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.
Tony snorts. He knows very well about buying in bulk after their stint in Avengers Tower. He expertly shifts the massive, finished pancakes onto a plate and pours the third to cook. "Perfect. I'll pick a place," he says, relaxed some, their prior topic successfully compartmentalized. "Nothing too snazzy." He carries the plate and all to Steve, utensils on the edge and tub of butter in his other hand, the syrup bottle trapped between his teeth by its closed cap. "No parshley as pure decorashion." With a little flourish, Tony presents the two pancakes like a waiter and sets everything down in front of Steve. "Bon appétit. Rest is on its way."
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.
The second skillet Tony quickly scrubs clean to use for the bacon. He studiously ignores how easy it'd be for Steve to send him under right now. He's just squishy and still fucked out from last night, that's all. Make a guy blow his biggest load ever and of course he'll want to worship the ground you walk on. Their power dynamic hasn't changed outside of scenes, which this is not one of, despite the introduction of dating. Tony needs it not to. But then the little demon that whispers one-hundred seventy-seven casualties says otherwise, says he wants to be controlled, and it and his father-shaped one battle for supremacy.
"No, not yet, because I'm a good host," he answers with an amused look; that's his mother talking. Kinder (Steve wants him taken care of, he knows), Tony adds, "I'll make myself some food after."
"I'm a terrible guest," Steve admits sheepishly. "I didn't even bring you anything." Although he's not really sure what you bring the man who has everything, the eternal struggle when buying anything for Tony. Though he's not sure what the rules are when you're staying with someone you're also dating - surely you don't bring something every time you stay over?
"I'll do the dishes while you eat," he offers. Hey, at least he can do something to help instead of letting Tony cater to his every whim. (And, yes, he knows Tony likes it. That's not the point.)
Tony pauses with a raw strip of bacon in hand, poised over the cleaned skillet. With Pepper he handled everything when he could, but of course Steve wants to contribute. He hates sitting on his ass. Whole new world, Tony muses. The old rules need not apply, and he's honestly okay with that. (But he still misses what he and Pepper had.) The bacon sizzles the moment he lays it down. "Square deal. Fair trade," he says, placing the rest; and now he's envisioning Steve at the sink washing dishes by hand in nothing but the towel, soap suds bubbling and his forearms wet. Steve would prefer that over the dishwasher anyway; he doesn't necessarily need to know about it. God, Tony's age must really be showing if he's fantasizing about dishwashing.
Clearing his throat, he flips the third pancake. "Last cake'll be comin' up hot," he calls back like a chef through a kitchen pass-through. "E.T.A. two minutes. Bacon in five."
"Maybe you oughta retire and open up a diner," he cracks in between bites. "You missed your calling as a short order cook. Hell, I'll be the busboy." The aroma of bacon rises as the meat sizzles in the pan, and even though he's still eating his pancakes, his mouth waters at the scent. It spurs him to eat faster, so that his plate is already clean by the time Tony comes around with the third pancake. It's been a long time since dinner last night, after all.
"You sure you wouldn't serve better as a garbage disposal?" Tony shoots back, eyebrow quirked at Steve wolfing down his plate in record time, but mouth also in a pleased smile. Over the next few minutes, while Tony waits for Steve's food to finish cooking, they trade smart remarks. He faces Steve this whole time, familiar and at ease, save for when he needs to plate the food. Afterward he prepares his own food similarly, chatting, but in smaller portions, and then slides onto a chair with it and his coffee.
Attention on his tablet, reading through news articles while hunched over with his feet on the chair spindles, Tony absently eats his breakfast. Occasionally he sneaks a glance to the sink, where Steve is.
There's something endearing and homey about it all, Steve thinks. He could imagine this as a regular routine, as part of his life - something so normal that it almost aches. (Maybe not in a towel most of the time, though; his current prolonged state of undress is largely a coincidence.) Suds gather on his wet forearms, and he slips into a quiet, semi-meditative state, letting Tony read. He's comfortable just being with him, and he doesn't need to fill the silence with conversation.
