Chapter Text
October 22, 2012
Steve was running too fast—he knew that, knew people were starting to stare. He really shouldn’t let himself run like this in public, but it was hard to slow down, hard to hold back. He felt like he was flying and each pounding footfall was crying out “He loves me! He loves me! He loves me!” Steve was grinning like a loon and didn’t care in the least. It was a beautiful, crisp autumn day in Central Park and everything was perfect, beautiful, amazing.
Earlier, Tony had eaten a heaping plate of pancakes, bacon, and eggs, which he’d praised to the sky making Steve want to preen and puff out his chest. Steve had even kissed Tony in the kitchen—twice! And, okay fine, nobody had actually been present to see it, but still. Tony had seemed almost hesitant when he mentioned having some projects in his workshop, but Steve had shooed him down to work and play. (See? Not trying to change you!) Then Steve had left for his run.
It was a glorious day.
***
Tony hadn’t been lying when he’d said he had some stuff to work on—he always had stuff to work on. Most importantly, there was his suit and all the upgrades and maintenance for the Avenger’s gear. There were the few contracts he’d still take from the government—emergency evacuation vehicles and things like that. And then R&D at Stark Industries could use always his help, even outside a crisis.
He really wasn’t hiding.
Tony downed three bottles of ice cold water from the mini-fridge and took a seat at his workbench, petting Dummy absently. Hiding was a nasty word for what he was doing. He was processing. It was important. And, like so many things, he did it best in his workshop. Alone.
“Hey, JARVIS, bring up Project Triple X for me, would ya?”
“Certainly, sir.”
A moment later Tony was encircled by huge projections: Steve’s spreadsheet, various annotated ebooks, shopping carts at JT’s Storeroom and Mr. S Leather, and of course his own notes. He yawned.
Tony stayed up all night working on projects often enough, but a night of hateful inactivity, staring at Steve and thinking that— Tony cut off that line of thought. (Yeah. See? Feelings—exhausting!) Even after Steve’s reassurances that the scene hadn’t gone terribly wrong, that the crying had been a good thing in fact, Tony couldn’t sleep. There was too much to think about. So, he wasn’t hiding in the workshop; he was processing.
Tony rubbed at his eyes. All nighters were also a little harder to manage after a five day marathon. (Fucking Stark phones . . .) Tony dragged himself over to the coffeemaker, the one he’d raided from the common kitchen almost two years ago. It sounded a little like Darth Vader while brewing, but he’d gotten sentimental about the damn thing and still hadn’t replaced it. Dummy chirped at his side while Tony waited impatiently for his caffeine then eagerly burned his tongue. (Worth it.)
Well-fortified, it was now time to plan.
But first, Tony reviewed the facts (yet again. . .): Steve had difficulty with public displays of affection; he had done little or no research on BDSM beyond what was necessary for the spreadsheet; he had not experienced PTSD or encountered any sort of trigger during their session; he’d definitely reached subspace, though he didn’t seem to know what that was; he found verbalizing difficult in scene and perhaps impossible while under; he had probably been overwhelmed by the number of new elements Tony had introduced; he had definitely been overwhelmed by the emotions the scene brought out. (And he loves me…)
Well. It was a start.
Tony sighed.
Now, how to move forward? And what the fuck was he going to say to Steve? Because they really couldn’t continue like this.
***
“Tony?”
Tony jerked awake suddenly, Steve’s hand on his shoulder. Tony blinked and looked up.
“Muh…?” Tony rubbed his eyes. (Awesome. Drooled on my arm. Hot. Really sexy that.)
“Hey, Steve.”
“Hey yourself,” Steve said with a smile, leaning down to kiss Tony on the forehead. He glanced around at the glowing screens.
“So, uh. More research, huh?” Steve said with the beginnings of a blush. Tony stared. (Oh fuck, I love that. I want to fuck you over and over and cover you in my come then see if you’ll still blush so easily.)
