Iron Man, Tony/Rhodey, no, that's MINE (1/2)
Jim's sweating when he gets home. He's lightheaded, but he doesn't know if that's because he's high on the adrenaline or because this fucking armor of Tony's wasn't made for him and is uncomfortably tight in the chest. It's hard to take a full breath in it. One of these days he's going to need to talk to Tony about armor customizations, but in six months he hasn't found the balls to do it. At first he thought he could diet his way to the right shape, but no; the armor wasn't made for him, and it never lets him forget that.
Jarvis helps him out of it, and Jim takes a deep breath. At least the undersuit fits him; why Tony had Richards made him one in the first place, Jim doesn't know (or rather, why he'd have Richards make Jim the undersuit but never get around to making him armor of his own, Jim doesn't know), but at least once he's out of the armor, he can breathe again.
When he walks out of the workshop, he gets a split-second warning--a flash of movement coming from his right side--and then Tony's shoving him up against the wall, pinning him there. Under optimal circumstances, it'd be a pretty even fight, but usually circumstances aren't optimal for Tony, and today they're not so great for Jim, either.
He tries to push Tony back, but he's still wiped out from the damn flight across the country, and for once Tony doesn't smell like alcohol. Jim looks at him, startled. Tony's glaring at him, and his eyes aren't bloodshot or clouded. He's actually wearing clean pajama pants, not boxers, not running around naked.
How long has it been since Jim left this last time? Ten hours? Twelve? It's not enough for Tony to be sober, but it's enough for him to have cleaned himself up.
"You took the armor," Tony says. His breath doesn't smell like alcohol, and for some reason that just pisses Jim off.
"You're goddamned right I took the armor," he snaps back. "You think I was going to let you go out like you were?"
"I was fine."
"Bullshit."
"I'm fine. You don't just walk out of here pretending to be me."
Jim shoves Tony back. Tony doesn't stumble. "I wasn't pretending to be anything. You don't fucking get it, do you? You're not the armor. The armor's not you. I've been Iron Man for the past six months, and you want to know something? Nobody knows the difference."
"Fuck you--"
"Like you could fuck anybody right now," Jim spits, and he knows it's a low blow as soon as he says it. He winces, but it's too late to take it back. Part of him doesn't want to.
Tony shoves him into the wall again, and this time Jim goes with it. He grabs at Tony's waist and pulls him in, and he can feel Tony's dick pressed up against his thigh--the undersuit's made of a fabric that transmits sensation almost better than being naked would, and Tony's thin pajama pants aren't hiding a thing, either.
"You want to be me, don't you? You always did."
"Asshole, no, I want you to fuckin' be you--"
"C'mere. C'mon." Tony pulls Jim away from the wall just enough to get his hand behind Jim's neck. The undersuit's got a seam, not a zipper--Jim hopes Richard has a patent on this stuff, because there's no bulk like velcro and no teeth like a zipper, it just parts under Tony's hand and keeps parting, baring Jim's shoulders, then his back, then his ass. Tony doesn't waste time, and unlike all the times Jim's thought he couldn't find his own ass with both hands and a flashlight, he's just using one hand, he's moving by feel, and he's got it just right, two fingers pressed against Jim's hole and working their way in. Jim hisses--tight, he's too fucking tight for this--but Tony just keeps going, angry and relentless, until his fingers are in as deep as they're going to get.