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cricket-reader · 20 days ago

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Guilty As Sin

summary: Every smile he gives Tony is an attentively constructed lie. Every touch is a carefully measured distance from temptation. Every glance lingers just a second too long, but never long enough to be noticed. Steve knows he's sick; he's just not sure how to fix himself.

warnings: internalised homophobia, misunderstandings, canon-typical violence, self-hatred

word count: 5,239

A/N: prompt fill for day 12 of @juneofdoom | "It's no use" | Carry

{Read on A03}

Steve Rogers is a good man.

He is a soldier formed by his experiences as a child in the early twentieth century.

The descendant of Irish immigrants—a soldier of the Great War, dead before his son’s birth, and a widowed, working mother.

The sickly boy with a list of health problems so long no one believed he’d live to see adulthood.

The little boy dragged to church every Sunday in his best clothes—the ones without the patches and tears.

He’s been taught right from wrong his entire life. Right is standing up for those who can’t stand up for themselves, holding the door open for a dame, going to church on Sunday. Wrong is abusing your power, turning your back on those in need, wanting something you shouldn’t.

Wrong is the burning, aching feeling that sets deep in his ribs every time Tony Stark walks into a room.

It’s disgusting.

He’s disgusting.

His hands shake when he unbuttons the uniform after their latest mission, the fabric rough against his calloused fingers. He may be healthy now, but no serum can cleanse the sickness in his soul.

He scrubs his palms raw in the sink after shaking Tony’s hand, though it does nothing to rid him of the memory—Tony’s fingers, warm and rough, lingering just a little too long.

He sits in the scalding water trying to cleanse himself after a night of drinking with Tony—rapidly turning the knob in the opposite direction when memories flood, unbidden, of Tony’s arm wrapped around him, of his breath against his neck as he whispers a joke at Clint’s expense.

He avoids looking at his reflection. He can’t stand to see the filth in his own eyes.

It’s the worst at night.

When the tower is quiet, when the others are asleep and there’s nothing to distract him—nothing to keep his thoughts from twisting into something dark and unholy.

Tony’s laugh echoes in his mind, images of his lovely smile and gorgeous brown eyes haunt his visions. Memories of strong arms working in the lab, endless chatter as Tony explains the process to Steve—he wonders what Tony would say to him if he knew that Steve didn’t understand a word he was saying, wonders what Tony would think if he knew that the only reason he came down to the lab was to hear his voice and to watch his brilliant mind at work.

Tony would look at him with a disgust so palpable, Steve would end up choking. He’d tell him to stay away, to keep his perversion and filth to himself.

That’s what Steve would do, at least.

Every smile he gives Tony is an attentively constructed lie. Every touch is a carefully measured distance from temptation. Every glance lingers just a second too long, but never long enough to be noticed.

He lets himself dream sometimes, he lets himself dream up a version of himself that is as good as the comics, history books, and news articles make him out to be—where he isn’t sick, where he isn’t wrong. But reality always comes crashing back down on him, and with it, the weight of his shame.

—

“Hey, Cap, you alright?”

Tony’s voice snaps him back to reality. They’re in the kitchen, morning sunlight filters in through the large windows, casting a golden light over Tony’s bare arms, his collarbone peeking out from the loose neckline of his grease-stained shirt.

Steve swallows thickly, eyes darting to remain steadfastly fixed on his morning coffee. “Fine.”

He feels himself suffocating at the gaze he feels burning a hole through his side. “You look like you saw a ghost or something.”

Worse, Steve thinks. He saw temptation.

He forces a tight smile and excuses himself before his filth can spread.

Tony watches him go, brows furrowed like he’s trying to solve a puzzle that Steve can only pray he never finds out.

Steve presses a hand to his chest, where his heart beats rampantly, traitorously whispering the one truth he refuses to accept.

He loves Tony.

And that is his greatest sin.

—

Steve’s hands tremble as he wraps them in cotton.

Training. Training will help.

The gym is empty this early in the morning—Steve can’t help but feel immense relief at that.

