steadfast_tin_soldiers

Listening to Steve is calming. It’s in his voice, in the way he carries himself. Standing here in the shadow of a building as people just file passed them is surreal. Tony recognizes the street. He and Nebula had flown over it. The light pole had fallen into the store window across the street and two floors of the building they’re leaning against had been on fire. It’s fine now, a lighter color than before, recently power washed, or repointed, perhaps. His eyes lift towards lower Manhattan where the Stark Tower stands and he can see it, blending almost in with the sky. It’s small. Far away. Destined to crumble, really, unless they change the course of history.

The Tony that belongs here might never sleep with Steve, but he wants them both to know and keep and cultivate a friendship, if only so he doesn’t miss out on tense moments made bearable by little pleasantries said by sweet blonds.

He tilts his head back before his hips hit forward and he snags the ball cap from his back pocket. It’s better to cover his head. JARVIS regularly scans intersections and traffic cameras for facial recognition. Tony would have no reason to be looking for him, but it’s better safe than sorry.

At the question, the older man actually grins. The light changes to green and the walk sign flashes. “Do I look like I’m the camping type? It’s been awhile. Not since I was at school.” He pushes away from the wall to cross the street.

European boarding schools always focus heavily on athletics as well as academics. Tony hated it.

“We are not camping as long as my accounts are good.”

"Although," he murmurs, more to himself than to Tony, "I guess that could have been deliberate on SHIELD's part, considering."

Hydra would certainly have preferred him at arm's length. Emotionally compromised and a little isolated; less of a threat, and an easier tool that way.

Well, that won't be a problem for this version of himself. If things go right, he'll have backup, someone to talk to close by other than the people he works with. Someone he can trust before he learns to trust Natasha and Sam. He reaches out and gently tucks his hand under Tony's elbow, the lightest of holds, but clinging nonetheless.

"Well, I never camped until basic training. I'm sure we could adapt." He's smiling again in the face of that grin. "Tony. How long can you really get away with using the same accounts as the other Stark? I know you're ungodly rich, but surely you'll notice something's going on within a few weeks, at least."

He blinks as if something's occurred to him, then bursts into a little flurry of laughter. "Do you realize you're embezzling from yourself?? That's groundbreaking."

Five days is a long time to have to live off of one account for most people, but it really is a pittance to Tony. He doesn’t want to come right out and say that it could be months before accounting sees odd or conflicting charges and escalates them up to Pepper. Telling a guy like Steve that sleeping in five star hotels and eating room service every day is nothing. He’s a little more sensitive to the way Rogers grew up than he had been, mostly because trying to deal around Peter’s poverty had been eye opening. Tony has never had to think about money. He wants something and he gets it. Peter and his aunt made due with so much less—

But throwing money around us the only way they’re going to do this properly. And if trying to shield his stupid amount of money, guiltily, from Steve means that they need to find another source of income? Well Tony has a thought about that.

He’s a little surprised to have the blond take his arm. It’s not bad, but just different. Unexpected. Pepper’s done that sometimes, a casual touch, and for a moment, Tony aches for that. For Pepper, yes, but also for the normalcy of a relationship. Steve is hitting all of the right buttons without knowing he’s hitting them and Tony lets his hip tuck inwards slightly, so that they’re walking closer together.

It’s 2012. DOMA hasn’t been eradicated. Marriage between gay people hasn’t been won. This is, however, New York. Brooklyn. The neighborhood is liberal. No one notices them, either as two men walking in step or for who they are. And Tony, for all of his glitz and his pomp and his prestige, likes it. Just this once.

He looks up at Steve in profile as they hit the other side of the street, somewhat admiringly and momentarily absorbed in him. That’s a nice feeling too, one that makes sense to him.

“I don’t think anyone will notice, but if your memory is as good as you say it is, how do you feel about some friendly wagers?” They’re an hour and a half from Atlantic City. That’s no Vegas but they probably shouldn’t be seen in a place the other Stark frequents.

It's probably for the best that Tony be a little discreet. Steve doesn't feel too much self-pity for having grown up in the tenements, but he's also a depression-era kid and the idea of wasting food still bothers him. Half the time if you give him an apple he'll eat the core of it. And yet, he's grown reasonably sanguine about the idea that his friend has an income that rivals the GNP of many a small European nation. It's just one of those weird facets about his life in the 21st century that he's learned to accept rather than analyze. He's developed an Alice-in-Wonderland mentality about some of these things.

