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The cabin is small and quaint and almost charming. It looks very postcard-like with its fireplace and stuffed moose head and honest to god bear skin rug. There's no Internet or phone service this far out in Nowhere, Canada, but Tony doesn't actually need either of those things to survive. No, really.
He's curled up on the couch with a glass of sub-par wine and a book pulled from the shelves, pen in hand. Every so often, he writes a rude note criticizing the plot. He hopes the actual owner finds it later and flips their shit. While he doesn't need the Internet to have a good time, he does miss it sorely.
Steve is pacing by the windows, fists clenched, Captain America garb still mostly on. Every once in awhile, he stops to stare out at the endless stretch of snow blocking them in. Tony makes no secret about checking out his ass every time he does. He needs to send a gift basket to whoever designed the costume. God bless America.
The mission had been simple: go in, destroy the base, return to the pick-up zone and go home. The soldiers inside had barely fought back, too sleep-deprived and comfortably bored to do anything but gawk as Iron Man blew hole after hole into the computers and walls and ceilings. Steve pulled as many of them to safety as he could before the building blew, knocking them out and tying off their hands and legs. SHIELD would be by later to gather them up. Neat, tidy. Very professional. Pepper would have been proud.
They had been halfway to the drop-off point when the storm hit. The sky cracked open and fat, heavy snowflakes filled Tony's vision. Total whiteout in seconds.
Steve hates when Tony flies him anywhere, but is too practical to say no when it's the best choice. One minute, he was clinging very firmly to Tony's arms, grim faced and exasperated, and then his fingers were sliding against the wet armor and he was free falling straight down.
On the upside, Tony had thought, even as dove down to catch him, the snow will catch his fall.
There was a moment, too blinded by the snow to see even the bright blue of the uniform, that Tony thought it would have to do just that. Then his hand wrapped around the thick muscle of Steve's bicep and he felt the sick, sure pop of Steve's shoulder dislocating.
Tony set it as soon as they touched down, fighting against Steve's shivering. It would be fine in no time- thanks, serum- but the storm wasn't letting up, and there was no way in hell that they'd make it to the drop-off point on foot.
It had taken them an hour to find the cabin. It had been a long, worrying hour, snow crawling up to their knees and making the going slow. Tony thought about flying ahead, about trying to scout out something and then reporting it back to Steve, but dismissed the idea quickly. He could barely see Steve beside him. If he left, he'd never be able to find him again.
Fucking Canada. Useless wasteland.
Steve kicked the door in- very manly- and set up the fire as Tony tried to repair the door as best he could. That had been four hours ago. Steve hasn't sat down since.
"Not that I'm not enjoying the view," Tony says, sipping the Moscato and wrinkling his nose, "but if you don't stop pacing, I'm going to kick you out. Relax. Read a bad book, drink some bad wine. Think of it as a vacation."
Steve doesn't look back at him, but he does stop pacing. Tony flips a page and rubs his aching feet on the edge of the coffee table. He'll send the owners a check for the door- and better booze, did this come from a gas station?- when he gets back to the tower. Until then, it's home sweet home.
When he looks up again, Steve's huddled on the floor head in his hands. Tony's breath catches as he sets his glass down and edges towards him. Steve's shaking, mumbling to himself.
"Cap," Tony says, hands in front of him like he's walking up to an angry bear. He might as well be. Without the armor as protection, Steve can literally rip him limb from limb. "Cap, hey, you good down there?"
Steve throws a blind punch when Tony gets too close, his eyes distant even as he lunges at Tony again. Tony races across the living room, trying to think about anything in the base that could have acted as a mind-altering agent. It was supposed to be an intelligence destroying mission, not chemicals. Ah, hell.
"Cap, I know we're not best buddies, but I am part of your team and it would be really awesome of you didn't kill me." Tony leaps over the couch, wincing as Steve knocks the coffee table over in pursuit. Bigger check, bigger booze, he just has to get out alive.
"Steve!" Tony shouts, ducking another punch. He's not as young as he used to be and has a very real heart condition that he can definitely feel acting up, and Steve is the actual pinnacle of human perfection. Tony can only lead the chase for so long. Taking a calculated- stupid, suicidal- risk, Tony runs headlong into Steve's chest and knocks him over the couch.
The crunch of the coffee table breaking under their combined weight ricochet off the walls, way too loud after all the quiet. Tony kneels on Steve's arms, digging his knee caps into the thin break between muscles, and puts his full weight on Steve's shoulders. Steve snarls at him, an animal, something that isn't Steve Rogers, all American hero, and Tony feels something in him break. Oh. Oh, he's a fucking idiot.
