Chapter Text
Tony thought seeing everyone again would be a lot of things: maddening, tense, a struggle, painful. He was prepared for all of those things. He’d been feeling all of those things since crawling back to the near-empty Avengers compound to lick his wounds.
It turns out to be horrendously awkward, is what it is. And that’s not entirely true either because it’s Natasha who comes back first. She shows up on his front step three months after Siberia and it’s all of those things. Tony gets angry and his skin feels askew. All at once he wants to slam the door in her face and sweep her up in a hug.
He does neither. He moves back half a step to let her in, she doesn’t apologize but she does enter, and they dance around each other for four days before Natasha decides enough is enough. It’s well after midnight and well before dawn when she shows up in the workshop, eyes growing wide when her old codes still get her in (Tony knows, there’s video proof, he’s seen it). Tony turns to meet her and she’s brought coffee, doesn’t even try to hand it to him, just sets it on the nearest workbench, and Tony’s heart warms despite himself. Probably because he’s had no other human interaction in those four days, but still.
“You were just trying to help us,” she says then, and it should sound like pointing out the obvious, but Tony’s been so afraid that nobody could tell, all he feels is sharp relief. “It might’ve even worked, too.”
“Probably not,” Tony says, a little breathless but steady.
She closes the gap between them and puts a hand on top of his. After a moment, he flips his hand and squeezes her fingers, eyes averted. She beats a hasty retreat seconds later, and Tony asks FRIDAY to scan the coffee, but it’s clean, and they both show up for breakfast the next morning, so it’s okay on some level. Rhodey’s in the city for physical therapy and Vision doesn’t eat, so Tony even appreciates the company.
Two weeks later, Natasha convinces him to start woking on the pardons for the rogue Avengers. Tony screams, and a few tears might even spill down his face, and Natasha just stands there and takes it. That part's pretty terrible.
Exactly one month after the pardons have been issued (because of course he goes through with it), the world almost ends again. This is when the rest of the (no longer technically rogue) Avengers show up and they kick ass and take names and it’s glorious up until they’ve actually won and then it’s just…horrendously awkward.
They’re all standing around the compound because there’s no SHIELD to report to anymore and there’s available medical for anyone who needs to be looked over. Everyone’s here from the rogue crew: Clint, Wanda, Scott, Steve, Sam, T’Challa (who never was one of the rogue Avengers, but Tony’s not an idiot and it takes someone rich as Tony or T’Challa to feed a super soldier). Everyone but Bucky. But, to be frank, Tony’s tired. He has bruised ribs and he’s exhausted physically and emotionally, and he’s not going to ask where Barnes is. Vision’s here too, but he never left, and so is Natasha. Rhodes is doing better but nowhere cleared for active duty yet.
Tony’s jarred out of his mind by Clint, who’s suddenly very very there and taking up his field of vision all at once. Tony starts badly but he recovers quickly. Clint has the decency to look sheepish.
“Stark.” He nods and doesn’t say anything scathing, which is actually a huge improvement over the harshness of the civil war and the cold quiet of this last mishap.
“Barton.” Tony raises an eyebrow at the hurt look he gets in response. Once upon a time he would’ve said “birdbrain” or “Legolas” or something witty. God, he’s tired.
“I was…” Tony can actually see the moment Clint realizes how ridiculous this whole thing is, and shakes himself a little. “I need a jet, I need to go home to my family,” he says resolutely, all-in. Tony still respects him. He thinks the others might be watching from where they’re all sitting around in the living room and kitchen, but he doesn’t look.
“No,” Tony says. Instead of getting angry, Clint looks like his heart is breaking. Tony definitely doesn’t have the patience for this shit. He rolls his eyes.
“Look—“ Clint starts.
“Nope,” he says.
“Tony…”
And there’s Steve’s disappointed voice. It makes Tony want to throw a chair. That voice has never once made him want to be calm or rational. Tony whirs around to face the man, and only just keeps from balling his fists up or baring his teeth.
“Everyone’s staying here tonight,” he grinds out. “Except T’Challa. You’re free to go whenever you wish, Your Highness,” he adds to the man beyond Steve’s shoulder where he’s sitting on a plush chair.
“You can’t—“ Steve starts to say, and Tony is done.
“We’re all due to debrief with a UN representative in the morning,” Tony says, eyes still locked with T’Challa’s surprisingly understanding ones. “You may have all been pardoned, but the Accords are still in place, and you will follow them. We can talk amendments tomorrow afternoon when debrief is over, or you can crawl back to Wakanda. I don’t give a shit.”
