The tub is large and white and steaming.

"Wireless control of the taps was the best thing I ever put into this place," Tony says.  Then he kicks off his black briefs and sinks into the water.

Steve isn't sure what he's supposed to do next.  Does he join Tony?  The tub's big, Steve supposes.  He undoes his belt, deciding he's game for it.

"Ah, ah, no," Tony says, flicking Steve with water.  "This is me time.  You time comes later."

Steve glowers at him, and Tony laughs.  "Get me that exfoliating scrub, middle shelf, brown jar, blue label."

"You could have fetched that before you got in the tub," Steve grumbles.

"Yes," Tony says, and shoots Steve a glance laden with intent.  "But I want you to do it."

A thrill runs across Steve's skin, and he thinks of the man in the video Tony sent him, the one in the harness.

Steve hands over the scrub, and gets a caress on the inside of his wrist in reward.  "Can I help?" Steve asks, hoping he sounds gentle.

"Wash my hair?"

"Yes, please," Steve says, then bites his lip because that was an awkward response, wrong.

But Tony's answering smile is soft and fond, like Steve's given him something nice.  "The rosemary shampoo first."

Steve kneels on the tile behind Tony's head and puts his hands in Tony's short hair.  Tony hums an encouragement, so Steve rubs shampoo all through it, getting a lather started.  The drying gel has left stiff bits, so Steve works on those to start, massaging the gluey strands apart.  Steve tsks at the stubborn spots and goes after them with his thumbs.

Tony laughs a little and leans into Steve's hands.  "I feel like I'm a filthy saucepan and you're on dish duty.  No, don't stop, it's refreshing.  I want you to do a good job on me."

Steve scrapes his fingernails along Tony's scalp, just to feel him push into the motion.  Tony's hair is silky and thick; the shampoo smells tangy and warm, cutting through the cloying smell that was hanging on Tony.

Tony shuts his eyes and keeps on chatting, occasionally lifting a hand free of the water to emphasize his points.  "Do you think this cut on my nose is going to scar?  I don't want people to think I've had work done — this is the handsome nose I was born with, thank you."

"Put a slice of onion on it," Steve says, rubbing behind Tony's ears.

"What?  No!  Why?"

"Works on scars."

"I will not be doing that, Steve.  That's horrible.  You're very pretty and give terrible medical advice."

Steve tilts Tony's head to the side to rinse more goo out of the crevices in his ear.  "If you don't want to hear advice, don't ask for it."

Tony uses a wet hand to ruffle Steve's hair, dripping water on his forehead in the process.  "I have a dermatologist for these issues, and she doesn't suggest salad toppings.  Your job is to say ‘that does sound awful, Tony, you're so brave,' understand?"

"The cut on your nose is terrible, how will you live?" Steve repeats flatly.

"Much better," Tony praises.  "I also have a headache that makes me think about how I'm dying, and Thor sang some kind of Norse sea shanty on the flight back from Iraq, and someone is definitely lying so they can start a war.  Comfort me about these things, too."

"Jesus, Tony," Steve says.  "Iraq?"

"Yes, Iraq," Tony sighs.  "That contract you handed over had some interesting clauses about voiding Stark Industries access and oversight for the surveillance drones we were contracted to provide."

"They're hiding something.  That'll be what you've been chasing down while not in San Francisco, I figure."

Tony sits up in the bath, sloshing water onto the floor.  "Once.  Just once!  I want it to not be me.  It could be someone else, uncovering this.  It didn't need to be my responsibility."

"That's awful," Steve says lowly, "and you're a good man for doing it anyway."

"God," Tony says, and wipes under his eyes.  "Don't say that like you mean it."

"Come back here and let me rinse you," Steve says, pulling on Tony's shoulder.  "You're going to get suds in your eyes and complain about that as well."

"Too late," Tony says, looking back at Steve with bright eyes.  "I think I'm already teary."

"Not now," Steve says, clasping the back of Tony's neck.  Tony shivers and drops his chin to his chest.  Steve remembers how tired Tony was, and he wishes he could just hold him.  "Now you can tell me which of those bottles I'm supposed to use next, before the water gets cold."

Tony leads Steve through the rest of the steps of his hair care routine, which is longer and involves more soaps than seems reasonable.  He regains his bossy flair bit by bit, scolding Steve for putting on the hair tonic before the hydrating mask.

"I expect you'd enjoy towling me dry, hm?" Tony asks, as he lifts himself out of the tub.

Steve nods mutely.  It feels like a safer way to touch, with the barrier of a cloth between his hands and Tony.

Steve does it properly, starting at the top and making his way down so drips don't spoil his work.  Tony holds still for him while Steve wipes down his shoulders and along his arms.  Steve narrows his focus to only the goal of making Tony dry to get through patting Tony's ass and genitals, and stays unthinking and determined until he makes it to Tony's ankles, crouched on the floor.

Then Steve looks up, finished, and — oh.  Tony is hard, directly above him.  It's real, this is about sex, it was all about sex since Steve got in the car.

"Are you thinking about sucking me off?" Tony asks, voice honeyed.

Steve opens his mouth and can only breathe, feeling invaded by Tony's direct question.

"Tell me, Steve, do you want my cock in your mouth?  Out loud.  With your words."

"I — I — I can't," Steve gasps, because he wants but he can't say so, not like this with the knees of his pants soaking wet and his undershirt clinging to his chest.

"You can."

Tony waits and Steve squirms.  He's damp and getting cold and he wants to take his pants off so his persistent erection won't be so uncomfortable.  Tony's gaze is hungry and pleased with himself, like he has Steve exactly where he wants him and is content to watch the show forever.

"Yes," Steve manages through clenched teeth.

"That was so hard for you," Tony coos.  "Oh, sweetheart, I'm going to have fun tonight."

"Should I — ?" Steve asks, infuriatingly bad at this, not sure what he's supposed to do with a cock, unsure that he could give Tony any pleasure at all.

Tony takes pity on him and puts out a hand to pull him up from the floor.  "Take your clothes off.  I want to see, first."

Steve strips off his undershirt and then gives up on modesty and shoves his pants and underwear off all in one go.  Tony can make fun of Steve's underwear some other time.  He gets hung up on his shoes, but Tony offers him a shoulder to help him balance while he kicks them off.

"Peak human," Tony says, licking his lips and drawing one hand delicately up and down his own cock.

"What happens next?"

"I'm taking you to bed."

Tony's bed is huge, with crisp white sheets and a firm mattress.  He lays Steve out on it, touching him with proprietary confidence like he's arranging an artist's model.  When Steve is positioned to his liking, Tony joins him on the bed and kisses the breath out of him.

"I am going to find every single thing you like and use it against you," Tony swears.  "We're going to see just how much you'll let me do."

Tony bites his way down Steve's chest until he finds Steve's nipple.  Steve does what he saw in the porn and presses Tony's head to his chest, urging him to keep going.  He can feel Tony smiling into his skin.

Then Tony wraps one slick hand around Steve's hard cock and strokes him.  Steve moans and twists, his body both trying to move into and away from the touch, too intense to process all at once.  He cries something inarticulate, wordlessly asking for more.

Tony's answering grin is delighted.  "That was easy," he says, and flicks his wrist up and down.

Steve's head thuds back.  He can't think, his brain has turned to mud.  Somewhere along the way he lost the thread of why he couldn't have this.  He could trust his body to catch him if he throws himself off a building in the middle of a firefight, but not to have the right desires.  Just now, that seems wrong.  His body is insistent, persuasive.  "Keep — doing — don't stop," Steve begs.

"I will," Tony says, "if you tell me what else you want."

"Put my mouth on you," Steve says around a gasp.  "Anywhere you asked."

Tony's hips jerk and he muffles a noise in Steve's chest.  "Would you fuck me?"

"Yes — fffff, again, again, please — but — "

"But what?" Tony asks, slowing his hand.  Steve bucks upwards and gets a firm push on his thigh to encourage him to stay put.

"You could — "

Tony's eyes widen, and then he throws his head back, face beatific.  "I could fuck you," he groans.

Steve nods.

"I could take you."

"Yes," Steve says.  Tony likes to hear it.  He can do this.

"This is the best thing that's happened to me in the past month.  The past decade, God, Steve, I can make you weak and open, I can still you."

Steve swallows.  The naked avarice on Tony's face is intoxicating.  "Just don't — you won't make it hurt."

"Never," Tony whispers.  "C'mere, make good on that promise about your mouth, first."

Steve shudders and rolls over so he's propped up on his elbow over Tony.  He kisses Tony's chest, checking what's allowed.  Tony sighs and reclines on his pile of pillows, giving Steve tacit permission to do whatever he likes.  Steve's going to try to be tender.  That's what Tony deserves, after being so rattled by whatever he saw in Iraq.

He worries that Tony will want something more advanced than what Steve can do, but he seems to like Steve's simple kisses plenty.  Tony luxuriates in being caressed; seems to be built for it, with his long clean lines and well-kept skin.  Steve noses at his rough chest hair and traces the muscles of Tony's stomach.

After Tony is flushed and breathing hard, Steve feels a hand in his hair.  "You said anywhere I asked, Steve," Tony says.  "I'm asking."

Steve shuffles down Tony's body until he's nose-to-nose with Tony's cock.  It's intimidating, so Steve takes a moment to kiss Tony's inner thigh and steel himself.

Tony senses Steve's nerves and touches his hair again, then cups Steve's chin.  "You trust me to put my fingers in your mouth," he says, dragging on Steve's lower lip with his thumb.  "I know you like that."

Steve turns his head to suck on Tony's fingertips, and yes, he likes it.  The feeling is heady and vulnerable.  Steve doesn't have to know ahead of time what the correct thing is.  Tony has him.

He turns his attention to Tony's dick, and touches it.  He weighs it in his hand, estimating how it will feel in his mouth.  It's not so large he'll choke.  It smells like the soap Steve rubbed into Tony's shoulders in the bath.

"It's not a tactical exercise," Tony says, amused.

"I haven't done it before," Steve snaps back.  "Give me a minute."

"The logistics here aren't complicated, darling."

If Tony's going to tease him, Steve's going to give as good as he gets; he covers the head of Tony's cock with his mouth and wets it with his tongue.

Tony's breath hitches and his fingernails scrape through Steve's hair.  "You're so sweet when you're determined," Tony says, trying hard to sound unaffected.

Steve's pleased about that reaction, so he drops his jaw and eases more of Tony's dick into his mouth.

"Oh Jesus," Tony says, and grips his own thighs hard enough to press white spots into his skin.

Steve shuts his eyes and focuses on how full his mouth is, how to lick to make Tony's skin twitch and his thighs tremble.  Everything is wet and spit-slick and kind of noisy, and Steve's not sure that's supposed to happen.  Tony doesn't complain, though.  Tony's fingertips map Steve's face and shoulders like seeing isn't enough and he needs to build a picture of Steve through touch as well.

