Chapter Text
1.
It’s amazing how the body can assimilate into a drunk and high crowd, swaying as part of the swarm. Despite being stone-cold sober, Tony feels intoxicatingly weightless, strangely buoyant. His feet are rooted, threatening to untether, a parasailer nudged this way and that, the crowd his wind. A girl from his Artificial Intelligence course – older; by default, they all are – had invited him out. She mouths something, words swallowed by an acoustic black hole, the music so loud it chatters teeth. A hundred, maybe a hundred twenty decibels. Inner-ear hair cells don’t regenerate and he hadn’t brought earplugs.
“I said, having fun?” Natela yells. Her waterline is rimmed black, lashes long and pretty, delicate spider legs. She blinks at him, patient.
“Yeah,” Tony shouts back, a tiny fib. He doesn’t feel one way or another. Crowds like these have never felt natural. He’d probably missed the train to ever getting used to them, never having gone to parties before college. The handful of networking events with Stane, or once in a blue moon, with his father, barely counted: rooms full of people at least a decade older, experience clouding the air like smoke.
Natela nods, as though bobbing to the rhythm. “Good, good. Come, let’s sit.”
They push back through the throng to the booth with her friends. She snatches two shots from a tray on the glossy table, sticky liquid dripping down her fingers, and lifts one toward him. He shakes his head, and her smile slides elsewhere, curling toward another as her hand drapes casually across a girl’s knee.
“You look so young,” someone else shouts, tugging him into the seat beside her. “I know you. You’re the super-genius. Totally nepo. Getting a PhD, right?”
“Starting. Theoretical Physics,” Tony says, watching her rummage through her bag. She produces a tiny Ziploc, white powder tinted blue in the lighting. Sprinkling it onto the back of her phone, she parts it into two lines with a student card – in the photo, her hair is hazelnut instead of flaxen – and glances up at him expectantly. “Ever done speed?”
Tony shakes his head.
“It’s like– hm, coffee,” she says, holding it up for him to see. “You wanna try? Makes you more awake. Not like coke or X or anything crazy. Just a stamina boost.”
She then mimes blocking one nostril and sucking in air through the other.
“I know,” Tony mutters – he’s not that sheltered – but she doesn’t hear. Her damp hand curls around his nape, tugging him forward until he’s cross-eyed. Her eyes blur into one, cyclopean, trippy with the lights panning around her head and coloring her hair kaleidoscopically. Thin strands of it float like from static, tickling his face. He doesn’t know her name.
Then the air shifts and Tony’s head jerks back. A large hand pushes the phone away, scattering some of the powder. The girl’s affronted “Hey” dies in her throat when she sees him. Not out of recognition, Tony deduces, just the usual reaction.
Dressed in a t-shirt, an aviator jacket soft with wear, and jeans clinging to powerful legs, he doesn’t look like Captain America so much as someone who could be scouted off the street – fitness modelling or football, maybe advertisement. His sheer physicality alone stops people in their tracks, though neither Steve nor Cap look unique enough to immediately link them. The double identity thing must be a headache, but what does Tony know?
“Hey,” Steve says, a wrinkle forming between his brows. He jerks his chin vaguely behind him and curls a hand around Tony’s upper arm. “Time to go.”
Tony frowns. “It’s only eleven.”
Steve stares, calm and firm, not exactly unkind but unsmiling.
“Don’t think your pops likes the idea of you in clubs you’re legally not allowed in. Especially not what you were about to do.”
Steve holds up his arm long enough to force Tony to decide between feeling stupid or standing. He glances at what’s-her-name, who no longer looks at Steve as if there’s something hot on the tip of her tongue, like an invitation to the table, or a question about his phone number. Instead she flicks her eyes between the two, pegging Tony as the sort of rich kid needing a mountain-sized minder, with Steve’s face just soft enough to avoid looking like a mercenary. Tony stumbles over a half-hearted “see you” and knows he won’t.
“I don’t think he cares as much as you think,” Tony says dryly, stumbling when his shoulder jolts back from a guy a head taller muscling past. Steve makes a harried sound and curls an arm around him – evidently to pull him in, crushing Tony’s shoulders together. Tony slots in easily, folding like a sandwich against Steve’s side and vaguely feeling like he’s in one of those soaps the housekeeper back home keeps running as background noise. Steve’s arm slants across his torso, heavy as a rollercoaster’s safety bar. His shoulders are squared and bulky, all traps and delts, about as yielding as scaffolding; they probably can’t curl in the way Tony’s do.