“Looks . . . interesting.” Steve glanced over at Tony’s copy of their spreadsheet. “This what you’ve been working on?”
And why did Tony suddenly feel like he’d been lying that morning?
“Yeah,” Tony said, rubbing his neck. “I mean, I was doing some work on the Mark VII for a while, but then I was thinking about last night and well . . . ” Tony trailed off and gave a little shrug.
“Tony, I’m honored,” Steve said softly. He crouched down to bring himself level with Tony and reached out to touch his cheek. “You’re too good to me.”
(Shit. Steve, we really need to talk. Oh fuck, I—)
Then, Steve stood up with a smile and said briskly, “Now then. It’s 7:30, I made chili, and everybody’s ready for dinner. Clint’s was complaining how many movie nights we’ve rescheduled and has convinced Thor we should watch Terminator 3.” Steve shook his head. “Though how anyone in our line of work can get that excited about movie explosions is beyond me. Bruce and Natasha are voting against them for Some Like It Hot. I’m not too particular, so, you wanna come eat and cast the deciding vote?”
(7:30? How the hell did it get so late? I can’t have nodded off for more than twenty minutes or so…)
“Er, unless you’re too busy,” Steve backpedaled. “I can just bring something down to you if you’re—”
Tony shook his head. “No, it’s fine. I’m at a stopping place. JARVIS, save my work.”
“Of course, sir.”
Tony started to follow Steve to the elevator then, on second thought, turned back to down the last of his cold coffee like a shot before leaving.
(Okay. After the movie. We’ll talk then.)
“Be good while Daddy’s out!” Tony called to the bots, then stepped into the elevator. Steve reached out to pull him close and Tony barely stifled a little noise of surprise.
“I’ve been thinking about you all day,” Steve murmured into Tony’s hair. “I was going to do some more of the reading Fury sent over, but I couldn’t concentrate. All I could think about was you.” He chuckled, nuzzling at Tony’s neck. “Worked myself up pretty bad at the gym.”
Steve paused then added a little hesitantly, “I started something new in the studio.”
Tony held Steve tight. “Will I get to see it?” he asked.
“Mmm. Maybe,” Steve said with a mysterious little smile. “Maybe when it’s done.”
As the elevator doors opened, Steve let his arms fall and pulled away.
“There he is,” Clint said with a nod at Tony. (Mmmm. Chili smells amazing. Oh yeah, never had lunch…)
“Man, we were starting to think you’d been kidnapped,” Clint said. Tony rolled his eyes. Clint continued with a sly look, “Or that maybe Steve went over to the dark side and was keeping you chained up somewhere as his sex slave.”
Steve’s eyes went wide, then he looked down and mumbled, “Don’t be ridiculous, Clint,” while Tony just rolled his eyes again and said, “I’ve been in the lab. Bla bla Stark Industries bla bla.”
“Mmm-hmm,” Clint murmured and raised an eyebrow. Tony narrowed his eyes, noticing the way that Steve fumbled to start serving chili, turning his back on the team so they couldn’t see his expression or, more likely, his blush. (Damn. Might need to lay some ground rules. Like no teasing Steve about sex. Or gay stuff.)
“Oh, and I’m voting for Some Like It Hot,” Tony added. (Take that!)
“What!?” Clint cried. “Tony, you’re killing me. Is Cap rubbing off on you?” Clint asked, then added, deadpan, “And by rubbing off, I mean—” Clint cut himself off with a sharp breath. Tony grinned inwardly when he saw Clint surreptitiously reach down to rub his shin. (And thank you, Natasha.) “Since when do you want to watch old stuff?”
Tony glared. “First of all, it’s not just any ‘old stuff.’ It’s got Marilyn Monroe, Jack Lemmon, and Tony Curtis. Enough said. But second of all, we showed Steve Terminator 2 and I won’t have the shitty third movie sullying the memory of T-2’s epic awesomeness.”
(Also, I know Steve would rather watch Some Like It Hot but hates casting the deciding vote on movie night. So there.)
