Despite what common culture would suggest, if there was ever a man who was incredibly hard to flirt with, it was Tony Stark.
And it’s not like you’d expect it, especially with who Tony is. He’s brilliant at flirting, and Steve had seen it first hand, how trained fingers run across champagne glasses, how his throat sounds like his voice would taste like whiskey and warmth, how his affectations always seem to land in the center of his target’s chest.
Tony doesn’t flirt with Steve much, and okay, this isn’t like, a problem. But he doesn’t like it.
Because Tony flirts like he breathes, all easy charm and endless charisma, the kind of sweet-talk you could rot your teeth with. And he’d seen it with Bruce, the nicknames and the laughter, how easy touch came between the two of them. He’d seen it with Pepper and Sergeant Rhodes, how Pepper was “the light of my life” and Rhodes was “honeybear,” and it’s just-
Tony’s free with his affections if he thinks you won’t break it, and sometimes when he’s not even sure of that.
But with Steve, Tony’s different.
They’ve warmed up after he’s moved into the tower, after Steve had practically broken into his workshop and told him he was sorry for not being a better man, and that he could never apologize enough for misjudging him.
(Tony had looked up at him with big, brown eyes that could melt him, and in retrospect, he should’ve realized his problem had already started.)
And he’d blinked, maybe four times, and awkwardly accepted.
And there had been movie nights. And missions. And nights where he learned what shell-shock was called in the twenty-first century and that Steve wasn’t the only one who had it. Tony became his best friend, the literal meaning of the world. The person he could lean on when the gates of hell were at his door, and with their career line, it came pretty close.
And so now, here Steve Rogers is, in the twenty-first century, trying to figure out how to flirt with his best friend who he kind of lives with and who pays for all his stuff and also happens to be the most eligible bachelor on the globe.
So good luck to him.
Still, it can’t have changed too much, right? People were always the same, really.
It’s a Sunday, and Tony’s wearing a Hawkeye T-shirt (which he has no right to hate as much as he does, but like, he also has a Captain America one, so-) and he looks lovely, a little bit of white beard growing out, his hair curling at the ends because he hasn’t gotten to his hairdresser lately.
He’s sipping coffee out of an SI mug, and Steve just- he loves him, the kind of love that makes you never want to stop looking, the kind of love that keeps your gaze glued to the object of your eyes.
And if Tony looked at Steve the way he wants him to. Well. That’d be lovely.
He can do this. He’s a man with a plan.
The only real reference he’s got for good flirting is Bucky, and most of that was just swagger and good looks. And he knows he’s bigger now, but he’s still not sure he’s the kind of man Tony would look twice at.
It seems impossible, the more he thinks about it, the more he thinks about it. But he’s been asleep 70 years and lives in a tower run on endless energy. Anything could be possible.
Unlikely things happen all the time.
The first thing he tries, is the most obvious thing anyone can try. He’s being nice.
It’s while they’re running practices with the suit, and Tony- when he’s in the air, he’s brilliant, like something out of a storybook. He’d never believe him if he said that Tony had grace.
“You’re good at that,” Steve said to him, once the practice had ended. Tony had grinned, the way he always did when someone complimented the suits.
“Yeah, I hit the sweet spot with this one, it really works around air resistance-“
“No, I mean you.” Steve blurts out, and damn it he’s never been good at this, never been able to charm people and now he sounds like an idiot.
It’s just- he wanted Tony to feel how he always wished he’d felt if someone flirted with him. He wanted to tell him clearly that he liked him, that he liked what he did. It’s never really been his strength, though.
“Me?”
“Yeah, I’ve seen Rhodes in the suit and he’s obviously great, but you- It looks good. You’re good at flying it.”
“Well, yeah. I made it. ‘Course I know how to use it.” Tony laughs a little, like he wasn’t expecting to hear anything but a reprimand. “You okay, Cap?”
“Never better,” he says, even though he’s sure he sounds dejected. He’d just have to try something else.
