Chapter Text
It was late in the afternoon, and dark already. When Tony heard the knocking on the door, in the middle of the fucking Alps, he knew well who it was. After all, he had invited him over. He checked his stupid tablet for reception once again, but no use. Sneezed. Blew his nose one more time, but it was futile, really, because he apparently had a nice snot industry going there; there was no stopping the machinery once it was, quite literally, running. He walked to the door, opened it.
"Tony," Steve said. A gust of wind blew inwards, showering Tony's feet with whiteness, making him shudder. He wrapped the bathrobe tighter about him and sneezed again. Fished for a handkerchief in his pocket.
It was the first time Tony had seen Steve since Siberia, and of course it had to be amidst all the snow and cold, all over again. It was his own fault entirely, that it happened here. Seemed like a good idea at the time.
Steve was – Steve, strangely Steve-like in all his Steveness, despite a three-day beard and skiing goggles pushed to the top of his head. He had a skiing onesie on, a dark blue one with red and white details (because, of course he would pick that pattern, of course). It looked brand new. So brand new Tony could almost believe it was still in the shop window, despite the evidence to the contrary.
Steve wore an insecure half-smile and no beanie (the idiot). Snowflakes played in his hair. If he stood there much longer, he would probably turn into Olaf. He held his skis in his left hand like a foreign body of undisclosed loyalties.
Tony knew he should say something. He knew that. This took too long. But when he finally opened his mouth, the only thing that came out was a weak cough (into his hankie, carefully).
Tony forced himself to step back so that Steve could come in. Steve, however, seemed frozen at the door.
"You're sick?" His voice sounded mildly worried.
A nod. Then, since Tony felt a better explanation was in order, he added: "I have a mother and a father of all colds, thanks very much for asking, and the electricity's out too." Needlessly whiny, he mused. He paused for a second. "I can't talk tonight, Cap."
Because, that was the point, really. That was why Steve had asked to see him, that was why Tony said yes. Talk. Tony glared at the man. Perhaps undeservedly, but suddenly he was angry. It was easier that way. Anger was easier than the cold dread that had been snacking on him like a woodworm ever since they'd agreed on the arrangement. "I can't talk," he repeated somewhat viciously and stepped forward, as if to block the way. We don't have to talk, he wanted Steve to say. We don't have to talk, we don't have to do anything you don't want to. Let's just sit in peace and...
Instead, Steve looked stubborn. "I thought that was why I came here. I thought that was the purpose."
All the way here, to this Swiss backwater that can only be found via GPS, on the one day you picked out, was just implied.
Tony knew he was right, he knew this was deserved. And he wasn't feeling that bad, really, apart from the nose and the cough. He didn't even have a proper headache. But he also suddenly knew, with all his being, that he couldn't do this. Not because he was drowning in snot, nor because his knees were jelly (all that was surmountable). He just couldn't do it, and it was all there was to it, this had been a bad idea from the start. The apologies had been politely exchanged, there were a few polite voice messages, and he should have kept it at that. Politeness was good. Closeness wasn't. (Closeness was pain and dread, closeness was a million tiny needles stuck in your heart.)
He gestured at his swollen nose and his runny eyes. "Well, as you can see, I can't," he snapped.
Steve's face closed up. He was reading Tony right, Tony was sure of it.
"Are you sure about this?" It sounded strangely final.
Tony just nodded.
"I'll just go, then, shall I," Steve said, but it wasn't a question at all.
Irritation surged up in Tony. "Fine."
Steve turned away, put his skis down on the ground. Tony slammed the door at his back.
Fuck this.
Tony made all of one step away from the door, when the realization hit him, when it crashed home. He practically fell over his feet, throwing himself back at the door, yanking at the doorknob.
"Cap!" he yelled into the night, pushing at the door against the wind. He yelled on top of his voice (his throat punished him with searing, scratching pain at once, as well as with a sad, dry sound that was half-cough and half-whimper).
Steve was of course standing right there, as if he'd never even moved away, his right hand raised as if to knock again. (The skis still lay on the ground behind him, though.)
They stared into each other's eyes for a moment.
"You are not skiing off into the night, alone, in the middle of a blizzard, you ass," Tony snapped, at the same time as Steve said: "I'm not leaving you here sick, with no electricity, miles away from civilization."
It was a little funny, almost, Tony thought, the way they could glare daggers at each other. There was probably no better glarers than the two of them to be found in Switzerland. Or was that glarists? Glaristi?
"Don't stand there in the snow in your slippers," Steve added sourly, for good measure.
Tony moved back, a step, then two. He wore Howard's old bathrobe on top of his clothes (he had found it in his parent's bedroom, as if it had been put away yesterday, in an armoire that still smelled of mothballs). On his feet he had Maria's old slippers. To her eternal consternation, his mom had had huge feet, for a woman. Howard always said they were there to balance her grace and beauty out, and to keep her honest. He said they were counterweights that kept her from floating away towards the heavens. He said he would never get tired of charming her over and over again (although, in the end, he did).
