Tony pauses with a raw strip of bacon in hand, poised over the cleaned skillet. With Pepper he handled everything when he could, but of course Steve wants to contribute. He hates sitting on his ass. Whole new world, Tony muses. The old rules need not apply, and he's honestly okay with that. (But he still misses what he and Pepper had.) The bacon sizzles the moment he lays it down. "Square deal. Fair trade," he says, placing the rest; and now he's envisioning Steve at the sink washing dishes by hand in nothing but the towel, soap suds bubbling and his forearms wet. Steve would prefer that over the dishwasher anyway; he doesn't necessarily need to know about it. God, Tony's age must really be showing if he's fantasizing about dishwashing.
Clearing his throat, he flips the third pancake. "Last cake'll be comin' up hot," he calls back like a chef through a kitchen pass-through. "E.T.A. two minutes. Bacon in five."
"Maybe you oughta retire and open up a diner," he cracks in between bites. "You missed your calling as a short order cook. Hell, I'll be the busboy." The aroma of bacon rises as the meat sizzles in the pan, and even though he's still eating his pancakes, his mouth waters at the scent. It spurs him to eat faster, so that his plate is already clean by the time Tony comes around with the third pancake. It's been a long time since dinner last night, after all.
"You sure you wouldn't serve better as a garbage disposal?" Tony shoots back, eyebrow quirked at Steve wolfing down his plate in record time, but mouth also in a pleased smile. Over the next few minutes, while Tony waits for Steve's food to finish cooking, they trade smart remarks. He faces Steve this whole time, familiar and at ease, save for when he needs to plate the food. Afterward he prepares his own food similarly, chatting, but in smaller portions, and then slides onto a chair with it and his coffee.
Attention on his tablet, reading through news articles while hunched over with his feet on the chair spindles, Tony absently eats his breakfast. Occasionally he sneaks a glance to the sink, where Steve is.
There's something endearing and homey about it all, Steve thinks. He could imagine this as a regular routine, as part of his life - something so normal that it almost aches. (Maybe not in a towel most of the time, though; his current prolonged state of undress is largely a coincidence.) Suds gather on his wet forearms, and he slips into a quiet, semi-meditative state, letting Tony read. He's comfortable just being with him, and he doesn't need to fill the silence with conversation.
Once he's done washing the dishes, he dries them, and it only takes a little poking around the kitchen (and the occasional hint from Tony) to put them away. Steve hangs the damp dishtowel to dry and comes up behind Tony, resting his elbows on his shoulders and his chin on his head. "Anything interesting?"
Most of the article Tony's reading has gone through his eyeballs, jumbled around in his brain, and leaked right back out. He kept glancing at Steve, one ear always on the clinks of plates and sloshes of water. Now he's slouched back, legs stretched beneath the table, emptied plate cleaned with the others. "Uhh, well, apparently almond production is a bane on the environment and a big contributor to the drought in California," he says, "and I need to send some relief to Flint, Michigan."
"Foundation's already on it, boss," FRIDAY chimes in.
"Good," Tony says distractedly. At his best he can hyperfocus; at his worst his attention splits between a thousand things at once. Currently, he's actively trying not to focus too hard on Steve leaning on him.
Steve hums lightly and brings his mouth closer to Tony's ear. "Have I ever told you how hot I find charity?" His teeth graze the rim of his ear. "Maybe you should figure out a more permanent solution for the water problem." Look, if he can use his powers for good, then he's going to - and he really does like charity, and so does Tony. So there's obviously nothing wrong with it, right?
At first, the rumble of Steve's voice shoots straight to Tony's dick-brain and all he can think of in response is agreeing that yeah, that's hot, but then the words actually register and Tony squints. This is one of those situations where Steve could either be bullshitting him or telling the truth and Tony's not sure which he wants to believe more: that Steve's using feminine wiles as smooth as a vuvuzela to secure what he wants for the betterment of mankind or that good deeds honestly give him a raging hard-on and Tony should consider reciting some of his donation figures in bed.
In either case, him devising any sort of permanent solution to a worldwide problem? He'd probably somehow birth sentient water filtration that'd poison the world's supply. Tony huffs out a sardonic laugh. "Yeah, we both know how my permanent solutions have turned out recently," he says and forces a smile.
Steve huffs, accidentally in Tony's ear, then realizes that he's still positioned for seduction and pulls back. "Tony," he says in a warning tone. He wonders if he should ruin a perfectly good chance for sex and keep pushing the issue, then realizes that, hell, they can't avoid it forever. He straightens up and leans over, pulling one of the other chairs around the table closer, and takes a seat - still in intimately close proximity to Tony, but not surrounding him in case it gets stifling.