Steve waits to feel used.  It doesn't come.

Instead he feels close, with Tony's heel nestled in the small of his back and Tony's touch on his cheek and his cock in Steve's mouth.  Finally, someone is touching him enough.  The tense, screwed-shut part of him that said nothing is safe for you starts to ease.

He's curious what it would be like if Tony came like this.  If he could do that with just his mouth.  But Tony slows him with a tap on his cheek.

"I need that for later," he says, gesturing at his erection.  Steve wipes his mouth dry with the back of his wrist.

"You have more sex acts planned, then?" Steve asks, raising one eyebrow.

"I know wide variety of sex acts, in fact," Tony says, laughing.  He tosses his head back, giving himself over to mirth.  "Don't worry about my sex plans."

Steve rolls his eyes, then leans on one elbow and lets himself look at Tony.  Tony's relaxed, still chuckling, smug as a cat who's found a perfect patch of sun.  Steve touches himself, his cock still a little slick with whatever Tony had stroked him with, and sighs at the combination of friction and Tony's naked body in front of him.

Tony stretches, showing off, and Steve's face heats, caught in the act.

"Don't stop on my account," he says lazily.  "Unless you want to move on to the next sex act."

"Tony," Steve whines.

"I'm never dropping that, Steve, it was hilarious."

"If you make fun of me I'll go soft," Steve threatens, although he's not sure that's actually true.

"God forbid, never that," Tony says, widening his eyes with mock horror.  He does sneak a glance down, however, and smirks when he sees that Steve is the opposite of soft.

Do more things to me, Steve wants to say.  Please, please, more.

"What are you thinking?" Tony asks, snapping his fingers in front of Steve's nose.  "You went away just now."

Steve takes a deep breath, bracing himself.  He's had a cock in his mouth and it didn't do anything bad to him.  It's only words.

"Do — do more to me," Steve says.

"Oh, Steve," Tony says, soft and wondering, "that's so — you have no idea.  I will.  I promise I will."

"Please," Steve says.

"Stay where I put you," Tony orders, and starts repositioning Steve again.  Steve ends up on his back, a pillow lifting his hips, his legs sprawled out wantonly.

Tony runs one finger along Steve's shin, surveying his setup.  Steve's on display, an exhibit for one.  His cock twitches at the thought.

"Keep your knees apart, baby," Tony says.  Steve's stomach flips.  Is Tony going to just — push into him?  He said it wouldn't hurt, he promised.  It'll be okay.  It will, it will.  Steve realizes he has his eyes screwed shut.

"Hey," Tony says, smoothing a hand down Steve's stomach.  "Trust me."

Steve remembers that Tony won't do anything painful to him.  Not ever.  He goes limp in surrender, lets his legs fall farther open.  He's still afraid of all the possibilities, on his back like this, but the sharp edges turn into thrill; Tony could do anything to him and he won't.

"Better," Tony says, pleased again.

There's the click of a lid, and the sound of Tony rubbing his hands together, and then he's settling himself between Steve's spread thighs.

Tony's hands are slippery with lube, warmed by his palms but still cool.  Steve hisses when Tony touches him, first on his cock and then lower, smoothing around his asshole.

"I want you to pick," Tony says.  "I can play with your cock and your ass at the same time, and that will feel good, or I'll leave your dick alone and you can focus only on me opening you up."

Steve moans, frustrated that Tony wants him to say even more things out loud.  "Focus," he says, and hopes that'll be good enough.

"That's what I like to hear," Tony says.  He gives Steve's cock one last stroke, root to tip, and lays it down on Steve's stomach.

It's odd, feeling Tony pet all around his ass, not pushing in at all, just circling.  The sensation makes him impatient, although it's hard to say for what.  Tony strokes over it, just the tip of his finger catching on Steve's rim, then takes it away.  Steve fidgets, pent up with arousal and anticipation.

Finally Tony presses a slick finger inside Steve, and it punches all the air out of him.  Steve wonders at being unwound by being touched in just a single place.  The feeling is utterly novel; he can't imagine what more will be like.  Tony's finger holds him open, just sitting there without moving, while Steve's breaths turn small and fluttering.  He feels delicate.

Tony slides out and then in deeper, into the meat of Steve, gentle and slow and unavoidably present.  Steve's glad he doesn't have any distractions, just this.  It's so much.  Tony tugs on him, stretching his rim upwards and side to side.

This is better than Tony's fingers in Steve's mouth.  Nothing's ever touched Steve like this.  He'd have kicked them in the face, probably broken their nose, for having the gall to suggest it.

Eventually Tony pulls back until just his fingertip rests inside Steve, and Steve feels the slight scrape of a fingernail as Tony tucks a second finger alongside the first.  "Hhhhhhh," Steve gasps, as Tony pushes in.

His body yields.  Tony fucks his fingers in and out, twisting until his knuckles press into the muscle of Steve's ass.  He spends a while prodding around like he's searching for something; Steve wants to tell him to knock it off and get on with things, but then Tony hits his target and Steve's whole body jumps with pleasure.

"Didn't know about that little trick?" Tony asks, voice light and guileless.

"Nnngh — no — no.  I did not."

"Mmmm, first time for everything tonight," Tony says, and does it again.

"Fuck," Steve yelps, which is a mistake because it encourages Tony to let loose on him.  Steve had been correct when he guessed that Tony's fingers would be precise and talented.

Steve's chest heaves, his cock red and heavy between his legs, and he finds himself whispering please, thank you, please.  Tony works him stupid with only his fingers, then pulls free and switches between one and two for a bit, back to focusing on stretching him.

"Three now," Tony murmurs, and braces one hand around Steve's hip before breaching him.

Three fingers push in with an insistent, smooth give of muscles.  This is what it means to feel taken, Steve thinks.  This is the thing Tony wanted from him: this painless wound, this open road to Steve's viscera.

"Tell me," Tony demands.  "Tell me how it feels."

"That's — Jesus — mean, Tony."

Tony twists his wrist and slides deeper.   "I'm a greedy bastard, honey, and I want it."  He punctuates the last three words with long, dragging thrusts.

"It's, um — stop that, I can't think," Steve says, pausing and grabbing at Tony's wrist, "I've got your fingers up my ass, and I can't stop knowing that, I can't stop, it's shoving me apart and it's good, I didn't know it could be good."

Tony circles his thumb over the skin behind Steve's balls, insistent, electric touches.  "More," Tony says, moving his hand again.  "Say it while I'm fucking into you."

"You are infuriating," Steve complains.  "Leave me alone, I like it, fine, happy?"

"No.  Look at me, baby, look at me and give me the real thing."

Steve's skin prickles all over, and he obeys.  Tony's expression betrays that he's almost as undone as Steve is.  He's sheened with sweat, his lips parted, all of him strung up tight with desire.  Suddenly Steve's willing to do anything to fulfill the savage want in Tony's eyes.

"Like a cup of water," he gasps.  Tony's attention bores into him, honed into a single point trained on Steve.  "Filled to the lip, in your hands, and it won't spill."

"Perfect," Tony sighs.  "I can push and push and push you, it's beautiful when you relent, it's so hot, I can tell you love it, moan for me if you love it, fuck, yes, you gorgeous rigid shithead, I'm going to fuck you until it's transcendent, until you cry."

"Please," Steve says.  He holds Tony's head in both hands and tries to match all of Tony's intensity in one word, in one breath.  "Now, now, now, now."

Tony turns his head and kisses Steve's palm.  He pulls Steve's fingers to his mouth with the hand that isn't buried inside Steve and sucks on them briefly, watching for Steve's reaction.  Steve pants and grinds down.

"Please."

"But you're so wonderful like this," Tony muses, raising his eyebrows in consideration.  "I could keep this up for hours."

Steve whines high and long in frustration.

"Okay," Tony says, tone sobering.  "Okay, lovely, okay."

Tony busies himself with the nightstand and a condom, quick and practiced.  His hands fumble once, betraying that he's affected, too.

Then he's there, leaning over Steve and guiding his cock inside.  Steve's breath stutters, just as knocked askew by the feeling as he was by the first of Tony's fingers.  "I'm so selfish," Tony whispers in Steve's ear.  "I'm so, so, so selfish, Steve, I'm sorry," he says, and then his hips drive forward.

It's barely on the right side of too much.  Steve understands, all at once, why the man in the sex video urged his partner on.  He wants Tony to fuck him; the force of it is part of the appeal.  Tony needs this.  Tony would have taken a filthy blow job, Steve thinks, but it would have left him yearning.  Tony likes best to have things completely or not at all.

"You can," Steve says, pressing his forehead up against Tony's.  "Work it out over me, you can have it."

"Don't give me this," Tony says.  He rocks his head back and forth, shaking.  "I don't deserve to have it all."

"I decide what you get from me," Steve insists, grabbing Tony's hair.  "I decide how far.  Don't leave this unfinished, Tony, don't you dare."

Tony kisses him then, and snaps his hips forward.  It makes them both gasp.

"It doesn't hurt," Steve says, not sure if he's in awe of it himself or reassuring Tony.  Maybe both.

The kiss that started tender loses control; Tony invades Steve's mouth, scraping Steve's lips with his teeth, and rolls his hips, setting a steady, deep pace.

The constant rub of in and out is different from being fingered open.  Tony's pleasure rocks Steve's pliant body, one thrust at a time.  It pulls in a new way, makes him feel fragile.  He wraps himself around the feeling, sucking the marrow out of it.  This is what it's like to be weak without failing.

"Think about me inside you," Tony whispers roughly.  "Remember that you can't close anything away from me right now."

Steve's mind snaps to the place where he and Tony are joined.  He's stretched wide, unnatural.  His muscles clench involuntarily but Tony's cock doesn't yield, making the motion a useless spasm.  Tony draws himself almost completely free and then slowly presses back in, letting Steve feel every inch of it.

Then Tony sits back on his heels and puts both hands on Steve's chest to prop himself up.  He works his hips faster, hard enough that Steve starts to slide up the mattress.

Steve braces one hand on the headboard and pushes back into Tony's thrusts.  The new angle puts pressure on the sensitive spot Tony had found earlier with his fingers, and Steve leans into it, hungry for more.

Tony runs one hand down Steve's chest to wrap it around Steve's cock.  They're being loud, Steve realizes, and feels himself go pink even though there's nobody to hear.  Tony's vocal in his pleasure; Steve isn't quiet either.  Even Tony's sturdy bed is creaking.

Steve tries to put off his orgasm, happy where he is, but Tony's determined to yank it out of him.  Steve's peak hovers above him like an anvil, hanging by a fraying thread of willpower.

"Let yourself have it," Tony encourages.  "I can tell you're close, chase it, I want to see."

