Tony didn't remember much of his first house.

Actually, perhaps saying 'first house' was a bit of a misnomer, because he'd never moved, not exactly. But he'd refurbished, revamped, modernized and updated (who cared if those were all essentially same thing?) until the original house, his childhood house, was buried under layers of chrome and titanium—glossy, clean, something even Howard Stark couldn't have dreamt up.

Nevertheless, the point still stood. He didn't remember much of his childhood home. Not the living room, not the kitchen. Even his father's lab was a blur. He did remember certain things that happened but they were phantasmagoric: images in a dream.

Besides, the things Tony remembered tended to be the most unpleasant things. Long silences, absences, yawning before him and never to be filled—his mother, then his father, whose infrequent presence only made the inevitable absences worse.

In fact, he thought he'd blocked the memories. Not completely, just enough so he didn't remember many details anymore. Enough so he could shrug it off as no big deal if someone (one of the other Avengers) made some sort of pointed comment about his 'childhood neglect' and its effect on his 'current mental stability' (one of the other Avengers being Natasha).

Then Captain America, last of the Avengers to move into Stark Tower, arrived and Tony's stability went down the drain so fast it was a miracle Bruce's Geiger counter wasn't beeping 24/7.

"Captain Rogers bothers you," noted Natasha one morning. She'd taken to popping up at random moments, always with an agenda, and always with some sort of psychological analysis on hand.

Tony had mentally labeled her and Clint the cuckoo squad. All of the Avengers (including Clint and Natasha themselves), at some point, received visits from the cuckoo squad. These uninvited visits could occur anywhere, at anytime and were supposedly aimed at assessing the ability of the Avengers to be trusted as a team.

This particular time happened before Tony had gotten his coffee, in the hour or so when he made his way through the house mainly by touch and JARVIS's occasional comments ("that is the washing machine, not the coffee machine, sir"), and thus ranked as one of Tony's top three least favorite visits. That list included the time Clint had convinced JARVIS to wake Tony up by reading the 'potential risk' section of Tony's file, including a long list of mental and physical diseases supposedly confirmed by top notch SHIELD doctors. Tony was fairly sure Clint had thrown in a few just to mess with him.

A trumpet fanfare sounded suddenly from the toaster. Tony started.

"Didn't realize you had the password to the toaster," Tony mumbled. Making conversation in the mornings was not part of being Tony Stark. Doing anything in the mornings was not part of being Tony Stark.

Natasha stepped forward to snatch the piece of very dark toast from the grips of Tony's makeshift toaster. "JARVIS gave it to me. He said you wouldn't mind, seeing as you haven't used it in a year." She took a bite and nodded with an expression that looked angry but was probably satisfaction. "Why does the Captain bother you?"

Tony tried to push past her en route to the coffee machine, then thought better of it. "Coffee," he said with a 'gimme gimme' motion, curling his hands into little coffee-grabbing claws.

Natasha pushed a button on the machine without taking her eyes from Tony. Dark liquid, steaming hot, flowed into Tony's Iron Man mug and he nearly drooled.

The flow slowed to a trickle, then stopped and Natasha hefted the industrial sized mug above grabbing hands. "First, answer. Then coffee."

If Tony had been anywhere close to coherent, he might have said something like you're the shrink, you tell me. Instead he made a noise that was somewhere between a whine and a squeal.

Natasha sighed. He made the same noise, just louder and more insistent. "Why do I always get stuck with you," she grumbled but relinquished the cup of coffee.

Tony groaned happily and drained half the mug before answering her (rhetorical) question.

"Because Clint tries to convince me I have rabies and Capgras syndrome," he said, still slurping. "Do you know what Capgras syndrome is? It's when you think everyone around you is someone else. I believed him until I told Bruce about it."

Natasha crunched the last of her burnt toast between perfectly red lips. "I think I preferred you when you were caffeine-deprived."

"I've gotten really used to just accepting whatever weird diagnoses you two come up with." He sucked down the last couple dregs of coffee and put the mug on the counter. "Anyway, bye. Promised Bruce I'd help him—"

Natasha raised an eyebrow and kicked his legs out from under him.

It was one of those things that sounded a lot less painful than it was. Like…getting your wind knocked out of you. Or childbirth.

"Seriously," said Tony, scurrying backwards a few feet away from her before getting to his feet. "Maybe someone should talk to you about your issues."

Natasha walked over to the dining table and took a seat. She seemed to be smiling. "Try leaving again and I'll sic Clint on you."

