Archive of Our Own ^beta

By the time Steve wakes up it’s already too late; the world is already ending. One of those bullhorn things is being used repeatedly by someone on the street outside his window, he can smell gas in the air (he hopes no one lights a cigarette), and Bucky is screaming “What did you do?” at the top of his lungs. Steve rolls over, looks at the clock sitting on his bedside table, and sighs internally. It’s 10 in the morning, but it’s one of Steve’s few off days and he thought he was going to be able to enjoy it in peace. He isn’t sure why he expected anything other than this.

Heaving himself out of bed and throwing on a shirt, Steve muses about what could possibly be the problem now. Maybe Clint forgot to pay the light bill again, it’s possible Thor spilled an entire tank of propane somehow, Bucky could’ve tried to pierce Sam’s ear in his sleep; Steve doesn’t know how his friends end up in situations like this, they just do. He tries not to get angry about it most of the time because it’s not like it’s his fault that he’s surrounded by idiots, but right now he’s a little pissed. He brushes his teeth angrily in his bathroom and then slides on a pair of house shoes because there’s no way he’s venturing anywhere in this house barefoot. It feels too early in the morning for boots though.

Downstairs there is absolutely no cereal, a pot of coffee on top of the TV, an aisle of the stove still on, and a dog in a cardboard box on the couch. He spends a long minute staring at the box wondering how it got there and also how it became full of a dog, until he ultimately decides that maybe this is what Bucky was yelling about. The house appears to be empty though, and Steve assumes Bucky is now trying to rectify the situation at hand. He goes into the kitchen and fixes himself some instant oatmeal.

“You can’t just pick up teenaged girls, Clint,” Sam sighs, walking into the house and slamming the front door behind him. Technically, this is only his place. His grandma left it to him when she moved to Boca a few years ago and instead of getting smart and moving some of his more responsible boot camp friends into the spare rooms upstairs, he decided to start a home for wayward punks he met in elementary school. Steve usually feels bad for Sam; he’s surrounded by as many idiots as Steve and doesn’t even have the option to threaten to move out every time he’s angry. He sits on top of the breakfast bar and eats his oatmeal quietly.

“I didn’t mean to,” Clint says apologetically, “she was just so alone, y’know? And I had to do something.”

Sam clucks sympathetically as they come into Steve’s view, “I know buddy, but you also can’t just give away Bucky’s truck. He needs it to get to work,” he drops the keys to his own car, a sensible Mazda, on the counter next to Steve’s ankle. So that’s why Bucky was screaming bloody murder. Steve nods his greeting to Clint who just nods back in the sad way that a scolded child might. He represses the urge to roll his eyes.

“Can’t he just call a tow?”

“For what?”

“To take him to work? The truck’ll make it back there at some point during the day right?”

Steve and Sam, who walks into the kitchen to find alcohol probably, share a look of complete and utter disbelief at this logic.

“Clint…” Sam starts, but doesn’t finish because he locates some vodka. Steve doesn’t even need to be able to see his face to know that it’s gone slack with relief. Living here is like a full time job most days.

Steve wonders aloud, “So where’s the truck now?” Clint, sitting on the couch and now sipping his cold coffee from the pot (as in a literal Martha Stewart pot), looks to him forlornly, but not regretfully.

“At Kate Bishop’s house,” he admits.

“Who’s Kate Bishop?”

“The teenage girl Clinton has decided to raise,” Sam chimes around the neck of a bottle of vodka.

Steve says, eloquently, “Uh?”

“He kicked some guy’s ass for her and let her take Bucky’s truck.”

“How’d he get back?” Steve asks, looks at Clint “How’d you get back? Weren’t you driving the truck? Why have you decided to raise a child without consulting us? Where did the girl go?”

Clint grimaces, “Some guy was harassing her, okay. She was in Hell’s Kitchen visiting a friend I think? And she was waiting at the bus stop and this dude was bothering her. And you know, I was walking out of one of those mob buildings out there-,”

“-the fuck?”

“-and I saw her and she looked like she was going to fucking cry or something so I had to help her. And then she was afraid to get on the bus, I don’t know I think that guy had been following her or something, so I gave her the keys to Buck’s car and told her to get lost. I took the bus.”

Steve is silent for a moment, he takes a bite of oatmeal, then swallows and says, “So now where’s the truck?”

Clint looks to the ceiling, trying to remember, “The Bronx probably? She said she likes the zoo.”

“And Bucky?”

“At least Midtown by now,” Clint shrugs.

“And the dog?”

“He’s been here since last night. Jane next door hit him and we took him to the vet and they saved him, like I said they would. And now he’s here.”

Sam sighs behind him, “And that’s what you missed on Saved By The Bell.”

The rest of the day isn’t nearly as eventful. Bucky comes home maybe three hours later with his car, wearing a leather jacket with nothing underneath like some kind of wannabe, and holding the hand of a girl about Steve’s size who looks scared out of her mind and totally out of place. It’s Kate Bishop. After taking in the sight of the classic pre war architecture of the building, the real hardwood floors, and crown molding, she also takes in the sight of Steve in one of Bucky’s Pink Floyd tees and his underwear on the couch next to the Dog Box, sipping tequila out of a milk jug and smoking a bowl with Sam and introduces herself politely. Steve can see why Clint was so endeared. Her chin’s jutted out confidently and clenched nervously, and her hand must holding Bucky’s incredibly tightly, because all of the muscles in her right arm are tensed. She surveys them cleverly, like she’s trying to do it without them noticing, and Steve ignores this to introduce himself and Sam and call Clint down from his room. Kate takes a ginger seat on one of the stools in front of the breakfast bar.

“So all of you live here?” she asks conversationally. Bucky turns on the TV and takes off his jacket, which she doesn’t even make an attempt to watch even though most people would. Even the most prim and proper girls in town would give Buck a second look. The loveseat groans as Bucky throws himself into it.

“Yeah. It’s Sam’s place though,” Bucky answers her, flipping through the channels until he finds Rocco’s Modern Life playing on Nick.

“Oh? Like you own it?”

Sam nods dazedly, “Yeah. It’s my granny’s, she left it to me.”

“I’m sorry,” Kate says politely.

“Oh fuck, nah she ain’t dead, she’s just in Boca. A sort of paradise I guess, if you’re 92 and want to pretend you’re one of the Golden Girls for the rest of eternity.”

“Oh.”

Bucky asks, “You wanna hit?” Kate nods. There’s a 15 minute discussion about whether or not they should smoke up the random 16 year old girl until Clint finally makes it downstairs and tells them that he’s taking her to a nightclub and smoking her up won’t be necessary anyway. Steve feels like he should probably object on principal but he’s under the influence so he won’t be held accountable.

So that’s Thursday.

*

Friday Steve goes to work. That means he gets up at 7 to go sit behind the counter at Mel’s and watch people pretend like they actually read. There’s maybe 10 patrons all day that purchase something other than the stupidly expensive coffee or porn from the back room, and two of them are teenaged girls reading YA lit about a teenaged wizard boy. Altogether it’s not a bad day. The worst part of it was ringing up some strange werewolf fantasy roleplay porn for a couple that seemed a little too eager about their purchase.

Steve’s sort of bored after work so he goes to Rumlow’s. Bucky won’t be home until midnight, so he won’t be able to talk shit, Sam goes to bed at reasonable hours, and Clint gets up to all types of weird shit in the night so his judgment doesn’t matter. Rumlow helps him occupy his time and get much needed cardio workouts.

The building Rumlow lives in is sort of nice but also really kind of dirty because he lives there with some older guy named Rollins who keeps him on a leash like a toy and also refuses to stop drinking on his front steps. Rollins has a real job and has lived in the neighborhood forever; he was around when Steve was a kid and now he’s keeping some dude as a pet. His mother doesn’t know but she’d probably be absolutely and totally lost by the idea because she’s old and innocent like that.

“Fuck do you want?” Rumlow says, throwing the door open. He’s got a cigarette in his mouth, hand rolled, which means he and Rollins have probably just fought and he’ll give it to Steve real good to let it all out.

“Somethin’ to do. Wanna help me out?” he says bluntly. Nothing shocks Rumlow anymore, nothing out Steve’s mouth at least, so the dude just stands there in bland silence for a second before letting him in and shoving him towards the basement stairs. They never fuck upstairs, but that’s cool with Steve because he’s not sure he’d want to see the weird, secret domestic set up he and Jack Rollins have got set up. It seems like an invasion of privacy when he even wanders through their kitchen some mornings.

Anyway, Steve’s right and Rumlow is in a pissy mood so after a few rough kisses, Brock’s pushing him into the couch they keep in the basement and pulling his skinny jeans off of his body to jab a few lubed fingers at his hole. It’s a quick fuck, nice and dirty and Steve would be lying if he said that Brock didn’t fuck a mind numbing orgasm out of him. He leaves with a few nice bruises on his hips and wrists, a sort of raspy voice from having his throat fucked, and pleasant, floaty, untouchable soreness everywhere else.