Tony hadn't come here again since the day they died – not until now. In this place, it hadn't been 25 years.
He stepped back, and Steve picked up his skis and stepped in. Shook the snow from his hair like a big dog, took off his goggles, hanged them on the coat rack. Closed the door behind him.
Maybe it isn't too late after all, Tony thought.
Then, as an afterthought: To keep all the warmth from leaking out of the room, naturally. Because that was what he was talking about. It really was.
***
It had begun with a letter; there were two or three texts after that, soon to be replaced with voicemails. Steve wouldn't have chosen voicemails per se, but since Tony never picked up when he called, it was better than nothing. He always found a recorded message from Tony in his inbox afterwards, although he had no idea how it had got there. He was completely sure the phone never even rang. Tony would calmly apologize for being unable to talk at the moment. Sometimes gave a perfunctory reason, mostly not even that. But he never called Steve for real, not to talk. A pattern was emergent as much as getting beaten over the head with a hammer could be called emergent.
Steve resigned himself to this, bit by bit. The work on the Accords was limping along somehow (Steve gave his – very thoughtful and careful – suggestions to Clint to pass along to Natasha, who gave them to Tony even before they started the so-called talking). He went for a hearing with the U.N. Some countries abjured his fugitive status, some didn't. Nothing was finished yet, but there was work being done in that department.
Both Tony and Steve had apologized to each other, via voice messages. Accepted. They proceeded to exchange small, unimportant news this way, on and off. Asked after each other's health. They would fill a few minutes with noise, then hang up.
In the beginning, when Sam asked, Steve insisted he would fix this. He and Tony were friends, they cared about each other, right? They could overcome this.
It had been months.
Months of horrors of forced small talk and unnatural politeness they had never stooped to before. And it was pretty much always he who took the initiative.
Everything was becoming clear as day.
Perhaps relentlessness wasn't always a virtue, he figured. Perhaps you shouldn't be doing something all day, or month or year, even if you could. He couldn't force Tony to reconcile with him for real. Perhaps the ability to let go of a hope was a virtue too, sometimes.
Once, he told himself. He would ask one more time, directly, and that will be it.
Hello. Hi. It's Steve. How are you doing of late? Listen, Tony, I... want to say something. I know you haven't forgiven me for my part. I'm beginning to think you never will. Do you think we could try to talk about it? Face to face? That is, if you want to. If you say no, or if you say... something like 'what are you talking about, Cap, we're all good' – well, I'll know. I'll leave you alone. Actually, just tell me what you want and I'll do it. I still consider you my friend, Tony, and... Well, I figured you probably don't return those feelings right now, but I would like a second chance. If not, all right. Your choice is your choice. I am going to miss you. And we can still work together when we need to, no question about that. But this right now is... I would really like a chance to talk to you, that's all, so please let me know.
He knew he wasn't really skilled with words. Braced for the likely outcome, he left the message. Already, he missed so many people in his life; he knew what to do with that, it was almost a special skill set. Loss was an old friend. He could wrap himself in it, keep it close to his heart and make it his armor. It wouldn't be the first time.
Not knowing was what he couldn't take. A man is an animal cursed with undying hope, and that was his problem.
Almost 24 hours went by. And then the telephone actually rang. Hope bucked and went wild in seconds.
"Tony?"
A sigh. "Hi, Cap." In the two short words, he could hear arrant weariness that had been absent from Tony's earlier messages and especially from Tony's public appearances. There was something genuine about it now. Too tired to pretend. "How's it going?"
Did you get my message? That was a stupid thing to say. What wasn't?
Silence stretched.
Then, Tony again. (He was always the more talkative one anyway.) "Look, what I wanted to tell you is... I really don't have the time for this."
Steve's heart fell. Hope fled, the fickle beast that it was, to be replaced by... anger? No, resigned frustration would be a more accurate description, perhaps. Tony had left him to wait, and then, for the first time, he actually rang – just to tell him no, apparently; to flush the hope out just so he could squish it more thoroughly.
"Don't you huff at me," Tony snapped. (Steve hadn't been aware of doing it; he compressed his lips.) "You still aren't cleared to enter the States," Tony went on. "I don't have the time to go gallivanting with you around the world. If you want, come by my cabin in the Swiss Alps next Friday, I'll be there. I'm hosting some kind of a corporate retreat, don't ask, it's something that I..." Tony fell silent mid-sentence, as if deliberately cutting off the flow of words. He took an audible breath. Somehow managed to sound even more tired. "Anyway. They are coming on Saturday. If you come by on Friday, we can talk in the evening, if that's what you want. I'll send you the coordinates. You could drive, I suppose, but honestly, the weather may be a little shifty..."
"Chopper and parachute," Steve interjected.
"Yeah, that might work better."
"I'll come."
"All right, then."
"Tony, I..."
