Oversexed Sickos: Part 2

Steve went into the men's room hoping it'd be empty, but there was some guy using the urinal and some other guy groaning in a stall which meant Steve would be opening his gift (if it was a gift; Steve had doubts) on the john. He claimed his own stall, the one in the furthest corner from the door, and locked it. It wasn't dignified, but he sat on the commode, clutching the little black bag by its ribbons, trying to work up the nerve to open it. He couldn't begin to guess what it was other than wildly inappropriate. Screwing his courage to the sticking place, he plunged his hand into the red tissue paper.

"Ha!" The surprised laugh came out in an explosive burst; Steve dropped the empty bag on the floor and clapped a hand over his mouth just in case there was another one waiting. It was a butt plug, which was a hell of a thing to give somebody in a hospital waiting room, and even more shocking given its appearance. Still in its box, the star-spangled packaging proudly proclaimed it the 'Captain Anal,' part of 'The Indulgers' sex toy line. The plug itself was royal blue, medical-grade silicone and, naturally, featured the shield with its blazing white star on the flared base.

Steve did not immediately know how to feel about it.

It was an outrageous thing to receive, completely absurd, and Tony all over. It was funny.

But not just funny.

And it was the 'not just' part Steve got stuck on. Feeling himself flush, Steve opened the box and slid the toy out in his palm. It was more shocking out of the box than in it; firm and dense, it seemed hyperreal in his hand. After the anecdote about the gas station condom, Steve didn't doubt Tony intended to use this little gift (Not that it was that little, actually. Christ.), but what Tony planned to do with it remained a mystery; Steve had no real notion what Tony might want in the bedroom. As to what Steve wanted, his fantasies had all been tender and modest since Tony's return. Mostly Steve just wanted to hold him, kiss those silvery scars, maybe give that blowjob, soft and gentle.

The object in Steve's hand didn't quite fit that picture.

Which wasn't to say it didn't fit some other ones.

There'd been other fantasies over the years, dreams of Tony begging and swearing in the dark, skin beaded with sweat, hands gripped white-knuckled in the sheets, while Steve fucked him senseless. In his mind, Steve had taken Tony a hundred ways, pinned him in a hundred places, particularly in those early days, when they'd flirted and fought in equal amounts. For years, Steve had been unable to imagine anything more satisfying than shutting Tony up by cramming a dick in his mouth, the same way he'd sometimes shut up Bucky in long nights a lifetime ago. Steve hadn't had a serious urge to shut Tony up in quite a while, but that was only because he'd lost the privilege of arguing with him on a regular basis. With that privilege restored, Steve knew the fights were coming, the funny ones, the serious ones—he suspected the fights might also restore his desire to shove Tony's face in a mattress. Sex would be an interesting new tool for conflict management, Steve thought wryly, turning the plug over in his fingers.

Who did Tony fantasize about wearing it, he wondered. Steve had long ago decided he could be whatever Tony needed or wanted in the bedroom, but if he had his own way…

In a fantasy too vivid for a hospital men's room, Steve imagined pushing it into Tony's body. He could feel himself doing it: the initial firm resistance of the muscle, then the stretch of Tony's body around the bulb, followed by a lingering disappearance until only the shield was visible. Steve's shield, his emblem, on display in the filthiest manner imaginable, marking Tony as his own. Steve swallowed thickly and slid the plug back in its box.

God help him, Steve was pretty sure he would love to see that. To do that.

God help him, as soon as Tony gave him the go-ahead, they were going to have so much sex.

The good drugs were very good indeed.

No narcotics, but Tony got some prescription strength Motrin big enough to choke a horse and something called Flexeril which made him feel like every muscle fiber in his body had been replaced with something sort of gooey. It was more pleasant than it sounded. Drugs were already glooping lazily through Tony's system when Steve took him to the drive-thru and ordered a sack of cheeseburgers and French fries, and an enormous Diet Coke, the kind of reaaaaally big one that had always prompted Pepper to make veiled comments about cancer in lab rats.

"They say this stuff is terrible for you," Tony said around his doubled straws, feeling somehow disloyal to her memory even as he slurped.

"I've read that," Steve said, taking a hand from the steering wheel to reach for the cup. Watching Steve use the same straws made Tony's stomach do a funny little flip. Sharing drinks. As of eight o'clock, they were sharing drinks, which was some kind of relationship milestone people didn't usually talk about, but it felt like a milestone nonetheless. "But," Steve said, sticking the massive soda back in the cup holder, "if we save it for days when you've flipped a car, I'd say the risk is pretty minimal."

"Less dangerous than the car-flipping, anyway," Tony agreed, sinking even lower into the passenger seat as his muscles continued to liquify. He'd feel like shit tomorrow, he supposed, but tonight? Tonight he felt terrific. "So," he said languidly, propping his sock feet on the dash, wiggling his toes over a heating vent.

