Widows: Part 3
Steve cleaned himself up with a shop towel, and he stuck it in his pocket after he'd dressed. He checked his watch: right on time.
Leisurely, he made his way from garage to house, feeling good, relaxed in his body. The key was to hold on to the relaxed feeling; he was determined not to turn pink when he saw Tony. It felt mildly unethical, Steve's use of Tony in his fantasies, but Steve couldn't seem to help it, particularly now, when he finally knew what Tony felt like in his arms. If only he knew what he tasted like…Steve schooled his face into neutral lines as he opened the door.
There was yelling.
"Morgan!" Tony was frantic. "You've got to let me in there! Morgan! Damn it!"
Steve took the stairs two at a time. Tony was on his knees, yelling at Morgan's bedroom door, and Steve could hear her sobbing hysterically on the other side of it.
"Morgan! Open this door!" Tony half-demanded, half-pleaded.
"What happened?" Steve's heart was in his throat.
"The fucking cat bit her, and she wouldn't let me look at it! She ran up here and locked the door, and I'm not strong enough to force it! I—"
"Move," Steve ordered, and Tony crawled away, his face the color of ashes.
"Morgan!" Steve said, loud and firm. "You have until the count of three before I break open the door. One, two–"
"Steve!" Morgan cried. He could hear her scrabbling at the lock, and then she flung the door open, launching herself wailing into his arms.
"Let me see," he insisted, peeling her away. There was blood all over her overalls from a set of nasty, ragged puncture wounds in the flesh between the thumb and fingers of her right hand. It looked like she'd tried to rip her hand from the cat's mouth, and the cat had held on tight.
"Stanley bit me!" Morgan howled, betrayed. "She bit me!"
"Okay," Steve said, trying to calm his racing heart, "let's go to the bathroom. We've got to wash this out."
"No!" She made a break for the closet, but Steve grabbed her, hugging as she writhed against his chest.
"First aid kit is under the sink. She's going to need antibiotics," Tony called above the din, sounding like he might throw-up. "I'll make her an appointment."
Steve picked Morgan up, still shrieking, and carried her down the hall. She fought him hard the whole time as he washed out the bite under the bathroom faucet.
"It hurts!" she wailed.
"I know, sweetheart, but I have to. I have to clean it," Steve said, holding her tight to his chest with one arm and forcing her hand under the faucet with the other. At some point, he became aware of Tony standing with his walker at the door, watching the fight.
"You're going to Saranac Urgent Care," Tony said quietly. "They're waiting. I texted you the address."
"What? You're not coming?" Steve put antibiotic ointment over the punctures and wrapped her hand as she gasped, trying to catch her breath.
"No."
"And why not?" Steve snapped. "I shouldn't have to take her by myself. I wasn't even the one on duty."
"I don't want her to be upset," Tony murmured, eyes on the floor.
"Morgan, can he come?"
"No!" Morgan said emphatically, and Steve kicked himself. He shouldn't have asked, just told her how it was going to be. He wanted to scream as he collected Morgan in his arms; the Starks were going to win this round because there wasn't time to argue with them. But this, Steve decided, was the end of his losing streak.
Tony returned to the scene of the crime. He lay in Steve's bed, staring at the ceiling in his quiet, empty house, waiting for the arrival of his next bad decision. Even with the ludicrous tip, it took an hour and a half for someone to fill his Instacart order: one bottle of bourbon from the only liquor store in the county. When he was totally, completely sure his delivery person was gone, Tony took his wheelchair out on the porch to retrieve the bottle then went to the garage, fleeing from one crime scene to another.
"Boss?" Friday said. "Are you drinking alone?"
"Yep." He sipped from a dirty coffee mug. The bourbon was delicious, woody and sweet in his mouth, burning all the way down.
"I'm supposed to remind you that's a bad idea." It would've been more convincing coming from Jarvis; Tony always suspected he was sentient by the end, capable of real judgement and disapproval. Capable of love.
"Noted. I'm only having one." Tony knew it was a lie even as he said it; he wasn't sure why he bothered. Friday wouldn't care one way or another. He supposed it was that last scrap of self-preservation talking, the one that was screaming from the corner that he really shouldn't do this, that he didn't need to do this. It wasn't inevitable. He'd had a slip, but he could stop before he hit the skids.
"Friday, call my aide and tell her not to come. Say we had to take the kid to the doctor," he said, disappointed with himself but unable to arrest his fall.
"You got it, Boss."
"Friday, where's Rogers?"