All in all Steve has a pretty good day, even he spoke to maybe 5 people for longer than 30 seconds.

*

Steve works on Saturday too but he doesn’t hate his job so he doesn’t really mind all that much. Mel is a pretty cool boss, he never calls Steve on his off days or rushes him off of his breaks and the ambiance of his place is pretty cool, if a little dry and sort of catnip for lame ass NYU students and wannabe Kurt Cobain groupies. Steve doesn’t mind them though, they make his paychecks. He doesn’t have hard laborious hours to work and then when he’s off he has the energy to do things like yell at his roommates and have illicit sex with one of their neighbors and make art. It’s a pretty decent setup.

So it’s Saturday and Steve goes to work and when he gets home at like 5 in the evening Bucky is sitting on the couch with the infamous Kate Bishop, who’s been spending quite a lot of time with them it seems, and Clint is in the kitchen cooking something . Blind Melon is blaring from the shitty speakers they keep in the living room and Bucky is trying to scream the merits of the horribly played out “No Rain” at Kate, who’s nodding along a little fearfully but listening to the lyrics more intently than is specifically necessary. Steve doesn’t know where Sam is but the fact that there’s a random 16 year old sitting on their couch breathing in the scent of Bucky’s weed breath is probably the reason why he’s not at home. Steve waves to them and walks into the kitchen to look curiously into Clint’s pan and then moves on to the refrigerator to possibly find some rotten apples to eat instead of whatever concoction Clint has brewing.

“You comin’ to the show tonight?” Clint asks him, screaming over the music. The vein in his neck bulges in a sort of unappetizing way so Steve decides that he actually maybe doesn’t need food. The song in the living room changes to something by Archers of Loaf and Steve nearly groans at Bucky’s taste in whiny alt music.

“Yeah,” he nods, “Don’t I always?”

Clint yells, “Well yeah but it’s not your scene!”

Steve yells as well, “But I always go!”

“You could not go!”

“No I couldn’t! Bucky would have a fucking spasm!”

“He’ll have one anyway! I think Nat’s gonna be there tonight!”

“No shit? He’s gonna cry!”

“I think that’s why he’s getting so blowed right now!”

Bucky pauses the music suddenly, “I can fucking hear you!”

Kate interjects, “No need to yell now,” she observes, albeit a little loudly like her ears haven’t adjusted yet. This is common for people who aren’t used to sharing space with both Bucky and music at the same time. It’s just not possible for the guy to listen to anything, not even his whiny emo shit, at a normal volume.

“Bucky’s always yelling,” Steve comments offhandedly, finally grabbing a bottle of water and walking out of the kitchen. His best friend glares at him as soon as they make eye contact and Steve rolls his eyes. Bucky’s the least scary person in this room.

“Was that… did you just make a sex joke?” Kate asks cautiously.

Steve and Bucky both give her a confused look, “No?” Bucky says, “Why would it have been?”

“You two aren’t- okay so you aren’t fucking him?” she looks at Buck, “He wears your clothes. Like every time Clint mentions one of you he mentions the other as well.”

Steve narrows his eyes, “Buck’s not gay.”

Bucky narrows his own, “I’m in love with a woman. I told you about her, like twenty minutes ago. Natasha?”

Kate makes a face, “You said she could step on your trachea and you’d probably enjoy it.”

“A proclamation of love if I’ve ever heard one,” Clint sarcastically calls from the kitchen.

Kate looks to Steve, as if this proves something. Steve shrugs, “It is for Bucky. That’s just how he is.”

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees, “That’s just me. I’m a violent lover. I love hard as shit. I want Natasha to kick my ass to hell and back, that means I love her.”

“Right. Bucky told me he’d get his ass kicked every day for me when we were like freshmen in high school. It completely solidified our friendship,” Steve points out, lazily making his way towards the stairs. Just being in the same room as Bucky is getting him a little high and if he wants to stay awake while attending this lame ass show in this stupid hipster bar in Bed-Stuy then he needs to be stone sober. Plus, this conversation has taken an uncomfortable turn towards painfully familiar territory and he’d rather not get into a verbal axe battle with a teenage girl. It’s below him, to be quite frank, and he’s mostly gotten over his passionate hatred of being thought to be Bucky’s claimed piece of ass. The insinuation has become a lot less offensive now that Steve has a healthy respect for his specific brand of sex appeal and doesn’t get all bent out of shape when people assume that the only guy he could pull ever would have to be his previously mostly straight best friend.

“He threatened me with violence when he asked me to teach him sign language,” Clint adds. Steve hears something clang and fall to the ground and he rolls his eyes before finally stepping on the first stair. Steve is pretty sure that it doesn’t take other people 10 whole minutes to get from their front door, to kitchen, to the first stair leading to the second level of his house and he’s vaguely sad about having missed out on a normal 20 something’s experience of life. And then he hears Clint groan, “Oh oven mitt, you’re useless,” regretfully and he’s incredibly happy that he’s made the decision to live with this merry band of fucking losers. They’re pretty great when they want to be.

Steve takes a nap before they head out. He’s walking out of the front door with Clint, Bucky, and a very secretly frazzled Kate Bishop when Sam pulls into the drive in his white Mazda and everyone applauds when they see him. Everyone except Steve, who’s still a little dazed from having just woken up and not having eaten anything since like 11 that morning. It’s cool though, he tells himself, because he’s going to get like half sloshed at this club and then Bucky will feel obligated to feed him in order to ensure he doesn’t vomit up his own gastrointestinal system. Maybe he’ll get some of those really good burgers from the place on Flushing. Sam would probably want him to eat before getting liver ruiningly drunk, but Sam’s got to go to bed because he’s planning to drive to Hartford to see his sister and her newborn baby and won’t be back until Wednesday so Steve figures he’ll just live a few nights not internally berating himself with Sam’s advice.

The four of them ride in Bucky’s truck. It’s this shitty gray pickup truck his stepdad bought him when he was 16 and spent the entire summer of ‘86 fixing it because it was a piece of shit even then. It was a really good bonding experience for them, or at least Steve assumes because after that summer Bucky stopped fantasizing about his mother taking all of Richard’s money and leaving him all the time. The truck has more sentimental value than monetary, as it’s been through thick and thin with them and Bucky refuses to buy a new car even though he could probably afford to now. Instead, he uses most of his skills and freetime keeping the damn thing barely breathing. Steve absolutely loves it and he tells Kate Bishop as much when she crawls into the squashed back seat. She gives him a surprised, but definitely happy smile and goes, “Really?” when Steve tells her that Buck taught him how to drive in this damn thing, which makes the both of them grin at each other in the front seat.

The club itself doesn’t look like much. It has a nice brick facade with an awning beneath the sign which further proves its uppity hipster purposes and is likely a sign of impending gentrification. Steve has Opinions about gentrification.

“Are you guys sure you wanna bring her in here?” Bucky asks when they pull into a spot across the street from the venue. He looks in the rearview at Clint who shrugs.

“She’s not gonna drink. Just here for the music. Worst comes to worst she’s DD.”

Bucky, who really wasn’t looking for a fight, rubs his hands together says, “Well now that that’s settled,” and unlocks the doors before practically launching himself out of the car. Steve knows he really doesn’t care about sneaking a minor into a club, they were doing a lot worse when they were this girl’s age, but he figures that Bucky has figured that it’d only be polite to throw the idea out there and give Kate some time to back out of the whole thing. Lord knows that they needed someone to do that for them.

The place is low lit, the bar and the stage are the main sources of light, along with the small hanging lamps over every third booth. Clint directs Kate over to one to sit her down so he can go to the bar and order a round for them, and Bucky is already heading towards the door marked “Employees Only” hidden in the shadows next to one of the more secluded tables. Steve stands towards the mouth of the dance floor, where absolutely no one is dancing because they’re all too cool to be doing so, and thinks to himself that the atmosphere immediately upon entering the place is so corny he wants to die. He’s already itching for a drink to escape the ranting confines of his mind when a hand taps him lightly on the shoulder and he turns around to face a man of the suave handsome variety.

“Yes?” he says with a quirk of his eyebrow. His aforementioned specific brand of sensuality exists mostly in the form of heavy handed and abrasive flirting that only gets him into bed with self centered assholes, and he sure hopes this guy fits the mold because he’s sort of super hot. Steve doesn’t usually go for older guys, if Rumlow is to be excused, but this man is really doing it for him. He’s lean and pretty, with a nice goatee that Steve wants to feel in between his thighs and a headful of hair that looks soft to the touch.

The man grins, a sharp easy thing that reminds Steve of an ex sex partner he was particularly fond of, “You look desperately out of place, lost even, if you will. I thought I’d make myself a familiar face for you to latch onto.”

Steve takes a step closer, “That so?” he drawls.

“It is.”

“So you’re just being a good Samaritan?”

The man’s grin widens, “Always. I’m Tony, by the way,” he sticks out his hand.

“Steve,” they shake.

“So, can I get you a drink? You look parched.”