”I think you noticed my dad had worse benders than this.” Not to mention a breathalyzer would display a whopping 0.0 if Steve were to pull one out.
Steve shuffles him like a large cattle dog, the crowd whittling down as they leave the modular tiles of the dance floor and booths. Cold air lashes as they break into the night, and Tony has to close his eyes against the pinpricks. Steve’s warm and large, his last line of defense against the wind that oscillates between autumnal and brumal – still, Tony shivers.
“Aren’t you in the wrong state?”
Steve exhales, not unlike a Clydesdale.
“There’s a murderer on the loose. Drugging college kids and abducting them.”
Tony stares at the sharp jut of Steve’s jaw – clean-shaven, always. “Haven’t heard of it.”
“I’d think not, no. It’ll hit the morning news cycle in a few hours.”
He should make more of a vested effort in keeping up with things like that. Stay ahead of the fourth estate. Few things irk Tony more than unaccounted-for variables.
“Did my dad send you? Make you set up camp in Cambridge?”
“No sending or making involved.”
Steve steers him toward a carmine Harley, lacquered candy-apple, with thin handlebars and mirrors barely bigger than compacts. Straightforward, and maybe even subdued – not one of those hulking bikes that snarl down highways, but quick and slim enough to snake between cars. Tony’s never ridden one. His father said owning a Harley had been a boyhood dream of his, though Tony only faintly remembers him using it once or twice back in grade school.
“Don’t tell me you drove all the way here,” Tony says, brushing the paint like he’s petting a horse's flank. God, it’s a sexy thing, isn’t it? All red and cool and spy-like. Does Steve know? How aware is he of the sex appeal of his bike?
“You’ll hop on first, on the back. I’ll hold it steady.” Steve pauses, that furrow bending toward a brow. “Didn’t bring a helmet. I usually just–” he gestures, and Tony realizes he’s miming the little wings on the Captain America helmet. Supersoldiers don’t need motorcycle helmets, clearly. “You’ll need to hold on tight.”
“That’s alright.” It’d feel silly to distrust the beacon of the United States on road safety. He’s probably caught people jumping out of burning buildings.
Tony slides onto the bike, thighs bracketing the leather saddle. He smooths a hand over it, inhaling the smell. Technology has the benefits of animality without the dizzying uncertainty of living beings. Logical at its core. Perfectly fine to pull apart and put back together.
“Slide back a little. No foot pegs for you – you’ll have to tense your legs so you don’t brush the exhaust. Sorry, it’s more of a one-seater.”
The bike dips when Steve heaves himself onto it, tilting like it might teeter either way. He only turns on the ignition after making sure Tony’s arms are wrapped around him tightly enough. There’s something classically intimate about straddling a motorcycle and holding onto someone like this, feeling back muscles shift under the side of your face, vivid and alive. Tony surreptitiously rubs his cheek against the broken-in leather. Cowhide, judging by the smell.
The engine rumbles to life, vibrating up Tony’s thighs. He tucks his legs higher, feeling the warmth of the pipes beneath them. They pull away from the club, wind stinging his eyes as they snake into the wide street, and Tony buries his face against Steve’s back. Steve doesn’t even ask for directions. Tony almost wishes he’d go faster, wonders if it would feel like flying one of his father’s suits – not that he knows what that’s like – and suspects Steve’s taking extra care with his passenger. He indulges in the fantasy of being carried straight past the guarded condo and out of Cambridge. Out onto the open road, where stars brighten as city lights wane.
Predictably, Steve guides the Harley neatly into the street that branches toward his current home. The bike purrs, vibrating into Tony’s gut and between his thighs, warm – just as Steve’s back is: torso hard and steady, leather soft against his face, undercut with Steve’s personal scent right there, and what’s Tony to do except awkwardly tug his sweater down when they arrive, nearly falling as he flings himself off the seat. A hot flush presses down the back of his neck, temples throbbing with an ache exacerbated by the stiff air from the club. The lambswool stretches under his tugging, fibers clumping as he drags it over the top of his pants. This is one discovery he hadn’t needed to make. Not with present company, at least. He’s grateful for the loose clothing; had Steve noticed anything, Tony would have flung himself into abject misery.
