Chapter Text
“You look like someone scratched your bike,” Bucky says as he steps up beside Steve. Then he sees what Steve’s forlorn gaze is focused on and winces. “Did someone scratch your bike?”
“It won’t start,” Steve says, and he knows he sounds petulant. But this is his bike, he’s had it for twelve years. It’s seen him through more hard times than anyone save Bucky, he spent two years saving the money to buy it, it’s his and it won’t start.
“Well,” says Bucky after a slight pause, and he sounds hesitant. “It’s a pretty old bike, Stevie.”
Steve glares at his best friend. “You look after your bike and she should last a lifetime. I’ve looked after my bike, Buck.” Bucky throws his hands up in surrender, and Steve is still getting used to the way the metal glints in the sunlight.
“Hey, you’re the expert.”
“Apparently not,” Steve huffs, “I’ve spent an hour trying to find the problem and I’ve got nothing.”
Bucky crosses his arms and hums thoughtfully, gazing down at the Harley-Davidson that has been Steve’s only real love since Peggy. “Maybe you should consult an actual expert, then.”
“Right, and explain to a mechanic why there’s a bullet hole in the seat?” Steve raises an eyebrow. He knows he’s being unfair but damnit, this is his bike. “Or is it finally creating a paper trail for Coulson to track that makes that such a good idea?”
“You’re such a drama queen,” Bucky says with a roll of his eyes. “Leaving aside the fact that one trip to a mechanic can hardly be called a paper trail – “
“We’ve dealt in nothing but cash for years – “
“It doesn’t have to come to that,” Bucky finishes with a pointed look. “I know a guy.”
Steve's unimpressed. “You know a guy.”
Bucky shrugs, affecting a practiced nonchalance that makes Steve's eyes narrow. “Sure. He knows what he’s doing, doesn’t ask questions, and only deals in cash. The mechanic of your wet dreams.” Steve takes in Bucky’s stiff posture and the way he’s suddenly avoiding his eyes. He frowns, and waits for Bucky to elaborate. Finally, with a sigh, “he works on the arm occasionally.”
Steve stares. It’s been nearly a year since Bucky lost his arm. Steve had raised all hell and used every connection he had to get Bucky the treatment he needed, and it had been some of the hardest months of their lives. Even now, Bucky wears nothing but long sleeves and hesitates at even Steve touching the prosthetic. Yet some stranger’s been tinkering with it? “Don’t give me that look,” Bucky scowls. “I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d want to be involved. And I get it Stevie, I do. But I couldn’t have you hovering over my shoulder for this, a’right?” His flesh and bone fingers trail lightly over the sleeve of his metal side. “Some things I gotta deal with myself.”
“You don’t have to, Buck,” Steve says softly. Bucky gives him a small smile but doesn’t respond, and his gaze goes back to the bike.
They stand side by side in silence for just a moment, brothers keeping each other steady. Finally Bucky asks, “so you want the guy’s number or not?”
There’s a man sitting behind the desk reading a magazine, but his eyes flick up to Steve as soon he walks through the door. He’s a large man, not tall but bulky under his suit, and he glares at Steve with what Steve would like to think is unnecessary force. He looks out of place, sitting behind a cluttered desk and supposedly reading an article about Kim Kardashian’s new perfume launch. There’s a door off to the side, supposedly leading to the garage, and Steve can hear wailing guitars and angry drums muffled on the other side.
Some part of Steve’s brain is always assessing, always taking in windows and doors and calculating the probability that anyone in the room might be hiding a weapon. He does this all automatically, without effort, and shows no outward sign that he's anything more than a guy standing awkwardly in the middle of a mechanic’s reception area.
When it’s clear no welcome from the receptionist is incoming, Steve says, somewhat obviously, “I need a mechanic.”
“Sure,” the man says as he looks Steve up and down. The gaze is assessing. “What brought you tothis mechanic?”
“Recommendation from a friend.” When that garners no response, he adds “a guy called Bucky?”
Slowly, the receptionist nods. “Right. Metal arm guy.” Steve bristles but the man is already standing and walking to the garage door. When he opens it the music hits Steve like a physical blow and he winces, but the receptionist continues on, unperturbed. “Hey Tony! You got a customer!”
That’s when Steve sees him. There’s a man working on some kind of vintage car on the other side of the garage in a grimy wife-beater. His muscular arms are buried in amongst the engine, his hair is going in every direction and the way he’s bending forward is doing amazing things for his ass. Christ, Steve’s seen calendars made of this stuff.
