Chapter Text
So, can I just say one thing? The suit is awesome. It's the most amazing thing I've ever done, and that includes the time I streaked at the academy homecoming football game. I kind of can't believe it actually works, but then again, I am a genius, or so they say. God, I would love to rub this in Stane's face right now. Or Thor's, for that matter. Unnatural science, my pale, hairy ass.
God, Thor. I'm flying over fucking Astoria right now, and of course, all I can think about is Thor. I'm not even mad at him, is the thing. He's the one who should be mad at me. For a genius, I'm batting a thousand in the idiot category lately. I was wrong about Loki, totally off on Natasha, and now even Steve is going to abandon me and my magical, self-replenishing fridge for someone who can make weather inside a car—as if that's something we all really need. Yeah, hey, Sales Guy, I'm gonna need GPS, leather seats, and the occasional tropical depression. Thanks a bunch.
"JARVIS," I say, as I do a little loop in the air for funsies. I made sure JARVIS would be with me in the suit, just in case something goes awry. Which is extremely likely. Science doesn't come easy. "You're good with feelings, right?"
"I would not deem it one of my defining characteristics," he says. "But if you are experiencing feelings, I will endeavor to aid you in sorting through them, sir. Unorthodox as it may be."
"I know, right? I never have feelings. Feelings are for people who don't understand the healing properties of alcohol and science."
"And yet you abandoned your beverage and your test drive has left you wanting."
"JARVIS, you know me too well," I sigh. "So, what's my problem? Why do you think this whole Steve and Thor thing has got my panties all in a twist?"
I can almost hear the gears whir into motion. That is, if JARVIS had gears.
"One theory is that you see a potentially hurtful outcome for the two, given the differences in their personality profiles."
I laugh as I accelerate across Queens. "What, you don't think a mutual love of hoagies is the start to a beautiful relationship?"
"Stranger things have happened," JARVIS quips. "Perhaps you feel Mr. Odinson will be left with a broken heart, given that he is new to this realm."
"Thor can take care of himself. I'm more worried about Steve accidentally getting struck by lightning in the middle of sex."
"Then my last viable hypothesis is that you already possess romantic feelings for one of the two men."
"What? That's ridiculous," I say.
But then I really think about it. Like, really think about it, with all of my brain parts that are usually reserved for physics and slow cell death in warm gin baths. There's no denying that Steve and Thor are both pretty hot. And they both have those obnoxious hearts of gold. But Steve—Steve is a special case. He's a friggin' time traveler, for fuck's sake. He needs someone to make fun of him for all of the big band music he insists on playing, and to explain all the pop culture references he doesn't get. He needs someone to pet his hair and reassure him that Bluetooth is a thing that exists now, and that people aren't crazy when they walk down the street talking to themselves—or well, most of them, anyway. He needs someone to laugh at his jokes, if he ever comes up with one that doesn't involve chickens crossing roads.
Then it hits me.
"Holy shit," I whisper. "I'm in love with Steve."
"Sir, you're about to fly into a lighthouse."
So I am. I decide somewhere between my previous altitude and the choppy surface of the Long Island Sound that I need to improve the reflexes on this thing. That is, riiiiiiight after I finish freaking out because FUCK, I'M TOTALLY, MAJORLY, BUTT-CRAZY IN LOVE WITH STEVE.
"Oh, dear god, I hate myself," I mutter.
"A natural deduction."
*
As much as I love science and puzzling things out until the pieces fit together and make sense, this particular deduction turns out to be a rather annoying one. Because now I don't know how to act around Steve. And Steve, with his easygoing attitude and utter ineptitude regarding all things modern, has always been someone with whom I know exactly where I stand. Sure, we had a rocky start—I might have insinuated that he was only a special snowflake because of some jacked-up Powerade the government once dosed him with—but after that, everything fell into place. We bicker, we get over it, and we grudgingly respect each other. Normally, I would send myself gifts and wear the tightest pants I own to get his attention, but that won't work on Steve. He already thinks most styles of pants are too tight.
So, when we somehow end up in the rec room together, because it's spring fucking break and I invited him to stay at the mansion, BULLY FOR ME, I go into full-on panic mode. Because messing with Steve and calling him names and telling him to drop dead—oh, god, I actually told Captain America to drop dead, how has the government not come after me by now?—is all well and good when he's some overgrown moose hanging out in my house and eating all my food, but this is Steve Rogers, overgrown dreamboat. Just the idea of him has suddenly propelled me to half-mast in the past few days, and now he's here, right next to me, with his gigantic arms and broad chest and he's wearing sweatpants that show off way too much and how dare he what is his problem no better yet what is happening to me?
"Tony, is something wrong?" he asks me. We're sitting on opposite ends of the couch and watching Meet the Press, of all things. He keeps looking at me in genuine concern, with his big, blue all-American eyes, like he wants something from me. Like I actually hurt his feelings. Meanwhile, I can see his pulse beating in his neck. I can see his pulse in his neck.
"N-no," I stutter. "I'm fine. I'm great. Why do you ask?"
"Well, you're so far away," he says. He motions to the distance between us with a hangdog look. "Usually, you're crawling all over me, wrestling me for the snacks."
Fuck him so hard for bringing up wrestling right now. No, not fuck him, just—holy crap, the mental pictures. They are not helping. Like, Steve rolling around on a gym mat. Steve in a unitard. Oh, god, I think I just broke out into a cold sweat.
"Just respecting your personal space, Steve…erino."
"I had personal space for seventy years." He looks at me warily. "Also…Steverino? You're usually a lot better at the nicknames than this. You sure you're feeling okay?"
"I'm fine." I'm a mess. "I'm great." So screwed. "Everything is just…fine and great." FINE AND GREAT, the only words I know! I have instantaneously reverted back to a first-grade reading level. Isn't that just swell.
"Oh, well, okay."
Steve nods and looks away and now I'm absolutely sure that I hurt his feelings because he looks fucking sad. And seriously, it should be illegal to make Steve look that way. Again, I'm shocked that I haven't been sent to a detention center somewhere for these crimes against humanity. I would love to reassure Steve that it's not his fault, that I'm just being weird, but it is kind of his fault, for letting them inject him with a metric ton of Turbo Sex 3000 and then unleashing him upon me to totally fuck up my game and ruin my life.
Also, how do you tell a guy who's never shown any romantic interest in you that you're in love with him? Better yet, how do you explain to a stand-up, rational guy from the 1940s that you're really sorry about the total shift in behavior but this is the twenty-first century and we're all crazy now with our twelve different kinds of Pepsi and our daddy issues and global warming is probably melting our brains inside our skulls and GOD, I'M SORRY I'M SO FUCKED UP, STEVE, YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW.
