Chapter 12: Express Yourself
It had stopped raining, but only for the time being. Storm clouds still hung thick over the slate roofs of Paris. Under a still-dripping cafe awning, Steve finished the last of his espresso. He checked his watch, but found he couldn't read it. The face was blurred, like it was smeared with vaseline. When he passed his thumb over the glass, something came away on his finger, a viscous glob with tiny black numbers stuck in it. Odd, he thought mildly, watch jelly, and looked up to scan the sidewalk for the umpteenth time.
A pair of Nazi officers passed by, laughing, then a boy with a loaf of bread under one arm and a bottle of wine under the other. And then…Steve stood abruptly, his chair scraping back on the sidewalk.
"What are you doing here?" he asked in surprise.
"Don't you want to get my chair?" Tony said pleasantly. She wore a sharp black suit with an ostentatious ruby and gold brooch pinned to the shoulder. Around her wrist was the strap of a miniscule purse and, on her head, perched like an exotic bird, was a little black hat with a plume and a veil.
Strictly speaking, Steve didn't want to get her chair. Tony was trouble, and he knew it, but his manners were so hard-wired, he rounded the table anyway and pulled out her seat, then waited to scoot it under her perfectly portioned hindquarters. Up close, he could smell her perfume, obviously expensive, and something else, something cheaply citrusy that he couldn't quite place. One more sniff and he had it. Orange shop soap.
She smiled at him as he settled back into his own chair across the table. Her teeth looked sharp.
"What do you want?" he asked bluntly.
"Liquor," she said, motioning to a waiter. "You want one? No? Un absinthé, s'il vous plaît." The waiter was back a moment later with her drink, emerald green in its crystal goblet, accompanied by the customary slotted spoon, sugar cube, and carafe of water.
"Absinthe? Really?" Steve asked, shaking his head with amused disapproval. "Do you know what time it is?"
"No," Tony said, preparing her drink, "and neither do you. Your watch melted." It was true. His watch, totally liquid now, was just a number-speckled puddle on the tablecloth. Tony reached over and wiped the mess away with her napkin. "Besides," she added, "it's Paris. Every hour is cocktail hour. What are you doing here anyway, if you're not drinking?"
"I had an espresso. I was waiting for Peggy."
"No, you weren't," Tony said, leaning forward. "You were waiting for me." She snapped open her tiny purse and pulled out a folded sheet of drawing paper with a raw edge, like it had been pulled from a sketch pad. She slid it across the table for his inspection. It was a note, in his handwriting, indicating the cafe's address and a weirdly illegible date and time. At the bottom, he'd written For Tony. It was underlined three times.
"Huh," he said, not sure what to make of it.
Under the tablecloth, there was a thump, like something had hit the sidewalk. He started to look under the table, but investigation proved unnecessary: the thump in question had been an abandoned high heel. Its former resident, a small stockinged foot, was creeping up Steve's calf and insinuating itself between his thighs. Steve's eyes cut towards his lap: toes were pressing gently into his groin. He could see Tony's red toenail polish through the sheer fabric of her stocking. Her toes pressed a bit harder, rubbing at him through his pants. An electric jolt shot up from the base of his spine, and he slumped down in his chair, gazing with helpless surprise at the woman across the table. Tony looked at him over the rim of her glass, red lips curved in a sphinxlike smile.
"Tony," he gulped. It had gotten to the point that he couldn't leave, not even if he wanted to. "Tony, what do you want?"
She shrugged, sipping her milky green drink, "You invited me, remember?"
Steve wracked his brain. She was right; there was something he'd wanted, though it was very hard to think about what it might be with her foot sliding around in his lap. He caught it in his hands, holding it still against his erection. She grinned, but didn't try to pull away.
"I think," he said, considering, "I wanted another pep talk."
"A pep talk?" Tony raised her eyebrows. "Inspirational speeches are your department, Cap. I'm just a girl Friday, good with the snappy jokes but not much else."
"I thought you were my Jiminy Cricket," Steve reminded her.
