Though Tony protests that he can stay awake when he arrives at the compound, Steve gently steers him into bed - alone, thank you very much - and waits there till he falls asleep, stroking his hair all the while. (If he doesn't make sure he sleeps, Steve's reasonably certain Tony will sneak out, make a pot of coffee, and head to the workshop for a few hours.) Once he carefully climbs off the bed, he heads to his office to work.
How much work he actually accomplishes is questionable; his mind is occupied (like it has been for a few days) about what he's going to say to Tony, how he might react. He fills out some paperwork: a few expense forms, some purchase orders, and other things nobody would imagine the leader of the Avengers to do personally. They might have near-unlimited funding (theoretically; Steve's never actually asked), but he keeps careful track of the portion of their budget that's under his control.
By mid-morning, he's finishing the last of his work and scrolling through news on his tablet while he munches on a bowl of cheese cubes and fruit with his free hand. He looks reasonably relaxed, but underneath it all, he's still a nervous wreck.
Somewhere between the chaste kiss Steve greets him with, the stroking of his hair as Tony falls asleep, and the comforting scent in the sheets and pillows that he wakes up to, Tony forgets his reasons for not moving in. Groggily he basks in the morning light through the windows and begins rationalizing why it would be okay, maybe even good, to move in: easy access to helicopter travel with the landing pad, more modern amenities than the mansion, a workshop already outfitted with his latest toys, on-site availability for the team's equipment repairs and upgrades, and having the team—a team nearby. Having friends nearby. Having Steve nearby to keep him in check and on his feet, on a metaphorical (and sometimes literal when they're feeling it) leash. Dad had Mom to balance him out, right? That's really the only example of a working, long-lasting relationship that Tony knows how to follow, but even then his parents didn't seem happy. Maybe that's the curse. Maybe Starks aren't meant to be happy. They're not built that way or something. Or maybe it was just when Tony was around that they—he can almost feel his mother's gentle hand on his knee cutting him off. She loved him. His father loved him, she would reassure. Steve—
Steve Rogers loves him. Tony Stark. What a wild thought. What sort of world decided Tony got to have this? Almost every morning since that night his waking thoughts have been about Steve loving him. Sometimes the thought rolls through him like the tide, soothing lest he wander too far into it; and sometimes it lands at his feet like a flash grenade. It stupefies him.
Nature inevitably calls. Tony shuffles out of bed. After he finishes his morning routine as best as he can, he journeys to the communal kitchen for coffee and chats with Natasha there. "I'm sure Steve would let you borrow something," she comments slyly about his rumpled t-shirt and pants, which he slept in and didn't care enough to change. He's a mess on the inside and he knows it. Steve knows it, too. This way his outside reflects that a little. Steve appreciates honesty, right? Tony fixes his hair, at least, because he's still vain.
By the time he faces down the hallway to Steve's office in his rumpled clothes, the comparison of a groom looking down the wedding aisle and getting cold feet hits him. That's what his reluctance boils down to: second thoughts. The fear of commitment. Of hurting someone he cares about again. Things are cyclical, after all—history repeats itself—you'll always fall back to your roots—destruction—you move here and it starts again—you'll pick up the suit like an addict with his needle—say goodbye to your relationship and this new team—you know what's coming for you all from without and within—you're a modern Cassandra and your Troy will be torn apart—
Tony forces himself to the open doorway of Steve's office. The hopeless lug is eating cheese cubes and same as the groom watching his partner walk up that aisle the simple sight of Steve eases the doubts. You're Tony Stark, he hears over the dark swarm. You break the mold, and you build it better. "Workin' hard or hardly workin'?" Tony chokes out.
"The latter," Steve admits shamelessly as he sets everything aside. "Got most of my work done, I was just waiting for you to show up." Rising to his feet, he comes out from behind the desk and crosses the room to greet Tony once more with a fresh kiss - this time to his forehead - and a gentle smile. He would reassure Tony if he could, but in light of what he's about to say - what he's about to do - it all rings painfully false. That doesn't keep him from twining his fingers with Tony's and squeezing his hand with a grip that's just shy of bone-breaking.