Part of him wants to more or less hang off of Tony's arm, like the doe-eyed girls in the movies of his era. That might be asking a little too much, particularly in public, but he's less worried about getting chided by strangers for failing to hide the homoerotic tension between them than he is about Tony hitting his limit. The look he gets in response to his touch tells him he doesn't need to worry.

"Friendly wagers?" He raises an eyebrow. "Are you talking about off-track betting or counting cards here? Wait, I mean...I am shocked, just shocked, that you would suggest such a thing."

He doesn't look shocked. Actually, he looks delighted by the prospect. It sounds like just enough of an adrenaline rush to distract from the stress and melancholy of their mission, without putting them in physical danger. If he were a puppy, he'd be wagging his tail and doing play-bows all around Tony's feet right now.

It’s a good thing that Steve isn’t a puppy then. Play-bows around his feet would just get Steve kicked and no one wants that. Not even Tony. “If I have to be weened off of my own money from a decade ago, you’re going to have to find a way to provide for me.” After a little seed funding of course. Tony is lucky, if he’s paying attention, and while he doesn’t count cards, he can calculate high probabilities in his head, see trajectory angles overlay the space in front of him, and he can make very educated guesses when it comes to odds.

Of course, what he’s planning on doing is a little sports betting. It’s baseball season and Tony knows that Steve never forgets a game. Brooklyn might not have the Dodgers anymore but he’s still painfully all-American. It’s cute. Sometimes.

Steve is his ringer. That eidetic memory of his ought to come in handy. And if there’s no New York playing today, that’s fine too. They have access to FRIDAY and she has a database full of knowledge from eight years in the future.

It dawns on him as they head to, oh Jesus, the bus terminal, that Steve himself can probably count cards too. He’s seen that strategic mind work. He can likely remember the combinations of the cards that are played. Tony opens and shuts his mouth. “All of those friendly wager poker games, back at the Tower? Did you hustle us, Rogers?”

He keeps forgetting that Steve isn’t all that wholesome. He looks it. He’s got a strong moral center. But he had been a bastard growing up sometimes, mischievous to the core. No wonder Bucky loved him.

"I'm supposed to provide for you, huh? Does that make me your sugar daddy? I never thought I'd see the day." For the first time, dimly, it occurs to Steve that Tony has never really lived without huge amounts of money at his disposal, aside from in captivity which really doesn't count. If they survive this and somehow get a chance to settle somewhere, that's going to be an interesting experience. Tony, he's sure, knows how to budget for large scale projects but he's never had to live on peanut butter and cereal for three days to make sure he doesn't run out of gas money before his next paycheck comes in.

Not an issue right now; they have bigger fish to fry. A big purple fish with an oversized chin. He files it away in the back of his mind, though, in case it becomes important later.

Tony is not wrong about Steve's devotion to baseball. He hasn't had chances to watch or read about all the games ever played since he came out of the ice, but the ones he was aware of at the time, he remembers. Also a couple World Cup matches and some horses, which he has never bet on, but he kinda likes to watch the Triple Crown races when he can. Placing sports bets would be less fun than actually playing games, but Steve is along for the ride either way, and has no qualms about using their advantage here.

He has a bit of a spring in his step, the cheer of a man living in the moment and determinedly not thinking about what's to come or what has recently passed. He gives a sly shrug at Tony's question, peering at him out of the corner of his eye. "Can't read my, can't read my, no he can't read my poker face..." He sings softly.

He listens to the radio a lot. Apparently he has an eidetic memory for pop music, too.

"But not every time, no! Just when I felt like one of you needed the experience of losing."

“I don’t know you anymore,” Tony says with an air of amusement. He’s not as full of energy as the younger man, not openly exuberant, but this beats focusing on something dreary for once. They’ve had a whole lot of that. Too much. Far too much. There will be time to further grieve but Tony is willing to let that all pass to return in force later if only to have a reprieve for a few moments. “You need better taste in music.”

