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The first thing that Tony thinks, when the power of the suit goes down, is that it’s fucking heavy.
It’s not one of his cleverest thoughts. The suit is always heavy – maneuvering it has taken its toll on Tony’s muscles, which sometimes ache for days after a particularly strenuous mission. But the armor seems to weight a hundred ton after the blow from Doom's spider hits Tony right in the chest, in a way that proves his past self was smart for getting rid of the reactor. The blow sends Tony's body straight to the ground, crashing against the asphalt. Tony’s back slams violently, and he feels a sharp pain in his abdomen that tells him the damn spider broke more than just the power source.
Everything goes dark.
Okay. Okay, Tony thinks, shutting his eyes in order to calm himself down, trying not to get distracted by the view of pure darkness. He notices he is shaking, and he needs to stop, because the power going down means his ventilation system was cut, and he only has so much air to figure out what to do.
Tony can vaguely hear sounds coming from outside, but they’re all distant. The armor has a comm system for a reason – the layer of metal is too thick to allow for conversation. Inside of it, right now, the loudest sound Tony hears is his own breathing, sharp intakes of air as he uselessly tries to move his arms. He’s pretty sure they’re not broken, but they’re too weak to lift the metal – and besides, Tony’s brain immediately thinks, this doesn’t fucking matter, what would standing up even do, Jesus fuck, he needs to concentrate here.
Tony’s body jerks when he feels something slam against his chest. Since the Hulk would have thrown him like a rag doll, and Clint and Natasha know hitting the suit would break their fingers, it must be Thor or Steve.
Tony inhales sharply. He can feel blood buzzing in his ears, the pain in his abdomen making him see white spots.
Don’t faint, he tells himself. Don’t you fucking faint. If you faint here, you’re not gonna wake up.
He can feel weight being laid over his chest, like someone is draping themselves over him, and it hits his torso right in the spot, making Tony let out a groan of pain.
“Tony?! Tony, can you hear me?”
The sound is faint, but it doesn’t matter. Tony would recognize that voice in hell.
“Loud and clear, Cap,” Tony says, focusing on calming down his breathing, because he’s making the little air he already has even scarcer by hyperventilating right now. Steve must not hear him, though, because the next thing Tony feels is another strong slam, and he realizes Steve must be trying to ignite the reactor manually. It’s not a bad idea in itself, but it’s pointless, since the blow broke the main connections. Steve might get it to glow again, but as far as getting Tony out of the suit goes, it would be useless.
“Cap,” Tony tries, but his voice is too weak, too soft even for Steve’s superhuman hearing. “Cap, this isn’t gonna work.”
Steve must grab his shoulders, because Tony feels something pulling him up. His heart is pounding, his body shaking as he tries to gather his thoughts in order. Steve doesn’t know how the armor works, Steve is not gonna be able to get him out. He needs to think, needs to find a way.
He opens his eyes on reflex, and it’s so dark. It’s so fucking dark, and for a moment Tony tries to breathe and can’t manage to, doesn’t find air.
No, Tony thinks. No, not yet, it can’t be—
But there is no air, he can’t find it, he feels his lungs inhaling desperately, but there’s nothing coming in.
The suit was made to be removed via voice command. It was not made to be dismantled. Tony engineered it perfectly, because he’s brilliant like that, clever enough to design his own coffin and guarantee no body would ever come out of it.
You’re not a body, some distant part of his brain says, but it’s hard to hear. Not yet.
The slamming happens again, and Tony has lost control of his breath by now. He keeps inhaling and exhaling frantically. He’s probably cut his air supply by at least a third now. Maybe half.
“Tony?! Tony, talk to me,” Steve says, his voice sounding loud but also distant, and a part of Tony’s brain thinks ha, now you want me to talk, Cap, isn’t it funny how these things happen. Steve must say something else, but Tony’s mind is flying now, making calculations. He can feel blood roaring in his ears, his head is getting dizzy, and he’s going to faint, and he fucking can’t, if he faints that’s it, it will be over, and it can’t be over like that, it can’t be possible, but—
But it will be, Tony thinks, eyes darting all over the huge and unforgiving darkness, trying to find even one glimpse of light that’s not there. He distantly feels what he imagines is Steve grabbing the armor, but Steve can’t fix this, he needs help and Tony can’t help, he’s fucking useless, he can’t think of anything except air, air, air.
He’s going to die, he feels it in his bones. He’s going to faint and die because of one of his weapons, like so many others, and—
There’s a loud, cracking noise when the chest plate is ripped off, and Tony barely has the time to process it before an invasion of bright, blinding light in his eyes, and the wind on his face tells him the faceplate is gone.
He’s panting; he keeps breathing desperately, the air coming inside feeling foreign in his lungs. His vision is unfocused. His eyes blink desperately to adapt to the light, and he’s still shaking.
Steve is hovering over him, and Tony must say something, or babble, because he feels the rough texture of Steve’s gloves against his cheeks, and sees his mouth moving. His ears are still buzzing, he can barely decipher what Steve’s saying, catching only half-phrases like, it’s okay, and, breathe.
