Archive of Our Own

Tony

 

Tony tosses himself into the quinjet seat dramatically, sighing overly loudly and dropping his head onto Steve’s shoulder. “Another day, another guy trying to blow up Manhattan,” he mutters, closing his eyes in exasperation.

Steve smiles, or rather, Tony thinks he smiles, seeing that he isn’t really in a position to see anything right now. There’s a note of amusement in his voice beneath the seriousness when he speaks. “Don’t get cocky out there. That’s how we mess up.”

“I’d be less cocky if this guy didn’t post everything he was planning on Facebook yesterday,” Tony says, rolling his eyes. “This is getting old.”

Steve sighs exasperatedly. “You’re the only person I know who gets mad because their enemies aren’t creative enough.”

“Hey, some of us like some excitement in our lives, old man,” Tony says, lifting his head from Steve’s shoulder. “I don’t think that’s too much to ask.”

The corner of Steve’s mouth twitches up. “Don’t you get enough excitement already, flying around everywhere?”

“You know you can get me excited whenever you want, baby,” Tony answers, leering and waggling his eyebrows overdramatically.

“There are other people here,” Clint points out from the other side of the quinjet, where he’s managed to somehow half-burrow into the seat in his quest to avoid watching whatever it is they're getting up to over there. “Please, some of us don’t want to have to watch blatant eyesex before we have to shoot guys in the face.”

“I’m getting you in the mood, Barton,” Tony protests. “I mean, if you’ve ever thought about the phallic symbolism, with you and your arrow shooting–”

“Stark, hand to heart, I will shoot you in the face one day, and I will enjoy every goddamn second of it,” Clint says, digging himself deeper into the cushions. Bruce puts a comforting hand on his shoulder.

Steve bumps Tony’s shoulder with his gently, gets his attention again. “You never told me how to get you to take this mission seriously, you know.”

“I’ll bet you ten dollars that we’re all out of here in under three hours, no problem,” Tony answers.

Steve lifts an eyebrow. “Ten dollars will make you take this seriously?”

“I’m easily bought.”

The eyebrow stays up.

Tony sighs dramatically. “Fine, fifteen dollars.”

Still nothing.

“And a kiss.”

Tony never knew that Steve’s eyebrows were that flexible. “Don’t you get enough of those, too?” Steve says quietly, a smile playing over his lips.

“I’m needy,” Tony answers, pushing under Steve’s chin and bumping his jaw with the top of his head, and Steve laughs, quiet breaths that send vibrations from his chest through Tony’s back.

“You are,” he agrees, and presses a soft kiss to Tony's temple.

 

----

 

“-secured, Thor’s gone off to take care of that little patch of guys near 27th with Clint, and we’re just doing cleanup over here on this end. Oh, and Steve?” Tony grins, even though Steve can’t see him. “Timer says two hours and five minutes. You owe me fifteen bucks.”

“More attackers coming from the right, sir,” JARVIS says.

“Well, let’s give them something to do, huh?” Tony murmurs, zipping past an office building with said attackers in hot pursuit. “Hey, Steve, you got anything coming at you?”

“It’s pretty empty on my end,” the tinny voice answers back through the headset.

“Great, because I’ve got some company for you,” Tony answers, dodging a series of blasts from...whatever the hell those guys are carrying. He doesn’t even know at this point. Probably giant laser cannons that fire explosive kittens and the tears of orphaned children, because why the hell not.

Suddenly, sirens start going off inside the helmet. Tony frowns.

“JARVIS, what the hell is going on?”

“I cannot confirm, sir, but it seems that we’ve been compromi–”

The voice cuts off and a second voice comes on, deeper and raspier than JARVIS’.

“You missed something,” it says, before a timer pops up on the HUD.

Thirty seconds to detonation.

What–shit, no, no, nonono–panic shoots through Tony, like an electric current.

“Guys, there’s a live bomb out there somewhere, detonation in T minus twenty-eight seconds,” he shouts into the headset, his voice surprisingly calm.

“Where?” he hears Natasha shout back, and like clockwork, a map appears on the display with a tiny red dot blinking on the corner of Park and 29th.

“A gift,” the voice says, before it cuts off and JARVIS comes back online.

“JARVIS, get the word out about the location,” Tony instructs.

“Sir, Captain Rogers is still within blast range,” JARVIS says, and a wave of sheer terror crests over Tony, tightening like an iron band around his chest. For a second, his vision goes white, and he panics, feeling like he's falling out of the sky.

Shit. Shit shit no no no no–

“Get me a link with him, now!”

There’s a moment’s pause, and then Steve’s voice crackles over the headset. “Tony, what’s–”

“Steve, get out of there, there’s a bomb where you’re at, get out!” Tony shouts, desperately willing the suit to go faster. “Just–get two blocks out to 31st and I’ll come and get you, hurry, you don’t have much time–”

Five seconds.

Tony rounds the corner.

Two seconds.

“Steve–!”

The explosion sends Tony flying back into the glass of the skyscraper, thousands of pieces shattering behind the force of the suit. Hundreds of alarms go off inside his head POWER DRAINING FLIGHT CONTROLS DOWN LOSING ALTITUDE and mix with the shouts coming through the headset Location someone give me a location who’s got a lock on him we need to get the civilians out now and he hears them all but they all only translate to one thing:

Steve.

“Get me his location, JARVIS,” and somehow JARVIS knows who he’s talking about, because he hears the clear voice say, “At once, sir,” and for some goddamn reason, it almost centers him. There are still voices cutting through the earpiece, shouting in the confusion, but none of it matters because the map suddenly crystallizes on the display on his screen, and everything focuses onto the little dot marked S in the center.

“-Tony, Tony, do you copy?”

He vaguely recognizes Natasha shouting in his ear.

“We’ve got him, Tony, we’ve got him, Thor’s got him,” before she seems to realize that none of this is getting through to Tony, and switches tactics. Her voice is just barely edged with panic when she speaks again.

