Hesitatingly, Tony traces his hands up Steve's sides, around his ribs, and finally, needfully clutches his arms around him. His chin he rests on Steve's shoulder. Together, he remembers Steve saying. In that, Steve has kept his word. "Yeah. Drop's just hitting me big-time. Bit of self-indulgence and I'll be right as rain," Tony mumbles.
"You wanna sit down for a moment before we go get cheesecake?" He'd offer to go get it and bring it here, but he knows Tony doesn't like it when he's out of sight when he's under, and he probably wouldn't like it right now. So Steve gestures to the bed with his chin, the only part of him that isn't currently occupied with embracing Tony. "You can have some chocolate, too." He's reminded of Harry Potter for a moment and smiles to himself.
Tony sighs and says, "I better not. If I sit down again, you might have to caveman-carry me out." After a beat, he pulls back and comically narrows his eyes. "Don't get any ideas."
"Who, me?" Steve strives to look innocent and fails. "I'm just worried about you making it to the kitchen all right. You're looking a little wobbly there." And if Tony loses his balance on the way to the kitchen, Steve's absolutely going to carry him the rest of the way. It's about as big a deal for him as spending money is for Tony, which is to say, not at all.
If Tony were more himself (or rather, had more of his normal guards up), he might insist that he can manage the trek just fine. As it stands, he wants to be coddled, and Steve's playfulness is feeding his own. Tony's narrowed eyes switch to a forlorn look. Swaying purposely into Steve, he presses the back of his hand to his brow like a nineteenth century lady. "Oh, you know what, I am feelin' kinda faint. I dunno if I'll make it," he laments.
"I'll fetch the smelling salts," Steve retorts, utterly deadpan. Nevertheless, he crouches slightly and scoops Tony up into a bridal carry, one arm tucked in the crook of his knees, the other supporting his back, and cradles him close to his chest. "Maybe if you didn't have a house the size of an entire city block, this wouldn't be a problem," he points out as he walks. It might be an exaggeration, but not by much. It seems ridiculous to him to have this whole place just for one solitary person. At least he'll have more people around when he moves to the compound with the rest of them.
"Gonna need you to lend a hand here." He stops in front of the refrigerator, showing no sign of putting Tony down. Instead, he clearly intends for Tony to open the fridge and take the cake out himself.
Tony swings an arm around Steve's neck. Not that Steve needs any help—Tony just doesn't want to lie there like a hapless damsel, and getting his hands on Steve is always a plus. He tilts his head away to share a small smile. "It's the only thing that can fit my ego," he chirps, though the humor has a tired edge to it; he's trying too hard to act normal. The rest of the way, he's quieter. If Steve continues on silently, keeping his eyes ahead and off of Tony, then bit by bit Tony will rest his head on him, only allowing himself to wilt without an audience.
Once they cross into the kitchen, Tony lifts his head, ready to stand, but Steve keeps marching to the fridge. Tony shoots him a bemused look. "This isn't our stop?" He retrieves the cheesecake with both hands, trusting Steve to keep him aloft, and holds it on his stomach. "Hello, gorgeous," he says to it.
He chuckles. "If I have to carry you, I'm only doing it once," he points out. "Might as well just take the cheesecake with us to go watch the movie." Hopefully Tony isn't too fussy about the possibility of getting cheesecake on his sofa, because Steve clearly doesn't intend to get plates. Instead, he just juggles Tony a little to grab a pair of forks and a knife.
Mindlessly Tony mutters, "Uh-huh, sounds great," and takes the utensils into hand. As Steve carries him, Tony pops off the plastic dome of the packaging, scoops a bite of the creamy cheesecake into his mouth, and groans. "I feel like a teenaged girl with a tub of ice cream post-break-up," he admits sadly.
