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They clash at their very first conversation. It’s almost like Newton’s law of motion, two unstoppable forces moving in opposite directions and eventually colliding. Like atoms in a molecule, four beats in a measure, sixty seconds between then and now, and force equals the mass of Tony Stark’s ego times the acceleration of Steve’s fist hitting his face.
“Captain,” he says, and grins, all wicked schemes and hidden potential. It’s at that first smile that the threads unravel and numbers split apart at the seams.
Steve stares at Tony’s mouth and wonders what happened to plans and probability and the velocity of his heartbeat sticking to his throat.
---
Nick Fury calls a meeting to talk about a small town at the border of New Mexico and Arizona that’s showing unnaturally high levels of radiation on radars of an army base stationed nearby.
Bruce breaks out of his shell of quiet and shyness to ask about gamma rays and electromagnetic spectrum. Thor looks like he’s trying to follow the conversation but ends up just looking like an orphaned dog at a shelter. Clint steeples his fingers together and suggests they speak some fucking English for the rest of them while Natasha rolls her eyes.
Steve presses his lips together at as the conversation erupts into an argument, and his eyes are drawn inexplicably to the one person who has yet to say a single word.
Tony’s not even bothering to pretend he’s paying attention. He’s got his feet kicked up on the table with sunglasses on despite being indoors. He is fiddling around with some sort of rectangular device that’s probably his phone, and if the throbbing vein in Fury’s forehead is any indicator, Fury is about two steps away from beating Tony over the head with it. Steve is almost positive that Fury would probably abuse his S.H.I.E.L.D. director powers to cover up the murder as an incidental death.
Halfway through the meeting, Tony pulls out a peppermint from his pocket – Steve thinks he had gotten it from the bowl of candy at the front desk when he went to flirt with the secretary – and opens it as noisily as possible with the plastic wrapper. Fury presses his lips together and moves on to discuss the extraction of civilians with an air of infinite patience. Steve can hear Tony clinking the peppermint against his teeth, and every now and then Tony yawns theatrically and Steve gets a glimpse of that pink tongue rolling the candy around in his mouth. Steve tries very hard not to imagine what else that talented tongue could do, and concentrates on the vein on Fury’s forehead, growing exponentially now as Tony hums and chomps down on the peppermint with a loud cruuunnch.
Fury allows for two more cruunch’s before he snaps the folder shut with more force than necessary and curtly dismisses them all. Tony doesn’t seem to notice. With those reflective sunglasses hiding Tony’s eyes, there’s no way of knowing what Tony sees. Steve suddenly finds himself wondering just how much of the meeting Tony actually spent on his phone - whether Tony had looked up from his phone at any time to see Steve staring intently at his lips.
Steve turns his head to see Tony tilt his chin down to peer at him over the rims of his sunglasses, a smile curled around the edges of his lips. Steve stands up and leaves the meeting room, a red flush creeping up his neck and curling around his ears.
---
Steve walks into the kitchen on Tony eating from an ice cream cone for breakfast. Tony Stark, who created repulsor technology and the world’s smallest arc reactor and builds ice cream machines in between his refrigerator and the coffee machine. Tony is the type of guy where he’s a fully grown adult and refuses to drink hot chocolate without marshmallows and whipped cream on top.
Tony acknowledges Steve’s existence briefly before turning back to the flatscreen mounted on the wall. Images of military men ducking under sandbags from gunfire and civillians frantically trying to escape the scene flash across the TV. Steve estimates about three hours before the army calls asking for their help. Four if they’re being particularly stubborn.
Steve’s eyes are drawn back to Tony and how he slowly laps at the vanilla ice cream with languid swipes of the tongue. Every now and then, the ice cream melts and drips, thick and creamy onto his hand. Tony doesn’t give a second thought to bring the finger to his mouth, pink tongue darting out to lick at the pad of his thumb and drag over the ridge of a knuckle.
“Something wrong, Steve?” Tony says suddenly. Steve starts and mentally scrambles to think up of an excuse for how he had been staring at Tony’s mouth slack-jaw for a full minute.
“Yeah,” Clint retorts as he strides in, spectacular timing as always. “It looks like someone fucking jizzed all over your face.”
Steve feels relief as Tony turns his piercing gaze from him in favor of baring his teeth at Clint in a mockery of a grin. There’s a dollop of ice cream on Tony’s chin, and Steve wants to lean in and lick it up, imagines the rough slide of goatee and the taste of sweet sugar on the tip of his tongue. The tilt of his head so that he can match up their mouths and-
Steve isn’t entirely sure he’s not going crazy.
---
It’s a fancy party. Tony disappears almost as soon as they arrive, arms wrapped around the waist of a girl with hair red like fire.
By the end of the night, Steve’s cheeks are sore from the effort of keeping a maniacally happy smile on his face for every cooing mother and hawk-eyed reporter. He’s exhausted from keeping up a gentleman’s charade while batting away clingy fanboys and horny females.
“Steveeee,” Tony slurs, and stumbles over to him. Tony is the exact opposite of Steve, all sloppy scowls and disheveled clothes, a bottle of wine in one hand. Steve by this point has gotten used to the idea of Tony being perpetually glued to a glass of alcohol and doesn’t bat an eye at it. Pepper once theorized to Steve that the arc reactor runs on alcohol and coffee.
