Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

1918

“Sar… Sarah, you are going to break my hand, you daft woman!”

“I hate you, Joseph Seamus Rogers, I hate you so much and I hope you experience the pain of childbirth in your lifetime!”

Sarah let out another loud shout as she felt another contraction. Joe knelt at the side of their bed, wincing as his wife squeezed down on his hand, her blunt nails digging into his skin, leaving half-moon shapes where they pressed.

“Once more, Mrs. Rogers, I can see the head!” said Betty Moore, Sarah’s midwife.

After a few more minutes (and a few more agonizing screams from Sarah and shouts of pain and protests from Joe), Betty pulled out a little, blonde boy.

He cried, he cried so loud, but he was so small, so fragile looking. Betty cleaned him off carefully, taking care as the baby fussed and cried still. After Betty wrapped him in a clean, pristine, new blue blanket, she handed him down to Sarah, whose brow was still beaded with sweat, and she looked so tired, bags under her eyes from the three sleepless nights she had been in labor.

Joe slumped in the arm chair by the bed, tears in his eyes. “A little boy,” he croaked out. “Just like you said, love. Our little boy.”

Sarah cradled him close to her chest. The baby was still making soft, pathetic sounds, but he was calming down, warm in the arms of his mother. She brushed what little blonde hair he had on his tiny scalp with her fingers softly. “He’s a Steven, I think,” she whispered. “Steven. And Grant, after your father.” She looked at Joe with a smile on her lips. “What do you think?”

“Steven Grant Rogers,” Joe said, playing with the name on his mouth. “Steve Rogers.” He pulled the chair closer to the bed and he reached out to hold Sarah’s hand. “Now that sounds like the name of an American.”

 

1970

Howard Stark isn’t there for the birth of his son. He is in Malibu, California, working on the newest Stark headquarters for the West Coast. He tells Maria, “The future is in California”, but all she hears is that he’ll be gone until July, when she’s due in May.

Edwin Jarvis, their butler, is there, however. He’s the one who holds her hand when she tries to push, she tries so hard. But nothing is working, the baby is just too stubborn, and she thinks very vaguely that it must be the Carbonell in him that makes the baby so persistent to stay inside her.

The doctors say she has no choice, she has to have a Cesarean, because that baby is not coming out. They try to make it a joke, but Maria only hears that there has to be a surgery; they have to cut her open to get the baby out. She agrees because Starks don’t show fear, even if they’re only Starks by marriage.

She names the baby boy Anthony, because Howard had told her to name him so. She gives him the middle name of Edward because Edward was her own father’s name.

He has such dark hair, she thinks, as she holds him. Even though he’s a child, she can already see so much of Howard. His nose, his eyebrows, the set of his mouth. He’s fussy already, so cranky, so quickly, the only time he’s calm is when he sleeps, which is seldom.

But he opens his eyes and she sees herself in him too, not all Howard. Not all of this baby boy is Howard Stark. Because his eyes—the way he sees—are hers.

And she thanks God that he is not all Howard.

 

1925

Steve is seven, and he is small. His ma says he won’t be forever because some boys get tall later. She tells Steve to stick to his drawings, to stick to his books, because being smart is more important than being tall.

Steve is seven, and he is weak. He can barely help old Mrs. McDonald with her groceries up the four flights of stairs. She still gives him a quarter for his help, the trouble he went through, because she pities the poor boy who wheezes feebly at the top of the stairs, his breathing made difficult by the asthma.

Steve is seven, and he is helpless. His father smashes a bottle of whiskey against the wall near him and his mother is crying, her hand clutched to her face, the purple bruising peeking out from between her thin fingers. Get out here, you useless little maggot! his father shouts, his eyes bloodshot and his words slurred.

Steve is seven, and he doesn’t want to be who he is.  

 

1977

Tony is playing in his room, a small wrench in his tiny hand, an open circuit board splayed out in front of him. He’s so young, and he’s told Jarvis so many times that he is going to make himself a robot if it’s the last thing he does.

Tony has not only learned about robots, but also about the word “prodigy”, which is what everyone calls him. Dr. Leicester says he wants to study Tony, because Tony is so smart, so Tony visits Dr. L every Thursday. Dr. L asks him easy questions, hard questions, and sometimes he watches Tony read and watches Tony work on his robot, like he is today.

Tony is used to being watched. Lots of people watch Tony. He’s a Stark. And Starks are made to be watched.

Dr. L takes his notes like usual as Tony works on his board, pausing sometimes to ask Tony questions about what he’s doing, where he learned it, how he learned it. Tony says, books and sometimes, he says, Dad and he answers with I just learned, because Tony doesn’t know how to explain how his brain works to a guy who’s not a child prodigy. He mustn’t be very smart in the first place, if he keeps asking Tony what he’s doing, even though he is a doctor. Tony thinks he could be a doctor, especially if guys like Dr. L are allowed to be doctors.

So Tony spends a warm May day inside Stark Mansion. He does what he wants since his parents are off in Europe for the week. It’s a nice change of pace, being the only person in the house, other than Jarvis.

Not one but Jarvis makes mention that today is Tony’s seventh birthday.

 

1929

Steve is in the sixth grade when the stock market crashes. He comes home to his mother crying at the kitchen table. She’s not normally home when he gets home from school, so he’s a little startled when he sees her. Her face is in her hands, and her shoulders are shaking.

“Ma?” he asks, shutting the door behind him. He bolts the door with a little effort, and he drops his dirty, brown backpack on the floor.

His mother stiffens when she hears his voice, but she recovers, wiping her eyes with her hands. She gives Steve a watery, fragile smile. “Hello there, love. Have a good day at school?” she asks, grabbing a napkin and blowing her nose.

“What’s wrong, Ma?” he asks, his eyebrows knit.

Her smile falters, and she reaches up to fix Steve’s hair idly. She huffs a heavy sigh; her eyes are brimming over with water again. She clears her throat and rights herself.

“Money’s going to be a bit tight for a while now, Stevie. Mama has to look for a new job,” she tells him softly.

Steve isn’t stupid. He knows that means she got fired. But he doesn’t say that, only nods. He’s used to money being tight. Ever since his father died last year, he knows what it means to try to conserve money.

It can’t be that much worse, can it?

 

1981

Tony is home for the summer before he goes back to his boarding school in Massachusetts. His mom has placed him in a tuxedo for the gala they’re throwing in what is supposed to be in honor of Tony’s return, but it’s really for Howard to schmooze his way through the rich people to get more people to invest in Stark Industries. It’s all about money, even when it’s supposed to be about Tony.

Tony is cooed over and talked to like he’s stupid (he’s not, he’s seriously not stupid, why don’t these people understand that he is smarter than all of them combined, and he is twelve). But he deals with it because Howard would kill him otherwise, so he schmoozes too, and damn it if he’s not the best schmoozer in the room other than the elder Stark himself.

Tony goes by the bar and asks the guy working there for a Coca Cola. Tony hops on one of the stools and starts eating the bowl of pistachios (because pistachios are delicious and you can never have just one) next to his arm. He’s careful about not ruining his suit, it’s new, and Tony would like to not wake up with new bruises if he ruined it.

The bartender puts a glass bottle in front of him and smiles that smile that isn’t really a smile, but more like “like me so I don’t get fired because your dad is Howard Stark”. Tony gives the guy a tight grin and takes a sip from the bottle.

Before Tony sets it down, his dad comes up next to him and asks for whiskey, which is promptly given to him. Tony figures that Howard will ignore as per usual, so he takes another idle sip of his soda, not prompting conversation because, in the Stark household, you don’t speak unless spoken to.

He’s not expecting Howard to shove the tumbler into his hand and tell him, drink this, it’ll put some hair on your chest.

Tony knows better than to disobey, so he takes the tumbler and drinks.

1934

The apartment is dead silent.

Bucky Barnes turns the knob on the front door and finds it unlocked. He opens it and steps inside the house. The apartment is cold, like ice and it feels frozen, not in temperature, but in time. He calls for Steve, but receives no answer. His mother is downstairs with the car.

He shoves his hands in his pockets, and he feels like the sound of his footsteps are invading the space this apartment has created.

He finds Steve in his mother’s room, sitting on the now bare mattress. His back is to Bucky and he’s hunched over. Bucky walks slowly to the other side of the bed and he sits next to Steve. He’s holding a picture frame with a photo of his mother inside of it.

She is young and she is vibrant, even in the muted colors of the sepia. She has Steve’s startling blue eyes, that much is clear in the photo.

She looked nothing like this in the last days of her life.

Steve is small, but he is smaller now. He’s curled in on himself, pulled in close, hiding himself, shielding himself. This is not the kid who gets beat up in the alleyways, willing to fight for whatever it is he believes in. This is a sixteen year old kid who has given up.

And Bucky doesn’t know how to make it better.

 

1986

Starks don’t back down from a challenge. Not ever. It’s a rule, it’s a code, and it’s what Tony fucking Stark does.

Maybe that’s why he starts with the lovely little needle.

Or maybe, maybe it’s because that really hot girl (Amy, Amber, Ashley, Allison? Something with an “A”) offered it to him and, hey, who is Tony Stark to say no to a pretty face?

Maybe it’s because it’s fucking easier than dealing with the shit reality has decided to throw in his fucking face.

The college guys and the college girls from MIT around him love him now because he gets the good stuff, right, because he can afford that shit because he’s Tony fucking Stark and he can afford the best fucking drugs on the market because he’s a Stark, right, and Starks are loaded.

It’s just a little prick, right, totally worth the bliss that comes after it, totally worth it, because Tony’s mind to finally fucking blank for once and he’s grateful for the silence.

 

1940

When Steve was a kid, he normally spent his Christmases at the tiny church up the street. He’d get dressed in the nicest things he owned at the time, and his mother would shove his hands into gloves and force a hat on his head. They would go to the midnight mass and sing in Latin and ring in Christmas with the rest of the congregation.

He doesn’t do that anymore.

Bucky’s family is Jewish, so their holiday season has already passed. Mrs. Barnes had taken care of Steve after his mother passed, so he might as well be a little Jewish, save for actually being Jewish.

But, tonight, they are going to the lighting of the tree at Rockefeller Center. Bucky has a girl on his arm, a dirty blonde with blue eyes. She laughs at everything Bucky says and hangs off his every word like he’s the most interesting person in the world. And Bucky, in turn, gives her his undivided attention, and he’s funny enough to huff a few laughs out of Steve.

Bucky is everything Steve is not, and Steve wonders how they are even friends at all.

The girl Steve is supposed to be with (“It’s a double date, Steve, no pressure.”) is a few steps ahead of him, trailing after Bucky and the girl, her hands stuffed in her large, brown coat. She’s cute. A brunette with big brown eyes. She lives in the Upper East Side and why she’s hanging out with the likes of Bucky and Steve, he doesn’t know.

Steve manages to catch up with her. She’s looking at the lights, and Steve would be an idiot not to find her beautiful. She catches him looking, and she smiles sweetly when he flushes.

“You’re only here for Bucky, aren’t you?” she asks. Steve goes to protest, but she interrupts him. “It’s all right. I’m only here for Jan.” She gives him a once-over and sighs heavily, her breath visible in the cold night air.

“To tell you the truth, I have a guy already,” she says. She links her arms through Steve’s, but keeps a polite distance between them.

“Yeah?” Steve says. “Then why are you here, on a horrible double date with me?” He smiles at her to show he’s joking, but he’s not sure it comes across because she knits her eyebrows together.

