Chapter 8: Like a Virgin
Steve didn't get another call for a week, and even then it was from Pepper. Steve frowned at her name when it appeared on his phone. He wasn't, he decided, going to accept news of his impending divorce from anyone but Tony. He couldn't believe Tony was trying to break up with him via executive assistant. No, he corrected himself, he actually could believe it. Still, it wasn't Pepper's fault, and he was determined to be polite. He pressed the green button.
"Good morning, Pepper," he said carefully.
"Good morning, Steve," she said, with equal caution. "Steve, I want you to know that you're on speaker. Happy is here, too, and—"
"Cap," Happy cut in, "let's cut the bullshit. Are we fired?"
"Happy!" Pepper hissed, but Happy wouldn't be silenced.
"We haven't seen or heard from the boss in two weeks," Happy said plainly.
"We're so sorry to put you in this position," Pepper added, "but, at this point, I couldn't think of anything else to do."
Steve was shocked. "Are you still getting paid?" he asked, aghast, ready to get out his checkbook.
"Well, yes," Pepper admitted, "we are, but as I would be the one to inform payroll of our severance, I wasn't sure—how do I put this?—it seemed possible that Tony might have intended for us to be fired, and for us to continue to receive our paychecks. I'm not entirely sure Tony knows how to contact payroll. I thought maybe we were supposed to just take the hint."
"You aren't fired," Steve said definitively.
"So he's got cancer, then. I knew it. I told you, Pep," Happy said grimly. "Is it in his balls or in his butt?"
"Happy!" Pepper wailed.
"What?" Happy said, exasperated, "It has to be somewhere embarrassing! Otherwise he'd have told us himself."
"He doesn't have cancer," Steve said. There was a muffled argument, like someone had their hand over the transceiver, and then a beep on the other end of the line. "Pepper?" Steve asked, "You still there?"
"I'm here, Steve," Pepper said, sounding flustered. "I just took you off speaker. Look, is Tony alright?"
"I can't answer that, Pepper. He's…" Steve trailed off, trying to figure out how much he could ethically say. "I mean, he's not, but I can't tell you about it."
"I understand. Could you please, please ask him to call me?"
"I would if I could," Steve said apologetically, "but I'm not there."
"Not there?" She sounded increasingly alarmed, "Where are you?"
"At Leaman Place," Steve admitted.
"In Brooklyn?" she gasped. "How long have you been there? No, wait. Let me guess. Two weeks?" Pepper's voice was rising now. She was on the scent.
"That's right."
"He's not speaking to you, either." She didn't phrase it as a question.
"He isn't, no."
"Please tell me he isn't at the tower all by himself."
"Bruce is there, and he's been calling to let me know about…things." Bruce, evidently, had been the only one to survive Tony's purge.
"You have to tell me what's going on," Pepper said, her voice steely with resolve. "Right now." She was as commanding as any general he'd ever heard. It was a shame, Steve thought, that he himself was so bad at following orders from higher-ups.
"I can't, Pepper. I'd like to, but Tony might actually stop speaking to me permanently." If he hasn't already, Steve added to himself.
"Okay, then. Okay. That's… fine," Pepper said, collecting herself. "But, I'm going over there. And you can tell Bruce to tell Tony that I'm not leaving until I see him. I will sleep in the lobby if I have to. I mean it, Steve." Steve had no doubt whatsoever that she did.
"I'll relay the message," Steve promised as Pepper hung up.
He texted Bruce a warning about incoming fire, and then washed the breakfast dishes as a pit formed in his stomach. Something was going to happen today, and he was afraid of the blowback, not that there was a damn thing he could do about it. Better to think about something else.
He poured himself another cup of coffee and took it into the living room. It was a blizzard of paper and stunk of turpentine. Sketches were tacked to every wall, and piled on every surface. He had to move a stack to the floor just so he had a place to sit on the sofa. Picking up yesterday's work from the coffee table, he began to sort through it. The best studies would go on the wall behind the easel, the rest would join their brethren in the heaps on the floor. It wasn't a great organizational system, but it was economical in terms of effort expenditure.
Steve wasn't usually so messy, but he found the paper drifts were what he wanted. It made him feel like he was physically living in the artwork in the same way he was mentally living in it, and right now, he was mentally snowed in. For two weeks, he'd barely left the apartment, barely even left the room, but he could see the whole, completed painting in his mind now.
