So, it's literally been 5 years, but I'm back…. I guess? Just suddenly had an urge to write again, so I thought I would revisit this story. For all of my loyal followers/fans, this one's for you! I hope you all enjoy it— my writing style may have changed a bit, but I hope y'all still like it.

xxx

Avoiding Tony had been going pretty well, all things considered. Steve was miserable, of course, but that was simply a necessary consequence. It had been around three months since the Mario Kart incident, and Steve had thus far remained steadfastly committed to his goal of distancing himself from Tony. Well, at least he had been successful in executing the plan— no contact with Tony unless absolutely necessary, no sitting next to him during team events, and definitely no drawing him or fantasizing about him while alone in his room— but the desired result remained elusive. After all this time, Steve's feelings towards Tony had not diminished in the slightest.

Worse, Tony had finally noticed Steve's strange behavior (e.g.: quickly leaving the room with feeble excuses whenever Tony entered, never accepting an invite to go for lunch or a ballgame or anything if it was just going to be the two of them, etc), and had gotten the wrong idea. According to Natasha, Tony thought that Steve didn't like him, and was worried that maybe he was too annoying or hyperactive to be around. If that wasn't bad enough, it had recently come to light that Tony was bisexual—some old tabloids had sufaced, revealing a few of his so-called torrid relationships with men in the past (God, what a day that had been; Steve still hadn't fully recovered), so apparently Tony also thought his sexuality was part of the reason that Steve refused to have anything to do with him.

Tony had been quite intoxicated and mopey when he revealed all of this to Natasha, and it wasn't long before she found Steve and gave him a glare so piercing that he felt his penis shrink a little bit. She had two, very scathing, words for him: "Fix. It."

And when Black Widow tells you to do something, you do it.

So there Steve was, his heart beating rapidly and his palms sweating, as he carried a tray with a sandwich, some fruit and an iced tea down to Tony's workshop. He hadn't been down there in so long, he wasn't sure if he even still had the access code. Checking up on Tony was something he used to do very often (before he brutally repressed all of his emotions), so he thought it would be a good first step in repairing the bond between them.

He hesitantly knocked on the door, hearing AC/DC blaring from inside. He considered trying to put in his access code, worried that Tony couldn't hear him over his loud music, when the door swung open and Tony's grease-smudged face appeared, looking haggard and preoccupied. It took a moment for Tony to fully process that Steve was at the door, his brown eyes blinking several times dazedly.

"Cap?" The surprise was evident in his voice, but he quickly stifled his expression of shock into one of indifference and put-on annoyance at being disturbed. He glanced down at the tray Steve was holding and then back at Steve's face, minutely raising an eyebrow.

"I brought you lunch," Steve explained unnecessarily. At Tony's silence, he continued, feeling awkward, "It had been awhile since you had surfaced for a meal or anything, so I wanted to check on you… " He trailed off apprehensively, hoping Tony would say something.

After a few more beats of silence Tony finally responded. "Oh. Well, uh, thanks." He carefully took the tray from Steve, and made as if to close the door before Steve hurriedly interjected, grabbing the door to stop him from closing it.

"Wait— do you mind if I hang out down here for a little bit? Um… I'm kind of bored, and I don't have anything else to do." Steve said lamely, wishing he had thought of a better reason.

And sometimes I miss you so much that I can barely breathe.

He didn't voice that particular thought, the back of his neck flushing as he took in Tony after so long of not seeing him. Had Tony's lashes gotten even longer in the last three months? His hair had grown, loose curls wisping up behind his ears and onto the nape of his neck. He was wearing his "work clothes", in other words, a pair of old jeans and a Green Day t-shirt, and god, he looked beautiful.

Fuck. Bad Steve.