“He’s at boot camp. He signed up for the army,” she says quietly. They arrive to the tree at the center. It’s the biggest tree that Steve has ever seen, and it’s decorated to the nines. He wonders vaguely how much power the entire thing is taking up. “Didn’t want to be alone, I guess.”

Steve nods. “I know the feeling.”                    

       

                        
1992

Tony is twenty-two when he meets Virginia Potts.

He is also hungover when he meets Virginia Potts, but he doesn’t like to talk about that part a lot.

Obadiah says it’s time to stop sleeping with the personal assistants, that it’s unprofessional and you’re CEO now, Tony, you have to be responsible now and stuff like that. So Obie hires Virginia Potts, who is fresh-faced and eager to work and has red hair and is downright gorgeous.

And Tony tries, he tries so hard to sleep with her. He’s never tried this hard to sleep with someone, he thinks, not even when he was a teenager. But she is resilient, all Yes, Mr. Stark and No, Mr. Stark and will that be all, Mr. Stark and she just will not sleep with him.

And it’s driving Tony nuts! Who doesn’t want to sleep with Tony Stark? No one, that’s who! He’s got a line so long that it could go around the circumference of the world  of people who want to have sex with him!

But Virginia Potts is not on that list, it seems, and she hands him paper after paper to sign and gets him to press conferences and board meetings on time.

One night, Tony is so smashed and so high and so gone that he does not even know where he is. All he can see is dim streetlamps and a deserted street and he is alone, so alone, and his head is starting to pound, but it doesn’t hurt, it’s just pounding, like he can feel his blood coursing through his veins.

He stumbles down the street a little more until he staggers into a phone booth and he uses the quarters he has to dial a number he didn’t even know he memorized.

“Hello?” he hears at one end and he stands a little straighter.

“Potts?” he says. “Why are you calling me on this pay phone?”

He hears a sigh and muffled talking on the other side of the phone. “Where are you?”

“Uh,” he says dumbly. He looks around. “California. Probably.” He finds the phonebook hung on the payphone. It’s fuzzy, he can barely read it, his eyes just won’t focus, dammit. “Yeah, California.”

“Don’t go anywhere, I am coming to get you. We’ll trace the call. Do not move.” He hears the receiver click down and the dial tone start.

“Where else do I have to go?” he asks the receiver, but she is gone and she cannot hear him, and Tony starts crying. He lets the phone fall and he crumples inside the payphone, hot tears streaming down his face because he is so tired and so done and he feels so fucking alone and it fucking hurts.

Pepper finds him thirty minutes later and shuffles him into the car. She examines his face and he winces at one point and her fingers come away with crusted blood, so he must’ve been bleeding at some point and he didn’t know it.

“Mr. Stark, you can’t keep do—”

“Call me Tony,” he says. “For fuck’s sake, my name is Tony. Call me Tony.”

She looks startled for a second, but gives him a faltering smile. “Then call me Pepper.”

 

1942

I’ve got to put her in the water.

I’m gonna need a rain check on that dance.

Peggy?

                It’s
                                                                So
Cold
                                And
                                                                                Steve
Can’t
                Think.
                                                How
Long
                                                                                                                                Has
                He
                                                                                Been
Under?

 

1994

“G-G-G-G-G-G-G.”

“Oh, goddammit, work! I programmed you right, you should talk!”

“G-G-G-G-G.”

“Jesus motherfucking Ch—”

“G-G-Good morning, Mr. Stark.”

“—rist, are you kidding m—what did you say?”

“Good morning, Mr. Stark.”

“That’s what I thought you said. Good morning, JARVIS.”

 

2008

“Don’t waste it. Don’t waste your life.”

And he doesn’t.

 

2010

He’s dying. There is no two ways around it. He is dying. Hell, he figured he would’ve died years before. He’s just pissed that this is the way he’s going. By his own invention.

But then he’s not dying, and now he has nothing to prove.

 

2011

They show Steve his new apartment. “They” being S.H.I.E.L.D.  Steve still isn’t sure how he feels about them.

They tell him about the last seventy years in some pretty brief descriptions.

They won the war.

Phones are pretty popular now.

Televisions have color.

A black man is the President of the United States.

Steve doesn’t know what to do with any of that information. So he asks for information about the stuff he knows. His friends.

They hand him a few files, tells him to peruse at his leisure, which seems to be all he has now.

Nobody needs Captain America.

Most of the Howling Commandos are dead. Bucky has been proclaimed as missing in action, having never recovered a body from the mountains. Peggy is alive.

Peggy is alive.

He thinks about calling her once, twice, a thousand times. But he never does. He is a part of the past. He is a relic. He is supposed to be dead. So, he lets her continue to move on.

He’s just waiting to do the same.

Chapter Text

2012

 

May

It’s official, Tony thinks. Captain America is a motherfucking dick.      

He’s never been looked down on with such open disgust since his dad.

Who cares what he thinks? He’s only a guy, right? He’s just some asshole with a stick shoved firmly up his pert, 1940’s ass. Can’t take a joke, doesn’t understand this century, a downright loser is what Captain America is.

It’s really, truly not Tony’s problem as to what Rogers’s problem is, but Tony seems to be that problem. To be completely honest, Tony should have known better in the first place. He should be used to being such a disappointment. No doubt Rogers was looking for Howard in Tony, especially because of the uncanny resemblance. Unfortunately for Cap Ass, Tony isn’t his father and he’s not about to pretend for some vintage Ken doll that he is, just to cater and coddle him, like the rest of SHIELD does.

Sure, by the end of the day, they all fight well in the end. Of course they did, they might be a chemical bomb, but they’re a chemical bomb that kicked the ass of one bitchy, Asgardian prima donna right back to the rainbow bridge. It’s a miracle in itself that this all happened, how well they came together. They were, however, brought together under less than okay terms, what with the “death” of Coulson. After finding out the bastard was alive, you better believe that Tony had words with Fury (well, about three words and a half, which were “what were you th—” and then Fury giving Tony a glare with one eye, which made Tony shut up). All of them felt lied to by the end of it, which didn’t bode well for SHIELD. Last Tony heard, Natasha and Clint were in the air, Thor was still on Asgard, with a very slim chance of a comeback tour, Bruce had gone on some weird zen retreat, and, well, Tony hadn’t bothered to find out what were Rogers’s life plans. And he didn’t really care at all.

Rogers and Tony parted all right (if you can classify “all right” as barely cordial), shook hands, bid their adieus, and said “see ya” to any further types of interactions. Because, really, it’s not like villains like Loki come around every day. Tony had better things to worry about than parading around on Captain America’s superhero team.

Somehow, in the back of Tony’s head, he’s feeling like he’s not doing a solid to his younger self. While Tony hates Rogers, his younger self (circa ages five to thirteen) would’ve smacked him in the head and demanded why in the hell he hadn’t snapped up the chance to be the right hand man, the partner, of Captain America. Well, Tony would tell his younger self, Captain Rogers is a dick. But, of course, because Tony’s younger self is both headstrong and stubborn, the younger Tony would say he’s not and would stand up in the name for all that is good and patriotic and defend the honor of Captain America.

So, Tony had a slight problem in his love for Captain America when he was younger. It wasn’t a big deal. He grew out of it, like most kids do (except, apparently, Coulson), stopped making such a fuss over a guy in glorified spandex. Tony doesn’t keep his collectibles anywhere (they are in an undisclosed location that only Pepper knows about), and he most certainly doesn’t ask for Rogers to sign his vintage trading cards.

Still, his younger self would be beating his head into a wall because he made Captain America hate him. It’s not like he meant to in the first place. He says something snide and the look that crosses Rogers’s face isn’t one of amusement, it’s definitely one of annoyance. He shouldn’t be surprised that he fucked up everything with his childhood idol, but that doesn’t make the sting of it actually happening any better.

Because, well, when he was a kid, he figured that since nobody liked him, Captain America at least would. But that was obviously a pipe dream within a pipe dream within a pipe dream and so impossible that Tony is almost Leonardo DiCaprio winning a goddamn Oscar.

End point: Tony couldn’t care less about Captain Steve Rogers with his stupid slacks and his grandpa, picnic table shirt and his 40s style hair and his More Patriotic than Thou attitude. And if the Human Bomb Pop didn’t care about him, well, great, fine. They’ll leave it at a barely cordial handshake and never see each other ever again.

But, god, fuck, his words are in his head, they won’t stop, they’re in the forefront of his mind and he can’t stop thinking about them, about what Rogers said to him in the helicarrier with Loki’s scepter. His reflex reaction should be that he’s wrong, he’s so wrong; he’s saved so many people. Tony is trying to right his wrongs, he’s trying to make himself better, and he’s trying to be better, especially for Pepper. He’s been doing clean energy and he’s kept the world at peace while Capitan Hielo was chilling with penguins and polar bears.

But that’s not his reflex reaction, that’s not even close to Tony’s reflex reaction. His reaction is to agree.

You are not a hero.

 

June

Steve never went home after the war. According to history, he probably wouldn’t have for another three years, if he hadn’t gone down. So it’s strange going back to the tiny apartment in Brooklyn, setting his bag down by the front door, greeted by only the silence.

He thought about enlisting again. Officially with the army. But he doesn’t even know what they’re fighting for in this war. He hears too many different things at too many different times. Oil? Terrorists? Land? There’s no clear enemy anymore. And that scares the hell out of Steve. Back then, he knew what he was fighting. He was fighting Nazis, the scum of the earth. Those were the bad guys, clearly marked in black swastikas and German accents.

Sometimes, Steve dreams of the war. He can taste the dirt in his mouth and he can smell the blood on the leather of his uniform. He can feel the lick of flames as they rush past his face, barely scorching his skin. He can still see the look of fear on the first man he killed in the war, the way his eyes bugged out when he realized Steve’s intention, and the way it never went away even after Steve shot him.

He can still remember the biting chill in the air, the roaring sound train tracks in his ears, the moment he let Bucky slip right through his fingertips.

Most of Steve’s problems (for lack of a better word) are ghosts. Intangible and haunting, they don’t let him sleep half the time. He wakes up in cold sweats, panting, the room dark, except for his digital clock reading out the time to him in a dull, green glow. He’ll rub his hands over his face, brushing the sweat off his brow. He breathes, letting the clean air filter out the smell of ash, trying to calm his thumping heart, resisting the urge to run into his bathroom and throw up nothingness that is his stomach contents, let the acid burn the back of his throat. He’d feel better in the immediate moment, but worse later on.

He uses the Google to search for an answer to his problem at one point. Coulson gave him a laptop when they gave him the apartment, shows him the basics of using it. Steve seldom uses the thing but he hears about Google and thinks what the hell, I’ll give it a try.

He didn’t know how much information was on the Internet. It’s astounding, really, how much they could cram into the Internet, and it blows his mind that it’s still growing every single day. When he first tries, he Googles silly things like bears and shields. He Googles Captain America and sees a lot of pictures of him in comic book form or him in the bond-selling costume. There are a few stills of him during the war, but they’re grainy. Most of the articles about him talk about him like he’s dead. It hits Steve that he might as well be.

But then there are some pictures of him, clad in the new uniform. Most of those are taken with shaky camera phones, quick snaps from frightened bystanders, some from the news. There are videos of him fighting the aliens, bashing heads and taking names. “The Return of Captain America?” one of them says and beneath is a low quality picture of his grimy face. The article details how Steve went missing in action back in 1942 while he was covering a covert op against the Nazi specialist group HYDRA, never to be seen again. Most of what is written would be seen as speculation, as they have no proof that Steve is actually back from the dead. But it’s not.