“Yeah sure. I think a nice shot of tequila will fix that right up.”

Tony raises an eyebrow now, taking a step closer to Steve and draping a wide palmed hand over his hip, “Oh really? Jose Cuervo?”

“I’m a fan of Silver 1800, myself,” Steve states with a slow, innocent blink.

“No kidding? A little thing like you?”

“No kidding. A little thing like me.”

So they make their way over to the bar, where Steve locks eyes with Clint and gives him a specific look that means, vehemently, DO NOT ENGAGE I’M TRYING TO GET FUCKED BY THIS GUY, and takes a seat so Tony can buy Steve a drink. He orders a few rounds of Silver 1800, like they’d discussed and sit at the bar and chat for a while. It’s pretty good. Steve can even ignore the docile tones of teenage bubblegum angst in the background while Tony’s talking because the man is an amazing storyteller, and he laughs a lot. He’s exactly Steve’s type, except softer and less angry, and more likely to encourage Steve to keep talking instead of trying to shut him up. Steve doesn’t really know how to handle that softness, the lack of an edge; most of the men he’s slept with in the past haven’t had the time to listen to his rambling about Nickelodeon cartoons or the expensive paints he’d splurged on for his birthday. Most of the men Steve’s slept with have been quick and to the point, efficient almost in their way of seduction, but Tony isn’t. Tony rambles with Steve, drunkenly meanders through their conversation happily, as if he isn’t ashamed to be seen with Steve, or ashamed to be wanting Steve. It’s nice.

“So are you gonna take me home or what?” he asks after maybe two consecutive hours at the bar. Bucky emerged from the employee room 40 minutes ago with Natasha, a sly blush warming the tops of his ears and one of her fingers hooked in his belt loop. Natasha was looking incredibly satisfied with herself. Kate Bishop was pink cheeked and happy the last time he caught sight of her and Clint making a fool of themselves on the dance floor, and Steve figures that everyone being happy and nothing being burned to ashes means it’s a safe enough time to leave the premises without having to worry about his friends being arrested or dying.

Tony blinks, smiles, “Is that all you’re after? My body?” he teases.

Steve rolls his eyes, “That and then some.”

“My sparkling personality?”

And suddenly, in a burst of uncharacteristic earnestness, Steve finds himself saying, for some inexplicable reason: “Yeah,” but getting up and walking over to the booth where his friends are to tell them he’s leaving before Tony can reply. When he returns to his spot at the bar, he finds the man sitting there with a sort of puzzled look on his strange, pretty face. He looks nothing like Brock Rumlow, or Max Payne, or Dylan Blanchard from 10th grade English, or even goddamned Leigh Raymond, the nicest guy he’s ever fucked.

Tony’s apartment is in Manhattan. They go all the way to the Upper East Side in some chauffeured pretentious thing that looks like a hearse and Steve spends the entire ride without a shirt on, showing Tony all of his tattoos even though he’ll be able to get a nice close look once they arrive. Tony oohs and ahhs appropriately at their design and it almost makes Steve blush to have his fingers skittering across his collarbones and his eyes on the slope of his nose. Steve adamantly does not acknowledge these feelings and has another shot of something smooth to help ease his inhibitions.

When they pull up to Tony’s building, Steve has to fight not to say something embarrassing about being poor. Instead he gives Tony a sly look and tucks his hands into the pockets of Bucky’s old leather jacket he’s wearing, “Nice digs, daddy,” he snorts and in return he gets a surprisingly heated look.

“Thanks,” Tony husks, and he presses the button to bring them up to the 67th floor without looking away. Holding eye contact like this is heady and makes Steve’s brain swim like he’s high or something. Tony looks to be in the same boat.

The apartment itself is a whole nother level of holy shit. There’s a foyer, for one thing, but like a real one with shiny white floors and a staircase that actually winds up and into obscurity. In the distance, because there’s a helluva lot of it, Steve sees a sunken living room with fat ass leather couches and a huge TV that likely also includes all of the latest gaming stations. Hell, next to his head is a key holder with 7 different rings for 7 different cars on it.

Tony advises, “Don’t think about it too hard,” and grabs Steve’s hand to lead him up the stairs. His hand is huge around Steve’s wrist like most men’s hands tend to be, but he doesn’t grind the bird bones together, and while Tony’ practically dragging him around he’s doing it excitedly, and not like he’s trying to get Steve somewhere he can’t be seen very quickly. He doesn’t know how exactly he can tell there’s a difference, but he can and that’s enough to make him smile as he stumbles after the man through his house.

They arrive in the bedroom and Steve doesn’t even pause to be intimidated in the sprawling space of it, instead throwing himself back onto the incredibly plush and extravagant bed and looking up at Tony with a look he knows most men who take him home fall for, hook line and sinker: “So are you gonna fuck me or what?” and as expected, Tony pretty much tears their clothes off and glues himself to Steve from that point forward.

And that ties a bow on his Saturday.

*

The next morning is like a scene out of that movie Pretty Woman. Steve wakes up in this huge lavish chamber of a bedroom, naked and tangled in Egyptian cotton with a thread count that probably reads like a paycheck. There’s come dried on his hip, he can feel the pillow lines creasing his face, and when he throws his legs over the side of the bed there’s a huge molten bruise on his thigh that looks like the beginnings of gangrene. His ass is sore in an overwhelmingly positive way and he smiles to himself, despite waking up alone, and wraps himself in a sheet to plod out of the bedroom and towards the stairs, which he walks down somehow without tripping and braining himself on the wall or banister.

He meets Tony, who is carrying a tray with two omelettes, two servings of toast, a bowl of strawberries, a very large cup of coffee, and a glass of orange juice, in the foyer. The two of them stare at each other for a few long, glowing moments before breaking out into matching giddy smiles.

“Hi,” Tony demures, “I’d kiss you but I’d rather not take a trip to the hospital and explain the second degree burns all over your cock.”

Steve, whose face warms up at the sight of the shy tugging thing on Tony’s face, nearly giggles, but manages to control himself and carry on with dignity. He snorts elegantly, “I’d rather not visit the hospital with second degree burns all over my cock. So I guess we’re in agreement.”

“Right. Screw the food,” Tony says, turning away with the tray and starting towards the kitchen again.

“No!” Steve exclaims, more passionately than the situation probably calls for, “We’re not leaving the food, what the hell? We’re just gonna rush up the stairs quicker. If you made me breakfast in bed I’m eating that shit in bed. Type of classless dames you been fuckin’?” he wonders incredulously. Who the fuck denies breakfast in bed. In a California king bed, at that.

Tony smiles again. They take the food upstairs and Tony stands by the bed as he watches Steve get comfortable again before settling the tray over his lap. When he’s sure that Steve looks satisfied and pleased as a peach he sits on top of the blankets, that have been pushed to the foot of the bed mostly, and he crosses his legs like a little kid. His face is creased with ill concealed excitement, like looking at Steve with sleep in his eyes is enough to make his day. Usually, if he spends the night at Rumlow’s, Brock is gone in the morning for work and Rollins hadn’t even come home.

“Eat,” Tony demands gently. He doesn’t even reach a hand out towards his food until Steve has taken at least two bites of his omelette and sipped his juice. He looks disproportionately happy at the sight of Steve enjoying himself.

“It’s good,” Steve comments. Tony nods. Maybe Steve was wrong about him being his type; maybe Tony’s different.

*

Steve’s pretty sure Tony’s different because he feels different with Tony. In the past he’s been known to get around some; so much so that a few of the guys he regularly fuck with hit him up and ask him where he’s been and he doesn’t feel the slightest need to make up excuses and try to ensure that they’ll hang on to whatever thin thread there is connecting them to one another. He ignores them and he doesn’t feel guilty and he doesn’t tell himself he’s being stupid; he doesn’t tell himself that he’s going to need one of them sometime soon and blowing them off will bite him in the ass eventually. He finds that he is alright with only having Tony pay attention to him; Tony would never not answer when Steve needs him just because he didn’t suck his cock the way he wanted him to the night before. And Tony keeps his time pretty occupied. He figures that’s reason enough.

Also, there are dates. And not just the “let’s kick it at your place and pass a bong back and forth before I stick my dick in you” type of dates, but actual honest to God “please put on a tie and take out your nose piercing at least ” type of dates. They leave Steve feeling all blushy and lightheaded and totally unlike himself. He’s never been shown off before and while Steve likes to think he has a great sense of self and propriety, it’s nice to not wonder if the person whose fingers he’s moaning around at night is ashamed of him during the day.

Don’t get him wrong, sometimes he and Tony do just sit around the penthouse and fuck and blow dank and fuck some more, but even then it’s special as shit, and not just because Tony can afford that good kush. More like, Tony makes eye contact when they fuck and even lets Steve top . Plus, they get loud during sex. They’re allowed to be loud! Steve can enjoy this, he’s allowed to enjoy sex with Tony and not for Tony’s sake but just for the sake of holy shit that feels amazing please more! It’s wonderful.

