Chapter Text
Malibu, California
1994
“Here’s the thing.” Obadiah Stane was a mountain of a man, formidable from the shine of his shoes and cut of his suit to the boom of his voice and the huge cigar he clamped between bared teeth. He was a titan of industry, a barracuda in the board room, brilliant and bossy with the sort of domineering personality that left weaker men quaking in their boots.
“My nephew.” Obadiah Stane was a man used to being bowed to, being kow-towed to, sixty years old and sixty years entitled to the full amount of respect and deference he felt he deserved and when he stabbed a meaty finger at the pictures splayed across his ornately monstrous desk, he fully expected the blond sitting across from him to flinch.
The blond sitting across from him at the huge desk didn’t flinch, and Obadiah’s bushy brows lowered in a hint of confusion and then lifted again in the smallest amount of the most begrudging respect.
Huh.
“My nephew.” He repeated with another stab of his finger at the various glossy prints. “Tony. He needed a spanking as a child, a swift kick in the butt as a teenager and now he’s grown into such a diva he needs a solid slap to shake some sense into his fool head, but his parents never did a damn thing to discipline him and ever since they passed, Tony’s gotten even worse.”
“So now.” Obadiah pinned the blond with a look more akin to a glare. “He’s your problem. Your job. You’re being hired as a bodyguard but in reality, you’re going to be a babysitter. A nanny and chauffeur and PR person all rolled into one. You’re going to keep Tony out of trouble and in the inevitable occurrence when you can’t keep him out of trouble, you’re going to take care of it before it gets too big. Deal with paparazzi, break cameras and steal memory cards if you need to. Drive Tony to and from places so he doesn’t end up passed out somewhere unsavory. Physically carry him out of those unsavory places if need be. Do you understand?”
Steve Rogers was every bit as big as Obadiah Stane, bigger maybe if he stood to his full height and straightened his broad shoulders out completely. But where the billionaire CEO leaned forward looming over the desk and commanding even the air in the room, Steve was content to fold his huge frame into the chair, to drop his shoulders and prop an ankle over his knee in a study of casualness as he picked up the array of photographs featuring one Anthony Edward Carbonell Stark in a variety of scandalous situations.
On the surface, Steve Rogers was calm, his blue eyes unbothered and handsome features a placid mask of indifference but as he flipped through the pictures of the gorgeous twenty-something brunette, as he caught shot after shot of Tony’s dark eyes blood shot vacant under the effect of drugs and pink lips lax sloppy from too much drink, as he slowly but thoroughly perused the grainy prints of Tony leaving dance clubs, night clubs, swingers clubs and and finally came upon a picture of Tony on his knees, ball gagged and clearly barely conscious as a Dom in leather held a paddle raised and ready to hit--
Well.
“This filth here.” Obadiah saw Steve pause at the picture from the BDSM club and sneered in abject disapproval. “This is exactly the kind of shit I can’t have get out and into the papers. If Tony wants to be tied up, spit on, slapped around or whatever, that is his business. But when he is public and embarrassing about it, that makes it my business. And this kind of behavior?”
Another sneer. A louder scoff. “It’s degenerate. Disgusting. This is exactly the type of behavior I need you to stop. You can take him to those clubs but you cannot let anyone in to take pictures.”
“Any sort of worthwhile establishment wouldn’t allow pictures inside the club.” On the surface, Steve was calm. Unbothered, maybe. But as he twisted the bulky ring on his fourth finger that marked him Dominant and stared at the way the tears in Tony’s eyes weren’t of relief in a scene with his Dom but of pain and overwhelmed and terror-- on the surface, the Dominant stayed calm and collected but inside his stomach twisted and his heart clenched up furious at the casual, public mistreatment of such a clearly needy submissive.
“You aren’t part of the lifestyle, I imagine.” He said next, calm and unbothered but twisting twisting twisting his ring at his finger until it rubbed the skin raw. “You weren’t the one to introduce Mr. Stark to anything safe or consensual when it came to the clubs he chose?”
“Oh please.” Another sneer. Another scoff. Obadiah puffed at the oversized cigar and rolled his eyes. “No one in their right mind attends those sort of events, it’s all for sex addicts and fetishists. I have to think Tony goes that route as a way to rebel against my expectations, just like his drugs and drinking. He’s spent so much time proving he’s different from his dearly departed Daddy and not a carbon copy of his gentle, generous Mama that he’s gone completely off the deep end onto the other side."
“Hm.” Twist twist twist. Steve thought he was going to throw up. “And how long has Mr. Stark been engaged in this lifestyle?”