"So?" Steve gave him a sidelong glance, then redirected his eyes to the road.

"Can we talk about it now?" Steve had refused any and all discussion about his goodie bag until after they'd obtained dinner and pharmaceuticals.

"Sure," Steve said slowly. "What do you want me to say about it?"

"What do you mean, 'what do I want you to say about it'? What did you think?"

"I think," Steve glanced at him again, "that you're a real piece of work. Where'd you get it?"

"At a boutique in midtown."

"A boutique, huh?" Steve sounded skeptical.

"A boutique," Tony confirmed. "Complimentary espresso, fresh flowers, attentive sales staff, the whole nine yards. And they told me you're a hot commodity, Cap. I bought the last one in stock."

"They don't make an Iron Man?" Steve wondered, and Tony didn't miss the little lift at the corner of his mouth.

"Oh, they do. Mine's the next size up." Which, Tony thought wryly, was the only time he'd ever get to say that. "It's called the 'Arse Reactor.' The base glows in the dark. Sadly, it was back-ordered."

"So when's that coming?" Steve asked dryly.

"I was told six weeks. They're produced by a small specialty company in Australia. Be looking for a package from Melbourne with your name on it."

"Right."

The traffic light turned yellow. Steve, lawfully minded and conscientious as always, actually slowed down instead of speeding up, and they came to a stop. Steve turned to look at him then, his face lit up by the red light, and he looked amused, but also…god, he looked…he looked hungry, like he might eat Tony down to the crumbs and enjoy every bite.

"And just what am I supposed to do with it, Tony?"

"I don't know," Tony hedged, his mouth suddenly dry. "What do you want to do with it?"

"I'm open to suggestions."

The light turned green, and Steve's blue eyes turned back to the road, leaving Tony both relieved and disappointed by the division of his attention. He reached for the Coke cup, mouth like the Sahara, and he drank, then chewed the straws as he tried to decide how to respond.

"I haven't had sex with a man in more than a decade," he said finally, the statement sounding a touch more anxious than he'd have liked. He knew Steve heard it, too, because he took a hand off the steering wheel and dropped it weighty and reassuring on his thigh.

"I went more than sixty years, once, you know."

"Yeah?" Tony stuck the cup back in the holder and put his hand over Steve's. It was bigger than his own in every way, wider palm, longer you know what they say about a man with big hands, Tony thought with a shiver, rubbing his fingertips over Steve's knuckles. "What was it like getting back in the ring, no pun intended?"

"No pun intended, huh?" Steve said, glancing at him again. "Honestly? Pretty scary." Steve linked their fingers, leaving their joined hands resting on Tony's leg. "You know there's no pressure, right? Not from me. You don't need to do anything you don't want to do."

"Steve," Tony snorted, "I was so busy wondering how Captain America likes to fuck I wrecked a van. I'm pretty sure I want to." Tony smiled with satisfaction when Steve's face whipped in his direction, brows almost to his hairline. "Eyes front, Rogers. Lots of deer this time of year, and I'd rather not go on another behind-the-scenes tour of the Waterville ER."

Steve's shocked silence was glorious. Tony was pleased he hadn't lost his touch.

"That's not really how you wrecked," Steve said after a minute, squeezing Tony's fingers. Tony could see he was absolutely at war with himself, caught between his high-minded, eyes-on-road ideals and a desperate desire to look back over.

"It absolutely was. I was trying to work out your sexual preferences when I failed to see Bambi tap dancing right in front of me."

"Yeah? And what'd you work out?" Steve asked, voice a little tight.

"Oh, please. Bossy and morally superior? Top all day. You want to pin me like a butterfly."

"I'm whatever you want me to be, Tony," Steve said sincerely. "Ultimately, my preference is you."

"That's sweet, Steve. You're sweet. But I didn't hear the part where you said I was wrong."

Steve lost the battle, then, his eyes moving to Tony, and Tony could feel his gaze in the dark, the heat and weight of it, like a physical thing, sending a hot tingle through Tony's slow blood. "And I," Steve said softly, "didn't hear the part where you said you didn't want me to." But then his eyes remembered military discipline, snapping back to the lane between the painted lines. Tony took his hand back, but only to put it on Steve's thigh. Jesus, Tony thought, creeping his fingers between Steve's legs, they're like hams. I bet each leg is fifty pounds—

"Tony," Steve warned as the fingers inched upward, "we're going to wind up back in the ditch."

"Then stop me." Tony had run out of thigh, so his index and middle fingers took a little walk, stepping lightly across Steve's groin and right down to the semi filling out the front of his jeans. Electricity pulsing through his fingers, Tony raked the bulge experimentally with his nails, and the denim tightened. "You dress to the left, I see."