Clearly, I just need to keep my distance. But that's difficult when Steve takes it upon himself to scoot closer to me on the couch. He keeps a small distance between us, out of respect, because he's still Captain America, after all. It's all helping old ladies across the street and saving puppies from burning buildings with this jerk. Honestly, why do I like him? God, I really like him. Even if he is Captain America and I'm just…well, let's just say the whole 'I'm Tony fucking Stark' thing doesn't work so well when you're trying to measure up to someone like Steve. He really is perfect. So much so, it hurts.
"Okay, hey, look at that, we're closer," I say, trying not to sound nervous.
"I can move back if you want," he says with all sincerity. I take a deep breath and shake my head. Then I try to arrange myself on the cushion in a way that will make it seem like I can handle being close to Steve, but not too close. I end up with one leg bent beneath me, and my arm in this weird position over my head. Steve gives me this pained look, like he seriously thinks I might be dying or suffering from said global warming-related brain melting. "You're comfortable like that?" he asks.
"Sure," I croak, ignoring a pain in my thigh. "Super great."
"And—let me guess—fine?"
"Ha, you got it." You sure do, Steve! AHAHA. Kill me.
"Well, I'm still worried. You're actually letting me watch what I want to watch, instead of telling JARVIS to jam the signal on the remote control."
"Hey, I care about politics," I say. Though I really, truly don't, and Steve knows it. Democrats, Republicans—they're all scheming scumbags, only in it for themselves. Which, hey, is probably how Steve sees me, what with all the lectures about selfishness. He gives me another incredulous look and I take a handful of his organic trail mix to distract him. It tastes like crunchy cardboard. I'm really, hyper-aware of the sensation of my own chewing. Like, I'm chewing and chewing and my mouth is moving and it's all gross and Steve is watching me chew and I end up swallowing too quickly and scratching the fuck out of my throat on caraway seeds or whatever garbage is in this stuff. I choke it down and plumb the depths of my brain for something witty to say, something more like me. "So, when is David Gregory going to tell me how surprised I should be that the senate dicked us all over by sinking that equal pay act?"
"Sometimes it seems hopeless, I know," Steve says, sighing. Then the corner of his mouth quirks upward with one of those earnest, disarming, gee-golly smiles. "But you know what? This is a great country and we're making progress. Like when Don't Ask, Don't Tell was repealed. I'm glad I got to see that—that it happened in my lifetime, against all odds."
I swallow and look at Steve in utter disbelief. You guys, I'm totally fucked.
"I have to go," I think I say, before I dash out of the room. Later, JARVIS's footage tells me that what I actually said was, "I think I smell a bird, so hey, maybe!"
Steve is even handsome when he looks like he's on the verge of calling 911.
*
What I have on my hands here is a full-blown disaster. Steve is around all the time now, and again, wasn't that ever so smart of me, to invite him to stay? Good going, idiot. I hole myself up in my lab in order to avoid him and work on the suit until my fingers hurt and my vision goes blurry. It's just as well—nobody needs me right now, what with Thor all pissed off and Coulson likely engaging in the 2012 Sex Olympics with Clint, now that his cherry's been popped.
It's not until JARVIS pings at me that I realize I've been down here working for thirty-one hours straight. Singing along to Nicki Minaj's "Marilyn Monroe," which I've dubbed my new theme song after many repeat listens.
"JARV, I told you to leave me alone for a while."
"I understand, sir. But I thought you might care to know that Director Fury is at the door."
Oh, great. Steve probably told him that I failed my test and he's here to berate me about it. Maybe he'll punish me by taking off his eye patch and ranting about the RAVAGES OF WAR. Nightmare. I tell JARVIS to pause the music and let him in, but I don't acknowledge him as he walks down the stairs.
"So, this is where you've been. JARVIS tells me you've been working nonstop. And singing."
"He's a lying liar who lies. It's an occasional glitch I programmed in him, to make him more exciting."
"Doubtful," Fury says. He walks over to the worktable and looks at the suit. "We have footage of you from the other night, somersaulting through the air over the Long Island Sound. Until you took that little tumble, that is."
"And let me guess: I breached about eight-hundred security measures."
"Maybe more like three hundred. But you did it. It works." He pauses and turns slightly so he can look at me with the good eye. "I see the craziest shit go down every damn day in my job, and yet I don't think I've ever been more alarmed than I am right now, seeing Tony Stark all sad and mopey after inventing a goddamn metal suit that flies through the air."
I roll my eyes and peel off my work gloves. "Maybe my life is a little more complicated than you realize, Fury. Ever think about that?"
"Probably not. You're seventeen." He gives me a strange half-smile. "But try me."
I'm not really looking to pour my heart out to someone who insists on wearing a long, leather coat even when it's ninety degrees outside—seriously, psycho—but even Cyclops was probably a teenager once.
"I…like someone," I say, reluctantly. "And it sucks because he likes someone else."
Weirdly, that seems to get Fury's attention.
"You're fucking with me, right? You, Tony Stark, can't get someone to like you back? Isn't that what you do best?"
"He's…not like other people." That's probably the understatement of the year. "Not really impressed by the trappings of fame and fortune, kind of a sickening do-gooder type. Really, he's boring, when you come to think about it. I don't even know why I'm wasting my time thinking about it. I could be doing anything else in the world, like building a life model decoy of myself that I could send to school during midterms and final exams. Or, wait; do you guys already have a life model decoy of me? You've probably got a few closets full of those things, don't you?"
Fury leans against the table and folds his arms across his chest, looking down at me with great skepticism.
"I've seen hints of a do-gooder in you, too. From time to time. And I know you well enough to know you wouldn't be hiding out in your lab over someone who's boring—or hiding at all, for that matter. Starks don't hide from what they want."
I tense a little at that and turn my chair away from him. "I know what you're trying to do, Fury. Maybe these pep talks get your little worker bees going, but it won't work on me."
Fury scoffs at me. "You're assuming that I have something to gain here. For all I care, you could stay down here until you solve the world's energy crisis—and I'm sure you could." I glance at him again and he taps his chest. Oh, right, the arc reactor. I knew S.H.I.E.L.D. was in love with that thing. "Out there in the world—maybe not down here in this cesspit, but out there, people let other people care about them, once in a while."
"That sounds terrible," I say flatly.
Fury rolls his eyes—oh, good, I've worn him back down to being disappointed in me—and waves a hand, heading back to the stairs.
"Think about it, Stark. And come upstairs for food at some point. If you starve to death, JARVIS is going to be inconsolable."
"He'd probably be relieved," I say.
"I sincerely doubt that, sir," JARVIS says when Fury is gone.
"Don't tell me you care about me, too. I can't deal with all these feelings."