It would be a life size portrait, in essence a copy of Manet's Olympia, with a nude woman reclining on a sumptuous bed, gazing at the viewer. Only the woman's face wouldn't be her face at all, but a mask on a rod, like at a Venetian carnival. Held at a slight remove and partially to the side, the mask's placement would reveal a glimpse of a second face beneath, a man's face, one with a neat beard and a puckish smile. It was Tony, of course, a surrealist double portrait of Tony both present and past. Steve's easel supported the big canvas, and it was gessoed and toned, finally ready for the preliminary line drawing that afternoon.
Getting ready to work on the canvas had been tedious work. For more than half the composition, he was working from memory or imagination, which was what had generated all the paper. Steve had sketched body parts (noses, eyes, chins, mouths, other more…intimate parts) again and again until they matched the feminine version of Tony in his mind, and he thought he had it down pretty well now.
The top sketch from the previous day was an eye, darkly lashed, under a feminine brow. Steve was reasonably happy with it; it looked like Tony's eye, and the linework was very sure. It was a keeper. He stood up to tack it to the wall when he heard his phone ringing. He chucked the drawing back on the stack and hustled into the small kitchen, snatching the phone off the narrow counter. He'd expected Pepper again, but it was ten times worse.
"Rogers here," Steve said, dismayed.
"Get your gear, Rogers," said Nick Fury without preamble. "We have a situation in Belarus with your name on it. Your plane leaves from LaGuardia in three hours. You and Agent Romanoff will receive the dossier in the air. Bring your long johns, Cap. It's going to be a cold one."
Steve's mind was working furiously; he had to get out of this. He couldn't leave New York.
"Rogers?" Fury said, sounding pissed, "you there?"
The only correct response was yes, sir, but Steve couldn't manage it. "Yes," he began, "but—"
"'Yes, but?!'" And now Fury was definitely pissed. "What do you mean, 'yes, but?' You're about to tell me something I don't want to hear, aren't you?"
Steve stiffened his spine and tried to explain as professionally as possible, "With respect, sir, this is a bad time for me personally. If there were someone who could go instead, maybe Agent Barton—"
"Agent Barton?" Fury was incredulous. "If I wanted Agent Barton, don't you think I would send Agent Barton? Now look, Rogers, I'm sorry you and the World's Biggest Asshole are having marital issues or whatever and that he bounced your ass to Brooklyn, but those are your problems, not mine. My problem is in Belarus. And that's where you're going. Pack your shit. A car is coming to get you."
The line went dead. Steve stared at the phone for a good twenty seconds, then exploded into action. He ran into the bedroom and pulled out his duffel bag, then started ripping open drawers with one hand and dialing Bruce with the other. When the phone started to ring, he jammed it between his shoulder and his chin so he could shovel gear into the duffel with both hands.
"Steve," Bruce answered the phone, sounding frantic, "Pepper is here. She's in the lobby. She's got a pillow—"
"I don't have time for this," Steve said, cutting him off, "I'm sorry. You'll have to handle it. Listen, Bruce, Fury called me." Steve took his leather jacket out of the armoire and pulled it on.
"Oh, god," Bruce moaned, "what does he know?"
"Not much. He knows I'm out in Brooklyn, and that Tony and I had a fight, but otherwise, I think we're still getting away with it, at least for now. But Bruce, I have to talk to Tony."
"You know he won't—"
"Fury is sending me to Belarus. I don't know when I'll be back. They're sending the car now. Please get him."
Steve took his bag into the bathroom and added an armful of toiletries. The phone in his hand was pregnant with silence. In the living room, he added a box of pastels and some sketch pads to his kit, along with a half-finished book of crossword puzzles. He returned to the bedroom and retrieved a second bag. He threw it on the sofa and started cramming it full of paper, crushing in drawings without pity until every page was inside; he couldn't leave them. He didn't trust Nick Fury to stay out of his apartment for a second while he was away. At least he hadn't really started the painting. He had just retrieved his shield from the corner of the room when he heard someone on the other end of the line.
"Cap?" The voice was soft and feminine, but it was still Tony's, and it made Steve weak with longing.
"Tony, I'm leaving," Steve said.
"I heard."
"If I came to say goodbye to you," Steve said, his heart in his throat, "would you see me? I don't want to leave it like this." Steve slung the shield over his back, passing his arms through the straps.
