Chapter Text
Steve’s motorbike is still in his front yard (although thankfully at a tolerable distance from Tony’s potatoes) by the time he finally clocks off. Knowing that they have to have this talk sooner or later, Tony still feels his heart sink down to somewhere in the vicinity of his toes. He half-hoped that Steve would be called away by a conveniently timed alien invasion or HYDRA raid. But no such luck.
Tony finds Steve in the living room, sitting in the white Wing Lounge Chair. Gerald is curled up in his lap and happily being patted.
“Turncoat.” Tony scowls at Gerald.
The puppy blinks innocently at him, gnawing on a stick of frozen carrot.
“I almost didn’t recognize you,” Steve says, giving Tony an argutely sagacious look that makes him feel like he’s being x-rayed.
Tony raises a hand and touches his face, his hair, before he can stop himself. After a year, being cleanshaven and his hair a perpetual store-bought blond doesn’t seem outré anymore. He’s acclimatized to his drastically different reflection, though he still mourns his punctiliously trimmed goatee.
“That’s the whole point.” Tony nods at the glass coffee table, where a light grey mug with dark dregs at the bottom sits on a brown cork coaster, next to a plate where the remnants of some tomato-mozzarella salad sits. “I see you’ve made yourself at home.”
They used to live half in each other’s pockets all the time – at the Mansion and then the Tower. Sharing mugs and meals. Steve’s sketches and charcoals scattered in among Tony’s tools in his workshop. Tony’s favored coffee beans stocked in the kitchen cupboards in Steve’s apartment. But this execrable facsimile of those times, right here after everything that has happened, hurts Tony like a rusty knife to the stomach.
Perhaps some of his thoughts make their way onto Tony’s face, because Steve’s countenance turns penitent, the edges of his frown suffused with sorrow. “I’m sorry for intruding. I didn’t mean to be rude.”
“Of course you didn’t,” Tony says flippantly. “Because you’re a very polite person.”
“You have a very nice home.” Steve’s voice snags a little at the word home. Tony reckons he’s not the only one who’s unpleasantly recollecting old times.
Steve looks around at the wooden walls, painted an insipid baby-blue; at the inharmonious IKEA furniture: glass tables, carved rosewood chairs, leather couches. The collection is completed by the fancy white lounge chair Steve is still sitting in, appearing completely at odds with the rest of the room’s décor. There are framed pictures hanging on the walls: Pepper and Rhodey and Happy, with a marked absence of any member of the Avengers or Tony himself.
“If you say so.” Tony arches an eyebrow. “Who told you where to find me?”
“Nick.”
Tony… should have seen that coming.
What are you playing at, Nick?
“Wait. I need to do something first.” Tony puts his hands on his hips. “Stand up.”
Steve looks wary. “Why?”
“Just stand.”
Steve sets Gerald down, where the puppy parks its little butt on the floor and looks between them with great interest in its blue doggy eyes, still working on his stick of carrot. Steve gets to his feet, all six feet two of him, the military grace and tightly-controlled strength of his movements like a magnet to Tony’s eyes. Tony grabs the other man by the arm, pushes him away from the stylish white lounge chair, then takes his place. Tony feels his body sink down into the upholstery, the elastic memory foam contouring around him, and lets out a hazy groan of pleasure. Gerald climbs onto Tony’s lap, gross half-chewed carrot still in his mouth, nosing Tony’s hand until he starts stroking the puppy’s head.
“That’s better.” Tony slurs slightly, blue eyes going half-lidded. He looks up at an exasperated Steve. “They make these for space crafts, you know.”
“Does IKEA sell these too?” Steve deadpans.
Tony cracks open an eyelid to give Steve a slightly sleepy glare. “It was a birthday present from Pepper, if you must know. She’s the best.” He shifts himself to a more comfortable position, feeling the knots of tension in his back loosen. “Well, go on then. If you’re going to yell at me, I might as well be comfortable while you’re doing it.”
“I’m not going to yell at you.”
“But you want to,” Tony observes, a wily cadence to his tone. “I’d recognize that pissed-off self-righteous look of yours anywhere. Well, go on. Don’t hold back on my account. But sit down first. I don’t want to stare up your nose while you do it. It’s not your best angle.”
“I forgot how exhausting you were,” Steve grouches, choosing one of the carved rosewood chairs.
Tony watches with a laudably straight face, as Steve fidgets in his seat, back ramrod straight, shifting minutely as the hard, unyielding wood pokes him in places that should never be poked, cutting off the blood flow to several critical extremities. Steve looks at the leather couches, which Tony knows are stifling in the summer heat and has the consistency of marshmallow, so one would sink right into it and be subsequently suffocated by the warm leather.
“Comfy?” Tony asks guilelessly.
Steve gives him a dirty look. Tony’s innocent charade breaks as he starts to snicker.
“You would be the type to intentionally buy uncomfortable furniture for the sole purpose of making life harder for your visitors,” Steve says in annoyance.
“What can I do for you, Commander Rogers?” Tony asks, and the tension in the room ricochets.
Steve is silent for a very long moment. Tony gives him a challenging look, unwilling to be the one to lose their staring contact. In his lap, Gerald seems to feel neglected and whines for attention. Tony scratches the puppy behind the ears, eyes still on Steve. Steve’s blue eyes are dark and shadowed with profound emotion, something troubled and tired. The super soldier serum stops him from getting bags under his eyes, but Steve has the restless, jittery vibe of someone who has endured many sleepless nights. His blond hair has been hand-combed, but still looks a bit mussed from wearing a helmet. His hands rest on his knees. Every bit of him is tense, the cords of muscle in his shoulders and arms standing out tautly.
“I’m not,” Steve says.
It takes a while for Tony to hear him. “Sorry. What?” He makes himself stop staring like a creep.
“Not Commander Rogers,” Steve elucidates. He’s watching Tony’s reaction very closely, waiting for… something. “As of today, SHIELD answers to Director Nick Fury and Deputy Director Sharon Carter.”
“You picked Sharon over Maria?” Tony whistles lowly. “I bet Hill wasn’t very happy about that.”
“Nick was the one who said he wanted Sharon as his second.”
“Even worse.”
“If I told you we could get you a pardon, would you want to come back?” Steve asks, out of left field.
Tony stares. “Are you feeling okay, Steve?”
“Just answer the question,” Steve says curtly.
Go back? Tony has never, ever, not even in his wildest dreams, thought that would be in the cards. Back to being an Avenger, to fighting as Iron Man, taking back his company – the thought makes him feel emetic in a backasswards way. Back to America, where the citizens lionized and glorified in his banishment, never mind how many times Tony has risked his life to save them. Back to his quondam brothers-in-arms – the ones he wronged and the ones who wronged him. He thinks about how Thor shrugged him off after they stopped the Skrull Invasion, the barely hidden hostility from Wolverine and Barnes and Luke Cage, how even those who stood by Tony during the fight over the SHRA deserted him.
“I’m sorry,” Tony blurts out, without quite meaning to.
Tony ducks his head, directing his focus into fussing over Gerald, who seems blissfully nescient over the mounting tension in the room. Seconds pass with no sound but the puppy’s soft woofs, and Tony scrounges up the last few vestiges of his valor and sneaks a look at Steve, only to find the other man already contemplating him. There’s something alarmingly resembling expectation on Steve’s face, his elbows on the armrests, fingers tented, the very picture of equanimity and stoicism.