And breathe is a good idea, it’s—it’s the best idea. Tony closes his eyes, focuses on breathing. He focuses on the leather of Steve’s gloves; he can feel the weight of Steve’s body leaning over him. He ignores the pain in his torso, focuses on Steve’s voice, and he feels his head spinning less over time, his ears able to hear more. Steve repeats the same thing over and over, like a mantra, a prophecy. It’s okay. You’re okay.
Tony believes him.
Tony barely registers it when they get to the quinjet. Steve throws his arm around his shoulders and basically carries him.
Tony vaguely thinks he must be looking like shit, because Steve sits him down in the corner of the Quinjet that’s usually reserved for post-hulking out Bruce. He rests his back against the wall, and feels someone dropping a blanket on his shoulders. When he looks up, he sees Clint already turning back, and he’s thankful that Clint doesn’t say anything than what can be inferred from the blanket.
Tony isn’t sure how long it takes before the door closes, because he mostly focuses on breathing, on stopping the shaking. Hill scans him, says a bunch of stuff he doesn’t hear on the communicator. Clint sticks around, but says nothing.
When the quinjet takes off, Thor stops by and sits in front of him.
“How are you feeling?” he asks bluntly, and Tony is distantly impressed by how the question sounds honest and yet not at all condescending. “You didn’t look well over there.”
“You looked like shit, is what he means,” Clint says, and Tony snorts.
“I’m fine,” he says, and jumps when he hears someone scoffing at his side. “Jesus.” He turns and sees Natasha, sitting right by him, at just enough distance to avoid touching. “How long have you been here?”
“He doesn’t have any major wounds,” she says to Thor. “Hill said it was an anxiety attack.”
“Oh well, that’s not embarrassing at all,” Tony grunts, running his hand over his forehead. Jesus, he’s sweaty.
“Your panic was warranted,” Thor says, brow furrowing. “Had Steven not thought fast, you’d have suffocated.”
“Not helping, Thor,” Natasha interjects. Her shoulder bumps against Tony lightly. It’s comforting and just subtle enough that they can both pretend she’s not doing it on purpose.
“Well, no one suffocated in the end.” Tony recognizes Bruce’s voice coming from the door. He’s wearing his usual post-Hulk clothes, holding a cup of tea in his hands.
“Hey, buddy,” Tony says. “Sorry to steal your spot.”
Bruce’s smile is tired but honest. “Just don’t do it again,” he says, coming closer. He crouches and sits next to Tony, offering him the tea.
“Oh, you gotta be kidding me.” Tony shakes his head, even as he takes it. “Is this a punishment? Is this a test—thou must drink artisan tea to prove your worthiness of your spot on the team or something?”
“Just drink it, man,” Clint says, rolling his eyes. Tony doesn’t need to look to know Natasha is probably doing the same.
“I’m fine,” Tony insists, even as he complies, taking a sip. It actually doesn’t taste bad, but he makes a face anyway, just because. It does warm him up, and as he looks around the room he can see the half-circle they formed, basically hovering over him in the least subtle way possible. Superheroes aren’t very sneaky.
Tony’s face heats, because he hates being in this position, but there’s warmth in his chest, too. He’s pretty sure they all have other things they could be doing on the way back. That they all choose to be there instead, that’s, well.
It’s nice.
Tony takes another sip in order to not let any reaction show on his face. It’s not a serious thing, it isn’t, they shouldn’t have bothered, but… but they did.
He raises his head to assess the room one more time, going through Thor’s openly worried face, Clint adamantly looking towards the window, Natasha’s face calm even as her shoulder still touches him, and Bruce’s gentle gaze. He feels a rush of warmth and affection that surprises him, followed by a pang of disappointment.
Tony bites the inside of his cheek, because that’s so fucking typical of him – everyone showing him concern but he has to focus on the single absence, the one person who isn’t here.
He tells himself not to say it – it’s stupid, it’s so goddamn stupid, but he wouldn’t be him if he didn’t want more than what he could have: “Where’s Cap?”
“Reporting to Fury,” Natasha says, and against Tony’s will, the hurt in his chest deepens. Of course. A mission report, that could perfectly well be done when they got home, that even Fury wouldn’t have demanded so immediately – that would be Steve’s priority, as opposed to checking on him. That’s. That’s just the way it is.
Tony feels a knot in his throat. God, for a genius, he sure gets hung up on the smallest stupid shit sometimes, like artisan tea or blankets or how transparently Steve doesn’t love him back.
“And people say I’m the workaholic.” Tony does his best to make his voice sound light, and he thinks it works.
Natasha’s shoulder bumps his again, and this time Tony leans back, and she doesn’t move away.
At home, Tony is a lot more calm. He makes a stop at Medical and gets his cuts cleaned and bandaged. There are no major injuries, and, though his torso aches, his ribs apparently resisted this one, so, point for his old-man bones. The doctor makes some annoying questions about anxiety medication and panic attacks, but when she mentions therapy Tony manages to escape with some excuse about having a post-mission meeting. Miraculously, it works, and in a few moments he’s in his penthouse.
