Work Text:
Tony’s got a good class schedule, a good view from his apartment, a good amount of professors who don’t hate him, a good (healthy, Rhodey would add, and close to normal) amount of friends, and a more-than-very-good boyfriend, so he can say that this year’s been better than most recent ones in memory.
Actually, as he waits for one Steve Rogers to leave the art room — studio? Painting place? What the hell do artists call art spaces? — and fall into step next to him, their arms brushing every so often, Tony would be inclined to call this year the best year in his history of years. Which— sure, isn’t technically very many, because he’s on the verge of nineteen and no one believes him when he claims he’s an old soul, but the point stands.
It’s been a really good fucking year.
“You’ve been grinning at nothing for about five minutes now,” Steve tells him when they’ve stepped out of the arts and humanities building and onto the lolling, sprawling front lawns of the academy. Steve stops them by a tree, places his hands on Tony’s shoulders and shakes. “What’s on your mind?”
There are smudges of paint on Steve’s wrist peeking out from the edges of his sleeve…an insignificant detail, really, because Tony’s busy admiring this man who is looking equal parts fond and concerned, looking at him, defying all expectations that Tony’s ever had for who, if anyone, would actually willingly be with him, and— “Nothing,” he says, grinning still. He’s feeling giddy, and for the first time it’s not because of five cups of coffee he downed in a row.
“You can’t wreck another lab,” Steve tells him.
“I’m not thinking of wrecking another lab,” Tony says without putting much defense into his tone. He grins perhaps even wider, reaching up to curl his fingers around Steve’s wrists so he’s half-keeping his hands in place. They’re warm. “Ye of little faith.”
“Me of too much faith,” Steve says fondly, “in what you can do with that head of yours.”
“Well, which head?” Tony says, lips curving upwards. Steve, now past the point of blushing (to Tony’s dismay), rolls his eyes.
Tony’s gaze flicks over the other man’s face, searching as they continue to walk. Yeah, he notes, pleased. Still looking fond. “I was thinking about you, if you must know.”
“Oh?”
“About you and me and that cafe tonight. We still on for that?”
“Actually,” Steve admits, “yes, but I might be late? Work might keep me.” He puts air quotes around work and lowers his voice a little, and Tony understands, even though if he had as much talent as Steve had in his pinky finger, he’d be less hush hush about it. But anyway.
“All good.” He grins, easy. “Just as long as you show up.” God knows how many times he’s been late to a date, or forgotten an important day like their three month anniversary, or—
“I will.” Steve kisses him and the contact pins Tony back to reality, where they’re standing in front of the building for his next class. Actually, class doesn’t seem so important now, and he’d much rather eat dinner early or do something until the socially acceptable time for dinner.
“Hey, what if I just don’t go to class and instead you show me what you’ve been working on in that art room?” he says brightly.
“What if I see you tonight instead,” Steve says, ever the voice of reason.
Tony pouts a little. Steve laughs, tells him not to. Kisses his temple. Makes him blush. God.
“Tonight,” Tony reminds him in case he’s forgotten in the past ten seconds. “Tonight?”
“Tonight.” Steve seems reluctant to let him go, but alas, they must part ways.
Tony takes two steps before spinning around to shoot half of a finger gun at Steve. “See you, Rogers,” he calls as he walks backwards, and Steve calls back, “Don’t run into the door.”
After indeed avoiding an embarrassing incident with the door and making his way inside, he’s joined by Natasha for the short hallway between their respective classes.
“You call Captain America Rogers,” she says flatly.
“And, uh, you call my boyfriend Captain America,” Tony says. “So who’s really losing here?”
“You’re astounding, Stark,” Natasha tells him lovingly as she veers left to advanced forensic chemistry.
“Flattery gets you everywhere,” Tony croons as he veers right to advanced quantum mechanics.
He gets that Steve dressed up as the guy for Halloween — and filled out that costume really, really well — but it’s been months, honestly, can’t people come up with more clever names?
He fails to catch Natasha’s long-suffering sigh.
-
“Oh, no,” Clint says when Tony walks into the cafe, “no, no, not tonight. No.”
“What?” Tony says, plowing on with his laptop and a dully clattering bag of phones.
“You sit here all night,” Clint says when Tony deposits himself into the corner booth, his favorite, “either brooding or tinkering or both — it doesn’t matter, it scares away business is what — and you never buy.”
“That,” Tony says, holding up a finger while his other hand busily gropes the wall under the table, searching for the familiar shape of an outlet, “is a lie. I had a tea the other day.” He smiles primly.
Clint’s eyes narrow into slits. “You threw it on a guy.”
Oh, yeah. “A rude guy,” Tony clarifies. “Can I get a caramel macchiato, with extra, extra, extra espresso? Promise it’ll be used properly this time.”
Clint grumbles the whole way back to the front counter, which Tony takes as permission to begin unloading his laptop and a half dozen or so phones. Within five minutes, he’s waiting for his jailbreaking program to initialize as he takes a sweet, sweet gulp of caffeine.
He’s about thirty minutes early, having figured he could get some work done if Steve was indeed going to be late. The money he would earn from jailbreaking these phones would, after all, go towards those disgustingly overpriced art museum tickets that he knew Steve would absolutely swoon over, so it’s not like he’s just bringing some trivial work to their date.
Approximately an hour later, he’s still alone in the booth, surrounded by three empty cardboard cups and his finished work. The work in question was actually finished about fifteen minutes after he arrived, and since then he’s been fiddling around with emulators and trying to see how many Pokémon games he can get to work.
The cafe was quiet to begin with, but now it’s definitely subdued. He can hear chatter from other tables, background noise that’s almost comforting.
He becomes so used to it that he doesn’t notice it stop until someone is sliding into the booth across from him.
“Hey,” says Captain America.
“Hey, Cap,” says Clint from the counter, because this is just a thing that happens now.
Captain America waves loosely. “Hi, Clint.”
“Hi,” Tony deadpans.
“Sorry.” Captain America’s eyes flick back to him, apologetic. “I didn’t mean to—”
“—disturb me?” He can’t help the slight edge that creeps into his voice. It’s partly the caffeine and mostly his acute awareness that this ridiculous man is taking up Steve’s seat. Doesn’t he have cats to save from trees or something?
The hero — superhero, everyone on campus declared last year, just within a day of Captain America’s first appearance saving an elderly man from a gas station robbery — blinks at him, then chuckles. “I guess, yeah. I didn’t realize you’d be hard at work.” He grins, eyes bright under that blue helmet. He casually places his huge, star-emblazoned shield on the table, as if he’s not placing a…well, a huge, star-emblazoned shield on the table.
Tony stares, unimpressed. “Don’t know what else you could have possibly imagined me doing,” he says before returning to the Pokémon battle at hand.
Never mind that Stars ’n’ Stripes has caught him in trouble more than once. Six times, to be exact — half of which have been Tony’s attempts to test his modified rocket boots gone wrong.
(Some would call it saving him, but Tony would swear to his grave that he had all situations handled before Cap swooped in. So maybe he shouldn’t have been testing the boots at twelve stories high, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have security measures in place!)
