(fic) What You Have Tamed 2/2
What You Have Tamed 2/2
By tsukinofaerii
Beta: rum_and_cookies
Rating: SNAP.
Warnings: Consent Issues, thy name is This Fic. Sexual Content, Violence, Potentially Disturbing Content, Language, Rape/Non-Con, Torture.
Spoilers: Very minor for Civil War.
Series: Marvel 616
Pairings: Steve/Tony
Summary: Kink Meme Request: Semi mirror!verse fic. Tony gets pulled into another universe where Steve's side won Civil War, Tony died, and Steve took control of the government. By the time they get 616!Tony back, he's slightly broken and convinced that Steve owns him and can't make any decision without Steve. And gained the 'distressing' habit of offering his body to Steve and waking him up with blow jobs. (Complete short story)
This story is a work of transformative fiction, such being defined as a work which incorporates characters and situations which have been created by other authors/artists. No infringement of copyright is intended and no profit is being made from the creation or dissemination of this work. Marvel and all its characters are owned by God Knows Who. They are used with respect and admiration for the work.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: This was first posted to the Marvel Kink Meme. There's some new scenes (beginning and ending) and it's been cleaned up a bit. Title comes from the quote, "You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed."
***
Tony seems content enough to just rest his head on Steve's shoulder during the elevator ride up. With what Reed told him still heavy in his head, Steve's not sure he'd have the heart to turn Tony down again. The sort of disaster that would turn into doesn't even bear thinking about.
Which would be worse? Taking even more advantage of Tony than he already has, or hurting him with rejection? Worse yet, what kind of damage could either option do to Tony's questionable sanity? Steve isn't trained for these sorts of questions. He doubts anybody could be.
The penthouse is deserted; every Avenger who can found somewhere else to be for the day. Signs that Jarvis has been and gone are everywhere, in the little corners of dust that magically vanished and the fresh arrangement of flowers on the coffee table. Steve doesn't have to look to know that there's an unsigned get well card in the flowers addressed to "Master Anthony". Jarvis always leaves one.
When Tony tries to detour to the bedroom, Steve puts a hand on the small of his back and gently pushes him back on course. "Lunch," he reminds firmly. The only response is a sigh, but Tony lets himself be guided to sit at the table. "Stay here. I'll make lunch." Tony gives him the forlorn look Steve's starting to privately think of as his "I'm not wanted" expression, so he puts the file on the table. "Look at that while I'm cooking. It's what I wanted to ask you about."
Leaving Tony to flip through the diagrams and Reed's notes, Steve turns his attention to the refrigerator. As usual, Jarvis stocked the freezer with a supply of heat-and-eat meals; he's said more than once that he suspects superheroes would attempt to survive on cereal and fast food if left to their own devices. Remembering meals past, Steve has to concede the point. Neither Jessica cooks, MJ doesn't have enough time, and Logan can only manage food if it's fried to a crisp. On a good day, Steve can bake and manage plain meals. The rest of them are better off out of the kitchen. Peter still swears he hadn't meant to ruin the toaster, but that hadn't stopped Jarvis from leaving a very sarcastic note when he'd left the replacement.
Deciding to save Jarvis' fare for later, Steve starts pulling out what he'll need for sandwiches. There's some canned tomato soup that they'd smuggled in behind the giant-sized peanut butter jar in the pantry. Between the two, he should be able to get Tony to eat.
Behind him, Tony makes a noise of surprise. Steve turns to see him touching the back of his head tentatively. "These are... Why do you need to know about them? You told me to make them. Did I do something wrong?"
Steve really, really hates himself these days. If he could go through that dimensional rift and drag the other Steve back to justice, he wouldn't even stop to think about it. "They're fine. Perfect. I just need you to refresh my memory. Why did you make them?"
"You told me to." The reply is prompt, and the alert, submissive expression on Tony's face makes Steve feel ill.
To keep from thinking about it, he turns back to the food. "I mean, why did I have you make them? Why not someone else?"
"Extremis rejected the first ones. It's not plug and play friendly. I don't..." Tony's voice trails off. Steve forces himself to focus on slicing the tomatoes, not wanting to distract him. "I don't remember well," Tony finally says, his voice soft. "It was when I was still misbehaving. They implanted them and then... it hurt and no one could get it to stop. You promised that it would if I redesigned them." Steve can imagine Tony's shrug without turning around, the one that's full of self-deprecating acknowledgement of something best forgotten. "I... didn't, not right away-I was misbehaving-I didn't want to be good..." Steve risks a glance over his shoulder to see Tony's fingers tracing shapes on the table. "I don't know why. It was so much better after I fixed them."
How long did he hold out? Steve stirs the soup and tries to keep from dwelling on the implications of that. Maybe Reed will have an idea what happened, besides the obvious. "Did you design a way to remove them? Just in case?"
"Remove them?" Something smacks to the floor. Steve drops the spoon and whirls to see Tony hunching over, arms wrapped around his stomach. At his feet, the file folder and its contents have spread out over the marble tile where it had fallen. Already pale skin loses what little color it has as Tony starts shaking his head in denial. "You don't want me any more? I'll- I'll be good- better than good! I promise! I promise I promise I-"
"Tony!" Steve abandons the soup to drop to his knees in front of Tony. He grabs him by the shoulders to force him to straighten. "I want you, I swear I want you. You don't have to do anything."
Shudders wrack Tony's body, but he lifts his head to meet Steve's eyes. "You don't touch me," he accuses, voice wavering. "You don't say you love me. You lock me out of your room and now you want to take the chips out."
What can he say to that? "If we have to replace them," Steve tries, knowing he's lying and not giving a damn at this point, "we have to be able to disconnect them. That's all I meant. I still want you."
"You don't touch me."
"I'm touching you right now." Exasperation, at least, is a familiar look on Tony. Steve strokes his cheek, and his skin only crawls a little when Tony leans into the touch gratefully. He hates how good it feels to have Tony's affection. "You can share my bed tonight. Will that help? And I won't lock the door anymore. But I need you to work on a way to disconnect the chips from Extremis. Will you do that?"
"Yes, Master." Steve doesn't correct him this time, and it's worth it to see Tony smile.
***
They stay close for several long, wonderfully peaceful minutes before Tony lifts his head away from Steve's hand. "The soup's boiling over," he announces helpfully, just moments before Steve hears the distinctive hiss of a culinary attempt gone wrong.
The soup only boils over a little and Steve's able to talk Tony into sitting in the chair, using the files as an excuse, so he considers the meal a small success. They seem like the only ones he has any more, but that just makes them more satisfying. About half-way through his meal, Tony grabs a pencil stub out of his pocket and starts editing Reed's notes. By the time Steve notices, Tony's soup is already congealed and the sandwich has gotten soggy, so he just grabs the leftovers and starts to clean up the mess. It's good to see Tony wrapped up in his work again and he doesn't want to disturb him.
The grit from where the soup fried itself to the burner is stubborn, so Steve doesn't look up when Tony asks, "What's this?"
"What's what?" The cleaner Jarvis keeps under the sink is working, but only slowly. Maybe if he lets it soak...
"These people. Dr. Gerald Phips, 926-7604. Dr. Karen Weaver, 662-5102... Psychotherapists?" For a second, all Steve can think is that he can't believe he was stupid enough to leave that list in there where Tony can find it, much less give it to him. When he turns, Extremis is painting lines of data across Tony's eyes, but he doesn't look upset. Instead, there's a worried crease on his forehead. "These are therapists for superheroes. And one for 'recovering villains'."
"Tony, I-"
"Are you having the nightmares again?"
Steve's positive he never told Tony about those dreams, the ones where he's been yanked away forever, or where he's on a leash like a dog. Tony had caught him retching once, but he hadn't explained anything and Tony hadn't asked. "Yes?"
Tony abandons the table and slinks across the kitchen on his hands knees, ending with his arms around Steve's hips and his cheek against his stomach in what Steve's starting to think is Tony's favorite position. It's a fight for Steve not to slide away from the embrace. A sick feeling roils in his stomach as Tony looks up at him anxiously. "This is why you should let me sleep with you all the time," he murmurs. "You don't have them when I'm there."
"I..." Steve leans back into the stove, putting a couple of inches between himself and Tony. His hands latch onto the oven handle, as if he can use it to gain another inch of space. "The list isn't for me. It's for you. To help you."
The few inches Steve managed to win for himself vanishes as Tony buries his face back in Steve's stomach. The desperation of the move takes away anything sexual that might have been in it. "I don't need to be helped."
"Tony-"
"I don't want it! I'm happy. I have you, and you take care of me." The words are muffled by Steve's stomach. At this angle, Steve can see the bumps of Tony's spine. They'd always been visible before, but now there's less muscle to soften them. "You always take care of me. Why do I need to be helped?"
It's humbling and terrifying to have someone place themselves so completely into his hands. Captain America gets that sort of trust, because he wears the flag on his chest and Stands for Something, even if sometimes no one agrees with him. Steve Rogers has never even kept a plant. He gropes for words, mouth forming them silently and then shutting when everything comes up short. Because you can't stay like this will just bring more questions, and it's not very accurate. Tony very well can stay like this. He just shouldn't.
Desperation makes Steve look farther afield. "What about Iron Man? Stark International?" Tony just presses closer to him with a quiet sound of denial. "You can't be Iron Man or run your company like this. Pepper's handling things, but..." Pepper won't be able to control the media storm brewing forever. They only suspect that Tony's injured, or ill. If the public finds the truth, God alone knows what will happen. Steve swallows a growing tightness in his throat and loosens his grip on the oven, threading his fingers through Tony's hair. "The Avengers need old Shellhead. Captain America needs his partner back."