“You fought for what you thought was right,” Tony says, when it becomes obvious that Steve intends to wait him out. “And the public crucified you for it. I… I was supposed to be your friend, and I led the charge. I hunted you and persecuted you and betrayed you because of it.”
“Doesn’t feel very good, doesn’t it?” Steve asks coolly.
Tony flinches, then tries to play it off as a shrug, though he doubts Steve is fooled. “No, it doesn’t,” He admits.
“But you’re not sorry for the SHRA itself,” Steve says succinctly.
Tony chooses his words very carefully, speaking very slowly, aware that he’s threading in very dangerous waters.
“The thing is though… I was doing what I thought was best as well. And even looking back from where I am now, I still think it was the best course of action.”
“How can you say that?” Steve demands, losing his poise. His knuckles whiten from how hard he’s clenching them. “After all the ways it could have gone wrong? After all the ways it did go wrong!”
Tony meets his eyes evenly. “I can say that because I know what the alternative is.” He lets a mirthless smile curve his lips. “Did you remember when I told you about Project Wideawake, Steve?”
Something behind Steve’s azure-blue eyes seem to sputter and die. Tony presses on ruthlessly.
“You didn’t believe me, told me it would never happen, that the American public would never stand for it. But you know better now, don’t you?”
An edge of pity creeps into Tony’s voice. Steve holds himself braced and stiff, ready for a blow.
“For a year, you were in charge of the security of the free world. SHIELD had access to all sorts of backroom dealings, background on corrupted officials, information on the kind of things Congress was getting up to out of the public’s eye.”
Steve holds himself very, very still. Tony’s chest rises and falls with agitation.
“So, you know how close they were to approving Project Wideawake, how much danger we were really in. What do you think would have happened if we’d all rebelled against the Act? Without anyone to moderate them, how long do you think we’d all last before they’d track us down and chip us like dogs? You saw the proposal. You know what they were planning. The dissections and experiments and obedience collars. There was nothing good about the SHRA,” Tony clarifies. “I’m not so deluded as to believe otherwise, Extremis or not. Registration might have been avowedly to guarantee the country’s security, but with people like Pat Mullet and Paul Grant and James Pertierra on the subcommittee and pulling strings, you really think I’d be fooled into thinking it was anything about anything other than leashing us? But it was a lesser evil between two hellish options, and I made the only choice I could. I’m not saying any of what I did was right, because I’m not. But not a lot of people know how much worse it could have been.”
He is close to yelling now. At one point he has gotten to his feet, dislodging the puppy in his lap. Gerald slinks away with his tail drooped, leaving the slobbery carrot at Tony’s feet.
“If you had just told me-”
“I did tell you, Steve.” All at once, the anger that fills Tony drains out of him, leaving him feeling hollow, and he collapses back into his chair. “You wouldn’t listen.”
“I wouldn’t,” Steve agrees. “But you didn’t try very hard, did you? You never trusted me. I was supposed to be your best friend, Tony. But the first time I even heard about the SHRA was right before Maria Hill – your second-in-command – gave the order to have me shot and arrested! You trusted Reed Richards and Hank Pym. Why not me?”
“Trust wouldn’t be the word I would use. I delegated-”
“You lied to me!” Steve bellows. “All that time I thought we were rebuilding the New Avengers team. I thought we were getting closer – closer than we’d ever been before.” Underneath the fire of his rage, there’s real hurt and genuine pain, which makes Tony look away, pulse stuttering. “And all that time you had been keeping this secret from me. Did you ever trust me at all?”
“I did,” Tony says in a shaky voice. “It wasn’t a matter of trust.”
“Then what was it?” Steve snarls. “Because I wasn’t clever enough, is that it? You didn’t tell me because you didn’t think I’d be useful? Or was it just convenient for you to let me go about my business in ignorance? How did that work out for you? You didn’t trust me and I stopped trusting you and now look where we both ended up! We tore the superhero community apart because you couldn’t find the fucking time to tell me what the hell you were planning!”
“You don’t have to tell me where I fucked up,” Tony says morosely. “I’ve had plenty of time to figure that out myself.”
“That’s not what I-” Steve breaks off, pinching the bridge of his nose, looking like he’s nursing a headache. “This is getting is us nowhere.”
“I can see why they call you a tactical genius.”
“You make me so mad.”
“An allergic reaction to the sound of my voice. I assure you, you’re not alone. You all should start a club.”
“Is everything a joke to you?”
“Funny things are.” Tony grins. Steve glunches at him until Tony subsides. “What do you want me to say, Steve?” he asks softly.
“I don’t know,” Steve says quietly.
“I’d do it again,” Tony says with a sad smile. “And you’d do it again too. In the end, nothing would change.”
“It could.”
“No, it couldn’t.”
“How would you know? You’re not an evil person, Tony, despite what you want everyone to think.”
“I know I’m not an evil person,” Tony says, which seems to surprise Steve into a fugacious silence. “I’ve made mistakes, yes. But I know I’m not Satan incarnate. If I was, you wouldn’t have fought so hard for me in court, and you wouldn’t be here now. But am I a good person? I don’t know the answer to that. I don’t think you do either.
Steve runs a hand over his face. “I want you to be,” he confesses.
“I want to be a good person too.” Tony smiles humorlessly. “I wanted it very, very badly. And I tried very, very hard to be one. Too hard, I think. And the harder I tried, the more errors I seemed to make, the more people got hurt. And the harder I tried to fix it, the worse it all seemed to get.” Steve takes a deep, shuddering breath, eyes closed. “So, my answer is no.”
“No?”
“I won’t come back,” Tony says simply. “I don’t want to. And honestly, I think you’re all probably better off without me.” Steve says nothing, complexion wan. “Why did you come here, Steve?” Tony asks gently.
Steve opens his eyes, looking at Tony with a cryptic emotion that seems fragile and torn and deep.
“When I came out of the ice,” Steve begins huskily. “I had nothing. No home. No friends. No family. No community. I didn’t belong anywhere. But I had you.” Tony feels a lump rising in his throat. “You gave me a home. You gave me the Avengers. You… you made me feel like I could belong.” Steve’s voice turns raspy, his eyes are red. “You were the best and worst parts of the future, and fighting against you…” He stops for a moment to collect himself. “I wanted to know if there was anything, anything at all that could be salvaged from this, from us.”
Tony’s blue eyes sting. “It might already be too late,” he says. “There are some actions we can’t take back, that we won’t want to take back; some differences that might be too far apart to bridge; mistakes that are too terrible to forgive.”
“But they can be.” He hears the wood of the chair creaking as Steve leans forward. “I can. I have, Tony.”
“Maybe these particular mistakes shouldn’t be forgiven.”
“That’s not your decision to make,” Steve says, voice like steel.
Something wet drips down onto Tony’s hands folded in his lap.
“I got you killed,” Tony says, like he’s confessing a sin to a priest.
Steve gets to his feet and crosses the room so noiselessly that Tony doesn’t realize it until he feels Steve’s hand gripping his shoulder. It feels like benediction, like absolution.
