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The suit clings to Steve’s body, tailored at the waist. Its starchy collar digs into his neck. Its little pockets don’t feel like enough. He longs for the weight of the shield on his back, for a utility belt around his waist. He longs for the easy stretch of his stealth costume or even the give of his much roomier military formal suit.
Instead, he’s armed with a neat little revolver and dressed to the nines, the black of his suit so deep it seems to reflect light. He’s dyed his hair; the gleam of unfamiliar ginger keeps catching him off guard in mirrors and the windows of the armored cars around them.
He’s suffocating. The car is big but not in a way that shows on the inside; it’s all long, narrow hull and heavy bulletproofing. The seats smell of new leather, over processed. Tony Stark’s cologne mixes unpleasantly with the chemicals.
He’s at home in his own tailored suit, perfectly at ease in the armored car. His sunglasses hide his eyes, but Steve can imagine the crinkle in his lower eyelid that should come with the sardonic half smirk he’d worn on the way out. It’s slipped off now into a perfect, untouchable neutrality Steve envies.
When his warm hand lands on Steve’s lower arm, he jumps, yanking hard enough on his seatbelt it jams.
He hates the sympathy he’s imagining behind Stark’s dark glasses, the warm blue eyes he can call to mind a little too easily. He hates the comfort he draws from his touch, hates the fact that, even now, he trusts Tony to have his back. Even now, he expects them to work together seamlessly, knows they’ll be on the same page. He can’t stand it.
“You know,” Tony says, his voice all Tony, free of the Stark brand, free of the inflection he’s used to hearing coming out from under the helmet, “you don’t have to do this.”
I can find someone else hangs in the air unspoken. We can rearrange the mission. Steve had volunteered, and why?
“It’s not my first time being undercover,” Steve says curtly, staring straight ahead of himself. “It’s a single night. I can handle it.”
“It’s not about the mission.” Tony says. Steve doesn’t argue with him. He’s not stupid, and he’s not planning on acting like it, on forcing them into the hamster wheel of a conversation that won’t move.
He grunts, shrugs.
“You’re proving a point.” Tony says, “I know that face, you know.”
Again, his words settle in the pit of Steve’s stomach, hot and upset.
“Guess you would,” he grinds out, “wouldn’t you.”
“Steve.” Tony says, “I told you it’s okay if you’re upset at me for being—“
“I’m not.” Steve cuts him off, his tone clipped, sharp, leaving no room for argument. “I think you’re the one upset here, Mr. Stark.”
He can see that the formality stings, but Tony only presses his lips together, a thin, white line, and shakes his head. “Okay,” he says, sounding like he’s trying hard to look amused, sardonic, and just missing the mark, “tell me what you think I’m upset about.”
“I’m not treating you like Iron Man.” Steve says.
Tony inhales, stung. “I told you I didn’t expect you to—“
“Alright,” Steve cuts in, “don’t, then.”
The car settles into an uneasy, wounded silence. Steve stares down at his hands and tells himself he shouldn’t regret anything he said. He’s not angry. He’s not upset. He’s just telling things how they are, and how they’re going to be.
It’s healthy. It’s boundaries.
It’s been three weeks since he’s found out the truth of Iron Man’s identity, and somehow time has only complicated and soured his feelings. His uncomplicated, eager affection for Iron Man and his uncomplicated, amiable acquaintanceship with Tony Stark have smudged and blended together into a tangled, uncertain grievance against both — the one — of them. This, in turn, had left him avoiding Iron Man at team debriefs and Tony Stark in the mansion, which, in its own turn, had led to him feeling some kind of way about it, a way he couldn’t precisely define. Lost, maybe. Ashamed. They couldn’t go on like this, he knew.
And so, to prove a point to both himself and Tony, he’d volunteered to accompany him on this mission, undercover as a bodyguard. He knew — knows — that this can’t go on, that he needs to get over himself. This, he tells himself, will help — he’ll see Tony in action, both as himself and Iron Man. He’ll work with him, and he’ll feel normal again.
And yet he can’t help being upset about it.
They’re looking for Amora the Enchantress, who has apparently been spending her days among New York’s elite. Several men in these circles had vanished suddenly and without a trace, having left nothing behind but a note professing to have decided to run away with their lovers, and Thor had been convinced she was looking to trap him specifically. Though he was willing to take the bait, the team had decided to do things differently.