“That picture came to light about six months ago.” Obadiah either didn’t clock or simply ignored the waver of tension in Mr. Rogers’s bland tone. “I don’t know how long Tony’s been going to those places, but as of six months ago, half the city knows he prefers to be gagged and that-- that is a sentence I never thought I'd have to say. I had to pull every favor in my bag to get the photo before it went to print in those horrid gossip rags, but you know how fast word spreads through societal circles, the damage is already done.”
“I can’t say I know how quickly gossip spreads through high society.” Steve offered a faint, conciliatory smile towards the heavy handed CEO. “Stepping foot into this office is about as close as I’ve ever gotten to anything fancier than my high school prom and the Army Ball.”
“Right right, the Army.” Obadiah scooped up the pictures and stuffed them all into a folder in the top drawer of his desk. “You know, you came highly recommended from Colonel Fury. He couldn't say enough good about you. Captain in the Army, decorated to the point of running out of room on your uniform, turned down promotions so you could stay with your specific unit, Presidential accommodations and life saving awards-- I hear tell the boys in the barracks call you Captain America when they train on drills you created and run with your elite team. Tell me again what made you retire and turn to civilian life?”
“It was time to move on.” Steve answered steadily. “I did twenty years and they told me to retire before the job caught up with me, I didn’t listen and went another two years and now I’ve got a Purple Heart to go along with all the other medals. Figured that was a real clear sign from the universe to hang up the uniform and get a real life.”
“Well no matter how bratty my nephew is, I can promise he’s easier to handle than the deployments and active combat you saw in all that time.” Obadiah nodded in affirmation. “Do you have any questions for me?”
“Has Mr. Stark always had a full time bodyguard?” Steve wanted to know, and Obadiah made a negative noise, “No, his parents gave him free reign to do what he wanted after he graduated college and since their passing, I’ve only kept light tabs on him. After that picture at the sex dungeon showed up six months ago, I decided it was time to put him a tighter leash.”
“Mmhmm.” Steve only barely resisted corrected Stane on the correct term for the BDSM venue, though he thought if the club was the sort to allow photographs of vulnerable submissives in compromising positions, perhaps it was more of a sex dungeon and less of a lifestyle establishment like the ones he’d frequented since returning from over seas. “And how has Mr. Stark adapted to being constantly supervised. Should I expect any difficulties or hostility from him?”
“Honestly?” For the first time, Obadiah looked a little sad. A little weary. “Honestly, Tony is sober so rarely these days, he might not even notice you’re different than the last four I’ve hired and fired in the past six months.”
“Four.” Steve’s eyebrows twitched up curiously. “You’ve gone through four bodyguards.”
“Four babysitters.” Obadiah corrected with a wave of his hand. “Yes. They’ve either failed to keep the paparazzi away or in one instance, actually sold the photos to the papers. Tony easily ditched the first one in an embarrassing display at a friends wedding, I was humiliated for weeks. The second one quit in a fit of rage after getting a cup of coffee thrown at him and the fourth simply didn’t show up for work after about a week.”
“I see.” Part of Steve wanted to laugh at the idea of a scrappy, bratty twenty-something kid with big eyes and big hair who couldn’t weigh more than a hundred and twenty five pounds driving four different highly trained professionals to complete frustration.
The other part of Steve wanted to tear the sex dungeon club down with his bare hands and break the nose of whatever Dominant had allowed the picture of Tony to be taken and then circulated.
That was not how to treat a submissive, especially not one who was so loudly screaming out for help the way Tony Stark was so loudly screaming out for help in every single one of the photos.
“There is a thirty day probation period.” Obadiah kept talking when Steve went quiet. “During that time you’ll receive the lower end of the pay structure we discussed on the phone. I’ve structured my social calendar to include several events Tony should attend, which will allow you the chance to better observe him in public situations as well as familiarize yourself with individuals you might come into contact with on a regular basis. For the duration of your probation you’ll need to stay here at the house and only use our vehicles to transport Tony around, but once the thirty days is up if you decide to stay on with us, you’ll be given the full range of pay as well as a housing stipend to help cover your rent and we’ll cover any and all expenses should you feel more comfortable driving your own vehicle.”
“The job is a twenty-four seven job.” Steve clarified. “I will be on call or at Mr. Stark’s side and in the vicinity every minute of every day?”
“This house has a built in AI.” Obadiah motioned towards the ceiling. “Howard started to design it before he passed and before Tony fell into his addictions, he managed to finish it. Inside the house, you aren’t required to be at Tony’s side only because he is constantly and consistently monitored and we can program the system to send updates to the computer in your room or to your pager.”
