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“What about you, Rhodes? You got a lady back home?”
The question is met with silence as James Rhodes stands in the barrack, just offering a salute and a laugh in response. The asking officer snorts, turning and moving on with his day, but James Rhodes does not move on. He pulls a photograph out of his breast pocket, examining it with eyes that have seen it a thousand times, but still not enough times to get him through the harsh desert without looking at it again. It pulls at his heartstrings the same every single time, making him want to walk back across the sea and wrap his arms around the focal point of the photo and never let him go. His chest aches with missing his best friend, but the look of him still brings a smile to Rhodey’s face.
His best friend, of course, is Anthony Edward Stark.
The picture is one of their most innocuous photographs, just two best friends standing together, you can hardly tell that James Rhodes is ass over tea kettle in love with a boy he met when that boy was fifteen and he was damn near nineteen - he had no business -
“No.” The brokenness of it startles even himself.
He tucks the photo back into his jacket roughly, stands up and leaves Jones and Ortega in the Barracks, finds himself somewhere else to be. He and Tony have never been romantic. He and Tony will never be romantic. He’s Tony’s first friend, and was Tony’s only friend for a long, long time, such a terrifyingly long time, so long that James was scared that he would never be able to leave for the military at all. God, he hates himself every time he thinks about how much he fucking loves Tony. He didn’t love him, not like that, not when they met. He didn’t realise he did for the longest time, and maybe that was a shame. He didn’t realise he was hip deep in love with Tony Stark until the boy was nineteen and a cocaine nightmare that James had to scrape off of the floor. He didn’t pick up the cocaine until James was already signed up to be shipped off, until he was already committed.
He doesn’t know if he’ll ever forgive himself for that.
He knows, logically, that it’s not his fault if Tony goes off the deep end. That Tony is a grown man now and certainly was never James’s responsibility in the first place, not legally nor morally, just emotionally and by love and by family, goddamn it. Tony is family. James’s family is the only family that Tony has, too, because Tony’s dad did a number on him that James can’t undo, but maybe they can help, maybe a three year old’s birthday party, and a five year old that loves to make him come paint with her, and a family is enough. That’s one of the many, many reasons why James can’t afford to jeopardize what they’ve got. He’s the best friend he’s ever had.
He put Tony in rehab before he shipped off. He made Stane promise to keep him in there until he was better. As much as he doesn’t like Obadiah Stane, they’ve always agreed on Tony.
He writes a lot of letters to Tony, to his Mama, to his sisters, to anyone he can think about writing them for. He sends most of them. He sends all of the ones he writes for his Mama, most of the ones he writes for his sisters. He only sends about half the ones he writes for Tony; half of them are written for Tony, his best friend. The other half are written for Tony, the man he’s in love with. Those letters get burned in the barrels that Jones and Ortega light up with some of the other troops when the nights get cold and they have free time and a village close, otherwise they stay tucked in his jacket. Can’t risk anyone reading them.
Can’t risk them getting mixed in with the other mail and actually getting sent. Because he does address them. He does put them in envelopes. It helps, sometimes, to pretend he’ll actually tell Tony someday. To pretend Tony might want that too. He doesn’t realise that he’s wandered until he hears someone calling his name, and then he’s hitting the ground because something is exploding. Gunfire. He doesn’t have a fucking gun with him. He’s going to fucking die, and he’s not going to see Tony again.
“Rhodes, get the fuck back to camp! Head west and stay low. Do not get hit or I swear to God, I will kill you myself. I’ll cover you,” Williams barks at him, the M4 in his hand glinting as he pushes Rhodey against the wall of a building. Cover. Fuck. Okay. Cover. “Don’t go toward town, we’ve got guns in town. Just toward camp. Keep your head on your shoulders, Rhodes. And fucking run.”
So, James runs. He hauls ass more than he has ever fucking hauled ass before in his life, even if they weren’t supposed to be in combat today. Fuck, he wasn’t supposed to see combat today. He runs anyway, runs west, and there’s gunfire above his head and he feels like a fucking coward and he pushes that down because he was told to run. He’s not gonna ruin whatever Williams wants him to be doing because he feels like a goddamn coward. He’s a good soldier. He’s a good soldier. He’s gonna stay alive. He has to. He has to see Tony again. God, Tony. He pushes the thought of Tony out of his head too because he has to, he runs west, and he hits camp.
