[Fic] I'm A Cannonball To A House On Fire
Series: I'm Not Half As Good At Anything As I Am When I'm Doing It Next To You
Summary: A regular poker night takes a very Stark turn.
Words: 3336
Fandom: Marvel
Sub-fandom: Earth-616
Genre: Introspective, Comedy, Slice Of Life, Smut
Pairing: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: One Shot, Slash
Notes: This is for my Twitter friend Jet who came up with the idea of strip poker during one of our nonsensical conversations <3
It also serves as the fourth fill for my Stony Bingo card (prompt "free square") which is on at cap_ironman on livejournal and dreamwidth (and will be until the end of the month). The idea for this fully developed after reading the third volume of Hunt For Wolverine: Adamantium Agenda, in which Logan and Tony have a brief conversation - before Wolvie was killed - about a "secret" (I've uploaded the panel here in case you want to have a look). I've put "spoiler" as a tag but it's not really a big thing in the comic itself (although it is in my mind lol). So basically this is set sometime before Civil War of 2007 - nor you have to have read it to enjoy the fic, there are a couple of foreshadowings throughout but like you wouldn't know them if you're not familiar with that event. The title comes from this song by The Gaslight Anthem called The Spirit Of Jazz.
“This is the last game I’m playing, guys. I’m gonna fall asleep on the table.”
“Oh, c’mon, elf. You can’t just abandon us.”
“I’m serious, Logan. I’m not used to be up this late at night.”
Tony glances down at his clock: 11:00. He smirks to himself, but as his eyes meet Logan’s he quickly stores it away, aware that saying anything out loud will cost him more than just dollars. Checking his cards, he takes a small sip from his scotch and keeps silent, wondering for a moment how improbable is that Logan actually likes this guy. Even ignoring everything else, he’s a priest. And he… he’s Wolverine.
The hand ends fairly quickly - Wagner had made do for the first hour or so, but as time went on it had become clear that he wasn’t really a poker player (or a player at all) despite having spent a lot of his younger years in the circus. When it’s over, he stands up, shakes all of their hands saying goodnight, and starts towards the front door, promptly followed by Logan. With him out of the room, Tony finally lets go the chuckle he had been holding for the past ten minutes, shaking his head in disbelief and emptying the little bit of alcohol still in his glass.
“He saw you, you know?” Steve reprimands him, standing behind him as if he was his own Jiminy Cricket. And in some ways he actually is.
“I know, I know…” replies Tony with nonchalance, but before he can add anything else a cold, not that light slap hits the back of his neck. “Ouch.”, he whines, looking over as Steve goes back to his seat, a can of beer in his hand.
“You’re an idiot.”
Tony is about to reply something witty when Logan’s voice anticipates him, announcing his coming back even before he sets foot in the room again: “Stark! You and me. Now.”
Tony has always liked Logan, probably because he’s the only one who has been able to see right through his bullshit from the very start, no matter how many layers he is hiding under. He knows that he can say literally anything to him, and he wouldn’t be looking disgusted, or hurt, or surprised. He guesses behind around for so many years alive does that to you.
He throws a quick ‘move-from-there’ nod at Steve, who is sitting opposite of him, and then grins at Logan as he makes his way to the table again, opening a bottle of beer with his teeth. Showoff. Steve shakes his head to himself, stands up to let the Canadian sit, and leans against the kitchen counter, muttering mostly to himself: “I should go too…”
“I didn’t do anything…” Tony starts, ignoring Steve, but he doesn’t sound convinced (or convincing) at all.
“Cut the crap, I saw you.”
“I wasn’t-“
“You had that stupid grin of yours on your face.”
“You have to admit, he’s not a great player…”
Steve is really not in the mood to hear them bickering - he’s tired and has got an early morning - so collects his jacket from the chair and starts making his way to the door when Logan’s words make him reevaluate his actions.
“Don’t you think I know that? But you said to make it fair!”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” frowns Steve, going back to the table and trading glances back and forth between the two men still sitting. Now it’s Logan’s turn to smirk.
Tony rolls his eyes and shrugs, but he can’t bring himself to meet Steve’s inquisitive gaze so he just focuses on the cards, starting to thread them: “… C’mon, it’s just that you’re not at our level, that’s all.”