"Iron Man is gone. The suit was slagged and SHIELD funds-"
"That's the other place." A harsh noise, almost a sob, makes Tony shake against him. Steve lets his fingers ease over Tony's scalp, not quite petting him, but closer to it than he's really comfortable with. "The armor's in the lab, remember? Under the sheet in the corner. You can still be Iron Man, but you need to be fixed."
"Is..." Tony's voice is so subdued, Steve almost misses it. "Is that an order?"
"I don't want it to be." Tony doesn't answer, and Steve can only hope that's a good sign.
***
Tony hides in the bathroom for the rest of the day. The bedrooms all have en suite bathrooms, so he's not getting in anyone's way, but Steve still tries to stay view of the door as much as possible. He doesn't want to find Tony at three AM passed out in his lab because he'd snuck out to the elevator while Steve's back was turned. Tony's been doing that for as long as Steve's known him, but that doesn't make it healthy.
The list of psychiatrists isn't actually long, but calling them takes the rest of the day anyway. He can't manage to get any of the doctors actually on the phone to listen to him. It's a lot more complicated than "just a breakdown"-as if anyone with powers could be said to have had "just" anything-but the secretaries are distinctly unimpressed when he won't even give them Tony's working identity. Saying he's Captain America receives disbelieving scoffs. Pepper would have been a better choice, since she has experience dealing with irritating professionals, but after what happened in the kitchen Steve doesn't want to let anyone else do it.
A faint, mechanic whir from the hidden security cameras follows him around the Tower the few times he leaves the main room. Even so, the bathroom door stays closed and locked. One by one, the other Avengers wander in, except for Logan, who Luke informs Steve is staying with the X-men for a while. Steve hates to think it, but at least it's one more difficulty he doesn't have to handle. The plate of dinner Steve leaves on a tray outside remains untouched and congealing until Steve finally takes it back to the kitchen.
Come eleven that night, Steve checks the bathroom again to find the door still closed. He'd taken as much time as he could, using a ridiculous amount of hot water to drag out his shower, triple-checking the premises and even going down to Tony's lab to check the doors there in order to put off sleep. He'd hoped Tony would be ready to come out, but the quiet bathroom tells him otherwise. The cameras are still following him, at least, so he knows Tony hasn't fallen asleep in there. He almost wishes he had. It would have to be better than sitting on the tile brooding. "Tony?" No response. Not even a shuffle. "I'm going to bed. Please don't stay in there all night."
Silence.
Sighing, Steve turns and trudges down the hall to his room. Guilty relief that Tony isn't going to hold him to his promise weighs heavy on him, but as long as Tony's locked himself away there's nothing Steve can do about it.
His relief lasts exactly until he opens his bedroom door and sees Tony curled up at the foot of his bed.
Tony's eyes are open, the blue of them barely peeking out behind the shadows created by his arm. Black leather loafers rest in a pile on the floor where Tony had kicked them off, along with his socks and belt. Those look like the only concessions to comfort he'd made. Even his shirt is still tucked in.
Out in the hall, the cameras hum and shift back to their normal positions.
"I thought you were still hiding," Steve says numbly. Belatedly, he closes the door, before one of the others can wander by and get the wrong impression. Not there's much of a right impression to be had. At least Tony's still dressed.
There's no movement at all from the tight ball of Tony. "I came in when you took away the tray."
That had been an hour ago. "I was waiting for you to come out." Steve settles on the edge of the bed, next to Tony's shoulders. He should probably go find Tony something to sleep in, but maybe just his undershorts will do. Designer or not, what he's wearing won't be comfortable.
Slowly, Tony uncurls until the tips of his fingers hook into the loose cloth of the pajama bottoms Steve had decided to sleep in, just in case Tony came out of the bathroom overnight. Tiny pops sound where Tony's joints unlock after having been held in such an uncomfortable position for so long. "I didn't want you to lock me out," he confesses, keeping his eyes fixed on the wall across from them.
"I promised I wouldn't," Steve reminds him gently. Tony only shakes his head, which Steve takes to mean that he'd either forgotten or thought Steve would lock it anyway. He settles his hand over Tony's, running his thumb along the back of it soothingly.
Even as pale as he is, Tony's skin is still darker than Steve's by a few shades. The contrast makes the artist in him itch to reach for pencils to capture the differences. It had been easy to miss the two inches and fifty pounds that separated them, or how long and delicate-dare he say, feminine-Tony's fingers are under the calluses and scars. He's always been good at projecting himself as bigger, tougher, stronger than anything he faces, except when the enemy is in his own head.
Finally Tony sits up, but his eyes stays lowered and his shoulders rounded meekly. Blunt nails dig into Steve's thigh where Tony's grip had tightened, even though the man himself doesn't seem to have noticed. "Do you want me to go?"
"No." The disgusting thing is, he doesn't, and Steve can't even tell himself that it's for the best any more. Not when Tony is already miserable just expecting to be sent away. "I want you to stay. Strip down to your shorts and get comfortable up on the pillows. Please."
Tony looks at him warily, like he might change his mind. When Steve just waits expectantly, his eyelids droop and he shudders so slightly it's almost invisible. Steely blue eyes stay on Steve's as he unbuttons his shirt, with much more care than he usually displays.
Seeing Tony so casually sexual sends something warm and possessive down through Steve's stomach, where it burns. He swallows and turns his head before Tony gets any ideas. No matter what Tony wants, or thinks he wants, it would still be taking advantage of him.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the dress shirt drop to the floor by his shoes. The bed shifts, and Steve turns his head a little more, expecting Tony to stand for the rest of it. Instead, it shifts more and Tony's slacks slap against the far wall brutally when he throws them.
Two warm arms wrap around Steve's shoulders from behind. "I'm sorry." The words are breathed into his ear, but they might as well have been a shout for how Steve focuses on them. He stiffens, and Tony nuzzles him, hands tracing down to the front of Steve's shorts. "I know I was bad, hiding from you today. I'm so sorry." The hard press of Tony's erection against Steve's back doesn't do much to support his apology. Neither does the little kisses he's leaving along his neck. "Still love me?"
It takes Steve three tries to grab Tony's wrist and lift his hand from his crotch. God help him if the bad guys figure out that all it takes it Tony's voice in that tone to completely kill his coordination. "Tony," he mutters, ashamed to realize that his voice is thick with lust. "Tony, please stop it. I'm not having sex with you."
The word "stop", which usually brings a complete halt to whatever Tony happens to be doing, only pauses Tony's hands this time. Sharp teeth bite down on the curve of his ear. "Say you love me?" Tony begs. His hips rock once into Steve's back. "Please? Just tell me?"
Steve grips the quilt so tightly that he feels some of the stitches pop. He'd like to tell himself that it's disgust, or pity, but he's never been good at lying to himself.
He can feel the new landmine under his feet, but Tony deserves to hear the truth about something this important. "Yes, I- I do. I love you."
The hold around his shoulders tightens as Tony buries his face in Steve's neck. "Steve," he moans, voice mangled and low with pleasure. His whole body convulses, hips grinding shamelessly into Steve's back. Then he sags, drooping forward like a robot whose power supply had been cut. Damp heat sinks through Steve's shirt to his skin where Tony had pressed into him.
"You..." Steve's voice is low and blank with shock. He can't believe Tony actually...
A last kiss lands against Steve's ear before Tony pulls away. Steve turns to be graced with a lazy, pleased smile and a very naked Tony. Most of the mess had been caught in his shorts, but a smear had managed to go as high as his ribcage.
Tony scoops some of it up with a finger and pops it in his mouth, then rolls off the bed. "I'll get a wash cloth," he mumbles around the finger.
Even muffled, Steve doesn't think he's ever heard Tony so cheerful. "What just happened?"
The newly cleaned finger leaves Tony's lips as he pauses in the bathroom doorway, turning to back at Steve. "You love me," he says, as if that explains anything at all. "And I love you, too." Then he vanishes into the bathroom, leaving Steve to wonder what the hell he's stepped into now.
***
Villains have the worst timing possible. They never strike during lunch hour, or on a slow day. Steve's learned to accept this as a basic fact of life, but it doesn't lessen his annoyance at all when the his communicator starts beeping just after midnight, less than a half an hour after he finally got Tony to sleep. He manages to slip out of bed without disturbing Tony, grabbing it off the bedside table and heading out into the hall.
"What is it?"
"Hey, Cap." Peter's voice is far too cheerful for the hour. "Guess what's made of metal, blows things up and chants 'Doom, Doom, Doom'. Three chances and the first two don't count."
What else? Things had been quiet for a while. It was bound to happen eventually. "Just tell me where you are."
Somehow, Peter manages to sound offended and cheerful simultaneously. "Bryant Park. You know, behind the Library? With those weird little statue things on the roof that look like they're supposed to be Greek but they're wearing too many clothes? MJ and I just happened to be in there area-fully dressed and in the area-well, above the area, I mean, but anyway we don't do that sort of thing and don't listen to her if she says something else because she's just pulling your chain, you know?" Peter laughs nervously, and if Steve never has to hear about Spiderman's personal life again he'll be happy.
"I know where the New York Library is. We'll be there ASAP."
"What about Iron Man?"
Steve glances back at the bedroom door. "He's in no condition to fight right now. We should be able to handle a few Doombots on our own."
The silence on the other end of the line is somehow sulky, in the same way that Peter can make his mask emote. "Tony would want to help. And he'd laugh at my jokes."
Tears are a sharp burn behind Steve's eyelids that he refuses to admit to. "... I miss him too, Peter. Rogers out."
