Well, okay, now he's staring at the play of shadow and light over the muscles of Tony's back, and this is completely unfair. Steve's sure he had some sort of explanation planned, but the words in his brain have completely deserted him for the moment.
"I don't need any toys," he says, after a pause that's just a little too long to be natural. Look, Steve's low-tech; give the guy his shield and maybe a helmet and he'll be happy. "C'mon, you've been at this for hours, take a break for a bit." Or so he guesses. Tony tends to go into a fugue state when he's working on something like this and forgets to surface for human things like food and sleep.
"I got a place in town I like to visit," he adds. Totally casually, like he didn't come here dressed to hop on his motorcycle. "We can grab a bite to eat there. My treat."
Somehow, Steve is entirely unaware that it sounds like he's asking Tony on a date, probably because he's Steve and the thought of dating anyone - the thought of asking a man out on a date, because he's still working his way through a sexuality crisis (which is admittedly largely centered on Tony) - is foreign. Sure, people are interested in him, he gets that. They're interested in the muscles, in the legend that's Captain America, and that's not really what Steve wants. He wants someone who can see past the spangles and the serum, to the man he really is. (Even if he's not always sure who that man is himself.)
On his knees Tony hooks an arm and his head inside the wall panel, which swallows him to the opposite shoulder. A light sheen of sweat glistens on the back of his neck, the short hairs there a tad damp; a small damp spot between his shoulder blades, too, and a smattering across his chest. In response to Steve's invitation Tony only absently hums once, distracted. It reverberates through the hollow space of the steel-frame wall. His back twists and arches as he reaches for something, the A-shirt riding up one side of his waist and revealing the barest sliver of skin between it and the denim.
Steve has to swallow hard at the sight of the bared skin in front of him, and he feels his jeans starting to become uncomfortably tight. He has to shove his hands into the pockets of his jacket to keep from reaching out to run his fingers over the line of skin just above Tony's waistband. He wonders what it would be like to nuzzle that sweat-damp skin, to taste the salt-
Shit. Tony's not interested, Steve reminds himself, and Pepper is a wonderful woman who he would never want to hurt, and there are a thousand reasons why he should just walk out and take a cold shower right now.
"Dinner," he repeats louder, like that'll help Tony focus on him. Although he's not as hungry as he was a moment ago - his body has other priorities it's decided to focus on. "You wanna go get something?" He taps on the outside of the panel to see if that draws him out.
The tap startles Tony; he bumps his head with a ringing thunk. "Ow! Shit!" Scowling he pulls himself out from the wall, fingers pressed to his forehead. A wispy cobweb trails in the air from his spiked bangs and he disgustedly flaps his hand and ruffles his hair with both hands, his head bowed, to rid it of any more dust or bug housings. Afterward he squints up at Steve like he's just realizing him as a visitor. He glances up and down once at Steve's attire.
"Sorry," Steve apologizes. Suddenly, his trance is broken - not that the look isn't endearing in its own way, but it's not as hopelessly arousing as it was before. He tugs his jacket again, making sure it's hanging right.
"I was going to go into town and grab something," he repeats again. "There's a diner I like to hit sometimes, and I thought maybe you'd like to come along. Everyone's doing...stuff, and we haven't had a chance to talk for awhile."
Tony smiles, his lips pressed tightly together. He stands and plucks off the thick leather gloves he wore to play with electrical wires. "Well. Sorry you drew the short straw of hang-outs, I guess. Gonna rain check, though."
Oh. Steve realizes a little belatedly how that must sound to Tony, and he grimaces apologetically. "I didn't mean- that came out the wrong way. It's just that I've been busy, and you've been busy, and we haven't had a chance to touch base lately." And he suspects a touch of avoidance on Tony's part.
"If you don't wanna go out, we can order in," he adds. Since Tony's a little greasy and cobwebby.
Tony drops the gloves next to the tablet with FRIDAY in it. He pokes around at the screen, eyes focused on it, still working that brain of his as they talk -- distant. He's created physical and mental distance between himself and Steve; himself and the Avengers. Has been for months, ever since they set up the new facility and Tony tapped out. Since they ended Ultron's offensive. He wanted to settle with Pepper. He needed to straighten his head out.
