To here, in the new
An explosion.
Confusion.
Pain.
Nothing.
Bright lights searing through his half-closed eyelids. Noises that tear through his mind like broken glass. Touch that burns, a pressure that makes him want to scream but he can’t.
”…Steve!”
Shrill beeps, air pushed into him against his will.
Pain. So much pain.
”—just don’t know yet. I’m sorry—”
”—I don’t care. I’ll cover everything, no matter—”
”—sleeping enough, you look like shit—”
”—team dynamics can go fuck themselves—”
”—wake up, Steve—”
It doesn’t hurt.
That’s the first thing Steve realizes when he slowly pries his eyes open. He’s expecting pain and getting the stiff discomfort that tells about too much time spent on his back, unmoving.
He’s in some kind of cocoon, wearing nothing but an undershirt and a pair of soft pants. Carefully, he tries wiggling his toes and is relieved when they move. His fingers also move and he raises a hand to touch his face.
”Please refrain from touching your face, Captain Rogers,” says a polite voice in a British accent out of nowhere.
”What?” He rasps out. His voice is hoarse and scratches his throat as he forces the word out. ”Where am I?”
There’s a moment of silence and then the voice says, ”You have been gravely injured, Captain Rogers. What is the last thing you remember?”
”Um…” He frowns and tries to tilt his head, only to realize he can’t. His head isn’t moving. ”Head injury?” He asks.
”Yes,” the voice says. ”You had massive head trauma and have been in a chemically induced coma for three weeks to ensure the successful regeneration of your cranium and brain tissue.”
”Oh,” he says.
”Indeed. Now, what is the last thing you remember, Captain Rogers?”
He closes his eyes and thinks for a moment. ”The Valkyrie,” he says. ”Ocean. Ice.”
”I see,” the voice says. It sounds hesitant and for some reason, it makes Steve suspicious. That voice isn’t supposed to hesitate and he has no idea why he knows that.
”I’m in the future,” Steve says. It’s not a question.
”Yes,” the voice confirms. ”You were asleep for a quite long time, Captain. You are in New York and the year is 2014.”
While the information leaves him reeling, he isn’t as shocked as he probably should be. He doesn’t remember anything after the Valkyrie hit the ocean but he also has a rock-solid certainty that this is where he’s supposed to be. When he’s supposed to be.
”You are currently held in the Cradle,” the voice continues. ”It is a new and experimental technology that helps regenerate damaged or destroyed tissue. You were strapped in and you had a breathing tube which explains the possible lingering soreness in your throat.” The voice pauses and then says, slightly apologetic, ”You still have the feeding tube on but if everything goes as planned, you should be able to eat soon.”
Now that the voice mentions it, Steve can feel a thin tube in the back of his throat. He swallows and tries (and fails) to decipher the strange feeling the tube transmits. He ends up blinking instead as he tries to take in his surroundings. The cocoon he’s in is as comfortable as something like this can be, he supposes. The light is dim and soft and the dome over his body is opaque, preventing him from seeing what’s outside the closed space he’s in.
”Who are you?” He asks.
”My apologies,” the voice says. ”My name is Jarvis. I am the…assistant around here. If you need anything, anything at all, just let me know.”
”Okay,” Steve whispers. He feels tired.
”Rest now, Captain Rogers,” Jarvis says. ”I will watch over you.”
The next time he wakes up, the dome is clear. He stares at the white ceiling above him and wonders if he’s going to spend this day in the cocoon or if he’ll be let out. Or if he’s not let out, could the dome be opened at least? He wouldn’t say no to a breath of fresh air.
”Good morning, Captain Rogers,” Jarvis greets him.
”Morning, Jarvis,” Steve replies. Talking seems easier today even though the tube in his throat tugs uncomfortably. And now that he thinks of it, he feels similar, uncomfortable tugs in his downstairs as well. Ah. Urinary catheter. ”What do you have in store for me today?” He asks to distract his mind from wondering what other contraptions are holding on to his body.
”Dr. Cho will be visiting you shortly,” Jarvis says. ”And later, if you feel like it, you will have a visitor.”
”Just one?” Steve says.
”Your condition is…delicate,” Jarvis says carefully. ”It would be best not to overstimulate you too much.”
”Well, you’re the boss, I guess.”
”I really am not but I appreciate the sentiment,” Jarvis says dryly.
