Tony had fantasized about waking up next to Steve in a thousand different ways—all of those he'd dare to "jokingly" confess aloud being sexual, and all else so disturbingly domestic, he'd yet to admit them to himself, let alone anyone else. But never, even in his wildest dreams, had it ever gone down quite like this: sprawled across Steve's chest, his face buried in the Super Soldier's (horribly perfect) pectorals, drooling slightly, with his legs tangled around Steve's stupidly muscular thighs. And maybe—maybe—if Steve had been asleep, it might have been alright. Maybe he could have played it off; two teammates, tired out from their day of saving the world, and hey, of course they deserved a break. It happened. Perfectly normal. Nothing to worry about. Except that Steve was not asleep. No, Steve was very, very awake—eyes wide open and a smile playing across his stupid perfect kissable mouth, like somehow Tony's most humiliating nightmare was funny to him.

"Good morning," Steve said, and damn it, was that a smirk? Was Steve Rogers, Boy Scout Extraordinare smirking at him? The fact that this only served to make him more kissable was simply unfair. Tony did not get distracted by smirks. He was the king of smirking. He was Tony Stark—genius, billionaire, playboy…yeah, okay, even he didn't care about that old tag line anymore because, let's face it, the data was adding up, and Tony might still be a genius, billionaire, philanthropist, but the last person he'd even so much as kissed in the last two years had been Pepper, and the last time that had happened was months ago. After the breakup, he'd been sure he'd fall back into the "wild" ways of his youth, a new girl by the house every night (and guy, sure, he was open, sex was sex, and if he could find a nice blonde with abs to rival Captain America…and okay, he was back on Steve. Why did that always happen?). But to everyone's surprise—his own in particular—Tony had gone a full 180 and become near celibate, spending all his time down in the workshop, and, apart from Dum-E and the other bots, there wasn't a whole lot of company down there from which to pick out potential dates (and no, he had not yet sunk so far as to try and make a robotic girlfriend; the papers lied, thank you very much).

And yes, Steve spent had been spending increasing amounts of time down in his workshop, but that was because the lack of natural light and human contact made it easier to draw or…something, and anyway, he was getting off track. Point was, it had been movie night—perfectly innocent movie night between friends and teammates with Natasha and Clint arguing over the remote and Clint throwing popcorn at Thor, and Bruce pointedly rolling his eyes at all of them, and Tony sitting a little too close to Steve on the couch because the couch was small, okay? And if Steve's thigh pressed up against his and somewhere during the night, the super soldier's arm ended up around Tony's shoulder, well, he wasn't going to complain. He was a team player, and team bonding was important, and, whatever else Coulson had said at the last debrief (Tony had been too busy with the very important life saving work of drawing stick figures on a napkins and passing them to Steve under the table, which completely qualified as team bonding, no matter what Fury said).

So team movie night was a thing, and bonding happened, and it was all perfectly normal (or as normal as a bunch of very independent and possibly psychotic superheroes living under one roof could be), but this? Waking up on Steve? Not normal.

Houston, we have a problem. System failure. Locate the nearest exit.

Tony scrambled up and off of Steve so fast that he promptly fell off the couch and landed on his back on the floor. From the kitchen, he could hear Clint's laughter, Bruce's chuckle, Thor's tone of concern and something damn near a snort from Natasha, and great—everyone was here. Steve, evidently hiding his own laughter, moved to help Tony to his feet.

"How long was I out?" Tony asked, running a hand over his face to wipe the sleep out his eyes and definitely not because he was trying to hide his growing humiliation. Tony Stark did not get embarrassed, and he certainly did not blush—that was a sun burn.

"Well, it's 10 am, you fell asleep around midnight, and your and Steve's breakfasts are both cold because Steve refused to push you off him so he could come eat," Clint replied helpfully, holding up a plate of eggs and couple of Pop-Tarts; if this wasn't indication enough of who exactly had made breakfast, Thor's beaming smile beside him summed everything up quite perfectly—sealed, signed, delivered.

