steadfast_tin_soldiers

Oh, God...

Infinity War Open Post

THERE WILL BE SPOILERS.

Drop me a prompt, or ask me to drop you a prompt. Open to doomy pre-IW foreshadowing, fix-it AUs, post-IW angst, character interactions that should have happened but didn't on-screen, crossovers, and whatever else anyone can come up with.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

'Ever put one of these on' he asks, and despite how zoned-out Steve is, he breaks into a quiet giggle. Oh, Tony. It's strangely endearing when he asks that kind of question, or makes it otherwise clear he doesn't think Steve knows about some 'modern' convenience that has actually existed in some form since before Steve himself was born. (What's your thing, Pilates? It's like calisthenics. Yeah, except it was used to rehabilitate injured soldiers from the first World War...)

Benefit of the doubt, though. Maybe he's assuming Steve's innocence rather than the newness of this fascinating rubbery innovation, and he can't be blamed for that. Steve comes over to the bed and sets the lotion down, then quietly undoes his belt, the fly of his pants, grinning at Tony the whole time. When he answers, his voice is still raw--he's legitimately scrambled here--but he can form complete sentences:

"They used to give those out free to servicemen. Somewhere in the Smithsonian archives there's footage of me puttin' one of 'em on a zucchini, Tony. For a PSA. Put it on before you put it in! I couldn't keep a straight face and they decided it was too explicit to release."

Naked, he tosses his pants toward a chair, misses, then thinks better of it and turns and bends to pick them up, and if Tony thinks he's not being given a show deliberately, he's still underestimating Steve's ability to be devious. Once that's handled, he comes closed and puts a knee on the edge of the bed by Tony's hip, and gently takes the packet from his fingers. "And we used to put 'em over the barrels of our rifles to keep out the rain," he adds.

"Son, I've been using condoms since before you were born." Haha, 'son'. He's definitely not thinking clearly if he's talking like that. Captain-America-ing in bed is far from his normal default mode.

Although it's not unlike him to drift into reminiscence when he's stressed. He's been in and out of it since the Raft. That's hardly a surprise. The amused, almost-tender look on his face as he peers down at Tony might be, though.

This is a weird mix for him and though Tony is grief stricken and lustful and filled to the brim with fine oak-aged scotch in a quantity that is meant for sipping and not getting sloshed with, he can’t help but tense slightly when Steve starts talking. It’s not the flinch from before, not the burgeoning need to run should anyone make any sudden move, he’s just struck with nostalgia himself.

How did they get this far? No, honestly. What happened between harsh words to wanting to fuck each other’s brains out? Tony’s had his on and off again attraction to Steve Rogers from before he knew what attraction was, but hate and jealousy had overtaken that fairly quickly. They’ve had their friendship, mostly in the absentee, and they’ve had their fights, mostly in the sort that brought on vast longings to be near each other again, but crossing this particular line is still confusing.

He dumped food on the floor to see if Steve would clean it up. And he had, while taking it for an invitation.

Because... because Steve is attracted to him? Because grief needs an outlet? Because it’s been a long time coming, really.

Tony settles on the last answer, amber eyes lifting as Steve kneels over him. He’d enjoyed the view, the sleek lines of the blond’s body, but he is a more tactile man than a visual one. Funny, really, given how intensely anti touch he had been for a very long time.

“You don’t have a rifle barrel. Or a zucchini. And if you bust that open on your, frankly, perfect cock, I’m going to be very upset and make you go back to the pharmacy to buy a ten pack.” It doesn’t sound like a threat but at least there are words and they are spoken properly.

Despite having Captain Fucking America in his bed. How many people have gotten to say that? Maybe that photographer from Des Moines...

Or maybe no one at all. Steve has never been inside of someone before. And yeah. Tony really feels like gloating about it. “Come on, Captain. I’m not one of your chorus girls or stage hands. And I don’t like to be kept waiting.”

That’s not the drink talking, either. Tony is a bravado incarnate. And dumb enough to ignore his own safety protocols, too.

It's been a long time coming. Inevitability is a good way to think of it, and if they were in the mood to discuss the feeling rather than do something about it, Steve would have to agree. What he feels for Tony--what he's felt since he met him, but what only seems to be growing stronger now--is too complex to be named simply 'attraction' or 'lust' or even love, though there are bits of all of those things mixed up into it. There's an overwhelming awareness that he needs the foil, the check and balance he presents just by being Tony fucking Stark and sharing the same room with Steve. If Tony didn't exist, Steve would have to invent him.

This was bound to happen sooner or later. It didn't have to be such a rough road to get here, but that's on them both. Thou and I are too wise to woo peaceably.

None of that changes the desperation, or the brutality of the backdrop they're struggling to escape and forget, but there's something like satisfaction in the thought that they were always going to end up in bed, all over one another, as soon as one of them gave in and admitted he wanted it.

"You think it's perfect?" Steve's smirk flickers wider, eyes sparkling between weak teasing and awkward pleasure, but he sets the packet aside for the moment while he finishes divesting Tony of his pants and runs his hands all over his legs and up his thighs. While he's getting away with this closeness, he's taking as much as he can, noting all the little scars like his own body should have if it were normal, and doesn't.

