Archive of Our Own

Steve doesn’t think about having sex with Tony Stark. He certainly doesn’t plan for it to happen.

It simply… does.

They are arguing again. About some inane and meaningless thing as they tend to do these days; both carefully avoiding the real issue that simmers underneath the surface of all their interactions. It’s a familiar dance, this tug o’ war between them. One that is slowly but surely wearing Steve down, but he dances anyway.

He is not actually certain he would know how to stop. Even if he wanted to.

Steve cannot recall who started it this time. Tony, probably, it usually is Tony, but it could have been him. Steve is the one finishes it, though.

Tony is still talking, fast and angry and incessant, the words jumbling together in Steve’s ears until they no longer carry any meaning, only emotion: cutting and vicious.

And Tony is right there, within arm’s reach, carelessly invading Steve’s personal space, his narrowed eyes and jutted chin daring Steve to do something about it.

It is hardly the first time they have done this. Sometimes, it feels like they have always been in each other’s faces: snarling and taunting and pushing. Always pushing.

This time, however, there is something almost electric in what little space is left between their bodies. It is not the usual tension that has always existed between them. This… this is something new, something dangerous, causing a surge of heat to coil low in Steve’s belly, and an almost visceral need to reach out and touch.

Leave. Go. Now.

Steve knows he should listen to that voice – however small and panicked, all but drowned out by the pounding of his heart – but his feet are refusing to move and so he just stands there, with his throat clenched tight and his fingers twitching by his sides.

“… fuck’s sake, Rogers,” Tony snaps, his mouth curled in annoyance. “You could at least pretend you’re listening. I know you have better poker face than that.” Tilting his head to the side, Tony waves a careless hand between them, his fingers brushing against the cotton of Steve’s T-shirt. It’s an accidental, fleeting touch, and yet… Steve’s throat suddenly feels dry as sandpaper. “You look like a spaced-out goldfish.”

Steve blinks, trying to clear his head, but finding himself unable to think past this… whatever it is. Momentary insanity, he decides, caused by not enough sleep. And Tony. Who is still standing so damn close, annoyed and utterly oblivious to Steve’s current predicament. And not looking as if he has any intention of backing away.

And Steve has never known how to do it first.

“And what would be the point in listening?” Steve snaps, embracing the anger that seems to be the only true constant in his relationship with Tony Stark. That, at least, is familiar. Unlike this incessant pressure that is building within Steve’s sternum, new and terrifying. “It’s not like we won’t be fighting again.” Pressing his mouth into a thin line, he squares Tony with a hard look. “You got that meeting with Ross in DC tomorrow, right?”

For a fleeting moment, Tony looks almost stunned; his eyes wide and mouth open but no words are coming out of it. It feels a hollow victory – the sight of Tony Stark robbed of speech. Hollow, and short-lived.

“Oh fuck you, Rogers,” Tony sneers, contempt dripping from his words. The look of vulnerability from moment ago is gone, replaced by hardened, bitter veneer. “Not everyone can live in that black and white world you have up there in your head. Some of us have to face the one that actually exists.”

“And what kind of a world is that, Tony?” Steve challenges, his gaze locked on Tony’s. The air between them feels overheated now; as if small flickers of flame are licking along Steve’s skin. And Steve wants to get closer still. He doesn’t. But he doesn’t back away, either. “The one where everything can be compromised and bargained with?”

Tony remains silent one long moment; the muscle in his jaw twitching, his breaths coming out harshly. “That fucking self-righteous attitude really never gets old, does it?” Tony mutters, shaking his head. “It must be quite a view from that high horse. Ever thought of climbing down and joining the rest of us mere mortals, Rogers?”

“That coming from a guy who built himself a flying suit?” Steve snaps back. “And lives in one of the tallest buildings in New York?”

Tony opens his mouth, then snaps it shut. The look in his eyes is murderous. “Yeah, you were right before,” Tony drawls, his voice tight. “We’re done here.”

Tony doesn’t leave Steve a chance to say anything. He turns on his heel, heading for the door.

Back when they had returned to the States – and the Avengers facility – Steve had tried to mend fences with Tony. He would reach out, only to be refuted. He’d stopped trying, after a while. The sting of that particular defeat still burns. Especially on days like this one, when Steve is reminded that anger and bitterness seem to be the only language they know how to speak anymore.

Steve cannot tell what makes him reach out this time, nor can he precisely pinpoint the exact moment he makes the decision. Not that it matters, the end result is the same: his fingers wrapped tightly around Tony’s wrist, refusing to let go.

This is a mistake, is the first thing that crosses Steve’s mind. Warm, is the close second. But it is the third that wipes it clean of all else: I don’t want to let go.

“Rogers,” Tony warns, glancing pointedly toward his trapped wrist. His eyes are gleaming with fury that is barely held in check. “Five seconds. That’s how much you have to let go. What happens after… it’s all on you.”

For Steve, Siberia was… nightmare. Some nights, it still is. Literally. And here he is now, on the verge of creating another one. Only this time, there is no Bucky to protect, no real reason for his actions, only a sense of urgency… this clawing need within his chest that seems to have bypassed all Steve’s higher brain functions.

And the absolute worst thing? There is no name Steve can attach to it, no goal. Only heat and pressure.

Tony gives a small tug in an attempt to free his hand, his eyes never leaving Steve’s. There is defiance there, and bright heat of anger, but that is not all. Steve cannot tell what it is, but it leaves him short of breath, his fingers tightening further around the bone of Tony’s wrist.

“Fine then. Have it your way,” Tony says, something heavy and dark settling over his features. Steve can feel his pulse stuttering underneath his callouses, only to resume a wild rhythm. A distant part of Steve’s mind knows that Tony has made a decision, expects to see the red and gold metal engulf Tony, almost bracing for impact. But that part of Steve’s mind, usually unshakable, is drowned out by his pounding heartbeat and rendered useless. Following some inexplicable impulse, Steve’s eyes slide down slowly to Tony’s throat, watch him swallow heavily, then flick up to the grim line of Tony’s mouth-

Oh.

The realization doesn’t come like a blow to the chest, or like the world has suddenly shifted from its axis; nothing as earth-shattering or dizzying as waking up in the future or staring at Bucky’s face and finding nothing in his eyes. No. This feels like blinking away sleep from his eyes, slow and lazy, and finally, finally seeing what has always been there, right in front of him.

Too late, is the last thought in Steve’s mind before he’s not thinking at all but moving, wrapping his other hand around Tony’s waist and tugging him forward; no hesitation, no second thoughts now that he knows what to call this feeling that throbs behind his rib cage.

Tony doesn’t try to fight him, just goes with it, the expression on his face caught between bewilderment and disbelief. No fear, though. Fear would make Steve stop.

Steve doesn’t want to stop.

Releasing Tony’s wrist, but keeping his other hand firmly on Tony’s waist, Steve cups the back of Tony’s head and leans down. A short gasp of surprise is Tony’s only reaction to Steve capturing his mouth with his own, his body growing very, very still against Steve’s.

Steve doesn’t concern himself with finesse or seduction, his lips moving roughly against Tony’s unresponsive ones, his tongue demanding entrance. There is desperation in this not quite kiss, a sort of frantic need, and Tony just stands there, not pushing Steve away, but not responding either.

It is not a complete loss of control, but not far from it either. Steve feels lost to sensations: the smell of Tony’s skin, the softness of the hair on the back of his neck, the warmth of his body. It is heady and dizzying, and nothing Steve has ever thought he’d feel in connection to Tony Stark.

Who, obviously, feels nothing of the sort in return.

A surge of helpless frustration makes Steve’s fingers tighten their grip on the back of Tony’s neck for a fraction of a moment. As if brute force has any sway in this madness. A pained noise, muffled by Steve’s mouth, escapes Tony’s lips. It feels like being doused with ice-cold water. Horrified, Steve forces his fingers to loosen their hold – he cannot quite convince them to retract entirely – and starts to pull away.

And that is the exact moment – it figures, a distant part of Steve’s mind notes with not a small measure of hysteria – that Tony’s mouth parts on a groan, and he begins to kiss back.

Everything becomes a blur of motion after that.

Steve surges forward, walking Tony backwards, breaking away from Tony’s lips when air becomes the greater necessity. The sound Tony makes at that – small and needy – would probably make Steve feel smug were he capable of a mental process that went beyond ‘more’ and ‘now’. They tumble into the desk in their haste, the sharp edge of it digging painfully into Steve’s side but he only notes the sensation in passing; more concerned with trying to get to the skin that lies beneath the layers of expensive material of Tony’s suit.

“Fuck,” Tony hisses when his back hits the wall with more force than necessary. Steve’s hands still on the buttons of Tony’s shirt. He draws his head back, searching Tony’s face for any sign of discomfort, of doubt. Instead, he finds Tony’s face flushed, his pupils blown wide with the same need that is blazing through Steve’s veins. “That didn’t mean ‘stop’, Rogers,” he snaps, but the breathlessness of his voice turns what was supposed to be a command into something closer to a plea.

It successfully shatters the last of Steve’s reserve.

Sex isn’t something Steve has a lot of experience in. And the little he does have, is of no use here. This, now, with Tony… it is urgent and desperate, just shy of rough. There is too much teeth to their kisses, too much force in the fingers grasping and pulling at clothes. Too much anger mixed in with desire.

“Come on, Rogers, work with me here,” Tony grumbles, low and urgent, his breath hot and wet against Steve’s throat. He’s pulling on Steve’s T-shirt, trying to get it off. Reluctantly, Steve moves back a little and bats away Tony’s hands, pulling it off himself. He lets it fall on the ground, and moves as to kiss Tony again, but is stopped by Tony’s hands on his sternum. “God bless science,” Tony murmurs. In any other situation that would make Steve’s hackles rise immediately, but there is no mockery in Tony’s voice, his fingers almost gentle as they trace a path from the hollow of Steve’s throat down to his abdomen. Without a warning, Tony’s touch turns rough and demanding, his nails scraping against Steve’s abdominal muscles. The sudden flash of pain/pleasure makes Steve press Tony harder into the wall, his hips bucking forward and slotting against Tony’s. He cannot quite suppress a groan when that gets his still clothed erection brushing against Tony’s own hardness.

“Fuck,” Tony swears heatedly, his fingers migrating to the waistband of Steve’s jeans. “Friday, blackout. Now.”

It takes Steve a moment to understand the meaning behind Tony’s order. They are still in the meeting room, where they stayed, fighting, long after everyone has already left. The realization that anyone could have walked in on them hits Steve with a strange combination of mortification and thrill. Biting back a moan, he leans forward, mouthing his way down Tony’s jaw, his fingers finally undoing all the buttons of Tony’s, undoubtedly ridiculously expensive, shirt.

“Sure thing, boss.”

Steve abandons trying to get the shirt off Tony’s shoulders when it gets stuck on Tony’s rolled sleeves, settling instead for pulling it wide open. He draws back fractionally, his eyes, and then his hands, sliding down Tony’s narrow, muscled chest. His fingers linger briefly in the middle, an unwanted flash of memory – the edge of a shield coming down hard on the glowing blue light – cuts through the haze of lust that is firmly wrapped around Steve’s better judgement.

This is an extremely bad idea. Hazardous, even. Steve knows this. The thing is, he still wants it. Wants Tony.

“Just an average human here, Rogers.”

Steve drags his eyes from Tony’s chest, takes in the sharp amusement in the curve of Tony’s smirk. “Is this you fishing for compliments, Stark?” Steve asks, quirking an eyebrow.

Tony’s eyes flash darkly, his smirk turning decidedly wicked. “No,” he drawls in a low, husky voice that goes straight to Steve’s cock. “This is me giving you a chance to keep your virtue intact.”

Steve’s eyes narrow only to widen when he feels fingers closing around the base of his cock. He didn’t even notice Tony working his jeans open. He swallows, barely managing to hold himself from bucking into Tony’s fist.

“Do I look like I’m in need of protection?” Steve asks, feeling genuinely pleased with how firm his voice sounds when his body is very nearly shivering from the effort of keeping still. Dragging the heel of his hand against Tony’s erection, Steve allows himself a small smirk at the way Tony’s eyes flutter shut for a moment, his fingers flexing around Steve’s cock. “Or did you forget already who started this?”

“Okay then,” Tony says, and moves his hand upward. Steve groans, loudly, bucking into Tony’s fist. He almost startles when fingers of Tony’s other hand close around the hand Steve still holds against Tony’s crotch, dragging it to the waistband of his slacks. The gleam in his eyes is equal parts arousal and challenge. “Your move, soldier.”

Steve’s mind shuts down entirely after that, and all gets lost in the myriad of sensations sparking bright along his nerve endings, and Steve’s entire world narrows down to the space that holds his and Tony’s bodies pressed together.

Steve would be mortified by the throaty moans spilling freely from his lips, punctuated by Tony’s colorful swears, were he able to think past the almost-too-rough drag of Tony’s hand around Steve’s erection, and the slide of Steve’s fingers around the hard length of Tony’s cock.

Tony’s fingers are digging deep into the groove of Steve’s hip, his swears morphing into short panting breaths, his hand moving faster along the length of Steve’s cock. There’s an incessant pressure building from low in Steve’s gut, his hips bucking wildly into Tony’s fist. He knows he’s not going to last for much longer.

Steve speeds his own strokes along Tony’s cock and leaves open-mouthed kisses along the length of Tony’s neck, relishing the salty tang of Tony’s skin on his tongue. He bucks into Tony’s grip once, twice, three more times and comes all over Tony’s hand, his teeth closing over the tendon of Tony’s neck, his vision whitening out. Tony comes short after, a long, drawn-out groan tearing from his lips.

When the last of post-orgasm haze leaves Steve’s mind, he slowly becomes aware that he is pretty much slumped against Tony, panting wetly against Tony’s collarbone, one of his hands clutching at Tony’s hip while his other one is still buried inside Tony’s briefs.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Steve feels his throat constrict as the reality of what just happened sinks in.

He’d just had sex with Tony Stark. A leaden weigh forms slowly in the pit of his stomach. It is not shame, and not regret, that much Steve knows. Just as he knows that something has irrevocably changed between the two of them. He is not naive or optimistic enough to think a mutual handjob will miraculously fix what is broken between them.

Though, he is desperate enough to hope it didn’t shatter the last shred of what they once had.

Swallowing heavily, Steve takes a careful step back, feeling something inside his chest twist at the loss of warmth of Tony’s skin. He’s never been one to shy away from facing the consequences of his actions, but it takes almost his entire will to face Tony head-on.

Steve’s breath hitches in his throat when he takes in the sight Tony Stark is currently presenting: slumped against the wall, his expression lazy and relaxed, his hair in disarray, his clothes-

Steve feels heat rise in his cheeks, his heart skipping a beat, something almost smug forming in the back of his mind at the thought that Tony’s utterly debauched state is all Steve’s doing.

Which makes him remember his own current appearance.

Taking another step back, Steve tucks himself back into his pants; a feat that would be much easier were it not for the slight tremor to his fingers. Frowning, Steve glances at the mess on his right hand, a part of his mind insisting on supplying him with the words ‘Tony’s’ and ‘come’ in a sort of half-astonished and half-hysterical voice. Steve ignores it, wiping his stained hand on his jeans – they are a mess anyway – then he turns around and bends to pick up his discarded T-shirt.

Steve takes entirely too long to put the shirt back on, his mind frantically searching for the right thing to say to Tony and coming up empty.

Squeezing his eyes shut for a moment, Steve exhales a deep breath and squares his shoulders. He’s faced worse things than Tony Stark in all his post-orgasmic glory. And came out more or less unscathed.

“Tony, I-” Steve starts before he’s fully turned around, but cuts himself off abruptly. The Tony Stark from moments ago is no longer there. Gone is disheveled, pliant look. This Tony is standing straight and finishing buttoning up his shirt, his head tilted to the side, an expression of careful consideration on an otherwise blank face.

Steve blinks, frowns. Something shifts in the space beneath his breastbone. An emotion that feels far too much like loss for Steve’s peace of mind.

“If the end of that sentence includes any variation of the word ‘sorry’, it would be better if you keep it to yourself.”

Steve shakes his head, swallows ‘I just had your dick in my hand, stop acting like an ass’, deciding to go with an equally truthful but somewhat safer declaration.

“I wasn’t about to apologize,” Steve states, flatly. He holds Tony’s gaze unflinchingly. “What happened… I’m not sorry.”

“Good. Then we’re on the same page.”