***
We should be able to handle a few Doombots on our own.
The voice through the communicator echoes with a static hiss that makes Tony's ears ring. He doesn't understand why they're doing that again, when he knows he'd fixed that problem. His Master had been so pleased that he'd told Tony that he loves him three times in a row. Extremis had taken care of the bruises, but just like everything Steve gives him, he can still feel them just under his skin.
Maybe the communicators need to be upgraded again.
Tony watches Steve through the security cameras as he heads down the hall. Luke and Jessica Drew are already coming out of their rooms, Jessica pulling down her mask and Luke still buckling his belt. An extra suit of Steve's mail is in the Quinjet hanger. The one in his bedroom is closer, but clearly he doesn't want to let Tony know he's leaving him.
Doombots are nothing new. Captain America can handle them. He can handle anything.
It's hard to believe that when he's being left behind, when he can't protect him the way he wants to.
Steve killed his suits. He killed all of them, even the old ones, the golden one and the one that gleamed like polished silver. Tony had felt the new ones die, one by one, the connections being sliced away to leave gaping wounds like amputated limbs. The Extremis armor screamed when it dropped into the smelter. Tony had cried over them, and his Master had held him and told him it was better this way.
You're not allowed to fight any more. It's too dangerous, and I won't lose you again. I won't kill you again. Iron Man is dead.
The suit is in his lab. The one that ties in to Extremis, that feels like his own skin. He put hours into building it, before Steve was his Master, when everything was murky and he'd been miserable and hadn't even known it. Steve hasn't destroyed it, he'd taken care of it the way he does Tony. It hums in the back of his mind, confused because he's been telling it that it's a ghost.
Captain America needs his partner back.
The contradiction hurts his head, makes it swim with nausea. He can't follow both orders. Steve's not cruel. Steve loves him-takes care of him. He wouldn't give Tony two conflicting orders. So one of them has to be right, but he can't tell which.
Gold slithers out of the modified glands Extremis gave him, sliding over his skin, under the loose shorts he's borrowed from Steve. Tony keeps his eyes closed, feeling like an itch he's ignored forever is being eased.
He's not becoming Iron Man again. Iron Man is dead. The air's chilly without Steve to keep him warm. That's all. Just like he's only going down to the lab to work on the new communicators. Steve allows him to play in the lab while he's gone. It has nothing to do with the faintly man-shaped thing tucked under a sheet in the far corner.
Tony's very good at lying to himself. His subconscious doesn't catch on until he's face to faceplate with the armor. Then the crushing misery of directly disobeying Steve-of making Steve unhappy comes down onto him, burning through his marrow like shots of molten lead. Metal rattles and flies through the air.
And then it's too late.
***
We should be able to handle a few Doombots on our own.
Famous, hopefully not-last words. It's not just Doombots, which they've dealt with dozens of times before, but a new type of bot. They're more unstable than the usual fare, and they make up for it with power. Electricity bounces all over the place, spiking high where the bots are grouped closely together. Some of them have already exploded from their own overload, but there's plenty to take their place. Iron Man's out of it, Wolverine isn't available, and Luke's already been knocked out by the voltage. Spiderman's webs are non-conductive, which helps things a little, but the bots are still managing to gain ground.
Steve ducks out from behind a building and hurls his shield, slicing three bots in half before it finishes its ricochet and returns to him. Up above, Spiderwoman hurls the remains of a Buick at a cluster, tumbling backwards midair from the force of the explosion. She crashes into Steve's chest, only her ability to fly keeping them both from hitting the pavement.
"These are prototypes," she pants. "Some of them are still half-assembled. I don't think this is deliberate." Then she shoves off from his chest to find something else to throw at the bots.
He curses under his breath and flings his shield again, as a piece of exploding Doombot slams into one of the ornamental trees and starts a fresh fire. Even accidental villain attacks have bad timing.
"Doom!" At this hour of the night, their ridiculous chanting is more annoying than usual. Steve takes the head off that one with a toss of his shield, then barely manages to avoid being grabbed by another by rolling out of the way before it can electrocute him.
Spiderman swings by overhead, using the street lights to keep himself away from the electricity. Webs smack into a handful bots, including the one that's focused on Steve, pinning them to the street. They thrash around before self-destructing with a joined cry of kneel before Doom. Forty-Second Street is littered with shrapnel and small fires, and there's still more bots left than Steve can conveniently count.
"Incoming!"
Peter's warning shout reaches Steve just before the roar of jets overhead. Familiar red and gold armor touches down in the middle of the street, stumbling over the remains of a Doombot. It's so much unlike Tony's usually graceful landings that Steve almost misses the bot taking aim to his left.
He slaps his communicator on and dodges the blast. "Tony, you're not supposed to be here!"
"I know, I know, I'm sorry." Even through the computerized synthesizer, Tony's voice is high and sharp with pain. Steve can't imagine what's causing it; he'd been fine less than an hour ago. More than fine, he'd been nearly ecstatic. "Where's Luke and- never mind, I see them on the roof. Pe- Spiderman. Get Master off the street. You'd probably better use a web to hold onto the lamp."
Peter sounds as confused as Steve feels. "Master? Who- oh, wait, you mean Cap. Creepy pet thing, right!"
Tony barks, "Just do it!" at the same time as Steve yells, "Spiderman!"
Webs tangle around Steve's waist, yanking him up before he has a chance to fight it. "Alleyoop! Webslinger Air, at your service. Our in-flight meal today will be Doom a la flambé with a garden salad and a side of lightly grilled yellow squash."
"Put me down!" Steve snaps, grabbing the web to try and break it before he gets too high up. It's like trying to break one of the lines on a suspension bridge.
"No can do, Big Man. Let the genius do his job and figure this out." Another webline wraps around Steve's shoulders, making it even harder to struggle. "We weren't really doing a good job anyway."
Spiderwoman hovers overhead. "Iron Man! Is there anything we can do?"
The suit rises and lurches to a standing position. "Just stay off the ground." One of Tony's arms lifts, the repulsor unit in his palm flashing incandescent just a moment before four precision blasts fire off. Almost simultaneously, four jets of water fountain into the air from the shattered remains of fire hydrants, flooding the streets.
Instantly the remaining Doombots-a rough fifty, now that Steve can see them all-freeze in place. Smoke rises as their own over-charged current flows along the water, connecting them to each other. Sparks leap off the robots as they convulse, exploding one by one. Overhead, glass rains down as the water spreads, carrying the electrical current to the street lamps.
Electricity crawls up the Iron Man armor, outlining its edges obscenely. Unlike the bots, it doesn't shake, showing no sign that it's even affected until the last bot gives a booming cry of Doom and detonates.
In the faint firelight that's scattered up and down the street, Steve barely makes out Tony's figure as he topples face-first to the asphalt.
***
Reed Richards hums happily as he does six different things at once on a total of four computers, none of which Steve can follow. The tune is inordinately cheerful for the circumstances. Steve tries not to glare at him too hard for it, even though he knows Reed probably wouldn't be affected by the roof caving in, much less Steve's annoyance. He's too preoccupied with the latest marvel to cross his lab.
Tony is stretched face-down across a table in the gold under armor, a host of wires running from him to various machines. The suit had been active enough to respond to the emergency overrides Steve had shouted, but no one can figure out how to get the second skin to retract, and cutting it off had been useless. It just parted around the blade and then sealed itself back up again. Between the under armor, the chips and Extremis, it had been decided that Spiderman and Spiderwoman would take Luke to the hospital, even though he'd already woken up and started complaining, while Steve took Tony to the Baxter Building.
He's seen Tony unconscious far too often for his taste, and it never gets any easier.
Something beeps for attention and Reed's head stretches over to check it. "Well, that's good!" he actually chirps. "The implants are still fully functional. The one in his spine is a bit over-worked, but it's nothing it won't recover from."
Steve reflects that it's unfair the way anything Reed says has to be interpreted before responding. "How is that good?"
"He's not dying."
A living Tony is definitely better than a dying one, but Steve can't quite suppress his disappointment that the shock hadn't taken out the chips. Stranger things have happened. "What about the electric shock?" There's a moment of silence as Reed blinks placidly in obvious confusion. "The electric shock he received when he took out the Doombots? The one that knocked him out?" Steve's certain he explained everything when they arrived.
"Oh, that." One stretched arm waves through the air dismissively. "He's not injured. I suspect the armor is insulated from electrical attacks. It would have been a logical precaution."
Normally, Steve has a reasonably good hold on his temper. He loses it occasionally, the way most people do, but he doesn't do it often and he never loses control completely. Captain America can't afford to be a short fuse. Those years of control are the only thing that keeps him from saying something he knows he'll regret. "Is there a reason you didn't tell me this sooner?"
"I thought it was obvious. No burns-no noticeable injuries at all, in fact."
"Tony hasn't been electrocuted. That's good. But if he hasn't been electrocuted, then what the hell is wrong with him?"
Reed looks hurt at his tone, but Steve's been dealing with a desperately needy Tony for a month and has built up a small amount of immunity to woeful glances. "I'm attempting to find out. I think it has to do with the activity in the lower chip, but I can't quite make out the cause." New diagrams come up, and these Steve can actually read, to a certain extent. It's impossible to be in their line of work and not recognize a map of the human nervous system. It's the sort of thing that ends up plastered on hospital walls, and Steve's seen a lot of those. "The effects are psychosomatic for the most part, except for-"
The pending explanation is cut off by a whimper. Gold under armor melts away as Tony rolls onto his side and curls into a tight ball. Reed's diagrams flicker as every machine in the room gives a high pitched squeal.
