Warnings would spoil this story, so they have been included at the end only.

Steve knew it, and he felt transparent, like glass, like everyone else knew it, too. Like they could tell just by looking at him, by the tabloid photos of him suspiciously bereft of a girlfriend. He pushed it down, the way he had always done. He couldn't control his urges, but he could control his actions. So he was celibate, a fact which his fellow Avengers found quaint, unimaginable, and slightly pathetic in turns. Steve suspected they all believed that he would change his behavior as he got used to future, become more sexually liberal, enjoy a few casual partners. He wouldn't. The world had changed a lot while he slept, but some things didn't change, things like right and wrong, lines that good men didn't cross. He had lived his whole life thus far in perfect self-control, never once giving in, and he had no intention of surrendering now.

Steve was twelve years old when he first realized he was unlike other boys. He'd always been different, of course. Smaller, weaker, more sickly. But this was a much more important difference. This was a question of morality. This was a question of what he dreamt about during those shameful nights that left the sheets sticky. This was a question of perversion.

Steve wasn't as deeply religious as most people thought. Yes, he believed in God. Yes, he went to church on Sundays. And yes, he had said the rosary while his mother coughed weakly and succumbed to tuberculosis. But he never did go to confession because he knew he could never admit to his cardinal sin, his unnaturalness. It didn't even seem possible to say out loud when he was alone. He had tried it once, whispering into the dark, "I don't want to kiss a woman. I want to kiss-" But he couldn't end the sentence. It was wrong. It was deeply, morally wrong.

He flirted with women, awkwardly, half-heartedly, knowing that they would never return his affections. He tried to make himself believe that he wanted them. At the age of sixteen, in desperation, he obtained an obscene picture of a woman and he gaped at it while he took himself in hand, but he gave up, furious and humiliated when he couldn't bring himself to climax. Steve wasn't one to wallow in self-pity, but even he indulged in a few moments then.

He had hoped the serum would cure him. A good man, Erskine had said. When he emerged from the machine, he was taller, more muscular, with a cut jaw and impressive strength. Women flocked to him. Until that moment, he had always hoped his lack of attraction to women was a childish tit-for-tat – they had no interest in him, so he would have no interest in them. But now, they were throwing themselves into his arms and Steve was finding it all too easy to be chaste and chivalrous.

With the women.

There were other temptations, though. He never acted on his urges, but he wanted to. God, he wanted to.

And then his plane crashed into the Atlantic.

Tony Stark was bisexual. Tony Stark was not in the least embarrassed about this fact. Tony Stark was flirting with the waiter. Tony Stark was standing up, leaning in close to the waiter, and writing something on his hand.

"Well, now I've got the rest of my evening planned out," said Tony, sitting back down. He gestured backward to the retreating server, "He gets off at 10. And then again at 11. And then another two or three more times, depending on stamina."

Steve rolled his eyes. Tony's antics weren't that different from his father's, though Steve had learned early on that he should never, ever make that comparison.

"Aw, don't get all uptight. I'll be he's got a sister. Somebody really patriotic and double-jointed and-"

"I don't want to get set up with your one-night stand's sister."

"I know, you're all about women's lib, right? I can take you to a place that has lots of working women." Tony had a leer that made clear exactly what sort of 'work' these women would be doing.

Steve gave Tony his most withering glare. "We're here to talk about your plan to make the ID cards into telephones."

"Fine, fine," said Tony, waving his right hand dismissively. "Never let it be said that I haven't tried to help you find some modern companionship."

"You really think he's gay?" asked Clint, carefully folding a net into the shaft of an arrow.

"Is that so hard to believe?" Natasha kept her hands on the wheel.

"I want to be the one to tell Fox News! Oh god, we might see Sean Hannity cry!" Clint appeared to be salivating at the thought. "Or what if they go the other way? Instead of being all freaked out that their golden boy is into dick, they decide that if Captain America is gay, then all red-blooded American men need to find a partner and blow the ole' sausage whistle."

Natasha couldn't help but snicker. Clint's particular blend of crudeness and plainspoken slang never failed to amuse her. "I'm not one hundred percent sure," she said, "and he seems to want to remain private about it for now."

"Well, what makes you think he's-"

"I just get a sense. Gaydar, I suppose. And there was that time when Fin Fang Foom smashed down the wall to that women's gym. He didn't look."

"I didn't look," chirruped Clint, with the tone of a child wanting to be praised for doing his chores.