He throws himself into routine, his fists slamming into the punching bag with a punishing force.

Again. Again. Again.

Maybe if he hits hard enough, he can pay for his thoughts—if he leaves with bruised and bloody knuckles, he can repent. If he punishes himself enough, maybe it’ll be enough to burn it all away.

The thoughts. The longing. The sickness.

He’s drenched in sweat, arms aching and bandages red, when the sound of the door creaking open makes him stiffen.

“Jesus, Cap. What did that punching bag ever do to you?”

Tony.

Steve doesn’t turn around. He can’t.

“Needed to clear my head,” he grits out, his breathing heavy.

“Right,” Tony drawls out. “And you decided pulverising my gym equipment was the way to do it?”

Steve only feels slightly remorseful as he looks at the reinforced punching bag, blood smeared over it as sand seeps out of the seams.

“Something eating at you?” Tony’s voice is closer now. Steve can’t bring himself to look up from the bloody punching bag.

Yes.

The devil himself has his claws in Steve’s chest, ripping him apart and filling him with filth and darkness. He swallows past the brick lodged in his throat and shakes his head. “I’m fine.”

Tony makes a sceptical noise as he twists the heavy bag so that he can examine the damage. “The punching bag would say otherwise.” Tony raises a brow at him expectantly. Steve doesn’t respond. “I really thought I’d gotten it this time,” he adds as an afterthought, sighing at the bag he spent hours trying to perfect to withstand the strength of a supersoldier.

There’s a pause after that. Steve can feel Tony’s eyes on him, but his gaze remains fixed on the bag.

And then—Tony touches him.

A hand, light and fleeting, brushes against his shoulder. Completely friendly, completely normal—nothing to make a fuss over.

But Steve flinches.

Tony snatches his hand back, eyebrows furrowing as he scrutinises the man before him. Steve wants nothing more than to melt past the mats and past the concrete, preferably into the earth where he can stay.

Tony clears his throat, loud and abrupt. “Right… Well, I should probably go. Didn’t mean to disturb… whatever this is.” Tony waves a hand at the mess before him before scurrying back out the door.

It’s only when the door swings shut that Steve finally breathes.

He presses a hand against the punching bag, head bowed and stomach churning.

Steve Rogers, the strongest man in the world, had flinched.

Like Tony’s touch had burned him.

In a way, it had.

Because for one terrible second, Steve had wanted to lean into that warmth.

He had wanted more.

And wanting is a sin.

—

The morning after the gym incident, he finds a card for a therapist attached to—what Tony refers to as a new and improved set of punching bags (I swear to god, Rogers, you better make these ones last—my ego will be seriously hurt if you manage to rip these apart like they’re made of tissue paper).

He throws the offending paper away without a second glance, shame curling around his heart.

He avoids Tony the rest of the day—plans to avoid him for as long as he can get away with it.

It’s easier this way.

Easier to sit at the other end of the table during meetings, easier to stick to his own kitchen to make coffee, even if the stuff in the communal kitchen is worlds better than the cheap stuff he bought ages ago. It makes it easier to forget the way Tony’s touch feels, makes it easier to forget the way he sounds when he laughs—one of those precious, rare laughs that are real, not hollowly fabricated for the cameras and the public.

But Tony doesn’t let that slide for long.

He catches Steve on one of his bad nights—the ones where every time he closes his eyes, he sees flashes of blue and bullets and woods, when screams and gunshots echo through his brain, a constant horrifying cacophony of madness.

The billionaire plops down right beside him on the communal couch—too close, always too close. Steve learned early on that once Tony Stark let someone into his life, he was the most affectionate man to walk the earth, worlds away from anything the paparazzi said about him.

“So,” Tony says, stretching his legs out. “You’re avoiding me.”

Steve stares at the TV, absently wondering how he ended up staring—but not really watching—at a documentary about penguins. “I’m not.”

“Yeah, okay.” Tony scoffs, disbelief evident in his words.