Still, hearing something like Rhianna and Lady Gaga come out of Steve’s mouth is leaps and bounds better than depressing songs from the 40s that make him believe that the blond is going to pitch himself into the bay.

They stop at an exterior ATM to withdraw money, though using cash pains Tony so much, and he withdraws the maximum limit the machine allows, much to his annoyance. “Four hundred isn’t going to get us too far and if I hit up multiple ATMs, that’s going to flag someone.” He just can’t risk going into a bank—

And he’d have no idea how to even get money out of his account anyway.

Trying to watch his spending is difficult now. He has no idea how much of a nightmare world it might be once they pulled off this caper and used up the money he was sure that they’d win. Even when he was pretending to be dead and living in a workshop shed, he’d been less than frugal with his spending habits.

“Pizza. Bus tickets…that’s not leaving us a lot left over so I hope you’re in the mood to make everyone in a casino decide that they need to lose today.” He hands the wad of cash to Steve and slips his wallet back into his pants. Money is filthy. He’s not handling it more than he has to.

"That's not true, Tony. You're just starting to know me," Steve says, and it only sounds like a joke from the outside. They both know better.

"Tell you what, I'll let you pick the radio station next time we're in a position where that's an option." The truth is, aside from old wartime favorites, Steve's tastes in music are so eclectic they almost don't add up to anything consistent at all. He blames the changes to his brain, maybe his hearing. He can pick up details in lyrics and harmonies much better now. Almost everything sounds good, but he's unfortunately very prone to picking up earworms.

He does a quick calculation in his head. "Well, the cheapest bus lines ought to get us there for less than $20 each. We can get one-way tickets and worry about the way back later."

He's a little bemused by being handed the cash, but makes no protest, separating it into three different pockets. "Don't worry, Tony, we're gonna Ocean's Eleven this bitch."

Steve can’t seem to help but blow his mind. Everything he says is cute and charming. Everything he does just pulls ever so slightly at Tony’s heart, as if he’s doing his best to wrap it all back up and keep it from falling to further pieces. Tony is relatively sure that Steve has no idea the effect he’s having on him, but the smile the older man is sporting might actually give it all away.

Tony is usually pretty great at hiding his emotions behind a wall of sarcastic assholery, but he’s probably never fooled Steve at all.

“I don’t think we have time to do the movie justice,” Tony says as he removes his arm from Steve’s to get the door for him and hold it there. It’s a feat he’s only recently, in the last few years, been able to do. His former everything anyone else might have touched is lava level of OCD has crumbled to something far more manageable.

A full pizza is ordered and since this is one of those old fashioned sort of Brooklyn pizza joints, a plastic pitcher of birch beer gets ordered right along with it. They get a number for their table and as Steve pays out from one his pockets Tony grabs a heap of napkins from the dispenser and picks a booth in the back corner to hide himself in.

Does he wipe down the table? Yes, of course he does. It’s still pretty sticky when Steve sits down but it’s bearable.

Tony leaves his hat on and doesn’t look up at the waitress a few minutes later when she drops off their food and their soda with two plastic tumblers that have seen better days. He’ll let Steve pick the first slice if only to gloat at how good this place is.

“Used to have it flown in when I was in Malibu,” he grins. They can Ocean’s Eleven Atlantic City in a few hours. Technically, this is their first date after all and Tony has some iota of old fashioned romance rattling around in his skull from time to time. “Uh, by the way, this is where you’re supposed to be impressed.”

He's not completely conscious of the effect he's having, but he has noticed Tony smiling at his jokes. He's glimpsed the shift in mood between them, something awkward and strained and desperate changing to something no less needy but far more hopeful. He can feel his own mindset relaxing, thinking maybe in time they actually will be okay. It's something immense, unexpected and monumental, and they're hiding it behind friendly harassment and the need to get lunch. Which is working quite well.

Steve is a little nonplussed at having the door held for him. If Tony wanted to throw him off base, pleasantly so, performing the little courtesies that a guy of his era would feel the need to for a woman in his company is a hell of a great way to do it. It's kind of sweet, whether it's meant that way or not.

