Months after Tony's funeral, Steve still hasn't cleaned out his workshop. He'd tried to get Bruce or Rhodey to do it instead - either of them would know more about the contents than him - but in the end, it's his duty. Nat's quarters come first, everything carefully boxed up and shipped off to Clint. There's not much left; she'd lived here, but she'd never really had a home, never had much in the way of things. Steve can understand that.
The workshop is the opposite, everything still where it was where Tony left off. He doesn't even know how many goddamn years it's been - whether he was in here working after the blip. He doesn't remember those days (weeks, months) that they'd all spent lost in grief, trying to piece together what remained of their lives. He doesn't remember when Tony had left the compound with Pepper (when he'd been well enough to leave).
Without Tony there, everything seems somber and still, the husks of machines hunched in silent slumber, the displays and hologram projectors dark. He remembers Tony in a whirl of frenetic activity, lost in the currents of his own mind as he spent hours working feverishly on some new gadget. He'd talk to FRIDAY, reeling off numbers and formulas fast enough that only an AI could keep up. Steve's heart aches, his chest tightens, and if his eyes prickle and water, he's blaming that on the dust in the air. He's still not sure he can do this.
Steve picks up a metal circlet left on one table and runs his fingers over it, wiping off the dust that covers it. The metal seems warm, and a green light blinks on at his touch. Tony would tell him that he shouldn't fuck around with strange technology - especially not his technology - and maybe it's a memory of the obstinate push and pull friendship they'd shared that makes him put it on his head. The metal settles easily on his brow, around his temples, and Steve swears he feels a light hum against his skin as whatever it is activates.
no subject
The workshop is the opposite, everything still where it was where Tony left off. He doesn't even know how many goddamn years it's been - whether he was in here working after the blip. He doesn't remember those days (weeks, months) that they'd all spent lost in grief, trying to piece together what remained of their lives. He doesn't remember when Tony had left the compound with Pepper (when he'd been well enough to leave).
Without Tony there, everything seems somber and still, the husks of machines hunched in silent slumber, the displays and hologram projectors dark. He remembers Tony in a whirl of frenetic activity, lost in the currents of his own mind as he spent hours working feverishly on some new gadget. He'd talk to FRIDAY, reeling off numbers and formulas fast enough that only an AI could keep up. Steve's heart aches, his chest tightens, and if his eyes prickle and water, he's blaming that on the dust in the air. He's still not sure he can do this.
Steve picks up a metal circlet left on one table and runs his fingers over it, wiping off the dust that covers it. The metal seems warm, and a green light blinks on at his touch. Tony would tell him that he shouldn't fuck around with strange technology - especially not his technology - and maybe it's a memory of the obstinate push and pull friendship they'd shared that makes him put it on his head. The metal settles easily on his brow, around his temples, and Steve swears he feels a light hum against his skin as whatever it is activates.