Chapter Text
“I’m about ninety percent certain that they had a horny sixteen year old boy write this,” Tony says, scanning the next blurb. “Here, have you gotten to this part yet? ‘How to appropriately show physical affection to a coworker.’"
Clint tips a bag of Cheetos into his mouth, crumbs raining down orange dust onto his post-training t-shirt. “Is that the section that recommends hugging your coworker, checking to see if they look disgusted with you, and then trying again?”
Tony nods, clicking through to the next section. “Yep. Hey, Romanov, how do you feel about a little light sexual harassment?”
“This place is a lawsuit waiting to happen,” Clint says through a mouthful of Dr. Pepper as Natasha shoots Tony a dirty look. “I love it.”
“They’ve reiterated multiple times that obesity is not a protected class.” Disgust colors every crevice of Natasha’s tone. “Who the hell approved this?”
“Think they’ve been putting these together internally now.” Bruce’s spectacles are nearly falling off his nose as he leans into his computer. “Can’t imagine there’s much of a budget for them.”
“Because they blow their entire budget on more material for Rogers’ helmet,” Tony says, pulling an exaggerated face as Clint looks over. It’s a cheap blow, not particularly clear nor even that funny, but it gets Clint cackling enough to spark Tony’s sense of satisfaction. After a mission like the one they ran today, he needs it.
“I’ve got a big head now?” Tony jolts upright from where he’s been slouched over his tablet, to see Steve striding in and dropping into a desk chair, expression stuck somewhere between bored and annoyed. “Have we moved on from you accusing my ‘fat ass’ of taking up too much room in the jet?”
“And that’s a direct quote, ladies and gentlemen,” Tony announces. He had indeed spent the entire previous week complaining about Steve taking up too much room while they flew to and from their missions, and he’s not ashamed to own up to it. In fact, he’d even attempted to file a non-compliance report with their supervisor, only to have Coulson shoot him a one-line email reminding him that he wasn’t a team leader and therefore didn’t have the authority to file non-compliance reports.
A giant flaw in the chain of command, in Tony’s opinion.
“We’ve moved on to the new sexual harassment and disability training,” Natasha says, clicking away on her laptop. “There’s a quiz at the end, so pay attention, Stark.”
“Do we need at least an eighty percent to pass?” A glance up reveals a short nod from her. “Yeah, I’ll be fine. I don’t think it will be too difficult to remember that S.H.I.E.L.D. wants me to stop sending inappropriate memes to my colleagues but won’t say a peep if I grab anyone’s tits.”
“It would be nice if you actually stopped sending inappropriate memes to your colleagues.” Steve’s voice is ripe with disapproval, which is nothing new when directed at Tony.
“Did you finish the module, then?” he asks. “Get a perfect score on the bullshit quiz at the end?”
Steve puts on the usual long-suffering face he likes to wear when he’s trying not to join in on their team’s antics, and not for the first time, Tony wishes the guy would let himself loosen up a little.
Sure, Steve runs a smooth sailing ship and is a generally competent team lead when he’s not busy lecturing everyone on how laughter during a mission is a crime and if he catches Clint and Tony bitching at each other on comms one more time, he’ll do something so horrible he can’t even speak of it. (Tony knows that just code for: Steve doesn’t actually know how to discipline them, but is too cowardly to admit it.) But he’s infuriatingly uptight and allows Tony to drive him up a wall with the slightest provocation. He’s not even thirty, for crying out loud, but holds himself like he’s older than all of them - which he isn’t, not even close - and hasn’t unclenched a single muscle at any point during his tenure as lead over the last eleven months, as far as Tony can tell.
“The quiz isn’t bullshit,” Steve says. “It’s important to be aware of the company’s policies.”
“Steve.” Even Bruce sounds pained, like he can’t take Steve seriously. “They’re basically giving us the go ahead to touch people whenever we like, as long as we think they would enjoy it.”
“Yeah!” Tony points a finger in Bruce’s direction. “Did you read that part?”
“I did.”
“So then if I think Romanov looks like she would enjoy me touching her…” Tony trails off, waggling his eyebrows as he leans sideways out of his chair.
“Try again,” Natasha says tightly.
“Rogers, then,” Tony says, easily switching tack. This one requires him to get up, and his legs feel like pins and needles as he gets them out from under him, but Steve’s stoic demeanor almost ensures that it will be a worthwhile demonstration. “If I think you look like you want a hug…”
It’s a short distance to cross in their team meeting room, which is really just a small rectangle lined with desks and just barely enough chairs for all of them to have their own depending on whether or not Danvers’ team has decided to steal any. Tony is able to hide the shakiness of his legs by immediately grabbing onto the arms of Steve’s chair, leering in with his most charming smile - the one Clint told him makes him look like he’s high on LSD, but once convinced an ex-girlfriend to steal a yacht at his drunken behest.
At the last second, Steve stops Tony with a forceful balled-up fist to the chest.
“Is everything a joke to you?” Steve demands.
Tony swallows, straightening up and patting his hair to make sure it’s drying from his shower properly. He’d hate to end up with something resembling the rat’s nest Bruce seems to be content with.
“Things that are funny, yeah,” Tony replies, heading back to his seat. It’s a minor relief to relax back into it, picking up his tablet from where he’d dropped it on the floor and clicking through the sections. This time he speeds through, impatient to get to the end.
“Just because it’s a little off the mark - ”
“They did mention that anyone in a supervisory position would have a different version,” Clint chimes in, frowning woefully at his empty Cheetos bag. “Maybe Steve’s was legit.”
“That’s an interesting theory,” Bruce murmurs, and Natasha raises her brows in Steve’s direction.
Tony doesn’t have time to wait for Steve to look up from his own tablet, instead opting to mime throwing Clint’s half-drunk Dr. Pepper bottle. Disappointingly, Steve doesn’t flinch as he looks up.
“Yo, El Capitan. How was your module different from ours? Was it more or less full of ways to sexually harass your coworkers?”
Steve purses his lips in the way he does when sometimes Tony thinks he’s trying not to laugh.
“More? As far as I can tell, the only difference was a small section on how not to impregnate those under my leadership.”
It’s the last straw, really, as even Romanov dissolves into giggles. Bruce turns red and Clint does that rather feminine cackle of his, and it’s a solid sixty seconds before the outpouring of laughter begins to die down. Tony’s pretty sure he’s got tears running down his face, and he dramatically wipes them away with flicking fingertips as Steve focuses on whatever mountain of paperwork awaits in his tablet.
Jesus, the guy is a bore.
“I can’t believe it,” Tony manages to get out, laughing harder every time Clint chokes on his own saliva. “They think that Steve Rogers - resident S.H.I.E.L.D. virgin and prude - is going to get someone pregnant?”
A small frown appears on Steve’s face. “It’s rather sexist when you think about it.”
Natasha hums in assent. “Assuming that everyone in a position of power has the biological capabilities to impregnate someone.”
“Maybe I should start a rumor that Maria Hill impregnated me,” Clint suggests, and Bruce slouches down further in his chair. Tony just ignores him, continuing to scan the pointless paragraphs.
“This is definitely a joke. An update to the employee handbook…”
“They’re no longer allowing people in the same department to have romantic relationships,” Natasha says, and Tony wonders if she knows how much he benefits from her need to be the most informed person in the room. “As if that stopped anyone before.”
“Yes, but now they’re moving people to other departments when that happens,” Steve says to her.
“So? People will just continue to date and not tell HR about it. I mean, let’s be honest, even if they did, it’s not like HR is effective in the first place, you remember when - ”
Tony briefly tunes out their conversation regarding the efficacy of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s Human Resources department to read the update in question.
“Wait.” He interrupts them, ignoring Steve’s resulting crabby expression. “So if you declare your relationship to HR, and you work in the same department, they’ll move one of you to another department?”
“If possible, it looks like,” Natasha says. “It’s better than just firing them outright, I guess, but - ”
“So let’s say I wanted to get transferred to Danvers’ team - ” Tony starts.
“For the millionth time, she wouldn’t let you get away with a fraction of the shit Steve doesn’t have you written up for,” Natasha interrupts. Tony goes to shoot her a dirty look but quickly thinks better of it.
“Personally, I think Stark would benefit from being written up every once in a while,” Clint says.