“Wanna get lunch at that hot dog stand near 5th? I know you like to abuse the fact you have a superior immune system by eating trash.”
It forces a laugh out of him, and this is why this crush is a problem. Tony just keeps getting better, keeps doing things to make him happier and it’s impossible to get over.
He’s going to woo him. He’s got too.
Either way he’s having lunch with his favorite person. Almost a success.
The next time he tries to flirt with Tony, it’s barely intentional. He’s drawing in the workshop and Tony’s working with a torch, on something he can’t begin to imagine.
Tony’s- he’s something when he’s working, trained eyes focused on something like he could solder it with his vision alone, and it’s hard not to think of Tony as something more than a man. It’s his superpower, his mind, and watching him work is like watching the world come together.
“I love watching you work,” he slips out one day, so genuine he’d hardly realized it came out, and. Does that even count as flirting? It’s probably awful, too many cards on the table at once, and he’s gone bright red.
Tony pauses and flips up his mask, and looks at him. It’s too much, being the center of Tony’s vision, that laser focus on him, but there’s still that bit of him that says look at me, look at me, look at me.
“You do?”
“I like watching you at most times,” he blurts out, because it’s true and flirting has to be direct, right? That’s how Tony does it.
“I…think you might be the only one,” Tony says, looking down like he’s suddenly afraid of looking him in the eye, “Frankly I’m surprised you like hanging out here at all. But if you uh, wanna look, you can. I don’t mind.”
And then, Tony goes back to work, like he’d never said anything at all.
That. That was something.
It’s hard to stop smiling for the whole day.
Steve asks him for lunch, one day. It’s the kind of place Bucky’d take a girl if he was trying to woo her. (He can hear him in the back of his head sit up straight, she’d bet stupid not to like ya, be confident) and Tony’d been rather happy about it. (They served burgers, it seemed line a win.)
It’s a diner, and it’s a little kitschy with how hard it’s trying to look vintage, but he’s with Tony, and he’s got a shot. He really wants one.
Bucky had always been different than him, low voice and charm that flowed from every word
He’s a little disappointed the chairs there can’t bet pulled out, he was kind of looking forward to pulling out the chair for Tony.
But Tony’s excited, about the burgers and milkshakes and Steve’s just excited to be there.
“You like diners? God, that’s adorable, You’re adorable, Capsicle. Precious.”
Don’t blush. Don’t blush. Don’t blush.
“I’m glad you think so,” he deadpans, and Tony just smiles at him. Which is just unfair.
They talk about nothing and everything until the waitress arrives, the team, the traffic, sparring plans, whether or not eating pizza without toppings makes you a child (Steve says no, Tony agrees but hates everyone who disagrees)
“I’d like an American Cheeseburger, please,” Tony says, then shoots Steve a smirk that’s probably more attractive than he intended.”
“I’d like the same,” Steve says, and sucks in a breath, “And a strawberry milkshake, please.”
He doesn’t even like strawberry, He’d thought about this a lot, about splitting a milk-shake with Tony, about how close his mouth would be to his own, about how he would wipe a little bit of pink off of Tony’s mouth, how it’d get caught in his beard and how they’d laugh-
“Oh, I love Strawberry, I’ll have one too!”
It’s a lovely afternoon, and he has a great time because it’s time with Tony and that’s always lovely. But it is very, very hard to stop pouting when Tony drinks from his straw, the only one in his drink.
He’s just got to be clearer.
He gets bolder, after that. Telling Tony he likes his suit at galas (Sam had told him to tell him “You look like my next boyfriend,” which is ridiculous because he hadn’t even told him that he liked Tony) and tells him he enjoys his company.
Which of course is true, and it’s a relief to bed even slightly honest about something he thinks of constantly. Tony always freezes up a little and brushes it off, but it’s clear it’s doing something, because Steve’s seeing him more.