Two of them would go undercover into one of the galas she was expected to make an appearance at and attempt to glean more information, find out the workings of her inner circle. Steve dyed his hair and donned the black suit of a bodyguard, where his build wouldn’t provoke suspicion, hoping to overhear rumors from other staff at the event. Tony could simply go as himself — no one would question his place at the event, nor the fact that Iron Man may be close on his employer’s heels.
His mind calmed by a review of the task at hand, Steve checks his ID again, making sure he remembers his code name — Grant Hale — and glances up at Tony, trying to read the blank mask on his face. Somehow, it’d been easier to understand Iron Man’s moods.
The car comes to a stop. Steve slips out, sets his shoulders military straight, holds the door open for Tony, schools his voice into a rough approximation of what Happy Hogan sounds like on duty. “Mr. Stark.”
“Thank you.” If it weren’t for the circumstances, he’d think Tony sounds amused.
Tony’s briefcase rests in the trunk of the car. Steve knows, now, the reason for its surprising heaviness; the Iron Man armor rests in folded pieces inside it. Tony can’t get away with carrying it, but tucked into Steve’s over-the-shoulder carrying bag, it will be assumed to be essential or unnoticed.
“Remember,” Tony mutters, low enough that only Steve’s super-soldier ears will pick up on it, “7-20-69.”
It’s the code to open up the briefcase, in case of emergency. Steve nods, short and sharp. Understood.
He holds the door to the building, too. Inside, the gala looks about how he’d expected it to; bright, warm light, sparse crowds of sharply dressed men and extravagantly dressed women. Even in here, Steve thinks, half annoyed and half impressed, Tony is easily the best dressed, the most handsome. The man’s ability to stand out in the crowd is unmatchable; Steve’s eyes follow him easily, everyone else in the room turning into background noise.
Something smells good, hearty, which is unusual for this type of gathering; in Steve’s experience, expensive finger foods rarely smell of anything at all, leaving the air space free for colognes and perfumes.
Steve scans the perimeter, automatically looking for the source of the smell, and is even more startled to see that, across the room from them, little salmon sandwiches and hors d'oeuvres give way to a great heaping plate of roast pig, covered in herbs and baked fruit, surrounded by great horns of what Steve would guess to be mead.
Despite himself, he feels his stomach rumble.
This time, Tony’s look cannot not be anything but amused, and he can read it easily: She’s not even bothering to try to blend in, is she?
Without thinking about it, Steve smiles back. Not very much, no.
He steps back out of the light, following Tony at an unhurried pace along the perimeter of the room, and feels himself all but disappear to the party guests. It’s an odd feeling; their eyes scan him, taking in the uniform but not the face, and move on with no glint of interest, recognition. Used as he is to immediately attracting attention, he can’t decide how to feel about it.
Tony’s objective here is clear. He cannot make it too obvious he’s here to look for Amora. At the same time, he must show interest in her, engage her enough to learn anything of use.
Steve settles into the background, watching Tony chat up a balding man in his forties he must know from somewhere. He can’t help imagining attending the gala with Tony. He’s gone to several functions with the man, finding charity galas generally a safer event with him around — few people are as skilled at politely ending conversations. They’d shared jokes about the other guests, once, when a retired general had not been able to unstick himself from Tony’s orbit, trying to coax him into a weapons contract, when a tipsy old lady had made it very clear she’d noticed Steve in the Biblical way. That evening, he thinks he had seen a different side of Tony.
How many sides can Tony have? How many masks can one man wear? And how can Steve know, really, which one of them is true?
It takes him no time at all to pick Amora herself out of the crowd. She stands several inches taller than the tallest of the men, waves of golden hair cascading down her back, a long green dress sparkling the light. People around her are attracted to her orbit, her drink, her food, clumping around her like driftwood catching on rocks. Steve wonders if they’ve noticed the deviation from the norm, or if something about her forces them to accept the roast pig and mead as regular party fare.
He tracks Tony’s drift towards her, always close without ever stepping into the light. There Tony is, moving on from the bald man to strike up conversation with a short stylish brunette with a teacup chihuahua in a little purse. There he is, the next moment, gesturing with a glass of some sparkling drink by two identical young men with long, horse-like faces and pale eyes. And then, quite suddenly, he’s in the circle of admirers around the sorceress, one hand out to introduce himself.
This, Steve thinks, is Tony Stark the way he’s always thought of him. A nice enough fellow — awful kind of him to fund the Avengers, of course — but a little vapid, a little empty. How many times had Iron Man blamed Tony for his inability to reveal his identity? How many times had he bowed out of events with a I’d love to, but Mr. Stark’s sure to have other work for me, or even, I don’t think that’d go over well with the boss, Cap ?
