Disclaimer: Don't own them. Not getting paid for this.

Summary: Tony doesn't *like* Steve. He sees Steve for who he really is, and it frustrates him to no end that he can't seem to communicate his point of view to anyone. Funnily enough, the feeling's mutual.

Warnings: slash, (lots and lots of) profanity

A/N: I've watched the movie, and the subtle but undeniable homoerotic tension between Steve and Tony's there. It's canon. I just wanted to state that.

So… this was supposed to be a moody, angsty story about Steve. Tony – in his typical egomaniac narcissistic way – turned it into sort-of character study of himself. The bastard. Nevertheless, there's enough Steve to justify the title, which is stolen from Robbie Williams' Advertising Space – which is wholly, completely, absolutely and undeniably Steve Rogers' theme song. It is.

Also, it's done (second part to be uploaded within a week), and I don't intend to write anything else in this universe. Hopefully, you'll enjoy it anyway.

Brynn

x

Part One: Say Something

x

Tony likes money, but he's not so attached to it that he'd think twice before splurging.

Once the Tower's inhabitable again, he gets into the habit of once a fortnight calling every member of the team who's around and free for dinner. Alright – so it's JARVIS who calls them, and who alerts Tony to the fact that 'dinner's tomorrow' and then that 'dinner's today' to make sure that Tony sleeps at least four hours before he has to deal with those people.

It's not that he dislikes them (anymore) or that they're liable to kill him and hide his corpse so they won't have to suffer his presence (anymore). Good food, some joint training (Tony swears it's been team-building in disguise, no matter that the patterns of bruises would suggest otherwise) and the occasional crisis have brought them together often enough that they've learnt civility. They're like a reality show about dysfunctional people, only most of them are the results of experiments and the rest just born superhuman in some aspects (like Tony). Some of them click better, some worse.

It's another generic dinner (Thor's absent, but the rest of them have come) when one of those more problematic tensions comes to a head. Tony's just set down his fork and given up on the rest of his spaghetti, reaching instead for the whisky decanter, when the chatter between Bruce and Spangles comes to a halt, and Romanov laughs.

"You're definitely correct, Doctor," she tells Bruce, who twitches a little but graciously allows her to steal the spotlight.

The Cap lets her teasing (for that is what it obviously is) roll off him. "It is but one of the many aspects of this age I don't feel comfortable with."

Now Tony's curious and mentally cursing himself for not having paid attention.

Barton shrugs. "You should be glad. They are a lot more sympathetic to you than to… Stark, for example."

The Cap glances at Tony for just an instance. Then he's drawn back into the discussion.

"We could use some of that good rep," Bruce grumbles good-naturedly.

"What's your secret?" Barton mock-inquires, mostly just to hear whatever wisecrack will fall out of Steve's mouth.

Romanov leers at her buddy. "Did you look at him?"

Frankly, she does this to make Steve blush, because Spangles can keep his cool through Hell and high water, but pay him a personal compliment and he's a very, very young man.

Tony looks at the guy. Sure, there's a lot to look at. In fact, as far as fashion mags go, the Cap's probably prime front page material, just dress him in half-open jeans falling off his ass and have him look straight at the camera. Perfect.

Still, Tony's not into him. He normally goes after birds, and when he's – rarely – in the mood for something maler, his type is so completely different that Steve doesn't even show up on his radar as a potential fuck-buddy. The Cap's a teammate at best, and a self-righteous smart-aleck asshat whose face Tony really wants to break in at worst. So, yeah. No dirty thoughts about Uncle Sam at the dinner table.

The problem, Tony muses, lifting a tumbler of whisky to his mouth and gulping it down with ease of decades' practice, the problem is not looking at Steve. The shit starts hitting the fan when you listen to the man. Sure, he's naïve. (Only he's not, he's just fucking young, and Tony's just recently realized that and, boy, was that a nasty surprise.) Sure, he's kind of retardedly clueless about everything newer than Coca-Cola. (He's also smarter than Tony would ever have guessed, and his learning speed is just as ridiculous as the bubble of anachronism that encapsulates him.) And, naturally, he can do no wrong, and if he incidentally steps a toe out of the stupid lines of moral and ethical correctness he's drawn for himself, he goes on a guilt-trip to the end of the universe.

Too much sheer fucking goodness in that guy.