A wave of familiar amusement rolls through him and Steve huffs a laugh. The movement spikes a jolt of intense pain along his spine and into his head and he hisses through his teeth, clenches his hands into fists as he tries to weather through it. Somewhere in the background, shrill alarms go off and the sound only adds to the pain ricocheting in his head, inducing a mass of madly swirling colors that make him nauseous.
Suddenly, the cocoon fills with cool mist that soothes his throat and eases the pain. He takes a deep breath and feels the mist swirl in, slither down his throat and into his lungs. It makes him feel heavy and languid, a bit like the cough syrup Ma made him drink back when he was a kid.
The fleeting memory stings and then it’s gone, covered in soft clouds that cover his consciousness and make him float.
He sleeps.
”How are you feeling, Captain?” A woman asks.
The dome is clear again and he can see an Asian woman leaning over. The dome distorts her features slightly but he can see clear, sharp eyes and a serious expression.
”Tired,” he says.
”Any pain?”
He knows better than to shake his head so he says, ”Not when I’m staying still.”
”Ah, yes. Your cranium is still a work in progress so I wouldn’t recommend moving around. It might get uncomfortable.”
If the pain from before was uncomfortable, Steve doesn’t want to know what the…doctor? This has to be the doctor Jarvis mentioned. Anyway, he doesn’t want to know what the doctor would define as pain.
As if on cue, the woman taps her fingers on the device she’s holding and then lowers it, looks straight at Steve. ”My name is Dr. Helen Cho. I’m the one in charge of your care. Like Jarvis has already told you, you’ve been held in the Cradle, an invention of mine. It’s a…well, let’s just say it’s a place that allows us to deal with and treat grave injuries with astonishingly promising results.”
”What happened?” Steve asks.
”You were buried under a collapsing building. While your shield protected your internal organs, it didn’t fully cover your head. Your skull was crushed and your brain suffered massive damage. We managed to evacuate you in time to avoid complete loss of limb and life but it was touch-and-go for quite a while.” She pauses and raises a brow. ”Obviously you suffered massive trauma on your extremities but as you probably know, that is and has been something your body can deal with when given enough time.”
”Oh,” Steve says. He mulls the information over for a moment. ”What next?”
Dr. Cho checks her device. ”We’ll try to wean you from the Cradle in a couple of days. The situation with your head is delicate and since it’s the most extreme work I’ve ever done, I want to proceed with caution.”
”Okay,” Steve says, mostly because he can’t think of anything else to say, either.
”Your limbs move and you can talk and swallow which is promising. Even with the Cradle, you’ll need extensive physical and occupational therapy and possibly speech therapy as well. Lucky for you, you’ll have the best minds of the world at your disposal.”
”Right,” Steve says.
Dr. Cho tilts her head. ”If there’s nothing else, I’ll be going. If you need me, ask Jarvis to relay a message and I’ll get back to you.”
”Yeah, sure,” Steve says and a moment later, he’s alone.
So…he’s in the future, apparently Captain America is still very much a needed asset, and he was in a fight or a situation where his head had been bashed in like an overripe melon. And now, he’s in an obviously high-end facility for rehab.
”Jarvis?” He asks, slightly hesitant.
”Yes, Captain Rogers?”
”Is my team alright?”
There’s a brief hesitation and for a fleeting moment, Steve wonders if his team died in the collapse. Then Jarvis says, ”Your team is fine. You were the one with the gravest injuries, the others suffered mostly minor scrapes. Agent Romanoff will come to see you later today to debrief you on your situation but I can relay basic information on your team now if you wish.”
”Yeah, that would be nice.”
”Yes, Captain.”
The Cradle’s dome shimmers briefly and then he sees pictures of his team. They look strange. A red-and-gold robot, a green, muscular giant, a petite woman with red hair and a very tight suit, a man with bow and arrows, and a man in a cape who looks like he stepped out from some storybook. In fact, the whole group looks like it stepped out from the pages of a storybook.
And, of course, there’s Steve himself in the full Captain America outfit, shield in hand, and a familiar look in his eyes.
”The Avengers,” Jarvis says calmly.
”Who came up with the name?” Steve can’t help but ask. ”And what are they—we—supposed to avenge?”
”Very good questions, Captain,” Jarvis says calmly. ”If you like, I can introduce you to your teammates.”
”Sure, go ahead.”
The picture of the archer comes up. ”Agent Clint Barton of SHIELD, code name Hawkeye. Master marksman and a strategist. Part of Strike Team Delta with Agent Romanoff and Agent Coulson.”
”SHIELD?” Steve interjects.