How many times had he implied, without ever saying, that something was wrong with Tony? Steve remembers the impulse to defend him, to argue with Iron Man. Tony must have his reasons. Tony's done so much for me. Tony's a good person. I know him.
Had he?
And there he is, now, with Amora, with that same easy smile, like he’s charmed to meet her. Fake smiles aren’t supposed to reach your eyes, but Steve has long noticed that Tony’s do.
How many times had he caught a crinkle of eye through the faceplate?
Steve steps forward, catching parts of their conversation as the chatter in the room ebbs and flows.
“Oh, yes,” Amora is saying, her voice melodic yet somber, easy to make out, “yes, quite new. I’ve been looking for an old friend. I know he’s made a home, of sorts, here. I’m sure he must walk among the finest members of society here, but, alas, I’ve had so little luck…”
Tony’s responding rumble is harder to understand. Steve thinks about Donald Blake’s humble practice with some amusement.
He can see Tony gesturing, describing someone. Thor, probably. He’s leading Amora to believe he knows him, that he may have some information for her. She’s nodding along, all her attention on him.
A group of people pass, all women in long cocktail dresses, most of them startling shades of red or blue, blocking out Steve’s view of the conversation.
By the time he’s stepped around again, the conversation is over, and it takes him far too long to pick out either Amora or Tony in the crowd.
For the first time that evening, he feels eyes on him. Gooseflesh climbs up and over his arms, and he can’t suppress a little shudder. He glances around, sharp, looking to see who’d noticed him.
Only Tony.
It’s only Tony, standing a little ways away now, eating a tiny serving of gelato from a delicate little cup. Steve curses himself internally for the overreaction and holds Tony’s eyes.
He’s gotten what they need, Steve thinks, judging from the set expression and the little nod. He’ll stay long enough to make sure his going will not be suspicious, and then they’ll regroup.
Steve settles, tracking Amora and Tony as they go their separate ways. Tony’s small talk is manufactured, predictable. Amora always seems surrounded by a cluster of people, her melodic laugh occasionally piercing through the crowd. Steve wonders what her end goal is — can it be as simple as luring Thor in, revealing his human identity? Has she not been able to guess where she could find him in the vast city he’s been calling home, choosing to search for the prince among the wealthy and powerful?
The missing men make Steve feel that they have failed to grasp some fundamental part of the case. It wouldn’t be unlike her to kill or bewitch for attention, of course, and yet…
Tony starts on his way out, making a slow circle along the outer edges of the room, engaging a dozen or more people in polite conversation as he says goodbye. Each time Steve thinks they’re about to go, another face seems to pop up, and he resigns himself once more to waiting. Annoyance bubbles up in his chest — is this necessary? Can’t Tony just go ?
By the time he finally meets Tony at the doors, he’d been saying goodbye for an hour. Many guests are filtering out now — the older crowd, high strung early risers, the group of women in red dresses, apparently anxious to get away from someone’s advances.
Steve falls in line behind Tony, his shoulder set, his face impassive, until they climb back into the car, sitting uneasily side by side.
“So?” he demands, “what happened?”
“Well, she’s definitely looking for Thor, or his human identity, anyhow,” Tony types and talks at the same time, relaying the information to Thor via identicard. “I made it sound like I had information. I said I could take her to a hotel I thought he was staying in. She agreed to meet me.”
That seems too easy.
If it was Iron Man, Steve thinks he’d want to talk through it, crack a joke, even. Tony’s business-like tone of voice leaves no room for that. He sounds in control. He must know. He must realize this is likely to be a trap.
Though— why would it be? She hadn’t seen anything that was likely to make her suspect Tony. She had been openly asking for information — why would she be surprised to have gotten it?
“Where and when?” Steve asks.
“Tonight. She pushed me to go as quickly as possible, which I think is a good sign. I picked a place nearby where I’d stayed once; large courtyard, easy enough to redirect a confrontation away from people. We’ll go in first and keep scouting for information. Thor and the Wasp will stand by to provide back-up.”
Steve nods, one short, quick motion.
The plan is set, then. Tony has made it without him, because Tony had known all the information and held all the cards.
That’s fine.
He’s not upset. It’s a fine enough plan.
Outside of suggesting an immediate confrontation — which has tactical advantages, but may leave them unsure of what has happened to Amora’s probable victims — he can’t bring to mind a better one, in their current position. Tony has done nothing to compromise the team. He has nothing to be upset with Tony about.
