Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tony isn’t even that deep when Steve stumbles upon him. 

It’s a wintery Friday night, a chill permeates the air that’s kept at bay by the Tower’s tightly sealed windows, by the thermostat that JARVIS regulates to keep things at a relatively constant temperature. Condensation fogs up the glass of his full-length window, where droplets gather and trickle down out of sight. 

His set-up is as cozy as it possibly could be, with the warm light that floods his floor. Blankets and pillows lay in a tangled heap on his couch, faded and frayed around the edges in a way that only worn things are. Some of his mom’s old quilt work is there, plus the sweater he’d stolen from Rhodey in MIT, the one that he’d somehow managed to keep even after all these years. 

He’s definitely starting to feel small, rugged up in an oversized sweater, the lullaby that JARVIS plays gradually luring him into a state of fuzzy ease as he runs a train along its track,  feeling inexplicably elated. A giggle clambers its way up his throat that he can’t temper, muffled through the pacifier that bobs in his mouth. His robot stuffie sits opposite him with a tiny blanket of its own, just in case it gets cold, and the sight of that small square of fabric each time he glances up makes him smile even more. 

The tension Tony had accumulated from a week’s worth of Avengers and SI-related stress starts to evaporate, as the headspace he’d managed to fend off bubbles its way up to the surface. He’s pleasantly warm, content, and everything is just fine. 

Then—

“Tony? Oh. Uh...”

His gaze snaps up, pacifier tumbling to the floor as a youthful gasp escapes his lips. Steve stands there, fully geared up in his tactical suit, shield secured to the magnetic harness strapped across his back. He looks dumbfounded, blinking and opening his mouth repeatedly to say something before snapping it shut again, like he’s totally bluescreening.

And yeah, Tony gets it. 

It must be an interesting sight, Tony Stark with a pacifier he’d just spit out on accident, cocooned in blankets, playing with toys on the polished tile of his penthouse floor. A distinct counterpoint to the rest of the scene before him, all sleek and minimalistic and decidedly...big, a few empty glass tumblers and flasks stacked across the swath of marble countertop to his left, the extensive alcohol selection beyond that, bottles glinting in the light.

If it had been a decade ago, maybe, he would’ve felt a twinge of shame, a good dose of humiliation, but he’s so unbelievably past of all that now all he feels is mild annoyance at being interrupted. 

The hazy mindset he’d begun to fall into immediately shrinks back to the recesses of his mind, alertness and tension returning to his body as he stands up from the floor, ignoring the toys for now. 

“What’s going on? No offense or anything, Cap, but this better be good,” he says, as he approaches. 

Steve blinks, then opens his mouth, then blinks again. “Uh. There’s. SHIELD needs our help containing a threat back at headquarters, only for a little while. A few hours, they said. They’re working on a solution.” 

Tony heaves a sigh, placing his pacifier down on the coffee table and calibrating his watch, tapping out a command for the mark XLII. “Of course they do. Because they know exactly which times are inconvenient for me. Go on ahead, I’ll catch up in a hot minute. Just gotta wrap up a thing or two here.” 

Silence falls over them yet again, and Tony thinks for a moment that he’s going to have to resort to more drastic measures in order to get Steve’s higher brain functions up and running again. Then, he nods, crisp professionalism falling into place easy as anything. 

“Alright. Just let me know when you’re on your way.” 

With that, he sweeps out of the penthouse and back into the elevator, but the tension that permeates the air doesn’t quite follow. Tony honestly doesn’t think it’s that big of a deal, but he also understands that to the average person, it’s probably just a little...odd. Throw in the fact that Steve is a soldier from the forties, and that complicated things all the more. 

He doesn’t dwell on it, though — he knew from the get-go that living in a tower full of serial gossips was never going to bode well for secrets, so he’d never banked on this particular secret remaining hidden. He just didn’t think it would be Steve necessarily, in all of his abashed, utterly perplexed glory. Because the thing is, he knows that the guy isn’t a pearl-clutching sunflower who’s totally naive to the world — the opposite, in fact, but he still doesn’t quite know what he’ll end up making of this. 

He shrugs, focusing back on the suit that wraps itself around him. That’s a problem for future Tony. 

~ 

It’s a threat of the homegrown variety, right from one of SHIELD’s R&D labs, a tear in the fabric of reality that requires magical ‘expertise’ from Doctor Strange while the Avengers play containment. Steve had remained unwaveringly professional toward him throughout the battle — almost suspiciously so. Although to be fair, his ruthless efficiency and single-minded focus during battle is something that Tony has quickly grown used to. 

Post contamination showers, once the sky has darkened a dramatic few shades, he hesitantly approaches Tony amidst all of the hustle and bustle. Hectic, swarming chaos fills SHIELD headquarters, agents talking rapidly back and forth as though they’ve never had more energy, outsiders coming in to assess the damage that had been wreaked on some of SHIELD’s facilities. Steve’s suit is torn in some places, a few nasty-looking scrapes marring the fair skin on display, and his hair is damp. He doesn’t look too beat-up otherwise, but that doesn’t appear to be too much of a concern for him anyway. 

“You alright?” he asks, as he looks anywhere but Tony’s face, directing his attention somewhere toward the middle-distance. 

Tony snorts. “Time already for your mandatory health and well-being checks? I’m fine. I got the suit going for me, all you have is some kevlar, so if anything, I should be checking up on you.” 

Steve nods, gaze slanting toward Tony like he can’t quite help it, eyes scanning methodically as they always do for any signs of hidden injury. “I’m fine, really. Uh. Just wanted to—you know.” 

He sucks in a deep breath and nods resolutely, looking particularly haggard in the buzzing fluorescent light that beats down on them. His shield harness has been removed, alongside his magnetic weapon holsters. He looks startling bare, stripped down to his baser components, eyes darting between Tony and something past his shoulder that must be particularly fascinating for him to be observing it so intently. It’s those facts alone that have Tony sighing heavily and dropping his guard just a little.

“Look, I’m not gonna beat around the bush here—“

“It’s fine, Tony, really, you don’t have to—“

“I want to,” he insists, “because you look so awkward right now I can feel it, and it is, not a pleasant feeling, Cap, let me tell you. You’re killing me over here.”

Steve’s eyebrows are furrowed slightly like he wants to protest some more, but his thinly-veiled curiosity is just barely preventing him from doing so. 

“Okay. Alright. It’s no big deal, just, sometimes, I feel younger than I am, so I act like it, sometimes I act like I’m younger than I am, so I end up feeling like it too. Look it up if you want, ‘age play’, except keep the safe search on and for the love of god click the articles, not the videos. I will not be held responsible for any irrevocable psychological scarring.” 

If it it weren’t for the bustling chatter filling the air around them, Tony might’ve been a little more hesitant about saying that out in the open. Only a little, though.

“You...So, that is to say, you—that involves pacifiers?” 

Tony shrugs. “Yeah. Sometimes. Depends how old I’m feeling.” 

“Right. Uh. Okay. That’s—“ Steve inhales deeply, “and is there a purpose to that?”

He rolls his eyes at that, picking his phone up from the bench when it lights up with an email from R&D. “Always gotta be a purpose with you, huh? Not that I’m judging. That’d be hypocritical or something. It’s—stress relief, mostly. Not traditional by any means, but...” he shrugs, “Bruce has yoga and tea, you have drawing and knitting, I, sometimes, have this.” 

Steve blinks, and Tony allows him a bit of time to snap himself out of his stupor, sighing as he goes to reply to the aforementioned R&D email. 

“Okay.” 

He looks up sharply. “Okay?”

Steve nods. “Yeah. Okay. I mean, I don’t—“ he doesn’t have to say the words ‘get it’ for Tony to hear them anyway, “but. Everyone’s different. And I don’t see that harming anyone.”

It’s Tony’s turn to feel a little shocked now, even if he recovers quickly. He grins, getting up from his chair and giving Steve a clap on the back. 

“How very 21st century of you, Captain. What’s next? Skinny jeans?” 

Steve wrinkles his nose. “No, I think my jeans are good the way they are.” 

He laughs, and wanders off to find Fury, because the sooner he can get back home to his stuffies, the better. 

~ 

The next time Steve lays eyes on him he starts blushing like a swooning maiden, which lets Tony know that he did not, in fact, turn on safe search. Apart from that, however, he doesn’t bring up the age play again and Tony is perfectly content with going about business as usual, setting aside the fact that there’s an Avenger who knows about this side of him now. 

The following Saturday finds him making the treacherous journey up to the communal floor for breakfast, solely because he knows that Steve is making pancakes today, and he has the best pancakes. Not that Tony would ever be caught dead admitting to that aloud. 

Rambunctious chatter fills the open space when he enters, far, far too lively for 9 am in the morning, but Tony braves it anyway and shuffles into the kitchen, making a beeline for his coffee machine. 

“Your shirt’s on backward,” Clint chirps, laying on the whole ‘cheerful morning person’ shtick a little thick. 

“Your face is on backward,” Tony mumbles tetchily, because it feels like he hasn’t slept since the summer of ‘83 and he can’t be expected to have any sort of snarky wit about him at this ungodly hour. 