"Slutty Jiminy Cricket," she corrected, with a deliberate wriggle of her toes. He made a noise in the back of his throat, and she smiled. "Alright, fair enough," she agreed. "Lay it on me."
There was a distant clap of thunder. They both looked up as the rain started again, pattering on the striped awning above them.
"Ominous," said Tony, waggling her eyebrows.
"Look," Steve said, trying to get her to focus, "I'm about to see you, I think. Actual you. And I don't know what to say. I mean, it's a mess, Tony, and I make it worse every time I open my mouth."
"Then don't open it. Tony's mouth abhors a vacuum. He'll talk all day."
"I can't do that. There are things I want to say."
"For example?" Tony finished her drink, then held up a finger indicating to the waiter that she wanted another.
"I love you, for one thing. I'm sorry, for another." The waiter brought Tony's second absinthe, and Steve shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He was grateful that the man left the drink and then scuttled away without trying to make small talk. God bless the Brusque Parisian Waiter.
"Those sentiments sound fairly innocuous," said Tony as the waiter retreated.
"The next one's not," Steve said. He released her foot, spreading his empty hands in invitation. Delighted, Tony began moving her toes deliberately up and down his dick again. For a minute, Steve let himself have the pleasure, catching his bottom lip between his teeth. He shut his eyes, then opened them again with a deep sigh, "I want you, Tony. And I want you to want me to. How do I tell you that? It's killing me that my desire hurts you somehow, but I can't just turn it off. I mean, obviously," he said, gesturing towards his lap. "And the more I try not to think about it, the worse it gets. You should have seen the sketchbooks I burned. They were worse than the duffel bag."
"Elephants," Tony said philosophically.
"Elephants," Steve agreed.
"That's a hard one, Steve. So to speak." Abruptly, she pulled her foot out of his lap and retrieved her heel, slipping it back on. "But I have a couple of thoughts. First, everybody wants to be the first girl you ask to the dance. And if they're second, and they know it, god help you, you poor bastard, you better let 'em know that that first girl didn't mean nuthin' to ya'. In other words," she said, reaching over the table to tap her name on the note, "triple underline it. I wantyou,justyou,onlyyou. And if you do happen to see the first girl at Homecoming, for fuck's sake don't talk to her."
"Noted," Steve said, though he didn't know what she meant. "What's your second thought?"
Tony knocked back her absinthe and stood up. Crossing to his side of the table, she took his chin in her hand, angling his face upward, then kissed him rapturously, smearing his mouth with lipstick. Logic dictated she should taste like anise or wormwood, but she didn't; she tasted just like chlorophyll smoothie. Maybe because they were both green? She caught his bottom lip in her teeth and then released it with a wet pop.
"My second thought," she said, wiping a little lipstick off his mouth with her thumb, "is that you aren't the only one who hasn't been getting laid. And Tony loves sex. And he loves you. Surely you two morons can work out the math on this one."
And with that she strode off into the rain, though the raindrops seemed not to touch her, not even the jaunty feather in her hat. When Steve stumbled into the rain after her, he was immediately soaked to the skin. He hustled after her, but she remained just out of calling distance as he trailed her, her magnificent plume weaving undamped through the crowd of umbrellas on the Champs-Élysée. He broke into a half-trot and started to catch up.
"Tony!" he called, blinking the rain out of his lashes. Finally hearing him over the weather and the traffic, she turned, pausing on a corner, waiting for him...
Tony sat in an armchair by Steve's bed. There was a tablet in his lap, the screen displaying a three-dimensional rendering of extragen, which he hadn't looked at in at least twenty minutes. All he could look at was Steve. Sweet, handsome, shot-to-hell Steve, propped up on a mountain of pillows and lit by the soft glow of a bedside lamp. It was funny: as pretty as Steve was, he didn't particularly like being looked at; even besotted post-coital gazing tended to make him self-conscious. Who knew the answer was to hook Steve up to a drip and pump him with enough Duramorph to fell a rhino? Then you could look at him all you wanted.
