Chapter Text
September 8, 2014
Emma taps her pencil against her notepad impatiently. It’s only a little before noon, she’s got five more hours of this, but she’s already ready to go home. She hates this job. She isn’t not entirely certain what she was expecting when she applied but it wasn’t this. This nonstop misery of interviewing serial rapists and child molesters to see if they should be allowed out of prison early. If Emma had her way, none of them would be allowed back into society, period. But society thinks that there’s nothing wrong with letting these people out of jail early just because they can control themselves in a sterile environment (never mind the drug users or people who acted in self-defense, just the true monsters).
She glances down at her notepad again. At least the next guy coming in had done something interesting. “Art theft,” she murmurs. “Hmm.”
The door opens to admit the guy. She looks up briefly and finds her gaze arrested at the sight. Despite the orange jumpsuit, there’s no denying his next-door-neighbor, boyish good looks. She finds herself studying his well-defined muscles and absolutely perfect shoulder-to-waist ratio. Emma will always be more interested in women than men but she can’t deny that it’s…tempting to run her hands through his blond hair to see if it was as soft as it looked.
“Good morning, ma’am,” he says blandly.
Emma jumps, her attention focusing on his face. His blue eyes are twinkling knowingly and a grin lurks at the corners of his mouth. She clears her throat and motions at the chair in the middle of the room.
“Please state your name for the record,” she begins.
“Steve Rogers,” he says clearly.
“Thank you. Mr. Rogers, you’re currently finishing the third year of your five-year sentence. The purpose of this meeting is to determine whether you, if released, are likely to break the law again. While this is your first conviction, you have been implicated, though never charged, in nearly two-dozen other frauds and thefts. What can you tell us about that?”
Rogers shrugs, his face a blank mask though Emma suspects there’s something lurking underneath. “As you say, ma’am, I was never charged.”
Emma’s eyes narrow and she leans forward. “Mr. Rogers,” she says insistently, “what I’m trying to find out is was there a reason why you committed this crime or were you simply caught this time?”
“My-” Rogers cuts off and she got the impression he’s searching for the right word. “-Boyfriend of ten years left me. I was upset, fell into a self-destructive pattern. Made a few mistakes.”
She notices that he doesn’t say what those mistakes were but decides to focus on the more interesting part of the statement. “Ten years? That’s a long time to refrain from committing.”
Rogers leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Gay marriage wasn’t legal in New York at the time.”
“You said a self-destructive pattern. If released, do you think you’ll fall back into that pattern again?”
Rogers laughs bitterly. “Tony already left me once. I doubt he’ll do it again.”
“Mr. Rogers, what would you do if released?”
He thinks about that for a long moment. “Find an apartment,” he tosses out. “Get a job. Make some new friends. Maybe take a walk along the Hudson in the evening.”
Emma glances back down at her notepad. She hadn’t written much on it. She’s pretty certain that Rogers is lying, that he’ll definitely go back to crime if released but there’s a list of the crimes he’d been implicated in. Nothing looks like it had been affecting anyone other than the obscenely wealthy. He’d been noted as living fairly modestly, not the life of a glamorous art thief who kept every cent of the money he made from the stolen art. She taps her pencil again and then looks at him, closer this time. Rogers meets her stare steadily, a curious gleam in his eyes.
Well, it isn’t like he’s hurting anyone.
Steve hums to himself as he picks up his personal effects from Miles, the guard at the checkout desk. He takes a quick glance at the plastic bag the guard slides over to him, making sure nothing’s missing. Pile of clothes, wallet, phone, and watch. He nods to himself.
“Walk along the Hudson, huh?” Miles asks amusedly.
“Heard about that one?”
“Who didn’t? Funniest piece of bullshit to come down the grapevine in ages. Couldn’t believe Emma fell for that one.”
“Oh was that her name?” Steve mulls over that for a second. “You don’t know, I could decide to walk along the Hudson.”
Miles snorts. “Sure you will.” He pushes a letter across the counter. “Arrived for you today. Anything else we get, we’ll forward to your parole officer.”
Steve eyes the return address on the letter. He hadn’t received a single piece of mail the entire time he’d been incarcerated. It’s been a bit of a disappointment honestly that no one’s reached out to him. Seems their silence has finally broken now that he’s being released. He spares a thought to wonder how Bucky had found out he was leaving today.
“That boyfriend of yours?” Miles asks.
“I don’t have a boyfriend,” Steve mutters, sliding the letter out of the envelope and scanning the contents.
“Right,” Miles says with a sympathetic grimace. “Heard he left you.”
“What?” Steve asks distractedly. “No- Tony and I- we weren’t like that.”
Miles frowns. “So… what? He was an excuse?”
“Thought it might make me look sympathetic.”
“What is it then?” Miles asks, nodding at the letter.
“Friend’s address.” Steve slides the letter and its envelope into his bag.
Miles squints at the address on the envelope through the clear plastic. “You know you gotta stay in New York, right? Conditions of your parole.”
Steve slaps his hand over the address, sliding the entire bag off the counter. “Course I do,” he says briskly. “Said it was an address, not that I was going to visit.”
“Where you off to then?”
Steve shrugs. “Thought I might go see Manhattan.”
Chapter Text
December 23, 2000
Steve wouldn’t describe himself as an honest man.
A good man? Well, that depends on who he’s talking to. But an honest one? Never.
So he’s not entirely certain why, when the kitchen light clicks on and he looks up to see the boy standing in the doorway ask him what he’s doing, he says, “I’m stealing this painting off your parents’ wall.”
The boy drops his- Steve’s not actually sure what he’s holding but whatever it is, it makes a metallic ping as it hits the floor. Steve closes his eyes for the briefest second and spares a thought to be glad that Bucky’s running a con in Atlantic City because it would be really embarrassing if he were listening in on the other end of the comm. It’ll still be embarrassing because Bucky’s certain to show up for his sentencing to laugh at him for fucking up this badly and getting arrested but at least he’ll be able to hold off the embarrassment for another few months.
To his surprise though, the boy just says, “You know the Degas is worth more.”
He peeks one eye open. The boy has hopped up on the counter and pulled out his phone to fiddle on it. He looks utterly unconcerned by the thief in his parents’ kitchen. After a moment, the boy looks up at him and waves his hand for him to continue what he’s doing.
Belatedly, Steve says, “Yeah but I can sell the Pollock.”
The boy looks intrigued. “You can’t sell the Degas?”
Steve glances at the painting. He could sell it, of course he could. The problem is that he wouldn’t want to. He wants to hang it up in his bedroom and stare at it as he falls asleep, which is probably a creepy thought but he’s always liked the Impressionists. The boy follows his gaze and, judging by the understanding light in his eyes, he knows exactly what Steve’s thinking.
“It is gorgeous, isn’t it?” the boy asks.
Steve grunts and turns back to his work. If the boy isn’t going to say anything, then he sees no reason to stop. He runs Bruce’s scanner over the painting, watching as it lights up in various colors, telling him what exactly is protecting it from being stolen.
One of the lights flashes and disappears. He frowns. That’s not supposed to happen. He whacks the scanner against his hand a couple times (Sorry Bruce, he thinks) and then points it at the painting again.
“What’s your name, anyway?” the boy speaks up.
Well, he’s already ruined the night by telling him the truth. Might as well make it worse. “Steve,” he says.
“Steve,” the boy repeats. His reflection off the scanner’s screen shows him that the boy looks somewhat disgusted. “That’s a terrible name for a thief. You should be named something like Danny or Thomas or-”
“You watch too many movies,” Steve tells him amusedly. Another light blinks and disappears.
The boy shrugs unrepentantly. “Yeah probably. I’m Tony, since you didn’t ask.”
Steve knows that. He knows that Tony is the only child of Howard and Maria Stark who are currently hosting a Christmas party that Tony’s supposed to be attending. He knows that Tony’s some sort of engineering genius at MIT despite being only sixteen years old and that, if anyone could make his scanner go haywire the way it currently is, it’s Tony Stark.
“You know, you could help instead of just sitting there,” he says to test the waters.
Tony grins and holds up his phone. “What do you think I’m doing?”
He slides off the counter and moves closer to Steve. Steve tenses but all Tony does is take a closer look at the scanner. “Your thing’s pretty cool,” Tony says. “Looks like it scans for heat sensors, yeah?”
“And vibrational.”
Tony snorts. “Yeah. Howard keeps threatening to take the vibration sensors off of it. They keep going off when someone turns on the dishwasher.”
“Would’ve made my life easier if he had.”
Tony waves a distracted hand. “I already took care of that for you.” He holds out a hand for the scanner. Steve hesitates before giving it to him but he doesn’t think that Tony’s going to run off with it. Tony seems way too intrigued by this whole thing to turn him in. “Looks like it missed the close proximity motion detectors though.”
Steve gives him a sharp look. “Close proximity?”
“It reads movement within an inch or so.”
Steve should probably be grateful that he hadn’t moved closer than about half a foot but he’s too busy berating Bruce for not thinking of that.
“It’s fine,” Tony says as he pulls his phone back out. “I’ll take care of it for you.”
“You don’t have to-”
“Course I don’t,” Tony says cheerfully. “But I wanna see the look on Howard’s face when he realizes it’s gone.”
That’s the second time Tony’s called his father by his first name. It could just be that Howard Stark is that kind of casual dad but Steve doesn’t think so. No, going off of Tony’s look of wild glee when he thinks about how upset Howard’s going to be when he comes into the kitchen, he’d say that Tony and his dad don’t get along too well.
“You’re not going to bring the police down on my head, are you?” he asks.
Tony snorts. “Howard’s not going to report it missing. He’d have to report the one on loan to the MoMA as a fake then.”
That hadn’t actually been what Steve was asking. It’d be just like a rich guy to think that he’s letting the thief get away only to call the police as he’s leaving the house. But Tony looks way too excited about pissing off his dad and Steve thinks that Tony’ll absolutely keep quiet about this whole affair.
Tony hands him back his scanner. “You’re all set.”
“No more surprises?”
He shakes his head. “Not even a fingerprint scanner.”
Steve reaches up and lifts the painting off the wall. True to Tony’s word, no alarms blare. “Pleasure doing business with you. I’d shake your hand,” he says. “But I don’t really want your fingerprints on my gloves.”
Tony grins. “Merry Christmas, Steve.”
He should probably be surprised when the Degas shows up wrapped under his Christmas tree two days later, but he’s not.
September 8, 2014
Steve’s standing outside the brownstone in Manhattan that he’d called home for nearly six years. He doesn’t have his key anymore. He vividly remembers throwing them at Tony’s head during their last explosive argument. He hadn’t had a chance to get them back before he’d been arrested two days later.
He still wants Tony to apologize, still wants him to admit that it hadn’t been Steve’s fault he’d misread their situation. It hadn’t been Steve’s fault that Tony had thought they were dating. They’d never said anything about it and Tony hadn’t asked for clarification so it couldn’t be Steve’s fault that he’d thought they weren’t exclusive or anything. It wasn’t.
Maybe if he kept telling himself that, he’d believe it.
He sighed heavily and walked up the stairs. He couldn’t delay any longer and he didn’t want Tony to be worried by the man standing outside his home. That rarely means anything good in their line of work.
He knocks on the door, not entirely sure what he’s expecting or even what he wants. He doubts that Tony’s just going to come to the door and greet him with tears and kisses, not after the three years of silence he’d had from him and anyway, that’s not Tony’s style. But he doesn’t really think that Tony’s going to greet him with a vase to the head either because that’s not Tony’s style either so he’s not sure what’s going to happen. He doesn’t like not knowing what’s going to happen. It gives him the shivers.
He’s absolutely not expecting to be greeted by a ten-year old girl.
“Hi,” he says uncertainly. He doesn’t think this is Tony’s kid- she’s way too old for that- but he doesn’t know what she’s doing here otherwise. “Is Tony here?”
She quirks her head to the side. “Who’s Tony?”
He stares at her. “I- um- are your parents around?”
The girl looks back into the house. “Mommy!” she shrieks. Steve winces. He’d forgotten how loud children could be. Not that the inmates at the penitentiary weren’t loud but there’s something special about the yell of a child (maybe it was because of how shrill they could be).
The girl’s mother appears in the door. Now Steve’s even more nonplussed. He’s never seen this woman before in his life, which means that she can’t be someone from the thieves’ community but he doesn’t know where else she’d be from.
“Is Tony here?” he asks again.
She looks at him confusedly. “I don’t know any Tony. Are you sure you have the right house?”
“I’m pretty sure I’m in the right place,” he says. A thought occurs to him and he inwardly groans. “How long have you lived here?”
“Three years.”
He grimaces and nods. “Thank you for your time. Sorry to bother you.” He leaves, lost in his thoughts.
Tony sold the brownstone. Tony loved the brownstone. He’d thought that he would retire there, had mentioned it to Steve all the time. He would never have sold the brownstone.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out Bucky’s envelope. “New Jersey,” he mutters. “Why the fuck would he go to New Jersey?”
He thinks about what Miles had said, about how he had to stay in the state. And he’d had such high hopes too.
Chapter Text
January 1, 2001
I'm doing this tonight
You're probably gonna start a fight
I know this can't be right
Hey baby come on
I loved you endlessly
When you weren't there for me
So now it's time to leave and make it alone
“Good night?” the cab driver asks.
Steve shrugs as he shakes his head to clear the lingering effects of the alcohol. Bucky had dared him to outdrink him. He metabolizes his alcohol quickly, can’t even really remember the last time he’d actually gotten drunk. He thinks he might have still been in high school. So he’d been pretty sure that he would have no problems in a drinking contest against his partner. He had forgotten—or Bucky had conveniently forgotten to remind him—that Bucky grew up in rural Russia, in a community that didn’t really care if he’d been drinking hard liquor since he was a toddler. He and Bucky had matched each other drink for drink until the last couple of shots, at which point the room had started spinning and Bucky had started listing to one side.
They’d been planning on robbing the Stone’s mansion tonight. Instead, Steve had poured Bucky into a cab before calling one for himself.
“You’re lucky,” the driver says. Steve eyes him, who apparently must have grown up in one of the southern states because he’s the chattiest cab driver he’s ever had the misfortune of meeting. “Me? I gotta work tonight. And I worked Christmas too! But what can you do, ya know? I got three kids and another one on the way and they all gotta eat somehow. Not like my wife is workin’ at the moment.”
“Hmm,” Steve says, not really encouraging the conversation but he doesn’t want to come off as rude either. The guy’s just doing his job, after all. He probably deals with tons of shitty New York customers. There’s no reason for Steve to add to that, even if his head is starting to pound.
“You, though? Looks like you had a great night.”
“Tried to outdrink a Russian,” Steve offers. If they’re going to talk, might as well make the conversation worthwhile, right?
The cab driver winces sympathetically. “I hear ya there. My roommate in college—grew up in Ireland and you know how they can drink.”
His mouth twists. Steve’s family is Irish. He’s actually got a couple cousins still living over there, goes to see them every couple of years. One of them recently had a baby, cutest little thing he ever saw. He turns to look out the window, deciding that the conversation actually isn’t worth it if the driver can’t keep his prejudices to himself. And he figures maybe he opened himself up to it with the comment about Russians so he should probably apologize to Bucky next time he sees him—and he will. In the meantime, no need to keep up with a conversation going downhill.
The cab driver doesn’t seem to notice his silence and keeps chattering about—something, Steve’s no longer sure what. At least they’re not too far from his apartment, thank god for small miracles and all that. Should only be a couple more minutes.
He glances out the window again, idly wondering if he can see his building. He can. He can even see his apartment from here, with its one friendly lamp on in the window.
The lamp…on in the window…
She's so lucky, she's a star
But she cry, cry, cries in her lonely heart, thinking
“Oh, I love this song!” the driver exclaims and turns the music up. “Hope you don’t mind!”
“Stop the car!” Steve shouts over the music. Almost immediately, the car rolls to a stop.
“Hey, sorry about that,” the driver says as he turns the music back down. “Didn’t mean to upset you.”
Steve looks at him weirdly. “What? Never mind. Take the money, keep the change.” He practically has to physically place the cash in the driver’s hand, who’s still babbling inane apologies, and then he gets out, thankful for the gun he has in his bag. He doesn’t normally carry one but he and Bucky had been expecting trouble tonight and Bucky had insisted that they both be armed.
He walks the last few blocks to his apartment, pulling out the gun once he’s in the elevator, grateful that the complex doesn’t have security cameras any higher than the ground floor. It’s a major security breach, for sure, and probably against the law but he appreciates the privacy and the fact that no overzealous security guards are there to spot him loading bullets into a revolver as he waits in the elevator. Besides, he has his own cameras, both in the hallway outside his door and in the elevator. He’d hate for the building’s security system to interfere with his own.
The door to his apartment is still locked and for a brief moment, Steve wonders if he’s overreacting, if he’d accidentally left a lamp on before he left for the night. Then he hears a small crash and a muttered, “Shit.”
He’s never had to break into a place when someone was already awake and alert in there and he doesn’t particularly like the fact that it’s his place. He bends down, pulling out his lockpick set, wondering how he’s going to get past all the extra features he’s added, knowing that they were nearly impenetrable when he bought them.
Then the lock clicks and the door swings inward. Steve nearly topples over but catches himself right as Tony Stark says brightly, “Hi!”
“Hello, Stark,” Steve replies wearily, willing his heartrate to go back down. “What are you doing here?”
“What, I couldn’t just want to check on the Degas?” Tony asks. He reaches down a hand to help Steve up. Steve ignores it and pulls himself up with a hand on the doorjamb. “I like where you put it, by the way. Looks great right above your bed. Very classy. Definitely better than the kitchen.”
Steve pushes past him, feeling the beginning stages of a headache. “What are you actually doing here?” he asks. He doesn’t bother putting the gun down. For all he knows, Tony is here to blackmail him or call the cops or a thousand other things that he won’t stand for.
Tony bites his lip. “See, the thing is…”
“Out with it,” Steve says impatiently. He pours himself a glass of water, downs it with two Tylenol.
“I think my godfather is planning to have me killed.”
Steve raises an eyebrow. Out of everything he could have possibly thought the boy might say, that hadn’t been one of them. “You’re sure about that, are you?”
“Pretty sure, yeah,” Tony says. He sounds very casual who thinks that someone close to him is planning to murder him. When Steve points that out, Tony just waves an airy hand. “It’s gonna be fine. I’ve got proof.”
“Then why are you here? Shouldn’t you take your proof to the police?” Even as he says it, Steve has to snort back a laugh. Yeah, right. Like the police are going to do anything other than accept a bribe from the murderous godfather to keep them quiet. The cops in New York are notoriously corrupt.
“I don’t…I don’t actually. Have it. Yet,” Tony says.
Steve can’t hide the laugh this time. “But you’re so sure about it that you’re claiming you’ve got proof, anyway? That takes balls, kid.”
“You’re only a few years older than me,” Tony snaps, “so you can quit it with the ‘kid’ stuff. And I know I’m right about this. Someone’s been following me. I saw him going in and out of Obie’s office a couple times.”
“And that’s not just a bodyguard?” Steve asks skeptically.
“Trust me, if you could see this guy, you wouldn’t think he’s a bodyguard.” Tony slides a photo across the countertop to him. It’s a pretty grainy photo, taken from a reflection in a store window, but the person circled in red is pretty terrifying. Steve even thinks he might have seen him before at one of those criminal conventions that pop up every couple of years.
“There’s more,” Tony continues. “Last week, Howard announced to our shareholders that he’s going to retire and pass the company off to me in another year. It was news to everyone, including me. He’s always thought that I didn’t deserve to run the company. Everyone thought it was going to go to Obie. They had a really big fight about it. I heard Howard and Mom talking about it; apparently, I’m not the legal heir yet so if Obie can get rid of me first, he becomes the new heir.
“Yesterday, the plans for our latest invention, something that I made, went missing. It’s big, a huge game changer for weapons but also could mean a lot for a lot of other industries. I wanted to use it as an energy source. Obie thinks it might be bigger than the atomic bomb and I—I can’t let that happen. We need those plans back. I know it was Obie but the cops won’t believe me without proof. Howard won’t believe me without proof.”
“So what do you want me to do?” Steve asks. He’s pretty sure that he knows what Tony is asking but equally certain that he needs to hear it from the kid.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Tony says with a bitter twist to his mouth. “I want to hire you.”
September 9, 2014
The gym looks old and rundown—and it probably is. It’s probably been around since boxing became a sport and maybe, once upon a time, the owners cared about making it look nice and pretty but that was then. Steve’s certain that the new owner doesn’t give two shits about that, considering the fact that it’s probably a front. At the very least, the new owner never once thought about owning a gym up until he bought one so Steve figures he doesn’t really care about bringing in customers. Besides, Bucky’s got enough money to last him a long time. He doesn’t really need a gym.
As he gets closer, he can make out the shapes of two guys fighting in the ring. One of them is the stereotypical boxer—big, muscular, bald. The other guy is more compact, no less muscular but smaller. One of his arms has an odd metallic sheen to it. Both men are shirtless and Steve takes a moment to stop and admire them. He can hear the music coming from inside and he grins.
We were both young when I first saw you
I close my eyes and the flashback starts
I’m standing there
On a balcony in summer air
“Really?” Steve asks as he walks into the gym. “Taylor Swift?”
The guy with the metal arm holds up a hand to stop the fight and swings around to face Steve, cocky grin on his face. “As I live and breathe, Steve Rogers, out of the big house,” he drawls. He ducks under the ropes and throws an arm around Steve, patting his back as Steve does the same to him.
“Hey, Buck,” Steve breathes, inhaling the scent of his oldest friend. Bucky doesn’t exactly smell good, not with all that sweat, but under that, he smells like home and that makes all the difference in the world.
He draws away but only far enough to rest his hand on Bucky’s shoulder. The metal arm draws his gaze. He’s seen it before of course but it looks like it’s in particularly bad shape these days and he wonders who’s been taking care of it if not Tony.
“You didn’t come to see me. Not a visit, not a letter, not even a measly little postcard,” he says, a little disapproving, a little upset, and a lot curious.
He’s half-expecting for Bucky to deny it or make his apologies—or excuses. He’s definitely not expecting for Bucky to nod slowly and say, “No, I didn’t.”
He frowns. “You wanna explain that to me?”
Bucky sighs and runs his hand through his hair, again the metal one. It creaks as he moves and Steve’s frown deepens. “Where’s Tony?” he asks.
Bucky huffs out an unamused laugh. “Oh no, you don’t get to do that.”
“Do what?” Steve bites out. He doesn’t get why Bucky’s acting weird. He doesn’t get why Tony sold the brownstone, which he loved. He doesn’t get why literally none of the old crowd visited him or sent him so much as a fucking stamp.
“Guys!” Bucky calls. He whirls around and motions for the other people in the gym to wrap it up. “I’m closing early today. Gonna take my buddy out!”
There are a few scattered cheers as the fights start winding down but for the most part, Bucky’s ignored as people start to pack up and head out. As they wait, Bucky swipes a hand at Steve’s chin. “Nice beard,” he says.
“Thanks, it’s my prison beard,” Steve says dryly.
Bucky laughs. “Always knew you’d be that type.”
He locks up and leads Steve to the back office, flicking off the lights as they go. The office is small but it’s nice, cleaner than the gym out front and furnished with the kind of furniture that looks kind of cheap but actually costs quite a lot of money. Perfect for blending in without having to replace particle-board furniture every couple of months. Steve remembers Bucky’s old apartment in Brooklyn and how nice it had been and can’t help but imagine what might have driven him to New Jersey of all places.
“Look, Steve,” Bucky says, motioning him into a chair. Bucky sprawls out on the leather chair behind the desk, propping his feet up. “You gotta understand what it was like when you got arrested. I mean, guy like you, big player in the game, you go down, there’s blood in the water. I mean, it was fucking catnip to the cops. You weren’t the only one who got arrested. But worse than that were the guys like Schmidt, the guys who knew we were vulnerable, the rich ones that people like us robbed. They wanted revenge and without you—without the protection you offered—”
He stops and sighs heavily.
“Where’s Tony?” Steve asks again, a little bit worried.
“See, the thing is, Steve, is that I know you,” Bucky says insistently, leaning forward. His feet fall off the desk with a clunk. “I know that when you’ve got that look in your eyes, that tone in your voice, you’re planning something. My guess is it’s revenge. But you can’t do that. When you went down, you fucked the whole community over. Guys like Schmidt, they’re not happy with just you. He went after you, he went after me and Tony, he went after anyone who’d ever even sort of interacted with you.”
“Where’s. Tony?” Steve grits out, getting more and more worried by the second.
“No, you don’t get to do this,” Bucky says, just as slowly, emphasizing each word. “Everyone knows that you and Tony had a falling out and honestly, knowing how much of a punk you are, I’d say it’s because you did something stupid. You don’t get to come back out and go drag him back in like this because you want revenge.”
Steve challenges, “Who says I’m looking for revenge?”
“I would be if I was in your place,” Bucky says simply like they’re so similar that what Bucky would have done is what Steve will do. It burns that he’s not wrong.
“You don’t get it. That guy put me in prison. You have no idea what that’s like.”
“You think I don’t get it?” Bucky scoffs. “He ripped my fucking arm off. But you were in there so you don’t know what happened out here. You don’t know about the witch hunt Schmidt went on after you got put away. You don’t know the deaths of the Pym family or about Wanda losing an eye or the fact that Pietro will never fucking walk again. You don’t know any of that. It was a nightmare out here, Steve. But boohoo for you; you went to prison.”
Oh. Steve—Steve hadn’t heard any of that. There were a lot of rumors floating around the prison about who had been arrested, who was injured, who was dead. But the thieves’ community had always kept to themselves and with Steve being the only one currently in prison, he hadn’t heard about Schmidt and his apparent witch hunt.
“I didn’t know,” he said quietly, a pang going through his heart at the thought of little Hope Pym who had only been three years old the last time he saw her.
Bucky scoffs again. “Yeah, that’s obvious.”
For a moment, they’re both quiet. Steve looks around at the small office again. It’s a little shabby, a little small, but it’s clearly well-loved. He almost regrets wanting to pull Bucky back into crime. But he needs his partner. He needs Bucky—and he needs Tony.
“Tony made it out okay?” he asks.
“No one knows,” Bucky says. “He disappeared for three months during your trial. Shows up in the middle of the night with his arm in a sling and cuts on his face, calls for a press conference, hands SI over to Potts, and disappears again. No one’s heard from him since.”
There’s something about the way he says it that rings false. Steve studies him closely, gaze trailing up and down Bucky’s arm. It’s clearly in desperate need of a tune-up but it doesn’t look as bad as it should for three years without the primary mechanic.
“You know,” he says. “You’ve seen him. Where is he?”
Bucky groans, rolling his head back on his shoulders. “Fuck, Stevie. Can’t you just let him rest?”
“I need him.”
“For whatever it is you’re planning? Come on, I mean, whatever it is that you two fought about, it really fucked him over. He’s still broken up about it now. Can’t you do whatever it is without him?”
“Nope. I need him. Buck,” he says, leaning forward. He knows that that feverish intense light is in his eyes, the one that inspires people, calls them to him. Tony had always called it his greatest asset. “Buck, you told me that Schmidt decimated our community, that people are scared of him. That’s exactly why we need to get back at him. No, forget getting back at him. We need to take him down. Schmidt needs to be taken down, knocked out of the game. We can’t let him get back up again. People are dead, Bucky. I’ve got no right to sit on my ass at home. And neither do you.” He can see inspiration coming back to Bucky’s eyes, see the way his shoulders are straightening. He’s sure that Bucky is still mad at him but right now, he can use that anger, direct at someone who actually deserves it. “But I need Tony for it. I always have. You keep telling me he’s my better half. Well, right now, I’m admitting it. Where is he, Buck?”
Bucky sighs, long and slow, and gives him a rueful grin. “You gotta stop using those dumb speeches on me,” he comments. He taps his metal fingers on the desk. Steve waits patiently. “He’s in Malibu, last I heard. Conning rich kids out of their money.”
“Blackjack?”
“Poker.”
“He always was good at counting cards.”
Chapter 4
Notes:
Spoilery CONTENT WARNINGS in the end notes about Stane, please check if you think you may be triggered by Stane
Dialogue heavily inspired by Ocean's 11
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
May 29, 2001
For Tony’s seventeenth birthday, Steve takes him out to a bar with a fake ID made by Bucky and gets him very drunk. The bartender gives them a weird look when he asks for Tony’s ID but Steve raises an eyebrow and takes a meaningful glance around the bar, filled with other thieves and common criminals because he wouldn’t take Tony anywhere he didn’t already feel safe at and this bar is a known safe haven for people like him. The bartender hesitates a moment later until Bucky walks up behind him, clasps a hand on Tony’s shoulder, and exclaims, “How about that job, huh?”
Because that’s the nominal reason they went out tonight—to celebrate Tony’s first job. He had insisted on helping with the Stane job, claiming that it was his duty as the Stark Industries heir and his right as the person Stane is trying to murder. Steve had argued with him about it. Tony’s too young to get mixed up in all this, he hadn’t been born into this life like Steve had. Tony had been close to agreeing too until they’d brought Bucky in and Bucky had taken one look at the kid and said that if he was willing to accept responsibility for his own life, then why not let him join?
Steve still hasn’t forgiven him for that.
The job had been successful. Of course it had. How could it not with top notch thieves like Steve and Bucky working it? Tony had been worried about the delay after he’d hired Steve back in January.
“Relax,” Bucky had told him. “Jobs always take a while.”
“If Obie sells the plans—”
Steve had shaken his head. “He won’t. Right now, they’re hot. You’re looking for them, your dad’s looking for them, the police are looking for them. He can’t move them without bringing down a whole lotta trouble in his head. Nah. He’ll wait until things have calmed down.”
And he had. They’d broken into Stane’s office that night during the party Maria Stark threw to celebrate her only child’s birthday. Tony had been at the party, mingling with the guests, causing as much of a distraction as he could to keep anyone from noticing the two intruders right upstairs.
“Really fucking bold of him to keep his plans in his office in the guy’s damn home, dontcha think?” Bucky had asked as they’d waited in the hall for Tony to get the passcode to Stane’s office. They could have broken in the old-fashioned way but Steve had thought it better if they used the passcode.
“I think it’s bold just to have an office in Stark’s home,” Steve had pointed out.
Bucky had made a grunted noise of agreement right before the earpiece crackled and Tony rattled off the long string of numbers that made up the code.
Now, hours later, he stares morosely into his drink, thinking about the things he’d seen in that office. Not just the plans, though those had been there too, but every single one of Tony’s achievements hanging on the walls, framed pictures of his magazine articles on the desk, and in a folder in a drawer—Steve shudders just thinking about the pictures in that folder, pictures of Tony slowly taking his shirt off in someone’s dorm, Tony sitting on someone’s lap in a crowded club, Tony in a back alley on his knees.
He tosses back his drink and passes another one to the kid. Tony did well today, especially after he’d seen the pictures Steve had stumbled across. Steve had shown them to him, calling him up to the office once they’d found the plans. He had thought that the decision about what to do with them, whether to take them with them or leave them for the police, should rest in Tony’s hands.
“Did the guy who was following me take these?” Tony had asked. As soon as he’d seen them, a mask had fallen over his face. It had made Steve squirm uncomfortably as he tried to fit that in with the open, expressive Tony he’d worked with for the last five months.
“Maybe some of them,” Bucky had said honestly. “But these date back years, all with the same subject.”
Steve had seen the moment Tony had understood, face turning a delicate shade of green and then pasty white. “If you’re gonna be sick—”
“I know, don’t do it here,” Tony had muttered. “Jesus Christ, he’s known me since I was in diapers.”
Yeah, the guy’s sick. Steve sighs and glances across the bar. Tony left them a few drinks back and stumbled off to go talk to the Carter sisters, who are cooing over how adorable he is.
“You keep pushing drinks on him,” Bucky says quietly. “You’ve got honorable intentions, right?”
“Fuck, Buck. He’s seventeen. He’s gonna have a really shitty day tomorrow when his dad walks into that office. Just trying to make it a little easier on him.”
“By giving him the hangover to end all hangovers?”
“…I wanted to forget what I saw,” Steve admits finally, resting his forehead against the cool glass of his drink. “And the kid didn’t even seem to realize his birthday, did you catch that? He’s down there at that party and he kept calling it Howard’s opportunity to publicly announce his status as SI’s heir. It wasn’t even like he was wrong, that’s exactly what happened. Do you think he even remembers what today is?”
They’re both quiet for a long moment, watching Tony, who’s gathered a crowd around him as he eagerly talks about the night, about how fast his heart had been beating.
“Were we ever that young?” Steve asks quietly.
Bucky snorts. “That young? Stevie, ‘that young’ was two years ago.”
“Not like that.” He keeps his eyes fixed on Tony, whose eyes are bright and shining from the drink as much as the adrenaline. Bucky is looking at Steve though, with a worried expression that reminds him of when they used to be younger, Bucky thinking that he needed to mother hen him. “Look at him, Buck. We were born into this life, meant to become criminals. We’re jaded. Tony though, he’s got his whole future ahead of him. He could do anything he wants.”
“You’re not worried about Stane at all, are you?” Bucky says suddenly, understanding exactly what has Steve concerned. “You’re worried about Tony.”
“He’s one of us. I knew it the moment I saw him—and I’m pretty sure he knows it too.”
“So what’s wrong with that?”
Steve is still watching the small knot of people around Tony, growing larger by the second. The bright-eyed, still innocent kid is easily accepted into this group of jaded, world-weary criminals and it has Steve captivated—and worried. “He gets the news that his godfather is twisted, keeps creepy pictures of him, and he forgets all of that the moment you showed him those plans. And it wasn’t even that he’d recovered the plans that he meant for clean energy. It was that he recovered the plans. You saw it, right?”
“Yeah,” Bucky agrees softly. “I saw it. But that’s not necessarily a bad thing.”
“His parents laid the entire world out at his feet,” Steve reiterates, “and he’s going to follow us into a life of crime. You don’t think that’s a bad thing?”
Bucky shrugs. “Not really. It’s his decision and honestly, he’s good at it.”
“He’s a child.”
“He’s nearly grown. He’s the heir to a multi-billion dollar company and he just had his eyes blown wide open.” Bucky finishes the rest of his drink—something dark and foul-tasting that Steve can’t remember the name of—and says, “Look, I’m taking a job in Siberia for the next year or so. You’re gonna need a new partner. Why don’t you take Tony on as an apprentice? Give him a couple easy jobs, either he’ll decide it’s the life for him or he won’t. We already know he’s not gonna run to the cops. What’s the worst that could happen?”
What’s the worst that could happen?
A lot: Tony could decide to go to the police anyway, he could decide that this isn’t the life for him and waltz off with all of Steve’s best tricks, he could decide it is the life for him.
But—what’s the worst that could happen?
Tony asks him, at the end of the night, exhausted and drunk and probably sporting a spectacular headache, if he can keep working with Steve.
And Steve—Steve says, “Yes.”
September 12, 2014
Tony is tired.
Fuck but he’s tired. He’s tired of the way his chest hurts all the time. He’s tired of teaching of teaching young, gullible marks how to play poker (god, had he ever been that bright-eyed and innocent?). He’s tired of Malibu, of missing the darkness of New York, missing the brownstone, missing Steve. That most of all.
He’s tired of missing Steve.
He runs a hand over his chest, rubbing the ache, as he walks in the back door of the club. In the front, there’s some sort of thumping bass that’s playing loud enough his headache spikes again. Once upon a time, he would have loved music like that. These days, he can’t even pronounce the names of the singers and he doesn’t particularly care to.
In the back though, it’s a little bit quieter, the room mostly soundproofed to keep anyone out front from hearing what illegal dealings are going on in the back. Not that poker is illegal. But he knows that sometimes these rooms get used for other, seedier things.
Tony checks what’s in his pockets. Couple hundred dollars, nothing much. Gonna be a night of letting one of the kids win then. Sometimes, he plays to win, scoring thousands of dollars off his students in a single night. Chump change to most of them. Only when he’s got enough in his wallet to match them though. He doesn’t want to lose more than he can bet. Course, he makes more than any of them could ever dream of, what with the money he gets from SI, even with Pepper at the helm. That’s not why he plays. He plays for the thrill, the small adrenaline rush he gets from conning the kids out of their money. He’s not like Steve; he’s not a grand scale thief who can come up with elaborate plans and has the patience to see them out over months of work. Tony thinks on the small scale.
His protégé, a bright up-and-coming actor with a head for math that Tony is slowly turning toward counting cards, is already waiting for him by the back door. He’s the only one out of this bunch who shows any promise. Tony likes him a lot. That doesn’t stop him from taking his money though.
“Holland,” he says quietly.
“Mr. Stark,” Holland says, voice still a little too high-pitched to make it far in the industry. He’s still getting kid roles.
“How many we got tonight?”
“Five. Me, Jacob, Other Tony, and Remy.”
He counts in his head quickly. “Who’s the fifth?”
“Remy brought his girlfriend. I didn’t think you would mind.”
He thinks about that for a second. “The one from Disney Channel?” he eventually asks.
Holland nods.
“Sure, why not?”
Holland doesn’t seem to pick up on his sarcasm and Tony doesn’t bother to correct him. He’s too tired tonight to really care. He just lets the kid draw him into the room and into the game.
He’s losing badly tonight, too exhausted to focus, too bored and heartsore. He’s been thinking about Steve a lot these days, not that he knows why. Steve still has another two years left on his sentence, less if he gets out on good behavior but he won’t. Steve wouldn’t know the meaning of good behavior if it bit him on the ass, has never met a fight he wouldn’t run towards.
He had dragged Tony into his fight, a fight that had left Tony scarred and hurting.
He drums his fingers on his chest, making sure that the reactor is still covered. He’d meant for the arc reactor to usher in a new era of clean energy. Instead, it keeps his heart pumping after what Schmidt had put him through.
Holland is musing over the pot in the middle of the table. “A hundred bucks to me,” he says aloud and then shrugs. “Pocket change. Call.”
Tony narrows his eyes. “Why you bet a certain way is your business. But you have to make it look like you’re doing it for a reason. That’s what poker is all about: figuring out who’s the best liar.”
Holland flushes and ducks his head.
A little while later, as Other Tony drags out his turn while he stares at his cards, he snaps, “Your cards aren’t going to change. They’re the same no matter how many times you look at them so make the bet.”
And then even later, he says sarcastically, “I don’t care that she’s your girlfriend, Remy. Keep your damn cards to yourself.” He waits until Remy’s cards are hidden and then mutters, “Thank you.”
He can see Holland watching him worriedly, wondering if something is up with him. Yeah, something is. Tony’s getting old and today he feels every bit of that age. He probably shouldn’t be snapping though. Jacob lays out his cards—two pairs—crowing about his win as he gathers the money towards him. Tony glances at his own—full house of three queens and two kings. He could easily claim the win. He doesn’t. He taps again at the reactor and stands.
“Congratulations. I’m gonna go to the bar, get something to drink. Take a break. Drag your bank accounts for whatever’s left. Meet back up in fifteen.”
He’s tired.
He’s so tired.
He can hear Rhodey saying, “You’re only thirty, Tones. You’re too young to be tired.” But he hasn’t spoken to Rhodey in years. The last time they’d seen each other, Tony had been bouncing and vibrant and in love. That’s over now and what’s left is exhausted and waspish and aching. He shouldn’t have come out tonight, should have stayed home, should have let the kids find someone else to teach them for a couple hours instead of sitting across from them being reminded of how old he is.
He orders a whiskey sour, more whiskey than sour, presses the cold glass to his forehead the way Steve used to after a long night. The drink burns as it slides down his throat, reminding him that he needs to pull himself back together, gather the tattered remains of his professionalism and go back to playing poker. He sighs and gets up from the barstool, ordering another drink to take with him back to the game.
There’s another player when he walks into the room. The guy has his back turned toward him so the most Tony can see is broad shoulders and blond hair, buzzed short on the sides but thick on top. He spies the black ink of a tattoo along the curve of his shoulder, dipping into his shirt. Steve has a tattoo there, a Celtic knot that he’d gotten not long after Tony’s twenty-first birthday. It had always intrigued him but he’d never thought to ask what it meant.
“Hey, Mr. Stark, we got another player,” Holland says as he walks in. “Didn’t think you would mind.”
Holland’s making a lot of decisions for him, he notes absently. He’ll probably need to talk with him about that. Then the guy twists in his chair to smirk at him and all of Tony’s composure flies out the window.
Because—
Oh.
That’s Steve. Steve is sitting here at his table, in this room, when he’s supposed to be thousands of miles away in a prison in New York, serving time because he hadn’t bothered to listen when Tony said it was a trap. But even when he’s angry at him, he can’t help but let his eyes roam greedily over him, taking in the thick beard and the blue eyes, as bright and gorgeous as always. Steve’s lost weight—an inevitable result of prison, Tony supposes—and he’s sporting a few grey hairs now—another result of prison because Steve’s too young to go grey.
Tony wants to crawl into his lap, burrow into his arms, and never leave.
But he wants to scream too because how dare Steve do this to him. How dare Steve come back to him with that cocky smirk on his face and that bold look in his eyes, the one that says I’m itching for a fight and I’m dragging you with me, the one that’ll bring Tony to heel every single fucking time. He wants to scream, wants to say, “You don’t get to do this after everything you did to me, after you brought her back to our home,” because the worst part is that he still doesn’t know what he did wrong, what made Steve go looking elsewhere. They’d been happy, he had thought, Steve hadn’t treated him any different and then he’d stopped coming home. Then he’d said, “Don’t you think it’s time we ended this arrangement?” Arrangement, like it hadn’t been the best ten years of Tony’s life. Then he’d brought that woman back to the brownstone, the brownstone that Tony can’t even step foot in without seeing her behind his eyelids. Then he’d let her get him arrested because he couldn’t stop thinking with his dick and ruined Tony’s life in the process.
He should say all of that. He should kick Steve out, kick him to the curb and never look back. But it’s Steve and Tony is tired and he’s missed him despite it all and he knows that he’s not going to do any of that.
So he says, “Why would I mind?” and takes his seat at the table. He asks Jacob to deal since the kid’s quick with his hands and busies himself with his cards.
“Most people don’t even know this game is back here. How’d you get in?” he asks idly.
“Bouncer let me in,” Steve says. Damn him but he sounds amused like this is all some game to him.
Tony knows damn well there’s no bouncer but he still plays along. “What was their name?”
Steve shrugs. “Must have forgotten.”
“Hmm. An amnesiac card player. Should be fun.”
When he looks up, Steve’s smile is smaller now, turning private and fond. Tony remembers how Steve used to make him feel like he was the only person in the room. He’d thought, after he got out of Schmidt’s clutches, that he’d left those days behind him, along with every other illusion he’d had. But he sees now that Steve still has that power and when his traitorous heart skips a beat, he already knows that he’s going to fall right back into his old ways.
“What do you do for a living, Mr.…?” Holland asks as they begin the game.
“Rogers. I’m an international art thief,” Steve says freely.
“Was,” Tony says sharply before he can stop himself.
Steve inclines his head. “Was.”
He can practically feel the kids’ brains grind to a halt. “Was?” Jacob squeaks.
Steve shrugs. “Well, I just got out of prison so I’m not much of anything at the moment.”
The conversation stalls further. Half to divert attention away from Steve, Tony says, “Remy, your cards are showing again.”
