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Scott Summers is a lot of the reasons Tony never wanted to get involved in the whole team thing. Fury talks a lot about sharing information and pooling resources but what he means is that Tony gets kept in check by a kid in red glasses with a stick so far up his own ass it's a wonder he doesn't choke on it.

Tony lands – a perfectly executed drop right onto the X-Headquarters runway – and Summers tells him he should have got clearance first. Like he needs to call into ground control and get permission to have his suit anywhere near their collection of fuck-off jets and helicopters.

Then, over the briefing table, Summers starts spouting off about discretion and low profiles, staring at Tony the whole fucking time. Tony sits backwards on the chair and says, "Some of us aren't afraid of a little attention."

"Some of us know what that kind of attention leads to."

Then there's the outfits. Matching black with the letter across their chest and nothing useful at all about them. At least Tony's suit is functional (and gorgeous, shouldn't forget gorgeous).

So yeah, all in all Tony's about ready to tell Fury not to call him again until he has some less goddamn boring hero-types. And then he sees Summers with the bike.

He begins to change his mind about the leathers. Summers has teamed the black pants with a white tank-top that barely covers his chest, liberally stained with motor oil. He has the engine of the bike in pieces on the floor and is carefully rubbing one of them down with a rag. It's hard to tell with Summers – he always looks intent – but there's a particular attitude of concentration in the tilt of his head.

Tony coughs. "Hey, Summers."

Summers looks up from his position on the floor. He smiles, and Jesus, Tony must be dreaming after all. "Hi. You know, Scott really is fine. Since we've dispensed with secret identities and all."

Tony ignores the dig. "You guys never really had those anyway."

"I'm not exactly inconspicuous," Scott agrees, tapping the red lens of his glasses. It's not as imposing as the visor, but still damn hard to read.

Tony shrugs. "I'm the wrong guy to ask about below the radar. Hey, can you help me out?"

Scott tenses for a second, like that could be code for some kind of emergency. Maybe it usually is. Then he smiles again. "Try me."

Tony came in here looking for what Scott's covered in. He holds out one of the elbow pieces from the suit. "This was grinding earlier. Can I borrow some of that?"

Scott takes the piece from him instead, quick fingers and the greying rag running over the joint. Tony doesn't let people touch the insides of the suit – he's becoming a paranoid freak but at least he's got reasons – except Scott has his lips pulled tight in concentration and it's weirdly like intimate. He's so used to those metal plates being his arm. Scott's fingers smooth over the slide of metal parts and now it's moving easily. Tony wants those hands on him. He takes.

Scott is the kind of guy who touches when he's being touched. Tony pulls him up and leans him over the top of the beautiful car. Scott mumbles something about paintwork and Tony realises that he's had the guy all wrong. Wrong enough for this, anyway. Scott's hands slide up Tony's waist when Tony's hands grip his ass. He's saying something that sounds like it could be 'a bad idea' but when Tony stops to look at him Scott just pulls him back into the kiss.

Tony gets Scott most of the way out of the motorbike leathers, and shoves his own jeans onto the floor. Scott tries to wipe his hands clean of oil but he still leaves marks all over Tony's shirt and on the skin that he can reach. He works at the edge of the Arc casing through the white cotton, like he wants to know how that works too. Tony grinds them together, kissing Scott and rubbing up against him until they're both covered in oil. Their hands slide over each other trying to reach; mutual masturbation seems such a tame word for the way Scott grips him just hard enough and leaves teeth marks above his collar. Tony spares one of his hands to steer Scott back towards his mouth. Gasping for air, tainted as it is with the smell of exhaust and grease and the tang of metal. He couldn't have planned this better if he'd written the script.

Finally Scott gasps and Tony knows – he just knows – that his eyes are closed behind the glasses. Tony breathes, "Fuck, that was good," and lets Scott slump over the car. "Want to try for another round later?"

There's an alarm going off somewhere and Tony hears his own alert systems kick into gear. "Time to get to work," Scott says. He's halfway out of the garage already, tossing Tony a spare towel to wipe himself down with. "Showers upstairs, where we keep the uniforms. Ten minutes." He's back to all the annoying 'boss of you' crap that Tony has no patience for. Still, it's hard to get quite as pissed off this time. And anyway Scott stops. "You can borrow one of my bikes, if you want. Later."