Work Text:
Something Tony had noticed about the Inestimable Captain America: He tended to get prickly about the strangest things. Understandable, maybe, since he’d been displaced about 60 years or so. You go under in the forties and emerge in NY in the 2000s, you have a right to be a bit anxious.
Technology, though, Cap got. He picked up a phone and fiddled with it for a few minutes, all was well. The closest Tony had come to stumping him with new-fangled gadgetry was the tablet, and given about an hour, the Star-Spangled Man with a Plan had figured it out. Even drawn a portrait of Widow.
Things Cap didn’t get? Music, for one. Even though he was perfectly capable of taking down notes on a digital notepad, Cap carried around a little spiral scratchpad and every time someone gave him another new song that “sums up all you missed, man,” he put it on his list. Tony didn’t think he ever actually listened to them. The only exposure Cap really got to music was when he came down to the workshop to harangue the resident genius, and received an earful of Rob Zombie or AC/DC or (one time) Enya.
Religion, for a second. Cap had a real penchant for angsting about the past. He seemed to be under the impression that times had changed, and so people had to have gotten better, somehow. The first time American Icon had heard of the military funeral pickets, he’d sat down and run his hands through his hair—which, screw him, had not even gotten a little mussed—and muttered something about how he couldn’t do this, after all.
Tony had been there for that breakdown. He never thought he’d have to pat his childhood idol awkwardly on the shoulder and do the whole ‘there, there’ number, but hey, learn something new every day. He got the impression that Cap probably would have opted for just about anyone else to have been conveniently strolling through the living area, but Tony was who he got. He’d have liked to fool himself that he was higher on the list than, say, Thor, but.
So, yeah. Cap was a bit tetchy about the state of religion. To be fair, he was a bit tetchy about a lot of the culty-type things these days. Apparently, back in his day, the nuts weren’t quite so nutty.
Actually, come to ruminate on it, elbow-deep in restoring a Cadillac, it was culture. Cap wasn’t good at people. Tony was beginning to doubt he ever was—“the rumors of his death had been greatly exaggerated,” and such. Stars and Stripes over there knew when to smile and strike a pose, sure, but so did Tony, and as Pepper liked to point out, he’d never been more than a PR disaster waiting to happen.
Government, art, food, they’d all stayed mostly the same. Systems became more corrupt, and for someone who’d completely skipped Nixon, sure, it was baffling. Cap put up with it. Gracefully, even. Oh, no, his problem had to be with something Tony was only too qualified to explain to him, while Tony was escorting him around the mansion, trying to make sure he didn’t…touchanything.
While Tony just groaned, “God’s balls, guys, get a room,” Steve had somehow managed to blush stoically.
Cap was a true forties romantic. He’d had a problem with Bucky’s womanizing, even back then. How the hell was Tony meant to explain—this? The Living Popsicle had been opening doors and pulling out chairs for Black Widow herself, all six-foot-something of chivalry and respect. Natasha just gave him pitying looks, and if she’d been from the South, she’d probably say something like, “Bless your heart.” A far kinder way of telling Cap he’s an idiot.
Monogamy was also a thing for their Cap. Tony’s laundry list of one-night stands seemed to personally offend him. Whatever, okay, they’d totally had hookups in the forties. For their blue-eyed babe, fresh out of a culture that was all chocolate malts and abstinence—and dating with intent to marry—coming across Barton and Thor getting acquainted with each other’s mouths in the hallway was hardly a good course of Intro to Sex Ed.
Actually, huh, last time Cap had been around the block, Hitler was gassing gays. Seeing as Cap was Truth and Justice and The American Way, he probably didn’t judge them for that, even as he watched them part, stumbling down the hall toward Barton’s quarters with a muttered apology from Clint and something about “joyous copulation” from Thor.