Steve gives in and stops holding back, stacking the pleasure of each stroke on top of the last, reaching for the end, until he's gasping and desperate and there's tears pricking in his eyes.  

His world narrows: a hand on his cock and a cock in his ass, both sweet and vulgar.  Steve's vaguely aware that Tony's making small gutted noises, his rhythm starting to fall apart.

Tony's going to come inside him, Steve realizes.  That's Tony's intention, clearly, given the condom.  He won't pull out.  And Steve — he's not going to make it through that thought.  Not with Tony's fingers closing over the head of his cock on each downstroke, slick and skilled.

Steve falls, his ears roaring like he's jumped out of a plane, no parachute, no safety harness, just the drop.  

Tony touches him the whole time, attentive to each of Steve's sensitive jerks and whines.  As Steve comes down, wrung out and tender, Tony grips him by the hips and finds his own release with a few punishing thrusts.  Then he drops forward onto Steve's chest, loose and heavy.

Tony's mouth smears wet and open over Steve's breastbone.  He's heaving for breath; Steve can hear his heart pound, loud and rushing.

Hesitantly, Steve slings one tired arm up and over Tony's back.  He spreads his hand, stretching his thumb and pinkie finger out wide to span Tony's spine from his tailbone to the bottom of his ribs.  Tony sighs and presses his lips against Steve's chest in a lazy kiss.

Tony's made himself a home under Steve's skin and Steve doesn't know how to extract him.  He's not sure he'd do it if given the chance.  Tony came inside him, found pleasure in the tenderest parts of Steve and spent himself.

"Mmmmmmm," Tony says.  "That was athletic.  Should have expected."

"Sure," Steve says, unfolding one leg to see if it's cramped up at all.  The stretch feels good, waking up his tired muscles.  Tony's still inside him; lube and come are drying in cool smears from Steve's ass to his chest.

"Sorry, this part is always undignified," Tony apologizes.  He extracts himself with a clumsy shimmy and makes a face as he deals with the condom.

Steve's starting to feel very naked and a little silly.  "If you go to the bathroom to clean up, are you going to freak out?" Tony asks sleepily.

"Um.  Maybe?" Steve admits.  They did — it was a lot.

"I'll come with you," Tony offers, and takes Steve by the hand.  It's so unselfconsciously sweet that Steve doesn't resist.

Tony's bathroom is stocked with warm washcloths and soft sleep pants.  Tony crouches down to clean the lube from between Steve's legs, even though Steve's perfectly capable of sorting himself out.

"I don't know what happens next," Steve admits.  With Gail he'd just fallen asleep and woken up the next day feeling sticky and guilty.

Tony looks down at his hands, lacing them together, first one way and then the other, unable to settle.  "I can set up the guest bedroom for you," he says, and Steve feels his shoulders slump.  "Or you could stay with me."

"Stay, please.  I would like to.  To stay."

"Really?" Tony asks, and he sounds surprised, which is odd; anyone who slept with Tony would want to hold him after.  "I'm glad," he adds softly.

They get into bed together.  Steve, for some unknowable emotional reason, feels shy all over again.  He's aware of his body, from the places his skin touches the sheets to the lingering undone feeling where Tony was inside him.

But then Tony's grabbing him by the elbow and insinuating himself between Steve's arm and his chest.  Steve lets himself be shoved around until Tony's set them up in a mutually comfortable sleeping position.  Tony has more experience falling asleep with people than Steve — it's okay if he takes the lead here.

Tony presses close, strangely small like this, under the covers, wearing only sleep pants, his warm body half-atop Steve's.  One by one, Steve un-tenses his muscles, loosening up as if he's in mid-air about to hit concrete.

Sometimes it's necessary to relax into an impact.

Tony tucks his nose into Steve's shoulder.  Steve wonders if he should touch Tony's hair.

"B minus on that essay, by the way," Tony mumbles.  "I'm docking you points for putting in so much Frank O'Hara; that's a low blow, and obvious besides."

Steve had read that poem and imagined Tony on the steps of the Met, in the summer with tulips lining the sidewalk.^[8]  People don't expect Steve to like art, or any beautiful things.  He never corrects them; nobody needs to know that sometimes he notices flowers, touches the bruised petals of rain-felled blooms.

"He makes me think of you," Steve says eventually.

Tony sighs drowsily.  "Jeez, Rogers, try to be less earnest.  It inflames my delicate sensibilities."  It's a token protest.  No bite behind it, no obnoxious wheedling tone.

"Steve," Steve says, extracting one hand from the covers to smooth down the hair at Tony's temple.

"Mmmph?"

"We're fucking — " Steve says, and then his heart clenches before he can finish the thought, no, he didn't mean to say it like this would be a continuing thing — he wasn't going to presume that Tony would have sex with him again, Steve was nearest, Steve offered, stupid, stupid.

"We are," Tony says, smiling into Steve's skin.  "Finally."

He sounds happy.

He might want to —

"We're fucking, so," Steve tries again, rolling the words around in his mouth, searching for sharp edges, "don't call me Rogers. Say Steve."

"You're sort of a romantic, aren't you?"

Steve shuts his eyes, unwilling to engage with that.  Tony laughs, a small hah that turns into a yawn.

"I'm going to sleep.  Go to sleep," Steve says.

"Not a no," Tony murmurs, and pats Steve on the chest, already half-asleep and clumsy.

When Tony's gone weighty with sleep, Steve takes his hand, holds it tight to his sternum, and doesn't think about what it means that he wants this moment to stay.

Steve wakes directly into combat readiness, not sure where he is.  There's a body in bed beside him, why is he sharing a bed roll, he doesn't let that happen because it's dangerous.  His body might betray him.  Nobody can find out.  Another benefit of the serum: Captain America never has to double-bunk.

He starts to sit up and it pulls on him, a solid ache low in his gut, and he remembers.

Tony's asleep beside him, dead to the world.

Sodomite, Steve's brain hisses.  Wrong.  Dirty.

Steve grasps for Tony, his port in this storm.  "It's not wrong, it's not," he whispers.  "I don't want to think that anymore."

Tony grumbles when Steve curls towards him, stubborn even in sleep.  Tony's back is warm when Steve presses against him, bare skin to bare skin.  That's a man you're touching.  A man.  A man.  He fucked you.  You let him.  You loved it!  Begged for it!  Greedy for cock in your ass, hungry to be degraded.

Sissy.  Pansy.  Fairy.

Tony's not dirty — Steve knows that.  Rosie O'Donnell isn't dirty, the gays who hated Reagan with righteous cause aren't dirty.  Steve doesn't agree with every single thing they say, but he would never believe they're worthless monsters.  He only thinks that about himself. 

We face firing squads just to love each other, Steve silently recites.  Every time we fuck, we win!

Tony makes him feel like he's for something other than violence.

"I won't let this hurt you again," Steve whispers into Tony's hair.  "I'll beat it."

Steve likes having a plan.  He can get the bit between his teeth and drive forward, against anything, as long as he has a direction to go in.  And this direction is for Tony, so it's right.  He sleeps again with the warm, spicy smell of Tony in his nose.

Steve wakes early and alone.  The echoes of the last night hit him in alternating waves of thrill and nausea.  He finds his clothes in the bathroom — still a rumpled, damp pile — and stifles a groan.

Instead of putting on wet things he ventures out to find Tony still shirtless in sleep pants.  They'd done enough now that Tony seeing Steve's bare chest seems trivial.  Steve can hear the quiet clink of someone in the kitchen, so he follows the noise.

Tony has his back to the door.  Unlike Steve, he's found proper clothes.  He's crisply covered wrist to ankle, shirt and pants well-tailored but not clingy.  Steve looks down at himself and grimaces.  His hair must be a mess.

"‘lo," Steve says, voice still rough with sleep.

"Steve," Tony says, tone practiced.  He turns and smiles at Steve, a constructed expression Steve's only seen him wear at galas and publicity events.  "Coffee?"

"Uh, yeah, sure," Steve says, heart plummeting.  This is the morning after, then.  The calculated dismissal of a one night fling.  Tony's done this a hundred times before; Steve's not special after all.

He'd felt —

He'd been wrong.

Tony hands him a mug of coffee with the same horrible smile.

"I'll be spiking in something a little stronger, myself," Tony says, waving his mug with a high titter.

In bed with Tony, it had seemed like Steve could have him forever.

Steve sits down heavily at the kitchen table.  "I had a really nice time last night," he says, voice dead even in his own ears.  Tony picks through his liquor cabinet, making the bottles chime.  Steve thinks his hands might be shaking.  He's wearing rings again this morning, and they knock against the glass with metallic pings.

"Well, ah, thank you," Tony says tightly.  "But you don't have to — to lie."

Steve jerks upright in his chair, affronted.  "I wouldn't lie," he growls.

"You can be angry with me," Tony says, not looking at Steve.  "I understand.  I can be — thoughtless, and selfish.  More concerned with my pleasure in the moment than with the consequences to other people."

"What are you talking about?"

Tony grips the edge of the countertop with both hands, shoulders hunched up around his ears.  "I used you however I wanted.  I shouldn't have.  It was just — you, I've wanted, you, for so — and I let myself not care."

"Tony!" Steve shouts.

Tony spins around, his hands up like he's expecting Steve to hit him, face pale.

"I am okay with this," Steve says, emphasizing every word.  "Pull yourself together!"

Tony still looks gutted.  "I pushed.  I manipulated you.  I'm skilled at that.  Lots of practice," he says, bitter.  "I made you do things."

Steve grinds his teeth, frustrated.  If anyone was going to break down this morning, it was supposed to be him.  At least it's not the rejection he feared.

"Oh for the love of — stay there," Steve snaps, standing up with a scrape of chair legs on tile.  Tony freezes, eyes wide, still shaky.

Steve knows he should do this with words.  It would be easier for Tony if Steve could express himself out loud.  But he doesn't know how, he can't beat Tony in a verbal fight, he's not fast or clever enough, and he doesn't know how to make Tony listen.

Instead, he's going to do this with his body.  He knows it better.  He knows it can't lie.

Carefully, telegraphing his movements, Steve takes Tony, first by one wrist, then the other.  "I'm going to pin you," Steve says.

Tony nods, silent.

Steve spins Tony around, crossing Tony's wrists behind his back so he can immobilize them with one hand.  He makes sure to go slow and gentle, firm but not bruising.

Steve pushes Tony forward until his hips are pressed into the edge of the counter with Steve's thighs holding him there.  Then, with his free hand, he grips the back of Tony's neck and forces him down until his cheek rests on the countertop.

It's a wonderful agony, being trusted to hold Tony down like this.  Steve thinks he understands Tony's side of things the night before.

"Now get free," Steve orders.