Anyway, he does ask Google what these nightmares mean, and maybe the Internet can muster up some kind of solution for him. It doesn’t.

Some website for soldiers tells him what he’s experiencing is called Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, which is common after someone comes home from the war. It details how paranoia and anger had leaked into their systems, how the war had tainted their waking lives, and how battles had terrorized their dreams. Steve slams the laptop shut, angry. Angry at himself, letting it get to him like this. He went into the war, wanting to be a hero, but he comes out a coward. He feels weak, truly weak for the first time since Bucky’s death.

After a day, he goes back, opens up the same website and reads. He watches videos of soldiers, soldiers from this psuedo-war, talking about how the war had scarred them. Steve feels a little less alone, that it’s not just him who’s lost so much in the aftermath of destruction. Most of them talk about therapy, but Steve doesn’t see how a therapist can understand the condition of “I went to war in 1942 and woke up in 2011 and now all my friends are gone”.

So, he takes up art again. It’s a good fallback, he figures, since it’s what he knows how to do best, besides being a soldier. Art is something Steve has found therapeutic in its own way, as a way to express what he could have never put into words. Steve’s never been much of a guy for words, he’s more of a man of action. So he does art. He’s got a ton of back pay from the army, collected over the years. So he spends it on supplies.

He buys several sketchbooks, and a pack of the nicest pencils he can find. He buys canvases and brushes and paints and charcoal and watercolors and whatever else he can remember using in art school. (He is appalled to find that basically everything is horrendously expensive now, but he can somehow still pay for it all.)

But, most of all, he buys colored markers. He buys them by the dozens, in all sorts of colors. Every shade of blue, green, red, brown, black, gray. Markers are what he knows. He knows this. Making comics is what he knows.

So, Steve figures that coming home from war is going back to what you know. But it’s harder than he thought it would be.

 

July

“You know, this is a really nice thing you’re doing,” Bruce tells Tony as they stand on the balcony of Stark Tower. Around them is the Avengers: Natasha, Clint, and even Thor. They’ve got Coulson and Pepper too.

“What am I doing that’s nice?” Tony asks, taking a sip of the champagne in his hand.

“Throwing Steve this birthday party,” Bruce says, giving Tony a side-eyed look that makes Tony grimace but looks in Steve’s direction anyways. He and Clint are in front of the TV and Clint is teaching Steve how to do Wii Bowling. Steve is actually doing the proper bowling stance which makes Tony’s lips quirk up around the edges. Bruce nudges him with his arm. “Come on, you know you’re doing a nice thing,” Bruce continues.

Tony snaps his gaze from Steve back to Bruce and he makes a face. “It’s nothing,” Tony says, looking into his glass. “Pep told me to make nice and, whaddya know, I made nice, whoopee, can’t have Captain America hating me, I guess.” He downs the rest of the champagne and glances back at Steve again. “Besides. It sucks being alone on your birthday.”

 

 

August

Steve moves into the Tower, and it’s not as ugly on the inside as it is on the outside. Especially since Tony put so much effort into his own floor. He’s never had an apartment with more than two bedrooms, forget about an entire floor to himself before.

Steve doesn’t know what to do with half the space he has. He didn’t bring that much stuff with himself, just the essentials, really.

Steve still doesn’t know how Tony knew to build him an art studio.

Things with Tony have gotten better, which seems like the miracle of all miracles. Gone is the usual amount of hostility between them. Truth be told, Steve wasn’t very fond of Tony at first. He was obnoxious, for starters, seemed like the kind of guy who wanted to cause trouble for the sake of causing trouble. But, now that Steve has gotten some time to adjust around Tony, he finds himself laughing at the things he says and having friendly conversations with him. It’s not like they’re best friends (there’s still a lot of tension between the two of them), but they’re definitely on better terms from which they had originally parted on.

What really surprises Steve is how quickly he adopts Natasha as a friend. Her floor is right below his own, so he finds her in his kitchen with a mug of tea at her elbow as she reads a newspaper one day. He had blinked in surprise the first time he found her at the bar counter, sweating from his run.

“Uh, good morning?” he got out, catching himself right before he shed his t-shirt. She hadn’t looked up from her newspaper and took a sip of her tea. It was strange, seeing her for the first time without any sort of real defenses up. She was wearing black yoga pants and a regular grey shirt. She’s not even wearing shoes.

“Morning, Cap,” she says. She grabs a newspaper (the New York Times, in fact) and slides it towards him. “Got you one. Figured you’d want to start catching up in a way you knew how.” He picks it up and sees the front cover, the familiar black and white print format. He rubs his thumb against the paper and it comes away with ink.

“Thank you,” Steve says, not able to keep the surprised sound out of his voice. If she hears it, she doesn’t indicate that she does. Natasha has always been one of the quieter members of the team. The only person Steve has ever seen Natasha really talk to is Clint and that’s most likely because they’ve been working together for so long and Clint’s the kind of guy that gets under your skin. And, frankly, Natasha scares the crap out of Steve.

But now she’s just handed him a newspaper and he’s unfolding it, scanning it quickly. “Want some breakfast?” Steve asks her. “I can make some after I take a shower.”

She looks up at him and gives him a smile (he’s not sure if it’s real or not) and answers, “Sure, Cap. I like my eggs sunny side.”

After that, Natasha is in his kitchen every day with her tea and a newspaper for her and for him. He makes them breakfast and they talk about fighting strategies and he asks her for context about the news. She speaks intelligently and thoughtfully, like each sentence is carefully thought-out, and presented to him neatly. Sometimes, Steve will talk about the past, about Bucky in passing, or about how his mother. Natasha hardly shares and it’s normally cryptic when she does, keeping herself well into her comfortable shade of secrecy and discretion. Steve doesn’t press, of course; it’s not any of his business to pry. But she’ll tell him small things about how she remembers someone when she was young giving her sunny-side up eggs, or how oddly familiar the smell of the way that Steve makes his coffee is. He keeps these things tabbed in his mind, puzzling together the odd riddle that is Natasha Romanoff.

After a couple of weeks, Clint wanders in, looking for Natasha, and sees her eating her eggs and drinking her tea.

“You get Cap to make you breakfast every morning?” Clint whines. “How come you didn’t tell me he made breakfast?”

Natasha doesn’t deign that with an answer, rolls her eyes, and continues to eat her eggs delicately.

“I can make you something?” Steve suggests. “I think I have bacon in the fridge.” He motions to the fridge with his thumb.

“Sure, that sounds awesome,” Clint says. Clint takes his seat next to Natasha and leans over her shoulder to see what she’s reading in the paper. “Ooh, crossword! Let’s do the crossword! I’m good at these!” Clint points down at something on the page and reads, “One good at making faces.” He rubs his chin pensively for a while before Natasha grabs a nearby pen. She lays the paper flat on the granite countertop and writes in PortraitPainter in neat script into the boxes. Clint makes a dissatisfied face. “I gave you that one. Next one. Moves like molasses...”

It becomes this odd thing where Clint and Natasha are now in Steve’s kitchen every morning after his runs and Steve makes breakfast and they do the crossword every day. Sometimes Clint will make up things and words just so he can fit the spaces and Natasha will laugh (this, Steve thinks, is Natasha’s real laugh and real smile, when she’s laughing and smiling with Clint) at him and take away the pen and put in the real answer to it and Clint will laugh too and try to make her stop. Looking at them sometimes causes Steve’s chest to ache, but he likes the company, he likes that his floor isn’t so solitary and quiet anymore.

“Steven!” Thor booms on a Thursday as he exits the elevator. “I wish to ask if you would be interested in sparring with me!” Steve is in the middle of making scrambled eggs for Clint, but he turns and smiles at Thor.

“Yeah, yeah, Thor, we can, maybe in thirty minutes?” Steve suggests. He serves the eggs on a plate with bacon and he hands it to Clint, who immediately starts stuffing his face. He sees Thor eyeing the bacon and laughs. “Do you want some?” Steve asks, waving the plate of bacon in front of Thor’s face.

“That would be most excellent, Steven,” Thor says. “Do you have any poptarts within your cupboards?” He passes by Natasha’s paper and sees the crosswords. He points down at a word and says, “Would quills not be spines?” Clint throws his hands up in the air.

Bruce comes up on a Tuesday with an empty vial in his hands. “Captain, can I get a small sample of your—” Bruce begins, but he stops short when he sees Clint and Natasha sitting at the bar, Thor sitting at the table shoving poptarts down his mouth, and Steve cooking eggs. He blinks several times. “Is this a bad time?” Bruce asks. He motions back to the elevator and starts walking backwards towards it.

“No, no, of course not,” Steve says, waving him back into the kitchen. “I’m just making breakfast. Do you want some?” He holds up a plate of sausages to show for it. Bruce licks his lips and sighs.

“Do you have any tea?” he asks and Steve smiles. Bruce walks past Clint and Natasha and glances over their shoulders. “Uh, five down is dahlia, if you’re wondering.”

“What the fuck?” Clint shouts angrily while Natasha fills in the word, laughing quietly to herself.

On a Friday, Bruce says, after taking a sip of tea, “You know, Tony knows about this.”

Steve is washing the dishes when Bruce says this and he turns off the tap. “Knows about what? Breakfast? It is the most important meal of the day.”

“He knows about how everyone gathers here for breakfast,” Bruce clarifies. He grabs the sugar bowl and pours a half a spoonful of it into his mug. Steve shrugs and continues to scrub at one of the pans.

“He’s welcome to come down,” Steve says. “We don’t bite.”

Bruce only snorts into his tea and shakes his head. “He’s not going to just come down here and grace us with his presence,” he says sarcastically, putting down the mug. “He barely feels like part of the team, so he doesn’t feel like he should be a part of breakfast.”

Steve is taken back by this. “Wha—, well, of course he’s part of the team!” Steve argues. “He fights with us, of course he is!”

Bruce only shrugs and stirs his tea more. “What Fury said before must’ve really hit him,” Bruce explains. Steve raises his eyebrow in questioning and Bruce sighs, his lips thinning. “Before the invasion fiasco, Tony wasn’t really allowed in the Avengers. They had recommended Iron Man for the job, yeah. But they hadn’t recommended Tony Stark.”

“But aren’t they the same thing? Without Tony, there’s no—”

“Iron Man?” Bruce finishes. “Not according to SHIELD. So, he was really only supposed to be a consultant.” He smiled ruefully and chuckled. “As you can see, he wasn’t really a consultant. But he’s never felt like a team member.”

Steve is silent for a while. He knows what it’s like to feel like you don’t belong. He remembers his days in elementary school when he couldn’t run as fast as the other boys or couldn’t play the games other kids were playing. He was picked on, beat up, for being the scrawny kid. He was an outcast, a pariah in the face of his schoolmates. He’s lucky that Bucky had reached out his hand when his nose was bleeding and took him to the school nurse. Bucky sat with him for most of recess that day. And he did it every time that some bully socked him in the nose. He knows what Tony needs. He needs that hand.

“I’ll go talk to him,” Steve says.

He wipes off his hands and walks to the elevator. He goes one floor up: Tony’s floor.

“JARVIS?” Steve asks into the quiet of Tony’s apartment. “Where’s Tony?”

“He’s in the workshop, sir. Down that hallway to your left,” JARVIS answers. “I’ll open the door for you.” When Steve first met JARVIS, he isn’t proud to say that he jumped a little in the air. But, after living here for a while, Steve had gotten used to JARVIS. In fact, he really likes him. JARVIS ended up as Steve’s go-to computer for information, which was faster and easier than using the Google.