The girl—Tony can’t remember her name at the moment but he’s pretty sure it starts with a Z—asks with the sort of relish that makes him wonder if she watches documentaries about serial killers, “What were you in prison for?”
“Trying to move apparently stolen artwork across national borders.”
“Did you steal it?” she asks.
Steve shakes his head. “I was framed. A guy hired me to move his artwork from his house in New York to a cabin in Canada. I got stopped at the borders. Turned out he stole the artwork but he covered his tracks well enough to make it looks like I did.”
The kids are practically hanging onto Steve’s every word. Tony doesn’t blame them. It had been an intriguing story when he’d lived it and it’s still an interesting one. It probably would have gone down in the history books if Tony hadn’t paid off the reporters to keep the trial quiet.
“Must be a lot of money in stolen artwork,” Jacob says wistfully. He still hasn’t struck it big yet.
“There’s a bit,” Steve demurs.
Tony shakes his head. “Don’t let him fool you. There’s loads, especially if you can steal it out from under the guy.” He gives a pointed look at Steve. “But you can’t.”
“I was pretty confident I could.”
“’Confidence doesn’t make up for poor planning,’” he says, quoting back one of the first things Steve had taught him.
“’Well maybe you just lack vision,’” Steve quotes his own reply back at him.
Tony laughs. “Yeah, probably everyone in your cell block.”
Steve doesn’t argue the point.
Holland asks timidly, “Mr. Stark, are you a thief too?”
“All billionaires are thieves, kid,” Tony says promptly. “Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”
Steve covers his laugh with a hasty cough. Tony glares at him. “Did you at least learn your lesson?” he snaps.
His voice is soft when Steve says, “Yeah, I did.”
A pause before one of the kids—Tony isn’t sure who but he refuses to take his eyes off Steve to check—asks, “And what lesson was that?”
Tony doesn’t know what Steve’s going to say, if it’s going to be not to trust a random woman you met at a bar or not to goad powerful, vicious men or something else entirely. Whatever it is, he certainly isn’t expecting Steve to look him right in the eyes and say with as much sincerity as he can muster—which is a lot, “When your partner tells you not to go, don’t go.”
“Fuck,” Tony breathes out on an exhale. He laughs shakily. “You—you don’t. Fuck. I fold. Play however the fuck you want. I’m done for the night.”
He throws his cards down, grabs his jacket and his wallet, and leaves. The door slams shut behind him and he leans back against the wall, bracing his hands on his knees as he takes several steadying deep breaths. Fuck fuck fuck. Steve can’t just do this to him, come back and give him those big eyes and tell him in all sincerity that he had been right three years ago. He had told him that it’s a trap and Steve had refused to believe him. Tony had held onto the anger from that fight for three years. Steve can’t just come back and all but apologize and make Tony feel awful for holding onto his anger.
The door opens beside him. He thinks about straightening up, putting on a brave face, but he recognizes that gait.
“What are you doing out here?” he asks.
“You’re out here,” Steve says simply. “I came out to California for you, Tony. Why would I be inside?”
“Fuck you, you know,” Tony bites out. Steve only shoves his hands in his pockets and waits him out. “You don’t—you don’t get to say things like that after I told you it was a goddamn trap and you told me that I was letting my jealousy cloud my judgment. So you know? Fuck you!”
“I know,” Steve replies quietly. “I’m sorry. I was wrong.”
“Oh, you’re sorry?” Tony repeats. “That’s it? You’re sorry and you expect me to just get over it?”
Steve purses his lips, annoyed and that at least is familiar. “What else do you want from me, Tony? How many times do I need to say it?”
“As many times as I need to hear it!”
The words ring loud in the still air between them.
They stare at each other for a long moment, words unspoken, grievances unaired floating silently.
Tony doesn’t know who moves first.
But what he does know is that Steve has him pressed back against the wall, kissing him desperately, urgently, whispering, “I’m sorry” over and over and over again until Tony hears it even when he isn’t saying anything. He clutches at Steve’s hair, his shoulders, his back, whispers, “I missed you.”
And Steve says, “I know. Fuck Tony, I couldn’t stop thinking about you in there. How I was gonna find you as soon as I got out, tell you how sorry I was.”
He kisses him again, pulls Steve tight against his body so that Steve can feel how desperate he is, how wanting, how longing. They need to talk. He needs to hear what exactly Steve is sorry for, what brought him to California, why he was looking for Tony. He wants to know who knows that he’s here, who told him to come.
But right now, Steve is rolling his hips into his, wedging a thigh between his legs and urging Tony to grind down against him and all Tony can think to say is—
“Come home with me.”
Notes:
Going off of the rapey undertones in the mcu relationship between Stane and Tony, it's pretty heavily implied that Stane is a pedophile interested in a younger Tony
Chapter Text
November 1, 2001
“You know, when I said we needed to figure out the algorithm for the code, I didn’t mean you should attack the guy.”
Tony slowly raises his head from where he’s lounging with his elbow tucked underneath him. He grins as he takes in the sight of Steve, holding up the keys to his cell. “Yeah but it’s more fun this way. And technically, he attacked me. I just bumped into him. He’s the one who got all huffy.”
“Because you were pickpocketing him, yes, I know,” Steve sighs. He rubs his temples with his free hand. Bucky, I’m gonna kill you when you get back from Siberia. “When I agreed to take you on as my apprentice, kid, you said—you promised—we’d do things my way. This?” He circles his finger, indicating the jail. “This isn’t my way.”
Tony groans and sits up just so he can dramatically slam his head against the wall. “Come on, Steve. Your way is boring. We’ve been casing the joint out for months, ever since we got back from New York. Your way would have had us still trying to figure the code out after Christmas! And! And I’m not your apprentice. I’m your partner.”
“Until you actually know what you’re doing,” Steve argues, “you’re an apprentice. Right now, I’m not even sure you’re that.”
Tony’s head jerks up and he climbs to his feet. He crosses the room in an instant, wrapping his hands around the bars. “No, Steve, please, I’m sorry,” he pleads. “I thought you would be happy.”
Steve crosses his arms. “Happy? Because you got yourself caught? Tony, if we do this, if we go through with this plan, what happens if the bank manager remembers that you bumped into him before you fought? You’re a student in this city; you won’t be hard to find.”
“How could he possibly know that I could have figured out the code from two seconds with his cell phone when he doesn’t even know that I even had his cell phone?”
“I am trying to teach you the tools of my trade!” Steve roars, finally losing his patience. Tony takes a half-step back, startled and maybe a little frightened. Good. He should be scared. Steve wants him terrified because he refuses to go down for some punk-ass kid who’s here to get his rocks off or whatever. “I agreed to take you on but nothing that I teach you—not the lockpicking or the pickpocketing or the safecracking, none of it—matters if you cannot have the fucking patience to use what I’ve taught you. You weren’t ready to go after the manager. You got yourself caught and you nearly got me caught with you. The next time you fuck up like this, you’re on your own. Daddy can bail you out of jail next time.”
More subdued, Tony nods. Steve stares at him for a long moment, evaluating whether the kid is telling the truth. When Tony finally slumps back against the bars and whispers, “I’m sorry,” Steve nods.
“You should be.” He jerks his head at the station doors, unlocking Tony’s cell as he does. “Come on. We’ve got to get back to work.”
Tony beams at him and scrambles out of the cell.
As they step out into the bright sunshine, Steve passes Tony a scarf he’d grabbed from the apartment they’re sharing, certain that he probably lost his at the bar last night in the fight. “Did you at least get the code?” he asks and pulls out a second pair of gloves as well.
“Yep,” Tony says, cheerful now that Steve’s bailed him out. “The Leviathan safe is supposedly the most impregnable safe in the world because it generates a seemingly random code comprising of ten numbers every time someone texts a certain number. Now I say ‘seemingly.’ It’s actually not random at all; that would be impossible. But it’s a very complex algorithm and the people with the algorithm are expected to be able to solve the code at the drop of a hat all before the code changes again so most of the safe owners have the code saved on their phone. Our bank manager is one such man, convinced that no one would know that the random code isn’t actually random. And we’re lucky. This was one of the first Leviathans ever made so the algorithm isn’t as complex as it could be.”
“So what is it?”
“Increasing digits of pi. Your tech guy—what was his name? Banner, right?—I asked him to hack into the cameras right outside the vault. He can tell us what the most recent code was.”
Steve is wearing his earpiece still from the conversation he’d been having with Bruce before he’d found out that Tony had gotten himself arrested. He taps it twice, activating it. “Bruce, you there?”
“Here, Steve,” Bruce’s mild voice says over the earpiece.
“Tony says you know what the last code for the Leviathan was.”
“Uh—” There’s the shuffling of papers. Steve can picture Bruce’s cluttered desk and he winces, preferring to keep a sterile work environment himself. “Yeah, it was 9512694683. The next code would be—”
“9835259570,” Tony interrupts.
Bruce pauses. “Is that Tony?”
Steve slowly turns to look at the kid. “Bruce, is that right?”
“Yeah, 9835259570... How did he do that?”
Tony smiles smugly. “Math is kind of my thing.”
September 13, 2014
They leave Tony’s car at the bar and take a cab home, which is good because they’re barely able to take their hands off of each other. Tony straddles Steve in the backseat, rolling his hips down into the bulge in the blond’s pants. Steve fits his hands around Tony’s hips, steadying him as he sucks bruises in a neat line down his throat. Tony whimpers with each pull of Steve’s mouth.
The car’s windows are steaming up, the cabbie clearly uncomfortable, but Steve can’t manage to bring himself to care when he has a wonderfully needy and pliant Tony in his lap, going wherever Steve directs him. They stop before it gets to be too much, thankfully right as they’re pulling up to Tony’s place.
Steve doesn’t even get the chance to see it though he gets the impression of big and modern before Tony is dragging him inside. There’s the sound of gently falling water, likely the fault of the waterfall Steve can see out of the corner of his eye. He doesn’t turn to verify as Tony is walking backward, holding onto Steve’s hand as he leads him, eyes locked onto Steve’s. His eyes are dark and big and intense, drawing Steve in, drowning him in remembered emotions.
They hadn’t done this for a few months before Steve finally called things off. He’s missed it, missed the way all of Tony’s attention lasers in on him, the entirety of his genius focused on making Steve feel good. It’s intoxicating, heady; he wonders how he could have ever forgotten how it felt during his incarceration.
The bedroom is more than a few feet away and Steve nearly decides to fuck it all and have Tony against the wall but as soon as he moves in closer, Tony drops his hand and darts out of reach.
“Trust me,” Tony says, voice low, “you’ll like the view more.”
“I like the view now,” Steve growls, gratified when Tony shivers.
“Trust me,” Tony repeats but he sounds less steady and Steve lunges for him. Tony darts away again, running down the hallway. Steve laughs and follows, chasing him into a room with an absolutely spectacular view of the ocean that Steve will appreciate just as soon as he’s done fucking the life out of his partner.
Tony is taking off his shoes which gives Steve enough time to catches him around the waist and throw him to the bed. Tony bounces, crying out, hand flying to his bulge to press down. Steve can’t help but wonder how long it’s been for him, if it’s been just as long for him as it’s been for Steve. He kicks off his shoes, as Tony starts removing his pants. He starts to reach for his belt, only to stop so he can stare at the pretty picture Tony makes on the bed, surrounded by red silk and gold pillows, a living embodiment of wealth and decadence.
He thinks of the time he took Tony to Las Vegas to rob a very wealthy patron of the Palms Casino of a very expensive jade necklace. They’d recently come off a lucrative job in Italy involving a three-hundred year old bottle of wine so they’d been flush with cash. They had only recently started fucking and Steve had been desperate to impress Tony, to keep him despite knowing that he couldn’t have his partner the way he wanted so he’d paid the ridiculous price for the Empathy Suite. He remembers how Tony had looked lounging naked in the most expensive hotel room in the world, young and glorious and all Steve’s for the week
That has nothing on the way Tony looks now even when he’s still mostly clothed with bags under his eyes.
“You are so beautiful,” he breathes in awe.
Tony’s eyes go half-lidded as he sits up. He’s always had a praise kink, likes it when Steve tells him how pretty he looks bouncing on his cock, how good he’s being when he swallows Steve down. Tony crawls to the end of the bed, still wearing his shirt but leaving his pants and socks behind him.
He settles on his knees and crooks a finger at Steve. Steve goes, just as drawn to him now as he was nearly ten years ago.
Tony reaches for his belt, drawing it open and through the beltloops. An image of Tony, hands tied behind his back with the belt, crosses his mind but the belt is dropped behind him before he can think to grab it. His partner’s hands make quick work of his pants, flicking open the button and pulling down the zipper before Steve can even blink.
He pulls out Steve’s cock and moans. “Fuck, you’re bigger than I remember.”
“Mmm, isn’t that an ego trip,” Steve murmurs, threading his hands through Tony’s hair. He tugs on the silky strands a little just to hear Tony whine.
Tony gazes up at him through his lashes as he leans forward and places a gentle kiss on the tip of his cock. Steve’s breath catches. He’s missed this, missed the way Tony licks him before taking the head into his mouth and sucking, missed the noises he makes when he swallows Steve’s cock. He groans, tightening his hands as Tony whimpers.
“Steve,” Tony whispers, pulling off. He places a line of kisses down Steve’s cock to his balls, sucking one into his mouth. Without meaning to, Steve snaps his hips forward, cock slapping against Tony’s cheek, before pulling back immediately afterward, horrified.
“It’s fine,” Tony says. He moves back up, little kitten licks as he goes. He sits back on his heels, stroking Steve’s cock with one hand. “I want you to.”
“Tony—”
“I need it.” Tony sounds breathy, desperate in a way he hasn’t heard since long before he got arrested. He fits Steve’s cock into his mouth again, hollows his cheeks, and sucks. Steve thrusts into his warm, wet mouth, groaning. One of Tony’s hands slides around to his ass, holding him there as Tony sucks. He pulls back off and peers up at Steve. “I need you.”
He nods and tightens his hands one more time. “You’ll hit me if you need to stop?” he asks.
Tony grins at him, knowing he’s won—little brat, Steve’s never been able to deny him anything. He doesn’t say anything but sucks Steve back down. Steve plants his feet and thrusts as he yanks Tony’s head down, burying his cock in Tony’s throat. Tony nearly chokes but Steve holds his head there at the base of his cock, nose buried in the curls there, until he relaxes.
“That’s it, sweetheart,” Steve murmurs, the words coming easily to him. “You look so good choking on my cock.” He pulls back a few inches and thrusts again, Tony going pliant against him. “So pretty.”
He sets up a rhythm, thrusting in deep, holding Tony down as Tony’s throat works frantically around him, pulling out when he thinks he needs a chance to breathe. Steve hasn’t had anything like this in three years and it feels so fucking good, he can’t believe he hasn’t come yet. He groans again, rolling his head back on his shoulders.
“Tony, sweetheart.” He pulls out, enjoying Tony’s desperate whimper. “I want to come inside you.”
“You were inside me,” Tony says, straining at Steve’s hold to swallow him back down. “We have all night for that but, please, Steve, let me do this for you.”
Tony uses the hand he still has on Steve’s ass to pull him in. He takes his cock into his mouth one more time, pushes down until his nose is once again buried at the base of Steve’s cock, and swallows. His other hand pushes firmly into the sensitive skin between Steve’s balls and his hole. Steve shouts, pumps his hips twice into Tony’s mouth, and comes, spilling down the brunet’s throat. Tony takes it all, swallowing, throat massaging Steve’s cock, sending pleasure racing through him. He thinks he might come again but the moment is so hazy, he’s isn’t sure. Tony pulls off a little, suckles at the sensitive head as Steve goes soft.
When he finally pulls back entirely, he looks sleek and self-satisfied, mouth swollen and red, and Steve can’t resist pushing him over onto his back. Tony goes, sprawling indolently, stretching to look like he did this on purpose.
Steve wants to mess him up, break him down until he’s sobbing for Steve’s cock.
He starts by finishing pulling off his clothes, gratified when Tony’s eyes go dark. He knows he looks good. There hadn’t been much to do in a white-collar “What do you think of the beard?” he asks as he climbs onto the bed. He grabs Tony’s ankle and pulls him where he wants him.
Tony’s eyes are so dark now they’re nearly black. “I want it,” he says.
“Where?”
He lowers himself over Tony’s body, Tony’s cock pressing into the vee of his hips. Tony is still wearing his shirt and Steve has the fleeting thought of removing it but he doesn’t want to stop.
Tony places his hands by his head and relaxes into the pillows. “Wherever you want,” he murmurs.
Steve pushes up Tony’s shirt a little and moves down so he can rub his beard over his navel. “Here?”
Tony’s stomach jumps under his touch and he says, “If you want.”
“Hmm.” Steve moves down a little further, rubbing his face into the sensitive skin on Tony’s inner thighs. “How about here?”
Tony arches up. “Stop teasing,” he pants.
Better but not quite where Steve wants him yet. He gets a hand under Tony’s hips and lifts him, exposing his pretty pink hole, clenching as the cold air hits it. “What about here?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer before he licks a broad stripe over Tony’s hole. Tony sobs, hips jerking. He’s always been sensitive there and Steve is pleased to see that hasn’t changed. He gets a firmer grip on Tony’s thighs, holding him still, and dives in, licking over Tony’s hole in circles until it relaxes for him, beard rubbing against his skin, already starting to turn pink. Tony cries out, trying to write but he can’t move except where Steve wants him and Steve wants him still. He sucks and Tony wails. When Steve looks up at him, his hands are fisting the bedsheets. He drives his tongue in, loosening the ring of muscles.
When he deems Tony ready, he slides his finger into his mouth, wetting it. He traces the rim of Tony’s hole, relaxed and ready, petting it gently before he pushes it inside. Tony lets him in easily, no resistance at all. He withdraws, thrusts, pulls out, shoves back in with two fingers before Tony’s ready so he can hear the high, startled sound he makes. He spreads his fingers, licks around them to hear Tony gasp, wiggles his tongue in alongside them. Tony’s hips are making small, jerking motions like he’d be rolling with Steve’s thrusts. He half-wants to see that but the other half, more vocal by far, wants to see Tony fall apart as he’s unable to move.
He slides his fingers out, kisses that little hole again, rubs his beard there to see if he can get the skin any pinker, and shoves his fingers in with no warning, crooking them so the pads rub against Tony’s prostate. Tony sobs and comes untouched, cock jumping against his stomach as he spills white across his shirt. Steve scoops it up with his other hand and feeds it to Tony, who suckles on them as Steve’s other hand plays with his hole, drawing out his orgasm.
Tony is beautiful when he comes and Steve aches to tell him how much he wants him, how much he’s always wanted him, beg him to be Steve’s and Steve’s only. But Tony has never belonged to him like that, has never even wanted to. This is the most of Tony he’s ever been able to have and if this is all he can get, he’ll take it with greedy hands.
“Enough,” Tony eventually gasps, wriggling away from him. He curls up on his side, always useless after an orgasm. Steve isn’t done with him, not by far, but Tony’s right. They have the whole night ahead of them.
He gets up, finds a bathroom, and grabs a washcloth. He wipes himself down in the bathroom before heading back into the bedroom. Tony, apparently, has grabbed another shirt while he was gone. Steve’s eyes narrow.
“Isn’t that my shirt?” he asks. It’s his favorite shirt actually, one that he had gotten in Boston while teaching Tony. He can’t believe he’d never considered that Tony would keep his things instead of selling them or putting them in storage.
“Yep,” Tony says. He stretches and holds out a hand for the washcloth. Steve passes it over. Tony isn’t particularly dirty; his shirt must have caught most of it but he is sweat-soaked. He tosses the washcloth back to Steve who throws it into the bathroom. He doesn’t feel like having to look for the laundry when he’s got a relaxed and orgasm-loose Tony waiting for him in bed.
He climbs into the bed, tucking Tony against his side as he draws the blankets up.
“Glad to hear you’re out,” Tony says softly. He picks up Steve’s hand, threads his fingers through Steve’s, flips it over to draw lines across his palm.
“Glad to be out.” He hesitates and then decides to take the plunge. “So, listen, I wanted to talk to you about a job.”
Tony stiffens.
Tony sits up. He can’t believe—can’t believe—that Steve would come here after all this time, track him down when he had done everything in his power to disappear off the radar, just to ask him about a job.
“No,” he says flatly.
“No?”
“No.”
“You don’t even know what it is.”
“I don’t have to know what it is. My answer is no.”
“Why?”
Because I thought you came back for me, not because you needed my skills. “Because you couldn’t even let me bask in the afterglow for five minutes before talking shop.”
Steve glares at him. “Fine. You wanna bask?” He lays back down and pats his chest. “Let’s bask.”
Tony harrumphs but lays back down, resting his head on Steve’s chest. It might be a grudging bask but it’s still what he wants, just five minutes to be glad that Steve is out of prison and immediately came to find him. His thighs rub against each other, sending a small twinge of pain through his body, a pleasant reminder of what they’d just done. He hasn’t taken anyone to his bed since Steve got arrested and it’s nice to know that he’s still got it.
“I like the beard,” he says. “It suits you.”
“Yeah, Bucky said that too.”
Tony pushes aside the jealousy. It’s ridiculous to think that Steve wouldn’t go see Bucky first. They grew up together. Still… “You went to see him first?”
“Had to find out where you were somehow.”
Oh. Well. That’s a little better at least. He twists up and places a kiss just below Steve’s jaw. He’s still angry at everything that happened three years ago but his therapist keeps telling him resentment is corrosive and Steve does seem to be trying to make it up to him so maybe he can let things go.
“You sold the brownstone,” Steve says carefully.
And then he had to go and bring that up.
“I did,” he agrees neutrally.
“You loved that place. Why?”
Because, he wants to say. Because I wanted you to love it too. Because you clearly didn’t. Because you were always so quick to run. Because you fucked me in our bed in that little bedroom overlooking the street and then you went and fucked someone else to get me off of you. Because you brought her back to it. Because she had no place in the brownstone but you took her to it anyway. Because it was supposed to be ours and it never was.
He says, “Guess I thought it was time to move on.”
“Oh,” Steve says. He doesn’t sound convinced. That’s fine. He doesn’t have to. He just doesn’t have to push the issue and Tony will be happy. Maybe. If Steve stays for him this time instead of running off the way he used to.
Sometimes, Tony regrets that night, regrets letting Steve into his bed. Everything had changed after that. They used to be Tony and Steve against the world, inseparable partners for five years. Then they’d slept together and suddenly, Steve couldn’t take enough jobs on the opposite side of the globe from him. They had still seen each other, still fucked every single time, but Tony had still felt him slipping away, unable to do anything to stop him. He hadn’t known until the trial that Steve had been seeing other people—people other than him and that woman—but he knows now and he wonders if he should have done things differently.
He doubts he would have though. He had loved Steve for years by the time they started dating. Even knowing what he knows now, he doubts that he would have changed a single thing.
He still loves him. He wonders if Steve knows just how much he still loves him. They hadn’t said it though and maybe that had been the problem. Tony had thought that he had showed it, having never been good with words so he’d bought him the brownstone and an expensive set of lockpicks and a giant teddy bear that was, admittedly, a bad idea. But he’d never said it.
“Steve,” he says, willing himself to say the words. But what comes out is, “So about this idea of yours.”
“You’re willing to listen?” Steve asks. He sounds delighted and Tony can’t see it but he can imagine the excited puppy look on his face.
Tony thinks about it for a minute. Steve’s always had interesting ideas. Challenging plans. Novel, never-been-done-before kind of stuff. It hasn’t always worked but it’s always been an adventure. “To listen. I’m not saying yes yet.”
“Fair enough,” Steve allows. One of his hands starts combing through Tony’s hair, something that they used to do when they were in bed together. He relaxes into the touch. Surely it can’t be that bad if Steve is petting him. “It’s new. No one’s ever tried anything like this before. It’s gonna take a lot of planning and a pretty large crew. But the payoff should be spectacular.”
Tony hums sleepily. “What’s the target?”
“I’m talking eight figures each at least—”
“Steve. What’s the target?”
Steve hesitates. “When’s the last time you were in Vegas?”
“You want to rob a casino?” Tony exclaims. He tries to squirm out of Steve’s grip but Steve tightens his hand in Tony’s hair, sending a direct line to his cock and making him mewl.
“No,” Steve says soothingly. “That would be insane. I want to rob an art museum in a casino.”
Tony groans. “Of course you do. You gonna tell me which casino you want to rob?”
“Two Heads.”
“…You’re joking. That’s possibly one of the most—no, what am I talking about—the most secure casino in the world.”
“Yep.”
“And you don’t even sound bothered.”
“Nope. I’ll have a great crew. I have faith you’ll figure out a way to get us in there.”
Tony scowls at him. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
He sighs. Steve just got out of prison; it’s a little hard to hate him at the moment. “No, I don’t.” His brow furrows. “Two Heads. I know that name. Why do I know that name?”
“Because it’s—”
“Because it’s Schmidt’s casino. Jesus fucking Christ, Steve, are you kidding me?” He sits up, the blankets pooling around his waist. “You’re going after him again? Did you learn nothing from the last time?”
“He put me in prison,” Steve hisses, sitting up as well. “He ripped Bucky’s arm from his shoulder and got away with it because he’s rich. He murdered the Pyms, destroyed the Maximoffs, and he got away with all of it because he’s rich. And you think we shouldn’t go after him?”
“That’s exactly what I think. You said it yourself. He decimated our community. Going after him again is worse than robbing a casino. It’s beyond insane for us. It’s a death sentence on our heads and anyone who comes into contact with us.”
“So we keep it small. Word doesn’t come in or out.”
“You really think that’s going to work,” Tony says flatly. He taps nervously on his chest, suddenly realizing that he’s going to need a new covering for the reactor if Steve’s planning on hanging around. The shirt had worked for tonight but eventually, Steve is going to want his shirt off. “You know why conspiracy theories are impossible? Because you’d need a whole crowd of people agreeing to keep a secret. I can guarantee you that word is already spreading that you’re out of prison. Trying to keep a plan like yours quiet is impossible. I mean, off the top of my head, you’re gonna need at least a dozen guys running a combination of plans. Word’s gonna get out and then it’s gonna get back to Schmidt and then it’ll be all of our heads on the chopping block.”
“It won’t get out.”
“How can you promise that?”
“Because everyone we hire will want to see Schmidt just as destroyed as we do.”
Tony doesn’t argue that he wants to see Schmidt taken down. He does; he’s wanted that since he ran into a hospital room in Romania to a Bucky covered in blood. “How are you going to do that?” he asks.
“Everyone in our part of the community has reason to see Schmidt taken down. You, me, Bucky. We’ll find the others, people we know can keep a secret. For the rest of the community, we’ll direct their attention somewhere else. Put it out that we’re working on something big, something in—I don’t know—Paris.”
Tony sighs. “You really think this is going to work?” he asks. “Don’t bullshit me, none of your pretty speeches. Tell me honestly, do you think this will work?”
Steve looks him in the eyes and says solemnly, “I do.”
Tony grew up among the biggest bullshitters in the world—New York’s high society. He can spot a lie from fifty paces. Steve had been his only blind spot and now, Tony knows how to read him. Steve is telling the truth.
“You’re going to need someone to finance this whole thing.”
Steve grins. “It’s a good thing I know a couple billionaires then, isn’t it?”
Tony mouths a couple to himself before realizing what Steve means. “You’re not dragging Pepper into this,” he warns.
“Sure I am. Pepper loves me.”
Not anymore, she doesn’t. Pepper hasn’t loved Steve since he broke Tony’s heart but he can’t say that without revealing things he’d rather not. He can probably talk her around but he’s still pretty sure Steve will have to buy her a couple new pairs of shoes.
And she’ll insist that Tony tell him everything. She’s big on that whole feelings and conversations thing at the moment. He looks at Steve, weighs the payoff versus the cost. It’s a risk he’ll have to take, if Pepper demands that he tell Steve the truth. He’s been afraid but that fear is what cost him Steve in the first place. Maybe it’s time he does tell him. Maybe it’s time he swallow his fear, grow a pair, and tell him that he’s loved him for nearly ten years, that he broke his heart when he stopped coming home.
But not right now. Right now is for reunions and planning. There will be time for heartfelt confessions later.
“What do you think Pepper will say?” he asks.
Notes:
Hey, everyone! Trying something new for this chapter!
Emoji Key for those who don’t know what to say!
❤ = you wish you could kudos again
😭 = I got you right in the feels
🔥 = this was so hot!
🐰 = it’s so fluffy!
Chapter 6
Notes:
Fair warning, make sure you're taking a look at the dates because I skip around the timeline quite a bit in this one
Also, since this is a fusion, some of the dialogue does come from the Ocean's films
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
December 20, 2003
Steve doesn’t go to the funeral.
He doesn’t know Howard and Maria Stark and he knows that with Tony as the new head of the company, his presence will cause more questions, do more harm than good. Tony doesn’t need Steve’s face splashed across the front of the newspapers and Steve definitely doesn’t need his face splashed across the front of the newspapers and that’s exactly what will happen if he shows up at the funeral. There are already rumors floating around that Howard Stark didn’t wrap his car around a tree, that Stane somehow ordered the hit from inside prison, intending on taking out all three Starks at the same time because, as everyone knows, Tony was supposed to be at that Christmas party with them.
Bullshit. Tony was in Istanbul with Steve, liberating one of the missing Van Gogh’s from a Turkish billionaire’s house.
The other theory, of course, is that Tony was the one who ordered the hit on the Starks, which is just as much bullshit as the first one. Everyone who even somewhat knows Tony knows that he wants nothing to do with SI—frankly, Steve wouldn’t be surprised if he sells the whole thing off in the next couple of years—and then there’s the fact that while he doubts Tony cares at all that Howard is dead, there is absolutely no way that he would have risked his mother’s life, no matter how complicated his relationship with her might have been.
No one seems to want to believe the truth: Howard Stark drove drunk, crashed his car into a tree, and killed himself and his wife.
He supposes the truth doesn’t sell enough papers. Either way, a completely unknown person lurking in the background of the funeral of a well-known, well-respected pillar of society is probably a bad idea.
Though, now that he’s thinking about it, if it weren’t the Starks, he’d probably think it was pretty funny.
He heads to the Starks’ mansion instead, figuring that Tony will probably go there after the funeral. But he waits for hours and Tony doesn’t show, even though the news station shows that the funeral ended early in the afternoon. Eventually, he leaves and heads home, thinking that maybe Tony went to Steve’s apartment. It’s not an uncommon thing for the kid to do when he wants comfort.
Tony isn’t there either. The lights are dark, the security system still showing that the last person who disabled the alarm was Steve. He drums his fingers on the countertop, wondering where Tony might have gone.
On a whim, he heads to SI’s New York office, housed on the top ten floors of one of the skyscrapers in Manhattan. He smiles charmingly at the pretty secretary and makes one of the flowers on her desk vanish and reappear behind her ear. She blushes and that’s when he asks his question.
“Is Mister Stark in today?”
She tuts sympathetically. “Came in a few hours ago, poor boy. Went straight to his father’s office, said he was going to clear it out. But I haven’t seen any boxes and he hasn’t come back out.”
“Thanks,” he says and starts to head toward Tony’s office but is stopped by her hand on his arm. He fights back the reflex to shrug it off and looks questioningly at her.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“He’s not officially in,” Steve points out. “I shouldn’t need one.”
She waits.
He sighs and affects a concerned expression. “No but I’m a friend from college—Steve Rogers—we were supposed to meet up after the funeral. I’m worried about him.”
“I could call ahead,” she says. “But you can’t go back there unless he says. Too many reporters hanging around.”
Steve glances around the floor. The only exits are within his line of sight. If Tony is trying to avoid him, he’d have to literally jump out the window to get away. Somehow, Steve thinks that’s not a likely option.
“Okay,” he says and settles in to wait as she picks up the phone.
“Mister Stark?” she says. “Yes, I know you said you weren’t to be disturbed but he said he’s a friend…Yes, I know…He said his name is Steve Rogers…That’s what I said.” Her expression changes to one of surprise. “I’ll send him right back.”
He glances at her. She waves him on as she continues listening to whatever Tony is saying. As he walks around the desk, she slides a piece of paper his way. He picks it up to see her phone number. She winks at him. He smiles awkwardly back at her and keeps walking, throwing the piece of paper away as soon as her back is turned.
Tony is off the phone by the time Steve opens the door. His hands are steepled in front of his face, elbows resting on the desk, as he stares at an unopened bottle of bourbon. Steve doesn’t drink bourbon but from what he knows of Howard Stark, he’d be willing to bet that this is the expensive stuff.
“You know Howard gave me my first drink?” Tony asks apropos of nothing. Steve sits down in one of the uncomfortable leather chairs across the desk. “It was a shot of whiskey. I was six. He said it would put hair on my chest. I just wanted him to smile at me.”
Yeah, that sounds about right for Howard Stark. Steve waits patiently.
“My mom was horrified. She said I was too young to be drinking anything like that and then at New Years that year, she gave me a glass of champagne.”
And that sounds about right for Maria Stark.
“I couldn’t even cry today,” Tony continues dully. “My PR person had to rub vaseline under my eyes to make it look like I’d been crying because I couldn’t manage it.”
He hasn’t seen Tony since the kid got the news about his parents and ran out of their hotel suite. Anyone who looks at him should be able to tell that he’s taken the news hard even if he hadn’t been able to cry. He looks haggard, eyes red-rimmed, hair matted in clumps. He looks like he’s aged ten years in the last week. Complicated grief, he thinks, remembering an article he’d read in a magazine at his last doctor’s appointment.
“The board says I’m not old enough to take control of the company yet. Howard’s will says I’m supposed to be twenty-one, which is ridiculous. I’m old enough to go to war. I should be old enough to sell the weapons we’re giving to people going to war. They’re trying to find a regent or a proxy or whatever the fuck they call it.”
“What do you think?” Steve asks quietly, the first words he’s spoken since he walked in.
Tony huffs bitterly. “I think if I can push the paperwork through fast enough, my PA should do the job. She’s qualified even if she’s way overqualified to be just my PA and I trust her more than anyone the fucking board will find.”
“Is that what you’re supposed to be doing right now?”
“Supposedly,” Tony says with a shrug. “But then—”
He stops and gestures to the bottle of bourbon. Steve understands. He reaches for the bottle and the two glasses on Howard’s desk. They look clean enough. They’re probably there for business meetings but they’ll do for now. He pours about two fingers into both glasses and pushes one across the table to Tony.
“I’ll help you,” he offers. Tony smiles crookedly at him and passes him about half of a stack of papers Steve hadn’t noticed. “What’s her name?”
“Potts. Virginia Potts.”
September 15, 2014
Los Angeles, California
“Absolutely not,” Pepper says firmly.
“Pepper—” Steve tries.
She turns a fierce glare on him and holds up a single finger. Steve shuts up.
“No,” she snaps. “Are you listening to me? I’m frightened you’re not and I want you to know just how insane both of you are.” She scowls at Tony, who blinks placidly at her. “Really, Tony, I expected better out of you. A casino, really, you two.”
“It’s not a casino,” Steve says placatingly. She looks unimpressed. “Really! It’s not. It’s—”
“Something in a casino,” she says. “Yes, you said. Congratulations, robbing the gift shop is a little below your paygrade but it’s less likely to get you both killed. ‘Less likely,’ I said. You’re still probably going to end up dead.”
“It’s not the gift shop.”
Her glare is ice cold. “You won’t tell me what it is so—”
“It’s an art museum, Pep,” Tony interrupts.
“They have those?” she asks. Their drinks arrive—a Cosmopolitan for Pepper, a Hurricane for Tony, who only drinks whiskey when he thinks people are watching, and a beer for Steve. He takes a look at the label—something German, which is unsurprising. Pepper has always insisted on the best, even if it’s not something she’s drinking or eating or wearing herself.
“There’s a couple casinos,” he says casually, taking a sip from his bottle as he looks out over her pool. It’s nice, he’ll give her that. He doesn’t really like modern architecture but both Pepper and Tony have the sort of sleek houses that make it work.
She sighs, shaking her head. “It’s still a casino,” she points out. “It’s still going to have cameras and watchers and locks and… The armed personnel alone are going to be a nightmare, you know that, right?”
“Pep, we need a financier,” Tony says. “That’s it.”
“That’s it?” She takes a sip out of her glass. “That’s it? No, that’s not it. I know you, Tony, and I know myself. You and I both know I’m going to be right there with you in Las Vegas, planning your ridiculous heist and probably helping you execute it and that’s why I’m telling you no. Fund it yourself.”
“We need a money trail our mark can’t trace back to me.”
“So they’ll trace it back to me, instead?” she asks.
Tony gives her a significant look. It takes her a minute and then she groans. “You can’t be serious,” she says. “No, I won’t give you access.”
“Access to what?” Steve interrupts.
“Can’t tell you,” both Tony and Pepper say at the same time.
He frowns but goes back to watching the wind make tiny ripples in the pool.
Pepper sighs, “Tony.”
“Pepper,” Tony mimics. “Please. I just need access to the old accounts. If anyone tries to trace back the money, they’ll think it’s coming from a dead guy. It’ll be fine.”
She leans forward, rubbing her temples. “Look, if you did this, if I gave you access to the accounts, I’m sure you could easily rob the casino—”
“Art museum.”
“Whatever. But don’t forget, as soon as you make it out the door, you’re still in the middle of nowhere!”
“You’re right, Pep,” Tony says. He gives Steve a chastened look. “She’s right.”
Steve nods his agreement. “Pepper, you’re right. Eyes bigger than our stomachs, isn’t that what you say all the time?”
“That’s exactly what she says.”
“Thanks for setting us straight. Sorry to bother you.”
They stand, Steve fastening the button on his suit, Tony tugging his t-shirt straight. Steve offers him his arm, which Tony cheerfully slides his hand through, and they start to walk off. Tony’s hand in Steve’s arm holds up three fingers, lowers down to two, and then one.
“Out of curiosity,” Pepper calls after them. “Which casino?”
Steve flashes Tony a quick smirk before they both turn back to her. “Which was it?” he asks Tony casually, as though he’s forgotten.
“The uh—the Two—”
“That’s right,” Steve says, jamming his hands in his pockets. “Two Heads.”
Pepper pauses. “That’s Schmidt’s casino. You’re going after Schmidt?” She looks between the two of them. “Tony, can I talk to you for a moment?”
She pulls Tony aside, far enough away that Steve can’t hear what they’re saying. He turns away so he can’t read their lips either, giving them the benefit of privacy. He can make out their tones just above the wind though: Pepper sounds furious, Tony pleading. He whistles cheerfully to himself, complete trust in his partner. Tony is a master showman, an expert con artist, and an excellent persuader. He’ll convince her to do it or he’ll get her to somehow give him access to whatever accounts it is they were talking about.
Eventually they walk back. Steve turns to face them. Pepper looks exasperated, her nostrils flaring, but she says, “If you’re going to do this, if you’re going to take on Schmidt again, you need to make sure that he doesn’t know who’s involved at the end of this. Because this time, he won’t be as nice.”
Steve says seriously, “I heard he wasn’t all that nice last time either.”
She smiles but there’s no mirth to it. “Steve, you have no idea.”
As they’re walking away, Pepper having promised to meet them in Vegas on the first of October, Steve asks, “What accounts?”
Tony shrugs. “Mom had a couple old accounts under the Carbonell name in case she and Howard died before I could take control of the company, supposed to help manage me or something. The only person who had access to them was whoever ended up as regent—Pepper. She was too good with money to ever need the funds so they remained untapped. There’s a couple billion dollars in there.”
“The Carbonell name isn’t traceable back to you?”
“Not when it’s routed through a bank in Switzerland,” Tony says. “Anyway, do you know how many Carbonells there are in the world?”
“Apparently a lot.”
September 14, 2014
Malibu, California
Steve wakes with Tony asleep beside him. All of the blankets are heaped over Steve and only a thin sheet covers the brunet. He smiles at the sight. Tony has always run hotter than Steve does. He leans down to kiss Tony’s shoulder.
“Good morning,” a crisp, British voice that Steve recognizes as the AI Tony had been working on when he’d been arrested. “It is September 14, 2014. It is 7:02 a.m. The weather in Malibu is 72 degrees with scattered clouds. The surf conditions are fair with waist-to-shoulder high lines. High tide will be at 10:52 a.m.”
The shades on the windows slide open, revealing a spectacular view of the ocean. “Wow,” he murmurs, climbing out of bed to go to the windows. He wraps the blanket around his shoulders absently, noting that the floors, whatever they’re made from, are cold. He’s sure Tony has slippers somewhere around here but he doesn’t want to go poking somewhere he doesn’t belong.
“So who’s in?” Tony asks sleepily.
Steve turns to see Tony sitting up, rubbing blearily at his eyes. He’s adorable, absolutely breathtaking in the early morning light, and Steve almost tells him that but manages to stop the words from escaping. Tony doesn’t want to hear how much Steve adores him. He wants to be free to do his own thing. That much has been clear since the first time they tumbled into bed together.
Instead, he smiles fondly and says, “Bucky is.”
September 9, 2014
Newark, New Jersey
“You should close the gym,” Steve says.
Bucky looks around the old place, taking in the mold on the ceiling and walls and the crumbling columns. “You think? Damn, what a shame.”
“Seriously, Buck, what brought you to Jersey in the first place?” Steve asks, looking around as well. There are concerning stains on the floor and the whole place has a smell of sweat and must, which might actually be the worst combination Steve can think of and he went to prison.
“Brooklyn boy like me moving out to Jersey?” Bucky asks. “Figured it was the last place Schmidt would look for me.”
Steve is quiet for a long minute as he studies his oldest friend. “He really did a number on the community, didn’t he,” he states.
Bucky nods silently.
“How’s the arm?”
He tilts his head from side to side. “Tony makes it out once every six months or so to do maintenance. It needs it more regularly but I don’t want to go to California that often and he hates coming here that often.”
“You ever think about a warmer climate?”
“All the time,” Bucky says on a sigh. His eyes narrow. “Why? What did you have in mind?”
September 14, 2014
Malibu, California
Steve rolls Tony underneath him, kissing him in the early morning sunlight. Tony tastes terrible but honestly, it’s not any worse than what he was fed in prison for three years and not bad enough to make him insist on Tony getting up.
“What about drivers?” Steve asks as he pulls away to lay kisses across Tony’s tempting collarbones.
Tony arches up underneath him. “What about the Odinsons?” he asks.
“The Norwegian guys?” Steve asks, sitting back on his heels to think about it. Tony squirms but he doesn’t insist that Steve pay attention to him yet.
“Mmhmm. They’re laying low in Oslo, something about a job that went south six months ago. I talked to them recently, wanted their opinion on a car I was thinking of purchasing. Got the sense they’re having trouble passing the time.”
“And they wouldn’t say anything to anyone?”
“Loki doesn’t trust anyone and Thor’s ex was picked up in Schmidt’s sweep.”
“Perfect,” Steve purrs and stretches himself down across Tony’s body. “Give them a call.”
September 16, 2014
Oslo, Norway
Two men, one broad and golden-haired, the other lean and dark, are arguing over a woven basket in front of them. It’s the kind of basket that looks like it should have a snake in it though it’s completely incongruous in this country.
“You’re sure about these two?” Steve asks lowly.
Tony nods.
As they watch, the snake slithers out of the basket. It’s holding something metallic that catches the light and gleams.
“Is that—” Steve starts.
