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“Secure channel seven,” Steve tells Nat as he adjusts the comm in his ear.
“Seven secure,” she confirms after testing the frequency. There’s a pause, then: “Did you do anything fun Saturday night?”
“Netflix, no chill,” Steve replies as he concentrates on carefully dislodging the grate of a large rooftop air vent. He casts it aside. “So… no, not really.”
“You know, if you asked Chris out, Sam’s friend, he’d probably say yes.”
He clips the cord running from his harness to an external anchor, testing that it can carry the weight. “That’s why I don’t ask.”
It didn’t help that his last six dates were a bust, with one of them sneaking out the restaurant bathroom window after a heated discussion on the existence of male bisexuality ended with Steve coming out. He supposes it is for the best; he had had his fill of ‘don’t ask; don’t tell’ in the army, back when he had risen to the rank of captain before he left for a more-lucrative job in the private sector. And besides, he shouldn’t have to justify his dating history to anyone, much less someone who believed him untrustworthy due to his broad sexual preferences, someone who thought people like him should ‘pick a team’ already.
“Too shy or too scared?”
“Too busy,” he says, seconds before he drops into the air shaft to crawl through twenty feet of ventilation.
During a later job that requires Nat’s acrobatics, she sneaks into the building while Steve mans the comms and loops the security footage to conceal her presence.
“What about the nurse that lives across the hall from you? She seems kind of nice,” Nat whispers, as she carefully disables a motion detector while hanging from the ceiling.
Really, Nat needs to work on her priorities.
“Secure the package, then find me a date,” Steve orders.
She glides to the floor. “I’m multi-tasking.”
Personal chatter on the comms is frowned upon, but “You know, Bucky and Sam never talk about my love life.”
“They talk, just not to you. Bucky was telling me his concerns just last night, but I’m the only one with the balls to do something about it,” Nat approaches the case. “Plus, I drew the short straw.”
“…Seriously?”
She cuts through the glass. “We’re all worried about you. It’s been three years since… well, it’s been three years. She’s already moved on; we'd like to see you at least try to do the same.”
It’s not that Steve doesn’t want someone to come home to, someone to cuddle up with at the end of a long day, but he also knows he can be difficult, his schedule erratic, not conducive to things like anniversaries, intimacy, and regular dates. Peggy had been a saint for putting up with it as long as she had. And now that she had moved on with someone else–
Steve massages his temple. “You need to hurry up. Patrol in two.”
“Shift change coming up, and you’ve seen how the old man likes to gossip to his replacement. They’ll be another five minutes, at least. More if he brings out pictures of the grandkids,” Nat points out. “Now, about that nurse…”
She just doesn’t know when to quit.
“New job,” Nat tells him as she projects and expands the mission specs onto a holographic screen. “Contract from Ms. Sunset Bain of Baintronics. Target: Tony Stark’s heart.”
Steve frowns. “Did you tell her we don’t do organ trafficking?” They’re not hitmen for Chrissakes.
“Not his actual heart.” She opens a file displaying a blurred picture of what looks to be a trophy encased in glass from a long-angle camera shot. The image sharpens in the next photo showing a round device with ‘PROOF THAT TONY STARK HAS A HEART’ engraved along the rim.
“What am I looking at? Is that some sort of philanthropy award?” Steve guesses.
“Ms. Bain called it a token of a failed relationship,” Nat replies. “As you may or may not know because you do not keep up with celebrity news at all, Mr. Stark has recently split from his girlfriend and CEO of Stark Industries, Pepper Potts. Though the details aren’t clear, speculation suggests it may be due to infidelity, and his behavior since the split–” Natasha flips through a series of pictures showing Tony at various events, new people, both male and female, hanging from his arm “–substantiates this.”
“So the man's a cad; what does that have to do with Ms. Bain?”
“This is, of course, all tabloid fodder and irrelevant to the current mission except that Ms. Bain is an old girlfriend of Mr. Stark from several years back, and she takes exception to Ms. Pott’s likely treatment, especially since it appears their relationship began when she was his PA and especially vulnerable to sexual harassment and coercion. She would like to retrieve this token of their love from long ago, as a statement about his general callousness towards women,” Nat reports. “It has no value beyond the sentimental, but Ms. Bain is willing to pay a mint to steal it back.”
