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Hey there, Mr. Tin Man
You don't know how lucky you are
You shouldn't spend your whole life wishin'By the way there, Mr. Tin Man
If you don't mind the scars
You give me your armor
And you can have my heart— Miranda Lambert
November 3rd, 1872
The cold was biting, even as Tony spurred his horse faster through the building storm. He imagined the wind as a baying pack of black-eyed wolves, sharp teeth biting at his ankles as he thundered through sheaves of blinding white, streaks of snow clouding his vision and making it hard to make out anything of the road ahead.
“Rogers!” The wind stole his voice, whipping the sound away from him as he turned his head, seeking. “Sheriff? Sheriff Rogers!”
Soon, the snow would begin to build, crowning the scrub and brush with white, covering the road in a freezing slush. The sheriff had been gone for two days, long enough for the coyotes and the carrion birds to come picking at a man injured and lying in the dirt. This snow would be the last kiss of death on his tired body.
“Rogers!” Tony called, but there was no answer; just the snow, and the skirling wind, and the endless crunch of hooves as Tony raced down the path.
July 30th, 1872
“You’re gonna rot your gut straight through one of these days, Stark.”
Tony snorted, taking an impertinent swing of his Wolverine Whiskey and turning around to face the door of Stark Enterprises. Sheriff Rogers was leaning in his doorway, broad shoulders limned by the high noon sun.
“What is it you need, Sheriff?”
“The Parker boy did something to May’s stove. Think you could have a looksee, figure out what’s what?”
Tony laughed, wiping his hands in his apron and reaching around back to undo his ties. “Peter’s clever. What’s wrong with it?”
“Something about the heat now being regulated?” The sheriff sighed, scratching bashfully at the back of his skull. “To be honest, I don’t see half of what you and Peter are ever bobbering on about. Can you just go and make sure the boy’s not about to burn the poor widow’s house down?”
“I would if I could get this damn thing off,” Tony muttered, shaking fingers slipping on the apron string. “I…I was trying to lay off a bit, today.”
Something almost like pride crossed over Rogers’ face, but it was there and gone quick enough. He pushed off the doorframe with a laughing sigh, coming around to push Tony’s hands away from the apron’s ties. His hands were warm and steady when they brushed against the base of Tony’s spine, callouses catching on Tony’s wrists as Rogers moved his hands out of the way. When he picked the knot apart, his knuckles slid against the damp fabric that had stuck to the dip in Tony’s spine like a second skin, and Tony bit his lip at the sweet frisson of heat that skittered over him to feel it.
“There,” Rogers said warmly, his breath ruffling the hair at the nape of Tony’s neck. “I reckon you can handle the rest?”
Tony nodded, tongue glued to the roof of his mouth. The laugh that Rogers loosed was low, knowing.
“Come by for supper,” he said, and Tony turned around to try to read his expression. “I’ll put on a pot.”
“You make the same damned stew every time, Sheriff,” Tony said gruffly, turning to hang his apron on the hook by the forge.
“Well,” Rogers said philosophically, “if you’re gonna be like that about it-”
“I come for the company,” Tony amended, but that seemed a little too honest. He cleared his throat. “No one else in this thrice-damned town will play me at chess anymore. Too much lost money and hurt feelings.”
“Pity,” Rogers said, grinning. “You’ve got such a nice set.”
Tony didn’t think they were talking about chess, if they ever had been, and that was rare and strange; in the three years and change he and the Sheriff had been…providing each other comfort, to be delicate about the situation, they hadn’t once talked about it. Tony had gone west to escape the Stark legacy, just put a pin in the map and landed here because it was a good a town as any. Timely had a blacksmith’s forge open, a large enough building by rural standards, and it had been for sale on a major train line no less. Rogers had blown into town almost four years ago now, and they’d ended up tossed together the way strange and unattached men were likely to be. The fact that they’d both left New York during the war, one to create guns and one to wield them, well. There was enough between them to strike up an easy camaraderie, was all. There had been a few drinks, a few shared horrors, a cold night in winter and a pot of coffee to keep away the nightmares. Sometimes, men got lonely. Tony had heard about it enough when he’d been on the front lines, taking part in demonstrations and overseeing shipments to the Union. He hadn’t needed to do it himself, being the great Tony Stark. Women had flocked to him in droves: beautiful, tittering, colourful birds that hung off his arm and chirped sweet things in his ears. It had been nothing, after all. It had all been cheap, fool’s gold. He’d felt he knew what he was getting, with Rogers, but this strange teasing was new. He wasn’t sure how he felt about it, what he made of it.
Rogers’ face was shuttering, his body angling away, and Tony realised he’d been silent for too long. He offered Rogers a wink, because he didn’t like that look on the sheriff’s face.
“That why it hasn’t left your rooms in a fortnight?”
Rogers’ Irish skin betrayed him. It was one of Tony’s favourite things to see, and he made sure to jostle Rogers out of his way with his hip as he passed.