Steve clenches his fists in his lap. Since when did he get so comfortable lying? Probably since he discovered the true nature of his dirty, blackened soul. Probably since he’s been desperately trying to cleanse himself of the sickness residing inside himself.

The silence between them speaks volumes.

Then, Tony speaks, softer this time, voice tinged with vulnerability and uncertainty. “Did I do something?”

Steve’s stomach churns. “No.”

In his peripheral vision, he can see Tony’s jaw work. “Then what’s your deal? You’re acting like I kicked your puppy and then spit in your coffee after pouring a heaping spoonful of salt into it—did that metaphor make sense? Probably not, you get the point.”

Steve swallows hard. His throat is suddenly very dry. “It’s not you.” It’s me. I’m sick. I’m deplorable. I will infect you with my wrongness, corrupt you, and bleed you dry.

Tony exhales, rubbing his jaw. “You wanna tell me what is going on, then?”

No.

He’d rather gouge his own eyes out, take a dive off of the nearest cliff, swerve his motorcycle into oncoming traffic—anything but that.

“I’m fine,” he says, trying his hardest to sound convincing. He just wants Tony to stop pestering him. The further he is from Tony, the better.

“You can’t just keep saying that and expect me to believe it, Rogers.” Tony sighs, heavy and disappointed. Tony never calls him Rogers.

Steve closes his eyes, resigned to the fact that Tony will never stop asking. If there’s one thing he’s learned, Tony is stubborn—just about as stubborn as he himself is. He wonders what Bucky would have thought about this mess he managed to get himself into—he quickly stops that train of thought; Steve would have never wanted Bucky to know how truly depraved his best friend was.

He opens his eyes, stares straight ahead, jaw tight, and speaks before he loses the nerve.

“I think things that I shouldn’t,” he says, for a lack of courage to come outright and just say it, to release the monstrosity within him.

Tony is silent.

Steve forces himself to continue, the words like shards of glass tearing through his throat. “My mind’s all messed up. I’m… there’s something wrong with me.”

Tony audibly swallows, shifting uncomfortably beside him. Steve clenches his fists as the man’s thigh rubs against his. Too close, too close, too close.

“Did you see that therapist I recommended? She’s the best of the best. Up to her eyeteeth in NDA’s too, so you don’t have to worry about anything leaking to the public.”

“She can’t help me.” Steve’s hands tremble. “No one can fix me. I’m… I’m… something is really wrong with me.”

“Steve,” Steve’s never heard Tony sound so grim before. “I really want to help you—I wish I could, but I’m not qualified, and let’s be honest I’m absolute shit at this, but this woman, she can really help you, okay? I really think you should try it out. Just go for a few sessions. If it doesn’t work out, we can find someone new, or we can just… try something else, okay?”

Tears burn at the corners of Steve’s eyes. Tony wouldn’t be trying to help him if he knew that Steve was pining after him. Tony would smash his face in, kick his ribs until they cracked and punctured a lung, maybe call the Iron Man suit to defend his honour and end Steve’s sick mind for good.

“You don’t fucking get it, Stark,” Steve snarls before storming back to his suite to mope and berate himself for the rest of the night.

—

He avoids Tony. Again.

But this time, Tony doesn’t let it slide.

It starts small, a passing comment at breakfast, a knock at Steve’s door, several text messages inquiring into his well-being—Steve doesn’t respond to any of it.

Then Tony escalates.

He corners Steve after his workouts in the gym (if you can call punching your knuckles bloody working out—seriously Steve, why aren’t you wrapping your hands anymore? Your getting blood all over my gym), corners him in the elevator, in the damn hallway.

And Steve, being the coward he is, manages to dodge every attempt.

Until Tony finds him in the library.

It’s late. The tower is quiet. Steve had stopped coming out of his room lately, but he figured—he’d hoped—he’d be safe here. But when Tony strides in, chin held high and determined eyes zeroed in on the supersoldier lounging on the plush couch, Steve knows he’s lost.

“We need to talk,” Tony says, arms crossing over his chest as he stares down at Steve.

