Chapter Text
Steve can’t find his keys.
It wouldn’t be a problem if he hadn’t driven himself to class today, but he has, and his truck isn’t driving itself home. The senior resigns himself to walking home after the final bell rings.
Scratch that - after debate, the cornerstone of Midtown Science’s countless clubs and activities. It falls right below Science Olympiad, which goes without saying. When Bruce Banner and Jane Foster co-lead a club, it isn’t going to fall second to anything, no matter how much Steve prides himself on being president of the debate team. He’s only somewhat okay with ranking underneath a couple of certified geniuses, but that’s entirely his stubborn streak’s fault.
As Steve gathers his books from his tarnished locker, the weight of a familiar shoulder knocks into his. Bucky’s megawatt grin shakes Steve from his reverie and he notices the brunet’s hair is tied back. It’s still pretty warm out, only being September, though Bucky combats that bit of sensibility with the rest of his outfit. Heavy leather jacket, black skinnies, black combat boots. He claims it’s a punk thing, but Steve knows his best friend just doesn’t know how to dress to the weather like a regular human being.
“Excited for today’s meeting, Mister President?”
Steve blows out a heavy breath as he slams his locker shut. He's not unexcited…
“Stark’ll be there,” Bucky adds once the telltale crinkle between Steve’s brows appears. “I know you can’t wait to tear him a new one, but you gotta control yourself, Steve. Can’t have Fury barging in from all the noise, like last year.”
No, a touch of warmth colors Steve’s cheeks, they can’t. It happened twice last March; their screaming matches got so loud, the principal was called down. After being threatened with referrals (Steve knew Nick Fury was bluffing, he and Tony were both model students, but the thought still makes his stomach pool with dread) they managed to get the arguing down to a dull roar. Somewhat. Maybe, if pointed whispers and glares could be considered a step up from full-blown yelling.
“I dunno, Buck. I have the feeling the freshmen only join debate for us, and if we stop, who’s gonna run the club when we graduate?” Steve’s teasing, really, but the long line of unfamiliar faces waiting outside room 248 only proves his point.
The idea that his and Tony’s yelling matches are the reason why they have so many new recruits makes Steve want to laugh and vomit at once.
Bucky grins crookedly, the same confident smile that earns him so many dates. “You two are pretty much legendary,” he agrees as Steve opens the door and they all pile in.
248 is Mr. Coulson’s history classroom and said teacher acts as the club’s advisor. Steve and Coulson exchange the usual pleasantries, how was your summer and oh really, a cellist? Steve knows they’re closer than most students are with their teachers, but everyone knows Steve's a bit of a teacher’s pet. Not to mention Coulson’s cares more about football than his actual job, and Steve’s not afraid to use his position as Varsity quarterback to get on Coulson’s good side. The fan-worship can be a bit much, though.
Steve takes his seat at the front and takes stock of the classroom. All of their loyal members from last year trickle in, one by one. Natasha nods at him and drapes herself on top of the desk next to him. They make light conversation, mostly her making fun of his khakis and him balking. Steve’s known her since middle school but the two didn’t become close until they both joined debate freshman year, bonding over their shared love of history and intolerance for bullshit.
Darcy squeals as she rushes in and gives Steve a one-armed hug, balancing a box of donuts in her other hand.
“Those are for us, right?” Steve tries not to sound too hopeful and fails spectacularly. He hasn’t eaten since 6 am. Lacking a lunch period and having an athlete’s metabolism is a terrible combination.
She squints at him from behind her glasses and, bless her soul, sighs dramatically in a display of defeat. “I hate your puppy-dog eyes,” Darcy whines.
“They’re weapons of mass destruction,” says Natasha.
“Seriously,” Darcy says around a mouthful of donut, “I swear they’re the only reason you were elected pres. Eyes persuasive as fuck. S’like brainwashing.” Nonetheless, she brandishes the open box at Steve, who grins in thanks as he picks a glazed donut.
Tony Stark chooses that moment to swoop down out of absolutely nowhere like a bird of prey, nabbing a chocolate donut and giving Darcy a smacking kiss on the cheek. She squeals and shoves him away. Steve’s face and ears grow hot at the mere sight of him, flooded with righteous anger and annoyance and a thousand other emotions he can’t quite put into words.
In Steve’s very unbiased eyes, Tony Stark is Midtown’s biggest flirt, narcissist, partier, manwhore, and worst of all he wears all of those titles with the pride of an eagle scout. He’s possibly a step above Hitler on Steve’s least favorite people list, the position locked after Tony dated Bucky sophomore year and broke his heart a month in.
And there he is, red flannel loose around his shoulders, skinnies slung low on his hips, smirk etching across his face, brown eyes dancing with amusement. Steve looks up at the sky.
Lord give me the strength not to rip his fucking face off.
Tony’s doing the rounds with everyone in the room, introducing himself as the club’s treasurer, handing out donuts, radiating the infectious charm of someone who’s never had to work for anything a day of his life. Bucky spots Steve from across the room and makes his way over, cheeks pinched as though he’s barely holding in a laugh.
His restraint breaks when he sees Steve up close. “Down, dog,” he chuckles, mussing Steve’s hair.
Steve sputters, waving an arm towards Stark’s general direction. “How can you say that? After what he did.” Bucky heaves a sigh, saying for perhaps the millionth time:
“It was almost two years ago, Steve. You need to let that go.” Steve purses his lips and Bucky rolls his eyes, the familiar argument settling over them like old dust. “Look, I’m not saying Stark isn’t a total scumbag. But he’s also the best damn treasurer this club has ever had and you know it. Nobody can crunch numbers like this motherfucker,” he jerks his head towards the guy in question, “and ‘sides, you only have to deal with him for nine more months.”