“Nobody asked you,” Tony says. “Okay, but seriously, guys. Let’s say that I want a chance to check things out in the land of women - ”
“That's rather sexist, isn't it?” Bruce thinks aloud. "It's not as though they've all been grouped together intentionally. Not to mention, the team doesn't entirely consist of females."
“Big guy.” Tony tries to be gentle, but it’s difficult. “I’m trying to make a point here.”
Bruce just blinks.
“Then make it,” Steve says drolly. He does receive a dirty look.
“Imagine,” Tony says, holding up his palms, fingers spread wide and waving for emphasis. “Imagine a mission during which Barton and I are not discussing the pros and cons of various sex positions.”
“I still think missionary is underrated.” Clint huffs quietly, the indignation still fresh after an entire two days. He's such a Midwesterner.
“Imagine a day without debating whether or not to ignore your extraordinary moral fiber and neglect to report me to Fury for hiding your baby powder.”
Steve’s eyes narrow. “You need to give that back. It’s been taking me an extra twenty seconds to get in and out of my uniform. Chafing is not a pranking matter.”
“Imagine,” Tony says, louder and waiting till everyone’s eyes are on him to continue. “Imagine a team where everybody is happy, nobody argues, and things go so smoothly that Fury decides to give us all bonuses, rather than deduct incidentals from our paychecks.”
There’s a low, rumbling laughter from the door, and everyone swivels in their chairs to see Thor fresh from the shower, arms crossed over his chest as he leans against the frame.
“No offense, Stark,” he says. “But it is near impossible to imagine a set of circumstances in which our team is able to operate in such a way.”
Tony doesn’t even want to know what kept Thor away for so long. Half the time he disappears, only to be found talking to someone from accounting or food services.
“I’m a little bit offended,” Tony says, holding up his thumb and forefinger a centimeter apart from each other. “But ultimately don’t disagree, which is why I’m about to suggest a transfer.”
“A transfer?” Steve sounds appropriately wary.
“I don’t like where this is headed,” Natasha says under her breath, and out of the corner of his eye, Tony notices Bruce nodding his head in fervent agreement.
“A swap, of sorts,” Tony proposes. “Ideally, you for Danvers, so that I get to stay with all my favorite people here - ”
Clint whoops and pumps his fists in the air.
“ - but more than likely, they’re going to want to keep the team leads where they are. In that case, I’d be willing to sacrifice working with Lang and send him over your way.”
“I like Scott,” Clint says. “Fun guy.”
“We’re not working with Scott Lang,” Steve says, and Tony notices how tightly Steve’s brows have drawn together. “Stark, you’re not swapping with anyone.”
“But if I go to Fury and tell him that I’m dating a coworker…”
He allows himself to trail off suggestively, garnering a roomful of responses that range from a confused exclamation (Thor) to a head buried in hands (Steve).
“I’m not pretending to date you, Stark,” Natasha says, the first to clue in fully, as always.
“Fine.” Tony sighs dramatically, leaning back in his chair. “You would’ve been easiest, but if you absolutely refuse - ”
“Which I do.”
“ - then I’ll just have to choose whichever one of you is most willing to pretend to be my homosexual lover for however long is needed to fully deceive the man himself.”
“I’m not sure I understand the need to deceive,” Thor says with a deep frown. “But I would be more than happy to volunteer for whatever it is that you feel you require.”
“Uh, buddy, I totally appreciate the offer,” Tony says, folding his legs under him. “But you’re kind of very publicly involved with Jane Foster.” When Thor continues to look baffled, Tony moves on swiftly. “Bruce - ”
Bruce grimaces. Tony understands.
“And I’d rather sell my soul to S.H.I.E.L.D. than risk my reputation for Barton, which leaves us with exactly one option.” Tony fixes his gaze on his target. “Who knew it would come to this?”
Steve is already shaking his head. Coward.
“This entire idea is ridiculous. Come on, we all know there are much more productive ways to utilize our down time.”
“But imagine the long term benefits!” Tony tries to exclaim.
“Say the word ‘imagine’ one more time,” Natasha threatens.
“Imagine,” Tony shoots back, and she flashes him a middle finger. “Come on, Rogers. I’m being serious!”
Steve sighs heavily, rubbing at the bridge of his nose as if he’s some kind of old fart who has to wear reading glasses to do his paperwork. “And so am I. Have you even given this more than half a thought? Because that’s the usual amount of effort you put into things, and I’m having a hard time seeing how this is any different.”
“Rude.” Tony frowns, but Steve’s eyes are already back on his tablet. “I’ve totally thought this through.”
“I’m not entertaining this,” Steve says with a rare sense of finality. “We all have modules to finish, and then we’re due downstairs for more training exercises before we’re allowed to leave for the day. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m looking forward to sleeping in my own bed for once.”
He doesn’t leave much room to argue, and the room is effectively silenced as even Thor deigns to be seated and pull up the sexual harassment module.
*
It would be all too easy to leave it there, but Tony has never been one to take the easy way out.
(That’s a lie. He’s taken the easy way out more often than not, but he’s also never given up the opportunity to make life difficult for those who have wronged him - a category that Steve definitely falls into.)
Fortunately, he has a lot of practice breaking down the resolve of others.
On Day 1 - he’s marking the day of the sexual harassment module as Day 0 - he drapes himself over the back of Steve’s seat on the jet, much closer than he’s ever been without grave necessity or accident.
“Excuse me,” Steve says, attempting to elbow Tony away while maintaining his attention to the documents in front of him. “I’m in the middle of trying to make sure we don’t all get our heads blown off later today. Did you need something?”
“Just wanted to know what you’re up to,” Tony says innocently. “Wondered if you’d given any thought to my proposition from yesterday.” When it’s clear that Steve has no idea what he’s referring to, Tony elaborates. “Y’know. Telling Fury that we’re in a deeply committed sexual and romantic relationship so that he sends me to Danvers’ unit and I can finally get the opportunity to infiltrate that group of lesbians.”
“They’re not lesbians,” Natasha informs him, clearly judging his judgement.
“Then give me one good reason they’ve all turned down a date with me,” Tony quips before turning back to Steve, rounding the circumference of his personal space until they’re able to look at each other head on. He ignores Steve’s annoyed expression. “Have you thought about it?”
Steve stops just short of rolling his eyes.
“Get back to your station.”
“My station involves this.” Tony indicates the tablet stuffed into his pants pocket. “Don’t worry, I’ve got the surveillance cameras under my control and have a program working on disabling the perimeter alarms. I’ve got nothing better to do till we reach the secondary location.”
“Stark.” Steve’s tone is sharp enough that it prickles along Tony’s spine. It’s not attractive, because Tony is opposed to all forms of authority in general, but it is. . .something. “Get back to work. I’m not lying to Fury.”
Tony thinks it’s awful hypocritical of Steve to say that. Especially when later in the mission, after Tony’s convinced Clint to abandon their secondary location and join in on the action first hand, Steve obfuscates the reason for which they were forced to make a hasty and messy exit. For a moment on the flight back, half-buried under an itchy S.H.I.E.L.D. issue blanket and dehydrated enough to feel a migraine coming on, Tony thinks about thanking Steve for covering up the excusable error.
But then he remembers Steve’s refusal to cooperate, and decides that more obvious displays of defiance are exactly what he needs to prove his point.
*
On Day 2, Tony asks Steve to spot him in the weight room. He goes out of his way to brush up against Steve as closely as possible, no matter how awkwardly Steve attempts to sidestep the contact in response. Once they’re finished, Tony lifts the hem of his shirt up unnecessarily high to wipe the sweat from his brow, sneaking to check if Steve is looking.
He’s not looking, but he pointedly has directed his gaze elsewhere.
Tony clears his throat.
“You ready to agree to my genius idea yet?”
This time, Steve doesn’t even gift him the decency of an audible refusal, merely shaking his head before muttering something as he heads in the direction of the locker rooms.
*
On Day 3, their entire team winds up in a series of presentations from Agents Hill and Coulson. Danvers and her team join them along with Wilson’s unit, and Tony observantly tracks the way Sharon Carter settles in the seat next to Steve before handing him a water bottle.
It’s not out of the ordinary for Tony to contribute to the chaos that tends to derail these sorts of presentations, so when he repeatedly asks unnecessary questions and makes snarky comments about how they only get new training gear when bullets start penetrating whatever off-brand Kevlar S.H.I.E.L.D. has been stocking lately, nobody blinks twice. In fact, Coulson doesn’t blink at all, and Hill merely takes long sips from her insulated reusable tumbler. Tony wonders if it’s really just coffee in there and not a little hair of the dog.