Tony winced. Clint had once stalked him through the air vents singing Christmas carols until Tony had agreed to listen to his psych eval. Of course, Tony had retaliated by locking him in the vents until he said a few magic words.

It was a pity Coulson checked up on them every other day. Who knows how long Clint's stubbornness would've held out.

"I'm not scared of Clint." Tony joined her at the table. "The whole thing with the vents was his fault. All he had to say was that I was—"

"Why does the Captain bother you?" Natasha's eyes bored holes into his skin. "Tony, this isn't some public image issue you can just brush off. This could be vital to the team."

Tony took a breath. Then another. "I don't know."

"You don't know." Natasha's voice is flat.

"I don't know." And it was true. He only had a vague sense—a very vague sense—that it had something to do with some of the details from his childhood that he'd tried so hard to forget. There was something about the Captain that hovered right at the edge of his memory.

Natasha tapped one finger on the table. "Does it have to do with your father and the search for—"

"I don't know," snapped Tony. He was a little too close to thinking about things, details, he hadn't thought about for a long time.

A Captain America figurine on a wooden mantelpiece…

He closed his eyes for a few seconds, then opened them again. "If that were the case, I would have gotten over my discomfort as soon as I'd seen evidence that Captain America is not as perfect as my father thought." He was, absurdly, grateful that Natasha referred to Howard Stark as his 'father', not his 'dad'. "I'd have been fine around him the second him try to pick up a girl. I mean, a 'dame.'"

Natasha's lip quirked up in a half-smile despite herself. "You're not entirely wrong. That makes sense, logically, but mentally things are a lot more complicated."

Tony made a face. "Then enlighten me, if you know everything."

The pair sat in silence for a few moments before Tony stood up. "If that's it for this uncomfortable and nonconsensual heart to heart, Red, I'm going to go now. Please don't physically assault me. Or mentally assault me. Or send Clint."

Natasha gave him a cryptic smile. "Your last two options are the same thing."

"Oh, I know." Tony shuddered and edged his way out the door.

A Captain America figurine on a wooden mantelpiece…

The thing about burying memories was that they were just that—buried. Not destroyed, not erased. Tony learned, over time, that things he really wanted to forget were indelibly stored somewhere deep inside his brain, somewhere that only came out when he was really really drunk or, apparently, when it concerned one Captain America.

A Captain America figurine on a wooden mantelpiece…

It wasn't the emotions of the memory that bothered him; really, it wasn't. He knew how'd he felt. First, he'd idolized—then, he'd envied—and then he'd hit some strange point in between spite and contempt. The problem lay in the details, sharp and solid proof that his childhood hadn't been a very long, very lonely dream.

When he was small, small enough that he'd still been in the idolization phase, there'd been a fireplace in their living room. And on the mantelpiece had always been a Captain America action figure, paint fading away. There'd also been a marble seraph, heavy, chipped, and just a tiny bit smaller than the action figure.

If that wasn't some sort of twisted symbolism, Tony didn't know what was.

The seraph had been handed down in the Stark family, along with the house, for generations. The action figure had been handed down for just one.

Tony hated that he remembered all of that. He hated remembering how he'd used to adore the little Captain America—even if he'd never been particularly interested in action figures, unless they moved or were in any way mechanical. He'd still loved it. When he was little, his father hadn't yelled or pointed at the mantelpiece as an example of what he should be, what he should be upholding.

Even later, to be honest, he'd never been sure what his father was pointing at. The seraph or Captain America.

Tony wasn't actually going down to the lab to work with Bruce. Contrary to the rest of the Avengers' belief (especially Thor's), there were different kinds of science and he and Bruce's areas of expertise generally didn't overlap. Sure, they teamed up for some things—such as alien technology and other stuff not covered in typical college textbooks—but for the most part they worked in comfortable isolation. Side-by-side, passing back and forth occasional interesting tidbits of information, but not working together in the normal sense of the word.

He leant against the shiny silver railing in the elevator. "JARVIS, who's in the gym right now?" Tony was pretty sure he knew, seeing as there was one person who'd spent ten of the ten mornings he'd been here in the gym, but it didn't do any harm to ask.

"Captain Rogers, sir. He appears to be alone and in the process of destroying one of your punching bags."

Tony made a sighing noise through his nose. "Not one of the reinforced ones?"

"One of the reinforced ones," confirmed JARVIS.

"Great." His mind raced. Prove Natasha wrong or play it safe…? "Take me to the gym, will you. And glass the walls."

