Room by Room, revised - 2/3

[et2brute]

1/3
--

So Thor fucks over to New Mexico while Tony is sleeping off head trauma, and Loki's holed up in Thor's bunk under lock and key until such a time as Thor comes to collect him. This is not Tony's idea of a fantastically secure location for an extradimensional war criminal god, but seeing as Loki really isn't in any sort of shape to run off-not after the Hulk got through with him, anyway-Tony figures they'll all just chill out for a few days until Thor returns to take his villainous ass home.

Tony sets up shop in the lab he's been sharing with Bruce and starts to catch up with Stark Industries designs.

Three hours and two pots of coffee later, Bruce leans over his shoulder and asks, "I thought you weren't doing weapons anymore?"

"It's not a weapon," Tony protests. "It is very clearly an instrument of defense."

"Not saying I don't believe that you believe that," Bruce laughs, "but Tony, I've seen the guy use the thing. It's definitely a weapon."

"It's not for mass production or anything. I just thought-well, Dad made it, so."

"You wanted to make it better." It's not a question.

"It doesn't seem," Tony tries, and comes up with nothing. "It's not very," he tries again.

"I'm not sure Steve goes for flashy," Bruce tells him, turning back to his work. "I think he's probably happy with what he's got." There's a pause while Bruce frowns over some charts. "It's a nice gesture though, Tony."

Bruce loses himself in his research, which Tony knows from snooping is a pointless endeavor to reverse his-condition. Often he'll run tests he's run dozens of times already. Like he was maybe doing it wrong, consistently, for the past three hours.

It's more a side project, these days, Tony thinks. Something Bruce does when he's bored, a reflex that's almost like meditation. He hasn't even asked about taking some samples from Steve, which is the first thing Tony would've done.

So he can't be that serious about it, but the idea of Bruce just-going through the motions is disheartening on every existent level.

Tony wonders if Bruce feels trapped. Or if maybe he just doesn't like change at first, but once he gets used to a place, he doesn't feel too strongly about moving on until something else comes up.

He gets the terrible impression of gunmetal clacking against teeth; of eyes squeezing shut and a monster bursting forth; and feels sick.

He doesn't really know much about Bruce, but he wants to learn everything.

Some more time passes, but Tony wouldn't be able to say how much; he's up to his elbows in the Tower floorplan redesigns, and he's pretty excited about them. He's mostly working on Bruce's level right now, since it'll take some careful (and sturdy) architectural tricks. He'll probably have to add something similar to the containment chamber Fury had on the helicarrier-well, before Loki dropped it out of the sky.

The important thing is that it can't be a cage, Bruce hates that. He's not an animal.

And he'll be more likely to live with Tony if he knows he won't be able to hurt anybody. That's Tony's angle, anyway.

So, an indeterminable amount of time later, there's the deliberate sound of footsteps and a door opening, and peripherally Steve's brown, polished shoes and gray slacks and pale orange collared shirt.

"What's up?" Tony asks, hands splaying on his desk as he stretches, cracking his back.

Steve blinks, clears his throat. Crosses his arms. "They're serving lunch in the mess hall."

"There's a mess hall?" Tony asks, eyebrows raised, and-

Steve blushes. There's no mistaking what it is.

And god, what does it say about Tony that he immediately wants to exploit that.

"Might not be called that anymore," Steve says. "Um-cafeteria?"

Tony studies him, bewildered. "No, I think-yeah, mess is probably right. I was just. I wasn't thinking about it." But now that he is, his stomach makes an effort to rumble faintly with interest.

"Oh," Steve says. They stand there for a moment, silent, and Tony has no idea why it's awkward.

Then Bruce saves the day because he is Tony's ultimate hero.

"That's a good idea," he says. "I could eat." Except then he leaves them alone, and he's actually a turncoat because it is terribly un-bro-like behavior to bail on your buddies.

"I was starting to wonder where all the coffee was coming from," Tony says, on autopilot because, hey, he's Tony Stark and basically the king of making conversation.

But it doesn't lighten the mood, and Steve looks pinched and unhappy again. "You haven't been eating?"

"Well, there were-I had blueberries. And shawarma, remember the shawarma? It was glorious?" Steve should know all kinds of things about glory.

"Blue-the ones you were eating with Bruce? Days ago? And shawarma was-you haven't eaten since shawarma?

"I'll have you know I eat quite a lot," Tony says testily. "It's just a bit. Sporadic."

Steve glances at Tony, and then around at the lab. After a long moment he asks, voice somewhat tight, "If I brought you food, would you eat?"

"You don't have to-"

"It's not a problem. What do you want?"

"I'm not a little kid. You don't need to go out of your way to-to feed me and shit," Tony says, irritated all over again. "Just, I'll stop by later, okay?"

"It's not out of my way," Steve tells him firmly. "I'm already making the trip."

This is how Tony learns that Captain America is hand-delivering food to their resident powerhouse nutjob. And taking meals with him.

Not that Tony would know, because Tony skips quite a lot of meals when he's in an unfamiliar place, or when he's working, or when he's at home. Basically he eats out a lot, whenever he manages to make time for it. And he has his bots to make healthy smoothies the rest of the time. Really. They sustain him with nutrients and natural fruit sugars throughout the day.

Just not when he's working somewhere else, they're kind of a pain to transport and mostly useless anyway. Tony keeps them around for very personal reasons which have nothing at all to do with sentimentality. Also he didn't expect to be on a helicarrier for a week.

His stomach rumbles again, much more loudly and traitorously, and Steve fires off this little smirk that makes Tony want to punch his stupid face. Or, you know, maybe shove him up against a wall. It flashes hot through his body, unbidden and patently ridiculous, and Tony likes redheads, what the hell.