“Be a good man and lock up after me, would you, Sheriff? You still have a key, don’t you?”
“I don’t feel like a very good man,” Rogers muttered, mostly under his breath, and Tony laughed in delight. He wasn’t sure if he’d been meant to hear that bit.
“Don’t start a fight you can’t finish,” Tony chided, waving a hand over his shoulder. “Or didn’t they teach you that in the army?”
He was saved from Rogers’ retort by distance, whatever he might have said to that forcibly censored by the bright noon light and the bustling street. Tony hummed an old song under his breath, turning to step back around the building and cut through to the Parkers’ homestead. It was a good day, when he could say he’d managed to fluster the sheriff and get the last word in. Even better, he’d only had a bit of drink, without wanting to absolutely come apart at the seams for want of it.
“E l'ha beuto tutto,” Tony trilled to himself, “e non gì' ha fatto male!”
November 3rd, 1872
Tony took a moment in the shelter of a small mining shack, trying to get his head on straight. He didn’t come out here because he was the best horse handler, or a tracker. He’d come out because he was the smartest man in Timely if he could manage to keep sober for five minutes, and there had to be a smart way to bring the sheriff home. He’d come out here because the town was too yellow-bellied to come out in the snow and look for a man who’d saved them all three, more like fifteen times over. He was not out here because of Steve’s pastoral, hearty cooking, or the way his hair looked in the firelight slick with sweat, or the way his mouth could twist into a dirtier grin than the good, Lord-afearing sheriff had any right to. He wasn’t.
“Mister Stark, it’s gonna be too right nasty to keep searching for the sheriff in a few hours. Maybe scarcer than that.” Tony turned to glance at the man looking at him, hat in his hands. Cage had strong, powerful limbs, good for the mining work. His partner stood in the back, humming off-key as she stirred a pot on their small stove.
It was a testament to Rogers’ influence that Cage and Miss Jones were even out here. Ostensibly they were just working together, but Tony knew that in much of the country, a black man and an unmarried white Calamity Jane alone in a mining shack in the winter was cause for a lynching. He’d heard rumours, too, that Cage and Miss Jones were more than friends, but they were good workers, willing to take most any menial job if it meant payment. Mining was hard, not always profitable. They had to get by somehow, and having an extra pair of hands around had done a lot to help the town a time or two. That, Rogers’ ban on lynchings, Cage and Miss Jones’ almost inhuman strength, and the threat of the sheriff’s quickfire shot had kept them safe enough. Tony considered pointing that out, telling them to come with him, but he knew that was a fool’s errand. The pair only had one horse.
“I can’t leave him out there,” Tony said, stubborn. Cage nodded. “I can do this.” To Cage’s credit, he said nothing about Tony’s manic ramblings. “Okay. If Steve had made it to one of these buildings in the past two days, his deputy would have had word already. And I reckon Wilson has already got a plan for if he comes in, yeah?”
“Seems reasonable,” Ms. Jones offered.
“Which means he’s got to be somewhere between here and the pass proper, in the scrub. Maybe he’d been hiding out, looking to spring an ambush on the bandits.”
“That’s some good square mile of wilderness you’re aiming to search, Mister Stark,” Cage said, shaking his head, but Tony was already pulling on his gloves.
“I’ve got to look. He doesn’t have his horse. If he’s hurt, there’s no way for the man to navigate in this storm. He’ll die out there.”
“Sounds like you’d best get, then,” Miss Jones said, offering Tony a shrewd eye, and Tony bit back a sigh. He supposed Miss Jones had considered the same things he had and come up with an answer she didn’t particularly like. Cage had always been the soft-hearted of the two of them.
“Thank you for the scarf,” he said, and Miss Jones nodded. “Well. Wish me luck, folks.”
“Best of luck, Mister Stark. I hope to God somebody finds him. Sheriff’s a good man.”
Tony nodded, took a deep death, and pushed the door open. The wind fought the wood every inch, keening wildly, but he had to get back out into the storm.
December 24th, 1870
Christmas was a cruel holiday for most anyone in Timely. There was hardly ever enough happiness, ease, or family to go around. Money, too, was hard to come by for some, though things had been better on that front after the gold and Casino and the rail. Predictably, with the money had come bad men, and corruption, and desperation; all bad for the Christmas spirit. If anyone would know about that, it would be a Stark.
“Stark?”
Tony turned, jaw cracking uncomfortably as a yawn overtook him. He shook his head a little, wincing when the bar spun dangerously. “Sheriff.”
The expression on Rogers’ face was one of disappointment and resignation. “Is no day sacred to you?”
Tony lifted his glass, a wry grin spreading over his mouth. “I recall something about water into wine, wine into blood being a part of the good Lord’s word. Am I wrong?”
“If that’s wine I’ll eat my hat.”
Tony snorted. “You don’t even wear a hat, Sheriff.” He tilted the glass towards Rogers, wincing when the liquid almost slopped out of the glass. “Care to find out?”
Rogers raised an eyebrow at him. “Alright, Stark, that’s it. Come on.”
