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."
"Bed rest after this," Tony demands, straight to Steve's face, like Steve just said nothing. Beyond the exasperation and jabs about Steve's recklessness and idiocy, Tony worries.
"I'll be fine, Tony," Steve huffs. A few fractures are, to him, nothing to worry about; the serum will have him healed up in no time at all. He's not protesting the bed rest right now, but if Tony tries to keep him in bed for more than a few days, he'll take matters into his own hands.
Truth be told, there's something heartwarming about Tony's concern, about the way he frets over him like a mother hen. If the tables were turned, Steve knows he'd be exactly the same way - though Tony is a lot more fragile than he is. Steve can't help smiling for a moment, though he does it when he thinks Tony isn't looking.
Tony drowns out Steve's insistence by talking over him: "Rest of the day! No exceptions!" He knows Steve's healing factor; he won't force him down for longer than that. But Steve has already pushed himself past the point of injury when not in a life-or-death situation. (See exhibit A: last night.) If there's no further protest, Tony slots himself under Steve's arm to again play the crutch. "Can't believe I'm turning out to be the responsible one," he grumbles.
"Don't worry, I'm sure you'll get your turn to be irresponsible soon enough," Steve retorts cheerfully. He doesn't protest when Tony offers his support, just leans some of his weight onto him as they head for the master bedroom. He probably needs something to keep his back stable more than he needs a crutch, but he won't spurn the help, either.
Steve receives another exasperated glare on their trek to the master bathroom. Tony has half of mind to be the most responsible man on the planet to be contrary and rub it in Steve's face, but truth is he's already trying to be better. More careful and considerate of his actions and how they affect the world. He messed up with Ultron like he messed up with his weapons, so he needs to be better. Again. Still. This time, hopefully, in the right way.
By the time he's scrubbing shampoo into Steve's hair, Tony has loosened up. He talks more easily, more smoothly. It's familiar, this. He doesn't love Steve, not yet, but Steve has become his motivation. Steve has given Tony back what he lost after Ultron and Pepper: a future he can see.
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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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Truth be told, there's something heartwarming about Tony's concern, about the way he frets over him like a mother hen. If the tables were turned, Steve knows he'd be exactly the same way - though Tony is a lot more fragile than he is. Steve can't help smiling for a moment, though he does it when he thinks Tony isn't looking.
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By the time he's scrubbing shampoo into Steve's hair, Tony has loosened up. He talks more easily, more smoothly. It's familiar, this. He doesn't love Steve, not yet, but Steve has become his motivation. Steve has given Tony back what he lost after Ultron and Pepper: a future he can see.