Steve narrows his eyes and stares intensely at him for a couple of seconds. Tony could never, ever look at him right now, not if he wants to maintain his coolness. Even just knowing that his gaze is on him is enough to make his thoughts nonsensical. Does he know the effect that he has on him? Possibly. Does he care? Hard to say, but Tony can feel his body relaxing when the other decides to look elsewhere and sit back down.
“Can I count on you to destroy him?” Steve asks Logan, who is more than happy to nod.
“Yes captain.”
It takes Tony all of his self-control to not let another smirk appear on his face.
∞
The match with Logan goes on for almost an hour - neither of them is in the mood to let their guard down, but admittedly Tony’s attention wanders away every now and then when Steve talks about stuff, doesn’t matter what, specifically. One moment is blabbing about politics, the next about the Yankees and then about the mission he has to oversee tomorrow. It seems that all of a sudden he can’t stop talking, and it’s driving Tony insane. What’s even worse is that even Logan - usually so quiet during a poker game that you could wonder if he is actually breathing - sometimes stops for what feels like minutes to chat with Steve. On a few occasions Tony has to stand up to fill up his glass with ice and more scotch just to get away from the table.
“Jesus, Rogers, can you shut up for a damn second?!” Tony groans eventually, exasperated, throwing him an irritated stare. Steve blinks, surprised and also a bit hurt, or at least that’s what Tony thinks his eyes seem to say. What the fuck did I ju-
“Quit stalling, Stark, do you fold?” Logan asks him abruptly, but Tony is looking at Steve now, trying to find the words to say that he’s sorry. “Stark?”
“Yes, yes…” he answers automatically, realizing only a nanosecond later - as he sees Steve’s hurt face turning into a victory smile - that he has, in fact, been tricked.
Logan stretches his big hands onwards, collects all of Tony’s money from under his incredulous nose, and pulls them towards himself. He fills his pocket and hat with them, stands up and bows in Tony’s direction: “Stark, it’s always a pleasure. Goodnight, folks. ”
“Goodnight, Logan.”
Tony doesn’t say anything, still trying to wrap his head around what has just happened. Not that is that hard to figure out, it’s just… he can’t believe Steve had it in him. He looks at him, his eyes still wide open with surprise: “You son of a bitch.”
“That’ll teach you to not make fun of other people, maybe. And it’ll stop you from thinking that I’m not, as you put it, at your level.”
Tony is not used to lose, and even less to being talked back to. What is happening? How come he never noticed just how cocky Steve could be? He has no idea, but he surely intends to find out.
“Well then, only one way to prove it. You against me.”
“Nah, I’m good, thanks.”
“What, are you scared? So I was right, after all…”
Mission accomplished. Once more, Steve stands up and changes his seat, so that he’s now facing Tony again. There’s a new look of challenge into his eyes, one which Tony can’t have enough of. This is going to be all or nothing at all.
∞
His plan - if you can call something conjured in the space of ninety seconds under the influence of revenge and alcohol as such - is very simple: keep losing until there’s nothing left to lose. Not Tony’s favorite word but hey, the prize will be worth it. And Steve is leaving tomorrow morning, so that’s incentive enough for him to stick with it. But he has to be smart about it, else the other will figure it out soon enough and call his bluff - he hates that Steve is so fucking good at reading him. Very useful on the battlefield but in real life… Tony likes his invisible suit to stay on at all times, or as much as possible at least.
He starts out winning a bit, and then losing, and then winning again. Half an hour has gone by when he decides it’s the right moment to start playing for real. So he places all of his money - which he had won back from Steve - in the middle of the table and calls it, fully knowing that he’s got the losing hand. Steve gives an exultation yell, collects his winning and stands up, ready to go.
“Where do you think you’re going, Rogers?” Tony calls him, beckoning him back with his finger.
“To bed? You literally lost everything tonight, Tony. There’s nothing else you can put on the plate.”
Oh boy, please. I ain’t even started playing yet.
“What about my clock?” he replies, and before the other can answer he takes it off his wrist, pushing it on the table. Steve stares at it in disbelief, his right eyebrow arched in response.
“And what should I do with that?”
“Are you kidding me? It’s not a common watch, you Brooklyn punk. It’s a Cartier.”