"You wanna sit on the couch?" he asks, gesturing to the piece of furniture. This deserves something more intimate than chairs, and he'd feel too much like an adult chastising a child if he sat behind the desk. That might be a dynamic Tony would like at other times, but it's not appropriate right now. (That doesn't keep Steve from a fleeting thought of bending Tony over the desk and fucking him, but he quickly dismisses it.)
Without waiting for a response - there are only so many options, after all - he takes a seat on one end of the sofa and waits for Tony to join him. Steve folds his hands in his lap, and although he tries to look calm, the way his shoulders hunch slightly is a dead giveaway.
Steve kisses his forehead and Tony decides then and there that whether he moves in or not he needs to warn Steve of the coming storm. Nothing concrete has been written down, not that he knows of, but he's heard the whispers and he's seen the signs: the Avengers are sailing toward dangerous international waters, and frankly, Tony's not sure they should fight this tidal wave. Steve has listened to his anxiety about another, larger alien invasion. He needs to listen to Tony about this. Tony pats the hand gripping his and begins with, "Easy there, Armstrong," but trails off when Steve walks ahead to the couch. Only then does Tony remember that Steve mentioned needing to talk about something; it's writ all over the guy in his tense shoulders and straight-backed posture. But strangely, Tony doesn't assume the worst. He trusts by this point that Steve intends to stay, even at his own risk.
Tony sits cross-legged on the sofa, within arm's reach. "I admit I got something we should talk about, too, but ... yours first. Mine will end up in an argument, most likely," he rues, managing only halfway playful.
"You aren't gonna be crazy about what I have to say, either," Steve admits. He takes a deep breath to steady himself. "Back when I was on the run from SHIELD, Nat and I went to New Jersey - to Camp Lehigh, where they founded it all." He remembers the pictures of Howard and Peggy hanging on the wall in the fake ammunition bunker. They hadn't known then that what they were doing was fostering Hydra here in America, helping it grow. And they hadn't known that it would bring one of them down. "We found a secret server room where they'd somehow managed to transfer the brain of Zola - one of Hydra's top scientists, who'd come over here and joined SHIELD - onto a bunch of computers in the 1970s."
He knows now that Zola had been instrumental not only in undermining SHIELD, but in torturing and brainwashing Bucky, as well - at least when he'd been held prisoner by the Germans. In his own way, he'd been deadlier than Red Skull.
"Zola kept us in one spot so that SHIELD could launch a missile to kill us, and he talked about Hydra and Project Insight." Steve chews on his lower lip. "He said that they'd guided history to go the way they wanted, and when it didn't cooperate, they...they changed it." He meets Tony's gaze and holds it. "He showed the newspaper headlines from your parents' deaths. They didn't die in a car crash, Tony. They were murdered." He remembers Howard as a young inventor, so much like his son, and although he doesn't know what happened to the man to change him, he knows he didn't deserve to be murdered. And Tony's mother had been an innocent bystander, just killed because she was there. Steve starts to reach out to Tony, but just keeps his hand on his thigh, waiting to see what kind of sympathy he wants or needs.
The rumpled clothes, his socked feet and boyishly crossed legs, the way he slumps his shoulders, relaxed, as he listens—Tony has come to Steve unarmored, anxious but at ease with showing it. His expressions are more apparent on his face: concern and confusion shown in a perceptive gaze and a tiny frown as Steve tells his story (why bring up Hydra months after they've scattered the remaining factions?); and then, at the end, when the bomb drops, shock bleeding into every facet. The change happens slowly. First, the confusion deepens. Then comes the widening of the eyes, the parted mouth, the straightening of his back. That little shimmer of hurt. Steve knew this whole time? He knew when Tony opened up about them? Why...
"You're—you're sure?" Tony hears himself whisper. In his head he sees the photographs of his parents' bodies pushed across the table to him for identification. The photos were tasteful and masked any gruesomeness. He remembers demanding of the morgue attendants, "Let me see my mom," and that they didn't let him.
Steve had thought about telling him then, but Tony had seemed almost too vulnerable at that moment, too absorbed in the good memories he'd had. He hadn't wanted to ruin that with something he'd known would hurt him. That's why Steve's been holding it back this whole time, out of respect for Tony. But he's come to realize that he has to be completely honest with him, and that means telling him his last remaining secret.