"Gladly, sir."

As per his instruction, the walls of the elevator, looking all the world like polished steel, faded into transparency. Tony watched the familiar skyline sink beneath his feet and struggled to dispel a persistent feeling of vertigo.

He'd made some changes to the Tower. He'd added this feature, not just to impress (and intimidate) visitors, but also to help with his nightmares. He was always falling in his nightmares. Falling, and this time he never stopped.

(Tony, Pepper had said when she broke off whatever informal relationship they'd had. Tony, you need to find a way to cope with this. You can't just push it away.)

Well, this was his way of coping.

"Sir," JARVIS said, softly. The elevator was still. The buildings stayed in their places and the walls faded back to metal.

Tony wasn't sure how long he'd been standing there, gaping at the floor beneath his feet like it wasn't there. "Thanks, JARVIS."

He stepped out and was immediately greeted by the sound of sand spilling onto the floor at his feet.

"Seriously?" Tony said to the pile.

"Sorry," said the Captain, not sounding very sorry at all, and Tony forced himself to look at him. To meet his gaze, even.

Tony one, Natasha zero.

Tony was feeling quite proud of his own resolve when—

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Um," Tony tripped over his words. "Er. No reason?" He fell back on one of the classic Tony Stark methods of evasion: flirtation. "You look good today, Cap."

"Sure, Stark," Rogers said, nonplussed but unfazed. He unwrapped a strip of white tape from his hand. "This has nothing to do with what Clint came to talk to me about this morning, then?"

Clint. That bastard. Tony attempted a winning smile. "Did he come to talk to you about your stunning good looks?"

The Captain snorted. "Not quite." He paused, then began unwrapping the other hand. Tony found the movement strangely hypnotic. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not a chance," said Tony, watching the tape go around and around and around. He took a breath. "Actually, maybe, but not about what you think I want to talk about."

Steve arched an eyebrow.

"I just want to say…" Tony had to think for a few seconds. "It's not really to do with you."

"Really." There was probably some desert joke to make about Steve's dry sarcasm and the amount of sand on the floor, but—think, Tony, think.

"It's more about me." Tony paused. Well, he'd made it this far, to hell with it."Look, Captain, really. It's hard to think of you as Captain America when you're not in the suit. It's hard to think of you as some American icon when you're technologically challenged and think modern bananas shouldn't be legal."

Steve smiled but didn't say anything.

"So I don't know what the problem is. But it's not you, alright?"

"Can you call me Steve, then?"

"What—" Tony sputtered. Mostly out of indignation rather than actual confusion, but still. "What does that have to do with anything?"

Rog—Steve's eyes were searching. "You said you don't think of me as Captain America but you still call me Captain."

Tony winced. "Alright. Steve."

"Okay." Steve crumpled the tape into a little ball in his fist. "Where do you keep the tape?"

"Closet down the hall, ask JARVIS," said Tony automatically. It wasn't until Steve left and he'd started up the treadmill that he'd realized a few things.

Why would Steve ask him where the tape was? He already had some, so he must've known where it was. Plus, Steve hadn't come back yet and he'd been running for—Tony checked the treadmill—ten minutes.

And, for all Steve's talk about first names, he hadn't once used Tony's.

"You think that having a smart mouth makes you smarter than me, is that it? Does it make you feel a little less worthless? A little less like a waste of space? Do you know what kind of legacy you come from?"

Howard Stark hadn't yelled often—cold silence was more his modus operandi—but when he did, it stuck.

There were countless conversations Tony would try to block out, if they could be called that. "Conversation" implied civility, a two-sided exchange of queries and honest answers, a discussion of something of mutual interest. A good date night. That sort of thing.

These weren't conversations.

Tony had to admit during the envy phase, he'd stirred up a lot of these so-called conversations. Times his father spent more time searching for Captain America or working on updating old inventions than spending time with Tony had made him crave every word he heard from his father, drunken, cruel, or not.

If he was fair, envying Captain America had been a misdirection. Tony knew that as the years passed, his father spent less and less time searching for one Steve Rogers and more time working on personal projects, secretive things he'd scream at Tony to get "his fucking hands off of". His father still spent more time on the Captain than him, but it was getting to be a close thing.

Sometimes—very rarely—Tony would even feel a little sad to see the Captain America figurine sitting on the shelf gathering dust. It was being forgotten, just like him. The only difference was Tony had never really been known.

Of course, the modicum of sympathy he'd have in those moments would always disappear that next conversation.