It’s a month from when he first decided to flirt with Tony that they’re sitting here, and it’s also a Sunday. They’re alone in the workshop and Steve’s laying on the couch Tony spends most of his nights on, and Tony, he’s leaning on Steve’s thigh, sitting on the floor. He’s tinkering with a fix or Dum-E’s eye-camera. It seems like the right time to say something romantic, but he can’t think of anything. He wants-
He just wants, with Tony, just drinks in his company and only wants more. It’s like a thirst that quenching only furthers. And Tony’s here, he’s leaning on him and he’s so close, and he keeps thinking about it. How unlikely things happen all the time.
“I’m single,” he blurts out.
“Kinda figured, Cap.” Tony says, rolling with it. He’s so fucking bad at this. No wonder he never got a date, no wonder no fuckin’ dame ever looked at him, what was he even thinking-
“I mean, Captain America has some pretty high standards, right?”
Right. That. Okay.
“Well, I guess, but-“
“You have your eye on someone, Cap? Because I-“
“I thought we agreed you’d call me Steve.”
Tony had been calling him Steve, but the contexts he’d been seeing Tony lately had been different. He’d seen him more in mornings and in sweatpants, more in contexts of coffee and lunch and spare time in lives where that sort of thing was an immeasurable luxury.
“Steve,” he says, like he’s forcing it, which is almost worse, “I can set you up with someone.”
“No, Tony,” and had none of this been getting through? He was certain that when he’d told Tony that facial hair was very attractive to him that he’d gotten at least a little bit.
And he’s trying to be subtle and everything, but this- this is ridiculous, he’s two seconds from just telling him-
The Avengers call goes off at that very moment. Because if there is a higher power, he hates Steve.
The mission’s tough on his body but it’s exactly what he needs, a barrage of robots from some evil crazy person. He calls himself a genus and Steve’s tempted to tell him the only genius in the room was dressed in a suit of armor.
There’s a lot of grunt work, just beating and breaking robots, and when it’s all said and dont, it’s the kind of happy ending they almost never get. No casualties.
His knuckles are bleeding and ripped, and he’s got a cut up his face and generally looks, well. Awful.
But Tony’s staring at him. He’s staring at him in the debrief and he was staring in battle and he’s staring now, when Fury’s talking and Steve’s not listening.
They get away without too much scolding, and when Steve goes to head to his room, Tony grabs him by the wrist.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” His voice is sharp, and part of Steve still hates that he loves it even now.
“My room?”
“You have to go to medical, dumbass! Have you seen your hands?”
“They’ll heal, Tony. I don’t need them cleaned.”
“They’ll clean faster if you get them cleaned-“
“It’s a waste of time-“
“Would you be saying that if it was me who needed that?”
“That’s different-“
“Will you shut up and do it if I’m the one who does it?”
For a second, Steve thinks Tony’s making fun of him, calling him out on his crush. Calling him on it, that all his convictions deflate if it means Tony will touch him.
But no. He’s offering.
So he takes.
Tony drags him by the wrist to the workshop and everything seems to move a little slower, how Tony sits him down and sits across from him. he pulls out some bandages and alcohol and cotton swabs, and says nothing. It’s the quietest he’s seem him in ages.
And it stings, the alcohol on the wounds but it’s worth it to have Tony touching him, to have the amount of care Tony gives his creations on him.
And he wants to just blurt it out, just say it, because his brain is just a track on repeat i’m in love with you, i’m in love with you, i’m in love with you
“Steve,” Tony says, voice low and intentional, and there’s that whiskey sweet tone, the man he wants to drink in like a dying man, “Why did you tell me you were single?”
There it is.
He’s asked it while holding Steve’s hand, focused on bandaging where he’s been hurt, and Steve’s chest- he’s 5 foot nothing again, smaller than he’d liked to be and heart racing and hoping, hoping the fella he wants will want him back.
“I’m sweet on you,” he says, because cowardice isn’t really his thing, and he’s played that card far too much lately, “Pretty sure it’s more than uh, keen. And I keep tryna’ get you to look my way, but I don’t think you really hear me that well.”