"Look," Tony interrupted. "Can we skip the apologies and such? We've both said our pieces. Let's say we're done with that. I don't have the stomach. I'll meet up with you, and we'll talk. Since you sounded so fucking sad. Look, I want to see you too. I do. But, honestly, I'm not sure anything good will come out of this."
"Thank you."
Tony hung up.
Hope inclined its head and smiled shyly.
***
Something in Tony's stomach shifted to make room for a surprising little prickle of warmth as he regarded Steve taking off his onesie, still all flushed from the exertion and the cold. His eyes glinted in the firelight. Having him here was... not an act of rebellion, precisely.
"Can I have a friend come with us?" Tony had asked of Howard just once, when he was fifteen.
"You can invite a friend your own age, I suppose," Howard had replied calmly, well aware Tony didn't have any he'd want to bring along, and Rhodey was twenty at the time, and they both knew it was him Howard was referring to, and it wasn't the age that had been the problem for him.
Asshole.
But Howard would have approved of Steve being here, Tony thought. Even (infuriatingly enough) after everything that had happened. He would never not approve of Steve. And while Tony would normally find this thought a point of huge annoyance, here, in this place, where his childhood memories came to die, it was strangely comforting.
Mixed feelings galore, he mused. The story of my life.
Howard would have been jealous, he realized suddenly, and it was kind of amusing, but he was to devoid of energy to care about any of this.
Which was... well, one big fat lie, but he kept telling it to himself in case it worked. He sneaked a look at Steve, at the familiar way he moved, the life he was bringing to everything around him. Tony couldn't decide if this kind of liveliness was a sacrilege or exactly what this place needed right now. But it was disturbing Tony's melancholy and he wasn't sure how he felt about that.
"Want me to put some more wood on the fire?" Steve asked. The flames looked vigorous enough to Tony. When he'd come here, that morning, it was ice-cold in the house and it smelled of agedness and dust. Fire smelled new.
Still, "Nope," he said.
A pressure to talk seemed strong, and crippling, and the only way it could be conquered was perhaps by talking about something else.
"The wood's over there, in the chest." He nodded his head to the left. "In case you need it. Out through that door is the kitchen. I brought some supplies with me, so there's no need to cook. Also, it's freezing ass cold in there. I lit the fire in my bedroom, too. Actually, the stove is in the wall between there and my... my old bedroom, so both rooms are going to be warm enough. You can sleep there. If you have to go to the bathroom, better take a jacket or piss in the pot, I don't care. I don't recommend showering, and besides, the pipes might be frozen anyway. If you need water, melt some snow. I have people that take care of this place, on and off; I honestly don't know what they were thinking."
***
In his wicking pants and a fleece sweatshirt, Steve felt strangely naked. This was ridiculous, he realized; Tony had seen him in his undersuit a million times. And he sort of avoided looking at Steve too much anyway, as he pointed stuff out around the cottage from his blanket fortress on the couch.
It was a little chilly in here, Steve had to admit, and he could have sworn there was a draft. (If he mentioned it, Tony would say something on the lines of 'it must be something only old people can feel'.) (No, he probably wouldn't, not any more.)
Steve had eyes only for him. Tony looked pudgy and young in a ratty old bathrobe, with an ancient pair of red sweatpants underneath. And regular knit woolly socks. There was something endearing about the picture, or there would be if Tony's eyes weren't as guarded, the muscles around his lips as tight.
Steve studied his face furtively as Tony talked about how Steve could take the small bedroom to the left. He looked tired, and it wasn't just the sickness. That tiredness seemed to be chronically etched into Tony's features; the fact hurt Steve almost physically. He felt it resonate in his own muscles. God, Steve had missed him so. Just being in the same room with him seemed surreal. And still, it was deeply uncomfortable as they avoided looking at each other, as they tiptoed around each other.
Tony caught his studying look and arched an eyebrow at him. This wasn't accompanied with a smile. Steve fled to the appointed bedroom to dump his things, then, a minute later, he came back.
***
Tony watched Steve move around, noticed him take in his surroundings once again – the dusty mantelpiece with a big, kitschy grandmother clock on it (this was a graveyard of unwanted presents), sharing the space with an old alternator and a glass jar of 2d nails. Howard had loved fixing the cabin himself. The room was lit by the fire and a single candle Tony had dug up from the kitchen drawer and slapped into a coffee cup because he couldn't be bothered to look for a candlestick. The couch and a pair of armchairs had paled with age and dust. The bookshelves were, of course, timeless.
It was too intimate. Every object in here tugged at a different spot in Tony's heart. (Every person here, present and absent, tugged at something too.)
I shouldn't have come here. He'd known that from the moment he'd stepped in. The new, small, shabby image of the place was battling for dominance with the way he remembered it, and he still wasn't sure which prospect would end up on top.
Steve seemed to be reading his thoughts. As he wiped his skis, very conscientiously, and checked them for dings, he said: "Is this where you are going to be hosting your corporate retreat?" He didn't look at Tony as he said it, and for some reason that was infuriating.
The mild incredulity in his voice spoke volumes. Tony bristled.