“You didn’t,” Steve says.
“You should want nothing to do with me. You should run as far away from me as possible.”
“But I won’t.”
“I sometimes think my life would be so much easier if you just stood in the corner and look pretty.”
“Tough.”
“After all this time,” Tony says with something like awe, “you can still surprise me with your capacity for forgiveness.”
“It sometimes surprises me too.” Steve tilts Tony’s chin up, fingers swiping the moisture on his cheeks. “I want this, Tony. After all these years, all our history, I don’t think I could bear to leave it like this between us. I want to try, at least. Don’t you?”
“Yeah,” Tony chokes out. He’s sure he looks a sight, sniveling all over the place, but Steve doesn’t seem to care. Tony manages a watery smile. “I want it too.”
…
The next day, Pepper and Rhodey turn up at Tony’s doorstep, luggage in hand.
Tony takes one look at them and says. “The last time I checked, I was a fully functioning and self-supporting adult with extraordinary mental acuity, and thus perfectly capable of navigating my own personal relationships.”
Pepper sniffs. Her long red hair is in curls today, and she shoulders unabashedly past him and into the house, pulling her suitcase behind her. “I don’t think anyone who needs me to remember their own social security number is technically ‘self-supporting’.”
Tony only half-heartedly tries to dissuade them before surrendering to the inevitable. “Hey, Steve!” he calls as they walk into the living room. “Look who turned up!”
Steve sits in one of the leather couches, sketchbook on his lap and charcoal in hand. He looks up with a welcoming smile that stiffens when he sees exactly who Tony’s companions are.
“You seem to have started a trend,” Tony informs him.
“Commander Rogers!” Rhodey says, with an expression of unconvincing surprise. “What an unexpected… pleasure.”
“Colonel Rhodes.” Steve gets to his feet, eyes flicking down to the suitcases. “Tony didn’t mention you were planning to stay.”
“They’re not,” Tony says, giving Rhodey and Pepper stern looks. “They’re visiting. I’m sure Pepper and Rhodey have other businesses to conduct at a place far, far away from here. Don’t you, Pepper? Rhodey?”
“Do we, Rhodey?”
“I don’t recall so, Pepper.”
Tony opens his mouth to very loudly and fervently tell them what he thinks about that when Gerald gambols into the room, a large dead spider in his mouth, which he deposits at Tony’s feet like a sacrifice at an altar. The puppy spies Pepper and Rhodey, then spends the next few minutes giving them a thoroughly welcome greeting.
“He wasn’t that happy to see me yesterday,” Steve notes.
“Must be a good judge of character,” Rhodey says snidely.
Tony awards Steve brownie points for not rising to the bait.
“You’re a pain in my ass,” Tony says to the dead spider.
“You talking to me and Pep, or the dog?”
“Tough choice,” Tony says scornfully. “One kills pests for me. The other two are nosy busy-bodies who can’t leave things well enough alone.”
“Aw.” Pepper coos over the puppy, who soaks up the attention. “Taking to you always makes me feel so valued and appreciated, Tony.”
“Don’t do that,” Tony tells Gerald, who rolls onto his back and bares his stomach for Pepper to scratch. “Don’t get all vainglorious with me just because you managed to get some bird to scratch your itch. It’s cheap and indecorous.”
“Speaking from experience, Tones?” Rhodey says dryly.
“Just because I don’t have the suit with me doesn’t mean I can’t still kick your ass, Rhodes.”
…
Tony finds a moment to pull Steve aside later. “I’m sorry about them.”
They’re sitting facing each other. Apparently, their combined weight is too much for the swing-set, whose mechanical joints squeak in protest, or maybe they just need oiling. The summer air smells of fresh pine and ripe fruit. Above them, the pale blue sky is steadily being enshrouded by a thin veil of pale grey clouds. Pepper is indoors, taking a call from one of SI’s major shareholders. Rhodey is otherwise occupied. Tony has bribed Gerald with the dessert of his choice from the pet bakery if the puppy distracts Rhodey long enough for Tony and Steve to speak alone, a task which Gerald effectuates meritoriously by stealing the homing device for Rhodey’s War Machine armor and running off into the wilderness with it. Tony doesn’t envisage seeing Rhodey or Gerald again for at least a few hours.
“Pepper and Rhodey mean well,” Tony goes on. “They’re just-”
“Protective.” Steve nods. “They’re not my biggest fans, are they?”
“Like Barnes and Wilson are mine?” Tony counters. Steve huffs, but doesn’t refute it. “They’re my friends. My best friends.” The lilt of his voice turns affectionate. “They’re pretty much pathologically incapable of not taking my side. Happy-” Tony lets out a hacking cough, and he suddenly sounds like he’s suffering from a hellacious head-cold. “Happy was the same as well.”
They lapse into quietude. A drop of rain lands on Tony’s cheek. He cranes his neck back, looking up with a jaundiced eye at the puffy clouds, a mite greyer than he thinks they were a second before.
“Did you really think I had something to do with it?”
“Hm?” Tony says absently.
“With Hogan’s accident,” Steve says, and Tony’s attention snaps back to the conversation like a rubber band, stinging and smarting. He can tell that this question is one Steve has been marinating in for a long time. Tony wants to give Steve the answer that will make the strained contours of Steve’s features soften, but he’s rather sick of lying to Steve.
“I believed you when you said you didn’t know anything about it,” Tony says, sounding more defensive than warranted.
“But you still had to ask,” Steve says, his features practiced and wooden.
Tony can’t meet his eyes. He abruptly develops an unaccountable fascination with the swing-seat, moving his fingers along the hardened and dried bumps that formed from the unevenly applied coating of baby-blue paint. A chip of blue flakes off and lodges underneath his nail.
“Circumstances required me to think of you as an enemy,” Tony says, in a remote and detached voice that makes him hate himself just a little more. “We were both forced to think that the other was liable to do some pretty crummy things. But I liked to think that even then, I knew you too well for you to lie to my face and be able to get away with it.”
Tony’s gaze is glued to his thumb. Steve says nothing.
“But if you had told me that what was done to Happy was done on your orders-” Tony falters, losing some of the aloofness. “I think I would have believed it. I would have been too afraid that my emotions were clouding my judgement not to.”
Another droplet of rainwater lands on his head, leaving a cold, wet spot on his scalp. Tony rubs at the spot uncomfortably, too cowardly to meet Steve’s gaze, even though he can feel the intensity of the super soldier’s stare lasering a hole right through Tony’s head, like Steve’s eyes have been replaced by repulsor rays.
“Sam once told me that I always saw you through rose-colored glasses,” Steve says, apropos to nothing. “And that it didn’t change the fact that you were a sell-out.”
“Sounds like a hard man to love, your buddy Wilson. He can give Pepper and Rhodey lessons.” Tony scoffs. “You know that before I gave him the shield, Barnes broke into my office on the Helicarrier and did his best to murder me?”
“Well, you did kind of deserve it,” Steve intones.
“Then your girlfriend slapped me.”
“She’s not my girlfriend.”
“Give it another month. I’m sure that’ll change.”
“What makes you so certain?”
