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The compound felt like a tomb.
Ghosts drifted through the halls, white coats checking on him with a clockwork efficiency his usually quick brain couldn't quite pinpoint the cycles of. There was a brusque expediency to their movements, an easy steadiness to their footsteps as they walked away, and that's how Tony knew they were ghosts.
Everyone left after the battle they could not name, the loss they could not swallow—all of them walked around clutching their gut like they had an active bleed. In their obvious brokenness, they remained human. For anyone to be walking without a limp had to mean they were dead, Tony reasoned. No one could hide such a gaping wound.
When he was levered off the bed for a shower, some nurse who looked his junior leading him to the ensuite bathroom, enough of him returned to his senses to shake her off.
"I can wash myself." His voice was like a child’s issuing orders. Inconsequential.
"Mr. Stark, I'm here to help—"
"I can wash myself." He tried to remember what it meant to have steel in his voice but could only recall the coppery tang of blood and an orange sky.
The nurse nodded after a moment, ceding ground the way a mother would offer five more minutes of television; without actually ceding any ground. "Please call out if you need support. I'll be replacing the sheets."
Time slipped away from him somewhere between taking off his clothes and bandages and stepping back out of the shower. He didn't remember washing his hair or body but when he lifted an arm to sniff at it, feet stuck on the floor of the bathroom, it smelled like magnolia and cherry blossom.
He turned his eyes to the mirror and immediately flinched back. That couldn't be—
Tony managed a step forward. That couldn't be him, could it? Tony gazed into the mirror and some poor soul stared back, some hollow man who looked as if he'd had the soul cored out of him.
What happened to you? Tony wanted to ask him. He wanted to cup the man's drawn jaw between his own fingers, blood-clotted but unyielding still. He wanted to twist it sharply to the right and snap that pathetic expression clean off.
Instead, he walked out. He was naked. Part of him felt that he should be more worried about it, but Dr. Park had administered his painkillers only an hour before. There was a sweet dullness to every action laid before him.
He didn't want to think about where Dr. Cho was. He didn't want to think much, really.
The nurse brought him clothes without commenting on his nudity. He couldn't even manage a quip about increasing her salary or about sexual harassment training. He just sat still and tired as she re-did his bandages.
When she stepped back, he completed their little routine by laying in his bed and letting his mind drift to his newest, favourite vision.
A few minutes later, as everything in him oscillated at the brink of the syrupy sweet sleep only heavy painkillers could bring about, he just about caught the tips of his fingers turning to dust. His last breath left him in a content sigh.
.
There were two ghosts around him. One removed his IV while the other made humming noises as they checked under his bandages.
There were two people in the room. Rhodey stood before him with concern painted across him in primary colours. He was telling Tony that he had to leave. It was a familiar conversation.
Tony was reeling. The team was reeling. But—most crucially—the world was reeling right along with them. They hadn't believed the Avengers could lose. Not like this. It was undeniable that the fallout was phenomenal in scale, and everyone’s eyes had been quick to turn upwards for answers.
Rhodey talked about being a call away but there was a plea in his eyes for Tony to be strong, to be capable of letting him go to do the job Tony couldn’t.
More and more it seemed that Rhodey had only ever asked one thing of Tony.
To let him go.
Tony dipped his head, swallowed the childish hurt for another life, and granted his blessing.
Rhodey's eyebrows unwound so abruptly it was like the thread keeping them together had been cut. It made him look young.
There was more talk, about Natasha being needed, of posts everywhere needing to be filled, and Tony's mind awoke enough from its slumber to fill in the crossword a minute before Rhodey got there.
His eyes trailed slowly to the shadow at the doorstep. He would mistake it for a ghost if it weren't for the anguish in the line of his broad shoulders, if it weren't for how indiscriminately he bled over his shirt. His hair even seemed paler than normal.
"This isn't a funny joke." Tony said. The words were hard in his mouth, hard as they came out.
"He volunteered." Rhodey replied calmly, "And he's the only one who—"
"Captain America isn't needed?" Tony said caustically, "At a time like this?"
"You missed out on his. . ." Rhodey tilted his head, "Tour, I guess you could call it. He's been on and off planes for the past month. We—uh, we thought maybe it was time he took a break."
"Who's "we"?" Tony managed.
"The team." Rhodey said.
"What team?" Tony coughed, voice unpractised in catching up, "What—who's left?"
"Tony. . ." Rhodey said, cut off by the sound of his phone beeping. He turned his attention to it and swore under his breath. "I don't have much time."
"Seems like the only thing we have is time." Tony said.
"Don't say things you don't mean." Rhodey said, leaning over him, briefly pressing his forehead against Tony's. It was an unfamiliar gesture; intimate and jarring both and Tony was still working out how to feel about it when the man moved away.
Don't leave, he wanted to say. Don't go. But even now, when everything was irredeemable shit, Tony couldn’t find it in himself to disappoint Rhodey. He inhaled a low breath and tried to be the man he should be instead of the man he was.
.
He had never known a Steve Rogers like this.
Tony breathed through the acrid burn in his lungs, re-engaging with the old task of trying to put Steve Rogers to words. Over the years, he’d spun what felt like hundreds of metaphors and analogies to pin down the ineffable man who he’d called leader, friend, foil, junior, senior. . .
But Steve had been changed. Marked by his own battle though Tony hadn’t spared a thought to what had happened here on Earth while he’d been—away.
There was none of the wickedly strong spirit that struck like a hammer upon any nail laid before it. Judge, jury, executioner. No more.
Steve looked like a gentle man. A man unwilling to fight.
The wrongness of it was downright chafing.