The doctor recommended rest, but of course, that’s the last thing Tony wants to do. Instead, he sits down at his desk and checks the armor’s damage. Mark 56 is toast, that’s for sure, but Tony needs to look over the data of when it went down, to get it noted for his next schematics.
He gets totally immersed in it for most of the afternoon. Rhodey and Pepper both call, and Tony sends them texts letting them know he’s fine, with a picture of himself giving a thumbs up. Rhodey texts back a picture of him rolling his eyes so hard only the white part is visible, and Pepper leaves him on read, so, everything is normal.
The other Avengers come by. Bruce and Thor bring him a sandwich and stay for way longer than they should, talking and distracting Tony from his work; Clint and Natasha arrive soon afterwards.
That’s… okay, that’s the new normal, Tony guesses – more than two people interested in his well-being, for unknown reasons. He should be used to it by now, what with the whole team thing, but it’s still weird, to realize everyone around him cares.
Well.
Almost everyone.
Tony manages to spend his entire talk with Bruce and Thor never asking about Steve. He almost does the same with Clint and Natasha, almost, but, well, you see, it’s not actually his fault, the blame lies totally with Clint.
“All I’m saying is, if my arrows had a boomerang function, my array of movements would expand, like, by half. Ask Cap, he agrees,” Clint says, and, see? He brings Steve up, so it’s totally reasonable for Tony to continue the conversation.
“Is he here?” Tony asks, in a completely normal speed. Not eager at all. “In the Tower?”
Clint frowns. “Yeah? I don’t think he left since we arrived.”
“Oh.” Tony focuses on the panel in front of him, pretending to be distracted by the numbers and graphics. Somehow he was waiting to hear Steve had been at SHIELD, taking care of boring paperwork stuff; or he was at the battle site, taking care of the wreck they left behind; or, you know, that he was doing anything else that would have given him a genuine reason not to check on Tony other than the fact that maybe he doesn’t want to do that.
Tony takes a deep breath. He tries to not make it too deep, but Natasha must notice it, from the way she tilts her head in his direction. He stares firmly at the screen.
“Anyway, glad you understand, man – I’ll be waiting for them on my floor for the next mission.” Clint snaps his fingers and finger-guns at him, and Tony rolls his eyes, even though he already has a couple ideas on how to install boomerang functions on the damn arrows.
“Whatever, Katniss,” he says, and for a terrifying moment he can feel Natasha’s gaze on him. Tony sends a silent prayer so that she doesn’t try to console him because Jesus fuck, he’s already gone through enough embarrassment for a day. Miraculously, it works, and she and Clint leave a moment afterwards.
Tony spends the rest of the afternoon waiting. He wouldn’t admit it out loud, would deny it to his final breath, but, yeah, that’s exactly what he’s doing. He’s waiting and expecting and, goddamnit, hoping for the moment Steve will show up. Steve, knocking on his door like no one else in the team bothers doing anymore; glancing at him with that classic frown of concern that makes Tony want to punch him and kiss him senseless at the same time; even scolding him for escaping in the middle of his doctor appointment, whatever. Right now, Tony would take any of that, would happily accept any little thing as a small proof Steve cares.
None of this happens.
When the evening comes, Tony has accepted that he’s delusional, and he’s trying to focus on making something useful instead, like starting the schematics for the next Mark. He immerses himself into work, falling into a frantic rhythm. He creates a hundred different prototypes that, later, he knows he will examine with JARVIS and wonder what the hell he was thinking.
The answer, of course, is Steve. Obviously.
After a while, Tony decides to go get some coffee, in the hopes that it will boost his brain. He takes the elevator down to the kitchen. JARVIS informs him that it’s 10 p.m., which means he likely won’t run into any Avenger having dinner.
As expected, the kitchen is empty. Tony sets up the machine to pour coffee, enjoying the pleasant smell that starts drifting, when the door abruptly opens.
Steve walks in looking like he’s just ran a marathon. Which, considering Steve can run the equivalent of five marathons in a couple hours, is a big deal. He’s panting and covered in sweat, and when he starts walking towards the fridge, he doesn’t even notice Tony at first.
To Tony, it’s a strange experience. He watches Steve a lot – has a hard time taking his eyes off him when he’s around, in fact – but it’s rare to get a glimpse of Steve not knowing he’s being watched. Right now, he doesn’t hide how much the exercise has worn him out, and he opens the fridge and drinks half of a water bottle in record time.
“Leave a little to the fish, Cap,” Tony says, because he’s not Natasha, he can’t do this sneaky thing. He’s terrible at it.
Steve jumps a little, his head snapping to look at Tony, eyes widening at the sight of him. Tony takes in his shocked face.
“Yeah, still alive and kicking,” he quips, his tone just the slightest bit sharp, because he can’t help it – Steve was out, having a run, getting his exercise on while Tony, like an idiot, waited and hoped he’d come to check on him. “Sorry to disappoint.”