“I see.” Steve held out his hand for the file of pictures, and after a moment of hesitation and surprise, Obadiah handed it back over. Steve flipped through the photographs again, stopping and lingering on the one in the club, Tony on his knees with tears in the corner of his beautiful eyes and slipping down his face.
The photo had no business being printed and certainly no business being passed around, it stirred Steve’s Dominant side up angry to know all four of the previous bodyguards had seen the photo and either not understood why it was so goddamn heartbreaking or simply hadn’t cared.
Steve closed the file and slid the photo out into his lap all in the same motion, handed the pile back to Obadiah and crumpled the print in the palm of his other hand, covering the noise of crinkling paper with a quiet cough.
“So.” Obadiah rapped his knuckles at the huge desk. “How do you feel? I know babysitting a trust fund kid isn’t exactly a glamorous post-service career, but what do you think? Suppose you can handle my nephew?”
“I can handle him.” Steve slid the balled up picture into his pocket and stood to his feet of well over six feet, extending a huge hand to shake with Obadiah. “When can I meet him? Where’s Mr. Stark at right now?”
“He’s been drinking at his favorite night club since three o’clock yesterday afternoon.” Obadiah said grimly. “You’re welcome to take one of the cars in the garage to go and get him. Welcome aboard, Mr. Rogers.”
“Thank you.” Steve took the offered keys and gave Stane a tight smile. “I’ll be back shortly with Mr. Stark safe and sound.”
“Good luck.” Obadiah replied almost resigned. “You’ll need it.”
“Oh I’m sure I’ll be just fine.” Steve turned on his heel and hurried from the office to get to the massive garage attached to the sprawling Malibu mansion, twisting at his ring as he went, his heart pounding both with trepidation and excitement at seeing Mr. Stark in person.
Everyone knew who Anthony Edward Carbonell Stark was, everyone knew the Stark dynasty family who built the bombs and rifles and body armor and the Carbonell legacy who countered the war money by giving away to charity and hosting art galas. Even after so many years overseas, Steve had known who Obadiah Stane was before the man had even emailed him about the potential bodyguard-babysitting job and as he got into the driver’s seat of a luxurious Land Rover and made his way down the circular drive Steve had to wonder if maybe-- maybe he was getting in over his head.
There had to be a reason four different bodyguards had failed, there had to be a reason Mr. Stark was spiraling, self destructing, actively imploding on himself and twenty years of war had given Steve all the necessary gut instincts to know when to just walk away from a hopeless, helpless problem.
But.
The club was awful. Too crowded with too many people in too revealing clothes and too much perfume. The smell of alcohol was enough to make the seasoned soldier choke, the suffocating damp of body heat made his skin crawl and the music was pounding pounding pounding, bass shaking the floor and vibrating at the walls. Lights flickered neon, green and blue and yellow, strobing and flashing and instant migraine inducing. The floor was sticky, the thick carpets filthy, the waitresses in skimpy clothing and the club-goers in even skimpier attire.
Steve hated it. He hated it more when he surveyed the crowd and caught immediate sight of Mr. Stark slumped over barely conscious at the bar.
“Mr. Stark.” Steve pushed his way past the crowds to get to the bar, shouldering his way through the not-sober masses to reach Tony’s side. “Mr. Stark? My name is Steve Rogers and I’m your new--”
“Babysitter.” Tony lifted his head sluggishly, eyes heavy lidded and lips parted over every too slow breath. “You’re my--” long lashes fluttered when he tried to blink and fingernails painted in various chipped colors tightened at the dirty bar as he tried to push himself straight on the stool. “You’re the new um-- my Uncle hired you too--”
He was high. Devastatingly so. His dark eyes were blown, pupils pinpointed until only the barest sliver of black showed within the sea of whiskey brown and flecks of gold, his movements slogged down like he was moving through molasses. Tony flicked his tongue out wetting at chapped lips and squinted as if seeing one too many of Steve standing in front of him and he reeked of alcohol, of sweat and stale cologne-- he was a mess.
He was beautiful, even so far gone and even slurring his words, Tony Stark was quite simply stunning and Steve twisted the Dominant ring on his finger once, twice praying for control before nodding shortly, “Yes, Mr. Stark. I’m the new bodyguard. I’m gonna get you out of here and get you home so you can shower and clean up.”
“Look at you, the new beefcake.” Tony dragged a half full glass towards himself and tipped it back to chug the warm liquid down, uncaring when it spilt out the side of his mostly unresponsive mouth. “You’re prettier than--than the other ones. Bigger too. C-Could bounce a quarter off them All American Titties, anybody--anybody ever tell you that?”
