Tony's the type to drift off immediately, and Steve wants to stay there, he wants to hold Tony and watch him sleep, watch the way his arc reactor rises and falls with every breath, and then fall asleep next to him, but he doesn't.
Instead, he slips out, careful not to wake him, and pauses at the door just so he can get one more look at how beautiful Tony looks when he's sleeping.
He goes back to his studio apartment, where all the things he owns in the world are stacked in a corner, and his bed takes up most of the space. SHIELD offered to pay for a bigger place, of course. But he doesn't like feeling like their charity case. And he doesn't even stop to brush his teeth, because he doesn't want to get the flavor of Tony out of his mouth just yet.
Usually, when he goes to sleep, if he sleeps at all, he takes some time to think about all of the people who died in the war. Sometimes he'll try to make himself feel better, think that by this time they'd likely all have died anyway. But that never helps much. If anything, it makes it worse. Usually he goes to bed feeling bitter and defeated and angry at the world. But not tonight.
Tonight he gets into bed, and he bunches up all of his blankets and pillows and hugs them close and tries to pretend that they're Tony. And he closes his eyes, and smiles, and remembers everything that just happened, and remembers the way Tony said "next time," and for the first time since they dragged him out of the ocean, he's genuinely happy.
He's spent so much time criticizing the future for what it doesn't have. But it does have Tony. And maybe that's enough.
Sunday morning he wakes up feeling guilty the way he always does, and it takes him a moment to realize that there's another reason for that. Because while last night, when finishing with their hands had seemed so innocuous as compared to what he thought was going to happen, now he realizes that he basically had sexual contact with a man he doesn't know very well. On the first date. With another man.
But he pulls the blankets tighter around himself, and remembers how great Tony was to talk to at dinner, and how he stopped when he realized Steve was uncomfortable, and how much he really wants to see him again, and then he thinks that maybe in the 21st century everybody has sex on the first date.
He sits around thinking that maybe Tony will call him. It's crazy, absolutely insane, to expect him to. He knows that. He's knows that you're supposed to wait 3 days before calling.
On Monday, he begins having his doubts. About Tony, about himself, about thinking that he can do any of this.
Tony's 38. If the rumors Steve's heard bandied around at SHIELD are true, that means Tony's been having sex for longer than Steve's been simultaneously alive and not frozen. And he's kind of okay with the age difference, because he's met modern 23-year-olds and is shocked at how young they seem. But he's not sure he's okay with the experience difference.
He's supposed to go in to SHIELD for another test, one of those things that he gives in to just because he feels like he can't take their money if he doesn't let them poke and prod him. But this time he begs off and spends the day sitting in his pajamas, sketching the food from their date, daydreaming about Tony's lips and Tony's skin.
Most of his fantasies are appropriately virginal and chaste, about holding hands and going for walks and falling asleep together, but then sometimes he remembers the way Tony said "I could suck you off," and he pictures those lips and feels the memory of them against his and it gets a little harder to breathe.
On Tuesday he goes for a run, and when he gets back he checks the answering machine, but there's nothing. So he goes to his favorite diner for lunch, making conversation with Carol like it isn't a particularly important day, letting her bring him the senior citizen special the way she likes to. Fury would kill him for that, for the breach of security, but he likes the fact that someone who isn't Peggy knows that he's Captain America.
He feels guilty, sometimes, going out to eat when he could make food at home himself. It makes him feel extravagant and wasteful. But he can't cook. And there are only so many sandwiches he can eat before he wants something more.
And, he has the money for it. He tries not to think that way, because he knows that it'll all go away, once SHIELD stops paying him to do nothing. That it'll be hard to get a job when that happens. But right now he has the money and sometimes he just can't help spending it.
Besides, outside of Peggy, Carol is his only social interaction.
For dinner he makes three sandwiches, and sits down with a book, and listens to the radio, and looks at the phone more often than is strictly necessary.
He's not sure when he falls asleep. He knows it's too late. And he knows, when he wakes up late in the morning and checks the answering machine and sees that there aren't any messages, that he's been waiting for something that never had a chance of happening.
Instead of lying in bed, hating himself, and this world he's been thrust into, he goes to visit Peggy. She lives in a nursing home an hour outside of the city, close enough that he can ride out there whenever he wants to, but far enough that he doesn't feel obligated to visit every day.
He suspects Fury had a hand in arranging that. He's learned that most things in his life now happen because of Fury, and he's learned that he's not supposed to know that. He almost wonders if Fury's the one who got Tony to ask him out. But he's not that paranoid.
Usually he goes to see her because he wants to, but today he doesn't. Today what he wants to do is lie in bed all day, hating himself and the world he's been thrust into. He visits her because he knows she'd be upset to hear he'd done that.
He's not sure how to tell her what happened. He's not sure if he wants to tell her.
It took him a long time to even tell her that he liked Tony. It took him a while to realize it, of course, and even longer for him to decide that in the 21st century, maybe, he could let himself accept those kinds of feelings.
But even then, even when he'd managed to rid himself of the shame, once he was completely convinced that there were no laws against it, even then he'd been terribly reticent. He'd only admitted it, finally, because Peggy had noticed the way he mostly seemed happy when talking about gay marriage and Tony, and asked him about it one day. And he'd immediately jumped to assuring her that he liked girls too, and liked her a lot, still, even now, and she'd smiled sadly at him and said, "I had my life. You should have yours."
It still hurt to think about it. To think about all he'd missed out on.
She's had 70 years to forget he ever existed. He kissed her once, when she was 25, and then she went and had a normal life. She got married, had kids. Her kids got married, had kids of their own. Those kids have kids. She's a different person now. He doesn't have the sort of significance to her that she has to him.