When Tony looks, Steve is watching him steadily. Tony doesn’t back down and Steve doesn’t move to challenge the statement.
“Why should we?” And that’s Wanda, sitting at the kitchen island. Tony moves his gaze to her but keeps his body squared towards Steve. “If they’re just going to let us come back and help when there’s real trouble, why should we stay? Why do we need to deal with the Accords at all?”
“I never said you should,” Tony says evenly. Wanda seems to shrink in on herself even as she sits up straighter, and Tony feels a little bad about that, but not bad enough to take it back. He turns back to Clint. “You can take a Quinjet tomorrow. Until then, they’re all locked down. FRIDAY?”
“Already done, Boss.”
“Thanks, doll.”
There are things that need to be dealt with. The others need to sign the Accords or there are going to be problems. He should tell them that their rooms are still intact. He should ask T’Challa if he can stay until tomorrow or if he needs to get back to running his country. He should call to tell Rhodey he’s okay. He should sit Steve down and explain the changes in the Accords, the safeguards in place. But, for God’s sake, he’s still in the suit sans the helmet, and there are a couple of plates bent inwards and jabbing at his fucked ribs, so he turns on his heel as smoothly as he can and gets in the elevator.
“To the ’shop?” FRIDAY asks.
“Yeah,” he sighs. “We’re gonna need to take the suit off carefully.”
“Understood, Boss.”
***
Half an hour later Tony’s stretched out on the workshop cot. One of the panels had sliced him pretty good, and he had his shirt off, a cloth held to his ribs, and bruises forming over the rest of his torso. That’s how he’s lying when the elevator dings and FRIDAY announces Clint’s arrival.
“Hey,” Tony says when Clint doesn’t. Clint stops in front of the cot and puts his hands on his hips.
“Our rooms are the same as we left them,” he finally says. It sounds like an accusation.
“Why,” Tony says, turning his head to look at Clint without sitting up, “wouldn’t they be?”
“Why would they be?” Clint shoots back. Tony blinks. He didn’t loose that much blood at all but he’s in an adrenaline drop and a little slow on the uptake.
“You know…What the fuck, Barton, you know Nat and I got the pardons pushed through a month ago. We were planning on bringing you back.”
Clint stares at him and he just stares back. What kind of a person does Clint think he is? What the fuck? Eventually Clint just mumbles his thanks and retreats. Tony closes his eyes.
***
When he opens them, he’s freezing. Must’ve fallen asleep. He wonders what woke him up and almost jumps out of his skin when he hears Steve calling his name softly. Unfortunately, when he jerks in surprise he must twist wrong, because he can feel the blood start to flow from his side again and he curses to himself.
“Tony?” Steve asks hesitantly.
“FRIDAY, lights, please.”
The lights come up and Steve’s there, in the workshop, about four meters away, and it’s still too close. Tony isn’t afraid of the man, but he hates the distance between them now. He closes his eyes.
“You’re bleeding," Steve says. He sounds hurt and Tony, for the life of him, can’t figure out why.
“I fell asleep,” Tony explains, but that doesn’t wipe the look from Steve’s face. “It’s not deep,” he tries next, because it’s really not. He’s not sitting down here bleeding out, it doesn’t even need stitches.
Steve’s still frowning, though, and his eyes dart around the workshop before settling to the left. He starts walking so determinedly and so quickly that Tony’s system gets another tiny shock of adrenaline. He tracks Steve across the room to a cabinet where he pulls out the first aid kit and starts walking toward the cot.
“Rogers…” He’s wary of this, of Steve, helping, pretending nothing’s wrong, but he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s supposed to say, and neither does Steve.
“You’re bleeding,” he says again, popping the kit open and kneeling in front of Tony. Tony sits up and looks down at Steve as he sorts through the supplies. His hands are gentle the way Steve is always gentle, hyperaware of the serum, of the strength in even the very tips of his fingers. He doesn’t ask Tony if what he’s doing is okay, just gets to work because it needs to be done.
“I don’t think you should be doing this,” Tony says and, huh, he doesn’t sound angry or bitter or scared at all. Just…tired. Kind of flat. Steve huffs out a fast breath.
“It’s too high on your ribs,” Steve explains, dabbing slowly at the fresh and caked-on blood. “If you keep twisting to clean it, it’ll keep bleeding.”
“I know.” And Tony doesn’t know why he sounds so soft all of a sudden, like he’s letting Steve down easy. Earlier he’d wanted to scream the words in his face, stuff them down his throat, give him a taste of his own medicine. “But it’s not a scale, Steve.”
Steve’s movements stutter, so Tony thinks he understands.
