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“Down there, to the left,” Clint says. “Towels are in the bathroom.”
“Wait, what?” Tony says.
“I can take the couch,” Steve offers.
“You guys want Laura to kill me, is that it?” Clint says. “Suck it up and take the room.”
“Sorry, we do appreciate it,” Steve says, with gratitude that Tony doesn’t entirely share.
Tony sighs. “Down there, to the left. Yeah, yeah.”
+
Honestly speaking, Tony expected worse. When Clint said that everyone would have to double-up for the night, Tony imagined getting a bed the size of a cot, in a room the size of a (normal person’s) closet.
But no. The first floor guest room of Casa Barton is actually pretty nice: airy, clean, with a large bed and its own bathroom, and windows that overlook the great plain of farmness that they have chosen to live in of their own free will. One of Clint’s kids (still weird) uses the room most of the time, but he’s fine with letting them have it for the night.
So here they are.
“I could take the floor?” Steve says.
“I kick, so you probably will at some point,” Tony says. “But best not to offend to missus, I’m thinking.”
Tony called it a night first, and finished up with the bathroom quickly in hopes of getting dibs on his preferred side of the bed. He’d also hoped to be fast asleep before Steve got here, but he’s enough of a futurist to know that that was even more unlikely that Bruce having a change of heart and asking to bunk with Tony instead.
Steve starts stripping. Not a new sight, what with Tony being responsible for designing the armor he’s wearing, and the sheer amount of times various Avengers have had to deal with Steve’s injuries during missions, but Tony is still compelled to turn away. Not out of nerves, mind. Out of politeness. Yes.
In some ways, it might’ve been easier for them to be roommies if they were full on mad at each other. Then it would be frosty and passive-aggressive, and they’d steam silently at each other through the night and that would be that. But as it is, he and Steve are at that weird in-between where tensions are at a medium simmer but they don’t want to make it worse while simultaneously knowing that they very well could make it worse with a word or gesture regardless of the intent behind it.
Sure, he and Steve have been doing fine lately – good teamwork, decent rhythm, Avengers assemble, et cetera – and it’s only this latest hiccup with Ultron and the Wicked Witch of the East(ern Europe) that’s brought the pricklier aspects of their relationship back to the surface. Steve’s still unhappy about what Tony and Bruce did with Loki’s scepter, but he knows that that’s not important right now; they need to work together to solve the problem, and then afterward, perhaps, they can figure out how not to do it again.
For now, rest, and tomorrow, back to Avenging.
Tony plants his hands on his hips and considers the bed. Pillows, two sets of blankets (thoughtful) and clean sheets – all of the above in a boring, neutral beige. Tony climbs onto the bed just as he hears Steve put what must be the last of his armor on the chair.
“I’m serious about the kicking,” Tony says, trying for levity. “Try not to hit me in your sleep.”
Steve makes a vague sound as he heads for the bathroom. It’s amazing how Tony can read absolutely nothing in that sound, be it approval or disapproval or amusement or discomfort. Any of the above would give him something to work with. But as it is, all Tony can do is climb into the bed with a general sense of foreboding.
Tony has a pillow under his head and his chosen blanket up to his chest by the time Steve’s out of the bathroom. Sadly, though his eyes are shut he is not yet asleep, so he gets to listen to Steve pad around the room in his bare feet and turn off the light.
The mattress dips when Steve sits on it. He pauses, the few seconds of silence somehow apologetic, before shifting and lying down. A wisp of cool air rushes along the sheet when Steve tosses his blanket out over him, and then the blanket’s down, Steve’s down, and there are two grown men in a bed that Tony now realizes was much larger when looking at it as opposed to actually being in it.
It’s quiet. They breathe. The minutes pass. Tony is aware of a long line of heat behind his back – just a few inches away at most. Said line of heat makes all the more obvious the coolness to Tony’s front.
Tony took the left side of the bed, which is set flush against the wall and near the window. He’d scooted over when he lay down on his side to face the wall, because Steve no doubt would have taken the floor if push came to shove, and Tony sometimes gets it into his head to not be too much of an ass when they’ve all had a rough day. He’s regretting it now, though, because the wall has a window, and the window is partially open, and the night air is actually kind of chilly.