This is fine.
“Cap,” Tony says, on an exhale, his voice a little high, tense.
“What?” Steve snaps.
“My briefcase.”
Steve glances down. His fingers have left imprints in the metal handle where he’s squeezed too tightly.
He lets go, shakes out his cramping fingers.
“I didn’t notice.”
Tony’s taken off his sunglasses, and his eyes are sad and kind. Steve’s anger runs hot. “Are you going to be fine for the mission?” He asks.
“Of course I will.”
They don’t talk for the ride over.
They don’t talk sitting in the car, waiting for the hour and change until the time of the meeting. If this was Iron Man, Steve would suggest stopping by the diner a block away. He’d get a burger — he’s still hungry, not having been able to partake in the pork roast — and Iron Man would drink a milkshake through the slit of his faceplate. Perhaps they wouldn’t talk much, but the silence would be companionable, easy. Or perhaps it’d be Steve talking — Steve telling stories from the war, from his childhood. Iron Man is a good listener, though he never says much about himself; his boss, he’s always said, forbids that kind of talk.
Steve’s longing turns sharp and angry.
He’s never going to have a night like that with Iron Man again. Whatever happens now, it’s only him and Tony.
Sulking, at least, is very well suited to quiet cars.
“Alright,” Tony says suddenly, holding up his comm, “we talk. Get as much information as possible, then reveal ourselves.”
Both of them know that Tony is in the position to do the talking, which rankles Steve more than it should.
“I just talked to Janet. She and Thor are going to be on the perimeter. Before escalating, we’ll alert them via identicard. If that doesn’t work out, it’s shouting distance.”
Steve nods shortly, grabbing again for the briefcase.
“Wait for them if at all possible,” he says, “you’ll need the suit on. We can cover you.”
“Yep,” Tony says, popping the p. His voice is unreadable.
It’s nearing midnight (a strange time, Steve reflects, for a meeting). It’s a quiet, clear night, the moon a few days away from full overhead. Before the serum, Steve had never been able to see the face in the moon, but now it stands out crisp and clear, its mouth crater open in perpetual surprise. He remembers telling this story to Iron Man, who had laughed, shaken his head ( that’s the shadow, Cap, he’s not screaming ) but then grown less sure of his own assertions as Steve had pointed out his view of mouth, nose, eyes ( no, I don’t think you’re supposed to— well, maybe) . He remembers sitting side by side with Tony Stark to watch the video of the moon landing, the hope that had bloomed out of the emptiness of his chest, the gratitude.
He can’t do this right now. He needs to focus on the mission at hand.
Amora is already waiting for them. She stands so still that Steve could mistake her for a statue, especially at her height, but even in the faint moonlight, her long dress sparkles.
“Good evening,” Tony says, and gives a little laugh, aiming to disarm with convention, “this is all very dramatic, isn’t it? If I didn’t know better, I’d think I was living on the pages of a Gothic novel.”
It seems to work. She’s coaxed into the mundanity she must have picked up in the human world.
“Thanks for meeting me here on such short notice,” she says, “I’ve just left the gala.”
“Of course, of course,” Tony says, “I’m happy to help. I think I can find his room, though I’ve forgotten the number.”
She steps forward. In the moonlight, Steve can see the eager expression on her face.
“How did you say you two met? Where’ve you been looking?” Tony asks.
“Old friends,” Amora says, taking another step forward, “he’s… very important to me.”
“Oh, of course,” Tony says again, “is—“
But she interrupts him, continuing as though he had not spoken. “I’ve been trying to find out what he wants. It’s so easy, you know, with all your people. You, for instance—“
She takes another step forward, past Tony and into the garden, barely a foot between her and Steve. “— are so full of want.”
“Pardon me, ma’am?” Tony asks. Steve can see his hand hovering over the pocket with his identicard, ready to end the interaction.
“Not you.” She says, in the tone of a housewife shooing raccoons out of her garden, and darts out one hand, palm out. As soon as she touches Tony’s chest, he freezes, his hand still halfway to his pocket, his eyes wide open and unseeing.
She locks eyes with Steve. And there it is again, the gaze, the gooseflesh, the overwhelming feeling of being observed, being known. Something about her eyes briefly disarms him; by the time he thinks to step back, to grab his own identicard, to shout, her hand is resting over his heart and he can’t move.
“So, so full of want,” she says, low into his ear, in a voice that would be seductive if not for its strange, melodic coldness, “you don’t even know what to do with it. It’s going to kill you, you know, bottling it up and letting it bubble out like that.”