"As sure as I can be." Because Zola hadn't come out and blatantly said it, and there's still a slim chance that he could have just been fucking with him. If there's one thing he knows, it's that Hydra likes to mess with your mind. On the other hand, there's no reason to make something like that up, and Zola had obviously been bragging to people he'd thought were about to die. There's very little doubt in Steve's mind that Howard and Maria Stark were murdered.
The evidence compiles in Tony's brain. He wasn't allowed to see his mother's body upon request. Their caskets were closed at the funeral. Too disfigured to be displayed, the mortician explained, a side effect of his father's face bashing into the steering wheel because of a faulty airbag. His mother—her cause of death was the seat belt compressing her carotid sinus on impact. That's what the coroner said, and Tony—well, Tony was young, lost, desperate for guidance, and too trusting for his own good. Hydra's reach was long and everywhere. Organizing and then covering up an assassination would've been child's play for them. They could have easily pulled the wool over the world's eyes about it, let alone Tony's. Stane pretty much kept him draped in wool.
Was Stane Hydra? Tony's head hurts. New perceptions of old memories cram into him, cacophonous, until he's reduced to them, overrun. He loses track of things outside save for Steve's steady blue eyes.
Steve pulls him into his arms, which quells the noise and allows words to fall from Tony's lips, originating from he doesn't know where. Even with Tony's arms limp at his sides, Steve's embrace grounds him. Steve, his lighthouse, his rudder. "I've blamed myself," Tony is saying. His voice echoes, hollow. "I've blamed Dad. I've blamed the car. I've blamed the road. 'Least now I know for certain I can blame Hydra." The tattered ends of his grief still flutter free. He barks out a wet laugh.
Steve rests his chin on Tony's head and envelops him with his arms, cocooning him and holding him safely against his chest. "I should've told you sooner," he murmurs. He'd been waiting for the right moment - but there's never a right moment to tell someone something like that, is there? This is as close to right as it comes, with Tony trusting Steve enough to let him support him emotionally. Before, Tony would have been adrift and alone, and that's about all Steve can do to justify his decision. Without him, there's no telling what Tony might have done - pulled away more, crawled into the bottom of a bottle, something self-destructive. But Steve reins in those impulses, or so he likes to think.
Tony shuts his eyes and unfolds one leg to the floor so he can shuffle closer and melt into the comfort Steve offers. How did they do it? How did she die? runs on a loop in his head. The gem of his mother's memory that Tony clutches so close feels cracked, and his dad—God, his dad was the target, wasn't he? The threat to Hydra's world order. And standing by his father's side at every opportunity, his mother got caught in the crossfire. His parents were murdered, and never given justice.
"Why didn't you?" Tony rasps. If Steve told him while he was still Avenging, Tony could've hunted down Hydra more personally, could've had an outlet for this simmering anger.
"Because you would've hurt yourself," Steve says slowly. There's no good answer to his question, because he realizes now that it should have been Tony's choice, that he shouldn't have kept the information to himself. "Because if you'd gone after them, I would have helped you instead of stopping you." There's the slightest chink in his armor, the darkness he doesn't want to acknowledge, but it's there, lurking beneath everything else. He's only human, after all.
"She wouldn't have wanted you to do it," he risks adding softly. Steve knows he shouldn't invoke a woman he never met, but from what he knows about her - from what Tony's told him about her - he thinks it's true. That's probably another judgment he shouldn't make.
For a moment Tony stiffens and his anger swings toward Steve (you didn't tell me, I wouldn't have hurt myself, why didn't you trust me?), but then it snaps back (Steve is right). What wrenches out of Tony then is wracked with pain from his deepest core, an orphaned boy who didn't get to say goodbye yelling how it's not fair: "They killed my mom!" he howls and shoves at Steve. With nowhere to go and nothing to aim at, his anger tumbles ceaselessly inside of him.