“Well thank god for that.” He’s learned there’s next to no point in fighting Bucky on this, as much as he’s tempted to. Stark waltzes back to the front of the room as Bucky makes himself scarce and shoots a warning look at Steve, who waves him off. It’s written all over his face: play nice.
“Oh, hey, Steve. Didn’t see you there,” Stark says smoothly, and Steve’s hands tighten on the desk underneath him.
Like hell you didn’t.
“Cut it out, Tony. The hell do you take me for?”
Stark shrugs, feigning innocence. “Honestly, I haven’t taken you for anything,” he pauses with an accompanying leer. Steve’s pulse roars in his ears. That’s right, how could he have forgotten? Tony likes to mix up his insults with relentless come-ons, the kind that dig right under Steve’s skin and make him want to punch something. He isn’t usually like that, but let it be known that Stark always brings out the absolute worst in Steve. “Steve, honey. The yin to my yang, the hate of my life, and the dead weight of the team. The single reason we won’t even make it to regionals this year.”
Steve’s blood boils at the reference to what had happened last year at the district competition. It should’ve been smooth sailing straight up to the nationals. Midtown had the best debate team in the tri-state area and everyone knew it. It was only Steve’s loud mouth and inability to back down from a fight that had gotten them disqualified, all thanks to some dick who insulted at their school’s precious reputation.
“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll shut it before I—”
“What? Punch me in the face and get your sorry ass disqualified for it?” Tony shoots back with a self-satisfied smirk.
Steve’s ears are ringing, the adrenaline pulsing through him like before a football game, except tainted by that ugly thing only Tony can dredge out from his personality. He knows he’s intimidating like this, all six feet and two inches of him crowding Tony’s shorter frame, but Tony doesn’t look phased in the least. If anything, his confidence swells, and that only makes Steve more pissed, until—
“Settle down, Steve, the meeting hasn’t even started,” Coulson claps a hand on Steve’s shoulder, breaking him from his homicidal thoughts. The annoyance bleeds out of him in a rush, leaving him feeling cold and a little fragile as he jerks away from Tony and faces the room at large.
His grin feels false on his face. Bucky gives him a concerned look as the small sea of lowerclassmen waits on him expectantly. Steve clears his throat and sinks right into the little speech he’d prepared for this session, giving them the rundown on what happens at a usual debate meeting – practice for the district competition against local high schools, then regionals, then the national competition, if they’re lucky. He doesn’t mention his colossal fuck up from last year but can feel Tony’s eyes on him, and emphasizes the fact that they will win this year, he swears they’ll kick serious ass, and a few people whoop and clap at that.
After that it’s easier to loosen up and introduce his fellow officers. Bucky lopes up and waves, says he’s vice president and no, the election wasn’t skewed, there was no presidential interference, and everyone chuckles at that. The entire school knows that Steve and Bucky come as a package. It’s a fact, like their school mascot is a fox, Steve Rogers leads the debate team and gay-straight alliance, and he gets into a lot of fights because of it.
Tony breezes up to the front and introduces himself as treasurer. “That means, for all of you who don’t know, I’m in charge of money, fundraisers, the like. I may not hack your bank accounts, no promises, though.” Steve loathes how condescending he sounds, like every word that comes out of his mouth is talking down to someone.
Last but certainly not least, Pepper Potts, their ultra-competent secretary and spokesperson, takes the stage. She’s also Tony’s primary confidant next to James Rhodes, but Steve likes to ignore that. Pepper’s fantastic, it’s universally agreed upon, and he’d rather not sully his opinion of her.
Coulson clears his throat and tells the masses that most meetings will be spent doing mock-debates. Sometimes he’ll present an issue, split the club into two teams, give them some time to organize their thoughts and present them in a timed debate. Other times the officers will propose bills for consideration. Half the club will defend the bill and the other half opposes it. Coulson has the ultimate say as to who ‘wins,’ but it’s not about winning, he repeats for the fifth time. Steve snorts quietly at that.
Everyone knows you’re not in debate club unless you have something to prove, or are always in the mood to argue. He happens to be both.
A nervous-looking, wiry freshman donning hipster glasses raises his hand. “That’s another rule, you don’t have to raise your hand. Just speak, but try not to interrupt whoever is,” Coulson says dryly, raising an eyebrow at Steve, whose lips twitch. “Especially if that person is me.”
“Uh, I was just wondering… about those competitions? Do we all get to go to those, or do you have to… I don’t know, try out?”
Steve smiles apologetically. “The standard competing team only has seven people, so only the upperclassmen can go. But we need you guys to prepare for when you’re juniors and seniors, and in the meantime it’s something to put on your resume.” A few kids nod, but the rest cringe and shift uncomfortably at the mention of college. Steve sympathizes a lot.
“Alright, so,” Tony claps his hands together and steps forward, absolutely magnetic, increasing the room’s energy by a few notches with a single word and a grin. Steve isn’t jealous. He definitely doesn’t envy how Tony takes charge with the same glib ease with which he does everything else. “Let's get right to it. Here’s a warm-up, especially for the newbies. I propose a bill to raise the speed limit to eighty miles per hour. Obviously not in the city, god, imagine that. On all major highways and limited access freeways in New York. Trucks stay at sixty in the right lane, but passenger vehicles can hit eighty. Uh, and more stipulations! Lowest is sixty. Construction area speed limit is fifty. Now for the evidence, or reasons why people should vote for your bill. You can’t bribe everyone, sadly.” That earns a few chuckles. Steve’s jaw ticks, and he can’t help but open his stupid mouth—
“Tony, most of them don’t even have their permits yet. Is this really the best example—”
“Interruption, I’m being interrupted!” His tone remains light and the words are quick, but there’s definitely a fire in Tony’s eyes that was missing before. “As I was saying. Utah did this in ’08 and there have been fewer highway crashes since. And better compliance with the limit, obviously. Twenty percent reduction in drivers exceeding it. Most of you’ll find out how good that is, since it sucks to get a ticket when you’re under eighteen.” Tony makes a face and digs around in his messenger bag, presumably for an accompanying handout. Steve’s eyebrows shoot up. They’re supposed to have one for each bill but he can’t remember if Tony’s ever made them. He is who he is, though, so it only earns him a slap on the wrist from Coulson and a ticked off Steve.