"Steve," he says, taking a deep breath before grabbing Steve's chin and forcing him to meet his eyes. The blue is almost gone, fear making his pupils gigantic. "Steve, listen to me, alright? You're safe. The war's over and it's just us. Remember me, Cap? Genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist? That line ring a bell? Come on, Steve."
It takes longer than Tony is comfortable with, but the vacant glaze to Steve's eyes slowly fades away, replaced with a sad, sick sort of fear that Tony's uncomfortably familiar with. Steve looks away, red creeping up from his collar and over his face. Tony eases away and sits back on Steve's thighs. He's not ready to move away just yet. Not until he knows that he's not going to get decked.
"You back?" Tony asks. Steve nods, jaw straining with how hard he's got his teeth clenched. "What brought on that little trip to PTSD-land?"
"I can't-" Steve pushes him away and sits up, head cradled between his hands. All six feet, two hundred pounds of him looks miserable. Tony lays a careful hand on his shoulder and squeezes. "I remember getting trapped in the ice. It was- it felt like this. So cold, so helpless. I-" He shrugs and squeezes his eyes shut.
"Yeah," Tony says. "I know that feeling. Stand up for a sec and drop the uniform." Steve follows instructions blindly, doesn't ask questions as Tony pushes his own sweats down.
Tony's got the advantage of having space in the suit to bring spare clothes, just in case. Usually they end up preserving the molecule of modesty Bruce has left, but he'd ditched his wet jeans as soon as they'd gotten into the cabin and made use of them himself. It seems unfair that the snow- seriously, fuck Canada and everything it stands for- had gotten in past the suit. Just enough joints and definitely more than enough snow.
Steve stands mostly naked in front of him, all tan, goose pimpled skin and utilitarian black boxer briefs, staring off toward the fading fire. Tony hands him his sweats and motions for him to put them on. He waits until Steve puts one foot in and then turns to throw another log into the fireplace.
The sweats are way, way too small on Steve, gray cotton straining around his hips, the legs stopping mid-calf, but at least he's not in the uniform anymore, and that's one step forward. Tony pulls off his t-shirt and hands that over as well. He's left in his undershirt and boxers, the soft glow of the arc reactor hidden under black cotton. Steve puts it on without question.
"Okay, good. Step one complete." Tony pulls Steve towards the hideous rug and pushes down on his shoulders until Steve shoes down. "Sit. Stay. Good Avenger." Tony ducks into the bedroom and yanks the soft blue quilt off. It's a little musty, but it's heavy and will do nicely enough.
Steve is in the same position Tony left him in, staring blankly into the flames. He doesn't budge until Tony drops the quilt on top of him. Even then, he just pulls it up around his shoulders, looking for all the world like a very tall, very blonde child.
"Lay down, there you go." Tony guides him, turning him away from the flames. Pepper would be so fucking proud. Tony Stark: not actually a complete fuck-up. "I'm gonna lay down next to you, alright? Don't headbutt me. I don't pull off broken nose well. Been there, done that. Bad for the press."
Tony shimmies under the blanket and curls an arm around Steve's waist. Steve's sweating already, his hair sticking to his temples, and Tony's going to be real uncomfortable real soon, but Pepper had done something similar for him when he'd had his own fits. Gave him nice, wide spaces and a person he trusted to hang onto. He doesn't know how much Steve trusts him, but Tony's the only one around, so he's going to have to do.
"Still with me?" Tony asks.
"Yeah," Steve says softly. "You didn't have to do this. I'm fine now."
"Yeah, you really aren't." Tony pats him awkwardly. He's cuddling Captain America in his underpants. It's not the weirdest thing he's ever done. "From experience? It never really goes away. You're fine one minute, and then you're a thousand miles away, getting the shit beat out of you or whatever." Steve closes his eyes, turning his head against the surprisingly soft fur of the rug.
Tony's heart aches, just a little. He likes the guy, as much as he hates to admit it. There's just something about Steve- this guy here, the one with the PTSD and the bad taste in movies and worse sense of fashion- that makes him want to be a better person. Not the Captain America bullshit- though he does still have the posters that used to hang over his bed in storage- but actual human goodness.
Steve doesn't help little old ladies cross the street or go down to hang out with the local boy scouts, but he does other things that are just as good. It's a weak word, but Tony can't think of anything else to describe it.
Steve spars with Clint and Natasha when they get back from crap missions without asking questions. He brings Bruce books and reads with him when things get too tense around the lab. He brings Tony sugary, fatty food and coffee when he's been working too long instead of trying to talk him into going to bed. Steve gets people, understands them, and helps them along. There isn't anyone doing shit for him, and that makes all of them bad people.
"Sometimes, all of this feels like a dream," Steve says after a while. He tentatively wraps an arm around Tony's chest, his fingertips barely brushing the small of Tony's back. "I'm big and strong and living in the future, helping to save the world from aliens and super secret conspiracies. Doesn't that sound like a fever dream to you? I keep thinking that maybe I'll wake up and be in my awful apartment, still ninety-eight pounds and worthless."
