Sunday morning, Steve wakes up by increments. The first thing he registers is the slow, steady throb of the stitches across his forehead. He's a little stiff overall and his hip aches, though not nearly as bad as yesterday. The bed shifts under him and after a minute more of drifting between asleep and awake, he pries his eyes open.

Tony cocks his head and smiles down at him, props his chin on the heel of his hand. "Mornin', sunshine."

The shades are easing back, morning light coloring Tony's skin gold. Steve's responding smile is inevitable, like the sun coming up, breaking from somewhere deep inside him. "Morning," he murmurs, curling his fingers around Tony's wrist. "You watching me sleep?"

A smirk flashes across Tony's face. Steve likes how he can see all the hues of his eyes in this light. "Nope. Figured you'd wake up around now. You usually sleep late after a rough mission."

Steve frowns even as Tony's eyes move to his forehead. "What time is it?"

"Nine," Tony informs him casually.

"Nine?" Steve groans and starts to push himself up, ignoring the way it makes his temples throb. "I meant to be up hours ago, Tony. JARVIS—"

"I canceled your wake up." Tony sits up, swinging his legs around so he can sit Indian style, his hand pressing down on Steve's shoulder. "Fifty-three stitches, Steve, not to mention the hip. You didn't think you were going for a run, did you?"

Steve sighs and lets Tony push him back down, covering his eyes with one hand. He hates missing his run.

"How's your head?" Tony asks after a long silence stretches between them.

The corner of Steve's mouth twitches. "It's throbbing," he tells Tony honestly. "Feels hot," he says, waving his hand over his forehead. "Itches."

"Good. Means it's healing, doesn't it?"

Again, Tony moves, this time scooching so his hip fits into the curve of Steve's side, the heavy band of his jeans poking into soft skin. Then he sets one hand down on Steve's other side and leans over him.

Steve opens his eyes and sees Tony's braced his other arm against the headboard. "That looks awkward," he says.

"It's not terribly comfortable," Tony agrees. "And if I stay this way for long, my back's going to give me hell. The view's pretty great though."

A grin fights to break across Steve's face and he brushes his hand up Tony's side, enjoying the way it makes a faint shiver ripple through him.

Tony dips his head and Steve lets his eyes fall closed as Tony lays careful kisses at either end of the line of stitches before pulling his arm away from the headboard and drawing his fingers through Steve's hair. Steve reaches up to curl a hand around the back of Tony's neck when he finally kisses his mouth, warm and slick and familiar.

When they part, Tony suggests, "Coffee, hm? Coffee and breakfast?"

Steve gives him a one-shouldered shrug and tips his head to the side, smiling. "I dunno, this is working okay for me."

Then his stomach growls, loud and insistent, and Tony falls back, laughing.

Steve's managed to prop himself up on his elbows without wincing too much by the time Tony rolls off the bed and says, "All right, Captain Garbage Disposal. Let's get you something to dispose of before you waste away before my very eyes."

Tony helps him sit and then waits, a warm presence at Steve's knee, while the pounding in his head fades. His hand rests around the back of Steve's neck, blunt fingers toying with the short hairs there. "JARVIS?"

"I have already put the coffee on, sir," JARVIS replies. "I took the liberty of having DUM-E prepare several stacks of waffles and there were no incidents to speak of."

"Thank you, JARVIS," Steve says fervently because now he's starving at the prospect of food and just the faint scent of coffee seeping in under the door is making his mouth water.

"Certainly, sir," JARVIS says, amused.

"Peter?" Tony queries, providing his arm so Steve can lever his way to his feet.

"Still sleeping," JARVIS reports. "He retired to bed at 1:52 AM, so it is likely he will sleep into the afternoon, as usual."

"On the phone with Gwen?" Tony says and hangs on to Steve's hand as he takes the first few hobbling steps, his hip stiff and aching. It fades with each stride and by the time they make it to the end of the bed, Steve can walk without support, not that that makes him let go of Tony's hand.

"Of course, sir," JARVIS confirms. "Video chat."

Tony waves Steve off when they get out into the penthouse common area. "Go sit, I'll bring the chow."