"Still at Saranac Urgent Care, Boss."
"Let me know when they're on the way back."
If Cap found him trashed, there'd be hell to pay. He lingered on the image of Steve angry, spine snapped straight, mouth compressed in a thin, tight line, eyes hard and mean. Maybe the threat of Steve's righteous anger would be enough to deter Tony from total self-destruction. It hadn't been enough earlier in the day, but maybe this time.
Maybe…
Nah.
Tony poured more bourbon into his coffee cup and went to the shop bathroom, tottering on his own two feet. The lights came on automatically, flaring to life over the mirror. Setting his drink on the edge of the sink, he ran his hand over his gaunt face. His cheeks were so thin and pale that they made Tony think of wet paper, like he could tear through the flesh if he pushed even a little too hard. It had taken him a solid year to build back his body after Titan, and he'd been younger and in better shape than he was now. He wondered if he could even do it again. God, he looked so fucking old.
He'd gone very grey in the months since October. Grey at the temples, grey in his beard. It was hard to say how much was new and how much was down to the fact he'd gone cold turkey on the hair dye; he'd been using a wash for years that covered some of the silver, but he'd given it up. There was absolutely no point anymore. Going forward, he was what he was: Fifty-three. Widowed. Scarred. Maimed.
Gingerly, he fingered his stump, crude and ugly at the end of his cut-off sleeve, bemoaning anew his lopsided appearance. After a life spent making machines of sleek and symmetrical beauty, he could no longer count himself among them. The scars only added to his ugliness and imbalance, concentrated as they were on the right side of his body. Slightly raised with a dull metallic sheen, they were like nothing Tony had ever seen before, and his doctors were all just as baffled by them. They could fade with time, he'd been told, but it was just as likely that they wouldn't.
He wondered how he'd feel about it all a few glasses in. He'd never been a moody drunk, not like Howard. Tony was a fun drunk, adventurous, flirtatious. Horny as a coed on spring break. Some booze might help him get his groove back. Maybe when he was well lubricated, he could take a page out of Cap's playbook and make sensuous love to himself in the shop. He could record it, send it to Rogers, and Cap could hide it in the porn folder on his phone, not that he'd want it when he saw it. Did Cap even have a porn folder? Probably not. Porn would be too morally ambiguous. Steve could sell it to the paps, then; it'd be no less than Tony deserved. Tottering back out of the bathroom, Tony stretched out long on the sofa. Sticking his hand up under his shirt, he touched his chest, running his fingers over what remained, skin and bone and gristle, trying to remember how to find pleasure in it and failing.
What did Steve Rogers want him for, anyway? The Tony Stark of ten years ago, sure, Tony could see wanting that guy: handsome and cocky, still in love with real estate and fast cars, still in love with parties and fights. He could understand why that iteration of Tony Stark might appeal to a young man who'd grown up with nothing, repressed and shy. But then again, none of those qualities or appetites had appealed to Steve because Steve had never been young; he'd only ever looked that way. So what did Steve want with him? Back Then or Right Now?
Tony resolved to find out.
Because this thing between them, whatever it was, had been going on a long, long time.
Even with an appointment, there was still a long wait in a crowd of coughing people. The sound made Steve's skin crawl, reminding him of asthma and tuberculosis, making his chest tighten uncomfortably.
"How'd this happen, little lady?" asked the doctor when they were finally shown to a room. He'd unwrapped her hand, turning it carefully under a bright light.
"I put Stanley in a baby bonnet."
"I don't think 'ole Stanley liked that too much," chuckled the doctor, trying to share a smile with Steve, but Steve had misplaced his sense of humor in the waiting room.
They waited again at the pharmacy for antibiotics, and it was dark when they started the drive home. Dinner was chicken nuggets from a drive-thru, and Morgan fell asleep before they made it back to the house, exhausted. Steve was exhausted, too. Exhausted. Defeated. A little angry. Had it really been too much to ask for Tony to keep her for a lousy half-an-hour? But Steve's anger was like a matchstick, a bright, brief flare that went out again immediately. The disaster hadn't been Tony's fault. It might just as easily have happened on Steve's watch.
Stay asleep, Steve prayed as he peeled Morgan out of the car and took her upstairs to her bedroom, and some extremely minor kind of angel must have seen he needed a break, because she stayed quiet even as he stripped her out of her bloody overalls.