And another thing: they don’t always fuck? Like, sometimes Tony will drive his rich, pretty ass out to DUMBO and ring the doorbell of the fucked up brownstone Steve shares with three other men and occasionally Clint’s adopted teenage girl, and walk up the creaky old stairs to sit in Steve’s bedroom and admire his wall art. The first time it happened Tony offered to buy him these amazingly expensive ink pens Steve’s been saving up for and after a nice dressing down from the blonde, Tony shut up real quick and just wandered around the space with this horrible awestruck look on his face. Like he was surprised but not, like it was obvious that all of the art in the room (vintage inspired nudes, abstract water colors, contour line drawings, smoky charcoal pieces) was amazing but mostly because it came from Steve’s mind. Or at least, that’s what he said and then Steve could match the look to the words and almost believe it when he was in one of those “I’ll never amount to anything” funks. And when they’re not doing that, Tony takes him on picnics in Prospect Park and shit, like they’re 16, except they ride there in new ugly Ferraris and listen to Soul Coughing really loud.

*

It takes a while for Bucky to bring it up, but Steve was waiting so it’s not like he’s shocked when his best friend finally does. Bucky has never been really fond of any of the guys Steve has messed around with, other than himself, and mostly for good reason, so it’s not like his weariness it’s unwarranted. It’s just that Steve is happy and he doesn’t need Bucky’s pessimism to shit all over it. He does that enough subconsciously and it’s nice not having someone else doing it, confirming all his weird self loathing shit.

So they’re sitting on the couch together, Bucky sipping at a water bottle of wine and smoking a cigarette, Steve trying to pretend like he’s not asthmatic, the usual lame ass Tuesday afternoon shit that they do when Bucky goes, way too nonchalantly by the way: “So you and Tony?” and looks over at the blonde with his eyebrows raised like he’s already disagreed with whatever Steve is about to say and has prepared a speech about why Anthony Stark is a bag of worms.

Steve sighs, looks over at him, “Yeah?”

Bucky doesn’t blink, “You and Tony are…? What? Fucking? Dating? In love?”

And Steve, who is a reasonable person and knows a thing or two about how men who fuck him work, gives Bucky a look that reflects how absolutely impossible and shocking the words he’s just said are, “What the fuck?” he asks, for good measure.

“Are you exclusive? I know you stopped fucking around with Duke on 87th, and Jimmy from school, and David who works at that hotel, and even Rumlow, who you seem to have been fucking since-,”

“Okay is this going somewhere?” Steve interrupts tiredly.

“I’m just sayin’. I’ve never known you to limit your options down to one person, and since all of the dudes I’ve mentioned, plus a few others, have been askin’ bout you nonstop for the past few weeks, I’m assuming Stark is the reason why. So what? Y’all goin’ out now?” Bucky wonders honestly.

This takes Steve by surprise because a) he hadn’t realized he’d turned into the neighborhood punk, and it kind of stings that everyone knew this but him, and b) he didn’t think this would be where the conversation went.

“I uh…- well fuck man I dunno,” he shrugs, “We’re just… together, I guess. It’s more than just fucking. We like, see movies and drive around town together a shit.”

“So like. Friends with benefits?”

They look at each other, heads tilted in mild confusion. Neither of them have ever been in a situation like this, one that warrants discussing life changes and how one feels about another singular person. It’s very foreign. Usually Steve talks about the subtle curvature of so and so’s cock that made him see God and Buck remembers the soft wetness of a pussy on his face and that’s their relationship talk.

“No. No, I don’t think so,” Steve admits, “I think it’s like. For real.”

*

This admittance leads to a bit of a mess.

Steve isn’t very familiar with relationships, especially not those of the serious and healthy variety, and the only person he knows that is would be Sam, who only tells him to follow his heart and talk about shit, like Steve’s actually going to listen to that fairy tale teeny bopper bullcrap. This means that Steve must take matters into his own hands and do his own research.

Steve’s research includes interrogating this weird couple that comes into Mel’s every Wednesday, Thursday, and Saturday about things that are important in their relationship (excluding card games), and how they manage to not hate each other after having been together for so long. All in all it’s a very long boring conversation that barely mentions drugs, sex, or alcohol in reference to any type of happiness or happy things like Steve expected and instead includes lots of mentions of physical intimacy (not the same thing as sex), discussion, respect, and doing things to make the other happy. Relationships didn’t sound so soul sucking and life ruining until then.

But, the conversation does give him an idea. People who like each other are supposed to do things that make each other happy, right? And he figures a nice way to test and see in Tony actually likes him or his asshole would be to invite his soft ass to a fucking Machine Head concert. Where the music is loud and vulgar, and everyone is as pierced and tatted as him and Bucky, if not more so, and just as angry. Plus, there’s the added fearful bonus of the mosh pit that he knows most people are down right terrified of.

“So you gonna go with me?” Steve asks innocently on a Thursday evening. They’re sitting in Tony’s living room, Steve watching him play Nintendo and cheering when he seems to be winning. He’s swaddled in this huge blanket that Tony insists he needs whenever they’re downstairs because it does get pretty drafty. Steve will never admit it but he thinks it’s really cute when Tony’s cussing him out because his lips are blue while he’s inside.

“To a death metal concert?” Tony says absently, “totally. I love death metal. Metal and death. I love that.”

“More than you love sex with me?”

“Well. I’m trying to answer these questions correctly so that I may continue to have sex with you. So.”

“True ‘nuff.”

Tony doesn’t look away from the screen when he says, “No but seriously, I’ll go with you if you want me there.”

Steve resolutely does not smile to himself, “I want you there.”

*

Pits aren’t nearly as dangerous as people think they are, especially if you know what you’re doing. On the day of the Machine Head show Steve and Bucky load up his truck with liquor and weed, but also lots of sandwiches they get from the deli down the street and a metric fuckton of water. Moshing isn’t a joke at the best of time, but it’s definitely nothing to play with in 90 degree weather. Tony watches, standing in the driveway with Sam (someone he’s deemed sane in Steve’s mess of friends) and chatting about how scared he is to die. The night before, Steve had laid next to him and regaled him with epic stories about injuries he’s sustained moshing; an elbow to the jaw, a knee to his ribs once, even the incredibly shocking Doc Marten (sans foot) to the tailbone. Tony hadn’t looked pleased about these things or particularly ready to enjoy this himself, but Steve had assured him it was going to be great.

Moshing is fun though, is something people also don’t know. The music is as loud and head achingly angry as you’d imagine, the people are those your mother warned you about, yeah yeah yeah, but the point is the energy. Standing in a crowd of people like that, people that different, who feel so much about themselves, and their lives, and the music everyone is sharing, is like a rush of golden white light through your veins. It’s like a shot of adrenaline and equilibrium all at once. You feel connected to these people, you feel like you could conquer the world with only a paper shield and a wooden sword. It’s like being invincible, moshing. You walk out of the pit with battle scars, breathing heavy and sweating like crazy but everyone’s grinning, shaking off post battle jitters together.

Once the three of them are settled in the car, Steve and Tony banished to the back seats, Bucky sets off for Natasha’s place. She lives in a much nicer area than them, in this complex of condos in Tribeca that her family owns. Her grandmother purchased this building specifically for Nat to live in when she finally moved out of her parents house so that she could commute to NYU without too much hassle. The same amount of time Steve has been spending getting to know Tony, getting to like Tony, Bucky has been spending with Natasha, at her place. Steve doesn’t blame him; having that kind of privacy is sort of addicting and wonderful, and gives one all the liberty to fuck and get fucked all over the place. Plus, Natasha is a grade a woman, the type that studies psychology at one of the best universities in the country but also shamelessly fucks around with and cares about a tattooed mechanic from Brooklyn who only really knows how to fix cars, smoke weed, and have sex. He doesn’t really mind losing shotgun to her.

“I hope this shit is worth it,” she says upon sliding into the passenger seat. She’s in a pair of those high waisted jeans shorts that are all the rage now and some Timberlands that aren’t conducive to the heat but she doesn’t look like a try hard. Instead she looks like a movie star or something as she juts her chin out for Bucky to light her cigarette.

“Of course it’ll be worth it. It’s gonna be fucking spectacular,” Bucky scoffs, and then lights one of his own, “I can’t believe your shoes.”

Natasha at least has the courtesy to roll down her window and turn in her seat, ignoring Bucky’s elitist punk comment, and staring at Steve and Tony in the back, “Hiya boys,” she greets, and blows a cloud of smoke into their faces.

“Hey Nat,” Steve smiles.

“Why wouldn’t it be worth it?” Tony asks.

Nat rolls her eyes, “James and I are going to dinner with my father tomorrow after I’m done with class and I wasn’t sure if it would be a good idea to not only show up to school looking like I’ve been in a mosh pit, but to bring James to meet my father looking like he’s been in a mosh pit.”

“I’m sure it’ll be worth it,” Tony assures her.

Now Bucky rolls his eyes, “It’s worth it .”

