Archive of Our Own ^beta

Joining the Avengers has always meant paperwork.

Oh, it's a whole lot of other things too, many of them far better -- Steve is willing to acknowledge that. He's joined and rejoined the team often enough over the years that he knows exactly how it feels.

It's one of the best feelings he's ever felt in his life. To know that the Avengers think he deserves to be with them -- that's always made Steve happy, being good enough, being chosen, because for half his life he never was, and sometimes he thinks, deep down, he's still that lonely kid. There's camaraderie. There's the sense of belonging to something bigger than himself. Having a purpose, a higher calling. Ideals. And there's the knowledge that he's doing the right thing. Because if there's a right thing to do in this world, the Avengers will be doing it. Steve's always been proud that he gets to count himself a part of that. That he gets to wake up tomorrow and know that he's making the world better.

But right now, the thing Steve overwhelmingly feels about joining the Avengers -- that's relief.

It's a relief so profound that he wants to put his head down right here on the table in the empty briefing room, and he wants to cry.

He hasn't felt a lot like himself lately.

The Secret Avengers are Clint's now. Clint's team. Clint's responsibility. Clint will do a hell of a lot better carrying them through the darkness than Steve did. Steve should never have been doing black-ops. He knew that, distantly, at the time, but now that he's out he can really, really see that he should never have been there. There was so much that he shouldn't have done. So many lines he shouldn't have crossed.

That's all over now, he tells himself. He's got the shield back, his shield. He's Captain America again. Bucky isn't dead anymore, and he didn't want the shield again. Steve can live in the light. The Avengers wanted him back. The past is in the past. He can be good. He gets to be good again.

He reaches back and pats his shield. He reaches up and taps the tip of one of his wings. Still there, again. All still there. This is him now. It's going to be okay.

And then, of course, there's Tony.

He could say he's concerned about his relationships with all of the Avengers -- but, hell, he's not going to lie to himself. It's Tony. It's always been Tony.

Since Steve came back to life, he and Tony haven't been the same. That's an understatement. Whatever impulse has driven them to keep coming back to each other after all the fights, time and time again -- Steve calls it love, but he has no idea what Tony calls it -- keeps pushing them back together, but this time they don't quite fit right.

They almost do, and that's the hell of it. They fought together just fine at the siege of Asgard. They were fine together against the Worthy, a few weeks ago. They went on that adventure through the Nine Realms that involved Steve rescuing Tony, naked, from a dragon and ended up with the two of them hugging each other for so long that Steve's honestly been waiting for Tony to tell him he's used that genius brain of his and realized Steve has had a crush on him for years. But it's probably better if Tony doesn't, because... well, there's the rest of it.

They fight. That trip through the Nine Realms kicked off with the two of them getting into a massive argument because apparently Tony just hadn't looked up any of the atrocities he'd been responsible for that he no longer remembers. Steve had tried to put a new Avengers team together and had honestly considered joining until he and Tony got into a fight at the damn announcement meeting. And then there was that time Steve found Tony in the Himalayas with his five new best friends who'd had the goddamn Infinity Gems in their pockets for years and hadn't bothered to tell anyone else on any of their teams. Steve had seen red. He'd screamed. A lot.

He'd overheard someone saying, while they'd been watching them fight, that the two of them loved each other, but they just had some things to work out.

The thing is, Steve isn't sure if they've worked them out.

The Infinity Gem thing has been settled, which was the most urgent. Everyone knows about the Gems now, and Steve's personally keeping an eye on the Time Gem.

But that still leaves him and Tony.

He's here in Tony's home, on Tony's team, in Tony's life. And yet, they haven't had an actual conversation since Tony handed him his newly-repaired shield back. He doesn't know what Tony thinks of him now. Whether they can work together again. Whether they can be friends.

He supposes he's going to find out.

This is how he finds out.

So that's why he's here, filling out all the forms to switch to active membership. At this point he could probably do them in his sleep. He's done the tax forms and the insurance. He set his subscriptions to the team mailing lists back to individual messages. He's made sure his address is up to date. He put the next five weeks of team meetings on his calendar; at the next one, someone is probably going to nominate him for chair. He's put himself on the requisition list for new comm earpieces, because hell if he knows where his old ones went. He's assigned himself to the quarters he last lived in, before Registration. That was the last time he was here.

