Chapter 7: Hung Up
Bruce ordered groceries; Tony washed towels. In the evening, they ate pizza and actual salads with real vegetables and drank beer and watched the Jets lose yet another football game. When the game was over, both decamped to their bedrooms to sleep for what was supposed to be a full eight hours. The unspoken price for Tony's cooperation in these matters was the total avoidance of Steve Rogers as a conversation topic.
It wasn't that Bruce's logic was faulty: Tony's condition (though that made it sound like benign prostate enlargement or something) was indeed making everybody miserable, and Tony knew that Steve wouldn't willingly choose misery for any of them. Still, some niggling part of Tony's brain wasn't completely convinced. Steve had wanted a domestic fantasy once, with a picket fence and a mutt named Spot, presided over by a pretty, practical wife. Tony had somehow blown a hole through that picture with a grenade and stumbled into Steve's life. What if Tony, pretty, (im)practical wife that he sort of was, made Steve piece that picture back together? When Tony was himself again, would he find he still featured in the snapshot? Or would he be hacked off with a pair of kitchen scissors like the scummy ex-boyfriend from the otherwise pleasant family photograph? The safe play was to keep Steve at a distance, holding a firm line between past fantasy and current reality, until the whole episode was over, which could, theoretically, be any day. Thor could show up. Bruce could have a breakthrough.
Theoretically.
Tony dressed for bed in Steve's shirt and boxers and didn't even pretend it was because they were comfortable and not because he was desperately lonely. It was the first time he'd seen the inside of his bedroom before two am in a while, and the big, desolate bed vaguely terrified him. He could already feel sleepless hours stretching out in front of him like some kind of sentence to be served.
He turned off the lights and crawled under the covers with his phone, the one he'd had on 'do not disturb' for a full week. The mailbox had filled up days ago, but he couldn't bring himself to listen to any messages. Better not to, that way no one could leave more. Happy had not called that day; it seemed like he'd given up entirely. Pepper had, though she'd finally taken the hint that Tony wasn't responding to texts. Steve had called twice, once in the morning and once in the evening, just as he had every day of his exile. Tony wondered how long he'd keep it up. Part of Tony (the guilty part), wished Steve would stop; the rest of him wanted Steve to call twice a day indefinitely. There was a text from Steve, too, a photo from the same date two years prior. It was one Tony had taken of the both of them, phone held at arm's length, as he kissed Steve on the cheek. Steve was smiling at the camera, eyes heavy lidded, as if he had just been contentedly asleep or was about to be.
Tony's finger hovered over Steve's contact button at the top of the text thread, but in the end, he didn't press it. The screen went dark, and Tony let the phone drop onto the bed beside him. He was wiped out, but also felt incapable of closing his eyes. He'd had terrible insomnia for days now, caught in a vicious cycle of mania and anxiety, able to sleep only when he was tired to the point of collapse. It was a well-worn behavior pattern of his, but no less exhausting for its familiarity. If Steve were around, Tony would request to be fucked senseless; an orgasm or three usually helped, at least in the short term.
Tony picked up the phone again (no point in avoiding blue light if he wasn't going to sleep anyway) and brought back the picture. They were lying in the bed, the tops of their shoulders bare, looking relaxed and happy. He wouldn't swear to it in a court of law, but Tony figured he'd taken it right after they'd had sex. His finger hovered over Steve's contact again, only this time, he hit it. It rang exactly once.
"I'm using Oz," Tony said immediately, clearing his first conversational hurdle.
"Okay. I can live with that as long as this isn't a butt dial," Steve said, only half-joking.
"No, no mistake," Tony assured him, "I'm from the IRS. You owe back taxes."
"I was wondering when you guys would get around to calling," Steve said, falling easily into the bit. "There was a period there, around seventy years or so, when I didn't submit my W-2s."
Tony smiled in the dark, "Hey, no problem. I can process your payment now. Just give me your social security number and access to your bank account, and I'll take care of the rest."