"You devil," he said to Stanley, scooping her out of the chair on his way out the bedroom door, feeling another flash of anger. "Do you know how much trouble you caused?" But Stanley just chirruped contentedly and purred, and Steve's anger ebbed. "Wasn't your fault, either, I guess," Steve admitted, holding her against his chest, rubbing her silky head. "Who wants to wear a bonnet? Nobody, that's who." Out in the hall, he released her on the carpet, watching as she dashed away to make some new mischief.
"Friday," he asked, "where's Tony?"
"He's in the garage, Captain Rogers."
"Let him know I'm back, okay? I've got to take a shower, but tell him I'm going to watch a movie or something after."
"Yes, Captain."
They did that sort of thing now, after Morgan was asleep, watched movies or television, read together on the couch. And sometimes, if Tony seemed sore or just particularly sad, Steve would rub his neck and shoulders, and Tony would let him.
He was disappointed when Tony wasn't waiting when he came out in his pajamas.
"Friday? Is he still in the garage?"
"Yes, Captain Rogers."
"Okay. I'm going out there. Let me know if Morgan wakes up."
Stepping into a pair of loafers, Steve dashed through the light snowfall. But even in the garage, Tony wasn't immediately anywhere. "Tony?" he called, suddenly uneasy.
"Yep." A hand appeared over the back of the leather sofa, waving limply. "How'sshe?" All of the esses in the question bled together a little, the sibilants melting at the edges. Tony cleared his throat, tried again, enunciating, "Sorry. How is she?"
He was drunk.
And now a whole box of matches was on fire in Steve's chest, lighting up in a furious burst. How dare you, he wanted to spit, when I spent all afternoon in a flu-filled waiting room with a whining preschooler?
Then, once again, Steve's anger flared out: Tony had dared because a flu-filled waiting room with a whining preschooler was the one place on earth Tony had wanted to be.
"She's exhausted," Steve sighed, peering over the back of the sofa. "She fell asleep in the car. They gave her some antibiotics and a numbing cream. Where's the bottle, Tony?"
"Why?" Tony squinted at him, suspicious. He was flat on his back, his face flushed and stubbled, hair standing on end. The aide clearly hadn't been by, which meant he'd probably been at it for hours.
"Because I'm having one."
"Good answer," Tony said with a wink, pointing a finger pistol at a work table and firing towards the bottle with a 'click' of his tongue. "There's another mug on top of the toolbox."
"Is it clean?"
"It's empty."
Steve poured a healthy measure of bourbon into the questionable cup and joined Tony on the sofa. "Sit up a little and I'll rub your shoulders," he offered. Tony obliged, lifting just enough for Steve to sit down before collapsing halfway in his lap, and Steve started to rub at the side of Tony's neck. The bourbon, when Steve tasted it, had a distinct top note of old coffee. Steve sighed, feeling some tension leak out of his body along with the tension that was leaking out of Tony's. He noticed Tony gazing up at him, a mysterious smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"What?" Steve asked.
"Don't you want to lecture me about my selfish and irresponsible behavior?"
"I thought about it," Steve admitted.
"And?" Tony raised an eyebrow.
"And…" Steve sipped his drink, considering how to answer. "And I realized you've had a hard day."
"I've had a hard four months."
"Yes," Steve agreed, digging into Tony's trapezius with a thumb. "That said, you aren't allowed to do this again. I'll go ahead and tell you now, I can't juggle a kid and a drunk. And you aren't supposed to drink that much while you're taking the antipsy—the pills."
"Taking the antipsychotics?" Tony was still smiling. "You can say it. It's not a dirty word, and I'm not under any delusions. I mean, I am, but I'm not under any delusions about my delusions, know what I mean? I've been having breakthrough psychosis for a couple of hours." Raising his hand, he directed a finger towards the ceiling as though he were pointing out a flock of birds, "There are about a hundred little fish up there right now."
"You don't seem upset about it," Steve observed.
"I'm used to them. We aren't pals, but the minnows are fine as long as they stay out of my personal space. The big ones, though…" he shuddered. "There was a massive one in here earlier."
"What happened to it?"
Tony shrugged. "Doesn't like you."
"Well the feeling's mutual. I don't like him. Speaking of," Steve dug in the pocket of his t-shirt, removing a couple of Seroquel tablets. "Here."
Tony sat up and obediently opened his mouth, like Steve was a priest with the communion wafer. Steve put them on his tongue, feeling something tightening in his chest. When Tony inclined his head towards Steve's drink, Steve held the cup to his lips, giving him a sip of the coffee-flavored bourbon before Tony made the sign of the cross and draped himself back across Steve's lap with a sly smile, making something hot flood Steve's belly, equal parts guilt and pleasure. Tony was flirting with him. With Steve Rogers. But Tony was drunk, and it would be a mistake to flirt back.