“Where are we going?” Tony complained.
“It is Christmas Eve, Stark. You can’t spend the night at the bar.”
“Well,” Tony said, gesturing upstairs to where Widow Barnes was watching over the floor with a shrewd eye, “the lovely ladies of our town are still working. The drinks are still pouring. The show must march on.”
“Look again,” Rogers said gruffly, taking Tony firmly by the elbow. “People are gathered here with friends for food and drink, to partake in the holiday together in a bit of sensible and good-natured fun. You are getting sloshed all on your lonesome.”
“And you’re gonna rectify that, being the good town sheriff and all,” Tony observed sagely. “Can’t have a booze hound ruining this sacred day!”
“Hush,” Rogers said, but he was laughing now as he pulled Tony out into the cold street. The shock of it was enough to sober him up a little, and he blinked bemusedly out into the darkness.
“I can’t imagine Sheriff Rogers had any dearth of offers to spend his Christmas at a warm fire with a grateful citizen of Timely,” Tony mused, letting Rogers bully him down the street. “Gonna toss me in a cell for public disturbance and go on up to the Parkers’ homestead for supper?”
Rogers exhaled harshly, shaking his head. “First off, I know for a fact Edwin Jarvis asked you ‘round to his for the holidays, and you rebuffed him. That man followed you all the way to the damn middle of this cesspit of a state, leaving behind all the glitz of the city, because he cares, and you still push him away.”
“He should go back. His references are good. He could get hired for any house or hotel, easy,” Tony said, an old argument, but Rogers just shook him.
“Happens that I was invited to Jarvis’ place for a good Christmas Eve dinner, too!” Rogers crowed, as if Tony hadn’t spoken. His voice dipped a little, low enough that they couldn’t be heard over the whistling of the winter wind. The streets were mostly empty, houses lit from within as they traversed the snowy streets, but it was never a bad idea to be careful. “I’m a little hurt, I must say. Do you really think I’d leave you in jail on Christmas Eve? I should like to think you know me better than to think me so cruel.”
Tony grimaced. “It’s no better than I deserve.”
“Tony,” Rogers began, then sighed. The uncommon shock of his given name outside of the secret intimacy of their beds startled Tony, and he turned to blink at Rogers’ hangdog expression. “I wish you wouldn’t punish yourself so.”
“Sheriff,” Tony said, but it was the wrong thing to say. Rogers’ face closed up like a safe door. “Aw, hell, don’t be like that.”
“We’re going to dinner,” Rogers said, stubborn now, and Tony let himself be bundled towards Jarvis’ house. There was a long pause. “And then, maybe, if you’re good, we can play a few hands at the forge.”
Tony smiled, leaning himself ever so slightly into Rogers’ hands. To the average passer-by, nothing was amiss: just another night where the sheriff had to haul the town drunk down the street. The pinkening tips of Rogers’ ears betrayed him.
“If you say so,” Tony said, and Rogers cleared his throat, nodding a little.
“I do.”
They walked in companionable silence for a few moments, peeking into the open windows of their neighbours to see set tables, small gifts, candles.
“This is your first Christmas without Barnes,” Tony said, and then was horrified at himself. He wouldn’t have said it if he was a little steadier, and Rogers’ hands tightened on his hip and wrist painfully. “I- I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-”
“You’re right,” Rogers said shortly, and Tony took a deep breath as Rogers’ fingers loosened. Tony stumbled into him, offering comfort in the press of his body against Rogers’ stalwart form. “Can’t fault me for wanting to spend the holiday taking care of the best friend I’ve got left.”
“Oh,” Tony said, struck silent with wonder. “I don’t know who they oughtta feel more sorry for, then, Sheriff. The town drunk, or the good sheriff who’s only got the town drunk to tell his sorrows to?”
Rogers turned his head sharply, and Tony winced.
“Sorry. That was…I’m a bit soaked.”
“Real surprising,” Rogers said, and Tony sighed. He’d botched this up so poorly. Rogers deserved better.
“My parents died in Christmastime. In a carriage crash,” Tony said, trying to explain, and Rogers sucked in a harsh breath. “I’ve been…trying. You know I’ve been trying.”
“Since Buck died,” Rogers observed, and both men left that where it was. It was true enough, but neither wanted to talk about why. They didn’t talk about Rogers’ own dip into the bottle, the nightmares, the times Tony had been the one to bundle him into bed. It was impossible to take care of someone like that when you were slewed yourself. “I…I didn’t know that. About your parents.” He swallowed. “It’s a hard holiday for the lonely.”
“I’ll sober up a bit with some food in me,” Tony offered, and Rogers smiled a small half-smile at the concession. “And then I can take all your money.”
“If you think I’m playing you for money, you’re a real spooney,” Rogers snorted, and Tony laughed. For the space of a breath, he let himself rest his forehead against the cool surface of the sheriff’s jacket, breathing in the musky scent of the man. Rogers was always so warm. His voice was soft when he spoke, fingers squeezing gently at Tony’s hip. “Come on, old boy. Let’s get you into the house.”