Steve glances at the price. “That’s quite a lot for a supposedly worthless trinket.”
“You know the wealthy. They can be… eccentric and vindictive. Seems like Ms. Bain has an old score to settle with her playboy ex. Stark is lucky she only desires a figurative trophy.” She closes the picture of the target, leaving only an old photo of a teenaged Stark and a woman who must be Sunset Bain.
Steve shrugs. “I guess it doesn’t really matter why she wants it as long as she pays.”
“Half up front, as agreed,” Nat brings up the transaction history. “The money has already been transferred, so it’s a go.”
They plan the heist for the day of the Maria Stark Foundation Charity Gala, when hundreds of guests will be milling about the lower levels of the tower and Mr. Stark will be otherwise occupied, leaving his penthouse empty. Steve disguises himself as one of the new wait staff contracted for the day. He waits for Nat to give him the all-clear signal and makes his way to the service elevator, riding it to the top which stops a few flights short of the penthouse. He then strips off his white uniform, stuffing it down a laundry chute before using the stairwell and cloned security key to access Stark’s living quarters.
“The package should be in his bedroom encased in a keepsake box. Down the far corridor. Last door. The bedroom has a wrap-around view according to the blueprints,” Nat instructs him as he slips in. “Speaking of blueprints, what about the woman from logistics, Laura?”
“Lillian,” Steve corrects her. “Lip piercing, right?”
“Yeah, she’s cute.”
Again? Steve internally sighs. “Can we table this discussion for later and focus on the mission? Just… are you seeing this, Nat,” he says as he passes through the foyer to the living room, noting the lack of anything that would indicate a real human being resides here. “His living space is so sterile. Where are all the goofy vacation knickknacks, candid photos, or even a decorative pillow out of place? Not even a scrap of paper in sight. Maids must cycle through here two, maybe three times a day to make it this Better-Homes-and-Gardens presentable at all times.”
“I see it, Steve,” Nat replies. “What do you expect? The guy has more money than the GDP of several small nations; I’m sure he can afford it.”
“I don’t know. I sort of expected more. You know, solid gold toilets and baseboards and walls. Gold on gold on gold. You’ve seen the footage, right? The guy is a gaudy asshole. His list of vengeful exes is surprisingly–”
“Steve, abort mission,” Nat says suddenly, her stern voice like ice down Steve’s back. “You have to get out of there. The feed from the cams must have glitched. I have eyes on his security team, but I’ve lost sight of Mr. Stark. He could be any–” Nat gasps.
Steve whips around to find Mr. Stark, tie loosened and shirt askew, standing behind him, having just come from a discrete side entrance, his head cocked, a questioning glint in his eye.
For a moment, they simply stare at each other.
Stark is the first to break the ice. “…Johnny Storm from the agency?” he hazards a guess.
There’s a pause, a beat, then: “Yes, Mr. Stark. That’s me. I’m– I’m from the agency,” Steve fumbles.
Stark gives him an appraising look from head to toe, obviously finding his presence acceptable if a little unexpected as he saunters past. “Call me Tony,” he says as he rounds the bar to fix himself a drink, though he seems plenty drunk already. He tips a generous pour of scotch in one tumbler, then raises the other up to Steve, his eyebrow quirked in a silent offer.
Steve holds up a gloved hand, palm facing outwards, and declines with a shake of his head.
Stark shrugs, the motion loose and exaggerated. “Suit yourself. It’s top shelf. Best you can find.” He stalls at the bar, taking a sip from his own glass.
“I try not to drink on the job.”
“That’s it, Steve,” Nat says into his ear. “Be calm; play along while I scan for viable exits.”
“Smart,” Stark says as he comes back around. “I guess you have to keep your wits about you in your line of work. You never know who you’re going to meet when you offer more… intimate services.”
That's an odd way of saying 'personal security.'