Steve stares at the book in his hands—pretends to read it even though his brain is running haywire. Their last conversation has been playing on repeat in his mind—he’d gotten so close to telling Tony the truth, and it scared him. It terrified him. He had almost revealed just how disturbed Captain America really was. “Steven Grant Rogers—that’s right, I middle-named you—don’t ignore me.”

Steve winces, lowering the book. “We have nothing to talk about.”

“Okay, that’s the biggest lie I’ve heard, and trust me, I’ve heard some doozies in my day.”

Steve clenches his jaw, barely remembering to loosen his grip on the poor book he’s holding before it breaks.

Tony steps closer, voice softer now. “Look, I won’t say I know what you’re going through, okay? That’s just insulting, I know. But I want you to know that you don’t have to go through it alone, okay?”

Steve’s throat tightens. He keeps his eyes on the page even as the words blur into a befuddled mess. “You don’t get it, Tony. You can’t get it.”

“Try me,” Tony challenges.

“I’m sick, Tony. I’m sick.” Steve’s shoulders hunch in on themselves.

Tony stares at him.

Steve feels like he’s going to throw up under his scrutiny.

“We can get you some help, okay, Steve?”

“Stop!” Steve jumps up from the couch, emotions boiling over. “Just stop, okay! You can’t fix me, so stop trying. It’s no use. There’s no fucking point, alright? What don’t you understand about that? Just leave me alone!”

—

Steve dreams of fire.

Of hands against his skin, a mouth against his throat.

He wakes up gasping for air, shame coiled tight in his gut and sweat damp against his skin.

He can’t do this anymore.

Avoidance isn’t enough, distance isn’t enough.

Nothing will ever be enough.

Because no matter how hard he tries, no matter how much he fights it—

He still loves Tony Stark.

And Steve Rogers will not allow himself to corrupt such a beautiful person.

—

Steve is exhausted.

Not physically—he’s run for miles without breaking a sweat, fought battles for hours at a time that should have killed him—but this? This is worse.

Because it’s something he can’t outrun, something he can’t fight.

It’s inside him. Rotten. Festering.

And no matter how many times he pushes Tony away, no matter how many nights he spends wide awake staring at the ceiling in an attempt to stop the sinful dreams, it doesn’t go away.

So he does the next best thing.

He buries it.

Puts on the mask, smiles when he should, nods when necessary, pretends that the extra wide berth that Tony gives him after their last fight doesn’t cut straight into his heart. Pretends everything is fine.

And for a while, it works.

Until it doesn’t.

—

It happens on a mission.

A simple recon mission gone sideways.

Bullets fly, the air is heavy and thick with smoke. Steve flings his shield at the assailants, trying his best to take out as many of the threats while his team fights around him.

He hears it before he sees it. An explosion, burning heat billowing up from the blast site.

And then—

“TONY!” Someone screams. He’s not sure who. Doesn’t really care. The world narrows to a single point, time freezes, and Steve’s heart stops.

Tony is down.

Steve doesn’t think.

He moves.

He races to the blast sight, heart hammering wildly in his chest as he searches for the red and gold suit.

The suit lies in the snow, blackened and sparking. He can hear Tony’s breaths, wheezing and clipped. The blue light flickers in his chest. His hands hover uselessly over Tony’s prone body, unsure of how to help without making the situation worse.

“Latch,” Tony rasps, hand twitching towards the release on his suit. Steve immediately pulls it for him—tries to anyway.

“The latch is stuck,” Steve says, dread curling up in his stomach. Tony groans, pained and guttural in his throat.

Steve hears someone sneaking up from behind him and barely makes it in time to grab his shield, blocking the spray of bullets aimed at them. He chucks the shield at the goon with a little more force than necessary, anger and adrenaline coursing through his veins. “We gotta get you outta here,” Steve says.

“Suit’s dead weight. Too heavy… can’t move,” Tony murmurs, lethargic.

