“You’re filthy,” Steve accuses.
“Fuck yeah, slut,” Tony agrees.
Steve rolls his eyes. There’s a greasy black handprint on the handle of the refrigerator door from the retrieval of the traditional post-workshop beer, which Tony is now guzzling in the middle of the kitchen, shrouded in his traditional post-workshop grime. Steve does not approve.
“I can actually smell you from here.”
Tony lifts an arm and fans the stink in Steve’s direction.
“Soak it in, buttercup. That’s one hundred percent pure American virility.”
“Smells like a gorilla house.”
“Excuse me, where’s your sense of patriotism?”
“Probably out looking for your sense of personal hygiene.”
Tony finishes his beer and free-throws the bottle into the recycling bin.
“Okay, Captain Fussypants,” he says. “I’m gonna take a shower.”
“Use plenty of soap,” Steve reminds him.
“I mean it. Don’t just jump in and out of the water, that’s not how it works.”
“Oh, wow, thanks for the tip. I guess you were around when the shower was first invented, you know all about this stuff.”
“You’re the one who doesn’t seem to know how to use it.”
“I think I can figure it out.”
“I don’t. Sometimes I think I should just get in there and wash you myself.”
Halfway out the door, Tony stops. He turns. He’s got that look on his face.
“You know what?” he says. “Maybe you should.”
Tony has a big, spacious shower. Plenty of room for two.
They strip down as the hot water runs and fills the air with steam, Tony tossing his clothes haphazardly all over the floor while Steve takes the time to loosely fold everything as he removes it, stacking his garments neatly on the lid of the toilet. This means that Tony’s naked first--- not that that’s any kind of surprise--- and he gives Steve’s backside an impatient pinch when the Captain spends too long folding his slacks. Steve reflexively reaches back and discovers a smear of motor oil left on his ass.
“Why would you do that?” he sighs.
Tony grins. “I’m marking my territory.”
They step into the shower and Steve immediately positions Tony under the center of the spray, chuckling as his feathery dark hair flattens down to the shape of his skull, his bangs sticking to his forehead. Tony gives a loud ahhhhhhhh of contentment as the hot water rushes over him, and Steve realizes that he must be exhausted, that this must feel so good after working for so long. He’s been down there for hours, and judging by the looks of him the work wasn’t easy. The water at his feet is already turning cloudy, the top layer of filth succumbing to the rinsing alone.
And Steve gets a weird shiver of anticipation at the thought of how clean Tony is going to be compared to how dirty he is right now.
One corner of the shower is stacked with shelves. Steve spots a large bottle labeled bodywash and figures it’s a good place to start. There’s a washcloth and he grabs it, wets it under the shower spray, and pumps out a palmful of thick gel the color of honey. It smells amazing. Steve checks the label: Rainbath.
“Turn around,” he says.
At the first stroke of the washcloth across his back, Tony groans, “unnnnngh.” Steve breaks out in goosebumps at the sound, at the way the muscles between Tony’s shoulders shiver and flex when he touches them. On a sudden impulse he runs his hand from the base of Tony’s spine all the way up to the back of his neck, and God, the way Tony rises to follow him, rolling up onto his toes to make it last just one second longer-- Steve almost forgets that he has a job to do.
Before he can get distracted again he sets to scrubbing briskly, working the sweet-smelling lather over every square inch of Tony, thrilling as the suds rinse away to show his bare skin hiding underneath. He’s fascinated by Tony’s body, by his natural, God-given strength and stamina. Tony pushes himself harder than anyone he’s ever known, and he does it without an enhancement serum, without the power of a demigod or an infusion of gamma rays--- he does it through sheer force of will. Tony refuses to even acknowledge it, of course, but he really is a man of iron, and Steve will never be able to express how much he admires him for that.
When he’s done with Tony’s back, he squeezes out a fresh round of bodywash and moves on to his arms, holding them up by the wrist so he can get underneath. He fists his hand in the washcloth and digs it into Tony’s armpits while Tony hisses in pleasure, clearly adoring being manhandled so thoroughly. In fact since the moment they entered the shower Tony has made no attempt to move or steer himself in any fashion, leaving himself entirely at Steve’s whim. He offers no resistance as Steve turns him around so that he can wash his chest, and when Steve sees his eyes-closed dazed-smile expression, he can’t help but laugh.