“No one’s ever mentioned bouncing a quarter off my pecs, no.” It had been a long time since Steve had been twenty and newly deployed and smoking weed with Bucky just to see how being high felt. A long time since he’d absolutely hated the feeling and thrown everything up in a desperate attempt to get his body back to normal. He’d never forgotten the experience, never understood how people could be drawn to the unsettling euphoria, the cotton mouth, the out of body eeriness…
…but then again, Steve hadn’t ever seen pain and loss and lost reflected in his or any one else’s eyes the way it was reflected in Tony’s eyes, so maybe he just didn’t really understand at all.
“Come here with me, Mr. Stark.” Steve thought about the picture, the one in the club, the one where Tony had been crying kneeling in front of an uncaring Dom and the memory kept his touch gentle, kept his directions softly firm as he helped Tony up from the stood and to standing. “I’ve got you, alright? We’re just gonna walk right out of here, outside and then into the car and I’ll take you home.”
“G-Good luck with me.” Tony sagged against Steve as they walked, his slight weight barely registering against the former soldier’s bulk, his shoes catching on the sticky floor. “You’re gonna need it. Um. R-Rumour has it-- everyone says I’m a handful. M’a handful, Mr. Rogers. You should probably jussst run away. Leave me. M’fuckin’ mess. I’m a mess. Not worth it, m’not-- worth it--”
“I’ve got you, Mr. Stark.” Steve opened the back of the Land Rover, buckled Tony in securely then set his own coat over Tony to keep him warm. He got back in the driver’s seat and pulled away from the club smoothly, careful not to jostle Tony too much as he started nodding off against the expensive upholstery.
“Don’t you worry.” Steve glanced into the rearview mirror just in time to see Tony half turn and nuzzle deeper into the coat with a heartbreaking little sigh. “I’ve got you.”
*****
Bodyguarding-- babysitting-- Tony mainly consisted of shuttling the mouthy, volatile Stark heir from place to place and waiting around while Tony did whatever he wanted, so for the first two weeks of Steve’s new career, the job was almost laughably boring.
There were the Obadiah-scheduled events in expensive hotel ballrooms where Tony drank bottles of champagne by himself then scandalized the entire gathering by dancing rather inappropriately close with whichever high society matron was wearing the lowest cut dress. Board meetings where Tony kept sunglasses on and snored during stock presentations. Fancy dinners that required tailored suits delivered to Steve’s room in the Malibu mansion because even though he was going to stay in the car while Obadiah ate with Tony and whichever foreign dignitary was schmoozing with Stark Industries, a suit worth more than Steve’s monthly Army pension was mandatory.
The most interesting events were the luncheons at ostentatious country clubs where Steve could walk the green golf course while Tony thoroughly disgraced the usually sedate game by breaking the dress code, taking far too many Mulligans, cursing out loud whenever he missed a shot and then one day to the shock of everyone gathered and absolute delight of the stalking paparazzi, Tony kissed the male caddy square on the mouth whenever he sank a good putt and caused an absolute incident.
“I’m gonna need that.” Steve said calmly, one hand held out waiting for them to hand over the memory card, the other hand clamped down on the offending photographer’s shoulder. “Memory card. Now.”
“You’re the new bodyguard huh?” the photographer grumbled a little but eventually handed the chip over. “Two weeks in, is that right? How are you enjoying working with Malibu’s favorite pain in the ass? Has he taken you to a fetish club yet? We’re all waiting for those pictures to leak.”
Steve didn’t answer. The photographer smirked, “You’re better looking than the other ones. Does that have anything to do with how well behaved Tony has been lately? Two weeks without some sort of front page worthy incident is a record for that brat.”
Steve didn’t answer, but he set his jaw and let his blue eyes cool towards frosty and after a few seconds of unblinking stare down, the photographer audibly gulped. “Uh, could you answer just one question for me then? Just one?”
Steve didn’t answer. The photographer finally ducked away from the flinty blue gaze and bolted for the lobby of the club’s main house, feeling as if he’d very narrowly escaped with his life.
Sheesh, the new bodyguard was intense.
Steve was intense but the first two weeks of his new job were relatively boring. Obadiah kept close tabs on Tony most likely in an effort to not scare Steve off by letting Tony go as buck wild as normal, Tony never so much as met Steve’s eyes when they passed on the way in and out of different venues and for a solid fourteen days, the former Captain thought perhaps Obadiah had overstated the need for Tony to be constantly babysat.