"Give me your address, and I'll bring you the money in cash. I can be there in half an hour."
Tony swallowed hard and jumped conversational hurdle number two, "I didn't call to ask you back, Steve."
There was a terrible pause, like a needle scratching across a record.
"Oh," Steve said finally, trying and failing to keep the disappointment out of his voice.
"I'm sorry." Tony squeezed his eyes shut in the darkness of their bedroom. "I really am, but I'm not ready. I just wanted to hear your voice."
"Okay," Steve said, collecting himself, "That's okay, Tony. I'm still glad you called." There was a beat.
"Bruce said you're painting?" Tony said, trying to steer the conversation to safer ground.
"Not yet. I'm still planning it. It's a pretty big canvas, and I don't have a model, so I've been working on some studies."
"What is it?"
"I don't want to talk about that, actually. Not until it's further along," Steve said firmly. There was another beat. "I heard you're building another suit."
"Yes," Tony agreed, "I'm calling her Femmebot. I'm working on that and not much else."
"I heard 'not much else' includes eating and sleeping. You still in the shop?"
"Naw. In the bed. Bruce sort of put his foot down and told me I had to keep more regular hours."
"Can't wait to hear how that works out for him," Steve said, amused.
"What about you? Are you in bed yet?" Tony asked, feeling a trickle of nervous anticipation run down his spine. Conversational hurdle three was in his sights, and he had no idea if he would clear it or catch a foot and land flat on his face.
"Not yet. I was working when you called, but I was thinking of heading that way."
"So you're where? On the sofa in the living room? I can hear the record player."
Something soft and jazzy was going in the background, Billie Holiday, maybe.
"Yeah. That's right."
And here was the hurdle. "What are you wearing?" Tony asked, flinging himself into the conversational void.
It was very quiet on the line. He distinctly heard Steve's breath catch before saying, "I'm still dressed."
"But you were thinking about undressing, right?"
"I was," Steve admitted, "and, uh, I guess I'm thinking more about it now." He paused, then asked, "What are you wearing?"
Tony let go of a breath he was previously unaware of holding. "Your clothes. Your t-shirt. Your boxers." He was suddenly aware of his heart beating, the blood working its way out into his fingers and his toes and the tips of his ears. "Take your pants off, Steve," he said, putting all his cards on the table, "and put me on speaker; I want to hear the belt buckle." Tony heard Steve inhale heavily through his nose, then a slight rattle of metal and the shush of shed fabric. Tony couldn't believe it. The hurdle was apparently cleared, and it hadn't been nearly as high as Tony was expecting. He wondered with a stab of conscience how lonely Steve had been for the past few days; he'd agreed to all conversational conditions with no resistance at all.
"Okay," Steve said, his voice shifting into a lower register, "now we've got on the same outfit."
"Well, not quite," Tony replied. "I took mine off." It wasn't true, but Steve didn't need to know it.
"Huh. And now I'm supposed to…?"
"You catch on quick, Cap."
Tony's ears strained at the ensuing silence. He could definitely make out Billie Holiday and also a faint creak, like maybe Steve had stretched out on the leather couch.
"Alright," Steve said, after what felt like ages.
"You're lying down?" Tony asked, already seeing him naked on the sofa in his mind's eye.
"Yes." Steve laughed nervously, "You know I'm going to be terrible at this, right?"
"Are you hard?" Tony asked; if he pressed the phone any closer to his ear, it would fuse to his skull.
"Mostly," Steve admitted, "Are you?" He realized his mistake as soon the words left his mouth. "Oh no. I'm sorry, Tony. What I meant was—"
"Yes," Tony cut in smoothly, "I'm hard, Steve. My cock could cut glass. If you were here, I'd make you suck it for me."
Steve made a horny, half-incredulous sound in his throat, followed by a distinct pant.
"Are you touching yourself?" Tony asked pointedly, "Because I definitely didn't say you could do that."
