in the line of fire (I)
Steve can recall the taste of dirt until he’s twenty-three years old. By then, it’s replaced with the harsh grit of sand between his teeth and coating his tongue. He can’t close his eyes without them stinging, and he sure as hell can’t keep them open for the same reason. The Army gives him goggles, sunglasses, uniforms, guns, canteens: anything he can use for survival except a way to get the sand out of his eyes.
He finds that it’s the least of his worries.
---
When the blast hits their hummer, no one sees it coming. One second Steve’s sitting next to Bucky, laughing at some awful joke and the next they’re rolling, and the front corner of the hummer is just gone. (And so, Steve realizes too late, is Bucky.)
He braces his arms against the top of the vehicle as soon as the blast hits so he doesn’t fly out and when the vehicle’s stopped, he’s upside down. He can’t hear anything except a low sort of buzzing in the back of his mind that escalates to ringing when he unclips his seatbelt and falls to the ground. There’s dust and sand everywhere, and it’s hot-- everything is just so hot. Steve can’t breathe. And he’s alone.
“Barnes!” His voice is scratchy, and it’s hard to yell-- broken ribs, potential concussion even with the helmet, hopefully no internal bleeding-- much less walk. He does it anyway. “Barnes! Bucky!”
His voice echoes, and there’s no answer.
---
Steve Rogers can recall the taste of dirt until he’s twenty-three years old, when it’s replaced with the harsh grit of sand between his teeth. Before the sand coats his mouth and eyes and clothing, Steve spends most of his time picking dirt out of scrapes on his hands and knees.
He hits the ground in the lot next to the blacktop with a nasty crunch, his already torn jeans doing nothing to stop the bite of loose gravel. His palms are scraped from where he’s thrown his hands out to catch himself each day for the past week, and his back leg throbs, cramping from the blow that dead-legged him. A shoe connects with his rear end and he falls forward, unable to keep his face from hitting this time. He gasps for breath but inhales earth and gravel. He coughs and tastes blood. He just wanted to play foursquare with them. This is what he gets.
“You gonna fight back?” The kid’s voice is harsh, cold, and Steve doesn’t remember his name. He picks himself up but is kicked down again with another sharp pain.
“No, no, don’t get up. You can’t fight back. You’re too chicken. Poor and wimpy. No parents to stick up for you and no friends.” He laughs and the other children join in, but their laughter sounds like the ringing in Steve’s ears. Again, he picks himself up, only to be kicked, and this time with the added pressure and outline of a shoe on his back. Someone holding him in place. He feels his chest constrict, and knows he’s about to have a panic attack. Squeezing his eyes shut, he doesn’t respond to anything else they say-- in fact, he doesn’t even hear it. He just stays curled on the ground, breathing in dust and dirt and blood. The teacher must call them back in, because the pressure on his back goes away and he inhales a shaky breath.
Steve can feel the imprint of the shoe on his back even as he hears the crunch of gravel as the other children walk away.
He’s a scrawny kid and he knows it. Growing up poor in Brooklyn isn’t that uncommon, but gets old really fast when you throw in being flung from foster family to foster family and always being the new, ‘too-smart-for-his-own-good’ kid and then the whole ‘getting shoved into lockers and trash cans’ thing. Thankfully, none of Steve’s ever-rotating families seem to notice if he comes home with bruises and scrapes. (Once, he’d come home with a dislocated shoulder. His family at the time, the Dwyers, noticed that. They were nice people. Steve liked them.)
Basically, Steve’s used to being the underdog. He’s used to getting shoved face-first to the ground and being the bottom of the pyramid so others can use him to get to the top. He knows he’s smart and has the grades to prove it, and he knows he could do something with his life if he ever got the chance. He also knows that he’s not the kind of guy to get a chance like that. Anything he has, he worked for, and he’s not used to things being dropped in his lap.
It’s a shock, then, when the family that takes him in at the age of ten-- the Bartons, who live on the Upper East Side and are richer than anyone has ever dreamed of meeting-- adopts him for good, he isn’t quite sure what to do with his life.
---
The Bartons, Natasha and Clint, are nice people. Mr. Barton-- or Clint, as he insists Steve calls him-- is a world-class archer-turned government hack, and his wife Natasha works with him. Steve assumes they met through their jobs, but he doesn’t know for sure because they don’t really tell him much. They seem to genuinely like him though, which is more than Steve can say for any of the other families that have taken him in.
The day they bring him home, he gets picked up from the orphanage in a sleek black car that’s nicer than anything he’s ever seen, let alone ridden in. He stares at himself in the reflection on the tinted window until he hears the click of the door opening.