Objectively, Tony supposed, Steve looked downright terrible. He was thinner than usual, and pastier. Under the bandages, Steve's left shoulder looked like the product testing floor of a Swingline factory: staples everywhere. Tony took Bruce's word for it that it looked worse before, though it was hard to imagine how. And then there was the fact that Steve was, for want of a better word, gross. If Tony squinted (which was easy, since his eyesight had been on a downward slide since forty), he could make the unkempt stubble into something sexy. But that was where Tony's powers of imagination stopped. Even he couldn't do anything with Steve's nasty, sweaty hair, and the fact that he reeked of eau de gym bag.
And yet, despite these factors, Steve Rogers managed to be the nicest thing Tony had ever seen, and Tony couldn't stop looking. He was mesmerized: the only person Tony had wanted to see for weeks, and he was actually here, right in front of him. And, as an added bonus, Steve was going to wake up. It could happen any second. And then Tony would get to talk to him. To Steve fucking Rogers. He was actually a little sick with excitement, like a kid waiting for Christmas.
Right around two o'clock in the morning, Tony was rewarded with a brief flutter of gold lashes and a concerned twitch of brows, the first sign all night that Steve might come around. At two fifteen, Steve's blue eyes opened wide, blinking and bleary, in the soft light.
"Hey, you," Tony said quietly, his heart filled with some complicated emotion between joy and self-consciousness.
"Hey," Steve croaked, a radiant smile breaking across his face. His feelings, at least, seemed simple. "I know you. You're Tony Stark." When he reached out his good arm, Tony sat forward in the chair, letting Steve slide his fingers into the newly cut hair.
"That's me," Tony agreed, "at least that's what they tell me. Watch out for your IV line, Steve. It's in your elbow."
"I had a dream about you," Steve said, still beaming. Tony was supposed to ask Steve about his pain levels, but it was clear from the slurred voice and the rapturous look on his face that Steve wasn't feeling any pain at all.
"Yeah?" Tony asked instead, smiling, too.
"Yeah," Steve said happily, " you were drinking absinthe and giving me a foot job under the table."
"Wow," Tony grinned. "You are so high right now."
"I am. And it's nice, Tony. I mean, really nice," Steve enthused. "Nothing hurts. What's in the bag, anyway?" he asked, jerking his chin towards the IV.
"Y'know, just enough morphine to sink an elephant."
"I'm worried it'll make me say something stupid," Steve confided. "Promise you won't be mad if I say something stupid."
"Not as long as I get it on tape. But I really want to hear more about foot jobs and green fairies. What else happened back there?"
"In the dream?" Steve's brow creased as he concentrated, trying to remember. "My watch melted."
"How surrealist of you."
"Yeah," Steve agreed dreamily. "Too bad, though. It was my favorite watch." Then, as if he'd just been reminded of an appointment with his oral surgeon, his face crumpled into seriousness. "And you. You told me to tell you something."
"I told you to tell me something?" Tony said, deeply amused. "Was it 'I am the Walrus?'"
"No," Steve shook his head. "I'm trying to remember…I've got it. It's you. Only you. Just you. I'm supposed to tell you that. And triple underline it. Because you weren't the first one I asked to the dance."
"The dance. Riiiiiiiight…" Tony said, raising his eyebrows.
"I really didn't understand that part. You're very confusing," Steve said, mulling it over. He scratched at his stubble, considering what was evidently a thorny problem for him. "Unless—" he had a sudden revelation, eyes going comically wide. "Peggy!" he exclaimed. His eyes went even wider, and then he clapped a hand over his mouth. "Oh, no. I'm not supposed to talk about her."
"Hey," Tony said, putting a reassuring hand on Steve's thigh, "that's alright."
"Peggy was the first girl, Tony. She was the first one I wanted to take to the dance."
"Okay," Tony said. And just like that, the whole conversation was feeling less funny for reasons Tony couldn't fully articulate.