"Not that I'm a feelings sort of guy," Tony says, already flinching at himself, "but Dad made sure that if I knew one thing, it was that Steve Rogers, with or without super drugs, is a good man, and I have to agree with him." Steve shrugs, his chest bumping against Tony's. He's definitely sweating under the quilt, but Tony's not going to move them. Not yet. "Is that what you want? To be back in the golden age?"
"Maybe," Steve says after a moment. He opens one eye, studying Tony too closely for comfort. "Maybe not. I've done a lot of good, met people that I never would have met if I hadn't- if the ice hadn't got me. But sometimes-" He shrugs again and closes his eye.
"Yeah," Tony says. "Yeah. I know."
They drift off in front of the fire, wrapped around each other like it isn't something weird. Tony dreams of nothing and counts it as a blessing.
---
The snow is up past the windows when Tony wakes up. He's alone on the rug, wrapped up tight in the quilt, the fire long dead. His back already aches- seriously, he's way too old to be sleeping on the floor, what was he thinking?- and gives an alarmingly loud pop when he stretches.
"There was some bacon and bread in the freezer," Steve says, leaning against the doorway between the living room and the kitchen. Now that he's mentioned it, Tony can smell the wonder of fried grease and his stomach gives a gurgle of excitement. "There's half a cow in there, too. And when I say half a cow, I mean physically a cow cut in half in the freezer. I'm a little concerned about it."
"Buy half a cow, save a ton on meat for a while," Tony says around a yawn. He doesn't smell coffee, which is disappointing. He's going to have one hell of a caffeine headache all day. "You just have to be able to afford it in the first place. They even let you pick the cow."
"That seems a bit cruel," Steve says, but doesn't elaborate. He doesn't have to. One of the nannies had taken Tony with her when she went to the butcher's once, at his insistence. He'd cried all day until his father had told him, in not as many words, to man up and deal with it. "There's sandwiches in the kitchen if you want one."
Tony rolls to his feet, quilt drawn tight around his shoulders and shuffles to the kitchen. Without the fire going, the cabin is frigid and the floors are like ice on his bare feet. He wonders if Steve's choosing not to notice or if he really is doing okay.
Tony flops down onto one of the wooden chairs next to the perfectly quaint table and grabs a sandwich. It's greasy and overstuffed with crispy bacon and Tony can feel his cholesterol rising as he takes a bite. It's damn good, though, so one point to Canadian shacks.
Steve eats four sandwiches, grease making his lips and fingers shiny. He's still wearing Tony's clothes, which is equal parts hilarious and hot. Tony's not a proud man. He can admit that he's got a possessive streak a mile wide and that Steve's hitting that button in all the right ways.
"Think you can get the comms running?" Steve asks after he's put the last remaining scraps back into the refrigerator. Tony feels a little more human, but he still wants coffee. He'd even settle for a Starbucks abomination.
"Is it still snowing?" He asks.
The kitchen window is totally blocked. Steve struggles to open it, which says something about the power of the ice holding it shut. Thick, solid chunks of snow fall into the sink and over the counter, but the wall of white stays firm and solid, even as Steve pounds at it with the end of a cooking spoon. Not a good sign.
"Yeah, so that's a no," Tony says. "Close the window, it's fucking freezing." He rubs his over full stomach and thumps his head back against the wall. "If it weren't so high, I might have been able to melt a path with the repulsors, but right now that's just asking for a collapse or an avalanche, which no."
"So you're saying there's nothing to do but wait?" Steve asks, voice strained. Tony shrugs, the quilt slipping down over his shoulders and to the floor. He needs a shower, but he doesn't really trust the water to be hot.
"Got it in one. Either the snow will melt or SHIELD will come dig us out. But until then, it's all the supernatural romance you can shake a stick at. This obsession with vampires is getting really weird. Like, who gets turned on by something that is supposed to kill you? Do you think there's people that want to bang the Hulk?" Tony pauses, considers his beloved internet, and shakes his head. "Oh my god, there are totally people that want to bang the Hulk."
Steve's staring at the wall of snow like he's going to start shoveling it out with his bare hands. If a collapse doesn't get him, hypothermia definitely will. Neither one sounds particularly pleasant. Tony shoves up out of his chair with a groan and grabs Steve's arm. He's not even going to try shutting the window. It's probably already frozen again, and it's not like they're going to be getting a breeze in any time soon.
"Come on, Cap," Tony says, tugging at Steve's bicep. It's a nice bicep. Very firm. Good for the lifting and punching. Not bad for the eyes, either. Tony gives it a squeeze because he's never been one to deny himself the simple pleasures of life.