Steve frowns, but he doesn’t say anything, turning towards the fridge. He drains out the water in fast sips and immediately places the empty bottle back inside.
Tony crosses his arms. “Seriously, Cap? What is this, a college dorm? I was expecting you’d have more manners.”
Steve tenses up, and Tony can see his jaw clenching. Tony expects a reply, but instead Steve just nods. “Right,” he says, opening the fridge again, picking up the bottle and placing it under the water filter.
Tony raises an eyebrow. Something about Steve’s movements is especially tense, and Tony watches as he takes sharp, short breaths, which – well, he shouldn’t need to do, not with those superserum enhanced lungs.
Steve is still not looking at him, and Tony should take the hint and go away, he should, but there’s always a drive inside him to push and push and push when it comes to Steve. Tony is like a child. He will take Steve getting mad at him over Steve ignoring him any day.
“Are you okay there, buddy?” Tony says. He keeps his voice light, flippant, careful to not let any genuine worry bleed into his words. “Must’ve been quite a workout, to get you so beaten down.” He takes a step closer, leaning into Steve’s space.
Steve’s posture stiffens, the line of his neck and shoulders rigid with tension. He doesn’t answer.
“Oh, cool, I’m talking to the wall now. Can’t say I haven’t been there before,” Tony quips, arms crossed. A mix of anxiety and anger boils in his stomach – right, Steve wasn’t worried, but does that mean he can’t talk to Tony now? Really? Is he mad? And if he is mad, can’t he, you know, at least look at Tony to scold him? “Gotta say, that’s a bit low for you, Cap. I’d expect you’d at least do me the courtesy of letting me know why I’ve pissed you off. You usually do that so well.”
Steve lowers his head, staring at the floor. He turns off the water filter just as the bottle is about to overflow. When he speaks, his voice is low and controlled, every word seeming careful in a way Tony has never heard before, coming from him: “I’m not mad at you.”
“Really? Because I gotta say, you make a fine impression. Maybe it’s strength of habit—“
“Just leave it, Tony,” Steve interrupts, head snapping towards him. Those clear, sky blue eyes stare at Tony, unreadable, and it’s pathetic, but just that is enough to make his heart take a leap in his chest.
“Okay,” Tony says, in a tone that makes it clear that it’s as far from okay as possible. He raises both hands in a dramatic gesture of surrender. “Okay, I’ll leave it. Sorry for, I don’t know, existing, or whatever. By the way, I’m doing great, yeah, much better than I was when I almost suffocated to death this morning, thanks for asking, and--.” Tony stops in his tracks, because Steve has clenched his fists, and Tony’s eyes darted towards his hands and just. Stopped there. “What the fuck happened to your fingers?”
Steve reacts immediately, turning his back to Tony. “Nothing.”
“Uh, no, pretty sure 'nothing' doesn’t cause bleeding, and your hands—“ Tony circles Steve, and it must be a ridiculous scene, but he quickly catches sight of Steve’s clenched fists and, yeah, he wasn’t mistaken. “—you’re bleeding. Why are you bleeding?”
“It’s not—“
“Holy shit,” Tony says, his hand snapping and grabbing Steve’s wrist, turning his palm towards him. Steve’s hand is bandaged, but there are clear red stains of blood, spreading from his fingers to his palm. “You opened a cut, or several. You need to change these, right now, just—“ Tony’s eyes dart for a moment to Steve’s other hand, and it’s also bandaged. “What the hell happened to you?”
Steve’s other hand closes in a fist, and Tony tightens his fingers around his wrist.
“Stop that. What are you, a child?” Tony snaps, pulling Steve closer, turning towards the elevator. “Come on, I’m gonna call Bruce…”
“No,” Steve says. “Bruce’s asleep.” He plants himself in the same place, and, of course, Tony couldn’t drag him if he tried. Tony risks a glance at his face, and is surprised at the nervous energy behind that typical steel gaze. “It’s just a cut, I can take care of it.”
Tony raises an eyebrow. “Where did you even get those?” he asks. It’s a weirdly specific placement for wounds, especially with the hard leather gloves Steve usually wears. It’s almost as if he deliberately stuck his hands in a hole filled with spikes—
Oh.
Oh, no.
Tony swallows, and his face must spell out what he’s thinking, because worry flashes in Steve’s eyes, and he opens his mouth to say something before Tony blurts: “You… When you ripped off the armor...”
Steve goes rigid. His face is impossible to read, but right now Tony doesn’t need to read anything, because the conclusion is too obvious to be anything else.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Tony asks, and he sounds too mad for someone who just found out their teammate mauled his own fingers for him.
“They weren’t deep cuts,” Steve says, and now his face is easy to read, because it’s that same matter-of-factly expression and voice he uses every time in meetings when he points out Tony is wrong. “The doctor took care of it in a minute.”
“Right, that’s why you’re—“
“Like you said,” Steve interrupts, sounding perfectly calm and reasonable, the anxious energy Tony had glimpsed before seemingly gone. “Something must’ve opened while I was training. It happens. I’ll clean it up in my room and the serum will take care of the rest. Tomorrow, it will already be gone.”