"But Tony," Steve said earnestly, "she may have been the first, but it was you I was waiting for. I thought I was waiting for Peggy, but I was really waiting around for you the whole time. Peggy was just…" he trailed off, gazing at Tony with new understanding. "That's what you tried to tell me at the café. That you're worried that I'd pick Peggy over you. If I could choose."
Tony decided that, actually, he didn't like this conversation at all; he could feel his face settling into its grimmer set of lines. If he knew how to shut Steve up, he would. Dopey Steve was on the money: Tony did not want to go head-to-head in a bout with Agent Carter. He knew he'd get flattened by the sainted Peggy. "Steve, please—" he began, in some last attempt to ward off an emotional TKO.
"But that's so…well, it's so stupid, Tony. How could you worry about that?" Steve moved his hand to Tony's face again. His smile was back, more radiant than ever, "'Course I'd pick you. Every time. How could you think anything else? You're the best thing that ever happened to me."
"Me?" Tony squeaked.
"Sure," Steve said, "you're funny and brilliant and sexy and completely insane— wait. Maybe I should have left off the last one?"
"S'okay," Tony assured him, though it was hard to talk around the beating heart in his mouth, "I am insane. I'll give it to ya'."
"I'd be so boring without you," Steve continued. "And you, you need me. I like to be needed, Tony. Peggy never needed me for a second."
"Steve." Tony could feel his eyes watering and swallowed hard. He couldn't think of anything else to say. But it didn't seem to matter, because now Steve was yawning hugely. He let his hand fall from Tony's face.
"Sorry," he said, "I'm so tired. I don't think," he yawned again, "I can keep my eyes open." He stretched in the bed, then very gingerly did his patented shoulder shift back into the pillows. "What time is it?" he asked drowsily.
"Two-thirty, maybe," Tony said, watching as the blonde lashes began to blink heavily.
"That's so late. Bet you're tired, too. Get in the bed with me."
Tony shook his head, "Bruce wouldn't like that. The IV line—"
"It'll be fine," Steve said with the complete confidence of the totally stoned and patted the place beside him invitingly. "Nat made me ride a snowmobile with a gunshot wound. You think I'm worried about an IV line?"
Tony couldn't argue with that, nor did he particularly want to. He switched out the light and climbed under the covers. With Steve propped up against all the pillows, Tony had to content himself resting his head on the mattress beside Steve's lap. He turned on his side, fitting himself to Steve's legs and draping an arm over Steve's waist. He told himself that it would only be for a minute, just until Steve was out, and then he'd be a good boy and sleep somewhere else, in the chair or the unused hospital bed or something. He felt Steve's fingers slip into his hair, sifting absently.
They were both asleep in seconds.
Around five, Tony stirred. He was dimly aware of motion above him, and he rolled onto his back, blinking up into the gloom. Bruce, in pajamas, was there changing out the IV. Tony started to sit up, but Bruce put his hand on Tony's shoulder, pushing him gently back to the mattress.
"Go to sleep, Tony."
Tony nodded and resettled his arm across Steve's lap. His eyes drifted shut, and he was gone.
When Tony woke again, the bedroom was full of gray daylight; rain and wind pounded against the windows. It felt late. Ten, eleven maybe. What he knew for sure was that he'd gotten more consecutive hours of sleep than he'd had in a good long while. He'd practically forgotten what it was like, to be totally unconscious for hours at a time, with no tossing, turning memories of what had happened in the night. It was weird, like waking up unexpectedly in foreign country.
He sat up and registered that he was alone. His heart sank a little; he'd expected Steve would be there when he woke up, that he'd get to hold him for a few minutes while they were both conscious, and that they'd have a little time to talk before the world intervened. Primarily, Tony wanted to know what, if anything, Steve remembered from the night before. Quite possibly, the answer was nothing, because he'd been absolutely looped…
"Steve?" Tony called, turning an ear towards the bathroom, but there was no response. He got up, used the bathroom himself, and got dressed before poking his head out into the hall. Signs of life reached him from the greater apartment: voices, the scrape of cutlery, the aroma of coffee. The world was carrying on without him. He made his way towards the party, feeling suddenly nervous.
