Work Text:
“Can I have some cocoa?” Steve asked very politely just like he'd been raised to ask when he wanted something, staring at the steaming mug Tony held in his hands. It had a pun on it, that Steve thought was rather entertaining. It was of an iron with Tony's color scheme, followed by the word man. Reading, quite literally, 'iron man'.
Tony glanced up at him, then back down to his precious mug filled to the brim with the warm, chocolatey goodness. He had an answer immediately, "no,” he turned back and looked back at the cheesy romcom Christmas movie Peter put on. But he'd abandoned him about an hour ago, so he was left watching the movie alone. It was starting to get good. He burrowed further under his mountain of blankets. They kept him warm and kept dark memories at bay.
“Please?” Steve tried, leaning over the back of the couch, hovering over Tony and staring longingly at the mug.
“Nope,” Tony said, waving a hand to try and shoo the super soldier who was constantly bothering him as of late. It was weird. And anxiety-inducing because Tony had no idea what he wanted. Besides hot chocolate, he called cocoa like an old man. “Go make yourself some. The packets are on the counter,” he said, eyes firmly fixed on the TV. He was becoming invested in the damn movie despite his best interest.
“Packets?” Steve asked, thankfully backing off. He didn't go far though, too busy staring at Tony with an expression that was a mix of disappointment and confusion.
Tony rolled his eyes. “Yes, my immortal beloved,” he mocked. “There’s packets full of chocolate power. Add it to water. Viola. Hot chocolate.”
Steve was silent. Too quiet to mean anything good, he didn't even mention how he wasn't immortal like usual.
Tony, despite his promise not to engage in conversation with the captain, frowned and turned around. He was met with Steve, with his hands on his hips, looking at Tony in utter disappointment. He loathed that look it made him feel incredibly stupid. A word that hadn't been used to describe him in quite some time. “What?” Tony demanded.
“That is not how you make hot chocolate, Tony,” Steve stated as though it were a scientific fact. There was no 'right; way to make hot chocolate.
Tony huffed, he couldn't believe he was being judged over hot chocolate. “Go be judgmental in the kitchen, Sergeant Rogers. Let me watch the movie,” he grumbled, turning back around and taking a sip from his mug. It was perfectly fine, thank you very much. He was not pouting.
“I was never a sergeant," Steve informed.
"Called you that because you're acting like a drill sergeant. Who are you, hot chocolate police? It's chocolate and water, pretty damn hard to screw up," Tony said, scowling into his mug.
"Come with me to the kitchen," Steve requested, ignoring everything else because he didn't want to fight. Not really. He and Tony had been doing much better than they'd been three years ago, but it was slow going. They were friends now, a very loose label especially around wintertime.
“No.”
“Come on, Tony. I’ll show you the right way to make hot cocoa,” Steve coaxed. He genuinely wanted to, because there was nothing that beat his Ma's recipe for hot chocolate It wasn't just 'chocolate and water' like Tony insultingly put it.
Tony gave a long groan of suffering. “Friday, pause the movie,” he said to the sky, where he'd left his eyes after rolling them so hard. He had no clue where the remote had wandered off to and he didn't feel like searching for it. Once the movie was paused, he stood up, turning around and glaring at Steve, blankets falling in a pool around him. He clutched his mug like a shield, protecting him from whatever it was Steve was trying to pull.
Every winter left the two of them...tense. Every year like clockwork they'd get snappy and standoffish because the cold dredged up some not-so-nice memories of Siberia. Sometimes Tony would wake up gasping, feeling the terror flood his body, trapped under Steve as he raised his shield high and brought it down into Tony's chest. because of this, they kept their interactions to a minimum, and conversing was completely off the table after Tony exploded last year and ‘ruined Christmas’. But now all of a sudden the Captain wanted to bond.
It was suspicious if you asked Tony.
“It’s really good,” Steve insisted, shifting his weight and rocked back on his heel, pivoting around and heading into the kitchen. “Just takes a while. That's why I wanted some of yours,” he explained over his shoulder.
“Sure,” Tony flatly responded, walking towards the kitchen. He already felt far too cold now that he was out from his mountain of blankets. He held his mug tighter, taking another drink and letting the warmth flood his body. He rubbed his chest subconsciously, before taking another sip.
Steve was silent as they walked into the kitchen. Tony didn’t break the silence either, finding a counter to perch himself atop of without being in the way—he didn't feel like fighting with Steve tonight—and watching the man collect everything he needed.
Steve gave him a look when he saw where Tony was sitting. Another disapproving look.
“My compound,” Tony said in response, taking another drink from his mug. He could sit wherever he damn well pleased. He owned the building for christs sake. No one could police him on where he sat, especially not Captain Steve.
Steve looked away, filling a saucepan with water before turning on the stove, setting the pan on top. “My ma used to make this for my brother and I all the time,” he reminisced, going through the cabinets before he found his squares of chocolate. He'd bought them just for this and adding a few into the water.
