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“I’m gonna check the doors.”
“Tony,” Steve murmured. “They’re locked.”
Shaking his head, Tony insisted, “Just gonna check, I’ll—don’t wait up.”
Steve did one better—he followed in Tony’s footsteps, until Tony said, “Gee, whiz, can’t a guy get a little space around here?” Purposefully lingering back a ways, Steve heard Tony say, “No, see, now I feel like you’re hunting me.” Tony settled on side-by-side, grumbling, “I just wanna check the doors, it’s not a covert operation.”
It kind of was—Tony tried to avoid calling attention to the fact that he triple-checked the doors every night, and this was the fourth time he had done the rounds. For someone with a chronic heart condition, it was more work than he needed to be doing, especially late at night, when he should be resting.
“See, my God, total security breach,” Tony stressed, yanking on a locked door. “There’s no peephole. How will we know who’s here?”
“Perhaps the outdoor camera, sir?” offered J.A.R.V.I.S. “For the record, there have been no visitors through this particular door in twelve hours.”
“Twelve—okay,” Tony muttered, already striding briskly in the direction of the next door. “Well, that’s—fine, I guess. Next time, I want a bunker with one door,” Tony said, giving a firm tug on door number two even though a panel beside it showed a red light for locked. “You can never be too sure,” Tony said, catching him in the act of observation. “These things fail all the time,” he added, bashing a fist against the panel once.
J.A.R.V.I.S. again chimed in politely, “They have yet to fail, sir, although it does remain a possibility.”
“See? Remains a possibility.”
“Tony,” Steve sighed, catching him before he could check the third door. “Let’s go to bed. J.A.R.V.I.S. can check the rest. Right, J.A.R.V.I.S.?”
“Of course, sir. I can confirm that all twelve doors are currently engaged in lockdown mode.”
“See?”
“Well, he’s a habitual liar,” Tony muttered, shaking off his loose hold and marching off. “Can’t trust him, you never know what he could be up to.”
Allowing Tony to gain a lead, Steve asked him quietly, “You know you can trust us, right?” It was easier than “trust me,” less personal if the answer was negative.
Tony surprised him. “It’s not about trust,” Tony snapped. “It’s—it’s—it’s my choice. My home.” Tony yanked on the door, then said, “Did we check the second one? I thought I saw—” and retreated.
It was 2:30 AM. Normally, Steve would be deep in his two-hour sleep-cycle by now, but he—well, he did not mind sleeping alone, but he kind of liked the opportunity to be with his best guy. It was a feeling of companionship that brought back both good and bad memories.
The war had been both the safest and unsafest time of Steve's life. At times, lying down with another guy made him feel like a gun was about to go off any second. Sharing a bed had proven a special obstacle to overcome. On the one hand—it was very safe. He trusted his guys—his guy—to have his back. On the other hand—gun.
And that was often how it went.
To make matters worse, Tony had a compulsive need to check the doors, to make sure the lab was not unsafe, to leap out of bed at the tiniest provocation, sending Steve into a sympathetic—or, rather, parasympathetic—response mode. Normally, Steve tried to go back to sleep on his own, ignoring his racing heart and its implicit message: Maybe you should check on somethin’, too.
Steve trusted his guys, Steve trusted J.A.R.V.I.S., and Steve trusted the compound’s integrity. As far as he was concerned, falling asleep under a roof, four walls, and a locked door was the good life.
Would’ve been.
Was. Was. Did not matter that Tony did not trust his own tech or security systems—that was a Tony thing, not a Steve thing. It was not Steve's business to stick his nose in it. Tony was right—Steve should make himself scarce.
But Steve had seen too many boys with wide eyes and a compulsive need to check their gun when it was lights out. He worried about Tony. Tony was his guy. Not another private struggling with the weight of the war. Steve had a sworn duty to protect the innocent. That included Tony.
Steve could not put his thumb on it. “Tony, it’s your tech,” Steve reminded, hoping an appeal to reason might help the process along. Tony’s trust issues went deeper than locked doors, but at least that much was simple and true. “You know that, right? It won’t turn on you.”
Tony shivered, said, “I know,” and then, “I know that,” irritated.
Steve would give a lot to know what to say, to banish the apparent anxieties making it impossible for Tony to get some shut-eye. Reveille’s in three hours, Tony. You gotta get some sleep.
Reveille was not a thing anymore, but Tony Stark slept one night in three, less if he felt like Steve was not watching, and that was not gonna fly. Tony had to . . . well, not get over it, Steve himself had told higher-ranking officers to back off their men if they got too pushy about it, understanding it from the little guy’s perspective, even if he didn’t understand the little guy’s perspective, only his predicament. Tony needed to—cope. Deal with it. Yeah. That was it.
“Come back to bed,” Steve said, switching tracks. “It’s late. You’re tired.” Sometimes, a little sympathy went a long way.
Tony growled under his breath, “I didn’t ask you to be my mother,” which hurt. Steve was the proud owner of him World’s Best Mom mug (gag gift from Clint, although he still had no idea what a gag gift was), but it was all in good fun. He was their CO—they could call him whatever they wanted as long as they shaped up when it mattered. But Tony was truly his co-leader—it felt wrong for him to dismiss Steve as overbearing.
“Okay,” Steve said, quietly conceding. “You know where to find me,” Steve reminded.
Tony ignored him, already moving to check the next door down the hall. Steve said, “I love you,” but Tony ignored that, too.
To smooth down his own feathers, Steve checked on Bruce, the only routine night owl of the bunch. Bruce blinked wide-eyed at Steve, but Steve said, “Night, Bruce” and moved on. Clint was a habitually early riser and Natasha rarely stayed on property, but Thor was doing laps in the pool, illuminated in the darkness.
“It’s quaint,” Thor acknowledged, pausing at the edge to talk to him. “Nothing like Asgard, of course, but—quaint.”
Steve nodded once. “Night, Thor.”
Sometimes, Steve mused, stepping up to the sliding door for his and Tony’s room, he missed life in the Tower. While the ocean was splendid, it was not particularly enjoyable at night. Even the shiver of waves crashing on shore was ominous. There was a rhythm to the ocean that only the ocean could mimic, and it was no longer friendly to Steve Rogers.
Shutting the bedroom window was one of those compromises Steve felt bad about. Yet it was also one of those compromises Steve could not compromise on—the sound of the ocean paired with darkness set Steve's teeth on edge. In the daytime, Steve was fine, but at night, an animal sense-memory arose, and he could not stand it. He had been as honest as he could about it, Tony waving off his of course, of course, planes, water, right, and asking for no further proof.
But Tony left the window open so much. It made Steve think that he needed it, because if there were ever two opposites, it was the hush of the ocean and the silence of the desert.
Steve preferred the quiet; Tony preferred the noise. It was a problem, but Tony refused to acknowledge it as a problem, refused to participate in any way, shape, or form in the conversation. Tony shut the window like he did not open it every night.
A guy obsessed with locked doors needed an open window to sleep. That was the strangeness of their lives.
Decided, Steve shoved the window back open, ignoring the way the hairs on his neck prickled, the immediate sense of unease that flooded him. This is fine, Steve told himself, crawling back under the covers from whence he had come, helpfully pulling them up over his head, muffling the noise. This is fine.
If Tony needed it to sleep at night, Steve could try to be accommodating. It was not like Steve was not accommodating—
But Steve could not sleep. He twitched as he imagined the water trickling into the room. He kept getting up to check, disappointed at himself every time. It was so noisy. He needed peace and quiet. Even in the Army, Steve had found that, the ambient noises of the encampment familiar to him, like New York at night. He could sleep through it.
He could not sleep through this.
Steve heard the door slide open mechanically, footsteps padding into the room. He ignored them, feigning sleep. Then Steve heard the window thump shut. Anger boiled up inside him and he sighed. “Dammit, Tony, you can leave it—”
Tony tensed—breath hitching once, an abortive gasp, before Tony gathered himself and snapped back, “Don’t do that.”
Shoving back the covers, ruse up, Steve insisted, “Leave it open, Tony—”
“No,” Tony said, jaw so tense Steve was surprised it did not creak. “Uh-uh. End of discussion.”
Sitting up, Steve ran a hand through his hair and sighed, “I don’t want you to hurt yourself because—”
Tony moodily clambered under the covers, flicked off the light on his side of the bed. The room was instantly dark and quiet. Steve’s anger died away, leaving behind a deep sense of shame. The blue light from the reactor was quietly loud, obvious but not overwhelming, a reminder that it was Tony Stark beside him, his Tony.
“I’m sorry,” he said, needing to say it. “I don’t know what—”
“S’fine. Go to sleep.” Tony did not even twitch to look at him. Steve flicked on his own bedside lamp. Tony flinched. “Steve, I—”
“What if I slept in the guest room?” Steve offered. He was certain it was a charitable compromise. Tony could have what he wanted, the noise and light, and Steve could have what he needed, the darkness and quiet. Tony needs it, too. “That way—”
Tony was already rolling over and latching onto his waist with both arms. “No,” he insisted.
“It’s not a big deal, Tony,” Steve said seriously. “Even—just—” He was so tired. He had a schedule. When one only slept two hours a night, those two hours were precious. Especially since he could expect his own version of a reveille at five a.m.—if he did not make an appearance by six, somebody else would, wondering if he had up and died in the middle of the night.
“I wanna go to bed,” Steve said, which sounded awfully petulant and a little sad, because he was literally in bed. The window was shut. Tony had turned off the lights. Why was Steve the one dragging his feet?
Because Tony won’t self-advocate?
A laugh bubbled out of Steve. He saw Tony arch his eyebrows, perhaps wondering if Steve had lost it. Maybe Steve had. Maybe Steve had—he did snap unreasonably hard over disorderly spaces, getting on Tony’s case about—everything. Eat, Tony. Sleep, Tony. Be careful, Tony. “I’m sorry,” Steve said again, flicking off the light.
Tony blinked up at him, visible in the reflective light from the reactor. Steve drew in a deep breath, said, “It’s bedtime,” and almost shooed Tony off, aware that Tony might wanna get up and check the doors again, and Steve—really—wanted to sleep through his brief night.
He was so damn tired. He knew better than to pick fights when he was tired, but the serum’s version of tired was strange. It was like a light switch—one moment Steve was spiritedly arguing, the next, struggling not to lie on the floor and recharge. If Steve did not stick to his routine, he had about three days to get his act together before all hell broke loose and the serum started demanding more.
It had only been seven days of Tony getting up just when Steve fell asleep, but it was messing with his sleep, and—
“I’m sorry,” Steve sighed, because he could not say it enough. He was tired, so it made more sense to apologize than argue. “I know you—you need it.”
Tony blinked at him, infuriatingly quiet. “But dammit, Tony, ask for it,” Steve grunted. “Just ask. I’m—I can compromise,” he promised.
“Can you?” Tony volleyed, which got under Steve's skin. Steve was prepared to sit up, grab the light, and duke it out with words, but then Tony said: “You know what? I’m sorry. There. Now we can—” Tony twitched suddenly. “You see that?” and squirmed out of bed, plastering himself against the window.
It got Steve’s own heart racing, it did. Steve rolled over and flicked on the lights. Whatever demon had materialized in the corner of Tony’s vision promptly vanished. Tony blushed as he said, “Nope, just a—dolphin. Maybe.” Clearing his throat, Tony shucked the curtains closed. “Or a shark.” Laughing lamely at his own joke, Tony crawled back into bed. “Shark. Probably. There’s great whites out there, you know.”
Well, Steve thought, officially entering too tired to be angry territory, that might change his attitude about swimming in the ocean during the daytime, but—“Tony,” Steve pleaded, eyes shut, expression forlorn if it matched his voice at all. “Tony. I—I need you to.” Then, realizing what he was doing, Steve got up, because it was past the point of words, anyway. He would sleep in the guest bedroom. That was fine.
