Chapter Text
Tony hates teaching.
It's true, and obviously what everyone expects of him anyway: a playboy who likes drinking and spending several nights in succession at a time inside sex clubs would most definitely despise children. Children of all kind, in fact. From preschoolers to college hunks with unkempt beards and six- no, wait, eight packs. Whether this pertains to abs or beer haul preference, Tony doesn't care. And he certainly doesn't care, he tells himself, as he reads all of this information highlighted in a new issue of People magazine.
In fact, he thinks decidedly, it's true. He hates teaching. He has to. There's nothing at all to like about trying to cram excerpts of his magnificent brainpower into sex-driven, popularity hungry, naïve teens day after day, only to have them all flunk whatever easy ass tests he throws out. At least, that's what he thinks it's like anyway, and it's probably true.
Steve shuffles in through the door behind him, and catches sight of Tony's sour expression and the article gripped tightly between his fingers. Immediately, he says, "Don't read those, Tony. They're not true. You know how the media can be."
"But it is true in this case," he barks, whirling around. "I do hate teaching."
The blonde opens his mouth, maybe to disagree, agree, whatever, but closes it on second thought. Good option, Tony thinks, as he sets the papers down on his coffee table to exit the room in a contemplative huff. He always convinces himself the press doesn't really get to him, but situations like this always beg to differ, and the entire team knows it. Hell, the entire world probably knows it.
"Don't listen to them," Steve repeats lamely. Tony fails to catch the other man bending down to read the article, titled "Tony Stark's Biggest Dislikes Revealed," raising an eyebrow in bewilderment.
At night, it's still bothering Tony, but he can push it to the back of his mind in order to focus on the piece of damn heaven lying next to him. The blond is slinging a possessive arm around his waist, trapping him to the bed. Not that he minds or anything.
"God, I want a drink," Tony sighs, looking out over the familiar black ocean of city lights that is New York. The Big Apple is both of their homes, he knows.
Steve sits up now, alarmed. "You're not- You can't have a drink. You've been sober for so long."
"I know I'm sober. I'll always be sober," he flips back over to face those blue eyes. "I'll just always want a drink."
There's a pause, before Steve whispers, "Then I'll make you forget," and begins kissing up Tony's chest so that the billionaire's eyes go hazy from want. They grab frantically at each other, a mess of entwining limbs and colliding mouths, Steve's back dipping down to feel all of Tony.
He does make Tony forget. Although Tony will admit that over his cold, dead body.