“What are we having tonight, then?” Captain America proceeds to inspect the empty cups, scrutinizing the drink abbreviations and dried spill-stains down the side. “A macchiato and a triple shot? How are you still on your feet?”
“I’m not,” Tony says, finally tugging his bag open and sweeping the phones inside. He stands up. “Wow, look, now I am. Send my regards to the kind old ladies you help across the street, will you?”
“Wait, Tony,” Red-White-and-Blue calls, standing after him, and oh right, that’s a thing too—somewhere between their first meeting and now, Captain America has somehow learned his name and begun using it liberally. “I’m sorry. Was it— Is it the shield? The uniform? I didn’t have time to change.”
“Change? For me? You really don’t have to, Cap.” With one last cheery grin, he salutes Captain America and ducks out of the cafe.
Sorry, he texts Steve, got a migraine, think I’m gonna turn in early for the night.
That’s a first, Steve replies within a minute. The typing symbol pops up for a while, goes away, then pops up again. You ok? He can feel Steve's concern through the phone.
Dandy. Really. Gonna see you first thing in the morning tho, promise. He flourishes the text with seven X’s and no mention of how Captain America has ruined one of their date nights. Again. As far as Steve knows, his cancellations have been due to some incurable headache and the urgency for sleep (when Steve hears he actually wants to sleep, he’s more than happy to let Tony go). Tony would like to keep it that way.
How does one break to their significant other, There’s some superhero who’s been following me for months and treating me like close friends, also sometimes I’m pretty sure he’s flirting with me, anyway?
Not at all, is the answer, so Tony pushes Captain America to the back of his mind and walks straight back to his apartment.
-
He wakes up clinging to a warm, living, breathing someone instead of his body pillow. “See,” he drawls, confirming that it is his boyfriend before proceeding to latch himself even more tightly around his boyfriend, “promise kept.”
He earns a groan from Steve, who shifts and ends up pinning him down to the bed a little bit with his arm. It’s good contact, nice contact, anchoring instead of suffocating like everything and everyone else would feel. “Sleep,” Steve yawns.
Tony stifles a small laugh. It’s rare that he gets a better night’s sleep than Steve, so the other man must have been up pretty late last night to be this grumpy.
“I’m hungry,” Tony complains against the pretty hair tickling his chin. “Steve. Steve.”
“Tony,” Steve complains back.
“Fine, you grouch.” Tony swats his bare shoulder, which Steve growls playfully at and pins him harder against the bed for. “Oh. Do that again."
“Sleep,” Steve repeats, sluggish but no less assertive, and shifts so he can pull Tony back against his chest, back to front, and keep him there. Seconds later, his breathing evens out again, and Tony can only assume that his boyfriend’s gone back to the dreamscape.
Thankfully, his arms are just long enough to grab his phone from the nightstand. I’m being held hostage in bed, he types out to Rhodey, wanna come rescue me? and Rhodey promptly replies with, for the last time no I don’t want to have a threesome with you. Pepper similarly replies, No. Steve’s onto something. Go back to sleep., and Tony laments his friends’ betrayal as he sinks back against Steve.
“Tony?” he hears the other man mumble into his hair.
Tony finds himself absently drumming his fingers over Steve’s forearm, which is still secured over his chest. “Yes, dear?”
“I’m sorry about last night.”
He suddenly finds himself on his back and Steve propping himself up on his elbow so he can hover over him. Tony looks up at him, really looks at him and his sleepy but sort of sad eyes, and feels a twinge of guilt. Shit. Why is he saying sorry? “Hey, c’mon.” He tries for a smile, reaching up to smooth his hands over Steve’s bare shoulder and lock behind his neck. “I was the one who bailed, remember?”
Steve frowns. The angle makes his hair fall attractively over his furrowed brows. “If I hadn’t been late…”
“It wasn’t your fault,” Tony promises. It was Mister America’s fault, walking in there like he owned the place, sitting in our booth like he belonged there. What’s the deal with that, anyway? “Wanna know whose fault it was? The little fucker that was banging around my head last night—”
Steve’s puppy-dog expression momentarily lapses into confusion. “What?”
“—figure of speech. I had a raging headache, so even if we did go out, I would have just complained the entire time. So,” he smooths Steve’s hair out of his face and lets his fingers linger over his cheek, “it was for the best, trust me.”
“Tonight,” Steve says stubbornly. “I’m taking you out to dinner.”
Tony considers. “Where?”
“Thai.”
“I love you.”
His brain screeches to a halt when he hears the words come out of his own mouth.
Steve only chuckles and replies with practiced ease, “Me or the food?”
It’s an out. Tony knows it, knows he's done it to Steve enough times for Steve to have a readied response, and he means what he's saying but he's also terrified of what he's saying, so, that out? Yeah, he'll take it. “The food. But I’d say you’re pretty okay too.”
“I’m touched, really.” Steve grins. “But that’s not getting you out of this bed for at least another half hour.” With that, he collapses back into the bed with Tony, the mattress bouncing under their weight.
In truth, in bed with Steve ranks frighteningly high on his list of places-he’d-never-leave-if-he-didn’t-absolutely-have-to. Tony makes a show of grumbling and twisting so he can face Steve properly. “How’d you get in here, anyway?”
Steve gives him A Look, as if to say, you only wonder now? “I asked Pepper for advice and she said to check the dead plant outside because you’d have the spare key in there. I’m surprised you haven’t built some retinal scanner into your door…”
Now Pepper’s response makes more sense. “Already pitched the idea. Landlord didn’t like it.” He shrugs. “Where’d you put the key?”
“Back into the plant,” Steve says, because he’s good like that.
“Grab it again before you leave. Hold onto it for me.”
He starts closing his eyes again, assuming that’s the end of that conversation, but then Steve voice floats into his consciousness: “Wait, really?”
He pops an eye open to see Steve staring at him in wonder. “Well, yes?” Some days more than I trust myself, he thinks but doesn’t say. “Oh,” he says, realizing. “It wouldn’t mean you’re obligated to visit every day — once a month would suffice, thank you very much — it’s just that sometimes I forget where I put it and every time I have to ask Pepper, she holds it over me for weeks, so you might as well—”
“I already visit almost every day,” Steve mumbles.
“See?” Tony says. “Now the key will make it easier. I won’t have to leave my computer, and when I hear you come in, I’ll know it’s you instead of some rando who happened to check my dead plant.” And when Steve still doesn’t look convinced, Tony takes him by the hand and squeezes meaningfully and says, “Really, Steve, I want you to have it, so please take it before I start backtracking and make myself look like an idiot?”
Steve’s looking at him like Tony has just given him his heart or something equally mushy, and Tony squirms under his gaze, hoping the burning in his cheeks is just from him pressing too hard into the pillow.
“I love you,” Steve says.
Tony squirms even more and ends up pulling the blanket back over them so his face is hidden. “Let’s sleep some more. Didn’t you say we should sleep some more?”
Steve’s soft laugh only makes him blush harder, but that’s what the blanket is for.