“It is? Why didn’t you guys tell me?” Clint accuses. 

“Didn’t notice a difference,” Sam quips.

That, of course, results in a snark fest that Tony happily tunes out in favor of retrieving a jug of milk from the fridge. 

“You look well-rested,” Steve says lightly, quiet amusement wound through his voice.

“Sarcasm? At this hour, Cap?” 

Steve shrugs, a playful smile curling at the corner of his mouth as he flips a pancake. “If you think this is early you would’ve hated the army.” 

“I’m sure I would’ve,” Tony agrees, as he takes his mug out from under the coffee machine and stirs in a dash of milk. A sigh of pure contentment leaves his lips as he cups it close to his chest for a brief moment, basking in the warmth of it. 

Then, he proceeds to throw back the coffee at a rate that visibly alarms Steve, who opens his mouth, no doubt to protest, before snapping it shut again. The good news is, he rapidly starts to feel more alert following that, the usual buzzing tension returning to his muscles. 

“Tony! Are you in for tonight?” Clint calls.

Natasha snorts. “Is that even a question we have to ask?” 

“No, wait, I’m curious now, what’s on tonight?” Tony asks. 

“Thor’s arriving and he has the goods,” Clint says, with a small smirk.

Tony blinks. “The goods? What, they got Asgardian weed or something?” 

“No, it’s Asgardian alcohol, but I am so asking about that next,” he says. 

Tony turns his raised eyebrows on Steve, whose smile looks a little sheepish. 

“Planning to get lucky or something tonight, Cap?” 

“No. Just—trying things out,” he says, with a shrug. 

“Clint’s getting him and Bucky drunk,” Nat explains mildly, as she pours herself some coffee. 

“Hey, don’t pretend you aren’t in on this too, Romanoff,” he says.

She just smirks, which is a very lethal thing when it comes to Natasha Romanoff. 

Tony fixes himself another cup of coffee, pointedly directing his gaze away from the table.

“I actually got plans tonight, so I’m not sure I’ll be there.” 

There’s silence for a split second, then, the closest thing to a whine he’s ever heard from Clint: “What? Why?” 

He just shrugs, going for nonchalance. “Some of us have a thriving social life, Barton. You’ll get there one day.” 

Natasha lets out an amused huff. Tony turns to pin her with a look of faux-indignance. “Got something to say about that, Agent?” 

“Nothing at all,” she says, with a schooled look of innocence. 

“Look, I know I’m the life of the party and all, the funniest person in a room at any given moment, et cetera, et cetera, but I’m sure you guys will be fine without me for a hot minute,” he says. 

“The funniest person in a room?” Bucky parrots, eyebrows raised. 

The Avengers, as predicted, rise to the bait immediately, and Tony simply watches on with a triumphant little smile as they squabble amongst themselves. 

Steve, who had remained relatively silent throughout the conversation, looks over at him with a certain perceptiveness in his gaze, sporting an expression that Tony normally associates with him being in analyzing mode. He looks away when Tony catches his eye, the tips of his ears reddening, which. 

Yeah. He definitely knows that Tony’s plans tonight have exactly nothing to do with a thriving social life. 

~

“Pep, have I mentioned how much I love you lately? No, really, I just thought you should know, definitely don’t tell you enough how wonderfully amazingly fantastically competent you are in every way and yeah, in unrelated news, I would like to postpone that five o'clock meeting, now that you mention it totally out of the blue.” 

He hears a distinct sigh on the other end of the line. “You’re lucky I had clashing meetings. Be there Thursday, Tony, or I’ll teach DUM-E how to operate a water hose.”

Tony snorts. “Pep, DUM-E can barely make me a smoothie, much less operate something as complicated as a water hose. Also, FYI, he’s in the corner until further notice, teaching him a lesson about unceremoniously dousing me in foam.” 

“Was there a fire?” 

“That is, so not relevant, I think the real question we should asking here is—“

“Tony.” A hint of exasperated amusement underlies her tone. 

He lets out a sigh, gesturing about vaguely with his hands. “Look, was there a fire? Maybe. A microscopic one. Totally had it under control, though, also, just for the record, he moved to douse me before it had even transferred to my shirt—“

“Before the what transferred to your shirt?” 

“Anyway, so this was great, love talking to you, as always, contact me via JARVIS if you need anything at all—“

Pepper sighs, seemingly resigned to her fate. “Try not to start another fire. If you’re gone, I don’t know who’s gonna wrangle the R&D department.”

“You know, it really warms my heart to know I’ll be missed,” he says, as he spins in his chair, stomach swooping with the inexplicable urge to giggle. 

He stops dead when he realizes that Steve is standing inside his workshop, a tray of lunch set down on the table beside him, eyebrows raised slightly in question. 

“Uh. I gotta go, Pep,” he says abruptly, “important, life-changing discoveries to be made. Meeting on Thursday, I’ll remember.”

“You better. I’ll see you soon, Tony.” 

He ends the call and pockets his phone, standing up from his chair. “Are all supersoldier steps so light you can barely hear them? Asking for a friend. Also, just for the record, I have actually eaten today.” 

Steve’s eyebrows creep further up his forehead. “What’d you have?” 

“Trail mix and coffee,” he says, with utter confidence. 

“That’s not lunch.” 

“Have you considered that lunch is a social construct?” 

“Right,” he says, wryly, “and I’m sure food is a social construct too.” 

“Well, that one’s a little more complicated.” 

Steve looks up toward the ceiling like he’s praying for strength. “Whatever you wanna call it, you should eat something. I know times have changed and all, but I’m pretty sure humans still need energy to function.” 

Tony approaches with faux-reluctance. He actually does eat an adequate amount of food a good majority of the time, thank you very much, there just happen to be a few in-between days where he gets caught up enough that he forgets. Steve must have a sixth sense for those days or something, because he always ends up venturing down to the workshop a couple of times a month with either lunch or dinner like clockwork. 

“Say, where’d you learn to balance trays like that, anyway?” Tony asks.

“Nazi Germany.” 

Tony falters for just a moment before shaking his head. “That is, an alarmingly frequent answer to questions for you.” 

Steve just shrugs, unfazed, before proceeding to look unfathomably pleased when Tony picks up the sandwich and takes a bite. 

“So. What was that about you being on fire earlier?” he asks, eyes scanning over Tony’s body, seemingly on autopilot. 

Tony swallows his bite, before answering, “only for a second or two. Nothing to kick up a fuss over, Cap.” 

“Only for a second or two, he says.” 

“Hey,” Tony says, arms raised in defense, “it wasn’t even on me, this time. I was following safety protocol and everything. Obviously, it was the rocket boots at fault here.” 

“Obviously,” Steve agrees dryly, as he pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and absently begins to dab at some of the soot that’s gathered on Tony’s forehead. His cheeks visibly warm when Tony meets his gaze, and he clears his throat before stepping back and offering him the handkerchief. 

“Sorry.” 

Tony shrugs, amused. “It’s fine. I’m making a look out of it, anyway.” 

Steve hovers uncertainly for a moment longer. “Uh. I should probably get to the gym. That’s where I was headed before...” he trails off.

Tony nods, turning back toward his workbench. “Alright. Go easy on the reinforced punching bag, will you? Having to make a new one every other week is bruising my ego,” he says, knowing very well that even when Steve is pulling his punches it’s enough to do a whole lot of wear and tear. 

Steve’s smile takes on a sheepish edge. “Thanks for that, by the way.” 

Tony waves him off. “It’s nothing. Go punch your frustrations away, soldier.” 

He’s just about out of the doors when Tony blurts, “and uh, thanks. For the lunch.” 

He doesn’t turn around, but he thinks he can hear the smile in Steve’s voice when he tells him it was nothing. The lab feels just a little too quiet when he leaves. 

~ 

It’s Friday night and the Avengers are sprawled out across a few couches with some drinks and pizza boxes laid out in a chaotic jumble across the coffee table, talking between themselves while the TV plays, a backdrop to their chatter more than anything. It’s nice, the stillness that’s fallen over their floor as the sky darkens, as pinpricks of light glimmer to life across the city and illuminate the sharp angles of each building. 

It’s even nicer when Bucky arrives with an armful of purring Alpine.

“Oh my god,” Tony says, as he stands up from the couch and makes a beeline for Bucky. “It’s my favorite Avenger,” he coos to the snow-white cat that’s curled up in his arms. He likes cats, and he likes this particular cat too. Sue him. 

Bucky huffs, but there’s amusement swimming in his eyes as he carefully passes Alpine over into Tony’s awaiting arms. 

“Apparently my attention wasn’t enough for her, so she wanted to come down with me,” he explains, as Tony scritches behind her ears, delighting in the loud purr that results. 

“You can have, literally all of my attention, I’m not doing anything useful with it. You’re like a little engine, you know that?” 

Alpine looks up at him, before butting her head into his palm for more pats. Tony’s heart stutters in his chest. 