Half-heartedly, Tony squirms back against Steve.  Then he sighs and goes limp.  "Happy?"

Steve shakes him a bit.  "Try."

Tony sighs.  Then Steve feels his body tense, and Tony throws himself against Steve's hold.  He struggles for leverage, twisting his hips, and when that doesn't work he yanks on the grip on his wrists.  Steve keeps him bent over the counter without a struggle.

When he slumps over the countertop once more, Tony's pink and panting.  It's gorgeous, Steve thinks, and barely stops himself from grinding against Tony's ass.  

Steve lets go, satisfied.

"What was that about?" Tony asks.

"Now I want you to pin me," Steve says instead of answering.

Tony doesn't move, so Steve bends over the counter himself, hissing as the cool stone countertop hits his bare chest.  Tony makes a low, broken noise, and Steve knows he has him.  "Hold me down, Tony.  Don't let me get up."

With hesitant touches, Tony pulls Steve's hands behind his back.  He wraps his fingers around Steve's wrists and lays a hand over the back of Steve's neck.  Steve tries to keep his breathing even; this is a demonstration.  He's proving a point and his dick doesn't need to be involved.

"Like you mean it," Steve demands.  "Like you hope it will bruise.  Like you want to, Tony."

Steve can't see Tony's face, but he feels the moment that Tony decides to be serious.  His grip tightens from a suggestion to an iron bar.  Tony's hips grind down on Steve, insistent and firm.  Steve's skin shivers along his back.  His body knows what it wants from this.  He wants Tony to hold him here and fuck him like there's nobody else in the world.  He can feel Tony starting to get hard against his ass.

"See?  I can't help myself," Tony says with a bitter laugh.

Steve groans deep in his chest, warring against the desire to submit and let Tony do whatever he wants.  Steve tells himself firmly to get a handle on his libido.

He breaks Tony's hold like it's nothing.  Tony tries to overpower him, grunts in effort, but Steve tugs free of Tony's fingers as easily as tearing wet paper.

They settle several feet apart, staring at each other.  Steve tries and fails to unobtrusively adjust himself.  Tony's breathing hard from exertion, flexing his fingers like they're sore.

"You think you made me?" Steve asks firmly.  "You think you could force yourself on me?"

Tony shakes his head.  "No, no," he says, not in response to Steve's question, just a blanket denial of everything Steve's trying to show him.

"I can hold you down, and you can't hold me," Steve says.  "Nobody can make me do anything.  Not anymore."

"I should have gone slowly.  Made it perfect," Tony says miserably.

Steve throws his hands in the air.  "Goddamnit, Tony, it was perfect!" he yells.  "The whole time you had me bent over your kitchen counter just now all I could think about was how I wanted you to give in and fuck me again.  You sent me a comprehensive selection of porn that made me come so hard I broke a nightstand.  All I've been thinking about for the past month of jerking off is you.  What about that says slow to you?"

Tony's mouth goes soft and helpless, finally speechless.

Steve drags a hand over his face, scratching at his stubble.  "You don't get to tell me what I like and don't like," he says.  "Stop it."

"I've broken Captain America," Tony says, and breaks into helpless, half-hysterical giggles.  "Oh God, I've gotten everything I ever wanted."

"I'm not broken," Steve says, scowling.  "It's not wrong to be gay."

Tony laughs harder, until his whole body shakes and he has to lean on the counter to stay upright.  "I turned Captain America into a radical, kinky, gay activist with my dick."

Steve glares.  "I think I'd know if a person could be turned gay or straight."

"Okay, okay, you're right.  God, it's strange listening to you give me a scolding about homophobia," Tony says, pressing one hand to his chest and composing himself.  Every other breath still hitches and wheezes, but he looks mostly recovered.

"You really liked it?" Tony asks, glancing side-long at Steve.  "You would want to — again?"

Steve's face heats.  "Yeah," he says, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand.  "I'm not — it's not easy.  Not yet.  But, hell, Tony, last night did it for me.  If you'll forgive me for all the mistakes I've made, I want you to have me."

"Dearheart, fucking you is a religious experience," Tony says around a wobbly smirk.  "Worth all the trouble and more."

"Yeah?"

"Yes," Tony says, with finality.  "Now, we should get some food into you, and coffee with a nip of something special into me, and see what this brave new world looks like."

"What about, um — " Steve says, gesturing where he and Tony are still hot and bothered from the earlier wrestling.

"Going to have to wait," Tony says with a dramatic sigh.  "Don't worry, popsicle, I'll make it up to you later.  But right now I have that nasty business from yesterday to be dealing with, and I can't have my intel getting stale on me."

"I'll help," Steve promises, and is rewarded with Tony's real grin, wide and bright and infectious, a gift for Steve to keep.

Tony spends two days in a whirlwind.   Every time Steve crosses paths with him he's on his phone, shouting or wheedling or lowly conspiring.  Steve's happy to help, but it's hard when Tony won't give him any details.  Any information at all, honestly.

Steve finally lures Tony into the Triskelion mess with a delicate, buttery pastry that came from the French bakery down the block and not the SHIELD kitchen.

Tony picks at the flaky pastry with quick fingers.  He eats it a scrap at a time, antsy and bird-like, while Steve tucks into the mess's staple shepherd's pie.

"Loop me in," Steve says.

Tony licks his finger and uses it to pick up the last of the pastry crumbs.  "You brought me here to relay the hard-won fruits of my international espionage?" he asks, raising his eyebrows at the surrounding agents.

Steve crosses his arms over his chest.  "I wasn't like I could just track you down at your apartment."

"I'd like to challenge that assumption," Tony says with a wink.

Steve feels himself go red.  Under the table, Tony nudges Steve's ankle with the toe of his shoe, then rubs up and down Steve's calf.  Steve's breath catches, and then he glares.

"Don't do that."

"Do what?" Tony says coyly, and does it again.

Steve jerks hard enough that his knee hits the bottom of the table.  His plate rattles.  "You have no manners," he grumbles.

"Fine, see, I stopped," Tony says, taking his foot away.  Steve's skin tingles.  "Good gracious, stop looking so tormented."

"I'm serious," Steve says.  "What's going on?  If people are starting a war, if they're lying to get people killed, I can't stand by."

"I don't think you're going to like it."

"Try me."

Tony sighs and fidgets with his shirt cuffs.  "It's our people.  Not just SHIELD, although they're shady too, God help us all.  The Department of Defense, you understand?  There's men sitting in DC right now orchestrating this."

Steve sets his jaw.  "Corruption's not new.  I know that Americans can do evil things.  How do we stop them?"

"Just like that?" Tony asks, his face opening up in warm surprise.

"I trust you.  If you say it's happening, it is."

Tony goes faintly pink — as if that, out of all the things, is embarassing.

"We'll talk on the train," Tony says.

"Train?"

"To the capital."

The nasty business, it appears, is a man named Donald Rumsfeld.

Steve doesn't know any of the political figures Tony describes other than the President, and his knowledge of Bush begins with  the time he asked if Steve thought the future was "cool," and ends with getting kicked out of the Army over the phone.

The military wants to invade Iraq, because of weapons hidden out in the desert.  Weapons that Tony says don't exist.  Weapons that the CIA apparently knows don't exist.

Steve is angry, his fury cold and wide like a frozen-over river.

He wants Tony to point him in a direction and tell him to hurt people.

Instead Tony takes them to a hotel barroom.  The place is decorated like a boudoir; the walls practically bleed with swags of red velvet.

The hostess ushers them into a far-back booth, swagged in more heavy, sound-deadening fabric.  It's opulent and sinister.  "Rumsfeld will be late, most likely," Tony says, flipping indolently through the wine list.  "Order something nice, the charcuterie board is lovely here."

Steve eats translucent slices of cured meat with his fingers.  Tony drinks obscenely expensive wine.  It could be a date if they weren't about to shake down a cabinet member.

Rumsfeld arrives, dressed blandly in a black suit, with thin hair over a wide forehead and too-small wire-rimmed glasses.

"What's this about then, Mr. Stark?"

Rumsfeld has a gravely, high-pitched voice.  Steve hates him instantly.  He sits down without acknowledging Steve, not bothered by whatever muscle Tony's brought with him.

"What weapons contractor isn't happy to bump elbows with the Secretary of Defense?" Tony responds smoothly, laying a light hand on Rumsfeld's forearm and flashing his teeth.  They used to call the man with his job the War Secretary.  This new title is a mealy-mouthed sort of lie, the kind used by cowards to avoid staring a hard truth in the face.

Rumsfeld delicately extracts himself from Tony's touch.  "Have you re-thought your commitment to helping the men and women in intelligence with your surveillance technology?"

Tony smiles.

"Exactly what I wanted to talk to you about."

Rumsfeld leans back, settling into his seat like a vulture onto a telephone pole.  "Good, good.  That's great to hear."

"I have comprehensive thermal, visible light, and radar imaging from the entire area around Tikrit and Baghdad."

Rumsfeld shifts, trying not to look ruffled.

"You know what's there?" Tony asks, raising his eyebrows over the rim of his wine glass and taking a long sip.

"Now, Mr. Stark — Tony — that's all very classified — "

"Nothing."

Rumsfeld opens his mouth to argue, but Steve chooses that moment to turn in his seat so the light shows his face.

The man's immediate surprise and discomfort is satisfying.  "Captain Rogers," he says.

"I'm not part of the military anymore, Sir," Steve says, letting menace creep into his tone.  Rumsfeld's narrowly-carved mouth puckers like he's sucked on a lemon.

"It's interesting that there wasn't anything, you know," Tony says, leaning in and gesturing broadly with his glass, "because you said the CIA knew the sites of terrible, world-ending weapons.  And then you said those weapons sites were the area around Tikrit and Baghdad.  On the news, goodness me.  What a blunder."

"Tony, now, what that was is — I misspoke.  There's knowns, and known — "

"Can it, sweetheart," Tony snaps.  "That catchphrase is all worn out.  All hell is about to break loose on you, and I'm only giving you a heads up because I thought, maybe, you'd want to do some damage control ahead of time.  Talk to the NSC, give a little press conference, admit that you were wrong and you're changing your tactics."

"I've seen one war, Mr. Secretary," Steve says lowly.  "I came back and we were already in another.  I'm not so keen on adding to the list."

"I have an incredible amount of documentation," Tony remarks.  "Piles and piles, and you know how the press is.  You have to keep an eye on every little piece of paper."

"I'm not impressed with this," Rumsfeld says.  "Not at all."

"Do you really want to engage in a public relations battle against Captain America?" Tony asks, running one finger around the rim of his wine glass.  He keeps tracing the edge until it starts to sing, a long, pure sound.

Rumsfeld huffs in outrage and snatches up his things.

"Not staying?" Tony asks sweetly.  "Pity."

