Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When I'm lonely, well, I know I'm gonna be
I'm gonna be the man who's lonely without you
And when I'm dreamin', well, I know I'm gonna dream
I'm gonna dream about the time when I'm with you

But I would walk five hundred miles
And I would walk five hundred more
Just to be the man who walked a thousand miles
To fall down at your door

~ The Proclaimers - I'm Gonna Be (500 Miles)

From its place on his nightstand, Steve’s phone trilled an obnoxious yet unfamiliar ringtone. It yanked him from his book-induced haze. He set his paperback copy of The Silmarillion next to him on the bed—his bed, not the one he and Tony shared—and fumbled for the phone. Though he managed not to drop it, it was a near thing. Without first checking the screen for the caller’s identity, Steve hit the answer icon. “Tony,” he said, rolling his eyes even though Tony obviously couldn’t see him doing it, “I know we’ve talked about this before: I don’t like you changing my ringtones.”

“Husband’s prerogative.”

“Nice try. Next.”

“Fine. Consider this a special exception for a modern classic.” The smile in Tony’s voice came through like a long-fingered caress sliding along the sensitive skin at the back of Steve’s neck, coincidentally on the same spot Tony always made sure to kiss before bed on the nights when he played the big spoon to Steve’s little spoon. As was the case with so many things in their lives, they switched roles, often bickering nonsensically about whose turn it was to be one or the other kind of spoon. Steve wouldn’t have it any other way. “And hello to you, too.” Tony’s voice sounded slightly tinny and hollow in Steve’s ears, but not even that obscured the genuine warmth in it. It curled around Steve, a hug he could feel despite the geographical distance between them.

There was a security in the warm circle of Tony’s arms and the swift, generous quirk of his crinkly-eyed smiles that Steve had yet to find anywhere else in the great, wide world he’d trod wearing a soldier’s and then an Avenger’s boots.

Despite their shaky beginning, he’d found a haven in Tony; they’d found one in each other. Not perfect, no. Real, though, and good. To be of use in a world overflowing with need, with Tony at his side, was so much more than enough for Steve, who, before the serum, hadn’t expected to live beyond thirty. He’d always expected that if his poor health didn’t take him down early, war certainly would.

“Hi, sweetheart,” Steve said. “‘A modern classic,’ huh?” Steve sighed, lips twitching into a small smile despite his resolve to remain firm in the face of Tony’s nonsense.

“Yep. It’s ‘Baby Got Back.’”

“Do I even want to know what that means?” he asked, splashing weary but good-humored patience into his words. He wasn’t actually annoyed. In a way, it was a comforting bit of predictability: he could count on Tony to customize his ringtone on Steve’s phone once a week. Every four days if he was feeling particularly inspired. Or impatient. Or especially set on irritating Steve. 

“Probably not,” Tony replied, in that cheerful, unapologetic way of his but from more than six thousand miles away, and he’d been gone for almost a week and a half and Steve missed the wild mop of his hair when he woke in the morning; missed how he’d sometimes tug on his earlobe with his thumb and forefinger when he was thinking; missed the taste of that twinkling smile he’d long ago decided Tony saved especially for him, “but that’s never stopped me.”

A strange ache lodged in Steve. Though he rubbed the heel of his hand against his chest, that did nothing to dispel the ache. He missed Tony. “That may be the most honest thing you’ve ever said.”

“Maybe so,” Tony admitted.

“Either way, it doesn’t matter. I wouldn’t change anything about you even if I could.”

“Don’t I know it. That’s why I keep you around.”

“Oh?” Steve replied, already fighting not to smile around the word. “I thought it was my non-existent gag reflex. That’s what you said last time we had a fight.”

Tony started to laugh, but it abruptly cut off in a cough. “Listen. I say so much dumb shit. I’m a dumb genius. Your favorite dumb genius, right? Come on. You’re not still sore about that, are you?” His tone turned cajoling, tumbling warmly over Steve, and Steve briefly considered pretending to still be miffed, if only for the pleasure of having Tony work to try to get himself back in his good graces. “Steve?”

Uncertainty was writ plain in his voice―Tony never liked it when they fought; it was always like he was bracing for Steve to tell him they were finished, that he wasn’t worth the effort―and that insecurity tore at Steve, every time.

Steve swiftly abandoned his idea; it was silly, anyway. Tony had built literal armor to protect his body, but very little shielded his soft, squishy heart. That weak, fallible organ, not his keen mind or his armor, was Tony’s superpower. “Not at all. We’re good,” Steve said, quickly taking pity on Tony, but he paused for a few seconds because he gave as good as he got, “just so long as you know that the only reason I’m keeping you around as my fella is your ability to take supersoldier dick like a champ.”

“Touché.” Tony whistled. A tapping sound filtered through on the call. Probably Tony applauding. “Score one for my sun, moon, and stars.”

“Pretty words won’t get you anywhere, Stark.“ His response was a blatant lie—Steve loved Tony’s words, his familiar, soothing chatter, almost as much as he loved Tony, and Tony damn well knew it—though he didn’t call Steve out on it. At least, not then.

“Wanna bet, love of my life? I can make it worth your while.”

“Nope.” Steve shook his head. “Not a wagering man.”

“Ah, how soon we forget; you married me, didn’t you?”

“That wasn’t a bet. That was solid, responsible decision making based on good intel.”

“Hm. Some might argue with you on that point.”

“Then it’s lucky for them that I don’t have time to argue with idiots.” He’d allowed a bit of Brooklyn to drip into his words purely because he knew how it affected Tony.  

A happy sigh. “I love it when you defend my non-existent honor, especially when your voice does that Brooklyn thing, you dirty, dirty boy. It’s sexy. Extremely sexy. Did I mention—sexy?”

Steve smiled, satisfied by Tony’s reaction, though he pretended to ignore most of what Tony had said. “You don’t need me to defend your non-existent honor.”

“Hey! You take that back, right now. You’re not supposed to agree with me. I’ll have you know that’s not how the whole being a supportive spouse thing works. Only six months in and already you’re turning traitor on me. Et tu, Brute?”

“How am I not being a supportive husband? I trust you with my shield, my uniform, my life. I even convinced you to eat kale―”

“Whoa. Um, excuse you. Let’s call a spade a spade, Steve: you blackmailed me into eating kale by threatening to sleep in your old room.”

“Only in service of a good cause, Tony. Greens are an important part of a healthy diet. At any age, sure, but especially now that you’re getting older. You know your doctor would back me up on this. ”

“‘Getting older….’ Fuck you, grandpa. I’m not the centenarian in this relationship.”

“Tony, relax. It’s okay. Breathe—before you have a panic attack.”

“And I repeat: fuck you,” Tony said, sounding utterly harassed. Mission accomplished. “I am so not having a panic attack at the thought of getting older.”

Steve grinned before he continued. “I like the silver in your hair. It’s hot.”

Tony groaned; Steve’s grin widened, and he relaxed back against his pillow. "Lalalala. I can't hear you, Steve. There is no silver in my hair."

"You keep telling yourself that, sweetheart, if it helps you sleep at night."

"Damn it, I need a new colorist. This is a double blow to my oh-so-fragile ego, which, ahem, let me remind you, you’re supposed to bolster, not shred to confetti with your wicked claws. First, you alluded to my ‘non-existent honor.’ Now you just called me old. That's like you going at me with your shitkickers and then finishing me off with your shield. I call foul. You’re terrible. You’re supposed to lie to me and make me feel better about myself.”

“That right? They must have left that page out of my Marriage for Dummies manual.”

“You haven’t been reading self-help garbage again, have you?”

Steve gave a mock-offended sniff. “It’s not garbage to want to actualize myself or maximize my relationships, Tony.”

“Steven, so help me, if I come home in three days and you treat me to another impromptu discussion about the five love languages...”

“Actually, Clint says the one-day conference did wonders for him and Nat,” Steve replied, careful to keep his voice serious even though his intentions were anything but.

“That’s it. I’m putting a hit out on Hawkass for filling your head with terrible ideas.”

“You are not putting a hit out on anybody, especially Clint. We wouldn’t be together if it weren’t for him setting us up on that fake blind date.”

“So? We’ll send Nat a gorgeous, very expensive condolence bouquet for his funeral. That should more than make up for it.”

“Tony.”