Bucky’s right: the show was worth it. Not only did the four of them get high as a fucking kite off of weed and these pretty ass uppers some girl Nat knew vaguely from school sold them, but the pit was crazy. There were hundreds of people, men and women, and there were so many grabbing hands and the music seemed to reach a crescendo whenever there was an epic clash. Steve’s blood had run 200 degrees too hot and his heart, with its delicate sensibilities, could barely handle the rush but he loved it. When they’d managed to drag themselves back to the car, after Bucky threw up twice, and Tony fell into a puddle, they turned the lights on and took stock of their injuries. Natasha, who was the same height as Steve in her boots, sustained many of the same kinds that he did. They both had bruises on their stomachs, and one high on their cheekbones from stray elbows, but Natasha also had a few strands of hair missing and a bloody lip. Bucky’s nose was bleeding all over his front, his eyebrow piercing had nearly been ripped out, and he was limping a little. Tony was behind the wheel, because he was both the least impaired and had the biggest apartment for all of them to crash at. The most he suffered from was a punch to the jaw and a nice little dehydration headache. Steve had tried to stay with him while moshing but that’s a little impossible and plus, that night in bed, Tony had told him how great it was to see him so excited and full of life, flushed down to his ankles with happiness.

These results to his experiment leave him with even more questions. Does Tony care about him? Does Tony want him happy? Yes? Obviously. If a posh guy like him was willing to nearly get his face beaten in at a concert full of 20 somethings off their ass with anger and drugs, all for Steve, then obviously he cares about him at least a little bit. And Steve doesn’t know what to do with that information. Because he likes to know Tony is happy too, comfortable and not at all anxious in any way. He likes to suck to anxiety out of Tony’s body through his dick but he also likes to crank up the 70s rock in Tony’s workshop and watch him work on his muscle cars and shit because all the tension just melts from his shoulders and face and thighs like he’s coming. Does this mean they’re in love? Does this mean they’re dating? And if so, is this all dating consists of? Because Steve can handle this, he is handling this, but is there more? Does he have to meet Tony’s rich fancy friends and put on a show to impress them? Does he have to stay locked up in the penthouse like a little kept thing? Will he have to stop hanging out with his friends because they have a bad rep? And when Tony leaves him will he be this gross hollowed out thing, aching once again for whatever cock he can have up his ass? Who will he be once he’s Tony’s? It’s frightening to think about, and Steve isn’t easily scared.

This fear means Steve starts avoiding Tony, just a little. He goes to work and he goes home and when Tony calls the house he tells Clint to tell him he’s at work. If Tony’s walks into Mel’s he’ll talk to him and they’ll fall into their easy rhythm and then Tony will invite him to the penthouse and Steve will freeze right up again, making excuses and lying about working new hours or going to see his mom or what the fuck ever , anything it takes to get away from Tony while he works this shit out. He figures it’s probably a really immature, dick move, something Bucky would do and probably has done, but he can’t stop himself. He’s freaking the fuck out, like he’s genuinely confused and sort of shook about every decision he’s made that’s led him up to these few weeks. He doesn’t know how he ended up fucking some rich guy from the Upper East Side who owns half the clubs in Brooklyn, let alone liking the man, and now he’s scared of being without him. How? How the fuck did this happen.

“How the fuck did this happen?” he drunkenly groans. Clint is sitting on the floor in front of him, rubbing happily at Lucky’s belly and drinking Patron from a sippy cup. Steve hasn’t a clue why they own a sippy cup, but it makes quite the image so he hasn’t said anything. He’s looking forward to Sam coming home and seeing this shit only to roll his eyes and run upstairs to his room regretfully. Those kinds of reactions really make Steve’s day and he could use a pick me up.

Clint takes a drink, “Well. Usually when you date someone, you spend a lot of time with them. And then you fall in love,” he says practically.

Steve blinks, “We aren’t dating.”

Clint takes another drink, “You’re not,” he deadpans. Lucky woofs helpfully. Steve scowls at the both of them.

“No, we’re not. I don’t even know if we’re exclusive, Clint. He could very well be fucking other people , and I wouldn’t fucking know or have any right to be pissed because we are not dating.”

“Well there’s the problem. You want to be,” he shrugs.

“I  don’t really want to date anyone. I haven’t dated anyone since-,”

“Bucky’s gay freak out of senior year, yeah I know.”

“Okay, and then that means you know how I feel about that type of shit. I don’t want to date him. I just know he wants to date me and I need to figure out what to do with that information.”

From upstairs Sam calls, “You need to pull your head out of your ass-,”

Clint joins in harmoniously, “and talk!” and because this is Steve’s life, Bucky starts cackling like a madman. He really needs to move out of this place. Real friends wouldn’t laugh at their friends’ relationship related calamities or harmonize about them. Real friends would do something nice like take their sad friend out to drink at a club said sad friend’s relationship problem doesn’t own.

This was to be expected though. Steve pretty much knew he’d be handling this whole “what are we?” thing by himself because Sam has really lame relationship advice, Clint is divorced, and absolutely wonderful women just so happen to fall coincidentally into Bucky’s lap. The weird couple from Mel’s are what got him into this shit in the first place so he can’t very well ask them what to do, they’d probably say the same thing Sam would.

Steve finds himself in this weird position of confusion that he doesn’t know how to handle. On one hand, he doesn’t want to end things with Tony. Tony is so much fun; he has such a wonderful sense of humor, and he’s always laughing and despite the fact that he’s, like, old and shit he’s wonderfully understanding and curious and just everything that every guy Steve has ever been with in the past (including perplexing). And Tony possesses this softness, this ease that Steve is more or less addicted to like a drug that actually hits the spot instead of making him trip out of control. Tony strokes instead of grips, even though he also makes fun of everyone and everything relentlessly, and despite the fact that he gets mind blurringly angry sometimes he’s still careful with Steve. To give him up would mean to give up late nights learning about constellations, it would mean no more Chicago style pizza being flown in for their pleasure only; Steve would have to go back to the likes of Rumlow and Dave from the hotel and he’s loathe to admit it but Steve doesn’t want that for himself anymore. He wants to be selfish just this once and fucking keep this guy, hide him away and steal all of his goodness for himself, but he knows that’s not something he deserves. Because on the other hand, if Steve doesn’t give Tony up now Tony, a real Adult, is going to want things Steve doesn’t know how to offer. He’s going to want late night conversations about hopes and aspirations, he’s going to want to file taxes and move in together, and the only person he does those things with is Bucky. Plus, Steve will get complacent. He’s going to start expecting every man to treat him this way, and so he’ll stay with Tony until Tony leaves him and then he’ll be on his ass in a daze, waiting for some special case like Tony Stark’s awful ass to come along and make his chest hurt and he’ll never find it. He’ll probably end up becoming celibate or addicted to OxyContin.

Steve sighs, “What would Mama think?” and this time Clint starts laughing too.

*

All of this angst comes to a halting swell five weeks into its brewing. Steve has been avoiding Tony still,treating him like he’d treat one of his nicer regulars and only calling him when he wants to hook up or maybe needs a ride to get to food and or work. Tony, who is the king of Repressed Emotions, doesn’t ever say anything or even react differently to Steve’s sudden temperature change. Bucky says, on a semi regular basis, that they’re a trainwreck and he’s not wrong. Even Sam can’t help himself from watching this shitshow with a bowl of popcorn, leaving his door open for every fight they have over the phone (which they never used to do) and sticking around in the living room to watch tapes with them and listen to them chat awkwardly at each other. They’ve been doing this thing together, the fucking and talking and smoking thing, for like 5 months now and it’s no longer summer anymore, there’s no longer any sparkling newness. It’s October and it’s cool out; people are starting to wear coats and rave season is just beginning. If the summer represents all things punk to Steve, (mosh pits, good weed, sex, lemonade) then fall represents whatever the fuck raves are. The fall comes with costume parties, and stepping out of nightclubs overheated and dripping eyeliner. People do ex in the fall and feel like the cold could never touch them; fall is a heat stroke. Shit gets burned up for warmth in the fall, so maybe the seasons changing was something of a foreshadowing and Steve should’ve known things were about to get fucked up. Well, even more so.

They’re lying in Tony’s bed watching the sun rise when it happens. Steve is tangled in the expensive sheets like some silver screen starlet, his face pressed into Tony’s chest and kissing at him absently, fingers creeping across his tan skin, listening to the rumble of his voice as they talk quietly. They haven’t gone to sleep yet, having slept all day the day before and pretty much fucked all night, but Steve’s not really tired. Instead he’s thinking, unfortunately, about how much he’d like to have this every morning, this pleasantly worn out, warm all over feeling.

“So I’m thinking of expanding,” Tony tells him quietly. Steve’s hand stills.

He asks, “Expanding? Like… renovations?” even though he has a pretty good idea of what Tony really means. Business.

Tony laughs, “No, no. I mean the clubs. I own a bunch of property now all over the city, but they’re not a chain.”

“And you want them to be?”

