Chapter Text
A wash of cold air hits Steve, prickling over his face, neck, and upper body when he opens the door of the enormous stainless-steel refrigerator that sits in the Avengers facility kitchen. Goosebumps break out on his skin, and he absentmindedly rubs at his arms. The assorted containers and cartons seated on the refrigerator shelves start to smear into an amorphous mass of color.
“...Cap?” Tony says in a way that implies this isn't the first time he's said it. His voice sounds like it’s coming from a great distance. “Hey, Cap, you all right?”
Steve blinks, twice, quickly, and shakes his head, trying to clear it. In front of him, the indiscriminate jumble of things resolves back into individual items. His glass bottle of whole milk, everyone else’s skim milk, his and Sam’s pulpy orange juice, Bruce’s kombucha, a container of potato salad. He doesn’t know how long he’s been standing there, just staring into the depths of the fridge. Long enough, certainly, for Tony to wonder about it. That’s― There’s a thread of something like worry in Tony’s voice; Steve hears it, wants to label it as worry even though it hurts to hope that’s what it is, hurts with a pins and needles tingle like blood pushing into places that have been asleep for eons. Still, even the mere possibility that Tony’s concerned about him eases the heavy knot in Steve’s stomach just a notch, the one he’s been carrying around since―
He has no idea how long he’s been carrying it around.
He clears his throat roughly and looks down at the floor before he turns, angling his body part way toward Tony, and flashes him a swift glance over his shoulder. “Yeah, Tony. Of course, ‘m fine,” he says. Their gazes don’t meet; Steve aims his eyes just north of Tony’s eyebrows. Coward. A reassuring smile seems like the thing to do, so Steve tries for one. His teeth grit, and he forces his rusty lips into what should be a convincing curve. He swivels back around, facing the fridge before he says, “I was just…” The sentence peters out into slumped shoulders and a whispering sigh that still sounds like the loudest thing in the kitchen.
“Yeah. Next time maybe try for more ‘real boy’ and less Pinocchio,” Tony says, all scathing, dry wit and sarcasm, so very Tony, and oh, how Steve’s missed this. Missed him. “That is, if you actually want to convince anyone you’re fine.”
“I am fine,” Steve insists. He is. Sure, he hasn’t been sleeping much, so he’s tired, even with the serum helping to offset that, but he’s still standing, with his arms, legs, heart, lungs, and every muscle and organ in between functioning. If a threat emerged right then and they needed to assemble, he’d power through. In under five minutes, he’d be dressed in his uniform, all the zips and snaps done up right and tight, shield back in hand because Tony’d returned it to him so many months ago― It’s yours, Rogers. It’ll always be yours. (That means something, doesn’t it? He needs it to mean something.)―heavy boots pounding a familiar, reassuring rhythm up the Quinjet’s ramp in time with the clip-clop of his young-old heart. Ready to meet any threat and fight alongside his team―their team. He’s fine.
“Sure. Of course, you are,” Tony says, tone deceptively mild.
Steve already knows he’s in trouble.
When Steve turns, hands propped on his hips, Tony cocks an eyebrow at him in that Tony way of his that says, You’re full of shit. In fact, you’re full of five Porta Potties’ worth of shit, and I’m going to call you out on it.
“You’re fine.” Eyes scrunched, Tony slashes his pointer finger in Steve’s direction. “I’m fine.” Tony jabs his thumb against his own chest. “We’re all fantastically fine,” he says―with a grin that’s more grimace than anything genuinely happy―and claps his hands in front of him in a gesture that ends with an expansive flourish.
He holds his breath when Tony puts his phone down on the table, pushes his chair back, and starts walking toward Steve, his gait easy and loose. Steve’s fingers tighten on his hips, digging into bone, as Tony gets closer. “Don’t know what you want from me, Tony,” he mumbles.
A foot or so away, Tony stops and slides his hands into his front pockets. His thumbs peek out, though, and stroke the denim in back and forth swipes.
Steve burns. Burns and wonders whether being near Tony will always mean being reduced to ash.