Steve is inordinately excited about birch beer. It's hard to find in a lot of restaurants, and they may end up needing a second pitcher. He's equally pleased by the topping selection, and the combo he selects is classic Coney Island fare. "You had...pizza flown in from this restaurant, you mean? All the way to Malibu?"

Well, damn. He wasn't sure if this was a chance selection or a place Tony knows well. That answers that question. And leaves him looking strangely shy and befuddled. "You're tryin' to impress me?"

“You’re a hard man to impress,” Tony says, sitting back against the ripped red vinyl seat, half a plastic tumbler filled with soda and a healthy amount of red pepper flakes dusting his slice. “And a hard man to get the attention of.”

Speaking of which... Tony moves forward, his elbow resting in the worn table, gently pushing the paper plate forward as he shifts his weight. Dark eyes peer up from under that ball cap, capturing the lighting in a way it likely isn’t intended for.

“You never drew me. Well you did. Three times. You drew everyone else so much. Vision, Romanoff— You even drew Banner. Little doodles of his Einstein hair and his hands with all that wrist fur— But not me so much. You said you fell for me when we first met. You felt something. But there’s nothing of me in those books.”

Not the ones he’d found and obsessed over at least.

“And yeah. I’m complaining about that.”

"I'm not that hard to impress," he says, pausing in eating as Tony leans closer. His fingertips tap at the edge of his glass, almost a nervous fidget; his expression remains soft and uncertain. "Letting it show doesn't usually end well."

Steve is terribly brave in battle, driven by immense moral courage. In interpersonal relationships, though, he plays everything so close to the chest the damn star on his uniform gets in the way. This is the guy who was too scared to ask a girl to dance, before the war. He's still that person, even after all the things he's been through and all the chorus girls and stagehands whose legs he's knelt between.

He's genuinely surprised by Tony's complaint, mostly because the way he says it tells Steve he has an idea what it sometimes means when he draws a portrait. It's not always sexual, or even sentimental, but a portrait requires a sense of intimacy. Tracing the angle of a cheekbone, the curve of a lip, a certain tilt of the head or the light reflected in a pair of laughing eyes; for a while you lose yourself in the person you're drawing. For a while, it's a relief.

He's struck by the idea of Tony poring over his abandoned sketchbooks, looking for a sign that...what? That he meant something to Steve? That he was missed?

He draws in a breath and lets it out slowly, through pursed lips. "I never kept the ones of you," he admits, gaze dropping from Tony's face to the table. "There were plenty of 'em, I just..."

He searches for words, aware that what he's about to express could sound either precious or dishonest, and that there's no way around saying it. "I liked the way we butted heads all the time. The way you challenged me. When it was business or fighting, it worked. Kept me sharp. But sometimes you're...harsh. Or...something. I don't know."

"Art is intimate. You look at a painting, it tells you more about the artist than the subject. I kept getting tangled up in imagining what you'd say if you saw my drawings of you. And then I felt weird for caring so much about what you might think about them, and."

"It was stupid. I'm not immune to being stupid."

“Bullshit.” Maybe that’s not the way you talk to the only person left alive in the world, one who you’ve more or less made to love you at least in words, but Tony’s never played well with an instruction manual and he’s pretty sure that Steve doesn’t have one anyway. “That really sounds like bullshit to me. You know me,” he stresses. “You know I’m an arrogant, self absorbed... I don’t know. You’ve said a lot of things.” He shrugs as if it doesn’t matter. And it doesn’t. Tony doesn’t have the memory Steve does. He can’t recall conversations like that. His mind works differently. His processors are rarely emotional. That would explain why he’s pretty terrible at remembering the things his friends and partners generally would want him to. “And all of them are true. I wouldn’t even have noticed.”

Tony had only gone snooping when he’d been left with a mess to clean up. He’d blamed Steve even if had been his own mess, but Tony’s never been good at dishing out blame to himself. His guilt is so much deeper and so much more subtle. He punishes himself, usually quietly, playing off his hurt. He’s doing it right now, too, acting like this is a joke, an enjoyable conversation.

He’d just spent two years trying to figure out why Steve had been willing to drop everything and leave him— He’s obsessed over every pencil and charcoal drawing of every person that ever graced those pages. He knows every page by heart because of it.

He’s even up with names for some of the pieces.