Lotion is what he reaches for before retrieving the condom again, pouring a little into his palm. It's hypoallergenic, unscented, which is for the best in this instance. "I need you to tell me if it's too rough or anything," he warns Tony, and hooks one of his legs over his shoulder while his slippery fingertip seeks out and presses gently into place. "I don't wanna hurt you."

Though Tony might react to Steve’s mild blush at flattery with a smirk, as Steve is a physically perfect human being, he is still a human being and there is pleasure to seeing someone find pleasure in his words. He’s mildly shocked at being suddenly divested of clothing and, fully naked now, his heart rate increases until it’s pounding in his ears. This is Steve Rogers, his brain decides to suddenly protest. Hes a team mate. You’ve known him for years!

And it’s about damned time that this is finally happening. The rush of desire precedes the gentle way Steve touches him, caresses him, and sticks to the wall like perfectly cooked spaghetti. They’re about to have sex after two years of being apart. They’re about to have sex after nearly beating one another to death. They’re about to have sex because their world is gone and their biological clocks are demanding the solace of a physical connection.

This is right.

Tony doesn’t believe in fate, but he’s grateful for it anyway.

He lays back as Steve leans over him and he’s somewhat surprised that his legs and hips cooperate. Steve’s tall. And Tony isn’t fresh and new. His body doesn’t always cooperate, and it’s going a little softer than maybe he’d like it to. That’s just age. And you can fight age, but only for so long.

The fringe of Steve’s new haircut, dried somewhat imperfectly because of the bleach job and the crazy things that had been happening since he came out of the bathroom fifteen or twenty minutes ago, hangs over his eyes as Tony looks up at the Captain.

“You’re not going to hurt me,” Tony says, but it’s not just stubbornness that blurts out those words. Steve is a soldier. He’s been trained to know his body. He understands restraint. He could also likely and literally fuck him to death but Steve’s got more control over himself than most— The entry of fingers blanks everything from Tony’s brain and there’s just a sudden inhalation, a greedy suck of muscles not generally used against a foreign but welcome body, and an intense roll of pleasure through his lower half. Tony’s body understands that it must relax and so it does so, hips pressing his bottom into Steve’s palm. Muscle yields and Tony’s brain takes control again as his toes uncurl. “S-See?” It’s easy to get used to one finger. Two takes a bit of time and when they’re there, Tony’s hips work against Steve’s hand on their own accord, until they both find the angle required to make Tony shudder. He’s pretty sure Steve is going to make note of that when the show actually starts.

And it’s got to start soon. Tony’s never been one for over preparation. His hand desperately grasps the condom packet and he presses it heatedly to Steve’s chest.

“What’re you waiting for? Handwritten invitation to arrive in the mail?” The words are somewhat slurred, though not from the scotch. He’s drunk again on this. On Steve. On what’s about to happen.

He’s finally figured out the perfect thing to get a guy who can and does have everything he wants: Captain America’s virginity.

Despite Steve's mild distaste for one-night stands, the feeling of blind lust isn't unfamiliar to him. Likewise, there have been times he felt so ravenous for some kind of affection, something that's at least a parody of tenderness, that he's been willing to settle for sex in lieu of love, but ultimately he's not very good at separating emotion from physicality. Every touch he gives, every breath he watches rise and fall in Tony's chest, makes him ache with something he doesn't dare to give a name to.

He doesn't want to loom over him, trying to take care not to set off his fears, but his free hand braces against Tony's hip as he presses his fingers in and draws them back out, slow and easy. Anticipation makes it hard work. He bites his tongue, the inside of his cheek, counts backwards from a thousand in his head, anything to blunt the rising need. The concentration has the added benefit of keeping him from babbling something stupid, something he'd wish Tony hadn't heard later on.

When he hits the right spot and feels the shudder and pulse in the other man's body, he makes a small, broken sound of his own. That. Yes, that's what he wants to see, needs to see, more than he wants or needs an orgasm of his own. He needs to enter this man's orbit, needs to see the effect he has on him, needs it to be good for once.

He nods wordlessly when Tony shoves the packet at him, withdrawing his fingers slowly. And he needn't have worried; Steve manages to tear it open without damaging the contents, unrolls the condom expertly and just as easily puts it on. It's been a while, but he remembers.

He is in no way planning on being on top of Tony. Not after seeing him startle, and not knowing he outweighs him significantly. He also doesn't think Tony's up for riding him, tipsy as he is, so once he's ready, he rolls him onto his side and curls up against his back, more or less spooning him. One arm wraps around his waist, the other hand used to guide his cock toward and into his entrance.

He is so careful. Excessively careful, because he really doesn't know how much force is too much, quite yet. Better to err on the side of gentle, at least until Tony gets impatient again. And it's so much, heat and pressure and intimacy he almost can't process, and he makes muffled, snuffling groans against the nape of his neck as he eases into place, unable to say anything coherent for several seconds.

"Y-you okay?" he manages at last, and his voice quivers like a violin string. "Not too much?"

