I Knew You Were Trouble
“And Stark’s convinced I’m some shrinking violet, clutching my pearls every time anyone swears or makes a dirty joke or-”
Steve trails off, distracted by Bucky’s complete lack of interest. He’s been catching up on media he missed while, well, cryogenically frozen and brainwashed by Nazis, and recently traversed from dystopian novels with tidings of horrific authoritarian futures to 90’s and early 2000’s teen romcoms.
“Buck?”
“You’d look real swell in pearls, Stevie,” Bucky says noncommittally.
Steve grabs the remote and flicks off the television. “Brooke is innocent, Chutney killed her father while aiming for her, and Elle wins the case by proving anyone with a perm couldn’t have been showering as their curls would deactivate, then she graduates as valedictorian, and ends up engaged to Emmet.”
“I don’t know how Stark can think you’re a boy scout when you’re so clearly the Devil.” Bucky spits, and then, “Really? Emmet? Not Vivian?.”
"Yes, her heterosexuality is is both shocking and appalling. Now, focus.”
“I know a lesbian when I see one, Steven.”
Debating the sexuality of television characters with Bucky is a fruitless endeavor, he’ll never cave and give up on in-depth investigating the inherent homoerotism of cinema. “Tony Stark personally invited me to one of his parties.”
Ever adept at sensing when Steve’s about to do something either reckless, stupid, or most likely both, Bucky’s attention is peaked, “The son of that guy who was obsessed with finding you? Hoe something? Coward? The son who definitely knows you’re Captain America and is passively-aggressively expressing it through sarcastic quips and obnoxious nicknames?”
“Howard, and yes, but not about Tony Stark. He knows nothing about Captain America.”
“Right,” Bucky says, “Sounds not at all sketchy.”
Steve cards a hand through his hair. “Normally I wouldn’t even give it a second thought, but Agent Coulson put me in a group with other students today. Including Tony. He wants me to make friends. Maybe this is an olive branch, or at least not a flaming arrow.”
You’re still a kid, Cap, Coulson said that first night in the Helicarrier, try to enjoy it.
“Or, Stark’s planning to corner you. Or worse, seduce you.”
Steve raises an eyebrow, “I doubt there will be blackmail or seduction.”
“Oh don’t make the “Steve Rogers eyebrow of disappointment” face at me, I’m being realistic. Daddy issues are a strong motivator.”
Steve almost brushes him off, so accustomed to treading around arguments and emotions, but oh, he belatedly realizes, Bucky’s concerned about him. Behind the facade of cynicism, Bucky’s fucking worried about him. He shouldn’t have to, Steve isn’t that ninety-pound kid who needs to be pulled from every fistfight in Brooklyn, but Bucky’s still joking in that half-amused half-worried way of his Steve remembers so vividly from every time he patched him up afterward.
If anything, Steve should worry over Bucky. And he does, constantly, but this- overprotectiveness of Bucky’s, it’s as old and familiar as earth. God is it nice.
Bucky’s tone is even, but his flesh hand flexes into a fist. “I’ll go with you then. We can have incredibly loud, mind-blowing sex in Stark’s coat closet and prove to him just how innocent you aren’t. Rich people have the softest coats.”
“You shouldn’t be seen in public,” he says, more as a reflex than anything, and then after a beat, “I’ll be careful.”
In a swirl of blue, some emotion flip-flops in Bucky’s eye. “Gee, I do wish someone had warned me that this “internationally wanted fugitive” thing would come back to haunt me.”
Steve wants to wax reassuring, to deliver something sweet and lightly poetic and- “You’re always a wanted fugitive in my heart, Buck.”
“Oh God,” Bucky says, but he’s laughing, expression twisting from rueful to shoulders shaking amusement, “that’s so terrible even for you.”
Maybe it’s the familiarity of Bucky’s protectiveness, or of the laughter at Steve’s awful lines, but for the briefest eclipse of a moment, Bucky and Steve are in a different Brooklyn apartment. A tiny, cramped thing down by the docks with only one bedroom, and, if for an entirely different reason, only one bed. He can nearly smell the familiar damp, salt-tinged air, spot the clutter of tasteless knick-knacks and framed photos decorating every flat surface, and feel the bare flooring licking at his feet like frost. And Bucky, who’s not quite his present Bucky but will always be his, is flashing the most radiant smile Steve’s ever seen as he leans back against their couch, face tilted skywards with mirth.