Barnes in Moonlight he’s always hated the most, not because of the slide of Bucky’s face depicted on the paper, but because of the way Steve had drawn him to look so human and so real. There’s emotion behind those eyes. There’s emotion on the faces of everyone Steve’s drawn and ever place he’s sketched. Banner in the Lab looks defeated and alone. Vision and Wanda Eat Pasta is surreal and enchanting. Pepper Doing Work looks motivated and present. Studies of Hands are purposeful and numerous.

“I guess it doesn’t matter, really. It’s just always bugged me. If that works exists somewhere, in fifty years, all of those other people are going to keel existing on your pages. But me.” It’s more telling, those words, than he had meant them to be.

He’d just wanted Steve to see him. Instead, they just fought.

Well, Tony, you kind of just proved his point inadvertently. Steve looks both hurt and resigned, like he expected more or less this reaction but he was hoping for something better. Something different between them than old patterns recurring. He gives a weak shrug and drinks more of the birch beer. "You're gonna tell me you've never built or designed anything you felt a little sensitive about? Maybe it's not the same for you, but I always thought you put a lot of yourself in your work."

"Anyway, I don't believe you when you say you wouldn't have noticed. Because obviously you have noticed."

Sometimes Tony is very self-aware. Other times, not so much. Steve thinks this is one of the other times. "You've been trying to figure me out since the beginning. I never have been sure what you're looking for, but you dig in places I'd rather you didn't."

"I could draw you again now, once this is over. Once we have a chance. But you have to be a little bit kind about it." Especially now that they're each all the other has left.

It hadn’t been his idea to make Steve look at him like that and Tony can already feel himself closing up over it. The pattern to their relationship is there, spread out in front of them and it’s going to choke this new phase before it can begin. The Tony that hasn’t hijacked the world and destroyed the one he left is only just figuring out that being a good guy is important to him. And the one sitting across from Steve really has to know better by now.

Tony moves the plastic tumbler aside and puts his calloused, aged hand over Steve’s as he fidgets with his own cup. “You don’t have to draw me. And if you do... you don’t have to worry about me being kind. Maybe I would have noticed, maybe his would have happened before now if I did. But I kind of find my regrets after the fact, Cap. I was— Honestly, I was so angry with you when you left that I wanted to blow up your room. I had to help Rhodey, I had to rebuild. And then you sent that letter and that damned phone from the 90s and that’s when I noticed. Noticed everything.”

His head felt exceedingly heavy and he released Steve’s hand to prop it up.

“I blamed the lack of drawings of me on the fact that you were always going to leave. Yeah so I don’t usually deal with inevitable. Your sketch books made me pretty sure that leaving was just easy for you.”

Steve really shouldn't be this volatile. Just a few minutes ago he was fine, but now he feels like he might burst into tears any second. Further evidence, perhaps, that he's got a long way to go before he's back in psychological fighting-shape.

Then again, he's never let being out of fighting-shape stop him from fighting before, and the touch of Tony's hand on his tells him he's trying, too. Steve shuts his eyes for a moment, taking a couple breaths, regrounding himself. He's calm again afterwards, angling his body more towards Tony, moving a fraction of an inch closer. "You'd reach out to me with one hand and shove me away with the other. I figured maybe you wanted to like me, but I was just too different. This old holier-than-thou asshole your dad talked about too fucking much of the time--it's not my place to tell you to get past that. Not my place to tell people to look behind the uniform, as long as the uniform's still needed."

"And...fuck, Tony. I guess I do the same thing, pushing people away. I'm not great with interpersonal relationships. I wanted more, I always do, but losing people--"

"There's only so much I can take." And he's probably well past his quota, these days.

"I guess anyone that's ever gotten close to me only got there because they fought me down 'till I let them in. You could ask...you could ask Sam. He always gives me hell for it."

He could ask Bucky, too, but Steve hesitates to go there. "It wasn't easy. It's been killing me. I wanted so badly to make things right, but I thought giving you space was the right thing to do. I guess it wasn't."

“We just fuck up,” Tony agrees. Neither of them are dealing well with what’s happening and they’ve just overplayed an intense physical relationship over one that’s been cracked for a long period of time. Sex isn’t the way to fill in the spaces but that’s what they’ve done. Maybe it’s the only way Tony even knows to be, inserting a human sized stop gap in the middle of his anxiety riddled existence. “We’re really good at it.”