Tony finishes his wine and Steve polishes off his meat platter.  "We've watered down that man's bowels pretty handily," Tony says, pleased with himself.  "Now we watch and see where his bolt-holes are."

Steve crashes at SHIELD's DC office doing nothing but filling out paperwork and thinking about Tony's mouth.

He sees Tony in brief snatches.  It's painfully obvious that he's not sleeping.  

Late one night, Tony sidles up behind Steve while he's bent over the copy machine.  The girls in the records room like things in triplicate.  It's work that could just as easily be done back in New York, but Fury's in New York and Tony's here in DC, so Steve's happy to kick his heels at the capital.

"Hey sugar," Tony says, running his fingertips across Steve's shoulders.

"We're in public," Steve says, twitching one shoulder up and down to shake Tony away.  At some point, Steve's only objection to Tony touching him became that someone else might see.

Tony kicks the door shut, then flicks the lock closed and the lights out.  "There," he says.  "In case anyone else is hankering to do clerical work at midnight."

The copier chugs away, spitting out pages of Steve's reports.  The white flash of the scanner bar and the hallway light filtering through the narrow window in the door are the only illumination.

To Steve's eyes, it's just enough to pick out details.  Tony's wearing makeup to hide the shadows under his eyes, and something on his lips that keeps them from looking ashen.

Tony slides both palms up Steve's torso, starting with his thumbs bracketing his belly button and then up over his chest until his hands rest once more on Steve's shoulders.  Steve hesitates, then carefully puts his hands on Tony's hips.

"You've been scarce," Steve says.

"Busy as a bee," Tony says.  He shakes his head, weariness creasing at his eyes.  "Damnably so."

"You look tired," Steve says, tugging on Tony's hips.  Tony takes a step forward, then another, and then he's leaning against Steve, his arms slung around Steve's neck.  

"Hell, Tony," Steve says quietly.

"I'm not a good man, Steve," Tony whispers against Steve's jawline.  "But these people are worse."

Steve smooths his hands up and down Tony's back, inept at comfort.  "That's stupid.  You're a better man than me."

Tony laughs, short and ugly.  It sounds more like a hacking cough than actual humor.

"Hey."  Steve tips Tony's chin up and frowns into his face.  "Don't make fun."

The corner of Tony's mouth tugs up, and Steve wants more than anything to kiss him, to draw some of the poisonous political spy-craft out of Tony and replace it with himself.  He thinks — maybe — he can do what he wants.  Tony's right there, eyes wide and dark in the dim room, ringed thinly in deep blue.

Steve keeps his hand on Tony's jaw and fits their mouths neatly together.

Tony sighs into the kiss and winds himself closer.

"Does this help?" Steve asks.  Tony's warm against him even through the layers of his suit and Steve's office clothes.  He's not recoiling or acting like Steve's ham-handed attempt to make him feel better is unwelcome, but Steve wants to be sure.

"Doesn't hurt," Tony says, and drags Steve back in.

After that Steve kisses Tony when he gets the chance.  They're brief, stolen in abandoned hallways and empty elevators.  A few times, Tony brings Steve along to a dinner meeting and tells him to cross his arms over his chest and glower.

The days are slow and empty of thrill; so banal that Steve forgets they're stopping a war.  There's nothing to punch, no helicopter to silently drop from.  But he can let Tony rest his tired head on Steve's shoulder, and that's worthwhile.

Steve knows immediately when the hornet's nest breaks open.  Tony calls him in the middle of the night, gives him a cross-street, and tells him to be there at half past five.  His grin is audible even over the phone.

Steve ends up jogging there, killing time and avoiding public transit in one move.

Tony arrives in a surprisingly sedate silver sedan.  He pulls up next to Steve while Steve's leaning on a stop sign, taking a moment to stretch out his quads.

"Hey Miss Thing," Tony calls.  He pops the door open with a shrill eep eep and Steve clambers in.

The seat is too small for Steve, no matter how much he tries to tuck his knees under the dashboard.

Tony makes several ineffectual attempts to guide Steve through adjusting the position of his seat.  He ends up draped over Steve's lap, rummaging around the floor for some kind of lever.

"I'll be fine," Steve says, trying very hard not to be moved by Tony's body stretching across his thighs.

Something beneath Steve clicks, and his seat jolts a foot backwards.

"There," Tony says, righting himself and returning to the driver's seat.  "I'm a mechanical genius."

Steve raises an eyebrow.

Tony widens his eyes in hurt.  "It's a rental!  All of my good cars are in New York.  Plus, obviously, it would be conspicuous if I brought out one of the Audis.  Everyone in this neighborhood has BMWs."

A pair of incongruous black vans rolls down the street.  Tony kicks back and grins at Steve.  The shift of his slacks is crisply audible.  All the outside sounds are muted; the birdsong and the rumble of engines are surreal and distant.

"This is going to be good," Tony says, like he's watching his favorite player step up to bat.

"Whose house is that?" Steve asks as the vans slow and stop in front of an unremarkable home.  It's on the expensive side of tasteful, with a lawn that's too green and a three car garage, but so are all the houses on the street.

"You've met him, actually."

A squad of police officers spills out of the vans and approaches the front yard.  They kick in the door without fanfare.

From the outside, the house remains sedate.  Everything is sleepy.  All the activity inside is hidden by walls.  Then the police officers re-emerge, escorting an older man in a white t-shirt and boxers.

"Tony?  That's the War Secretary.  That's Rumsfeld."

"Yep," Tony says, popping the p.

"Are we watching — "

"I thought it would be nice to see the fruits of our labor first-hand."  

Tony makes a thoughtful noise, then continues.  "I also wanted to get you well out of earshot of SHIELD, because they're in on this.  Nick is going to flip his lid when he discovers that I've upset the apple cart.  Selfishly, I wanted to get to you first."

Steve feels his shoulders bow forward, hunching like he can shrink himself down to his pre-serum size.  He doesn't want to have another bad meeting with Fury.  He's not even shocked that SHIELD is involved.  The fraudulent contract came through SHIELD.

He'll probably even keep working for them.  The Ultimates is his chance to help people, especially now that the Army won't have him.

Tony notices Steve caving in on himself and takes his hand, lacing their fingers together over the gear shift.  "I'm going independent again," he says.  "I have the money; I don't need SHIELD.  Work with me.  I'll give you a raise.  Dental.  Spousal benefits.  The works."

Outside, a police cordon is going up, yellow tape running from decorative tree to decorative tree.  An officer strides across the street and down the block to their car, face stern.  She taps on Tony's window.

Tony drops Steve's hand, then rolls down the glass and smiles.  "I'm Tony Stark, and this is Captain America.  Anything we can do for you?"

She blinks, frowns, and visibly decides that the situation is above her pay grade.  "You're fine here, just don't come closer," she says.

"And you're doing a lovely job," Tony replies.  "Isn't she doing a lovely job, Steve?"

"Pleasure, ma'am."

The officer slaps the top of the car once.  "All set then," she says.  Steve admires her for not taking any of Tony's bait as he watches her go.

"So," Tony says, biting his lip.  "Me or war criminals?  You going to pick?"

"How long have you been planning this?"

Tony shrugs.  "About a week?  Little more?  The details are still fuzzy, but throwing money at them should sharpen things up.  Thor will come.  Maybe Jan.  There's a couple young upstarts with powers floating around New York, and I think I could draw them in with the promise of a paycheck and a place to crash.  We'd decide things together.  Team meetings.  Quorums.  Bylaws.  That kind of thing."

"Okay," Steve says slowly.  He rubs his palms on his running tights.  "Yeah.  That sounds good."

"Really?" Tony asks, lighting up.  "I — I'm really glad.  And — wait, look look look, they're putting Rumsfeld in a cruiser, fuck, that's satisfying."

"I'm going to call Fury," Tony says.

"Now?"

"Oh, yes, definitely now.  I'm going to tell him we quit and then hang up and run over the phone.  I promise, there's no better feeling.  You'll love it."

It's the oddest victory Steve's ever experienced.

On the train, Tony makes several phone calls and then falls asleep on Steve's shoulder.  Steve doesn't have the heart to push him away.  The whole world thinks they're fucking anyway, he figures.  On the off chance someone has a camera, there's more damning things he could be doing.  He settles one arm around Tony, supporting him and tucking him in close.

Tony wakes up the second they roll in to Penn Station.  Steve doesn't have time to take his arm away.

"Oh," Tony says, rough and fond, looking up at Steve through his lashes.  "You're right here."

Steve shrugs, jostling Tony's head.  "Guess so."

"Would you like to come home with me tonight?" Tony asks, like it can be just that simple between the two of them.

"Yes, please," Steve says, because maybe it is easy.

This time, Tony is all smiles.  Steve keeps missing his lips and kissing his teeth.  Tony slips his hands under Steve's waistband in the elevator, impatient and greedy, and this time Steve isn't willing to take that passively.  He caresses Tony's chest until he finds his nipple through his shirt and rubs his thumb over it, enjoying the way that makes Tony's hands tighten on his ass.

"So wanton, baby," Tony gasps into Steve's mouth.

"It's a private elevator," Steve says, rubbing Tony's nipple again.  "And you've done worse."

"I like you so much," Tony swears.  "You sweet homophobic nightmare, you told me being gay was against God's will to my fucking face and still I think I like you more than anyone else I've ever slept with."

"You're the only person I've ever enjoyed sleeping with," Steve admits, which makes Tony groan and bite his neck, sharp and possessive.

"Only me?" Tony echoes.  "Jesus, how many places have you never been touched?"

"I — I don't know," Steve says.  He tilts his head back, inviting Tony to bite him more.  It feels fantastic, decadent.  Tony doesn't ration sex or touch; he takes from Steve like it will be gone soon and he's going to have as much as possible before it runs dry.

The elevator dings its arrival at the penthouse suite, and Tony pulls Steve inside by the front of his pants.

Tony drags Steve all the way to the bedroom, and Steve goes, thinking of the pornography Tony sent him where the man wore a harness.  Wearing that, Tony would have a place to grip.  He could wrap his fist around a single point and have all the leverage he needed.  One yank and Steve would stumble for him.

Steve thinks Tony would like to hear him say that out loud.  He'd make the face Steve's been fantasizing about, his lips parted, mouth soft with awe.

Steve digs in his heels, and Tony looks back at the resistance.  Steve clears his throat.  He is going to be sexy for Tony, without being asked.

"Someday I want you to put a harness on me," he declares, staring resolutely at Tony's feet.  

Tony's quiet except for a sudden heave of breath.  All Steve can see is the heavy, patterned rug and Tony's shiny black shoes.  This was a mistake, this is not sexy at all, he just feels stupid and raw and weird.  It's not normal for a man to want another man to buckle supple leather around his shoulders and pull.