This time, it has to be better than that.

And now comes the last step. Making it official. It doesn't need to be last, but Steve always does it last. A habit. He opens the database for the main team and sets himself active. CAPTAIN AMERICA: ACTIVE.

Everything's taken care of. Everything--

Wait, what?

Steve scrolls down a little, his stomach twisting up in knots as he sees a familiar name with an extremely unfamiliar designation: IRON MAN: INACTIVE / MEDICAL.

What in the world?

Two hours ago, when Steve had started his paperwork, Tony was still listed as active. And Tony doesn't take medical leave. Not unless he's actually dying, and even then Steve's watched him -- unsuccessfully -- try to get up and walk out of a hospital with a gunshot wound in one of his legs. Sure, it'd be nice if Tony took leave when he needed it, but he doesn't. Something has to be very, very wrong for him to even consider it.

Because Tony went inactive, Steve can't easily call him on his card unless he declares an Avengers emergency. But the tracker still works, so Steve pulls up the location.

Armory.

None of this makes any sense. If Tony's sick enough that he's gone inactive, then surely he should be in the infirmary. Or an actual hospital. Or, hell, maybe even just his actual bedroom. But instead, he hasn't left his armors.

What's wrong with Tony?

He has to see him. He has to talk to him. Whatever it is, whatever's wrong, maybe he can help Tony. Or maybe he can get him to people who can help him. Steve is more than willing to call a doctor, make Tony an appointment, or personally carry Tony to the nearest hospital if that's what he needs.

Steve stands up. He's going to go find Tony.

Maybe this time Tony will tell him what's wrong. And maybe they won't end up screaming at each other.

The armory is pitch-black.

That's the first thing that's wrong with this picture.

Tony doesn't like the dark. Steve knows this about Tony not because he's ever asked him -- it's always seemed like the kind of thing Tony doesn't want to admit to -- but Steve's pretty damn good at pattern recognition, and it's not hard to notice that all of Tony's armor can be illuminated and that lights-out anywhere Tony has a bed always has some kind of nightlight. Dim lamps, maybe. Overhead lights that never go all the way off.

And yet Tony's in here somewhere and it's dark. It's dark enough that Tony almost certainly can't see a thing. Steve can, of course, but he has the serum. And even with the serum, it's a challenge. Half-built armors loom in the black-on-black shadows. If Tony's in here, he's not anywhere Steve can see from the doorway.

It's also quiet. Obviously Tony's not working right this second, and Steve's used to that making a lot of noise, when he gets into the cutting and hammering and whatnot. But even when he's not working he usually has some music going; the last time Steve had spent time with him here -- a long time ago, now -- he'd been revisiting his fondness for early 90s Seattle grunge. Steve still isn't sure "Smells Like Teen Spirit" has any actual words in it, but he didn't mind it, and the song clearly delighted Tony.

There's none of that now. It's just... silent.

Maybe Tony's just asleep, Steve thinks, hopefully. But if he were asleep, he wouldn't be down here in the dark with a medical flag next to his name on the roster. So Steve still has no idea what's going on.

Tony's gotten fancy with computer-controlled lights in other areas of the tower, but down here in the armory it's still, for some reason, wired up the old-fashioned way.

Steve fumbles behind him for the switch, and the fluorescent lights above him come on slowly, starting where Steve is and sweeping across the room in a wash of light.

Five seconds later, Steve knows where Tony is, because he can hear him. In agony.

There's an inarticulate groan of pain and a whimper off to the right, somewhere past two of the larger armor gantries that Steve can't quite see around.

"Ow, fuck," Tony says, weakly. There's another whimper. "Lights off, please. Please." He manages to speak louder, probably assuming that whoever's here isn't Steve and can't hear him. He sounds absolutely miserable. "The lights, I can't, it's too much -- whatever you want, can you come back later? I promise I can help you then. It's just that-- oh, God, that's worse, the lights are so much worse--"

Steve's a soldier. He's accustomed to following orders. And he and Tony have been teammates for long enough -- far longer than he was actually in the Army -- that he's used to one or the other of them giving orders. So when it's Tony, when Tony asks him to do something, when he asks him like this, Steve does it. He doesn't think about it, he doesn't turn it over in his mind, he doesn't take time trying to figure out why Tony wants this or contemplating what's going on. He just does it.