Too good.

“We just don’t have the luxury to push each other away anymore. We’re all we’ve got, like it or not. I like it right now. And I want to keep on liking it. So I think we have to change the subject, finish eating, and get down to the Jersey shore so we can win ourselves some bank.” Their mission has only just started and if they keep teetering on the edge, they’re going to fall over before they can fix anything. “Jesus, I can’t be the responsible one. It’s really bad for my brand,” he complains, mostly trying to get Steve to smile again.

The guy has the weather tied to his emotions, Tony is positive of that.

It might take some coaxing, but Tony somehow makes sure that they make it to the bus depot. He’s not a fan of travel this way but they don’t have a credit card to use to rent a car and this is much more anonymous than that option would have been.

He takes the aisle seat and does his best not to touch anything, gingerly dropping himself beside Steve. It takes some effort to calm down and not just hover on the edge of the seat, though his shoulders refuse to relax.

“First thing we’re doing with our winnings is getting a car.”

Yeah. Yeah, they fuck up. The fact that Tony uses 'we' makes Steve feel better about it, though, and he even laughs a little at 'we're really good at it'. "We were bound to find hidden talents sooner or later, huh?"

And he nods in agreement. This is probably something they need to talk about more later. Steve really needs Tony to understand what's going on in his head, because he's having trouble tracking it, himself. That's going to be a tall order, but Tony's surprised him with his perceptiveness before. "I'm gonna give you everything I've got," he tells him, "but you might have to pull some of it out of me sometimes. I'm trying. Just believe me, I'm trying."

But he is smiling again, a little awkward and hopeful, and he bumps his knees against Tony's as they sit and finish eating. "I'll probably paint you," he says. "Once I get a new set of watercolors. It's been a while since I had time for portraits anyway. It'd be nice to get back into it."

Because he doesn't want Tony to think he's only doing it because he complained. Steve will be happier if he's got some kind of art project going.

Steve settles into the bus seat like it's second nature, a contrast to Tony's squeamishness. He almost wants to be amused by the way he sits on the edge, but that wouldn't be nice. He considers a moment, then shrugs off the hoodie he's wearing. "You wanna sit on this?"

Steve-germs have to be a step up from bus-seat-germs, right?

Tony shakes his head, feeling perhaps just a tad foolish here. He has to will himself to calm down, to remember the breathing techniques he’d developed in captivity when he was covered in filth and carrying around an attached car battery. He knows nothing on here will hurt him. After they win a few rounds of Blackjack, they can get themselves a room and he can shower. All of these stresses have just triggered part of him that hasn’t reared its head in awhile. It’s helpful, though, that Steve is being kind to him.

Swallowing back the queasy feeling in his stomach, Tony presses to Steve’s side and, because they are obviously a pair now, and no one is sitting across from them on the route, half drapes across him.

He’s not one for PDA. He doubts Steve either. But it’s still better than climbing into his lap. Tony needs to keep at least a little bit of dignity.

At least the bus ride is fairly quick. The depot they pull into is half a block from one of the Casinos and though Tony isn’t sure he trusts something themed towards Rome, to Caesar’s they head, a few hundred bucks still in various pockets stuffed into tight jeans.

Given the day of the week and the time, the casino floor is not as filled as it could have been. Old women in sweat outfits and walkers with tennis balls on the ends plow them over trying to get to their favorite lucky machines. There’s no chance in winning there. They need to start small with single digit bets at the tables. Between the two of them, they should be able to double their cash quickly. Steve is just going to have to wait for his sports betting and high stakes wagers until tomorrow. Tony isn’t as young as he used to be.

Steve's relationship with the world around him, dirt included, is just tremendously different. Which is weird, because when he was young his immune system was shot. He probably should have been more wary of germs. He's been exposed to TB, in fact, although since the serum he doesn't test positive any longer. Yet another disease he can't carry or transmit. That's a good thing; he thinks his mother would be pleased about that, if nothing else that's happened to him since her death.

