On the bright side, if there is one, yellow-mask's strength isn't too much for Steve to handle - Thor is at least easier than the Hulk. If he'd had his damn arms free, Steve would have been able to deal with the wrecking ball himself; it's not out of his weight class. But that crowbar hits harder than anything made on Earth has any right to, which is why he'd had the kid take it (and, not so coincidentally, himself) out of the fight. He's not sure Tony's gauntlet would be able to stand up to it, either.
"Thanks for the assist," he replies to Tony once yellow-mask is subdued. The cops, it seems, have tranquilizers - hopefully elephant tranqs, because he doubts anything else will take these guys down. Yellow-mask is at his feet, purple's been taken down, and only red and his giant fists are left. He's shaking off the blow from Tony's gauntlet and preparing to charge again. Steve straightens up, his back against Tony's. "Got any more tricks up your sleeve?"
Tony seems not the least bit concerned. In fact, he swipes his hand over the device and it shrinks back into a watch. He even turns his back to red-mask to face Steve and crosses his arms like a disappointed parent. Through the front doors, police are already filing in with guns raised at the crooks. Some dart to the two downed men to lock thick shackles, designed for enhanced criminals, onto them, though purple-leader struggles before he's tranquilized, too. A deputy approaches Tony, who tells her that the fourth man is locked in the bank vault and that her men should wait for the Avengers en route to subdue him. He's a juggernaut of an asshole, he warns her.
Before he slipped in through a back window of the bank, Tony spoke with the police. His HUD glasses scanned six enhanced inside when he arrived, two of them the hostages, one of the two being Steve as the news reported. (When Tony heard the news, something angry and ugly got lodged in his chest, but he still can't tell if it's at the crooks, Steve, or himself.) Tony and the police planned thus: he'd go in, distract the crooks, free the hostages, subdue whom he could, and then the cops would clean up. Of course, the men and women of the NYPD probably thought Tony would do this all in a metal suit. But smooth sailing from here, Tony figures. These guys are small fry, a group who call themselves the Wrecking Crew; he has them on file. Robberies, heists, violent assaults. Basic heinous stuff. Now that the Crew's members are disarmed and without human shields, the NYPD can handle it. Tony's not even meant to be here. He was done with this.
Pinning Steve with a heated, stern look, he answers, "Yup. Their names are Black Widow and War Machine, you know, the back-up you should've called when you found four enhanced robbing a bank?"
"No! Me and my friends ain't goin' back!" red-mask suddenly yells and pounds his oversized fists into the floor, which quakes and knocks the police around him off their feet. Tony teeters into Steve.
Steve purses his lips when Tony chides him, but now that there are other people present, he can't snipe back without sounding petty and childish. (It still won't stop him once they're in private and Tony really gets going, like Steve knows he will.) "I didn't have my phone on me," he mutters under his breath. It's not second nature for him to grab it like it might be for someone else. At the time, he'd been more concerned about not waking Tony up.
"I would've gone for Wanda," he adds in a normal tone, and if that's a subtle dig at Tony, then he's the only one who knows it. He's about to elaborate, but then red-mask hits the floor. Steve instinctively reaches out to steady Tony; once he's stable, he jumps over the desk to face red-mask. Steve manages to grab one wrist, but it takes both his hands to wrap around the muscle, and this is really the folly of his plan.
"Maybe this is an incentive to take a look at prison reform," he offers to no one in particular. "If people are desperate to avoid going back to prison, we should think about why." At least, that's what he tries to get out while red-mask starts hitting Steve's back with his free hand. He's winding up for a blow, fist in the air, when he finds his appendage wrapped in webbing. Between the two heroes, his hands are effectively subdued.
"Ow," Steve says, wincing. Once the police have manacles secured around both wrists, Steve relaxes his own grip and rubs his back. "I appreciate the help, kid. I owe you breakfast."
"Uh, I'm gonna have to take a rain check on that." Spider-Man shifts nervously on the ceiling. "I really gotta get home. It's been great, though. A real honor to meet both of you." While the cops are preoccupied with loading the crooks up, the kid takes advantage of the opportunity to slip out of the bank. That leaves Steve and Tony standing there, Tony looking like a disappointed parent.
"Can we leave before Nat shows up to laugh at me?" he asks, a little wryly.
When Steve brings up Wanda, Tony's eyes turn a shade darker, but whatever he's about to say is interrupted by red-mask's attack. While Steve jumps on red-mask (because of course he leaps onto a Big Damn Hero moment, no matter the circumstances or better options), Tony assists the fallen police officers. By the time he checks in a last time with the deputy, the kid has left the crowbar suspended from a low-hanging string of web and skittered away. Tony watches after his exit and taps the right hinge of his glasses twice. It saves what it scanned. Tony may not be an active Avenger anymore, but he still keeps watch.
