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The official line is that Captain America’s gone AWOL. Steve’s not paying attention to the headlines, he’s running on fumes in the only safehouse he’s managed to keep separate from SHIELD. From Fury. From Tony. From Sharon.
His thoughts race. The longer he stays awake, the more he feels himself dissociate from his body – like he did pre-serum at nights when the pain was at its worst.
It’s a different sort of pain this time.
So he sits at his drawing table and tries to sketch.
Steve needs to focus. Or he needs to sleep. Instead he does neither. He tries to draw. He's alone. A couple of weeks ago he lived at the top of a tower, surrounded by friends. There was always someone to talk to. Usually Tony.
Now? He'd like to stop thinking about it. Steve shakes his head, desperate to snap out of it. Tony thinks he's a god now he has Extremis. He lords it over everyone, as lonely as he must be in that tower.
No, don't feel sorry for him. He made his bed. He threw Steve's friendship away. He assumed Steve would fall in with his plans. The sheer arrogance. Steve's head feels heavy.
Steve still believes what he told Tony after the breakout. There's a balance that superheroes - the Avengers maintain. No more politics, just us.
He no longer believes what Tony said the day he invited the new team to the tower.
"I've learned to listen to Captain America's gut instincts."
Like hell he has.
Steve wants out of his mind. He desperately doesn't want to be here, grappling with what his life has become. They should have left you in that block of ice. He wants to be nothing more than a memory. Steve feels his shoulders turning inwards, like he's trying to make himself smaller, tension builds in his neck and shoulders, making it harder to draw.
No. Don't think about that.
He knows what SHIELD psychiatrists call this. Intrusive thoughts. You’re supposed to examine them and let them go. But Steve has never been able to let anything go.
His eyes blur as he stares at the page. He puts too much pressure on the lead of the pencil. It breaks. Why is this happening to him – why is Tony putting him through this? There's a tightness in his chest. He fought for his country, he continues to – and now they want him to work for the government.
Tony wants him to work for the government.
And Tony is everywhere.
Tony's addicted to spying on the rest of them. Steve knows this. He's careful. In Avengers Tower he swept his bathroom for bugs before showering. Pressed hard against the bruising around his throat. Left by Tony after they fought Graviton. Steve hated it. Hates what Tony has become. So why was he achingly hard? Splattering his come against the shower glass. A wild look in his eye as he looked at the marks in the mirror. No. Stop thinking about that.
Steve wants to be left alone.
As on cue, Steve realizes he's surrounded by SHIELD agents.
They’re about to get the jump on Steve because he’s bone tired and unable to focus on his surroundings.
They wear the tech Tony designed. To subdue superheroes. Whatever Tony needs to tell himself so he can sleep at night.
Steve's not sure Tony's human enough to sleep at night.
The agents don’t use the tranq guns. Opted for the taser guns instead. Big mistake with Steve's shield in play. He operates on instinct.
He gives them a clear warning. Legs planted wide, baring his teeth.
"Boys! I'm telling you now! Go back to your masters and tell them you failed. And at least you'll walk away."
They don't listen. And switch to traditional bullets. As they've been trained.
Steve tries to keep it cool, until a bullet grazes his shoulder. A sharp flare of pain that he will never get used to. A burst of adrenaline, heat flushing through his body – and he can't hold back anymore.
He breaks helmets. Smashes in the reinforced visors. Over and over.
No mercy.
Until he reaches the last agent…
And he's aiming the shield at Dugan's head.
Three thousand agents of SHIELD. on active duty, and they sent a friend.
He can’t do it. He grabs Dugan’s comm for a quick misdirect – reporting his own death. To buy some time.
Now Steve runs through New York sewers, blood pumping. Unable to stop the juggernaut of his thoughts or the sting of injustice. His fury building.
Tony was always full of himself. Rich, smart, quick, fast cars, faster women, big dick – hard to avoid in decon showers when the team is tired, cold and cranky. Tony is blessed. Born with a silver spoon in his mouth.
But his entitlement is subtle. You don't know he's taking from you because it's couched as generosity. But there's always a catch. It may take years to find out what that catch may be.
