Work Text:
Steve knocks at Sam’s door, feeling exhausted. He’s an image of a dried seal who hasn’t seen the water in weeks, only more pathetic.
Sam opens after a couple of knocks and doesn’t even judge him too much. He mostly looks amused, to be honest.
“Rough day?”
“Yes. Sorry to barge in, but—”
“It’s okay, man. We had plans, you knew I was home, I told you — many times — that it’s fine. Mi casa su casa.”
Steve smiles, a wave of gratitude for Sam’s existence hitting him in the chest. Sam’s great. And the day was rough.
He hadn’t got much time to rest since the end of the mission, and the sleep always has troubles coming to him; he barely got an hour of shut-eye before the press conference. And he hates those ones. Even the easy ones like today, when SHIELD parades them — mostly him, but Natasha and Clint are recognizable, too, after the battle of New York — showing that they have the world’s safety under control. The politics of it makes Steve’s skin crawl.
They asked all types of questions, today, and it seemed that the reporters cared more about his personal life than the recollection of actual events they were supposed to talk about. Natasha said to him, after, voice gentle, that it’s just how they are now. He was pretty annoyed. He knows it’s how they are. But it doesn’t make it right. Logical. Doesn’t make any sense.
The end of it was... interesting. A young guy — he sounded nervous, but they all usually did in the face of the uniform, or maybe just more polite, more reserved — asked what he thought of transgender rights. Not so blunt, of course, the question was veiled, but Steve perked up, ready to answer — he wanted to answer that. He had a lot of thoughts on the matter.
His awe in the early days of learning about the bright new future matched the resentment that came later. How he despised the fact that people were still hurt, still marginalized, that there was still an argument about the right to exist. How he despised that argument because, honestly, do not change your God-given body? They didn’t say that about him, did they? It was nothing about faith and all about bigotry. He was Catholic, he fucking knew that.
Yes, Steve had a lot to say. He started, mournfully, with his disappointment over the fact that in seven decades there has been not enough progress — not enough acceptance. He said that he found the whole argument so ridiculous, so undeserving of thought: there shouldn’t be any doubt about a person’s life, person’s decisions, identity, freedom. He talked about his body issues and the hypocrisy of men who praised him but drew the line at more misfortunate.
Steve was about to finish with an accentuated ”Fuck transphobes” when Natasha cut him off.
She sounded in agreement with him, and she made the transition flawless, but it still felt like she undermined him a little.
Steve’s tired of it.
Natasha keeps doing it — changing the narrative of his conversations with the press whenever she feels the need. It began after the time when Steve was asked whether he had troubles with technology — for a millionth bloody time — so he told in his best deadpan voice about the mortal dangers of email. It was supposed to be funny.
Nobody got the joke. Not when he was dressed in red, white and blue — not when he was wearing a symbol, a hero, a story atop himself. Captain America doesn’t joke. Captain America doesn’t know what email is.
They only mocked SHIELD about its tech support for a week, so since then, Natasha plays the moderator. Steve doesn’t really know whether she gets his jokes — or honest opinions that have too much of Steve Rogers in them, not Captain America. Natasha is hard to read, but he hopes she understands at least part of it. She’s a friend. Friendly. Closer to him than anybody else at SHIELD, more informal to him. Even if that mostly shows in her futile attempts to set him up (although, always with women). That’s probably the reason he lets her: Steve genuinely likes her.
And he has a bit of a habit to yield to strong women in his life.
But, well. It’s fine. It’s ridiculous, to be bothered by a friendly gesture. Steve doesn’t let himself be bothered.
He comes to Sam, Sam doesn’t ask more than that first question, and they play video games for a little while — until Sam swears at him and tells him to go away and stop preventing him from doing some real-life adulting.
“Maybe one last match?” Steve asks, his face a picture of innocence. “You haven’t won once today.”
“Fuck you, Rogers,” Sam grumbles and goes to his paperwork, but at least he doesn’t kick Steve out of his apartment.
Sam’s great.
Steve stays on his couch. It’s peaceful. Steve likes it way more than his own house — provided by SHIELD, furnitured by SHIELD with all the discomfort of his past but none of the real memories. Sam is the first real friend Steve made in the future, a first one who isn’t a work friend (who doesn’t know about Captain America, only Steve Rogers, a bit of a dork and a little shit who works in something incredibly confidential). Sam’s place is a safe haven.
In a while Steve grows bored watching Sam being a responsible adult, and since Sam forbade him both from helping around the flat (stop it, don’t touch my stuff! You don’t live here, man, you’re a guest, no house duties for you) and from cooking (Steve, look, I love you and I value your friendship, but if you boil anything in my kitchen ever again—), Steve gives up himself to the horrors of the internet.
