Archive of Our Own ^beta

SLAM. 

The helmet goes hard into the floor. Steve's fingers claw at the latch of the faceplate, yank it off so hard so fast so meticulous it forces him into a tailspin of vertigo. Cushioning – no concussion, not yet at least. 

“Show me your face.” 

Said like Tony doesn't have one anymore. Better than twofaced. Just to be nothing. 

Their talk had been a talk, and then Tony had said something just a little too far on the side of wrong. It's not a fair fight. His body knows it's not fair. Sleep deprived and three days without a proper meal. It was a bacon, egg, and cheese on a croissant from some vendor on the street. 

Steve’s glove squeaks between his face and the helmet. The rest comes off. He’s wedged under Steve’s parted thighs, trying to get up, struggling to get anything out other than choked-off grunts of exertion. With another applique of pressure from Steve, the floor cracks a bit below them. Telltale signs that the Mansion is falling into even worse state of disrepair. Oh, Tony wishes. 

SLAM. 

That’s his head. 

Doesn’t break bone, but knocks him for a loop. 

“I hate what this did to you.” 

His eyes are closed when Steve wraps his fingers under the undersheath, so he doesn’t quite understand what he’s feeling as he feels it. 

His urethra and belly button tug up with the feeling of something being pulled from him— 

Extremis— 

Steve is— 

Pulling Extremis— 

Invisible needles— 

Rusted— 

It screeches— 

It taints— 

It tries to grab hold— 

Of him— 

Rears— 

Tears— 

Glitches— 

Strings of code breaking— 

Can’t breathe— 

“St-eve.” 

Gold is clinging to Steve’s fingers. He tries one last. One last time. To get. Up.  

The ripcord of the undersheath slithers out of his skin, pores, bones. He wheezes like a pig up for slaughter. Something is leaking from his ears. He can’t hear what Steve’s saying though there are soundwaves rippling through the man’s hand pushing his head to the ground telling him Steve’s speaking. Pain on the tip of his tongue as he bites through it, pain in his gut wearing a hole through like nothing had ever been there in the first place, pain in his prefrontal cortex where Tony is losing. 

A kaleidoscope of gold. 

Tony loses. 

“... Tony?” 

He was going to have to kill Steve, someone said, can’t remember who.  

“... Tony.” 

That’s his name. Don’t wear it out. 

Is it his name? 

Does he know who he is anymore? 

“Tony, Tony, hey. Wake up. Come back.” 

Two hands on his face, his cheeks. One slaps. Again. 

He opens his eyes. The slate is blank. 

“Tony. Tony, oh, god.” 

“I always thought his eyes were beautiful,” says a voice that he’s sure doesn’t belong to him, some narration somewhere. “And the first time he looked at me I knew. I would do anything for him. To keep him safe.” 

The laugh isn’t his, either. 

“Steve Rogers. The most loveable man on the planet. Breakneck lover boy. Sweetheart of the century. Empath to a fault. And he’s beautiful for it.” 

“Tony.” 

“He’s looking at me like something’s wrong.” 

“Tony, pull it together. Shit. Shit, pull it together, come on, oh fuck, fuck.”  

Extremis.  

Tries to take him back. 

“That was really bad for me, wasn’t it, Cap?” he wonders aloud in his own voice.  

Steve’s hands are petting at his face, red-clad. And his eyes are serious, and he’s crying. 

“You’re okay,” he says. A thumb wipes at the bottom of Tony’s lip. “You’re okay, you’re okay, we need to get you to a hospital. I... I messed you up. I really messed you up.” 

“I think you did to me what a hospital would never have been able to do, Captain.” 

Coming back online. Offline. No signals. Not because they’re not there or shut off, the ability is gone. His ears are leaking. It might be blood, but it’s more likely it’s cerebrospinal fluid. Extremis puts a lot of pressure on the brain. The headache he’s been nursing for months is gone.  