Shut up shut up shut up, Tony thinks wretchedly to his brain, or his dick. Whichever, it's not like either are listening to him at this point.

They hit up the cafeteria, and Steve piles two trays high with food. And they let him. The friendly SHIELD-approved level 6 security-clearanced food service people don't even look at him funny. Even though Tony's definitely looking at him funny, so everyone could join in and it wouldn't be rude, even.

Then he glowers, because Steve expects him to carry some of it.

"Guy's got an appetite," Steve explains, as if he doesn't eat half his body weight every single day.

"Fine," is all Tony says.

Thor's room is like Tony's room, except the bed's on the opposite wall and the bathroom is a hair larger. Also Loki's curled up on the decidedly too-small-for-him bed.

"Captain," he says, shifting very slowly into a sitting position. Tony's presence gives him pause, however.

"Hi," Tony says, because what else do you say to a broken god who threw you out of a window, killed a friend of yours in cold blood, and destroyed a giant chunk of New York City?

"Stark," Loki acknowledges, and his eyes stray to Steve, and then to the trays of food.

Steve takes a seat on the floor like it's nothing, and he doesn't even have his shield with him. Stunned, Tony watches as Loki follows suit, easing himself down from his bed. He's really not in awesome shape.

"I have already, I believe, informed you that your ministrations are unnecessary," Loki says stiffly, though he is already reaching for a plate piled high with broccoli and mashed potatoes and some kind of green bean casserole. "I will heal regardless."

"But it'll take longer," Steve says. "I made a promise." It sounds like a reminder. Tony is lost.

Loki doesn't say anything, but his mouth twitches unhappily. Tony is even more lost.

It's possibly the most awkward meal Tony has ever had. Steve and Loki sit in relative silence, inhaling food-Steve efficient and methodical, Loki surprisingly delicate, but both consuming an alarming quantity-and Tony manages to unearth a giant bowl of soup, cleverly protected from spills beneath a plate of blueberry muffins. He snags one of those, too.

Tony lets his mind wander back to Avengers Tower; he can't call it anything else now that his internal dialogue has been overwritten, but once they get the sign buffed up he won't have to correct people anymore (even though he hasn't made any kind of formal announcement and won't for months). He's trying to puzzle out a way to fit a portal into Thor's bedroom-he'll get Jane in on it, between the two of them and Bruce they should be able to come up with something to emulate the Bifröst, but it'll seriously cut into the power supply, probably by half, but running the Tower for six months on arc technology is still impressive, still years ahead of-

"Thor will be back tomorrow evening," Steve is saying, snapping Tony out of his reverie.

"Lovely," Loki replies. "You will no longer have to look after me as though I am a child." His voice is completely colorless, and Tony wonders which is worse-to be trapped on a world you failed to conquer, held captive by the enemy you were unable to defeat; or to return home where you will be put on trial for your crimes by the family you once loved. It makes his head hurt.

"Finish your soup," Steve says, this time to Tony, and maybe it's because he wasn't paying attention, but. Something about his voice, the quality of command, it's like everything's been flipped over in Tony's brain. He's never realized this before, but there's a split second where it's as if he's at the top of a rollercoaster, only the track can fork left or right, and he can choose whether to be stubborn and pissed off about it, or-

-impossibly, dangerously aroused. It sinks into his gut, the hot memory of Steve telling him to put the suit on, except this time it isn't hot with anger, specifically; and now Tony's thinking that, maybe someday, Steve will be ordering him to take it off, and wow. Tony never would've guessed he had an-authority kink. What even.

He just, he needs to. Get his head on straight. Maybe call Pepper, and this is when he remembers that he should've called this morning. Which was actually probably twelve hours ago, and much of that time he'd been asleep.

Also he forgot to plug his phone back in, and she's going to be livid.

"You haven't made a lot of friends, Loki," Steve is saying bluntly, continuing a conversation Tony hasn't been following. "You know Thor asked me to-"

"I'm not hungry," Tony interrupts, standing. "I'll catch up with you later. Well, not you, obviously," he says to Loki, but the liar god simply continues to stare somberly at his plate.

"Farewell, Stark," he offers.

"Tony," Steve says, and he's standing, too.

"Thanks for lunch," Tony says, because he doesn't know what else to say. And he leaves the two of them alone in Thor's room.

Two hours after that, Tony still hasn't called Pepper or charged his phone, but he's made a ton of headway on the Tower.

He loves his technology, loves generating the designs like they've come out of the plain air, out of whole cloth. There is no tired medium he has to translate, nothing separating him from the pure act of creation, and he works so quickly, moves through so many ideas, that the mere thought of having to rough out plans the old fashioned way makes him feel tight and claustrophobic.

Brings him back to a cave in the desert with his heart hooked up to a car battery.

Fingertips calloused and bleeding from laboriously-etched technical drawings on smudged tracing paper.

Torture.

Yensin.

He steps back from his workstation, lets his hands fall to his sides, and takes a deep, steadying breath. Presently, his heart rate returns to normal; his eyes burn from being open so intently for so long, and he presses his palm over the arc reactor. Tells himself it's there, forces all the threads of his thoughts back to zero, to center. Like he's hauling everything in.

Bruce glances over at him. "You doing okay over there?"

"Peachy," Tony says.

"Well, I'm done working for the day. I'll see you in the morning?"

"Yeah," Tony says. And then, remembering, "Wait-come over here, let me show you something."

Tony pulls up the schematics for Bruce's floor, , and pitches it. Just sells the fuck out of it, and Bruce is listening quietly and looks the smallest bit overwhelmed.