He always used to, anyway.

It turns out he still does, because he's already moving. It's like there's a connection between Tony's words and Steve's hands that somehow bypasses Steve's brain entirely, because he has the lights switched back off before Tony even finishes complaining about them, before Steve can even try to think about any of it. Tony wants it, so he does it. No thinking necessary.

Well, whatever else has happened, at least they still have that.

The lights, unfortunately, turn off as slowly as they went on, but, in another few seconds, everything's black again.

Somewhere in the darkness, Tony's still whimpering.

"Tony?" Steve calls out. "It's Steve. I saw the medical listing and I came to check on you. What's wrong? Do you need help?"

Tony doesn't say anything, which means he's probably feeling too terrible even to try to lie to Steve and tell him fine, and that-- Steve knows the kinds of things that are that bad by Tony's standards, and they're all things like heart attacks. Which would be very, very bad.

Even as Steve tells himself that there's no way it can be a heart attack because everything about Tony's heart is better now -- with his RT, it's his brain that's been having problems -- he's still picking his way across the floor as fast as he can, with his own heart in his throat. A couple of the machines still have LEDs on and it's just enough for him to see by.

Just barely avoiding tripping over an exposed cable in his haste to get to Tony in the darkness, Steve rounds the last of the armor gantries and finds Tony curled up in a narrow bed that's been shoved into a corner. Tony has the blankets over his head like he's shielding himself from the light that's no longer there. He's more or less a human-shaped lump under the blankets; nothing of him is visible. If Steve didn't know for a fact that Tony was under there, he might never have found him.

Steve moves to kneel at the head of the bed, only to find a small collection of mostly-inexplicable objects on the floor: keys, phone, identicard, a water bottle, a bucket, sunglasses, a tin of ginger-flavored Altoids, a half-empty box of saltine crackers, and a tiny penlight. The last of these is presumably useful if Tony wants to move around -- but only in very dim light -- but Steve's having a hard time fathoming the reason for some of this stuff.

He shoves everything out of the way, kneels down anyway, and reaches out for what is most likely Tony's shoulder. Even if-- even if maybe Tony doesn't want to be his friend like he used to, surely this has to be okay. Any of the Avengers would have done the same for him, and Steve would have done the same for everyone else. So this has to be acceptable, even from him.

Tony's not shivering under his hand, so it's probably not a fever or chills. That still leaves a lot of awful possibilities.

"Hey," Steve says, softly. "Hey, Tony. It's me. Can you talk to me? What's the matter?"

After a few more seconds, the pile of blankets shifts and Tony's head emerges. Steve doesn't know how well Tony can see him, but he can, for better or worse, see Tony. Probably for worse. His hair is a mess. But he doesn't look pale or sweaty, so that knocks out most of the really terrible cardiac options. But he's squinting, even in the darkness, and he's grimacing in pain, and that's obviously not good.

Tony makes a quiet noise of absolute misery. "Headache," he says, succinctly.

Oh.

This is the worst thought in the entire world, and Steve hates that it's the first thing that he thinks, but Steve's not really the good man he used to be, so: he wonders if it's a hangover.

It's actually a possibility, though. During the fight against the Worthy, Tony drank for the first time in years. The way he tells it, he had to make a sacrifice to Odin, to get his attention to bargain for the use of the forges in Svartalfheim, and the thing he sacrificed was his sobriety. Steve believes Tony when he said he couldn't think of any other way. And it was because of Tony's weapons that they all saved the world. It was because Tony drank that they saved the world.

But Steve also knows that when Tony starts drinking, he can't stop. That's what makes him an alcoholic.

Steve's pretty sure, though, that Tony did stop, this time. That Tony hasn't had a drop since Odin. That was what Tony told him, and Steve believes him. Of course he does.

So it can't be that, he tells himself. It can't be.

He can just ask, can't he? If they're friends again now, Tony can just tell him. Tony's probably just caught some bug going around. That's all. Nothing serious. And whatever it is, Steve can't catch it, so if Tony needs any help, he can help him.

"Aww, geez," Steve says. He realizes he's still patting Tony's shoulder. He pats him again, for good measure. "I'm sorry to hear that. You coming down with something?"

