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Rhodey didn’t touch him in the helicopter. He didn’t touch him in the field hospital where he puked into a silver bucket and sweated a fever while he floated on pain killers and mumbled memories under his breath. Didn’t touch but stayed close—stayed right there, in the chair or by the door looking tireless and restless and aggravated.
Rhodey didn’t touch him in the morning after when the sheets had to be changed and the practical arrangements of his return to the United States were being argued out without his input or consent. There was a fumbling doctor asking fumbling questions about the thing in his chest and Tony had no answers.
Rhodey didn’t touch him in the late afternoon when the food smelled like gourmet cuisine and it made his stomach roll all over again. It tasted like sawdust and his skin itched to be clean—cleaner—scrubbed down. He yelled at the nurse that told him he couldn’t take a shower and offered him a sponge and a bowl. Rhodey said: “Tony,” then like a mother scolding a child and then he put a hand on the nurse’s shoulder and took her to the door to make quiet compromises about this or that.
Rhodey touched him when she was gone and the door was closed. The blinds were drawn and the bucket of water had soap suds floating like clouds across the murky water. Tony sat with his feet hanging off the side of the bed, wearing army pajamas that were like steel wool against his skin. Rhodey pulled his long shirt off and set it aside. He looked vulnerable in the undershirt and he looked repentant as he pulled the rolling table across the floor so the water was there to reach.
“It’s not her fault,” Rhodey said.
“I can take a shower,” Tony said, “I’ve been imprisoned for three months—I don’t need to be held prisoner here.”
Rhodey laid the towel across his lap and motioned for his shirt. Tony lifted his arm because he was difficult, because he wanted to be difficult, because Rhodey was so fucking quiet and so fucking patient and so fucking far away from him. When Rhodey got close he got very close, legs against Tony’s knees and hands curling under the waistband of his T-shirt to lift it up slow as a caterpillar crawl and just as tickly. His knuckles felt rough but his skin was warm against Tony’s in those little touches and scrapes as he carefully-carefully eased the shirt off his good arm and over his head.
“I need to shave,” Tony said, “I can’t shave here. There’s no mirror.”
Rhodey looked toward the door and then back to him. “I’ll find you a mirror,” he said. Then he reached into the water to find the washcloth and used one-two hands to wring it out so it wasn’t pouring water like a rainfall. Just dripping and warm and scented like practical soap. When he ran it down Tony’s good shoulder it scratched like a cat-tongue and ran down his back and chest and soaked into his pants.
“Say something,” Tony said, “talk. Tell me what I missed.”
“I’ll find you some newspapers,” Rhodey said, “we’ll read them together.” He slid the rag down, to his arm, letting it drip down to his elbow, washing in careful circles like he was afraid to scrub and his other hand was ghosting across the inside of his arm like he wanted to hold him and didn’t. “I haven’t seen anything but the desert in months.”
“That’s more than I’ve seen,” Tony said.
Rhodey rubbed the rag against the inside of his elbow, cupped his hand around the outside of it and Tony slid his hand around Rhodey’s waist to pull at his back. Leaned forward so he slipped off the bed, onto his feet on the cool floor and slid his hand up so it was between tense shoulder-blades. He pulled and Rhodey opened his mouth to object, still dripping water with a soppy rag and ducking his head.
“Three months,” Tony said to the side of his face, “I’ve been gone for three months—look at me.”
Rhodey looked—corner of his eyes, flat line to his mouth, shiver of something all through his muscles and Tony could feel it because they were so close it was a shiver in his body. He dug the pads of his fingers in against Rhodey’s back, curled his hand into a fist and pushed like pulling. The washcloth hit the ground with a wet plop and Rhodey’s hands were soap-smelling and damp against his face. Holding him there, stroking his skin, nose-to-nose and not quite kissing. “You’re such an idiot, you’re such a God-damn irresponsible idiot. I told you. I told you,” and his words were fury that the press of his mouth wasn’t. The insecure violence of his hands was the rough clench on his face and the smooth whimper on his shoulders. Rhodey was touching his arms, dipping his hands down to his chest, around his back. Like he could gather him up and squeeze him away from three months and whatever horror it had brought.
He kissed him with one good hand at the back of his neck, scratching because he wanted him closer, wanted it harder, wanted him as close as skin and bone could get. He opened his mouth and Rhodey stroked his hair with a desperate man’s moan against his tongue. His thighs hit the bed and Tony held on tighter because he didn’t want to let go, up on the balls of his feet and biting back against the repentance in Rhodey’s kiss.
No. None of that.
“Tony,” Rhodey said at the corner of his mouth. His thumb was going across the edge of his eyebrow, down his cheek and over his lip while he stared at his face like it was something precious. Tony held onto his neck—shoulder—that stupid shirt in his way and leaned in to kiss him again. Just a touch. A hand down his back and Rhodey pressed back against the kiss and pressed against his chest so he sat down again.
They licked their reddened lips and shifted in their places with awkward grace. Rhodey picked up the washcloth and found another.