"I mean, you can have your scientists work on it instead if it bothers you," he continues on the first topic, "I just think those folks deserve a clean water supply. But more importantly, not everything you do is tainted, okay?" Steve's gaze is earnest and focused right on Tony like a laser. "You can do good without having it go wrong. You can see solutions to things where other people can't, and I don't want you to be afraid of yourself."
Eyes dropping, Tony fiddles with the tablet on his lap, thumb swiping the viewed article up and down. "Maybe so. But innocent people are dead, just like you said. One-hundred seventy-seven, to be exact, and that's just civilian deaths, Steve. That doesn't include any first responders or military personnel," he says. Slowly he takes a deep breath and moves onto his point: "If I don't stay afraid of what's up here," he motions to his head, "then I'm afraid of what's up there," he points up, throat tightening, chest constricting, eyes resolutely low as if looking will materialize the wormhole and the deep black of space dwarfed by warships from his nightmares, "and that gets us Ultron."
Steve reaches out and clasps Tony's hands in his, trapping his fidgeting fingers. "And more would have died if we hadn't done anything." Which still doesn't excuse the existence of Ultron, but he's trying to understand things from Tony's side. "When you do what we do, there isn't a lot of time for inaction. You pick what you think will cause the least damage." He closes his eyes and lets out a breath, thinking of the shell of a pub in London. Steve has blood on his hands, but very little of it could be called innocent - at least, not from the war.
"You aren't wrong to be afraid of what's up there," he admits slowly, quietly. They've learned that much, anyway. "You just- you're you, Tony, you think of these crazy ideas that're ten steps ahead of anything anyone else can understand, things that you barely understand, and you pull the trigger too soon." That seems to be a common trait among scientists, from what he's seen. Even Erskine, although he'd been forced against his will. "You just need to slow it down - and I know you're going to say that we don't have time, and maybe we don't. But whatever's coming, it's not just you standing against it. It's all of us."
Tony stares at their hands; the grip binds him together. But slowing down feels unfathomable. He throws himself into things heart and soul, giving all, zero to one hundred, little to no in-between. Tony raises his head, steadfast, but Steve will feel a faint tremor in his hands. "Which just gives me more to lose," he returns to Steve's face, eyes heartachingly open and sincere, remembering too clearly dead bodies on moon rock and a shield cleaved in two; and so, so afraid of that coming true. The problem is, he would do anything to prevent it.
For months Tony wrestled with the what and the how. What was it all for? How did he go wrong? For months he reflected on his past and present until he reached the conclusion: he didn't go wrong. He just always was. When pressed, he fell back to making things that hurt people, because that's what he's always done. Truss up the Merchant of Death in pretty shining armor, and he still is what he is.
Steve squeezes his hands when he feels the slight tremor working through them. "You think I don't feel the exact same way?" He's practically an expert at loss by now. Tony and the rest of the Avengers are all he has left. Bucky's out there somewhere, but he might as well be a ghost in spite of all the work Steve's put in searching for him. Tony's there, he's the anchor to things Steve's been searching for since he woke up, and maybe he's thrown himself into things too fast because of it, but he's not very good at following his own advice.
"The charity." Steve shifts gears as thoughts in the back of his head fit into place. "It's not just because that's who you are. It's because it's your penance. You're buying indulgences." What? He's a Catholic schoolboy at heart.
Tony squeezes back, just once, barely there. "It ... helps," he admits. "Not entirely altruistic, I guess." He smiles weakly. "Sorry if that's less hot."
"You're right, it is less hot." Steve leans in and kisses his forehead. "But I didn't need any extra encouragement on that front, believe me." Another kiss, this one lingering on his lips. "I'd be pretty turned on if you really did come up with a sustainable clean water solution, though. You know, in case that's an incentive." That might be the most ridiculous thing he's ever said, but it's not wrong.
"Look, you can- I don't know, run things by me if you need to," he offers, grasping at straws. "I might not understand the science, but I'm a pretty solid moral sounding board."
Tony puffs out his amusement against Steve's mouth. He pins Steve with a thoughtful look, but softened: it helps, too, unloading the thoughts he's struggled with alone onto someone who can understand the burden. Maybe even share it, if Tony dares to hope. Maybe he can still do more good if he has the right captain to steer him. Steve so often views matters in simplified black and white, but maybe -- maybe that's what the world needs. Certainly better than what Tony came up with.
