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Tony blinked his eyes open to another day. An arm’s length away sat Steve, cross-legged, back stretched enviably straight, wearing blue and black plaid flannel pajamas. His chin rested on one palm, and an unreadable expression sculpted the lines of his face as he gazed back at Tony.
Tony tugged the comforter down from over his nose but tucked it securely under his chin so only his face was exposed. Capricious winter carried cold in her basket and flung frigid wind from her long, bony fingers, neither of which he nor Steve enjoyed. But right now Tony was cozy and warm in his bed nest; he saw no good reason why he shouldn’t stay that way—at least for a while. There was only one major thing on his agenda for the day; it would wait. Eventually, once he grew tired of waiting for Steve to speak, he cut a wide swath through the not-uncomfortable silence: “Hello, creepy stalker person.”
“Good morning.” Steve’s nose crinkled. “I wasn’t being creepy,” he said, voice heavy with reproach, “just watching you sleep.”
“Exactly.” He worm-wiggled closer to Steve, and the movement set off rustling sounds as the down filling inside the comforter shifted. ”Creepy.”
“Romantic.” Steve’s brow knotted.
Tony shook his head. His fingers twitched with the impulse to reach out and unwind the kink between Steve’s eyebrows. “Creepy,” he insisted, repressing a smile.
“Too late now, fella.” A sandy eyebrow twisted upward. “Shoulda thought of that before you made an honest man out of me.”
Tony smacked his hand on the bed. “Best decision of my life.”
A smile as warm as the blissful down comforter Tony was snuggled underneath passed between them. Words weren’t always necessary to transmit messages; science notwithstanding, at times, they almost seemed to travel on currents of thought.
Sighing, Tony grabbed a handful of the comforter and scrunched more of it around his body. Dignity? Don’t know her.
Steve regarded him with a quizzical expression, lips twitching at the edges like he was trying not to laugh. “Are you a man or a blanket burrito?”
“A burrito.” He stuck out his tongue and wiggled it. “Eat me.”
It wasn’t his best material—give him a break; he’d just woken up—but a laugh still tumbled out of Steve’s mouth, pinking his cheeks. This was his favorite Steve—bright-eyed and wearing an easy smile that raised an answering one on his own face.
Tony reached out and braceleted his thumb and fingers around Steve’s bare ankle, just under the soft, fuzzy hem of his pants. “I hate these pajamas,” he said, and gently rubbed Steve’s ankle, feeling the solid bone curved beneath his fingers.
“No, you don’t,” Steve replied. “Last night you said they make me look like a sexy lumberjack.” His lips quirked; his fingers sought Tony’s, lifting them from his ankle and meshing them into a finger tangle. “Right before you rimmed me for half an hour.”
Oh yeah, Tony thought. He had. Looking at Steve now gave him similar ideas. If only they wouldn’t require significant movement. Maybe if Steve just sat on his face... Tony snorted. “I must’ve been drunk off my ass to say that.”
“Nope.” Steve squeezed his hand. “You’ve been sober for almost two years now.”
Tony blinked—but decided not to mention how squirmy-weird-warm it made him feel hearing that matter-of-fact note of pride in Steve’s voice whenever he mentioned Tony’s sobriety. “Then it looks like I have no excuse.”
“Didn’t think you needed one.”
“Hm. Maybe not. I did put a ring on it.” And he had―five years ago.
He shifted his hand down from Steve’s ankle and plucked at his big toe with two fingers. “You have weirdly long toes. How did I not notice this before?”
“Thanks,” Steve answered, bone dry. “Don’t sound so delighted.”
“Look, Mr. Peak Human”―Tony used his free hand to tickle the sole of one of Steve’s feet―”you have to have at least one flaw. We both know I have a closet’s worth of them.”
Steve jiggled his foot and dislodged Tony’s questing hand. “Honey, you know all my flaws. I’m too stubborn. I warm up my milk before I have it with cereal. I—“
“All true. You’re a heathen. But I meant a physical flaw.”
“Fine. I have strangely long toes. But I need to know: are you going to divorce me over them?” Steve pinned him with his gaze, blue eyes dancing into a smile that Tony felt first in his chest and then everywhere else. “‘Cause if you are, at least give me some lead time so I can start the search for my next sugar daddy.”
The tabloids and gossip sites were fond of mischaracterizing their relationship; after spending much of his life being gossiped and speculated about, Tony ignored the dreck they spread. Mostly. Steve wasn’t quite inured to it yet, but the fact that he could joke about it at all demonstrated progress. “Not a chance, sunshine. You and your sweet, trophy-husband ass are stuck with me for good. Forever.”
“You promise?”
“Even better, baby,” Tony said, smiling down at the sight of their identical gold bands as he reached out and linked his pinky finger with Steve’s, swinging it lightly, “I pinky swear .”
“Sweet talker.”
“Mm.” Steve untangled their pinkies, leaned in, and kissed him, holding him close with careful hands on his face and years of warm memories and affection at his heart. But try as he did to nudge open Tony’s lips, Tony kept the kiss closed-mouthed. “Morning breath,” he said when Steve had pulled back a safe distance, frowning. “Don’t want to murder you with it.”
“Okay,” Steve said, eyes narrowed in what Tony knew from years of experience was a mock glare, “but later I expect fifteen amazing kisses to make up for this truly terrible one.”
“You’ve got a deal,” said Tony. He inched forward and flopped his head into Steve’s lap. Fingers stroked his hair back from his face, again and again; Tony sighed and let his eyes flutter shut to the soothing, familiar rhythm of Steve’s hands on him.
“Sweetheart?”
“Hm?” Tony replied without opening his eyes.
“Snow’s supposed to start in the afternoon.” Steve’s fingers kept moving, and a wave of affection knocked Tony off his feet. “You want to go a little early this year?”
He was still floundering in the shallows when Steve’s hands drifted to his forehead and pressed, kneaded, and smoothed. “Yeah. Okay.” A tingle seeped outward from where Steve’s hands touched his skin—and finally shuddered down his spine. “Thanks for taking such good care of me. I know I don’t make it easy.”
His thumbs slid across Tony’s eyebrows, unspooling tension with their sure motion.
“Correction: we take good care of each other.” Steve’s fingers tracked to Tony’s goatee and brushed the hairs softly against the grain. “And it’s not your job to make things easy; your job is to be you. I know I didn’t marry a problem to solve. I hope you didn’t, either.”
Steve’s voice brimmed with quiet confidence—not arrogance—just like his hands, and Tony was just so fucking grateful they had this—had each other. It hadn’t been easy; they’d fought themselves and sometimes each other to reach a place of genuine acceptance of their flaws and needs and strengths. Tony wouldn’t trade that for anything. Shiny, new bodies to fuck and be fucked by—the exhilaration of that with none of the comfort of familiarity—couldn’t compare to the tender, safe hollow of Steve’s collarbone.
How could they, when the former was like a desert mirage and the latter was home?
Tony let his voice soften and melt like it did for only a handful of people on the planet: “You know I didn’t. Still, you definitely got the short end of the stick.”
“For a pretty intelligent person, you say some really stupid things. Luckily, I love you.”
Tony opened his eyes. “I am lucky.” He captured Steve’s hand and waited until their gazes caught and held. “I love you, too.” Smiling, he kissed Steve’s palm, letting his touch add weight to the simple words he said every day and meant every time, especially when he took them for granted. “You’re my rock, Steve. My home. My everything.”
“Creepy,” said Steve, finally, after several cycles of breath had passed, but Tony recognized the soft look in his eyes; felt it kindle into a low, steady flame in his belly.
“Romantic,” countered Tony, and wagged his eyebrows.