Tony suddenly swipes to the right and a holographic layout of his proposed lab space spills across the floor in detailed wireframe model. The superimposed image flickers over each surface, the floor and Steve's legs alike, as Tony adjusts the tablet until it matches the area properly. The model creates lines of light that reflect in his eyes. He immerses himself in it. "If you wanna lug it up here, sure," he tosses out. The wireframe becomes another barrier, something between them. "But there's not much to catch up on. I'm keeping my head low like a good boy. No more tampering with alien AI. I'm just--" He pauses. For a fraction of a second Tony looks broken, cracked and afraid, eyes too dark and too round, lost between the projected lines, before he blinks it away into stoic defiance and meets Steve head-on. Just a blip in his programming, he might say. He finishes with, "Doin' my job."
Steve's never been too great at small talk - not just with girls, but with anyone. It's easy enough to talk with Sam, with Natasha. Conversations with Tony veer between a genuine connection and, well, this. Awkward and faltering, with Steve putting his foot in his mouth constantly. But those moments when things click, they make him want to chase after more. He's just not totally sure how to do it.
"Didn't say you were doing anything else." The smile he offers is a little sheepish. He shrugs out of the jacket, tosses it on one of the worktables. Not like he'll be needing it anytime soon. "Listen, Tony, you doing okay?" As if he doesn't already know what the answer'll be, but he has to try, because, Christ, that barely-there flicker breaks his heart. "Are things all right with you and Pepper?"
Tony lowers his eyes to the discarded jacket. The corded tension in his neck and shoulders unwinds just a little: a metaphorical removing of his boxing gloves. Always ready for a fight. No, he wants to yell so badly he chokes with it, I'm not okay. I still have nightmares. I see you and everyone dead. I brought this on us. I broke us apart, and something is coming, and we're not ready, Steve. All this we're building here, it's not enough. I don't know if it ever can be. I'm terrified. I feel alone and all that's waiting for me back in that house are the ghosts of my dead parents and butler.
With the Tower under reconstruction (again), and too full of memories, Tony retreated to his childhood home on Fifth Avenue. His mother's piano had filmed over with dust. He busied himself by cleaning the mansion room by room, anything to keep moving; to keep from overthinking. He reassigned the groundskeeper to one of his vistas. He isolated himself in old walls that creaked and moaned. The system he had added on for JARVIS years ago ("you were always here") stared at him from dead panels.
The memory of Pepper walking away shakes him loose. With an odd shine to his eyes, Tony swallows. "Bit rocky on that front. Turns out even she has a limit," he rasps.
The silence lasts a little long for any lie to be plausible, and Steve's glad when Tony actually admits to something. He's not Sam, he can't coax problems out of people with a little friendly chit-chat and a charming smile. All he has is a lack of tact and a lot of stubbornness, which usually gets him exactly nowhere. (Besides, if he tries to talk to anyone about their problems, there's a chance that his own might get aired, and nobody wants that.)
"I'm sorry." And it's genuine, the way he gives Tony a sad puppy-ish look, the warm friendly grip on his shoulder. He thinks Pepper's a good influence on Tony - possibly the only person in the world who can get him to do anything when he's dead set against it, besides Rhodey - and he knows that she makes him happy, or as happy as Tony Stark can be.
Of course, now he has no idea what to say next, because he's never been in this situation before, and even expressing his legitimate regret sounds like a stupid mindless platitude; God only knows what other inane things might spill out of his mouth.
"You should try spending some time here with us," he offers. "Actually training with us. I know you're retired, but you could help me and Nat teach the others." It's what Steve honestly considers to be practical, helpful advice, because the way he deals with his emotions is physical activity, pushing himself until he's too exhausted (even with the serum) to think straight. "No suit or anything, just you." And being around people - their team. Strengthening the bonds of their little mismatched family.
Tony shuts his eyes against the sudden stuttering of his heart and resists turning his cheek into that hand (the warmest things he's felt the past few weeks have been an overworked motherboard and a mug of scalding coffee at three A.M.). With a minute shake of his head, he steps out from under Steve's hand and pretends to investigate a far section of the room. He mutters, "I think it's best I keep my distance for now, don't you? Especially with the congressional hearings and PR fire. And the Maximoff girl." Spoken lower, quieter: "Probably more comfortable without me."
Steve almost sighs as Tony pulls back from the touch, but manages not to. It's so damn hard to connect with him sometimes, especially when he's determined to avoid it. He doesn't want to back him into a corner - in fact, that's the worst thing to do with Tony, physically and metaphorically speaking - but he wants to pull him out of the self-inflicted slump he's wallowing in.