Steve rolls his eyes - does this man even know when to stop? - but sits back nevertheless, although a slightly concerned expression can now be read in his eyes.
“You’re a sore loser, you know that?”
“I’m not a loser, honey.” Tony replies, biting his tongue the moment after, concerned he might have given away his plan. But Steve doesn’t seem to have noticed, because he starts dealing the cards again, shaking his head to himself.
∞
Tony keeps losing, and at every hand he slyly pushes a piece of his clothing to the center of the table: first his belt, then one shoe, then another. As he wins yet another time, Steve stops and looks at the man in front of him, now with his bare feet on the chair next to him as if he was sipping a cocktail on a fancy beach.
“I know what you’re doing, Tony, and it’s not gonna work.” he sighs gravely, because those are words which he would rather not say. But he has to.
“What is it that I’m doing, Rogers?” Tony replies, a smirk running from ear to ear. He knew Steve was going to figure his plan out eventually - he’s smart, and he knows him too much to be fooled around like that - so he has his script already worked out. Because the truth is… he’s not the only one with a deep knowledge.
“You’re losing on purpose. So your clothes are… paying the price.”
“And why would I do that?”
Steve shakes his head and passes a hand over his face to cover a trace of blushing that has appeared on the edge of his cheeks. He drags the chair under his weight away from the table, ready to get up, but something keeps him there. He knows what is it - it’s Tony Stark - and wants to ignore it but at the same time… it’s just a game, isn’t it?
“Fine. We’ll finish the match, but that’s it, okay? I’m not going to… pawn my clothes like you.”
“Of course not, yours could be coming from a thrift shop, no offence.”
Steve sighs, goes to the fridge and gets himself another beer, not only to cool himself down but to actually take time. Tony follows him with his eyes, smirking to himself, and deals the cards while waiting for the other man to get back to the table.
∞
As Steve rightly predicted, pretty soon all of Tony’s clothes lie in a messy pile in the middle of the table, so in the way that they have to thread cards on the side of it. Yet he loses again. This is the final straw.
“I’m going to bed, Tony. You’re only wearing your boxers, literally anyone could walk into this room right now and see you like that. I don’t wanna be a part of it.” Steve sighs, and this time he really means it. He throws Tony an admonitory nod before standing up to make his way upstairs.
“Rogers, stop. You should give me a chance to win it all back. I mean, at least my clothes. It’s only fair.”
“Fair? This was all your idea!” Steve yells in frustration, before realizing what a big mistake he just did.
He’s right where Tony wanted him to be.
“Look, you were right, I am a sore loser, okay? So let’s make a pact. Only one hand: if you win, you can say to everyone tomorrow how you made a fool out of me playing poker and how you won all of my money - trust me, these clothes go up to four zeros. That’ll give you the upper hand on me for god knows how long.”
Tony knows Steve is skeptical - hell, he’d be himself if he was in his shoes - but he also knows that he’s not a person to steer away from a challenge, especially if the prize comes with having an advantage over him.
“And what happens if you win instead?”
“Nothing. I get my clothes back and we call it a draw.”
Steve mulls this over for a moment or two - weighing the pros and cons for sure, as he always does before a battle - then slowly makes his comeback to the table, his eyes warning Tony that he’s gonna walk out of the room as soon as he smells something fishy.
∞
The last hand is the quickest they’ve played in the whole evening - because of course Tony was right when he said that Steve is not at Logan and his level, although his game is strong his facial expressions always give him away - and as soon as it ends Steve stands up; wanting to stick to his plan, if he were to guess.
“See? You really didn’t have anything to lose. And I get to keep my dignity” Tony remarks, stretching his hand to collect his clothes from the table.
“Yeah, well… This was fun. And weird.” Steve replies, blinking, and after a brief pause: “I’ll see you in the morning before I go, okay?”
Without waiting for an answer that he suspects won’t come, Steve turns on his heels and walks towards the door. But Tony is quicker than him, having already put down a foot on the pavement, and before the other can make a second step forward he grabs his arm and pulls him to a stop. His body sticks to Steve’s in a moment, like if they were magnets, his hands caressing his chest, his nose rubbing against his tight t-shirt.