"And here's your research lab," he says, driving it home. "Full access to all Stark Industries resources."

"Tony," Bruce starts, and he looks hesitant and wary.

"And your own spectrometer," Tony throws out hurriedly. "I've already ordered it."

"Tony, you can't just-," he interrupts himself, eyes glazing slightly. "My own spectrometer?"

"Yes," Tony says firmly. "Also a new laptop. I don't like your old one."

"There's nothing wrong with my current laptop."

"It's a subpar product," Tony huffs.

"It isn't a Stark Industries product, you mean."

Tony smiles with teeth.

So that's squared away, signed and sealed: Bruce is coming home with him tomorrow. And when the renovations are complete, he'll move into Avengers Tower with the rest of them.

After Bruce leaves, Tony finally manages to hunt down Natasha. She's been spending most of her time in an empty cargo wing, using the open space for physical exertion, of all things.

"Your excuse not to go to the gym," Tony says, appalled, "is that they don't have a gym on the ship. And yet you just come down here and make one. It baffles."

She's stretching, dressed in white yoga pants and a loose pink sweater, and it should clash with her hair, all of it should be too pastel for her dark sense of humor, for the deadly intent that follows her fingertips even when she's off-field. It doesn't, though. There's sweat drying along her hairline and throat, and she's so limber it makes Tony's throat dry, because-right, redheads.

He does admit it's jarring to see the Black Widow dressed in weekend-sleepover girlfriend clothes, though.

"I guess that means you don't have an excuse," she teases. "You should join me. Work off some of that unemployment fat."

"Just because I'm not up to the physical standards of a disturbingly acrobatic assassin," he tells her, "doesn't mean I'm out of shape."

"Whatever you've got to tell yourself," she says easily, folded over in a kind of arching backbend, "to get out of bed in the morning."

"You are needlessly cruel," he sniffs, "and I'll have you know I'm gainfully employed."

"Right," she says, straightening and adjusting her scoop-necked collar. "Anything else?"

Tony rolls his eyes while she stretches both arms behind her back. "How's your ankle?" He asks.

"Fine," she says, lifting her leg and rotating her foot. There's an audible crack, and Tony winces. "Stiff, but functional."

"That's what she said," because Tony can't fucking help himself and is clearly a fifteen year old.

Natasha snorts. "What do you want, Stark?"

"I need to talk to you about moving in with me," he says, and her head snaps up. "Not like that," he amends quickly. "I mean, yes, but-let me start over."

"Please do," another voice chimes in, and Tony glances up to see Clint in the rafters, back curved lazily against a support beam. He's got his bow in his lap, hands relaxed over it like he was-sleeping up there or something. With his bow. Huh.

"Oh, good, I see you are hanging out in the ceiling like this is perfectly acceptable behavior. Saves me the trouble of tracking you down later, I guess." Tony pauses significantly. "Clint, you do realize it's fucking weird to stalk your own girlfriend." Tony would love for either of them to deny it, to shoot it down, to sputter over everything wrong with this sentence, because honest-to-god he has no idea what's up with these two.

They completely ignore him, and Natasha's face doesn't even change, and Clint just smirks.

"You were saying?" She prompts, and goddamn, she's almost smiling, too.

"Even though you two are very creepy, I want you to come live in my Tower. That I'm still building, sort of. Because we broke it."

"Clint and I," Natasha clarifies, "and you, and Pepper?"

"And Bruce," Tony says. "And Steve."

There's a beat of silence. Tony fills it. "I've got the layouts for your levels. Take a look when you have time." He passes over two flashdrives, and Natasha takes them both. Then she glances up at Clint, who tilts his head and shrugs.

"We'll take a look," she says to Tony. "But why are you-?"

"We're superheroes now," he says flippantly. "We need a swingin' superhero pad."

What Tony doesn't say: You're so much better than SHIELD, Natasha. There's more to life than living out of a hotel in a foreign city, or a cramped bunk on a helicarrier a mile over the ocean.

And: Clint. It isn't all stand-up showers and red-eye flights and long distance assassination. You know that better than anyone. If we're all in this together, we have to be in this together.

The last person Tony needs to talk to about his brilliant Avengers Tower plan is Steve, and he's avoiding him a tiny bit because everything is so hot and cold all the time-one minute it's great, they're getting along, it's awesome. Tony has a friend. Steve has very dry humor, and he's patient and capable. If he knows something, he sticks to his guns; if he doesn't, he's all ears. He's-really just a good person. Tony's heart sinks, because he knows so few of them.

Pepper's one. He really, really needs to call her. He isn't looking forward to it any more than he was three hours ago.

The other problem with Steve is they argue, usually because of some stupid forties thing he's hung up on, though much less now that he's sort of got a handle on Tony's personality. But the other times, with the. The casual proximity, the way he kind of fusses over Tony, even if he does that with everyone, because he's their leader and apparently that means something.

The way he goes quiet when Tony's said something he really likes, a direct inverse to the simmering anger that eventually boils over when Tony pisses him off.

The way he takes up the whole room without even having to talk over people all the time like Tony does: bright, present, patient. Like if you fuck up, it'll probably be okay because Steve's there, he's a solid place to stand. You can move worlds if he's got your back.

...The way Tony's desperately attracted to him, because now that the idea's had time to take root, it's almost all he can think about.

It's a goddamn mess, is what this is.

Eventually it goes the other way: Steve tracks him down first. Tony wasn't exactly hiding, just holed up in his room and maybe making himself unavailable. But he's wrapped up in a project, so when there's a knock on the door he isn't really thinking about it.