Then.
“At ease, big guy.” Tony got out of the car but leaned in the window and shook his head at Steve as the big blond tried to exit the vehicle as well. “You stay out here. No lookee-loos allowed in this place. Go park somewhere, get a beer or a sandwich or whatever the fuck you want. I’ll page you when I’m done.”
“No can do, Mr. Stark.” Steve put the Land Rover in park and opened his wallet to get the Stark Industries funded card he could swipe at the meter for parking. “This is the first time we’ve been out when Mr. Stane isn’t with us, which means I have to be with you or in your line of sight every single second. I’m going inside with you.”
“No. You aren’t.” Tony was wearing sunglasses again. Always. Steve had thought the constant shades were to hide the visible signs of being high or maybe to help with the come-down of a hangover, but Tony even wore them at night, when the streetlights were dim and the shadows were long and there was no reason for him to disguise anything.
Tony wore sunglasses even when there wasn’t a reason to hide and the implication of it, the truth lurking there in the set of his full mouth and the tension in his jaw just about broke Steve’s heart.
“You’re not coming in with me.” Tony repeated adamantly. “Stay out here, I’ll call you when I’m done.”
“Mr. Stark--” Steve tried, but Tony raised his voice, “I said no!”
“No offense, Mr. Stark. But you don’t sign my paychecks.” It bothered Steve right to his core to go against a submissive’s clearly stated wishes. Not that they were in a scene, not that Tony had even said anything about being a submissive, not that Steve had made any reference or drawn any attention to the bulky ring marking him Dominant to those within the lifestyle, but still.
Still.
“I will be going in with you.” Steve had to remind himself once, twice that Tony wasn’t his sub, no matter how inherently dependent their positions as bodyguard and bodyguarded were. “And you won’t win this argument, so don’t bother trying.”
“Fine.” Tony’s throat jerked when he swallowed, his fingers tightening briefly on the side of the car as if he’d almost physically reacted to the order from the big blond. “Fine. You can come in. But you’ll wait at the bar until I’m done.”
“Within eyesight, Mr. Stark.” Steve reminded him patiently. “At all times.”
“I said no.” Tony was brittle. Anxious. “You can come in, but you have to stay at the bar or I’ll have the bouncer throw you out for harassing me. A lot of things fly in a place like this but-- but they won’t let someone stay who’s harassing me.”
Steve clenched his jaw hard enough to hurt, but finally nodded shortly. “Fine. At the bar.”
He stood at the bar. Tony took different wristbands from an assortment of baskets labeled ‘Identity’ then disappeared from the dimly lit, loudly sound-tracked, couch and mirror strewn main room of the club and down the hall to different doors marked with signs Steve couldn’t read.
Steve stayed at the bar. Waved off the bartenders offer of a shot but accepted a glass of water. Twisted twisted twisted his heavy ring at his finger and kept a close enough eye on the various happenings in the main room to be aware of his surroundings without keeping so close an eye as to be accused of staring.
It wasn’t his business what others came to do in the club. Steve wasn’t there as a patron and certainly not as a participant so what happened in front of him, in the mirrored alcoves on the other side of the room and down the hall where Tony had disappeared-- not his business.
“You here with the Stark kid?” the bartender was every bit as tall as Steve but gangly, limbs long and frame leans and movements loose. His blond hair was shaved on one side and long on the other, the open vest and low slung pants left very little to the imagination on his admittedly gorgeous body and when his blue eyes fell on Steve’s Dominant ring, he flashed an easy, accepting smile and rotated his wrist so Steve could see the words ‘Put Me On My Knees’ inked up a strong forearm. “This is the first time he’s ever brought another Dom with him to these things. Can’t imagine you’re handling it real well, knowing someone else is takin’ him through his scenes.”
“I’m his bodyguard.” The bartender’s nametag read ‘Clint’ and Steve glanced at the tag, at the brazen tattoo boldly black against the tan skin, then back up into the easy smirk and dancing blue eyes. “Not his Dom.”
“Sure sure, that makes more sense.” Clint wiped out a glass and set it along the shelf with the other clean ones. “How long you been with him? At least a month now, huh? Feel like it’s been a month since I seen him in here and the last guy he was with definitely wasn’t as good lookin’ as you.”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss my client’s schedule.” came the mild reply and Clint snorted, “Spoken like a goddamn professional. I like it. Better than the last asshole who tagged along with him. Dude tried to proposition me right here at the bar. No offense to those more petite Doms y’know, but I could’a broke him over my knee without trying so I sure as shit wasn't interested. Not to mention, who propositions someone when they’re workin’? I’m the sorta submissive who’s up and ready and down to kneel in about a half second but not while I’m the fuckin’ clock.”
