Oh, god, he did something wrong. Should he have stopped? Something in Steve's stomach twists with guilt, and instead of answering, he bodily pulls Tony into his lap, cradling him against his chest. If he had his phone on him, he'd text Pepper - an awkward conversation, okay, but he's pretty sure Pepper could handle it. She could definitely handle it better than him, because he really wants to panic and run away and pretend this never happened if he ever sees Tony again.
He doesn't know what to say, so he just presses his face against Tony's hair, strokes fingers down the length of his spine. And after a few minutes, when he feels like he can stand again, he rises to his feet, still holding Tony in his arms - still very much in a state where it would be damned awkward to bump into anyone else in the compound - and carries him into his office, gently sets him down on the couch, and goes right back to holding him.
"Please, Tony," he murmurs into his neck, and, "I'm sorry."
Instead of protesting being carried like a bride across the threshold, Tony just lulls his head back and watches the ceiling with its metal rafters and air ducts pass by. Down a level, to the Avengers's main quarters, it changes to a smooth white with painted gray walls. Along the way an attempted swallow sends him into a weak coughing fit. He curls into Steve and mouths an apology, nothing more than the whispered hiss of the S. His body knows, remembers, that now is not the time and here is not the place and this is not the person, but his mind keeps clawing back down and under the peaceful waters, where everything becomes beautifully muted and blurry. So he just nuzzles into the warm collarbone, uncaring whom it belongs to, and sinks.
The first chink appears at Steve's apology. Tony blinks and suddenly he's being held in a different, darkened room: Steve's office. Only moonlight through the window wall illuminates it. "Wha' for?" Tony breathes out.
"Everything," Steve replies miserably, both because his own sins are too numerous to count, and because he's not entirely sure what he did wrong, just that it's his fault. He'd let his excitement carry him away against his better nature, and now Tony's worse, not better, and this was totally the wrong thing to do and he's ruined their friendship.
This isn't how he imagined having Tony in his arms, but Steve closes his eyes and rests his cheek against his hair anyway. He shouldn't even be doing this, he's sure, but Tony's so utterly unresponsive that he doesn't know how to help him.
Tony wiggles closer and slumps, peaceful and boneless, into Steve. From Steve's shoulder Tony watches his agonized face, his own soft and unguarded with a hint of worry marring his brow. Did he do something wrong? Pain blooms anew inside him. He whines, protesting, low in his abused throat, and brushes the back of his fingers along Steve's jaw.
"What did I do wrong?" Steve asks, frowning down at Tony. "I don't understand. I thought- I thought you wanted this." Had he goaded him into doing something he didn't want to do? But his touch seems tender enough, and it makes Steve close his eyes for a second, instinctively leaning into it despite his turmoil.
"God, all I wanted to do was go to dinner with you and have a nice night out." He laughs humorlessly. "Can't even manage that much without screwing things up."
Tony whimpers. His expression folds into lines of distress. "I did want it," he says shakily. "I..." Slowly his brain comes back online, waters disturbed, and the weight of his actions dawns on him. Tony suddenly peels himself away and hunches over, fist held to his mouth, still on Steve's lap. Horrified, he battles a wave of nausea. "M'sorry. It's my fault," he croaks. Why does he keep returning here? He doesn't need to be on-site to run it. Why cling so hard to something he's already ruined once? Look at what that got him; at what that got Steve. Wanda was right.
The sudden movement catches Steve by surprise - he'd been so passive and pliant a moment before, and now he looks like he's on the verge of a breakdown again. They're right back where they started, only with brand new emotional baggage on top of what was already there.
"It's not your fault," he insists stubbornly, and in spite of everything, he runs his hand along Tony's spine, trying to soothe him. It makes his heart sore to see Tony like this. He'd meant to help, but clearly he's only made it worse.
That place of rest and white noise in his head nudges at him from the comforting glide of Steve's hand and Tony shoves back at it. How'd he let himself slip under like that in the first place? He remembers Steve fucking his throat and him giving himself over, but that version of himself should only belong to Pepper. She discovered it. Tamed it. He's hers like that. He has no right to just hand it over to someone else. But she left.
Pepper deserves better. So does Steve.
"False," Tony mumbles. He flexes his fists tight enough that the knuckles crack and his wild eyes dart around. "You don't have all the information. I do."
"Then maybe you should share the information." The words aren't quite snapped, but his frustration is clear. Steve had begged him to let him in, and instead of just telling him what was wrong...
Well. Apparently that had been a bad approach. Is there a good approach? If so, it's not immediately obvious to Steve.
Tony shuts his eyes. He should leave. Not come back. Just fix what and help where he can from the confines of Fifth Avenue with cobwebs and ghosts for company. But he also can't shut himself away until he becomes one of them. He has so much to make up for and he'll run himself into the ground doing it. He can start here with Steve, who deserves better than this mess. Than him.
