Archive of Our Own

When Hydra kidnapped me this time, they hurt me so much worse than before. I had thought for a while that I wasn't going to make it, and when I was alone in my little cell in the underground bunker I thought I might even have cried. I was feverish, burning up, curled against the cold cracked concrete. I probably did cry, because of the fever. But I didn't tell them anything.

By the time the Invaders found me, I couldn't even walk.

I looked up, and I saw the Human Torch and Toro, lit up, illuminating the hallway. Bucky and Namor were behind them, holding stolen Gewehr 43 semi-automatic rifles. Pushing past them all was Captain America, his face frozen in horror. The part of his face I could see with the cowl on was all white, his jaw clenched. He-- he'd really missed me. He really cared.

I struggled to my feet, bracing myself against the wall, dragging myself up. "Hi, guys," I said. My voice was a croak. "Hi, Cap."

"Tony," Cap said, and he sounded absolutely broken. "Oh, Tony, what did they do to you?"

"Nothing much," I said -- or, at least, I tried to say.

And then I pitched forward into Cap's strong arms, and everything went white and red and then finally black.

I didn't remember much after that.

Someone -- Cap? -- was carrying me, jolting me painfully. Part of me kept trying to struggle awake, out of the yawning void of unconsciousness, but then something would brush against my side or my leg or my shoulder and the pain would send me spiraling down into the darkness. I smelled fresh air, heard birdsong, but I couldn't even open my eyes. Then I was out again.

When I awoke the next time, I was lying on a crude mattress in a lamp-lit room, blankets piled on top of me. A first-aid kit was lying next to me, open. I couldn't even lift my head. I hoped it wasn't Hydra again, but I started to tense up anyway.

"Shh, Tony," said a voice next to me. Cap's voice. "Shh, it's all right. It's me, Cap. You're safe here." One of his big hands settled between my shoulderblades, and even though it hurt I was really glad he was here. I liked when he touched me. It made me feel like everything was going to be all right. "Try not to move. You want morphine? We've got morphine. Just stay still. Be good for me."

Be good, he said. Like I was a baby.

"I'm not little," I tried to say. "I'm eighteen. I'm as old as Bucky. You don't have to talk to me like-- like that. I'm not a kid."

"Believe me, Tony," Cap said, and when I finally managed to lift my head, in defiance of his instruction, I saw that he was smiling faintly. "I definitely know you're not a kid."

And then he injected me, and for a long while there was nothing again.

When I woke up, the fever must have come back, because I kept fading in and out of consciousness. People were talking in another room. They were so loud. I wanted to cover my ears, but moving my arms would have hurt too much.

"--worried about him," Bucky was saying.

"He's obviously worse," sneered Namor. "If he does not begin to recover soon, we should leave--"

"We're not leaving Tony," said Cap, firmly, and there was the slam of something hitting something else. Hard.

I shut my eyes. When I woke up, it was even worse. Everything burned.

"--and the sulfadiazine's not working," the Human Torch said. "Listen, Cap, I don't know what Hydra put in him, but whatever they did, he can't fight it."

I was weak. I was going to die.

"No." Cap's voice sounded distraught. Wrecked. Like he'd been crying. Over me. "This can't happen. We can heal him. I can heal him. There's a way."

"If there's a way," Bucky said, "why didn't you do this three days ago?"

I'd been here three days? That wasn't good. But Cap-- if Cap could really make me better-- maybe it wasn't hopeless. Maybe I could still live.

"It's complicated, that's why," Cap said. "All right, everyone out. I need to talk to Tony."

There was the muffled scraping of footsteps against floorboards, and then the sound of the floorboards creaking again. A door opening. Cap walking towards me. I opened my eyes and blinked a few times. There he was, blurry, but still unmistakable in his red, white and blue uniform. He sat down on the mattress next to me; his weight made the whole thing dip and list.

"If I'm going to die," I breathed, "will you at least tell me who you are?"

Cap half-smiled. "You know I'm not allowed to. And you're not going to die."

"You can really save me?"

Cap took a breath and then looked away, hesitantly. "I can."

I wondered how he was going to do that. I had broken ribs. Probably more cracked bones. Bruised everything. Probably blood poisoning from the wounds on my legs. Those had gotten infected, I was sure. The cuts on my chest weren't great either. What was he planning to do? The antibiotics had failed.

"There's only one way to save you, Tony." Cap swallowed hard. "I have the super-soldier serum. In my body. I can give you the serum. It will heal you."

I blinked groggily. I must have misheard. There was no way to make another super-soldier. God knew the government would have tried. Hydra had tried.

"That's not possible."

Cap looked back and forth like he thought someone might be listening. "It is. Believe me, it is. It won't make you into a super-soldier, but it will heal you."

"How?"

"It's--" Cap paused, and he looked away and back again, like he was embarrassed or ashamed or something. "Well, it's in my bodily fluids."

"Blood transfusions?" I asked, but even as I said it, I knew it couldn't be right. Hydra had captured Cap a couple times, and they'd gotten blood from him, he'd said; if that was what did it, there'd be an entire battalion of super-stormtroopers right now. Besides, we really didn't have the medical setup for a transfusion, here in some ruined Italian shack.

Cap shook his head. "No," he said, and now he was practically whispering. "It's... more intimate than that."

Intimate. Oh.

"Do you--" I wanted to turn my face into the pillow, but I didn't think I could move-- "do we have to... kiss?"

Kissing Cap. I... I had thought about it a few times; hadn't everyone? He was so strong and kind and handsome. He would kiss the same way he did everything else, so commandingly, but softly and sweetly as well, I was sure. They would be the perfect kisses, obviously, because everything about him was perfect. And okay, maybe I wanted to, a bit. But that was normal, wasn't it? Everyone thought Cap was handsome. And if we... if we had to kiss, then it would be okay to want it. It would be better, because I wouldn't have to ask. I wouldn't have to tell him anything.

"Almost." Cap was looking down. His hands were folded in his lap. "Not enough serum in my saliva, they said. You're on the right track, Tony, but it's... even more intimate than that."

Oh. We'd have to-- he'd have to--

"I've never," I tried to say, but the words wouldn't come out. I look a breath. "I've never... been with anyone before. Ever."

"You can say no," Cap said, but the look on his face suggested that he didn't believe that was really an option either.

"If I say no, I die," I said. "And I--" I couldn't possibly say I wanted him to. I couldn't tell him that. "I trust you."

Cap reached out and put his hand over mine, stroking my bruised fingers gingerly. The touch felt nice, soothing, cooler than my fevered skin. "I'll be as gentle as I can," he said, very softly. "I promise."

"All right," I said. I wanted to ask him if he'd kiss me anyway, even if it wasn't necessary, but I couldn't.

It took a little bit of time for us to arrange me into a comfortable position; I let Cap move me, since he knew what he was doing. He had me propped up on a bunch of pillows, not quite lying on my side, not quite on my stomach. It was actually pretty comfortable. He was sitting behind me and I heard the rustle of fabric; I guessed he was undressing.

And then he was undressing me, stripping away my sweat-soaked clothes. I shivered.

"Oh, Tony," he whispered, and I felt his fingers outlining one of the bruises on my back, and then warmth -- a breath? He was kissing my bruises. "I'm so sorry I couldn't stop them from hurting you. You were so brave."

"It wasn't-- it wasn't anything special." All I'd had to do was not talk. Anyone could have done that.

"You're wrong," Cap said. "You're so special, Tony."

He lay down behind me, curling up against me. He was so big and so warm, and all at once I felt safe and protected, even through the pain. He drew me close and he was hard against me. I could feel that.

"What do I do now?"

"You? Nothing." Cap kissed my shoulder. "Just try to relax. It's going to hurt at first. The first time always does. It gets better."

"Okay." I could be brave. It couldn't be worse than Hydra.

Cap kissed my shoulder again, and then he pushed into me. He was big, so big, and taking him hurt, like he'd said. My eyes were watering, and I whimpered into the pillow. I hoped Cap didn't hear that. It would get better, I told myself. Cap promised it would. I could do this for him, I told myself, as he pushed slowly in, inch by agonizing inch. It felt like he was splitting me apart.

And then he stopped, all at once. It still hurt, but it wasn't so sharp. I might not be bleeding, I thought.

"Cap?" I ventured. Had I done it wrong? Was he all right?

Cap breathed out on the back of my neck, and I felt all hot and shivery. "You're so good, Tony," he said, and there was a low, hoarse edge to his voice that I had never heard before. "I love you. You're doing so well at this."

"I am?"

"You're perfect." He kissed the back of my neck again. "And you-- geez, Tony, you feel really good right now. Really, really good."

"Do I?" I asked. He liked me. He liked this. I was making Cap feel like this. Even if it kept hurting this much, even if it didn't cure me, I thought, it would still be worth it.

"Really good," Cap repeated, sounding a little dazed. "Really nice. I'm just going to-- ah-- oh--"

He started to move within me. The first few thrusts were painful, like something was being torn apart inside me, but slowly it began to feel better and better and I wasn't biting back groans of pain anymore. No, I was moaning, and pushing back, and wow, I liked this. This was really starting to feel good. Cap was gasping, sliding into me harder, faster, one hand digging into my hip, putting me exactly where he wanted me.

"Tony," Cap moaned. "Tony, I'm-- I'm going to-- kiss me, please, Tony--"

Somehow I managed to turn my head back over my shoulder and our lips met, his stubble scraping roughly against my face. He was kissing me, open-mouthed, hot and wet and it was pretty good for my first kiss ever, I thought, because then Cap sighed out my name, clutched me tighter, and came.

I was feeling really good, in several different ways, because suddenly nothing hurt at all, and that was a pretty big rush by itself, and Cap had just-- and really all I had to do was think about that, and I was coming, and Cap held me close the whole time.

"Better?" he asked, finally, whispering the word against my spine.

He pulled out and I rolled over to face him, and the fact that I could do that painlessly was amazing. It was strange to see him without the cowl on. He looked so young; he wasn't really that much older than I was. My hands were on his shoulders. As I watched, the bruises were already beginning to fade.

"Perfect," I said, and he wrapped his arms around me and held me tight.

Steve closed the laptop, and his face was bright red. He scrubbed the heel of one hand across his eyes, and it was only then that Tony considered that maybe he should feel a little bad about subjecting Steve to this. His face was a study in... well, Tony was having a hard time picking between "appalled" and "traumatized." Steve's eyes were scrunched up and his mouth was twisted. "Tony," he said, and Tony could tell he was trying very hard to keep his voice level, "why did you make me read that?"

It had seemed so reasonable when he'd thought of this. It wasn't like he'd gotten where he was in life by having mostly bad ideas, after all. He just hadn't thought about Steve actually reading it.

This was very possibly the best relationship he'd ever had. Steve loved him. He knew that. And together they were-- well, the team was better than it had ever been, and they were in sync in a way they'd never been before, and Tony was... well, he was happy. He was really happy.

But someday Steve was going to come to his senses. That was what always happened, right?

And, for all that Steve had known him this long, he didn't really know what Tony was like, did he? So Tony... owed it to him, he supposed. To let him know.

"I wanted you to know who I was," Tony offered, finally, and, okay, so it sounded kind of stupid when he said it.