A woman-- Natasha, Steve thinks, because it’s important to remember their names-- dressed in a fitted black top and pants steps out. Her hair is a fiery red, and the first thing that Steve thinks is that she’s the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen. He takes a step back when she bends to look him in the eye. He runs into the legs of his caseworker, Sara, who puts a firm hand on his shoulder and gently pushes him forward. Natasha extends her hand and all Steve can do is stare at it.
“He’s a little shy,” Sara says, and Steve looks away from Natasha’s hand, down to the ground.
“That’s okay.” Natasha’s voice is soft, like she’s speaking only for him. He looks up to catch her gaze. “I’m a little shy sometimes too.”
He bites his lip and, after a long moment takes her hand, letting her lead him into the car.
The Bartons enroll him in the best private school in the Upper East Side, buy him an entirely new wardrobe (not that he needs it, since he has to wear a uniform most days), more technology than he can handle, and send him on his way.
That’s when he meets Tony Stark.
---
Steve has no idea who anyone is. He’s used to being the new kid, being thrust from classroom to classroom, and not taking the time to remember anyone’s faces, because he knows how much it hurts to know he’ll never see them again. But, he supposes he could start remembering these people.
Even though, he isn’t sure he wants to.
Everyone around him is the child of somebody important. Celebrity children who have spent their first decade of life in and out of the spotlight, getting attention from everyone except for their parents. Steve understands it in a strange sort of way: feeling abandoned by people who’ve promised to take care of you. He knows the sting of a hand in his face, but he also knows the ache caused by indifference. He’s not sure which one hurts more.
But these children don’t understand him. He’s still the ‘new kid’ with a weird haircut and ratty shoes. (Natasha had insisted on buying him a new pair, but Steve won’t wear them. He’s too intimidated by the perfect stitching and pristine color to even put them on. They’re not shoes that a kid like him should wear. Instead, he keeps them neatly in the box, hidden under his bed.) So they make fun of him, pick fights with him and make his life miserable. It’s fine: Steve is mostly used to it by now, but by the time his second semester of school comes around, he’s not sure if it’s going to get any better. Usually he’s gone, or the other kids have lost interest. But not this school. Not anymore.
There’s one kid in particular, a weird, dark-haired kid named Loki who shoves Steve in the dirt and makes him tear the knees on his khakis. It happens every day, and every time Steve tries to stick up for himself he ends up face-first on the ground. The more he comes home with the knees of his khakis bloodied and torn and a new bruises, the more questions Clint and Natasha ask him. He doesn’t want to worry them. They don’t deserve that.
Still, he’s outside on a Tuesday, sitting on a bench under a big tree, eating the peanut butter and jelly sandwich Clint made for him for lunch.
“Rogers,” Loki says from behind him, and Steve goes still, frowning at his sandwich.
“Loki,” he says back, setting his jaw. He wonders briefly how large of a scene they’re going to make today.
“I thought I told you, you can’t sit here.”
Steve turns on his bench to face him, placing the sandwich carefully back into his lunchbox.
“You don’t make the rules, Loki,” he says, and Loki’s eyebrow quirks up. That’s never a good sign. Steve hopes Natasha remembered to buy more stain remover.
“I don’t? Then why does everyone else do what I say?”
Steve frowns and stands, fists curling at his sides. “Because you’re a bully, and they won’t stand up to you.”
“And you will?” Loki laughs-- laced with too much cruelty and disgust for a child’s laugh, and it reminds Steve of a former foster father. He’s speaking before he even knows what he’s going to say.
“If I have to. Someone needs to. Why not me?”
Loki’s laughing again, as if scrawny little Steve Rogers trying to fight him is the funniest thing he’s ever heard. It makes Steve’s heart beat faster, his knuckles turn white at his sides, his nails bite into his palms. He moves forward-- to fight, presumably, or at least to knock Loki a good one, Steve’s not really sure himself-- but he’s stopped by a body in front of his, arms spread-eagled. This kid has to be Steve’s age, because he’s not more than three inches taller than him, but he’s still standing there, shielding him from Loki, who’s stopped laughing.
“Stark,” he says, and Steve swears it’s the first time he’s ever heard Loki sound like anything but a jerk.
“Loki,” Stark says, putting his arms down. “What seems to be the problem here?”
“Rogers was sitting in my spot.”
“Your what?”
“My spot.”
Stark looks around, eyebrows raised. “I don’t see your name on it.”
Loki flushes red, and Steve can’t tell if it’s anger or embarrassment. He doesn’t respond, and Stark just keeps looking at him until he slinks off to a large blond boy, who speaks to him with a lot of harsh hand gestures.
