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."
"Gosh, didn't I?" Tony snaps. Glaring, he finally drops his arms, veins thrumming with anger and fear and hurt, but Steve's hands anchor him in place. "Or did you just block out my entire spiel of otherworldly threats that we can't handle? I know--" He clicks his teeth shut and softens his edge. "I know I don't deserve it anymore. But you have to trust me on this. Nothing of what we're doing here is gonna be enough. No training, no tech, no ... no superbot. What I saw, I--" he chokes, flinching back, ghost images of bodies laid over the room: Natasha's dead stare split by the model's wireframe, Clint's broken arm hanging off the edge of a desk, Thor's armor dulled and cape shredded, the Hulk's mass a twitching skewered heap. Gone. Scattered. Because of him.
Reports say that Sokovia relief efforts have recovered fifty-seven dead bodies with over a hundred people still missing, some of them children. Tony stayed awake with various news articles displayed on a tablet, its glow the only light, his head propped up by one hand. "Avengers Withdrawn from Public Eye," a headliner read. So much for together, he thought.
"I mean about you." Of course there are threats coming. Steve's father was lost to one war, and he watched another loom inexorably over the horizon before he went to fight in it. Now he's in a different century, and it's still one thing after another. "I know there's more coming." There's always more coming, always another battle to fight. "And - shit, what am I supposed to do, just wait? Maybe you think it won't be enough, and maybe you're right about that. But we're still gonna fight, Tony. I'm still going to fight. It might be a losing battle, but I can't stand there and do nothing, no matter what the threat is - no matter how many aliens we face, no matter what fate throws at us. Whether or not anyone else is by my side, that's their choice."
When it comes down to it, that's all he has to offer the world, isn't it? A lot of muscles and enough stubbornness to stand up to anything and anyone, no matter how much bigger than him it is. He'll never escape the war, and he's okay with that, because he doesn't know who he is outside of it. Doesn't know if he can be anything outside of it.
Tony swallows thickly, still held in place. Reel yourself back in, Stark. You know where that path leads you. "No. No, you're right. Sorry. It's just a ... problem I have. Anxiety, yay! Fun for all."
"Looks like a bit more than anxiety from over here." His voice is soft, full of concern, and the light of the hologram reflects in his eyes. Steve remembers a dark night in London, the bombed-out shell of a pub, the guilt he'd felt - the guilt he still feels - from losing Bucky.
"I- I don't know what to do to help, Tony. I'm grasping at straws here, okay?" He scrubs his face with a hand, lets it fall to his side instead of back to Tony's shoulder. "You're shellshocked, you have anxiety, you don't wanna tell anyone, but for god's sake, let me in. You keep everything locked up in your head, and..." Steve falters. "I don't wanna lose you." His own shoulders slump at the admission, at the vulnerability.
Steve's hand radiates heat on his shoulder. Tony stares at a spot on Steve's jaw. His chest feels scraped raw on the inside, the bone and muscle graft want to collapse, and he catches his body incrementally tipping closer. He just wants to rest, and Steve is a brick wall; he never backs down despite the weight. Tony trails his eyes over to Steve's mouth again, and then, he's just gone. Throw him a scrap of affection and he lifts his chin for more, hungry, lips parted and eyes hooded; head tilted just so. He still maintains that foot of distance between them, whatever Steve's grip dictates, but in that and the silence anticipation shakes his bones. His mouth tingles with it.
When it comes to feeling tension (sexual or otherwise), Steve has the approximate emotional sensitivity of a brick. He's not the kind of guy who picks up on hints easily - in his defense, there were no hints to pick up on before the serum, and afterwards, he only had eyes for Peggy.
But even he can feel the electricity that runs between the two of them, the hunger in the look that Tony gives him. It catches him by surprise, because in all his conflicted emotions and sexual confusion, Steve hasn't considered the possibility that Tony might be interested in him.
Steve is pretty much the Worst Person on the Planet at making first moves, but everything in Tony's body language says that, yeah, it's all up to him now. He closes the distance between them, rests a tentative (possibly shaking, but he won't admit it) hand on the small of Tony's back, and just stares for a long moment.
Don't say anything, Rogers, he tells himself, and somewhere even farther in the back of his head, there's a running Latin catechism, the familiar litany keeping him from losing all self-control. It's around et dimitte nobis debita nostra that he gives up and captures Tony's lips in a kiss that is shamefully messy and unpracticed, but no less intense for his lack of skill.
The start of Steve's name whispers past before they kiss, before Tony groans in satisfaction and beautifully opens up. He unwinds and hesitantly crowds his body into Steve's space, uncertain of what he can have, lower back arching under Steve's hand and fingers skimming around Steve's waist. Teeth clumsy between them, Tony corrects the angle of their kiss and then teases the tip of his tongue against Steve's mouth and opens his to invite Steve in. Letting him in, because how else can he? He desperately seeks that connection after the isolation; he doesn't otherwise know how. Dimly, Tony knows that the heat enveloping him should come from someone else, but Steve stands before him, and his heart aches and pleads for help.