Tony shoves at Steve until he sits on the couch, frowning but amicable, and grabs Fifty Shades of Grey from the bookshelf. He's skimmed it before, all too many pages of shitty prose and bad grammar, and is more than sure that it'll at least be something good for distraction.
"Tony, no," Steve says as Tony pushes the book into his hands. He's a bit pink around the cheeks. "I've heard of this one. I'm not reading it."
"Think of it as a lesson in pop culture," Tony says. He scoops up the paranormal romance he'd been reading the night before, uncaps his pen, and flops down next to Steve. The man radiates heat. Tony tucks his feet under Steve's thigh, ignoring Steve's squawking, and cracks the book open. "Reading time. No talking. Unless you're making jokes at E.L James' expense. Then you can talk."
"Tony-"
"Reading time," Tony repeats. He fishes another pen out of the drawer below the coffee table and hands it to Steve. "Make notes if you want. It can't be any worse." Steve settles down, still frowning, but cracks open the book anyway.
They read in silence for a long time. Every once in awhile Steve shakes his head, mouth open like he's going to make a comment, and then looks back down at the page. It's not an elegant solution. It doesn't make the snow go away or remove Steve's issues, but it's distracting enough to keep him from going crazy. Tony likes good enough. He's lived his whole life on good enough, and it's served him well so far.
"Do people actually do this stuff?" Steve asks when Tony's reaching for another book. It's got an ice princess on the cover. He's going to tear it to pieces.
"All over the world, baby," Tony says, giving Steve an eyebrow waggle and a wink.
"Do you do this stuff?" Steve asks. He's pink around the ears but he doesn't break eye contact. Tony likes that about him. Straightforward no matter how awkward things get. Tony shrugs and opens his book. There's a map drawn on the inside on faux antiqued paper. Excellent.
"Once or twice when I was but a young heathen," he says. When he looks up, Steve's still watching him. "I wasn't into it. Too much acting, not enough actual orgasms. Don't believe everything the dirty book tells you."
Steve finally glances down at his book. Tony takes a curious glance at his lap, but Steve's got the paperback spread open across his crotch, nestled between his folded legs. Alas. Tony doesn't know what he'd do with the knowledge that Captain America gets off to BDSM erotica. It might be too much for the world to handle.
When Tony slips out to use the bathroom, he checks the kitchen window. It's still stuck firmly open, damp from the constant stream of melting snow. The little tunnel Steve had made has gone icy. His phone still doesn't have signal and when he slides the Iron Man helmet on, JARVIS doesn't answer him. It's not looking great, but there's no way in hell he's telling Steve that.
"Have you ever butchered a cow?" Steve asks when Tony flops back onto the couch. He's put the smutty book onto the coffee table, but Tony is pleased to see it's been bookmarked with the pen. It's like a train wreck. Even the paradigm of humanity can't look away.
"Do I look like I've ever butchered a cow?" Tony doesn't even pretend to be offended when Steve laughs. "How hard can it be?"
---
The answer is: very. Tony has to leave the room halfway through. The cow is butchered, there's no doubt about it, but it's not pretty. Even Steve went kind of green in there, and he seems like the type to do outdoorsy things. Tony bets he was a boy scout. Were there boy scouts in the forties? He'll look it up later.
Steve cooks the hunks of cow that Tony's going to call steaks and they eat them at the kitchen table like civilized human beings. Steve looks peaky, his leg jittering under the table and his eyelids drooping. He's going to go down hard when he goes.
They read until Tony starts yawning. He doesn't think about sleep until he's bored, and god help him, this is the most boring place he's ever been. He's going to give Barton all the future Canada missions. Barton likes sitting still and staring off into the distance. He'd probably be having the time of his life right now.
"Do you think Barton has a nest on top of the tower?" Tony asks. Steve blinks up at him. He looks all of fourteen, pumped up muscles aside. Tony feels a little dirty. He's tried to put all underage naughty thoughts out of his mind a long time ago. He's an adult. A functional adult, even.
"Why would he?" Steve asks after a moment. His mouth is gigantic when he answers Tony's yawn.
"Because he's a weirdo. Does he really need any other reason?" Tony bets Barton sits up there and pines for Banner, lamenting their poor, tragic not-a-love story. He would totally be part of the want to bang Hulk club. Tony knows it.
Or maybe he's read too many bad romances in the last forty-eight hours.
"Alright, Cap, bedtime," Tony says. He stands and stretches, his back popping in an alarming way. Sleeping on the floor last night totally killed his spine. Steve's overlarge mouth hangs open for a moment before he laughs. It's full-bellied, deep and sincere. Tony pauses mid-stretch. "What?"