But exactly what you want is a hard thing to resist.
"You're going to Hell," Steve observed. "You did it with the wrong hand."
Tony laughed, and it lit up his face, making his smile flash white, crinkling the corners of his eyes. Steve couldn't remember the last time he'd seen him laugh like that. It looked awfully good on him.
"I blame Parker. Make him say a rosary for me or something. At the rate he does wiring, I'll never have anything resembling a right hand again. And he's standing me up tomorrow, too. Says he'll be out too late. "
"Yeah? What's he up to?"
"He's taking a real live girl to the school dance."
"Really?"
"He sent me a picture. I was sort of expecting Ned in a wig, but—" Tony fumbled the phone from the pocket of his pajama pants, offering it for Steve's inspection. Parker, in khakis and a blazer, had his arm around a lovely girl in a blue dress. He looked deliriously happy, like he couldn't believe his luck. The girl wore a dry smile, her eyes cut towards Peter. She looked amused by him, but it was a fond amusement, a genuine liking.
"How about that?" Steve said, handing back the phone. "She's very pretty."
"Yep. Tell me, Rogers: how did it come to pass that my dweeb-y teenage protégé is getting more action than I am?"
Steve's brow creased. "You think they're—?"
"No. I asked. They're 'just friends.'" He sighed with a dramatic roll of his eyes. "Haven't so much as made out under the bleachers. He sounded like he was going to pass out when I told him he should stick some condoms in his wallet just in case."
"Did he do it?"
"Who knows. I'll make sure the next time he bothers to show up. I'll put them there myself if I have to. Actually, I should put a pocket in his suit for that."
"Does the Iron Man armor come equipped?" Steve asked, teasing.
"Not in a long, long, long time. God, I haven't bought condoms in…I can't even remember. No, wait. I do. I bought one in a gas station bathroom last year because it was tamarind flavored and had a rampaging bull on the package."
"But you didn't use it?"
"Did you miss the part about it being tamarind flavored? Of course I used it. And I'm told my dick tasted like Jaurritos even after I took it off. My one regret is that I'm not flexible enough to self-fellate. You know," he continued philosophically, "the sex life of the married man is the butt of every joke told by the young and single, but lemme tell you: sex is a crime of opportunity, and when you've got somebody in your bed every night, you commit a lot of crimes." Then his face fell, turning sad, "What am I going to do, Steve? I mean—" he swallowed and put his hand over his eyes. There was no possible answer Steve could think to give other than to move his arm over Tony's chest, let it rest there.
You don't need to do anything, Steve wanted to you're ready, let me know, and I'll love wondered what might happen if he did. It was essentially what Peggy had done for him, showed up one night when Steve was on leave, told him that she loved him, and that when he was through mourning Buck, she was waiting for him. Of course it hadn't taken long; they'd fallen into bed that same night. Steve hadn't felt ready, not really, not even as he had laid down on the cold mattress, but he'd figured he probably never would, and he was lonely. Peggy at least would be careful with him. Since she knew how Steve was broken, she could maybe even mend him a little. And even if she couldn't, she'd be watching for the places that were too sore to touch. Steve took another sip of his drink, then let it sit in his mouth, burning along with his unspoken confessions of love.
"I did something bad today," Tony said into the silence, and Steve could hear the guilt lurking behind the words. Steve swallowed, feeling the heat trickle down his throat.
"It wasn't your fault, Tony. You went in another room, and Morgan did something stupid. It could just as easily have happened to me."
"Not the cat." Tony sat up abruptly, leaving Steve's lap cold and empty.
Steve felt a pit open in his stomach. "What did you do?"
"Tell me you'll forgive me first."
"Tony, what—? "
"That's how it works, right, Father Steven? Confession always comes with a guarantee of absolution."
"It would," Steve said warily, "if I were a priest, but—"
"I've forgiven you for worse things," Tony said sharply. "Much, much worse. You've got to give me this one. Say it."
It was a test. It was a test Steve had taken many times before, a test with just one question: Tony Stark asking Do you trust me? And even now, after he'd passed and failed the same exam more times than he could count, Steve still found the question hard.
"I'll forgive you. Now tell me: what did you do?"