Tony knew he'd envied Steve Rogers without ever knowing him. He'd accepted that, to some degree. He didn't feel that pang of red-hot anger he used to feel when he saw his father preparing for another trip to the Artic he wasn't invited to anymore. He didn't lash out. He tamped it down.

Tony just wished he didn't remember why he envied Steve.

"There are so many good people out there, great people who've died. And here you are. I can't believe I ended up with a son like you."

Tony got the hint.

It was movie night that night. It was movie night almost every night, really, as long as they didn't have any monsters to fight or as long as nobody had any dates.

(Bruce had gone on a date once. The Avengers—minus Steve, who hadn't come yet, which probably explained how they'd gotten away with half the stuff they did—traipsed out to the living room to scare the girl a bit as she waited for Bruce to finish getting ready. Bruce ended up having to chase his date down the sidewalk, tie loose around his neck, and blood pressure getting dangerously high.

Oh, he'd claimed she was just a scientist friend—professional colleague—but they'd all known better.)

Thor went on dates too, on a fairly regular basis, but his and Jane's idea of a date was to go to a laser tag arena (a recent discovery of Thor's), so they weren't subject to the typical Avengers examination (which involved a lot of safety waivers drawn up by Clint, of all people, and a physical threat simulation with Natasha acting as the potential assassin).

The Avengers didn't get a lot of dates.

Anyway, it was movie night, and Tony was determined to show Natasha that he wasn't uncomfortable around Steve. In fact, it was the exact opposite and he was going to prove it.

For some reason, Steve disliking him made Tony a lot more comfortable. He could deal with people disliking him. He had room to work with that. Tony Stark was a pro at annoying people. If they were people who disliked him, that was an added bonus.

The movie tonight was Casino Royale, picked by Clint, who, despite everything, actually had a pretty decent taste in movies. The archer settled down in the middle of the couch, the best spot—acquired through a lot of petty prank pulling and finally an agreement to set up a rotation.

With a lot of unnecessary hand motions, he announced, "Movie night has begun. Take your seats, people. Today's movie is Casino Royale and if you don't like it, you all better shut up because I am Fuhrer today, no offense, Steve."

Tony couldn't see Steve's reaction in the dim light but he had to grin.

Clint was Fuhrer. When it was Tony's turn, he was JARVIS. Thor was Allfather. Natasha was Putin, and no matter what anyone said about it not technically being a government position, she didn't budge.

They all had leader names picked out for when it was their turn to lead Movie Night. Tony supposed Steve would be President, for obvious reasons.

Natasha settled down next to and onto Clint, somehow taking up both the entire left side of the couch and his lap at the same time. Thor claimed the big cushy armchair to right of the couch. Bruce claimed the slightly smaller but no less cushy one next to it.

That left Steve and Tony with just the right side of the couch. Typically, this meant one of them would sit on the floor.

"Go ahead, Steve," said Tony sweetly. Steve squinted at him.

"You sure?" He didn't sound too pleased.

"Feel free," Tony nodded and as soon as Steve's exceptionally nice butt (who wouldn't look?) had hit the cushion, he pounced.

"Tony." Steve sounded like he was in a state of shock. "What are you doing?"

Tony wasn't really sure what he was doing. He'd been planning on squeezing in on the couch, uncomfortably close to Steve.

But Steve had actually taken up pretty much the whole couch and unless he wanted to land on Clint's lap—and thus Natasha's head, not the smartest idea—he'd had to amend his plan.

Tony had ended up mostly sprawled over Steve's lap. There was a bit of him (his head) that'd managed to land on the armrest of the couch. Otherwise he was lying right on Steve. Imagine the armrest as the pillow and Steve as the mattress, and that was what'd happened.

From besides him, Clint sniggered and whispered something to Natasha, who giggled—actually giggled—and typed something. A moment later, Bruce's phone pinged and he and Thor laughed over the best part of the Casino Royale song. (Tony wasn't actually sure what song it was)

"No laughing on movie night," he said sulkily, crossing his arms. It had to do with him and Steve, of course it did. He hadn't gotten any mystery texts. And Steve, if he even had a phone, hadn't either. Tony would have felt it.

"Um," whispered Steve, sounding panicked. He shifted. "I can get off. So you can sit. Please."

"No whispering on movie night," Tony whispered back.

Steve was too busy trying to wriggle free to formulate a smart response. "Tony."

"So now you say my first name," hissed Tony snippily. Steve froze underneath him.

