Chapter Text
Steve’s not sure he should be here.
Scratch that. Steve knows he shouldn’t be here. He feels ridiculous hesitating by the entrance door like he’s about to enter enemy territory, but the huge, shiny chrome of Stark Tower is blinding in the midday sun, and not even the passersby bumping into him and cursing at him can make his legs move forward.
It’s his fault for letting it get this far, he knows. He should’ve put an end to it the moment Stark casually mentioned the idea all those months ago, should have made it clear that he’s fine by himself like he always is, but it’s hard not to get caught up in the unlikely camaraderie with the team.
(Hard not to get caught up in Tony’s warm, lopsided smile, when it sometimes finds him across a crowded room. Purely by accident, Steve’s sure, but it makes his heart beat a little faster every time, for reasons he won’t look into too closely.)
Another rush of panic hits him. That’s it. He has to leave. He’s just raised his hand to wave down a cab—which is, of course, the exact moment the doors slide open and Tony himself appears.
"Tony," Steve says, very eloquently. It’s still new, saying his name out loud, but now that they’ve talked (mostly) and put aside their differences (mostly), and Tony insists on going by Tony, there's no reason for Steve to call him anything else.
(If saying his name out loud makes Steve nervous, no one but himself needs to know.)
"Steve," Tony replies, flashing him a quick smile. He looks good. He always does, but there’s something about how he looks now, hair all over the place like he’s been absentmindedly running his hands through it while working, and the soft threadbare henley stretched loosely across his neck that makes him look…different.
This is Tony at home, Steve realizes with a start, with no need to hide behind flashy suits and glasses.
This is Tony as he is with his friends. Steve swallows hard, willing his heart to calm down.
It feels cruel to turn down Tony's kind offer after Tony has already gone to the trouble of finishing the entire apartment, but Steve can't think of any other outcome now that he's here.
He wonders if this will also end the tentative friendship they've begun to build over the past few months. The thought is unbearable.
He curses internally when a cab pulls up next to them. If Tony missed his waving hand earlier, he sure as hell knows now that Steve was about to flee. The cabbie looks like he’s about to yell too. Steve gives him a quick nod and turns back to Tony, who looks like he can’t decide whether to laugh or be offended. Possibly.
Steve still can’t read him.
"Is that cake?" Tony asks after a beat, his eyes brightening as he gazes at the carefully wrapped package clutched in Steve’s hands.
Steve nods. "Raspberry chocolate. I figured…" What did he figure? It feels strange to admit that he’s noticed something so minor about Tony, that he likes berries in all kinds of ways, fresh, candied, juiced, blended, as garnish on desserts. "It’s got a gooey middle," he says dumbly. "I thought you might like that."
Tony’s smile widens, accepting the package. "I do." Then: "I’m glad you came."
He turns around and heads for the doors before Steve can even begin to formulate an answer. The cabbie curses Steve and drives off with squealing tires.
"Now," Tony says when Steve steps up to him in the vast entrance hall, "I’d love to show you the garage and reception, hey Curtis," he waves at a man at the entrance who eagerly waves back, "but I am dying for you to see the apartment, so can we just—" He trails off, motioning toward the elevator, as if genuinely waiting for Steve’s agreement. As if Steve could just go actually, I think I would prefer to continue living in my bed-bug-infested shoebox apartment after Tony spent God knows how much to build him a whole apartment.
Steve inclines his head, trying to look more relaxed than he feels. He follows Tony into the glass elevator.
"This is the general public’s elevator, leading toward the work areas. We will—the residents of this tower will be using the north elevator once it’s up and running," Tony says, pressing the button to the 89th floor. It’s cute that he physically pushes the button. Steve’s been here before for a little post-saving the world party and had seen Tony tell his AI to change the floor number.
He says, "Hey, JARVIS," before he can stop himself. Tony’s head snaps toward him.
"Hello, Mr. Rogers," JARVIS replies. "I am very glad that you have decided to accept Sir’s offer to move into the tower."
The answering silence is deafening.