The mechanic – Tony – is bobbing his head along to a rhythm in the song that Steve can’t hear for the life of him. Steve’s glad he’s facing the other direction. It gives him a moment to collect himself.
The receptionist yells Tony’s name again, then tries a third time, cupping his hands around his mouth and bellowing over the music. Tony whips around – and Steve sighs internally because yep, he’s got a gorgeous face to go with the body – and his eyes widen when he realises he’s no longer alone.
“Customer!” The receptionist yells, jerking a thumb at Steve. The guy’s clearly never heard about customer service.
Tony looks at Steve properly, and Steve can feel a steady blush coming on at the way Tony’s eyebrow raises and his eyes trail down Steve’s body. Tony smirks, probably at Steve’s bright red neck and ears, and turns back to the receptionist, yelling something in return. The receptionist shakes his head, calls “what?” and only gets a confused look in answer.
Finally, throwing his arms in the air dramatically, the receptionist yells “Jarvis!” and the cacophony immediately comes to a stop. Steve blinks, his ears ringing. “Customer!” the man yells one more time, before turning on his heel and walking back to the office, shaking his head and grumbling as he goes.
Suddenly all of Tony’s attention is focused solely on Steve. Steve, who has stared down Aldrich Killian, has been interrogated by Phil Coulson, has looked into the barrel of a gun and never broken a sweat.
Steve, who suddenly feels kinda sick and can’t quite remember why he’s there.
But Tony’s clearly waiting for him to say something, so he blurts out the first thing that comes into his head.
“Your receptionist is a bit intense.”
Thankfully, Tony just laughs and cocks a hip against the car. Steve has to physically force himself not to stare. “Yeah, sorry. That's Happy.”
“Ironic,” Steve comments and feels something flutter in his stomach when it makes Tony laugh again.
“That’s what I keep telling him! He’s not nearly as amused by it as me.” Tony rubs his hands together and looks at Steve expectantly. “So?”
Steve looks blankly back. “So..?”
“I assume you’ve got some kind of vehicle for me to look at,” Tony says, clearly still amused.
“Oh. Oh! Right. Yeah. My bike. She’s… not working.” Thank God Bucky’s not here. He’d never let Steve live this down.
“Good thing you brought it to a mechanic then. It’s outside?”
Steve nods, rubbing the back of his neck and praying for a hole to open up in the ground and swallow him whole.
The main garage door opens automatically as they walk towards it (maybe Happy's doing?) and Tony winces when he steps outside, as if it's been a while since he's seen the sun. "You got a name? Or do I just call you Hot Biker Guy?"
Goddamnit, Steve has convinced men to drop their guns through sheer intimidation. A gorgeous mechanic shouldn't be able to get him to stutter like this. "Steve," he finally gets out, "call me Steve."
“Nice to meet you, Steve,” Tony says with a grin. Then he spots the bike sitting on the curb and whistles appreciatively. He rubs his hands together enthusiastically, in a way that doesn’t altogether reassure Steve, and says. “that’s an FL, right? What, 1960?”
“’64,” Steve replies. At least this, he can talk about with ease. “Got her second-hand, practically had to rebuild her from the ground up.”
“You did a good job,” says Tony, running a hand along the chassis. Steve follows the movement with his eyes. He pauses at the hole in the leather seat and Steve tenses but Tony simply raises an eyebrow at him before moving on. “I’m surprised you had to bring it to me.”
At this, Steve sighs. “Yeah, I can’t figure out what’s wrong. She won’t start. I had to get Bucky to drop us off.
“Right, Metal Arm Guy,” says Tony distractedly, and Steve feels himself tense again. He wonders if they ever call Bucky that to his face.
“His name, is Bucky,” Steve says through gritted teeth, and Tony looks back at him in surprise.
“Right. I know.”
Steve’s starting to second-guess this whole thing but Tony’s already flicked up the kickstand and is rolling it up to the garage door. It closes behind them.
Distracted, Steve asks “why do you keep the garage closed?”
“Hm?”
“Wouldn’t it… I don’t know, encourage more business? If you kept the door open so people could just drive in?”
Tony continues walking the bike forward and doesn’t look back at Steve when he answers “sure, probably.”
Steve’s unsure what to do after that. Tony just starts looking the bike over and muttering to himself, and Steve doesn’t know if he’s supposed to organise a pickup time with Happy or wait for Tony’s diagnosis or –
“You don’t have an EFI?”
Steve blinks at the mechanic, who’s looking at him with what appears to be a judging expression. “What?”
“An electronic fuel injector.”
“I know what an EFI is, why would I have one?”