"Is that what this is all about?" he said softly. Tony shrugged. So what if Steve knew? Tony had literally thrown himself onto Steve's lap. This couldn't get much more embarrassing.

"Tony," said Steve again, softer. He tugged at Tony's shoulder. "Hey. Look at me."

Tony rolled over, made a face, and rolled back with his knees drawn nearly to his chest.

"Tony." Steve sounded physically pained

With an exaggerated sigh, Tony rolled back. "Persistent, aren't we, Steve."

"Look, it's nothing personal, it's just…look, okay, can we talk about this later?" Steve shifted again. "When you're not on my lap?"

Tony rolled back without answering.

It was actually pretty comfortable. Steve was as warm as a space heater and a billion times softer. A better comparison would really be some sort of giant hot water bottle, Tony mused. A shame this hot water bottle hated his guts.

"Tony, please will you let me get off," said Steve in the angriest possible voice one can use when talking in a voice softer than a whisper.

Tony rolled over to give him a saucy wink, which was probably wasted in the dim light of the TV screen. "Right here? I don't think the other Avengers would like that, darling."

Tony couldn't see much, but he could see that Steve was turning a very bright red. "Tony," he gritted out between his teeth and Tony winked again before rolling back.

It sounded like Natasha was having a conniption. Actually, it was probably Clint. He could imagine Clint giggling hysterically more easily than he could imagine Natasha giggling hysterically.

Tony closed his eyes and settled into the comfy little part between the armrest and Steve's leg. He could hear Steve breathing fast and shallow, each breath ruffling Tony's hair.

Tony opened his eyes again.

Wait a second.

No way.

He rolled over again and this time pressed back, deliberately back, right against the part he'd been avoiding.

Oh. Steve was hard. Like, full on hard. Hard enough that it must be hurting.

Tony's heart was beating out of his chest and escaping through his ears. That must have been the reason he could hear every heartbeat, the sound of blood rushing in and out.

For a brief, wonderful second, Tony wanted to press harder. To roll over and drag Steve down for a kiss. He wanted to reach into Steve's pants and feel him. The Avengers could go fuck themselves.

Then reality crashed in.

Steve was a guy on a ninety-year dry spell. Tony had, very literally, draped himself over his lap. It would be like taking advantage of him, kind of. And while Tony would have had no qualms with any other similarly attractive person, in a similar situation, this was someone he was going to have to follow into battle.

Deep breaths.

On a more convincing and practical note, Natasha would throw him out the window if he fucked up the team this badly. Tony let himself memorize the shape of Steve's dick against his back (what? If he was cockblocking himself, he was allowed to be a little creepy) and rolled right off of Steve's lap.

If Tony had been really thinking things through, maybe considering Steve's predicament and simple physics, he would have waited. Or asked Steve. Or something. Because now Steve was sitting with a huge boner practically exposed and a blush up to his ears and Tony landed flat on his face.

"Fuck," Tony said, clutching his nose and clamping his eyes shut.

Steve let out a long and creatively crafted string of swearwords that Tony only caught the end of.

"Captain America swore," Clint said gleefully.

Tony rolled to a safe distance and sat up, wiping away reflexive tears. Natasha had her head buried in Clint's shoulder and was shaking violently. Thor looked—slightly—confused. Bruce had his eyes fixed on the screen but his mouth was twitching. Clint, of course, had a shit-eating grin on his face.

Steve's eyes were very wide and his knees were pulled up as far to his chest as they would go, which wasn't far enough.

"Tony," said Clint sternly, being, strangely, the only one who had any semblance of composure left. "You are blocking the TV."

"The TV is taller than the fucking Iron Man suit," Tony snapped. "Like hell I am blocking the TV."

"No, Tony, I agree with Clint," added Natasha when she'd surreptitiously wiped away the smeared makeup from under her eyes onto Clint's T-shirt. Clint pulled at the side of his stained shirt, annoyed. She ignored him. "You need to go fetch us all ice cream. And Steve needs to help you."

At the sound of his name, Steve made a pathetic whimpering noise and curled tighter.

"Ice cream is indeed a wonderful Midgardian concoction," announced Thor. "Why do you glare, Man of Iron? I have seen you eat many a tub—"

Bruce tugged at the god's arm and began whispering something in his ear. Tony groaned.

"Shoo," said Clint, poking Steve. Steve glared and said something Tony didn't catch. Clint's eyebrows climbed a few inches upward. "Shoo, pottymouth."