Steve said nothing, just swallowed thickly, eyes determinedly on the road. Tony tried a stroke this time, dragging the pads of his fingers over Steve's rapidly firming erection, watching for the response.

"Mmph," Steve said, shifting a little in his and gentlemen, we have a did it again, slow, deliberate, the way he'd seen Steve touch himself before.

"What do you want when we get home, Steve?" he purred.

"What do I want?" Steve took his hand off the steering wheel and wrapped his fingers around Tony's wrist. Tony thought immediately that was the conclusion of his little sexcapade, but Steve didn't throw him off, just moved his hand, pressing it firmly against his erection, pushing Tony's palm flat, maximizing contact. "Or what am I going to do?"

"Are they two different things?" Steve was hot under his fingers, thrilling to touch. If he'd felt more reliably flexible, Tony would have leaned over and put his face in Steve's lap, mouthed at him through the .

"Yes."

"What are you going to do to me, Steve?" Tony squeezed his hot handful, longing for his missing right hand so he could touch himself without letting go of Steve's crotch.

"Put you to bed."

"And what do you want to do to me?"

Steve looked over at him again, gaze heavy, voice dropping to a rumble. "What do you expect me to say, Tony? You gave me a new toy. I want to play with it."

Doomed, Tony thought, shuddering deliciously. He was doomed, falling so hard and fast it was making his head spin. But how could he help it? Steve Rogers was handsome, thoughtful, good with little kids and small animals, and he'd just confessed that he wanted to fuck Tony with a star-spangled butt plug. That was the dream, wasn't it? Lady on the streets, freak between the sheets. Pepper, sexy and lovable as she was, had been utterly kinkless. Sure, she'd pegged him a couple times at his request, and she'd probably have agreed to plug him—she'd humored him in most things—but it wouldn't have excited her, wouldn't have left her so horny she'd have let him paw at her behind the wheel of a moving vehicle…

"Okay, stop it," Steve warned, meaning it this time, taking Tony's hand and moving it deliberately across the center console. "You can't keep doing that to me. I really will wreck the car."

"Killjoy," Tony complained, but it was just for show, and he subsided willingly back into his own . He wished he hadn't thought of Pepper, wished he hadn't set Steve beside her in his mind. He didn't want to compare them, and the fact that he just had made him feel like the worst kind of traitor. Sorry, he thought, sending the apology out into the universe, you know I still love you, right? I'd do anything to have you back.

Anything? whispered an evil little voice from some pitch black corner of Tony's mind. Would you trade Rogers for her? A month ago you'd have drowned him in the bathtub to get her back without batting an eye. How about now? The thought was so ludicrously dark it was almost funny; he was fucked up enough without inventing ghastly hypotheticals to torture himself. Really? Tony scoffed. Really? Would I sacrifice the Boyfriend-in-chief for the dead wife? Who comes up with this shit? He shook his head, trying to clear it of the hideous question and all its nasty implications as he stared out the windshield at the falling snow.

They were getting further out of town, civilization giving way to dense forest on either side. The snow was coming down in big, sticky flakes the size of Tony's thumbnail, and it was so quiet, like the volume knob had been turned down on the whole world. If Steve and Morgan hadn't come to look for him, he reflected, he'd probably have been dead by the morning. It was another narrow miss in a life shot full of narrow misses, and he shivered in his seat. A tiny silver fish darted out of the heating vent in the dashboard, swimming hard towards the media console before disappearing again in another vent. Blink and you missed it, Tony thought, wishing he had. He watched the slot where it had hidden, wondering if it would come again.

"You okay? You got quiet," Steve observed.

"Well, I started contemplating my mortality," he replied, leaving out both Pepper and the fish. "Thanks for coming to get me, Cap. I don't think I've said it yet."

"I will always come to get you, Tony."

Tony nodded off somewhere on the long, dark ride, curled up tight in the passenger seat. Steve stopped in the middle of the empty road to retrieve the camel hair coat from the back and cover him up. When they got to the house, he lifted Tony out carefully; the combination of exhaustion, Seroquel, and muscle relaxer had him deep under, and he was ragdoll limp as Steve carried him inside. After laying Tony in the bed downstairs, Steve undressed him, taking off his belt and unbuttoning his shirt, easing off the sleeves. He was struck by how similar it was to the night before, when he'd carried Morgan in from the car, put her to bed, undressed her loose limbs. He hesitated over Tony's trousers but, considering Tony had just given him a butt plug, Steve decided it was within his rights as Boyfriend-in-chief to take them off. When he'd gotten Tony down to boxers and a t-shirt, Steve maneuvered him under the covers, tucking them under his chin.