"Come in," Tony says, offhand and inattentive, and he's got his laptop open and schematics up for Captain America's shield, is standing around his desk and sorting through all the old prototypes and pulling together his favorite bits, tweaking the conglomeration like it's fucking magic because he's Tony-fucking-Stark, and when he opens up files on his computer they take up his whole bedroom.

"Holy cow," Steve says when he walks in, then looks immediately chagrined. "Still getting used to this," he adds, waving a hand.

Tony smiles crookedly, because the alternative is saying something insensitive like, "I know what you mean," or worse: "I'm sorry everyone you loved is dead or in a nursing home."

If he allows himself to break the fourth wall, to actually see Steve out of context-if he allows himself to remember for even an instant the gravity of this man's circumstance-everything comes crashing down in his stomach, falls through him like a stone through water, and the thought alone makes him feel like he's drowning. He has to keep it at arm's-length, because this? This is a fucking travesty. This is something that should never have happened to anyone, and Tony was such a fucking asshole with those-those Capsicle jokes, Old man, and. It isn't like with Bruce, not really-you can't pick at this particular weakness until it becomes a strength.

Tony should've learned by now that his particular brand of conversational, preemptive self-defense is usually just a paper mask for base cruelty. He's sad a lot of terrible things to Steve.

(There's a whisper in Tony's mind, in the voice of a young god, about imagined slights. He carefully ignores it.)

And yet, here Steve is. Talking to him, being civil, being kind. Tony doesn't deserve all these good, impossible people in his life.

"Is that my," Steve asks, oblivious to the turmoil raging beneath Tony's skin as he glances around the room.

"Yes," Tony says, moving onto firmer ground, letting his excitement carry him. "I was thinking-well, how do you feel about firepower? I could affix an energy source," and here he pulls up the center of the shield, "say, at the heart of the star. And you wouldn't need to charge it. Like, ever. I know my father-"

Maybe after a long day of selling himself, Tony's lost his edge. Or maybe Steve's just not that kind of guy; regardless, he holds up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Wait," he says. "Before you go any further."

"If we made it heavier overall, we wouldn't have to compromise durability-I know defense is your offense-but I really think," Tony just powers through, but Steve is still shaking his head.

"I'm not you," he says. And ain't that the fucking truth, christ.

Tony doesn't mean to, he doesn't mean to shut down. It's a personal problem, he's trying to work around it, but. It's a different animal, earning someone's friendship by doing something for them. Tony's not adept at forging relationships; he has a hard time figuring out what people want when it isn't money or sex, which are his usual modes of attack-to just throw out one or the other until the situation improves.

Money is something he can't really run out of. But time? Effort? Trying to make something with his own two hands and coming up short? Tony needs to stop thinking. It's the cycle he had to break when he was a kid, when Howard never-when Tony wasn't ever good enough.

But Steve must see it all on Tony's face, because he immediately takes a step forward. He looks apologetic and, for some patently absurd reason, guilty. "Not like that," he says hastily. "Having options works well for someone like you. You think a mile a minute. But simple is better for me. Anything too complicated would just slow me down."

Tony licks his lips before biting them, turns away from Steve, moves his hands in deliberate, efficient gestures to minimize the files and tuck his perfect little universe back into his laptop. He's able to drum up a tired smile. "Right," he says. "I'm not sure what I was thinking, I just," and he shuts down his computer, carefully snaps it closed. "I like making things better." We have too many weaknesses as people to lay ourselves bare as heroes, he thinks.

"Right," Steve echoes awkwardly, suddenly close, and Tony glances over his shoulder in surprise. Steve is just behind him, tracking his movements contemplatively. Tony feels like he's on display, discomfited, scrutinized: stripped bare to his base parts. He has to force back the impulse to turn around and protect himself.

"Some things are fine the way they are," Steve finally adds. And then, hesitating, he settles his heavy palm on Tony's arm. "But thanks for thinking of me."

"Not a problem," Tony replies, unnerved at the contact, at the air going out of the room, at whatever has become the opposite of distance swirling inexorably between them. It feels like gravity, like it's only a matter of time. Like Tony won't be able to stop himself. "Um. Did you need something?"

Steve blinks, purses his lips. "I was gonna ask you earlier," he says, letting his hand fall, and Tony turns to face him with his arms crossed. Leans back against the desk, wedges a bit of space between their bodies. "You don't really take care of yourself."

"Is that your question?" Tony sighs, scrubbing his hand back through his hair.

Steve ignores him. "I don't know how it was before, but. Other people rely on you now."

Tony looks up, and Steve's shifted closer again: angled into his space, warm and broad and tall. And whatever Tony's feeling right now, it's not intimidation; it's not inferiority. It's not comparing himself to a legend and coming up short and imperfect and human.

Mostly, right now, Tony just feels an overwhelming surge of want.

"I've been doing just fine these past few years, thanks," he says sharply. "I'm not a liability, Rogers."

Steve raises his eyebrows, surprised. "I wasn't implying," he starts.

"The hell you weren't," Tony snaps, and if there is ever a point, in retrospect, where he actually lost control of the situation, this is probably it-where he crowds in close, hunches his shoulders like a threat. "We managed to get our shit together enough to be a team, but I'm sick of this-this mother-henning, you're not my-you don't fucking own me-"

Steve narrows his eyes, frustrated tension all along his arms and in the lines of his face, the angles of his shoulders and back. He's too young, in every way that matters, for the burdens and memories he carries. But he's close, and angry, and he's got his hands against the desk and he's caging Tony in, and Tony is. Tony is heavily conflicted, and there's heat in his belly and he wants to thrash and snarl and bite, and he wants to-

"I," Steve parrots at him, "like making things better."