“Yep. I think it’s supposed to be part of the act but the only thing I’ve ever seen that snake do is—”
The snake stabs the blond.
“That.”
September 14, 2014
Malibu, California
Steve flips the pancake, catching it neatly in the pan. Tony is sitting at the bar behind him, eating an omelet and flipping through a small black book that holds all of his contacts.
“Are you thinking Bruce for electronics?” Tony asks.
Steve hesitates. “Should I not be?”
Tony shrugs. “Bruce is fine. He’s been doing surveillance work for the FBI recently. I think he made a deal with them. Must have, actually, since we all know how much he hates the government.”
“How are his rage issues?” Steve asks, sliding the pancake onto a plate. He dumps a couple spoonfuls of a berry compote over the top and leans on the counter across from Tony.
“Enh?” Tony guesses, waggling his hand from side to side. “He’s been worse.”
“We could use a little worse,” Steve points out as he sticks his fork in his mouth. The pancake isn’t half-bad considering Tony hasn’t gone grocery shopping in what must be two or three months and Steve’s making do with what he could find in the pantry.
September 18, 2014
Richmond, Virginia
There’s a bug on the inside of the surveillance van that wasn’t there before they all went out for lunch. The only person who’s noticed is Bruce but he figures, if his handlers haven’t spotted it yet, who is he to tell them?
He adjusts his own surveillance camera, zooming in on the mobster they’re watching.
“Can you move it—” one of his handlers starts to say and then stops and reaches out to adjust it himself.
Bruce slaps his hand away. “Don’t fucking touch that,” he snaps.
His handler gives him an astonished look. “Excuse me?”
“Do you see me pulling the gun out of your holster and firing it?” Bruce sneers.
“Hey, Macbook,” his other handler says, “Relax.”
Bruce puts his fist through the monitor and storms out of the van. He gets no more than ten yards away before he spots Tony following him. He grins. He’s missed having real work to do.
September 14, 2014
Malibu, California
Tony is riding him, sweat-soaked and beautiful.
Steve’s hands tighten on his hips, helping lift him. Tony tries to slam back down but Steve holds him there, the tip of his cock just barely inside Tony’s hole, waiting for that pretty whine.
“Hey, what about Hammer for munitions?” he asks as though it’s just occurred to him.
“What?” Tony pants.
“Hammer. Munitions. What do you think?”
A vicious smile crosses Tony’s face. Fuck but Steve loves him. “Dead.”
“No shit?” Steve asks, not really surprised to hear it. “On the job?”
“Blew himself up, fucking idiot.”
“Did you send flowers?”
Tony gives him a look. “What do you think?” He struggles against Steve’s grip and then sobs, “Steve!”
That’s what he’s been waiting for. He yanks Tony down as he thrusts up and Tony wails.
“That’s it, honey,” Steve mutters. “Scream so fucking pretty for me.”
Tony suddenly brightens. “I got it! We should call Honeybear!”
Steve snarls and rolls them over, slamming into Tony until the brunet is writhing beneath him, screaming his pleasure.
September 21, 2014
London, England
Rhodey likes explosions, which is good because you can’t be in his line of work and not like them—or be Tony Stark’s best friend. He sets the charge and ducks behind the corner. He hums God Save the Queen as he waits out the charge.
The bomb explodes, sending wood shards and splinters of glass flying past his head. Rhodey ducks his head, shielding his face, but is otherwise unaffected. As the dust settles, his partners move past him and into the vault. Alarms immediately begin to sound. Rhodey’s temper flares and, as his now ex-partners start to run back out, he punches one of them, laying him out.
“You had one job,” he hisses.
The cops are there only minutes later and Rhodey is cuffed and led back through the front doors. He’s folded across the back of a police car, a cop patting him down as he asks, “That’s all you used in the explosion? Nothing else?”
He indignantly asks, “Are you accusing me of booby-trapping?” even as he thinks about the nasty surprise he left for anyone who tries to clean up his bomb. He’ll get a message to Pepper while he’s in prison. She can send someone around to deactivate and pick up the bomb, make sure no one can study it.
“Did you?” the cop asks.
“Booby traps aren’t Mister Rhodes’ style,” someone with an impeccable French accent says.
Both cop and Rhodey turn to the man in a dark suit and yellow shades. Rhodey has to hide a grin. He has no idea when Tony decided to get back in the game but he won’t deny that he’s delighted.
Tony gazes steadily at him as he says, “Isn’t that right…Colonel?”
Rhodey nods once. “That’s right.”
Tony flashes a badge at the cop. “Downey, Interpol. Let me take a guess: G4 mainliner, double-coil, backwound, quick fuse, probably a drag under twenty feet, yeah?”
The cop stammers and Tony rolls his eyes.
“That’s our guy, which makes this my jurisdiction.” He smiles wolfishly at the cop and slams Rhodey back against the car, moves his hands up and down his legs, around his waist, under his arms, and slips something into his hands. Rhodey immediately gets to work, fingers twitching against the device.
“What are you still doing here? Go find Coogler. Tell him I need him,” Tony orders.
“Who?” the cop asks.
Tony throws him an exasperated look. “Just go find him, will you?” he yells. As the cop walks off, Tony lowers his voice, pressing his forehead against Rhodey’s shoulder for a brief second. “Tell me you’ve already got something.”
“Yep,” Rhodey says. “You good with thirty seconds?” He feels Tony nod against his back. Rhodey flips the switch on the makeshift bomb. “Now.”
Tony takes it from his hands, tosses it into the car, and hauls him away in the vague direction of another couple police cars. Rhodey would be willing to bet that one of those is fake.
“Good to see you again, Tones,” he mutters. “You working with anyone?”
“Steve is around the corner,” Tony says absently, looking around to make sure no one is watching.
Rhodey nearly misses a step. “Steve?” he coughs.
“Not you too,” Tony sighs. “I already heard it from Pepper.” He checks his watch and breaks into a run, dragging Rhodey along behind him. “Everyone down! There’s a bomb in the—”
The car erupts.
September 14, 2014
Malibu, California
“What about a grease man?” Steve asks. They’re on the couch in front of the waterfall now. Tony has his feet propped up on Steve’s lap as he lounges against the opposite armrest. He’s scrolling through something on a tablet—apparently something SI released after he closed down the weapons division.
“I’d ask the Pyms,” Steve continues. “But—”
Tony grimaces. “Yeah. I’ve got an idea about that but you’ll have to promise to keep an open mind.”
“An open mind?” Steve frowns over at him. “Why?”
“Asking why is the opposite of an open mind,” Tony points out. “Anyway, how would you feel about a grease woman?”
September 24, 2014
Moscow, Russia
“The Moscow Ballet?” Steve hisses as the curtain goes up. “Seriously? Is this person even a thief?”
“No but trust me, that’s not going to matter,” Tony whispers back. “Look, the good grease men are either in prison or dead. We don’t have a whole lot of options and this woman is brilliant.”
Steve gestures at the redhead spinning around the stage. “So she can balance on one foot, so what?”
“More than that.”
“So she can dance. Tony, we need a grease man, not a ballerina. Who else is on the list?”
“She is the list,” Tony says stubbornly.
Steve scrubs his hand over his face. Tony nudges him. “Watch.”
The woman is still spinning on one foot but she slowly starts to crouch until she’s all but contorted into a ball, even as she spins. “Huh,” Steve says thoughtfully. He wonders how much that must hurt. Even he knows that ballet is painful and he imagines something like that must take a lot of strength, a lot of tears, and a high pain threshold.
“She’s still not a thief,” he says.
“She won’t tell Schmidt anything,” Tony says, sounding very unconcerned, and starts to clap when she stands back up.
“Why, because she’s Russian?” Steve asks.
“Because she doesn’t speak English—or German or any of the other five languages Schmidt speaks.”
“He could have someone on his team who speaks Russian.”
“His family is from East Germany,” Tony says idly. “He won’t.” When Steve looks at him, he continues defensively, “I did my research.”
September 14, 2014
Malibu, California
They’re making miniature pizzas in the kitchen when Steve says, “We’re going to need Clint.”
Tony shakes his head. “No, we need someone else. Clint won’t come. He swore never to steal again after you went down.”
“Religion?” Steve asks, rolling out the pizza dough.
Tony shakes his head again. “Agent and the Maximoffs got hit in Schmidt’s purge.”
“Shit,” Steve swears. “I knew about the Maximoffs but Phil too?”
“Mmhmm. It was a big scandal. CIA agent killed in his home, locked room, no sign of forced entry. There’ve been a couple true crime podcasts about it. Just about broke Clint. He retired to some farm in Missouri, married some woman. They’ve got a kid now, cute too if the Christmas cards are anything to judge by.”
Steve thinks about it. He hates to do this but if anyone has a reason to want Schmidt brought down, it would be Clint. Of course, Clint could want Steve brought down just as much but he doubts it. Clint, for all his claims about seeing better from a distance, has always done best when he’s pointed right at an enemy. He just needs to make sure that Clint sees Schmidt as his enemy before Steve.
“You could ask him,” he says quietly.
Tony stops grating the cheese, stares at him, and then sighs. “I can ask,” he agrees.
September 26, 2014
Rural Missouri
Clint steps out onto the porch, drying his hands on a dish towel. There’s a car, sleek and red, pulling up the driveway. He waits for Tony to get out and then says, “I told you I’m out.”
“Actually,” Tony says, pulling the sunglasses off his face. “You never told me.”
“Yeah because you were nowhere to be found.”
Tony shifts and Clint narrows his eyes. Tony has never told anyone what happened during those three months he was gone. Barnes, Potts, and Rhodes all know—or at least, Clint is sure they do—but those are the only three out of the entire community. He has his suspicions though.
“How are you doing?” Tony eventually asks.
“Never better,” Clint lies. He loves Laura and he adores Lila but Phil had been the love of his life. “What are you doing here?”
“I’ve got a job offer for you. Can I come in?”
“No.” He waits a beat and then relents. “But you can come up to the porch.”
He follows Tony to the porch swing and perches on the railing as Tony sits, gently rocking the swing. “Come on,” he says eventually. “What are you gonna ask me?”
“I need a con man,” Tony says. “And you’re the best of us.”
He knows how much it pains the kid to admit that there’s someone better than him. Tony’s got a lot of pride and he’ll always jump to the excuse of something else being wrong or broken before he admits it’s him.
“Don’t con me,” he says. “What’s the job?”
“That mean you’ll do it?” Tony asks hopefully.
“No. It means I’ll listen.” He tilts his head back, taking in the way Tony looks happier than the last time Clint had seen him, back when he’d been on TV and handing his company over to Potts before disappearing. In fact, he looks happier than Clint has seen him in a very long time. “When did Steve get out?”
Tony jumps. “How did you—you see things better from a distance, right, I forgot that.” He taps his fingers nervously on his chest. There’s an odd, metallic sound as he does and Clint’s eyes drop to his shirt, wondering what Tony’s hitting. “We’re going after Schmidt.”
Clint stills. “Schmidt,” he states.
Tony nods. “Steve wants to take him down for what he did to the community.”
“You know he’s just as much at fault as Schmidt is, right?”
Tony looks down at his hands. “I know,” he says in a very small voice. But it doesn’t sound pained. It sounds like something he’s known for a very long time. Clint considers him.
“Does Steve know that?”
Tony doesn’t answer that. “It’s revenge and probably eight figures for each of us,” he says. “Let me know what you decide.”
“And where am I supposed to meet you if I decide yes?”
“Vegas,” Tony says as he stands. He slides the sunglasses back on. “First day of October.”
September 27, 2014
Malibu, California
Tony is draped over his chest, absently mouthing at one of Steve’s nipples. One of Steve’s arms is tucked behind his head, the other is wrapped around Tony’s back, holding him close.
“Clint makes ten,” he says out loud. “Ten should be good, doncha think?”
Tony doesn’t say anything.
“You think we need one more?”
Tony doesn’t say anything.
“You think we need one more.”
Tony doesn’t say anything.
“Okay. We’ll get one more.”
Notes:
Emoji Key for those who don’t know what to say!
❤ = you wish you could kudos again
😭 = I got you right in the feels
🔥 = this was so hot!
🐰 = it’s so fluffy!
Chapter Text
May 29, 2005
Ty Stone breaks up with Tony on his twenty-first birthday.
The voicemail that Steve gets from Tony is a little difficult to understand but he’s pretty sure that Ty had told him all the things that were wrong with him and ended with a very rude, “It’s not me, it’s you.” Steve sighs even as he’s climbing into his car so he can drive over to Tony’s apartment.
Steve had discovered last week that Ty had spent the entirety of their relationship cheating on Tony with a number of different supermodels and the occasional baseball player. Steve had been horrified. Tony has had six relationships over the last year, four of which ended when he discovered that his partners were cheating on him, apparently more interested in the Stark name and money than they were in him. Ty is just the latest in a long string. He’d wanted to keep Tony from getting hurt, wanted to make sure that he didn’t find out about the most recent cheating partner on top of everything else that he’d had to deal with, so he’d gone to Ty and done what any good friend would do: threatened to have him arrested for embezzling from his own company if he didn’t end things with Tony.
He hadn’t thought that Ty would do so in such a spectacularly horrible fashion but apparently he’d underestimated the depths of his cruelty.
Steve doesn’t like Ty and never has but then again, he hasn’t liked any of Tony’s partners, except for maybe Rumiko but Rumiko had put her career ahead of Tony and left him a month into their relationship to accept a job opportunity in London. Other than that, they’ve all been social-climbing, backstabbing, lying, cheating assholes and Steve couldn’t stand any of them.
Of course, maybe he’s biased. Things have…changed between he and Tony over the last year and a half since his parents’ deaths. Steve hadn’t let himself see it when Tony had been younger because he absolutely refuses to be that kind of person but Tony is, well, kind of wonderful: smart and witty and so damn beautiful that his breath sometimes catches just looking at him. He had thought he’d gotten a handle on his attraction to Tony after the funeral; Tony had started pulling away from the criminal underworld to get a handle on SI before he passed it off to Miss Virginia Potts, now affectionately called Pepper, Steve had taken a few jobs halfway across the world. They really haven’t seen much of each other since then—until Christmas last year.
Steve had been working a job in Montreal, not realizing that Tony had been working the same one. They’d stumbled across each other, nearly gotten caught, and ended up working together to avoid the security guards. Neither had gotten away with the sculpture they’d been attempting to steal but as they’d rounded a corner in Tony’s black Camaro, Steve had looked across the car to see Tony with his head thrown back, laughing madly, and realized that Tony had walked away with something a lot more valuable than a sculpture.
But, at the time, Tony had been with Sunset and then he was with Emma and now Ty.
Fucking Ty who had apparently broken Tony’s heart on his birthday.
He stops to pick up ice cream—hazelnut crunch, Tony’s favorite—and finds himself knocking on Tony’s door almost thirty minutes after leaving his apartment. When Tony doesn’t answer, he lets himself in, knowing better than to think that he needs an invitation to go inside.
Tony is curled up on the couch watching terrible Hallmark romcoms and Steve winces. So they’re already at that stage of the night, huh? He huffs out a quiet noise and Tony looks up, eyes big and wet.
“You like me, right?” Tony asks, voice trembling.
Shit.
Steve drops the ice cream on the coffee table and drops onto the couch next to Tony, pulling him into a sideways hug. Tony squirms around until they’re properly hugging, taking slow breaths as he calms himself down. Steve runs his hands soothingly up and down Tony’s back.
“Ty said—” Tony says eventually, almost immediately gasping again as he thinks about whatever awful things Ty had said to him. “He said—”
“Shh,” Steve murmurs, hand coming up to cup the back of Tony’s head. He presses Tony’s forehead against his shoulder, wishing that he didn’t have to hear what Ty had said even though he knows he won’t make Tony keep this to himself.
He doesn’t feel his shirt getting any wetter and it doesn’t sound like Tony is crying, which seems odd. Ty had lasted longer than most of Tony’s other romantic partners. He would have thought that Tony would be more upset over him. He wonders if Tony had cried earlier before thinking to call Steve or if he’s more upset by the things Ty had said than by the fact that Ty had left.
He doesn’t know how long they’re sitting there like that but eventually Tony pulls away. Steve lets him go reluctantly. He likes how Tony feels in his arms, likes how perfectly he fits nestled beside him.
Tony’s eyes are bright and there’s an expression on his face that Steve doesn’t quite know how to read. “Steve?” he breathes. “You do like me, don’t you?”
“Are you fishing for compliments?” Steve jokes nervously because Tony is looking at him in a way that he’s never done before and he doesn’t know what it means.
Tony hums thoughtfully and then he reaches out and pushes Steve over. His breath catches in his throat and he catches Tony’s wrist.
“What are you doing?” he asks quietly.
“It’s my birthday.”
Tony’s eyes are all pupils; Steve can’t drag his own gaze away from his reflection in them.
“Yeah, it is. I got you something but I’m pretty sure the fence got held up at the border.” He smiles up at Tony, who’s shifting to straddle his stomach. “We’ll see if it gets here or not.”
Tony hums again, hands dragging up Steve’s side. It should be ticklish—it usually would be—but Tony’s touch is too firm. Instead, his touch seems to have a direct line to Steve’s cock, which stiffens so quickly he almost feels dizzy.
“Ty said you told him to break up with me,” Tony mutters, staring down at his hands. “Why would you do that?”
“Because—” He doesn’t know if Ty admitted his cheating and he doesn’t want to be the one to tell Tony about it. “Because he was going to hurt you. And I didn’t want to let him do that.”
“Oh. Because you don’t want me messing up our next job?”
“Because I care about you,” he says honestly. “You deserve better than Ty or Sunset or any of those other people who keep using you and—Tony, I don’t know why you can’t see that. Why don’t you believe me when I tell you how amazing you are?”
Tony’s mouth parts on a little gasp and Steve wants to kiss him, wants to kiss him so badly that in the next instant, when he feels Tony’s mouth moving against his, he almost thinks he has. But—no, his head is still pressed into the pillows. And yet he can feel Tony, Tony’s soft lips kissing him, his teeth on Steve’s bottom lip, his tongue parting Steve’s lips, sweeping into his mouth—and it takes him a moment to realize that Tony is kissing him.
He groans, helpless to do anything but respond, arm wrapping around Tony’s waist to hold that lithe body against his. This is it, this is everything he’s wanted for two long years and—
He stops.
“Tony,” he whispers frantically, using his grip on the back of Tony’s head—when had his hand moved there?—to pull him back. “Tony, sweetheart, what are you doing?”
“It’s my birthday,” Tony whines plaintively.
“Yeah,” Steve says slowly, wondering where this is going.
“Come on, Steve, you, me—this can be good. We can be good.”
He breaks away from Steve’s grip and bends his head down, licking at the side of his neck. Steve has always been sensitive there and he moans.
“Please, Steve?” Tony asks. “Don’t you see? We’ve been building towards this for years. Come on, you want me and I want you—fuck Steve, I don’t think you know how much I want you.”
If he wants Steve nearly as much as Steve has wanted him, then, yeah, he’s pretty sure he does know how much Tony wants him. But…he doesn’t get to have nice things like this. He gets to walk away with the gorgeous painting but it’s only in movies that the art thief gets the girl, or boy, too. He doesn’t get to have Tony.
But nobody must have told Tony that because Tony is still pressed along the length of his body, sucking bruises into Steve’s neck, and he doesn’t want to deny himself.
“Yeah, sweetheart,” he sighs, hand sliding down to cup Tony’s ass and pulling him tight against him.
Tony gives him a bright grin and kisses him again, hard, fierce, like the whirlwind Steve’s always thought he would be in bed. Steve doesn’t even know how they get from the couch to the bedroom but the next thing he knows he’s shoving Tony backward onto the bed where he sprawls indolently. Tony’s wearing nothing, his hard cock jutting proudly from his body, and Steve has vague memories of throwing Tony’s shirt over the side of the couch, kicking his pants off in the hallway.
Steve has only lost his shirt and his socks and he flicks the button on his jeans open, grinning when Tony immediately grabs the base of his cock, eyes closing as he moans loudly. “So soon?” he teases, slowly peeling his jeans down his legs. He knows he looks good in these; they’d been planning to go out for Tony’s birthday before Ty had proven himself to be the biggest ass in the world and he had dressed to impress.
“So long,” Tony corrects him, eyes fluttering open and immediately screwing closed again when Steve prowls up the bed toward him. His legs fall open, letting Steve settle between them. “Steve.”
“I haven’t done anything yet,” he says amusedly, lowering himself to take a nipple between his teeth. Tony whines, rolling his body up. Steve’s cock slots neatly beside Tony’s, rubbing against each other as Tony writhes, and he has to stifle a moan.
“You’ve done enough,” Tony says. He rolls them and in an instant, Steve finds himself at Tony’s mercy—Tony who’s opening himself up on his fingers, who’s sliding down on Steve’s cock, body warm and wet and tight enough that Steve thrusts up without meaning to, making Tony scream. Tony fucks himself on his cock and he thinks that maybe he should do something about that, help him or roll them back over so he can fuck into him at the pace he wants, but Tony’s just so fucking pretty that all he wants to do is tuck his hands behind his head and watch.
Tony comes with a cry of something that Steve almost hears but misses when Tony’s hole tightens into a vice grip and he comes as well, shouting his pleasure.
He doesn’t think it’s important anyway. Tony doesn’t repeat it and he always repeats things that he thinks are important.
September 29, 2014
New York City, New York
Sam rifles through the wallet he’s just lifted off the businessman a couple inches away, biting back a sigh. He’d thought, judging by the man’s expensive watch (already tucked away in Sam’s back pocket) and briefcase, that he would have something worthwhile in the wallet but it seems like this guy might be shopping above his paygrade. He’s just getting ready to slip the wallet back into the guy’s pocket when his thumb catches on a hidden pocket and an Amex black card slides neatly out of its slot and into his palm.
Now we’re talking.
He hasn’t had a score like this in ages, probably not since he first moved to New York a year ago. Carefully, he pulls a fake card out of his own wallet and slides it into the hidden pocket, surreptitiously glancing around to make sure no one’s watching. He’s pretty damn good these days, hasn’t gotten arrested since he started pickpocketing six years ago, but it never hurts to be cautious. The subway car is packed, which is the only reason he felt comfortable lifting this guy’s wallet in the first place.
His eyes land on a guy sitting a little further down the car in a black leather jacket and jeans tight enough they could practically be painted on. Sam doesn’t usually go for guys like that—he’s got sensitive skin and that beard looks like it would rub him raw—but the way he’s watching the people on the car with an open, earnest expression makes him pause.
The car jolts and automatically, Sam slips the wallet back into the businessman’s pocket. No need to cause suspicion; he looks like the kind of guy who checks his wallet a lot to make sure no one’s stolen anything. Sam plans to be long gone by the time the mark realizes his credit card is missing.
When he looks back up, the guy in the leather jacket is looking at him. Sam shifts uncomfortably, wondering if he saw him put the wallet back, but then the guy smiles at him—bright, friendly, and just a little bit suggestive.
Ah.
He smiles back. There’s no harm in flirting after all and it’s not like he’ll ever see this guy again. They keep eye contact for a moment and then the guy breaks, tilting his head back to rest against the dirty window as he closes his eyes. Sam’s fingers itch to go and lift something—he’s making it too easy for him—but he restrains. The guy knows what he looks like now and if his wallet goes missing, Sam would be the first person he thinks of.
The car comes to a stop at Eighth Street and he steps off, figuring that he’ll get off before the businessman does. He melts into the crowd, blending in with the hundreds of other faces that pass through the station in a given day. He’s not important, not in the slightest. No reason to pick his face out of a lineup.
He shoves his hands into his coat pockets as he walks, choosing no particular direction. It’s a beautiful fall day, if a little cold, and he’s got nowhere to be. He makes enough from pickpocketing that he doesn’t need to hold another job and he doesn’t want to anyway. He had enough of low-paying, shitty customer service jobs in high school.
Someone jostles him before passing him by and he glances up just in time to see the attractive guy in the leather jacket from the subway. Huh. It’s not like the sidewalk’s particularly busy at this time of day. He really didn’t need to bump into—
He stops.
His pants pocket feels lighter than it should.
“Fuck,” he swears lowly, gaining a scandalized look from a mother passing with a stroller. He’s supposed to be more careful than this—better than this. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!”
Sam reaches into his pocket, confirming what he already knows: his wallet is gone. What surprises him though is the piece of paper left behind. He pulls it out, wondering if this guy is just trying to rub it in, and reads Meet me at the Roosevelt, Rm 342, 1 hr. S.R.
He probably shouldn’t go. It might be a trap—some plan his dad cooked up to bring him back into the family. It’s definitely a bad idea. But…he’s curious.
He goes.
The elevator drops him off on the third floor a few minutes before the one hour point and he wanders down the halls until he finds Room 342. The door is slightly ajar, held open by the bar lock. He pauses, uncertain if he’s making the biggest mistake of his life.
“It’s rude to lurk in doorways,” someone—a man’s voice—says from inside. “Didn’t you know?”
He pushes the door open and takes in the nicely furnished room at a glance. The lamps are turned off but the curtains are open, letting in enough light that Sam can still see the guy from the subway sitting at the little table near the window.
“Really?” he asks, closing the door behind him. “You’re quoting The Little Mermaid?”
The guy shrugs. “My partner seems fond of it.”
“Uh-huh,” Sam says doubtfully. “And who’s that?”
The guy doesn’t answer, just points at the other chair opposite him. Sam hesitates and the guy sighs irritably. “Sam Wilson, right? Got accepted into the Air Force Academy but dropped off the face of the planet right after graduating. If I remember my military history correctly, that makes you a deserter.”
“Contracts signed with minors aren’t legally binding,” Sam argues.
The guy huffs. “Right, cause that will stop the U.S. military. Point is, you’re on the run.” He points at the chair again and this time, Sam crosses the room and sits down. “Arrested once in Philadelphia six years ago, under a false name,” the guy continues. “Since then, the FBI’s tracked you across fifteen states in five years. Now, of course, some people might wonder why the FBI’s looking for a simple pickpocketer instead of someone big but you’re not just a Wilson, are you?” He sits back in his chair, crossing his left ankle over his right knee. “No, you’re one of the Wilsons.”
Sam glances away uncomfortably. “Did your research, did you?”
The guy laughs this time and Sam shifts again—man’s got a nice laugh. “I like to know who I’m hiring, yes.”
“Hiring?” Sam asks, holding up his hand. “You’re not turning me in?”
“That sounds like a waste of your talents, dontcha think?”
“Think you’ve got me at a disadvantage.”
The guy ignores him and slides a business card across the table. Sam glances at it, taking in the Vegas address and the date—two days from today. “Got a job for you,” the guy says. “Eight figures, enough to retire on if you handle your money right. You want to do it, then you know where to find me.” He taps the card and stands. “And Sam, keep it to yourself.”
“Wait!” Sam blurts out, realizing that the guy is walking away, deciding to shoot his shot. The guy did smile at him on the subway train, after all. “You’re leaving? After you call me to a damn hotel room?”
The guy stops, turns back just a little, and smiles.
Notes:
Emoji Key for those who don’t know what to say!
❤ = you wish you could kudos again
😭 = I got you right in the feels
🔥 = this was so hot!
🐰 = it’s so fluffy!
Chapter Text
February 14, 2006
The thing is—he and Tony actually aren’t around each other that much now that Tony has SI. They still pull jobs together every now and then but it’s not like how it was when Tony’s parents were still alive and he all but lived with Steve as they planned out job after job after job. Tony isn’t the CEO anymore but he is the owner of the company so he has appearances to make and meetings to attend. And he can’t just sell it and run off to become a full-time thief even if that’s what he wants to do because, according to Tony, it was his parents’ legacy and to the Starks, legacy means everything.
The point is, Steve and Tony don’t see each other as much anymore as they used to which is why he thinks he can be forgiven for taking nearly a year to realize that Tony is seeing other people.
This thing between them, this thing where Steve comes back to New York from a job and collapses into Tony’s bed, this thing where Tony cards his fingers through his hair, soothing out the tensions and stress of the con, this thing where Steve drifts off to sleep with Tony’s head on his shoulder and wakes up to Tony’s mouth around his cock—this thing, it’s new between them. Or maybe not new really; can something be new if it’s been going on for almost a year? But it’s unfamiliar. They don’t spend enough time together in person to really call it a relationship and the way Steve runs his cons means that he spends a lot of time without a phone so it’s not even really a long-distance relationship. But when he’s home, he takes Tony out to dinner and to the movies and the occasional show. They go walking in Central Park and Tony helps him plan his next con even as he lets Tony talk technobabble, the unfamiliar words washing over him as he massages out the tension in Tony’s shoulders.
This thing is new and unfamiliar and Steve had thought he’d known what’s going on. He had thought that he and Tony were on the same wavelength here. He’d been getting ready to say those three little words.
He snorts. He’s been watching too many romantic comedies if he’s thinking about a love confession like that. His phone buzzes as he’s setting the table for dinner—something romantic and candlelit because he wants Tony to know how much he means to him—and he grins when he sees Tony’s name on the caller ID.
“Hey, sweetheart,” Steve says cheerfully as he lays out the last of the forks. He’s making steak tonight, one of Tony’s favorites, along with a Caesar salad, one of Steve’s favorites, and baked potatoes, which they both love. He’s got chocolate covered strawberries sitting in the fridge for dessert and caramel sauce for after if that sounds like something that they’re both up for. He figures it’ll most likely be fine. Tony’s up for anything sexually adventurous, benefits of being young and curious and not having enough experience to already know what he will and will not like. He’ll probably love the sauce. Tony likes sweet things.
“Hey, so you know how we were talking about doing something for dinner tonight?” Tony asks, sounding oddly frazzled.
Steve, hand halfway to lighting a candle, pauses. This doesn’t sound good. “Yeah…” he says slowly and blows out the match. No sense in burning his hand when he can always light another one.
“And you remember how I wanted to go out but you talked me into staying in instead?”
What Steve remembers is Tony suggesting someplace ridiculously expensive where Steve would hate the food and Tony would hate the ambiance and Tony promptly conceding to his suggestion as soon as Steve had mentioned that it would be a lot harder to fuck him after dinner if they were at a nice restaurant but sure, if that’s how Tony wants to remember it, that’s fine. “Yes, I do.”
“I just wanted to say it’s a good thing we decided to do something casual because Apple just announced that they’re making a fucking phone and Pepper—that horrible tyrant,” Tony says, raising his voice just enough that Steve suspects Pepper is somewhere in the room, “wants me to start work on a phone for SI immediately.”
“What?” he hears Pepper yelp. There’s a slight tussle and he waits impatiently, disappointed that their evening has been cancelled. “Steve, he’s lying,” Pepper says eventually but she sounds fond about it so he thinks she’s not too offended. “I suggested we start work on a new phone and this competitive brat insists that we get ours out at least a quarter before Apple does so he thinks he needs to have the plans done by tonight so we can start manufacturing in the morning.”
Yeah, that sounds like Tony. Still—“Can you pass the phone back to Tony, please?” he asks quietly and waits for Tony to clear his throat before saying, “Dinner’s off then?”
“For tonight,” Tony assures him. “But I was thinking we could do dinner tomorrow! And then you can—get out of the room, Pep—then you can fuck me to your heart’s content.”
“How do you know I was planning that?” Steve asks, raising an amused eyebrow even though he knows Tony can’t see it. “Maybe I was planning to cherish you instead. Maybe we were gonna spend all night on the couch cuddling.”
“Steve,” Tony says flatly. “What’s the point of being international art thieves if we can’t have wild and kinky sex like the movies assume we do?”
Steve laughs, shoving his disappointment down. “Okay, okay, wild and kinky sex on hold until tomorrow. But maybe I could bring dinner to you? I made steak.”
“Ooh yes,” Tony says eagerly. Steve can imagine him making grabby hands the way he always does when he sees something he wants.
“Alright, give me about thirty minutes,” Steve says. He finishes up with the steak and the potatoes, throws both into one of those grocery bags that keeps things hot, puts the salad in another bag with an ice pack to keep it cold, and then drives over to SI, counting himself fortunate that Tony’s new apartment is only a couple blocks away from the tower. If he wanted to, he could have walked over there. He doesn’t for the simple fact of not wanting to take up more sidewalk than he needs to.
By the time he gets to the tower, the building is already starting to shut down for the night, only the last couple of stragglers leaving. The doorman, however, knows he is from his past visits and he stands aside as soon as he catches sight of what Steve is carrying.
“Dinner for Mister Stark?” the doorman asks knowledgeably. “No fun plans for tonight?”
“We had ‘em but he had to cancel,” Steve says ruefully, still a little disappointed that he had to cancel but understanding. Tony is a busy man and he can’t expect to monopolize his attentions. “What about you?”
“Oh sure, me and my wife have plans for dinner and a show tonight. She’s been wanting to see that new one over on Broadway, you know the one about the kids? So I got her tickets.”
“You have fun, then,” Steve says as he heads for the elevator bank. “See you tomorrow.”
“Have a good night, Mister Rogers.”
Tony had personally designed the elevators to be a little faster than the average one in any other office building so the time passes quickly as Steve shoots up to the penthouse. When he’s stepping off, he hears quiet voices and glances quickly at the front desk to see if Tony’s secretary is still there. She’s never quite forgiven him for throwing away her phone number after the Starks’ funeral years ago. But she isn’t there tonight and he thinks he remembers Tony saying something about her having a date with one of the guys from IT. Either way, his way to Tony’s office is clear and it’s there that he hears the voices coming from, steadily growing louder as he comes closer.
When he opens the door, Tony is talking with a tall, black man, solidly built and very handsome. Steve feels a small twinge of jealousy—he’s always had a bit of problem with possessiveness—but it passes quickly. Tony works with a lot of gorgeous and glamorous people, comes as being part of a young billionaire.
“Steve!” Tony says, brightening up as soon as he enters. “Rhodey, this is Steve, my partner. Steve, this is Rhodey, the love of my life, my honeybear, my—”
“That’s enough, Tones,” apparently Rhodey says testily, maybe because he catches a glimpse of the stricken expression on Steve’s face.
The love of my life.
He knows that Tony has a flare for the dramatic but that’s taking it a step too far, even for him. If Tony is saying something like that, it’s because he really means it.
“Whatever,” Tony says dismissively, apparently not seeing the way Steve looks at all. Or maybe he sees and he just doesn’t care. Steve had never thought that Tony would be that callous but if he’s calling other people the love of his life, then maybe he doesn’t know Tony as well as he thought he does. “We’ve been friends for ages. He had to meet you sometime. Anyway, Steve—”
Tony bounds over to him and presses a sweet kiss to Steve’s cheek. One, Steve thinks because apparently he needs to start counting however many kisses he has left with Tony. “Rhodey’s ex-military but he’s moving into our line of work and he was wondering if you might be able to give him a couple references of good crews to work with. I said us but he likes explosives more than we do.”
“Uh, sure,” Steve mutters. “Give me your phone number and we’ll talk.”
“Later this week,” Rhodey says even as he scribbles his phone number on a post-it note from Tony’s desk. “I’ve got a hot date tonight.”
“Ooh give Pepper this,” Tony says cheerfully, pulling Rhodey’s head down for a long, thorough kiss that has Steve looking away with how intimate it is.
Suddenly, he’s glad he never told Tony he loves him.
It’s clear that Tony doesn’t feel the same way, has probably never felt the same way.
September 30, 2014
Las Vegas, Nevada
Steve remembers the last time they were here. They’d been robbing a very expensive necklace off the neck of a very wealthy patron, recently flush from a job in Italy, which had ended with Steve kind of sunburnt but Tony gorgeously tanned. They’d decided to blow all their cash in Vegas, maybe a mistake, but not much of one since Tony could practically buy Las Vegas with his trust fund and Steve, desperate to impress Tony, to keep him after finding out that Tony was seeing other people, had spent a good portion of their latest paycheck on the Empathy Suite. He remembers throwing Tony down on the bed as soon as they’d walked through the door, stripping their clothes off in record time. He remembers Tony lounging across the bed in the small hours of the morning, pert ass raised and wiggling to entice Steve back down to join him. He remembers sketching the sunrise from the balcony and Tony joining him in a little silky robe that covered less than some swimsuits. He remembers how much he’d been in love and he supposes that when he’d made the reservations for this trip to use for their base of operations, he’d been hoping that they would be able to rekindle some of that after everything that had gone wrong three years ago.
Tony hadn’t said anything when Steve had told him where in Vegas they would be staying, just pursed his lips and nodded. Steve had wondered if he’d made a mistake. He knows that Tony hasn’t really forgiven him for whatever happened back then but he’d hoped that he’d been starting to make up for it. Now, he wonders if he’ll ever be able to make up for it or if this is just another mistake in a long line of mistakes.
But when he opens the door to the suite after getting off the plane from New York, he thinks it can’t possibly be a mistake. Because he walks inside and he’s transported back in time, transported to a time when he utterly adored Tony, when Tony acted like he adored him. The suite had been new back then, still smelling a little of new leather and new paint. It doesn’t smell like that anymore. Now, it smells like cleaning supplies and whatever takeout Tony purchased for dinner last night—burgers, he thinks. But then he walks through the door of the bedroom and it doesn’t matter what’s changed because this—Tony—is still the same.
Tony is asleep, stretched out across the bed on his stomach. He doesn’t sleep naked anymore but he is in a tiny pair of silky boxers and that’s it. His beard has grown in fuller than it was the last time they were here and there are a few more wrinkles around the corners of his eyes but it’s still so familiar that it just about takes Steve’s breath away.
He tries to undress quietly but Tony wakes up while he’s taking his pants off. “How was New York?” Tony asks sleepily, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.
“Fine,” Steve says honestly. “Checked in with my parole officer. Tracked down Wilson.”
“Yeah? And? What do you think about him?”
Steve joins him on the bed, pulling Tony up against his chest as he settles back against the headboard. “I think he’s still very green but I think he’ll fit in well with the rest of us.”
“I still don’t know how I feel about bringing someone in who has no connection to Schmidt,” Tony admits.
“You brought in Natasha,” Steve points out.
“But Natasha doesn’t speak any English. Wilson does.”
Steve hums but he doesn’t argue anymore. They’ve discussed it before but they hadn’t been able to think of anyone else. Schmidt had taken all their other usual pickpockets off the streets during his purge. Truth be told, Steve isn’t too sure about bringing in someone entirely new either. But he doesn’t want Tony to know about his reservations. He’s the leader of this team and they’re running an incredibly dangerous con. He has to remain confident, or at least he has to appear so. Insecurity could mean their deaths on a con like this.
He thinks about Wilson and how cautious he’d seemed when Steve had met him. If he’d been in Wilson’s place, he would have absolutely robbed the guy on the train with his eyes closed. But then, he didn’t really know what had been going through Wilson’s head. He might have had a reason for not making a move.
Well—
That wasn’t really true, now, was it? Wilson had made a move, it just hadn’t been one that Steve had expected. Steve knows he’s attractive, doesn’t really understand it after he’d spent most of his childhood small and sickly, but he knows how people see him these days. Even so, he hadn’t expected Wilson to say anything about it and there’d been a time when Steve definitely would have accepted but he doesn’t want that anymore. He’s trying to build something with Tony, fix whatever they’d broken. He doesn’t need to mess it up by taking someone else to bed again, not until Tony has explicitly told him that he just wants something casual and maybe not even then. He’s grown since the day he met Rhodey. He’s more confident in himself. He’s willing to fight for what he wants.
And what he wants is Tony.
“I’m gonna grab a shower,” Steve says, pressing a kiss against Tony’s hair. “Wash off some of the airplane smell.”
“Hmm,” Tony agrees. “You stink.”
“That was rude,” Steve says but he says it with a smile and kisses Tony’s upturned lips as he gets up. “You gonna be up when I get out?”
Tony is already yawning so Steve isn’t even surprised when he says, “Probably not.”
“Alright. Sweet dreams, sweetheart. Tomorrow, the real work begins.”
Chapter Text
May 8, 2007
Steve arrives back in New York with no warning to anyone, not Tony, not any of the other people he’s worked with in the past, not even Bucky, who he’s worked with more and more often over the last year. He’s been trying to put some distance between him and Tony after finding out about Rhodey and Pepper.
He’d tried staying in the city at first, solely working jobs with Bucky, figuring that as long as he wasn’t working with Tony, there wouldn’t be a problem, but he had soon come to realize that if he was in New York, he was going to see Tony. There had been no way of avoiding that. Sure, New York was a big city but Tony was a larger-than-life figure and after the tenth time he’d automatically found himself going over to Tony’s in the evening instead of back to his place, he’d decided that really what he needed to do was leave the city.
He had ended up taking a job in London with two sisters: Peggy and Sharon Carter, both respectable names in their own right. They had offered the job as a long con, likely to take place over several months and needing nearly constant supervision, even for people who weren’t going to be seen by any of the marks. It had sounded perfect. He could get his mind off of Tony, could maybe even see some other people in an attempt to get over the pretty brunet. If Tony was doing it, why shouldn’t he be allowed to, right?
He’d left without warning, telling only Bucky where he was going, intending on telling Tony once he had already landed. It wouldn’t have been the first time they worked separately from each other, especially now that Tony was a big CEO, but it would be the first time they’d been apart for so long. Peggy had told him it was likely to be at least a year before they were finished. He was counting on it.
“You’re making a mistake,” Bucky had told him, even as he helped Steve load his bags into the car.
“Oh really?” Steve had absently asked, already dismissing him in his head. “And why’s that?”
“You need to just talk to him.”
“What good is that going to do?”
“Because anyone with eyes can see that he’s just as hung up on you as you are on him.”
Steve had slammed the trunk shut so quickly Bucky had nearly gotten his fingers smashed. He’d turned to Bucky angrily and snapped, “You know nothing about it. You weren’t there. You didn’t see what I saw. Trust me, if you’d been there, you would have come to the same conclusion that I did.”
“And what conclusion is that?”
Up until that point, Bucky hadn’t made him say it out loud. Steve had glanced away, tightening his jaw. “That this—us—is just fun to him. It doesn’t mean anything,” he’d said eventually, reluctantly, heart breaking in two.
It had crashed down on him then, the realization that Tony didn’t love him nearly as much as he loved Tony, and then he couldn’t get out of New York fast enough.
He’s back now.
Back in the place where his heart had been neatly cleaved in two, the closest he’s been to Tony in a year. He glances in the direction of Manhattan as he gets out of the taxi. He could have had the driver take him to Tony’s place instead—had desperately wanted to, a year apart had done nothing for his feelings except make him wish that he could have been enough for him—but he’d ultimately decided on his place instead.
He carries his bags upstairs wearily. It had been a long, slow con and he’s looking forward to collapsing into his bed. The Carter sisters had been great about letting him use one of their empty rooms as his own for the year but he’s found that there’s nothing like his own bed in his own apartment, even if the apartment probably smelled musty and was covered in a few layers of dust after so long sitting vacant.
But when he opens the door and flicks on the light, he finds that the apartment is nearly spotless, gleaming and clean.
“What the…?” Steve mutters. He drops the bags by the front door and slowly shuts the door behind him. As he turns, he catches sight of a note taped to the fridge door and he moves closer to read it.
Bucky said you were coming home tonight. Wasn’t sure when you’d get in so food is in the fridge. Kisses, Tony
Reluctantly, he smiles fondly. That’s just like Tony, to make sure that he’s well-fed and happy even if he didn’t know exactly when Steve would walk through the front door.