Steve sets his jaw, determination written all over his features as he lifts the Iron Man suit into his arms, bridal style. Tony makes a surprised noise at the sudden movement. “Damn, Cap. At least buy me dinner first.”

Steve’s glad that the cold biting at his face gives him an excuse for his reddened cheeks.

In that moment, with Tony bleeding, chest rising in short, uneven breaths in his arms, Steve realises something.

He can’t do this.

He can’t lose him.

Not to war, not to time, not to his own damn cowardice.

And suddenly, the weight of it is all too much. He staggers slightly, keeping a firm grip on the man he’s carrying in his arms. His breath hitches, tears forming in his eyes.

“Hey, you good, Capsicle?” Tony asks.

No.

Not even close.

But Steve nods, forcing a tight smile to his face. “Yeah.”

A lie.

But Tony doesn’t call him on it. Not this time.

Instead, he just watches Steve from behind the mask.

Steve wonders if Tony already knows.

Wonders what the implications of that would mean.

—

The mission is over. They all made it back in one piece.

Tony is fine. A little worse for wear, but he’s alive.

Steve should feel relieved.

But all he feels is wrecked.

Because the second he saw Tony lying on the ground, the light flickering and suit damaged beyond repair, the second he thought—this is it, this is where I lose him.

Something in him broke.

And now, sitting alone in his room, staring at his trembling hands, Steve knows.

He can’t keep pretending.

He can’t keep running.

Because if today proved anything, it’s this—

He loves Tony Stark.

And nothing—not fear, not shame, not the weight of his shame—will ever change that.

—

Steve doesn’t sleep that night.

He sits at the edge of his bed, hands clasped. Stares at the floor like it might offer him some answers.

It doesn’t.

Morning comes, and he goes through the motions. Debrief, training, and a forced half smile when Natasha asks him if he’s okay.

And then there’s Tony.

Teasing. Laughing. Existing.

Steve watches from across the room, his heart heavy in his chest.

He should leave—go back to his room—put more distance between them before this feeling, this sin, consumes him whole. He can’t be selfish—can’t ruin Tony with his depravity and filth.

But before he can flee like the coward he is, Tony turns, catching his gaze.

He feels like a butterfly pinned to the wall. Something flickers across Tony’s face, a moment of hesitation, and then—

“Hey, Capsicle. Walk with me.”

Steve’s gut twists. He thinks back to the promises he made himself, filled with leftover adrenaline from almost losing the one he loves and an inexplicable confidence that he’d be able to come clean without losing the best thing in his life. Thinks of how foolish he was. He can’t—they can’t-

He could refuse—could run away like he always does, but he told himself he was done running.

So Steve swallows hard, nods once, and follows.

Tony leads him down to the workshop.

The door slides shut behind them, locking out the rest of the world.

Steve stands stiffly, waiting.

Tony doesn’t speak right away. He paces, hands in his pockets, and jaw tight.

Then finally—

“I can’t keep doing this, Steve.”

Steve blinks, because of all the things he expected, this was not one of them. “What?”

“All this running, the avoiding, the outbursts. I want this bullshit to stop. You can’t go from hating me to being worried about me—like you actually give a shit about me—at the drop of a hat. It’s giving me fucking whiplash.”

Steve flinches. His body is screaming, abort, abort, abort. He needs to leave, shut this down, shove it all back into the box of repression until it never sees the light of day again.

But Tony doesn’t let up.

He steps closer—too close, too close, too close.

“I’m done, alright. I don’t want any more excuses. You only have a problem with me—no one else, just me. I want an explanation. What is going on?”

Steve’s heart stutters in his chest.

He closes his eyes, tastes the words in his mouth before he spits them out. “I’m sick.”

“I fucking know that, Steve!” Tony throws his hands up. “You’ve told me time and time again. Frankly, I’d be a little concerned if there wasn’t something wrong with you, given that you fought in World War Two, slept in ice for several decades, and fought off an alien invasion. You have PTSD, and that’s okay–”

“That’s not… that’s not it…”

Tony pauses, eyes squinting and brows furrowed in that adorable way they always do when he tries to solve an equation.