Steve sighed. His face was still red. It was kind of adorable. "Tony," he began, in a tone that suggested he was using all of his patience up in one sentence, "I have known you for ten years. You are one of my very best friends in the entire world. Exactly what about you do you think I don't already know? And--" he waved a hand at the laptop-- "why this? I will read every single one of your teenage stories about the two of us if that's what makes you happy, but why do you want me to? It's so-- I'm just concerned."

"I aged myself up," Tony pointed out. "I was totally legal in that story."

Steve made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. "That's really not the probl-- wait, aged up? How old were you?"

Tony tried to remember writing that particular story. "Fourteen, maybe?"

"Fourteen." Steve sighed again. "I guess that explains why you didn't know about lube. Or any of the rest of it. Jesus Christ, Tony. It's not supposed to hurt. And you're writing about me hurting you, and having no choice but to hurt you--"

"I know about lube now," Tony said, defensively. "I just-- I was a kid. I thought that was how it went."

He was just going to set aside the part where he'd been a stupid drunken teenager fumbling around with other stupid drunken teenagers, and none of them had known about lube either, and his first time had been a painful and disappointing disaster, if you could count something as a first time when no one had actually managed to get anything all the way in. Had he written this story after that? He couldn't remember.

The blush across Steve's cheeks was beginning to fade, and his eyes were wide and pale and there was something so sad in them, something Tony didn't quite understand. He wondered if this was the moment when Steve was going to say, all right, enough, I can't handle you and your perverted adolescent fantasies.

Instead Steve held out an arm, beckoning to the empty space next to him on the couch. "Hey," he said, softly. "Come here."

It was kind of ridiculous, because it had just been a story, and it wasn't like Tony needed Steve to hold him -- Christ, he really wasn't a kid -- and, anyway, shouldn't Steve be mad at him? But he went, and sat down, and when Steve's arm wrapped around him all of the tension drained out of Steve in one long exhalation of breath. Maybe Steve was the one who wanted a hug. That was okay, then. He could do that.

"Hey, yourself," Tony echoed, and Steve leaned into Tony's shoulder.

"It's all right," Steve said, sounding old, exhausted. Tony wondered which of them he was trying to convince. "I know what it's really about. It was just surprising at first, is all. I know it's not really about me."

Tony frowned. "What do you mean, not about you?" Wasn't it about him and Steve? Wasn't that the point? He was pretty sure he'd been writing that. Thinking about that. Jerking off to that.

Steve gave a little chuckle. "Think about it, Shellhead. You're the genius. Tell me when you've figured it out."

"Okay," Tony said, confused. He'd go with it. He'd figure out what Steve meant. Somehow. Eventually Steve would react like he was supposed to. Tony was certain of that.

"Good." Steve was smiling at him, a little. "Is that it, or are there more of these?"

"I wrote--" Tony thought about it, and then decided that counting them was just going to make everyone feel worse. "A lot. Some of them are-- well, they're better than others, obviously in some of them I do know how sex actually works--"

"I would hope so," Steve said, eyes sparkling.

"But you don't have to read them if you don't want to. I just thought it would be... useful. Informative. For you."

Steve smiled, open and earnest. "Tony. I'd do anything for you. This? Your dirty stories about us? This is really nothing. It's not a hardship. Just... a bit of warning, first?"

"All right," Tony said, completely adrift.

And then Steve leaned in and kissed him, and holy shit, he could definitely go with that. Steve threaded his fingers through Tony's hair and pulled him closer, and his mouth was open against Tony's, kissing him heavily, passionately, with much more skill and tenderness than he had ever been able to imagine.

"Oh, God," Tony said, pulling back, panting. And people thought he was the one who could kiss. Clearly they'd never kissed Steve. "You're so good at that. How are you so good at that?"

"The serum," Steve said, deadpan. "Also apparently my dick's better than penicillin. I'm full of miracles."

"Shut up." Tony tried to duck away so Steve couldn't see his face; this had been his idea, goddammit, and where did Steve get off even being able to make him feel embarrassed about it? He couldn't possibly be ashamed of it. His face was burning. "I was just a kid."

Steve's hand drifted down to the back of Tony's neck, rubbing softly, calming. "I know. I just-- really, Tony? Really?"

Tony shrugged. "It seemed like a good--" excuse-- "plot. I don't know. I got the guns right, come on, what else do you want from me?"

"I got the guns right, he says." Steve's body shook against him as he chuckled again. "You're-- you're really something."

"Something good?"

"Yeah." Steve pulled his head back and looked at him, and his face went soft, his smile wide enough to crinkle the corners of his eyes. "Something really good."

Tony didn't even know what to say to that, because you're not supposed to think that and I'm just going to hurt you weren't going to be useful.

"Come to bed with me," Steve said, low, enticing. "I can demonstrate how you weren't writing about me. Give you a hint, maybe."

"Oh?"

Steve's eyes gleamed, suddenly dark with desire. "For one thing... well, I get the sense that your fella there wouldn't, but I like bottoming. And I'd really like to with you. What do you say?"

"I-- oh. Oh, God," Tony said, stupidly, dizzily, as all the blood from his head suddenly rushed south. They hadn't done that yet, either way. Well, they hadn't done a lot of things. They'd been taking it slow. Tony wanted to treat Steve right, dammit, but it seemed like Steve was way ahead of him. "I-- yes? Yes. God, yes. Am I dreaming? If I'm dreaming, I don't want to wake up."

Steve practically nuzzled him, kissing all along his jaw. He could feel that Steve was smiling. "You're awake." He slid one hand between Tony's thighs, and Tony groaned. "Definitely awake. But you have to promise me one thing."

"Anything."

"Don't forget the lube."

Tony tucked his face against Steve's shoulder and started to laugh. "I've got lots. I know what I'm doing."

Steve was sound asleep, his head pillowed on Tony's shoulder, one arm stretched possessively across Tony's chest. Tony stared up at the ceiling and grinned. That was... that had really been something else. It turned out that one of the things the serum had given Steve was multiple orgasms, and he had come four times, which was both amazingly hot and very, very flattering for Tony's ego. He'd come twice riding Tony, head thrown back, moaning Tony's name, at which point Tony couldn't hold back from joining him; once in Tony's mouth, with a quiet little sigh, like it surprised him; and once finally in Tony's hands, slow and gentle as Tony kissed him, drowsy, nearly asleep. And now, well, he was out like a light. Tony didn't blame him. Dear God.

They were a mess, and not just from Steve. Somehow, while Tony had been assuring Steve that he was definitely using enough lube, the lid on the bottle had come unscrewed and half the bottle had been dumped out on the sheets. He'd been with so many people who'd wanted the act, the performance, who'd wanted Tony Stark, consummate playboy, for whom sex was all perfect seduction and silk sheets. Steve had looked at him, looked at the ruined bedspread, and started laughing, bright and joyful, and it had been good, so good, to be with someone who made him so happy, who made him laugh too--

He sighed.

He had to remember that this wasn't going to last. Steve was just -- well, whatever he'd been saying about understanding what Tony had written, who he was -- that couldn't be true. He didn't know. He was going to turn away. Everyone always did.

Steve just needed to understand. It was sweet of him to try, but it wasn't going to work. No one knew Tony better than Tony.

Tony scrolled through the files. God, he didn't remember writing most of these. "Reversal of Fortune?" What was that? Intrigued, he clicked on it and scrolled partway down.

Cap had missed the rendezvous two days ago. I buried my head in the codebooks and tried not to worry about it. He was late sometimes, and that just meant he'd run into more trouble clearing a Hydra base than he'd planned for. He always came back in the end. There was nothing I could do; my duties here at the hideout were more important, and besides, Bucky and Toro had gone out scouting this morning. If he was out there, they'd find him. They were good.

I hoped he was just late. I missed him so much.

There was a noise outside that sounded like banging, a yell, and as I put my head up and reached for my Colt M1911A1 pistol, Torch lit up and headed for the door, with Namor just behind him.

Then with a crash the door was flung open, and Toro and Bucky were standing there, supporting between them a doubled-over figure, someone so covered in dirt and grime and blood that he hardly looked alive. The man sagged between them. I couldn't make out his face. Would they really have brought a stranger here?

Then the figure opened familiar blue eyes. "Sorry I'm late," Cap said, in a broken rasp, and then his eyes fell shut as he dropped to the floor, unconscious, slithering out of the grasp of the Invaders on either side of him. Oh, no. Not Cap.

"What happened?" I asked. My heart pounded in my chest.

Bucky glanced over at me as Toro began to lift Cap. "What do you think? Hydra got him. Hydra got him real good. I don't know what they were doing to him, but I think it would have killed an ordinary man. He's not looking too good."

"Were you followed?" Namor asked.

Bucky shook his head. "Don't think so."

"We should go out again and make sure. Send another patrol."

"I can stay here with Cap," I volunteered. I'd had a bit of medical training -- we all did -- but there wasn't much you could do for Cap. He healed himself. But maybe I could stay and sit with him. He at least needed the wounds cleaned. I could do that.

"Very well," Namor said. "You will be adequate."

Cap's teeth were gritted as Toro and Torch together dragged him across the room. If I hadn't known him; I wouldn't have recognized him at all. His uniform was covered in mud and blood -- I hoped it wasn't his own -- and ripped practically to shreds. From the way he was holding his arm it was probably broken. Blood was soaking through his cowl, actually soaking, and clotting all the way down his face. Head wounds looked worse than they were, I told myself. He'd be okay. I could help him.

Cap's eyes flickered open and then fell shut again as they levered him up onto the bed. He wasn't staying conscious. That couldn't be good.

"We're going back out," Torch said. "Will you be okay here?"

"Yeah, of course," I said. "I've got him."

And then it was me and Cap alone. I don't know if he knew it was me. He opened his eyes again, blinked a few times, but he wasn't really focusing.

"I'm not telling you anything," Cap said, defiant, and that was when I knew we were going to have problems.

"Cap, it's me, it's Tony Stark," I said. "I'm your friend. I just want to help you."

"It's a trick."

I realized then that I was in danger. Cap's strength was peak human, and if he thought I was the enemy, there was nothing I could do to stop him. "It's not a trick," I said.

One of his hands made a fist -- the other one was too broken to move -- and he tried to sit up, to swing out, but he couldn't. He was too hurt. Oh, Cap. What had they done to him?

Cap blinked a few times. "Tony?" he asked, and his voice was very small. It hurt to hear. Cap shouldn't have sounded like that. He shouldn't have sounded broken.

"Yeah, Cap," I said. "It's me. Let me help you. Just lie back and let me clean you up some, see where you're hurt, okay?"

He tried to nod and then winced, because presumably nodding hurt too much. Geez. "All right."

I eased the cowl off and I saw that I had been right -- the scalp wound looked pretty bad. Blood was drying black in his hair, clotting across his hairline, and when I brought a cloth to it, Cap's skin was hotter than hot. An infection. Maybe that explained the confusion. I didn't think he could get those, but maybe if he was hurt badly enough...?

"You're going to be okay," I said. "I'll just clean you up first. Just water first, okay?"

As gently as I could, I wiped away all of the blood. I had to cut away the top of his uniform to get a look at his chest, to free his arm. It was definitely broken. Someone was going to need to set that before it started healing wrong. Mostly his chest wasn't as bad as his face; there were great dark bruises on his sides, fist-shaped, and the odd dragging knife-slash or two. They were starting to heal as I watched, but the ragged way Cap's chest heaved as he breathed suggested there were more injuries there.

I got up to get more water; the bucket I had been using was now red through and through, dyed with Cap's blood.