Reed taps out a command and fiddles with a power switch for a second. For the first time, frustration tightens his expression. "It's Extremis. He must have access the network." The lights flicker ominously. "And the power grid. If you would tell him to stop? There's no telling what damage he could do, and there's sensitive equipment in here."
The audacity of the request hits all of Steve's buttons at once, but he's distracted by another soft sound from Tony. He pries one of Tony's hands from around his shins and wraps it in both of his. "Tony," he tries, voice gentle for how angry he feels. "Tony, you're safe now. You need to stop this." The lights flash again, chasing each other on and off across the ceiling.
Metal and plastic crashes as Reed starts to unplug things. "Tell him-"
"I don't tell him what to do," Steve snaps. Tony moans, beginning to rock back and forth. "I'm not his owner!"
Reed pauses, half-way between a desk and the wall. Steve's never seen Mister Fantastic look so angry. "Yes," he says quietly. "You are."
Steve stares at him, jaw muscles clenching. Finally, his eyes close for a long moment before he looks back to the man on the table. "Tony, stop. That's an order."
In an eye-blink, the interference vanishes. Light returns, and quiet beeps herald the return of the machines to life, most of them turning on exactly as they'd turned off. The line graphs monitoring the chip activity waver and spike, the new peak hovering so high that the screen zooms out to accommodate it.
Since Reed isn't saying anything, and Steve's not even sure he want to hear what the man might say anyway, he hops onto the table at Tony's side and swings his leg over. Without opening his eyes, Tony shifts so that he's pressed against Steve's thigh. Steve gathers him up into a sitting position, cradling him against his chest.
"What's wrong?" Steve tries to rub Tony's shoulders soothingly, but he's so tense that there's almost no give to the muscles. "Tony, you have to tell us-"
"Wrong. Misbehaved." Tony's voice is barely even a hoarse whisper. He sounds like someone trying not to scream. "Hurts. Mad?"
Ice clenches around Steve's gut. He hadn't ordered Tony to stay. He knows he hadn't. Steve concentrates on the trembling body against his and does his best not to look over at Reed, who is probably watching with the same curiosity he shows anything new. "I'm not mad. You didn't misbehave. It's okay."
"Didn't?" Tony's breath is harsh, his chest heaving. "Right choice? Not removing...?"
The broken note in his voice makes Steve feel like he might cry. "Right choice," he confirms quietly, blinking against the burn behind his eyelids. "We're not taking out the chips, I promise."
Tony shudders against him, head rolling to look up at Steve for just a moment before he sags back into unconsciousness. On the largest screen, the line graph dives to something only a little above a complete flatline. Shakily, Steve checks Tony's pulse, only relaxing when he feels it beating steadily under his fingertips.
"I'm sorry." Steve's head jerks around. Reed's pulled himself together, standing in the middle of the room as he watches the data scrolling across the screen. "I should have been kinder."
"We didn't have time for kind." Steve starts disconnecting Tony from the machines. He can't stand to see it anymore, and it hasn't done any good anyway. Nothing they've done lately has. "Someone had to say it."
"I'm still sorry." Reed's head starts to turn, and Steve lowers his gaze before their eyes can meet. "I know you don't want to hear this, but even if we remove the implants, Tony's going to be years recovering. Short of wiping his memory-"
"Don't even-" Steve growls, but Reed keeps talking over him.
"-which I don't recommend, there's nothing we can do to speed the process." It's strange listening to Reed without looking at him, especially when he uses this sad, almost parental tone. He wonders if Franklin and Valeria hear this voice from him. "You may not think of yourself as his owner, but he does. If you try to resist that before he's ready, you're just going to do more damage."
Tony shifts against his chest, shivering and leaning in closer. A pile of fabric drops from overhead, but when Steve looks up Reed is exactly as he'd been before.
Steve tucks the light blue hospital blanket around Tony's naked body, and the shivering eases immediately. "I don't want to do this to him," he admits quietly. "It feels like I'm taking advantage of him."
"That's because you're a good man." Something taps, a keyboard, and out of the corner of his eye Steve can see one of the smaller monitors flickering with new information. "I don't have any contacts I can give you, but I suggest finding someone who specializes in dominant-submissive relationships and taking some lessons. Whoever you choose as a psychiatrist might have some suggestions."
Dominant-submissive. Steve's stomach turns over on itself. Even the words sound like everything that's never been between him and Tony. "What else?"
"Just take care of him. That's all he needs for now."
Steve remembers what taking care of Tony used to mean. It was mostly nagging him into eating at least one meal a day, or helping to pick up the pieces when his last relationship went wrong. Standing back and not letting his feelings get between them. Letting him work things out on his own, until he was ready to ask for help. Tony had always been more self-sufficient than he needed to be, as if he had something to prove to himself. They'd argued sometimes, and Tony always managed to hold his own. Steve never thought he'd miss that.
He's terrified, in a way that Nazis or supervillains never managed in the past. Before, all Steve had to risk was his own life and the ones under his command, but he'd been trained for that. Now he has Tony's sanity in his hands, and he doesn't have the faintest idea how he's going to keep it together, or even where to start.
Tony's weight is absolutely limp against him, as trusting as a newborn kitten. He hadn't wanted any of this, but Tony needs it, and that's really all that matters. "Take care of him... Yeah. I can do that."
***
Tony wakes up. That's the first surprise.
The second is that he doesn't hurt any more. He never stops hurting before Steve forgives him. The guilt of upsetting Steve wraps itself around the Extremis additions and refuses to let him breathe until it's resolved. Trying to remember what happened is like grabbing for a mirage. He recalls the pain and his Master's voice saying something, in that gentle, sad tone he gets when Tony's done something stupid like try to run away. Everything else is just out of reach, and experience tells him to stop trying before his head begins to ache. A quick, worried scan with Extremis tells him that his Master's marks are still in place, and as long as the chips aren't removed and he's been forgiven, he doesn't much care for what else might have occurred.
Accessing the security cameras is as easy as blinking, so he does. Like everything else lately, they're sluggish, but he slows his processing speed and it almost syncs with him easily. Images play across the inside of his eyelids, silent and comforting.
He's in Steve's room, curled up in a blanket that still smells faintly of leather and Old Spice-Steve scents. He lets the connections wander, looking for his Master. Familiar faces fill the Tower. MJ and Peter are on the couch-alone, which bothers him. He has the feeling that he hasn't seen their little girl anywhere lately, but he doesn't know why. Maybe she's with May. The question gets filed away with all the other unanswered ones as he switches to another camera, this time finding Logan and Jessica Jones in the kitchen. Another jump-
"Tony? Are you using Extremis?"
Guilt burns a harsh line down his chest. A breath and the connections are severed, feeling like phantom limbs for a moment before they finish closing out. Tony opens his eyes, expecting to see a disapproving frown on Steve's face, but only finding exasperation instead. He's damp and has a towel wrapped around his waist, one of the giant fluffy ones he likes that reach past even his knees.
The preemptive pain vanishes as quickly as if it had never been. "I was looking for you."
Steve smiled, and the expression had the usual result of making Tony tingle down to his toes. "I was taking a shower."
Where there's no cameras. Tony nods his understanding, settling comfortably back into the pillows. Steve watches him nervously, but why is a question that only occurs to Tony for a few seconds. It's not an upset sort of expression. As long as Steve isn't angry or sad, Tony trusts that he'll tell him when he's ready.
Extremis counts less than three minutes before Steve groans and runs his fingers though his hair. "Are you still hurt?"
Tony looks at him in confusion for a moment before shaking his head in the negative. Why would Steve even ask? Tony knows to tell him when he's injured, so Steve can take care of it.
"Oh. That's good." The towel stays up high on Steve's waist as he sits on the edge of the bed, blue and white and silly the way he's gripping it like it might be ripped away from him. It's adorable, which isn't a word Tony really remembers thinking much lately. Usually, it's a word for Natalie May Parker, or little Danielle Cage. It fits Steve right now, and as nice as it is, it leaves him feeling lost, without any idea what he needs to do to make Steve happy.
Steve seems to realize the problem though, and pats the bed beside him. Gratefully, Tony squirms out of the blankets and down to rest his cheek on his Master's thigh, sighing blissfully when Steve starts petting him. The air's chilly on his bare skin, but being close to Steve makes up for it.
He's so comfortable that he barely glances up when Steve starts speaking. "I haven't been very clear lately, have I?" he asks quietly. "Telling you what I want?" His eyes are fixed on Tony, with the same intensity he gives troop formations.
Every muscle in Tony's body relaxes as the contentment from Steve's gaze rolls over him. "I don't mind guessing." His voice is nearly a purr in his ears, and from the way Steve's hand pauses, he hears it too. Tony nuzzles his thigh, wrinkling his nose when the towel tickles it, then goes boneless again when Steve resumes stroking him.
"You shouldn't have to." Tony's eyes are closed, but he can feel Steve stiffen under his cheek. "You're sleeping in here from now on."
Sharp, authoritative tones vibrate in Steve's voice, and every syllable twangs an old rebellion Tony thought he'd buried long ago. He buries it again, letting the comfortable, easy pattern of submission hide it away before the shame of still resisting punishes him again. "Thank you."
Warm fingers touch his jaw, and Tony lifts with their pull obediently. His reward is a kiss on the temple that makes his toes curl.
"Don't thank me. I'm just..." The hand eases Tony back to Steve's thigh, and he lets it happen, snuggling back in to the warm place his cheek had left. Exhaustion and contentment work together against him, dragging him back down into sleep. He drifts off with the sound of Steve's voice just barely carrying to his ears. "I'm taking care of you."