This time, Steve had managed to pass. I trust you. I trust that whatever you've done is nothing so bad it can't be forgiven.
"See that halibut up there in the corner?" Tony asked, pointing a finger at the ceiling. "There's a camera there. And there's another one over there by that mackerel."
Steve set his cup on the coffee table, his pulse starting to speed.
"I put 'em up because a certain sneak thief with pigtails kept breaking and entering. Every time the cameras detect movement in here, I get an alert on my phone." Tony took it from his pocket and waggled it. "I got one this afternoon. And I should have turned off the feed when I saw it was you, but I didn't." He tossed the phone on the coffee table hard enough that it bounced. "Mea fucking culpa."
"You…" Steve felt like he'd been hit in the gut, temporarily airless. He could feel himself blushing. He wasn't angry, though he supposed he should be, just deeply embarrassed that he'd been caught.
"Yeah," Tony confirmed, mouth twisting like he'd tasted something bitter. "I'm not proud of it. It won't ever happen again. From here on out, Friday will shut down the cameras anytime you're in the garage, and no notification will be sent. As long as you don't leave behind a crusty sock, I won't know a thing."
"But why did you do it? What were you…were you going to rag me about it?" Steve couldn't remember exactly, but he thought a 'Tony' or two had maybe slipped out, and he was worried he'd never hear the end of it.
"Rag you about it? You aren't hearing me, Steve. I watched you. I watch watched you. I was watch-watching you when the cat decided she was through with kibble and tried to eat the kid." Tony snorted and shook his head, disgusted with himself. "You know, you really should go to the city, Cap, get a room for a couple of days, go on a date, get laid. I'll get Olivia to come stay. My sex life has necessarily come to a screeching halt, but that doesn't mean yours should. I heard you were on Tinder–"
"Tony–" Steve interrupted, but Tony ran right over him.
"As you've pointed out, you gave up your whole single-in-the-city existence to live like a monk in a cabin upstate where the only dating app we've got is Farmer's Only. And if your masturbation fantasies have come to include my sorry ass, I think it's safe to say sexual Stockholm Syndrome has well and truly set in—"
"Tony—"
"What do you want me for, anyway? Historically, you don't even like me. You–"
Steve kissed him. He couldn't think of anything else to do, and he couldn't listen to the guilty torrent anymore, either. Tony went rigid against Steve's press of closed lips, eyes wide. Steve was no better; he was just as stiff, and he pulled back immediately, heart hammering painfully in his chest.
"Stop it, Tony," he murmured. "Just…stop."
Tony looked at him, then, slowly, his eyes narrowed, like was assessing something.
"Do it again," he said finally.
Steve blinked. "What?"
"I said, 'do it again.' Actually–" Tony leaned forward, snagging Steve by the back of the neck, licking over the seam of Steve's lips, and suddenly their tongues were tangled together. Tony tasted like coffee and booze, like teeth and saliva, and he smelled like stale sweat and skin and nothing at all like that expensive bottle of aftershave Steve had opened his first night in the house. There was no polish to the kiss, no polish to Tony either, his cheek rough where it scraped against Steve's, his hair greasy under Steve's fingers.
It was nothing like Steve thought it would be, and it turned on something inside him, flipped some kind of switch—He grabbed Tony, pressing them together, forgetting just how this moment was supposed to go, how careful and in control he'd planned to be, because Tony was melting, liquid in his arms. He was unprepared for Tony's instantaneous, full-body surrender. He was unprepared for how possessive he'd suddenly feel, unprepared for his immediate, intense flush of desire. And now Tony was making some kind of desperate little mew, a querulous sound of need and want so unlike any sound Steve had ever imagined Tony Stark making…
"Captain Rogers," Friday interrupted, voice too loud over Tony's soft, back of throat whine. "Morgan is awake."
Steve wrenched away with a gasp. "Oh. Oh. Okay. Okay," he was babbling. "Tell her to lay back down. Tell her I'm coming to get her in just a minute."
"Of course," Tony panted, falling back flat on the sofa with a grimace. "Of course. Every fucking time." And even though Steve knew he absolutely shouldn't look, his eyes flickered to the half-hard bulge in Tony's pants before he forced them back to Tony's face, heart thudding so hard it felt like it would bruise his ribs.
"Can I find you later?" he asked, breathless.
"Well, I'm sure you can," Tony said drily, still panting, "I'll never get far on foot. But can isn't really the question. You want to know, do I want you to?"
"Do you?"
