Where Steve lays his hand is a concave scar, more or less healed to near perfection to the eye, but still tangible. Tony has suffered a little too much trauma on that part of his body. The shrapnel, the implementation of the socket for the reactor, the various changes of the reactor itself, the surgery to remove the socket the shrapnel, and finally the shield bursting through the suit had done more damage than most people ought to ever have to know in their lifetime outside of frequent heart patients. Even with Helen Cho and his own technology capable of knitting the body back together, he’s got thin, deformed bones in his chest. The scar proves it.
There are other scars too, all over his body, scars Steve had already touched. His back is a smattering of six year old wounds, glass pulled from his muscle after Loki tossed him through the window. There’s worse along his arms, at his wrists, from too many times he’s been held captive. There are even scars in his hairline.
But the chest, that one alone has Steve’s mark on it and yet Tony doesn’t flinch anymore. Evidently it’s hard to be scared of someone whose dick had been inside of you. Or rather, to whom you now have a physical as well as an emotional connection to.
So he lets Steve stay as long as he wants. And then he happily eats junk food in bed with an Adonis who seems perfectly oblivious that he’s hanging out in bed naked with a former teammate and the son of his old rival and partial creator. Tony touches him while they watch the news, reaching out to stroke his shoulder or his arm. They’re reaffirming touches. He’s still there. This is still real.
He needs that even now. Even with a blond head resting on his thigh as he skips from MSNBC to CNN to watch more than half a decade’s old news. A lot of it is about him, actually. About Stark Tower. His exploits. It’s boring, watching himself, and he hands over the remote to the younger man.
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Date: 2018-07-01 01:18 am (UTC)Where Steve lays his hand is a concave scar, more or less healed to near perfection to the eye, but still tangible. Tony has suffered a little too much trauma on that part of his body. The shrapnel, the implementation of the socket for the reactor, the various changes of the reactor itself, the surgery to remove the socket the shrapnel, and finally the shield bursting through the suit had done more damage than most people ought to ever have to know in their lifetime outside of frequent heart patients. Even with Helen Cho and his own technology capable of knitting the body back together, he’s got thin, deformed bones in his chest. The scar proves it.
There are other scars too, all over his body, scars Steve had already touched. His back is a smattering of six year old wounds, glass pulled from his muscle after Loki tossed him through the window. There’s worse along his arms, at his wrists, from too many times he’s been held captive. There are even scars in his hairline.
But the chest, that one alone has Steve’s mark on it and yet Tony doesn’t flinch anymore. Evidently it’s hard to be scared of someone whose dick had been inside of you. Or rather, to whom you now have a physical as well as an emotional connection to.
So he lets Steve stay as long as he wants. And then he happily eats junk food in bed with an Adonis who seems perfectly oblivious that he’s hanging out in bed naked with a former teammate and the son of his old rival and partial creator. Tony touches him while they watch the news, reaching out to stroke his shoulder or his arm. They’re reaffirming touches. He’s still there. This is still real.
He needs that even now. Even with a blond head resting on his thigh as he skips from MSNBC to CNN to watch more than half a decade’s old news. A lot of it is about him, actually. About Stark Tower. His exploits. It’s boring, watching himself, and he hands over the remote to the younger man.
“No black and white movies. Only stipulation.”