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"When I was little," Tony's whisper broke the silence. Steve, who'd almost been asleep, startled awake again.
They were in one of the spare rooms at Clint's house. Neither had wanted to let the other take the floor, so they just decided to squeeze into the entirely too small bed together. It was what it was.
They hadn't really said much to each other, just worked around the other as they changed and got into bed. And now, in the middle of the night, the house silent around them, Tony was whispering. Steve, who was laying on his side with his back to Tony, wasn't even sure Tony knew he was still awake.
"My mom used to point above my heart. 'Do you know what lives here?' She'd ask. I'd always shake my head. 'Your heart baby, and it's red.' She'd move her finger to the center of my chest then, and ask again. 'Do you know what lives here?' Nope. 'Your soul, baby. And it's white.' She'd place her palm over my chest then. Her hands were always so warm." Tony fell silent then.
Steve didn't know if he should say anything or move so Tony would know he was awake. He felt like he was eavesdropping. But, then why would he whisper out loud? With Steve in the room? Steve shifted a little just in case.
Tony stayed silent for awhile. Steve didn't know how long, he couldn't see the clock. Long enough for Steve's vision to blur into darkness while he was staring at the wall. Long enough for his eyes to grow heavy. Long enough for Steve to become aware of the crickets outside again. Steve thought maybe Tony hadn't wanted Steve to hear after all, and moving had stopped him talking. He found himself wondering what else had he been about to say?
Steve started to drift to sleep again. He was somewhere in between when Tony started whispering again. "I think they cut out my soul. Took it with the shrapnel and tossed it out."
Steve's heart plummeted. He turned over, to do something, say something. He didn't know. He turned over, and found Tony staring at the ceiling. His face was blank.
"Tony-" Steve started, but Tony cut him off.
"They had to have. It's the only explanation. There's a reason the people around me always leave. Why my chest always feels so cold. I mean, who's going to stick around for a man without a soul?"
"Tony, a man without a soul wouldn't fly a missile into space with no intention of surviving to save people. To save his friends." "You don't understand." Tony turned to look at Steve now. "That's exactly who would. A man without a soul's got nothing to lose, nothing to-" He stopped there, but Steve could fill in the rest. Nothing to live for. Shit. Steve had to say something. Tony seemed to be staring right through him.
"Let me see your hand," He whispered. Tony frowned, but offered up his hand. Steve grabbed it between his.
"I've always believed that your soul lives in your hands, your fingertips. Maybe it's just because I've always admired artists. But I've always thought it lives in your fingertips so each time you touch something, it leaves a little piece behind. I've always been careful with where I leave each piece." As he said that, Steve ran one fingertip down the back of Tony's hand. He trailed it down Tony's arm, to his shoulder, and across the skin of his collarbone to his chest. He ran it lightly around the edges of the metal there. The scars. His hand lit up blue. He glanced up to find Tony's eyes following his finger.
"Is this okay?" Tony nodded. He was hardly breathing beneath Steve's hand.
"I think your mom was wrong," Steve gently flattened his hand, letting his palm cover the metal in Tony's chest. "I think your soul is blue."
Tony's chest collapsed like he'd broken. A whimper came escaped from his lips. Steve jerked his hand off of Tony's skin, looking for signs of damage. He knew he underestimated his own strength. Maybe what he'd thought was gentle had been restricting Tony's breathing the whole time. Or worse, maybe he'd broken something, bent the metal.
But Tony's hand shot out to catch Steve's as he pulled away. Realizing what he'd done, they both froze. Steve let out a sigh of relief. He hadn't broken Tony, thank goodness. Tony's hand stayed wrapped around Steve's wrist, their eyes locked onto each others. Tony's eyes seemed to be pleading. Steve, hoping he was reading him right, slowly rested his hand back on Tony's chest, palm flat.
"Your hands are warm." Tony whispered. It was enough of an approval for Steve. After five minutes, though, Steve found his shoulder aching from the awkward position. "Turn on your side," He whispered to Tony. Tony, half asleep, obeyed Steve's command with minor grumbling. Steve then pulled Tony against his chest, one arm curled under his head, the other wrapped around Tony's chest. Tony sighed against him. Steve fell asleep not long after.
The sun, and Clint, found them like that, Steve still wrapped around Tony in the morning. They'd both slept much longer, and much better, than they had in a long time.