"Tony." His tone is a bit sterner there for a moment, a counter to the self-deprecation, before it softens again. "Just do a few workouts. I won't even drag you out of bed for jogging in the morning." Assuming he even finds his bed in the first place, that is. "Hell, just do some sparring with me, or me and Nat. Doesn't have to be everyone." He can understand why Tony's worried about Wanda - the way she'd slipped into their minds, played on their worst fears - but she's also a young, damaged girl who's had her life ruined by war. A lot like the rest of them, really.
Crouched, Tony tenses in a flinch at Steve's initial tone, indicated by the rise of his shoulder blades under the A-shirt. His back is turned toward Steve, but Tony sees another Steve entirely at his feet, a Steve pale and still. His fingertips remember the clammy skin, the throb of an artery underneath a weak flutter. The way Steve's voice cracked past his lips and blood leaked at the corner and ran from his nose; how his arm dropped, graceless and limp, to the rocky ground.
Over his shoulder Tony bestows another tight smile, teeth clenched to stop the trembling in his jaw. He stands and with a single finger spins a holographic table in its spot. "Sure," he says.
He notices the way Tony's shoulders tense, nearly reaches out to touch him again. He hadn't meant it as a reproach, just...he's worried, that's all, and Steve's bad at showing concern. He doesn't want Tony to talk about himself like he's not wanted, doesn't want him to devalue himself. He knows that sort of feeling all too well.
"I know you're only agreeing to get me to shut up about it," he replies mildly. He won't see Tony at the gym, and honestly, now he's probably going to pull away even more. Way to fuck things up, Rogers.
Holding his ground, Tony leans his hip against one of the physical tables and crosses his arms, his guarded eyes locked onto Steve: a good old-fashioned stand-off. "Saves us some trouble, then."
Steve didn't come down here for a fight - but when isn't it a fight? He should know better by now. But there's the kind of fight he likes, the verbal sparring, the push and pull between them, and then there's this. Tony's broken, and he won't let anyone help because he's too damn stubborn, and everything Steve says or does is somehow wrong - all he does is keep pushing him away.
A smarter person would've given up by now, but Steve Rogers has never known when to quit.
"So is there anything I can do to help other than shutting up and fucking off?" Because while he's not giving up, he's starting to lose any patience he had for tiptoeing around the issue. It's that way that Tony has of digging and finding and exposed nerve - that posture that just sparks something belligerent in him that makes him smart off. It's not exactly Steve at his most mature, but that's what Tony does to him.
And Tony quickly turns his head aside, tucks his chin close to his shoulder, because he can never stand up to Steve Rogers for long, not when a vice already squeezes his damaged heart. How can he explain the future that the Scarlet Witch showed him? The future that Ultron proved true? He'd only ruin the Avengers if he stayed. Hell, he already has. Safest for everyone to remove himself from their ranks and just provide equipment and resources. Better for Pepper, too. She might come back. If he just keeps a regular nine-to-five like any other career man; just works behind a desk with papers instead of in a suit of armor against missiles. He'd put her first. She'd have to come back then, right?
And when the fight goes out of Tony, Steve can't keep bristling at him. Not when he hunches in on himself like that, like he's afraid of him. And it's that more than anything that says just how bad off Tony is, because normally, he wouldn't be able to resist rising to the bait, and they'd both be butting heads by now.
He kind of misses that, honestly. At least it would be something normal, something he knows how to deal with. Not this hurt silence from a man who's usually so quick to run his mouth off.
"Tony..." Now he's pleading, and in his desperation, he reaches out and brushes his fingertips against the cheek that isn't pressed against his shoulder. It's an incredibly intimate gesture, maybe more intimate than he strictly intends it to be. But every time he opens his mouth he says something wrong, so speaking obviously isn't working out for him too well here.
Tony loses focus. His breath catches. The swing of Pepper's ponytail mesmerizes him; he's enthralled by the way the strands part on the back of her neck when she lowers her head. The last he sees of her through the sliver of the open doorway is the sad curl of her red lips and then the ends of that ponytail fanning out as she leaves. The sky splits like the lifting eyelid over an empty socket, an electric blue swirling and sparking at the edges, a rolling storm contained in its circumference. Her heels echo in a foyer full of corpses.
Something grazes his cheek and Tony snaps wild eyes up to Steve's face, body coiled and ready for a fight. Slowly the intensity fades from his expression; his jaw relaxes back and his vision clears. Lost, his gaze drops and lingers on Steve's mouth. He pulls stuttered air into his lungs and expands them to full.
Steve realizes what's happening only because it's a haunted look he's seen on so many faces, the men (the boys) the war chewed up and spat back out. These days, shellshock doesn't mean what it used to, but Steve sees it written on Tony's face, engraved deep in the shadows under his eyes, coiled in the tension of his muscles. He's heard a lot from Sam about how they actually treat it now instead of just ignoring it and sending guys back out.