”Ah,” Jarvis says. ”The Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistic Division. A successor to the Strategic Scientific Reserve, founded in the 1950s by Chester Phillips, Howard Stark, and Margaret Carter.”
When Steve doesn’t comment, the picture changes from Agent Barton to the red-haired woman. ”Agent Natasha Romanoff of SHIELD, code name Black Widow. Former Soviet spy and assassin. Part of Strike Team Delta with Agent Barton and Agent Coulson.
”Dr. Bruce Banner,” Jarvis continues and shows him a picture with a shy-looking man with glasses. ”An expert on gamma radiation amongst other things. A laboratory accident left him with his alter ego, Hulk.” The picture changes into the green giant who has the archer—Hawkeye perched on his shoulder. ”Yes, Agent Barton and Hulk are friends even though Dr. Banner and Agent Barton have very little in common,” Jarvis says.
Next, is the blond man in armor and a red cape, holding a hammer in his hand. ”Thor Odinson of Asgard,” Jarvis says.
”You must be kidding,” Steve says flatly.
”Must I?” Jarvis asks, sounding amused. ”Captain, may I remind you that you are a result of a government experiment, a supersoldier who fell into the ocean, slept for over 70 years, and woke up in the future. One of your team members turns into a green giant when he is angry. Is a representative of an alien race so hard to accept?”
”But you’re asking me to accept the existence of a Norse god,” Steve snaps.
Jarvis lets out a hum. ”What is a god but an entity we do not understand yet? Some people might even consider me a god.”
Steve snorts. ”Why would they? Aren’t you just a human like me?”
Jarvis is silent for a moment. ”There are very few people in the world like you. And there is none like me. Captain,” Jarvis says softly, ”I am not human. I am an artificial intelligence, monitoring and controlling this building you are in right now. I am self-contained and sentient but when I was born, I was just code, programmed by my creator.”
What.
”Programmed…by whom?”
”That brings us to your last team member,” Jarvis says and the picture changes into the red-and-gold robot.
”A robot?”
”A suit of armor,” Jarvis corrects him. ”Iron Man is the co-leader of the Avengers.”
When Jarvis doesn’t elaborate, Steve raises a brow. ”And?” He prompts. ”You said ’a suit of armor.’ So, who’s inside?”
The picture changes again, showing him a smirking man in a black suit brandishing peace signs at the camera. He has shades on and Steve has a sudden desire to see his eyes.
”Mr. Anthony Stark,” Jarvis says. ”He’s the creative mind behind many of the Avengers’ gear. He’s also the financial power behind the team and the one providing housing and medical care.”
Steve narrows his eyes. ”Stark…is he related to Howard Stark?”
”Yes,” Jarvis says. ”Sir is the only son of the late Howard Stark.”
”Huh… I didn’t really see him as the parental type,” Steve mutters.
Something about Anthony Stark’s smirk rubs him wrong. It’s artificial and fake and Steve has a feeling it’s another suit of armor, just different from Iron Man.
The picture changes once more, showing him an unassuming man in a well-cut suit. He has the look of someone people ignore only to later realize he’s the most dangerous thing in the room. ”And last but not least, Agent Coulson,” Jarvis says. ”He’s the Avengers’ official liaison and handler.” He pauses and then continues, ”He’s also Agent Barton’s partner.”
Steve blinks. ”Partner? As in…”
”As in his life partner,” Jarvis says. When Steve doesn’t comment, he asks, ”I hope this isn’t a problem, Captain?”
”I—no, of course not,” Steve says. ”It’s just…” He pauses and thinks for a moment. ”I’m not saying there weren’t men who loved men back when I come from because of course there were. But…” his voice trails away.
”It was something to be kept hidden for the safety of everyone involved,” Jarvis concluded. ”Things have changed a lot while you were under the ice, Captain. Hate is a thing that still exists, but the public opinion on queer people has shifted.”
Steve hums a non-committal sound. ”Are they—Agents Coulson and Barton—openly together or is it something only I or the team is privy to?”
”Agent Coulson is a very private person but yes, their relationship is public knowledge.”
”Good. That’s good,” Steve says. He can feel throbbing in the base of his skull, slowly expanding along his jawline and up toward the top of his head. ”I think I need to take a nap,” he says. ”Thank you for the information, Jarvis.”
”You’re most welcome, Captain.”
He’s quite sure he’s not imagining the warmth in Jarvis’s voice.
”I know you’re awake, Steve,” an amused woman says.