Tony gives and Steve takes it all hungrily, soaking up every bit of touch he can and then some. It's different than the handful of kisses he's had before - the scrape of Tony's beard against his skin, the body under his hands planes of muscle instead of soft curves, the masculine scent of Tony - but in a good way. A very good way, and Steve doesn't need much encouragement to press closer to him, to fit their bodies together. He licks his way into Tony's mouth, feeling out the foreign territory, changing his angle subtly. God, he never wants this to end.
The hum of the fluorescent lights above, and the heat feebly attempting to warm the floor from open vents -- both sound louder in comparison, but between them, the soft smack of lips and tongues wins out. Tony focuses on the wetness on the inner edges of his mouth, from Steve's tongue licking past and Tony wrapping his lips around it; the hard mold of Steve's body, which he rocks his hips into once; their shared breath. He can lose himself in these familiar motions. Just become another warm, lonely body instead of Tony Stark, or Iron Man, or the man who destroyed the Avengers.
With a gasp he pulls away, eyes dilated, and lowers himself first to one knee and then both. "Steve," Tony says, looking up the length of Steve's body to his face, seeking his full attention.
"Uh," Steve replies eloquently. He's imagined something like this before (vaguely, in the dim way that he knows things like this happen between people), but nothing compares to the reality of having Tony Stark on his knees in front of him, looking up at him like he's his entire world.
(Something in the back of Steve's mind - probably his better judgment - says that this is a bad idea, that this isn't a solution to any of their problems. The part of him that hasn't gotten laid for decades tells his better judgment to shut the hell up.)
He cups Tony's cheek gently, like he can't believe this is actually happening, running his thumb over his skin, his lips. Christ. He shouldn't do this, but he's in too deep to back out now. And he wants this, as the bulge in the front of his jeans proves. Steve sucks in a shuddering breath. "I, uh. Haven't done this before. Just so you know." Not that there's a whole lot involved on his end, he's well aware of that.
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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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Reports say that Sokovia relief efforts have recovered fifty-seven dead bodies with over a hundred people still missing, some of them children. Tony stayed awake with various news articles displayed on a tablet, its glow the only light, his head propped up by one hand. "Avengers Withdrawn from Public Eye," a headliner read. So much for together, he thought.
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When it comes down to it, that's all he has to offer the world, isn't it? A lot of muscles and enough stubbornness to stand up to anything and anyone, no matter how much bigger than him it is. He'll never escape the war, and he's okay with that, because he doesn't know who he is outside of it. Doesn't know if he can be anything outside of it.
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"I- I don't know what to do to help, Tony. I'm grasping at straws here, okay?" He scrubs his face with a hand, lets it fall to his side instead of back to Tony's shoulder. "You're shellshocked, you have anxiety, you don't wanna tell anyone, but for god's sake, let me in. You keep everything locked up in your head, and..." Steve falters. "I don't wanna lose you." His own shoulders slump at the admission, at the vulnerability.
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But even he can feel the electricity that runs between the two of them, the hunger in the look that Tony gives him. It catches him by surprise, because in all his conflicted emotions and sexual confusion, Steve hasn't considered the possibility that Tony might be interested in him.
Steve is pretty much the Worst Person on the Planet at making first moves, but everything in Tony's body language says that, yeah, it's all up to him now. He closes the distance between them, rests a tentative (possibly shaking, but he won't admit it) hand on the small of Tony's back, and just stares for a long moment.
Don't say anything, Rogers, he tells himself, and somewhere even farther in the back of his head, there's a running Latin catechism, the familiar litany keeping him from losing all self-control. It's around et dimitte nobis debita nostra that he gives up and captures Tony's lips in a kiss that is shamefully messy and unpracticed, but no less intense for his lack of skill.
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With a gasp he pulls away, eyes dilated, and lowers himself first to one knee and then both. "Steve," Tony says, looking up the length of Steve's body to his face, seeking his full attention.
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(Something in the back of Steve's mind - probably his better judgment - says that this is a bad idea, that this isn't a solution to any of their problems. The part of him that hasn't gotten laid for decades tells his better judgment to shut the hell up.)
He cups Tony's cheek gently, like he can't believe this is actually happening, running his thumb over his skin, his lips. Christ. He shouldn't do this, but he's in too deep to back out now. And he wants this, as the bulge in the front of his jeans proves. Steve sucks in a shuddering breath. "I, uh. Haven't done this before. Just so you know." Not that there's a whole lot involved on his end, he's well aware of that.
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