Curious, he walks into the bedroom, wondering if he’ll find Tony in his bed instead of in the apartment. He should be upset—he probably will be tomorrow—at Tony for undoing all of his hard work trying to move on but tonight, he’s tired and lonely so when he spots a brown tuft of hair sticking out from a huddled mound in the blankets, he just smiles and heads into the bathroom.
Tony is awake by the time he gets out, immediately making grabby arms the moment he spots him. For a moment, Steve thinks about resisting him but he’s never been able to deny Tony anything, let alone affection, especially after he’d found out about the cold and distant home Tony had grown up in. He goes to him, crawling under the covers next to him. Tony curls up on his side, tucking himself into the space right under Steve’s arm.
“I missed you,” Tony breathes and it sounds like a confession though Steve has no idea what he’s confessing.
“You didn’t,” he says lowly, trying to ignore the way his heart leaps when Tony shakes his head. “You had Pepper and Rhodey. What could you possibly need me for?”
Tony doesn’t even leer at him, which just goes to show how tired he must be. “I missed you,” he says again. “I always miss you when you’re not here.”
Those walls around his heart that Steve has spent so much time building up over the last year just come crumbling down like he’d built them out of straw. “I missed you too,” he whispers.
Tony smiles, turns his head to the side, and plants a quick kiss on Steve’s chest. “How was London?”
Steve thinks about his ill-fated attempt at going out with Peggy Carter. They’d gone to the restaurant. He’d walked her back to her flat. He’d kissed her at the door. She had invited him in—and he had choked. He had thought about the blissful look on Tony’s face when Steve first entered him and he had apologized but he couldn’t do it and then he’d run off. Part of the reason the job had taken so long was because Sharon had had to talk her sister into working with Steve again after their date.
“Rainy,” he says simply.
“Meet anyone fun?”
It should be an innocuous question and, to be fair to Tony, it probably is. But Steve thinks about Peggy and then he thinks about Rhodey and he can’t help the way he tenses. He forces himself to relax almost immediately afterwards but Tony still notices, sitting up a little so he can look Steve in the eyes properly.
“Everything okay?” he asks, a worried crease in between his brow.
“Just tired,” Steve lies. Well, it’s not fully a lie. He is tired but that’s not why he’s upset.
Luckily though, Tony seems to accept his answer. “We can talk more in the morning,” he suggests and Steve gratefully latches onto the suggestion.
Thirty minutes later, after Tony has fallen asleep and starfished out across the bed the way he always does, Steve fishes his phone out of his jeans and checks the notification that had arrived while he was in the shower.
Shuri: I’m running a job in Kenya. Need a white man to play a tourist. Can I count you in?
Steve taps his finger against the side of the phone, thinking about the offer. He mostly wants to refuse. He just got off a job, one that was long and exhausting. He really just wants to stay in New York for the next few months. But then he looks down at the bed and sees the way he’s unconsciously shifted closer to Tony while he thought. If he’s already falling back into bad habits after being in New York for less than a couple hours, what will happen two months down the line?
Steve: When do you want me there?
October 1, 2014
Las Vegas, Nevada
Sam thinks he might be the last person on the team to arrive. There’s nearly a dozen people already inside the suite when he knocks on the door and someone shouts for him to come in. He spots a couple faces he knows from the news—Pepper Potts, the CEO of Stark Industries (he can’t help but wonder what she’s doing in a place like this), James Rhodes, who recently managed to escape getting arrested after he blew up a police car—but the rest are all unknown to him though they all seem to know each other already.
He glances to his left where a man with a snake oil salesman’s smile asks, “Have you ever been to Norway, Clinton?”
The man sitting next to him, who must be Clinton, glares at him and inches away.
Potts and Rhodes are talking to each other at the bar, soon joined by a mousy-looking man that they greet like an old friend.
In the corner, another red-headed woman, tiny and lithe like a ballerina, is doing yoga exercises, watched in awe by a pure giant of a man, the kind of man that makes people wonder if the Vikings are still around.
“You look a little overwhelmed,” someone says, coming up beside Sam.
He startles, surprised to realize that he’s not alone, that someone has already noticed him. Sam makes his living off of not being noticed. It’s more than a little disconcerting to find that he hasn’t even sort of managed to go unnoticed here.
“You must be the new guy,” the man says. He passes a drink off to Sam, something that looks a little like a sunset. “Bucky Barnes.”
“Sam Wilson,” he replies, cautiously taking a sip of the drink. It’s surprisingly good and he makes an appreciate noise.
Bucky grins, the kind of smile that moms warn their daughters about, and Sam abruptly realizes that Bucky Barnes is actually very attractive. He shifts a little on his feet, wondering where the blond guy he met in New York is.
“So is anyone going to tell me what we’re doing here?” he asks, glancing around the room. Much to his surprise, Potts is looking in their direction with narrowed eyes though she turns away as soon as Sam looks back at her.
Bucky runs his metal hand—holy fuck, he’s got a metal hand?—through his hair and groans lowly. “Stevie didn’t tell you?”
“Stevie?”
“Yeah, Steve. Big blond guy, probably recruited you because god knows, Tony doesn’t like to work with new people.”
“Steve and…Tony,” Sam repeats slowly. He thinks about the partner the guy who had recruited him had mentioned, the pieces fitting together in his mind. “You’re telling me that that was Steve Rogers I met? I thought he was still in prison.”
“Newly out,” Bucky says. “And it’s a bit of a touchy subject so don’t bring it up too much.” He claps Sam on the shoulder and wanders off to go join Potts and Rhodes.
Sam takes another sip out of his drink, thinking about everything. No wonder Steve had turned him down. The entire community—even Sam, who does his best to stay out of the larger circles—knows about Steve’s hang up on his partner. It had sent shockwaves through the community when news had started circulating that Steve Rogers and Tony Stark were no longer speaking to each other and then to be followed with the news of Steve’s arrest and Tony’s disappearance…
Well, it had been surprising alright.
“Ladies, gentlemen,” someone—Steve Rogers—says. Steve emerges from the bedroom, followed by Tony—Tony Stark. “Welcome to Las Vegas.”
“Everyone eaten? No one too drunk?” Tony asks.
There are a few appreciative chuckles and Tony shoots a wink in Potts’ direction.
Indulgently, Steve says, “Settle down. Most of you probably already know each other. For those of you who don’t, that’s Natasha Romanoff, our grease woman, and Sam Wilson, one of the Wilsons.”
Sam tries to hide the way his lips tighten at that. He’s always hated that he’s associated with his family first and his own merits second. And he gets it. His mom had been the one to point Steve in his direction in the first place but it’s still frustrating.
“Before we start, I want to let you all know that none of you have signed any sort of contracts yet. If you want to back out now, this is your chance because what I’m going to propose has a high payoff but a very high risk as well. If that doesn’t sound like what you want, that’s okay, no hard feelings, help yourself to as much of the food as you want, Tony’s paying for it all, and safe travels. Otherwise, come with me.”
He walks into the conference room off to the side of the living room, followed first by Tony and Bucky and then slowly by everyone else until Potts and Sam are left in the room. Potts finishes making up two plates and then joins Sam by the door.
“Second thoughts?” she asks casually.
He shrugs. “Not too sure how I feel about working on a team if I’m only here because of what my mom used to do.”
Potts nods understandingly. “That’s great and I’m sure in another couple years, you’ll be a great thief in your own right. Get in the damn room.”
He jerks his head to stare at her. She raises her eyebrows.
“Yep.”
Chapter Text
December 9, 2008
Bucky is the one who picks him up from the airport this time, who waits for him at the gate with a disapproving expression on his face and waits until Steve has walked all the way over to him to say, “Welcome back.”
“Helluva welcome,” Steve says, hugging him. They pound each other on the back before stepping away as Steve motions at the window. “A snowstorm and you can’t be bothered to smile? I must have done something wrong.”
“You could be home more often.”
A beat.
“Our line of work—”
“I know all about our line of work, Stevie. I was right there with you at our parents’ knees so don’t try to bullshit me, you punk. But even I take breaks. When’s the last time you took one? Hell, when’s the last time you saw Tony? I know you haven’t worked with him since Vegas. Sounds like that was probably the last time you had a vacation and that was two years ago.”
“That wasn’t a vacation,” Steve protests.
“Right, you were there for that necklace but it was as good as. So how about Tony?” Bucky picks up Steve’s bag and leads him out of the airport and into the cold. Steve shivers, stuffing mittens on his hands as he follows him. “He’s been asking about you. Wondering if I’ve heard from you since he apparently hasn’t.”
“Been trying to distance myself,” he mutters. He pulls a hat on over his ears and draws his coat tighter around himself.
“He doesn’t know what he did wrong.”
“He hasn’t done anything wrong! He just…” Steve trails off, not sure how to put it. He just decided to fuck other people? Steve just didn’t understand what their relationship was about? He saw too much into a relationship that Tony didn’t even see as a relationship to begin with?
“That’s right, you’re convinced he’s seeing other people even though no one thinks that but you because of one moment you saw two years ago and decided you knew what it meant without asking him. Steve, that makes no sense at all.”
Bucky stops beside a nondescript suburban. It’s got a couple dings in its side and Steve would be willing to bet it’s stolen but it smells fresh and it has more than enough room for his bags so he doesn’t protest. Bit of a change from Bucky’s usual flashy ride though. He wonders if that’s for his benefit since he’s the one who insists that the best getaway car is one that the cops don’t realize is a getaway car at all.
They climb in and Bucky immediately turns on the heat to full blast. “Well?” he asks as he turns so he can put the car in reverse. “You gonna tell me why you won’t talk to Tony about it?”
No, Steve isn’t. He has no idea how to tell him that he doesn’t really want to know what Tony has to say about it. In his wildest dreams, he thinks that maybe Tony would reassure him that there’s nothing going on between him and Rhodey and Pepper and that reporter woman he introduced Steve to at a gala and the botanist he met last year and and and… He knows the truth though: that Tony has finally realized that he deserves so much better than a simple thief and he doesn’t want to let him go because the sex is too good. Steve is just a flavor of the week rather than the love of Tony’s life.
He crosses his arms defensively, sinking back into his seat. “I don’t know why you won’t listen to me when I tell you that I don’t need to talk to Tony,” he says waspishly, warning Bucky to drop it.
“Because you’re not the one who gets to see Tony moping around New York like someone took his puppy. For fuck’s sake, Steve, the man bought you a—”
He cuts off and Steve glances at him curiously. “He bought me a what?”
“Nothing. You’ll see soon enough.”
“It can’t be both nothing and something important enough that I’ll see it.”
Bucky glares at him and Steve subsides, raising his hands up apologetically. He turns instead to look out the window as the conversation turns to less complicated topics like how the last job went and whether they think they’ll have a white Christmas this year.
“This isn’t the way to my place,” he says about halfway through the drive.
“Nope,” Bucky agrees, turning onto a street lined with trees down the middle and lovely brownstones on either side.
“Where are we going?”
“Tony’s.”
“Tony doesn’t live this way either.”
“See if you were around more often, you’d know that Tony moved a few weeks ago.”
Steve glares at him. “Don’t need your pointed comments, Buck.”
Bucky pulls up in front of a corner house with ivy trailing up the sides and what looks like a rooftop garden from what little he can see from the street.
“This is nice,” Steve comments.
“Glad you think so. Tony was worried you’d hate it.”
“Why does it matter what I think about it?” he asks bewilderedly.
Bucky shrugs. “Last I heard, he bought it for the two of you.”
Why would he do that? Steve asks silently but he’s afraid it’ll just start another argument and after spending the last couple months in Bolivia, he really just wants to spend some time with Tony and Bucky without arguing.
“Are you sticking around for Christmas this time?” Bucky asks him. There’s something odd in his voice though Steve isn’t sure what.
“Are you coming over?”
“Tony always asks so yeah, I’m coming over.”
“Then I guess I’m staying.”
He climbs out, grabs his stuff from the back of the suburban, and trudges up the slippery steps. He has to set one of the bags down to knock and he swears when he picks it back up, it’s gotten heavier. Fuck, he’s tired of traveling all the time. Maybe Bucky’s right. Maybe he should take a year or two off.
Then the door swings open and there’s Tony.
He’s looking a little older, a little more tired, but his smile is as bright as ever and his hug as tight when he throws his arms around Steve. “You found it!” he exclaims, leaning up on his toes to brush a quick kiss over Steve’s lips, leaving him stunned.
Tony peeks around Steve’s shoulder and waves at Bucky. “Thanks for driving him!” he calls. “See you at Christmas!”
“See you, Tony!” Bucky calls back and drives off.
Tony takes one of the bags from Steve’s hand so he can slip his own hand into Steve’s grip and pulls him inside. “Let me show you around. I haven’t completely unpacked yet but I still think you’ll like it—oh, I took the Degas from your room and hung it up in ours. I didn’t think you’d mind but figured I’d tell you anyway. Also, I moved that clock that you had in the living room? The grandfather? I moved it into your office.”
“Do I still have an apartment?” Steve wonders, cutting into Tony’s chattering.
Tony looks at him curiously. “Of course you do. I wasn’t going to cancel your lease for you. What if you don’t like the brownstone?”
Steve looks around the front hall, realizes how much of his stuff is here, intertwined with Tony’s like they had always meant to go together, like they’d been designed as a whole set only to be separated in the store. It’s the home he’s always wanted with Tony and he hates him a little in that moment for dangling this in front of Steve’s nose when he can’t really have it.
“I love it,” he says honestly.
October 1, 2014
Tony watches through narrowed eyes as Pepper ushers in the kid. When she senses him watching her, she glances up, raising one perfectly plucked eyebrow as a question. He mirrors the motion and then flicks his gaze to Wilson. What was that about?
She shrugs and rubs her thumb and middle finger together. Just convincing him this is in his best interest.
He nods slowly and turns away, back to Steve. If you say so.
He’s never been able to fathom the way Pepper’s mind works, though he won’t deny that whatever she’s doing, it’s effective. He remembers the first job he ever did with her, while Steve was on one of his mysterious trips around the world that he did right before breaking up with him. They had needed someone to act as a mole, someone who could be professional and blend in. Tony had fit the professional part of the bill but not the other so he’d brought in Pepper, who had never done anything even the slightest bit illegal in the past but took to it like a duck to water.
The phone sitting in his pocket with Pepper’s last text message unread is weighing him down like lead. The preview had read, Have you told him yet? Just like he’d suspected, her support of this had been conditional on him telling Steve how he felt but he just hasn’t found the right time yet, not with them trying to put the team together and then trying to track down Wilson. He’ll tell him soon, he swears, just…not yet.
“Ladies, gentlemen,” Steve says again. He motions to the model behind him. “This is a scale replica of what is currently Las Vegas’ biggest casino, Two Heads.”
“Is that meant to be a reference to something?” Loki asks, smirking. There are a few chuckles and Tony pushes off the wall he’d been leaning against.
“Lot of people think it’s a reference to a man’s brain and his, well, you know,” he says.
“His dick!” Bucky shouts helpfully.
Tony points at him. “Wasn’t going to say it but yes, that’s right. It’s not. It’s a reference to the Nazi Party’s science division called Hydra. Their motto was ‘Cut off one head, two more will take its place.’”
“Utterly ridiculous,” Loki mutters.
“And someone like that owns the biggest casino in Vegas?” Wilson asks.
“Someone like that,” Steve replies flatly, “owns a quarter of the Western hemisphere.”
A low murmur goes around the room—Tony spots a few comprehending looks being traded between people—and then Thor states, “You’re going after Schmidt.” He doesn’t sound excited.
“I did say this job came with a high risk,” Steve reminds him.
“Nothing like this though,” Clint argues. “You’re not just going after a casino. You’re going after Schmidt’s casino, which is a lot worse.”
“Nothing we can’t handle.”
“That’s what you said before you got arrested.”
“Thanks, Buck,” Steve says annoyedly. “Glad to know you’re on my side.”
Bucky holds up his hands. “Just pointing out the facts.”
If it had been a smaller job, with just the three of them, Tony could practically hear Steve snapping, “Well, stop pointing them out.” But with more people on this job, people that they don’t already know, Steve just purses his lips.
“Look,” Tony says, putting a stop to the building argument. “We’re not robbing a casino.”
“What are we robbing then?” Clint asks.
“Pepper?” Tony asks, glancing toward her.
Pepper stands from her seat and joins him and Steve at the front of the room. As she passes him, she hisses, “Have you told him yet?”
He shakes his head.
She glares but doesn’t berate him for once. Instead, she faces the rest of the group and says, as she lifts up the model of Two Heads to reveal another model underneath. “Beneath the casino, beneath even the vault, is Schmidt’s prized art collection. He’s spent most of his life curating it and supposedly, he’s quite the philanthropist. Nearly every piece is or has been at one point on display in the world’s top museums when he loans them out. He’s even gone so far as to gift some of his pieces to certain museums he looks favorably upon.”
“Supposedly?” Loki asks.
“They’re all fakes,” Tony says. He kisses Pepper’s cheek, thanks her, and lets her return to Rhodey. “He loans them out for tax write-offs, gifts them when he needs to boost his reputation, but keeps the real ones in his collection in Two Heads.”
“How do you know they’re fakes?” Wilson asks, frowning. “If a museum couldn’t catch it, how could you?”
“Because it’s what I got arrested for,” Steve cuts in. “Three years ago, I was planning to infiltrate Schmidt’s group. He hired me to move some of his artwork from his home in New York to a cabin in Canada. It seemed like an easy enough job, figured I could walk off with the artwork, so I did. Got caught at the border. All five paintings had been reported stolen from the Met earlier that morning. Problem was, all five paintings had been hanging in Schmidt’s living room for at least a week prior.”
“So you were arrested for trying to steal artwork that was…already stolen?” Wilson asks doubtfully. He crosses his arms and shifts his weight to the other leg.
“Not really stolen,” Tony says mildly. “Probably just breach of contract.”
“In two months, Schmidt is hosting a New Year’s party at Two Heads,” Steve continues, giving Tony a sharp look that warns him to stop making light of the subject. “He’ll be displaying artwork that he’s never loaned out to any museum before, lost Masters, some of the Impressionists, a few Picassos. That is what we’re going to rob. That and everything else in his collection.”
He pauses, giving the team time to let it sink into their minds. Tony glances around the room, taking in the awed expressions.
“Smash and grab, huh?” Rhodey asks, pure wonder in his voice.
“Little more complicated,” Tony replies.
“We’re working on getting an inside man,” Steve tells them, “but here’s what we’ve been able to figure out from the building plans. The vault which houses the artwork is below the vault for the casino. Some of the collection will be leaving the vault on the night of the party for the penthouse but most of it will be left behind. Now, for the bad news: this place has more security systems than some nuclear missile silos—”
“—Which I should know because I’ve actually built some nuclear missile silos,” Tony interrupts.
“We have to get past the casino cages—”
“—located here, here, here, and here—”
“—through these doors, which has a rotating set of codes changed every hour, and into the elevator. Here’s where it gets tricky. The elevator requires multiple sets of DNA identification—”
“—which we can fake but we’d have to get close to Schmidt to do it—”
“—and vocal confirmations from Schmidt, the security in the casino, and the security in the vault—”
“—which he’ll never give us in a hundred million years—”
“—and the elevator shaft is rigged with motion detectors—”
“—so if we try to manually override the elevator or climb down the shaft, the shaft exits are locked down and we’ll be trapped—”
“—but once we’re out of the elevator, it’s a piece of cake really. Just three more guards—”
“—with a predilection for not being robbed—”
“—and a vault door reputed to be the best in the world. Any questions?”
There’s a moment’s pause and then the entire team breaks out into questions, mostly wondering about Steve’s sanity but Tony hears Natasha asking something actually relevant so he yells for quiet and nods to her.
She repeats her question, still in Russian, and he nods along thoughtfully. It’s a valid point and he remembers the file on her he’d gotten from a contact in the CIA. Natasha Romanoff, a ballerina with the Russian Ballet, whose parents were ex-KGB and was several years into an experimental program for young girls when the Iron Curtain fell and the Widows program was disbanded. He thinks about Steve complaining that she wasn’t a thief and he thinks to himself that she might not be a thief but she’s certainly not an innocent ballerina either.
“No, tunneling’s out,” he replies, in English so everyone else understands what she’d been asking. “There are Richter scales monitoring the casino for a hundred yards in every direction. They’re so sensitive that they predicted an earthquake in the Pacific of a magnitude 3 last year. Trust me, if we tried to tunnel in, they’d know. Anyone else?”
The team starts babbling again but this time, it’s Steve who calls for quiet and motions to Loki, who says, “I believe you mentioned good news, Steven?”
Steve grins. “Glad you asked. Schmidt’s art collection houses over fifty known works, each one valued at over two million dollars. There’s no price yet on the works that no one’s seen yet but if they really are the lost works he claims, that’s an additional fifty million. There are eleven of us and if this job goes the way it should, we’ll be walking away with every piece he owns. You do the math.”
Thor whistles lowly.
“Exactly.”
“I’ve got a question,” Clint says. “So let’s say we magically get into the cages and past the security doors we don’t have the codes for and down the elevator we can’t operate and into the vault we can’t open, we’re just supposed to walk out of the casino with some sixty to seventy pieces of art?”
Steve’s smile this time is the one that makes people sit up straighter, the one that says he knows they can do the impossible, the one that makes everyone believe in him—the one Tony absolutely hates. “That’s right,” he says evenly. “You wanna hear how?”
Chapter Text
August 19, 2010
They’ve been working a job in Prague, they meaning him, Bucky, and Tony. The old team back together again. Steve can count on one hand the number of times he’s worked with Tony in the last three years and as for the number of times that they’ve seen each other without a job, well, that number is only slightly higher. He knows it has to be bothering Tony, he’d be bothered too if his partner was working more jobs without him than with, but Tony never says anything about it. He just watches him with those big brown eyes and buys him things that he knows Steve wants but would never buy for himself and draws him into their bedroom with that rakish grin and those hooded eyes.
His bedroom.
Not theirs.
Tony has Pepper and Rhodey and Rumiko and Christine and Victor and all those other glittering people that Steve meets at Tony’s galas that he gets dragged along to when he’s in town. So it’s not theirs, even if it’s Steve’s Degas hanging in the bedroom and his toothbrush sitting in the cup in the bathroom and his clothes in the closet. That’s just ease of use. When he’s in New York, they share a bedroom. Might as well since neither of them ever leave the bed when he’s there.
He has no idea what Tony does when he’s not there. He can guess since apparently, Tony seems incapable of leaving the tabloids: twelve for twelve with Maxim, a couple Playboy bunnies, whoever was on last year’s Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue. But Tony never talks about it with him, just about how much he missed him, how dull his days are without Steve. Steve can’t decide if he likes it or hates it that Tony never tells him what he’s been up to.
Most of the time, he thinks he likes it because it’s so much easier then to pretend that Tony is his all of the time, not just when he’s in New York.
Then sometimes he thinks he hates it so much he can’t bear it, that he has to smash his phone against the wall and take pointless risks in his jobs… He wishes Tony would put him out of his misery so he could know whether or not this is worth it.
He’s tried a couple times to go on a date with someone other than Tony but the thieves all know that Tony is his partner and he never manages to go any further than dinner with someone who isn’t in their community.
Bucky keeps telling him he should just talk to him but that’s the one thing Steve knows he’ll never do. The thing is, if he talks to him, if he gets confirmation that this is just a game to Tony, he knows that he’ll never be able to see Tony again. It’ll hurt too much. And no matter what else, some of Tony will always be better than none of him.
So they’re in Prague and there’s an undercurrent of tension running between him and Bucky and a different one between him and Tony and the only two who are completely comfortable with each other are Tony and Bucky but somehow, they all ended up in one room with two beds.
It’s no surprise that he’s sharing his with Tony. It was the only reasonable way to divide up the beds because Tony’s a limpet when he sleeps and no way was Steve going to share that with Bucky.
It’s early in the morning, early enough that not even the birds are awake yet. Bucky is out trailing the mark who apparently likes to go jogging in the mornings, Tony is tucked up against his chest, and Steve is wide awake, breathing in Tony’s sleep-warm scent, when the call comes in.
His phone lights up and Steve just barely manages to turn off the volume before it makes any sound. Tony has spent the last several nights up at odd hours trying to finish the comm units they need. He deserves to be able to sleep.
He doesn’t recognize the number and that—that has him worried.
Because Tony is asleep beside him and Bucky is out running and it’s a local number so—
He answers the call, slips from the bed and into the bathroom, and quietly asks, “Hello?”
“Is this Mr. Grant?” a heavily accented voice asks.
That’s his identity for this con. His blood runs cold as dread creeps over him. There’s only two people in this country who know his identity and one of them is asleep in the bedroom. “This is he,” he confirms. “Who’s asking?”
“I’m Doctor Svoboda at Motol University Hospital. You’re listed as the emergency contact for—”
No.
No no no no no no no no no no—
“What happened?” he demands, cutting the doctor off. He hears a soft noise and looks up to see Tony in the doorway. Bucky, he mouths and Tony’s eyes go wide.
“He was in a car accident earlier this morning, a hit and run.”
Steve sinks down onto the toilet, a choked sound escaping him. He hears the doctor say something about Bucky’s arm, something else about amputation, and he cuts them off again to say, “Yes, whatever you have to do. Just—will he—” He stops, too afraid to speak the words into existence. He looks up at Tony again who has apparently disappeared into the bedroom at some point and come back fully dressed. Tony points to a stack of Steve’s clothes in his arms. “Actually, you know what, don’t tell me. We’ll be there in ten minutes.”
Tony ends up having to practically dress him. He’s too numb to do it himself. And Tony is the one who hails the cab for them and Tony is the one who gives the driver directions to the hospital and pays him and asks the receptionist for directions and somehow gets both him and Steve down to the waiting room and tells that receptionist that they’re waiting for news about Bucky’s alias.
Steve doesn’t do more than let himself be led, too stunned by the thought that it was an accidental hit and run that will cost Bucky his arm. They never think that that’s what will happen. They always assume it’ll be a job gone wrong or something in prison, never a simple accident. You start thinking along those lines and soon you’ll find yourself never leaving the house.
He doesn’t know when the doctor comes out to tell them that the surgery was successful, that Bucky pulled through with no other complications than the loss of the arm. He doesn’t know when Tony nudges a tablet in his direction and says, “I hacked into the city cams. I know who hit Bucky.”
What he knows is that he looks down at the tablet and asks, “Who is this?”
“Johann Schmidt. He’s been on our list for a while but we’ve never gone after him before.”
“Why not?”
“He’s untouchable.”
Untouchable. So untouchable that he could run over a man in the street and drive off without a care in the world. His hands clench into fists, fury rising in him at the thought that Bucky was just left there, his best friend was left there.
“Not anymore.”
October 2, 2014
“Hey, Tony, you got a second?” Clint asks. It’s early morning. Most of the team hasn’t arrived at the suite yet—or at their places if they’ve got a job to do.
Tony looks up from where he’s soldering…something, Clint has no idea what. He gestures at everything he’s working on and Clint’s pretty sure he’s supposed to take that to mean that Tony absolutely does not have a second but that’s not going to stop him. He didn’t get where he was by paying attention to boundaries after all.
“What set the two of you on this crusade against Schmidt in the first place?”
Tony frowns at him and gestures again at his thingy. Clint just raises his eyebrow.
“I can keep asking and you know I’ll just get annoying.”
“How someone like you became a father I’ll never understand,” Tony mutters sullenly but he finishes up what he’s doing and then casually says, “He ran over Bucky with a car and cut off his arm.”
Well shit.
That was definitely on the list of things Clint hadn’t thought he would hear that day.
“Thanks for that reminder!” Bucky shouts from the other side of the room and flexes his arm in a manner that’s probably supposed to be intimidating but it’s Bucky. He’s about as scary as a—a teddy bear or something.
“No problem, Bucky Bear!” Tony calls back.
“Fuck you too!”
October 3, 2014, Morning
“So where did the arm come from?”
Bucky looks up at the young woman twirling her hair vapidly around her finger as she stares longingly at his arm. He doesn’t get it. He thought casino dealers were supposed to be tough shit but here she is practically giggling as she falls over him.
“It’s a Stark Industries piece,” he tells her eventually. No harm in telling her the truth. It’s a conversation piece and he’s already pretty likely to get notice because of it. Fortunately, Tony and Pepper are already on top of that. “One of the last Stark made before he went missing. I hear they’re coming out with a new line though. Some program for vets. About time vets get some notice.”
“Oh are you a vet?” she asks. “I’ll bet big strong guy like you, you were in the Marines.”
He gives her an incredulous look and then tells her, “Move. You’re blocking my view of the game.”
She huffs and stalks off to the other end of the breakroom, leaving him with a clear view of the two guys who just walked in. He holds up his phone, clicking on an app that Bruce designed. It looks like an ordinary game but it’s really taking pictures of the badges the two guys are wearing and the small details on their uniforms and everything else that Steve might need to know in order to get them a couple uniforms of their own.
He yawns and stands back up, making his way out to the casino floor. Time to get back to work.
October 3, 2014, Evening
“Talk to me about the collection,” Steve orders as they talk over takeout boxes. “Can we get a curator in?”
Tony shakes his head. “Schmidt’s already got one and rumor has it, they’re pretty much on lockdown. They don’t leave the city, they don’t even really leave the casino, and somehow they manage all of his collections around the world from here.”
“So we’re going to need to get someone in there to watch them.”
“We’re already running a risk with Bucky. Schmidt probably doesn’t know his face but that arm is pretty distinctive.”
“Aren’t you and Pepper supposed to be flooding the market with them?”
“There aren’t that many people who need prosthetics,” Tony points out. “They’re useful, helpful, and we’ll make enough off of them to break-even but it’s not like everyone’s going to need one. I’m just warning you—we need to be careful about who we get inside the casino. We can’t use everyone all at the beginning.”
Steve glares at him. “You don’t need to tell me how to run a con I’ve been running since I was a kid.”
Tony sighs and closes his eyes. “I know, I know,” he says quietly. “I’m just—I’m scared, that’s all.”
Not for the first time, Steve wonders what happened to Tony during those months that he was missing. No one can, or will, confirm that Schmidt had Tony, least of all Tony himself, but he’s starting to wonder if that’s where he’d been.
“Come here,” he says and pushes his chair back. Tony doesn’t even hesitate, climbing out of his own and into Steve’s lap in less than a heartbeat. Steve tucks him under his chin, kisses the top of his head. “I have done this job a thousand times in my head and every time something went wrong, I started over and fixed it. I know we can do this. I know what each of us can do and I know what we can all do together. I just need you to trust me because Tony? I can’t do this without you. You’re the one piece that can’t be replaced.”
For a moment, he wonders if he’s shown his hand too early. Seducing someone after they broke apart the way they did three years ago isn’t going to be easy and he can’t move too fast, no matter how much he wants to shout from the rooftops that he’s in love with Tony Stark. But then Tony sighs again and curls up tighter, kissing the underside of Steve’s jaw.
“What about Sam?” he asks.
Steve frowns thoughtfully. “You don’t think Schmidt would notice?”
Tony shakes his head. “Not if we’re careful. But we’re going to need eyes inside the casino now, not in a week.”
“I’ll get Thor and Loki right on that.”
October 4, 2014, Morning
“Are you sure I can’t just punch him?” Thor asks.
“I’m quite certain,” Loki hisses. He pulls on the handle of the machine, sighing as it brightly flashes. He hates these things. Whoever invented casinos was doing the work of the devil.
His eyes track the technician with the keycard Barnes noticed yesterday as the man swipes through the door, gives a friendly little wave at the guard standing nearby, and then disappears into the hallway.
“There’s a camera in the ceiling, did you notice that?” Thor notes, surreptitiously taking a picture.
“Of course I noticed, you dimwit. Do you think I wouldn’t notice something as obvious as that?” He hadn’t actually but that’s not something he needs to tell his brother, who would never let him forget it. He sneers at the camera, an inelegant, clumsy design. Their mother, Norns bless her soul, had designed security cameras for her teams, tiny little things that no one would even think to look for until it was already too late.
The slot machine flashes that he lost and he fakes a heavy sigh and stands as Thor loudly proclaims that perhaps he’ll have better luck elsewhere. Impossible at subterfuge, his brother is, absolutely hopeless.
“Let’s go,” he murmurs and sets off in the direction of the exit, realizing a moment later that Thor has gone in the opposite direction. “You nitwit, the exit is this way!”
October 4, 2014, Late Morning
Rhodey shrugs on a bright orange reflective vest as he gets out of the car. “You owe me, Tones,” he mutters under his breath, knowing that the comm unit will pick it up. “I look ridiculous.”
In his ear, Tony laughs brightly and Rhodey has to bite back a smile of his own. It’s been too long since the last time he heard Tony laugh, probably three years if he really starts thinking about it. Whatever else Steve’s faults may be—and they are numerous—he’s always been able to make Tony laugh and for that, he’s glad he’s out of prison.
He picks up the set of traffic cones in the back of the van and hoists them over his shoulder, setting off across the street. There’s a large crowd milling about and he forces his way through them, murmuring about Health and Safety and construction and whatever else comes to his mind. With the vest and the cones, he looks the part and no one gives him a second glance as he reaches the manhole cover he needs. He sets up the cones around it, lifts the cover up, and drops inside without hesitating.
October 4, Evening
“Don’t go anywhere,” Natasha says in heavily-accented English. It’s one of the few phrases she knows in this language, taught to her specifically for this job. Part of her wishes that the other woman—Pepper—could have done this part but Pepper doesn’t have the right breasts. Or legs. Or attitude.
And to be completely honest, Natasha kind of likes making men do her bidding just because she has a pretty face and the right assets.
And Tony had apologized profusely for asking her to do this but he doesn’t know any of the strippers in this city and he needs one that he can trust to ask to do this lift. That had gone a long way toward making her feel better about this.
“Okay,” the guy pants, practically salivating over her breasts spilling out of her corset. Poor man. He thinks her name is Svetlana, pretty Russian name for a pretty girl. He doesn’t know he’s looking at one of the retired Black Widows.
She leans forward, a simpering pout on her face, and runs her hand down his chest, neatly plucking his badge out of his shirt. She palms it as she turns, carefully making sure that he doesn’t notice it in her hand, and slips out of the room.
Tony is waiting for her outside, glaring up at the sign of the strip club like it has personally offended him and who knows? Maybe it has. He glances over when he hears the crisp sound of her heels on the asphalt and brings his hands out of the pockets of that absurd t-shirt and suit combo that he wears.
“Here,” she says in Russian, slapping the badge into his hand. “Don’t ask me to do that again. I’m a dancer.”
He arches an eyebrow and she wonders what he knows about her past, if he knows about the program she used to be a part of. When he and Steve had approached her for this job, she had asked around about them. They had told her to watch out for Tony, that he knew everything about everyone. She hadn’t believed it at the time—no one person could have the wealth of information that they claimed he had.
He scans the badge with his phone and hands it back to her. “What time will we be seeing you tonight?” he asks.
“Late,” she says. “Some of the dancers told me they would teach me some moves.” When he gives her an incredulous look, she smiles enigmatically. “What? I’m a dancer.”
Tony laughs and shakes his head, turning away as she sashays back inside.
October 5, Morning
“Okay breakfast for the team,” Clint says, sliding into the room balancing several trays of coffee and a couple bags of various food stuffs that the team members had wanted. He puts everything down on one of the tables, ignoring Bruce’s low growl as he has to swipe away some of his electronics junk. “I’ve got donuts for Bucky, Thor, and myself; omelets for Loki, Natasha, Pepper, Sam, and Bruce; and breakfast tacos for Steve, Tony, and Rhodey. Drinks are over here, I’m not even going to try to say who gets what because really, y’all, some of the stuff you order? Ridiculous. Whatever happened to a plain black coffee?”
“I know for a fact that you order a caramel macchiato with three shots of vanilla syrup, whip, caramel drizzle, and toffee bits,” Bucky says, reaching past him and snagging a donut. He sticks it in his mouth, grabs his own coffee, and heads back to the couch where he’d been chatting with Sam.
“Thank you, Clinton,” Loki purrs, grabbing his own food. Clint shivers uncomfortably. Fuck, that guy gives him the creeps. It feels like every time he talks, he’s a second away from snapping and killing everyone in the room.
Steve grabs two cups of coffee and a couple of breakfast tacos before heading over to where Tony is working on a draft of something.
“Hey,” he says softly. “You’ve been up most of the night. You need to eat.”
Tony blinks and rubs at his eyes blearily. “What time is it?”
“Breakfast time.” Steve waves the taco under his nose.
“Is that coffee?” Tony asks, ignoring the taco.
Steve holds the coffee further away from him. “Taco first, then coffee.”
Tony glares at him for a moment and then reaches out a hand for the taco.
“Good boy,” Steve coos teasingly, placing a quick kiss on Tony’s forehead. Tony goes bright red and stuffs half the taco in his mouth at one time to hide it. Feeling like even just watching is interrupting a private moment, Clint turns away and smiles brightly at Natasha as he passes her her egg white omelet.
October 5, Afternoon
“Hey Bruce,” Steve says as he and Tony watch him through the button camera he’s wearing, “I know you’ve got this vendetta against capitalism but can you try to keep your temper under control this time?”
Bruce rolls his eyes and thinks about scowling at the nearest camera but they don’t have complete control of the cameras yet so anything he does will be picked up by Two Heads’ outstanding security team.
“You’ve worked with me before,” he points out. “Have I ever let my temper get the better of me?”
“Rio ’08,” Tony quips. “We both ended up in prison for three days.”
“I didn’t know that,” Steve says quietly.
He hears Tony hesitate and winces. Can’t those two just pull their heads out of their asses and admit they’re head over heels for each other? “You were working with the Wakandans,” Tony says eventually.
“When have I let it get the better of me on a job?” Bruce interrupts before they can get too far into their side conversation. He’s worked with them before; he knows how much they can get wrapped up in each other.
There’s silence from the other end of the line and he smiles grimly. “Exactly.”
There’s another silence and then Tony says, “He’s not wrong.”
“No, he’s not,” Steve agrees. “Bruce, Loki and Thor are in position and you are a go.”
He pulls open the door to the casino, flashes his duplicated badge at the woman at the desk, and picks his way across the casino floor, fighting to keep his lip from curling. He hates casinos and all that they represent. Hey come spend all your money at this place and if you’re lucky, we’ll give some of it back to you! But not too much or we’ll assume you’re cheating and “relieve” you of your burden.
Fucking capitalists. No wonder Schmidt has done so well in this country.
Near the entrance to the back halls, he sees Loki and Thor arguing with each other over a bunch of balloons that have floated to the top of the ceiling, blocking the view of the cameras. Bruce scoffs. That’s their effective distraction? But, as he watches, the guard blocking the door gets a call on his radio and leaves his post to go order the two Norwegians to leave.
Huh.
He slips through the gap in the slot machines, swipes his card, and walks through the door. Easy as pie. Now he just needs to get down the hallway and into the server room. The hallway is empty, no one around to see him and with the cap over his head, he looks just like one of the actual technicians to the cameras in the hallway.
Bruce spots the door he needs and walks up to it, swiping the keycard again. The light flashes from red to green and he hears the door click open right as he hears footsteps coming down the corridor. He grabs for the door, pulling it open and stepping inside just in time to yank it closed.
“Bruce, you in?” Tony asks.
He stays quiet as he listens to the door. Two men, judging by the gaits. They walk past his door, chattering about some poor victim who made too much playing blackjack today and will now receive a special trip to meet Mr. Schmidt in person. His hands curl into fists as anger flares bright and hot in him. How dare they treat this like it’s some kind of joke? Some people spend millions each year at these places, go into debt, ruin their lives.
“Bruce?” Tony asks again, sounding worried.
He breathes out slowly, letting go of his anger as the two employees walk away. No use in getting them caught now. This is why they’re here, to bring down people like Schmidt and put another casino out of business and maybe it’s not the reason Steve is doing this but it’s the reason he is.
“You know, just because you try to set me up for the line, it doesn’t mean I’m going to say ‘I’m in’ like we’re in some kind of shitty heist film,” he says as he kneels on the ground and starts pulling out his tools.
“We kind of are though,” Tony points out.
Bruce just ignores him and goes to work.
Chapter Text
March 30, 2011
It takes time. Time for Bucky to recover and heal. Time for Tony to design and build an entirely new arm. Time for them to plan everything down to the minutiae because if Schmidt ever caught wind of what they were doing…
Well, Steve has gone over the files Tony compiled for him. He knows what happens to people who cross Schmidt if they’re found out. But he thinks that that has made the man cocky, dangerously arrogant—dangerous for him, not for them. Because Schmidt thinks he is untouchable. No one has dared cross Schmidt in years, too afraid of the consequences. But that’s exactly why they should go after him.
Schmidt doesn’t have the right to rule over everything with an iron fist, proud of the fear he induces in people, and if Steve has to be the one to put him back in his place, then that’s what he’ll do. He doesn’t like bullies and Schmidt is one of the biggest ones he’s ever seen.
It still takes time though.
But when the time comes, the job is almost laughably easy. Schmidt has a gallery in New York with some of his favorite pieces. Well, he calls it a gallery but nothing is for sale. Either way, the location makes things easy for them when they’re planning. They don’t even really have a home base since they can just work out of the brownstone.
They pull up to the gallery that morning, Tony strolls in as a visitor, a tourist interested in Schmidt’s New York collection and when no one is looking, he shines a laser on one of the fire alarms. The laser, designed to produce enough heat to trip the sensor in the detector, does its job perfectly. Everyone evacuates the gallery as Tony sneaks into the security booths to turn off the cameras—thank goodness for automated systems and Schmidt’s distrust in mankind.
Five minutes later, FDNY rolls in and Steve and Bucky go in to investigate the fire—now a real one, set by Tony in one of the trash cans—and walk out with fifteen priceless paintings that they supposedly “saved” from the inferno.
And that’s it.
The indomitable Johann Schmidt has lost some of his favorite artwork, Tony has a new Monet to hang in the brownstone, and Steve has his revenge. He’s not really certain what Bucky gets out of it, other than knowing that justice has been served. But Bucky had been more than willing to go along with the plan so maybe he’s getting revenge too.
He’s probably getting revenge.
It sounds like something he would do.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Steve thinks that it’s probably concerning that he’s starting to lose touch with his friends, spending too much time away from New York if he no longer knows what would motivate Bucky. He’s been so focused on staying away from Tony to protect his heart that he’s lost his city and his best friend in the process. But, as they’re finishing hanging the Monet in Tony’s bedroom and as Bucky suggests that they head over to the bar to celebrate a successful job, Steve resolves to do better. He’s going to do better. He’s going to spend the next however-long-it-is here in New York. He’s going to rekindle his friendship with Bucky and maybe finally convince Tony that they should be more than occasional friends with benefits.
Oh yeah, everything is coming up roses.
October 7, 2014
“I want to help,” Sam says firmly, straightening his shoulders.
Across the room, he sees Tony glance up from where he’s overseeing Pepper working on something that he’s not allowed to know about. Bucky perks up from the couch—his shift ended an hour ago and he’ll be running out pretty soon to grab dinner for the team but in the meantime, he’s watching the highlights from this week’s football game since he missed it when he was working the poker tables.
“Great,” Steve says idly, not really paying as much attention to him as he is to a sketch of—Sam tilts his head to look at it better—Tony. “Cause I’ve got a job for you to do. Two, actually.”