“All right, geez, fine. Since you twisted my arm, and that woman still terrifies me, we’ll pay for the entire funeral.”

“Tony.”

“I’m kidding, Steve.”

“I know. But still.”

“Right. Anyway. Your ringtone—think of it as an ode to the butt, Steve.”

“An ode to whose butt?” he shot back quickly, by now well accustomed to Tony’s quicksilver subject changes.

“Well, mine, hopefully, if you’re trying to be a supportive husband and all that. Although, just this once I will make an exception if you’re thinking of Bucky instead because that Brooklyn murder biscuit can get it.”

“Just as long as he isn’t getting it from my husband.”

“Did you just growl?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about. Must be a bad connection.”

“You did; I heard you!” Tony said, clearly awed. “Do it again.” He sounded entirely too happy for Steve's comfort.

The jig was up. That didn’t mean he would do it again. “I don’t like to share.” 

“You don’t like to— Oh my god, you’re jealous. How have I not noticed this before?” Wonder careened, full-throttle, into glee, in Tony’s voice. Steve was in for it now.

“I don't know. Because you’re my favorite dumb genius.”

“Steve Rogers is jealous,” Tony sing-songed, practically crowing. "J-E-A-L-O-U-S."

“Am not.” Steve rubbed his forehead.

“Are too.”

He put the phone down on his chest, roughly scrubbed both hands over his face, then briefly mimed screaming before he picked up the phone again and held it to his ear. “Fine. Maybe. But only a tiny bit.” Steve exhaled noisily and plucked at the blanket covering his legs. He was never going to live this down.

“Even though you have no reason whatsoever to be jealous—because I am so dick-whipped by you it isn't even funny to anyone but Barton—I like this side of you. It’s very...human.”

Steve sighed and scratched his temple. “You would like it.” It came out a little weary, a little snide.

“No, sweet thing, don’t be like that,” Tony said in an almost-purr. “I’ll make it up to you.”

“Yeah? How do you plan on doing that?” Steve shifted, settling more deeply under the covers before he tucked his free hand under his head on the pillow.

“You’ll see. That’s for me to know and you to find out. What are you wearing? Let me guess: that ratty S.H.I.E.L.D. t-shirt you should’ve thrown away three years ago.”

“There’s a lot of life left in that shirt,” Steve said, defending himself. The scarcity, austerity, and poverty of the times in which he’d grown up made it hard for him to let go of possessions until they were completely falling apart. He didn't see it as a problem; Tony did. Too bad for Tony.

“We can afford to buy more shirts.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Ahem. You didn’t actually answer my question.”

Glancing down at his chest, at what he was wearing, Steve felt a blush skip up over his cheeks. “Um…”

“Ooooooh, something naughty or at least questionable? Take a selfie and send it to me.”

“No, Tony. I am not taking a selfie.”

“Don’t you dare No, Tony, me, old man. I claim spousal privilege. Scratch that, conjugal privilege.”

“Neither of those are relevant to this situation.”

“Pfft. Like I care. I want a picture. Nay, I demand a picture. Now. Get to clicking, hot stuff. Chop chop. Time’s a-wastin’. According to you, I’m not getting any younger here.”

“You are such a pain.”

“Le gasp. The horror... I’m going to be the bigger man here and—”

“You’re definitely not the bigger man here.”

“Shut it, Rogers. Are you taking shots at my height now? Or the size of my dick? Never mind; it doesn’t matter because either way, I’m going to ignore your petty insults. Why? Because I just realized it’s 2:30 in the morning your time, and you’re awake. Why are you awake, sunshine?” An edge of worry sharpened Tony’s voice. “No nightmares, I hope.”

“Nah, no nightmares," Steve confirmed. "Just couldn’t sleep. Was reading when you called.”

“No, wait. Don’t tell me; you’re reading—drumroll, please—The Silmarillion.”

Steve blinked and rolled onto his side. “How did you know?”

“Simple. I know you better than you think. Plus, you’re predictable.”

“You can say ‘boring.’ It's okay.”

“I could. And I would—if that’s what I meant. But it’s not, so I won’t.”

Steve made a small sound of disbelief and changed the subject. “How are you? What are you up to? It’s what, 3:30 PM in Tokyo?”

“Yeah, it’s all good. Got back from lunch with Pep and some bigwigs a little while ago. The food was amazing. Ate way too much. Had to loosen my belt a notch. Maybe two. I love married life; now I can finally get fat and happy.”

“Go right ahead. More cushion for the pushin’,” said Steve.

Tony laughed, rich and warm, and the sound of it filled some of the tired, lonely places in Steve. With minimal effort, he pictured the lines of mirth on Tony’s face, and how his brown eyes sparkled when he laughed like that, free and loose. Joyful. “I knew I picked one of the good guys."

“So what’d you have for lunch?” Steve asked, a smile still lingering on his lips.

“Sushi. Ugh, the uni was fantastic.”

“Uni...That’s the one that smells like feet, right?”

“That’s it, I’m divorcing you. It was great while it lasted. Hate to see you go; love to watch you leave." Tony paused for a deep inhale. "Uni is a delicacy. It’s not my fault your pedestrian palate doesn’t appreciate sea urchin.”

“Tony, I know you like it, and I would never try to change that, but to me, it smells like feet. I’ll stick to California rolls.”

Tony made a series of choking noises; he was such a drama queen. “I love you, I do, I mean, I would die for you without a second thought—”

“Please don’t die for me.” The mere mention of it, even in jest, sent cold dread streaming over Steve’s skin. "Don't even joke about that," he added, nausea curdling his stomach.

“—but California rolls do not count as sushi.”

“It’s the only sushi I’ll eat.” This was an old, not remotely serious area of disagreement between them. “Sorry, sweetheart, I can’t get past the idea of eating raw fish.”

“Fine. The divorce is off. But only because you smell good. Like really, really good. Hey, maybe it’s time for a Cap cologne.”

“No, thanks,” Steve replied with a horrified shiver.

“Hey, you know I would never, ever divorce you,” Tony said, his voice gone soft and rose-tinted with reassurance. “You couldn't get rid of me now if you tried. I'm sticking to you like white on rice. You know that, don’t you?”

He did know, but he still appreciated Tony’s instinctive desire to remind and reassure him. Tony in love was far sweeter than Steve had ever expected he would be. A happy surprise. “I know.” If they’d been in the same room, Steve would’ve given him a slow, lingering kiss for his thoughtfulness.

“Come with me next time I’m out here. I know you had super secret S.H.I.E.L.D. work this time. If Ol’ One Eye can spare you next time, come with. You don’t have to eat sushi if you don’t want to, though I’m hoping you’ll change your mind about that—”

Steve cut him off. “Raw fish,” he said, making sure to enunciate very slowly and deliberately, “I’m not changing my mind.”

“Okay, fine, don’t change your mind, man who won’t be moved. Anyway, there’s much more than sushi here. Oh, I know. I'll take you to Meiji-jingu.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a Shinto shrine.” The sound of Tony clearing his throat. “That you’ll like, I know you will.” This time his voice tipped full-on into softness, and Steve closed his eyes, immersing himself in the cadence and tone as much or even more than in Tony’s specific words. “You can bring your sketchbook and maybe the travel watercolors I got you. It’s...It’s peaceful there. You can write wishes on tiny pieces of paper and tie them to the prayer wall.”

The way Tony talked about it made him want to see it for himself. “Did you write down wishes and leave them on the wall?” Steve asked, pitching his voice low.

“No,” Tony said on a sigh, “I don't really believe in wishes and prayer and all that stuff. But I will do it next time. If you’re with me. If you want me to. Do you want me to?” There was a thread of wistfulness or perhaps even loneliness there; he recognized it. The other end of it tugged in Steve in empathy.

With his eyes still closed, Steve answered readily: “Together. We’ll do it together. Just a nice gesture. It doesn't have to mean anything bigger or more.”

"Oh, wow. Now you're getting sappy. Does that mean what I think it means?"

"Genuine sentiment is not sap."

"I know. I know, Steve. It's still fun to wind you up and watch you spin.”

"I don't know what you think it means, Tony."

A comfortable lull settled over the conversation, with both of them silent except for the occasional audible breath. Steve didn't mind waiting; he could be patient with Tony. Sometimes.

