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Tony wheezed, “I am the world’s spriest man. I am full of sprite.” After a meaningful pause, he snuffled, “Wait a minute, did I just crack the Matrix? It’s called Sprite because it makes you spry?”
“Should I be concerned?” Steve asked Rhodey.
Shaking his head, Rhodey chucked a warmed blanket over Tony—he hissed loudly in gratitude—and said, “No.”
“Don’t listen to him, he’s full of piss,” Tony grumbled, reemerging, hair even more askew.
“Tony,” Steve rebuked. “Be nice.”
Tony flipped him the bird, then balled up the blanket and tossed it across the room with a shout of “Kobe!”
Sighing, Steve nodded at the takeout bags and told Rhodey, “Thanks for the assist.”
“Any time. Not really,” Rhodey clarified firmly. “Do not call me after midnight.”
“Noted.”
“Do not call me before four AM,” he added gravely. “I will kill you.”
“I will keep that in mind.”
Patting him on the shoulder once, Rhodey said, “Maybe hide the keys.”
Then he was gone, and Steve was left with a feverish, restless Tony Stark. “Hey, you wanna go jump out of a plane?”
“No.”
“Joy killer,” Tony muttered, flopping around on the couch.
“I thought Benadryl knocked people out.”
“‘I thought Benadryl knocked people out,’” Tony imitated meanly. “What’re you, my mother? Of course not.” Shoving himself to his feet, he waved a finger imperiously. “I am the unstoppable man.” He took one step forward, swayed, and decided, “This was a mistake.”
Steve sighed, stepped around the couch, and planted Tony firmly on it. Tony grimaced, rubbing his face. “What’s a guy gotta do around here to get a blanket?” he grumbled, pawing around the spare back of the couch. “Hm?”
Steve retrieved the blanket from the floor and held it out. Tony looked at it like it had strangled a small woodland animal in front of him. “No, I can’t use this,” he decided. “It’s not clean.”
“The floor is clean,” Steve said.
Tony shook his head. “You think the dirt is clean. I do not sleep in the dirt.”
While he was reasonably sure he could convince drug-free, hale-and-hearty Tony that the blanket was not dirty, Steve decided it wasn’t worth the argument with the sick version. So, he set the unworthy blanket aside, fetched another blanket from the spare storage room, and only scowled a little when he saw Tony bundled up neatly in the original blanket. “That’s cute.”
Tony flashed a thousand-watt smile, then said, “I’m always cute,” before holding out both hands. “Gimme.”
Steve warily handed him the blanket.
“Kob—! Hey,” Tony pouted, as Steve caught the blanket mid-throw. “Cheater.”
Bundling the second blanket around Tony’s shoulders firmly, Steve said, “Go to sleep.”
Tony blinked up at him, then held up a finger imperiously, yawned, and said, “Make me.”
Challenge accepted.
Tony’s gaze followed him, wide eyed with undisguised curiosity, as Steve sat on the couch beside him. Steve still had to take care of dinner, make sure Bruce was alive, pray to God Natasha was holding out in her self-imposed reverse quarantine, and maybe offer a “my condolences” to Clint—who had also fallen ill with “the plague”—but it was hardly a hardship to maneuver Tony in his bundle until Tony was huddled in his arms. Slumping down against the arm of the couch, he ordered, “Go to sleep.”
Tony whined, “You’re choking me,” even though Steve’s grip was closer to his shoulders than his neck. Tony kept whining until he finally loosened it, at which point he squirmed out of his grip, stood, said again, “This was a mistake,” and this time nearly tripped over the coffee table as he wandered off.
“Tony,” Steve ordered. He grunted a little as Tony flopped on top of him, heedless of his own not-inconsiderable weight, especially when a knee ended up on his lower abdomen. Intentionally, Steve was sure. Folding his arms securely around him, Steve decided to ignore the sea otter whines emitting from the blanket, instead drawing it up until it was covering Tony’s ears, loose enough he could still breathe.
“Steeeeeebe,” Tony whined. If there was a v in there, Steve didn’t hear it. “Steeeebe. Steeeeebe, I’m drowning. I’m drowning, Steeeeebe.”
Normally, that would be enough for Steve to drop him like a hot coal—on the couch, not the floor—in alarm, but there wasn’t any real distress in his tone, and his squirming was only halfhearted.
“Night-night,” Steve insisted.