He makes a little surprised sound when Tony drapes across him, and he knows it's primarily to avoid contact with the bus seat, but it feels good anyway and he doesn't care. PDA is normally not his thing, true, but he's hungry enough for affection he'll take whatever gets thrown his way. "Well, okay," he says softly. "Consider this an open invitation to use me as your furniture whenever."

He doesn't mean that in a kinky way. It's debatable whether he knows it can be interpreted in a kinky way.

Steve seems strangely enchanted by the tawdry pageantry of the casino. The brightness of the interior lights in the midst of the day give it a surreal quality. He feels like he's lucid-dreaming. "Not bad," he tells Tony quietly, "but I get to choose our next vacation spot, okay?"

They'll have to buy chips first, and Steve handles that transaction, splitting the chips between them. They're going to get pressured to buy drinks, too, especially if they catch the eyes of anyone watching the floor because they're winning too much. "I'll come lookin' for you in an hour or so," he tells Tony. "Or you can find me."

Blackjack is going to be the best place to start, but if they play at the same table they'll just trip one another up.

It’s easy enough to play but harder to keep the dollar amount on the table consistently slow. Tony knows what he’s doing though. He can calculate all sorts of probability, not just concerning which of the cards will be flipped over next but also how many times he can safely win compared to lose so as to not around suspicion.

He keeps his hat on and his head down. His voice drops artificially and he doesn’t meet the eye of the dealer. He knows he’s very recognizable. He knows he’s on television a lot, that he’s the household name that Steve once was and will be again in a few days, but currently doesn’t need to worry about. Tony makes sure he loses his third hand, all but the ante to be in the next two games. He loses the fourth too, overdrawing by a single number to scratch and hits big on hand five. There’s another big win on hand six and two more losses before he tells the dealer that he must have cursed his luck with the table.

Two hundred to start has turned to a neat thousand, but doesn’t arouse suspicion.

He’ll play some slots next and drink, tipping the cocktail waitresses with chips before heading back to the tables. Craps his favorite game and he promises himself to stay for ten minutes only. There’s not a good way to win the game without rigged dice and he’s not that prepared. As expected, he ends up losing most of his winnings. His luck hasn’t been good lately, and losing money is getting them no where.

At least he’s made a convincing go of being a guy who probably doesn’t know what he’s doing, someone the security on the floor doesn’t need to watch. Poker is his final game of the afternoon and by the time that Steve finds him again, Tony’s cashed out for three thousand dollars.

Not bad. Not enough to get a free room, but he is plenty drunk and a little less careful about keeping his head down. It’s hard, anyway, when Steve’s turned himself back up. Tony is compelled to smile at him. It’s as natural as breathing.

“So I’ve done some thinking,” he says, shoving a wad of bills into the back of the blond’s jeans. “I’ll go anywhere with you as long as there is indoor plumbing.”

Steve has the advantage here of being good at looking innocent. He drinks a little, for the sake of appearing out of his depth, and very deliberately plays up his wide-eyed, wholesome look. To anyone who doesn't look too close, in dim light, he can probably still pass for younger than he actually is, and pushing the Brooklyn accent makes him seems like maybe he's getting out of town for the weekend for the first time alone.

Aside from that, his technique is similar to Tony's, alternating big losses with bigger wins, until time is up and he feels like he's gone as far with the charade as he dares, as far as he can without anyone in the casino paying him undue attentions. He nets a little less than Tony, but it's still a good start, and he's convinced he can play high stakes later on and come away with a lot more.

As he approaches Tony, he looks pretty mellow. He can't get drunk, himself, but he can get desserts, and it hasn't been long since he finished a piece of chocolate silk pie. When he gets smile at, he responds with natural, warm enthusiasm, putting an arm around Tony and laughing as he shoves money into his pocket.

"That so, dollface?" He's teasing, but he seems at peace for the moment, content and affectionate. It doesn't bode all that well for them, maybe, but there's something about Tony being tipsy that he consistently finds endearing.

He's going to have to curb that, long-term. He doesn't want the guy pickling his liver for the sake of looking cute. But for tonight, he'll take it. "Well, I guess we're staying here tonight." Both arms are around Tony by now.

"How about a quiet beach next time, though? Somewhere in Maine, or maybe somewhere off Cape Cod. I'll build you a sandcastle."