Sometimes he looks at Steve like he's starved. Stop thinking about that.
Steve sweats as he runs – his pulse speeding, though he's not pushing himself.
He's done feeling obliged to Tony Stark.
Stray memories come unbidden. When he eats Sharon out – he holds down one of her legs but she jams the other thigh right up to his ear so hard it rings, and the thought slips into his head. I wonder if Tony's good at this. It's too easy to channel Tony, to think how he thinks. Steve rubs his nose against Sharon's clit as his tongue dances across her, kissing her deeply and intimately, imagines Tony pushing his tongue in, does the same. He shoves two fingers in Sharon, her wetness eases the way. Steve licks all the way up again, lapping firmly at her clit until she comes. She smells so good, but all he can picture is Tony's face covered in her juices, with a smug look on his face.
He tries not to think of Tony when Sharon returns the favor.
Enough! Steve keeps running, his legs like pistons.
Tony is a sellout. He's a control freak. That's why he spies, lies, and gloats.
Steve curls his hands into fists as he runs – not aerodynamic but he can't stop. Someone needs to put a leash on Tony. Tony is an alcoholic. Always will be. Now his addiction is espionage, secret plans, law making – and moving people around like they're pieces on a board. Fuck the 50 states initiative. Moving superheroes from their home in the Bronx to Nebraska. It's never Tony who has to sacrifice his comfort.
Tony loves shrinks. Though he doesn't go to one, he loves all that self-help, psychobabble shit. Carol said it was one of those AA things – you start course correcting too much, you try to take control of every little behavior. There's that word again. Control. God, Steve's throat is so dry. But he feels like he can run all the way to Avengers Tower and scale the walls in one go, it's like he's renewed his strength.
He runs faster.
It's excruciating – like barbed wire across skin. But the way Tony presented the act to Steve so gently, leaving out certain facts, like Steve was a shivering, wounded, animal. That rankles.
Steve knows Tony was checking his email, maybe the market price of metal alloys at the same time. Can't prove it. But it's been a while since he's had Tony's full attention. He only gives him the kid glove treatment. And that glint in his eye like he's not sure if Steve will swallow the medicine – or gnaw his own leg off.
Steve wants to choke him out.
He lets out a choked out gasp that echoes off the curved walls of the sewer.
Steve's punched Tony, of course. They've trained a lot together. Steve now imagines punching Tony, not holding back. The way his knuckles connect with the side of Tony's jaw, his pretty teeth. Crunch. The jerk as his neck is forced back, the spurt of blood. Bloody teeth and wild blue eyes. The knowledge that this is it. No more special treatment. The stink of fear, maybe a tear running down his face. Yes.
Steve could close his hand around Tony's neck. Make him feel that power, the warm sensation in his cheeks as he begins to feel dizzy and gasp for air. Let him get hard. Let him panic. Let him get hard.
Then Steve drops Tony on the cold concrete floor.
Or he slams him hard against the wall. They're nearly always in a warehouse when he plans out these fantasies. Where Steve takes Tony apart.
Tony whimpers and gasps as the red mist descends.
Steve's darkest secret isn't that he wants to smack Tony around. That should be obvious to anyone that knows him. Freedom is a fundamental right, how could Tony try to sign that away?
No. The secret is he won't be able to stop.
He used to dream of Tony. Soft dreams. Beautiful dreams where they'd wake up in the same bed, rock against each other, share hot and heavy kisses, take it in turns to fuck the other, bite marks across Tony's neck, chest, and back. There'd be trust.
Steve's so naive. There's no one to trust, no home to return to. Superheroes who risk their lives every day for the greater good are being hunted down. The world is upside down but somehow Tony always ends up on top.
Steve’s losing his mind – down here in the dark.
He can't lose it here, the sewer echoes and he's not the only enhanced human who knows to use them. His shoulder throbs. Don't think about hitting the wall. Pain lances up his skull as a result of clenching his jaw, when he should be taking big breaths.
He doesn't want to be here. Nose blind in the sewer, knows places to go but nowhere he wants to be.
Steve wants to stop thinking. He wants to stop thinking about Tony. He needs to stop thinking about taking a razor to Tony’s throat.
