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“Wow. You actually did it. I’m impressed.”
“Tony,” Steve said, tapping the up button on the Stark Tower elevator while maintaining a firm grip on his crutches. “I’m not in the mood.”
“No, no,” Tony agreed, eyeing him with a truly fiendish amount of joy. “Captain America would never disobey medical orders, now, would he?”
Steve squeaked into the elevator neutrally. Tony sidled after him. “No, that would be very uncharacteristic of—”
“Can I go to my floor, please?” Steve asked, as Tony leaned across the panel obstructively.
“I seem to recall a certain rabies vaccine that—” Fixing his expression in a hard glare, Steve tuned out Tony’s tirade about the rabies thing, because one tiny bat bite and four mandatory pokes in the arm later and suddenly Steve was at the very top of Tony Stark’s hit list. Steve wasn’t even the guy who gave him the shots, he was just the guy who insisted that he got them, yes, Tony, today, Tony. Impatient at the rehashing, Steve lifted a crutch and jabbed it at the elevator, accidentally clipping Tony’s side in the process. Wheezing, Tony gripped his side and said, “My spleen.”
“You’re fine,” Steve grunted, putting the crutch back on the floor adamantly. Tony doubled over dramatically, hugging his gut. Steve’s face flushed bright red, even as he turned his gaze sternly towards the dial, which rose with reassuring speed. “Will you stop that?”
“Death’s . . . door . . . cometh . . . for thee. . . .”
“It’s me, Tony. Me,” he sighed.
He knew Tony was fine when, upon arrival, he promptly pivoted to follow Steve, who continued hobbling as fast as a guy with two partially broken legs could.
It wasn’t very fast.
“So, while we’re comparing apples to apples,” Tony said, walking past him at a comfortable stroll, as Steve’s shirt stuck to his back with frustration, “oranges to oranges . . . crutches to rabies—”
“Tony. You didn’t get rabies—because—” Huffing, Steve decided, “I’m not having this conversation right now. Get lost.”
“Just riddle me this: if you fall, who will catch you?”
Steve ignored him, squeaking along. He didn’t remember the hallway being so long. It was abrupt, when he skidded, and he was embarrassed that it was, indeed, Tony who stepped under his arm to divert his fall, standing stern under his shoulder, only quivering a little under his sudden weight.
And still talking: “See, this is the sort of life-changing accident that could be—”
“You know you’re really starting to piss me off,” Steve grumbled, even as he set his crutches back underneath him, bright-red and a tiny bit grateful for Tony Stark’s brand of stubbornness.
“Oh, I can do way worse. Way, way worse,” Tony promised, shaking off a little.
“That’s not a good thing.”
“Can be.”
Steve hobbled the rest of the way to his door, already exhausted. “Goodnight, Tony.”
Tony said, “It’s five p.m.”
“Goodnight, Tony.”
“Sure you don’t need—”
Sternly, Steve swiped his key card, and even managed to shove open the door without face-planting. “Au revoir, mon vieux.”
“Hang on, you speak French?” Tony said with gratifying surprise, as the door shut pleasantly hard behind Steve.
He breathed out in relief into the space.
Peace. Quiet. Closed walls. Closed door. Didn’t get better than—
“You know, houseguests dying is very inconvenient for me.”
He sighed deeply.
. o .
It was raining outside, and everything hurt.
Steve was pretty much the first guy to bury his problems deep, deep down, but even he could admit that, after jumping out of a plane and not sticking the landing so good, the shift in the weather was not his vieux. Add onto the aches his failure to stockpile food and he was beginning to seriously regret skipping out on at least a meal at S.H.I.E.L.D. before scurrying home in a hurry, lest he be kept overnight for “observation.” He knew he was precious, that his blood would turn sour after in the event of an untimely passing, but he also craved creature comforts as much as the next guy. Call him crazy, but he thought he healed up just fine on his own, most of the time.
Of course, he did better with food in his belly and less barometric changes, but he would live. By morning, he’d be brand new. That was the beauty of the serum. One really bad day, and all was forgiven.
Stick it out. All he had to do was—
A series of knocks came on the door. He resisted the immediate urge to chuck something at it, out of temperamental exhaustion. He had already put in his hours; he wanted peace, to wither away in privacy. “What?” he hollered.
“Pizza’s here,” Tony said.
Steve growled. “Swear to God, Tony,” he warned. He had words in his chest, ready to burst free, but then his stomach took over, and mournfully implored him to see reason for a moment. If there was even the possibility that it was truthful, was it not worth a shot? “Fine. Just give me a—” He started to move forward, torso as stiff as stone. “Minute,” he grumbled.
“Uh-huh, take your time.”
It was painstaking, setting off fireworks across his whole body, but it was better than the reality of languishing in bed, unable to move. And it reawakened his hunger—whether or not Tony came bearing gifts, he would find them, he resolved, as he came to the door. It took some fumbling to get it open, one shoulder against the wall.