Although Tony tries to push Steve away, it's futile compared to his strength and determination to keep his grip on him. "I know," he murmurs, pulling him against his chest protectively. "I know. It's not fair that they took your mom from you." Steve remembers railing against the disease that killed his mother, and he's not sure whether it's better or worse to have something physical to blame, to know that maybe it could have been averted somehow. Worse in Tony's case, maybe, since he still can't lash out against Hydra. Steve knows how it feels, how he'd wanted to strike at them after Bucky had fallen off the cliff. He'd wanted to destroy them and bring them to their knees for taking his best friend from him.
It's the sort of moral question people expect Captain America to be above - and maybe Captain America is above seeking vengeance, but there are times when Steve Rogers doubts himself. Hydra's gone now, he tells himself. They can't kill anyone else, can't ruin any more lives. That has to be enough. (He doesn't know if it will ever be enough for either of them.)
"I don't know what else to tell you," Steve whispers into Tony's hair. "But I'm with you, Tony. You aren't alone."
When his shove fails Tony growls, "Rogers..." in warning and tries again. His whole body is running hot and close to bursting; before he can set off the bomb, he needs to clear the blast radius. But Steve holds firm, because he's the type of guy who bodily throws himself onto a grenade to protect everyone else. Steve has been people's shield long before the serum. Idiot, Tony accuses, lacking vehemence, as he slowly allows himself to wind down, safe and contained, and wraps his arms around Steve's waist to hug him back. Piece by piece the memories of causes of death and closed caskets are replaced by the glide of his mother's hands on her piano and the stern but steady mumble of his father pacing across the room.
Some indeterminable amount of time passes. The fire in Tony has cooled into smouldering coals hard and heavy in his stomach. Sniffling, he loosens his hold around Steve in silent request to be set free and then pulls back. He looks tired and burdened, he keeps his eyes low, but he holds himself upright.
When Tony finally loosens his grip, Steve lets go. He'd wondered whether Tony would let himself cry or bottle it all up - but he can't blame him for choosing the latter. It would make him one hell of a hypocrite, for one thing. "You need anything?" he asks quietly. Steve isn't sure what to do now; he just keeps sitting there on the couch, waiting to see what Tony will do next.
Tony nods. "I need..." He swallows, wets his lips, and starts over: "I need to process this," needs to work it through, pick it apart, see how it ticks so he can make it and himself be better. Tony looks over to Steve, clear-eyed. "I'm going to my lab. Probably for most of the day."
"Okay," Steve agrees readily. Where he would choose physical activity to keep his demons at bay, Tony heads to the workshop. It's just who they are - and, actually, working out doesn't sound like a bad idea. "I'm probably gonna be in the gym for a bit," he offers. "I'll keep my phone on me. You wanna order something in for dinner, or are you heading back to the city before then?" Tony might have been planning a weekend of debauchery originally, but Steve's sure his priorities have changed now.
Tony stands, mind already in the workshop, on his projectors and code and old reports (how did Hydra do it?). "Order in," he answers maybe too quickly. The thought of going back to his parents' home—"The greasier, the better," he requests. Greasy is his comfort food. Besides, he rationalizes, he still needs to talk to Steve about moving into the compound with him, which is sounding better and better compared to old halls home only to ghosts, possible consequences be damned.
"You aren't gonna complain about your diet?" Steve teases him with a soft smile. "I'll see what I can do." Most places in town, it seems, are more than happy to deliver out here just for a possible glimpse of the Avengers, let alone the generous tips that most of them give. "Cheeseburger and fries?" Because he also knows that burgers top the list of Tony's favorite greasy foods, so if they're going for comfort, he might as well go all the way.
Like an overfull tire being relieved of air Tony exhales, mutters, "Sounds perfect." He fits on a grateful smile and steps backwards to the doorway. "I'll see you at cholesterol o'clock," he says as he leaves. "Don't forget ketchup," he pops back in to add. Then, Tony disappears and heads up to his kingdom to be surrounded by technology that turns either on or off—systems that are predictable, and most importantly, controllable. He spends hours decrypting SHIELD files (all progress he made there previously Ultron wiped out) and scouring old news articles and any digital versions of relevant paper documents. When he hits several dead ends (Hydra preferred not to leave much traceable evidence), Tony switches to his on-the-side pet project: a therapeutic device designed to access traumatic memories and clear them via experimental holographic projections. Maybe at least through this, he can find some closure.
