Tony tips his head back, eyes shut. He breathes in. Holds it. Breathes out. Holds it. Rhythmic. He repeats that. Shivery, he murmurs, "I'd probably just break my hand."
"I'll find a nice soft spot for you," Steve teases. "Nowhere on my head, that's for sure." Not that Steve has many vulnerabilities, but it's the thought that counts, right? "You want some water or a snack or something?" He really does feel helpless in the face of Tony's panic attack, and so he's trying desperately to offer whatever he can think of.
Tony laughs again, this time quietly. Hardheaded is an understatement for Steve Rogers. When Tony next opens his eyes, he's okay -- relatively. Rogers is still a well-meaning asshole and the world turns. All the implications Tony will handle later; how he feels about it and what they'll do, if anything. For now, he decides on a truth for a truth: a fair exchange. "Wanda hexed me first," he rasps out. The admittance draws his shoulders inward.
Steve closes his eyes at the confession. He still remembers his own vision far too well - its implications that the war lurks just below the surface in everything he does, that it waits for him when he closes his eyes, the good memories and the bad. He hesitates for a moment before wrapping an arm around Tony's shoulders. He doesn't ask what he saw, just trusts that it plays on his worst insecurities. "It's a bitch," he agrees quietly. No meaningless platitudes, just an acceptance that they've had their minds fucked with and failed to come out unscathed.
"It was the future," Tony insists. He turns to him; raises his eyes. So much has bashed against the insides of his head -- doubt, guilt, loneliness, anger -- with no outlet. He found escape in their scenes in lieu of Pepper's companionship and love, but everything still clamored around in him, waiting at the edges. "I saw you," he continues as he gains traction. "I saw the team, the OGs. Thor, Bruce, the agents, you. It was cold, and dark, and those things were flying overhead, and you were all dead.
"My fault. Naturally. I didn't do enough. I'm the only one who really knows what's coming, the only one who can prepare us. I--" He pauses, gasping, to steer himself down the safer way. Then, he presses on. "That's the line of thinking that got us Ultron. That's the path that being Iron Man ultimately led me down. So I'm thinking ... don't be Iron Man. Focus on being Tony Stark. Focus on being someone that Pepper can be with, because truth be told, Steve? Things have been kinda rocky for a while. I couldn't be there for her when we were off beating bad guys, but I didn't want to stop," Tony chokes out. He blinks overmuch, eyes growing wet and shiny, until he blinks it away. "Not even for her. That's wrong of me, right? I love her. If I'm not Iron Man, then that means I'm hers. Without her, I ... I don't know what I am.
"But I didn't see her dead in that nightmare." Quieter, Tony faces Steve, anguish and conflict writ in every line of his face as he repeats, as he confesses, with troubled awe: "I saw you."
I didn't see the future, he almost says, but he lets Tony talk, lets the stream of words flow out because it's something he senses Tony needs to do. He's kept it bottled up too long, and look at where it's led him. Tony's been cooped up with the terrors inside his head for far too long, and Steve wonders how he's even managed to maintain the level of functionality he has. Despite any potential protests, he tugs him closer, like he can physically banish the ghosts that way.
Steve figures there's a perfectly logical explanation behind his presence in Tony's nightmare: if he saw the Avengers, then why would Pepper be there? On the other hand, logic can't be applied to Wanda's magic; he knows that well enough. And he doesn't know what to say to Tony's dilemma, because he has his own identity issues, because god knows he's spent long enough trying to figure out who the hell Steve Rogers is outside the myth that is Captain America. Some days, he still doesn't feel like there's really a man outside the suit, that nobody else believes that the two of them are separate entities.
He rests his forehead against Tony's, looks into his eyes. His gaze is intent, focused on Tony and only Tony. "Be who you want to be," he offers quietly. "Not for me, not for Pepper, not for anyone. For Tony Stark."