Naturally, Steve is the type to walk him to the door. Whether out of politeness or paranoia about threats slipping past the security at the entrance, the reception, and back of the building, Tony can’t be sure. He hedges a guess.
“So,” Tony says, bobbing his head. Apparently Steve isn’t the type to force small talk or dodge silence. Neither is Tony, necessarily. Steve looks at him impassively. He’d do well at poker, actually.
“They’re close to finding him. Try to stay home until they do,” Steve instructs. Maybe the investigation’s been accelerated by Tony’s presence – a tip from his father or Obadiah, that extra nudge of motivation, the nouveau-riche apanage awarded by way of genetic lottery.
Tony doesn’t ask, just nods, eyes flicking over Steve for something to hang onto. His eyebrows are relaxed, mien serene, and a cowlick swoops hair onto his brow, making Tony wonder whether it bothers him when it grows too long, and who he goes to for a cut. Never one of those close-cropped military styles, yet always neat and parted, half of it looking like he raked it back in an effortless off-duty way that couldn’t be anything but genuine. Despite the helmetless ride, it looks groomed and nice, whereas Tony knows his own must be approaching bedhead.
“I wasn’t about to take it. The drug, I mean,” Tony ultimately says, arms behind his back, rocking against the door handle. His legs ache from holding them tense the whole ride.
“No?” Steve says, like he doesn’t care either way. Hard to read, harder to interpret. Too organic. Tony would rather do rocket science.
“I really wasn’t.”
“Alright.”
Tony thumps his head against the wood. Frustration dusts his skull and bunches his brow. Chewing his lip, he peers up. Steve finally offers a slight smile, and the hallway light makes it look like his eyes reflect bits of sun.
“I believe you, Tony.”
Progress. Though Tony’s unsure what he’s progressing in – and isn’t that the nature of progress? Movement toward an advanced position, space, or time, without knowing where or whether it even ends. Interpersonal progression is the most volatile of them all. Avoiding user manuals is a point of pride for Tony, but boy, does he wish Steve Rogers came with one. Or at least wires and components to inspect, something to reverse-engineer the marvel that he is.
“Are you coming in? I don’t want to be the guy who made Captain America sleep outside in a van.” God knows sleeping in that yellow Chevrolet Steve insists on dragging around to transport his bikes would be punishment enough.
Steve’s lips quirk. “No need. I’m staying at a SHIELD safe house.” His eyes move over Tony, top to bottom and back again. An inventory check, definitely – making sure nothing dislodged in the Stark heir with his delicate civilian sensibilities – but it makes Tony shiver and straighten out his spine. He must have found what he was looking for, since he’s looking Tony in the eyes again. “And I flew here. The van’s in Brooklyn.”
“I liked the bike,” Tony says, uncertainty tugging at his lips. How does one prolong a conversation with Captain America? Tony’s sure most of his involve “sitrep” and “BOLO,” and perfunctory speeches at diplomatic events. What does someone like that even do with free time – if he has any? Probably not read The Art of War.
Steve chuckles, inexplicably making something glow in Tony. “Thanks.” Wouldn’t it be nice if he offered another ride? Somewhere warm. Malibu, maybe, with a short stay at the Retreat. He wonders what Steve would say if he asked. Then, unbidden, the thought of what his father would say pops up, nearly pulling his face into a grimace.
“Maybe you’ll get a bike when you’re a bit older. Your pops would install the safeguards, I bet.”
Right, because Steve calls Bucky Barnes – grimly serious individual, centenarian and general offputting person to avoid – “the kid”, so Tony must be a toddler in his eyes.
“Motorcycle accidents make up sixteen percent of traffic fatalities while accounting for only three percent of registered vehicles,” Tony says, immediately wanting to hit backspace. JARVIS has been his most frequent interlocutor since age five, and there’s no shame in a stream-of-consciousness rant with an AI – nor is there the need to learn when to stay silent. Steve, on the other hand, gives him a look he can’t parse.
“I see,” Steve says. His steely eyes are warmer now, lips tilting at the corner all indulgent and easy. “Well, New York’s a walkable city.”
Tony blinks. That was a joke, wasn’t it? Captain America joking with him. At him?
“You go in now.” Using that slightly stern voice from those painfully outdated educational videos is unfair. From a bygone era, but with an effect that isn’t. “And try to hold off on those clubs until you’re of age, will you?”
Hell. Tony should have just gone to study in Europe.