“Uh, thanks,” Steve says to Stark’s back, making him jump and turn around, seeming much more timid than five seconds ago.
“It’s nothing. That guy--” Stark shakes his head. “He’s crazy. Don’t worry about it.” He pauses for a moment, and Steve can’t speak with his gaze on him. “I’m Tony.”
Steve sticks out a hand, smiling when Tony grabs it. “Steve.”
---
“You didn’t have to do that, you know,” Steve says a few days later, when he and Tony are sitting on the bench, eating their lunches.
Tony raises an eyebrow, pauses with his sandwich halfway to his mouth. “Do what?”
“Defend me. From Loki the other day. And you don’t--” Steve feels his cheeks heat. “You don’t have to sit with me. You can go back to your other friends.”
Tony looks at him for a moment, and bursts out laughing. “I don’t have other friends,” he says, shrugging like it’s nothing, but something in Tony’s expression makes Steve frown. “And Loki’s a jerkface, okay? No one deserves that.” He takes a bite of his sandwich and Steve looks away.
“Besides, I wouldn’t be sitting here if I didn’t want to be.”
Steve smiles, and Tony shifts on the bench. “You wanna come over today?” Tony looks down while he asks it, and Steve smiles even bigger and nods.
“Yeah. That’d be fun. I have to ask Natasha, though.”
“Who’s Natasha?” Tony scrunches up his eyebrows, like he’s confused. Right. Steve forgot that most kids call their parents ‘mom’ and ‘dad.’ Most kids also aren’t adopted.
“My mom.”
“She lets you call her Natasha?”
“She told me to call her what makes me feel comfortable,” Steve says, repeating what she’d told him almost exactly. Tony still looks confused.
“That’s weird. My dad would yell at me if I called him by his real name.”
Steve shrugs, letting it go. He doesn’t want to explain the fact that he’s adopted. It would take too long, and whenever he tells people, they get this weird look on their faces. He doesn’t like it. He just wants to be normal, for once, and he doesn’t want Tony to be scared off.
But he also doesn’t want to lie. “I’m adopted,” he says, with another shrug, not looking at Tony. “So I guess we’re different.”
Tony doesn’t say anything for a long time, and Steve finally looks up to see him staring.
“Huh.” Tony shrugs. “Never met someone adopted. That’s cool.”
It’s easy for them to become friends after that. Steve learns that Tony is the only child of Howard and Maria, and it’s probably for the best that way. Tony never goes into details, but Steve’s pretty sure that he and Tony understand each other on a different sort of level. There are some scars you can share that don’t need any explanation.
In any case, Tony’s funny, if not a little weird (kind of like Steve’s adoptive parents, really), and he’s kind, even though he doesn’t seem to want to admit it. Steve’s seen him help out someone in trouble on more than one occasion, but any time he asks Tony about it, Tony just shrugs and doesn’t offer an answer. Clint and Natasha think he’s great, and never seem to mind that he’s always over at the house, helping Steve with his homework. They think it’s excellent that Steve has an older friend that’s so willing to tutor him.
Tony’s definitely the best friend that Steve’s ever had. In fact, he’s his only friend, but Steve figures that one friend like Tony is good enough for a lifetime.
---
“Steeeeeeeeeeve. Steve. Steeeeve. Ssssssssstttttttttteeeeeeve. Steve. Steve. Stevie. Stevie-poo. Steve.”
Steve looks up from his novel and raises an eyebrow. “Yes, Tony?”
Tony’s head rolls on his shoulders, meeting Steve’s gaze. He shrugs. “I don’t know. I’m bored.”
Steve barely manages to hold back a sigh. It’s been like this for almost three weeks. Summer’s almost over, and he and Tony will be in different schools for the first time ever. Steve will enter 7th grade and Tony will enter 9th. High school. (Well, a prep school, technically, but Steve doesn’t really know the difference.) Steve can tell he’s nervous from the way he keeps avoiding the subject in conversation and the way he keeps trying to make Steve do a bunch of strange, reckless things. Things like jumping into swimming pools from way too high up on the roof of the mansion. (Thankfully, Jarvis, the Stark’s butler, catches them every time.)
“You know I have to do this summer reading, Tony,” Steve says, knowing Tony won’t listen. He’s tried to explain that the honors course he just got put in-- much thanks to Tony’s tutoring-- is pretty serious about their summer reading requirement.
“You can read it later, it’s fine, let’s go do something,” Tony says, looking at Steve again with puppy dog eyes. Steve does sigh, this time, and closes his book.