There is no spite or anger on Tony’s face – something that has become a common occurrence in their interaction – but after listening to Tony moan and gasp against Steve’s mouth, after feeling his body shudder under Steve’s touch, the blankness of his expression has the effect of a blow to the chest.

“And what page is that, exactly?” Steve demands, frustration giving his voice an edge. He has no idea where they stand now. Not surprising considering he cannot seem to untangle the complicated knot of his own emotions regarding what had just occurred between them.

A flicker of a smile passes across Tony’s face. It never reaches his eyes. “Friday, terminate blackout.” he says, and Steve can do nothing but watch as Tony picks up his suit jacket from one of the chairs, and, without even a parting glance at Steve, calmly strides out of the conference room.

Long after Tony has left the room, Steve remains rooted to the spot, concentrating on nothing but the next intake of breath.

****

The funny thing – if funny were a synonym for frustrating beyond belief – is that their relationship improves after their tryst in the conference room.

On the surface, that is.

Tony refrains from picking up fights with Steve purely because he can. He also develops a certain amount of respect for what constitutes as Steve’s personal space. Or, more accurately, a fondness for keeping a healthy distance from Steve.

It should make Steve happy. If their friendship is no longer a viable option, then a civil but cold relationship should be something Steve prefers to what their behavior has amounted to since Siberia – that of two kids fighting on a playground.

Should, but doesn’t.

It is the distance that bothers Steve. Since their first meeting, they have been drawn to each other. Sure, it was mostly so they could snarl at each other’s faces, but at least that was real. This careful, calculated avoidance Tony is practicing is anything but.

Or that is what Steve would like to believe. What he tells himself when he takes a cold shower instead of a hot one so he doesn’t have to deal with his morning erection in fear of where his thoughts would lead him. What he tells himself when his eyes stray toward Tony’s neck, knowing there is a fading bruise there, hidden by layers of silk or cotton, forming the exact shape of Steve’s teeth.

****

The entire charade implodes in on itself after three weeks of careful avoidance and stony silence.

Three longest weeks of Steve’s life.

****

Steve is in his work room, double-checking the intel for the upcoming Avengers’ mission when Tony storms inside in a flurry of flailing arms and blazing eyes.

“What are you playing at, Rogers?” Tony demands, throwing a data pad on Steve’s desk. It clatters loudly, missing Steve’s cell phone by an inch. “What is this bullshit?”

Steve whips his head in Tony’s direction, momentarily stunned. Accustomed to Tony’s recent impenetrable wall of silence and avoidance, Steve’s mind gets stuck on the fact that Tony is there voluntarily, talking – well, yelling, really – to him, unable to form a proper response to Tony’s violent entrance.

“Why are you benching me from the Odessa mission?”

Steve forcibly drags his gaze from a small, black smudge on Tony’s right cheekbone, swallows against the sudden dryness in his throat. He feels an absurd urge to drag his thumb across that smudge. He clamps down on it mercilessly. His scattered thoughts coalesce slowly, sluggishly, forming a fairly clear picture of the reason behind Tony’s current mood.

Pushing his chair away from his desk, Steve rises to his feet, and folds his hands across his chest, meeting Tony’s eyes levelly.

“Did you even bother to read the e-mail I sent you?”

Tony rolls his eyes at that. “Is that supposed to be a rhetorical question?” Tony asks, his mouth curving in distaste. Then, as if the thought only occurred to him, he blinks, squaring Steve with a look that is both confused and annoyed. “And since when you’re sending out e-mails? I’m practically living here anyway. Not to mention you insist in having team meetings at least once a week.”

Steve gives him an incredulous look. When Tony merely spreads his arms in a gesture of exasperated impatience, Steve grits his teeth to stop himself from blurting out the truth that has been chipping away at his peace of mind – his sanity – these last three weeks.

We had sex, and now you’re acting as if it never happened.

He couldn’t say that. It is bad enough he couldn’t stop thinking about it. But to show Tony – aloof, unaffected, unbothered – just how out of balance their ill-advised tryst has left Steve? It would be like playing Russian Roulette with a fully loaded gun. It would reveal too much. Give Tony far too much power. If Tony, who’s always had the uncanny ability to get under Steve’s skin, to hit where it hurt the most, isn’t aware of Steve’s newly acquired Achilles heel, Steve sure as hell is not about to hand the knowledge to him on a silver platter. Steve will… he’ll get over it. If losing an entire world and all that mattered didn’t break him, this… thing with Tony Stark certainly won’t.

“Perhaps I’d hoped to avoid… this,” Steve says, indicating the space between them. As arguments go, this one is sorely lacking in sense, but since the truth is too closely tied to the giant elephant in the room, it’s not like Steve has much choice. “I explained everything to you in the e-mail.”

“Yeah, not buying it, Rogers,” Tony drawls, condescension oozing from his words. Steve’s jaw tightens in response. “Diplomacy… not really your thing. Also, I think you know me better than that.”

Steve sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. He can feel the first embers of irritation flare inside his chest, but he refuses to be swayed by their call. Giving in to anger has always been Steve’s path of least resistance when it came to Tony Stark.

“Look, Tony,” Steve says, keeping his voice level and calm. It… sadly, it requires more effort than Steve would like to admit. “I stand by my decision. I didn’t make it lightly, but I did make it objectively.” Steve puts an emphasis on the last word, as if daring Tony to argue. “Had you bothered reading the e-mail I sent you, this wouldn’t be an issue.”

“Since that’s not happening, and I mean ever not just today,” Tony challenges, jutting out his chin and taking a step closer. Steve’s heart rate stutters momentarily. There are two equally strong impulses fighting inside his sternum, and Steve is not certain which one is worse. The one that demands of him to accept Tony’s challenge, or the one that wants him to leave and do it now. “How about you explain it to me.”

Steve glances away, desperately holding onto his rapidly losing calm. What he really wants is remind Tony that he is leading the Avengers, something Tony had refused to even consider after the team rebuilt in the wake of Thanos’ attack on Earth. And what a strategically sound move that would be, Steve winces internally, about as much as lighting a match in a room filled with carbon monoxide.

Turning around, Steve walks over to his work desk. He picks up his own data pad, aware of the deepening frown on Tony’s face. Then, after a few quick swipes, he sets it down on his desk again, and moves to the side. “As the official leader of the Avengers, I receive a copy of all official Avengers’ correspondence. This,” Steve nods toward the sleek, black device, his gaze locked on Tony’s increasingly perplexed one, “is from Ross. He rescheduled the meeting.”

Tony blinks, glances at the data pad, then back at Steve. “But Natasha-”

“Is away on a mission. For at least another week,” Steve states. If things go according to plan. They very rarely do.

Tony remains silent, the frown on his face turning into an outright grimace. He strides past Steve on his way to the desk. He doesn’t brush against him, doesn’t even come close to doing so. That doesn’t stop Steve from having an irrational impulse to jump away from Tony. Clenching his teeth together, Steve ignores it entirely.

“You thinks it’s intentional?” Tony asks, putting away the data pad. His fingers are drumming an erratic beat against his right thigh, most of his anger fading from his eyes.

Steve shrugs. “Not sure. He’s familiar with our roster and schedule. Don’t know what he’d stand to gain from this. But with someone like him, it’s better to assume the worst.”

“Yeah,” Tony agrees, his mouth thinning into a grim line. Something dark flashes in his eyes, his fingers clenching into a fist. “In his case, paranoia is more like sound judgement.”

“So you understand now that you’re the best person to replace Natasha?” Steve tries, even if he more or less knows the answer.

Tony bristles instantly. “And I suppose you are not an option as per usual?”

“Even if I weren’t the Avengers’ tactical field commander, you damn well know how I feel about the Accords,” Steve bites back, straightening his shoulders. He signed the Accords, the version that still allowed him the luxury of looking himself in the face in the mirror, but he’ll never agree with what they stand for. And he sure as hell won’t pretend for Ross’ sake.

“Yeah, that’s how the world works. I don’t like this so I’ll just pretend it doesn’t exist even if there’s legally binding document with my name on it that says otherwise.”

“This is not up for a debate, Tony,” Steve warns through gritted teeth. “You’re going. End of story.”

“Why?” Tony demands, crowding closer until their bodies are almost touching. “Because you say so?”

“Because the choice was either you or Rhodes, and I’d rather not bench Rhodes again,” Steve snaps, his voice coming out harsh and loud.

Tony’s eyes widen, and he takes an uncertain step back. He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. He shuts them with an audible click, looking away from Steve.

Steve runs his fingers through his hair, sighing. He didn’t plan on disclosing this piece of information. Unfortunately, his restraint has never stood much chance against Tony. Not from the very first moment they met.

“Can you honestly tell me you’re not the right man to deal with Ross, Tony?”

“He hates my guts,” Tony shrugs, still not looking directly at Steve’s face. “That’s a plus, I guess.”

“He hates all our guts.”

Tony snorts, but says nothing. He fidgets slightly where he stands – small, jerky movements as if keeping still defies something written in his genetic code. His eyes are cast somewhere above Steve’s right shoulder, but there is a hint of an almost involuntary smile in the corner of Tony’s mouth.

Steve’s breath hitches in his throat, his chest growing tight. The silence that stretches between them doesn’t feel strained or awkward. It would be almost like the old times were it not for the spark of heat that coils low in Steve’s abdomen, sends his heart racing and brings color to his cheeks. As is turns out, Steve notes, lust is more difficult to ignore when you know it is, in fact, lust.

And almost impossible when you’ve already had your taste of it.

Tony is looking at him now. An intent, penetrating stare that helps not in the least with the heat of desire that is starting to spread through Steve’s bloodstream.

Steve wants to say something, because he knows where this is leading, he’d be a fool to try to deny it, but his throat feels too damn tight to function properly.

And Tony is still staring at him; Steve’s own turbulent emotions reflected at him from those dark eyes.

“Screw this,” Tony murmurs, his eyes flicking toward Steve’s mouth.

Steve knows what will happen a second before Tony moves. Knows he can avoid it; he’s both faster and stronger than Tony. But in that short space between two intakes of breath, Steve makes a different decision.

Tony’s mouth collides with Steve’s with too much force, clumsy and urgent; his fingers clutching at the short hair on the nape of Steve’s neck in near bruising grip. Steve’s mouth opens with a gasp, his hands settling low on Tony’s waist and pulling him near, until there is no space left between their bodies.

The last vestiges of denial Steve’s been clinging to shatter into nothingness under the almost overwhelming sense of finally that sears through Steve’s mind. A tiny sound of protest escapes Steve’s lips when Tony draws back, a wicked gleam lighting up his eyes.

Steve frowns in confusion and impatience when Tony simply stays like that, looking up at Steve’s face with dark amusement and not kissing him.

“What?” Steve manages to force past his lips, his voice coming out breathless and strained, his fingers clutching tighter at Tony’s waist.

“You really aren’t a boy scout, are you, Rogers?”

Steve blinks, giving his lust-clouded mind time to properly parse Tony’s words. Then, when the meaning finally sinks in, he snorts. “Why?” he asks, sliding his hands underneath Tony’s T-shirt, feeling Tony’s abdominal muscles clench underneath his questing fingers. “You disappointed, Stark?”

“Not in the least,” Tony answers, his voice full of breathless laughter and unveiled lust, and then he’s pulling Steve’s head down and they are kissing again: open mouthed and deep, and just shy of dirty.

“Captain Rogers, Sam Wilson is requesting your presence in the armory,” Friday’s chipper voice announces.

It takes Steve a moment to parse Friday’s words, then another one to convince himself to stop kissing Tony. He doesn’t quite manage to convince himself to step back, though, opting for leaning his forehead against Tony’s, his fingers still moving slowly against the skin of Tony’s back.

“It…it must be about the mission,” Steve states, breathing heavily.

“Yeah,” Tony agrees, his breath warm on Steve’s mouth, his thumb lazily tracing the line of Steve’s throat. “Tomorrow’s mission.”

“I… I should go, it’s probably important,” Steve says, but makes no move to leave. Or even to step back from Tony. He knows he should, but he simply doesn’t want to let go. Not yet.

In the end, it is Tony who takes a step back. For one endless moment, they just stand in silence as their breathing slowly calms down, simply looking at each other; Steve’s gaze keeps flicking down to Tony’s mouth, red and swollen.

“When you return, Rogers,” Tony says, his voice hoarse and low, his eyes gleaming with intensity. “We’re going to finish this.”

Steve doesn’t say a thing. He merely watches Tony pick up his discarded data pad, turn on his heel and stride out the door without another word.

When Tony is no longer visible, Steve exhales shakily, shutting his eyes for a moment. Lifting a trembling hand to his lips, Steve lets out a sound that is a touch too sharp, that one note too high to be considered laughter. There is pressure within the hollow of his chest, a strange feeling that consists of exhilaration and foreboding in equal measure. It feels like standing right at the edge of an abyss. And knowing, beyond shadow of a doubt, he’s about to fall down.

Fall down? Or is it jump down?

Steve ignores that tiny voice as he grabs his jacket and exits the room. Either way, it doesn’t matter. Fall isn’t what kills unfortunate, reckless, stubborn fools.

It’s the landing.

****

Frowning at words on the screen, Steve lets out a low noise of frustration. His frown, though, has no visible effect on the… well, garbled mess that his mission report is obviously shaping into.

Sighing, Steve leans back in his chair, running his fingers across his face.

It is probably best to admit defeat for today. It’s not like he is making any progress anyway. Glancing at the clock, Steve takes a deep, steadying breath. It’s almost midnight, but he doesn’t feel tired, his body still running on mission adrenaline. It’s his mind that is the problem. His mind and its unusual and quite irritating lack of focus.

Well, Steve thinks wryly, lack of focus on something productive. Or, to be precise, anything besides Tony Stark. And his parting words to Steve.

Five days in Ukraine, and Steve’s mind didn’t stray from the mission. Not once. But after ten minutes back at the compound, it’s like someone has flicked a switch inside his brain, turning him into a schoolboy with a crush. It’s… maddening. And not only because Tony is in New York.

Taking another glance of the clock, Steve thinks back on Sam’s offer of drink this afternoon.

“Come on, man, we’ve done our job. Come with us, relax a little. You don’t have to be responsible all the time.” Sam’s smile was wide and bright. “Even Vision is coming.”

But Steve had declined the offer, citing finishing reports as his excuse, his cheeks heating with knowledge of the real reason behind his refusal. And now here he is, sitting alone in his work room, unable to concentrate long enough to finish a damned mission report, cursing silently his own stupidity, his impatience, and, most of all, Tony Stark.

“If you scowl any harder at it, the screen will melt,” a familiar voice states with amusement. “It’s Stark tech, but even I draw the line at your patented stare of disapproval.”

His heart skipping a beat, Steve whips his head toward the source of that voice so fast it almost causes whiplash.

Tony is leaning against the doorway, hands in pockets, his shirt unbuttoned at the neck, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hair is messy, like he’s been running his fingers through it, his lips quirked into a rueful smile. Steve’s mouth goes dry.

“Door was open,” Tony states, shrugging. There’s a strange expression on his face. On anyone else, Steve would call it timid.

“I thought you had a business meeting in New York,” Steve blurts out, cringing inwardly at how out of breath he sounds. How eager.

“I returned early,” Tony offers. He moves away from the doorway, shutting the door behind himself with a soft click. “I did my part, got bored with trying not to fall asleep during a board meeting.”

“You do that often?” Steve says. At Tony’s raised eyebrow, he amends: “Fall asleep during board meetings?”

“Not really,” Tony answers, tilting his head to the side. His expression turns almost wistful. “These days I simply leave. Everyone’s happier that way. Well, everyone except Pepper. But I’ve learned to accept that I’m not the man who could make her happy.”

Steve swallows, his chest growing tight and heavy. They are talking, Steve realizes with not a small amount of bewilderment, actually talking. Not merely looking to one-up each other verbally. It’s something Steve wanted for a long time. Accepted it probably won’t ever happen. And now, he doesn’t know what to make of it. Not considering the recent development in their relationship.

They were friends, once. It all fell apart in that damned Siberian bunker. Then they saved the world together, continued to argue and push each other’s buttons. Steve doesn’t know what they are now.

“Sam tells me the mission was successful.”

Blinking up at Tony, Steve frowns. When did he come so close without Steve even noticing him move? He’s now standing barely two steps from where Steve is sitting, and up this close, Steve has to look up to meet Tony’s eyes. It’s irrational, Steve knows it, but their current positions make Steve feel almost vulnerable. And yet, he remains seated.