He checks Twitter first and spends a peaceful minute checking out the new pieces from several artists he follows — it’s really beautiful, and he’s amazed still that it’s so much easier now to learn, to show your work, to be part of a community that transcends the physical distance, with people all over the world. Then, not wanting to delay the inevitable, he checks what’s trending. Captain America is in third place. Several first popular tweets say “Cap accidentally supports trans rights”.
Accidentally.
Steve looks at his phone with despair. He wants to throw it at the wall. He wants to throw himself at the wall. He wants to put on the uniform back and go to the Times Square and yell I fucking support every fucking human right at people, but at this point, everyone would probably think him to be a fake Cap or something.
Steve grimaces at one of the most annoying tweets and can’t stop himself from replying with a sarcastic “or, maybe, a person whose whole deal is punching injustice in the face wants to punch injustice in the face”. Then he closes the tag. Online fights are draining and pointless.
Should he punch some senator in the face? That might help. At least help him to feel better.
Steve slumps at his coach. The world’s very sad. He grows restless soon and opens his feed again, but nothing catches his attention. He needs something else to raise his spirits. Something...
With a face heating a little like it always did whenever he felt guilty as a kid, he taps a search bar and types Captain America Iron Man in it. Glancing at Sam, as if Sam would care what he does on his phone. Steve scrolls, pausing at pictures. Most of them are photos from the battle of New York — reporter photos, blurry amateur ones, and the actual art of them — of him and Tony. Sometimes with others, too. The captions always use the codenames, even for Tony — the only one of them known to the world. Some photos are from the press conferences they had together: everyone clean and presentable, Tony without the suit — or, well, in the other kind of suit — rolling his eyes at something or in the middle of saying something probably sarcastic or genius.
The amount of time Steve spends staring at those ones is strictly between him and his phone.
80% of the art is recapturing moments from the battle or comics about daily superhero life. Captions proclaim them frenemies. That word comes from some of the interviews when they had to play the opposite roles, of sorts, Steve realizes, and has nothing to do with their actual team dynamics, unknown to the public, but he still feels the discomfort, remembers the way Tony and he clashed at the first meeting, the way they were awkward and distant after. He scrolls down.
The other 20% of art is, well, porn.
Steve’s still getting used to the whole concept.
(He saves a couple of well-drawn pictures.)
In twenty minutes he gets a reply to his what if Captain America actually meant what he said tweet. It reads: “and I care about your fucking opinion so much user tonystarkstan1918”.
Steve frowns at it.
He thought he figured out the typical pattern of choosing a nickname.
Sam turns to him.
“You okay? You’ve been sighing at your phone for a while now.”
Steve grimaces. He doesn’t want to complain — his problems are pretty stupid. It’s nothing big. He tells Sam so.
“Is it about your guy?” Sam asks in a second, voice gentle.
When Steve came out to him — not that far ago — he said he liked someone, but nothing more. It’s still odd, still scary and nerve-wracking to talk about it. To know he’s allowed to talk about it. But it’s also pretty amazing.
And, well. He was staring at Tony’s face and feeling sad for himself and his (non-existent) chances.
“Partly, yes,” Steve admits.
Sam lifts his head, inviting him to speak.
“He’s just... so great,” Steve says and blushes, and then doesn’t know where to put his arms. He’s bad at this. “But he’s so out of my league, it’s not even funny.”
“Come on. Steve. You’re great. And objectively very attractive.”
Steve scoffs.
“But it’s not really what matters, is it?” He shrugs. “And we had a bad start.”
“Uh-huh?”
Steve sighs, frustrated, not sure how to explain the endless distance between him and Tony without giving out their identities.
“Look. Imagine you have a, a celebrity crush. And it’s someone big, I don’t know, a princess or something. And they’re not only famous but genuinely an amazing person. Using the status that they have to actively change the world. Succeed in it.”
“Okay, I’m crushing on Princess Diana, sure.”
“I guess. And you can’t even — can’t compare to them in any way, so you could only watch them from a distance. But you actually know this person — meet this person regularly.” Steve winces and looks directly into Sam’s eyes to continue. “And they fucking hate your guts.”
Sam stares at him for a while.
“Right. Firstly, I think you’re being a little overdramatic — I said a little, I believe it’s a serious problem, but the amount of spectacle in that last delivery was too much — and secondly, Steve. He might be great, and you guys might have a strained relationship now, but it’s not the reason to diminish yourself that way, okay? Not the reason to compare anything. You’re an amazing person. Love yourself. And while you do that, I can give your a shoulder to cry about the greatness of Mr. Right or some advice or whatever, but don’t forget step one.”
Steve nods, a little bit choked. Then he takes on the invitation and gushes about Tony. After a while, Sam looks like he regrets his suggestion, but he doesn’t say anything. Sam’s great.