"Uh, no?" Steve was breathless.
"Liar," Tony said with glee. "Send me a picture."
"Oh, Tony, c'mon," Steve complained. Captain America had a reasoned no dick pic policy, bolstered in no small part by the number of pictures of Tony's penis currently available on the internet, though the last of those dated to the early aughts.
"Cut out your face, and you've got plausible deniability," Tony argued, "or better yet, don't, and say it's AI."
"Why do I feel like I'll live to regret this?" Steve said, his voice receding slightly as he held the phone away for the picture. Tony could hardly believe it; he pulled up his text messages, and there it was.
"Oh my god," Tony laughed. He switched over to speaker so he could look at the screen and talk at the same time.
"What?" Steve laughed, too, but it was tinged with self-consciousness. "Did I do it wrong?"
"Are you kidding me? You're the Ansel Adams of dick pics. You will regret this because I'm going to print it out and frame it."
It was gorgeous. Steve had propped the phone up under his chin, shooting over the absurdly perfect topography of his chest and abs to capture his thick erection, held up loosely in one hand. The quality of light was deliciously warm across Steve's winter-pale complexion.
"Seriously," Tony asked, "is that actual firelight that I detect?"
"Yeah, I've got one going."
"You have a bear skin rug to pose on, too?"
"I send you the picture, and now you're just gonna rag on me?"
"Okay, okay," Tony relented, "you've got your dick out. What do you want to do with it?"
Tony could sense Steve squirming through the phone, "Oh, Tony, you know I'm bad at this—"
"You want to fuck me, Steve?"
"Yes," Steve readily agreed. "Can I—?"
"Touch yourself? Sure. Until I tell you to stop. Go slow. You want lube?"
"Yeah," Steve panted.
"Go get it, but come right back. I want you on the leather sofa in front of the fire."
"Okay."
There was dead air; Tony could hear Billie Holiday's Lover Man on the stereo and, now that he was listening for it, the faint crackle of fire. He looked at the picture of Steve's body and imagined the heat of his skin, imagined running hands over his massive chest, over his muscled thighs.
Tentatively, Tony stuck a hand under his own shirt, trailing the fingers over his stomach. It hadn't been a one to one transition from male body to female body; he hadn't gone from Iron Man to Iron Woman. He'd lost not only height and weight, but muscle, and was distinctly softer, not flabby exactly, but sporting a pad of fat necessary for the Monroe-esque curves he was currently sporting. It was something he liked on a woman; who didn't? He'd even liked it on himself for that brief, shining moment when having tits had seemed like a good idea. Now, of course, it was just another feature that rendered his own body strange to him.
His hand dipped a little lower, and he edged his fingertips under his waistband and into the triangle of hair between his thighs. Even his pubic hair was different than before: softer, and with a finer texture. He eased his hand downward, more and more slowly with each fraction of an inch, until he found the clitoris with his fingers. He pressed lightly and then harder, finding the pressure not exactly satisfying, but at least pacifying. Moving his hand lower, he cupped it over the swollen lips of his vagina, with the hard heel of his hand tight against his clit.
He was very aroused, but it confusingly diffuse, with signals coming in from everywhere, seemingly too many to process. There was a heaviness in his groin, like the echo of an erection, but there was also a very distracting internal pulsing. And there were his swollen breasts. And his aching inner thighs. And a weird fucking buzz in his ears—He rolled over on his side, clamping the cupped hand tight between his legs. He didn't know what to do or how to prioritize the sensations; every single part of him, inside and out, seemed to want some kind of contact.
"Tony? I'm back. Are you there?" Steve said, his voice low.
"I'm here," Tony sighed, relieved to have something else to think about.
"Are you all right? You sound…I don't know."
"I'm fine," Tony cleared his throat, "Did you get it?"
"I got it." There was a creak as Steve settled back into the leather. In his mind, Tony could see the back and forth shift of Steve's big shoulders against the cushions; it was something he always did when he laid down, like a dog making its perfect place.