Stark stops short of Steve to kick back on the couch in the sunken living room. Steve is moderately impressed when the man doesn’t trip over his own feet. He supposes Stark must be a functional alcoholic, used to navigating his surroundings with a drunken swagger that allows him to keep his drink more or less steady and unspilled.
Stark stares openly at Steve. “I don’t get it. Your whole get-up,” he indicates Steve’s attire – black on black, tools of his trade tucked into a slim utility belt – with a casual wave of his arm. “Did I select home invasion by mistake? Because I’m pretty sure I ordered the boyfriend experience.”
Oh sweet baby Jesus.
Stark turns away, ruffling fingers through his mussed-up hair as he rambles, “Though I was drunk at the time. Fingers slip. Mistakes happen.” He looks at Steve, his eyes a touch glassy. “Is it too late to switch? I’ll pay the difference. Have a look around, honey. You know I’m good for it.”
There has to be a way to salvage this situation.
Think. What would Nat do?
So Steve schools his features to what he hopes reflects warmth instead of abject terror and confusion. “Of course, sweetheart.” He smiles, trying to concentrate on showing just the right amount of teeth. Is his gum line showing? It’s showing, isn’t it? God. He’s a disaster at undercover ops. But still he persists, “Anything you want. You’re the boss.”
Good thing Stark is too drunk, possibly even too maudlin to notice the man’s insincerity. “I was thinking tonight maybe you could be the boss,” he muses. “It’s tiring you know, always being on, always telling people what to do. I was thinking maybe you could be that for a while. What do you say?”
Steve coughs, swallows the dry lump in his throat, and scratches nervously at the back of his neck. “That could be arranged.”
He takes another sip of his drink. “J. must like you. He doesn’t normally let visitors into the penthouse without me.”
“Who?”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” says a disembodied voice, cultured and refined and undeniably British.
Steve startles, looking over his shoulder then turning around entirely to search for the source. “What was that?”
Stark is blasé. “That’s Just A Rather Very Intelligent System, or J.A.R.V.I.S. for short,” he tips his glass to a security camera in the corner. “Say hi, J.”
“Welcome to Stark Tower, Mr. Storm.”
Steve is certain Nat cut the security feed, looping back an old two minute segment showing no movement on this floor. She might have restored video when Mr. Stark arrived on scene, but his security detail seemed unperturbed by Steve’s sudden appearance. Steve doesn’t know what to say. How much has this Jarvis fellow seen? How much did he know?
He hears Nat swear in Russian on the other end.
“J. is an artificial intelligence I designed,” Stark explains. “He runs SI’s logistics department and oversees security in the Tower. He’s my eye in the sky so to speak.” The man must see the alarm clear on Steve’s face, because he finds it necessary to assure him, “Don’t worry. He’s very discrete.” He calls out to the omniscient presence, “You can keep a secret, can’t you, J?”
“Indeed, sir.”
Stark quirks an eyebrow at Steve, his hands spread as if to say, See?
And Steve does see, the implications startlingly clear. “Right… And he keeps you informed of all happenings in the tower? All security risks?”
“Anything of relevance I consider useful for Mr. Stark to know,” replies J.A.R.V.I.S. rather drily, his tone carefully neutral, or maybe that’s just the AI’s natural inflection.
Still, Steve’s stomach drops at the implicit but clear threat. If he steps a toe out of line, J.A.R.V.I.S. will send the cavalry. Steve glances out the window. From this height, Steve will not survive the fall, and that’s assuming he can break it at all, that the glass isn’t shatterproof.
Stark follows his line of sight. “The view really is spectacular,” he comments before stating rather suggestively, “It’s even better from my bedroom.” He finishes his drink, setting it down on the coffee table before standing to exit. “I’m going to go slip into something more comfortable. Give me five minutes.” He stumbles away down the far corridor, Steve’s original destination.
The tension strains Nat’s voice. “There’s someone coming up the elevator – probably that Johnny Storm character – but the stairs are open. It looks like J.A.R.V.I.S. has cleared the west stairwell and temporarily locked the doors from penthouse to lobby. He’s giving you an out. You should take it.”
