Chapter Text
Tony found Steve staring broodingly into the dark jungle, silhouetted in late Wakandan light. Captain America in repose: all jawline, all emotional baggage. Sam and Natasha weren't around. Probably tying up last-minute departure logistics, or maybe just giving them space. Tony had asked Okoye to arrange it this way, to give them a moment alone.
Steve turned when he heard the door.
He wasn’t expecting Tony. Not yet, maybe not at all. But his face didn’t change.
“Tony,” he said, like it meant something.
Tony just looked at him. “You look like shit.”
Steve didn’t flinch. “Thanks. You look... older.”
“Time tends to do that.”
They didn’t move. The distance between them was a graveyard.
Tony exhaled. “You know why I’m here.”
“You’re here to yell at me.”
“No.” Tony looked out the same window. “I’m here to say goodbye.”
Steve turned. The change in him was subtle, but Tony caught it. The faint panic under the mask. “I didn’t- I never meant for any of this to happen. If I’d known about the mission, the fallout, Tony, I-”
“Would you have told me? Before or after Bucky took my arm off?”
Silence.
Tony wasn’t angry anymore. That was the part Steve didn’t get. He was tired.
“You said you trusted me,” Tony said, voice low but clear. “But when it really mattered, you didn’t.”
Steve opened his mouth. Closed it.
Tony let the silence hang, sharp as broken glass. “You built this version of me in your head. Polished it up until you could stand next to it. And when I didn’t match, when I cracked or got complicated or angry or scared, you pulled away. You looked at me like I was dangerous.”
Steve swallowed. “That’s not fair,” he said, and it was almost a whisper. “I trusted you. I believed in you.”
Tony looked at him then, eyes narrowed, tone steady. “No, you believed in an idea of me. The version that makes a good teammate, a good soldier. Not the real one. Not the one who couldn’t always stay quiet, who questioned you, who didn’t slot neatly into your ranks but showed up anyway.”
“I never wanted you to be perfect,” Steve said, and maybe he even believed it.
“You wanted me predictable. Palatable.” Tony's jaw tightened. “I know I’m a mess. I know I talk too much, feel too much, make things worse before I make them better. Fuck, you liked me better as a child, and I'm not sure I even blame you. But I was always trying. I was trying so fucking hard, and you still decided I wasn’t worth trusting.”
Steve’s voice, when it came, was quiet. “That’s not what I meant to do.”
"Yeah, well." Tony felt his mouth twist into that old sardonic shape - so familiar in the face of Steve's righteousness, but softer now, worn down with grief. "Sometimes intentions don't mean shit. Maybe you meant well, but you still left me behind when it counted."
That was it. No shouting match, no tears, no perfect closing line. Just silence and everything that was too late to be said, thick in the air between them.
“We can be better now,” Steve said, quietly. “I want to try.”
Tony shook his head, and the heart-ache didn't even feel too heavy to bear. “I have someone who doesn’t need to try.”
Steve, Sam and Natasha left Wakanda the next morning.
“It’s done,” Tony said, letting the words tumble out with a sigh as he collapsed onto the worn leather sofa in the back corner of the office—the one Okoye had once told him she often had to wake T’Challa from. He could see why. The thing swallowed him whole, all soft cushions and the faint smell of cedar and old books.
T’Challa glanced up now, the corners of his mouth lifting. “You’re not bleeding. This is promising.”
“Give it time,” Tony muttered, eyes closed, arm flung over his face. “The emotional wounds are fresh.”
He heard the rustle of paper, the soft thunk of something being set aside. Then footsteps. When he peeked from under his arm, T’Challa was standing over him, arms folded, expression fond.
“You did what you needed to do,” T’Challa said.
Tony let out a huff. “Yeah. Finally.”
The quiet stretched, but it wasn’t awkward. Not anymore. Tony pushed himself upright, bracing elbows on knees. He looked at his hands for a beat, then up at T’Challa.
“I remember everything,” he said. “From when I was, you know. Young.”
T’Challa sat beside him, close but not crowding. “I know.”
Tony nodded. “I remember... feeling safe. Even when I was scared. You made room for me. Never rushed it. Never made me feel like I had to be anything other than what I was.”
“You were easy to care for,” T’Challa said.
Tony laughed, sharp and disbelieving. “I was a nightmare.”
“A small one,” T’Challa allowed. “With excellent engineering instincts and a very strong opinion on breakfast foods."
Tony glanced sideways at him, smirking. The air between them shifted - softer, maybe. Warmer.
“I don’t think I’ve ever had that,” Tony said, quieter now. “The chance to be wanted. Not for my brain or my money or whatever legacy I’m supposed to live up to. Just... wanted.”
T’Challa turned toward him, eyes steady. “You were. You are.”
And there it was.
Tony’s breath caught. For all his words, for all his practiced charm, he had no idea what to say to that.
So he didn’t say anything. He leaned in.
T’Challa met him halfway, hand cradling the side of Tony’s face like it was something rare, something precious.
The kiss was soft. Careful. Not hesitant, just deliberate, like neither of them wanted to risk shattering it.
When they broke apart, Tony stayed close. Foreheads nearly touching.
“I, uh,” he started, then stopped. “Should we... you know. Use the bed for something other than me crying after nightmares?”
T’Challa’s smile was small but sure. “I’d say that’s long overdue.”
Tony stood, knees creaking in protest. Adulthood came with some unforgiving hardware. But for once, he didn’t mind the aches. "Lead the way, your Majesty. I think I’ve earned the right to do some very grown-up things."
"I'm quite certain you know the way to my bed chambers," T'Challa said, and took Tony's hand. "You made your way there often enough, late at night."
Tony grinned. "Yeah, but this time I'm hoping to do something a little more... conscious. Unless you're into drool? No judgement!"
T’Challa shook his head, amused. “You are incorrigible.”
“And yet you’re still holding my hand,” Tony said, eyes bright.
T’Challa squeezed his fingers. “That I am.”
And they left the office behind.
EPILOGUE
Tony had been gone a few weeks. Diplomatic stuff - UN debriefs, security hearings, paperwork tall enough to rival any of his tower schematics. Things that needed doing. Things he could do.
But this? Coming home to Wakanda, to the quiet hum of the lab and the warmth of familiar walls? That was something else entirely.
Here, there was no posturing, no media frenzy. Just the soft whirr of vibranium tech, the occasional sarcasm from Okoye, and the comfort of being somewhere he didn’t have to perform.
The lab was warm, filtered light through high windows. Rover chirped as he entered, then immediately rolled forward to pester him for an oil check. Someone - probably Okoye - had still set out a water bowl, just in case. Tony had stopped trying to explain the robotic dog didn’t need it. She’d just raised an eyebrow and said, 'He’s part of the household, isn’t he?'
“You demanding tin can,” Tony muttered fondly, crouching to inspect him.
“He missed you,” said Okoye from the doorway. She was leaning casually against the frame, arms crossed, like she hadn’t been keeping an eye on his arrival since dawn.
“Yeah,” Tony said, “Me too.”
She didn’t ask who he meant.
Later, T’Challa would come in, still in partial armor, one glove off just so he could hold Tony’s hand. He always made space for him, no questions, no fanfare. Just opened the door and welcomed Tony back like he belonged. They’d bicker about dinner, about Tony’s refusal to rest, about updates to vibranium circuitry.
But for now, Tony sat on the floor of a Wakandan lab, bathed in sunlight, Rover nuzzling his knee, and let himself feel the strange, terrifying peace of being home.
“Alright,” he said. “Let’s see what we can build next.”