Chapter 25: Don't You Feel Sorry for Me?
It was dark when Steve woke up. The little window was black, leaving the blue light of the arc reactor, struggling dimly through Tony's t-shirt, as the only illumination in the room. Tony was still asleep on his shoulder, his face slack. Steve considered it in the gloom: the long lashes, the smile lines on either side of the mobile mouth, the charming and entirely undignified slope of the nose. Steve loved it consumingly and never tired of it. He'd realized some time ago that his brain had stopped noticing the differences between the old face and the new; all he could see now was Tony, with all his familiar expressions. In spite of everything, Tony was unalterably Tony.
Steve just hoped Tony could come out himself on the other side of this, too. The handprint was entirely black now; even in the near dark, Steve could see its shadow across Tony's cheek. Vaguely, Steve wondered if he would actually kill Justin Hammer if he had the chance. He'd killed people before, plenty of people, though those deaths had all occurred during combat. This would be strictly revenge, a mortal sin, if you kept track of that kind of thing. Vengeance was reserved for God.
There was a knock, interrupting his dark train of thought—dinner, probably. They'd been asleep for hours. He eased Tony's head off his shoulder and made his way to the door, squinting into the hall light as he opened it.
"Sorry. Looks like I woke you up," Justin Hammer said, smiling. "The jetlag's terrible when you fly east. You ever noticed that? You been to Asia? Thailand's great, but I always feel hungover for days after I get there. And it isn't just the SangSom, you know?"
Steve blinked, faintly disbelieving. The audacity of the guy, trying to make small talk while Tony sported a neck of his extramarital dental work, was impressively shameless. Steve upped his rating of Hammer's potential murder from 'tempting' to 'sorely tempting.'
"Hey, you and I, we got off on the wrong foot this morning," Hammer continued, hands in his pockets. "You came at a bad time."
Steve gave him nothing but a raised brow.
"Let me cut to the chase here, Rogers. I want you to come to dinner. Just you."
Again, silence, though truthfully, Steve didn't know what he'd say even if he were so inclined. But Hammer seemed content to wait, rocking back and forth a little on his heels, as if to show Steve how relaxed he was, how congenial. His face, Steve noticed, looked better than it had any right to. Steve had gotten a good look at it over lunch, and Tony had hit him like a home run ball. Had to be make-up. Interesting. And the suit he had on now wasn't the same crumpled number from earlier; this one was freshly pressed, and Steve could practically smell the starch in his shirt collar. His hair was perfect, he'd shaved. He was impeccably put together, just like Tony when he was trying to sell something very, very expensive. What could Hammer possibly be selling that he thought Steve might buy?
"Why should I?" Steve asked and regretted it instantly. Hammer's smile widened; he knew he had Steve on the hook.
"I want everyone to be as comfortable as possible tomorrow. No surprises, y'know? I'd like to tell you about it."
"So tell me," Steve said, unmoved.
To his surprise, Hammer shrugged and answered. "Name a time, and I'll send some people to set up in your room. They'll put up some lights, set up some cameras at different angles, and then they'll leave you to it. You can have whatever toys you want. Viagra, if you need it. Champagne. Weed. Whatever it takes to make it feel easy for you. How does that sound? Civilized?"
It did, in fact, sound surprisingly civilized. But Steve wasn't about to be won over by a cheap gesture of goodwill.
"Fine," Steve said flatly and started to close the door. "One o'clock."
"I want you to know what happened this morning," Hammer blurted, sticking his foot against the jamb.
"I know what happened." Hammer had better move that foot, Steve thought, or he was about to have trouble doing the lindy hop—
"Tony asked me to have sex. He thought I could change him back."
That wasn't news. Goodnight, Hammer. Hope you aren't too attached to all ten of those toes—
"And he wanted me to hit him." The door stopped an inch from Hammer's polished oxford. "Begged me to, really."
The door reopened slowly. Steve glanced back towards the bed, but Tony was unmoving, still deeply asleep. Steve wasn't sure if he was relieved or the opposite.
"He didn't tell you that," Hammer said, smart enough to sound apologetic. Steve wanted to say he didn't believe it, slam the door in Hammer's face, and go back to bed. Only Steve did believe it, and he wondered what else Tony had kept to himself. This might be Steve's only chance to find out. Despite his pair of naysayers, Steve knew rescue would be sooner rather than later; it was a question of weeks, not months or years. If they got home before Tony disclosed what had actually gone on, he might never tell; he could hide his secrets better than anyone Steve had ever seen. His every trauma was packed away somewhere, each wrapped tenderly in tissue paper and nestled in its individual box, most just as fresh and undealt with as the day they'd occurred. If Tony packed all this away, too, he'd have to get a storage unit.