“Fine, but if it’s dangerous, I’m coming back here.”
Tony grins like he does when he figures out an advanced math problem, and Steve can’t help but smile back.
---
They really shouldn’t be doing this. Steve knows that. He’s pretty sure Tony knows it, too, from the way his hands shake against the railing of the building.
Steve doesn’t remember whose idea it was to sneak onto the roof of Stark Industries, but he’s pretty sure it was Tony. He does remember one time when he went to Coney Island and rode a roller coaster, and then vomited up his lunch. He also remembers the pull in his stomach as the coaster would climb the hill and zip down the track. As the building sways-- Steve read once that they build skyscrapers with a certain amount of give, so it’s harder for them to collapse-- Steve feels that pull in his stomach. He’s thankful he hasn’t eaten much today.
“Tony, I don’t think that we should be up here,” he says, but Tony waves a hand at him like he does whenever he’s saying things that make too much sense.
“It’s fine. We’re fine,” Tony says, walking over to the railing, grabbing it with shaking hands. He looks over the edge and stares down at the city. Steve sees his face get that glazed over look it gets when he’s thinking really hard about something, and he takes a step forward.
“Tony?”
“Yeah?” Tony doesn’t even turn his head to look when he says it. Steve chews at his lower lip as Tony leans over even more.
“You can see everything from up here.” His voice is distant, and Steve furrows his brow. “It’s so big. Everyone down there is so small. Everyone’s so small.” Tony’s right; the view is amazing. Steve knows he could get lost up here while staring at the city.
Tony’s hands tighten on the rail briefly before his leg swings up, trying to get over the barrier.
“Tony--” Steve needs to do something. He needs to pull Tony down and away and save him, but he’s too small. He can barely pick up weights in gym class. How could he possibly hope to pull Tony, who outweighs him by a fair amount, down off of a railing? Steve’s stomach lurches as Tony’s foot gets some traction and he starts to stand.
Steve’s frozen. He can’t do anything. His best friend in the world is going to fall off a building to his death and Steve can’t even stop him. He’s so useless.
“Tony,what the hell do you think you’re doing? You know this is off-limits, how many times do I need to tell you? What are you thinking?” The tone of Howard’s voice makes Steve bristle as as Howard rushes past. He grabs Tony by the back of the shirt and hauls him down, letting go of him as soon as his feet touch, causing Tony to stumble into Steve, who tries to catch him. It mostly works. Steve knows it’s not technically his business how Howard raises his son, but it becomes his business when Howard’s son is his best friend. His only friend. It makes Steve so angry to see Tony treated that way, especially by someone who’s supposed to love him.
“I just wanted to get a better look,” Tony says, shrugging, but there’s something challenging in it, like he’s daring either one of them to disagree. Howard raises a hand like he’s going to slap him and Steve straightens, fists curling at his sides, but Howard cups Tony’s cheek briefly and claps him on the shoulder, fingers pressing in hard enough so that Steve can see the faint dents left in the fabric of Tony’s shirt.
“Don’t come up here unsupervised again. They pulled me out of an important meeting. You know I don’t have time for this kind of thing,” Howard says, wrapping an arm around Tony’s shoulders in what Steve knows should seem a fatherly way, but it’s wrong. It’s fake, and makes the pull in Steve’s stomach even worse. He wants to push between them so maybe Tony won’t look so miserable anymore.
“Sorry, Dad,” Tony says, and Howard just nods, leading him back to the door to the stairs.
Steve follows, even though no one asked him to.
---
The air is muggy because it’s the end of September and Steve’s on someone’s back porch in New York state. He came to this party with Tony, which isn’t at all surprising, because Tony’s always getting Steve to do things he shouldn’t. He has a red cup in his hand, filled with something that smells vile and Tony’s by his side, making him feel crowded and claustrophobic, even though there’s so much space out here.
Tony’s been in high school for two years and Steve starts next week. Tony keeps telling him he’s gonna have the time of his life, but if it’s all parties where people are jammed too close together and grinding to the beat of some song Steve doesn’t like-- well, he’s not sure he’s going to like high school much.
“Hey.” Steve feels a hand on his lower back and he looks up to find Tony, who’s frowning at him. “You alright?”
Steve nods and forces his mouth into a smile. “Yeah. Just thinking.”
Tony smiles at him, ruffles his hair and opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, but someone calls his name and he turns, getting swept up in conversation. He walks away, leaving Steve by the keg, but that’s okay; Steve’s used to being left alone.
The next time Steve catches a glimpse of Tony at the party, he’s laughing with his head thrown back. Steve’s seen him laugh like that a few times, and it makes something warm unfurl in his chest.