"Do you miss me?" Tony finally asked, quiet as the night. 

Steve threw an arm over his eyes. "Yes, I miss you,” he answered without any hesitation. No sense in hiding the truth. Tony knew him too well, anyway.

"Oh, good. That's a relief. 'Cause I might miss you a little, too, and I wouldn't want to be the only one," Tony said, and yeah, it made Steve go warm and squirmy.

"You might, or you do?" Steve asked, unable to resist the urge to probe a bit.

Tony sighed. "I do."

"Then come home."

"I'll be home in three days. Promise."

"That's too long," Steve said, and hated the hint of a pout in his own voice. 

"Send me a picture of what I'm missing, and I might be able to get it down to two."

Steve's eyes blinked open, and he laughed until his stomach hurt. "You are the worst," he eventually said, wiping his eyes once the final strains of his laughter had petered out.

"Wrong. I am the best. And you love me. Like, a lot. You must, to put up with me. There is no other logical explanation."

"You're right, I do."

"Well, don't be a tease; say it.”

”Say what?” Steve asked innocently. 

“You know exactly what, Mr. Faker Who Fakes.”

"Fine," Steve said, releasing a put-upon sigh, "if I must."

"You must, Mr. Rogers, it's in that stupid love languages book."

"How would you know? A-ha. You've been reading it, haven't you? Admit it, Tony."

"Irrelevant, Steve. And I admit nothing. There may have been some skimming. But no reading."

Steve dropped all traces of humor and pretense from his voice and kept the only thing that mattered. "I love you, Tony."

"I know. I didn't need you to tell me that. And I love you, too, sweetness. More than anything."

Chapter Text

Counting every breath that you breathe
You're on your bed falling asleep
I never want to hang up the call
'Cause hearing you there beats nothing at all
I hope I never learn an easy way to miss you
We're coming closer but it's getting harder every day
For a moment I swear I can almost feel you
And I'm burning, babe

I'm on the other side on fire
With an ocean between us

~ Parachute - Ocean

The words curled cloudlike and comforting around Steve, and even though Tony wasn’t stretched out next to him on the bed, familiar-smelling and warm, the sweet balm of his voice floated over Steve and settled him, easing the gnawing ache of his absence till it wasn’t quite so acute. “It’s not playing fair when you do that,” Steve said, running the pad of his thumb over the familiar weight of his wedding band.

“What’d I do?” Tony asked, sounding taken aback. “I thought I was being good. All I did was tell you I love you, which, let’s be real, I’ve said that thousands of times.”

“Yes, but you also did that thing. You know, that thing with your voice, where it dips, and you make it go all soft and...and sweet.”

“Ohhhh, that thing, huh. I gotcha now.” Tony cleared his throat. “What? You don’t like that thing?” A smile, lush enough that it raised a pleasant flutter in Steve’s stomach, peeked around the corner in Tony’s voice, a tickling tease in it. He heard it even if he didn’t see it.

“I do like it. Quite a bit, actually,” Steve said. “That’s the problem.”

“From where I’m sitting, that’s not a problem.”

“Well, it’s a problem for me because when you do it, it makes me want to give you things.”

“Hmmm. I’m liking the sound of this. What kinds of things?”

“The whatever-you-want kinds of things.”

“Like selfies?” A bright, hopeful note chimed in Tony’s voice.

Steve sighed, knowing he’d already lost the skirmish. “Yeah, like selfies.”

“Oh, goody goody gumdrops. I can’t wait. Whenever you’re ready, hot stuff.”

Steve raised his phone and angled it to ensure his face and part of his chest were in the frame. He scowled, feigning irritation before he pressed the dot to capture the image. The fake shutter clicked as he took several photographs in rapid succession, then pulled out of the camera app and skimmed through the album to see if he liked one of the pictures. His selfie game wasn’t so strong, but he found a photo he didn’t loathe and quickly sent it shooting off to Tony, crossing the wide, lonely chasm that separated them. “All right, I sent it.”

“That was fast, old man.”

“Haha. Pot. Kettle. Grey hair, remember? Occasionally,” Steve drawled, dripping sarcasm, “I can operate my phone.”

“Without my help? Then what the hell are you keeping me around for, Steve?”

“Your pretty brown eyes, that’s all. They have these tiny green and gold flecks in them. They’re easier to see in the sunlight—or when you’re close.”

“Ever the artist. Sigh. Where’d you learn to be such a sweet talker, anyway? You been taking flirting lessons?”

“Oh, you know, my other husband’s been teaching me some interesting things while you’ve been gone and neglecting me.” Steve grinned. “You know the old saying: when the cat’s away, the mice will play.”

“The shock. The utter betrayal. Tsk. How you wound me, Steven. After everything we’ve been through, too—the breakups, the makeups, the incredible makeup sex…Say it isn’t so, honeybun. Just—how could you do this to me? To us? Tell me you haven’t tossed me aside for a hotter, younger model already. Thought I still had a good five years before that happened.”

“And if I have? Then what?”

“Then I’ll...I’ll mourn. I’ll cry. So much. Like, we’re talking genuine oceans of tears. Until I’m totally dehydrated. And then I’ll eat Talenti gelato by the tub. While sobbing manfully and binge-watching Trolls episodes.”

“That sounds horrific. No matter what, I wouldn’t want you to experience that, so I should probably tell you that you have nothing to worry about—I’m still yours.”

“Still mine? Wow. What a relief. Hang tight a sec; I think your pic just came through.” Rustling sounds filtered through the phone; Steve imagined Tony moving his phone around till he could open up his texts. “Oh, sunshine,” Tony eventually said, sounding so awed that a warm flush spread up from Steve’s chest and moved slowly over his throat, settling, finally, at his cheeks, “you’re wearing my shirt.” His words spilled out on a laugh-gasp. 

Face warm, Steve tilted his chin down and peered at the grey shirt he’d deliberately changed into before bed. Tony had once explained who was on the shirt—a martial artist named Bruce Lee, whose image had been manipulated to look like he was DJing. Not that Steve had chosen the shirt because of its appearance; he didn’t care who or what was on it—just that it served its purpose. “Yeah, I am,” he said, and maybe it sounded like a confession.

“Why? Not that it doesn’t look better on you than it does on me. Your biceps are about to bust out of the sleeves. That shirt’s going to be positively baggy on me now that you’ve stretched it out. This is not me complaining, by the way.”

Steve blushed and shrugged before he remembered that Tony couldn’t see the motion. “I...I missed you. You wore it before you left; it”—he paused and tugged at the round neck of the shirt and brought it close to his nose and inhaled—“still smells a little like you.” 

“So what you’re saying is that you pulled my dirty shirt out of our hamper and put it on before you got into our bed?”

“Uh, yeah. I guess that’s what I’m saying.”

“I can’t decide if that’s gross or sweet.” 

“Probably both.”

“You wear my clothes a lot?” Tony asked.

“Um. Only when you’re gone. Do you...do you mind?”

“Mind that you wear my clothes because they smell like me and you miss me? Are you out of your mind? No, I don’t mind. I think it’s fucking adorable. You’re adorable. Maybe wear them sometimes when I’m around, though, so I can get the full effect.”

“So you like it?”

“Will you quit fishing?” Tony asked, all warmth and amusement. “Yes, I like it. Love it, even.”

“Oh, okay. Then I have something else to tell you.”

“Go ahead.”

“I’m not in our bed.”

“Where are you?”

“In my old room. It felt weird in our room without you,” Steve rushed in and added before Tony could ask why he’d chosen to sleep elsewhere. “Too quiet.”

“You’re such a sap, Steve.”

Maybe he was being touchy and oversensitive because he was lonely and tired, but the comment stung. He missed Tony—missed glancing up from his dinner plate and catching Tony looking at him with his lips bent in a hopelessly fond smile; missed Tony’s feet in his lap while they watched TV together; missed Tony as a warm, reassuring parenthesis behind him as they slept—and here was Tony poking fun at him. Didn’t he know how Steve felt? “Well, if you’re just going to make fun of me,” Steve said stiffly, embarrassment hot on his skin and thick in his mouth, “I’m going to say good night now and hang up.”

“Nononono, don’t do that. I’m sorry. You know me, my mouth just gets the better of me sometimes.”

“Fine.” Steve sighed. “Would it kill you to be nice?”