He just looked so lost. Tony clapped him on the shoulder and said, “C’mon, Cap. Your apartment is this way. I’ll explain the birds and the bees once you’ve dumped your stuff.” It had taken Cap the longest to agree that the apartment Tony was offering him in the Avengers’ collective was a good idea. Something about not liking Tony, imagine that.
“I could have JARVIS bring you up to speed,” Tony offered, amiably as you like, once Cap had thrown his two duffel bags of possessions onto his new bed. The doleful look he received as a reply made him revise his plan of action—he did not need to deal with another meltdown, hey, melt—
“Or,” he hastily backpedaled, without looking like he was backpedalling, “we could discuss this over ice cream. In the kitchen. You like ice cream? ‘Course you do.” He was already turning to retreat to the living/dining area as he spoke, Capsicle looking confused but following.
Explaining sex to a geezer like Cap seemed a far less daunting task with a pint of Rocky Road in front of him. While Tony just grabbed a spoon and dug in, Cap scooped his own (vanilla, howCaptain-America-n of him) into a bowl, putting the carton back into the freezer before joining Tony at the bar. Everything about the way Cap acted around him screamed hesitance, and that was probably for a reason.
“Don’t tell me you thought it was just me,” Tony started the conversation, which, okay, not the most tactful, but it was no “joyous copulation,” either, which should have earned him points.
Cap seemed visibly uncomfortable as he spoke into his bowl. “Well, no, but—“ The rest of the sentence was lost to Tony.
Okay, maybe he did do some things just to get a rise out of Captain America. Like what he was doing with his tongue and his spoon when Cap looked up again. Tony quirked an eyebrow in question, and bright blue eyes descended back to the bowl, a blush rising in Cap’s cheeks. “Really, though, let’s talk.” Tony’s voice was initially garbled around the spoon. He let it clatter back into the ice-cream carton. “It’s not all giggly phone calls and holding hands anymore. Unless you’re fift—well, I guess you are.”
“Joke’s getting old, Stark.”
“Just like you,” he riposted with a smirk. Cap looked frustrated and picked at his ice cream. “Hookup culture,” Tony declared after a silence. “Casual sex, meet-me apps, the works. The teenaged relationship is becoming obsolete.”
The expression that pinched Cap’s features was one Tony had occasion to recognize. He’d named it, even—“the future is hard.” It was the same face he’d made when Tony had tried to explain the internet, before just putting a computer in front of the newly-thawed stud and letting him figure it out. The little Pepper-voice in his head that told him when something was a bad idea reminded him calmly that a similar approach in this matter was probably not a good idea.
Noting the absence of “bad idea” in there, though, that was an idea. Forties Romantic would never go for it, of course, but damn, was that an idea. His dirty weekends with men were fewer and farther-between than the tabloids would have you believe; nevertheless, they did happen. A lot of reporters were willing to do a lot for a good story, a lot of people tried to seduce corporate secrets out of him, and gender didn’t make much difference.
Cap spoke, drawing Tony out of his reverie. “Not everyone can be like that, though. Surely you’re the extreme.”
And there it was, the reason they always fought. Tony’s instinct to poke Cap where it hurt came out of its hidey-hole. “Why do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“You hold me to a higher standard than everyone else. Act like I’m a bad guy here. Why is that?”
A little annoyed noise, and Cap was putting his spoon down in his bowl. “You’re morally bankrupt.”
Ah, yes, morally bankrupt. “You’ll have to do better than that,” Tony announced, continuing on his Rocky Road.
“You, you, you’re a narcissist, you don’t care about anyone but yourself, you use people. For—“ Seventysomething years old, and Cap couldn’t say ‘sex.’ “—for whatever you want, like they’re justthings.” Cap was turning a very righteous shade of red as he gained steam.
See, Cap had a poking instinct, too, and he knew Tony’s weak spots, whether he meant to or not. “They let themselves be used, Capsicle,” he quipped. “They want to be used. I know it’s hard for you to wrap your super-soldier brain around, but you’ve also conveniently failed to notice that I’m trying. Doing better. Philanthropizing, even.” He held up one finger, in a “wait” gesture. “How many women have you seen me with since you thawed out?” When Cap opened his mouth to say something not-nice, Tony cut him off. “No, for real. How many?”