Tony has an arm around some girl-- blonde and blue-eyed, but Steve doesn’t catch the connection-- and he’s saying something into her ear. The girl blushes, nods and Tony takes her hand and they walk away together.
Steve is irrationally jealous.
How dare he? How is it fair to bring your friend to a party that he can’t get home from and go off with some girl? Steve understands that they’re both at an age where they should be interested in girls and dating and-- and sex, but Steve’s not. He’s interested in art and books and music and hanging out with Tony. Besides, he’s still a hair over five foot and skinny as a rail. No girls are interested in that, and if they were, they’d never tell him about it.
Steve scoffs, shakes his head and walks outside to call Clint.
---
Clint picks him up in twenty minutes-- about the time it takes Tony to get back downstairs and find Steve again. The blonde girl is nowhere in sight.
“You’re leaving?” Tony’s frowning at him like he’s hurt. That’s rich.
“Yeah,” Steve says, keeping his eyes on the familiar sleek black car that Clint pulls up to the house. “This isn’t really my scene. Sorry. You have fun, though.” He forces a smile at Tony, but it doesn’t seem to help. Tony just frowns deeper.
“Okay.” His voice is soft, higher than normal, like he’s confused. Steve just gives him a nod and slides into the car.
It takes everything he has not to look at Tony in the side mirror as they pull away.
“Everything okay?”
Steve likes Clint because he knows when to stay quiet, but he also knows when Steve needs him to talk, and they’ve been sitting in the car for about five minutes in complete silence. He’s not sure yet if this is a talking situation or not.
“Yeah,” Steve says, picking at a thread on his jeans.
“I think you’re lyin’ to me.” Clint sighs, turns down a street, but doesn’t press the issue.
The car smells as new as it did the day they picked him up five years ago and the leather of the seats is smooth, almost too smooth for anyone to sit on safely. Steve runs his thumb over it until he’s ready to speak.
“I don’t--” He frowns. Clint’s head tilts slightly towards him, but he keeps his eye on the road. “I’m not so sure I’m excited for high school.”
“Why not?”
Steve bites his lip, tugs at the thread in his jeans and watches it tighten down his leg. “I don’t think I’ll have any friends.”
“You never seemed worried about that before.”
“Well, I always had Tony. But now he’s different. I’m not--” Good enough to be his friend. “I think we’re growing apart.” Steve feels Clint’s gaze shift over to him, and he can’t even imagine what must be on his face. He feels bad; Clint isn’t his real father and he shouldn’t have to deal with this. “I’m sorry.”
“Hey.” Clint’s voice is soft but stern. “Hey, kiddo. Look at me.” Steve looks, blinks a couple of times. “People change, okay? But it doesn’t mean Tony wants to stop being your friend, or that you need to find new friends. Or even that you won’t find other friends. The important ones always come back.”
Steve nods, and the rest of the drive home is silent.
---
The next day, Steve texts Tony a total of five times before he decides that Tony’s probably mad at him. He doesn’t apologize, because Tony doesn’t deserve an apology. Steve didn’t do anything wrong. He got ditched, so he decided to leave; he doesn’t understand why Tony would be mad about that.
But still, the silence continues up until their first day of classes, when the Stark’s town car pulls up in front of Steve’s building. Steve frowns at it and very nearly doesn’t get in. Tony can’t treat him like this. He can’t just ignore him for weeks and then send a car to pick him up for the first day of school!
But the realization that arriving in the Stark’s car with Tony will keep him safe for at least a week is what makes Steve swallow his pride and get in. It has nothing to do with the fact that he hopes Tony has finally come to his senses. Really.
Tony doesn’t speak to him though, during the whole ride to the school. He barely even glances at him as he gets in, and Steve spends as much time as he can looking out the window. He decides, when they get out at the school and Tony rushes away from him and into the building, that from now on he’ll just take his chances walking.
---
On a Wednesday during Steve’s third week of high school, Tony seemingly decides they can speak again. Steve sees him with a girl-- another blonde, a hand on his shoulder and his hand around her waist and Steve feels that jealousy flare up again-- and his hand tightens on the strap of his bag as he watches them.
Tony kisses the girl on the cheek and turns around to find Steve staring, making Steve blush. They both stop for a moment, looking at each other.
“Steve--” The bell rings, cutting Tony off, and Steve shrugs. How dramatic.
“Sorry. See you later,” he says and quickly strides away, leaving Tony in the middle of the courtyard.
Tony plops down next to him at lunch that day, leans his elbow on the table and his head in his hands.