“You seem to be enjoying yourself.”
“I am,” Tony assures him lustily.
“Keep your eyes closed.”
Steve wipes away the sweat and grease from his face, furtive licks with the corner of the washcloth, mindful of his eyes and mouth. Tony has to tilt his head a fraction up towards him, a slight but precious detail, and Steve resists the urge to kiss him because he knows that if he does then he won’t be able to stop. Instead he presses his mouth to the wet, clean skin of Tony’s forehead, while Tony goes mmmmm and leans into it.
He scrubs Tony’s collarbone and then works his way down around the arc reactor, tapping it with his knuckle and saying “Old Faithful” because he knows Tony hates it when he calls it that. Then he places a hand at the small of Tony’s back to support him while he scrubs his belly, keeping his palm flat over the washcloth so he can trace the subtle curves of his abdominal muscles. His reach extends to Tony’s hips, then his thighs--- Steve hesitates.
“It ain’t gonna clean itself.”
Tony has a funny way of granting permission.
Steve gently washes between his legs, and as he does so Tony reaches up and lays a hand on his shoulder--- it makes the act somehow even more intimate than it already was, and Steve is overwhelmed with the desire to kiss him again. The nearest point is his ear, and Steve leans in to give it a quick peck, pulling away just as quickly when Tony turns and tries to catch his mouth with his own.
“Come on,” Tony says.
“I must complete my mission,” Steve answers resolutely.
While Tony sighs, Steve reaches around to wash behind him, then keeps going down the backs of his legs until he has to sink down to one knee to continue. He taps a shin to indicate that Tony should lift his foot--- Tony puts both hands on Steve’s shoulders for balance and obeys. With a firm grasp on his ankle to prevent squirming, Steve thoroughly scrubs the sole, the heel, and between the toes. It’s probably a little overzealous, but now that he’s started cleaning Tony, he just wants to clean all of him. He wants Tony to be absolutely pristine, and he wants to know that he made him that way, because Tony needs someone to take care of him and Steve would like to think that he’s the best man for the job.
As he works on the other foot, one of Tony’s hands creeps from his shoulder to the back of his neck. His thumb rubs a quick circle at the corner of Steve’s jaw, a caress so unexpectedly tender that Steve looks up in surprise--- Tony is staring down at him with a strange, almost pained expression on his face.
“Look at you,” he whispers.
Steve knows that expression--- it’s one part awe and one part terrible, terrible fear. He knows, because it’s how he used to feel when he looked at Peggy. Peggy, who was far too good for him, so rare and precious that he could hardly believe she might care for him in return. Every time he looked at her he felt it like a hunger pang --- I don’t deserve you. And there it is written all over Tony’s face, unmistakeable, and Steve’s heart lurches, because he never thought someone would look at him like that, and he’s not ready for it.
Flustered, he drops his head and hastily resumes scrubbing.
“You’re always bugging me to rub your feet after your workshop benders,” he mumbles. “I’m just doing myself a favor, here.”
And that seems to snap Tony out of his reverie, because in response he gives his toes an impetuous wriggle in Steve’s grip.
“So you’re saying I’m guaranteed a foot rub tonight?”
Steve smiles, relieved. “I guess so.”
He stands. Tony leans right in for the kiss but Steve holds him off with a hand on his chest.
“Ah, ah,” he scolds, then points at the cluttered shelves. “Which one’s the shampoo?”
The shampoo has a rich, masculine smell that Steve recognizes instantly from every time he’s kissed the top of Tony’s head. He turns Tony away from him to allow better access to his crown, and as he sets to working the lather into his hair, Tony immediately lets out a string of incoherent noises of pleasure. If there’s anything Tony likes more than getting his feet rubbed it’s getting his head petted, and, feeling indulgent, Steve decides to turn the shampooing into a scalp massage. He works his fingers in deep, swirling patterns around Tony’s skull, grinning openly at Tony’s loud, shameless appreciation of his efforts.
