Sometimes it goes like this:
Steve strode into the hotel room, already undoing his SHIELD uniform before the door even shut behind him. The room was empty, but he could never know when Tony would be there, if he was already there. What kind of tech Tony and his Illuminati had these-
No. that wasn't for here. That wasn't what they did in this room.
Steve's holsters fell the ground with a thud. He left them there. No need to be neat and tidy in a room they'd just mess up and leave. No need to put things away when the room wasn't yours. Steve shrugged out of his shoulder-holsters next, then started unzipping the uniform.
That's when the flash went, in the other room of the suite. Steve waited long enough to untie his boots and kick them off before heading for the room. He dropped his uniform as he went, old bones feeling like they were creaking every step of the way.
If it had been any other lover, Steve might have felt some measure of foolishness or embarrassment over his form. Still strong, still good enough, even after it all. But wrinkled, weaker—so much weaker than before—old. But this was Tony. Either because of their long familiarity or because Steve's emotions concerning the man were so far drained from everything else, Steve felt no twinge of shame as he dropped his uniform in the doorway, striding naked in the room.
Tony was in his new armor, though it was clicking away from him piece by piece, almost half his underarmor exposed already. Steve hadn't seen him in this armor yet in public. Hadn't seen anything of Tony yet in public. For all Steve knew, Tony was camped out off-planet, off-dimension, and only beamed in for these... meetings.
Steve could have catalogued this new armor in his head, memorized schematics, relayed it back to someone who knew more than him about such things. But that would be against the rules.
“Get on the bed,” Steve told Tony, hardly sparing another glance for him.
Tony checked him, just for a second, then nodded.
“I could ride you-” he started, cautious. Steve growled and shoved Tony's shoulder forward, pushing him to the bed.
“Don't treat me like my bones are glass. I'm not that bad, yet. I can still fuck you.”
“Didn't say you couldn't,” Tony mumbled. But he got on the bed, shedding the underarmor as he went.
There was lube and condoms waiting for Steve on the nightstand. He took them and wasted no time preparing Tony. When he was done he crawled his rickety bones onto the too-soft mattress. His gnarled old hands curled around Tony's still youthful, still smooth skin as he held him by his hips. Steve blinked tears from his eyes, not willing to examine the source of the sudden wave of sentimentality. He pushed into Tony and fucked him hard, holding him down as best he could with weakened arms.
His thighs were shaking when he was done, falling down to the mattress alongside Tony. Tony himself was still panting, body trembling with the aftershocks of his orgasm. He grinned and opened one brilliant blue eye to look at Steve. “You still got it, you old asshole.”
“You're the asshole,” Steve reminded him. With a shaking hand he slapped Tony on the thigh, then pushed himself up.
“I'm done here,” Steve told Tony, not looking over his shoulder. He headed for the shower. Couldn't stand to smell Tony on him after he left this place. Felt too much like old-fashioned Catholic guilt, following him around in his chest. As the shower switched on there was a flash in the room behind him. Tony never showered. Steve didn't think about what that meant.
It was rough, and it was unkind, but it was what they both wanted. Needed.
Sometimes it goes like this:
Tony laughed as he pushed Steve onto the bed, Chinese take-out firmly in hand.
“No, you're getting your ass on the bed and waiting until I've wolfed this down before we start. Aren't old people supposed to be patient?”
“I've been waiting seventy years-” Steve started. But he let himself be sat down on the bed as Tony cut him off.
“Yeah yeah, heard that one only a thousand-billion times in the past twelve years.” Tony shoveled another pile of noodles into his mouth with chopsticks as he joined Steve on the bed. Their thighs brushed and Steve didn't move away. “Sorry, haven't had a chance for Chinese food in... you know. And I was craving it, maybe as much as I was craving that sweet wrinkly ass of yours.”
“One of these days, mister...” Steve sighed. Now wasn't the time for asking where Tony was that he couldn't get Chinese. Or for acknowledging exactly how long it had been since Tony must have had Chinese. No, now was the time that Steve laid back against the bed and watched Tony wolf down his food as his eyes scanned whatever dumb thing was on TV: just some talking heads on MSNBC, nothing especially noteworthy. Tony probably missed that, too: running a business, being an executive out in the world. Now wasn't the time to think on all the things Tony probably missed.
When Tony was done he kissed Steve with a soy-sauce tongue and bits of noodles stuck in his goatee. He laughed as Steve grumbled complaints into his mouth, ignoring them as he pushed Steve onto the bed. He rolled Steve over onto his stomach, strong hands and quick fingers tugging Steve until his penis swelled with arousal. Steve grunted as Tony slid between his thighs, hands groping at Steve's wrinkly (not that wrinkled, surely) ass, just as promised. Tony whispered endearments in the shell of Steve's ear and laughed challenges into his neck. Steve moved his body back against Tony as best he could, but for once he was outmatched by Tony's strength, by the power in his thighs, by the firmness of his biceps wrapped around Steve's chest and waist. Steve groaned and spilled his release across the sheets, body trembling apart. Tony held him through his weakness until he followed suit a few moments later.
Tony left that time before Steve, pecking him on the temple before the flash. Steve couldn't pull away from it, didn't want to. He turned and kissed Tony back, just a the corner of his mouth. Tony pulled back just long enough to wink at him before the light consumed him. Steve headed for the shower.
Sometimes, less often, it goes like this:
Steve sunk down to the bed, face in his hands, tears falling out from behind shaking, arthritic fingers. God how he hated himself. How he hated the guilt. How he felt most nights like it would rip him apart, even as he was doing the right thing. The right thing had never felt so wrong.
Tony came in a flash of light, like a twisted angel, like Steve's very own fallen Morning Star: beautiful and tempting in the darkness of the night. Tony crawled onto the bed with him, wrapping Steve up in his arms. He'd never felt like this, never had Tony bigger than him for this long, Tony stronger than him for weeks and months on end. Tony held him close and Steve cried against his chest. His hair was wet from where Tony spilt the same tears.
They pressed against each other in the darkness that night, lights off, eyes closed. Steve's arm wrapped around Tony, and Tony's hand wrapped around them both, stroking them hard and sweet with his strong hands. They felt more calloused, lately, but Steve didn't think about it. Kept himself from making any guesses.
Steve fell apart in Tony's hand and Tony followed him. They breathed each other's air for a long time. Steve even drifted for a while, sleep stroking at the edges of his mind, warm and safe as he was in Tony's embrace. The bed dipped, and there was a tickle across Steve's arm, the fluttering of the faintest fingertips. Then a flash of light, and Steve was alone again. Naturally.
Sometimes it goes like this:
Steve shook his head and whispered against Tony's mouth: “No, no, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I didn't help more, couldn't find a way-”
“-I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry-”
Steve awoke with a gasp, alone in his bed. His hand clutched at the empty space alongside him.
No, wait. It never goes like that.