Steve spends the afternoon working out, both solo and sparring with Natasha, then helping her train Wanda in hand-to-hand combat. Rhodey and Sam are both proficient, and he leaves them to Natasha to teach whatever advanced methods she might have, but Wanda is nowhere near their level. She might not strictly need any physical skills, but Steve leaves nothing to chance; there's always the possibility that she might need to be able to fight someday. (Mostly, he's the training dummy in these exercises, going through simple, slow routines while Natasha watches and corrects Wanda, or helping her demonstrate.) It keeps him busy, bleeds off his nervous energy from fretting about Tony.
Once he's done, he calls an order in, then hits the showers. By the time he's clean, the food's here, and he takes a selfie with the delivery driver before he hands the kid his tip. Steve heads straight for the workshop; it's the option that gives them the most privacy, and if Tony wants to eat somewhere else, then they can do that, too. He's got a couple bags of burgers and fries, hot and greasy and homemade, plus two milkshakes, because Steve firmly believes that calorie loading is the solution to emotional problems.
"I told them to go heavy on the ketchup packets," he says by way of greeting. In fact, there's a smaller bag that's loaded with the sachets, whether because all the local places know and like Steve, or simply because it's an order for the Avengers. (It's a little of both.) "Uh, I didn't know what milkshake to get you, so I just went for chocolate." His own is vanilla, but he's more than happy to switch with Tony. "Anywhere I should set this stuff down?"
A detailed brain portrayed in bright-colored holograms rotates slowly in the middle of the room above black tiles with small lights—the projectors. A few of the computer screens show the brain, too, but each with different readouts and different sections highlighted. Tony himself sits behind a table across the way, elbows on it and his eyes buried in one hand. On the table in front of him lies a device shaped like a wireless headset and some small tools. The florescent ceiling lights above him have been turned off and the closest nearby monitor Tony has turned away on its pivot. The robotic arm U putters around cleaning in the background.
When Steve enters and speaks, Tony lowers his hand and squints through his spot of darkness. Instead of answering verbally, he lumbers over to a steel workbench, shoves aside some metal cylinder, pats the emptied space, and sits on one of the stools, his eyes straight back to being buried in a hand. "M'not brooding, I swear," he mumbles.
"Course not," Steve replies easily. After he sets the food down, he crosses back to the door and flips on the lights. "You were just thinking in the dark." His tone is, unsurprisingly, dry; he can see right through Tony. He slides onto the stool next to his and begins taking the food out of the bags, hoping to appeal to Tony with the aroma of grease and salt. His own mouth begins to water, but he wants to make sure Tony's eating something first.
"C'mon," he coaxes Tony, waving a fry under his nose. He 'accidentally' boops the tip of his nose with the ketchup-covered tip of the fry, then delicately kisses it off. Is that weird? It's probably weird, but Steve doesn't care. "Nobody likes cold french fries." Which is a total lie, because Steve would eat them just shy of frozen, but Steve also knows he's a human garbage disposal and willing to inhale just about anything for the sake of calories if he's desperate enough.
Tony glowers from underneath the shade of his hand but then smiles at the kiss and crooks his fingers for Steve to give him the fry. He chews slowly with a pained squint. He hasn't eaten since that sandwich he snuck away with for lunch, so getting his blood sugar up could help. "I'm actually nursing a headache, but thanks," he clarifies lightly after swallowing, though there might've been a little brooding, too. It's not his fault that sitting in the dark and waiting for pain killers to kick in is prime brooding real estate. The brooding practically breeds itself. Tony checks on and then slides one of the wrapped burgers closer to himself. "This one's mine, right? Anyway, turns out probing the depths of human memory with electromagnetic waves has its side effects."
Steve knows better than to press the brooding issue, but he's sure that his headache isn't the only reason why Tony was sitting in the dark. Either way, the lights are on now, and hopefully getting his blood sugar up will help with both his headache and his mood.
"That sounds safe." Not that Steve can say anything on the subject of being a human lab rat, since that's the entire reason he's here. "You aren't gonna turn into the Hulk or anything, are you?" He's only half-joking; bombarding yourself with weird energy is never a great idea. (Again, he knows this from first-hand experience.)