“Again, I’m sorry. I was just joking.”

“Not everything’s a joke,” Steve said, aware he sounded peevish.

“I know.” Tony sighed. “May not seem like it sometimes, but I do know that.” Softer this time. Sounding closer, as well, like a hug, and Steve thought he heard genuine remorse there, so he let his wounded pride be soothed. “I can be nice. I’m going to be so, so nice to you now you’ll forget I ever hurt your feelings.”

“We’ll see about that.”

“You’re not the only sap in this relationship, you know. I miss you, too. So damn much.”

“I don’t believe you,” Steve said.

“Are you questioning my honor, dear husband?”

“And what if I am?” Steve teased.

“Guess I’ll just have to try and convince you.”

“Guess so. Tell me how you feel.”

“I feel—I don’t know.” Tony exhaled gustily. “It feels like...it feels like there’s this constant itch, but it’s trapped somewhere under my skin, so I can’t reach out and scratch it and get some relief, you know. I’m here, and I’m busy doing other things—smiling when I should, talking to people, working. But there’s part of me that, fuck, keeps wondering how you are; what you’re doing; what you’re thinking. And...and knowing that you’re wearing my shirt just because it smells like me—seeing how tight it’s molded to your perfect chest in that picture you sent me—it’s maddening, is what is. I— this is going to sound absolutely ridiculous…”

“I don’t care; tell me anyway,” Steve urged Tony.

“I want to be that stupid shirt.”

“Why?” Steve asked, feeling his heart speed up at Tony’s words; at the breathless note in it. He waited impatiently for Tony’s answer.

“Because it’s touching you, baby.” Steve didn’t know how Tony managed to slide his voice from sincere and sweet to sultry with such apparent ease, but somehow, somehow he did. 

“And is that what you want?” Steve asked. “To touch me?”

Tony huffed a gentle laugh that slid over Steve like a plush blanket tucked around his back and shoulders, warming every part of him that was cold without Tony. “I think you know the answer to that.” His voice was dark and fluid.

“Maybe. But pretend I don’t and tell me. Use your words for me, Tony,” Steve said, tucking his phone closer to his ear, dropping his voice lower. He became aware, then, of the faint beginnings of pleasure curling in his belly and spreading out tendrils, sweetly, into his cock. Closing his eyes, Steve leaned into the in-out, rise-fall contraction and expansion of his chest as he breathed, as he let himself feel himself slowly growing hard. He sent one hand down between his legs to rest over his bare cock. No movement, barely any pressure, even—just his palm curved warmly over it, a promise of more, if he wanted it. If they got there. (Usually, he slept naked. Tonight, because he was feeling lonely and yes, he admitted to himself, sappy, he’d decided to wear Tony’s shirt.) 

Tony groaned. “Fuck,” he swore.

Steve’s eyes blinked open slowly, his vision hazy and the bedroom bright but out of focus. “Yeah?” he asked.

“Yes,” replied Tony, his voice already sex-rough in that way Steve knew rather well but still somehow sweet, too—his husband, the paradox—“I want to touch you.”

“Where?” Steve asked, emboldened by the desire woven into the threads of Tony’s voice. Sure, talking dirty still felt somewhat strange and artificial to him, while Tony always seemed to do it so effortlessly, with no self-consciousness that Steve noticed, at least. Sometimes he envied that ease.

You have to ignore that feeling of weirdness and just go where your fantasies lead you sometimes, Steve. Trust me, will you? The more you do it, the easier it seems. It’s still just you and me, and you know you can tell me anything, right? There’s one and only one rule: you can’t judge yourself or me for anything we say in the heat of the moment; what sounds fine during sex can sound ridiculous at any other time. 

Framed that way, as a matter of trust, the decision to speak or stay silent was made much simpler and easier. He trusted Tony, and he wasn’t ambivalent about or ashamed of anything they did together. If the trajectory of their relationship had shown them anything, it was that they did better when they communicated with each other—even or especially when it seemed difficult. “Where do you want to touch me?” 

“Anywhere you’ll let me.”

Steve tightened his hand where it cupped his cock, and a tiny sigh slipped from his mouth. “You can touch me anywhere you want. I want you to touch me everywhere. You just have to tell me.”

“Will you do something for me?”

“Maybe,” Steve replied, allowing himself a moment of coyness.

“Get your hand on that gorgeous cock of yours. If I was there with you right now, I’d do it for you. Since I’m not, you’ll have to imagine I am.”

“Too slow, sweetheart,” Steve chided. With a spark of warmth skipping down his spine, he pictured Tony’s tanned, work-roughened hand on him instead of his own, working him with slow, sure strokes that made his breath hitch and sent heat spiraling through his body. “I beat you to it—it’s already there.”

Tony coughed. When he spoke again, his voice came out half-strangled: “You mean you’re already touching? Right now?” 

Steve found Tony’s response extremely gratifying. “Well, technically yes, but it's...I’m not doing anything. I just have my hand sitting there.”

“By, ‘sitting there,’ you mean your hand’s just casually hanging out on your cock. No big deal.”

“Yes.”

“But you’re not stroking? Not even a teensy bit?”

“Not yet, no.” Steve licked his lips. “But I’m hard.”

“For me?” Tony asked, and if voices had color, Steve knew that right then Tony’s would be an inky, starless blue. Undiluted want—that’s what Steve heard. 

He empathized. “Yes,” Steve confirmed, “for you.” Raw and open. “Always for you.” Even now, after six months of marriage and years before that together, an electric thrill arced through Steve at intentionally making himself vulnerable with Tony. One of the many lessons that intimacy had taught Steve was that there was a certain pleasure in baring his throat and his naked wrists to Tony, handing him a metaphorical razor blade, and knowing that he wouldn’t cut him with it.

“Then will you start? Touch yourself for me. Please,” said Tony in an intoxicating combination of half-plea, half-command that went straight to Steve’s head.

“Maybe.”

“Ha, my husband the tease.”

“Not teasing. I always follow through; you should know by now I’m good for it. But I do need something from you first. I showed you mine; you show me yours.” It took a fair bit of struggle to get all the words translated from his brain to his mouth, but since he got there in the end, Steve chose to count it as a win. Sure, his face burned like a five-alarm fire, but no one knew that but him. He was talking to Tony, who loved him no matter what; Steve knew with a deep certainty born of experience, rooted in his bones, that it was safe to be vulnerable with him. Hadn’t they both reaped the rewards of exposing their soft, needy spots to over their years together? It wasn’t the talking and being honest that had gotten them in trouble over the years. No, it was the not talking that did that. “It’s only fair, right?”

For a moment, Tony was silent. Then: “Ohhhhhhh. Quid pro quo, huh? You want a picture?”

“No,” Steve corrected, feeling a delicious wave of boldness overtake him, “I want three.”

“Three, huh? My my,” Tony said, sounding pleased at Steve’s request. “Getting greedy?”

Steve ignored the question, plowing ahead instead. “I want one picture of your face, one of your chest, and one of your...cock.”

“Why, Mr. Rogers, that is positively filthy,” said Tony, the timbre of his voice a pleasure all its own. “But since you asked so nicely, I’d love to send you a dick pic.”

“Not just a dick pic. I want the others, too.”

At Steve’s clarification, Tony laughed, deep and low, and it shivered up the length of Steve’s spine like a caress; like Tony’d laid his warm, calloused hands on the small of Steve’s back and slid them up, slowly, coaxing goosebumps, until they cradled his skull. “I like a man who knows what he wants.”

Setting his teeth in his bottom lip, Steve gripped himself more firmly. “I know exactly what I want: you.”

“That’s what I like to hear. Okay, Aladdin, rub my lamp and give me a minute. Let me see if I can fulfill your dirty wishes.”

There followed sounds like Tony was moving around and then after maybe three minutes, he came back on the line. “Dick pic coming through. The others, too. You should have ‘em in a minute. You can ask J.A.R.V.I.S. to route them through to the TV if you want a bigger, better view.”

Steve did as Tony suggested, and then as his phone pinged with a series of text message notifications, he glanced up at the screen. There within the sleek black frame of the flat-panel TV was Tony, brown and grey hair slightly askew, like he’d just finished running his hands through it. Knowing him, he had. Tony was smiling—a genuine smile, not one of the false, practiced smiles he wielded like a shield when necessary—teeth white in his tanned face and the little lines Steve cherished so much bracketing his generous mouth and curling from the outer corners of his eyes. And his eyes—God, his eyes that held an entire universe of warmth in them and were so familiar to Steve—he missed them so much. 