Tony is not okay. He’s not anywhere near okay. Though he had settled down against Steve’s arm and Steve’s chest after the initial stretch and burn of entry, having propped himself up on his own elbow and hand to better see what was going on over his shoulder, now that the blond is fully seated inside of him, there’s an emotional burst he can’t really figure out how to deal with. Steve is thicker than Tony’s had before, and he’s not had anyone like this in years. One’s body tends to forget how to stretch, and though it’s been given a crash course in that facet of this little activity, Tony feels entirely too full.

He’s not whimpering, not like he had been with Steve’s mouth wrapped around him, but making low, generously deep groans in his throat each time Steve moves. The way he breathes, the inflation of his diaphragm, causes the blond to shift and Tony grips the sheets even as he bows his head forward to accept he affectionate whisper-kisses from Steve’s lips on his neck.

“A minute,” he finally growls out, which immediately is followed up by a breathier pleading: “stay-stay still— Fuck, you’re huge. Let me get... get used to you—“

It’s sex. It’s intimate by its very nature, bodies pressing together, bodies entering one another, but Steve just can’t seem to help but make what should be about release into something so impossibly loving. He’s no bucking bronco, a quick start out of the gate. He’s there. Present. Mindful. Checking on him. And all Tony can thing to do is turn his cheek against his elbow and lightly press his lips there.

He counts every second over the next minute, mind keeping perfect time against the world clock. At sixty, he releases his hold on the blankets and grasps blindly for Steve’s other hand to press his palm against his belly. He wants to be held. That’s not normal for him. He experimentally grips the already too wide shaft inside of him with his abdominal muscles and exhales in hot bursts against Steve’s skin.

So, he thinks for himself for a moment, they aren’t going to be fucking tonight. Steve Rogers is going to make love to him, slowly, and it’s going to be utterly mind blowing. He holds onto that as he relaxes, settling his fingers into the grooves between Steve’s knuckles.

“I’m ready,” he says, with a swallow, pressing back against the blond’s thighs, his cock twitching from the effort, delicious and aching at the same time. “Be gentle. And slow...”

He’s not sure if he added that for his own benefit...or because he sort of knows that it will make Steve’s blood burn to know that he’s submitting to him in this. Tony never yields to anyone.

Steve isn't made of stone, after all. There are very few men who wouldn't be pleased to hear 'fuck, you're huge' in this particular context, and Steve is not one of the few. It's a well-timed compliment, or complaint, or whatever it is. He's feeling the same sense of intimacy, extremely welcome, but foreign and a little frightening. This is the end of the world, where the two of them are concerned, but they're not facing it alone. They're facing it together on expensive sheets in a fancy New York hotel, and it's strange that that almost makes it feel okay.

It almost makes it feel like nothing matters except the white-heat of their bodies joined, the taste of Tony's skin, and the groans he's making.

Steve himself makes a soft sound, halfway between a chuckle and a moan, acknowledging Tony's request, and nods against him. He's not counting seconds, but he continues to nuzzle and make inaudible whispers against his neck, hoping that Tony can't tell that between swears and 'oh god's there's a silent 'help me, help' and a 'wanna love you'. Sex babble is notoriously unreliable as a glimpse into a man's psychology, but even like this Steve isn't a liar. He only tells lies of omission.

"Oh, ohh...Tony..." It's the action of holding onto Steve's hand that gives weight and strength to his voice again, and his fingers tremble against the other man's skin. It's stupid, but the emotion prompted by that little gesture threatens to break his control. He bites his own lower lip again, almost enough to draw blood.

He's not sure what would have happened if Tony hadn't just said he was ready. He can be gentle. He can try to be slow.

"You're so..." he chokes out, squeezing him closer carefully as he starts to move his hips in shallow thrusts. "Goddamn it, Tony. So tight...y're killin' me."

Don’t die on me too. Pepper and Peter are gone. Happy never turned up. Bruce and Rhodey are close to him, but the former had disappeared and the latter is a loss of a brother going forward that he’s going to have to deal with at some other time. At least he’s alive, here and back where they came. And Tony can’t focus on him right now. He has to let the rest filter through his fingers too, he has to trust himself that it’s possible to let them go because he’s going to give them life again.

But if Steve dies now in any way other than metaphorically, inside of him, then Tony won’t be able to cope. He’s not exactly doing a fine job of it now, anyway, though.

There isn’t much to be done in this position. Steve doesn’t have fantastic leverage and the pump of his hips, their embracing arms, and their closeness only allows two or three thick inches of the blond to leave him at a time. Tony’s grateful for that, however unable to express it he might be. This is real. The stretching and the fullness is real. He isn’t sure he wants to be empty. His body craves the physical sensation of surrounding someone else, even as he is being surrounded.

Steve is good at setting the pace and Tony arches back against him, the flat of his foot pressing to Steve’s calf to give himself a way to brace for the impact of each coming inward thrust.

There’s a contentment in that, when Steve is flush against his back and there feel of his balls coming to rest at his thighs tells him that there is no further that either can go.