"Nothing wrong with the cabin," he said. The attempt at a cutting tone was spoiled by another sneeze. The hankie was embroidered silk, he'd found it tucked into the pocket of the bathrobe. That was what mom did. Always put clean handkerchiefs into the pockets of their clothes.
"Oh, don't get me wrong," Steve said looking around, eyebrows raised appreciatively. "I love the place."
"You do?"
"Yes, it's homey. It's just not... It doesn't look like you."
Tony had about a dozen possible replies to that, one snarkier than the next, but in the end he just sighed and muttered "Oh, who cares", inconsequentially, and dug himself deeper into his blankets. (The dust made him sneeze again. He should have taken the cleaner ones from the bedroom, but he'd wanted the old things from the upper floor with the red and brown pattern he remembered from his early childhood.)
Steve came over, sat on a stool opposite Tony. Made an attempt at a smile. (Which... didn't look half so bad, Tony mused.) "Can I make you some tea or something?"
Tony shook his head. Having Steve here filled him with strange longing: he wasn't sure for what exactly.
"I just meant, the places where you live tend to be more... well, modern?" Steve said, seemingly caressing the timber walls with his eyes.
A pang of pity in Tony's chest caught him by surprise. It was hardly possible for him to really understand Steve's feeling of displacement in the 21st century. It was there, he knew, but he could never penetrate the outer membrane of it. But now, here, where the past was almost alive... Imagine stepping out from the cabin, the way it was back then, right into a different world, the modern world of the right now? And that would be only 25 years of a time hop. And it would be unbearable.
The empathetic insight shook him slightly.
"I hadn't been back here since mom and dad died, I couldn't stand it", he heard himself confess. Where the hell was that coming from all of a sudden? And then, the compassion that shone in Steve's face was too much, and a quick step back for Tony was in order, a retreat into the practical. "There used to be electricity here and everything," he added hurriedly. "There's an old TV – a huge, thick one, you've never seen anything like it, I think – it's in their old bedroom. And a VCR. That's... never mind. The wiring must've gotten screwy at some point. I felt too shitty to look into it today. But I didn't think the place would look like this. I could have had someone refurbish it, get new furniture..."
He knew he was babbling. If it'd looked any other way, it would have been devastating, he realized.
"But your people didn't let you know about the electricity problem and the possible pipe problem?" Steve asked.
Tony opened his mouth to reply; reconsidered. "You know what," he admitted then, "I've honestly no idea. I didn't pay much attention."
"But tomorrow..." Steve began. Why the hell was he worrying about that? Another sweeping look around, this time more assessing than appreciative. "Can I help somehow?" Because it was Steve, ever helpful; and yes, obviously, you couldn't have top level corporate people in a place like this, that was painfully clear. Luckily:
"I don't think anyone's coming, Cap," Tony admitted. (Tony hadn't planned to tell him that, because it was easier to have an out ready, but now all of a sudden he wasn't so sure he wanted an out.) "The last I checked before I lost the signal, the roads down there were getting snowed in. A freak storm, it wasn't in the forecast, obviously. I mean, the guys could technically take the ski lift to the peak over there" – he nodded towards the western wall – "and ski over with overnight bags, but I don't think anyone will. They'll probably stay in the resort and have fun. These are corporate folks; they are more about decades-old whiskey and shop talk than about the actual skiing."
Steve leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. A real smile hesitated on the verge of existence for a moment, then lit up his face. He seemed to be relaxing by stages. "They could come by chopper, but I didn't see a good landing spot out there. I doubt any of them would be up for parachuting in."
"Nope, not everyone has your war XP."
Look at us, chatting away.
It almost felt more natural than Tony was comfortable with. That was... unexpected.
It wasn't that he hadn't forgiven Steve. He had. They'd both explained; they'd both understood. People screwed up. It happened. He'd wanted to move on, yet he hadn't been sure how to. He hadn't wanted to lose all contact, he had known that much. But the how, the why – it was easier to push the questions away and to work on everything else. Steve's request had felt like an ultimatum.
He didn't know what he wanted from Steve, if he wanted anything.
But having him here, not a yard away, so keen (keen on what?), so achingly familiar - it turned everything on its head. No, Tony didn't want to talk about what had happened. Talking would just dredge up bad old times. There was enough of the past around them as it was. But he didn't want to think too much about the future either. He pretty much just wanted to have this moment stretch indefinitely, with the two of them, in an undefined juxtaposition, and the firelight and the dust and the ancient memories.
It was getting so unduly cozy, actually, that Tony felt a pang of dread. Oh, shit shit shit. A bout of coughing was an almost welcome distraction.
"I..." He stopped; began again. "I don't feel so well, Cap. I think I'm going to go to bed, actually."
The flash of disappointment in Steve's face wasn't supposed to hurt so, was it? Was it?