But the target is in Stark’s bedroom: his heart encased in glass.
The elevator pings. Steve rushes to the doors as they slide open to reveal a muscular blonde man – Stark must have a type – dressed to the nines and carrying a bouquet of wildflowers.
“Change of plans,” Steve tells him, taking the wildflowers from the perplexed escort. “Mr. Stark is not feeling well, but rest assured, you’ll still be fully compensated.”
“Steve, what are you doing?” Nat’s tone is harsh in his ear. “Get out of there.”
Johnny frowns. “But–”
“I’m his security detail for the Maria Stark Foundation Charity Gala. Mr. Stark is unwell. He had to retire early due to a migraine. He thanks you for your time and apologizes for the short notice, but unfortunately, he must cancel,” Steve reaches into the elevator to push the button for the lobby. “You will be paid for the night, of course.”
“Oh… Okay. Tell Mr. Stark I hope he feels better, and he remains a valued customer. We hope he will think of The Meat Locker for his future erotic desires.”
Steve’s left eye twitches. “I’m sure he will,” he replies evenly, just as the doors close.
Nat tries again. “Steve–”
“I’m going in, Nat,” he murmurs before switching off his ear piece.
“What are you doing?” J.A.R.V.I.S. inquires, his voice wary.
Steve holds up the wildflowers to the nearest security camera. “Romance.”
Mr. Stark wants the boyfriend experience; Steve will give it to him, and if the cost is a sentimental bauble from his bedroom he no longer has any use for, then what could be the harm? Steve finds him attractive, and Mr. Stark obviously feels the same way about him. They both know this is a business transaction, so deception is minimal, the wound confined to Mr. Stark’s pride when he realizes what was taken, rather than any messy emotional entanglement had he any reason to believe the encounter to be genuine.
And so emboldened in his resolve, Steve enters the bedroom, fully expecting Stark to have stripped down to his underwear at most, maybe draped in a silk robe for effect, but instead the man has changed into some sweatpants and an AC/DC tee.
“I heard the elevator,” he says, sitting on the edge of the bed, looking less like the polished billionaire that graced the covers of Forbes and Wired and more like the average Joe drained at the end of a long day.
Steve crosses the room to hand him the bouquet. “For you.”
“You had flowers delivered to my penthouse?” Stark scrunches his brow in confusion.
“Of course, sweetheart,” Steve says, hooking his thumbs into the belt loops of his pants. “You deserve nothing but the best.”
Stark puts the flowers to the side atop his nightstand as Steve sits beside him on the foot of the bed. “I’m usually the one who brings gifts,” he remarks.
“I’ve been neglecting you then,” Steve says, slipping into the role of live-in boyfriend. “I’ll try better in the future.”
Stark fingers the petals. “So, how do you like the view? It’s not as tranquil as the mansion in Malibu, but the skyline is quite nice from this height.”
“The best,” Steve agrees. It isn’t exactly a lie. Stark Tower is a blight on the New York City skyline – not that Steve would tell Stark that – but from within the tower proper, the visual assault of such a looming eyesore is mitigated.
The resultant awkward silence stretches for far longer than can be comfortable for either of them. Despite his earlier confidence, Steve has never been the greatest conversationalist, especially when sex was on offer. He coughs, fidgets in his seat.
Mercifully, Stark tries to a different, more fruitful, topic of discussion, “Did you grow up in the city?”
“Brooklyn,” Steve replies, figuring there couldn’t be much harm in embroidering his lies with the truth. “Grew up in Flatbush. It was safe. Clean. My mother worked hard to afford an apartment there, made sure I had what I needed.”
Stark nods. “I was born in Manhattan, but dear old Dad shipped me out to boarding school soon as he could. Spent my formative years in Andover. The worst seven years of my life, well except for…”
Afghanistan, Steve knows. He had read the reports and still didn’t understand how Stark had gotten out, how he had survived at all. A Colonel Rhodes had led the extraction, but Steve is familiar with Afghanistan, how hard it is to navigate the innumerable caves that spotted the desert to find and rescue a single man, even one as well-known and connected in the defense industry. Stark was very lucky to be found at all, much less alive.