This wasn’t a paparazzi shot or the saccharine, airbrushed unreality of a glossy magazine photograph. No, this was Tony—fallible; soft; brilliant; possessing the kindest heart—his Tony.

Steve inhaled sharply, the breath shivering in his lungs. Seeing Tony’s face awakened the ache in Steve’s chest; fueled the heat in his cock. Steve scrolled down with his thumb, and a shot of Tony’s chest popped up on the screen. In it, he wore a white dress shirt. The tails of a blue and silver tie, loose and undone, hung on either side of his body. The shirt was unbuttoned, crisp and unwrinkled, spread open over Tony’s chest, gift wrap leading to a beautiful present. The arc reactor gleamed, a brilliant blue jewel encased in warm, olive skin, and Steve wanted to touch it, first with his hands and then with his mouth. 

Tony had clearly taken the photograph at an angle, holding the phone up near his face and slanting its view down his chest. Dark hair interspersed with gleaming silver lay sprinkled over the long slope; Steve swallowed thickly as his eyes traced over it. He knew the precise degree of softness of that hair; had rubbed both his cheeks and his fingers against it; had touched his lips to it; had whispered daydreams and laid sleeping dreams there, too. 

Staring across the room at the image of his husband, Steve shuddered, feeling dizzy; made a small, hot noise. 

Almost immediately, because he was annoying and observant that way, Tony picked up on it. “What?” Tony asked.

Blinking slowly, Steve said, “You look...you look amazing.”

“You think so? Even with the wrinkles? You don’t have to butter me up just because you love me, you know. Us mere mortals are nothing up against your perfection. I know my abs are going soft. Okay, fine, they’ve been going soft for a while now, and—”

“Shh,” said Steve, only too happy to cut off Tony’s rambling when he was talking about himself like this. “You’re—you’re not perfect—but you’re perfect for me.”

“You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

“Maybe so, but not because of this. Just be quiet for two minutes and listen to me.”

“Yes, sir. You’re the boss.”

“Tony,” Steve said, a long sigh following the word. 

“Ok, I’ll shut up. Just don’t use your disappointed voice on me. Anything but that. I can’t take it.”

He took a moment of silence to consider what he wanted to say, and how he needed to say it to get Tony to understand. “You know how when it’s been a long week, and some things have gone right but others have gone wrong, and you’re just tired and you finally, finally get to slide into our bed?” Steve said. “You get this feeling, like, ‘Oh. Thank you. My bed. Finally.’”

“Yeah, I do.”

“And do you think to yourself, ‘This bed is too small. This bed used to be smaller and now it’s too big. The sheets aren’t soft enough. My pillow’s too soft’?”

“No, of course not. That would be dumb. It’s our bed.”

“Exactly,” Steve replied, pleased that Tony seemed to understand what he was getting at. “You don’t. Because it’s our bed and it’s perfect—and perfectly comfortable.”

“So,” Tony said, drawing out the o, “am I to understand that I’m the bed in this scenario?”

“Yes.”

“Incredible. Rogers, you are overflowing with romance,” Tony said. “Consider me officially swept off my feet.”

Unable to help it, Steve laughed. “I know you’re being sarcastic, but it is romantic. It’s just that, you are listening, I can tell, but you’re not hearing me.” Smiling, Steve wiggled a little and stretched out his back. “Let me try again,” Steve said, and he tried to soften his voice the way any tension in him automatically softened when he thought of Tony, “we live, we work, we save the world sometimes, and because we’re lucky, we come home.” Steve’s gaze flicked to the image of Tony on the panel. “I come home to you, get to lay my head on your chest, get to kiss your sassy mouth and your stubbly cheeks. When I look at you, sure, I’m aware of the lines on your face, but it’s a privilege to look at you and have you look back and see me, actually see me, too. There was a time when I didn’t think I’d have that. I’m incredibly lucky. Those wrinkles are— Tony, all I see are the millions of times I got to be on the receiving end of your smiles. You have the best smiles. Frowns, too.

“And your belly, soft or not, is the perfect place to blow raspberries or tickle you until you’re a giggling, wiggling mess. Not to mention it’s close to your cock, and I love to put my mouth and my hands all over that. So no, sweetheart, sorry,” Steve said, voice slowing as he neared the end of his message, “I care a lot about what you think, but you’re not allowed to tell me how I get to feel about your face or your body.”

Chapter Text

What followed was a trickle of sounds like Tony was moving around—maybe he was brushing a minuscule piece of lint off his clothes or settling more comfortably into his seat. Then the gentle tide of his breath rolled in and out of Steve’s ear, but besides that, nothing surrounded them in their liminal bubble but quiet and night and the lamp-bright bedroom with only Steve in it when it rightly should have been both of them. 

It took a lot to render Tony Stark speechless; Steve knew this from years of experience. But it seemed that, maybe, he’d done it. Steve’s lips quirked in a smile, and he allowed himself a mere moment’s worth of satisfaction and pride over that accomplishment before he ruthlessly quashed it. 

Eventually, as a precursor to speech, Tony made a humming sound. “So, uh,” he said, finally, “that there was a hell of a speech to rally the troops.” 

“I wasn’t trying to rally anyone—just telling the truth.”

“Hmm,” Tony replied noncommittally. “Did you write it down and rehearse it in front of the bathroom mirror?”

“Nope. That was completely extemporaneous,” Steve quipped. “I was inspired by my subject.”

“And how much is it gonna cost me?”

“For you, it’s free,” Steve replied magnanimously. “That’s a perk of being my husband.”

“Nothing in life is free,” Tony shot back.

“Gosh, so cynical. You know better than that; my love’s free.”

“It’s not fair.”

“What’s not fair?”

“‘s not fair for you to say things like that,” Tony said, pouting audibly, so adorably that Steve wanted to kiss the tip of his nose, “‘cause I want to believe you, and if I believe you, then I want to kiss you, and right now I can’t. Ugh. See? You’re such a troublemaker. Always creating problems for me.”

“Fortunately, solving problems is what you do best. And I like kissing you. Can I kiss you for, I don’t know, an hour once you get back? Would that be okay?”

“A whole hour of nothing but kissing? That’s a hell of a luxury. Count me in.”

“Well”—Steve paused and fiddled with a loose thread on the hem of his shirt—“maybe some over the clothes stuff, too.”

“Mm. I can get behind that. Can I make you come first, though, just to take the edge off?”

“I suppose that’s okay,” Steve replied, deliberately sounding oh-so-casual.

“Tsk. Just okay, you minx? Man, you are one tough customer.”

“Guess that depends on what you want to do, doesn’t it?”

“Fair enough, stud. I want to take care of you. Whatever that means; however you want me. So, how do you want me?”

“You decide. You run the show tonight.”

“That how it is?”

“Just for tonight. I’m tired; I miss you; I don’t want to think, Tony—just for a while. Is that okay with you?”

“Of course, it is,” Tony replied, only a soothing warmth and reassurance in his voice. “Don’t worry, I got you. I can captain this ship. I’ll take good care of you.”

“I know you will; you always do.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Anytime,” Steve said—and meant it.

“Here’s what I want you to do. Are your eyes closed, sweetness?”

“No.”

“Well, what are you waiting for? Close ‘em.”

“I will, but not yet. I want to look at your third pic first.”

“What? Which one? Let me guess: the dick pic.”

“Yeah, that one.”

“You saving the best for last?” Tony asked, a grin gleaming gold in his voice.

Steve smiled back. “Something like that.”

“Just ask J. to put them all up at once for you. He can split screen ‘em.”

“J.A.R.V.I.S., could you please put up the pictures Tony texted me—in a split screen view?” As accustomed to the AI as he was, a tiny part of Steve still cringed at asking it to post a picture of Tony’s cock. Some things were personal, after all.

“Certainly, Captain Rogers.”

“Thank you, J.A.R.V.I.S.”

“You’re welcome, sir.”