"You still hard?"
"Yeah. I'm going to—"
"You aren't. Keep your hands off your cock, Steve. It's mine until I tell you otherwise."
"Yes, sir," Steve said; Tony could hear the smile in his voice. He'd have to do something about that.
"Turn over on your stomach," Tony ordered, and then listened to the shifting of sofa cushions. "You're going to fuck yourself with your fingers." He said it with a confidence he didn't feel in the least. It certainly wasn't what Steve would be expecting; Steve was almost always the top, but right now, Tony wanted to pull Steve with him into unfamiliar terrain, share a little in his sexual alienation. Tony heard Steve take a deep breath and blow it out hard, like he was trying to psych himself up.
"Hey," Tony said. "Join me over here in the weirdness, Steve. The water is, well, it's not actually fine, but I haven't seen any sharks."
"Y'know, sometimes, I really wish I could still drink," Steve confessed.
"But you're game."
"I'm game," Steve agreed, somewhat reluctantly, "but I might be more game if I weren't seventy years sober."
"Good boy," Tony said, flopping over on his back. He pulled his hand out his shorts again; he was still horny, but the desire had also slipped away from him a little, too, receding like a tide. He couldn't tell if he wanted it back or not. On the one hand, an orgasm sounded terrific. On the other hand, it sounded terrifying. He decided to concentrate on Steve and see where he ended up.
"You've got lube?" Tony asked.
"All the way up to the elbows."
"Okay, then, let's party. Go around your rim with one finger, nice and slow. And when you feel really relaxed, go in with one finger, just up to that first knuckle and stop." He closed his eyes, listening to Steve's breathing in the dark. Or, rather, not.
"Steve," Tony said into the silence, "oxygen is a requirement for life."
Steve snorted, releasing a stale, shaky exhale.
"How is it?" Tony asked.
"Y'know," Steve said tightly, "Maybe not my favorite. Tell me what you're doing."
"If it's not your favorite, you need to go slower," Tony advised. He put a hand back in his shorts, pressing hard again against his clit, "As for me, I'm jacking off, and I'm thinking about fucking you, about pressing into you real, real slow. Glaciers are speedy next to me, Steve. You'd be so hot and tight and slick around the head of my cock. " He started a slow rub across the button of nerves under his fingers, and he could almost feel what he described. The anatomical cognitive dissonance was off the charts. "How are you doing, Steve?" he asked. "Still breathing?"
"Barely," Steve huffed. "Keep talking to me."
"You want to add another finger? Stretch it out for me?" Tony could feel his arousal starting to coalesce, so he kept up the circles, slightly faster now. "Do you think I'm flexible enough to fuck you and suck your dick at the same time?"
"Is that," Steve panted, "a serious question? I don't think anybody—"
"You're right," Tony said breathily, "Of course I can; I'm limber as a willow sapling. If I were there now, I'd put your dick in my mouth, really wet and sloppy, y'know? Lots of tongue. And I'd keep my mouth really soft until you begged me for some suction, and then I'd turn it on like a Hoover."
Steve made an interesting, low groan.
Tony grinned. "Sounds like you found the spot, Steve."
Steve moaned in evident agreement. The sound trailed off into labored panting. Tony imagined Steve, fucking himself on the sofa, perfect ass in the air, cock grinding into the cushions. Speaking of which—
"Do you want to touch your cock, Steve?" Tony asked. "Or are you going to hump that poor sofa until there's a hole in it?"
Steve groaned again, and Tony heard him spit, presumably into his hand. Tony listened intently to Steve's breathing, and waited patiently until it had reached a locomotive puff, fast and steady. Only then, with maximum mischief, Tony said, "Hold up, Cap. I asked you if you wanted to touch your cock. I didn't tell you you could."
"Tony," Steve wailed, disbelieving.