"If you came to say goodbye? Bruce said they were going to pick you up in Brooklyn."
"They might just have to pick me up somewhere else."
Steve grabbed the bags and was out the apartment door, locking it behind him. He hustled down the stairs two at a time.
"You can't do that." Tony was incredulous. "Fury will rip you a new one, and you'll be lucky if one is where he stops."
"What was it you said to me? 'Court-martial me?' I'll be alright." Steve tore open the front door and was on the street. No sign yet of the car. He dropped his gear to the curb next to his Harley and stuck the phone back between chin and shoulder so he could secure the duffels to the bike.
"Tony," Steve asked, his fingers flying over the straps, "will you see me if I come?"
There was a hesitation on the line. Steve closed his eyes and prayed.
"Yes," Tony said, finally. "I want to see you."
"Where will you be? I'll only have a little time. I can't hunt."
"I'll be in the shop."
The line went dead.
Steve rode his bike like an idiot, going too fast and changing lanes with daredevil abandon. He pulled into the tower's underground garage with relief, but the feeling gave way immediately to a sick case of nerves as he walked to the elevator. The door opened for him, and he stepped inside. He hit the button for the shop floor, and the elevator came to life. So far, so good. He dropped the bag of drawings on the floor and unzipped his jacket, letting the conditioned air work on his sweaty t-shirt while he bounced up and down on the balls of his feet, as if lifting his own heels would make the elevator go a little faster.
It felt like ages before the door slid open on the hallway outside the shop. Steve had his hand on the shop's bioscanner when his phone rang. The shop door opened.
"Rogers," he answered, not bothering to check caller id. He knew who it was.
"Have you lost your goddamn mind? Where the hell are you?" Fury bellowed down the line. It was loud enough that Steve pulled the phone away from his ear.
"I'm in Manhattan," Steve said, and stepped inside. And then his heart stopped.
Tony was there, finally, after weeks of waiting, standing in the middle of the room. He was a mess. He wore some band's grease-streaked merch shirt with band-aids plastered up and down both arms and a pair of Steve's plaid boxers. His hair, wet from the shower, was newly short, lopped off just above the chin in a blunt bob that strongly suggested the use of office scissors. Standing in for his usual morning coffee was a cut crystal glass filled with liquor. He looked wonderful and terrible in equal measure, and it made Steve's heart ache.
They locked eyes. Tony started to say something, but Steve held up the phone and hit the speaker button, spilling Fury's rage into the room at large.
"You are up shit creek, Rogers," Fury shouted, "that's where you are. You are AWOL."
"No, I'm not," Steve said calmly, "I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be. You just sent the car to the wrong place." Tony's face twisted with amusement over the rim of his glass.
"Sent the car to the wrong place. Uh huh." Fury laughed mirthlessly, "You know what, Rogers? Fine. Have it your way, but your transport is going to be in the tower garage in exactly thirty minutes, and in thirty-one minutes, you'd better be in it, or the next car I send will be the kind with doors that don't open from the inside. Do you understand me?"
"Yes, sir," Steve said crisply and hung up.
"Well," said Tony with ironic admiration, "that was quite the display of testicular fortitude." He raised his glass in mock salute and then drained it.
Steve shrugged, "I'm not worried about Nick Fury right now."
"Apparently not," Tony agreed. He approached Steve with a deliberate, loose-limbed prowl, the empty crystal dangling from his fingers. He rolled to a stop a foot away, his eyes bright. "And how about me?" Tony asked. "Are you worried about me?"
"Yes," Steve admitted, "you I'm worried about."
"What's in the bag?" Tony asked, as Steve dropped it to the floor.
"Papers," Steve said simply.
Steve reached out slowly and picked up a piece of Tony's hair, rubbing the short ends between his fingers. "When did you do this?" he asked, tucking the strands behind Tony's ear.
"I did it with a kitchen knife the day you left. It was very Joan of Arc."
Steve smiled ruefully, then plucked the dangling glass from Tony's unresisting grip. He sniffed it before setting it on a nearby work table: scotch.
"How much have you had to drink?" Steve asked evenly.
"Oh," Tony said, smiling, "enough to take the edge off and then some. It took some dedication. I hope you appreciate it. I only had your commute time from Brooklyn to get my head right, plus I had to take a shower, which is still a fraught activity for me, in case you were curious. But I was sweaty and covered in bearing grease, so you're welcome for that." During this sphinx's riddle of an answer, Tony had edged even closer; the pocket of air between them was charged with body heat.