Tony groaned. Steve, surprisingly, did not stop smiling—why, Tony had no idea. Because this was it, here it came: the 'you're getting too close' speech, the 'I'm glad we're friends, but there needs to be boundaries' lecture. He could already hear Pepper's voice in his ear (over the phone, of course, because Tony rarely saw Pepper in person anymore—something about healing their old wounds and needing space, and him piling a world full of work onto her petite, capable shoulders), hissing, 'You know you come on too strong, Tony, you should have been more careful.' And Tony didn't let his guard down, didn't trust, didn't let people in; he didn't even sleep to begin with so why in the world his subconscious had chosen to smother Steve of all people…

"I don't mind," Steve said. Tony stared. Steve kept smiling. Clint laughed even harder. Tony made a mental note to destroy all the new arrows he'd made for the ungrateful son of a bitch, but, luckily for him, Steve was glaring too. If Tony's calculations were correct, and they always were, the archer was subjected to at least two full seconds of 'The Captain America Disapproves of Your Life Choices' glare (a considerable time, giving the intensity of the look; this was the sort of look that melted faces; this was the sort of look Indiana Jones would have been afraid of) before he stopped laughing and busied himself with his own breakfast, and Steve turned back to Tony. "I know you haven't slept in days. And you looked…peaceful. It was nice." Steve broke off, biting hard on his bottom lip, and…was that a blush? Tony traced the pink from Steve's cheeks down his neck, and, yeah, Steve was definitely blushing. Tony tried to tell himself it was a friendly blush, and that blushes don't mean anything, and he shouldn't read it into it because rationally, it made no sense, and he didn't have a chance in the world; but for the life of him, he could not come up with any sort of reasonable explanation or definition for 'a friendly blush.' Friends didn't blush. Friends didn't have a reason to blush.

Tony narrowed his eyes and stared at Steve; Steve stared back, blushing even more, and for several seconds, they gave in to some sort of Old Western Stare Down (Tony could actually see the cameras in his mind zooming in on their fixated stares until someone pulled the metaphorical gun here). "It was nice?" Tony repeated.

Steve nodded. "Yeah, it was nice."

"Seriously, just kiss already," Clint mumbled through his Pop-Tart. Natasha slapped him upside the head and, okay, Tony appreciated the sentiment and sort of wished she'd do it all the time every day, but it in no way stopped Clint from finishing his breakfast or from saying grumpily under his breath, "What? They've been flirting for monthsss. I'm literally terrified of coming in here in the mornings in fear that I might see Stark's ass."

Steve's face turned scarlet.

And maybe that was it—maybe that particular tone of red just got Tony's blood flowing, or maybe gave him courage because it sort of looked like a tomato and tomatoes are brave little fruits or something else ridiculous—honestly, all rationality had jumped ship long ago and when had his life ever made sense? All he knew was that he was surging forward, cupping Steve's face in both hands, and kissing him until he could feel his lips bruising and he just didn't care because it was too good, like all his fantasies all wrapped up in one—better than his dreams, better than his imagination, better than fucking sex because the second their lips touched, Steve kissed back.

Steve who could have anything and anyone one in the world, Steve who, on his very worst days, was a better man than Tony would ever be, was kissing back, soft lips and warm hands burying their way into Tony's shirt.

As they pulled away (and really, it was such a shame they had to break for such silly things as breathing), Steve's blush settled into something far happier and much less embarrassed, staring down at Tony beneath his overlong eyelashes, a determined smile taking shape on his mouth. "If that's what I get for skipping breakfast, I might have to start taking a page out of your book," he said. If it wasn't for the slightest quirk of his lips, a mere mortal might not have caught the joke in his tone, but Tony was a sworn expert on Steve's dry humor, and it was a skill he wanted displayed proudly on his grave.

"That's a terrible idea. You'd starve in an hour," he said. Super Soldier metabolisms were tricky, needy little things (you know, minus the 'little' part; Steve could eat him out of house and home).

"They're going to be disgusting now, aren't they?" Clint asked his third Pop-Tart.

It was Steve who answered. "Yep," he said, and, grabbing Tony by the collar, pulled him in for another kiss.