It felt like some kind of debut. Four whole people were going to see him, speak to him, in this body, in broad daylight. He tried to shake the feeling away; it was objectively stupid, as they'd all seen him before. Even Nat had gotten a gander the previous evening. Still.
He rounded a corner, and there they were. The whole posse. Bruce and Pepper were at the table; Nat and Steve were on the couch. A late pancake breakfast was in progress.
"Well, good morning," Bruce said, spotting him first. "I was starting to think I'd drugged the wrong patient."
"Your coffee, Mr. Van Winkle," Pepper said, bringing him a mug. She was dressed, along with everyone else. "Do you want a plate?"
"Coffee's fine," he said, considering the seating arrangements. It was like being back in middle school. Did he sit at the table with his pals, or take a chance sitting with his crush and his crush's scary bestie?
"If you aren't eating," Nat said, making the decision for him, "come hold Rogers' plate. I'm starving. The two of us have been living on canned soup and protein bars for weeks."
"But you like canned borscht, Nat. It's your favorite thing," Steve teased. "How can the humble American pancake possibly compete?"
"It would be a shame if your staples got pulled out again," she replied with casual menace. She held out Steve's plate to Tony as he approached the sofa. Tony took it, easing uncertainly down beside the object of his affection.
"I guess I'll be your server?" Tony said, holding out the plate of cut up pancakes and scrambled eggs.
"Thanks. Can't hold the plate and eat at the same time," Steve said, eyeing Tony with an uncertain smile. He was dressed in a hospital gown with snaps at the shoulders and lounge pants, his left arm bound in an immobilizer. He still had the drip, too; the IV stand stood beside him like a loyal pet. He forked some eggs off the plate and chewed contemplatively. They seemed to be having a hard time looking at each other.
"So," said Tony, after what felt like a century of awkward silence, "you seem…better."
"By better, you mean not doped out of my mind?" Steve said wryly.
"Something like that," Tony admitted.
"Since the pain is under control, Bruce dialed the dose way back. I'm going to lose the bag after breakfast, try taking it orally instead. Then at least I won't have to haul around the coat rack."
"But then where will I hang my coat?"
They lapsed into another silence. Food and coffee were deliberately consumed until their plate and cup were respectively empty.
"Let me take those," Pepper said, sweeping away their dishes as soon as they'd finished. Her impeccable timing could only mean she'd been hovering. Terrific, Tony thought, spectators. That's all this relationship needs right now. Tony glared daggers at Pepper's back as she retreated to the kitchen.
"So—" Steve said, clearing his throat, only to be interrupted by Bruce plopping down on the sofa between them with his medical bag. Tony rolled his eyes, exasperated. It now dawned on him that he had a whole house full of busybodies and no way to get rid of them. Maybe he could call in a pest control company. Would they fog for houseguests? Or was it more of a slow-acting poison situation?
"Steve," Bruce said, unaware of his imminent extermination, "I'm going to take your IV out now. Bag's almost done." He had the needle out and the bandage on thirty seconds later. "Now, Tony here is going to be your duty nurse," Bruce said, presenting Tony with a large bottle of pills, "Two of these every four hours, whether there's particular discomfort or not, at least for now. We're trying to stay ahead of the pain and manage it. We don't want to have to run it down; that was the situation last night, and it's hard to do with that souped-up metabolism."
"Yes, Doc," Tony said, sticking the bottle in the pocket of his zip-up hoodie. He could dispense pills, and he was secretly pleased to be put in charge of something for Steve. It would give them a way to interact that was scripted, maybe keep it normal for five whole minutes at a time.
"How about a bath, Bruce?" Nat said, passing towards the kitchen with her own dirty plate. "Cap stinks."
"I was getting to that. The duty nurse," Bruce informed Steve with a professional smile, "is also in charge of patient hygiene. In about half an hour, when that first set of pills really kicks in, Tony is going to stick you in the bathtub."