"Belongs in a fucking museum," Tony mutters, and suddenly he's the target of several displeased and/or disgusted stares. Not like anyone would ever have him figured out enough to even bother looking past the obvious.

"Funny you should be mentioning age, Stark," Romanov snipes. "How goes your fifth decade on the planet?"

There's too much sarcasm and too little substance, so Tony smirks like he knows all the secrets of life and pours himself another shot.

"I imagine you would not like anyone bringing up your enforced stay in… wherever it was you weren't so keen on staying," Barton points out, but at least he's talking about something, and not just flapping his tongue and making pointless noise.

Bruce out of the corner of his eye looks at the light of Tony's arc reactor shining through his t-shirt, and then pretends to return his attention to his plate.

Fuck them all very much, Tony decides, pouring himself a third shot – where did the previous one go? Neither of them has ever stepped into a museum, he'd just bet. Not that he's eager on expositions and shit, but history, man – how the hell do they expect to know anything about anything if they don't bother to look over their shoulders? Captain America is one of the fucking support pillars of the last seventy years of history of their country, and for all their heralded patriotism they don't have a clue why.

Tony knows why. It's the same reason why Steve should be preserved and put on a pedestal and gawked at by little kids all day while the tour guide would prattle on about honor and valor and candor and whatever the fuck Steve was about. Courage. Sacrifice.

God-fucking-dammit.

Not enough alcohol, Tony decides, and usurps the bottle. Whisky. Good whisky, even – not like it matters, because his taste-buds are as good as burnt out and he could just as well drink industrial alcohol – seeing as Anthony Edward Stark is a billionaire, he only drinks good whisky. That's the way things are.

Tony ignores Romanov's grimace, and the woman swiftly turns to Barton and strikes up a conversation about a date at a range or something. ("…is the left decocking lever and reversible magazine catch…" "…talking about the ambidextrous manual safety-") Sonofabitch, assassins really do have one-track minds, don't they?

Bruce communes with his plate of spaghetti.

Tony regrets that Thor's not here to bother. He regrets that Coulson's not here, fullstop. He's a bastard for thinking about Coulson only when he needs someone to act as a shield between himself and Mr Spangled, but he's never pretended to himself (or anyone else) that he wasn't an asshole, so he forgives himself. Also, there's alcohol. He's got to pity Cap for that particular case of resistance to toxic substances.

"The country seems to agree with you," the Cap admits quietly, drinking deeply from his tall glass – drinking water, because he's pathetic (wholesome) like that – and trying to hide how disconcerted and, fuck it, downright despondent he feels.

Tony follows the man's line of sight to the screen mounted on the wall above the liquor cabinet. The angle's for shit, but he sees enough of a reflection in the floor-to-ceiling window behind Steve to know that they're featuring Captain America again on whatever the TV show is.

It's not like the Cap even goes anywhere in person. They've got a few audio and video recordings of him, some paparazzi pics and a bunch of e-mails from that one time before Tony had re-secured his account, mixed together with ancient footage and photos from the forties. There's only the thinnest surface of Steve Rogers captured in these spots, and it's a fucking pity.

That's actually what Tony's been trying to talk about. Of course, being the only person in existence as smart as he is (no offence to Bruce, who is awesome for talking science, but not so much about people – not that Tony's expert on people, but at least they don't piss him off green), no one gets what he's trying to say. No one gets even that he's trying to say something. They just write him off as an obnoxious jerk-wad by nature.

Great friends. Great team.

Oh, fuck – is he having an emo moment?

He snorts into the glass, almost inhaling some of the whisky.

Steve manages to tear his eyes away from the screen to glance at him (probably making sure Tony's not dying, the terminal do-gooder).

"The country understands jack-shit," Tony mutters under his breath, attracting Bruce's attention, but fortunately passing under Romanov's and Barton's radars (they're too busy flirting via an exchange of the particulars of their favourite death-dealing toys). Steve seems torn between watching the rest of the segment and going through another bout of let's-try-to-figure-Tony-out, so Tony helps him decide by saying: "They're stealing bits and pieces of you to present to the masses for the sole reason of making money. Three guesses of how I know that, and the first two don't count."

The corners of the Cap's mouth quirk up the tiniest bit.