Steve sighs deeply, closing his eyes and letting his neck fall backwards as if he was trying to spot something on the ceiling. “Tony…” he whispers, sounding more like a beggar than a soldier right now. His tone tells more than his words ever could, and he hates it, same as he hates his own body responding in such a prompt way to Tony’s touch.
“What?” Tony answers him distractedly, his hands over his abs now, and then his tummy. He goes on the tips of his toes so he can meet Steve’s neck, leaving a trail of small kisses on his skin.
“We… I thought we agreed we should… stop this. It’s not… It’s not good for the team…”
As much as Tony would love to ignore him - why does he always have to talk in the less appropriate moments? - he also knows just keeping his mouth shut wouldn’t work, so he takes a break to reply.
“Ah Steve, that’s not what happened… You talked, I listened, but in the end I couldn’t find a good enough reason to agree with you.”
Steve swallows - he can feel his trousers growing tighter at every second Tony spends on his skin - and forces himself to loosen the other man’s grip around his body, turning in his arms to face him once more. Which is probably a mistake, in hindsight, as Tony is now closer than ever.
“Please, listen to me. We can’t keep doing this. It’s not o-“
“Your body begs to disagree.” Tony interrupts him abruptly, biting Steve’s shoulder over the fabric. He has had his fill with words, he doesn’t want to talk anymore, but all the same this isn’t just about sex, and they both know it. That’s why he looks straight into Steve’s eyes, pulling him forward by the round neck edge of his t-shirt and carries on, spelling each word slowly: “You’re leaving tomorrow. For all we know you could die.”
Which is nothing but the crude truth, and the very reason why he can’t stop.
Steve doesn’t back away from his gaze - he never could, not when they’re so near to each other - and eventually gives a brief nod, those words sinking into him. They look into each other’s eyes for a few more seconds, speaking their own silent language, then Tony gives a strong pull to Steve’s shirt so that their faces are within an inch apart and without saying anything else he starts kissing him slowly, his hand skillfully making his way under his belt first and his briefs after, touching his pubic hair gently before moving more south. Steve closes his eyes, hiding his forehead in the cave of Tony’s neck, holding his breath for a moment as the other touches him, his own hands slipping into the other’s boxers to caress his bum. Tony smiles as he slowly starts to stroke his dick, his name coming out of his mouth without asking permission: “Steve…”
Steve understands - he always does when Tony is involved. He grabs his butt and Tony wraps his legs around his body, trembling with anticipation as the other sits him on the top of the kitchen counter. He keeps kissing Steve slowly, slipping his tongue into his mouth while his hands go unbolting the belt, unbuttoning the other’s trousers, which fall on the floor with no complaints. Steve interrupts the kiss, smiles at Tony and gets rid of his shirt, letting it gently on the chair next to them. They start kissing again, but in that moment a quite noisy thump comes from somewhere outside of the room, making them freeze instantly. They look at each other for a couple of seconds, no more, but it’s enough for them to have the same exact thought.
Tony jumps off the counter, hurries to the table and starts getting dressed again, trousers first, because they would tell the whole story in the beat of an eyelid. When the door opens, his hands are doing the last two buttons up of his shirt, while Steve looks exactly the same as he did during the poker game, only his hair a tad undisciplined.
“What are you guys still doing up?” mutters Logan, dragging his bare feet on the floor, scratching listlessly his hairy chest and yawning. He opens the fridge to take out a beer, which again he opens with his teeth.
“We were just going to bed, actually” Tony replies promptly, avoiding a nonsensical blabbering that he could already sense forming on Steve’s lips.
“Took you ‘nough time…” says Logan, lifting a hand as to wave goodnight before disappearing again in the hallway.
Steve looks at Tony, asking the silent question that is in both of their minds; but Tony shakes his head and smirks softly: “Don’t worry about him. Sometimes his pace is heavier than an elephant’s.” He can read the worry in the other man’s eyes - it’s not hard to miss - and he wishes that he could say something to dissipate his fears, but he can’t, because there isn’t. So he just gets closer to him, leaves a kiss on his lips and whispers gently: “Time to go to bed, Steve…”
∞
Logan waits for them to go upstairs, hidden in the shadow of the hallway; when he’s certain they’re gone, he goes back to the kitchen, grabs another beer and drinks it, looking at the moon in the sky, a small grin on his face.