By tsukinofaerii
Beta: rum_and_cookies
Rating: SNAP.
Warnings: Consent Issues, thy name is This Fic. Sexual Content, Violence, Potentially Disturbing Content, Language, Rape/Non-Con, Torture.
Spoilers: Very minor for Civil War.
Series: Marvel 616
Pairings: Steve/Tony
Summary: Kink Meme Request: Semi mirror!verse fic. Tony gets pulled into another universe where Steve's side won Civil War, Tony died, and Steve took control of the government. By the time they get 616!Tony back, he's slightly broken and convinced that Steve owns him and can't make any decision without Steve. And gained the 'distressing' habit of offering his body to Steve and waking him up with blow jobs. (Complete short story)
This story is a work of transformative fiction, such being defined as a work which incorporates characters and situations which have been created by other authors/artists. No infringement of copyright is intended and no profit is being made from the creation or dissemination of this work. Marvel and all its characters are owned by God Knows Who. They are used with respect and admiration for the work.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: This was first posted to the Marvel Kink Meme. There's some new scenes (beginning and ending) and it's been cleaned up a bit. Title comes from the quote, "You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed."
***
Tony seems content enough to just rest his head on Steve's shoulder during the elevator ride up. With what Reed told him still heavy in his head, Steve's not sure he'd have the heart to turn Tony down again. The sort of disaster that would turn into doesn't even bear thinking about.
Which would be worse? Taking even more advantage of Tony than he already has, or hurting him with rejection? Worse yet, what kind of damage could either option do to Tony's questionable sanity? Steve isn't trained for these sorts of questions. He doubts anybody could be.
The penthouse is deserted; every Avenger who can found somewhere else to be for the day. Signs that Jarvis has been and gone are everywhere, in the little corners of dust that magically vanished and the fresh arrangement of flowers on the coffee table. Steve doesn't have to look to know that there's an unsigned get well card in the flowers addressed to "Master Anthony". Jarvis always leaves one.
When Tony tries to detour to the bedroom, Steve puts a hand on the small of his back and gently pushes him back on course. "Lunch," he reminds firmly. The only response is a sigh, but Tony lets himself be guided to sit at the table. "Stay here. I'll make lunch." Tony gives him the forlorn look Steve's starting to privately think of as his "I'm not wanted" expression, so he puts the file on the table. "Look at that while I'm cooking. It's what I wanted to ask you about."
Leaving Tony to flip through the diagrams and Reed's notes, Steve turns his attention to the refrigerator. As usual, Jarvis stocked the freezer with a supply of heat-and-eat meals; he's said more than once that he suspects superheroes would attempt to survive on cereal and fast food if left to their own devices. Remembering meals past, Steve has to concede the point. Neither Jessica cooks, MJ doesn't have enough time, and Logan can only manage food if it's fried to a crisp. On a good day, Steve can bake and manage plain meals. The rest of them are better off out of the kitchen. Peter still swears he hadn't meant to ruin the toaster, but that hadn't stopped Jarvis from leaving a very sarcastic note when he'd left the replacement.
Deciding to save Jarvis' fare for later, Steve starts pulling out what he'll need for sandwiches. There's some canned tomato soup that they'd smuggled in behind the giant-sized peanut butter jar in the pantry. Between the two, he should be able to get Tony to eat.
Behind him, Tony makes a noise of surprise. Steve turns to see him touching the back of his head tentatively. "These are... Why do you need to know about them? You told me to make them. Did I do something wrong?"
Steve really, really hates himself these days. If he could go through that dimensional rift and drag the other Steve back to justice, he wouldn't even stop to think about it. "They're fine. Perfect. I just need you to refresh my memory. Why did you make them?"
"You told me to." The reply is prompt, and the alert, submissive expression on Tony's face makes Steve feel ill.
To keep from thinking about it, he turns back to the food. "I mean, why did I have you make them? Why not someone else?"
"Extremis rejected the first ones. It's not plug and play friendly. I don't..." Tony's voice trails off. Steve forces himself to focus on slicing the tomatoes, not wanting to distract him. "I don't remember well," Tony finally says, his voice soft. "It was when I was still misbehaving. They implanted them and then... it hurt and no one could get it to stop. You promised that it would if I redesigned them." Steve can imagine Tony's shrug without turning around, the one that's full of self-deprecating acknowledgement of something best forgotten. "I... didn't, not right away-I was misbehaving-I didn't want to be good..." Steve risks a glance over his shoulder to see Tony's fingers tracing shapes on the table. "I don't know why. It was so much better after I fixed them."
How long did he hold out? Steve stirs the soup and tries to keep from dwelling on the implications of that. Maybe Reed will have an idea what happened, besides the obvious. "Did you design a way to remove them? Just in case?"
"Remove them?" Something smacks to the floor. Steve drops the spoon and whirls to see Tony hunching over, arms wrapped around his stomach. At his feet, the file folder and its contents have spread out over the marble tile where it had fallen. Already pale skin loses what little color it has as Tony starts shaking his head in denial. "You don't want me any more? I'll- I'll be good- better than good! I promise! I promise I promise I-"
"Tony!" Steve abandons the soup to drop to his knees in front of Tony. He grabs him by the shoulders to force him to straighten. "I want you, I swear I want you. You don't have to do anything."
Shudders wrack Tony's body, but he lifts his head to meet Steve's eyes. "You don't touch me," he accuses, voice wavering. "You don't say you love me. You lock me out of your room and now you want to take the chips out."
What can he say to that? "If we have to replace them," Steve tries, knowing he's lying and not giving a damn at this point, "we have to be able to disconnect them. That's all I meant. I still want you."
"You don't touch me."
"I'm touching you right now." Exasperation, at least, is a familiar look on Tony. Steve strokes his cheek, and his skin only crawls a little when Tony leans into the touch gratefully. He hates how good it feels to have Tony's affection. "You can share my bed tonight. Will that help? And I won't lock the door anymore. But I need you to work on a way to disconnect the chips from Extremis. Will you do that?"
"Yes, Master." Steve doesn't correct him this time, and it's worth it to see Tony smile.
***
They stay close for several long, wonderfully peaceful minutes before Tony lifts his head away from Steve's hand. "The soup's boiling over," he announces helpfully, just moments before Steve hears the distinctive hiss of a culinary attempt gone wrong.
The soup only boils over a little and Steve's able to talk Tony into sitting in the chair, using the files as an excuse, so he considers the meal a small success. They seem like the only ones he has any more, but that just makes them more satisfying. About half-way through his meal, Tony grabs a pencil stub out of his pocket and starts editing Reed's notes. By the time Steve notices, Tony's soup is already congealed and the sandwich has gotten soggy, so he just grabs the leftovers and starts to clean up the mess. It's good to see Tony wrapped up in his work again and he doesn't want to disturb him.
The grit from where the soup fried itself to the burner is stubborn, so Steve doesn't look up when Tony asks, "What's this?"
"What's what?" The cleaner Jarvis keeps under the sink is working, but only slowly. Maybe if he lets it soak...
"These people. Dr. Gerald Phips, 926-7604. Dr. Karen Weaver, 662-5102... Psychotherapists?" For a second, all Steve can think is that he can't believe he was stupid enough to leave that list in there where Tony can find it, much less give it to him. When he turns, Extremis is painting lines of data across Tony's eyes, but he doesn't look upset. Instead, there's a worried crease on his forehead. "These are therapists for superheroes. And one for 'recovering villains'."
"Tony, I-"
"Are you having the nightmares again?"
Steve's positive he never told Tony about those dreams, the ones where he's been yanked away forever, or where he's on a leash like a dog. Tony had caught him retching once, but he hadn't explained anything and Tony hadn't asked. "Yes?"
Tony abandons the table and slinks across the kitchen on his hands knees, ending with his arms around Steve's hips and his cheek against his stomach in what Steve's starting to think is Tony's favorite position. It's a fight for Steve not to slide away from the embrace. A sick feeling roils in his stomach as Tony looks up at him anxiously. "This is why you should let me sleep with you all the time," he murmurs. "You don't have them when I'm there."
"I..." Steve leans back into the stove, putting a couple of inches between himself and Tony. His hands latch onto the oven handle, as if he can use it to gain another inch of space. "The list isn't for me. It's for you. To help you."
The few inches Steve managed to win for himself vanishes as Tony buries his face back in Steve's stomach. The desperation of the move takes away anything sexual that might have been in it. "I don't need to be helped."
"Tony-"
"I don't want it! I'm happy. I have you, and you take care of me." The words are muffled by Steve's stomach. At this angle, Steve can see the bumps of Tony's spine. They'd always been visible before, but now there's less muscle to soften them. "You always take care of me. Why do I need to be helped?"
It's humbling and terrifying to have someone place themselves so completely into his hands. Captain America gets that sort of trust, because he wears the flag on his chest and Stands for Something, even if sometimes no one agrees with him. Steve Rogers has never even kept a plant. He gropes for words, mouth forming them silently and then shutting when everything comes up short. Because you can't stay like this will just bring more questions, and it's not very accurate. Tony very well can stay like this. He just shouldn't.
Desperation makes Steve look farther afield. "What about Iron Man? Stark International?" Tony just presses closer to him with a quiet sound of denial. "You can't be Iron Man or run your company like this. Pepper's handling things, but..." Pepper won't be able to control the media storm brewing forever. They only suspect that Tony's injured, or ill. If the public finds the truth, God alone knows what will happen. Steve swallows a growing tightness in his throat and loosens his grip on the oven, threading his fingers through Tony's hair. "The Avengers need old Shellhead. Captain America needs his partner back."