“Because it’s you. And because it’s Sharon.” Tony makes jazz hands. “Every time you two call it quits, saying that it’s final, that it’s over, that we are never, ever getting back together-”
“Tony.”
“Sorry.” Tony drops the sing-song voice. “Poor timing. But the point is, every time you two break up and date other people, you always end up crashing right back into each other’s lives. It’s always messy and dramatic and painful for your other girlfriends and her other boyfriends, but it always happens. You’re each other’s endgame.”
A muscle in Steve’s jaw twitches. Tony recognizes the constipated, slightly nauseated expression, and decides to wait him out. Steve has his teeth clenched together like he’s forcibly trying to keep whatever he wants to say in.
“We fought,” Steve says, with an ugly grimace. “Before I left. A lot of nasty things were said from both parties.”
“Married couples fight all the time,” Tony says wisely. “Then afterwards they make up. Or they get couples’ counselling. And a select minority end up suing each other when they can’t agree on who gets what during the divorce, flaunting their private dirty laundry to all and sundry during months of tedious court hearings.”
“Talking to you always makes me feel so optimistic about my life choices.”
“Glad to help.” Tony rubs his hands together. “So, what did you fight about this time?”
“You.”
“What about me?”
“We fought about you.”
“Wow,” Tony says, inappropriately impressed. “I’m ruining your love life when we’re not even in the same country. I had no idea my influence has spread so far.”
“She thinks I’m unhealthily fixated on you because of our past,” Steve says candidly.
“You do have the tendency to unhealthily fixate on your past, that’s true,” Tony agrees serenely. “I don’t feel any different, being the object of your unhealthy fixation.”
“I’m glad to hear that my troubling love life is so amusing to you.”
“Who’s amused? I’m not amused. If anything, I’m disturbed to realize that Namor, Barnes, and I now have something in common. We can be the founding members of a club, get badges and matching T-shirts for all of Steve Roger’s morally dubious formerly best friends of the future.”
Steve makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. “Is that the extent of your friendly advice? Snide commentary about my personal relationships?”
“You’re asking me for romantic advice? Me? I’ve never had a romantic relationship that lasted more than a few months, you do know that?”
“You might as well be good for something.”
“Have you tried turning it off and on again?” Tony asks earnestly.
“Stark.”
“Ouch.” Tony exaggeratedly massages his chest, making a wounded face. “Back to last names? I’m hurt, Steven. You’ve hurt me. I thought we were closer than this.”
“I’m going to push you off this swing.”
“No! Don’t!” Tony laughs, drawing his knees to his chest. Steve grabs his calf. The super-soldier’s long fingers wrapping entirely around Tony’s leg. “I’ll tell Pepper!” Tony tattles shamelessly. “She’ll knock your teeth out with her Lamborghinis.”
“The serum will grow them back,” Steve says, but he releases Tony’s leg. The silence between them this time is more congenial and tranquil.
“You don’t go back to someone the way you and Sharon go back to each other if there’s nothing there,” Tony finally says. “Obviously, what you have with her is something you both think is worth fighting for.”
“Like the way you and me keep coming back to each other?”
“Like the way me and you keep coming back to each other.” Tony purposefully misunderstands. “But without sex and love and marriage.”
Steve presses the sole of his shoe on the gravelly front yard and pushes, making the swing sway harder. The squeaky joints (Tony keeps reminding himself to oil them and he keeps forgetting) are rhythmic and lulling. Tony’s almost dozing off to the rocking back-and-forth motion of the swing, arms folded behind his neck, when Steve starts rummaging inside the pockets of his camo jacket and pulls out a bundle of envelopes tied together with twine.
“Here.” Steve hands them over.
Tony glances briefly at his name untidily scrawled on the topmost envelope, recognizes the chicken scratch handwriting, and feels all the blood in his veins turn to ice. His heart seems to stop. His lips move. His voice is barely audible.
“How many people know I’m here?”
“None,” Steve answers, and Tony gives him a sharp look. “I’m not lying. The Avengers knew I was planning to track you down. And some of our old friends wanted to hear from you.”
Tony’s blood thaws – smoothie-like sludge instead of solid ice, his heart pumping sluggishly. “All my friends are here,” he hears himself say. “All two of them. An argument can be made for three.”
Steve touches his wrist, fingers wrapping featherlight around Tony’s pulse. “I think you should read those before you decide for sure,” Steve whispers.
All the blood in Tony’s body is rushing to his brain. His vision is swimming. The motion of the swing makes him feel sick. The coffee, burritos and blueberry smoothie he had for lunch slosh around in his stomach.
The grey clouds cover the sun. It starts drizzling.
Steve pulls Tony off the swing. Even standing on solid land, Tony still feels like the ground is undulating beneath his feet.
“Do you have extra mattresses or something?” Tony hears Steve say, when his ears finally stop buzzing. “We can make a camp-bed. Or I can take the couch. I’m not thrilled about sharing a room with Rhodes or Mrs. Potts, if I’m entirely honest.”
Tony blames the dregs of his disorientation for what comes spewing out of his mouth next. “They’re sleeping with me.”
“What?”
Oops.
Well. No use in any sort of pretense now. Tony meets Steve’s goggling eyes head on and says firmly, with no chance of misinterpretation. “Pepper and Rhodey will be sleeping with me. In both the literal and biblical sense.”
Steve continues to gawk. It stops mizzling. Tony isn’t even lightly sprayed.
“So fickle.” Tony looks mulishly at the grey rainclouds, which as if in response to his words, clear to reveal cheerfully bright blue skies. “I guess it’s true what they say – Nature is a woman.”
“So… you and Colonel Rhodes… and Miss Potts…” Steve seems to be choking on his own tongue. Tony takes pity on him.
“Yes.”
“I… have you… did you… always?”
“Not since Happy died.” Tony has to work not to choke on his tongue. It will always be difficult to talk about Happy, doubly so on this topic, no matter how much time has passed.
“And Hogan…”
“Yeah. Him too.”
Tony has done the impossible. He’s rendered Steve Rogers totally silent.
“Do you have a problem with it?” Tony arches an eyebrow, daring him to say yes.
“No,” Steve almost shouts, shaking his head like Gerald shakes off soapy water after a bath. He still looks a bit like he’s been smacked in the face with a picture of Red Skull in a flowery bikini, but the shell-shock is rapidly receding. “No. Of course not, Tony. I… I’m happy with you.”
“Your happiness is appreciated,” Tony says graciously. “But unnecessary. I’m not dating Pepper or Rhodey. And as far as I can deduce, neither of them are interested in dating each other.”
Steve’s face contorts, like he’s just pulled a muscle. “But you’re sleeping together.”
“Steve.” Tony smiles somewhat patronizingly. “Do you need me to explain to you the newfangled custom of the twenty-first century where people have sex without being in a romantic relationship? I can use little words. Draw you a diagram. Give me five minutes and I’ll whip you up a PowerPoint presentation.”
“No!” Steve turns completely red. It’s delightful to watch. “No, that’s not necessary. It… it just took me by surprise…. a lot of surprise.”
“I’m surprised by you as well, Steve,” Tony says playfully. “I mean, everyone knows about you and Sharon. But I always thought… Well. Sam’s objectively a very handsome man, even if his personality could use a bit of work. And all those years fighting the war with James Barnes, old timey soldiers Not-Asking and Not-Telling all over the place.”