Tony blinked up at the neatly-kept porch in front of them, bemused. “We’re here.”
“Yes, we’re here,” Rogers said. His voice was warm with mirth and fondness. He pulled Tony up the steps. “Come on. Jarvis’ cooking is always superb, and I’m just about starving.”
November 3rd, 1872
The thing was, Tony wanted to tell his traitorous mind, it wasn’t all sunshine and roses. Rogers was a stubborn man, hellaciously so if he’d got his teeth in something that he felt wasn’t right. They’d fought countless times: about the war, about Tony’s refusal to ever touch a gun again despite his sharp shooting, about how best to take care of the town. They’d fought about Tony’s drinking every single damn day since they’d met. Rogers could be a real clodhopper sometimes when it came to his civic duty, and Tony had told him again and again not to go rustling Roxxon’s men, fine good it had done him to run his trap. Rogers was crooked as a Virginia fence, which was why he’d rode off to Red River Pass all on his lonesome to go after a pack of bandits. He hadn’t even had the good sense to wait for Wilson to get back from settling a minor ranching dispute. He’d thought he could handle it, and truth to be told, so had the rest of Timely.
“Damn fool,” Tony grumbled. He was trotting slowly along the road now, keeping a sharp eye on the brush for any sign of blonde hair, a bright blue coat, a leather boot. As he watched, the ground was beginning to disappear below him, a heavy blanket of white floating down over the land. “Rogers, you all-fired barrel boarder, get up and answer me!”
Tony squinted, but there was no answer that he could hear. Still, Flower’s ears flickered vaguely to the left, and Tony tilted his head down to look at the horse.
“Did you hear him, girl?” he asked, petting her gently. He eased up on the reins. “Where’s he at?”
Flower tilted her head to the side in answer, staring at something only she could hear, and Tony hopped off his horse and set off the road in the direction she’d pointed.
“Rogers! Answer me, damn it!”
He stood silent, straining to hear over the rush of the wind. A low moan was the sweet answer he’d been desperate for, and Tony dropped to his hands and knees to see the barest hint of a familiar boot under the snowy scrub before him.
“Jesus H Christ,” Tony whispered, taking hold and dragging Rogers out. He was in rough shape, pale and wan, but he was able to sit up with Tony’s help. Tony thanked the forge for his strength as he hefted the man up over his shoulders, wrangling his listing body up and over the saddle before mounting behind him, one arm firm around Rogers’ trim waist.
“Stark,” Rogers slurred, leaning back into Tony’s chest. Tony let out a huffing breath, allowing himself to press his nose to Rogers’ cold temple. The man didn’t even have a damn coat on.
“The one and only,” he quipped, spurring the horse on. His heart was in his throat. The man had been outside, immobile, for God knew how long in the cold. He pushed Flower to go as fast as she dared in the heavy snow, trusting her to keep on the path and know her way home. He wrapped his hands around Rogers’, tucking them in the space where their thighs nestled together for warmth. He wrapped Miss Jones’ scarf around his neck, too, for extra measure.
Tony was many things, but practically dressed was generally not one of those things. His wardrobe was best suited for indoor society functions, and he hadn’t had much occasion to buy anything different in Timely. He barely left his forge, except to go to Casino, the rail station for a shipment, or the jailhouse. Proper winter gear had not ever been high on his list of priorities, and he was now regretting it. He couldn’t spare anything more for Rogers, not if he wanted to keep warm enough to get them both home in one piece.
“You think you’re a regular curly wolf, but look at you; fat’s in the fire, and the town drunkard’s gotta fish you out of the brush by your ankles,” Tony griped, urging Flower on a little faster. “Stay with me, Rogers. Look alive.”
Rogers didn’t answer, head lolling easy in the crook of Tony’s neck. Tony let out a heavy breath, his hand tightening around the man’s middle.
“Fool.”
October 22nd, 1869
“Stark.”
Tony glanced up from where he was closing up the forge, a small smile flickering over his mouth.
“Sheriff. To what do I owe this pleasure?”
Rogers’ jaw tightened, and Tony winced at his own foolishness. A poor choice of words, considering how things had been between them the past few days.
A shared drink at Casino had led to a hand of poker at the jailhouse, and then a friendly bout of wrestling on the ground of the jailhouse back office as a laughing Rogers accused Tony of hooking his chits. He’d demanded to check up Tony’s sleeves, and Tony had fought him, and then Rogers had been straddling him, bright and handsome in the lamplight, and Tony had been hard beneath the tempting V of Rogers’ legs.
There had been a moment, where Tony thought maybe Rogers was going to hit him. But then the moment had passed, and Rogers had swept his thumb slowly over the inside of Tony’s wrist, and well. Tony was capable of many things, but impulse control was often not one of them.
