His eyes burned like desert wind—and sweet baby Jesus, what was that smell? After a swipe at his forehead with his tank top, Tony shook out his arms, rolled his neck till it cracked, and squared his shoulders.
"OK, buddy. I'm going in."
"Sir, I'm afraid I don't understand," said JARVIS.
"Never mind." Face scrunched tight, Tony ducked his head and inhaled a cautious sniff of his armpit.
Wow. Well, that answered that question.
"JARVIS, get this: Priority #1: Caffeine. Priority #2: Shower."
"As you wish, sir."
If he didn't get out of his workshop fast, he'd have to add biohazard clean-up to his list of priorities.
Squinting against the bright lights, Tony clomped into the kitchen.
"Hi, Tony."
Tony held his arms straight in front of him and shuffled, zombie-like, toward Steve. "Brains," he droned. "I need braaaaaaains. Speaking of which, JARVIS, we need to add The Walking Dead to the Steve Rogers pop culture edification list. "
"Duly noted, sir."
Steve's lips flicked into a beatific smile as he passed Tony a mug. What gave him the right to look so unfairly edible, from his damp, hello-I-just-showered-after-probably-running-a-damned-marathon-and-helping-old-ladies-and-stray-kittens-cross-the-street hair to his gorgeous, bare feet?
Sickening. That's what it was.
Tony scowled and pffted at Steve, whose smile merely widened, and gulped his coffee.
He tried to ignore the traitorous flutter his heart gave when he noticed the sunlight coming through the windows painted Steve's hair bright gold.
What he wouldn't give to slide off the geezer khakis his favorite nonagenarian insisted on wearing, nip at a lean hip, and...
"You have enough brains for both of us," Steve said. Oh boy. The Captain America Crinkle of Doom appeared between those stalwart and true eyebrows; Tony was in for it. He hadn't finished his first cup of liquid joy yet, so he checked out of the impending lecture for two sips. "—you need is food. When's the last time you put something in your mouth that—?"
The direction of Tony's thoughts, combined with Steve's ill-conceived word choice, sent Tony choking on his last swallow of coffee. Coughing violently, he clapped his hands over his mouth, dropping his mug in the process. He stumbled backward and tripped, tumbling into something soft.
"Oh my god, Tony. Are you all right?"
Huh. He'd fallen into a basket of what appeared to be laundry. Frowning, Tony looked down. He plucked at the garish red and yellow item of clothing that sprawled over his lap. He blinked once. Cleared his croaky throat and glanced up at Steve, who, with his serum-enhanced reflexes had caught Tony's mug before it hit the floor and shattered. Peered back down again.
Not bothering to hide his grin, Tony blinked at Steve, ignored his outstretched hand, and slowly raised the Iron Man boxer briefs that had landed in his lap. Eyebrow quirked, Tony let the moment stretch thin and taut, plucking it for drama. He licked his lips, pleasantly aware of Steve tracking the motion with his guileless eyes, and pushed himself to stand. Not with much grace, but he'd only had the one cup of coffee so far.
"I'm fine, Spangles. Lose something?" Tony said, sliding his voice into an auditory caress. A gratifying splash of pink flared across Steve's cheeks; slipped over his neck to disappear beneath his shirt collar. Definitely a full-body blusher, that adorable man out of time.
"Clint gave them to me," Steve said weakly. "As a joke." He lunged for the boxers, but Tony laughed and dashed away.
Hiding the boxers behind his back, Tony turned to face Steve, who crowded him against the counter. "But you wore them?"
Steve's shoulders slumped. With a dejected sigh that puffed out the solid width of his chest, he nodded.
"Look at you, muffin. You're speechless," Tony said, letting only the barest hint of amusement touch his words. Tony took a deep breath for courage and went up on his toes, feeling Steve's big body freeze except for his hands. Cool air hit Tony as his tank rode up; made his skin dance with the spark of a shiver. As Tony leaned in and up, Steve's hands settled at Tony's waist: not pushing, not pulling. Just steadying.
"One of us has to be," Steve replied in a delicious rumble, "and everyone who knows you knows it isn't going to be you."
It might have been Tony's admittedly hyperactive imagination, but he thought he felt a single finger-stroke against his skin. A toasty glow filled his chest in response.
Tony huffed a quiet laugh and brushed his fingers at Steve's jaw; timed it to the rapid thrum of his own heartbeat. Hmm. No stubble. "Chin up, Winghead," he murmured, right next to Steve's ear. Steve inhaled sharply. "I could autograph the boxers for you."