“No. I like the Brooklyn clubs; they’re cute yeah? I got a couple of hipster places, some really swanky rich people joints, even a few places approved by Punk Master James. I’ve got my hands in everything.”

Steve is confused, “Okay?”

“But the west coast isn’t the same. They’re all trendy, uptight stiffs-,”

“Your kind of people.”

“-and they like trendy uptight shit. Nightclubs, mostly. They’re into raves.”

Steve laughs, his shoulders still tense with the mention of the west coast, “I’m into raves.”

Tony scoffs, “Not exclusively. You’re into whatever’s fun.”

“I’m into you,” Steve admits gravely. At least, he thinks.

Tony goes completely still though. Like, stops breathing, the smile that might have been on his face completely gone, the arms wrapped around Steve’s skinny frame slack in their grip still, and Steve is even more confused. The night had been one of their better ones; no fighting just fucking and a shared tab of something special, and the morning was going okay, if a little rocky. But that was expected, Steve was used to this now. When they weren’t fucking or were sober, they weren’t the same, and he got that it was his fault, but never this. Never has Tony ever gone from Tony to this person lying under Steve right now.

Steve pulls away, “What?” he asks, sitting up and staring down at the shirtless man in Tony’s bed.

“So what? This is just fun to you?” he asks angrily. Steve is sitting on feet, his eyes wide in shock at the whiplash change of heart he’s seeing right now. His fingers grip the sheets covering his hips nervously.

“I… Tony what do you want me to say?” and Tony flinches at this. He looks at Steve like he doesn’t even recognize him, and that hits Steve right in the gut. He’s absolutely bowled over by the furrow in Tony’s brow, the betrayal written all over the older man’s face as he shoves himself out of his own bed to escape Steve. There’s a burning sensation in the cavity of Steve’s chest that he’s pretty sure means he’s either having a heart attack or falling in love and he’s terribly scared.

Meanwhile, Tony glares at him icily, “I want you to say that this fucking means something to you!” he yells, his face becoming flushed. He walks over to one of his dressers and starts throwing himself into underwear and other articles of clothing but Steve doesn’t really care about that. All he knows is that his vision has gone blurry with… tears and he doesn’t know how to make this better but he does know that he wants to. Make this better, that is. If Tony walks away from him Steve will never be able to fix this, he knows that too, and he’ll never be able to fix himself afterwards.

“T-Tony what? Please stop!” Steve starts, hopping out of the bed too. He puts a hand on Tony’s shoulder, “I- what the fuck this does mean something to me! We mean something to me,” he admits, blinking tears of his eyes.

“You know you don’t really act like it,” he laughs meanly, “You really don’t fucking act like it. And look, Steve, you’re cute, you’re funny, you’re fantastic in the sack, but you know all that. And you know that plenty of other men will play this game with you because of it, so if this is just fun to you-,” Tony’s shaking his head and pulling away and Steve is positively panicked. All these days of preparing himself to leave or be left and now that it’s here, now that they’ve run their course, he’s trying desperately to hang on. And it’s probably not fair but Steve doesn’t care, so he wraps his arms around Tony’s neck frantically and plants kiss after kiss on his face, panting.

He babbles, “It’s not! Just fun Tony, this isn’t just fun for me okay- it was never, this could never have been just fun. Not after that first night. Not after that day we spent at the Central Park Zoo, or at Gagosian Galleries when you let me get tipsy off all that expensive champagne. Not- this wasn’t just fun after you sat for 3 hours and let me draw you. This was- I couldn’t lie to you and tell you this has been anything like the “fun” I’ve had, and trust me I’ve had a lot,” he says in a rush and Tony still isn’t breaking, totally unresponsive to his kisses and attempts at affection. Hell, Steve has let the sheet fall and is standing naked in front of him, letting his hands roam all over Tony’s chest and usually at this point he’d relent and give in to whatever Steve wants but not this time.

“So what the fuck have these last few weeks been then? If I’m so different then why have you been playing the same fucking games with me that you’ve played with everyone before me?” he demands and well.

Well Steve is feeling this consuming, eating thing inside of himself and it hurts and Tony looks so lost and cracked open and it’s a lot. This is a lot for him to take in because he’s pretty sure he just admitted that he’s falling in love to himself maybe two minutes ago and already he’s about to lose this man. Because that’s what Steve does, apparently. He’s the guy who lets love leave. And it pains him to know that. It pains him to know that he’s had to deal with men like Brock Rumlow and settle for the affection of men who can’t stand themselves, let alone him, and now that he has this real tangible possible love in the palm of his fucking hands he doesn’t know how to treat it because it took him too long to see.

“I…” he tries, and then tries again, “I don’t… know.”

He’s scared and Tony scoffs, “Of course not. I shouldn’t expect you too either, some fucking young, self centered slut -,”

And this time Steve flinches because he really has been burned, “What the fuck?” he snaps, shoving Tony’s chest now. The man barely budges and his eyes are sparkling with anger.

He snarls, “Yeah, there. I said it. I bet that fucking hurt right? To be treated like the one thing you never want to call yourself.”

“I- Go fuck yourself you spoiled, angry old shit. I’ve never- I have never said anything like that to you, not like that, okay. That was out of fucking-,” Steve rants.

“You treat me like I’m fucking disposable, Steve! You call me when you need something; when you need to get high, when you need to get fucked, when you can’t to deal with the fact that you have this amazing talent and you work at a fucking coffee shop. You need me and then you fucking leave me, and you don’t even see, you don’t even comprehend, how that fucking feels to me! You don’t call me because you want me. And it- I fucking love you or some crazy shit like that and I don’t even know if you like me you goddamned prick! And it sucks, okay I have to say, it really fucking sucks that I don’t know if you’re still fucking the hundred other guys you were screwing before me, or if you deal with me for the money, or… or whatever! It’s awful and I hate it, I hate this!” he screams back, and with every rising octave Steve takes a step back. Tony, soft, cool Tony, has never been like this. Steve yells and raves and Steve gets angry but never Tony. This is scary, this is wild. This, right here, is a forest fire nearing the suburbs, this is a drug epidemic in the suburbs. Steve doesn’t know what to do or say because everything Tony just told him is an inescapable truth that has caused damage that needs recovery. There is no remedying it now. He can’t even be mad that Tony has just called him a slut, the one version of himself Anthony Stark has never known him as. To Tony he’s always been Steve, his Steve, and to suddenly be slapped in the face with the knowledge that he was his Steve despite also being what everyone else has always understood him to be pierces right through him like a spear. It shakes him to his core.

He breathes turbulently, “I didn’t know what to do, Tony,” he admits, and the older man sucks in a gasp, “I was scared and I didn’t know what to do. Because… because you’re right and I was fucking a bunch of other guys before you and they were all just a means to an end, I guess. They were to scratch and itch I couldn’t reach; they weren’t around to care about me or be wanted by me. But you are, right? You want me and you want me to want you back. And you’re right, I was treating you like them and I should’ve known better than to be afraid of- of liking the way someone treats me but I didn’t- I still don’t really. I’m still scared.”

They’re quiet for what seems like an eternity, only the sounds of their heavy breathing filling the air, and in that eternity Steve ages maybe a million years. Saying those words took something out of him and despite his flushed face and heaving lungs, he feels calmer. It’s settling to have that in the open: his fear. He was afraid, it’s as simple as that, and now that Tony knows Tony can make a decision and Steve can stop living in fear. He can deal with pain, but fear is something else. Fear is crippling and he’s hated being afraid. He’s hated not trusting that Tony wouldn’t want him to be afraid.

“You like the way I treat you?” he asks finally, breaking the superimposed silence.

Steve sighs and grimaces, “Yes. So much.”

Tony steps closer, “Why?”

“Because it’s new, and soft and the way you treat me makes me feel like I should be cared about the way you care about me. I don’t have to- I’m never the person I was that first night when we’re together. I’m not pretending and I’m not even trying. I don’t have to work for you, you just are,” he exhales shakily. Tony’s hands are quivering when he reaches them out to cup Steve’s face.

“You loser,” he laughs wetly, kissing the corner of Steve’s mouth, “It’s okay to be scared of something you don’t understand. But it’s not- you don’t run, Steve. You’re not a runner.”

“I tried to be. I have really severe asthma though.”

“And you and all of your friends smoke like chimneys to top it off. I’m surprised you’re a walker,” they laugh. Tony presses this deep, tense kiss to Steve’s mouth that’s more of a gasping thing than a happy one, but that’s okay. He craves this closeness unabashedly now, he has to.

“I’m sorry,” he admits.

Tony nods, “Me too.”

It’s quiet in the house as they step together and hug. Steve is completely naked and the only article of clothing tony is missing is a pair of pants, but they hang on to each other like limpets for a few shaky moments that Steve takes to ease the flow of tears he can feel wanting to fall. He refuses to cry right now. He just needs this, just wants this. Knowing that it’s okay to want this makes it easier to breathe.