"You're the one who wanted to watch a rom-com," Steve reminds him cheerily. He waits till Tony's in between bites to set him down on the sofa, then grabs the remote and curls up next to him. "Got any requests?" He's become adept at using television remotes, but he doesn't know what movie, if any, Tony has in mind. Although he has a fork of his own, he steals Tony's to take a bite of the cheesecake while waiting for him to answer.
Tony makes a face at Steve just shy of sticking out his tongue before he answers, "I'm feelin' ... The Princess Bride. It's a classic. Definitely something to add to your repertoire."
Steve responds by kissing a stray smear of cheesecake from Tony's lips. "Got it." It takes him a couple minutes to navigate through the menus and find the movie on Netflix. "I should've brought my Snuggie along for you, huh?" he teases. But there's a blanket on the back of the couch, and he tucks it around the both of them to keep Tony warm.
By the time Steve wraps them up, Tony feels warm in more ways than physical. He pulls the blanket up on one side; from the other he sneaks his arm out to fetch more bites of cheesecake and the halved strawberries on top. "Dying to see more of your things on me? So possessive," he teases back.
"I've already seen the Snuggie on you." Steve wrinkles his nose playfully and places a finger over Tony's lips as the movie starts. It doesn't take long for him to get engrossed - he's always enjoyed good movies - and whenever Tony glances over at him, he's usually smiling or chuckling at whatever's just happened. In between, he steadily picks at the cheesecake, and the better part of it is gone by the end of the movie.
Afterwards, they sit in companionable silence for a few minutes, Steve resting his chin on Tony's head. Hopefully, he thinks, they'll be able to have more nice nights like this when Tony moves to the compound. Maybe he can even find him a red and gold Snuggie to wrap up in. "You ready for bed?" he asks finally, before they end up falling asleep on the couch.
For his part, Tony stops picking at the cheesecake not long into the movie and instead nibbles on the cut strawberries. The Princess Bride is a childhood favorite, a comfort—a dashing hero outsmarting villains and defeating all obstacles to reach his true love while spouting off banter always appealed to him, and he secretly loves the fantasy genre. When he's not sneaking a glance at Steve, he's quietly smiling to himself, save for dire moments, like when the giant shrieking eel lunges mouth-first at the screen. There, Tony sees the toothy maw of a much more alien leviathan. He falls strangely still and quiet after that, which he resolves by sitting length-wise on the couch and using Steve's side as a backrest. By the movie's end, Tony is already halfway to dozing on Steve. The exhaustion of subdrop has caught up to him.
He sucks in a deep breath and jostles his head like he just snapped out of sleep. He sounds like it, too, his voice coming out scratchy. "Yup. Bed sounds great. Let's go, buttercup."
When Tony shifts to sit with his back against him, Steve moves his arm to let him rest against his side, then idly combs his fingers through Tony's hair through the rest of the movie. The gesture is almost instinctual, and he doesn't give much thought, if any, to Tony changing positions. It's normal enough, and he's too caught up in the plot. He'd always been entranced by tales of knights and chivalry as a child, and of course he's a sap for true love.
"As you wish," Steve replies easily, with a kiss to the top of Tony's head, then (perhaps on purpose) ruins a potentially emotional moment by adding, "I'm not carrying you again, though."
For a long moment, Tony doesn't move, face ducked away from Steve's view. Then, he cranes his neck around and up and says, "Did you just ... confess your love for me via movie quote?"
"It's better than Star Wars?" Steve offers up lamely, his cheeks suddenly red. It hadn't seemed like a big deal at the time, but now Tony's making it into one, and he feels awkward. Of course he loves him. He hasn't tried to hide the fact, he's just never come out and stated it before. Tony's planning on moving in with him, and you don't do that with someone you're just casually fucking, even when there's a two hour commute involved. But he's still nervous about Tony's reaction, in that silly teenage girl butterflies in the stomach kind of way.