***
The nervous energy coursing through Steve was pure torment. Tony had gone to bed. Steve got up and folded the blankets the man had left behind. Set them neatly down on a tabouret. Checked the fire again (it still didn't need any more wood added). The room was finally getting pleasantly warm – so much so that the fleece hoodie was becoming torturous, so Steve stripped to his wicking undershirt.
Tony had gone to bed, and just left him here; to Steve it had looked more like an escape than anything else. Closing your postern gate and retreating into the citadel.
He hadn't meant to be imposing. He hadn't, which was why he had asked in the first place. Come over, Cap. But no, I don't want to talk. Go. No, don't go. Stay. But I don't want to talk. So I AM going to go. You stay.
One moment Tony was warm, mellow even – which had immediately mellowed Steve in turn, he realized with chagrin – just to grow cold again in a matter of minutes. Back and forth, back and forth. Like a pendulum. For a few beats there it had been almost homey, sitting there, talking to Tony; more normal then their normal. And then back to the stand-offish, all guards on positions, man the cannons.
(Steve walked to the mantelpiece, inspected the mess, wiped the dust lightly away with his sleeve.)
Why won't he tell me what he wants from me?
Tony could drive him crazy like no one else could. That had been the case since day one. Still, Steve didn't think it'd bothered him this much back then (not so deeply, in any case, not on such an essential level).
(He opened the kitchen door, peeked in. Darkness and cold. It felt like a frozen hell.)
The closed door to Tony's room seemed like an affront.
All I'd wanted was to talk. It felt like whining. It was true, though. Have a talk, clear the air. They still had things to say to each other. He wasn't sure what exactly – as for himself, he'd said his piece in a long voice message, and Tony had heard it. He'd responded. That was it, that was all. So why did it feel unfinished? Like there was something there, left between them, either unspoken or broken (Steve couldn't tell). Perhaps this was it, and it couldn't be fixed, and it couldn't be mended or bridged, and he just needed to accept it. Maybe there was no coming back from certain things after all.
(Even more restless, all of a sudden. Pacing back and forth. Trying to read the book spines, but words not reaching further than his eyes.)
Is Tony doing this on purpose? Steve felt guilty immediately. So, he was sick. Well. Am I supposed to be more compassionate? The thing was, he was. There was something primal in him that wanted to wrap Tony in a blanket like a burrito and sit him in front of the fire and feed him soup. There was also another part of him that shrugged and thought: It's a common cold, it doesn't make your tongue dysfunctional. You drink a cup of tea, you walk it off. This was decision, not incapacitation.
Purposefully, Steve walked to Tony's door. At the last moment, he changed his mind and went into the next room.
He heard a weak cough through the wall, a soft curse. Batted at the quiet dread that had been buzzing around him like a fly (Steve had been trying to ignore it). Waves upon waves of what-ifs. Because, because... it wasn't impossible, was it, that this was something worse than a common cold, and they were in the mountains, and it was snowing, and there was no cell signal (Steve had checked), and what if what if what if...
Angry at himself, he hurried to the bathroom, picking up the candle along the way, to check if there were any antibiotics in the locker (there were, as well as paracetamol and ibuprofen and an assortment of other useful stuff, all miraculously within the expiration date – must be the work of Tony's 'people' whose missives about the cottage the man apparently never read).
And when Steve went back to what had apparently been Tony's childhood bedroom, a little more at ease now, he set the candle down on the desk. And he noticed how tiny it was: a kids' desk, probably made for someone all of ten years old. He felt a muscle in his cheek twitch. Something in Steve shifted, then shifted again. Gently, he ran a hand over the surface, with all the dents and scratches and burn marks (from... welding?). And unsure why exactly, he covered his mouth with his hand and whispered: Oh, God.
The red bed cover, the toy train, a pair of pint-sized skis (his heart practically stopped at the sight of the skis). It felt too intimate, even being in here. It felt like a violation. Stepping into a life that wasn't his, seeing something he wasn't supposed to be privy to. And yet, Tony had told him to come here, and given him this room to stay in, and Steve remembered the softness in his eyes when he looked around the sitting room and touched upon the topic of his parents during that one short moment when it had seemed something between him and Steve was thawing.
A peculiar hunger in his soul won over the feelings of propriety and guilt. Sneaking around like a thief, he opened the armoire; took a peak inside all the desk drawers, one by one. Looked through the few toys in the basket under the bed. In the end he stopped in front of the bookshelf, and ran a finger along rows upon rows of kids' books, interspersed with some textbooks and manuals. Reading the spines. This time around, absorbing every word.
***
When Steve walked into the room, a tray with tea and salty biscuits in one hand, Tony was in bed, still in his bathrobe. Light and shadows from the fire chased one another around the furniture; the brightness from the StarkPad Tony was working on fell upon his face like a spot of moonlight. The mildly feverish look made him appear more lively somehow; it suited him well. It wasn't at all fair, really.
The sight of Tony, in bed, with eyelids heavy and spots of color in his cheeks did things to Steve he wasn't sure what to do with. He stopped at the door, swallowed.