Plus Tony’s bills are always incredibly well thought-out and exhaustedly researched, to the point where anyone would be nuts to go up against them because they’re that damn good. ‘Anyone’ excluding Steve, Natasha, and sometimes Darcy, which is how meetings usually go.
Not that Tony ever needs to hear any of that. His overinflated ego might actually explode.
“Especially when your name’s Tony Stark and you have, what, five?” Bucky calls from the sidelines. Tony flips him off without pausing his search, a small quirk visible on his lips.
“Touché, Barnes.” He produces the handouts, crumpled but still readable, and passes them around. “Here are more data reports on Utah and Wyoming. Did I mention Wyoming? They did the thing too. Also the autobahn in Germany, which needs no introduction. There are a ton of stats in this thing, feel free to skim or ignore ‘em. My point is, people drive as fast as they feel safe. If you end up driving upstate over spring break and get pulled over for going seventy, I want you to think about this bill, how it all could’ve been avoided, and it was your fault for not taking action when you should have.”
Steve tunes out the last part as he flips through the packet. It’s a solid bill, thorough, but that’s expected. Of course he still has concerns. As much as he hates to admit it, Tony was right about one thing – Steve is the yin to his yang, always his polar opposite worldview. If Tony wants to increase weapons manufacturing, Steve is throwing back the costs (financial, political, social) of war. When Steve proposed his bill for universal health care, Tony made a convincing case for private insurance, so convincing that the bill was rejected.
Steve hopes to make up for that incident now, but Darcy beats him to it. She’s already discarded the packet and is chewing thoughtfully on the end of her pen. “How does a minor with five tickets still have his license, and how is he even remotely qualified to write speed limit legislation?”
“Two,” Tony snaps, glaring at Bucky, “and I wouldn’t have gotten them if it weren’t for police quotas and the current limit. Let's be honest, nobody in this club is qualified to write anything. I’m saying this from a New York State driver’s point of view, and I’m looking out for the safety of our future motorists.”
“Speaking of safety,” interjects Steve, “that really should be our main issue. Faster speeds lead to deadlier crashes.”
It’s that easy. Tony’s expression hardens, and that’s when Steve has him hook, line, and sinker. “False, uniform speeds produce safer roads. It’s in the packet.” That I graciously compiled and copied for once, you’re welcome. He turns to the rest of the room, rolling up the papers into a thin tube for gesturing and pointing. “Some people operate under the sincere but deluded belief that lower speed limits are always safer. However, there isn’t any safety justification to set a limit below the 85th percentile,” Tony says loudly, back straight and eyes glittering sharp. Daring anyone to speak, the classroom is silently awestruck, and that’s when Steve stands up.
“If it’s such a no-brainer, I want to know why the country at large hasn’t done it already. There has to be a reason. Maybe… because it’ll boost fuel company’s profits,” Steve blinks as it hits him, reeling slightly. How didn’t he think of this sooner? Of course the son of an entrepreneur would be thinking about the economy. More specifically, the interests of the oil giants. “That’s it! Because no matter what, the faster you go, the more fuel you use. This bill will waste millions of consumer dollars on gas—”
“The hell are you talking about?” Tony spins around to face Steve, all pretense of civility lost. “If anything it’ll boost the economy, honey-bear. Not to mention it goes perfectly with the grain of current driving behavior!”
“By that you mean your reckless habits. You’re not looking out for anyone except yourself—” And Steve finds himself biting his own tongue because that must sting, it has to. He wants it to with a groveling kind of desperation he didn’t know he was capable of.
A brief, inexplicable emotion flashes across Tony’s face, but it disappears before Steve can read it, replaced by his trademark smirk.
A heartbeat later he realizes what a gigantic asshole he looks like right now. The suffocating shame acts as a bucket of ice water and his anger loses steam just as quickly as it’d sparked. The new members are swaying in their seats, a few eyes wide in shock, the old members simply resigned to it all. Way to make a good first impression, Steve.
“I say we take this to the floor and hear what the people want!” Sam Wilson calls from the back. Steve hadn’t seen his fellow football teammate enter but lets out a huge sigh of relief at the interruption.
He feels the weight of Coulson’s disappointed gaze on the side of his face when he sits down. Sam all but conducts the meeting from there. Natasha sidles up to Steve, the two of them sharing a single seat and both half-falling off.
“You take this club way too seriously,” she says after the group is split into two and everyone’s discussing Tony’s bill at length.
Steve props up his head against his fist and side-eyes her. “You think?” The club itself isn’t what he takes too seriously. He needs to work on that, he knows it, but he’s also stubborn as a mule and simply can’t. Not since he was a scrawny freshman walking into the debate room flanked by his best friends, and laid eyes on a brown-haired boy persuading the pants off of the other members. Overwhelmed by the stranger’s sheer force of personality, Steve didn’t know what to think of the whole thing. Tony used to look at him speculatively, as if he was a piece of machinery. It had left Steve unsettled.
That is, until Tony turned out to be a manipulative bully and heartbreaker. There’s no doubt about it in Steve’s mind now.
“And there’s a reason nobody listens to Stark, ever.”
“Yeah, the rest of you seem sane enough.”
Natasha rolls her eyes. “I’m serious, Steve.”
Steve can’t help himself. Maybe his friends are right and he was born without a sense of self-preservation. “You’re taking this way too seriously, Natasha.”
She punches his bicep and it hurts way more than it should, but apparently his pinched face satisfies her. She lets it go, and Stark’s bill passes with flying colors.