Tony's eyes flicked to Steve's mouth, and when Tony caught his bottom lip between his teeth, Steve's stomach flipped over.
"Yeah. Find me."
Tony waited in the garage for a long time, then he went back to the house and waited some more in the living room, scrolling through Netflix, but Steve never showed, and Tony was sobering up with each passing minute. He turned the television off without picking anything and went upstairs.
He brushed his teeth, watching himself in the bathroom mirror, his face so thin that it looked like the toothbrush would poke right through the wall of his cheek as he moved it around his mouth. He spit, then stood leaning on the counter, continuing to study his reflection. For a moment in the garage, he'd felt like an earlier version of Tony Stark: tipsy, flirty, slinky. But the sensation was ebbing along with the alcohol, and pretty soon he'd be back to feeling as sexy as an anatomical skeleton in the corner of a lecture hall.
And now he had a Steve Problem. The friendly, undefined intimacy wasn't so friendly anymore, and Tony didn't know how to handle it. Right now, all Tony could say for sure was that he wanted Steve to rip his clothes off; if it were just a question of lust, it would all be hunky-dory. (Or, given Steve's physique, dory-hunky? Emphasis on the 'hunky,' anyway.) But it wasn't just lust. Lust was shallow, and Tony and Steve were already swimming in the deep end of the pool. Whether or not he and Steve started shacking up, they were shackled together, and this, whatever it was, might drown them both.
Steve needed to hurry the fuck up before Tony came to his senses.
He went to his bed and collapsed in it, pulling the covers all the way up. He was never warm enough now, never. God, he wanted Steve in the bed if only for the heat…
The door opened, just a crack, derailing Tony's train of thought.
"Tony? Are you still awake?" Steve whispered, bright and hopeful.
Oh my god, Tony thought, he's got it bad, but then, Tony's pulse had picked up, too, as soon as the door had opened, and he was…happy (Happy? Was that what it was?) that Steve had shown up.
"I'm awake."
"I'm sorry it took me so long," Steve apologized, closing the door behind him and locking it. "Her hand hurts. She wouldn't go back to sleep. "
"Morgan has always excelled at cockblocking. That's why she doesn't have a sibling. Honestly, it's a sixth sense with her. She knows when Daddy's going to get laid and wakes up accordingly. " The words rolled off Tony's tongue fast and glib before he could even consider them, and they felt good, sending a tingle through his body that made him feel gleefully alive.
"I'm not here for that," Steve said, but Tony could hear him smiling in the dark.
"Oh, really? Then just what are you here for?"
"We need to talk."
"We can do that, too. But I think you know, and I certainly do, that if you come over here, something else is going to happen first." Steve hesitated, and Tony rolled his eyes as he reached over and flipped on the reading lamp. "Or not. Come and sit on the bed, Steve. I promise I won't molest you, not unless you want me to."
Steve took a deep breath, like he was gathering up his courage or his self-control–gathering some virtue, anyway–and then sat at the foot of the bed, well away from Tony's potentially wandering hand.
"You don't trust me," Tony observed, amused.
"Well, I don't want to get distracted."
"That's too bad. I promise it's more fun that way."
"We need to establish some rules."
"My safe word is 'donut.'"
Steve continued as if he hadn't heard. "We've got to be discreet, Tony. Morgan doesn't need to know about this. Not for a while, anyway."
"You think I want my kid to know I'm fucking the manny? 'Discretion' is my middle name. Take your shirt off."
"And that's another thing: I won't fuck you."
"You're in my bedroom, and you just told me we have to be discreet. What are we going to be discreet about, exactly? Our super-secret knitting circle—?"
Steve's expression was too serious by half as he answered, "I'll make love to you, Tony, but I won't just fuck you. You understand the difference, right?"
"I mean–" Tony didn't like the lurch towards earnestness. He swallowed. "Yeah."
"'Yeah' what?" Steve insisted, intent, trying to pin Tony down.
"Yeah, I understand."
"And?"
Apparently, Steve wasn't going to let him slide into this without some kind of declaration of his intentions. But Tony wasn't sure exactly what those were; he'd planned to fuck and figure that part out later. Tony didn't immediately answer, and Steve just sat there, watching Tony sweat.
"That's okay, Tony," Steve said finally, standing up. Evidently, Tony had taken too long.
"Wait," Tony said, reaching for him. "Wait. I just–Maybe we could–"
"No," Steve shook his head, but he didn't sound angry, just ever-so-slightly disappointed. "Not tonight. I plan to make this work between us, Tony. You might as well know it; you probably already do. You aren't ready to make any commitment yet, and that's fine, but that means things stop here for now."