Tony feels a spike of anger rising inside him. It doesn’t make much sense, but it’s as if the frustration he’s been building towards Steve the whole day snaps at once – it’s just so goddamn him, that stoic calm voice, that distant look as he prepares to turn away from Tony like he’s been doing all afternoon. Literal blood on his hands because of Tony, for Tony, and he acts like it’s nothing, like it doesn’t mean anything – and maybe to him it doesn’t, maybe this is just another moment of Captain America classic self-sacrificial bullshit, but Tony is stuck on those bandages, on the thought of Steve ripping his own flesh apart just to get Tony to breathe again.
Tony’s chest feels tight, and his heart feels huge, swollen and heavy while he can’t stop staring at Steve’s hands. It’s ridiculous, it’s pathetic, but he’s blinking too fast and his eyes are burning, and the next thing he knows, he’s holding Steve’s wrist again.
“Wait,” Tony says, and his voice sounds too soft, too weak. He wants to take it back immediately, but his mouth rushes ahead, speaking before he can stop it: “Let me do it.”
Steve blinks. “What?”
“Let me,” Tony repeats. He regrets it deeply, so much, he wants to stick the words back into his mouth again, and it must show, in the way his voice wavers. He feels exposed, all of a sudden, as if he’s asking something bigger than what he can actually say. Let me touch you, let me take care of you. “Just… Let me do it.”
Steve’s face flushes, and Tony is actually scared, more terrified than he was while facing monsters from other worlds. It feels so intimate suddenly, the warmth of Steve’s skin under his fingers, and a part of him wants to retreat, to let go of his hand, to pretend this never happened. But Tony pushes through it, lets his wish overcome his fear, sustains Steve’s gaze even if he wants to run away.
“You don’t have to,” Steve says, but it sounds weak, and Tony can see his resolve wavering. “It really wasn’t—“
“I know it wasn’t a big deal. Still.” Tony swallows. “You helped me, I help you. Makes sense, doesn’t it?”
Steve inhales sharply. Tony knows that’s the moment where he could stop it – could easily take his wrist out of Tony’s hold, turn his back, tell Tony to go away – and he can see in Steve’s face that he considers it, maybe even wants to do that, but for some reason he doesn’t.
Instead, he nods.
“Okay,” he says, and it catches Tony by surprise so completely it takes him a moment to answer.
“Uh. Okay,” Tony echoes, blinking rapidly. “We should, uh—The couch.”
Steve nods, but keeps those unreadable eyes on Tony, apparently waiting for his lead. It’s such an unpreceded situation, for the two of them, that Tony almost trips over his own feet when he walks to the couch, pulling Steve with him.
“Here, have a seat,” he says. Steve’s jaw clenches, but he obeys. “I, I’ll go get supplies. In the bathroom.”
Steve nods, eyes still on Tony so firmly it makes Tony’s head feel dizzy. Tony turns on his heel to go towards the bathroom with fast strides.
He washes his hands frantically for a moment before remembering of course Steve can’t catch an infection. He then opens the cabinet to pick up a first aid kit. He doesn’t even want to think about stitches, but it would be pointless for Steve’s skin, anyway – the serum fixes injuries by itself way faster, stitches would just make the process messier.
He’s back almost as fast as he went, and Steve is hunched forward, staring at his own hands. He’s radiating discomfort, and it doesn’t take a nuclear scientist like Tony to figure out it has nothing to do with the injuries.
“Ok, now, give me one hand,” Tony says, dropping onto the couch next to him. Their bodies touch, their legs bumping together, and Tony feels a shiver, an immediate wish to huddle closer, hears a tiny voice in his head that just can’t help but whisper more.
He swallows. Steve gives him his hand, his left one, the one with the most blood. Tony holds it carefully, assesses the mess of blood on the bandages, and slowly starts to unwrap it.
Steve winces a little from the pain, and a part of Tony is almost relieved at the opportunity to talk, to lighten up the air full with tension: “God, you really messed this up. How the hell were you planning to take care of it alone?”
The corner of Steve’s mouth twists upwards, in a glimpse of a smile. Jesus, he has such a pink mouth. “I know first aid.”
“Of course you know first aid, World War veteran, you should know first aid, but doing first aid on yourself is never the best idea, buddy, let me tell you.” Tony unwraps the bandage around Steve’s fingers, and he has to fight not to wince himself. The cuts are deep, newly formed scabs starting to form scar tissue, roughly ripped in half where Steve’s fingers meet his palm. The blood comes from that small rupture, red darker than the pale pink shade of the damaged skin around it. “I would know, I used to try to take care of my own bruises after a mission. Ask Pepper how that went, if you want to see her roll her eyes out of her eyeballs.”
Tony finishes taking off the bandage, putting it aside. He holds the back of Steve’s hand, careful to not touch the cuts, while his other hands searches for a gauze pad. He gently pats the wound, watching as it soaks up the blood.