“For the most part,” Steve answers, turning slightly in his chair so he could look directly at Tony. “Their connections with Hydra were confirmed and we’ve shut down any further production of biological weapons.” Pausing, Steve presses his mouth into a thin line. He can live with ‘for the most part’, especially when it means no casualties, it’s just… he would like to be able to say ‘complete success’ from time to time. “Unfortunately, some of the data and samples were gone before we could secure them, and we couldn’t find evidence to tie their dealings with the local government.”

Tony nods, his face serious. His eyes flick over Steve, giving him a cursory once-over. There is nothing sexual about it, but it still makes Steve’s skin tingle. “No injuries?”

“Only Sam’s pride,” Steve offers with a grin. “Rhodes beat him to the labs.”

“Ah,” Tony says, a small grin tugging at his mouth. “That’s what that demand for an upgrade had been about.”

They both fall silent after that. Steve has never known silence could be so stifling; like a living, breathing presence.

“And your meeting with Ross?” Steve asks when the silence becomes too much, half-convinced his thundering heartbeat is as clear to Tony as it is to him.

Pulling his hands out of his pockets, Tony waves a dismissive hand. “Waste of time. I guess he got tired of Natasha dancing her way around him so he wanted another playmate.” Shrugging, Tony flashes a smile. It makes Steve think of sharks. “He wasn’t happy when he got me.”

Steve makes a non-committal noise, his fingers wrapping around the chair’s armrests. This is the longest conversation they’ve had in years without it disintegrating into a fight. But Steve is not about to fool himself into thinking they’re slowly moving toward mending their friendship, and not merely dancing around the issue of them being sexually attracted to each other.

Not when the air between them sizzles with heat and tension.

Tony’s the one to break down first. His face turns determined as he moves forward, until he is standing directly in front of Steve, they knees almost but not quite touching. Steve sucks in a harsh breath, his fingers curling tighter around the chair’s armrests. The plastic creaks ominously in response, but Steve doesn’t loosen his grip. He cannot.

“Last time, we were interrupted,” Tony states flatly. His eyes are boring into Steve’s as if he’s trying to see into Steve’s mind. Steve bites back a noise of pure disbelief. The way he’s feeling now – like the entirety of him has coalesced into the feeling of want that is coiled low in his belly – there is no way he can even think of hiding it from Tony. “And I believe I’ve made you a promise.”

Stepping forward, Tony insinuates himself between Steve’s spread knees. “But this time, I’d like to skip our usual foreplay and go directly to the main event.”

What’s left of Steve’s coherent mind latches on the double meaning of Tony’s words, something like panic clawing at the inside of Steve’s chest. No excuses this time. No doors left for denial. Just the naked truth.

“Tony, I think we should-” Steve tries, his voice sounding wrecked, his heartbeat a deafening roar in his ears.

Steve doesn’t finish that sentence, the remaining words scattering into nothingness when, in one smooth move, Tony sinks to his knees in front of Steve, his hands coming to rest on Steve’s thighs.

“Yes or no, Rogers,” Tony says – demands – in a gravelly voice. His eyes, dark with arousal, are set unblinkingly on Steve’s face. “Just say the word.”

No, no, no, no, no… echoes loudly within Steve’s mind.

“Yes,” Steve says, his voice steady and calm. Nothing like the raging inferno that is his chest.

Something flicks across Tony’s face, disappears before Steve has a chance to recognize it. Then, Tony is smiling: a lazy, positively wicked grin. “I was hoping you’d say that,” he says, his hands slowly trailing up towards the waistband of Steve’s uniform pants.

Steve bites back a moan when Tony’s fingers brush against his growing erection, spreads his legs wider reflexively. “What,” Steve begins, breaks off to clear his throat, tries again. “What would you have done if I’d said no?”

Tony quirks an eyebrow, his eyes sparking with dark amusement. “Does it really matter now?”

“No,” Steve concedes, his throat feeling raw and open in the wake of that admission. “I suppose it doesn’t.”

Tony’s expression shifts into a stony mask, his fingers stilling on Steve’s half-undone pants. “You want another try, Rogers?”

“No,” Steve says without missing a beat. It’s the truth, after all. All Steve’s fears, doubts and panic aside… he knows what he wants. “I want you.”

Tony blinks, narrows his eyes at Steve, but his fingers are moving again, undoing the straps on Steve’s pants. “You can never make anything easy, can you?” Tony grumbles under his breath, more to himself than Steve, and Steve wants to laugh and laugh at the exasperation in Tony’s voice, but then he feels Tony’s fingers wrap around his, now uncovered, cock, and he forgets everything.

He simply feels.

****

It happens again.

And again. And again after that.

And it keeps happening. Regularly, and often. Far too often for Steve to even attempt to backtrack into land of denial.

But it’s not until an entire month passes, and Steve is leaving Tony’s bedroom in the middle of the night – the memory of Tony slowly lowering himself down onto his cock blazing in front of Steve’s mind’s eye in glorious detail – that the realization hits, making him stumble a step, then freeze entirely.

Somehow, after their first ill-advised time in the conference room, Steve has managed to dive head first into a relationship with Tony Stark.

****

They do not acknowledge out loud the fact of their existing – well, Steve wouldn’t exactly call it romantic – relationship. They don’t actually establish boundaries either. They exist, though; silently agreed upon and religiously adhered to. No sleepovers is the main one. No cuddling afterwards. No romantic displays. No calls, messages or meetings past Avengers’ related business. And so on, and on, and on. It doesn’t take a genius to notice the common denominator: sex yes, intimacy no.

The sex is… good. No, not merely good. It’s amazing. Like they have finally found a productive outlet for the sparks that have been flying between them since their first meeting. Like finding the right partner for this sort of dance.

They get along better outside the bedroom (and conference room, and gym, and training room), no more pointless bickering and sullen silence. They have always worked well together in the field, but now it’s almost as if they don’t even need to communicate beyond a few short instructions. Just a few days earlier, during a training exercise, Scott had pointed it out on the com line – okay, guys, cut it with the weird telepathy thing, it’s not fair to the opposing team. Steve froze mid motion at that, but Tony merely snorted and covered Steve’s flank, blocking Rhodes’ repulsor blast. Steve didn’t even attempt to stop the collective bickering that ensued after that on their general channel. Their team had won, though.

So yes, Steve’s in a relationship with Tony Stark. Relationship that more or less amounts to casual sex. It’s hardly the kind Steve has ever envisioned for himself, but that’s nothing new. Almost every plan Steve’s ever had for his personal life had been ripped apart by reality.

Sam had once asked him what made him happy. This, what he has now; Bucky and the Avengers, and now, however fleeting and unexpected, even Tony, together in a place Steve has come to consider home, it’s as close to happiness as Steve has come since waking up in the future.

So why is it so damned difficult to ignore a persistent itch in the back of his mind?

“I can hear you thinking,” Tony says, his voice caught between amusement and exasperation. “You sound like a steam engine.”

Steve blinks, looks down at where Tony is kneeling, his hands on Steve’s naked thighs, his mouth red and wet from… Steve swallows, feels his cheeks heat up. “Not… not that old.”

“It’s insulting, really. Am I boring you, Rogers?”

Steve lets out a huff of breathless laughter. “Do I,” he indicates toward his hardened cock, beads of pre-come glistening at the tip, “look bored?”

Tony grins up at Steve, his fingers wrapping around the base of Steve’s cock. Steve bites on his lower lip, clenches his hands into fists. Sometimes, he thinks he could come from the sight alone: Tony on his knees, his smart mouth only inches from Steve’s cock. “You’re sassing me. Can’t have that. Let’s see if can make you beg instead.”

As it turns out, Tony can. Steve doesn’t mind it in the least.

****

They don’t advertise the change in their relationship to the others.

But they don’t go to great lengths to hide it, either.

Steve is not surprised that Natasha is the first to know.

****

“You have something against simple life, Rogers?” Natasha asks when the waiter leaves.

Steve’s mouth curls on the edges, his gaze darting sideways. “I think simple stopped being an option for me the moment I crashed that plane in the Atlantic eighty years ago.”

“Just how long are you planning to use that I’m-just-a-poor-relic-from-the past card?” Natasha says, cocking an eyebrow. “No one’s buying it anymore.”

Steve smiles. “You can’t blame me for trying.”

A smile, soft and fond, flashes across her face. It disappears quickly, her face shifting into a familiar neutral expression. A knot that’s been lodged in Steve’s belly since the moment Natasha asked him out for coffee tightens further.

“So. Tony.” Natasha says in a flat tone, leaning back in her chair.

Steve sighs, catches the nervous play of his fingers in his lap, forces them to relax. He doesn’t consider denial. “I know it’s…” Steve pauses, searching for the right word. Complicated? Il-advised? Reckless? Borderline insane? “Unexpected-”

“Well, that’s one way of phrasing it.”

“- but it works for us,” Steve finishes, his chin held out, his voice solemn.

Natasha studies his face intently one long moment, her face drawing into a frown. “Is Tony the reason things didn’t work out with Sharon?”

That startles a laugh out of Steve. “What? No. With Sharon… I don’t know. Her career, the Avengers. Most of the time we were on the other side of the globe from each other,” Steve says, spreading his hands in a helpless gesture. “I guess our timing was never right.”

“And with Tony?” Natasha asks, softly. “The timing is right?”

Steve thinks about it for a moment. A few months ago, he didn’t even consider being attracted to Tony a remote possibility. He was disheartened, more or less resigned to never mending the friendship they shattered through their disagreement over the Accords. Through Steve’s silence about Bucky. But why was it so easy, then? To fall in bed with Tony? After that first impetuous kiss? And why does even thinking about giving it up feel like drawing breath with a collapsed lung?

“I’m not sure there ever was the right time for us,” Steve says in a flat tone. For some reason, those words leave an ashen taste in Steve’s mouth.

Something like sadness flicks across Natasha’s face. It disappears almost instantly. Perhaps it was never there in the first place. “An odd thing to say,” Natasha remarks casually, taking a sip of her espresso. Steve knows her better than to be fooled by it. “Considering you’re together now.”

Steve’s jaw goes tight, his shoulders stiffening. “Are we really doing this, Nat?”

A hint of a smile curves in the corner of her mouth. Her eyes remain serious. Intent. “We’re having coffee, Steve. Friends do that occasionally.”

“I’m not a mark, Nat,” Steve says, just a hint of an edge to his voice. “Whatever it is you want to know, go ahead and ask.”

“Why Tony?” Natasha asks without batting an eyelash, as if she’s been waiting for Steve’s permission. Steve wouldn’t be surprised if she has. “Why now?”

“It wasn’t something either of us planned,” Steve says simply, the corner of Steve’s mouth curving into a small, rueful smile. “It just happened.”

Natasha’s eyebrows shoot up. “It just happened,” she repeats, her tone flat. “Steve, the rest of us almost agreed on having someone keeping watch over the two of you in case one of your fights went too far.”

Steve blinks, the smile slipping from his lips. “What?”

Natasha shrugs. She doesn’t look apologetic. “We were worried.”

Steve forces down a surge of irritation that swells inside his chest. He understands Natasha’s concern. Objectively. But it doesn’t lessen the feeling that he’s been put on trial for something that is deeply personal.

“Is this about the team, then?” Steve asks, his voice growing sharp. “Because you know there is nothing in the charter that forbids relations between team members.”

“The last time you and Tony imploded on each other you took down the entire team,” Natasha says in a curt voice. Steve visibly winces at that. Natasha studies him in silence one long moment. Then, she sighs, her eyes softening. “But it’s not just about the Avengers, Steve. I’m worried about you. Both of you.”

Steve’s posture relaxes fractionally, but the knot in his belly remains; its weight a familiar reminder of how many questions about his relationship with Tony still remain unanswered. Some things, though, are quite clear.

“Nat, neither of us expects a marriage to come out of this,” Steve says in a steady voice. “We’re just two people enjoying their time together.”

Natasha’s lips curl into a smirk, her eyes flashing with amusement. “Oh, I bet you do, considering you could cut the sexual tension between you two with a knife on the ride back from Stuttgart. What was it? Fifteen minutes after you two met for the first time?”

Steve feels his cheeks flush despite himself. “First, that was not sexual tension, but Tony being an ass,” Steve remarks flatly. Natasha gives him a deeply unimpressed look. “And second, I’m not talking to you about my sex life with Tony.”

“Rogers, you’re insulting my imagination and severely overestimating my curiosity about anything that directly ties sex and Tony Stark.”

Steve glances away, his cheeks still feeling uncomfortably hot, but he’s smiling, something warm and light bubbling inside his chest. When his gaze darts back to Natasha’s face, he finds it serious once again. Steve’s eyes flutter closed for a second, his breath coming out on a sigh.

“Nat, we’re consenting adults in a mutually beneficial relationship,” Steve says, wincing inwardly at his chosen phrase. Mutually beneficial. Not loving. Not caring. Just a fancy way of saying ‘we’re fucking’. Swallowing past the sudden tightness of his throat, Steve presses on, “You trust me with your life on the field. So why can’t you trust me with my life?”

The look Natasha gives him is a perfect blend of incredulity and sympathy. “You may be an excellent strategist in the field, Steve, but that doesn’t translate to your personal life. And Tony?” Natasha shakes her head. “Hot mess doesn’t begin to cover it.”

Annoyance surges through Steve, sharp and bitter. He takes a deep breath, releases it through his nose. He knew what awaited him when he accepted Natasha’s invitation. But he’s done with defending himself and his choices.

“I understand your concern, I really do, Nat,” Steve states, his voice taking on a note of finality. “Tony and I…” breaking off, Steve feels his mouth curve upwards slightly. Something about that phrasing, about saying it out loud… it coaxes something bright and airy into existence in the hollow of Steve’s chest. It takes Steve by surprise, making his breath hitch in his throat, but he collects himself quickly. “I didn’t anticipate it, but I don’t regret it.”

They both fall silent after that, the sound of traffic and nearby voices filling the space between the two of them.

“Are you happy?” Natasha asks suddenly, her voice gentle but firm.

“I don’t want it to end,” Steve says in a low voice, the words slipping past his lips almost without Steve’s conscious decision. With that truth acknowledged, Steve’s stomach drops, a shiver trailing up his spine. Up until this moment, Steve didn’t actually consider ending things with Tony. His and Tony’s relationship is far from perfect, but to give it up? Not something Steve desires.

Caught up in his thoughts, Steve notices Natasha moving when she’s already standing next to his chair, looking down at him with a fond expression that is only somewhat ruined by the small frown creasing her brow.

“Take care of yourself, will you, Rogers?” she says, her voice a blend of fond and resigned. Then, her mouth curling into a smile, she adds softer, “Him, too.”

Steve looks up at her, nods; his face solemn. “I will.”

Squeezing Steve’s shoulder, Natasha turns to leave. She takes two steps, stops, looks over her shoulder at Steve. And there, on her face, Steve sees it again: sadness. “I really wish I knew Tony was an option back when I was trying to set you up with a date.”

Steve’s eyes widen in surprise, his thoughts scattering into too many directions all at once, his heart rate spiking. When he finally manages to get his mind back on track, and his heartbeat close to normal, Natasha is already gone.

****

Natasha is the first to find out.

Steve knows it’s only matter of time before the others follow.

He doesn’t have to wait long to be proven right.

The details are not entirely clear to Steve; a complicated story of curiosity, gossip, late night wanderings around the compound. And yes, accidental magic (sometimes Steve forgets how powerful Wanda really is).

Steve is not sorry. If anything, he feels relief. He and Tony may not be the world’s most stable couple, but they are doing nothing wrong or immoral.

The only downside is that when the reveal happens, Tony is miles away, has been for three weeks, dealing with SI business, leaving Steve to face the team alone.

It goes… well, not perfect. There are no accolades or congratulations. There is confusion, disbelief, eye rolling, and, yes, certain amount of silent judgement, but all in all, it goes well.

Sam just looks at him with wide-eyed mix of wonder and disbelief, before shaking his head, his mouth turning up into a grin. “Man, I hope you know what you’re doing ‘cos I like it here. I’m not looking forward to another jaunt across the globe.”

And then there is Bucky. Who, on some level, has more clearly defined relationship with Tony than Steve does (it takes a new metal arm, three hours in a locked training room, with Steve hovering outside, just shy of breaking in if not for Natasha’s interference). Steve still doesn’t have the entire story of what exactly had occurred between them that day. Bucky only shrugs and says ‘we’ve dealt with it, Steve, leave it alone’ whenever Steve asks. He never asks Tony.