An hour and a half later Steve accepts a ride home from Peggy, who happens to leave her student government meeting just then.
“So,” she starts after waving him over to her cherry red Jetta, “how’d it go? First meeting of the year and all, I assume you didn’t get suspended.” Her voice tapers off, distracted, as she starts the car.
A chuckle bubbles up from his throat, unexpected but welcome. She knows him too well. “Not yet, Pegs. I have all year for that.”
She hums in agreement, and that only makes his smile widen. Peggy proceeds to regale him with tales of her misadventures from student gov. During the drive she emphasizes the downfall of some dick named Gilmore Hodge who made a crack at her accent.
“And I couldn’t think he could get away with saying that shit,” she says archly, voice and driving carefully controlled while rage radiates from her bones. Steve wonders how he managed to become friends with such fantastic people. They’re really so far out of his platonic league. Especially Peggy; beautiful, take-no-shit Peggy who always finds time in her packed schedule to work out with him and marathon Parks and Rec right after. “Of course, I waited until after the meeting. It’s not beseeming of a club president to pick fights during meetings, you know,” she glances at him, unimpressed. Steve winces; he deserves that. “So I get him outside and he bows and says something about ‘your majesty’ and I give him a bruiser. Knocked him right on his arse,” she finishes, nonchalant as anything but unable to hide the vein of pride.
Deep down, they sure are made of the same stuff. “Such a lady,” he says, long-suffering. They’ve only known each other since Peggy moved to the States sophomore year but got along like childhood friends at their first meeting. It feels like they’ve been dealing with each other for decades, an old familiarity clinging to every interaction.
“Fuck that! He got what was coming his way. I sped up the process, is all.”
“I need to take a page from your book,” Steve says before hesitation creeps up on him. He wouldn’t actually hit Stark. Would he? He’s felt the urge – he feels it practically every damn day – but at least they’re evenly matched, verbally. Using his extra size against Stark’s slighter stature would feel fundamentally wrong, he’s sure of it.
Sometimes he knows he’s already working up towards it, with the way they’re currently treating each other, but god. He’d rather die before he becomes a bully, the same kind of brute that shoved him into alleyways as a kid and made his life a living hell.
Peggy doesn’t reply immediately, but tips her head up to check her rearview mirror. Then she does a double take, then a triple. “Yes, well. Just make sure you don’t get caught,” she finally sighs.
“Peggy? What is it?”
“Someone’s following us, and I’d bet money on it being your best friend.”
“What?” Exasperation settles in his throat as he checks his side mirror. Sure enough, a white Audi R8 with heavily tinted windows is following them, and there’s only one person who’d own that car in their neighborhood. Steve rubs his temple, suddenly overwhelmed with exhaustion from a long week of classes and the constant thought of why does it have to be me. “God, what is he doing. Pull over, please.”
“Already on it,” and true to her word, they’re parked in the right shoulder of the road seconds later. Steve stumbles out of the idling car, jaw clenched as he slams the door and stalks over to the approaching vehicle, ready to demand an explanation—
–But Tony doesn’t even bother slowing down, just rolls down his passenger side window. Out sails an all-too familiar American flag keychain, as if haphazardly thrown from the driver’s side. Caught off-guard, Steve only gapes at the keys hurling towards him, until they smack against his left cheek with a clang and a faint sting.
He shuts his eyes, steeling himself and repeating the mantra I will not kill Tony Stark, I will not kill Tony Stark, as Tony cackles like a madman and screams, “BULLSEYE!” over his blaring music before speeding away, the squeal of tires echoing in Steve’s tired brain.
Snatching his keys and his dignity from the asphalt, Steve plants himself in the passenger seat of Peggy’s car. She takes one look at him – breathing heavily, still seething, left cheek oozing blood – and silently puts the car in drive.
The seconds pass. “I’d chase him, but—”
Steve’s lips twitch fondly. “Yeah.”
“If you bought me a Maserati with the money you’ve been making from tutoring, we wouldn’t be having this problem,” she says matter-of-factly.
“Who are you and what have you done to Peggy Carter?” The girl he knows would wipe Gilmore Hodge’s ass before she accepts a favor.
Her nose crinkles cutely at that. “Fair point. If I sold my soul and all of my possessions to afford a Maserati,” she corrects.
“Yeah, get used to it. That’ll be us after student loans.”
Peggy groans. “Don’t remind me.” Steve cracks a sheepish smile and forgets about his keys and Tony fucking Stark, if only for a minute.
-&-
Tony awakes peacefully. He’s hungover, yes, but it’s far from the worst alcohol-induced headache he’s endured. At seventeen he’s already a hangover veteran with a tolerance completely shot to hell, and he definitely shouldn’t be as proud of that as he is.
But he won’t be satisfied until he can drink Natasha Romanoff under the table. That’s a pretty fair standard to set – “fair” meaning impossible, and allowing him to drink until his liver is happily pickled and he’s six feet under before hitting thirty.
Sprawled out on a stranger’s comfortable bed, sunlight streaming through the shutters and dancing across the wood floors, Tony’s remarkably okay with that thought.
Reality filters into his brain slowly, like an old newsreel speeding up; he’s at Thor’s house, it’s Saturday, he has no plans (project deadlines, meetings, nothing) for the first time in weeks, and is entirely free to do whatever the hell he wants. And currently, whatever the hell he wants consists of seeing how long he can stay in the comfort of these sheets before he gets hungry enough to move.
Until a form stirs beside him. Oh hell no.
He blinks himself awake, frozen, eyes darting across the unfamiliar bedroom, a familiar brand of panic crawling up his chest. Tony takes a moment to thank whatever higher power there is for the fact that he’s not naked. Usually that’s not the case, which says a lot about him, but whatever.