He risks a glance to Steve. His face is flushed, but he doesn’t seem to be in pain. He’s not looking at Tony, instead staring ahead, jaw clenched.
Tony bites his lower lip. A nervous feeling churns his stomach – Steve doesn’t want this, doesn’t like Tony’s hands touching him even for such an innocent reason – but he waves it off, focusing instead on cleaning the cut.
When he reaches for Neosporin and opens the tube, Steve says, “You know I don’t need that.”
He’s right, technically, but that matter-of-factly voice annoys Tony again, so he huffs. “Bear with me anyway,” he says, before applying some to the tip of his finger. He traces Steve’s cuts very lightly, as concentrated as if he was messing with plutonium. Yeah, Steve wouldn’t catch anything even if Tony did a shitty job, but that doesn’t mean it can’t hurt.
Tony doesn’t want Steve to hurt. That’s the last thing he wants.
“You could’ve at least told me,” Tony grunts, risking a glance at Steve’s face.
To his surprise, Steve is looking straight at him, a slight tinge of pink flushing his cheeks. “What?” he asks, as if he didn’t understand the question. It occurs to Tony he probably didn’t hear it.
“I said, you could’ve told me you mauled yourself to get me out of the armor. Spread your fingers a little,” Tony says, picking up the bandages. He presses a gauze pad to the freshly open cut while starting to wrap Steve’s fingers. “It would’ve been nice to know.”
“Why?”
“Geez, Cap, I don’t know,” Tony says. He wants to make it sound like it’s the stupidest question he’s ever heard, but he’s distracted trying not to mess up the dressing. “Because I like knowing when people get hurt because of me, maybe? It’s a little quirk of mine.”
“It wasn’t your fault, Tony,” Steve says, after a moment of silence. “These things happen on missions.”
The words sting. I would’ve done this for anyone, Steve is saying. He may as well be saying: it wasn’t about you. You’re nothing special.
“Well,” Tony says, finishing wrapping up the bandage. Steve’s hand is so big and warm between Tony’s own palms. He has long fingers – artist’s fingers, Tony thinks, with a sudden wave of fondness that hurts just as much as it warms him up. “I guess it’s just routine to you then, isn’t it?”
“What?” Steve asks, and Tony wraps the loose end of the gauze, finishing his work. He pushes Steve’s bandaged hand towards him, then extends his own in expectation for the other hand. Steve frowns. “Tony, there’s no need…”
“Humor me, then, okay, Cap?”
Something flashes in Steve’s eyes, something Tony doesn’t recognize, and his jaw clenches.
Tony thinks he’s gonna stand up, but he doesn’t. Instead, he just gives Tony his other hand.
It shakes a little when Tony holds it.
“You really don’t need to…” Steve says, but his voice trails off. The next time he speaks, it’s almost a whisper, “This one didn’t open.”
Tony swallows. Maybe he shouldn’t – this feels more intimate, doesn’t it, since there’s no clear excuse – but… but he can’t get out of his head the thought of Steve sinking his fingers in the gouges of metal on his suit, Steve clenching his muscles and pushing through the pain to rip the chestplate off, Steve touching his cheeks with rough leather gloves, the warm wave of his breath following the sudden flash of light. Tony had freaked out, true, but it had been real, the darkness had been all around him and then all of a sudden he had been taken back, in front of Steve Rogers and the sun, hard pressed to decide which one was more blinding.
“It’s okay,” Tony’s voice sounds weaker, and he hopes it doesn’t break. “I want to.”
Steve goes still. This time, Tony doesn’t need to glance over to know he’s watching him – not his hands, not the way Tony takes care to unwrap the bandages in the least painful way possible, not how the changes the gaze as gently as it can be, but him, his face. He’s looking at Tony, and Tony doesn’t know why.
Tony feels as if the air in the room changes, feels like it shrinks, like it compresses in a small bubble around just the two of them.
“It was nothing,” Steve says suddenly, startling Tony a little. “Nothing at all.”
“I know.”
“No,” Steve continues, and something in his voice sounds urgent, pleading in a way Tony’s never heard before. “You… you really don’t, Tony.”
Tony raises his head to look at him. Steve’s hand is still on Tony's lap, and Tony is all too aware of it, all too aware of how close they are when he sees Steve’s face. Steve looks at him with those clear, blue eyes, and don’t they look especially clear now, as if there’s something pulsing behind them, begging Tony to see something he’s not seeing.
Steve blinks. And then blinks again, and again, and he’s blinking too fast. Way too fast.
Tony blinks, too. But he blinks once or twice, out of confusion, when he catches why Steve’s eyes are so clear, why they’re sparkling so much under the living room’s light.
“I—I could hear you. Serum enhanced my hearing. I heard you trying to breathe, trying to get out.” Steve closes his mouth and Tony can see his lower lip trembling when he speaks. “When—When I say it was nothing, I mean it. I would have done anything to get you out. I would’ve lost both hands, and it still would have been nothing.”
Tony opens his mouth, but no sounds come out of it. He’s not sure he remembers how to make those.