“Tony,” she says, “find him now,” and that’s all he needs to hear.

“Full speed,” he tells JARVIS. Pretty much the only thing holding the suit together is sheer willpower and charisma, but somehow the repulsors start up anyways, sending him flying towards where the center of the blast.

The little dot hasn’t moved since the explosion.

Tony grits his teeth. He can’t think about that now. He can’t maybe ever think about that.

He pushes a little faster towards the center of the blast and thinks, please, please, please.

 

----

 

It’s been five hours and seven minutes since they dragged Steve out of the rubble and that fucking door to the surgical suite still won’t open.

Tony stares at it like he can see through it to where Steve is now, lying on a metal table surrounded by masks and antiseptic and bright light. Like he can force the door open if he looks hard enough, make a doctor suddenly appear behind it to tell them yes, he’ll be fine, he just needs some rest but he’ll be good as new faster than any of you can believe because he’s Steve Rogers, this can’t happen to him, it can’t, it can’t.

He makes deals with himself. If he doesn’t close his eyes for a minute, two, three, Steve will be fine. His eyes burn and he can’t tell if it’s from not blinking or from the tears lining his throat. With one hand, he scrubs at them, and in the dark behind his eyelids, he sees Steve, pale and still and bleeding from the back of his head, still half-covered by rubble.

Tony opens his eyes with a gasp. It echoes in the silence of the room. From beside him, Natasha straightens a little from where she’s leaning on the wall.

“Tony?”

“...fine. I’m fine,” he mutters quietly, running a hand through his hair. He forces his breathing to slow down, and Natasha looks at his hands, clenched in his lap and trembling, and doesn’t say anything. He almost wishes that she would. Natasha’s never sugarcoated anything for him; he would have believed it if she had told him that Steve would be fine.

He refuses to think about what it means that she hasn’t said anything.

Clint is sitting in the seat in the corner, looking up every few seconds at the clock. Beside him, Thor looks like he’s going to smash it with Mjolnir if a doctor doesn’t show up soon. Bruce isn’t here; he left about two hours ago to go to the chapel. “Any help he can get,” he had said by means of explanation.

Tony wonders if he should pray. If he’s even allowed to ask God for help. He’s pretty sure that it’s supposed to be some kind of mutual unspoken contract: I do what you tell me, and in return you can ask me to fix your shit when you fuck up.

Still. If there’s a chance–if it means Steve gets out of that operating room, Tony would sign a deal with the devil, if he had to. He can’t not try now.

Slowly, he shuts his eyes, then realizes he has no idea what to say. How you’re supposed to talk with an omniscient deity. Why you even need to talk to an omniscient deity in the first place, logically. It’s not like there’s a manual on this (and yeah, technically, he talks to a god on a more-or-less weekly basis, but he’s pretty sure God’s nothing like Thor. Hopefully. That would be a slightly terrifying thought.)

Finally, he breathes out slowly, and thinks, please, please let him wake up. If you want to punish me, that’s fine, but don’t let anything happen to him. He’s the last person on the face of the earth who deserves this.

Please. Don’t take him away from me. That’s all I want.

Don’t make me watch him die, too.

 

----

 

Seven hours and thirty-seven minutes after the explosion, the surgeon comes out. Tony sits and listens to him say things like traumatic brain injury and second and third degree burns on his legs and at least a week in the hospital, maybe more depending on how he responds to treatment and he couldn’t care less about any of it because everything sounds like Steve’s alive, Steve’s alive, Steve’s alive. And that’s all that matters, because no matter how bad it is, it’s Steve, he’s alive, and no matter how bad it is, he'll find a way to come back from it, because it’s Steve.

The relief burns like a brand in Tony’s chest, brighter than the arc reactor, and for the first time since noon that day, he doesn’t feel like he’s drowning anymore.

He’s waking up, he barely registers the doctor saying, do you want to see him? and he nods, or he thinks he nods, and then they’re taking them through spotless corridors into a small room at the end of a hall.

They push the door open and Steve is there, white bandages wrapped around his head and his legs and stitches up and down his side and God, Tony has never seen anything so beautiful in his life.

“Steve,” he blurts out, relief permeating every letter, and in two steps he’s at his side. Thank you, thank you, thank you he whispers in his head to whoever’s listening. “Steve.”

Steve slowly opens his eyes, looking at Tony. There’s a flicker of confusion in them. 

Slowly, he wets his lips. “Where...am I?”

“Hospital,” Tony answers. He pulls up a chair and sits down next to the bed, resting his elbows on his knees. “And as much as you like the attention you’re getting right now, you really shouldn’t try to pull stuff like this just for that, you know.” His voice is light, but he can’t keep it from shaking. God, I was so close to losing you. “You can just ask nicely next time instead of getting your head smashed in.”

Steve smiles, but it’s small and uncertain, like he doesn’t quite understand what Tony’s saying. A small pool of dread forms cold in Tony’s stomach. Brain injury, he hears the doctor’s voice saying in his head, and he thinks, no, no, oh god, don’t–not this–

He closes his eyes for a second to get ahold of himself, and then he hears Steve speak again. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t–I didn’t catch your name?”

The room goes quiet. Tony’s breath catches in his throat. The dread in his chest tightens around his ribs, making it hard to breathe, to think.

“Steve,” he whispers quietly. “Steve, it’s me, Tony.”

Steve’s brow furrows a little. “...Tony?” he says, and Tony looks at his eyes, those bright blue eyes, and doesn’t find any recognition in them at all, no matter how hard he searches. “I’m sorry, but have we met?”

He’s spent the entire day being shot at, been smashed into concrete rebar, watched Steve get taken away cold and small in an ambulance, and yet it’s those six words that break him.

