"Could be one of your kinks." The blur in the shower pane doubles over as Tony washes his legs. "So you like a lil' mess. M'pretty much the dictionary definition."
I think it's just you, he doesn't say, nor does he try to delve into Tony's psyche. Instead, he offers up, "I wanna try body painting sometime. See how long you can hold still for that. I've never been much of a painter - I prefer pen or pencil - but I've done a bit. And you could be a good canvas."
Not that he's been carefully doing some research on kinks or anything. Definitely not.
A tiny shiver travels up the length of Tony's body despite the steam-thickened air. He pauses to remind himself of Pepper and then resumes rinsing. The thought runs away like the water streaking his skin and hair, back behind the barrier. "Y'got it, Pablo," he says and after a final swipe with the cloth he twists the shower knob off.
"I'm more of a realist," Steve admits. He drapes the towel over the top of the door for Tony when the water stops running. "And not much of an artistic genius, for that matter." He's good, maybe good enough that he might've been able to scrape together a living doing illustrations, but Steve knows his talent is nothing special. These days, it's just a relaxing hobby. "But it seems like it could be interesting."
Tony only uses the towel enough to stop dripping and then wraps it around his waist. He steps out with a noncommittal "uh-huh" and wanders over to the other towels, one of which he shoves in Steve's direction.
Steve takes the towel from him with a hint of a smile and starts rubbing him dry. He's not too surprised that talking about future scenes tugs Tony back under again; it's a pattern even he can notice after the first few times. And if he expects to be cared for in this state, then Steve is perfectly happy to oblige. Once he's sufficiently dry, Steve puts the toothbrush and toothpaste in his hand. "I'm not doing that for you," he quips dryly.
Hair tousled, Tony stares dumbly at the objects in his hands before Steve's words register. He rolls his eyes. "Shoo. You don't get to learn any of my secrets," he says good-naturedly, words still soft around their edges, and approaches the sink. He lathers the toothbrush up and from there, while brushing, will only bat at Steve.
"How will I ever keep my teeth pearly white?" Steve retorts with a roll of his eyes. For a guy who hadn't seen a dentist before the twenty-first century, his teeth are alarmingly perfect (spoiler: it's the serum, just like everything else). He fetches his own toothbrush from the closet and takes over the second sink in the bathroom, brushing and spitting minty foam into the sink.
He still doesn't take as long as Tony, but they finish around the same time. Steve snags Tony's clothes from where he left them, tucking them under his arm. Yeah, this is gonna look weird if they run into anyone in the hall. "You good?"
After dismissing the jars of product that the male portion of the Avengers leave out, Tony rifles through the closet shelf by shelf. He finds face wash that's not just bar soap, at least. When he reappears from behind the closet door he's frowning. "That's all you do? Brush your teeth and you're done?" he asks, incredulous.
"Yeah?" Steve looks a little puzzled. He's at least aware of face wash, but he's not the sort of guy who requires a lot of maintenance (again, the serum). Getting ready for bed isn't a drawn-out production on his part, as opposed to what Tony apparently requires. "How much more do you need to do?" He almost thinks about leaving and waiting in his bedroom, but thinks better of it. Tony obviously wants him close, and he's willing to oblige.
Tony looses a long-suffering sigh. "Enough to bore you, if I can find a secret stash somewhere. This is just sad," he says, waving at the products. "More for me than you."
He grins at Tony. "Maybe you oughta raid the girls' bathroom. I'm sure they'd appreciate that." Surely Nat and Wanda have whatever he might need. On the other hand, they'd never let him live it down, either.
Tony just snorts and falls silent. Proceeding through as much of his regimen as he can scrounge together (alas, no flat iron), he finishes up after a pee ("do yourself a favor 'n never search for watersports," he mumbles) and plucks his t-shirt from Steve's arms. He's not overly fond of parading that round scar around.
"That's the kinda thing you accidentally stumble across when you're looking for normal stuff," Steve grumbles, a little disgruntled, and it's clear that he has seen enough to have an idea of what it is, and that he regrets his life. Once Tony's got his shirt on, Steve peers out into the hall to make sure the coast is clear. Thankfully, none of the other Avengers are anywhere in sight, and the trip back to his room is uneventful.
Steve gestures to the dresser. "Help yourself." He's already tugging his jeans off, and once they're in the hamper, he nabs a pair of shorts from a drawer and tugs them on.
Tony hesitates a step in the doorway, but he turns his head in the opposite direction of the bed, like someone ashamed, and beelines to the dresser. He rummages through until he pulls out pajama pants, which he secures around his waist by the time he throws the towel aside. "Right side's mine," he declares and clambers across the bed and over Steve if he has to. Shortest distance between points is a straight line and all, technicalities aside.
Steve just watches the entire display with raised eyebrows. Odds are they'll end up tangled together by morning, unless Tony pushes him away; Steve, from past experience (all of once) cuddles a lot like an octopus. "You wanna get bunk beds so you can call dibs on top bunk?" he asks dryly. He's absolutely leaving that open for innuendo on purpose; even Steve Rogers isn't that naive.
In lieu of being able to smack him directly on the ass, Steve swats the aforementioned body part with a pillow after he climbs into bed. "I'll-" Steve rethinks what he's about to say - technically not a lie, but probably more innuendo than is strictly necessary. "Just hurry up, Stark."