Steve sighs and opens his eyes. He’s getting tired of being out of the loop even though he also knows he should just be grateful he isn’t dead.
”Hello soldier,” the woman—ah, Agent Romanoff—says.
”Agent Romanoff,” Steve answers.
She rolls her eyes. ”Oh, please. You only call me Agent Romanoff if you try to be a pushover and it never works.” Her eyes are sharp and her smile slightly stilted but genuine. Steve has a feeling she doesn’t show it to many people. ”I’m Tasha, in case you’ve forgotten.”
”It seems I’ve forgotten a lot,” Steve says, unable to hold bitterness from his voice.
Tasha shrugs. ”Considering you had almost your entire head smashed in, that’s understandable.” She cocks her head. ”Don’t do that again.”
”No promises.”
She snorts. ”Well, that sounds like you. So. What do you want to do? Helen said you’re still very fragile but since you can keep up a coherent conversation, we figured it would be nice to just do that. Talk.”
”I’m sure I’m going to be a brilliant conversationalist,” Steve says dryly.
Tasha laughs. It’s a throaty sound that rises from somewhere deep in her tiny frame and Steve grins.
They go over mundane things, everything from books to cuisine to cloud formations to dogs. Tasha seems to have a way about her to talk about things he’s interested in and she feeds him information on things he used to enjoy before his injury. However, there’s a nagging feeling she isn’t telling him everything and while it annoys him, he understands it might be just for his benefit. He’s recovering and she doesn’t want to compromise that.
”So, Helen said you could be out of the Cradle tomorrow,” she says as she’s getting ready to leave. ”You’ll still need to stay in medical for any complications but it’s a start.” She smiles wryly. ”Perhaps she’ll even let you eat something solid for a change.”
”Oh, god, yes,” Steve breathes. It’s not that he’s ungrateful but having the feeding tube down his nose (not to mention other tubes in his person) isn’t great and he can’t wait to be rid of it.
”Sleep tight, Steve,” she says and presses her hand on the side of the dome. ”I’ll be back tomorrow.”
He holds his hand against the dome a long time after she’s gone.
Agonizingly slowly, things start to get better. Steve is released from the Cradle and he relearns basic stuff like walking and pissing, first with a nurse and then by himself. He’s still weak as a kitten and is exhausted after an hour out of the Cradle but…it’s improvement. Slowly but surely.
Tasha visits him daily and he enjoys their talks immensely, even if he feels like she’s sounding him for something. He isn’t quite sure for what but she’ll tell him eventually. He hopes. Agent Coulson visits him a couple of times on the pretense of getting Steve’s opinion on an op but Steve knows he’s really checking in on his cognitive abilities. He gets it: Agent Coulson is their official liaison, it’s his duty to know if Steve can think like he used to.
As it happens, he can, which comes as a massive relief that leaves him somewhat dizzy.
On one visit, Hawkeye shoots at them with a toy gun from the vents above his room, a suction cup arrow that Agent Coulson snatches from the air without looking up from his file. The arrow has a garish purple post-it taped on it saying, ”Get well soon!! XXX.”
Agent Coulson’s eyes soften as he pries the post-it off and smooths it on Steve’s bedside table.
”I was gravely injured during the Battle of New York,” Agent Coulson says quietly and slowly trails his thumb along the toy arrow’s shaft. ”Clint…didn’t cope so well. You were there for him and for that I’m grateful.” He gives Steve a long look. ”If you ever feel like you need to talk, let me know.”
Steve feels slightly taken aback by the deep emotion in the seemingly unflappable Agent Coulson’s eyes but he nods. ”Thank you, Agent Coulson. I will.”
Dr. Banner flits in and out at times, almost unnoticeable. He checks in on Steve’s charts and leans against the doorframe, nibbling the cuticle of his thumb. Later, when Steve can return to his quarters, Dr. Banner visits him and they spend a lovely, silent afternoon playing mahjong. It’s quiet and relaxing and if Dr. Banner—Bruce—uses the game for testing and rehabilitation purposes, it’s completely fine by him.
Thor is off-world chasing his brother across the Nine Realms which, apparently, is a common occurrence. He sends him a boisterous video greeting that’s projected on thin air and very obviously not controlled by Jarvis. It makes Steve fervently glad he’ll get a bit more time to recuperate before meeting the Norse god in person.
The only one who doesn’t visit him is Mr. Stark.
Steve feels like he’s missing something important.