"Iron Man is gone. The suit was slagged and SHIELD funds-"
"That's the other place." A harsh noise, almost a sob, makes Tony shake against him. Steve lets his fingers ease over Tony's scalp, not quite petting him, but closer to it than he's really comfortable with. "The armor's in the lab, remember? Under the sheet in the corner. You can still be Iron Man, but you need to be fixed."
"Is..." Tony's voice is so subdued, Steve almost misses it. "Is that an order?"
"I don't want it to be." Tony doesn't answer, and Steve can only hope that's a good sign.
***
Tony hides in the bathroom for the rest of the day. The bedrooms all have en suite bathrooms, so he's not getting in anyone's way, but Steve still tries to stay view of the door as much as possible. He doesn't want to find Tony at three AM passed out in his lab because he'd snuck out to the elevator while Steve's back was turned. Tony's been doing that for as long as Steve's known him, but that doesn't make it healthy.
The list of psychiatrists isn't actually long, but calling them takes the rest of the day anyway. He can't manage to get any of the doctors actually on the phone to listen to him. It's a lot more complicated than "just a breakdown"-as if anyone with powers could be said to have had "just" anything-but the secretaries are distinctly unimpressed when he won't even give them Tony's working identity. Saying he's Captain America receives disbelieving scoffs. Pepper would have been a better choice, since she has experience dealing with irritating professionals, but after what happened in the kitchen Steve doesn't want to let anyone else do it.
A faint, mechanic whir from the hidden security cameras follows him around the Tower the few times he leaves the main room. Even so, the bathroom door stays closed and locked. One by one, the other Avengers wander in, except for Logan, who Luke informs Steve is staying with the X-men for a while. Steve hates to think it, but at least it's one more difficulty he doesn't have to handle. The plate of dinner Steve leaves on a tray outside remains untouched and congealing until Steve finally takes it back to the kitchen.
Come eleven that night, Steve checks the bathroom again to find the door still closed. He'd taken as much time as he could, using a ridiculous amount of hot water to drag out his shower, triple-checking the premises and even going down to Tony's lab to check the doors there in order to put off sleep. He'd hoped Tony would be ready to come out, but the quiet bathroom tells him otherwise. The cameras are still following him, at least, so he knows Tony hasn't fallen asleep in there. He almost wishes he had. It would have to be better than sitting on the tile brooding. "Tony?" No response. Not even a shuffle. "I'm going to bed. Please don't stay in there all night."
Silence.
Sighing, Steve turns and trudges down the hall to his room. Guilty relief that Tony isn't going to hold him to his promise weighs heavy on him, but as long as Tony's locked himself away there's nothing Steve can do about it.
His relief lasts exactly until he opens his bedroom door and sees Tony curled up at the foot of his bed.
Tony's eyes are open, the blue of them barely peeking out behind the shadows created by his arm. Black leather loafers rest in a pile on the floor where Tony had kicked them off, along with his socks and belt. Those look like the only concessions to comfort he'd made. Even his shirt is still tucked in.
Out in the hall, the cameras hum and shift back to their normal positions.
"I thought you were still hiding," Steve says numbly. Belatedly, he closes the door, before one of the others can wander by and get the wrong impression. Not there's much of a right impression to be had. At least Tony's still dressed.
There's no movement at all from the tight ball of Tony. "I came in when you took away the tray."
That had been an hour ago. "I was waiting for you to come out." Steve settles on the edge of the bed, next to Tony's shoulders. He should probably go find Tony something to sleep in, but maybe just his undershorts will do. Designer or not, what he's wearing won't be comfortable.
Slowly, Tony uncurls until the tips of his fingers hook into the loose cloth of the pajama bottoms Steve had decided to sleep in, just in case Tony came out of the bathroom overnight. Tiny pops sound where Tony's joints unlock after having been held in such an uncomfortable position for so long. "I didn't want you to lock me out," he confesses, keeping his eyes fixed on the wall across from them.
"I promised I wouldn't," Steve reminds him gently. Tony only shakes his head, which Steve takes to mean that he'd either forgotten or thought Steve would lock it anyway. He settles his hand over Tony's, running his thumb along the back of it soothingly.
Even as pale as he is, Tony's skin is still darker than Steve's by a few shades. The contrast makes the artist in him itch to reach for pencils to capture the differences. It had been easy to miss the two inches and fifty pounds that separated them, or how long and delicate-dare he say, feminine-Tony's fingers are under the calluses and scars. He's always been good at projecting himself as bigger, tougher, stronger than anything he faces, except when the enemy is in his own head.
Finally Tony sits up, but his eyes stays lowered and his shoulders rounded meekly. Blunt nails dig into Steve's thigh where Tony's grip had tightened, even though the man himself doesn't seem to have noticed. "Do you want me to go?"
"No." The disgusting thing is, he doesn't, and Steve can't even tell himself that it's for the best any more. Not when Tony is already miserable just expecting to be sent away. "I want you to stay. Strip down to your shorts and get comfortable up on the pillows. Please."
Tony looks at him warily, like he might change his mind. When Steve just waits expectantly, his eyelids droop and he shudders so slightly it's almost invisible. Steely blue eyes stay on Steve's as he unbuttons his shirt, with much more care than he usually displays.
Seeing Tony so casually sexual sends something warm and possessive down through Steve's stomach, where it burns. He swallows and turns his head before Tony gets any ideas. No matter what Tony wants, or thinks he wants, it would still be taking advantage of him.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the dress shirt drop to the floor by his shoes. The bed shifts, and Steve turns his head a little more, expecting Tony to stand for the rest of it. Instead, it shifts more and Tony's slacks slap against the far wall brutally when he throws them.
Two warm arms wrap around Steve's shoulders from behind. "I'm sorry." The words are breathed into his ear, but they might as well have been a shout for how Steve focuses on them. He stiffens, and Tony nuzzles him, hands tracing down to the front of Steve's shorts. "I know I was bad, hiding from you today. I'm so sorry." The hard press of Tony's erection against Steve's back doesn't do much to support his apology. Neither does the little kisses he's leaving along his neck. "Still love me?"
It takes Steve three tries to grab Tony's wrist and lift his hand from his crotch. God help him if the bad guys figure out that all it takes it Tony's voice in that tone to completely kill his coordination. "Tony," he mutters, ashamed to realize that his voice is thick with lust. "Tony, please stop it. I'm not having sex with you."
The word "stop", which usually brings a complete halt to whatever Tony happens to be doing, only pauses Tony's hands this time. Sharp teeth bite down on the curve of his ear. "Say you love me?" Tony begs. His hips rock once into Steve's back. "Please? Just tell me?"
Steve grips the quilt so tightly that he feels some of the stitches pop. He'd like to tell himself that it's disgust, or pity, but he's never been good at lying to himself.
He can feel the new landmine under his feet, but Tony deserves to hear the truth about something this important. "Yes, I- I do. I love you."
The hold around his shoulders tightens as Tony buries his face in Steve's neck. "Steve," he moans, voice mangled and low with pleasure. His whole body convulses, hips grinding shamelessly into Steve's back. Then he sags, drooping forward like a robot whose power supply had been cut. Damp heat sinks through Steve's shirt to his skin where Tony had pressed into him.
"You..." Steve's voice is low and blank with shock. He can't believe Tony actually...
A last kiss lands against Steve's ear before Tony pulls away. Steve turns to be graced with a lazy, pleased smile and a very naked Tony. Most of the mess had been caught in his shorts, but a smear had managed to go as high as his ribcage.
Tony scoops some of it up with a finger and pops it in his mouth, then rolls off the bed. "I'll get a wash cloth," he mumbles around the finger.
Even muffled, Steve doesn't think he's ever heard Tony so cheerful. "What just happened?"
The newly cleaned finger leaves Tony's lips as he pauses in the bathroom doorway, turning to back at Steve. "You love me," he says, as if that explains anything at all. "And I love you, too." Then he vanishes into the bathroom, leaving Steve to wonder what the hell he's stepped into now.
***
Villains have the worst timing possible. They never strike during lunch hour, or on a slow day. Steve's learned to accept this as a basic fact of life, but it doesn't lessen his annoyance at all when the his communicator starts beeping just after midnight, less than a half an hour after he finally got Tony to sleep. He manages to slip out of bed without disturbing Tony, grabbing it off the bedside table and heading out into the hall.
"What is it?"
"Hey, Cap." Peter's voice is far too cheerful for the hour. "Guess what's made of metal, blows things up and chants 'Doom, Doom, Doom'. Three chances and the first two don't count."
What else? Things had been quiet for a while. It was bound to happen eventually. "Just tell me where you are."
Somehow, Peter manages to sound offended and cheerful simultaneously. "Bryant Park. You know, behind the Library? With those weird little statue things on the roof that look like they're supposed to be Greek but they're wearing too many clothes? MJ and I just happened to be in there area-fully dressed and in the area-well, above the area, I mean, but anyway we don't do that sort of thing and don't listen to her if she says something else because she's just pulling your chain, you know?" Peter laughs nervously, and if Steve never has to hear about Spiderman's personal life again he'll be happy.
"I know where the New York Library is. We'll be there ASAP."
"What about Iron Man?"
Steve glances back at the bedroom door. "He's in no condition to fight right now. We should be able to handle a few Doombots on our own."
The silence on the other end of the line is somehow sulky, in the same way that Peter can make his mask emote. "Tony would want to help. And he'd laugh at my jokes."
Tears are a sharp burn behind Steve's eyelids that he refuses to admit to. "... I miss him too, Peter. Rogers out."