Which was how Tony found himself in the bathroom taping a trash bag to Steve's shoulder. So much for keeping it normal. At least there was something resembling a script? Get Steve in the bathtub, wash him, get him back out. Tony ripped off one last piece of medical tape with his teeth and proclaimed, "That's as watertight as a Civil War submarine."
"Should that inspire confidence?" Steve asked, perched on the lid of the toilet.
"Absolutely not. But I'll be careful to wash around it. You ready?"
"Sure," Steve said, easing himself up with a grunt. Tony hovered beside him as they made their way slowly towards the bathtub, close enough to feel the heat from Steve's body. They'd already taken off the immobilizer and gown, and Steve was down to just his pants.
"Shall I do the honors?" Tony asked, placing his hands on Steve's waistband. He tried to ignore the little electric shock he felt as his palms passed over Steve's hip bones.
"I'm not sure it is an honor, but go ahead," Steve said.
"Why, Captain America," Tony said, pulling Steve's pants down to the ankles, "you've forgotten your skivvies."
"Bruce told me to skip them, said it would be easier to pee."
"That's the least sexy reason for going commando I've ever heard." Tony helped Steve ease down into the waist-high water.
"Sorry to disappoint." Steve winced as he tried to get comfortable. "But, uh," he cleared his throat, "while we're on the subject, I thought I'd let you know, we aren't supposed to have sex. Not for three weeks, anyway, according to Bruce."
Tony snorted, "Well, what a tragedy. We'd been on such a hot streak. Last time, we practically set the bed on fire."
Steve said nothing. Apparently, that had been the wrong thing to say; Steve had not found it funny.
The mood in the room, fairly friendly just a moment ago, was strained. An uncomfortable silence followed.
Tony swallowed and reached for the script: Get Steve in the bathtub, wash him, get him back out. He should probably wash Steve's hair; that'd be a logical first step. He picked up the shampoo and flipped the cap as he settled onto the low teak stool beside the soaking tub.
With a jolt, he realized he was sitting on the same stool Pepper had used three weeks ago. His mind skipped right back to that terrible day: the phone call, the dedicated day drinking, the sex, the gore, the fucking PBS, and finally Pepper, coming to his rescue with a bubble bath, making him feel like someone gave a damn that he'd just been ripped apart.
He shook himself. What was he doing, anyway? What were they doing? Falling backward into the same awkward, evasive, antagonistic patterns as before? Tony wouldn't have it. He just wouldn't. Steve Rogers, his husband, the person he loved most in all the world, had been shot. Actually shot. As in, could have died. As in, could have disappeared forever in some maybe-Balkan forest. But he hadn't. He was right here. Even better, he was right here and naked. Even better, Tony had been cast as the sexy duty nurse. So, again, what the fuck was Tonydoing? He'd told himself the day Steve left that he wasn't going to take time with this glorious man for granted.
Borrowing an action from Pepper's playbook, Tony abandoned the shampoo and leaned forward over Steve's good shoulder, giving him a peck just at the corner of the mouth. Steve drew back in surprise, turning his face towards the contact, and Tony took the initiative, leaning forward further to kiss Steve full on the lips. It was a good kiss: gentle, but with the perfect amount of Drew Barrymore church tongue. When they drew apart, they were both breathing just a little harder.
Steve gazed at him, his eyes moving over Tony's face like he was trying to memorize it. "Last night," he said softly, "I meant to tell you how good you look. You look like you again."
"So you do remember last night," Tony said, relieved. He had been worried about it, much more than he'd been willing to admit. If Steve Rogers didn't remember picking him over Peggy Carter, he would never, ever be brave enough to bring it up, for fear Steve might not have meant it, and Tony knew that wouldn't just break his heart, but shred it. He kissed Steve again, on the temple this time, right at the edge of his filthy hair. "I'm glad. I wasn't sure."
"I remember. I've been reliving my 'completely insane' comment all morning," Steve admitted with chagrin. "I think I meant it as a compliment, but, y'know, maybe not my finest confession of love."
"You called me 'stupid,' too," Tony reminded him, planting another kiss, this one on the side of Steve's stubbly throat. Steve was so coated in dried sweat, Tony felt like he was macking on one of those pink Himalayan salt lamps.