And then everything crumbles into darkness.
When Steve wakes up, he’s chained to a chair.
The moment of the discovery, the feeling of being constrained, sends panicked adrenaline coursing through his veins. He yanks, twice, hoping to brute force it, and then forces himself to calm down and assess the situation.
Sturdy metal chains, probably reinforced with something he can’t break — adamantium, perhaps, titanium. Sturdy metal chair, unyielding under his fingers. Hotel room, probably. Fancy. Ornate four poster bed. Coffeemaker with dozens of little pods, Starktech. Smell of air freshener. Crick in the back of the neck.
Tony Stark, on a chair four feet in front of him.
Like Steve, he’s bound hand and foot, his ankles chained to the feet of the chair, his hands behind him. Unlike Steve, he’s gagged, a long, sparkling green cloth wrapped around his face, more stuffed in his mouth.
They lock eyes.
“Are you hurt?” Steve asks, letting his fingers explore what he can reach of the chains behind him.
Tony shakes his head.
Steve exhales a little bit, relieved, and glances around the room for anything they can use to free themselves.
Tony makes some kind of humming noise, which grows more insistent when Steve looks over at him, taking the rough shape of a word. “Mmu?”
Steve stares at him. “What?”
Tony raises his eyebrows, sweeping his eyes demonstratively over Steve. For some reason, this makes Steve feel self conscious, almost flustered, but he gets the point.
“I’m fine too.”
Nod from Tony.
Steve tries to scoot the chair over towards the desk, but it’s stuck in place, completely immovable. Magic. He wouldn’t be surprised, he thinks, if there are no locks on the chains.
“The armor’s on the desk,” he points out, nodding towards the briefcase. “If we can get to it— but I don’t know how. Guess we’re bait, now.”
Tony hums an affirmation.
He’s a little pale, Steve notices. He’s in disarray. His suit is grass stained, though Steve hadn’t seen him fall. His hair is messed up. Dried bits of spittle stain his chin, having escaped the gag. He probably screamed, Steve thinks. He was probably screaming before Steve woke up from whatever magic induced stupor he’d been in. He’s human. He cares for Steve — Steve knows that, deep down, even as upset as he is — and not knowing what state he was in must have been terrifying.
The thought fills him with a strangely fierce sense of protectiveness, anger tinged with something warm. It’s easy to be angry with Tony when he’s in control, when he’s taking charge of the meeting, when he’s telling Steve how things are going to be. It’s harder now, cataloguing the after effects of his fear, his struggle.
“We’ll be out of here soon,” he tells Tony firmly, “we’ll figure it out.”
Tony makes a little humming noise in response, glancing up to catch Steve’s eyes again. For a moment, they’re just looking at each other. Steve doesn’t know what he’s feeling, can’t access the deep thrumming tension in his gut well enough to break it down.
“Tony,” he starts, uncertain of where his words are going to go.
And then someone kicks down the door.
Both of them turn to look.
It’s a man. He’s tall and broad, tanned, his features sharp, light brown hair smoothed back with pomade. He wears a nondescript uniform, vaguely Jarvis-like; there’s the white button-down and vest, the black slacks, Stark Industries emblazoned into the breast pocket of his jacket. His eyes are a familiar pale, sparkling blue.
Steve doesn’t know him, but he can swear that he’s seen him somewhere before.
“Cap!” The man exclaims, looking him over.
“Over here!” Steve calls out unnecessarily. “Give us a hand, pal!”
The man rushes over, kneeling down by him to start undoing one of the chains on his ankle. “I was looking for you!” He says. His voice isn’t quite familiar, but his cadence, the way he times his words, is. The way he moves is, too, his posture a little too perfect, limbs held out a little too straight. Steve knows him.
He just can’t tell from where.
“Who are you?” He demands. “How did you get here?”
“Oh,” the man looks up at him, his wide, earnest blue eyes catching Steve’s. “I need to talk to you, Cap. The thing is— I’m Iron Man.”
Steve stares at him, speechless.
Behind him, Tony yells something, the words muffled by the gag.
At first glance, it seems to make sense. This man, much more than Tony Stark, fits his conception of how Iron Man should be. His face is open and honest, each expression easy to read ( no masks, Steve thinks, outside of the Iron Man faceplate ). He’s built better, built like a soldier, a fighter. He moves right, speaks right. Steve thinks he would recognize him without being told. In some ways, he had.