“You needed more challenge in your life?” Bucky asks, levelling Steve with a look of weary resignation. Steve knows that look well. It has survived through eighty years of death, loss and pain. “Saving the world not enough for you?”

“It’s not like that,” Steve says, trying valiantly not to look away from his oldest friend or fidget like a nervous child. He doesn’t quite succeed. “Why does everyone keep saying that?”

“Because it’s you and Stark,” Bucky answers, deadpan. “Not long ago you almost came to blows over a duty roster and now you’re fucking?”

Steve grimaces, tries to ignore the flush spreading across his ears and cheeks. “Buck,” he half-pleads, half-demands, running his fingers through his hair. “Can… can you trust me with this one? Please?”

Bucky rolls his eyes, snorts. Then his face grows serious and he closes the space between them, clasping Steve by the shoulders. “You know I got your back. Always.” A shadow crosses his face, something raw and vulnerable flashing in his eyes. The fingers on Steve’s shoulders tighten, only to loosen in the next moment. “But I’d hate to fight him again, Steve.”

It’s as close to a blessing as he’ll get, Steve decides, the tightness in his chest unwinding minutely.

Until it comes back with a vengeance.

****

Steve’s in the gym, his fists colliding with one of the specially reinforced punching bags with increasing speed and strength. The bag withstands Steve’s blows, but Steve has ruined enough in the past few years to recognize that it won’t for long.

It’s been quite some time since the last time Steve had used this particular method of stress relief, but there’s a constant, insistent pressure concentrated beneath his breastbone. Has been there for the past two weeks, and Steve cannot shake it off. It is distracting, infuriating, and distinctly uncomfortable; like his skin is too small for his body, squeezing his chest, his lungs, and making every breath a struggle.

“What the fuck you think you’re doing?”

The note of command in Rhodes’ voice circumvents Steve’s thought process, heads straight for the soldier inside him. He turns reflexively, his body half way to assuming parade rest before he remembers himself, forcing his body to relax, and his breathing to even out.

Frowning at the sight of clearly furious James Rhodes, striding determinedly across the gym towards him, Steve straightens his shoulders, releasing a deep breath through his nose.

Steve should have anticipated this. It was foolish of him to think Rhodes won’t find out about him and Tony the moment he returned from Washington.

“And what am I doing?” Steve asks when Rhodes comes to a halt almost within arm’s reach. He keeps his voice clear and strong, his gaze level.

Rhodes narrows his yes. “Cut it with the bullshit, Cap,” he warns in a no-nonsense voice. “You know what I’m talking about.”

“Then you know you should probably speak with Tony about this.”

“Oh, I will,” Rhodes says, his eyes glinting dangerously. “As soon as the jackass returns. But now I want to hear what you have to say.”

“There’s nothing to say,” Steve answers in a measured tone. “What’s between Tony and myself… it’s private.”

“Private?” Rhodes repeats, incredulous. He makes as if to step forward, but stops himself, his entire body radiating barely controlled fury. He doesn’t make an attempt to mask the accusation in his gaze, but Steve holds out his chin, holding Rhodes’ gaze unflinchingly. “Well, the last time you and Tony shared something private you were conveniently absent for the fallout. You wanna hear how I know? Because I was there.”

Steve does look away at this, guilt churning in his gut. Sometimes it seems that whatever he does, no matter how much time passes, a part of him will forever remain trapped in that bunker in Siberia, paying for the sin of being human and fallible.

“I cannot erase what I’ve done,” Steve says softly. “All I can do is try to make it better.”

Rhodes lets out a heavy sigh, some of the anger draining from his expression, leaving room for weariness. “By sleeping with him?”

Steve straightens, exhales deeply, his gaze going hard. “With all due respect, Colonel, but that’s none of your business.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Rhodes says, holding Steve’s gaze unflinchingly. There’s steel in his eyes. “Tony’s my best friend. He can be an ass and a handful, but I’ll be damned if I stay back and watch him have his heart trampled once again.”

“I have no intention of hurting him,” Steve says fervently, his words more a vow than a promise. One Steve means to keep at all cost. Even if Rhodes exaggerates the extent of damage Steve could do. Tony’s heart is well beyond Steve’s reach.

Rhodes shakes his head, huffing out a frustrated sound. “See, I know you believe what you just said, but I can’t decide whether you’re willfully blind or just plain stupid if you don’t see what you’re doing.”

“And what is that?”

Rhodes’ face twists into a pained grimace, his lips thinning out. “You’re handing him rope to hang himself with.”

“That’s not-”

“Shut up and listen to me,” Rhodes cuts him off, urgency now, not anger, giving his voice a sharp edge. Releasing a deep breath, he fixes Steve with a look that manages to convey a warning and a plea both. “Just…be careful, okay? One of you has to, and it sure as hell won’t be Tony.”

Steve nods slowly, not trusting his voice not to crack. If he could even push words past the swelling in his throat.

Rhodes gives Steve one last look, mutters, ‘goddamit, tony,’ under his breath, and leaves.

Steve isn’t certain how long he stands stock still, staring at nothing, before a shudder shakes his entire body and a gasping exhale forces its way out of Steve’s mouth. Steve scrubs a hand across his face, presses the heel of his hand against his right temple. It has no effect on the chaos that are his thoughts.

Is Rhodes right and Steve’s making a mistake? Is he hurting Tony in some way?

A low buzzing noise cuts through Steve’s daze. Steve blinks, gathering his wits. Still, it takes him an embarrassing amount of time to recognize the sound for what it is. He strides over to the towel cabinet where he’d left his things, picks up his cell – the official Avengers’ one – and frowns at the screen.

It’s a message. From Tony. It’s irrational, but something very much like fear digs into Steve’s gut, and coils there, like a resting serpent.

Situation at SI got complicated. I’ll need another two weeks to wrap things up. Call in case of Avengers’ emergency.

Steve blinks at the letters on the screen, dumbfounded. A moment passes, then another, his temporary dismay dissolving into impotent frustration. He’s not aware of his fingers moving, clenching around the cell phone until he hears the metal creak in warning. Steve loosens his hold, glaring at the unassuming words on the screen in the absence of the one who wrote them.

It’s not even subtle, the implication behind Tony sending the message to Captain America, not Steve Rogers. Then again, Tony has never been especially fond of subtlety.

Steve doesn’t make an attempt to pry apart the tangle of emotions set loose inside his chest by Rhodes’ words and Tony’s message; he’s only half aware he’s made a decision when he’s already at the door, heading for the shower.

****

“Mr. Stark will see you now.”

“Thank you,” Steve says, offers a smile to the receptionist, and heads for the elevator.

The ride to Tony’s office doesn’t last nearly enough to offer Steve a chance to sort through the chaos of his thoughts, loud and insistent as they are. Making a spur of the moment decisions is hardly a new experience for Steve, but this is not a battle, and the single-minded determination that had Steve leave the Avengers’ compound for New York has lessened minutely, leaving space for doubt and second-guessing.

Steve wants – needs – answers to questions he’s been biting back for too long. But there’s also a part of him – the selfish, fallible one – that wants to hold onto what little he has of Tony without any regard to consequences. Steve doesn’t entirely understand the depth of that impulse. He’s more than a little frightened by its existence.

Steve’s not hypocritical enough not to recognize that there is certain bitter irony in the fact that a similar selfish impulse – to safeguard Bucky at any cost – had been the instrument of his and Tony’s clash in Siberia as much as Zemo’s intricate chess game. If not more.

And that is the entire point of this, isn’t it? To avoid another Siberia?

Swallowing against the dryness of his throat, Steve squares his shoulders and pushes open the door to Tony’s office. He doesn’t bother with knocking.

Steve takes only two steps inside Tony’s office before his feet refuse further cooperation, pinning him in place. His eyes have no such problem; ignoring the opulence and flare of Tony’s office and zeroing in on the man himself.

Tony is half-seated, half-leaning against the massive oval desk, his fingers holding onto the edge of the table. He has his head tilted to the side in a gesture that is equal parts curiosity and wariness.

“Rogers. Can’t say I’ve expected to see you here,” Tony says in lieu of greeting. His tone gives away nothing.

And Steve just stands there, distantly aware how ridiculous he must look, but too caught up in his body’s visceral reaction to Tony’s voice to do anything about it. Realizing you’ve been missing someone, Steve thinks faintly, should not feel like lung failure.

“Rogers? Did something happen?” Tony asks when Steve fails to make his mouth shape words. He pushes himself away from the table, a crease forming on his brow.

Whether it’s Tony’s sudden movement, or something else, but Steve snaps out of his daze, pressing his lips together in combination of annoyance and embarrassment. He blinks, frowns as his gaze skids along Tony’s face, down to his chest and back again, taking note of Tony’s rumpled appearance: top buttons of his shirt are undone, his tie is hanging askew, and his usually meticulously stilled hair sticks in every direction. But it is sight of dark circles under Tony’s eyes that grabs hold of Steve’s gaze, locks it tight, coaxing a twinge of worry and annoyance from beneath Steve’s breastbone.

“Have you been sleeping at all?” It is hardly how Steve wanted to start this conversation, but it is what bursts forth from his mouth. Steve supposes he should be grateful he is speaking at all.

Tony’s eyes widen, but the expression in them goes from startled to amused in a matter of seconds, a hint of a smirk curving on his lips. “Don’t concern yourself with my beauty sleep, I get enough rest.”

Steve swallows a sigh, gives Tony an unimpressed look. “Enough in terms of a regular person?”

Tony snorts, waves a dismissive hand. “Now you’re just plain insulting me, Rogers,” Tony says. There’s a new glint to his eyes as he almost prowls closer. Steve’s mouth goes dry, his breath hitching in his throat. His gaze slides down to Tony’s exposed throat without Steve’s conscious thought, lingers on the spot where neck meets collarbone. “You damn well know I’m not a regular person.”

When Steve manages to wrangle his wandering eyes into obedience, there’s a full-blown grin on Tony’s face, his eyes roving over Steve with not a hint of modesty, shame or pretense. Steve takes in a sharp breath, but manages to hold still when Tony reaches out, drags a lazy finger across Steve’s bottom lip.

“I didn’t expect to see you, Rogers, but now that you’re here…” Tony leaves the rest of that sentence hanging in the air, steps forward until there is barely a breath of space between their bodies, his hand moving to curve on the nape of Steve’s neck.

For one second, Steve feels tempted. Tempted to give in to the heat that curls low in his belly and forget all about the questions he’d came here seeking answers to. He starts to lean in, almost comes close to feel the warmth of Tony’s breath on his face. Steve’s reason intervenes in the last moment, making Steve step back before there’s real contact between their lips. It’s… more difficult than it should be. Than it’s safe.

But then again, if safety were something Steve valued, he would never come anywhere near Tony Stark.

Tony blinks, confusion and disappointment clear on his face, his hand still half-raised in the space between them.

“I’m not here for sex, Tony,” Steve says. He aims to sound determined, but somewhere between his brain and his vocal cords, it somehow gets translated into weariness.

Tony blinks, lowers his hand slowly. It’s almost like watching Iron Man assemble around him; his face turns into an impassive mask, his eyes close off. A pang of regret sparks to life within Steve’s chest. Steve clamps down on it. Hard.

“You know, I almost wish you’d go back to turning red at the mere mention of sex,” Tony remarks flippantly. Steve doesn’t bother with trying to rebuke that statement. If he gets dragged into one of Tony’s games of deflection, he’ll never say what he came to say. “Almost.”

“We need to talk, Tony,” Steve says flatly.

A shadow flicks across Tony’s face a second before he turns and walks over to the desk. He stands there for a moment, head bowed and fingers gliding along the polished surface.

“You don’t want to fuck but you want to talk,” Tony says without turning around. There’s something in his voice which works its way inside Steve’s chest, wraps tight around his heart and squeezes. “And it’s not about Avengers’ business.”

Steve frowns, his fingers clenching and unclenching by his sides. It… he doesn’t want to have this conversation with Tony’s back. But it doesn’t look like he is to be given a choice.

Releasing a deep breath, Steve squeezes his eyes shut. When he opens them again, he’s no longer looking at the tense line of Tony’s shoulders but his eyes. Sharp, and focused on Steve’s face.

“That ‘time is money’ proverb, Rogers? Not a proverb in my case.”

“The others know about us,” Steve blurts out in one breath, feels relief expand in the space those words have left behind.

Tony doesn’t look surprised. Or bothered. “We share living space with a scarily competent spy and a mind reader. It was a pretty safe bet someone will figure it out sooner or later.”

“And you’re fine with that?” Steve asks in a slow, measured voice. His heart, though, beats an entirely different rhythm.

Tony rolls his eyes. “You’re not my dirty secret, Rogers,” Tony scoffs, blinks, his mouth curving into a smile that is all sharp edges and bitterness. He studies Steve’s face in silence one excruciatingly long moment. “Am I yours? Is that what this is about? You’re here to end things?”

Steve can hear the question mark in Tony’s voice, but cannot see it on his face. There’s nothing there but stone cold certainty.

“No.” The word tears itself from Steve’s throat without a second thought: fierce and unyielding. Tony looks taken aback with Steve’s vehemence. He’s not the only one. Steve swallows; his throat feels tender, as if that lone word was made of jagged glass. “No,” Steve repeats, softer this time, “that’s not why I’m here.”

Tony throws up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Okay, I’m done with this guessing game,” Tony says; confusion, frustration and impatience heavy in his voice. “Why are you here?”

“Rhodes came to see me.”

Tony’s eyes go wide, his expression softening with a rueful smile. “Oh.”

“He’s not happy.”

“Yeah, well,” Tony says, half-shrugs, leans against the desk. He’s looking everywhere but at Steve’s face, Steve notes. “To be fair, he’s had to deal with a lot of my shit during the years.” Tony pauses, meets Steve’s gaze. “But I don’t have to talk to you about overprotective best friends, do I?”

Steve doesn’t flinch at the reference. He’s learned not to. “Rhodes is a good man. You’re lucky to have him watching your back.”

Tony glances down, his expression turns soft, affectionate. For a single instant, Steve longs to own it, to have it directed at him. But the moment passes, and only a soft echo of the longing remains in the hollow of Steve’s chest. And then that too, goes away.

“The best,” Tony says, soft and gentle. His eyes snap back up, lock onto Steve’s. “Just what did Rhodey say if he managed to rattle the mighty Captain America?”

You’re handing him rope to hang himself with.

Steve takes a deep breath. Releases it through his nose. Takes another. Objectively, Steve knows he’s no longer suffering from asthma. It makes no difference, though, his lungs still feel like they are on fire.

“Are you,” happy, Steve doesn’t say, the word sticks inside his throat like hot coal, “okay with… our arrangement?” Inwardly, Steve shudders at how impersonal the word arrangement sounds. Not that it makes it any less true. “Truly?”

Tony looks genuinely confused. “Why wouldn’t I be? The sex is amazing, we haven’t argued… actually, I can’t remember when was the last time we got into a fight, and we’re kicking ass in the field. I see no downside to us sleeping together.”

Steve feels frustration well inside his throat, his fingers curling inwards. It’s the same truth he’s been repeating to himself from that very first time. So why does hearing Tony say it out loud makes it seem so… base, soulless. Cheap. “It’s that simple, huh?”

Tony’s eyebrows shoot up. “Nothing about us has ever been simple, Rogers. This,” Tony gestures between them, “is making it better. Making it work. I thought we were on the same page about that.” Tony pushes himself away from the desk, takes a step forward, his expression somewhere between exasperation and wariness. “What’s really bothering you, Rogers?”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Steve says, watches as Tony goes very, very still. Silence that ensues after Steve’s admission has weight, its presence almost palpable in the air between them.

“What makes you think I would allow it?” Tony asks, his voice low, with just a hint of warning.

Again. Tony doesn’t say it, but Steve hears it anyway: loud and clear.

“It doesn’t work quite like that, Tony.”

Tony studies him in silence for one long moment. Steve cannot read his eyes, but he can see Tony struggling to keep calm in the way his jaw works and his fingers drum a nervous beat against his thigh. “You want to make it work? Make is simple?” Tony says, and it comes out almost like a challenge. “You think you’re hurting me, end this. You want out, say so. Basically, Rogers, just say the word and we’re done.”

Steve’s entire body goes cold, the weight of Tony’s words dragging his insides down, down, down. It’s not that he thinks Tony’s words are a challenge or empty bluster, it’s the fact that he knows they are nothing but truth that claws at the inside of his chest.