"Go fuck yourself," Tony says nastily, because he meant that as a peace offering, and Rogers is throwing it back in his face like every other douchebag Tony's ever made an effort with. There haven't been many. He shoves his hands against that broad solid chest. "And get off me!"

But what actually happens is:

Tony's fingers slip over the soft cotton button down, and Steve drops his arms automatically and covers Tony's hands with his own.

They're warm, and big, and Tony tilts his head up, startled, because Steve's eyes are impossibly blue. And his pupils are dilating. And he's looking at Tony like-

"Look," Tony says breathlessly, because Steve isn't talking, and he isn't letting Tony go. Like he's frozen in place, like he's stuck. Tony's last words still hang between them, and do nothing to push them apart.

So this is it, then. There's a part of Tony that's almost relieved.

"I don't do this much anymore-and, honestly, not too often with," Tony tries, but he cuts himself off. Swallows.

Steve's eyes fall to his throat, follow the motion. "What are we doing, Tony," he asks, voice a rough whisper, and his hands tighten until it's almost painful.

...And Tony makes a very bad decision. But there's no helping it; he's fought it for days, tried to skirt the edge of disaster like a sinkhole. But sinkholes just keep spreading, wider and wider until the entirety of the foundation has simply gone.

Very carefully, so as not to startle him, Tony removes one of his hands from Steve's iron grip. Steve looks pained, nervous, uncertain. It's not like him at all.

Exhaling, Tony raises the calloused pads of his fingers to Steve's cheek. Casts his gaze away. He is lost.

Says, very slowly and deliberately, "You have beautiful eyes, Steve Rogers."


"Oh," Steve answers, like Tony's given him something. He lets his forehead fall until it's resting gently against Tony's hairline.

"Were you worried about me, before," Tony asks, low and curious with his eyes closed, "when the helicarrier was listing and you sort of. Manhandled me out the door."

"Habit," Steve says, his face warm at every point of contact. "Protecting civilians. Ingrained reaction."

Tony waits, trailing his fingertips in soothing circles over an angled jaw, the hollow beneath a cheekbone. It feels like any other face; Tony is fascinated and caught.

"But when I thought I-that I pulled the lever too late. The red lever." Steve concedes, and if Tony wasn't sure before, he is now. He's not alone in this.

It's going to be a problem. It's easy to walk away when you know someone doesn't want you. It's harder when there's a chance, but.

…It's impossible when they-when you know they do.

Tony is so fucked.

He frees his second hand, which Steve has still been holding, and trails it over solid obliques. Drifts it down to cup a sharp hip bone. He can feel the heat rolling off Steve's body in waves, and. The way he smells, it's. It's too much. "Glad to see I've grown on you." Tony whispers. It comes out rougher than he intends.

"Like a fungus," Steve breathes. "To be fair. You wanna upgrade my shield." It sounds like his throat is dry, and he's finally reaching out to touch Tony. His hair, his shoulders, his arms. Light, careful contact like Steve wants to get his hands over all of him, like he's afraid Tony will disappear, like he isn't sure where to start or what to do. Like he doesn't want to miss anything.

"To be fair," Tony repeats quietly, matching him for pitch, "you're not a god or a monster. You're not a master assassin. You don't carry a legitimate weapon and you don't have super scifi future armor." After a moment he adds, fondly, "Or an intellectual capacity that is nothing short of miraculous."

It gets a laugh out of Steve, at least. Soft and precious and fragile, but wholly present. It's there; Tony gets to have it, regardless of whatever follows.

I'm sorry, Tony says, with no idea why. Except he can't get the words out, which is just as well. They fade away, unspoken, on the back of his tongue.

Steve's cautiously curling his fingers around Tony's neck, leaning in to cover that last critical scrap of distance. Like he's decided to try something, maybe. To take something he thinks he might want.

When Steve finally gets his mouth on him, it's soft and warm; his lips are parted only just, and the contact is almost chaste. He's touching Tony like Tony might break.

And maybe Steve is a patient, searching kind of person, maybe he's reflective or maybe he just likes to ease into things. But Tony isn't, and isn't, and doesn't; this, Steve Rogers kissing him, is all the permission Tony needs.

He gets his fists twisted up in Steve's shirt without preamble, opens his mouth and slides his tongue over Steve's lower lip, nips at it trying to gain entry.

Steve's breath hitches, and Tony finds himself shoved up on the desk next to his laptop, back knocking against the wall, wrists held captive above his head by one huge palm. Steve's between his legs, pinning him beneath hot pressure, beneath a force that's keeping Tony together as much as it's crushing him.

"Didn't even know if I, if you were, if we," Steve gasps, dropping a hand high on Tony's thigh and squeezing, and he really needs to stop talking, as in right this second, because Tony needs to be kissing him.

Tony pushes against him, frustrated, gets a lock on Steve's mouth even as his hands are pinned in place, even as Steve fits their hips together like he can't help it. His face is flushed, pink and shy and damp with moisture, and he's so fucking gorgeous it's murder, jesus fucking christ.

"Bed," Tony manages, "bed, now. Bed bed bed."

It's the wrong thing to say, because Steve goes rigid. "We," he stutters out.

"Now, Steve," Tony barks, and maybe it's because there's still a bit of residual soldier left in him, enough that he follows orders on impulse, especially if you surprise him with one. He's letting go of Tony and stepping back, and the room is cramped and small and Tony manages to slide to the floor without knocking anything over, manages to shove at Steve until the low bed buckles his knees, until they topple onto the sheets together.