“I hate you, Tony.”
“You never looked at the three of them and wondered… or Sharon never suggested… you and Wilson and Barnes never tried to experiment-”
“No, Tony.”
“Never got curious?”
“Please stop.”
“Not even a little?”
“I swear to God-”
“What’s going on?” Pepper marches out of the house.
Her soft beige-colored duster coat is knotted around the waist of her white summer dress like a wide sash. She’s in a pair of especially sharp-looking and towering pale lavender heels that Tony suspects she chose for the sole purpose of looming an inch over Steve Rogers. Tony dons his best victimized face. Pepper promptly rounds on Steve with an accusatory look.
“Why were you shouting?” Pepper demands, in a voice that would make drill sergeants cower.
“We were discussing the merits of Steve having a foursome with Carter, Wilson, and Barnes,” Tony informs her conversationally.
“No, we were not-”
They’re interrupted once again by a ruckus in the woods. The boughs of a pine tree rustles and out stumbles a muddy Rhodey, metaphorical smoke steaming from his ears, carrying an equally mud-caked Gerald by the scruff of his neck. Every inch of Rhodey’s clothing matches the color of his dark brown skin. Tony imagines that they look like genetically created mutant monsters risen from the depths of a swamp. Their appearance is so alarming that both Steve and Pepper take a step back.
“Did you fall in the lake?” Tony asks in concern. “I didn’t think Gerald could swim.”
“I should have let him drown,” Rhodey snarls, incensed. “You two deserve each other. All cute on the outside, completely depraved on the inside.”
Tony gives Steve a sweet smile, pecks Pepper on the mouth, then minces over to coo over the mud-spattered Gerald with dark glee.
“We’ve created a monster,” Pepper tells Rhodey.
…
Tony dithers and dallies until he starts to feel farcical.
It’s just words on paper. He tells himself. It can’t hurt you.
In the privacy of his bedroom that night, while Rhodey is in the shower and Pepper is brushing her teeth, he eyeballs the stack of envelopes sitting on his bedside like it’s a poisonous viper coiled and ready to strike. He’s abruptly stricken by the simultaneous, antithetical urges to burn the lot of it; and stick them under his pillow for safekeeping, like a child hoarding a secret, treasured possession.
The sound of running water from the bathroom cuts off. Rhodey’s words are muffled, but Pepper’s bell-like laughter rings out loud and clear.
The rough twine is tied in a basic square knot, courtesy of Steve Rogers’ boy-scout days. Tony’s hands don’t shake or fumble. Clint’s handwriting on the topmost envelope draws his eyes like a giant flashing neon sign. Below that there’s the unique texture of parchment and Thor’s large looping calligraphy, written with strong-smelling ink and using what seems to be an old-fashioned quill tip. Peter’s narrow and slanted penmanship beneath that.
Tony pulls off the tape sealing Clint’s letter. The sharp edges of the envelope slices shallowly into his thumb and leaves a tiny blot of red on the paper. Blood wells up from the thin cut and beads up on his skin. He sticks the digit into his mouth and sucks, tasting copper.
Tony,
I don’t even know why I’m writing this. I don’t even know if you’ll bother reading this at all or just chuck it in the dustbin. Either way, I’m going to lay it all out for you.
You’re an ass.
I’m telling you this just in case you don’t remember our last conversation.
I don’t trust a lot of people, even people on the Avengers, but I trusted you. The Avengers were like my messed-up, unconventional family. You were like my messed-up, unconventional brother. And when I came back from the dead to see how you screwed us all up, tore my family apart, and got Cap killed over some stupid piece of paper, it pissed me off. It pissed me off that I wasn’t there to stop you – both of you. It pissed me off that I was so wrong about you.
I’m still pissed off, in case you haven’t gathered.
But for ten years, we were friends, weren’t we? Close friends. And I’m learning the hard way that you can still miss someone you’re pissed at.
Life would be a lot easier for me if I could just stop caring on command.
Did you see me at your trial? I don’t know if you deserved exile, Tony. I still don’t know. But I didn’t feel as vindicated as I thought I would. And it still didn’t change anything. It didn’t change the fact that our ‘family’ was torn apart like cotton candy. It didn’t change the fact that superheroes still don’t trust each other. It didn’t heal the damage the Skrulls did. It doesn’t magically make anything better or just like old times.
Everything’s changed now. I can’t get my bearings. I still can’t wrap my head around it all.
Cap isn’t Cap anymore. He’s off leading his secret ops team. Barnes is Captain America. On my worst days, I like to blame you for all of that, even though I know it’s not quite fair.
But Bobbi’s alive.
My wife is alive.
Things between us are different now. Not Bobbi. Bobbi’s not different. She doesn’t remember being taken, not really. From her perspective, she hasn’t been gone at all. She just woke up one day to find that years had passed.
Our marriage is different because I’m different.
I thought she was dead. I’ve dated other women and tried to move on from her. I’ve changed. I’ve died.
So, yeah. It’s been an adjustment. But we’re making it work.
Cap says he’s tracked you down. I don’t know if that’s true. No one knows where you are. No one’s seen you since the day of the trial. A lot of people think you’re dead. I hope that’s not true, Tony. I’m still pissed at you, but I never wanted you dead.
Talk to Cap. Try not to kill each other. He doesn’t say, but everyone can tell that he misses you loads. I remember how wrecked you were when I first saw you after Cap died. You want to fix things between the two of you as badly as he does.
So, don’t screw it up.
Write back if you feel like it. Or call. I haven’t changed my personal phone number.
Just let me know once in a while that you’re still alive.
Clint.
The script is erratic and nigh illegible at some places where Clint must have struggled to write them. Tony smooths out the creases of the lined notepaper, refolds them, and tucks them back into their envelope. He feels suddenly enervated, wanting nothing more than to lie down on the mattress, pull the duvet over his face to block out the rest of the real world, and drift off to dreamless sleep. He doesn’t have the zeal or the verve to read through what Thor or Peter or anyone else has to say to him – whether they be words of clemency or choler. He wants to let the feelings and emotions brought to the surface after reading Clint’s letter be tomorrow’s problem.
The bathroom door opens and Pepper steps out in a set of vividly pink pajamas – almost fuchsia really – that clashes magnificently with her flaming red curls. The sleepwear is obviously too big for her – the collar slipping down to expose the sharp angles of her collarbones and a bare freckled shoulder, the waistband slipping dangerously low, hanging precariously on her hips. Tony feels his breath catch, because the jammies that are too big on Pepper would be just the right size on, let’s say, a stocky and muscular former boxing champion with a clandestine predilection for unironically pink men’s PJs.
“You’re wearing that?” Tony asks hoarsely, the wind expelled from his lungs like he’s just been sucker-punched.
He must lose track of time, because he blinks and Pepper is standing right in front of him, barely an inch of space between them. He reaches out, touches the hem of the pink sleepshirt, pinching the thin cotton fabric between his fingers.