"I never thought I'd hear you tell anyone to go to bed," Steve says. His smile stays firm, sweet as all American pie, and Tony ignores the ripple of excitement that goes through him. So he made the cranky super soldier laugh. So what? He's built some of the most impressive things in the world. That's worth way more than whatever this is.
"Don't get used to it," Tony says. He scratches at his stomach and heads towards the bedroom. The bed isn't the same size as his at the tower, not nearly as nice, but it'll do. "And don't hog the covers."
Tony curls up under the quilt on the side of the bed next to the wall. For as stupid as it is, he likes the closed in spaces. If there's a corner, he can see everything. If there's no open spaces, no wide planes, he can hide himself easily. His therapist said it was a coping mechanism, and that it wasn't a bad one. Tony only went once at Pepper's urging, but he feels validated enough and isn't that the whole point of therapy?
Steve slips in next to him a few minutes later. If Tony had to put money on it, he'd bet that Steve took the time to tidy up the kitchen and living room. The heat pouring off Steve's body is just enough to take away the chill of the cabin. Steve keeps his back to Tony, shifting for a moment, the whole bed shaking a little under his weight.
"Night, Tony," Steve says softly. Tony grunts a reply and shoves his face into the pillows. When he looks over, Steve's curled onto his side, lips parted and eyes closed.
He's so… human. Soft and squishy, just like the rest of them. Tony knows that Steve Rogers existed before Captain America, knows that Steve swears and thinks about sex and has as many bad habits as the rest of them, but he'd had the posters and seen the movies. It's hard to remember that Captain America is a costume the same way the Iron Man is. Steve wears it so well that it blends into the edges.
Coping mechanism, Tony thinks wryly. Looks like they all have them.
---
Tony wakes up alone. When he reaches out, Steve's side of the bed is cold. He considers rolling over and going back to sleep, but an obnoxious part of him insists he at least checks in. Grumbling, he wraps himself up in the sheet and shuffles out towards the front room.
Steve's sitting in front of the fire, curled up around his knees. His shoulders stretch Tony's shirt out to a ridiculous degree, the hem riding up to show the pale skin at the small of his back. If he squints, he can almost see the skinny, sick thing Steve used to be. Then he blinks and that image is gone. Steve's not a kid anymore, even if he is young. That might make it worse.
"If I go near you, are you going to hit me?" Tony asks. Steve glances over his shoulder, eyes shadowed, and shakes his head. Tony sidesteps around the couch and settles down next to Steve, wrapping the sheet tighter around himself. The fire is too hot, making his skin itch. Steve doesn't seem to notice at all. "Can't sleep or don't want to?"
"It feels like I'm trapped in the ice again, only I'm awake this time," Steve says, staring at the fire. His fingers twitch against his shin. He's got a line of stubble along his jaw, as fine and blonde as the hair on his head. It's strange in a way Tony can't explain.
"And you've got company," Tony says. He can't stop looking at Steve's jaw. Of all the things to focus on, he's stuck there. No one's ever called him normal. "Fantastic company, might I add. Not everyone gets this amount of the full-on Tony Stark experience." The corner of Steve's mouth twitches up. It's something.
"There is that," he says. "You don't have to stay up. I'm fine." Tony shrugs and offers him a corner of the sheet. He takes it without looking, pulling it over his lap. His thigh knocks against Tony's as they adjust, fire warm and solid. They end up laying on the floor again, Tony facing the living room, Steve behind him. It's the best he can do.
Tony should probably tell Steve they can talk about it if he wants, but Tony's not anything near a good listener and Steve's got the silent martyr thing down to a fine science. If Steve wants to talk, he will. Instead, Tony rubs at his eyes and thinks about how much coffee he's going to drink when they bust out.
"They used to kill soldiers with shell shock," Steve says quietly. He's close to Tony's back, his breath a warm burst against the nape of Tony's neck. "It wasn't- the officers didn't want anyone to know, but when you're a captain, you see-" His chest expands, voice catching. "It was a weakness and any sort of weakness could get more people killed. If someone woke up screaming while we were near a camp, it could lead to the slaughter of a whole troop. But it-"
He breaks off with a soft, wet sound. He's crying, his body shaking with the effort to keep it in. Tony wants to turn him around, wants to hold him and pretend like he's got anything to offer that isn't useless, but he keeps his back turned, letting Steve have the illusion of privacy.
"It might have been mercy," Steve whispers. Tony tenses, staring blindly at the couch. Their books are still on the coffee table. "If I weren't Captain America, would they have killed me, too?" He's silent for a moment, drawing in a ragged breath. "Maybe they should have."
"Hey. Hey." Tony finally does turn over, grabbing Steve's face with both hands. His cheeks are wet, but he's not actively crying anymore. There's just the trace remains of red around his eyes and nose, little tells that even the best liar can't disguise. "Only one of us gets to be the self-destructive type and I called dibs on that one a long time ago." Steve gives him a weak half smile and shakes his head.