Summary: A regular poker night takes a very Stark turn.
Words: 3336
Fandom: Marvel
Sub-fandom: Earth-616
Genre: Introspective, Comedy, Slice Of Life, Smut
Pairing: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: One Shot, Slash
Notes: This is for my Twitter friend Jet who came up with the idea of strip poker during one of our nonsensical conversations <3
It also serves as the fourth fill for my Stony Bingo card (prompt "free square") which is on at cap_ironman on livejournal and dreamwidth (and will be until the end of the month). The idea for this fully developed after reading the third volume of Hunt For Wolverine: Adamantium Agenda, in which Logan and Tony have a brief conversation - before Wolvie was killed - about a "secret" (I've uploaded the panel here in case you want to have a look). I've put "spoiler" as a tag but it's not really a big thing in the comic itself (although it is in my mind lol). So basically this is set sometime before Civil War of 2007 - nor you have to have read it to enjoy the fic, there are a couple of foreshadowings throughout but like you wouldn't know them if you're not familiar with that event. The title comes from this song by The Gaslight Anthem called The Spirit Of Jazz.
“This is the last game I’m playing, guys. I’m gonna fall asleep on the table.”
“Oh, c’mon, elf. You can’t just abandon us.”
“I’m serious, Logan. I’m not used to be up this late at night.”
Tony glances down at his clock: 11:00. He smirks to himself, but as his eyes meet Logan’s he quickly stores it away, aware that saying anything out loud will cost him more than just dollars. Checking his cards, he takes a small sip from his scotch and keeps silent, wondering for a moment how improbable is that Logan actually likes this guy. Even ignoring everything else, he’s a priest. And he… he’s Wolverine.
The hand ends fairly quickly - Wagner had made do for the first hour or so, but as time went on it had become clear that he wasn’t really a poker player (or a player at all) despite having spent a lot of his younger years in the circus. When it’s over, he stands up, shakes all of their hands saying goodnight, and starts towards the front door, promptly followed by Logan. With him out of the room, Tony finally lets go the chuckle he had been holding for the past ten minutes, shaking his head in disbelief and emptying the little bit of alcohol still in his glass.
“He saw you, you know?” Steve reprimands him, standing behind him as if he was his own Jiminy Cricket. And in some ways he actually is.
“I know, I know…” replies Tony with nonchalance, but before he can add anything else a cold, not that light slap hits the back of his neck. “Ouch.”, he whines, looking over as Steve goes back to his seat, a can of beer in his hand.
“You’re an idiot.”
Tony is about to reply something witty when Logan’s voice anticipates him, announcing his coming back even before he sets foot in the room again: “Stark! You and me. Now.”
Tony has always liked Logan, probably because he’s the only one who has been able to see right through his bullshit from the very start, no matter how many layers he is hiding under. He knows that he can say literally anything to him, and he wouldn’t be looking disgusted, or hurt, or surprised. He guesses behind around for so many years alive does that to you.
He throws a quick ‘move-from-there’ nod at Steve, who is sitting opposite of him, and then grins at Logan as he makes his way to the table again, opening a bottle of beer with his teeth. Showoff. Steve shakes his head to himself, stands up to let the Canadian sit, and leans against the kitchen counter, muttering mostly to himself: “I should go too…”
“I didn’t do anything…” Tony starts, ignoring Steve, but he doesn’t sound convinced (or convincing) at all.
“Cut the crap, I saw you.”
“I wasn’t-“
“You had that stupid grin of yours on your face.”
“You have to admit, he’s not a great player…”
Steve is really not in the mood to hear them bickering - he’s tired and has got an early morning - so collects his jacket from the chair and starts making his way to the door when Logan’s words make him reevaluate his actions.
“Don’t you think I know that? But you said to make it fair!”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” frowns Steve, going back to the table and trading glances back and forth between the two men still sitting. Now it’s Logan’s turn to smirk.
Tony rolls his eyes and shrugs, but he can’t bring himself to meet Steve’s inquisitive gaze so he just focuses on the cards, starting to thread them: “… C’mon, it’s just that you’re not at our level, that’s all.”