Tony sways dangerously on his feet, puts out a hand towards Steve to steady himself and misses Steve’s shoulder by a good foot and a half. Steve is forced to grab him bodily before he plants his face in the ground, though he personally thinks Tony would deserve it. Tony groans and turns to press his face into Steve’s shoulder, then after a pause, he tilts his head up to nuzzle into Steve’s neck like an affectionate cat.
“You smell nice,” he mumbles, voice muffled by Steve’s collarbone. Steve keeps very still as Tony snuggles up to him and curls his free hand into Steve’s jacket.
“You’re drunk, Tony.” Steve tries to keep his voice light. “C’mon.” When Steve tries to pull away, Tony whines like a puppy and clings harder.
“What happened to that redhead you were with?” Steve tries for a different tact. Tony pulls his face out of Steve’s chest to squint at him.
“Oh her? She wasn’t my type,” he breaths, and Steve winces as he gets a face full of wine-smelling fumes strong enough to start a fire.
“I didn’t think Tony Stark had a type,” Steve jokes. Tony shrugs, or tries to, and tips heavily to the side, forcing Steve to wrap an arm around his waist to keep him upright. Wine sloshes over his tuxedo, and Steve tries to focus on that instead of what Tony would taste like after Steve licked all the wine away.
“What about you, Steve?” Tony says, and really, Steve doesn’t think Tony is as drunk as he pretends to be. His eyes are dark and smoky when he looks up at Steve from under thick eyelashes. “What is your type?”
Steve licks his lips and for the life of him can’t think of anything to say.
----
It’s not that Steve is against the idea of guys getting together. He’s seen his share of it in the war and he’s pretty positive that some of it was going on under his nose in the Howling Commandos. Hell, even his platonic friendship with Bucky could be questioned after some cold nights in the forest and the need to share body heat.
It’s a game of cat and mouse they’re playing, and when Tony grins at him, all Chesire smiles and wicked gleam, he knows exactly which one of them is the predator.
---
It’s been a quiet week. There’s been some sort of heat wave going through New York and the weather’s been at a constant 100+ degrees Fahrenheit. Tony jokes that it’s too hot for even the bad guys to want to do anything.
By the end of a very inactive and lazy week, Steve gets the team together for training in case someone figures out how to take over the world from an air conditioned evil lair. They end up in the gym sparring with each other.
Steve swings his fist one last time and thick seams split under his fist. The insides of the punching bag spill out onto the floor. A whistle comes from behind Steve, no doubt from Tony who has just finished his sparring session with Natasha. Clint has taken his place in the boxing ring, and the two are exchanging a flurry of blows faster than Steve can follow.
“That’s reinforced Kevlar,” Tony says. He’s sitting with his back against the wall. Tony is peeling apart an orange slowly, breaking off slices and tilting his head back so that he had can squeeze the juice onto his tongue before he eats it. Steve is not at all fantasizing about licking the tangy traces of fruit from the corners of Tony’s lips and the edges of his teeth.
“How much longer do you think this heat wave will last?” Steve picks up his water bottle and downs half of it.
“According to my magic box,” Tony picks up his smart phone, “Another week or two.”
Another week or two of nothing but sweat-soaked wife-beaters clinging to bronze skin. Another week or two of Tony flinging himself onto the couch to complain when Steve’s watching the news, mouth eventually going slack and eyes closing slowly with the heat. Another week or two of Steve trying to keep his eyes on the television and not on the soft lines of Tony’s mouth when he sleeps.
“Okay,” Steve says, and turns his eyes from the way sweat gathers at the base of Tony’s neck to watch Natasha throw Clint to the ground with her ankles.
--
The heat wave eventually passes, along with Steve’s sanity as he deals with trying not to ravish his teammate.
Steve isolates himself in his room and cleans his shield. It’s a very methodical and soothing task that helps clear his mind when he’s troubled by problems.
A problem that reappears when Jarvis announces that Tony wants to see him for designs on his uniform (and Steve nearly drops the bottle of oil, he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to machines talking out of nowhere). Steve is left with no choice but to put away his cleaning supplies and to come out of seclusion.
When he gets to Tony’s door, he knocks on it politely, getting a “Come in!” in response. Steve opens the door to Tony looking like he just showered and wearing nothing but a towel around his waist. Steve’s eyes immediately watch the way water traces the contours of the muscles in Tony’s neck and gathers in the hollow of his collarbones. His eyes continue downward to the lean muscle in Tony’s chest, dusky nipples pebbled in the cold, and the black trail of hair on the navel trailing down to-
“Enjoying the view Captain?” Tony smiles with those sinfully red lips, foxy and coy, as if he knows exactly how much it drives Steve crazy.
Steve growls and in two large strides has Tony pushed up against the wall. Whatever Tony is going to say is lost as Steve slants his mouth across Tony’s. Tony’s lips fall open as he moans, shamefully loud, and Steve presses in and strokes his tongue against the roof of Tony’s mouth. Tony tastes like minty toothpaste with the slight sting of mouthwash, and when they part for oxygen, Tony’s breathless when he says, “About time.”
“Jarvis said you wanted to ask me something about my uniform?” Steve asks nonchalantly. As if they weren’t both a little breathless and more than a little hard. Tony wets his lips with the tip of his tongue, eyes dark with lust and sweat starting to bead on his forehead.
“First why don’t you teach me about the Newton’s Laws of Motion.” Tony’s towel slips from his waist. “Like the mass of your cock times the acceleration in my ass and the force it will take to keep me from walking tomorrow.”