Chapter 2
Steve Rogers wakes up to the sound of someone snoring next to his ear.
It's not loud, thank god. It's soft, only a bit heavier than breathing, and Steve can't help but wonder why he didn't wake up when he's been waking up when a cat yowls in the distance, or a siren wails two blocks away.
He's been waking up at the slightest provocation ever since he went home after Afghanistan, but he's had someone snoring near his ear the entire night and somehow he's had the best sleep he's had in months.
Steve blinks, twists his head just enough so he can see the sleeping face of the guy he's pretty sure is Tony Stark, much more recognizable now than he was in the hoodie and sweatpants in the cereal aisle.
Slowly, Steve gets his phone from off the bedside table and snaps a photo. He sends it to Sam with the caption, don't freak out but is this tony stark from the tv?
He eases himself out of bed, careful to pad quietly to his clothes and then to the door as he pulls them on, and closes the door behind him with barely a creak. He only pauses for a few seconds before it to stare at the man in his bed, the sheets tugged up to his chest, his hair wrecked with bed-head.
It's a good look for Steve's bed, having someone in it who isn't Steve. He could get used to this sight, even if all Tony does after this is thank Steve for a good night and leave.
He tries not to dwell on it as he makes his way into the kitchen. Tony Stark did this all the time, apparently, before his kidnapping. Supermodels trailed from Stark Mansion morning after morning for however many years.
It had stopped, after he got back. Or at least that's what the papers have said from what Steve has flicked over. Tony Stark, he's learned, is like Kim Kardashian- it's impossible to live in New York and not know about them, even for someone who gets out as much as Steve, which is to say he hardly leaves the house.
Steve roots around in the back of his cupboard and emerges with a box that promises a fruity crunch, like the one Tony had rattled at him. He decides to leave the milk next to the bowl and spoon, because he doesn't know if Tony gets iffy about how much milk he likes to add.
His phone buzzes, and he gets it out to see it's from Sam. He grins as he reads the capslock-infested screaming as Sam asked him what happened, why did it happen, where is Stark now, also he's going to give Steve the mother of all fistbumps when he sees him.
Steve sends back: I met a cute guy in the cereal aisle. He invited me to see his Picassos in exchange for seeing my artwork. We never made it to the Picassos, he's in my bed rn. And I'm looking forward to the fistbump.
His phone buzzes less than thirty seconds after he sends it, and Sam has sent back a string of exclamation points.
"Hey," says a voice from the door, and Steve looks up to see Tony in the same sweatpants and hoodie he had been wearing last night. He's staring at the table with the cereal on it.
"I did promise," Steve says, trying to sound casual about it. What if Tony just wanted to leave, breakfast be damned? God knows how many morning-afters this man has faced.
Tony stares some more, eyebrows set in vague surprise. "You- even got the right cereal. Huh. Thanks."
"No problem," Steve says, his palms sweating like crazy as he sits down in his own chair with his toast.
Tony smiles at him as he sits down to eat his cereal, and if Steve didn't know any better, he'd say Tony was nervous. He tries not to be a creeper and watch Tony pour his milk, instead focusing on eating the toast in front of him. It goes down his throat in a hard lump.
When his phone buzzes again, Steve doesn't answer it. Sam can yell at him later about landing an ex-arms dealer.
Steve knew it'd be awkward, but it- actually isn't as bad as he expected. Then again, Steve has absolutely no idea what to do after what happened last night. He hasn't done anything like that, ever- has never picked up a stranger in the supermarket, has never had anyone affect him with the strange pull that Tony does.
I feel like I know him, Steve finds himself thinking, and even with clothes on, Steve feels naked. He had shown Tony the paintings he hasn't even showed his agent yet, the ones that make his voice catch as the memory hits him.
He guesses Tony feels kind of naked as well, though. Last night, when they had been stumbling to Steve's bed, pulling off each other's clothes, Tony had mumbled into his mouth that he hasn't done this in a while. Years, in fact. And that Steve might be freaked out a bit by his war wounds from the whole kidnapping thing.
Steve had been gentle when he shucked off Tony's hoodie, laying Tony out on the bed to kiss the scars that criss-crossed over Tony's heart.
"Jesus," Tony had said, sounding wrecked, and then he had yanked Steve back up to bite down hard on his bottom lip and suck it into his mouth.
Steve shakes the memory off, his bare feet cold on his apartment floor, looking down at his plate. Crumbs drop as he bites into his toast.
"I promised Picasso," Tony says, and Steve looks up.
"You don't- have to," he says, hating the words even as he says them- he wants to follow Tony everywhere, wants to keep Tony here and lay him out on Steve's bed again, wants to undress him slowly, the way he didn't get to last night.
Tony shrugs. "I'd like to," he says, smiling a smile that Steve has never seen on the television. "After all, you followed through on the paintings. And the cereal. It even has a fruity crunch."
"Is it good?"