Tony let the tablet fall beside him, propped himself up on one elbow. He blinked at Steve a few times, sighed, shook his head. "All right, Cap," he muttered. "All right."
"Brought you tea," Steve said, still not moving away from the door.
"Thanks. I guess." He gestured to the bedside table, which was finally a cue for Steve to step in.
When he put the tray down, Tony's interest perked up. The biscuits were star-shaped and A-shaped and square, and Tony seemed to focus on them. "Are those Kambly?"
"Er..." Steve hesitated. Shrugged. "Found them in the kitchen. They're fresh." He had no idea what to do with himself now that he was here.
"Yellow can, like this big, right?"
Steve thought for a moment, nodded. "Want me to bring it for you?"
Tony considered for a moment, shook his head. "Nah."
"It's no problem. Really." Yeah, go ahead, offer your biscuit-bringing services, prove yourself invaluable on that front. Maybe that will work.
"I..." Tony started; stopped. "They probably changed the design over the years. I don't want to..." He trailed off, made an abortive gesture with one hand, as if imploring Steve to get what he wasn't going to say.
"Oh," Steve said. And: "Yes. I understand," because he really did. And in that moment, as he watched Tony agonize over the ephemera of brand design, hair falling into his eyes – it suddenly dawned on Steve that yes, he could do this all day, all year if that was what it took; he'd come to a hundred cottages, on a hundred different mountains, even if nothing ever came of it, and no, he could not step back and let this go, let him go, not now and not ever, because that wasn't who Steve Rogers was, and that was all there was to it, really. The warmth in his chest made his breath hitch.
Tony looked up.
It was as if he saw Steve for the first time since he entered the room. His eyes looked unusually mild in the firelight. "You brought me tea," he said very softly.
Steve nodded just once. Tony nodded back. Something unspoken passed between them, and for the life of him Steve couldn't tell what it was, but he knew breaking eye contact would feel like a loss. It lasted for a few seconds, and then somehow, everything seemed to flow more smoothly.
He passed the tea to Tony, who sipped it and made a face. "Never been a fan, but thanks?"
"You should drink it while it's warm."
"I'm... Look, I'm all right, Cap. I just need to rest for a bit. I'll be all good by morning."
"I heard you cough through the wall. The tea will do you good."
Tony rolled his eyes. "I can't win this one, can I?"
Steve just raised his eyebrows and didn't look away until Tony took another sip, and then another. He wanted to adjust his pillows better. He wanted to smooth his hair back, and tell him to leave the tablet alone and try to go to sleep. He wanted... a million different things, all of a sudden, and as he stood there, he wondered how come he hadn't been aware of this earlier, how he could have been so stupid.
"Do you want a paracetamol? I found some in the bathroom." That was the only thing he could think to say.
Tony laughed, which turned into another tiny cough. Steve knew coughs as the back of his hand. This one was the mildest of the mild. But still.
"I'm fine. You're a regular mother hen, did you know that?"
"Yeah," Steve said on his way out (because he could think of no excuse to stay). "I knew that." He closed the door softly behind him and gave it a conciliatory look.
***
The next time he went in, it was to bring Tony chicken soup. He'd found a can in the kitchen, poured it into a pan and warmed it over the fire in the sitting room. (That pan will never be the same again. Steve hoped Tony wasn't too attached to it.)
Tony was sitting by the window. By the light from his gauntlet, purposefully positioned on the window sill, he was rummaging through the desk, sorting through a number of small objects (batteries and pencil sharpeners and rolls of tape and screws of all sizes) grouped into haphazard-looking piles on the desk top. He raised his eyes to Steve without really raising his head; a corner of his mouth perked up. "More tea for me?" It was the mildest of sarcasms.
"What are you doing, Tony?"
"Organizing the drawers," he replied in an isn't-it-obvious sort of voice.
For a moment, Steve suppressed the amusement, then gave up and let it show. He shook his head. "Shouldn't you be in bed, though?" He walked over and put a cup on the desk in front of Tony. "Want some?"
"Soup? Really? You made me soup now?"
Steve crossed his arms, leaned against the wall. Tried for nonchalance. "It's chicken." Then, feeling slightly guilty, he added. "It's from a can, really."
"Oh, and here I thought you went hunting for fowl. How disappointing." Tony took the cup and sniffed. Hummed appreciatively. Took a sip, then another. "Well, this doesn't taste like grass, at least."
Steve matched him, a small smile for a small smile. Tony was so close. His presence was like a magnet. Steve could reach out and card his fingers through his hair, he could... "Still, shouldn't you be in bed?" he repeated mildly, instead, because thoughts were going renegade on him (Something was happening. Was something happening? It was impossible. Was it?), and a fog of sorts was coming over his senses, and his chest felt almost asthmatic all over again.