“Where’re you going?” Tony asked, sounding borderline nonchalant with a hint of alarm underneath it. “Hey. Steve?”
Steve did not answer, deciding he could communicate better without words. He tried not to reveal his disappointment as he returned to his old guest room. It was still prim and proper—more so than when it was inhabited; there was even the sterilized scent of ozone more typical of the lower floors of the compound—but Steve sighed anyway in relief as he hugged the bed, not bothering to get under the covers.
Two days sooner, Steve thought, conscious but not for long. Next time, Steve would intervene two days sooner, not when he was already so far past red he could not even read his own scale of tired anymore.
Steve slept magnificently for thirty minutes. Then disaster struck—the door opened and Steve bolted upright, heart pounding, barely awake but sensing danger-intruder-alert-run-shoot-go, before Tony said meekly, “I, um.”
Steve was a patient man in the mornings and afternoon and even early evenings, but he was not a true night owl. Night was bedtime—it was when the sun went down and everything slowed so he could finally rest. He did his patrol and then he did his reports and he went to bed.
He did his reports. Did he do his reports? He had a headache thinking about it, a massive, unforgiving one. Steve reburied himself in the mattress, leaving Tony alone with his existential crisis. He could deal with it in two hours—except, hellfire, that was too much on top of the half hour he had already had, his whole day was ruined, now, and he would have to try again tomorrow night, and he was so tired.
“Tony. Please,” he said, simple, without inflection.
Tony said, “I am so much stronger than you,” and it might have annoyed Steve to the point of an argument, the way he did sound so—perfectly capable of handling however much (little) sleep he had gotten. “I am—made of brute force.” Then he flopped down on Steve’s back, making him grunt, and wheezed, “Ow.” Tony rolled off him, cuddling up to Steve’s side instead, the metal of the reactor pressing against him.
Steve slowly held up that arm. Tony burrowed under it gratefully, hiding under him, desperate to be—safe, protected, whatever he needed, whatever he needed Steve would give. Beyond words, Steve held onto Tony, eyes shut, breathing tame, trying to infuse as much safety as he could into the simple gesture.
Tony relaxed against him, tense inch by tense inch, shivering with it and trying to hide even further under him, suffocate himself rather than be exposed. Steve tipped obligingly on his opposing side so Tony could huddle under his chin, curling an arm and a leg around him. Steve breathed evenly. Slowly, unconsciously, Tony matched him.
Steve murmured, “I do love you,” because Tony needed to hear it and he needed to say it. “I love you, Tony.”
Tony gripped his shirt tightly. “I love you,” he replied, his voice almost flat, carefully gatekeeping his most vulnerable sides.
Steve did not mind. Tony was like that—he knew Tony, knew his quirks and shenanigans and joys, and it was—he meant it. Even when he was drop-dead tired and twitchy, he still loved Tony. That much was always true.
In the morning, Steve could barely rally himself to grunt monosyllabically at Bruce, snapped at Clint, and was glad Natasha and Thor were nowhere to be found, but he still made Tony coffee. Tony threw out earplugs as an option, and Steve knew they’d be okay.
“I do trust you,” Tony said, halfway through his second cup and surveying his lab. “It’s them I don’t trust.”
“I get that,” Steve said, even though it was not his burden to bear, was not a chapter in his book. Steve knew what it was like to not trust—waking up in the wrong century had taught him everything he had needed about not trusting.
Tony nodded, then said, “I—can’t say I won’t do it.”
“I know.” Steve knew that, too. He had always stood up for the vulnerable, the innocent. “It’s okay, Tony.”
Some of the tension in Tony’s posture eased. He switched topics, and Steve read the room, let it go. To get even that much was a victory. Steve felt lighter, too.
They would figure out the new and unfamiliar, eventually. Until then—they had each other.
And that was all that mattered.