“It must have been difficult,” Steve says, because what else can he say about the life Stark has led to this point. In many many ways, he is exceedingly privileged, living a life most people could only dream about, but on the other hand… it must be lonely on top. He glances towards the window, gazing out once again. The view really is pretty spectacular.
He must have said something wrong, because Stark’s face twists with displeasure. “I’m not complaining,” he says, his tone rather accusatory.
“Sorry, what?”
“I know what you’re thinking. The spoiled rich asshole is complaining about all the advantages given to him.”
Steve narrows his eyes. “That’s not what I said, but you must be in a lot of back pain judging by the size of that chip you’re carrying on your shoulder.”
“You should know, ‘Johnny Storm,’” Stark bites back, complete with air quotes.
“What does that mean?”
He rolls his eyes. “Are you really going to sit there and tell me you didn’t choose your career because Daddy didn’t love you enough?”
“And you would know all about Daddy Issues. You’re the expert. Isn’t that right, Stark?” Steve knows it’s a low blow, but he’s always given as good as he gets.
Stark is silent at that before pointing out, “No one calls their boyfriend by their last name.”
“I apologize, Tony,” he spits out, his tone positively acidic. “You know what they say, A couple should never go to bed angry, so I guess that means we stew until one or both of us is dead of sleep deprivation.”
Now that inspires a chuckle. “I’m sorry, but you’re really terrible at this. Truly awful,” Stark says, leaning back to prop his upper body up on his palms. “It’s rather impressive. No wonder they put you on home invasions. Do you do interrogations and consent play, too?”
Steve blinks, caught off guard. “I wasn’t prepared for this particular scenario. The Boyfriend Experience, you know. It’s been a while since I’ve been with… well, with anyone really,” he admits before adding quickly, “in the dating sense.” Smooth, Steve Rogers, escort extraordinaire. Smooth. “Truthfully, I’m a little rusty on how this part goes. Being alone, it comes with the job.”
Stark hums. “I can see where that might be a problem in your line of work,” he says before mumbling, “I guess that’s one thing we have in common.”
Steve feels the need to clarify that “It’s not just the… the sex. I’m just not great with people in general, but yeah, my chosen career path is not easy for most to stomach.”
“Then why do you do it, if you don’t mind my asking?”
He shrugs, looks away. “It was just something I fell into, I guess. No benefits, but it’s easy money. Hours are pretty good. And I do meet some interesting characters now and again.”
“Do you enjoy your… occupation?” Stark asks diplomatically.
Steve knows he means sex work, but he finds himself considering whether he enjoys all this… the thievery, the subterfuge, duping men like Mr. Stark, who – when stripped of all the glamour and bravado – seem lonely, a touch sad even, with only employees and the friends he built to keep him company.
“It’s just a job, nothing personal,” he says, uncertain of whom he is trying to convince.
“Do you ever wish you could do something else?”
“Like what?”
“Anything,” Stark replies, looking wistful. “Something that makes you happy? I don’t know. A dogwalker, maybe? You look like you like dogs. Or perhaps a florist or a baker? Can you make croissants? That’s magic right there.”
Steve bites his bottom lip, noting how hard Tony is looking at the swell. “I know you never have to worry about it, but with the cost of living in the city being what it is, those jobs don’t exactly pay the bills when you live alone.”
“Is that why you…” he rotates his hand in a rolling motion, likely trying to find a better way of saying whore yourself out.
Steve crosses his arms, looking a little put upon. “It’s a lot of money, and I’m good at it.”
“But if you don’t enjoy it or you feel like it’s making the world around you worse, then sometimes… eventually, you have to stop and do something good for the soul.”
He has a feeling they aren’t talking about escorting anymore. “Is that why you stopped making weapons?”