And this is-this is good, this is fucking wonderful, Tony with his thighs apart and slowly jerking his hips, stealing contact through multiple layers of clothing, and there's half a moment of fear where he's terrified that this is all on him, that Steve isn't-but Steve kissed him first, he did-

But, no. No, this isn't all on Tony, Steve is impossibly hard, he's huge where their dicks are pressed together, and Tony's first thought is, Shit, it's been a long time and this guy is going to split me in half. And his second thought is, I can't fucking wait.

"Tony," Steve says, fingers trailing under his t-shirt, skimming over his belly because apparently Rogers is a goddamn tease, but he doesn't look playful-he looks worried, he. He looks like he's thinking about this too much and all Tony wants to do is liberate some of this star-spangled glory. This national goddamn treasure.

Tony is done thinking; he's already decided to make the mistake. He'll fucking pay for it, sooner rather than later, but he's going to take what he wants.

Tony pushes people. Steve is someone who's pushed back. He makes Tony feel like a fucking human being, instead of some crazy person that can't be pieced together, even in private. When Tony shouldn't have to play at being a less damaged version of himself.

Steve can handle Tony, and that feeling-being safe, being understood, being challenged. It's perfect, it could fucking work, and Tony wants it so badly he's sick with it. It's all he wants.

There are a great many people in the world who would be whatever Tony needed; some could pull it off so seamlessly that the performance might go unnoticed for years, or forever. But Steve's sense of self is as immovable as stone, as displaceable as the ocean floor. Tony has no idea how to appeal to that kind of integrity, or what he could possibly offer someone who carries convictions as steady as a vibranium shield, who never strays over lines drawn with all the clarity of justice.

But right now it doesn't matter. Steve Rogers wants him, Tony can read it in every straining limb, in the heat trapped beneath his thighs. In every breath and every buck of his hips.

Even if he only gets this once, there's no helping it. Tony's going to ride him into the fucking mattress.

So he jerks his shirt off over his head and floods the space between their chests with blue light. This is a part of him, as vital as the marrow in his veins, as the air in his lungs.

"I know it's weird at first." He leans back, straddling Steve's hips, and Steve shifts a bit so he's mostly sitting up. Wraps an iron forearm around Tony's back, pulls him close so he can reach up and skid his fingertips over the delicate, durable construction of metal and glass and perfect energy that saves Tony's life with every heartbeat.

"No," Steve says, and the bottom drops out of Tony's stomach because he continues, "it's beautiful." He's tracing it, skidding his fingers from flesh to steel to flesh, like he's reveling in the contrast of textures. Tilts his head like he wants to maybe kiss it, but glances up at Tony curiously. The light colors his face, catches in his eyes until they burn a deeper shade of blue than Tony has ever known.

"You say that now," Tony huffs, because Steve keeps caging it with his hands, transfixed. Reverent. It twists up in Tony's gut, uncomfortable and warm. "Just wait 'til you're trying to fall asleep."

Steve pauses again, his hands slowly falling until they're firm around Tony's bare waist. He doesn't say anything, but it's there between them: a question, suspended, that could make or break this moment. There's the smallest part of Tony that whispers, You could stop; it isn't too late.

But that's a damn lie. The want was enough to ruin everything. Tony's already bought the ticket-he just hasn't gotten on the train yet.

It doesn't matter how you frame it. Tony knows exactly where he's going.

So Steve says, with careful intent, "I'm a heavy sleeper."

"Then we'll do just fine," Tony murmurs, relieved, before bending down to kiss him.

There's a slight disconnect: Steve takes his time, edges a thumb over Tony's wrist, gets a hand on Tony's bare back. Works his mouth slowly, careful and focused, and Tony just wants it messy and fast.

"Look," he hisses sharply as Steve bites down with excruciating gentleness over the ridge of Tony's jaw, just below his ear, "are you gonna fuck me or what, Cap?"

Steve freezes, and he's close so Tony sees his pupils dilate; sees the hot flush bleed across his cheeks, down his neck to disappear in his stupidly wholesome button-down. "I-," he stammers, at a loss, and Tony rocks forward, shifts their very noticeable erections meaningfully against one another.

Steve makes this small, tight sound, and it's like he deflates, like he loses his sense of presence for a few hard seconds. Then his arms tighten around Tony and everything rushes back, his breath and his heat and the intensity of his focus, and Tony finds himself being manhandled once more-rough hands on his ass hauling him close, a soldier's close-quarters mastery of groundfighting that ends with Tony's body trapped against the sheets beneath Steve's heavy weight.

Tony's got his thighs splayed out like goddamn whore, and Steve is rutting against him for more glorious friction and life is amazing.

"I need you to," Tony gasps out, his nails raking through Steve's hair, tugging at it until Steve moans, and he's distracted by fingers like raw flame sliding beneath his jeans, sinking into the bare curve of his ass.

"What," Steve gets out, hips still jerking, and it's all Tony can do to fumble with his fly, tangling his hands between their bodies, doing his level best to get to a place in his life where he's naked in bed with Captain America.

Then Steve stops touching him, which is just absurd and horrible, but it's kind of okay because he's leaning back and pulling at his shirt buttons, efficient and practiced while Tony watches, aching.

The undershirt comes next in a mess of polyblend that ends up somewhere inconsequential. Tony really isn't concerned, not even a little, not even at all; because, when Steve is exposed, he's a wonder of pale muscle and smooth skin that doesn't burn in the sun. Arms that can help you do things like save people, and stop you from doing something monstrous when you've spent too much time in your own head to see what's right and real. Arms that can protect you and keep you safe.