It’s 9am on a Monday, and they have the Avengers meeting. It’s pretty boring. Clint doesn’t hide that he’s sleeping. Natasha had the same blank expression for 15 minutes at least; Steve thinks she’s asleep, too. Thor didn’t show up on account of not being on the planet, and so did Bruce — on account of nobody willing to make him.
Tony sauntered in twenty minutes late. He hasn’t stopped complaining about the ordeal since.
His tie has little Iron Mans on it. It’s very cute.
Steve told him “hello”, and “nice tie”, and managed not to blush or stumble over himself. He’s counting it as a win, even though the tie comment got him a frown.
Suddenly the room freezes. It happens like this: Tony stops talking, his face changing into a shocked expression, there is a sound of something falling from Clint’s direction, Maria Hill — standing in front of them — tenses in the corner of Steve’s eye, Steve turns, Steve sees it.
Agent Coulson walks inside the room.
He looks exactly like the last time Steve saw him. A non-descriptive suit, polite smile, a tablet in hand.
Alive.
“What the fuck?” Tony says in the silence.
“I second that,” Clint echoes faintly.
Natasha just looks murderous.
“Third,” Steve adds.
“Hello,” Coulson says. “Excuse me for interrupting, I have news for all of you about the future structure of this team.”
He waves a hand with the tablet.
“What the fuck is going on,” Clint says, voice slightly hysterical. “How the fuck. You were dead. I saw your body.”
“Are you a shape-shifting alien? Are we sure he’s not a shape-shifting alien?”
“You have received the instructions on your emails about the changes.” Coulson continues. Steve feels a little dizzy. “The main problem, however, is the housing. For the most effectiveness of the team, you should have a common headquarters. Preferably, live near each other. Mr. Stark, if your offer to allocate several floors of your Tower to it is still on the table, this conversation is finished.”
He pauses and waits for a nod from Tony.
(Floors of the Tower?...)
“Great. Any more questions?”
They’re all silent. It’s the shock.
“All right. Then the meeting adjourned,” Coulson nods to Hill, who turns off the presentation.
They are still all staring. Steve feels like he has a concussion. He’s probably not the only one.
“It’s great to see you again,” Coulson says after a second. It’s quiet, soft, with more emotion than he let on before.
It’s a mix of a greeting, an apology, and a dismissal. Then he leaves.
Later Steve’s at VA — Sam needed some brawn to help carry around furniture — and he’s still reeling with shock. Sam finished telling him all his job-related anecdotes and now looks at him with suspicion. It’s justified: Steve usually talks more. Recently, since Sam is okay with talking about his feelings for Tony, Steve talks a lot.
Now, well, now it’s harder. A person I knew and admired was thought to be murdered by an insane alien, which was a pivotal moment for me and other people starting a superhero team, and today we found out he’s alive.
Way too complicated.
In the end, Steve just says there have been big changes at work, and that he will soon move to a place that’s being organized for them — to live around each other.
“Does this living with each other thing include your crush?” Sam asks immediately, astute as always.
“Yes,” Steve admits, rubbing the back of his neck. “But it’s not really— it’s just the same building.”
“Oh no, don’t give me that. You’re gonna be roommates,” Sam sing-songs, obnoxious.
Steve swears at him.
He repeats the word afterward, alone: roommates. Says aloud, trying it out: they’re going to be roommates. It sounds pretty happy to him.
Also: really fucking nervous.
The living arrangements are these: Tony made them apartments in the Tower. Everyone gets a floor.
(A literal fucking floor, Steve’s so not okay with this.)
Moving is a process. Tony gets them all to come together so he can show them around at once. He doesn’t explain beforehand why, so both Steve and Clint show up in uniform (they look ridiculous). Several floors (several fucking floors) are common: gym, kitchen, all the strange equipment (Steve’s pretty good at SHIELD-level tech, not Tony-level tech). Up from that come the personal ones. Tony herds them into the elevator and kicks out one person on each floor. The last one is Steve’s. Tony walks out with him.
Steve is being so normal about it.
It takes him a second to distract himself from thoughts of Tony and actually look around. He stops.
“Is that...” Steve knows these things.
An old radio Bucky found and fixed to bring it home. A stack of journals, old snd battered and familiar. The bag that contained clothes too small to fit him the last time he saw it. Oh. His mother’s photograph.
”Tony,” he says, strangled.
“Uh, yeah. That, I think, is everything yours that was stolen by the government. They were very annoyed about giving it back, mind you. But honestly, what are they — the British museum?”
”Thank you.” Steve thinks he is going to cry right here.
Tony looks very uncomfortable and avoids Steve’s eyes. Fuck, of course, he does — Steve is on the verge of — Steve needs to calm down.
“Eh. Wasn’t a hardship. I needed to have something here, considering I barely made anything for you.”
Only then Steve’s attention, so thoroughly zeroed on his things, widens: the rest of the room is half-empty.