“I’m not doing this, Tony,” Steve says, his voice paper thin and brittle, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. He can feel the heat of anger in the pounding beat of his heart and the rush of blood in his ears. But there’s fear there too. And sorrow. The well-known shape of loss. “I’m not going to be the villain of this story.”

Tony blinks, frowns. “What…? Is there a part of this conversation I’m missing?” Tony says, a clear edge of frustration in his voice. “How is me giving you an out making you the villain?”

“Me! You’re giving it to me!” Steve snaps, with more force than he intended to. It shouldn’t surprise him. If there ever were a person who could shatter his restraint so thoroughly with barely an effort, it was Tony Stark. “What about you?”

Tony’s eyes widen, only to narrow in the next moment, his jaw going tight. “What about me?”

Steve sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn’t want to fight. He wants… he just wants. “I’m not the only one in this relationship,” Steve says, drags his fingers through his hair, forces his eyes to meet Tony’s. “I made the first move. I know that. It doesn’t mean it should be me who makes the last.”

For some reason, Tony laughs at that. It doesn’t sound unkind. If anything, it sounds resigned. “But there will be the last move. You know that. I know that,” Tony says in a voice far too casual to be genuine. “And we both know you’ll reach that line first.”

“That’s bullshit,” Steve says, tasting bitterness in the back of his throat.

Tony merely shrugs. “Is it?” Tony says softly. “Look, Steve,” Steve’s eyes widen at that, accompanied by a flutter in the middle of his chest. It’s ridiculous, Steve knows Tony’s using his name as a distraction. But still. He’s gotten used to Rogers. Learned not to hope for more. “You’re not made for casual fucking. One of these days you’ll meet someone who’s going to offer you more than a momentary distraction. No matter how pleasant.” Tony pauses, shifts his weight slightly, fixing Steve with a knowing look. “Or you’ll finally develop a crisis of conscience.”

“And you know me so well,” Steve grits out.

“Past events would suggest otherwise,” Tony says. Steve doesn’t even blink at the not so subtle jab. He knew it was coming. “But about this? Yeah, I know you, Rogers.”

Steve opens his mouth, considers his words, snaps it shut. He takes a deep breath, exhales. Does it again. Why is it so damn easy for them to get under each other’s skins? “And you?”

Tony snorts, waves dismissively. “Me and my conscience have an understanding. Since I turned fourteen, if I remember correctly.”

“I meant that other thing,” Steve says, pauses. Something twists uncomfortably inside his belly. “Meeting someone.”

Tony doesn’t reply immediately, his face going carefully blank. “I had my chance,” he replies curtly. “Didn’t work out.”

The silence that stretches between them after that is not awkward, but it’s far from the comfortable silence between friends.

Then again, friends is not quite what they are to each other.

“So, now that we’ve settled that,” Tony says, something about his tone making Steve want to sigh in exasperation and smile all at once. He looks at Steve from under his lashes, intent and calculating in equal measure. “And you’re here… you sure sex is off the table?” Glancing pointedly at the desk beside him, he grins. “It could be on the table.”

Steve manages not to roll his eyes at the terrible line. “A tempting offer,” Steve says, wryly. “But I’m not sure you wouldn’t fall asleep in the middle.”

“I’m not entirely certain is that more insulting to me or you, Rogers.”

Steve shrugs, a reply ready on his lips. But it stays there. Instead, Steve is moving, closing the distance between them, one of his hands wrapping around Tony’s waist, the other coming to rest against the side of Tony’s face as Steve brings their mouths together, swallows Tony’s surprised gasp.

“Next time,” Steve says when they break apart. It’s not a question.

Tony seems to understand. “Next time,” he repeats, the breathless quality of his voice coaxing to life something bright and light in the space of Steve’s chest.

An optimist would even call it happiness.

***

Things are good. Until they are not.

It’s something Steve should have learned by now.

But there is no blinder man than the one who refuses to see.

And Steve doesn’t see when the things start to change between them.

Only, that is only partially true.

Things change, yes. But only on Steve’s side.

***

“I know you guys are not exactly advertising that you’re together, but you do have rules about this sort of thing?”

Steve tears his gaze away from the place where Tony stands, conversing – although flirting would be far more appropriate term – with a vaguely familiar blonde woman. She is far too pretty to be anything but either a model or a movie star.

Steve looks at Sam, frowns. “What sort of thing?”

Sam inclines his head toward Tony and the blonde woman. “Other people,” Sam says. At Steve’s blank look, Sam’s brow creases. “You and Stark talk, don’t you?”

Steve’s frown deepens. “Of course we do,” Steve says, sounding almost affronted. They do talk. Just not all that often about them.

Sam gives him a flat stare. “Uh-huh. Is that why you’ve been glowering at anyone who came within a ten feet radius from Stark?”

Steve blinks, perplexed. “I haven’t-”

“Steve, there’s a metaphorical storm cloud hanging above your head. Has been there since the moment we arrived.”

“You know how feel about this sort of thing.”

“Yeah, you hate wearing a suit and drinking expensive champagne, we all know that, but you’re usually at least putting up appearance. Today, you’re all-” Sam pauses, makes a grimace and gestures toward Steve’s face.

“I am what?” Steve repeats, a touch impatiently, fighting an almost overwhelming urge to steal a glance at Tony.

Sam heaves a sigh. “Honestly, Steve, I’ve seen you giving Hydra goons a kinder look than the one you’ve been giving the nice lady chatting with Stark.”

Steve blinks, his stomach lurching violently when the meaning of Sam’s words sinks in. “I am not jealous, Sam,” Steve sputters. He feels a flush creeping up his cheeks and ears. It stands in stark contrast to the cold, sinking feeling in the pit of his belly. Jealousy does not equate in their relationship. It… presumes another level of intimacy than the one they have – tentatively – agreed upon.

“Well, you’re giving a stellar impersonation, then,” Sam remarks. Then, softer, kinder. Worried. “Seriously, man, this is the kind of thing you really should have discussed with Stark.”

Steve looks away, his fingers curling into a loose fist. “We have-” Steve starts, but the rest of that sentence freezes on his lips when his gaze finally wanders back to Tony. Who is now standing far too close to the blonde woman, a lazy, half-smile curving at his lips. Red sparks on the edges of Steve’s vision, his jaw clenching tight. “You know what, Sam?” Steve grits out, not taking away his eyes from Tony and the blonde woman. “You’re right. Tony and I do need to talk.”

Steve registers Sam’s face drawing into an expression of concern, but he is already moving, his feet seemingly following a will of their own.

It takes less than a minute for Steve to cross the ballroom to the other side. It still feels like less than a minute too much.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” Steve says, smiling politely at the blonde woman who is blinking up at him in both curiosity and confusion. Actress, Steve thinks faintly. Famous, too. Her name still escapes him, though. Not that it matters. His smile turns sharper, colder when he directs his gaze at Tony. “Tony. A word, please?”

Tony’s expression shifts from confusion to concern to amusement in no more than a few seconds. He gives Steve a small, knowing smirk before turning to his companion.

“Alas, evil never sleeps,” Tony says, grasps her right hand and lifts it to his lips. The muscle in Steve’s jaw jumps. “And it has terrible timing.”

“Oh, is this Avengers’ emergency?” she asks, her face lighting up with excitement. She turns to Steve. “You’re Captain America, right?”

Steve smiles faintly, nods. “Steve Rogers, ma’am,” Steve says curtly. “I’m afraid I cannot share the details with you. Tony?”

“Right, right. The emergency,” Tony says, grinning. Steve grits his teeth. Tony straightens, gestures in font of himself. “Lead the way, Captain.”

Steve gives Tony a narrow-eyed stare before turning on his heel and striding away. He keeps his steps measured, maneuvers efficiently in between groups of people, his eyes set on the large door on the other side of the ballroom.

“Emergency? Really, Rogers?” Tony snorts when he falls into steep beside Steve.

“I said nothing of the sort,” Steve forces through gritted teeth, keeping his eyes fixed straight in front of himself. “You’re the one who implied it.”

“You didn’t bother to deny it either,” Tony points out, and being the contrary jerk that he is, he halts his steps.

Steve swallows a curse, but he’s not able to stop his fingers from grasping Tony’s elbow. He could drag Tony along if he decided so, but considering where they are and how they are already drawing inquisitive gazes, Steve is aware that they are not going anywhere unless Tony wills it so.

Tony looks down at where Steve’s fingers are grasping at his elbow. Slowly looks up; that infuriating smirk still playing on his lips. “What’s with the caveman act, Rogers?”

A valid question, that. Unfortunately, not one Steve has an answer to. Just a pressing need to get Tony alone, and then… then…

Steve lets out a noise of frustration, pulls his hand away. “Fine. Fine,” he snaps. “Forget it. Go back and enjoy yourself, Stark.”

Tony tilts his head, studies Steve with an unreadable gaze. “That what you want?”

That’s the last thing Steve wants, but to actually say it out loud? He cannot. Lifting his hands in a gesture of defeat, Steve backs away a step. “Do what you will,” he says, resigned and frustrated and done with all this.

Steve turns to go. Tony stops him with a hand on his elbow. “I didn’t say I dislike your sudden possessiveness, Rogers.”

Steve’s face draws into a frown. He scans Tony’s face for a sign of mockery or a taunt. Instead, he finds amusement and curiosity. And a glint of something that makes his throat go dry and his heart rate spike up.

Keeping his eyes locked on Steve’s, Tony slowly withdraws his hand. Then, nothing. He remains silent, still.

Waiting, Steve realizes with a rush of thrill.

Steve swallows around the swell in his throat, draws in a sharp breath. Slowly, carefully, he reaches out, clasps Tony’s elbow.

A second passes, then another, and Tony still doesn’t move. Doesn’t give any smartass comment. Just… waits. Steve exhales, deeply. Something unruly and angry that’s been roiling within his chest, bleeds out of him.

When Steve steps forward, his fingers holding onto Tony’s elbow gently but firmly – possessively? – and heads for the exit, Tony follows readily.

****

Maybe the gala event is the beginning.

Maybe it is something else.

It’s difficult to pinpoint the exact moment something shifts within Steve’s mind – or is it his heart? – straying from a relatively safe path into something new and unexplored. Dangerous.

Perhaps Steve would have seen the line – wouldn’t have crossed it? – if Tony hadn’t already been an intricate part of his thoughts.

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. A one word synonym for exercise in futility.

The reality is, Steve does cross it. Step by step by step, until… well, until the line is so far behind him it hardly matters where it actually lies.

It is something small and inconsequential: a coffee shop he wants to introduce to Tony, but swallows down the words each time they threaten to leave his lips; it’s a small Lebanese restaurant with food Tony would hate, but Steve wants to see Tony’s reaction when he dares him to try it; it’s a kid dressed as Iron Man, running around in the park, and the sight is so innocent and carefree that Steve doesn’t think about what he’s doing when he takes the kid’s picture until his finger is hovering over the send button on his cell (Steve doesn’t send the picture to Tony, but he keeps it).

Then there is Steve, panting and breathless and content in Tony’s bed, with Tony lying on his front, still shaking from his orgasm. It’s Steve reaching out and tangling his fingers into Tony’s hair, mussed with sweat and plastered to his neck. It’s Steve scooting closer and tracing the nubs of Tony’s spine, first with his fingers, then with his lips. It’s Tony stiffening at the soft touch, murmuring, ‘Don’t you have an early meeting tomorrow, Rogers?’. It’s Steve freezing at the offhand words, his stomach sinking at the curt dismissal, his heart lurching painfully.

And it’s Steve, lying in his cold and empty bed, staring at the shadows on the wall of his bedroom while clutching at the sheets, the taste of salt still lingering on his tongue.

****

“You ever think there’s a wall you just won’t be able to smash through, Steve?”

Steve looks up from the bottle of water he’s been rolling between his fingers, meets Bucky’s careful gaze from where he’s sitting on the other side of the boxing ring, leaning against the ropes.

Steve’s mouth twitches in a faint smile. “That your way of telling me to be careful, Buck?”

Bucky snorts. “I’ve been telling you that since your first bloody nose, and you’ve never once listened to me. No, it’s-” Bucky trails off, sighs. “Don’t you think it’s time to cut your losses and retreat?”

Steve’s entire body goes still, his shoulders tensing. There are no names mentioned, but he hears Tony’s as loud and clear as if Bucky were shouting it at the top of his lungs.

“Things are not that bad,” Steve says, aims his voice to sound strong and assuring. It comes out thin and uncertain. “It’s just… a rough patch, I guess.”

“You said to trust you, Steve. And for a while, it seemed you two were doing fine. These days...” Bucky trails off, makes a grimace, shakes his head. “You have this… this expression whenever you think no one is watching. Like a kicked puppy.”

Steve blinks, frowns. “I don’t-”

“Moping, Steve,” Bucky interrupts in a voice that somehow manages to convey resignation and exasperation all at once. “Whenever you’re not on a mission, that’s how you pass your time.”

Steve looks down at the bottle in his hands, swallows. His thoughts have not been cooperating lately; turning and twisting inside his head, going in directions they really, really should not. Apparently, he’s also failed spectacularly at keeping it from the rest of the team.

Steve lifts his gaze, smiles. It takes more effort than it should. “It’ll pass.”

“What’s going on between you and Stark, Steve? Really?” Bucky asks in a low tone. There’s an edge to his voice that makes Steve’s spine stiffen. “And don’t try to feed me any bullshit about you being fine. I’ve known you your entire life and I know you ain’t fine.”

“I know you mean well, Bucky,” Steve says, slow and careful. “But this… it’s something I need to handle myself.”

“Handle? This ain’t a goddamned Hydra raid we’re talking about, Steve.”

Steve lets out a mirthless chuckle, sets the water bottle down on the ground. There is an ache deep within his chest that stubbornly refuses to abate. “I wish it were that simple, Buck. Hydra is walk in the park compared to Tony Stark.”

“Yet you’re with him.”

Steve ducks his head, runs his fingers through his hair. “Yeah,” Steve says, the word no more than a soft exhale; its echo a solid presence behind Steve’s ribs: wonder and heartache in equal parts.

“You and him,” Bucky says after a moment of silence. There is something heavy in his voice. “Can’t say I saw it coming.”

Steve whips his head up, studies Bucky’s face intently for one long moment. “Because Tony’s a man?” Steve asks carefully.

Bucky’s face twists into a grimace. “What I’ve seen, Steve… what I’ve done… Two men together is not even on the list,” he says, shrugs. “You want who you want. It’s just… I always thought you were the sappy one of the two of us.”

“Sappy one?” Steve repeats, his eyebrows rising pointedly.

“Holding hands, moonlight walks, candlelight dinners…You know, all that cheesy romance stuff,” Bucky says, flatly. “Not no-strings-attached casual fucking.”

Steve ignores the twinge of unease at Bucky’s crude words. (They are true after all.) Smiles. It doesn’t feel quite right; too thin, jagged on the edges. “Can you imagine me and Tony walking around the compound and holding hands, shari-”

Bucky interrupts him with a raised hand. “Not going there, pal,” he says, gives Steve a flat stare. A beat later his eyes soften. “But it’s not about me being able to imagine it, Steve. It’s more of a question can you?”

Steve goes very, very still. His mind, though, is anything but. It is streaming a steady flow of images, all of them featuring him and Tony, doing all those things Bucky mentioned, and more.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Steve swallows dryly, forcibly clamps down on the images flooding his mind. A sound escapes his throat: breathless with incredulity and ragged with misery.

Obviously, Steve can imagine all that. With no effort at all. And with a sense of right that makes his heart stutter in his chest.

Ironically – frustratingly, painfully, despairingly – therein lies the problem.

****

Tony is a tease.

It’s something Steve had found out early in their relationship. It’s a continuous source of both frustration and… well, pleasure for Steve.

There is nothing teasing about Tony dressing himself, though. It’s swift and methodical, and with only one goal behind it: to allow Tony to leave Steve’s bedroom as soon as possible.

Steve drags his gaze away from Tony, looks down at where his fingers are gripping tightly at the edge of his bed, forces them to relax.

There is something bitter in the back of Steve’s throat, a tightness in his chest that is equal parts impotent frustration and desperate longing.

“You could stay, you know,” Steve says in a low but steady voice, keeps his gaze trained on his hands, clenching and unclenching jerkily.

It’s not- no, it is exactly what Steve wants. But the lack of any response – of any noise – from Tony feels like ice crawling up his lungs, robbing him of breath, of life.

Steve waits a beat, takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders and lifts his gaze.