Steve walks down the hall and peers inside the glass doors of Tony’s workshop. True to his word, JARVIS was right: Tony’s there. His back is to the door, but he’s hunched over a work table, a coffee mug near him. He’s wearing a black t-shirt and jeans. Steve wraps on the glass, but Tony doesn’t turn around. “I’ll open the door for you, Captain,” JARVIS says. A snick is heard and Steve pulls on the door handles to open it.

He doesn’t expect to hear blaring music coming from everywhere so he flinches and shouts, “What in the hell!” JARVIS immediately shuts off the music and Tony starts up and looks around in annoyance.

“JARVIS, what’d you do—Oh,” Tony says. He blinks owlishly at Steve, who’s smiling sheepishly. “Ro—Steve. What are you doing here?”

Steve smiles at him. “I was wondering if you wanted to come down for breakfast,” he says, suddenly realizing how lame that sounds. “I, well, I mean, the rest of the team is there. I thought you should join us. I can make you whatever.”

Tony has his mouth open in surprise, like he wants to say something but he just doesn’t know what. He opens and closes his mouth a few times before clearing his throat. “And why would I do that?” he asks imperially. “I have... stuff to do. Things. Work stuff. For my company.”

Steve shrugs. “We do the crossword every morning. All of us. It’s team bonding,” he says.

“Oh, well, the crossword,” Tony says sarcastically, but he hops off the stool he was sitting on anyways. He saunters over to Steve and slaps him on the arm. “I guess I’ll do it for the crossword.”

 

September

Pepper breaks up with him and it’s horrible.

She says he should’ve seen this coming, that is was a long time approaching, that they’ve been drifting apart for ages, that they’re just grasping at the straws that was their relationship. She tells him this in his apartment, her suitcases sat next to her, containing all her belongings, everything from their - now just Tony’s - closet, dressers, bathroom. There is nothing left of Pepper here, in this tower, only the empty spaces she used to occupy and a cold side of the bed.

And the terrible thing is that he did see this coming. He just ignored it, because ignoring the problem always works out, right? But he knows what she’s talking about. He spends all his time in New York City now, working with SHIELD and the Avengers (and Steve, which is weird, he spends his time with Steve now), and she spends most of hers in Malibu, where Stark Industries is actually located. When they’re together, they’re fighting and when they’re not fighting (which is rare), they’re talking about work. He has seen this coming; he’s not lying about that.

That doesn’t make it hurt any less.

He locks himself in his lab, blacks out the glass windows, doesn’t let anyone inside, and he works and drinks coffee and doesn’t sleep and eats sparingly (but at least he’s not drunk, he’s not drunk, and that should count for something).

On the seventh day of his self-imposed exile, he hears a knock on the glass door.           

“Sir, Captain Rogers is at the door. What excuse do you want this time?” JARVIS says, sounding slightly exasperated (he shouldn’t sound like that, when did Tony put in exasperation into his programming?)

“Well, what does he want?” Tony asks, his hand stuck inside the suit, so he waves with the other one, which sends a toolbox crashing to the floor.

“He wants to give you a sandwich.”

“Pardon?”

“Captain Rogers made a turkey and bacon sandwich with tomato and lettuce for you. He wants to give it to you.”

Tony sets his jaw and hears himself say, “yeah, let him in, I guess,” and suddenly Steve is stepping tentatively into the lab, looking around in awe.

It’s just struck Tony now that Steve has never been in the workshop.

“Hey, Mon Capitaine, how can I help you?” Tony says, resolutely not looking at Steve. He hears Steve put the plate down on his desk carefully.

“I, uh, I just wanted to see what you were doing,” Steve says. Tony looks up and sees Steve looking at his computer monitors, his eyebrows furrowed together in confusion and fascination. It’s the design for the inside of the Mark IX he’s looking at.

“Well, I am working, see, there is working going on, diligent, in fact, very diligent work,” Tony says, gesturing to the open chest on the Mark IX. His hand is still stuck inside and apparently it’s legitimately stuck so he gestures with his left, vaguely and uncomfortably.

Steve smirks slightly and raises his eyebrows and Tony can almost tell that Steve is laughing at him on the inside. “Right,” Steve says. He stands on the other side of the Mark IX and looks at it, examining it, learning it, because Steve is not only pretty, but he is smart (so he read his file, he read his file a lot, that doesn’t mean anything, Tony has read everyone’s file). “The, uh, the Mark IX? What’s different about it than the other ones?”

Tony sputters and tries to flail in protest, but his hand is still stuck in the suit, so it only looks like a spasm.  “Wha-what’s different?” Tony repeats. “Uh, everything, obviously, Capiscle.”

Steve gives him an incredulous look, one eyebrow raised. “Looks the same to me,” Steve says, picking up a gauntlet.

Tony looks appalled and tries to yank his hand out from the suit, which only makes the table and the suit shudder underneath his efforts. “Well, for your information, this suit is going to have, not only a brand new voice module and more refined repulsor technology and a more comfortable area for my dick, but it will also be capable of space travel.” He finally yanks his hand free with one last almighty tug. “Because you just never know when you’re going to go into space through a portal over Manhattan with a nuke on your back.”

He could’ve snapped in a Z formation, but he’s sure that would be overdoing it.

Steve nodded, with an impressed look on his face. He grabs the sandwich and slides it over to Tony carefully. “Okay,” he says. “Tell me about it. Explain it to me.”

Tony narrows his eyes at Steve, but pulls the plate towards him anyways. “You won’t understand half the things I’ll tell you,” he says.

Steve shrugs and drags one of the stools nearby to him. He sits on it and looks at Tony expectantly. “Explain it to me,” he says again, gesturing to the suit.

Tony takes a bite of his sandwich and starts talking.

 

October

It starts with a pair of hands.

It really does, though. Steve hadn’t meant it to go this far, to get this out of control. It was just supposed to be a pair of hands. Nothing fancy, a quick sketch, something he was idly drawing on his sketchpad while he was sat on Tony’s couch while Tony was programming on the computer. There’s some song from the 60’s playing over their heads, quietly for once, which was a change of pace.

At one point, Steve pulls back from the picture and looks at it. And he flushes a bright red before setting down the pencil and pressing his lips together.

Because those are definitely the hands of one Tony Stark.

Steve knows he should stop right there and draw the line. Because that’s weird, right? Sketching your teammate, your friend? At least, without their permission. But he can’t, he can’t stop. Steve has spent so much time with Tony that he can draw the lines of his back, the furrow of his eyebrows, his smile.

It ends up getting to the point where Steve buys a specific sketchbook dedicated just to drawings of Tony.

He doesn’t tell Tony, of course, because how do you say “hey, just letting you know I’ve been drawing your face for the past month?” without sounding completely nuts? You can’t, that’s the answer to that, so Steve keeps it to himself, takes special care to keep that sketchbook away from wandering eyes. He carries the thing around with him all the time, making sure it’s near him, within his reach, so he can snatch it back from whoever wants to look inside (normally Clint).

Because it would be glaringly obvious what Steve was thinking when he draws these pictures.

He’s not ready to admit it to anyone ever, but sometimes, Steve looks at Tony’s face and his heart begins to race. He can’t help but smile when Tony does. He can listen to Tony talk for hours and his entire body warms when Tony is near him. He’s his happiest when he’s with Tony. He finally feels like he finally belongs in this century because Tony doesn’t treat him like some porcelain doll and he makes him laugh.

Tony is everything Steve has ever wanted.

So, it’s pretty frightening when Tony is suddenly looking over his shoulder when he’s in the middle of drawing Tony in the suit with his helmet off and asks “whatcha doin’ there, Steve?”

Steve actually jumps a little and stiffens when he hears Tony’s voice right by his ear. He wants to close the sketchbook, but that would seem suspicious, so Steve plays it cool (or as cool as he can manage, at least) and shrugs. “It’s, uh, you,” Steve said, retracing a line on the suit carefully. “Just, you know, thought it’d be a challenge. To try to draw the suit.” He turns to the side and is met with the sight of Tony’s scruffy cheek. He smiles good-naturedly, like nothing is wrong, like he isn’t having a panic attack on the inside.

“Huh,” Tony says. He sees Tony chew on the inside of his cheek. He points to the something on the page, by his knee, to be precise. “There’s a rotator here. Knees are hard.”

Steve follows Tony’s finger and sees his error. “Oh,” he breathes out, relieved, but hyper aware of how close Tony’s face is to his own. “Oh, yeah, thanks. I didn’t notice. Thanks.”

Tony claps Steve on the shoulder. “No problem,” he says. “You’re pretty good, actually. You got my good side on everything.” Tony rubs the right side of his face as if to showcase it.

Steve snorts and fills in the coloring on his hair carefully, each of his stroke precise. “Thanks,” Steve says as he rubs his thumbs over the hair. “I wanted to be comic book artist before… before the war. Went to art school and everything.”

Tony climbs over the back on the couch and seats himself next to Steve. He has one of his vile green smoothies in his hand, and he slurps it obnoxiously. “Yeah, I know,” Tony says. Steve lifts an eyebrow. Tony must have realized his error because he flounders for a minute before backtracking to clarify. “File, it was in your file, I read everyone’s file, and yours said ‘went to art college’ on it and I remembered it because I remember lots of things because I am a genius, and I therefore have a wonderfully brilliant memory and…” Tony seems to take a breath and continues after a beat. “And Dad told me. That you went. To art school, I mean.” He takes another sip of his smoothie, purposefully not looking at Steve. “He was, uh. He really liked you. And he used to talk about you. With me. Sometimes.” He finally looks at Steve and it’s a careful look, like he’s scared of being rejected. “You made a really big impact on his life, Steve.”

Steve seems to lose his voice for a minute, because he opens his mouth but nothing is coming out. He can’t find the words to say. He licks his lips and clears his throat. He looks away from Tony to look at his pen as he fiddles with it. “Don’t see why. I was just a kid from Brooklyn.”

He hears Tony scoff next to him and he looks up in time to see Tony shake his head at him. “You really don’t think you’re special, do you?” Tony asks.

“I’m not,” Steve says, going back to drawing. “You said so yourself,” he mutters under his breath. He realizes a moment later what he’s said because Tony goes stiff next to him. “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that.”

Tony clears his throat and purses his lips. “No, you did,” Tony says, heaving a heavy sigh. “Look, I don’t say this often and by that I mean not ever. But... But I was wrong. I was wrong when I said you weren’t special. I was angry and vindictive and I have never been more wrong in my life.” Tony claps him on the shoulder, going for casual when he’s basically just apologized to Steve for everything he said that day in the helicarrier. “You’re more than just your muscles, Capsicle.”

Steve rolls his eyes, but he smiles up at Tony and Tony returns the smile.

“Thank you,” Steve says. “Apology accepted.”

Tony stammers and sputters in indignation for a few minutes, but Steve knows better.

Maybe things aren’t as hopeless as he thought they were.

 

November

Ever since 2008, Tony has suffered from insomnia. Really, it’s not a problem because he’s always kind of been up on regular days before that. But it was mostly out of his insatiable need to work and/or party hard.

Truth be told, Tony is 42 (which is still a secret, no one need know about that), and he does need sleep. But when he wants to sleep, he can’t. And if and when he does sleep, most of his dreams are filled with nightmares.

All in all, sleeping and Tony Stark aren’t a very compatible combination.

A cold night in November brings on a really strange tradition when Tony walks into kitchen with a blanket wrapped around himself to find Steve drinking orange juice straight out of the carton with the fridge open. Tony just stares at Steve, and Steve kind of looks at Tony like a deer in the headlights before taking the carton away from his lips and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I can buy a new one,” Steve says apologetically.

