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Tony calls him, sometimes. The first time, he tells him upfront that they have sixty seconds before Ross can trace the call because he’s tracing almost anything that goes out of country. He tells him not to say where he is. Like Tony doesn’t know. That leaves them about fifty seconds for a difficult conversation. It takes dozens of calls, and Tony’s always the one who has to hang up. They both make apologies, explain, begin to maybe forgive.
So Tony calls him sometimes. Steve calls sometimes, too.
It’s not perfect, but it’s a start.
--
“I hear you’re mentoring the Queens kid,” Steve says when Tony calls him for his birthday. “He seems like a good kid.”
“Mentoring is kind of a strong word for it. Trying to stop him from getting himself killed is all. He’s a little ambitious maybe. Headstrong. Doesn’t know his limits. Remind you of anyone?”
There’s a silence on the phone. Then Tony gets it.
“Not you, you idiot. Me. Ambitious. Headstrong. Doesn’t know his limits.” Tony hadn’t even thought about applying that description to Steve. But hearing it again, it does seem appropriate.
“Did your father never tell you how many times I tried to enlist? As an asthmatic who weighed ninety pounds?” Steve’s voice is extremely dry.
Tony can’t help but laugh. Stubborn little shit. “Yeah, I think he said something about that. I think he was more embarrassed for you when you said you were from Jersey.”
Steve is smiling. Tony can tell. “Besides, the kid is pretty much a genius, right? Like you?” His voice is somehow warm, even over the shitty phone.
“And what, you’re the village idiot? I don’t know if you realized this, but Peggy wasn’t really the sort to tolerate idiots.”
Steve lets out a laugh this time. “Yes, I know.” It’s rueful, nostalgic, but kind.
Tony checks the clock. They’re almost out of time.
“Look, Steve,” he says.
“I know,” Steve replies. “It’s good to hear your voice.”
Tony’s silent. He has to hang up. “You too.” He ends the call.
--
“Steve?”
“Tony? Are you hurt? I saw a report about an alien energy explosion in New York, are you okay?” He doesn’t sound panicked, not yet.
“Fine. Just Peter again.”
“Who?”
“Peter Parker. The spider kid.”
“God, is he hurt?” Steve’s concerned. As if the kid hadn’t stolen his shield, cuffed him with webbing. Of course he is.
“Happy’s looking after him. He got out okay. It was just a bank robbery, but they had tech they shouldn’t have been able to get their grubby little paws on. It’s a good thing the kid’s so bouncy.”
“Did you give him a microchute? If he’s slinging around New York, he should probably have a microchute.”
“Okay, first of all, you never use a parachute, you big hypocrite! And second what do you mean did I? I’m just trying to keep him on the ground. What makes you think I’m giving him anything?”
“Tony. I’m not a genius but I can recognize your work when I see it. I got a close up in Germany, remember? And I do use one, now.” He has to. Sam isn’t as good at catching him. He doesn’t say it, but Tony can hear it anyway.
Tony huffs, annoyed. “Yes, I gave him a microchute. And a parachute.”
“Of course you did. Thank you.”
“Why are you thanking me? You’ve only met the kid once and I had him steal your shield.”
There’s another one of those brief silences that won’t stop screaming.
“Not mine to steal.”
“Look, Steve,” he says, trying to figure out how to take it back. Steve was Captain America long before that term existed. He’s also more than the shield. More than the uniform.
56 seconds.
“It’s okay,” Steve says. “I’m glad you’re okay.”
The line goes dead. Tony sits with the stupid phone in his hand, thinking of what Rogers would do if he were here. If he was the one on dad duty. Be closer, probably. Well, he can do that.
--
“He used the parachute,” Tony says, next time the phone rings.
“He missed a Spanish quiz, Tony. His grades are dropping, even though he’s brilliant. You gotta remind him to go to class. Just, you know, next time you’re telling him he did a good job.”
This is team building, Rogers style. Coaching. Tony's seen his work enough to recognize it, too.
Wait a second, how the hell does Rogers know about a Spanish quiz? Tony asks, “How the hell do you know that?”
Steve coughs, like he’s a little embarrassed. His tone says it too, he’s actually embarrassed for both of them. “Did you look at who’s running the school?”
No, he hadn’t. He didn’t think it mattered. Tony pulls up the information quickly. “Son of a bitch. Of course he is. But that quiz wasn’t my fault, Rogers.”
“I wasn’t saying it was. I was just wondering about adding in a secondary program. For when he’s just out in the neighborhood. Like a tutoring program, or bilingual translations. Maybe he can earn some extra credit.”
That’s actually not a bad idea. Bouncehouse should be able to say more than churro.
“Any other brilliant ideas, Steve?” Tony asks waspishly. “Want me to pack him a bag lunch every day? Make sure it’s got potato chips? Put in some post-its saying how much I care?”
Damn these stupid little silences.
“He knows you care, Tony. He’d have to be an idiot not to know how much you care.”
