I ought to ask you the same thing, Steve thinks as he stares at the crystal clear image of the man who used to be one of his best friends, the man he trusted more than any other right up until he drove the edge of his shield into his chest in Siberia. It's a fucking imitation of Tony, a digital echo, and Steve desperately wants to punch something real right now.
"I think you're a glitch in the fucking Matrix," he retorts harshly. Steve squeezes his own eyes shut, tries not to clench his hands into fists. It fucking hurts, and he hates Tony Stark a little bit right now. Only he could accidentally leave a ghost behind while building a suit, just a casual thing of no consequence that would haunt Steve years in the future. Sure, it isn't Tony's fault, but in lieu of anyone else to blame - including himself - he makes a good scapegoat.
Then he mentions Pepper, and Steve's stomach twists into knots at the thought. God, there's no way he can mention any of this to her. If it feels like salt in his wounds, he can't imagine how much worse it would be for her. They'd been married, spent years together, raised a child, and now-
No. He can't give her a cheap imitation who doesn't remember any of that.
"She's fine." That's all Steve offers in reply, all he can offer. None of them are fine, not anymore, but they have to keep moving. They have to move on, and this isn't the way to do it. But he looks at the expression on the hologram's face, so anguished and real, and wonders how something made of pixels can do that, if Tony had to sit here and cry for cameras to capture and reproduce in HD. There's a depth of emotion that isn't just footage being replayed, or so he thinks for a moment. "Really. I promise." Not that his promises mean much to a Tony from six years ago.
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"I think you're a glitch in the fucking Matrix," he retorts harshly. Steve squeezes his own eyes shut, tries not to clench his hands into fists. It fucking hurts, and he hates Tony Stark a little bit right now. Only he could accidentally leave a ghost behind while building a suit, just a casual thing of no consequence that would haunt Steve years in the future. Sure, it isn't Tony's fault, but in lieu of anyone else to blame - including himself - he makes a good scapegoat.
Then he mentions Pepper, and Steve's stomach twists into knots at the thought. God, there's no way he can mention any of this to her. If it feels like salt in his wounds, he can't imagine how much worse it would be for her. They'd been married, spent years together, raised a child, and now-
No. He can't give her a cheap imitation who doesn't remember any of that.
"She's fine." That's all Steve offers in reply, all he can offer. None of them are fine, not anymore, but they have to keep moving. They have to move on, and this isn't the way to do it. But he looks at the expression on the hologram's face, so anguished and real, and wonders how something made of pixels can do that, if Tony had to sit here and cry for cameras to capture and reproduce in HD. There's a depth of emotion that isn't just footage being replayed, or so he thinks for a moment. "Really. I promise." Not that his promises mean much to a Tony from six years ago.