“Someone you know?” a voice asks from behind Tony, and he jumps a little. He hadn’t expected company this early in the morning, and frankly, he hadn’t expected his ‘company’ from last night to want to stick around. He pushes the newspaper aside, trying not to glance at the small engagement announcement headlined Rogers ~ Carter with a stunning little picture to go along.
“No,” he answers, and feels his lips twist up sardonically. Because, really, he doesn’t know Steve. Didn’t. Maybe that was the point. He shakes himself out of it and turns around, raising his eyebrows at the man currently clad in a towel, golden brown hair still wet from the shower and sticking up in short spikes.
Tony was excessively drunk last night, but he seems to have done pretty well for himself. “No, really,” he says derisively, leaning back against the island, “make yourself at home.”
“I will, thanks,” the guy—Tony doesn’t remember his name—replies with a smile, taking a huge bite from a poptart that Tony didn’t know he had. He turns back around to help himself to a mug of coffee, and then plops himself down on a stool across from Tony, stealing the sports section from the paper and then handing the rest back.
He feels his chest ping painfully when he remembers that the only reason he still has the dead-tree newspaper delivered is because of Steve. It’s been months and he hasn’t had the heart to cancel his subscription.
He says something to cover his sudden grief. “You’re still here.”
The guy looks up, nonplussed, and shrugs. “Any reason I shouldn’t be?”
“No,” Tony answers shortly, watching this guy, trying to figure out if he’s missing something important. Because most of the time, his one-night stands are either fuck-and-run types, or the clingy types that get all overly romantic in the morning and expect proposals by noon. That’s usually the time he gets JARVIS to throw them out.
Tony tries to refocus his attention on the paper, but he keeps drifting back up to his companion. It’s bothering him, how nonchalant this guy is. He’s strikingly similar to Tony in that respect.
“Sorry, what’s your name?” He tries, hoping to be abrasive enough to insult the guy and get him to leave—though he’s not quite sure that’s what he wants yet, either.
“Clint Barton,” he replies with a short nod, still paying more attention to the paper than to Tony.
“Uh-huh. And why are you still here?”
Clint shrugs and looks up. “I wanted breakfast?” he tries with an easy little smirk, and Tony tells his dick to stop jumping up like an overzealous puppy. “And I liked fucking you, so I wouldn’t mind a repeat performance.”
Tony laughs and says silkily, “Oh, I like you.” Clint waggles his eyebrows up and down. “Round two?”
Without missing a beat, Clint replies “Sorry, can’t. My wife and I are going shooting.”
Tony’s eyes darken, and his fingers clench tighter around his mug. Damn it. He didn’t think he’d still have a problem with this sort of thing, but he does. After he did that to Pepper, and after Steve…
“I’ll leave my number though,” Clint tacks on as he rises from his chair, and then he stills and seems to realize the tension radiating off Tony in waves. Tony tries not to glare, but he doesn’t think he manages.
“Oh,” Clint says quickly, “Really, Stark? I didn’t think you of all people would—but whatever,” he shrugs. “Tasha—my wife—and I have an open marriage. She spent last night with that sexy papi that cleans our neighbor’s pool. So don’t get all hot and bothered about it,” he waves a hand carelessly, and then stops and shifts to face Tony again, his eyes dark and hungry. “Or if you do, at least wait until I’ve got time to spare.”
With that, he gives Tony a bright grin, leans over to scrawl his number right over Steve Rogers’ perfect-fucking-face in the paper (no doubt intentionally), and then shakes his ass as he walks out of the room. Tony blinks after him, still kind of shocked, and then looks back down at the newspaper and Clint’s phone number.
The last two digits—69—rest right over Steve Roger’s forehead, and Tony snorts. The man is so gay that even Tony’s fuck buddies can tell just by looking at his picture in the paper.
His eyes drift over to the sweet little smile gracing Peggy Carter’s lips, and Tony ignores the way his heart drops. He tears his eyes away, shoving the paper across the island violently, gulping down the rest of his scalding coffee, and stalking off to his workshop. It’s none of his damn business if Steve wants to go and reaffirm his heterosexuality by marrying his sweet-as-sugar girlfriend. Steve stopped being his damn business a long time ago.
Tony loses himself in the steady hum of machinery and the overwhelming scent of motor oil, and he doesn’t think about anything or anyone—especially not Steve.