He slowly attempts sitting up. The bed creaks and the prowler’s arm wraps itself around his waist. Fuck this, fuck everything. Tony sighs, dejected, ready to wait it out. They hum contentedly against him, warm breath fanning across Tony’s neck, and a shock of orange hair peeks up from under the sheets.
He recognizes that head of hair.
“Oh my fucking god,” he hisses, sitting up abruptly, “I slept with you?!” He doesn’t mean to sound as appalled as he does and it comes out rudely, but Natasha is firmly Camp Rogers. That’s a line that just isn’t crossed. Ever. Even if she is depressingly gorgeous and witty and out-of-reach, pretty much Pepper except more lethal, which is totally not the point.
“You slept on top of me,” she mumbles against his t-shirt, but dutifully untangles herself at the sound of his indignant screech. His breathing regulates itself. Okay, they inexplicably passed out in the same bed. He can work with that. “Don't flatter yourself, Stark.”
“But we’re… this is…” he stammers, examining the questionable state of his current hygiene. His mouth tastes like something died in it and doesn’t smell any better.
Her green eyes narrow, now irritated. “Shut up, will you? Trying to sleep here.”
“Wait… are you. You are. You’re hungover!” Tony shouts, incredulous. Now it suddenly looks obvious, with the dark circles under her eyes and the way she firmly avoids the sunlight. Wow. This is blowing his mind. “I didn’t know you were biologically capable of it, being a Russian princess and all. Holy shit. Your liver isn’t actually made of stone. Clint is gonna have a field day—”
In an impeccable show of tact and empathy, she shoves him off the bed and onto the cold hardwood floor below. Tony groans and rolls over, clutching his ass in pain.
“What the hell?” he whines, pouting.
Natasha just stares down at him, entirely unaffected. “Clint won’t hear of this for as long as you enjoy having working eyeballs.”
His eyes roam her expression for any signs of compassion. No such luck. “Duh, because I only have eyes for you, sweetheart,” he tries weakly.
It only takes seconds for Tony to realize his words are the shovel with which he is digging a very, very deep hole. He’s seconds away from excusing himself and crawling out, but something in his pathetic expression must make her take a microscopic degree of pity on him, because she sharply cuts him off. “Jesus Christ, just stop talking,” and I’ll let you live goes understood. Tony’s lungs punch out a sigh of relief.
Dodged the first bullet of the day, and its not even 9am. Natasha smirks at his silence and lays down again, her back facing him.
Tony all but scuttles back up the bed, no thanks to his intoxicated coordination.
The redhead visibly tenses. “If you touch me—”
“I’ll lose my hands, got it.” Tony faceplants onto the adjacent pillow. His new bedmate hums, pleased.
Needless to say, he can only hold back his raging internal monologue for so long. He flops onto his stomach, resting his stubbled chin on folded hands. “So, like, Barton doesn’t get to hear any of this? ‘Cause jealous sex is hot as hell. Speaking from personal experience, here. I’ll even spice up the details for you.” He’s totally bullshitting. He’s never had anything close to a stable romantic relationship, forget one where he’d be far in enough to be actively jealous, god, imagine how miserable that’d be.
“Do you want to be shoved off the bed again?” She rolls over to face him. His victorious grin resembles a shark’s.
“Not particularly. You’re avoiding the question.” Man, their faces are really close. Tony feels like he’s experiencing vertigo when his eyes cross. It would look and feel like pillow talk, for crying out loud, the sheets are drawn up to their shoulders and cocooning them in, except Natasha remains stone-faced and sleepy. Her poker face is on another level, no wonder she’s one of the best members of the debate team. “Are you guys even fucking?”
“If we were, you’d be the last one to know,” she says coyly. Tony does a little dance inside. He knows it’s absolutely impossible to stay mad at him (there’ve been a couple exceptions in recent history, clearly) but wasn’t completely sure his powers of persuasion would work on Natasha.
He arches an eyebrow, playing along. “I wouldn’t be so sure. You know how he gets when he’s drunk.”
“It’s not pretty,” she agrees, “but you can hardly talk. Your breath stinks, by the way.”
Tony gasps, mock-offended. “At least I’m not spewing random bird facts?” It’s a habit of Clint’s, much to everyone’s amusement.
“No, but you spew bullshit.”
“Romanoff, you did not just say—”
The door opens in the middle of Tony’s sentence. “Hey Nat, Thor’s making waffles, what kind do y—” Steve stops mid-ramble as he takes in the scene in front of him. He looks ridiculous with bedhead and wearing yesterday’s rumpled clothes, just as they all do right now, and shit. The tiny scab on his left cheek makes Tony’s stomach twist. He hadn’t meant to throw the keys hard enough to cut his goddamn stupid face, and he forces down the unbidden emotion that tastes too much like guilt. He waits for the feeling to dissolve into glee or satisfaction, but for some reason it never does.
And it’s strange because Tony didn’t see Steve at the party last night, he would remember it, right? While drunk he’d probably lack the self-control to not take Rogers’ ego down a peg or five. It’s a thin enough line when they’re sober.
Tony immediately shuts his mouth, a first. Natasha hastens to put space between herself and Tony, rolling out of the bed with the grace of a ballerina, an inexplicably guilty look etched onto her face as she looks at Steve almost— apologetically?
The brunet doesn’t have time to fully process Natasha’s expression. As soon as he glances back at the intruder it’s clear Steve’s good mood has taken a sharp nosedive. Over the course of two seconds Natasha and Steve become locked in some silent battle, communicating not through words, but with their eyes: Natasha’s conciliatory, Steve’s icy and agitated.
See, this is exactly why Tony had panicked over the mere idea of sleeping with Natasha. Even if they actually had done the do, it wouldn’t be anywhere near worth the aftermath.
After ten curt seconds, Steve finally pulls out the white flag. Something he’d never do if he were locked in an eye-battle with Tony. “Well,” he says in a distant voice so unlike him it’s disconcerting, “I guess I’ll leave you two to it.”
