“You know, I never do this kind of stuff.”
Steve looked up from the bread dough he was wrestling to give Tony a look. “What do you mean?”
Tony popped a blueberry in his mouth, pouring the rest of the bag into a bowl. He shrugged. “I never do this—help people directly? I mean, I make anonymous donations to charities, but that’s business… I’ve never really been to a soup kitchen before.”
It’s true, too. Tony’s never majored in physical work outside of MIT or the Iron Man suit; it was always his mother and father who did that kind of stuff while he spent his time growing up too fast.
He was only doing it because Steve had insisted. Not even genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist Anthony Stark could turn down the ever-so persistent Captain America.
They were in the kitchen of Avengers Tower, baking whatever they could whip up to bring to soup kitchens and children’s hospitals to cheer them up.
Except there was a slight problem: Tony knew next to nothing about cooking. (Hell, he takes three hours to make a single omelet, something Pepper can vouch for.)
When Steve had inserted the bread dough into the pre-heated oven, he shook his head at the sight of the so-called “genius” having trouble with making a simple blueberry cake batter. “Tony, give me that,” he ordered, gently nudging the man out of the way. “Why don’t you go… build stuff, or something?”
Tony retorted with a short: “And leave you with all the work and twelve percent of the credit? I think not.” He elbowed the captain in the ribs, taking back the ladle. “I believe I can handle this little task, Capsicle. Don’t worry about me.”
Steve kept on a poker face, even though he was clearly trying hard to hold in a laugh. “Oh, sure; you can handle it, all right. That’s exactly why there are egg shells in the batter.” He barked a laugh when Tony’s face reddened.
“Maybe I just like my cake crunchy.” Tony tried to sound confident with his answer, but his sheepish grin proved Steve otherwise.
“I got this, Tone.” Steve shook his head smugly.
That was when Tony knew he had finally lost the battle. Sighing, he stepped back, hands up in mock defeat. He leaned against the island as Steve picked out the shells with light precision, and then continued to mix the batter. An elbow rested against the granite.
The two didn’t speak for a while. Well, at least Tony didn’t; Steve was talking at him, but it all went in one ear and out the other. Tony sincerely wished he could pay attention, though. Steve seemed really passionate about whatever he was speaking. He liked that about him.
Tony’s thoughts drifted: three months fresh out of a chunk of ice—out of his own era—and Steve ended up having to lead a group of freak strangers from the twenty-first century against some aliens and a Norse god whose brother with whom they were allied.
Add to the fact they had become acquainted with two master assassins, a whole army of SHIELD agents, and a doctor with a very acute temper problem.
Tony remembered the smile that Steve had given him after the Battle of New York. He had nearly died going through the weird portal to deliver the payload and crash landed back to earth. It was a breath of fucking fresh air, especially after the tension that had started between the two of them.
Steve was a super soldier in the most literal sense, and Tony sort of envied him for it. He proved himself to be great. What did Tony do? Build a suit of armor to try and save lives? Anyone can operate it, so what was he really? It seemed like nothing can—
A thick splatter of blob brought the genius out of his thoughts. Looking up at the man before him, he glared at the blond’s cheeky smirk. “What the hell, Rogers!”
Steve started laughing to himself. “Now that I’ve got your attention, Mr. Stark—”
“Hell no. Attention’s not all you’re getting from me, you prick,” Tony shot back. Leaning across the island, he took hold of the sink’s nozzle. Pulling it out of the socket, he started spraying Steve with water.
Thinking on his feet, Steve took cover with a stray pan, using it to shield himself. He reached over the bowl full of batter and grabbed a handful of flour from the bag. Steve back-handed the flour into Tony’s face granting him some time to fight back. (Who would have thought that Captain America and Iron Man would be messing with each other like they were kids again? Not those two, that’s for sure.)
Tony groaned as the wet flour started sticking to his beloved, though slightly faded, Black Sabbath band Tee. He dropped the nozzle, stared down at his shirt, and jutted his chin out. “You just ruined my favorite shirt.”
Steve gave a wry grin, backing away from him. “Uh, I’ll get you a new one?” He attempted to back-up through the kitchen door but cursed to himself when his back collided with the wall.
Tony stalked forward, eyes glinting with a menacing look but his smirk saying otherwise. “That’s not all that you’re gonna get me, Cap.”
As Stark stalked closer to Rogers, the taller man gulped. Piercing azure eyes grew wide in anticipation. “C’mon, Tony,” the captain pleaded, “I’m sorry—seriously!” I’m going to die because I ruined a band shirt was probably the only thing running through Steve Rogers’s head.
Tony didn’t reply to him, but his eyes narrowed. By the time he was nose-to-nose with the soldier, his thought of punishing Steve had been wiped from his brain.
Those eyes bore into him.
Without hesitation, but with a tightening feeling in his gut, Tony angled his head up, pressing his lips against Steve’s. He closed his eyes tight. Tony realized that he cared for Steve; deeply; with every fiber in his being.
And Steve knew—he’s always known. Known that Tony loved him, even if he wasn’t aware of it; known that he returned the unofficial feeling, as strange as it were.
The brunet eased away from the blond numerous heartbeats later, blood coursing through his veins like he’d just run a marathon. The shock Tony felt when Steve took a step forward, grabbed him by the nape of his neck, and pressed his lips back to his was quite unexpected. Tony wasn’t used to being accepted; it was unnerving.
Steve smiled into the kiss, pulling Tony’s bottom lip between his. When he pulled away, he pressed his forehead against the shorter man’s hairline, eyes closed.
Surprisingly, it was Tony that broke the heated silence. “…Steve?”
A fond smile flirted with the edges of Rogers’s lips at the sound of his name. “You have no idea how much I have been waiting for you to do that.” He finally opened his eyes. Tony noted Steve’s dilated pupils.
The super-soldier’s hand reached up to wipe the flour that covered the man’s cheek. “Now, Mr. Stark…” He tilted Tony’s chin up, millimeters away from touching is warm lips again. “Where were we?”
“On our way to my bed, I’m hoping.” Tony’s signature smirk flashed across his lips.
Steve kissed Tony’s throat, chuckling to himself. Against tanned skin, he muttered, “Smart and psychic? Hmm.”