But that's the problem, isn't it? Tony's kept going out, and they've all assumed he's fine when he's not. (Not that Steve's fine, but that problem isn't going away.) He's a civilian who's been through situations that would break a soldier - that would break anyone - and nobody's stopped to consider his emotional well-being because it's the sort of thing they all studiously ignore around here.
"Hey," he says softly, trying to hold Tony's attention. "I'm here, okay? Just...just take a deep breath." His hand drops to Tony's shoulder again, giving him a physical anchor to ground himself with.
Tony briefly imagines, as he watches Steve's mouth form the words, the fit of his own mouth against it. He clamps his eyes shut with a grimace and draws another, smoother breath in.
He doesn't know why Tony's closed his eyes, but he figures it's so he can concentrate - hopes it's so he can concentrate. God, Sam would know what to do with something like this. All Steve can do is wait it out, so he grabs Tony's other shoulder with a solid grip, bracing him.
"Whatever's going on in your head, it's not real." Not the camera flashes that sound like gunshots going off, not the scarlet red that paints his memories, not the chill that sinks to his very bones sometimes. "C'mon, Tony, you can do it."
Shoulders hunched beneath Steve's hands, Tony huffs, hisses in more air, and grits out through his teeth, "I know I can do it. I've been doing it since New York."
There's a moment where Steve feels warm skin and muscle shift under his hands, and, okay, that's incredibly distracting. Steve has to take a breath of his own to calm down for a moment.
"New York? You mean-" Since he went through the wormhole. Steve can't say he's surprised; he's more surprised that it hasn't been happening longer. "Tony, you never said anything."
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"I don't need any toys," he says, after a pause that's just a little too long to be natural. Look, Steve's low-tech; give the guy his shield and maybe a helmet and he'll be happy. "C'mon, you've been at this for hours, take a break for a bit." Or so he guesses. Tony tends to go into a fugue state when he's working on something like this and forgets to surface for human things like food and sleep.
"I got a place in town I like to visit," he adds. Totally casually, like he didn't come here dressed to hop on his motorcycle. "We can grab a bite to eat there. My treat."
Somehow, Steve is entirely unaware that it sounds like he's asking Tony on a date, probably because he's Steve and the thought of dating anyone - the thought of asking a man out on a date, because he's still working his way through a sexuality crisis (which is admittedly largely centered on Tony) - is foreign. Sure, people are interested in him, he gets that. They're interested in the muscles, in the legend that's Captain America, and that's not really what Steve wants. He wants someone who can see past the spangles and the serum, to the man he really is. (Even if he's not always sure who that man is himself.)
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Shit. Tony's not interested, Steve reminds himself, and Pepper is a wonderful woman who he would never want to hurt, and there are a thousand reasons why he should just walk out and take a cold shower right now.
"Dinner," he repeats louder, like that'll help Tony focus on him. Although he's not as hungry as he was a moment ago - his body has other priorities it's decided to focus on. "You wanna go get something?" He taps on the outside of the panel to see if that draws him out.
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"It's not Vision's cooking, is it?" he says.
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"I was going to go into town and grab something," he repeats again. "There's a diner I like to hit sometimes, and I thought maybe you'd like to come along. Everyone's doing...stuff, and we haven't had a chance to talk for awhile."
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"If you don't wanna go out, we can order in," he adds. Since Tony's a little greasy and cobwebby.
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Tony suddenly swipes to the right and a holographic layout of his proposed lab space spills across the floor in detailed wireframe model. The superimposed image flickers over each surface, the floor and Steve's legs alike, as Tony adjusts the tablet until it matches the area properly. The model creates lines of light that reflect in his eyes. He immerses himself in it. "If you wanna lug it up here, sure," he tosses out. The wireframe becomes another barrier, something between them. "But there's not much to catch up on. I'm keeping my head low like a good boy. No more tampering with alien AI. I'm just--" He pauses. For a fraction of a second Tony looks broken, cracked and afraid, eyes too dark and too round, lost between the projected lines, before he blinks it away into stoic defiance and meets Steve head-on. Just a blip in his programming, he might say. He finishes with, "Doin' my job."
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"Didn't say you were doing anything else." The smile he offers is a little sheepish. He shrugs out of the jacket, tosses it on one of the worktables. Not like he'll be needing it anytime soon. "Listen, Tony, you doing okay?" As if he doesn't already know what the answer'll be, but he has to try, because, Christ, that barely-there flicker breaks his heart. "Are things all right with you and Pepper?"