-
If I pay you real physical money, Tony texts Clint, would you lock up the cafe from Captain America on nights that Steve and I have dates
He, of course, omits the question mark, because he knows Clint will say yes.
uh what, replies Clint. A second later: r u serious
Real physical countable $$$$ Clint!! Think about it
lmao, is Clint’s intelligent response about ten minutes later. yeah sure i’ll take ur money. just warn a guy when u and steve wanna suck face in MY cafe
it’s not even yours, Tony shoots back, getting the last word in, but he feels suspiciously like Clint is laughing at him somewhere across campus.
-
“Hey, man!”
It’s in the middle of an innocuous walk through the city that some couple recognizes them across the street and hurries over to catch up.
“Is that really you, Captain?” the man asks, eyes blown all wide in adoration.
“We love the icon that you’ve become,” the woman gushes. “The symbol, the figurehead— and you, in general!”
Tony is startled to find pure sincerity in their voices.
He’s not at all jealous of the man’s gaze or the woman’s hand reaching out to touch Steve. Nope.
“Oh. That’s very kind of you two, thank you.” Steve’s gone all bashful, laying a hand on top of the woman’s and giving a small bow of gratitude, before turning to shake the man’s hand.
So the whole city heard about the Halloween party? Tony thinks grimly. He’s not surprised; the Academy must have consistently made headlines for that entire week, given how much time and effort was invested into it. He didn’t realize so many people had been…touched by Steve’s rendition of Captain America. What had Steve become the icon of, anyway? Great Hair and Great Shoulders?
“Sorry about that,” Steve says sheepishly once they’ve wormed themselves away from the couple.
“Does everyone know about you…?” Tony muses.
“I, er, I guess. You know how bad I am at lying.” Steve laughs, and Tony holds his hand tighter for it. Yes, Steve really was a bad liar, but the newspapers had also taken a great shot of him sliding off that helmet and shaking out his hair, so Tony could empathize if the whole city had his face impressed into their memories for life.
(He knows it’s been impressed into his for sure.)
A few blocks later, they come upon their destination, and Tony feels himself light up in excitement…a statement he never thought he’d make about an art museum. “There it is. Ready for the best afternoon of your life?”
Steve looks at him with that amused, fond expression again, and it takes all of Tony’s self-control not to kiss him silly right there. He has the tickets in his jacket pocket after all, tickets he’d felt immensely prouder of buying when he knew he was buying them with his money, and they shouldn’t be late.
By the end of the afternoon, he decides to take back everything bad he’s said about art museums—anything that can make Steve glow like that musn’t be so bad after all.
-
Sometimes he meets up with Steve coming out of the alley next to the arts and humanities building instead of the building itself.
“Doesn’t it stink?” he asks, wrinkling his nose.
“Not as bad as the art room when everyone’s using oils,” Steve groans. “Can we get out of here? I’m starving.”
Tony studies him: hair rumpled, shirt buttoned the wrong way like he had changed in a hurry.
Tony shrugs it off. “Yeah, sure, where do you wanna go?”
-
Two days later, classes stutter to a halt when the self-proclaimed supervillain Magneto takes their genetics professor out for their monthly kidnapping-chess-game-date-or-whatever, so Tony abruptly finds himself with free time as campus security scrambles to assure the public that no one has been harmed.
Wanna come over & we can properly celebrate your new art gig? he sends to Steve with a perfectly innocent blushy-face emoji, and he’s really expecting it to work until Steve replies, Sorry, can’t. Got called in to do work. :(
Aw. Fine. I’ll just celebrate……alone………in my lonely bed……
Tomorrow, you dork.
I’m holding you to that, Rogers.
He’s a little disappointed, but that’s eclipsed by how proud he is of Steve. He’d been contacted by the art department about doing an exhibition for prospective students—nothing outstandingly grand or flashy, but Steve had been positively beaming when he told Tony the news, which had been enough to motivate Tony into completing his assignments one week in advance so he could take that whole day off for Steve.
Rhodey invites him out to lunch, and the lure of breaking the rules is exciting enough for Tony to let himself be dragged out of his study. The afternoon finds them attempting to sneak halfway through campus without being caught out by the various policemen stationed in the streets.
“I feel like this is a gross abuse of your privilege as class president,” Tony whispers as they duck behind the fourth trash can.
“Don’t you think if I had privileges, we wouldn’t have to be ducking behind trash cans?” Rhodey points out.
“Fair.” Tony sucks it up, then—metaphorically. Physically, he plugs his nose. “Let’s go,” he says, voice nasally, and Rhodey snorts and leads them to their destination.
They find Clint blasting music and mopping the floors of the cafe, so clearly they’re not the only ones unconcerned about the security breach. “Is it too much to hope that you’re here to help me clean this place out of the goodness of your heart,” Clint states.
“Yeah,” says Tony.
“Damn,” says Clint.
Tony slaps some money by the register and slips under the counter to make some coffee for him and Rhodey.
The song on the radio ends, and the campus DJ or whoever’s in charge of the audio atrocities comes on, rambling some update on Captain America beating Magneto despite having a metal shield.
Tony’s about to ask if Clint can turn that off, but then Clint says, “Hey Nat,” and Tony gives an undignified shout when he sees that Natasha has somehow materialized on the other side of the counter—he was sure the cafe had been empty when he and Rhodey first walked in.
“How do you do that?” he demands, pointing a finger. “Spy!”
“She held the door open for us,” Rhodey says unhelpfully.
Natasha sighs and wheels around to look at his best friend. “Sometimes he’s a bit…” Natasha makes some vague, waving hand gesture in front of her eyes. “You know.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” Rhodey says, the turncloak.
“Oh, watch this,” Natasha says, propping her chin against her knuckles and turning a sweet gaze on him. “Tony, what’s it like dating a superhero?”
Tony bristles in irritation. “We’re not dating,” he snaps. “Captain America probably thinks he can get into anyone’s pants just ‘cause he’s got a mask, costume, and reputation, but not me, buddy. That shield? Gotta be overcompensating for something.” He adds, a bit petulantly, “Oh, and all that blue? Definitely more Steve’s color than his.”
“Wow,” says Rhodey.
“I know, right?” says Nat.
Tony flips them both off and proceeds to make only one cup of coffee.
-
Steve’s a good kisser, gentle and coaxing in certain places and then perfectly rough when Tony goads him successfully. His kisses command attention, command dedication, and so it’s perfectly normal for Tony’s eyes to slip shut whenever Steve pushes him against the nearest wall to capture his lips.
“Should visit your studio more often if this is what I get,” Tony mumbles, hands smoothing up Steve’s chest appreciatively. He finds the topmost button of his flannel and starts unbuttoning it, a little clumsy.
“Tony, wait,” Steve exhales against his mouth.
With the top three buttons undone, Tony nudges his hands into the new opening, but finds another layer of clothing instead of bare skin.
“Steve,” he complains, moving to nip at his boyfriend’s jaw punishingly.
“Sorry, the uniform, I — ah, Tony — didn’t think we’d be doing this today…”
Hearing Steve call his painting clothes a uniform makes Tony grin. “Not my fault. You and your…unfairly attractive paint splotches…”
Steve buries his face into his neck and laughs, and Tony shivers and laughs breathlessly with him, tilting his head against the wall and letting Steve hike his legs around his waist.