"You actively didn't look. It was an obvious effort. He just didn't look, like it wasn't particularly interesting."

Clint considered the distinction for a moment. "You think Stark's worked it out yet?"

"I think Stark's going to hit on him regardless."

The whole team was making an effort to find Steve a partner, which would have been sweet if it weren't so damn annoying. Tony was the worst. Stark Industries apparently had a hiring program specifically for veterans, and Tony kept throwing them little parties to which Steve was oh-so-casually invited. Little parties where fit young adults, both men and women, fresh out of military service, would introduce themselves and get star struck and Steve would blush. Tony had obviously told them it was okay to flirt with him – which it absolutely was not – but Steve tolerated the awkwardness because it was nice to chat with people who had served. It reminded him of familiar times in Europe. Even if he was uncomfortable with the legendary status that the SI Veterans Group imbued him with, it was a role he knew how to play.

He might have even continued attending Tony's little parties, if Tony hadn't insisted on being himself and taking things way too far, such as:

"Did I mention he's single? And looking for a plus-one to take to the Metropolitan Art Museum's charity gala?"

And:

"From this angle, we can see one of the finest sights our great nation has to offer. Ladies and gentlemen, you can bounce quarters off that patriotic ass. Believe me, I've tried."

Worst of all:

"He's 90 years old, benches 780, and he's hung like a horse. We'll start the bidding at five hundred dollars."

Steve stood up and very politely got his coat and very politely stepped out without very politely punching Tony in the face. Of course, Tony followed him.

"You know," said Tony, leaning on the corridor wall, "you're leaving a very disappointed crowd back there."

"Why can't you just leave it alone? No one asked you to play matchmaker."

"And here I thought I was being the good guy by not jumping you myself."

Steve's eyes bulged out and his lips curled inward. "The good guy? The good guy?" He shook his head with a grunt, as if clearing his thoughts. "You obviously have a very different understanding of the situation than I do. And you know what? You're allowed to. That's freedom. But I'm free to stick to what I know is right."

"Who does it hurt, Steve?" Tony sounded serious. "If you go on one date?"

"It's not as simple as that." Steve put on his coat and stepped out into the cold.

"People have to come out on their own schedule, Tony. Some people take longer than others, even people who weren't born in the 20's." Bruce set the sample down on the lab table and went to the sink to wash his hands.

Tony tossed Bruce a hand towel. "But why does his schedule have to be so slow? He could be having a great time, especially with a body like that."

"I don't know," said Bruce, simply.

"I feel bad for the guy. He hates the future as it is, and this is the one future thing that could really work in his favor, if he would just get over himself and admit it."

"If he came out, there would be a media circus. Steve's not cozy with the press like you are. That would be a tough situation to walk into."

"But he could just tell us. I'm an expert at keeping things from the press. If he wanted to smuggle a boyfriend upstairs, I could find a discreet way to make it happen."

Bruce shrugged. There was no way to know why Steve did the things he did, short of asking him, which Tony had already tried, to no effect.

Tony slouched against the lab table. "I don't want him to turn into my dad. He married my mom and he didn't want her and it was just for show and it made him a miserable, drunk-"

"I can't imagine Steve marrying for show," Bruce interrupted.

Tony sighed and stared off into the distance before straightening himself and rubbing his hands together. "Okay," he said, "let's run the tests again at a higher humidity and see if we can improve the tensile strength."

Tony, Steve realized, was the sort of person who would rather drive off a cliff than admit he was going the wrong way. He obviously thought he was backing off, but his version of retreat was more aggressive than most people's idea of interrogation.

"It's not a Leviticus thing, is it?" asked Tony, while they were watching some movie with lasers and robots. "Because, you know, the bible also says you shouldn't wear a cloth of two fibers and – I hate to break it to you – but your uniform is made of-"

"It's not a Leviticus thing," interrupted Steve. He got up and left the room.

Or when they were eating breakfast. "Maybe you should talk to a therapist," said Tony. "A good one, not one of those creepy conversion people. I can give you some names. I've seen a lot of therapists."

"Leave it alone," said Steve. He wrapped his last piece of toast in a napkin and went back to his room.

Or when they were at yet another gala. Tony wrapped an arm around Steve's shoulders, pretending it wasn't a stretch. "I was thinking," he whispered to Steve, "maybe you're thinking they're all like me. And I get it, you're a traditional guy. As much as it pains me, I realize that casual sex might not be your thing. Ergo, I want to introduce you to," Tony spun them around, "Mark Potter and Luis DeVille."