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With the Tower under reconstruction (again), and too full of memories, Tony retreated to his childhood home on Fifth Avenue. His mother's piano had filmed over with dust. He busied himself by cleaning the mansion room by room, anything to keep moving; to keep from overthinking. He reassigned the groundskeeper to one of his vistas. He isolated himself in old walls that creaked and moaned. The system he had added on for JARVIS years ago ("you were always here") stared at him from dead panels.
The memory of Pepper walking away shakes him loose. With an odd shine to his eyes, Tony swallows. "Bit rocky on that front. Turns out even she has a limit," he rasps.
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"I'm sorry." And it's genuine, the way he gives Tony a sad puppy-ish look, the warm friendly grip on his shoulder. He thinks Pepper's a good influence on Tony - possibly the only person in the world who can get him to do anything when he's dead set against it, besides Rhodey - and he knows that she makes him happy, or as happy as Tony Stark can be.
Of course, now he has no idea what to say next, because he's never been in this situation before, and even expressing his legitimate regret sounds like a stupid mindless platitude; God only knows what other inane things might spill out of his mouth.
"You should try spending some time here with us," he offers. "Actually training with us. I know you're retired, but you could help me and Nat teach the others." It's what Steve honestly considers to be practical, helpful advice, because the way he deals with his emotions is physical activity, pushing himself until he's too exhausted (even with the serum) to think straight. "No suit or anything, just you." And being around people - their team. Strengthening the bonds of their little mismatched family.
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"Tony." His tone is a bit sterner there for a moment, a counter to the self-deprecation, before it softens again. "Just do a few workouts. I won't even drag you out of bed for jogging in the morning." Assuming he even finds his bed in the first place, that is. "Hell, just do some sparring with me, or me and Nat. Doesn't have to be everyone." He can understand why Tony's worried about Wanda - the way she'd slipped into their minds, played on their worst fears - but she's also a young, damaged girl who's had her life ruined by war. A lot like the rest of them, really.
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Over his shoulder Tony bestows another tight smile, teeth clenched to stop the trembling in his jaw. He stands and with a single finger spins a holographic table in its spot. "Sure," he says.
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"I know you're only agreeing to get me to shut up about it," he replies mildly. He won't see Tony at the gym, and honestly, now he's probably going to pull away even more. Way to fuck things up, Rogers.
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A smarter person would've given up by now, but Steve Rogers has never known when to quit.
"So is there anything I can do to help other than shutting up and fucking off?" Because while he's not giving up, he's starting to lose any patience he had for tiptoeing around the issue. It's that way that Tony has of digging and finding and exposed nerve - that posture that just sparks something belligerent in him that makes him smart off. It's not exactly Steve at his most mature, but that's what Tony does to him.
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He kind of misses that, honestly. At least it would be something normal, something he knows how to deal with. Not this hurt silence from a man who's usually so quick to run his mouth off.
"Tony..." Now he's pleading, and in his desperation, he reaches out and brushes his fingertips against the cheek that isn't pressed against his shoulder. It's an incredibly intimate gesture, maybe more intimate than he strictly intends it to be. But every time he opens his mouth he says something wrong, so speaking obviously isn't working out for him too well here.
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Something grazes his cheek and Tony snaps wild eyes up to Steve's face, body coiled and ready for a fight. Slowly the intensity fades from his expression; his jaw relaxes back and his vision clears. Lost, his gaze drops and lingers on Steve's mouth. He pulls stuttered air into his lungs and expands them to full.
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But that's the problem, isn't it? Tony's kept going out, and they've all assumed he's fine when he's not. (Not that Steve's fine, but that problem isn't going away.) He's a civilian who's been through situations that would break a soldier - that would break anyone - and nobody's stopped to consider his emotional well-being because it's the sort of thing they all studiously ignore around here.
"Hey," he says softly, trying to hold Tony's attention. "I'm here, okay? Just...just take a deep breath." His hand drops to Tony's shoulder again, giving him a physical anchor to ground himself with.
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"Whatever's going on in your head, it's not real." Not the camera flashes that sound like gunshots going off, not the scarlet red that paints his memories, not the chill that sinks to his very bones sometimes. "C'mon, Tony, you can do it."
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"New York? You mean-" Since he went through the wormhole. Steve can't say he's surprised; he's more surprised that it hasn't been happening longer. "Tony, you never said anything."
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