Tony sort of freezes up, because this is. This is different. This is Steve Rogers, this is Captain America, and he's. He's physically perfect, he is scientifically engineered to be physically perfect and Tony's, Tony's not-he's just. He's brilliant, sure, but he's only human. And he's defective. He's had to install hardware into his body to keep it from becoming a problem, that's how inelegant and damaged he is.

Steve touches his face carefully, and Tony realizes he's been staring into the middle distance.

"We don't have to," he says softly. "We have time. We can wait. We have time." He's on his knees, curved over Tony with his impossibly broad shoulders, shielding him with his body like he wants to-shut out the rest of the creation. To hard-boil existence down to a fine point where nothing is real but the two of them.

Or maybe that's just Tony.

He wants to insist, No, we don't have any time; but his throat is dry, and all he can do is go for Steve's slacks, pop the button and wrestle the fabric over those lean hips.

By the time Tony realizes he doesn't have any condoms (why would he have condoms when he's travelling without Pepper, and jesus christ is Tony terrible) they're naked and Steve's wet mouth is all over him, filling in the hollows of his ribs, pulsing against the cords of his throat, tracing the scarred tissue around his arc reactor until there is nothing left in Tony that feels the even the faintest echo of imperfection.

"I don't," Tony mumbles, "I don't have," but he's self-distracted: his hand twines around Steve's cock, his thumb slicks covetously over the tip.

Steve gasps sharply, his tongue pausing over Tony's nipple. Abruptly, he reaches over off the bed (leaving Tony's flesh bereft and wet and rapidly cooling, it's agonizing) and fishes around on the floor. He's still holding Tony in place with one hand and most of his body, and when he resettles easily over him, it's like he never left.

Except for the small square foil in his hand.

Tony takes it from him, mystified. "Why do you know what this is?"

Steve rolls his eyes, exasperated. "It was the nineteen forties, not the nineteen hundreds. Military passed 'em out to all of us."

Tony scoffs, because this is patently ridiculous. "Is this-this isn't a seventy-year-old condom, is it? Is it, Steve?"

More than anything so far, this is probably a defining moment in their relationship: Steve blinks at him, slowly. And then explains with the utmost patience, a hand creeping down to press into Tony's hip in a kind of exploratory way, "You might not know this, Tony, but these used to come in envelopes. Small paper ones." He sighs, wistful. The expression is sweet on him. "Had some pretty creative brand names."

"So," Tony mutters, because his brain is trying to figure out how Steve could be in possession of prophylactics if they aren't a relic from an earlier time, "so you-what, you bought one?"

Flushed, Steve wrinkles his nose and looks away. "No, they. When I woke up. They gave me some. Box of 'em, actually." He inhales sharply, because Tony's hand is still around his dick and Tony's starting to remember that, too. He pumps it once, slowly. "H-Had me attend a class about modern STIs and everything."

Tony stares at him, the wheels turning.

"Put a couple in my wallet," Steve mumbles sheepishly, cheeks flushed, eyes glazing over. "Seemed like the thing to do."

Steve brought condoms. His wallet is nowhere in sight, which means Steve brought condoms to Tony's room in his pants-pocket, which means he consciously planned this out.

Tony has lube in his nightstand drawer. He lunges for it, and Steve leans up to give him space.

Then he blinks at the bottle in Tony's hand. "You-?"

"You're the guy who came prepared," Tony interrupts. "Which I'd like to talk about, by the way. It was pretty presumptuous. At least my excuse holds water. No one uses a condom to jack off."

Steve looks confused, but then his face clears because Tony's tearing into the wrapper. He gets a grip on Steve's ass and holds him in place, shimmying down the bed and maneuvering that fucking gorgeous dick forward so it's at a workable angle. In no time he's rolling on the lime green latex, and because Tony's a flashy guy, he uses his mouth.

"Tony-" Steve gasps, his fists falling to tighten in the sheets. "Jesus."

If his mouth weren't otherwise occupied, Tony'd be smirking; you'd think the guy'd never gotten a blowjob before.

The heat from Steve's thighs, gentle and trembling around Tony's face, is intoxicating; he's still got his hand on that muscular ass, that olympian god of an ass, to hold Steve in place.

He plays a bit, varies the pressure in his throat, wets his lips and sucks hard to trap the heat until Steve is moaning and sighing above him. Dusts his fingers, feather-light, over Steve's balls until the sounds shift to breathy pants, half-choked whimpers.

He doesn't spend a lot of time on this, though, because he has grand designs on this particular erection. Intense, sweaty, eye-watering designs.

Steve makes a small sound of disappointment when Tony releases him with a wet pop. When Tony licks his lips, his blue eyes track the motion through a haze of arousal, pupils impossibly dark and forehead creased with naked want. There's no mistaking it for anything else.

Heart racing, Tony tries to get a handle on his shit, tries to conduct himself like a normal person about to bang a goddamn wet dream.

He gently guides Steve back a bit and fumbles for the lube. It's cold on his fingers, and when he sits up a little and reaches down between his legs, parts his thighs and props up his hips and pushes a finger inside, there's nothing for Steve to do but watch.

Tony takes his time; Steve is too huge to rush this, the guy's seriously packing, and it's-it's really been a while. It's an effort to focus on what he's doing, because the Steve's entire demeanor-hungry, fierce, fingers twitching like he wants in on it, even though this whole show is for him-is full and heavy with so many things Tony has never felt before. He hadn't even known, before this moment, that you could even feel the weight of someone's gaze, like. Like a physical presence. Usually Steve's pretty transparent, but right now there's a wall between them: he's watchful with singular intent, and it makes him unrecognizable.

Tony works in a finger, and then two. Scissors himself open, and when his dick twitches, Steve licks his lips unconsciously. Tentatively settles a hand on Tony's side, smoothing the pad of his thumb over Tony's belly. It sends bursts of lightning skidding and curling in his gut.

