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Steve would never admit it, but he’d read short stories about this, about amnesia. They were never the silly, so-deep-they-sounded-pretentious kind of stories, nor were they the young and frilly kinds of stories that children picked up to cry to before they knew how to feel proper. They were plain old stories, ones that might be hung up in a classroom or slipped in between two pages of the Bible if someone felt a particular kind of way about them.
He couldn’t name them any longer. Some of them, he couldn’t place. He didn’t know whether he’d read them months ago or decades ago, and it was as funny as it was sad. He remembered one about a bird old enough to be wearing one of those big-hipped dresses with the corset top, somewhere in Maine away from the stresses of the real world. He remembered she was in a lighthouse or a cabin or something or another on the beach, and her husband was with her, drawing the blinds every night and opening them up every morning before she woke to make sure her first sight every day was of the water.
Part of Steve thought to check the internet, to put every word and phrase he could remember into the search bar and let the poor thing scour the web tirelessly for any words that matched his jumbled memories. He couldn’t quite bring himself to do it, though. He never knew why.
He could clear his search history after the fact. He didn’t have to mention the stories if he found them, and hell, he didn’t even know that he’d find them. He didn’t have to do anything but look. And if he found something, he’d read it, and he’d understand it, and he’d… be better for it. That was how it went, right? He didn’t— He didn’t get all of the medical shit, he didn’t get all the parts of the brain and what was pushing against what or squishing what or why Tony’s head seemed to be imploding in on itself all the damn time.
It wasn’t for lack of trying. He’d spoken to the doctors on the phone. He’d sat in the middle of the library in too-small chairs with maybe-outdated books on the tables in front of him, opened up to whatever page the index said lined up with “head” or “brain” or “amnesia” or “cancer” or sometimes things like dessert recipes and knitting patterns at the ends of the days when he’d resigned himself to a life of not quite getting it, a life of maybe doing something about it. Because everyone liked dessert, and everyone liked… blankets, and maybe Tony knew him well enough to know a well-baked muffin or a crocheted scarf didn’t make him anything but a man worried for his guy.
And if Tony thought there was anything funny about it, well, he’d forget the next day anyway. And he’d have the leftover muffins, or he’d have the blanket to nap in, and Steve could wipe his hands of it.
He’d ignore the guilt curling in his chest like the vines of a rose bush. He didn’t want the daily reset button, didn’t even want the thought of it. But he had it, and all the two of them could do was adapt.
It felt like Tony didn’t know him enough sometimes, that was all, like every impression he made was a first impression again. And maybe it was selfish, maybe it was cowardly, maybe it was some stupid thought for stupid men who didn’t know any better than to care more about themselves than anyone else in times of tragedy— Steve thought distantly of his father, of the climate, of the hurt— but he didn’t like that.
Tony always spoke to him like he knew what needed to be heard, like he’d gotten a bird’s eye view of the twisted maze of arteries Steve had clustered around his heart and knew exactly what turns to make and what paths to take to get straight to his exposed center.
Soldier. Big guy. Stud.
Steve felt read, too open, too seen.
And it was a lot, he thought, to wake Tony up every morning with the knowledge that Tony could see right through him in an instant, memories or no memories. He didn’t want Tony’s first impression of him to be so— so wrapped up in his veins, so close to his heart. He didn’t want Tony to see everything he was without knowing what they’d been through.
Or, well.
He did. He wanted that badly. Another thing he wouldn’t admit.
He just didn’t want Tony to see it and—
Well, it didn’t matter. He’d forget. At some point or another, he’d forget, and.
Tony moved. Shifted. Steve let the freshly bared, too cool spot of skin on his back ground him, pull him away from his own head.
He stopped and slowed his breaths, listening for Tony’s. Tony’s elbow bumped against Steve’s shoulder blade as he moved, presumably to feel for whatever patch had been put on him the night before. He always did that upon waking, always spent his first few moments in a haze of idle curiosity.
Steve felt the weight on the bed shift as Tony sat up, and he propped himself up on an elbow to more easily meet Tony’s eyes.
“You need anything?” he asked, voice ever so slightly hoarse from the night.
He watched Tony’s hand— slim, a little bony, with callouses on the tips of his fingers— trace over his own abdomen, down the line of his happy trail and along the inside his thigh. He spotted the funny little quirk in Tony’s brow when he examined his own skin, seemingly surprised at the lack of spend there.
“A drink,” Tony responded, his casual tone effortless in a practiced way and wholly unnatural.
Steve huffed, sat up, swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He rolled his shoulders back and took a half second to stretch the tension of the night away.
“You’re getting water,” he said, glancing back to find Tony staring almost blankly back at him. They stayed like that for a long moment, long enough for Steve to wonder if Tony was any closer to remembering his name this morning than he was the morning prior.