Pushing aside his embarrassment, Steve trained his focus on the clear, black and white filtered picture. There was nothing cheap or tawdry about the image. In it, Tony’s hand curled lazily under his balls. His underwear and his pants, both dark,  were visible at the edges of the photo, shoved half-way down, trapped around the thick muscle of his thighs. Steve ached to worship at the altar of those thighs with his lips and tongue. His hand rose, fingers spread as if he could reach out and touch Tony. Neatly-trimmed hair surrounded Tony’s still-soft cock. “You’re soft,” said Steve, gaze still arrested by Tony’s picture, prey caught in spider silk, and his voice inadvertently echoed his words. His hand dropped back to the bed, fisting around air.

“Not now I’m not.”

“No, I mean in the picture,” Steve clarified.

“Yeah, sorry,” Tony said, and the apology made something in Steve’s chest twist and stutter. “Sometimes it takes an old man like me a second to get it up.” 

“Shut up. Don’t be sorry. I like it when you’re still soft.”

“You do?”

“Yeah, I do. How come you don’t know that already?” Steve asked.

“Uh, because as brilliant as I am, even I haven’t figured out how to read your mind, Steve. Believe me, I have tried. You remain, as ever, a man of mystery—an enigma.”

“I don’t know; I think you might have me confused with someone else. What you see is what you get.”

“You think so?” Tony laughed softly, the prickle-brush-swish of it sparking along Steve’s nerve endings. “Sometimes we don’t see ourselves as clearly as we think, dearheart,” Tony said, as free with his endearments as he was with his affection. Gratitude for everything Tony was welled up in Steve. There was no malice in Tony’s tone or delivery, and Steve filed away his comment, intending to pull it back out and examine it further at a later date.

“Maybe you’re right. I don’t know; I have to think about it. Later. Now, I’m telling you, so don’t forget it. I love it when you’re soft because then I get to kiss you, hold you in my mouth, and feel you swell and get hard because of me.” Saying the words made Steve picture the act in his mind’s eye, and the resulting cascade of images excited him; drove him to pull down his blanket and glance at his dick; at the heavy length and the plump head, flushed and damp already. 

“Mmm. That’s quite the explanation. Guess I should share with the class that I’m hard because of you right now.”

“One good turn deserves another: I’m wet.”

“Yeah? How do you know that?”

Steve decided to play it straight and matter-of-fact. “I’m looking at it.”

“And what’s it look like? Do tell; horny, inquiring minds need to know.”

Steve shrugged, one corner of his mouth quirking up. “You’ve seen it before.”

“Duh. That’s hardly the point, Einstein.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Definitely not. The point is, my knowing what your dick looks like is not the same as you describing it to me. I like the narration.”

“It’s...um...hard, shiny, and, uh, wet. At the tip.”

Tony groaned in response, throaty and rough; that was enough to widen Steve’s grin. “A little wet or a lot? I know how slick you can get. Give me a number. On a scale of one to ten, with ten being the wettest—like rainforest levels of precome—how would you rate it at this moment?”

“A solid six.”

“Oh, honey. You’d better send me a picture. You know, in the name of equality, justice for all, yadda yadda yadda.” Tony’s voice sounded a touch strained around the edges, Steve noted with a hot surge of satisfaction. “It’s only fair.”

Steve pinched his nipple through his shirt, pretending it was Tony’s hand on him; he nearly moaned. The ping of pleasure-pain turned him slightly breathless when he said, “I’ll think about it and have my people get in touch with your people.”

“Christ.”

“Tony.”

“Sorry,” Tony muttered. “Cocktease.”

“I heard that,” Steve replied, unperturbed. 

“You were supposed to. Nobody’d know it to look at you because you have the face of an angel, but you are the worst cocktease,” Tony complained. “Come on, what happened to quid pro quo? What’s a guy gotta do to get a dick pic from you, anyway?”

“Beg,” Steve answered promptly.

Chapter Text

“Beg?” Tony chuckled. “For a picture of your cock? Beautiful as I know it is, that’ll be a hard nope. Despite what the tabloids say, even I have some dignity.” 

Dignity? Oh, this was going to be fun, he thought. “That’s fine, of course,” Steve said, voice placid. “I guess you don’t want it that badly.” Catching his bottom lip between his teeth to keep from grinning, Steve leaned to the side and rummaged around in the bedside drawer, purposely making a lot of noise as he pushed aside random items like a set of earbuds he thought he’d lost months ago and a handful of crumpled receipts, their print faded into a faint lilac.

“What are you doing?” Tony asked, just like Steve knew he would.

“Not much,” said Steve, striving to be the epitome of casual. With Tony’s groan at Steve’s description of his cock still top of mind, it was just that bit easier for Steve to keep talking without fumbling his words. “Just looking for lube.” He bit back a grin. “To put on my cock while I jerk off,” he added unnecessarily, a sense of daring overtaking him. He wasn’t shy, and he’d been in the army, where there had been all kinds of ribald talk; it was just a bit...strange and artificial-feeling, that was all, trying to narrate what he was doing and feeling with the current level of distance between them. When he and Tony were together in the same place, when Tony could see what Steve was doing with his own eyes—touch him everywhere on his body with his warm, skilled hands—the words came somewhat easier, even if between the two of them, Tony was more apt to talk dirty. That being said, the dirty talk over the phone wasn’t only strange. Steve could admit that it was also hot. “I’m pretty wet right now”—ignoring the flames in his cheeks, Steve allowed himself one slow, teasing touch, arching into it, and on the upstroke he swept his fingers over the head of his cock, gathering up the wetness there—“so I don’t really need it. But you know, every little bit helps.” Noisily, Steve sucked his fingers into his mouth, licking them clean of his precome. “Mmm.” The exaggeration was mostly for Tony’s benefit; Steve suspected Tony would appreciate it. 

“Honey?” Tony said, and Steve swore his voice had dropped an entire octave; that was undoubtedly gratifying, and it erased any lingering sense of awkwardness that Steve might have felt.

“Yes?” Yes, it was definitely hot—especially when Steve could hear the evidence of exactly how much Tony liked it in the tenor of his voice. If Tony had been in the room with him just then, Steve had no doubt he would’ve been sitting in Steve’s lap shamelessly grinding against him, or lying on the bed with his lips wrapped snugly around the pink head of Steve’s dick. If only...

“I know what you’re doing,” said Tony.

“Oh? What is it you think I’m doing?”

“You’re tasting yourself.” Tony sighed, the sound hushed but heavy in Steve’s ear. “I can hear you—and I know how you taste. That’s...That’s totally unfair. You play dirty.”

“You know what they say,” Steve replied. “All’s fair in love and war.”

“I don’t think that means what you think it means. And, incidentally, I hate you.” 

Steve knew better. “Mmm-mmm,” he replied. “Don’t lie. You say that, but we both know it’s not true. You don’t hate me; you hate that you want me enough to beg. Go ahead and do it. I won’t tell anyone.”

“I won’t beg.”

“Suit yourself.” The small bottle of lube opened with a quiet snick. Steve held it open above his cock and squeezed, shivering a little as he let the cool gel flow liberally. “Of course, you can do whatever you want, but I’m going to put you on speaker now, so I have my hands free.” Laying back with his legs splayed, Steve switched his phone to speaker and set it down to rest high on his chest. Eyes closed, Steve enveloped his cock with his fist. With both lube and his own slickness to ease the way, it was a smooth, pleasurable glide that unspooled a moan from him. “Feels so good, Tony. I wish you were here, though. You’d feel even better. I know you would.”

“Oh, fuck, Steve. You’re killing me,” said Tony. “I need to see you.” His breath hitched.

He sounded like he was in pain. Good. 

“You can. There’s just one small thing you have to do.”

“You’re so cruel.”

“I’m really not. I won’t make you do anything you don’t want to do. It’s your choice, not mine,” Steve said, settling into the fantasy. “If you want that picture, though, you’ve gotta beg. Otherwise, how will I know you really want it?”

Tony made a frustrated sound; Steve nearly laughed, though he locked it in his throat before it could escape. “This is really what you want—for me to beg?”

“This isn’t about what I want; it’s about what you want, Tony. We can both get off, I’ll go to bed after, and you can do whatever’s next on your schedule.” 

“I hear a ‘but.’”

“That’s because there is one. But if you want that picture, you’ll need to ask for it nicely and convince me you actually want it. All you’ve done so far is tell me I’d better send it to you. Hardly what any reasonable person would call good manners.”