"I'm not…" Steve pauses, lips pressed together. "I don't regret what I've done or the people I've helped. I just wish…" He shrugs, staring up at the ceiling. "I'm a soldier. I keep people safe. I'm supposed to be strong enough for that. But-"
"Captain America is a soldier," Tony says. "Hate to break it to you, kid, but you're not him all the time." Steve's answering smile is a little more real. Tony's heart skips a beat. He's too old to have it this bad.
"You're the only one that seems to realize that," Steve says. Tony can't think of anything to say that isn't somehow offensive, and even he's not enough of an asshole to kick when someone's this far down. So instead he shrugs and pats Steve's cheek.
"Can we sleep in a bed tonight? Not all of us are time travelling twenty-somethings." Tony waits until Steve shrugs to stand, yanking the blanket out from under Steve's stupidly heavy body.
"Eventually, you'll have to decide if I'm old or young," Steve says when they get back to the bedroom. Tony faceplants onto the bed, more center than anything else, and huddles up under the cover. This little Canadian getaway is exhausting.
"Why would I do that when I can use both to my advantage?" He asks. It comes out muffled by the pillow his mouth is mashed against, but Steve seems to understand the gist anyway. When he lays back down, their arms and hips press together. Neither one of them move, and Tony doesn't even make a lewd comment.
Steve drops off almost immediately, his soft breaths going slow and almost soothing. Tony tosses a few times, unable to get comfortable, unable to get rid of the thought of Steve crying. War fucks everything up. Even good men. Especially good men.
Tony sits up, sleep completely gone from him, and watches Steve. It's a little weird. He can admit that. But Steve looks young and almost sweet. Golden. The weight of wars and regrets is absent and he looks like a different man. Tony wonders if he looks like that when he sleeps, or if he can still manage to pull off self-absorbed asshole.
Tony's hand hovers above Steve's head for a moment before finally settling into his hair. It's a little greasy, three days unwashed, but it's still thick and soft. Steve hums a little in his sleep when Tony curls his fingers. This isn't good.
---
The shower is freezing. Tony shivers under the spray, scrubbing hastily under his arms and between his thighs. His dick is shriveled up and pathetic, desperately trying to climb back into his body. He dips his head under the spray, teeth chattering together as he rinses out the no-name shampoo that had been under the sink. When he's done, he's going to crawl into the fire.
Steve cannot, under any circumstances, get in here. Tony doesn't care how much he'll stink. There's no way it's not going to trigger something or other.
He dries off with one of the musty towels, pulls his boxers on, and sticks his undershirt into the shower. He dumps a little body wash onto it and scrubs, swearing as he loses feeling in his fingers. Everything's going to smell like apples, but that's better than sweat. When most of the soap is gone, he wrings the shirt out and slings it over his shoulder.
Steve flinches when he walks into the living room, guiltily tucking the battered copy of Fifty Shades of Grey under his thigh.
"There's two more when you're done with that one," Tony says with a grin, laying out his shirt in front of the fire. They're getting low on wood, but that's something they'll have to deal with when they get to it. "Pervert."
"I'm not a-" Steve sighs and pulls the book back out. "It's… interesting."
"To a pervert," Tony says. He cracks his back and wanders back over to the bookshelf. Everything's trashy and boring. Even he can only deal with so much garbage. "I don't recommend the shower, for the record. My balls haven't been this high since middle school."
"Charming euphemism," Steve says .
He pushes off the couch and disappears into the kitchen. He returns a moment later with a pot full of water and a mostly clean dishtowel, the rack from the oven tucked under his arm. He pushes the rack into the fireplace, holding it up with will and the fire poker, and sticks the pot on.
"Huh," Tony says. He rubs his still freezing chest and frowns. "Remind you of a simpler time?" Steve gives him a soft smile and a shrug.
"When I was a kid, we had to pump water from our neighbor's well and heat it on the stove," he says, staring off into the space behind Tony's shoulder. "Baths were a nightmare and I got used to sponge bathing, just to cut down on time. Same thing during the war. You had to keep clean to keep infections away, but too many dunks in a river would get you sicker than anything. The first time I had a shower… it was so strange. I've almost gotten used to it- to all the convenience- but sometimes…"
"Nice to have a reminder of home?" Tony asks. Steve shrugs again and pulls his t-shirt over his head.
Tony watches him dunk the cloth into the water and rub it across the back of his neck. Water runs across his shoulders and over his spectacular abs, sinking into the cotton of his sweats. He's totally unselfconscious, scrubbing under his arms and turning his back long enough to stick the dish towel down the front of his pants. Soldier, Tony thinks, amused.
