God, he's never going to live this one down. In ten years, it'll still be 'hey, Steve, remember that time those guys with the shitty crowbar got the jump on you?', no matter what else he does in the meantime. He sighs and just goes back to eating his food. He deserves every stupid crack Tony makes for the rest of his life, probably.
"No shit," he mumbles around a mouthful of eggs. Just thinking about getting on his motorcycle makes his back throb. Steve swallows and adds, "Least you've got plenty of room to spare here. I'll text Nat later to let her know; she can run things for a day or two." She always accuses him of being too obsessive, anyway.
"I won't be in the house for much of your medical leave, so you'll have all the space you want," Tony agrees. A vice grips his heart. He slouches down and hugs his arms. "You need something, you call. I'll get it." He trails off for a short time while Steve stuffs his face. But apparently Tony is a glutton, too—just for punishment—because he soon asks, eyes glued to the plate of food quickly disappearing, his tone carefully even, "Do you ... wanna share my room still?" Honestly he's expecting a polite, or awkward, rejection. Not a break-off completely, but just enough space to cushion their inevitable crash-and-burn, which seems to already have started. Tony is a futurist. He understands taking precautions.
Steve's glad Tony doesn't offer to rearrange his schedule to spend time with him - not because he doesn't want to spend time with Tony, but because he doesn't want to inconvenience him. It's hard enough to steal him away on the weekends once or twice a month, with plenty of planning ahead of time.
He raises his eyebrows at the question, glancing up from his plate. "I thought you wouldn't," he admits ruefully. He'd expected Tony to pull away and start putting up his walls again, to break off the too-fragile thing between them and keep him in a guest room. "My- my feelings haven't changed, Tony. I don't know how you wanna deal with that, but if you're okay with sharing a room, then I am." He'd only needed - and wanted - the one night of space to process his emotions. Steve's still not sure he's worked everything out, but he is sure that he wants to stay with Tony. Problem is, he doesn't know how Tony feels about things.
Tony finally meets Steve's gaze; his is shocked. If the shoe were on the other foot and Tony's love was unrequited, he probably would have pulled away, even while dating, which goes to show the marked difference between them: past their flaws, Steve is still the better man. "How I wanna deal," Tony repeats back. Deal, like having Steve's love is a problem to address. He huffs out an incredulous laugh. "You're the one who has to constantly 'deal' with me. The most I gotta put up with are your occasional bouts of reckless idiocy," he sighs.
"Yeah, but they're a real pain in the ass," Steve offers helpfully. Never let it be said that he isn't aware of how much trouble he causes for other people - after all, they like to remind him of it regularly. Tony isn't the first.
"Besides, I signed up for the whole package. I knew what I was getting into." Steve doesn't think of it as having to deal with Tony, not when it's specifically something he agreed to help with, not when Tony needs his support to get through the darker moments of his life. It's not a burden, it just is. It's another part of Tony, the one he hides from most people, and Steve's done a lot of hard work just to be trusted with Tony's emotional vulnerabilities. He'd do it again if he had to.
"Did you know what you were getting into when you took a ride on my disco stick without prep and won a pain in your ass?" Tony says in a tone equivalent to a raised eyebrow, without anger. That's been hanging in the back of his head ever since he discovered the bloodstained washcloth that morning. He easily put the pieces together: the dream-like memory of Steve riding him, Steve always wiping him down after a scene, and Tony not having any wounds himself. He just didn't know how to bring it up, or if he even needed to (he checked when he scanned Steve's injuries; any anal tears seemed to have already healed), but since they're trying to make this couple-thing work in the long run, Tony can't let it lie.
Steve blushes (and, seriously, disco stick? his vague understanding of disco involves balls, not sticks) and has the decency to look abashed. "No, that was reckless idiocy. Still felt pretty good, though." Because of course Steve Rogers has the kind of mind that shunts aside the memory of pain to focus on the positives - in this case, how it had felt so incredible to have Tony inside him, lighting up every pleasure center in his brain every time he hit his prostate. On the list of reckless and painful things he's done with absolutely no preparation, it actually ranks surprisingly low. Definitely lower than jumping on a guy who fractured his vertebrae, so it's not even the stupidest and most painful thing he's done in the last twenty-four hours.
"Don't do that again," Tony suddenly snaps, his fingers tightening on his arms and eyes holding Steve's with the same intensity as their past fights. "It may have still felt 'pretty good' and the serum fixes you up in a jiffy but that doesn't matter. I was still hurting you, and I was too hopped up on endorphins to say stop." Breathless after his short tirade, he shivers once. Tries to ease his constricting heart. He often misses how heavy something hanging over him is until the rope frays.
Tony's mood changes lightning-fast, catching Steve by surprise (no matter how little it should surprise him by now). He realizes after a moment of thinking through it that, yes, this is absolutely a consent issue and he fucked up, he abused Tony's trust in him and took advantage of him while he was vulnerable. He's the one in charge, and he's supposed to know better, and he didn't, or else he just willfully ignored it.