“Fuck good manners,” Tony said. Resentment rang so clear and strident in his voice that this time, Steve did laugh. 

Thinking that it was getting late and he’d maybe pushed Tony further than was fair, Steve was just about to relent, take the picture, and send it to Tony, when he heard Tony exhale gustily. “You know what? Fine,” Tony muttered. “Least I know you’ll be a benevolent master.” Then, as Steve’s heartbeat rocketed in his ears, thumping louder and louder, Tony spoke again. It was just a single, innocuous word, uttered softly, but it sliced neatly through all the racket in Steve’s head: “Please.”

Steve smiled. Before it could show in his speech, though, he schooled his mouth back into a line. “Sorry, I didn’t catch that. Could you please speak up?”

“Please,” Tony repeated, louder this time, the word tightening inside Steve with all the elastic potential energy of a coiled spring. 

Swallowing against the dryness in this throat Steve asked, “Please what?”

“Will you please send me a picture of your cock? Not just your cock. Your face, too, please.” Tony’s voice was cut through with tension, aching with it, a stormcloud heavy with rain. This wasn’t easy for him. Pride welled up in Steve. “You asked me to beg. Well, I’m begging now. Please, Steve. Please, please, please. God, I miss you. You want to know what I’d do for you. That’s what this is about. Fine, I’ll tell you. I’d go to my knees for you. But you already knew that.” He did know, but hearing Tony articulate it made Steve burn. “But here’s something you might not know: I’d crawl for you. Naked. Clothed. It doesn’t matter. On my hands and knees. For you. Would you like that? Is that what you want?”

Stunned into momentary silence, Steve licked his dry lips.

“Say something, Steve.”

It felt like a bomb had detonated in his brain. Blinking rapidly, Steve attempted to marshal his shrapnel thoughts. “Tony, I— Is that something you want? To crawl for me?” Now that Tony’d said it, Steve couldn’t erase the image from his mind’s eye: beautiful Tony, on his hands and knees, skin glowing soft in the lamplight. A fine tracery of scars from times when he’d put himself in danger to protect others laced his back. Steve had worshipped with his fingers and his lips every single one of those scars. Just the idea of it—of proud, strong, intelligent but also eminently breakable Tony actively choosing to crawl for him with naked need sketched across his features made Steve’s pulse throb in his cock.

“I don’t know. Maybe.” Tony paused.

“You don’t have to commit,” Steve said. “It’s not a ‘Do you want to do this all the time?’ kind of question. Just—do you ever want to do that?”

“Yes. Sometimes.” Steve didn’t think it was discomfort he heard in Tony’s voice so much as contemplation. Tony never minded talking about sex; Steve found his openness incredibly attractive. 

“You never told me that before.”

“Huh. Well, I’m not sure I knew until just now.” Tony cleared his throat. “I’ve done it before, you know. Not with you, but yeah.”

Steve had had a few lovers before Tony, and while he didn’t begrudge Tony his previous lovers, he’d be lying if he said he was neutral. No, thinking of the men and women Tony had been with before him always made a tiny flare of jealousy spark in Steve’s chest. But they’d married each other; that made all the difference. The roads they’d traversed to get there shone as dots in the rearview mirror. “And did you like it?” he asked.

Tony coughed. “You know, it was— I’m not sure. I did a lot of stuff when I was high, not to mention totally fucked in the head—which, not the best idea. Hard to keep things safe, sane, or consensual in that kind of state. And now I’m not. At least not drunk or high. Ha.”

As always, he appreciated Tony’s honesty. “Your head is fine, Tony.”

“Thanks, sunshine. I appreciate that you believe that.”

“I do.”

“Anyway, I guess what I’m saying is that with you, it’d be different. I know it would. Because, well, it’s you , and you know how I feel about you. There are few things I wouldn’t try with you, Steve.”

“What would you do if you were here?” Steve asked, momentarily switching tacks.

“You want the honest answer or the sexy one?” Tony asked, and Steve could picture it so easily, how Tony must have his head tilted to the side, face cupped in one hand and fingers tapping as he awaited Steve’s response.

“Do you even have to ask?” Steve replied dryly. “The honest one.”

“My mistake.” Tony laughed lightly, caressing Steve with the sound. “You’re right, I should have known the answer already.” He paused and sighed. When he spoke again, his voice took on a more serious cast: “I think that most of all, I just want to hug you. I want to get in bed with you, wrap my arms and legs around you, and hold you tight.” It sounded like a secret; maybe it was, and for the first time during their call, Steve heard Tony’s fatigue, as well. “Just forget the rest of the world for a little while.”

“That sounds...I want that, too. We don’t have to do anything else, you know.”

“Duh. I know that. But I want to. I want you. In every way it’s possible to want a person, I want you.” The words were honest—painfully so. Steve recognized them for the gift they were. Faced with them, Steve closed his eyes and allowed himself to sink into their meaning; their weight; how they seeped into his chest and filled part of the black, empty vacuum there that Tony carved out of him with his absence. His silence must have made Tony nervous, though, because he spoke up, asking, “Too much?” A thin veneer of anxiety coated his question. Probably no one who didn’t know Tony well would’ve noticed it.

“Never,” Steve responded without any hesitation, hating that that was even a legitimate question in Tony’s mind. “I want it all.” And he did; that was the crux of the matter. To know another person that completely, to be known that well in return, proved a priceless gift. “I was just thinking about what you said. I told you: I want to know how you feel. Always. But especially now. It makes me feel closer to you.” Steve cleared his throat; rubbed his hand over his tired, dry eyes until he saw white flashes; imagined tangling himself with Tony until anyone watching them would think they were a single person. “I’d hug you back. Then maybe I’d just stare at your face for a while; see if you looked tired or stressed or anything like that. You’d smile, maybe, and your eyes would fall shut. But I’d keep looking at you, my hands on your face, brushing your hair back from your forehead and stroking my thumb over your cheeks.”

“I like your hands on my face. You’re so strong, but your hands are so gentle.” There was a wistful note at the furthest edge of Tony’s voice. “I miss that.”

“Here’s an idea: come home, and I’ll touch your face as much as you want.”

“Soon, sweet thing. I promise.” Tony cleared his throat. “Eventually, my eyes would open again,” he said, seamlessly picking up where Steve had stopped; they made a good team that way, “and when I saw you still staring at me, I’d shift even closer. This is gonna sound exceptionally weird, but hear me out, anyway.” 

“I think I’m fairly used to your weirdness at this point. More importantly, it’s part of what makes you you, and I like you an awful lot, sweetheart.”

Tony chuckled, and when he spoke again, the syllables wobbled faintly. “See, you say things like that, and it doesn’t make missing you any easier.”

“Maybe it shouldn’t be easier.”

“Huh. That’s surprisingly profound. When’d you get so wise, anyway?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I’ve always been that way, but you’re only noticing now because you just weren’t any good at listening to your elders before.”

Tony’s warm laugh spun through the phone, shortening the distance that lay between them into something more manageable and less fraught. “Sometimes,” Tony said, after his laughter quieted, “when it’s just you and me, I wish could get even closer to you—that I could curl myself inside you like we were one person, breathing with the same lungs, seeing with the same set of eyes.”

In the hush that followed, Steve listened to Tony breathing and wished he could feel it, too. Under his cheek, against his chest, beneath his hands. “That’s...Thank you.” The words seemed deeply inadequate, but Steve couldn’t think of what else to add. “I don’t know what to say,” he finally said, overwhelmed by Tony’s revelation.

“Then don’t say anything. You can be quiet; I don’t mind. Anyway,” Tony said, a lazy grin curled through his voice, “you owe me that dick pic. And the other one, too. Come on, loverboy. Time to pay up.”

Steve laughed and picked the phone up off his chest with his clean hand. “Nothing gets past you, does it?”

“Nope,” Tony replied, sounding delighted, “absolutely nothing.”

“All right.” Steve sighed in mock disappointment. “I guess a deal’s a deal, after all.” Unable to keep from smiling, he palmed his dick with one hand and took the picture with the other one. For the selfie, he arched an eyebrow and held up his middle finger.  He made sure his finger was within the boundaries of the frame before he snapped the picture. The one of his cock he captioned, This is what you’re missing. A smile still flickered around Steve’s lips as he quickly sent the pictures to Tony. 