“Hnngh, Steve that’s--- that’s so good, that feels amaaaaazing--- nnnngh--- yeah--- ah fuck yeah--- uggggh that’s the best--- you’re the best--- aaaaagh---”
“You know, if anyone were to overhear this,” Steve chuckles, “they might get the wrong idea about us.”
“Ohhhh, Captain!” Tony’s voice jumps up an octave. “Use your magic fingers on me! Yes! Yes!”
And then he has to stop because his melodramatic thrashing ends up getting shampoo in his eyes and Steve is laughing too hard to help him so he has to rinse it out himself.
Apparently there’s conditioner, too. Tony behaves himself this time, standing placidly under Steve’s careful application, his eyes protectively squeezed closed against further contamination. He keeps them that way as Steve moves him back under the spray for the final rinsing, smoothing out the last of the suds from his hair, watching them run down the length of his body and then disappear into the drain.
Tony’s all clean now, scrubbed and polished and standing there with his eyes all screwed shut because he’s not sure if it’s safe to open them yet. Steve takes a moment to savor the view.
Then he kisses him.
Tony gives a terrific mmmmf! of surprise and delight, throwing his arms around Steve’s neck and dragging him closer, kissing him like he always does--- like it’s his favorite fucking thing in the whole damn world. He’s all hands and tongue, crazy, adoring, like a kid set loose in a candy store, racing around in a frenzy to taste everything and it’s so good and he just wants more and more and more. Steve is amazed that he doesn’t drown himself, kissing him like this under the flow of the shower--- but then again, Tony has bragged about his breath control before.
“And no gag reflex,” he had added slyly, which at the time Steve had thought was an odd thing to mention.
Steve lets his hands wander all over Tony’s body, enjoying his handiwork. Tony’s so clean and wet and lovely, every last inch of him, and Steve loves it. He loves that Tony let him do this. He loves it when Tony lets him help.
“So,” he pants, when Tony finally lets him up for air. “How ‘bout that foot rub?”
“Raincheck,” Tony says. “I’m busy right now.”
And he sinks to his knees on the floor of the shower.
Steve’s already half-hard from the kissing alone, but seeing Tony go down like that sends the rest of his blood pouring into his groin, his mouth falling open soundlessly as Tony leans in and presses his mouth over his hipbone. It starts as a kiss but then he sucks hard, Steve arching towards him as he draws a wine-dark stain to the surface--- marking his territory. Steve staggers the short distance back to brace himself against the wall. He knows he’s gonna need it.
Tony takes his cock all the way down on the first go. He likes to start with a bang, and that’s exactly the sound that Steve’s skull makes when he slams it back into the wall, his breath juddering out of him in a deep groan. Yeah. No gag reflex. He threads his fingers through Tony’s clean, wet hair as Tony goes to work, pulling back to swirl his tongue around the head of Steve’s cock, one hand reaching up to pump the length of it as he does so. His other hand explores the canvas of Steve’s lower body, rubbing at his hips and belly, his thighs, his balls. Steve doesn’t really know what to say at times like this--- Tony does, he’s always talking, always telling him how good it is--- but even if words desert him, his voice doesn’t.
“Ah,” he gasps. “Ohhhhh. Oh. Mmm. Mmm.”
“Mmmmm,” hums Tony, and his whole throat vibrates with it until Steve’s almost howling.
He teases it out, licking and nibbling and then suddenly engulfing, bringing Steve right to the edge and then backing off again, until Steve is finally so breathless and desperate that he’s forced to string together a sentence.
“Please let me come.”
Tony kisses the tip of his cock. “All you had to do was ask.”
And he swallows him down, keeps him there until Steve comes hard, his hips spasming as he cries out, “ah, Tony,” without even meaning to. Tony sucks him dry. He always does.
They’ve gotten so accustomed to the drone of the running shower that when they turn it off the room seems staggeringly quiet. Steve hands Tony a towel first, knowing that Tony would steal any towel that he might attempt to use on himself if he doesn’t. They dry off and slip into bathrobes--- and there just happens to be an extra robe in Tony’s bathroom that just happens to be super-soldier-sized.
The air is still foggy with steam, and Tony looks so relaxed and peaceful in the haze that Steve is on the verge of saying something tremendously sentimental.
Then Tony turns towards him and says smugly, “I’ll take that foot rub now.”