*

The Argument goes down in their romantic history as the most epic battle of all time and they vow to never have one again. That last month had been really tolling on the both of them, full of petty disagreements that led to these huge screaming matches and things they never meant were always said. The clarity The Argument provided them with becomes sort of invaluable, no matter how painful it is to think about sometimes. In moments of deep rooted insecurity on both of their parts they can remember what was said that day and be the people the other sees them as. It’s… weird to say the least, to put so much trust in the goodness of someone else, but Steve does this because Tony gives him the same faith and because he never wants to doubt Tony’s affection for him again. He doesn’t like feeling like he doesn’t deserve the kind of care Tony provides him with, and the older man has told him time and time again that he doesn’t have to feel that way and he trusts Tony’s word. He trusts him when he tells Steve that he’s in love with him, despite the ugly things about him, if not because of them. The feeling is so foreign and unspeakably new that he can’t help but constantly talk about it.

“We fuckin’ get it,” Bucky slurs, slobbing on himself. His lip is fat and bloody, his knuckles are scraped to hell and back, and he’s sitting on the ground in an alley with a can of beer pressed to his temple while they wait for Natasha to exit the bar they were just in. Thankfully it wasn’t one of Tony’s, or that would’ve been a mess in and of itself (who gets banned from their boyfriend’s place of business?), but now it means the 6 of them are stupid drunk in public and need to figure out where they’re going to go to avoid getting arrested for assault and or public intoxication. As it is Bucky and Natasha could face some pretty serious charges for making a grown man cry and Clint could be getting there in his irritation with Steve talking nonstop about his undying love for a certain Anthony Stark.

Clint rolls his eyes, “Yeah you’re in love with him. You saw God with the help of the splendid p-plundering-,” he burps,  “-of his cock, yadda yadda, people are dyin’,” he states irritably. Steve is drunk and warm with it and gives zero fucks about Clint being annoyed.

“Everything’s just so wonderful right now,” Steve sighs dreamily. Sam looks to Kate Bishop and mimes shooting himself in the head. In reply she does a very deft and surprisingly accurate mimed rendition of hanging herself. The whole group watches in morbid fascination as she does so.

Natasha returns, not a hair out of place but breathing a little erratically, “So we have to go,” she announces bluntly, and drags Bucky off the ground with no help from anyone else. There’s a smatter of some dark liquid on the foot of her boot that implies she’s probably done something violent but no one mentions it and they all start stumbling away smartly.

“What even happened?” Kate Bishop asks curiously once they’ve safely rounded the corner. She must not be as drunk as the rest of them because when Kate gets even slightly tipsy, she’s just as rowdy as Clint himself. The fact that she’s Steve’s size means that she reaches this point about 3 drinks in.

Sam groans, “Oh god,” he mumbles dazedly. He’s right. This story is a mess and Bucky launches into it merrily, much to the disappointment of everyone but Kate and Clint.

Bucky clears his throat, “So I’m sittin’ at the fuckin’ bar, right? Waitin’ on Nat to get back from the bathroom and shit, when this fucking dude taps me on the shoulder. And I’m like, y’know, what the hell does this guy want? So I turn around and y’all know how I get when I’m off my ass,” he looks around at all of them and everyone nods because hell yeah, they know how he gets when he’s drunk, “and the dude is just like, breathing too heavy and shit and he’s like “is that little red thing yours?” like Nat’s s-some kind of fucking car on the street or some shit and I can’t just, y’know, let ‘im talk ‘bout my girl like that so I’m like okay fuck off asshole, and Sam comes over to the bar and he’s like, bein’ Sam and he’s like “what’s goin’ on here?” when he realizes who this fucking dicktip is and he’s like “hey man stop fuckin’ followin’ my friend around and shit” and I’m like okay well the only person included in this conversation that’s not present is Nat-,”

Kate gasps, “Some guy was following you?” she squeaks.

Natasha, still supporting the brunt of Bucky drunken weight, gives her a withering look, “Yeah.”

“Right! So I’m like, she’s my girlfriend man, and we’ll both kick your ass to Jersey and back and this guy thought I was jokin’ so I shoved him. And as soon as I did it Nat comes out of the bathroom and the guy don’t even care that I’m trynna fight ‘im, he’s just throwing bodies outta the way to get to her and I’m like fuck no you’re not, so I grab him by the back of his shirt just as Steve grabs me by the back of mine and we all end up on the floor. Long story short, the guy was big and slow and I’m slippery as a motherfuckin’ snake okay Kate, so I start wailing on the son of a bitch, like I’m seriously fuckin’ his shit the fuck up-,”

“No!” Clint interjects excitedly. Natasha leads them down another street. No one is really paying attention to where they’re going except her and maybe Sam.

“Yes,” Sam says regretfully.

“-When the dude elbows me in the side of the head. Literally winds the fuck up and elbows me in the head, and then I’m dizzy and still tryin’ to fight and he just shoves me across the floor and puts his knee in my stomach and this twisted piece of dried dog shit headbutts me like we’re in a goddamned movie Katie, I shit you the fuck not. I’m ‘bout to be down for the count, y’know because he did get me pretty good and he’s still punching my face in, when I manage to knee him in the gut, and dude fucking almost pukes. So, I know when to bow out of some shit, and I’m trying to get up and get away, y’know get my last few words in, when security rolls up and they pick me and Steve,- who somehow got hit in the face during all this? I dunno,- up off the floor and we get tossed. Meanwhile, Nat’s standin’ at the bar shook out of her mind because she just watched me nearly get my ass kicked and thrown out of the bar for some unknown reason,” Bucky finishes breathlessly. Suddenly, Natasha brings them all to a hault, props Bucky up on the wall of an alleyway, and glares at them collectively.

“Yeah. And then I had to be the one to tell that guy to fuck off once and for all while he was on the ground, and talk the owner out of callin’ the cops because Sam was too busy being confused and pretending like he was looking for you and Clint,” she tells Kate.

Just as Steve is about to add in his two cents, because no one gets to tell an epic story like that and not have him interject, the flash of headlights blinds them all. They’re gathered in the opening of an alley, far enough away from the trash to not be able to smell it so much, and not deep enough in to get mugged or murdered without someone else noticing, but people don’t usually drive into alleys. It’s generally pretty gross and dangerous, and when Steve gets a good look at the shiny Suburban that has somehow managed to squeeze itself in between the bricks, he figures this guy isn’t from the city and doesn’t know this.

Natasha mutters, “Finally,” and tugs Bucky towards the car. Everyone else, in their drunken stupor, has no choice but to follow after her.

Steve says, “Bucky landed on top of me and nearly concussed my skinny ass. Tony would be so-,” as he makes it to the car that Nat’s just shoved his best friend into. Kate and Clint joined in with little question and no one has started to scream yet so Steve is guessing this must be one of Nat’s elusive college friends, or one of her dad’s people when Tony starts speaking.

“Confused? Yeah, he is,” he says, looking back at Steve from the driver’s seat, “What are you doing? Get up here. And what the hell are you talking about? What happened to all of you?”

Steve blinks at him. There’s no way for his intoxicated mind to process this. Why is Tony here? How did he know to come? Is everyone going to tell him about all the shit Steve’s been saying all night? Steve climbs down from the little step thing in the back to climb up the one in front. Sam stumbles into the seat behind him and when all the doors are shut and the lights go off Bucky takes in a deep breath.

“Well,” he begins, “It’s all because some piece of fucking rotten horse dick was tryin’ to step to Nat.”

And that’s the ride back to the house. Everyone groans, except for Clint who slurs and claps drunkenly, “Nice,” he says, “r-round two.”

Once they return to Brooklyn and they get into the brownstone, Nat deals out blankets for those who can’t really make it up the stairs (Bucky) and those who don’t actually live in the house (Kate) so that they can sleep off the night on the couches downstairs. Kate curls into a ball in the loveseat and Bucky stretches himself out on the sofa in a dramatic sprawl that causes him to groan and wince and hiss like a whiny bitch the entire time. Natasha, a saint, puts up with this mess stone faced and serious while she bandages up his face (which is probably fucked to hell in a non sexy way) and makes him drink water. Tony, an adult, does the same to the rest of the herd and everyone shepherds themselves in their separate directions. He gets to come into Steve’s room.

Out of all the rooms in the house, Steve’s is the smallest. It might not actually be, that could be Clint’s, but it feels like it. He has this secondhand brown/black desk that’s made out of real wood and carved to hell from his bored scissor drawings and exacto knife excursions. The desk is cluttered with plants, an old jewelry box he keeps weed in, two lamps (one that works and one that doesn’t), a telephone that’s shaped like a Big Mac, stacks upon stacks of sketch pads, boxes of charcoal, pencils, markers, and cups full of brushes, pens, and erasers, and other various office supplies. The drawers are stuffed full of complete drawings and painting, and lots of tape for some odd reason, and everything there is completely and utterly his. Even the chair, this ugly thing his mother was given by an old coworker, belongs entirely to him and no one else. It’s Steve’s, unable to be shared and unwilling to be given away. Tony eyes it, the posters surrounding it, the burger phone, and Steve’s bed with its cheap plaid bedspread and takes a seat, delicately, in the corner next to the old bookshelf that came with the room. He’s wearing slacks and an unbuttoned shirt and he looks like he might clean the entire house with his presence.