Steve’s face twists in a pained expression, and he looks away abruptly. His shoulders hunch forward and he looks down to his lap, as if he wants to make himself smaller.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I… I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. But I just—I could hear you,” his voice goes softer, to an almost whisper. It’s as if he doesn’t want Tony to hear what he has to say, but feels as if he should say it anyway. “I… I heard you gasping for air.”
Steve shuts his eyes, takes a sharp breath, and Tony is just speechless, watching how he fights to put himself together, as if every word is hurting him deeply.
“I’m sorry for not checking in on you,” Steve says abruptly, opening his eyes and turning towards Tony again. His gaze is fearful but honest, almost too intense for Tony to bear, blue pools threatening to swallow him whole. “I had so much in my head. I couldn’t stop thinking about what could have happened, and the way I reacted, I just…” He shakes his head. “I couldn’t trust myself around you.”
Tony has now been more quiet in this conversation that he has ever been while talking to someone else his entire life, probably. “You couldn’t what? Steve,” he says, and that’s a name that jumps off of his lips without thinking, and he immediately regrets it, because he should’ve said Cap, should’ve gone for a safer word, a word that didn’t threaten to reveal everything just because of how he said it. “You’re not making any sense. And, I mean, normally I’d be all for something like that, but that’s a pretty unexpected twist on our whole dynamic, so I’m really a little—“
“I know what it’s like to lose people, Tony. To make a mistake in the field, and have someone else pay for it. It’s never easy.” His voice doesn’t tremble, of course it doesn’t, but Tony thinks he can see a flash of pain in his eyes, a reflection in that sea of blue that makes his heart ache. “But it has happened before, and one day… It might happen again. I know that.”
“Steve—“
“That’s what we sign up for. Part of the job.” Steve continues as if Tony hasn’t said anything, and Tony detects some agitation in his words, as if he needs to get it all out at once. “But when I was there, and you were moving, and I could hear— I could hear your breathing speed up.” His voice wavers.
Steve’s voice never wavers. He’s blinking too fast, too, which – Steve wouldn’t, Steve would never…
And suddenly Steve’s hand moves, turns and holds Tony’s hand. He clings to it tightly, apparently forgetting completely about the cuts.
“I could hear your breathing,” Steve repeats, and his voice is broken. It’s broken in a way Tony’s never heard before, in a way he didn’t knew could get. “God, Tony, if it stopped—If you—“
“It didn’t,” Tony says, his own voice a little desperate, because Steve’s face is also breaking, crushing into something Tony isn’t sure if he’s able to handle. He pulls Steve in by the hand, turns him towards him and lays his hands on his shoulders. “It didn’t.”
“But it could’ve,” Steve says, and, God, his eyes are red. His eyes are red and his breath is hitching and Tony is not responsible for any of his actions from his point on. He just can’t be.
“I’m okay,” he whispers, lowering his arms to Steve’s waist, pulling him closer, feeling the warmth of his wide chest against his. “I’m okay now. You saved me.”
Tony half expects Steve to go still, maybe to push him away, but he doesn’t. Instead, Tony can hear the sharp inhale of Steve’s breath, and then he feels that same breath on the curve of his neck, and Steve’s arms are around him, and Steve’s body is shaking.
Tony hears his low, almost silent sobs; feels the way his nose touches his neck. Even Steve’s breakdown is quiet.
“’m sorry,” Steve whispers after a while, his voice muffled against the fabric of Tony’s shirt. Tony just hugs him tighter, tighter, tighter than he’s probably ever held someone. “’m sorry, I shouldn’t…”
“Hey, hey,” Tony pulls back just a little, just to see Steve’s puffy eyes and his flushed face. His hand comes up of its volition, brushes Steve’s bangs off his forehead. He has such fine hair, Tony thinks, with a knot in his throat. “It’s okay. I’m here.”
Steve gives him a shaky nod, and pulls back, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. He takes a deep breath. “I’m doing exactly what I didn’t want to do.”
“Been there,” Tony says, and that gets him a teary smile. He realizes he’s shaking, and every cell in his body wants to pull Steve back again, to hug him and stroke his hair and hold him as long as Steve lets him. His mouth can’t help but add: “I thought you didn’t care.”
Steve lets out a broken laugh, runs a hand over his face. Tony wants to grab his wrist, pull his hand to his lap, remind him to be gentle because of the wounds. Then those eyes are on his again, and he loses his train of thought. “I care so much it scares me.”
Tony’s heart takes a leap so high it feels like it’s in his throat, like it’s about to hop out, to jump out of his mouth to find Steve. “Me too,” he says quickly, because he needs to say it quickly, can’t give himself time to process – if he processes it, he’s going to freeze, he knows it, and he can’t, can’t do it right now, not with Steve looking at him like that.
He moves closer and pulls Steve in again. He puts his hands on the back of Steve’s neck. He feels the tiny hairs of Steve’s nape with the tip of his fingers, lowers one hand to find his wrist.
Steve is also shaking. Tony takes a deep breath.
