A/N: *Blows dust off keyboard* Here we go.
They say there are only two things in life that are certain: death and taxes. But if you're Tony Stark there are three: death, taxes and the fact that Steve Rogers hates you. (Although Tony had a sneaking suspicion that "hate" might have been too strong a word even for Steve. He'd probably use something like "strongly dislikes" or "does not care for".)
They fight. They fight all the time. No one was even really sure over what. Just stuff. They fight to fight, fight over nothing, fight over something, fight because they're bored, fight because they're not bored. (Or maybe they fight because Tony just really likes to push Steve's buttons, either way, he's not saying.)
They just plain don't get along. Like hot and cold, cats and dogs, old people and technology, vegetarians and hotdog carts. These things just don't belong.
So, it's been established that they fight. This much is apparent. But it was the other F-word that Tony did not see coming. In fact, he's still not even really sure how it happened.
There they were, screaming at each other over something that was most definitely not Tony's fault-okay fine, like 75% Tony's fault-when he was pretty sure Steve had finally snapped and was actually going to kill him.
But, before Tony's tragic and untimely death (okay who's he kidding, he should've died years ago) Steve slammed him up against the wall and kissed him. Hard.
This...this Tony did not see coming.
Not that he minded. At. All.
And the following events that happened next went by in such a rush that Tony wasn't even really sure if it had happened at all. They'd went from angry kissing to angry fucking-up-against-an-unforgiving-wall in no time flat. And Steve was brutal about it too, like he wanted to hurt Tony, like he'd hated-
Oh, right. Already been established.
And afterwards, after Tony was good and fucked seven ways from sideways and on the floor unable to move or think or breathe, Steve had just grabbed his clothes- -angrily one might even say- -said nothing and left. Not even a thank you.
Or fuck you, whatever.
And Steve probably wasn't even going to call him the next day.
So that's how that feels.
...
The second time it happens the others are around- -for the fighting, not the fucking; Tony's not that fucked up- -for it. There they were, after a particularly near death mission that was only about 85% Tony's fault and Steve was really laying into him, and not in the way Tony would've liked to have been laid, thank you very much, when Tony may or may not have spat something particularly venomous at their fearless leader.
Steve's eyes narrowed.
The others slowly started backing out of the room. Well, except for Clint, who Tony's sure is the world's biggest ass because the man had stuck a bag of popcorn into the microwave because, why not. Free show and all.
He'd eventually left when Natasha had grabbed him by the arm and muttered something about him not wanting to have to testify.
And so maybe Tony had started- -or well, egged on- -this particular fight because he was wanting to get laid again. And after his last romp-up-against-the-wall with Steve Tony had a feeling no one else would be able to satisfy him quite like that.
Once you go super serum, you... you're ruined.
Steve, once again looking five seconds away from murder, grabs Tony by the shirt and- -oh yeah, here it comes- -drags him into the other room?
Huh. Looks like kitchen sex was not in the stars for them. Pity.
Steve hauls him into the living room and throws Tony onto the couch. "Strip," he demands. And now, any other day Tony would've ripped all his clothes off so fast one would've missed it if they blinked, but this time around Tony wanted their fucked-up version of foreplay to last a little longer.
"Make me," he counters, and if he was a little bit scared of the other man, no one could prove it.
Steve's jaw may or may not have clenched and Tony had only grown harder. Oh boy, this was going to be good.
In the end Tony had lost his clothes, certain articles never to be worn again due to casualties, and Steve had once again left without a word, leaving Tony wondering if they'd really done anything at all or if it was just his fucked up imagination playing tricks on him. He shifted on the couch and- -ouch- -okay, it had really happened.
He was really going to have to talk to Steve about the not talking. This was just becoming plain rude.
...
Tony decides to talk to Steve, at probably the worst possible time.
Steve had just pushed the smaller man into the nearest elevator and practically punched the emergency stop button to death, a look of anger in his eye frightening enough to scare Satan himself. And Tony, ever the fast thinker, may have caused that look due to a snarky remark made in passing about Steve's uniform.
Leather opens up such a wide variety in the jokes department.
Steve had one hand in Tony's hair, the other squeezing a bruise into his hip, and a hot mouth working its way down Tony's jaw.
"I know you hate me and all, but I think we eventually need to talk about this."
Steve pulled back, brows furrowed. "I don't hate you."
Even the fly on the wall was laughing.
"Steve, we have fucked two times now, soon to be three, and each time you have just up and left right afterwards. Not a word spoken." Tony braced himself for the cold hard truth. That or a punch to the face. Again, fucked up version of foreplay.
However, Steve just had the audacity to look sheepish. "I..I liked what we had going on. I didn't want to ruin it by talking."
Tony nearly laughed. "What did you possibly think you were going to say to ruin this." He waved a hand between them. Hell, Steve could call Tony Howard if that's what he wanted and it probably wouldn't ruin what they had.
Probably.
Steve leveled him a flat look. "I wasn't afraid of what I was going to say."
Oh. Oh.
Right. Steve had an excellent point.
Another bruising kiss was placed to Tony's mouth and he was beginning to wonder if that was Steve's way of preventing him from speaking. Tony moaned around his lips and sank more against the wall as Steve manhandled him in the best way possible.
"I promise not to ruin this by talking," Tony got out breathlessly, "but I really do think we should talk about it. Maybe tonight over dinner?"
Steve chuckled, releasing his crushing grip on Tony ever so slightly. "Sure, Tony, over dinner." His hand slid up Tony's shirt before mouths found each other again.
"Wait, just one more thing," Tony got out between kisses. Steve sighed.
"What?"
"We're still going to fight, right?"
A smile cracked over Steve's face. "Yeah, Tony, we're still going to fight."