And speaking of butt plugs: Steve made a special trip back to the car, and then stuck the bag and all its contents in his underwear drawer where no preschooler would ever go; there were things in life a man never wanted to explain. He showered and brushed his teeth, put on his pajamas, wondering the entire time where he ought to sleep. Olivia was upstairs in the master, but he could take the second guest bedroom. He was using it as a studio, and the whole room stunk vaguely of oils and turpentine. Maybe the couch, then. Or…he could sleep in his own bed with Tony. Just the notion made the happy thing in his chest flutter its wings: Tony Stark was asleep in his bed. In his bed. There was the question of discretion, of course, maybe some question of consent, but in the end, Steve couldn't help it. The temptation was too great.

He slipped under the covers then lay awake, studying Tony's face in the cold moonlight from the bedroom window. There was the sloping nose Steve loved so much on Morgan, the long, dark lashes, the smile lines bookending Tony's mouth. Much of Tony's beard had gone grey in the months since October, as had the hair at his temples. It suited him, though, and the new silvery streaks were striking beside the metallic branches of scar tissue. Steve wanted to touch him, lift his hand from the mattress and stroke Tony's hair, put an arm over Tony's waist, rest his chin on Tony's shoulder. Tomorrow, Steve promised himself, tomorrow, when Tony was awake, he'd try it out, see just what privileges being Boyfriend-in-chief afforded.

He was too keyed up to close his eyes; the joyful, feathery thing was still flapping away just as excitedly as it had at the hospital. He'd never thought much about the phrase 'dying of happiness,' but he got it now, finally, after a century. He was so full of love for Tony and Morgan that it physically hurt; it felt like he couldn't contain it all, like his chest might break right open, letting his love spill on the ground in a red flood of blood and tenderness.

He was never going to get to sleep, but that was alright. He'd sat vigil at Tony's bedside before, in secret and in shame. But not this time. This time Tony was really, truly his own, and if he wanted to watch him all night, wait for the waking flutter of his lashes, then he would.

It was too fucking cold, and too fucking bright, and Tony was too fucking high. He'd just wanted to take the edge off, but he'd overdone it like he always did, and now he was twitchy and nauseous. He picked at a hangnail until he started to bleed, self-inflicting one more little misery in a day chock full.

"Stop it," Steve murmured, laying a hand over Tony's. "You'll keep bleeding."

Steve.

What was he doing here anyway? Steve's presence at the funeral made Tony uneasy in some way that was hard to pinpoint. His attendance was wrong somehow. Steve should be…elsewhere, though Tony couldn't think just where it was Steve should be. It was like a word Tony could almost remember, stuck on the tip of his tongue, but…The knowledge slipped away again, flitting just out of his reach, and he let his hands fall still under the pressure of Steve's fingers. He shut his eyes behind his sunglasses, and leaned his head against Steve's shoulder trying to push away the too-high feeling. Then again, he was more focused on his queasy stomach than his dead parents, so maybe he was the perfect level of high.

No…

No, wait.

No, actually, he was going to throw up.

He popped up out of the white folding chair, splashing away from the graveside into the surrounding cemetery. It was such a weird cemetery; there were six inches of icy cold water covering the flat ground, the gravestones and obelisks sticking up like islands in some gothic archipelago. Maybe it was built on a flood plain. Stepping behind a likely-looking mausoleum, he put his hands on his knees and heaved into the shallow water. There wasn't much in it, a bite or two of toast, black coffee. Attracted by the splash, a school of silver fish appeared and began nibbling at the tiny bits of partially digested food. It struck Tony as quite possibly the most disgusting thing he'd ever seen, and he gagged, bile surging again halfway up his throat before he swallowed it back down.

"Tony?" A pair of tall red rain boots appeared in the water beside him. "You okay?"

"Do I look okay?" Tony snapped, then puked again. To Steve's credit, he didn't run, just offered a clean handkerchief. Tony dragged it over his mouth as he straightened, then stuffed it deep in his coat pocket. He shouldn't have snapped. No one else had made the effort, not Bruce, not Rhodey, not Happy, not even Pepper. Where the fuck was everybody? What were they doing that was so fucking important they couldn't bother to come to his parents' funeral? It hurt his feelings terribly, though he'd never admit it. He could feel tears prickling his eyes, itching in his nose.

Steve didn't say anything, just reached for him, wrapping him up in his shielding embrace. God he smelled good, like barbershop and fresh laundry, and he was warm and solid, safety personified. At least there was Steve, even when there was no one , Tony thought with longing, even as he relaxed against Steve's chest. Where was she? he wondered for the umpteenth time, feeling another sharp stab of hurt. Why was it Steve beside him and not Pepper? The Boyfriend-in-chief was good to have, but really, it should be his wife. He was burying his parents, after all, and—

"Are you ready?" Steve asked, starting to pull away from him, but Tony didn't let go. Instead, he grabbed the ends of Steve's scarf, tugging him towards the mausoleum.

"What are you doing?" Steve frowned.