"You'd deserve it," he mumbles to Steve, "but yeah. C'mon." He nods to the officers on his way out the front door. Walking ahead of Steve as much as he's allowed, Tony asks without looking, voice neutral, "How bad are you hurt?" His orange Audi is parked past the police line. He ignores the on-scene reporter calling his name.
The fact that Steve, for once in his life, is slower than Tony and not lagging behind him on purpose is answer enough to that question, but the way he carefully lowers himself into the car with a small grunt speaks volumes. "I'll be fine," is all he says. He imagines that Tony is somewhere between a fit of rage and a panic attack, and he's trying to hold himself together till they get back home. Which means that he doesn't try to offer up any excuses for his behavior, any justification - they both know that he's just the way he is, and that this was not one of his finer moments.
Besides, his head is throbbing too much right now (in unison with his back). Steve closes his eyes and leans his head back against the seat, avoiding the tender lump from where the crowbar hit him. There's a good-sized streak of blood running through his dark blond hair and down his neck, staining the collar of his t-shirt. He doesn't bother to ask if Tony has any painkillers; they go through his system too quickly to be of any use.
A digital pad on the dashboard reads Tony's thumbprint to start the engine. His sunglasses kept on (a form of armor as much as the Iron Man suit), he trains his eyes on the various meters and rear- and side-view cameras, on whatever as long as it's not on Steve, which is in opposition to how he faced Steve head-on in the bank before his Wanda comment. (When Tony woke this morning he found the pillows and sheets beside him undisturbed from the night before, which was already bad enough, then he—and now—) "Would you tell me if you weren't gonna be?" Tony hears himself ask mildly.
Steve doesn't bother to open his eyes to roll them. "I don't need to go to the hospital." That's basically Steve's gauge for how severe a wound is - whether or not it needs actual medical attention. (Never mind that sometimes you go to the hospital to determine just that, especially with internal injuries.) He's not currently bleeding, he's pretty sure nothing's broken, so the serum will patch him up eventually. That's just how he is.
"Don't let me fall asleep, though," he adds wryly. As if the concussion wasn't goddamn obvious.
Molten slag fills the spot where Tony's heart should be. Once they're buckled in, he whips the wheel around and pulls onto the street. The engine revs when Tony presses the gas pedal harder than needed. He expertly weaves through the cars parked along the curb, the silence from him somehow sharp.
Steve doesn't break the silence between them, doesn't try to rupture Tony's emotional dam. That's the last thing they need while he's driving and they're in the middle of Sunday morning traffic (which at least has the benefit of not being Monday morning rush hour traffic). It would, he knows, end up in one of them storming off, and he doesn't want to take the chance of being left with the car.
He doesn't try to talk when they pull up the drive and park, either. Steve grips the top of the car as he pulls himself out with a grimace, then lets Tony unlock the door and let them in.
"All right, where are we gonna do this?" he asks finally. It's a sentence that might normally sound challenging, especially coming from him, but this time, it's quiet, accepting his fate, without any sarcastic commentary. Mostly, he's worried about Tony right now, about just how he's going to fall apart, and if he'll let Steve pick up the pieces afterwards. If he even deserves to.
Tony immediately walks in ahead of Steve and carelessly tosses his keys and jacket onto the entry table. He's about to head off down the hallway when Steve speaks up. Tony whirls around and crosses his arms, though this time it's less disappointed parent and more a desperate defense. Jaw tight with barely contained hurt, obvious in his expressive eyes, he snaps, "Do what? What do you expect to happen, Cap?" Tony's use of the nickname is deliberate, a verbal shove backwards. Steve asked for space last night. Tony gave it to him. Steve never showed up for bed, so Tony kept giving him space. But then, in the bank, Steve threw words he knew would injure back into Tony's face, so Tony cut himself off to prevent further damage. The shitty thing is, he can justify Steve's actions. Tony hurt him first ("I'm not there yet," he said). It's fair ground for retaliation. But the words still sting, even knowing that and after the time to think.
The tricky thing about this, Steve figured out a couple months ago, is that he can't let himself be baited into their usual arguments, no matter how easy and familiar the pattern seems, no matter how much Tony knows just how to do it. He has to stay reasonable, or else everything will just devolve into a cycle of destructive lashing out and everything they've built up so precariously will end up irreparably damaged. (He's not totally sure that isn't true already, but Steve has to believe there's something there to salvage.)