So Steve does and Tony joins him after a couple of loud minutes in the kitchen, carrying a tray stacked with waffles, a bottle of syrup, a stick of butter, and a battered box of powdered sugar with a bowl of carelessly thrown together fruit. There are also two mugs of coffee and Steve gets a hold of his as soon as it's within reach, taking a gulp and savoring the way it sears his throat on the way down.

The morning is lazy and perfect. Tony stuffs Steve full of waffles and sprawls on his lap with a StarkPad after retrieving an ice pack for his hip. Steve watches Saturday morning cartoons, Tony complaining good-naturedly whenever Steve laughs, jostling Tony's head in the process. "I'm trying to be brilliant here," he says, "you're like a human earthquake," and Steve shushes him so he can hear Bugs Bunny take a pot-shot at Daffy. Then he cracks up, throwing his head back as he laughs.

Tony gives up about the fiftieth time this happens and growls, dropping the StarkPad on the floor before turning over onto his stomach and settling in while he complains. "Cartoons, honestly," he says, like they haven't been doing this for the last fifteen years. Like Tony wasn't the one who programmed these line-ups for Steve. "How old are you?"

"Looney Tunes is hilarious," Steve points out for what might honestly be the millionth time. Mickey Mouse comes on and, don't get him wrong, he loves Mickey, but Tony's driving him crazy, shifting and twitching around and over Steve's thighs, so Steve stops him wriggling and kisses him. They neck for almost half an hour before Tony pulls back and drags Steve's hands out from under his shirt, obviously cursing himself as he does it.

"What's wrong?" Steve asks and Tony sits back on Steve's knees, his own knees bookending Steve's hips.

He pushes a hand through his hair and sighs. "Okay, look, Steve, ah..." He sighs again and meets Steve's eyes. "Clint gave me some more of the details about what happened in Cleveland—about some orders you gave—ow, hey, okay, ease up."

Steve realizes he's holding on to Tony's knee, digging his fingers in, and releases his grip with a flash of guilt. "Tony," he starts, but he has no idea what he wants to say.

Tony starts talking in a rush. "Look, what I'm saying is you're clearly compartmentalizing. Which is fine! Coping mechanism, yadda yadda, whatever, I totally get it, you know I do. I mean, hello, PTSD central, here. And I know it's at least in part because, you know, you're trying to protect me—which, adorable, by the way—and Peter, sickeningly sweet on that count, my god, you really are the perfect father; and that's one of many reasons I love you, but you don't have to. Be happy, I mean." He winces a little bit and Steve glances down to check that it's not him, his heart doing strange, lurching things in his chest. He can't tell if it's fear or affection causing it. Maybe both. Tony sighs again and plucks at the material of Steve's shirt, over his stomach. "Not that I don't love when you are, which's why I feel like a bastard bringing it up, but— It's okay to be sad, or upset, or both, or angry or whatever. Let it rip. I'm Iron Man, I can take it."

"Tony," Steve says and his voice comes out hoarse, his throat catching around the word.

"Come on," Tony wheedles, quiet and uncommonly earnest. "You put up with all my bullshit, Steve. The yelling and the squatting in the lab for days and the truckload of crippling insecurities, not to mention my vast and, in Fury's words, 'frankly terrifying' level of paranoia. The drinking. The emotional constipation. My general inability to take care of myself for extended periods of time. My reckless streak. You can stop me any time," he jokes feebly and Steve draws him closer, a pang of anxiety cutting through him.

"Tony, that's not—"

Tony doesn't let him seize the distraction though, he peeks up at him from under his eyelashes and gives a little shrug, his mouth pulling into a tiny smile that wrecks Steve. "Hey, it's fine. We've got complementary PTSD manifestations. We lucked out."

Lucky doesn't even begin to cover it, Steve thinks and leans forward to put his forehead to Tony's chest, arms curling around his waist. He's quiet for a long time and Tony toys with Steve's hair, waiting patiently, until the words finally push themselves out of Steve's mouth.

"Clint added three new names to his list because of orders I gave. Three men died and I put that on Clint's conscience. I made the call, but he's the one who had to pull the trigger. What the hell gives me the right to do that?" he asks at last, intending to leave it there, but Tony keeps looking at him, dark-eyed and sympathetic, his full and unwavering attention fixed on Steve instead of a machine part or a StarkPad or a thousand and one other things, and Steve's nearly chokes on the words suddenly fighting to get out of him. He runs through the full spectrum of emotions Tony cited and then through a few more, ranting and lamenting into the warm pocket between their bodies till he feels wrung out.