Tony shrugs. “Don’t bother, you’re the only one who drinks that shit in the morning anyways,” Tony says, shuffling to the fridge and looking inside, bumping Steve out of the way with his hip. He reaches inside and grabs the leftover apple pie from Thanksgiving a couple nights ago (Tony went, he actually went to a Thanksgiving dinner with the team, and, get this, he had fun) and closes the fridge.

He grabs a clean fork from the dish rack by the sink (Steve cleans the dishes by hand, the fucking weirdo, there’s a dishwasher, but no one says anything because it’s Steve) and shuffles his way to the stools. He climbs on it and starts shoveling the stuff into his mouth. He looks up, and sees Steve staring at him in disbelief and slight disgust.

“What?” Tony says around a mouthful of apple pie.

“Aren’t you going to heat that up at least?” Steve says. He didn’t bother to put the carton back inside the fridge, Tony notes.

“Uh, no?” Tony answers, sticking the fork into a piece of pie. “That would take too much time.”

“It would take thirty seconds.”

“Thirty seconds that I would have to wait for the pie that dear Auntie Steve Rogers made.”

Steve doesn’t give that the dignity of answering, so he only gives Tony a flat look and drinks out of the orange juice carton again. “You’re supposed to heat it up,” Steve says instead. “The point is to eat it warm.”

Tony whines dramatically. “I don’t want to,” Tony says, curling his arm defensively around the pie. “I want to eat it like this.”

Steve only holds his hand out and motions for it to be handed to him. Tony looks at him defiantly and pulls the pie closer to him. Steve lifts his eyebrows and Tony caves, groaning, but pushing the pie towards Steve.

“Since when can you work the microwave anyways,” Tony mutters as he folds his arms and puts his head on them. Tony grabs his fork while Steve takes his plate and sticks it in the microwave. “Why are you awake in the first place, Cap?” Tony asks. “Aren’t you all early to bed, early to rise and all that shit?”

Steve sighs heavily and casts his eyes away from Tony. “I, uh,” Steve falters. He licks his lips. “I have trouble with sleeping sometimes. Actually, all the time. Insomnia. And, uh, nightmares. Sometimes. When I actually do. Sleep, that is.” He opens up the fridge and pulls out a small plastic container full of leftover turkey. “And I normally eat when I can’t sleep.”

Tony can read it all over his face. It’s only obvious to a person who has it to know what it is when they see it. And Steve hides it so extremely well that Tony didn’t see it up until this very point in time.

Steve has some kind of PTSD.

Tony, of course, because he is a good man and not a total prying bastard, doesn’t say anything and he doesn’t really plan on bringing it up at any point in the near future (or in the far off future either) so he keeps his mouth shut and nods in response.

“I get that,” Tony says, watching as Steve picks through the bits of cold turkey. “I mean, I probably have like seven boxes of Hot Pockets in the workshop.” Behind Steve, the microwave beeps and Steve fishes out the pie and hands it back to Tony. “Thanks.”

“Huh,” says Steve, giving Tony a curious look.

“What,” says Tony flatly, his fork stuck in the pie.

“You thanked me,” Steve says, popping some of the turkey in his mouth and giving Tony a knowing smile.

Tony blinks at him owlishly for a second before recovering with a glare. “Of course I said that, what else am I supposed to say, you handed me pie.”

Steve gives him an even bigger grin (which, fuck, makes Tony’s stomach drop and his cheeks heat, when did that start happening?). “You never say thank you.”

Tony purses his lips and bobs his fork in his hand. “Well, I did today, it’s opposite… hour, opposite hour, so there, I said that.”

“Said what?”

“Said… the thing.”

“What thing?”

“The… Oh my god, people think you’re such a saint but in reality you’re just a mean, mean person who picks on hungry geniuses,” Tony whines. To avoid saying anything further, Tony starts stuffing his face with apple pie.

Steve’s laughing as he takes another drink from the orange juice jug and he looks so happy for the first time in a really long time and it’s three days after Thanksgiving and it’s two in the morning and it’s a surprisingly clear night sky and, for some odd reason, Tony can see this becoming a thing, a thing where he and Steve find each other in the dark and talk about life and make each other laugh and just exist in each other’s company, like they’re meant to do this forever and ever.

This is the moment that Tony Stark finds himself well and truly fucked.

 

December

“I didn’t even know that SHIELD had galas,” Steve says as he enters the large ballroom. He’s wearing a tux (which is the most expensive thing that has he’s ever worn, except for perhaps the uniform). It looks like they do on the television, with quiet background music and people in fancy dress mingling, laughing and holding champagne glasses.

“We don’t,” Agent Coulson says. He’s wearing a suit, but not like the ones he normally wears. It’s sleeker and looks like it has a sort of sheen on it. It’s also a dark blue and his tie is silver. “This is something new we’re trying.”

“And it reels in sponsors,” says Clint. Steve sees that he already has a champagne glass in hand and he’s handing one to Coulson, who takes it and sips from it.

“Like you government-funded fuckers need any,” Tony says, coming up behind Steve. He doesn’t have a champagne glass in hand, but he does have a small hotdog on toothpick in his hand. He bites it off and continues speaking. “Or should I say Stark-funded?”

Coulson makes a face and turns around to walk away, Clint snickering as he follows.

Tony makes a grateful sighing noise and turns to face Steve. “God, I am so glad not to be the schmoozer here. I am always the schmoozer. Or the schmoozee. Just no schmoozing, in general, from anyone ever is great.”

Steve laughs and shakes his head. “I didn’t schmooze necessarily,” Steve says, starting to take a walk around the room, watching the people laugh and talk and drink. Sometimes he doesn’t feel like this is his life, like he’s not Captain America and he’s not an Avenger, like he’s still that skinny, asthmatic kid from Brooklyn. “I did a whole lot of dancing though.”

Tony’s laughing as he swipes another mini hotdog from a waiter and it’s such a wonderful sound. It feels stupid to think something like that but Steve can’t help but laugh along with him. Tony’s laugh is deep and warm and so contagious that Steve can’t help it. He feels Tony place a hand on the small of his back and his face probably heats, but he makes sure not to give a real reaction.

“Thought you didn’t know how to dance, Cap,” Tony says around the mini hotdog. Steve finds that they’ve been led to the bar and Tony leans against it.

“I don’t, you’re right,” Steve says. “But I can do a damn good jazz square.”

And Tony is laughing again and, god, he can’t help it, Steve just wants to lean in and kiss that smile, laugh while he’s kissing Tony.

But Tony’s laugh is cut off by a hand on his arm.

“Tony,” says a blonde girl with green eyes warmly. She’s older, Steve can tell, but that seems to only make her more elegant.

“Clarissa,” Tony returns as equally as warmly as he kisses her on the cheek. “What are you doing here, wandering about this lame party?”

Clarissa laughs and it’s musical and melodious. She’s beautiful, Steve thinks. Very beautiful. She places a hand on Tony’s arm. “I got the invite,” she says. She carries herself tall and proudly and she’s leaning towards Tony. “And I heard you were coming so I just had to be here.” She finally turns her gaze to Steve and he feels the back of his neck heat up under it. “Who’s tall, blonde, and gorgeous?”

“Captain Steve Rogers, ma’am,” Steve says, finally finding his voice. He sticks a hand out to shake hers and she places it delicately in his grasp.

“Better known as Captain America,” Tony clarifies when no look of recognition crosses Clarissa’s face. She makes a perfect ‘O’ with her lips and then smiles flirtatiously at Steve.

“Ohh. Then, enchante, Captain,” she says, the hint of a sultry chuckle at the end of her speech as she gives him a long, lingering once-over. Steve thinks that he needs to be bought dinner if someone’s going to look at him like that.

Suddenly, a faster paced song begins to play and Clarissa’s face lights up. “Ask me to dance,” she tells Tony. And Tony, of course, holds out his hand. Clarissa takes it, giggling as she does. Tony holds up a hand, mouths “five minutes” to Steve as he’s being pulled away to the dance floor.

Steve watches Clarissa and Tony walk away. He watches Clarissa as she places her hand on Tony’s shoulder and the other in Tony’s hand. He watches Tony settles his hand on Clarissa’s slim waist. Steve’s chest tightens and suddenly he can’t look anymore.

He faces the bar and leans against it. “Scotch,” Steve tells the bartender. “On the rocks.” The bartender nods and walks to the other end of the bar, presumably to get what Steve has asked for.

This sits in Steve’s stomach like a rock. He feels heavy and tired. There are a million and one reasons why Steve shouldn’t be jealous at all. He and Tony are friends. Tony is always with beautiful women. He and Tony are teammates, comrades. He should be happy whenever Tony is happy, because Steve will always want what is best for Tony. Because they’re friends.

There are a million and one reasons why Steve shouldn’t be jealous at all. But it only takes one to make him jealous.

“You look like a teenage girl who got left at the prom.”

Steve turns and there’s now a strange girl with light brown hair slipping onto the stool next to him. She’s wearing a long stunning red dress. Her hair is up in some complicated bun.

“I’m sorry, you look really—?” Steve starts, but she cuts him off.

“Familiar?” she asks, smiling. She takes his scotch and takes a drink from it. “My name is Sharon. Sharon Carter. You knew my aunt.”

Chapter Text

2013

January

So, Steve is dating Agent Carter.

Not that Tony minds. He doesn’t.

Anyway, they’ve had two dates this month, having apparently met at that party in December. They went on one in between Christmas and New Year’s, so that makes it a total of three dates they’ve been on.

Not that Tony is keeping track or anything.

It’s great that Steve is getting out there. Seeing people. Doing things. Having fun. Tony is glad for Steve.

Really glad. Super glad. So glad for Steve. Tony is so fucking glad for Steve that he is almost Glade, the air freshener.

That didn’t make sense to Tony either.

His point, however, still stands. Tony has always had Steve’s best interests at heart. Tony does care about Steve and his well-being and his happiness. If Steve’s happiness happens to include Agent Carter, then it can include Agent Carter. Tony is totally fine with that.

So what if Steve hasn’t been spending as much time in the lab as he used to? Tony’s fine with that. It just means that he can start playing his old music again. Tony did really miss AC/DC, and he’s sure AC/DC missed him too. Dummy’s a little depressed though. Steve used to play catch with him, and it’s not like Tony is about to play catch with Dummy.

But Tony is fine, he’s really fine. He’s happy for Steve. He is.

He has to be.

“You know, Cap didn’t come home last night,” Clint says as he peers over Natasha’s shoulder to look at the crossword. He rests his chin on her shoulder, and he looks up at Tony.

“Did he not,” Tony deadpans. “I didn’t even notice.” (He noticed. But that’s because he just so happened to be monitoring the security cams last night. For... security.) Tony sips his coffee pertly and drags a finger across his tablet, looking at the new designs for the Quinjet, distinctly ignoring the sinking feeling in his stomach.

“Yep,” says Clint, trying to fill in a word with his pencil but he receives a slap on his wrist for his efforts. “Place was deserted when Nat and I got in.” He grins at Tony and waggles his eyebrows. “I think that Cap finally got laid.”

“Laid? Laid upon where?” Thor asks as he fishes out a box of poptarts.

“It means Clint is sticking his head in something that isn’t his business,” Natasha retorts sharply. “And thinks that Steve and Sharon had sex last night, Thor.” Tony raises his mug in a toast to her and drinks from it.

“Oh! Yes, the fair lady Sharon! She and I both share the same appreciation for Ultimate Warrior Ninja,” Thor says, laughing. Tony imitates his laugh mutely, ruefully.