His quarters are well-stocked, spacious, and so, so empty it makes his heart hurt. He sits on the couch and stares out of the window at the New York skyline and wonders what the hell he’s supposed to do next. He has daily check-ups in medical but other than his appointments with his therapists, he has nothing to occupy his time with.
There’s a stack of sketchbooks on the coffee table, some full, some empty. He leafs through them and takes in the landscapes, the small studies he’s drawn of empty coffee cups, of fallen leaves on the ground, of his teammates, of random people he’s clearly observed in a coffee shop or sitting on a park bench. There’s a clear evolution in the sketchbooks; they start as an outsider looking in, politely cataloging things around them, and then they slowly turn friendlier, more intimate. The landscapes give way to a study of what’s clearly Tasha’s smile or Agent Coulson holding Hawkeye’s hand in medical. They tell a tale of someone who had nothing and now has a family.
He leafs through all of them and can’t help but feel they’re incomplete.
”So, I see you’ve picked up drawing again,” Tasha says the next day as she pops in. She’s hauling a cardboard box with her and drops it at Steve’s feet. ”You can get back to drawing after you’ve dealt with these.”
Steve sets his sketchbook aside and peers into the box. It’s filled with opened letters. ”What’s this?”
”These are all the get well-letters for Captain America,” she says. ”Your accident was broadcasted on live television and your rehab has been the talk of the medical field for weeks now.”
”Uh,” he says.
”These are all pre-screened and we already weeded out the ones that could do with our general thank you-card. These are the kinds you always want to reply to yourself.”
”Okay,” Steve says, feeling slightly lost. But he fishes out a handful of letters and starts reading and in no time, he’s sucked in.
He misses the way Tasha’s eyes flicker to the sketchbook beside him, open on a page that shows expressive eyes and a strange device he has no memory of seeing before.
Steve isn’t sure what makes him do it. He walks into the elevator, looks up, and says, ”The penthouse, thank you, Jarvis.”
For a moment, everything is silent. Then the elevator hums to life and starts rising. Steve isn’t sure what the feeling fluttering under his sternum is but it might be anticipation. Or dread. They feel pretty similar.
The doors ding softly as he arrives and Steve realizes right away that perhaps this was a mistake.
”He still loves you,” Tasha snaps in a voice Steve hasn’t heard from her.
”No, he doesn’t,” comes a reply with a familiar voice that sends shivers down Steve’s back. ”He doesn’t know me. Trust me, it’s better this way.”
He takes a step forward and sees Tasha standing with her hands on her hips, staring at Mr. Stark’s back.
”Why are you being so stubborn about this?”
”Why are you being so stubborn?” Mr. Stark says without turning around. ”I don’t understand why you keep nagging me about this. He’s free now. Isn’t that what he wanted? What you all wanted?”
”Tony—”
Steve clears his throat and Tasha turns her head, giving him a frustrated look. Steve doesn’t pay attention to her, though, because Mr. Stark’s back has gone rigid and without a word, he walks out of the penthouse and into the Iron Man landing pad. Steve watches as the suit forms around him just like it does in all the newsreels he’s seen and then he takes off, leaving behind a gaping hole and an unnameable feeling that could be frustration, anger, or just plain desperation.
”I’m sorry,” he offers to Tasha.
”Don’t be,” she says. ”This has been a long time coming.” She turns and gives him a tight smile, walks to him, and guides him back to the elevator. ”Jarvis, look after him, won’t you?”
”Of course, Agent Romanoff.”
The first time Steve wakes up achingly hard, he’s mostly relieved. He is a man in his prime and while impotence wouldn’t be the end of the world (especially after the massive injuries he recovered from), he was worried. Of course he was. He makes his way into the bathroom, takes himself into hand, and jerks off, and doesn’t really wonder why he’s thinking about brown eyes and a glowing blue light as he comes.
The second time, well, he’s still relieved but this time he wakes up in the middle of a dream of making love to a man on his lap and with his face buried in Steve’s neck. The abrupt shift from having his lap full of the man he loves to reaching out for thin air feels like a punch in the gut. His body doesn’t realize it in time, though, and he comes with a bitten-back grunt, feeling hollow and frustrated as his hands grip the bedding instead of warm skin.
The third time… well.
Clearly, this is getting ridiculous.