He spreads his hands calmly, inhales through his nose and exhales through his mouth. What he really wants is to spend a couple hours soaking in hot water, but he doesn't even know if Tony has a bathtub that's sized to fit him. "Okay, so first of all, I'd really appreciate it if I didn't have to-" A twinge of pain ripples through his back when he moves slightly, it sets off a wobbly feeling in his head, and he has to grip the table just enough to steady himself, but not enough to damage it. Underneath the grime, his face turns white. "Keep standing," he finishes weakly. "Please, just let me lie down on a couch."
I thought you were gonna be fine, Tony wants to argue, but after a long stare and hefty sigh, he softens with guilt and ducks under Steve's other arm to support him. Stupid, he thinks vaguely, unsure of whom. Miraculously, at least, they've grown past sniping at each other, settled into something cushioned by affection, but old habits die hard, Tony guesses. He says, "All right, stallion. One hoof in front of the other," and guides Steve to the nearest couch: in the library.
"Neigh," he responds dryly, but at least some of the tension's drained from Tony's frame (even if it's only temporary). Steve's glad for the support - glad on some deep level that Tony doesn't shy away from touching him, like all the worst-case scenarios he'd painted in his head on the ride home. What he wants to do is gather Tony up and hold him close, to close the distance he'd stupidly opened up between them. Steve might be a little too prickly and proud to beg for forgiveness, but he'll at least accept that he fucked this one up good.
"Thank you," he offers quietly after he puts a pillow behind his head. Not just for this, but for saving his stupid ass, for pretty much everything. I'm sorry, he wants to say, but he's not sure it's the right time yet.
Still avoiding Steve's eyes, Tony crouches on the floor and scans Steve's vitals with his glasses. Aside from the obvious lump, he finds multiple cracked vertebrae and light cranial fractures from a hard impact. Steve's probably starving, too. "Pretty nasty goose egg you got there," Tony observes casually, forgoing Steve's thanks.
"I don't know what that crowbar's made out of," Steve grumbles. "Any normal crowbar woulda bent around my head." And, yes, that is a joke about how hard his head is, but it's not far from true. Steve can shrug off a blow that would crack a normal guy's skull like an egg. Between those oversized fists and the crowbar, though, he's pretty thoroughly beat up right now.
Tony stands up. This explains how Steve got captured: a knock-out blow to the back of the head, either a surprise hit or from being outnumbered. "It had energy similar to Thor's hammer. Asgardian magic," Tony explains and huffs. "How it wound up in a steel crowbar from Earth is a mystery for the ages."
"You gotta be shitting me." Steve frowns and wonders if Thor knows about this. It sounds exactly like the kind of thing Loki would do - would have done at some point in time. "Too bad it doesn't have the same 'only be wielded by the worthy' thing as Thor's hammer." Because that guy is definitely not worthy.
Tony wonders how Thor is doing, out there in the cosmos; if he's found out anything about those stones he mentioned. Tony misses the big guy. Bruce, too. He misses the talks like these where the Avengers bantered about villains or teased one another, playing off each other's jokes as easily as they moved together on the field, camaraderie and trust forged through battle after battle—or so he thought they had been. Ultron tore them apart like wet paper mache, and it was Tony's fault. His thoughts stumble down a dark path ("I would've gone for Wanda," Steve said, and Tony heard, "I would've done better"), but he stops them. Steve needs care and Tony's the only option he has. "You hang tight," he mutters, eyes distant. "I'm gonna get you some grub."
When Tony returns, he carries a plate of french toast with blueberries, scrambled eggs, and a cup of coffee. In his other hand he holds a basic first aid kit. "Might be a lil' chewy. Had to re-heat it," he says.
"You really think I'm gonna complain if it's chewy?" Steve huffs a laugh. He's lived through the Depression and on wartime rations. Nothing can compare to his culinary experience prior to waking up in the twenty-first century.
Making his spine bend is pretty unpleasant right now, but he sits up anyway and takes the plate from Tony. God, he doesn't care if the man describes his cooking as simple, because it tastes amazing to Steve, even reheated. The cracks he might normally make are silenced, but he still makes appreciative noises as he shovels food into his mouth.
"Have you eaten?" he asks when about half the plate is gone. Probably not, he guesses.
While Steve eats, Tony shuffles through the first aid kit and sets aside anything he might need: wet wipes, a bandage, cream for bruises, disinfectant (Steve won't get infected, but applying it can't hurt). "No. I was waiting for you," he admits. He swallows and waves a hand at Steve's plate. "When you're done I'll clean you up. No rush."