“There’s a gym fitted for your needs, the kitchen is fully stocked, bathroom, etcetera, but I need your input for the actual living space. Draw something you like, show JARVIS, and it will be done.” Tony points to a red light on the ceiling, probably meaning a camera, then turns and finally looks at Steve.
Steve feels a little light-headed under the full weight of his attention.
“Didn’t know what you’d like best.”
It’s said like a concession. A suggestion to move forward, to advance: Tony Stark showing he didn’t know something. Showing vulnerability with a smile. A clear step toward.
“Am I a hard man to understand?” Steve answers with a similar smile on his face. Trying to match Tony’s move. “Everyone seems to know more about my life than I.”
“Captain America — maybe not so hard. But that,” Tony waves at the room, “is the place for Steve Rogers. Him, I don’t know yet.”
If Steve hasn’t been in love before.
It’s a little bit awkward after that. Mostly because Steve’s touched about his things, part of his life, and the yearning for Tony inside of him grows and grows and becomes too much, and he can’t do anything but stare at the man’s face wordlessly and try not to cry. It’s ridiculous. Tony fidgets under his eyes.
He probably waits for the moment to go. He doesn’t want to spend time with Steve.
But he gave me this, Steve thinks. It has to mean something. And he doesn’t want to let go yet, wants to bask in Tony’s presence some more, to look at him here, so close, with defenses brought down. He wears a simple T-shirt and ratty jeans, so unlike those pristine suits he wears at his interviews (that Steve spends a normal amount of time watching). Tony looks approachable, for once. Steve doesn’t want to lose it.
But he doesn’t know what to do to make Tony stay.
“Alright,” Tony says at last, a crooked smile on his face, “that’s more or less it. Ask JARVIS for anything you might need. And, oh, come here—”
Suddenly Tony is so close, and his arm is around Steve’s shoulders, and there’s a sound of a camera clicking.
“Great. Very patriotic. I would ask for an autograph, but I don’t have a pen with me. Send it to Coulson, J, make him know we’re all happy roomies now.”
“Me too, um, JARVIS.”
Tony lifts his eyebrow at that, but doesn’t say anything, waves his hand in goodbye, and goes away.
Steve needs to lie down for a while.
Steve goes to Sam’s place the same day. They were planning to catch a movie.
(Looking at his schedule, Steve begins to realize he doesn’t have many friends.)
Steve barges in with a huge smile on his face.
“Sam,” he says with feeling, “Sam, he doesn’t hate me.”
“Uh-huh. Told you so. How’s being roommates going?”
“It’s great. I guess. Don’t know, haven’t really moved in yet. But Sam. He found my lost things. He made me an apartment. He thinks— he took a selfie with me, look! He was so close, and he smelled so nice, it's the best day of my life.”
Steve shows Sam the picture, then faceplants on his couch. He’s overcome.
Sam doesn’t say anything for a while, which is pretty weird for him. Steve doesn’t care.
“It was so great.”
“Uh-huh.”
“He’s so amazing.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Do you think it means something that he showed only me my place? Not anybody from the others?”
“Sure.”
Sam’s voice sounds farther away. Steve stands up and follows him to the kitchen.
Sam has a glass on the table, and he’s pouring pure vodka in it. It’s 5pm. His face shows great focus.
“Are you okay?”
“Fine. Great. Peachy.”
His voice sounds a little off.
“Are you sure?”
“Just currently rethinking all the choices I’ve made in my life. Especially concerning choosing childhood idols. Nothing serious.”
Steve stares at him.
What.
“Are you—?”
“It’s fine, Steve,” Sam continues in a normal voice. “I just wanted a drink. Go on.”
He still looks a bit disturbed, but clearly doesn’t want to discuss it more. Steve lets him drop it.
He goes on.
Sam quickly returns to his normal state, so Steve doesn’t worry about it.
In a while, though, when Steve has a little break in his gushing-about-Tony, Sam makes an awkward face and says
“Look, Steve, can I say something?”
He sounds uneasy. Steve nods.
“It’s just — I fully support you, and your love life is very amusing, I mean it, it’s basically your regular soap opera, only with more twists. But sometimes it’s just — I’m not your therapist, okay? And I say that in the most loving way possible. I just don’t have the strength to be a good listener sometimes. And maybe, you know, let’s talk about my love life sometimes, or I’m starting to feel like one black guy in a rom-com.”
Steve’s immediately horrified. He spends the rest of the evening ashamed and apologetic. But they talk about it, and Sam’s very right to begin this talk. They agree to communicate better. They watch a movie they were planning to.
Steve asks about Sam’s love life, but it hasn’t changed since Sam’s last date, which Steve remembers the horrifying story of, but Sam talks more about the fear of opening up to the new people and not meeting anyone new. Steve listens.
(Steve also strategizes. But doesn’t say anything yet.)