Tony whined inaudibly at a pitch guaranteed to give Steve a headache if it lasted any more than three seconds, but Tony’s lung capacity was on his side, and then he coughed into Steve’s chest, whining again, “Steeeeebe, I’m dying.”
“Night-night.”
Steve sighed as Tony coughed again, even more hoarsely than before. “Tony, please.” Maybe appealing to his humanity would work—Tony was a people-pleaser.
“Fuck off,” Tony whined in response, only the top of his head visible where he’d buried his face in Steve’s shirt. “I’m dying.” He rubbed his face back and forth against Steve’s chest. “Dying, Steeeebe.”
Wondering if it was morally wrong to offer a little more Benadryl—the dose applied to twelve-year-old children, and Tony, while moody and prone to flipping the Scrabble board as soon as Bruce started edging ahead of him, was far from a twelve-year-old—Steve stroked his back firmly, switching tactics. “If you take a nap, I will make you coffee,” he bribed shamelessly.
Tony ceased his high-pitched whining to say, “Coffee?”
“If you nap,” Steve said firmly.
“What if,” Tony began, lifting his head to squint at Steve, hair even more askew and whole face red, eyes, nose, pouty lip. He was still the most attractive person Steve had ever seen. He just looked even more Bambi-ish than usual. “What if coffee now?” he bargained hopefully, wagging his eyebrows a little.
Steve stroked his hand up Tony’s back, glancing over his neck before settling firmly in his sweat-damp hair. “Nap now,” he said, as Tony obligingly shoved his head under Steve’s arm, hiding in the couch cushions. “Coffee later.”
“I’ll castrate you if you’re faking,” Tony muttered.
Huffing, Steve said, “No, you won’t.”
Tony grumbled, and Steve didn’t expect a response, but then Tony said, “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“Awful sweet of you,” Steve drawled.
“I wasn’t speaking to you, I was speaking to your dick,” Tony sniffed.
Sighing, Steve said, “Night, Tony.”
“Night, dick-bearer. Dick-wearer? Ugh, that’s awful. Hey, scratch my back and I’ll marry you.”
“We’re already married,” Steve reminded, raking his hand up and down Tony’s back under the blankets, making him hum.
“Yeah, but.” Tony interrupted himself with a deep yawn, then snuggled down and started snoring scant seconds later.
Pleased, Steve realized The Flaw in the Plan too late. With Tony lying on top of him, he couldn’t exactly do anything else he’d planned to once Tony finally chilled out and stopped wandering off to cause mayhem. Carefully attempting to shift out from under Tony only made him cling more intently to Steve’s shirt.
Terrific.
Well, when in Rome, Steve thought, shutting his own eyes.
. o .
“Steeeeeeeeebe,” Tony moaned into his collar. “I’m dying, Steeebe.”
Blinking slowly awake, somewhat disoriented, Steve winced as Tony attempted to sit up by planting an elbow directly into his sternum and moaning, “Ohhhh, my everything. My everything hurts. What is this? Is this—” Giving up on his rant against the universe, he squirmed back down, plastering himself against Steve’s front. “Steeeeeebe,” he entreated.
“Thought you were a Sprite,” Steve muttered, shifting a now awake Tony off himself, despite his loud protests and clinging hands. “I have to take care of the food, Tony.”
“How can you think about food when I’m dying?” Tony retorted, clinging with all four limbs. “Noooo, Steeebe. Nooooo.”
Steve did manage to stand, albeit with more effort than it should have taken, and pressed his palm against Tony’s forehead. Yeup—it was cooking. “I’m hotttt, Steeeebe,” Tony whined. “Fix me.”
“I could hose you down,” Steve drawled automatically, wincing at himself a moment later.
But Tony just sighed, “We don’t even have a hose, you insensitive Groot.”
“What’s a Groot?”
“Mythical tree people,” Tony muttered, squinting up at him. “Page 3,457 of the S.H.I.E.L.D. files on known alien races.”
“. . . . Huh,” Steve said eloquently.
“Did you not read,” Tony began, pausing to snuffle and brush his sleeve under his nose, “Page 3,457 of the S.H.I.E.L.D. files on alien races?” Struggling upright, he ended up flopping over backwards in what looked like an awkward position, declaring haughtily, “I speed-read all 25,843 pages of the S.H.I.E.L.D. files on known alien races.”
“Wow,” Steve said, meaning to sound honestly impressed but too amused by the sight in front of him to pull it off.