He's quiet for a moment. "I'm detecting a low blood glucose level, sir. Would you like a grilled cheese sandwich?"
"Oh, my god, yes."
New plan: Forget Steve, marry JARVIS instead, and eat melted cheese on bread all day. Yes, I can live with this.
*
I hate when Fury is right. But even I have to admit that he hit the nail on the head this time. Starks don't hide. And if there's anything at all that I admire about my dad, it boils down to exactly that—he never shied away from the things he wanted to accomplish. If I want Steve—and I do, I really do—I have to make myself desirable to him. I have to do good deeds that aren't just avenues to getting what I want. And Steve is the epitome of all that's pure and good in the world, so I have to do my best to learn from his example. Even if it kills me. It might kill me. But I can try.
When I think about it, all of my friends are good people, even the ones who agitate me. Take Natasha, for instance—she and I have hung out a few times since our really poorly planned "date," and she's the fucking coolest. In addition to her super spy skills, she knows a ton about art and culture, and my aim has gotten a lot better since we met. And then there's Thor, who has to be the nicest, most kind-hearted deity in any realm—though I can't be sure, since I only found out there was more than one realm a few weeks ago. Further research is required, but I have faith in him. I just hope that his transformation is reversible. There's already one of me, and that's enough. Even Coulson and Clint, when they're not threatening to disembowel each other, can be the sweetest couple on Earth. I've seen Coulson kiss Clint's boo-boos before. While referring to them as "boo-boos." Try scrubbing that one out of your memory banks.
Fury said he saw glimpses of a do-gooder in me. Maybe he's right about that, too. Surely, my friends haven't abandoned me for a reason. But I want them to have a reason to stick around. I don't want to end up with JARVIS as my only friend. And marrying him only seemed like a viable idea until he refused to keep giving me grilled cheeses. I want to be the kind of person who can maintain relationships with corporeal entities. Specifically, blond-haired, blue-eyed entities with hearts of gold, who know that loyalty and patriotism means a lot more than wearing a flag pin and setting off fireworks.
I want to be worthy of Steve. And I don't think I am. Not yet. But maybe, just maybe…I could be.
I'm not sure how to begin my quest for goodness until I spot Ms. Potts hanging flyers around the school, seeking volunteers for an upcoming Earth Day event. I remember that she brought it up in class, right after she was chosen as faculty advisor to the committee. It's music to my ears because Steve loves anything that has to do with saving the environment.
"Hey, Pepper," I call out. It gets me a withering look over the wire rims of her glasses. Really, she loves me. "Need any volunteers for this shindig?"
"You want to help?" she asks. I can tell she's surprised, but only by the very minute widening of her eyes. Otherwise, her expression remains completely composed. "Well, that would be great, Tony. You can make the check out to the academy."
"No, that's—I mean, I could do that, sure. But you need volunteers, right? For the event? That's what I mean. I'm volunteering." I spread out my arms. "I'm yours for the taking."
"Really." Potts shifts her stance and looks me up and down, like she's seeing me for the first time. Then she smiles. "No explosions or strippers."
My reputation precedes me. "Scout's honor," I say, and we shake on it.
I feel the same little tingle that I get when I put on my suit—like something excellent is about to happen. Like I've done something worthwhile and I'm about to see it through. Weirdly, I'm excited for this. To help people. Yeesh, who knew?
It takes about two hours of dealing with other people's incompetence before I declare myself head of the Earth Day Fair committee and threaten to destroy anyone who gets in my way. Potts doesn't object, probably because she realizes that I'm the only one who can get things done. Stark Mansion becomes our home base of operations and the S.H.I.E.L.D. folks look a little confused by all the kids walking around in green hats and shirts. I got us uniforms. They're vegan.
"Next order of business: sponsorship," I say, going down my checklist. "Obviously, Stark Industries is at the top of the list, but we're going to need a few more. Coulson, I need you to pitch this to some companies that could use the good PR. Car companies, Nabisco and all the other brands that make hundred-calorie packs and use way too much packaging to do it. Coca-Cola, because no one is buying that 'hey, we love polar bears, drink our poison!' crap anymore. We need hella swag for this thing."
"Got it," Coulson says, taking copious notes.
"Clint, do me a favor and run down the list of activities again?"
"We've got tree planting, day trips to local farms, recycled goods drive, green energy boot camp with Ian Somerhalder…"
"Oh, great, we're going to have to look at his mug on everything," I groan.
"I don't mind," Coulson says, and Clint elbows his side.
"Maybe some rides and attractions would be good," Natasha offers. "A Ferris wheel that runs on solar power? Or a dunk tank with dyed water. We can call it the 'oil spill tank.'"
"I like it," I say, pointing at her. "Love it, even. Make it happen."
Everyone at the table goes silent when we notice Fury and Steve poking their heads into the room. Fury squints his eye at me and then peers at Steve.
"This is your influence, Rogers?" he asks. Steve just gapes, wide-eyed. I fold my arms across my chest and try not to swallow my tongue.
"If you don't mind, gentlemen, my committee is in the middle of an important planning session."
Fury looks pleased as he nods and walks away. Steve just gives me that strange look again, similar to the other day, before he clears his throat.
"Well, uh. Carry on, everyone," he says. "Tony, good work."
Then he salutes us. He fucking salutes.
"How does that guy live?" Clint asks after he goes.
"On hoagies and freedom," I say.
I realize at that moment that I seem to have sweat through my eco-friendly shirt. I tuck my hands under my armpits and ignore Coulson's smug, knowing smile. I decide right then that I'm going to murder him. After the Earth Day fair, sure, but then immediately following that. Murder.
*
I don't have to tell you guys that the fair turns out to be a total and utter success. You could have guessed as much, once I told you that I was in charge of it. Everyone's having a blast, getting into dirt fights by the composting stand, perusing the pop-up vegan clothing boutique, and taking photos with Ian Somerhalder, who looks constipated in every single shot. How does he manage that?
Looking around, I feel a rush of pride, better than any endorphins I could ever get doing cartwheels in the sky. People are having fun and learning something at the same time, and it's all because of me. I did this. I know; I can hardly believe it myself.
My phone buzzes and it's Coulson, checking in from the farm visit station. "Farm shuttles staying on schedule, Agent Coulson?" I ask him.
"Just about. We had a bit of a snafu when a bunch of SUVs showed up but I called the rental company and had them switched to energy-efficient vehicles right away."
"Which is what we asked for in the first place. Jesus, these people. They've got shit in their ears. All right, thanks for handling it, and keep up the good work out there."
"You got it. Over and out."