“Hey gorgeous,” he says, grinning at Steve, who blushes again. Twice in one day is too much, and that nickname has always been Tony’s idea of a joke. Oh Christ. Why is this happening? His life was easier when Tony was ignoring him.
“Tony,” he says, giving a short nod.
“Why are we doing this?” Tony leans forward, and Steve notices his eyes are a little glassy, his breath a little rank.
“Are you drunk?” Steve frowns, turns to face him and give him the attention he knows he wants.
“Vodka in the water bottle, oldest trick in the book.”
“It’s eleven-thirty.”
“It’s five-thirty in England.”
Steve’s frown deepens. “I don’t think they have happy hour in London.”
Tony grins at him. “Come on, don’t be such a spoilsport. I’m fine, you’re fine, we’re all fine. You want some?” He offers a green plastic nalgene bottle that smells like fingernail polish remover and Steve wrinkles his nose.
“No, thanks.”
“You’re harshing my mellow, gorgeous.”
Ah, the blush again. Steve really hates this. “Tony, stop it.”
Tony frowns, withdraws the bottle and straightens. “Fine. Just wanted to talk to you. Sorry.”
Steve sighs, looks around the lunchroom and then back to Tony, putting a hand on his arm. “You don’t have to be drunk to talk to me. You’re my best friend. I prefer you sober.”
Tony looks down at Steve’s hand and then back up to his face, licking his lips. “Yeah?”
Steve nods. “Yeah. Of course.”
The bell rings, and Steve sighs again. The inconvenient bells makes his life feel like one of those cheesy made-for-tv movies that Natasha always watching when he gets home from school. He didn’t think things like that happened in real life.
“Come over later,” he says, shaking Tony’s shoulder. “Natasha and Clint miss you too.”
Tony nods, but Steve doesn’t hear him say anything as he walks away.
---
Steve finds him at the end of the school day, surrounded by a group of people, all laughing and talking. He stands by a large oak tree on the grounds and waits for their group to disperse before approaching Tony.
“Hey,” he says, and Tony smiles. It’s the happiest Steve’s seen him look all week-- okay, maybe Steve’s kind of been watching him, which he knows is creepy, but he can’t stop doing it-- which makes him feel good, like he’s accomplished something.
“Let’s go,” Tony says, hooking an arm around Steve’s shoulders. “I’ll drive.”
They slip into the car that’s been toting Tony around as long as Steve can remember and Tony tells Happy, the driver, to go to Steve’s today instead, please.
Steve usually walks home from school, because the traffic usually makes Clint late to work at his night shifts otherwise and Steve’s not actually used to being in cars. The only ones he’s ever been in, besides Tony’s or the Bartons’, is cars owned by the orphanage or the state. They were never in good repair, and the first time he got into Tony’s sleek town car-- well, he couldn’t quite believe it. He still can’t believe it, really.
“It’s so cute,” Tony says, looking at him and smiling. “You’re so cute. How you always look so amazed at the car.”
Steve feels his face tighten up almost instantly and Tony sighs. “No, not in like, a bad way. Or a patronizing way. Though I guess that does sound pretty patronizing, huh. Anyway, no, it’s just-- everyone else is so jaded, you know? You’re not. I like that.”
Steve’s pretty sure that’s a compliment, but his brow quirks up anyway. “Uh, thanks, I guess.” He doesn’t quite understand why Tony would be having this epiphany right now since they’ve been friends for so long, but he figures it might have something to do with that vodka from earlier.
“Yeah, hey, no problem.”
The car pulls up next to Steve’s building and they clamber out, colliding when Tony stops suddenly in the doorway. Steve doesn’t stop quite in time, so he ends up pressed against Tony’s back. He’s suddenly very warm all over.
“Uh, beep beep?” He’s sort of talking into Tony’s ear, and it’s weird, but Tony doesn’t seem to mind. Steve can feel his body shaking. Laughter, probably. It makes the most sense. Steve frowns and Tony grabs both of his arms, wraps them around his neck and lunges forward, keeping Steve on his back. Steve yelps as Tony rights himself on the sidewalk and starts to move. He has to wrap his thin legs around Tony’s waist to keep from falling.
“Put me down!” Tony’s hands tighten around Steve’s arms, and he doesn’t stop until they’re right in front of the door. Coulson, the doorman, opens it for them and Tony zips through, making Steve laugh, loud and bright.
“Seriously, come on,” Steve says, starting to wriggle, and Tony shakes his head, letting him down once they reach the elevator. Steve’s a little breathless, and he can feel the pink spots on his cheeks. Tony doesn’t even look winded. It’s unfair.
