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Just after eleven-thirty PM local, Tony Stark’s flight arrived in New York City.
For thirty-two hours, Tony Stark had been up in the air, skipping across three continents, attending no fewer than twelve distinct conferences. He was barely present for any of them: he had no major speaking roles, nor any obligations to present a futuristic artifact. He was simply there.
By all accounts, it was an outrageous success. While he was not the main attraction, he was a magnet for attention, drawing in a crowd that spanned from newly christened Ph.D.’s to senior scientists with thirty years of experience in their fields.
Fluent in six languages, Tony was able to hold conversations with delighted guests in their native tongues. He expressed real interest in side projects; he dismissed most queries about his own as if the matter could not possibly interest the speaker. He knew how to handle people, and it excited them greatly, to be in the presence of one of the world’s greatest orators.
While the conversations were riveting in the moment, the wine to die for, and the overall experience bar none, even the discovery of a harnessable zero-point energy could not sustain him for long past the seventy-two-hours sleepless mark. He had begun to flag at that comparatively early moment, but the fun was not over—the tour had encompassed nearly ninety-six hours, four full days of nonstop action.
Energized by copious amounts of caffeine and his many fans, Tony strove to put his best foot forward every time, to be his best self every time. One foul interaction could fester for years. While he had deliberately not promised anything to anyone to reduce the possibility of disappointment if he failed to attend, he still felt compelled to show up, to make the experience special, to deliver the spectacular promise that was Tony Stark’s presence.
Larger than life was a tall order to fill, yet Tony Stark filled it. In smaller gathering rooms, he energized the attendees; in grander convention halls, he engaged in memorable small talk with the greats and the lesser-well-knowns and finally the utterly anonymous. It was refreshing. He could not deny that it exuberated him.
It also exhausted him. He was so tired that the short walk from the plane to the car was unimaginable. He was so hungry he had stopped being hungry half a day ago, and now, he did not even desire to eat because he was so tired. He was sore on a molecular level. His mouth was exasperatingly dry from all the recycled air.
Even though private jet was clearly the superior way to travel, it was still a long journey, and he was grateful to be back on the ground. If lightheaded. Terribly lightheaded.
Struggling to put one foot in front of the other, Tony looked up as a tall figure loped up the ramp and swiftly caught him by the arm.
It was Steve Rogers.
Without so much as a how-do-you-do, he slung Tony’s arm around his own prodigious shoulders, then guided Tony down the ramp. Following along with stupefied interest, Tony forgot to protest the hands-on treatment. He simply let Steve ferry him into the backseat of a limo. He sat down with an audible gasp.
Everything hurt. Seated upright in an airplane seat, however well-accommodated, after spending what felt like entire days on his feet, was simply unbearable. His body refused to accommodate the changes, so it rejected them out of hand, tightening up. Now, offered a semblance of kindness, his body rejected that, too.
Groaning, Tony slumped onto his side. Steve had the grace not to protest as Tony faceplanted onto his leg, then shifted with more painstaking groans into a half-curled position. It did nothing to alleviate the discomfort, but at least he felt less alone.
Tony’s shoulders were piles of nerves, shouting in pathetic concert; his neck muscles were rock-hard, demanding assuagement. Even his legs were stiff from sitting upright for too long. His chest was so uncomfortable that it felt worth mentioning, but he suppressed the notion, certain that, no matter how ill he felt in the present, it would pass, like a hangover.
He did, indeed, feel rather hungover, as he shut his eyes and groaned again when the car began to move. At least his prior hangovers had mostly taken their toll on his robust, twenty-year-old self; pushing fifty, the idea of traveling around the globe for a smattering of ill-timed conventions was equal parts daunting as it was exhilarating. Some might call it a bad idea. Tony preferred to call it a grand idea.
Centered around the idea of even empty space being full of unimaginable stores of energy, zero-point energy was a grand idea on its own. Taking it a step further—harnessing that energy for human work—was civilization changing. Overnight, the energy crisis vanished. Ideas that had previously been nearly impossible were suddenly not only doable but urgent.
Never one to miss a grand opportunity, Tony had cheerfully resigned himself to an impossibly arduous journey to be at the epicenter of some of the most important conversations. He didn’t merely want to read about history; he wanted to experience it, live and in full technicolor wonder.
The results of his search had been astonishing. Knowing that zero-point energy would be used in such myriad ways—from infrastructure repair to salt water purification, shuttle launches to precious resource mining, accessible education and well-distributed necessities—was deeply moving.
Miraculous, restorative, betterment projects that could not budge without oomph were abruptly a-go, and the mood on the cusp of a third technological revolution—nay, an energy revolution—was unmatched. Tony had seen a lot of exciting things, but nothing compare to this.
And he was glad to experience it. He just wouldn’t mind if it didn’t require so much of his finite stock of energies.
The biotechnical field would not be left behind in the wave of progress, nor would the medical field, but Tony knew nothing would come to fruition in time to cure his current ails.
There was a certain dry irony to it, like a caveman gazing into a flame, unaware of the cities that would sprout from it, unable to reap the myriad benefits of specialization. Instead, he could only gaze in wonder at the unrefined light. It was very pretty—and extremely joyful. This will change everything.
How could he miss something so wonderful? He could not, was the simple answer. And so, Tony had pushed himself to ensure that it was a memory of his own making, rather than someone else’s distilled summary.
It was worth it, he thought, barely conscious of his environment, comfortable that Steve could handle the logistics. Tony only wished that there was a fountain of limitless energy inside himself that could be tapped into to compensate for the rather depressing limits of the human body. So much to do. So little to do it with.
Exiting the car was agony. Tony barely wanted to move—Steve’s leg was quite comfortable, thank you—but he wanted to lie down in a bed slightly more than he wanted to remain in the backseat of a limo. With monumental effort, he dragged himself upright, uttering a guttural noise of discomfort.
