I told you to be nice to her. You didn't get her flowers, did you?
[ Steve wonders if he ought to start talking to the AI, if she would talk back. It's probably a mark of how desperate he is for any conversation that isn't awkward as hell that he's seriously considering talking to a computer. Next he'll be leaving dog biscuits for the vacuum robot.
Then Tony looks at him like that, and Christ, it makes Steve want to go jump out a window. Tony looks like a wounded animal, like someone who's had his heart ripped out by someone he trusted, and suddenly Steve's pain seems petty, like a paper cut (except it's not, it's shards of glass - of razor-sharp ice - that pierce him whenever he breathes). It's all his fault, and he doesn't know how to fix it or if it can be fixed, so he just doesn't do anything because, hell, at least if he doesn't try to make it better, he's not making it worse.
(He might be wrong about that.)
But his inertia has grown into a wall of strangling vines between them, one that threatens to choke the life out of anything they have left - if they even have anything left - and, hell, one of them has to start somewhere or else they'll just be petty and snipe at each other until it peters out completely and then-
And then Steve won't have anyone.
(He's not sure he has anyone now. He sure as hell can't pretend to have any claim on Tony anymore, not after what he's done, and Bucky's on ice.)
Steve won't have anyone, and nobody will even care about Steve Rogers, and all that will be left is the shell of Captain America, an animated suit. Might as well get Tony to make a robot, like one of his suits. It could do the job, and Steve could just-
He's so tired sometimes, a weary ache that's bone-deep that seems like it'll never go away, and he thinks about the ice- ]
Tony. Come in here and take a break for five minutes, all right?
no subject
[ Steve wonders if he ought to start talking to the AI, if she would talk back. It's probably a mark of how desperate he is for any conversation that isn't awkward as hell that he's seriously considering talking to a computer. Next he'll be leaving dog biscuits for the vacuum robot.
Then Tony looks at him like that, and Christ, it makes Steve want to go jump out a window. Tony looks like a wounded animal, like someone who's had his heart ripped out by someone he trusted, and suddenly Steve's pain seems petty, like a paper cut (except it's not, it's shards of glass - of razor-sharp ice - that pierce him whenever he breathes). It's all his fault, and he doesn't know how to fix it or if it can be fixed, so he just doesn't do anything because, hell, at least if he doesn't try to make it better, he's not making it worse.
(He might be wrong about that.)
But his inertia has grown into a wall of strangling vines between them, one that threatens to choke the life out of anything they have left - if they even have anything left - and, hell, one of them has to start somewhere or else they'll just be petty and snipe at each other until it peters out completely and then-
And then Steve won't have anyone.
(He's not sure he has anyone now. He sure as hell can't pretend to have any claim on Tony anymore, not after what he's done, and Bucky's on ice.)
Steve won't have anyone, and nobody will even care about Steve Rogers, and all that will be left is the shell of Captain America, an animated suit. Might as well get Tony to make a robot, like one of his suits. It could do the job, and Steve could just-
He's so tired sometimes, a weary ache that's bone-deep that seems like it'll never go away, and he thinks about the ice- ]
Tony. Come in here and take a break for five minutes, all right?