Steve sighed. "Well, great. Apparently, I need to start drafting these things in advance."
"Nothing says 'romance' like a stack of index cards," Tony agreed. He kissed the side of Steve's neck again, this time opening his mouth to taste the stale sweat. And while it was probably gross, Tony suddenly wanted to lick him.
"You know, the irony is that I did actually know what I wanted to say. It took everything I had not to wake you up this morning. There were so many things I didn't get out before I fell asleep."
"Yeah? Missed a few more opportunities to insult my intelligence?" Tony asked aloud. Internally, he was debating the weirdness/potential hotness of licking Steve like a deer at a mineral block.
"No. I wanted to say I'm sorry for leaving like I did. I felt terrible about it. All I could think about was leaving you alone. It ate me up."
Tony was only half-listening. And why not? Why not lick Steve? Tony gave up the battle with his impulses and ran the flat of his tongue up the side of Steve's neck.
"You want to know what happened when you left?" Tony asked between swipes of his tongue. "Pepper gave me a bubble bath. She stuck me in the tub and washed my hair. Y'know, like I'm supposed to be washing yours."
"I'm just sorry it wasn't me, Tony. I sure wanted it to be." Steve made a sound in the back of his throat, halfway between pleasure and surprise as Tony indulged in a particularly luxurious stroke of his tongue. "What, uh, what are you doing exactly?"
"Me? Answering a biological imperative." Tony licked him again. "I'm evolutionarily hard-wired to crave the salt. Why? Should I stop?"
"Maybe."
Fair enough. Tony had never been confident about his calculation on that eroticism to eccentricity ratio. He'd liked it, but he wasn't an arbiter of good taste. He sat back and retrieved the shampoo, squeezing some into his hand. Working it into Steve's greasy hair, he tried to replicate Pepper's robust finger circles. As it had with Tony, the action made Steve sigh and slide further down the side of the tub.
"Got anything else you want to get out of your system, Steve?" Tony asked. "This is the part where I told Pepper I wanted to try vaginal sex again, but that I thought you might crawl under the furniture."
Steve looked at him over a shoulder, surprised, "Really? I figured you'd be the one that wouldn't want to. Not that I'd blame you."
"Eh," Tony carefully trickled a cup of water over Steve's head, keeping the stream well away from the trash bag, "I think I liked it. Not that I had much of a chance. Gotta try it again to be sure, right?"
"If you say so," Steve said noncommittally. Then, hesitatingly: "Tony, I hate to bring it up, but when I left, you were…well—"
"The emotional equivalent of Love Canal?" Tony supplied.
Steve slapped on a politely blank expression, the one he used when he didn't get the reference, but couldn't be bothered to ask. "I wouldn't put it like that," he said scrupulously, "but you did seem pretty miserable, and now you seem… You seem like yourself. You sound like yourself." Steve paused, working himself up to the next one, "You're even hitting on me. What happened?"
Tony took up a washcloth and rubbed it with a bar of soap, then started washing Steve's neck as he considered how to answer the question. Steve was right. He did feel like himself, at least a lot of the time. There were still moments he'd slip: he'd unexpectedly key into the feminine qualities of his voice, or he'd catch his reflection and find himself momentarily shocked, but overall? If he rounded up? He felt like Tony Stark.
"The clothes help a lot," he said finally, "and the haircut. And my body hair is growing in, which is, like, weirdly affirming? I'd never suspected how much of my self-worth was linked to my armpits."
"I get it. I was the last kid in junior high to start puberty," Steve said with a rueful smile.
"And then there's Oz," Tony continued. "Do not under any circumstance tell Pepper or I'll kill you, but my god, I am absolutely hooked on business calls right now. I recognize that this is fucked-up capitalist bullshit, but lemme tell ya': there is nothing,nothing, like being the CEO of a Fortune 500 company to shore up your masculinity. Being CEO means my dick is automatically the biggest in the room, and I don't even have one."