Cap looked up at me. His eyes were too bright and sweat beaded on his brow. "Tony. Don't leave me."

I hurried back to his side, the water forgotten. "Don't worry," I said, brushing my fingertips across Cap's forehead. "I'm here for you, Cap. I'll stay with you as long as you need."

"You promise?" He smiled. His lips were cracked and bleeding.

"Yeah," I said, "of course. I'd never abandon you."

Oh. Oh, right. He'd done a couple of stories like this, where it was the other way around. Where he'd written them hurting Steve. Cap. It wasn't like he'd known it was Steve. Maybe that was what Steve had been trying to say. It couldn't be that simple, though. This was kind of awful, when he thought about it. Sadistic, really. It was pure torture.

Should he send this one on? Well, it wasn't porn -- though Tony couldn't tell if that was better or worse -- although, honestly, it was a better choice than any of the ones with tentacles. The shine had definitely worn off the tentacle kink after about the tenth time he'd been actually wrapped up in them. Some things just weren't fun to think about anymore.

He'd see what Steve would make of this one. He'd written stories where Steve was hurt. Gloried in it. Steve really deserved to know that about him. Owning up to it was the responsible thing to do.

Date: Wed, 27 Apr 2005 14:53:27 -0400
From: "Tony Stark" <[email protected]>
To: "Steve Rogers" <[email protected]>
Subject: More reading for you

Steve--

Here's something else you might want to take a look at, when you've got the time. Privately. No rush; it's not team-related, and I know you're probably busy as hell getting Wolverine up to speed on team protocol or peeling Spidey off the wall. Oh, BTW, I should be done with Wolverine's gear -- comms and card -- by five, if you get this message before then and want to let him know. If he can come by my office by then he can pick it all up and I'll get him a network account. If he can't make that, he's waiting until tomorrow.

I know we're all dead tired after that Savage Land mess (if I had a dollar for every time a T-Rex tried to eat the Quinjet...), but if you want to grab dinner tonight, I'm all yours.

--T

P.S. I'm really interested to know what you think of this one. No need to spare my feelings.

Attachment: "fortune.txt"

It was six thirty, and neither Steve nor Logan had showed. Tony sighed and shoved the finished ID and molded ear comms into a desk drawer. He guessed that meant that Steve hadn't gotten his message, or he'd been so busy he hadn't had time to reply, which amounted to the same thing. Or he'd gotten it, and he'd read the story, and now he wasn't speaking to Tony at all. Tony hadn't enabled read receipts on the email, and unfortunately logging in as root to check -- he could do it right here inside his head -- was probably deeply unethical.

And then Steve stuck his head in the doorway. He was wearing civilian clothing, t-shirt and jeans and his favorite trenchcoat, and his hair, blond gone to damp darkened blond, was plastered to his forehead like he'd just stepped out of the shower. He smiled an apologetic smile. "Sorry I'm late. Is that dinner offer still open?"

He was smiling. He clearly hadn't read the story. He wouldn't be smiling at him if he'd read it. But he must have read the email.

Tony made himself smile back. "For you? Absolutely."

Steve looked him up and down, half checking him out -- Tony guiltily took pleasure in that, stored up all of the little flirtatious glances for later when he wouldn't have them, or Steve -- and half a different kind of appraisal. "Should I change? Are we going somewhere casual? Or are we planning to coast into Le Bernardin based solely on your personal charm?"

Tony lifted an eyebrow; he couldn't stop himself from grinning. "Hey, I'll have you know my personal charm is considerable." It would be easier not to get into this, to let Steve affect him, if Steve was just going to be upset about the story later. But Steve was, as always, very hard to resist.

"Oh, I'm very charmed," Steve smiled back. "But you knew that."

Tony looked down at himself. Jeans, only slightly grease-stained. T-shirt, ripped a little, very faded, otherwise serviceable. He could still get a table anywhere no matter what he was wearing, but... that wasn't the kind of thing that made Steve happy. Those weren't his favorite meals. And if Steve was going to be mad at him later, they should at least have this first. If they could.

"I was thinking the diner around the corner," Tony said. "Nothing fancy. Just you, me, absolutely no candlelight, endless coffee refills, and your usual massive cheeseburger order."

"Such a romantic," Steve said, but he was still smiling, wide and happy, and his hand was splayed warm against Tony's lower back as they walked down the hallway.

The diner around the corner was actually one of Steve's favorite places to eat, which meant that it had of necessity become one of Tony's. Even if the food hadn't been good -- and it was -- it was still a nice, cozy place. The waitstaff and the regulars had become inured to their presence. Not only did no one ever ask for autographs, no one so much as blinked an eye when six Avengers came tottering in on a post-battle adrenaline crash and ate all the pie. They were their Avengers, Tony had heard one of the cooks explaining to a new hire. Steve knew all of the waitstaff's names, and all of their children's names, and they brought him bizarre old-fashioned cakes that probably hadn't been on the menu in half a century.

"I didn't get your email until after five," Steve said, still apologetic, as they slid into one of the old ripped booths and Maureen had called out that she was bringing them their usual. "Wasn't at a computer."

Tony waved a hand. "It's not a big deal." He smiled. "I understand that you can't check it in your head or anything."

Steve's mouth compressed into a thin line, the way it usually did when Tony brought up Extremis. Sure, he'd just gotten it, and he understood that it was a lot to get used to, and he would have understood if it was just the idea of him having technopathy that was a problem, but Steve disapproved of the whole thing, which Tony thought was honestly pretty rich coming from a successful recipient of the super-soldier serum. Tony had been, literally, dying. Extremis had saved him. How could Steve begrudge him that?

"Look," Steve said, quietly, "can we-- can we just not talk about that tonight?"

Tony took a breath. Held it. Let it out. Switched the feeds off. He could compromise. "All right," he said. "I'm not online right now anyway. My mother taught me not to read at the table."

A smile curled around Steve's lips. "You actually obeyed her about that?"

"Sometimes." He hadn't thought about that in years. It had been a strange few days.

The waitress left glasses of water at their table; Steve took a sip of his. "I got distracted this afternoon, was what I was trying to say. I was showing Logan around and we got to the gym and, well--"

Tony could guess what had happened. He wished he'd been there to see the sparring. Even with Logan's claws in, that had to have been impressive, in the way that only fights between superpowered humans with healing factors could be. It made him want to wince a little. He had a healing factor himself now -- thank you, Extremis -- but he still didn't really understand Steve's great love for recreational hand-to-hand combat. Tony had enough of that to suit him in their day job.

"So who won?"

Steve looked a little guilty, but only a little. "I couldn't actually say. We were fighting, and Peter swung in and tripped Logan, and then Jess was there, and we all decided to go for it. Jess was the last one standing, but technically she was on the ceiling." He smiled. "Might not count. But it was great fun. Team bonding. You should join us, next time."

"I might," Tony said, sipping his water, and then his coffee. "But haven't you had enough of team bonding recently? Are you forgetting about the part where we were all tied up naked together in the Savage Land? Yesterday?"

"That wasn't team bonding." Steve grinned at him. "That was team bondage."

Tony choked on his water, spluttering.

"You waited until my mouth was full to say that. You--" he pointed a finger-- "I don't even know what to do with you, sitting there with your goddamn innocent smile--"

Well, now he was thinking about Steve and bondage. At least he didn't have to stand up anytime soon.

"I was hoping you wanted to take me home with you," Steve said, straight-faced, briskly, like this was some kind of plan of attack he was explaining. "After that I've got a few suggestions if you can't think of anything. Could be bondage if you want, though if it's me you want to tie up, you're going to need the restraints at my place unless you were already preparing for this. I'm good either way. I'm really more of a service top, honestly, but I switch sometimes. I'd definitely switch for you."

Tony gaped.

Steve just smiled at him. "Tony, if you haven't noticed, you are years too late to corrupt me."

"I would have liked to." The thought was somewhere between wistful nostalgia and massive turn-on, which had to be the strangest emotional combination ever.

But Steve shook his head. "It's better this way. Trust me."

Under the table, Steve's leg brushed against his, sliding slowly and deliberately up Tony's calf. Tony swallowed. Steve smiled that same innocent smile.

Okay, so maybe it was better this way.

He was saved from replying by the arrival of their food: Steve's cheeseburger, and Steve's other cheeseburger, and Steve's other other cheeseburger, and Tony's own much more reasonable veal parmigiana. Steve got through one and a half burgers -- the fight must have taken a lot out of him -- before he even looked up again.

"New Avengers, huh?" Tony said. "You think this is fate? This team?"

Steve's smile was almost shy. "Maybe. Seems like a lot of good things have been happening to me lately. Things I've been hoping for for a long time."

Well, there was someone who very definitely had not read Tony's story in which he was tortured repeatedly. Tony tried to think of something to say. "Did you know the Avengers used to have a betting pool going on us?"

Speaking of things he hadn't thought about in years. Sheesh.

"What?" Steve blinked. "No. About what?"

"Us." Tony gestured at the two of them and picked at his food. "Getting together. When we would get together. Everyone picked a date. If I had to guess, I'd say Clint started it. But I can't remember now. It was a hell of a long time ago."

Steve was still staring. "Wait. They bet on us getting together? Why have I never heard this?"

"Mmm-hmm." Tony laughed. "One, they probably thought you'd object to the part where everyone was betting on it." He watched as Steve shut his mouth and nodded. "Two, they didn't want to tell the subject of the bet."

"But you knew?"

"I was one of the people betting on it."

"You just said they didn't want to tell the subject--"

Tony held up his hand. "They asked me. Me, Tony. To bet about you and Iron Man. I mean, it's not the worst thing that ever happened to me and my secret identity, but--"

And Steve started laughing. "Oh, geez. You-- what did you even tell them, then? You picked a date?"

"I don't even remember which date I picked." He frowned. "I was probably extremely pessimistic about my chances, so, hey, I might even have won. I should ask someone."

Steve polished off his last hamburger and pushed the plate away. "On that note, I should probably mention... I don't know who else you want to tell about us right now, or how, but... Logan knows."

"Does he?"

Steve colored. "Said he could... smell you on me."

"Ah." Tony considered the statement. "I'm sure he'll keep it to himself. I mean, he's been on the X-Men for years, and those kids can't keep it in their spandex pants. He probably considers who's fucking whom to be important tactical knowledge in any situation. Not that that's an answer to your question." Because you're going to go home, read what I sent you, and break up with me, thereby rendering it moot.

"I'd like to tell people," Steve said.

And it was like he could compel terrifying truths from Tony just by looking at him, because Tony swallowed and said, "Yeah. Me too. Not tonight, though."

"Not tonight," Steve agreed. "I've got other plans. If you're up for them." His voice was full of promises, low and wanton, and his bright eyes had darkened, blue-black, eager.

You won't be up for them, Tony thought, miserably, but he smiled.

They ended up at Tony's floor of the Tower, halfway across the living area before Tony had worked up the courage to actually say something. Steve was holding him close, pressing kisses across his face, one hand untucking Tony's t-shirt, and Tony's window of opportunity to talk about this was narrowing rapidly, but he couldn't just take Steve to bed when Steve didn't know--

Or maybe it wasn't too late. Maybe, if Steve hadn't actually read the story, Tony could tell him not to. Maybe he could take it all back.

"Wait," Tony said, and Steve immediately froze, letting Tony go, stepping back, like he thought he was the one who'd done something wrong here.

Steve was looking at him. "Are you all right? Did I-- did I do something wrong?" and he looked so worried that Tony wondered what expression was on his own face.

"No, no, not at all," he lied. And then he smiled, like it was something casual. "It just occurred to me -- I was wondering if you'd read the story I sent you this afternoon. You didn't say. No big deal, really."

It was on the tip of his tongue to say it's really okay if you don't read it or maybe I sent you the wrong one or even the ultimate failure, I changed my mind about this whole thing, so why don't you delete it? He opened his mouth.

But Steve was nodding. "Oh, that? Yeah, sure, I read it when I read the email." He shrugged, like it was nothing. Like it hadn't bothered him. "Better than the last one, honestly," he added. "Definite improvement. I liked it. Do you want to get back to the kissing now?"

Tony stared. He couldn't have meant that. Maybe he hadn't actually read it. What the hell was going on? "I-- you--"

Okay, so he couldn't actually form sentences.

"No on the kissing?" Steve asked, and then Steve seemed to actually see him, because he blanched. "Tony, geez, you're really not all right, are you?" As Tony watched, Steve visibly shifted gears, flipping out of Concerned But Still Hoping To Have A Good Time into Extremely Concerned Avengers Co-Leader. "Okay, whoa. You look like you're going to faint, Tony, please, sit down." He led them both to the couch; Tony sat, unresisting. "Can you talk to me? Was it something I said?"

"You liked the story?" Tony asked, numbly.

"This is all about that?" Steve sighed. "Yeah, I liked the story, I just said so, didn't I?" He leaned in; his eyes were wide and earnest. He meant it. God. "So if you were waiting for criticism, really, don't worry. Like I said, better than the other one." He stroked Tony's hand, softly, reassuringly.

Tony was still staring. "You liked it?"

"Look," Steve said, and there was the slightest undercurrent of exasperation in his voice, "if there's some particular reaction you want me to have, will you just tell me what it is? I liked it. It was sweet."

Sweet? "Steve," Tony said, flatly, "I sent you a story where Hydra tortured you. I described your injuries in graphic detail. I wrote a story where I hurt you."

Now Steve was staring. "Tony, that was not the point of that story."

"Of course it was." Tony wrote it. He would know. "It was a story about hurting you."

Steve was looking at him, thoughtfully. "You still haven't figured out that they're not about me, have you?"

What the hell did he mean by that? Was this some kind of joke? "Steve, they're obviously about you. This one was about hurting you. Torturing you. How can you even say you liked it?"

"Because that wasn't the point. Not at all." Steve's hand tightened around his. "If you'd wanted to write a story about Hydra torturing me, you could have written that. You could have written thousands of words of blood and gore and tears and suffering. Interrogations. Experiments. You could have written them killing me. But you wrote about yourself. You helping me. You fixing me up. Because you cared about me. You had to write the pain, so you could write the comforting. That was what it was about. They're all about you, Tony, didn't you know that?"

"I-- what?" That couldn't be true. It really couldn't.

"So it was sweet," Steve continued. "That you were writing about one of your best traits. Because really you do take care of people, so much. It's one of the things I love about you. I woke up in the future alone and you gave me a place to stay. A team to belong to."

"You know that was just because--"

"Because you had the spare room? Because I'm Captain America?" Steve's mouth quirked. "Tony, you do it for everyone. You said you couldn't afford to pay the Avengers -- or, I'm assuming, yourself -- but you spent the afternoon making Logan's gear. You know that every other team leader in the world would delegate that or buy something good enough off the shelf. I'm sure you've figured something out to help Peter out financially. You do all our IT work. You've got a company to run and you're here with us. You're running the team with me. If we had to pay you we sure as hell couldn't afford you."

"It's not about the money," Tony said. "It's never been about the money. I'm just here because--"

He saw the trap as he walked into it.

"Because you care," Steve said. "Yeah."

Tony opened his mouth and shut it. "Suppose I admit you have a point. Then how was that other story about me? You can't be going to tell me that I really secretly want to be fucked hard with no prep and no lube, because let me tell you, the answer there is no."

"Well, no," Steve said, but his eyes flashed in determination. "But it was a story about what you wanted. And, okay, I'll admit that I thought the surrounding... circumstances... were, uh, improbable, but it was really about what you wanted to happen. In bed. I guess for your first time. You wanted someone who knew what they were doing, who would take care of you, who would make you feel special and loved. And given that you didn't know about lube and you thought it was supposed to hurt, you did the best you could depicting that. You were working with what you knew."

That's not it at all, Tony wanted to say, but then it collided with the awful idea that Steve was right, that Steve had read these things and seen him and known him, things Tony didn't even know about himself, and he couldn't speak. You were supposed to hate this. You were supposed to hate me.

"Oh."

Steve pulled him closer, pulled him over into his arms, and just held him, squeezing tight. "And now I've totally ruined the mood. Sorry."

"Don't be," Tony said. "I started it." He twisted, a little awkward. He didn't want Steve to let go, but bunched up like this they had too many elbows or knees or something.

Steve tilted his head in the direction of the bedroom. "Bed's more comfortable, you know. We don't have to do anything tonight if you don't want to."

"All right," Tony said, and then Steve was leading him to the bed and smiling and smiling.

They didn't do anything that night. They went to bed, and Steve pulled him close, just holding him, petting his hair, his shoulders, his back. Cuddling him. Tony waited, a little tense at first, to see if Steve had ulterior motives, because people always did; he waited for Steve's hands to drift lower. They didn't. Steve only held him, and something about the pure, simple, human contact made Tony want to cry. Not that he did, of course. Steve kissed him lightly, lazily, almost absently, wherever his face happened to be -- Tony's neck, his shoulder, his arm -- like he'd had thousands of kisses saved up and needed to use them. Tony kept smiling, stupidly, his face turned away so Steve couldn't see. Steve was murmuring words against his skin -- compliments, praise, reassurance -- and he didn't seem to expect Tony to say anything back. He didn't seem to expect anything from Tony, and that was so very different from everyone else Tony had ever slept with that he didn't know what to do except just lie there until sleep took them both, with Steve still wrapped around him, warm and strong. Like he was so used to being a shield that it was just what he did. Like he was going to make everything all right, just by being there.

It was one of the best nights Tony had ever had, and no one had gotten naked. It was what Tony had needed -- he'd needed it so much, and he hadn't even known, and somehow Steve had known -- and he'd wanted to thank him for it, but there was no way to thank him without sounding pathetic and needy, so in the morning he'd settled for just kissing Steve really, really thoroughly. He knew how to use his body for that. Maybe Steve would want that from him.

Ignoring the invitation in Tony's kiss, like he knew Tony hadn't really wanted anything to come of it right then, Steve smiled dazedly, thanked Tony -- as if anything Tony had done deserved thanks -- and pulled himself together enough to head out for the day, murmuring something about seeing him later.

Tony watched Steve walk out, sighed, and put his head in his hands. He turned the data feeds back on; he hadn't even noticed he'd still had Extremis off.

Steve had really helped him. Steve had just been there. Steve had been wonderful. Tony was... well, Tony was a mess. Wasn't that obvious?

Tony did not deserve him. Not in any way, shape or form.

Steve was going to realize that sooner or later. It would hurt like hell, obviously, but it was going to happen. It was inevitable. Steve just didn't get it.

He got up. Got dressed. Went downstairs. Gave Logan his gear and made him an account on the Avengers server -- and if Logan smelled Steve on him, he didn't say anything.

Then he sat there, alone, tipping his head back to stare at the ceiling, letting the data feeds flow through the back of his mind as he thought. He just needed to find something that there was no way Steve could believe that he secretly liked, something that he couldn't rationalize away, something that Steve wouldn't be able to believe that a good person liked, something that would show him who Tony was, dammit. It would have to be something really awful, something awful enough to convince Steve that Tony wasn't worth it. And if Steve left, well, then Tony would have at least been honest, and then Steve would finally understand. It would be better. Not easy, but better. For Steve. Steve could do better. Why delay the inevitable?

He blinked the nearest computer on and went to the now-familiar hidden Invaders directory. Probably one of the more explicit stories would be better; Steve had been pretty horrified by that first one, before he'd had time to regroup and explain it away. And Tony'd written some pretty filthy stuff. The tentacles were the least of it, really.

He hovered thoughtfully over one of the files in the middle of the directory. "An Ecstasy of Fumbling." Oh, that was pretentious. Tony snorted. He'd probably thought the war poets were a great thematic fit for his war pornography. Wasn't that from that poem about watching a man die from chlorine gas? He wondered what this story was about; he didn't remember writing it. It was one of the later ones. Almost one of the last ones, by the datestamps. He'd been a couple years older. He'd probably been drunk at the time.

He opened the file.

They didn't let me onto the captured Hydra bases until they were cleared. Technically I was a consultant, and they couldn't risk it, they said. I had to admit that it made it much easier to do my job, which was provisionally sorting and classifying all the mad science experiments that Hydra left behind. If I'd had to do that while shooting at them it would have been much more difficult. So the rest of the team went in, cleared the bases, and then came back and dropped me in. It was a good routine. And man, did Hydra ever have some weird science.

This base looked to be more of the same. After a mildly-uncomfortable flight -- courtesy of the Human Torch -- I was literally dropped, just outside the base gates, which had been bashed open at some point and were now hanging precariously by their hinges. There were scorch marks across the outside walls, and the metal supports were half-melted. We'd let ourselves in, clearly.

When I stepped in, there was a medium-sized courtyard filled with what looked like the remains of a Panzer division. I whistled at the carnage. Nice. Most of it didn't even look much like tanks anymore, all twisted metal bits, faintly smoking. In the shade of one of the few intact tanks, a Panzer IV, Toro and Bucky were sprawled happily together, with a deck of cards between them; Bucky was grinning and lighting a cigarette off of Toro's outstretched flaming hand.

"Hi, Tony," said Bucky. "We saved you some toys to play with inside."

I waved. "Where do you want me first?"

"You might as well start at the beginning. Just inside, first door on the left -- it looked like some kind of experimental munitions storage." Bucky shrugged. "Your kind of thing, anyway."

"Thanks," I said. "Is Cap in there too?"

"Yeah," Toro said, as Bucky made a disgusted face at his cards and folded. "You'll probably find him. Or he'll find you. Whichever."

I nodded and left them to their game. Inside the base everything was still and quiet; the only sound was my footsteps. The lights flickered above me. It was eerie. I turned left, and into the first doorway, and was confronted with a smallish room. There was a worktable against one wall; the other walls were floor-to-ceiling shelves, holding crate after crate of weaponry.

I picked a crate at random and dragged it to the table. Schwulenbombe, a note on the lid read, in crabbed script, and I frowned at it. Something bomb. Warm? Warm weather? Humid? My German wasn't that great. Whatever it was, it wasn't anything I had heard of. New Hydra development, clearly. Probably should take a look. I pried off the lid to reveal two bombs, gleaming silvery spheres, nestled snugly in their packing material.

"Well," I said to the bomb, as I lifted it out of the box and set it carefully on the table, "aren't you a fascinating little thing?" I unslung my pack and reached for my toolkit. "Let's see what makes you tick."

I had half the casing off and was staring at the bomb's innards by the time Cap came by; I caught a flash of moving blue out of the corner of my eye.

"Hey, Tony," Cap said, coming in and peering over my shoulder. "What have you got there?"

I frowned. "Not really sure yet. It was labeled as some kind of bomb, but it's not explosive, or at least not primarily explosive, as far as I can tell. It looks like a chemical shell, see?" I gestured with the end of the wire cutters. "You've got a teeny-tiny detonator, and what looks like a pressurized gas reservoir."

Cap peered at it critically. "What kind of gas?"

I shrugged. "Nothing I know. The crate label wasn't useful. No name, no chemical formula or anything. Just said something about 'warm.' I was thinking about disarming this little guy completely, and we can send it back to HQ, get it analyzed safely."

"Good thinking."

I grinned and dug in with the wire cutters. Okay. Easy. Red wire. Careful. Careful. I could do this. Cap leaned forward to watch me, his head casting a shadow over the wires. I squeezed, the cutters snapped shut in my hands and then something flashed bright in front of me, shit, shit, I'd messed up--

Thick gas, bright lavender, plumed out of the bomb.

I shut my eyes, shut my mouth, threw myself back out of the chair, and ripped the gas mask off my belt in one well-practiced movement. Oh, God. We were going to die. I had done something stupid, and we were going to die.

I shoved the mask over my head and breathed in.

Cap didn't have a gas mask.

When I opened my eyes again, safe, I saw through the thick lenses that Cap was still there, staggering backward, wreathed in purple gas. His mouth was shut but his eyes were open, and I ran for the door, grabbing his arm and dragging him. He coughed heavily, the sound rattling in his chest, as we ran, and I couldn't look back to see if he was okay, if he was dying, if he was even now coughing his lungs out, because we had to get out of here right now--

Tendrils of the gas were still drifting along with us as we burst into the courtyard.

"Gas!" Cap yelled, hoarsely, and thank God, at least he could still speak. "Gas! Gas! Go! Get upwind!"

Namor and the Human Torch were already in the air. Bucky stared for an instant and then leaped to his feet. Toro looked up, threw his cards down, grabbed Bucky around the waist, and then the two of them were in flight, following Namor and Torch, quickly disappearing from sight. They were going to be safe.

The two of us were another matter.

We were alone in the courtyard. Cap was staring at me, wide-eyed, and I was pretty sure I was breathing harder, in fear, loud in the mask. He looked okay. He was still looking okay, but how long did it take to take effect? If I'd killed him-- God, if I'd killed him--

It had been two, maybe three minutes. Cap was looking between me and the door to the base, the one that he'd kicked shut behind us, and I took his arm and led him over to the farthest corner of the courtyard, near the tank where Bucky and Toro had been. He leaned against the tank. I scuffed at the abandoned cards and waited. It was windy enough that the gas was dispersing fast, and there hopefully hadn't been much getting out with us.

After what felt like an eternity but was probably only another couple of minutes, Cap tapped my shoulder and gestured toward my face. All clear.

I yanked the mask off and coughed; Cap looked concerned.

"Did you get hit?"

"I don't think so," I said. "If I did, not a lot. Did you?" Maybe he didn't breathe it in. Maybe it would be okay. I was sorry, I was sorry, God, I was so sorry.

Cap sighed. "Right in the face. Smelled nice, actually. Kind of sweet."

Well, that ruled out chlorine and mustard. Not that it had been likely to be either of those, what with the color and with it likely being some kind of Hydra experiment. "Okay," I said, and swallowed hard. "We're at five minutes or so since exposure. How are you feeling?"

Cap shut his eyes and took a breath, assessing his condition. "Fine. Good, actually."

"Good?"

"Yeah." Cap waved a hand. "You know, just... good. Happy, maybe."

Elevated mood? Okay, that was a weird effect. Hydra couldn't have done that on purpose. Maybe it was reacting with the serum strangely.

"All right," I said, warily. "You-- you just keep on feeling good, then. Let me know if anything changes."

Cap nodded, and I looked away and kicked at the cards again, trying to sweep them back together into a pile, for the sake of anything to do. Because I couldn't bear to look at him. This was my fault.

When I looked up again, Cap was staring at me, and-- whoa. His eyes were nearly black. "Cap," I said, hesitantly, "are you still okay there? Your eyes are-- your pupils are really dilated."

Cap's nod was jerky, convulsive. "I'm-- I'm-- oh. This is very strange. I feel-- I feel--"

"Strange how?" I said, and everything in me twisted in awful terror.

He was leaning back against the tank, gloved fingers clenching against the metal. "Tony," he said, his voice low and urgent and something I'd never heard before, not from him. "Tony, please, I need you."

The words slid into my frightened brain and out again and I couldn't process them at all. "Need me to what?"

He needed a better medic than me, God, he needed help, where was the kit, dammit, what could I give him, what the hell could I give him?

I took a step back, thinking, trying to figure out where the first-aid kit was, if we'd left one here, if there was something inside the base that I could grab fast, had I seen anything useful on the way in--

"I need you," he repeated, and his hand closed over my wrist, tight, when I tried to move away. "I want you. Please, Tony. Be with me."

His breathing had gone fast and shallow, and I looked down between us and-- oh, fuck. Cap was massively, massively hard, his erection distending even the heavy leather of his uniform pants.

On the plus side, we now knew what the gas did. Jesus Christ.

"Cap," I said, carefully, "are you sure this is really the time or place for this? We're in enemy territory. We're in a Hydra base here."

Not that I hadn't fantasized about this -- oh, way too many times to count. If it had been anywhere else, somewhere else, any other time, I would have been one hundred percent thrilled. But I couldn't say as I'd ever pictured my first time with Captain America up against a tank in the courtyard of a ruined Hydra base with him out of his mind on Hydra aphrodisiacs. Probably he hadn't either. If he'd been clear-headed he wouldn't have wanted this. He wouldn't have wanted me.

"I have to," Cap said, and his voice was strained and desperate, pushed nearly to the point of breaking. "I have to, right now, Tony, please-- I need you-- I need you to help me. Please. I can't take it, I can't." The words broke off into a low whine, a sob of need and pain.

He was begging. Captain America was begging. God. Hydra couldn't break him with torture, but they'd done this to him. He might actually die if I didn't help him. I didn't know what the gas could actually do, but it sounded frighteningly possible.

Cap needed me.

There was really only one thing I could do.

"All right," I said. My mouth was dry. "Tell me what you want, Cap. Tell me what you need."

"You," Cap said. "I need you, I just-- oh, Tony--"

Blindingly fast, his hands were on me, fisted in my shirt, pulling my jacket back and off, literally ripping my shirt at the seams, like it was nothing more than tissue paper, until the fabric fell away. Whoa, okay, that was fast, I thought, but, hey, gas exposure, I needed the clothes off anyway.

And then Cap's hands were on my belt, fumbling at my fly, which he got open a little more gently, and I could feel my heart pounding in my chest. He'd meant he needed it right now. I wasn't ready. I couldn't take this. Maybe he could slow down.

Without warning, he ripped my pants away and I was naked in the sunshine; he flipped me back around, bending me against the front of the tank, practically lifting me up and pinning me in place, one-handed. My breath hissed out of me as he pressed me against the metal. Cap wouldn't hurt me, right? Even drugged, he was still Cap. What if he did, though? He could do anything to me, anything he wanted, and I wouldn't be able to stop him.

"Little slower," I gasped out. "Please. If you can. Not quite ready to join you on the ride."

I couldn't see what Cap was doing, but I felt the heat of his body close behind me, and then a weight between my shoulderblades, the pressure of his face. He was leaning against me.

"Sorry, Tony," Cap murmured into my skin. The words were an agonized groan. "Sorry, sorry, I'm trying, I can't-- what can I do?"

He couldn't kiss me -- he'd had a mouthful of gas. And if he touched me he'd find out that I really wasn't hard yet and then he might freak out and we'd be back to him maybe dying. So there was really nothing he could do.

"Just go easy," I said.

There was a wet noise, Cap spitting into his hand -- I guessed that was all the lube I was going to get -- and then there were two fingers in me. It wasn't torture but it wasn't really great yet, and I shut my eyes and buried my head against the bumpy surface of the Panzer's Zimmerit anti-magnetic coating and tried to hold on as Cap worked me open with a remarkable amount of patience for someone who was audibly sobbing with need. He had big hands, and his fingers slid into me, not quite slickly, and I could feel myself starting to panic again, my hands curling into useless fists. He had to do it now; we had to get this over with.

"Go," I ground out, through gritted teeth. "Do it now, now, Cap, come on, fuck me. You have to. Just do it."

He slid his fingers out, put one hand on my back to brace me down -- I didn't even try fighting it -- and slid on in with one fast burning rush that made the world white out with pain, and I bit my lip so that I didn't cry out.

"Tony?"

"Do what you have to," I said, but Cap -- even though it had to be killing him -- didn't move.

Cap's hand on my hip tightened. "I can-- I can--"

His breath was hot on my back, on my shoulder, and then he kissed me, half-biting me, hard, just exactly right, and something about the pain made my nerves light up and switch on and suddenly it was starting to feel good, good enough to work with for now.

I clenched down hard, and Cap groaned.

"I can't hold on, Tony," he said, low and hoarse. "I have to-- I have to--"

And then he was pinning me to the tank, fucking into me, rough and fast and huge, every thrust slamming me against the metal. I tried to stay on my feet but gave up, and I just let him hold me with his overwhelming strength. He was so strong. I couldn't have stopped him. And somehow I had gone through that thought, flipped it, come out the other side, because I was pretty sure that the thought had terrified me when we started and now it was still terrifying me but it was making me hard. Or at least, that's what my body was trying to do, pressed up against the rough metal.

Cap was taking me, Cap was using me, and there was nothing I could do about it, no way to stop it, and here I was getting off on that; God, I was harder than I'd ever been. He could do anything to me. He was just using me, for his pleasure, for his needs, I thought, as he thrust into me once more, and maybe he wouldn't stop, and maybe he'd just have to keep fucking me until I couldn't take it, until he was done, and wouldn't I just love that?

Cap slid one hand forward from my hip to my cock, and he knew now that I was hard, that I was -- God -- about to come from this. He knew what he'd done to me, he knew that I liked it, that he'd had to use me. And then he tipped his head forward and was coming, heavy, rough, teeth fastened into my shoulder, sending pleasure running through me. He'd done this to me, he'd made me like this. His hips were shoving into me mindlessly, wildly, like his body was refusing to be done, and he was shaking against me, and he had my cock in his hand and I couldn't move and he could do whatever he wanted to me and I shut my eyes and came.

When Cap was done trembling, he slid out of me slowly and stepped back, giving me enough space to turn around.

I looked down at myself. I was a mess. There were huge dark dents along my chest from the tank; those were going to bruise. My hips were definitely going to bruise. Cap's bite stung at my neck. I was covered in my own come -- God, I'd come a lot -- and Cap's was probably trickling out of me.

"Tony?" Cap asked. He was breathing hard, but other than that he seemed to be his normal self; that had done it. I had done it. "Are you all right?"

I nodded. "Never better."

"You sure?"

I grinned crookedly. "Just doing my duty for America. Glad to be of service."

And, well, if I'd liked it a little more than duty called for, he didn't have to know, did he?

Jesus fucking Christ.

Tony closed the file and took a few steadying breaths until he was sure he wasn't going to be sick. Sure, yeah, those kinds of fantasies were normal; that was what they said, right? He'd never had them before. Not that he remembered.

Maybe he hadn't wanted to remember.

Maybe he'd thought he'd deserved it.

He looked at the datestamp again. 17 Jan 1991. He'd been... hmm... nineteen. January '91. Desert Storm. He'd... he'd gotten his first big contract for the Air Force. Oh. He knew exactly what day this was. It was the day he'd made them Seedpod. Smart bomb, miniaturized. The wave of the future. He'd slaved over the blueprints, over the prototype, knowing that he was buying the funding to help humanity, the opportunity to do good, the path to the future -- and all of it was being bought with someone else's blood. And he'd done it anyway. And then he'd gotten very, very drunk and apparently written -- or probably dictated to one of his nascent voice-recognition systems, because the spelling was too good -- a story where his fucking fantasy about himself was to be the guy who disarmed the bombs, and when he failed to disarm one his childhood hero Captain America, symbol of justice and liberty and everything that was good, held him down and fucked him hard.

There was probably some kind of psychology dissertation in that.

And, sure, intellectually it was okay, it was fine for other people to fantasize about this, but he'd written about his best friend forcing himself on him. And Steve liking it. And him liking it.

It would disgust Steve for certain. Tony was feeling pretty disgusted with himself already.

There was no way Steve could see this and still want him. Absolutely not.

Date: Thu, 28 Apr 2005 10:17:42 -0400
From: "Tony Stark" <[email protected]>
To: "Steve Rogers" <[email protected]>
Subject: One last story

Steve--

After this I won't ask you to read any more of my deep dark fantasies. I promise.

--T

Attachment: "ecstasy.txt"

Tony got no work whatsoever done for the next two hours. He hadn't really thought he'd be able to. His thoughts swirled around and around, water down a dark drain, circling a sick pit of anxiety. Any moment now Steve would write back, a curt email, that's it or enough or you're disgusting.

It was noon. He couldn't eat. He picked halfheartedly at his food. It was all nauseating.

He threw it away.

"Tony?" Steve said, from outside the closed door. "Can I come in?"

No, he thought. I don't want it to be over yet.

"Sure."

Steve stepped in, uniformed, cowl pulled back. His jaw was clenched tight, set, determined; it was the way he always looked in the midst of a fight, the way he looked in the frozen seconds before battle started, the way he looked when they were ready to leap out of the Quinjet, hatch open onto the sky.

He shut the door behind him. He sat, unprompted, pulling his chair up next to Tony, on his side of the desk.

"I have something to say to you." Steve's voice was low, even, controlled.

Tony could picture it now. It's not you, it's me, he might say, even though it was Tony, it was most definitely Tony. I was wrong about you. I can't deal with this.

"Go for it."

And Steve -- why did he have to be cruel about this? -- actually smiled.

"Bring the tank, Tony."

Tony stared. What did he mean? That wasn't one of the things he had been supposed to say. "I-- what-- you-- what?" There weren't any words left in Tony's mind. "What do you mean, bring the tank?"

"I'm not stupid." Steve stared back at him. "I know what you're trying to do. You're trying to frighten me off with your fantasies. But it won't work, Tony. You're not going to scare me. You can't make me run. There is nothing in your head that I am afraid of."

This was a thing he had forgotten about Steve, somehow: Steve Rogers was the most stubborn man on the face of the planet, and when Tony tried to push him -- hell, when anyone tried to push him -- he dug in and he pushed back. Hard.

"Nothing?"

"Nothing," Steve repeated, still determined, eyes wide and sincere. "And I want you to be happy, Tony. I really want you to be happy. With me. With us."

This was really not how this conversation had been supposed to go.

"Oh," Tony said. He felt like his brain was waiting to reboot.

Steve folded his hands together and looked at him, just looked at him. His eyes had gone soft. "It's-- okay, honestly, it's not a kink I've ever tried, and I suspect it's not going to do much for me personally, but I want to give you what you want. You can absolutely have it. I don't think you believed me when I said I'd do anything for you, but I will. I swear I will."

Tony stared. "You'll-- you're saying you'll rip my clothes off and fuck me over a tank. If that's what I want."

Steve nodded. His jaw was still set; it was the world's most stubborn declaration of kinky love. "That's what I'm saying."

"What about the rest of it?" Tony pressed. Surely Steve had freaked out about the consent issues. Tony had freaked out about the consent issues. There was no way Steve would want to do that. "The part where-- the part where it's rough. The part where you make me. Where you have to."

"Like I said." Steve's mouth looked a little pinched. "I-- I had to think about it. I've never done it before and I'm... I'm not a great actor, Tony, so it won't be perfect, but I really want to make you happy. That's all I want. If this is what it takes, I'll do that. This is what you want, right?"

No, Tony thought. It wasn't what he wanted, God, it wasn't what he wanted at all. Okay, the part with just the tank, sure, that could be hot, he could get into that, but the rest-- really, really no. But he couldn't say no. He couldn't back down now. He'd gotten himself into this mess. He'd fucked everything up. He'd just have to keep going forward.

"Yeah," Tony said. "This is what I want."

Tony hated himself a lot sometimes.

Steve just lit up, brighter than anything, and Tony hated himself even more. "I'm glad." And then he leaned in, grinning. "So, I say again: bring the tank." He paused. "You have a tank, right? I was just assuming you had a tank -- I mean, you're Tony Stark, I think by this point I assume you have one of everything. I guess we could just pretend to have a tank--"

"I can get a tank," Tony said, hollowly, feeling the despair sink into his stomach like a lead weight. "It might take me a few days."

"That's fine," Steve said. "We're going to need to plan the scene, anyway." He gave a little smile. "I've always liked that part. And I just wanted to say, Tony, that it was brave of you to send me that, to trust me, and I'm going to-- I'm going to treat you right, okay? I've got you."

And then Steve was reaching out and holding his hand, like he thought Tony might need reassurance, support, after making this admission. Which he did, really, but for exactly the wrong reasons.

Tony was the worst person on Earth, and if he managed to make it through this alive, Steve was going to kill him if he ever found out just how screwed up he was.

The irony of it was that if he'd been doing this for real -- well, he was doing it for real, but if he'd been doing something he actually wanted -- it would have been amazing, because judging by the planning Steve would have been a joy to play with and probably one of the best tops he'd ever known. Tony couldn't say that it came as a surprise, because, well, Steve, and the thought was half-warming and half-depressing, because this was everything that he couldn't actually have, the way he never wanted it.

Steve was scrupulously detail-oriented as they sketched out the scene, back and forth over email -- and thank God, Tony didn't have to do this to his face. They agreed on safewords (colors), on what Tony would wear (something that he didn't mind coming off him in pieces, and Steve could, yes, rip fabric), how they'd bring extra clothes for him afterwards, maybe blankets (it was Steve who thought of aftercare), what level of resistance Tony was lying and pretending he wanted (something restraining that he could struggle against, but no actual violence). He cared so much about making it right for Tony, his affection evident in every word.

Steve was, of course, extremely safety-conscious, which was definitely what Tony had expected about Steve vis-à-vis kink, but it was a little strange given that after a decade Steve was still the guy who, during battle, threw himself off of buildings and just assumed that someone would catch him before he hit the ground. He was concerned about other people's safety, anyway.

And honestly, physically, there was absolutely no better choice than Steve. Steve knew exactly how to use his body, in every possible context; it was his weapon, it was his tool. He was so highly trained that he probably knew eight ways to restrain someone without harming them in the slightest. And Steve knew Tony. They'd fought beside each other for a decade, and for all that Tony complained about it they were still each other's most frequent sparring partners. No one knew what he could take better than Steve did. Steve knew exactly where his limits were, exactly where his weak spots were, exactly how far he could push him. He already trusted Steve with his life, every day.

Hell, even in the armor Steve could probably take him. He'd just maybe have to let him, a little, and that was-- okay, that was incredibly hot. It wasn't like Tony was actually turned off by the idea of Steve holding him down; it was just the part where they were going to pretend they couldn't stop.

He could get through it.

Tony leapt a foot back on the mats just in time and Steve's punch sailed by his arm.

"Geez," Tony said, "nearly got me."

Steve laughed and shook his hair out of his eyes, holding his fists up again. "Ten years, Tony, for ten years I've been telling you you're weaker on the right. You have to cover."

"Fine," Tony retorted, and he took a swing that was nowhere near Steve for the hell of it, "I'll put stronger repulsors on the right side of the suit."

"Not what I meant, and you know it."

Tony kicked high, and Steve -- just because he could, Tony suspected -- grabbed his leg and held onto it, pushing it higher. He didn't drop him, though, and Tony hopped a little, off-balance. Had he been able to kick that high before Extremis? Probably not. It had fixed him. His body. His heart. Everything. He loved it.

"You gonna throw me?" Tony asked, still wobbling. "Or are you gonna hang on to that leg?"

"Mmm," Steve said, in a voice that was carefully noncommittal. And then he grinned. "I like it. I think I'll keep it."

His other hand was sliding down Tony's calf, down the back of Tony's thigh, and if this was how they were going to play this suddenly it was a really good game. Steve's grip relaxed, and Tony yanked his leg back, threw the rest of himself forward, and then somehow they were in a pile together on the floor, Steve on top of him, and Steve's knee had slid between Tony's legs in what Tony was pretty sure was not actually any kind of approved wrestling pin.

"Gotcha," Steve said, and then he leaned in and kissed Tony on the nose.

"Pretty sure that's more than one leg you're hanging on to."

"I'll hang on to all of you," Steve said, "if you'll let me."

And Tony remembered again how much he didn't deserve this, but he wanted it, he wanted it so much, and he couldn't think of anything to say.

Steve tilted his head. "Any progress on the tank?"

Tony knew a guy who owed him a favor, and who also owned an appropriate tank, and who was willing to let him borrow it. Since Tony didn't actually want to do this -- if he had to do it at all -- somewhere he didn't own and couldn't control, he had to transport the thing to borrow it. There'd been a bit of a delay. But, unfortunately, it was getting resolved fast.

Tony made himself smile. "What are you doing Friday night?"

Steve raised his eyebrows. "Apparently I'm bending you over a tank."

"Exactly," Tony said, and he shut his eyes.

The fluorescent lights overhead flickered a little and buzzed as Tony walked toward the tank in the corner of the cavernous garage. Other than that, his footsteps on the concrete, and Steve's behind his, were the only sound in the huge room, and that was the way Tony wanted it. He reached out with Extremis to check the room; there were no cameras, no nothing. He didn't want a record of this.

"Et voilà." Tony held out a hand toward the Panzer, and then he turned back to see Steve's reaction.

Steve had one hand bracing the strap of a very large backpack -- based on the size, it contained at least his shield, and God knew what else -- and his other hand fisted in the pocket of his trenchcoat. Tony watched his eyes rove over the tank, pick out the shape of it, categorize it -- and then he knew when Steve's gaze settled on the Wehrmacht's bar-cross on the side, because his mouth hardened into a knife-slash of disapproval for just a second. "That's--" he began, faintly-- "that's disturbingly authentic."

"Yeah, well," Tony said, "if you'd wanted any tank, you could have had that in ten minutes, easy. I used to make tanks. I don't collect Nazi tanks. But, you know." He shrugged. "It had to be right, didn't it? Don't worry, I'm absolutely not keeping this one any longer than tonight. It's borrowed."

Steve could handle it, couldn't he? Sure, of course. That was Steve. He could handle anything. And he wouldn't have agreed -- he wouldn't have made the offer -- if he didn't think he could handle it.

"I guess it's good to be true to your fantasy." Steve still looked a little dubious, but then he stood up straighter, visibly composed himself. "Right. I can understand that. It's what you want."

"What I want," Tony echoed. "Yeah. Definitely."

Steve slid the bag off his back and down his arm, leaning it against the tank's treads. He looked up and squinted at the barrel. "You know, we used to keep a running kill count on these things. Kind of a competition."

"Did you?" Tony asked, suddenly, viscerally aware that Steve had actually fought in WWII, in a way that had never previously occurred to him.

"Yeah." Steve's gaze was somehow far away. "Jim and Toro were far ahead of the rest of us, what with the fire, but it turns out that hitting them with the shield works pretty well for disabling them." He shrugged and turned back. "In case you wanted to know what I actually did in the war." And then he smiled. "You know, if you ever wanted to write a sequel."

"I wasn't planning on it," Tony said, and then he stopped and stared, because somehow he'd completely missed the fact that Steve had his uniform boots on, and, sure, one hand was in his coat pocket, but the other one was red-gloved, and... oh. Oh. "You dressed up?"

Steve blinked at him. "I... was pretty sure that your fantasy involved Captain America, Tony."

They hadn't actually talked about what Steve was going to wear.

"Oh. Right." Tony nodded. "Yeah. So I brought the tank, you brought the uniform, huh?"

And then Steve just looked at him, gaze half-lidded, with a positively flirtatious smile, bright and excited and hopeful. "Oh, but it gets better," he said, and then he shrugged off the trenchcoat.

Tony stared. That wasn't-- that wasn't Steve's uniform. Not his current uniform. It was old, all leather and fabric, with nothing of the modern armoring that his uniform now sported. The colors were a little off, darker than they were now, the white parts a little dingy. And the fit was -- well, he was wearing honest-to-God tight leather pants, and, wow, that was a nice view. The current uniform was a little more generously cut. This was his old uniform from the war, Tony realized, and he couldn't stop staring. God, they had one of these in the Smithsonian; had he gotten this from the Smithsonian for Tony?

"Where--" Tony began, dazed, and cleared his throat-- "where the hell did that come from?"

Steve just grinned wider and spread his arms wide, turning this way and that, showing himself off, clearly enjoying every minute of it. "Oh, you know. Had it in the back of my closet."

Tony just stared. "That's," he said, and then Steve turned a little more and Tony forgot English, because there wasn't room for anything else in his mind except the curve of Steve's ass in tight blue leather and it was literally every wet dream he'd ever had and he was deeply sorry he'd ever suggested a uniform redesign. "Uh. That's... that's a really good look on you."

"You think so?" Steve said, perfectly innocent, and he smiled. "I'm glad."

Tony was going to keep staring. That was okay, right? He could just look at Steve forever. "You didn't get it from the Smithsonian, did you?" He couldn't believe Steve would have gone to all that trouble -- well, okay, sure he could. But now that he was looking at it, the uniform didn't look like the one at the Smithsonian, not that Tony had practically memorized the Captain America exhibit at the Smithsonian as a small child or anything. Everything leather was actually new, now that he was looking closely. Portions of the fabric parts were in poor condition, water-damaged, worn through in so many places; it had clearly been patched, but not professionally, the way an actual restorer would have, and then Tony knew exactly where he'd seen it before. "No, wait. This is what you were wearing when we pulled you out of the ice, isn't it?"

"Yep." Steve grinned again. "I really did get it from the back of my closet."

"I didn't know you still had it," Tony said, amazed. "Last I saw, that thing was falling off you in pieces. You fixed it?" He'd gotten Steve a new uniform pretty much immediately. He hadn't known Steve had kept the old one.

Steve shifted, a little uncomfortable. "When I-- when I woke up, it was something to do. Something familiar. Fixing it up again, I mean. I'd spent so long fixing my own gear, you know? So it was reassuring, even when I was somewhere new." His smile was a little shy. "Do you like it, Tony? I-- I wanted it to be a surprise. For you."

Tony felt his throat go tight. Steve had really done all this for him? To make him happy? It was sweet, it was so sweet, and then the thought collided with Steve could do so much better and I am so fucked up and then he really didn't know what to say. If Tony hadn't tangled himself up in this mess, more labyrinthine than anyone could get himself out of with a ball of string and a GPS, it would have been perfect. As it was, it was just... bittersweet.

"I love it, yeah," he said, and his voice was hoarse.

Steve's smile was brighter than the sun, and then he reached up and fit the old cowl over his head. "Is that even better?"

It wasn't cut like Steve's current cowl; everything was darker, and the cutouts for his eyes had a different shape, more old-fashioned. The wings stuck out a little more, and he just looked-- he looked-- well, it was stupidly self-evident to say that he looked like Captain America, because he was Captain America, but, well, he did.

"I had a poster of you on my bedroom wall," Tony murmured.

Steve's smile quivered on the edge of embarrassment, and, okay, the poster had never looked quite like that, because Steve's smile now was just for him. "Did you?"

"Yeah," Tony said, low, a little embarrassed himself. "Looked-- just like you do now. When I was a kid -- little kid, five, six, maybe -- I used to kiss it before bedtime."

Steve chuckled. "That's cute."

"When I was a teenager I jerked off to it," Tony offered, because clearly there was really no such thing as TMI, and, hell, Steve had already read the stories.

Steve's face looked a little redder, but he was still grinning. "I would never, ever have guessed that. Ever."

"Is this weird for you? Knowing that I--" Tony waved a hand and figured that filled in for the verb-- "you know, all of it?"

Steve scraped his gloved hand across what was visible of his face. "Oh, now you ask," he muttered into his hand. And then he looked up and he was smiling, but the smile was softer-edged. "I've always known I had fans. That's not the weird part. Even ones who... liked me like that. And I think it's sweet that you were one of them, and I know you were writing these stories because they were important to you, because they helped you. And you've always-- it feels like you've always known who I was, who I really was. From the day I met you. So, no, it's not weird. Because you've never treated me like I was larger than life. Because you see more than just the poster." The grin turned sharp. "I'll tell you what's really weird, though."

"What?"

"Knowing that half of my belt pouches have lube in them right now."

"You mean they didn't before?" Tony hmphed. "There goes that fantasy."

Steve's smile turned wry. "Tony, as far as I can determine, none of your fantasies about me have ever involved me having any lube whatsoever."

"Yeah, well, they do now," Tony said, and he stepped in, and God, he just wanted to kiss him, they'd arranged all this and now he just wanted to cuddle up to his hero who'd stepped right off his favorite poster. He felt like he'd regressed to awkward adolescence. Maybe they could just make out all night. "Can I-- do you mind if-- can I kiss you?"

"I was really hoping you would," Steve said, and it sounded like a confession, guilty, like Steve thought maybe with the roleplaying Tony hadn't wanted to, and Tony just-- he couldn't let that stand, could he?

Their lips met, and his arms were around Steve before he'd really registered moving them, one hand on the back of Steve's head, fabric rough against his fingertips, dragging Steve's head down just a little bit even as Steve's arms went around him, and whoa, Steve was leaning, lifting him like it was easy, and it probably was for him, and that was hot, and all Tony could do was moan and just let himself be kissed, with Steve's mouth warm and wet, with Steve knowing exactly what he liked like they'd been doing this for years rather than weeks, and this was good, this was good, this part was really good--

Steve set him back down and sighed happily; clearly that had been a good idea. "Is that what you wanted?" Steve asked, sounding a little hesitant. Like he didn't know.

"Perfect," Tony said, honest. "Except in my fantasies you used to be a lot taller."

Steve snorted. "Not much I can do about that one." He ran a thumb across Tony's mouth, smoothing down the edge of his beard, tracing a line up Tony's cheek with almost too much tenderness for Tony to handle. Steve's smile was soft, fond, then his face steadied into something more alert. "You-- do you want us to start this?"

Tony's stomach knotted. "Yeah, okay. Sure. Yes. Yes."

Steve's thumb still caressed the corner of Tony's mouth, a spark of warmth. "Tell me your safewords again," he said, intent.

"Green, yellow, red," Tony recited, and Steve seemed to relax a little. "Nothing else stops it," Tony added. They'd mentioned this before, hashing out the details, but it was good to be sure. "I might say no or stop or other things that sound reluctant, but unless I safeword I can take it, okay?"

Steve shut his eyes for a second. "Okay," he said. "Yeah. I understand."

Tony stepped back and looked Steve up and down. Right. Roleplaying. "So, uh," he began, "that Hydra gas really affected you, didn't it, Steve?" He felt a little silly, and Steve was maybe half-hard at best, but they could get into it, right? This might be fun. It might not be bad. He could definitely get through this.

Steve's mouth twitched. "My real name is classified, and you don't know it." He was trying to sound stern and failing miserably.

"Oh. Right, Cap, right." Tony's heart was beating a little faster, and he wasn't sure whether that was good. Steve was pretending to be someone he didn't know -- if not a stranger, someone he didn't know anywhere near as well -- and a cold, lonely feeling twisted within him. It was stupid. Steve was Captain America, Steve had always been Captain America, and this was what Tony had asked for, wasn't it?

"The gas--" Steve swallowed hard and simulated very convincing discomfort, go him-- "it's... it's affecting me, Tony. I really need your help."

Tony looked up at him, with his best wide-eyed ingénu smile. "What kind of help, Cap?"

He wasn't sure he was going to be able to call him Cap again for a while. He thought maybe he hadn't been calling him it lately, either. When had that happened?

Steve swallowed again. "I, uh. I really-- I really want you. I don't think I can hold out, Tony. I really need you." The delivery wasn't the best, but-- he was trying. That was sweet. And, okay, still kind of hot, and maybe Tony could get back into this somehow. This was just Steve. Steve pretending to be his fantasy.

"I'd do anything for you, Cap," Tony said, and God, wasn't that the truth? "Say the word. Tell me what you need."

"You, Tony," Steve said, and he reached out and curled his hand in the thin fabric of Tony's shirt. "I need you. I can't-- I can't stop myself--"

But he didn't actually move, and his eyes were wide, questioning, and Tony reached up and gently stroked the back of Steve's hand, even though he wouldn't be able to feel it through the glove. "It's all right," Tony said, "it was just that very incredibly green gas, wasn't it? You have to. I understand. You do what you have to."

Steve nodded, a tense, tight motion, and then -- Tony wasn't really sure what happened.

It was overwhelming. Steve hauled him close by the front of his shirt and kissed him, hard, heavy, all tongue and teeth, pushing into his mouth, and Steve's hand was yanking at his shirt and there was the pop of buttons. Steve's grip slackened as the fabric itself tore at the seams, and then away from the seams, through solid weave itself, and the headiest part of all of it was that Steve hadn't stopped kissing him the whole way through, like none of it was an exertion in the slightest.

Steve was panting hard as he drew his head back -- that, Tony would guess, was from the kissing -- and Tony felt the remains of his shirtsleeves settle about his wrists, in a makeshift sort of bondage, before they slid over his hands to the floor.

He wondered if Steve had ever been like this with anyone before.

"I have to," Steve said, like an actor recalling his line, and Tony lifted his chin, a dare. Then come and get me.

And then Steve was pushing him back, hard. Tony took a few off-balance, wobbling steps and then the back of his legs hit the tank and Steve was just pressing him there, one leg between Tony's legs.

"Whoa, hey," Tony said, surprised, because he had half-thought that Steve would be going line-by-line here. That part hadn't been in the script.

Steve slowed for an instant, and then shook himself, like he'd remembered only safewords counted, before he pushed Tony up against the tank, grinding his thigh between Tony's. Tony gasped and, okay, yeah, this could be good, this could be very good. Steve was kissing him again, heavy, harsh kisses, just taking his mouth like he didn't care whether Tony liked it and he was just going to do what he wanted with him. Tony couldn't decide whether that was terrifying or a turn-on, but, hell, that was the kink, right? It's a turn-on, he told himself. Go with it.

Steve's fingers were fumbling at Tony's belt, at Tony's fly, and then one hand -- God, he was still wearing the gloves, okay, that was definitely hot -- was stroking Tony's cock roughly, and Tony shut his eyes and tipped his head back.

Steve inhaled sharply, and then bit a hard, bruising kiss on Tony's shoulder, but his free hand, spread across Tony's stomach, was warm and gentle even as he was stroking Tony, heavy and rough, like he'd asked for, and in the back of his mind Tony started to wonder if Steve would freak out if Tony couldn't get it up, and thinking about that was making it worse, he knew.

They just had to keep going.

"Going to get me ready?" Tony breathed.

Steve nodded. "Yeah, I need-- it's the chemicals-- I really need you--"

He pulled Tony away from the tank, easily, one-handed, and then actually ripped his pants off him, which was both impressive and terrifying. Tony was naked, and Steve looked over at him, in full uniform. Tony shuddered, exposed and vulnerable. He could do this. He could do this.

Steve pulled off both of his gloves and let them drop to the floor.

"I know you have to," Tony said, and he hoped Steve didn't notice that his voice was shaking. He could do this. He wasn't going to safeword. It wasn't bad. It just wasn't great.

And then Steve had his arms, pushing his hands behind his back in a lock he couldn't fight, flipping him and turning him and -- God, he couldn't see Steve's face -- pushing him against the tank. Tony shut his eyes as the metal rushed forward. It was fast, fast enough that for a baseline human it would have been an uncontrolled shove, but Steve had a hand bracing Tony's shoulder and neck, holding his head back so that he didn't slam face-first into the tank. Steve had him. Steve knew what he was doing. Tony took a deep breath and fought back the panic as he did hit the tank, the blow knocking all the air out of him in a heavy rush.

Steve let his hands go and Tony scrabbled for purchase, fingers splayed across the unyielding bumpy metal, his body looking for some way, any way to push back, but Steve had a hand between his shoulders, holding him down and Tony couldn't move at all.

It had never been like this with Steve before. Sure, there had been a couple of times -- mostly involving mind-control -- where they'd fought each other without pulling punches, but Tony had always had the armor then. Even sparring, Steve had never used his full force against him, all the strength he could bring to bear. Steve always used just enough to get him to yield, and well, Tony wasn't yielding and Steve was still holding him, one-handed, like he was toying with him, like he could do anything, and Tony went cold, because that wasn't fun. That was supposed to be the kink, but it wasn't his, God, Steve could crush him without even trying--

He pushed back, but he couldn't move, and his pulse pounded heavily in his ears and Steve could just do whatever he wanted--

He couldn't safeword now, he couldn't. He had to take it. Because if he said he couldn't handle it, then Steve would probably freak out, God, and Steve would find out exactly what kind of fucked-up mess he was, and he couldn't deal with that. It would ruin everything. He could get them both through this. He had to. And Steve could still have a good time. Right.

Behind him was the quiet snick of a lube bottle opening, and Tony shuddered and closed his eyes, turning his head to bury his face in his arms. At least Steve wouldn't be able to see his face.

Steve slid one hand, warm but still dry, across Tony's ass, and Tony froze anyway, trying not to move away, not that he could move, not that he could do anything except what Steve let him.

"Wait," Tony said, "wait, no," and he knew Steve wasn't going to stop even as part of him wished Steve would, because that wasn't the safeword, and he'd told Steve to ignore him if he said this--

Steve's hand stopped moving.

"Yellow?" Steve said, and it was a question the way he said it, uncertain. "Yellow? Tony, are you--" And then his hand jerked away altogether, and the pressure on Tony's back slackened as the rest of the hold loosened. "Oh, Christ, Tony, your arm," Steve said, hoarsely, and there was something wrong with his voice--

Tony opened his eyes.

The undersuit was spreading across his bare arm. Gold pooled on his skin like liquid metal, forming up, protecting him. He hadn't called it. No, that wasn't right. He hadn't called it consciously.

The gold of the undersuit was all across his hand, past his wrist, to his elbow, spreading up to his shoulder.

This is your brain trying to tell you it thinks you're in danger, Tony realized, numb and stupid with fear. This is your brain trying to tell you it thinks Steve is actually hurting you.

And Steve knew that.

Oh, God.

Tony twisted around -- Steve wasn't even trying to hold him anymore -- so his back was against the tank.

He was facing Steve.

And Steve was staring at him, pale and horrified, like he was about to be sick. Like he couldn't believe what he'd done. Like he thought he was a monster.

He didn't want this, Tony knew, suddenly. He tried to tell you he was doing this entirely for you, every single part of it, and you weren't listening, idiot. It was only going to make him happy if you really, really wanted it. And if you didn't want it, then nobody wanted it. He didn't want to do this to you.

No. Oh, no. What had he done to Steve?

"Red," Tony choked out. "Red, red, God, Steve, red, I'm so sorry."

Steve jumped back instantly, like he'd been shot, like he was afraid to touch Tony, and Tony, shivering, sank to the cold concrete floor, naked and alone. It felt like losing a battle, the adrenaline crash that turned the world gray and icy and unreal, and he couldn't stop shivering, he couldn't come down, he was too much in his head or in his body, something, fuck, this was why he hadn't scened in years.

There was the sound of something unzipping, and then Steve was hesitantly holding out a blanket. "Here," Steve said, still hoarse, and his eyes were red. "If you don't-- if you don't want me to touch you, I-- I understand, but you should get warm. I've got juice, too, if you need something with sugar."

"Okay," Tony said, numbly, and he took the blanket but couldn't seem to figure out what to do with it, and eventually Steve put it around Tony's shoulders. He was still shivering, and he wanted to ask Steve to sit with him but he couldn't.

Eventually Steve sat next to him anyway. He didn't touch him.

"I'm sure you hate this part." Steve's voice was still raw. "The part where we talk about feelings. And what happened."

Didn't Steve know what happened?

"I called yellow before I saw your arm," Steve continued, dully. "I just-- you sounded like I was really hurting you, and I know that that was the point, that you said you would sound reluctant, and I... I thought I could handle it, when I couldn't. I don't know if you called the suit to make it look more authentic, but." Steve shook his head, miserably. "I couldn't. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I couldn't give you the fantasy you wanted."

No, no, no. He couldn't let Steve blame himself for this.

Tony bit his lip. He was still shaking. "Don't be sorry. It's-- it's not my kink. It's not my fantasy."

And he saw when Steve got it, because Steve's face under the cowl went bone-white, and then blood-red. His eyes went from wide and afraid to narrow, angry, and his fists clenched.

"Then why," Steve asked, his voice shaking, "why the hell did you ask me to do that to you?"

Steve was going to punch him. God. Steve was going to punch him and there was nothing Tony could do; the rest of the suit was too far away to call. He felt like he couldn't fight back, like his skin was gone and every feeling he had was scraping against raw nerves and he couldn't hold it back--

Steve turned and punched the tank. Hard.

The metal creaked disturbingly.

"Ow," said Steve, very quietly. "Ow, fuck."

He wiped his other hand over his eyes, pulling the cowl back, and there was blood on his knuckles.

"Broken?"

Steve shook his head. "No, but-- ow. Ow." He hissed through his teeth. "It'll be a few minutes."

"Okay," Tony said, relieved but still feeling sickeningly awful. "Good."

"I--" Steve began, clearly still too furious for words, and then looked over at him-- "Tony, how the hell could you even--"

His face was still red, his body tensed for a fight, but then he looked at Tony, sitting there, curled in on himself; Tony saw his eyes take it all in, the way he'd evaluate an opponent for weaknesses -- and then all the fight went out of him. Steve slumped back down next to him, in silence, and all Tony could hear was Steve's ragged breathing, the sound of him trying to get himself under control. Steve's fists unclenched.

The raspy edge to Steve's breaths gradually began to sound a lot more like tears held back.

"Why?" Steve asked again, and if something was broken here it was his voice. "I would-- I would have done anything. I still would."

Tony shut his eyes and drew the blanket tighter. "I thought you wouldn't. I thought you'd leave. And then you said yes, and I had to go with it. And maybe you'd-- and maybe you'd see--"

Steve sighed. "Weren't you listening when I told you you didn't scare me, Tony?"

Tony smiled a ghost of a smile. "No. And I did scare you, didn't I?"

"Maybe so. But I'm still not leaving. So quit trying, eh?" The words were fond. Steve glanced sidelong at him. "Look... I know you were just humoring me the other week, when you let me go to bed with you and hold you, but... I could really use that now. If you-- if that's a thing you want. Only what you want."

Tony blinked. "You really don't want to leave?"

"Am I mad? Yeah. Am I leaving? Never." Steve's jaw tightened, chin tilted up. "You can't run me off, Tony. Not happening. I know you. I told you, I knew you. And I'm staying. I want you here with me."

Tony looked up. Steve's eyes were wide, pleading, and then Tony was crawling into Steve's arms, into his lap, dragging the blanket over both of them, and he felt himself start to relax as Steve's arms went around him, warm and strong.

"Like that?"

"Like that," Steve said, fingers gliding over Tony's shoulders. Tony was nearly Steve's height and really too big for this, but somehow they fit perfectly, Tony's legs intertwining with Steve's. It worked.

"That's better," Tony said, uncertainly, not wanting to trust in it for fear that Steve might take it all away.

"So you safeworded because it wasn't your kink?" Steve was petting his hair, slow, calming, repetitive, and that made it easier to talk about. Tony felt the tension in him start to melt away, all the fear gone. "No, that doesn't make sense." He frowned. "You would have earlier if that had been the reason."

"I safeworded because it wasn't your kink," Tony said, bitterly. "Because I'm an idiot sometimes."

"You're a genius," Steve said, like he had that one waiting. "But how about we make it easier on ourselves by doing something you actually like next time?" Like there was going to be a next time. Like Steve still wanted him. Hope flickered in his chest. "Anything you want."

"I like the uniform," Tony said, instantly, and Steve laughed. "I like-- I like--" Steve was holding him tight, and somehow that made it easier to admit. "I like what we're doing right now."

"Cuddling?" Steve pressed a kiss into Tony's hair, against the back of his neck, over the bruise healing fast on his shoulder. Tony shivered with pleased warmth and smiled. "All that? All those filthy stories and your secret kink is cuddling?"

"Maybe," Tony admitted, shutting his eyes, and Steve's hand stroked soft patterns on his arms, his shoulders, his chest, gathering him up, keeping him safe. "I'm a kinky bastard; what can I say?"

Steve laughed. "Well, I say that I think we can work something out."

Tony smiled and turned in Steve's arms, buried his face against Steve's neck, warm and protected and loved, and he felt Steve bring his hands up to cover him, to cradle his head, to hold him up.

"I could write a new story about this," Tony whispered, breathing out against Steve's skin. "About us. For real."

He didn't have to see Steve to know that Steve was smiling.

"Or we could live it," Steve murmured. "Happily ever after."