Pushing his chair back, he shoves his way through everyone else in the room, ignoring Thor’s heavy hand on his shoulder and Clint’s voice calling after him, ignoring Steve’s eyes burning into his back, confused and pained. He makes it out the hospital doors before bursting into a sprint.

 

----

 

He doesn’t know where he runs or how far he goes. All he knows is that he keeps going until his breath burns in his chest and rises in uneven sobs, until he’s in the middle of a field somewhere and his legs give out. Above him, the night is starry and cloudless, and he can’t stop the tears streaming down his face. His breathing is unsteady, and he collapses to his knees, digging his nails into the dirt and shutting his eyes.

Steve doesn’t remember him.

For the first time in a long, long time, Tony feels lost, adrift in a strange ocean, and this time, there’s no one there for him to cling onto.

 

----

 

When he gets back to Stark Tower, Bruce is there waiting for him.

“Did they put you on babysitting duty?” Tony asks, because everything from before has dulled into a thick bitterness, and even if Bruce doesn’t really deserve it, he is the only one in vicinity, as well as someone who won’t hold whatever Tony says against him in the morning.

(Steve wouldn’t, either, but Steve’s not here, and Tony makes himself stop thinking right there, because he’s always believed that a lot of problems can be solved, or at least forgotten for a few hours, by judicious application of denial and alcohol, and he’ll take that over remembering the look in Steve’s eyes when he first woke up.)

He pulls a bottle of vodka out from the cabinet, and Bruce comes up behind him and deftly plucks it out of his hands. “Most babysitters don’t have to deal with babies getting drunk,” he points out, and takes Tony by the shoulders, pushing him towards the couch. “Go sit down,” he says quietly.

Bruce putters around the kitchen for a second before coming back to where Tony’s sitting with two cups of tea. He places one down in front of Tony, then sits down in the chair opposite him with his hands wrapped around the other. They’re both silent for a while.

Finally, Bruce looks up. “So,” he says. “About Steve.”

Graded retrograde amnesia is what the doctor said, which basically means that he can form new memories, but he can’t remember some stuff that happened recently.

...what’s defined as recently? Like, “I don’t know what I had for breakfast” recently–well, obviously not that, but– or “I don’t remember ever going to kindergarten” recent?

They did some tests. Asked him some stuff. He remembers being defrosted, which is good. He recognized Fury when he came in. But that’s it.

…

If it makes you feel better, he didn’t know me, either. Or any of us. So it’s not just you.

...is there a treatment?

…

I’ll take that as a no.

Tony, listen. People can regain their memories. It just takes a while. If you spend time with him–remind him about, you know, he’ll probably start remembering you.

What, you want me to go and tell him that I was his boyfriend? I’m not doing that.

Why not?

You wake up in a hospital, you don’t remember anything that happened, and some guy comes up to you and tells you that you’re his boyfriend. That’s probably more than a little jarring.

Are you–he’s not going to reject you or something, Tony.

…

You’re not doing him a favor by keeping this from him. He’s going to find out eventually. If you tell him yourself–

I know.

Then are you going to?

...

Tony. It’s going to be okay. You’ve trusted me before–trust me on this. We’ll get him back. We will.

When he walks into Steve’s room the next morning, the conversation from last night is still swirling around in his head.

Steve is awake, which is not what he was expecting, considering that it’s 7:30 AM. They’ve elevated his bed a little so that he’s half-sitting, and some of the bandages on his legs have been taken off too. The scars are still there, but the open wounds have almost completely healed.

Goddamn metabolism, Tony thinks, and he almost smiles. At least Steve’s body is getting better.

Steve looks up when Tony walks in, and a small, polite smile spreads over his face. It makes Tony's chest ache.

"You look good," he finally says, pulling up a chair beside the bed. “I mean. Better than yesterday. Not that you looked bad yesterday, but. Everyone kind of looks better when they’re not bleeding out from the back of their head.” What the fuck are you doing, his brain snaps at him.

Steve smiles again, a little uncertainly. “Um. Thanks, I’m–I’m glad I don’t look like I’m dying.” He shifts around in the bed and clears his throat, wincing a little as the movement pulls the stitches on his side. Tony almost reaches out to steady him before he realizes, no, he can’t do that anymore, not yet, at least. He folds his hands together tightly in his lap instead, focusing on the feeling of his nails digging into his skin to distract him from how badly he wants to touch Steve, to reach out and pull him into his arms and hold on until the sound of the explosion stops echoing in his ears and he believes that Steve really is here with him.

“Anyways,” Steve is saying, looking out the window, and Tony looks back up at him– “I’m sorry about what happened yesterday.” He turns to face Tony, and the amount of sincerity in his eyes is painful, would look ridiculous on anyone who wasn’t Steve. “I didn’t–I’m sorry if I upset you. That’s not what I wanted at all.”

Tony lets out a short burst of a laugh, and even to his ears, it sounds too much like a sob. You’re the only person in the world who’d apologize for getting amnesia, he thinks exasperatedly. “I’m not going to hold that against you,” he says. “I’d get pretty freaked out if I woke up in a hospital and some random dude ran up to me and started crying all over me too.”

That makes Steve smile, tired and small, but real, and something warm spreads through Tony’s chest. “Still,” Steve says. He closes his eyes for a second, taking a deep breath and slowly blowing it out. “I–Fury filled me in yesterday. Sort of.” He turns towards Tony again. “Tony, right?”

It doesn’t sound like how he’s used to Steve saying it. Now, Steve says it slowly, cautiously, navigating the syllables like they’re speed bumps and holding the word in the front of his mouth like he’s not sure if he likes the taste of it.

“Yeah. Tony Stark, if you care about that sort of stuff.”

“...Stark? Like Howard Stark?” Shit. This is why Tony didn’t want to do this. He doesn’t want to go through all of this again with Steve.

He closes his eyes. “...Yeah.”

“I knew him, for a while,” Steve begins, and Tony cuts him off. “Yeah. I know,” he says, and maybe Steve picks up on the edge in his voice, because he falls silent.