Steve was acting like a glorified bodyguard, a background piece no more attention-grabbing than a lampshade. Tony made a dry, garbled noise and he flicked on like a switch. Glass of water placed in his hands without making any contact with his skin. Every movement like a painstaking choreography seeking only to not bring Tony’s attention to who was dancing before him.
Tony opened his eyes at 08:32AM. He couldn’t quite hold onto the pretense that this was a normal day. He thought about the suit, thought about snapping his fingers and bathing himself in the touchless, blue light of blueprints and visions. His fingers closed into a fist, and his breath met the air in a low, broken whistle.
“Are you really here?”
Steve looked up. He’d dragged an armchair into the room, parked it near the wardrobe. It was at the periphery of Tony’s eyeline; just visible enough for him to not feel alone and just far off enough that he didn’t have to reckon with the man’s presence whenever he looked up. Still a darn clever strategist, even in this wilted state.
“I’m here.”
It was worthwhile to behold how little could be gleaned from that tone, all rounded edges and empty consonants.
“Why?”
Steve put his phone down. Tony wondered: if they’d taken Captain America out of commission, how poorly did the world think of the Avengers?
“You need someone here.” Steve said, “I wanted to be that someone.”
It was refreshingly frank, and Tony scraped a hand against the mattress to sit up halfway, angling his weight on his elbows. He felt nearer to Steve’s eyeline here, could almost meet his gaze head-on.
“Why?”
Steve’s shoulders loosened; a slight adjustment that went noticed only because Tony was so intent on watching him.
“I made a promise to you.”
Tony laid back down, made eye contact with a white ceiling just as unfathomable as the man to his right.
“I shouldn’t have yelled at you.” Tony said, as close as he could get to apologising for that ugly fever dream moment, “Not in front of everyone.”
“You weren’t wrong.” Steve’s voice held no recrimination, “About any of it.”
“I shouldn’t have done it in front of everyone. I should have had the—” Tony tried to find the right word, breathed shallowly, “—grace to keep it private.”
Steve stood, walking forward with short, careful steps as he spoke. “I don’t blame you for it. There’s no reason you should blame yourself for it.”
Such measured sentences. Such measured steps. Tony wondered when Steve would tire of this choreography. He had never made a good marionette.
“I shouldn’t have done it in front of them.” Tony pressed the point, watching Steve pour out a glass of water.
“Here.” Steve’s expression was patient as he waited for Tony to bring his hands up, depositing the glass into their clasp, “Dr. Park recommended you drink a lot of water. How’s your throat?”
“Hm.” Tony took a sip instead of answering. It felt like forcing bones down his throat, his body demanding expulsion at every juncture.
“They said they can take you off the heavy painkillers in two or three days.” Steve continued.
Tony returned the glass to him, deliberately nudging his knuckles against the warm, unbroken skin of Steve’s palm. He wasn’t blind to why he felt the need to do it; that itch to break through Steve’s care for him like a worming parasite.
Show me something real, he wanted to beg of the man.
“Half-empty or half-full?” Tony asked.
“What?” The glass was back on the table. Steve was doing a half-crouch against the bed, so obviously conscious of looming over him that the overcompensation ended up marking his presence out even more.
“Do you see that glass as half-empty or half-full?” Tony clarified.
“I. . .” Steve’s eyebrows knitted, “What do you mean?”
“It’s a personality barometer.” Tony explained, “they say that people who see it as half-empty are pessimists and those who see it as half-full are optimists. What do you see the glass as?”
“I—” Steve shrugged, answering a little helplessly, “It’s just a glass of water. Do people really worry over the semantics of it that much?”
“I see it as half-empty.” Tony said, closing his eyes. His mouth felt better after drinking the water. “But you know, I always figured that—if you were the type to see it as half-full, you'd never think to fill your cup up.”
When he opened his eyes, it was to the sight of Steve watching him with a softness that could make a mute talk.
“I guess I’m the type to read too much into things like that.” Tony said.
“I think I’m a half-full kind of guy.” Steve admitted.
“. . .I know.” Tony said.
“Why’d you ask me, then?” Steve’s voice was curious but held no judgement. This man—this changed man—was dangerous for Tony. All easy eyes and kind mouth like he’d been plucked out of the hopes Tony had had when he first joined the team. A leader willing to be led.
“I thought maybe you could use the reminder.” With the gauntlet placed neatly in the space between them, Tony closed his eyes again, let the white noise of Steve returning to his armchair ease him into sleep.
.
Sleep like death. Like reality unwoven.
Tony had never enjoyed sleeping so much, just the pure absolution of the act, until the last two weeks.
Sleep like rest. Like memory forgiven.
It was with no small amount of trepidation that he re-learned what it meant to sleep without heavy duty painkillers. His brain started filling in the lines of his surroundings in technicolour. His heart started beating in staccato starts and bursts. His first dream without the morphine was a mean-spirited reminder of all he’d lost. A boy too young to die. A wizard seeing a future Tony—the acclaimed futurist—couldn’t see. A blood-orange sky. A purple monster with a voice devastatingly human.
Tony woke up crying. If he’d had the spare breath in his lungs and lubricant in his throat to scream, he would have done so. So it was that he could only weep, embarrassing wheezes ensuring his sorrow could be felt by the world. It was fortunate that his world was one room, and his audience was a man who’d already known him broken and bleeding.
Steve didn’t make shushing noises.
Tony had seen him calm down a young girl once, in a jet with refugees from Sokovia. He’d made soft, humming noises as he rocked her in his arms. Tony had watched him under the safe helm of the armour, captivated by the sight and not knowing why. He remembered thinking that Steve had never seemed more of a man than in that moment, back curled over the girl, guiding her back to safe harbour.
Tony remembered Peter falling into his arms. How he’d failed to hold him. Comfort him.
Steve was sat on his bed, talking in a low tone. It was with an almost bewildered surprise that he realised Steve was talking about the weather. About how he’d known it was going to rain because of the cluster of clouds hanging over the compound.
“The weather?” Tony managed to rasp out.
“You want water?” Steve asked.
“You’re not. . .” Tony swallowed through the tightness in his throat, “Going to fix me . . .by making me drink. . .a shit ton of water.”
“You’re not broken.” Steve said, and it was maybe the first thing he’d said that Tony hadn’t watched him run the lines for. The first non-measured response.
“I have always. . .” Tony held the proffered glass of water in his hands but didn’t sip from it, wanting to make his point known, always wanting to make his point known. He’d burn if it got his point across. “Emerged stronger and. . . brighter. . . after I am broken.”
“Don’t hurt yourself.” Steve said quietly, “You want me to call the doc? A nurse?”
“Don’t ignore me.” Tony said, “Listen.”
“I’m listening.” Steve said straightforwardly, “I know you’re a fighter. You’ve proven it, time and time again.”
“Yeah?” Tony believed it himself but something about Steve’s nonplussed acceptance demanded confirmation.
“Yeah.” Steve assured, “But—listen, I just. . . I don’t want you to hurt. You’ve been through—enough.”
“You talk like. . .a soldier. . .trying to figure out. . .a path through. . .a minefield.” Tony said.
“I’ve done that.” Steve said wryly, “I think that was easier.”
The admission that this wasn’t easy for Steve eased the defiant pain in Tony’s shoulders, made submitting to his neuroses easier. The glass of water began to weigh heavier in his hand.
“Thanks.” Tony said.
Steve didn’t reply except to pat him, very quickly and gently, on his thigh over the blanket.
Tony drank the water.
.
“It’s healing well.” The nurse said, “We should be able to remove the bandages soon. Then we’ll prime you for Dr. Cho’s cradle for the cosmetic procedures. No scarring.”
“And what about the side effects of the cerebral hypoxia?” Steve asked.
Tony fiddled with the blanket on his bed, twiddling the thread under his fingers, making a gimmick of not hearing them.
The problem with the cerebral hypoxia diagnosis was that he’d been in space when the worst of it had happened. The doctors who’d assessed him when he’d first arrived had to scramble to figure out how far the damage went. He’d not been allowed to take off the nasal cannula that first day, not even to answer Rhodey’s questions. Every few hours, a doctor had come by and checked his oxygen saturation levels with a pulse oximeter.
They’d all expected worse. Said it was a miracle he hadn’t been significantly impaired cognitively. What they meant was that they were surprised he wasn’t fucked in the head. He knew better than to feign surprise himself.
The world wouldn’t let him rest until he laid his debt to it to rest.
“Where’s Banner?” Tony interrupted their conversation about starting him on physical therapy.
“Dr Banner?” The nurse looked askance, eyes flicking between Steve’s and his own.
“He’s in Asgard.” Steve answered, “You need him?”
“He understands the cradle.” Tony said, “He’ll know if there’s anything that can be done. And he has access to the medical journals.”
They didn’t talk about why Dr. Cho couldn’t do it. Didn’t talk about where Dr. Cho was.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Stark, but, uh, do you not also have access to the medical journals?” The nurse asked before hurriedly adding, “I mean, it’s just that you’re not the only patient with a traumatic brain injury who we could use the cradle for.”
“I have access.” Tony said restlessly, “But I’m compromised,” He looked up at the nurse, “Shouldn’t you know that?”
The nurse’s skin was too tan to flush but every line in her face tightened in obvious disgruntlement. Tony felt a flash of guilt and it settled atop all the other horseshit guilt sitting in him. He didn’t know he could feel more guilty, but here they were.
“Sorry.” Tony forced out, “Just hard, adjusting to being off the painkillers.”
“I understand, of course.” The nurse gave a conciliatory smile, “It’s alright.”
“Get Bruce. Have him call in if he can’t come over.” Tony said, eyes on Steve.
Steve nodded, hand reaching into his pocket.
“If I can get your assessment on any lingering symptoms?” The nurse prompted.
Breathlessness. Check.
Difficulties with balance and coordination. Check.
Vision problems. Check.
Speech and swallowing difficulties. Considering they still wouldn’t let him eat solid food—check.
Muscle spasms. Not anymore.
Personality changes. Tony risked an amused glance at Steve, but found the man distracted, hand shoving a small, black device into his pocket and bringing out his mobile phone.
Memory loss. It was the flip-phone that he’d shoved back in. Tony felt the most wretched, lurching sensation.
Memory loss? Tony had told Steve—you weren’t there. Steve had clutched his reactor with awful, pale eyes.
“Mr. Stark?” Steve looked over at him, fingers stilling in their tapping. The nurse’s voice had the distinct tone of someone who’d repeated herself.
“Yes?” Tony said, eyes still on Steve’s hands.
“Any experience of memory loss? Short-term or long-term?” The nurse asked, “Any blank spots in your memory?”
How would I know? How would I know it’s the cerebral hypoxia and not the PTSD? How would you?
“I wish.” Tony said with a smile, aware it struck brittle but unwilling to let the comment be made without at least an attempt to soften its delivery.
“Alright. So. . .um, I’ll put down a no for cognitive impairment, too?” The nurse said, and Tony couldn’t help it.
Huffs turned into giggles turned into proper cackles that echoed crude and mean in the air like they existed for nothing but to occupy space.
“Oh, you’re a funny one.” Tony got out after half a minute, wiping tears from his eyes. The nurse’s expression remained stilted, a little unsure. Steve had visibly tightened his grip on his phone.
“C’mon, it was a joke. You’re funny.” Tony sighed when neither relaxed, “Seriously, you’re all acting like the world’s ended.”
“Could you give us a minute?” Steve asked the nurse.
“Of course.” She agreed quickly, leaving the room with her little manila folder.
After she left, Steve still hung in his own spot for a few seconds. When he did make his move, it was to settle on the bed and give Tony an expression so blank it rankled the engineer in him.
How do you fix a problem you can’t spot?
“If you need to be mad at someone,” Steve said, “I’m here.”
“You’d want that, wouldn’t you?” Tony taunted, “A reason to feel absolved.”
Steve’s mouth worked for a few moments before settling into a flat line, “Whatever you need, Tony.”
Tony’s shoulders sank, “Where's the fun in that? You’ve got no fight left in you.”
“I’ve got fight,” Steve said, “I’m just not interested in fighting with you. Ever again.”
That caught Tony off-guard, and his eyes skirted from the windows back to Steve’s face, stuck in that mannequin-empty expression.
“No more fighting?” Tony asked, “What’s our—” He couldn’t say friendship, fucking hell, even that felt presumptuous now, simplistic, “—what are we when we’re not fighting?”
Something slippery but intense twisted Steve’s expression for the briefest moment. Tony watched with an aggrieved curiosity as Steve put everything into a steel vault; some awful, visible restriction that blurred the clarity of his emotions. Finally, the man shrugged before answering, in a soft but hopeful tone, “Happy?”
.
Tony walked quickly; footsteps silent on the vinyl without any shoes to reveal his intention. His heart was in his mouth, and he thought he might spit it out before he reached but the wailing was louder, more abhorrent and he’d just about cracked the door open when arms came around him and dragged him back. Tony’s legs buckled but his fall was cushioned, and he found himself enclaved in firm arms and legs even as he re-acquainted himself with the floor.
If he had the breath to scream—but he didn’t. Nowadays, it felt like all he did was breathe and yet it seemed he never had enough of it to spare. It was a few more seconds before his mind came back to him and he heard Steve’s voice, panicked edge and worrying core.
“It’s okay, you’re alright, it’s okay.”
His heart was working overtime, but it still managed to form the thought that this was kind of a hug. A damningly good one, too. Steve’s heart was beating strong and loud under his back, and it was that, more than the words, that dragged Tony back to thought.
“Who—who—” He managed.
“Everyone’s grieving.” Steve said and the words made Tony feel nauseous because he knew that voice, he’d held the boy in his arms as he’d disappeared, and he’d never thought of what it would mean to face May Parker with her boy’s dust still clogging up his throat.
“I should talk to her.” Tony whispered.
“No.” Steve’s refusal was immediate. Tony leaned back in his arms, just the slightest, wondering how long it would take for his heart to come back to him. Some days it felt like all he’d ever done in the past decade was worry about his heart.
“I should.” Tony offered, protest weak even to his own ears. He didn’t want to. He knew he should, that it was his responsibility, but he didn’t think he could manage it. Not with his body barely tethered to his mind.
“Not now.” Steve said, “You’re still recovering.”
Recovering.
“Can you do me a favour?” Tony asked.
Steve’s arms tightened around him for the briefest flicker before releasing; some involuntary reflex that Steve let go of as soon as he became aware that Tony could feel it. Or so Tony deduced anyway.
“Yes.” Was Steve’s answer. Simple. An attempt to be unrevealing after his body had given the barest sneak peek.
“Will you carry me back to the room?” Tony asked.
Steve turned Tony’s body into his own, arms folding under his knees before lifting up. The serum hadn’t flagged at all. Tony couldn’t help but feel sorry for the man despite the strength underneath him.
“What did you do after?” Tony asked, “The battle. When you came back to New York.”
“Dealt with Ross. Reparations. Tried to get an account of what had happened in space. Spoke to the public.” Steve recited with the listless murmur of an exhausted man.
“How did that go?”
“Poorly.”
Tony breathed through his mouth in slow and unbroken beats, losing a minute, maybe two, before he came back to himself blinking at the ceiling of his room.
“Steve.” He prompted.
The man appeared at his right, edging into his vision with an inquisitive look on his face.
He truly wanted to help; Tony could see it so plainly. He wanted to help, and he wanted to be forgiven but he’d never ask for absolution. But why bother with all of this now? With him, of all people? Didn’t he realise Tony hadn’t been able to stop the mad titan either?
Why was their leader waiting on him? When did he rest?
“Are you gonna sleep here?” Tony asked.
“Yeah, in the armchair,” Steve said, “But if you don’t feel comfortable with me in the—”
“No.” Tony said, “Lay with me. In this bed.”
He could feel Steve looking him over, but he closed his eyes, trying to remember whether the bandages on his torso needed to be replaced. When he opened his eyes again, Steve was turned away, hands making stolid fists at his side. It reminded him of how Steve held his arms when he was bracing for a fight but Tony didn’t have any fear left to give and it was with casual aplomb that he spoke again.
“I mean it.”
“Why?” Steve’s voice was a rasp.
Because I haven’t seen you rest for even a minute and I’ve yet to conceive a machine that never stops. Because your puppet strings don’t even look frayed. Because I want to know if you’re still fighting under all that blood.
“I don’t want to be alone.” Tony whispered.
Steve turned around, eyes dark and difficult to read in the evening light of the room. “You’re not alone.” Steve assured, and it sounded like he needed it to be true.
“I think that maybe. . .you don’t want to be alone either.” He was so close to sleeping he was practically kissing it.
The last thing he remembered was the shadowed bulk of Steve’s body hanging over him.
.
Tony sat up before his mind had caught up with him. His head turned to the loathsome noise, and it was the shock of what he was seeing that brought everything into perfect, damning synchronicity.
He couldn’t figure out the words, so he shuffled on his knees to the end of the bed where Steve sat hunched over, head in his hands as he cried quietly. It was almost impressive how smothered his weeping was, but Tony knew the sound of a hand over a bleeding mouth like he knew the constellation of bolts that sat behind the calves of the first Iron Man suit. An old memory tangled up in the roots of your being; easily rising up whenever called upon.
He put a careful hand against Steve’s shunted back. So much body heat, and was it any wonder that the ocean had failed to freeze him? Tony kept his hand over his back even as Steve stiffened under it. The thought of how stiff he must have been upon being awoken from his frozen entombment came and went like an errant fly.
“What happened?” Tony asked. It couldn’t have been anything that required Captain America because he wouldn’t be sitting here, crying about it. He’d have strapped on the shield and gone to die for the world without a moment’s consideration to what they’d put on his gravestone.
Still, it felt like a safer place to start.
“Nothing.” Steve inhaled sharply like he was going to force his breath into normalcy with that one breath. Good luck, Tony thought.
“Nothing’s got you crying?” Tony asked, careful to keep it free of any bite.
Steve let out a choked-off laugh that ended as quickly as it came. Tony dared to get a few inches closer, hand moving from Steve’s back to shoulder. Steve’s hands came down, unmasking his tear-stricken face. The draw of moonlight over his face gave the tears greater prominence. It made him appear oddly grand, like a god writ on page made human.
“Just a dream.” Steve said.
“That it is.” Tony agreed, “But it’s still real.”
“Realer than you’d know.” Steve seemed to give up on discretion, rubbing a hand carelessly over his cheeks to wipe the tears off.
“Memories?” Tony asked.
Steve turned to face him, finally, and the red around his eyes was wretched. He nodded, its own quiet submission.
“You wanna lay down? Try sleeping?” Tony suggested.
“I—yeah.” Steve said, “Uh, just—I’m gonna wash my face. Give me a minute.”
Tony watched Steve walk over to the bathroom, neatly closing the door behind him. It was only then that he realised Steve was wearing only an undershirt and boxer shorts. That meant something.
He wondered how it was that he could so easily touch a man he hadn’t been able to call up when the world was hanging by a thread.
For a futurist, it felt so often like he was too late to his own misstepping.
When Steve came out a minute later, Tony was still wrestling with what the twisted feeling inside him meant.
Steve got into the bed before speaking again, “You should rest, Tony. I’m fine.”
“Really?” Tony asked.
Steve turned so that Tony was facing his back, “Yep.”
Tony tried to sum up the strength to find the perfect words, the right combination to unlock whatever had Steve boarding up his walls. It wasn’t easy, partly because his brain and body were fried, but also because—even with all cylinders at full throttle, his success rate for emotional conversations that ended in conciliation with Steve was dismally low.
“Why are you hiding away?”
Steve gave a bear-like exhale before turning back around to face Tony.
“You’re not supposed to be taking care of me.” Steve said.
Tony blinked, genuinely flummoxed, “Don’t be stupid.”
“I mean it.”
“Then you’re stupid twice.” Tony replied, “What do you think this is?”
Steve’s eyes were barely visible in the dark, but Tony felt their appraisal regardless. He wondered how much Steve could see of him, of what he was feeling.
Tony’s eyebrows knit together when Steve didn’t reply. “Do you know what this is?” Tony asked.
“You nearly died.” Steve said, tone rougher than it had been when he was crying.
“Everyone nearly died.” Tony pointed out, “Lots of ‘em did.”
A kid, one moment. Ash, in the next.
“Tony,” Steve repeated, “I thought you were dead.”
“I know?”
“No, you don’t, I thought you were dead.” Steve repeated, and there was something hard and pleading in his voice.
Tony wasn’t sure what the point was, but it hurt to hear the blatant sorrow. He also knew that it probably hurt Steve to relay it.
“I’m here.” Tony tried to assure.
Steve made a jagged, rupturing sound. “I know.”
“I don’t—” Tony blinked, feeling the draw of sleep linger longer and longer with each blink, “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I just—” Steve turned onto his back, looking up at the ceiling, “I’m just really happy you weren’t taken.”
Tony swallowed the questions, swallowed names down. Sam Wilson. Bucky Barnes.
Tony sighed instead, feeling every goddamn year of his life in his bones.
“I feel like I could sleep forever.” Tony admitted, neatly steering the conversation away from combustion.
“You’re recovering.” Steve said, “Your body needs the rest.”
Recovering. That word again.
“Steve?” Tony prompted, a minute or so later. Steve’s breathing was so steady next to him, you’d never have believed he had been crying.
Steve hummed.
“I’m not upset that it’s you.” Tony confessed, “Here. With me.”
Steve didn’t reply and Tony felt compelled to add, “I was at first. I’m not anymore.”
Steve’s hand came to his, palm laying over the back of his hand for a moment before withdrawing. And that gesture—infinitesimal and swift—Tony understood the meaning of with absolute precision.
Thank you.
.
Tony awoke for the first time to the nurse replacing his bandages. It was a testament to how tired he was that no part of him could muster up the fight to flinch at hands over his sternum. He drifted off to the nurse’s now-familiar voice speaking to Steve.
The next time he awoke, sunlight was filtering through the room’s windows. Steve was in his armchair, thumbing through a Western paperback so broken apart and yellowed that it looked like Steve had gone and plucked it straight from the 1940s.
Maybe he had, Tony thought. With all the brain-melting shit they had faced, time travel didn’t feel too far off a possibility.
Tony blinked.
He sat up in the bed and watched Steve look over at him.
“Hey.” Steve’s voice was honeyed tenderness.
“Steve.” Tony’s voice was hoarse but only with sleep, for what felt like the first time in a long time.
“Yeah?” Steve stood up, walking over to him. He seemed more open than he’d been over the past week. Like the bleeding had been stemmed.
“I’m hungry.” Tony said.
Steve’s smile was slow and brimming—brimming with something Tony could not quite name but recognised the emotion of.
“I can fix that.”
.
As Tony swallowed a bite of tuna sandwich, he felt a humming energy settle around him. Something that felt closer to what it meant to be him.
“I read the report.” Tony said, “About how he destroyed the stones.”
Steve didn’t flinch but it was the closest he’d come to it during their time together. There was something oddly perverse about seeing a shiver get strangled into stiffness.
“Sorry.” The apology was a compulsion, and Tony swallowed back any proceeding words by taking a bite of his sandwich.
“Nothing to apologise for.” Steve said, “Just another failure. In a string of failures.”
“Hmm.” Tony chewed carefully, “You know, he threw a moon at me.”
Genuine surprise coloured Steve’s face as he turned to Tony, “What?”
“A moon.” Tony said, “He used one of the stones. Mean fucking tactic.”
“He threw a moon?” Steve blinked a few times in rapid succession, “What did you do?”
“Walked it off.” Tony quipped, relishing the bittersweet quirk of Steve’s lips more than he expected to.
“A moon.” Steve repeated.
“Ye-ep.” Tony said, “You ever—do you ever have those moments when fighting, where your brain jerks to a stop and all you can think is, what the fuck am I doing here?”
“Yes.” Steve said with an edge to the word that suggested he meant obviously, “The Battle of New York still feels unreal.”
“Unreal?” Tony pressed, taking another bite of his sandwich.
“Well, there was the fact that it was the future, and then you were flying around in that suit, and then Norse gods, and then aliens—I think at some point I just started assuming it was a fever dream. Like the kind I used to have as a kid.” Steve picked at his jeans, “I think I only, uh, woke up, when I had to make the decision to close the portal.”
“That moment?” Tony asked, thinking of Coulson, of the many injuries Steve had sported, of every reckoning Steve had been forced to make with his own place in the future over that horrific, impossible day.
Steve began to shrug before abandoning the motion for a shallow nod. “Yeah. Believe it or not.”
And it’s not that Tony can’t believe it but something about it bristled, made him feel as if he’d played some macabre part on the stage of Steve Rogers’ resignation to the world’s betrayal.
Tony thought of Hank Pym, of narratives and their threads, and all the possibilities that lay when you had a backstage pass.
“We had a conversation about home a while back.” Tony said, “Do you remember?”
Tony had been leaving and Steve had said, “I will miss you, Tony.” He’d said it like he hadn’t thought Tony would believe him, but he needed to have it known. Tony had never quite decided on whether to it was stupid or smart to read into that.
“Yes.”
“Would you, I mean, with everything being how it is now, would you want to, to go back to before?” Tony asked.
“Before?” Steve’s confusion was obvious.
“Back to your time.” Tony cut to the chase. It sounded ugly putting it like that, but its crudeness did grant clarity. Tony watched as Steve’s eyebrows lowered back into slack understanding.
“No.” He finally answered, and it sounded like that far-gone moment. Like he didn’t think Tony would believe him, but he needed to have it known. “No, I wouldn’t.”
“This is still home, then?” Tony asked, wanting for something more for Tony to chip at, to understand Steve through.
But no—Steve never seemed to take two steps when one sufficed and even now, he just nodded before standing up, ending the conversation by picking up the saran wrap from Tony’s sandwich to dispose.
.
The cradle went unremarkably, which was to say it went well.
Tony had always enjoyed its ozone smell. It reminded him of the suits. He hadn’t considered building anything since he’d staggered out of space, had flinched at the thought of it even—the pretense of assuming he could ever fix anything, ever again.
He’d built the suit to its bleeding edge, and it had barely cut the mad titan. The thought of trying again felt like accepting a drink.
Tony touched the clean skin on his torso and contemplated the limits of that comparison. Sobriety so often felt like an unnatural choice. He made it only because the alternative was worse. Building the suits was the most natural choice. He made them because the alternative was worse—but that wasn’t the only reason.
Don’t waste it. Don’t waste your life. The words felt like they had been branded on a different man. If only he could see Yinsen now.
Tony would say, Yinsen, old friend, I’ve wasted away.
And Yinsen—Tony huffed suddenly, laughter substituting thought as he realised that Yinsen’s answer had already been written. He only had to turn back the pages to read the smudged but brilliantly black text.
Is this the last act of defiance of the great Tony Stark?
When he looked in the mirror again, it felt, for a moment, like his reflection was meeting his gaze. There was a light there in the eyes that shone like resistance. A rallying of spirit.
Tony exited the bathroom and went up to Steve, sitting at his armchair with a takeaway cup of coffee in hand.
“Can I get a sip?” Tony asked, curious to see what decision Steve would make. It mattered so much to Tony, in that moment.
Steve didn’t say that it was medically inadvisable, instead just offered up the cup without remark.
Tony took his sip. It was a latte, two brown sugars. Tony recognised it as such because it was his drink; what he had in the middle of the day when it wasn’t just about a pit stop re-fuelling. When he could afford to savour. He also knew that Steve exclusively drank his coffee black. Almost exclusively actually; the exception was the occasional cappuccino when he was making a point of taking personal time off.
Tony knew what this meant, and he knew, looking down at Steve, that the man knew that Tony knew what this meant. Still, his expression remained absent of expectation.
“Will you be honest about something for me?” Tony asked.
Steve nodded.
“Do you believe I could ever forgive you?” Tony asked.
Steve blinked slowly, measuredly, “I’m not looking for it.”
“No, but everything about you gives off the stench of a man desperate for it.” Tony said bluntly.
“I. . .” Steve folded his hands against his lap, “I only mean to do what I should have done from the beginning. How I should have been. And I can’t undo the mistakes that line our past, but I hope I can—I’m not asking for forgiveness because me being here is not me trying to earn it. It’s just me, being here, for you.”
“I care for you,” Steve continued. There were aspects of this monologue that felt worked over, like Steve had run the lines in his head over their years apart. Tony wondered what would have happened had he called him on the flip-phone, one of those nights he’d stayed up staring at the blinking light. Would Steve had said this then? But no, there was still this—frank sincerity to certain phrases that echoed Steve’s irredeemable habit of improvising on his own speeches.
Steve exhaled before saying, “I know I haven’t always been the best at showing it but I—I truly do care for you. If nothing else, these past few years have been a very enlightening revelation of how deeply.”
“As a friend?” Tony asked, returning the latte to Steve’s hand. He didn’t let their fingers touch.
Something in Steve’s eyes dimmed even as his expression stayed unburdened, “As a friend, yes.”
“Steve?” Tony asked, maintaining eye contact, “This isn’t how friends are.”
“Sure it is.”
Tony shook his head restlessly, “You’re in love with me.”
Steve blinked a few times, betrayal and anguish running like tears down his face before he pulled it all back again, behind that unreadable mask.
“Stop doing that.” Tony pressed.
Steve had the grace to not pretend he didn’t know what Tony was talking about, “Stop talking in circles then.”
Tony’s jaw worked for a moment, “Fair enough.”
“I didn’t mean for you to find out.” Steve said.
“Liar.”
“I didn’t mean to put any expectation on you.” Steve amended.
Tony allowed that, nodding to him, “I know.”
Steve nodded, “Then it shouldn’t make a difference in our friendship moving forward.” He made to stand up, but Tony placed his hands against Steve’s shoulders, pushing him back down onto the armchair.
“You’re not hearing me.” Tony said.
“What are you trying to say?” No edge, even now that Tony’s brought Steve’s heart out for careless inspection.
“You really have changed, haven’t you? Permanently, that is, not just to appease me during my recovery.” Tony thought out loud, “You’ve opened yourself up. To me specifically. For me specifically.”
“Isn’t it ironic,” Tony added, “That the moment I stopped trying to understand you, you put yourself out on a platter for my perusal?”
“Can we stop with the metaphors?” Steve asked; the first, lasting, pained expression making itself heard.
Tony nodded after a beat. “Yeah, I don’t think I need them anymore.”
“I had to do it,” Tony continued his own confession. Steve’s eyes were shadowed, eyelids hanging low. He cleared his throat, “I needed to hold the betrayal close so that I could keep you far. Because I knew that the minute I started entertaining forgiveness, it would only be a few domino pieces before I’d find myself back to—wanting you. Pleading for your attention. Your approval.”
Steve looked up with surprise in his eyes, “You wanted me.”
“Like a sickness.” Tony said, “But you knew that.”
“I thought, maybe there had been something, something there after—Siberia.” Steve revealed, “But I was never certain.”
“I do forgive you.” Tony said, “I know you may not believe it but I do.”
Steve’s throat jumped as he swallowed, “I trust you but it sounds too—”
“Too good to be true.” Tony finished, “It’s really not. You may not think you’ve earned it in the, in the conventional sense. But to me you have. See, I couldn’t forgive you if I thought it would lead me straight back to being stuck in that limbo. Not clicking, not understanding, hurting each other. Wanting what I’d never get.”
Steve’s eyes took on a new shade, widening slightly.
“I don’t think I’m back there again.” Tony said, “Wanting something I can’t get. I think what I’m wanting is exactly what you’re wanting to give. Am I wrong?”
“You’re not wrong.” Steve answered in a hushed tone.
“So I guess the final question I have,” Tony swallowed, “And I really need you to be honest here, okay? The final question I have is, do you forgive me?”
Steve reeled back a little in obvious confusion. His eyebrows drew together as he obviously processed the question. “Tony,” Steve started gently, “I don’t think there’s anything to forgive.”
Tony shook his head, “Don’t—don’t whitewash it. Any of it, between us. Think it through.”
Steve frowned but took it to heart. Tony waited for one, two, and then, three minutes as Steve assumed his roles again. Judge. Jury. Executioner. When he cleared his throat, it rang like a gavel upon wood.
“I forgive you.” Steve said, and there was a resolution to it that set some of the question marks in Tony’s own mind to sweet, blissful rest.
“Then I guess we get to find out.” Tony said.
“Find out what?” Steve’s hand came up to Tony’s right, still perched on Steve’s shoulder. He took it in his own, and while he didn’t intertwine their fingers or do anything outrageously romantic, he held Tony's hand with the tender caress and care of a lover.
“Who we are when we’re not fighting.” Tony explained, and then, allowing himself to smile with the fullness of emotion surging up in him, “What we can be together. Truly and wholly together.”
.
