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Running tally: thirty broken bones (sprains don’t count, right?; if you can walk it off—it doesn’t count; that rules out every broken bone I’ve ever had except the ribs; OK, I’ll subtract the ribs; very funny, Steve), four thousand texts (I miss you; it’s 2am, this couldn’t wait?; I don’t miss you at 6:30), five unofficial heists (it’s not breaking-and-entering, it’s asking permission later; you have a terrible relationship with boundaries, Tony), six short straws (I get the top bunk; if it makes you happy, Tony; it’s called “prevention;” I was gonna sleep on the floor; see? Prevention), and countless IOUs (nice jacket; keep it; …fine, but—; you owe me, I know, Tony).
Their lives had become so intertwined that it was hard for Steve to imagine his week without Tony Stark sneaking into it. Without, You drank my coffee; it was there. Or a sticky note appearing on the strap of Steve’s shield, requesting his presence at a neutral location to discuss their next heist, which always revolved around prying open S.H.I.E.L.D. treasure chests. It wasn’t against the books, exactly, because the Avengers Initiative was S.H.I.E.L.D.’s baby, so S.H.I.E.L.D. tech was, by a convoluted strain of Tony Stark logic, Avengers tech. It was all preliminary, purely investigative, a bit of reverse surveillance.
Fury covered for them, even if Fury summoned them regularly to his office to warn them to lay the fuck off.
Tony was unfazed. Steve’s guilty conscience liked to rear its head hours later, in the middle of the night, gaze fixed on an apartment drywall and mind on the consequences of fun-and-games, until the buzz of, It’s the twenty-hundreds. You really think anything matters? drowned it out. Then he rolled over and fell asleep. Sometimes, Tony texted him awake.
At least spending time with Tony made him feel alive.
It felt a bit Bonnie and Clyde. But nobody got hurt. They got hurt, but that was their job. Tony forged suits of armor for a living; Steve jumped from tall places and landed on nothing but his own moxie and the occasional car. It was inevitable that they had a running tally of their battle scars between them, most of which weren’t earned on the battlefield. The everyday—I hit a machine too hard; funny, the machine bit me—was what tended to leave the most damage on their souls. There just weren’t enough world-ending events to rack up the mileage.
They hit hard when they did, but those blue moons were thankfully rare.
As Steve walked the length of the Brooklyn Bridge under cover of a blue dawn, he wondered what kind of plans Tony had for them. There was no point in prying over the phone. Tony could shuffle the same deck of cards ten thousand times. Once he committed to keeping information secret, he kept it under wraps until he had his moment.
Steve walked at a brisk pace, lungs open, heart surprisingly light. He noticed the lack of a demon at his shoulder, the tug that pulled him directly towards the past, inbound for 1945. All thoughts were focused on the future today.
It felt good. He felt good.
The air was warm and fresh and so was he.
He arrived at the end. Tony Stark was waiting for him.
Sitting on a bench, one arm extended along the back of it, Tony looked out over the water. Compared to the frenetic man who had paced around the helicarrier, he seemed statue still. Steve opened his mouth to ask what he’d broken, then realized there was no characteristic tension around his face.
So he started from the beginning: “How ya doin’, Tony?”
Tony tilted his head without turning to acknowledge him. Steve paused a few steps away, looking at the water, drinking it in. The sky was beginning to brighten, turn red and gold with morning.
Pacing to the edge of the pier, Steve breathed in the water. Tony advised, “Don’t fall in.”
“You think I want to?”
“I think you could.”
“Such confidence.”
Steve stood for a while longer, purposefully leaning out. Only when Tony said, “It’s like you want to fall,” did he finally turn, facing him head-on.
He was still sitting on the bench, but leaning forward, hands clasped over his knees, eyes bright as he scrutinized Steve. Steve sidled a step closer, interjecting, “I think I’ve fallen—”
“Please,” Tony dismissed, sniffing, looking away.
Steve paused, eight feet away, and asked solemnly, “Why’d you call me here?”
Tony was silent.