Tony half-smirks. He doesn't feel like smirking much, but the whisky helps sort-of detach his conscious from the consequences, and fuck it all, maybe he can manage to admit to himself that Steve's the only person in the room with the slightest chance of getting it. It's because Steve once honestly, earnestly believed that Tony deserved to be hated, and every time he's stumbled over evidence to the contrary he's had to have a fight with himself to accept it. After a while he's started seeing Tony similarly to how Tony sees himself.

"You would know all about being a celebrity and all about making money," the Cap replies quietly enough to not disrupt Romanov's and Barton's verbal foreplay.

"And the third guess?" Tony teases.

He's unprepared for Steve's bitterly amused: "You would understand me."

Tony chokes. The last gulp of alcohol goes down the wrong pipe and, shit, that stuff burns. He tears up and barely manages to set the tumbler onto the table before he bends over and breaks into a serious coughing fit.

He's vaguely aware of the eye-rolls and exasperated remarks. Something about the evil of alcohol and about Tony's vices. Someone punches him in the back – Bruce, Tony's quite certain – and breathing becomes a little more possible. The tear-tracks on his face are somewhat embarrassing, and Tony still feels shaky, but he's not in danger of suffocating anymore.

"Thanks," he grumbles to Bruce, who gives him a patent Bruce wan smile in return and scrutinizes him for long-term damage. Having found none, the good Doctor pats Tony's shoulder and returns to his chair.

"With how much exercise you get, one would assume you could drink without killing yourself," Barton muses, and Tony's really not in the mood for worry-disguising banter. Maybe next time.

Romanov snorts and mutely offers him a glass of water.

Tony shakes his head. He doesn't need a glass. He needs at least a pool, so he can drown himself in it.

How obvious has he been?

He stands and, hoping they can't see how his limbs still tremble in the aftershocks of the coughing fit, he walks in the direction of the nearest bathroom. It's not their first visit to the Tower. They can find their way out – or to the guest bedrooms. And if they can't, they'll ask JARVIS. No problem. They don't need him to hold their damn hands.

On a totally unrelated note, Tony's only a little hyperaware of the Cap's eyes glued to his back, and he doesn't cringe much when he realizes that the guy probably knows that sometimes Tony has to use some pretty hardcore reasoning to convince himself he doesn't need anyone holding his hand. Doesn't want anyone. That he'd absolutely hated if anyone tried. Or even suggested it. Or…

Oh – bathroom. Right. Tony returns two steps and enters the room. JARVIS has the lights on already, and the amount of gleaming and glinting surfaces very nearly blinds Tony. Why does he have to be a megalomaniac again? Sometimes that shit's just so impractical.

Too fucking many mirrors. Tony knows he's a sexy hunk of a man – he doesn't need mirrors to prove that to himself. He especially doesn't need them to show him his blood-shot eyes or the way his pickled brain has him staring a little beyond himself, like he's finally gone round the bend.

Which he knows he has, of course. He's gone round quite a few bends, quite a few times. He knows there's practically no point in looking, so he listens.

There are footsteps, and he doesn't need to ask, but he figures it might be prudent. "JARVIS, how unsafe is my passage to my bedroom?"

"Mr Rogers poses no threat to you, sir," JARVIS replies, sounding a lot like he's humoring Tony.

Hooray for the sarcastic A.I. Tony amazes even himself with how awesome he is.

Like many (many, many) times before in his life, he utilizes the liquid courage flowing through his veins, and after scrubbing his face with cold water (he's a little splotchy, but at least there's no evidence of tears left) he opens the door.

The lights in the corridor are muted, so the Cap squints for a moment, getting a faceful of shine from the bathroom. Tony doesn't sigh, because he doesn't sigh, but he does take a deep breath and then lets it out in a quiet, inconspicuous manner. It's not like he's got a reason to be – god forbid – anxious about anything. What's done is done, and he can deny it until he's blue in the face (not green – never green – that's Bruce's domain), but Steve's smarter than to take Tony's bullshit.

Also, they're both adult people. Maturity's debatable, but they've survived this far, and they… well… they know how to abide one another. This is just another crisis. Just like a threat to the civilization, or like a potential end of the world. Nothing new.

"You're alright then?" the Cap asks a bit dully.

Tony snorts. "JARVIS told you that much." He can't know for sure, but the option of asking JARVIS has invalidated the guy's excuse for leaving the table and the rest of the team knows it. Spangles could have just as well announced it. No concept of subtlety, that one – alright, Tony's just being a bitch about the situation now. Not fair – not on, more importantly – taking it out on the nice guy with the heart of gold.