I hang up and head toward the recycling drive booth, which I'm manning for the next hour. On the way, I spy Natasha and Thor on the Ferris wheel together, and they both wave to me from high up in the sky. Thor appears to be a little more enthusiastic—what else is new?—but Natasha has a smile on her face, one that's actually verging on carefree. It's a good look for her.
I wonder if this means Thor's not mad at me anymore. If I'd known all it would take was getting him a Ferris wheel to ride, I would have done that a lot sooner. I can't dwell on it, though, because I've got recyclable goods to receive.
My first customer turns out to be Jane Foster, who somehow hoists a gigantic box filled with clothes, books, and other junk onto the table. She's stronger than she looks. I bet Thor would appreciate that.
"Foster, you brought the mother lode with you," I say, picking through the stuff.
"It was all just lying around my house, taking up space," she says, smiling. "I can be a bit of a hoarder. I'm trying to get past that."
I pull out a shirt that's meant for a seven-year-old and smirk. "You don't say."
"Anyway, Tony, I'm glad you're here," she says, adjusting her glasses. It occurs to me that she'd look really pretty with them off, but they work for her. She's got a sexy librarian thing going. More importantly, I'm out of the makeover business. People should dress however they want, even if they look like cosplayers who wandered away from the forest. "I've been thinking about your shoes for weeks."
"What shoes?" I ask, tossing a bunch of old notebooks into the paper waste pile.
"Those really expensive sneakers I ruined at that party? I feel terrible about it, so I've been saving up my babysitting money, and—" Jane starts pulling cash out of her front pocket and I immediately wave my hands to stop her.
"Hey, no. They're just shoes. I have tons of shoes." I can't help but smile fondly. God, she's such a sweet, innocent weirdo. How did I never see how fucking perfect she is for Thor? "You should donate that to the Earth Day fund instead. Hey, better yet—spend it on a date with Thor."
"Thor? Yeah, right. He hates me. You saw how he talked to me that day at lunch."
"I think he was just having an off day. Norse gods—one day they're happy, and the next day they're starting lightning storms. Am I right?"
Jane laughs, but it's a sad little thing. Her heart's not really in it. "Anyway, thanks for being understanding about the shoes and for putting all of this together. You did a really amazing job. I'm excited about the environmental science fair this afternoon."
Another great idea of Natasha's, that science fair. Jane was one of the first people to sign up, surprise surprise. "I'd say I hope you win, but I already know you will."
"Well, we'll see," she says. She blushes as she walks away, and damn, what the hell? When did Jane Foster get cute?
Later, I'm heading over to the science fair, surveying the landscape of my glorious triumph, when someone with a familiar gait falls into step with me.
"Tony Stark," Thor greets me. He's dressed down in a T-shirt and shorts, his hair pulled back in a ponytail. I guess even gods don't like wearing their hair down on a warm day. "I wish to speak with you regarding the events of our last meeting."
"Okay, well, you're not going to conjure up your hammer out of thin air again, are you? Because I'd really like to end this day without a concussion."
He stops me with a hand on my arm, before grasping both of my shoulders in his big, meaty palms. "I must apologize," he says. "Your generosity since my arrival in Midgard has been immeasurable. I was foolish to dismiss your opinion, and with such haste.
Quite an apology. Clearly, they teach their kids well in Asgard. I give Thor's bicep a squeeze, which he probably barely feels, given the circumference of his arm in comparison to the width of my hand.
"Buddy, I'm the one who's sorry. I should have been more supportive. Jane, Loki, Steve—I mean, whoever you want to go out with, it's all good." Though I really, really hope it's not Steve. It's my last selfish thought, I promise.
"Jane," Thor repeats, looking sad. "I was cruel to her. I don't expect her forgiveness."
"You can talk to her, I bet." I smile and pat Thor's side. "So, are we cool?"
Thor laughs and picks me up for a bone-crunching embrace that I try to reciprocate, flailing as my feet leave the ground. Remind me to never let him near the reactor.
Just as I predicted, Jane wins the science fair. It's not even close. Thor and I cheer from the sidelines as Ian Somerhalder presents her with the gold medal and poses for a photo op.
"You know what, Thor? I was an asshole, steering you away from Jane. She's smart, she's hot, and she kicks ass. I totally approve."
Thor makes a sound somewhere between a rumble and a sigh. "She does indeed kick ass, my friend."
The love in the air doesn't last for long, though. Thor starts to growl under his breath when Somerhalder gets his arm around Jane and leans in just a little too close. Then he gives her a congratulatory kiss on the cheek. Thor tenses beside me, lets out a fucking roar, and, oh god, I can't even look.
"UNHAND HER, VAMPIRIC FIEND!"
"Thor, he only plays one on TV! He doesn't—"
"I WILL FIGHT YOU FOR HER HAND!"
Yeah, we're never going to get Somerhalder to do this again next year. Jane looks torn between horror and giddiness as Thor tackles him to the ground. I'm kind of giddy myself—Thor seems firmly in love with Jane again, so he'll be happy, and his crush on Steve won't be an issue anymore. I should probably do something about this situation, though. Somerhalder keeps shouting, "Dude, not the face, not the face!" and everyone is just standing there, recording it on their phones. Hopefully Coulson won't mind if I make him do damage control with this one.
"Hey, cool fight," Clint says, appearing at my side out of nowhere with Natasha. How the hell did they get so stealthy? It's unnerving. "We're gonna go shoot at bottles and cans. Wanna come?"
"I suppose that's one way of recycling. Kinda busy here, but have fun."
"It's good for Mother Earth," Natasha says. She smiles and punches my arm, then dashes off with Clint. I can see this is the beginning of a beautiful, trigger-happy friendship.
Anyway, right. Operation: Save Ian Somerhalder's Delicate Bone Structure. I exhale, crack my knuckles, and step into the fray.
*
"So, that's how you got that bruise," Steve says. He looks up from his paperwork with a smirk. Yeah, S.H.I.E.L.D. makes special paper copies of everything, just for him. It would take far too long for him to get through it otherwise. "I'm relieved to know you didn't start the fight."
"Hey, I'm a lover, not a fighter," I say. We exchange a tense look before breaking eye contact and laughing. "Well, I mean, um, anyway. It's okay because Thor felt really bad about it and took me out for burgers after. You know I'll forgive pretty much anything for a cheeseburger."
"That is something I knew about you, yes."
I feel really proud of myself, not only for putting together a great fair, but also because I've trained myself to talk to Steve without wetting my pants. He invited me into one of the empty conference rooms so I could tell him about the fair while he worked on something highly classified, yadda yadda. I don't even care what he's doing; I'm just pleased that I'm not so far gone as to have to turn down a golden opportunity to watch Steve write his report. There's some nice finger and bicep flexing happening here, and every now and then, his hair falls into his eyes and he flicks it back with a little upward tilt of his chin and I'm this close to stealing one of his pages and writing a sonnet about it.