Pepper touched their foreheads together a lot, especially when she asked him to come back from subspace. The contact helped, another mind against his, luring him back to really experience her physicality close -- an open connection, like she's saying it's okay, she'd take him and the whole mess he holds in there. He misses her. He never thought of being with anyone but her. It felt natural; it made sense; he just needed to be better. For all the vast expanse of his genius, Tony limits the paths possible to take: it has to be one way. A single goal with a defined path. Be-all, end-all. Go big or go home.
He loves the same: with an all-consuming, maddening singular focus. He loses that focal point and he strives to get it back. There is no other option. Then Steve touches their foreheads together, and a door that Tony never noticed before opens a crack and teases light in a sunless room. He doesn't know what to make of it.
Faced against Steve's intensity, Tony shuts his eyes. So close to him, Steve can see the micro changes in Tony's expression, a twitch here or tension there, as logic and heart drag their war across it.
Steve cups Tony's face in his hands. He doesn't know what's going through his mind, but it's pretty clearly a struggle. He doesn't say anything, because this is a choice Tony'll have to make for himself. He knows how he feels, although it took him years to figure it out. In a single moment of blinding clarity, sometime after Ultron, he'd looked at Tony and simply realized that he'd fallen in love with his best friend. With Peggy, he'd always felt like he was chasing after her, trying to prove himself. He'd felt like he didn't deserve her.
He doesn't have that problem with Tony; they've always been on an equal footing, more or less. They've poked and prodded at each other, they've had their disagreements, but in the end, there's no one else he'd rather have at his back. He simply likes having Tony around, even when they aren't being superheroes - he feels comfortable in a way that the rest of the modern world lacks. Steve wants to just be with him doing stupid domestic things - watching a movie on Netflix, eating dinner together, whatever it is normal people do with their spare time. He's never imagined anything like that about anyone before - even with Peggy, he'd never been able to picture them outside the war.
Steve's hands center Tony, a touchstone for reality, as his mind loops around itself like the snake eating its own tail. He came to Steve first; he put the idea on the table and he came back knowing full well what kind of person Steve Rogers is and would be in a relationship like that. Just a stepping stone back to Pepper, Tony rationalized, because he knew no other way to be. But he was kidding himself. He sought that connection and comfort.
Stiffening, Tony awkwardly pats Steve's hand. He pulls out of the hold, but his fingers linger a touch. "Well, this is all gonna keep me up for nights to come," he quips. He tries for a smile for levity. It quivers and fails. "Give me time to think? Until I figure things out, I think it best we postpone any workouts."
"Yeah, sure," Steve agrees readily, although he tries not to look disappointed when Tony pulls away. It's not outright rejection, which is what he'd expected at the beginning of this talk. And he understand the need for time and space to think, it's just that Steve is - well, the kind of guy who acts first and thinks later, and Tony's right there, and every instinct he has tells him that he shouldn't let him go like this. It feels too much like giving up to the part of his brain that thinks everything is a fight.
"You know where to find me," he adds with a small smile. It has the benefit of giving him a way out, too; if Tony wants, he can just pretend none of this ever happened and ignore Steve. Which, actually, is a lot like every date he had before the serum, come to think of it.
After a returning smile, Tony says, "Better head out," and scoots out of the bed (waits on the edge for Steve to move and let him go). "Don't forget to finish those forms. I'm perusing them Monday," he murmurs, but when he picks up his jeans, which Steve folded the night before, he pauses. Past the mental clutter of priorities and check marks, predictions and innovations, Tony notes the possibility in each studious crease of the denim.
"I'm keeping these," he blurts out, head turned to Steve. He pats his hip to indicate Steve's pajama pants, which, while fitting at his wider hips, also drape over his heels.
Steve just raises his eyebrows. The pants are long enough to drag on the floor, but if Tony wants to parade around in a mansion in pants that don't fit, then he's free to do whatever the hell he wants. "Well, at least you aren't abducting the Snuggie." He thinks about offering breakfast so Tony doesn't have to drive home on an empty stomach, but there's no point in delaying him, and he probably wants to be alone to think through his emotions.