He hadn’t seen hide nor tail of Rogers in the week that had passed since. This was impressive, as before that, Rogers had made a point to try to curtail Tony’s drinking at any possible moment. It had become a personal crusade of his, maybe a bit of a joke between them even. He’d kept turning around at the sound of Casino’s doors, expecting to hear Rogers’ chastising voice, only to hear nothing but drink orders and coy flirtations with the lady Romanov’s girls. The only sight of the sheriff he’d seen had been out the forge window, because like it or not Rogers wasn’t able to avoid his position as town sheriff, and the jailhouse was right across the road.
“I…” Rogers cleared his throat, coming in and closing the door behind him. “I thought I’d see how you were.”
“Fine,” Tony said, caught somewhere between amusement and sheer, all-encompassing confusion. He glanced over Rogers: his clenching hands, his tight jaw, the awkward shift of his feet. “Alright, Sheriff.” He smiled, reaching back to untie his apron. He hung it on its hook, then turned, running a hand over the back of his neck. “How about a drink?”
“You always want a drink,” Rogers groused, and that, at least, was familiar enough. “Stark-”
“Come on up for a game, then,” Tony said easily, because someone needed to be. Rogers was never going to be that man, but that was alright. Tony was from Gotham, where tastes were a little more cosmopolitan. “If you think I cheat at cards, you can try me at chess.”
Rogers stared at him, something like shame flickering over his face. He hung his head, staring at his hands. “I haven’t been a very good friend of late,” he said, but Tony just laughed.
“You do know who you’re talking to, don’t you, Sheriff?” Tony shrugged, turning to the back door and unlocking it. “You coming?”
He started up the stairs, trusting Rogers to follow him. Halfway up, he heard the door close behind him, the tread of Rogers’ boots on the steps. Tony shucked his own boots off at the top of the steps, opening the door to his rooms and turning to stoke the fire. It was just beginning to get chilly in Timely, and Tony’s joints ached easy. Rogers would never admit it, but he hated the cold; it reminded him too much of sleeping rough in the war, and as such the rooms in the jailhouse were always sweltering. It was the one indulgence of an otherwise frugal man, and Tony found it vaguely endearing.
Rogers stepped up close behind him, and Tony’s fingers tightened on the poker. He swallowed, standing and closing the door to the stove. Rogers’ fingers pulled the iron from his hands, leaning into his body to reach the stand, and Tony near about swallowed his tongue.
For a moment they both stood there, awkward proximity between them, before Tony turned around. They were close enough that he could see the gold flecks ringing the sheriff’s pupils, small enough that they were lost in the blue from any distance. His eyelashes were longer than Tony remembered, and Tony wet his lips and reached up, running a gentle thumb over Rogers’ fluttering eyelid, feeling the barely-there brush of them against his fingers.
“I did really think we were going to play a few games first,” Tony laughed quietly. Rogers’ eyes opened in shock, something like embarrassment overtaking him, but Tony leaned in and kissed him before he could answer.
They hadn’t done much kissing, the first time. It had been a rough, gasping thing: quick and dirty, without anything approaching words. He remembered the feeling of Rogers above him, panting, one hand flat on the ground beside Tony’s head as he ground his hips down. Towards the end, Rogers had groaned into his mouth, lips brushing as they both worked towards a frantic conclusion, but Tony wouldn’t really call that a proper kiss.
Now, he took his time to explore Rogers’ mouth, the way his hand felt tangled in Tony’s curls, the other tight around Tony’s waist. His jaw was firm, strong under Tony’s questing hands, and Tony wrapped his other arm around Rogers’ broad shoulders and dragged his nails through the short hairs at the back of his neck. The sound that Rogers loosed at that was heady, a low rumbling purr, and Tony licked it from his mouth with an answering moan.
Rogers pulled back from him, glancing towards the curtained windows, and Tony smiled reassuringly at him.
“It’s alright,” he said, and Rogers looked back at him with his pupils blown, mouth red and used. In the low light of the setting sun, his hair looked warm and golden. “Jesus.”
In answer, Rogers reached for the buttons of Tony’s shirt, making quick work of them. He pulled Tony’s tails from his britches, then slid his hands reverentially over Tony’s stomach, up his chest, thumbs lingering over the scars there. The kiss he pressed to Tony’s chest was sweet, gentler than Tony had expected, and the shock of it forced a small sound from his mouth.
“I’d like to hear the story, sometime,” Rogers said, the first thing since they’d touched, and Tony took a shuddering breath and closed his eyes under the onslaught of Rogers’ tender attentions.
“Sometime,” Tony said, and then he was reaching for Rogers’ vest, shoving it off him until it pooled on the ground.
“I’ll hold you to that,” Rogers said, and it sounded like maybe he meant something else. Tony didn’t have the wherewithal to think about what that might be. Instead, he focussed on the feeling of Rogers under his hands, the sounds he made when Tony pressed open-mouthed kisses to his neck, the look of him in the fading autumn light. This time, Tony had oil, and they were able to go much slower. He took his time, feeling Rogers flex under his hands, watching his chest rise and fall with each gasping breath. He waited until the sheriff had his pleasure before he took his own, sweet, sleepy kisses pressed to his mouth as Rogers came down from his own climax and Tony found his own.