Once he's done washing the dishes, he dries them, and it only takes a little poking around the kitchen (and the occasional hint from Tony) to put them away. Steve hangs the damp dishtowel to dry and comes up behind Tony, resting his elbows on his shoulders and his chin on his head. "Anything interesting?"
Most of the article Tony's reading has gone through his eyeballs, jumbled around in his brain, and leaked right back out. He kept glancing at Steve, one ear always on the clinks of plates and sloshes of water. Now he's slouched back, legs stretched beneath the table, emptied plate cleaned with the others. "Uhh, well, apparently almond production is a bane on the environment and a big contributor to the drought in California," he says, "and I need to send some relief to Flint, Michigan."
"Foundation's already on it, boss," FRIDAY chimes in.
"Good," Tony says distractedly. At his best he can hyperfocus; at his worst his attention splits between a thousand things at once. Currently, he's actively trying not to focus too hard on Steve leaning on him.
Steve hums lightly and brings his mouth closer to Tony's ear. "Have I ever told you how hot I find charity?" His teeth graze the rim of his ear. "Maybe you should figure out a more permanent solution for the water problem." Look, if he can use his powers for good, then he's going to - and he really does like charity, and so does Tony. So there's obviously nothing wrong with it, right?
At first, the rumble of Steve's voice shoots straight to Tony's dick-brain and all he can think of in response is agreeing that yeah, that's hot, but then the words actually register and Tony squints. This is one of those situations where Steve could either be bullshitting him or telling the truth and Tony's not sure which he wants to believe more: that Steve's using feminine wiles as smooth as a vuvuzela to secure what he wants for the betterment of mankind or that good deeds honestly give him a raging hard-on and Tony should consider reciting some of his donation figures in bed.
In either case, him devising any sort of permanent solution to a worldwide problem? He'd probably somehow birth sentient water filtration that'd poison the world's supply. Tony huffs out a sardonic laugh. "Yeah, we both know how my permanent solutions have turned out recently," he says and forces a smile.
Steve huffs, accidentally in Tony's ear, then realizes that he's still positioned for seduction and pulls back. "Tony," he says in a warning tone. He wonders if he should ruin a perfectly good chance for sex and keep pushing the issue, then realizes that, hell, they can't avoid it forever. He straightens up and leans over, pulling one of the other chairs around the table closer, and takes a seat - still in intimately close proximity to Tony, but not surrounding him in case it gets stifling.
"I mean, you can have your scientists work on it instead if it bothers you," he continues on the first topic, "I just think those folks deserve a clean water supply. But more importantly, not everything you do is tainted, okay?" Steve's gaze is earnest and focused right on Tony like a laser. "You can do good without having it go wrong. You can see solutions to things where other people can't, and I don't want you to be afraid of yourself."
Eyes dropping, Tony fiddles with the tablet on his lap, thumb swiping the viewed article up and down. "Maybe so. But innocent people are dead, just like you said. One-hundred seventy-seven, to be exact, and that's just civilian deaths, Steve. That doesn't include any first responders or military personnel," he says. Slowly he takes a deep breath and moves onto his point: "If I don't stay afraid of what's up here," he motions to his head, "then I'm afraid of what's up there," he points up, throat tightening, chest constricting, eyes resolutely low as if looking will materialize the wormhole and the deep black of space dwarfed by warships from his nightmares, "and that gets us Ultron."
Steve reaches out and clasps Tony's hands in his, trapping his fidgeting fingers. "And more would have died if we hadn't done anything." Which still doesn't excuse the existence of Ultron, but he's trying to understand things from Tony's side. "When you do what we do, there isn't a lot of time for inaction. You pick what you think will cause the least damage." He closes his eyes and lets out a breath, thinking of the shell of a pub in London. Steve has blood on his hands, but very little of it could be called innocent - at least, not from the war.