They’re both scared, he realizes. They’re both scared, and it’s okay.
Tony holds Steve’s hand, takes it to his mouth and presses a light kiss over his knuckles. Steve inhales sharply, and Tony smiles at him, as reassuring as he can be. He presses tiny kisses all over the back of Steve’s hand, so softly his lips barely brush Steve’s skin.
He feels Steve’s other hand climb up his shirt, hold onto his collar. “Tony,” Steve says, and Tony hadn’t even realized he had closed his eyes until this moment. When he opens them, Steve is so close, Tony could count his blonde eyelashes one by one. The living room light catches on them, makes them seem golden.
Tony leans his head forward. Steve’s breath is short and nervous against his skin, and at the first brush of their lips, Tony feels his body shuddering, waking up at the feel of Steve’s mouth. Steve’s lips are soft, incredibly soft, and Tony lets his head sink further, arms holding Steve’s waist, pulling him closer.
This time, Tony keeps his eyes open. He doesn’t want to lose one second of the way Steve parts his lips slowly against his, how he tilts his head to give Tony better access, how his eyes flutter closed so quickly. He gives himself to Tony entirely, eager, sweet, pliant in his arms. Tony feels it when Steve’s tongue touches his lips, and when he opens his mouth Steve hums softly. The kiss deepens and Steve’s mouth is wet and warm and full of yearning, growing hungrier against Tony’s, and in every touch Tony can feel the longing behind it. He can see, from the corner of his eyes, how Steve’s face is flushed, can feel how his hand tightens his grip on Tony’s collar. Tony’s head feels dizzy as he runs his hand over Steve’s back, feeling his shoulder blades under the thin fabric of his shirt. He inhales Steve’s scent, a musky mix of soap with something else Tony can’t recognize, that must be just Steve. He tastes delicious, so sweet and so full of sheer want, Tony can’t help but grow urgent, his mouth matching Steve’s passion, hand coming up over Steve’s nape to tilt his head back further so Tony can fully explore his mouth. He traces the seam of Steve’s lips with his tongue, finishes by pulling his bottom lip between his teeth, sucking lightly, grinning when he feels Steve’s body shiver.
Steve’s free hand goes to his face, and the texture of the bandages brings Tony back to reality, and he pulls back. He’s panting, and so is Steve, breathing heavily, face flushed and lips swollen, puffy in a way that makes it hard for Tony to not go back to kissing him immediately.
Steve blinks, blonde eyelashes fluttering slowly, and Tony’s smile grows at the dazed look on his face.
“Hi,” Tony says.
“Hi,” Steve says, a shy smile coming up on his lips. There’s a fresh energy on his face, and he’s glowing, body leaning forward as if he couldn’t bring himself to pull away from Tony even if he wanted to. Tony’s grin must grow to ridiculous levels, because Steve flushes deeper, lowering his gaze. “This isn’t really how I ever imagined this going.”
“Yeah?” Tony doesn’t even try to hide the glee in his voice. He must sound silly, his smile is getting in the way of his words, but he doesn’t care. “Did you imagine it a lot, soldier?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, leaning forward and pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of Steve’s mouth, delighting the sharp inhaled of breath he gets in response. “I gotta say, though, as interested as I am in running through every possible scenario with exhaustive detail, I think you need to rest.” He sets his hand over Steve’s hand on his collar, his thumb stroking his knuckles. “Let these cuts heal without clenching those magnificent fists all over them, hm?”
Steve lets out an apologetic laugh. He ducks his head, biting his lower lip. “I didn’t mean to dump all of this on you at once.”
“Please, dump all of this on me wherever you like,” Tony replies immediately, in the hopes of getting another laugh, and, yeah, score. He feels Steve’s arm tighten on his collar, and he takes his free hand to Steve's hair, brushing back his bangs soothingly. “Though I should say, this, well, uh, let’s just say you may not have been the only one to imagine it. And in the interest of full disclosure, I should say that in my head, this, when it happened, it wasn’t really a one-time thing.”
Steve’s grin grows so fast and so brightly, Tony’s words die in his throat. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Tony says, voice hoarse and shaky. “Yeah, actually, it was, well, it was a thing that happened multiple times. Pretty consistently, in fact, you could even say in a regular basis—“
He’s cut off by Steve pulling him closer and hugging him tightly. It’s so warm, so comforting and delicious, Tony closes his eyes while resting his chin on Steve’s shoulder. Steve’s hands go up and down his back in steady, wonderful circles, and Tony can’t fight back a sigh.
“Whatever it is you’re talking about,” Steve says. “I want it too. God, Tony, I—I want it so much. You have no idea.”
Tony feels him shivering, and gives as much as he’s got, wrapping his arms around Steve’s middle and squeezing him even more. “Hey,” he says, softly. He pulls back just enough to look straight at Steve’s face. “So do I. You have no idea, either, trust me on that.” He leans in, rests their foreheads together. “We’ll just have to show each other.”
Steve’s smile in response is blinding, and it tastes delicious against Tony’s mouth.