"But yeah, it'll be an annual thing now—which is great, because it'd be a shame to only do it once. We raised almost ten grand, and I mean… I never thought I'd say this, but all the work we put into it was way more satisfying than just writing a check. Not that anyone would begrudge me doing that, but this way we raised money and got to have fun at the same time. I mean, that Ferris wheel was aces. People lost their fucking shit."
I look up from my rant and Steve is looking at me again. He keeps doing that lately; his eyes get kind of crinkly at the corners, as if he's trying to puzzle something out. He's also smiling, and it's kind of a dopey smile. I'm not sure what it means. I mean, I think I know what it means. I'm saying the word "mean" a lot, but you know what I mean. This is Steve and Steve is looking at me like…
…like he maybe, possibly, hopefully likes me back? Loves me back?
"What the hell's going on here?" Some S.H.I.E.L.D. drone bursts into the room, and the door bangs loudly against the wall, making us both jump. "Rogers, are you working on the Morgan case? While he's sitting here? That thing is classified."
"Agent Spitzer, this is Tony's home. And Director Fury trusts him."
"I'm not sure he should." Spitzer walks over and grabs the file out of Steve's hands. "Nor you, for that matter. We don't keep you around to compromise important cases and make eyes at the Stark kid."
"Um, ex-squeeze me, Agent Shitster," I say, lifting a finger. "You're only here because I let you be here. That goes for you and your entire organization, which—oh, yeah—doesn't belong to you. Not only that, but if I really wanted to find out what was in your precious classified files, I wouldn't have to sit in a room with you to find out. This is my home, I have top clearance on all of the security, and I'm a lot smarter than you and most of your fellow agents put together."
Shitster doesn't like that much. He turns and gives me the most dismissive sneer anyone has ever dared to give me.
"If you're so damn smart, how'd you end up with that shrapnel in your chest?"
Steve jumps out of his chair, his entire face red. "That was completely out of line, Agent Spitzer."
It was pretty out of line, at that. And, wow, it actually kinda hurt a little. No one ever brings up the hostage incident to me. I think they all assume I have PTSD over it, which, well, maybe. A little. Certainly, no one has ever been breathtakingly thoughtless enough to accuse me of being too dumb to avoid a life-threatening injury during a shootout. I watch Steve shove the turd around, demanding an apology on my behalf, but it's hard to concentrate on anything besides my stomach turning.
"You damned insensitive bastard," Steve yells. "He's just a kid!"
Oh.
"Yeah, okay," I mutter, getting up from the table abruptly. I rush out of the room and ignore Steve's shouts of my name, making a beeline for my lab. When I get there, I take great relish in knocking a few things off my desk, including the latest prototype of my helmet. Clearly, I am pretty dumb if I even thought for a nanosecond that Steve would be interested in a—a kid. A self-absorbed, poor little rich boy like me. Dummy tries to console me but I throw a wrench at him and he scurries away with a metallic whine.
The last time I cried, I was close to bleeding out of my chest, and I was afraid I was going to die. I'm not going to cry over Steve, I tell myself as I curl up on the couch. I won't.
"Lock the door, JARVIS. S-security code alpha-nine-six, level seven clearance."
"Engaging security code alpha—"
"No, no, no!" Steve yells on the other side of the door, banging on the glass. "JARVIS, don't lock it! I need to talk to Tony!"
"Sir, Captain Rogers is at the door," he says, as patient and dry as an A.I. unit can possibly be. "If he continues hitting the door at the same level of force as he is currently exerting, he will break the glass in approximately eight point three seconds—sooner if he increases his force."
"I noticed," I say. I lift my head and see Steve prodding at the lock, trying to figure out the mechanism. Unfortunately for him, it doesn't respond to gentle caresses. "Fine, let him in."
The door swings open and Steve nearly tumbles inside and down the stairs, but he manages to catch himself at the last moment. "Thanks, JARVIS," he says.
"Certainly, Captain Rogers," he answers. Damn JARVIS and his big robo-crush on Steve.
"I'm not here," I say, slinging an arm over my eyes. "What you're seeing is one of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s many highly functional life model decoys of Anthony Edward Stark. Your tax dollars at work—except they probably don't make you pay taxes because you saved the world once. If that doesn't get you a lifetime get-out-of-jail-free card, I don't know what will."
"Tony," Steve says, and when I open my eyes, he's standing right beside the couch, looking down at me. He looks sad again and I point a finger at him.
"Do not give me the sad, 'You Hurt Captain America' puppy-dog eyes. Those eyes are not allowed in this lab. This is a safe space."
"You didn't hurt me." He crouches down so our faces are closer, which is both magnificent and terrifying—like gazing upon one of the Wonders of the World. Fucking Stonehenge or something. "You're the one who's hurt and I'm sorry for that, Tony, I really am. I'm going to make sure Spitzer doesn't get away with what he said to you."
I groan and cover my eyes again. "Oh, my god. You think I give two shits about what that howler monkey said? He's probably never been shot at in his entire life. Plus, he thinks that I don't regularly bug private S.H.I.E.L.D. meetings, so I know he's a moron. I probably have access to more classified information than he does."
"That's…I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that." Steve rubs a hand over his face and sighs. "If that's true, then why did you run out of the room like that? And please do me a personal favor and actually tell me instead of whispering it to your pocket flask. You're too young to be an alcoholic."
Ugh. "Too young to do anything," I mutter, turning my head away. Steve actually grabs my chin, what the fuck, and wrenches it back. "Ow. Watch the facial hair. I haven't had it for all that long."
"What are you talking about? You prove to me and everyone else, on a daily basis, that you're not too young to do anything."
I feel like blowing a raspberry at Steve but I settle for pushing his hand away. "I'm just a kid. You said so. Remember? I know the ice kept your brain pretty well-preserved up there in the icy north."
"Wow, thank goodness," Steve says, ducking his head and chuckling. "That's the first time you've made an ice joke in ages. I didn't realize how much I missed it until now. I'm kind of relieved."
Ugh, and this is just like Steve. Here I am, trying to be broody and pissed off with him, and he has to go and smile like that at me, and make my stomach flip with how handsome and sweet and awesome he is.
I smile wryly at him, despite myself. "You didn't really miss it. That'd be like a cat missing when someone turns a hose on it."
"Call me a masochist, I guess." He leans against the couch cushion and exhales. "Technically, you are young, Tony. You're not even old enough to vote, so you can't really deny that. And I admit, I do worry about you sometimes. What with the drinking and the…well, this." He touches the arc reactor lightly, almost reverently, and it feels as though my heart skips a beat in response. I think of all the times I've caught him staring at the reactor. I had no idea he worried over it—that he worried about me. "It made me so mad, what he said to you, because I see this and I can't—I can't even imagine, Tony. You were so young, and you've been through so much, and…"
I swallow with some difficulty. "Please don't tell me I'm the wind beneath your wings," I whisper.