"Okay," Steve promises, and everything about him is sincere and chagrined. He'd droop if it wouldn't hurt too much - it keeps him from reaching out for Tony, too. Those fists pounded his entire goddamn back, from top to bottom, and he suspects that he's black and blue all over. "It's okay," he repeats, trying to sound soothing. "I won't. Promise."
Tony slumps. The reassurance washes away the flood of anger as quickly as it came, leaving only the phantom ache behind. "Good," he says. After a beat, he draws himself up, reaches for Steve's plate, and pops a couple of the remaining blueberries into his mouth, taking Steve's prior offer in a symbolic show of forgiveness and solidarity. Tony then hops to his feet, seemingly back to normal, just like that. "Ready for my Florence Nightingale impression?" he asks.
Steve could probably clean the side of his head himself - actually, he needs to take a shower in general - but he's more than happy to submit to Tony's ministrations, mostly because he knows that taking care of him will make Tony happy, and that's what he needs right now.
"Try not to jostle me too much," he quips. "I'm still finishing my breakfast here." And although he'd gladly give Tony more than just a couple of blueberries, he knows that's all the other man will take. (Whether he can talk him into eating something more later is yet to be seen.)
Tony waves him off. "Just shove it into the bottomless pit of your stomach like you did with the rest of my cheesecake," he says, smirking, as he gathers the kit. Still, he very gingerly sits beside Steve, aiming to jostle his seat and back as little as possible, and sets the kit on the table. He begins wiping away the blood, his brow furrowed with the same care and concentration as he'd give to a delicate circuit. "Clocked ya good," he observes distantly.
Steve doesn't share Tony's concerns about exacerbating his injuries, apparently, because once Tony sits down, Steve leans against him, much in the manner of an oversized dog that thinks it's smaller than it really is. The action makes his back ache, but it's worth it to feel the solid warmth of Tony's body against him. He tilts his head away (at least his neck is relatively uninjured) to give Tony room to work.
"He snuck up on me while I was distracted by helmet-head," Steve feels the need to explain. "I had the guy in a headlock to keep him from charging and the crowbar fella came up from behind and- bam. Got the jump on me." It's honestly embarrassing for a guy who once took down an elevator full of SHIELD's elite operatives. Maybe he would've fared better with the shield, or maybe not. "Hey, you know anything about the kid?"
"Just that he's enhanced. Gonna keep an eye out for 'im," Tony explains in that distracted voice that says half of his mind is elsewhere, maybe miles ahead. This wouldn't have happened if Steve waited for back-up, whether from the Avengers or the police. Briefly Tony considers himself watching Steve's back, like before (ideas float to the surface, schematics of sleek and form-fitting metal, a system half-coded before he even realized—a familiar visage in painted gold), but he shuts that train of thought down. That's the past. Securing a better future is his concern now. That kid could maybe be part of it.
Some of the blood has crusted into Steve's hair. Tony only removes the excess. The wipe stained red, he drops it into the kit and wets a cloth with disinfectant.
"Mm." If Tony's ministrations cause Steve any pain, he doesn't seem to show it. "He didn't sound very old." He wonders idly if he was born with powers, or if he was part of an experiment - if there are remnants of Hydra closer to home. (But if that's the case, then he's clearly not being held prisoner, not being used as a weapon against the Avengers. Are people just born with powers? He doesn't know.)
"Where'd the glove come from?" he asks casually. Maybe Tony's building another suit - part of him is selfish enough to hope for that, because they're always at their best when they fight together. Things just aren't the same without him, no matter what excuses Tony offers.
Old enough to pull on a onesie and fight crime, Tony rebukes in his head; he remembers being a kid and striving to be taken seriously, which got him into a fair share of trouble when he outclassed his teachers. Sometimes kids need a chance and a stage of their own. Harley is a good example, the scamp. He's going to change the world someday. The next generations are the future, so Tony is placing his bets on them.
He snaps back to it while holding the disinfectant-dampened cloth to the split skin on Steve's head. With a side-eye, Tony answers, "My watch," deliberately evasive.
Steve's of two minds: part of him wants to keep the kid safe, 'cause if he can get his ass kicked, then anyone can. On the other hand, he knows that twenty-first century society delays maturity, that someone his age could've been working whatever odd jobs he could find to support his family back in the day, that kids not much older than him went off to war (and a whole lot of them didn't get a chance to grow any older).
"Maybe I should get one of those watches," he say dryly. There's a sharp inhale as the disinfectant stings slightly. "Might come in handy, no pun intended." Pun absolutely intended.
Yeah, he deserves that. "More like to compensate for my shield when I leave it at home 'cause I'm going on a date." Usually Steve prefers to be lower-tech, but that doesn't mean he's opposed to a gadget or two.