It’s a good evening, still, a great day. For the following week Steve stops himself from venting to Sam about anything and gets an exasperated text about it after.
In the end, they find their balance.
Steve moves to the Tower.
He finds out — to his own surprise — that he likes the new apartment, even if it feels too big sometimes. It’s so much better than the SHIELD’s one.
He works. He makes friends with JARVIS. He sees the others, sometimes. Life finds its routine.
There’s Bruce making coffee and offering to share. There’s Clint, inexplicably jumping from the ceiling vent.
There’s Natasha, who shows up at the common kitchen at weird times, and sometimes knocks at Steve’s door and spends time on his floor.
She still holds herself close to the chest, but Steve calls them friends now. She doesn’t try to set him up anymore. It may be connected to the fact that the last time she did it, he said only if you agree to go out with my friend.
Steve thinks she agreed mostly out of surprise. Or curiosity.
He asked Sam later that night, more seriously, of course, and told him he has this great friend, that they could find some common interests, get on well, and it doesn’t have to be romantic.
They’re dating now. Sam doesn’t shut up about her.
Steve fucking won this matchmaking thing.
And, of course, there’s Tony. Steve almost got used to his presence, or so he says himself.
He’s still nervous around the man sometimes. Clammy hands, fast heartbeat. It’s ridiculous. But also pretty great.
There are nights like this. Steve can’t sleep — sleep problems are something everyone in this Tower has in spades — and he reads, lying on the couch of the common floor. He tends to gravitate here whenever he feels too lonely, to the place where his teammates spend more time, where he feels the connection to him. Tony appears at the doorstep. He looks tired, but slightly manic.
“Hey,” Steve calls out quietly, something about the night not letting him speak in full voice. “can’t sleep?”
Tony jumps as if he hasn’t noticed him before.
“Cap. Hi. Yep, no sleep for the wicked. You too?”
Steve nods. Waves for Tony to sit with him, and he complies, which is a gift in itself.
They’re silent and tired, not used to conversations away from the field.
“How’s the book?”
“Eh. Pretty boring.”
“But you’re still reading it.”
“Thought it could lull me to sleep.”
They both laugh at it. Then it’s silence again, but less awkward, now.
It’s strange, Steve ponders, the reason for them to lack a conversation topic is that all is well. It’s unfamiliar. Pleasantly so.
They talk about SHIELD’s latest idiosyncrasies, Clint’s hijinks, and the mean curry Bruce made last week and shared with everybody.
“A perfect roommates experience,” Tony snorts. “Are we to have a cooking schedule? Friday movie nights? God, it’s been a while for me. I graduated — what, twenty years ago? More, actually.”
“Not sure I’d trust you with the cooking. I can see you blowing up everything.”
“You wound me, Spangles. Cooking is just chemistry, I’m great at it. And all my explosions are deliberate.”
“It’s settled then, you’re on kitchen duty for the movie night,” Steve says in his team leader voice, then can’t stop himself and smirks at Tony’s dumbfounded expression.
It’s great.
At some point, Tony has Steve reminiscing about his childhood, even — something he tries not to do, as a rule. But it’s different, now. The pain’s not too loud, and he smiles, telling a particularly ridiculous story about him, a yard dog, and an angry baker left without his meat pie.
“I wanted to bring her home, you know. So much. I was nine, I think, the perfect time for dragging every cute animal home. But I had an allergy, and my ma’d never let me. Even if I wasn’t allergic — another mouth was hard to feed. It did well, though. The dog. I’ve seen it around the place years later. People were kind, everyone in our neighborhood was. Looked for each other. For the dog, too.”
Tony’s answering smile looks bittersweet. Steve feels like his is too, as well.
“Did you have a pet as a kid?” He asks.
“A robot one,” Tony says, and of course he did. But he doesn’t elaborate.
There’s no robot pet of any kind living with them now. Steve feels like it wouldn’t be by Tony’s own decision.
They almost fall asleep like that, on the couch.
Steve spends the next day with the widest smile on his face.
Three days later Steve comes home after his morning run, and Tony’s sitting in his living room with a dog on his lap.
Steve stops. The back of his brain says that he looks laughable in his sweaty t-shirt and shorts, but the insecurities are silenced by the main thought: dog!
A real, alive dog. In his living room. Looking at him, its tails moving.
Steve stares at the dog. The dog stares at Steve. Tony also stares at Steve, but somewhere below the head (does he have dirt on his shirt?).
The dog is the first one to break the silence.
“What?” Steve asks after it barks.
“I brought you a dog?” Somehow it sounds like a question.
“You brought me a dog.”
“Yep. From the dog shelter. She’s very nice, they say, and trained, although she has anxiety.”
Steve keeps looking at the dog. She seems glad to meet him, not anxious, or at least not visible.