He's had six months to get over the fact that the woman he thought he was going to marry has become ancient over night, her once perfect skin saggy and spotted, her hips incapable of supporting her body anymore, her sight and hearing augmented by thick glasses and large hearing aids.
He loves her. But he's been trying to get over her as much as he can when she's still there, and when he'd met Tony, there was a part of him that was relieved to like him so much. Relieved that maybe he could move on as Peggy so obviously wants him to do.
He was awkward and uncomfortable at first, but talking to her about Tony actually made it easier, their relationship. Because now that Steve has someone else – even though, up until four days ago he'd been someone Steve never saw, someone he thought he had no chance with – they've jumped past the uncomfortable place they were six months ago, and they've jumped to being good friends. And he so desperately needs a friend.
Still, today, he feels like he's testing the limit. Like she'll stop him at any moment and say that it's too much. That he should keep his deviant sexual adventures to himself. So he pushes through it, making the whole thing brief, gliding over the sexual bits like a speed skater over the ice, building quickly to the most important part: "he still hasn't called."
She doesn't say anything for a moment, making him self conscious. "I should have told him to stop," he adds, speaking quickly. "I know. He got what he wanted and now he doesn't need me."
"Nonsense," she says, straightening her glasses. "If he only wants to have sex with you, and you say no, then he'll just go find another person to have sex with. You can't change that. You can't blame yourself for his decisions."
Steve shrugs.
"And don't think that you can't go have sex with whoever you like, either," she adds, wagging a finger at him. "This is the 21st century. People do it all the time."
"Okay," he says, wondering when the world got so morally depraved.
"Do you still like him?"
He nods.
"Then call him!"
"I can't do that."
"Why not?"
"If he wanted to see me, he would have called."
"Maybe he's sick. Maybe he lost your number. Maybe he's sitting somewhere right now telling someone else that he thinks you don't want to see him."
"He's not like that."
"Steve Rogers, you will call this man or I will call him for you."
He sighs. "Okay."
"Do you know his phone number?"
Of course he does.
"You mean right now?"
"Yes, I mean right now. What do you think they gave me this phone for?"
Probably not so that some queer from the 40s can call the man he was stupid enough to sleep with, he thinks but doesn't say.
"Well, go on."
"I-" he struggles for words, breathing a sigh of relief when there's a knock on the door.
Theresa pops her head in, biting her lip and offering Steve a small smile. She's the youngest nurse there, probably early 20s. And she's only been working there a few weeks, so while the other nurses have learned that Steve just wants to be left alone, she always made an effort to talk to him. She's beautiful, too, and right now he feels just a little unfaithful to Tony for noticing. And then he feels a little twinge in his heart because he knows Tony wouldn't care.
"I'm sorry to bother you," she says. "Steve, I'm afraid I have a terribly big favor to ask of you."
"Anything," he says, jumping off of the bed, ignoring the amused reproachful look that Peggy gives him and following her out the door.
"This isn't exactly regulation, so you'll have to keep quiet about it," she says. "And if you don't want to, you absolutely don't have to do anything. But I really need to get Mr. Friedman into get into his chair, and nobody from the lift team showed up today."
"No problem."
"I'll help you, and we can get a third person," she says.
"I can do it myself."
"He's very heavy."
"I'm very strong."
She pauses. "The lift position is easier with one person," she says. "But if you drop him, we'll be in a lot of trouble."
"Trust me," he says. "You clearly asked because you really need the help, right? And I wouldn't do this if I didn't think I was capable."
She glances at his baggy sweatshirt, which does almost nothing to hide his shoulder to waist ratio. "Okay."
He has to be careful, moving Mr. Friedman, because he doesn't want to appear too strong. He pretends that the weight of the man's arms around his neck make it difficult for him to stand straight, and then he pretends that he's allowing Mr. Friedman to put most of his weight on his feet, because lifting a 300 pound man isn't something that normal people can do.
When he's done, Theresa thanks him profusely, reminds him that he shouldn't tell anyone what she asked him to do, and then thanks him profusely again.
"I'm sorry that I just walked into your great grandmother's room and pulled you out of there," she says. "She's just always going on about how strong and capable you are, and I thought, well, why not ask."
"We're not related," he says, and immediately wonders why he said it. Of course everyone thinks they're related. "We're just friends."
He sees the shocked look on her face and he scrambles for a lie, wishing he had Tony's ability to improvise. It takes him forever to come up with even the most basic explanation.
"We were neighbors, growing up," he says, finally, after the silence has stretched on far too long. "My family spent a lot of time at her house."
Theresa nods, though he can see she's still not convinced. "She's a great old lady," she says. "It's nice of you to visit her like this."
He nods, offers a thank you, and escapes back into Peggy's room.
And then he runs a hand through his hair and explains what stupid thing he just did, and she smirks. "If you think you're going to get out of making that phone call, you're mistaken."
"I don't even know what to say."
"Say hello, tell him you're going to take him out to dinner tomorrow, and then tell him your 'long time neighbor' wants you to go work on a puzzle with her."
"Shouldn't I ask him if he wants to go?"
"No," she says, shaking her head emphatically. "You never ask. If he wants to say no, he has to work for it."
"Okay." He wonders if she turned up the thermostat while he was gone. She couldn't have, not from her bed.
He dials slowly, part of him hoping there will be another distraction, but there isn't. There's also no answer, though Tony's answering machine message is lifelike enough that Steve almost mistakes it for one. Knowing that he's only talking to a recording makes him breathe easier.
"Hey Tony," he says, wondering if he needs to identify himself. "It's Steve. I had a great time at dinner, and I'd love to do it again. Tomorrow night. I'll be you at your place at 7."
And he hangs up, and Peggy smiles at him, and he tries not to think about the possibility of Tony calling back just to say no thank you.