When the words finally dry up, Tony squeezes his shoulders and says quietly, "See. Still right here."

Steve lets out an exhausted, slightly congested laugh. "Forehead smarts," he replies.

Tony hisses. "I bet. Head up. Let me see."

Steve lifts his head away from Tony's shoulder carefully, wincing at the way the stitches throb, tendrils of pain curling around the inside of his skull, pricking deeper.

"Yeah, the doc would not be stoked by how those look. Bruce would pitch a fit. I'm gonna get the rub and the pills; JARVIS, time?"

"One twenty-two, sir."

Steve blinks around at the sunny living room and says, "Wow, really?" He scrubs a hand over his eyes and winces as that accidentally pulls on his wound.

"Yes, sir."

"You hungry?" Tony asks, looking him over, and then waves his hand without waiting for a response. "What am I saying, of course you're hungry. Don't move, I'll get us something." He pats Steve's thigh and adds, "Lemme up, honey."

Steve releases him and Tony clambers off, glancing toward Peter's bedroom. "He still sleeping, JARVIS?" he asks, dutifully piling food on a plate once he's reached the kitchen, along with the antiseptic ointment, before bringing it back to Steve. He himself chugs down a pre-made shake. "If he's not up soon our plans are gonna be shot."

"He is still sleeping, sir," JARVIS confirms as Tony kneels on the cushions, squeezing a liberal amount of antiseptic onto his fingers. "Would you like me to wake him?"

"Nah, not yet," Tony says, dropping his gaze from Steve's forehead where he's applying ointment and giving Steve a look heavy with implication. "Give us another hour or so."

"Yes, sir," JARVIS agrees, even as Steve points a carrot stick at Tony and says firmly, "No."

"You don't even know what I—"

"Of course I know what you, Tony," Steve says, biting the end off the carrot. "I'm eating."

"You can multitask," Tony purrs, looking at him from beneath lowered eyelashes.

Steve laughs and says again, firm, "No, Tony. Let me eat in peace."

Eventually, Tony does, in fact, relent and allow him to eat, but by that time the idea is solidly planted in Steve's mind and he can't focus on the food anymore.

"Dammit, Tony," he says and Tony grins, delighted, as Steve pins him to the couch.

"Mm, yeah, Steve," he breathes, the cheeky ass, and Steve is in the middle of thoroughly kissing him, his t-shirt starting to make him feel overheated, when JARVIS murmurs, "I'm sorry to interrupt, but—" And then he cuts himself off.

Tony breaks away and squirms under Steve—not helpful at all—saying, "But what, JARVIS, what the hell."

"I think," JARVIS says, a little hesitant, "perhaps Peter may be oversleeping because he is unwell."

Both Steve and Tony go still for a second and then Steve sees Tony frown at the same time he does. Steve glances at his watch; Tony calls, "Time?"

"Two after three, sir," JARVIS replies and Steve's watch confirms it. He shares a look with Tony.

"Why do you say that, JARVIS?" Steve asks, easing back onto his knees as Tony pulls out from under him into a sitting position, his eyes turning toward Peter's door.

"He appears to have a fever," JARVIS replies and then adds quickly: "A low fever. Approximately 99.8 degrees Fahrenheit."

"You think he really caught something?" Steve asks and he's already moving to his feet, headed for Peter's room.

Tony shrugs. "It happens. His immune system's better than most, but that doesn't mean he can't get sick."

Steve pauses at the door, folding his arms around himself. "Should I wake him up?"

Tony's gaze goes distant as he does some mental calculations. "He's been asleep for twelve hours now. Theoretically, that should be enough, even for a teenager. Could be his body's trying to fight the infection. Give him another hour," he suggests at last.

Steve's not thrilled about that advice. He grimaces and then takes the last few steps in haste, slipping the door open so he can peek inside. It's dark as night and Steve's eyes take a moment to adjust before he can find the lump on the bed that is Peter.

"Relax, Steve. I'm sure he's fine," Tony calls.

But the easy intimacy of the morning is gone.