Tony is standing perfectly still, with his hands half-raised, frozen in the motion of buttoning up his shirt. Steve’s gaze – intent, just shy of desperate – flicks across Tony’s face, searching for a sign of an emotion – any emotion – but finding only a carefully blank expression. It’s like staring at Iron Man’s faceplate.

The moment stretches until the silence becomes too stifling; a solid presence that is weighing heavily on Steve. It shatters when Tony blinks, and slowly, carefully lowers his hands.

“What brought this on, Rogers?” Tony asks. He’s looking at Steve with wary eyes. But more than his eyes, it’s the way Tony keeps fidgeting that makes it quite clear how Tony would rather be anywhere else at the moment.

Annoyance flares in the pit of Steve’s belly, sharp and immediate. “How about common sense, Tony?” Steve snaps. Something inside his chest twists and turns violently, in sync with the erratic drumming of his heart. “Your quarters are on the other side of the compound. And here’s,” Steve waves at the bed, rumpled sheets still warm from their bodies, “a perfectly comfortable bed.”

“That’s… practical,” Tony replies in an even voice. “Not a good idea, though.”

Steve clenches his jaw. It’s an almost impossible act of restraint to swallow the angry reply that is teetering on the edge of his lips. “It’s not a marriage proposal, Tony,” Steve says, trying but not quite reaching the note of calm reason. He rises to his feet, takes a careful step forward, his eyes locked on Tony’s. “Just us. In a bed together. Sleeping.”

A flicker of something bright and warm flares in Tony’s eyes, but fades into dry amusement before Steve can give it a name. “Charming little picture, Rogers. Are we also cuddling in it? Who’s the big spoon?”

“Any particular reason you’re being an ass about this?” Steve says, makes another step toward Tony. He becomes aware that he is wearing only his boxers, while Tony is almost fully dressed. It doesn’t matter, in the end. What vulnerability he feels, it has nothing with his state of undress. And everything with the sharp ache concentrated in the middle of his chest.

Tony’s eyes narrow fractionally. He looks like he wants to match Steve’s step, but cannot decide whether to move forward or backward. “Any particular reason you suddenly want to play house?”

“You’re making a big deal out of a simple suggestion.”

“There’s nothing simple about your suggestion, and you know it, Rogers,” Tony counters, visibly tensing when Steve comes to a halt in front of him. But he stands his ground, his chin held high and a challenging gleam in his eyes. It’s almost like travelling through time and ending on SHIELD’s hellicarrier, that chaotic day when they couldn’t exchange two words without ending in each other’s faces, snarling. “What’s with the sudden need for domesticity? You got bored with what we’ve been doing?” Tony pauses, blinks once, twice; the corner of his mouth curving into a wry grin. “Or is it finally your conscience and not,” Tony breaks off, glances lewdly at Steve’s crotch, “little Steve speaking?”

Steve ignores the jab, distracted by the darkening mark on Tony’s collarbone. An undisputed proof of his own mouth resting there, teeth closing over skin and bone to keep a single word, two syllables of a name, from leaving his throat as orgasm seared through him.

“And what is it that we’re doing, exactly?” Steve asks, low and soft, aware of his hand moving only when his fingers come in contact with skin stretched taut over bone.

Tony’s eyes widen in startled surprise, his heart rate spiking underneath Steve’s callouses. He glances away, swallows deeply. When his eyes find Steve’s again, they are guarded once again. “If you have to ask, one us hasn’t been doing it properly,” Tony says, grins, deliberately lascivious.

Steve lets out a long sigh. “I don’t mean the sex,” he says, tries but fails to keep his voice even. It cracks on the edges, spilling exasperation and wistfulness and longing.

Tony doesn’t answer immediately, his eyes alternately flicking between Steve’s face and his fingers, still tracing the mark he made. “You have some persistent kinks, Rogers, I’ll give you that,” Tony says, and, for a moment, his voice sounds almost fond. But the moment doesn’t last long. “Also, you’ve lost me there. Sex is basically what we’re doing. At least 78% of the time."

Steve glances down at his fingers moving against Tony’s skin almost mournfully. He gives one last sweep of a thumb before withdrawing his hand, and steels himself.

“It doesn’t have to be,” Steve says solemnly, locks his gaze with Tony’s and holds.

The effect his words have on Tony is nothing Steve did not expect. Tony backs away a step, a myriad of emotions flickering across his face, shock, confusion, panic, suspicion, before his features settle into that damned blank mask Steve loathes with a passion.

“And what is the alternative?”

Steve doesn’t flinch at the ice in Tony’s voice. He rises his chin in an almost unconscious gesture, his eyebrow arching. “I know I’m just a fossil and all, but surely even in this day and age two people can spend time together without ending up in bed.”

Tony snorts, waves a dismissive hand. He looks almost relieved for some reason. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you want to date me, Rogers.”

“And what if I do?” Steve says, calmly, steadily, despite the effort his heart is making in trying to beat its way out of his chest. “Would it be so terrible?”

In any other occasion the sight of Tony Stark robbed of words, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly, would elicit a surge of triumphant glee. In this particular case, it opens a bottomless pit low in Steve’s belly.

Holding Tony’s gaze as he steps forward, his eyes narrowed in concentration, scanning Steve’s face with an almost manic focus, is one of the most difficult things Steve has done in his life. It feels like baring his innermost self to a reckless kid with a pair of pliers.

“You’re serious,” Tony says finally, his voice a thick amalgam of fascination and disbelief. “Actually serious.”

Steve frowns. “Of course I’m serious,” he snaps, his fingers rhythmically clenching and releasing by his sides. “Like I would joke with something like this.”

Tony blinks, grimaces, takes two steps to the side, only to return to where he’d been standing. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t,” Tony says, drily, rubs at his forehead. A deep crease forms there. “What brought this on?”

Steve looks away for a second, runs a nervous hand through his hair. “Look. Tony. I know we didn’t begin this with-” Steve’s voice cracks on that last word. He takes a deep breath. Swallows. He knows he is not this hopeless with words. It’s just, in this moment, he doesn’t feel much different than that skinny guy, sitting in a car next to Peggy Carter and blurting out the first thing that came to his mind. He shrugs, helplessly, offers Tony a weak smile. “We could give it a try.”

“We’ve had this… mutually beneficial arrangement for the past six months, and everything was fine,” Tony says, his lips thinning out. He is pacing in a half-circle in front of Steve, waving his hands almost agitatedly. Steve forces himself to hold still. “And now you want to say ‘the fuck with it’? Just like that?”

Steve blinks, his eyes widening in disbelief. “The fuck with it…?” Steve repeats slowly, incredulously. He goes over his words in his head. He’d said nothing to merit the reaction he got. And yet, there is Tony, looking at him with a sort of angry defiance, and Steve has no idea what to do with it. “Which part of me wanting to date you gave you that ridiculous idea?”

Tony stops pacing. He pinches the bridge of his nose, shakes his head. “The part where you think it might work.”

“And why wouldn’t it?” Steve challenges. “You clairvoyant now, Stark?”

The look Tony gives him makes Steve’s jaw clench tight. “The fact you even thought of asking is your fucking answer, Rogers,” Tony counters in a sharp voice. He lets out a noise of frustration, shoots Steve a glare. Then, a beat later, he expels a long, heavy breath and rises his hands in an almost placating gesture. “Look, Rogers, we have a good thing going on here. You sure you want to trash it for no reason at all? Why not continue as we were?”

“Because I can’t!” Steve exclaims hotly, his voice cracking on the edges. He sucks in a sharp breath. It drags against the inside of his throat like sandpaper. He releases a mirthless chuckle, spreads his hands in a helpless gesture. “I… it’s not enough for me, Tony. Not anymore.”

Tony goes deathly still, the sudden chill in his face sending a shiver down Steve’s spine.

“And I can’t give you more,” he says in a flat, empty voice. He straightens, fixes Steve with a hard stare. “Remember that conversation we had months ago in my office? Your move, Rogers.”

Steve frowns in confusion, watches silently as Tony turns, bends to pick up his suit jacket off the floor.

When Steve recalls the exact details – and one in particular – of that conversation, Tony is already gone.

And Steve just stands there, torn between feelings of anger and hurt that are wreaking havoc inside his chest.

****

Steve’s is a tactical mind. It disassembles and analyses, then forms an appropriate course of action. And in the week following his… falling out with Tony, Steve does exactly that.

And comes up with three vital facts.

Fact number one, the most immediate one: he misses Tony. An irony of sorts, considering he is sharing living space with him. But he might as well be on the other side of the world while they exist in this… goddamned limbo where Tony is offering too little of himself whereas Steve wants too much.

Fact number two, the most puzzling one: Tony is not going to be the one to call off their relationship. (And it is relationship, no matter what Tony insists on calling it.) Steve sees nothing logical – or even rational – about it. But it is Tony’s mind, and Tony’s logic, and Steve has always had difficulties in following that particular path. But he does expect Steve to do it, and do it soon, if Tony’s rapidly fraying mask of indifference and stolen glances, full of confusion and frustration, are anything to go by.

Fact number three, the most important one: Steve doesn’t want to call it off. He… cares for Tony. How deep, and how much… Steve doesn’t know yet. Enough not to want to let Tony go, certainly. To finally admit, even if only to himself, that he has feelings for Tony is frightening. Breath stealing, heart stopping, falling off a ledge of a skyscraper terrifying. But, much in the same way, it is also thrilling.

Just one chance, that’s all Steve needs, one small chance to show Tony they could build something together… something good. There are no guarantees they will work out in the long run, Steve knows it, but he’ll be damned if he gives up at the first hurdle, before they have given it… given them a chance.

Even if that hurdle is Tony himself.

****

There is no forewarning. No ill omen. Even the weather is near perfect, sunny and warm, without the mid-summer’s stifling heat.

There is absolutely nothing, not a damn thing, to prepare Steve for the sight of Iron Man suddenly falling from the sky and hurtling toward the ground.

The fight itself, although strenuous due to the sheer number of Doombots, is going well. They have two teams virtually herding Doom’s robots, on the ground and in the air, while Vision and Wanda are keeping Doom occupied.

Steve himself is moving steadily forward, clearing the Doombots converging on the Central Park when he hears Tony mutter ‘shit’ over the comm line in a low, startled voice. He almost says ‘language’, engrossed in dodging a large Doombot when a realization dawns and he freezes on the spot, ice crawling up his spine, and seeping into his veins.

Dread. Stone-cold and all-consuming settles in the hollow of Steve’s chest as he throws his shield at the Doombot, his hand going up to the comm in his ear.

“Iron Man, report,” Steve demands, urgency and dread erasing almost all steadiness and control out of his voice. When no immediate answer follows, Steve switches to their private channel with trembling fingers. “Iron Man, respond. Iron- Tony… Tony, I swear to God if you don’t respond, I’ll-”

Swallowing a curse, Steve dislodges his shield from the ruined Doombot’s chestplate, switches back to their joint channel, and is immediately greeted with Sam hissing ‘fuck’ in his ear.

Steve whips his head up and to the right where he last spotted Tony just in time to see Iron Man plunge from the sky.

Steve goes deathly still, his mind disconnecting from his body. Entire world grows distant, reduced to no more than a faint echo that is barely heard over the deafening roar of blood rushing in Steve’s ears, and the only reality becomes the impossible feeling of ground disappearing underneath his feet.

As if Steve were the one falling, and falling, and falling.

A metallic sound, high and shrill drags Steve out of his daze just in time to see Doombot aiming its weapon at him. Steve flings himself out of the line of the blast, lands heavily on his right side, rolls to his feet just in time to see Natasha jump on the Doombot’s shoulders, jam a miniature EMP device between its helmet and the neck joint, and land gracefully on her feet in a half-crouch before the now still Doombot.

Steve blinks slowly. Tries to gather his gather his scattered thoughts. Regain control. It’s a struggle, wrangling his disjointed thoughts into a semblance of order. Gradually, Steve becomes aware that he is half-kneeling on the ground – when did that happen? – and there’s a thin, wheezing sound echoing in near vicinity. It takes Steve a moment to realize it is coming from his throat.

Steve blinks one more time, frowns when Natasha’s grave face suddenly fills his field of vision, her hands framing his face in a firm grip.

“Snap out of it, Rogers, you’re no good to anyone like this. Least of all Tony.”

Tony’s name finally clears cobwebs out of Steve’s head. He surges to his feet, opens his comm line. “Falcon, you got visual on Iron Man?” Steve forces around the swell of panic and dread in his throat.

“Yeah, it looks… not good man. The suit is trashed… I-”

Steve’s heart hitches to a stop, his throat closing. Swallowing, Steve expels a shaky breath. “Is… is he…” Steve’s voice cracks. He can’t say the word. He doesn’t want to even think it. But there’s an old wound inside his chest, one that has finally began to heal, now torn open, and bleeding anew.

“Falcon, Iron Man’s status report,” Natasha supplies in the wake of Steve’s silence. Shoots Steve a concerned look.

“He’s alive, I’m reading life signs, but I can’t get the suit off.”

“Rhodes,” Steve manages to say, his entire body sagging with relief, the violent lurch his heart does at the news nearing painful. Alive. Tony is alive. Steve’s entire being vibrates with that truth.

Natasha nods, takes a step back, opens her comm. “War Machine, Iron Man needs urgent medical attention, you and Falcon see to it he gets it.”

Steve doesn’t hear the response. She must be using a private channel, then.

“Falcon says he is—no, I don’t know. Understood. Romanov out.”

Natasha turns off her comm, and focuses her attention back on Steve, who is still just standing there… too caught up in the swell of relief still cresting along his nerve endings. Fixes Steve with a steady gaze. “Steve, can you do this?” she asks, as she inclines her head toward the still ongoing battle. “It’s okay if you can’t, but we’re already three men down and we need you.”

Steve shuts his eyes for a second, takes a deep breath. “Yeah,” he manages, low and hoarse. “I can.” Takes another breath, swallows. Then he lifts his hand to his comm. “Wanda, can you keep Doom busy?”

“I can,” comes the swift reply.

“Good. Vision, I need you to take over the sky-”

It’s like slipping into a well-known role – calm, focused and steady Captain America stepping up for Steve Rogers, still trembling in the aftermath of what just happened – issuing orders and moving his teammates like pieces on the chessboard, but a part of his mind remains frozen in that horrifying moment of watching Tony fall from the sky.

And Steve cannot do a damned thing about it.

****

It takes four hours for Steve to finally arrive at the hospital, blood and grime smeared across his face and uniform.

Four hours of having to be Captain America and guide his team through a grueling battle, while quite a large part of him wanted nothing more than be where Tony is. To see with his own eyes that he is alive. To feel his chest rising and falling underneath his hand, and hear his heart beating.

Steve ignores the wide-eyed looks of curiosity and wonder as he strides briskly through the corridors in search of Tony’s room. And almost runs into Sam by a coffee vending machine.

Sam blinks, relief evident on his face. He finishes his coffee in one gulp, dumps the plastic cup in the trash. “We won? Is every-”

“Everyone is fine, Sam,” Steve interrupts him, impatience giving his voice a sharp edge. “And Tony? Is he-” Steve beaks off, clenches his trembling fingers into fists. A rational part of him knows had there been any change for the worse, Sam would have already notified them. But a much, much larger part of Steve, the one currently in charge, refuses to calm down until he sees Tony. Alive and breathing. “The last you said was something about surgery…?”

Sam clasps him by the shoulder, smiles reassuringly. “He’s fine, man. Still out of it, though.”

Steve releases a deep, shaky breath, feels the heaviness in his chest abate fractionally.

“Doc says it’s a miracle. That kind of fall should have ki-” Sam cuts himself off, frowns. Steve doesn’t know the exact nature of the expression on his face, but he can imagine it’s nothing pretty, if the way Sam backtracks is any indication. “He cracked a bone in his shoulder. It’s all fixed now. Only cuts, bruises and minor contusions remain. He’ll be up on his feet in no time, Steve.”

“Yeah,” Steve breathes out, runs a shaky hand through his hair. A beat later, he heaves a heavy sigh. “But keeping him from getting there too soon is not going to be fun, is it?”

Sam gives him a half-shrug, his face clearly stating ‘glad it’s on you, not me’. Then, he inclines his head toward the far end of the hallway, a corner of his mouth curving slightly. “Come on, man. I can see you’re itching to see him.”

Steve gives him a grateful, relieved smile. Sam is right, although ‘itching’ may not be the right word. There might not be the right word to explain the constant, unyielding pressure in Steve’s chest; a persistent, irrational fear that despite all assurances he’s been given, there is no happy end to this day, only a terrible loss.