"What'd you have to get your head right for?" Steve asked, terror and anticipation prickling his spine in equal measure.
"For this. Obviously." Tony came up on his toes, pressing their lips together softly. Steve had known it was coming, and it was still a shock. His mind reeled. Whatever he'd thought might happen when he saw Tony, this was not it. Or maybe it was what he thought might happen, just not like this. Not with Tony like this. He kept his mouth closed and put his hands on Tony's shoulders, gently pushing him away.
"We can't," Steve said softly.
"Actually," Tony rebutted, "we can, and we're going to."
"You're drunk."
"No shit, Steve. I started drinking the second I hung up the phone with you. I skipped my second cup of coffee. But you don't get it, do you?"
"I'm sorry," Steve said, "I don't."
"Then let me spell it out: there is a distinct possibility that I will never see you again. And if I don't, and I blow the chance to kiss you goodbye, I will regret it for the rest of my life. I wasn't sure I could do it sober, so I made it a sure thing, at least on my end. But now you're fucking up my game plan and burning clock, and I need you to stop and get with the program." Tony wrapped his arms around Steve's neck. "Now kiss me, asshole. I know you want to, and we both went to a lot of trouble to get the opportunity."
Tony brought their mouths together again, less gently this time, his tongue and teeth pressing insistently against Steve's lips until Steve's misgivings faltered. Steve opened his mouth, and they were suddenly melting together, arms around each other. Tony tasted like smoke and peat and electricity, and he smelled like gritty orange shop soap. Tony pulled away first, wrenching back with a moan.
"Jarvis," Tony said breathlessly, "give me the traffic report."
"I am tracking one SHIELD vehicle with a point of origin in Brooklyn midtown. Given current traffic conditions and a slowdown due to roadwork, I believe Commander Fury's timeline was somewhat optimistic. I estimate the drive time to be thirty eight minutes."
"Alright, Jarvis, give us a warning when they're five minutes out," Tony said, grabbing Steve's hand. "We've got about half an hour. Let's make it count."
Tony pulled Steve towards the sofa, stripped him out of his shield harness and leather jacket, and then pushed him flat against the cushions. He straddled Steve's lap and bent to kiss him again, hands buried in Steve's hair. Steve was instantly hard, straining uncomfortably against the denim of his jeans. Feeling the bulge, Tony ground down against Steve's erection until Steve saw stars. He groaned into Tony's mouth and pulled Tony closer, pressing their bodies together chest to chest, tight enough that Steve could feel the warm metal lip of the arc reactor against him, with the new, soft press of breasts to either side.
Tony pulled away again, jerking upright. "Hey," he said with a manic smile, "last time we talked, I promised you a hickey. You wanna give SHIELD something to talk about?"
Immediately, Steve grabbed the collar of his shirt, stretching it away from the juncture of his neck and shoulder. "Right there," he said seriously, surprising himself with how much he actually wanted something he could look at afterward in the crappy mirror of a plane lavatory. "Make it a good one, Tony. Maybe I can be home again before it's gone."
Tony had stopped smiling; Steve had made clear this was serious business. He bent to Steve's shoulder and kissed the spot tenderly before increasing the suction, pulling the flesh up against his teeth hard enough Steve thought he might break the skin. Steve relished the pain; something about it shot straight to his groin, and he hissed with pleasure. He was actually sad when Tony's mouth went slack.
"How is it?" Steve asked hoarsely, watching Tony's face as he studied the mark.
"Professional grade," Tony assessed, touching it gently with a fingertip. "I hope you were serious about wanting some staying power."
Tony redirected his eyes to Steve's face, wearing a look of determination. He grabbed the hem of his shirt and lifted it an inch, exposing a luxuriously soft stretch of midriff. He lifted it more, until the bottom of his breasts peeked out below the fabric. Pausing, he looked at Steve with a question in his eyes.
"I'm going to take it off. What do you think?" he asked.
Steve's mouth was suddenly so dry he could only nod.
Tony peeled off the rest of the shirt and threw it on the floor. His breasts were perfect, round and heavy, capped by dusky pink nipples.
"Can I touch…?" Steve asked, barely breathing.
Tony swallowed hard. "In theory, that's why I wanted them in the first place," he said, as if reminding himself.