Whatever effect the scotch had had on him is gone. Tony anticipates the slight uptick in pace as his breathing hitches. His body language has been slowly egging Steve on, dragging him deeper, televising that he can not only handle more, but he wants more. And that’s what the next few minutes blank for him. Steve finds the place his fingers had explored not long before and as his cock taps and rubs against the muscles of Tony’s prostate, he dissolved into nothing more than mewling begging. “Please—please—aaaah! More!” is followed by “oh-oh-oh I love it!” and “yes, yes, yes, oh god!, oh god! I can feel you everywhere!” and maybe, weirdly, a few long length equations for good measure peppered between.

He’ll deny all of this later if Steve brings it up.

Each time the blond drills into him, though, each time he begs or offers an explanation of the universe in mathematical formulas, there’s nothing rushed or even exceptionally dirty about it. Words will fail him soon enough and the breathy inventor will simply greet even hit of Steve’s thighs against his ass with an almost joyful “Ah!”

He isn’t one of the few lucky types that can be stimulated to orgasm through anal sex alone, but that’s fine. He’s right on the edge of bursting and he wants to keep going until Steve balloons the condom within him full of seed.

He meant it metaphorically, in the most positive way possible. Although, in an awful, dark, sad way, Steve does associate dying with not-alone. What he started to tell Tony earlier, and never got the words out, was how light it felt, dancing on the edge of darkness with the Winter Soldier seconds away from cracking his skull. Light, and safe; Bucky was there, so it was going to be all right, no matter what happened...

In a way, this is an echo of that, without the violence. They have nothing left to lose, nothing to return to whether they succeed or fail. But Tony's here.

Maybe it can still be all right, no matter what happens.

He doesn't want to let go. Emotional pain starts to dissolve and blur into the physical pleasure, and Steve feels lightheaded, shaky fingertips kneading Tony's skin as he kisses and licks his neck and shoulders because that's all of him he can reach without changing positions. Tony is all around him, squeezing his cock, pressed into his chest, holding his hand, claiming and being claimed all at once.

In light of the encouragement, he's able to tune out the equations, but if Tony's being talkative, so is Steve, if somewhat more quietly, gasping out endearments he normally wouldn't utter aloud, especially to Tony Stark: 'sweetheart' and 'baby' and 'angel'. He's semi-delirious, it's so good, and the noises Tony makes break his heart wide open. It's wonder he's not bleeding out right here, joy and need staining the Egyptian cotton sheets beneath them.

He has enough sense to guess that Tony will need his hand to get to climax, but that presents a minor dilemma, because he doesn't want to loosen his grip on him in any way. At last he relents, though, sliding his hand down his belly, stroking fingertips through curls of hair before wrapping them around his cock.

Then it's Steve that's whimpering, tiny desperate noises against Tony's skin. "Sshh, shh, I've got you, it's okay, I'm here, Tony, please, please let me--"

When he comes, he makes sounds that aren't even sounds at all, just gasps and wheezes, like the air has been punched out of him, shuddering like it's too much pleasure for his body to handle.

Maybe it’s the sound of those endearments (because who would call him ‘sweetheart’ or ‘angel’) that snaps him back to himself, but it’s just in time for Tony to feel Steve’s hand leave the partial death grip that he has had on him and cup the straining muscle leaking onto the sheets. Those words are not going to be spoken about. Not the meaning behind them (sex-brain, perhaps) not the way they make him feel, and not how they carry him right through sensation to the brink.

And that happens just too fast.

Crying out, the orgasm hits him hard, like a bullet, and he can feel it in Steve too, just a single step ahead of him. He’s been leading the dance, despite his basic inexperience, and it’s completely paid off for them both. Tony is panting, covered in a sheen of sweat and nerves, when the last twitch of Steve’s cock inside of him ceases and the tightened muscles of his abdomen relax all at once.

Normally, this would be the point where Tony would get up and head to the bathroom, but Pepper’s done wonders for breaking him of some of his phobias and Steve’s semen might end of being some biological fountain of youth, anyway. Before the blond can do something like roll over, though Tony already knows that he won’t, he makes a readably desperate grab of the back of Steve’s thigh to keep him there, to keep them docked, at least until the other man softens too much to make that possible.

Now there’s too much to talk about, more than there had been on the burning streets of New York City, more than there had been when Tony got himself drunk and Steve started to look like Steve again.

The older man readjusts his arm over Steve’s and while he’s, technically, he’s cuddling with him right now, he’s desperate to maintain the fairytale romance that Disney never fully gives its audiences. Tony can and sometimes does live in delusion. But you don’t just have Captain America make love to you like you’re the most important person in the world (even if your ego already tells you that you actually are anyway) and want to go back to reality. Not when he’s still inside of you. Not while you still feel him and smell him on your skin.

People always implied to Steve that penetrative sex was more intense than oral or handjobs. Now he gets it. It's not so much the physical sensations, but the body-to-body contact and the awareness of the other person's physical presence makes a huge difference. He's trembling as he starts to come down from it, breathing heavy, and he's aware there are tears staining his cheeks. He's glad Tony's facing away from him for that reason, but even more so when he grabs onto him and makes it clear he's no more ready to separate than Steve is.

Steve feels unbelievably delicate. One wrong movement, one harsh word could break him. He's frightened and euphoric, and he holds onto Tony because the last thing he wants to do is let him go.

He loves Pepper. He reminds himself. And I love Bucky. Except, of course, Steve said it himself, earlier: It's possible to love more than one person at a time.