"Throw some pants on," Hammer urged, sensing Steve's softening stance. "Come to my rooms. Chef is doing filet mignon. We'll talk."
"So Tony's asleep?" Hammer asked, pouring himself a glass of wine.
"Yes," Steve said around a mouthful of meltingly tender beef. It had arrived at his place cut into pieces like it would for a child. The infantilizing gesture burned him up, stinging all the more because he really couldn't have managed the job himself in the immobilizer. He'd almost made up his mind not to eat, but he was hungry, and the soldier in him couldn't turn down a decent meal. Truthfully, it was more than decent.
"Well, good," Hammer said with an approving nod. "He needs to sleep. He looks exhausted. And he's barely touched the food. Booze is a different story, of course. Do you think he needs to dry out? We could do it, you know, here in house. Say the word."
"The word is 'no.'"
"Just a suggestion. He'll probably behave better for you than for me. I hope you can make him eat, at least."
The false concern made Steve want to roll his eyes. "I can't make Tony do anything;" Steve said, "no one can."
"No," Hammer agreed emphatically, pointing with his fork. "You're right. No one can. Tony Stark is a force unto himself. That's exactly why I wanted to talk to you. Look at this." He wiped his hands on his napkin, then presented Steve with a sheaf of papers, some kind of legal agreement.
Steve began to read:
I, Anthony Edward Rogers, née 'Stark,' the undersigned, do hereby fully and affirmatively assent to sexual relations with one (1) Justin Yancey Hammer for purposes of scientific inquiry into the nature and effect of 17-estra-beta-4-ene-21-carboxy-7-acetyl-17- xy[a]phenanthrene (hereafter 'extragen')...
Steve skimmed the rest, eyebrows twitching over phrases like 'oral sex performed pursuant to medically measurable orgasm' and 'male ejaculation delayed until climax achievement by the party of the first part.' The last page of the agreement had been ripped to shreds and carefully pieced back together on a separate sheet. Despite the tears, the bold lines of Tony's signature were instantly recognizable.
"This isn't binding," Steve said as soon as he'd finished. "Tony clearly withdrew consent. You can't possibly enforce this—"
"I'm not trying to enforce it," Hammer insisted. "He's your problem now and lemme tell ya', I am thrilled. But this agreement? All Tony. This is his brainchild, and I wanted you to see it. I didn't offer my services. He asked me for a personal favor, and even then I said 'Nosireebob, I'm not your guy.'"
"But you didn't say 'no,'" Steve pointed out, his bullshit meter pinging. "Your signature is here, too. I'm looking at it."
Hammer shrugged, "A man can only say 'no' so many times, know what I mean?"
Steve did. He put his fork down, knowing he'd never pick it up again. It wasn't that he worried he was in competition with Hammer for Tony's affection; Tony still loved him, he didn't doubt it, but he found that Tony's undivided love wasn't enough. He did not want to share Tony Stark in any capacity, not even a scrap of him. Steve wanted every piece, including whatever ragged tatter Hammer had gotten that morning. But the feeling in Steve's chest was so much bigger and more awful than jealousy; it felt more like going into the ice, when everything he'd assumed about his life had turned out to be wrong. The contours of his world were shifting, redrawing themselves to form a new picture that he wasn't willing to look at.
"What do you want?" Steve asked abruptly. He suddenly wanted to leave, to go back to Tony and reassure himself that his marriage was still intact, that its underpinnings were essentially sound.
"I told you," Hammer said, "I need you to know exactly what happened. I want you to understand that I'm not culpable."
"You're in charge of this facility, Hammer. You're responsible for what happens under your roof."
"But not for this," Hammer insisted, tapping the legal agreement with his finger, "and not for the violence. He told me to hit him, Rogers, but I don't play that way and I said so. He didn't like it, and he slapped the shit out of me."
"You hit him back," Steve said, unimpressed.
"What? I'm not allowed to have limits?" Hammer said defensively.
"Hammer, Tony can't weigh more than a buck twenty-five, and you hit him at least twice—"
"Once wasn't enough for him! He just kept egging me on! He's not alright, Rogers. You know that?"
Steve chewed the inside of his cheek, privately acknowledging the truth of Hammer's statement: No, Tony was definitely not alright. But Hammer wasn't saying this stuff out of concern for Tony's disintegrating psyche.
"Why are you telling me this?" Steve asked. "So you can rub my nose in it?"