But by the time the presentations are finally drawing to a close, Tony feels keyed up and itchy under his skin, like he’s ready to crawl out from inside of his body to get some relief. Instead, he corners Sharon as she finishes an exchange with Barnes.
“So,” he says, and her head whips around. It doesn’t take more than a split second for her to plaster pleasantries all over her face.
“Stark,” she says with a small smile, extending a hand for him to shake. He ignores it, opting to bump their hips together. “See you’re still not big on personal space.”
“Seeing that you’ve been spending a lot of time with Rogers lately.” He’s no idea if that’s true or not, but over-exaggeration can sometimes expose the truth. “Do I need to be concerned about my lead’s focus?”
Sharon snorts delicately, sidestepping Tony to toss her water bottle in the trash. She doesn’t answer, and Tony wants to demand to know when people stopped bothering to respond to him.
It’s rude, he thinks, fuming all the way to the cafeteria to join Bruce and Clint for lunch.
*
By the time Day 4 rolls around, Tony thinks it might be time to get a second opinion.
“I don’t understand,” he says as his fingers continue to manipulate the wiring. “It’s not like dating me wouldn’t be a résumé-builder for anyone. What, is Captain Tight-ass worried that I’ll tarnish his pristine reputation?”
“Probably,” comes the crackling reply, and Tony scowls into the electrical box. There’s the sound of enemy gunfire in the distance, but then a single whoosh of one of Clint’s bullets through the air, and it goes quiet for a long moment. “You might not be aware of this, but there are certain assumptions when two coworkers start dating. Especially when one of them technically has power over the other.”
“Yeah, but everyone knows that Steve is only team lead on paper.” Tony wishes he hadn’t left his wire strippers behind, and instead reaches for the multi tool in his belt bag. “It’s not like there’s actually an imbalance of power, no matter what the sexual harassment module says.”
Rhodey sighs. “I don’t even want to know.”
“He can’t get me pregnant,” Tony explains.
There’s the distinctive sound of Clint landing another shot, and at this rate, it won’t even matter if Tony can’t eliminate the perimeter alarms. Still, he hurries, multi tool between his front teeth. He’ll be damned if he lets Clint be the reason this expedition is a success.
“Oh well, as long as that’s not a concern,” Rhodey says sarcastically. Tony is about to deliver an appropriately snarky retort when the crackling gets distinctly fuzzier, and then it all goes clear. It’s a sequence that’s all too familiar, and he feels his scowl deepen.
“Stark.”
“Speak of the devil.” Tony is unable to force himself to be pleasant, or respectful, or any of the other things he’s been told to be when talking to his lead over comms.
“Why am I not surprised,” Steve says dryly. “What have I told you about using that channel during missions?”
“Not to,” Tony says, because he’s fully aware, he just doesn’t care. “But seeing as you’re still up and kicking, I don’t think it really matters what I do with my time.”
“Believe it or not, Stark,” Steve says stiffly, “we do still need you. Pay attention. If I catch you on another channel again, I’ll be filling out an incident report.”
An uncalled for threat, really.
“You sure you’re even doing anything?” Tony says, feeling retaliatory, “Sounds to me like you’ve just been sitting on your ass this whole time. Sounds like Barton’s been doing all the hard work.”
And then a bullet whizzes by, barely a centimeter from Tony’s ear, and it all descends into chaos.
*
They might as well be high school kids outside the principal’s office.
Except they’re on the overly squashed couch inside Fury’s office, and Tony’s got bandages up and down his left bicep. The narcotics are working nicely, and all he feels is barely a twinge where the second bullet had taken a decent chunk out of him. Later he’s sure he’ll be screaming through gritted teeth, but that’s a problem for later Tony and a bottle of scotch.
“So sorry I’m keeping you from whatever thrilling evening you had planned,” Tony comments, bored and annoyed at the fact that he actually is being kept from his thrilling Thursday night plans. “Is the local takeout place missing your order? What about your right hand, feeling a little lonely right about now?”
It’s uncalled for and cruel, he knows, but Steve’s managed to keep his jaw locked tight ever since he’d reached Tony in the snow, partly keeled over and on the verge of unconsciousness with pain. Steve’d refused to speak a single word, ripping clothing to fashion a tourniquet like he was in fucking Boy Scouts before heaving Tony upwards in a fireman carry back to the jet. No matter how many times Tony had attempted to demand to be put down, his legs were fine and functional and he could walk the half mile himself rather than be stripped of his dignity, Steve had ignored him in frigid silence.
Tony hates the Canadian missions. They always end with bullets where they shouldn’t be. Last time, they’d wound up stranded thanks to a shot-down jet engine, and Tony had been forced to cuddle up to Thor for warmth.
Getting shot in the arm kind of takes the cake though, and Tony’s unwilling to get over it. Not today, at least, when he’s got very important plans of his own.
“I bet you’re loving this,” he says, switching tack. “Loving that this happened because I was wrong and you were right, and you can’t wait to tell Fury that - ”
“If you think I want to tell Fury anything, then you’re greatly mistaken,” Steve interrupts, and the extra half a second it takes Tony’s brain to process the unexpected statement is enough of a window to allow Fury himself to bang open the door with an unreadable expression.
The biggest reason that Tony doesn’t play nice with Fury is simple: he’s unpredictable. It’s a fifty-fifty shot that he’ll either start yelling or force the silent treatment upon them, and for as good as Tony is at flying by the seat of his pants, he doesn’t like the complete lack of advantage he has in this particular room. In fact, there’s also a decent chance that Fury won’t do either of those things, and Tony vacillates between his options for as long as it takes his boss of all bosses to sit down behind his desk.
“Alright, how long am I suspended for?” he asks with false brightness. “Hit me, I can take it.” He gestures to his arm, and Fury refuses to abandon his poker face. Steve isn’t any help either, sitting with his usual perfect posture, at the ready to do whatever S.H.I.E.L.D. asks of him.
Fury takes the time to flip through the packet of papers in the center of his desk, skimming quickly, and Tony cracks his knuckles loudly enough that Steve clears his throat in warning.
“So.” Fury tosses what is presumably the incident report, including the update to Tony’s medical file, onto the far edge of his desk. “How long till we’re back at full functionality?”
It takes longer than it should for the question to click into place.
“Probably a week, max,” Tony says, instinctively glancing at Steve to see if he objects. “It didn’t hit bone, it barely touched muscle - are you really not going to yell at us?”
Fury’s eyebrows lift. “Do you want me to yell at you?”
“The last time I was in here - ”
“You turned everyone’s screensaver into a slideshow of your Bahamian vacation,” Fury interrupts. “That warranted raising my voice.”
A sideways look reveals Steve pressing his lips into a thin line, stifling a laugh.
“Oh yeah, go ahead and laugh,” Tony snaps, gesturing with an open palm. “As if I didn’t notice it still on your work laptop an entire week later.”
This time, Steve’s mouth goes pinched with his own special brand of silent rage.
“I’m not good with technology,” he says, stretched politely thin.
“Right, because my team lead can’t figure out the settings menu on a PC,” he says sarcastically. “We’re all buying that.”
“Alright, alright.” Fury slaps his desk just loud enough to get their attention, and Tony sprawls his thighs wider, just enough to obnoxiously touch his knee to Steve’s thigh. Steve shifts away instantly, predictably, and Tony grins. “Rogers, you think you can get through Saturday without Stark?”
“Whoa.” Tony shoots fully upright, alarm bells ringing in his ears. “Without me?”
Fury’s eyebrows raise again. “You said you’d be back to one hundred percent in a week. Or did I misunderstand your answer?”
“I misunderstood the question,” Tony says, scowling at the thought of Saturday’s mission taking off without him. He’s already planning on spending the entirety of his Friday hungover and buried in his tablet, absorbing recon like nobody’s business. “I can still be of use to the team, even if I’m not physically recovered.”
Tony hates how Fury looks at Steve for a verdict.
“I trust your judgement, sir,” is Steve’s response, and Tony bangs a fist on his thigh, molars clanging against each other in indignation.
Fury leans back in his chair, swivelling back and forth to look at the two of them.