But Tony... shakes his head. "Nope," he says. His words are a little too slow, like he has to think very hard before saying them. "It's a migraine."

That doesn't make any sense. Tony doesn't get migraines. Steve would know, wouldn't he? He's known Tony for practically his entire adult life -- both of their lives, really -- and Tony doesn't get migraines. Maybe it's not really a migraine. But at the same time, it's hard to imagine Tony being wrong about what it is. Tony isn't just wrong about things. That doesn't happen.

Maybe he's just started getting them. Steve doesn't know what makes people start getting them. His ma got them, maybe once a month, but as far as Steve knows she had them her whole life. He remembers her face going pinched around the eyes, telling him she had to go lie down, and could you please play a little more quietly, Stevie. But Steve knows Tony, and Tony's never done anything like that, so this has to be new.

"You get migraines now?" Steve asks.

Tony flails one hand out of the blankets to press his fingertips against the side of his head. It sure looks like a migraine.

Steve wonders when this all started. It's something he missed, probably, because he hasn't been an Avenger in so long. Guilt washes over him. He used to know things like this. He used to be here. He's spent too much time alone.

Tony's still grimacing. "Oh, yeah," he rasps. He sounds awful. "Now and always, actually. Since I was a kid."

What the hell?

Sometimes Tony doesn't tell people things. Steve knows that. He also knows that sometimes he's one of those people. The list of things Tony never told him about is, actually, fairly lengthy -- or at least fairly significant. The Infinity Gems and the Illuminati. Registration, not that Tony remembers it. His secret identity as Iron Man. His heart problems.

Everything in him goes hot, as Steve squeezes his eyes shut. He's fairly certain Tony can't see him all that well. He hopes Tony can't see him. He thought they were going to be friends again, he thinks, miserable and betrayed, and the thought almost makes him want to cry. He thought Tony was going to tell him things again. He thought, when Tony had put the Time Gem into his hand, that there wouldn't be any more secrets between them.

Apparently Steve thought wrong.

So here's yet another one of those things Tony never told him, another entry in the endless list. Like his heart condition, except that one, they all found out relatively quickly -- though not, Steve supposes, that it was Iron Man's heart condition. It's another thing Steve would have liked to have known, as Tony's frequent team leader. The Avengers have never required full medical disclosures -- and if they had, Steve thinks glumly, Tony would have lied -- but Steve just... would have liked to know. As his friend.

Tony's probably spent years suffering, and he never trusted Steve enough to tell him. Steve wonders how many of the nights Tony spent locked in his workshop were actually like this. He supposes he'll never know.

Steve takes a breath and tries to compose himself, in the darkness. There's no call for self-pity. Maybe Tony didn't ever want to tell him before, but he's told him now, and surely that counts for something. Surely that means something.

And anyway, Tony's hurting, so whatever Steve feels about it isn't important. Steve's here, and Tony is his friend and teammate -- and he's obviously absolutely never going to be anything else, Steve tells the obstinate part of his mind that's always been hoping for more -- and Tony's in pain, and if there's anything Steve can do for him, he'll do it, no matter how angry he is at Tony. It's not even a question.

He's been a hell of a lot angrier at Tony than this, anyway. And they're both still here.

"That sounds rough, Shellhead," Steve says, when he's waited long enough that he hopes he's got his voice under control. "Can I help you? Get you anything?"

The array of objects next to the bed makes a lot more sense now -- including, unfortunately, the bucket -- so Steve figures Tony's probably already gathered everything he needs, but it never hurts to ask.

Tony's squinting at him again, and it's more than just pain. He looks like he's confused and trying to get a better look at him. "Steve, are you okay?" he asks, and that's definitely not a question Steve's going to answer honestly. "You-- you sound upset."

Tony's words are still halting, and if Steve were to guess, he'd say Tony's probably not thinking straight right now, and Steve's definitely not going to pick a fight about Tony's habit of not telling him anything while Tony's lying here in nauseated pain. Steve is not that much of an asshole. He wonders if Tony would disagree with him about that.

At any rate, this isn't a conversation they're having.

"I'm fine," Steve says, but he knows his words are still too clipped. "I'm just-- I'm worried about you. And if there's anything I can do for you, I'd like to help."