When he's done, Steve dumps the hot water in the sink and curls back up with his book. Efficient and better than freezing his nuts off. Also, he doesn't smell like chemical apples, which is more than Tony can say for himself.
"You're staring," Steve says, turning a page. He's almost at the end. Tony'll have to find the other books in the madhouse of shelves soon.
"Just admiring the best Stark technology has to offer," Tony says. Steve flips him the middle finger, shoves one cold foot under Tony's cold thigh, and turns another page.
Maybe Canada isn't that bad, after all.
---
Tony wakes up gasping, fingers clutching the arc reactor, sweat sticking the sheets to him. Everything in front of him tunnels into darkness, the ringing in his ears deafening him. He has to move, he has to get out, but he's frozen in place. He tries to lift his legs, but they're tied down. He can't move.
Something grabs his shoulders and he swings his fist. It's clumsy, too wild and wide, but it connects with something solid. He's in the cave again, the dark and the damp and the cold crushing him, and he's running out of time. Oh, god, he's running out of time-
"Tony." The person touching him shakes him, and Tony lashes out again. "Tony, you're safe. I swear, you're safe."
Steve.
Tony jerks, but Steve holds him tight, fingers digging into his biceps hard enough to hurt. Tony zeros in on the pain, trying to use it to anchor himself back down. Steve pulls him in, settling Tony's chest against his, breathing in and out slowly. Tony presses his face the the smooth skin at the juncture of Steve's shoulder and tries to match him. He smells like fire smoke and sweat.
It takes him a while to calm down. Steve keeps him wrapped up too tight, murmuring quiet reassurances into Tony's hair. One broad hand is planted between his shoulder blades, fingers splayed, heat sinking into him.
"Are you okay?" Steve asks gently. Tony nods, unable to look Steve in the eye just yet. So much for being the strong one for a change. Tony Stark is no man's rock. It isn't physically possible. Steve doesn't tell him to move, doesn't adjust his arms around Tony's chest, so Tony rolls with it. "Does this happen a lot?"
"Not so much anymore," Tony says. Goosebumps break out over Steve's skin, his shiver shaking Tony against him. "Used to happen a lot right after, but…" Tony shrugs. He pulls back far enough to finally look at Steve. His hair is flat on one side and standing straight on the other, pink pillow marks pressed into his cheek. He's watching Tony carefully, expression unreadable.
Slowly, he leans in, eyes flicking up to meet Tony's, and then his mouth is against Tony's. It's brief. Sweet. Tony's chest feels too tight, closing in on him all over again. Steve pulls away, untangling his arms and leaning back against the headboard.
"I'm sorry," Steve mumbles. There's a blush creeping across his cheeks, visible even in the darkness. "That was uncalled for. I'll just go-"
"Hold it, soldier," Tony says, wrapping himself around Steve. He's got clinging down. "Explanation time. Was that pity? It felt like pity. I don't need pity. I am a responsible adult. Okay, sure, I've got issues, but who doesn't? Or do you pity kiss everyone? Please tell me you pity kissed Bruce. I bet he loved it-"
"I didn't pity kiss Bruce," Steve says, rolling his eyes. That's a start. Tony understands annoyed Steve. He doesn't understand shy, sheepish Steve. "I didn't pity kiss you. I wanted to. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have-"
"No, you definitely should," Tony says, already leaning in to do it again. Steve turns his head and Tony catches his cheek, the rough scrape of stubble against his lips sparking his interest.
"I just-" Steve's fingers fold around Tony's biceps, holding him away. "You understand. You talk me out of bad moods and make me angry and give me dirty books because you think they're funny, not because you think I'm going to be offended."
"I've seen those army movies," Tony says, squirming in an attempt to get closer. He's had one and a half kisses from Steve, and he needs to make it at least three. "Your lot doesn't get offended at bad porn. It's almost required. Boots? Check. Dehydrated food? Check. Tijuana Bible? Double check." Steve grins, still not quite meeting Tony's eyes.
"That's what I'm talking about," he says.
"Then why are we stopping?" Tony asks. "Because we're already in a bed, we have established that we like-like each other. Did we establish that?" Steve's fingers loosen just enough for Tony to shove forward into his chest, mouth landing on the smooth stretch of Steve's throat. "If not, I can write you a note. Later."
"You-" Steve lets out a startled little grunt when Tony kisses him. It's not really a sexy sound, and the kiss isn't all that great either, but it's a nice beginning.
Steve rolls them over, bracketing Tony's shoulders with his forearms, fitting his mouth more cleanly to Tony's. And that's better. That's so much better. Tony tangles his fingers up in Steve's hair and holds him in place, pressing his tongue to the seam of Steve's lips.
Steve kisses like he's gasping for air, mouth insistent and body squirming like he can't quite get comfortable. It's not soft or nice or gentle, not filthy. It's all very Steve, and Tony's not ashamed to say that it turns him on.