Bruce was intensely attentive throughout Tony’s explanation. When he finally meandered to a hopeless stop, shoulders rising to shrug in a “your thoughts, doc?” move, Bruce leaned back and looked as if Tony had given him the cure to cancer.
“It could work.” Bruce pronounced, and hearing that helped, made the prowling beast that asked is this too far settle placidly into a corner.
“It will.” Tony said, “Get me a coffee and my tunes and I’ll bang it out in a week.”
“I’ll bring my tea.” Bruce pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
Steve sat in the corner of the room, presumably immersed in a file Natasha had sent over. Something about the ant guy. Despite being occupied by the undeniably fascinating—gah—field of myrmecology, Steve met his gaze almost instantly and smiled over at him. It was light and unconcerned about hiding its affection.
And it all painted a picture that looked like a step forward. Finally.
.
Tony could feel Steve watching him from the bed as he put his tie on. Today was the day where he would make a long overdue visit to May Parker’s abode. The uniform felt necessary. Steve had offered to come but Tony had asked him not to. He needed to struggle through this alone if only so that he could live with himself afterwards. It didn’t feel right to bring a third party, to soften the blow in any way.
Tony knew that his rejection had hurt Steve a little, but the man hadn’t made any comment of it. Tony tightened the tie and thought of bringing it up. Before he could broach the topic however, Steve made the leap himself.
“You know I’m in your corner, right?”
Tony turned to face him, “I think you’ve made that very clear, yes.”
“Sometimes I. . .” Steve rubbed a hand against his jaw, “Sometimes I think I’m holding you back.”
Tony tilted his head, “Explain?”
“You deserve someone who hasn’t hurt you.” Steve said. It was shockingly honest, and Tony wondered how Steve could open wounds on his body that had just started healing. Then again, Tony knew all too well the itch of fresh stitches, of needing to know even as the horror of blood beading on skin rushed over.
“I deserve someone I love, and who loves me.” Tony said, “That’s it. Are you up to the task?”
He walked up to the bed. With Steve seated and Tony standing, the man had to look up to meet his gaze. Tony got to watch a slow blush run across his cheeks and ears as Steve processed what Tony had said. It made the truth of what he’d said pulse even louder, stronger.
“I am.” Steve said, resting his head against Tony’s abdomen, right where his body had been scorched. The wound that had been erased by the cradle, but that Steve seemed to remember the cartograph of. Tony felt him press a kiss there before the man leaned back to add, “Thank you for letting me try.”
A while later, Tony was sat in a car getting driven around by someone who was not Happy. At a red light, he took out the flip-phone he’d retrieved from Bruce.
He typed out a text to Steve and, with the knowledge that he was so far from where he’d thought he’d ever be, he sent it.
ME: You know I’m in your corner too, right?
The reply came a minute or so later.
STEVE ROGERS: Never doubted it.
And maybe it wasn’t precisely true, not if you set everything that had happened between them under a surgeon’s hands. But when it came down to their hands, soldier and engineer, how they cupped this new, fluttering relationship with cautious accounting for the weight it came with—well, “never doubted it” was actually spot-on.
.
“I should send her a card.” Tony said, “I didn’t catch her leaving.”
“Send who a card?” Steve asked. They had been discussing who to assign to which stone, and Tony’s question had emerged in a lull. It was shocking how easy their conversations flowed now, even when wielding ungodly odds. Steve's hackles were almost entirely absent but it hadn't dimmed his fervour. Tony had nearly laughed his head off when Natasha had called them "healthy debaters".
“The nurse who Dr. Park assigned over me.” Tony said, “It’s probably not a good thing that I don’t remember ever asking for her name.”
“Well, you were in recovery. I’m sure Maria didn’t mind.” Steve said.
“Maria.” Tony repeated.
Steve caught on a moment later, “Oh, Tony, I’m—”
“No, it’s actually,” Tony smiled wistfully, “It’s actually rather funny of the universe.”
“Okay.” Steve said carefully, “We can talk about it, if you need to.”
“I don’t need to.” Tony was surprised himself with how much he meant it and a grin came easy to his lips. Buoyed by light, he leaned forward to press a short kiss against Steve’s lips, light but full-mouthed.
“What was that for?” Steve asked, voice soft and eyes smiling.
“Just happy.” Tony said, “At a time when I have no goddamn right to be.”
Steve brought a hand over to Tony’s, closed his hand over it, “I think that’s the best time to be happy.”
.
It was only because the cards he'd bought came in a two-pack that he did it.
Without knowing why, he'd made his first and last ever trip down to a supermarket chain and found that nearly all the positive themed greeting cards had been put on sale. It seemed no one was buying them anymore. Tony had grabbed one with a gauche design because he enjoyed being contrary and then had to promptly evacuate when someone recognised him, and then a crowd emerged and it was a stupid idea but Tony had felt so alive.
He'd written a thank-you note for the nurse, Maria, and then wired her what Pepper had said was a sum just a smidge over exorbitant.
With the second card, he took more time. There were so many things he could say to Steve. Thank him for. He wanted to talk about how the room had been its own cocoon, and emerging from it had been a torture he'd only gotten through because Steve had been there to keep him up. He wanted to say, I did not think I would recover. I did not think I would ever be well again. He wanted to say, I still wake up with a scream in my throat.
He couldn't find it in himself to write that, though. To rehash all that Steve knew of how hard it had been. How hard it would continue to be. Not when they had the cartilage of a plan between them. Not when they could hold hands even after arguing.
Ultimately, Tony wrote what he wanted Steve to remember from all of this. What he wanted him to keep.
Thank you for showing up when I needed you.
Love, Tony
08.05.2018