"Hey, Simon says. And don't tell me you can't stop, because then I will quote you some classic Captain America bullshit about willpower."
There was something that sounded like a muffled scream into the sofa cushions.
"Now," Tony said, "Simon says, put some lube in your hand, and then you can jack off. Slowly. Tortoises fuck faster."
"Are you trying to kill me?" Steve moaned. His breathing was completely haywire, caught between the new, slo-mo action of his hand and the previous frantic pace. "Fuck."
"Steve!" Tony said, delighted.
"Sorry," Steve mumbled. "Even doing this, I'm still—" he gasped, "I'm still really close, Tony. Really, really close."
Tony tried increasing the speed of his own hand to get himself closer to climax, but it only made it feel further away. So he tried going back to the previous speed and pressure, only to find he'd lost some of the momentum. He focused on Steve's disorderly breathing instead, redoubling his efforts to imagine Steve on the other end of the phone, thrusting deliberately into a slick fist and fucking himself slowly with his fingers. Tony imagined the contortion of his body, the one shoulder twisted back so he could reach his ass, the other folded under towards his cock, with the side of his handsome face pressed against the sofa, breathing raggedly.
Tony felt himself gaining traction again, but it seemed tenuous, like he could slip back down any second if he didn't concentrate.
"Tony," Steve gasped into the phone, "I'm going to—" But, then, he just was. Steve let loose with a shaking, multi-part moan; every time it seemed over, there was a little aftershock, and then another, petering out only gradually over the course of thirty seconds. Tony's own climax fell apart completely in the process, totally derailed.
"Well, shit," Tony muttered. He pulled his hand back out of his shorts, defeated. All that for nothing. Well, not nothing, he reflected. He was now the proud owner of Captain America's dick pic, and he'd made Cap say 'fuck.' These were lifetime achievements. He stretched his arms out over his head, trying to let go of some of the frustrated tension in his body. Even now, he wasn't sure how close or far he'd been from climax. The experience was a formless, gloopy blob of desire, one Tony was still partially stuck in.
Steve, for his part, was still huffing and puffing into the receiver like the Big Bad Wolf trying to round up a pig dinner. At least, Tony consoled himself, the lack of his own climax left him conscious enough to capitalize on Steve's moment of weakness. "Hey," he said, "if you're still alive over there, send me a picture."
Steve didn't even argue. Tony heard the shutter sound, and a second later the image came through in his messages. It was another winner, better than the dick pic in some ways. There would never be any question as to what activity had preceded this picture; it was undeniably a self-portrait of post-climax exhaustion. Steve had the phone at arm's length up over his back, capturing his profile, torso, and ass. He hadn't bothered to look at the camera; he hadn't even bothered to open his eyes. His face and back were flushed pink and damp with sweat from some combination of the fire and phone sex. Tony could practically smell the scene: burning wood, perspiration, and the chlorine puddle of ejaculate that was somewhere between Steve's prone body and the sofa.
"Look at you," Tony said, "you put down a towel. How practical. I guess that's why they put you in charge, huh, Cap?"
"Mmm," Steve grunted noncommittally.
"Are you going to make it?"
"Maybe," Steve groaned. "I think," he said, shifting experimentally, "I'm going to be sore."
"I kept trying to slow you down," Tony said, shaking his head fondly. "Glaciers, I said. Turtles."
"That's funny coming from the guy I've heard insist five seconds of fingering and an empty bottle of lube were enough preparation for anal sex."
"But sometimes I want to be sore. It's cheap, tacky fun, sort of like a secret hickey."
"I'd rather have the hickey."
"Next time I see you, I'll give you one." Shit. The words rolled out easily, but Tony immediately wanted them back. Right away he could tell that the quality of the silence had changed, shifting instantly from companionable to charged. He heard Steve peel himself up from the no no no no,Tony thought,lay back down.
"And when will that be, Tony?" Steve asked.
Tony bit his lip. "I don't know."