Tony got to his feet, making sure to block as much of Clint's view as possible. Steve followed him, alternating between glaring at Clint and keeping his eyes firmly on the floor, which made it no surprise to anyone but himself when he walked into the door.

They were only maybe three steps away from the TV room when Tony heard an explosion of laughter from behind them. Steve speed walked the remaining distance to the kitchen and stuck his head in the freezer.

"What are you doing," said Tony when he saw this.

A whiff of cold air hit him as the freezer door shut. "Trying to return my face to a normal color," muttered Steve.

Tony reached past Steve, ignoring the way he flinched, and opened up the freezer again. "Ice cream, remember?" Tony reminded him, quashing the pang of hurt. "I'm not going to jump you."

Steve avoided his eyes. "I should be saying that to you. Tony, I'm so sorry. I didn't—"

Tony pulled out rocky road for Natasha and strawberry for Bruce and Steve, placing them on the counter. "My fault. I jumped on you, remember? I should be apologizing."

"Why did you…" Steve hesitated, looking very young all of a sudden. Tony had the strange urge to hug him.

Tony dug out a tub of cookie dough for himself (Thor would happily eat a mixture of everything) and closed the freezer door. "I just wanted to annoy you, alright? You obviously didn't want to spend time with me, so…kill them with kindness, right?"

"Tony, that's not it," Steve said immediately. Some selfish part of Tony was relieved. The rest of him was skeptical. Tony began pulling lids off tubs with some difficulty and Steve joined him, his big hands making it seem effortless.

Tony made a frustrated noise after wrestling with rocky road for far too long. "You do it."

"Sure." Steve sounded amused. He handed the tub back to Tony. Tony ignored how much he was hoping for their hands to touch, if only just to see Steve blush again, and took the tub back a little too briskly.

"Tony," Steve said suddenly, after Tony had retrieved six bowls from the cupboard. "I need to talk to you."

"Yeah?" Tony said. He stuck the scooper into a random tub and turned to meet Steve's eyes.

Steve was looking at him with his arms crossed and a line between his eyebrows. He looked as if he were going into battle. "Yes. I realize this might make things…weird…between us, but I think that it's important I tell you. Keeping it from you will do more harm than good. And, according to Clint—"

"Don't listen to Clint," Tony said immediately. "He's full of shit."

Steve gave him a look. "Well, he said this sort of thing is more widely accepted in the twenty-first century, and it's okay now if I admit like if it was just a normal crush or something. So, um—"

"Whoa, whoa, what?"

Steve's blush was creeping back up his neck.

"So it was—is that what they were texting about—oh my God," Tony leaned back and promptly stuck his hand in the rocky road ice cream, shit, Natasha would kill him. "Oh my God."

"I know I've kind of jumped down your throat whenever possible and I know this is probably a surprise but I—I didn't want to come off like I'd treat you better, since you were Howard's son"—Howard, it always comes back to him, doesn't it?—"and since, you know." Steve refused to meet his eyes this time. "I liked you. And I knew it wasn't mutual, or at least Clint told me to wait until Natasha checked up on you, so I was kind of trying to avoid you. A bit."

Steve was stuttering by the time he finished. Tony was still trying to wrap his mind around the first bit.

"Holy shit."

"Yeah."

"I just—wow. Okay. I was not expecting that." Tony could have expected Steve just to say he found him attractive or something. That wouldn't be that ridiculous. But to actually say—how long had it been since he'd heard the word crush? High school?

"Okay, I'm going to go back now," Steve muttered, quickly turning to make his escape.

"No, no, wait," said Tony, grabbing him by the arm. "Wait."

"What?" Steve said, looking crestfallen but trying not to show it. He tugged his arm out of Tony's reach.

"Wait," Tony said again, took a deep breath—he felt unaccountably nervous and blamed Clint entirely. For absolutely no good reason.

Steve waited. Tony plucked up his nerves, leaned forward, and kissed him.

Steve kissed him back, enthusiastic but a little clumsy and Tony brought one hand up to run through his hair. Steve responded by picking him up, putting him bodily onto the counter.

"Wow, way to steal my thunder," Tony muttered against his lips and why couldn't his brain just shut up for a bit?

Steve laughed and broke the kiss, just for a moment. "You're lucky a smart mouth is the way to my heart."

"That was the worst"—Steve kissed him—"line ever."

"It worked, didn't it?"

And Tony couldn't say he disagreed.

"Did you just wipe rocky road ice cream on my shirt?" Steve mumbled against his neck a few minutes later.

"Oh, shut up."

The other Avengers never got their ice cream.