He tenses a muscle in his cheek.  Tony's going to laugh, which is unfair, because Tony's the one who sent him the porn.  "That video.  You made me want it."

Tony shouldn't have showed it to Steve if he didn't want to hear about what it did to him.

"Ohhhhh, Steve, Steve, love," Tony gasps, finding his voice again.  "I'm going to come in my pants.  You can't just say things like that, you'll ruin me."

"Sorry," Steve says.

"No no no no no no," Tony says, rushing in close, both of his hands on Steve's face, forcing him to meet Tony's eyes.

He's wearing the expression Steve had hoped for, the one that makes Tony glow from the inside.  He looks like St. Sebastian, like he's been pierced by something holy.

"Always tell me, always.  I'll beg you for it every time."

Tony sets to work on Steve's shirt, somehow finding the coordination to kiss Steve's mouth at the same time.  Steve tries to reciprocate and gets his hands swatted away.

"Hold still for me, dear," he says, once he's pushed Steve's shirt off his shoulders.  It falls in a crescent around his feet.  "I plan to touch you everywhere, and I'm not getting distracted."

Steve's stomach clenches, arousal tying itself into knots in his gut.  This is what Tony does to him.  He's observant and grabby and capricious and Steve's never been wanted like this before.  Tony's going to touch his cock again, and put his fingers back in Steve's ass where nobody but Tony has been, and now that Steve knows what it's like he wants it even more.

But Tony doesn't undo Steve's pants.  Instead he starts at the top of Steve's head, mapping the shape of Steve's skull with precise fingers.  He pushes Steve's hair the wrong way, finding his cowlicks and teasing at them.

Steve closes his eyes, sinking into the sensation.  Tony's hands are careful but firm.  Steve feels like a piece of equipment in experienced hands, a familiar gun that Tony can take apart and reassemble by muscle memory alone.

Tony touches behind his ears, his forehead, his eyebrows, his cheekbones.  With careful fingers, he brushes over Steve's eyelids, tickling his eyelashes.

"Is this too strange?" Tony asks quietly, hands light on Steve's neck.

Steve laughs — this, of all things, is where Tony thinks the limit is?  Of course Tony wants this; Tony measures everything, learns it, gets into the workings of things and pries out their secrets.

"I can stop," Tony says, and his hands are gone, leaving Steve's flushed skin cold.

"Do you like it?" Steve asks.

"Yes."  Tony's voice is fervent.

"Then don't stop."

Tony works his way one at a time down Steve's arms, from Steve's shoulder to the places between his fingers.  He does Steve's chest and back in broad strokes, pausing only to tweak Steve's nipples and dip into his belly button.

Finally Tony flicks open the button of Steve's pants and tugs the rest of his clothes off, leaving Steve standing naked and vulnerable, half-examined, in the middle of his bedroom.

Tony kneels, and Steve shudders — Tony's going to touch his hard cock, maybe even with his mouth, and Steve can't even imagine — but Tony ignores it, choosing instead to feel up and down Steve's thighs.

Steve makes an inarticulate protest.

"Best for last," Tony says, grinning widely up at Steve.  "Be patient."

Steve groans and pushes his hips forward, just one aborted jerk, and gets a pinch on the back of his thigh for it.

Tony treats Steve's legs with the same care he did for his arms, even making Steve stand on one foot to get at the soles of his feet.

At last, Tony's hand slides up between Steve's legs, cupping and rolling Steve's balls and his half-hard cock in his palm.  Steve's mouth is open; he thinks he's making quiet sounds of dismay.  Tony spreads him open and runs one finger all the way up and down the cleft of his ass, stopping only briefly to circle his hole.  Steve whines.

Tony sighs in satisfaction and stands up.

"Someday I'll do that with my mouth," Tony promises, and kisses the nape of Steve's neck.  At the same time he runs a fingernail down Steve's spine to make him shiver.  Steve''s partial to the idea, even though the waiting might kill him.

"Now will you get undressed?" Steve asks, hoping he doesn't sound petulant.  "I want to see you too."

"Of course," Tony says.

He undresses prettily, one article at a time, making sure to palm his dick through his slacks while Steve watches with heat blooming on his cheeks and in his groin.  Steve bites his lip and wonders if he should touch himself or let the anticipation keep building.

When Tony is finally, gloriously, naked, he tosses himself on the bed and stretches luxuriously.  Steve swallows.  Despite all the put-on flounce, Tony is flagrantly a man — his thighs are hairy, his cock is hard and flushed, his chest is flat — and no matter how much Steve has wished otherwise, this is what he's always wanted.

Steve chews the side of his thumb, feet stuck to the spot.  "That's, uh, a real fine sight," he says roughly.

Tony props himself up on a pillow so Steve can see better, preening at the praise.  Tony takes care of his body, is maybe a touch vain about it, and it's nice.  Nice to look at.

"So," Tony says, running one hand over his own chest, "do you remember any other things from my gay pornography primer?"

Steve's lips tingle, and he thinks —

"It's...dirty," he says slowly.

Tony's face falls a bit, and he sags backwards.  "No!" Steve says, holding out his hands to soothe away that thought.  "Not dirty like that.  I meant, unsanitary."

Tony raises an eyebrow.

Steve gestures helplessly behind him.  He licked his asshole, and it was sort of gross and sort of unbearably arousing.  Those words are not going to come out of Steve's mouth, absolutely not.  He'd rather live without this than say it out loud.

"Out loud, Steve," Tony says.

"The one by the swimming pool.  And — he didn't just put his mouth on his cock.  I thought about it.  A lot.  Doing that for you."

"Rimming?" Tony says, voice high in genuine shock.  "I forgot that was in there, fuck, Steve, how are you real?"

Steve sits down on the bed with his back to Tony and wraps his arms around himself.  It is gross and filthy, then, if even Tony thinks its ridiculous.  Too much.  Steve is too much.

"Honey?" Tony asks, gentle fingers brushing Steve's shoulder.  "Hey, hey, that was rude of me.  Turn around, buttercup, don't sulk.  I was just surprised."

"It's called rimming?" Steve asks, craning his neck.  Tony nods, stroking Steve's shoulder again.

Tony's brow wrinkles in thought for a moment, and then he looks slyly up at Steve.  "Do you want to eat me out, Steve?  Put your face between my legs and lick into me, hmm?  You want to be so close you can barely breathe.  You'll fuck me with your mouth until your tongue is aching."

"Yeah," Steve says, breathless.

"Okay.  One sec," Tony says, rolling over to fuss around in the nightstand.  He comes back with a packet of lube and a square of latex.  It looks like a condom, but as a flat sheet.  Tony hands Steve the piece of thin rubber and twists to spread lube on himself.  "That solves the cleanliness problem," he says smugly.  "Just keep it between your mouth and my ass and don't flip it wrong side up once you've started."

Tony hitches his hips up higher and spreads his legs.  Steve stares, twisting the latex mindlessly, feeling it stretch thinly over his fingertips.  Tony's shiny where he's slicked himself, where he wants Steve to touch him.

Steve props himself between Tony's legs and explores gently with his fingers around the base of Tony's cock, his balls, the delicate skin between his legs.  When he runs into the lube over Tony's asshole, Tony gasps and his cock jumps.  Steve rubs his fingers together, curious about the texture.

Tony grabs Steve by the hair and gives a meaningful tug.

Steve takes a deep breath and spreads the thin barrier over Tony, then licks him through it.  A shudder runs all down Tony, and he pushes into Steve's mouth, his whole body demanding more.

It's hot and close between Tony's thighs, and everything smells like Tony and a little bit like cornstarch from the latex.  Steve spreads Tony between his hands and licks him again, broad strokes with the flat of his tongue, getting used to the terrain, as it were.  Tony cants his hips up and digs one heel into the center of Steve's back.

"More, more, like you mean it," Tony begs.

Steve presses into Tony until he can hardly breathe and tries harder.  He works his tongue around Tony's asshole, finding the edges of it, learning what makes Tony jerk and moan, and feels the moment when something gives.  Tony opens, and Steve can feel the heat of Tony under his tongue.  Tony's near in every single way, squeezing and cradling him and wringing his own pleasure from it.

His head swims, not getting enough air, not caring, and he pushes against the resistance of the latex with the flat of his tongue, feels Tony relax under his mouth, easier and easier.

"Oh God, please, again," Tony says, throwing his head back against the pillows with a thud.  He has one hand on his cock and one on Steve's head, not doing much with either of them.  Tony looks overwhelmed.  Heat punches through Steve.  He flicks his tongue against Tony's lax, open rim and Tony's hand clenches in his hair.

Steve drags desperate breaths through his nose and licks Tony again and again.  The root of his tongue aches as he stretches it to push just inside Tony.  There's drool on his chin.  Sweat from the insides of Tony's thighs wets his hair down flat over his temples.  Steve ignores his soreness and keeps going, lost in it.

Tony makes small, hitching breaths, his thighs trembling, and Steve feels more than sees Tony jacking himself off in time with the rhythm of Steve's mouth.

"Let me help you come.  Do it while we're like this," Steve pleads into the crease of Tony's thigh, gasping kisses into Tony's skin while he's up for air.

"Okay, okay, yeah," Tony says.  "I can, I can, I just need — something extra, I don't know what it is, fuck, ah, fuck."

Steve thinks hard, works it through in his mind the way he choreographs a fight — that's all this is, only with a different goal, bodies coming into contact for defeat by pain or pleasure — and gets it.

Steve makes up his mind and discards the latex barrier as a lost cause.  He returns to Tony, skin-on-skin, and it's better.  It feels human instead of plastic, and Steve can put aside that it should be gross.  It's Tony; Steve's not afraid of to touch him anymore.

He keeps his mouth on Tony while he pats around on the bed for the half-used packet of lube they tossed away.  When he comes up with it he slicks up one finger, then another, not sure how many he should use.  Everything felt huge, momentous, to Steve when Tony did this, but Tony's experienced.  It isn't the same for him.

Steve's first finger slides into Tony as easy as anything, all the resistance already fucked out of him by Steve's tongue.

Tony cries out and writhes, so Steve adds the second finger.  Tony's soft and warm, different around Steve's fingers than under his mouth.  Steve can breach him, reach past the muscles that hold Tony closed and feel him from the inside.  Steve shudders with something that's almost fear, suddenly aware of how vulnerable Tony is underneath him.  His walls are thin here.  Steve is behind the defenses; everything beyond is unguarded.  Here, Tony's body yields like pushing through dark velvet curtains.

Steve's jaw is jammed up alongside his hand, wet and cramped, but with a bit of coordination he can lick along the place where his fingers enter Tony's body.  When Steve tries that, Tony swears and kicks one leg out, straining until half his back comes off the mattress, fist working fast over his dick.  Steve spreads his fingers apart and swipes his tongue against the stretched place he's made, still desperately hungry for it.  