That's a better reason to have done this than simple desperation for a connection to hold onto. Although, it's possible to have more than one reason for doing something, too.

Gradually, his breath evens out, but not without hitches in it, telltale sobs that probably betray to Tony how he's not the only one affected by this. Steve tilts his head forward, nuzzling in to rest his forehead against the back of Tony's hair.

"God. Tony...? Can we...both agree...that that wasn't a one-time thing?" He croaks, once he thinks he's found his voice again. "Please?"

They've strayed into emotional waters too treacherous to navigate without wrecking, but he's pretty sure they can find common ground in 'that-felt-good', if nothing else. "You feel...you're warm. Thank you..."

Steve hasn’t just gone and blown it or anything, though Tony can’t help but stiffen when he starts to speak. He’d been fine with the light sobbing. Tony had actually expected it. What they’d done, for Steve, was brand new. In a way, it was brand new for Tony too. He’d never had a male lover treat him like that. On the occasion he wanted to be fucked like this, it was done quickly and roughly. Women cuddled. Not men. And Tony hadn’t even wanted to cuddle them most of the time either. Being with Steve is like seeing a unicorn. You think you understand the mythos but nothing can prepare you for the real thing.

The nuzzling at his neck though? That’s nice. It stimulates his tired but blissed our body just a little and even causes him to used his muscles to clamp down on the other man’s penis. He might need to rethink his enjoyment of this whole thing later... obviously, quick and rough doesn’t do for him what slow and rolling and gentle had.

But that’s for another time. Steve’s presence had been making him sigh with contentment and he’d even chuckled a little when the blond mentioned wanting to do this again.

Tony didn’t need to think of a reply for that because he wanted, very much, to do this again. Many times. “We’ve got awhile together,” he even promises.

And then the thank you. Tony shuffles a little, though trying to keep Steve inside of him and glance up at his face is difficult. “Don’t thank people after sex, Rogers,” he says, though the look on the Captain immediately softens him and his tone. “It’s not like a did you a service. I liked it too. I wish I knew I’d have liked it this much years ago because I’ve been really missing out. Not to give you a big head about it but... I think I lost time. Shit. You’re getting too soft. That was my only damn condom.”

The noise Steve makes when Tony clamps down on him is quiet but almost inhuman, a scratchy, swallowed-back whine. He's still shivering periodically, like he's been handling electricity, overwhelmed.

He continues to nudge at Tony's neck and shoulder lethargically, having gathered that he likes it, but then he's moving and Steve has to pause and crane his neck a little to let him look at him. He's immediately troubled, because the words coming out of Tony's mouth don't make a lot of sense to him. They come out in a sequence that should be logical. He understands 'don't thank people after sex', and files it away for future reference, but then it just keeps going and he can't keep up.

The expression on his face looks a little foreign there. Steve is very good at projecting confidence, even when he's stepping right into the line of fire. Especially when he's stepping right into the line of fire. He almost always seems to know what he's doing. Right now, it's the opposite. He's dazed with adrenaline and pleasure, exhausted to the edge of his own capacity by the events of the last few days, and--and he doesn't think Tony's rejecting him, or angry, because he can read body language even when words aren't doing much for him, but he's not sure what he does mean.

"What d'you...what was I supposed to say?" It's a dumb question, he knows that, but he's feeling his way blind all of a sudden, and needing reassurance badly enough that he's almost willing to ask for it. And it's written all over his face.

Leave it to Steve to focus on that instead of on Tony’s displeasure that this is ending. When things end, that’s when the brain picks them apart. And that’s not good by a long shot. Tony knows his mind and he knows that euphoria isn’t going to cover up his guilt. Steve had said he’s been attracted to Tony since they met, but Tony can’t say the same. He’d been too busy being so painfully petty— And he’s been with Pepper. He’s always been with Pepper save right before Steve backstabbed him to be with the man he loved.

Tony clearly remembers laying in his suit, propped up and useless, ribs broken and breastbone crushed, every single breath agony, and wanting to be Bucky Barnes. Crazy Manchurian Candidate and all.

He wanted Steve to fight that hard for him. And now here they are. And Steve’s like a pussy cat, young and wide eyed in post-coital vulnerability. Tony feels guilty about that too. He started this. Or maybe they both had. It’s not like he waved his dick in Steve’s face.

So he needs a minute here. He needs to weld all of his thoughts back together. “First you go and clean up. And bring me a towel too. And then you come back here and we play rock-paper-scissors on who’s making the trip to the pharmacy.” He can’t call room service for them. The people downstairs will talk and if it gets back to Pepper that he could be cheating, he’ll ruin something good for himself. “And you lay next to me. In the wet spot.” Obviously. “And you touch me. And I touch you. And we talk about this. But you don’t ever say thank you unless you’ve paid for it. And you never say you love someone even if you do. Everyone is a little in love after sex.”

Steve is in no condition to pick anything apart. He looks like a stiff breeze could knock him flat, blue eyes big and urgent, dark because the pupils are still wide with lust. In a few days he may stabilize, might be able to self-analyze or at least interpret what Tony means when he talks circles around what he's actually thinking and feeling, but he's been hit hard. And now, when he's down, he's been--not kicked, but scooped up into bed and given the time of his life, which is far more disorienting. His defenses are flayed open.

