Work Text:
“I don’t know about this,” Steve hedges Natasha’s expectantly quirked eyebrow, squinting down at the screen of his phone and the misleadingly unassuming orange and black logo. “This isn’t for me, Nat.”
“Just relax for once, Stevie,” Bucky pipes in, vaulting over the back of the couch and plucking the cell out of Steve’s hand, idly scrolling through the pictures of half-naked men. “It’s Grindr, we’re tryin’ to get you laid, not married off. Loosen up, old man!”
Steve levels him with a sullen glare. “It’s not like I asked you to.”
“We’re doing ourselves a favour here,” Nat declares, feet in an enthusiastically nodding Clint’s lap and one corner of her mouth curled up into a mischievous little smirk. “The moping, it’s very unattractive.”
“I’m not-“ Steve starts, incredulous, only to be interrupted by a chorus of three annoyed, long-suffering groans.
“You are, dude,” Clint shrugs, “it’s painful to watch.”
Sam walks back into the room then, carrying a new bottle of beer. “They’re trying to help,” he says and at least he sounds apologetic about it as he comes up behind Bucky, resting his chin on Bucky’s shoulder to see what he’s up to. “They’re doing a shit job of it, but they’re trying.”
“Hey!” Bucky exclaims, tilting his head back to pout up at his boyfriend. “We are being so helpful, the most helpful, you don’t even know how-“
“Yeah, all right,” Sam chuckles, kissing him quiet. “Whatever you say, man.”
Bucky mock-scowls at him for a moment longer, attention drawn back to Steve phone when it pings with an incoming message. “Oh, hello there,” he coos, waggling his eyebrows.
Clint and Nat nearly stumble over each other in their haste to come see.
“SexyMechanic70,” Natasha reads aloud, nodding approvingly.
“Sounds promising,” Clint offers.
“And look,” Bucky adds, “he didn’t even send a dick pic! And he praised your sketch which, by the way, is a totally lame icon choice.”
Steve snatches his phone back, batting Bucky’s hands away when he struggles to reach for it again. “Cut it out,” he grouses. “Also, excuse me for not posting a picture of my abs.”
“A true tragedy,” Sam sighs, earning himself an indignant squawk from Bucky and a betrayed look from Steve. “What? I’m just saying. They’re great abs.”
“True,” Nat hums and bumps the fist Clint is holding out to her.
“You’re awful, all of you,” Steve accuses through a groan, slouching back in his seat. “I don’t even know why I’m friends with you.”
“Steve,” Bucky says, softer now, gently bumping his shoulder against Steve’s. “We worry about you, all right? Brock was a dick and you deserve to have some fun. You gotta get back out there, meet new people. Write back SexyMechanic70.”
Chin lifted defiantly, Steve locks his phone. “’M not gonna write SexyMechanic70.”
*
Steve does end up writing SexyMechanic70 later that night, because SexyMechanic70 has taken the time to compliment Steve’s drawing and it’s only polite to say thank you.
Expressing his gratitude quickly turns into a discussion about modern art; about which SexyMechanic70 knows next to nothing and mostly makes fun of, although in a manner that doesn’t seem mean and actually makes Steve chuckle to himself a handful of times, and robotics; which Steve is pretty clueless about but can appreciate from an artistic point of view.
Before Steve knows it, almost a week of them texting back and forth has passed and he finds himself genuinely curios when SexyMechanic70 suggests they meet up. Steve accepts.
The hotel SexyMechanic70 directs him to is upscale but not so much so that Steve feels uncomfortable or like he’s dressed inappropriately in his jeans, shirt and leather jacket. He parks his Harley behind the building, stomach flip-flopping with nervous excitement as he steps into the lobby and makes his way up to the third floor.
When SexyMechanic70 opens the door to room 303, everything Steve had carefully planned on saying gets stuck in his suddenly dry throat, his heart giving a giddy flutter and his cock an anticipatory twitch, because SexyMechanic70 is gorgeous.
He’s all dark, messy hair, tan skin and warm, honey-brown eyes. Flirty, inviting grin spreading across his face, SexyMechanic70 says, low and husky, “I’m Tony,” and Steve has just enough time to return the favour and say, “Steve,” before his mouth is otherwise occupied and there’s no more talking for quite a while.
“Steve,” Tony sighs contentedly an hour and a half later, head propped up on one hand while the other is drawing lazy patterns across Steve’s sweaty stomach. “You are not what I expected.”
