Steve can sense the way Tony’s body seems to let some of the tension go when he kisses him, and it’s a good feeling. It nearly makes him not want to get up again, but Steve knows they’ll be time for that later. So he breaks away and asks Tony to take off his shirt. When he hears Tony say undressing for you so soon however, Steve’s lips part and his eyes get just a little bigger, like he’s about to insist for the sake of his honor that this is for wound-inspection only, but in the end, he just lets out a breath, smiles as he glances down, and shakes his head. When he looks back up, he gives Tony another kiss on the cheek before he stands and disappears down the hall and into the bathroom.
When he comes back, Steve’s got one of his first aid kits in his hands, as well as one of his own white cotton shirts.
Oh Tony.
His forehead furrows in concern as Steve takes it all in, his eyes running over Tony’s body as his feet carry him around the coffee table and he kneels down next to Tony’s legs.
He notices the arc reactor because it’s impossible not too see it, but the growing worry on his face is from the scars. Everywhere he looks, there’s one more, and every time he finds the next one, he feels a bigger and bigger pain in his chest, and soon, Steve’s knuckles are starting to turn white from how hard he’s holding onto the shirt in his hand.
Steve couldn’t have predicted how much it’s hurting him to see the way the shrapnel markings are littered across Tony’s chest and shoulders. But he knows that’s only the tip of the iceberg — the freshest layer on top of layers of pain and suffering from years past, and as his eyes pass over the gunshot wound and that long scar along Tony’s side, Steve …
He tries hard not to look like he wants to stand guard between Tony and the world for the rest of time.
As his eyes fall back onto the bruising, he focuses though, knowing that there’s still a few things he can do now, to help ease the pain. Tony’s right, in that they don’t need the first aid kit, so Steve sets it down on the table.
“Here,” he finally says, his grip finally loosening on the shirt in his hands as he offers it to Tony. “I brought you one of my shirts. It should be big on you, so it’ll be easier to get on and off.”
Steve stands again though, that look of concern never really leaving his eyes, before he turns and walks the few feet between the couch and the kitchen. He seems to just stare motionless at his cabinets for a moment before he opens one and pulls out a box of ReadyRice (the Alpha brand of instant grains, probably) and throws it into his freezer. He’ll need the rice to make a better ice pack later, but he knows he also needs to make something that he can use right now. So from the freezer, Steve pulls out a half dozen heirloom tomatoes, each one frosty and frozen solid. They’re part of what he’d planned for dinner tonight, but right now, they have a more important job to do.
When he comes back to Tony, Steve got them wrapped up tight inside a clean dishtowel, and offers it to Tony before kneeling down next to him again. With both the towel and a shirt in between Tony’s skin on the tomatoes, the makeshift ice pack should be cold but not uncomfortable against Tony’s side.
“How does it feel when you breathe?” Is anything pressed up against an organ?
no subject
When he comes back, Steve’s got one of his first aid kits in his hands, as well as one of his own white cotton shirts.
Oh Tony.
His forehead furrows in concern as Steve takes it all in, his eyes running over Tony’s body as his feet carry him around the coffee table and he kneels down next to Tony’s legs.
He notices the arc reactor because it’s impossible not too see it, but the growing worry on his face is from the scars. Everywhere he looks, there’s one more, and every time he finds the next one, he feels a bigger and bigger pain in his chest, and soon, Steve’s knuckles are starting to turn white from how hard he’s holding onto the shirt in his hand.
Steve couldn’t have predicted how much it’s hurting him to see the way the shrapnel markings are littered across Tony’s chest and shoulders. But he knows that’s only the tip of the iceberg — the freshest layer on top of layers of pain and suffering from years past, and as his eyes pass over the gunshot wound and that long scar along Tony’s side, Steve …
He tries hard not to look like he wants to stand guard between Tony and the world for the rest of time.
As his eyes fall back onto the bruising, he focuses though, knowing that there’s still a few things he can do now, to help ease the pain. Tony’s right, in that they don’t need the first aid kit, so Steve sets it down on the table.
“Here,” he finally says, his grip finally loosening on the shirt in his hands as he offers it to Tony. “I brought you one of my shirts. It should be big on you, so it’ll be easier to get on and off.”
Steve stands again though, that look of concern never really leaving his eyes, before he turns and walks the few feet between the couch and the kitchen. He seems to just stare motionless at his cabinets for a moment before he opens one and pulls out a box of ReadyRice (the Alpha brand of instant grains, probably) and throws it into his freezer. He’ll need the rice to make a better ice pack later, but he knows he also needs to make something that he can use right now. So from the freezer, Steve pulls out a half dozen heirloom tomatoes, each one frosty and frozen solid. They’re part of what he’d planned for dinner tonight, but right now, they have a more important job to do.
When he comes back to Tony, Steve got them wrapped up tight inside a clean dishtowel, and offers it to Tony before kneeling down next to him again. With both the towel and a shirt in between Tony’s skin on the tomatoes, the makeshift ice pack should be cold but not uncomfortable against Tony’s side.
“How does it feel when you breathe?” Is anything pressed up against an organ?