"I'm fine, Cap," Tony said, but, to make everything worse (or better), he didn't even sound annoyed. He took another gulp of soup. "Just super bored." He gestured at his tablet morosely. "I've no concentration for anything serious. But I think I'm feeling a little better, actually." Belying his words, Tony scrunched up his nose and sneezed. Steve arched an eyebrow. "Dust?" Tony said with a tiny smirk. His eyes were too shiny, though, and a little watery, and when he shivered and wrapped himself tighter in his bathrobe although the air was dry and warm, Steve needed no other confirmation.
Before he could think about what he was doing, he bent down and pressed his lips softly to Tony's forehead. It was almost like someone else was doing it. But as he lingered there for a second, his lips against Tony's warm skin, a wave of thrill shook him. He stepped back quickly, flushed, opened his mouth to say something, to apologize.
Tony was staring at him with very round eyes.
Then, after what seemed like ages, in tones that would have been conversational hadn't his voice been slightly choked: "Cap, what are you doing?"
Oh, shit, Steve thought. (It was completely appropriate for the situation.) "I..." He picked up his courage; not saying anything would just make this more uncomfortable. "I thought that maybe you had fever. That's how my mom used to check." He shrugged defiantly, leaned back against the wall.
"Yeah... mine too," Tony said softly, toying with his silk handkerchief. Steve fixated on it, because it was an easy target. He hadn't seen a proper handkerchief like that one since he woke up from the ice; he'd thought they were an extinct species in this century.
Tony let the hankie fall to his lap; then, with a noncommittal half-wave at his gauntlet, glowing on the window sill, added: "I had Friday check me for fever."
"Yeah," Steve agreed. "That... would be more practical."
"Yeah," Tony said. "It's only mild, though."
Steve felt the heat in his own cheeks rise even higher. "Yes, I figured that."
They avoided each other's eyes. Sheepishness was so thick in the air it was making it impossible to breathe.
"So, I probably should be in bed," Tony said at last.
"Yes, you should."
Tony drummed his fingers on the chair arm, still not moving. He was bored, and when he was bored, he tended to get restless; Steve knew that much. He started to say something, but a frog-like entity in his throat stopped it from escaping.
Tony rose.
Steve swallowed. "We could play cards or something," he managed finally. "If you want. You could be lying down," he added.
Tony just shook his head morosely as he crawled back into bed. "I don't want to play cards." The irritability in his voice sounded almost childish. The fact that Steve found it equal parts annoying and endearing worried him slightly. He lingered for a second longer, fighting disappointment, but since he couldn't think of anything else to say, he turned to go. "I'll be in the next room if you need anything," he murmured.
He almost made it to the door before Toy said, "Cap." Then nothing else. Steve turned. Tony had a peculiar expression on his face. He hesitated. "Look, I know I'm a pain in the ass when I'm sick..."
"I've dealt with worse."
"Oh? When?"
Steve shrugged, arched a mocking eyebrow. "Field hospital?"
Tony chuckled. "Oh, I bet those damn wounded are real whiners, aren't they."
"Like you wouldn't believe."
"Cap, I..." He swallowed. "Thanks." For a moment there was something so vulnerable in his eyes that Steve badly wanted to do something stupid. Instead he managed to shrug noncommittally, fumbling for the doorknob behind his back as if it were a life belt. He just wanted to get out and then be stupid in peace, out of sight. "You don't have to go," Tony blurted out. He looked a little stunned at his own words, but then he inclined the head for a second and owned them, as was his way. "You could stay and keep me company while I nap," he allowed with a grandiose gesture and a smirk. Seemingly no vulnerability left there, but Steve had a crazy feeling he could sense it just below the surface. "You could borrow a book or something," Tony added in more normal tones.
Steve realized he was fighting a smile – again, he mused – and gave up. "I already did borrow one. I'll go get it." He hoped he didn't sound too eager, but in the end, there was no helping that, he supposed.
A couple of minutes later, forefinger of his right hand stuck between the pages although he hadn't yet read more than two or three, he was back. He contemplated the armchair by the window for a moment, but, perhaps because Tony was ignoring his presence completely, his eyelids halfway down, pretending to be engrossed in the fire – Steve decided against the chair. Instead, on a crazy impulse that had landed him in trouble in the past, he grabbed Tony's gauntlet to use as a light, and thumped down on the bed beside Tony, on top of the bed cover. It was a big bed. There were at least three feet between them, the way Steve sat down, his back against the headboard. Still, he could feel the flush in his cheeks rise again and hated himself for it.
Tony did react then. He turned halfway towards Steve, an eyebrow arched. Steve shrugged yet again.. Nodded curtly towards the window. "Drafts," he said with careful composure.
Tony's laughter reverberated through Steve's stomach. "Old people problems, then," Tony concluded. The sweet warmth of hope that was spreading through Steve's face was probably, he thought, unwarranted.
He raised his book to hide behind it.
Tony suddenly perked up. "Oh, is that Watership Down? That used to be my favorite when I was a kid." The cover looked like it had survived the invasion of Normandy in someone's backpack. That was exactly why Steve had picked this one – the tattiest, most worn one – off the shelf in Tony's old room. A weird sounding, very thick novel about adventures of a clairvoyant rabbit of all things. It didn't even read like a children's book. Steve cast a furtive glance at Tony over it and hummed noncommittally.