He needs a minute, too. And sleep, and more food than the couple bites of pizza he's had. More than that, though, he feels the need for direction, so something in his face eases when Tony gives him that.

"Sure thing," he says softly, and there's a flicker of a smile. He is in no way eager to move, but his addled brain has processed a task followed by the promise of lying next to Tony and touching and being touched, and that's a simple checklist to follow.

He doesn't give a rat's ass about the wet spot, and if he has to be sent to the pharmacy, he'll do that too. He gives Tony's shoulder a tentative kiss, and withdraws as slowly and easily as humanly possible, which nonetheless results in him making a couple noises that sound like pain. He's unsteady on his feet, trembling still, but he makes it to the bathroom without incident, cleans up with soap and water, and returns with two fluffy Turkish towels.

"You want me to go to the pharmacy tonight?" He's not clear on why they need condoms again right the hell now. Not that he couldn't go for a round two, three, four--that's just what his body is built for, although his psyche may not be quite as resilient as normal right now--but that doesn't mean he has to go again.

It should be a little worrisome how willing he is to do pretty much whatever Tony asks him to right now.

Most of what Steve’s been doing since the snap has been worrisome on many levels. The constant, far away staring, the flashes of the past, the singing... Tony had been sure that the blond was on the edge of a mental breakdown before. And now, with all of his emotions peeled back, he’s worried again that he’s about to lose him into space. Steve could figuratively turn to dust, just standing here. He’s too vulnerable. Too susceptible.

Is this what sex was always like? When he was done going down on someone, is this how he’d always be? Or is this just another facet of grief?

Tony doesn’t know. He raises his hand like Adam to God and, taking one towel to set aside, clasps Steve’s fingers to draw him gently back into bed. He’s not the same man that signed the Accords anymore. And that man is not the same one that carried the missile into space. Tony has evolved to be kinder than before. It’s hopefully something that will help put Steve together again.

Tony draws his fellow Avenger down, half across his own body.

“I don’t want you to go anywhere now. Shit. Should have had you bring the pizza— Know what? Doesn’t matter. Just stay with me, Steve. I mean it. All of you needs to stay with me right now.”

Ultimately, Steve is remarkably resilient, but his flexibility has been sorely tested these last few years. He's starting to become aware he's acting strange, at least. He Feels a little strange, loopy and intoxicated, like the first time he tried bathtub gin.

He was hungover for days after that, so that may not bode well, but he's regained enough self-awareness to give Tony an apologetic look. He's more than willing to accept the clasp and tug back into bed, and the skin contact makes him feel that much more stable. He huffs out a sigh and tucks his head against Tony's shoulder.

"I'm okay, just...that was intense. Good intense." He makes a loose hand gesture in the air over Tony's chest. "I guess I'm sentimental or something. I did miss you."

His hand drops again to rest gently against Tony's rib cage. "This is so fuckin' weird. Not this, not sex with you, I mean, but being here. This time and place. Again. Every time the world falls apart I end up here."

Okay, so this is only the second time it's happened, but it still feels potentially like a pattern. If Steve had ever seen Groundhog Day he would probably reference it right about now.

"I can get it back together, Tony, just bear with me for a little bit. I'm not gonna leave you alone. I need to be what you need." If they can't take care of each other, they may as well give up right now. In Steve's brain, that's as much the mission now as destroying the Space Gem.

"...And I want to sleep with you again, too," he adds a split second later, as if realizing how his last statement might come across. "Apart from that. We have to stay together. We don't have to sleep together. But I want to. A lot. If you do."

Poor addled 100 year old virgin brain. Tony can follow stream of consciousness like it’s a language he’s fluent in and he lets Steve make his false starts and his turn arounds, he lets him correct what needs to be correct and to press against him while he does it. Tony could use another drink, not because his brain has fired back up and he wants to dull it again, but because he’s an alcoholic and his body just craves the liquor when he starts to rise from the dullness found at the bottom of the bottle. He shifts, a less impressive than Steve’s bicep curling beneath the blond’s head so that he can stroke the back of his hair with a practiced hand.

After Pepper was infected with Extremis, this was all the intimacy she would allow Tony, afraid to burn him alive if her pulse got racing. He’s become very good at snuggling as a result. Steve certainly will benefit for that.

“We’ve got a long time together. Probably. I don’t intend to die trying to save the world this time and I could really use you promising me that you won’t take risks just to see if you’ll fall off the edge of those cliffs you were singing to the ocean about.” Tony’s skin yields to Steve’s touch, no longer flinching involuntarily away. Naked and being embraced by god’s gift to mankind is strange comfortable. “There’s going to be a lot of time to make up for all of your lost time.” And his too. He just won’t put it that way. “But we have to get our heads in the game. So what I need for you to need to be is focused. I know we’ve spent most of our time together taking jabs but... uh... that’s not something that can happen any more. So what do I need to do to bring you back from the snap? I know you’ve got a leg up on punching Hitler but in case you’ve missed the headlines, I’m a pretty well known super hero too.”