“How can we live in a sandcastle?” He’s not that drunk, but he’s seen Steve work small miracles and he wouldn’t be surprised at all if the blond was capable of building a house out of sand for them to live in. If Steve wants to visit New England, they can do that, Tony has already decided, one hand still in the other man’s back pocket and the other slowly moving up his chest and all too broad shoulder.

They probably won’t get to Maine or Cape Cod. There probably will be no sandcastles. They have never lived normal lives and they likely will not do so in the future.

It just makes Tony endlessly charmed that after all of this, Steve is still probably looking for the American Dream. Picketed fence, two point five kids, a dog—

Tony had dreamed of children too. He’d lost a child, sort of, but he’d also wanted a family of his own. The crazy grin dissolved into a tired smile. “The moment we have time, we’ll go to the beach and you can build me sandcastles— We can do anything you want,” he promises, leaning up to kiss the man that has thus far proven himself to be an endless well of affection. “But now, you’re going to book us a room and order room service and I’m going to get supplies.”

He doesn’t have to go far. There’s a gift shop at the other end of the lobby specializing in everything from flip flops and sun hats to condoms and lube.

"Well, I didn't mean to live in," he snorts, but melts subtly into the touch. Whether it's a come-on or just lazy, tipsy affection he's not sure yet, but he wants as much of it as he can get, either way. "But between your engineering and my brute strength, I'm sure we could figure something out."

He's selling his own design skills a little short there, actually. They could make some kickass sand sculptures if they collaborated. But Steve wasn't even thinking about settling down so much as a pseudo-vacation. Probably he still pays lip service to that picket fence, kids and dog. Something ideal, something simple and wholesome, but something that's not meant for him. He can't come home. There's still an empty room, made all the more silent once the strains of patriotic music fade away.

He's not sure what he'd do with kids, anyway. They're so...small. Delicate. He remembers holding babies for pictures on the road with the stage show and being terrified of crushing them with his arms, without even realizing it was happening. He had nightmares. That terror has faded somewhat as he gained control of his body, but he's still not sure how to handle a child.

Regardless, he knows that smile on Tony's face. People like us, we don't get a break, we don't get a retirement, we don't get to grieve, and we don't get to apologize. Except...except he is getting to apologize, and they are, almost, getting a break, a small one in the midst of war. The rest could follow. Maybe not the retirement, but there's no harm in dreaming about it.

"Anything I want, huh?" He returns the kiss with a shiver and a sigh. "I can come up with something better than sandcastles, then."

That's supposed to be innuendo. And if Tony's going to stick his hand in Steve's back pocket, he's going to playfully tug at one of his belt loops.

"Will do," he agrees to the plan, although it takes him a moment to withdraw from the embrace. "You need to try the chocolate pie. I'll get you a piece."

He books a room for them quickly enough, and brings Tony the extra key before heading up to settle in and order. Steve's room service order is bound to be far more reasonable than Tony's last one, both in cost and in nutritional value. There will be salad. There will also be burgers, though, so that's something.

It’s a good night, despite the salad. Tony has some, first clothed and then naked, and tries the chocolate pie too. He’s not a fan of the sugar but he eats a slice anyway because the blond is putting him through the paces with the work outs their getting. The room is standard. The view is of a parking lot. But when Steve stands by the window in the darkness, Tony can’t complain about not seeing the dark ocean cresting waves. He had no eyes for anything but Steve.

And why is that? The man is a fantastically giving lover, he’s kind and he’s affectionate. He’s also the last man on Tony’s earth and he could have done a lot worse for himself on that front. It’s not yet bothering him how easy this has all been. Taking to bed with someone is fine but Tony hasn’t slept around in eight years. Turn everyone to dust with a snap of your fingers and he’s ready to just fuck anyone?

He’s watching Steve, naked still, smelling like him no doubt, as the red digital clock on the nightstand flips over to three in the morning. They do a lot of their heart to hearts before dawn it seems.

“Do you want to lay out strategy? We have a lot of money to safely win tomorrow and a road to travel to Loki’s eventual counter attack site.” And that’s a lot of ground to cover in three remaining days before the invasion starts. “Or do you want to stand over there all broody and sexy?”

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject