Chapter Text
Bruce finds Tony in his workshop, upper body hidden beneath his Bugatti.
"You, crescent wrench, five-eighths," Tony says, voice near inaudible over the crash of some death metal that sounds vaguely Norwegian, and Bruce scrambles to one side to get out of You's way as it scurries past, crescent wrench in its claw.
Bruce squats by the car, moving easy from his morning yoga, and waves to Jarvis. Music dampened, he leans down to peer at what little of Tony he can see: mostly a filthy T-shirt and the faint shadow of his head. "Hey, Tony."
"Put a hand on the Veyron and I will murder you. I just waxed it." Tony knocks his knee into Bruce's, which takes a bit of the sting out of his words.
"By which you mean you had You and Dummy do it, I assume."
"They are but extensions of my will," Tony drones, doing something violent that involves a lot of metal screeching, then hits a button on the sled.
"So like graduate students." Bruce grins as Tony appears.
"That's an insult to Dummy and You," Tony shoots back, pushing himself upright and dusting off his shirt. A cloud of dust of indeterminate origin wafts into the air and is immediately sucked away by what Bruce privately suspects to be the most powerful HVAC system known to man. "At least Dummy and You don't require sleep."
"Oh, the benefits of not being biological."
"Many and varied." Tony turns to grab a bottle of water and takes a long drink. His throat moves, pale and long, and Bruce yearns to kiss that pulse beating blue beneath the skin. He offers the bottle to Bruce. "What's up?"
Bruce reaches out, closes his fingers over Tony's, gaze intent on Tony's. Calluses rasp against his skin, and Tony's fingers go slack beneath his. Tony's mouth softens, his eyes alight. Water droplets slick his lips, shine in his beard.
"Now?"
"Yes," Bruce says, and stands, pulling Tony up with him, flattens his hand and draws it up Tony's arm to slide it about the back of his neck and tug him forward into a lingering kiss. He's thorough about it, patient, cataloging every little response, the way Tony rocks forward with a huff of breath, dropping the water bottle to clutch at Bruce's hips. Bruce's glasses fog up, yet he can see Tony's eyes, dark, wanting. Feel the bruising press of his fingers on his hips.
"What do you want?" Tony murmurs against his mouth.
Bruce settles his other hand on Tony's ass, warm through his worn jeans, tightens his grip. His fingers dig into skin and muscle, press against Tony's entrance.
Tony's knees weaken, grip slack on Bruce, and his mouth falls open on a soft inhalation.
"I want you to come until you're dry," Bruce whispers, dropping his head to mouth at Tony's throat, savoring the graceless way Tony drops his head back to let Bruce worry at the thin skin over his pulse. When he pushes a thigh between Tony's, Tony jerks, a full-body shock, gasps and ruts against his leg. Bruce pulls back. "I'm going to make you come over and over, until you're sobbing with it, begging me to stop yet not wanting me to. I'm going to fuck you raw."
Tony drops, just like that, to his knees on the floor of the workshop, hands skating down over Bruce's stomach, a brief pressure on his cock, to wrap about his thighs. Tony looks up, his eyes dark, mouth bruised. Hair a mess, engine oil smeared across the sharp cut of one cheekbone, and Bruce has never loved anyone so much as he loves this man at this moment, offering himself so honestly. "Green. Please."
"Good boy," Bruce says quietly, and Tony smiles, glances down and away. "What is it?"
"I want to make you happy. I want to give you what you want, more than anything. But I don't know if I can." Tony offers a weak smile. "The spirit is willing, the flesh weak."
Bruce's heart melts, just a little, at the naked admission of how scared Tony is of failing him, the depth of his devotion. He curls his fingers about Tony's chin, stubble rough, and holds Tony's gaze, keeps him from looking down or away. He speaks gently, with a trace of steel. "That's what you're not getting, Tony."
Tony frowns, and Bruce forestalls his words with a finger to his lips. "It's not about whether you can or can't. You don't have that choice anymore. You don't have to give me what I want, all you have to do is let me take it, because I will. You don't have to worry about coming as many times as I want you to. I will make you."
Tony's eyes drift shut, and he shudders.
"And for the record?" Bruce adds. "You always make me happy."
Tony smiles, a small, private expression, and butts into Bruce's hand.
"Go on into my lab. Take off your clothes and hop up on the table on your back. I'll be in in a few minutes." Bruce nudges him, then follows at a sedate pace, stopping off for a moment to shut off the death metal. When he enters his lab, the glass doors sliding shut behind him, he has to stop for a moment and smile to himself. He spent so long afraid of himself, afraid to let anyone get too close, terrified to unleash his dominant urges, and yet Tony's here.
Tony's done exactly as he asked, and lies sprawled on the medical table with his heels drumming in the stirrups. He shoots Bruce a measuring glance, and the slow clouds in his eyes make Bruce feel stronger than the Hulk. Bruce's dressed in rumpled khakis, an old MIT t-shirt, and one of his lab coats, sleeves pushed up above the elbows. He's slouchy, not exactly in-shape, graying and unkempt, and yet Tony looks at him like he's the hottest thing on two legs.
"Good." Bruce takes a seat on his rolling stool and pushes himself over to the bottom of the table, between Tony's bent legs. It's the work of a few seconds to extend the stirrups so Tony's legs are held open. He's utterly exposed, half-hard cock lying along one sharp hipbone, entrance visible in the mirror attached to the table. "Comfortable?"
"Yeah." Tony's glancing around, curious now. He tenses as he spots the tray next to Bruce, covered with a plain black cloth. "What's the plan?"
Bruce lays one hand on Tony's leg, squeezes in reassurance. The response isn't unexpected, not for someone whose medical experiences have been of doctors unable to treat his pain. His other hand flips back the cloth, revealing a shining metal speculum, several packets of medical lube, and a small plastic probe with metal electrodes at the end.
"Oh," Tony says faintly. Tony's eyes have gone dark. The paper on the table crackles as he shifts. "You're going to open me up."
"Yes." Bruce grins. "With my fingers, first, work you until this slides up nice and easy into you, no pain." He lifts the speculum, flicks his thumb against the screw to open the blades halfway. "And I'll hold you open wide, exposed, pink and slick and shining, so I can just slip my fingers in. You'll have no choice, because you're not stronger than metal, and no matter how you squirm or tighten you'll still be exposed to me. And after I've got you wide, that's when this comes in."
Tony cranes his neck to see the probe. He's flushed at the chest, sweat beading along his hairline, and his muscles tense and release beneath Bruce's fingers. "It's not a vibrator. Some sort of sensor?"
"No." Bruce takes his hand away from Tony's leg, lifts the probe and touches it to his own forearm. The jolt forces his fingers to flex, punches a hiss between his teeth. "Electricity. They've found it useful in inducing orgasm in men with spinal cord injuries. It'll be instant, powerful, beyond your control. With this, I can make you come whenever I want. As many times as I want. You'll have no choice."
"Fuck," Tony whispers, gaze riveted to the innocuous white plastic thing in Bruce's hand. He's not looking away, not rolling off the table, and Bruce can taste the hope in his own words when he says,
"If you're okay with this, tell me your safewords. I'm only going to stop for those. 'No,' 'stop,' all of that, I'll ignore."
Tony drags his gaze away from the probe to meet Bruce's eyes. He looks half-gone already, expression some mix of trepidation and desire, a man who wants something and fears it in equal measure. He works his jaw, then whispers, "Yellow. Red."
"Promise me," he says, leaning over to look Tony straight in the face, "that if you feel anything wrong, anything strange or painful, that you'll say your safewords. This is serious play, and if I hurt you, I'd be devastated."
Tony blinks, as though surprised, still, and then stretches up to knock his forehead against Bruce's. "Promise, Jolly Green. That's the last thing I ever want to do." A pause. "Can I."
"Tell me," Bruce orders, resting his hand on Tony's shin and curling his fingers about his leg, hinting at too much pressure.
“Before we start, let me just take something. I've been in one position for a long time, the arc reactor doesn't agree with it. And I can't concentrate on what you're going to do to me if I'm concentrating on the reactor."
"Of course." Bruce stoops and digs through Tony's pockets for the blister packet of pills, reading the prescription info as he pops out two pills, and tips them into Tony's open mouth. He holds a water bottle up for Tony to seal his lips about, and Tony holds his gaze as he does it, gaze hooded, smoldering.
Tony pulls off the water bottle with a loud pop, and says in a low voice that drips grateful submission, "Thanks. Will you…”
“Yes?”
"Restrain me, please," Tony manages, like it physically hurts to ask, and the rawness in his voice makes Bruce pause, knocks him out of his headspace a bit.
"You're sure?"
Tony huffs, irritated. "Yes. Because I trust you, and I know that if I ask you to untie me or stop, you will. Even if they didn't, you will, and that's- it's good. It helps me. It fixes the fear in me."
And, well, what can Bruce say to that? He fishes the medical restraints out of their drawer - standard-issue, he's never needed them - and wraps them about Tony's wrists, ties them down, does the same to Tony's ankles in the stirrups, and with every tie Tony sighs, goes a bit looser, quieter.
Bruce checks the restraints with two fingers between the cloth and Tony's skin, then sits back on his stool. He slides over to the sink to wash up, then slides back and snaps some medical gloves on as loud as he possibly can, the momentary sting worth it for the way Tony jumps and shivers.
"Ready?" he asks, tearing open a packet of lube and squirting some on his fingers.
Tony swallows, nods. "Yeah."
"Remember," Bruce says as he reaches forward, Tony tightening reflexively at the first touch of his finger, "You don't have to make it happen. I will. Just lie back and let me do this."
"Yeah, okay, easy for you to say," Tony grumps, though he does lie back when Bruce flicks him a glance and a raised brow.
"Breathe for me," he says instead, stroking his index finger over that tiny pink furl of muscle, feeling it contract and relax with every pass of his finger. As Tony exhales slow, Bruce curls his finger in and up, until it's sinking inside Tony, whose toes curl against his feet, his eyes slipping shut as he grunts. He's hot inside, tight, and for a moment even Bruce, who knows so well the ways the body can adapt, can't imagine fitting his fingers, much less a speculum inside. He corkscrews his finger, pulls back and pushes in, patient. It's almost meditative, this task, this slow persuasion of Tony's body to let him in. He's cultivated patience, and now he's grateful for it, because this is something that can't be forced.
"If I'd known this was what we were going to do," Tony says, shifting, "I'd have worn a plug or something. Thor's got some."
Bruce retreats, slicks up again, pushes in again with two fingers, and watches Tony's brow furrow, the way his mouth goes slack when Bruce twists his fingers inside him. For all his masks outside the Tower, all his glibness and armor of custom Savile Row suits, here he is nothing but honest. The flush at his throat and the deep roar of his blood tell all tales.
"No need," he says quietly. "I like this better. I can feel your heartbeat, you know. Every question I asked you, I'd know when you told me the truth." For emphasis, he spreads his fingers inside Tony, feels him quivering and finding no purchase.
Tony whines, eyes flying open, and jerks at the restraints. He stares at Bruce like he's not quite sure what to do, whether he should say something, and to have Tony Stark silent is worth everything.
Bruce stares back, calm, certain, and Tony lies back down. A small victory. A victory nonetheless. He spends long minutes working, until Tony's trembling, sweaty, slick and yielding around his fingers.
"Bruce," Tony finally pushes himself half-upright, hair flopping into his face, "please just get on with it, seriously, I'm-"
He cuts off into a gasp that sounds like it's been wrung from him as Bruce slides a third finger inside him, hooks them forward, and pushes. That gets a liquid moan, Tony's back arching, his cock red and straining. Bruce massages his prostate, paying attention with half a mind to the loud creak of the restraints as Tony pulls at them and gets nowhere.
"If you think you can give me orders in this, Tony, you're mistaken." Bruce meets Tony's gaze, half-angry and half-wanting, and grins. "Keep pushing me and you'll find what I can do with you. Imagine me doing this-" he rubs his fingers again over Tony, and Tony swears and twists, "-for half an hour or more. Pushing all your come out, so you never get to orgasm. It just flows out, and that's it. All tease, no fulfillment."
Tony bares his teeth. "You wouldn't." For all that Bruce would be - is - leery of what Tony could do to those he's truly angry at, right now he looks as threatening as a wet kitten, trussed up and red-faced and impaled on Bruce's hand.
"I would," he says calmly. "But not today. Another time."
Tony groans and flops back, and Bruce, suppressing a smile, continues to work, patiently curling and twisting his fingers, opening Tony wider. He’s loose now, slick with lube, tightening up on a moan every time Bruce pulls back to add more as though he can’t bear to lose the pressure and fullness. Bruce toys with the idea of tucking a fourth finger in – Tony’s certainly loose enough for it – but he’s been at this for nearly twenty minutes.
He reaches for the speculum with his left hand, keeping the right curled inside Tony, just nudging at his prostate. The clatter of metal against metal makes Tony lift his head to stare at Bruce with glazed eyes.
“Now?” he rasps, almost pleading. Bruce’s fingers are no longer enough.
Bruce answers by sliding his fingers out and replacing them with the speculum. He has to suck in a breath at the sight of Tony’s entrance stretching pale and taut about the metal, and press the heel of his hand against himself to get some temporary relief.
Tony moans at the intrusion, a raw sound, and clenches, though finds no purchase. That such an intensely private person is letting Bruce do this, open him up to peer at all his secrets, stare at his most intimate places, is- well, it's an honor, and a heavy duty, and the best thing he's ever known. Very few people trust Bruce Banner anymore, certainly not in this context, and it seems only people as half-mad as the Avengers would, or could, give him this.
He places his thumb on the screw and begins to crank the prongs wider.
Tony tenses, wraps his fingers around the straps holding the cuffs to the bed, and holds on. Each turn of the screw elicits a whine, or a deep breath, and halfway there Bruce takes his hand off the screw and rests it on Tony's thigh, tense and shaking, and checks.
His head is arched back into the pillow, tendons standing out in his neck, eyes squeezed tight. It looks like the face of a man in pain, though his cock has only softened slightly, lying along his hip.
"You're all right," Bruce says, quietly, comfortingly. "You're doing so well for me."
Tony half-opens his eyes, catches Bruce's gaze. "Done?" he slurs. He's relaxed at the sound of Bruce's voice, his knuckles easing about the medical restraints.
"No. Halfway there," and Bruce feels awash in some strange mixture of amusement and affection as Tony's eyes widen and he thumps his head back into the pillow. It's a good pillow, though, and Tony can't hurt himself. There is something of a sadist in him, an urge to push and see how much someone can take, to surprise them with their own capacity to endure. "If you want to stop here, we can. You're just wide enough for the probe." He glances down at the mirror and the upside-down vision of Tony impaled on his instruments, held open and vulnerable. Pink and slick and yielding to whatever Bruce wishes. "But I think you could take more. I wish you could see yourself, how beautiful you are. Maybe someday I'll take a photo for you."
Tony swallows. He stares at the ceiling, his chest heaving as he takes deep, controlled breaths. Sweat trickles along his hairline down to the pillow. He shifts, groans as the motion jostles the speculum inside him, and closes his eyes again.
Bruce strokes his leg and waits, half-certain certain of the answer, because Tony is a thrill-seeker, and devoted, and doesn't like to say no to the chance to be pushed by those he loves.
"All right." Tony works his jaw. "Keep- keep going. All the way."
"My good, brave sub," Bruce says, and adores how Tony's mouth twists in an involuntary smile, the instant easing of tension in his muscles. "Thank you."
The second half is the hardest. Bruce spends long minutes waiting for Tony to loosen enough for him to turn the screw one more time, but it's worth it for Tony's gasps and whines, the way he struggles to endure the dull pain of being stretched open for Bruce. Because he wants what Bruce wants, and gives himself gladly. A few times Tony says no, and Bruce widens the prongs anyway, just to hear the way Tony's 'no' trails off into an inarticulate moan.
And then, finally, he has him. Bruce groans and surges up to kiss Tony's slack mouth, and Tony clumsily tries to reciprocate, all of his attention on the speculum.
"God, you're so good," Bruce breathes against his mouth, and Tony shudders, tries to stretch up to kiss him harder but Bruce pulls back to torment him. "So sweet. I love you like this," and he traces his thumb about the edge of Tony's entrance, tight and so hot even through the latex glove. Hooks it just inside, edge nudging against the speculum's prongs.
Tony swallows, stares right into his eyes. Lets him see all the pleading, the smoky veil of subdrop, the place beyond thought. Lets Bruce glory in the fact that he put Tony there, that Tony, for all his anger and history and all of the threat that lives in Bruce's every cell, trusted him to do it.
"Thank you," Bruce says. He has to clear his throat. "Thank you. So much."
Tony's gaze sharpens, just a bit, that incisive intelligence surfacing for a moment, and he turns his head just enough to kiss the inside of Bruce's wrist where his hand rests on the table. His lips are soft against Bruce's pulse, the place where poisoned blood runs close to the surface. Bruce's spent so long running from intimacy, friendship, love, all because of what the Hulk has made him, and yet at this moment it seems worth it for the chance to know Tony.
Bruce kisses him again, learns every nuance of him, then draws away. He runs one hand along Tony's body, cups his half-hard cock and strokes it back to life, then sits down on the stool again. He strips off his gloves, slippery with lube, and pulls on a fresh pair before picking up the probe.
It's a slender white thing, unassuming. Tony's not even looking at it; he's relaxed into the bed, mind coiled into itself and submerged into subspace, and he barely even moves as Bruce slips the probe inside him.
Tony shouts, tries to jerk away, but the restraints hold. His muscles lock rigid. His cock jerks, and he comes all over himself. Untouched, instant, just like Bruce said.
"Holy fuck," Tony slurs, eyes wide. He looks at the come splashed across his stomach, caught in the thin trail of hair beneath his navel, and takes a deep breath. "I don't-"
Bruce, sadist, reluctant to give him too long to settle, flicks the probe on again. Control sings beneath his skin. He can make Tony come with the flick of a button, can break through any notion of control and force him, and God, Tony's letting him.
Tony arches off the bed, held down only by the restraints, coming only a few thin white drops that trickle down the side of his cock. His stomach contracts, and he falls back onto the mattress with a raw sound.
"God," Bruce says, near-vicious with wanting and delight, "I wish I could show you this, I could make you feel what I feel when I look at you."
He touches the probe to Tony's prostate, holds it there, pressing in, until Tony comes dry and begins to struggle. The medical restraints hold. They're well-built, and will leave only faint bruises behind. Tony's red-faced, his eyes wide, luminous with something that might be tears, and he looks at Bruce with worship and fear combined. It makes Bruce feel near-godlike.
"Again?" he says, smiling. "You have your words."
"No. No. I really don't think I can-"
"I know you can," Bruce says, cheerful, and turns the probe on.
Tony yells, and comes again. And again. Until he's lying there, spattered in his own come, limp and pushed to the edges of his own limits, too far beyond gone to even think of struggling. His chest jerks up and down as he sobs for breath. He barely twitches as Bruce slides speculum and probe out at once and sets them aside. His eyes are wet, and he rolls his head on a low moan as Bruce undoes the restraints.
Bruce unzips his slacks, fishes his cock out, and rolls on a condom with shaking fingers. He has to strain not to come at just the touch of his own hand, he's so overwrought. Blood thunders in his ears. Then he stands between Tony's legs and slides into him, easy as anything. Loose, slick, yielding, just taking everything Bruce does without a whine.
Tony moans, manages to hook one leg about Bruce’s hips, and lies there, passive, open, moaning with every thrust.
Bruce feels himself tightening, a thin boiling strand of light running from his limbs into his core, and rises up onto his toes, fucks inward one last time, and comes on a heartfelt groan of “Tony.”
Tony sighs. His leg falls from around Bruce’s hips to dangle in the air, and he turns his head away, closes his eyes.
Bruce pulls out, disposes of the condom and hurries back to Tony’s side. “JARVIS, lights at thirty percent, up the temperature to seventy-two.”
Responsibility weighs heavy on his shoulders as he gets his arms beneath Tony’s knees and shoulders and half-carries him, half-staggers, over to one of the bunks Tony installed in all the labs. He gets them both beneath the covers and pulls Tony into him. Tony tends to get cold after scenes, and that was an intense one.
Tony tucks his head into Bruce’s shoulder with a loud snuffle and flops one arm over Bruce’s ribs.
“You okay?” Bruce whispers.
Tony makes a sound like ‘mmmfff’ and flails his hand at Bruce’s face in a gesture that obviously means ‘shut up.’
“Okay, then,” Bruce says, smiling, kissing Tony’s sweat-damp hair where it sticks in wild tufts against his face. “I’ll be here when you’re ready.”
-
Tony doesn't go into work for nearly a week, and it is awesome. He spends most of his time on his stomach – because damn, that speculum and probe left him aching in a good way- on the floor of his lab or living room tinkering with an upgrade to the suit's coating, gets an email from Aisha that they've made substantial progress on the sequencing for the compound and a picture of her in her bacteria-print hijab pointing at the electron microscope with a giant smile, replies with far too many exclamation points and ironic emoticons, and has a wonderful time.
"What’s got you so thrilled?” Bruce says from the corner of the living room, where he's bent backwards into some yoga pose Tony could never do, "I haven’t seen you raiding the bar."
"Oh, this is all natural. Trust me, I've had enough drugs in my life to know I'm completely sober." Tony waves a hand, regrets it as his wrist complains from all the typing he’s done today. The sight of Bruce's loose yoga shirt riding up to expose the thick trail of hair beneath his navel is a good distraction. "I'm just pleased with how you guys handled me, is all."
Natasha, next to Bruce, copies Bruce as they move to the next pose. "Were you afraid we wouldn't handle you properly?"
"Well." Tony rolls onto his side, slithers to Thor's feet, and slings an arm about Thor's ankles, pleased as punch when Thor's hand settles on his head and gives him a good pat. "Not really you guys, in particular. It's more that I've seen the stereotypes that go along with-" he almost falters, "-abuse survivors."
Thor settles his hand on the back of Tony's neck, and when Tony twists to glance up at him, Thor's looking back, expression one of understanding without pity. "You feared we would treat you as fragile."
"Yes! Thank you, Thor." Why people tend to look at Thor as the big lunkhead of the team is beyond Tony, especially when Thor has this ability to just look at people and know what to say. "Half the reason I didn't tell people is that when somebody knows you've come from a bad situation, they automatically treat you differently. And I get that they're responding naturally - somebody's been through something terrible, you want them to be okay even when you're not sure how to do that - but you - we - we don't want everyone to walk on eggshells all the damn time."
It’s really the first time he’s included himself in that sad, monolithic category.
Natasha and Bruce drop into camel pose; Thor keeps petting him with magic fingers; Clint nods, half-muting the television; Steve keeps fussing with his charcoal. He loves them, he really does, the way they just get him, they listen to what he's saying and yet don't make it a federal fucking issue, and as a public figure that is so goddamn rare.
"You guys handled it well. You treated me like I was capable of taking punishment, or of deciding to take the punishment you decided on, and that made me feel." He pauses for a moment. Feelings aren't his strong suit. "Normal, I guess. Like you didn't think I was some delicate object that has to be protected. I can handle my own business, and you guys understand that."
Steve peers around the edge of his sketchbook with a fond smile, one brow raised. "Tony, if we tried to protect you by grounding you from missions or giving you a few light smacks when you really fuck up, you'd hate it."
"Damn right I would."
Thor snorts. Clint gives him a fond glance and goes back to his football game, and Bruce wobbles in his camel pose and nearly crashes into Natasha, who steadies him with one hand. Steve nudges Tony with his foot and hands him a green shake without comment on how he should be getting his vegetable intake in another form.
The lights flicker red.
The mood in the room changes instantly. Winding tight, fierce, like a pack of hounds waiting for the word.
“Commander Fury has directed me to inform you of a sighting of Doctor Doom in San Francisco,” JARVIS says into the sudden silence. “He requires you there in all possible haste.”
“Let’s go,” Steve says, scrambling off the couch, shakes and sketch book and remotes all falling to the floor, and in what feels like seconds they’re all suited up and either in the Quinjet or on the edge of the Tower.
Tony waits for a moment beneath the telecommunications spire, one last venomous whisper of doubt raising its ugly head – what if they don’t want him out there, what if they want him to stay in the Tower like a good little sub – and then he decides:
Fuck doubt. Fuck Obi. He is Tony goddamn Stark, and he will not allow himself to be ruled by the past, by Obi’s sickness. Not anymore.
He’s better than that.
They’ve helped him know that.
“You coming?” Natasha says over the communications system, and Tony grins. He launches off the tower, laughing, and outraces the Quinjet in seconds. As he passes, Clint flips him the bird.
“Hey!”
“Methinks Clint is jealous he cannot fly,” says Thor from just behind him.
“Oh, he so totally is. You guys will never know the joy Thor and I know. Sucks to be you.”
Yes. He loves them, and this feels normal, secure, something he can trust. They have a long road to walk together. The rest of their lives. He doesn't know what it'll bring, whether they'll end in fire and glory or in bed, aged, comfortable, but he knows this -
He can't wait to find out with them.