Tony’s room is almost on the end of hallway. By the end of it, Steve is very nearly running to get there faster, Sam barely keeping up.

“Look, Steve, there’s something-” Sam begins when they get near Tony’s room, but Steve ignores him, his eyes set on the glass wall that is housing the one person Steve needs to see. He hastens his steps further, but still not even close to matching the furious rhythm of his heart-

And comes to an abrupt halt in front of Tony’s room, his hand freezing an inch away from the reinforced glass.

Tony is not alone in his room. Pepper is sitting in a chair next to Tony’s bed, her tear-streaked face drawn into an expression that is equal parts relieved, concerned and affectionate, Rhodes’ hands resting on her shoulders in a gesture that is both support and reassurance.

Something heavy settles in the pit of Steve’s belly. For one moment, it feels like he’s drowning again, ice-cold water burning in his lungs. In the next, he is just tired, as if all the years he’d spent in ice have finally caught up with him.

“Rhodey called her,” Sam explains, something almost apologetic in his voice. “She arrived an hour ago.”

A muscle in Steve’s jaw flexes. “It’s okay, Sam,” Steve says without looking away from Tony’s still face; the bruises there darkening to an angry blue. His own voice feels like it’s coming from a great distance, emotionless and flat. “She has the right to be here. Tony would… Tony will want to see her when he wakes.”

Slowly, carefully Steve lowers his hand, swallows. His throat remains dry, scratchy, and raw. Four hours. For four grueling hours, this moment had been in the back of Steve’s mind. Every single second of the battle. And now he cannot convince his feet to move, or his hand to push open the door of Tony’s room. It’s not a question of want. Steve wants to get inside, wants to be the one sitting there, in Pepper’s place. Wants to wrap his fingers around Tony’s wrist and feel the steady beating of his heart. Wants it with an intensity that borders on need. It’s just… he doesn’t feel like he has the right to any of that.

Pepper and Rhodey. They have fixed places in Tony’s life. They deserve to sit next to Tony’s hospital bed. And Steve… who is he to Tony? An occasional lover? A teammate? A friend?

The sad truth is that Steve doesn’t really know.

And so he just stands there, like a poor schmuck that he is, alternately glancing between Tony’s sleeping face and the monitor displaying Tony’s heart rate, finding immense comfort in the steady beat he sees there.

“Aren’t you going inside?” Sam asks after a while.

Steve doesn’t answer. Even if he trusted his voice not to crack, he doesn’t know what to say. The truth is far too complicated, and Steve has never enjoyed lying to his friends.

Rhodes notices him at some point. His expression hardens imperceptibly, his gaze unreadable as it holds Steve’s for a second before it returns to watching Tony’s face. Not exactly warning Steve off, but not inviting him to enter, either.

“Seriously, Steve, you have the right to be in there.”

Steve throws a glance at Sam, notes the grimace of concern and confusion on his face. Offers him a weak smile. “It’s not a competition, Sam,” Steve says. Gestures at his blood-stained uniform. “I should probably change before I enter, anyway.”

The look Sam gives him makes it plain he’s not buying Steve’s bullshit, but he stays silent.

Steve takes a deep breath, turns his gaze back to Tony’s room and freezes on the spot: his mind, heart, lungs… for one endless moment they all go still.

For a life changing moments, this one is rather mundane. It’s just Steve watching as Pepper smiles, and slowly, gently brushes a stray lock of hair from Tony’s forehead, her fingers lingering there for a moment, gently caressing, before withdrawing.

It is no more than a simple act of comfort and affection. And yet it changes Steve’s entire world irrevocably. It feels like a switch has been flicked inside Steve’s head, revealing a truth so glaringly obvious, it seems near impossible Steve only now sees it for what it is.

There’s none so blind as those who will not see, right, Rogers?

Steve sucks in a harsh breath as his body comes online again, going from complete stillness into overdrive in just a few seconds.

“I… I need to go,” Steve mutters, backs away a step, not yet able to convince his eyes to move away from Tony’s face. “I’ll… I’ll come back later.”

Taking one last parting glance at Tony’s sleeping face, Steve turns on his heel, and heads down the hallway, his hurried steps matching the drumming beat of his heart.

He can hear Sam calling after him, distant and faint over the blood rushing in his ears, but keeps on walking. He understands Sam’s concern, but company is not what Steve needs right now. He needs time and solitude, and distance from everyone – Tony – to properly deal with what’s unearthed in the hollow of his chest.

A year ago, Steve would not spare an eye roll for anyone who would issue a claim he’d go and fall in love with Tony Stark. Now, it feels like loving Tony is neither recent nor shocking, but a path Steve has been following blindly for quite some time.

****

“You do know I can’t get drunk, right?” Steve says, quirking his lips into a small smile when Natasha enters the gym with a bottle of vodka and two glasses.

Natasha shrugs, takes in the sight of Steve sitting alone in the dimly lit gym, his back to the wall, his hands resting on his bent knees with one quick glance. “You can still drink, though,” she retorts calmly, as she takes a seat next to him on the mat. “And watch me get drunk instead.”

“I’ve seen you drink everyone but Thor under the table,” Steve notes, watches with a raised eyebrow as Natasha pours a generous amount of clear liquid in both glasses.

“I’m Russian, it’s in my genes,” Natasha says, squares Steve with an unblinking stare as she offers him a glass. Steve sighs, but takes it anyway. He is rewarded with a flash of a smile. “Considering you boys, I need all the advantage I can get.”

Natasha tips her glass in silent salute. Then, she dawns it in one sustained gulp. Steve shakes his head, glances at the glass in his hand. There is no answer on its bottom for a mess that Steve’s life has turned into. There is not even a promise of oblivion waiting him there.

But Steve raises the glass to his lips and drinks anyway. He grimaces at the burn it leaves in his throat and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand before carefully placing the glass down on the ground, his fingers lingering on its rim.

God, he wishes Tony were here. To make fun of him, or ignore him, or piss him off, Steve doesn’t care, he just wants him here.

Steve grits his teeth against the pressure in his throat, swallows the sound that is building there. It tastes like ash and longing and regret.

Steve is fairly certain no amount of vodka is going to wash it away.

When he looks up from the glass, he meets Natasha’s knowing gaze.

“Tony’s awake,” she says. Steve blinks, takes a deep breath, and releases it slowly. Does it again. “He’s still groggy from anesthesia but he’s already testing the patience of the hospital staff. He’s also mumbling something about Doom and shoving an EMP device up a certain interesting place of his anatomy.”

Steve smiles. He can almost hear Tony’s voice as he pesters and prods those poor souls charged with looking after him. “What do doctors say?”

“At least two weeks in the hospital, followed by minimal three months of downtime,” Natasha says. “Since this is Tony, short of tying him to the bed, we’ll be lucky if he doesn’t check himself out in two days.”

Steve shuts his eyes, thumps his head against the wall, his hands clenching into fists. “God, Nat, he… he could have died today,” Steve grits out, low and ragged and miserable.

“He didn’t,” Natasha says, calm and steady, her fingers wrapping around Steve’s clenched ones and squeezing in reassurance before pulling away. Steve blinks his eyes open, stares at Natasha’s face. “Tony is alive and out of danger, and annoying people in his vicinity. Something you would know if you were there, instead of sitting here, alone in the dark.”

Steve scrubs a hand across his face, a mirthless chuckle leaving his lips. “I was there, Nat. I had to leave.”

“Steve,” Natasha sighs. “What happened?”

Steve tilts his head to the side, locks his gaze on Natasha’s. “I love him, Nat,” Steve breathes out, sounding awed and resigned all at once. He doesn’t mean to say it, not really. He’s still wrestling with the reality of those words, but he’s tired, so very, very tired. And if saying those words out loud is the price he has to pay to make enough space in his chest for his lungs to expand, for him to be able to breathe fully, then so be it. “I love him.”

Natasha doesn’t look surprised. “Oh, Steve,” she says, the curve of her mouth sketching a sorrowful half-smile. “You have the worst timing for this sort of thing.”

Steve’s answering laugh is high, bitter and laced with a hint of hysteria. “Yeah, I-” Steve breaks off, an echo of a memory flickering to life on the edge of his thoughts. He straightness unconsciously, his spine going taut and his shoulders stiff, as if bracing for an impending impact. “You said something similar before. Back when you found out about me and Tony. What does my timing have to do with anything?”

Natasha glances away for a second, but not before Steve sees a glimmer of something that looks almost like guilt in her eyes.

“Nat?” Steve says, wariness and rising dread heavy in his voice.

“There was always something between two of you beneath all that posturing and clashing egos. From the beginning,” Natasha says, steady and even. Steve opens his mouth, denial heavy on the tip of his tongue, but not a word comes out. Natasha pauses, presses her lips together, an almost apologetic look flickering across her face. “And Tony was the first to realize that.”

Steve blinks, his eyes widening in stunned disbelief. He turns Natasha’s words over and over again in his head, and no matter how hard he tries, he comes to the exact same conclusion every time.

“No,” Steve exclaims hotly, surging to his feet, denial trashing wildly beneath his breastbone. He takes four large strides before he grinds to a halt, scraping his fingers through his hair. He gives Natasha a wide-eyed look that is half plea and half condensed misery. “No. He was with Pepper then… he loved her, I know he did.”

Natasha rises to her feet, her movements carefully controlled as if not to spook a wild animal. “I’m sure a part of him still does. She is, after all, the one he believed to be the right one for him. That doesn’t change the fact about his feelings for you.”

Steve shakes his head, his chest heaving with denial and panic. “No… you made a mistake, Nat. Tony wasn’t… he couldn’t be.”

“Tony was my assignment. I had to evaluate him for the Avengers Initiative under Fury’s command,” Natasha says calmly. But even more than her voice, it’s sympathy in her eyes that makes Steve’s insides twist painfully. “And you know I’m good at what I do.”

“That was years ago.”

“One of the first things I’ve learned about Tony is that he can bullshit his way through almost anything, but he is lousy at hiding his feelings,” Natasha says, holding Steve’s gaze unflinchingly. Then, a beat later, she shrugs, offers Steve a small, almost pitying half-smile. “If you bother to look, that is.”

Steve blinks, swallows heavily. He can’t get sick, Steve knows this, but he certainly feels sick now. He can taste bile at the back of his throat, his knees feel like they are about to give way under his weight, and he cannot seem to stop shaking.

If Natasha is right, then… then all that happened in Siberia…

Steve presses heels of his palms against his eyes, and presses hard until bright dots start dancing behind his closed eyelids. It doesn’t stop the images of that godawful day from playing out in front of his mind’s eye. Every conversation, every blow, every expression on Tony’s face. “Oh, God… what have I done?”

“You made a mess, Steve,” comes Natasha’s soft reply, followed by a gentle hand cupping the side of his face. “Now you need to finally finish cleaning it up.”

Steve slowly lowers his hands, stares at Natasha with a look that is as imploring as it is desperate. “What am I going to do, Nat?” Steve asks in a small, lost voice that he barely recognizes as his own.

“You’re going to fight, Rogers, because that is what you do,” Natasha says firmly, her gaze locked on Steve’s with unwavering strength. A beat passes and the look in Natasha’s eyes softens with sorrow and compassion. Steve doesn’t resist when she wraps her arms around him and pulls him into a hug. “But, Steve, you need to accept the possibility that you might not be able to win this one.”

Steve lets out a choked sound and burrows his face deeper in the crook of Natasha’s shoulder. He doesn’t say a word, just stands there, allows himself to be held, concentrating on nothing but the next intake of breath.

****

Steve doesn’t visit Tony in the hospital.

It’s not cowardice, not really. It’s more a matter of strategic planning.

Truth about his own feelings, then Natasha’s reveal about Tony’s… it’s a lot to take in. To mold it into something with softer edges, something that won’t feel like its scraping the inside of Steve’s chest with every breath he takes.

But Tony’s physical absence doesn’t mean an actual lack of presence. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Steve listens to reports of Tony’s recovery and growing impatience and restlessness with being confined to a bed from others. Hides a resigned smile as Rhodes recounts a story how he literally had to drag Tony back to his room. After catching him in the hospital parking lot.

Sometimes, Steve has imaginary conversations with Tony. He apologizes, says those simple but so, so very complicated three words, tries to convince Tony to give them a chance. And the maddening thing? Imaginary Tony is as contrary, as stubborn and unpredictable as the real one.

Then there are nightmares.

Steve used to have them often after Siberia. Dreams of blood on the edge of his shield and vacant brown eyes. Now they tangle with those of Tony falling from the sky, and Steve reaching after him but grasping at nothing but air. Steve doesn’t get much sleep these days.

On the eight day of staying away from Tony and seeing him everywhere and too much, Steve comes to a simple conclusion.

There is no strategy for what is to come, no beforehand planning, just him and Tony and the truth that is burning within the hollow of Steve’s chest.

****

“You should be in a hospital.”

Those are certainly not the words Steve envisioned himself saying to Tony upon their meeting, but those are the words that tumble out of Steve’s mouth as Tony simply strides into his room late in the evening, on the tenth day after his fall. And Steve just sits there, on the couch, his book still in his lap, and watches as Tony paces the length of Steve’s study, before coming to a halt on the other side of Steve’s small coffee table, and squaring Steve with a level stare.

And Tony does it all with breezy nonchalance that utterly ignores all that has happened since their last conversation. As if this is something theirs, and not a sight that makes Steve’s eyes widen in stunned disbelief.

Tony waves a dismissive hand. “Did that, got bored,” he says in a light voice, but his eyes are staring at Steve as if daring him to object. “And the food was awful. Honestly, have you seen what they feed people there? It’s criminal. My taste buds won’t recover for at least two months.”

Steve blinks, the rapid-fire of Tony’s words growing distant as Steve simply takes a moment to look at Tony. He looks slimmer than the last time they were alone together, there are small cuts on his face and a rather large bruise on his right cheekbone, and his left hand is strapped in a sling… but he is here, and he is alive. Alive.

It’s funny, Steve notes faintly as he studies Tony’s face, but the same tangle of fondness, exasperation and puzzlement he’s always felt in regard to Tony is still there, nestled behind his ribcage. Then again, why should it change? He is still the same person he’s always been, and Tony is still Tony, it’s just that now there is also something else there, something fierce and gentle and possessive all at once.

Steve releases a heavy breath, ignores the way his heart is picking up speed at the very fact of Tony just standing there. Then, he puts away the book he was reading and rises to his feet. “Boredom and bad food?” Steve sighs, shakes his head. “Those are your arguments for leaving the hospital early after falling from hundred feet?”

Tony gives him a flat stare. “Oh, don’t give me that look, Rogers,” he snaps. “What are you going to do? Ground me twice?”

A muscle in Steve’s jaw twitches, his fingers curling inwards of their own volition. He takes a deep, steadying breath. It’s so damn easy to fall back into their familiar pattern of fire meets gasoline. But easy is not what Steve is after. “Tony, you cannot-” Steve begins, but his voice breaks on the last word. He clears his throat, tries again. “That fall could have killed you. Do you understand that?”

Tony narrows his eyes, lifts his chin. “For fuck’s sake, Rogers, each time we go out on a mission it could very well be the last time,” Tony bites back, sharp and rapidly going toward angry. “Could doesn’t matter, Captain Hypocrite.”

Steve glances down, stares at his tightly clenched fists one long moment before forcing them to loosen. Then he looks up, meets Tony’s eyes levelly. “If your own well-being means so little to you,” Steve says calmly, evenly. It earns him a tilt of Tony’s head and his brow creasing in annoyance. “Then at least think about those who do give a damn about you.”

Tony eyes widen, and for a fleeting second his expression is stripped of every mask, leaving only Tony: startled, vulnerable and lost. And all Steve wants in that moment is to wrap his hands around him and hold him.

Tony blinks, and just like that, his guard is fully up, a sharp smile curving on his lips. “Call me a nosy bastard, but where exactly do you fall in that line-up?” Tony says, his voice straddling the line between casual and accusing. He half-turns, takes a quick look of Steve’s sparsely furnished room, then gives Steve a sidelong glance. “‘Cause I was really feeling the love in my hospital bed, Rogers. Even Barnes came to visit me.”

“I wanted to come,” Steve says, picking those bits of truth he could safely share with Tony. “I needed time. To think about things.”

Tony turns to face him, arches an eyebrow. “You needed time to think,” Tony repeats slowly. His voice is carefully stripped of all emotion. “About what exactly?”