Tony poured water over Steve's neck, rinsing away the suds. "I mean, don't get me wrong, the whole situation still freaks me out if I let myself think about it too hard. This morning, the concept of walking into the living room with tits made me feel like I was going to break out in hives. But overall? Overall, I'm better."
"And you don't think that sex would, I don't know, rattle your self-image?" Steve said carefully. "Is it really worth it to you?"
Tony traded the cup for the washcloth again and started in on Steve's chest. "It might rattle me, but I can take being rattled. I've been rattled before. Frankly, Steve, I've been fucked just about every way you can think of, and I've been a lot of different people in the bedroom. Me, in this body, is just another kind of role play."
"That's minimizing it, Tony."
"Probably," Tony admitted. "But, yeah, to answer your question. It's worth it to me. I want it. Of course I want it. It's what got me into this mess in the first place, remember?"
"I remember." There was a beat of silence, then Steve asked, very softly, "What's it like?"
"What? Sex as a woman? Or, at least, as whatever I am right now? I don't know," Tony laughed awkwardly, trying to formulate a response that would even make sense. "It's intense. Complex, because it isn't just your dick involved. There's no one center of desire. The sex feels like it's everywhere in your body at once." Tony continued passing the washcloth slowly across Steve's body and thought about masturbating, about the pleasure he'd felt when he finally began building an orgasm. "It's like there are all these balloons, and you have to get all the strings gathered up into one fist before they'll pull you off the ground. If you let go of even one, you end up drifting down again."
"That sounds frustrating."
"It is. But that feeling of lift off? When you finally have all the strings? It's like nothing you've ever felt. It's kind of amazing." Tony followed the soapy cloth with more water from the cup. He watched the rivulets flow down Steve's chest, traveling smoothly over the muscles. A drop caught on one of Steve's nipples and hung, suspended, wanting but unable to fall. Tony reached out his finger and touched it gently, causing the little drop to plunge towards the surface of the bath. "Of course, I still don't know what happens when the balloons reach the upper atmosphere. Climax remains thus far elusive. And that is not amazing. That is strictly bullshit."
He continued caressing Steve's chest with his finger, tracing the paths of the water, wishing his finger was actually his tongue.
"Y'know," he said ruefully, "I take it back. Three weeks without sex is a tragedy."
Abruptly abandoning the stool, Tony knelt by the side of the tub. He washed Steve's face with the cloth, then ran it lower, over Steve's chest, and then lower still, down his impossibly perfect abdominals, all the way down his groin. Releasing the cloth at the waterline, Tony began groping Steve's dick with his hand. It was soft; Tony stroked it gently, then gathered it in his palm, squeezing.
Steve made a low noise in his throat; his expression was one of agonized pleasure, like a kid with a candy bar they possibly shouldn't have and that might be taken away at any moment. "C'mon, Tony," he said, a little hopelessly, "please don't tease me. I'm so turned on."
"Doesn't have to be a tease," Tony pointed out, hand still moving under the water. "I'm your private duty nurse. Your comfort is my job." Damn, what Tony wouldn't give for a latex nurse's uniform. Could you get one on DoorCart?
"That's sweet of you—" Steve said, watching Tony's hand beneath the water.
"Sweet?" Tony raised his eyebrows.
"Or something," Steve amended, "but Bruce told me three weeks and—"
"Psssh. Doctors say that and mean penetration, Steve. Bruce doesn't care if you come. He just doesn't want me to break you. I'm okay to give you a hand job; I mean, I'm already doing it."
"I dunno, Tony. That's not what he said—"
"You want me to ask him? 'Cause I'll ask him right now," Tony said, jerking a thumb towards the door.
"Please don't," Steve said, a flush spreading up his neck. "Look, I don't even think I can get it up, not with the morphine."
"Really?" Tony said, suddenly even more interested. "That's perfect. No erection, no way to stick your dick where it doesn't belong. Which, let's face it, would be a temptation, and I really don't want to break you. Let's get you out of the tub; you can sit up in the bed, and I'll blow you."