The tiles are the color of the dress I wore, and as I concentrate on the water droplets working their way down smooth porcelain, I'm aware of your fingers working their way down to the small of my back. We're at the oddest angle, and I don't know how on earth you're able to get your fingers where they are, or how you plan on getting them to the destination that you're clearly intent on reaching.

"You really think that's going to work?" You're Iron Man, not a spider monkey, and yet somehow you seem to think that the single hour of yoga I made you do the other day is going to miraculously work its way into your muscles, turning you into Stretch Armstrong. Maybe it will, but my superior yoga skills and hours of dedication are more likely to give me the upper hand- not you. "Tony, stop. We've got to move- we're going to drown."

"Not happening. Extra shower drains." I'm not even going to ask why there need to be extra shower drains in a stall that wasn't designed for more than actual bathing; and if I don't ask I won't need to be aware that you clearly did what we just did with someone else in the same place. I've spent far too many years of my life pretending those aspects of yours didn't exist, like areas in my peripheral vision that I can't quite make out, or blind spots on the highway. Only when I'd swerve into the living room and run into one of them without pants would I even have to acknowledge their existence, and even then-

"Aren't you-"

"No, Tony." I stare up the plane of my leg where it entwines with yours, the tiny burning bulbs of white lights caught on the wiry black hair that covers your leg. I've always wanted to make jokes about you not needing a neoprene suit under the armor, that your body hair could do quite nicely on its own, but I know you're a bit more sensitive than you'll ever let on. Although when we're tangled up in the sheets and I'm combing my fingers through the thick, wiry hair on your chest you never seem to mind. "I'm not ready to go again. I wasn't even prepared for the first time."

"I wasn't going to ask you that." I'm constantly amazed with the amount of expressions you seem to have that can feign 'hurt' when I know damned well that you're anything but. "I wanted to know if you were still planning to wash your hair."

Oh. I hadn't even gotten as far as working the fragrant shampoo into my hair- the bottle lying just a little to my left. My dropping it had been the catalyst as I recall, bending over to pick it up and finding myself on the receiving end of a rather enthusiastic attempt to join me in the shower. I wondered- belatedly- if you'd planned it all along.

"If I can get back up," I managed to untangle myself and get upright again, bringing the bottle with me and pouring a generous amount into my palm. But you weren't standing up, and for a moment my heart jumped into my throat as you stayed, supine, on the shower floor. "Tony?"

"I didn't mean that hair, sweetheart."

I should have known we'd end up on the floor again, later.