Work Text:
Out of all the people Tony had traveled with, Steve Rogers was the most mysterious, and the most intriguing. Just a few days with him in the field had made it clear why General Fury had paired him up with Tony. His seemingly fragile frame held so much fire and fight in it that it put most larger men to shame, and he was smart enough to easily follow Tony's often convoluted trains of thought all the way to the terminal.
Officially, Steve was a war correspondent—a war-time equivalent to Tony's chronicles for Marvels, translating his missions into rousing stories for the home front in words and pictures. But many of their missions were too important and too clandestine to be shared with the public, and unofficially, Steve reported directly to Fury, acting as his eyes and ears behind the enemy lines.
It was the most dangerous work there was, and Steve's courage never faltered.
Tony had tried his best to ignore his growing feelings towards Steve, because he knew those would complicate everything. He enjoyed working with Steve, and the last thing he wanted was to make things awkward. He certainly hadn't expected Steve to share those feelings. Meeting a man who shared Tony’s preferences happened once in a blue moon; for Steve to be one was inconceivable.
He had thought he would be forever pining in secret, but in this quiet, hazy morning, he'd woken up with a spark of hope glimmering inside his damaged heart.
Working together and traveling in secret, Steve and Tony regularly shared a tent. It was a question of convenience, nothing more—except that last night had been different. It had felt meaningful. It had felt like the first promise of something more.
Steve was a restless sleeper, that much had become clear on the first nights they'd spent next to each other in their canvas shelter. He was slow to fall asleep, always shifting around, and he slept fitfully, making Tony suspect nightmares. It was another part of the mystery that was Steve; he'd never mentioned what was on his mind, not even when Tony tried to ask him directly, but it was obvious there were ghosts in his past. Not that Tony hadn't guessed he had a background more complicated than that of simply studying art, like he officially claimed. He showed definite talent with his sketches, but that certainly didn't explain why General Fury had recruited him.
Last night, Tony had been roused from his usual light slumber by Steve's restless movements, and to his confusion, when he'd whispered to ask what was wrong, Steve had mumbled something about wanting to sketch Tony, his voice broken by some distress and despair that Tony couldn't understand. Taking a leap of faith, Tony had invited Steve to hug him instead, and Steve had accepted that offer. He had allowed Tony to wrap his arms around his thin body, trembling as if with cold even though the night was warm, and Tony had held him close like he had wanted on so many other nights.
Steve had cuddled close to him and finally settled down, his breathing easing out, the shivers dying down, and it had given Tony such joy to think that maybe he had been able to keep at bay whatever demons haunted Steve's nights. They had fit together so well, Steve's slim body pressed against Tony's, filling a hollow within him that he'd thought would always remain empty.
In the mornings, Steve usually woke up before Tony, and it was rare for Tony to have a moment to observe him in his sleep. Today, though, he surfaced from pleasant dreams to the equally pleasant warmth of a body against his and—not too surprisingly—the exciting hardness of Steve's length pressed against his leg, very close to his own bit of stiff. These things happened, in the morning, especially in such close quarters. Tony knew it was nothing but a physical reaction, and didn't think anything of it, as much as he would've liked to imagine that Steve's body was reacting to him specifically.
Ignoring the morning wood, Tony propped himself on his elbow, admiring Steve's features in the dim light filtering through the tent canvas. Relaxed in sleep, all lines smoothed out, Steve looked barely older than a teenager, even though he wasn't even a decade younger than Tony. Many people might not appreciate his delicate looks, but to Tony, he was truly beautiful.
This was an unusual morning in many ways. They were in no hurry, camping safely on friendly territory, only a short day's march away from where they were set to rendezvous with an operative Fury had sent. Tony allowed himself the luxury of lingering where he was a little longer, brushing aside the fine strands of golden hair on Steve's forehead, and that was how Steve finally came around, blinking open his clear blue eyes, giving Tony a sleepy smile that warmed him through and through.
"Morning, Steve—" Tony said softly, fondly.
But then, all of a sudden, the smile froze on Steve's lips, everything about him closing up, his expression growing dark, like storm clouds shrouding the sun.
"—wait, what just happened? What's wrong?"
Tony pulled away his hand, sudden shock and confusion clawing at his chest like some glitch in the repulsor pump. Everything had been perfect, but somehow, he had ruined it, and for the life of him, he didn't know what it was that he'd done.