“Sit this one out, Stark,” Fury decides, and Tony curses under his breath. Fury ignores it. “Rogers, reevaluate when you get back and let me know how you plan on proceeding. If you need to borrow Lang, tell Danvers to come see me if she has a problem with it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay, no, wait a second here,” Tony says, because there’s no way he’s being benched like this, not when his teams needs him, because Scott might be okay at his job but he’s certainly no Tony, no one is, and if Fury doesn’t realize that and something happens to -
“What’s going to happen?” Fury asks with a glint in his eye, and Tony realizes that he’s been saying this all out loud, in a very heated tone. “Scott Lang is just as good at his job as you are, and I have a feeling that Barton will survive a single mission without you in his ear. In fact, I’m looking forward to a nice, fun, incident-free mission this weekend. Aren’t you, Rogers?”
Steve clears his throat again. “Yes, sir.”
“That will be all,” Fury says, and Tony takes a long moment to glower at Fury’s reactionless figure before stalking off behind Steve. He barely manages to catch the door before it closes on him, and he has to take long strides to catch up, but when he does, he sneers up at the man who’s supposed to be his lead and take the side of their team over that of upper management.
“What a fucking team lead you are,” Tony spits out. “What the hell was that?”
Steve barely spares a look for Tony as he makes down the hall for the elevator.
“Way to stick up for me,” Tony persists. “You just let him bench me for a sore arm, when you know that’s not going to impact - ”
“I left it up to him,” Steve says, calm in a way that boils Tony’s blood. “You’re the one who told him that you need a week. If you need to yell at someone, go find a mirror.”
Tony’s jaw drops as Steve hits the down elevator button.
“That’s not even clever,” he says. “That’s just cheesy. Is that really the best you’ve got?”
The elevator display lights indicate that one car is currently on level one, and the other on level fifteen; they’re on level forty-five.
“I’m going to take the stairs,” Steve says decisively. “I’ll see you around.”
“Coward,” Tony mutters under his breath, jabbing at the down button half a dozen times. “That shithead, life ruining - ”
*
“ - good for nothing son-of-a-bitch.”
Tony slams down the now-empty shot glass, wiping the faint impression of tequila off his top lip with the back of his hand.
“We get it.” Natasha sounds exasperated, which is nothing new. “You hate him. But this is not his fault.”
Tony glares. “Did he get to you already?”
Natasha and Rhodey share a look that Tony doesn’t like. A suspicious wordless exchange later, and Natasha is walking away.
“Oh, come on!” Tony yells after her. “Don’t be a coward, too!”
She doesn’t turn around, disappearing between an assortment of S.H.I.E.L.D. employees, only a quarter of whom Tony recognizes, and only an eighth of whom he can actually put a name to.
It’s not like it’s his party, after all. One of Wilson’s crew is turning another year older, and Tony merely has a spectacular talent for showing up to places he wasn’t explicitly invited and getting away with it. One can never have too much charisma, and he hums along to someone’s 90s playlist before rounding on Rhodey.
“You get what happened, right? You’re on my side, aren’t you?”
“I’m not taking sides,” Rhodey says, shaking his head. “Steve says he didn’t - ”
“Oh, so you know what Steve says?” Tony talks over him, irritated. “You talked to him? Heard his side of the story?”
“How many tequila shots have you had so far?” Rhodey says.
“One,” Tony says impatiently. “The rest were vodka. Now seriously, you really think I should give a shit what Rogers thinks when he could have defended me, but chose not to? One word from him and Fury would’ve had me back in action, but no, he had to suck up to the principal and sideline me because he knows - ”
“Tony, you’re supposed to be resting,” Rhodey interrupts. “If you really gave a shit about being back in the field, you wouldn’t be halfway to drunk right now. If you try to do a keg stand and - ”
“No one is doing a kegstand,” Tony dismisses. “This isn’t college. Or high school. Y’know, wherever everyone learns how to do a kegstand.”
“Tony.” Tony reluctantly meets Rhodey’s gaze, which looks not nearly disoriented enough for the occasion. “If you’re serious about proving Steve wrong, this isn’t the way to do it.”
“I’m not playing by their rules,” Tony says, shaking his head. “Stupid fucking bureaucratic bullshit.”
“I know.” There’s too much sympathy in Rhodey’s tone for Tony’s taste. “But maybe if you stopped trying to convince your team captain to date you as a prank, and focused on actually being useful, you wouldn’t have to worry about the bureaucratic bullshit as much.”
Tony closes his eyes and lets out a long-suffering sigh. When he opens his eyes to see Rhodey smirking at him, he just curses some more.
He’s pretty good at mingling, if he can say so himself. It’s formulaic, but that’s fine. Tony likes being able to predict what others can do, especially when it allows him the opportunity to be more unpredictable himself. It’s also a way to distract himself from his current circumstances, nearly forgetting and numbing himself to the sting of being cast aside by those who are supposed to value him and want to keep him around.
So he finds Danvers in her usual little circle of women and makes fun of her for drinking beer, which escalates into a “your mom” insult contest that could’ve lost steam when Clint drops by for just long enough to point out that both their moms are dead, but instead gets morbid in a way that would have normal people recoiling in horror. It does eventually end when Sharon comes up to touch Carol on the shoulder, somehow earning her undivided attention. Tony scowls at missing an opportunity to be the one to ditch them, and manages to lick his wounds by showing off in front of Jane and her dark-haired lab assistant, whose name he wouldn’t be able to guess if his life depended on it.
“If we’re really going to discuss time travel, we should really get Banner over here,” Tony says between swigs of his cheap beer, because S.H.I.E.L.D. employees are basically frat boys dressed up in tactical gear who can’t be bothered to spend money on good liquor and mixers.
“I know Scott Lang recently read a paper about - ”
Tony puts up a hand to stop the lab assistant from speaking, shushing her loudly while nearly pressing his fingers against her red-lipsticked mouth.
“Don’t you dare,” he says, pulling his hand back just far enough to jab an index finger close enough for her to wince backwards. “Don’t you dare say that name around me.”
“What’s wrong with Scott?” Jane asks, and it’s difficult to be anything but perfectly nice to her, especially when Thor has his arms wrapped around her from behind. He’s busy talking to one of the other team leads, the annoying one who likes to shoot Nerf guns down the halls, but still. His presence is enough to keep Tony from aiming a snarkily inappropriate remark in her direction.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Tony says, rolling his eyes and guzzling more of his drink. “Maybe it’s the fact that Rogers is advocating for him to replace me on our team.”
Yeah, he knows that’s not necessarily being nice, but it must not raise any of Thor’s alarm bells as he continues his conversation about whether or not space cowboy is a legitimate profession, so he pats himself on the back for a job well done.
“He wouldn’t do that,” Miss Red Lipstick says with an exaggerated scoff. “He’s so nice.”
“I’ve got to agree with Darcy,” Jane says, the name slipping in one of Tony’s ears and then right out the other. “That doesn’t seem like Steve. He’s always spoken very highly of you.”
Tony snorts loudly, and maybe he’s veering a little too close to drunk to be around so many technically-coworkers right now, but he can’t be too concerned about that.
“Now I know you’re yanking my chain,” he says. “He hates me, everyone knows it. Right, Thor? Rogers wishes I was off the team?”
Thor pauses his conversation, concern just barely etched into his strong features, and not for the first time, Tony laments the fact that Thor is decidedly straight, committed, and uninterested in polygamy (at least at this point in his life).
“I believe our leader values everyone on our team,” Thor says with a slight frown. “Yourself included. I know that I appreciate working with you, much more often than not.”
A wave of nausea and unsteadiness passes over Tony, and he masterfully makes his exit in the midst of complimenting Jane’s friend’s exquisite rack, making sure to be just lewd enough that they won’t be attempting to make conversation with him again tonight. He makes a pit stop in a bathroom, splashing water on his face while avoiding wetting his artfully tousled hair. From there it’s a matter of deciding whether or not to urinate, and while he’s contemplating breaking the seal, there’s a knock on the door.
Better not, he decides as the vague sensation of being on a rollercoaster returns. He should probably get home soon, or at least convince Rhodey to be on Tony duty for the rest of the night. Before the person waiting can knock again, Tony flings open the bathroom door.
It’s Steve, looking taller yet somehow softer than usual, like a fish out of water in an ordinary t-shirt. A beat passes, Tony blinking blurry eyes until he can focus on the sharpness he’s used to, the stiffness in Steve’s spine and the careful strain of his muscles. There’s a part of him that wants to catch Steve off guard in this moment, ask him plainly why he hadn’t defended him to Fury -
Tony wants to know, feels the burn in the back of his esophagus as he struggles to order the words in his head into something that doesn’t resemble a word search so much.