“Are you this open with all the patrons of this establishment?” Steve asked half curiously, half annoyed and Clint just grinned wide and toothy at him, “Look around at where we are, Mr. Bodyguard. I’m the least open of anyone in this establishment. Just makin’ conversation. You should take it as a compliment. You’re the first asshole to seem half invested in that poor kid, so--”
“What does that mean?” Steve’s head snapped up, his gaze narrowing. “What do you mean, that poor kid?”
“Oh now you wanna talk?” Clint rolled his eyes but his smile stayed friendly, even if it dipped a little at the edges when he said, “Everyone knows the Stark kid’s got issues. Mommy issues, Daddy issues, loneliness abandonment narcissism, whatever the fuck you wanna call it. Kid’s messed up then he comes here and tries to fix it by letting the mean Dom’s mess him up even more?”
He shook his head. “It ain’t my place to say anything and the boss sure as shit isn’t gonna turn away that kinda money but-- but we all know. We all see it. Kids looking for a bruising when he just needs a fucking nap and maybe someone to feed him breakfast. When that photographer snuck in here a couple months ago and took all those picture, I thought Mr. Stane was gonna sue us right into the ground so things have been less intense lately but--”
The big submissive shrugged. “There’s not a whole lot sadder than watching a submissive hurt themselves cos they don’t know how to ask for what they really need. But you know that, don’t you?”
“I…” Steve hesitated, then dipped his chin in acknowledgment. “Yes. I do.”
“I can tell.” Clint set another clean glass aside. “You’re twisting at your ring all intense and bitchy like it’s killing you to be here and not do anything to help.”
“It’s not.” Steve chewed at the inside of his cheek a minute. “It’s not easy, no. But Mr. Stark and I have not even discussed his being in the lifestyle, much less how I might feel about how he handles his scenes. It’s not my business.”
“No, it isn’t your business how he handles his scenes. You aren’t invited so you keep your mouth shut, no matter what you want as a Dom and that level of respect? Makes you a better Dom than half the dicks in here.” Clint sighed. “Still sucks though, don’t it?”
“Yes.” Steve drank the rest of his water, then pushed the glass across the bar for a refill. “Yes it most certainly does.”
*****
It was almost two hours before Tony reappeared from down the hall, disheveled and unkempt and stumbling.
“Mr. Stark.” Steve pulled out a stool so Tony didn’t just collapse sagging against the bar. “Where’s your Dominant?”
“Um.” Tony scrubbed at his eyes, pushing sweat damp hair off his forehead and rubbing at his mouth as if it were sore. “What? What did you say?”
“Where’s the Dom who was with you in your scene?” In the dim light, Steve could just barely see forming bruises at Tony’s throat, at his wrists from restraints, at his chest beneath the unbuttoned collar of his shirt as if he’d been held down or tied up. Tony was obviously coming down from a round of party drugs, poppers or some other fast acting, fast dropping narcotic and he was barely lucid, barely steady on his feet yet he’d come from the room alone and Steve had to swallow swallow a burble of rage and a stomach twisting curdle of sorrow to ask, “Where’s the Dominant from your scene? They should be out here to make sure you’re alright. It's bare minimum aftercare to get you a drink."
“Aftercare. Right. Well. He’s um.” Tony scrubbed at his eyes. Rubbed at his mouth. Fidgeted fidgeted fidgeted with his misbuttoned shirt so he didn’t have to meet Steve’s steely gaze. “He’s-- i dunno. Maybe sleeping?”
“Why didn’t he walk you out here?” Steve demanded incredulously. “Why didn’t he at least--”
“Jesus Christ.” Tony laughed. It sounded like broken glass garbling in the back of his throat. “I’m too strung out for a fucking interrogation. I need a drink. Clint, I need a drink.”
“He needs a glass of water.” Steve shouldn’t have intervened, but he couldn’t help interrupting, passing over his own water and pressing it into the submissive’s hand. “Mr. Stark, you need some water, then we’ll leave and I’ll get you some Gatorade.”
“Clint.” Tony ignored the glass of water and snapped his fingers towards the other submissive. “I need a drink. Or three. Shots. The good stuff.”
“Sure thing, cutie pie.” Clint cleared his throat towards Steve pointedly and made sure the Dominant was watching as he poured half measures of alcohol into three different shot glasses, then topped them off with water. “Here you go.”