Holy fuck, Tony got him a dog.
“I feel like I have to point out,” Steve begins slowly, “that when I mentioned the other night that I liked dogs, and wanted one as a kid, I didn’t mean— that I wanted you to get one.”
Tony starts to look sad, and Steve curses himself. Backtrack!
“I love the dog!” He adds hastily. “Don’t get me wrong, the dog’s amazing. But. Please don’t get me anything I ever happen to mention?”
Tony snorts, schools his face, and nods solemnly.
“I can’t promise you anything, but I will try.”
After giving him all the details on the dog — her name’s Daisy, she needs special food and meds and walks — Tony tries to shuffle toward the exit.
“Wait,” Steve says, an opportunity arising in his mind. “We’re roommates, right?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And you got me a dog.”
“True, yes.”
“And we’re co-leaders of the team, and you’re technically the landlord—”
“What are you saying?”
“That means Daisy’s our dog.”
“Um, Steve—”
“Oh no, you don’t get to get out of it after bringing me her without a warning. And look at her! You wouldn’t leave her in an incomplete family, would you? Daisy needs both her dads.”
Both Steve and Daisy make puppy eyes at Tony. Steve sees the moment when he breaks.
“Fine, but—”
“See you at the dog park tomorrow!”
The dog park is great. They got one not far from the Tower, so it’s convenient. Daisy loves it.
The first few days leave a trail of paparazzi photos — Steve looking happy, Daisy cautious, Tony uncomfortable. After that they seek more secluded spots in the park, come at odder times — to help Daisy feel more at peace. At least they both have a horrible enough sleep schedule for it not to be a hardship.
Daisy falls into the routine pretty soon. Tony — not so much. He looks like he wants to be somewhere far, far away in the first two weeks — even though when Steve asks if he’s good with coming with them, he frowns and says he won’t miss it for the world.
After these weeks he makes a 180. Daisy gets a new collar and leash, insane robot toys, a playroom, and several clothes that are both perfectly safe for a dog and can probably withstand a bullet. Tony himself suddenly throws himself into playing. It’s amazing to see him like that. He smiles more, at Daisy, at the world, at other dogs.
At Steve.
It’s a happy smile, a real one, a bit crooked and mischievous and beautiful, and Steve’s heart aches looking at it. It’s a privilege to be looked at like that.
Sometimes Steve feels like he’s living on borrowed time, has these moments of happiness, bliss, Tony. Undeserving and precious. But sometimes, sometimes, when Tony grins at him while petting Daisy, both of them playful and full of joy, Steve feels hope.
Recently, the latter starts to win.
Natasha’s lying on Steve’s couch, snuggling with Daisy. She looks effortlessly elegant for someone who just traded kisses with a dog. Steve doesn’t know when she got here.
“You should ask him out,” she says out of the blue.
Steve chokes.
Out of surprise to hear her voice behind him, not the words — that’s nothing new. Natasha is dating Sam, of course, and since Sam is Steve’s number one go-to about all things connected to Tony, it was hard to keep it from her.
Natasha’s insistence to see Steve happy in a relationship came back, enlarged, since then. But now, instead of trying to find a partner for him, she pokes him unexpectedly and says stuff like that. Like a matchmaking ghost in a horror movie.
(Steve’s pretty sure Natasha mostly does it to get back at him for successfully setting her up on the first try. Sam says that they are weird fucking people, and he’s worried about the safety of the world.)
“Go away,” he tells Natasha.
She pokes him again. Daisy sees an unknown game and imitates Nat by jumping on Steve’s leg.
“I just need a perfect moment,” Steve whines at them after a while, when it becomes clear the two of them have more patience than he does. “What am I supposed to do, barge in the workshop and say Tony, want to go out with me?”
He’s coming around to the fact that he’s doing it in general. It’s just. It’s scary, still. And too important.
“Great plan, let’s go with it,” Natasha says and kicks him out of his own apartment.
“You’re bullying me!” Steve yells at the closing door.
“I know!”
Well. Nat doesn’t seem like she wants to let him back. He goes to the workshop. Maybe Tony isn’t there.
Tony is inside. Tony turns around, noticing Steve, and grins at him. Steve automatically grins back. Then stops.
Tony’s wearing a tank top.
Steve doesn’t say anything.
Natasha throws a dog toy in his face.
“Why the fuck didn’t you do it?”
Steve hides his heated face in his hands.
“Biceps,” he says with feeling.
Natasha calls him a useless dumbass. She may be right.
Tony wanders into Steve's living room when Steve and Sam are playing Mario Kart.
It’s a little bit embarrassing. Steve hurries to get up (and subsequently loses, to Sam’s unholy glee) and manages to introduce them. They make awkward three-way conversation until Daisy comes to say hello to Tony. Tony bends to her level and scratches her head, telling her soft endearments. Steve tells himself he isn’t jealous of his dog. Sam looks at Steve with a smirk that says he knows exactly what Steve’s thinking.