In his slippered feet, Tony’s more than a couple inches shorter than Steve. Unfortunately, this has never bothered Steve. Tipping his head back and baring his throat, Tony peers up at Steve, face melting into considering lines. “What I want from you ?” Tony draws out the final word, gaze fastened to Steve’s, and Steve knows as he stares back that the shape Tony’s mouth forms as it curves around the soft, rounded vowel is going to linger in his eidetic memory for a long, long time. It sends heat flaring to Steve’s face and collecting at the tops of his ears. “Please.” Tony licks his bottom lip. It doesn’t seem intentional, but that also makes no difference to Steve. Just a half-second flicker of tongue and then it’s gone, but God, Steve wants to bend and chase it with his mouth and hands. Tony gives his head a small shake. “You’re the one who promised me eggs and asked me to sleep with you. Me?” Steve would look elsewhere, but he can’t because having Tony’s eyes on him feels good in a way not much else has in quite a while. It’s Tony who finally shifts his gaze away, throat working on a swallow Steve wants to press his lips against so he can taste the motion and feel his warm skin. “I don’t want anything from you.” Tony’s features appear pinched, but only for a split second, before his expression smooths out, and Steve’s left frowning and blinking at him with the same feeling he gets when he takes in artwork that looks just slightly off, wrong, even, because the shadows and highlights haven’t been placed correctly according to where the light source should be.
The declaration hovers and undulates in the air between them, gathering a certain weight and stickiness Steve can almost taste.
Three short, sharp beeps sound, startling Steve enough that he steps to the side, jostling Tony with his body. A warm hand wraps around his wrist and a palm flattens against his chest, just above his heart, pulling him up short and steadying him. The beeping, he realizes, feeling more than a little foolish as he cranes his neck, searching for its source, is just the fridge letting him know he’s left it standing open too long. Steve’s pulse, though, is anything but steady, ricocheting like his shield when he throws it at an enemy or obstacle, as he inhales sharply through his nose and slowly slides his gaze down to where Tony’s fingers still bracelet the fine bones of his wrist. The touch, though surely casual, feels scalding against the thin skin there.
Like a child afraid to spook a wild rabbit and send it dashing away, Steve doesn’t dare move.
Tony hasn’t touched him of his own volition since they first reunited after Thanos. Just a brisk, fleeting Glad you’re still alive handshake, Tony’s palm sliding against his, ending before it even began, over so quickly Steve couldn’t process it. That handshake hadn’t satisfied the need in him that was carved with Tony’s name and Tony’s voice and Tony’s brown eyes laced with green flecks when he stood in sunlight and TonyTonyTonyTony , and it couldn’t possibly have conveyed all the words, thoughts, and feelings Steve had tried so hard to swallow but wound up choking on instead as they backed up like acid in his raw throat since well before his life went and took a fiery express train to hell in Siberia.
He keeps his unblinking gaze trained on the curl of Tony’s fingers around his wrist until his eyes dry and his vision blurs. Only then does he blink and allow his gaze to arc up until it meets Tony’s. Immediately, he wishes he hadn’t because Tony releases him and retreats several steps, brows drawn down, lips flattened, and arms folded over his chest, and no, that’s not at all what Steve wanted, but he supposes what he wants doesn’t much matter―at least when it comes to Tony. His body language couldn’t be a clearer Do Not Enter sign, so when another series of chirps sounds, Steve drags a thumb over the wrist Tony had touched, hoping against hope that he won’t notice the small motion, shoves a pang of disappointment down deep, and then begins pulling things out of the refrigerator and lining them up on the kitchen island. He gets as far as the butter dish before Tony heaves a huge sigh and shuts the fridge doors in his face. He shakes his head and waves his hands at Steve in a shooing gesture.
“But I was going to make eggs and―”
Tony cuts him off with an eye-roll. “I know. Just”―he flaps his hands again, so Steve hunches his shoulders and goes back to the table. Tony’s sharp eyes drift, to Steve’s shoulders if he’s tracking his gaze correctly, and his expression softens noticeably―”sit for a few minutes and let me do this. Then you can go egg wild. Oh, come on, stop it with the kicked puppy eyes, Cap. They don’t work on me anymore.”
They never have, Steve thinks but doesn’t say.
The Cap sparks an involuntary warmth in Steve’s belly, even as he mentally scolds himself to pay it no attention because it doesn’t and can’t mean anything. It means something to me. He settles into his chair again and discovers he can’t help the tiny smile his lips twitch into―even though he tries to hide it with a not-so-subtle swipe of his hand across his face―or the weightless and fluttery sensation that rises in his chest when Tony flicks him an answering smile that’s just as small as his but nonetheless appears real. Precious , Steve thinks, and tucks Tony’s smile into the same cozy, patchwork pocket in his memory where he keeps his ma, Bucky, Peggy and her red-lipped smile, and all his people, including his Howlies.
“What are you going to make?” Steve asks, pitching his voice a little louder than he usually would so Tony can still hear him from where he’s disappeared into the large pantry. Bottles clink and bags rustle, presumably as Tony rummages around in the pantry, searching for what exactly Steve has no idea.