“Do you always…?” Steve let the question trail off sotto voce and Clint smiled the tiniest bit, “It’s none of my business what people get up to around here but I’ll be good god damned if I watch another submissive fuckin’ kill themselves just cos they never learned a single ounce of self care, you know?”
“Thank you.” Steve peeled off a couple high-value bills from the wad of petty cash Obadiah always supplied him with, and tucked them in Clint’s tip jar. “I appreciate it.”
“And I appreciate that.” Clint winked. “You need another water yet?”
“I’ll be back.” Tony finished his watered down shots without noticing the absence of the full amount of liquor, and wiped at his mouth again. “I’ll um-- just stay here. You, I mean. Just stay here. I'll be back."
It went against every bone in Steve’s body, even ingrained protective instinct, every learned Dominant trait to watch the submissive stumble out of a scene with no aftercare then throw themselves right into another, but it wasn’t his business and it certainly wasn’t his place to object so Steve kept his mouth shut.
He kept his mouth shut the next time they went out too, when Tony dressed up in a glittery, slinky half sheer blouse and indecently tight pants and when to dance and grind and fuck whichever pretty person caught his eye at the night club.
Steve didn’t say anything when Tony went to the birthday party of one of New York’s favorite socialites and ended up skinny dipping with a set of twins in the public fountain.
The former soldier grit his teeth and clenched his fists and didn’t interfere when Tony came from the back rooms with bruises and sometimes cuts.
And when the loose robe slipping off Tony's narrow shoulders the morning after couldn’t hide the discoloration at his skin and the haunted in his eyes, Steve kept his mouth shut and never said a word.
Sometimes Tony walked to the car after a night out. Sometimes Steve had to guide him out the door and down the street to the waiting vehicle. One time, Steve had to carry Tony from the BDSM club and that time Tony curled into Steve’s jacket, into Steve’s arms and cried out choking sobs and fat tears, shuddering and almost whimpering under his breath with every step.
“Y-You don’t understand.” He hiccupped. Slurred. Didn’t have the energy or strength to protest when Steve bodily lifted him into the backseat of the car and lay him out across the upholstery. “Y-You don’t understand. Why I--I need to be-- kneeling. Why I need-- on my knees. You wouldn’t g-get it--”
“I understand better than you think, Mr. Stark.” Like he did most nights, Steve stripped out of his jacket and lay it gently, maybe even tenderly over Tony’s shivering frame. He smoothed down the heavy material and tucked it up by Tony’s ears, brushing the messy curls away from Tony’s sleepy eyes as he went. The bracelets on Tony’s wrists from the club marked him as submissive, labeled him as free use, noted that he was into pain and degradation and Steve tore them off quickly, easily, shoving the bands into his pocket so he could discreetly throw them away later.
“You’d be surprised.” Steve let himself rub Tony’s shoulder just a few times. Coasted down Tony’s back and knew he didn’t imagine the way the shaky submissive practically whined arching into the comforting touch. “Just how much I understand.”
“You’re a D-Dominant.” Tony’s bleary gaze landed on the bulky ring. “That’s what-- your ring. You never said but. You are. Right?”
Steve just nodded, and Tony’s eyes filled with another round of tears, an embarrassed flush dulling red into his cheeks as he tried to hide his face in the expensive leather seats. “God.” he choked out. “G-God. Don’t look at me. You-- you c-can’t-- a Dom like you would nev-ver want a sub like me. Don’t look-- don’t look at me. M’such a shitty sub and--and a bad person-- and I can’t-- I can't--”
“You’re wrong about that, sweetheart.” Steve didn’t speak again until after he’d gotten the car out of the tangle of downtown traffic and was speeding away towards the relative sanctuary of the Malibu house. Then he looked in the rear view mirror at the tracks of tears still staining Tony’s face and whispered to the sleeping submissive, “You aren’t a shitty sub or a bad person. You just need a Dominant who can see what an honor it would be to help you feel safe.”
When was the last time you felt safe?
*****
“Will you stay?”
Steve had to carry Tony from the Land Rover into the house, from the foyer up the stairs to the opulent suite where Tony rarely slept. He lay Tony out on the pristine sheets and tucked a cool pillow beneath his head, slid off Tony’s shoes and socks then eased the limp limbs out of the stained shirt and undid just the top button of Tony’s tight pants so it wouldn’t dig into his waist if he turned in his sleep and curled up around the pillows.