Pepper’s hands find Tony’s own, traveling up his forearms, biceps, shoulders, stopping at his neck and digging her fingers into the tense knot of his corded muscles, kneading the stiff tendons at the junction of his shoulders and neck. Tony’s entire body shudders. He closes his stinging eyes, leans forward and rests his forehead against Pepper’s chest. Pepper Potts is all soft curves and pink jammies and slender wrists. Pepper Potts is diamond-hard eyes and spine of steel and heart of gold. Pepper Potts is a contradiction and a brain teaser and an imbroglio and Tony can spend the rest of his days trying to puzzle her out and die a happy man.
Hah. Happy.
Pepper Potts in Happy Hogan’s pajamas makes Tony feel like he’s bleeding and injured and weak.
“I miss him too,” Pepper whispers into his dyed blond hair. It’s Pepper Potts’ husband that is dead, not Tony’s, and yet it’s Pepper who’s stroking his head like he’s a very young child in need of consoling. It’s Pepper Potts who’s a billion – no, a trillion times stronger than Tony can ever hope to be.
Tony wants to sob. He keeps waiting for the day when thinking of Happy finally stops feeling like he’s acquired another set of shrapnel inching their way towards his heart, cutting into his tissues and muscles and vital internal organs. He’s still waiting. He’s still mourning Happy. He thinks he’s going to be mourning Happy forever.
Tony knows that Pepper and Happy used to do their own laundry separately, because they were both inordinately pernickety over what kind of detergents they liked and hated getting the two different scents mixed up. It was something that tickled Tony and Rhodey to no end.
Happy’s pajamas still smell like his favorite laundry detergent – cleanliness and aloe. It’s a cheap brand that Tony can’t remember off the top off his head. Tony wonders if Pepper still keeps all of her husband’s clothes, if she can bear to throw any of them away, if they’re gathering dust in taped over boxes in the storage closet, or are they still hung and folded in the wardrobe, if she washes them periodically so that they still retain Happy’s smell. Tony visualizes Pepper and Rhodey sorting through Happy’s clothes, deciding which to keep for themselves and which to put away, and feels a rush of shameful envy and simultaneous guilty relief.
Pepper’s fingers leave his hair, skimming down the side of his face, the shell of his ears, his forehead and brows. Tony’s hands fall to Pepper’s hips, wandering up to rest against the soft bare skin of her stomach and waist. Pepper kisses the corners of his eyes, where he knows lines are deepening into the beginnings of crow’s feet. Her fingertips skim over the bridge of his nose, his cheekbones, one fingernail catching on his lower lip.
Pepper straddles him, sitting in his lap and hugging his sides with her thighs. Tony pushes up her pink sleepshirt, mouthing upwards along her uncovered torso, cupping her breasts and taking a rosy pink bud into his mouth, worrying it gently with his teeth. Pepper hums in approval, tracing circles against his shoulder-blades.
Tony pulls back after a few moments, surveying his handiwork. Pepper’s breasts heaves, pebbling and glistening wetly. She has her head thrown back, face flushed, green eyes blazing like twin comets, glorious scarlet hair tumbling magnificently down her shoulders.
The light from the bathroom falls on them. Rhodey steps out. Behind Rhodey, Tony can see the steam still fogging up the sink mirror. Rhodey’s clad in only a towel around his waist, reams of peaty brown skin on display. He’s in mid-motion of toweling off his hair, but he ceases when he sees them, Pepper in Tony’s lap, her pink sleepshirt hiked up to expose her breasts. Tony meets Rhodey’s eyes, then, not breaking eye contact, very deliberately starts to grind against Pepper. Pepper lets her sleepshirt fall back down, raking her sharp fingernails up and down Tony’s back, so hard he can feel the bite of it through the material of his jammies.
Eyes dark and smoldering, arousal tenting the towel around his waist, Rhodey nonetheless – with more aplomb that Tony can claim to have in that same situation – resumes drying his hair, calmly hangs up both his towels to dry, then joins them on the bed.
…
As much as Tony opines that they would like to, Rhodey and Pepper can’t actually chaperone his and Steve’s every interaction twenty-four seven – not with Rhodey’s commitment to the USAF and SI’s board of directors breathing down Pepper’s neck.
So, they leave after staying a few days, tag-teaming to give Steve the shovel talk right before their departure.
Then it’s just Tony and Steve and Gerald, rattling around in the cabin, without Pepper and Rhodey around to act as buffers.
They coexist.
More or less peacefully.
With a minimum quantum of shouting.
It isn’t anything resembling the time they lived together in the Avengers Mansion, sleeping just down the hall from each other and hanging out at all hours of the day and night in the library and TV room and the kitchen and the gym and the lab.
The cabin doesn’t have a library or gym or TV room, for instance.
They do sleep just down the hall from each other.
This is not at all like the times when Steve used to join Tony in his labs, drawing in his sketchbook while the CEO brainstormed and tinkered away; when Steve coaxed Tony from the labs during one of his frenetic engineering binges for a bite to eat; when Tony would stumble into the kitchen, bleary-eyed and half-asleep, to see Steve already waiting for him at the island counter, fresh from his morning run and shower, plating up a piping hot breakfast while a freshly brewed cup of Tony’s favorite coffee still steamed; when they sparred in the gym, Tony in his armor to give Steve a fair challenge; when they’d wrestle over the TV remote.
There’s an invisible but omnipresent mantle of awkwardness and rigidity in their exchanges, dodging in their wake. A fragile and structurally unsound truce silently drawn up between them, liable to shatter at the most infinitesimal intrusion. Decorum and civil formality imposing itself where it is neither wanted nor welcome.
It’s very tiring. Tiptoeing around someone else in Tony’s own home.
This dicey and unspoken armistice lasts for all of a week before it pops like a shimmering soap bubble floating unwisely close to Gerald’s impish paws.
Looking back, Tony doesn’t even remember what set them off.
One moment, they’re settling down for dinner – takeaway Chinese – and Steve asks about Tony’s work. It’s the same banal, trite small talk they’ve been mindlessly subjecting themselves to for the past seven days. But something about their hackneyed and platitudinous back-and-forth makes Tony’s hackles rise. He spits out something angry. Steve returns fire. And the next thing he knows, both men are on their feet, vociferating at the top of their lungs.
The rest of the fight after that is a livid red haze. Tony thinks he might have thrown his Char Kway Teow at Steve. Steve holds fast to his moral high ground and doesn’t throw anything back.
But there’s one part that Tony recollects with crystal clarity.
“You tried to kill me!” Tony screams at Steve. “Civilians had to stop you from lopping my head off with your shield! You had me defenseless and powerless and you beat me halfway to death with your bare hands! You would have killed me!”
Steve leaves after that, his face wet with what Tony initially thinks is sweat but eventually realizes are tears.
He made Steve cry.
And he thought he couldn’t feel like a shittier human being than before.
Tony tidies up their mess in the kitchen, binning the leftovers and the takeaway carton boxes, appetite thoroughly gone. He feels sick and shaky. Steve’s motorbike is gone from the driveway. That’s probably the last time he’ll ever voluntarily seek out Tony again and their last conversation is a screaming match where Tony accused him of attempted murder.
Except it’s not their last conversation, because Steve comes back. Miserable, red-eyed, with dried blood caked over his knuckles where the serum has already knitted his skin back together – he looks like a hot mess, but he still comes back.