“You are so impatient,” Steve murmurs as he pins Tony into the wall with a firm roll of his hips. Tony moans as he’s forced to hold onto Steve’s shoulders, heat routing up his spine and possibly clouding his vision—or maybe that’s just from him burying his face into Steve’s neck. “Couldn’t wait another half hour could you?”
“Psh. You feel very happy to see me.”
“Tony?”
“Mm?”
“Shut up.”
Tony laughs again.
He’s not laughing when Steve makes him come with a few minutes to spare. He’s definitely not laughing when Steve doesn’t let up, only tightens his hands on Tony’s waist and grinds their hips harder together until he finds his own release, sinks his teeth into Tony’s neck to muffle his groan.
“Now that was art,” Tony says dreamily, perching his chin on Steve’s shoulder and closing his eyes contently.
“Tony?” Steve hums.
“Yes, dear?”
“Again. Shut up.”
They spend the last ten minutes of Steve’s studio time laughing and cleaning up, and Tony has to wear Steve’s jacket to hide the paint smeared all over the back of his shirt. His hair is a lost cause, smattered with reds and golds, but thankfully Steve’s dorm is close and he can wash his hair…among other things.
They make their way out of the building, Steve blushing furiously and Tony grinning smugly, and by the time they’re in Steve’s dorm, round two is underway and Tony’s no longer thinking about that odd metal thing he’d felt under Steve’s shirt.
-
“Ugh,” he says when he pauses on the news channel to see Winghead plastered on the screen. “This is getting ridiculous.”
Steve mumbles something in his sleep, and Tony huddles further into his boyfriend’s side and scowls at the TV.
“What?” Bucky’s voice floats in from somewhere behind the couch—Tony hadn’t heard him come in, but soon he wanders into view, stopping by the coffee table to see what Tony is scoffing at this time.
“That.” Tony points at the news report of Captain America literally saving a kitten from a tree. “They can spend ten minutes glorifying Captain Underpants for saving a cat from a tree, but no word about that fundraiser Steve put on?”
Bucky pauses thoughtfully, glancing between the screen, him, and Steve fast asleep next to him. “Yeah,” he says finally, though he’s lacking the conviction that Tony feels. “You’re completely right. Wanna scoot over?”
Tony allows him some space, and if that means he only ends up closer to Steve, well—it’s a happy coincidence.
-
“Rocket boots, mark seventeen. The model is a near replica of mark sixteen, but I have since found the loose battery inside the left boot and inserted aluminum foil to keep it stable. If I survive, let this be a reminder to buy more foil, because now I’m all out and it does wonders for cleaning Steve’s burnt frying pans.”
Tony pauses in the middle of strapping the boots on and glances at the blinking camera.
“No euphemism intended.”
His feet feel simultaneously secure and endangered in the newly fabricated boots, but he’s sure that he finally got the design right and he’s not even testing it on a ledge, so he should be perfectly fine.
“One new text message from Steve,” JARVIS informs from his laptop. “He would like to know if you have his jacket. Again.”
Tony adjusts the bomber jacket comfortably around his shoulders just as a gust of wind blows across the roof. “Reply with the blushy-face emoji, J. You know the one.”
“Unfortunately, I do,” says his AI, and then he quiets down, so that must be it for now.
“All right,” Tony says out loud. He looks down at his feet, the wires connecting the boots to the modest power source sitting with the rest of his set up: A simple tripod he borrowed from the photography lab, a camera, and his laptop, all on standby to record either a magnificent success or less-than-magnificent disaster. He’s situated on the roof of his apartment building—less than ideal, but it was the only place he could think of with enough empty space and no students around to injure. It’s cold as hell, but that’s what Steve’s jacket is for.
“One small hop for man, one giant leap for mankind,” he says cheerfully to the camera. “Achieving lift off in three, two…one.” There’s a soft hum, followed by a sharp whine—and then the boots levitate him about a foot into the air, a whole foot more than all of his previous attempts combined.
“Fuck yes,” he shouts, pumping a fist into the air.
Except the sudden movement obeys physics, and he finds himself pitching forward and subsequently slanting his lower body backwards.
“Fuck no," he says, horrified, windmilling his arms in an attempt to haul himself back into position. Unfortunately, it works too well, and he’s thrown backwards with one foot extended, the exposed jets propelling him even further backwards…towards the edge of the roof.
“JARVIS,” he calls desperately. “Kill the power, kill the power!”
“Sir, might I remind you that I am merely a disembodied voice in your laptop with no actual connection to your shoes?” JARVIS says politely as Tony whizzes past with a thick trail of smoke.
The back of his calf slams into the low railing meant to stop people from accidentally falling over, but that’s predicated on the assumption that people aren’t wearing rocket boots. So the railing doesn’t stop Tony at all; the momentum pitches his entire upper body over the railing, and in his mad scramble to hook his legs over the railing, he loses his grip entirely and drops—
Shit, Steve’s never going to get the blood out of this jacket.
—and is promptly stopped, suspended in midair with one leg hooked over the railing and the other dangling uselessly.
“Oh, come on,” he says when he finds he’s still alive enough to say it. “JARVIS? You there, buddy?”
No, he can’t hear him through the wind and the sheer panic in his head at the campus sprawled out several stories beneath him, suddenly looking so vast and frightening, and hey, could he hear someone screaming—?
He manages to heave his free leg back over the railing, but when he manages to angle his head upwards, he realizes that the boots are still weakly sputtering. It’s not much, but enough to nudge his legs a few dangerous inches off the railing. “Stop it,” he mumbles. “Stop that, you.” He moves to kick the thick wire loose, only to realize that being connected to the power source was what saved him from a premature death in the first place.
So the only thing keeping me safe is also trying to kill me, he thinks as he tries and fails to lift his upper body. Ow. Fuck, okay. Definitely should renew that gym membership.
He suddenly thinks of the card wasting away in the back of his closet and it’s such a stupid, stupid thought to have while he’s about to plummet to his death that laughter bubbles out of his mouth—first a small, pathetic little burst, then a full blown guffaw that definitely sounds manic.
“Oh my God,” he says in between wheezes, squeezing his eyes shut against the stinging wind. His chest hurts, and he can’t quite tell if it’s from the laughter or his position. “Oh my God.”
It becomes a meaningless babble. He doesn’t register that someone is screaming it with him until he blearily opens his eyes and sees the upside down faces of Pepper and Captain America, straining from the highest balcony.
“Hey,” he intends to say, but what probably comes out instead is some broken, off-key rendition of America the Beautiful as he scrambles for the other man’s outstretched hand.
“Take my hand!” the man yells.
“TONY WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING.” That’s Pepper.
Their fingers brush for a single, painfully hopeful moment, then miss each other as Tony is forced to steady himself against the brick wall behind him. A wave of nausea rolls through him; he’s never been afraid of high places, but there’s just something terrifying about being in a high place upside down.
“I’m trying,” he shouts back. “I have to let go a little—”
“IF YOU DIE, I AM GOING TO RESURRECT YOU, THEN KILL YOU MYSELF.”
“Wait, Tony, don’t—!”
He doesn’t give anyone a chance to object, arching his back and channeling his inner Reed Richards, arm straining for gloved hand.
“Shit!” he yelps when the plug comes a little looser, shrugging him another inch downwards—but not enough to reach Captain America.