“I was raised to know right from wrong,” he says, voice hoarse. “To know what’s natural and what ain’t. And I know–” he sucks in a sharp breath– “I know what I feel is wrong.”

Steve chances a glance at him. He expects disgust, shock, hate.

Tony just stares at him, bambi eyes wide and bewildered.

Steve nearly groans; for all the genius up there in his brain, Tony sure can be daft at times. Maybe he just can’t fathom the idea that perfect, war hero Captain America is truly a deviant.

“I’m sick,” he says again, not wanting to say those damning words aloud. “I’m sick inside… I think things that I shouldn’t. I’m not supposed to want… I’m… I can’t say it, please, don’t make me say it.”

Steve watches the realisation wash over Tony’s face. He looks away before his face can twist into hatred and disgust.

“Steve…” Tony sounds gutted. “You think you’re wrong for liking guys?”

Steve eyes the nearest window, wonders if he could end it all by flinging himself out of the building at such a height, even with the serum.

Tony exhales. “Jesus, Steve.”

And there it is: the disappointment.

Steve’s hands tremble, his chest burns hot with shame, and tears burn in his eyes. “You… you don’t get it.” He doesn’t just like guys, he likes Tony.

“No, I don’t think you get it.” Tony’s voice is hard. Steve tenses as Tony steps towards him, preparing for the slap or punch he’s had coming ever since that first damned thought came into his mind. “It’s not wrong, Steve,” he says instead.

“Don’t–”

“Don’t what, Steve?” Tony’s voice rises. “Don’t tell you the truth? That you’re not broken? That you’re not wrong for how you feel?”

Steve’s breath stutters. He can’t do this, he can’t.

“I shouldn’t have said anything,” Steve mutters as a traitorous tear slips down his face. Why is Tony lying to him? He can’t possibly believe the lies he’s spouting.

Tony grabs his wrist, his hand gentle and warm. Steve doesn’t think about how much he missed feeling those calloused hands.

Tony looks at him—not with disgust, not with anger, not with hatred, but something else, something raw. “Did you think that I wouldn’t accept you?”

Steve’s throat burns. “Yes.”

Tony’s grip falters, his face collapsing with grief. “Why?”

“Where I’m from… people like me—” he swallows, gut churning, thoughts of blue tickets, capital A’s, of black and pink triangles, of Sachsenhausen and Buchenwald. “People like that were arrested. Beaten. Killed.”

Tony is quiet, face blank, unreadable.

“If people found out… You lost everything.” His hands clench until he can feel the sting of crescents in his palms. “Your job, your home, your family, your life.”

“It’s not like that anymore, Steve,” Tony—brilliant, frustrating, impossible Tony—doesn’t waver. Despite having every reason to kick Steve’s teeth in…

“You think everyone just changed?”

“Not everyone,” Tony sighs. “But enough did.”

“It’s not that simple,” Steve argues.

“Why can’t you accept that things have changed, Steve? What are you so afraid of?”

Steve’s breath catches.

The answer, honestly, is everything.

He’s afraid of losing the team, losing his place in the world. Afraid of the world turning against him. Afraid of Tony turning against him.

But most of all, he’s afraid of the truth.

He loves Tony. And it’s not going away any time soon.

The one thing he can’t allow himself to have—the one thing he can’t bring himself to ruin—to taint with his sick, perverted mind. “I should go,” Steve shakes his head, already planning on fleeing the country and living in some remote area where no one will ever recognise him.

Tony grabs his wrist again, gentle but firm. “Steve-”

Steve jerks away, skin burning where Tony’s hand touched. Tony steps back like Steve hit him. Hurt flashes across his face, and Steve wants nothing more than to erase that horrible expression from his face.

“Look,” Tony exhales, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I’m not going to force you to talk about this anymore. You need space, right? That’s fine. It’s okay… just…You don’t have to do this alone.”

“I do,” Steve argues, a stubborn set to his jaw.