Steve narrows his eyes and stares intensely at him for a couple of seconds. Tony could never, ever look at him right now, not if he wants to maintain his coolness. Even just knowing that his gaze is on him is enough to make his thoughts nonsensical. Does he know the effect that he has on him? Possibly. Does he care? Hard to say, but Tony can feel his body relaxing when the other decides to look elsewhere and sit back down.
“Can I count on you to destroy him?” Steve asks Logan, who is more than happy to nod.
“Yes captain.”
It takes Tony all of his self-control to not let another smirk appear on his face.
∞
The match with Logan goes on for almost an hour - neither of them is in the mood to let their guard down, but admittedly Tony’s attention wanders away every now and then when Steve talks about stuff, doesn’t matter what, specifically. One moment is blabbing about politics, the next about the Yankees and then about the mission he has to oversee tomorrow. It seems that all of a sudden he can’t stop talking, and it’s driving Tony insane. What’s even worse is that even Logan - usually so quiet during a poker game that you could wonder if he is actually breathing - sometimes stops for what feels like minutes to chat with Steve. On a few occasions Tony has to stand up to fill up his glass with ice and more scotch just to get away from the table.
“Jesus, Rogers, can you shut up for a damn second?!” Tony groans eventually, exasperated, throwing him an irritated stare. Steve blinks, surprised and also a bit hurt, or at least that’s what Tony thinks his eyes seem to say. What the fuck did I ju-
“Quit stalling, Stark, do you fold?” Logan asks him abruptly, but Tony is looking at Steve now, trying to find the words to say that he’s sorry. “Stark?”
“Yes, yes…” he answers automatically, realizing only a nanosecond later - as he sees Steve’s hurt face turning into a victory smile - that he has, in fact, been tricked.
Logan stretches his big hands onwards, collects all of Tony’s money from under his incredulous nose, and pulls them towards himself. He fills his pocket and hat with them, stands up and bows in Tony’s direction: “Stark, it’s always a pleasure. Goodnight, folks. ”
“Goodnight, Logan.”
Tony doesn’t say anything, still trying to wrap his head around what has just happened. Not that is that hard to figure out, it’s just… he can’t believe Steve had it in him. He looks at him, his eyes still wide open with surprise: “You son of a bitch.”
“That’ll teach you to not make fun of other people, maybe. And it’ll stop you from thinking that I’m not, as you put it, at your level.”
Tony is not used to lose, and even less to being talked back to. What is happening? How come he never noticed just how cocky Steve could be? He has no idea, but he surely intends to find out.
“Well then, only one way to prove it. You against me.”
“Nah, I’m good, thanks.”
“What, are you scared? So I was right, after all…”
Mission accomplished. Once more, Steve stands up and changes his seat, so that he’s now facing Tony again. There’s a new look of challenge into his eyes, one which Tony can’t have enough of. This is going to be all or nothing at all.
∞
His plan - if you can call something conjured in the space of ninety seconds under the influence of revenge and alcohol as such - is very simple: keep losing until there’s nothing left to lose. Not Tony’s favorite word but hey, the prize will be worth it. And Steve is leaving tomorrow morning, so that’s incentive enough for him to stick with it. But he has to be smart about it, else the other will figure it out soon enough and call his bluff - he hates that Steve is so fucking good at reading him. Very useful on the battlefield but in real life… Tony likes his invisible suit to stay on at all times, or as much as possible at least.
He starts out winning a bit, and then losing, and then winning again. Half an hour has gone by when he decides it’s the right moment to start playing for real. So he places all of his money - which he had won back from Steve - in the middle of the table and calls it, fully knowing that he’s got the losing hand. Steve gives an exultation yell, collects his winning and stands up, ready to go.
“Where do you think you’re going, Rogers?” Tony calls him, beckoning him back with his finger.
“To bed? You literally lost everything tonight, Tony. There’s nothing else you can put on the plate.”
Oh boy, please. I ain’t even started playing yet.
“What about my clock?” he replies, and before the other can answer he takes it off his wrist, pushing it on the table. Steve stares at it in disbelief, his right eyebrow arched in response.
“And what should I do with that?”
“Are you kidding me? It’s not a common watch, you Brooklyn punk. It’s a Cartier.”