Steve politely extended his hand to the two gentlemen who stood before him in tuxedoes, giving a faint smile to the sharply dressed little girl who was hiding behind their legs.

"They've been married for – how many years is it, Luis?" asked Tony with a charming grin.

"Oh, you're going to get me in trouble!" cried Luis, glancing back at his husband.

"Six years," said Mark. "We got married in Massachusetts," he added by way of explanation, though this meant little to Steve. He pivoted backward to nudge his daughter out of hiding. "And this is Madison, our daughter. She's three. She's a little shy, but she's wanted to meet you."

"Ooh, ooh," said Luis, "can we get a picture of you and Madison?"

Before Steve could object, someone was handing him a preschooler and he was crouching down with the girl on his knee and he was putting on his best publicity smile for the camera and he felt like he couldn't breathe and he had to get out of this place. He set the child down and backed away, hopefully sounding sane and polite as he made his excuses, but he knew that both was too much to hope for.

He left the building and summoned a cab. He would have rather walked home, but he was too memorable in his dress greens and he didn't want to be noticed. He didn't want anyone to approach him, talk to him, ask for his autograph. It was cold out. Steve hated the cold, ever since he'd been frozen in ice. He hated the cold, so he wanted to be exposed to it, wanted to punish himself. He rolled down the taxi window and trailed his fingers out into the chill. When he'd first awoken in the future, he'd wondered if perhaps they had found a cure for people like him. Science had made so many advances – why not this one? Steve had investigated carefully, away from Stark's wifi, using physical books he kept carefully hidden and never removed from the libary. And the answer had been no. No, they couldn't fix him. He had to keep doing what he'd always done. He had to hide, he had to be careful, he had to control himself, he had to discipline himself when he stumbled in the slightest, even in his thoughts.

When he got back to the tower, he wanted to exercise. Maybe the heavy bag. But he couldn't face the showers, and he didn't want to run into anyone else in the gym. Instead, he went back to his room, changed carefully out of his dress uniform, and sat on his bed with his sketchbook. Drawing was the only indulgence he allowed himself. He never drew a person while they were there – too exposed. Instead, he fixed the image in his mind and sketched it when he got home. The drawings were respectful. They were. The figures were clothed, and the person never even knew. He still felt guilty, but he had to have one outlet, just one valve to release the terrible pressure.

He turned the pages in his sketchbook slowly, almost reverently. He lay his fingers on the faces, stroked the hair, even allowed himself the barest hint of a smile when he looked at the legs. He didn't know how much time had passed when there was a knock on the door, followed by the last person Steve wanted to see.

Tony's tie was untied and the top button of his shirt was undone. He looked – oh god, was that pity? Steve didn't know if he could handle pity right now.

"Steve," said Tony, "I know I've got a reputation, but I swear, I just want to help you."

Steve pressed both hands hard against his forehead, wringing his scalp as if it were a sponge. "Tony, it's not what you think it is."

"You think I don't understand?" asked Tony, with a strand of intensity vibrating in his voice. "I didn't grow up in the 30's, but I know a thing or two about homophobia. Do you know what my dad did to me when he found out I was dating boys?"

"I'm not gay!"

"I'm an alcoholic, Steve. I know a thing or two about denial."

"Tony, I'm begging you, just drop it."

"You don't have to keep punishing yourself for the way you were born."

Steve closed his eyes. "Yes," he said softly, "I do."

There was a look of sincerity and pity on Tony's face. "You don't have to suffer like this. If you love someone, how can that be wrong?"

Steve stood up, muscles tense and bulging against his skin. There was a vein protruding from his forehead. His jaw was clenched so tightly it shook. "You," he breathed, "know," another breath, low and furious, "nothing." He pushed Tony to the side and stomped out of the room.

Tony sighed and sat down on Steve's bed. The mattress was firm. Of course it was. There was something hard and flexible under his leg. Tony identified it by touch – a sketch pad. Steve must have stashed it just before Tony entered the room. There may have been a tiny speck of Tony's conscience still advocating respect for others' privacy, but it was drowned out by curiosity and concern for Steve and reckless impulsivity.

Tony opened the sketch pad.

He flipped one page after the next, his mouth hanging open in shock. Steve had been right. Tony didn't understand. It wasn't okay.

Page after page, Steve had drawn little girls.

Warnings: Apparent internalized homophobia, pedophilia