Jones is dead.
It was a raid, something about how they’re lucky it wasn’t more of them, the way they’ve been goofing off and burning shit and they need to tighten up, but all James can see for a second is the way that he walked away from Jones what seems like minutes ago. He just saw him.
For some reason, he’s a little less scared after that. Scared to die, sure. If he thinks about Tony, thinks about him for even a second, he’ll send himself into that desperate panicky space that he just can’t touch, so he doesn’t. He sends Tony letters, but he doesn’t write the letters to not-Tony anymore. But the thing is, he’s not scared of rising anymore. He’s not scared to be something. Frank Jones, of the the guys he joined up with, one of the guys he met at the fucking registration office, is dead, and he’ll never get to do it. James shuts up and does his job, takes ranks and takes praises and takes it politely and quietly and doesn’t scream when the nightmares come even when Tony comes knocking in his dreams and when it comes his turn to go home, they have to tell him three times before he agrees.
By the end of his first tour, he’s a Master Sergeant. It’s still not where he wants to be.
The entire flight home, he’s trying not to think about Tony. God, Tony. God. He’s flying coach (because he wouldn’t let Tony pay) from London to Boston when it all hits him. God, he almost hadn’t come home. God, he could have died so many times. And he never would have told Tony. God, he almost didn’t come home. And he’s so, so in love with Tony Stark it’s fucking embarrassing and he’s never fucking told him and he’s going to land in Boston in less than an hour and he’s gonna have to look at him after pressing this down for months and it’s gonna be ugly. God, his mama is gonna be there. He’s gotta get home to Tony. To his mom. To Tony. To Tony.
He’s been promising himself that he wasn’t coming home to that boy, but God. James pulls himself together in an airplane bathroom just in time for the seatbelt light to come on. Get home to Tony. No more words unsaid.
He has to get off of the plane in an orderly fashion and find his bag, but then it’s just looking for Tony and what’s gonna be a ridiculous sign.
He’s not wrong.
HONEYBEAR <3
God, if James wasn’t in love with him, he’d fuckin’ kill him.
He’s in army fatigues, and it’s a really, really bad idea, but God help him, he kisses Tony anyway. He almost didn’t come home. He kisses Tony and God help him, Tony kisses him back, Tony drops the sign on the ground and kisses him back. Vaguely, he feels his Mama pat him on the back and hears her say something about welcoming him home, but he’s kissing Tony Stark and he’s not paying his Mama nearly enough of his attention to know what she’s saying. He doesn’t pull away until Tony does, his hands on Tony’s lower back, towering five inches over Tony like he always has (used to be even more, Tony was only 5’4 when he got him, and James has been 6’2 since he was 17), and God, he loves Tony so goddamn much. A cleared throat damn near scares James enough to crush Tony against his chest, but he recognises the voice before he can.
“Guess you don’t have a lady at home, huh, Rhodes?” Ortega asks, throwing a wink his way. James flips him off. Ortega walks away, doesn’t even kick up a fuss about it, and James really thought if anybody saw this, it would be a bigger deal. Instead, Tony
“Come on, Rhodey, lemme take you to dinner. We have reservations,” Tony says, grabbing at Rhodey’s hands. His Mama reminds them there by stepping closer, pulling both of them into a group side-hug.
“I’m gonna let you boys go by yourselves, if that’s alright. A lady can do a lot of things, but third wheel on her son’s long overdue first date? Not something she’s willing to do. Take him to a movie or something afterwards, won’t you, Tony? Must be boring over there with all that sand. You boys have fun,” Mama says, kissing both of them on the head before leaving, taking James’s suitcase with her without a moment of negotiation. James looks at Tony for a moment, their eyes meeting only briefly before they’re both bursting with laughter, leaning against each other in the middle of the airport.
“Wanna come to the apartment to shower and change? I still have lots of your clothes,” Tony says, looking up at him with big brown eyes all shy like James wouldn’t follow him any fucking where, and James kisses him again, real brief this time, and picks up the sign from the floor.
“Lead the way.”