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How much work he actually accomplishes is questionable; his mind is occupied (like it has been for a few days) about what he's going to say to Tony, how he might react. He fills out some paperwork: a few expense forms, some purchase orders, and other things nobody would imagine the leader of the Avengers to do personally. They might have near-unlimited funding (theoretically; Steve's never actually asked), but he keeps careful track of the portion of their budget that's under his control.
By mid-morning, he's finishing the last of his work and scrolling through news on his tablet while he munches on a bowl of cheese cubes and fruit with his free hand. He looks reasonably relaxed, but underneath it all, he's still a nervous wreck.
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Steve Rogers loves him. Tony Stark. What a wild thought. What sort of world decided Tony got to have this? Almost every morning since that night his waking thoughts have been about Steve loving him. Sometimes the thought rolls through him like the tide, soothing lest he wander too far into it; and sometimes it lands at his feet like a flash grenade. It stupefies him.
Nature inevitably calls. Tony shuffles out of bed. After he finishes his morning routine as best as he can, he journeys to the communal kitchen for coffee and chats with Natasha there. "I'm sure Steve would let you borrow something," she comments slyly about his rumpled t-shirt and pants, which he slept in and didn't care enough to change. He's a mess on the inside and he knows it. Steve knows it, too. This way his outside reflects that a little. Steve appreciates honesty, right? Tony fixes his hair, at least, because he's still vain.
By the time he faces down the hallway to Steve's office in his rumpled clothes, the comparison of a groom looking down the wedding aisle and getting cold feet hits him. That's what his reluctance boils down to: second thoughts. The fear of commitment. Of hurting someone he cares about again. Things are cyclical, after all—history repeats itself—you'll always fall back to your roots—destruction—you move here and it starts again—you'll pick up the suit like an addict with his needle—say goodbye to your relationship and this new team—you know what's coming for you all from without and within—you're a modern Cassandra and your Troy will be torn apart—
Tony forces himself to the open doorway of Steve's office. The hopeless lug is eating cheese cubes and same as the groom watching his partner walk up that aisle the simple sight of Steve eases the doubts. You're Tony Stark, he hears over the dark swarm. You break the mold, and you build it better. "Workin' hard or hardly workin'?" Tony chokes out.
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"You wanna sit on the couch?" he asks, gesturing to the piece of furniture. This deserves something more intimate than chairs, and he'd feel too much like an adult chastising a child if he sat behind the desk. That might be a dynamic Tony would like at other times, but it's not appropriate right now. (That doesn't keep Steve from a fleeting thought of bending Tony over the desk and fucking him, but he quickly dismisses it.)
Without waiting for a response - there are only so many options, after all - he takes a seat on one end of the sofa and waits for Tony to join him. Steve folds his hands in his lap, and although he tries to look calm, the way his shoulders hunch slightly is a dead giveaway.
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Tony sits cross-legged on the sofa, within arm's reach. "I admit I got something we should talk about, too, but ... yours first. Mine will end up in an argument, most likely," he rues, managing only halfway playful.
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He knows now that Zola had been instrumental not only in undermining SHIELD, but in torturing and brainwashing Bucky, as well - at least when he'd been held prisoner by the Germans. In his own way, he'd been deadlier than Red Skull.
"Zola kept us in one spot so that SHIELD could launch a missile to kill us, and he talked about Hydra and Project Insight." Steve chews on his lower lip. "He said that they'd guided history to go the way they wanted, and when it didn't cooperate, they...they changed it." He meets Tony's gaze and holds it. "He showed the newspaper headlines from your parents' deaths. They didn't die in a car crash, Tony. They were murdered." He remembers Howard as a young inventor, so much like his son, and although he doesn't know what happened to the man to change him, he knows he didn't deserve to be murdered. And Tony's mother had been an innocent bystander, just killed because she was there. Steve starts to reach out to Tony, but just keeps his hand on his thigh, waiting to see what kind of sympathy he wants or needs.