"Hardly," Hammer snorted. "I'm a smart cookie; I see how it's going to crumble. Aliens will invade, or we'll enter a new cold war, or one of Tony's sentient robots will try to take over, and then the government will let you all go in exchange for saving the world. Given the state of things, I'd bet you're out in less than eighteen months. I'm living proof that 'locked up forever' doesn't mean that much, not when you have useful skills and golf buddies at the Pentagon. And if you've got a couple of bucks to sink into some reelection campaigns?" Hammer snapped his fingers. "Look, Rogers, I don't want you gunning for me on the outside. I want to rest easy knowing Captain America understands that his husband tried to fuck me and not the other way around. And if you don't believe me, ask Tony. He'll tell you."
But Steve wasn't at all sure that Tony would.
When Steve got back to the room, there was a tray in the hall with a pair of chopsticks and a half-eaten bowl of ramen. Well, that was something. At least Tony had eaten a little, though that also meant he was awake. Steve had hoped he'd be able to slip back in the bed, his absence unnoticed. He hadn't decided what he wanted to do with Hammer's story. It was true, or mostly true; Steve was confident of that, but he had no plans to confront Tony with it. He'd use it as an invitation, he decided. If Tony wanted to add to the story, he could, but he didn't have to. He could say as much or as little as he wanted.
"Did Bruce work up the courage to tell you you're a moron?" Tony asked as Steve opened the door. He was sitting in the bed watching Law & Order, sipping at a water glass of melting ice and stolen pinot. He sounded relaxed, almost cheerful.
"I wasn't with Bruce," Steve said. "I had dinner with Justin Hammer."
For a moment, Tony went perfectly still. Then, very slowly, he picked up the remote and turned off the television. He raised his glass and took a drink, ice clinking loudly in the quiet room. "And why would you want to do a thing like that?" Tony asked. He sounded…Steve wasn't sure. He didn't like it.
"He wanted to talk to me about tomorrow–" The half-truth was out of his mouth before Steve could even consider it.
"Bullshit." Tony's voice was still soft, but now Steve could detect the jagged edge. Immediately, he knew the lie had been a mistake. He had expected Tony would be ashamed or embarrassed, emotions Steve had been ready to soothe away. Instead, Tony sounded angry. Steve had miscalculated somehow–
"Damn you, Steve," Tony said, shaking his head. "I was going to tell you. I wanted to. But you fell asleep."
"It doesn't matter." Steve eased down onto the edge of the bed. "You don't have to tell me anything." He attempted to put his hand on Tony's back, but Tony pulled away.
"I can't believe you just said that," Tony snorted, "not when you went and got the story from Hammer. That was an unbelievably dick move." He set his glass on the bedside table with a thump. "Go ahead, then, ask me."
"Ask you what?" Steve said uneasily.
"Ask me if it's true. Ask me if I wanted it. Ask me if it was hot. Or if I sucked his dick. Or if he ate me out. Or whatever other thing you needed to know so bad you went to Hammer to find out. He doesn't get to have the last word." Tony's voice was broken glass, glittering and razor sharp.
And then Steve's mistake came into crystalline focus: Tony felt he had to tell Steve now; he didn't get to choose. Steve had taken away Tony's control, the one thing Tony was struggling so hard to keep in any aspect of his life. An apology wouldn't fix it; Steve couldn't give Tony back the blank page. Hammer had already written on it, no matter what amends Steve might make. He'd misjudged this on every level. He needed Howard and the Time Machine again; anything less was insufficient, but insufficient was all he had. God help me, he thought, trying not to panic.
"I'm not angry, Tony," Steve offered immediately. "Not about any of it."
"Gee, thanks. Good for you. You're a saint. But guess what? I am."
"I know," Steve assured him. "You have every right to be. I see that now. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have–"
"Sorry won't cut the mustard, Steve. Now ask me what you want to know."
"I won't ask you anything, Tony. Ever. I promise. You can tell me as much or as little as you want—"
"You will," Tony said, his voice pitiless. "You wanted to know so fucking bad you asked Hammer? Well, now you'll ask me. Whatever gross, explicit, disgusting thing you're wondering about? You're going to phrase it in the form of a question. And you're going to hate it, 'cause lemme tell you, I'm not holding back. You wanted to know, you're going to know. Welcome to your personal hell, Steve. Get uncomfortable."
Steve's stomach jerked into a knot; every instinct told him this was a terrible, terrible idea, but there were no good options. He had taken Tony's control away, and now Tony was reasserting it. If he understood nothing else, Steve understood chain of command, and he knew he was currently at the bottom, a private with emotional latrine duty. If he walked away, it would be dereliction, and Tony would not forgive him.
"I'm waiting, Rogers," Tony snapped. "Start talking."