"You programmed JARVIS," the Cap replies.

Tony pretends like that's not a valid objection. "I'm perfect," he says with as much sarcasm as he can force into a declaration that he usually tries to make sound sage and sincere. It's hard to intentionally sabotage his self-advertisement.

It would be impossible for Tony if he were talking to anyone else, but this guy's… easy to talk to, when he's not on a patriotic high.

"I notice you omitted the actual answer," the Cap says smartly.

Tony leans back against the sink and fails to suppress a smile. Damn kid. He feels like there's half a G greater acceleration than there should be on Earth, but that's just the alcohol. The warmth, the disassociation, the devil-may-care mood is all the alcohol. He smells it on his own breath, and the familiarity is a little tedious, but at the same time comforting.

If anything happens, he'll have an excuse. But nothing will happen, because Steve is even more aware of the alcohol than Tony himself, so he will not allow anything to happen.

"I'm tipsy," Tony answers, "not entirely steady on my feet, and not in any danger of spontaneously asphyxiating."

The Cap inclines his head in (mocking) admiration. "Not many tipsy men can pronounce 'spontaneously asphyxiating.'"

Tony grins and points at his reflection in the nearest mirror. "Functional alcoholic."

"I know." Steve gives him a sad but genuine (like everything about him) smile. "I understand."

He does? Tony very much doubts that. "What? No spiel about how this is bad for me, how I'm killing myself and should stop?"

There's a while of silence. The bad thing about tipsiness is that Tony can't always control the amount of emotion he filters through his tone of voice, so that has come out far more accusing that he wanted it to.

Steve sighs very quietly, and rubs his left wrist with his right thumb. His eyes stray away from Tony's for a moment, roam over the countless reflections in the countless polished surfaces in the bathroom, and then return. "I asked Bruce," he says maybe a little more quietly than before, but calmly and with certainty. "He explained to me about genius minds and how it may feel to be trapped within such a mind. Bruce told me about escapes into altered states of consciousness – be it through adrenaline, endorphins or hallucinogens."

Tony becomes entirely unable to describe how he is feeling in that precise moment. It's like being dissected alive, but nice. And the surgeon is being very understanding about it.

"I would hope that there was a better way," the Cap continues, looking briefly to his wrist and then back up at Tony, "and I would not hesitate to offer myself in any capacity to relieve your boredom for fear that you may be shortening your time with us. However, such optimism appears to be unwarranted-"

Tony doesn't know if the guy thinks his offer would be shot down with a side of mocking laughter, or if he's simply beginning to believe that they're all going to croak fairly soon, but he doesn't care. It's only partially the whisky (a little part, if he's honest with himself) that makes him reach out and punch the Cap's shoulder to make him shut up. It's only partially the whisky (the greater part this time) that makes him momentarily lose his balance, so he has to lean on the fist still pressed into Mr America's shoulder.

Steve, of course, grabs him to steady him.

So now they're standing in a corridor lit poorly by the muted illumination and through the open bathroom door, with Steve's (large, warm) hands on Tony's shoulders and Tony's hand kind of on Steve's shoulder, and Tony has never been the kind of guy who lets such a prime opportunity pass by – or, worse, who would feel awkward.

"I've survived this long," Tony tells him, smirking. "I'm liable to use anyone who tries to mother me for target-practice."

The Cap laughs. He's, maybe, a little red in the cheeks, but he's definitely not feeling awkward either, and that just shows how far he's (they're both) gone. He fists his right hand and bumps his knuckles, lightly, against Tony's temple. "Don't fry that mind."

They both know there are too many reasons to bother with naming them all, so Tony just nods. He'd kill himself before he'd become stupid. (He can't stand stupidity. Surprise, surprise.)

It's easy to lean forward and press a short but firm kiss to Steve's lips. It's just another simple touch – like the shoulder-bump or the knock on the temple – it's just that this time Tony is (as he's liable to) unabashedly confirming that, yes, this is happening and he's not such a pussy that he'd try and hide from it.

When Tony backs up, staying within arm's reach but putting enough distance between them to enable verbal communication, Steve's smiling. Twenty-first century suits him. Seventy years ago, Captain America being straight as a ruler was a fact of life. Today, Steve does have the option of kissing a man if he so chooses. (He's got awesome taste in men, Tony has to admit.)