Sam grins. See, he knew he was better than shadowing Steve, especially when Steve isn’t doing much other than orchestrating the whole thing.
“Hey, Pepper, when is SI rolling out the new prosthetics?” Steve calls across the room.
Pepper thinks about it for a minute, tapping the wooden end of a paintbrush to her lips thoughtfully. “If we need to push up the release date to next week, we can,” she says instead of giving him a definite day. “Tony will need to go on Good Morning America to announce the release but they’ve been dying to get him on the show anyway. It wouldn’t be too difficult to make it work.”
Steve and Tony have one of their ridiculously weird silent conversations consisting entirely of stares, eyebrow raises, and downturns of their mouths. Then Tony shrugs and says, “Sure, let’s do it.”
“I’ll give Robin a call,” Pepper says and goes back to whatever she’s painting.
Steve nods and starts working on his sketch again. Sam’s smile drops away. “Man, did you forget about me?” he asks.
Steve doesn’t respond. Instead, he just looks up at Sam and he can’t figure out if it means that Steve did in fact forget about him or if he just failed a test. Steve has this way of looking at people like he’s either extremely proud of them, which can feel like the best feeling in the world, or like he’s irrevocably disappointed in them, which is pretty soul-crushing for a guy that Sam met just last month.
“I need you to trail a couple people,” Steve says eventually, putting his pencil and notepad away.
“Wait, that’s it?” Sam asks after a moment. “Not something bigger?”
“You’re a new thief,” Tony says, getting up and joining them. He leans on the table, Steve’s hand coming up to stroke the side of his hip. “We don’t want to overwhelm you.”
“So you don’t think I can do it,” Sam states. It’s cool. Plenty of people have underestimated him in the past. Just cause they’re his personal heroes doesn’t mean that he wasn’t expecting it at some point. It’s totally cool and he’s totally not lying to himself.
“That’s not what we’re saying at all,” Steve says.
“We were just thinking—” Tony starts to say.
“And with your experience—” Steve adds.
“Because it’s a new face—”
“And after I saw you in New York—”
“Right, it’s completely perfect—”
“So that’s what we want you to do,” Steve finishes and smiles at him.
Sam stares between the two of them. He’s pretty certain—though maybe not as certain as he could be—that they were finishing each other’s thoughts but… “I’m sorry, what is it you want me to do?”
Bucky turns off the TV and walks by them, heading into the kitchen for a drink. He claps Sam on the shoulder as he passes and says, “They want you to tail Schmidt and his curator.”
“You want me to trail the Nazi who murders people because my face is new,” Sam says flatly. “Because I’m disposable.”
Both Steve and Tony look horrified, which is a little gratifying. “No,” Steve says emphatically.
“Unless Schmidt has every face of every thief in the world memorized,” Tony says.
“Which he won’t,” Steve cuts in.
Tony makes a face like he’s not as sure but he gamely finishes, “He’s not going to know who you are. You’ll be safe as houses.”
It’s not wholly a reassuring statement considering what happened the last time Steve and Tony went up against Schmidt. But then Bucky walks back by them, pats Sam’s shoulder again, and says, “Don’t worry, I’ll keep you safe,” which actually is a lot more reassuring even if Sam doesn’t entirely know why.
Still, he feels obligated to say sarcastically, if only because it makes Bucky smirk, “Oh thanks, I feel much better now.”
“You’re welcome, babe,” Bucky says with a little bow, spilling his Diet Coke over the floor. “Whoops.”
“Bucky!” Tony complains.
“My bad. I’ll clean it up before grabbing dinner. How does pizza sound tonight?”
“Only if you get a salad to go with it,” Steve says. “We had burgers last night and tacos before that. We need vegetables.”
“Ew gross,” Bucky and Tony say together and high-five.
Steve rolls his eyes and catches sight of the Odinson brothers coming through the door. “Loki, Thor, wait up! I want to talk to the two of you about transport.”
October 9, 2014
Tony flies into New York at a ridiculously early time and two hours later, he walks onto the set of Good Morning America, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and all those other absurd adjectives for morning people. Early bird gets the worm or something to that effect.
He chats with the co-hosts for a bit before Robin swings the topic around to, “This is your first public appearance in a few years. How’s life been treating you?” as a thinly veiled attempt at fishing for what happened to him three years ago.
He smiles winningly, resolutely does not think about the arc reactor in his chest, and says, “You know, I just thought that it was time I pass the spotlight off a bit. I know, I know, sounds crazy of me, right? But you know what they say: time waits for no man and for this man, it was time to find a new project.”
It’s meant to lead her right into asking about the new project but for a moment, he sees her hesitate. He freezes, polite smile still fixed on his face. Don’t ask about my disappearance, don’t ask, don’t ask, don’t—
“So what’s that new project that you and that admirable CEO—tell me, is she single—of yours have been cooking up?”
He laughs and says, “Sorry, Robin, Pepper is happily taken and I don’t think your own partner would be too pleased to know you’re trying to hit on my CEO.”
“She’s the one who told me to ask!”
They both laugh about that before Diane cuts in and says, “But what is this project you’ve been hinting about?”
“As you said, Diane, we’ve been keeping it quiet but as of tomorrow, Pepper and I are pleased to announce the launch of our newest line, originally designed for our veterans three years ago but now available for everyone: R.I.P. for Robotic Implant Prosthetics!”
Take that, Schmidt, Tony thinks viciously. Let’s see you try to notice Bucky, now.
October 11, 2014
Bucky tries not to notice Thor jumping up and down on the bumper of one of the vans behind the salesman while Loki stands next to him looking as bored as ever but it’s very hard. There has to be a method to the brothers’ madness but he has no idea what it is and honestly, he doesn’t really want to ask. As long as they know what they’re doing, as long as Steve knows what he’s doing, Bucky will be happy.
“I’m sorry but I’m afraid nineteen-sixty-three is as low as I can,” the salesman tells him.
“I understand completely,” Bucky says, smiling as charmingly as he can, the one that used to make the mothers of his dates just melt. “It’s a pleasure doing business with you, Mister…?”
“Lee,” the old man says. He smiles, showing a couple teeth missing.
Bucky glances behind him to where Loki is flashing a hand sign. According to him, the vans are, at best, worth fifteen hundred. This guy is trying to swindle him out of his money. Bucky smiles tightly and reaches out with his metal arm to shake the guy’s hand.
Lee’s eyes light up. “You must have one of those new Stark arms!” he exclaims as he shakes Bucky’s hand enthusiastically. “How do you like it so far?”
“I got it yesterday,” Bucky says, affecting one of Steve’s aw shucks tones. “And for the most part, it’s real great but, well, like this morning—I go to cut up an apple and the damn arm locks and squeezes the ever-loving fuck out of it.”
On cue, the plates lock into place and start slowly squeezing Lee’s hand.
His smile now resembles nothing so much as a wolf. “I figure I’ll probably have to take it in but I thought I’d give it a few more days before I give up on it.”
He thinks he hears Lee whimper.
“Course that’s not gonna fix anything that breaks in the meantime but Stark provides good products. I don’t want to have to tell them that this one’s malfunctioning.”
He knows he hears the bones grinding in Lee’s hand.
“So that was fifteen hundred on both vans, right?”
“Yes, yes, of course!” Lee babbles. “Just—please!”
Bucky lets go. “Now that is so generous of you. Don’t you worry, Mister Lee, I’ll make sure to tell all my buddies to come to you for their cars.”
He winks and saunters out of the dealership.
October 20, 2014
“I could’ve worn one of my suits,” Clint complains as he’s practically draped in Armani. “They’ve worked for all my other cons.”
“Were those the ones where you were swindling bored housewives out of their money?” Tony asks innocently.
Clint glares at him. Tony just raises an eyebrow. Damn upstart kid. Time was, he was a respectful little thing. He thinks back to the first time Tony and Phil met, how Tony had promptly decided to never call Phil by his name ever, and revises his opinion. Time was, Tony was a respectful little thing to Clint.
“You come up with a name yet?” Tony asks, moving on from the conversation. Clint still isn’t sold that he needs fucking Armani to wear to meet with Schmidt but he would also be the first to admit that he didn’t grow up in this world the way Tony did.
“Barnabas Ronin,” he says proudly.
Tony nearly spits out his coffee.
“What?” he protests. “It sounds pretentious, doesn’t it?”
“Uh, sure, maybe a little too pretentious. Come on, Clint, how many Barnabases—Barnabasi?—do you know in real life?”
“My brother’s name is Barnabas,” Clint says, frowning.
“That’s unfortunate,” Tony informs him.
“Yeah, he goes by Barney.”
“And that’s even worse.”
Clint doesn’t argue with that. He’s thought that many a time as well. “Seriously, Tony, will it work?” he asks. “You’re the one who knows these people.”
Tony tilts his head. “Introduce yourself to me.”
Clint nods, closes his eyes, and steps into the role. In a thick German accent, he says, “My name is—”
October 21, 2014
“Barnabas Ronin,” he finishes, smiling thinly at the concierge.
“And do you have a reservation with us, Mister Ronin?” the concierge chirps cheerfully, eyes completely dead inside. Clint doesn’t blame her. If he had to work a customer service job, especially one at Two Heads Casino, he’d be dead inside as well. Thank fuck he’s a thief instead.
“Young lady, do I look like the kind of man who makes reservations?” he asks, indicating his thoughts on her level of intelligence.
Beside him, Thor straights up, drawing the concierge’s attention. She looks over his menacing muscles, gaze skipping over to Loki, whose eyes are just a little bit crazy. In the back of his mind, Clint can’t help but wonder how these two ended up doing mostly transportation when they’re really more of jacks-of-all-trades and could easily be trained to do con work instead.
“Right, of course,” the concierge says with another fake smile.
October 23, 2014
“Hey, Bucky,” Sam says, sliding into the seat across from him. Bucky pauses in his work on the gym’s ledger from last month—barely breaking even and this is why he agreed to sell when Steve came for him—and looks invitingly up at him. “What’s the deal with Steve and Tony?”
“What do you mean?” Bucky asks but he thinks that Sam knows that he knows exactly what Sam is talking about.
“I mean, are they dating or something? I know they used to work together but—”
They both glance over at Steve and Tony who are reminiscing about an old song out on the balcony. They look calm, peaceful in a way that they haven’t in a very long time. In fact, Bucky thinks the last time he saw them like this might have been the Christmas after they got together when he had been put up in Tony’s guest room because he’d drunk too much and walked into the living room late that night to see them dancing together to an old Christmas carol. As he watches, Steve holds out his hand and sweeps Tony into his arms for another slow dance, much as it had been that night. If Bucky concentrates, he can see them both out there—the young, innocent couple and the older one, a little broken but slowly coming back together.
“They were,” he says sadly. Why had everything happened the way it did? Why had Steve been so resistant about talking to Tony? For that matter, why had Tony been so resistant about admitting anything was wrong? Why had they both been such idiots?
“What happened?”
Bucky purses his lips and abruptly stands. He hates thinking about this, doesn’t even really want to talk about it but—“Rachel did.”
Chapter 13
Notes:
Warning for a brief kiss between Tony and Sam towards the end of the chapter as a way to keep Schmidt from seeing them. If that's not your thing, feel free to skip the lines between “Tony, what the—mmf!” and “Great, you gonna tell me what that was all about?”
Chapter Text
March 30, 2011
They go out to the bar, the one that’s friendly toward people like them, the one that he and Bucky had taken Tony to after their first job together all those years ago, that night to celebrate a successful job and their revenge on Schmidt. Tony and Bucky are both in fine spirits, downing drink after drink and matching each other shot for shot. At one point, Tony gets up from their table and drunkenly weaves his way out to the dancefloor where he’s caught up between Clint Barton and that FBI agent of his who always turns the other way toward their misdeeds.
Steve watches him for a moment, that small knot of jealousy burning low in the pit of his stomach as he watches Barton grind against him. Tony doesn’t look like he minds. In fact, he looks ecstatic, throwing his head back over Clint’s shoulder and pressing a sloppy kiss to the agent’s cheek. He looks away after a bit. Tony’s an affectionate drunk, everyone knows that. It doesn’t necessarily mean anything.
“You ever gonna tell him?” Bucky asks shrewdly, glancing in Tony’s direction.
He nods. “Yeah, I am.”
Bucky looks startled. “Really? What finally did it?”
“Don’t you think it’s time?” Steve asks. “You’ve been pushing me to do it for years. Now all of a sudden, you’re worried about it?”
“I didn’t mean it that way and you know it,” Bucky says evenly. “Was just surprised, that’s all. You can’t blame me, you’ve been resistant to it this whole time.”
“You lost your arm,” Steve says quietly, looking at the metal shining even in the gloom and dinginess of the bar. He wonders how much it hurts. It’s a marvel of bioengineering, Steve knows that, but he wonders if it ever keeps Bucky up at night. “We almost lost you that night and sometimes, I wonder, what if it had been Tony? He’s smaller than you. The car might have run over him instead of his arm.”
“Or it might have missed him altogether,” Bucky points out.
Steve frowns. “Thought you’d be happy for me. You’ve wanted me to say something for ages.”
“I just want to make sure you’re doing this for the right reasons, because you love him, not because you’re scared something might happen while you’re still too stubborn to take your head out of your ass.”
“I love him, Buck.” Steve has never been more sincere about anything in his life. Bucky stares at him for a long time, searching his eyes for something—a lie maybe or any sign that he’s still hesitating on this. He won’t find it. Steve means it this time. He’s done playing around.
“Okay,” Bucky says eventually. He stands and throws a couple dollars down on the table. “I gotta go take a leak. Next round’s on me.”
“Crude,” Steve mutters. He orders another round for the three of them—eventually Tony will have to wander back to the table and when he does, he’ll be thirsty—and settles back to watch Tony dance, idly wondering how he should tell him. Should he do it when Tony has come back to the table with Bucky there as his witness? Corner him on the dancefloor and whisper it into his ear? Wait until they’re back at the brownstone and he has Tony pinned under him so he can’t escape when Steve tells him?
It takes him a moment to realize that he can’t see Tony anymore. He stands, trying to see if he can spot him anywhere on the dancefloor. There! Heading for the bathrooms, being tugged along by—by a silver hand.
Steve goes cold. No, Bucky—he wouldn’t…would he? He knows how much Tony means to Steve. Blindly, he shoves away from their table, pushes through the crowd to the bathroom, where through a small gap in the crowd—why are there so many people here tonight? The bar is usually emptier than this—he can see Bucky pin Tony up against a wall with his hips.
No.
Bucky steps back a moment later though only for Tony to start to slide down the wall, apparently drunker than either of them had realized, and he holds him up again. Steve watches as Bucky whispers something in Tony’s ear, watches as Tony squeals excitedly, loud enough for even Steve to hear halfway across the bar, and then he has to watch as Tony throws his arms around Bucky’s neck and kisses the side of his neck.
Steve turns away, swallowing down the lump in his throat as he makes his way back to the bar. So it is like that. He doesn’t know when they got together, if it was during one of Steve’s trips around the world or if it was during the long hours they spent working together on Bucky’s arm. He doesn’t know what Bucky was just telling him, if they were discussing breaking up or if they were laughing over Steve thinking that Tony would still be waiting for him all these years later. He doesn’t know and he doesn’t care, not when he keeps seeing Tony kissing Bucky’s throat imprinted on the inside of his eyelids.
“Rough night?” the woman beside him says sympathetically.
He plops down onto a barstool and groans. “Rough year,” he mutters.
“I hear ya there,” she says. “I just got fired.”
He glances at her, looks over her bubblegum pink hair, her bright green eyes, the way she doesn’t seem too upset about getting fired. “I’d say that blows but you don’t look worried.”
She shrugs. “The guy I worked for was a dick so I say good riddance to him.”
“What did you do?”
“I was a curator for this rich guy. Biggest asshole I ever knew but what can you do? Money’s money, right? So his security’s pretty lax cause no one’s ever dared cross him before and today these people just waltz right into the gallery and walk right back out with fifteen of his favorites. Can’t blame himself of course so he blames me instead. Kicked me out on my rear ten minutes later.” She wraps her lips around the rim of her beer bottle and takes a long drink, chugging half the bottle in one go.
Steve raises his eyebrows and motions the bartender—a guy called Weasel who is a pretty big dick himself but can mix a cocktail like nobody’s business—over. “Another one for…?”
“Rachel,” she says, grinning at him. “Rachel Leighton. And thanks.”
“Steve Rogers,” he replies, feeling a little bit of excitement stirring in his chest. Her story is sounding familiar—too familiar. She must have worked for Schmidt and if that’s true, then here, right here, is a chance to poach one of his employees right out from under him. Fuck, she must know all sorts of things about him and his artwork. Forget walking away with fifteen paintings. With Rachel’s help, he could walk away with everything Schmidt owns.
He feels a little bit of guilt at the thought of working on this new con without telling Bucky or Tony about it but when he looks toward the back of the bar, at their table, Tony is listing up against Bucky’s side, eagerly chattering away about something, not even caring that Steve isn’t there. Bucky, at least, is looking around for him with a small frown on his face but his arm is resting on the back of Tony’s chair, fingertips brushing against his shoulder every time Tony takes a deep breath so he must not be missing him too much.
Rachel follows his gaze. “Cute couple,” she comments. “Friends of yours?”
Steve grunts, mood plummeting again.
“Shit,” she says, a look of comprehension dawning on her face. “Which one are you hung up on? Big and beefy or cute and sexy?”
Steve can’t help the way he laughs bitterly. “Cute and sexy.”
Rachel tilts her head as she considers the pair. “Yeah, I don’t blame you. I’d snap him up in a heartbeat if he were available.”
Steve’s next sound comes out as more of a sob. He’d had his chance to snap Tony up, he’d thrown it away, and now it’s too late. He takes one last look at Tony before turning back to Rachel, Rachel who is going to help him raze Schmidt to the ground even if she doesn’t know it yet. Tomorrow, he’ll worry about what he’s going to do about Tony, start thinking about how to move out of the brownstone so Bucky can move in instead. Tonight though…
“You want to get out of here?” he asks, mouth moving almost before he thinks about the words. “I know a great diner a couple blocks from here.”
She narrows her eyes. “I won’t be a rebound for lover boy over there,” she snaps.
“You won’t be,” he assures her. You couldn’t be. I’ll never be able to get over him. “I’ve just got a job offer for you.”
“A job offer,” she repeats flatly. “Just falling into my lap like that.”
“Wouldn’t you know it?” he says, swinging a leg over the barstool and standing. “I’m in the market for a curator.”
October 31, 2014
Sam waits for Tony impatiently. Honestly, he would have rather reported to Bucky instead of Tony, who is friendly enough but always seems like he has bigger things on his mind than helping the new kid on the block. A young man sits next to him on the bench in the lobby. For a moment, Sam thinks it’s Tony—he’s got the right color hair—but then the man turns and he has blue eyes, not brown, and he’s missing the beard.
Then he opens his mouth and it’s Tony’s voice that says, “So talk to me about Schmidt.”
Sam does a doubletake, looking Tony up and down. “How did you…?”
“Stark tech. Not on the market.”
“How come I didn’t get one of those?”
“Schmidt knows my face. He doesn’t know yours. Now, tell me about Schmidt. Please,” he adds as an afterthought. Like that makes it any better that Tony and Steve had no problems with sending him out here without a disguise. Tony must see it in his face because he sighs and says, “Sam, how long have you been running cons?”
“I’ve never run a con,” he says, which is true. He was a pickpocket before this.
“Right and you saw when Clint was working on his disguise, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Sam agrees. “Where is this—”
“Just a moment please,” Tony says pleasantly, holding up a hand to stop him. “We didn’t give Clint a disguise earlier but you saw how he was able to adjust his posture, his walk, all of it to make it look like it wasn’t him.”
“Okay…” Yeah, that’s true. He’d been amazed when he’d first seen the Barnabas Ronin disguise. It hadn’t been Clint. It had been someone completely different wearing Clint’s face but it definitely wasn’t Clint.
“I’m sadly not as good as Clint yet.” Tony sniffs haughtily. “I will be soon though, don’t worry.”
“Don’t worry, I wasn’t.”
Tony flashes him a quick grin. “I can’t become someone else while using my own face but the entire reason I can wear this mask and have it work is because I am able to change enough of my characteristics that it tricks your brain into thinking I’m someone else. You have no experience with running a con or inventing other identities so if you were wearing this mask, it would register as something being wrong because you would still be you. Make sense?”
“Mostly.”
“Good enough. Now, Schmidt. Talk to me.”
“First of all, you two are insane for thinking this is a good idea.”
“Your complaint has been noted.”
“Secondly, the man’s a machine. Seriously, he runs like clockwork. In here every morning at 8:07 sharp. He goes up to his office—private elevator, by the way—and does whatever for four hours. I think it’s meetings because I sometimes see people go into his elevator and get off on his floor. He always has two bodyguards on him, big guys, bigger than Thor even, and a smaller kind of weaselly looking guy. His name is Zola. He’s a shareholder in the casino, owns about 25% of them.”
“Who owns the rest?”
He’s pretty sure that Tony already knows this one and this is a test but he says, “Schmidt does, for the most part. There are a couple other shareholders but those are the two big ones.”
Tony nods and goes back to looking at the elevator. Sam takes that as permission to continue, “At noon exactly, he comes back down and eats lunch in the casino’s restaurant. It’s a business lunch. He always eats with the floor manager. At 1:30, he goes up to the second floor of the casino to watch. Sometimes, he’ll send his bodyguards down to ‘escort’ someone up to a meeting.”
“Intimidation?”
“Yeah. I’ve been watching him for three weeks and only once have the people he’s had brought up actually been cheating.”
“Figures.”
“At 4:30, he gets back in the elevator and goes down to what I think is the gallery but can’t be certain because it’s not labeled on the elevator bank.”
Tony’s eyes flick up to the old-fashioned dial and needle letting people waiting for the elevator know how many floors there are and where the elevator currently is. It looks like it goes down to the parking garage below the casino and that’s it.
“At 6:00, he comes back up with the curator and they go to dinner.”
“Male or female?”
“Female. Really pretty. Always wears a dress or fancy pantsuit and stilettos. Makeup always done up.”
“What’s she look like?”
“Green eyes, brown hair with pink highlights—”
“Pink?” Tony interrupts, face going pale.
Sam gives him a curious look. “Yeah. Kind of a bubblegum pink. Look, you can see it in a second, they’re coming up now.”
“Shit,” Tony hisses and darts off the bench and for one of the pillars lining the atrium. Sam follows him bewilderedly.
“Tony, what the—mmf!”
Tony wraps his arm around Sam’s neck and yanks him in for a hard kiss. It’s not bad either but Sam can’t stop thinking about how Steve is going to kill him as soon as he finds out about this.
“Will you just look at them?” he pants as Tony pulls away and kisses the side of his neck.
“I am,” Tony mutters and then bites down on the tendon to shut him up. Sam shuts up. A moment later, Tony pushes him away and smooths down the line of his shirt. Sam turns and watches as Schmidt and the curator disappear through the open door of the casino’s restaurant.
“Great, you gonna tell me what that was all about?”
“Supposedly, public displays of affection make people uncomfortable. Never understood it myself,” Tony babbles, running his hand through his hair and messing it up even further. “If you’re making out in public, you’re kind of inviting people to look, right?”
“Tony.”
“Shit, shit, shit,” Tony mutters. “I’m gonna kill him. I’m gonna fucking kill him. If this whole damn thing is a fucking ruse…I warned him. I fucking warned him and he didn’t listen and look, who was right? Oh yeah, I was.”
“Tony,” Sam repeats confusedly. Tony looks beyond agitated, looks downright manic really, and he’s still muttering to himself even as Sam asks, “Who is she?”
Tony’s face crumples in devastation. “Her name is Rachel Leighton,” he says softly. “And she’s the love of Steve’s life.”
Chapter Text
March 31, 2011
He spends hours talking with Rachel that night. They head over to the diner a couple blocks from the bar—the one on 21st that is open all night and world-famous for their waffles (Steve has had several business meetings at this diner and every single time, his new coworkers have come away glowing with praise for the place)—and then they just talk. It’s easy, in a way that talking with Tony hasn’t been in several years.
Rachel is new to this life, of course, but she’s clearly bitter about Schmidt’s careless, unfeeling treatment of her and it isn’t hard to get her talking about her anger and how much she wants to get revenge.
“Last time I got fired, I walked out with a couple office supplies,” she says at some point. “And I broke their copier. Joke’s on them, I was the only person in the office who knew how to fix it.”
She’s on her fifth cup of coffee. Steve switched to tea ages ago, that kind of gross Lipton lemon tea that tastes a little like Fruit Loops. He would rather be drinking coffee as well but Tony has been making comments about his health and how that much caffeine can’t possibly be good for his heart. Steve kind of wants to call him out on his hypocrisy—he’s pretty sure Tony would mainline coffee if he could—but he doesn’t really think he has the right, not after he spent the last several years mostly out of the country. Shoot, if Bucky hadn’t been injured, he probably still would be out of the country, doing everything in his possible power to avoid having to see Tony and his flavor of the month.
So they talk and he listens to her rant about how angry she is with Schmidt and everyone in his ridiculous organization—and maybe Steve leans in closer to hear more about this organization because to the best of his knowledge, there’s just Schmidt and his cronies—and eventually, he brings the conversation around to her actually getting revenge. She laughs for a moment and then it slowly dies out as she takes in the look on his face.
“You can’t be serious,” she states.
He takes another casual sip of his tea and bites back the expression of disgust that he wants to make at the taste. He wishes Tony were here. Tony would have laughed at his expression but he wants to make a good impression here. He needs Rachel, needs her to like him so that through her, he can bring down everything Schmidt stands for.
“Why can’t I be serious?” he asks. Behind the counter, he catches Angie’s eye and raises his cup in her direction. She winks at him and nods. Just like the bar, the diner is a safe haven for people like him and Tony. Angie’s an ex-con herself, spent most of her working years in England where she raised the Carter sisters.
“Because it’s illegal,” Rachel hisses, nervously looking around. To her, though, Angie looks like she’s busy dishing up a slice of pie and definitely doesn’t have bugs under the table, recording their whole conversation. The bugs were Tony’s suggestion after Angie had complained about some con gone south, how the thieves had been planning the whole thing in her diner, and how she’d wished she’d had some way to record their conversations to blackmail them into paying for the damage done to her windows after the mark had smashed them in. It wasn’t her fault they had planned their con in her diner so why should she have to pay for it? Two weeks later, Tony and Bruce had presented her with brand-new shatterproof windows and a gorgeous set of nearly invisible bugs to place under the tables.
“Lots of things are illegal,” Steve points out calmly. “Half of what Schmidt does is illegal.”
“He’s rich enough to get away with it,” she argues.
“Who says I’m not?”
That had given her pause, enough for Steve to slip his own arguments in there and slowly sway her in his direction until, before she knew it, she was agreeing with him. He’s always been good at this part of the job, at convincing people to give him what he needs. Tony calls it an unfair ability to make stirring speeches. Steve just calls it using every tool at his disposal. He’s good at rhetoric so he’s not going to let the ability go to waste.
By the time the sun is appearing over the city, he’s gotten Rachel to agree to a training program and a test run. If, at any point, she decides that this isn’t for her, no harm, no foul, he’ll let her walk away.
“And what if I decide to walk straight to the cops?” she asks shrewdly.
Then he’ll take her down with him. He’s got enough recorded on the bug under the table to get her on at least a conspiracy charge. But she doesn’t need to know that just yet. “Let’s just say, I know you won’t,” he says with an easygoing smile.
He pours her into a cab, half-asleep and blearily blinking, and sends her on her way before walking back to the brownstone. They’re not too far away and unlike Rachel, he’s used to all-nighters. He could easily go another few hours before feeling too tired to walk and needing a cab of his own. The brisk air wakes him up even further until, by the time he’s climbing the steps to the brownstone, he’s awake and cheerful and whistling.
He’s got a plan. He’s going to take Schmidt all the way down this time and he’s going to do it with the help of Schmidt’s own people. He has a new apprentice and maybe she won’t be as good as Tony was but—
Tony.
Somehow, in the excitement and fervor of a new heist, Steve had forgotten how he’d met Rachel. He’d forgotten seeing Bucky and Tony pressed against each other in the back corner of the bar, forgotten deciding to tell Tony how much he loved him and then seeing Tony kiss Bucky’s neck not thirty minutes later.
He freezes, hand going still on the doorknob, and wonders if he should turn around now. It’s not too late. He could turn around and go back to…someone’s. Not Bucky’s. He doesn’t think he can face his brother right now. But he has other friends in New York. He could go to—go to…
When had everyone left New York? When had the New York cons become more Tony and Bucky’s friends than they had his? When had he stopped knowing everyone in his own city?
He runs through the list of everyone in his mind: Clint and Phil—Bucky’s friends. The Carter Sisters—mostly working out of England. Bruce—Tony’s friend. Rhodes—Tony’s friend. The Maximoffs—moved back to Romania last year. Jane Foster—working with the Odinsons. The Pyms—moved to California when Hope had been born. He knows there are others, there has to be, the bar had been full of people last night, but he’s realizing now that over the last few years, the scene had completely changed.
The door opens before he can make a decision and there’s Tony, the very person Steve has been avoiding thinking about. He’s wearing an old, oversized sweatshirt from MIT, a pair of Steve’s sweatpants, and fuzzy socks. He looks warm and comfortable and like everything Steve has ever wanted but he can’t have him. Tony and Bucky have made that perfectly clear.
“You didn’t come home last night,” Tony says, sounding worried, and it’s so far from what Steve had expected him to say, so far outside of the realm of what’s acceptable for him to say, that it makes Steve snap.
“I’m not required to,” he bites out and shoves past Tony into the house.
“No, but I thought—” Tony starts and then stops.
“Thought what?” Steve asks, hating that he’s genuinely curious. What had Tony thought? What could he have possibly thought after that display at the bar? He inhales deeply, partially in an attempt to calm himself down—after all, Tony hadn’t known what Steve had been thinking about doing—and partially to see if he can catch Bucky’s scent in the house. He hates himself for doing that, hates himself for wondering it, wondering if Tony had brought Bucky back home last night, if he’d fucked him in the bed he always fucks Steve in, if they had curled up together, if Tony had stolen all the blankets from him the way he does when he sleeps with Steve.
“Nothing,” Tony says quietly. “I don’t think it’s important right now.”
“Oh you don’t, do you?” Steve stomps into the kitchen, the gorgeous, beautiful, sun-drenched kitchen that he’d mostly designed because Tony wouldn’t know what looks good in a kitchen if it was the only thing that would save his life. Tony doesn’t cook but Steve does and so Tony had let him throw out all the futuristic countertops and the stainless steel pots and pans and replace them with antiques that Steve loved and—and he’d never realized how much of him was in this house and he hates it now because he shouldn’t be. He shouldn’t be anywhere near this house, not when it was never his and Tony’s but always just Tony’s.
“Steve, is everything okay?” Tony asks, sounding timid.
He snorts. “Everything’s fine.”
A pause. “Are you sure?”
When he looks at Tony, he sees his arms wrapped around his middle, like he’s feeling insecure. What does Tony have to be insecure about? He has everything he could possibly want. And he’s angry suddenly, angry that everything he’d wanted for years had been dangled right in front of his face only to be snatched away a moment later. He doesn’t know if he wishes that he’d never found out about Bucky and Tony or if he wishes he’d known about it sooner, before he’d made the decision to take the leap, but he wishes that something had been different. “Yes.”
“Where were you last night? Bucky and I waited for you.”
It’s exactly the wrong thing to say. “I’m not required to tell you where I am,” he bites out.
“No, but—”
“I met someone, alright?”
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Tony freeze. He turns away and digs in the fridge for the milk. He knows he bought some yesterday, where is it?
“Met someone?” Tony whispers.
“Yeah, a new apprentice. You don’t mind, do you?”
“Oh. That’s—oh.” He can’t figure out what Tony sounds like now, halfway between relief and devastation, he thinks, but honestly, Tony shouldn’t even care so he figures he’s just reading something into it.
“Yeah, one of Schmidt’s old employees. She wants to get revenge on him.”
“Schmidt?” Tony sounds worried again. “Steve, you can’t possibly think that’s a good idea.”
He bristles. “And why not?”
“You don’t think it’s at all suspicious that we take down someone we know is cold and ruthless and now his employee is helping you on a con?”
“No, I don’t think it’s suspicious that he fired his curator for failing to do a job that his security systems should have done.”
Tony’s face in the reflection on the fridge door is pale and drawn, his eyes worried. “Steve, I’m just worried that your own thirst for revenge is clouding your judgment. I get it, you’re angry about what happened to Bucky, I am too, but we got our revenge and I’m just a little upset—not even upset, worried—concerned—that this person is coming out of nowhere and needs your help. You don’t think you maybe have a savior complex here?”
“Excuse me?”
“I mean, really, Steve, you rescue kittens from trees, you help little old ladies across the street. It’s not like this is a first and—”
“You didn’t care about my savior complex when it was helping you with Stane,” he points out coldly, crossing his arms over his chest as he finally turns to face Tony, who winces.
“That was different.”
“Because it was you.”
“No! Because—” Tony groans and runs his hand through his hair, ducking his head for a moment. “Look, I just think it’s a pretty big coincidence, you can’t deny that. I mean, Steve, you didn’t even talk to your partner before—”
“You’re not my partner.”
It’s like he punched him. Tony curls in on himself, sinking into one of the chairs at the kitchen table. “What?”
For a moment, Steve aches to go over to him, kiss away the frown lines on his brow, but it’s time to take a stand. Too long has he let Tony jerk him around. He can’t keep doing this anymore. Today, today he’s going to start looking for a new place to live and he’s going to stop kissing Tony and loving him when clearly that’s not what Tony wants.
“Bucky is my partner. You are an old apprentice that I worked with for a while and I was glad to do it but that doesn’t mean you get a say in the jobs I take or who I choose to work with.” It’s harsh, he knows it is, but this is what they both need. They’re no longer good for each other and the quicker Steve can get that through both of their heads, the happier they’ll both be.
“Oh,” Tony whispers. There’s a moment, only an instant, when Steve can see the quiet devastation in his eyes but then it disappears, replaced by a blank mask. He blinks back his own tears—Tony has been a part of his life for over a decade, this hurts him too.
“Right,” Steve says quietly and walks away. He’ll call a realtor today.
This is for the best.
October 31, 2014
Sam follows Tony into the warehouse they’ve been working out of now that the planning is out of the way. In one corner, Thor and Loki are working on one of their vans—or well, he assumes that’s what they were doing. Right now, both of them—even Loki—are standing sheepishly as Pepper yells at them about a piece they apparently stole from a Roadster and are now using on one of the vans. In the middle of the room, there’s a mockup of what Schmidt’s secret collection should look like based on the blueprints Steve and Tony stole before they even started putting together the team. Rhodey is pushing a crate, the kind used to store art, into the gallery as Steve oversees him with a stopwatch.
Bucky spots him and Tony as they walk into the warehouse—actually, Sam walks; Tony stalks—and looks questioningly at Sam. He shrugs. He gathers that something about Rachel Leighton has Tony mad, and that something probably has to do with why Steve got himself arrested, but hell if he knows what it is.
The art crate pops open from the inside and Natasha uncurls herself from the crate, clawing at the airtube in her mouth as she inhales deeply. Steve asks her a question that Sam can’t hear from the other side of the warehouse. Natasha answers but it’s in Russian and so he doesn’t understand that either. Steve nods in that way that people do when they have no idea what’s just been said.
Tony apparently does understand though because he says, “I would imagine just about anything is better than standing on pointe for hours on end.” His voice is too tight to be mistaken for pleasant but Steve still lights up like a puppy welcoming its owner home as soon as he hears him.
“Tony!” he exclaims, spinning to greet him. He catches sight of Tony’s glare and falters, throwing Sam a curious look. “Did everything—”
“Tell me this isn’t about her,” Tony snaps. “Tell me that right now or I’m walking.”
The warehouse goes silent from Thor, Loki, and Pepper by the vans to Bruce working on their comms to Rhodey helping Natasha out of the crate to Bucky as he turns off the soldering iron.
Steve looks at all of them slowly and then back to Tony. “About…who?” he asks, obviously trying to lower his voice but Sam could hear a pin drop in the warehouse at the moment, forget trying to have a private conversation.
Besides, it’s very obvious that Tony isn’t interested in a private conversation because he just says, “Rachel, Steve. Tell me this isn’t about your precious fucking Rachel.”
Steve goes as white as a sheet. “Rachel?” he whispers.
“Yeah,” Tony snaps. “Remember her? The one you told me wasn’t working for Schmidt, no way, no how, you’re just being paranoid, Tony? Well, guess fucking what. She always was and still is.”
“Alright, that’s enough, everyone out,” Bucky suddenly calls, appearing beside Sam. He startles. A guy with a metal arm has no right to be as sneaky as Bucky is but there he is. “Come on, show’s over. Go back to your knitting circles.”
“Show doesn’t look over,” Loki grumbles and three people—Steve, Bucky, and Tony—all shoot him glares so harsh, Sam is surprised Loki doesn’t burst into flames on the spot. “Very well, I’m going.”
Bucky throws a companionable arm around Sam’s shoulder. “Come on, I’ll treat you to dinner,” he says. “You look like you haven’t eaten all day.”
“I ate at lunch,” he protests.
“Yeah and I’ll bet you’re hungry now.” As if on cue, Sam’s stomach growls. Bucky starts steering him out the door where everyone else is slowly trailing out. “See? Dinner, you, me, my treat.”
“Careful, Barnes, I’ll start thinking it’s a date.”
Bucky winks at him and that—that doesn’t answer any questions at all. But Sam’s starting to think that maybe he doesn’t mind.
“Rachel was there?” Steve asks quietly as soon as Bucky and Sam disappear out the door together. And isn’t that a surprise, the two of them? He hadn’t seen that one coming when he’d hired Sam, though he won’t say that he’s disappointed. Bucky has been alone for a long time and if Sam makes him happy, then Steve certainly isn’t going to stand in his way. He’s done enough of that for himself.
Tony sighs, fingers tapping on his chest. Steve’s eyes are drawn to the movement and he frowns. It’s a tic that Tony’s been doing ever since Steve got out of prison or maybe even before that but he knows that Tony wasn’t doing it before Steve had gotten arrested so something must have changed while he was in prison. A lot of things have changed, he realizes ruefully, and some things will never go back to the way they were before but maybe that’s for the better. Maybe this time, he and Tony can actually build something based on mutual trust and affection instead of their complicated, one-sided mess that they’d been before.
“You really didn’t know?” Tony says eventually. He sounds tired. Steve wants to take him back to the hotel, bundle him up into a blanket, and cuddle on the couch as they watch old cartoons.
“I—” he starts to say and then stops. “I suspected.”
“Suspected what?”
“That she was Schmidt’s curator when we realized that we couldn’t figure out her identity through research.”
“And you didn’t say anything,” Tony says flatly. He leans back against the wall of the gallery. The supports groan but they hold him up.
He hangs his head. “I didn’t want to—I hoped I was—”
“Spit it out.”
“I figured out while I was in prison that she had been working for Schmidt and I was—embarrassed.”
“Because you liked her.”
“Because you said she was working for Schmidt and I didn’t believe you and that got me arrested.”
“So it was your ego.”
Yeah, that doesn’t sound much better. “That,” he admits. He’s trying this honesty thing, he can admit this. “And I was angry at myself that I let my revenge blind me, that I listened to her instead of you. We worked together for a decade—”
“Little less than that,” Tony interjects and Steve concedes the point. There’d been a long time when he had been running from his feelings and he had sacrificed their partnership for that.
“Long enough,” he agrees. “I shouldn’t have been so quick to disbelieve you. You say she’s still working for him now? He just—let her back into the fold?”
“Yeah.”
“How did she look?”
Tony huffs out a quiet laugh. “Happy,” he says gently. “A lot happier than we ever saw her.”
It’s Steve’s turn to huff. Yeah, that sounds about right. He’d been so blinded by his broken heart, by the growing number of fights with Tony, that he hadn’t even noticed Rachel lying to him until it had been too late.
“Steve, why didn’t you say anything?” Tony murmurs. He stands back up, walks closer until he’s right in front of him, looking up into Steve’s bowed head so he can see his eyes.
Steve sighs. “I wanted to be wrong.”
“This was something I should have known.”
He nods. “Yeah, it was. I know. I’m sorry. Can we—” He hesitates, wondering if he even has the right to ask this.
“Can we what?”
“Can we go back to the hotel? I want to hold you, Tony.”
Tony eyes him suspiciously. “I’m not a replacement for Rachel.”
“You can’t be a replacement if you were here first,” Steve says softly. It’s the closest he’s ever come to admitting how he feels about Tony and Tony must understand because his face softens and he leans up to brush a terribly gentle kiss across Steve’s lips. Steve places his hands on Tony’s waist to hold him there, breathing his scent in: a little like stale alcohol, a little like metal, a lot like Tony. It’s perfect.
Chapter 15
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
April 15, 2011
Steve leaves the brownstone early, before the sun has even fully risen over the city. He locks the door behind him and sets off down the street, jamming his hands into his pockets and wishing he’d brought a thicker coat. Halfway through April and it’s still chilly in the mornings. Every morning, he convinces himself not to wear anything warmer because it’ll warm up throughout the day and then he’ll just be miserable and every morning, he ends up regretting that decision when he’s still less than a block away from the brownstone. But then, New York is just like that. Even as little as a couple months ago, he would have turned around and gone back for the lightweight scarf Tony had gotten him for Christmas a few years ago, intended for just this purpose, but he’s trying to distance himself from Tony these days and that means leaving all of Tony’s little trinkets and toys at home.
He’s fortunate that the man himself hasn’t been at the brownstone these last couple weeks. Steve doesn’t know how long he could have held his resolve to keep his distance if Tony had still been hanging around the house. But only a couple days after their fight, Tony had left for a business trip, claiming that he’s spent too much time away from the company since Bucky’s injury and he needs to reassure his employees that he’s still there for them.
He’s grateful for that; he hasn’t been able to find a new house yet despite being shown many over the last few weeks. It’s got to be irritating his realtor, who is among the best in the city, especially because he doesn’t really have a budget so there should be no problems with finding him somewhere to live, especially in New York where there’s always available real estate. But Steve is picky, he knows that, and every house he goes to just seems—seems wrong, somehow. They’re all too empty and even thinking about how he would fill them with art and the furniture he’s accumulated over the years doesn’t manage to fill that void.
It probably doesn’t help that he can only spend his afternoons with the realtor. He spends his mornings working with Rachel. They’re pushing hard to complete her training in record time, harder than he had ever pushed Tony but then he has a deadline with her that he hadn’t really had with Tony. Even though he had sort of had a deadline with the Stane job, he had had Bucky to assist him then and Tony hadn’t really been training so much as just picking things up here and there and otherwise staying out of the way. It hadn’t been after the job that he had taken Tony on as his apprentice.
It’s different with Rachel. He’s training her while also planning for the second Schmidt job and they’re on a very tight schedule. He wants to get this job over and done with firstly, before Schmidt has time to realize that he’s being robbed again and secondly, before Schmidt can bolster up the gaps in his security. Contrary to what Tony claimed before leaving on his business trip, Steve did actually read the files and listen to the briefings Tony had on Schmidt. He knows how dangerous the man has the potential to be. He just doesn’t think Schmidt has figured out that someone is going to go after him so soon after the last job, let alone the same person as last time.