Tony opens his eyes and stares at the wall. If he were wearing a tank top like he usually does to bed (a habit left over from when he had the arc reactor) it could help, but not by much – his shoulders are very unhappy. He pulls the blanket tighter around himself, only to realize that it’s some fluffy material that most people presumably find comfy but to Tony is just a wall of scratchiness.
Is Steve asleep? Tony’s seen Steve unconscious before but that’s always been because he’s knocked out or collapsed from sheer exhaustion. Regular sleep should be different, but super soldiers might sleep differently too, wouldn’t they? Maybe the serum gave Steve the ability to fall asleep at will. Tony listens intently, and counts out the steady breaths coming from the other side of the bed.
Tony moves one foot backward. Half an inch, to a full inch, and then another inch before he finds a patch of sheet warmed by Steve’s nearby leg. Tony almost sighs in relief.
But heat leeches, and Tony’s shoulders are still cold. He pushes his other foot back, but not very far because now his body’s bent uncomfortably.
No risk, no gain. Tony girds his loins and slowly, carelessly turns over and onto his back. His right arm lands on the mattress, subtly stretching across the demilitarized zone in search of warmth. His wrist bumps Steve, though he can’t tell if that’s a hand or arm because Steve immediately scuttles away, leaving a lovely lovely patch of pre-heated mattress.
Tony breathes for a while. He counts backward and forwards through a few of his favorite numbers, but instead of sleep, he just becomes even more aware of the chill on his left side. He stirs, sighs, and turns over onto his right. The blankets twist a little, and one of his knees knocks Steve’s calf, which shimmies out of the way.
Blessedly, Steve turns over as well, away from Tony. When Tony creaks his eyes open, there’s Steve’s back in front of him – most of it hidden beneath the blanket, but bare shoulders up top.
Logical, Tony reminds himself. Steve won’t wear his underarmor to bed, because he needs to wear it again tomorrow, so it makes sense that he’d stripped down to his shorts the same way that Tony has. At least, Tony assumes he’s wearing shorts. He could be wearing briefs, but Tony thinks Steve is the sort of guy who’d rather borrow shorts (from Clint, presumably) rather than sleep in briefs.
Tony pushes a hand and a leg into the tall, warm patch Steve left behind, and hopes that that’s enough to finally get him to nod off. He even almost succeeds a few times, drifting off for seemingly blink-quick seconds before realizing that he’s still awake. His incremental migration towards the conveniently-nearby source of body heat proceeds.
Then Steve shifts and tries to roll back over, before realizing that in doing so he’d land almost on top of Tony.
“Tony,” Steve says. “Tony?”
Tony makes a sleepy gurgle-hum sound.
Steve sighs. The mattress bounces a little when Steve wriggles into a new position, which Tony doesn’t see because his eyes are shut.
Then Tony’s utterly average attempt at feigning sleep is ruined entirely when Steve puts his fingers on his waist, the palm against Tony’s stomach. Tony’s eyes fly open at the touch, which means that he and Steve are looking at each other when Steve pushes.
“Hey!” Tony yelps, while he is one-handedly pushed across the mattress, back to his earlier spot closer to the wall.
“I’m about to fall off the bed,” Steve says.
“Doesn’t mean you can shove me, geez.” Tony pulls the blanket up automatically, before remembering why didn’t do that earlier. “Ugh.”
Steve frowns. “Are you cold?”
“Yeah.”
“You want me to close the window?”
“It’ll get stuffy. It’s fine.” Tony shakes his head. “It’s just chilly against the wall, that’s all.”
“Let’s switch places.”
“And let you kick me off the bed? No thanks.”
“Oh my god,” Steve says quietly. “Look, I’m giving you options.”
“Yeah, well.” Tony realizes he’s actually shivering, which is annoying because Steve might think that he’s putting on an act. “I just need a bit more space, is all.”
“Do you really?” Steve says, with patience that Tony feels is only a veneer. “I’m literally broader than you.”
“Yeah, well, I’m… spoiled.”
Steve stares at him. “That’s the angle you’re going with?”