“What’s that face for? Bitter, Stark?” Clint mocks. “Angry that Sharon sealed the deal and you didn’t?”

“Okay, Barton, first of all, there was a no deal to seal,” Tony says angrily, pointing at Clint. “Secondly, I don’t care what Agent Carter and Steve do in their alone time. And thirdly, sixteen across is boondocks.”

“Motherfucker!” Clint shouts, taking the paper away from Natasha and moodily filling in sixteen across. Natasha only rolls her eyes and turns to Tony.

“They have been dating for over a month now—” Natasha says.

“Three dates,” Tony mutters to his coffee mug.

Natasha talks right over him. “--And it was time.”

“Time for what?”

Tony startles at the sound of Steve’s voice and whips around to only flinch at the sight of him. His hair was obviously styled quickly a little while ago, a few strands not entirely in their proper places. He’s wearing the clothes he wore last night and one of the buttons are off. His leather jacket is clutched his hand. Tony’s chest feels empty and he breathes in trying to fill it with something.

“Uh, breakfast?” Tony says, his voice several octaves too high. He pushes a plate of scrambled eggs towards Steve.

“Oh,” Steve breathes out. “No, thank you, I had breakfast with Sharon.” Clint chuckles to himself before Natasha elbows him in the ribcage sharply.

Tony swallows and nods, pushing the plate away. He feels like his body has gone cold, that he’s only working on automatic. He smiles tightly at Steve. “You, uh, you have a little lipstick on your neck, Steve,” Tony says quickly. “Nice shade, uh, what is that? Peachy coral?” He laughs stiffly, his gaze flickering from Steve’s face to Steve’s neck. “I’ve had that on me once. Gotta, um, scrub at it.” He robotically turns back to his mug and drinks from it.

“Right,” Steve says lowly. He points down the hall with his thumb. “I’m gonna go take a shower, you guys. Don’t wait up for me, there’s still training in half an hour.” Clint is the only one who groans.

After Steve leaves, Tony lets his forehead fall against the cool granite counter with a thump. Natasha pats his back sympathetically.

 

February

In theory, Valentine’s Day is an easy day. You get chocolates and roses for your girl and take her out to a nice dinner.

In practice, it’s not as easy.

“What do you mean, originality?” Steve says as he washes the dirty dishes in the sink. His sleeves are pushed up and warm water is running over his hands.

“You have to be original, can’t do what every guy is going to do for his girlfriend on Valentine’s Day,” says Clint from the living room. The TV is on the Food Network and Clint is watching Chopped. “What, did you think that chocolates and roses were gonna be enough for Sharon?”

Steve colors a deep red and says nothing as a response, dishes clattering together as he cleans them. Clint turns around on the couch to look at Steve, an eyebrow raised. “You were going to do that, weren’t you?” Clint asks, a hint of disappointment in his voice. “Come on, where’s the romantic 40’s side to you, Cap?”

“Still in the 40’s, I presume,” Tony says as he waltzes into the kitchen. He immediately opens the freezer and grabs the cookie dough ice cream, along with a spoon. “What are we talking about?” Tony pops open the lid and eats the ice cream directly from the carton.

“Cap’s pseudo-romantic Valentine’s Day plans with Sharon,” Clint answers, turning fully around on the couch so he’s on his knees as he faces the kitchen. Steve puts his head back down to the dishes, vigorously washing a dirty pan.

“Oh,” Steve hears Tony say through a mouthful of ice cream. “What, were you planning on just getting her chocolate and roses?”

Steve huffs and drops the pan into the sink. “Is that really so bad?” Steve asks, looking at Tony.

“Yes,” Clint and Tony answer at the same time. Steve throws up his hands in frustration.

“Girls want to be impressed. Surprised,” Tony continues, hopping up on the counter space next to the sink. “You can’t just stick to a formula anymore. Everything’s been done, so you need to do something else.”

“How can I do something else if everything has been done?” Steve asks, putting the last of the dishes in the drying rack.

Tony shrugs, the spoon in his mouth. “Dunno,” he answers. “I’m not that good at the romance shit. I got Pepper strawberries as an apology once.”
“What’s wrong with strawberries?”

“She’s allergic.”

From the couch, Clint snorts. “Shut up, you bought Natasha non-Russian vodka one year,” Tony says, pointing accusingly at Clint with his spoon. “Even I know she only drinks the good stuff.”

Steve puts his face in his hands and groans. “What am I going to do?” he laments.

“Just do what feels right, Capsicle,” Tony says, patting Steve on the shoulder. “If it’s coming from you, it’ll mean the world to her. And, if it doesn’t, then she doesn’t know what she’s got.”

Steve looks up and his heart seizes at the look that he is getting from Tony. It’s soft and so wide open that Steve doesn’t know what to do with it. He’s been getting these smiles ever since he started dating Sharon, and he doesn’t know how to respond when each time he sees them, it feels like a twist to his heart. “You really think so?” he asks quietly.

“I know so,” Tony says, giving him a sad, small smile.

“If I was your boyfriend, I’d never let you gooooo—” Clint sings from the couch, but he’s caught by surprise when Tony chucks the spoon he was eating with at his head as it hits his forehead.

March

Tony never really thought about what he’d write about if he wrote a book. It would probably be something stupid like ‘How to Make Your AI Really Snarky’ or ‘How to Survive Living With a God Who Walks Around Naked in the Mornings’ or ‘Natasha Romanoff: A Guide on How Not to Crap Your Pants Around a Russian Assassin’.

Basically, he’d write a how-to guide, if anything. He’s just a how-to kind of guy.

He’s never really thought about it, because Tony is not really a words person. Sure, he talks a lot, but most of what he says is complete bullshit. Everybody knows that. If Tony Stark wrote a book, it’d be the same way. A lot of words without any real meaning.  Tony is a man of action, he’s a doer (even if he is also a thinker). He feels like your actions speak louder than your words, that you are a sum of what you do, rather than what you say.

“Hey,” Steve says as he opens the door to the workshop. Tony is on his computer, working out algorithms for the suit. His eyes flicker around the screen, but he can feel Steve’s presence behind him, the sense a solid weight on Tony’s shoulders. He shifts in his chair.

“Hey,” he answers back in a low tone. “Help you, Cap?”

Steve moves to lean against Tony’s desk and he picks up the solved five-by-five Rubik’s Cube (Clint gave it to him last week. Tony solved it in 52 seconds.) “No,” Steve answers, turning the pieces on the Rubik’s Cube slowly. “Just wanted to hang out. We haven’t in a while.”

Tony turns away from Steve to face the third screen up. He explodes a portion of the suit onto it and turns it on its side, carefully examining it. “Well, you’ve been busy as of late,” Tony says and he tries his hardest to keep the poison out of his voice. “Spending time with Agent Carter and all.” In the glass reflection, he sees Steve stop playing with the cube and he hears him sigh.

“Why do call Sharon ‘Agent Carter all the time?”

Tony purses his lips. “Because that’s her name?”

“Her name is Sharon, Tony. You know that.”

“Well, perhaps, I am trying to be courteous, you know, I mean, she is an official agent of SHIELD which is a high position indeed and I’m not being sarcastic about it, it’s really great to be employed at such an esteemed place of justice,” Tony says, rolling back next to Steve. He nudges Steve’s leg. “Move, please, you are in the way of my computer.”

Steve doesn’t move, but he resolutely sets down the Rubik’s Cube, all of the sides now unmatched. Tony frowns at it, annoyed that it’s now unsolved. “Come on, Tony,” Steve implores. “Don’t you like her?” Tony picks up the cube and starts turning it in his hands, matching the squares together. Steve places a heavy hand over Tony’s shoulder and suddenly Tony feels warm all over. “Look at me,” Steve says. Tony looks up and hurt is written all over Steve’s face. Tony never wants to see that look on Steve, but he doesn’t know how to make it go away. “Don’t you like Sharon?”

“Yeah, she’s nice and stuff,” Tony mutters, turning back to the other computer screen. “Makes you happy and whatever.” He ignores the rush of cold that goes down his spine at the lie. Because that’s what it is. A lie. It’s juvenile, Tony knows, to be angry at Agent Carter for dating Steve, for making him happy. But it makes Tony feel hollow on the inside to think about how she makes him laugh and how she gets to kiss him and see him in the morning over coffee almost every day now. It’s the kind of hollow that hurts. He feels like his insides have been carved out by a rusty spork that doesn’t care if it snags around the edges, leaving bleeding cuts and angry red marks.

“Then call her Sharon,” Steve says.

“I can’t, Steve,” Tony says, slamming the Rubik’s cube back on the desk, still unsolved and unmatched. “Please don’t ask me to,” he says, quieter and a thousand times more vulnerable and raw.

Steve sighs and closes his eyes. “I gotta go,” Steve murmurs. He pushes himself off the desk and Tony almost grabs his wrist to keep him here. Almost. “I’ll uh. I’ll see you later, Tony. You’re obviously busy.”

That never bothered you before, Tony wants to say. You were always here. No matter what. You were always here. And now you’re not. But he doesn’t say that. He only stares, emotionless, at the Rubik’s cube, listening to Steve’s footsteps recede, the door of the workshop closing shut behind him.

But, sometimes, he thinks that he can write a book. And that book would be a how-to guide too.

It would be called How to Break Your Own Heart.

 

April

“I don’t want to have to live in the shadow of a ghost, Steve.”

Steve sits silently across from Sharon, his coffee grasped between his two hands. “I’m sorry,” Steve mutters to the coffee.

Sharon lets out a short laugh. “I’m the one who should be saying that,” Sharon says. “As I’m the one who’s breaking up with you.”

Sharon looks tired. Defeated, more like. Steve wants to tell her that she’s wrong so badly. The words almost bubble to his mouth, but they won’t come out. The horrible thing about it is that that’s the statement that rocks him to his core. Because he doesn’t know if that’s what this has been the entire time or not. That’s probably the proof within itself.

Steve would’ve been lying if he said that Peggy hadn’t left a bleeding, gaping hole inside of him. Peggy had been the girl for Steve. She was strong and seemingly invincible, full of dignity and beauty and the kind of strength that Steve would’ve admired in anyone. She was a different kind of fierce.

The moment she had shot at him with that gun was the moment he thought to himself I’m gonna marry this girl.

“Is that what’s happening?” Steve asks, though he knows the answer. “This is it?”

“Yes,” Sharon says. She leans forward. Steve looks up and for the first time he doesn’t see a lick of Peggy in her. “I’m not Aunt Peggy, Steve. And I can’t pretend to be.” Her voice cracks at the end of her sentence.

Steve’s throat feels thick, but he nods in understanding. He feels Sharon settle her hand over one of Steve’s and she holds it tightly.

“I never should have made you feel that way in the first place,” he manages after a pause. “You’ve never been anyone but yourself.” Steve can’t believe the coincidences he’s been pushing. He used to look at her; the quirk of a smile his way; the dip of her lashes when she feigned embarrassment; the wit in response to his own sarcasm; and he’d think just like Peggy. Except Sharon’s smile was all teeth, her lashes blonde against her cheeks, and her wit was sharper than a knife, and now he thinks how did I even compare them?

Peggy drank tea, but she drank it black, with three lumps of sugar. Her lipstick was the same everyday, the familiar brick red on her bow-shaped lips. She enjoyed listening to Glenn Miller on the radio as she did her paperwork and she liked to shoot things (inanimate objects or people, depending on how angry she was that day). She was a fierce presence, a hurricane trapped inside of a dame, who demanded respect of everyone and punched anyone who didn’t give her it.