Steve rolls his eyes - does this man even know when to stop? - but sits back nevertheless, although a slightly concerned expression can now be read in his eyes.
“You’re a sore loser, you know that?”
“I’m not a loser, honey.” Tony replies, biting his tongue the moment after, concerned he might have given away his plan. But Steve doesn’t seem to have noticed, because he starts dealing the cards again, shaking his head to himself.
∞
Tony keeps losing, and at every hand he slyly pushes a piece of his clothing to the center of the table: first his belt, then one shoe, then another. As he wins yet another time, Steve stops and looks at the man in front of him, now with his bare feet on the chair next to him as if he was sipping a cocktail on a fancy beach.
“I know what you’re doing, Tony, and it’s not gonna work.” he sighs gravely, because those are words which he would rather not say. But he has to.
“What is it that I’m doing, Rogers?” Tony replies, a smirk running from ear to ear. He knew Steve was going to figure his plan out eventually - he’s smart, and he knows him too much to be fooled around like that - so he has his script already worked out. Because the truth is… he’s not the only one with a deep knowledge.
“You’re losing on purpose. So your clothes are… paying the price.”
“And why would I do that?”
Steve shakes his head and passes a hand over his face to cover a trace of blushing that has appeared on the edge of his cheeks. He drags the chair under his weight away from the table, ready to get up, but something keeps him there. He knows what is it - it’s Tony Stark - and wants to ignore it but at the same time… it’s just a game, isn’t it?
“Fine. We’ll finish the match, but that’s it, okay? I’m not going to… pawn my clothes like you.”
“Of course not, yours could be coming from a thrift shop, no offence.”
Steve sighs, goes to the fridge and gets himself another beer, not only to cool himself down but to actually take time. Tony follows him with his eyes, smirking to himself, and deals the cards while waiting for the other man to get back to the table.
∞
As Steve rightly predicted, pretty soon all of Tony’s clothes lie in a messy pile in the middle of the table, so in the way that they have to thread cards on the side of it. Yet he loses again. This is the final straw.
“I’m going to bed, Tony. You’re only wearing your boxers, literally anyone could walk into this room right now and see you like that. I don’t wanna be a part of it.” Steve sighs, and this time he really means it. He throws Tony an admonitory nod before standing up to make his way upstairs.
“Rogers, stop. You should give me a chance to win it all back. I mean, at least my clothes. It’s only fair.”
“Fair? This was all your idea!” Steve yells in frustration, before realizing what a big mistake he just did.
He’s right where Tony wanted him to be.
“Look, you were right, I am a sore loser, okay? So let’s make a pact. Only one hand: if you win, you can say to everyone tomorrow how you made a fool out of me playing poker and how you won all of my money - trust me, these clothes go up to four zeros. That’ll give you the upper hand on me for god knows how long.”
Tony knows Steve is skeptical - hell, he’d be himself if he was in his shoes - but he also knows that he’s not a person to steer away from a challenge, especially if the prize comes with having an advantage over him.
“And what happens if you win instead?”
“Nothing. I get my clothes back and we call it a draw.”
Steve mulls this over for a moment or two - weighing the pros and cons for sure, as he always does before a battle - then slowly makes his comeback to the table, his eyes warning Tony that he’s gonna walk out of the room as soon as he smells something fishy.
∞
The last hand is the quickest they’ve played in the whole evening - because of course Tony was right when he said that Steve is not at Logan and his level, although his game is strong his facial expressions always give him away - and as soon as it ends Steve stands up; wanting to stick to his plan, if he were to guess.
“See? You really didn’t have anything to lose. And I get to keep my dignity” Tony remarks, stretching his hand to collect his clothes from the table.
“Yeah, well… This was fun. And weird.” Steve replies, blinking, and after a brief pause: “I’ll see you in the morning before I go, okay?”
Without waiting for an answer that he suspects won’t come, Steve turns on his heels and walks towards the door. But Tony is quicker than him, having already put down a foot on the pavement, and before the other can make a second step forward he grabs his arm and pulls him to a stop. His body sticks to Steve’s in a moment, like if they were magnets, his hands caressing his chest, his nose rubbing against his tight t-shirt.