The air in the room grows heavy, and Tony internally curses himself for snapping at Steve. He fishes around for something to talk about.

Luckily, Steve takes that decision out of his hands. “Fury...brought me some stuff,” he says, gesturing vaguely at the little bedside table which Tony only now notices is covered in newspapers and magazines. Slowly, Steve picks up the top one and flips to a dogeared page, and Tony looking over his shoulder sees that it’s an article from about six months ago, when some sentient octopus-goo things attacked Manhattan. There’s a picture across the top of the page of both of them, still in uniform, covered in dust and blood. It’s cut off right under the shoulders, probably to cut off the fact that Tony’s pretty sure he was flipping someone off, judging by the expression on his face.

Steve’s arm is wrapped around Tony’s shoulders.

“We...were good friends, weren’t we?” Steve asks, and this is the part where Tony should take Bruce’s advice, look Steve in the eye and say, We were a little more than that, we were a lot more than that, Steve, don’t you remember?

“...yeah. We were,” is the only thing he says, and it tastes bitter on his tongue.

Steve looks at the picture for a second longer, brow furrowing in concentration. “I’m sorry,” he finally says. “This…must be difficult. For you.”

Tony doesn’t know how to respond to that. He’s never been good at sincerity, not the way Steve is. He used to snark back, and Steve would get annoyed, until he figured out that it was Tony’s way of saying thank you, you too, I’m sorry.

That was back then, though, and Tony doesn’t know if this Steve still will be okay with it, or if he’ll be annoyed like the first time they met. He doesn’t want to have to go back through that again.

“As long as you’re getting better, it’s fine,” he finally answers gruffly, pulling the paper a little closer to himself so he can get a better look at it. There are faint pencil underlines under some parts of the article, he realizes, and tilts his head so he can read them. “Rogers credits his team’s quick thinking for the prevention of the spread of the goop,” he begins reading, before Steve pulls the paper back, the tiniest blush coloring his cheeks. He smiles sheepishly in apology.

“Sorry,” he says. “It’s just–I was thinking that if I read some stuff that I said, I’d–maybe I’d remember what I used to be like. Who I was.”

“Is it working?” Tony asks quietly.

Steve pauses for a second too long, and that’s answer enough. “I’m still working on it,” he murmurs quietly. “I can’t read for very long. It gives me headaches. So–sometimes I just look at pictures. And see if I can match them up with something I remember.” He picks up a glossy magazine, flips to a spread about them, published two weeks after the New York attack. With one hand, he traces the faces in the pictures. “And I…I don’t. It’s not even–it’s like I’m reading about someone else’s life. I don’t remember doing these things.”

“You probably don’t want to remember that photoshoot,” Tony quips weakly. “It was hell, that’s all I remember. I think Clint shot a camera. And Banner nearly hulked out. And Thor wouldn’t stop eating all the food.”

The edge of Steve’s mouth quirks up. “I actually kind of regret not remembering that,” he says quietly, and then he winces, squeezing his eyes shut and tightening his hands around the bedsheets.

“What’s wrong?” Tony asks, and he can’t keep the line of panic threading through the words.

Steve breathes slowly through his nose, lets it hiss out through his mouth, three, four times. “Head hurts,” he finally grits out.

Tony can count on one hand the number of times he’s heard Steve complain about something hurting. If he’s not even trying to hide it, it must feel like his brain is hammering against his skull. “Do you want me to get you a doctor? They can–”

Steve shakes his head hard, then winces again. “No–no doctors,” he manages. “Don’t–don’t want to be sedated again.”

“Okay. Okay,” Tony says, placing his hand on Steve’s forearm lightly. “No doctors.” He hesitates for a second. “What do you need me to do?”

Steve’s breathing comes fast and harsh. Under Tony’s arm, the muscles in his arm are tense and shaking. “Talk,” he finally gasps out. “About...anything. Tell me about the...the suit. About how you made the Iron Man suit. Anything.”

You know your life is sad when the only person who’s ever asked you to explain something scientific to them is your boyfriend who has amnesia from a traumatic brain injury, Tony thinks wryly, but he doesn’t say that out loud. “I can do that,” is what he says instead.

So Tony talks about HUDs and alloys and which metals are best for shielding versus for aerodynamics and speed versus flexibility and mobility, and slowly Steve’s breathing gets less ragged, and by the time the nurse comes in to tell Tony that visiting hours are over, Steve’s lying peacefully asleep and Tony’s gotten up to the specifics of the Mark-29 design.

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” he promises Steve quietly, then cracks a small grin. “It’s not often I have a captive audience.”

 

-----

 

And that’s what it becomes. Steve stays in the hospital for a week, and Tony goes to see him every day, once early in the morning and once late at night, an hour before visiting hours are over. There’s usually no one there; the others come to visit him during the day.

He’s not trying to avoid them, per se, but he doesn’t think he’d be comfortable talking with Steve with someone else watching, no matter who that person was. That, and even if he knows that the order that Steve starts remembering people doesn’t mean anything, it still doesn’t mean that it wouldn’t bother Tony, just a little, if he knew that Steve was more comfortable with everyone else than with him.

They don’t do much. Most of the time they look through the stuff Fury left them and the pictures that the rest of them brought, and Steve listens to Tony tell stories about weird stuff they did for photoshoots or for fun or because they were drunk and no one wanted to stay at home alone, and Tony watches him and imagines that he maybe sees a spark of recognition in his eyes when he looks through the pictures.

Other days they can only talk for a while before the headaches come back, and Steve has to close his eyes and take deep breaths and Tony watches him and wraps his hand around Steve’s and only extracts it hours later after Steve’s breathing has steadied again and his eyes are clear and unclouded by pain.