But then Steve is clearing his throat, and the noise takes Tony right back to earlier that day in Fury’s office.
“Well,” Tony drawls unhelpfully. “Look what the cat dragged in. Who thought Steve Rogers would ever stoop so low as to attend one of these shindigs? Let me guess, did you finally actually get invited?”
For a brief flash in time, Steve looks hurt. But then his face goes stony, and Tony can’t be bothered to feel badly about it.
“Because we all know that you think you’re too good for the rest of us, and that’s why no one ever invites you,” Tony keeps on. “Too good to live it up and be young for once. No, you’d rather dig your own grave, being all lame and old so that no one ever wants you around because - ”
“Stark,” Steve says, so quietly that Tony nearly misses it, only cutting off his own diatribe out of confusion at the small sound. He blinks again, and then Steve goes - “Do you mind if I get in there?”
Of course Steve pretends like he’s not bothered. That’s what he always does, how he always is: stoic, neutral, and just a bit harsh if the occasion calls for a real emotion.
“So you’re not even going to say anything?” Tony taunts. “You’re going to throw me under the bus, get me basically kicked off the team, and then not even have the decency to apologize?”
Steve’s eyebrows raise just enough for Tony to notice, and then his face is guarded again. He’d looked maybe shocked, taken aback, but Tony hadn’t been able to fully decipher things in that split second.
“If that’s what you think happened, then I’m not going to try and change your mind,” Steve says calmly. “I think I’m going to go find another bathroom, if you’re not finished here.”
And he goes to turn around, but Tony’s definitely not sober and his blood is boiling and the lines of Steve’s chest are just barely visible through the cotton of his shirt. He grabs Steve’s forearm, admittedly rough, and rather than shake him off or wrench out of his grip, Steve goes very, very still.
Neither of them speak. Tony looks up at Steve hotly, ready to meet his eyes and pick up his tirade where he left off (as best as he can manage right now, at least, with his mind swimming thanks to the alcohol and the smell of weed wafting around and the hint of Steve’s five o’clock stubble, which Tony has obviously seen before, but never in this context). But for one of a very few handful of times in his life, Tony finds himself lost for words, and he scrambles.
“Have fun with Lang,” he says coolly, aware that it’s not the best he can do but hoping Steve doesn’t call him on it. “Let’s hope he can get you guys out of a tight spot the way I can.”
“Yeah,” Steve says, nodding in tiny increments. “Sure would be a shame if he did something stupid like let himself get shot at, right?”
He must take advantage of Tony’s resulting indignation, easily removing his arm from Tony’s grasp, and the whole thing is ugly.
“You’re gonna regret this,” Tony tries to tell him, but Steve just shakes his head.
“No, I don’t think I will,” he disagrees, and then he’s walking away, and Tony is too distracted by another wave of nausea to go after him.
By the time it passes and he’s gathered enough strength to find Rhodey and convince him to get Tony in bed for the night, Steve is nowhere to be found, and Tony feels spectacularly shitty in a way that has nothing to do with the brewing revolt in his stomach. And when he’s finally home for the night, vomiting little more than bile and liquor into cold porcelain while the pretentious marble penthouse floor begins to warm underneath him, he finds himself reconsidering something.
Maybe Rhodey was onto something when he recommended focusing on making himself useful.
Maybe.
*
On Day - oh, fuck it, Tony can’t keep track anymore, not when he’s got more important matters to tend to. Regardless, he spends the following day exactly as he’d planned before being benched, reading intel like he’s on the job and not relegated to the sidelines.
Not even the sidelines, he thinks grumpily, as he leaves a dirty cereal bowl in the sink for the cleaning service to take care of when they come sometime next week. He’s basically been left back home during an away game, and the comparison makes him too depressed to even properly wipe the milky fingerprints off his tablet screen. Instead, he licks his thumb and rubs at the wet smudges.
But then he eventually drags his hungover ass into the shower, and is struck with inspiration halfway through jerking himself off - because really, what else is there to do in the shower?
As soon as he finishes and is wrapped in a fluffy robe, he emails Fury, as formal as ever.
Fury,
all better and ready to go! tell rogers i’ll see him tomorrow
Best, Tony
Not a minute later a reply comes through, ordering him to sit his ass down for this one.
“Watch me sue his ass for improper conduct,” Tony sniffs to himself, aware of the hypocrisy but uncaring. He considers how lame of him it would be to hang out at S.H.I.E.L.D., hoping to sneak himself onto the mission by claiming that Fury had changed his mind. Ask for forgiveness, not permission, he figures.
When he hustles down to headquarters in sweatpants and his winter coat, hair still wet and half plastered to his forehead, Maria Hill happens to be crossing the main elevator bank as he badges himself in past security. A coincidence, surely, he thinks sarcastically, as she slips into the same elevator as him.
“Maria,” he says with one of his most devilishly charming smiles. “Fancy seeing you here on a Friday evening.”
She doesn’t even pretend to be pleasant, which he’ll give her credit for. She’s not a fan of formalities the way Coulson is.
“You’re not getting on that jet,” she informs him, authoritative in a way he’s sure she thinks she’s earned, even if he would publicly disagree.
“Y’know,” he says conversationally, “being Fury’s little lackey isn’t the career boost you think it is.”
She refuses to respond, staring at the number on the display ticking higher and higher until they reach the eighteenth floor.
“Well then,” he says, purposely warm as he makes his way past her, hand on one side of the opening to keep the doors from closing too soon. “It’s been a pleasure.”
She doesn’t answer, instead just glaring daggers at him as he pulls his hand away and waves brightly.
He’d chosen the eighteenth floor solely because it’s got the best vending machines, tucked away in the legal department, and once he’s armed with a bag of Hot Cheetos, a Diet Coke (because the chemical taste is superior and Coke Zero is an abomination, thank you very much), and peanut M&Ms, he runs a quick calculation of the risks of being found in each of his favorite hiding places.
To the team meeting room it is, he decides. The last place anyone would ever think to look for him.
He’s there for hours, juggling the burden of staying awake with prepping for the mission, worming his way into the systems that Lang will be taking on tomorrow and setting up innocent little booby traps. Nothing harmful, nothing that will slow him down more than a split second. It’s not following Rhodey’s advice, not exactly, but if Scott can’t handle Tony’s backseat driving, then he’s not a good fit for the team, anyway. Natasha and Thor are much worse than he is when it comes to deliberately disobeying Steve’s instructions and pretending like they’re in charge - they just don’t catch as much shit for it as Tony does.
He’s torn, gnawing on his thumbnail as he soaks up the mission plan that Steve is currently finessing. On one hand, he wants to go, doesn’t want to be left behind. As much as he knows that they need him, it’s another thing entirely to have them realize it. Words of affirmation are far and few between at S.H.I.E.L.D., and if Thor were to no longer be a part of the organization, they’d be next to nonexistent. But on the other hand, there’s a part of him that wants to see Scott Lang (and by extension, the team) fail. It’s a sick thought, but he thinks it would be worth it if only to prove how much he’s needed.
It’s beyond capabilities, he thinks, watching the blinking of Steve’s cursor. He’s hiding in the document, Steve unable to detect his presence unless he’s suddenly become an expert in “hacking” - Steve’s terminology, not his. It has to do with dynamics, with the team he’s a part of. As much as he hates Steve and makes fun of Clint, he knows that they all push each other to do better, to be better, and that’s a special sort of magic that he’s almost positive won’t exist if even one member gets swapped out.
At least, that’s what he tells himself when he sees Scott’s initials all over Steve’s notes, slotted into places where Tony’s would usually be.
Eventually, he crawls out of his hole for coffee, hitting up the cafe downstairs before they close for the night. Nobody recognizes him, at least not to his face, but he’s sure that Fury is tracking him throughout the building via heat signature and security cameras. He texts Clint a bit, mostly to goad him into admitting how much he needs Tony in order to do his job correctly, and chuckles to himself as he gets back in the elevator. The path is clear as everyone is probably getting a good night of rest - or at least, attempting to. He of all people knows how difficult it is to settle when the adrenaline is running high.