“It’s an old bike but you can get carburetors replaced these days, you know.”
Steve lifts an eyebrow. “Sure, but why would I?”
“Why would – “ Tony scoffs, “why would you want to be the scrawny kid everyone picks on in the playground when you could be the big tough guy no one messes with?”
Steve smirks. “I was the scrawny kid everyone picked on. I got by alright.”
Tony looks over Steve’s frame again disbelievingly. “Pictures or it didn’t happen.”
“I’m not sure we know each other well enough for childhood photos.”
Tony – there’s no other word for it – he leers. “That could be arranged.” Steve blushes (again, damnit) but before he has a chance to respond Tony’s continuing, “and so could an EFI. I could get it switched out while we’re here.”
“No,” Steve says, as firmly as possible. “My carburetor works just fine.”
“You don’t know that. Are you a mechanic?”
“I’m not an idiot.”
“Look,” Tony’s arms spread wide in a placating way, “you’ll get better horsepower, better fuel economy – no more choking, Steve! Don’t you want to live in a world where your motorbike doesn’t choke?”
“My motorbike doesn’t choke,” Steve says, “because I know how to ride her.”
Tony wiggles his eyebrows. “I bet you do.”
Steve sighs, but he can’t deny he’s kind of… enjoying himself. It’s been a long time since anyone’s really tried to argue with him. Most of the people he deals with are too scared to, and even his closest friends have more or less given up on trying to reason with him.
He doesn’t even remember the last time someone flirted with him.
Steve rolls his shoulders as he mentally shakes that thought off and says with finality, “look. I like my bike just the way she is. I just want her to run again.”
Tony’s body slumps. “Fine,” he grumbles.
Steve tries not to snort inelegantly. “Are you pouting?”
“Sta – “ Tony cuts himself off, blinks, then starts again, “I do not pout,” he says.
Steve grins. “Looks like a pout to me.”
Tony throws his arms up in the air. “My god, I cannot deal with this amount of sass without my coffee. Go, be gone, come back in a couple of days, let me mutilate your bike in peace.” At Steve’s (probably constipated) look, he adds, “seriously, it’s in safe hands, cross my heart, scout’s honour and all that jazz. Leave my garage, you carburetor-loving dinosaur.”
“Fine,” says Steve, and he can’t seem to stop smiling at this erratic man. “I’ll be back in a few days.”
“Bring cash,” Tony throws over his shoulder. His attention is already back on the bike.
Steve watches him, just for a moment, watches the way Tony’s muscles shift under his top, hears the quiet mumbles under his breath, before he finally turns to leave. He walks out through reception, waves at a glaring Happy, and hears drums and guitars start up again behind him.
“I can’t believe you have the hots for our mechanic.”
Steve folds his arms from where he’s leaning against the wall and glares at Bucky, leaning on the one opposite with a shit-eating grin. “I hardly think we can call him our mechanic, considering I’ve only seen him once – “
“So far.”
“And I didn’t even know you were going to him until three days ago.”
Bucky has the grace to look chagrined but doesn’t let it go. “You didn’t deny you have the hots for him.”
“I don’t have the hots for him. Tony’s just… He’s interesting.”
“Is that what they’re calling it these days?”
Steve sighs and responds with a mature “shut up.”
Bucky does, for a minute, and they both keep an eye on the building across the street, waiting. But then, “you should ask him out.”
Steve has to consciously remind himself to keep his voice quiet. “Are you serious?”
“What’s the big deal? You think he’s hot, he thinks you’re hot – “
“You don’t know that.”
“He sure as hell didn’t flirt with me like that.”
“No, he just insulted you,” Steve scowls.
Bucky looks surprised. “Wait, what? You didn’t tell me that.”
Steve shifts and casts his eyes at the ground. “Sorry. Nothing, he just – I didn’t like what he called you.”
Bucky frowns, before his eyes widen. “Oh, you mean – “ of all things, Bucky laughs. “He called me Metal Arm Guy, didn’t he?”
“It was insensitive.”
Bucky’s still grinning, and Steve is reminded, once again, of how infuriating his best friend can be. “Steve, no, it’s – look, the first time I saw him he got all fanboyish about the arm. Wouldn’t stop ranting about – the hydraulics or whatever, I don’t know. I don’t speak tech geek. But it was…” Bucky takes a deep breath, and he looks more serious when he continues, “it was kind of refreshing, actually. To not have someone tip toe around the damn thing.” The fingers of his metal hand flex like they often do when the topic is brought up. “It was sorta comforting.”