"Actually it's horrible, I'm thankful I didn't get around to buying it," Tony says, and Steve barks out a laugh before can stop himself.
"Yeah, I thought so, too, that's why it was at the back of my cupboard."
"Good man," Tony says, and there's a silence as they both resume chewing.
When they're both finished, Tony puts his spoon down. "So," he says. "Picasso?"
"Lead the way," Steve says, and Tony grins.
They take a cab, and Tony apologizes about twelve times for not having cash on him.
"You're the struggling artist," he sighs. "I should be the one paying, I could have gotten a jet to fly us to my place. A jet, Steve."
"I can cope with paying the cab fare," Steve says, trying not to let on how much he likes the sound of his name in Tony's mouth. "You can get the next one."
It slips out, and Steve stiffens. He was always bad at this, always bad at holding back, always bad at expressing himself in a way that didn't make him look like an idiot-
But Tony's hand finds his, fingers interlocking hesitantly, and Steve looks over at him. Mid-morning light filters through the window of the cab, and Steve has to suck in a breath against the urge to get a pen and paper at the sight of the other man.
"I can get the next one," Tony says, voice gentle, and Steve squeezes his hand.
They stop for coffee, and the barista squints at Tony for a full ten seconds as she takes his order. Steve stands behind him, hands in his pockets, and when the barista calls out, "John Smith," he goes and gets his coffee.
"John Smith," Steve says as they exit the Starbucks, and Tony shrugs.
"It's easier," he says, and Steve doesn't doubt it.
Tony apologizes some more when they go down to the garage, and then laughs at Steve's scandalized expression.
"You can't keep original Picassos in a garage," Steve despairs, and Tony chuckles some more and kisses his forehead.
"God, you're cute when you're offended," Tony tells him, and Steve schools his face into the face of someone who is not surprised at a kiss.
Tony switches the lights on and there they are, there are three original paintings by Pablo Picasso close enough for Steve to reach out and touch. He just- absorbs for a second, takes a moment to reflect on how he never thought he'd get the chance to be in the presence of one.
"Are you going to cry," Tony asks, and Steve huffs at the genuine concern in his voice.
"I'm not going to cry," Steve says, and okay, maybe he's a little hoarse. It's the morning. Probably. The sun had looked pretty high in the sky when they got out of the cab in front of Tony's place.
"I still think yours is better," Tony says after a minute has passed, and Steve has to laugh at that, come on.
"I'm taking that with a grain of salt," Steve says, and looks over at him. "You're not an art guy."
"I'm not an art guy, but your paintings are better than," Tony waves a hand, "these Mr-Potato heads."
"It's art, Tony. It's Picasso!"
"Mr Potato heads," Tony repeats, tilting his head at the paintings and making a face. Steve can't deal with how adorable it is, so he huffs again and wraps an arm around Tony, dragging him so they're side by side.
"Appreciate the art, Tony," Steve says, and Tony's nose skims his cheek when Tony twists his head to look at him.
Steve startles at the feeling of lips on his neck, but then Tony's sucking at it and Steve can't help but arch voluntarily to give Tony more access. "Tony."
"I'm appreciating the art," Tony murmurs into his neck, and kisses it once every few words. "Just not the one you are."
"Tony," Steve says, half exasperated and half full of that all-consuming, can't-get-enough blur that had ignited between them last night. He angles his head, hoping for a proper kiss, and Tony relents and shifts up from Steve's neck to his mouth.
There's a soft, contented sigh, like, fuck, finally, and Steve doesn't know which one of them it was from, but he agrees entirely. He parts Tony's lips with his tongue, kneads at the nape of his neck with his fingers in the way Tony seemed to like last night when they were kissing like this.
"Totally better than Picasso-Potato-Head," Tony says into his mouth, breathy, and Steve thinks he should probably care enough to pull back and give Tony a stern look. Maybe later.
Steve brushes his fingers under the hem of Tony's hoodie, and just like last night, he's met with bare skin. At the touch of Steve's fingers under the hoodie, Tony gives an encouraging moan and pushes closer, his arms tightening around Steve's neck.
"God, can I paint you," Steve pants into Tony's mouth, unaware he's saying it until he's already said it, and Tony hardly even pauses.
"Do we have to stop," Tony says, and his mouth is on Steve's neck again, sucking another mark into it to go with the one from last night.
He yelps when Steve grabs his thighs and hitches him up, settling Tony's legs around his waist.
"I can do it later," Steve promises. "Where's-"
"I have literally like a hundred bedrooms, just pick the closest one up the stairs, pick up the pace, Steve," Tony says, and Steve nods and heads for the door.
After, Tony takes a refill pad and paper- "For late night equations," Tony tells him- and gives them to Steve.
Steve contents himself with sketching Tony, laid out in the guest bed, hickies on his neck, one showing over the curve of his hip as he lies on his stomach.
"Don't make the Titanic joke," Steve tells him, pencilling the line of Tony's spine. "You're better than that."
Tony smirks into the pillow. "No promises."