Steve gave an outraged squawk, and cackling, Tony ran across the kitchen, the Iron Man boxers tossed behind him. He paused at the doorway. "Right over the crotch," he added, helpfully pointing at the relevant area on his own body while wiggling his eyebrows.
Steve cut him a narrow-eyed glance, hair dipping over his forehead in a rather charming fall. "I hate you, Shellhead."
"No, you don't," Tony singsonged.
"No, I don't," Steve conceded.
"Does that mean you'll make me breakfast?" Tony asked, sticking out his bottom lip and widening his eyes to make himself appear sufficiently non-threatening and pitiful.
"Don't push your luck." Steve rolled his eyes, appearing unmoved by Tony's machinations. "What do you want?"
Tony did a mental fist pump, so Steve wouldn't see it. Ah, the sweet, sweet scent of victory. "Fluffy pancakes and super crispy bacon, please."
"Fluffy pancakes and super crispy turkey bacon. Gotta watch your cholesterol, Tony."
"Aw. Come on. Ever the killjoy, Steve."
"I try."
"Thank you." Tony winked and blew Steve a kiss before he turned away.
"You're welcome. Someone has to make sure you eat."
"I'm glad it's you, Ma, " Tony replied, bouncing down the hallway to see to Priority #2. His day already looked better.
(Sparing JARVIS—fine, not really; he just didn't want Steve and his super soldier ears to overhear him—Tony mentally added a third item to his priority list: imagining the good captain and his biteable ass in those boxer briefs. Paragon of efficiency that he was, Tony decided that hey, he could multitask by completing Priority #2 AND Priority #3 simultaneously. Genius. He was a genius.)
Steve's voice followed him, a warm, smooth wash over his tired body: "Call me Ma again and I'll blend kale into your next cup of coffee, Stark."
Tony reversed direction and returned to the kitchen. "Take that back"—he pointed a finger at Steve and sniffed imperiously—"you heathen. You wouldn't dare."
"Try me."
"See if I finish fixing your suit, then, Captain, my captain."
Steve's lips tugged into a frown that made Tony want to erase it—with his mouth. "What's wrong with my suit?" Steve folded his arms over his chest, accentuating the indecent curves of his biceps; Tony bit his lip to hold back a whimper. Because the man who'd played a starring role in at least 65% of his fantasies since he was a teenager, wore t-shirts he'd likely bought from the little boys' department, probably in a purposeful attempt to test Tony's resolve to not climb his teammate and strip him using nothing but his teeth.
Ugh. Why was his life so deeply unfair? (In his head, he heard a snicker that sounded suspiciously like Rhodey.)
"Nothing." Tony shrugged. "Doesn't mean it can't be better."
"Is that what you were doing in your workshop instead of sleeping? Working on my suit?"
"Yep," Tony replied, popping the 'p' and rocking back on his heels.
Steve didn't respond immediately, just cocked his head and eyed Tony with a thoughtful expression on his face. "Thank you," he finally said. "You do a lot for me. For all of us, and… Just...Thanks, Tony." The words were simple, no doubt, but there was something complex in Steve's gaze that pulled the blood to Tony's cheeks.
"Don't mention it," Tony muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets. He scuffed his foot against the tile before he dared to glance back at Steve.
"No, I think I need to," Steve said, smiling gently, and his gaze flickered over Tony's face.
Tony's breath hitched. He took one step back. Then another, and another. "I, um…" His voice trailed off, and he coughed. "I smell like old cheese. Not the good kind, either. Just the stinky, rank, toe cheese kind of cheese, so yeah, I'm just gonna"—he flapped his hands vaguely and wondered why he couldn't stem the painful torrent of words—"go dump myself in the shower and shower for hours until I smell better. Or stop smelling, period. Yeah. Bye. See you in a bit."
Steve's smile deepened, pushing tiny furrows next to his horribly blue eyes, as if he knew a secret he had yet to share with Tony. "Today you get regular bacon," he said, and it reminded Tony that there were reasons, very good reasons, why Steve was the team tactician. Tony swallowed hard and tried not to trip over his feet as he left the kitchen.
A/N:
This was written for challenge #503 - "dirty laundry," at LiveJournal's slashthedrabble. It got too long for the 500-word limit, though.
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