Suddenly Steve feels like a heel. He’s been as guilty of that as everyone else. The arm was a blessing, and Bucky had been lucky to get such an advanced prosthetic, but it’s still a reminder of what happened. Of what Bucky lost.
“Don’t go looking like that Stevie, I’m not… I’m not complaining, or whatever. I get it, believe me. But I just liked being treated like it was normal, for once.” Bucky shrugs, and his mouth ticks up at the sides. “I made a joke that he only liked me for my arm, and it became a thing. I don’t know.”
Steve can see it happening. Tony seems to have the kind of easygoing nature that could make anyone feel at home. He just seemed... so relaxed, in that dusty garage, and it had rubbed off on Steve.
“You’re thinking about him again.”
Steve rolls his eyes. “I’m not asking him out.”
“Why the hell not?”
“For one thing, I haven’t seen what he’s done to my bike yet. Besides…” He spreads his hands in a ‘what can you do’ gesture. “How’s that supposed to go? ‘Hey, I’m the Captain, I lead the Howling Commandoes, you might have heard of me, want to have lunch with a criminal?’”
Bucky has that look on his face that says Steve’s being ridiculous again. “You don’t have to tell him your life story. It’s just a date, you’re not asking him to marry you.” Steve’s scepticism must be showing on his face because Bucky sighs and continues “it’s not always do or die, Steve. You can try something casual. Hell, you should be trying casual. It’s been eight years since Peggy – “
“Buck – “ Steve’s voice is warning, but Bucky ploughs on.
“And she doesn’t have to be your one and only. You don’t have to spend the rest of your life mourning her.” Bucky’s voice has gone soft. “You know she wouldn’t want that.”
There’s lots of things Steve could say to that. That he knows Peggy wouldn’t want that, because Peggy was beautiful inside as well as out, and she only ever wanted the best for Steve, like he wanted the best for her, but life’s not a fucking fairy tale and it never works out that way –
But he’s saved from having to say any of that because his phone vibrates in his pocket, and it’s a text from Natasha.
Intel’s good. We can move in.
So instead, Steve just straightens his shoulders, ignores the exasperation on Bucky’s face, and says “time to go.”
The warehouse is poorly guarded. One of Mandarin’s greatest weaknesses is that he’s always underestimated his enemies. There are two men patrolling the premises, who Steve and Bucky dispatch quietly and efficiently, and Natasha’s already taken down the guards in the front room.
Together they head into the main storage area, where Sam and Clint are busting in through side entrances, and Steve lets the colder part of his brain take over when the firefight starts.
It’s short and bloody. Steve shoots one man in the kneecap, another right in the stomach, and puts a bullet right in a third’s chest when he turns his aim on Bucky.
All in all there are only six men. They don’t stand a chance against Steve’s team.
Natasha’s securing the ones left alive with zip-ties and Steve makes a beeline for one of the crates scattered about the room. Through years of working together he holds out a hand, knowing Sam is ready with a crowbar, and uses it to pry open the lid. He feels a sense of grim satisfaction when he finds exactly what he expected.
“That’s some heavy firepower,” Sam says. There looks to be at least 30 Tommy guns packed and ready for distribution. Just for a moment, Steve lets himself imagine the kind of carnage they could do on his streets, before he lets the lid fall shut with disgust.
“9mms in this one,” Clint calls from across the room. “They're all Stane Tech. That’s…” He lets out a low whistle, “that’s a shit load of money right there.”
It would have been, if the Mandarin had had the chance to sell them on the streets like they knew he’d been planning. Instead, Steve will make sure they get shipped somewhere far away.
He isn’t out to stop the bloodshed. His only responsibility is keeping it out of his streets.
“Nice work,” he says. “Load up the truck. Let’s get out of here.”
Tony’s covered in grease and looking happy when Steve enters his garage the next day. “Steve!” He greets with a grin, wiping his hands ineffectually on a rag, “didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”
Steve’s felt wrung out since the night before, like he always does after a job, but his answering smile is real. “Wanted to make sure you weren’t mutilating my bike.”
Tony brings a hand to his chest dramatically. “Are you saying you don’t trust me?”
“I take threats very seriously,” he says, deadpan.
“Well, I can assure you your bike is doing just fine.” Tony nods towards her in invitation and they both make their way over to the Harley. She’s certainly looking no worse for wear. In fact… “Did you polish her?”
Tony grins. “I got bored. Have I mentioned how adorable it is that you consistently refer to the thing as a woman?”
“I think lady is more appropriate,” Steve responds, simply because he knows it will make Tony laugh. “And if you’re bored, have you considered, you know. Fixing her?”