And then Tony turned away, reaching behind himself with some effort to prop himself up with a pillow. Steve took hold of its corner, tugging it into what looked like a more comfortable position, and gave Tony’s arm a gentle pat pat.
“Be back in a sec,” he mumbled, finally standing and heading to the kitchen to nab Tony’s drink. He filled the cup directly from the sink, quick and easy; the cup itself was plastic, thick enough to be a little on the weightier side when empty and sturdy enough that it wouldn’t break if dropped.
In the fridge was a glass tupperware with already-cut lemon slices. It was a nice little touch, Steve thought— something Tony mentioned once upon a time, something that made him feel less like he was having a nurse come in to fill up his ‘thirst’ meter and more like he was staying at a luxury hotel with butler service. He said it like a joke, and mostly, it was.
But Steve knew the feeling.
It was hard to feel human, sometimes, when people didn’t want to look at you that way. All they saw were the tubes, the bandages, the monitors.
Steve didn’t want to bring Tony necessities— food, water, shelter, temperature control, fresh air. He didn’t want to give Tony the bare minimum. He wanted to bring drinks, meals, warmth, breath.
The lemon water felt silly at first, too frilly and special to really register as anything meaningful. It was something a guy might drink on a hot day if he were rich or European, probably French. It was something ladies sipped at while they gossiped if they were watching their kids, too, and couldn’t break out a bottle of wine. It was that kind of drink— simple like Steve was, and delicate like Steve wasn’t.
And it meant something to Tony. And so it meant something to Steve.
Tony was fiddling with the bandages on his head when Steve got back to him. His hands were shaking visibly, thumb running back and forth jaggedly over the edge of a bandage in a way that didn’t seem intentional.
Steve held the cup out for him. He half took it, relying partway on Steve to keep it steady. The furrow in his brow and small shift of discomfort weren’t lost on Steve; some days were easier than others, and this seemed to be a day that wasn’t the easiest for Tony. That was alright. Nothing they could do.
And it wasn’t like it was the worst morning they’d had. They could manage.
Tony took a long sip of the drink, tired eyes glimmering ever so slightly more than they had been moments before. Steve set the cup on the nightstand, taking a seat beside Tony on the bed again.
“Three days out of surgery now,” he said. “Doc was in earlier. You didn’t wake up much. She said the amount of swelling was fine n’ they’d come by to drain it tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” Tony agreed, voice quiet and a little one-note. Steve couldn’t blame him. He figured Tony might have a migraine to last a hundred lifetimes, then. “Right. The tumor.”
Tony lay back again, shifting downward on the bed so he could take advantage of the pillows he’d placed before. His gaze was fixed to the ceiling, expression inscrutable.
Steve watched him. Stared.
And he stood, reaching over to fiddle with the curtains.
“What’re you doing?” Tony asked, turning tiredly onto his side as he watched Steve with a dazed expression.
“’s five in the morning. Sun’ll be rising in a bit, here.” Steve got the curtains into two loose knots, symmetrical and sturdy, and parted them. “Hard to see it over the trees, but you get the gist. Sky lights up.”
“You make a habit out of watching the sunrise?” Tony asked. There was no judgment Steve could read from his tone, no mocking amusement. Still, he stiffened ever so slightly, trying to will the feeling away.
He grunted in response, settling back in bed beside Tony. He set a heavy hand on Tony’s forearm, thumb rubbing idly over the skin there as he fixed his gaze on the treetops and the sky just above them.
Tony’s body seemed to settle into the touch before Tony’s mind did. Steve saw the awkward darting of his eyes, the turning of his head as he tried to decide where to look. But Tony did settle as usual, going so far as to scoot a little closer to Steve, letting his back rest against Steve’s chest.
“What time?” he asked.
“Mm?”
“What time’s the sun supposed to rise?”
Steve draped an arm over Tony’s side, resting his forehead against Tony’s shoulder blade. Tension no longer lined the muscles of Tony’s body; as much as Tony had forgotten him, Tony knew him, still. He knew Steve in the way the sun knew the sky— not always clear, but always there, intertwined.
“Half an hour,” he answered, barely mumbling.
“Mm.” Tony turned to face Steve, then, weakly pulling the blanket an inch or two further up his body. Steve took the edge of it, pulled it up harder, tucked it around Tony’s shoulders more comfortably. “Wake me up in half an hour?”
Steve huffed out a soft laugh, less humored than fond. “Yeah, yeah, I gotcha.”
Tony yawned, taking once last cautionary glance at Steve before going limp on the bed, letting his eyes fall shut. “See you when the sun’s up.”
“Yeah,” Steve answered. “See you when the sun’s up.”