He keeps drawing warm, mischievous eyes, a genuine grin, and a complicated, round device that could, for all Steve knows, be anything from a computer core to a satellite to a lamp. It frustrates him to no end because Tasha refuses to tell him and he doesn’t feel like showing his drawings to anyone else. Well, Coulson would be his other choice but he’s off-continent with Clint and Steve doesn’t feel like the pictures his subconscious pushes him to draw are something that warrants disturbing Clint and Coulson’s long-overdue honeymoon. So, he swallows his questions and keeps drawing.
Then, one day, he throws an absent-minded glance at his sketchbook and freezes. It shows yet another page filled with studies of those eyes and over one pair of eyes is Steve’s Ray-Ban, haphazardly tossed on the coffee table as he came home earlier that morning.
Shades.
Over expressive eyes.
Steve stumbles and reaches out a hand to steady himself against the couch.
”Fucking hell,” he mutters.
He knows who he’s been drawing all these weeks.
”Let me in, Jarvis,” Steve says.
”Captain...” Jarvis’s voice trails away before he lets out a sound, not unlike a sigh—which is pretty amazing, considering he’s an AI—and unlocks the door. The music hits him like a physical sensation and he grimaces against the sound.
When Jarvis turns the volume down, Tony freezes at his workstation before he slowly turns around.
”Why?” Steve asks.
”So, you remember,” Tony says. He’s trying to sound nonchalant but Steve knows how he sounds when he’s afraid. He knows how Tony sounds when he’s happy, when he’s tired, when he’s sad, when he’s pissed off. It’s been a long, long while since he’s last heard how he sounds when he’s afraid.
”Not everything but enough,” Steve says. ”Why?”
”It’s better this way,” Tony says, not quite meeting his eyes.
”Better for whom? For you? I’m sorry but that’s bullshit.” Steve pauses and frowns. ”You look like crap. Have you been sleeping at all?”
”Leave it, Steve,” Tony says. He sounds tired, resigned.
Steve grits his teeth and sits on the ratty couch, watches how Tony turns away from him and fiddles with something. He’s not even working, just busying his hands to avoid looking at Steve.
”You know, when I woke up this time, I knew I was in the future. The Cradle was way too fantastical to be anything from way back then,” he says conversationally. ”I knew who I was but I didn’t know where I was, and when I finally learned, I felt like there was something missing. There’s been something missing all the time.” He cocks his head and gives Tony a long look.
”You can’t decide things like these on your own, Tony.”
Tony lets out an ugly laugh. ”On my own?” He echoes. ”That’s rich coming from you.” He turns to finally look at Steve and the raw look in his eyes feels like a punch in the gut. ”You told me you can’t do this anymore. Do you remember that, huh? You said and I quote: ’I can’t keep on watching you destroy yourself and do nothing. You won’t let me help you and you don’t want to change. What other choice do I have?’ That’s what you said Steve.” He raises a brow and sneers. ”So tell me, who decided and what on their own, Steven?”
”Did it ever occur to you that I was afraid? That I was scared out of my mind that I’d lose the only person who made me feel at home in this crazy new world? That the man I love thinks so little of himself that he’s willing to sacrifice himself without a second thought because he’s been conditioned since childhood to believe he’s expendable and a waste of space?” Steve’s voice rises to a shout and he’s breathing hard, his heart thundering in his ears.
Tony stares at him with wide eyes.
Steve shakes his head and drops his eyes on the floor, follows the scorch marks that veer slightly to the right before ending in what looks like a pirouette. ”What I did—what I said…it was a shitty thing to do, Tony. I know that. And I’m sorry. Just—” his voice catches in his throat and he looks up, tilts his head. ”Tell me what to do. Tell me how to help you to trust me.”
For a moment, the workshop is silent. Then Tony looks sharply to the side, clears his throat, and stands up. ”No need,” he says and turns abruptly to him. He’s wearing a dazzling smile that almost masks the wet look in his eyes. ”It’s probably better this way anyway.”
”No, it isn’t!” Steve insists. ”Tony, I—”
A shrill alarm drowns out his words.
”Well. How about that,” Tony says with a small, amused smile and saunters into the middle of the workshop, spreading his hands wide. Steve is forced to take a step to the side as the Iron Man armor builds itself around Tony, piece by piece until all he sees are Tony’s eyes. And then they, too, are gone as the golden faceplate snaps down.
”Don’t wait up,” Tony says through Iron Man’s external speakers.
And then, he’s gone and Steve is left standing in the empty workshop, frustrated and tired to the bone.
”How do you keep doing it?” He asks Agent Coulson several hours later.