Tony stood behind it, one hand balancing a couple boxes of pizza, the other tucked in his jeans, gaze fixed absentmindedly down the hall. The smell of fresh cheesy goodness made Steve’s stomach growl. The thunder took pity on him, rattling the windows. “Lucky we beat the storm,” Tony mused. “You won’t believe the kid that dropped these off. I tipped him double.”
“That’s great,” Steve said, not really caring, because he wanted to inhale the boxes, cardboard and all, if it meant getting at the food underneath.
Only problem was, he had exactly zero available arms, with the crutches. Tony asked dryly, “So, are we eating these in the hall, or—”
“We’re not eating anything,” Steve said, recognizing the sharp note in his voice and immediately attracting the attention of a raised pair of eyebrows. “You got five more boxes downstairs, tell me I’m wrong.”
Tony’s shrug said it all. Abruptly humbled that he would hand-deliver the pizzas, Steve added more quietly, “Thank you.” He started to rearrange the crutches to take them, but Tony just said:
“Point me.”
Steve started to bristle, because his space was—Tony’s, technically, and what was he so protective of, anyway? Steve forced himself back a step, allowing Tony to finally move into his quarters. Although he had had close quarters in the war, he had become increasingly vigilant about his living space, with his legacy turned into samples, sketches, museum opportunities that craved ever more and more of Steve Rogers. Everybody wanted to know exactly who he was, and maybe—he just wanted to have a little bit of privacy, a den to call his own.
But there was nothing to distinguish the threadbare living space from its Tower peers. He should be grateful to Tony for offering up a separation from S.H.I.E.L.D.
He should be grateful to all the futurians, that they were kind to him overall. But they made the back of his neck itch.
“Sorry,” he said aloud, because Tony had never asked for a blood sample, a picture, or an interview. Tony just shrugged and set the boxes down on a little table before stepping back obligingly, already moving towards the hall again. “You don’t have to go,” Steve blurted.
Tony paused, turning towards him, an almost dancing movement, his weight fluid, like still had armor to balance. “I,” Steve started, balancing the crutches, the words, the papers, the scales, the weight of the century, on his shoulders, amid the silence of the room, the trickling of rain on the windows, “just meant. If you want. It’s your place.”
“No,” Tony said simply. “It’s not.”
Sore, Steve said, “Thank you.”
He was surprised that Tony stuck around, even though he didn’t make it through two slices of pizza, leaving the bulk to Steve’s outrageous hunger. He did tuck his feet underneath himself as he flipped through Steve’s books. Books were safe—provided goods, nothing too revealing. Steve nodded, mostly, to whatever he said, occasionally shaking his head to negate, No, I haven’t got there. He seemed to enjoy talking to himself—and he was oddly soothing to listen to, a person Steve didn’t mind having around, once the food was gone. He leaned chin on hand to keep his head from hitting the table as Tony mused over an old MIT project he had lost the thread of, closing his eyes to better picture it, startling a little when a hand tapped his shoulder.
“You sleep here, you’re gonna fall,” Tony warned.
It twisted in his gut, but he said, “So?”
“So,” Tony said, squeezing his shoulder, “get up, Steve.”
Steve groaned, told him, “You’re not in charge,” and thought about sleeping on the table to spite him. Then he imagined how abominable he would feel later and allowed Tony Stark to help coax him to his feet, shuffling the crutches under his arms.
He was lucky his legs were mostly healed, but each step was tender, an open wound that didn’t want to be touched. “Easy, big guy,” Tony told him, close by.
“’m not gonna fall,” Steve assured him, patting his chest once with an open palm, right over the reactor, surprised at the warmth of it. Tony stilled but didn’t back away.
He offered, “You take anything?” in a reflexive sort of way.
“No,” Steve groaned, after brushing his teeth, stripping his shirt off, opening his eyes at a strong hiss. He looked down at his own torso, a mat of blue, and said, “s’fine.”
“Yeah, it looks. Healthy,” Tony said vaguely. “You take any—”
“It doesn’t work on me,” Steve repeated, a bit more flatly. He didn’t mean to be rude, but he was—sore. He moved onto his side slowly, and it hurt. Everything hurt, and although his belly was full, he was still so damn—“Just gotta wait,” he said, speaking around a rough rock in his mouth. He shoved his cheek against a pillow and added, “Morning.”
He heard a drawer open and popped open his eyes. “The hell’re you—”
“Really? Hold on.”
He growled audibly, but Tony was already gone, the door shutting quietly behind him. Steve still hadn’t simmered down completely, stiff and ordering, “J.A.R.V.I.S.?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Lights—”
The firm knocks barely registered before he heard a key, followed by Tony’s reentry. “This should work,” Tony said, holding up a jar.
“How the hell,” Steve said, words running together with surprise, faint frustration.