Tony thinks of the whispers from Capitol Hill and of demands from common people for oversight. Justice for Sokovia, written on poster-board and held up outside the gates; heated debates over the internet growing vicious through anonymity, one side crying heroes and the other vigilantes. He thinks of graffiti in middle-eastern countries slashed over the Avengers's name and of rotten vegetables thrown at and splattered across his sentries.
He shuts his eyes against all the horrors and when he reopens them he sees Steve in that towel holding his hands. "Could do worse for a Jiminy Cricket than the paragon of truth, justice, and the American way," he rasps out.
"I understood that reference," Steve retorts with a teasing smirk, brushing a kiss against his jaw. "And I can think of things I'd rather have growing than your nose." Underneath the layer of amusement in his gaze, there's rock-solid honesty and trust and belief, everything he has to offer Tony, if he'll take it.
Steve himself isn't always sure of his own righteousness in this world - he'd believed in SHIELD and been shown the error of his ways - and he's well aware that it isn't as black and white as he'd once thought. But, he thinks, he and Tony always do their best work together. Why not this?
Tony tips his chin up, head aside to expose his neck, without even thinking about it; then his whole chest jerks with a choked laugh. "I take it back. You're actually a menace to society," he says with a tenuous but true smile.
"Just to you." Steve takes advantage of Tony's tilted head to scrape his teeth delicately over newly bared skin. "You look good like this," he says, and he means soft, relaxed, even content. He'd say it's because of a good's night sleep and a healthy breakfast, but Steve knows that his presence has more than a little to do with it. "How much time do we have before your first meeting?"
If that glimpse into the guilt-ridden mess of his brain didn't deter Steve from him, Tony doubts that any weakness of flesh on the wrong side of forty will. Besides, his mind is very willing despite his body's limitations, so he gives in and shuts his eyes. He can still enjoy the journey, so to speak. When he splays open his thighs a tad farther, he barely registers the tablet slipping through and thudding against the tiles. "Wha' meeting? I don' have a meeting. FRIDAY, cancel my meetings," he mutters.
"How important is it?" Steve gets a good lovebite in on his neck, almost like a vampire - enough that he'll be needing a scarf that he does leave the mansion. (But it's January; there's nothing unusual about that.) "You said you cleared most of the weekend." Which doesn't stop him from stroking Tony's inner thigh through the thin fabric of his pants. Look, he behaved himself all through breakfast, he's earned this, or so he tells himself.
Tony grunts, the sharp, brief pain at his neck just enough to entice his brain into going blank. "Can't remember suddenly, so ... probably not very?" For all his futurist ways, he very much lives in his immediate present, which Steve is monopolizing. Honest to God he cannot remember what he was supposed to do.
Gently, Steve licks the red marks left behind, soothing the hurt away. Then he bites again, a little lower, and his hand works its way closer to Tony's cock. "You wanna go under?" It seems absurd to talk about here in the brightly lit kitchen, with the scent of breakfast hanging in the air, a place that feels more like the time Steve's used to than anything since he's woken up, but god, Tony's like an addiction, and Steve can feel the need for a hit coursing through his veins.
With you, always, is the knee-jerk response, as easy as one-two-three on some deep subconscious level, for nearly as long as Tony has known Steve Rogers. Not to this level of submission, no, but leadership and guidance? Since the moment they looked up at that wormhole as a cohesive team on the streets of New York, Tony full of begrudging respect, which turned into flat-out respect soon enough. "Don' have to," he says dreamily, and like in a lightning strike Tony realizes he's halfway there already, same as last night: an endearment or kind word from Steve paired with a touch and Tony rolls over.
He stiffens everywhere except for his cock. If he were more readily aroused at the moment, getting a grip might've been tougher. "'Less you want me to be," he says, stronger. With narrowed eyes, Tony looks down his nose at him. "But you'll have to work for it. Can't have you thinkin' you can take me under willy-nilly."
There's just a snort in response to that. Steve can't figure out if Tony's trying to get him to rise to the challenge by baiting him - entirely possible - or just being Tony. But he's feeling lazy right now, as much as he'd like to watch Tony choke on his cock while kneeling on the tiles in front of him.
He tugs down the collar of Tony's t-shirt and bites him one last time, square on the collarbone. "Later, then." Which is totally at odds with the way he pulls back from Tony and tugs the other man's shirt up, but Steve is a bundle of contradictions. More importantly, he wants to feel Tony's skin against his, soak his body heat up like a sponge. "Maybe after dinner."