Afterwards, they lay in Tony’s bed together, Tony half-collapsed on Rogers’ chest. The sheriff’s calloused hands swept slow over his spine, fingertips catching on the occasional scar, lingering over the mottled lines of Tony’s body. The sun had long gone down, and in the faintest glow from the stove’s grill, Tony could make out almost nothing of Rogers’ face. He seemed content enough as he was, half-asleep and perusing Tony’s body like he had nowhere else to be.
“You could sneak out the back,” Tony said, sounding reluctant even to himself, but Rogers only laughed.
“I thought we were gonna play some chess?” he asked, and Tony blinked. He hid his smile against the side of Rogers’ broad chest.
“Alright,” Tony said, but neither of them moved for quite a long time.
November 3rd, 1872
“Stop fighting,” Tony growled, fingers tight around Rogers’ wrists. Rogers was confused, staggering back and forth, but he stilled at the sound of Tony’s voice. He let Tony put an arm around his waist, his fingers digging into Tony’s collar as Tony half-dragged, half-walked him into the rooms above the jail proper. Wilson had left a smouldering fire burning in the hearth, as well as a note about checking in with the ranches along the pass road. Tony tossed a log on and pulled the spare blanket from the cupboard, wrapping the wool around Rogers’ shoulders. The man had only started shivering in the last mile, a poor sign if he’d been so cold he’d stopped moving.
“I have to take care of Flower,” Tony said, looking helplessly at Steve’s wan form huddled by the fire. He couldn’t just leave the horse at the hitch, not after all she’d done for them, but he was loathe to leave Rogers here alone. “I’ll be back.”
“Thank you,” Rogers croaked, the first sensible thing he’d said since Tony found him. His blue eyes were gaining clarity as he warmed, and he reached out a shaking hand to clutch at Tony’s fingers. “My thanks, for finding me.”
Tony had nothing to say to that. Silently, he squeezed Rogers’ fingers and then turned, heading back out into the snow.
There was no one out and about, everyone smartly bundled into their own homes in anticipation of the blizzard. The snow was already hard to walk in, and Tony wasn’t sure if he’d be able to find the jailhouse again. He tied a rope to the hitch to be safe, looping the coil around his arm as he walked Flower back to the rental stable. Pym was checking on his animals when he walked in, and his brows disappeared into his hair as he took in the sorry sight of Tony and the horse.
“My God, Stark, what in the world?”
“Found Rogers,” Tony grunted. The snow had begun to melt into his clothes after a few minutes of warmth, cold water slithering down his spine and tensing his muscles. “Injured on the pass road. He wasn’t even shivering. Didn’t have a damn coat.”
Pym took the reins from him, reaching for the saddle’s buckles and frowning at Stark. Flower nickered, nosing at Pym’s ears. “I’ll take care of Flower, you take care of Rogers, yeah?”
“I owe you apples,” Tony told Flower, petting her nose gently. “Lots of apples. Sugar cubes, even.”
Pym laughed, nodding towards the door. “Go on, Stark. I’ve got the old girl.”
Tony was thankful for his own foresight, because the blizzard was in full swing when he stepped out of the rental stable. He couldn’t see an inch in front of his face, his wet eyelashes clumping with ice and making each blink a struggle for sight. He caught his hip on the hitch post before he saw it, and he nearly ran straight into the jailhouse wall before he found the door.
In the upstairs apartment, Rogers was bare of all but his britches, huddled close to the stove. The jailhouse med-kit was open over his knee, and Tony paused just inside the door, dripping ice and snow all over the floor. He wasn’t sure what he was meant to do, now, if Rogers was well enough to patch himself up. He looked strangely aglow in the lamplight, miles of pale Irish skin slick with snowmelt.
“Stark,” Rogers said, and Tony blinked to find Rogers’ fathomless blue eyes on him. They were crinkled a little at the corners, and Tony near swallowed his tongue. “Take that coat off before you catch cold.”
“What happened?” Tony asked, numb fingers tripping over his buttons.
“Found the bandits,” Rogers said, which, obviously he had.
Rogers didn’t say any more, and after a moment, Tony rolled his eyes. He stripped all of his outerwear off, hanging his wet clothes on the pegs by the door, standing his boots by the door.
Rogers was frowning over his arm, wrapping bandages around it. Tony hadn’t gotten back in time to see what the damage was, and he resisted the urge to demand Rogers pull the wrappings up and let him have a look. Instead he cleared his throat pointedly, folding his hands across his chest.
“There was a shootout,” Rogers said, still fussing over his bandage, and Tony sighed. Of course there was. “I got two of ‘em, but one of them clipped my arm on the way down, knocked me off Liberty. When I woke up I had no horse, no water, and I was freezing. I’d lost my coat in the fight. I could barely move.”
Tony opened his mouth to ask how in the hell he’d managed that, then closed it again. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.