Tony looked at him appraisingly, before nodding slightly and opening the door wider so Steve could come in. Tony was uncharacteristically silent, and the absence of any wisecracks or sarcastic remarks made Steve wonder if he had actually hurt the billionaire's feelings by avoiding him for so long. He didn't know it was possible— the incredible self-made, cocky genius that was so far out of Steve's league— feeling insecure? The press said terrible things about him relentlessly, including a merciless interview from earlier in the week, but Tony always seemed to just let it wash over him, armed with a snarky grin and a pair of colorfully tinted sunglasses.

For the first time, Steve wondered if perhaps the hate from the media got to Tony more than he let on. He felt a deep pang of guilt, realizing that he might have inadvertently contributed to Tony's negative self-image by refusing to spend time with him. The thought of Tony not realizing how incredible he was made Steve's heart ache. He wished Tony knew that, to him, he was the best thing about the 21st century, and the most remarkable man he had ever met.

You could tell him. Steve's mind intrusively supplied. He quickly shot down that train of thought, instead choosing to sit down on the little couch in the corner of the workshop and pulling out a novel to read. (He had refrained from bringing his sketchbook because there would have been too much temptation to draw Tony. And Steve was trying to be good).

For about an hour, Tony thoroughly ignored Steve. He promptly asked JARVIS to turn the music back on (the sound waves practically palpable in the air), and then returned to the project he had been working on, without sparing Steve a second glance.

Steve attempted to read, but he couldn't help looking up every few seconds to watch Tony work. Tony was in his element, focused, flicking holograms back and forth as he scanned through various diagrams. Steve was mesmerized, watching the way Tony distractedly ran his hands through his hair while he solved difficult equations, and how a sliver of pink tongue would sometimes poke through his plush lips as he concentrated.

Tony was, thankfully, too absorbed in his work to notice Steve staring at him, and Steve took that opportunity to make up for three months' worth of missing the sharp line of Tony's jaw, the delightful delicacy of his hands, the snugness of those jeans (god, why did he have to wear his jeans so tight, couldn't he let a hopelessly pining man live in peace—), Steve embarrassedly looked down at his lap to avoid staring at his teammate's ass, restlessly wringing his hands together, thinking about how much easier it was to not think about Tony when they weren't in the same room.

Steve snapped out of his reverie when he realized the music had stopped. He looked up, his book long abandoned, and saw Tony leaning against his work table, facing Steve with his arms crossed, an inscrutable expression on his face.

"So, why have you been avoiding me?" Tony asked decisively, getting straight to the point. "And now you're here." he added curtly.

"I— uh," Steve floundered for a moment, surprised by the abruptness of Tony's question. "I haven't been avoiding you," Steve's voice sounded weak to his own ears. He squirmed uncomfortably where he was seated.

Tony looked irritated. "Oh, sure, I guess it's just a coincidence that you immediately "have somewhere to be" everytime I enter a room that you're in. I mean, we literally live in the same building and you've spoken to me, what, like four times in the past three months?" Steve opened his mouth to respond, but evidently Tony wasn't finished yet.

"And what's with never agreeing to do anything with me? Two years ago I would have thought that you were just a self-righteous stick-in-the-mud, but I've seen you go out and do things with the team or with Natasha or Clint or whoever as long as I'm not there," Tony's eyes were blazing, and his lips are pressed together in a thin line. Steve opened his mouth to counter—

"If you have a problem with the fact that I occasionally fancy men, then you need to get your head out of your homophobic fossilized ass and realize that you're living in the 21st century. If you can't handle being around me, like what, you think I might get some of my gay on you, then you can first, go fuck youself, and second, move out of my fucking tower."

Steve gaped, his eyes wide. "No— no, Tony, it's not that! Not at all, I promise, I really don't have a problem with your sexuality. Or anyone's sexuality. I mean, it's not my business or anything, so, I mean," Steve stammered. If only Tony knew that Steve really did not have a problem with him being bisexual. (In fact, it might have been some of the best news he had heard since being pulled out of the ice).

"Oh, so you just find me intolerable to be around? At least that's more commendable than being a bigoted prick," he said stiffly, before turning to return to his work, his shoulders hunched and his jaw tight, "Feel free to leave now."