Steve’s mouth twitches faintly. “I recon it’s exactly the same thing that made you come see me.” It’s just a hunch, but a flinch Tony makes at Steve’s words and slight widening of his eyes tell Steve all he needs to know. “Before anyone else.”

Tony glances away for a moment, rocks on the balls of his feet, his smile turning rueful. “Got me there,” he admits with a half-shrug. “Did I mention I was bored? Like out of my mind, going up the walls bored. There wasn’t much to do but think... so yeah. I’m here.”

Steve swallows a sigh, his shoulders sagging a little. “Can it not wait?” Steve tries. “You should still be in a hospital, and I-” Steve breaks off, runs his fingers through his hair, “I’ll be here tomorrow. And so will you, obviously. Just… get some rest, Tony.”

Tony is watching him closely. Steve cannot read his expression, but he is fairly certain there is little to no hope Tony will actually heed his words.

“This won’t be a long conversation,” Tony says after a moment of silence. There is something about the flatness of his tone that makes Steve’s insides clench uncomfortably. “Besides, you’ve said it yourself, I survived a fall that should have killed me. I can handle you, Rogers.”

There is nothing Steve can say to that and not lead this conversation into a proverbial minefield. Which leaves him with only one option: silence.

Tony doesn’t seem to mind. He inclines his head to the side, takes a long, contemplative look of Steve’s face. Steve remains still, holds Tony’s gaze unflinchingly despite the irregular beating of his heart. He’s never felt truly vulnerable in Tony’s presence. But he’s never before had to face Tony’s inquisitive gaze while holding onto a secret directly tied to his heart.

His past mistakes notwithstanding.

“You know, this silent stoicism routine is getting old, Rogers,” Tony says, lightly, conversationally as he crosses his hands over chest. It looks awkward considering the sling. “I get you being your irritatingly polite self and not wanting to break off things while I was in a hospital, but, as you can see, that’s no longer the case.”

Steve merely stares at Tony one impossibly long moment. So they are really doing this. Having this conversation.

Steve squares his shoulders, lifts his chin, steeling himself. “I don’t want to break things off, Tony,” he says, his voice steady and firm. “With you,” he adds almost as an afterthought.

Tony looks taken aback, his expression flickering between disbelief and bewilderment with blinding speed. “You don’t?” Tony asks, frowning.

“Why is it-” Steve starts, cuts himself off, makes a step forward and almost crashes into the coffee table. Pressing his lips together in frustration, Steve simply steps over it, coming to stand directly in front of Tony, just within arm’s reach. He ignores the way Tony’s shoulders stiffen almost imperceptibly, keeps his eyes trained on Tony’s. “Why do you always have to do this? Decide what I’m going to say beforehand, and what I actually say doesn’t even reach you.”

“So you want us to continue being fuck buddies?”

Steve knows Tony is being deliberately crude, provoking him into losing his temper, even if he doesn’t exactly know why.

Steve expels a heavy breath, forces himself to remain calm. “No. I-” Steve begins, but the words get caught in his throat. This shouldn’t be this difficult. This part Steve knows by heart. Swallowing hard, he tries again, the words pouring out of him; breathless and urgent, “I want to call you for no reason at all. Or just to hear your voice. I want to take you out on a date. On more than one date. And I want to kiss you. Just kiss you. Without it leading to sex. Which I want. A lot. But I want to be able to hold you after, and wake up next to you so we can do it again in the morning.” Pausing, Steve smiles weakly, the pounding beat of his heart echoing loudly in the ensuing silence. “That’s what I want, Tony.”

Tony looks shaken. Beneath the mess of cuts and bruises his skin is deathly pale, his eyes wide with shock and disbelief, his mouth opening and closing without a single sound coming out.

Steve’s stomach drops, but he holds himself still and his back straight, his eyes locked on Tony’s face.

Another moment passes before Tony gathers himself; he blinks – once, two times – swallows, then, suddenly, Steve is staring at Tony’s retreating back.

Steve moves without thinking, driven by the blind panic surging within his chest, his fingers wrapping around Tony’s right elbow and turning him around. “Tony, wait,” Steve says, in a voice he barely recognizes as his own. “You cannot just leave.”

Tony jerks his elbow out of Steve’s grip, and Steve lets him. He is breathing heavily, watching Steve with furious eyes. “What the hell is wrong with you, Rogers?”

Steve blinks, taken aback by Tony’s vehemence. “I… I thought I made myself clear.”

Tony presses his lips together, glaring at Steve. “And I thought you’ve gotten over… whatever the fuck it is by now,” Tony grits out, gesturing widely with his right hand. He’s looking at Steve with narrowed eyes. “Are you having a seriously late gay freak out? Or is it some forties’ no sex before marriage thing?”

Steve takes a deep breath, releases it slowly. Then, he does it again. And again. Until red seeps from the edges of his vision. “First off, the term is bisexual and, no, I am not freaking out over a fact I’ve known about myself for almost my entire life,” Steve says, watches as Tony’s brow furrows. “And second, sex existed in the forties. Casual sex even.” Steve ignores the mocking quirk of Tony’s eyebrow, ignores the way it sets his teeth on edge. “I don’t regret what we’ve been doing. We’re both adults, it was consensual, and I don’t need a goddamned excuse for wanting it… wanting you. Not even from myself.”

“That’s mighty liberal of you, Rogers,” Tony drawls, sardonically, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. There’s a look of uncertainty and frustration, like Steve is a particularly tricky puzzle he cannot seem to solve. “Okay then. If you’re not having a crisis of conscience, why the hell are you suddenly turning a perfectly good arrangement into a teenage soap opera?”

“Because I care about you,” Steve exclaims hotly, spreading his hands in a helpless gesture. He scrubs a hand across his face in frustration, huffs out a heavy breath. “God, Tony. Haven’t I… Didn’t you hear a word I said?”

“You care about me,” Tony repeats slowly, looking at Steve as if Steve had suddenly grown a second head.

Steve reaches after Tony, but stops himself before actually touching him, his fingers hovering awkwardly over Tony’s shoulders. “Of course I care about you. You’re… I’ve never been with anyone as long as I’ve been with you,” Steve admits, gives Tony a thin, stained smile, and lowers his hands.

Tony remains silent, his face pulled into a grimace of complete and utter incredulity.

“Look, Tony,” Steve starts, his heart drumming a nervous beat against his rib cage. He ignores the urge to wipe his palms against his jeans and curls his hands into lose fists instead. He feels awkward and foolish, standing there, fumbling for words that stubbornly evade him. “I know you have doubts, and I understand that, but you… God, you almost died,” Steve cuts himself off, draws in a shaky breath, tightens his fists further and presses on. “I’ve lost people… important people, to death and my own silence. And I… I don’t want to lose you too. Not without at least trying to make it work.”

Tony blinks, lowers his head, shakes it. A short bark of near hysterical laughter escapes his lips. “You actually mean all this,” Tony says in a low voice, heavy with astonishment, and something darker and deeper.

Steve straightens, frowning. “I don’t make it a habit of ridiculing anyone’s feelings. Including my own.”

Tony gives him a sideways look, the corner of his mouth twisting bitterly. “Actually, I would prefer you cracking into a laugh right about now.”

Steve lets out a frustrated noise, starts forward, but stops himself at Tony’s involuntary flinch backward. “I’m not asking for forever,” Steve says, sharper and more forceful than he intended, but he cannot help himself. Here he is, baring his heart, and Tony looks like Steve has affronted him somehow. “I know you cannot give me that. Just a chance, that’s all I’m asking, Tony. A chance to show you how much I-”

Steve bites back the rest of that sentence, clamps his mouth shut, panic welling up in his throat. He can’t say love. He doesn’t dare say it. Not with the way Tony is looking at him: with sharp, angry eyes and mouth pressed into a thin line.

“To show me how much you what?” Tony demands, stepping forward, almost close enough to brush their chests together. “Finish that sentence, or I swear to God, Rogers-”

“I love you!” Is it because of the way Tony is looking at him, all challenge and heat and fury, or just the simple fact that this feeling is too big to contain, but the words burst out of Steve’s mouth before he has a chance to stop himself. A distant part of him is aware that those words should not be said like an angry and desperate curse. Not the first time, or any other. Aware and regretful, but not surprised. It’s not like they have done anything the ordinary way. “I love you,” Steve repeats, softer, gentler; a small, tentative smile tugging up the corners of his mouth.

Tony backs away a step, his eyes wide and startled. “You love me?” Tony repeats, high and shrill and not a little hysterical. He rubs his temple with a heel of his hand, staring at Steve as if waiting for him to declare all this has been a ruse or a joke. Or turn into an alien. “You don’t even like me most of the time.”

Steve manages not to flinch. “Don’t… just don’t,” Steve grounds out around the lump in his throat. There’s an insistent pressure just under his ribcage, a tangle of anger, hurt and helplessness. “You can tell me to go to hell, tell me no… but you don’t get to stand there telling me how I feel because you clearly don’t have a goddamned clue.”

Tony blinks, something shifting in his gaze; denial making space for dark amusement and bitter resignation. “This… I can’t fucking believe it,” Tony says, shakes his head as a sound far too bleak to be considered laughter leaves his throat. “Sometimes I think you’re the punishment for all the bad karma I’ve gathered during my life, Rogers.”

“If that’s how you feel, why the hell have you been sleeping with me all this time?” Steve snaps, anger momentarily overcoming that terrible ache that is sinking deep into the marrow of his bones. “And don’t tell me it’s just about sex. You can have anyone you want, so why me?”

Tony tilts his head, gives Steve a terrible little smile. “That’s just the thing, Rogers, I wanted you. Still do, in fact,” Tony says in a hollow voice that sounds wrong to Steve’s ears. He’s not really looking at Steve, though, his gaze focused on something over Steve’s shoulder. “Not that I ever thought I’d get you into bed, let alone-” Tony trails off, his words dissolving into a mirthless chuckle, his right hand sketching a helpless gesture.

Steve’s eyes go wide, his heart stilling in his chest. He feels dizzy for a moment, the room tipping sideways before righting itself again. His ears are ringing, roaring with a discordant echo of amazement, delight and dread as the world crashes and rebuilds around him. Natasha was right.

Oh, God, Natasha was right.

Tony’s eyes flick towards Steve’s eyes, stay there. The twist of Tony’s lips is a bitter parody of a smile. “Yeah, not just a pretty face,” Tony states in a low voice, the straight line of his shoulders standing in stark contrast to the moroseness of his gaze. “What you’re thinking right now, Rogers? You got it right. When I begged you not to break the Avengers apart, I was also asking you not to leave me.” Smiling ruefully, Tony takes another step back. “Not that it did me much good.”

Steve expels a harsh breath, his heart beating in sync with the terrible, terrifying hope forming in the hollow of his chest. He moves before he has a chance to think better of it, his hands framing Tony’s face in a gesture that is both gentle and possessive. “If that’s how… why are you-” Steve trails off, leans his forehead against Tony’s. One of them is shivering, or maybe they both are; Tony’s pulse rabbit-fast underneath Steve’s thumb. “We can give it a try, Tony, I know we could be good together.”

Tony huffs out a shaky breath, shuts his eyes. He leans into Steve’s touch, and for a single glorious moment, Steve can feel his chest expand with something bright and light. A beat later, Tony is moving away, stepping back, and all Steve feels is cold; crawling across his skin and seeping into his veins.

Tony shakes his head, swallows. “Too late for that, Rogers,” Tony says in a thin, brittle voice. There’s a note of finality to Tony’s words. It reminds Steve of another sound; of metal hitting metal in an abandoned bunker in Siberia. “A couple of years too late.”

Slowly, Steve lowers his hands, locks his gaze with Tony’s. A strange, almost unnatural stillness washes over him. Everything becomes distant and muddled, like an echo of a dream. Or is it nightmare? “You’ll never forgive me, are you, Tony?” Steve asks in a quiet voice.

“Cut it with the martyr act, Rogers,” Tony snaps, but without any real heat to his words. He scrubs a hand across his face. He looks very, very tired all of a sudden. “I forgave you a while ago.”

“Then why…?” Steve asks. He doesn’t understand anything anymore. He only knows there is a hollow space inside him where hope used to reside only moments ago.

Tony clenches his jaw, shuts his eyes. When he opens them, it’s like looking into a mirror and seeing his own misery and naked hurt in Tony’s eyes. “I can’t trust you,” Tony says, simply. Just stating a fact. Steve’s stomach sinks further still. “Not anymore, not nearly enough for what you’re asking of me.”

Steve takes a deep breath. It does little to ease the burning in his lungs. “That’s it then,” Steve says in a flat, empty voice. Distantly, he is aware of something trashing inside his chest; miserable with longing and loss. He clamps down hard on it. “We’re done.”

“Yeah,” Tony agrees, his face drawn into a tight grimace. He gives Steve a resigned half shrug. “I guess we are. I think… I’ll leave the compound for a while. I’m grounded anyway.”

Steve swallows, nods. He doesn’t say a thing. What can he say, anyway?

A moment passes in silence. Then another. And another.

“Okay, then,” Tony says finally, shifting awkwardly where he stands. “I think I’ll go now.”

Steve watches Tony take a step toward the door. “Can you show me?” the words leave Steve’s mouth without his conscious decision.

Tony stops dead in his tracks, tilts his head in confusion. “Show you what?”

Steve’s heart is pounding. He cannot tell is it because of dread or anticipation. Or both. “How it could have been between us.”

Tony’s eyes go wide. “That’s… a terrible idea,” Tony says. He looks ready to flee, panic and dismay clear in his eyes. “You know it, too.”

Steve nods, straightens. “Yeah, I do,” he concedes, fixes Tony with a level gaze. “But I need to know.”

Tony studies his face intently for one long moment. Then, with an almost fond expression, he shakes his head. “It’s never the easy way with you, is it, Rogers?”

Steve shrugs, offers Tony a small smile. “Didn’t have many opportunities for easy,” Steve says, watches in silence as Tony takes a deep breath, steeling himself. Then watches Tony take a step toward Steve, then another, and another, until he is standing close enough to reach out, and drag his thumb across Steve’s jaw. A shudder runs through Steve’s body at the gentle touch, his eyes fluttering shut for a fraction of a moment.

There is half-curious and half-astonished look in Tony’s eyes as they follow the path his fingers are tracing along Steve’s cheekbone, the curve of his eyebrow, then down his cheek, until they finally come to a stop against Steve’s lower lip.

“God, you’re pretty,” Tony rasps out, sounding almost offended at the fact. It startles a surprised huff of laughter from Steve. “It’s fucking unfair.”

“It was a damn good bottle that made me look this way,” Steve remarks, slightly breathless, his fingers itching with need to wrap around the base of Tony’s skull and pull him near.

Tony gives him an unimpressed look, his hand sliding down to the nape of Steve’s neck. “You’re hilarious,” he says, and then, in the next moment, he tugs Steve’s head down and they are kissing. It’s slow and languid, and even a little bit clumsy because Tony’s injured hand gets in their way. Steve’s moans against Tony’s mouth, his hands tentative as they slide down Tony’s sides, until they settle on Tony’s waist, gripping lightly. Tony nips gently at Steve’s lower lip, licks into Steve’s mouth, teases Steve’s tongue with his own as he cards his fingers into Steve’s hair. It’s sweet and it’s demanding, and soon Steve finds himself deepening the kiss, his fingers cradling the side of Tony’s face and tilting it just so.

And then, suddenly, it’s over.

Tony tears himself away, takes a stumbling step back. His pupils are blown wide, and there’s an almost wild look in his eyes. Steve opens his mouth, but all that comes out is a strangled sound that faintly resembles Tony’s name, his hands clenching tight by his sides.

It’s over. You’ll never get to have this again.

The realization cuts a bloody trail across the inside of Steve’s chest, twists in its middle.

Tony clenches his jaw, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths as he visibly fights for control, and all Steve can do is stare at his lips, red and swollen.

“Is this what you wanted?” Tony asks finally, his voice tight with misery. “Are you happy now, Steve?”

Steve blinks, swallows the bile gathered in his throat. “No,” he rasps out, looks down at his tightly clenched fists, notes that they are shaking. Along with the rest of his body. “Can’t say that I am.”

“Good,” Tony grits out.

Steve doesn’t look up when he hears the sound of Tony’s footsteps moving away. Doesn’t watch him leave. There are limits even to his bravery.

As something inside his chest cracks and shatters, Steve cannot help but wonder are there also limits to the amount of loss a single person can endure before it becomes too much.