Let him save you, Rogers.

A century old, and yet somehow still a twenty-five-year-old cadet whose emotional development got arrested during wartime. Steve is a decent soldier, a good man, a dedicated leader, but there are phases he missed out on in his life, holes that can't be patched up after the fact. The alarming truth is that Tony is slightly more qualified to be the grown-up here. Only slightly, but when Steve is at a low point, as he is now, that extra competence matters.

His body feels heavy, as if every caress through his hair weighs him down a little further into the bed, into Tony's arms. He sort of wants to just roll with that, let himself relax, see if he might even fall asleep like this. Banter and friendship are priceless, sex is amazing, but this? Quiet moments of holding and being held, gentle touches and pillow talk? This is love.

He's silent for a few seconds, catching his breath and processing what Tony's telling him, and then his fingers curl against Tony's skin, stroking his side lazily. "You know, what I always liked about you is how you challenged me," he says. "You'd push, I'd push back, we'd fight, we'd shake hands and agree to disagree. I figured you hated me a little, but I didn't take it personally. The army was like that. You live in a tent with six or eight other guys, you're gonna fight and hate each other half the time. But you're also indispensable to each other. You have their six, they have yours."

"You're right, though. I'm on the edge, and you're acting more like yourself, right now, but I know you're pretty close to it, too. We better handle with care." Especially if they're going to sleep together.

"I honestly...don't know how to live, is the thing. I don't know how not to have my brain in battle mode, planning for the next fight. I don't do downtime. So, I know as long as we're chasing down stones to destroy, as long as we have a fight, I'm going to be able to hold together. I have bad moments, but I'm here."

"After we finish this, it's just a big blank slate. Maybe that's why I like Iron Man better than Captain America. He's got an endgame in mind. He can build something better, adapt to things changing, direct the changes. Captain America is only good for holding the darkness at bay until dawn shows up, and then he's a relic. Or until the sun burns out for good--and the idea of being the last man standing is romantic but it doesn't actually help anyone."

God, does he want to be saved, though. He'd gotten used to the idea of a violent death, of never coming home from the battlefield. Not like he'd be the only man, or woman, to end that way. But the greatest good isn't found on the field of war; he was a painter, and he knows that there's a quiet glory in a job well done, in beauty, in peace.

"All I know for sure is I need this," he says, arm curling a little tighter around Tony. "To be...held. Touched. Like when I was a kid and having an asthma attack, or when the heat broke in the tenement building and we had to sleep in the same bed so I wouldn't get sicker. This makes sense, when nothing else does."

"And I need you to see me for who I am. Steve, not Cap. Or at least not just Cap. I think Cap's about to die one way or another, for me. For good. Steve might be able to try again."

“Someone told me that it’s healthy to hate someone a little,” Tony says, which might be the truth or maybe just the truth he wants to hold onto. He says a lot of stuff, only some of which are true. It’s not that he’s a pathological liar, but god forbid he ever let anyone in. Not telling the full truth is as rigid a mask as the one in his armor. He feels strange without having it close, really. For so long, he and the arc reactor had become one. He is Iron Man, Iron Man is him. But it’s different now. The machine is still technically inside of him. He never removed the implants, though he did have his heart fixed. He needs to feel connection to the suit. Maybe that’s why he put the nanotech armor in a reactor to be worn around the chest instead of as a belt buckle or a wrist watch. He needs it to be close to his heart.

There’s not much he needs to be there. His tech had trumped even the need for love at one point, but Pepper came back. Where Harley had needed a mentor, and taught him a bit about kids in general, Peter really made it hit home how good it felt to be a parental figure.

Husband. Father. That’s what’s important in life. Having a family and being someone else’s family too.

Tony huffs warm air against Steve’s hairline. “So I guess our relationship has always been pretty healthy,” he concludes after a moment. “You made me need you. That’s annoying. Especially now that everyone else that made me need them is dead.”

Pepper. Peter. Jesus. Is the last that small? Bruce proved that he could get up and go whenever. Rhodey’s always had his own life. And everyone else is just everyone else.

This is a little too much pillow talk for the inventor.

“Pretty sure you gave up being Cap anyway. Is what it is. At least you’re in luck about always having some sort of job. Evil doesn’t disappear, yanno. But you’ve got to work on doing stuff just for you sometimes. Oh my god, I’m a life coach. I just became a life coach. We’re doomed.”

You made me need you. Love, and maybe even 'like', are too much to acknowledge right now, assuming they're even there on both ends. Why 'need' isn't is anybody's guess, but just to have it vocalized is good. It's enough, at least for Steve. At least for the moment. He takes a ragged breath, tears threatening briefly then receding as he laughs at Tony Stark, Life Coach.

It's a release of tension, not just a chuckle of acknowledgement, and it goes on for a long moment. His hand curls against Tony's chest, pressing over his rib cage. "Ow. Ow, stop, I have too many feelings."

Everyone else is dead. But they won't be, Steve reminds himself, catching his breath. They're going to fix this, even if they're not exactly fixing it for themselves. "You're giving me hope," he says a moment later. "That's what it is. It's hard to process. I want it. I want it so bad, Tony, but it's hard to wrap my head around."