One time he comes in a little later than usual and finds Steve sitting up in bed watching baseball on the tiny TV across the room from him. It’s the Red Sox versus the Cardinals, Steve tells him when he walks in, not that Tony really knows what the significance of those two teams are. He’s not really a baseball guy at all, but he remembers the one time he let Steve drag him to game and the smile on Steve’s face, bright and unguarded and content, still burns in his memory, comes to mind as he watches Steve intently stare down the pitcher on the TV.

“Not the Yankees?” he asks, purposely baiting Steve, because even when he used to do this every time they watched a game, Steve never could resist, and it’s no different now.

It’s pretty funny, actually, how Steve visibly bristles at that, and Tony sits back in his chair and listens to Steve start in on how the Yankees don’t even belong in New York, the Dodgers are the only New York team that will ever really be good enough, which inevitably turns into a rant about O’Malley and how they don’t belong in LA at all, and it’s comforting, really, that no matter what changes, Steve’s rabid baseball obsession is still the same.

The doctors say he’s improving, that his coordination is better, the headaches are getting rarer, that he loses words less often and and more often than not can easily follow a coherent train of thought. The burns have healed nicely, the worst ones now barely light scars on the skin of his legs. By all accounts, he’s well on the way to recovery.

Except for the memory thing.

He remembers everything after the accident, and he can repeat the stories they tell him about before word for word, but to him, they’re still just stories. None of it sparks any sort of recollection; everything from right before the Avengers Initiative to the accident, two years of fights and victories and life, is still a blank space in his mind.

The doctor shrugs when they ask him what they can do. “The actual mechanics of the brain are still a mystery to science,” he says, and it takes all of Tony’s self control not to punch him into the next room. “It may be that he’ll never remember that part of his life. At any rate, you’re lucky that he’s healed completely from all the other wounds. It’s a miracle that he’s awake and responsive now, much less walking and talking without any problems. If I were you, I’d be counting my blessings,” and this time, Clint has to grab Tony’s arm to keep him from actually putting a fist into the guy’s face.

Steve smiles more readily when Tony walks in the room now, but it’s still the sort of smile that he used to give to little kids in Captain America t-shirts and especially polite reporters. The smile Tony misses–small and crinkle-eyed and relaxed–he doesn’t know where it’s gone.

Steve still doesn’t remember. Tony still hasn’t told him.

The hospital releases him a week after the accident, about two minutes before everyone realizes that they have no idea where Steve’s going to stay. The doctor tells them that Steve should still be watched, to make sure he doesn’t accidentally hurt himself again, so leaving him alone in his apartment is out of the question. Preferably, he’d live in SHIELD HQ, just because he seems to remember that part of his life the best, but that idea gets scrapped about five seconds after its suggestion, because Clint, do you realize that keeping someone who is still recovering from head trauma in a military base filled with things that have the firepower to obliterate cities is not in any way a good idea (“You know what, Tasha, I was just trying to help.”)

In the end, Steve somehow ends up living in his floor in Stark Tower. Before the accident, he had basically lived there, anyways, so most of his stuff is already there, and maybe it’ll help him remember, Bruce had suggested, albeit without much hope in his voice. Plus out of all of the choices (with the exception of SHIELD, of course), Stark Tower probably has the best security, so at least they’ll know that Steve’ll be safe.

There’s another reason that no one mentions, but that they all know, and Tony looks up at all of them, and he feels gratitude welling up in his chest.

“Don’t thank us yet,” Natasha says, as they head up to go collect Steve. “Do a week of babysitting duty and then tell me what you think.”

 

----

 

Steve settles into life at Stark Tower surprisingly easily. After the first week, which Tony spends mostly walking him through how to use all the techie stuff scattered around the tower, Steve’s basically self-sufficient.

He never gets lost. “It’s...kind of familiar,” he explains when Tony brings it up one day over dinner. “Like I had a dream about it once. So sometimes I won’t know where I’m going, but then I’ll end up in a room and I’ll think, ‘Oh, right, this room is in the right wing, so you need to go here, here, and here to get back to your floor.’”

“Your brain works in ridiculous ways,” Tony answers, and he has to duck his head back down to look at his (kind of badly made, but hey, not bad for a second try) pasta to hide the stupid grin spreading over his face.

Natasha comes to visit at the end of the first week. “I think this is the first time you’ve actually opened the door for me yourself,” she says, arching an eyebrow at Tony as she walks in. “Where’s Steve?”

“In the gym. I think he’s getting cabin fever,” Tony replies.

“So let him go outside.”

“It’s been a week, Nat. I’m not irresponsible enough to let someone with a brain injury go wander around the street.”

“When did you turn into a helicopter parent?” Natasha asks, sitting down on the couch and crossing her arms. “Honestly, the stuff in this building is more dangerous than anything he could find in the street. If you’re that worried, go out with him.”

“He doesn’t remember enough about our relationship for me to do that,” Tony snaps, a second before he realizes what Natasha actually meant.

The silence lasts a second too long. “He still doesn’t?” Natasha finally says, and her voice is almost gentle. “Remember anything about…?”

Tony’s chest feels too tight around his lungs. “It’s still early,” he says, even though both of them know how weak of an excuse it is. “We’re thinking...one step at a time.”

Natasha looks at him strangely for a second, then understanding flickers in her eyes. “How long has it been since you were in the lab?”

“Excuse me?”

“You haven’t done any work on your suit or anything for at least a week.” Tony lifts an eyebrow. “You don’t have oil stains on your hands,” Natasha explains. “And your shirt’s new, too. Which doesn’t happen when you’re working on a project.”

“Since when did you become Sherlock?” Tony mutters, crossing his arms. “Even if I haven’t been working, so what? Maybe I’ve been taking care of Steve.”

“You? Taking care of Steve?” The corner of Natasha’s mouth quirks up. “You’re becoming domestic, Stark.”

“I will have you know that I have an undiscovered talent in cooking, Ms. Romanoff, and that I only burned the pancakes once yesterday morning.”