“Each cut you patch up doesn’t undo one you made,” he continues. Steve takes a deep breath and picks up the disinfectant spray. Tony doesn’t stop him. “This isn’t how it works.”
“I know,” Steve says.
“No,” Tony says, “you don’t.”
“I do, though.” Steve’s hands are so gentle, so careful. Tony can’t decide if he wants to bury his face in Steve’s hair or choke the life out of him, so he does neither. Steve’s voice is gentle, too, sad. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
“I’m not afraid of you,” Tony says vehemently, and he promptly wants to smack himself for even hinting at the emotional wound he’s carrying. He hates, despises feeling so volatile, so unsteady. Steve’s hands have frozen against Tony’s ribs and the silence rings around them. Steve finishes quickly then.
“You shouldn’t need stitches but you’ll need to be careful about it for a few days,” he tells Tony.
“Awesome,” Tony deadpans. Steve’s fingers linger, trail down, settle on his knee and squeeze.
“I’m sorry,” Steve says with feeling. Tony sighs.
“What did you come down here for?”
Steve’s hand falls away and he stands.
“We ordered pizza,” he says. “There wasn’t a crumb in the entire compound.”
“Right,” Tony says. “I could eat. Hey, hand me that shirt?”
***
Seeing the crown king of Wakanda eating pizza in his living room is one of the stranger sights Tony can remember walking into. It shouldn’t be considering the Chitauri and the wormhole and thawing out Captain America, but it is for some reason.
“King T’Challa,” Tony greets and shoves half a piece of pizza into his mouth. T’Challa and Natasha are sitting around a coffee table in the living room, and they look like the most neutral group, so Tony flocks to them.
“Dr. Stark,” T’Challa returns and Tony half chokes on his slice. Natasha pounds him on the back and T’Challa looks bemused.
“Please, God, call me Tony.”
T’Challa hums and pops another pepperoni in his mouth.
“Please, Tony. T’Challa is sufficient. I’m no God.”
“You got it, kitttycat,” Tony says around his tears of laughter. He likes this one.
***
Truth is, it’s all those things. It hurts and it’s hard and spectacularly frustrating, but those are things he knows how to deal with. He has some experience with being uncomfortable in his own body what with Afghanistan and all, not to mention being in the media spotlight for his pubescent years. Betrayal isn’t even a new feeling for him, but he’s never opened his house up to someone after they’ve left him for dead. He’s never had to pretend everything’s okay, force things to be okay for the good of the world, for the good of people he’s not even sure he likes anymore. He’s a mechanic, he itches to fix things for real instead of this emotional crap.
***
T’Challa regretfully has to leave after dinner. He shakes Tony’s hand before he goes and promises to call in for the debrief. Tony doesn’t know anything about the man, not really, but he feels like he’s loosing an ally. Which is ridiculous. Tony doesn’t need allies in his own home. (He shouldn’t need allies in his own home.)
When he gets back to the communal area, everyone looks dead on their feet. Tony claps, and a few pairs of eyes roll to look at him.
“Right-o, chaps.” He points at Scott. “Lang, pick any unoccupied room for tonight. After debrief tomorrow, same rules as Barton. You can either keep the room or go home to your family. Or both.” He sweeps his gaze around the rest of them before settling on Natasha. “The rest of you, your rooms are still yours. The Avengers Compound doesn’t belong to me, I couldn’t take them from you if I tried.”
“Are you living here?” Sam asks, not harshly, but his eyes are sharp.
“Off and on,” Tony answers vaguely. “And I can’t disappear altogether. No offense, Wilson, but the UN doesn’t trust a single one of you besides T’Challa, and the man has responsibilities beyond…this.”
“Ah,” Sam says, nodding. “So you have been living here.”
Tony rolls his eyes.
“Is this about the fridge again? I’ll have food delivered by morning, I promise. Just, nobody attack the delivery person in the middle of the night.”
“I think we can manage,” Clint says.
“Alright.” Tony claps his hands again. “Break!”
***
When he gets to his room, Tony asks for the standard “last minute updates” from FRIDAY, even as he peels back the covers and tosses his clothes toward the basket. FRIDAY’s gotten better at filtering priority information, especially at night. She shows him a report from T’Challa already, and Tony thinks he must’ve been working on it beforehand. It tells him who their UN delegate will be in the morning, where Barnes is (Tony wishes he’d been drinking something just so he could’ve done a spit take, because what the hell, Rogers went to all that trouble to stick his friend back in the freezer?), and which Avengers have shown the most animosity when speaking of him during their time in Wakanda. Clint and Wanda are at the top of the list, and Tony’s not surprised, but he is grateful towards the king.