"I— no, what?" Without thinking, Steve walks over to Tony and gently tugs his upper arm to turn him back around. "Tony, I'm so sorry you got the wrong idea. I— I admit, I have been avoiding you lately. It's just… I've been going through some, er, personal things." Steve scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, feeling color rising on his cheeks.

He continued quickly, trying to make things right, to fix the mess he made. "I promise I don't find you annoying, not at all. I love being around you. And I've missed you so much. I— I think you're the most amazing person I've ever met."

Shit. Didn't mean to say that. Steve's ears grew warm as Tony looked up at him dubiously, and Steve felt his mouth drying as he realized he was still standing less than a foot away from him. He hurriedly backed away, rubbing his arm nervously.

Tony looked down at the ground and sighed, running a tired hand through his already mussed hair. "Sorry, Cap, I didn't mean to take it out on you. It's just been a rough week I guess."

Suddenly, Steve remembered why Tony had wound up drunk and rambling to Natasha in the first place. A few days ago, an interview had aired on Good Morning America featuring one of Tony's ex-girlfriends, and the whole segment was basically entirely dedicated to making fun of him. It was sickening. Together, she and the host laughed at "how clingy and needy he was", and revealed that this apparently untouchable superhero was in fact plagued by terrible nightmares, had terrible, hideous scars, and was actually 'not that great in bed'. (Steve called bullshit on that). Steve had been so angry after watching, he ended up destroying eight steel-enforced punching bags. It made sense why Tony was being so defensive and standoffish— when he got his feelings hurt, he tended to lash out. (And Steve knew that he completely, one hundred percent, deserved it, for being a dumbass the last three months).

"No, don't apologize, Tony. You're right. I've been acting like a dick lately, and I want to sincerely say I'm sorry for that. I promise, it was nothing you did— " Steve exhales a small sigh of regret, "—and if you'll let me, I want to make it up to you." Guilt pooled in Steve's stomach as he looked at Tony, wishing he could glide a comforting hand through Tony's soft curls and brush the disorderly strands off his forehead.

Tony looked up at Steve, around four inches shorter than him without his armour on, and gave him a weak quirk of his lips, before walking past him to go sit on the couch. He sank back against the cushions and closed his eyes, looking exhausted.

"Tony." Steve took a momentary breath to steel himself, as this was likely not going to end well for his infatuated heart. "Since you haven't touched the sandwich I brought, do you want to go grab something to eat? You look like you could use a break," he offered a small smile.

Tony looked over at the tray sitting forgotten on a shelf near the door, and then back at Steve.

He nodded lackadaisically, "Yeah, I guess. You have a place in mind?"

Steve paused, trying to think of somewhere casual, somewhere that would definitely not make this feel like a date. Then an idea surfaced, something that he assumed Tony would positively hate, and a smile rose on his face.

"Yeah I know a place; it's within walking distance. Come on," Steve gestured for Tony to follow him as he began to walk towards the door.

Tony quirked an eyebrow, and then grudgingly lifted himself off the couch to catch up with Steve.

Steve felt nervous energy thrumming through his body, and he couldn't refrain from anxiously bouncing on his feet as he and Tony took the elevator to the ground floor. Tony glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, his posture slouched and uncaring against the elevator railing, before reverting his attention back to something on his phone.

The bell dinged, alerting them that the elevator had come to a stop. Steve hurriedly got out, trying to get more distance between himself and Tony. He was already starting to regret asking Tony on this outing; it seemed that three months of absence had only made his his heart grow fonder, and every time he looked at Tony it was a struggle not to stare, or worse, do something extremely stupid, like push him up against the wall and kiss him so thoroughly that his pliable pink lips would moan against his own, his expressive brown eyes closing in pleasure.

These types of thoughts were the reason for Steve's rapid pace, creating distance from Tony, and he desperately began visualizing mood-killers such as Clint's awful cooking or Fury dancing in a poodle skirt.