There. That's actually the truth.

"It's okay," Tony says, which is definitely not I don't need anything, so it seems like they're both lying. "You should go. You're probably busy. You don't need to do anything."

A memory comes to Steve, with the dreamy blurriness of everything he remembers from before the serum. He's maybe seven or eight. He's at home, in their tiny kitchen. He's fumbling with the kitchen sink, turning the water off. He's clutching a washcloth, dripping with cool water, running down his bare arms, because it hasn't occurred to him to wring it out. He feels proud. He feels important. Like how grown-ups feel, he thinks. His ma asked him to get her a nice cool washcloth and that means he has a job, a proper job, a special chore his ma asked him to do. He's going to help his ma feel better.

Steve clears his throat. "My ma used to get migraines," he says, awkward. He knows he doesn't talk all that much about his childhood. "Sometimes she used to ask me to get her a cold compress. So if you wanted something like that, I could get you one. Or anything else you might like. It wouldn't be any trouble, honest. I'd like to help. I'm not busy." He has a hand braced on the mattress next to Tony, not brave enough to touch him. Or maybe too upset to. He shrugs helplessly, because even after everything, he still loves Tony. "Finished my team paperwork. Came down to see you. You know how it goes."

That was how it used to go, at least. Back when they just spent time with each other because they liked each other, and it was that simple. Before the lies. Before the fights. Before the war. Back when Steve used to dream that someday they might become something more.

He still cares about Tony. That's why he's here. He's trying. Tony has to know that.

Tony can't possibly see him well enough to tell anything but he's staring at him in the darkness, his teeth worrying at his lower lip. Steve can see him trying to make a decision, which is fairly upsetting, because normally Tony thinks at light speed.

"It'd be nice of you," Tony says, finally. "I would have gotten myself a cold washcloth, but it came on pretty fast, and by the time I got the light off and lay down I realized that if I got up again it was going to get worse and I was definitely going to be sick." He makes a face and swallows convulsively a few times, like his body has decided that even talking about it means that maybe he should vomit. "Had to evaluate the tradeoffs, you know? So I just stayed here."

Relief floods Steve. He can do this. Tony is letting him help.

He wonders if Tony wants a hug. That would probably be pushing it.

"I'm sorry you feel so rotten," Steve says, which is the absolute truth, for once. "But I can absolutely get you a washcloth. Anything else you want while I'm up? Do you take anything for the pain?"

He thinks maybe they have medication for it now, special medication just for migraines. He hasn't really kept up. He also knows that asking about painkillers, when it comes to Tony, is a loaded question. But he also knows the kinds of drugs Tony doesn't want to take, and they existed when Steve was a kid, and he's pretty sure they weren't handing morphine out in the thirties if your head hurt, so Tony can't be contemplating that now.

Tony breathes out and it sounds sort of like a laugh. "That is actually a long and bizarrely ironic story," he says, and that wasn't an adjective Steve was expecting, so whatever this is, it probably isn't something bad. "But if you're up anyway, I'll take a couple of Advil, please and thank you."

Steve pushes himself to his feet. "Advil and a washcloth. Got it." He glances across the armory at the open bathroom door. Tony's probably still got both of those down here.

For some reason Tony's trying to move around under the blankets, and it becomes clearer when he sits up halfway, gets a hand out and waves at the gathered pile of items on the floor. "You're gonna need the flashlight," he says. "There's a bunch of stuff you don't want to trip over on the way there. I'd ask if you could try to avoid shining it at me, but I know that's--"

Wow, Tony really isn't thinking all that clearly.

"Tony," Steve says, patiently. "How do you think I walked over here from the door in the dark? I can see just fine. There's enough light for me. I don't need to turn anything on. Serum, remember? I don't need to make your headache worse, at all."

Tony flops back onto the bed. "Oh my God, I forgot about that," he says, with another breathy laugh. This time he's obviously laughing at himself. "I love you, I really do. You are my absolute favorite person in the entire world."

Steve's heart skips a beat, even as he knows that Tony doesn't actually mean that the way he's always hoped Tony would. Tony's grateful. Steve's going to help him, without turning on the terrible light again. This is an expression of gratitude. That's all.

"Glad to hear it," Steve says. That feels safe enough. He doesn't know what else to day. "Back in a second."