She moves between the Avengers throughout the first hour or so, but eventually, when they decide on playing a movie, she curls up on Tony’s chest in a fluffy white bundle and Tony is honestly scared to breathe wrong and ward her off somehow. There’s a blanket draped over his legs, and Tony relaxes enough that he’s gradually lulled into a peaceful slumber, the quiet chatter amongst the Avengers fading to the very edges of his consciousness as he curls a protective arm around Alpine. 

When he wakes it’s to a gently smiling Steve hovering over him, unbearable fondness written into the lines of his expression.

“You should get to bed, Tony,” he says, keeping his voice low.

Tony groans, knuckling at his eyes as he stretches his arms out above his head. Alpine stands up on his chest, arching her spine before padding along his stomach and leaping gracefully down onto the floor, no doubt in search of food.

It’s been a long week, even by his standards, and he can feel the lingering stress of it in his bones, and suddenly he’s so damn exhausted he can barely bring himself to move, even think past the haze that’s fogging up his brain. 

“I’ve decided that couches are good,” he mumbles, turning and burying his face in the pillow. 

Steve lets out a sigh. “You shouldn’t sleep here.” 

“Why not?” he questions, except the words are garbled beyond recognition by the pillow, so he wouldn’t be surprised if Steve didn’t catch them.

There’s a pause, just for a beat or two, then Steve says, “if you don’t want me to carry you, you should probably tell me now.” 

Tony remains incriminatingly silent, despite the embarrassment that swoops in his gut. It does sound a whole lot better than walking, and it’s not like it would be the first time Steve’s carried him someplace like a damsel in distress. Except, he’s not a damsel, and he’s definitely not in distress, he just doesn’t want to move, okay, there’s a difference. 

Steve takes the cue and slides his arms under Tony’s frame, lifting him up from the couch in a bridal carry with far too much ease for Tony’s liking. He curls inward, lamenting slightly at the heat that leaches itself from his body as he’s removed from his spot on the couch. Steve is broad, warm and steady — Tony can hear the strong rhythm of his heart beating away inside his chest, and he can feel the body heat that he radiates. He decides to just let himself have this for the time being, decides that overthinking this to the point of his thoughts becoming a monotonous buzz can wait until another time, when he isn’t in the hazy place between sleep and wakefulness. 

Warm light worms its way beneath his eyelids, leaving imprints of blotchy color, and Tony knows they’re on his floor now. He cracks an eye open when Steve comes to an abrupt stop and realizes that his gaze had found the plastic red sippy cup that sits innocently atop his counter, catching the light. It’s only a beat or two before he’s moving again, making his way toward Tony’s room — a familiar route, really, which Tony tries not to think too hard about either. 

Steve deposits him on soft, silk sheets and digs his blanket out from his legs, drawing it up to his shoulders. He hovers there for a moment, partially blocking the pale light that floods in through the entryway, and his expression is twisted up a bit with uncertainty, his cheeks reddened. 

“Uh.” He looks like he’s going to ask something, but he presses his lips together at the last moment, a thin line of suppressed emotion. “Good night, Tony.” 

“Night, Cap,” he mumbles, as he turns over in bed.

It’s another beat before Steve makes for the door, leaving it open a crack, so that a strip of light pierces through the darkness of his room, cast across the carpeted floor, which. 

That’s new. 

He waits until he hears the mechanical hum of the elevator until he digs his robot stuffie out from under the covers and cuddles it to his chest. 

~  

It’s a subtle shift, now that he thinks about it. Steve has always been more protective of his teammates post-battle, tending toward hard, fast efficiency during the actual fight rather than allowing himself to get caught up in emotions. Over the course of the following weeks, he seems to start fretting more over Tony’s minor injuries, treating scrapes and cuts as things worthy of going to medbay about, getting ansty over Tony’s routine risk-taking, all part-and-parcel when it comes to his M.O. on the battlefield, but he was sure he’d already crossed this bridge with Steve before. 

So, he sits Steve down, tells him that his risks are perfectly calculated, that Tony uses every scrap of incoming data he has when he makes them, that JARVIS often has an exact percentage of their estimated effectiveness sussed out beforehand. He also tells him that injuries are just sort of inevitable in their line of work, and that they can’t afford to get caught up in them each time. Steve agrees, apologizes, tells him that he’ll back off, and Tony thinks that’s that. 

He had known, actually, that chasing down a couple of rogue magic-users and the giant serpent they’d conjured up that looked like the basilisk’s cousin wouldn’t end well for him. Largely because magic is involved and man, does he hate that stuff. 

Right when the battle is winding down, on the very cusp of finishing with a majority of the magic-users captured, Tony lets his guard down for a split second and the serpent manages to hit him dead-on with a good dose of its venom. The acrid smell of charred metal assaults his nose, and the circuits of his suit seem to scramble, JARVIS’ voice stammering and stuttering to a robotic halt as Tony tries desperately to reboot his systems. No such luck. The warm metal of his suit becomes an almost painful sear, the sleek outer layers bubbling as though they’re liquid being sloshed around in a cup, not virtually indestructible components of gold-titanium armor.  

His comms are down, crackling with useless static, and Tony’s stomach feels as though it’s been dropped from the peak of a high rise building as he plummets down toward the Hudson River, his heart in his throat. It’s not even a particularly high drop — about 15 feet — but his suit feels awfully claustrophobic without the HUD to light his way, with the solid darkness that encases him like it’s something tangible, something closing in on him at all sides. 

The flashes of memory and sensation and sound and pale, washed-out color all bleed into one another, but he remembers the totally numbing shock of hitting the surface, remembers squeezing his eyes shut against the water that rushes into his suit where its structural integrity has been compromised. He remembers the realization that slams into him, that the suit is a dead weight and there’s an emergency latch he’s not using. 

It’s Thor that fishes him out, he couldn’t have been in there for longer than a minute, but they’re a good way into winter and even that numbing chill, the ice that had crawled its way into his bones and turned them to lead, it’s enough to throw him into bouts of uncontrollable shivering, teeth chattering so hard he can feel the pressure of it drilling away in his skull. A tension settles somewhere behind his eyes as he’s herded onto the SHIELD helicarrier that’s landed, retroreflective panels shimmering in the frigid air. 

Tony remembers being settled on a cushioned bench, a few SHIELD medical personnel telegraphing their movements to him in low tones as they go about examining him, while a few other people outside his field of vision begin to wrap him in blankets.

“We need a couple of warm compresses,” someone says, which Tony barely makes out through the swirling numbness inside his own head, the icy pinpricks that fill every square inch of his body and leave him trembling. It’s a good sign, apparently, according to one of them, that he’s still shivering, that he hasn’t gone entirely still. 

He answers their slews of questions as best he can, gaining some level of clarity that allows him to recognize the place he’s in as the SHIELD medical bay, with its striking white walls and its lurid blue holographic screens. He also recognizes the flashing blue eyes that round the corner, and the firm voice that asks, “where is he?” 

“Captain Rogers, Director Fury asked—“

“I’m not looking for Fury right now,” he says, as his eyes land on Tony, sharp and scrutinizing, “but I’ll let you know when I am. Thanks, Agent.” 

Tony almost smiles. Almost. Maybe his lips still turn up slightly at the corners, though, because the fire in Steve’s eyes reduces down to soft embers, expression gentling as he approaches and gets the specifics of Tony’s situation from one of the SHIELD personnel on stand-by. For some inexplicable reason, he feels his chest glow with warmth at the sight, which shouldn’t be feasible, surely, because the whole point is that he’s sort of not glowing with warmth presently. 

“Stay away from his arms and legs, rubbing at his skin won’t help for the moment, not when we’re just trying to raise his core temperature back up to normal levels.” 

Steve nods seriously before turning his gaze on Tony, frowning at the shuddering tremors that visibly wrack his body. 

“I’m sorry, Tony,” he says, which. Huh. He really wasn’t expecting that. “You stayed where I ordered you to. I didn’t think—“

“Hey, come on,” Tony says, the words only a little slurred, “I stayed there because I agreed it was a good vantage point. Don’t go all guilt complex on me now.” 

Steve shakes his head like he doesn’t agree but he isn’t about to start arguing. 

Tony honestly doesn’t register the to-go cup in Steve’s clutches until he holds it up for him to see, and he very nearly lets out a wistful sigh at the heat it radiates. 

“You’re allowed,” Steve says, “if—uh. Do you need me to—“ 

Tony sends one glance down at his violently trembling hands before nodding, if a little hesitantly. He doesn’t want to be forcing Steve into doing anything he doesn’t want to do, but if he’s offering...

His stomach swoops when Steve wraps an arm around his waist and carefully draws him in toward his body. Something flashes across his expression, something that’s hard to pinpoint, as he raises the to-go cup up for Tony to sip at. It’s hot chocolate, SHIELD’s overwhelmingly sub-par hot chocolate, but it has sugar and milk and it’s warm and Steve is practically feeding it to him in sips, so Tony is very happy to shut up, slump into him like a ragdoll and pull the warmed blankets further around his body. Steve is a solid, comforting weight pressed all along his side, one that Tony would happily bask in for however long he had. 