“I pity Rogers,” Natasha answers. Then her eyes grow serious. “Are you and him...still doing okay?”

Honestly, he doesn’t know how to answer that. Medically, Steve’s making a miraculous recovery. He’s back to running ten miles before breakfast, he does his own laundry, and he’s relearned how to use all the technology in his room without a hitch.

And all of it just makes it worse, that he looks almost back to normal, because sometimes Tony walks in on Steve folding laundry or making his bed or something stupid, and he has a split second feeling of stupid, boundless hope that maybe this time it’ll be different, that Steve will remember him, before Steve turns around and that goddamn smile–

It’s not fair to Steve, because he’s getting more comfortable with Tony, with joking around with him and laughing at his jokes and just–with spending time with him. When he smiles, it reaches his eyes and makes them crinkle, makes warmth blossom in Tony’s chest and–

And. It’s not the same as before. Not the smile he remembers. Maybe it never will be. Maybe he’s lost the old Steve forever, and just thinking about that makes his chest constrict painfully.

“About as okay as you’d expect,” he finally answers. “We’re not having problems, at least. He hasn’t told me that he wants to throw me off the tower yet.”

“Maybe he really hasn’t gotten better from that brain injury,” Natasha deadpans. Standing up in one fluid motion, she pulls out a phone from her pocket and frowns at the screen. “I need to go. Apparently something important’s happening.”

“Thor get his cape stuck in a wood chipper again?”

“Probably.” At the door, she turns around and looks hard at Tony for a second. “You don’t have to do that, you know.”

“Do what?”

“Pretend like you’re some perfect househusband to make him happy. He’ll probably remember you guys being together better if you act like you used to.”

And if he doesn’t ever remember? Tony thinks. If he doesn’t remember, and I act like an asshole around him, do you think he’ll ever look twice at me once he doesn’t have to?

It was a miracle that he fell in love with me the first time, he wants to say. If I have to make it happen again, I’m not leaving it up to chance.

“I didn’t know you had such a big stake in my happiness,” he finally answers. “I’m touched.”

“I have money on you two getting back together,” she answers, stepping out the door. “Don’t make me lose, Stark,” and Tony hears Good luck in the spaces between the words.

“When have I ever?” he calls out to the closing door.

 

-------

Tony stumbles back into the living room after the SHIELD meeting ends, two days and possibly the most boring, tedious seven hours of his life later. Falling onto the couch, he barely has enough time to kick off one of his shoes before he’s asleep.

He’s woken up by someone gently placing a blanket over his body. It’s old and worn, but in a comforting way, and he vaguely recognizes it as one of Steve’s blankets.

The dark figure above him turns to go, and he reaches out and grabs one of his hands, pulls him back. “Steve,” he whines, and Steve turns around and kneels down next to Tony’s head.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Steve begins apologetically, but Tony makes a small annoyed noise and pulls him onto the couch, wrapping his arms around his waist and pressing his head against his chest. He’s warm, warmer than the couch was, and in the haze of sleep, Tony scoots up, rests his head on Steve’s shoulder and presses a kiss to skin of his neck.

Then Steve stiffens in his arms and Tony lands back in reality with a crash.

Immediately, Tony’s awake and letting go of Steve, sitting up and pushing himself back to the other end of the couch. Apologies fall out of his mouth, tripping over themselves with how fast he’s talking. “Sorry, I–I didn’t realize–I didn’t remember–”

“Tony–” Steve begins, and Tony shakes his head, cutting him off as he stumbles to his feet.

“Look, I’m–I’m sorry, I need to go–”

He makes it to the workshop without Steve coming after him. With shaking hands, he locks the door behind him, before sinking to the floor, back pressed against the wall. His breathing is harsh in the silence of the room.

Pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes, he takes shuddering breaths that catch in his constricted throat, choking him. You idiot, you idiot, he thinks fiercely, raking a hand through his hair. What is wrong with you how the fuck did you forget that he doesn’t remember you what the fuck are you trying to do?

He must have fallen asleep, because he wakes up with a horrible crick in his neck and still-wet tearstains on his cheeks. With a groan, he pushes himself into a standing position and rubs the back of his neck, grimacing. “JARVIS, what time is it?”

“7:49 AM, sir.”

Tony rubs the sleep out of his eyes. “I...I need to go out, JARVIS. Make sure that Steve...make sure that he gets whatever he needs, okay?”

“Of course, sir.”

He isn’t ready to talk to Steve yet. Eventually, he’ll have to deal with it, but. Not now. He can’t do it right now.

Tony doesn’t bother going upstairs to change. His clothes still look decent, and anyways, if he ends running into Steve up there, he’s going to have to have that conversation a lot earlier (and a lot more sober) than he’d prefer. He grabs car keys from the workbench as he heads out–he has no idea where he’s headed, but any place in the world is preferable to Stark Tower right now.

 

------

 

He doesn’t expect Steve to be awake when he gets back, at 11:40 PM. The other man normally goes to sleep at 9:00 so he can wake up at 7, which used to be both endearing and extraordinarily annoying to Tony, who wakes up sometime between 10:30 and lunch on a good day.

If he had been honest with himself, he’d probably admit that he had stalled for time on the way back so he would get home later and be able to avoid this conversation for one more day. Predictably, that’s not what the universe decides to let happen.

When he walks in, Steve is sitting on the couch, head down and elbows resting on his knees. Tony’s phone is in his hand, glowing brightly in the dark.

“You’re up,” Tony says, because that’s as good of a conversation starter as any.

Steve doesn’t answer, doesn’t move for long enough that Tony takes a step towards him, panic rising like bile in his throat, worst-case scenarios flashing through his head.

“You didn’t tell me,” Steve finally says, his voice heavy in the silence.

“What are you–”

Steve lifts up the phone, shows Tony the screen.