Bucky’s laughter is still ringing in his ears, and Steve’s fingers itch for his charcoal and sketch pad, and yeah, maybe this time everything is going to be perfectly fine.
“You better be careful, I’ve been dragging your ass out of the fire for a century now,” Bucky says, pressing a tender kiss to his mouth, “so don’t do anything fucking stupid now, punk.”
The I just got you back goes unsaid, but Steve can feel it in his very bones regardless.
Steve, with all the same softness and infinitely more ferocity, kisses back. “How can I? You have all the stupid here with you.”
*
Steve’s memories aren’t perfect. Between the experiments and the war and the grief and the decades under the ice, some things blur, and Steve looks back upon his childhood days through a sepia-toned lense of melancholy longing, glorifying even the littlest of things. Still, Steve doesn’t remember music being this fucking bad.
Classifying the sounds currently shaking the walls as music might be generous, excessively loud noise is a better term. The only thing worse is the dancing. One person is waving in their arms in a wild display similar to drowning, while another couple practically dry humps each other in the corner. Or, on second thought, they might actually just be having sex on the dance floor. It’s difficult to differentiate.
Steve slides past the throng of “jamming” teenagers, intent on locating the others from Coulson’s group. He doesn’t have to search long, for a very drunk Clint Barton is standing atop Stark’s kitchen counter, yelling at Wade Wilson, who’s on the kitchen island, about something Steve doesn’t understand.
“Fuck you,” Clint bellows, “Fergalicious is the best song ever created and that’s final.”
“Eat a bag of dicks, Clinton” Wade shouts back, “music peaked with the Hot Wings song from Rio.”
Steve makes a move to separate them when Wade whips out an entire katana seemingly from nowhere, before spotting Natasha - no, it’s Natalie now - lurking nearby in the shadows. She’ll handle the citation, or at least won’t let Clint be fatally stabbed.
Moving on, Steve spots Bruce across the way, huddled against a wall and looking wholly disgruntled by his own presence at this party. Thor, who is for some inexplicable reason dressed as a cheerleader, is beside him, face animated and gesturing wildly as he recounts what must be an epic tale. Steve almost approaches them, willing to let Thor’s infectious enthusiasm for most everything infect him, or maybe just to commiserate with Bruce, but the look on Bruce’s face stops him short. Bruce still wears an expression of annoyance, but when he looks at Thor, it’s a fond sort of look. Indulgence bordering on comfortable.
Steve knows that look well. He’ll let whatever those feelings are to unfurl on their own.
Which leaves only- Oh no.
“Why hello there, Steven, what brings you to my humble abode?”
There’s just something about Tony Stark that makes Steve want to set himself on fire and jump out a window, but the manners his mother so thoroughly instilled demand otherwise. “Hello, Tony.”
Tony grins like the Cheshire cat, “I’m ever so glad you could make it.”
“I’ve certainly made it, yes.”
Thankfully, Tony is quickly distracted, as he jabs a thumb towards Clint and Wade, who are now wrestling on the floor. “Can you believe them? Everyone knows Toxic by Britney Spears is the single greatest composition in music history. It’s a lyrical masterpiece.”
Steve does not understand the reference. “Are you drunk?”
“Not more than usual, no.” Tony shrugs, unbothered, “Speaking of, I could use a drink, have one with me.”
Steve opens his mouth to refuse, beyond hesitant to have a drink with Tony Stark of all people, but can practically hear Agent Coulson whispering in his mind, encouraging him to go with the crowd and have idiotic teenage fun. While the company isn’t his first choice, it’s not as though Steve can actually get drunk, and what’s more teenage and idiotic than being peer pressured into underage drinking?
“I’ll be on my best behavior. Scout’s honor.”
“Fine. One drink.”
Tony slings an arm around his shoulder. “Relax. You could stand to be less “weight on the world of your shoulders”. It’s not like your Captain America or something.”
*
Tony Stark totally fucking knows Steve Rogers is Captain American.