If he’s being honest, there’s a part of him that can’t help but feel a little small, too, all tucked up into Steve’s side while he offers him these gentle smiles and these murmured words of encouragement, that seep beneath Tony’s defenses and trickle down toward his chest, pooling there and warming him from the inside out. It’s like he’s afraid to speak too loudly, in case the noise will somehow trigger the icy cold to shatter him to pieces, and there really shouldn’t be longing twisting itself up inside Tony’s chest at the sound of it, because Steve doesn’t want anything to do with that part of him. 

A SHIELD agent returns with a warm compress and seemingly reads the situation, because he instructs Steve to keep it pressed to Tony’s chest, which means that he has to unwind his arm from around Tony’s waist. He feels an almost staggering urge to whine pitifully at the loss of contact, but he smothers it with some difficulty and focuses on the press of Steve’s fingertips to the fabric of the SHIELD-issued garb he’s wearing. 

“Tony?” 

He looks up, realizing only then that his head had lolled onto Steve’s shoulder without his conscious input. 

“It’s okay,” Steve says quickly, shifting a little, “just—I think you should finish this.” 

Tony nods lethargically and rights himself with some effort, inclining his head just enough for Steve to raise the cup to his lips again. Steve’s eyes are roaming his face now, but it’s different to the way he checks for injuries. It’s...warm, like a tender sweep over his features rather than a practical examination, like he’s regarding him rather than taking him apart. He feels himself melt right into it, feels the warmth of it sink right down to the very depths of him.

“Feeling okay?” Steve murmurs, eyebrows furrowing a little, “you look a little out of it.” 

“I’m fine,” Tony confirms, as he accepts another pro-offered sip. 

There’s paper work and debriefings to suffer through, he knows that, especially seeing as an Avenger had ended up in the medbay, which is grounds for an inordinate amount of pointless bureaucracy. But right now, that’s just about the last thing on his mind. 

Steve is talking again, so Tony tunes in.

“—Avengers are handling clean-up right now, but they’d only do it on the condition that I told them you’re alright. The others thought...” he pauses here, eyes darting away like he said something he perhaps shouldn’t have, “well, they thought, maybe Bruce should...be the one check on you, because. Well. He’s a doctor, I guess.” 

Tony loves Bruce, really, he does. But...

“‘M glad you’re here,” he murmurs, in a low tone that’s trampled over by the discordant cacophony of voices surrounding them, but Steve must hear it, because his unsure expression brightens a little. 

He steadily works his way through the hot chocolate, tamping down on a noise of delight when Steve’s arm winds itself around his waist once more, obviously for the practicality of steadying him, because everything Steve does has a purpose. Still, Tony tries not to examine it too closely, which is difficult seeing as he’s hardwired that way, and that’s where they remain for the time being. Tony with his head on Steve’s shoulder, holding onto his headspace by an incredibly fine thread, while Steve talks in low tones, keeping the warm compress right where he’s been directed to keep it. 

He’s only cleared once SHIELD performs a few tests to confirm that his core body temperature is back up to normal levels, and with the promise that he’ll return in the case of any unforeseen symptoms. It’s more than a little disappointing when Steve detaches himself in order to help Tony up. He still feels small, is the thing, it’s a haziness he’s usually capable of shaking, but he’s never had someone looking after him quite like that before, not while he’s been teetering on the verge of headspace, and he just...he feels very, very little. In a big, big SHIELD helicarrier with a bunch of people’s gazes following him down every corridor he walks through, because it’s Tony Stark and you can’t feel people watching you beyond a certain level of infamy, apparently. 

On the quinjet the Avengers express their relief that Tony is okay in various ways, a clap on the back here, a quip or a wisecrack there. Relief floods him when they retreat to their respective seats and start talking amongst themselves. Tony would usually pilot the quinjet with JARVIS’ aid, but Steve had pressed one of his oversized jackets into his arms and ushered him to a backseat instead, which. Didn’t at all help with how little he’s feeling, quite frankly. 

JARVIS is fully capable of piloting the quintet alone, but Steve remains in the cockpit anyway. Tony zips the jacket up around him, relishing in the clean, comforting scent that’s undeniably Steve, and remains unnaturally quiet. The others must think he’s feeling run-down, from both the battle and the brief medbay stay, which isn’t entirely untrue. He appreciates them leaving him a relatively wide berth, anyhow. 

Steve glances about casually, and his gaze lingers on Tony for a moment. Something like recognition flashes in his eyes, and he looks almost hesitant as he stands up and checks over the control panel before stepping up out of the cockpit and approaching Tony, taking the seat beside him. 

Tony fidgets with his hands, trying to keep them busy so he doesn’t bring a thumb up to his mouth or something. 

He honestly isn’t quite sure what he expects Steve to do, but it certainly isn’t to just start talking, army stories and battle tactics and things he noticed during last week’s mission and just about anything in between. It hits Tony like a pile of bricks that Steve is trying to help him maintain a hold on his adult headspace until they reach the Tower by talking to him, which is such a Captain Earnest move that Tony can’t help but feel a little warmed by it. 

It works, too, concentrating on the steady cadence of Steve’s voice rather than the headspace he’s actively fighting. 

When they return home, Steve calls a meeting for everyone sans Tony and pulls him aside to assure him that he’ll keep the others away from his floor that night.

Tony would argue that he can definitely fend for myself, that he doesn’t need Steve doing any of that for him, but Steve has a firm hand on his shoulder and even that’s making him feel little. So, he just smiles, nods, tries not look up at him through his lashes, and scurries away at the earliest opportunity to lick his wounds, and maybe his bruised ego too. 

~ 

There are projects scattered across his workshop in varying states of progress, there are holographic screens lit up a pale blue, washed out where the dreary sunlight is cast over them. The sky is blanketed by a sheet of deep gray clouds, not one ray of sunshine filtering through, and all in all, it’s a decidedly miserable day. 

Still, it feels unfathomably warm inside the workshop, with Tony salvaging what he can from his utterly demolished suit while Steve pours over footage from the mission. He does it just about every time, and Tony can never quite wrap his head around it. All he sees when he views footage like that are mistakes, choices he could’ve made differently, things to obsess over and make up for. He’s getting the idea, however, that it really is helpful for someone like Steve, who’s more likely to recognize his mistakes and acknowledge them without drowning in them, without endlessly ruminating over them. He’s far more likely to gain something from the footage, and Tony does like having him down in the workshop, even if he’d sooner hand over his suit collection to the United States Government than admit it. 

He thinks that Steve knows, can see Tony’s appreciation shine through the small cracks in his facade, the brief moments where his smiles are a little too genuine and his snark softens into playful teasing. 

There’s just one tiny problem this time around. 

In the days following that afternoon on the helicarrier, Tony can’t shake the thought of how gentle Steve had been — the way he’d helped feed him that hot chocolate without question, the way he’d held him steady, willingly interacted with him while he was on the cusp of headspace, which shows...at least, a level of tolerance. 

He’s not going crazy here, right? 

Steve hadn’t looked reluctant about any of it, but he could’ve been bottling those feelings for all Tony knows. He has cool, calm and collected down to an exact science at this point — even without realizing, he uses masks much the same way Tony uses them. 

He looks at Steve, and all he sees is that tender expression he’d sported the entire time he’d been sitting with Tony, and look, not to be dramatic or anything, but Tony doesn’t need this, okay. Really. Emotions are confusing and he’d prefer not to get overly tangled up in them. 

Now probably isn’t time for semi-breakdowns, anyway, seeing as he’s sort of in the midst of a conversation. 

“So you kissed that girl?” he asks, whistling lowly, “did not see that one coming, Cap.” 

Steve shakes his head, a wince twisting across his face. “Peggy caught us.” 

Tony nearly spits out his coffee. 

“I know,” he says, with a heaving sigh, “I know.” 

“Okay, first of all, the history books definitely left out this rom-com worthy drama, which is just. A disservice. Not that I’ve read them or anything. No offense. Well, I’ve skimmed them, but history wasn’t exactly my favorite subject if we’re being honest here.” 

“What, too boring for a futurist like you?” Steve asks, as he jots something down in his notebook, eyes flicking between the page and the freeze-frame before him. 

“I mean. You said it, not me. Plus, I got enough of a history lesson from Howard.” He pauses. “Huh. You know, I think I’m starting to connect a few dots here.” 

“My dad was a big fan of baseball back in the day,” Steve offers, “I don’t like that anymore either. Can barely watch a sports news segment if it has baseball in it for even a second.”

Tony hums as he pries a relatively intact panel from the suit, “starting to think having Daddy Issues is in the Avengers job description.” 

It really shouldn’t make Tony glow with pride when Steve doesn’t blink twice at the term, just nods. “Looks like it.” 

A comfortable silence blankets them as they continue to work at their respective stations. 

For the record, Tony is well and truly in his adult headspace when it happens. He doesn’t know how or why it occurs, all he knows is that as he spins in his chair to grab a screwdriver from the next workbench over, a delighted giggle bubbles up from his chest faster than he can temper. Steve pauses the footage, looking over with a curiously intent gleam in his eye and a perfectly teasing smile tugging at his lips. 