Sniffing loudly, Tony said, “No one appreciates me,” and whined loudly, “I’m cold, Steeeeebe.”
“Well,” Steve offered, “I could draw up a hot bath, but you don’t like hot baths—”
“I’m cold, Steeebe,” Tony insisted, again sitting on the v, making it a very heavy b. “Cooooold.”
Sympathetically, Steve offered, “I mean, we could try?”
Tony held out both his arms. Steve sighed. “I can’t carry you everywhere, Tony,” he reminded. He’d already carried Tony up from the lab to the living room, where it would hypothetically be easier to keep up with his many demands—perfectly reasonable statutes, according to Tony—and attend his own needs, like eating dinner, checking on the others, and maybe even reading about the mythical tree people in S.H.I.E.L.D.’s manual on alien races.
“Steeebe,” Tony pouted, arms still out. “Help me. Help me.”
Sighing, deciding he had somehow inflicted this on himself when he caved to Tony’s pleas for medicine, Steve scooped him up, newlywed style. Tony promptly flung both arms around his neck and licked one side of his face. “Awh, God, Tony,” Steve grunted. “For the love of—”
“My hero,” Tony said, nuzzling his cheek against Steve’s shoulder.
“Now I need a bath,” Steve grumbled.
“A kiss for my knight in shining armor,” Tony insisted.
“That’s you,” Steve reminded.
Humming a song he didn’t know, Tony just shut his eyes and let Steve carry him to their room, inconveniently far from the food he still hadn’t eaten and several floors away from any of the other Avengers. But, well, they were adults, and food didn’t spoil that fast. His hunger was really the only pressing issue, but he’d get over it—he’d done far worse in the field.
“Steeeeebe,” Tony began again, sitting on the bench along the wall as Steve, not entirely optimistically, filled up the tub with hot water. “Don’t forget the bubbles, Steeeeebe.”
Did they put Coke in Benadryl? Steve wondered, as Tony chucked a plastic bottle at the back of his head. “They smell like vanilla and vetiver.”
“What’s vetiver?”
“Heaven,” Tony sniffed.
Steve sat on the edge of the tub, popped the lid, and sniffed the bottle. Smelled like vanilla, all right, with a hint of . . . he sniffed deeply, trying to place the slightly woodland aroma, a mixture of leather and grass, with just a touch of citrusy plants. “Huh,” he said.
“I will demonstrate,” Tony said, hopping down from the counter and nearly face-planting on the marble floor. Steve caught him, replaced him on his perch, and sighed, “I got it.”
He read the back of the bottle, which simply recommended liberal application, so he . . . dumped a solid third of it into the bath. “Steeeebe, that’s not enough,” Tony whined, as a mountain of bubbles began to form. “Steeeebe, it’s alive.”
It was growing rather alarmingly quickly, Steve thought, but the tub was only half full, so he crossed his fingers and hoped real hard and let out a relieved sigh when the bubbles reached critical mass but did not swell up to truly monstrous proportions, consuming the room in a wave of pleasant-smelling foam.
Tony was never one for modesty—he frequently slapped Strip in front of every family-friendly activity Steve brought up as a potential team-bonding exercise, and was usually the first to break the family-friendly barrier—but he just kicked his feet happily from the counter, saying, “Now what?”
Well, Steve thought, now he got in, except Tony historically hated baths—not merely disliked, nor tolerated, but actively hated—and now he had an entire tub full of nice hot water and a shivering Tony and no decent way to marry the two. Whose idea was this again? Way to go, Rogers. “Well,” he began eloquently.
Tony tripped off the counter, swaggered forward, and said, “Me first.” He tried shucking off his shirt, somehow got tangled in a sleeve, and whined with real distress, “Help, help—” before Steve tugged it off. “I’m alive,” he preened, kicking off his pants without sitting down on the edge of the tub, which nearly resulted in him somersaulting into it. Steve’s speedy reflexes and one-handed assistance helped him free himself.
Whistling cheerfully, Tony lifted a leg, stepped into the tub, and sighed euphorically. Steve’s heart was beating very fast, ready to pick him up and hurry him away at the first sign of distress, but aside from a little shiver at the temperature difference, he sat in the water with zero fuss.
Wow.
Then he started to slump, and Steve scrambled to prop him up before he sunk under the water, very sure that would not go well. Tony glared at him, the bubbles around his mouth and chin decidedly neutralizing any threat. “Hey, I’m vibing here.”