***
We should be able to handle a few Doombots on our own.
The voice through the communicator echoes with a static hiss that makes Tony's ears ring. He doesn't understand why they're doing that again, when he knows he'd fixed that problem. His Master had been so pleased that he'd told Tony that he loves him three times in a row. Extremis had taken care of the bruises, but just like everything Steve gives him, he can still feel them just under his skin.
Maybe the communicators need to be upgraded again.
Tony watches Steve through the security cameras as he heads down the hall. Luke and Jessica Drew are already coming out of their rooms, Jessica pulling down her mask and Luke still buckling his belt. An extra suit of Steve's mail is in the Quinjet hanger. The one in his bedroom is closer, but clearly he doesn't want to let Tony know he's leaving him.
Doombots are nothing new. Captain America can handle them. He can handle anything.
It's hard to believe that when he's being left behind, when he can't protect him the way he wants to.
Steve killed his suits. He killed all of them, even the old ones, the golden one and the one that gleamed like polished silver. Tony had felt the new ones die, one by one, the connections being sliced away to leave gaping wounds like amputated limbs. The Extremis armor screamed when it dropped into the smelter. Tony had cried over them, and his Master had held him and told him it was better this way.
You're not allowed to fight any more. It's too dangerous, and I won't lose you again. I won't kill you again. Iron Man is dead.
The suit is in his lab. The one that ties in to Extremis, that feels like his own skin. He put hours into building it, before Steve was his Master, when everything was murky and he'd been miserable and hadn't even known it. Steve hasn't destroyed it, he'd taken care of it the way he does Tony. It hums in the back of his mind, confused because he's been telling it that it's a ghost.
Captain America needs his partner back.
The contradiction hurts his head, makes it swim with nausea. He can't follow both orders. Steve's not cruel. Steve loves him-takes care of him. He wouldn't give Tony two conflicting orders. So one of them has to be right, but he can't tell which.
Gold slithers out of the modified glands Extremis gave him, sliding over his skin, under the loose shorts he's borrowed from Steve. Tony keeps his eyes closed, feeling like an itch he's ignored forever is being eased.
He's not becoming Iron Man again. Iron Man is dead. The air's chilly without Steve to keep him warm. That's all. Just like he's only going down to the lab to work on the new communicators. Steve allows him to play in the lab while he's gone. It has nothing to do with the faintly man-shaped thing tucked under a sheet in the far corner.
Tony's very good at lying to himself. His subconscious doesn't catch on until he's face to faceplate with the armor. Then the crushing misery of directly disobeying Steve-of making Steve unhappy comes down onto him, burning through his marrow like shots of molten lead. Metal rattles and flies through the air.
And then it's too late.
***
We should be able to handle a few Doombots on our own.
Famous, hopefully not-last words. It's not just Doombots, which they've dealt with dozens of times before, but a new type of bot. They're more unstable than the usual fare, and they make up for it with power. Electricity bounces all over the place, spiking high where the bots are grouped closely together. Some of them have already exploded from their own overload, but there's plenty to take their place. Iron Man's out of it, Wolverine isn't available, and Luke's already been knocked out by the voltage. Spiderman's webs are non-conductive, which helps things a little, but the bots are still managing to gain ground.
Steve ducks out from behind a building and hurls his shield, slicing three bots in half before it finishes its ricochet and returns to him. Up above, Spiderwoman hurls the remains of a Buick at a cluster, tumbling backwards midair from the force of the explosion. She crashes into Steve's chest, only her ability to fly keeping them both from hitting the pavement.
"These are prototypes," she pants. "Some of them are still half-assembled. I don't think this is deliberate." Then she shoves off from his chest to find something else to throw at the bots.
He curses under his breath and flings his shield again, as a piece of exploding Doombot slams into one of the ornamental trees and starts a fresh fire. Even accidental villain attacks have bad timing.
"Doom!" At this hour of the night, their ridiculous chanting is more annoying than usual. Steve takes the head off that one with a toss of his shield, then barely manages to avoid being grabbed by another by rolling out of the way before it can electrocute him.
Spiderman swings by overhead, using the street lights to keep himself away from the electricity. Webs smack into a handful bots, including the one that's focused on Steve, pinning them to the street. They thrash around before self-destructing with a joined cry of kneel before Doom. Forty-Second Street is littered with shrapnel and small fires, and there's still more bots left than Steve can conveniently count.
"Incoming!"
Peter's warning shout reaches Steve just before the roar of jets overhead. Familiar red and gold armor touches down in the middle of the street, stumbling over the remains of a Doombot. It's so much unlike Tony's usually graceful landings that Steve almost misses the bot taking aim to his left.
He slaps his communicator on and dodges the blast. "Tony, you're not supposed to be here!"
"I know, I know, I'm sorry." Even through the computerized synthesizer, Tony's voice is high and sharp with pain. Steve can't imagine what's causing it; he'd been fine less than an hour ago. More than fine, he'd been nearly ecstatic. "Where's Luke and- never mind, I see them on the roof. Pe- Spiderman. Get Master off the street. You'd probably better use a web to hold onto the lamp."
Peter sounds as confused as Steve feels. "Master? Who- oh, wait, you mean Cap. Creepy pet thing, right!"
Tony barks, "Just do it!" at the same time as Steve yells, "Spiderman!"
Webs tangle around Steve's waist, yanking him up before he has a chance to fight it. "Alleyoop! Webslinger Air, at your service. Our in-flight meal today will be Doom a la flambé with a garden salad and a side of lightly grilled yellow squash."
"Put me down!" Steve snaps, grabbing the web to try and break it before he gets too high up. It's like trying to break one of the lines on a suspension bridge.
"No can do, Big Man. Let the genius do his job and figure this out." Another webline wraps around Steve's shoulders, making it even harder to struggle. "We weren't really doing a good job anyway."
Spiderwoman hovers overhead. "Iron Man! Is there anything we can do?"
The suit rises and lurches to a standing position. "Just stay off the ground." One of Tony's arms lifts, the repulsor unit in his palm flashing incandescent just a moment before four precision blasts fire off. Almost simultaneously, four jets of water fountain into the air from the shattered remains of fire hydrants, flooding the streets.
Instantly the remaining Doombots-a rough fifty, now that Steve can see them all-freeze in place. Smoke rises as their own over-charged current flows along the water, connecting them to each other. Sparks leap off the robots as they convulse, exploding one by one. Overhead, glass rains down as the water spreads, carrying the electrical current to the street lamps.
Electricity crawls up the Iron Man armor, outlining its edges obscenely. Unlike the bots, it doesn't shake, showing no sign that it's even affected until the last bot gives a booming cry of Doom and detonates.
In the faint firelight that's scattered up and down the street, Steve barely makes out Tony's figure as he topples face-first to the asphalt.
***
Reed Richards hums happily as he does six different things at once on a total of four computers, none of which Steve can follow. The tune is inordinately cheerful for the circumstances. Steve tries not to glare at him too hard for it, even though he knows Reed probably wouldn't be affected by the roof caving in, much less Steve's annoyance. He's too preoccupied with the latest marvel to cross his lab.
Tony is stretched face-down across a table in the gold under armor, a host of wires running from him to various machines. The suit had been active enough to respond to the emergency overrides Steve had shouted, but no one can figure out how to get the second skin to retract, and cutting it off had been useless. It just parted around the blade and then sealed itself back up again. Between the under armor, the chips and Extremis, it had been decided that Spiderman and Spiderwoman would take Luke to the hospital, even though he'd already woken up and started complaining, while Steve took Tony to the Baxter Building.
He's seen Tony unconscious far too often for his taste, and it never gets any easier.
Something beeps for attention and Reed's head stretches over to check it. "Well, that's good!" he actually chirps. "The implants are still fully functional. The one in his spine is a bit over-worked, but it's nothing it won't recover from."
Steve reflects that it's unfair the way anything Reed says has to be interpreted before responding. "How is that good?"
"He's not dying."
A living Tony is definitely better than a dying one, but Steve can't quite suppress his disappointment that the shock hadn't taken out the chips. Stranger things have happened. "What about the electric shock?" There's a moment of silence as Reed blinks placidly in obvious confusion. "The electric shock he received when he took out the Doombots? The one that knocked him out?" Steve's certain he explained everything when they arrived.
"Oh, that." One stretched arm waves through the air dismissively. "He's not injured. I suspect the armor is insulated from electrical attacks. It would have been a logical precaution."
Normally, Steve has a reasonably good hold on his temper. He loses it occasionally, the way most people do, but he doesn't do it often and he never loses control completely. Captain America can't afford to be a short fuse. Those years of control are the only thing that keeps him from saying something he knows he'll regret. "Is there a reason you didn't tell me this sooner?"
"I thought it was obvious. No burns-no noticeable injuries at all, in fact."
"Tony hasn't been electrocuted. That's good. But if he hasn't been electrocuted, then what the hell is wrong with him?"
Reed looks hurt at his tone, but Steve's been dealing with a desperately needy Tony for a month and has built up a small amount of immunity to woeful glances. "I'm attempting to find out. I think it has to do with the activity in the lower chip, but I can't quite make out the cause." New diagrams come up, and these Steve can actually read, to a certain extent. It's impossible to be in their line of work and not recognize a map of the human nervous system. It's the sort of thing that ends up plastered on hospital walls, and Steve's seen a lot of those. "The effects are psychosomatic for the most part, except for-"
The pending explanation is cut off by a whimper. Gold under armor melts away as Tony rolls onto his side and curls into a tight ball. Reed's diagrams flicker as every machine in the room gives a high pitched squeal.