“Christ, Tony,” Steve whispers.  

Christ, indeed. 

The thumb presses at his lip in more determination. “Let me see. Open your mouth. You’re bleeding.” 

He opens. Presses his tongue out, closes his eyes, draws the tip of the leather glove into his mouth. Steve tries to pull back, Tony doesn’t let him, curling his tongue under the pad, drawing Steve deeper. And Steve, bless him for this moment of truce and peace, shoves into Tony’s body. The tip of Steve’s thumb passes the bitten tissue, presses down into the middle of his tongue. Steve’s meant to be just here, right inside. 

After a moment more, Steve does pull back. 

He kind of blacks out, just a little bit. Head dizzy, it drops to the ground again. Three breaths, the square method, a few seconds through the mouth, out through the nose, something like that. 

When he opens his eyes, Steve’s staring down at the bloodied glove.  

Tony shuffles to lay his back full on the ground. Still under Steve’s legs, it’s a struggle, but he lives.  

The second his raised hands hit Steve’s cheeks to cradle him in the same way he just was with Tony, Steve’s shoulders give. 

Poor man’s crying.  

“Thanks, Winghead.” 

“I just... assaulted you.” 

“It happens,” which Tony means.  

“Not with me.” 

“Then it was bound to happen.” 

“Tony,” Steve whispers. He’s haunted. Which ghosts? 

“Come down here.”  

He tugs at a wing on the cowl. Winghead.  

“Why?” 

“Because you’re going to kiss me,” Tony demands. 

“You’re covered in- you need...” 

“I need you.”  

Everybody needs Steve. But nobody needs Steve like Tony needs Steve right now, he’s such a selfish bastard. 

So he takes. 

Steve leans down and cradles Tony’s head. Their mouths meet, and it’s simple. Steve makes a terrible broken noise, only terrible because Tony doesn’t want Steve to feel that way – not now, not ever. 

“I miss you,” he whispers against Steve’s lips as he pulls away. “Come home. We’ll figure it out.” 

“Bill’s dead,” Steve gives back. 

“I know.” 

“The others...” 

“Will follow you back to the den.” 

As they always do.  

“I won’t register.” 

Without Extremis, it’s easier to see. How clouded has his judgment really been? 

His fingers go under the cowl the same as Steve’s went under the helmet, pulling it off. “Then we’ll find another way.” 

Steve presses his mouth down again, kisses in threes each time. 

“Hey, get off me,” Tony eventually says. “I need a bone marrow transplant. There’s nothing in me anymore, I’m hollow.” 

“Did I... is it really all gone?” 

Turning his head to the left, there it is, the virus. “Yep.” 

“I...” Stunned, Steve gingerly gets off him. “I tore it out?” 

“Yeah, apparently. Wow, Steve, you were right, I’m really sorry.” He takes Steve’s hand where he offers it. Wobbles a bit on empty. Falls against Steve. Looks up at him with hazy lovelorn empty-headed love love love. “That was really bad for me. I think I need help.” 

Steve steadies him, wraps his hands around his waist. “We’ll get it for you.” 

“Tit for tat. Come home. Please.” He runs a hand over Steve’s left pec. “My heart’s probably trashed without Extremis. I’m going to need a new one.” 

“I didn’t know it fixed it,” Steve offers, pressing a kiss against his forehead. 

“Mhm. Will you be my heart?” 

“... are you... you’re not... this is real, right?” 

“Trust me, Steve, I don’t have the energy to lie about this. I don’t want to lie about this. I can’t.” He shakes his head. Cheek against the mail. “I don’t have the energy to keep how I feel from you.” 

“... Tony, I love you.” 

“Mmm. Love you too.” 

Steve pulls back, putting his hand on the spot where he had it before to bring Tony’s gaze up to his. His brows are raised, bewildered, worried. So Steve. “Are you serious about this?” 

“... are you?” 

“Yeah, Shellhead. Yeah. I’m serious.”