For a sinking moment, Steve thought, That’s it, then. He’d walk back home, alone, the little happy interlude over. Perhaps Tony had thought the idea over, consulted with his conscience for the first time in a long time, realized that their work was prying and dangerous and bound to get them both killed, if they cut the wrong wire. There was a tension to his presence that had not been there moments ago. Steve knew almost exactly what he was going to say, if not in as many words, and felt something coagulate in his throat. He thought about heading it off, shrugging and simply walking away, because why say it at all, if they both knew it? It had been fun while it had lasted.
No need to get attached to it.
Then Tony said, “I knew you’d come.”
It was weirdly weighted, heavier than the coin on the scale should have been. Steve frowned, sidling closer, rocked by those four words.
It was only Tony’s silence that shared how flustered he was. He could steal a cup of coffee with ease, but he lingered in the doorframe of Steve’s apartment for long minutes before walking away without ever entering. They never met at Tony’s place. Steve never asked. There was a fine line, a running tally. They could talk for hours about the job, the score, get as close as they wanted, but not cross that line.
The truth unveiled itself. “This isn’t about the job.”
Tony sniffed once. It was an easy cover, masking any changes in expression, but Steve still caught the minuscule flinch. “It’s always about the job,” he said. “We are the job.”
Steve let the silence speak for him. Neither of them were wearing their suits. Even as Tony shifted from hunched to straight-backed, defiantly rigid, Steve knew he had come to the same realization. “It’s always about the job,” Tony insisted.
“It’s not,” Steve said.
“Then what is it?”
The breeze was warm. The East River was quiet.
Steve thought, I don’t know. It’s about us. Even that thought made his heart skip a beat, an unexpected thought. Us. For all that they shared, there was that fine line—you and me. His jacket, Tony’s wounds, their heists. Even their texts were boxed in careful lines.
You and me.
“We could talk about it,” Steve proposed, noting the way Tony’s shoulders relaxed almost imperceptibly. No longer bracing for some imaginary blow. Even his face looked softer, listening more. Steve took a risk, his own heart pounding as he added, “Over coffee.”
Tony’s brow furrowed. Steve saw him cycle through the automated, Why would I need coffee, before he closed his jaw, looking Steve over.
Steve thought, It’s easier jumping onto cars than following through with this, isn’t it? At least he could calculate how hard he would hit the ground. If he would hit the ground at all.
Tony stood up. A part of Steve wondered if Tony would walk him back into the river, an evasion. A spectacular one—but what was Tony if not spectacularly evasive?
He did walk up to Steve, but Steve did not fold back into the river. Barely a breath away, Tony paused. Steve thought, This feels like crossing a line, as they stood almost toe-to-toe.
The other shoe never dropped; the warning bell of Step away, regroup. He let Tony hold steady in his space.
Tony reached out—Steve caught his hand. Every line in Tony’s body became visible, a hard cord of uncertainty. I got you outta so many tight places, you can’t trust me here? But that was the job. There was no job as he closed his fingers around Tony’s, then pulled them to his own chest, completing the movement they had been on, stern atop his sternum.
The sun rose over the river. His heart beat slowly. He said, “I’d spend time with you, Tony. Even if I had no reason to.”
Even if our jobs made it impossibly difficult. Even if we only saw each other once in a blue moon. Even if you did make me sleep on the floor, because I’d never make you sleep on the top bunk. Even if we never, ever had a moment to talk, except in the halls, always on our way.
I’d make time for you.
He didn’t say any of it, because when their lips met, it felt like words, left unsaid, were suddenly spaced in.
. o .
They lounged in Tony’s garage, in the open seat of one of his bright, fancy blue cars. They had the upper windows wide open, letting some sunshine in.
To an outsider, it was a halfway space—the portal to another room, neither outside nor fully in. To Steve, it was not halfway at all, with Tony against his chest, flicking through a tablet—purely maximizing space, of course. Always an of course. Encouraged by the tight quarters and cool air to hold him close, Steve basked in it.
He just basked, a cup of coffee dangling in one hand, his other wrapped around the future.