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A boom of thunder snaps Tony from sleep. His rabbiting heartbeat and his thoughts that rapidly follow suit send him stumbling out of his temporary bed at the Compound. He gropes for his glasses and fumbles around until his fingers snag a black hoodie.
The cool early-morning air nips at his cheeks; Tony pulls up his hood and briefly regrets only putting on slippers. Someone’s strumming a guitar, gentle chords lilting in his ears mixed with the muted slap of water against the dock. Squinting, he notes the small circle of light at the end of the dock. A lantern, maybe?
By the time his slow feet take him there, a quiet voice adds a warm layer of texture to the song.
“Nothing is going my way,” drifts over Tony like a soft blanket settling around his shoulders and chasing the chill from his bones as he sits next to Steve. The song is unfamiliar – vaguely folky.
“You play. Guitar, I mean.” He scrubs a hand over his mouth.
“The ocean is the river’s goal.” Steve continues singing as if he’s unaware Tony’s there. “I started learning after the Snap,” he says, eventually, answering a question Tony hadn’t asked. Not with words, anyway. “It was…” Steve’s words trail off even as his fingers move slowly, dreamily on the guitar strings. “It was hard to sit still, and I didn’t sleep much, so.”
“So you learned to play guitar,” Tony finishes for him.
The sky is cloud-filled and the lantern throws off only a little light. “So I learned to play guitar.” Steve shrugs, and Tony thinks maybe he’s smiling one of those enigmatic Steve Rogers smiles that he never thought he’d miss quite so much – until he was forced to learn to live without it. “Pretty badly.” Steve's voice holds a wry tilt.
Tony bumps Steve’s shoulder with his own. “Eh. Not that badly.” It feels good to have this easy moment with Steve. Their relationship has been many things but rarely easy.
Steve huffs a laugh before leaning away from Tony and putting the guitar down next to him. When he resettles, his arm and shoulder press solid and warm against Tony.
“I didn’t know you could sing.” He wonders what else he doesn’t know about Steve, but he doesn’t ask. “I like your voice.” The words were meant to sound offhand and matter of fact. Instead, they sound like a confession Tony almost wishes he could take back. Almost.
Immediately, Steve fires back. “Please, I can barely carry a tune. I’m practically tone-deaf, To—”
Tony doesn’t let him finish. “Stop. Just stop. For once.” He shifts and rests his hand on Steve’s bare forearm. Forces his voice to gentle. “For once, just take the compliment, Cap.” His grip tightens. “I like your voice,” Tony repeats, trying to buy himself some time as his awareness moves to the fact that if he slid his fingers down a smattering of inches, he’d be holding Steve’s hand. Not gripping it and shaking it in a suitably gruff, manly way. Holding it.
Spanning those last few inches are years — years and miles of anger, sadness, and confusion — but Tony isn’t angry anymore. They’ve all seen too much and lost too much and he’s seen the birth of his child and the slow death of his marriage and…
And Steve’s just a person. As fucked-up and fallible as Tony is, even though Tony always wanted him to be better, and Tony, all he wants in this moment as lightning zings across the sky, throwing Steve’s beautiful face into stark relief, is to hold Steve’s hand.
“Tony.”
How does Steve fill his name with so much urgency, Tony wonders. How has he never noticed it before? “Shh, Steve. I’m old and tired and who the fuck knows what the hell’s going to happen tomorrow when we go traipsing through time. But right now. Right now,” he says, patting Steve’s arm for emphasis, “I just want..." He inhales — and marshalls what little courage he has left. "I just want to hold your hand. So unless you tell me you’re not okay with that, that’s exactly what I’m going to do in T minus five, four, three, two–”
Tony doesn’t finish his countdown because Steve slides his arm out from under Tony’s hand and twines their fingers together. Tony doesn’t have to cross those years and miles because Steve surprises him and does it instead. Their palms and fingers fit with a shock of recognition Tony feels deep in his gut. Sorrow wells up in him; turns his voice to gravel when he realizes they could have been doing this years ago. So much time wasted, he thinks. “Will you sing more of that song for me?” he forces out through a tight throat. “Please.”
Steve doesn’t answer, just squeezes Tony’s hand. Tony closes his eyes and lets himself sink into Steve’s deep inhale. Steve sings: “There's no one left to take the lead, but I tell you and you can see. We're closer now than light years to go.”
If Steve notices the tear that slips down Tony’s cheek and into his goatee, he doesn’t say anything.