"The—the what? No. What?" Steve shakes his head and places his entire, broad hand over the reactor, taking a deep breath. "Tony, you're brilliant and you're handsome and you're brave and I thought your father was really something but you're just…" He stops to laugh faintly and runs his free hand through his hair. "I might be a little in awe of you."
I sit up straight and blink owlishly at him. "You're in awe of me? How can you even say that? Do you know who you are? Have you looked in the mirror today? Do you even know how many italics I'm speaking in right now? Seriously, if this were a screenplay, every other word I'm saying would be italicized because what in the ever-loving—"
Steve grabs me by the back of the neck, pulls me in for a kiss, and shuts me the hell up. Thank god. I fist my hands in his too-tight T-shirt, not knowing where else to put them, and haul him onto the couch. Once he's there with me, I run my hands over his chest and fuck, it's like I can't touch him enough. I've been lusting after him for weeks. Or, well, let's be real—for longer than I'd like to admit. I tilt my head and then his tongue is in my mouth—oh, my actual fuck, his tongue is in my mouth—and I have to draw back before I accidentally come in my pants.
"Buh—listen. Wait, um. That guy. He was a thrill and a half. What's his name? Duckie?"
"Bucky," Steve corrects me. His lips are cherry-red, glistening, and mesmerizing. "Didn't work out. He wasn't you."
"How are you so fucking dreamy," I mutter as I lean in to kiss him again. I recline on the couch and draw him down with me me, our lips never leaving each other. Steve's weight on top of me feels amazing and I never want to stop kissing him, which is why I let out an embarrassing little whine when he pulls back.
"I don't want to break the reactor," he says, sucking in a breath.
"Are you kidding? You won't. It can withstand almost anything. I made it, remember?"
Steve scoffs and sucks my bottom lip into his mouth, which, yes. I let out a groan and arch up into him—at which point, I feel his answering hardness. On the one hand, God bless America. On the other, I have no idea what to do with this glorious dick pressing against me. Steve probably thinks I do this all the time and I definitely don't want to disappoint him. I try not to think about it as I reach down with shaky hands to pluck uselessly at his fly. Then Steve grabs my wrist and stops me.
"Tony, hold on. I'm not sure what the age of consent is these days."
"Are you kidding me? God, of course you're not." I grunt and drop my head back. "JARVIS, quick Wikipedia search on that?"
"According to Wikipedia, the age of consent in New York State is seventeen," he answers immediately.
"See? Seventeen. Anything else you wanna look up? First moon landing? Capital of Zimbabwe? Full episode list of The Golden Girls?"
Steve looks at me skeptically. "Didn't you once say that Wikipedia is user-edited and—"
"NO. Back to kissing," I hiss, grabbing his face with both hands. Honestly, now Steve remembers something I told him about the Internet? He can't even figure out how to save a bookmark. Luckily, the kissing is enough to distract him, and I guess he's satisfied with JARVIS' answer because he's sucking on my tongue as though he hasn't tasted anything so good in his life. I bury one hand in his hair and grab his ass with the other, pulling him closer to me. I can tell he likes it, what with the way he moans into my mouth, but it still takes me by surprise when he reaches for the zipper on my fly. Who is this person and what did he do with pedantic, goody two-shoes Steve? Or maybe it's just me who needs to slow down.
"Hey, wow," I say, breaking the kiss. "Moving right along, aren't we?"
"Well, I trust JARVIS. And I would really like to have sex with you." Steve looks up at me, his face falling. "Tony, what's wrong?" he asks. I realize that I must look as tense as I feel.
"Nothing, just…" I shut my eyes for a moment and then just blurt it out. "I'm a virgin, okay? I haven't done this before."
To my surprise, Steve doesn't seem shocked by this revelation. "I thought maybe you and that Black Widow girl…" He trails off, tilts his head, and smiles brilliantly. "So I'm your first?"
"Oh, god. Are you going to get sappy about this? Because I can't handle it. You and your feelings, I swear to god. How can a person live with so many feelings?"
"It's extremely arduous," Steve murmurs. He kisses me again and I wrap my arms around his shoulders. "I was, too, until about six months ago. I'm hardly Mr. Sexy but I'll take care of you."
"Mr. Sexy," I repeat. "So sexy that he was a frozen virgin for seventy years." I keep my voice deadpan even though I'm melting a little inside at the whole 'I'll take care of you' thing because good goddamn. How can Steve be so corny and then so seductive in the same breath? "Okay, you lead, Mr. Sexy."
Steve nods dutifully, ever the perfect soldier, and then he whips his shirt off and my throat goes dry. I think he wants me to follow his lead but I'm too busy staring at his flawless fucking body, so he has to lift my arms and do the dirty work for me. The arc reactor glows brightly and he traces the edge with light, teasing touches of his fingertips—the area where the metal meets the skin. Then he leans down and kisses the same path, moving his hands to my nipples and down my sides, making me shudder. I want to touch him back but it seems almost wrong to lay my hands on all that unmarred, golden skin. I do it anyway because, whatever, this is Steve and this is me and I'm greedy and I want all of him. I rub my palms over his broad shoulders and down his back, to his narrow waist, kneading with my fingers. He lets out a small moan against my collarbone and my dick stirs to life once again.
"Okay, to be honest," he says, kissing along my jaw. "I've only done this twice and I wasn't very good." Which is ridiculous because Steve is good at everything, and I bet that lucky guy or girl saw red, white, and blue fireworks at the moment of orgasm, though I don't say as much. "So…let's just do what feels good, okay?"
"Okay," I say, not really sure what he's getting at. But then Steve rocks his hips against mine and I feel that fine American cock again and fuck yes, I get it now, all too well. And yeah, I know that my cock is technically American, too, but Steve's is American. Made in the USA: land of the free, home of the hung. I clasp the back of his neck and grind back against him and we both make needy, almost startled noises at the motion. It's too good not to repeat, again and again.
"Tony," Steve groans, right into my neck. The sound of him saying my name like that makes my eyes roll back in my head. I'm going commando today—like most days—so I can feel where my dick is starting to dampen my pants, and he can probably feel it, too. I look down in time to see him staring at the wet spot, and he kinda looks like he wants to devour me. I, for one, am not opposed. "Let's—we should take our pants off," he says. I nod furiously because it's a hell of an idea. Steve is full of good ideas. Who knew?