The team has finally beaten the mutated sharks into submission and apprehended the unstable teenager behind the chaos. (What do kids even learn these days?) Near the end of the battle, Hawkeye had taken a literal leap of faith and Iron Man had caught him, barely. Steve hadn’t missed the way Agent Coulson’s shoulders had tightened when he’d watched his partner plunge down from the sky.
Agent Coulson doesn’t bother pretending he doesn’t understand what Steve is asking. ”Mostly by sheer stubbornness,” he says dryly while tracking the team through the screens displaying the site. ”And SHIELD has pretty good therapists.”
Despite himself, Steve snorts. It earns him a small smile and the slightest shrug.
”Clint and Tony are surprisingly similar,” Agent Coulson says after a moment. ”Even though they both would deny it to their dying breath. They’ve both grown up in abusive homes, were betrayed by a father figure, and have been forced to push down their hurt to cope. They both have been conditioned to believe they’re never good enough and no matter what they do, they’ll never measure up. They have this deeply ingrained conviction that they’re tolerated because of what they can do—or in Tony’s case, how much money he can spend—but not because of what they are. In fact, they both think that if people truly knew what they are, they’d be shot on sight. Literally.”
He sighs and turns to face Steve. ”Loving someone who’s been hurt like that isn’t easy. Despite everything, the fear of the other shoe to drop lives in the back of their brain, expecting you to finally see them for who they are and decide you’ve gotten enough. They’re so used to it that you staying is a threat because it means there’s something wrong in the way they see themselves.” He shrugs and his lips draw into a sad smile. ”To them, love is a threat.”
Oh, Steve realizes. ”Hence, they try to eliminate it.”
Agent Coulson lets out a non-committal sound. ”The first time Clint broke his arm as a SHIELD operative, he completed the mission and went on two new missions before someone realized something was wrong. He had no idea he had the right for sick leave.” Agent Coulson’s voice is mild as he starts cleaning up the mission logs and gathers up their coffee mugs. ”When he went against orders and brought Tasha in instead of eliminating her, he went on his knees in front of me in the SHIELD hangar, fully expecting to be terminated for insubordination. And when he—” Agent Coulson pauses to take a deep breath. ”When he was under Loki’s command…after the Battle was over… If it hadn’t been for Tasha, who stayed with him day and night, he would’ve killed himself.”
Steve shakes his head. ”It wasn’t his fault.”
”No, it wasn’t,” Agent Coulson agrees. ”But that’s what he still believes because it aligns with what he still thinks of himself. And that’s the man I love. I choose him, every day. And every day I remind him that he isn’t allowed to dictate my feelings. Despite what he thinks about himself, I have the right to love him for what and who he is.”
Steve nods slowly, unsure of what to say.
Agent Coulson closes the door behind him with a soft click, leaving Steve alone with his thoughts and the screen displaying the ruined harbor and above it, a blue, blue sky.
He’s blowing into his hot chocolate in the communal kitchen when Tony stumbles in. At 5:45 am, it’s an early morning for him and clearly a late night for Tony. He has the familiar, slightly manic look in his eyes that means he’s been up for at least 21 hours powered mostly by caffeine and the glee of figuring something out. Perhaps something that will further revolutionize renewable technology.
Or perhaps a sentient toaster.
For a moment, Steve does nothing but watch. He lets his eyes track Tony from head to toe, takes in the way he sways slightly and catches himself on the kitchen counter, the way his hands fly as he keeps on the continuous commentary to Jarvis on things Steve has no hope of truly understanding, the way his lips purse and his brows move as he contradicts himself twenty times over and ends up on yet another tangent as he tries to locate the coffee pot from the fridge. And two things hit Steve as clear as a day and as sure as the sun.
He loves this man and he’s not willing to let him go.
”No more coffee for you,” he says with fond exasperation.
Tony yelps and whirls around with wide eyes. ”Wha—sneaky!”
Steve shrugs, rounds the table, and gently places his hot chocolate mug into his hand. It says a lot about Tony’s level of alertness that he mutely raises the mug and takes a sip, only to blink several times and then frown at the mug like it personally offended him. ”This is not coffee,” he says, betrayed.
Steve sighs. ”How much have you had during the past 24 hours?”
”Four pots and seven espresso shots during the past 36 hours,” Jarvis says.
”Traitor,” Tony mutters.
”Of course, Sir,” Jarvis says.
”Why do I have hot chocolate?” Tony asks but takes another sip anyway. It brings a bit of color to his cheeks, Steve is glad to notice.
”It was mine but you need it more,” he says. ”Drink up.”