Steve stops editing his files at some point, and Tony has to wait another hour till Steve finally logs out of everything. It’s then that he makes edits of his own, not daring to change too much in case Steve has another reason to rat him out to Fury. Instead he thinks back on previous missions they’ve run, making recommendations from those. Nothing major: just suggestions on weaponry and positioning; shifting the trajectory of the landing to one more suited for the atmospheric conditions forecast for tomorrow; a couple quick updates to the program they use to communicate with each other, making it clearer and more efficient and accounting for the personnel swap.
A splitting headache starts to make its presence known, and Tony pushes back against it as hard as he can until he can barely keep his eyes open with the pain. But then, before he can exit Steve’s documents, the devil himself reappears. He waits a minute, then one more, curiosity burning through him with the need to know whether or not Steve can detect his handiwork.
And then, in a surprising show of competence, Steve types into the document rather than attempting to contact Tony through a more obvious channel.
Go to bed, Tony.
He snorts, sending a response without thinking twice.
like you’re one to talk
Steve doesn’t leave, but he doesn’t say anything either. Tony presumes that he’s scanning for the metaphorical paper trail, and sure enough, slowly, Steve’s cursor makes its way through Tony’s handiwork. He keeps as attentive an eye on it as he can manage with his headache, and wishes he had some pain medication stashed. Hell, he wishes any of the team had some stashed, but the team meeting room is functionally useless. If he really wanted something, he’d have to pick his way into their lockers downstairs.
Just as he’s about to give up and leave Steve to his neurotic control-freak tendencies (because really, it’s past midnight and the mission is due to depart at six o’clock sharp, which means that he’s probably going to get a maximum of one complete REM cycle if he’s lucky), there’s more typing. Tony has to scroll to find it, pounding in his head worsened by the way the entire body of the document shifts as Steve types. Jesus, it’s like dealing with a relic of decades past. Even Coulson knows how to operate better than this, Tony thinks, as he finally finds what Steve is saying.
Thank you. Forgot to account for Scott’s height and weight.
It’s not much, but for Steve, it might as well be an apology. Tony’s brain feels like rock-solid mush, and he’s pretty sure he’s got a full-blown migraine, but he makes a note of this moment to use against Steve should he ever need to.
if you really want to thank me, you’ll tell fury to put me on the jet and then agree to date me so you can be the one kicked off the team
The time before a reply arrives is surprisingly short.
Make up your mind, Stark. Do you want to be on the same team or not?
It takes a couple seconds, but Tony shoots back a middle finger emoji.
Rather than chastise him, Steve merely responds, Goodnight, Tony.
Tony erases the brief conversation, but neither of them exit the document.
*
When Tony wakes up, he’s got his tablet screen stuck to his cheek and an aggressive thrumming through his head. It takes a moment to crack open his eyes, lids nearly glued shut, and the small slit of sight he earns is enough to see who had dared to enter the room and make enough noise to wake him up.
If only he were a little more alert and a little less sleep deprived, he would have heard them coming and been able to take them out within seconds. That’s a lie, Tony loves lying to himself and knows that he’s certainly not the muscle of S.H.I.E.L.D., but then he registers her presence enough to think that maybe it’s not a lie. He might not be capable of taking down a dozen goons singlehandedly and weaponless the way Thor and Steve do, but he can take Carol Danvers in an arm wrestling contest if he’s gotten an opportunity to stretch first.
She’s got her hair tied back in an annoyingly tight and smooth knot as she kicks the heels of her boots against the filing cabinet she’s sitting on.
“Watch out,” he croaks, aware of the smudge of dried drool on the corner of his mouth. “Pretty sure the surface of that filing cabinet wouldn’t take kindly to a black light, if you know what I mean.”
Danvers just tilts her chin upward, nose far too perky as she stops the kicking.
Thank Christ, he thinks, as the banging in his head is dialed down from a ten to a two.
“Why are you trying to get on my team?”
Something clicks in his brain, and a quick glance at his tablet reveals that he’s overslept. He curses loudly under his breath.
“I’m serious, Stark,” she says, crossing her arms over her S.H.I.E.L.D.-issue training shirt. “I might not be in love with Lang, but he’s a valuable asset and does whatever the fuck I tell him to do. If you’re looking to mess with that just because - ”
“Oh please, this is not my fault,” Tony says, wiping his mouth as discreetly as possible. Carol still catches it, squinting suspiciously. “You can blame Rogers for this one. Left me behind, fucking asshole, probably had your precious Lang disable the alarm I set.”
“Your alarm was going off when I came in here, shit-for-brains,” Carol informs him with an exaggerated eye roll. “I had to use voice command to turn it off.”
“Rude,” Tony sniffs importantly.
“I doubt that this is Rogers’ fault.” Carol tilts her head, consideringly, then looks at Tony directly. “What did you do?”
“Why does no one believe me?” Tony asks in exasperation, because he’s still got sleep in his bleary eyes and his spine isn’t going to be the same until he hits up the recovery room in the gym. “All I wanted was to be a part of the mission like I was supposed to be, but you get one tiny little - ”
Truth be told, Tony had forgotten about the wound after getting out of the shower, since it had still been wrapped up in waterproof bandages and he hadn’t seen any blood leaking through the edges.
“ - gunshot wound,” he continues, not bothering to be sheepish but still earning Carol’s full attention. Jesus, she’s intense. It’s been a while since they’ve worked together in an official capacity, but he’s definitely forgotten what a ball buster she can be. “And suddenly, no one wants you on the team anymore.”
“Oh no, a gunshot wound,” Carol mocks.
“Are you making fun of me?” Tony asks, and yeah, he’s definitely not awake enough for this. “Because it took a nice chunk out of my arm, and I was personally committed to the S.H.I.E.L.D. philosophy of fuck-it-and-die, but Rogers and Fury decided that I needed to be replaced. This totally has nothing to do with me sabotaging your team.”
Carol looks like she’s considering it, and it spurs Tony on.
“Come on, Danvers,” Tony wheedles. “You really think I’d give up the view of Romanov’s ass for your flat-as-a-board assets?”
“You know,” Carol says conversationally, adjusting her arms across her chest, “I almost believed you for a moment there. But we both know that you’d never dare talk about Romanov like that.”
“Fuck.”
“So what’s the real reason you’re looking to trade places?”
“I swear I’m telling the truth,” Tony says, index finger drawing a cross over his chest as if he’s Catholic, which he might technically be, but the details are a little fuzzy and he hasn’t exactly been to confession in over a decade. “I got shot.” He lifts his arm as if she can see through his sleeve. “Rogers hates me, and told Fury I didn’t need to tag along with the team until I was recovered.”
“Yeah, right.” Carol hops off the cabinet, clearly ready to head out.
“Okay,” he says loudly, suddenly motivated by annoyance and frustration and the nagging feeling of not being properly appreciated. “You really want to know why the swap?”
She doesn’t answer, only looks at him expectantly yet uncaring at the same time.
“Fury wants me and Steve separated,” he explains, trying to keep a smug smile off his face as Carol’s interest piques. “We’re trying - you swear you won’t tell anybody, yeah?”
“We’ll see about that once you tell me,” she says, and he’s kind of counting on her not keeping her mouth shut. Still, he makes a big deal out of sighing and picking at his nails out of nervousness.
“Well, we’re kind of dating.” He gives her a one-armed shrug with a mildly embarrassed grin, hoping it comes off convincingly enough. “Or at least, giving it a try. Enough of one that Steve wanted to tell Fury about us - very by the book, you know? We’re not supposed to be dating if we’re on the same team. And I guess Fury wants to see if both teams manage to do okay with a lineup change.”
There’s no way she’s going to buy it, he thinks, but then -
“Huh.” She taps her fingers against her chin, leaning a hip against the desk he’s stationed at. “If that’s true, someone owes me twenty bucks.”
He does his best not to focus on demanding to know who and why, but instead glares at her warningly. “You really can’t tell anyone. If Steve finds out that I told you - ”
“Is it because it’s you?” Carol interrupts. “Because he doesn’t seem the whole, you know, internalized homophobia type. But you never know.”
Tony scowls outright. “Because it’s me? Tell me how you really feel.”
It’s her turn to shrug. “You’re not exactly an upwards career move, Stark. Which begs the question: how do I know you’re telling the truth?”
“You’ve just got to trust me,” Tony tells her, prompting an enormous eyeroll.