“Vibe up here,” Steve replied, setting him back upright. “Tony,” he rebuked, as Tony immediately but thankfully slowly began sinking back down, holding his gaze.
“Quit harshin’ my vibe,” Tony insisted, at the same level as before. “I just wanna be one with the ocean.”
Still holding Tony under the arm with one hand, Steve pressed his other hand to the side of his own face for a moment, rallying his non-combative, loving husband. “Tony, this is a bathtub,” he said.
Tony flapped a hand, splashing soap into his eye—ow—and sniffed, “Well, you’re just not vibing with it.”
With half his front already soaked, Steve sighed, “Will you quit it if I join you?”
Tony said, “I won’t . . . not quit it,” and grinned like he was very clever.
Steve had a hell of a time getting his shirt off, between Tony alternating his attempts to vibe with the ocean and pull Steve into the tub, never mind the clothes. He nearly gave up on the pants when Tony splashed him again, standing and divesting them in record time. “Scoot forward,” he ordered.
Tony blinked owlishly up at his face, then leveled his gaze meaningfully at Steve’s waist and told his dick, “I love you.”
Snickering helplessly, he at least didn’t fight Steve lifting him up a little in lieu of actually persuading him to move of his own volition and sliding in behind him.
Sighing contentedly, Steve admitted, “Not my worst idea.” The hot water was exceedingly comfortable, and sharing a bath with Tony Stark was always a pleasure.
Tony Stark-Rogers, he amended absentmindedly, wondering if age would ever make it less strange that they even shared a name. They still used their original last names in public, but it was kind of nice to have their own little secret.
He was just starting to think that he was a goddamn genius for thinking of a bath when, not thinking, he scooped a little water and rinsed some of the sweat out of Tony’s nape.
Tony tensed, and Steve froze, hands still extended. For one second, he thought they’d be all right.
Then Tony bolted like a very sudsy bat out of hell.
Steve winced, resisting the urge to call out to him, even reassuringly—he wouldn’t hear it, he would only panic more if Steve tried. Clambering over the edge, spilling a lot of water everywhere, Tony nearly slipped on his face as he scrambled for the door, slamming it shut behind himself.
Well. Shit, Steve thought.
. o .
After consigning damage control to a few towels on the wet floor, Steve wrapped a bathrobe around himself and found Tony.
He’d dug out one of Steve’s sweaters and a pair of matching pants, curling up in an armchair instead of their bed. The back of his neck was still damp. His face was very flushed, eyes squeezed shut. His knuckles were white around the fistful of sweater he had in his hand.
“Tony?” Steve said. Tony opened one eye, then shut it, shuddering once. “Hey.” Crouching, Steve rested a hand on his knee. “S’just me.” Tony opened both eyes, this time, looking down at him, not trusting but listening. “I promise,” Steve insisted, rubbing his knee. “I’d never hurt you.”
Tony nodded once, then swallowed, hissing out a breath that was almost a curse. “I. Um.” His throat clicked when he swallowed. “I think I’m gonna . . . lay down, for a hot minute.” He drew in a shallow breath, then grimaced, like it hurt. “It’s really not fair, you know,” he grumbled. “Finally got the . . . .” He patted his chest eloquently, right where the arc reactor had been. “Still haunts me,” he finished.
“That’s normal,” Steve said honestly.
Tony nodded again, then slowly, painstakingly, shuffled to his feet. Steve slid an arm around his shoulders, even though it wasn’t that far, just for moral support. “Hey, if we have—soup, I could go for soup.”
“Sure,” Steve agreed. Tony slid under the covers, deliberately pulled them up over his head, and turned away from him. Steve refused to take it personally, adding, “Any kind, or—?”
“Any kind’s fine,” Tony said softly.
Ten minutes, a wardrobe change, and a very hastily eaten takeout meal later, Steve returned bearing gifts. Tony was snoring again, which presented a moral dilemma, but just as Steve had resolved to store the soup and let Tony sleep, Tony rolled over with a whine of, “Steeeeebe.”
“Brought you soup,” Steve said, glad he didn’t have to make the call.
“Steeeeebe,” Tony whined again. “I’m dying.” He coughed hideously into his arm, proclaiming, “I hope you enjoyed our three-month long marriage.”
“Aww,” Steve said, honestly, sitting on the bed, balancing the tray on his lap and saying, “I have.”