"You have nothing to compensate for," Tony says. His smirk implies all the inneundo it needs to. (But he's already mapping out ideas. Energy shield? Plasma does diddly squat for blocking physical projectiles, more an offensive tool, but not much actual heft can fit into a watch. Worth looking into.) After the disinfectant finishes sizzling, he tosses the cloth aside.
Steve rolls his eyes at the innuendo, though it's not like he wasn't asking for it. "Ha, ha," he deadpans. "You know what I mean." Presumably the vibranium would be able to stand up to a crowbar imbued with Asgardian magic, since Thor's shield hadn't dented it. "I'll just fight 'em with my dick next time, then."
Tony continues the joke unashamedly—"Fight 'em with your dick and make 'em submit. When they surrender you can say, 'You have the right to remain gagged'"—and stands to wrap Steve's head in gauze now that he's emptied his plate.
"You're the worst," Steve groans. "For the record, if I ever fight those guys again, it's not gonna be with my dick, because it'll get ripped off or beaten to a pulp, and I think you'd regret either of those outcomes. I know I would."
When Tony's done wrapping his head - although Steve's not sure it even needs it - Steve glances at him. "You got a decent-sized tub in this place? I need to get clean, and I'd like to be able to soak for a bit." Heat might be the only thing that can leach some of the soreness from his back, at this point. If not, getting clean will still feel damn good.
"Yeah, I can smell why," Tony says bluntly. After peering down and sighing, he reaches to help Steve up. "Master bathroom has the biggest. I'll help you. No sense in causing yourself or me more grief."
Yes, thank you, Tony, he knows he smells like a guy who ran a few miles, marinated in his own sweat, and then beat up some bad guys, there's no need to point that out. "Thanks," he says simply, instead of offering up anything more sarcastic, and lets Tony help him up. "The last thing I need is to try and cram myself into a smaller tub. Might cause the tub some harm, too."
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"No shit," he mumbles around a mouthful of eggs. Just thinking about getting on his motorcycle makes his back throb. Steve swallows and adds, "Least you've got plenty of room to spare here. I'll text Nat later to let her know; she can run things for a day or two." She always accuses him of being too obsessive, anyway.
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He raises his eyebrows at the question, glancing up from his plate. "I thought you wouldn't," he admits ruefully. He'd expected Tony to pull away and start putting up his walls again, to break off the too-fragile thing between them and keep him in a guest room. "My- my feelings haven't changed, Tony. I don't know how you wanna deal with that, but if you're okay with sharing a room, then I am." He'd only needed - and wanted - the one night of space to process his emotions. Steve's still not sure he's worked everything out, but he is sure that he wants to stay with Tony. Problem is, he doesn't know how Tony feels about things.
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"Besides, I signed up for the whole package. I knew what I was getting into." Steve doesn't think of it as having to deal with Tony, not when it's specifically something he agreed to help with, not when Tony needs his support to get through the darker moments of his life. It's not a burden, it just is. It's another part of Tony, the one he hides from most people, and Steve's done a lot of hard work just to be trusted with Tony's emotional vulnerabilities. He'd do it again if he had to.
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"Okay," Steve promises, and everything about him is sincere and chagrined. He'd droop if it wouldn't hurt too much - it keeps him from reaching out for Tony, too. Those fists pounded his entire goddamn back, from top to bottom, and he suspects that he's black and blue all over. "It's okay," he repeats, trying to sound soothing. "I won't. Promise."
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"Try not to jostle me too much," he quips. "I'm still finishing my breakfast here." And although he'd gladly give Tony more than just a couple of blueberries, he knows that's all the other man will take. (Whether he can talk him into eating something more later is yet to be seen.)
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"He snuck up on me while I was distracted by helmet-head," Steve feels the need to explain. "I had the guy in a headlock to keep him from charging and the crowbar fella came up from behind and- bam. Got the jump on me." It's honestly embarrassing for a guy who once took down an elevator full of SHIELD's elite operatives. Maybe he would've fared better with the shield, or maybe not. "Hey, you know anything about the kid?"
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Some of the blood has crusted into Steve's hair. Tony only removes the excess. The wipe stained red, he drops it into the kit and wets a cloth with disinfectant.
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"Where'd the glove come from?" he asks casually. Maybe Tony's building another suit - part of him is selfish enough to hope for that, because they're always at their best when they fight together. Things just aren't the same without him, no matter what excuses Tony offers.
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He snaps back to it while holding the disinfectant-dampened cloth to the split skin on Steve's head. With a side-eye, Tony answers, "My watch," deliberately evasive.
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"Maybe I should get one of those watches," he say dryly. There's a sharp inhale as the disinfectant stings slightly. "Might come in handy, no pun intended." Pun absolutely intended.
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When Tony's done wrapping his head - although Steve's not sure it even needs it - Steve glances at him. "You got a decent-sized tub in this place? I need to get clean, and I'd like to be able to soak for a bit." Heat might be the only thing that can leach some of the soreness from his back, at this point. If not, getting clean will still feel damn good.
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