Steve typed a command into the AI system at the wall to activate the alerts that would be sent to his pager in case Tony woke up panicking or collapsed in the shower in a hangover daze or tried to sneak out alone or anything else, but just as Steve was tiptoeing from the room ready to sleep off the day’s emotional exhaustion--
“Steve.” Tony’s voice was small, muffled in the pillows and timid, thready with uncertainty and clogged with tears. “Will-- will you stay with me?”
“Stay?” Steve repeated carefully. “Here in your room?”
“Just til morning.” Tony pleated the blankets nervously between shaky fingers. “Til sunrise? Nights are-- I don’t like the dark? And it’s-- tonight was--”
He swallowed. Closed his eyes tight and shook his head. “Lost. M’lost. Feel like-- like I don’t-- just stay. Will you just stay? Please?”
“Yeah, Mr. Stark.” Sweetheart. The endearment hovered on the tip of the Dominant’s tongue. Steve knew Tony would melt, knew Tony would sob beneath just a single sweet word and he very nearly whispered it into the dark room. Sweetheart. “I’ll stay til morning.”
“...thank you.”
Steve stayed. He posted up in the recliner chair by the floor to ceiling windows and settled in with hands clasped in his lap and gaze squarely on the restlessly sleeping submissive tossing and turning on the bed. Nightmares came around one am and Tony whimpered into the blankets, night terrors came closer to three am and Tony cried out loud, thrashing on the bed and calling for his Mama, kicking the covers off and sweating until the terror passed and he was left shivering, curled into the fetal position and crying quietly through his dreams.
Steve left the recliner to cover Tony back up, pulling the blankets to his shoulders and fluffing the pillows, tucking him back in safe and warm and hoping the rest of the night would pass without incident.
But when Tony finally pried his eyes open at nearly ten am--
“What are you doing here?” His voice was froggy, rough and raspy. “I don’t--” Tony dug the heels of his palms into his eyes until it hurt, until the pain forced him fully awake. “Steve, I don’t like people in my room. Don’t like people watching me sleep. What the fuck are you doing here?”
“You asked me to stay.” Steve’s heart fell to somewhere near his toes at the immediate rejection, but he hid it behind a careful mask of indifference. “You asked me to stay until morning cos you don’t like the dark and cos nights are hard. So I stayed.”
“I don’t remember that.” Tony was a terrible liar. “And that-- I don’t think-- I wouldn’t ever say anything like that. You shouldn’t be here. Get out of my room.”
“You asked me to stay, Mr. Stark.” Steve leaned forward in the recliner and pinned Tony with a steady look, not judging the disheveled submissive or disapproving, but just… seeing. Just seeing and letting Tony know he was seen. “So I did. Until morning. Because you don’t like the dark.”
“Fine.” Tony looked away, eyes flitting from Steve’s almost stern features to the floor, to the wall and then the ceiling then the crumpled blankets bunched around his legs. “F-fine. Maybe I did. But I wasn’t sober so I didn’t mean it. I didn’t--” Tony was a terrible liar. “I didn’t mean it. Get out.”
Steve left.
Tony stared at the recliner where the Dominant had stayed until morning watching over him, protecting him from the dark and obviously tucking him back in when the terrors got bad and then not leaving until Tony was awake and seen and-- and safe.
Steve left.
Tony clambered out of bed and curled up in the recliner, soaking up the heat from the Dominant’s body and letting tears fall all over again.
When was the last time he’d felt safe?
*****
Chapter Notes:
Boy howdy here we go. Some good old fashioned Disaster!Tony and White Knight!Steve with some Dom/sub dynamics tossed in and a healthy dose of eventual Fuck You Obadiah, You Suck coming up.
I really didn’t think I’d have any super passionate Marvel ideas after Marriage and Mate Chases, but god I am just obsessed with this story. If you read my very first Stony fic “Lost Boy” you’ll recognize some of the same themes, though this one will be a lot more intense. I remember writing “Lost Boy” and then wishing I was a better writer so I could really do the idea/plot justice and I’m super excited to revisit the same sort of vibe for this fic and finally give them the story arc they deserve.
The title is a Peter Pan reference-- Second Star to the Right and Straight On Till Morning. I almost always give Tony-centric stories some sort of Star-theme, whether it’s stars in Tony’s eyes, him being obsessed with space, first kisses beneath the stars, his arc reactor scars looking like a fallen star over his heart etc. The meaning behind the title and the significance of Peter Pan, Lost Boys, and Neverland and the Second Star to the Right will all come into play later on.
This doesn't matter in the grand scheme of things, but I am IN LOVE with Bartender sub!Clint who looks out for Tony as best he can. I'm just in love with Clint. We'll see if he shows back up again.
Cheers to a new fic!