“Oh?” Steve asks, somewhat wary.
But Tony doesn’t seem bothered, just flops down on Steve’s chest, face nuzzled into his neck. “Well, yeah. No offense, but you’re not exactly what comes to mind when someone says artist. Not that I’m complaining, not at all, but if I’d had to guess I would’ve said military.”
“Used to be,” Steve yawns and leaves it at that, curling an arm around Tony’s shoulders to hold him close.
Tony, thankfully, only hums and doesn’t ask about it, obviously sensing that it’s a sore subject. Much like the reason behind the scar on Tony’s sternum, Steve muses, which he’d seemed reluctant to talk about earlier. Tony understands when to push and when to leave things be, and Steve dozes off with Tony a warm weight against him and a fond smile on his face.
*
When they wake again, they order room service and eat burgers in bed while talking about everything and, simultaneously, nothing at all. Steve is extremely reluctant to leave because he finds he actually likes Tony, the smiles he always seems startled by and his snark and the witty comments thrown in here and there.
At least Tony appears to be on the same page about it, and so neither of them leaves. They spend the afternoon watching bad reality TV between rounds two and three of the best sex Steve has had in forever, then make good use of the huge tub in the bathroom.
Steve feels a little guilty about enjoying himself so much, about the instant connection he has with Tony, because while they are officially on a break and free to do as they please, it has only been four weeks since the break-up with Brock. Falling into bed with someone else, while a bit rushed, would be one thing, but Steve knows that whatever he and Tony have started here, it could become something more, something real if he’d let it.
For the moment, though, Steve ruthlessly pushes away the curl of discomfort and concentrates on Tony and Tony’s hot mouth travelling down South instead.
They order in again in the evening since neither of them can find the energy to get dressed in more than the robe needed in order not to flash the girl bringing up their food, sprawling out across the bed and feeding each other pasta, just because they can and feel like it.
Steve falls asleep with Tony spooned against his back, his head pillowed on one of Tony’s arms and the other thrown over Steve’s hip. He wakes up, in the middle of the night, tangled in sweat-soaked sheets and trembling, his throat raw from the screaming he must have done in his dreams, and Tony on the other side of the bed, talking calmly until Steve gives a jerky nod that he’s okay to be touched again.
“Sorry, ‘m sorry,” Steve mumbles shakily, but Tony shushes him and allows him to tuck his head under his chin, fingers stroking through the short hair on the back of Steve’s neck as he promises, “It’s okay, don’t worry about it. I got you, you’re safe, sweetheart, ssh, you’re safe.”
*
Steve has been staring at the text for a good half hour already when Tony finally stirs, humming happily and rubbing the telltale bulge in his briefs against the small of Steve’s back.
Disentangling himself from Tony’s octopus-like grip on him, Steve moves away.
“Wha’?” Tony slurs, rolling onto his side to get a better look at Steve, expression quickly turning from bleary to concerned. “What’s wrong?”
“Brock wants to meet for lunch,” Steve admits, chancing a brief glance at Tony before focusing back on Brock’s message. “Today.”
Tony frowns. “Brock? Cheating ex-boyfriend Brock?”
Closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose, Steve nods. He doesn’t regret telling Tony about Brock, it had been cathartic, freeing even, but right now he really wishes Tony would let it drop.
No such luck, though.
“Why would you meet with the guy?” he demands, snorting in disgust. “Fuck him, Steve, seriously.”
It’s not Tony’s fault, somewhere under all the sudden anger Steve is perfectly aware of that, but he lashes out nonetheless. “Don’t talk about him like that,” he snaps, throwing back the covers and getting up, looking for his pants. “You don’t know him, you don’t what it was like. You don’t know me.”
“Steve,” Tony tries, hands held up placatingly, but Steve’s confused and, if he’s being honest, a little scared of the intensity of the feelings he’s developed for Tony in such a short time, and being rational is the furthest thing from his mind right now.
“Just,” he barks, dismissing Tony with an irritated wave, “just leave it, Tony.”
He dresses as fast as possible and leaves without a backward glance, resolutely blinking back the tears starting to gather at the corners of his eyes.
*
“You what?” Steve yells, then shoots their waitress a small, apologetic smile, making a mental note to tip extra well today.