“…I brought the conversation back to myself, didn’t I?” Stark falls back into his bed then rubs the line of his eye. “I do that a lot. You know how it goes. When you’re The Tony Stark, everyone expects a certain je ne sais quoi. An ‘it’ factor. But what am I even doing? Here I am, gorgeous guy in my bed, and I’m just picking fights and trying to talk you out of doing your job.” He sighs. “I shouldn’t have had that last scotch. That was overdoing it, I know.”
“I’m here for whatever you need” – and whatever will make you fall asleep faster – “Boyfriend, remember? It’s been a while, but as I recall, boyfriends are supposed to lend support to their partners. If you need an ear to listen, I’m here.”
“A night with me is not usually so… depressing I think is the word,” Stark mumbles, his eyes closed. “Yeah, that’s it. Depressing and pathetic. I’m usually much better at this.”
“It’s alright, sweetheart,” Steve assures him, and Stark shivers at the pet name, turning wet eyes on him. “Stark Industries is doing a lot of good in the world under the new direction. Green energy, right? High-yield crops and medical research? You’re doing so well.” And now Stark is up, practically crawling into Steve’s lap. Steve strokes his hair, cupping his cheek. “I’m so proud of you, Tony.”
Stark surges up to kiss him, his arms wrapping around Steve, holding onto him as if he is the only thing keeping him together. “Everyone who gets close always leaves or betrays me,” he whispers, trembling, “But not you. You’re going to take care of me, big guy?” It’s a question more than a statement.
“…Yes,” lies Steve, closing the short distance to kiss him again.
Stark is pulling at his shirt, breaking apart only to drag it up and over Steve’s head just as Steve makes short work of Stark’s own tee, mirroring his actions. Steve pushes Stark into the soft mattress, hovering over him as he nips his chin, tracing a hot trail across his collar bone with his tongue as Stark chants another’s name soft and breathy. Stark twists locks of Steve’s hair between his fingers, gently at first and then more insistently as he tugs him downward to his chest where Steve sucks over a pert nipple. Stark nearly writhes against him, pressing his cock straining in his pants against Steve’s abdomen and thrusting slightly.
“Do you have lube, sweetheart?” Steve murmurs, mouthing his chest.
“Nightstand,” he moans. “There’re condoms, too. If you could–”
“Of course, Tony. Anything for you.” If this were real, if Tony were his, then they might forego them altogether in time, but this isn’t real, and Steve would do well to remember that fact, even if it had been years since… well, since Peggy.
They shuck off their pants, and Tony laughs when Steve almost gets tangled up in his. “Someone’s eager. Very much so if I can throw off your game,” he teases. The implication being that as a professional, Steve should be able to peel the skinny jeans off an influencer and make the motion look sexy.
“It’s a button fly,” Steve protests, and his fingers are being stupid now that sex is imminent, but he gets them off eventually.
Tony is amused at his ineptitude. “Come here, honey.” He wraps his arms around Steve, pulling him on top once again. He takes Steve’s clumsy fingers and squirts some lube over them before leading them down between his legs, glancing against Tony’s entrance. “I want you here,” he says. “I want to feel like you care. You do care about me, don’t you, Johnny? You want me to feel good?”
Steve answers with a kiss, a single finger breeching Tony softly, carefully, more concerned with a slow stretch than satisfying his fervent need to have Tony speared open on his cock as soon as possible. “You’re so tight, sweetheart,” he whispers. “I’m so lucky to have you,” because that’s how Steve would feel, if someone like Tony was his, writhing so prettily beneath him. He pumps slowly. “I’m going to get you good and loose, loose enough to take this,” he presses his erection against Tony’s inner thigh, letting him feel the promise of his girth rubbing up against him. Tony grinds his hips into Steve’s stomach and pants brokenly as Steve gently slips in a second finger.
He wants it, but “Are you going to make it hurt?” Tony asks, sounding uncertain. “Are you going to hurt me?”
Steve reassures him, “No, sweetheart.” He kisses his sweating temple. “Only good things. You deserve to feel good.”
His reply is tremulous. “I– I do?”
“Hm,” he gives him a stroke as he kisses him full on the lips. “You do,” he murmurs, pressing against him again.