Tony’s voice is stuck. Whatever he was meaning to say won’t emerge.
Steve seems to notice, covering for him. He adds, “Besides, potato chips aren’t healthy. Get the kid some carrot sticks or something. I didn’t do all those PSAs for nothing.”
Tony laughs, or something close to it. “You hated those PSAs.”
“Well. It just felt like working for Senator Brandt again. Back to being a dancing monkey.”
“Thought you didn’t know how to dance,” Tony shoots back, trying to keep the mood light. It doesn’t exactly work. Steve laughs, but it's a thin sound. Still too raw, maybe. Tony tries to remember that for Steve, it’s only been a few years, and everyone—literally everyone now—has left him behind.
Their time’s almost up.
“Steve,” he says, trying to put some of that in his tone, “I’m glad you called. It’s good to hear your voice.”
“You too,” Steve says.
Tony hangs up.
--
Of course, of course, Steve calls after the ferry. Tony is upset, guilty. He’d helped Peter, and Peter had been reckless, and it was his fault. Maybe not all of it, but some of it. He has the suit, packed away. The kid had said, if he really cared… Well, fuck it. He really cares. He cares so much he thinks he’s dying of it. He isn’t sure how to do it all alone.
“Steve.” It isn’t a question, never has been.
“Tony. It wasn’t your fault. You were trying to help. You called the FBI. You were being responsible.”
Tony grimaces. He’s transparent, apparently. “I gave him the suit.”
“Yes, and he’s young, he needs training, he needs protection. But the suit also kept him safe.”
“It made him reckless!”
The pause this time is short. “Do you remember being fifteen?” Steve asks.
Tony thinks about it. “I think I was mostly drunk that year.”
“Fifteen year olds are reckless, Tony. They make their own choices. It may not have been perfect, but you kept an eye on him. Your suit protected him.”
This time Tony’s the one who’s silent for a moment.
“He said, he said he wanted to be like me,” Tony says, miserably.
“Tony,” Steve says his name like a sigh, like an embrace, “he would be extraordinarily lucky to be like you.” He waits for a beat. Then, he asks, because he has to, because someone has to, and he hates that it has to be him, Tony can hear the reluctance in his voice, “What about the Accords?”
And that’s the real question, isn’t it? Because as long as Parker’d been busy chasing bike thieves around Queens, he probably wouldn’t pop on a national radar. But now… “I’m working on it,” he says. And he is. He has been, all along. But now it’s vital. The people who ordered a nuclear missile on Manhattan won’t care how young the kid is.
“Tony, I’m sorry,” Steve says.
“I know,” Tony replies.
--
Finally, Tony picks up the phone again. Parker is going to stay local, he says. Friendly neighborhood Spiderman. The Accords are coming together. Ross is backing off. Tony knows this wears on Steve, being a fugitive, an exile. A war criminal. All the names that are hurled at him, and he bears it.
“Tony?”
“Cap. Gonna need you to come back to upstate.”
“Tony, you know I can’t.”
“It’s being worked out. I’d say another two or three days. Just thought you’d want to know now, start packing your bag. Do you have a bag? Your bindle? Fold up your hankie squares?” He hears Steve sigh. It sounds like his lungs unfurling for the first time. He imagines him, standing tall, looking up at the Wakandan sky. It’s picturesque, even in his mind. “I’ll send a jet. I need some help on the ground up here.”
Steve doesn’t even ask how he knows where to send the jet. “What kind of help?”
“The kid’s going to stay low key. He could use some more training in tactics, logistics. He needs to expand his awareness of the long game. I figure no one better than the guy who’s going to be a hundred next year. Besides, I keep delivering him peanut butter and jelly, and he says I’m not allowed to send him lunch anymore.”
Steve laughs, softly.
Tony smiles, gratified. “Look, Steve. I need you home.”
“Thank you, Tony,” he says. “I’ll be ready.”
--
When Steve touches down, Tony’s waiting. He puts out a hand. Steve just hugs him instead, a real Steve Rogers hug that Tony is embarrassed to admit he melts into, just a little. Steve says, “I know it hasn’t even been a whole year. It feels like it’s been a long time.”
“I know. I’ve never been so patient in my life. Hey, you did a whole PSA about that, too, about waiting for something,” he says as the thought occurs to him. He’s not running his brain-to-mouth filter today, obviously, or he wouldn't have admitted how keyed up he'd been, waiting for the jet to land.
Steve's face tries not to crumple, like he’s sad, like he doesn’t measure up, like he's trying not to admit it. Tony rewinds the scene in his head. Oh. And you wonder why you waited so long for something so disappointing.
“Hey, no. Don’t do that. The only disappointing thing about you is that you don’t actually taste like apple pie,” Tony jokes.
Steve looks at him. Then he smiles a little. “You don’t know that.”
Tony’s heart stops for a second, as he catches Steve’s wink.
It’s a start.