Fortunately, Rachel doesn’t seem to mind the packed training schedule. It had taken her a few days to get used to the idea of thieving but now she’s gotten over her morals, she’s taken to the con like a duck to water. He isn’t surprised; nothing is so good a motivator as revenge and Rachel is thirsting for it.
Sometimes, he wonders if the reason Tony had also picked everything up so quickly in the beginning was because he’d been thirsting for revenge on the man who had helped raise him only to betray his family. Then he reminds himself that he’s not supposed to be thinking about things like that. He’s not even supposed to be thinking about Tony at all, let alone about the beginning of their partnership—no, Tony’s apprenticeship, he gave up the rights to partnership during their argument—when Tony had still been bright-eyed and smiling and the shadows under his eyes hadn’t been so deep.
It doesn’t matter, he reminds himself firmly. It doesn’t matter that Tony had been looking more and more withdrawn and pale or that they haven’t so much as looked at each other in weeks despite sharing the same house or that Steve misses him like he’d miss a limb. It doesn’t matter because he chose this. He chose to start pushing for more distance from Tony, just as Tony chose Bucky over him. He chose to take on a new apprentice and a new con and that means he doesn’t have the time to worry about Tony so it doesn’t matter.
Doesn’t stop him from worrying though.
He pushes open the door to the diner and forces a bright smile to his face as soon as Angie turns and sees him. See, Angie’s insidious like that. She’ll act like her concern only extends to feeding him and then as soon as he walks out the door, she’ll call one of his contacts and ask if he’s doing okay. Neither of his contacts are people that he wants knowing about his distress. He’s done an excellent job of fielding Bucky’s questions and avoiding Tony over the last couple weeks, he doesn’t want either of them definitively knowing that everything is not okay.
“Hey kiddo,” Angie says as he sits down at his usual booth. “Where’s your better half?”
He thinks she’s probably talking about Tony, who used to come in here with him all the time. He says, “I’m early. Rachel’s coming later.”
She frowns and he winces internally, sure that a line of questions is coming. He shouldn’t have mentioned Rachel, even though she’s the only one he’s come to the diner with in ages. It’s just that he hates hearing people talk about him and Tony like they’re a foregone conclusion. Sure he lives him with and sure they’d only taken jobs together when they’d both been in New York but he’s worked all over the globe in the last several years. Surely people can start realizing he and Tony aren’t a team anymore.
For whatever reason, Angie pauses before she asks anything and switches to, “What can I get for you today?”
“A Colorado—”
“Omelet,” Angie finishes. “Come on, kiddo. Branch out, try something new for once.”
He thinks about Rachel and thinks, If only you knew. Out loud, he says, “Maybe next time.”
She shakes her head. “Yeah, you say that every time.”
As she’s walking back to the kitchen to put a pot of coffee on, Rachel walks through the door. Steve frowns just a little when he sees her. He’d told her back when he first started training her that she needed to dye her hair to a shade less noticeable than bubblegum pink. She still hasn’t listened though and he’s starting to think that she won’t, which means he’ll need to do this job by himself. He won’t take a liability on the job with him; he’s not that stupid.
She plops into the seat across from him and grins, sliding a couple open locks across the table to him. He glances at them, sticks a set of lockpicks into them to see if she’d broken the lock during her practice.
“Good job,” he says eventually. “How long did they take you?”
“The first one took about ten minutes,” she tells him, sounding proud of herself. “The second seven and the last one, six and a half.”
In the back of his mind, he remembers that Tony had blown through this exercise in nothing flat. “Not good enough,” he says flatly and hands her another couple locks, about the same difficulty as the ones he’d given her yesterday. “Try again.”
November 21, 2014
It’s been almost three weeks since Tony told him that Rachel was Schmidt’s curator and Steve can’t stop thinking about it. It’s ridiculous to be this upset over someone who betrayed him. He’s been betrayed before and he’s never reacted this strongly to it. But he can’t help thinking that Rachel had been different. Rachel hadn’t just been someone he had worked a job with, she’d been his apprentice, his friend, and near the end, their relationship had taken a turn towards the beginnings of something more.
“You’re quiet tonight,” Tony comments as he takes another bite out of his salad.
“Huh?” Steve asks, startled out of his thoughts.
“You,” Tony repeats. “You’re quiet. Everything okay?” He looks a little hesitant and Steve remembers how Tony had shrunken in on himself in the months that Steve had been working with Rachel, how in the first months, he’d been so hesitant. The arguing had come later after Steve had started working not just early mornings with her but late nights too.
“And now you’re doing it again,” Tony says. “Something on your mind?”
“Someone,” Steve corrects.
Tony knows him well enough to say, “Rachel.”
It makes sense, he supposes, that she’s on his mind, that Tony knows she’s on his mind. Now that they know who Schmidt’s curator is, they’ve spent a lot of time talking about her, planning around her, both if she’s in the gallery the night of the con and if she’s not. Sam has had questions about her, trying to understand why she’s such a big deal, and he’s kind enough not to direct them to Steve or Tony, just to Bucky, but Bucky still relays the questions back to him, not knowing the full story himself.
“Yeah,” he says eventually. “Her.”
Tony’s brow furrows. “Are you hoping to get her back?” he asks slowly like the question is pulled from him unwillingly. “I won’t—if you—” He stops, biting back the words, hand twitching like he wants to grab something and Steve thinks about the sunglasses that he used to wear when he was younger, the ones that shielded him from the world.
“No,” he says but he must not sound convincing enough because Tony looks away. He says it again, firmer this time.
“It’s okay if you do,” Tony says softly, still not looking at him, and Steve is startled because this—this is the first time Tony has said anything like this. “Or, well, not really okay but we can work around this. We can figure out—”
“Tony.” He waits until Tony has looked back at him before saying, “I don’t want her back. I—I told you, I figured out in prison she was working for Schmidt. I haven’t forgotten that.”
“Right but,” Tony stops, looks down at his plate, and pushes away from the table. The rest of the team is gone from the suite. Bucky leased an apartment when he got the job at the casino since it was less suspicious than him staying in a hotel room. Pepper apparently has a house in the city though she almost never stays here and she and Rhodey are staying there for the duration of the job. Clint and Sam are both staying at Two Heads. Natasha, Bruce, Loki, and Thor all have rooms in other parts of this hotel. There’s no one here to overhear them so he doesn’t know what’s keeping Tony from saying what he wants to.
He watches Tony walk across the main area of the suite, picking up some of the things left out from their planning session with Bruce and Rhodey earlier that day before sinking down onto one of the couches. He looks tired, Steve realizes. It’s something that’s been hanging out in the back of his mind for a while now but he doesn’t think it’s something that he’s actually let himself fully realize until now. Tony looks tired, has since the moment Steve spotted him across the crowded club in Malibu, and he’s just now starting to put together that he’s the likely reason.
He picks up their plates and brings them over to the couch, sitting next to Tony as he holds the plate out. Tony sighs but takes it and slowly chews a bite before saying, “You know, most people would understand that walking away means I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I’m not most people,” Steve points out. “And I think we’ve both done enough avoidance.”
“Hmm.”
“You know what I think?”
“I always know what you think. That’s why we made such a great team.”
The use of the past tense doesn’t escape his notice and he winces. “You didn’t know what I thought three years ago.”
It’s Tony’s turn to wince. “Fair enough,” he mutters.
You didn’t know what I was thinking before that or you would have known how badly I wanted to have all of you. But this isn’t the time to talk about that, not when Rachel is on their minds and Tony is feeling low and insecure. “I think you’re worried about Rachel,” he says instead. “That I’ll leave you for her.”
“Again.”
He nods. “Again.” It’s true, even if he doesn’t want to admit it. Tony hadn’t given up on him then. He had given up on Tony and the least he can do is own up to it. “I won’t. I figured out less than a day after the sentencing that she was behind it. She betrayed me.”
“Because she was working for Schmidt. I told you that.”
“Yeah, you did. And I didn’t want to listen.”
“Why?” Tony asks desperately. “Steve, what did I do that made you so unwilling to listen to me?”
You kissed Bucky. “I was blinded.”
“By what?”
He closes his eyes, tipping his head back against the couch. There’s only so much truth he can tell, so much he can admit. He’s kept the secret about his feelings for nearly a decade; it’s hard to spill that secret now. “I—” he starts. He tries again. “I was angry.” And jealous. “It didn’t seem like enough, what we did to him, and I thought it was another chance at getting back at him, evening the score a little more.”
“What you did ruined our community. And now you want to do it all over again. Steve, you can’t blame me for being worried that you’re not thinking clearly, that she’s blinded you all over again.”
“I know that,” he snaps. And it’s true, he knows it is. He’s thought of little else since he found out about it from Bucky. “I know it’s my fault. But I can’t accept that he won.” He turns fully to face him and finds that Tony is already facing him. “Some people can move on from that—I know Clint did. But not me. I’m not one of those people. This situation went south, you know I can’t run from that, Tony.”
Tony smiles sadly. “I know. It’s one of those things I—one of those things I like about you.” His smile turns rueful, a little sheepish, and he reaches out punch Steve in the shoulder. “Even if sometimes I want to punch you in your perfect teeth.”
He laughs, the mood breaking. “Yeah,” he agrees. He has a problem with admitting when he’s wrong sometimes, he knows that or else he would have listened to Tony three years ago. But this time he knows that he messed up.
“You know, if this goes south again—”
“It won’t.”
“You can’t know that.”
“I do. Because this time we’re gonna do it together.”
“We could lose.”
He sees the fear that Tony’s trying so hard to hide written into every line of his body, the worry that this time, none of them will be able to recover, and he leans forward, kissing him until the tension has melted away.
“Then we’ll do that together too,” he promises.
Notes:
Our boys are getting closer to the conversation they need to have!
Chapter 16
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
May 2, 2011
“She’s working for Schmidt.”
Steve freezes, one hand still on the doorknob as he closes the door. He’d met up with Rachel for a late-night training session today in addition to the one from the morning, intending on trying to get her used to the odd hours. He’d been planning on using the late session as a way to practice her burgeoning pickpocketing skills but instead they’d gotten caught up in dinner and conversation and the training had fallen by the wayside. Rachel is surprisingly fun for someone who used to work for Johann Schmidt and he likes her—a lot. He hadn’t originally been planning on using her to try to get over Tony but, well, he can see it happening.
“Who’s working for Schmidt?” he asks neutrally, feigning ignorance.
Tony scoffs. “Don’t play stupid with me. Rachel.”
“No, Schmidt fired her. We’ve been over this, Tony.”
“Yeah and I still can’t believe you believed that bullshit.”
“I believe in people,” he says harshly. “Time was you liked that about me.”
“Not when it’s going to get you arrested—or killed.” Steve’s not looking at him right now, which of course isn’t acceptable to Tony so he moves directly into his line of sight. “Why can’t you believe that she might be lying to you?”
“It fits with what we know about Schmidt,” he insists. “He’s vindictive and he has a temper. It makes sense that he would fire her.”
“Or that he would use her to get to you,” Tony counters. He tosses a file at Steve, who only barely manages to catch it. “I followed her today after your little brunch meeting. She went straight to Schmidt.”
He laughs. “That’s what this is about?” He opens the folder and flips through the pictures Tony had taken. “I told her to go there.”
“For three hours? What was she doing there for three hours?”
“Reconnaissance,” Steve says stubbornly. “Exactly like I told her to.”
“For three hours?”
You have no right to be jealous, Steve thinks to himself. You gave that up and now you’re trying to make me see conspiracies where there are none.
“We’re done here,” he says eventually, choosing to put the conversation to an end instead of continuing on this ridiculous thread. Rachel’s proven herself through the hours she’s devoted to her studies, the effort she’s put in to showing she has what it takes, and the hatred she’s shown towards her boss. Tony just hasn’t met her yet. If he had, he would understand why Steve fully believes she isn’t working for Schmidt. “You’re putting your nose where it’s not wanted.”
“No, I’m trying to keep your nose out of prison.”
“I didn’t ask you to do that!” he snaps, whirling on Tony, who takes a step back. He glares at him long enough to make his point clear and then stomps off to his room, wishing more than ever that he’d found a new place to live by now.
Behind him, he can just barely hear Tony whisper, “You used to.”
December 1, 2014
Clint spots Schmidt out of the corner of his eye as the man enters the casino. He looks back down at the cards in his hands and then reaches up to scratch his ear, just like Bruce instructed him, surreptitiously turning his earpiece on as he does. He knows that there’s probably some people sitting beside him think it’s a tell—they’re fools if that’s what they think someone like him would be as foolish as to have such an obvious tell—but after almost two months in this godforsaken, soulless hotel, he doesn’t care what anyone thinks.
He’s never had much of a problem with casinos before but he’s starting to understand Bruce’s distaste for the whole industry now that he’s spent so much time in one. He’s seen people blow their whole savings in a single day, watched couples get married in the casino’s chapel and get divorced by the time their vacation is over, noticed people who make too much off the house being dragged to the back room to meet with Schmidt himself, or more likely one of Schmidt’s goons. This whole industry is a miserable mess and in the months he’s been here, he’s developed a vicious glee that Steve is going to burn this particular hellhole to the ground.
Slowly, he lets his gaze drift around the tables, ostensibly just looking but really searching for one man in particular—Sam, loitering near Schmidt and his pit boss. Sam meets his gaze for half an instant and walks back toward the elevator, leaving the bug he’d slipped into the planter next to the two men.
“—Ronin,” the pit boss is saying. “Wants to talk to you privately.”
Clint hasn’t had a chance to speak to Schmidt yet, unusual considering he’s been staying at the hotel for so long. But then, he supposes that the identity Bruce put together for him and his two bodyguards discourage any sort of interaction.
“Who is he?”
“Businessman of some kind. Been staying here almost two months. Word on the street is he’s working on a deal.”
“Of what?”
“Arms.”
Schmidt pauses. “I’ve never heard of him,” he comments.
“’s why I don’t doubt it, sir.”
“Hmm. How’s he doing?”
“Up. Almost a hundred grand.”
Schmidt makes a displeased noise and leaves the pit boss, making his way across the floor toward Clint’s table. He can’t hear him anymore but before Schmidt left the bug’s range, Clint heard enough to know that he’s greeting each and every one of the high rollers at the tables.
Shrewd man.
Time to really get his attention.
He places a bet—a high one. Behind him, almost to their table, Schmidt stops dead. Clint listens carefully, notes the way the man turns it into a casual movement as though he’s just trying to observe him before approaching. And perhaps he is. But before that, he was startled. That’s something he’ll need to pass on to Steve.
The guy sitting next to him—Clint is pretty sure he’s seen his face on one of those political ads though he doubts he won if he’s sitting here playing card games—clucks disapprovingly. “You’ll want to be careful with this guy. Friend of mine once borrowed a couple hundred grand off him. Couple months pass, Schmidt’s like ‘Where’s my money?’ and my friend goes, ‘You’ll get it soon.’ Next thing we all know, Schmidt strolls into his hotel room, strings him up by his toes off the balcony, says, ‘Soon means now.’”
Clint glares the man down, waiting until he’s finally shut up to look back at Bucky, who’s dealing for them. Bucky gives no indication that he’s seen Clint’s look but when he deals, somehow the other guy ends up with a nine and Clint wins.
“Bank wins,” Bucky announces. “Natural nine.”
Clint collects his winnings and then says lowly, “Good afternoon, Mr. Schmidt. Thank you for waiting. Most casino owners, they interrupt the hand. You are polite.”
Schmidt steps forward, smiling at all of them but his eyes are cold. It must gall him, Clint thinks, that he is forced to wait on an arms dealer like Barnabas Ronin, that he can’t just ignore him and go about his day.
“Mr. Ronin,” Schmidt says politely, nodding at the other players. “What can I do for you?”
“Always business first,” Clint laments to the others. “Never pleasure. What, you can’t play a hand before we talk?”
Schmidt smiles tightly. “The Nevada gaming commission would feed me to the sharks.”
“Pah,” Clint says dismissively. “What good is money if you cannot use it? But, yes, our business.”
He stands and leads Schmidt to a corner of the room. He leaves a small portion of his winnings behind, enough to catch Schmidt’s eye, to indicate that he has won so much it doesn’t matter if someone snatches up what he’s left.
“How are you liking my hotel, Mr. Ronin?” Schmidt asks politely.
“I like what I have seen,” Clint lies. He nods thoughtfully. “But now I have a question about what I have not seen. This weekend, there is an auction, a lost Vermeer supposedly. I have no interest in the Baroque period but my mistress, she says the painting is too important to pass up. It will be arriving on New Year’s.”
“So certain,” Schmidt says idly but there’s a hungry gleam in his eyes. They’ve got him on the hook.
“Men like us never lose,” Clint replies. He doesn’t need to add anything else. Either he will have the painting or Schmidt will outbid him but either way, that painting will be in the Two Heads’ vault come New Year’s. “I hear you have an interest in art yourself. I’d like to store my painting in your collection for the night.”
“The house safe is—”
“The house safe,” he says derisively. “The house safe is for grandmother’s pearls and brandy. It is not kept temperature controlled. It is not safe.” He sees Schmidt pause and adds, “I assure you, your generosity will not be overlooked. Now, the collection.”
December 6, 2014
From where Clint is sitting, he can hear just about everything going on in the room. To his right, a young man is on the phone with his assistant, trying to coordinate getting his mistress out of his house before his wife comes home from yoga. To his left, an elderly woman is showing pictures of her grandchildren to the person sitting beside her. Clint bites back a laugh. He’d be willing to bet that the grandmother hasn’t seen her children in years and as for the young man with the mistress, well, that’s just shoddy work.
Now up at the front of the room, that’s a little more interesting.
“Of course, Mr. Schmidt,” the auctioneer fawns, his glasses nearly dropping off his nose as he bows deferentially.
“You’re trying too hard to sell it,” Tony murmurs in the earpiece.
Bruce pauses, straightens, and resumes his professional demeanor. “Right this way then?”
“Natasha, you remember what we practiced?”
She says something in Russian that makes Tony laugh. As Schmidt and Leighton are led off to the side to examine the supposed Vermeer, she emerges from a side room. Natasha is dressed in a smart suit, one that looks like something Pepper probably picked out for her based on its good taste, not that Natasha doesn’t have good taste but Pepper’s is exquisite, even Clint knows that.
“This is our authenticator,” Bruce says, gesturing to her. “You’ll have to excuse her, she only speaks Russian.”
Schmidt smiles thinly. “What a coincidence, so does Rachel here.”
The only sign that any of them are surprised is the slightest raise of Natasha’s eyebrows.
“it’s alright,” Tony says soothingly. “We prepared for this.”
That’s news to Clint but as Natasha smiles and reaches a hand out to Leighton, he thinks maybe Tony meant that he and Natasha were prepared for this. He wonders if Tony knew that Leighton spoke Russian—or if Steve did and never told any of them. They’ve been rearranging and changing plans since they found out about Leighton and he’d thought all of them were finalized a few weeks ago but maybe this is a recent development.
Leighton and Natasha have a quick conversation in a flurry of Russian that goes right over Clint’s head. He knows a little of the language, enough to ask where the bathroom is and can he have a shot of vodka, but not nearly as much as Tony or Natasha and he has to trust that Tony is picking up what’s said.
At the front of the room, Schmidt is ignoring Bruce’s attempts at talking to him, choosing to look around instead. His gaze falls on Clint and Clint raises his wineglass, acknowledging the competition. And this is the competition, the only competition in the whole room. One way or another, that painting is going home with one of them.
“The painting is real,” Leighton suddenly announces, drawing Schmidt’s attention back to her.
“You’re sure?” Schmidt asks. Clint wonders if it bothers him that he has to rely on someone else checking the art for him, if he doesn’t like admitting that he’s deficient in any field.
“I’m sure,” Leighton tells him.
Schmidt smiles again, this time more genuinely. “Then I suppose it’s time we take our seats.”
December 10, 2014
“Have you told him yet?”
“No.”
Pepper pauses with her fork halfway to her mouth. “Tony.”
“Pepper.”
“Tony.”
He sighs and puts his own fork down as well. He had gone over to her house tonight for dinner instead of eating with Steve again. He’d just—he’d needed a break from Steve and his intensity tonight. Steve has gotten more focused over the weeks, more concentrated on bringing Schmidt down, and Tony is concerned to say the least. There’s not a person who knows him who wouldn’t say Tony Stark can be focused when he wants to be but even he wouldn’t have started planning a vengeful con three years in advance.
So yeah, he’d been hoping for a quiet evening tonight, maybe one of their tequila nights like they’d done when he had just taken over the company, maybe a shitty B-rated movie, maybe some gossip about things going on in the community, either thieves or business, not her grilling him about his relationship with Steve again.
“What?” he asks, giving up on his pasta until she’s done talking.
“You promised me you would tell him. That was the condition I set for coming along on this harebrained scheme—”
“It’s not harebrained, it’s very well thought out—”
“—of Steve’s and as I recall, it was you who needed access to my money—”
“—it’s not your money, it is literally mine and you’re just the one with the passcodes—”
“—fine, your money, my passcodes, but you promised me—”
“I was going to tell him!”
Pepper stops. She purses her lips and gives him one of her patented disappointed looks. “We all know you’re very good at avoidance but lying to me? Really?”
“I was!” he protests. He sighs and taps nervously on the arc reactor. “It’s just—everything with Rachel.”
That’s all he needs to say for her to understand. She sighs as well, sympathetically this time. “Oh Tony,” she murmurs.
Yeah.
“I don’t want your sympathy,” he says quickly. He’s gotten enough of that over the years. He’s doing better—he is—he’s not as terrible as he was in the months following Steve’s arrest. He doesn’t need her and Rhodey’s pity anymore.
“How are you doing?” Pepper asks gently. She’s dropped the sympathetic voice but he can still tell she’s being careful with him and he grimaces.
“I’m fine,” he tells her and then he stops. He’s trying not to lie to her. “I’m not fine. It’s—Steve says he doesn’t love her and when I put Sam on his tail, he said that Steve’s gone nowhere near the casino. Steve says he figured out she was still working for Schmidt when he was in prison and you know how he is when he thinks someone’s betrayed him. It’s all hellfire and doom.”
“And do you believe him?”
That’s just it.
He does.
He shouldn’t but he does.
He should want to make Steve grovel at his feet, beg him to take him back, but he doesn’t. What he wants is to believe that Steve has changed. He wants to believe that the Steve he knew from when they first started dating is back, that this Steve, the one who dances with him on the balcony and brings him breakfast tacos and whispers gentle words to him when they’re in bed together, the one who has secret smiles just for him and holds his hand as they’re planning their con, this Steve is the one that he wants to believe is the real one.
He doesn’t want to face the possibility that Steve’s putting on an act to get him to go along with this plan. He doesn’t want Steve to abandon him again for Rachel. He doesn’t want this loving, wonderful Steve to disappear and leave behind the one who was harsh and argumentative and didn’t believe Tony when he spat truths in his face.
He wants to believe and he wants to forgive and more than all of that, he wants to just move on. He wants to put Schmidt and Rachel and everything that’s happened in the last three years behind him and listen to his therapist who says resentment is corrosive and move on.
He can only hope that Steve wants to move on with him, that he’s not still so caught up in the past that he won’t be able to do it. It’s happened before. He can’t let it happen again.
December 13, 2014
“You gonna watch the demolition on TV?” Tony asks as he’s heading out the door. He knows him so well.
“Yeah,” Rhodey mutters distractedly, more focused on the explosive he’s crafting to look like a piece of wood.
“They say it’s gonna be pretty spectacular.”
Rhodey looks up at that. He points at the door. “Date. Go. Steve is waiting for you.”
There’s a little smile on Tony’s face, sweet and delighted, as he says, “Yeah, he is, isn’t he?”
Rhodey makes a shooing motion out the door, hiding his own smile behind a hand. He’s glad to see that they’re finding their way back together, that Steve has gotten over whatever had been eating him when they’d been together before. He’s always thought that they’re good for each other, Steve bringing Tony back down to earth and Tony lifting Steve up into the clouds; it had just about broken his own heart when Tony had come sobbing to him about Steve and someone named Rachel—
Loki drapes himself like an oversized cat over the back of the sofa Rhodey’s sitting on. “What are you working on, James?”
Rhodey moves the explosives away. He’s never hidden the fact that Loki gives him the creeps and he doesn’t trust any explosives anywhere around him, let alone the ones that he’s modified himself and pack an extra punch.
“Aren’t you supposed to be at the casino?” he asks mistrustfully. He wouldn’t put it past Loki to not be doing his job.
“That oversized oaf is on duty,” Loki drawls.
He stares at him dubiously. “You mean your brother?”
Loki waves an airy hand.
Rhodey shakes his head and goes back to his work. He’ll never understand those two. If he were in Thor’s place, he would have gotten as far away from possible from Loki but Thor not only seems to not mind working with his brother but actively likes it.
“—historic Paradiso Hotel and Casino, once a sparkling jewel in the Las Vegas skyline, now only seconds away from demolishment,” the reporter on the TV says.
Rhodey glances up at the TV and back to his miniature bomb. He’s in a delicate stage of the process right now and he really shouldn’t look away from it but Tony’s right, he likes demolitions and explosions. He’d been positively delighted to find out that they’d be in the city during the demolishing of one of Vegas’ oldest hotels.
“If you turn, you can see the demolition from the window,” Loki points out.
“Yeah, and if I turn, this—” He holds up a vial of a viscous red liquid. “—will react with the sunlight and blow up so no thank you.”
“Really?” Loki purrs, sounding far too interested. Rhodey frowns at him and moves the vial to his other side, away from Loki.
On the screen, someone presses a button and the Paradiso implodes. As it crumbles to the ground, the lights in the room flicker and go out. Rhodey drops what he’s working on and spins, watching out the window as the entire city plunges into a blackout.
“Fuck,” he swears and leaps from his seat, grabbing for his hardhat and reflective vest from a nearby chair. He rushes out the door, shouting back over his shoulder, “Don’t touch anything or I’ll tell Tony! And don’t let the maid in!”
December 14, 2014
Steve is asleep when Rhodey bursts into the hotel room in the early hours of the morning, raving about something. He’s startled awake, hand automatically twitching for the gun he keeps in the nightstand as he bolts upright and dislodges Tony, who yelps as he’s abruptly deposited from Steve’s chest onto the floor.
“Fuck Rhodey, what was that for?” Tony complains, rubbing at his head. “And what is that smell?”
“We’re in deep shit,” Rhodey tells them, covered head to toe in sewage.
“What, it couldn’t wait until after you’d taken a shower?” Tony asks.
“No.”
Steve exchanges a single look with Tony and then they’re both scrambling up, tossing clothes to each other and tugging them on. Steve ends up in a pair of sweatpants but his shirt ends up on Tony, where it hangs a little loose. He bites back a possessive comment—now isn’t the time—and ushers Rhodey into the shower, clothes and all.
“The damn demo crew didn’t bother using a coaxial lynch to back the mainframe,” Rhodey spits as he hoses himself off. “Onioned the mainframe couplet.”
“Which means?” Steve asks though Tony clearly understands based on the way his eyes are going wide and worried.
“They blew the backup grid!”
“And that means…”
“They did exactly what we were planning to do only they did it by accident,” Tony says quietly.
“Exactly,” Rhodey agrees. He washes the last of his clothes off and strips, tossing the clothes in the laundry chute to be cleaned overnight. Neither Steve nor Tony turn away. There’s no modesty among thieves. “So now they know what their weakness is and they’re going to fix it, which means unless we decide to do this job in New York at Schmidt’s other collection, we’re fucked.”
“And there’s no way bureaucracy will keep them from completing the job in two weeks?” Steve asks, frustrated. He’s come too far to be stopped by something like this.
“Not a chance. Not something like this. It’s a weakness and they know it now. This’ll get done fast unless they’re inviting every thief in the world to take a crack at them,” Rhodey says.
“We could—” Tony starts.
“By tomorrow?” Steve asks.
“Hold on,” Rhodey tells them, a hopeful light dawning in his eyes. He gets out of the shower and takes the towel and bundle of clothes Tony passes him. “I got an idea. It’s gonna take a lot of planning and I’m gonna need to borrow Tones for about a week but it’s doable.”
Steve’s lost but Tony seems to catch on immediately. “Rhodey, no,” he says. “It’s not stable.”
“Sure it is,” Rhodey says pointedly.
“Not at that size!”
“So you’ll make it stable.”
“I don’t have the time—”
“I’m giving you a week. You telling me you can’t figure it out in a week.”
“The last time, it took me a month!”
“But that was when you had a box of scraps. You’ll have access to all of SI’s labs for this.”
This must be how everyone else feels when he and Tony are doing their thing, Steve realizes and he’s frustrated by it. “What’s this?”
Tony turns and kisses him on the cheek. “Hate to say it but Rhodey’s right. This is our best option. I’ll be back in a week with everything. Rhodey, call Pep, tell her we’ll need the jet. I’ll arrange flight plans and call the facility manager to get a lab set up. We’ll meet at the airfield in an hour.”
He heads out of the bathroom, already pulling out his phone and raising it to his ear.
“Tony,” Steve says exasperatedly as he skids out of the room behind him. “What’s this?”
Tony gives him a baleful look. “The arc reactor.” And then he’s left the hotel room, already talking to apparently the facility manager.
“What’s the arc reactor?” Steve asks the empty room.
Notes:
Please remember to be kind in your comments. I know as a reader, it can be frustrating to see your two favorite characters try and fail to communicate but as a writer, it really sucks to get nothing but comments about how you're failing to write enough angst in the Stevetony relationship. If you're not sure what to write, here's a handy emoji key you could use!
❤ = you wish you could kudos again
😭 = I got you right in the feels
🔥 = this was so hot!
🐰 = it’s so fluffy!
Chapter 17
Notes:
Spoilery warnings in the end notes for anyone who is concerned about the Steve cheating tag
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
June 4, 2011
He’s tired of the arguing that’s built up over the last month. He’s tired of Tony refusing to see it his way. For fuck’s sake, the man won’t even bother to meet Rachel. Steve just knows that if they actually finally met, Tony would finally understand that she isn’t the demon he’s painted her as. She’s vindictive, yes, and occasionally, she takes things too far but she’s also terribly funny, incredibly intelligent, and, most importantly, she’s been wronged by the same man who wronged them. He doesn’t understand why Tony won’t see that or why he has to keep starting an argument every time they see each other.
He knows that Tony thinks he’s busy stupid, that he hadn’t bothered to do even a simple background check after meeting Rachel. But he’s wrong. Steve isn’t stupid and he does know that he met her under somewhat suspicious circumstances (not that he thinks they’re that suspicious, after all, it made sense that Schmidt would fire everyone even tangentially involved with the gallery after the theft). He had taken the time to do a background check, though it’s something that he hasn’t mentioned to Tony, believing if Tony wants to think the worst of him then that’s his decision. The background check had come back completely clean, free of even a parking ticket. Rachel just isn’t what Tony wants her to be.
Finally, after months of saying he would, Steve had taken the initiative to move out of the brownstone. He signed the papers only a few days ago and has spent the time since then packing up everything in the brownstone that he owns. Every once in a while, he has to stop and shake his head, wondering how so much of his stuff ended up in a house that he’s barely spent any time in over the last three years.
“You don’t have to do this,” Tony says quietly, coming up behind him. Steve finishes putting a jeweled model of the solar system—stolen from a British billionaire’s home—and ignores him. Tony’s been increasingly quieter since he found out about Steve moving out, like he thinks the problem is how loud he is. “We can fix this—I can fix this. I just need some time, Steve.”
Steve bites back a huff. Time, right, that’s what they need. Time for Tony to build his arguments back up, time for Schmidt to realize what Rachel is planning right under his nose, time for his window of opportunity to strike a devastating blow at the man to close. No, time is the last thing that he needs at this point.
“What’s there to fix?” he asks. “You’re not going to change your mind. I’m not going to change mine.”
“That doesn’t mean this is irreconcilable,” Tony says in a voice that Steve would call a plea if he didn’t know any better. But he does and Tony doesn’t plead. He thinks it’s beneath him.
He remembers back when this all started, back when he realized he didn’t mean the same thing to Tony that Tony meant to him, and he remembers thinking that he just needed time. But time apart hadn’t done anything except make it harder when he left again. He’d wondered several times if he was doomed to spend the rest of his life desperately wanting what he couldn’t have. But he thinks he knows now what he did wrong: it was that he always came back. No matter where he went, he always went back to Tony, because Tony meant home and safety and warmth for however long he could offer it.
No more. He can’t keep doing this to himself, can’t keep breaking his heart just because it means a couple more minutes with Tony. He won’t delude himself; he knows this won’t be as awful to Tony as it is to him, even though he knows Tony will be at least a little upset. Someone would have to be made of stone not to be upset about this. But it isn’t the same.
They’re not the same.
June 11, 2011
Bucky finishes lugging the last of the boxes into the apartment and looks around interestedly as he plops down on one of the boxes. Steve isn’t entirely sure what he’s looking at. The apartment is sparse, unfurnished, and undecorated. It’s remarkably similar to the one Steve had before he met Tony, close enough that Steve wonders if both buildings are owned by the same parent company. It would explain why the layouts are similar.
“So this is it, huh,” Bucky says eventually. “Ten years and we end up here.”
“You’re not ending up anywhere,” Steve points out.
Bucky shoots him a glare. “I just don’t get it,” he says. It’s not the first time he’s said it over the last few months. “You were all fit to tell him. What happened?”
You did.
But he finds he can’t begrudge Bucky like he can everyone else Tony has taken to his bed. Bucky is as close to him as a brother. There isn’t a thing that Steve wouldn’t do for him. Tony choosing Bucky hurts but if they make each other happy…
Well, Steve just wishes it could have been him who made Tony happy instead.
“We aren’t right for each other,” he says instead of explaining any of that. It’s the same thing he’s told Bucky every time he’s asked and he knows Bucky is getting tired of it. He’s been pushing for more of an explanation since the first time Steve told him about his decision to move out and end this toxic arrangement with Tony. But Steve is stubborn in his refusal; he had thought Bucky had come to accept that this was as much of an explanation as he was going to get but apparently not.
“Right, you’ve said that,” Bucky mutters sullenly, something that Steve doesn’t understand. He should be delighted to have Tony all to himself now, not moping that Steve is finally choosing himself. He stands, pushing off the box with his hands. The metal of his prosthetic catches the light streaming in through the window, gleaming in the late afternoon sun. “I’m off.”
“Yeah, where to?”
“Taking Tony to dinner. Poor kid deserves a drink after all this.”
Steve bites back his automatic retort. Bucky has made it clear that he’s trying hard not to choose sides, even though he’s caught between his best friend and the man he’s seeing. Just because he’s taking Tony out to dinner doesn’t mean that he’s given up on his neutrality. After all, he did help Steve move out of the brownstone.
“He likes that Japanese steakhouse two streets over from his place,” he offers, fighting back a wave of bitterness. So he isn’t what Tony wants. So what?
Bucky wrinkles his brow. “That’s kind of…like a date, don’t you think?”
Yeah, it is, that’s why Steve suggested it. Tony deserves better than being kept quiet like a dirty secret and—maybe that’s why Tony went looking for love elsewhere, he realizes. Maybe Tony felt like Steve was trying to hide him away even though he’d thought he had made it so obvious how much he wanted everyone to know how in love they were.
“He likes street tacos too,” he adds eventually, mind reeling from the thought that Tony might have thought he was ashamed of him. Maybe if he went to him, explained…explained what, exactly? The time for explanations has long since passed. At this point, it’s best that he cut his losses, accept that somewhere, he fucked up, and try to move on.
After all, what would someone like Tony Stark, the brilliant futurist, the beautiful playboy, the devilishly funny thief, ever want with him?
June 12, 2011
Steve realizes early the next morning that he’s misplaced his lockpicking set. Well, he says misplaced but he knows exactly where they are: on top of Tony’s dresser where he left them during one of their arguments. He hadn’t checked in Tony’s room for any of his things when he was packing, knowing he’d be too overwhelmed by the memories they had made to leave if he went in there. He had figured then that anything he left in there, he could just replace, but he’s supposed to be meeting with Rachel in twenty minutes and he needs that set.
He could run over there and grab it. Tony, he knows, is at Bucky’s. Bucky had told him last night that he had planned on taking Tony back to his place after their date for “ice cream” (Steve can read between the lines). The brownstone will be empty. Tony will never need to know that he was there—and he can return his keys without having to face Tony again.
He shoots a quick text off to Rachel, letting her know to meet him at the brownstone and then dashes out the door. He doesn’t know how late Tony will stay at Bucky’s but the sooner he gets there, the less likely it’ll be that he runs into him.
By the time Rachel gets there, Steve is already in the brownstone. Sure enough, the lockpicks are in Tony’s room and he grabs them, turning to go. Rachel is leaning up against the doorway, watching him with an odd gleam in her eyes.
“Oh good you’re here,” he says. “Have any trouble with the locks?” He’d locked the door again after entering to see if Rachel could successfully break in.
She shrugs. “Accidentally set off the alarm but I was able to disable it, no problem.”
He frowns, partially because that’s not a good sign and partially because she’s prowling closer. “You’re not normally this sloppy, everything okay?”
“Everything’s great,” she purrs, moving in close to him. He’s pressed up against the dresser with nowhere to go.
“Uh,” he says, surprised by how forward she’s being. Rachel’s an attractive person, he’d have to be an idiot not to notice that, but she also knows that he’s trying to get over Tony. They’ve talked about it before, back when this all started. She’d tried to make a move then and he’d firmly put a stop to it.
“This is his place, isn’t it?” she asks, walking her fingers up his chest. “You know, they say the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else.”
“I don’t think that’s—”
She curls her hand behind his neck and yanks, pulling him down. “I don’t know about you getting under me but I’d love to get under you,” she breathes across his lips.
And then she’s kissing him.
And it’s—it’s terrible actually. Because the only thing going through his mind is that this isn’t Tony. He’s in Tony’s bedroom doing this and this isn’t Tony and it should be. How could he have ever thought that he would be able to get over Tony? Tony is it for him and this is all wrong and—
“Steve?”
He thinks for a moment that he must be imagining Tony’s hurt voice, he’s thinking about him so hard. But then Rachel pulls away and he catches a glimpse of something moving in the reflection of the mirror. He turns and—
Tony is standing in the doorway, gaze darting between him and Rachel, eyes big and wide and hurt.
“Steve?” he asks again and there’s something desperate to it like he’s asking him to tell him that he didn’t see what he did. But Steve can’t tell him that. He is standing there and he did kiss Rachel—or let her kiss him, same thing—and no, he’s not dreaming Tony at all. He would never have dreamed something so terrible.
December 16, 2014
“You doing okay?” Bucky asks as he finishes getting ready for his date. It still shocks him sometimes that Sam is actually willing to go out with him, that after the hours of bickering and Sam being rightfully infuriated that Steve and Tony are treating him like a child and the whole thing with Bucky’s missing arm, Sam is still willing to look past that.
There’s silence from the couch and he looks over at where Steve is brooding. He’s been moping ever since Tony and Rhodey left—well, really since Tony left since they all know that’s who he’s really worried about. He’s been doing things that Bucky thought only happened in romance novels: staring out the window, refusing to eat, barely sleeping.
“Steve?” he prompts again. “You doing okay?”
“He said something,” Steve murmurs. “Before he left. About an arc reactor.”
“Yeah,” Bucky agrees. “There’s a big one at the facility in Malibu. You knew that.”
“No, he said ‘not at that size.’ Like it’s supposed to be miniature. He said it was impossible but Rhodey made it sound like it had already been done.”
Ah. So it was coming to this then. After all this time, he was finally going to learn what had happened to Tony after his arrest. He bows his head as he shrugs on his coat. The story isn’t his to tell but Tony’s. He must have his reasons for not sharing yet even though the entire crew can see how the two have grown closer than ever before over the last few months. It’s been heartening watching the two of them come back to each other, watching their relationship grow stronger than it had been in the years before Steve’s arrest, watching them finally talk to each other and communicate.
Now if they can just talk about where they had gone wrong…
But that might be too much to ask for from these two. If ever there was a couple that better fit the definition of emotionally constipated, he had never met them.
“You know,” Steve states. “You know what he’s talking about.”
Bucky shrugs. “I don’t think that’s for me to say. It’s Tony’s story.”
Steve looks over at him, eyes widening as he takes in the nice pants and button-up shirt that Bucky’s wearing. “You’re going on a date?”
“With Sam.”
Steve frowns, more than he should for someone who’s practically watched their romance blossom from the start. “What about Tony?”
“…What about him?” He’s yours, isn’t he?
“I thought—” Steve gestures at him, something that Bucky thinks he’s supposed to understand but he doesn’t. He raises his eyebrows questioningly. “You and him—”
“Me and Tony?” He wrinkles his nose. “No.”
“But—that night—I—I saw you two.”
He stills, suddenly worried that he knows the night Steve is talking about. “That night?”
“The night I was going to…you know.”
The night things went from bad to worse, yes, Bucky knows very well. He sends a quick text to Sam to let him know he’s running a few minutes behind and then he sits down on the other end of the couch from Steve.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Steve,” he says carefully. This, he thinks is at the root of their problems. This is what made Steve suddenly decide to end his partnership with Tony and foolishly take on one of Schmidt’s lackey’s as an apprentice. “What did you see that night?”
Steve gives him an irritated look as though he thinks Bucky should already know. “I saw the two of you. I saw him kiss you,” he says slowly.
Oh.
Oh.
“Steve,” he says urgently. “Steve, it wasn’t what you thought. You should—Tony should be the one to tell you but he’s not here and—Steve, you have to know. I went to find him that night because he had been drinking and I thought he should sober up. Steve, he was practically falling down drunk. What you saw—what you thought you saw—was me trying to hold him up long enough to tell him you were going to tell him something important. That’s it, I swear. He kissed me because he was excited. He’s affectionate, you know that. It didn’t mean anything. Tony, he’s like my brother but nothing more. It was never like that between us.”
He watches as light dawns in Steve’s eyes, hope and grief intermingled as he realizes what he had thrown away that night because he couldn’t even manage to ask Tony what he had been doing.
“I—” he starts to say and Bucky nods.
“Yeah, that’s what you let go when you refused to talk.” He stands, done with all of this. He’s weary, exhausted after the long years of wondering what had pushed Steve to Rachel only to find out that it was only this, a simple misunderstanding that could have been so easily solved. “Look, I’ve gotta go. Sam’s waiting for me. Tony will be back in a few days. I’m gonna tell you what I’ve always told you: talk to him. It’s time, Steve.”
He leaves Steve to his thoughts. Sam is waiting for him in the lobby, pushing off one of the pillars as soon as he sees him. Bucky wraps an arm around his waist, tugging him in for a quick kiss that Sam gladly gives him.
“Something going on?” Sam asks him as they’re leaving.
Bucky shakes his head. “Just…Steve and Tony.”
“Yeah,” Sam agrees. “Steve and Tony.” He leans over to give Bucky’s cheek another kiss. “Don’t worry, babe. It’ll be over soon.”
“Yeah,” he sighs. “It will.”
Notes:
Warning! Rachel kisses Steve in this chapter. If that's something that makes you uncomfortable, feel free to skip between the paragraph beginning with "She curls her hand behind his neck and yanks, pulling him down." and the paragraph beginning with "Tony is standing in the doorway, gaze darting between him and Rachel, eyes big and wide and hurt."