"Hammer told me you asked him. Did you?" Steve began. He'd participate because he had to, but the fire didn't need his help to burn. If he was quiet, neutral, maybe it would go out quickly for lack of fuel.
But Tony was shaking his head, disgusted. "Oh, no. That sucked. Did I ask him what, Steve? Did I ask him to fuck me? Did I ask him to make me come? Use your four-letter words. Get specific. The questions coming out of your mouth should make you want to eat some soap, choir boy. Try again. "
"Fine," Steve said, though it wasn't. "Did you ask him to…have sex?" He couldn't get the other word out, not quite.
"Did I ask him to fuck me, Steve? Is that what you mean?" Tony taunted.
"Yes. That's what I mean," Steve said evenly.
"In that case, absolutely," Tony said fervently. "The other choices were a bunch of random military guys the lab picked out. And I knew Hammer could make me come. Tell you the truth, I have more confidence in Hammer than I do in you, Cap. Next question. And that was tame. Gimme something good or I will tell you the worst thing I can possibly think of."
The worst thing Tony could possibly think of? What could that be? When he'd just said one of the worst things Steve had ever heard? Steve tried again, "Hammer told you 'no.' How did you make him say 'yes'?"
Tony smiled nastily, "Now we're talking. I put my foot on his cock and told him how good he is in bed. And he is good. Very good."
Tony was trying to get a rise out of him, but Steve was determined it wouldn't work. "Hammer showed me the legal agreement," he said, ignoring the provocation. "Why would you help him like that?"
"Because he wanted it, but he also wanted to get away with it. I told him to draw something up, to give him some legal cover. Otherwise I was going to have to get real persuasive, real quick. I was about to crawl on my hands and knees under the breakfast table and–"
"Tony," Steve interrupted as reasonably as he could, though he could feel his blood pressure spike, "why are you doing this?"
"Because I hate you right now," Tony spat. "I don't even want to look at you, let alone fuck you. But I've got to fuck you, Steve. Because you fed me this stupid magic crap with just enough meat hanging on the bone that it might be true. So now I'm exacting my petty revenge, hoping at some point I'll feel so sorry for you that I can forgive you. Now ask me something that makes you want to hurl. God, you are such a monumental asshole—"
"Tony—"
"Shut up. The next thing out of your mouth is a question or you're sleeping outside."
"What did he do to you?" Steve asked, dreading the answer.
"He bent me over his desk and felt me up while he whispered in my ear. Then he threw me on the bed and rubbed my clit. He put his fingers in my mouth, used my spit for lube. That's as far as he got before you showed up. If you'd been even half an hour later, I'd probably have my dick back." Tony's voice was lacerating; it was cutting Steve to ribbons. "Next question. Make it good. Ask me something that will keep you up at night."
"Is he better than me?" Steve asked, and then couldn't believe he'd said it out loud. It shouldn't matter, he told himself immediately. He shouldn't care. He had no real expectation that he was the best sex of Tony's life. He readied himself for the blow.
"No," Tony said instead. "He isn't." His tone was as sharp as ever; it didn't feel like a pulled punch. "But I'm not looking to soothe your performance anxiety, Steve. Ask me something else."
"How can that be true?" Steve pressed. "You're more confident in him than in me." Steve kicked himself; that wasn't something he'd intended to say. He was getting caught up, letting the conversation get away from him—
"Because Hammer doesn't give a shit about me. He'd have done anything to make me come, whether I liked it or not. Again, this isn't an exercise in propping up your ego—"
"Did you think about me at all?" Another question Steve couldn't believe he'd asked out loud. The conversation was officially away; it had jerked the leash from his hand and was running loose down the street.
"Unfortunately," Tony said, his teeth gritted. "You were the absolute last damn thing I wanted to think about, but there you were. The phantom third wheel. When I was shaving my legs, I thought about how much you hate it when I use your razor. And when I signed your last name on that piece of paper with his fucking pen I thought I was actually going to die. That's how much it hurt." The edge in Tony's voice was cutting in both directions now; Steve could hear the pain in his voice at the admission.
"Tony," Steve said, "that's enough."
But Tony continued as if he hadn't heard. "And I wasn't the only one seeing your sorry ghost in the bedroom. You know your best buddy was talking shit about you, right? Hammer had some pretty choice things to say about your skills, Rogers. And I actually defended you. Can you imagine? You want to know what he said? He—"
"That's enough, Tony!" Steve snapped.
"It's enough when I say it's enough!" Tony snapped back. "Ask me why he hit me, Steve."
"I know why."
"Then ask me something else. Something only I know. Ask me what his mouth tastes like. Ask me how it felt when he—"
"Why did you want him to?"
"Because I liked it."