Tony stands back up, oblivious to their hijinks.
“Right. Well, that was my daily dog time. I probably should go. Leave you kids to your own... thing. Nice to meet your, uh, friend here, Cap.”
He sounds weird. Uneasy. His face is unreadable, no matter the smile, and his eyes are focused on Daisy, who lies down at Sam’s feet.
Steve is about to ask him what’s wrong, but Sam gets ahead of him.
“I’m dating Nat, by the way. And I’m straight.” Steve looks at him with surprise — what the fuck is this about. Does he want Steve to come out or something? “Just providing the information. Also, speaking of my girlfriend, I need to go see her. We had plans— hey, Steve, don’t you get that thing you wanted to ask Tony? The one you and Nat were talking about.”
All those times when Steve thought Sam was a great friend? Lies. He’s going to strangle him.
And he and Nat didn’t have any plans. Bastard.
But before Steve can kill Sam with his eyes, he goes away. At least Tony looks more cheerful, and even says his goodbyes in a much more sincere voice, telling Sam to relay something to Natasha.
“So, what was it?”
“Hm?”
“The thing you wanted to ask me?”
Oh. Steve freezes.
It’s not a perfect moment by far. It’s not romantic, it’s daylight, Daisy makes ridiculous noises in the background, and Steve doesn’t look in the least presentable (it’s not that important, he knows, but there’s still this idea in his head, this image of how it should be: a nice suit, flowers, perfect manners). But. He looks at Tony, and Tony looks back, open and at ease and here. It doesn’t matter.
And Steve’s not a coward. He’s not going to lose his chance.
“Do you want to have dinner sometime?”
(It comes out so sure. Soft, but confident. Steve’s surprised at himself.)
“Oh. Okay. Do you mean like a, a team thing or—?”
“I mean as a date. A romantic one.”
The moment stops. It’s nerve-wracking, but also calm. Steve doesn’t freak out. He knows in his heart that even if Tony doesn’t— even if it’s a no, they’re going to be alright in the end. His heart doesn’t believe Tony can ever truly hurt him.
He watches as Tony’s eyes widen, and he’s — he didn’t expect that, sure. But it’s not necessarily a bad thing.
“Um,” Tony says, and fidgets, and oh. He’s flustered. Steve’s heart starts beating faster. “Okay. Um. Yes. Let’s do this. Sure.”
“Friday?”
“Uh-huh. Friday’s great. After seven?”
Steve nods. He grins so hard his cheeks hurt.
Tony nods too, and he still looks like he’s not sure what’s happening, eyes wide and astounded and beautiful. But he smiles back. It’s a bit shy. Steve’s in love, in love, in love.
After Tony’s gone he has to lie down for a while. He sends a text to a group chat with Sam and Nat, telling them the news. They sent a lot of emojis back. It’s ridiculous how happy he is.
Their first date’s a little awkward. The knowledge of it being a date hangs over their heads, making them both unsure of how to proceed.
They meet at the Tower, of course, what with the both of them already living here, and the ride to the restaurant is silent and giddy. Steve steals little glances at Tony, who’s wearing a very him combo of jeans, a t-shirt and a suit jacket. The jeans are very fitting. Steve blushes thinking about it.
(Steve himself spent a better part of his day suffering in front of the mirror with Natasha mercilessly bullying him. Her efforts are not for nothing, though: he thinks he looks alright.)
Happy — he’s driving — kicks them out at the restaurant door and tells them have fun, kids in an obnoxious voice, to which Tony protests, but Steve just laughs, and it’s a start of a conversation. It runs more or less smoothly from that moment on, after they remember that they are friends, too, and actually enjoy talking to each other. There are some bumps in this smoothness, of course, attached to their new status, but they’re mostly enjoyable.
While Tony shares some SI anecdotes, lively and hilarious, Steve can only think how beautiful he is, so engrossed in the story, and he realizes, suddenly, that he can actually say that aloud. So he does.
Tony drops his fork and loses his train of thought, then sits there for a second, staring at Steve with a see what you did expression, but comes back at him without abandon, making Steve blush so hard he wants to hide under the table. He doesn’t hide, but he does keep silent for a while, overwhelmed, hands covering his very red face.
“Steve? I’m sorry, was that too much?” Tony does sound genuinely sorry.
“I’m fine. I’m fine. You’re just so— give me a second,” Steve takes a breath. “That’s why it was so intimidating to ask you out, you know. You, with your... verbal bondage thing.””
“Verbal— oh my god, Steve. How the fuck do you even know this phrase?”
“Oh, it’s this site — urban dictionary!” Steve perks up, embarrassment forgotten in the face of a more comfortable topic. “Such a great resource, all the modern slang I didn’t know. Really helpful. Especially with all the sex stuff.”