“You had a brother?” Tony asked quietly. He tried to recall his father ever mentioning a second Rogers or any documentaries mentioning it. He came up blank. How the hell had that detail been missed by the public?
Steve looked up, trying to appear casual, like this information didn’t mean much. But he was doing that thing where he shifted his weight back and forth incessantly. It meant he was nervous. Tony didn't know why he knew that. “I had two,” he answered, voice even. “An older brother and a younger brother.”
Tony’s brow furrowed. “You’re a middle child?” He asked. He didn’t expect that, he carried himself like an only child would. Or at least an eldest child. Weird. “I didn’t know that. I’ve never...heard about them," he said, deciding to play nice since Steve was so willingly offering this piece of himself to him. He didn't know why.
“Matthew's the baby, he died real young. He was sick, worse than me,” Steve said, stirring the mixture and avoiding eye contact. “William died in the war. Enlisted as soon as he was old enough.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Tony offered, unsure of what else he could say.
“Thank you,” Steve replied. “Want to see how we old men used to make hot chocolate?” He asked, bringing a light atmosphere with the simple words.
Tony narrowed his eyes. He slid off the counter and went to stand next to him after a moment of thought. He didn't seem like he had any malicious intentions. He peered into the pan, looking at the now melted chocolate mixture.
“Pour some sugar in,” Steve asked.
“The saying is pour some sugar on me, but sure,” Tony replied on impulse. He internally grimaced, maybe not the best thing to say after someone just talks about their dead brothers. Maybe he was stupid. He set his mug down and reached for the sugar. “How much?”
“Er- um. Um, about three tablespoons,” Steve stammered out.
“Yes, sir,” he muttered. Teasing, not mocking like usual and eyeballed about three tablespoons of sugar.
“Now a dash of salt,” Steve instructed.
Tony added a ‘dash’ of salt into the pot—whatever the hell that meant—watching as Steve continued to mix it over the low fire.
“Wanna stir?” Steve asked.
Tony looked up at him. There was no harm in it. He took the spoon from Steve and began to stir the mixture in silence. Until Steve came up behind him.
“Here, don’t go too fast,” he said, placing one hand on Tony’s waist and the other came around to hold the spoon over Tony’s hand, slowing his pace. “There. Now there’s no chance of it spilling everywhere,” he murmured.
“Yeah,” Tony mumbled, feeling frozen. He didn’t expect this close contact to feel so...nice. He didn’t think he’d fit into Steve’s arms so perfectly. He didn’t think he’d be the one getting flustered either. “I can’t cook,” he blurted out. He didn't know what to say or do. They were supposed to hate each other so why the hell was his heart racing and palms sweating.
“...I know,” Steve said, sounding far too amused. He took his hand off Tony’s hip—allowing him to actually think—and reached over to grab the measuring cup full of milk and started to pour some in. “I’ve seen the kitchen after you’ve left it."
“So why let me help?” Tony asked.
Steve looked at him. He set the measuring cup back down and put his hand back on Tony’s hip, gently rubbing with his thumb. “So I could do this,” he murmured, lifting his hand up to cup Tony’s cheek, turning his head so they were face to face. His eyes dropped down to Tony's lips as he wet his won. "Is this okay?"
Tony stared at him in disbelief. Was this really happening? Didn't Steve hate him? So what was going on? Did he hit his head and this was all one fever dream? He didn't know. What he did know, was that Steve was asking permission for a kiss and Tony had half a mind to give it. After a few more moments of silence, he swallowed and nodded.
"...Can you say it?" Steve asked.
Wonderful. The Captain had a thing for enthusiastic consent. Really wonderful trait but terrible at the moment.
"Yes," Tony found his voice. "This is okay. You can kiss me," he said, embarrassed. He didn't remember the last time he felt like this. Flustered and at a loss for words.
Steve leaned forward and captured his lips in a gentle kiss. His lips were chapped, but the taste of chocolate on them made up for him.
Tony just about melted just like the chocolate, eyes closing as he moved his lips in turn with Steves, savoring the feeling of the kiss. He hadn't kissed someone like this in so long, which just hurt his playboy ego. He could get lost in this kiss for ages.
But then Steve pulled away.
“I’m sorry about Siberia,” he said, blue eyes shining with guilt.
Tony frowned. He was ruining the moment. “I know,” he responded. “You’ve said it a million times.”
“I know,” Steve repeated. “I’ll always be sorry.”
Tony sighed. He didn’t want to do this now. “Shut up and kiss me again," he said because if Steve was kissing him then he wasn't talking and dredging nightmares up. Which definitely wasn't healthy and they probably needed to talk about this before it turned into a thing but that was a problem for future Tony.
Steve looked at his face, searching for something. Apparently he found it because he obliged a second later, pulling Tony forward by his hips and kissing him with a passion that the last kiss hadn't held.
Tony smirked. Maybe he wouldn't be cold tonight after all.