Tony keeps grumbling but drinks the chocolate. There’s a certain sluggishness in his movements, the kind that could easily be confused with drunkenness by a stranger. Downing all chocolate takes him some time and when the mug is empty, he’s barely able to keep his eyes open.
”Okay, next, sleep,” Steve says.
”You’re not the boss of me,” Tony mutters haughtily but his indignation is somewhat diminished when he almost walks into a wall.
”Mm… technically, I am,” Steve says, amused, and catches Tony when he stumbles. ”Come on.”
He walks them into the elevator and barely suppresses a snort as Tony leans his forehead against the door and promptly falls asleep. With a small smile, Steve picks him up, and then the door slides open to reveal the dimly lit penthouse, brighter lights leading the way to Tony’s bedroom.
”Thanks, Jarvis,” he half-whispers.
Tony feels light in his arms and the way he curls close to Steve’s chest makes his heart ache. He likes this, the way Tony just fits there, the perfect size to tuck his face against Steve’s throat. Tony puffs soft, warm breaths against Steve’s skin, and his hair is flecked with some suspicious, glittery particles, and Steve doesn’t want to let go of him.
The bed looks like it hasn’t been slept in for a while which isn’t a surprise. Tony tends to pass out in the cot in his workshop if no one herds him back to his bed to sleep and Steve guesses there hasn’t been that someone lately. Tony lets out a disgruntled whine as Steve lowers him on top of the covers but doesn’t react when Steve takes off his shoes and tucks the hideous purple-and-mustard quilt Clint bought Tony for his last birthday over him.
For a moment, he just stands and looks at Tony. Then, before he has the time to talk himself out of it, he lays down next to him and closes his eyes.
In mere moments, he’s asleep.
He wakes up gradually, feeling more content than in ages and the feeling doesn’t dissipate as he blinks his eyes open. The late afternoon sun paints the room golden and makes Tony’s eyes shine as he slowly raises his head from Steve’s chest.
”What are you doing here, Steve?” Tony asks after a moment of confused staring.
”Mostly sleeping until you woke me up,” Steve says.
Tony drops his gaze. ”You should go,” he says, rolling to his back, away from Steve.
”No.”
Tony tenses and starts pushing himself up but Steve refuses to let him go. ”Wait,” he says, catching Tony’s hand in his own. ”I’m sorry,” he says.
If possible, Tony tenses even more.
Undeterred, Steve turns to his side to face him, still holding Tony’s hand against his chest. Tony rests on his other arm and he knows it won’t take long until it’s numb. He doesn’t care.
”I’m sorry for what I said,” Steve says. ”I’m sorry I took my fear and frustration out on you the way I did. I’m so sorry I made you feel like you’re not enough because Tony, you are.” He takes Tony’s hand and brings it to his lips to press a kiss on the bruised knuckles that smell of oil and ozone. ”If you really think it’s better for us to break up—if that’s what you really, truly want, then I’ll respect that. But don’t end us just because I was afraid or because you’re scared. Please.” He closes his eyes and huffs. ”I love you, Tony. You drive me nuts, your complete lack of self-preservation skills is infuriating, and your dietary habits are atrocious, but by God, Tony, I love you.”
Steve opens his eyes and meets Tony’s shocked gaze. ”You make me feel alive, Tony and, even though I’m pretty sure my endocrine system would thank you for a little less excitement, I wouldn’t change it for the world. The whole time I was recovering, I knew I was missing something vital. Everything was perfect and there was something missing. That was you—that is you.” He cups Tony’s cheek and brushes his skin with his thumb. ”I don’t want perfect. I don’t need safe. I want you, explosions, stupid self-sacrificing stunts, coffee overdose, sleep deprivation—all of it!”
He swallows, closes his eyes, and presses his forehead against Tony’s.
”Just…let me love you, Tony.”
For what feels like an eternity, Tony lets out a shuddering breath. ”Okay,” he whispers.
”Thank you,” Steve whispers back and kisses the top of his head. It leaves an oily residue on his lips and he really, truly, couldn’t care less. ”Can we now go back to sleep?” He asks a moment later.
Tony snorts. ”Yeah, sure,” he says in a rough voice and makes no attempt to move away from Steve’s arms.
With a hum, Steve tucks the blanket over them and holds on to Tony as almost imperceptible tremors run along his frame.
Tiny specks of dust dance in the golden light, swirling away as Steve lets out a deep breath.
Yeah, he thinks. We can go back to sleep now.