"Fuck, shit, Steve, ah!  That's — you — there — "

Tony comes loud and violent, shaking himself almost loose from Steve as he spills over his stomach and chest.

Tony lies panting on his back for a long, heady moment.  Steve kisses the meat of his thigh, pleased with himself.  Then Tony rolls over, shoving Steve's face gently aside, and curls up in a loose half-moon.

"Go away," Tony says, exhausted.  "I need a minute.  Look after yourself, have a drink of water, eat a protein bar, do anything that doesn't require me to think, I don't care.  All my wits went out through my dick.  God."

Instead of leaving, Steve fits himself around Tony, and is abruptly reminded of his own cock when it bumps against Tony's backside.  It feels good just to rest it against Tony's sweaty skin.

"Or do the opposite of what I said," Tony grouches, but he doesn't draw away.  Instead he wraps Steve's arm around them and laces their fingers together under his chin.

Steve rocks his hips against Tony's ass, small, almost involuntary motions.  He could probably come like this, from the light friction of Tony's damp skin; Steve's sensitive enough at this point he knows it wouldn't take much.

"Don't get ahead of yourself," Tony mumbles.  "As soon as I can move again, I want to blow you."

Steve freezes statue-still.

Tony bursts into delighted laughter, his back shaking against Steve's chest.  He kisses Steve's knuckles, breath tickling over them.  "I gather that you like that suggestion."

"Yeah," Steve manages, carefully not moving.  "Gonna do something about it?"

"Only if you ask nicely."

"Shut up."

"No, see, what you're supposed to say is Please, Tony, put your mouth on my cock, suck me off like you're gagging for it, make it so good I want to fuck your throat until it's so raw you can barely talk, and all I can think about is you on your knees for me.  That's how you ask for something with proper manners, Steve."

Steve almost chokes on his own spit.  "None of that is nice or proper," he coughs.

Tony decides that his rest is over and flips Steve onto his back, holding him down with two hands planted firmly on his hips.  "I'll make you wait," he warns.

"Please," Steve says.

"Please what?  Please worship my cock, Tony?  Please treat me to a truly excellent blow job with all the sides and fixings?  Please don't leave my poor, aching, desperate erection bobbing in the breeze while I beg and whine and squirm?"

"I need to know," Steve whispers.  "I need your help to learn the things that feel good.  I needed to be reminded that having joy is more important than being a perfect soldier, or maybe I never knew that.  Not before you.  Tony, please, please, I didn't know."

"Oh," Tony says, all the teasing dropping abruptly away, leaving his voice small and wrecked.  "Oh, love."

"Will you — please, I can't — please," Steve begs.

"Yes," Tony says, sinking down over Steve.  "Yes, of course, dearheart, yes.  You don't have to ask any more, hush.  Let me make you feel wonderful."

Steve shakes all over when Tony takes him in his mouth.  He has just enough control of his body not to thrust upwards.  Tony looks up at him through his eyelashes, adjusts his jaw, and guides Steve in deep, working his tongue along the underside of Steve's cock.

Tony's beautiful, sweaty and golden, single-minded in his pursuit of Steve's pleasure.  Steve doesn't know what to do with his hands; he isn't sure if he's allowed to put them in Tony's hair or pet the places on his shoulders and neck that he can reach.  He clenches them in the sheets instead.

Tony pulls off of Steve's dick and licks his lips, gaze soft.  "You're all tense.  What are you holding back?  Do you want to touch me?  You can.  Push a little, if you want, I don't mind."

When Tony drops his head to lick at Steve's cock again, Steve runs a careful hand through his hair and than, at Tony's hum of encouragement, cups the back of his head, applying just enough pressure to anchor himself.

The inside of Tony's mouth is hot and wet — it feels perfect, beyond perfect, and Steve's having a hard time holding on already.  Tony keeps one hand on Steve, alternating between stroking the base of his cock, touching his balls, and gliding dry along the valley of his ass.  The other hand Tony keeps flattened over Steve's stomach, warm and reassuring.

It's strange, to do this in the quiet, but Tony's mouth is otherwise occupied, so Steve's only option is to fill the silence instead.

"You look so — " Steve says brokenly, " — so beautiful, I, I know I shouldn't call a man beautiful.  But, you are.  Even when I tried not to look, Tony, I always did."

Tony strokes over his stomach muscles, head still bobbing over Steve's cock, and Steve shudders, riding another building wave of pleasure.  Steve thinks there's tears in his eyes; he didn't know a person could have this many emotions because of sex.

"I don't know what any of this means, I just want you to stay.  I want this forever, I love your hands and your mouth and your cock, even though it makes me a goddamn queer.  Your mouth, Tony, your mouth, Lord in heaven, fuck!"

Tony hollows his cheeks and sucks hard on the head of Steve's cock, stroking just beneath the ridge of it with his tongue, and Steve breaks.  His throat locks and he can't get any sound out at all except a low creaking groan as his lungs fight to contract. 

Tony darts to grip him by both hips, hard enough to bruise, and holds him still.  He swallows through Steve's orgasm, pinning him down and wrestling pleasure out of Steve for longer than he thinks he can stand it, until every touch makes him buck and try to skitter away, too much, too much.

The aftermath of orgasm leaves Steve lightheaded and slow.  He could lay here and drift, buoyed by Tony's comfortable sheets, until he hit some warmer, kinder shore than this future New York.  Tony crawls up next to him and flips the covers over them both.

"A man could get used to you calling him beautiful," Tony says, his voice pleased and hoarse.

"I'm not trying to make a habit of it," Steve says, eyes closed, muscles loose, hair still damp with his and Tony's intermingled sweat.  Steve's going to fall asleep right here; the weight of sleep has already settled in his limbs.  "Wasn't so much on purpose."

"I like Steve Rogers who doesn't do everything quite so much on purpose," Tony says, through a yawn.  Steve's half asleep by the time Tony finishes his thought — his voice comes in soft-edged and dream-like.

"He cracks the curtains.  Lets some light get free."

Steve's woken up by the phone.  

"That'll be Fury," Tony sighs, picking the clock up off of the nightstand and peering at it.  "Huh, eleven and a half hours for him to find this number and get circumvent all the ways I blocked him.  Better than I'd hoped, honestly."

Steve tries to roll out of bed to get the phone, but Tony grabs him by the wrist and twists until Steve flops back down.

Tony spreads himself over Steve's chest as further insurance that Steve won't go anywhere, then digs his chin in just above Steve's collarbone while the phone keeps ringing.  Finally the answering machine picks up.

"Tony's phone.  Leave a message, you know what to do.  Kiss kiss!"

"Kiss kiss?" Steve asks.

"This is the line for people I like," Tony says with a shrug.  "Strictly unprofessional."

"Stark!" Fury roars into the answering machine.  "Are you a fucking lunatic?  I'm going to have the DoD pull every single one of your contracts.  You'll be broke within the week!  I have more pull than you, Stark!  I don't care if you and our Norse hippie friend swan off on your own, but Rogers is ours.  Whatever you've done to get him wrapped around your dick, undo it.  Now."

Steve huffs in indignation at the implication that SHIELD owns him.  He's a soldier, not an object.  No man is ever the property of another, that's just fact.

"Ooooh, Nick's mad," Tony says, his goatee tickling Steve's skin.

"I didn't choose to leave SHIELD because we're sleeping together," Steve says, getting angrier.  "Implying that I did is frankly — "

Tony puts his hand over Steve's mouth.  "I know, honey.  I'll throw a cease and desist at him in the morning if it makes you feel better."

"It might," Steve grouses, when Tony removes his hand.

"Gracious, he hasn't slowed down at all, has he?" Tony asks, tilting his head to tune back in to Fury's tirade.

"You want to go independent?  Fine.  I'll send Danvers so far up your ass you'll need a colonoscopy to — "

The answering machine clicks and Fury's voice is abruptly cut off.

"There's a ninety second cutoff," Tony mentions, sighing contentedly into Steve's chest.  "No indication on the other end, of course — Nick can keep going for as long as he'd like."

"I thought this line was for people you like," Steve says.  He ruffles a hand through Tony's sleep-mussed hair, because he can.

Tony leans into the touch.  "Limiting the length of people's voicemails helps me continue to like them."

Steve figures that's plenty accurate, given Tony, so he doesn't tease back.  Tony doesn't seem to mind lapsing back into silence.  He dozes for a bit, still pillowed on Steve's chest, while Steve stares out Tony's high windows and thinks.

It wasn't supposed to be like this.  Before the serum Steve had expected to spend his life coughing, and then one day he'd stop breathing and the coughing would be over.  Afterwards he'd assumed his life would go mud, freezing rain, long march, mud, gunfire, mud, and then either victory and homecoming or brutal, pointless death.  He'd seen too many soldiers torn down to think it would end in glory.

He's tentatively content, here in Tony's bed.  Steve didn't make a place for contentment in the plan for his life.  His lot was to be correct, dutiful, and just.  Being a good, upstanding man would have sustained him.

And now he's doing everything wrong, and it just — hurts less.

"Don't you usually go on your self-punishment run about now?" Tony says about an hour later, rousing again.  "I know you don't have to jog for fitness, you have medical miracle muscles."

"I like waking up with you," Steve says.  "It's warm, and your feet aren't in my face."

Tony laughs and shoots him an incredulous look.  "What?  Why — I mean, I don't have a foot thing, but for you, pookie, I suppose I'll try anything once — just — in your face?"

"Me ‘n Bucky used to sleep toe to head, when it got real cold."  It wasn't complicated.  That was how you did it, if you had to share with another fella.

"You are so weird."

"I'm just saying I like it," Steve says, trying not to be defensive.  "Here."

"Don't pout," Tony admonishes gently.  He shifts over to kiss Steve, close-mouthed and simple.  "If I could tie you up and keep you here forever, I would."

"No," Steve says.

"You don't want me to tie you up even a little?"

Steve considers that for a moment, then buries his face in the pillow, trying to think of anything else.  "Maybe," he amends, muffled and horrified.

"You're cute, you know," Tony says.

Then he pauses for a long moment, drumming his fingers mindlessly across Steve's sternum.

"You should move in," Tony says eventually, brushing over the words as if they've spontaneously occurred to him.  Then Tony's voice speeds up, almost tripping over itself.  "It's simple, obvious, I want to fuck you all the time, but your apartment is hideous, it probably has mold, I can't be exposed to that.  I don't know how you fit on that twin bed alone, let alone with a partner.  Do your shoulders hang off both sides?   It would be efficient, really, best, if you took advantage of my fabulous wealth.  You could — I have a spare bedroom, it doesn't have to be this every night, I'm rescuing you, Steve, I'm a philanthropist — "

"Yeah, okay," Steve says.  It seems good.  It would make Tony happy, and Steve could stop worrying that the kids on the street corner are going to break in and toss his radio out the window for fun again.