“What was that?” 

“I don’t know what you could possibly be referring to,” Tony says mildly, as he scans over the remains of the suit one final time. Once he deems that everything that could possibly be salvaged from it has been, he glances back toward Steve, who’s still wearing that damn smile. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you giggle before.” 

“I mean, look, if we’re being honest here, that wasn’t a giggle so much as a...manly chuckle. JARVIS agrees with me, don’t you buddy?” 

“Actually, Sir—“

“Or not because he’s a traitor and no one should listen to him! DUM-E definitely does, though, being an unwavering beacon of truth and all. Right, pal?” 

DUM-E pipes up with a series of excited beeps, and Tony nods resolutely, turning to Steve, who’s starting to look thoroughly amused now. 

“Unwavering beacon of truth, huh?” 

“Oh, you bet. Hasn’t wronged me once.”

“I thought—“

“Yup, definitely, certifiably has never wronged me once in his life,” Tony continues, as he approaches a workbench with some delicate soldering work he’d been planning on resuming.

Steve huffs, shaking his head as he returns to his screen. 

“It was cute,” he offers, after a beat or two, which has Tony’s gaze snapping toward him in an instant. 

The tips of his ears are red and Tony knows it’s only a matter of time before that warmth starts to bloom on his face too. 

“Cute?” he parrots, disbelievingly. 

Steve shrugs, but he doesn’t retract it. “Yeah. Is that so wrong?” 

“Would you like the list of reasons why that’s wrong alphabetized? Because I can do that. But, for starters, I am so unbelievably intimidating that my presence alone strikes fear into the hearts of lesser—“

“Tony?” Steve interrupts, eyebrows raised, “I think you just have to admit that it was cute.”

“I will do no such thing,” he says, even as he returns to his circuit board, grumbling under his breath about earnest supersoldiers and their earnest supersoldier ways. 

The hours slip by between work and occasional bouts of chatter, as the sky outside steadily darkens and the warm lights within the workshop flicker to life. There aren’t anymore incidents like the first one, not until Steve approaches his workbench and accidentally brushes along his side while he’s trying to gesture to something, which has Tony recoiling away with a yelp. 

The lines of his expression smooth out with alarm for a split second, before a knowing smile begins to spread itself across his face. 

“Ticklish?” 

“Absolutely not.” 

“What was that then?” 

“Me being surprised by your quiet supersoldier footsteps, yet again. Seriously, what’s up with that by the way?” 

Steve’s smile doesn’t budge an inch, and Tony turns toward the circuit board to hide the stupid blush he can feel warming his cheeks. 

“Look, Cap, even if I was ticklish, which I most certainly am not, last time I checked, we’re both fully grown adults, who don’t tickle one another.” 

Something flits over Steve’s features at those words, something almost akin to...longing? But that can’t be right. There’s a conflicted sadness to his expression all of a sudden, and Tony can practically see the gears in his head turning. 

“Not...all the time, though, right?” 

Tony‘s heart leaps into his throat. “What do you mean?” 

“I—I just mean, that. Sometimes...you don’t feel like a fully grown adult, right?” 

He nods slowly, tentative hope swelling inside his chest. “Right. And what point are you trying to make here, exactly?” 

“I,” Steve swallows thickly, eyes flickering between Tony and the circuitboard, “I don’t know. I just.” He sucks in a deep breath, letting it out in a rush. “Sorry. I should go.”

Tony presses his lips together into a fine line, trying hard to temper the disappointment churning in his gut as he watches Steve pack up his notebook and pen. He’s not going to force him to talk, even if he thinks there’s something there Steve’s not quite letting on. 

Or, maybe there’s nothing at all, and Tony is just projecting his own desires onto Steve, who’s just trying to be supportive in some capacity. 

He sighs as he turns toward the door.

“Bye, Cap—“

Steve’s already gone. Tony obviously pushed too hard, dived right into the deep end, like he always does.

To be fair, one of his closest friends just coincidentally wanting to be a caregiver in some way? That’s far too convenient. 

Chapter Text

They don’t talk about it, which is Tony’s specialty really, so he doesn’t mind it all that much. 

Honestly.

If anything, he’s just surprised that Steve hasn’t brought it up again, because he has a bit of a thing about honesty and being straight-forward and lofty concepts like that.

But he doesn’t, and it’s fine, really. It’s not like he’s utterly annoyed by the fact that he’s gone a good decade or so without any real craving for a caregiver while he’s little, only to slammed in the face by all of this abject longing out of the blue. It’s not like he’s started looking at toys and wondering what it would be like if someone were there with him, holding them up for him, making silly noises and— 

Nope. He’s perfectly fine cuddling up by himself and coloring by himself and stacking blocks by himself and giving himself stickers. 

The following movie night, the Avengers all sprawl themselves out in their usual places, except Steve doesn’t take his spot next to Tony, and he isn’t there when Tony nods off — it’s Bucky, actually, who gently wakes him, tells him he should get to bed and bribes him with Alpine cuddles, which. Maybe shouldn’t be such an effective bribe, but it totally is. The point is, Steve strategically retreats to his room each time their movie nights end, and Tony hauls himself up to his floor, leaving the door of his bedroom open a crack each time. 

He pretends it doesn’t hurt, knowing that he’s made Steve uncomfortable enough that he’s beginning to totally back off with the contact, even if their friendship and their professional relationship has remained relatively the same apart from that. 

Really, he shouldn’t even care, he certainly wouldn’t have cared before the Avengers all moved in, before he formed this weird attachment to all of them, but that stupid afternoon on the quinjet keeps flashing through his mind like it’s on some nightmarish, neverending loop. 

Clearly, Steve has recognized the way Tony acts around him sometimes, and he’s trying to send a clear message about where they stand. 

Which is fine. 

He’s even starting to convince himself of that fact a few weeks later when he enters the workshop after retrieving some coffee, humming to himself as he approaches one of his bookmarked projects. It’s another miserable, overcast day, except this time, he doesn’t have Steve down here with him, brightening things up despite that. 

Tony very nearly loses the grip he has on his mug of coffee when he sees it. The liquid sloshes about dangerously for a moment, a warm droplet or two landing on his skin, and Tony sets it down before he ends up with shattered ceramic shards all over his floor. 

It’s. It’s a knitted teddy bear, with shiny button eyes and a stitched brown nose. Tony’s stomach swoops for a moment, before sinking right away as ice surges through his veins. Steve is the only person in the Tower who knits, and he knew what the implications of this would be. He’d been keeping a strictly platonic distance between them, had refrained from carrying him or treating him in any way that might be misconstrued. Now this? With no context? 

He’s on the verge of collecting the damn bear and finding Steve to give him a piece of his mind when JARVIS pipes up. 

“Sir, if I may, it might be wise to look underneath the bear.” 

Tony directs a suspicious look toward the nearby camera, before stepping forth and picking the bear up off the worktable, startling at the folded note that remains. He slowly opens it, a traitorous frisson of hope washing down his spine. It’s definitely Steve’s tiny cursive that’s scrawled across the paper. 

Tony, 

I know I’ve probably been acting weirdly over the past few weeks — I’m sorry. 

I was confused when you first told me about the age play, but honestly, the idea of you getting any sort of stress relief seemed great to me. You need it. 

I know I should be talking to you about this in person, but I wanted to give you the chance to totally ignore this, if you want to. No talking required. 

I’ve done some research — probably way too much — and I know you’ve been doing this on your own for a while, which is fine, if that works for you. But, if you’ll have me, I’d like to help out while you’re little, in any way that works for you.

Feel free to ignore this if that doesn’t appeal to you, I like our friendship and that definitely wouldn’t change it. If you’re interested, then feel free to come find me and talk to me. 

— Steve 

Tony can feel an almost manic smile splitting his face by the time he reaches the end. 

Oh, man. 

Melodramatic, emotionally-stunted supersoldiers. 

He folds the note back up and pockets it, picking the bear up delicately. 

“JARVIS, be a dear and put another bookmark on this, will you?” 

“Of course, Sir.” 

Tony’s going to ignore the fact that he somehow manages to sound both amused and knowing while keeping a perfectly monotonous tone. 

The sky looks a little brighter when he reaches Steve’s floor, casually walking forth from the elevator and approaching the back of the couch where Steve is curled up with a sketchbook on his lap. He looks up the moment he hears the elevator doors open, looking sheepish as he sets his pencil on the coffee table. His eyes dart down to the bear that Tony has in his clutches, and he softens a fraction, looking tentatively hopeful. 

Tony rounds the couch and throws himself down into the opposite corner, setting the bear on his lap. 

“Hey, Tony. Did you—uh, well, I’m guessing you did see it, if you’re here.” 

“I did,” Tony confirms, amused. He’s feeling just a little steadier now, a little more sure of himself now that he knows where Steve’s head is at. “At ease, soldier. You’re killing me over here.” 

Steve’s shoulders slump down from where they’d been bunched up, a distinct look of relief stealing over his face. “So you’re interested?” 