“I’m gonna ask Sharon,” she informs him, and well, shit. If there’s anyone who can debunk his little white lie, it’s going to be her. Tony’s got a feeling Sharon wouldn’t cover for him under any circumstances. “And if she says you’re lying, I’m never letting you work with us again.”
“But we do so well together!” he says loudly as she makes her way to the door. “And I know you love me - don’t think I don’t catch you looking when I’m doing squats!”
She turns around just long enough to flash him a pair of middle fingers, and then she’s gone and he’s left alone with just his tablet to keep him company.
Fuck, his back aches. He glances at the time and realizes how long he’s got till he can expect any kind of report on the team’s mission, and resigns himself to a lengthy gym session followed by a yoga class and then an overindulgent rubdown from one of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s perky physical therapists.
There are worse ways to spend his time, he supposes, and after three failed attempts at hacking into Steve’s earpiece, finally heads down to the gym.
*
When it happens, Tony isn’t expecting it at all.
Really, he’s just glad that everyone is back. Sure, maybe he hadn’t received the teary welcome back he’d expected, complete with red carpet roll out, but that’s okay. His people aren’t exactly known for their sentimentality, and just Clint insisting on giving him a noogie while Thor squeezed the ever-loving life out of him was enough to warm Tony’s heart. They’d missed him, or at least were glad to see him again, and that almost made the time apart worth it.
(That was a lie. If they ever tried to go anywhere without him again, he was going to destabilize S.H.I.E.L.D. and force everyone to cave to his every demand, beginning with a quality espresso machine and a corner office.)
“Wow, Banner,” Tony teases, flinging himself into a chair in the cafeteria. It’s prime eating time for a bunch of grown-up jock equivalents with the sole purpose of stuffing themselves with as much lean protein and complex carbohydrates as possible before heading to the gym to turn it all into that very important muscle, which means that they’ve got one hell of an audience turning to look at Tony’s unnecessarily loud declaration. “Is that a pipette in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?”
Poor Bruce just looks confused as he drops a look to his lap, dropping a piece of tofu while he’s at it.
“I’m a physicist,” he says, nonplussed, and Thor merely pats him heavily on the back in sympathy.
Natasha takes advantage of the opportunity to swipe Bruce’s chocolate protein shake.
“What exactly does a physicist do for S.H.I.E.L.D.?” Tony wonders aloud rhetorically. “They having you do some more ‘nuclear research?’” His employment of air quotes makes Natasha hide a smile in her wrist, and he grins broadly.
“No, it’s mostly theoretical. You know what I do, you’re usually - ”
“You’ll never believe what happened.” Clint interrupts Bruce, rudely, if Tony might say so, so he shoots the poor guy an exaggeratedly sympathetic expression before motioning with a jerk of his chin for Clint to continue. “Did Steve tell you?”
“Oh, totally,” Tony says with a straight face, resting his chin in the palm of his upturned hand. “Right after he braided my chest hair and I gave him a pedicure.”
“No foot fetishes allowed,” Natasha says flatly, and Thor looks confused.
Clint can understand a joke when he sees one, and cackles rewardingly before continuing. “Honestly, Lang wasn’t too bad, which - I know, I know, that’s the last thing you want to hear.” Tony groans loudly, kicking back on two legs of his chair and noisily slurping his green juice through the overly wide straw it’s always served with. The food service workers went a little heavy on the celery today, and there’s not enough lemon for his taste. “So there’s this moment towards the end of the ambush where Steve’s starting to get a little sloppy. You know how he gets, starts taking it personally, can’t calm down and starts to not see straight.”
Tony snorts and lets his chair legs bang back down onto the ground. A glance at his lunch reveals that Natasha has sabotaged his grilled chicken sandwich by stealing his tomato. “You can get your own food at any point, you know. Costs you as much as it costs us, which is nothing. In case you forgot.”
Natasha just blinks.
“And I’m up in this tree - which I don’t recommend ever, got a fuck ton of scratches on me, nearly destroyed my pants and you know Fury isn’t going to give a shit about that - ”
“No one cares about the tree,” Tony says.
“It was quite a tree,” Thor says after drinking up the last of his strawberry-banana smoothie. He bangs the plastic cup down on the table and wipes at his mouth with the back of his overly large hand. “I wish you could have seen it.”
For a second, Clint doesn’t know what to say, but then shakes his head and keeps on.
“Right. Uh, okay. Where was I?”
“You were in a large tree,” Thor supplies helpfully.
“ Right. Okay. So I need help getting down, because there’s a fuck ton of gunfire coming at me and a brawl going on below. Lang is on comms and I’m trying to get his attention, figure out if he can remotely cause a diversion or get Steve to redirect these people. Get me out of the line of fire, you know? Only Lang isn’t answering, so I’m cursing him out - ”
“You would've loved to have heard it,” Natasha interjects, and Tony doesn’t know when she got up, but suddenly she’s got a plate with a single tomato slice on it to accompany her tofu grain bowl.
“ - when Steve decides to chime in and tell me to knock it off. Now, that catches Lang’s attention, and he feels real bad about being busy with whatever the hell Thor was doing - ”
“I was trying to prevent Natasha from being killed,” Thor says calmly, like it’s just another day on the job. Which technically, it is. “There were several men and Lang was the only one capable of deactivating the electric fence I needed to traverse to fight at her side.”
Tony’s annoyed, because if Lang managed that, he must be half decent at his job.
“Meanwhile,” Clint forges on loudly, demanding everyone’s attention. “Meanwhile, Steve is mad as hell, punching guys out left and right, and I need to get the fuck out of the tree before this branch starts to bow. He gets Lang’s attention, says something about needing to multitask, but it’s in that voice of his - you know how he gets.”
“Oh, I know,” Tony says, rolling his eyes. “Trust me, I’ve been on the receiving end of that more times than I can count.”
“So, more than ten,” Natasha notes, wiggling all of her fingers and earning a surprised laugh from Bruce in return. Tony tries to shove her off her chair, but it’s quick and half-assed and she nearly clocks him right in the face in return.
“Anyway,” Clint says pointedly, dragging out the word and doing the world’s worst impression of a strict teacher. Tony snickers, and Natasha pastes on her most serious expression. “He misses some guy’s nose and doesn’t block, gets a fist to the jaw. It’s not pretty - I only heard him over comms, but you should see it.”
Tony winces. Steve isn’t the kind of guy to succumb to, or even acknowledge pain, which means that if Clint could hear him react, it must’ve been bad. “Can’t wait.”
“I know.” Clint nods. “But then he makes this comment, totally out of character. Everyone else claims they didn’t hear it - ”
“Some of us were a little busy at the moment,” Natasha mutters.
“ - but I have excellent hearing, as you know - ”
“I thought you were unable to hear out of your left ear,” Thor says, confused.
“ - and will swear on my mothers grave that he said, ‘This wouldn’t have happened with Stark.’ ”
Tony blinks as the table vibrates with palpable silence.
He breaks it after a minute, unable to bear Clint’s overly wide grin any longer. “Is that it?”
“What do you mean, is that it? Did you not hear me?”
“I heard you, alright,” Tony says, rolling his eyes. “But I’m not sure what kind of reaction you’re wanting. Of course that wouldn’t have happened if I was there. Everyone knows I’m best at what I do, no matter how competent Lang has bamboozled everyone into thinking he is.”
He can see Clint mouthing the word bamboozled to himself, and judging from Natasha’s silent laughter, so can she.
“I think that what Clint wants is for you to appreciate that your absence was felt,” Thor says, always playing peacemaker. “Although it is unfortunate that one of us was injured in the process.”
“At least no one got shot this time,” Natasha says, and Tony attempts to pinch her, only to get his fingers bent backwards for his trouble. He curses loudly.
“Oh, look!” Clint says excitedly, rising half out of his chair to peer at the entrance to the cafeteria. “Speak of the devil!”
He’s waving furiously, and before Tony can twist backwards in his chair for confirmation, Clint’s face goes pale. “Uh. He doesn’t look too happy.”
Tony whips around, nearly knocking skulls with Natasha, and gets a glimpse of a straight-backed Steve looking a little too serious. He’s indeed got a bruise on his jaw, ugly and purpling, and it only adds to the overall effect. There’s no point in lying: Steve can be incredibly intimidating, even if more often than not Tony is too stupid to do anything but bulldoze right through it.
“I wonder what happened,” Banner says, like he truly has no idea, and Tony envies his ignorance. While he might not know exactly what’s got Steve’s panties in a bunch today, he knows enough to be aware of the fact that there’s a one-in-three chance that he’s got something to do with it.