Not thinking of my dead thinking of my dead mother or my AWOL wife. "Come on," Tony murmured low, trying to make it sound sexy instead of desperate.

He wasn't sure Steve would allow it; his blue eyes were worried, the tawny brows knitted together. But when Tony planted his cold palms on Steve's chest and pushed him towards the mausoleum, Steve let himself be pushed until his back was up against the wall, and when Tony cupped a hand over Steve's groin, he was already rock man.

Tony had Steve's coat unbuttoned and fly down in record time. With only a fleeting thought for his suit pants, Tony dropped to his knees in the shallow water. It was absolutely freezing, but in a minute, he was going to stuff his mouth with Steve's hot cock and the cold wouldn't matter at all. Letting his sunglasses slip down his nose, he peeked at Steve over the lenses while he pulled down the front of Steve's boxers. Steve, he noticed, was not smiling, his brows still knitted together. Nevermind. Tony was about to win him over.

Eyelids fluttering closed, he took Steve's cock in his mouth, wrapping his hand around what wouldn't fit, and he groaned with pleasure. He loved giving head; always had, always would, and Steve's cock was perfection: thick, flushed with blood, filling his mouth with heat and the taste of skin, making him drool. Tony needed this, needed it to quiet the grief and the pain and the drumbeat of tomorrow's problems if only for five fucking minutes. He started to bob, sucking wetly, hollowing his cheeks. It was blissfully repetitive and narrowed the world to the quiet space of hot air between his mouth and Steve's groin. The world got even smaller when Steve's hands crept tentatively into his hair, fingers weaving into his loose mop of curls, pulling him closer. Time lost coherency, stretching and compressing by turns, endless and fleeting, until Tony wasn't sure how long he'd been on his knees.

"Tony," Steve panted, tightening his fingers in Tony's hair. A warning.

But Tony didn't need a warning; he moaned encouragingly and grabbed a handful of Steve's ass, gripping the muscle as Steve's hips started to jerk. Steve came in his mouth, salty and sweet, edged with gun . Tony's one regret was that it was over. Maybe Steve would let him do it again later, after the reception. Or maybe Pepper would let him go down on her when she came home; between Pepper's thighs was always a nice place to be. Either way, one or the other of the Blond Overlords would have to indulge him, stay with him in his grand, silent, ghost-filled house, sleep with him in his lonely bed. His parents had died, after all; a little physical comfort couldn't be too much to ask for, could it?

"Tony." Steve had put himself away, and now he was reaching down, hand under Tony's elbow. Tony's legs were completely numb, and he wobbled when Steve hauled him to his feet, but he felt much better otherwise, calmer. He wrapped his arms around Steve's waist, resting his cheek on Steve's chest. His own untended erection pressed into Steve's stomach, hot and needy between them.

"Stay at the house with me this weekend," Tony sighed. "It's too quiet, and I hate it."

"I can't," Steve cleared his throat uncomfortably, pulling away. "That's…it's just not a good idea. It wouldn't be appropriate." The frown was back, frownier than ever.

"What we just did wasn't appropriate, either," Tony pointed out, starting to reach for him again, but Steve held up a hand.

"Listen, I don't think we should see each other anymore."

"What?" Tony sputtered. The words did not compute. Steve was breaking up with him? But…but they'd just gotten together. After all this time. And Morgan…

"I'm moving back to the city. I'm taking Morgan. It just…it isn't working out. I would've told you sooner, but I wanted to support you through the funeral at least, but your behavior—"

"My behavior?" Tony squeaked. "What behavior?"

"Tony," Steve said disapprovingly, as if Tony were playing dumb, "in the past two days, you've been drunk, wrecked a car. Morgan doesn't need to be around that. You've got to get your head on straight. I mean, we just had sex at your wife's funeral. Who does that, Tony?

Tony laughed, a single hysterical bark. "My wife's funeral? No, Steve. My parents. It's my parents. Pepper is—"

"Your parents died in 1991." Steve looked at him like he was a raving lunatic. "It's 2023."

"That's…" impossible, Tony was about to say. It was impossible. Clearly impossible. His clean shave and flop of curly hair were proof enough that it was the nineties. He was wearing a suit with a fucking turtleneck for fuck's—Then, in a moment of heart-stopping clarity, Tony realized it was true. That's why Steve was here, thawed out, and bearded, and forty. That's why Pepper wasn't around. Because Pepper was—

"I'm sorry, Tony. I really am. But I can't be part of—"

Tony didn't hear the rest. His sudden sob was loud and ugly, something between a bark and a gasp, and it caught him completely by surprise. He couldn't get Steve's handkerchief out fast enough, cramming the wrinkled linen tight up against his mouth, as if it might plug the hole that had just sprung in the emotional dyke.

It didn't.