Was, is, whatever, he’s the guy who parades around in the star-spangled suit which puts spandex to shame in terms of tightness and face-punches Nazis. Tony would have to be blind, deaf, and dumb as shit to not figure out that the shadowy government organization his father is constantly disappearing to work with is in some way linked with his father’s all-consuming obsession with Captain America. Originally, Tony had just assumed the SHIELD meetings were Illuminati meetings, but he’d quickly learned those were entirely separate organizations, Howard simply happened to belong to both.
However, Tony really hadn’t seen the whole Rogers being a teenager bit coming. And he really hadn’t expected him to just appear at his high school one day. And now they were in the same shitty team-building group. Fan fucking tastic.
Well, okay, when your best friend has the occasional tendency to turn into a giant green rage monster and smash most of Harlem, and you yourself like to dawn a gold-titanium alloy suit and laser shit after a teeny tiny kidnapping scare in Afghanistan, the reappearance of Captain America in your English class isn’t all that bizarre, but it’s still pretty fucking odd.
(“After Howard got all fucked by his father neglecting him to obsess over Captain America, you’d think he’d have learned not to do the same thing to me, but nooooooo.” He’d once, while particularly drunk, told a shrub he’d mistaken for Bruce in between throwing up in Jake Gyllenhaal’s bushes. “At least the trauma makes me fucking hilarious.”)
But as you can clearly see, Tony has in no way projected his issues onto Captain America.
And, getting plastered while the Captain stood beside him, looking increasingly worried as Tony downed shot after shot, was in no way influential to Tony's next decision.
“Steve, Steven, Stevie,” He slurred, pressing both hands against Roger’s cheeks. “Wanna see something really cool?”
Rogers said something then, but as it wasn’t an enthusiastic “yes, Tony, please astound me with your superior genius” he elected to ignore him and press on.
“Jarvis, suit me. And play the song”
“Sir, that seems like a terrible-”
“Override protocols.”
Oddly enough, the party-goers seemed shocked by a disembodied voice formally addressing him. A hush fell over his guests as the room turned to face Tony. Demanding the attention of a crowd, putting on a spectacle, that was familiar, that Tony thrived on.
With the familiar heavy bass intro of Black Sabbath thrumming in his ears, Tony was home.
“I am Iron Man.”
*
So Tony Stark was Iron Man. Wack.
“He’s an orphan genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist by day, and a crime-fighting superhero who uses tech and gadgets by night. Like Batman” Clint hiccuped.
“Stark isn’t an orphan?” Natasha said, trying to maneuver Clint’s flailing body into the passenger seat of their car.
“Oh yeah, I forget that’s not until he’s in college.”
“Right then,” her mouth quirked, “I suppose you’ve found the Batman to your Robin.”
“I don’t want to sleep with Tony Stark,” Clint was nearly whining, sounding genuinely despondent, “or have him as my father figure.”
“Too bad those are your only possible options.”
Clint let out another disappointed moan as she finally buckled his seat belt, his body slumped against the car door. She slid around to the passenger seat, trying to ignore the way Clint’s gaze lingered on her. Even drunk and barely coherent, he knew how Tony’s secret identity boded for them. While Coulson was reticent to reveal the extent of Steve’s abilities, Natasha knew of his superhuman strength and agility, and above all, his importance to SHIELD.
Behind murder, espionage, and ballet, Natasha would call gambling her greatest ability. And Natasha was willing to bet it all that Thor and Bruce serve a purpose as well.
God fucking damnit, Coulson had gathered six people with special abilities into one space. He really did want to make them a team.
Clint blinked at her. “Do we have to go to Budapest now? Because I fucking hate Budapest.”
Her early years had been spent learning to clamp down on fear, to both ignore and have complete faith in her instincts. Her training says to infiltrate, to seduce and manipulate by any means necessary take out the threat and find out what she needs to know. Her instincts say to run, she knows how things like this end, bloody and explosive every time over. Black Widow would stay for all the wrong reasons, Natalia would stay for the right one. Natasha she should-
There’s no perfect line between black and white, not decisive right and wrong. Natasha is her own person now, and she can do whatever the fuck she wants.
“The opposite.”
Clint’s glossy eyes are shining now. “New Zealand?”
“No. We stay, and we figure out what the hell SHIELD wants with all of us.”