“Nothing good,” Clint says, like he can’t decide whether to be scared or excited for whatever entertainment is about to occur. “He looks really pissed.”
It doesn’t take Steve long to reach them, and it’s rather astounding how he can merely stand up and yet manage to look like he’s the authority on everything. Arms tensed, which is bad - usually when he’s merely irritated, he at least crosses them. Tony swallows, exchanging one last look with Natasha before craning his head to grin up at Steve.
“Hey, boss,” he says smoothly. “Miss me?”
Poking the bear is worth the resulting tightness in the jaw and around the eyes. Tony loves getting a reaction, and Steve rarely fails to deliver.
“Stark,” Steve says stiffly. “A word in the hall?”
The others (just Clint and Natasha, really) make oooooh sounds at him, like he’s getting sent to the principal’s office, and Tony broadens his smile, flashing teeth.
“Yeah, of course,” he says. “I’d be more than happy to.”
He snags his green juice on the way up from the table, finishing it as he follows Steve between the tables of cliques. There’s a trash can just inside the door, and Tony ditches the cup there before ending up in a surprisingly quiet hallway. Considering the time, he thought there would be more traffic, but there’s no one else in sight once the glass doors swing closed.
“So,” Tony says immediately, not willing to let Steve stomp all over him yet again. “What happened? You realize you fucked up by letting Fury take me off the mission?”
Steve squints. “Excuse me?”
“I usually don’t accept apologies, but I might make an exception for you,” Tony continues, and Steve’s face goes stony.
“I think you’re the one who needs to apologize.”
Bamboozled would be an appropriate word here as well. Tony blinks.
“What the hell for?”
Steve’s jaw shifts from side to side for just long enough to let Tony know that he’s thinking about this, how he wants to say it. For a moment, Tony thinks that maybe it won’t be horrible, that Steve will take pity on poor left out Tony and his injured arm. In the end though, everything proceeds as it normally would, and Steve doesn’t waste more than a second of their time.
“I heard that you’re telling people we’re going out.”
There are two options: Tony can either play dumb, make like he’s got no idea what Steve is talking about and deny everything, or he can admit to the conversation with Carol and pray that his honesty wins him a few brownie points. It’s not like those will go far though, and his moment of thought carries him to his usual conclusion. He wonders what it says about the two of them that his usual tendencies are opposite of Steve’s.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
He’s convincing enough, he knows that. No typical person would be able to see right through him, but this isn’t any typical person he’s dealing with. No, this is Steve, who has seen him minutes from hypothermia and is currently sporting one of the worst injuries he’s acquired since they first landed on the same team. Not only does Steve know Tony in ways that Tony hates and doesn’t understand the “how” of, but he’s also been knocked off-kilter and has more motivation than usual to get to the bottom of Tony’s routine shenanigans.
“We both know you’re lying.” Steve’s arms cross his chest briefly, before going back to his sides, just as tense as before.
“Says who?” Tony wants to know, because in order to play his cards right, he needs to know exactly what Steve has been told.
“Carol came to me directly.” Shit. “Told me about the conversation you two had. Wanted to know if I wanted a restraining order, or help with our wedding registry.”
Tony doesn’t bother suppressing a snort of laughter, despite being annoyed that she had clearly lied to him about asking Sharon. Carol is a menace to society, and he likes to think that in another life, they’d manage to get along more than they do now.
“Well? Which one is it?”
Steve pauses, so Tony pushes.
“I could get us in at Tiffany, but I’m not sure our friends could afford it,” Tony offers.
Unsurprisingly, Steve sighs, long and full of suffering.
“No, I know.” Tony’s not sure why he’s admitting defeat. “You told her you’re going to bury me in NCR reports and then punish me by letting Barton eat Taco Bell before all our missions. I hope you know, if I have to breathe that in on the jet, then so do the rest of you.”
“Tony.” Steve is as firm and as calm as ever, and Tony is - well, he’s intrigued.
“Yeah?”
Steve surveys him closely, which is not only highly unnecessary, but also makes Tony squirm.
Just a little.
“What?”
“Do you know what I told her?”
“I just told you what you probably told her,” Tony says, confused because Steve isn’t normally this stupid. Maybe that punch to the jaw knocked a few brain cells loose or something because -
“I told her not to tell anyone,” Steve says, and it seems smooth, but Tony has heard Steve talk enough to know when he’s not entirely certain of the situation.
“Well obviously,” Tony says, but frowns, not understanding why Steve isn’t sure of himself when there’s no enemy fire around to give him cause. “I could’ve guessed that.”
“I told her not to tell anything that we’re dating,” Steve says, and while his voice doesn’t raise a decibel, it’s somehow more commanding.
“Wait a second,” Tony says slowly. “You didn’t - ”
But Steve is giving a pained nod, and Tony puts the pieces together. He actively has to prevent himself from being an asshole, from blurting out something that would derail every bit of progress he’s made.
“So you’re agreeing to - ”
“Yes.” Tony shuts up at Steve’s tone, full of controlled outrage and rapidly dissipating patience. “I’ve had enough of this. You know I don’t give much of a shit about the constant insubordination. I only write up those non-compliance reports every once in a while because if I didn’t, everyone would get suspicious and suspect favoritism. Everyone knows you do whatever the hell you want, no matter what I say or do. But this? Trying to ruin my reputation and spread rumors just because you’d rather get kicked off the team than go through the proper channels of requesting a transfer?”
“With my luck, they’d transfer me to that fucking space cowboy’s team,” Tony interrupts.
“Quill has a good team behind him,” Steve says, stern. “They’re like family, and I wish I could say the same about you guys.”
Something about that sentiment burns down the back of Tony’s neck like scratchy fire.
“So I’ll try it. We’ll get Fury to believe it and transfer you wherever he wants, because there’s no guarantee you’ll end up with Carol, who will definitely make your life worse than it is under me, because you’ve no clue the amount of leeway I afford you.”
“Nobody makes you,” Tony says, snapping, because even if Steve is giving in to him, he’s being rude and belligerent and condescending, and Tony doesn’t deserve that. “Why are you so fucking nice to me, if all I do is ruin your life and make the team hell and constantly jeopardize everything and everyone? Huh? Nobody makes you give me any leeway. You’re more than welcome to have me written up every day. You could even set me up a little cot in Fury’s office. Hell, make it Hill’s office. We all know she’d love to see me kicked out of S.H.I.E.L.D.”
Steve doesn’t move. He doesn’t talk. He just stands there, breathing evenly and heavily through flaring nostrils, looking somewhere to the right of Tony’s head.
The cafeteria doors swing open behind Tony, letting out loud peals of laughter and the typical dining commotion. Footsteps ensure, and Steve’s vision swings over to lock eyes with whoever has exited. Tony doesn’t turn around.
“Hi, Wanda,” Steve says, too formal but not unkind. “Pietro.”
“Hello,” Wanda returns, and she sounds curious.
“What are you guys up to?” Pietro asks, but Wanda tugs him forward. Tony nods at them, the gesture returned as they carry on towards the elevators. They pass out of earshot, and then out of sight, but both Steve and Tony remain silent.
After fifteen seconds, Tony parses through all the things he wants to say before landing on something at least a little appropriate.
“You’re going to have to try harder than that, if you’re serious about agreeing to this.”
Steve sighs again, but this time it isn’t weighed down by the world.
“I know.”
Tony waits for him to continue, to elaborate, but he doesn’t.
“Are we done here, then?” Tony asks. “I’m assuming you’ll let me know exactly how you want this to play out, since you can’t stand not being in control of things for five seconds.”
“You think I’m the one here with control issues?” Steve’s brows raise just enough to irritate Tony. “I don’t think that’s a conversation you want to have.”
“I don’t want to have any conversations with you,” Tony says flippantly, because it’s the first thing to come to mind. Something indecipherable appears on Steve’s face, but then he just nods and steps back far enough to indicate the end of their talk.
“The rest of us will be training in the gym later,” Steve says brusquely. “If you’re serious about joining us later this week, I’m sure medical would love a visit from you.”
“Yeah, I’m sure they would,” Tony mutters under his breath, but Steve is out of earshot before the sentence is even finished.
There’s a nagging thought that maybe won’t be playing out as smoothly as Tony envisioned, but he ignores much easier than one might think.