“Guess I’m making you a new star, then, Sheriff.” Rogers’s smile was sheepish, and Tony glared him. “You’re a real piece of work, you know that?”
“How long was I out there?”
“You’ve been gone two days,” Tony said, shaking his head. “Dunno how long you were lying in the dirt like a dog, but when Liberty walked into town this morning without you, well. Figured something had gone wrong.”
Rogers nodded. He turned to glance past Tony, towards the door. “Sounds like a blizzard.”
“Yeah.” He glanced back, towards the door where the storm raged outside. “Want me to try to fetch Doc Banner?”
Rogers shook his head. He bit his lip, eyes flickering to Tony’s face then back to his arm. “Could you…?”
“What do you think I’m here for?” Tony asked. He trudged over to Rogers’ bed, dragging it towards the stove and turning the blankets down. Rogers watched him with dark eyes, fingers packing the med-kit back up slowly, as if to give himself something to do. He was still pale as milk, wan and shaking, and the sight of the strong, strapping sheriff looking so weak made something in Tony’s chest tighten.
“Four flusher,” he muttered, taking the kit from Rogers’ hands and putting it back up on the shelf. “Take off your wet britches, Sheriff, and get your arse into bed. Ain’t nothing I haven’t seen.”
Rogers did as he was told, almost meekly. He was bluffing about the extent of his injuries, Tony knew; likely he’d hurt himself in the fall from Liberty’s saddle. There was a nasty blackening bruise across his hip, and Tony bundled him up under the covers and turned to the stove to stoke the fire.
“You think you could cook?”
Tony let out a whistling breath. “Think I’d have complained about your army ration palate all this time if I could have just done better myself?”
“I dunno,” Rogers drawled, easy-like. “Sometimes you can be a bit of a layabout.”
Tony swallowed, acutely aware of the fact that he and Rogers were here, alone, mostly undressed in the middle of a blizzard. The smile that Rogers offered him was small, approaching wicked.
“Tell me what to do,” Tony said, but in his mouth the command turned dirty. Rogers laughed outright, but he gestured to the cast iron, then the cupboard with his uninjured hand.
“You’ll start with onions,” he said, and Tony nodded and went to fetch the bag.
Tony wasn’t going to win any ribbons, that was for sure. He didn’t think any two pieces of onion were cut the same. He sliced canned tomatoes, added some garlic, some spice for warmth. He couldn’t tell the difference between the paprika and the chilli, but Rogers said the stew needed both so it didn’t matter either way. He cubed potatoes, carrots, added dried red peppers. He tossed in a few cubes of beef from the icebox out back, added some water, then covered the whole thing and let it bubble on its own.
Rogers was listing in and out, now. He’d slurred a bit while he was talking, clearly on the edge of exhaustion, and Tony poked around in the cupboards for some crackers, a wedge of hard cheese. He put them on the chair next to the bed alongside a good knife and a board, then set about tidying up. He stuffed the doors downstairs with newspaper, blowing out the lamps and locking up. When he glanced out the windows on the ground floor, he couldn’t even see his own workshop across the road.
When he came up, Rogers was out cold. He hadn’t even touched the cheese, and Tony sighed and checked on the pot on the stove, giving it a stir and adding some more water. Then he piled the food onto the board, cutting a few slices of cheese and then running his fingers through Rogers’ hair.
“Hey,” he said, quietly, and Rogers blinked sleepy blue eyes open at him, smiling easily. “Can you eat a bit of this for me?”
“Sure, Tony,” he said, and Tony swallowed at the intimacy of the moment. He brought a cracker to Rogers’ mouth, licking his lips reflexively as Rogers ate from his hands. “Thank you.”
“Just eat,” Tony said gruffly, offering him another bite. Rogers laughed at him, but took the next few bites without complaint. After a few crackers, Tony pulled away and fetched a canteen. “Drink some water.”
“Alright, Tony,” Rogers said, and Tony couldn’t help but stare at his throat as it worked. He’d never seen Rogers so biddable.
“You drive me mad, you know that?” Tony asked him.
“Sorry.”
Tony sighed, brushing the backs of his fingers over Rogers’ forehead to check his temperature. He was much warmer than he’d been before, some of the colour returning to his cheeks, so that was alright then. He looked miles better than he had when they’d first come in.
Rogers’ fingers reached up, his eyes half-slitted as he traced the line of Tony’s facial hair. His expression was unbearably soft, and Tony swallowed and stood. He took ahold of the rest of the newspaper and began to stuff the windows, pushing the curtains out of the way so he could get to the sills. Rogers slipped in and out as he watched Tony work, a small, satisfied smile on his face. Tony had no idea what he was on about. Maybe he’d been in the cold so long he’d gone mad.
“Is the stew ready?”
Tony ambled over to the stove, peeking gingerly at his efforts. “Depends on your view of edibles,” he deadpanned.
“It’ll be fine.”