Tony pops his head out of the pantry and waves a medium-sized jar of honey. “Warm milk and honey,” he answers. There’s something about the way he says it that curls under Steve’s skin and pricks his curiosity. A gentle, nearly melancholy note rings, sustained, just beneath the surface of Tony’s words; a mirrored tone peals in Steve, and he stiffens. When Tony emerges from the pantry, he closes the door behind him, leaning back against it with his eyes closed. One hand clutches the honey, the other taps the center of his thigh. That’s Tony for as long as Steve’s known him: in motion even when he’s still. “It’s good for sleep.” Since Tony’s eyes are shut, Steve takes advantage of that to soak him in—the way his eyelashes form a dark crescent above his cheeks; how the hair next to his ear moves into a small curl that looks so soft that his fingertips itch, first to touch it and second to draw it; the way light and shadow seduce each other around his nose and mouth. Not more than a handful of seconds pass before Tony’s eyes blink open and Steve tries not to look like he was just staring at him. “Mostly Jarvis and sometimes”—Tony clears his throat and scratches at the corner of his mouth with his free hand—“sometimes my mom used to make it for me before bed or if I had trouble sleeping.”
Steve has to clench his fists to keep from crossing the kitchen and going to Tony to offer him comfort. Tony might want comfort. He might even need it, but Steve’s certain he doesn’t want it from him. Bile creeps up his throat, sour and hot, but he forces it back. “I’m sorry, Tony,” he says, “for so many things. I didn’t mean— I never wanted to hurt you.” Short sentences comprised of small words that don’t begin to encompass the swirling clot of things Steve thinks and feels. Words have never been his closest friends, though.
Not in the moment. Not when it mattered. Not now, certainly.
“Yeah. I know. Got your note and that stupid flip phone.” There’s a sardonic twist to Tony’s mouth that yanks the bottom right out of Steve’s stomach. “Carried that dinosaur around with me everywhere, did you know that? Here’s a fun fact for you: it never rang.” Before Steve can respond, Tony shakes his head and raises his free hand in a gesture that means stop. “You’re gearing up to say something. I can see it on your face. Whatever it is you want to say, whatever it is you think you should say, just don’t, okay?”
Despite Tony’s words and despite the plea Steve hears in them, he can’t help himself. “Tony, please—“
“No,” Tony says, interrupting him. The thunk of the honey jar as he places it on the counter is a gunshot. Armorless, Steve flinches. “We’re not doing this right now. I am not doing this. Last time it tore apart the team. Our team. And our team matters way more than you or I do." Tony's fingers weave through his hair, light speared through dark, rumpling and tugging until Steve rolls his shoulders and bites his lips so he won't loose the scream that's building in the aching cavern of his chest. "We open that Pandora’s box all the way and there’s no telling what’ll come crawling out.”
It’s not that he doesn’t agree that the team as a whole matters more than he and Tony do as individuals. All he has to do is look at Thanos and there’s his proof that they’re stronger as a unit. Steve has to try, anyway, because that’s who he is and he still hasn't learned how to be someone else. “Just listen to me for five minutes. That’s all I’m asking for.”
“What you’re asking for, I can’t give you. Not right now, and maybe never.” He razes Steve with a brittle look that turns the unspoken words in Steve’s throat to dust. “Cap,” he says, softly, as if he’s begging for understanding; Steve, he remembers begging, too, even if it was mostly silently, for Tony to understand about Bucky, and Tony’s parents, and Steve’s lies of omission, and this time hearing Tony call him Cap doesn’t feel like unexpected grace. Instead, it leaves Steve hollow, like someone took a dull knife and gutted his insides before tossing him on the ground and leaving him there to flop around and gasp, helplessly, for air. “We broke something.”
We broke something.
Not I or you. We.
Maybe if there’s any comfort to be found here, it’s in that―in knowing they're both culpable.
The worst part―the absolute worst part of all this―is that Steve knows Tony isn’t simply being cruel. At least, not on purpose. If he was, then Steve could dismiss his words and the look on his face as he said them. No, Tony’s telling the truth as he sees it, and while it would be easier if Steve could fault him for that, he can’t. “Can we...Do you think we can fix it?” He asks the question without knowing how he’d answer it himself.
Tony chews his lip, appearing deep in thought, and Steve appreciates that he doesn’t immediately throw back something quippy and cutting just for the sake of answering. Finally, he sighs and looks at Steve. “Honestly, I don’t know.”