"For now?"
"Yeah. For now." He reached for the bedside lamp and switched it off, then he leaned over the bed, pulling up the covers, tucking Tony in. Tony was hyper aware of Steve's hands, even through the layers of blankets. "I'll give you another crack at it if you want, but until then, I can wait." His hand swept away the hair on Tony's forehead, and he kissed him, his lips soft and warm. "Good night, Tony."
Tony snatched the front of his t-shirt. "I could be good. No hands below the waistline. I'd even stay on my side—"
"Would you?" Steve's smile was like a flash of moonlight in the gloom. "I wouldn't." With Tony's fingers still locked on his shirt, he leaned down again, kissing Tony, on the mouth this time, and just like before it made Tony unexpectedly dizzy. Based on cliché and that first, stiff brush of lips, Tony had put together a picture of Steve Rogers as a lover: shy, mild, someone that would let Tony drive the car.
But he'd been wrong.
Because that second kiss—possessive, certain—that second kiss had made Tony feel claimed. He was being claimed again right now, stamped with a big, bold, 'Property of Steve Rogers.' But Steve still pulled away, even when Tony arched off the bed, chasing his mouth.
"Good night, Tony," Steve said again. "When you're ready for me, let me know."
Tony came down early the next morning, long before Morgan, and long before Steve expected to see him. He wore a camel hair coat with the sleeve pinned, aviator sunglasses, and enough of the expensive aftershave to cover the worst of the stale sweat and booze. He was decidedly worse for wear, but he wore the disorder with the kind of confidence only a billion dollars could buy, and he was sort of glamorous for it, like a disgraced movie star. His face twitched when he saw Steve at the table, perhaps chagrinned that Steve was up so early, but his expression was hard to read behind the dark lenses.
"Where are you going?" Steve wondered, laying down his pencil beside his crossword puzzle.
"Out." He drove the wheelchair into the kitchen without looking in Steve's direction, pulling open the drawer with all the car keys.
"You're driving?"
"Yeah. Amazing what they let amputees do these days. Next thing you know, we'll have the vote."
Steve hesitated. Even in the sunglasses, Steve could see the hardening of Tony's expression as he readied himself for an 'sa grown-up, Steve scolded himself, but it didn't help. "I wish you'd let me go with you. The first time at least."
"I've been driving for forty years. I'm not a kid, and you aren't my keeper." He closed the drawer with a slam. "Where's the van key, Rogers?"
Reluctantly, Steve took his keys out of his pocket, pulled the van fob off the ring, and went to drop it in Tony's waiting hand. Then he stopped, fob poised over Tony's palm: Tony's wedding ring was gone.
"Key, Rogers!" Tony snapped. Steve dropped the fob, and when Tony's fingers closed around it, Tony could see the pale band of skin around his finger.
"When you get to the city," Steve said, "please send me a text, let me know you got there."
"Who said anything about the city?" Tony said irritably.
"You aren't wearing that coat to the feed store."
"True." He turned his chair and headed for the door. "If you must know," he said over his shoulder, "I'm meeting Rhodey for brunch at the Plaza."
"And when did you make this plan, Tony?"
"About twenty minutes ago when I woke up hungover for the first time in many years and realized I was seriously considering you as an option. Which is insane. Completely insane."
"He's supposed to talk you out of it?" Steve asked, trying to keep his voice light even as he felt the needle poking at his heart. It seemed Tony wanted him and didn't want him all at once. It had been right to leave Tony's room when he did. Or...maybe it wasn't. Maybe he should have stayed, given Tony what he'd clearly wanted. There was no way to know.
"Talk me out of it, talk me into it—I haven't decided. At this point, I just need a rational third party. My wife's been dead four months, Steve. I shouldn't be entertaining this at all."
"We'll take it slow, Tony. Slow as you need."
"Ha. Right. . You're already raising my kid. You're living in my house. I let you in my bed, and I'll never get rid of you."
"Maybe you won't want to."
"Maybe I won't. And that's exactly what scares me."
"Orange juice is seventeen dollars." Rhodey snorted, frowning at the menu. "What'll an egg and a piece of toast run me? My firstborn child?"
Tony reached over and snatched the menu from the starched tablecloth. "Won't run you anything, asshole. Don't worry about it."
