#bodyguard steve

Family day is almost a day off for Steve, Lando securely tucked away from fans or media obligations. Steve is on call, but he doesn't hear from Lando. He watches the dot of his shared location move around the property, drive off for tea, come back. Lando texts him before he leaves for the night and again when he gets home. Steve is almost asleep when his phone pings a third time.

He rolls over, squinting against the brightness of the screen.

Lando: Can we set up a golf outing tomorrow?

Steve stares at the phone. Lando is more than capable of setting up his own golf schedule, so that's not what he's asking. Steve pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs, flips on the bedside lamp and calls Lando.

"I didn't want to wake you," Lando says by way of greeting.

"I wasn't asleep yet," Steve assures him, rubbing at his eyes. "Who do you want at this golf outing?" He uses Lando's phrase carefully.

"Whoever." Steve can picture the shrug, Lando toying with a seam somewhere on his clothes. "Just don't want to spend the day alone."

"Max-" Steve begins.

"Max is busy," Lando interjects. "I already." He stops. "I know it's late notice," he says. "I know this stuff stresses you out."

"The stress is my job," Steve reminds him. "Not yours." He appreciates the consideration, knows, from experience, that Lando can take a "no" well enough when he gets one. But he can hear it in Lando's voice, the comedown. Shame Fewtrell isn't available.

"Don't worry," Steve says. "I'll get it sorted."

"Thank you," Lando says, and Steve can hear the relief in his voice.

Getting it sorted is a bit of a nightmare, really, given the hour, but everyone involved knows rich people and a fair few of them know Lando. The invitation - discrete, succinct, auto-deleting - doesn't go out to the short list of approved recipients until Steve confirms the back nine are reserved for a private party the following afternoon. An eye-watering amount of money is transferred, though still well under Steve's discretionary cap for ad hoc things like this.

Steve gets about three hours of sleep, in the end. By the time he wakes up, there are two RSVPs. Lando would be disappointed with two. Steve thinks again about the argument over how small he'd made the list. He'd won out, in the end, but he'd promised Lando they could add to it when he was able to vet the others more thoroughly.

The closer he gets, the more mouth-watering does Hot and Blond look, even when his face darkens and his eyes narrow in indignation. Does Howard hire these people specifically for how easily Tony can bypass their defences?

A name is stitched onto the dark fabric of the uniform. S. Rogers. Not that Tony intends to use his real name much. He likes his nicknames.

“Mr. Stark is not entertaining guests tonight,” Rogers says instead of answering, standing much more stiffly now. Almost as if he is trying to take the emphasis off his muscles but managing the opposite entirely.

Tony is now close enough to realize that Hot and Blond does not only look tall but has at least a head over Tony. Leaning against a car, Tony looks him up and down with an openly suggestive grin.

“I’m sure he would like to be entertained by you.”

Perhaps Tony should not make an enemy out of the new guy. No matter that his career here will be a short one, considering nobody has the mental strength to deal with Howard and Tony for any length of time. He could still hurt Tony. The ones who believe they will have him easily in hand are usually the first to run to his father to rain down hell on him. Tony just cannot help himself, though. He is tired of Howard trying to control him, of people thinking they own him.

“Sir,” Rogers says with obvious strain in his voice. “I must ask you to leave.”

It might be an unconscious thing, but he widens his stance, eyes narrowing at Tony as if he is already picking out weak points. Tony is the weak point, the whole disappointing entirety of him.

“Oh, don’t be a bore and let me pass. I feel like puking.”

This would be easy to clear up. He could just tell Rogers his name or they could call for Jarvis. That would be too easy, though, and Tony does not like easy. He wants to know what the people around him are made of, how carefully has to handle them. Howard likes to hire those who are already a little trigger-happy before they ever meet Tony. And Tony, well, sometimes he feels as if he is made of gunpowder, ready to blow up at the first wrong move.