Tony's face falls into numb shock. The thing coursing through his head is, I don't deserve this. First Pepper, now Steve—Tony keeps sucking these goodhearted, amazing people in like a black hole, where his singularity eventually crushes them. He knew Steve cared deeply for him. Wanted him. But to frame that as love, that cements it somehow. That's the event horizon. Are you sure? he wants to ask. There's no going back after that. Tony will pull Steve into him with a greedy, terrifying force, hoard Steve like a dragon with his treasure, paranoid over when it'll be taken away; until one day (his thoughts spiral out of his control from here) he'll find Steve and the shield cleaved in two with the rest of their friends, all dead. Because of Tony. His mistakes.
Breathing funnily, he faces forward again. Say something! he yells at himself, but his mind only blares back at him with, I don't deserve this. So he tells it, Too bad. You have this, anyway.
"I'm not there yet," he hears. Belatedly, Tony recognizes his own distant, scared voice. He can sense Steve falling into him, but he already knows Steve won't turn back. He won't even wear a helmet.
Steve freezes at the words like a deer caught in the headlights of a car. Stupid, stupid, stupid, he tells himself, he goddamn knows better than to let his feelings slip with Tony. He comes on too fast, too hard, throws himself in headfirst even when he shouldn't and ruins it with something as stupid as a movie quote. I'm not there yet, to him, translates as a polite rejection. He's scared Tony off with his intensity when he knows perfectly well he needs to play it slow and safe, and now he wants to erase what had been an incredibly good evening up till now.
"Yeah, okay," he says finally, feeling like he's supposed to say something but not really knowing what. "That's. Uh." It's not fine, he can't make himself say the word fine. He wants to distance himself somehow, but doesn't have any reasonable excuse to do it, and sitting there on the couch, he feels like he's on one of those goddamn double dates with a girl who's not interested in him and no way to escape. He doesn't move, doesn't do anything to further betray his emotions.
"Bed!" Tony exclaims, higher in pitch, as he whirls around. "That's what I wish. I wish it, you grant it—that's how it goes. C'mon." His core is trembling. He can't move either.
"I'm not a genie," Steve manages to say, and it's a credit to his self-restraint that he doesn't hiss the words like a prelude to one of their usual arguments. "And I told you I wasn't carrying you again." He tilts his head. "You go to bed, okay? I'll be there in a little bit. I'm gonna stay up and watch a little more Netflix." They both need the emotional space, he thinks; sleeping together will be all right, but falling asleep is fraught with emotion, and he doesn't want to deal with that right now.
His stomach drops. Swallowing, Tony nods and slips out from underneath the blanket. He stands there, eyes on Steve, a million thoughts clustered behind them. "I did say yet," he notes, that word stressed, willing it to impart everything he should explain but can't: his fears, his hopes. Steve's not a genie, but Tony wishes him to understand. I'm trying to protect you, even if it's from me, because I think I might—"That was a crucial part. Anyway," he sighs and crosses his arms tightly, colder now in the harness without Steve by him, "g'night." He motions his head to the television. "Check out My List. You might find something," he suggests and then with a final, pleading look, he leaves.
In bed, he keeps the collar on, the harness draped over a chair (after some finagling to remove it). Tony sleeps scooted to one side, the other left empty for Steve to fill.
It's my fault, Steve thinks, because he can't keep his damn mouth shut, because he can never keep his feelings repressed around Tony. He jumps into everything too readily and assumes people will follow. As much as Steve wants to gather Tony up in his arms and kiss him while he's standing there with his arms crossed like that, he still feels rebuffed.
He keeps eating the cheesecake while he flips through Netflix, but he doesn't manage to settle on anything by the time it's gone, and honestly, sitting around and sulking isn't Steve's kind of thing. Tony's asleep when he goes back to the room to change into running clothes, and he quickly scribbles a note telling him that he'll be back in time for breakfast, leaving it on the table.
