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As far as Steve knows, it isn’t a particularly special day today, but Tony is all smiles as he moves around the Tower to assemble everyone. It’s certainly not an unwelcome sight, but Steve asks Natasha about it anyway.
She says Stark Industries cut a new clean energy deal with the government. It’s one of their first solid contracts that isn’t about tricking Tony back into arms manufacturing, or about acquiring the Iron Man suit. Finally, Tony’s good work is coming to fruition.
And Steve is so proud of him.
Tony wants to celebrate and thinks this might actually be an appropriate time to break out the booze. He’s been trying to do less drinking lately. The Avengers like to attribute it to Steve’s good influence. But Steve knows it’s all Tony. He’s trying to be better. For them.
By seven thirty, all the Avengers are out on the roof. Figuratively. Because apparently that’s not a phrase that’s carried forward.
Literally, the seven of them are hanging out around the common area. Bruce is already fast asleep in the recliner, his head tipped back while he snores softly. They all thought he would have a better tolerance. But it turns out there are a lot of things about Bruce gamma radiation hadn’t changed.
Clint and Thor are in front of the TV, alternating between shouting at it and each other as they play the clumsiest game of Wii Tennis Steve’s ever seen.
Sam is curled up on the loveseat watching, his legs tangled with Natasha’s. She had finished painting her nails and is now doing his. Soothing repetitive tasks, like manicures and hair braiding, seem to appeal to her when she drinks.
And Tony’s in the kitchen, pouring himself another drink.
Steve had stayed with them for a while, before the booze started to kick in, but watching other people get drunk makes him feel strange and sad more often than not these days.
He’s retreated to one of the sofas near the windows where he can sit and draw and feel sorry for himself. He’s working up a good sulk until Tony flops down on the sofa next to him, liquor sloshing on to his hand and dribbling to the couch.
“Shit,” he mutters, trying to mop the drops off the couch with his sleeve.
“Tony,” Steve says, exasperated, and quickly moving his sketchpad far away from the danger zone.
“Sorry, Steve.” The ess sound is soft in his mouth. Tony sets the glass down on the coffee table after a few failed attempts, and tries to shake his hand dry. He gets a few drops off but some of it’s already started to stick to his skin.
Steve’s eyes follow as Tony brings the wet hand to his mouth and licks over his knuckles. Heat crawls up to his ears as he watches the other man’s tongue reach into the spaces between his fingers.
Steve’s cheeks flare up and he tries desperately to force down the thought of Tony’s tongue on him. He immediately feels guilty for it and turns away. Tony’s not his to think about like that. He clears his throat and tries to regain some composure.
Tony slumps sideways next to him, his dark eyes hazy as they take in his face. “Hi,” he says, a smile playing on his lips.
Steve smiles back because drunk Tony has this unguarded kind of warmth to him that Steve can’t help but find endearing. “Hi.”
They stare at each other for a long moment, and then Tony reaches out, patting Steve’s knee a little too hard. “One a these days I’m gonna get you so drunk, Steve.”
Steve breathes out a laugh and looks down at his hands. He likes the idea of Tony spending time on him, trying to figure out a puzzle that will only benefit him. “That’s, ah, that’s real nice of you, Tony.”
When he looks up, Tony’s right there, slouched forward and pinning him with his eyes. “I mean it, Steve. You d'serve to get plastered. Shit you’ve been thorugh?” He sits up abruptly and Steve jerks back to keep their skulls from colliding. Tony flings out his arms, wobbling as he shifts onto his knees. “Next best thing. Come on. C'mere and get a hug.”
Before Steve can form anything resembling a protest, Tony leans into him, arms wrapping around Steve’s shoulders. It’s, God, Steve eats it up, slipping his arms around Tony’s waist. He can feel Tony breathe, damp and hot over his ear and it makes Steve’s gut do a back flip. Guiltily, he slides his hands down Tony’s back, just a little, feeling the muscles dip under his palms, his fingertips brushing the knobs of his spine.
When Tony releases him, he doesn’t return to his seat next to Steve on the couch, but drapes himself along Steve’s body, head resting on his shoulder.
Steve swallows hard.
Tony points out at the city, hand loose at the end of his wrist. “S'pretty, isn’t it.”
“Yeah,” Steve says, because it is, it’s beautiful, though it’s not exactly what Steve’s most interested in right now.