After a tired smirk tossed over his shoulder, Tony curls up on his side, facing and right on the edge of the bed, with a healthy distance between his body and Steve's. "Night, Rogers," he says softly.
Although he gives Tony plenty of space at the beginning of the night, as Steve sleeps, he progressively inches closer, and by morning, he's got all four limbs wrapped around him and his face mashed into the nape of his neck. So it's not especially surprising that, yet again, his erection is nestled right up against Tony's ass.
Steve sighs and swears under his breath as he sets about extricating his arms and legs from their tangle without waking Tony. It's every bit as excruciating as sneaking through enemy lines during the war, and nearly as hazardous. Every time Tony shifts, Steve freezes and holds his breath for a few moments before he judges it's safe to move again. Bit by bit, inch by inch, he wins his way free and eases off the bed. The carpet is silent under his feet, and he's almost breathing normally as he shuts the door behind him.
When he returns from his shower, he tries to slip back into bed just as silently, and he makes sure to give Tony his personal space back. Definitely no cuddling here, no sir.
Tony's sleeping form suddenly breathes in deeply and shifts, more than any faint rustle from when Steve crept out. Without other fanfare, he opens his eyes to the sight of Steve's dorm and remembers not nightmares but a vague recollection of being spooned during the night. Was that a dream? With a furrowed brow he swipes his arm down to his waist, where he remembers the warm stripe of someone else's -- of Steve's arm. He swears it happened.
The other side of the bed gets jostled. "Cap?" Tony calls roughly and turns over to stare groggily at the ceiling. "Did you spoon me last night? That's not a euphemism."
Steve settles back into a half-doze, half-staring at the ceiling as he waits for Tony to wake up. It'd be rude to just leave him and go about his day, he thinks - although maybe Tony might prefer that, being able to slip out and pretend nothing happened. Which actually makes him even more stubbornly determined to stay right here.
"Mmhm," he hums sleepily in response. Just because he stopped when he came back to bed doesn't mean he's going to deny doing it at all. He doesn't care if Tony knows, only if it bothers him (and it's debatable how much he would really care then, depending on the objection raised).
Arms sore (exercise: apparently an effective punishment), Tony just hums back in solidarity before his brain catches up to his body. Was that a yes? Is Steve even awake enough to answer? Tony's not even sure he's awake enough to ask; he slept so deeply and soundly, a rare occurrence. So Cap's a cuddler, big surprise, what does it matter? the siren of sleep offers. Pepper matters, he sends back. The idea that she's the One is cemented. He needs her.
Tony sits up on his elbows and rubs his eyes. The various sections of his brain reluctantly light up: rational thought, motor function, memory... Memory. His head fills to bursting.
"I think we should set better parameters," he says carefully, "in light of all that happened last night." I wasn't myself, he should add, but doesn't: a running theme lately.
Steve both is and isn't surprised by this: he's felt like their boundaries aren't quite good enough for a while, but he also isn't entirely sure what about last night brought this on. Did he overstep somewhere? He doesn't think so, but apparently he's wrong about that.
"Yeah?" He rolls over onto his side to face Tony. "What do you want?"
"Just the escape," Tony stresses; and the companionship, echoes after, but he digs his heels in and deepens the line drawn. "I belong with Pepper. Once I work things out, we'll be together and you'll be an eagle free to fly. Good news for you, right?" He tries to smile. He needs to nip this in the bud before Steve confuses his own emotions.
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Not that he's been carefully doing some research on kinks or anything. Definitely not.
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He still doesn't take as long as Tony, but they finish around the same time. Steve snags Tony's clothes from where he left them, tucking them under his arm. Yeah, this is gonna look weird if they run into anyone in the hall. "You good?"
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Steve gestures to the dresser. "Help yourself." He's already tugging his jeans off, and once they're in the hamper, he nabs a pair of shorts from a drawer and tugs them on.
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Steve sighs and swears under his breath as he sets about extricating his arms and legs from their tangle without waking Tony. It's every bit as excruciating as sneaking through enemy lines during the war, and nearly as hazardous. Every time Tony shifts, Steve freezes and holds his breath for a few moments before he judges it's safe to move again. Bit by bit, inch by inch, he wins his way free and eases off the bed. The carpet is silent under his feet, and he's almost breathing normally as he shuts the door behind him.
When he returns from his shower, he tries to slip back into bed just as silently, and he makes sure to give Tony his personal space back. Definitely no cuddling here, no sir.
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The other side of the bed gets jostled. "Cap?" Tony calls roughly and turns over to stare groggily at the ceiling. "Did you spoon me last night? That's not a euphemism."
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"Mmhm," he hums sleepily in response. Just because he stopped when he came back to bed doesn't mean he's going to deny doing it at all. He doesn't care if Tony knows, only if it bothers him (and it's debatable how much he would really care then, depending on the objection raised).
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Tony sits up on his elbows and rubs his eyes. The various sections of his brain reluctantly light up: rational thought, motor function, memory... Memory. His head fills to bursting.
"I think we should set better parameters," he says carefully, "in light of all that happened last night." I wasn't myself, he should add, but doesn't: a running theme lately.
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"Yeah?" He rolls over onto his side to face Tony. "What do you want?"
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