He shuts the door forcefully, and Tony can hear his footsteps stomp down the stairs.
Tony looks at Natasha, completely confused. All of Steve’s irritation was directed towards her, not Tony, which makes zero sense. If the two of them are in a room together, Steve’s crosshairs automatically focus on Tony and vice versa. This was… out of the ordinary, to say the least. “Mind telling me what that was?”
She strolls over to the full-length mirror hanging on the back of her door and preoccupies herself with fixing her hair. From her reflection, Tony can see that she looks undecided, as if she’s hit a fork in the road and is unsure of which path to take. Finally she meets his eyes and shrugs. “Nothing. Steve’s just being a little shit. I’ll take care of him.”
And with that, she’s gone.
Tony lets himself fall, the back of his head hitting the pillow with a jarring thump. Only one thought runs through his brain.
Fuck. I want waffles.
After that worms its way into the forefront of his mind, it’s all Tony can think about. His stomach grumbles impatiently, too. Maybe food is a good idea. Tumbling out of bed with a wince, he stumbles to the nearest bathroom and flushes his disgusting mouth out – he’s not actually trying to decapitate anyone with the stench, believe it or not – and meanders downstairs, cool as you please, and definitely not staggering down the winding staircase of Thor’s mansion.
So it turns out he’s still a little drunk from last night, no biggie.
The ultra-modern kitchen (it reminds Tony of home) is filled with about ten people he knows but is too undercaffienated to deal with. At his entrance, Thor looks up from the row of waffle irons lining the counter, a ‘Kiss the Cook’ apron clinging to his broad chest. Tony salivates at the smell and Thor beams in greeting. “Tony! Sleep well?” he calls, teasing. The brunet heaves himself onto a stool and rests his head against the marble countertop with an accompanying grunt. Thor’s laugh fills the entire kitchen, thunderous and earnest as always.
Tony doesn’t know much about Thor, only that his father is a CEO, just like Tony’s, and Thor throws kickass parties to rival his own. He’s straightforward, easy to talk to, always ready with an endless supply of alcohol, and that’s all Tony looks for in an acquaintance. They’re classmates and Thor seems to consider them friends – he’s like that with everyone, but Tony ended up liking the guy more than he originally thought he would.
He scrapes himself off the counter with a truly herculean effort and throws on a carefree smile. “Sure looks like you did, big guy.”
Thor nods, preoccupied with pouring just the right amount of blueberry batter into a waffle iron. “I have Jane to thank for that.”
“What, she tucked you in?”
“That’s the G-rated version, yes,” the aforementioned girl pops her head out from behind the pantry doors, frowning. “And we’re out of chocolate chips.”
Thor looks genuinely devastated by that news and Tony’s inclined to agree. In his peripheral vision, Rhodey slides onto the stool next to his and Tony’s smirk eases into pursed lips. He’d lost track of Rhodey after their fifth shots, and his best friend looks like he’d downed at least five more.
Tony snorts. “You look like shit.”
Rhodey, who covers his eyes with a hand, parts his fingers to shoot Tony a glare. “And you smell like it.”
“Hey, I showered, like, two days ago—”
“A new record. What are you even doing up? Last night you were screaming about how you’re a free man today, whatever that means.”
Had he? He doesn’t remember. “I was planning to sleep in, but was interrupted by an,” he clears his throat, partly to relieve the soreness and partly for dramatic effect, “unexpected guest.”
It’s probably a sign that Rhodey’s so desensitized to Tony’s drunken escapades that he bats a hand dismissively at the suggestion. He hears about these antics at least twice a week. Tony clearly needs to up his game. “Yeah, yeah. You know what they say about the best laid plans…”
“No, I don’t think I do. Enlighten me.”
“Often, they are led astray by this one drunk asshole’s lack of self control.”
“I’d hate to be that poor shmuck,” Tony drawls, passing down the stack of plates Thor hands to him.
“Too late.” Rhodey cranes his neck to watch someone enter and immediately leave the room behind Tony’s back. “Huh. You wouldn’t happen to know, or be, the reason why Steve has a dark thundercloud of fury hanging over his head?”
Tony’s distracted by the passing out of waffles and Rhodey’s words don’t register. He’s too busy stuffing his face. When he finally resurfaces, Rhodey’s leveling him with an expectant look. “What?”
“Nevermind, you just answered it for me.”
He swallows the chunk of blueberry waffle dry. It scrapes a pathway down his throat yet it’s somehow the best thing he’s eaten all week. It’d be better with coffee, yes, coffee is a good idea. Tony snaps his fingers, gesturing towards the rumbling coffeemaker and Thor, bless him, pours him a mug. After washing down the remnants of his waffle with scorching hot black caffeine, he finally says, “Natasha said PMS. I’ll grab him some Midol. It’ll be fine, I wouldn’t worry about it.”
Of course, Rhodey sees right through him. “That’s reassuring, coming from you.”
“Damn right it is.”
“It wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with how he found you and Natasha in the same bed, would it?”
Tony examines the porcelain plate in front of him as if memorizing the exact size and appearance of every crumb on it. “No,” he says slowly, because it’s true, and he’s puzzled over the same question in the back of his mind all morning. How does Rhodey even know about that, and more importantly, what the hell would it have to do with anything? Steve’s probably pissed that he didn’t get his waffles, because his blood pressure goes through the roof over literally everything. It’s likely something stupid that doesn’t involve Tony whatsoever, which would be a refreshing change of pace. Watching Steve pop a vein is always fun, but Tony could do without the guilt that accompanies it once in awhile.