"Yet another facet to the maelstrom," the Cap muses under his breath.

Tony laughs and breaks away. The whisky sloshes around is his stomach – he should have eaten more – but he rather enjoys how his amusement is far less tethered than it would have been if he was sober. "Yeah. The Avengers. What a load of… crock."

They both pause at the artless censure.

"I find the idea of derogation within our group, for whatever reason, unacceptable," Steve warns him with a hint of frown. "I am well aware of your vocabulary-"

"And of my drinking, and of my bad habit of fucking around," Tony finishes, exaggerating for effect. He's not that bad. Lately. "You can claim you don't want me to 'clean up my act,' Soldier Boy, but we both know better."

Steve's expression hardens. "I cannot offer more than I have."

Since he pretty much offered himself, the statement is moot, anyway. Tony can spot a good deal, and he already knows he's taking it (and the Cap, when he stops second-guessing himself, knows it too), only he knows that he shouldn't be trusted. He's going to fuck up. But – he looks over – Steve's tough as nails, and he can definitely take it. Tony grins. This will be awesome.

He extends his hand and pats the guy's cheek. "Not walking over each other and compromises. Fuck. We've got the work cut out for us."

Spangles processes for a moment, and then nods. "The phrase 'herding cats' comes to mind."

They laugh again, and then they stop. There's a while of utter tranquility, while Tony has entirely too much time to think about how they've just plowed through all the hard work already anyway, trying to work out the team dynamics and the mutual animosity and the crippling incomprehension, and now that they acknowledge the attraction they're simply left standing at the threshold of a… a… relationship. It's weird to Tony, but it's also the only correct answer to the question 'what now?' so he doesn't overthink it (in this, again, the alcohol helps.)

Then Steve moves. Damn guy is fast and – what's a stronger word for strong? Anyway, end result is Tony's back pressed to a wall, Steve's (large, warm) hands on his sides, too fucking gentle like he's scared that Tony would break (a valid worry, in this case, so Tony ignores it with nary an eye-roll), and they're kissing.

Feels good. Requires some practice to enhance the adjective, but there's a stirring of emotions (in addition to the whisky) in Tony's stomach, and that makes it remarkable. He's curious what the difference would be to fuck someone he cares about (more than like a friend, because Pepper owns a part of his soul, but this is something else). He's not going to be finding out tonight, either – he knows the Cap better than that – not because of some arbitrary propriety or impropriety, not because of something downright moronic like 'fear' or 'not being ready' or whatever, but for the simple reason that it wouldn't flow.

They're all about the flow.

Tony pushes – well, more like nudges – the big lump away, and sets out back toward the dining room while working on recovering enough sass to hide his slightly pensive mood. He'd bet neither of the three expect to see Tony again tonight. They think he's going to crash somewhere in the private parts of the Tower and drink himself into a stupor. Not tonight, suckers!

Steve takes his revenge for the shove by pushing Tony through the door and sending him stumbling inside. Great. Now Bruce, Romanov and Barton think he's gone further than he really is. Usually he'd just have fun with that (he drinks less than they think, and doesn't get nearly as blasted as they think, but what they don't know won't hurt him when he in the morning pretends not to remember anything), but tonight's just not the night.

Or, alternatively, it's the night – but not for pulling his teammate's legs.

Or… maybe?

"Is he whining about his poor, sadly departed pride?" Romanov asks, affecting something that resembles a smile.

"Not at all," Steve replies, smiling back at her and taking his seat. "I was merely convinced to conduct a scientific experiment."

Tony plops down and mentally regrets that he and the Cap didn't have a rousing snogging session, which, if it didn't send them straight into bed, would have at least left them with bruised mugs and bite-marks all over. Except that it wouldn't have shut the woman up – it would have just given her more fuel, and maybe she'd get royally pissed at Tony for supposedly defiling the (ninety-two years old) baby of the team.

"Not you, too." Romanov pouts. "It's like a convention of geeks. I can't wait for Thor to get back." She must have indulged, too, only out of Tony's sight to maintain her moral high-ground.

Tony's got JARVIS and the recording from the security camera, neener, neener.

"Because you don't shop-talk with the archer just as much," Tony snipes. "Ambidextrous manual safety my ass. Manual is so last millennium – no offence, Cap."

Steve shakes his head and hides a smile behind his glass. Isn't he just over the fucking rainbow?