The door dings open and Tony steps on, staring at Steve once he’s inside. Steve stands out there for a moment, taking in Tony’s mussed up hair and huge grin before stepping inside as well.
He stands next to Tony, who puts his arm around Steve’s shoulders, holding him close. It’s a little strange, but Steve only feels the slightest bit awkward. Usually he hates standing close to people, because it makes him realize how small he is when he’s tucked up under someone’s shoulder, but Steve finds he doesn’t mind standing pressed up against Tony’s side. It’s comforting, in a weird sort of way. They ride that way until the door opens on Steve’s floor, and they have to separate.
---
The day of Tony’s Graduation/Going Away Party is not actually one Steve remembers very well.
That’s not true. He remembers the day just fine, but anything after ten at night is a blur of heat, skin and alcohol. Tony throws the biggest rager the school’s ever seen, and of course Steve’s invited.
He goes, but he doesn’t plan on drinking much, but Tony has other plans, apparently.
Steve spends most of the night being ignored. He tries not to be sensitive about it; there’s a lot of people at the party and Tony is hosting, so he does have certain duties to fulfill. But every time Steve tries to get close to him to talk or to just say hello, Tony veers away, grabbing some girl and another drink and disappearing into an empty room. (Steve hopes they’re empty, at least. That’d just be rude otherwise.)
Steve decides to make a game out of it. Every time he tries to catch Tony’s eye and it doesn’t work: drink. Every time he walks close to Tony and Tony goes the opposite direction: drink. Every time Tony outright ignores him: drink.
Steve’s on his fourth drink within the hour.
For someone who usually never gets drunk, Steve has a pretty high tolerance. He doesn’t feel tipsy until halfway through his second drink-- and for someone his size and how fast he’s drinking, that’s something-- but a quarter of the way through his third and he’s feeling it pretty hard. He can walk, but it’s a small thing, really.
He ends up being accidentally shoved into a door while people are dancing, but the door’s not latched all the way, so Steve’s falling for what seems like forever before he hits the hardwood, breath leaving him in a big rush.
“Whoa, hey there tough guy, you alright?”
Tony. That’s Tony’s voice. Christ, how humiliating. He’s probably with some beautiful girl too. Steve sits up and when he feels a hand on his arm, he tugs away sharply. He doesn’t need Tony’s help. He’s fine.
“I’m fine,” he says, even though ok, he’s not. He’s pissed. Pissed as in, drunk and pissed as in pissed at Tony for throwing this party and pissed at Tony for inviting him to this party and pissed at Tony for ignoring him at this party and pissed at Tony for leaving for school, and he’s just pissed.
“I can see that,” Tony says, and it takes Steve entirely too long to realize that he said all of that aloud. Tony’s face is all pinched up like he’s about to laugh, and Steve can’t take it anymore.
“I didn’t come here to be made fun of,” he says, managing to stand with the last shred of dignity he has left.
“Yeah? Why did you come?” Tony asks it like a challenge, because it is. Everything Tony does nowadays is a challenge: going to school so far away, throwing a party he knows Steve will hate, all of it daring Steve to follow-- to try and stay friends. To see if he’s worthy. Steve knows he should lie and try to hurt Tony like he hurts right now. If he were a worse person, he might do it, too.
“Because you’re my best friend.” Steve hates that he can’t do anything but tell the truth when it comes to Tony. “You’re my only friend. I thought it would make you happy.”
Tony looks away, down at his hands and clears his throat like he’s about to say something. Steve knows there’s music playing in the house and that he should be able to hear it, but he can’t hear anything. He’s tuned into Tony-radio and everything else is static.
The moment stretches too long. Steve can feel it break between them and he looks away before Tony answers.
“Who knew you’d be such a morose drunk?”
When Steve looks back, Tony’s got a grin on his face. Drunk or not, Steve knows better than to think it’s real.
“Full of surprises, I guess,” Steve says and turns, walking out of the room.
Steve goes straight to Howard’s study because he knows there’s a big leather couch there. He’s one of the only people besides the Stark family (and most of their staff) who’s allowed in there, and while he doesn’t really understand how or why that happened, he’s grateful for it right now.
There’s a blanket on the end of it and Steve takes the time to remove his shoes, belt, khakis and sweater before snuggling with his face into the cushions.
---
He wakes the next morning with a pounding headache and an arm wrapped around his waist. A warm body pressed along his back that he only notices when he stretches. The person makes a noise, nuzzles into the back of Steve’s neck, and sighs. Steve, though sleep-dazed, registers that this is a strange situation. He’s definitely never woken up in the same bed with someone, much less smushed together on a couch. He has no idea who it even is. Who would want to sleep with him?
