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.
Tony finally meets Steve's gaze; his is shocked. If the shoe were on the other foot and Tony's love was unrequited, he probably would have pulled away, even while dating, which goes to show the marked difference between them: past their flaws, Steve is still the better man. "How I wanna deal," Tony repeats back. Deal, like having Steve's love is a problem to address. He huffs out an incredulous laugh. "You're the one who has to constantly 'deal' with me. The most I gotta put up with are your occasional bouts of reckless idiocy," he sighs.
"Yeah, but they're a real pain in the ass," Steve offers helpfully. Never let it be said that he isn't aware of how much trouble he causes for other people - after all, they like to remind him of it regularly. Tony isn't the first.
"Besides, I signed up for the whole package. I knew what I was getting into." Steve doesn't think of it as having to deal with Tony, not when it's specifically something he agreed to help with, not when Tony needs his support to get through the darker moments of his life. It's not a burden, it just is. It's another part of Tony, the one he hides from most people, and Steve's done a lot of hard work just to be trusted with Tony's emotional vulnerabilities. He'd do it again if he had to.
"Did you know what you were getting into when you took a ride on my disco stick without prep and won a pain in your ass?" Tony says in a tone equivalent to a raised eyebrow, without anger. That's been hanging in the back of his head ever since he discovered the bloodstained washcloth that morning. He easily put the pieces together: the dream-like memory of Steve riding him, Steve always wiping him down after a scene, and Tony not having any wounds himself. He just didn't know how to bring it up, or if he even needed to (he checked when he scanned Steve's injuries; any anal tears seemed to have already healed), but since they're trying to make this couple-thing work in the long run, Tony can't let it lie.
Steve blushes (and, seriously, disco stick? his vague understanding of disco involves balls, not sticks) and has the decency to look abashed. "No, that was reckless idiocy. Still felt pretty good, though." Because of course Steve Rogers has the kind of mind that shunts aside the memory of pain to focus on the positives - in this case, how it had felt so incredible to have Tony inside him, lighting up every pleasure center in his brain every time he hit his prostate. On the list of reckless and painful things he's done with absolutely no preparation, it actually ranks surprisingly low. Definitely lower than jumping on a guy who fractured his vertebrae, so it's not even the stupidest and most painful thing he's done in the last twenty-four hours.
"Don't do that again," Tony suddenly snaps, his fingers tightening on his arms and eyes holding Steve's with the same intensity as their past fights. "It may have still felt 'pretty good' and the serum fixes you up in a jiffy but that doesn't matter. I was still hurting you, and I was too hopped up on endorphins to say stop." Breathless after his short tirade, he shivers once. Tries to ease his constricting heart. He often misses how heavy something hanging over him is until the rope frays.
Tony's mood changes lightning-fast, catching Steve by surprise (no matter how little it should surprise him by now). He realizes after a moment of thinking through it that, yes, this is absolutely a consent issue and he fucked up, he abused Tony's trust in him and took advantage of him while he was vulnerable. He's the one in charge, and he's supposed to know better, and he didn't, or else he just willfully ignored it.
"Okay," Steve promises, and everything about him is sincere and chagrined. He'd droop if it wouldn't hurt too much - it keeps him from reaching out for Tony, too. Those fists pounded his entire goddamn back, from top to bottom, and he suspects that he's black and blue all over. "It's okay," he repeats, trying to sound soothing. "I won't. Promise."
Tony slumps. The reassurance washes away the flood of anger as quickly as it came, leaving only the phantom ache behind. "Good," he says. After a beat, he draws himself up, reaches for Steve's plate, and pops a couple of the remaining blueberries into his mouth, taking Steve's prior offer in a symbolic show of forgiveness and solidarity. Tony then hops to his feet, seemingly back to normal, just like that. "Ready for my Florence Nightingale impression?" he asks.
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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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"Besides, I signed up for the whole package. I knew what I was getting into." Steve doesn't think of it as having to deal with Tony, not when it's specifically something he agreed to help with, not when Tony needs his support to get through the darker moments of his life. It's not a burden, it just is. It's another part of Tony, the one he hides from most people, and Steve's done a lot of hard work just to be trusted with Tony's emotional vulnerabilities. He'd do it again if he had to.
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"Okay," Steve promises, and everything about him is sincere and chagrined. He'd droop if it wouldn't hurt too much - it keeps him from reaching out for Tony, too. Those fists pounded his entire goddamn back, from top to bottom, and he suspects that he's black and blue all over. "It's okay," he repeats, trying to sound soothing. "I won't. Promise."
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