"Take care of yourself, Tony," he offers softly. It's almost, but not quite, an order.
Tony nods once and slips on his sneakers. At the door, he bids, "See you around, Steve," and click of the knob behind him comes slowly and sounds soft. Before this morning, he would've called him Cap.
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"My fault. Naturally. I didn't do enough. I'm the only one who really knows what's coming, the only one who can prepare us. I--" He pauses, gasping, to steer himself down the safer way. Then, he presses on. "That's the line of thinking that got us Ultron. That's the path that being Iron Man ultimately led me down. So I'm thinking ... don't be Iron Man. Focus on being Tony Stark. Focus on being someone that Pepper can be with, because truth be told, Steve? Things have been kinda rocky for a while. I couldn't be there for her when we were off beating bad guys, but I didn't want to stop," Tony chokes out. He blinks overmuch, eyes growing wet and shiny, until he blinks it away. "Not even for her. That's wrong of me, right? I love her. If I'm not Iron Man, then that means I'm hers. Without her, I ... I don't know what I am.
"But I didn't see her dead in that nightmare." Quieter, Tony faces Steve, anguish and conflict writ in every line of his face as he repeats, as he confesses, with troubled awe: "I saw you."
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Steve figures there's a perfectly logical explanation behind his presence in Tony's nightmare: if he saw the Avengers, then why would Pepper be there? On the other hand, logic can't be applied to Wanda's magic; he knows that well enough. And he doesn't know what to say to Tony's dilemma, because he has his own identity issues, because god knows he's spent long enough trying to figure out who the hell Steve Rogers is outside the myth that is Captain America. Some days, he still doesn't feel like there's really a man outside the suit, that nobody else believes that the two of them are separate entities.
He rests his forehead against Tony's, looks into his eyes. His gaze is intent, focused on Tony and only Tony. "Be who you want to be," he offers quietly. "Not for me, not for Pepper, not for anyone. For Tony Stark."
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He loves the same: with an all-consuming, maddening singular focus. He loses that focal point and he strives to get it back. There is no other option. Then Steve touches their foreheads together, and a door that Tony never noticed before opens a crack and teases light in a sunless room. He doesn't know what to make of it.
Faced against Steve's intensity, Tony shuts his eyes. So close to him, Steve can see the micro changes in Tony's expression, a twitch here or tension there, as logic and heart drag their war across it.
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He doesn't have that problem with Tony; they've always been on an equal footing, more or less. They've poked and prodded at each other, they've had their disagreements, but in the end, there's no one else he'd rather have at his back. He simply likes having Tony around, even when they aren't being superheroes - he feels comfortable in a way that the rest of the modern world lacks. Steve wants to just be with him doing stupid domestic things - watching a movie on Netflix, eating dinner together, whatever it is normal people do with their spare time. He's never imagined anything like that about anyone before - even with Peggy, he'd never been able to picture them outside the war.
He wants Tony. He isn't sure if he deserves him.
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Stiffening, Tony awkwardly pats Steve's hand. He pulls out of the hold, but his fingers linger a touch. "Well, this is all gonna keep me up for nights to come," he quips. He tries for a smile for levity. It quivers and fails. "Give me time to think? Until I figure things out, I think it best we postpone any workouts."
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"You know where to find me," he adds with a small smile. It has the benefit of giving him a way out, too; if Tony wants, he can just pretend none of this ever happened and ignore Steve. Which, actually, is a lot like every date he had before the serum, come to think of it.
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"I'm keeping these," he blurts out, head turned to Steve. He pats his hip to indicate Steve's pajama pants, which, while fitting at his wider hips, also drape over his heels.
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"Take care of yourself, Tony," he offers softly. It's almost, but not quite, an order.
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