And when the slide is smooth, his passage ready, Steve hikes up Tony’s legs, holding them apart. He tears open a condom and rolls it on, giving Tony open mouth kisses on his cheek, down his neck as he sinks slowly inside the warm, slick heat. Tony shudders, holds Steve tighter, biting his lip against the groan.
“How – how does that feel?” Steve asks when just his cockhead is seated inside, his thrusts sliding him deeper down the shaft then back again.
“More,” Tony says, his voice thready.
Steve obliges, thrusting deeply into Tony until the man is reduced to moans and punched-out gasps, his thighs drawing tight around Steve’s waist. Steve hold him, fucks into him like he really does care, like Tony is someone to be cherished. Steve is already at the precipice, trying to hold off his own orgasm, when Tony, breathy and heartbreakingly vulnerable begs, “Please,” – a gasp – “Please tell me you love me.”
And perhaps it is the way he says it or the tight grip of his passage or the heat of the very moment, but Steve comes, his body going rigid and shivery as he pumps into the warm body below him. Steve reaches for Tony’s erection between them, lazily stroking it as he withdraws. “I love you, sweetheart,” he lies. He pulls the condom off his softening dick, tying off the end to dispose of it. Then he pulls out a fresh condom to roll over Tony.
“Let me show you how much,” he says, as he swallows down Tony’s length. It may have been a while since Steve has been with a man, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t given a lot of blowjobs in his day. It’s like riding a bike, he thinks, as he uses his tongue, his lips and hands to bring Tony to completion. Steve fingers his over-sensitized loose opening, rubbing the firm nub of his prostate a couple inches inside as Tony practically wails, bucking into his mouth as he comes as well.
Afterwards, when Steve has returned from washing his hands and disposing of their spent condoms, he flops stomach-down next to Tony who stares at the ceiling.
He throws an arm across his one-time lover, who turns his head to gaze at Steve, his eyes half-lidded. “Hey.”
“Hey yourself.” Steve leans over while pulling Tony’s forehead in to kiss him gently. Just because tonight is a lie doesn’t mean Steve must be stingy with his affections in the aftermath.
Tony then curls into him completely, one leg thrown over Steve’s, hand lightly stroking his hip. “So. Do you do overnights and international bookings?”
“Hm?” Steve’s head is pleasantly muggy in the post-orgasmic bliss.
“It’s just… I have this green energy conference coming up in Sweden, and before Pepper, I usually went stag to these things, but I was thinking maybe it’s time to switch things up. Bring a date, you know.”
“To a conference?”
“Lots of down time during a conference, and Sweden’s wonderful this time of year.” Tony snuggles closer. “They make the best lox and lingonberry jam. Lots of natural landscape, and there’s always at least a little light in the sky all summer. It never goes completely dark. The people are lovely, too. You ever been?”
“No, it sounds nice though.”
“So… is that a yes on international bookings? We can make a week out of it. Maybe rent a cabin after the conference.”
“Yeah,” Steve yawns and scratches his nose. “Yeah, I think it is, but um… you don’t have to go through the agency.”
Tony frowns, his hand on Steve’s hip going still. “I want to make sure you’re compensated for your time. No one can say I’ve stiffed them, and I aim to keep that streak going.”
“You don’t have to pay me.”
That prompts a look of silent confusion as Tony seems to replay the declaration in his head before finally making sense of it. “Impressive. Didn’t even break character once.”
But Steve persists. “I’m being serious. I enjoyed this, spending time with you.”
“An interesting – though transparent – lie. I know most people find me exhausting, Johnny. Nice touch though. A for effort, really.”
“Call me Steve. That’s my real name.”
Tony’s expression is odd before going soft. “Oh… alright… Steve.”
“I had a nice time tonight, Tony.” It’s his best date in a while, even if it wasn’t technically a date and Steve is pretending to be someone else.
“You want to maybe stay a while?”
And Tony sounds so hopeful that Steve cannot say no, even if he wanted – which he doesn’t – so instead he asks, “How long?”
“Just until I fall asleep. J.A.R.V.I.S. can arrange a private car to take you home later.”
“Alright.”