"Steve, wait up, what's the rush?" Tony huffed, practically having to jog to keep up with Steve's frantic strides.

Steve intentionally tried to slow his steps, looking abashedly back at Tony. "Sorry, just hungry." He gave a small sheepish smile before turning his head forward again, so he wouldn't have to face Tony's signature eye roll, his beautiful dark lashes not quite masking the faint fondness in the gesture. Looking at Tony just reminded him of all the ways he wanted him, and of all of the ways he would never have him.

"You're always hungry," Tony responded with a slight tsk, and then he looked around, confusedly taking in his surroundings as he realized that they were walking towards Central Park rather than to the downtown hub of the city where most of the popular restaurants were. "How far away are we anyway? What's this place again?"

"So many questions," Steve chided teasingly, a secretive smile on his lips, "You'll see. Patience is a virtue."

Tony harrumphed, "I've never been known for being very virtuous," he insinuated flirtatiously, giving Steve a coy wink.

Now it was Steve's turn to roll his eyes, smiling contentedly as he bumped Tony's shoulder with his own, enjoying the returning feeling of their easy companionship.

"Look, it's up there ahead," Steve had a full-fledged grin now as he watched Tony squint into the distance, lifting his hand to block the sun as he searched for their lunch place.

All at once, Tony stopped dead in his tracks, and gave Steve an incredulous look. "You can't be serious."

Steve could do nothing except grin wider, finding an abundance of mirth in Tony's obvious disgruntlement at Steve's choice of gourmet cuisine.

"An outdoor hotdog stand? Selling fake meat in soggy bread for a dollar each? You do realize I am a billionaire right?" Tony's nose was scrunched adorably with disgust, but he still couldn't suppress an amused quirk of his lips in response to Steve's obvious excitement.

"It's a New York delicacy, baby!" Steve gave Tony his most winning smile, and in return, Tony reluctantly accompanied him in walking up to the hotdog stand (albeit with a lot of shaking his head and muttering under his breath about an early death from toxic street food).

Steve elbowed him in the side, a message for him to shut up, before ordering seven (five for him and two for Tony) hotdogs from the raggedy vendor.

After they got their food, Steve led them to a little park bench in the shade, where they could sit and eat.

Steve watched as Tony meticulously unwrapped the hotdog from its foil, inspecting it like a scientist studying a rare (and slightly disgusting) specimen.

Steve chuckled in disbelief, "Have you seriously never eaten from a street vendor before?"

Tony had the decency to look kind of embarrassed. "Well, no, my childhood didn't exactly involve baseball games and street grub with the ol' man," his lips quirked and his tone was nonchalant, concealing any deeper emotions, "and as an adult with a net worth of several billion dollars, most people try to wine and dine me somewhere fancy, so I they can butter me up and ask for a loan or a grant or some other favor," He paused, lifting the hotdog close to his face to sniff it, his expression distorting further into distaste, "and if they're going to make an attempt on my life, usually they're more subtle than directly poisoning me. "

Steve laughed and knocked his shoulder gently against Tony's. "It's not going to kill you. Try it," he said imploringly, giving Tony a nice pout for good measure.

Tony sighed heavily, "Those eyes, Rogers. Not fair," and then conceded, gingerly taking a bite out of his excessively greasy and rather deformed lump of a hotdog.

Steve watched in eager anticipation, feeling giddy as he watched Tony slowly chew and swallow his first taste of a true New York City hotdog, the food of the common folk. (No, he was not distracted by the bob of his Adam's apple and the smooth kissable curve of his throat as he swallowed. Okay, maybe he was. A little bit.)

"So?" The question spilled out, unable to contain himself.

Tony smirked at his boyish excitement. "Hmm… not bad. Well, for a dollar that is. Out of every concoction of questionable meat and mushed bread, it might actually rank pretty high,"

Steve grinned and playfully swatted Tony's arm (Seriously, Steve, stop touching him at every opportunity), and he felt supremely satisfied as Tony apparently deemed the hotdog edible enough to continue eating.