“But that’s impossible.” He says, glancing over to Tony, who meets his eyes and desperately tries for more muffled words. He’s paler now, his eyes — the exact same shade as the newcomer’s— open wide in some emotion Steve can’t quite read. Surprise? Fear? “Tony Stark is Iron Man. I saw the suit come off.”
The man works his left ankle free and pauses, kneeling by Steve’s feet. They make eye contact, and the warmth in his gaze is nothing if not familiar, correct.
“Oh, golly, Cap. I don’t know how to tell you this.” He pauses, seeming to consider his words. “Mr. Stark arranged that with Molecule Man. Why do you think it had been so easy to talk him down?”
This time, Steve can tell exactly what Tony is trying to shout, behind him. No.
“Why— why would he do that?”
The newcomer glances down, seemingly focusing his attention on freeing Steve’s other ankle. “He— he didn’t want me around anymore. He didn’t like how close I’d gotten to the team. He didn’t like how close I’d gotten to you.”
Steve inhales sharply, rolling his ankle as it, too, is freed from the chains. The newcomer rises, his hand on Steve’s knee, his eyes still on Steve’s. “He hasn’t let me have this. You know he’s tried to keep us apart, to keep me away from you. I never wanted to blame him, Steve, but—”
His voice breaks.
It’s true, Steve thinks.
Tony Stark is the reason he’s never known Iron Man. And Molecule Man had kind of been anticlimactic, hadn’t he, surrendering as easily as he had with no one hurt?
Tony’s breaths are quick, panicky. Steve looks over at him, sees the pale face, the eyes, glossy with something that could be guilt or fear or any combination of the above, the rapid rise and fall of his chest, and doesn’t know how to feel.
“Look at me.” Iron Man says softly, desperately. “You recognize me, Steve. You know it’s me.”
His hand comes up to rest on the side of Steve’s face, his fingers calloused and cold. Steve breathes deep and smells machine oil, strawberry milkshake, rich, musky cologne with a note of flowery spice underneath.
“Yeah,” he says, “I do.”
And then Iron Man leans down and kisses him, and Steve’s brain stops working. His lips are soft. His short stubble scratches lightly against Steve’s chin. Steve feels the kiss in his whole body, electricity traveling down his spine and setting aflame every cell it touches.
“Shellhead,” Steve breathes, uncertain of what else to say.
Part of him feels like this is a dream. He’s had dreams like this.
“Tell me you feel it too,” Iron Man says, his voice low in Steve’s ear. It would be seductive, if not for the cold edge underlying his words, some note Steve can’t quite read. Anxiety, he tells himself, desperation.
“I do,” Steve says, looking up to meet his eyes. His voice breaks on the second syllable, something deep, deep inside him protesting, but it’s Iron Man. It’s Iron Man.
Iron Man smiles at him. It’s a wide smile, open and honest, the kind of grin that sends butterflies fluttering through Steve’s chest, in his stomach.
“Yeah,” Iron Man says, a note of satisfaction in his voice, “I thought so.”
His nimble fingers undo the chains holding his arms behind his back.
Steve shakes his hands out and reaches up, setting a hand on Iron Man’s cheek. It’s soft and warm and he can’t believe he’s touching it, that he gets to do this. Iron Man straddles his lap, his muscular thighs on either side of Steve’s hips.
“I’ve wanted this for so long,” he says, exactly echoing the sentiment Steve had never been able to admit to himself.
This time, it’s Steve who kisses him. He feels the physical sensations less, now; it’s more as though he’s being pulled under a tidal wave of feeling, pulled along to a place where he’s perfectly understood.
Somewhere far, far away, Tony makes a low, distressed sound, something close to a whimper. Something’s wrong, Steve thinks, but the thought is muted and inaccessible, a pebble thrown at bulletproof glass.
“Steve,” Iron Man says, “help me into my armor. We have to get out of here.”
“What about Amora?” Steve asks. “What about Tony?”
“Thor will deal with Amora. You know he always does. Tony’s unharmed; we’ll leave the door open and someone will find him in no time.”
It makes sense. Steve’s not feeling particularly warm towards the man right now. It’s Tony, one quiet thought calls out, far, far away, he’s hurt and scared and helpless and you know he wouldn’t, you know he didn’t, but the rest of his mind chants faker and liar and traitor, finds fault with every line of Tony’s body.
“Let me take you home,” Iron Man implores, “let me show you who I am.”
“The team,” Steve starts, unsure what he is about to say, “Tony…”
“Leave a note,” Iron Man insists. His tone is more urgent, now. They’re running out of time. “Write the team a note. Tell them you’re safe with me. Pick up the pen and write while I don the armor, Steve.”