The second sob was just as alarming, and he dropped to his knees again in the icy water, his legs unable to support the crushing weight of grief, and he watched, weeping, as Steve turned his back and waded away through the tombstones.

Steve was sitting up in bed reading. He'd been working his way gradually through seventy years of Pulitzer prize winners; The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay was the latest, and he was just getting the good part: Tracy and Sammy were up on the observation deck of the Empire State Building, and there was no one to see them. Make a move, Steve thought, egging Tracy on in his mind. He's never going to kiss you. He'll never let himself do it, and—

Tony made a sound in his sleep, a sort of pleased sigh, and he shifted under the covers. Steve glanced over, but Tony went still again. He looked back to his page:

"'Don't worry,' Sammy said, 'the whole building acts like one gigantic lightning—Oh.' Tracy's breath was sour with wine, but one sweet drop of the stuff lingered on his lips as he pressed his mouth against Sammy's. The stubble on their chins scraped together with—"

Tony made another sound, more plaintive this time, shifting again, like he couldn't get comfortable. Steve had a little gooseneck light that clipped to the cover of his book, and he angled it towards Tony, trying to read his expression, but Tony's face was turned away. Steve waited, watching; the noise and the movement came again, distinctly uneasy. Dreaming, Steve figured, and maybe not that sweetly; whatever was going on over there didn't seem entirely pleasant. Steve debated waking him up, but Tony needed the sleep, and who had good dreams after a car accident? Tony's shifting continued, little unsettled movements of hips, little plaintive sighs—

"Huh." The late recognition of exactly what Steve was witnessing struck him in the gut, forcing out a surprised puff of air. I'm having wet dreams, Tony had said. At fifty-three. Because I can't—

Steve didn't know what to do. Now that he was looking for it, he could plainly see Tony's erection under the covers. There was no painless way out of the situation, not that Steve could see. The question was, which was more embarrassing: somebody waking you up mid-dream and full-mast, or finding yourself sticky in someone else's bed? It was an impossible dilemma—

Tony gasped. For a second, Steve thought he'd waited too late to choose and sticky was now the foregone conclusion, but then Tony gasped again, and then he started to cry, soft and pitifully sad, and there was absolutely no question of it continuing. Steve threw his book over the side of the bed and reached for Tony's shoulder, shaking it.

"Tony," he said, but the drugs and the dream had him buried. "Tony," Steve said louder, shaking harder, trying to get him up to the surface. "Tony, wake up. It's a dream, Tony. It isn't real. Tony? Tony—"

Tony came awake with a wail, his eyes enormous and uncomprehending, like some terrified beast.

"Hey, hey," Steve pulled him to his chest, "it's alright, Tony. It—"

Tony gasped against him, once, twice, then started to cry. "You dumped me," he choked, broken-hearted. "You dumped me. At my parents' funeral. Only it wasn't. It wasn't—" he broke off, sucking air through gritted teeth.

"Shh," Steve soothed him, rubbing up and down his spine. "I'm right here. I'm—"

He didn't get to finish. Tony kissed him, wet and desperate, crying into Steve's mouth until he was too breathless to continue, and then he wrenched away, panting in Steve's ear. Steve could feel Tony's chest heaving against his own, the labored breathing painfully fast. It reminded Steve of every asthma attack he'd ever had; Tony couldn't possibly be getting enough air like that.

"Easy," Steve murmured, breathless himself. "Take it easy. Hey." He found Tony's hand under the covers and pressed it flat to his chest, then took a breath, nice and slow. And then he did it again. And again. Until gradually, stutteringly, Tony's breathing slowed to match, and his terrified eyes turned human again. "You okay?"

"Yeah. No. Not really. No. Shit." He rolled onto his back to address the ceiling. "Shit."

"You want to talk about it?"

"No," he said reflexively. "I don't know. Yes. I gave you a blow job behind a mausoleum at my parent's funeral," he said, still looking at the ceiling. "At least I thought it was for my parents, but it was really for Pepper. And then you dumped me because I'm an inappropriate, out-of-control pervert, and you told me you were taking the kid and moving back to Brooklyn so I could pervert alone in the woods."

"Oh, Tony, never." Steve reached for him again, and was relieved when Tony accepted the affection, allowing himself to be held, rubbing his cheek against Steve's chest.

"But it was so weird, Steve," he continued. "So weird. The cemetery was flooded, and there were fish, and—Oh. Oh, no," he groaned. "I just got it. I just got the fucking joke. Wet. It was literally a wet dream. I knew some of those obelisks were too phallic. Like, I think a couple of them had veins—" he shook his head, disgusted, though Steve couldn't immediately tell if he was disappointed with the dream generally or just the quality of the humor.

"You having a lot of dreams like that?" Steve asked gently.

"Like what?" Tony snorted. "Like dreams where I suck your cock? Sadly, no."