Rhodey opens his mouth to reply but is interrupted by Darcy and Clint, who appear out of thin air. Clint’s drinking Thor’s coffee straight from the carafe, which is kind of gross but completely typical of him. He’s the only person Tony knows with a caffeine addiction worse than his own. Darcy props her elbows on the countertop matter-of-factly and speaks with more enthusiasm than anyone has a right to have at 9 AM. “We weren’t eavesdropping, but we totally were. It’s so obvious, you and Steve clearly have some—”
“—pent up sexual frustration for one another,” Clint finishes after a long gulp of coffee, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
This is when Tony would blush, if he were still physically capable of blushing. His heart races a little faster in his chest, nonetheless, and he pulls an offended face. “Okay, I’m going to direct you to a mental hospital, because Steve and I aren’t even friends. In case you’ve been deaf – looking at you, Clint – during debate meetings, you know I have to constantly restrain myself from—”
“Jumping his bones daily?” cuts in Rhodey, the filthy traitor.
“Killing him daily,” Tony glares at the snickering peanut gallery, setting his mug down with finality. Now he’s seriously confused, and slightly annoyed, if he’s honest. There’s absolutely nothing in his relationship with Steve, if you could even call it that, to back any of this shit. “You’re all ganging up on me, where is this even coming from—”
Darcy’s eyes roll so far back into her head it’s painful to watch. “Oh, come on. I see how you two look at each other when you think no one’s watching.”
Gritting his teeth, Tony stands, the stool scraping against the wooden floor. “Yeah, like we despise each other with the passion of a thousand burning suns. Because we do. Hate each other, that is,” and he’s on a roll now, barreling over Clint when he starts to object. “He’s the bane of my existence. Literally. He constantly makes me feel like shit. You should all know that, everyone does, why am I bothering to explain this right now.” He puts the force of an entire morning of stifled frustration behind the words, but Clint just shakes his head and shares a knowing smile with Darcy and Rhodey, the assholes. Tony starts seeing red, his blood boiling.
Calm the fuck down, he chastises himself, remember, you actually like them. Rationally, he knows they aren’t intentionally trying to get a rise out of him. He doesn’t even understand why this bothers him so much. It’s not like this is new – a lot of people assume his and Steve’s uninhibited hatred of one another is just a way for them to cope with some sort of sexual attraction. They couldn’t be more wrong. Tony can pinpoint the reasons he dislikes Steve as much as he does, hell, could write a mile-long list, and is absolutely certain they have nothing to do with repressed mutual chemistry.
Yes, it’s hardly a secret that he finds Steve physically attractive; you’d have to be blind not to. But it doesn’t lessen Tony’s resentment towards his brick wall of a personality. If anything, Steve’s model-worthy looks make Tony despise him more, because Steve is so, hugely out of his league it isn’t even funny, yet also the most righteous snob to walk the earth. It’s a contradiction he’s never quite managed to wrap his (truly brilliant, all things considered) mind around.
Anyhow. He’s sick of the insinuations, and this morning is the last straw. “I’m heading out,” he says tersely, grabbing another handful of waffle for good measure. “In the meantime, you guys can begin another enthralling conversation about my personal life, or lack thereof!”
He feels the eyes of everyone in the kitchen on him, and for the first time in his life the attention does nothing for his mood. Tony doesn’t stagger through the post-party mess in the living room, he struts with his head up, thank you very much.
Phone, check. Wallet, check. Dignity: nowhere.
I need a fucking drink.
-&-
“Man, you should’ve seen Schmidt’s face!” Sam crows. The Varsity football team piles into the locker room that Monday, post-practice. “When you made that play, he looked ready to shit himself!”
“That explains the smell,” Bucky drawls.
Steve ignores him, toweling his sweaty hair dry. “Schmidt thinks he can make and control every play. No wonder you guys lost every game last year.” He’d still been on Junior Varsity, practicing like hell to get into shape and eventually make it into the bigger team. His then-frail body often betrayed him, but Steve pushed his physical limits time after time.
Though he still can’t get rid of the asthma. It’s an uphill struggle.
Bucky opens his locker with a dramatic sigh. “I don’t wanna think about last season. We lost to the fucking Hydras!” Their sister school and biggest rival nabbed the championship after their old quarterback’s biggest blunder. It’s still a sore spot at Midtown. Steve thinks, for the hundredth time, that he has a lot to make up for this year.
A few of their teammates yell back, “No shit, dickhead!” and “The sky is fucking blue, you wanna fight about it?” Bucky snickers and sprays what should be an illegal amount of axe into the air.
“Yo, put that shit away!” Sam fans away the fumes.
“What, you wanna feel like a walking dumpster?”
“Better that than a prep. Chicks want that natural musk.”
“Sam, no one’s threatening your masculinity,” Steve snorts, pulling off his pads.
“Yeah, yeah. Just not trying to smell like a Abercrombie model.”
Bucky humors him, “You don’t have to, there’s already one right here.”
Steve flushes self-consciously. He can blame that on his recent workout, right? Because whenever people point out his looks, he feels like that five-foot-four freshman all over again. He knows he’s still the same person, but people started paying more attention to him when he hit his growth spurt two years ago. Not like it really matters – he prefers to keep a close circle of friends, and the lineup hasn’t changed much over his high school career.
It’s also why he gets especially homicidal when Stark hits on him like there’s no tomorrow. Steve’s not blind and he worked hard to earn his physique, but Tony pointing it out never fails to evoke his hair-trigger temper. There’s a tiny part of his brain that knows Stark might actually be sincere, but his flirtations are always barbed. That, along with who he is as a person, makes it virtually impossible for Steve to take his compliments at face value.
Steve’s about to pull on a fresh t-shirt when a high-pitched squeal resonates from the general direction of the showers. Then comes a lower grunt, tinged with laughter.
Is this your idea of a joke? he silently asks the universe. The three of them exchange looks and head towards the showers with justice on their minds.