He's smiling, though. Tony can probably feel the curve of it against his skin. "Gimme a little longer here. Just a few minutes. And then I'll pull the dinner cart over and we can just...turn on the TV or radio and eat and try not to think so much for a few hours."

“Radio?”

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.”

Haha, radio. Okay, maybe he's still a bit addled. Does anyone listen to the radio when they're not in the car these days? He can't help it; he's always liked to have background music playing, for drawing, for doing chores. For daydreaming. For just a moment he wonders what it would be like if he could take Tony to the world he, Steve, left behind. The Dodgers, Coney Island, radio plays...

Tenement buildings. Virulent prejudice. Grinding poverty. Maybe not.

Steve's nostalgia is pretty clear-headed, most of the time. He wouldn't really want to drag anyone he knows now to the poorly-ventilated little hole in the wall in Brooklyn he used to share with Bucky, where they rationed milk and meat and butter out not because of the war but because they could hardly afford them, on top of the expensive medications Steve needed to survive. But there are bits and pieces he misses sometimes, and juxtaposing the good ones next to Tony Stark's flashy futurist presence makes him feel strangely happy.

Still, he's not oblivious to the shape of the body beneath his head, and his touch turns increasingly slow and gentle as he notes the shape of Tony's ribcage, the surgical scars, the feel of...not hollowness, per se, but not-quite-rightness where his sternum should be. They're not all Steve's fault, these marks, but he played a part in dealing them out. If he could give him everything back, not just undo the damage he's done, he would, in a heartbeat. Either way, it's a sobering reminder of the consequences of Steve's own actions.

And either way, there's nothing to be gained by saying anything, no point in apologizing when it would just be a painful reminder for them both. Instead, he silently resolves to do better, stroking across his chest. And he won't say it, but he's grateful for the forgiveness he's being given. Grateful that he somehow still has a hero here that wants to save him.

He gets up eventually and pulls the cart over, and manages to make himself eat a reasonable meal. More food, in fact, than he's eaten in a very long while, and he's left a little bit sleepy afterwards. He almost protests the news shows, but then he remembers what time period they're in, that he already knows how many of these stories end, and settles in to Tony's lap instead, which turns out to be the best decision he's made all year.

He's ridiculously relaxed by the time he's handed the remote, and that makes him lethargic as he accepts it and rolls onto his back to smile up at Tony. "What if they were originally filmed in black and white and got colorized later? Is that acceptable?"

Tony Stark flew to Titan with a wizard, met some aliens, had everyone he loved turned to dust, met up with Captain Lumberjack, traveled through time to the past to destroy the infinity stones with a weapon forged in a star, was throughly and beautifully fucked by said former lumberjack and now is finishing up some pie and agreeing to watching old, colorized movies. His life has always been weird but this really takes the cake. Err. Pie.

Tony has always had a strange life. It’s part of his name, the brand his father started. He’d never been normal and he’s never going to experience normalcy. He’s a guy that can literally purchase almost anything he could ever want. Except the guy he thought about the first time he had ever had an orgasm in his life, staring at an old trading card of Captain America and his chorus girls.

But now he’s had him too.

Tony won’t make it through the first few minutes of pretending he’s on Mystery Science Theater with Steve’s head in his lap. Once the pie is set aside, fork balanced perfectly on the edge of the plate, he’s fallen asleep. He’ll snore a little, look a little older than he actually is as he dozes, but otherwise won’t bother Steve. The sleep will be restorative. Rogers might not need too much of it, but Tony does.

Even if that sleep is plagued with nightmares of Steve laying in a pile of dust and slowly turning to dust himself. It causes him to wake with a start, the room dark and the city lights dazzling behind partially shut curtains.

It's probably the endorphins from sex, and from being cuddled and petted, coupled with general exhaustion, but Steve feels quiet and peaceful and a little floaty. It lasts for a couple hours, even after the channels have been shuffled through and they've watched part of one of the Thin Man movies, and Steve has commented that he had a crush on Myrna Loy when he was in his teens.

That confession is met with a faint snore rather than a verbal response, and for some stupid reason that makes him feel warm all over. It's strange, it really is; they both have strange lives, and yet for just a few minutes Steve feels like he is in some way home.

Domesticity can't last, not in a fancy hotel, not while they still have a major mission to pull off, but once he realizes Tony's asleep, Steve turn the volume down low and settles where he is to enjoy reality instead of the silver screen. He sleeps, too, and unlike Tony he sleeps well. Not long, but deep, and he finds his head much clearer when he wakes a few hours later.

The frantic adrenaline rush has eased, though it's not completely gone. The euphoria has calmed to something manageable, and Steve finds himself thinking things that are melancholy but not desperate. A tremendous improvement. When Tony stirs and starts, Steve is still on the bed, but he has a pad of hotel stationary in his lap and a few full sheets of it set aside on the nightstand. He's been writing letters, to Bucky, to Natasha, to Sam, with the intention of giving them to himself to pass along.

Tony gets his immediate attention, though, and he sets the pen and paper aside. "...hey. You okay?"

He puts a gentle hand on the man's knee. "We're still safe."

He understands nightmares. He's had a few, himself.

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