Tony drops his hands, ignores his heart imploding, and finally admits: "All I feel now, all the time, is pain. Exhaustion. Guilt." He trails off briefly, eyes distant (fifty-seven body count and rising), before he continues, "I'm running on fumes, Steve. I dunno how much more mileage I got. But when I ... when I get taken out of my head by someone I trust, that's as close as I get to happy. That's what just happened," he meets Steve's eyes, remorseful and moonlit, "and I used you to get there. It was selfish, and I'm sorry."
"It's not your fault, Tony," Steve insists again, but with a different meaning this time. "Ultron. You didn't know what would happen." Yeah, he still thinks Tony should have told the team first, but this isn't the time for that. "It's like the weapons, isn't it? You see what happened because of something you made, and you blame yourself. You've been trying to earn redemption ever since Afghanistan, and now you feel like you'll never be able to." Is he even right? He's grasping at straws, honestly, and he isn't quite sure how this relates to Tony's fear of what's coming for them, but it's what he gets from Tony's words.
He closes his eyes for a moment, tries to shove down his own self-recrimination. He doesn't need to dump his problems on Tony - in fact, that's probably just about the last thing Tony needs right now.
Tony sighs and circles the heel of his palm into his forehead. "Did you ... miss the part where I used you and your body to propel myself into an altered state of mind?"
It's sometime around now when Steve realizes that he's still sitting there with his dick out, and although it's awkward, he maneuvers around Tony to tuck it back into his underwear, at least. Which really only draws more attention to the whole problem that he's not talking about, so. Good job, Steve.
"No," he says quietly. "I thought you wanted me." In Steve's mind, he still bears a portion of the guilt for letting himself believe that much. He hunches his shoulders in again, the body language of a smaller man imposing itself on his frame.
Tony flicks his eyes down, but says nothing otherwise; he can still feel the soreness raised by Steve's dick scratching at his throat. His mouth waters and he swallows down the excess spit. Seeing Steve, his tone softens. "I wanted that space in my head. I trusted you to lead me there, and you did," he rasps. Then he huffs. "Helps that I'm physically attracted to you, I guess. If you, uh ... wanna kick me out and call me a rake, I'd get it. Just keep in mind that while, pro: not having to deal with me, there's the con: your lap might get cold." Tony smiles a tiny abashed smile, an olive branch.
Even after everything, that damn smile still makes Steve want to kiss him, and so he gives in to the urge to brush a kiss against the corner of Tony's lips, quickly and shyly. It's there and gone, and Steve pulls back again. Maybe he's a little heartbroken, but it's not like this is a new experience for him, and - Tony trusts him. That's something to focus on. It's not just his body or the prestige of being with Captain America. Even if he used him, it was because of the bond between them.
Maybe that can be enough.
"You aren't bad at being a lapwarmer," he agrees, smiling back. "If you, uh, ever wanted to try warming my bed..."
The smile fades just a little in surprise and for a moment Tony just considers Steve, searching his face as if seeing him for the first time. Eventually he ekes out a tiny "okay" before he continues normally, if choked, "Yeah. Happy to be of service." His thoughts reel. Steve still wants him like that?
Steve studies Tony's face thoughtfully, his gaze serious. "I want you to tell me about this thing, okay? If we- if we do anything else. I wanna be ready for it. I don't want to worry about breaking you again." He knows there's a lot of weird things about sex he's never even considered, and he doesn't want Tony to think he's some old-fashioned guy from the 1940s who's scandalized by the thought of anything remotely unusual.
Stunned and dumb, Tony nods. His eyes trail away as his mind races. He loves Pepper, and if she ever walks back in and motions him close he'd immediately fall to her feet, reverent and repentant. This feels like a betrayal, but didn't her leaving stab him the same? And he's enough of a piece of shit that Steve dangling the possibility has him wanting to bare his throat. Tony craves the escape.
"So," he says, "this is how you'd help me, huh? Take me out of my head for an hour or more." He smiles at Steve, sadly. "Ordering me around must be a dream come true."
"Is that what it is?" He raises his eyebrows with interest. "To be honest, I've always been more about breaking orders than giving them." And if he's ever imagined anyone giving him orders in a sexual setting, well, it's absolutely been Peggy. "Gotta say, I have trouble imagining you obeying them."
And then he hesitates for a second before he adds, "I'm open to, uh, platonic bedwarming, too." His cheeks flush with embarrassment, but, god, he craves more of this, just being with someone, soaking up the touch. "I mean. It doesn't all have to be-" Steve gestures vaguely, a sort of embarrassed hand flailing motion. "If you want. It might not be what you're looking for, I dunno."
Tony stares again. "It is pretty late," he comments slowly, not quite believing all this. "And the commute's a drag. But Steve, I ... I don't make for the best bed partner." How many times did his nightmares wake Pepper? How often did he leave his side of the bed cold after failing to sleep? "Remember Clint's?" he points out. At Clint's farmhouse, when they shared a room after Ultron and the twins knocked them on their asses. Tony snuck tense glances at Steve the whole while after their argument at the woodpile; and in bed he kept shifting, rolling over and sitting up, quiet as possible, eaten by insomnia.