Actual skin-on-skin contact feels amazing, as does Steve's cock, which is…god, I don't even know. Long. Gorgeous. Hot and slick. I have this wild, inappropriate thought that I should thank my dad for helping to make this moment possible. It's probably just because my brain is short-circuiting from all of the splendid things happening right now, what with Steve touching every part of me—his dick rubbing against mine, his hands tracing along my sides, his mouth skimming over my throat. I reach up and offer him the flat of my palm, which I swear makes his pupils dilate.
"Tony, that is dirty," he murmurs. But then he holds my wrist and licks across my palm and I have to try not to come right then and there. Again.
"Just because I'm a virgin doesn't mean I don't have dirty thoughts. Like, all day, every day."
"About me?" he asks, with a hint of wonder in his voice.
"Well, duh. Yes, you. And this." I reach down and wrap my slick hand around him. Steve gasps and bucks into my grasp.
"M-maybe don't, if you want me to do this, you know…properly," he says.
"God, I don't care. I don't care. I'm seventeen and I deserve a fucking medal for not coming the minute you took off your shirt."
Steve laughs in this strung-out way, his breath warm against my cheek, and I can't help it, I have to kiss him again. I never want to stop kissing him. We keep rutting against each other, until he gets his huge hand around us both, and then it feels like there's a sob trapped in my chest, somewhere behind the reactor, threatening to burst out. I want to shout, to cry, to scratch his back to shreds, but all can I do is hang on because I'm going to come and I need to feel it.
"Tony, you're so good," he whispers, his thumb slicking its way up and down my cock. And, god, that's just not fair. His free hand teases the sensitive crease between my ass and thigh and somehow, that small, gentle, somewhat lecherous gesture sets me off, my back bowing as I shoot all over our stomachs. When I stop gasping and shaking long enough to open my eyes, Steve is rutting against my hip. The wild look in his bright eyes steals my breath.
"Oh, damn, I—I think I'm going to, to…"
It occurs to me, even in the haze of the afterglow that comes with being deflowered by Captain fucking America, that I've never before heard Steve say, "damn." I am an excellent bad influence on him, but my work is never done.
"You can't say it, can you? Bless your creamsicle heart. Come, Steve. You're going to come hard, all over me, just like we've both always—"
"TONY!"
And damn if that isn't a beautiful sight. Hell of a way to shut me up, too. Captain America having an orgasm. I should film that and send it off to the United Nations. I could establish world peace.
"Oh…oh, rats," Steve says, panting hard and back to his old-timey ways. "That wasn't really how I pictured that going."
I squint at him. "The sex or the talk?" I ask.
"No, no, the sex." He gives me an apologetic look. "Your first time and I…finished too early. And…on you."
"Rogers," I say, running a hand through his carefully parted hair. "That was probably the most awesome thing I've ever done in my life, so chill. You're good at chilling; you have a long and storied history of it. Also, need I remind you again: I'm seventeen. Therefore, I have a refractory period of about five minutes and a bedside drawer full of tissues and lube. Which is why we should go to my room, I think. Would you like to go to my room? Think about it, because there's only one correct answer that I will accept and that answer is hell, yes."
Steve smirks at me. "Heck, yes."
"Not the correct answer," I say, shaking my head.
But when Steve hauls me up off the couch one-handed and smacks my ass to get me moving, I sure as hell (and sure as heck) go. It's wise to choose one's battles.
It would also be wise to invest in shades for my workshop, seeing as how we just got it on in an underground lab designed to look like an Apple store. Actually, sex in an Apple store sounds kind of fun. I wonder if Steve's into exhibitionism. I'll have to ask him.
*
"Hurry up, Stark! At this rate, you'll get your slow ass there in time for the divorce proceedings!"
Another day, another shit fit from Nick Fury. You know, I think I'd miss it if he were to ever leave the mansion and actually give me some privacy, though he'd miss me more. I look in the mirror and adjust the tie that JARVIS picked out for me. He always comes through.
"Nice choice. What do you think, JARV? Am I a fox, or what?"
"You look very becoming, sir."
"Aww, I bet you say that to all the handsome, teenage inventors."
I should be clear: This is not my wedding. I'm lucky Steve agreed to have sex with me at all, let alone marry me. As it was, he had JARVIS look up at least five other sources on that age of consent thing, once it totally didn't matter anymore. I should have pretended to call the cops on him as soon as we were done. Lost opportunity.
I strut down the hallway to the main staircase, feeling pretty dashing in my suit. Then I catch sight of Steve, standing there and waiting for me in his dress uniform. The Army gifted him with new duds because he's Captain fucking America, and pretty much the best soldier they've ever had or will have. He looks so good that I have to concentrate on not falling down the stairs and breaking my neck. The smile he gives me actually sparkles in the light
"Tony, you look…wow."
"Me? You look like you just stepped off the U.S.S. Studmuffin. C'mere."
"We're going to be—mmph."
Sorry, everyone, Steve can't come to the phone right now because I'm too busy tongue-fucking his mouth. It happens. I flick my tongue against his palate in that way I know makes him shiver and he draws me closer, his hand on my waist and snaking around to the small of my back, when—
"Excuse me, but I have better things to do than stand here and watch you two lovebirds swallow each other's faces before you go to the prom."
"Wedding," I say, breaking the kiss with a harsh breath. "But we are going to prom next month. I wouldn't pass up a chance to make everyone jealous."
"Muh," Steve agrees, blinking slowly. God, he's cute when he's incoherent.
"Whatever. Get the hell out of here already." Fury tosses Steve a set of keys. "You drive, Rogers. No matter what kinds of sexual favors the kid promises you."
"I am offended," I say, as Steve goes red in the face beside me. "Offended that you think my sexual favors wouldn't be outstanding enough to trump one of your dullsville lectures, that is. Steve, don't listen to him; I will do you good."
"Please, let's go," Steve says, grabbing my hand and pulling me to the door. I'd say I let him but he's pretty strong. I wave goodbye to Fury and get one last eye roll for my efforts.
"Bye, Cyclops! Catch a lot of bad guys!"
Oh, right, I didn't tell you whose wedding it was! Why, none other than Dr. Bruce Banner and Ms. Virginia "Pepper" Potts, of course. Yes, those two formerly dead inside teachers are now disgustingly in love and getting hitched, and it's all thanks to me. Well, and Coulson, I guess. I still think that condom would have worked its magic much faster than his poem, though.
The ceremony is great—romantic and short, just as it should be. Steve cries, of course. I expected as much, so I brought two pocket packs of Kleenex with me. On my other side, Coulson gets a little misty-eyed, but when I offer him a tissue, he threatens to wedge it down my throat and suffocate me. Always denying his feelings. It's not healthy.