"I meant dreams about Pepper," Steve corrected, feeling himself blush.

"In that case, sadly yes. Sure. Constantly. Slo-mo replays of her agonizing death are popular with the programmers. And there's one where she's floating dead in the water with a bunch of fish and flowers like the fucking Lady of Shalott. But this was my psyche's first attempt to smash together a sex dream with the death of my parents-slash-wife." He scrubbed a hand over his face. "You're a grief counselor. Grief counsel me for a second: guilt, right? This is guilt? The sex at the funeral. You dumping me after. I feel guilty about—" He gestured vaguely towards Steve.

"Probably," Steve agreed. "Guilt is very common in surviving partners, but it's not rational. You aren't doing anything wrong." Steve tightened his arm over Tony's chest, "This. You and me. It doesn't mean you love her any less. It doesn't mean you've forgotten, or that you're done grieving, or you're moving on, or anything else. But you're allowed to have this, too."

"It doesn't feel like it."

"I know it doesn't."

Tony was quiet a long time; Steve wished he knew better what he might be thinking, knew better how to comfort him.

"I don't think I can go back to sleep," Tony said finally, sitting up. Steve sat up, too. "I'm just going to watch TV or something. You don't have to get up with me," he protested.

"I know. But I want to."

Tony flipped through cable channels: QVC, History, ScyFy. Why did he even have cable when he didn't watch ninety percent of the channels? The obvious answer was live sports, but the real answer was that he was fucking old. Nobody under the age of forty had cable. It was just another marker of his rapid decline.

He sighed, flipping to the next channel: Cinemax. Or, at this time of night, Skinemax. Amazing, really, that they were still running shitty, almost-but-not-quite porn on television when any given third grader could whip out a cell phone and see the hardest of hardcore in a couple of clicks. But then again, here he was, watching it. The wafer-thin plot involved a very beautiful male escort taking out an equally beautiful female client. Tony was pretty sure they'd be stripping off their clothes and soft-focus humping in about five minutes; he decided to let it ride, just to see how long it took Steve to notice what he was watching.

Steve was curled up beside him on the sofa, blond head against Tony's knobby knee, arm over a cat, completely absorbed by his library book. He read a shocking amount, really, a book a week at least, and not trashy mystery/thrillers like Pepper. These were real books: literature, history, science. Maybe he could read faster than the average bear; it seemed possible the serum endowed him with speed reading abilities. Easy enough to find out. Tony waited for Steve to turn a page, then: "Steve, what time is it?"

Steve glanced at his field watch, "2:15," and went right back to reading. Tony waited until he turned another.

"Steve, what time is it now?"

"2:20."

Two and a half minutes per page. Just your average, everyday bookworm, then, nothing super about it. On screen, the escort and his client were swimming in a private pool. Tony had never seen boardshorts that small in real life, and he'd lived in Malibu. Steve would look good in them, he thought idly. Drops of pool water would get caught in his chest hair, very Sean Connery in Dr No. Pepper would be scrumptious in that itty bitty bikini, though it was all one-pieces post-pregnancy because of the stretch marks no matter how many times Tony told her how sexy she–Stop it, he thought.

Tony was in a weird mood: miserable and vaguely frustrated. His panty-tossing happiness from the van-ride had disappeared, lost somewhere along with his cellphone. He'd found it briefly at the hospital, but it had slipped his fingers again on the long ride home, and now the dream had fucked him up royally. He'd crammed that memory in the 'ole psychic burn barrel more times than he could count, but the damn thing was made of asbestos and wouldn't catch. That the sordid little episode was now standing in for Pepper's missed memorial service was unbearable.

"Tell me about the funeral." The escort was sensuously kissing his client's erect nipples through her bikini top while grinding on top of her in a deck chair. Steve had yet to bat an eye,

"Hmm?" Steve said vaguely, nose still between his pages.

Tony switched off the television. "I said I want you to tell me about Pepper's funeral."

Slowly, Steve closed his book and sat up. Monty, offended by his heater's change in position, leapt onto the floor and disappeared. "What do you want me to tell you?"

"I don't know. Just…paint me a general picture. When I think about it, I want to see how it was and not my own nightmares."

Steve nodded, then rubbed his beard considering, "It was a pretty day," he began. "Sunny. Not too cold, but windy up on that hill. You've been there, right?"

"No, actually." Pepper had picked the natural burial ground on her own. She'd gone on a mad will-updating spree at some point, moving their final resting places from California, and he'd told her in no uncertain terms he didn't want to be in the family plot. ("I can't show my face there, Pep," he'd said. "I'd rather die a thousand deaths." "You'd already be dead, Tony.")

"Well, it's beautiful," Steve continued. "There's no headstones or anything; it doesn't feel like a graveyard. It's just, you know, a meadow, up on top of a hill, with woods all around. It was all seed heads in November, but in the spring it'll be covered in flowers."