“I am,” he says, “also, just—before we even get to any of that, the letter was a nice touch. Just throwing that out there.” 

Steve sighs, an embarrassed smile tugging at his lips. “Tony.” 

“No, really,” he continues, grinning, “I liked it. Authentic, heartfelt, nice handwriting, very legible. 10/10 effort. Gold star. Oh, also, this bear, that’s another 10/10, very cute.” 

“Full marks,” Steve says wryly, “sure you aren’t being too generous?” 

“Oh, I’m definitely sure. A+ all round.” He shifts, giving the bear an absent pat on the head as he gets comfortable. “But anyway. You’ve done your homework, clearly. What exactly are you interested in? Caregiving? Babysitting? Just—occasional involvement?” 

“I,” Steve hesitates, but he meets Tony’s gaze evenly, “Well, caregiving, if that’s something you’d be alright with.” 

Tony nods, trying hard not to look too elated. “So, what I’m hearing is, more involvement, more hands-on kind of stuff? I am, absolutely alright with that, by the way.” 

Steve nods. He slowly seems to be finding his footing. “I, uh. Printed a few things out.” 

Tony nods. “Alright. Let’s take a look, then.” 

Steve gets up from the couch and picks some papers up from the counter before settling down again, closer to Tony. 

Tony’s eyes widen a little when his eyes land on what appears to be a fully-fledged booklet, highlighted, written-over and everything.

“Someone’s been busy,” he notes faintly, and he shuffles in closer to take a look. Tony has always dealt with unknowns by researching the hell out of them, and he’s starting to get the idea that Steve shares some similar tendencies. 

The wonders of Google Search. 

“Yeah,” Steve agrees, somewhat sheepishly, “some of this was just background stuff,” he says, as he leafs through a few pages. 

“Guess we should start with what we’re both okay with,” Tony hedges, “boundaries and all that. Not sure what you got in that magical booklet of yours, but I’m. Usually pretty young. Three or younger, usually.”

Steve nods, like that isn’t surprising information, and flicks to the relevant page. It’s filled to the brim with various lists of activities, compiled from different websites, ranging from coloring and drawing to using sippy cups and bottles and so on, so forth. There’s a question mark scrawled next to the ‘diaper/diaper changes’ dot point, which Tony raises his eyebrows at. Steve notices where his gaze lands and his cheeks redden just a little. 

“Uh. I thought I should ask you about that one. I mean — I know not everyone who does this uses diapers. Or — they wear them, but don’t use them.” 

Okay. Now Tony is feeling just a hint of embarrassment. “I don’t normally use them,” he says, trying hard not to sound like he’s just sucked on a lemon or something, “only when I’m really young. I usually wear them anyway, though, even if I don’t use them. But look, I’d get it if you didn’t want to—“ 

“Tony, I fought in a war, and I’m on a superhero team that faced up against a giant serpent just last month. Compared to all the stuff I’ve seen and done? Diapers are nothing. But, if you’re not comfortable with me changing them, you can still wear them and, uh. Handle them how you usually handle them.” 

Tony sighs inwardly. He can already tell there’s going to be a whole lot of ‘only if you’re comfortable with’s’ and ‘only if you want to’s’ in this conversation. 

Talking about all of this doesn’t come naturally to Tony by any means, but it does get easier throughout the conversation, once they’re both more attuned to the sorts of things the other is looking for in this. 

But yeah, it’s still awkward. 

Steve was obviously a man on a mission during his research spree, because he has pages on rules and safewords too, which. This is all so unbelievably consensual it’s actually blowing Tony’s mind a bit. They agree on a few basic starter rules for while Tony is little, but they also agree that they’re not exactly going to be static, and that some may have to be added, some may have to be modified or bent. Steve seems to be more into the idea of positive reinforcement, sticker charts and candy and that sort of thing, which Tony tries not to look too thrilled about. 

“How do we feel about nicknames?” Tony asks, leaning back into the couch cushions without jostling the knitted bear that still sits on his lap. “Or petnames, endearments, whatever you wanna call it. Like are we jumping right in with ‘daddy’ or—“

Steve seems to choke on his own saliva at that. “Uh. We could—test a few out? See what works? Whatever you’re—“

“Comfortable with, yeah,” Tony finishes, smiling a little, “but like, is there anything that’s a definite no for you?” 

“Not really.” He pauses, narrowing his eyes at the grin spread across Tony’s face, “that’s not a challenge, just so you know.” 

Tony schools his expression into one of utter innocence. “Of course not. I’m fine with whatever, just for the record. And that is absolutely a challenge.” 

Steve rolls his eyes, but there’s an undeniable fondness brimming in his gaze. “Copy that.” 

They agree on a sort of trial run the following week, on the day where Bucky is due to be out on a mission with Natasha and Clint, which not only means they’ll be away from the tower, but also that Alpine will be residing on Steve’s floor. 

He feels a lightness in his step as he enters the elevator just a few hours later, one that he hasn’t felt in a long, longtime. 

~ 

Tony is actually sort of apprehensive as the time of their trial run approaches the following Thursday. 

Yeah. He’s surprised too. 

The nervous tension he can practically feel crawling along his skin is interfering with his slide into headspace in a massive way. Usually, it’s a pretty natural progression, and it’s not too hard for him to fall pretty deep into littlespace with the right cues, but right now his stomach is twisting itself into knots and fine tremors are wracking through him and his hands are twitching restlessly on his lap. He’s caught in the confusingly blurry space between his adult mindset and his kid mindset, unable to lean into one or the other. 

Sure, Steve had seemed okay with all of this during their conversation, but there’s still a possibility that he could see Tony fully in his headspace for the first time and suddenly realize how weird he finds it, seeing his teammate behaving like a kid. Maybe he’ll mess up somehow, and Steve will decide he doesn’t actually want to do this after all. 

Tony gnaws at his bottom lip and jumps up from the couch, pacing restlessly back and forth. He’s wearing a pair of hulk sweatpants with a very stretchy elastic waistband and a soft hoodie, because he didn’t want to scare Steve off with something like a fuzzy animal onesie at this stage. Even though he’d said he was perfectly okay with Tony wearing whatever he wanted. 

Dammit. He’d expressly told himself he wouldn’t overthink this and everything. 

It’s late afternoon, the sun is nearing the horizon, and the sight of it makes Tony start to wonder whether they should’ve done this at an earlier time, because he always slips more at nighttime. Don’t ask him why, that’s just sort of how the cookie crumbles. He thinks it has something to do with the fact that he’s so used to entering littlespace at night, because that’s usually when he has a moment of spare time, and dusk always brings a certain relaxed privacy with it. 

The point is, if he gets too little, then Steve might be scared off. 

Tony jolts violently when JARVIS chimes in from above him, informing him calmly that Steve is in the elevator, on his way up to Tony’s floor. Suddenly, he feels jittery all over, like he might just shake apart before Steve can even get here. Those nerves from earlier have returned with a vengeance, roiling in his gut as he wrings his hands together. 

Okay. It’s fine. Maybe. Probably. Steve isn’t going to randomly decide he actually thinks this is way too strange for him. Maybe. Probably. 

The elevator doors open with a familiar mechanical hum, and Steve enters with Alpine cradled in his arms and a backpack slung over his shoulder. His steps are tentative, and he’s definitely carrying some tension in his shoulders, but his smile is gentle as he greets him, and Tony feels himself relax just a little at the sight of it.

“She misses your floor, I think,” Steve notes, as he sets an eagerly squirming Alpine down on the carpet, who pads toward the epic cat playground Tony had dragged out into the living room. Most of the floors are stocked with kitty essentials — food, toys, mechanical litterboxes, even fur brushes — but Alpine spends a fair amount of time on Tony’s floor, so obviously, he had the place decked out as much as possible. 

Tony smiles, and hopes it doesn’t look too shy. “Because it’s the superior one, obviously. Isn’t that right?” he coos, as he approaches the playground, petting gently down Alpine’s back. 

Steve rubs at the back of his neck, looking a little hesitant to close the distance between them. “Those are nice sweatpants,” he offers. 

Tony glances down at the aforementioned sweatpants. They’re comfortable, and they hide the crinkly outline of his pull-up pretty well. He even has a very fuzzy pair of socks, too, which have him wiggling his toes for a moment, smiling as he looks back up.

“Uh — thanks. You know, we did all that talking on Saturday, but we never actually mentioned what exactly we were gonna do today. Seems like maybe we should’ve.” 

“Maybe,” Steve agrees, as he approaches the couch and sets his backpack down. Tony sees him take a deep breath, clearly trying to get his nerves in check, which makes him feel a little better about his own nervousness. 

“Before we uh—I just, I feel like I should say, I’m sorry in advance if I mess up, or, or do something wrong. This is still pretty new to me.” 

There’s a snarky quip right at the tip of Tony’s tongue, but he knows that’s not what Steve needs right now, so he reigns in that instinctive part of himself. “Hey, look, I’m no expert when it comes to this sort of thing either. Don’t think it’s supposed to be perfect or anything, especially not at first.” 