Steve shuffled him over the threshold, then said, “Bath or food?”
Tony pawed blindly for his shirt, tugged him down, and kissed him. Eyes shutting of their own accord, Tony swayed into him with more than romantic compulsion. Then Tony nuzzled into the warm space between Steve’s neck and collar, breathed in shallowly, and exhaled deeply.
He may have fallen asleep, blinking awake only when Steve tugged off one of his shoes. Seated on the end of their bed, Tony looked down at Steve and muttered, “I can do that.”
“I know,” Steve said, and untied his other shoe. Tony let him, resting a heavy hand on top of his head, covered in short, straw-colored hair. He leaned forward to rest his chin on it, then shuddered as every muscle in his back wrenched in protest, keeping him stiffly upright.
Steve negotiated the pants off him, then unbuttoned his shirt. Tony rebuttoned it out of habit the moment Steve walked away. When Steve returned, he unbuttoned the shirt a second time, casting Tony a look that said, I didn’t marry an idiot.
No, Tony preened silently, beaming stupidly. You married me.
“We’re great,” he said aloud. Steve arched both eyebrows. “Just—great.” He held out a fist for a fist bump. Steve looked at it solemnly, like it was a loaded gun, or maybe a very unimpressive turnip that Tony had grown, himself, and solicited praise for. Then, gingerly, almost grimly, Steve tapped his own knuckles against Tony’s, once.
Tony said with force, “I love you.”
“I love you, too,” Steve murmured, looking down briefly.
Tony said, “Can I kiss you?”
Steve met him halfway, leaning down and cupping his face tenderly, kissing him like he’d missed him. It was unexpectedly sweet, and Tony wanted, very much, it to continue, before Steve broke away gently to say, “Sorry,” and left again.
Pouting, Tony tried to school his expression into stoic non-remorse, then gave up and resumed pouting, so Steve knew exactly how put-out he felt when Steve returned. “S’ready,” Steve explained, tucking his hands under Tony’s arms and picking him up.
Huh.
He set Tony on his feet—mistake. Tony listed forward, planting his forehead against Steve’s still-clothed chest, silently mourning that lack of perfect skin. About to raise the question of equality, he shivered instead.
Steve guided him into the bathroom. Then, joyously, he embraced equality, and clambered into a steaming tub full of water.
Tony hesitated briefly, stupid with fatigue, before remembering, I am home with my husband; there is no danger here.
Steve sat behind him and rubbed his back. Tony vowed to marry him twice—silently, in his own head, lest the claim be mistaken for, First, a divorce, then, a second marriage. Tony, with acute wariness, allowed Steve, with utmost care, to wash his hair for him. He thought, Only you, and meant it.
He still remembered startling badly when Natasha had dunked Clint in the pool, ducking for cover indoors and not satisfying himself until he’d locked himself in a storage closet in his lab. He’d refused to budge until Steve himself had promised that Tony was safe. Then, embarrassingly, he’d dragged Steve with him into the closet, where they had huddled together until Tony could breathe again.
Steve was patient; Steve was kind. Steve was important, Tony thought, snickering tiredly to himself, sliding down deeper against Steve’s chest.
Steve—patient, kind, important Steve—caught him gently under the arms, preventing him from ducking under the water. Good man, Tony thought, turning onto his side, pillowing his cheek against Steve’s collar. He shut his eyes, breathed out loudly enough to ripple the water, and let the heat soak into his bones as Steve supported him.
Time passed. Tony didn’t know how much. The water never cooled; like a hot spring, the surrounding rocks were heated to ensure that the warm water was continually renewed. It was like floating, after a while, barely aware of the ripple of water, only the tattoo of Steve’s heartbeat under his ear.
Tony felt distinctly less achy when Steve finally urged him out of the tub. Tony still sighed mournfully at the loss of warmth. Steve apologized with a kiss to his temple and a thorough toweling-down.
Then Steve made him a sort of after-dinner snack, and Tony felt like he could honestly cry at the assortment of crackers, cheeses, and fruits presented to him. Nothing special, really, and it would be easy to dismiss it as too little, too late, yet as he plucked the plate clean, he found some sharp edge to his mind and heart alleviated, like he would survive to fight another day. The simple act of putting food in his belly, giving his starving body a little fuel, fortified him.
It helped that it was a light meal, leaving him no more awake but decidedly cozier as he accepted the sweater Steve handed him. To prove his competency after four days with scarcely a wink of sleep, Tony put it on backwards and inside-out.
Steve, charitably, did not comment on the results: he just reversed and corrected it, then replaced it over Tony’s head. Like a good, good husband, Tony thought, muttering about something that made no sense to even himself as Steve hiked sleep pants over his hips. Tony Stark was a lucky, lucky man.
Tony held out his hand, barely clasped, for another self-congratulatory fist bump. Steve captured his hand gently, squeezed it once, and insisted softly, “Bedtime.”
Steve slept from two AM until four AM, every night, without fail. He slept rather lightly, which was a problem, but he could also acclimatize to even very loud noises if they were constant enough, which was a solution. For those two precious hours, he merely needed constancy.
He merely needed Tony to be quiet and not intrude on his one moment of self-indulgence.
It was two-thirty-one AM, which made Tony realize, Bedtime, even more than the statement itself. Folding himself into Steve’s arms, Tony breathed in deeply and let it out slowly.
He actually held onto wakefulness long enough to notice Steve drift off. It was three AM, and Tony needed to be asleep, too, but there was something special about witnessing that kind of trust.
Something worth not-missing. Like the discovery of usable zero-point energy.
In the endless stores of wonder packaged in the universe, sometimes the most precious, invaluable things were utterly finite.