Tony’s body is warm, pressed against Steve’s side from chest to hip. He can’t help the way he catalogs every detail of the sensation. He’s imagined it a thousand times. And maybe this isn’t how he ever thought it might happen, but it’s still happening, and he’s not sure it ever will again.
He wants Tony so badly, has for a while now, but he values Tony’s friendship too much, values everything he contributes to the Avengers too much. He knows that one miscommunication, one slip up, and everything—Tony’s friendship, the team they’ve built, the home he’s built— could be put at risk if he made Tony uncomfortable.
It scares Steve. He can’t lose these people. He doesn’t have the strength to rebuild again.
So he buries it. He protects Tony, on and off the battlefield. He picks him up when he’s fallen; he reassures him when he doubts himself, and he loves him from a distance.
Because it’s better to say nothing and be by his side, than to say everything, and be pushed aside.
Tony turns his head and tilts his chin up and Steve swallows again, heart thumping hard. Tony’s nose skims along the underside of Steve’s jaw and his stomach flutters. He leans his forehead against the side of Steve’s face and hums, “Hey, Steve.”
It takes a full thirty seconds for Steve to work enough moisture into his mouth to rasp, “Yeah, Tony?”
“You smell good.”
It’s stupid and it doesn’t mean anything, but Steve blushes anyway. “Uh.” He clears his throat. “Thanks?”
Tony wriggles a little, moving even closer, and Steve bites his lip. He resists the urge to shift.
“Hey, Steve,” Tony says again, the words coming out like a sigh, soft and warm over Steve’s collarbones. His hand slides across Steve’s stomach, follows the curve of Steve’s ribs and settles there, hot even through the barrier of Steve’s shirt.
“Yeah?” He almost squeaks, enjoying every touch and dreading it at the same time.
“’m g’na kiss you now.”
Steve stiffens. He can’t have heard that right.
Tony’s hand shifts and presses against his shoulder, giving him leverage as he pulls himself up. Kneeling over Steve, Tony looks at him for a moment, his eyes heavy-lidded as they comb Steve’s features.
Steve’s heart creeps into his throat, racing so fast it takes his breath away.
Tony’s eyes lock on Steve’s mouth, his own teeth pulling over his bottom lip. Steve stares, hypnotized, as Tony looms, closer and closer. He’s just about to say something when Tony closes the gap and brushes their lips together. They’re soft and wet, the bristles of his goatee grazing Steve’s chin and Steve’s mouth opens on a gasp.
Tony presses his advantage, swinging his leg over to straddle Steve’s thighs, his calloused fingers gingerly cradling Steve’s face. His tongue slips into Steve’s mouth and—and Steve is struck by the taste of the scotch.
What is he doing?
He yanks back, gasping and horror-struck.
Tony’s eyes flutter open in confusion. His mouth, his soft, wet lips, still open.
“No.” Steve shakes his head. “Tony, no, god, I'm— I’m sorry.” He lightly pushes Tony back to where he had started on the couch and hurries to put some distance between them.
Tony blinks at him, fingers curling into tight fists. He’s too drunk to pull on his usual masks and there’s naked hurt there that Steve’s only ever gotten glimpses of. “Why not?”
Steve covers his mouth with a hand, scrubs at it, trying to get the phantom sensation of Tony’s mouth to disappear. And the taste of alcohol. “You’re drunk, Tony,” he almost pleads. “This isn't—this isn’t what you want.”
“You don’t know what I want,” Tony says, tone sharpening.
Steve rubs a hand over his face. “Tony, I’m not going to do this while you’re drunk. I can’t.”
Tony’s quiet for a moment. His eyes drift around while he’s thinking and it takes a little longer than usual. Finally, he says, “But, when I’m sober?”
Steve huffs out a weak, hopeless laugh. “If you still remember.”
Tony chuckles and moves closer. “I’ll r'member.”
Steve stiffens as Tony sinks down to rest against his side again, squirming a little to get comfortable.
“Tony, what are you doing?”
“What? It’s just snuggling. Perfectly innocent.”
“Tony…”
Tony holds up his hands. “This’s it. I swear.” He smiles softly and rubs his cheek into Steve’s shoulder. “I like being close to you, okay.”
Steve opens his mouth to protest, but Tony closes his eyes and sighs, and goddammit, he just can’t.
If Tony wants to talk about it later, then they’ll talk about it. But for now, in this moment, he’ll indulge.
He can always bury it again later.