Steve nods. “I guess you’re right.” He pauses, eyes darting toward Alpine, who has settled down in one of the playground’s numerous tunnels for a nap. “Is there anything you feel like doing? Anything that makes you feel,” he gestures about with his hands, “uh, little? I know you mentioned cartoons. Maybe we could give that a try?” 

Huh. Tony thinks he can work with that, actually. 

“Alright,” he agrees, as he wanders back over toward the couch and settles down somewhere in the middle, where the pillows are all piled up. “JARVIS, dim the lights, would you?”

“Of course, Sir.” 

“What are we thinking?” Tony asks, as he reaches for the remote to turn the TV on.

Steve settles back into the cushions some more, placing a hand on the arm of the couch. “Anything you want. Didn't you say something about a Winx club on Saturday?” 

Yeah, he likes Winx Club. It’s a good show to watch while he’s little, because it has lots of pretty colors. Sue him. 

Tony nods, maybe a little quickly, squirming to get comfortable. “JARVIS, queue up...hm, let’s queue up season 1 episode 1 of the Winx Club, so Steve knows what’s going on. ‘Cause, you know, I’m considerate like that.” 

The aforementioned episode appears on the TV screen before them, and Tony reaches for the throw blanket that’s draped over the back of the couch, tossing it over his lap. 

“Have you given this guy a name yet?” Steve asks, and Tony turns to find him holding up the knitted bear. Huh. He’d totally forgotten he’d put that there. 

Tony thinks about it for a moment. “He looks like an Oscar. Or a Stitch. Or an Oscar Stitch, as in, first name Oscar, last name Stitch. Because he’s official like that.” 

Steve’s responding smile is practically brimming with fond amusement, and the sight of it has Tony’s eyes darting away as he squirms a bit more, under the guise of getting comfortable. It’s just a little jarring to be smiled at like a kid when he’s not feeling entirely like a kid yet. His thoughts are already muffled, no longer flashing through his head at top speed, but he’s still leaning toward his adult mindset. 

He looks up when Steve sets the bear on his lap and tries hard not to feel too embarrassed as he brings it to his chest, not quite cuddling, just keeping it in a secure hold. 

“Alright JARVIS, you can play the episode,” he says. 

“Of course, sir.” 

It’s easier to relax when Steve’s full attention isn’t on him, and he feels some of the tension drain from his shoulders as he watches the theme song play. He barely refrains from humming along as he hikes the blanket up higher and brings his knees up to his chest. The relative darkness that blankets them as dusk draws closer helps too, makes Tony feel a little less exposed. 

The first episode is about twenty-two minutes, and Tony is fully curled up by the end of it, cradling Oscar to his chest. He’s still hesitant to make too much noise, but he’s definitely starting to feel littler, just from the cue of watching this cartoon alone. 

“Wanna watch another one?” Steve asks, which has Tony swiveling to face him. Steve looks more at ease, too, no longer sitting quite as stiffly.

Tony nods, shuffling his feet a bit. “Do you have a favorite yet?” he asks, as he boops Oscar’s nose. 

Steve smiles. “A favorite? Hm, I don’t know. Musa is pretty cool, I think. Why? Do you have a favorite?” 

Tony nods. “Tecna.” 

“Because she’s the fairy of technology?” 

Tony nods again. “She makes lots of things. With science.” 

“She does,” Steve agrees, “like you, huh?” 

The reminder of Tony’s Big workshop things brings forth an almost acute awareness of what they’re doing, of the fact that Steve has never seen him fully submerged in headspace before, and he can’t help but retreat back into himself a bit. 

Steve must notice, because his expression gentles, and he hurries to ask, “what about when you’re little? Do you like making things then?” 

Tony hesitates, eyeing him warily for a moment, before nodding, fast and maybe a little eager. “Blocks,” he says, “and legos.” 

Steve offers him an encouraging smile. “That sounds fun. Maybe we’ll have to try them, and you can show me what sorts of things you can build.” 

Tony feels himself perk up a little at that. “I have a spaceship.” 

“A spaceship?” Steve asks, with a gasp that makes Tony smile and curl in on himself a little. “that seems pretty complicated.”

“Sometimes I’m too little,” Tony confirms mournfully. 

“Well that’s okay. It’s good to let yourself be however little you’re feeling.” 

Those words alone probably shouldn’t make him feel little, but they absolutely do. Tony turns back to the TV, mostly to hide the fact that his face feels warm. 

“Another episode?” he asks, as hugs Oscar close. 

“Of course. JARVIS, could you play the next one?” Steve asks.

JARVIS does so wordlessly, and Tony settles back in, wriggling a bit. He quietly hums along to the theme song when it plays, smiling wide whenever Tecna appears on screen. 

About part way through the episode, he notices the unsure glances Steve is sending his way, and his brain manages to conjure up the vague thought that they didn’t really talk about physical contact on Saturday, and what was allowed in that regard. He’d certainly thought about it, but for some reason it didn’t cross his mind to bring it up. Steve is clearly struggling with it though, keeping a decidedly safe distance between them while he fidgets, so Tony shuffles closer to his corner of the couch, bringing Oscar and the blanket along with him. 

Steve looks over, and appears tentatively hopeful when Tony shuffles in until there are about two inches of space between them. Tony looks up at him, because words are getting a bit harder now, and Steve seems to take the hint, wrapping an arm around Tony’s shoulders and gently drawing him in until Tony can rest his head on Steve’s chest. He can hear the rhythmic thump of his heart when he presses in close. It’s warm. And nice. And it’s extra nice when Steve adjusts the blanket so it covers Tony’s shoulders. 

Tony melts into the contact and focuses his attention back toward the TV. 

By the end of the episode his thoughts definitely aren’t very big anymore, and they’re a lot harder to navigate. He thinks it has everything to do with the arm Steve still has wrapped around him. Steve seems to be okay with everything so far, but Tony still can’t help but feel a stab of panic when he looks down at him. 

“Do you want a pacifier, Tony?” 

It’s only then that he realizes he’d starting chewing on the drawstrings of his hoodie sometime during the final part of the episode. He recoils a bit, breaths coming out short, sharp and panicked as he removes them from his mouth, refusing to meet Steve’s eye. This has to be the part where Steve realizes how weird he finds this, surely. Teammates don’t just offer other teammates pacifiers when they start chewing on the strings of their hoodie. 

“Hey,” comes a soft from above him, but he doesn’t look up, just holds Oscar close and squeezes his eyes shut. “Tony, are you alright?”

“Weird,” he mumbles, fiddling with his damp drawstrings. 

Steve reaches out and runs careful fingers through Tony’s hair, which is nice enough that Tony can’t help but press into the contact. He cups Tony’s cheek with the other hand, his palm a warm, calloused and comforting pressure against his skin. 

“Hey, Tony, I’m not here to judge you, alright? I want you to do whatever comes natural to you.” He hesitates for a moment. “I’m sorry if I gave you the impression I found this weird when I first found out. I was surprised, and I hadn’t looked into it all. But right now, I just want to look after you, if that’s still okay with you?” 

Tony looks up, regarding Steve wearily for any signs of insincerity. There are none — Steve’s expression is open and honest and earnest, in a very classically Steve way. He nods, and Steve’s demeanor brightens. 

“Alright. So do you want a pacifier? Because—well, I have a few in my bag.” 

Tony already has some pacifiers, but the idea of Steve buying and bringing them just in case is pretty cute, so he nods again. Steve reaches over to unzip his bag, extracting a package from the front pocket. 

“I got this robot one, because I know you like blue, and. Well. Robots,” he explains, as he holds up the package for Tony to see. “They had different sizes, but JARVIS helped me out, so I hope it’s alright.” 

A smile breaks out on Tony’s face faster than he can temper. “It’s cute.” 

“I thought so too,” Steve says, returning the smile as he cleanly tears the package open and offers the pacifier to Tony. 

“Thank you,” Tony says, as he takes it and slips it into his mouth. He tests it out, maybe a little too eagerly, because the handle flicks up against the base of the pacifier a few times with how quickly he sucks on the rubber. He slows down after a beat or two and smiles at Steve through the pacifier. 

Steve’s eyes are shining with fondness, and Tony feels less like he wants to shy away from it now that he definitely knows Steve doesn’t find this weird. 

“Alright, sweetheart, I think maybe I should get started on some dinner, hm? How does macaroni cheese sound?” 

Hm. Steve usually insists on there being vegetables at dinner, even for all of the big people on their team, so Tony thinks he’s probably going to sneak vegetables in there somehow. He’s just not sure where. 

But...Steve is pretty good at cooking, and Tony usually likes what he makes when it’s his night to cook. So he nods. 

“Good,” he says, and Steve looks pleased as he stands up from the couch. 

He hovers there uncertainty for a few beats, before asking, “is it okay if I carry you?” 

“Yes,” Tony answers, before proceeding to blush profusely at just how much eagerness infused that one syllable. 

