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It wasn't like Steve hadn't not been invited to the party.
And, anyway, Tony was never one to turn him away.
Steve stood in the middle of Tony's penthouse apartment, surrounded on all sides by windows that looked out over the whole of Manhattan. This far up, not a sound could be heard and Steve shivered at the emptiness that stretched out before him. He could see the stream of cars flowing through the creeks and valleys of towers that squatted like giants, the people floating down the city streets like brine in the sea. And above all was the quiet with only the hum of the air conditioner to break up the monotony.
Tony had never been able to stand it. The moment he walked in, he'd switch on the radio, the television, the lights-- it'd used to drive Steve to madness, the jumble of noise that no human could ever hope to make sense of. Standing here now, he could start to understand Tony's reasoning. There was nothing human about this place.
Steve padded carefully around the broken glass, the deep burgundy of wine faded into rust as it mixed with the drying blood that stained the carpet. Beams of light pierced through the windows, illuminating the white specks of dust that floated around him like a halo. Despite the summer sun arching high above him, the cold seeped through every inch of the apartment, settling deep into his bones and making his knuckles ache. He could feel his years hanging over him like a shroud. Steve stormed towards the thermostat, his hand lashing out to turn off the air before he quite knew what he was doing. At once it shut off, the soft humming gone and with it whatever illusion of life that still clung to this place. Now all Steve had left was the silence and that hurt worse than the cold.
"That's what's fun about you, Cap," Tony had joked just the other night. "No matter how old I get, you stay the same age."
His stomach had twisted itself in a knot, but Steve had allowed himself a smile for Tony's benefit. "Fun for you maybe, old man."
Tony pouted and insisted he wasn't old, he was only forty-eight and forty-eight was the new thirty-two, and anyway Steve had two decades on him so who was the old man now, hmm Steve? Steve had laughed and played along, the old song and dance to soothe wounded egos and ruffled feathers. But Tony was starting to look his age. Steve wanted to reach out and trace the wrinkles around his eyes, the laugh lines that appeared whenever he smiled. He was thinner and he'd stop dying his hair years ago. Steve could see the glimmer of silver buried in the black. He settled for touching his wrist, letting his fingers run down a hand turned white from Tony squeezing a Cherry Coke.
"Why are you here, Steve?" Tony whispered, not that it mattered. They were the only ones still sober. Between the shouting, the laughing, and the sounds of Duran Duran blasting through the stereo, no one heard a word of what they said.
"I'm starting up the Avengers again."
"Who've you got?"
"Well, right now there's me... and Jarvis."
Tony laughed. "With a roster like that, anyone else would just be overkill." It wasn't a yes.
"Look, I know we've had some problems in the past--"
"This isn't about that," Tony sighed, his hand slipping from Steve's questing fingers. "All kidding aside, I just don't know if I'm capable of it anymore. I'm almost fifty, I've put a lot of wear and tear on my body and I don't heal from injuries the way you do. The drinking certainly hasn't helped. Besides, Rhodey's spent more time as Iron Man these past few years than I have. Give him a call."
Steve didn't want Jim. He wanted Tony. He could still see his Tony, the one that took him to the World's Fair two weeks after he'd been fished out of the water. His face had been bright, full of enthusiasm as he led him beneath chrome arches to where he'd placed all of his hopes and dreams on display for the people to marvel at. "Peace Through Understanding." Somewhere along the way, he'd lost that enthusiasm and in its place was a guarded cleverness that clawed for survival. Steve had seen faces like that at the Western Front from hungry-eyed refugees. The old Tony stood where the new one was, and they looked at him, together, with curious blue eyes. For a moment, Steve thought he could see the whole of Tony's life laid out in front of him: his past, his present, his future. They all blended together until it was just Tony.
Tony was going to die and Steve would still look twenty-five.
A sob threatened to choke him. "I really loved Sharon," he said. "I'd have-- if she'd lived, if we had more time--"
"I know. I understand."
"I didn't want you to think I just chose her--"
"Steve, stop, I understand." Tony gave him a wan smile. "Your whole life is one long battle. You didn't want to have to fight another one just to be with someone you love. You saw what happened to me when I was outed."
"You make it sound like... like a strategic withdrawal."
"Well, you are the strategist. And, anyway, you didn't lose the war." Tony's handsome features brightened, his smile turning playful. "It's more of an armistice. All you have to do is cross that line."
Steve looked over Tony's shoulder at the blonde woman standing by the stereo, the rim of her wine glass pressed to her lips but not actually drinking it. She stared back at him, her eyes never once leaving his. "I think your friend might object. She's been looking at us the whole night."
Tony turned his head, before huffing out a half-hearted laugh. "Who? Kathy? It was just a couple of one-night stands."
"Does she know that?"
"I'm not stringing her along if that's what you mean."
Steve moved through the silent apartment, not wanting to disturb its grim austerity. There was a bloody handprint on the frame of the door leading to Tony's bedroom. It was too high up to belong to Kathy. The door itself was also covered in blood from where it had been slammed shut with Tony's fingers still on the jamb. Neighbors had heard them arguing at roughly two that morning.
"You're fucking him! I can't believe-- God, how could you fuck him and then turn around and fuck me!? This isn't-- You're not... You're not queer. You didn't fuck me like a fag."
"Honey, the whole world knows I've been sucking cock since 1983. You don't have a fucking magical vagina that makes me not like men anymore."
"Have you been tested?"
The seconds dragged on before an explosion of shouting shattered it. "Oh, fuck you! Get the fuck out of my apartment!"
A call had been made at approximately 2:28 to the Hilton hotel in Midtown. The concierge had confirmed it was Tony's voice on the other end. He'd asked for a room for one Kathy Dare, told him to charge it and all room service to his credit card. Tony had hung up before the concierge could finish getting down all the details. Five minutes later a gunshot was heard.
The yellow line of police tape barred the entryway to Tony's room. Steve turned back, drifting down the hall and into the living room. Glasses were stacked all around, perched on tables and windowsills. What little food had been left over from the party hadn't been put away, but left to sit. Steve sank onto the couch, not knowing what else to do. He couldn't go back to the hospital, not yet. He reached down and fished the remote from between the cushions, flipping through the channels. Images flashed, each one too fleeting to leave any sort of lasting impression. Burger King, Ninja Turtles, Paula Abdul tap-dancing.
"Tony Stark has been shot--" "An act of domestic violence--" "Suspect is in custody--" The words chased him through the channels and Steve pressed so hard on the buttons lines of spidery cracks appeared on the hard plastic. Finally Steve stopped and let the remote slip from his fingers. He leaned back, watching as one lone man stepped towards an advancing tank. The reporter was saying something, but Steve couldn't really hear it above the silence that echoed in his ears. The war was over and he'd lost.