“Stop moving!”
“Well, you got any better ideas?” he hollers. All the blood must be in his head now, he thinks deliriously, so where’re the brilliant ideas?
“Your shield!” Pepper shouts. “Cap, use your shield!”
“Not enough time!” he interrupts. “My legs are slipping, I—”
In an instant, he knows what he has to do.
“Just—” He takes a shuddering breath in. Somewhere above him, he manages to pry off the plug from his left foot and unhook his left leg from the railing. He can feel his body straining to support his weight on one leg. “Just be ready to grab me, okay? Cap?”
Oh God. Catch me. Please catch me.
“I’ve got you, Tony,” Captain America promises, wide-eyed. “I’ve got you. Just reach a little more and—”
Tony swings himself backwards towards the other man’s hand and kicks off from the railing, freeing his legs. He feels the dull pop as the other plug comes off, then a whoosh of wind—a horrible gust of vertigo as his body flips in the air.
Fear, terror, and every other one of its synonyms flood his veins, and inexplicably the only word that tumbles from his mouth is, “Steve.”
A set of warm fingers close around his wrist. “Got you,” Captain America gasps above him.
Tony feels his face slam into the metal of the railing and his knees bang painfully against the concrete platform… Better than splatting into the sidewalk, he thinks, dazed.
“Tony, you have to give me your other hand,” Pepper orders, voice shaking. “Tony, hand, please.”
With a grunt, he heaves his hand upwards for Pepper’s grasping hand. Together, she and Captain America haul him up and over the railing, and it’s a good thing she was pulling because when Tony is finally back on solid ground again, Captain America puts his arms around him and Tony can feel how badly he’s shaking.
Tony opens his eyes and finds his face smothered into one superhero’s shoulder. He’s…hugging me, he thinks slowly. He’d had the same reaction the first time Rhodey hugged him, then the first time Steve hugged him: Feeling a bit surreal, a bit alien. He might have shoved Captain America off if not for the fact that he had just saved his life, so he lets the other man cling. (Tony slowly regains control of his nerve endings and realizes he’s perhaps clutching back just as hard.)
Someone kicks down the door to the balcony, some men in uniform. “Aw, shucks,” Tony says, grinning past the tremble in his voice, “all the bells and whistles for me?”
“He’s okay,” Pepper tells the group of firefighters, carding a hand through her hair. Tony realizes belatedly that she’s wearing heels, and he thinks, Saving me in heels, what a badass. “He’s an idiot, but he’s a living, breathing idiot, yes.”
“I take offense to that,” Tony mumbles. “Where’s Steve? Can I see Steve?” He blinks up at the masked man, who only stares back mutely.
“He’s in shock,” Pepper mutters above them. “Can we— He needs to be looked at.”
“Can I see Steve?” Tony repeats.
For some reason, Captain America starts reaching for his mask, but Tony doesn’t get to find out why because he’s suddenly out like a light.
-
Steve is sitting next to his hospital bed when he wakes up.
“Steve,” he croaks, “how many days has it been—”
“Three hours,” says Rhodey on his other side.
“Oh, okay,” Tony says, sitting up. “Where’s the jacket? There’s no, like, drool on it or anything, is there?”
“That’s the least of my worries right now, Tony,” Steve says.
When Tony insists, “That thing’s practically vintage, you should be worried about it,” Steve only shakes his head and reaches for his hand, shushing him. Tony looks over, smiles at him, and Steve slowly, furtively smiles back.
“Never do that again,” Steve asks of him, voice soft. “Please?”
Tony swallows. “You know me,” he says weakly. “Can’t promise it won’t happen again. But I’ll try.” He means it. “I’m sorry. I’ll try.”
-
Steve practically moves into his apartment for the next few days, even when Tony is released from the hospital with minor injuries and a stern warning to take it easy. Tony lets Steve force him to stay in bed because he keeps remembering Steve’s fragile, hunched position by his bed when he first woke up and how tightly Steve had held onto his hand on their ride home from the hospital.
He tries to get some work done on his laptop while Steve’s at class, but that quickly ends when Steve comes back early one day, catches him, and gives him a Look of Disappointment that could make even the purest of saints feel guilty.
Their other friends stop by. Bruce brings him lab notes only to read and not to intensively criticize and revise, Tony, I mean it, and Clint brings him the campus paper with a picture of Captain America carrying his unconscious body bridal style out of the apartment building.
“Jesus,” he says, staring dumbly down at the page.
“Oh, wow,” Steve says, craning his head to look.
Tony feels himself blush for some reason, and he slaps the paper against his own chest so Steve doesn’t see. “Don’t look,” he says uselessly.
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of. We’re just lucky Pepper was there.”
Tony can’t explain the strange, conflicted feelings in his gut, so he simply nods in agreement with Steve.
“He really doesn’t need a costume to be a hero, does he,” Pepper comments as she and Tony sift through empty get-well letters from business opportunists.
Tony’s not sure what inspires the comment—the TV set that Steve had dragged into his room from the living room, or the lingering aroma of the food Steve had cooked for them before heading to class.
“No, he doesn’t,” Tony agrees, and he does mean it, but it also makes a certain kind of guilt twist in his gut.
-
He’s on his way back from the library when it starts to rain, and he curses when he realizes it’s still three more blocks to the apartment. He begins to run, only for the rain to suddenly stop.
Puzzled, he stops and stares at the man who has appeared next to him sometime in the past ten seconds. “Hi,” he says, and Captain America glances down at him, steadying his shield above both of their heads like it’s a perfectly normal thing to do.
“Hey,” says Cap.
“You don’t have to do that,” Tony says, shifting his papers under his jacket so they won’t get soaked when Cap puts away his shield. But the shield stays up. “Won’t it rust or something?”
“Nah. I clean it with foil.”
Tony chuckles, thinking of Steve. “Yeah, I heard that works wonders.”
He starts walking again, and Captain America walks with him.
“I haven’t had the chance to thank you,” he says a block later, “for last week.”
Cap hesitates. “I was on my way somewhere else when I heard Pepper screaming. That was how I followed her up. If I hadn’t been on the same street that day…” He trails off, expression unreadable in the darkness.
“But you were,” Tony says with a shrug.
“I might not always be there to keep you safe, you know. And that…that scares the hell out of me.”
Tony fidgets. He probably says that to every civilian, he wants to say, but he also thinks, But what if he doesn’t? and then he’s thinking of Captain America somehow prioritizing him above other people. That’s not right. Superheroes shouldn’t have biases, especially for someone like him. “That’s sweet, but come on, I’m sure there are plenty of people who probably need your help more than I do,” he jokes. “Better people, y’know, ones who don’t go testing rocketed footwear on top of really high buildings…”
“Tony,” Cap says, and Tony feels for the first time how unfair it is that Cap knows his name but not vice versa. “Don’t say that.”
“I mean, it’s at least a little bit true.”
“Doesn’t mean I have to like hearing it.”
“How about this? We’re at my apartment, ta-dah.” He stops abruptly and makes a grand, sweeping gesture towards said building. “So you can put your arm down now. Not that I didn’t appreciate the umbrella service, but—do you make a habit out of this for anyone else? Does your arm never get tired?”