Steve stands up, gesturing to the desk. “Your armor’s here, too.”
Iron Man crosses the room, taking hold of the briefcase, but stops, looking back to Steve. “He’s changed the passcode,” he says, “I need you to tell me what it is.”
“07,” Steve starts, but then the date catches him off guard.
July 20th, 1969.
It’s the moon landing.
He’d sat close to Tony that night, packed into his in-home theater. His cologne had been musky, rich, laced with the same mystery spice. There had been motor oil stubbornly clinging to his fingers.
“Someday I’ll take you,” Tony had said, “I’ll have the tech.”
Steve had laughed.
Months later, he’d sat on the rooftop with Iron Man, arguing about shadows of craters.
“I’m still taking you, one day,” Iron Man had said, and Steve had thought nothing of it. Their shoulders had bumped against each other. Iron Man had smelled of machine oil and rich, musky cologne.
“07’s not working.” Iron Man — whoever he is — says, drawing Steve’s attention back to reality. “There must be more.”
Tony had chosen the code because it had meant something to Steve, between him and Steve.
It hits Steve suddenly that the man with the briefcase is a stranger. Whether he likes it or not, it had always been Tony in the suit; Tony, remembering Steve's quirks and their inside jokes, Tony, sitting with him on the rooftop stargazing, Tony, spending his nights wearing head to toe armor in second rate diners to keep an insomniac Steve company, Tony lying about being his own shitty boss to get out of awkward situations. It's impossible, he realizes, to separate one from the other.
All night, he’s watched Tony faking it. The easy confidence at the party, the for-the-camera smile, the small talk, the wounded, clearly-fake nonchalance in the car. He’s been able to tell the entire time. Of course he was.
He knows Tony, inside the suit and out.
A sick, strange feeling settles in the pit of his stomach, something like grief, like longing. Part of him wants the easy out, Iron Man without Tony Stark. Part of him wants the man who didn’t lie to him, the one who’s understood him all along, who’d put Steve’s happiness, their feelings, over his own secret identity, who’d been held back by some outside force.
“Look at me,” Steve says.
Not Iron Man turns. His face is no longer holding shape. His cheekbones slide up and down, sharp one minute and flat the next. His lips are chapped, well taken care of, pale, red, close to his short nose, far set from his long one. His hair is blond, ginger, brown, black.
Only his eyes, Iron Man’s blue, remain the same.
Steve looks back to Tony, who’s still watching helplessly, his hands tied behind his back, ankles fastened to the chair. You’ve done so much for me, Steve thinks, You’re my best friend. You saved my life. You’ve given a home, here.
You lied to me.
There’s no one more human than the man in front of him. And this entire time, despite appearances, Steve hadn’t been falling in love with a robot.
He turns back to the imposter. Already, he can feel the magic lessen, give.
“It’s not you,” Steve says, “it’s been him all along.”
For a moment, the man in front of him is solid again. Tony Stark stands in front of him, well put together and calm, his black suit ironed, hair smoothed back. He takes a step forward, looks at his bound counterpart, and then vanishes into thin air.
Steve stares for a moment too long at the empty space he’s left behind, and turns his gaze to Tony’s sorry form.
His face is wet, eyes red, the gag mangled and half bit through. He’s breathing quick, shallow. He doesn’t have enough air, Steve thinks, and that thought snaps him into action.
He rushes over, undoing the gag first. Amora’s green scarf is soft to the touch, and Steve finds himself using the clean side to wipe around Tony’s mouth, under his eyes.
“Christ,” he says, “I’m sorry. Breathe.”
He thinks Tony would wave his concerns off if he wasn’t tied up. As it stands, he gives a dismissive little shake of the head. “It’s fine. We’re okay.”
Are we? Steve wants to ask. Tony had seen him kiss Iron Man. Tony had seen him almost leave, almost assume the worst. He’s under no illusions now; he must have been under the same magic that the missing men had, some personification of his desires. Iron Man had played the role of the mistress.
And that’s awkward, to say the least.
But they have to focus on getting out of here.
The chains are deceptively hard to get off Tony — now that he thinks back to it, the ease with which the imposter had freed him should have been a red flag — but through a combination of brute force and clumsy lock picking, he frees his hands and goes to work on the ankles.
Tony rubs at his own mouth, his jaw, silent. Steve can hear the deliberate pace of his breathing.
“Guess that was the other woman,” Steve jokes, hoping to break the tension.
