Fire and Ice

~Chapter Three~

Steve freed the belt from his waist, tugged his shirt off over his head, and nudged the bathroom door shut with the heel of his foot. He let the hiss of the nearly-boiling water that flowed from the shower head fill the emptiness and silence of his apartment. With a sigh, he let the belt slip from his hand like a long, leather snake, the metal head clinking onto the matte floor tiles. Steve stepped into the shower, the heat having his skin prickle and tingle at the touch. He let the water wrack his body, enveloping him into a steamy haze. He ran his fingers through his darkened and damp hair. Had he really just made out with Stark? And Tony, of all people. He had to choose him. Steve scowled, and pulled his hands from his scalp, over his eyes, and shook free any water that clung to his fingers. He blinked his brilliant blue eyes a few times, drops clumped on his eyelashes. Steve picked up the bottle of shampoo, and filled the palm of his hand with the cold, almost soft, gel-like liquid. He massaged it between his hands before lathering it into his soaking hair. He felt the excess coast down the back of his neck, which caused his shoulders to roll erectly. His body stiffened, then relaxed. The suds had triggered the memory of the man's touch earlier. He arched his neck outwards, letting the warm water rinse what was left, and screwed off the tap. He felt a burst of cold slap him across the face. All heat had been lost as he scrambled for his towel. Cap wrapped the cloth modestly around his stomach down. He braced the edge of the sink with his fingers, leaning forward into his blurred reflection. Leftover water slid down his body, and some drops padded in rhythm on the tile. He exhaled slowly, letting his tiredness overtake him. Steve dropped the towel, and stepped into boxers, and easily covered himself in a large, worn t-shirt. He glanced into the steamy mirror once more. Instead of the strong, powerful Captain America he was seen as by others, he saw himself as he was before, weak, tired, and defenseless Steve Rogers, the kid from Brooklyn, staring back at him. Cap shook his head violently, alarmed. "...no." He swallowed, leaving the bathroom with uneasiness in his own tone. He sat on the edge of his bed, blankly staring at the television until his vision warped and blurred. He felt his eyelids struggle to stay open, sagging heavily before snapping open. He knew he had to face Tony again, and the war was in his own mind. Did he really feel for him? Or was he deceived, caught up in his own thoughts.