Tony doesn’t expect him to.
They try again.
They dedicate a keen effort to sorting through their issues, making fairly good headway until the next volatile argument explodes between them. There’s just as much shouting as the first time. Quid pro quo – Steve is the one to make Tony cry this time. Steve leaves. Then he comes back again.
Two steps forward. Three steps back.
Rinse. Repeat.
They both say some hateful, virulent things they don’t mean in the heat of the moment, and there are floods of manly tears from both sides. Nevertheless, slowly but surely, they get better at talking to each other instead of at each other. It’s a process that would probably be substantially accelerated by seeking counselling, something which Pepper brings up once, and Tony responds about how he thinks that drowning on dry land sounds more pleasant.
Steve goes longer without storming off in an ill temper. He always comes back.
Tony doesn’t know why.
He can make an educated guess.
But he doesn’t want to.
And just when the latest turmoil in Tony Stark’s life only barely starts making sense, Nick Fury shows up on his doorstep with a summons.
…
“Still here, I see.”
Nick Fury puffs on his joint. The end of his cigarette glows red and smoke plumes thickly in the air. Night is falling quickly, the daylight fading around them. Dressed all in black, Nick Fury blends in with the lengthening shadows and Tony can only pinpoint his position by the glowing red laser-like dot of his cigarette. The air is filled with the scent of burning tobacco. Tony clears his throat, waving the grey fumes out of his face. Fury looks exactly the same, as he always does – a trench coat over a standard SHIELD uniform similar to the one Tony wore during his days as Director of SHIELD.
“Yep, still here.” Nick grinds the burning end of his ciggy against the wooden wall, leaving an ashy burn mark against the baby-blue paint. “No need to sound so down in the dumps about it. I’ll be out of your hair soon enough. Just wanted a word before I leave. File a complaint with the welcoming committee.”
Tony leans against the metal frame of the swing. The sky is dusky purple. The moon hands luminous and incandescent above them. As he watches, stars blink into view, forming patchy constellations.
“If you expected a homecoming party, you should have called ahead,” Tony says.
“I was a bit pressed for time,” Nick says brusquely. “The world doesn’t stop needing to be saved just cause you two clowns ran off into the Canadian sunset together to play house.”
Tony tilts his head toward the cabin’s open windows, through which he can hear Steve watching the TV at an aggressively loud volume. “He turn you down?”
“Yeah.”
“Maybe he doesn’t need to be the one to save the world this time.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. All I know is that I ain’t never seen the likes of what’s happening now before. I know we need the best on this. And with Reed Richards, Charles Xavier, Stephen Strange, Black Bolt, and Namor all gone rogue, pickings are slim.”
Tony closes his eyes. “The Illuminati.”
“I figured you’d know about them,” Nick mocks.
“It’s that bad?”
“Worse. I’ve been a lot of fucked-up, no-win, doomsday-esque situations – fought my way out of more of them than I can count – and I’m telling you now, this could be it. This is the worst one yet.”
“Worse than Skrulls?”
“Worse. Worse than the Registration, even.”
Tony smiles bitterly. “Somehow, I have trouble imagining that.”
“Then you’d best take my word for it,” Nick says. Inside, Steve changes the channel from a screechy horror movie to what sounds like a nature documentary. “When I said we needed the best on this, I was talking about you too, you know.”
“And I’ll tell you the same thing I told Steve when he showed up here that first day and offered me a pardon,” Tony says briskly. “I’m not coming back. Whatever’s going on with these ‘incursions’, the Avengers will solve it without my help and be better off for it.”
“I’m not entirely surprised.” Nick sounds insouciant, for all that he keeps expounding on the dire global threat about to end life as they all know it. “But you know what did surprise me, Stark? Rogers. I was so sure he’d jump on the chance to get back into the fight. Never thought he was physically capable of turning his back on a righteous cause and burying his head in the metaphorical Canadian sand.”
Tony is squeezing his eyes shut tightly enough that the backs of his eyelids turn blood-red. He tastes blood in his mouth and realizes he’s biting down on his tongue hard enough to break skin, trying to keep silent.
“There’s no use dropping hints with me,” Tony says, swallowing the taste of copper coating his tongue. “I can’t control what Steve does. Worked out extraordinarily badly for me the last time I tried.” A breeze picks up, bringing a smell of fresh pine and sickly-sweet maple. He turns his head, angling his body so he feels the wind against his face. “There’s nothing keeping him here.”
There’s a thick, poignant silence.
“There’s you,” Nick says.
Tony’s eyes snap open. He looks at Nick wildly, irascibly, almost terror-stricken.
“I never asked him to stay,” Tony says. “I never asked for it.”
“Come on, Stark.” Nick crosses his arms and leans against the wall in an artificially lackadaisical manner. “You must have known. At the very least, you must have already guessed. You’d have to be dense as a brick not to.” Tony shakes his head mutely. “You’re not a stupid man, Stark. Do us both a favor and stop pretending to be one.”
Inside, the television has stopped on a news channel. Tony is hyperaware of the open window just a few feet in front of him, and the possibility that Steve can hear their every word with his serum enhanced super-hearing.
Fury is right. Tony can guess.
He just doesn’t want to.
“I didn’t ask for it,” Tony says again.
“You didn’t have to ask, Stark,” Nick says gruffly. “You just have to exist. That’s how it works.”
…
Steve is watching an episode of Dog Whisperer. Gerald barks madly at the screen as Caesar Millan approaches a hostile Labrador while the cream-coated animal is eating, and promptly gets bitten for his troubles.
“What an idiot,” Tony says disdainfully.
Steve sits in Tony’s fancy lounge chair, TV remote in hand, expression too schooled and appearing inordinately interested in Caesar Millan’s bloody hand for him not to have at least overheard some of what Fury has said to Tony. They can both continue to play dumb and ignore the elephant in the room for as long as possible, or Tony can stop being a pussy and finally confront him. Tony crosses the room to stand in front of Steve, shoving at his shoulder in a tacit request for him to make room.
“It’s not your turn tonight,” Steve says, but he budges over all the same.
Tony squishes himself between Steve and the armrest, ending up half-sprawled on Steve’s lap, his head resting on Steve’s chest. He can feel Steve’s heart hammering against his skin. Steve seems to have stopped breathing. He’s a solid block of heat wrapped around Tony’s side and back.
Steve flicks through a handful of channels, stopping at some kind of sitcom.
Tony pats Steve’s cheek. He wants Steve’s attention on him, damnit! Steve looks at him curiously. Tony presses their lips together.
Steve’s lips are soft but peeling. He hasn’t been drinking enough water. Tony keeps his mouth closed. The kiss is almost chaste, really. For some reason, he thought it would feel… different.
Not that it isn’t nice. Because it is. Very nice. Very… sweet. It feels a bit like kissing Pepper or Rhodey or Happy – warm and safe and slow, but not quite right.
Steve’s lips are unresponsive beneath Tony’s. But when Tony starts to pull away, Steve unfreezes like someone hit the ‘play’ button on a video, muscles flexing as he bodily hauls Tony to straddle his lap. Steve squeezes Tony’s ass, grinding their hips together. Tony gasps out of surprise more than anything else, and Steve takes the opportunity to claim his lips again, plundering Tony’s mouth, one hand gripping Tony’s hair to tilt his head however Steve likes it.
