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Steve likes Tony some more
Continued from here.
It works at first, and then it doesn't. He works out more, but it's pretty tough to wear this body out. And anything other than full-out exertion leaves his mind free to wander, which is just what he *doesn't* want.
It's probably bad to wish for another megalomaniac so soon after they defeated the last one.
When Tony comes down to the gym, Steve thinks at first that he'll be a great distraction, but he stays just as keyed up as before. It doesn't help at all. In fact, when Tony wants to spar, the idea just makes things worse. Maybe it's the similarity to dancing? Anyhow, Steve says, "No," really fast, and Tony makes an exaggerated hands-off gesture and says, "Fine, fine, no contact, I get it," and there's something stiff around his mouth like Steve's hurt his feelings.
He's heard fellows say, "I just need to get laid," to break tension like this, but he just cannot imagine those words coming out of his own mouth.
"Teach me to play soccer?" he says instead.
"How is it you're assuming I *know* how to play soccer?" Tony says, but there's a soccer ball in the equipment room, and he knows more than Steve knows, so it's perfect.
It's fun. Being with Tony is always fun. Steve doesn't exactly have two left feet -- he'll probably never fall over his feet again -- but learning a new physical skill is good for his body and his mind, and it's a fun challenge, keeping the ball going in tiny hops from foot to foot.
Better when Tony tries to steal it away from him, a game of keep-away but with feet instead of hands, Tony twisting and ducking and making taunting comments to try to distract him, both of them laughing. And then everything just goes wrong -- Tony backs while Steve is pivoting, and Steve's groin goes right up against Tony's behind, and Tony throws a wicked grin at Steve over his shoulder and says, "Easy, there. Buy me dinner first."
Steve is ten feet away before he registers moving. "I, uh," he begins, taking another step backwards.
Tony's grin curdles, and he spikes the ball so hard it rebounds almost all the way to the ceiling. "What," he says, "what, what does it mean, why do you *do* this?"
"I didn't mean to," Steve says. The ball bounces unregarded down to the far end of the gym and rolls around under the weight rack.
"You flirt and you flirt, and that is not a problem, that is the complete opposite of a problem, except that the minute it looks like we're actually going to get somewhere, you're --" Tony waves his hand -- "all the way over there, wringing your hands and looking miserable."
Steve stops wringing his hands. "I don't flirt."
"Oh, please," Tony says sourly. He goes off towards where the ball came to rest, muttering to himself.
Steve reels back what happened in his mind, the way his face must have lit up when Tony came in (because his day always gets brighter when Tony is in it), the sheer physical joy of trying to outmaneuver him. "I don't mean it as flirting," he says.
Tony stands there, soccer ball in his hands, looking sort of slack and clumsy like a fellow who was dancing a few seconds ago and doesn't really know why he isn't still dancing. "Why the hell not?" he says.
Continued here.
It works at first, and then it doesn't. He works out more, but it's pretty tough to wear this body out. And anything other than full-out exertion leaves his mind free to wander, which is just what he *doesn't* want.
It's probably bad to wish for another megalomaniac so soon after they defeated the last one.
When Tony comes down to the gym, Steve thinks at first that he'll be a great distraction, but he stays just as keyed up as before. It doesn't help at all. In fact, when Tony wants to spar, the idea just makes things worse. Maybe it's the similarity to dancing? Anyhow, Steve says, "No," really fast, and Tony makes an exaggerated hands-off gesture and says, "Fine, fine, no contact, I get it," and there's something stiff around his mouth like Steve's hurt his feelings.
He's heard fellows say, "I just need to get laid," to break tension like this, but he just cannot imagine those words coming out of his own mouth.
"Teach me to play soccer?" he says instead.
"How is it you're assuming I *know* how to play soccer?" Tony says, but there's a soccer ball in the equipment room, and he knows more than Steve knows, so it's perfect.
It's fun. Being with Tony is always fun. Steve doesn't exactly have two left feet -- he'll probably never fall over his feet again -- but learning a new physical skill is good for his body and his mind, and it's a fun challenge, keeping the ball going in tiny hops from foot to foot.
Better when Tony tries to steal it away from him, a game of keep-away but with feet instead of hands, Tony twisting and ducking and making taunting comments to try to distract him, both of them laughing. And then everything just goes wrong -- Tony backs while Steve is pivoting, and Steve's groin goes right up against Tony's behind, and Tony throws a wicked grin at Steve over his shoulder and says, "Easy, there. Buy me dinner first."
Steve is ten feet away before he registers moving. "I, uh," he begins, taking another step backwards.
Tony's grin curdles, and he spikes the ball so hard it rebounds almost all the way to the ceiling. "What," he says, "what, what does it mean, why do you *do* this?"
"I didn't mean to," Steve says. The ball bounces unregarded down to the far end of the gym and rolls around under the weight rack.
"You flirt and you flirt, and that is not a problem, that is the complete opposite of a problem, except that the minute it looks like we're actually going to get somewhere, you're --" Tony waves his hand -- "all the way over there, wringing your hands and looking miserable."
Steve stops wringing his hands. "I don't flirt."
"Oh, please," Tony says sourly. He goes off towards where the ball came to rest, muttering to himself.
Steve reels back what happened in his mind, the way his face must have lit up when Tony came in (because his day always gets brighter when Tony is in it), the sheer physical joy of trying to outmaneuver him. "I don't mean it as flirting," he says.
Tony stands there, soccer ball in his hands, looking sort of slack and clumsy like a fellow who was dancing a few seconds ago and doesn't really know why he isn't still dancing. "Why the hell not?" he says.
Continued here.