Two figures come trampling out of the communal row of showerheads, both snickering. A wild-eyed blonde Steve doesn’t recognize, with her blouse half-buttoned and skirt hiked up, scampers up and out of sight. The other person is a little too familiar and very, very naked. He bears his signature fuck-the-world smirk, and his typically messy locks are soaked and dripping, leaving a trail of water droplets down his tanned chest and back; winding, snaking remains of a failed sexual transgression. Failed as it was, his jaunty demeanor suggests that the action of getting caught is more pleasing to him than the actual sex, which concerns Steve, even though it shouldn’t.
It also makes his fists clench, white-knuckled. How many times will he catch Tony in compromising positions this week? There was Saturday with Natasha, and now he’s actually naked, and Steve would like a hole to open up in the ground so he can bury himself and pretend this isn't happening.
“Well,” Tony observes Steve’s disgusted expression bemusedly. It takes every fiber of Steve’s tenuous restraint to keep his eyes above Tony’s waist. There’s a moment of weakness when his eyes slink to the dark trail of hair winding down his navel, which is bad, bad Steve. “That didn’t go as planned.” Steve hears Sam and Bucky chuckle at his flippant attitude, the bastards, but Steve continues to glare. Tony’s eyes unabashedly roam over Steve’s exposed skin, and Steve ignores the way that brings pinpricks of heat to his chest.
This is so, so fucked up.
“Tony,” he hisses, “please tell me you didn’t have shower sex in the communal.”
The asshole’s smirk grows. “Steve, I did not have shower sex in the communal. I almost had shower sex in the communal, but, unfortunately, Christie is vocal and I was rudely interrupted.”
Sam laughs, “Dude, don’t you know her? We just saved you from a million STDs. You should be grateful.”
“And put away your junk. No one needs to see that,” Bucky says, arms folded over his chest.
Tony snorts but obliges, grabbing a nearby towel and wrapping it around his waist. Steve desperately wishes he could be that comfortable with his own body; Tony had forgotten he was in the nude until it was pointed out to him. “Whatever. And in that case, thank you, for saving my phallus from painful infections, and helping me in my quest to sow as many of my wild oats as possible.”
“Yeah, get the fuck out of here,” Sam says as Tony uses another towel to dry his hair. Steve hates the idea of letting Stark off the hook so easily, but finds himself transfixed by the beads of water slipping down his brown locks. He watches, hating himself a little, as they slide down his neck and roll onto his bare chest, splay out across his back, glide down the taut muscles of his lean, muscular arm— Get a grip on yourself, Steve. This is Stark we’re talking about. This is not remotely okay, you cannot be thinking these things about him, he’s a manwhore, he’s an asshole, a douchebag, a—
“Earth to Steve?” Stark’s voice breaks through his trance. Steve jolts slightly, eyes narrowing as Tony’s smug face comes into view. “Wow, you need some serious TLC. Maybe I should call Christie back. Work out some of that frustration, hm? I know it’s hard, being a huge stick in the mud, but you gotta cut it loose sometimes—”
“What, like you?” Steve says, the heat on his face rising. “So I should pick any disease-ridden girl or guy, invade their personal space—”
“It’s called consent, Rogers, not like you’ve ever given it!” Tony yells over him, but Steve doesn’t pause or hesitate.
“—all so I can ‘sow my wild oats’? Is that all people’s bodies are to you, a game, a headcount so you can feel better about yourself for half an hour?”
For a moment, Tony’s expression changes. His irritating smirk vanishes, replaced by a strange, unused visage. He looks almost— disappointed? But that can’t possibly be right, and Steve doesn’t care, he shouldn’t care. Tony is selfish, and shallow, and quite frankly, Steve’s tired of his spontaneous moments of unruly raunchiness. If there’s one person on this earth Steve will never see eye-to-eye with, it’s Tony Stark, and nothing Tony says or does will change his opinion.
“I’m insulted, Rogers. An hour, at least—” he begins, but Steve cuts him off with a wave of his hand.
“Save it, Tony. I know you have your excuses, and jokes, and witticisms. But frankly? I don’t give a shit. Have fun, sow your oats, I don’t care what you do. But next time, do me a favor and keep me and my teammates out of it.”
And just as quickly as something resembling a sincere Tony had arrived, he disappears, replaced by his usual unperturbed self. “You know you’re much more attractive when you’re not speaking,” he sneers.
“Yeah? Well you’d be much more attractive if you weren’t breathing,” Steve snaps. Bucky chokes on a laugh.
Sam quickly steps between them and places a hand on both of their chests, pushing. “Think I’m going to wave the figurative white flag here. Go back to your corners, Dumb and Dumber, put the claws away. We’ll pick this up next week.” He wraps a sweaty arm around Steve’s shoulder, manhandling him away from the showers and back to the lockers. Steve hears Tony huff behind him and his bare feet padding against the fungus-infested floors.
“How adult of you,” Steve intones as Sam deposits him on the bench.
“I try. Man, is it me, or was that the single gayest thing I’ve ever seen?” Steve’s eyes snap to Sam, then to Bucky, who’s laughing his ass off.
“Not just you. They really need to get a fucking room,” Bucky says after he catches his breath, wiping a single tear from his eye.
Steve collapses. Is he really that obvious?
Sam looks incredulously at Steve. “You seriously don’t see how that looked? Two partially naked – all right, one fully naked, even better – guys checking one another out in a locker room? How is that not the beginning of every cheesy gay porno ever made—”
“Oh my god, Sam. Shut up.” Steve puts his tomato-red face in his hands and Bucky pats his shoulder consolingly.
“There, there. If it helps any, he probably has at least ten STDs too,” he says helpfully. Steve lets himself fall forward, his head resting against the cool metal of a locker.
This is so, so bad, he thinks again. After years of blissful ignorance, he finally understands why half of Midtown is tripping over themselves to sleep with Tony. At this moment there isn’t enough brain bleach in the world for Steve Rogers.