“Such a sap, Steeeeeebe,” Tony moaned, but he did finally pop his head out of the covers, looking like something that usually lived under the bed, eyes red and hair truly disastrous. “You brought soup? For me?”
“Well,” Steve said, but Tony looked so sad, like a kicked puppy, that he couldn’t even bring himself to finish the playful taunt, Actually, I was just gonna sit here and eat it all myself. “Yeah. Chicken noodle? I figured it’s—”
“Soup for the soul,” Tony agreed with a nod, struggling forward with what was, audibly at least, a herculean effort. “Godddd, Steeeeebe. Spare me from my mortal husk.” He planted his face with bruising force against Steve’s shoulder, grumbling, “Ow.”
“Y’okay there?” Steve asked, balancing the tray with one hand and Tony with the other. “How’s that shell head of yours?”
“Oh, ha-ha, very funny, wing boy,” Tony grunted. “Watch me put—glitter, all over your uniform,” he yawned, pawing around for the spoon. “It will never come off.”
“That is how glitter works,” Steve said somberly. Needless to say, it had ceased featuring in any kind of family-bonding activity after one particularly disastrous attempt at arts and crafts.
“Steeeeebe. I’m starving,” Tony whined, face still buried in Steve’s shoulder and spoon-wielding hand stabbing at the tray noisily.
“Geez, Tony, careful,” Steve said, shifting his hand down to grip Tony’s arm and stop him from causing a second wave. Water on tile floor was fine; soup on lap was less fine. “Here, sit up for a sec, I’ll prop the pillows up for ya,” he offered, while Tony just sighed like it was an awful lot to ask and nodded once.
“Does it ever get tiring to be so disgustingly practical?” Tony asked, slumped over, squinting at him as he set the soup on the nightstand instead and set about propping up pillows against the headboard. “Hmmmm? You ever just yearn to spite? Are you full of Spite?” Licking his lips, he admitted, “I haven’t had Sprite in years. Does it still taste like crack for kids?”
“Tony,” Steve rebuked.
“What? It’s weird. I have sense memories of Sprite. I want Sprite,” he decided.
“I brought you soup,” Steve said instead.
“J.A.R.V.I.S.? Do we have Sprite?”
“Of course, sir.”
Blinking, Tony said, “Wait, really?”
“Barton has a stockpile to be used at his discretion.”
“Of course he does. Funny, I pegged him as a—” Tony sighed as Steve just hooked his hands under Tony’s arms and slid him over to the pillows. He relaxed with a deep hum. “—Squirt, kind of guy,” he finished.
“What on God’s green Earth is—I don’t wanna know,” Steve decided, passing the tray into Tony’s gimme hands, not before making sure he wouldn’t simply tip the entire contents onto his own and/or Steve’s lap, for fun, of course.
“If Sprite had a cousin—”
“You gonna be okay if I check on Barton?”
Tony instantly whined, “No. Don’t you dare. I’m on my deathbed.” He cracked open the packet of saltines Steve had thoughtfully curated and added, “What if I were to perish from the Earth in your absence?”
“The common cold’s lethality is famously low,” chimed in J.A.R.V.I.S. “While complications are possible—”
“Oh, blah blah, robots can’t die, I will give you the digital Norovirus,” Tony grunted, moodily crunching on a cracker. “Test me. See what happens.”
“Would you prefer digital entertainment, sir?” J.A.R.V.I.S. offered diplomatically.
“I’ll be back,” Steve promised him, kissing his forehead.
Tony grumbled around a cracker, “Abandonment.”
“Right back.”
. o .
“No, you can’t have my Sprite.”
Sprawled in his personal lounge in front of the TV, Clint had built his own one-man caretaking setup, complete with a stack of empty Styrofoam containers and an inadvisable quantity of throat lozenge wrappers. “What’s it to ya?” Clint demanded, rolling another cherry lozenge in his mouth. “Hm?”
Sighing, Steve said, “Tony—”
Clint brayed, “Oh, ho. Well then. I want a sword. Sword for a Sprite.”
“A sword?” Steve said incredulously. “Barton, you have a sword.”
Clint glared at him. “And? Don’t tell him. Tell him I want another. A single sword, to enhance my collection of . . . zero to five swords.”
“You don’t even use it,” Steve grumbled. Snatching up a can from the open pack at Clint’s side, Steve asked incredulously, “Five?”
“I said nothing,” Clint grumbled. “I want it in three to five business days.”
“You’ll get it when you get it,” Steve grumbled back. “Anything else?”