Then, Steve thinks about it-- thinks about where he is exactly and who has access to this room and comes up with two options. One: it’s Tony on the couch with him or two: it’s Tony’s father.
Steve really hopes it’s number one.
He turns slowly, trying not to wake up the person-- who is Tony, thank goodness-- but it seems he’s already awake.
“Hey,” Tony says, voice quiet and rough from sleep. He reaches up and smoothes a section of hair back from Steve’s face. Steve feels his face heat and tries to look away, but the hand in his hair tightens, keeping him still. It keeps getting weirder. How does he get out of this?
“Don’t--” Tony starts, but stops, letting go of Steve’s hair, smoothing it down.
“I’m not a dog,” Steve says. Gentle suggestions of his uncomfortableness have never really worked with Tony, but at least he takes his hand out of his hair.
“I’m sorry about last night.”
Steve looks away again, frowning. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s not.” Tony touches the side of Steve’s face, gently coaxing him back. Steve tries not to wince at the feel of his fingertips. He isn’t used to this, all this touching. “I’m-- I’m an asshole, okay? And I’m sorry. You’re-- you’re my best friend. I mean it.”
Steve lifts his hand to cover Tony’s, pulling it away from his face. “Yeah, I know,” he says, laying it on the armrest. “It’s really okay.”
“You sure?” Tony’s gnawing on his lower lip so hard that when it slips from between his teeth, it’s bright red. Steve wants to reach out and touch his thumb to it to stop him, but that feels too strange. Too intimate, even though they’re laying on a couch with their legs tangled together.
“Yeah, I’m sure,” Steve says, trying to sit up, but Tony’s limbs prove to be quite the trap. “You’re just worried about leaving. We both are. It’s fine. I’m not mad. That wouldn’t be fair.”
Tony puts a hand to Steve’s chest, so large that his finger stretch over Steve’s collarbone. “You’re a much better friend than I deserve,” he says, mumbling, and Steve just smiles at him. It makes his face hurt.
He doesn’t respond with the fact that he agrees.
---
Tony doesn’t say goodbye.
Really, Steve should have figured he wouldn’t because Tony’s horribly unorganized when it comes to things like packing and getting ready for a huge move to another state, not to mention the fact that saying goodbye is probably the one thing Tony Stark can’t do well.
Steve knows he should have taken it upon himself to say goodbye, but he couldn’t. He wanted to know that Tony cared at least enough to make the effort to say goodbye to him. He feels stupid for it, because he should have known better. He should have just swallowed his pride and called him or something.
Natasha finds him a few days after Tony’s departure in the library, stretched out along one of the leather couches, reading. She comes in like she usually does-- so silently that anyone who hasn’t lived with her for six years wouldn’t even know she was there. Steve knows what to listen for now, though. The change in air pressure when the door opens and the sound of her hand touching the back of the leather couch. They’re small sounds but expected-- comforting.
“Hey,” he says, putting the book down and smiling at her.
“Hey kiddo,” she says, leaning against the couch. “Are you busy?” Steve shakes his head and sits up, moving his legs so she can sit down with him. He’s been growing lately, about six inches in the whole summer. All his pants are too short.
“You need anything?” Natasha’s asking about Tony, in her own way. Steve knows she is and that’s okay. She can ask about him. He doesn’t mind. He’s just not sure he has much to say.
“I’m okay. I think I need to go school shopping, though. Is that okay?” He screws up his mouth when he asks, and Natasha smiles at him.
“Steve, you don’t have to ask like that each time. You’re my son. I love you. Of course I can buy you pants that fit.”
Steve laughs and rubs the back of his neck. He feels strange sometimes, asking for things from Natasha and Clint. It’s not that he doesn’t trust them, because he does. He loves them and he knows they love him most at times like this, when Natasha sits next to him while he’s on the couch and cleverly asks him about losing his best friend. But he’s never gotten used to the idea that he could probably have anything he wanted.
He slides his socked feet over and tucks his toes beneath her thigh, smiling when she pinches at his ankle.
“Do you just want more of the same?” she asks, quirking an eyebrow. “Chinos and plaid shirts?”
Steve wiggles his toes for a moment, considering. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s time for something different,” he says in what he hopes is an offhand way. “Maybe more jeans. Less plaid.”
Natasha nods. “Sure thing. We can go tomorrow, how’s that?”
“Yeah. Good. Thank you, Natasha,” he says as she gets up to leave.
“You’re welcome. Dinner’s at seven.”
---
part II