"Here." Steve holds his plate out for Tony. "You need something, too." Tony doesn't eat as often as he should anyway, and Steve figures that making sure he gets more food in him when he's around is the least he can do, no matter how much Tony complains about the extra calories. "No sense in waiting, or else it'll be lunchtime before you get anything to eat." He's gently insistent, a sort of apology for missing their breakfast together.
Tony stares at the plate. Taking anything (more) from Steve right now leaves Tony feeling ill. He's done enough damage already apparently, between last night and, oh, his entire adult life. "I'll eat later," he declines quietly. With a last halfhearted attempt to sort the kit, Tony falls back into a lounge chair adjacent to Steve, drained of all fight, and mumbles, "You need all that. Gotta stock the ol' energy reserves to recover from your thrashing by a bunch of jumped-up, demolition-themed thugs. Speakin' of which," he says louder, "you're in no condition to drive home today, mister."
God, he's never going to live this one down. In ten years, it'll still be 'hey, Steve, remember that time those guys with the shitty crowbar got the jump on you?', no matter what else he does in the meantime. He sighs and just goes back to eating his food. He deserves every stupid crack Tony makes for the rest of his life, probably.
"No shit," he mumbles around a mouthful of eggs. Just thinking about getting on his motorcycle makes his back throb. Steve swallows and adds, "Least you've got plenty of room to spare here. I'll text Nat later to let her know; she can run things for a day or two." She always accuses him of being too obsessive, anyway.
"I won't be in the house for much of your medical leave, so you'll have all the space you want," Tony agrees. A vice grips his heart. He slouches down and hugs his arms. "You need something, you call. I'll get it." He trails off for a short time while Steve stuffs his face. But apparently Tony is a glutton, too—just for punishment—because he soon asks, eyes glued to the plate of food quickly disappearing, his tone carefully even, "Do you ... wanna share my room still?" Honestly he's expecting a polite, or awkward, rejection. Not a break-off completely, but just enough space to cushion their inevitable crash-and-burn, which seems to already have started. Tony is a futurist. He understands taking precautions.
Steve's glad Tony doesn't offer to rearrange his schedule to spend time with him - not because he doesn't want to spend time with Tony, but because he doesn't want to inconvenience him. It's hard enough to steal him away on the weekends once or twice a month, with plenty of planning ahead of time.
He raises his eyebrows at the question, glancing up from his plate. "I thought you wouldn't," he admits ruefully. He'd expected Tony to pull away and start putting up his walls again, to break off the too-fragile thing between them and keep him in a guest room. "My- my feelings haven't changed, Tony. I don't know how you wanna deal with that, but if you're okay with sharing a room, then I am." He'd only needed - and wanted - the one night of space to process his emotions. Steve's still not sure he's worked everything out, but he is sure that he wants to stay with Tony. Problem is, he doesn't know how Tony feels about things.
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"Thanks for the assist," he replies to Tony once yellow-mask is subdued. The cops, it seems, have tranquilizers - hopefully elephant tranqs, because he doubts anything else will take these guys down. Yellow-mask is at his feet, purple's been taken down, and only red and his giant fists are left. He's shaking off the blow from Tony's gauntlet and preparing to charge again. Steve straightens up, his back against Tony's. "Got any more tricks up your sleeve?"
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Before he slipped in through a back window of the bank, Tony spoke with the police. His HUD glasses scanned six enhanced inside when he arrived, two of them the hostages, one of the two being Steve as the news reported. (When Tony heard the news, something angry and ugly got lodged in his chest, but he still can't tell if it's at the crooks, Steve, or himself.) Tony and the police planned thus: he'd go in, distract the crooks, free the hostages, subdue whom he could, and then the cops would clean up. Of course, the men and women of the NYPD probably thought Tony would do this all in a metal suit. But smooth sailing from here, Tony figures. These guys are small fry, a group who call themselves the Wrecking Crew; he has them on file. Robberies, heists, violent assaults. Basic heinous stuff. Now that the Crew's members are disarmed and without human shields, the NYPD can handle it. Tony's not even meant to be here. He was done with this.
Pinning Steve with a heated, stern look, he answers, "Yup. Their names are Black Widow and War Machine, you know, the back-up you should've called when you found four enhanced robbing a bank?"
"No! Me and my friends ain't goin' back!" red-mask suddenly yells and pounds his oversized fists into the floor, which quakes and knocks the police around him off their feet. Tony teeters into Steve.