Isn't Tony?

They're screwed. (Not literally, but that won't be long now.)

Tony feels (together with alcohol) the small but impossible to ignore burn of desire coiling in his stomach. It's nothing uncontrollable, and he doesn't need to push the guy against the nearest vaguely flat surface, but it's actually making him look forward to the time when the pushing will be viable.

"So long as you don't try to do anyone damage," Bruce tells him, and Tony figures that he's missed some segue somewhere, but the gist is that they do their hardest to dislike him, and it doesn't always work.

Romanov's secretly (not so secretly to Tony) impressed that he's not taken in by her wiles and has never tried to get her into bed. Tony doesn't have Barton's weakness toward him figured out yet, but if he had to guess, he'd guess it's the bow and Tony's utter appreciation for the out-of-the-box thinking.

"Do or do not," Tony snarks at Bruce. "There is no try."

Bruce catches the reference and snicker-smiles, before he picks up a napkin and wipes off his hands. "Good grub," he says appreciatively. "If you don't mind-"

"It's okay," Tony interjects. "You most of us need your beauty sleep – so you don't go green with envy."

Barton and Romanov give him exasperated looks, but Bruce is a good sport and just rolls his eyes. His chair scrapes against the floor as he stands.

"It is quite late," the Cap points out. "Will you be alright?"

Bruce waves him off. "It's not that far, and I don't get tired any more easily than you do, Steve." He doesn't get any drunker, either, but in the end that doesn't matter so much, since he's only been drinking tap water all evening.

After Bruce leaves, Steve fails to be inconspicuous while glancing at the half-empty whisky decanter.

Tony shakes his head. Any more of that stuff and he won't feel better – he'd just make an ass of himself. He reaches for a bottle of coke and decides to wash out his whisky glass with that. Sugar, spice, everything nice. All in one shot.

And he's the one who goes for snips, snails and puppy-dog tails in the end. He snorts into the whisky-flavored coke and looks at Steve, who's in the meantime started a conversation with Barton about something or other. He doesn't seem the least bit defensive.

"That must have been some lecture," Romanov remarks on the softness of Tony's drink. She turns to Steve and cuts off whatever he's imparting unto Barton: "What did you say to him?"

The Cap's a little confused, since he has not a clue what she's talking about.

Tony laces his fingers together behind his head and leans back in the chair, showing off the For Those About To Rock We Salute You t-shirt and the arc reactor (and his pecs). "Ah, but I'm not cured. I'm just lulling you into a false sense of security."

Romanov scoffs. "That, I can believe."

"He's going to be unbearable without Bruce playing his adoring audience," Barton mutters, still unaware just how good Tony's hearing is. Or maybe he's just forgotten his hearing aid today, and is compensating.

"Chyort vazmi," Natasha grumbles. "Stark, scared as I am to leave you alone with your A.I., we should be on our way."

She glances at Barton, who barely blinks back. Their vibe is, like, unreal. It's so hard to believe that Barton's not even hitting that.

Or maybe he is, but Tony doesn't actually think so. The two are constantly on the verge of falling into a bed together, and one of these days they are going to (hopefully, because that much sexual tension's just not healthy), but Tony's doing his level best to be respectful of Barton's marriage (even if the wife's been dead for who knows how long) without saying so, and it's kinda hurting him having to swallow all his impertinent remarks.

Hopefully, they'll solve the situation soon enough.

The Cap glances over, trying not to look worried.

"I lived for a good couple decades on my own before you ever knew I existed," Tony grumbles, meaning that sure, he's going to survive until their next meeting. It's not actually that difficult, the survival, unless some serious shit goes down, in which case Fury would involve the team anyway.

"You have my number," Steve anachronistically replies, patting the pocket of his trousers that's bulging just the littlest bit with the phone stuffed inside.

Tony nods and lifts his glass in a wordless toast.

It makes him feel giddy to realize that every time he almost dies in battle, every time he nearly coughs himself to death and excuses himself to the bathroom, Steve's going to be there (because that's what he's implying in between the stares and the hints and the kisses, he the relic from the forties who's learning that maybe him being a little for the gentlemen's not the end of the world). Tony only has to do two things in return for getting that care that he doesn't need (he'd only die without it) and doesn't want (only craves it with every fiber of his being). The first is the acknowledgement he's already given – because how could he have not? The other is to return it.