“Cap,” he starts, after a moment, “Steve.”
And then it hits; Tony Stark had seen him kiss Iron Man. The friendship is effectively over, for reasons Steve never could have predicted.
Just then, loud footsteps sound down the hall.
“Friends!” Thor shouts, entering through the kicked in door. “I have come to save you!”
“Thanks,” Steve says mildly, “we just got there ourselves.”
Tony finds him on the rooftop, which is unsurprising.
He’s gone up on the roof half in hopes of being found. Steve’s not a coward; he knows they must talk, eventually, just as he’d known they must eventually work together. He doesn’t know what to expect. Tony’s a decent man. He won’t out Steve, though whether he’ll be okay with Steve staying on the team or not is up in the air. Steve will respect his boundaries, let him take the lead.
It’s a chilly night. He’s turned off all the lights he could, and he stares up at the full moon and the sparse stars visible through New York City’s light pollution.
Tony walks out quietly and sits close to him, so close he can half feel his body heat, can smell the earthy, spicy cologne through a day’s wear. Jasmine, he thinks. The scent underneath is jasmine.
“Nice night out,” he says.
“Yeah,” says Steve, glancing up at the sky again. “Full moon.”
For a few moments, both of them are silent. Tony speaks first.
“I don’t blame you,” he says, “I know it was the magic that made you do that.”
And here’s his chance. Steve can roll with it, profess his feelings to be entirely platonic, and move on with his life, leaving things how they are.
Both of them are smarter than that. Both of them will know.
“Magic that revealed my hidden desires and personified them.” Steve points out, his eyes trained on the sky above them.
Tony doesn’t respond for a few beats too long, contemplating it. “It was wrong,” he says, firmly, “you broke through it.”
“Yeah,” Steve says. “It was the moon, you know. The moon landing. It made me remember you. It made me realize there had never been anyone else.”
“Oh.” Tony says.
Another few seconds pass.
“I’m not sorry I had a secret identity — that was necessary,—” Tony says carefully, “but I’m sorry I lied. I’m sorry I used it to— to say all kinds of things about myself. I wasn’t thinking it could ever get out.”
He pauses, glancing away.
“I shouldn’t have put you in that position, Steve.”
“I’m sorry about how I reacted,” Steve says. “I think I…”
He pauses. His turn to mince words; he’s not used to talking about his feelings.
“I think I felt I was losing Iron Man,” he says finally, “rather than gaining you.”
Tony reaches over, setting a light hand over Steve’s. It’s warm and calloused and real, in a way that the spell had never been. Something about it gives Steve the courage to continue talking. It all must come out, he knows. It will one way or another.
“It wasn’t you,” he says, “As the… the lies got under my skin, I think part of me would have been upset no matter who Iron Man was.”
Tony glances over at him, surprised, but Steve can’t look at him.
“It was safe,” he says, “to love Iron Man. I could never touch him, could never really meet him. No one could blame me for entertaining the fantasy that it was circumstances keeping us apart, that he would have returned my feelings if he could.”
“I—” Tony starts, but Steve talks over him.
“You’re my friend,” he says, “I know you, Tony. I can’t imagine how much more this would have stung if you’d been a perfect stranger, someone with a family tucked away somewhere in the suburbs who was being paid to keep me company. You chose to be Iron Man. You chose to spend time with me. There wasn’t any reason for you to fake that. I don’t know why I thought there was.”
He was too sick of losing people, too devastated by the simple, sweet thing he’d imagined he’d never have again, to think about any of that.
“I don’t expect you to love me back,” Steve says, quietly, “but it’s always been you.”
Tony reaches down and laces their fingers together.
“I don’t deserve you,” he says, his tone as low as Steve’s. “Sometimes I liked to pretend Iron Man did.”
In his eyes, Steve sees the returned affection he hadn’t dared to hope for. He doesn’t know what to do with it.
“Well, you’re stuck with me now,” Steve says, squeezing his hand, “should have thought of that, shouldn’t you? Actions have consequences.”
Tony laughs, startled. A tension bends then gives between them, snapping with an almost audible pop. Steve reaches up with his free hand, trailing his fingers over Tony’s cheekbone, sets a hand on the side of his face.
It’s all too easy to lean in and close the distance between them. This kiss is different from the illusion he’d kissed in the hotel room, where he’d felt pulled along with a tidal wave, his whole body on fire after one kiss, spiraling wildly out of control. This one is soft and sweet. He knows who he’s kissing.
He’s always known.