“Fine,” Clint said, then turned to Thor. “Sorry, buddy.”
“It is no problem,” Thor said seriously. “We shall watch this third Terminator movie some other time. I am happy to see the comic film Bruce has suggested for us.”
Steve placed two heaping bowls of chili on the table. Clint and Thor immediately snapped them up and headed for the couch.
Steve sighed. “You know sometimes, it would be really nice to eat at the table,” he said, handing a bowl to Natasha. Steve looked at Bruce, who held his hands up in surrender and murmured, “I’m staying out of this. Again.”
“We eat breakfast at the table, lunch at the table, and dinner on non-movie nights at the table,” Clint pointed out. “I think we can have couch-dinner this time.” He turned to Natasha, “Hey, Natasha—beer me!”
She glared. “ ‘Beer’ is not a verb, Clint,” she said, but grabbed two from the fridge all the same.
Steve waved his hands at the chili. “But it isn’t even take-out!” Steve protested.
Tony watched the team with a steady sense of warmth. Sometimes it still startled him-- that they’d eventually found a way to fit together like this.
***
January 6, 2010
Tony paused in the doorway at the sound of Steve’s voice, then peeked around the corner, unsure if he wanted to brave a kitchen full of people.
“So, uh, while you were gone, Tony introduced me to Star Wars,” Steve said to Barton and Romanov. “It was pretty swell. So, I was wondering, uh—what are your favorite movies?”
The two agents eyed him impassively for several long moments.
“Doctor Zhivago,” Natasha said, a hint of challenge in her tone, as if daring him to object.
Barton crossed his arms. “The Godfather.”
“Bullshit,” Romanov said. “It’s Robin Hood.”
“She’s lying,” Barton told Steve, then glanced over at Romanov. “Fuck off.”
“Make me.”
“So, um,” Steve cut in, obviously floundering, “maybe we could watch those together sometime? And order Chinese food? Maybe tonight? At 7?”
There was a long pause before Romanov answered, “Sure thing, Cap. We’ll be here.” Barton just nodded and the agents left together, headed towards the south elevator.
. . .
That evening when Tony came up-- just for coffee because the tin downstairs was empty, not because he was curious or wanted Chinese food or wanted to watch The Godfather again or anything like that-- Tony found Barton, Romanov, and Steve sitting at the dining room table in silence eating off fine china. Steve had even put the Chinese food into nice serving dishes he’d found God only knew where. Probably something Pepper had— (No. Stop there. Not now . . .)
“Where, um, did you learn to use chopsticks?” Steve asked. It sounded like he was auditioning for the role of “terminally awkward guy.”
Romanov just looked at him, unblinking.
(Time to save the Captain from his own good intentions. Enter Tony Stark stage left.)
“Cap!” Tony exclaimed with a grin. “What’s this? Chinese take-out at the dining room table? Absurd! A crime against tradition!” Tony waved his hands emphatically. “You’re supposed to eat take-out in front of the TV! Haven’t I taught you anything about the modern age? Come on—what are we watching? Move it, move it! To the couch!”
“Uh, well, if you’re sure that’s how it’s done . . .”
“Absolutely!”
Barton and Romanov looked relieved. At least Tony thought so. (Hard to tell with those two.)
“Hey, there enough for me?” Tony asked, grabbing a packet of chopsticks and one of the big serving bowls full of chow main.
Steve smiled gratefully at him. “Of course.”
***
“Tony?” Steve said, laying a hand on his lover’s shoulder and holding out a bowl of chili. (You’ve been staring. Still tired? Huh. Maybe I shouldn’t have woken you up.) “You ready?”
Tony smiled up at him and nodded. “Yep! Lead on, MacDuff!”
Steve hesitated. “I’m pretty sure it’s ‘lay on, MacDuff,’ actually.” Steve paused and shook his head. “And for somebody who doesn’t care about poetry, you drop an awful lot of Shakespeare lines.”
Tony gave him a blank look. “That’s Shakespeare?”