“You wanna come to California with me for a few weeks?” he asks casually. Steve strips down to his boxers before answering, even though his stomach is on the floor and his heart in his throat at the question. He pretends, almost, like he didn’t hear the words to come out of Tony’s mouth, for fear of something embarrassing and altogether stupid coming out of his own.

When he’s tucked into bed with the covers up to his chin, he looks at the older man and states “You’re offering to fly me to California.”

“Yeah,” Tony nods.

“For how long?”

“Like 17 days.”

“You want me to drop everything for 17 and go to California with you? And do what? Wait around in your hotel room for you to come back and fuck me?”

“I own a house in Malibu, actually. You could wait there.”

Steve sighs, “Tony.”

Tony grins tiredly, “Sorry, sorry, I know you’re a little too drunk for sass.”

“And this is a Serious Discussion,” Steve reminds him.

“Oh yes, that too.”

“Okay, so you know that’s not gonna cut it right?”

Tony pauses, “And I want you there. I don’t wanna not see you for 17 days. Plus, who better to keep me in check in Cali then a no nonsense fella like yourself?”

“You want me there. In California for 17 days while you do business?”

“You could help me pick the venues. You’ve got an eye for aesthetic.”

“I don’t want to distract you. And I don’t think your business partners would appreciate you bringing the twink piece of ass you’re screwing along for meetings.”

“They’ll appreciate it if they want my money,” Tony shrugs, “And also: I don’t care. I don’t want to be there without you. That’s it, really. I just want to be able to see you, and I don’t want to be alone. Like, okay yeah, Pepper will be there, but she won’t sleep in my bed and wait for me to bring her breakfast. Or suck my cock.”

“Nice.”

“Romantic, even.”

“I’m swooning.”

Tony blinks at him, gets up and steps out of his expensive clothes, “So you’ll come with me?”

“Turn off the light and get in bed, please.”

Tony does, Steve shuts his eyes, “Steve, answer me you fucker.”

*

Southern California is everything every pop hit has made it out to be, and worse. It’s hot, sweat drenchingly so, head achingly so, and crowded and when they land in LAX it’s through a cloud of thick smog. But everything is beautiful, moving and still at the same time and it makes Steve itch for a pen or pencil as soon as they’re in Tony’s chartered car. It’s a black BMW and a man named Happy drives it to this glorious location in Malibu atop a hill. Steve nearly gags upon seeing it because what the fuck this is not his life.

“What the fuck this is not my life,” he says in awe as they step through the threshold. The floors are this weird tan color like sand, but classy and not annoying, and everything is decorated in neutral shades of beige and brown with the accentuation of green everywhere. It’s like stepping into the desert, but with A/C and a California king bed.

Tony looks down at him, a grin slipping onto his face and making Steve as warm on this inside as he is on the outside, “It is now,” he promises and grab’s Steve’s hand.

Truth be told, Steve doesn’t pay too much attention to the tour of the house that Tony gives. He’s too busy staring at Tony. He’s graying, a little, at the temples, and his shoulders are broad but not obtrusively so. Steve’s always liked men bigger than him (good thing he’s so little) but that’s always attracted the liked of Rumlow; these stocky angry men forcing themselves into hulking spaces. Tony fits into his own world, he’s made his place and he’s made it comfortable. It’s in the slope of his spine, the dip of his ass, the light tap of his feet against the ground. Steve watches him move in pseudo wonder, undeniably entranced by the sight of him. Just standing next to him makes Steve both stupidly happy and turned on at the same time. So by the time they make it to the bedroom, Steve’s on his way to being half hard from staring at the exposed skin of Tony’s forearms in his fancy pressed shirt and the crow’s feet around his eyes when he smiles.

“So I think I may be a little in love with you,” Steve tells him as they stare at the sea of a bed in front of him. He then promptly throws himself onto the mattress face first. His own cheeks are burning bright red, he knows it, and he has no desire to look Tony in the eyes after that embarrassing mess. Hell, he hadn’t even wanted the man to catch him staring while they were walking through the house, and at least that’s excusable. Declaring love, on the other hand, cannot be dismissed by mere horniness.

Eloquently Tony says, “What.”

“Nothing just fuck me on these Egyptian cotton sheets please.”

“That’s not what you said.”

Steve sighs, because yeah it’s not what he said but he wishes it were, “I said I think I might love you maybe a little,” he admits, and rolls over. His stomach doesn’t come with him.

Tony though, for all of his messy, clumsy affection, doesn’t react badly. Instead, he crawls into the bed with Steve and forces him to make eye contact. His eyes are very brown and pretty and Steve wants to say that too. He doesn’t know what’s gotten into him to make him this weird vocal person.

“I heard you.”

*

They make love that night and it’s weird. They’ve been having sex since they first met, literally their relationship is based off of one good night of sex, but this is something entirely different. This time they go out to this fancy dinner with a bunch of rich people Tony knows from business and his childhood and college and then they go home completely sober, totally unlike a night with Steve’s friends, and they take off their cufflinks and suits. Steve hadn’t worn his nose ring out for the night and he feels a little naked without it, strangely enough, as Tony leans him back on the bed and spreads him out in all of his pale glory. Tony’s broad, tan hands grip bruises into his thighs and his lips leave wet kisses on Steve’s ankles. All the attention has him shaking a little but he makes no move to get away. He’s never had sex with anyone this way; he’s never felt like he was going to melt straight through the bed with each touch and caress.

He’s never opened his mouth and begged, “Please Daddy , please,” in a gasping, breathless tone. He’s never felt so pleased to watch the man above him shudder with need and desire and open want all because of him. And he’s never thought the daddy thing could be anything but sleazy until right now, until he sees the way Tony’s eyes darken and feels the grip he has on Steve’s small body get even tighter and wants more . He suddenly, viscerally, wants this to hurt, wants this to be too much to handle in the best way until he’s trembling with overstimulation and tears.

“Fuck babe,” Tony gasps against Steve’s ankle. He moves his mouth up higher and higher, biting and sucking until his lips meet his fingers on Steve’s thighs and then he’s sucking bruises into the pale skin there too, “What do you want?” he husks.

And Steve, who is about to fucking come just from this, from this adoration and love and from how cherished he feels in this man’s hands, positively quakes and pleads, “Can I have your mouth please? There ?”

“Where? Huh? Tell me where?” Tony commands, voice gone serious and sending a shock to Steve’s dick with its timbre. They’ve played with power before but never like this and it feels so good, it feels amazing to not have to be in charge for a second. Steve doesn’t have to control his emotions, or his reactions, or his fucking mouth right now. There is no second guessing himself, there’s no charade to be put on. He can say whatever Tony wants him to say, be what Tony wants, and not have to think about it or try and maybe it’s not how married people fuck and say I love you but it’s working for them.

“Tony please,” he whines, “I want your mouth on my hole,” and he shivers with the words. His legs are hoisted over those perfect shoulders, crossed at the ankles around Tony’s neck all in the same motion.

Tony rumbles, “Good boy,” and spits right onto Steve’s hole in a shocking display of dominance, “good fucking boy.” Steve’s eyes roll back in his head.

Tony’s cock is a nice length, pretty average in that department, but Coke can thick and he forces Steve’s tight asshole open with 4 fingers before he’s pressing in with his dick. They go bare for the first time, a wordless agreement, and both of them let out needy moans at the feeling. Tony forces Steve’s legs over his shoulders and around his neck so he can get his mouth on Steve’s hole and that’s it; he’s totally done for. He’s heaving in these huge wheezing breaths and he’s probably tomato red and Tony just keeps growling low in his throat, and coming up for air and to encourage Steve to be as loud as he want. Tony calls Steve his “good boy” but the possessiveness in his tone is what gets Steve’s cock dripping. He’s never been someone else’s, he’s never wanted to be, but to be Tony’s , in this moment, is everything.

There’s a lot of begging and pleading on Steve’s part, and pinning and soothing and fucking on Tony’s, so an hour and some change later Steve is lying on Tony’s chest, eyes closed in exhaustion as he processes what has just happened to him. The entire experience felt like rapture, like discovery, like being opened up and picked apart only to be made whole again with a few extra parts that were distinctly Tony. Steve never felt like he was missing anything in the past, or like he needed someone else to make him happy but having Tony make him happy is such an amazing addition he understands why the universe made him wait so long to have him. Steve is, like, stupidly grateful to have to big lug in his life and he expresses as much by falling asleep wrapped in his arms and not worrying about what Tony will think of him in the morning. Because Tony, unlike Rumlow, or Grover from U-Hail, cares about him not because he's got a tight pretty, pink asshole but because he himself is a pretty pink asshole, complete with tattoos and piercings and a bad attitude, and that's enough. It's enough for both of them.