Steve wrinkles his nose at Tony's exaggerated expression, but his eyes and mouth make his amusement clear. Obediently, he leans in and meets Tony's lips, though he has to resist the urge to linger, to deepen the kiss and distract Tony from cooking. After last night, they both need the calories from breakfast.
When he pulls away, it's to cross over to the refrigerator. Steve hands the bacon over first, then takes the container of orange juice out. He takes a long swig, then remembers his manners and opens a couple of cabinets till he finds them. He pours himself a glass of juice and puts it back in the fridge, then carries both juice and the mug of coffee back to the stove.
"I'll thank you with more than that later." He winks as he slides the coffee onto the counter next to Tony.
The puckered mouth against Steve's smooths out, becomes pliable, and Tony's eyes crinkle at the corners with happiness. When Steve pulls away, Tony clears his throat and concentrates on buttering up the pan. The kiss banished all lingering thought on his tablet, opened to morning news articles, on the table behind him. (Sometimes he still needs to remind himself that the world doesn't fall apart if he's not watching it for a few minutes; that, honestly, it's probably better off without his brand of protection, considering what Ultron turned into.) Right now, he only needs to make sure the batter won't stick.
Cooking meals was something he did for Pepper. Self-taught after the disastrous "bee-tee-dubs I'm dying" omelette, partly to prove to her he could and partly out of necessity after he stopped hiring personal assistants, it ended up as a boon when he could wine, dine, sixty-nine her. He enjoyed it, waiting on her after she survived a long day in high heels at the office, returning the favor for all the years she took care of him. The cooking started with her, as most things, but he likes servicing his partner, Tony is discovering. It's not just with Pepper.
A second skillet onto the stove later, he twists the temperature knobs up and grins as he catches the coffee mug. "More than coffee?" he says, feigning ignorance.
Steve runs his fingers through Tony's hair. It's softer than normal, all the product rinsed out in the shower, and the bedhead is something he finds impossibly endearing. Leaning against the counter, he gives Tony some room to work on the stove.
"I'd bend you over the table if I didn't have to worry about the pancakes burning." Steve smirks over the rim of his glass. That's another reason for putting some physical distance between him and Tony: if he keeps touching him, they'll both end up distracted, and right now, Steve wants breakfast slightly more than he wants sex. "I didn't know you could cook," he adds. It's a hidden side of Tony, one he's never really considered. He's offered smoothies and snacks after missions before, but he hasn't cooked a real meal for any of them.
Tony resists leaning into the touch and purring, but just barely; if Steve ordered him down right then, Tony might very well shatter his kneecaps on the tile flooring. His guard briefly lowered, Steve's next comment blindsides him and Tony squeaks in the back of his throat. He chances a glance down Steve's bare torso, immediately regrets it, and then hides behind drinking his coffee. Note to self: Steve is morphing when sexually poked from a pill bug into a grizzly bear. Thankfully, Steve changes the subject so Tony can stop teetering between feelings of "oh, God, yes, please" and "oh, God, my body is not ready."
Eyes kept safely low, he spreads the melting butter with a spatula. "Uh, yeah. Not earning any Michelin stars, but my stuff generally turns out edible. Put the milk away? I'm done with it."
It's amazing what feeling wanted can do. For the first time, Steve knows absolutely that Tony welcomes his advances, no matter how ridiculous they might be, and it gives him confidence, or something like it. Besides, Tony'd encouraged him last night, telling him to bend him over any available surface all weekend. He's just following orders, as it were.
"Better than mine." Steve picks up the milk jug and takes it back over to the fridge. "I can just about manage a sandwich or a bowl of cereal. Gotta tell you, frozen dinners are a godsend." Or anything else that's been pre-prepared. He buys them in bulk and nukes one when he gets hungry. "You need anything else while I'm over here?"
Tony wrinkles his nose. Frozen dinners, ew. If he stops himself long enough to be in the kitchen, he wants something palatable. "Nah. Sit down. Look pretty," he says and pours in the first puddle of batter. He sizes it according to his preferences, but pauses to consider Steve's and fills the skillet up instead. "Three mega cakes enough for you, Shaggy?" The sense of control and peace that cooking earns him settles into the hollow of his bones, similar to tinkering with a car engine but with an added flood of warmth from doing it for someone else; from making someone else, Steve specifically, happy.