"Who was there?"

"Everybody. Or, well, all of us, anyway. There were some people there from her family, too. I'm sure they introduced themselves, but–" he shrugged.

"Who from SHIELD? Fury?"

"Yeah. And Hill and Coulson." Tony nodded; Pepper had liked Coulson.

"How'd Morgan take it?"

"Okay, I guess. She was shy with all the people she didn't know."

"Did she cry?"

"A little. When I did. I'm not sure how much she understood what we were doing." Steve Rogers shedding a couple of manly tears in his off-the-rack suit. Morgan in his arms wearing that black velvet dress with the white collar. Tony could see them so clearly in his mind. He was so glad he hadn't been there, and he'd never forgive himself for missing it. He wondered sometimes if he'd sort of missed it on purpose, dicking around Coma-world, walking backwards and chasing minnows.

"I thought of waiting," Steve said, "until we knew what you were going to do. But it felt like too much all at once if we had to bury the both of you together. Too much for Morgan. Too much for me, really…" He shook his head. It didn't seem to bear thinking about, and it had not come to pass. "I couldn't do it, Tony. Maybe I should have."

"No. I hate funerals; I would've been a mess. When my parents…that funeral. I was so high. I barely knew what was going on, and I wanted it that way. And I—" He licked over his split lip, then admitted the secret shame that had been eating at some corner of his mind for decades: "I had sex with my girlfriend during the graveside service. Out in the cemetery. And then she broke up with me. Right there. On the spot. Not that I blame her; I was a dick. I'm sure she didn't really want to, but she wasn't willing to cause a scene. I don't know what I was thinking." Even after thirty years, the embarrassment was as fresh and sharp as a paper cut served with a slice of lemon. He looked down at his hand, wanting to toy with his wedding band so he didn't have to look at Steve, but the ring wasn't there, just a thin stripe of pale skin.

"Morgan didn't let me put her down at the funeral. She wanted to be in my arms the whole time." Tony could tell by his sympathetic tone that it wasn't a non-sequitur.

"Well, that's kids," Tony said, not sure he understood the anecdote.

"That's just my point: you were a kid."

"No," Tony snorted. "I was gross."

"You were looking for comfort. Maybe not in the right place, but—"

"That is a very charitable take on events. Are you redefining my whole playboy period as 'looking for comfort in the wrong places'?" Tony asked sarcastically.

Steve smiled at him and lifted one shoulder: you said it, not me. "At least you figured out where to look eventually, Tony. Plenty of people never do."

The simple truth of it, fifteen years of Tony's life summed up in a single sentence, cut him deep, sliced all the way back to that boy he'd been, the one so lost he'd thought a joint and some pussy were viable substitutes for two dead parents. Steve Rogers, his eyes soft and intensely blue, was a major upgrade in the comfort department. Like Steve could read his mind, he said, "Let me take you back to bed."

"Okay," Tony acquiesced. Being with Steve Rogers under a big pile of warm blankets sounded nice, and he badly wanted to be there all of a sudden, not to do anything in particular, just to be.

Steve didn't try to carry him, just hauled him upright, letting Tony make his own way in creaky dignity to the bedroom, though he did help Tony back in the bed with a hand on his elbow. Steve wrapped around him immediately when they were under the covers, pulling him to his chest, rubbing his back. Tony was getting sleepy again; he'd had another dose of the Flexeril, and the slow, gloopy feeling was back in his body, but it made him nervous now; It'd been hard to wake up.

"Steve?"

"Hmm?"

"You'll wake me up? If I—"

"I'll wake you up."

It was a funny thing, Tony reflected, slipping his hand under Steve's shirt, caressing the downy soft skin at the small of Steve's back: he'd never slept with anybody without fucking them first, including Pepper. It just wasn't something people did. He thought vaguely of making some kind of move—but he was tired and dirty, and the dream had left a bad taste in his mouth.

Or maybe that was just because he'd never brushed his teeth.

"I've never slept with somebody I haven't had sex with," Tony murmured into Steve's chest.

"I'm sure we'll get around to it."

"We could…" he trailed off with a jaw-cracking yawn; it was the worst sexual proposition he'd ever made.

"We could," Steve agreed fondly, unbothered by being yawned on, "but I think it might hurt my pride if you fell asleep."

"Tomorrow?"

"Wait and see what you feel like. We aren't in a rush. Now go to sleep, sweetheart. The home health service is sending somebody first thing to help you."

Sweetheart? Tony mulled the old-fashioned pet name in his mind. It was so saccharine, he thought he might slip into a diabetic . It was nauseating, absolutely revolting.

Tony loved it.

Loved it almost as much as he loved Steve's body heat, and he drifted off feeling luxuriously warm inside and out.