Tony stares back. “Yes.”
The nighttime shadows change the angles of Steve’s face, making his narrowed gaze seem more menacing. Tony could be nervous, but mostly he’s irritated that this is what his life has come to, i.e. that this is what it takes to get a hot guy in the same bed as him these days. And it’s not even a hot guy who actually wants to be here. Not that Tony wants to be here either, but that’s… not the point.
They literally just fought against and lost to a baby cylon, so negotiating foot space with Steve should be least stressful thing Tony has to do today.
What is this. Why is this. Why hasn’t Steve done the noble thing and offered to sleep in the barn (because Clint has a literal barn).
Steve moves. At first it seems that he’s conceding space, but then he’s settling on his back, shoulders planted firm under the pillow and his arms flat on the mattress on either side of his body, a full wingspan of super soldier taking up more than half the not-king bed.
“Oh come on,” Tony says.
“You can use my blanket,” Steve says. “And if you take up less space, you lose less body heat.”
“That’s not… what?” Tony waits, but Steve just shuts his eyes, the point made and apparently being stuck to. It’s impressively petty.
Tony grits his teeth. Whatever awkwardness was there before has been effectively shredded to pieces, which is a good thing because awkwardness is exhausting, but is also a bad thing because now Tony has no qualms whatsoever about scooting over and planting himself on top of Steve.
Steve goes, “Ooff!” at the impact, but his handful of confused seconds gives Tony the time to settle into the – oh god, amazing – crevice of warmth between Steve’s side and his arm. Sure, Steve is topless, which means that Tony’s resting his head on a bare chest with a trail of chest hair a few inches away from his nose, but holy shit it’s so blissfully warm, Tony does not care.
“Tony,” Steve says.
“Solution to both problems,” Tony says promptly. “Effective use of space, and I am no longer cold.”
“Really, Tony?”
Tony closes his eyes and braces himself for another shove. He can even feel it coming in the way Steve tenses up. Tony can picture Steve’s face clearly, with its knitted brow and downturned mouth, the way he always looks before bringing down a fist of self-righteousness.
In a way, Tony is right to expect action. But Tony is also wrong, because Steve’s act of retaliation is to bring his arms up around Tony and squeeze.
No, not squeeze. Hold. He’s holding Tony. One arm is wrapped around Tony’s back, and the other puts a hand to rest on Tony’s upper arm, the one that’s curled on Steve’s chest.
Tony scowls. Oh yeah? He takes a breath and calls Steve’s bluff by snuggling deeper into the cradle of his arms. For good measure, he curls a leg over Steve’s, too, and shifts around until every limb is as comfortable as is possible. With Tony’s face pressed into Steve’s chest, each inhale brings in the smell of the apricot shower gel, but also sweat and skin and Steve.
It’s really, really nice. The warmth, that is. Tony hasn’t slept next to someone for ages, and Steve is very, very warm. And solid. Like the best build of a personal body heater. The blankets are tangled somewhere down below, but that’s irrelevant. The skin-to-warm-skin contact is too much of a relief for Tony to be bothered with the fact that it’s Steve’s skin that’s involved.
Then Steve fights dirty. He pushes a hand into Tony’s hair, fingers combing into the strands and rubbing his scalp. Tony may have made a small, “Oh,” sound at the pressure, not that anyone can prove anything.
It’s really, really comfy. Unbelievably so. Steve’s biceps, so threatening at a distance, cushion the back of Tony’s head. The pillow of Steve’s chest rises and falls as he breathes, the motion hypnotic and comforting. Tony feels as if he’s never ever been cold in his life.
Tony falls asleep.
+
They wake up spooning. Or to be more accurate about it, Tony wakes up mostly lying on his stomach, and Steve mostly draped on top of him. Tony also wakes up on the other side of the bed, facing the door as opposed to the wall.
He’d slept very well, though, once he’d dropped off. Despite having somehow ended up on the opposite side of the bed from that he’d started on, he has no complaints whatsoever.
He doesn’t have complaints with waking up, either. Steve’s heavy but no overly so – Tony can breathe well enough, and the arm wrapped around Tony is comfy instead of stifling. Tony closes his eyes again and lingers. It occurs to him that he should be annoyed to have slept so well in Steve’s company, but there’s so many other things unfair about the world, so why not this, too.