They make out like teenagers for a long time, the space beneath the covers growing warm, sweat making their skin slide together. Tony wants to reach down and palm the weight of Steve's half-hard cock, wants to wrestle him over and rub off on him, but this kissing thing is nice, too. They've got time, and this could almost be enough.
Christ, Tony thinks as Steve pulls away, eyes wide and lips shiny red. He's got it so bad.
Steve sits up, his considerable weight a little too much across Tony's thighs. His fingers reach out to touch the arc reactor where it's glowing faintly through Tony's t-shirt. He's fascinated by it, focused, and Tony doesn't know if he should be proud or uncomfortable with the attention. At the moment, he's a little of both. He watches the light from the reactor shift across Steve's knuckles.
"We're so screwed up," Steve says. He draws a circle around the reactor, fingertips skimming a nipple, and finishes it with a tap to the center. Circle, circle, dot, dot, Tony thinks. He's officially got his cooties shot.
"No kidding," Tony mutters. Steve gives him a half grin and rolls off of him. He looks nicely rumpled, lips puffy and hair ruffled, eyes bright and alive even as he yawns.
Tony rolls onto his side and thumps his head against Steve's shoulder. One bulky arm wraps around him, pulling him closer. Maybe they're screwed up, but at least they're screwed up together.
---
The sound of a small avalanche wakes Tony up. He grunts into Steve's chest, dragging a pillow over his head. There's a bit of a wet spot under his mouth, which is spectacularly gross, but Steve hasn't noticed yet, so he's not going to mention it. The cabin shakes a little as more snow falls. Steve jerks a little, knocking Tony onto the mattress.
"No," Tony whines, climbing back on top of him. Steve's thigh presses between his as he tries to move away, stirring something very warm and friendly in Tony's stomach.
"Tony, I think-" Steve pushes him off and leaves the room, the sweet, sweet muscles of his ass flexing under his sweatpants. A moment later Steve rushes back into the room, snatching his uniform out of the corner. He shoves his sweats down and throws them at Tony, bending to pull his uniform pants on.
"Is this morning after regret?" Tony ask, sitting up slowly. He'd thought it would take a little longer for Steve to come to his senses, but Steve's always surprised him at least a little. "Because usually that comes after sex, and what we did last night was definitely not sex. Don't you want the full Stark experience before you run away? You're doing it backwards."
"SHIELD's digging us out," Steve says. He looks up and raises an eyebrow. "They'll be inside sooner than later. You might want to get dressed." Tony waves a hand, but starts scouting for his sweats anyway. He feels a bit sick.
He knew that this little Canadian holiday would end eventually, but he hadn't expected it to feel this way. He misses his workshop and coffee- god does he miss coffee- but he already misses Steve a little. Was this a mutual PTSD bonding experience? Does all that stuff Steve said the night before go away now that they're going back to society? Tony could ask. He knows he could, and he knows Steve is totally the kind of guy that would be gentle with his it's not you, it's me speech. He doesn't want to hear it anyway.
"SHIELD, right," Tony says to fill the silence. He pulls on the still warm sweats and the t-shirt that Steve tosses his way, trying not to notice the way everything smells like him. "Our heroes."
Tony escapes to the living room and gathers up the suit, pulling on bits and pieces as he goes. Their books are on the table. Tony had found Fifty Shades Darker last night after dinner and Steve had started to devour it without shame. He considers tucking it into the suit but turns away before he can reach out. If Steve wants a copy, he can order one.
"Are you okay?" Steve asks from the bedroom doorway, cowl held between his hands. He doesn't look much like the Steve of the few days. He's Captain America again, and Tony's just some wreck that understands PTSD on a deeper level. Tony pulls on his helmet and shows Steve his teeth.
"Peachy keen, Cap," he says. Before he can pull the faceplate down, Steve's standing in front of him, fingers wrapped around Tony's wrists. His eyes flicker across Tony's face for a moment, and then he leans in, lips brushing over Tony's.
"Is this still okay?" Steve asks quietly. Tony ignores the sharp pull in his chest and shrugs.
"I'll allow it," he says. Steve flicks his nose, which stings, and flips the faceplate down just as the front door swings open. An agent in a thick, stiff snowsuit stomps through the doorway, visibly shivering.
"Stark, Captain," he says, voice distorted through his balaclava. "There's a helicopter waiting outside."
"Thank you, Agent," Steve says, all commander voice. It's both impressive and alarming to hear it again. "Could we have a moment to collect our things?" The agent gives them a quick nod and ducks back out. "This place kind of grew on me."
"Softie," Tony says. Steve grins, a little crooked, very real, and pulls his cowl on. Tony grabs their books from the table, tucks them into a pocket, and follows Steve outside. It's time to go home.