“Wow.”
“I’m not that comfortable with the concept, I think — outside of joking. Of verbal bondage, I mean. It’s complicated, and sounds too close to manipulation... very different from the usual type of bondage — so much more straightforward. And the whole concept of a safeword? It’s great. Just — it’s wonderful, how people try so seriously to mind the boundaries, consent, be more ethical, you know?”
“Uh-huh. No, yes, I agree with you, I’m just still processing your whole— saying those words in that order.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Don’t play innocent with me, Rogers, you’re the one casually bringing bondage in conversation. And you say the compliments are too much.”
“Just because I lost a battle doesn’t mean I’m not winning the war,” Steve says, Tony laughs, surprised, and it’s on.
Competitive flirting is not your typical first date activity, maybe, but it’s very them. And it’s great.
They walk back home. It’s already dark, quiet and warm. Tony’s hand finds Steve’s, and they lock up until the Tower. Steve walks Tony to his floor — he is a gentleman, after all, and it’s just manners, which he tells Tony in his best serious voice.
“And here I thought you were aiming for a goodnight kiss,” Tony teases in answer.
“Those are not mutually exclusive.”
Tony snorts but then reaches for him. His hand finds itself on Steve’s face, and he’s so close. Steve’s brain captures the moment, never to forget. The kiss is short and chaste and tender, but Steve has to stand there, afterward, eyes closed, for a second to come back to himself. When he opens his eyes, Tony smiles, wide and happy and like everything’s right with the world.
Hours later Steve can’t fall asleep.
It’s nothing new, but today instead of worries and loneliness his mind focuses on the memories of the evening. He’s still giddy, happy. It’s a good change.
After a while he gives up and wanders to the common floor — a place for the sleepless, a trove of good memories. He threads silently but stops at the doorstep as he sees Tony on the couch with a tablet in hand.
“Hey there,” Tony lifts up his head, “can’t sleep, huh?”
Steve hums his yes and sits near him.
“What’s keeping you up?”
He loves this version of Tony: relaxed, homey, voice tender and the look so soft when he asks his question.
“Pent up energy, I think. It’s been an eventful day.”
“In a good way, I hope?”
“The best. Had a great date.”
Tony smiles.
“Me too.”
It’s easier, feels more right like that. Together.
The next day Steve comes to Tony’s office to give him a giant bouquet of flowers. They are red and gold. Steve saw them at the flower booth by accident and couldn’t help himself. Tony stares at him for a second, at the flowers, dumbfounded, then yanks them from Steve’s hand and tells him to go away, because he’s a serious businessman and has work to do.
“Uh-huh,” Steve replies. “See you in the dog park this evening.”
Pepper snickers at them in the background.
When Steve leaves, he hears — superhearing — how behind the closed door Tony says:
“He can’t do that. That’s not allowed. Seriously. Stop laughing. I can’t deal with it. This is unfair,” but he sounds like he grins all the same, so Steve doesn’t worry about it.
In yet another SHIELD press conference, Steve and Natasha at its front, decked in uniform, a rather unpleasant-looking reporter asks Captain America about his previous statement that can be read as the support of transgender privilege.
“I don’t know how else it can be read as,” Steve answers. “And since when are we calling basic human rights a privilege?”
The reporter scoffs. He produces some ridiculous hateful rhetoric that he finishes, cheeky, with the question “Would you sleep with a so-called woman if she had a dick, Captain?”.
Steve looks at him for a while, feeling oh so tired of this bullshit.
“Your silence is an answer in its—” the reporter starts.
“My silence is contributed by the fact that it’s an incredibly stupid question,” Steve says. The room grows silent as a graveyard. “But if you insist. I do not, in fact, choose my romantic partners by the look of their genitals. And, hypothetically, were I to have romantic for a woman who happened to be not cis, I wouldn’t mind. However, practically I am in a committed relationship at the moment that I don’t see ending, so your question isn’t relevant here. I also have no desire to disclose what’s in my boyfriend’s pants.”
There’s silence. Then:
”He would, though,” Natasha says in her mildly amused voice.
“Yes, he has no qualms about taking his clothes off to make a statement,” Steve grins. “I love him so much.”
That last bit is said with a decidedly Steve Rogers voice, not Captain America one, happy and giddy and awkward.
The room breaks. Natasha declares the event to be over, not even trying to placate the crowd. She looks very proud of Steve.
At home, Tony greets him with a hug and a kiss.
“Besmirching my honor on live TV. Am I a bad influence on you, darling?”
“You’re proud of me, really,” Steve tells him, unrepentant.
It gets him another kiss.
They turn off the news and social media for the evening, all the speculation and gossip and uproar banned from their little world. Daisy, so grown already, falls asleep on both their laps.