"You can say 'no,'" Steve reassured him, even as his fingers ached for contact.
"I can, but right now, I'm saying 'yes.'"
He picked up one of Steve's hands and guided it to the curve of his waist, then he picked up the other and placed it deliberately over one round warm swell spilled out of Steve's hand; he squeezed it gently, transfixed by the soft bulging of tissue between his spread fingers. The nipple felt like a pebble in the center of his palm. Tony's eyes fluttered closed, and his breathing became very shallow. He swayed unsteadily on Steve's lap.
"Steve," he said, very quietly, "I'm dizzy."
Instantly Steve sat up, guiding Tony down against the sofa cushions.
"Do you want to stop? Let's stop." Steve struggled to control his labored breathing.
"Let's not," Tony said, eyes reopened and burning, "and say we did. But let's do turn off the lights. Jarvis? You hear that? Make it happen."
The room fell dark, except for the arc reactor. It cast an intimate glow, just big enough to hold the two of them. Tony slid his hands under Steve's shirt, and the touch made Steve's skin prickle, like it was charged with static. Steve wanted more of it, more contact, and he stripped off his tee, and lay down on his side, taking Tony in his arms. Their naked chests pressed together, and the static feeling was compounded, over and over, everywhere their skin touched. Tony slipped a leg between Steve's thighs, slotting them together like puzzle pieces.
They kissed, desperate and sloppy, their tongues rolling over each other again and again. It seemed to last forever and for no time at all. Again, it was Tony who pulled away.
"How much time do you think we have?" he panted.
"I don't know."
Time no longer seemed to tick along in a predictable pattern; it was random now, speeding up or slowing down from one heartbeat to the next.
"However long, it can't be long enough."
"Then hurry up and take your clothes off," Tony ordered breathlessly, "and lay on top of me."
"But we really have got to stop. I've got to stop," Steve said, pleading with Tony, pleading with himself. There were things they needed to talk about, like how their lives ought to move forward when Steve returned, about what Tony should do while he was gone.
Tony said nothing, choosing instead to stick his thumbs in the waistband of his boxers and pull them off. He lay back on the sofa, legs open in an inviting sprawl. Tony's thighs were a delicious, pale expanse, like a field of fresh snow, and Steve wanted suddenly to bite them, to leave some trace of himself in this private new place between his husband's thighs.
"Oh, Tony," Steve whispered hoarsely, and began tearing off his clothes.
His desire was pitiless and couldn't be reasoned with. The vague, gloomy future needed planning, but the fleshy, all-consuming present demanded doing. Naked, Steve lay between Tony's legs, pressing Tony heavily into the sofa cushions with the weight of his body. Tony grabbed two fistfuls of Steve's blond hair and crushed their mouths together hard enough to bruise. Steve was so erect that he half hurt, and he could feel his self-control ebbing away with each pulse of blood to his groin.
Aware every moment of the mysterious body below him, Steve finally broke away from Tony's mouth, kissing a feverish line down the taut column of Tony's neck to the hollow at the base of his throat. The scratch of Steve's beard against the sensitive skin of Tony's throat made Tony squirm beneath him, and every wriggle pushed Steve closer towards some point of no return. He dragged his mouth across the expanse of Tony's chest and down to a breast. He caught the nipple in his mouth, rasping it slowly with the flat of his tongue.
Tony writhed, fingers twisting in Steve's hair, so Steve did it again, this time adding a hand to the opposite breast, rolling the erect nipple between his fingers.
"Oh my god," Tony groaned. One of Tony's hands scrabbled towards some lower point between their two bodies. When Tony's knuckles grazed Steve's cock, Steve realized that Tony was touching himself.
"I'm wet," Tony said with wonder, holding the questing hand up in the light of the arc reactor. His fingers glistened slickly. "I am soaking wet," he said again, then laughed once, somewhat hysterically, and stuck the slippery fingers in his mouth, tasting himself. Steve's jaw went slack with arousal.
Tony caught Steve's expression and stuck his hand back down between them, rewetting his fingers. He pressed them into Steve's mouth; a primitive flavor equal parts salt and acid and gun metal flooded Steve's tongue, like the tide of some ocean primeval, and he groaned around Tony's fingers, lapping at the taste. Pulling his hand from Steve's mouth, Tony slid it down Steve's body, the spit-slick fingers smoothing over Steve's muscled stomach all the way to Steve's groin. He grabbed Steve by the shaft, steering Steve's cock to press directly against the source of wet heat. He slid the blunt head up and down, coating the head in fluid, and it took everything for Steve not to press forward and inside.