It’s a picture they took months ago, about when they started sort-of living together. Steve’s lying in bed, shirt off, and Tony’s half-sprawled over him, kissing his cheek and holding his other hand up to take a photo with his phone. Steve’s laughing, a light blush sprinkled over his cheeks.

His phone is basically impossible to hack into; he took care of that personally. He has no idea how Steve, who still sometimes can’t figure out the coffee maker, got in.

“Where’d you learn how to hack into phones?” Tony finally asks, because it’s the only coherent thought he can form and Steve’s still looking at him like he wants an answer.

“I didn’t. I asked JARVIS for the code and he gave it to me,” Steve answers, and the irrational part of Tony’s brain feels oddly betrayed. “That’s not the point I was making.” He takes a deep breath. “Tony. Why didn’t you tell me that we–that we were–” he cuts himself off, running a hand through his hair.

“That we were together,” he finally finishes.

“Well,” Tony points out, “the fact that it takes you three tries to say it should probably tip me off that had I told you, you wouldn’t have taken it too well.” Even as he says it, he wants to take it back, because it’s unfair, he knows it is, and he doesn’t want to do this, doesn’t want to see that look in Steve’s eyes. He’s been trying, trying hard, to be a better person, for Steve, to make Steve happy, to give Steve a reason to want to stay, and now he’s going to ruin it, because miracles can’t happen twice–

Steve bristles in front of him. “So you just weren’t–you were just going to hide this from me?” he asks, gesturing to the phone. “You were just going to let me not know?”

“Would you rather have had me tell you in the hospital? ‘Hi, I’m Tony Stark and I know you don’t remember, but we’ve been fucking for like two years now?’” Tony laughs, hollow and short. “How would that have helped?”

“Then at least I would have known that I could trust you!” Steve finally explodes. “Tony, do you–you have no idea, do you? Two weeks ago, I didn’t remember anything about–about you guys, all this, nothing. Everything I remember now–it’s because you told me it happened. It’s because I trusted that you were telling me the truth.” All the fight suddenly goes out of him, and he leans back heavily on the back of the couch. “What else are you keeping from me?”

Tony’s mouth is dry. He swallows hard, looks down at the phone, still brightly lit with the picture on the screen. “I’m sorry,” he finally says. His voice is raw, scraped dry from rasping against his constricted throat. “I really am, Steve, I–God.” He sits down hard on the seat opposite Steve, rubs a hand over his face. “I–I never meant to hurt you. I never wanted that. Believe anything else you want, but I never–I didn’t hide this to hurt you.”

“Then why did you?” and God, the note of betrayal in Steve’s voice almost breaks him.

He shuts his eyes. Because before, sometimes I looked at you and I couldn’t believe that you were here, that you were mine, that you had chosen me, because you get that look in your eyes that I can’t handle when you’re disappointed, because what if I had told you that you had loved me, before, and you had looked at me like you didn’t understand why?

“I’m sorry,” is all he can get out. “Steve, I’m so, so, sorry.”

There’s a pause, and then Steve gets up.

“Where are you–”

“SHIELD,” Steve answers. There’s an indifference in his voice that hits Tony in the face, more than anger would have. Anger he could have taken.

“It’s midnight, Steve, you can’t–”

“I’m capable of taking care of myself,” Steve answers, grabbing a jacket and keys from where they’re hanging by the door. “I don’t need to be treated with kid gloves. I’m fine.”

“Steve, don’t–please, Steve, I’m sorry, just don’t leave–” and Tony’s begging now and he doesn’t even care, because no no no, this is exactly what he didn’t want, he can’t lose Steve now, not when he’s just gotten him back–

Steve turns around, and something in his eyes softens the tiniest bit. “I just need to...I need space to think about this, Tony.” He looks like there’s something else he wants to add, but then he shakes his head and steps out the door, shuts it behind him.

The click echoes around the entire room.

For a long time, Tony sits there, rests his head in his hands, stares at the floor. Everything feels dulled, like he’s taking blows through a layer of armor. Numbness spreads through his chest, arms, fingers. He drives his nails into his palms until his knuckles are white to drive it away, like he’s grabbing a lifeline, like if he holds on hard enough, he can keep Steve from leaving.

It’s almost a relief when the tears finally come.

 

------

 

Tony doesn’t notice Steve’s home until a pair of legs steps into his line of sight and a voice from somewhere higher than Tony’s head says, “Tony? Tony, what–are you okay?” Steve’s face blurs into his line of vision, and one of his hands reaches out to wrap around the bottle of liquor in Tony’s hand, set it on the table. “Tony, look at me. How much have you had to drink?”

He actually tries to answer that question seriously, with something along the lines of I have no fucking clue, but that bottle is somehow still half-full, so not as much as I should have, but it comes out as some sort of unintelligible mumble instead.

Steve sighs. “Let’s go,” he says quietly, pulling Tony up so that one of Tony’s arms is wrapped around his neck and Steve’s supporting most of his weight. It feels oddly familiar, and Tony can’t stop himself from leaning his head into Steve’s shoulder as they slowly make their way upstairs. This time, Steve lets him.

“So d’you have fun at SHIELD? Make some new friends?” he asks as they get closer to his room. He’s too drunk, or too tired, or maybe both, and there’s more bitterness in his voice than he had intended.

Steve closes his eyes for a second and shifts Tony’s weight for a second so he can grab the handle and pull the door open. “Tony. Don’t–”

“You find a bunch of people telling you that you can’t trust me? That you shouldn’t be wasting your time on a crazy drunk son of a b–”

“Tony,” Steve says, and the undercurrent of warning in his voice probably would have given Tony pause any other time.

“–America’s poster boy doesn’t need to be associated with someone like that, the first time it happened was a mistake, so God forbid that you let it happen again–”

“Tony!” Steve almost growls, and he pushes Tony into a sitting position on the bed, grabbing his shoulders tightly. “Stop. Now,” he hisses, and his fingers press into Tony’s skin harder, hard enough to leave bruises.