It’s not chaste.
There’s a lot of tongue.
Steve must be hell-a good at repression and sublimation.
Tony’s lips tingle, feeling swollen and bruised. Steve mouths down the long elegant column of Tony’s neck in a warm, slick trail, sucking at Tony’s pulse-point and making him shudder. Tony’s cock jumps.
“I can’t-” Steve murmurs into his skin.
Tony hears it and flinches, tries to pull away, but Steve wraps his long fingers around both of Tony’s wrists, keeping Tony right where he is. Steve’s other hand slips down the waistband of Tony’s jeans and boxers, mouth still working over Tony’s neck. Tony squirms. He can feel Steve’s hardness against his thigh. The uncomfortable tightness of Tony’s jeans is bordering on the edge of painful. Heat coils in Tony’s lower belly, building up to dizzying heights.
“Getting some mixed signals here, Cap.” Tony feels light-headed, exposing his neck to give Steve better access.
With visible effort and undisguised reluctance, Steve removes his mouth from Tony’s neck and pulls his hand out of Tony’s pants. Tony almost whines at the loss. Steve still keeps Tony’s wrists in his grip though, probably to stop Tony from legging it. The thought does occur to Tony briefly. It’s possible he didn’t quite think this through.
The azure of Steve’s eyes are nearly swallowed up by his dilated pupils. But apart from that, he looks almost unfairly put together, whereas Tony is sure he looks like a debauched mess.
Steve’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, and when he speaks, his voice is rough. “What are we, Tony?”
In just four words, Steve kills Tony’s erection entirely. Tony was at least hoping that they’d go a few days before he’d have to address this. But no such luck. Trust Steve Rogers to ruin all of his plans.
Tony tugs experimentally at his wrists, but Steve’s hold doesn’t give.
“Oh, no,” Steve says, wrapping his other arm around Tony’s waist for good measure. “You’re not running away from this discussion, Tony. Answer the question.”
Tony ducks his head. “What do you want from me, Steve?”
“I don’t want anything you don’t want to give me,” Steve says stiffly.
Tony chuckles sourly. “Trust me, Steve. No one can make me do anything that I don’t want to do.” He rolls his hips pointedly, feeling Steve’s thigh muscles flex and jump beneath him. “I know you want me, Steve.”
“I do.” Steve’s frosty tone is at direct odds to the way the arm around Tony’s waist pulls him closer, fingers digging into Tony’s hip convulsively, hard enough to leave bruises even through his clothing. “I want to bend you over this chair and make you take my cock. I want to drag you into my bedroom and fuck you through the mattress. I want to have you against the wall until you can’t walk without limping.”
Tony shudders, eyes going half-lidded. “Then why don’t you?”
“Because I don’t know what would happen next.”
“And they call you a tactical genius. If you need detailed instructions, I can draw you up a flowchart and a fifteen-page manual.”
“God-damnit, Tony! Look at me!”
Disquieted by Steve’s harsh tone, Tony’s electric blue eyes jump up to meet his. Steve stares at him, face writ large with lust and desire, but also pain and desperation.
“I can’t-” Steve cuts himself off, swallowing spasmodically. “I can’t sleep with you if it’s just sex, Tony. I want more than that. I’ve always wanted more than that. I’m not like Pepper or Rhodes or Happy.”
Tony shrinks away from his intent gaze. “It was never just sex with them.”
“Then what was it then?” Steve asks plaintively.
“It was-” A lump rises in Tony’s throat. His eyes burn. “It was about trust.” His voice wobbles. “About being vulnerable and open with the people that I trusted. It was about connection and safety and intimacy. It was never about being in love with someone.”
“Did they want it to be?” Steve asks acutely.
Tony’s silence is all the answer he needs.
“Tony-”
Steve’s arm loosens around his waist. Tony makes a bid for freedom. Both men lose their balance and topple over, tumbling in a heap onto the blue-carpeted floor with a muffled thump. They manage to avoid major injury, but they knock over the TV remote as well, and Gerald seizes the narrow window of opportunity. The puppy pounces, fastens his jaws around the controller, gnawing. The screen, playing an advertisement for KFC’s chicken and waffle meal set, starts blaring at an unbearably loud volume. Tony wrests the remote from Gerald’s slobbery jaws and presses the red off button. The screen turns black and falls blessedly silent.
“I’m going to leave you at a shelter and replace you with a less troublesome model,” Tony says to Gerald, who barks joyously, eyes fixed on the slimy controller in Tony’s hand.
The interruption is like a cold bucket of water, disrupting their reverie. Tony looks at Steve, who has turned away, his shoulders set, hands on his hips. He can’t see Steve’s face, but he can sense the super soldier all but physically withdrawing from him. A yawning chasm stretches out between them, and if Tony doesn’t do anything to close the gap now –
“You told me once.” Tony fiddles with the TV remote just for something to do with his hands. “That being injected with the super soldier serum was the worst pain in your life.”
There’s a pause. He can tell that Steve is wrong-footed by the non sequitur. “Like needles were being jabbed in every part of my body,” Steve says. “Every cell was being rewritten. As if every bone was being broken and fused into glass. I didn’t know pain like that existed before then.”
Tony sets down the TV remote safely on top of a shelf. Gerald paces in sulky circles at his feet. “Imagine that pain multiplied by a thousand,” Tony says. “That was what it felt like when Happy died.”
Finally, Steve turns to face him, expression gentle and compassionate. “Tony-”
Tony doesn’t look at him. He’s staring at a vague point somewhere in the distance, blue eyes dull and hollow, his mind miles and miles away. “We had so many close calls before that,” he says. “So many. Pepper had a miscarriage because she was tortured by one of my enemies. The baby – the baby could have been mine. Then Rhodey – God, Rhodey. He was injured so badly he was in literal pieces. I literally had to build him a new body.”
“I understand,” Steve says quietly.
“No,” Tony says, not unkindly. “You don’t. You’ve never needed anyone the way I’ve needed them. When Happy died – that pain and the grief – I never want to go through that again. It was worse than dying. The worst thing I’ve ever gone through in my entire life.”
“I’m sorry.”
Tony turns to look at him, still speaking in that horribly empty tone. “I don’t fall in love with the people I can’t bear to lose, Steve.” A single tear slips down his cheek. “It hurts too much.”
Steve moves closer, so close Tony can see his every blond lash. Steve’s warm breath fans over Tony’s cheeks. Tony wants to back away, but he’s rooted to the spot, like his feet are stapled down.
Steve wipes away his tear. “And me?”
“Futurist,” Tony reminds him, the timbre of his voice sub-fusc. “I’ve always known I was going to lose you – to death or to your morals… my lack of them.”
“You haven’t.” Steve’s big hands come up to cradle Tony’s face. “You haven’t, Tony. I’m still here. You haven’t lost me. I came back. I’ll always come back to you.” He presses a kiss to Tony’s forehead. “There’s nothing you can do that will make me give up on you.”
Tony lets himself lean into the other man’s strength. “Oh, I’m sure I can find a loophole to that.”
“No loophole,” Steve says obdurately. “You’ll have me as long as you want me.”