Part 2 - Any Which Way

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Steve stood in the hall of his apartment, examining the smooth lines of the elevator door. His finger approached the call button, retreated, and approached it again.

He checked his watch. 1858 hours.

He turned back uncertainly, wondering again if he should bring something. Flowers were laughably inappropriate, and any wine he could choose was bound to be far inferior to whatever Tony Stark kept on hand. And anyway, this wasn't a date.

Probably.

Steve wasn't entirely sure what it was, and therein lay the problem.

"Come up at seven," the message read. "We should talk."

Then, five minutes later: "Sorry, that was ominous. What I mean is we should fuck."

Two minutes after that, a third and final message had arrived. "No, sorry, I think I was right the first time. We should talk. And then fuck. If you want."

Steve had composed several answers, but every attempt felt wrong, and in the end he hadn't replied at all.

Because he did want. God did he want. He hadn't realized he had this kind of wanting in him, until it had all poured out at Tony's challenging touch.

He'd fantasized, of course. Idle notions of barely understood biology at first, laughably imprecise and even more laughably impossible for the scrawny boy he'd been. And later, after, startlingly clear and raw and fierce.

Later still, when he had time to wonder, he thought back on the "everything" that had been inside him, before, and wondered if all this had really always been there or not. Good becomes better, bad becomes worse. He had always assumed he knew which one this was.

But whatever the origins, fantasies remained just that, tucked away in some corner of his mind that he rarely visited, and never considered making real until Tony asked and teased and wanted . And Steve had given in and let himself not merely want, but take, and he couldn't find it in himself to regret an instant of it.

None of which gave him the slightest idea what the protocols were for this.

People always laughed at him when he asked how things are done these days; they told him there aren't any rules for such and such, that people work things out the way they want to. But it wasn't true, because they also laughed at him when he got it wrong—too formal or too direct or too cautious. There were rules, whether anybody could see them properly or not. But knowing that much, it turned out, wasn't any help at all.

So he was empty handed and maybe underdressed and sporting an ill-concealed erection that had barely flagged since he'd received that second text hours ago. Emily Post would certainly not have approved.

He checked his watch again. 1901 hours. He pressed the call button, and the elevator door opened almost instantly. He stepped in. "Penthouse, please."

"Yes, sir," JARVIS answered, and Steve felt the elevator accelerate, coming to a smooth stop seconds later and opening into Tony's hall.

He stepped out through the door and into the living room, expecting to find Tony at his bar mixing a drink, or on his sofa, immersed in some design spec or other on his tablet. But the room was empty.

He eyed the door to Tony's private suite of rooms and considered trying it. Tony might have lost track of time. Or he might be waiting there, for him. Steve suddenly imagined that, Tony naked and ready and waiting for him to just walk in and grab him, hold him down, and then— Fuck. This was definitely no way to behave as a guest, whatever the year. His hand went to his groin, making sure that his erection remained tucked up behind his waistband, where, he hoped, it was adequately obscured by the fall of his untucked shirt.

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