Night in New York City is far from quiet, especially on the weekend, but nobody pays much attention to Steve as he runs. He leaves Fifth Avenue behind, runs around Central Park a few times, then heads east. Eventually, he finds himself at the edge of Queens, in a neighborhood that's seen better days. When he hears the noise of crashing, falling bricks behind a bank sometime around 4 am, Steve has to investigate.
"What the hell-" he gets out before someone belts him upside the head with a crowbar.
"You too, huh?" When he comes to, he's tied up with a much smaller figure. "Man, I'm gonna be in so much trouble." Judging by the pitch of his voice, the other person is a teenager, dressed in some kind of stupid red getup.
"God," Steve groans. They've wrapped him in chains, and the goons - there's four of them, all equipped with varying weird tools - seem to be discussing what to do with both of them. "I'm such an idiot." And what the hell kind of crowbar is that? It should take more than that to knock him unconscious. "You got a cell phone, kid?"
"I'm not a kid!" he squeaks indignantly, which proves the lie. "I'm a man. You know, Spider-Man."
"Spider-Man," Steve repeats dubiously, flexing his muscles against the chains. Rope wouldn't be a problem, but chains that he can't grip to pull apart? "Is that a theme or something? Bug theme?"
"Come on, you've heard of Black Widow, haven't you?"
"Trust me, I'm hoping she doesn't hear about this." Nat could take these assholes down in about five seconds. Why doesn't he have his cell phone? Steve lets his head thud back against the wall, but it's unsuccessful in accomplishing anything. Tony's going to kill him.
Through the bank's large, front-facing windows, crowding the parking lot and spilling into the streets, is a squad of police cars with sirens still swinging their lights over the building. Gray morning light reveals dust motes in the air; Steve must have been unconscious for at least three hours for it to be past dawn. The officers outside show no sign of moving in, but they have their guns aimed forward, huddling behind car doors as cover. Rather than concerned, the crooks seem frustrated.
One of the crooks is growling negotiations and demands into a two-way radio, which he received earlier from the officers—this must be the group's leader, since the others seem content leaving him in charge. He hides behind a purple ski mask and brandishes a crowbar. Nearer to Steve stands a black man in a yellow ski mask. His eyes are shrewd and perceptive, latched onto Steve, who is bound by the four-foot chain of his steel wrecking ball, the ball's end effortlessly lifted in his hand. The other two men (one in a red ski mask, the other with some kind of armored helmet) hold no weapons, but red-mask's hands are outlandishly oversized for his frame and helmet-head's limbs despite his short stature are as bulky as the Hulk's. The first of two men guards the front door. The second hangs near the back.
Minutes later, while purple-leader barks into the radio, a figure scuttles behind the teller's desk. From around it, just the barest sliver of Tony's face peeks at Steve. He's wearing purple-tinted sunglasses. When he lifts a single finger to shush Steve, a familiar red gauntlet is encasing his hand. He ducks behind the desk again, so far undetected.
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"Gonna need you to lend a hand here." He stops in front of the refrigerator, showing no sign of putting Tony down. Instead, he clearly intends for Tony to open the fridge and take the cake out himself.
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Once they cross into the kitchen, Tony lifts his head, ready to stand, but Steve keeps marching to the fridge. Tony shoots him a bemused look. "This isn't our stop?" He retrieves the cheesecake with both hands, trusting Steve to keep him aloft, and holds it on his stomach. "Hello, gorgeous," he says to it.
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Afterwards, they sit in companionable silence for a few minutes, Steve resting his chin on Tony's head. Hopefully, he thinks, they'll be able to have more nice nights like this when Tony moves to the compound. Maybe he can even find him a red and gold Snuggie to wrap up in. "You ready for bed?" he asks finally, before they end up falling asleep on the couch.
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He sucks in a deep breath and jostles his head like he just snapped out of sleep. He sounds like it, too, his voice coming out scratchy. "Yup. Bed sounds great. Let's go, buttercup."
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"As you wish," Steve replies easily, with a kiss to the top of Tony's head, then (perhaps on purpose) ruins a potentially emotional moment by adding, "I'm not carrying you again, though."
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Breathing funnily, he faces forward again. Say something! he yells at himself, but his mind only blares back at him with, I don't deserve this. So he tells it, Too bad. You have this, anyway.
"I'm not there yet," he hears. Belatedly, Tony recognizes his own distant, scared voice. He can sense Steve falling into him, but he already knows Steve won't turn back. He won't even wear a helmet.
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"Yeah, okay," he says finally, feeling like he's supposed to say something but not really knowing what. "That's. Uh." It's not fine, he can't make himself say the word fine. He wants to distance himself somehow, but doesn't have any reasonable excuse to do it, and sitting there on the couch, he feels like he's on one of those goddamn double dates with a girl who's not interested in him and no way to escape. He doesn't move, doesn't do anything to further betray his emotions.
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In bed, he keeps the collar on, the harness draped over a chair (after some finagling to remove it). Tony sleeps scooted to one side, the other left empty for Steve to fill.
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He keeps eating the cheesecake while he flips through Netflix, but he doesn't manage to settle on anything by the time it's gone, and honestly, sitting around and sulking isn't Steve's kind of thing. Tony's asleep when he goes back to the room to change into running clothes, and he quickly scribbles a note telling him that he'll be back in time for breakfast, leaving it on the table.
Night in New York City is far from quiet, especially on the weekend, but nobody pays much attention to Steve as he runs. He leaves Fifth Avenue behind, runs around Central Park a few times, then heads east. Eventually, he finds himself at the edge of Queens, in a neighborhood that's seen better days. When he hears the noise of crashing, falling bricks behind a bank sometime around 4 am, Steve has to investigate.
"What the hell-" he gets out before someone belts him upside the head with a crowbar.
"You too, huh?" When he comes to, he's tied up with a much smaller figure. "Man, I'm gonna be in so much trouble." Judging by the pitch of his voice, the other person is a teenager, dressed in some kind of stupid red getup.
"God," Steve groans. They've wrapped him in chains, and the goons - there's four of them, all equipped with varying weird tools - seem to be discussing what to do with both of them. "I'm such an idiot." And what the hell kind of crowbar is that? It should take more than that to knock him unconscious. "You got a cell phone, kid?"
"I'm not a kid!" he squeaks indignantly, which proves the lie. "I'm a man. You know, Spider-Man."
"Spider-Man," Steve repeats dubiously, flexing his muscles against the chains. Rope wouldn't be a problem, but chains that he can't grip to pull apart? "Is that a theme or something? Bug theme?"
"Come on, you've heard of Black Widow, haven't you?"
"Trust me, I'm hoping she doesn't hear about this." Nat could take these assholes down in about five seconds. Why doesn't he have his cell phone? Steve lets his head thud back against the wall, but it's unsuccessful in accomplishing anything. Tony's going to kill him.
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One of the crooks is growling negotiations and demands into a two-way radio, which he received earlier from the officers—this must be the group's leader, since the others seem content leaving him in charge. He hides behind a purple ski mask and brandishes a crowbar. Nearer to Steve stands a black man in a yellow ski mask. His eyes are shrewd and perceptive, latched onto Steve, who is bound by the four-foot chain of his steel wrecking ball, the ball's end effortlessly lifted in his hand. The other two men (one in a red ski mask, the other with some kind of armored helmet) hold no weapons, but red-mask's hands are outlandishly oversized for his frame and helmet-head's limbs despite his short stature are as bulky as the Hulk's. The first of two men guards the front door. The second hangs near the back.
Minutes later, while purple-leader barks into the radio, a figure scuttles behind the teller's desk. From around it, just the barest sliver of Tony's face peeks at Steve. He's wearing purple-tinted sunglasses. When he lifts a single finger to shush Steve, a familiar red gauntlet is encasing his hand. He ducks behind the desk again, so far undetected.
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