He should force his way to the top of Avengers Tower. Or get taken deliberately. Get alone with Tony – who will give him special treatment so Steve feels obligated to him.
And then what?
Spit at him?
Bust his head open?
Fuck his mouth?
Ruin him.
His spirit is broken, he wants to break Tony's face in return.
He wants to pull all that armor off, slap him until the gold undersuit flows away and it's just his leather gloves on Tony's bare skin, the need to pull him apart winning out.
Oh, Tony will get his hits in when he can. Steve fully expects to splatter his own blood over Tony's skin, rub it in with his fingers.
This is fucked. Why is he getting aroused as he wades through New York shit, surrounded by dank brickwork, with only a few options for safety?
Where do you go when you're not wanted or needed by anyone who's not Tony cock sucking Stark?
Choke him with your hand or with your cock. It's all the same. He needs to pay.
Tony started it. Not only with the SHRA. He choked him first. Months ago Steve would have moved heaven and earth, given himself up willingly. Steve spits in the sewage. But it wasn't just Tony breaking him apart, it was his dangerous Hulkbuster listening in to his subconscious. Steve's not stupid. Tony's subconscious wants to hurt Steve, to immobilize him. To break him.
Steve's an inconvenience to Tony. A liability.
Tony's always had big ideas. He can't be contained. But Steve wants to shrink his world to the here and now. The cold concrete. His broken jaw. His tongue on Steve's boot – for starters.
He gave Steve a home. But there's always a catch.
How could he be taken in for so long?
He screams as he runs. Reckless – others use the sewers to get around. Freeing. But it doesn't release anything, change anything. He's still a coiled spring – he wants to attract attention - beat the shit out of someone who can take it.
You've been soft-hearted for too long, Rogers. But this is war now.
Steve needs to find somewhere to go. Before he does something stupid like grab Tony and throw him through a wall. Tony's no deity. He doesn't see all.
Steve reaches Fury's old safe house – brick walls, the stench of urine that comes with rats. He expects to collapse.
But the rage burns.
As soon as his shoulder heals. Then he'll do it.
But. He doesn't want to wait.
He should go there now. Avengers Tower. He likely still has security access. Tony would welcome him with open arms.
He'd think Steve has seen the light.
When all Steve wants is to make him bleed. Knock that smile right off his face. Break his neck before Tony can think of calling the armor. Too slow. Brain him with that bottle of malt Tony keeps around to torture himself, slit his neck with the jagged glass. Blood dripping from his mouth, staining his pretty lips. Always darker in color than you’d think. Crush his windpipe with barely a flex.
The fear in those blue eyes when Tony realizes that Steve has had enough of the lies and bullshit. That he was always going easy on him on the training mat.
Steve wants to do it. It’s the right thing to do.
But he hasn't slept. He'd be caught. His shoulder hurts. This is the worst thing Captain America can be caught doing right now – even if it's for the right reason. He can't stop the thoughts. The methods. The need. Once he does it he can rest.
His head thrums. He’s shaking. Like he's still able to get a fever. Is this how his father felt day after day? He's losing it. He needs these thoughts to stop.
He needs to knock himself out. Just for a little while.
He ransacks the box of medical supplies. Morphine. But not nearly enough. Fuck. Steve trembles. He wonders if Fury has left behind the scotch he prefers.
He can't. He wants to crush Tony's windpipe. Tony's no longer human. He's no longer Steve’s Shellhead. He looks at everything so dispassionately, threatening everything they built.
No, he's already broken it.
Steve tears the room apart, scraping his knuckles against the sharp edges of filing cabinets, too desperate to use the handles, his pulse hammering away – he needs to do something, anything, to reign himself in before he bleeds all over, takes Tony down with him.
Steve's fingers scrabble on slippery glass. Thank fuck. He needs to forget, embrace oblivion. Too late he notices the lightness of the bottle as he lifts it out of the drawer. A couple of drams of whiskey.
It's not enough. Steve shouts and throws the bottle at the wall.
Glass everywhere – now it smells like urine and booze. Like his father.