Steve smiles, and bends over to lift him up from the couch with only a small grunt of effort as he settles Tony on his hip, adjusting his grip under Tony’s butt and on his back. He’s been carried by Steve before, but never like this, and. Wow. Yeah. This makes him feel very little. So does the fact that Steve reaches out for Oscar and settles him in Tony’s arms.

He rests his head on Steve’s shoulder, allowing his mind to grow hazy as he concentrates all of his attention on the gentle sway back and forth as Steve walks. When they reach the kitchen, Tony tips his head back, only to find that Steve is already looking at him with a tiny smile. He immediately nuzzles back into the crook of his neck, because he’s never been carried like this before, and he’s just. Feeling very little and very shy and very fuzzy. Those feelings increase about tenfold when Steve shifts him so that he has one hand free to start puttering about the kitchen, tangling up inside his chest in one warm knot.

“Is it alright if I set you on the counter for now?” Steve asks, “I don’t wanna hurt you on accident while I’m using the knife.” 

Aha. So there are vegetables involved.

He removes his pacifier. “Awight.” His eyes widen. “Uh—I mean—“ 

“It’s okay,” Steve assures, “whatever feels natural, remember?” 

Tony nods, hugging Oscar close as he’s gently set down on the counter.

“I could help,” he offers quietly, swinging his legs a bit. 

“But Tony,” Steve says, smiling, “you’re already helping, by sitting there and being cute.” 

Tony pouts at that, and Steve laughs, approaching the counter to run a placating palm up and down his arm. “I’m sorry. But a lot of this uses the stove, and that’s a bit too big for you. Maybe...maybe you could help me measure out some of the ingredients? Like the milk, or the cheese. You’d have to be super careful though.” 

He nods eagerly, and holds up Oscar for Steve to see. Steve gives Oscar a pat on the head.

“Oscar can help, too,” he confirms, “then I can have two helpers.” 

Tony pops his pacifier back into his mouth, beaming at the title. He swings his legs back and forth as Steve brings a jug of milk and a few bags of shredded cheese over, guiding him through the measurements, and even resting his hands over Tony’s on the milk jug. 

Beyond the measurements, he mostly just watches Steve chop up a few ingredients (including broccoli, so there) and hover over the stove. He takes breaks through, approaching Tony every so often to check in.

Tony takes his pacifier out again to ask, “is your favorite still Musa?” 

Steve smiles. “Why? You think it should be Tecna?” 

Tony shrugs, but he knows there’s a deceptively innocent smile growing on face. 

“Musa has music,” Steve offers, “I like music.”

“Hm. What kind of music?” 

“The kind Clint and Sam make fun of me for,” he says, “old-timey music, according to them.”

Tony considers this for a moment before nodding thoughtfully. 

“What about you?” Steve asks, “what kind of music do you like?” 

“Um. JARVIS plays...plays lullabies, sometimes,” Tony says, eyes darting away for a moment. 

Recognition flashes across Steve’s face, as he slowly walks back over to the stove to give the contents of the pot a stir. “That’s very nice of him. Do they help you sleep?” 

Tony nods eagerly. “They have other noises too, sometimes. Like, um. Like, like forest noises.” 

“That sounds great. Maybe he could play some of them later, huh?” 

“JARVIS?” Tony asks, looking up at the ceiling.

“I will play whatever you desire, Young Sir,” he confirms, which has Tony smiling and swinging his legs a bit more. 

Alpine pads into the kitchen just a few minutes later, circling around Steve’s feet like a little shark as she lets out a few chirpy miaows. 

Steve huffs a laugh. “Yeah, alright. Guess it’s about dinner time for you too. Hold on a minute, I’ll get you some.” 

He ducks into the living room, returning with a can of cat food, and he’s just about to tip it into Alpine’s bowl on the kitchen floor when Tony makes a mournful noise through his pacifier, reaching out toward Alpine. Steve looks conflicted for a beat or two, but his shoulders eventually lower with resignation. 

“Okay. But this stays between you and me, alright? Buck’s gonna kill me if he finds out. He already thinks I spoil Alpine too much.” 

He sets Alpine’s bowl on the marble kitchen counter instead, and Alpine processes this shift for about half a second before she’s leaping gracefully up onto the counter. Tony giggles as he pets the kitty’s fur, trying to be as gentle as possible so he doesn’t disturb her while she’s eating. 

“Soft,” he says, the word muffled by his pacifier, and Steve offers him a warm smile as he returns to the stove. 

“Very soft,” he affirms. 

Once Alpine is done with her food, she arches right into Tony’s pats, curling up on the counter with a loud purr when he scratches behind her ears. He places her paws delicately up on Tony’s thigh and butts into his face with her own, sending him into another giggle fit that has Steve looking over fondly from the stove. 

When Tony starts to feel very little, he tends toward being less verbal, so as Steve finishes up the macaroni cheese and gets the table all set, he remains relatively silent, content to suck away at his pacifier and pat Alpine. Then, Steve wanders over to the counter and asks if he can pick him up, which has Tony nodding in an instant. He carries him over to the table and lowers him down onto a seat, taking the one right beside him. 

He only notices the sippy cup and the plate and the utensils when he looks down at his placemat. It’s his plastic Avengers plate, and his Captain America knife and fork, and his Winx Club sippy cup. He barely smothers a squeal of delight at the sight, watching as Steve pulls the sippy cup over toward him and fills it with some apple juice before setting it back down. 

Tony removes his pacifier and places it down on the table beside his plate. “Ank you,” he says with a tentative smile. 

Steve smiles. “So polite, sweetheart. Good job.” 

He squirms a bit at the praise, directing his gaze down at the macaroni cheese and broccoli on his plate. He isn’t really sure if he trusts himself with cutlery right now, and Steve must pick up on his internal conflict, because he pipes up with a hesitant “it’s okay if you’re feeling too little. Do you maybe want me to feed you?” 

Tony nods gratefully, and Steve picks up his Captain America fork, scooping up a bit of macaroni cheese and blowing on it for a moment before bringing it to Tony’s mouth. He opens up, and as it turns out, maybe macaroni cheese with vegetables isn’t so bad after all. Plus it’s not too hot. He hums happily, and Steve chuckles as he goes to take a quick bite from his own plate. 

Steve continues to alternate until both of their plates and cups are empty, and Tony is feeling full and warm and small. He lets out a yawn, knuckling at his eyes.

“Tired, baby?” 

Tony nods his head, and Steve looks genuinely surprised at the admission. 

“Alright, well, once I clear up, maybe we could read a story or two, then we can get you to bed, how about that?” 

Tony perks up instantly. “Stowwies?” 

“Of course! I brought a few with me,” Steve says, as he stacks their plates. 

Suddenly, he’s never been so awake, and after taking one look at him, Steve winces. “Okay, stories on the condition that you have to go to bed afterwards.” 

Tony pouts, but relents. Really, he’s just glad for the stories — he loves JARVIS reading him stories, but he’s excited for someone to be there physically as they read. 

Steve carries him (and Oscar) to his bedroom, where Alpine is already curled up on his bed, surprisingly enough. Tony’s not even sure if he heard her move. 

“I think,” says Steve, hiking him up his hip a bit, “that we should get your teeth brushed before we do anything else.” 

When Tony pouts, his smile takes on a playful edge. “Come on, Tony, don’t you know what happens to kids who don’t brush their teeth before storytime?”

Tony tilts his head questioningly and Steve’s smile grows. “The tickle monster visits them, obviously!” 

Oh. Oh dear. 

“I—I bwush!” he insists, as he squirms in Steve’s grip. Steve sets him down on the ground, but he definitely doesn’t let him escape, scooping him up from behind instead and wiggling evil fingers into Tony’s tummy.

“Oh no! It’s too late, Tony! He’s already here!” 

Tony bursts into giggles, trying and failing to bat Steve’s hands away. “No! No tickle monster!” 

“No tickle monster?” Steve parrots, stopping his evil fingers for a moment.

Tony hesitates. “Little bit tickle monster?” 

Steve grins and resumes his attack, which has Tony lost to another giggling fit in no time. It tires him out enough that Steve has to carry him to the bathroom to brush his teeth, chuckling and giving his back a few affectionate pats along the way.

“Did you use your pull-up at all, baby?” he asks, once they’re on their way back to the bedroom. 

Tony blushes and shakes his head. He doesn’t use his pull-ups or diapers a lot, not unless he’s super little or he’s had a nightmare. 

“Alright. Let’s get you all cozy in bed then, hm?” 

They do, in fact, end up getting very cozy under Tony’s blankets, with Tony all tucked up under Steve’s arm, resting his head against his chest and basking in the gentle rise and fall of it as he breathes. He runs gentle fingers through Tony’s hair and holds the book open with his other hand, voice low and soft as he reads. There’s a lullaby floating peacefully throughout the room, one with forest sounds in the background, and Oscar is snuggled up with Alpine, so she doesn’t get lonely in her corner of the bed. 

Steve notices his wandering attention and noses playfully into the side of his head. “Alright, Tony?”

He snuggles in close with a content sigh. 

“‘M good, Daddy.” 

And he is. He, really, really is.