Steve’s jaw dropped. “Tony! That’s . . . that’s Macbeth! Of course it’s—” Tony’s mouth was twitching up at the corners. “Oh. I see. Ha ha.” Steve rolled his eyes and gave Tony a little punch.
“Puh-lease,” Tony said, taking his chili. “I went to boarding school. They pumped culture into my veins.” Steve wrinkled his nose at him. “I can probably still recite—”
“Guys! Hurry up!” Clint called. Steve and Tony joined the others in their usual seats on the vast, wide, v-shaped couch. Natasha, Clint, and Thor on one wing, then Bruce, Tony, Steve on the next.
“JARVIS? If you would,” Bruce asked. (Bruce never looked at the ceiling.)
The film began. Steve devoured his chili absently. (There is something kinda nice about seeing old cars in black and white.) Glancing over, Steve found Tony’d also inhaled his food before the police could even finish raiding the speakeasy. Steve set their bowls aside and then, very casually, laid his arm along the back of the couch. He often sat like that. The back of the couch was just the right height for him to rest his arm there.
The men in the movie didn’t seem like such great fellas in most ways, quite frankly, but it was still pretty funny. Tony sure seemed to be enjoying it. Steve could feel Tony glancing over at him when he thought Steve wouldn’t notice, checking like he always did to make sure that Steve liked it too. And, just like always, Steve pretended not to notice him doing it, and then laughed a little louder at the funny bits.
Steve let his arm slide off the back of the couch, real casual, then let his fingers curl gently around Tony’s shoulder. (It’s fine. Nobody cares.) Steve laughed-- the guys in the movie didn’t look very good in dresses. (Not like Ru Paul, who looked like a real lady in a dress.) Steve put just a tad of pressure on Tony’s shoulder to draw him closer, so they were side to side, thigh to thigh. (It’s okay. It’s just our friends. They don’t care.) In the flickering light of the huge TV screen, Steve reached slowly across his lap to lay his hand palm up on Tony’s thigh. Steve held his breath and glanced over. He could see Tony was smiling. Tony gave Steve’s hand a little squeeze, but when he tried to pull his hand away, Steve squeezed back and held on.
And somebody should have told him what this movie was about! Steve’s jaw dropped when Jack Lemmon started returning Osgood’s affections. Golly.
Tony turned to grin at him. “Consider this a little bit of gay cultural history, babe,” he whispered with a lazy smirk. Steve smiled back, stroking soft little circles on the back of Tony’s hand with his thumb.
Steve divided his attention between the movie (which is pretty hilarious) and Tony (who is far more interesting, to be honest …). Little by little, Tony’s eyes started drooping, and his body started to sag, until eventually he was fast asleep on Steve’s shoulder. Tony looked beautiful like that, relaxed and content, in the flickering light from the television screen.
Around them, the other avengers were laughing, munching on popcorn, and enjoying themselves. Nobody stared at Steve and Tony. In fact, nobody except Bruce seemed to notice them at all, and Bruce just smiled at Steve then looked down at Tony with such obvious fondness that Steve felt a warm rush of affection for the other scientist. (You love him too. You’re such a good friend to him. To us.)
When the film concluded with Osgood saying, “Nobody’s perfect!” Steve let out such a loud, startled laugh that he was afraid he’d wake Tony, but Tony was out like a light. (Don’t move. Don’t disturb him. It’s fine.)
Steve slipped his hand free from Tony’s, now a little sweaty, and waved at the others.
“Tony’s asleep,” Steve told them softly. Clint looked amused, Natasha looked as warm as Steve had ever seen her, and Thor looked like he’d swallowed a bee—the expression Steve thought of as his “wanting to make loud noises and trying very hard not to!” face.
“He’s been overworking himself again,” Steve told them with a sigh.
Natasha nodded. “Stay put. We’ve got the dishes.”
“Thanks.” Then he added, mostly to Natasha and Bruce, “I really liked the movie.”