Brock shrugs, talking around his mouthful of sandwich. It’s a habit Steve’s always kind of hated. “What? We were on a break, all bets were off. Besides,” he smirks, gesturing at Steve’s rumpled state, “looks like you weren’t exactly celibate, either.”
“True,” Steve allows, feeling his cheeks heat but not letting himself be deterred. He knows he’s in the right here. “But Rollins? The guy you cheated on me with? You really don’t see how that would be, you know, hurtful?”
Brock sighs as if Steve is acting completely unreasonable, setting down his sandwich. “Steve, baby,” he starts, even though he knows Steve doesn’t like him calling him that. “You know I love you, but you’re a handful, what with the nightmares, waking me up more nights than not, always riding my ass about cleaning up after myself, and being on edge all the damn time.”
“You knew all of that before we got together,” Steve bristles, “I told you about the- the PTSD, I told you!”
“I know, baby,” Brock smiles pityingly, giving Steve’s hand a little pat. “But it’s a lot, you know? Sometimes I just need a distraction, sometimes I have to do something just for me.”
Steve glares, jaw clenched. “Something like fucking Jack behind my back?”
If Brock’s surprised by Steve’s uncharacteristic use of profanity, he doesn’t show it. All he does is shrug again. “I never wanted you to find out,” he says, as if that magically makes everything better, “you weren’t supposed to know.”
For a long moment, Steve can do nothing but stare, mouth hanging open in shock, at the man he used to love. And it is used to, Steve knows that now. Then, Steve stands, balling up his napkin and fumbling out his wallet, throwing a couple of bills down on the table.
“Baby?” Brock asks, still relaxed and not making a move to stop Steve. “What are you doing?”
Steve doesn’t answer, just turns around and leaves.
*
SexyMechanic70’s profile has been deleted, but Steve is a man on a mission and not going to let that stop him.
He remembers Tony saying he was staying at the hotel for another two days for a conference or something, so that’s where Steve goes, a bouquet of apology flowers in one hand and a bright red balloon with a golden Sorry! on it in the other.
When he gets there, however, the entrance is blocked by a group of reporters and paparazzi, obviously here for someone famous. And Steve doesn’t have to wait for long, the door sliding open to the shouts and questions of the gathered crowd as someone-
As Tony steps out of the hotel.
Steve doesn’t need the calls of “Mr Stark, Mr Stark!” to tell him who he’s spent the previous night with. Now that he’s in a suit, wearing more than a ratty pair of sweats and a tank, hair styled perfectly and tinted sunglasses on his nose, Tony is immediately recognisable as Anthony Edward Stark, CEO of an international, multibillion fortune 500 company.
His twenty-five dollar roses suddenly seem wholly inadequate and Steve is about to retreat, tail between his legs, when Tony looks up and their eyes meet, effectively pinning Steve in place.
He isn’t breathing, unsure what to do, but then Tony’s face splits into a downright breathtaking smile and he bites his bottom lip, still watching Steve. A bodyguard leans in close and Tony whispers something to him, several more security people joining them and beginning to shoo away the reporters, forming a gap for Tony to slip through and dart across the street.
“I’m so-“ is as far as Steve gets before Tony’s lips are on his and Tony’s arms around his neck, pulling them together chest to chest. “So sorry, I was an idiot, I’m sorry” he finishes, the words whispered into Tony’s mouth.
“Yes,” Tony agrees, but he’s still kissing Steve so Steve figures a second chance is still in the cards. “Total idiot. And,” Tony nods at the balloon, “a complete dork.”
“I’m sorry,” Steve repeats, burying his face in Tony’s neck, ignoring the flashes going off behind them as he breathes Tony in, squeezes him tightly.
“Yeah, well,” Tony says, smiling against the side of Steve’s head, “you’re going to be on the front page of pretty much every gossip rag in existence by tomorrow morning, so I figure we’re even. Now, dinner?”
Moving away enough to smile back at Tony, Steve says, “It’s a date.”
*
They run into Steve’s friends on their way out of the restaurant and get roped into going out for drinks.
Nat and Clint are leading their little party, with Tony behind them, squeezed between Bucky and Sam who have an arm each linked through one of Tony’s, probably, if Steve knows them at all, grilling him mercilessly.
But Tony’s laughing at whatever Sam’s saying, craning his neck to wink over his shoulder at Steve, and Steve absolutely doesn’t walk into the lamppost because of that, "Shut up, Buck!"
Steve’s friends are the worst. But also kind of the best.