“No, you don’t,” Tony snaps right back, so goddamn earnest that Steve’s heart flutters and stomach swirls.

“You don’t understand-”

“Then make me understand, Steve! Help me understand,” Tony practically begs him.

The words sit between them, heavy and filled with emotion.

Then, barely a whisper, he hears himself say, “I’m scared.”

Tony stills, the fear in Steve’s voice palpable. The usually unflappable Captain, now scared and trembling like a small child. Tear tracks stream down his face.

Steve swallows hard, words tumbling out raw and unfiltered. “I spent my whole life knowing–knowing what people like me deserved. That we were wrong. Dirty. That if people found out, we’d lose everything.”

His voice shakes. “And I just—I can’t turn that off, Tony. I can’t just wake up one day and suddenly believe I’m–” he laughs, a sound both hysterical and bitter– “that I’m allowed to want this.”

The room is so quiet you could hear a pin drop. The two men stare at each other.

And then, Tony steps forward.

Careful and slow.

And when Steve doesn’t pull away, he reaches out, grabbing Steve’s hands. Just enough pressure to tell him that he’s there.

“You… you like me?” Tony’s voice is quiet, hesitant and unsure.

Steve’s face bursts into flames, mortification flooding his body—he knows, he knows, he knows.

“I like you too, Steve,” Tony murmurs, carefully. “I’ve liked you for a while now…”

Steve gapes at him, convinced this is another one of his sick, twisted dreams.

“You obviously have a lot of things to work through, but… if you’d like, we can work on it together.”

Steve feels unsteady, like the ground beneath him is shifting. The entire world trembles at the weight of those words.

Tony is still standing close, still holding his hands, not forceful, not bruising, just there. A solid, steady presence.

And Steve?

Steve wants to believe him. Wants to take what Tony is offering, like the selfish heathen he is. Wants to let himself have this.

But the fear is still there, coiled tight in his chest.

“I don’t know how…” Steve admits, looking up at Tony with the most miserable expression Tony’s ever had the displeasure of seeing.

Tony’s grip tightens minutely. “How to what?”

“How to… want this. Without hating myself for it.”

“Then let’s start small,” Tony shrugs, a comforting smile playing on his lips.

Steve frowns. “Small?”

Tony nods, “Yeah. Like—I dunno, maybe you don’t run out of the room every time I look at you.”

Steve huffs out something that’s almost a laugh. “I don’t–” and then he stops—because he does.

Tony smirks, “You so do.”

Steve looks away, embarrassed by his previous actions. “Hey, it’s okay,” Tony reassures him with a little nudge.

Steve forces himself to meet Tony’s gaze.

Tony’s expression is so uncharacteristically soft—Steve almost has to look away lest his heart float away. “We don’t have to figure everything out today. Or tomorrow, or even next week. We have time.”

“And what do we do?” Steve questions, butterflies swarming in his stomach.

“We exist. One day at a time.” Tony tilts his head. “And maybe get you to see that therapist I’ve been begging you to see.”

Steve’s eyes widen at the suggestion, terror gripping his heart. No one else can know—no one can–

“Hey, hey, hey, it’s okay, Steve. She’s good. She knows I like guys and is completely fine with it. She won’t care, alright? I can even go with you, how’s that sound? She makes any comment about it, I’ll make sure her license is revoked, and she’ll never find another job again.”

Steve laughs, watery and teary, but he laughs because that is such a Tony response. He didn’t realise how much he’d missed the other man’s ridiculous tangents. “That seems a bit extreme,” Steve says.

“I’d say that she’d gotten what she deserved.”

Steve shakes his head, the chuckle dying out on his lips. “You’re impossible.”

“You mean impossibly amazing, right? No? Impossibly handsome, then? Impossibly charming? Impossibly-”

Steve playfully shoves Tony away, a grin sweeping across his face as he tells him to shut up. Tony squawks indignantly, clutching his chest as if physically wounded by his words.

—

Steve Rogers is a good man.

Sometimes he just needs a little help seeing it.

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