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"You're—you're sure?" Tony hears himself whisper. In his head he sees the photographs of his parents' bodies pushed across the table to him for identification. The photos were tasteful and masked any gruesomeness. He remembers demanding of the morgue attendants, "Let me see my mom," and that they didn't let him.
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"As sure as I can be." Because Zola hadn't come out and blatantly said it, and there's still a slim chance that he could have just been fucking with him. If there's one thing he knows, it's that Hydra likes to mess with your mind. On the other hand, there's no reason to make something like that up, and Zola had obviously been bragging to people he'd thought were about to die. There's very little doubt in Steve's mind that Howard and Maria Stark were murdered.
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Was Stane Hydra? Tony's head hurts. New perceptions of old memories cram into him, cacophonous, until he's reduced to them, overrun. He loses track of things outside save for Steve's steady blue eyes.
Steve pulls him into his arms, which quells the noise and allows words to fall from Tony's lips, originating from he doesn't know where. Even with Tony's arms limp at his sides, Steve's embrace grounds him. Steve, his lighthouse, his rudder. "I've blamed myself," Tony is saying. His voice echoes, hollow. "I've blamed Dad. I've blamed the car. I've blamed the road. 'Least now I know for certain I can blame Hydra." The tattered ends of his grief still flutter free. He barks out a wet laugh.
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"Why didn't you?" Tony rasps. If Steve told him while he was still Avenging, Tony could've hunted down Hydra more personally, could've had an outlet for this simmering anger.
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"She wouldn't have wanted you to do it," he risks adding softly. Steve knows he shouldn't invoke a woman he never met, but from what he knows about her - from what Tony's told him about her - he thinks it's true. That's probably another judgment he shouldn't make.
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It's the sort of moral question people expect Captain America to be above - and maybe Captain America is above seeking vengeance, but there are times when Steve Rogers doubts himself. Hydra's gone now, he tells himself. They can't kill anyone else, can't ruin any more lives. That has to be enough. (He doesn't know if it will ever be enough for either of them.)
"I don't know what else to tell you," Steve whispers into Tony's hair. "But I'm with you, Tony. You aren't alone."
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Some indeterminable amount of time passes. The fire in Tony has cooled into smouldering coals hard and heavy in his stomach. Sniffling, he loosens his hold around Steve in silent request to be set free and then pulls back. He looks tired and burdened, he keeps his eyes low, but he holds himself upright.
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Once he's done, he calls an order in, then hits the showers. By the time he's clean, the food's here, and he takes a selfie with the delivery driver before he hands the kid his tip. Steve heads straight for the workshop; it's the option that gives them the most privacy, and if Tony wants to eat somewhere else, then they can do that, too. He's got a couple bags of burgers and fries, hot and greasy and homemade, plus two milkshakes, because Steve firmly believes that calorie loading is the solution to emotional problems.
"I told them to go heavy on the ketchup packets," he says by way of greeting. In fact, there's a smaller bag that's loaded with the sachets, whether because all the local places know and like Steve, or simply because it's an order for the Avengers. (It's a little of both.) "Uh, I didn't know what milkshake to get you, so I just went for chocolate." His own is vanilla, but he's more than happy to switch with Tony. "Anywhere I should set this stuff down?"
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When Steve enters and speaks, Tony lowers his hand and squints through his spot of darkness. Instead of answering verbally, he lumbers over to a steel workbench, shoves aside some metal cylinder, pats the emptied space, and sits on one of the stools, his eyes straight back to being buried in a hand. "M'not brooding, I swear," he mumbles.
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"C'mon," he coaxes Tony, waving a fry under his nose. He 'accidentally' boops the tip of his nose with the ketchup-covered tip of the fry, then delicately kisses it off. Is that weird? It's probably weird, but Steve doesn't care. "Nobody likes cold french fries." Which is a total lie, because Steve would eat them just shy of frozen, but Steve also knows he's a human garbage disposal and willing to inhale just about anything for the sake of calories if he's desperate enough.
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"That sounds safe." Not that Steve can say anything on the subject of being a human lab rat, since that's the entire reason he's here. "You aren't gonna turn into the Hulk or anything, are you?" He's only half-joking; bombarding yourself with weird energy is never a great idea. (Again, he knows this from first-hand experience.)
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