There’s a ghost of a smile on Cap’s lips—which are actually very nice lips, but all Tony is thinking about right now is getting in the apartment, calling Steve, and asking if he wants to come over to watch a movie or something. “Only for people who walk in the rain at one in the morning,” Cap replies.
Tony maybe grins back. He starts up the stairs, but something compels him to turn around before reaching the doors and say, “Can I ask something potentially weird?”
Cap looks at him, amused, the shield lax by his side. Doesn’t he care about getting rain on his suit? Whatever. “Sure, go for it.”
“Wanna grab some lunch tomorrow? At Yellowbird, the diner just outside campus?” There’s been something on his chest since the first time he was saved by Captain America, and if he doesn’t do anything about it soon, he thinks he’ll implode or something equally spontaneously gory.
“Why would that be a weird question? Yeah, ‘course. What time?”
Tony realizes Captain America was probably asked that a lot, and probably indulged those requests a lot. He can remember seeing pictures in the paper of Cap and some civilian doing something mundane together, sharing grainy smiles.
He jogs back down the stairs to pull a pen from his pocket and wave it around a little. “May I, mon capitaine?”
Captain America laughs and pulls the sleeve of his uniform up to expose his wrist. So the suit isn’t some all-restrictive onesie, Tony notes for science.
He scribbles a time and address into Captain America’s wrist, noticing but not commenting on the fact that the superhero had raised the shield above them once more. “Cool,” he says when he’s finished, capping the pen once more. “See you then?”
“It’s a date,” Cap says, smiling, and to Tony’s horror it looks like he’s going to lean down and kiss him, so he turns and bolts for the stairs.
“Don’t leave me hanging, Superboy!” he calls as the door swings shut behind him, and he doesn’t pause until he’s riding the elevator up to his apartment. His heart feels like it’s really trying to claw its way out of his chest.
Yeah, he really needs to sort this out.
Wanna come over to watch toy story 3 and watch me watch you cry? he texts Steve when he’s back in his apartment.
??? Steve replies. Yes but why didn’t you just ask me while I was there lol
Uh, because that was six hours ago and Steve had had to leave for class before Tony could pull out the DVD? Just get your butt over here, he texts.
Steve arrives within five minutes, to his delight.
(And Steve stays the night, which makes it even better.)
-
Tony only notices the faint smudges on Steve’s wrist when they’re coming out of the shower together. “You artists,” he chides, clicking his tongue as he inspects Steve’s other arm for other offending paint splatters.
“But,” Steve starts.
“Never mind. I think I’m already late for class, no thanks to you and your dastardly lips.”
Steve pulls him into an unfairly heated kiss that makes Tony want to drag him back into the shower again.
“Stop, vile seducer,” he moans theatrically, breaking away to lay a hand on his forehead.
“That’s not what you were begging for last night,” Steve says smugly, and fuck, when did Steve learn to say things like that—
“Things like last night should be forbidden from following Toy Story 3. Seriously. It just feels like a crime.”
“You didn’t like it?”
“Well, I didn’t say that.” Tony grins and lets himself be distracted for a few more minutes before finally forcing himself out of the apartment. “Lock the door on your way out!” he calls before he leaves.
“Yeah, yeah.” Steve’s hand waves him off from the kitchen. “I’ll see you for lunch.”
It isn’t until thirty minutes into class that he thinks, Wait, lunch?
They did usually go out for lunch together unless something came up, and this time something has come up, but Tony completely forgot to tell him. After class, he guiltily texts Steve, Sorry, can’t do lunch today, a Thing came up & I have to deal with it ASAP, and he almost kicks his own ass when Steve replies with an understanding, Aw okay. Are you gonna be in the lab? Want me to bring you something?
Seriously, he doesn’t know what someone like Steve Rogers is doing with someone like him, but he’s not about to fuck it up, which means that he has to talk to Captain America now.
Except at noon, he finds himself in one of the back booths at Yellowbird with no sign of Captain America. Time crawls, and the only company he gains are three mugs of coffee.
Maybe he’s out of costume? he thinks, but no one around the place looks particularly super, or carrying a giant shield.
He gives it another thirty minutes. When they pass just as quietly, he thinks have I just been stood up by Captain America? and feels an confusing mixture of relief and panic.
Mostly panic.
-
Never let it be said that Tony Stark doesn’t have a heart, because he does, and it hammers madly in his ribcage whenever he has to act normal when really, he feels like he’s fucked something up.
Like now.
“What do you mean, there’re no more cups,” he slurs to Clint. He’s only two drinks in, he even reused the same cup for both of them! How can there be no more cups?
“I mean, there’s no cups.” Clint has to shout over the music to be heard but that also means his voice bounces about fifty different directions in Tony’s skull. “And by that, I mean no more cups for you ‘cause you’ve had enough, buddy.”
“Fine,” he says moodily, pushing past Clint to find Thor.
They’re at some party he originally threw away the invite for, only to impulsively change his mind at the last minute. His reasoning had been I need to relax and stop overthinking, but he’d forgotten that somewhere within the first fifteen minutes of his arrival.
He wishes Steve was here, but Steve said he had work and told Tony you know partying’s not really my thing, you go have fun though. He’d said it so understandingly that it weighed even heavier on Tony’s conscience, a conscience that Tony was currently determined to outweigh in alcohol.
He survives walking down the stairs and out of the party lights to a more mellow basement. Thor’s there, chatting up a girl who’s actually quite pretty but not blonde or blue-eyed or Steve-like enough. “Thor! Buddy!” He throws an arm around his friend’s shoulder, an impressive feat, and ends up dragging him down a little bit to his level. “Wanna pour me another?” he half-yells into his ear, shaking his empty cup in front of them.
Thor laughs, good-natured as always and oblivious to Tony’s urgent dilemma. “You’ve already consumed six, Anthony!” he says jovially, pounding Tony hard on the back. Tony feels his breath leave his lungs in one big oof. “You told me you did not want to exceed six!”
“Well, sober me wass’an idiot!” he says, trying for a casual grin. “C’mon, we can even share ‘f’you want.”
“No thank you. Why don’t you join me and Jane for a while? I hear you two are interested in the same sciences!”
Any other time, he might have jumped at the opportunity, but his head’s not exactly clear enough to discuss anything bigger than the gong that some bastard is ringing in his head. “No, never mind,” he mumbles, making to walk away, but he trips on the invisible edge of a non-existent carpet and falls on his face.
“Tony?” Thor’s at his side in an instant, large hand clamping down on his shoulder.
“Ow,” Tony mutters into wood, wincing when he feels the Solo cup crunching under his chest. Stupid Clint. Stupid Thor. Stupid Maximoffs and their vicious hardwood floors.
“Perhaps you should rest now,” Thor suggests. “Would you like me to call Steven?”
Stupid… His anger melts away suddenly, and his eyes are stinging from something else other than the pain. My friends care about me. Steve cares about me. I repay him by ditching our lunch date for Captain America…
He can’t help the crashing-and-crashing waves of frustration and anger, nor does he understand them. He’s normally a very happy drunk, thank you.
“Is he going to be okay?” Jane asks, audibly concerned.