Tony, well. He just. Stops, doesn’t let go of his hands, but just stops. And god, he feels so small, like he’s at a goddamn show in 1945 and no one would look his way.
Tony’s smart, and kind, the kind of man anyone would adore, this whole thing is-
“You like me?"
“I’m pretty sure you could say in love, but yeah,” Steve blurts out.
And Tony’s eyes widen, warm brown saucers and pulling his hand closer, like he thought Steve was going to yank it back. That- that has to be a good sign, right? That he wants him near. Hope is such a hard thing to feel, such a hard thing to accept, but it’s welling up in him now and he just. He wants.
“Is that way you’ve, uh, been saying that sorta stuff?”
Watching realization write over Tony’s face would be really funny if it was under any other circumstance.
“Yeah, I uh- I don’t have much practice. But I’d like to be yours, if that’s something you’d like.”
Tony laughs, then, like he’s overwhelmed by it all but happy, and hope is hammering in his chest like his heart’s trying to hop out.
“If it’s something I’d like,” Tony mutters, “As if I could want anything else.”
That- dear lord. Dear lord.
“Tony-“
“Steve, I’ve been in love with you since before I met you.”
Tony’s looking at him now, and it’s nothing like he thought it’d feel back, not like how he looks at his work, or how he looks at friends. This is for him, open affection that’s got his name on it. A kind of love he’s been feeling since who knows long.
“I had your shield on my sheets and you as my hero until I was 12. I thought I kicked the habit, but loving you seems to be the kind of habit that follows you.”
“But- you didn’t know me. I was a caricature.”
“You’d think that make it easier to forget you,” don’t forget me, do not, Steve does not say, “But once I met you, found out you were this stubborn asshole who actually gives that much of a shit about everything, about the things that you love- well. Shit, Steve, how could anyone not fall in love with you?”
He does not speak. He does not say how no one looked his way, how often he thought of Tony’s affection as ridiculous even in the hypothetical, how even now he’s expecting the ground to be pulled out from under him.
“How could anyone not fall for you?” He’s on a roll with this honesty thing/
“Are you kidding? I’m a total asshole, I never shut up, I don’t sleep or eat-“
“You save the world on a daily basis-“
“So do you-“
“You’re fucking brilliant, you’ve sat up with me when I can’t sleep and you listen to me, you’re kind and you’re funny and you say good shit when you don’t shut up so don’t fuckin’ talk shit about my fella.” There’s a lot of Brooklyn and war-asshole Steve there but he’s got a point here, and he’s right.
“Your fella?” Tony’s closer now, holding both hands and amber eyes warm and close.
“You think I could take you to dinner?” He says, even though Tony’s so close he can smell the hint of mint he’d had a few minutes ago.
“Dinner?”
“Dinner.”
Tony rolls his eyes and Steve’s stomach swoops up, but before he can think about it-
Tony grabs him by the collar and kisses him. He’s-
He’s so warm, and Steve’s eyes shut and he leans in, because Tony’s brilliant at kissing, wonderful, this is the kind of kiss you never want to lean out of. He tastes like mint and he’s sure he’s not the best to kiss, both because of lack of experience and just having beaten several robots.
Tony is the one who pulls away because unfortunately he does not have enhanced lungs. It’s still a slow break, and it’s that moment he realizes he’s holding Tony by the waist. Instinctive, he supposes.
“My fella, yeah.”
“God, you’re such an old man,” Tony speaks, but he’s so close that his mouth brushes against Steve’s as he speaks.
“Careful, you’re the one who picked me,”
They kiss again and Steve’s not actually sure who started it, only that this is the best he’s ever felt, the safest haven he’s ever known.
“Steve?”
“Yeah?”
“Can the dinner be takeout and a movie at home?”
“Does that mean I can kiss you during?”
“Obviously.”
“Then obviously, yes.”
They do kiss. Several times, in fact.
(And based on results, Steve’s actually brilliant at flirting, thank you very much.)