Tony looked back at the door shutting, then shrugged and said, “Master key. Every good tenant—it’s in case of emergency. Payback for the rabies.”
In response, Steve dragged a pillow over his head and said, “Don’t make me cuss you out.”
“Can I try something?”
“No.”
“If it helps?”
“Still no.”
“Basically magic in a—”
“Tony, I said no.”
Something light landed on the bed. Steve growled, ordering, “Scram.”
He heard the handle turn. He didn’t hold his breath and wasn’t shocked to hear, “I’m telling you, it—”
“Tony.”
The door creaked. Steve’s last nerve stretched with it. Grinding his teeth, Steve said, “What.”
“Bruise salve. It works.”
Steve blew out a short breath through his nose. “I use it all the time after the suit,” Tony added.
“It won’t work,” Steve said, with the faint weary air of four-times-faster.
“Is it worth a shot?”
Steve thought about lying in pain all night, mulling in his own hubris. Then he thought about the very fact that Tony was even offering.
“It makes it worse, I’m giving you another rabies shot,” he muttered from under the pillow.
At first, it was worse. Cool against his bare, sensitive shoulders. He almost rolled away from it, chewed Tony out for bringing it up in the first place, a cruel joke against him, just for a life-saving treatment—but Tony’s fingers were confident, and Steve trusted him, breathing through the initial frustration, the slice of betrayal, as Tony sat with legs folded underneath him and traced constellations on his bruised back.
Slowly, the ice thawed to warmth.
Bold bruised muscles relaxed their hard, bitter hold, allowing him to appreciate Tony’s work, his genuine efforts. He pushed the numbing salve into the heart of the bruises with artful confidence, a mechanic tinkering. It was strange to be the machine, but as Tony worked over each sore spot, Steve relished the unwinding.
He refused to slip into a dream. He was so used to the serum working in the dark that he could not believe the difference from the hard, bony pain to a gradual, soft sweep. As Tony dragged the heels of his palms down the smooth planes along his spine, Steve thought it should hurt more, but the warm path he followed was easy, confident. It was so good he didn’t want it to end.
Tony tapped his shoulder. “You want me to get your front?”
“No,” Steve said automatically, so languid he was not sure he could muster up the will to roll off his belly. Tony breathed out a vaguely amused breath. “I like this,” he acknowledged charitably.
In response, Tony squeezed his shoulder gently, an oddly sweet gesture. Steve had the plummeting thought of what it would be like to spend the night sleeping in a box under the grass, all because he had not been a little more careful.
With a heavy breath, he turned over, forcing Tony to shuffle back a few inches. He squinted immediately against the comparatively light of the room, lifting a hand to cover his eyes. Tony immediately dolloped his chest with salve, filling his nose with the same bright, herbal scent. He scrunched up his nose, resisted the urge to shift up the bed more to escape the cold of it, grumbling, “I don’t like that.”
“No,” Tony said. “Why should you?”
Steve let his hand drop, even though it was still a little bright in the room. He could have let it land easily on the bed; he let it land, a bit out of its way, on Tony’s thigh. Tony didn’t try to divert it, even though he could have, very easily, shuffled up and over.
There was something very grounding in the contact, the warm muscle, the knowledge that Tony was there, with him. His eyes wanted to slide shut, so he let them dip to slits as he said softly, “Are you mad at me?”
Tony hummed, shifting to reach the far side of his chest. “Yeah, this is secretly a very, very elaborate vengeance plan, and it’s all coming to fruition,” he said back, his voice mirroring Steve’s tone.
Rubbing his thumb over his leg, Steve said, “I couldn’t let you die, Tony.”
Tony looked at him. Something in his expression softened as he said, “I wasn’t planning to.”
“You’re always . . . so stupid, Tony.”
Tony’s lips twitched as he fought a smile. “You were doing really well.”
“So foolish. So reckless, and I . . . can’t. Risk.” He squeezed Tony’s leg once, emphasizing his point. “I need you to be okay. Every time.”
Tony looked him over, gaze flicking from his eyes to his lips and back again. Belatedly, Steve realized the heaviness of his own words. A tightness built in his chest, but instead of balking from it, he leaned into it, meeting Tony’s eyes and insisting, “C’mere. Come down here.”
“And if we make a bad decision?” Tony asked, hand still on his chest, palm warm.
“Then we do it together,” Steve said. “C’mere. C’mon, come down here.” He smiled a little, ever-so-briefly, as Tony finally obliged, even if he hovered, their lips breathlessly close. “You scared?” he whispered, lifting his hand to cup Tony’s cheek.
Tony kissed him. Steve’s breath actually caught a little, then eased, into the warmth of it, the pseudo-familiarity.
Because it was Tony. Same Tony he fought with, fought for, broke bread with and badgered to hell and back. Wouldn’t change a thing, he thought, resting their foreheads together. Not a thing.