Please remember to be nice in the comments. Remember Thumper: If you can't say something nice, don't say nothing at all.
And if you're lost about what you could say, here's a handy emoji key for you:
❤ = you wish you could kudos again
😭 = I got you right in the feels
🔥 = this was so hot!
🐰 = it’s so fluffy!
Chapter 18
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
June 4, 2011
“So that was crazy.”
Steve takes a deep breath in and then slowly lets it out through his mouth. Not now, he thinks. Now when he can’t get the taste of Rachel out of his mouth or the look on Tony’s face out of his mind no matter how many beers he drinks. He had looked so…so devastated. And he knows that Tony absolutely doesn’t have the right to be so upset but he had looked that way anyway. It makes him wonder…it makes him wonder if he’s missing something.
“Hey,” Rachel says. Her hand on his shoulder shakes him just a bit. “Steve, you in there?”
The swirling questions in his drink-befuddled brain dissipate like mist on the mountain. “How did you find me?” he asks. He hadn’t picked any of their usual bars in a deliberate attempt to hide away from her.
She shrugs. “I put a tracker on the bottom of your shoe.”
He frowns, slightly concerned by the admission. That’s worrying, isn’t it? People shouldn’t just put trackers on other people. Suddenly, he wishes he hadn’t drunk so much earlier. It might have made it easier to slog through his mind. “Why would you do that?” he eventually asks.
“You keep telling me to become a better thief,” she says casually. “I thought I’d start by using you as a mark.”
“Hey—” he starts to protest but she cuts him off.
“Look, I didn’t just track you down for shits and giggles.”
“Oh so you’re not here to apologize?”
“I’m sorry,” she says impatiently. “I misread the situation. I thought that’s where we were going.”
“I don’t date my students,” he says, trying for stern and in his drunken state, misses it by a mile. She gives him a look and yet again, his thoughts are unwillingly dragged back to Tony. Tony, who had looked at him with such grief in his eyes when he walked in on them. Tony, who has waited for him so patiently all these years, never saying anything about all the jobs Steve has taken away from him when even Bucky had complained about them. Tony, who—
“Steve.”
Rachel sounds exasperated and he turns back to her, wondering what her problem is now. If anyone should be irritated, it should be him. He’s the one who has a…a…he can’t remember the word…a thingy on the bottom of his shoe that she put there.
“What?” he snaps.
“I have news.”
He groans. “Not now. Can’t you see—” I’m moping? He finishes the sentence in his head, thankfully cutting himself off before the words escape. No one cares about a sad thief, least of all Rachel, who is only here so she can get revenge on Schmidt.
He slaps a couple hundreds down on the bar and gets up, irritated with the way this whole day has gone. It shouldn’t be this hard. He should have been able to escape Tony, escape their house with no problems at all. He shouldn’t be sitting at a bar, drunker than he’d like to be, replaying that kiss and Tony’s reaction in his mind every time he so much as closes his eyes.
“Where are you going?” Rachel demands, eyes narrowing.
“To find a different bar,” he says. Maybe if he walks, he’ll sober up some and they won’t cut him off too quickly.
“What? Steve, didn’t you hear me? I said I have news.”
“Yeah, I heard you. Bet it’s nothing that can’t wait til tomorrow.” He makes for the door, shoving through the crowd.
“I’ll just follow you!” she calls after him. Yeah? And how’s she going to do that? Oh, that’s right. She put that thing on the bottom of his shoe. He debates bending over to get it but as soon as he tries, the room starts to spin around him and he stops. He’ll take care of it later, maybe after he finds a bench somewhere outside. He’s sure there has to be one somewhere nearby.
“Steve!” Rachel jogs to catch up to him. Her hand catches his arm and stops him. He spins to face her and nearly overbalances, only managing to catch himself by planting his feet. “Look, I get it. I didn’t pick the best time and I’m sorry for that but you have to hear me out.”
He crosses his arms, tapping his foot against the sticky bar floor impatiently. She glances down at his foot and winces. “You know I’ve got an in with Schmidt’s security. They told me this afternoon that he’s planning on moving the paintings.”
“What’s that got to do with us?” he asks gruffly. But even as he says the words, he knows the answer. They won’t be able to steal the artwork—or they’ll have to start their planning all over again—if they’re moved.
“Schmidt needs a driver but he still thinks the robbery was an inside job. He’s not hiring from inside his network to move the art. He’s hiring outside—and I got your name on the list of interviewees.”
It sounds too easy and something in the back of his mind makes a concerned sound. But some of the best jobs Steve has pulled in the past have had that one little piece that made everything else fall into place. And…and he wants to prove Tony wrong. He wants to prove that he can do a job with no one’s help other than Rachel’s.
He turns and makes for one of the tables in the dark corners of the back, wanting as few people as possible to overhear them. Rachel follows him with a confused expression. He wonders if she maybe hasn’t figured it out yet, that he’s willing to hear her out, even if he isn’t saying yes to the change in the timeline yet. He’d been planning for this con to take place in another couple of months, not weeks.
But he’s Steve Rogers and he knows, if anyone can do it, he can.
December 19, 2014
Tony lets himself into the suite, barely able to keep his eyes open. He’s exhausted after five straight days of working on the reactor, only taking quick breaks to eat and grab a couple hours of sleep. He’d thought he left multiple-day workshop binges back in his college days and now he’s out of practice and dead on his feet. He’s looking forward to the break Steve had promised the team, now that they’re all as caught up on everything as they can be. There isn’t much left to plan, only a few last-minute details, but other than that, he’s free to crash on the bed for the whole week and half until the con.
Maybe he and Steve can finally have that conversation he’s been putting off. Pepper’s definitely at the point of telling Steve herself and Rhodey is rapidly approaching that point.
He’s just…scared.
It’s something that he hasn’t really wanted to admit. He’s danced around that fact for months and now that this con is almost over, he can finally admit to himself. He’s scared—not of Rachel, everything that Steve has done in the last several months has proven to him that Rachel is no longer the threat she once was. But he’s afraid that everything will change if he finally tells Steve that he loves him. He’s afraid that he’ll ask why they didn’t work out and Steve will tell him he never loved him—or that he stopped loving him, and he doesn’t know which one is worse.
There’s a light on in the bedroom and Tony heads for it, frowning. For all that Steve can be obsessed when he’s working on a job, he’s never been one to stay up late.
Sure enough, Steve is seated against the headboard, his legs out in front of him as he reads a book. Tony glances at the cover but he’s too tired to read the words swimming in front of him. He looks back up at Steve to see that Steve is now watching him instead of the book.
“I’m back,” he offers.
“So I see.”
Tony nods slowly. “You’re up late.”
“Rhodey texted me. He said he was taking the arc reactor to the sewers.”
“Right.” Tony tries to remember if Rhodey had told him that too but all he remembers is Rhodey pouring him into a cab after they got off the plane. It’s possible that he’d been told but he’s too tired to remember much of anything from the last couple of hours.
“So what’s the arc reactor?”
And suddenly, he’s not tired anymore.
He gives Steve a cautious look, pausing in unbuttoning his shirt. “You know what the arc reactor is. You’ve been to the facility in California.”
Steve gives him an unamused look. He reaches over to the nightstand and grabs a bookmark, places it in the book, and closes the book before setting that on the nightstand too. “No, what I know is that you have some sort of energy source in California that can’t even be moved, let alone placed in a sewer. Rhodey said you could miniaturize it.”
“I don’t think there’s a question there.”
“He said it’s already been done.”
“Still not hearing a question.” Is it hot in here? He glances away from Steve’s piercing gaze, rubbing absently at his chest. Is it just him or is the arc reactor cycling twice as fast?
“He said you built it with a box of scraps.”
“Steve—”
“But Tony Stark doesn’t work with scraps. He has labs and billions of dollars and some of the rarest materials known to man.”
“Steve—”
“What happened during those months you were missing?”
Tony’s mouth clicks shut. His gaze darts away and then back to Steve, his mind working overtime. He’s not ready. Talking about the two of them, yes, but sharing what happened to him? Not in a million years. He’s never even really talked about it to Pepper and Rhodey. They—and Bucky, too—know about the arc reactor but he’s never talked about what really happened.
“Who says something happened?”
“You won’t tell me about what went on while I was gone, you gave your company to Pepper, Bucky says you disappeared for three months and showed back up with a broken arm,” Steve snaps, voice starting to rise in anger. “Something happened, but you won’t tell me and now it might affect this job!”
“Nothing is affecting the job,” Tony snaps back. “Unless it’s your history with both Schmidt and Rachel.”
“Don’t turn this back on me. Everyone here has a history with Schmidt,” Steve says. Tony starts to respond but Steve cuts him off first. “I don’t get it. Everyone’s so quick to tell me what Schmidt did to them, everyone wants me to know just what he did to this community when I got arrested, everyone but you. People are dead but I can’t ask what happened to you because, what? I might find out you ran away? I might find out you were sipping cocktails on a beach somewhere?”
Tony takes two steps toward the bed, his hands shaking he’s so angry. “Don’t you dare say I ran away!”
“What else am I supposed to think? You won’t tell me, Bucky won’t say anything, Pepper and Rhodey refuse to even acknowledge it. Best I can guess is you—”
“I’m not a coward!” Tony shouts, pushed beyond his limit. His hands are fumbling at the buttons of his shirt, ripping them apart in his haste. “I didn’t tell you because I hate what he did to me.”
“He—”
“You think I ran away? Steve, if anything, I ran fucking towards him. You think I wasn’t afraid? I was fucking terrified, everyone could see what was coming the moment you went down, but it was so damn obvious to me that you were set up. So I went looking.” He drops his shirt to the ground, fingers clawing at the fake skin covering the arc reactor.
Steve’s eyes go wide and horrified, hands reaching out to stop him as he scrambles to the end of the bed. “Tony, what—”
“I went looking for any sort of evidence that Schmidt set you up. And I got close, Steve, I got so fucking close.” He inhales shakily. “And he found me.” He pulls the fake skin off and the light of the arc reactor spills across the bed, illuminating the dim room.
Steve stares at the reactor, the expression on his face nearly impossible to read. He reaches out a trembling hand, the tips of his fingers just barely brushing against the reactor. Tony flinches back and Steve hastily draws his hand away like it’s been burned.
“It’s not you,” Tony says quickly. “I don’t let anyone touch it.”
Slowly, Steve drags his gaze from the reactor to Tony’s face. “What happened?” he whispers; his voice cracks on the last word.
He closes his eyes, remembering those awful months. “A bomb,” he says dully. “Strapped to the bottom of my car. The shrapnel from the door went right through my chest. This—” He taps the reactor. “—keeps them from reaching my heart. I woke up in Schmidt’s cabin. The things he did, Steve…” He stops, unable to think any more about the car battery and the waterboarding and everything else that had been done to him.
“But you got away, right? You escaped?”
He shakes his head. Steve’s breath hitches. “I tried but… He let me go. The day your sentencing was announced, he came and told me I failed and then he let me go. He—he wouldn’t even give me a car to leave in. I walked all the way to Montreal.”
“Tony,” Steve says softly.
He shakes his head again. He doesn’t want to hear Steve’s apologies, his explanations, whatever he can come up with to make this better. Tony is going to live with the cost of his decision to defend Steve for the rest of his life and nothing can make that any better.
It doesn’t stop Steve though, stubborn ass that he is, from continuing hesitantly, “You said you were trying to prove I was set up.”
“Yeah, well, that was my mistake, wasn’t it? Wanting to help someone who cheated on me—”
“Hold on,” Steve says sharply. “I never cheated on you.”
Tony stares at him incredulously, unable to fully believe what he’s hearing. “Never—what do you think that whole mess with Rachel was?”
“A mistake, sure, but—”
“That’s what cheating is!”
“No,” Steve denies. “We were never even in a relationship, Tony.”
He could have heard a pin drop in the room, it got so quiet so fast. It’s so quiet he thinks he can hear his heart breaking. Steve can’t possibly—no, everyone knew, he knew. “What do you mean we weren’t in a relationship?” he whispers.
Steve laughs, a hysterical, sharp sound that Tony hates. “You made it very clear that I was just a side piece for everyone else.”
“Everyone else?”
“Don’t make me say them, Tony,” Steve warns. “Don’t make me live through that again.”
“Everyone else?” Tony demands.
Steve glares at him as he breathes heavily through his nose, nostrils flaring. “Should I start with Bucky? Or how about Rhodey? Or Rumiko, Justin, or Emma?”
“What?”
“I got a million of ‘em, Tony. Should I keep going?”
“I was never dating any of them!” he says, horror flooding through him as he starts to realize just where they went wrong all those years ago.
“Never—you kissed Rhodey right in front of me!” Steve shouts.
“It was a joke! Steve, I was dating you, I was in love with you, I would never have cheated on you!” Tony shouts back, unable to bring himself to care that he’s sharing things he’s kept secret for months. He’s tired of keeping it all locked away. “And I thought you knew that.”
Steve reels back like he’d been struck. “You were in love with me?” he asks. And now the same horror that’s sluicing through Tony like ice starts to appear on Steve’s face.
“I adored you. Everyone knew how much I loved you. Bucky used to tease me about it.”
“You never said,” Steve says desperately.
Tony shrugs helplessly, endlessly tired. “Neither did you. I—I thought it was just something that we did. I thought we didn’t talk about it. I never thought you didn’t know. If I had—”
“I did,” Steve whispers brokenly. He falls back, catching himself on his hands. “That first year, I was so convinced we were dating. But then Valentine’s, and I came to your work, and there was Rhodey.”
Tony’s brain, so quick to jump from equation to equation, makes the connection easily. “You thought I didn’t take us seriously,” he says quietly. “You thought we were supposed to be casual and you hadn’t realized.”
Steve looks down at the bedding. “You’re Tony Stark,” he says simply. “Why would you want me when you could have everyone you wanted?”
Tony’s heart shatters—for him, for Steve, for them and what they could have been. “Steve,” he chokes out. He’s still angry—so, so angry that Steve hadn’t talked to him—and he knows that’s something they’re still going to have to talk about but that can happen later. To hear that Steve had thought he wasn’t good enough for Tony; Steve, one of the best people he knows. He climbs up onto the bed, tucking himself up against Steve’s side.
“You were always enough for me,” Tony whispers.
Steve turns just enough to kiss the side of his head. “I loved you too, you know,” he says. “More than I think I’ve ever loved anything.”
Tony wants to protest. But then he starts thinking about Steve leaving but always coming back and wonders for the first time, if Steve had been trying to let him go only to keep returning because he loved him too much to leave.
“You have a funny way of showing,” he huffs.
“I know. I’ve been trying to do better.”
And now he thinks about all the times Steve has brought him meals during this job, about dancing with him on the balcony, about the late night dinners with just the two of them, about Steve reserving this suite again because he knew just how much Tony loved staying here.
“We’re going to have to talk about this after the job,” he says.
“I know.”
“And we’re going to couples therapy.”
“Yep.”
“And you’re going to go to regular therapy to talk about those self-esteem issues.”
“Only if you’ll go to talk about your depression.”
Tony raises his head to look at him.
Steve arches his right eyebrow. “You think I didn’t notice how you’ve been?”
Tony puts his head back down. “Fair enough.”
He can feel Steve hesitate. “Does…does that mean you think we might have a future?” he asks.
Tony thinks about it. Does he? Does he think this is something they can recover from? They have no more secrets between them. Steve knows about the arc reactor. They both know now what’s gone wrong. And they’d already been doing better, hadn’t they? They’d been talking things out instead of ignoring them and letting the anger fester. They can do this, can’t they? And he still loves Steve and he’s pretty sure Steve still loves him; that matters, doesn’t it?
“Maybe,” he says eventually.
Steve looks like he hadn’t expected anything more. “It’s better than a no.”
Tony nods.
“Can I—can I touch it?” Steve asks. Tony glances up at him and Steve motions to the arc reactor.
“Why would you want to?” he replies, some of his old insecurity bleeding through. “It’s invasive and ugly, Steve.”
“It’s you,” Steve counters. “It’s keeping you alive. I think it’s the second-most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
“What’s the first?” Tony asks, thinking of all the beautiful things they’ve stolen together.
“You.”
He stills, looks up at Steve with what he knows must be a terribly vulnerable expression. He can’t just say things like that, not when he’s still angry, not when they still have so much to talk about and—
Oh, fuck it.
He swings a leg over Steve’s, straddling him, and leans forward to kiss him.
Notes:
Hi guys! You might have noticed that I've removed the option of commenting on this work. This is because, despite my best efforts, pleas, and alternatives, for every single nice comment I get on this work, there's another one that tells me that I'm not doing a good job on this story or that I should have made Steve suffer more or that Tony deserves better or a thousand other things beside and it's really disheartening, to say the least. I don't want to get so discouraged from the comments that I end up giving up on this story, especially when we're so close to the end, so this is my next best option.
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Chapter 19
Notes:
This chapter is half smut so if that's something you don't feel like reading, feel free to skip everything past December 19, 2014
Chapter Text
June 22, 2011
In the early morning, Steve goes by the brownstone just to drop off the keys. He hadn’t even realized that he still had them until Rachel had come by last night and held them up, dangling from her fingers. “What are these?” she had asked playfully, but there had been something hard in her eyes. “You’re not thinking about going back to him, are you?”
He had laughed and snatched them back, firmly telling her no, and then he’d set them by his nightstand, intending on returning them the next day before he left for Schmidt’s job. He doesn’t know why he still has them. He should have given them back ages ago, probably the day he had moved out if he’s being honest with himself. But he’d kept them.
And Tony hadn’t asked for them back.
Steve wonders if that says more about him or about Tony.
Tony, he knows, is at work so he lets himself into the house, intending on just dropping the keys off and leaving. But he doesn’t get more than a couple steps into the front hallway before he hears footsteps. Tony shuffles in from the kitchen, wrapped in an old bathrobe that Bucky had gotten him for his birthday a few years ago.
He looks awful, eyes red-rimmed and swollen, cheeks puffy and blotchy. His arms are wrapped around his middle. There’s a part of Steve’s mind—a part that he suspects will always love Tony—that wonders what—or who—has been making Tony cry. That part is buried below his surprise though and he can’t stop himself from blurting out, “What are you doing here?”
Tony scoffs, his own surprise giving way to anger. “What do you mean, what am I doing here? I live here, Steve. What are you doing here?”
Steve wordlessly holds up the keys.
There’s a glimmer of something in Tony’s eyes: hope, maybe, though Steve doesn’t know what he has to be hopeful about. “I forgot you still had those,” he says quietly.
“Yeah, I just came to return them.”
That small light in his eyes disappears and Tony says dully, “Return them.”
“Not like I can keep them, now that we’re not working together. Just thought I’d leave them here before I head out.”
Tony nods a little. “Where are you going?” he asks. It’s the same kind of small talk that the both of them have always despised and Steve hates that they’ve been reduced to this. If only Tony had been willing to see reason, if only he had listened, maybe they wouldn’t have had to stop working together. Maybe they could have…
No, that died the moment he saw Tony with Bucky. It’s time to give up, move on, like he’s been telling himself for ages. He can do it, he will.
“I’ve got a job,” he says.
“A job. With Rachel?”
He nods. “Schmidt is having his artwork moved to protect them. We’re going to steal it out from under his nose.”
It’s not like he was expecting Tony to react particularly well to that, not after all the arguments they’ve had over the last few months, but even then, he’s not expecting Tony to stare at him for a long moment before abruptly declaring, “Are you fucking insane?”
He takes a step back, surprised by the vehemence in Tony’s voice. “Sorry, what was that?”
“Have you lost your mind?” Tony snaps, hands balling into fists at his sides. “You must have because I can’t think of any other reason that you would decide it’s a great idea to go after the man that we both agreed was nearly impossible to take on.”
“This isn’t like the last time,” Steve argues, his jaw tensing with anticipation of what he suspects will be their last fight. “I’ve got help this time, inside help.”
“Yeah,” Tony sneers. “Inside help who just so magically happened to be at the bar we were at on the night we robbed him. For fuck’s sake, Steve, literally anyone else would know how suspicious that is, but oh no, not you. You think you’re so smart, don’t you? Schmidt couldn’t possibly be setting you up. It’s not at all like both Bucky and I have been trying to tell you that we’ve worried about this for months. It’s not like even you said before the last job that we would need to cut and run once we were done. It’s not like you we said that Schmidt had better not know that any of us were involved. No, not at all.”
“He doesn’t know I’m involved!” Steve shouts back at him. “Because you supposedly did your job and made sure he wouldn’t know we were the ones who robbed him. Are you telling me you don’t know how to do your job now?”
“Don’t put this back on me!” Tony yells. “This is a man who has never been successfully robbed before. The last people barely even got out the door with their stolen gems before they were gunned down by his men in the parking lot! We were lucky! Really fucking lucky! And you’re acting like none of that mattered at all! You’re tempting fate and you’re going to get arrested and I hope you’re happy because no one is going to come get you out. We’re all going to fucking scatter because if he knows that you’re involved, then he knows we’re all involved.”
“He doesn’t know,” Steve insists. “He wouldn’t be moving his art if he knew.”
“This man is smart,” Tony retorts. “Apparently smarter than you. He could very well be setting up a trap for you and you’re going to walk right into it because you’re a fucking idiot.”
“Don’t—”
“What? Don’t tell the truth? Don’t shout it to the whole damn world that you’re a cocky son of a bitch who refuses to pull his head out of his ass long enough to realize he’s being set up? Rachel is using you, Steve, whether on Schmidt’s orders or because she wants to get back in with him, but it’s obvious to everyone. It’s time you fucking realized that and—”
“Will you shut up about Rachel for one fucking second?” Steve shouts, breathing heavily. “I’m sick of you constantly harping on her when you couldn’t even be bothered to meet her—”
“I don’t have to meet her to—”
Steve chucks the keys at Tony’s head. “We’re done,” he snaps. “I don’t want to hear another word out of you. I’m tired of listening to the bullshit you’re spewing and I’m tired of you hanging all over me. I want you out of my life so there. Goodbye, Tony.”
He spins on his heel and stalks out the door, slamming it shut behind him.
December 19, 2014
It takes Steve a moment to realize that Tony is in his lap and kissing him, but it takes him the barest fraction of a second after that to wrap one arm around Tony’s waist and the other across his shoulders so he can slide his fingers into Tony’s hair and tug him where he wants him. He slants his mouth over Tony’s and kisses him back, teasing his tongue between the seam of Tony’s lips.
“I love you,” he gasps. His heart is beating out a rhythm to the sound of You get to keep him. He gets to have this—Tony—and he knows that there’s still so much they have to talk about, grievances they need to air. Tony’s right; they both need to see someone to help them piece their relationship back together. But right now, the only thing that matters is the arc reactor pressing against his chest, telling him that Tony is alive and squirming in his lap. He hasn’t lost him. He hasn’t fucked up everything.
“I love you,” he says again because he can, he’s allowed, Tony loves him too. He pulls away at the taste of salt on his tongue to see silent tears rolling down Tony’s cheeks. “Sweetheart.” He leans in and kisses away the tears. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Tony tells him and smiles. Steve can’t catch a lie in his words, even though the tears are still rolling down Tony’s cheek. His hands are clenching and unclenching on Steve’s shoulders, bunching and then smoothing out the fabric of his shirt. “Not a single damn thing.”
Steve looks at him for a long moment, wondering if he really is telling the truth as he seems to be. Tony smiles again at him and leans down to kiss him, whispering, “I love you.”
“We’re gonna be okay,” Steve murmurs and he doesn’t know if it’s supposed to be a question or a reassurance but Tony nods anyway.
“We are.”
“You love me,” he says. He can’t quite keep the wondrous tone out of his voice. Tony loves him. He had never once thought that they would actually get here. Sure, he’s been doing what he can over the last few months to prove to Tony that he’s serious now, that he isn’t going to just roll over and give up this time, but he’d never really seriously entertained the thought that Tony already loved him.
“I do,” Tony agrees. “And now I’m going to say this ridiculous and corny phrase because I want you to know just how serious I am about us.”
“What’s that?”
“Steve, I want you to make love to me.”
Oh.
Oh.
“Oh,” he chokes out. “That is ridiculous and corny.” And yet, somehow, it’s perfect at the same time and he knows that Tony gets it from the way he smiles and kisses him again, so he rolls Tony over, laying him out beneath him. Tony’s legs settle apart, opening him up for Steve to settle atop him.
He laves kisses across Tony’s chest as his hand scrabbles on the nightstand for the lube, which he drops on the bed next to them as soon as he’s found it. Tony’s hands are roaming across his chest, down over his stomach, back up to his head to clutch at his hair as Steve sucks his nipple into his mouth and bites down gently.
“Steve,” Tony gasps, legs coming up to cross behind Steve’s back, keeping him right where Tony wants him—and where Steve wants to be.
He releases Tony’s nipple with a little pop and grins teasingly up at him. “Feeling good, sweetheart?”
He’s paid back for his teasing when Tony thumps him on the back of the head. “You know you feel good,” Tony admonishes, though some of the sting is taken out of his words by the way his eyes are glittering brightly. “Don’t fish for compliments.”
Steve laughs and kisses the side of Tony’s neck, right where he knows he’s the most sensitive. Tony jumps beneath him, gasping quietly as his legs tighten.
“That’s it, sweetheart,” he says and kisses that spot again, sucking on it as Tony trembles beneath him. He reaches for the lube and holds it up where Tony can see it. “How do you want this?”
Tony, apparently, wants Steve on his back, watching as Tony quickly opens himself up on sure fingers, the arc reactor spilling cool blue light across the room. Steve wants to help, even reaches for him once, but Tony bats his hands away and finishes up himself. Then he rises up on his knees, lines them up, and sinks back down on Steve’s cock. Steve groans, his hands fitting themselves to Tony’s hips like they were made to fit there.
“I always forget how big you are,” Tony tells him, like it’s a secret. Before Steve can respond, he rises back up, Steve’s cock sliding nearly all the way out of him before he rocks down. Tony is tight around him, tight enough that he wonders if Tony hadn’t bothered preparing himself as much as he should have. When he looks though, the expression on Tony’s face is blissful and pain-free. And he trusts Tony to know what he’s doing. He doesn’t want to make tony think that he doesn’t trust him—because it’s not true. He knows that Tony can handle himself, that he knows what he wants, there’s no doubt about that in his mind. It’s just that—
“I can see you thinking,” Tony purrs, leaning down to kiss him, wet and sloppy and absolutely filthy. “What’s on your mind, Stevie boy?”
“Nothing,” he gasps as Tony’s hole ripples around him like the best kind of massage.
“Hmm,” Tony hums, clearly not believing him. “Let’s see if we can’t turn that brain of yours off, darling.”
Oh. He called him darling. Tony’s never called him that before. Other nicknames yes, including some positively ridiculous ones that belong in the past, but darling is new—and he loves it.
He sits up, wrapping his arms around Tony’s back as he thrusts up into Tony’s hole. Tony pants openmouthed, moaning so loudly that Steve spares a thought to be grateful that no one else is around to hear them. Steve buries his face in Tony’s neck, whispering over and over again how much he loves him, how much he has always loved him, and Tony whispers it right back to him as he presses kisses to the side of Steve’s head.
They move together, quickly, hard, knowing that they have all the time in the world to go soft and slow. And yet, there’s still something sweet about all of it, something that makes Steve wonder if it’s made all the difference that they’ve admitted they love each other because never, in a million years, would he call this fucking. This is so much more than that—so much more and so much better.
Tony comes, rutting against his stomach, and Steve is only a moment behind him, spilling deep inside Tony. It takes him a moment to catch his breath, which isn’t aided when Tony flops over on top of him.
“Oof,” Steve mutters as all his breath leaves in a rush. Tony grins unrepentantly up at him, shifting as Steve’s softening cock slips out of him. Steve thinks about shifting him to the side but decides that he likes Tony’s weight draped across him too much. Instead, he rests one arm behind his head and the other on Tony’s back, keeping him still.
“You like it when I call you darling,” Tony says cheerfully. “I could tell.”
“Yeah,” Steve agrees shamelessly. “I did. About as much as you like it when I call you sweetheart.”
Tony beams at him for a second but then his smile slowly fades. “I meant it, you know,” he says. “We’re going to have to talk about this, with each other and with a counsellor. I’m not going through the last three years again.”
“I know. And I promise you we will.”
“And a Steve Rogers promise means something, huh?”
“It does when I promise it to you.”
Tony nods, quietly taking that in. “Okay,” he says eventually.
“Okay? That’s it?” Steve asks, hoping that it is even though he knows he deserves so much worse.
“Yeah,” Tony says and kisses him one last time. “That’s it.”
Chapter Text
December 31, 2014
Barnabas Ronin’s Suite
Two Heads Casino
Bruce pulls up the camera feed from the casino floor and zeroes in on the casino manager, who is currently making the afternoon rounds of his watchers. He bites back a bitter comment about late-stage capitalism in America as he glances up and over at Natasha. The ballerina is running through her stretches next to the crate containing the lost Vermeer. She doesn’t seem to be paying any attention to him but he would still hate to break her concentration with his angry words.
“How we doing?” the manager asks. Bruce’s feed easily picks up on the words and he smiles to himself. Schmidt might be the one with the thousand cameras around the casino, but no one can match Bruce’s audio bugs.
“Cotton couldn’t be taller,” the watcher replies. As one, the two men shift their hands in front of themselves, right hand clasping the left wrist. Bruce shudders at the uniformity.
In the bathroom, Clint is splashing around in the enormous Jacuzzi tub, lost in the luxury of his role. Bruce can just barely hear him muttering to himself over the sounds of the casino feeds. It sounds like he’s running over the steps of his part of the plan.
Pepper is pacing between the bathroom and the main suite, her heels clicking loudly over the tile of the bathroom only to become muffled as soon as she steps onto the carpet.
“Where are they?” she snaps, checking a slim gold watch around her wrist. “It’s almost time.”
“Calm down, Pep,” Clint calls in his thick German accent. “They’ll be here.”
Pepper whirls on her feet to face the bathroom. From where he’s sitting, Bruce can clearly see the snarl on her face that she gives Clint. Braver men than Clint Barton would quail under that look and sure enough, a second later, Clint meeps out a quiet, “Sorry.”
“They’re running late,” Pepper reiterates. “They’re running late now of all times.”
Natasha says something in Russian that Tony would probably be able to translate if he were there, but he isn’t. He’s nowhere to be found.
Something flashes red on one of his screens, catching Bruce’s attention. He leans closer to read it and then blurts out, “Oh fuck.”
“Fuck? What’s fucked?” Pepper asks worriedly. “Clint! Get out of the tub!”
“In a minute!”
“Now!”
“Alright, I’m coming, I’m coming.”
Pepper stalks over to Bruce and leans over his shoulder to read the alert. “Oh fuck.”
Side Entrance
Two Heads Casino
Tony leans up against the wall next to the side entrance, foot propped up on the wall. To the casual observer, he looks to just be playing on his phone but he’s really tracking the van as it travels from the Palms to Two Heads. A moment later, he tucks the phone in his back pocket and pushes off the wall right as the van pulls up next to the entrance. He pushes the door open, letting Steve inside, and waves to Thor and Loki as the door swings shut again.
He falls into step beside Steve, slipping his hand into his boyfriend’s. Steve looks down at their joined hands and smiles, squeezing his hand softly. Tony leans his head against his shoulder, beaming at the thought that Steve isn’t pulling away from him—not anymore.
The door to the gym swings open and Sam walks out a few paces ahead of them as they silently make their way down the hall to the elevators. At the elevator bank, Sam presses the up button, studiously ignoring the two of them when Steve puts a single finger under Tony’s chin and tilts his face up so he can kiss him. Logically, Tony knows that it’s just a ploy to stop the cameras from seeing them but it still sends a small thrill through him. Steve never used to kiss him in public like this. He’d always been reserved in his affections. This kind of casual affection is new and wonderful, and Tony doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to go back to the way it used to be.
The elevator on the far left dings and the doors slide open. First Sam and then Steve and Tony step on, the couple still seemingly wrapped up in each other.
“Sam?” Steve murmurs, just loud enough for Sam to hear but not enough for the elevator cameras to pick up on it.
“No cameras in the hallway where Clint’s suite is. High-paying customers don’t like it.”
“In that case, eighteenth floor please.”
Barnabas Ronin’s Suite
Two Heads Casino
Bruce looks up as soon as the door opens, admitting Steve, Tony, and Sam. Tony and Steve are both smiling but those disappear the moment they see the looks on Bruce and Pepper’s faces. The door snicks shut behind them.
“We have a problem,” Bruce says.
Steve and Tony exchange one of their looks and then move, as one, toward the computers. Bruce shifts aside so they can see the memo about Steve just sent out to all Two Heads’ employees.
“You’ve been red-flagged. Moment you even think about entering the casino, they’ll be on you. Watching you like a hawk—with a video camera.”
“I don’t understand,” Steve says. “I haven’t set foot in this casino. Schmidt shouldn’t know I’m here.”
“We’re not so sure he does,” Pepper interrupts. She leans forward and clicks on one of the tabs, bringing it to the front. For about two seconds, Bruce considers slapping her hand away—he really, really hates it when people touch his screens—but then he thinks better of it. He’s pretty sure Pepper would murder him with her shoe if he did that.
“Notorious Art Thief Released From Prison,” Steve reads out loud. “Who published this?”
“The New York Times,” Bruce informs him. “This morning. We think Schmidt might be anticipating something but not that he already knows you’re in Vegas.”
“And of course, Schmidt saw it,” Tony groans. He looks over at Steve. “We could—”
“Not in two hours,” Steve replies. “What about—”
“Where would we even get a horse at this hour?”
“Then—”
“You know that won’t work—”
“Wait, what about—”
“Oh yeah, with the—”
“Right and the guy with the—”
“Do we know anyone in town right now?”
Steve thinks about it for a minute. “Isn’t—”
“You know, I think he is. I’ll call him up, see what he’s doing tonight,” Tony says, pulling out his phone. He steps into the bathroom as Steve turns to Natasha.
“You ready?” he asks her and she nods. “Great.” He turns back to Bruce and Pepper. “You two, let everyone know we’re changing plans. We’re gonna run a 616 with a Ditko. Pepper, I‘m gonna need one of the SI masks.”
“I can have one here in five.”
“Wait,” Sam interrupts before anything else can happen. “What does that mean that we’re changing plans?”
Steve winks at him. “You know how they say plan as though the mark knows you’re coming?”
“Yeah.”
“Really what we mean when we say that is to plan as though you think the mark knows you’re coming—”
“But you should always have a contingency for when you know the mark knows you’re coming,” Pepper finishes.
“And that’s what I assume we’re doing now,” Sam says, nodding. “But how does that change anything? Is there anything I should do?”
Pepper shakes her head. “As the person with the least amount of experience, we always make sure the job changes as little as possible for you. The rest of us…”
“Look,” Steve says, clasping him on the shoulder. “The only thing you need to know right now is that the end goal is going to change. We’re not going to nab Schmidt on fraud and theft anymore.”
“So what are we going to get him on?”
Steve’s smile is vicious and a terrible thing to behold. Sam pities Schmidt, who has no idea what’s about to hit him. “Attempted murder.”
Front Entrance and Foyer
Two Heads Casino
Johann Schmidt, the king of Las Vegas and the man pulling the strings behind Washington, steps foot onto the casino floor. He straightens his jacket and heads straight for his casino manager, a sycophantic pissant by the name of Zola who isn’t fit to wipe the shit off his boots but serves his purpose well enough.
“Let’s get this over with quick,” Schmidt says idly to Zola. “I have a party to be at with people much more important than Mr. Barnabas Ronin. Any sign of Rogers yet?”
“No, sir,” Zola says. “Are you sure—”
“He’s coming, alright,” Schmidt murmurs, gaze sweeping over the casino like he can draw Rogers out right then and there. “Soon.”
He spots Ronin standing by the front entrance and his lip curls up in a distasteful sneer. Schmidt doesn’t like arms dealers, dreadful, backstabbing creatures that they are. He prefers methods much more delicate than that. Ronin spots him as well and tilts his head haughtily, beckoning him over. Schmidt grits his teeth. Men like him are not meant to be at men like Ronin’s beck and call.
“Mr. Ronin,” he greets as he draws closer. “I am a busy man tonight, something I hope you can appreciate. Are we on schedule?”
“I have not been given reason to suspect otherwise,” Ronin says, not even deigning to look at Schmidt now that he is here. “My couriers will be here momentarily.”
As if on cue, a black van pulls up next to the entrance. Two men, one large and broad, the other tall and slender, hop out and go around the back of the van to pull a crate nearly the size of Schmidt himself out.
“Such a large crate,” Schmidt comments.
Ronin says pointedly, “It is a delicate painting.”
Yes, Schmidt thinks with the stirrings of jealousy in his heart, it is.
“My men can carry it inside for you,” he offers.
Ronin laughs humorlessly. “I think not. I do not forget that you too wanted this painting.”
Schmidt has to remind himself that his doctor told him he was wearing away his teeth in order to keep himself from audibly grinding his teeth. He hates this man, absolutely despises him. Why did he decide on running a casino of all places?
“Very well,” he says eventually after a pause almost long enough for Ronin to notice. One of his own men gives him a worried look.
They head back inside, Ronin’s two men carrying the crate with the painting inside. As they pass by one of the blackjack tables, he hears the dealer, a diversity hire from the VA, say, “Ah, looks like a bad night for the house tonight.”
Schmidt pauses, just the slightest hitch in his gait. He turns to one of the watchers on the casino floor and motions him over. “Keep an eye on that dealer,” he murmurs to the watcher. “That’s the third hand in a row he’s lost.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he spots a shock of blond hair. Automatically, he glances in that direction, not really expecting to see Steve Rogers and so is utterly surprised when that is indeed the man. His mouth twists and he waves his men closer to him. “Find Zola,” he orders. “Tell him that Rogers is in the west slots. And then escort Rogers to one of the back rooms.”
He smiles to himself. If Rogers thinks he’ll get off with another jail stay this time, he’s got another thing coming.
Barnabas Ronin’s Suite
Two Heads Casino
Tony circles Sam slowly, taking in the crisp suit and striking colors. His tastes these days run more towards blond hair and blue eyes—and he’s pretty sure Bucky wouldn’t hesitate to murder him if even thought about making a move on Sam—but he’s more than willing to admit that Sam makes an attractive figure.
“Alright, where you gonna put your hands?” he asks.
Sam clasps them in front of him.
“That’s gonna draw attention to your dick. Is that what you want?”
Sam puts them in his pockets.
“What are you, a toddler? You look insecure.”
Sam self-consciously reaches for his tie.
“Don’t touch the tie. Look at me. How are you gonna stand?”
Sam shifts.
“Yikes.”
Sam shifts again.
“Still wrong. I ask you a question, you don’t immediately know the answer. Where are you gonna look?”
Sam looks down.
“Now I know you’re lying.”
Sam looks up.
“Now I know you don’t know the answer. Remember less is more. Don’t use three words when you can use two, or even better, one. Don’t look shifty. Keep eye contact with Schmidt but don’t stare. Be specific, not memorable; funny, but don’t make him laugh. He needs to know your name while you’re talking to him and then forget it as soon as you’ve walked away, got it? And for fuck’s sake, do not, under any circumstances—”
“Tony,” Bruce interrupts, “can I borrow you for a moment?”
“Yep,” Tony replies and walks off before Sam can protest.
The Foyer
Two Heads Casino
Sam shakes out his hands one last time as Bruce tells him not to fuck up and then he moves smoothly out from behind the pillar just as Schmidt exits the elevator. “You got this,” he mutters to himself and then affixes a polite smile to his face.
“Mr. Schmidt!” he calls, flagging the man down. Be cool, man. Don’t worry about the fact that he’s murdered a whole lot of people and put Steve behind bars.
He sees Schmidt sigh but when the man faces him, he’s smiling just as politely as Sam is.
“Can I help you, Mr…?”
“Falcone. Samuel Falcone of the Nevada Gaming Commission. Could I have just a few minutes of your time? It’s about an employee of yours.”
Schmidt sighs again. “Anything for the NGC, as long as it’s quick.”
“Of course, sir.” He withdraws a folder from his suit and holds it out. “We’ve been watching your casino for a few months and I think you need to know about an employee you hired at the beginning of October. Only just came to our attention this morning, but I thought you’d like to know. He’s got a rap list longer than my arm.”
Schmidt flips through the folder, frown growing. “Rollins,” he calls. “Go find James Winters for me.”
They wait, Sam desperately trying not to think about the crimes the man standing next to him has committed. Over the comms, he hears Tony ask, “Clint, were you able to get the combinations?”
“Sorry, Tony, his head blocked the last two numbers.”
“Okay,” Tony breathes out slowly. “Sam, that means it’s on you. Schmidt has them in his inner jacket pocket on the left side.”
He gives a half-nod before he can stop himself, realizing that it’s the wrong move to make right as Schmidt asks suspiciously, “Have you been working at the Commission long?”
“Been there about two years,” Sam says.
“Really? I have a friend over there, Michael Morbius, maybe you know him?”
In his ear, Tony says, “It’s a trick. Morbius is dead.”
Sam smiles regretfully. “Sorry, I didn’t get the chance to meet him before he died.”
Schmidt’s answering smile is thin and cold, and while Sam knows that he’s passed this test, it’s still painfully obvious that Schmidt neither likes him nor trusts him. He starts to open his mouth, unable to continue taking the awkward silence, but before he can say anything, Rollins is back, leading Bucky with his hand around Bucky’s upper arm.
“Mr. Winters,” Schmidt says coldly. “Come with us.”
“What’s this about?” Bucky asks.
“You’ve outstayed your welcome at my casino.”
The Tessera Restaurant
Two Heads Casino
Pepper is pretty certain that her heart literally cannot take this stress. She’s not meant to be on the ground with the likes of Rhodey and Tony. She’s the financier, the person pulling the strings, the woman behind the curtain. Out here, exposed like this, even though she knows it would be expected of anyone attending Schmidt’s party that evening, she feels terribly uncomfortable.
Her date, a discreet escort that Pepper has worked with in the past on jobs with Tony, is chattering away next to her left ear, and in her right, Tony is talking with Bruce about what they’re going to do if Sam can’t get the codes.
“Johnny,” she says eventually and flashes him a quick smile. “I really appreciate your attempt at distracting me but could you be a little quieter?”
He grins back at her and lowers his voice, right as the maître d’ returns. “Miss Potts, right this way, if you please,” she says.
Pepper walks into the restaurant, Johnny’s hand on the small of her back, feeling as though she’s walking right into the belly of the beast.
A Quiet Backroom
Two Heads Casino
“Mr. Falcone here,” Schmidt begins, staring Bucky down, “just gave me a very interesting report about your past doings, Mr. Winters. Or should I perhaps call you Mr. Barnes?” He flips through the folder, withdraws a mug shot and bio of Bucky, and slides it across the table to him. “You are James “Bucky” Barnes, are you not? Lately of New Jersey, though once of New York, and a known associate of Steve Rogers, convicted criminal. Once convicted of a carjacking when you were sixteen. Never caught after that but implicated in several high-profile heists, and now you are here. I think you can understand why I don’t want you anywhere near my casino.”
Bucky glances away, staring blankly at the wall.