Tony waves a hand beatifically. “I already found the problem. Frankly I’m disappointed you didn’t figure it out yourself.” He waits for Steve to rise to the bait, but when all he does is look at Tony expectantly, he continues, “it needs a new needle jet. Yours has been worn down to the wick. I’ve already ordered the part, just waiting for it to arrive.”
Steve can’t help it – he breathes a sigh of relief. Some pessimistic part of him had been worried he might have to say goodbye to the girl. “That’s great,” he says emphatically.
“You really love this thing, huh?” Tony’s studying him, and Steve resists the urge to stand up straighter.
“Doesn’t hurt to be a little sentimental.”
Tony raises an eyebrow. “Sure.”
“What, you’ve never had a car you’ve been attached to?”
Tony’s eyes flick towards a back door and says “maybe not a car. But I see your point.”
Steve takes a moment to study Tony. He drinks in Tony’s ruffled hair, the stubble on his chin, watches the way his fingers drum against his chest as he gets lost in thought. The man really is quite… Well.
He probably wouldn’t like hearing a guy he barely knows call him beautiful.
Tony snaps out of whatever daze he found himself in and smiles at Steve, a softer thing than before. “The needle should be here in another day or so, if you want to pick it – her,” he teases, “up then.”
Steve nods, distracted by the earthy brown of the mechanic’s eyes, and thinks back on Bucky’s words. It doesn’t have to be some big thing. They could just go on one date, have a bit of fun, see where things go. No big deal, according to everyone and every show on TV these days. Steve's never understood the idea of dating without the intent of commitment.
For the first time, Steve finds himself considering it.
But then Happy is opening the reception door, saying “Boss, Reed’s here,” and the moment is broken.
“Fucking Richards, what has he gone and done now? I swear to god, whoever gave him his license better have gotten a great goddamn bribe because the man has never heard of a clutch – “
“I’d better go,” Steve cuts in. “Thanks for your help, Tony.”
Tony gives him another smile. “Hey, it’s your money. I’ll see you in a couple of days, yeah?”
Steve nods. “Yeah.” Maybe he'll ask Tony out then.
The Redwing fills up quickly as it does every night. Lively conversation flows through the room and good-natured insults are thrown across the pool tables. It’s loud, boisterous and friendly, and if you didn’t know to look you would never guess the bar is the main hub for Brooklyn’s most powerful gang.
Steve sits at the bar nursing a drink, taking comfort in the familiar atmosphere. This is where he feels most at home. This right here, surrounded by criminals, is where he feels safest.
There’s a crash followed by loud cheering from the pool corner and Steve knows without looking that Natasha and Clint’s game has escalated, as it always does. He smiles, downs his whiskey and motions at Sam.
Sam, when he’s not covering Steve’s back on jobs, runs the bar. It’s his pride and joy, and it’s a job Steve thinks is well suited to him. Sam is a born listener, and having spent some time in the air force, is no stranger to gory details.
“Where’s Bucky tonight?” Sam asks casually as he pours Steve another drink. Steve keeps a straight face, but he feels like laughing. The guy's not fooling anyone.
“Overseeing the trade.”
Sam makes a face. “Damn, really? What did he do to piss you off?”
“I’m not punishing him,” Steve says with a roll of his eyes, and he’s only partly lying. It’s true that Bucky hates running sales, always ends up wanting to punch one slimeball or another in the face, but Steve… might be avoiding him. Just slightly.
Truth is, he just really doesn’t want another lecture on ‘getting back out there’, not when he came so close to asking Tony out before losing his nerve.
Sam looks sceptical but has long since learned not to get involved when the two get into an argument so he lets the matter drop. Instead, he turns to business. “So what’s our next plan of attack?”
Steve sighs, frustrated. “I want to know how Mandarin’s getting those weapons. It seems like every deal we stop, there’s three more ready to go. He’s determined to have all of Brooklyn turn into a bloodbath.”
“So you want to cut off his supply from the source,” says Sam. Steve nods.
“No one’s saying a word about it though. Whoever’s dealing Mandarin in, I’m thinking they must be a hell of a lot more intimidating.”
Sam cocks his head to the side for a moment, thinking. Sam has more connections than most, more ears to the ground than even Steve’s aware of. But when they need to bring out the big guns…
“You might want to get Natasha on to it,” he says finally. It’s the same direction Steve’s own thoughts had been heading in.
“I’ll let her finish her game first,” he says. The cheering behind them gets louder and something big and heavy snaps. Sam sighs.
“Great. I’ll order a new pool table.”