“Thanks, Thor, we’ve got ‘im,” comes a third voice. “Tony, c’mon, you’re gonna regret this in the morning.”
“I already regret everything,” he moans, and it’s doubly true when Clint rolls him over on his back and his vision is suddenly filled with Fourth of July colors too many months early. “Not you,” Tony hisses, clamping a hand over his eyes like it might make Captain America disappear from the situation. Or from campus. Or from his life in general, please.
He saved you and that’s how you repay him? Oh hello, Despair and Intense Self-Loathing, nice of you to drop by again after two whole minutes.
“C’mon, man.” Is that Clint or Cap’s hand trying to pull him up? Tony swats at it with his free hand. “Just go home with your boyfriend.”
“He’s not my boyfriend!” Tony snaps. He’s dimly horrified to find his eyes stinging again, this time something wet making his eyelashes clump. “He’s not my…fucking…” He sits up abruptly, then regrets as soon as vertigo threatens to upend what little food he’s eaten today.
“Whoa, okay.” Clint comes into view, blurry and uncharacteristically serious-looking. Must be the alcohol. “Tony?”
“You guys need to stop…saying that. God.” He balls his hand into a fist and digs hard at his own eyes. Little fireworks explode in the following darkness. “I already know Steve’s too good for me, all right,” he swallows like it might improve the slurring of his voice, “don’t need you cracking jokes ‘bout Cap to make me feel shittier. Fuck.”
He forces his eyes open to glare at Clint, but finds himself staring at Captain America’s wide, hurt baby blues instead, and fucking hell.
“I don’t like you, okay, so jus’ stop whatever you’re trying to do with me… Can’t believe you made me bail on Steve…then you don’t show up anyway…”
Clint murmurs something to Cap — Tony doesn’t quite catch it, but it must be along the lines of save Tony from his own idiocy because he’s suddenly being hefted into Captain America’s arms.
“No.” He kicks out and hits something solid. Sadly, it’s not one of Captain America’s body parts, because it crashes to the floor and breaks. “Put me down or so help me—”
“You’re going home,” Captain America says firmly, not unlike the way Steve puts his foot down when Tony goes more than seventy hours without sleeping.
“Not with you,” Tony seethes.
It’s futile. The entire party must see him being hauled up the stairs and out of the house by the superhero, and it’s all Tony can do to screw his eyes shut and try not to vomit.
It’s some time later that he lands on a soft surface that feels suspiciously like his bed.
“Oh my God,” he says when he realizes Cap is still there, “get out, what did I tell you, get out.”
“Tony,” Captain America says, and he sounds a little sad.
Tony yanks the nearest pillow over his head and closes his eyes again, either trying to suffocate himself or maybe just sleep and never wake up, maybe both, thinking again and again, Don’t see me like this. Don’t let Steve see me like this.
Somewhere between iterations of both, he lapses into sleep.
-
Unfortunately, he wakes.
Well. He wakes, but he’s not really awake until he’s stumbling out of the bathroom with a toothbrush stuck in his mouth and then promptly spitting it out when he realizes there’s another person in his bed.
Oh no, he thinks, recognizing the swatches of blue-white-and-red amidst his sheets, oh no, Anthony Edward Stark, you piece of shit, you did not—
He’s not sure why he didn’t consider himself an athlete before; he covers eleven flights of stairs, three blocks, and another four flights of stairs to find Rhodey and unceremoniously lock himself in his best friend’s bathroom.
-
“Okay, this is getting ridiculous,” Rhodey says. “That’s my bathroom.”
“He was in my bed, Rhodey!”
Tony’s close to pulling out his hair, which is really saying something, considering it’s his hair.
“What the hell happened last night? I remember yelling a bunch of shit, and then he took me home— Christ, I let him take me home—”
“Tony…”
“This isn’t what I wore to the party last night. That means I changed overnight. He could’ve seen me naked oh my—”
“Tony.”
The door suddenly opens to Rhodey with a spare key in his hand, and Tony almost trips into the bathtub.
“I can’t believe no one saw this coming,” Rhodey says, looking to the ceiling like there’s a higher being peeking in on his misery. “You? You’re coming with me. Now.”
“But—”
Rhodey’s been angry at him before, but rarely really angry at him. Now is one of those rare occasions, and Tony wilts under his stare and trudges out of the bathroom. Rhodey hauls him to the couch and pushes him down, tells him to wait, and pulls out his phone.
“Who are you calling?” Tony says. “As someone who trusted you to be my safe haven in the middle of an emotional crisis, I have a right to know.”
“Steve?” Rhodey says, ignoring him. “Yeah, it’s me. He’s here. Look, can you come over? With, you know, your thing? We need to straighten some things out.”
Tony flings a pillow blindly. “Traitor! Renegade!” Rhodey takes them all like a champ, damn him, and then he locks the bathrooms and closets and all miscellaneous crawl spaces that Tony might be tempted to shove himself into.
“No, you listen. If you don’t do this now, who knows how long you idiots will run circles around each other again,” Rhodey snaps. “Yes, this is about last night. Get your ass over here.”
Don’t talk to him that way, Tony almost says, but guilt makes him swallow it down. If Steve already knows what happened last night, who knows if he’s in any place to defend Steve anymore, if Steve wants anything to do with him anymore.
Ten minutes later, Steve walks into Rhodey’s living room looking like he wants to shrink in on himself too.
“Great,” Rhodey says. “I’m gonna step out for a minute, or an hour, or however long it takes for you two to fix this, and then I’ll be back. Good?”
“Might never get your apartment back, honeybear,” Tony says mournfully.
Rhodey’s departure is signaled by the slam of the door.
Steve says, “We’re not breaking up, are we?” at the same time Tony says, “Are you here to break up with me?”
“What? No!” Steve says at the same time Tony mumbles, “Wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to.”
“Tony.” Steve sinks down to his knees in front of the couch, and Tony feels childish for putting a pillow up between them, but this is an emotional confrontation and he’s far better at the physical kind.
“I didn’t cheat on you,” he blurts, knuckles going white as he feels Steve trying to ease the pillow away. “I didn’t sleep with him, I swear. I’m an asshole, but I’d never hurt you like that, Steve, I’d never—”
“Tony,” Steve says. “Tony, please? Please look at me?”
And Tony’s never been able to say no to him, so he puts down the pillow with a frustrated sigh and faces Steve.
There’s a bruise on Steve’s cheekbone. Tony feels even worse.
“What are you talking about, Tony? Last night?” Steve puts a hand on his knee and rubs small, comforting circles into the pajama pants that Tony had never changed out of, looking concerned and patient when he has every right to be otherwise. “I know you weren’t with anyone last night.”
“No, you can’t have known,” Tony says through gritted teeth. “You weren’t there. I— I got drunk, too drunk, and Captain America took me home, and then he slept in my bed and I woke up and my clothes were different, but I swear I—”
“Wait.” Steve’s hand tightens on his knee. “Wait, wait. Back up.”
“I didn’t cheat on you with Captain America,” Tony rambles on. “I mean, he’s got arms to die for, but that’s nothing on what you have, Steve, why would I ever choose Star-Spangled Spandex over you—”
“Tony.” Steve lowers his face into his hand, and Tony wants to incinerate himself for putting that kind of tremble in his boyfriend’s — ex-boyfriend now, probably — shoulders.