We all end up at a table together during the reception: Phil, Clint, Thor, Jane, Natasha, Darcy, Loki, Steve, and me. I guess it's kind of weird that teachers would invite students to their wedding. They probably don't have that many friends. Ooh, check it out, mini quiches.
"So, you are Tony's chosen mate," Loki says to Steve over the salad course, sizing him up. "I suppose you are…adequate."
Steve blinks and chews on a cherry tomato. "Thank you?"
"That ceremony was classy," Darcy says. "I want mine to be just like that."
"Yeah, and no one turned into a giant, green rage monster at any point," I say. "I hope Potts invests in a shitload of homeowner's insurance."
"When my darling Jane and I are wed, we will release two hundred doves into the sky! And there will be a feast that lasts for days on end!" Thor slams his palm on the table, making all of the glasses and plates shake. Loki snorts into his napkin. Jane cringes and strokes Thor's forearm.
"That might be expensive," she says. "We'll talk, okay?"
"What about you, Phil?" I ask, nudging his side. "What's your big day going to be like? I know for a fact you won't be wearing white."
Coulson just sips his drink—sparkling cider, thanks for nothing, Bruce and Pep—and clears his throat. "I haven't given it much thought."
"That is such a lie," Clint says, throwing his head back. "He talks about that shit all the time. What kind of flowers he wants, how it has to be tasteful. How I'm not allowed to shoot anything or anyone during the ceremony."
"That's a shame," Natasha says, reaching for her drink.
"You're lucky I haven't shot that stupid eyebrow ring off your face. I do not—"
"Phyllis, that is so romantic," I say. "Promise me I can be your maid of honor? I'll let you be mine in return."
Phil narrows his eyes and pulls a straw from his inside jacket pocket, holding it close to my face. "I'm pretty sure I figured it out. Don't make me test it on you."
"Have you just been...carrying that around?" I ask, swallowing. "The same straw?"
Clint interrupts with a groan as he rummages through the breadbasket, touching everything and earning a glare from Thor. "You hear that, Cap? They're planning our weddings already. Trying to hold a player down."
"What are we playing?" Steve asks. Clint stares at him, bug-eyed, and Steve realizes his mistake. He sighs and scratches the back of his head. "Okay, clearly that's something new I need to look up in the Urban Dictionary."
Loki tilts his head as he regards Steve. "On second thought, you're rather precious, aren't you?"
I hide my smile behind my hand and squeeze Steve's knee under the table. "Hands off, vultures. I'm the only one patriotic enough to be with him."
"Is 'patriotic' a synonym for 'obnoxious' now?" Clint asks.
Natasha smiles wryly. "Self-absorbed?"
"Insufferable, maybe," Coulson says.
"You people." I sigh and pop a piece of cucumber into my mouth. "You just don't love freedom the way I do."
Thor looks at the breadbasket in disgust and then tosses it somewhere behind him, the contents flying everywhere. "WE REQUIRE MORE ROLLS!"
The rest of the dinner is much the same.
Later, after the cake has been cut and the bouquet's been thrown—which Coulson caught, as he was likely to shank anyone who tried to stop him—Steve and I end up on the dance floor. I let him lead because he's bigger and, well, he doesn't know how to dance any other way. It's not the jitterbug, but it's nice. I tuck my nose against his neck and lean against him, just a little.
"So this is what it's like to slow dance with Captain America. I'm glad Thor doesn't get to have all the fun."
"You're a little more graceful than he is."
"I should hope so. Though I'd look badass in that winged helmet, I bet."
Steve kisses my forehead. I ignore the loud gagging sound Loki makes, a few feet away. "Your friends are all really nice," he says. "They care a lot about you, I think."
"They do, don't they? Even Loki has his moments."
"The one who tried to make it with you in his car?" Steve glowers across the dance floor. "You should stay away from him."
"Make it with me? Oh, my god. You really are precious. And hot when you're possessive. Hot all the time. Hot like burning. Would it distract you from the dancing if I stuck my hand down your pants?"
Steve looks torn. "Probably. Also, this is a wedding, Tony."
"Wedding, schmedding. That's what people do at weddings; they hook up. Haven't you ever been to one of these things before?"
"No." He smiles warmly. "This is my first."
"And it probably won't be the last, so let me show you how it goes." I kiss him soundly on the lips, a promise of things to come. "Once again, I, Tony Stark, will extend my generosity to you, Steven Rogers, by explaining a cultural phenomenon of great importance. In the men's room. With my mouth. On your penis—if you needed that spelled out for you."
Steve flushes and tightens his grip on my waist. "I…I'm grateful. Can you explain it, uh, now?"
"I think now would be good, yes."
We're not too subtle about our exit from the dance floor, but who gives a crap, really? We're crazy about each other and I don't care who knows it. Funny how that works. Also, we're young—or, well, young looking, in Steve's case—and if we don't get our rocks off, we might burst into flames. It'd be an ironic way for Capsicle to go, but not an ideal one. We rush to the restroom, Steve's hand gripping mine tightly. The open, lusty, wanting look in his eyes makes my stomach flip. Damn him.
Of course, when we get there, Coulson and Clint are walking out, their suits and ties thoroughly rumpled.
"All yours," Coulson says. "Captain. Stark."
"What? No! Not after you two went in there and jizzed all over everything!"
"You really are an artist with words," Steve says, grimacing.
Clint gives Steve an exaggerated salute as they walk off. "You snooze, you lose, muthafuckas! PEACE." Steve, bless his giant heart inside that giant body, shakes his head and sighs, clearly confused by it all.
"Okay, they're nice, but they're strange."
"You'll get used to it," I say. "Idea. Ladies' room down the hall? Natasha said they have fancy lotion in there."
"Tony, no."
I'm already tugging on his sleeve. "Come on. Just go in there and act confused. Pretend they didn't have sex-specific restrooms before the war."
"Is this what being your boyfriend is going to be like? Constantly dealing with your harebrained schemes?"
Boyfriend, I like the sound of that. It's very...official, like something to live up to. It's something I want to be and I plan to be damn good at it. I roll my shoulders back and put on my best poker face, even though there's a huge, ridiculous grin threatening to take over.
"Yes. And being mocked for saying things like 'harebrained schemes.' And a lot of awesome kissing." I lean up and demonstrate, licking slowly across his mouth. Steve makes a soft sound and grabs my hands before I pull away. "Basically a total lack of respect for your personal space. You in?"
Steve smiles his adorable, crooked smile. Then he says the three most beautiful words in the world, quickly followed by the three most exciting.
"Lead the way. I love you."
"I love you, too." A little shiver runs through me as we head down the hall. "Hey, I'll make it a rimjob if you let me drive home."
"Keep walking," he says.
You can't blame a guy for trying.