Tony can feel the moment Steve wakes up. A murmur, and then a jolt of surprise, Steve’s whole body stiffening against Tony’s back. After a few weighty seconds, Steve starts to pull away, but Tony – still sleep-addled and really, really comfortable – grabs his arm to stop him.
“Five minutes,” Tony mumbles.
Steve hesitates. He settles back against Tony, though he politely shifts his hips, moving his morning wood away from Tony’s thigh.
Five minutes. Then it’s more than five minutes. Tony finds himself pleased by this, because it means that Steve must be really comfy, too. If Steve is an excellent blanket, then Tony must be an excellent body pillow. That makes everything all right, somehow.
Tony drifts off into micro-sleep, and is startled awake at knocking. Steve must’ve fallen back to sleep, too, because he makes an uncharacteristic snort-garble sound, and pressure eases from Tony’s shoulder when Steve lifts his head.
The door opens and Bruce peers in. He’d been about to speak, though his mouth opens on nothing when he sees them.
Tony blinks at him blearily. Steve hasn’t moved from his spot on top of Tony, though hell if Tony can imagine what face Steve must have on right now. A half-hearted defense is probably necessary, not that Tony really cares.
“It’s really cozy,” Tony says.
“I… can see that,” Bruce says. “Anyway, Laura’s calling for breakfast, if you guys… want?”
“Yeah, we’ll be there,” Steve says, his sleep-hoarse voice sending a tingle down Tony’s spine.
“You tell Clint about this, I’ll cut your allowance,” Tony says.
Bruce gives him a look. “Sure, Tony.”
Once Bruce is gone, Steve peels himself off of Tony and sits up. Tony rolls over onto his back to stretch, the muscles in his lower back clicking their relief as he does so. He squints up at Steve, who’s also doing stretches, albeit the more impressive kind with his arms lifted and twisted over his shoulders, which makes his chest and stomach move in interesting ways. Though not smiling, Steve’s face is sleep-soft and content, which makes a different kind of warmth settle in Tony’s chest.
They look at each other. Tony could say something, but he doesn’t feel like it. The quiet is nice; almost as nice as the mess of Steve’s hair, and the red lines on Steve’s stomach from where the blankets had been twisted around and between their bodies.
It’s funny. They were literally plastered together a minute ago, but this is the moment that feels eerily intimate.
“Do, um…” Steve clears his throat. “Do you want to use the bathroom first?”
“Okay,” Tony says.
“Okay.”
“Thanks.”
“Sure.”
Tony rubs his hands into his eyes and pushes himself out of the bed. His hands staying over his eyes has the added bonus of keeping him a very good boy who does not peek at Steve’s morning hard-on, because that is information that most friendly colleagues do not have about each other.
Also, if Tony feels Steve’s gaze on his ass as he ambles over to the bathroom, that’s just his imagination, right? Right.
+
Later, though not too long later, once they’ve defeated Ultron, Tony ends up in the same bed as Steve again.
It’s different this time. This bed is larger and much more comfortable, has blankets that are non-scratchy, and is in a room with better temperature control. Also, they’re in it by choice, after some yelling (typical) and kissing (less typical, but only because it’s new) and energetic post-saving-the-world sex that Tony can honestly say that Steve put an impressive amount of back into.
In the post-coital glow, they lie there together, catching their breath and staring at the ceiling.
The first person to move next is Steve. He reaches over to put his hand on Tony’s waist, the fingers and palm settling on the curve there. Then he pulls.
“Hey!” Tony laughs. He’s yanked clear across a couple of inches up against Steve, who promptly wraps his arms around him and squeezes. “Really?” Tony says, voice muffled against Steve’s chest.
“Revenge,” Steve says, his mouth warm against Tony’s temple.
“Revenge involves one side winning over the other. This is kind of—”
Steve throws a leg over Tony’s body to haul him closer, while Tony can only make the undignified sound of one left to the mercy of a persistent cuddler.
“No,” Steve says. “I’m definitely winning.”
“Okay, fair.”