"But that isn't true, is it? You plan to keep me out here until you're back to normal, which means indefinitely." Steve wasn't even accusatory, just matter-of-fact. Tony still felt attacked.
"Don't put words in my mouth, Steve," he warned, never mind that they were essentially true.
"Then tell me different," Steve said reasonably, "but I don't think you can. Look, I understand why you're uncomfortable with me right now. I understand more than anybody; I've lived it. It isn't a good feeling to receive attention, positive or negative, just because of the way you look. Everyone wants to think human relationships are predicated on more than that. We want to be loved for who we truly are on the inside. And I do, Tony. I love you for—"
"Wow. Just…wow," Tony cut him off. He sat up in the bed and switched the phone back off speaker; he preferred arguing directly with his mouth to God's (or at least Cap's) ear. "See, all that inner beauty bullshit you just spouted sounds kinda good, but I'm not laboring under those delusions. I've coasted into way too many bedrooms based solely on the facts that I am, one, rich, and, two, hot, to believe—"
"Well, you didn't coast into mine," Steve said defensively. "You think that I love you, that I married you because of your money and your looks? Seriously? You think that? Because I'll tell you, Tony, if I didn't actually love you, there isn't enough money in the world to make me put up with you sometimes—"
"Alright, alright. No," Tony admitted hotly, "I don't think that. But I don't believe in some, I don't know, hypothetical divine love totally divorced from animal reality either. You and me, baby, ain't nothing but mammals. At least part of the reason you love me is because I look great naked."
"I'd love you even if you didn't," Steve said, clearly hurt, "and you'd better decide to love me if I didn't, because otherwise this relationship has a short shelf-life. Did you even say vows? But, yes, I'm human, if that's the point you're trying to make. I'm not immune to physical attraction—"
"I think we've established that. And your physical attraction is exactly what I can't deal with, Steve. I fundamentally can't deal with it. I hate you thinking of me as a woman. I hate it. That isn't who—"
"Now you're putting words in my mouth. I don't think of you that way, Tony. You're my husband."
"And that's how I want to keep it. Let me ask you something: the sex we just had, how were you imagining me? How did you see me on the other end of the line, hmm? Was it the way you know I wanted? 'Cause I painted a pretty clear fucking picture. Or did the version you're currently crushing on make an appearance?"
"I didn't know we were policing each other's private thoughts during sex now. That's great news. Sounds healthy. But okay, if you really need the breakdown to decide if I'm still worth talking to, I'd say it was about a ten to one ratio of acceptable fantasy to what's apparently forbidden under the new regime. If you don't like those numbers, I'd remind you who introduced me to the concept of Tony Stark's vagina in the first place—"
"Are we done?" Tony asked, "Cause I think I'm done—"
"Don't you dare hang up that phone," Steve said blackly, "because I will come to Manhattan, but I won't be responsible for what happens when I get there. You keep telling me you're the victim, that my thoughts hurt your feelings in some way, thoughts I don't even voice because I know better. But what about me and my feelings? This is hard for me, too; it's brought back some stuff that I don't like. And I'm not blaming you for that. You didn't plan it; it doesn't really have anything to do with you, and I know that."
"Yeah?" Tony sneered, "Then what do you blame me for, Cap? 'Cause it sure sounds like you're blaming me for something."
"Oh, you're right about that. How do you think it feels to be stuck out here in Brooklyn by myself, like Tony Stark's kept boy, waiting for your call? A call I only get, by the way, because you're manic and hoping that if you get laid you might be able to sleep for a couple hours?"
Tony couldn't say anything, but a little sound escaped his throat, something shocked and pained.
Steve laughed without humor, "That's right, Tony. I can read you like a book. Don't forget it. And you know what's worse? I'm still glad you called, because I'm so hung-up on you that I'd rather be used by you than not hear from you at all. And now we are done. I'm hanging up. Call me next time you're horny, I guess. I'll still be waiting here by the damn phone."