“…Pepper.”
“That’s one.”
“And Widow.”
“She’s a spy, she doesn’t count.” Cap didn’t say any other names. “I’m not sleeping with either of them. Well. There were some near misses. But.”
Now the “I must reevaluate my worldview” expression took over Frozone’s face. “You called yourself a playboy.” Cap was obviously grasping for his moral high ground.
Tony finished his ice cream and slam-dunked the container into the trashcan, standing to toss the spoon in the sink. He tugged his clothing back into place where it had rucked up and said casually, “Eh, eye of the beholder. Don’t say I never taught you anything about the modern age.”
***********
“Christ, I think you’re predictable—“ Tony gasped as his wrists were pinned above his head quickly, “—and then you go and—“
“Stark,” Cap shushed him, sweeping a few printed-out design layouts from the work desk.
“Tony,” he had the presence of mind to correct him as he arched off the desk into the hand that rubbed down the front of his oil-stained slacks. He didn’t get a word in edgewise until Cap broke the kiss Tony pulled him into, hot and messy and he was going to fuck Captain America, howabout that.
“Gon’ make an honest man of me,” Tony mumbled happily against kiss-swollen lips, and when Cap’s lips went somewhere else entirely, he raised exactly no objections. “Jesus, at least give me something to scream, ‘cause I’m sure as hell not—“
When Cap pulled off for a second to murmur, “Steve. You can call me Steve,” Tony felt a warm fuzzy shoot up his spine. Then Cap—Steve—went back to doing that thing with his tongue, feeling out all of Tony’s weak spots just the way he’d been doing since he woke up from his Rip Van Winkle.
And shit, shit, shit, he pulled at Steve’s hair as gently as he could muster in these trying times. “Hey, hey,” he breathed, concentrating on not coming before things got really fun. “Why don’t we move this somewhere—“ a kiss dropped against his lips, tasting of him. “I don’t keep stuff in the shop anymore. Upstairs.” When Steve looked bemused, he clarified. “My bedroom. Let’s go be…naked.”
Yes, please, he seconded himself, patting himself back into place as much as he could with a hard-on that he just wanted to rub against Cap’s ridiculous thigh until he came or died or both or possibly exploded.
Steve looked considerably less composed than he did, definitely a first, as he tugged Tony toward the elevator that would take him to the penthouse. Take them. But Tony really hoped Steve would be doing the taking, if there was taking to be done. And then he could have a turn. Cap seemed to be embracing hookup culture with open arms.
“Taking you to dinner after,” Cap gasped between heated kisses on the lift, and sure, Tony was down with that taking, too, because he was increasingly sure that he was going to be spoiled for anyone without at least three inches of height and God-knows-how-many pounds of muscle on him, and Steve was tracing a finger around his rim and he wasn’t sure when that hand had gotten into his slacks but he was not complaining.
He made a mental note to upgrade the elevator, because it needed to be so much faster.
***********
For all Cap’s excellence with technology, he still asked a lot of dumb questions. Tony attributed that fact to Cap’s ignorance of the Great Google, who knows all and tells some. Following Tony’s thorough exposition of hookup culture, Cap turned his trademark brand of confusion on sitcoms. Given that sitcoms nowadays based a lot of their jokes on, well, stuff Cap had been a frozen dinner for, Tony found himself the unwitting subject of pop-culture queries both big and small.
Cap was lucky he was sleeping with Tony, because, otherwise, Tony would have handed this over to JARVIS and never looked back. Steve had to learn Google eventually. Tony really did spoil him.
“Yes, I understand. But why is it funny?”
Tony rolled out from under his latest project, making a helpless gesture with grease-stained hands. “Because Game of Thrones, and..the Starks…and ‘winter is coming…’”