Tony is snoring lightly in bed, naked as the day he was born, when Steve gets dressed. He looks over at the ‘heart’ on the dresser and considers nicking it. It’s what he was hired to do after all, but…
His attention turns to the mark who rolls over, mumbling in his sleep.
Everyone who gets close always leaves or betrays me.
Carefully, Steve opens the nightstand and roots around, pushing aside the condoms and various bottles of lube to find a pen and paper. He writes ‘Steve’ then his phone number underneath, leaving it on top in a prominent place.
Then, with one last look at Tony, Steve exits, being careful to close the door soundlessly behind him. He pads towards the foyer, the recessed lighting turning on to illuminate the way. That could only mean one thing.
“J.A.R.V.I.S.?” Steve calls out softly.
“Yes, Captain Rogers?”
A tendril of fear snakes up his spine at the knowledge that J.A.R.V.I.S. knows his real name, but Steve files it away as something to chew on later. “You and I both know I am not the escort Mr. Stark hired tonight.”
“Yes, I am aware.”
“But you didn’t warn him or call security or… or anything.”
“I could have security here in under a minute if you attempt anything,” J.A.R.V.I.S. informs him, not that Steve hadn’t already figured as much, “but sir has been rather depressed as of late, and I was curious as to what you would do in such a situation.”
“AIs don’t get curious,” he muses aloud.
“And burglars do not comfort their victims as a general rule.”
Touché.
But J.A.R.V.I.S. continues, “I have been looking into you, Captain, and from what I could find out, you are a thief, not a violent offender. I have taken the liberty of analyzing your past jobs and behavioral patterns – you are not the only one who has ‘seen the footage’ – and fed the data into a predictive model that ultimately determined the best course of action was to wait and see. In laymen’s terms, I had what you would call ‘a hunch.’”
“A hunch, huh?” Steve looks down, closing his eyes to pinch the bridge of his nose. “That’s great… just… just peachy really.”
“I like to think I was correct in my analysis,” and now J.A.R.V.I.S. just sounds smug.
But there is something bothering Steve, a niggling doubt risen from the disconnection between The Tony Stark, the larger-than-life public persona, and Tony, the desperately lonely man who had to pay a stranger to hold him for a single night. “What was… what was that thing on his dresser for? An award for saving orphans? Did he donate a lot of money to the American Heart Association for the tax write-off?”
J.A.R.V.I.S. is silent at that, perhaps trying to calculate how much to divulge to Steve without betraying Tony’s confidence. “It is a… reminder Ms. Potts had made for sir. He had wanted to discard it, have it melted down for scrap, but she thought it important he remember a time when he was vulnerable and yet had the strength and heart to survive and do the right thing.”
So, it wasn’t a love token from Ms. Bain, still–
“That is very vague.”
“It is,” J.A.R.V.I.S. agrees. “Now, will you be in need of a car tonight, Captain Rogers?”
“No, I have my own ride.”
“I can also validate parking.”
“That will not be necessary, thanks.”
And so the AI suggests, “At least take the main elevator this time.”
“Yes, I– I think I’ll take you up on that,” Steve replies weakly.
He doesn’t switch on his comm until after he exits Stark Tower.
“Steve! Where have you been? It’s been hours. I tried tapping into Stark’s security again, but his AI blocked multiple attempts, and then I was listening to the police scanner to judge when you’d need an extraction. And–” she takes a deep breath. “Just where have you been?”
Steve winces. “I’m sorry for worrying you.”
“You’re sorry? You’re sorry!”
“I got out,” he says. “I did not take the device. Ms. Bain has been less than honest with us about the nature of the target and her motivations. I recommend we return the money.”
Nat is silent on the other end. “…You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“What happened up there exactly?” she asks carefully. “You didn’t actually…”
Steve walks up to his motorcycle. “I don’t kiss and tell, Nat.” He sits astride his bike, strapping on his helmet. “By the way, I’m going to be taking some personal time off.”
“…Okay.”
“About a week. There’s this green energy conference in Sweden.”
“Steve.”
He revs up the engine. “What? You’re always telling me I should get out more.”