"He’s just here to take a look, J. You know that," Tony says at length, sounding like he’s in physical pain. Steve’s glad to know that he’s not the only one feeling weird about this whole thing.
"My apologies, sir," JARVIS replies, not sounding sorry at all.
Tony makes a noncommittal hmm sound.
"Yeah, I am just," Steve pauses briefly, "Looking. Not that I am ungrateful, I do appreciate—"
"Steve," Tony interrupts, turning to him. "Relax. I would be more offended by your hesitation if I hadn’t managed to snag Bruce and Romanoff. You’re fine, even if you decide that you hate this place and would rather live…wherever you live. No expectations, no obligations, alright? I did this out of the goodness of my heart." A beat. "Also because I have way too much money and have run out of things and people to spend it on."
"Right," Steve says again.
Because he’s actually insignificant to Tony. Just another teammate, no more or less important than anybody else who Tony suits up beside from time to time. Probably less, if Steve’s honest, given their entire shared history. The thought should make him feel better, but instead, a sudden wave of disappointment washes over him, tightening in a sharp knot low in his gut.
God, he needs to pull himself together.
"Floors thirty-five through fifty are for work," Tony says, pointing at the rapidly changing floor numbers. "You can usually find me at R&D on forty-four, and if not, in my workshop in the penthouse. Feel free to ask JARVIS for my whereabouts whenever. He has clearance to tell the team where I am." He pauses, a broad grin flashing across his face. "Unless I am…otherwise indisposed."
"Okay," Steve says, feeling his cheeks heat. He can’t really mean what Steve thinks he means, can he? Tony’s grin falls after a moment, head jerking away. Steve follows suit, turning to face his flickering reflection in the mirrored doors, trying and failing to banish thoughts of Tony being…indisposed. In various ways. And positions.
The elevator stops after what seems like an eternity, though they can’t have been in the elevator for more than a minute. Steve tries not to look too relieved as the doors slide open. Tony hangs back, letting him enter the apartment first.
Steve’s expecting breathtaking views and high ceilings, the air of a fancy hotel, once he steps out, but somehow, the place looks…personal. He can tell that thought has gone into every little detail, from the dark blue walls, the cozy, pale yellow couch, the lush plants artfully arranged by the tall, wraparound windows, to the—
He jerks back, blinking, because on the left wall is what looks like a real Rothko, soft blues and yellows that complement the rest of the room.
"It’s a fake," Tony says, his voice loud in the otherwise quiet room.
"Oh."
When Steve turns to face Tony, he looks anxious, although he’s masking it well. Steve wouldn’t have known before, but he thinks he’s starting to get to Tony a little, the way he hides just as much as Steve does.
"That’s a lie," Tony says, putting his hands in his pants pockets, "I don’t know why I said that. It’s clearly real. But I didn’t buy it, so don’t be mad at me! It was rotting away in some dark corner of the mansion and Pepper thought it’d look good, and I suppose she was right…There’s a Turner in the bedroom, which was my choice." A beat. "Reminded me of you, I don’t know why."
Steve blinks. The thought of Tony thinking of him, and choosing a painting for him, fills him with warmth.
And it is a beautiful painting, once Steve follows Tony to the bedroom. A blurred blue-green beach landscape, subtle lighting under the frame giving the room a soft, dreamy atmosphere. It’s intimate, to be here in this room with Tony, and it’s not the wide bed behind him that makes him feel that way. It’s the painstaking care taken to make this place Steve’s in every little nook and cranny. Steve flicks on the vintage art deco lamp by the bed and smiles.
The kitchen and bathroom are lovely, too, of course, with state-of-the-art appliances and spectacular views.
Then Tony leads him to a closed door at the end of the hall.
"This is probably where I got a little carried away," Tony says, gripping the handle. He’s calmed down a little, once it was clear Steve wouldn’t run out the door screaming, but there’s a different kind of tension in his body now, his eyes flickering nervously over to Steve.
"Another outrageously overpriced painting?" Steve teases, just to lighten the mood.
Tony opens his mouth and snaps it shut again. "Kind of?" He pulls the door open and moves out of the way, letting Steve through first.