Too little morphine and alcohol – his body will burn through it too soon. Steve starts throwing everything he can find at the wall – lids of crates, a laser printer that's not connected to anything, a bottle of rubbing alcohol from the medical kit. It hits him the same time as he throws the bottle, Tony's name on his lips. He slumps, his head a silent scream of static. He shouldn't.
Fury keeps a large canister in every safe house. In case he has to torch the place. There's a heft to the container. Denatured alcohol. Steve twitches and his vision clouds. This is Tony's fault.
But he still has to keep Tony safe. Because he can’t be the one dispensing justice. Even though he also wants to crush his windpipe. It’s not personal. Steve doesn’t understand why his brain is telling him to do two different things. Sharon would call it an unhealthy obsession. Steve doesn’t want to examine it. So he has to drown it.
Steve has to poison himself to stop. To knock himself out. To not feel. To snuff himself out. For a moment.
Denatured alcohol. Rotgut.
His mother told him stories of neighbors who mistakenly bought rotgut during prohibition. The drunks dying in the streets. Steve blinks back tears. Would she be proud of him? Choosing between taking poison or throwing Tony off the top of the tower?
Breaking himself or breaking Tony?
He should sit down but he's too wired. He feels like a jerky marionette dancing to someone else's tune. He unscrews the cap, lets it fall to the ground.
The liquid smells bitter, stronger than the rest of the room. Good. Steve's certain he can withstand this. He needs to make it through the night. He wants to be shrouded in darkness. No longer exist. Just for now.
They should have left you in that block of ice.
He'll be fine. Hydra have done worse. But the churning, unpleasant thoughts need to stop. He needs to stop.
No. Tony needs to stop. Steve needs to sneak up on him, light on his feet while Tony stares at the glass, the bottle of Johnny Walker, compelled by his losing battle as he sits in his glass tower, above everyone else.
Steve's always been a ticking time bomb around Tony. For a long time Steve thought it would end in a good fuck. Now? No. Tony only deserves pain.
Steve pushes the thought away.
Steve sweats as he puts the spout to his lips. He tips the container back and shudders as the bitterness hits his tongue. Purple liquid spills out into his mouth – over his chin, neck, and chest.
It's foul. His body is rigid as he forces himself to swallow. Take a mouthful. Swallow. Another mouthful. Swallow.
It burns. Steve can feel his lips and tongue begin to blister. He stops drinking for a moment, moves to the floor, the crunch of glass under his knees only a light distraction from the pain in his throat, lacing down into his chest, the wave of nausea and cramps.
His eyes stream with tears. His body fights back.
He realizes it's hit his bloodstream. He feels woozy. Still angry at Tony. Still lonely. But a glass wall has been thrown up between his thoughts and his feelings. He's all sensation.
This isn't going to be enough though. He drinks more. Splashing the foulness over more of his t-shirt, gagging, burning bile rising. His heart beats so fast, he feels coldness spread. He slaps his hands down on the ground, glass fragments biting into his skin as he vomits, hideous purple liquid darkened with blood.
He misses Clint.
Steve's barely thinking, he's dizzy. He's a rapidly emptying vessel. He hopes he's drunk enough. The white mist descends. Tony’s safe from Steve for a while.
Funny, he thought oblivion would be deep and dark, the kind of black that allows in no light.
But it's white, pale. He falls under.
Steve wakes with a start, aware that there's eyes on him.
"Wild night, huh?" Sam looks down at Steve.
Steve's tongue is thick in his mouth, his mouth tastes rotten. There's a foul odor that he realizes is coming from him. His windpipe burns, like he's been screaming for hours.
There's tiny shards of glass in the palms of his hands. His skin has attempted to heal over them. Steve's thoughts are slow, jagged. He needs a penknife.
At least his shoulder doesn't hurt anymore.
Most importantly, he avoided doing anything really dangerous or destructive.
Tony is safe.
Steve is relieved.
He glances up at Sam.
There's disgust in his eyes. The kind he'd see in his mother's eyes when his father finally passed out. Steve knows he's lost him in that moment.
Sam leaves.
Steve retches and tries not to think about rescuing Tony from that flophouse.
Nobody's coming for Steve.