"Oh," Tony says, mouth rounded in surprise.  "Okay," he echoes softly.  "Will do."

The next June, Steve goes to Pride.  The organizers try to make him the Celebrity Grand Marshal and he says absolutely not.  

Tony is Grand Marshal instead.  He's better suited to it in any case.  Steve will march; that much he feels duty-bound to do.

He goes to the small fundraiser that Tony throws in conjunction with Johns Hopkins in support of same-sex hospital visitation rights.  Steve gets the sense that Tony threw a lot of money at their cancer institute and is cashing in a few favors.

"They deserve something for beating back the beast for a while," Tony says, tapping at his temple, when Steve mentions it.  "And I want a tiny smidge in return for that twenty million dollars."

Steve also attends the memorial service for Aaron Forrest.  He goes in civilian clothes, wearing aviators and a baseball cap pulled low over his face despite the nighttime darkness.  The mourners pass around small white candles, their ends stuck through the bottoms of small paper dixie cups to catch the melted wax.  Lighters appear from people's pockets, and they share the flame around, person to person through the crowd.  Steve holds his candle delicately and watches the wax around the wick turn clear and liquid.  It looks like tears.  He doesn't think the guilt is ever going to leave him.  Still, it helps, to stand in silence and sorrow with a hundred other souls.  This is how people heal.  Together, not alone.

Tony holds him afterwards.

Steve's ashamed for needing the comfort.  It's selfish.  He's not the one who's owed solace.

But Tony pets his hair and doesn't make him say any of it out loud at all.

Sunday dawns bright, early, and hot; Fourth of July weather.  

Steve asked if he could march with the other men and women who had been discharged because of DADT.  The organizers had agreed warmly.  They helped reach out to people, made the right phone calls, orchestrated banners and t-shirts.  Steve suspects Tony's money made an appearance again, to aid with plane tickets and travel costs.

He can't wear his proper uniform anymore, so he puts on the Captain America getup.

When the parade lines up, there's at least a couple hundred veterans there to meet him.

They all have matching navy shirts.  Every one is emblazoned with a white star on the chest.  Steve has to press his lips together and hide his eyes. 

Steve expected — he doesn't know what he expected.  Not the party he gets.

Tony's suited up, and he refuses to stay with the float for the Grand Marshal.  He buzzes up and down the parade route, gathering cheap rainbow flags and beads.  Somehow, one of the gay bars manages to get a promotional sticker stuck to the armor, and then all bets are off.  Every time Steve sees Tony he's covered in more brightly-colored stickers.  There's even one advertising what is definitely a sex shop on his ass.  Steve strongly disapproves, but intervening to remove the sticker would be even worse than allowing it to remain.

The people along the street cheer for Steve.  He marches like a soldier for the first few blocks, but then feels silly, given all the ruckus around him.  So he tries to walk normally, wave a couple of times, coax his face into a smile.  Everyone likes that.  It makes them happy, like they're happy every time Tony flies past.

Steve means something to these people, the same way he meant something to the soldiers on the front during the war.  Wherever he goes, someone will make him into the symbol they need to survive.  He's not sure he's worthy of it, then or now.  

An enterprising businessman is selling plastic versions of Steve's shield.  Instead of red, white and blue, the stripes are done in rainbows.  Spectators hold them up when he passes, and throw them across the street like frisbees.  There are children dressed up as Captain America, and a few adults in versions of his costume that make Steve cough and avert his eyes.

He's just getting used to it, to the noise and the spectacle and the surprise flashes of skin — some of the men here would, apparently, like Steve to see private parts of them that he would rather not look at — when the drag queens find him.

Steve meets Miss Liberty and Auntie Sam first.

They're both in tall platform boots, somehow graceful despite the shoes, with loud colors everywhere.  Miss Liberty has a spiky green headdress and a sequin-covered green gown with a slit up the thigh that is definitely not there on the original statue.  Auntie Sam is wearing a long white wig, a red, white and blue hat, and a lot of leg.

Their presence somehow attracts a collection of performers in feathers and clingy spandex on roller skates.  They zip in circles around Steve, forwards and backwards, laughing and showing off for each other.  One of them darts in to boop Steve on the nose and he jolts backwards in affront.

Once Steve overcomes his reflexive dislike of — well — that's frankly a lot to be on display in public — he finds that they're kind people.  The skaters fetch water for Steve and a few of the veterans, and the drag queens yell at any anti-gay protesters they march past.

What seems like every costumed man in the parade comes by to visit him at some point, and there's always at least a handful nearby, keeping him company, encouraging him to smile, distracting the crowd when they yell at him too much and he wants to crawl back into the closet and never tell anyone another one of his secrets again.

Tony checks on him too, landing heavily on the pavement and shooing away Steve's gaggle of protective hangers-on.

"You okay?" Tony asks, flipping up the face plate.

Steve looks around.  The sun is oppressive, and he's sweaty under his uniform, but there's also woman sitting in a lawn chair off to his left, holding a sign that says "I LOVE MY TRANS SON."

"I think so," Steve says.

Tony gives him a smile with his eyes crinkled at the edges, one that means he's proud of Steve for doing something that's difficult for him.

"I didn't expect it to be so happy," Steve says.  "Everyone is so — "

Steve can't come up with the next words.

"It's Pride," Tony says, shading his eyes with one armored hand and taking it in.  "That's the point."

The parade goes on for five hours.  By the end, even Steve is dragging.  Most of the flamboyant people marching alongside Steve take off their platforms and roller skates to walk barefoot, carrying the sparkling shoes in their hands.

Miss Liberty demands that Steve carry her.  When he says no, she makes a show of twisting her ankle, falling flat on the ground in a fluid sprawl.  She looks up at him with giant, sorrowful eyes and pouts.

The crowd lining the street laughs and calls for Steve to relent.

"Have a heart, Captain!"

"Help her up!  Help her up!"

"God bless America; America save the queen!"

Steve sighs.  Tony could take lessons in manipulation from these people.  His dignity is absolutely forfeit at this point.  If he does this, pictures will absolutely end up in the Daily Bugle.  If he doesn't, pictures will still likely end up in the Bugle.  At least she doesn't look like a man, he thinks.

He stoops and gets one arm under her shoulders, the other under her knees.  She throws her arms around his shoulders and kicks her heels, delighted.

The crowd screams in support.  They wave flags and throw beads.  Steve flushes and gives them a tentative smile.

Miss Liberty squeezes him and gives him a kiss on the cheek.  Steve must look appalled, because she laughs at him and pats him reassuringly on the chest.  "Just to make your honey jealous."

Steve flushes harder and looks away.  Tony won't be jealous, surely, even if there's a lipstick mark on his cheek.  Steve would be jealous if someone else kissed Tony, even if it wasn't on the mouth.  He hopes Tony is a better man than that.  Or maybe he'll get possessive, and then he'll take Steve and — uh — Steve's not going to think about that, he absolutely can't have a reaction while he's carrying a drag queen around in public.

"Oh my God," Miss Liberty says, forgetting her falsetto and using her typical voice.  "Oh my God, are you with someone?"

God damn Steve's open book of a face.

"That's my business," Steve grits out.

Miss Liberty looks carefully up at him, her giant performance smile fading and turning into something simpler, more genuine.  Under the makeup and the huge false eyelashes, Steve almost thinks he sees her eyes well up.

"I'm...I'm really happy for you," she says.  "Congratulations."

"I — thank you, ma'am," Steve says quietly.

She blinks quickly several times, then re-dons the stage persona.  "Ooooooh, you're so strong, Mr. America.  These pecs are all we've imagined and more, sisters!" she shouts to the crowd.  "What a man!"

He carries her for about fifteen minutes before she hops down, and immediately another sparkly person falls down in front of Steve, crying out about their ruined ankle.

Steve's shoulders droop.  He's made a critical error, revealed a weakness, and these are ruthless people.  He supposes that a person would have to be very brave to walk outside in some of the things folks are wearing today.  

Steve's enlisted to pick up every drag queen and performer at least once, and a couple of them demand it twice.  Even when Steve switches to a fireman's carry, no one is dissuaded.  When Steve looks down there's glitter dusted over the chest of his uniform, making the white star twinkle.

The parade ends in a massive crush of people, but Tony finds Steve anyway, out of the suit already and only mildly sticky from the impact gel.  Steve's pulled an XXL t-shirt from one of the parade sponsors over top of his uniform.  He's less recognizable now than he was out openly in the Captain America gear, so he can finally let his guard down.

"Oh, hello," Tony says, wrapping one hand around Steve's bicep.  

Steve startles, then relaxes.  It's only Tony.  If it's Tony, it's fine.  He didn't think anyone could locate anyone in this crowd.  "How — " 

"I have a tracker in your suit," Tony says, squeezing Steve's arm.  "It's expedient, don't worry about it."

Steve is going to worry about it, but not now.

Fifth Avenue smells like sunscreen and hotdogs.  Five stories above them a man in a fluorescent orange shirt leans out of his apartment window and waves a huge rainbow flag while the crowd flows along the street like cold molasses.  Steve has no choice but to press up against Tony and let it push them along, a close, slow dance.

Steve chooses to kiss Tony, right out in the open, because for a moment anything seems permitted.  Somewhere nearby women are dancing topless in a fountain.  They chase each other into splashing hugs, all smiles and wet shoes.  Tony grabs Steve over the ears and kisses him back like he wants to drown in it.  This is joy, under the hard, blue, cloudless sky, surrounded by skyscrapers and singing.

No one pays them any mind.

^[1] This book doesn’t exist per se, but you can listen to the story of Dr. Gerald C. Davison’s conversion therapy here: Dr. Davison and the Gay Cure, by Radiolab. This paper from 1968 outlines the methods used in orgasmic reorientation: Elimination of a sadistic fantasy by a client-controlled counterconditioning technique: A case study, by GC Davison.^[return]

^[2] Rosie O’Donnell came out by shouting “I’m a dyke!” while performing at a cancer fundraiser.^[return]

^[3] Davison talks about his updated views on conversion therapy on the Radiolab podcast and here: Constructionism and Morality in Therapy for Homosexuality, by GC Davison.^[return]

^[4] Quote from QUEERS READ THIS! a zine by anonymous queers.^[return]

^[5] Quote from Borrowed Time: An AIDS Memoir, by Paul Monette. Excerpted here.^[return]

^[6] Quote from the poem Queer, by Frank Bidart.^[return]

^[7] The photograph Steve looks at first is Two Men Dancing. The second set of photographs is from X Portfolio. (Very NSFW images.)^[return]

^[8] Steve is referencing the poem Having a Coke with You, by Frank O’Hara.^[return]