“Yes. I want a pony.”
Steve let the door shut firmly behind him.
. o .
There was a decontamination room leading into Bruce’s quarters, which Steve was certain was new—he didn’t remember being spritzed with Lysol prior to entry on previous visits, but at least he shut his eyes instinctively. “Banner,” he growled, stepping into the actual living space.
Holed up in a corner in his usual working remote position, complete with rounded glasses, wide eyes, and blue-white glare from his laptop, Bruce blinked owlishly at him, then said, “Hi.”
“You good?” Steve asked.
Nodding once, Bruce said, “Actually, if you’re not too busy, I could use a—”
Steve shut the door before he could finish.
. o .
Natasha didn’t even let him in her quarters, remotely communicating, Yes, I’m still alive, via note underneath the door. She wasn’t sick, as far as he knew, but she also wasn’t taking any chances.
. o .
Tony was lying on the floor, contemplating existential dread, when he returned.
“If reincarnation is real, I am coming back as a flea. I don’t think I’m ready for that.”
Setting his hard-won bounty down on the nearest flat surface, Steve said, “C’mon, Tony. Back in the bed.”
Holding up a hand for a pause, Tony said solemnly, “I have seen the hypothetical future, and I am a flea.”
Steve offered him a hand. Tony stared at him, then looked up at him with sad eyes, asking, “Would you be nice to me, if I was a flea?”
“C’mon,” Steve said, grasping his arm and gently pulling him up. Tony grimaced at the elevation change, swaying on his feet.
“I don’t wanna be a flea. But I can’t avoid it, if that’s the case. Reincarnation is a bitch,” he muttered, shuffling along as Steve steered him to bed. Sitting on the edge, he looked up at Steve and asked seriously, “You’d love me, wouldn’t you?”
“Well,” Steve said, resting a hand on his shoulder. Tony hung onto his arm with both hands, big eyes unexpectedly sincere. Steve swallowed. “Yeah. I would. I’d hope we were both fleas.”
Tony chuckled, but it was a little wet. “You, sir, are never going to be a flea. You’ve earned your heaven. Whatever it is. Rest.” He shut his eyes, looking very weary.
Setting a knee on the bed, Steve told him seriously, “I won’t go anywhere without you.” Tony blinked up at him, and Steve insisted, “Wherever you go, that’s where I’ll be.”
Tony said honestly, “I don’t think you’d like that very much,” but Steve just folded him into his arms, letting him rest his forehead against Steve’s belly. “You don’t deserve it.”
“And neither do you,” Steve insisted softly. “I don’t care what you’ve done. You’ve done better. You’re doing better. That counts.”
Sniffing, Tony said, “Gee, whiz, I can’t wait to watch you argue against the Grim Reaper on my behalf. Debate of the century. Millennium. What’s a million years called?”
“It’s called bedtime,” Steve said, feeling Tony sag against him, melting as Steve scratched his back gently.
“No, I don’t think that’s right,” Tony insisted, but he flopped over anyway when Steve let go, breathing out contentedly before scrunching up his nose. “My mouth is still so dry,” he groaned. “Is this what it’s like to be a flea?”
“You won’t be a flea,” Steve promised, shooing him under the covers properly, tucking them up to his shoulders. “A hamster, at most.”
It got the little laugh he wanted, a snicker that made him grin as Tony said, “You are a charmer, Steven Grant Rogers.”
“That’s Stark-Rogers to you,” Steve said, kissing his temple. “I brought you Sprite.”
Tony moaned, “Marry me, you sexy bastard.”
Laughing, Steve assured, “Already did,” and tried the first sip. “Wow,” he said.
“Give me,” Tony said, and took a heartier gulp, grimacing immediately after. “That’s horrific.”
“Well,” Steve said, accepting it as Tony handed it back with a disappointed shake of his head. “They can’t all be winners.”
Shaking his head and burrowing it back into a downy pillow, Tony huffed, “They can’t all be winners,” and snored into peaceful oblivion.
He was back to whining miserably as soon as the Benadryl wore off, pawing at Steve and begging him to be the world’s best boyfriend—husband, Steve corrected, with that familiar warm feeling in his chest—and fetch Tony more.
It was a thankful chore, he decided, resting his chin on top of Tony’s sleeping head. Being Tony Stark’s husband was—well, chore greatly exaggerated the ratio of trouble to fun they had.
It was a gift. Simple as that.