Steve sighs deeply, closing his eyes and letting his neck fall backwards as if he was trying to spot something on the ceiling. “Tony…” he whispers, sounding more like a beggar than a soldier right now. His tone tells more than his words ever could, and he hates it, same as he hates his own body responding in such a prompt way to Tony’s touch.
“What?” Tony answers him distractedly, his hands over his abs now, and then his tummy. He goes on the tips of his toes so he can meet Steve’s neck, leaving a trail of small kisses on his skin.
“We… I thought we agreed we should… stop this. It’s not… It’s not good for the team…”
As much as Tony would love to ignore him - why does he always have to talk in the less appropriate moments? - he also knows just keeping his mouth shut wouldn’t work, so he takes a break to reply.
“Ah Steve, that’s not what happened… You talked, I listened, but in the end I couldn’t find a good enough reason to agree with you.”
Steve swallows - he can feel his trousers growing tighter at every second Tony spends on his skin - and forces himself to loosen the other man’s grip around his body, turning in his arms to face him once more. Which is probably a mistake, in hindsight, as Tony is now closer than ever.
“Please, listen to me. We can’t keep doing this. It’s not o-“
“Your body begs to disagree.” Tony interrupts him abruptly, biting Steve’s shoulder over the fabric. He has had his fill with words, he doesn’t want to talk anymore, but all the same this isn’t just about sex, and they both know it. That’s why he looks straight into Steve’s eyes, pulling him forward by the round neck edge of his t-shirt and carries on, spelling each word slowly: “You’re leaving tomorrow. For all we know you could die.”
Which is nothing but the crude truth, and the very reason why he can’t stop.
Steve doesn’t back away from his gaze - he never could, not when they’re so near to each other - and eventually gives a brief nod, those words sinking into him. They look into each other’s eyes for a few more seconds, speaking their own silent language, then Tony gives a strong pull to Steve’s shirt so that their faces are within an inch apart and without saying anything else he starts kissing him slowly, his hand skillfully making his way under his belt first and his briefs after, touching his pubic hair gently before moving more south. Steve closes his eyes, hiding his forehead in the cave of Tony’s neck, holding his breath for a moment as the other touches him, his own hands slipping into the other’s boxers to caress his bum. Tony smiles as he slowly starts to stroke his dick, his name coming out of his mouth without asking permission: “Steve…”
Steve understands - he always does when Tony is involved. He grabs his butt and Tony wraps his legs around his body, trembling with anticipation as the other sits him on the top of the kitchen counter. He keeps kissing Steve slowly, slipping his tongue into his mouth while his hands go unbolting the belt, unbuttoning the other’s trousers, which fall on the floor with no complaints. Steve interrupts the kiss, smiles at Tony and gets rid of his shirt, letting it gently on the chair next to them. They start kissing again, but in that moment a quite noisy thump comes from somewhere outside of the room, making them freeze instantly. They look at each other for a couple of seconds, no more, but it’s enough for them to have the same exact thought.
Tony jumps off the counter, hurries to the table and starts getting dressed again, trousers first, because they would tell the whole story in the beat of an eyelid. When the door opens, his hands are doing the last two buttons up of his shirt, while Steve looks exactly the same as he did during the poker game, only his hair a tad undisciplined.
“What are you guys still doing up?” mutters Logan, dragging his bare feet on the floor, scratching listlessly his hairy chest and yawning. He opens the fridge to take out a beer, which again he opens with his teeth.
“We were just going to bed, actually” Tony replies promptly, avoiding a nonsensical blabbering that he could already sense forming on Steve’s lips.
“Took you ‘nough time…” says Logan, lifting a hand as to wave goodnight before disappearing again in the hallway.
Steve looks at Tony, asking the silent question that is in both of their minds; but Tony shakes his head and smirks softly: “Don’t worry about him. Sometimes his pace is heavier than an elephant’s.” He can read the worry in the other man’s eyes - it’s not hard to miss - and he wishes that he could say something to dissipate his fears, but he can’t, because there isn’t. So he just gets closer to him, leaves a kiss on his lips and whispers gently: “Time to go to bed, Steve…”
∞
Logan waits for them to go upstairs, hidden in the shadow of the hallway; when he’s certain they’re gone, he goes back to the kitchen, grabs another beer and drinks it, looking at the moon in the sky, a small grin on his face.