Good God, you really are a housewife, Tony thinks, a running joke he started with Pepper after she moved in. He stuffs down the clearly incorrect yet insistent voice telling him this is all too feminine.
"I'll do my best." Steve sits down at the table, strategically arranging his towel so that it covers what's necessary, but hints at what's underneath, then turns so that the sun illuminates his pecs. He might have a skewed perception of his own appearance, but he at least knows what Tony is likely to find appealing on an aesthetic principle.
"Perfect," he agrees, closing his eyes to bask in the sunlight, and then- "Shaggy?" Must be another reference he's missing.
Tony waves a hand, keeping watch over the stove with his back to Steve and spatula at the ready. "Old cartoon character. Routinely stuffed his face with literal towers of food, though that's where the likeness ends. You're the polar opposite of his scaredy-dog ways." Relaxed enough that his mental filter is lowered, Tony keeps running his mouth, following after his brain leaping between thoughts. "Maybe Jughead is the better comparison. Insatiable appetite, sexually unaware." He tosses a wide smirk over his shoulder. His eyes waver to Steve's chest. He remembers, Shit, and turns back.
Steve opens his eyes again and smirks lazily when Tony turns to look at him. "Only sometimes," he drawls. And that's thanks largely to Tony's tutelage; Steve is a frighteningly fast learner (it's the serum). Once he overcomes his other issues, Tony's really going to find himself in hot water.
"I'm getting you an apron," he decides idly. Mostly because he wants to watch Tony cook in nothing but an apron, but that's probably pretty easy to figure out. Maybe not the safest of moves, but Tony's devotion to safety in all areas is questionable, at best.
Tony snorts. He pours batter into a second skillet to save on time. "My only request is no frills. Would you like me in high heels, too, dear?" He mimics heels by lifting onto his toes.
Steve hums thoughtfully, his gaze lingering on Tony's calves. "Depends on how you feel about stockings and garters." He's never really considered Tony in women's clothing before, and while he might not want him in an entire outfit - well, he's always liked ladies' legs. "And shaving."
"Well," Tony says offhandedly, "I already manscape. What's one step further? Hey, uh, Friday. When's my next salon appointment?" The tablet near Steve pipes up with FRIDAY stating the future date and time. If Steve doesn't stop him, Tony, seemingly serious, will request she add to that appointment a full leg wax.
"I noticed," Steve replies dryly. It's hard not to, especially with the way he's been exploring Tony's body lately. He's unnaturally smooth almost everywhere. It's intriguing, he has to admit, and he's not totally opposed to trying new things. "Pick a nice skirt to go with it. No underwear." The towel twitches a little, and he takes a long sip of his orange juice to try and calm down. Tony really needs to hurry those pancakes up.
After FRIDAY adjusts his appointment, Tony stills with a slight tilt to his head and listens for Steve's reaction. Then he stills for an entirely different reason. Slowly he turns, face stunned, and says, "You're actually serious," feeling like the mad scientist who created something both truly awesome and terrifying.
The blush crawls up his cheeks again at being called out for something they both know is way out of his league, kink-wise. Honestly, Steve's just making everything up as he goes along; he's never had reason to imagine Tony in a skirt and stockings before (not that he hasn't had plenty of fantasies about that fetish, but they've all involved women), but if Tony's willing to try it, then why not? If it turns out it's something they're not interested in, then it's no big deal.
That's what Steve tells himself, anyway, as he tries to pretend he's not a little scared of what might happen.
"You got any requests?" he asks, trying to sound casual - and, more importantly, directing focus away from himself and what he wants.
The blush is actually a major comfort. It means Steve hasn't transformed into a domineering sex juggernaut overnight. (Well, he did physically in the 1940s, but Tony's talking mentally, here.) Tony settles down some, though apprehension still twines around his spine. "Uh, no. I should draw the line at a skirt, purely for masculinity reasons, but it's not the most out-there thing I've tried, so..." he trails off, facing away again. If it makes Steve happy, he tells himself. Unbidden, Pepper comes to mind. He vows to do everything better, this time around. "You got it. One me, dolled up," he whispers, barely above the bubbling pancakes. He becomes intensely occupied with flipping them.
Steve tips his head slightly, looking curious. "Do you think you aren't masculine enough?" he asks. Sure, he's making pancakes for him, but Steve doesn't think anything of it; despite traditional gender roles, it's not like unmarried men in his day starved because they couldn't cook. (Sure, he can't cook, but it has nothing to do with being a man.) "'Cause I don't think that." He might have a weird fixation with personal grooming, but Steve's always chalked that up to being rich.
Tony frowns at the stove. "Gosh, I'd hope not. There's nothing lady-like between these," he says as he motions down his legs. Then, he stands straighter, rolls his shoulders back, and speaks louder, more self-assured, adding a bit of swagger: the patented Stark bravado. It's a visceral transformation, one Tony doesn't even realize he just underwent. If Steve squints, he might well see Howard's ghost hovering over him. "But don't worry. My male ego isn't so fragile that a little dress-up will break me," Tony declares.
Steve doesn't see any phantoms, but he knows that pose. He's starting to associate it with insecurity, with the man Tony wants people to think he is. He wonders if this maybe isn't such a good idea, but if he tries to back out now, Tony'll think he's trying to go easy on him, and that's a whole other set of problems.
(He wonders how Pepper handled it, neuroses on top of complexes on top of issues. He's really going to have to text her.)
"Tony, I don't think anyone would ever describe your ego as fragile." His voice sounds dry, but Steve knows the truth - that it is fragile, more than he's willing to let on. Tony's a lot like the Wizard in the Wizard of Oz, although he'd be insulted by the comparison - if nothing else, he's absolutely capable of delivering on seemingly impossible promises. "And I've seen the proof of your masculinity."
"You've done a lil' more than see," Tony points out cheerfully, smirking over his shoulder. As he walks between cabinets and drawers, pulling out the butter, the syrup, utensils, and two plates, suddenly full of barely-contained nervous energy, and between the clinks and clangs, he keeps talking without ever directly addressing Steve. "So! I don't got much planned today or tomorrow besides some unavoidable work stuff. Cleared my schedule best I could. Maybe we can eat out later? Not sure if I've stocked up enough here for your trash-compacter stomach in hindsight."
"Gotta buy in bulk," Steve offers helpfully. He's thinking of Costco, but Tony's probably more of a Whole Foods guy. (Not that he could ever picture Tony Stark in a supermarket; Steve figures someone does the shopping for him and delivers it.) "Lots of bulk." Take it from someone who spent the war lugging practically a crate of rations on his back every day.
"Depends on how fancy the place is, though." In hindsight, maybe he should've brought something nicer to wear, but for Steve, 'nice' is a button-down shirt and maybe a tie, definitely nowhere near Tony's standards. "But, yeah, I could go for eating out." In truth, he doesn't know what they're going to do all weekend besides entirely too much fucking. Clearly he should have planned ahead.
Once Tony's deposited his burdens on the table - syrup in his mouth included - Steve snakes his arm up to catch him before he retreats to the stove once more. A gentle hand presses him down so that Steve can steal a quick kiss (not too quick, lest the pancakes grow cold), and Steve's smiling when he pulls away. "Thank you, Tony."
And then the weight of his hand is gone, and Steve turns his attention to the food, letting pats of butter melt on the surface before drowning them in syrup. The pancakes soak the syrup up, and he cuts a bite and puts it into his mouth, savoring the taste with a small moan in the back of his throat. "Fantastic," he says once he's swallowed.
Faced with Steve's earnest gratitude, the puffed-up bits of Tony's ego melt away. He stands there afterward, returned to that softened state from earlier, smiling some, suddenly very much not wanting the distance between them. A warm sense of fulfillment keeps him close. "And good for you. Supposedly. No gluten," he says, and takes a few seconds longer to realize he should stop watching Steve like a creep. "Yup!" He pinpoint turns on his heel. "Bacon chewy or crispy?"
Part of him wants to reach behind him and keep touching Tony - to maybe even pull him down on his lap and feed him bites of pancake - but Tony's still cooking, and Steve doesn't want to distract him too much. He doesn't even bother asking what gluten is and why it's apparently bad, although he'll google it later if he remembers.
"Chewy. You eat anything yet, Tony?" He knows that if given the opportunity, Tony would run entirely on caffeine, but someone needs to make sure he eats, too.
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When he pulls away, it's to cross over to the refrigerator. Steve hands the bacon over first, then takes the container of orange juice out. He takes a long swig, then remembers his manners and opens a couple of cabinets till he finds them. He pours himself a glass of juice and puts it back in the fridge, then carries both juice and the mug of coffee back to the stove.
"I'll thank you with more than that later." He winks as he slides the coffee onto the counter next to Tony.
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Cooking meals was something he did for Pepper. Self-taught after the disastrous "bee-tee-dubs I'm dying" omelette, partly to prove to her he could and partly out of necessity after he stopped hiring personal assistants, it ended up as a boon when he could wine, dine, sixty-nine her. He enjoyed it, waiting on her after she survived a long day in high heels at the office, returning the favor for all the years she took care of him. The cooking started with her, as most things, but he likes servicing his partner, Tony is discovering. It's not just with Pepper.
A second skillet onto the stove later, he twists the temperature knobs up and grins as he catches the coffee mug. "More than coffee?" he says, feigning ignorance.
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"I'd bend you over the table if I didn't have to worry about the pancakes burning." Steve smirks over the rim of his glass. That's another reason for putting some physical distance between him and Tony: if he keeps touching him, they'll both end up distracted, and right now, Steve wants breakfast slightly more than he wants sex. "I didn't know you could cook," he adds. It's a hidden side of Tony, one he's never really considered. He's offered smoothies and snacks after missions before, but he hasn't cooked a real meal for any of them.
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Eyes kept safely low, he spreads the melting butter with a spatula. "Uh, yeah. Not earning any Michelin stars, but my stuff generally turns out edible. Put the milk away? I'm done with it."
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"Better than mine." Steve picks up the milk jug and takes it back over to the fridge. "I can just about manage a sandwich or a bowl of cereal. Gotta tell you, frozen dinners are a godsend." Or anything else that's been pre-prepared. He buys them in bulk and nukes one when he gets hungry. "You need anything else while I'm over here?"
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Good God, you really are a housewife, Tony thinks, a running joke he started with Pepper after she moved in. He stuffs down the clearly incorrect yet insistent voice telling him this is all too feminine.
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"Perfect," he agrees, closing his eyes to bask in the sunlight, and then- "Shaggy?" Must be another reference he's missing.
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"I'm getting you an apron," he decides idly. Mostly because he wants to watch Tony cook in nothing but an apron, but that's probably pretty easy to figure out. Maybe not the safest of moves, but Tony's devotion to safety in all areas is questionable, at best.
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"Pick a nice skirt to go with it. No underwear." The towel twitches a little, and he takes a long sip of his orange juice to try and calm down. Tony really needs to hurry those pancakes up.
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That's what Steve tells himself, anyway, as he tries to pretend he's not a little scared of what might happen.
"You got any requests?" he asks, trying to sound casual - and, more importantly, directing focus away from himself and what he wants.
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(He wonders how Pepper handled it, neuroses on top of complexes on top of issues. He's really going to have to text her.)
"Tony, I don't think anyone would ever describe your ego as fragile." His voice sounds dry, but Steve knows the truth - that it is fragile, more than he's willing to let on. Tony's a lot like the Wizard in the Wizard of Oz, although he'd be insulted by the comparison - if nothing else, he's absolutely capable of delivering on seemingly impossible promises. "And I've seen the proof of your masculinity."
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"Depends on how fancy the place is, though." In hindsight, maybe he should've brought something nicer to wear, but for Steve, 'nice' is a button-down shirt and maybe a tie, definitely nowhere near Tony's standards. "But, yeah, I could go for eating out." In truth, he doesn't know what they're going to do all weekend besides entirely too much fucking. Clearly he should have planned ahead.
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And then the weight of his hand is gone, and Steve turns his attention to the food, letting pats of butter melt on the surface before drowning them in syrup. The pancakes soak the syrup up, and he cuts a bite and puts it into his mouth, savoring the taste with a small moan in the back of his throat. "Fantastic," he says once he's swallowed.
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"Chewy. You eat anything yet, Tony?" He knows that if given the opportunity, Tony would run entirely on caffeine, but someone needs to make sure he eats, too.
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