"Steve," Tony panted, "I want you."
Steve opened his mouth to speak, but found he could only shake his head.
"We can't have more than a few minutes. I want it. Please," Tony begged.
"Are you sure?" Steve said raggedly; he'd given whole speeches that'd taken less out of him than those three words.
"I'm sure I'll regret it if we don't."
It wasn't the answer Steve wanted, but at least it was an honest one. Either way, he had no resistance left. He took his cock in hand and guided it, pressing in slowly. Tony was tight and wet, and the pleasure of being inside was so intense, it bordered on pain. Steve immediately ached to thrust, but forced himself to take his time since this was all brand new. He shut his eyes, concentrating, so he felt rather than saw Tony's body stiffen beneath him.
Steve went still and opened his eyes. Tony's brows were pinched together, and his hips shifted back and forth with little, unsettled twitches, like he couldn't get comfortable.
"What's wrong?" Steve asked, trying not to move.
But Tony just shook his head, "Nothing," he said, "don't stop," and dug the heels of his feet into Steve's ass by way of encouragement. Steve pressed in further, this time at a glacial pace. He watched Tony's deepening frown carefully. He slid in a fraction more, and Tony winced sharply, putting a hand to Steve's chest.
"Ow," Tony said once, vaguely, as if he were still calibrating the nature and extent of his pain. A moment later, he spoke with more force, "Actually, that really hurts."
Steve pushed himself backwards and out. Tony, still wincing, put a hand down to his vagina, dipping in the tips of his fingers. When he pulled them back out, they were covered in something black. Steve looked down at his groin, and found that he was covered, too.
"Jarvis," Tony said, rubbing his fingers together, "turn on the lights."
What had looked black in the blue light of the arc reactor was suddenly bright red under the shop lights. Tony and Steve were both sticky with blood along their inner thighs.
Steve thrust a dismayed hand into his hair. It took a good twenty seconds for him to accept what he was seeing. "Tony," he began, "did I—? I mean, are you—?"
"A virgin?" Tony said contemplatively, still looking at the blood on his fingers. "Not anymore, I guess, since you popped my cherry." He laughed disbelievingly. "Funny. I always imagined it would happen in the backseat after prom."
"Tony, I—" But Steve didn't get to finish.
"Captain Rogers," Jarvis intoned, "your car will be arriving in five minutes."
Steve and Tony locked eyes, momentarily paralyzed, staring at the blood on themselves and on each other. Tony snapped out of it first.
"You've got to get dressed," he told Steve.
"But—"
"Hurry up; there's no time." Tony pushed off the sofa, grabbing Steve's clothes off the floor and throwing them into Steve's lap. Steve just stared at them, feeling numb.
"Hey," Tony said sharply, snapping his bloody fingers in Steve's face, "Earth to Captain America! Put your clothes on! Or do you want a couple of SHIELD agents to find us like this? They aren't going to wait for you in the minivan like your mom after soccer practice. Not after the shit you pulled this morning."
Steve, finally waking up, tugged his jeans on over his blood-streaked thighs. Tony dressed, too, then held up Steve's jacket. Steve shrugged it on.
"Two minutes until SHIELD arrives, Captain," Jarvis said.
"Come on," Tony said, "I'll take you to the elevator."
Steve hoisted his shield and followed Tony down the hall.
"I can't believe I'm leaving you like this," Steve said dazedly. "I can't—"
"Leaving me like what? It's fine," Tony said brusquely. "I'm fine. We'll talk when you get back." It couldn't be true. If Steve wasn't fine, and he wasn't, how could Tony possibly be? But there was no time to argue about it. At least Steve had a good pinch hitter.
"Tony, listen to me: Pepper is in the lobby. She knows something is wrong, but she doesn't know what. She says she won't leave until she sees you. Promise me you won't make her sleep down there."
"I don't think she'd stick it out more than one night, do you?"
"Tony," Steve warned.
"Yes, okay. I promise. Bruce is driving me crazy, anyway. Time for Pepper to have her turn."
Steve punched the button for the garage, and the elevator door slid open. He got in.
"I love you," he said simply. There was plenty more to say, but no more time to say it.
"I know," Tony answered as the doors slid shut.