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"I would've gone for Wanda," he adds in a normal tone, and if that's a subtle dig at Tony, then he's the only one who knows it. He's about to elaborate, but then red-mask hits the floor. Steve instinctively reaches out to steady Tony; once he's stable, he jumps over the desk to face red-mask. Steve manages to grab one wrist, but it takes both his hands to wrap around the muscle, and this is really the folly of his plan.
"Maybe this is an incentive to take a look at prison reform," he offers to no one in particular. "If people are desperate to avoid going back to prison, we should think about why." At least, that's what he tries to get out while red-mask starts hitting Steve's back with his free hand. He's winding up for a blow, fist in the air, when he finds his appendage wrapped in webbing. Between the two heroes, his hands are effectively subdued.
"Ow," Steve says, wincing. Once the police have manacles secured around both wrists, Steve relaxes his own grip and rubs his back. "I appreciate the help, kid. I owe you breakfast."
"Uh, I'm gonna have to take a rain check on that." Spider-Man shifts nervously on the ceiling. "I really gotta get home. It's been great, though. A real honor to meet both of you." While the cops are preoccupied with loading the crooks up, the kid takes advantage of the opportunity to slip out of the bank. That leaves Steve and Tony standing there, Tony looking like a disappointed parent.
"Can we leave before Nat shows up to laugh at me?" he asks, a little wryly.
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"You'd deserve it," he mumbles to Steve, "but yeah. C'mon." He nods to the officers on his way out the front door. Walking ahead of Steve as much as he's allowed, Tony asks without looking, voice neutral, "How bad are you hurt?" His orange Audi is parked past the police line. He ignores the on-scene reporter calling his name.
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Besides, his head is throbbing too much right now (in unison with his back). Steve closes his eyes and leans his head back against the seat, avoiding the tender lump from where the crowbar hit him. There's a good-sized streak of blood running through his dark blond hair and down his neck, staining the collar of his t-shirt. He doesn't bother to ask if Tony has any painkillers; they go through his system too quickly to be of any use.
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"Don't let me fall asleep, though," he adds wryly. As if the concussion wasn't goddamn obvious.
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He doesn't try to talk when they pull up the drive and park, either. Steve grips the top of the car as he pulls himself out with a grimace, then lets Tony unlock the door and let them in.
"All right, where are we gonna do this?" he asks finally. It's a sentence that might normally sound challenging, especially coming from him, but this time, it's quiet, accepting his fate, without any sarcastic commentary. Mostly, he's worried about Tony right now, about just how he's going to fall apart, and if he'll let Steve pick up the pieces afterwards. If he even deserves to.
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He spreads his hands calmly, inhales through his nose and exhales through his mouth. What he really wants is to spend a couple hours soaking in hot water, but he doesn't even know if Tony has a bathtub that's sized to fit him. "Okay, so first of all, I'd really appreciate it if I didn't have to-" A twinge of pain ripples through his back when he moves slightly, it sets off a wobbly feeling in his head, and he has to grip the table just enough to steady himself, but not enough to damage it. Underneath the grime, his face turns white. "Keep standing," he finishes weakly. "Please, just let me lie down on a couch."
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"Thank you," he offers quietly after he puts a pillow behind his head. Not just for this, but for saving his stupid ass, for pretty much everything. I'm sorry, he wants to say, but he's not sure it's the right time yet.
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When Tony returns, he carries a plate of french toast with blueberries, scrambled eggs, and a cup of coffee. In his other hand he holds a basic first aid kit. "Might be a lil' chewy. Had to re-heat it," he says.
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Making his spine bend is pretty unpleasant right now, but he sits up anyway and takes the plate from Tony. God, he doesn't care if the man describes his cooking as simple, because it tastes amazing to Steve, even reheated. The cracks he might normally make are silenced, but he still makes appreciative noises as he shovels food into his mouth.
"Have you eaten?" he asks when about half the plate is gone. Probably not, he guesses.
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"No shit," he mumbles around a mouthful of eggs. Just thinking about getting on his motorcycle makes his back throb. Steve swallows and adds, "Least you've got plenty of room to spare here. I'll text Nat later to let her know; she can run things for a day or two." She always accuses him of being too obsessive, anyway.
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He raises his eyebrows at the question, glancing up from his plate. "I thought you wouldn't," he admits ruefully. He'd expected Tony to pull away and start putting up his walls again, to break off the too-fragile thing between them and keep him in a guest room. "My- my feelings haven't changed, Tony. I don't know how you wanna deal with that, but if you're okay with sharing a room, then I am." He'd only needed - and wanted - the one night of space to process his emotions. Steve's still not sure he's worked everything out, but he is sure that he wants to stay with Tony. Problem is, he doesn't know how Tony feels about things.
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