Reed taps out a command and fiddles with a power switch for a second. For the first time, frustration tightens his expression. "It's Extremis. He must have access the network." The lights flicker ominously. "And the power grid. If you would tell him to stop? There's no telling what damage he could do, and there's sensitive equipment in here."
The audacity of the request hits all of Steve's buttons at once, but he's distracted by another soft sound from Tony. He pries one of Tony's hands from around his shins and wraps it in both of his. "Tony," he tries, voice gentle for how angry he feels. "Tony, you're safe now. You need to stop this." The lights flash again, chasing each other on and off across the ceiling.
Metal and plastic crashes as Reed starts to unplug things. "Tell him-"
"I don't tell him what to do," Steve snaps. Tony moans, beginning to rock back and forth. "I'm not his owner!"
Reed pauses, half-way between a desk and the wall. Steve's never seen Mister Fantastic look so angry. "Yes," he says quietly. "You are."
Steve stares at him, jaw muscles clenching. Finally, his eyes close for a long moment before he looks back to the man on the table. "Tony, stop. That's an order."
In an eye-blink, the interference vanishes. Light returns, and quiet beeps herald the return of the machines to life, most of them turning on exactly as they'd turned off. The line graphs monitoring the chip activity waver and spike, the new peak hovering so high that the screen zooms out to accommodate it.
Since Reed isn't saying anything, and Steve's not even sure he want to hear what the man might say anyway, he hops onto the table at Tony's side and swings his leg over. Without opening his eyes, Tony shifts so that he's pressed against Steve's thigh. Steve gathers him up into a sitting position, cradling him against his chest.
"What's wrong?" Steve tries to rub Tony's shoulders soothingly, but he's so tense that there's almost no give to the muscles. "Tony, you have to tell us-"
"Wrong. Misbehaved." Tony's voice is barely even a hoarse whisper. He sounds like someone trying not to scream. "Hurts. Mad?"
Ice clenches around Steve's gut. He hadn't ordered Tony to stay. He knows he hadn't. Steve concentrates on the trembling body against his and does his best not to look over at Reed, who is probably watching with the same curiosity he shows anything new. "I'm not mad. You didn't misbehave. It's okay."
"Didn't?" Tony's breath is harsh, his chest heaving. "Right choice? Not removing...?"
The broken note in his voice makes Steve feel like he might cry. "Right choice," he confirms quietly, blinking against the burn behind his eyelids. "We're not taking out the chips, I promise."
Tony shudders against him, head rolling to look up at Steve for just a moment before he sags back into unconsciousness. On the largest screen, the line graph dives to something only a little above a complete flatline. Shakily, Steve checks Tony's pulse, only relaxing when he feels it beating steadily under his fingertips.
"I'm sorry." Steve's head jerks around. Reed's pulled himself together, standing in the middle of the room as he watches the data scrolling across the screen. "I should have been kinder."
"We didn't have time for kind." Steve starts disconnecting Tony from the machines. He can't stand to see it anymore, and it hasn't done any good anyway. Nothing they've done lately has. "Someone had to say it."
"I'm still sorry." Reed's head starts to turn, and Steve lowers his gaze before their eyes can meet. "I know you don't want to hear this, but even if we remove the implants, Tony's going to be years recovering. Short of wiping his memory-"
"Don't even-" Steve growls, but Reed keeps talking over him.
"-which I don't recommend, there's nothing we can do to speed the process." It's strange listening to Reed without looking at him, especially when he uses this sad, almost parental tone. He wonders if Franklin and Valeria hear this voice from him. "You may not think of yourself as his owner, but he does. If you try to resist that before he's ready, you're just going to do more damage."
Tony shifts against his chest, shivering and leaning in closer. A pile of fabric drops from overhead, but when Steve looks up Reed is exactly as he'd been before.
Steve tucks the light blue hospital blanket around Tony's naked body, and the shivering eases immediately. "I don't want to do this to him," he admits quietly. "It feels like I'm taking advantage of him."
"That's because you're a good man." Something taps, a keyboard, and out of the corner of his eye Steve can see one of the smaller monitors flickering with new information. "I don't have any contacts I can give you, but I suggest finding someone who specializes in dominant-submissive relationships and taking some lessons. Whoever you choose as a psychiatrist might have some suggestions."
Dominant-submissive. Steve's stomach turns over on itself. Even the words sound like everything that's never been between him and Tony. "What else?"
"Just take care of him. That's all he needs for now."
Steve remembers what taking care of Tony used to mean. It was mostly nagging him into eating at least one meal a day, or helping to pick up the pieces when his last relationship went wrong. Standing back and not letting his feelings get between them. Letting him work things out on his own, until he was ready to ask for help. Tony had always been more self-sufficient than he needed to be, as if he had something to prove to himself. They'd argued sometimes, and Tony always managed to hold his own. Steve never thought he'd miss that.
He's terrified, in a way that Nazis or supervillains never managed in the past. Before, all Steve had to risk was his own life and the ones under his command, but he'd been trained for that. Now he has Tony's sanity in his hands, and he doesn't have the faintest idea how he's going to keep it together, or even where to start.
Tony's weight is absolutely limp against him, as trusting as a newborn kitten. He hadn't wanted any of this, but Tony needs it, and that's really all that matters. "Take care of him... Yeah. I can do that."
***
Tony wakes up. That's the first surprise.
The second is that he doesn't hurt any more. He never stops hurting before Steve forgives him. The guilt of upsetting Steve wraps itself around the Extremis additions and refuses to let him breathe until it's resolved. Trying to remember what happened is like grabbing for a mirage. He recalls the pain and his Master's voice saying something, in that gentle, sad tone he gets when Tony's done something stupid like try to run away. Everything else is just out of reach, and experience tells him to stop trying before his head begins to ache. A quick, worried scan with Extremis tells him that his Master's marks are still in place, and as long as the chips aren't removed and he's been forgiven, he doesn't much care for what else might have occurred.
Accessing the security cameras is as easy as blinking, so he does. Like everything else lately, they're sluggish, but he slows his processing speed and it almost syncs with him easily. Images play across the inside of his eyelids, silent and comforting.
He's in Steve's room, curled up in a blanket that still smells faintly of leather and Old Spice-Steve scents. He lets the connections wander, looking for his Master. Familiar faces fill the Tower. MJ and Peter are on the couch-alone, which bothers him. He has the feeling that he hasn't seen their little girl anywhere lately, but he doesn't know why. Maybe she's with May. The question gets filed away with all the other unanswered ones as he switches to another camera, this time finding Logan and Jessica Jones in the kitchen. Another jump-
"Tony? Are you using Extremis?"
Guilt burns a harsh line down his chest. A breath and the connections are severed, feeling like phantom limbs for a moment before they finish closing out. Tony opens his eyes, expecting to see a disapproving frown on Steve's face, but only finding exasperation instead. He's damp and has a towel wrapped around his waist, one of the giant fluffy ones he likes that reach past even his knees.
The preemptive pain vanishes as quickly as if it had never been. "I was looking for you."
Steve smiled, and the expression had the usual result of making Tony tingle down to his toes. "I was taking a shower."
Where there's no cameras. Tony nods his understanding, settling comfortably back into the pillows. Steve watches him nervously, but why is a question that only occurs to Tony for a few seconds. It's not an upset sort of expression. As long as Steve isn't angry or sad, Tony trusts that he'll tell him when he's ready.
Extremis counts less than three minutes before Steve groans and runs his fingers though his hair. "Are you still hurt?"
Tony looks at him in confusion for a moment before shaking his head in the negative. Why would Steve even ask? Tony knows to tell him when he's injured, so Steve can take care of it.
"Oh. That's good." The towel stays up high on Steve's waist as he sits on the edge of the bed, blue and white and silly the way he's gripping it like it might be ripped away from him. It's adorable, which isn't a word Tony really remembers thinking much lately. Usually, it's a word for Natalie May Parker, or little Danielle Cage. It fits Steve right now, and as nice as it is, it leaves him feeling lost, without any idea what he needs to do to make Steve happy.
Steve seems to realize the problem though, and pats the bed beside him. Gratefully, Tony squirms out of the blankets and down to rest his cheek on his Master's thigh, sighing blissfully when Steve starts petting him. The air's chilly on his bare skin, but being close to Steve makes up for it.
He's so comfortable that he barely glances up when Steve starts speaking. "I haven't been very clear lately, have I?" he asks quietly. "Telling you what I want?" His eyes are fixed on Tony, with the same intensity he gives troop formations.
Every muscle in Tony's body relaxes as the contentment from Steve's gaze rolls over him. "I don't mind guessing." His voice is nearly a purr in his ears, and from the way Steve's hand pauses, he hears it too. Tony nuzzles his thigh, wrinkling his nose when the towel tickles it, then goes boneless again when Steve resumes stroking him.
"You shouldn't have to." Tony's eyes are closed, but he can feel Steve stiffen under his cheek. "You're sleeping in here from now on."
Sharp, authoritative tones vibrate in Steve's voice, and every syllable twangs an old rebellion Tony thought he'd buried long ago. He buries it again, letting the comfortable, easy pattern of submission hide it away before the shame of still resisting punishes him again. "Thank you."
Warm fingers touch his jaw, and Tony lifts with their pull obediently. His reward is a kiss on the temple that makes his toes curl.
"Don't thank me. I'm just..." The hand eases Tony back to Steve's thigh, and he lets it happen, snuggling back in to the warm place his cheek had left. Exhaustion and contentment work together against him, dragging him back down into sleep. He drifts off with the sound of Steve's voice just barely carrying to his ears. "I'm taking care of you."