"I'm not saying I do, either," Steve admits slowly, and even getting him to say that much is practically a minor miracle. Of course he doesn't sleep well; his only saving grace is that with the serum, he hardly needs any sleep. Here and back in New York - even back in DC - he's always had a tendency to get up and go do something physical to chase the lingering ghost from his mind, long before the sun ever makes its way over the horizon. "But-" But he desperately craves the illusion of intimacy, even if it's the most he can get from Tony. It's still more than he has now, more than anyone else is willing to give him.
He stops there, thinks better of trying to express any other sentiments, tries for a joke instead. "Just as long as you don't hog all the blankets."
Maybe Steve feels just as lonely as Tony does. Maybe that's what this is all about: two sad and desperate souls seeking comfort from someone safe. Fear skips through his heart, but he attempts another weak smile anyway, grateful for the levity. "No guarantees. Just use that Snuggie I got you." A reference to a better, happier time, before Tony messed it all up.
"Hey, I save that exclusively for Netflix binges." Which isn't wrong; if you come through the quarters at the right time, you can catch Steve in a ridiculous patriotic Snuggie and a big bowl of popcorn as he watches Game of Thrones.
He lifts a hand up, brushes his fingertips against the curve of Tony's smile. "I'm a pretty warm guy, anyway." Which is an understatement, because being in bed with him is typically like having a miniature space heater.
"Literally and figuratively," Tony jokes, trying to smirk, but the constant little touches throw him for a loop so the corner of his mouth trembles with the effort.
"Ha, ha." Steve rolls his eyes at the terrible joke. "Got any other hot takes?" Emphasis on the hot, because he can be just as awful when it comes to jokes.
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He doesn't know what to say, so he just presses his face against Tony's hair, strokes fingers down the length of his spine. And after a few minutes, when he feels like he can stand again, he rises to his feet, still holding Tony in his arms - still very much in a state where it would be damned awkward to bump into anyone else in the compound - and carries him into his office, gently sets him down on the couch, and goes right back to holding him.
"Please, Tony," he murmurs into his neck, and, "I'm sorry."
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The first chink appears at Steve's apology. Tony blinks and suddenly he's being held in a different, darkened room: Steve's office. Only moonlight through the window wall illuminates it. "Wha' for?" Tony breathes out.
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This isn't how he imagined having Tony in his arms, but Steve closes his eyes and rests his cheek against his hair anyway. He shouldn't even be doing this, he's sure, but Tony's so utterly unresponsive that he doesn't know how to help him.
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"God, all I wanted to do was go to dinner with you and have a nice night out." He laughs humorlessly. "Can't even manage that much without screwing things up."
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"It's not your fault," he insists stubbornly, and in spite of everything, he runs his hand along Tony's spine, trying to soothe him. It makes his heart sore to see Tony like this. He'd meant to help, but clearly he's only made it worse.
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Pepper deserves better. So does Steve.
"False," Tony mumbles. He flexes his fists tight enough that the knuckles crack and his wild eyes dart around. "You don't have all the information. I do."
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Well. Apparently that had been a bad approach. Is there a good approach? If so, it's not immediately obvious to Steve.
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Tony drops his hands, ignores his heart imploding, and finally admits: "All I feel now, all the time, is pain. Exhaustion. Guilt." He trails off briefly, eyes distant (fifty-seven body count and rising), before he continues, "I'm running on fumes, Steve. I dunno how much more mileage I got. But when I ... when I get taken out of my head by someone I trust, that's as close as I get to happy. That's what just happened," he meets Steve's eyes, remorseful and moonlit, "and I used you to get there. It was selfish, and I'm sorry."
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He closes his eyes for a moment, tries to shove down his own self-recrimination. He doesn't need to dump his problems on Tony - in fact, that's probably just about the last thing Tony needs right now.
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"No," he says quietly. "I thought you wanted me." In Steve's mind, he still bears a portion of the guilt for letting himself believe that much. He hunches his shoulders in again, the body language of a smaller man imposing itself on his frame.
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Maybe that can be enough.
"You aren't bad at being a lapwarmer," he agrees, smiling back. "If you, uh, ever wanted to try warming my bed..."
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"So," he says, "this is how you'd help me, huh? Take me out of my head for an hour or more." He smiles at Steve, sadly. "Ordering me around must be a dream come true."
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And then he hesitates for a second before he adds, "I'm open to, uh, platonic bedwarming, too." His cheeks flush with embarrassment, but, god, he craves more of this, just being with someone, soaking up the touch. "I mean. It doesn't all have to be-" Steve gestures vaguely, a sort of embarrassed hand flailing motion. "If you want. It might not be what you're looking for, I dunno."
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He stops there, thinks better of trying to express any other sentiments, tries for a joke instead. "Just as long as you don't hog all the blankets."
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He lifts a hand up, brushes his fingertips against the curve of Tony's smile. "I'm a pretty warm guy, anyway." Which is an understatement, because being in bed with him is typically like having a miniature space heater.
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