Steve couldn't let that pass. "That's not true."
"But I did, though," Tony insisted. "I wanted him to hit me so bad I was practically drooling, and afterwards, I was hot to trot."
"It turned you on, but you didn't like it. Those are two different things–"
"How? How are they different? You don't get it. I was dripping like a fucking faucet—"
"But I do get it. I spent most of my past life as a punching bag. I know all about picking fights you know you can't win."
"Yeah," Tony sneered, "pretty sure getting slapped around by the guy you're hate-fucking and getting slapped around because you're some kind of a fun-sized crusader aren't quite the same—"
"You sure? 'Cause I think they are. When you constantly feel like a target, the only time you're not afraid is when you're actually taking the hits. So you look for opportunities to take 'em. Getting knocked around feels good because it's a relief, but it doesn't last. Everything you're up against: the fear and the helplessness and even the guy that hit you, they're all waiting for you afterwards. Only now you've got a fat lip on top of it. And then you just feel stupid. It makes you wonder if your head is screwed on straight."
That brought Tony up short. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. They stared at each other across the bed.
"That wasn't a question, Steve," Tony said finally.
"No, it wasn't," Steve agreed. "But this is: am I right?"
Tony was silent.
"Well," Steve asked again, "am I?"
"Maybe," Tony admitted grudgingly, but the sharp edge on his voice was blunted.
Steve pressed his advantage: "Do you want to know what I used to do after I'd get into fights?"
"No," Tony said, but he lacked conviction.
"Too bad. I'm telling you anyway. Before the war, I lived in this boarding house on 15th, so I'd go to Bucky's apartment after a scrap because he had his own kitchen. His place was a dump–the bathtub was next to the kitchen sink–but he had an icebox. I'd sit in a kitchen chair, and he'd chip off a piece of ice for me and wrap it in a dishrag and then hold it against my split lip or my busted chin or whatever else while I dripped blood onto the linoleum. And then we'd wait."
"Wait for what?" Tony asked in spite of himself, as Steve knew he would: Tony was chronically fascinated by Steve's pair of tragic romances. Hang on to your hat, Steve thought drily.
"That was Buck's rule. We had to wait for the ice to melt before he would have sex." Steve had Tony's full attention now. He knew this was rare entertainment; Steve had a firm and longstanding policy against kissing and telling, but needs must. Smiling faintly, he continued, "I had to have the time to cool down, otherwise I was liable to be too rough. At least, I think that's what it was about; Bucky always told me it was a chance to repent my sins. But I never repented too long: I could only ever stay out of trouble for a month or so before I'd be at it again, getting my can kicked up and down an alley or the aisle of the A-train. And then I'd show back up at Bucky's like a bad penny. It was the adrenaline, I guess, or the testosterone or something, but fighting stirred me up; I always wanted sex afterwards. Bucky used to tell me I must like getting punched, but I didn't. I hated it. I just couldn't help myself."
Steve's eyes moved over Tony's face, remembering when his own had looked just the same, remembering Bucky, holding a freezing towel up to his bloody nose. Slowly, telegraphing his intention, Steve reached for Tony's cheek.
"What did you fight about?" Tony asked as Steve's fingertips skimmed the bruises. He sat perfectly upright, still too angry to relax, not angry enough to pull away. It was progress.
"I fought about everything," Steve sighed, "or about nothing, depending on your view. I'd pick fights with the guys that wouldn't give up their seats to old ladies on the subway. Or with guys catcalling on the street. And if I had a nickel for every time somebody called me a faggot, I'd have enough money to buy the Dodgers and rebuild Ebbets Field." Steve's hand drifted from Tony's face to Tony's throat, gently acknowledging the marks with his fingertips. In Steve's memory, Bucky had put down the sopping towel; the ice had all melted. In the present, it was Tony doing the melting, his rigid posture beginning to slacken. "Are we done now?" Steve asked. "Please say we're done."
"We're done," Tony agreed. The anger in his voice, so hot and bright just a minute ago, had been extinguished, leaving behind nothing but the soft grey ashes.
"Good," Steve said. "Can I kiss you? I'd sure like to."
Tony nodded fractionally, and Steve leaned forward, pressing his lips to the side of Tony's neck, wrapping his arm around Tony's waist. He remembered how Buck used to kiss the sore spots, how the press of his mouth had been so soft it always put Steve in mind of snowflakes or feather down. At that moment, Steve was powerfully grateful. He was grateful to the boy he'd been, whose youthful follies had given him the right words to say to the man he loved, and he was grateful to Bucky, for showing him that men could be tender to each other as well as cruel, and for teaching him how to kiss a bruise.