"You aren't wrong to be afraid of what's up there," he admits slowly, quietly. They've learned that much, anyway. "You just- you're you, Tony, you think of these crazy ideas that're ten steps ahead of anything anyone else can understand, things that you barely understand, and you pull the trigger too soon." That seems to be a common trait among scientists, from what he's seen. Even Erskine, although he'd been forced against his will. "You just need to slow it down - and I know you're going to say that we don't have time, and maybe we don't. But whatever's coming, it's not just you standing against it. It's all of us."
Tony stares at their hands; the grip binds him together. But slowing down feels unfathomable. He throws himself into things heart and soul, giving all, zero to one hundred, little to no in-between. Tony raises his head, steadfast, but Steve will feel a faint tremor in his hands. "Which just gives me more to lose," he returns to Steve's face, eyes heartachingly open and sincere, remembering too clearly dead bodies on moon rock and a shield cleaved in two; and so, so afraid of that coming true. The problem is, he would do anything to prevent it.
For months Tony wrestled with the what and the how. What was it all for? How did he go wrong? For months he reflected on his past and present until he reached the conclusion: he didn't go wrong. He just always was. When pressed, he fell back to making things that hurt people, because that's what he's always done. Truss up the Merchant of Death in pretty shining armor, and he still is what he is.
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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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"No, not yet, because I'm a good host," he answers with an amused look; that's his mother talking. Kinder (Steve wants him taken care of, he knows), Tony adds, "I'll make myself some food after."
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"I'll do the dishes while you eat," he offers. Hey, at least he can do something to help instead of letting Tony cater to his every whim. (And, yes, he knows Tony likes it. That's not the point.)
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Clearing his throat, he flips the third pancake. "Last cake'll be comin' up hot," he calls back like a chef through a kitchen pass-through. "E.T.A. two minutes. Bacon in five."
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Attention on his tablet, reading through news articles while hunched over with his feet on the chair spindles, Tony absently eats his breakfast. Occasionally he sneaks a glance to the sink, where Steve is.
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Once he's done washing the dishes, he dries them, and it only takes a little poking around the kitchen (and the occasional hint from Tony) to put them away. Steve hangs the damp dishtowel to dry and comes up behind Tony, resting his elbows on his shoulders and his chin on his head. "Anything interesting?"
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"Foundation's already on it, boss," FRIDAY chimes in.
"Good," Tony says distractedly. At his best he can hyperfocus; at his worst his attention splits between a thousand things at once. Currently, he's actively trying not to focus too hard on Steve leaning on him.
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In either case, him devising any sort of permanent solution to a worldwide problem? He'd probably somehow birth sentient water filtration that'd poison the world's supply. Tony huffs out a sardonic laugh. "Yeah, we both know how my permanent solutions have turned out recently," he says and forces a smile.
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"I mean, you can have your scientists work on it instead if it bothers you," he continues on the first topic, "I just think those folks deserve a clean water supply. But more importantly, not everything you do is tainted, okay?" Steve's gaze is earnest and focused right on Tony like a laser. "You can do good without having it go wrong. You can see solutions to things where other people can't, and I don't want you to be afraid of yourself."
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"You aren't wrong to be afraid of what's up there," he admits slowly, quietly. They've learned that much, anyway. "You just- you're you, Tony, you think of these crazy ideas that're ten steps ahead of anything anyone else can understand, things that you barely understand, and you pull the trigger too soon." That seems to be a common trait among scientists, from what he's seen. Even Erskine, although he'd been forced against his will. "You just need to slow it down - and I know you're going to say that we don't have time, and maybe we don't. But whatever's coming, it's not just you standing against it. It's all of us."
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For months Tony wrestled with the what and the how. What was it all for? How did he go wrong? For months he reflected on his past and present until he reached the conclusion: he didn't go wrong. He just always was. When pressed, he fell back to making things that hurt people, because that's what he's always done. Truss up the Merchant of Death in pretty shining armor, and he still is what he is.
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