Tony shrugged, pulling the pot off the stove. He served up two bowls and returned to his spot beside Rogers’ bedside. Rogers’ hands shook when he reached for the spoon, fumbling, and Tony sighed and pushed his hands away.
“Can you sit up?”
Rogers shuffled slowly up the bed, face a rictus of pain, and Tony cursed low under his breath.
“Stop. Just, stop that,” he said, putting the bowls on the chair. He leaned down, shifting Rogers up on the pillows and sitting on the bed, one knee tucked up between them. He pulled one bowl to him, dipping the spoon in and feeding Rogers the first bite.
“Not bad,” Rogers said, and Tony laughed.
“Can’t help that you don’t have taste buds after all that army coffee.”
Rogers’ grin was wry, but he opened his mouth for the next spoon Tony offered him. They sat together like that until the bowl was finished, Rogers opening his mouth for the spoon. One of his broad palms made its way to rest on Tony’s knee. When he was done, Tony stayed, finishing his own bowl. It was edible, but something about it tasted wrong. Tony wasn’t sure what he’d done, but it didn’t taste like the chuck wagon stew Rogers always made when he came by for dinner. Something about the spices, maybe.
Afterwards he took the bowls to clean, tidying up the stew and adding a log to the fire. He blew out a few of the lamps, then considered the bedroll in the corner that Wilson sometimes used, not sure of what the protocol was. He’d never come to the jailhouse just to sleep. He and Rogers had only ever shared a bed when one or both of them fell asleep after. More often than not, Tony tried to make sure that they weren’t seen leaving each other’s quarters in the mornings. It would raise too many questions if it was a common enough occurrence, although considering his reputation, the town would probably think he’d just gotten too drunk to walk the night before. Sometimes that was true, too, to be fair.
“What are you doing?” Rogers asked, frowning, and Tony glanced over at the bed.
“Just cleaning up.”
Rogers folded the covers back, raising his eyebrows knowingly. “Come to bed, Tony.”
Tony sighed, wiping his hands in the dishrag and coming to stand by the side of Rogers’ bed.
“I’m Tony, now, huh?”
Rogers raised an arm, inviting. “That’s what I said, isn’t it?”
Tony laughed, shaking his head. He pulled off his still-damp britches and shirt, leaving himself only in his underclothes. He hung his clothes to dry on the back of the chair, then slipped into bed. Rogers was quick to bundle him close, the warm length of his body pressing up against Tony from behind, chest to spine, thigh to thigh. Tony let out a soft sigh of pleasure at the warmth of him, nestling back into Rogers’ embrace.
“Thank you, Tony,” Rogers whispered into his ear. His voice was soft, calloused hands skimming over the planes of Tony’s stomach.
“Did you think I’d leave you out there?” Tony asked. Rogers didn’t say anything, simply pressed the cold tip of his nose behind Tony’s ear. “Steve.” He was testing, a little, but also helpless to Rogers’ insistent warmth.
“Storm’ll probably last a few days,” Rogers rumbled.
“Maybe,” Tony allowed. “Wouldn’t mind spending the time here.”
He was kidding, and both of them knew it. By morning the snow would be too high for Tony to even cross the street to the forge.
“No better place to be in a blizzard,” Rogers agreed, arm closing around Tony’s middle like a steel trap. His body was tight and warm around Tony’s whole everything, every breath pressing him into Tony. Rogers pressed his nose into Tony’s temple and breathed in deep, a small kiss glancing against his temple.
“Can’t lose you in here,” Tony said, and he could feel Rogers smile against his skin.
“Sleep,” Rogers said, settling down behind Tony. His grip loosened a little, but that was alright. Tony wasn’t planning on going anywhere.
Anytime, 1870 – Onwards
Tony woke slowly, a heavy arm draped over his waist, breath tickling the back of his neck. It was a little chilly, the fire in the stove banked a bit, but here beneath the covers it was warm and easy. The low light of morning peeked through the windows, but it was early yet.
“Mm.” The arm around his waist tightened. “Going somewhere?”
“I was thinking about tossing a log on the fire.”
Steve hummed, the rumble of it echoing deliciously through Tony’s body. Steve’s fingers skimmed over his hip, and Tony closed his eyes and relaxed back into his broad, warm chest.
“Stay,” he murmured, mouth moving across Tony’s shoulders, up to the back of his ear. The barest hint of stubble scraped over the side of Tony’s throat, a delightful drag. Sheriff Rogers was always clean-shaven, clean-cut. It was a delight to see Steve, slow and lazy in the mornings, an early riser but often languid with it.
“Gonna convince me?” Tony asked, a smile breaking over his face as Steve nipped gently at his neck. A hand tangled in his hair, tilted Tony’s head back so Rogers could lick at the corner of his mouth in a teasing kiss. “Steve.”
“Stay,” Steve said again, his hand slipping lower, and Tony closed his eyes and arched languidly into his touch. “Tony.”
“All right.” A gasp, a shift of fabric, the quiet sounds of kissing. “All right. I’ll stay.”