Bruce smiled. “It’s a classic.” He gathered Steve and Tony’s dishes. “Glad you liked it. Thanks for the chili.”
And without any looks or fuss or remarks about Steve and Tony, all cuddled up on the couch, the rest of the team gathered the dishes, started the dishwasher, and bade each other quiet good nights.
In the silence that followed, Steve let out a long, deep sigh, a tension he’d hardly noticed finally leaving his body. Tony let out a little snuffling noise and shifted slightly on his shoulder. Steve held perfectly still. Tony swore he slept like the dead once he fell asleep, but Steve hated to move and disturb him. They could sit, just like this, a little longer.
Steve smiled. Just twelve days ago Steve had told Tony everything in an unplanned outpouring that had felt utterly unstoppable, like a dam breaking. Just twelve days ago, in those sleek uncomfortable armchairs on the other side of this vast room. (“It’s called open floor-plan, Capsicle.”) And now Steve knew. (Tony loves me.) He’d risked everything and won. (Thank God.) It still didn’t feel entirely real.
Very carefully, Steve shifted Tony in his arms, little by little, moving Tony’s weight farther against his chest. Steve slid his right arm down to the small of Tony’s back and used his left arm to pull Tony’s legs across his lap. Tony murmured a little, but showed no signs of waking. Steve felt torn between pleasure and concern. On the one hand, he knew this was a sign of how deeply Tony trusted him and the rest of the team; on the other hand, it showed how exhausted he was and highlighted his constant willingness to work himself to the bone. After waiting a few moments for Tony to settle, Steve cradled his lover against his chest, stood, and slowly turned his steps towards Tony’s bedroom.
Steve had carried Tony to bed before—first, with pity and concern when Tony was blackout drunk and stinking of vomit; later with a certain resigned affection after another of Tony’s benders; and a few times after that when Tony had been wounded in battle, the suit rendered inoperative. Once, Tony had been unconscious. Steve’s heart had pounded with panic and he’d held Tony at an awkward angle to keep his chest visible so he could check the light of the arc reactor every few steps to make sure Tony was still with him.
And he’d carried Tony again, once three months ago. Steve had found Tony face down on the kitchen counter, perched on one of the bar stools, looking like he might fall over at any moment. Steve had shaken Tony’s shoulder gently and Tony’d mumbled, still asleep, and swatted at his hand like a fly. Without trying to wake him again, Steve had tipped Tony easily from the bar stool and into his arms, feeling thrilled and flushed and guilty, knowing that he’d done it before, but knowing also that this time was different, that he shouldn’t. He wasn’t carrying Tony because he was drunk or injured or unconscious—he was carrying Tony because he wanted to hold the man in his arms and, without Tony’s permission, was stealing a moment.
So, tonight was special. Tony wasn’t drunk or hurting and Steve was allowed to hold him. This was okay. Because, really, it was Steve’s job to look after Tony. Steve smiled, but for a moment he felt a certain wistfulness. Tony was strong and in good shape, but he really couldn’t carry Steve, not like this. He could probably carry Steve fireman style if he needed to, but he couldn’t cradle Steve to his chest, an arm at his back and his knees. It would have been nice, but Steve was just too big. (Well, now, at any rate. . . )
In Tony’s room, Steve maneuvered awkwardly to pull the blankets down and then very gently lowered Tony to the bed. With careful fingers, Steve unlaced Tony’s shoes, eased them off his feet, and tucked them in the corner. Then he pulled the blankets up around Tony and went to get ready for bed. Efficiently, Steve brushed his teeth, washed his face and stripped out of his clothes. He hovered for a few moments, staring at Tony’s handsome face, savoring this marvelous privilege, before sliding into bed next to Tony and curling up around him like a cat.
“Lights please, JARVIS,” Steve whispered and the room went dark.
“G’night, Tony,” Steve whispered, offering up a silent prayer of gratitude. He pressed a little kiss to Tony’s shoulder. “Love you.”
A few minutes later, before even realizing he was tired, Steve fell fast asleep.