For once, Tony listens. After a second, Steve’s grip loosens, and he sighs, slowly kneeling down in front of Tony. He closes his eyes again. “Don’t. Don’t say–that sort of stuff. Please.”

“Why not? It’s what you’re thinking, isn’t–”

“Tony, for–Christ, who gave you that idea? Why–why would I ever think that about you?” Steve asks, and his eyes are so fucking sincere that it’s physically painful to look at.

Tony laughs, a short bark that hurts his throat. “Fuck, Steve, maybe because sometimes I think that, sometimes I look at you and–God, Steve, it’s like you only chose me by mistake last time, how much of an arrogant prick to I have to be to believe that it’s going to happen again?”

Steve stares at him for a second, then he reaches out and pulls Tony into his arms hard. One of his hands presses hard against Tony’s back, and the other cups the back of his head, tangling in his hair.

Tony freezes, then slowly, gingerly wraps his arms around Steve, too, after a second, clutching the fabric of his shirt. His face is crushed into Steve’s shoulder, his knee hurts from where it hit the floor, and none of it matters because Steve is in his arms, warm and solid and there, finally, finally.

"Don't ever say that again," Steve whispers fiercely. "I have never thought that and I never will and if anyone thinks that about you–" he pauses for a second, then pulls Tony tighter against him. "Then they have no idea what they're talking about and nothing they could ever say would matter to me."

He keeps talking quietly, but the words hover over Tony's head without really registering, turning into a comforting hum in his mind. They settle in gently, peacefully, and it’s so ridiculous that he’s on the floor by his bed, drunk out of his mind, and he’s never felt more at ease.

“Hey,” Steve is saying, shaking his shoulder gently, until Tony untangles himself and looks at him. “Let’s get you cleaned up, okay?”

He’d been perfectly awake earlier, but now the wave of exhaustion he’s been ignoring for the whole day hits him, and he can barely keep his eyes open. Steve tugs at his arm. “Come on, up.”

Tony mumbles something again, and stands up, tossing himself on the bed and wrapping the covers around himself like a cocoon.

“If you just go to sleep like this, you’re going to regret it tomorrow morning,” Steve warns, but there’s a hint of amusement in his voice.

“Mmph,” Tony replies eloquently, pushing the covers down and reaching out for Steve’s hand. He’s still more than a little drunk, he guesses, but Steve lets him take it and pull him towards him, sits down on the bed next to Tony’s head.

“Stay here?” Tony hears himself ask, and the last thing he remembers before he falls asleep is Steve’s hand settling on his temple and his quiet voice answering, “Always.”

 

----

 

The sun is way too fucking bright when Tony wakes up, but then Steve is there, his shadow blocking out most of the sunlight from the window, and a positively evil grin on his face.

“I did warn you,” he says, ducking out of the way as Tony throws a pillow at his face (goddamn super soldier reflexes). “Come on, get out of bed.”

“Go away,” Tony mutters.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Steve smile a tiny bit, before he leans forwards and presses a gentle kiss to Tony's temple.

Tony goes completely still beneath him. For a second, he thinks he's dreaming, and Steve laughs a little at the look on his face, breath puffing against Tony's cheek.

“You couldn’t make me leave if you tried,” he murmurs.

 

----

 

Epilogue

 

Steve

 

The memories come back slowly, in strange fits and starts. There are good days and bad days.

When it's good, it's like Steve's back to normal, like he falls right back into where he left off without any trouble. On bad days, it feels like he's a stranger in his own body, in his own life.

On the worst days, when there are things he doesn't remember, things he knows are there but refuse to be found, when his mind feels like it isn't his, he ends up curled up in bed, blanket pulled over his head, Tony sitting by him and gently rubbing his back as he breathes shakily, trying to find his way back.

That's another thing that's constant: Tony never leaves, even on the worst days, waiting for Steve to come back with a quip and a cup of coffee and that little smirk on his face that's teasing and gentle all at once.

Quite honestly, Steve doesn't know where he'd be without him.

He's getting ready to go out when he checks his wallet and realizes that he doesn't have any cash on him. Shoot, he thinks, snapping it closed and heading out of his room. I'll have to get some from Tony. I need at least fifteen dollars-

I'll bet you fifteen dollars this fight ends in three hours or less.

Fifteen dollars will make you take this seriously?

I'm easily bought.

The conversation rises into his head easily, like he just had it yesterday. Sometimes that's how he remembers things–he'll be doing something random and somehow it'll trigger a memory, in some kind of weird association thing in his brain.

It's Tony's voice-of course it is, he thinks fondly, walking into the living room where Tony's sprawled over the couch, waiting for him.

"You ready?" he asks, pushing himself up when he sees Steve.

"In a second," Steve answers. "You still have to pay back those fifteen dollars you owe me."

Tony lifts an eyebrow. "Since when did I owe you money?"

"You can't complain about my memory being bad now," Steve jokes. "Yours is getting to be even worse." He grins. "Right before we went on that last mission. You bet me in the quinjet fifteen dollars we'd all get out of there in under three hours."

"Technically, we all did get out," Tony argues, but he can't stop the enormous smile spreading across his face.

"You need to learn to accept losing," Steve chides gently, stepping forwards until he's close enough to touch Tony. "Come on, pay up."

Tony scowls good-naturedly, reaching into his pocket for his wallet. "Of course this is what you remember about that day. That I still owe you fifteen dollars."

Fifteen dollars and a kiss, Steve hears Tony's voice say in his memory.

"I think you owe me something else, too," he says quietly, a small smile on his lips.

"Do I?" Tony asks, lifting his chin. A smirk plays over his features. "Why don't you come and take it, then?"

"Gladly," Steve murmurs, his smile growing wider, and he steps forwards and gently presses his lips to Tony's.

For the first time since the accident, it feels like he's found his way home.