Sharon didn’t like tea and she only drank coffee. Not even real coffee, in Steve’s head, when it came with whipped cream and chocolate. She wore a lighter shade of lip gloss on her normal days and light pink lipstick on the nicer ones. Sharon liked that band Sonford and Mums or something, and she wasn’t really fond of dancing, but she did sometimes sing in the car to songs Steve didn’t know. Sharon hated paperwork, but she didn’t like pulling out her gun unless she had to. Sharon did demand respect, that was true, but if Peggy was a hurricane, then Sharon was only a rainstorm, scary enough to get respect but not fierce enough to earn all of it.

“I feel like Aunt Peggy would hit me upside the head for breaking up with you,” Sharon says. “Because I’d be leaving you alone.” Sharon contemplates him for a moment. “But I don’t think I will be,” she adds. She squeezes Steve’s hand. “You’ve just got to open your eyes, Steve.” She lets go of his hands and stands. She leans down and kisses him on the cheek.

“Do yourself a favor, Steve,” she says. “And, for the love of God, talk to Stark.”

Steve makes a fish face, opening and closing his mouth in surprise. “I’m a SHIELD agent, not a dumbass, Rogers.” She smiles down at him and then turns to walk away, Steve staring after her in awe.

 

May

“I am timeless and immortal. I age like the finest wine and it does not matter how old I—”

“Forty-three, right?”

“Goddammit, Steve, nobody asked you,” Tony says in false anger, whipping around to glare accusingly at Steve. Steve only laughs and sips his beer innocently. “Yeah, you better be quiet, United States McAmerican Boy, it’s my freaking birthday, you asshole.” Steve rolls his eyes and sighs in fond teasing.

“Forty-three?” Clint says, giving Tony an incredulous. “You don’t look it.”

“I know,” Tony says. “I look much younger. It’s a blessing and a curse.”

“I was gonna say older,” Clint says, nudging him playfully as he walks past Tony and Steve to head towards the buffet table. Tony only sputters indignantly after him.

Steve gives him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder, but Tony’s frown only deepens when Steve does so. “I don’t want your sympathy,” Tony says. “You’re supposed to be like a million years old and you look like an underwear model.”

“Well, I’m not a million years old,” Steve says good-naturedly and shrugs, taking another sip of his beer. He places it on the edge of the balcony carefully and he leans against the railing, looking out into the New York cityscape.

“Oh, right, pardon me. You’re ninety-five this year,” Tony says, imitating Steve’s position. Tony weaves his fingers together and looks at Steve.

He remembers when he first saw Steve, now just over one year ago. His jaw was locked and his eyes were a hard blue crystal. He was clad in the uniform with a stiff upper lip and a moral code that had expired in 1945. He was made of pent-up rage and anger, at himself, at Tony, at this time period. But his sadness had eaten him from the inside, making him hollow, empty.

The Steve Tony knows now is radically and wonderfully different.

The Steve that Tony knows smiles a lot more, laughs a lot more, and actually has a good sense of humor. In fact, he’s made Tony laugh on more than one occasion (okay, a lot of occasions, but who’s counting). He’s got this dry as the Sahara sense of humor that includes him making the most hilarious of lines with an entirely serious face. But he doesn’t last long, because he breaks into this beautiful smile that stretches across his face and brightens his eyes, and it makes Tony’s heart thump faster against the reactor.

The Steve that Tony knows doesn’t look like a perpetually lost puppy, wandering aimlessly around the streets of Brooklyn, sulking. He walks around with a new kind of spring in his step and he spends time with the family he’s made with the Avengers, with Tony. He’s still a little behind on the times, he’ll always be, but he asks questions and he’s so interested in everything that everyone has to say.

Tony had thought that the breakup with Sharon would have ruined him. But now he just seems more engaged than ever with everyone. Tony thinks he’s imagining it when he thinks that Steve spends most of his time engaged with him.

“Did you get everything you wanted this year?” Steve asks Tony, meeting his eyes evenly. A warmth goes through Tony at the softness of Steve’s voice and Steve’s gaze.

“Well, world peace may or may not have been provided,” Tony says with a chuckle. “We’ll see if any asshole villains want to ruin my birthday.”

Steve puffs out a laugh and shakes his head. “What’d you wish for this year?” he asks, picking up the beer and taking another sip.

“What, on my candles?”

“Yeah, duh.”

“Don’t duh me.” Tony jostles Steve’s arm. Tony is silent for a moment. “I don’t wish on my candles. Haven’t since I was seven.”

Steve’s eyebrows come together in disbelief. “What? How can you not wish on your birthday candles? That’s the whole point.”

“All right, Mickey Mouse, calm down,” Tony says. “I just... I don’t. I figured it was stupid since... since my wishes never came true. So. I just don’t.”

He feels Steve shift closer to him, and then Tony’s hyperaware of everything now. He can feel Steve’s body heat next to him, hear his stupidly hot breathing, smell his Captain America smell (which is hard soap and leather and the beer he was drinking and a little bit of cologne). Tony licks his lips and looks back at the city, swallowing drily, trying to calm his beating heart.

“So, if you had wished for something, what would you have wished for?” Steve asks lowly. Tony can feel Steve’s eyes on his face.

“I thought that you weren’t supposed to tell wishes or else they wouldn’t come true,” Tony says quietly, looking down at the street below.

“You didn’t wish for anything so that rule doesn’t count,” Steve points out with a laugh.

“What are you, the wish lawyer?” Tony says, shaking his head. He squeezes his hands together and forces himself to look up at Steve. Steve is a lot closer than he remembered. He’s looking up at Tony threw his lashes and Tony can almost count the freckles on the bridge of Steve’s nose and the darker flecks of blue in his eyes. He almost loses his voice. Tony feels like his heart is beating right up against his ribcage, and he feels light on the inside, feels like he can’t breathe. He’d think he was having a heart attack if he hadn’t already experienced several of them. “I,” he breathes out. He licks his lips again. “I would’ve wished for...”

He sees Steve lean in closer and his heartbeat is thrumming so loudly in his ears that Tony thinks he’s going to go deaf from it but he doesn’t care, he doesn’t care at all, because Steve is leaning in closer and his lips are slightly parted and—

“Tony! Time to open presents!” calls Pepper from the sliding glass door. He and Steve jolt backwards from each other and Tony is panting like he’s run a million miles. Steve is backing away and Tony abruptly motions to pull back in, but doesn’t. Tony straightens up and clears his throat.

“Present time, Rogers, let’s go see what everyone got the richest man on the planet,” Tony says, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“I thought the richest man on the planet was Bill Gates.”

“You and I are officially not friends anymore.” Steve only laughs in response.

 

June

Things are... Well, Steve doesn’t want to say that things are weird. But things are weird after Tony’s birthday.

The aborted attempt to kiss Tony on his birthday obviously wasn’t Steve’s best plan, but it’s not like he was just going to give up. That would be stupid. So, he’s really just got to come up with a better plan, one that is perfect, perfect enough to finally, for the love of God, finally kiss Tony.

But, like he’s said, things have gotten weird between him and Tony. Tony is seemingly avoiding Steve like the plague. He has literally seen Tony enter a room that Steve is in alone, and then turn on his heel and go back to wherever he came from. It’s hard to kiss someone who’s trying to avoid you.

So Steve comes up with a plan. Actually, he comes up with three plans. They’re fairly good plans, as plans for kissing someone goes. If there’s anything that Steve is good at, it’s making plans. So, the three he choose are the top three best possible plans for kissing Anthony Edward Stark, tailored to fit his schedule, habits, and behaviors.

The only thing that Steve didn’t really factor in was all of the outside variables.

For instance, Steve’s first plan included meeting Tony at the airport. He’s seen it done (in a lot of movies) so he figures that doing it himself shouldn’t be that hard. Tony has a private airstrip just outside of the city, and he’s coming home from some meetings in Malibu. He’s been away from New York City for two weeks.

Steve buys flowers because flowers are really nice. They’re red roses, in fact. He’s standing on the airstrip with the roses when he realizes that the flowers might have been too much. He looks around frantically for a place to put them, but there’s none in sight, so he just rubs his face and hangs onto them.

When Tony exits the plane, he can see his bright smile from the ground. Tony puts his glasses on his head and gives Steve a confused look. “I don’t remember asking for a welcome home committee,” he says teasingly. Steve only smiles sheepishly and shuffles his feet on the ground.

“Well, I figured you needed a ride,” Steve says, patting the red Mustang.

“JARVIS let you drive? I told him not to let anyone touch them!” Tony says as he descends the stairs, but there’s no real heat behind the words.

“I have a clean record and he likes me,” Steve says with a shrug. Tony is finally in front of him and Steve rubs the back of his neck nervously. “I missed you,” he says quietly, and he watches Tony’s eyes widen and then soften at his words.

“Missed you too,” Tony says and Steve can tell that he’s trying for nonchalant but the words are too loaded to make them any less meaningful.

Steve is about to lean in, his chest is constricting, and his heart is expanding against his ribcage as he does—

“Are those flowers?”

Steve pulls back, Tony looks like he’s about to have kittens, and he looks around Tony to see Miss Potts exiting the plane, pointing at the bouquet in Steve’s hands.

“Yep,” says Steve. Tony rubs his forehead awkwardly and takes a couple steps back from Steve. “And... they’re for you?” he adds, holding them out to her.

So Plan A is out.

Plan A was a little complicated, Steve thinks. Maybe simple is the way to go. So, he goes with Plan B.

Plan B is simple. He invites Tony to watch a movie. While he and Tony are watching said movie, Steve pretends to yawn and he stretches his arm so that it goes behind Tony. It’s so simple, a pimply teenager could do it.

“Cap, did you just pull the yawn and stretch?” Clint asks shrilly from behind when Steve actually does it. Steve retracts his arm quickly enough for Tony to not have noticed.

“Barton, can you shut your face?” Tony demands as he turns around. “Wall-E is bonding with Eve!”

Steve sighs and eats the popcorn between the two of them moodily for the rest of the movie.

Plan C has to work, Steve thinks. Third time’s the charm. It has to work. From the words of the small, green puppet from that Star Wars movie, “There is no try. Only do or do not.” And Steve is definitely going to do.

The plan is simple: just let it happen.

So, Steve sits in the kitchen one night. He woke up in a cold sweat, his hands shaking from the memory of too much blood on them. They’re getting more uncommon every day, but when they hit, they hit Steve like a tidal wave, reminding him all the ways that he is broken.

He had wandered into the kitchen and made himself a mug of rich hot chocolate. He’s sitting at the stool, when Tony wanders in, looking bleary-eyed but awake. Tony ends up trying to focus on Steve, but Steve only laughs.

“Hey, Tony,” he says. “Want some hot chocolate?”

Tony’s face is blank as he processes Steve’s words and he nods vigorously. Steve huffs out another laugh and pats the seat next to him for him to sit. Tony does so and slumps down on the counter.

“When’s the last time you slept for more than an hour?” Steve asks as he mixes the hot chocolate contents.

“Uh,” Tony answers. “Tuesday?”

“It’s Thursday.”

“Oh.”

Steve nods and places the hot chocolate in front of Tony. Tony looks completely disheveled and worn out. His hair looks greasy from a night of avoiding a wash, there are distinct dark circles under his eyes. His goatee is untrimmed and unkempt. The shirt he’s wearing has several holes at the bottom of it. He looks dead on his feet and Steve’s chest aches for him.