"I think I'm going to doze off now," Tony proclaimed, then turned to lie on his side, his back to Steve.
A peculiar excitement was coursing through Steve. He kept staring at the page, but his mind couldn't focus. He realized he'd read through at least three passages without being aware of one single word, so he went back and, painstakingly, started again. Tony was so close and warm and present, next to him on the bed. Steve had to fight not to keep glancing at him. So, he thought sternly at himself, you're done for, are you? Good job, Captain.
Barely two minutes passed. Then a small, muffled sound from Tony's direction and: "So, how far are you?"
Steve started. "Hm?"
"In the book."
"Oh. I'm just at the beginning."
"Yeah, I know, but what's happening?" Steve glanced over. Tony's back was still turned to him, but he seemed to be shifting.
"They just met with the Chief Rabbit," Steve replied. "You can't sleep?"
"Nuh-huh."
When Steve was sick as a child, his mom would sometimes read to him, when she had time. This wasn't like that at all and it was a silly idea. Firmly, he stomped on it. Stared at the page. Sneaked a look at Tony, who had now turned around and seemed to be blinking at him. In the firelight, his eyes looked huge.
"Do you like it so far?" Tony's voice was soft, and sounded a little strangled.
Steve had never really paid attention to how quiet it was around here. The wind outside had died down some time ago, and all that could be heard were the haphazard sounds of the house creaking, shifting in its sleep, and the crackling of the fire. In the silence and the firelight, every word seemed more significant, every movement more intimate somehow.
Steve nodded. He shuffled around so he was now lying on his stomach. Marginally closer to Tony. The book lay open on the bed before him. Like a bait, like a trap.
"And now I feel like reading Watership Down too," Tony muttered. "If I had reception, I could download it."
"Or," Steve said very matter-of-factly, ignoring the butterflies in his stomach, "we could just read together." He pushed the book to the side so that it was midway between him and Tony.
Tony was also lying on his stomach now. He shifted marginally closer. Steve didn't move. Their shoulders were almost touching.
"Do you want to go back to the beginning?" Steve asked. He could hear Tony's breathing so clearly. He imagined he could hear his heartbeat too, feel the warmth radiating off him. Like a small fireplace all his own. He bit the inside of his cheek.
"Nah," Tony said. "I still remember everything." He leaned over and started reading.
They stayed like that for a time, in silence, reading by the light of Tony's gauntlet, but Steve could barely concentrate.
Then, on an impulse: "Tony?", he ventured softly.
"Hm?"
"What was Howard like, as a dad?"
Tony startled, turned to look at him, gave him a frown. "Why do you ask now?"
Steve gestured vaguely about them, at the room in general. "Just curious."
For a moment, Tony drummed his fingers on the bed next to the book. A coldness sneaked into Steve's stomach, settled. You just can't seem to keep your crap in check tonight, he thought at himself.
But: "Cold," Tony said contemplatively; he didn't seem miffed, just thoughtful. "Controlling, when he could be bothered." It was as if something in the air, in the smell of fire and the dim light, allowed for this kind of intimacy that wasn't their usual shtick. "But usually he couldn't be. Bothered." Tony hesitated for a moment again. "Around here, where there were no distractions, sometimes he wasn't so bad. Or maybe I'm just idealizing this place. I've no idea. Sometimes I think that..." He fell silent mid-sentence, then he turned his head, looked Steve full in the eyes. "What was he like as a friend, though?"
They'd never really talked about this. "Brilliant. Brash. Distant." Steve couldn't help a tiny, wistful smile that sneaked onto his face. "Always kept you on edge. You never really knew what hit you or where you stood with him."
Tony smirked. "So, a bit like me, basically."
"Some." There was something more to Tony's offhand comment, it occurred to Steve all of a sudden. He looked at Tony, really looked, at all the nooks and crannies of his face, the circles around his eyes, the tiny new lines that weren't all age. Tony opened his mouth to speak, but Steve beat him to it for once. "You've been trough much more crap than he," he said. "At least back when I knew him. And it..." For a long moment, he thought hard of what he was going to say next. Inhaled. "In my experience, it either turns people hard or it gives them compassion. When all's said and done, I think you came out a lot kinder than Howard ever was."
Slowly, thoughtfully, Tony nodded his head; once, twice. It seemed he had reached some kind of conclusion.
"You're a pretty fast reader," he commented casually, turning back to the book. "I thought I was going to have to wait for you for ages to turn a page, but you're actually not bad at all."
They didn't talk more that night. As if by a silent agreement, they returned to reading, weirdly and unexpectedly comfortable with each other, for one evening at least, and all that could be heard was the occasional rustling of the pages. It wasn't long before Tony dozed off. Steve tossed one more blanket over him, and took another for himself. He then lay his cheek down on the book and listened to Tony's soft breathing as the fire slowly died down to embers.