So, Tony does not give his name but just turns towards the door like he has already forgotten all about Rogers. It is a good thing he never let Rogers out of his sight because he has not even made two steps when there is rustling and Tony hears the familiar click of the safety of a gun.

It looks strangely hot, the way Rogers aims the gun at him. The muscles of his arm are much easier to look at. Tony could do without the pained determination on his face, however. If he will be shot in his own home, he wants it to be done with glee, not a tired sense of duty.

Tony stops and turns back fully to Rogers, openly amused at being pointed at with a weapon. The guy is trigger-happy then. Nothing in this situation calls for the use of a gun. Tony is obviously drunk and this guy could break him in half without even trying. It would be easy to simply pick Tony up and deposit him outside of the gate. But, no, Tony does not do as the nice man says and gets a barrel pointed at his face for the trouble.

Heart-rate picking up, Tony thinks that now they are getting somewhere. With just a spark of regret, he realizes he is not drunk enough to deal with this in a sensible way. Here he is, ready to be shot only to see if he can push a stranger into firing.

Perhaps people are right when they say Tony is sick. He should not be drawn to trouble like it is a magnet and he a simple compass needle, and yet that is where he goes all the time. Nobody has ever done it, either, actually pulled the trigger. Well, there was that one kidnapping where Tony got hit by a stray bullet. But, generally, people seem to think he is worth more alive and yet they never do anything to make him feel the same.

A smile spreads on Tony’s lips, growing with every thundering heartbeat. Maybe this is what it means to feel alive. His heart is stumbling, his hands are ready to grab something to fight or defend himself with, excitement stirs in the pit of his stomach – or perhaps that is fear. He does not know. Only that there is undeniably some life inside his body, for once more than just in his mind.

“Do you even know how to use that?” Tony asks and quietly calculates how quickly he would have to move to dodge a bullet fired at him at this distance. He would not make it, of course, but he has always liked numbers.

“I suggest you turn around and don’t try me.” Rogers’ hands remain steady, but, to Tony’s slight disappointment, he does not look like he wants to go through with his threat anymore.

People like this hate others being cocky, so Tony simply shrugs and says with a grin, “I like challenges.”

Then he walks forward, noticing the surprise on Rogers’ face when he manages to walk in a straight line. It also has him tightening his grip on the gun as if he only just realizes that Tony is not as drunk as he seems. Well, he is that drunk, but he knows how to pretend. That is one of the few useful lessons he learned from Howard.

“Come on,” Tony says and keeps walking until the barrel is only inches away from his face. He wonders if it would be cool against his forehead. “Shoot.”

Certainly, there are worse ways to die than getting shot in his own basement, drunk enough that he does not care for all the big and small hurts and disappointments piling up in his chest. It would be unfair to Jarvis, though, who would likely be the one to find him, the only one searching for Tony when he does not come home. That is, if Rogers would not proudly tell Howard that he has successfully eliminated a threat to their great estate. Tony wonders what Howard would do. Fire the guy, surely, but maybe give him a quiet bonus too, for dealing with his perpetual problem.

Nothing happens, so Tony takes the time to look. The guy is hot, more so from up close, even with his pinched expression. Tony wonders what he can do with these hands. That one thought sparks a flood of others, building the ultimate plan for revenge.

Slowly, suggestively, Tony sinks down to his knees. The hands with the gun automatically follow his movement, although it appears like the stranger is not quite aware of it. Like that, he looks far more menacing. His muscles are bigger, the barrel blacker. Tony likes the thrill running through him. It is something to feel other than numbness and disgust.

When he leans forward, his hands on his own knees, Rogers instinctively moves back, although he catches himself quickly.

“What are you doing?” he hisses, all amusement gone from his tone. He still does not make a move to shoot.

“What does it look like, honey?” Tony purrs, enjoying the brief panic flickering over Rogers’ face. Not his area of expertise, then.

Rogers freezes when Tony dips his head forward and muzzles at the crotch right in front of him. For a moment, the air is ripe with possibility. Then the man comes to life with a jerk and, suddenly, the barrel of the gun is pressed against the top of Tony’s head, pushing him away. It is cold, and almost as satisfying as Tony hoped.