Even as he lifts his arms for Steve to pull off his shirt, Tony peers at him. Really gonna have to find a balance between their libidos, preferably closer to Steve's level. To continue an earlier analogy, Tony may be the gimped hare of the two of them, but he'll be damned if he's the gimped hare who doesn't MacGyver himself a rocket-powered wheelchair. "Maybe during dinner," he retorts after his shirt clears his head, the peer replaced by faux innocence.
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Clearing his throat, he flips the third pancake. "Last cake'll be comin' up hot," he calls back like a chef through a kitchen pass-through. "E.T.A. two minutes. Bacon in five."
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Attention on his tablet, reading through news articles while hunched over with his feet on the chair spindles, Tony absently eats his breakfast. Occasionally he sneaks a glance to the sink, where Steve is.
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Once he's done washing the dishes, he dries them, and it only takes a little poking around the kitchen (and the occasional hint from Tony) to put them away. Steve hangs the damp dishtowel to dry and comes up behind Tony, resting his elbows on his shoulders and his chin on his head. "Anything interesting?"
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"Foundation's already on it, boss," FRIDAY chimes in.
"Good," Tony says distractedly. At his best he can hyperfocus; at his worst his attention splits between a thousand things at once. Currently, he's actively trying not to focus too hard on Steve leaning on him.
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In either case, him devising any sort of permanent solution to a worldwide problem? He'd probably somehow birth sentient water filtration that'd poison the world's supply. Tony huffs out a sardonic laugh. "Yeah, we both know how my permanent solutions have turned out recently," he says and forces a smile.
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"I mean, you can have your scientists work on it instead if it bothers you," he continues on the first topic, "I just think those folks deserve a clean water supply. But more importantly, not everything you do is tainted, okay?" Steve's gaze is earnest and focused right on Tony like a laser. "You can do good without having it go wrong. You can see solutions to things where other people can't, and I don't want you to be afraid of yourself."
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"You aren't wrong to be afraid of what's up there," he admits slowly, quietly. They've learned that much, anyway. "You just- you're you, Tony, you think of these crazy ideas that're ten steps ahead of anything anyone else can understand, things that you barely understand, and you pull the trigger too soon." That seems to be a common trait among scientists, from what he's seen. Even Erskine, although he'd been forced against his will. "You just need to slow it down - and I know you're going to say that we don't have time, and maybe we don't. But whatever's coming, it's not just you standing against it. It's all of us."
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For months Tony wrestled with the what and the how. What was it all for? How did he go wrong? For months he reflected on his past and present until he reached the conclusion: he didn't go wrong. He just always was. When pressed, he fell back to making things that hurt people, because that's what he's always done. Truss up the Merchant of Death in pretty shining armor, and he still is what he is.
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"The charity." Steve shifts gears as thoughts in the back of his head fit into place. "It's not just because that's who you are. It's because it's your penance. You're buying indulgences." What? He's a Catholic schoolboy at heart.
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"Look, you can- I don't know, run things by me if you need to," he offers, grasping at straws. "I might not understand the science, but I'm a pretty solid moral sounding board."
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Tony thinks of the whispers from Capitol Hill and of demands from common people for oversight. Justice for Sokovia, written on poster-board and held up outside the gates; heated debates over the internet growing vicious through anonymity, one side crying heroes and the other vigilantes. He thinks of graffiti in middle-eastern countries slashed over the Avengers's name and of rotten vegetables thrown at and splattered across his sentries.
He shuts his eyes against all the horrors and when he reopens them he sees Steve in that towel holding his hands. "Could do worse for a Jiminy Cricket than the paragon of truth, justice, and the American way," he rasps out.
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Steve himself isn't always sure of his own righteousness in this world - he'd believed in SHIELD and been shown the error of his ways - and he's well aware that it isn't as black and white as he'd once thought. But, he thinks, he and Tony always do their best work together. Why not this?
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He stiffens everywhere except for his cock. If he were more readily aroused at the moment, getting a grip might've been tougher. "'Less you want me to be," he says, stronger. With narrowed eyes, Tony looks down his nose at him. "But you'll have to work for it. Can't have you thinkin' you can take me under willy-nilly."
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He tugs down the collar of Tony's t-shirt and bites him one last time, square on the collarbone. "Later, then." Which is totally at odds with the way he pulls back from Tony and tugs the other man's shirt up, but Steve is a bundle of contradictions. More importantly, he wants to feel Tony's skin against his, soak his body heat up like a sponge. "Maybe after dinner."
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