"Can I," he asks, voice rough, hoarse and Tony isn't looking at him; can't meet his eyes because this is. It's too much, it's more of himself than Tony ever wants to give away.

Steve touches his jaw, tilts his head up. Forces the connection, stares him down, and rasps, "How's that feel?"

"Good," Tony says, breath hitching as he slides in a third finger. "But not as good as you're going to."

Steve swallows, and he's huge and straining and he twitches his hips until their dicks brush against each other. It's more than a man can bear. Tony isn't known for his patience when it comes to anything outside of his workshop.

"Oooookay," Tony says in a high, wavery breath, withdrawing wet fingers. "I'm going to have to ask you to not move right away."

Steve blinks up at him, distracted. "Sorry?"

Tony doesn't respond because he's getting his knees up, pulling at the body suspended hot and close above him. Breathing in the sharp, beautiful scent of it. Reaching down and giving Steve's dick a squeeze, guiding it forward until the swollen head nudges into his ass. He means to take him in by degrees, but Steve's apparently decided to become an active member of this shared activity. Mindless and needy, he starts to move all on his own.

"Oh christ," Tony moans, because Steve goes from that first, careful inch to fucking balls-deep inside him, and it's too much, he's too big, and Tony feels his body tighten involuntarily. Like he can't even breathe without bursting. He's gasping by the end of it, short and harsh, beads of perspiration clinging to his temples and lower back. It's a trial to force his body to relax, to adjust.

"Tony, oh god, Tony," Steve sighs against his ear, his arms strong and solid and cradling Tony's body close, and Tony can feel how tense he is with the effort of staying still, can smell his sweat; wants to cut great damp swathes through it with his tongue.

"Can't, I can't. Tony. You're, you're so," Steve chokes out, burying his face in Tony's neck.

"Shh," Tony whispers, voice uneven. He pushes with his thighs, slides very, very gently back; it's just a couple of inches, and then Tony pushes forward again until Steve is fully seated once more. Breathing hard and almost trembling with restraint.

It doesn't hurt. It's rough, but it doesn't hurt. "Is this okay?"

"Yes," Steve manages, in a way that makes Tony wonder how long it's been for him, if this is. If maybe it's one of those situations where a guy just needs to get his rocks off, and Tony is fucking-fucking low-hanging fruit, if he's. If he's ruined the great thing he had going with Pepper for something that won't-

But then Steve, his hands spread over Tony's hips, eases out as slow as he humanly can; eases back in, and it's. It makes Tony's brain derail, just wrecks the entire goddamn train, and. He recognizes the fact that he was pretty much ruined for Pepper the minute Steve refused to rise to his bait. The minute Tony got roped into working for his attention, and the minute Steve Rogers told him to put on his suit to go a few rounds, right before using his body to shield Tony's, even for a few bare seconds, against the stuttering jolt of a helicarrier being shot out of the sky.

Before Tony met someone, for the first time in his life, on an even playing field.

It's been days. It feels like a lifetime.

"Are you-ready?" Steve asks, but he's pleading, moving in small increments; and Tony isn't, but he manages. Spreads his legs a bit wider in invitation, and Steve pulls out, fucks into him in one strong, smooth stroke.

It gets easier after that, and the feeling of overwhelming fullness graduates to a kind of perfect pressure that builds and builds, that threads through his belly and his back and his chest in heavy, warm bursts. That tingles in his wrists and makes his heart stutter out sharp melodies to his blood.

He comes sobbing into Steve's neck, inhaling the perfect scent of his body, and for the most part he manages to keep a lid on it.

Steve doesn't make a sound, but Tony can feel him biting it back, restraining it tight and hot behind his throat.

Spent, Steve doesn't move off of him for long moments. His weight, the sticky peel of their bodies and the gorgeous heat trapped between, the way Tony's arc reactor leaches at the highlights on Steve's face, bleeds into the gold of his hair: it creates a space inside of him, clear of clutter. A space where Tony exists, quiet and at peace, and his million-and-one thoughts don't crowd in around him, and he doesn't feel antsy or unbalanced, and he doesn't feel like the asshole who still refuses to tell Pepper he loves her. Meaningfully. Even after all these years.

After time interminable, after thoughts start slipping back into his head like sand through cupped fingers, Tony faces the gravity of the situation head-on. He doesn't bury it or hide it, but sorts through every relevant course of action. He could make noises about having to get up early, or that he has trouble sleeping with someone else in the room; he could say it would probably be a bad idea for Captain America to be seen leaving Iron Man's bunk seven hours after entering it. There are plenty of ways to delicately remove someone from this sort of situation; some of them would even be the truth.

Instead: Steve gets up to toss the condom into the trash bin, and then stands hesitantly by the bed.

In the blue light, Tony can make out faint indentions in his flesh, premature bruising that will never fully develop: ridges and angles from the pressure of metal and glass. It does something to Tony, something like possession, like synchronicity. Like belonging. So Tony hooks an arm around him, pulls him back onto the blankets. Twines his limbs around Steve's more muscular ones, fills in all the space like water sluicing down into cracks in the pavement, freezing there, expanding to close every gap between their bodies.

Steve kisses the smooth plate of the arc reactor, and then he kisses Tony. It's long and lazy and slow, and Tony can't find it in himself to bother about the mess on the sheets and on their skin.

When he falls asleep, it's to warm breath against his ear, to the afterimage against his eyelids of the shape of Steve's face beneath a tracery of blue light.

And Tony feels safe, like a child with a night-light: protected and kept.

--
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