“Mr. Stark has tasked me to keep everybody out of his home so I must ask you to leave,” he says, his voice rather pressed. Still, his hands do not waver.

The mere mention of his father has Tony rolling his eyes. It almost takes the fun out of this, but then Tony thinks of how they must look to someone else. He on his knees with a gun to his head, Rogers glaring down at him. If Howard found them, he might put that bullet in Tony’s brain himself.

“Of course, he did,” Tony says and does not hide his derision. “Mr. Stark is a raging homophobe. He’d likely fire you because you haven’t shot me already.” He pushes slightly forward against the barrel to emphasize his point. Then he adds, almost as an afterthought, “Depending on his mood, he’d give you a raise if you got rid of me quietly.”

Indignation passes over Rogers’ face, which disappoints Tony dearly. How does nobody see through Howard’s lies, his pretty façade?

“Mr. Stark is not in the business of hiding bodies,” Rogers replies stiffly.

Sharp laughter claws its way up Tony’s throat and it rings out hollowly in the garage. Their entire company is built on producing dead bodies. Granted, they do not have to hide them because people tend to applaud them for it, but the point stands.  

“You must not have worked for him long then,” Tony says and looks up at Rogers through his lashes the way he knows people like.

Tony has not been home for a few days, but he certainly would have noticed eye candy like this wandering around. Which means he might be in the process of ruining this guy’s first day of work. Well, he will probably thank Tony for that, later. The great Howard Stark is only so nice to look at from a distance.

“Get up,” Rogers then orders, his patience running thin.

Tony grins and moves further in, presses his lips against the dark cloth in front of him. “Oh, don’t worry, he’s almost there.”

Tony knows he has gone too far a split second before Rogers moves. It is like a light switching off behind those blue eyes, making them frost over. One moment, Tony kneels in front of Rogers, ready to end his night with a bang, the next he is face down on the hard concrete, a knee in his back and the gun still too close to his face.

“I said, stop.”

For just a moment, Tony regrets his decision. Being pressed down on the floor, everything becomes too real. But then, that is what he wants, yes? Something real. Not Howards endless expectations for him to be someone else. Not the public’s ever-changing and ever-terrible portrayal of him. Not this carved out path that Tony is supposed to follow. Here he is, utterly human and just one wrong move away from getting some blissful quiet in his head.

He does not want to die, but he does not particularly want to live this life either. Over the years, he has done some stupid things, has even aimed a gun at himself. Nothing compares to the real thing, though. The flutter of his heart, the way time trickles so slowly. Tony thinks he can understand why people throw themselves out of planes or climb mountains without safety gear. He is alive only in this moment when that could quickly change.

“I heard you the first time,” Tony admits without showing any regret. This is his home and Howard taught him how to get what he wants – and he definitely does not want guards following his every step and judging him when he comes home too late or too drunk. It might be unfair that this guy got caught up in this ongoing war between Howard and Tony, but there is no helping it.

“Then I suggest you start listening,” Rogers growls, all out of kindness. “I’ll accompany you outside and you’ll leave without making a fuzz, all right? Then I might not have to tell Mr. Stark about this.”

That last thing is mostly self-defence, Tony knows, but that only makes him pity Rogers.

“You have much to learn if you think you can do anything to make the old bastard happy with you,” he says and means it as honest advice. “Fuck me right here or let me back out into the wild, you’re in for a lecture.”

Tony is not the only reason they never keep their staff long. People simply have enough options these days that they do not have to suffer through Howard’s terrible moods.

“He must be used to dealing with groupies,” Rogers says and does not yet make any move to haul Tony to his feet. He could, easily, and Tony would not mind being manhandled a bit if that would not end up with him back on the street. The whole point of coming through the garage was to not wake up Howard.

“Groupies?” Tony repeats, feeling the urge to laugh again, but he does not get enough air into his lungs for that, pressed to the ground as he is. “Please. The only people willing to kiss Howard’s ass are other corporate idiots or gold diggers.”

