Archive of Our Own ^beta

Of all the ways Tony expected his not-a-date with Steve to end, running into SHIELD hadn’t been out of the realm of possibility. However, running into Howard Stark, looking prim and proper and shockingly sober in a Tom Ford suit? 

The universe is out to get me, Tony swore to himself.

Howard and Steve quickly got into a discussion (an argument, if Steve’s politely masked tone was any indication) about some sort of SHIELD mission or another, Tony’s presence thoroughly ignored. Not surprising, given Howard had his golden goose right in front of him. Tony would have felt far more bitter about being ignored if not for the way Steve’s fingers occasionally brushed against his hand, as if to silently say I haven’t forgotten.  

Tony forced himself to tune out the argument for the sake of his own mental health, lest he do something he would regret (like socking Howard in the face). He distracted himself by examining their surroundings, eyes scanning the bar across the room and the crowd next to it. 

Found the SHIELD agent keeping an eye on you, Howie, Tony thought to himself as he made eye contact with Clint Barton, who was mid-way through drinking some colorful monstrosity of a cocktail. Barton met his gaze and gave him a two-finger salute, then necked the rest of the drink. Then, after setting down his glass on the counter, the archer signed, <need help?> before gesturing broadly towards Howard. Or Steve. Or both.  

Tony gave a small shake of his head, then signed back. <Later. Maybe.> 

Worst-case, at least Tony would have a drinking partner if shit went south. The best type of drinking partner, in fact: the type that knew Tony couldn’t be trusted with a drink and could back up those words with action. A one-night stand with Barton wouldn’t be the worst way to end the night. 

Clint gave him a thumbs up before getting back to his clearly vital task of flagging down the bartender. Tony rolled his eyes and looped himself back into the conversation between Steve and Howard, wondering if they were almost done yet (and whether he and Steve would need to cut their not-a-date night early).

Howard crossed his arms. “Steve, I understand that your friend has been helping you adjust, but SHIELD needs—”

At that moment, Steve swung an arm around Tony’s shoulders and pulled Tony in, openly affectionate. Almost overly so. A niggling feeling in the back of Tony’s mind told him that he should mentally prepare himself for whatever stupid punk plan Steven Grant Rogers had concocted. 

Beside him, Steve gave Howard a bright and too-innocent smile, the poster-child of the all-American model superhero, as his other hand moved to rest on Tony’s chest, right over the covered arc reactor. “Actually, he’s my boyfriend.” 

Scratch that, nothing could have prepared Tony for it. 

You really don’t do anything in half-measures, do you, Rogers? 

Howard’s glare landed on Tony like a jericho striking its target. Tony straightened his back and took a deep breath against the gentle pressure of Steve’s hand, defiant. He wouldn’t bend. If Howard said that Stark men were made of steel, then Tony decided he would be built from titanium. He didn’t weaken, he didn’t rust. And he had Steve’s arm around his shoulders, offering additional support. 

He could do this. He wasn’t alone.

Go ahead, dear old dad. Do it. Call Steve Rogers gay. Call your favorite ‘son’ a queer faggot. I fucking dare you.

“I may be biased,” Steve continued, “but he’s also one of the best parts of waking up in the future.”

Tony felt his face heat up at Steve’s words. Suddenly, he understood what the history books meant, how easy it was to trust the words of Steve Rogers at face value. He had to remind himself that this was just an act, that the words clearly weren’t real. He tried to keep his next exhale controlled and deliberate, even as his heart did a backflip somewhere behind his arc reactor; it didn’t stick the landing well, either. Damn you, Rogers.

Howard’s mouth opened in shock. Then closed. His eyes were wide as dinner plates and his skin paled so fast Tony wondered if the old man would drop dead where he stood. (Not that the universe would be that nice to Tony.) Howard looked at Tony, then at Steve, then at Tony again, and finally at Steve again. 

“S-Steve, I’m sorry, I…  I didn’t—”

Steve ignored Howard as he pulled Tony in, turning so he could pull Tony against his chest. 

Tony loathed missing the continuation of Howard’s reaction, but he “begrudgingly” considered the compromise offer of hiding his still-too-warm face against the well-muscled chest of a supersoldier. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, leaning into the hug. Compromise accepted. Steve further sweetened the offer by pulling a hand through Tony’s hair and pressing a kiss against Tony’s forehead. 

Stars and stripes, Steve Rogers was such an asshole.

And Tony Stark fucking loved it, especially when it shattered Howard Stark like a particularly ugly piece of stained glass. (So what if it broke Tony, too? He could fix himself again, as he always did.)

Take that, Howard.