Then it’s Tony’s turn to say, “Wait,” when he realizes Steve’s not crying, but laughing.
Like, eyes-squeezed-shut, lips-clamped-together, shoulders-shaking laughter.
“That’s kind of rude,” Tony mutters.
“Tony,” Steve says, finally looking at him again, and Tony doesn’t understand how he can still say his name with fondness. “You really can be an idiot sometimes.”
“Thanks,” Tony grumbles, trying to kick him away.
“No, no. Here. Wait.” Steve relinquishes his knee in favor of…taking off his clothes?
“Hang on, Steve, I don’t know how many break-ups you’ve had but this isn’t usually how they go,” Tony begins.
Steve pulls off his hoodie to reveal…a Captain America suit underneath?
“Er,” Tony says. “Why are you wearing that costume? Isn’t that a year old?”
“I’m wearing it now because I was wearing it last night,” Steve explains slowly, balling his hoodie into his hands, “and because I didn’t have time to change in between getting you to sleep and avoiding your punches.” He pauses, gesturing to his bruise. "Most of your punches. And then, this morning, I didn't have much time either between waking up to see you running out of the apartment and then Rhodey calling to tell me you locked yourself in his bathroom."
“I…do not understand,” Tony says, gaze flickering indecisively between Steve’s eyes and the rest of his body. “At all.”
“I took you home last night, Tony. I helped save you last week.” Tony blinks at him, and Steve sighs and says, “Tony. I’m Captain America.”
“What,” Tony says.
Steve looks torn between laughing again or reaching for him. In the end, the latter wins out; Steve shifts to sit on the couch with him, producing something from his back. “Here. Look.” He pulls something over his head, and Tony finds himself staring in bewilderment at the masked face of Captain America.
“…Steve?” he utters.
“Yeah. Me. Still me." Steve hands something to him, and when Tony looks down at his own palm, he realizes that Captain America has handed him the key to his own apartment. The spare key he used to have. The key that he...had given his boyfriend. The helmet comes off, and then it’s Steve again, only this time with a faint tinge of pink in his cheeks. “I… This isn’t a joke, is it? You really didn’t know?”
“What?” Tony says, voice pitching a little bit high towards the end. “That my boyfriend is Captain America? That— That you’ve been wearing that suit under your clothes when we were on dates—”
Steve looks awed. “I really thought you knew.”
“Oh, my God,” Tony says, finally realizing. “Is that why we didn’t take our clothes off that one time in the art studio? You were wearing the suit?”
Now Steve’s blush worsens, and Tony can't even appreciate it because he's too busy trying to sort through his erratic thoughts. “As if you would have waited for me to take the whole thing off!”
“You’re right,” Tony says, nodding, “I wouldn’t have waited at all, you would have been waiting for me after I passed out from realizing my boyfriend is Captain America—”
“That’s a bit extreme,” Steve says, but he’s smiling a little now.
“So, Halloween—you weren’t just dressing as him? You were him?”
“I came late to the party, remember? I had to help the police stop a hold up.”
“And you fought Magneto? How the hell did you win if he could control metal?”
“The media exaggerated that a little. He actually agreed not to cause trouble if I got everyone else to leave him and Professor Xavier alone for their date.”
“And when Captain America stood me up for lunch, that was actually—”
“—because you told me earlier that day that you wanted to cancel lunch, yeah.”
“Holy shit. Steve.” Tony stares at him, really looks at him, and Steve gives an embarrassed little shrug. “I’m dating Superman?”
“Clark would be mad if he heard you call me that,” Steve says, “so let’s stick to Captain America, I think.”
“Wait, what?”
“Just kidding.” Steve puts his hands up, grinning bashfully. “I’d rather you keep calling me Steve.”
Okay, but what were you saying about Clark Kent, Tony wants to insist, but then Steve is cupping his cheek and gently turning his head to look at him, and Tony’s heart falters for a beat or two.
“Now that we have that out of the way,” Steve says softly, “can we continue not breaking up?”
“I mean, that was best case scenario that I never thought would happen, so yes, I would be happy to not break up with you.”
“Oh, thank God,” Steve says, and Tony gives him no chance to say anything else, almost launching himself across the couch to kiss him. The helmet clatters to the floor and rolls away somewhere, Tony doesn’t care, Steve’s toppling backwards and Tony is crowding his lap with a thousand sweet kisses.
“I love you,” he says when he breaks away for air. “I love you so much, Steve. I haven’t told you that enough, have I?”
“Now you have,” Steve says, pulling him back down, and Tony falls the way an autumn leaf might fall towards open ground. "And judging from last night, I haven't told you this enough either: I'm so lucky to have you, Tony."
Tony shuts his eyes firmly, but then Steve's thumb is brushing carefully over his cheek.
"Okay? So don't imply that you're not good for me ever again."
"Okay," he mumbles against Steve's lips.
For once, the ugly insecurities have nothing to say in return, and Tony takes advantage of the clarity, surging up to deepen the kiss.
Outside the apartment, Rhodey puts a hand on the doorknob, has a chilling premonition of what he might witness, and promptly turns to walk away.
-
His friends apologize in their own ways. “Like, I really thought you knew,” Clint says. “And I thought it was, you know, one of our inside jokes? Where I ask you about your super boyfriend and you pretend to roll your eyes?”
Tony forgives them all, and only partly because they manage to book a giant table at his favorite Thai restaurant that isn't by the bathroom.
Sometime during the main course, Nat clears her throat in preparation for business. “Sam, you still owe me ten bucks,” she declares.
“That’s not fair, you knew this whole that time he didn't know,” Sam argues.
"Ten bucks...if not for the bet, for not realizing it right from the start like everyone else."
Tony flicks rice at both of them. “Shut it. Besides," no, he's not defensive at all, "there’s no way you all found out that much earlier than me.”
He’s met with a chorus of “Uh, yeah we did” and “We knew as soon as Captain America first appeared,” broken up by Bucky’s single admission of, “Actually, I didn’t realize until last month either.”
“You didn’t transfer here until last month,” Bruce points out across the table.
“Oh yeah,” Bucky says, glancing sympathetically at Tony. “Sorry, they’re right.”
“See, I always thought Tony’s intense dislike,” Clint makes a strange crumpling motion with his hands, “of Cap was some weird roleplaying thing they had going on—”
“Clint,” Steve says, horrified.
Tony hides a snicker behind his hand. “Okay, okay, people, I admit I could have been more observant,” he says, quick and painless. “Can we move on? What else have you all been keeping from me, huh? One of you is actually some supervillain or what?”
“Well…” Thor begins.
“Man, don’t start,” Clint groans. “Let’s eat instead. Yeah?”
The suggestion is met with murmurs of general assent.
Underneath the table, Tony leans his knee against Steve’s and doesn’t move away.
-
It rains on the walk home.
Steve holds an umbrella over them, and Tony fits quite neatly by his side. Their friends gradually break off from the group, heading their respective ways, until it’s just him and Steve on their way back to his apartment.
Tony decides that as romantic as Cap’s shield was, he’d rather stand under Steve’s umbrella any day.