And the papers, lately, since they have found a better victim in Tony.

“Well, I don’t have to ask which one you are.”

That stings, strangely. This guy’s opinion should not matter and yet Tony has become overly sensitive to these things, if only because no one ever seems to have anything positive to say about him.

“You’re right, you shouldn’t have to ask who I am,” Tony says and wiggles in Rogers’ grasp until he can look up at him. “I hope you made him pay you in advance.”

Although that is never a problem. Howard might yell and throw around insults, but he always makes sure that people are paid, if only to keep them from talking. The new guy might not know that, however, and Tony is done being generous.

“Are you ready to leave yet?” Rogers asks instead of answering. He looks as done as Tony feels. “I can do this all day.”

Oh, Tony will destroy him. He is basically begging for it. With a small grin, he says, “I’m more interested in what you can do all night.”

“Stop talking.” The disgust flittering over Rogers’ face is sadly familiar, but that does not mean he will not crack.

“I know a way –”

Tony does not get to finish his sentence because the man pulls him roughly to his feet and gives him a shove that almost sends him down to the ground again. He groans in protest as his ribs ring with pain at the impact.

It is definitely time to end the game. Tony wants his bed and an Advil to stave off the headache he feels building behind his temples. He turns around to keep Rogers from ruining his own life any more, but does not get farther than that.  

“What is the meaning of this?” Howard’s voice rings out over the garage, already on the verge of becoming angry. Depending on how much he heard, Tony will need more than an Advil to get through the night.

“Sir –” Rogers says but cuts himself off when Howard shushes him. He stiffens briefly, then straightens as if he wants to salute. The gun is back in its holster, and Tony wonders when that happened, but it is probably better for both their sakes if Howard does not know that Rogers pulled a gun on his son.

Tony turns to fully face his father – and show off his rather indecent clothes. They are not too revealing but still not befitting a Stark out in public.

“Just testing out the new guard dog, daddy dearest,” he drawls while keeping Rogers in the periphery of his vision.

The change on Rogers’ face is a revelation in itself. He looks between Howard and Tony, must see the likeness between them, and realizes how gravely a mistake he has made. It all plays out perfectly on his face, all his emotions displayed clearly.

“You are a disgrace, boy,” Howard snaps. These words have stopped hurting around the hundredth time he has heard them. “I should let him throw you out.”

He has done so before. Locked the doors and refused to let Tony in. “But you’re too afraid of which bed I’d end up sleeping in,” Tony replies sweetly. That was a hard lesson for Howard.

He must remember it too, because his face darkens further. “Get inside.”

Since he did not say Get in my office, maybe Tony cat get away with locking himself in his room while Howard deals with Rogers – who stands nonplussed in the background, likely not understanding the animosity between father and son. They are so similar, after all, and yet poised to destroy each other instead of conquering the world together.

“Don’t fire this one,” Tony says and pats Rogers’ chest as he passes him. “He wasn’t going to let himself be bought.”

That is as much of an argument he can offer on Rogers’ behalf. It is unlikely that Rogers will keep this job for long, but Tony does not want to get him fired the first time they met.

“What use is a bodyguard if he doesn’t recognize his charge?” Howard says, the words full of derision, but that is still directed at Tony.

“Well, you always say I’m nothing like a Stark, so you can’t fault him too much.” He should not sound so happy about this, should not reject the Stark legacy so often in front of his father. This is a cage, though, and he will keep rattling at the bars until they finally give.

“Get out of my sight.”

“Gladly,” Tony says and means it. A dismissal is the best ending for this night. Since there is always a little demon riding on his shoulder, however, Tony turns towards Rogers again. “Good night, gorgeous. And do come by my room if you want to get to know me better. Just so we can avoid you mistaking me for an intruder again.”

It is unfair to stab at someone who cannot fight back, not with Howard watching them, but Tony is all out of sympathy for the night.