Steve shrank away, one arm covering his face. Steve, who was never afraid of anything, looking as if he'd rather be anywhere else in the world. Tony gave him the space he seemed to need, shifting as far as he could in the small space, keeping his hands to himself.
"Steve?" Tony tried again. In his own ears, there was a hesitant, plaintive note in his voice, one that didn't sound at all like him, usually so full of charm and confidence.
Steve's reply was equally uncertain, a jumble of nervous words. "Sorry, I, uh, morning… thing… Didn't mean to… uh. Sorry."
Could it be as simple as that? For all Tony's worries that something was irreparably wrong, was this only the awkwardness of that unbidden hard-on?
"Oh, hey, that." Tony let out a little chuckle and made a shrug, hoping it seemed less strained than he felt. "Don't even worry yourself. It's normal. Doesn't mean a thing." Better not mention that his own broom-handle had been just as prominent as Steve's when he’d woken up.
Steve moved his arm aside to give Tony a thoughtful look, and for a beat, Tony thought that he had salvaged the moment, but that was premature. Steve let out a sigh and shook his head, refusing to meet his eyes.
There was no more spark of hope inside Tony's chest, just cold, dead metal. He should've chosen his words better, and now it was too late.
"Honestly, it's no big deal, but I'll just… I'll go get started on breakfast," Tony said, with a nod towards the tent flap, which Steve probably didn't even see.
Tony pulled on his jacked and got out. Although they were not in a hurry today, that was no excuse to tarry. They'd better get started with the day. Whatever had or had not happened between the two of them, last night or this morning, that couldn't interfere with their work. That was the thing that Tony had always worried about the most: that if he allowed himself to become too involved with Steve emotionally, he'd struggle to keep doing missions that put both of them in harm's way.
After relieving himself, Tony made his way to the nearby stream to wash his face and hands. The icy water woke him up further and rinsed away any lingering foolish hope and yearning. Steve had no feelings for him, and never would. Not if the mere idea of closeness with another man, the thought of that three-piece set of his pressed against Tony, had left Steve so disgusted. That Tony would even entertain daydreams of getting his hands on it was distasteful, perverted. He shouldn't think of Steve like that.
Steve was still nowhere in sight when Tony returned to the campsite, and he didn't mind having that additional time to try and clear his head. He had the fire going again and water boiling for their brew when Steve exited the tent, then disappeared into the woods right away for his wash-up and other morning routines.
Tony found himself holding his breath when Steve got back, unsure of where they would go from here. Had the amicable relationship they'd had so far been irrevocably shattered by embarrassment and misunderstandings? Would their days from now on be full of forced normalcy, their nights spent with an even larger rift between them, with the fear of accidentally ending up too close again?
Steve sat down next to Tony, folding his arms on his lap, his eyes on the fire. His words, when he spoke up, were muted. "I'm sorry."
"It's fine, Steve," Tony assured him, keeping it as neutral as he could past the lump in his throat. "Like I said, it didn't mean a thing. Happens to all of us. Let's just forget about it, eh?"
Steve turned to look at him. The flames reflected from his eyes, but there was something fierce in them beyond that. "What if it did, though?" he asked, his voice still subdued, and yet, there was a strength to it, the same unmovable resolve that he would use to challenge any general, no matter how decorated. "And last night? What if that meant something to me?"
And just like that, the fire had been rekindled in Tony's chest, the hope flaring white-hot again in spite of all his self-reproach mere moments ago. "If it did," he said very slowly, very carefully, so terribly afraid to get this wrong. "If it did, then I would like to know. Because it may have meant something to me, as well."
A little sigh escaped Steve's lips, a tension leaving his shoulders, and he leaned closer to Tony. His hand found its way to Tony's knee, a feather-light touch, ready to be withdrawn at the slightest hint. Tony placed his own hand on top of it to capture it in place. As chaste as it was, it felt much more intimate than that inopportune, accidental encounter of private parts in the tent.
"You know that soldiers can get into a lot of trouble for such things," Steve said, the gravity of his expression at odds with the all-encompassing joy that had taken hold of Tony.
"Then it's a good thing you're not one." Tony grasped Steve's hand between both of his, and brought it to his lips, pressing a kiss on Steve's fingertips.