"What are we doing?" Rhodey asked, still frowning. "It's nine am on a Sunday, and I'm stuck at a stuffy, overpriced restaurant where it cost me fifty bucks just to park. Hell, I can't believe they even let you in here. You look homeless."
"Thank you."
"And if you think the aftershave is covering up the bourbon you've been swimming in—"
"Alright!" Tony said, shaking more Tabasco into his Bloody Mary, "Alright. I got it! I look like something the cat dragged in." When he tasted his drink again, it was hot enough to make him cough.
"Tony, you look like something the cat threw up."
Tony was ready with a truly profane comeback when the waiter slid up. "He'll have a black coffee and a mimosa," Tony said before Rhodey could speak. "And then we'll have one of those towers of pastries, the kind you have at afternoon tea, but y'know, now."
"Yes, Mr. Stark," the waiter said without batting an eye, sliding away again.
"And some of those little bitty sandwiches. And a bunch of bacon," Tony added to the waiter's retreating back.
"Seriously, Tony, what's going on? I haven't seen you hungover in—"
"I almost fucked Steve Rogers last night. Or he almost fucked me. The only thing that stopped him was the fact that I was as yet unwilling to pledge my undying love." Tony slurped his Bloody Mary noisily in the stunned silence that followed.
"Run that by me again…"
"Rogers is in love. With me. Or maybe he just thinks he is, maybe it's some kind of transference from the kid, I don't know. Anyway, point being, he threatened to make passionate love to me if I gave him the high sign."
The waiter appeared, sliding a mimosa and black coffee onto the table. "Hey," Rhodey said, picking up the crystal stem and draining half of it, "go ahead and bring me another one of these, yeah?"
"Yes, sir."
Rhodey leaned over the table, "And this, this came out of nowhere?"
Tony hesitated.
"Tony," Rhodey said warningly, reaching over to snatch Tony's sunglasses. Tony winced in the bright light.
"We were drinking and making out in the garage," he admitted.
"Oh my god."Rhodey hung a hand over his eyes. "How long has this been going on?"
"It hasn't. I mean, not really. Unless you count what I now recognize as sexual tension dating back more than a decade—"
"Tony, what are you going to do about this? That man is living in your house—"
"I don't know what I'm going to do about it. That's why you're here. Give me some reasoned counsel."
"I mean, make sure there's an exit strategy if it blows up in your face. Because if it does blow up, it's going to be nuclear. Go ahead and rent him an apartment or something in case you kick him to the curb. Other than that, take it slow—"
"Wait. Wait–" Tony cut himself off as the server reappeared with another mimosa and a tower of bacon and pastries. "You're saying," he continued in a disbelieving hiss, "you think I should sleep with him?"
"It doesn't matter what I think. You've already made up your mind. If you weren't interested, you'd have kicked him out already."
"So you think I shouldn't?"
"Tony, I don't fucking know," Rhodey drained the second mimosa and sighed. "It's not the worst thing I can think of. He's bossy, he's blond, and he doesn't tolerate your bullshit. Ignore that one time he almost killed you in Siberia, and he's basically Pepper in khakis, and she was the best thing that ever happened to you. But you only lost Pep four months ago, and you've been in a coma half the time, so the timing is…" He threw up hands.
"I'm no good by myself, Rhodey."
"That is also true. But the wrong person is worse than nobody at all. Remember Sheila? No, wait: Julian."
Tony shuddered; he did remember Julian. Julian would not have gotten his dead wife's endorsement.
"Rhodey," he said suddenly, laying all his cards on the table, "do you believe in ghosts?"
"What?"
"Bear with me, here, Jimmy. When I was in the coma–"
Rhodey shifted uncomfortably in his chair, but Tony soldiered on, undeterred.
"I had a vision. A visitation. I don't know what to call it, but it was real. Pepper came to me, and she told me Rogers was next in line for the throne."
Rhodey was looking at him like he'd sprouted a second head.
"Listen, there's evidence: she told me other stuff, too. Verifiable stuff. Like the fact that I'd missed her funeral, and that Steve had gotten two kittens–look, I'm getting goosebumps–"
"Tony," Rhodey cut him off with a hand slapped on the table; Tony jumped, "My friend. My brother. Hear me now: you have lost your goddamn mind."
"But–" Clearly, he hadn't been listening to the incontrovertible evidence–
"Let me finish. But if you have conjured the ghost of Pepper Potts to help ease your mind about this thing, then there is absolutely nothing I'm going to say that will stop you, so let's cut the bullshit and move on to next steps. You're dating Captain America: now what?"