Steve goes and sits down next to Tony. Immediately after he does, Tony shifts and leans his head on Steve’s shoulder. This kind of closeness makes Steve come alive like a live wire, but all he does it grip the handle on his mug of hot chocolate a little tighter.

“I have nightmares too,” Tony says simply.

“What about?” Steve asks quietly, knowing exactly what conversation (which seems so long ago now) to which Tony is referring.

“Dying,” Tony answers. He sniffles and drinks from his mug.

“You dying?”

“No,” Tony says. “Other people. Pepper. Rhodey, Happy. The Avengers. You.”

Steve doesn’t know how to answer that. But he says anyways, “I’m not gonna die, Tony. I promise.”

“Okay,” Tony says. “I believe you. I’ll kill you if you’re lying to me.”

Steve laughs and his shoulder shakes as he does and Tony begins laughing too, and they’re both giggling hysterically at two in the morning. It’s the kind of laughing where Steve forgets what it is he’s laughing at and he’s simply laughing to laugh because it feels good and laughing with Tony feels even better.

Eventually their giggles die down, listing off back into a comfortable silence. Tony’s head is still on Steve’s shoulder. Steve turns his head towards Tony and he thinks this is it. This is my chance. I’m not gonna get another one like this. He’s worth it. He’s worth everything.

“To--” Steve begins softly but then he hears a light snoring. Tony has fallen asleep on his shoulder. Steve closes his eyes and bows his head.

He is still worth this.

 

July

“Tony, you cannot buy Steve an island for his birthday.”

“Pepper, it’s not really an island—”

“No.”

“But—”

“No.”

Tony sighs and rolls his eyes, banishing the island timeshare website from his sight (really, he wouldn’t buy Steve an island, that would be stupid, that’s more like wedding present stuff).

Tony pauses for a moment when that thought finally catches up to him and he freezes momentarily when he realizes what it means. The thing is, not only does Steve give Tony the tingles in the all the right places, but he gives him the tingles in all the wrong places too. Steve makes his chest ache and his head blank. And then he thinks things like I bet Steve would want a dog or Man, I bet he’d look great in a formal tuxedo or I wonder if he’d like to see the other house in Malibu and maybe we could spend winters there and cuddle in front of the fireplace and drink hot cocoa and kiss and--

That’s where Tony gets ahead of himself. The assuming. Tony assumes this all could happen. He assumes that Steve likes dogs and would want to get a dog (with Tony) and that he would want to wear a formal tuxedo around Tony (that’s not for galas or charity events or anything that involves work) and that Steve would even want to step foot in Tony’s Malibu dream house with him, and stay up with him as they exchange words of passion and romance. Assuming is dangerous, the most dangerous game to play if you’re Tony Stark. Because assumptions always lead to heartbreak.

“Then I don’t know what to get him,” Tony says, pulling up multiple sites at once that all involve expensive items.

“Get him something simple,” Pepper says as she files through her briefcase of doom. She pulls out three documents. “Sign,” she orders as she hands Tony a pen.

Tony takes the pen grudgingly. “That doesn’t help me,” Tony answers. “I can’t just do simple. I want to do something... something that he won’t forget. Something meaningful. Something that--”

“Will make him fall in love with you?” Pepper finishes for him. Pepper’s face softens and she puts her hands on Tony’s forearms and rubs them carefully. “You don’t have to try so hard with Steve, Tony, I promise. Whatever you get him, he will love it. You just have to think about what means something to him.”

“God, you’re so smart,” Tony says, hitting himself on the forehead. “No wonder you broke up with me, I’m an idiot.” Pepper scoffs and rolls her eyes. “No, I’m not kidding,” Tony continues. “I am an idiot. I should’ve thought of this earlier!”

“Thought of what earlier?” Pepper asks.

“His bike!” Tony says, pulling up new files on his hologram desktop.

“His... bike?”

“Yes! His bike! His motorcycle from the 40’s? That big, gorgeous piece of machinery that he sat his wonderful ass on every time he fought Nazis?” Tony says wildly. He pulls said bike up to show Pepper. Steve is sitting astride it with James Barnes leaning against it, both of them smiling at the camera. “This beauty right here. It’s been in storage in the garage at the mansion for seventy years.”

“So you’re going to give him his bike back?”

“God, no,” Tony says, giving Pepper a disgusted look. “I’m gonna rebuild. Make it as nice and new as the day it was made.” He looks wistfully back at the picture of Steve.

“I’m sure he’ll definitely fall in love with you,” Pepper says. “Now please sign these, you big, sentimental sap.”

 

August

“I’ve always liked France,” Peggy said as she looks out at the decimated field. Steve snorted in laughter as he follows her same line of sight.

“Yeah, it’s a real good view,” Steve said, adjusting his shield on his forehead. “I think the King of France himself would live here.” Steve squinted at the horizon and continued, “I think I can see Versailles from here.”

“Oh, shut it,” said Peggy, swatting at him with her hand. Steve laughs and so does Peggy, and the sound is strange as they stand in the middle of a bombed out shelter, abandoned for over two days now.

“No, I can see it too,” said Bucky, sidling up next to Steve, a rifle strapped to his back comfortably. “It’s right past that burned down building, next to the broken tank.” Bucky points vaguely in one direction. “Right there.” Steve nodded his head and looked at nowhere in contemplation.

“He’s right, it’s in plain sight, can’t miss it,” said Steve.

“I don’t know why I put up with the two of you,” Peggy said, turning around and beginning to walk back to the Jeep. “I am going to request being moved to another covert op team with less irritating members.” Peggy paused before she entered the Jeep and turned to Steve, a playful glare in her eyes. “Preferably one where there’s less star spangled men and more British tea.” With that, she hopped into the driver’s seat and started the car. Bucky doubles over with laughter and Steve smacks him on the back of his head, but he’s laughing too.

“Ninety-nine weird-ass aliens on the street of New York, ninety-nine wierd-ass aliens on the street,” Clint sings into the comm. “Take one down, pass it around, ninety-eight weird-ass aliens on the street of New York!”

“Barton, this isn’t High School Musical, take your singing elsewhere,” Tony says with a grunt as he bashes in the head of yet another alien. Steve hears the sound of a repulsor going off and he sees Tony burst into the air.

“You’re just jealous of my mad singing talents, Stark,” Clint says. “Natasha likes my singing.”

“No, I don’t,” Natasha says. Steve sees her in the corner of his eye, running one of the aliens through with one of their own spears.

“I enjoy your song of battle!” Thor booms into the comm. “It is most invigorating!”

“Chatter,” Steve says, but he’s smiling too much to put any real authority into the command.

“See, Thor likes my singing,” Clint says, continuing on as if he never heard Steve speak in the first place. Beside Steve, an alien goes down right before it shoots its gun at him. “You guys have absolutely zero taste in music.”

“Uh, that’s definitely incorrect, because I think it’s been established that I have the best music taste in the world,” Tony says. He gets behind Steve and they’re back to back, fighting off monsters, working in time and in sync to the sound of repulsors and fists hitting faces.

“I hardly think that AC/DC can be considered good taste, Stark,” Natasha says as she vaults off a wall and lands bodily on one of the aliens.

Tony only scoffs in response, indicating that he has no good comeback to that.

This is what makes a great team, Steve realizes. It doesn’t matter if they can get the job done. They have to be able to work together in a seamless unit. They need to be able to talk to each other and laugh with each other.

Steve hasn’t felt this kind of camaraderie since the Howling Commandos. And it makes him so happy to find somewhere he belongs again.

 

September

‘“What’s flying like?”

Tony is watching TV when Steve asks him (more specifically, he’s watching Myth Busters because it’s hilarious and science) and says “huh?” before the words process in his mind. “Oh, uh, I don’t know,” Tony answers, furrowing his eyebrows in thought as Adam sets the timer on a small bomb.

Tony licks his lips and sighs. “It’s like...” He begins. “It’s like time doesn’t matter. And you feel like you’re at the center of it all, but at the same time, you feel the entire world. Your heart kind of stops and jumps because you’re doing something that people aren’t meant to do, but you can. You can do it and it’s amazing and it’s just you and you feel right for the first time, like you’re whole and you can do anything because you can finally fly and it’s like--”

Tony stops before he says flying is like falling in love.

October

Stark, you know that’s a one way trip.

Before Steve can register anything, Tony is in front of him and he’s looking at the blank face of the Iron Man helmet. “Iron Man, what are you--” Steve begins but he chokes back a scream as he peers around Tony’s shoulder. A metal pole has gone right through Tony’s suit, through his back. The eyes of the suit flicker, Tony crumples in the suit, and Steve reacts quickly enough to catch Tony before he falls.

Clint catches the alien in the back of the head, but Steve’s not paying attention, he’s lowering Tony to the ground, looking frantic as he gazes at the fading arc reactor. “T-Tony, my God, Tony, oh my God...” Steve mutters, his hands skittering across Tony’s chest, his stomach.

The mask flicks up, so Tony’s face can be seen. "Hey, Steve, don't give me that look, no, I'm fine, I'm fine." But that seems futile because when Tony coughs, Tony coughs up blood.

“Tony...”

Mr. Stark.

Captain.

Steve takes off the cowl and attempts to wipe the grime off his face.

“Jesus. You know, I really thought it’d be sooner. Also, by alcohol poisoning,” Tony says, his breaths beginning to come in faster. He laughs, but grimaces afterwards. Steve doesn’t know what to do, the pole is still in his back, but if he takes it out, it’ll make everything worse--

“What’d be sooner?” Steve asks.

“Dying,” Tony answers simply. He lifts a hand to grab one of Steve’s. He stops its movement and presses it against the flickering reactor. Steve sees him sallow, slow and painful.

"You're gonna live, Tony, right up until you're my age. I promise you." Tony only laughs.

You might’ve missed a few things. Doing time as a Capsicle.

Fury didn’t tell me he was calling you in.

Steve tightens his hold on Tony’s hand. He sniffles helplessly and reaches up to brush back Tony’s hair. “SHIELD’s gonna come in a few minutes, Tony. Please hang on,” Steve begs, his voice cracking.

"Just... Hold me. I'm okay. I'll be fine. Just hold me, please. That's all I need," Tony says, and Steve can swear he sees Tony’s eyes begin to glisten with tears.

Big man in a suit of armor. Take that away and what are you?

Genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist.

"I'm here, Tony," Steve says. He doesn’t know who’s crying for a moment before he realizes that it’s him. His whole body is shuddering with each sob.

“That’s all I need to know.” Tony coughs again, more blood spilling from his lips. Steve wipes it away carefully with his free hand.

I know guys worth ten of you.

“God. It’s raining. Does everything in my life have to be an overused cliche?” Tony asked, and he shakes for a moment before ceasing. Steve watches his eyes go in and out of focus and there is literally nothing he can do.

Is everything a joke to you?

Funny things are.

Someone is talking in his ear, he thinks it’s Natasha, but he doesn’t listen to what she’s saying, it’s probably important, but Steve doesn’t care, Steve does not care, not while Tony is like this, nothing is more important than Tony.

“Hey, Steve? I think I was a little in love with you.”

Everything special about you came out of a bottle.

Tony’s eyes fall shut and his chest stops moving. The light from the reactor is gone. Steve shakes Tony in his arms. "Tony?" he asks. "Tony, wake up. Come on, Tony. Tony, please. Wake up, please."

You better stop pretending to be a hero.

He kisses Tony softly on the lips, but receives no response. “Tony?” he ask, meekly, quietly, but he knows he won’t get an answer.

Steve places his forehead on Tony's, his tears falling down his cheeks. "I'm in love with you too."