The sight that greets him stops Steve in his tracks. It’s a small room, barely 7 feet wide and just as short, but that doesn’t matter because—
Because it’s an art studio.
"Tony," Steve exhales through the catch in his throat.
Unlike the rest of the apartment, this room is left bare, with rough brick paneling shining through and lots of natural light. An easel stands near the east-facing window (nice for evening painting, Steve’s mind supplies), and there is a large desk with a comfy-looking chair for long drawing sessions. Next to the door, a low sideboard with what Steve is sure are all sorts of art supplies.
A small potter’s wheel catches his eye.
He’s always wanted to try his hand at pottery.
"It used to be a closet," Tony says apologetically, "I figured you wouldn’t need a walk-in closet and then I thought…" When he speaks again, his voice is careful. "I want you to feel comfortable here. I don’t expect you to move in, okay? I meant it when I said no expectations. But I do want you to know that you’re always welcome, even if you just want to come here to paint or draw in peace."
Steve takes a few steps into the room and sits down heavily on a small ottoman, staring at nothing in particular, his heart filled with an emotion he can’t name. The ottoman dips beside him after a moment, but Tony remains silent. Steve shakes his head, the tension of the day coming back in a rush. "This is too much."
Tony lets out a soft snort. "Yeah, heard that one before." A beat. "Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I tend to overdo it when I like someone." His gaze cuts away from Steve.
Steve blinks, staring at his profile. When I like someone. He doesn’t think Tony meant to say that last part out loud. He doesn’t think Tony means it. "The others really live here?" he asks after a moment. It’s hard to believe that either of them would just take Tony up on his offer. This is too much. Too generous. Too thoughtful.
Too kind.
"Yeah," Tony says, flashing him a smile. "You’re the only one with scruples."
Steve runs a hand through his hair. Takes a deep breath. "I don’t know."
Tony shrugs. "Your call."
"I don’t know if I’m ready to be here just yet," Steve says after a moment, the words dragged out of him as if against his will. What an embarrassing thing to say. What a shameful thing to say, but Steve feels it anyway. The kind of detachment and dissociation from people that’s about more than just his missing the last seventy years. Maybe he’s always felt this way.
Tony’s eyes are kind. It’s what keeps him going. "But I would like to come here sometimes, to draw. If you don’t mind."
He's surprised to find that he means it.
Tony’s smile is blinding. "You’re welcome here anytime. Seriously."
Steve nods. "Thank you," he adds belatedly, because Tony’s built him an entire apartment, and all Steve’s done so far is get maudlin about it. "This is a beautiful place."
"Don’t just say that because you feel like you have to. I want to know if there’s anything you’d like to change about it."
Steve can’t think of anything he’d change, even if he absolutely hated it. Except for—
"Not sure about the yellow couch."
Tony raises his eyebrows. "Uh, oh."
"What?"
"Pep’s going to be mad. The blue and yellow color scheme was her idea."
Steve’s eyes widen. "Do not tell her. Please."
Tony laughs, eyes crinkling. "She’d forgive you." He wiggles his eyebrows. "She thinks you’re very cute. And honestly, with a face like that, you can get away with anything."
Steve gives him a wry look to hide how the compliment makes his stomach tighten with pleasure.
Tony thankfully drops the subject, slapping his hands on his thighs and getting up. "Ready to see the gym? I’ve got adamatium-infused dummies that are just waiting to be massacred by you."
Oh. Now that sounds like something Steve would enjoy.
"I knew I could get you with that," Tony snorts when Steve eagerly gets to his feet. "You super serum people are all the same. Should we call Bruce? He’s been doing too much science lately, I’m sure he’s dying to kick some ass."
Steve chuckles. As he follows Tony to the elevator, he can’t quite hide the smile that’s spreading across his face. The tight knot low in his gut already feels less overwhelming. He was serious when he said he wasn’t sure about moving in—not for a long time—but there’s something about this place, something about Tony, that draws him in.
Something that makes him feel like maybe someday he'll be able to feel like he's home here.