Steve was chowing down on his fourth hotdog when suddenly he stopped, irrevocably distracted by his unwitting lunch partner. There was a little dab of ketchup on the corner of Tony's mouth. Steve was fixated, seemingly unable to look away— Tony was looking down at his phone, texting someone, and Steve just stared at the miniscule red dot on the corner of Tony's very kissable mouth. His lips were so pink, his facial hair immaculately groomed, and that one little spot became too much for Steve to resist.

Before he even realized it, he had lifted a hand to gently wipe the drop of ketchup off Tony's face, his finger grazing Tony's soft lower lip as he did.

Tony immediately looked up at the sudden touch. His phone buzzed again, and he probably would have gone right back to typing away if it wasn't for the fact that the color of Steve's face had become alarmingly analogous to a firetruck. Steve briefly wondered if it looked like he was having an allergic reaction, and felt that he might actually die from embarrassment. His heart was racing and his face felt so hot, and for a few seconds he could do nothing but stare back at Tony.

"You had something on your face," he said dumbly, finally breaking the silence, still looking at Tony with wide eyes.

"...Thanks," Tony responded slowly, looking at Steve with a mixture of confusion and suspicion, his eyes travelling from Steve's scarlet ears to the crimson blush peeking out beneath the collar of his shirt. Suddenly, his expression changed, looking as if he had just figured something out.

"Steve…" Steve's breath had already stopped in his chest, his heart hammering. Does he know? "I'm… I'm sorry what I said, earlier, about you being homophobic or whatever," Tony said apologetically. Steve blinked, taken aback by Tony's unexpected statement. Tony continued before Steve could even try to understand what was happening.

"I know that you wouldn't intentionally act prejudiced or anything, I mean honestly sometimes you're so nice it kind of makes me want to hurl. And I get that you come from a different time period, so maybe it can be a bit of adjustment to modern times." Steve stared uncomprehendingly at Tony, unable to form a coherent thought.

"Well, I mean," Tony paused, uncertaintly running a hand through his hair, "Just because we're both guys and I'm not, er, completely straight, doesn't mean you have to freak out whenever you touch me," he let out a small chuckle, gesturing to Steve's flaming face.

"Honestly, Steve, trust me, you don't have anything to worry about, nothing's going to happen between us. Of course." Another forced chuckle, "We are one hundred percent, strictly just friends. Nothing to get weird about," Tony gave him an encouraging smile, and after several moments of owlish blinking, Steve was able to force a smile back, as though an anvil had not just been dropped onto his chest.

"Of course, I— I know that. I don't know why…" Steve trailed off hopelessly, gesturing weakly to his face. "We're just friends. Of course. Nothing more." His voice quieted at the end, and Tony looked at him for a few moments before nodding briskly, giving him one of his press smiles that didn't quite reach his eyes, and clapped his hands together as he stood up.

"Well, I probably need to get back to the tower, lots of work to do."

Steve nodded and forced another smile, rising stiffly from the bench as well. "Always working." He tried for a teasing smirk, but it came off as more of a grimace, "Let's head back." Steve was okay. Completely. Nothing was wrong. The feeling of an ice shard impaling his abdomen was perfectly fine.

A silence fell between them for a few minutes, before Tony broke it.

"Thanks for lunch," he looked up at Steve as he walked beside him, and gave him a genuine smile. Steve twisted his lips into a weak imitation of a grin, but his eyes were unable to conceal his longing and sorrow. Of course, Tony didn't notice— his attention was already elsewhere. His gaze had wandered to a street performer playing a blues tune on her saxophone, the sad melody permeating through the bustling street. Steve's aching heart sat heavily in his chest, carrying the oppressive burden of a love that is hopelessly and completely unrequited.

"Of course, Shellhead. Anytime."

xxx

And there you go, chapter 6 is finally up. I hope you all enjoyed reading, please leave reviews and let me know what you think!