It means knowing what the Cap does with his free time, learning his nightmares and the counters to them, and it's all science, just much more empiric than the physics Tony's used to. He can do it and he wants to do it, and there's nothing in the world that remains impossible to him once those two conditions are fulfilled.

"I truly would not mind," Steve lies under his breath, standing from the table.

Tony glances up at him and raises his brows. "Really really?"

Steve does not catch the reference, obviously. Either he should watch some contemporary movies, or Tony'll be forced to delve into the archives so he'd be able to pull some ancient references out of his ass. (Sounds like fun – private jokes between the two of them based on the forties' cinematography.)

"That is the trouble with so many Superheroes put together," Spangles muses. "We get into each other's way. We affect one another, where we should just work alongside each other."

"You think that this-" Tony somewhat surreptitiously gestures between the two of them, "-will make me less Iron Man?"

Steve sputters and then, laughing, shakes his head. "Not hardly."

"Or you less America?" Tony says, not even bothering to hide the scorn at the epithet. He's not a patriot, and it shows – sometimes too much. He doesn't believe in God, in country or in any universal good. They call him a cynic.

They expound on his daddy-issues. Because when he's attracted enough to a guy that he wants to fuck him, and that guy just happen to be a freakishly awesome friend and a good enough ally in a pinch, it's obviously all about Howard. Screw Howard. Screw America. Screw religion.

"Would you believe," Steve speaks, suppressing guffaws with some difficulty, "that there's a saying going around on the Internet? This is the twenty-first century. Of course the Iron Man and Captain America are gay for each other."

Tony laughs. He can't actually help himself. The statement is utterly ridiculous, and yet in a way it totally nails it so precisely that it makes him want to applaud. Twenty-first century, indeed. And Steve checking out the Net – how has he not expected that? The Cap's been so upset by the media coverage that it could have resulted in either absolute boycott or a thorough research. It figures the Soldier would not stick his head into the sand, and he would brave the fangirlism.

"And?" Tony inquires coolly, sipping from his tumbler and grimacing at the sweet taste of the coke.

Steve shrugs. "It's hardly the opinion of the majority. However, it appears to have gathered a support base, and I…" He chuckles at himself but leaves the statement unfinished.

And he so hates to disappoint, Tony guesses, smirking.

"It is much more difficult to form your own opinions and defend them than to follow orders from above," Steve admits, meeting Tony's eye to impress upon him just how important the issue is to him. "However, there is a point in one's life when merely the following of orders does not suffice anymore, and one has to formulate a private agenda to prevent an imminent… burn-out."

Tony absorbs the modern vocabulary and doesn't let himself wonder what the Hell the Cap's reading that's got him talking like he was born in the eighties. On the contrary, Tony leans back and mutely (and mildly tipsily) watches Steve leave on the heels of Barton and Romanov.

'Have you seen him?' the stupid bitches ask. They know shit. So what if the serum buffed him up? What if he's blond and blue-eyed and pretty as a picture? That means fuck-all.

A relevant question is: 'Have you listened to him?' Because Tony tried not to, god knows he did, but that didn't work out so well for him and when push came to shove, the Cap opened his pie-hole and ideas came out. And, sure, he was fucking young and dew-eyed, but he was real. Maybe the last real human in the world (discounting the part that came out of a bottle).

And a relevant question is: 'Have you spent time around him?' Because Tony tried not to, god knows he did, but that didn't work out for him either. Spangles, damn him, emits his good qualities, so you have not only his innate goodness to deal with, but also the sudden improvement of the people around him to stomach. And, Christ on a stick, the righteousness. They take him as a template and then compete about who's come closest to being like him. Like they could. Like they could keep any of that bullshit up without him around to lead them by their damn hands.

Tony knows too fucking well that he's not going to join in the game and play pretend with the team that they are all brave, self-sacrificing, righteous heroes. He's none of that, and he's not ashamed to admit it (he's done it in the past, repeatedly, and each time Steve has been a little less capable of hating him for it). It's like… it's… oh, irony! It's like he's the Cap's negative in this. While Uncle Sam brings out the best in them, Anthony Stark brings out the worst. And the same way the Cap gets praised, Tony gets blamed.

It works out for him. He's got the face for the devilishly handsome and charismatic villain.

So much bullshitty schmooze. But, hey! He's got the whisky to blame it on.