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.)
"Not intentionally," Tony mumbles, joking back, and lowers his hand from his forehead. He winces from the overhead lights and unwraps the burger. "It's non-ionizing," he explains sincerely, and then reiterates more simply: "I'm making my atoms go 'wee!' instead of developing a split personality."
"Oh, well, that makes perfect sense." It doesn't, but Steve doesn't need an attempt at a further dumbed-down explanation. "Why are you messing around with your brain?" Brains, Steve feels, are the kind of thing that are typically better left alone, but Tony never found anything he didn't want to poke with science. It's definitely a trait that runs in the family.
Since Tony's actually eating, Steve doesn't want to distract him from his task. He figures a full explanation will be forthcoming at some point (or maybe it won't, if it doesn't go anywhere). "Is there enough ketchup for you?" he asks instead, giving the sack of ketchup packets an amused look. "I guess I could've asked for a to go cup full of it. Maybe a ketchup milkshake."
Tony is just about to attempt a bite when Steve brings up that imagery. His hands lower the burger and his nose wrinkles. "Eugh. Your timing. I've been nauseated as it is," he complains, and then takes a bite, anyway. The worst of the migraine has dulled, but Tony chews carefully.
"Payback for that time you talked about taking a shit while I was eating." Steve just grins back at him. Of course, it's nearly impossible to put him off his food, whether it's shit or ketchup milkshakes, so he goes on eating his own burger and fries. (Steve, of course, has impeccable timing - it's always the worst.)
Piling heavy, greasy food into his stomach might be a bad idea after the nausea of the migraine, but Tony feels all right enough now and he needs food for the soul as much as for the body. "Yeah? When was that?" he asks between bites, undeterred as well. Seeing terrible things on the battlefield, then going home and eating a post-victory meal became routine with the team, after all—until Ultron. Tony treated the new group to one fancy dinner after their first victory, and neglected any more.
Steve just huffs, a little insulted that Tony would forget their first- okay, he can't exactly call it a date, but that's how he thinks of it. "When we went out to dinner in town," he reminds him. "You said you were gonna name your dump Steve."
"At that gay pride place?" Tony remembers. The idea to use this as a segue strikes him. "We should go back there. You know, after I move in," he suggests, pointedly focused on his food.
Steve's about to mention that not every place decorated in rainbows is necessarily gay, but the next thing Tony says catches him by surprise. "You're still-" He hasn't said that he wouldn't, but Steve kind of expected he'd managed to sink that idea single-handedly. "I just figured since you were busy with everything else, you'd be staying in the city." It's a lame-sounding excuse, and he knows it."
"Actually, most of my business takes me elsewhere, so having easy access to helicopter and jet travel is a massive pro," Tony casually points out and waits for Steve's further reaction as he chews—waits for ... for Steve's permission or something, the reassurance that Tony is facing a moral north.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
no subject
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."
no subject
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.
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
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?"
no subject
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.
no subject
"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.
no subject
no subject
"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.)
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)