He touched his balls idly as he waited for Tony’s response. It wasn’t very long that he had to wait. Tony whistled, long and low. “I don’t know how I ever forget how criminally pretty your dick is, so pink and thick and wet. How pretty you are, period.” The frank words of admiration settled sweetly inside Steve. “So, I think I promised to take care of you. If you want me crawling, that’s what you’ll get, or…” Tony’s voice trailed off. 

“Or?” Steve prompted. He couldn’t deny he was intrigued.

“We could save that for another time.”

“What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking,” Tony said, stretching out the second word, “I want to get you completely naked, then cuff you to the headboard, climb in your lap, and ride your pretty dick until you come in my ass. Then we can kiss for an hour, with your come slowly sliding out of me. Does that work for you?”

Steve swallowed. “Um, yeah, that...that works.”

“Great.”

“On one condition, though.”

“Which is…?”

“You wear a white dress shirt like the one you’ve got on right now. Unbuttoned. I want to see your chest, and your stomach, and the arc reactor.”

“Sure. That’s easy enough. Deal. You ready to touch yourself now?”

“I’ve been ready. But only if you talk to me. I like the sound of your voice.”

Tony laughed. “That’s not a hardship for me. I can talk all day, baby, you know that. Let’s see...We’ll do things a little backward, just for fun. While I’m in the shower, I’ll open myself up for you. Maybe put in a plug. So when we get in bed, I’ll already be stretched for you, and you can just slide right on home.”

“Is that what you want, or is that just what you think I want?”

“Both. See? So it’s a win-win situation.”

“I like those; they’re so rare.”

“True. Take ‘em where you can, right?”

“Right.”

“I’ll cuff you to the headboard and make sure everything feels like it should. Wouldn’t want to bruise those beautiful wrists of yours.”

“I don’t mind a few bruises; they never last long, anyway. Besides, I, um, I kinda like the idea of wearing your marks on my skin. Especially if you kiss them afterward.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“I guess you learn something new every day,” Steve replied.

“Huh. Guess so,” Tony nearly purred. “My oh my. You, dear husband, have heretofore undiscovered hidden depths.”

“Your ass has hidden depths,” Steve said, then grinned immediately after the sentence left his lips, enormously pleased when Tony burst into raucous, unrestrained laughter.

“Shut up,” Tony said, pausing to giggle again. “You did not just say that.”

“On the contrary, I think I just did.” Steve couldn’t help the warm glow in his chest that came purely from being the reason for Tony’s laughter.

“Yours does, too, buddy.”

“Yes, but mine isn’t the one that’s about to take supersoldier dick, is it?”

“True that. Speaking of supersoldier dick, touch it.”

Steve put the phone back on speaker and laid it on his chest before obeying Tony’s request and wrapping his hand around himself. “I am.”

“You ready for me? I need you good and hard if I’m going to take you for a ride.”

“Yes. That’s...That’s not going to be a problem.” Steve squeezed his hand around his shaft and started up a slow rhythm. He’d been aroused for what felt like hours now, even though he knew that wasn’t really the case; he wasn’t going to last long, and thankfully, he didn’t need to.

“Good. You’re cuffed, so all you can do is sit there and take it, however I want to give it to you.”

At Tony’s words, a moan built in Steve’s chest and laddered up through his throat before it spilled out of his mouth, messy and real. 

“Yeah, baby, that’s it,” said Tony. “Let me hear you.”

“My legs are free,” Steve pointed out. “I can still thrust up into you if I want to.”

“Sure, you could, but you’re not going to, are you? Because I’m trusting you not to, right?”

“I won’t. I’ll be good.”

“Of course you will,” Tony said in a near-croon. “I promised I’d take care of you. Let me do that.”

“How?” Steve asked, but the word came out a croak. He cleared the hoarseness from his throat and tried again: “How are you going to give it to me? Fast? Or slow?” He wasn’t sure he even knew which answer he was hoping for.

“Slow at first,” Tony said. “I feel so empty; I need you to fill me up. But I’m going to put my hands on those thick shoulders of yours for leverage—can you feel the heat of my palms and fingers spread out on your skin?”

Steve slammed his eyes shut in concentration. “Yes.” He thrust into his fist. “I can feel it.” He could.

“Good. I’m going to work you into me,” Tony said, “inch by slow inch,” and Steve could do nothing but shudder and pant as he pictured the sensuous twist of Tony’s hips. “Until you finally, finally bottom out.”

Another moan punched out of Steve, raw and shameless, an audible mirror of the heat that Tony stoked through his entire body with his words, his laugh, his love. With his everything.

“What is it?” Tony asked. “Tell me.”

“I’m thinking...about how your cheeks get just a little bit pink”—here Steve paused and swallowed—“and your mouth falls open.” He heard Tony release a strangled groan; it went straight to Steve’s cock. “When we’re fucking,” Steve added. “I’m thinking about how hot and tight you are around me.” Steve didn’t mean to just yet, but his hand sped up. Eyes clenched tight, Steve bit down on his lip. “Sweetheart,” he said, breathing hard, “I can’t hold out much longer. Sorry. I’m sorry.” He gasped. “Feels so good.”

“God,” Tony said, and his voice had slid into some dark, husky thing that beckoned to every last part of Steve. “Don’t you dare apologize. Do you have any idea how fucking hot it is to know you’re about to lose it because of me? I’m not even there.”

“Doesn’t...Doesn’t matter,” Steve said, straining. He was almost there. So close. Sweat slid down from his temple. “It’s your voice. Know what you feel like. This is what you do to me. Oh. Oh, Tony, I can’t— I can’t.” Steve’s voice cracked on the last words.

“You can. Do it for me. I want to feel you shoot inside me. It’s okay. Mess me up, baby.”

Steve’s hand moved so fast, and the pleasure was so strong, and still, it was just...slightly...out...of...reach.

“I love you,” said Tony.

Light jolted through Steve and spilled out of him on a whimper.

As every muscle in his body relaxed, Steve blinked lazily, dragged his fingers through the mess on his chest, and listened to Tony. 

“Oh, fuck. Steve. Fuck.” His breaths were loud and harsh through the phone. Steve gave it maybe ten more seconds. 

“I’m here,” Steve said. “Come for me. Now.”

Sure enough, seven seconds ticked by before Tony keened.

Another thirty seconds after that, Tony spoke up, sounding spent and happy. “You can’t do this to me,” Tony complained. “I’m too damned old.”

“Me? How is this my fault?”

“Oh, this is definitely your fault. You flaunted yourself. Take responsibility, Steven. You tempted me—with my own t-shirt, no less. And then that picture of your”—Tony’s voice dropped to a stage whisper—“ penis .”

“You begged for those pictures.” Steve snickered. “It is not my fault you couldn’t handle them."

“Listen, you. I cannot be held responsible for anything that happens when my little old shirt is stretched across your sweet tits.”

Steve felt it, the blush that rapidly stretched across his chest, up his throat, and along his cheeks. 

“You’re blushing,” Tony crowed. “I can hear it.”

“Be quiet. That is not a thing. You can’t hear a blush.”

“But you’re blushing, right? Right? Tell the truth, spangles. Don’t you start lying to me now. It’s against our vows.”

“You are going to crawl,” Steve said, as slowly and succinctly as he could, “and you are going to beg.”

“Yeah, yeah, sure. I already said I would. Get with the program already.” Tony paused, and Steve rolled his eyes, waiting for it. “None of that changes the fact that you’re blushing.”

“Good night, Tony. I’m going to hang up and get some sleep now.”

“No, you’re not, sweet thing. Not without my kiss. Give me some sugar.”

Steve shook his head, puckered his lips, and made a little kissing sound. “You’re ridiculous. Come home.”

“Thank you. I’m gonna collect on that hour of kisses, by the way,” said Tony.

“I’m looking forward to it.”

“Love you, sweet thing.”

Steve smiled. “I love you more.” He fumbled for some tissues, then said, “Will you do me a favor?”

“Sure. What’s up?”

“Stay on the phone with me until I fall asleep. If you have to get to another meeting, just forget it, but—”

Tony interrupted him. “Shh. Go to sleep,” he said, and the sound of his voice was a comfort Steve let himself curl into like a warm, fuzzy blanket. “I’m here. I’ll stay with you.”