“Your silence suggests you don’t refute any of that,” Sam says. “Mr. Barnes, as you know, the state of Nevada does not allow for ex-convicts to—”
“Fuckin’ ableist,” Bucky mutters, dropping the posh accent he’d used for this job and letting his voice drop back into its natural Brooklyn one.
“I’m sorry, what was that?” Sam asks.
“You heard me.” Bucky flexes his arm, the metal plates shifting in an impressive display. “Just cause a disabled man tries to earn a decent living in this goddamned country—”
“This has nothing to do with you having a metal arm!”
It’s clear to everyone the instant Sam says it that it’s the wrong thing to say. Bucky jumps across the table, all but throwing himself at Sam. Exclaiming loudly, Schmidt steps in to separate the two—and without Schmidt noticing, Sam’s hand slips into his jacket and withdraws the combinations to the doors and the collection vault.
“Are we good here?” Schmidt asks sharply.
“Yeah,” Sam says heavily, meaning more than just the fight. There’s a glimmer of pride in Bucky’s eyes and Sam kind of wants to preen, only stopped from doing so by Tony saying in his ear, “If you fuck him on the table, I’ll have both of your heads.”
Slot Machines
Two Heads Casino
As Steve is standing to leave, he’s stopped by two men in plainclothes uniforms. These would be some of Schmidt’s goons then. He glances between the two of them, casually shoving his hands into his pockets.
“Can I help you?” he inquires politely.
“Mr. Rogers, there’s someone who would like to have a word with you,” one of the goons says.
“Would that someone be Johann Schmidt?” he asks. The two goons share a look and Steve smiles grimly. “I thought it might be.”
Barnabas Ronin’s Suite
Two Heads Casino
Tony tries not to let his worry into his voice as he asks Rhodey, “How’s the reactor coming along?”
“Looks like it’s working great, Tones,” Rhodey says over the comm unit. “It’s been looking good since I got down here an hour ago. I’m just about set up for everything. Just let me know when it’s go time.”
The Foyer
Two Heads Casino
Schmidt hails two guards and all but shoves Bucky into their arms. “Escort this man off the premises—and show him what happens to people who try to steal from me.”
Bucky bites back a wince at the thought and readies himself for the upcoming fight, but when he looks up at the two guards, he’s startled to see that it’s Loki and Thor. He knows that they were the ones who brought the wooden crate with the lost Vermeer into the hotel but he hadn’t thought they would show their faces to Schmidt again. He chances a glance back at Schmidt as he’s led out the door and gets his answer: Schmidt, who isn’t even bothering to look at him, must never care to learn the faces of his employees, or anyone else around him, not unless they’re kowtowing to him.
He shakes his head. Fucking idiot.
“Hello, gentlemen,” he murmurs low enough that not even Bruce’s listening devices would be able to pick up his words.
“Fancy meeting you here,” Loki replies silkily.
“Now, now, silver tongue, don’t you know I’m taken?”
Right before they’re out of range entirely, he hears Sam say to Schmidt, “I think I left my phone in the room…No, you go on ahead, I’m sure you’re a very busy man. I’m pretty sure I can find my own way out.”
A Hidden Room
Two Heads Casino
Steve is twiddling his thumbs when Schmidt finally steps through the door. He tilts his head back roguishly, looking up at the man who put him in prison. “Well, well, three years and it comes down to this,” he says quietly.
Schmidt sneers at him. “I hope you do not think I will be so kind as I was last time.”
“I heard you weren’t kind at all.”
“To your associates, perhaps not, but you got off lightly, Mr. Rogers.”
“Am I to guess I won’t get off lightly this time?”
Schmidt laughs cruelly. “You won’t get off at all.”
Unbidden, Steve can’t help but think of the inappropriate response Tony would have to this comment and he takes a moment to bite back a laugh of his own and the momentary stab of regret that Tony can’t hear any of this. Steve had taken his comm unit out even before heading into the casino earlier that evening.
“So no prison time for me then, huh?”
“I will take no chances that you will walk off with any more of my belongings,” Schmidt hisses. He waves someone else inside. Steve glances the newcomer over. With his khakis and flannel shirt, the man looks like he should be someone’s father, but Steve can count at least four concealed weapons on him and he’s carrying a syringe full of a lethal-looking liquid that glows bright green.
“This is my associate,” Schmidt introduces. “Yondu Udonta, perhaps you have heard of him?”
He has. Yondu Udonta is one of the planet’s most notorious assassins. Steve can think of at least a dozen countries off the top of his head that would gladly bring the death penalty back for this man alone. He rolls his shoulders casually, loosening himself up.
“And what is he here for?” Steve asks, feigning ignorance.
“Ah that would be telling,” Schmidt chides. “I cannot just skip to the end. I’m sure you are much more curious about what he is holding.”
“A poison of some kind,” Steve says flatly. “Can’t you be more original?”
He’s not expecting the punch. It sends him over the back of the bench he’s sitting on and leaves him sprawled out across the floor. He can taste blood in his mouth and wonders if he’s bitten through his lip or his tongue. Gingerly, he moves his jaw, testing to make sure it’s not broken. It hurts, of course it does, but it does move so he thinks he’ll be okay.
“This is not just some common poison,” Schmidt snaps, kneeling down next to Steve. He roughly grasps Steve’s chin in his hand, forcing him to look at him. "This is a poison of my own making.” He chuckles and shakes the vial. “There is no antidote developed for this poison. It is completely untraceable, no one will know what has happened to you. It will kill you, oh yes, slowly and painfully. You will beg for death before the end.” He clucks his tongue in a mockery of sympathy. “It is such a shame I cannot stay to see you die. It is New Year’s, you understand, and I have guests I must be attending to.”
Schmidt stands back up, thrusting Steve back. His head bounces painfully off the cold concreted floor.
“Rough him up some, won’t you?” Schmidt asks Udonta. “I want it to look like a mugging.”
Udonta nods and then Schmidt and his two goons are gone, leaving the two of them alone.
Schmidt’s Public Gallery
Two Heads Casino
Schmidt settles into place beside Rachel right before the doors are set to open. “You’re late,” she hisses to him.
“I had a private matter to take care of,” he informs her.
She thinks about asking him what said private matter was but then thinks better of it. She has worked for this man for nearly a decade, she knows what his sort of private matters are and she thinks it’s best that she knows about as little of them as possible.
“Are you ready for tonight?” she asks instead.
The look he gives her tells her that he knows what she had just been thinking, and Rachel shivers. She would hate to ever end up on Johann Schmidt’s bad side. She had been an instrument in taking down the last person who had ended up on the bad list. At night, she still wonders what had become of Steve Rogers, and whether he ever figured out that she had betrayed him.
“My dear,” Schmidt purrs, his hand settling low on her back. Rachel fights back a wave of revulsion. “I am ready for anything.”
Chapter 21
Notes:
Sorry for the break between chapters! Those of you who follow me on tumblr know that I took a break from writing to deal with some family issues but I'm back now! Hopefully, I'll still be able to finish by the end of January but we'll see
Chapter Text
Back Hallways
Two Heads Casino
Sam strides confidently down the hallway, doing everything in his power to look as though he belongs there. In this, Schmidt’s high turnover and intense misanthropy work in his favor. No one working at the casino really knows what their coworkers look like and even if they do, they’ll just assume that an unfamiliar face means the previous familiar one got fired. They’re all slaves to Schmidt’s capricious whims and Sam knows how to use that to his advantage.
He comes to a t-intersection and glances to the left and right, double checking that there are no guards in either direction before continuing on his way. He glances up at one of the cameras he knows Bruce is controlling, thinks about winking at it, and then thinks better of it.
“Almost there, kid,” Bruce says through his earpiece.
Monitor Room
Two Heads Casino
“Hey, boss,” one of the underlings calls from his station. Zola turns to look at him. More surreptitiously, Clint glances in that direction as well, making sure to keep his head facing straight at the feed of his “painting” being placed in Schmidt’s gallery. “Who’s that guy?”
Clint’s gaze zeroes in on Sam, heading down the hall toward the elevator. Shit. They’d been relying on the incompetence of the monitor staff for Sam’s walk down the hall, knowing that it would be too risky to replace the feeds on every single camera, but clearly they’d overestimated them. Pepper Potts, he thinks viciously as he tongues the capsule she’d placed inside his mouth before he went downstairs, if whatever biological warfare your company has cooked up in those labs of yours kills me, I will come back from the grave specifically to haunt you.
He bites down on the capsule and immediately swallows. Pepper had assured him it would be fast-acting and he barely has a moment to think that it isn’t working before his body convulses.
The last thing Clint sees before he passes out is of everyone in the room turning to him—“Call for a doctor!” someone yells—and on the screen behind them, Sam gets onto the elevator undetected.
Private Gallery Elevator
Two Heads Casino
Sam reminds himself that Tony told him he shouldn’t just twiddle his thumbs while he waits in the elevator, so he shoves them deep into his pockets instead, only to remember at the last second that Tony told him not to do that too. Ah well, it would just look awkward if he tried to pull them out now. At least the only person watching him is Bruce. As long as Bruce did his job correctly, his traitorous brain reminds him. Yeah, okay, the only person watching him is Bruce as long as the cameras are actually still looping through the feed of the empty elevator. He isn’t sure how that works—surely there must be a monitor showing if any of the elevators are moving—but maybe Bruce would have hacked that too.
“Go for Steve,” Bruce says through the comm link.
Sam immediately jumps and reaches for one of the ceiling panels, snagging the edge of it with his fingernails. He rips the panel down, revealing a trap door. As if on cue, he hears something bang against the trap door twice. He raps on it another three times and then pushes it open.
A hand catches it from the other side and pulls it the rest of the way open. Sam steps back and lets Steve jump down, now dressed in a black catsuit instead of the khakis and button-down he’d been wearing earlier.
“How did it go?” Sam asks, casually stripping out of his own clothes to reveal his catsuit underneath.
“Great,” Steve replies, bending down to begin working on the trap door on the bottom of the elevator. “Still not sure how Udonta managed to smuggle a whole corpse in here without Schmidt noticing but I figure it’s best not to ask questions.” He attaches a rappelling line to Sam’s belt. “C’mon, Natasha’s got about three minutes of air left.”
They carefully make their way onto the bottom of the elevator, holding onto the undercarriage to keep from falling. Sam makes the mistake of looking down to see how fast they’re moving, how quickly the lowest floor is coming up on them and exhales quickly.
“Shit, that’s fast,” he breathes.
Steve grins at him, making Sam remember the time Bucky called Steve the world’s greatest adrenaline junkie (“He’d jump from a plane without a parachute if he thought he could get away with it.”).
“You love it,” Steve tells him and reaches over to hook Sam’s rappelling line onto the undercarriage.
And the thing is, Sam finds he can’t really argue with that.
Monitor Room
Two Heads Casino
“Somebody called for a doctor?” Tony asks, approaching the guard standing in front of the monitor room. The guard glares at him, and Tony flashes a charming smile back at him, suddenly grateful that SI’s face cloaking technology didn’t take away all of his good looks.
The guard moves aside, leaving Tony free to slip inside. His gaze darts around the room in a brief instant, taking in Clint twitching on the floor, movements steadily growing feebler, the monitors showing nothing but empty screens, and the guards and Zola clustered around Clint, standing around gaping like they’ve never seen someone collapse before. Useless, the lot of them really.
“Make a hole, people,” he orders and pushes through the gap to begin chest compressions on Clint. He knows—and Clint knows—that they’re only half-hearted attempts (he doesn’t even manage to break a rib), but he’s sure that they look real enough to the guards and Zola, who have clearly never seen something like this happen before. And who knows? Maybe they really haven’t. Maybe this is somehow the first time someone has ever died in this hotel. But, as he glances at the muscles on the closest guard, he doubts it. Tony’s pretty certain people have died here before. This is just the first time they’ve had to do something to stop it.
He keeps an ear out for footsteps down the hall, stopping as soon as he hears them. That would be Loki and Thor, he figures, and right on cue, they burst into the room, dressed as paramedics, just in time to hear Tony say solemnly, “He’s gone.”
Loki turns to Thor and hisses, “This is your fault. I told you to hurry.”
Tony has to stop himself from rolling his eyes.
Barnabas Ronin’s Suite
Two Heads Casino
Bruce watches from the cameras as Steve finishes attaching his and Sam’s rappelling lines. He, personally, doesn’t really see how using suction cups could possibly be a safe idea to anchor their lines to the elevator as they rappel down the elevator shaft but Tony had assured him that he had had a hand in designing them and that these were no ordinary suction cups.
“Bruce, we’re set,” Steve says through the headset.
He rotates his chair so he can see the other feed of Tony, Thor, and Loki wheeling a “dead” Clint down the back hallways. It had taken them a little longer to make it out the door than they wanted, as Zola had insisted they all sign NDAs about the death in the casino—and go through the back way—but even so it isn’t long before Tony is also ducking his head into his shoulder.
“Bruce, we’re set,” Tony murmurs, subtle enough that the camera feeds in the monitor room won’t pick up on it.
He swivels his chair again to where Rhodey is finishing typing the command into the arc reactor that’ll shut down the whole city.
“Rhodey, we’re set,” he says.
The Sewer System
Las Vegas, Nevada
Rhodey hears the words, nods absently, and presses enter on the commands. “Alright, give it a minute to warm up,” he mutters as he heads back out of the sewer. Neither he nor Tony are entirely certain what’s going to happen when the reactor overloads for that brief instant but they’re both positive that they don’t want him to stick around to find out.
“We don’t have a minute,” Bruce informs him. “Natasha’s gonna run out of air in eleven seconds.”
“Then maybe Tony and Steve should have moved faster,” he snarls, hearing the boom of the reactor overloading behind him. He scrambles up the sewer ladder, popping his head out of the manhole cover just in time to see whole blocks of light disappearing into the night.
Gallery Elevator Shaft
Two Heads Casino
“You ever rappel before?” Steve asks. The lights in the shaft have winked out—except for the infrared sensors.
“Never,” Sam says, also looking nervously downward. “You?”
He thinks about the cons in São Paulo and Montreal and decides not to mention that the previous times have rarely ended well. “A few times.” The sensors blink twice and then disappear. He grins. “Now.”
They let go and fall together, hurtling down the elevator shaft, upside down and heads tucked as much into their bodies as they can. The wind is whistling so loudly past them that he can’t hear Rhodey’s countdown before the reactor compensates for the increased power and starts everything back up again. He can only hope that they have enough time.
In his head, he hears Tony say in that offended tone of his—the one that makes Steve want to tackle him to the bed and suck him off until Tony’s forgotten what he’s even supposed to be offended about—Of course there’s enough time, I designed it, didn’t I?
He looks straight down to see the concrete floor rushing up at them, fifty feet—forty feet—thirty—twenty—
And then they jerk to a halt, ten feet above the floor, bouncing back up as the cord reaches its full extension. And now that they’re stopped he can hear Rhodey less than a few seconds from the end of the countdown.
“No,” he exclaims, alarmed. “No no no no—”
“Relax,” Sam tells him and whips out a knife from his belt. “I’ve got this.” He cuts the cords on both of their lines, sending them crashing to the floor as their rappel lines recoil quickly back up the elevator. It hurts but Steve doesn’t have enough time to be indignant as only a moment later, the infrared sensors blink back on. He groans and thumps his head against the floor. Fucking lucky is what they are.
“You alright?” Sam asks him after a moment, groaning as he tries to move and promptly lands on a bruise.
Steve groans as well. Everything hurts. Fuck but he’s getting too old for this. “Not even close but thanks for asking.”
Schmidt’s Public Gallery
Two Heads Casino
“What the hell was that?” Schmidt snarls as he surveys the gallery, double checking that all of his art is still hanging on the wall before he turns his attention to his guests.
“I…have no idea,” Leighton admits from beside him. She’s looking around as well but her gaze is drawn to the patrons of the gallery instead of the art. He makes a note of that and reminds himself to fire her for real this time. But not tonight. He can’t afford a scene after everything else that’s gone on in his hotel and casino tonight. Fuck, one guest dead, a dealer exposed as a criminal and fired, and then Rogers…
Rogers.
That’s what it has to be.
He all but rips his phone out of his pocket, already dialing Udonta by the time he has it to his ear. “Tell me Rogers is dead,” he snaps as soon as Udonta picks up.
The assassin chuckles. “Without even a ‘Good evening’ or a ‘Happy New Year’s,’ he tuts. “You’re slipping, Johann.”
“That’s Herr Schmidt to you,” he says impatiently. “Ro—”
“Oogledy boogledy boo,” Udonta interrupts.
“Excuse me?” Schmidt demands. He’s sure that the veins on his neck are standing out prominently and he reminds himself to calm down. Stress is a sure way to die early and Schmidt plans to live forever if he has something to say about it. He waits but Udonta seems done. “Is Rog—”
Again, Udonta interrupts him with more of that—that gibberish.
“Is Rogers—”
And still more gibberish!
“Fine!” he nearly shouts. “Happy New Year! Now will you tell me—”
“Calm down,” Udonta says, chuckling again. “Yes, he’s dead.”
The assassin hangs up before Schmidt can, infuriating the man still further, and he swears that as soon as he’s rid of Leighton, he’s going to take care of that upstart assassin as well.
He looks around the room one more time, this time letting his gaze fall on Miss Pepper Potts, a known associate of Tony Stark who is a known associate of Steve Rogers in his turn. Potts has never once accepted one of his invitations to his parties. Schmidt would stop sending them to her if he could, but he knows better than to snub the CEO of Stark Industries, no matter how much he would like to.
He narrows his eyes at her. As if on cue, she looks in his direction and shrugs helplessly, as though to say that she had no hand in the power going out. And with no proof, he can’t just disappear her so reluctantly, he turns away again.
Barnabas Ronin’s Suite
Two Heads Casino
“Are they in?” Bucky asks, pulling up a chair beside Bruce.
“One second,” Bruce replies absently. He pauses, then looks over at Bucky. “I thought you got kicked out.”
Bucky gives him one of those boy, please looks. “And here I thought you knew me better than that.” He nods at the cameras. “So, what’re you doing?”
Bruce points at one of the screens. “This is the video feed from tonight and this is the feed from last night. Same positions but you might notice it’s not the same guards. It was supposed to be, but Schmidt changed the schedule on us at the last minute, so I can’t just replace the feed from tonight with last night’s. Dick.”
“Agreed.”
“This would normally be a problem but fortunately, isn’t not one for me since this program will transpose the face guards from tonight onto the guards from last night, and I can replace the feed that way.” He does exactly that and waits for the tiny blip in the screen to indicate it’s been replaced. There’s a small worry in the back of his mind that one of the monitor guards might have noticed the blip but then Bucky whistles and points at the screens of the casino floor.
“Did the blackout do that?” he asks, gesturing at the slot machines going wild.
Bruce smirks. “Looks like the house is going to lose big tonight.”
Private Gallery Hallway
Two Heads Casino
Steve waits two beats past the thuds of the guards hitting the floor before he turns the corner, heading into the smoke-filled hallway. He scoops up the shells of the gas pellets he and Sam had used, determined to leave no evidence behind. Sam, meanwhile, is straightening the guards back up, leaning them against the wall. The benefit of whatever gas Bruce and Tony had cooked up is that it erases the last fifteen minutes of memory so, as long as they’re able to keep on schedule, when the guards wake up, they’ll have no idea that they’d been knocked out, or even that there had been a crime at all.
“You think Natasha made it out okay?” Sam asks as they waft the last little bit of smoke from the corridor.
“I’m sure she’s fine.”
He motions for Sam to type in the code he’d stolen from Schmidt into the door to the gallery antechamber. It’s a long number, at least fifteen digits long, and Steve counts them lucky that they hadn’t had to memorize that number. Tony would have been able to do it, and given a little more time, he’s sure he himself might have been able to as well, but it would have been close, and stress isn’t good for anyone’s memory.
The door’s keypad flashes green and Steve swings it open, revealing the small room and the gallery door behind it—sleek, immense, and impregnable.
“Fuck,” Sam breathes at the sight of it. Steve is sure that they’re both thinking the same thing—it’s a good thing they aren’t having to try to figure out how to crack that door.
“There’s a Russian woman with a hundred and fifty million dollars in art behind that door,” Steve says. He flashes Sam a grin. “Let’s get her out.”
With a flat palm, he hits the door, waiting for Natasha’s answering thump before he nods at Sam and says, “Okay.” He begins unraveling the thin electrical wire and detonator Rhodey had given him earlier this evening.
“That’s it?” Sam asks dubiously.
“It’ll do the job,” Steve assures him. “There’s still the pins and the sensor—not much we can do about it from this side. But, on the other side, where Natasha is, a little bit of Semtex does the trick.”
“And how did we smuggle that in there?”
“The rubies in the corners of the frame.”
“…The painting’s frame?”
“That’s the one.”
He slaps the door again, twice this time. A few moments later, he hears Natasha answer his slaps with two of her own. “Alright, Bruce, count me down to midnight.”
“Seventeen,” Bruce says over the earpiece. “Sixteen.”
Steve unspools the wire, backing up and around the corner, Sam following right beside him. He steadies the detonator in his hand.
“—Twelve. Eleven. Ten. Nine.”
God but he hopes Natasha got out of there in time. He knows about her background with the Widows program now—Tony told him about her days ago—but she’s still just a civilian. He’ll never forgive himself if he gets her injured. There’s been too much death and destruction surrounding Johann Schmidt as it is already.
“Five. Four. Three. Two. One.”
And as fireworks explode in the night sky above Las Vegas, celebrating the end of an old year and the beginning of a new one, Steve presses down on the detonator. The blast is still muffled by the heavy iron door, but not enough that Steve isn’t grateful for the fireworks providing a convenient excuse. Smoke fills the air, making him cough, and then there’s the sound of a heavy iron door, hitting the ground.
He hears the pitter patter of light steps just before Natasha pokes her head around the corner, grinning wickedly at them.
“Hello, boys.”
Casino Entrance
Two Heads Casino
Tony waits for confirmation from Bruce before he raises his phone to his ear. The number has already been dialed, just waiting for him to press Call. He leans up against one of the pillars and taps his foot in time with the beat of the song playing in the casino, some forgettable song that he’s sure has been carefully analyzed and selected by the best psychologists as one likely to make people want to throw away their money.
“Hello?” the woman on the other end says.
“Hello, Miss Potts. He wouldn’t happen to be anywhere near you, now would he?”
He can practically hear the smile in Pepper’s voice as she says, “Why, as it happens, yes he is. Shall I pass you over to him?”
“I’d appreciate that.”
There’s a moment, then he hears her says, “Mr. Schmidt, it’s for you.”
Another moment and then Schmidt snaps into the phone, “Who is this?”
Tony smiles smugly. “This is the man who’s robbing you.”
Chapter Text
Monitor Room
Two Heads Casino
Schmidt enters the room and the noise level, which had been a loud cacophony prior to his entrance, dies down to a whisper in an instant. There’s a look of fear in his employees’ eyes and he bites back a smile. Good; it seems they all know then what the penalty is for displeasing him—and he is very displeased.
“What’s going on down in my gallery?” he snaps at whoever is monitoring the gallery cameras.
“Nothing, sir,” the employee says nervously, saluting with a shaking hand. “It’s all normal.”
“Show me.”
The guard nods and pulls up the cameras, revealing a perfectly normal hallway and gallery. Schmidt smirks at the sight and raises the phone to his ear again.
“I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” he says, voice poisonously sweet. The guard shudders, even though the words are not meant for him.
The man on the other end of the line—if it is a man, technology is capable of so many things these days—hums amusedly. “Am I?” he asks. “Keep watching your screen.”
There’s a pause and then the monitor cuts out for a brief second, only to come back with a scene that horrifies him more than anything he’s ever seen—and he’s seen a lot in his days as a casino owner. Two men and a woman, all masked, are cutting down his paintings, heedless of their frames, and rolling them up to place in plastic tubes. It isn’t just that he’s being robbed that has him swearing loudly in German, but the lack of care—the—the recklessness—has him wanting to shout his fury.
“Funny isn’t it,” the man on the phone says sunnily, as though he hasn’t a care in the world. “Your luck can change so quickly in this town.”
“Alright,” he snarls, clenching and unclenching his fist at his side. “You’ve proven your point, you’ve broken into my gallery. Congratulations: you’re a dead man.”
“I was a dead man for three years. Nothing you can do to me is worse than what I’ve already been through.”
The voice—it’s familiar. He knows he’s heard it before, though he isn’t sure when or where. He meets so many people and most of them he just discards.
“Tell me, how do you plan on leaving my casino once you have the paintings, hmm? Do you believe I’ll simply allow you to walk out of here with some of the most priceless pieces of art on the planet?”
“Not even a little bit,” the man laughs. “That’s why you’re gonna carry it out for me.”
“Oh I am, am I?”
“Yep. Take a closer look at that monitor. As you might have noticed, we’re not taking everything. We’re leaving behind a nice little present for you.”
He spots the blinking devices on the frames of the untouched paintings and bites back a wave of fury. “Blackmail, then,” he states flatly. His hands itch to throttle someone, preferably the man on the phone, but he’ll take anyone at this point—maybe even Zola, for not noticing that thieves were just waltzing into his hotel.
“Got it in one. You let us go with our paintings and we’ll let you keep yours. Try to stop us, we’ll blow both sets up. Mr. Schmidt, you can lose half of your art secretly or all of it publicly. And I don’t think those museums you donate to will be too pleased to hear that you not only gave them fakes but that you lost the real ones too. It’s your decision.”
Schmidt breathes in and out heavily, the phone muted so that the man on the other end cannot hear his rage. He knows what he should do. He should let the paintings go and track these thieves down afterward and take back his collection. But he knows what he wants to do also: stop them now, teach them and any who might follow afterward a lesson—Johann Schmidt is not to be trifled with.
He turns to Zola. “Call the police.” He waits long enough to hear the responder say, “911, what’s your emergency?” and Zola respond, “This is Two Heads. We have a situation here,” before he unmutes his phone again.
“Do we have a deal?” the man asks.
“We have a deal.”
“Good. Here’s what you’re going to do. Five minutes from now, the people in the gallery are going to put half your collection in the elevator—that’s thirty works by the way, including all of your lost Masters, if you’re thinking it’ll be worthwhile to just cut the lines on the elevator. Each tube will have an X on it. If they meet anyone, we’ll blow both collections, do you understand?”
Schmidt grits his teeth. “I understand.”
“One minute after that, the elevator will rise to the casino floor where your guards are going to pick them up and carry them out the front door. They’ll be met by a black unmarked van in front of the valet station. If they take more than thirty seconds to reach the van, if they stop to talk to anyone, if we receive any indication at all that there’s been a switch, we’ll blow both collections. Do you understand?”
Faintly, in the background of the phone call, Schmidt hears a slot machine ring. “He’s in the casino,” he hisses to Zola, low enough that he doesn’t think the man will hear him but then the man laughs, dispelling that notion.
“Of course I’m in the casino. Fuck, I’m staying in your hotel. You think I wouldn’t be here for this? Let’s get back to what’s actually important: your guards will load the collection in the back of the van. If anyone even so much as thinks about approaching the driver, we’ll—”
“Blow the collection, yes I know,” Schmidt says impatiently. He wants this show to be over with, wants this man to stop mocking him. He’s won, isn’t that enough?
“Good, you’re learning,” the man says amusedly.
He bites back a snarl. “Now what?”
“When I get confirmation that the van hasn’t been followed, that the collection is secure, my people will leave the building and when I get word that they’re safe and sound, you will get your gallery back.”
“Are you done?” Schmidt asks as soon as he stops talking.
“Hmm yep.”
“Good, because I have something to tell you too, Tony Stark,” he says, because now he knows who he’s been talking to. It was the three years that did it—three years of being a dead man? That could only be two people: Steve Rogers, who is now dead, or Rogers’ lover, the one whose heart Schmidt could have ripped out of his chest, if he had so desired. Stark gasps, all but confirming his hunch.
“Run and hide,” he continues. “Bury your head in the sand and pray I don’t find you—although I will. I will be looking for you and there is nowhere on this planet where you can hide forever. So run and hide, Tony Stark. Your death is coming.”
He hears no confirmation, no words from the great Tony Stark. The call is still active but he presumes that Stark is long gone. He smiles to himself, satisfied that he is going to turn this con on its head.
Valet Station
Two Heads Casino
Rumlow watches as the black van—with half the boss’s art collection inside—drives off. He wasn’t one of the guards who loaded up the van (if he had, he wouldn’t have even bothered with loading it, he would have just shot the driver), but he’s been watching as the guards who were in charge of the paintings finished up.
“We’re moving,” he says to the driver of his sedan. Surreptitiously, the sedan, and the four others behind it, pulls out onto the road behind the black van, each van packed to the brim with armed guards. And even more surreptitiously behind the sedans, an old but beautifully restored Roadster pulls out behind them.
After a few minutes, Rumlow raises the radio to his mouth and says, “Looks like we’re headed towards the airport.”
Schmidt’s voice buzzes irritably through the radio. “I want my collection back before that van even reaches the tarmac.”
“You got it, boss.”
Monitor Room
Two Heads Casino
“Is SWAT here yet?” Schmidt asks as he clicks the radio off.
“Just arrived,” Zola assures him, ushering him to one of the other monitors. Through the tiny screen, he watches as the SWAT team—six in all—get out of the van he’d ordered to pull up behind the casino (no reason to panic the guests, after all, it’s already been enough of a bad night). They’re armed to the teeth, clad in body armor, helmets, and vision guards, about as faceless as stormtroopers.
Schmidt meets them at the back entrance, where the SWAT leader hands him another radio. “We’ll keep in contact with you through this. Channel 3.” Schmidt nods his understanding, adds “Do try to refrain from destroying my art,” is not at all reassured by the way the SWAT leader just nods patronizingly, and returns to the monitor room, teeth grinding against each other.
The team hustles down the back corridors to the elevator shaft—“Turn off the sensors,” Schmidt tells the guard—where they rappel down to the gallery, rapidly moving into position.
“Night goggles on,” the SWAT leader says. “Prepare to cut power.”
“Ready when you are, sir,” the guard manning the power switch says to Schmidt. He takes one last look at the monitor, at the three thieves pacing the gallery, at the SWAT team readying themselves in the hall, and he nods.
“Do it.”
“Cutting power now.”
The monitors go black with the loss of power, leaving Schmidt to rely only on the radio to tell him what’s going on.
“First wave, in!” he hears the SWAT leader shout. “Second wave, in!”
And then, in the distance, someone else yells, high and panicked, “Someone’s here!”
“Take them down! Now!”
The sharp staccato burst of gunfire, a high-pitched scream, and then a loud BARRROOOOOOM! And Schmidt’s heart leaps into his throat, because he knows that sound all too well.
That’s the sound of an explosion.
“Get them lights,” he hisses. “Now!”
“Sir, I can’t,” the guard protests, “the team leader—”
Schmidt’s hand twitches for his gun—if this spineless coward won’t turn on the lights so that he can see what’s happened to his gallery, then he’ll replace him, and he’ll replace the next one too if that’s what he has to do—but no sooner does he have the thought then he hears the SWAT leader come back on over the radio.
“We need power now!”
The power switches on, and on the monitors, Schmidt sees…he sees destruction, there’s no better way to put it. Smoke fills the gallery as three of the SWAT team push through it, the others helping to clear the unconscious guards out of the hallway.
“Fuck,” the SWAT leader swears. “Fuck, there’s not—they blew the gallery—if there was anyone in here, they’re not in one piece anymore.”
Dread fills him as Schmidt thinks about what could have happened to his paintings. Millions of dollars, gone in an instant.
“My paintings,” he says urgently, leaning forward over the monitor as though that’ll help the smoke clear faster. “What about my paintings?”
“They’re—” The SWAT leader hesitates just long enough for Schmidt to know exactly what happened: they’re gone, blown to tatters or incinerated in the flames.
“I’m coming down there,” he says. “Clear your men out of there. I never want to see any of you again.”
“Sir—”
“If you so much, as step foot in my casino—”
“Understood, sir,” the SWAT leader interrupts. Good. He understands that his team has failed then, understands that there are consequences for failing the most powerful man in the Western Hemisphere. “Men, we’re moving out!”
As Schmidt is leaving, he tosses the other radio to Zola. “Tell Rumlow and his team to take the van, and let them know what will happen if they fail me.”
“Yes, Herr Schmidt.”
McCarran Airport
Las Vegas, Nevada
Rumlow holds onto the bar above his head as the sedans converge on the black van, screeching to a halt. He motions at his team and they jump out of the sedan, followed by the other teams and surrounding the van on all sides.
“Out of the van!” he shouts, and when there’s no response, “Now!”
There’s still no response, so he motions to the teams again. They shoot out the van’s tires, which slowly sinks down as the air hisses out. He continues to wait, but the driver of the van must have bigger balls than he thought, because they’re not climbing out.
His radio crackles. “How are we doing with the van?” Zola asks.
“No sign of movement,” Rumlow tells him. He’d almost think that they were dead except that that makes positively no sense at all. He considers the van, remembering what Schmidt had said—do not approach. But… “I’m going in.”
He hears Zola start to protest, but turns the radio off, ignoring it. Cautiously, he approaches the driver’s side door but—
But—
There’s no driver.
“What the fuck?” he says out loud, studying the video camera mounted on a stick in the seat where the driver should be. “What am I—” He cranes his head back, wondering what the fuck is going on, and spots the antenna of the van. It’s longer than he thinks it should be, though he’s not familiar with this kind of van. “How—”
The van lurches.
McCarran Airport Parking Garage
Las Vegas, Nevada
From the safety of the Roadster, Pepper and Loki watch on the tablet Tony had provided them with as Schmidt’s men investigate the van. Loki is giggling maniacally as he fiddles with the joystick on the controller, sending the flat-tired van lurching another feet. Schmidt’s men scatter, startled—or frightened, who cares—by the self-moving van.
“Alright, enough,” Pepper says eventually. “Get to the point.”
“You need to learn how to have fun,” Loki informs her, but he obediently brings the van to a stop and readies the bright red button on the controller. He waits until the head goon is reaching out for the rear door handle—
BARRROOOOOOM!
Private Gallery
Two Heads Casino
Schmidt steps over the scattered remains of his gallery, looking over the destruction those thieves had wrought. He picks up the burnt remains of a frame, blackened and twisted beyond recognition, and lets it drop again.
The radio crackles. “Sir,” he hears Zola begin hesitantly.
“Yes?” he says urgently, clutching the radio, desperate for news of what’s left of his gallery.
“They took the van.”
“And?”
“And…and they blew up the van, Herr Schmidt.”
Shit. The radio drops numbly to his side. He’s lost them, lost everything, the whole collection he’s spent so long curating, buying out anyone who would dare oppose him, killing those who had managed to take what he wanted before they even laid hands on their new prizes.
“Sir?” Zola says over the radio. “Sir?”
“What?” he snaps.
“They say it doesn’t look like the paintings were there, sir.”
“…What?”
“They say the bags were filled with posters. For the Stark Expo next year.”
“How can that—?”
“That’s what they said. I don’t understand, sir, we saw them putting the paintings in the tubes.”
Did they? He looks desperately around the gallery, searching for some clue that—that—his gaze falls on the logo of the casino on the floor. It’s cracked now, from the force of the explosion, but…
“Zola, bring up the tapes of the robbery.” He waits a moment and then says, “Was the Two Heads symbol on the floor of the gallery?”
A beat, and then, just as he’d suspected, “No, sir. It isn’t. I—I don’t get it.”
“I had that installed last week. The image we saw was a fake. They must have built a second gallery, recorded the robbery, and shown that to us. What we saw wasn’t them putting the art in the carry tubes, that wasn’t really happening.”
“So where is the art?”
The easy answer would be that it was all blown up—all of it, not a scrap left behind—but if the art in the van was a fake, then…
“The SWAT team,” he growls, absolutely furious. Stark must have been the man on the phone and the SWAT team leader, the emergency call must have been intercepted by someone he hadn’t even known existed, the guns must have been firing blanks, the art already neatly packed away and ready to be taken out in the bags the SWAT team had been carrying, and oh, this whole thing was so much bigger than he’d thought. It couldn’t have been just Rogers and Stark and—and—Rogers.
If he’d hired more people then Schmidt had expected out of someone who only works with small teams, then maybe he’d bought out Udonta too. Maybe this whole thing—
“Fuck,” he snarls and heads for the door.
“SWAT” Van
…Somewhere in Las Vegas
Tony slides his hand into Steve’s, squeezing it tight. Steve smiles at him and lifts their hands to his lips to brush a kiss over Tony’s fingers. Tony fights back a blush as he raises the phone in his other hand to his ear. It rings twice and then picks up. Before the operator can say anything, Tony interrupts with, “Las Vegas PD, this is Officer Downey from the New York probation division. I have a violator from my district that I believe to be residing at the Two Heads Casino.”
A Hidden Room
Two Heads Casino
Incensed, Schmidt stalks toward the hidden room he’d had Rogers thrown in. The two men he’d had stationed there are still keeping watch, though he knows they believe they’re standing guard over a corpse.
“Where’s Rogers?” he demands.
The guards glance at each other. “Inside,” one of them says slowly.
“We’ll see about that,” he mutters. “Open it up.”
The door swings open, revealing Rogers, sprawled across the floor. Schmidt bends down and slaps the man across the face, hoping to stir him into action, but the man does nothing. He lowers his head down still further, looking to see if he can feel the man’s breaths on his face, but he feels nothing. He pushes the man’s sleeve up, checking to see that there is, in fact, evidence of the needle entering his arm. Finally, he casts his gaze around, landing on the emptied syringe Udonta had left behind, that fucking lazy idiot. He reaches for it, picking it up and inspecting it to see if he can spot any evidence of tampering, but can’t spot any.
“I don’t—” he starts to say and then freezes as he hears footsteps down the hall. There shouldn’t be footsteps, certainly not any as heavy as that, and—
“Johann Schmidt,” a harsh, female voice says. “Drop the syringe and put your hands behind your back. You’re under arrest for the murder of Steve Rogers.”
Notes:
if this doesn't make any sense, i'll explain more from steve and tony's side next week
Chapter Text
January 1, 2015
Las Vegas, Nevada
Sam is the one who asks, while the team is packing up the Empathy Suite. Normally, the suite would have been packed up and the team scattered to the four winds only minutes after the job had ended, but with Schmidt arrested and on his way to prison, they’ve got nothing to worry about.
“So, uh,” Sam starts to say. Steve pauses in his packing, as does the rest of the team, and turns to looks at him. “How exactly did you frame Schmidt for murder? Cause clearly you’re here and not dead so…”
Steve glances at Tony. “You want to take this one? Cause I’m not really sure either.”
Tony nods, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Life model decoys,” he says.
“Life what?”
“They’re robots,” Pepper chimes in, “that look like people. SI was developing them for military use but we shelved the project when Tony took over.”
“We started working on them again a couple years ago,” Tony adds. “Figured maybe not use them for military use but maybe for other dangerous jobs—firefighting, search and rescue, that kind of thing. When Steve started talking about going after Schmidt again, I thought maybe it was time to test one out.”
“But,” Sam protests, looking around the room. No one else seems to have picked up on what he has and that worries him. There’s a glaring problem here, and he doesn’t understand how none of them have picked up on it. “But what about the body? It’ll be taken to the coroner’s office. They’ll discover it’s not a real body, Schmidt will go free.”
Tony gestures at Steve, implying he can handle that question. Steve nods understandingly. “I’ve got a friend at the police department. She owes me a couple favors, she’ll make sure Schmidt gets handed over to the right people and that the frame job goes unnoticed.”
“The right people?”
“Schmidt angered a lot of people when he killed a CIA agent,” Clint says quietly. Sam looks over at him to see a sorrowful look in his eyes, a surprising change from his usually happy-go-lucky outlook. “I’m sure they’d be happy to see him go down.”
“And what about you?” Sam asks, turning back to Steve. “You’re officially dead. What, are you just gonna walk around and hope no one notices that a dead man is up and about?”
Tony shrugs. “It’s not like Steve’s trial was publicized. Plenty of people have never even heard of Steve Rogers.”
“And if it gets to be too bad,” Steve adds. “We made plenty of money off this job, enough to retire somewhere people won’t ask questions.”
Sam himself still has questions—a million of them really—but Bucky lays a hand on his shoulder and murmurs to him, “I’ll tell you everything later.”
Bucky gives a quick wave to the rest of the team and raises his voice as he says, “If you don’t need anything else from us, we’re heading out.”
“We’ll have the money wired to your account as soon as the last painting sells,” Pepper tells them.
Sam’s last look at the team is of them all returning to their packing, Loki and Thor already discussing their next job.
Natasha slips out quietly not long after Sam and Bucky, so quiet that no one even really notices until Clint looks up and asks where she is. Tony doesn’t know, same as everyone else, but when he checks his phone a few minutes later, he has a text from her with her account number and a reminder that life is too short to hold grudges.
Loki and Thor are gone a few minutes after that, Loki grumbling about an early morning flight, Thor waving cheerily to them all. And then it seems like it’s a flood of departures—Clint and then Bruce and then Rhodey and Pepper together because Rhodey needs Pepper’s pass to get him into the labs to return the arc reactor—until it’s just Tony and Steve standing alone in the suite, staring out at the lights of Las Vegas.
They’re quiet for a moment and then they both start to talk at the same time.
“Where—”
“Would—”
They stop, laugh a little awkwardly. It seems strange, that this would be what makes them awkward after all this time. They’ve talked things through, they know where they went wrong last time, they love each other. It should be easy now, but it’s not, because all Tony can think of is all the times he watched Steve walk away toward another job, leaving him at home with their cold sheets to keep him comfort.
Steve clears his throat. “You first.”
Tony ducks his head, staring at the floor while he asks, “Where are you off to now?”
Steve is quiet for a while, maybe just thinking it over, maybe judging Tony for even bothering to ask, Tony doesn’t know. He doesn’t bother raising his head to look at him. “I don’t know,” Steve says eventually, thoughtfully, like he really hasn’t thought about it. “I guess I was so busy thinking about how I was going to take Schmidt down that I forgot to think about what happens afterward. Where are you off to?”
“Malibu probably,” Tony admits. “Can’t leave my poker group, you know?”
“That group of actors you’re teaching?”
“Yep, them.”
“You’re better than that, Tony.”
The sincerity in Steve’s voice just about kills him, and he finds himself blinking back tears. “Well, it’s not like I’ve got anywhere else to—”
“What if I came with you?” Steve interrupts, and that’s what gets Tony to look back up at him. Steve’s eyes are suspiciously shiny as well, but that doesn’t stop him from taking Tony’s hand in his and leaning down to press his forehead against Tony’s. “Look, I know I fucked up. I know I ruined the best thing I ever had because I let my insecurities get to me, and you would be well within your right to tell me to fuck off and never bother you again. But, Tony, sweetheart, as maybe the world’s leading expert in waiting too long, let’s not wait anymore. Please, can I come home with you?”
And Tony remembers what they’d been talking about weeks ago, about the therapy they’re both going to go through, and the conversations they need to have, and maybe they do need to take some time away from each other before they try this again, but what the hell? Tony has always been reckless.
And maybe—he’s spent the last three years desolately hopeless—maybe it’s time to open himself back up to hope again.
He nods, just a little, and whispers through the thickness in his throat, “I’d like that.”
When Steve smiles, it outshines all the lights in Las Vegas.
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