Despite Tony's warning, the path to the bathroom is relatively clear; there are a couple of boxes he has to avoid, but soon enough, he ducks into the bathroom, finds a clean washcloth, turns the faucet on, and waits for the cold water to run as cold as possible.

While he waits, he strips off his gloves and stows them in his belt. He likes his gloves. They weren't the ones he wore for black-ops. They remind him he's not in that hell anymore. But this is okay, too. He thinks Tony will probably appreciate the human contact. Maybe Tony will want him to hold the washcloth in place.

Tony would also probably like having an icepack, he thinks. Maybe even just a refrigerated gel pack. There's no way Tony doesn't still have a little freezer of icepacks somewhere around here -- he knows what Tony does for a living, after all, and how many hits Tony takes -- but he doesn't know exactly where it is, because it's been moved since the last time he was here, and he's not about to turn the light on to find out. He can ask Tony later.

In the darkness, he can just barely see himself in the mirror, a hint of his reflection shifting like a shadow whenever he moves. It makes fear prickle down his spine, traces of a childhood worry that the other side of the mirror was a nightmare world. He hasn't thought about that in years. Maybe it's doing this, taking care of someone he loves like when he was a child, he thinks, as he soaks the cloth with water. Maybe this is what brings him back to that. Or maybe it's that the Secret Avengers were life on the other side of the mirror. He shivers at the thought.

He turns off the water. Because he can appreciate the consequences of physics better than he could at eight years old, he wrings out the cloth into the sink; that way, he's not going to hand Tony a dripping-wet washcloth. He's also a lot stronger than he was when he was eight, so it doesn't take all that much time.

On the way out, he grabs Tony's massive bottle of Advil; he's just going to let Tony dose himself.

When he makes it back to Tony, he finds Tony sitting up, unsteadily, the blankets pooled around him. Tony is actually a beacon in the darkness, which is probably symbolic of something, but hell if Steve knows what; he's wearing a t-shirt, thin enough that the light of the RT in his chest is diffusing through it. Steve wonders if this is the only time since he got the RT that Tony hasn't liked being his own personal nightlight.

Tony's managed to retrieve the bottle of water, which Steve would have done for him if he'd asked. He's clearly waiting for his Advil. He's squinting in the washed-out blue light, his face tense and drawn.

"Do you want me to get you a heavier shirt?" Steve asks, motioning toward Tony's chest. "It'd block the light out better."

Tony shakes his head; he's holding out his hand for the pills. "No, I'll be fine," he says, but he still sounds like he doesn't believe that. "Planning on covering myself back up anyway in a second."

Their fingers brush as Steve passes Tony the Advil; he deftly uncaps the bottle, shakes out two pills, and takes them with sips of water. He keeps sipping the water. His eyes are shut, his profile barely visible in the dim light of the RT. It's a quiet moment. Serene. Steve wonders if anyone who only knows the face Tony shows to the public would recognize him like this. Everyone knows that Tony Stark likes things that are fast, loud, flashy, and bright. His suits. His cars. His dazzling, glamorous parties. No one would imagine him sitting here in the cool, silent darkness -- and yet, here he is.

Steve wonders if it means something, that Tony's letting him be here with him.

Capping the water bottle and the Advil, Tony leans over, drops them both onto the floor and then rolls onto his back, pulling the covers up again. He glances up at Steve and grimaces again, like lying down has made it worse. After another second, he starts shoving the heel of his hand against his forehead and Steve winces. Tony's a genius. He has to know that won't help anything.

Before Steve can really think about it, he's taken Tony's wrist in one hand. Gently, so Tony can pull away if he actually wants to. "Hey, no," Steve says. "That's just going to hurt more. Won't make you feel any better."

He wonders, as he says it, whether he's overstepping. Tony's an adult and can make his own terrible choices. He doesn't need Steve telling him that hitting himself in the head is bad. He doesn't need Steve at all, really, and isn't that the heart of the matter?

But at the same time, Tony has to know that Steve isn't going to stand by and watch Tony hurt himself, because that's who Steve is as a person. He knew that when he asked Steve to be on the team. He knew that when he asked Steve to stay here and help him. He knew what he was getting into. And he still wanted Steve here.

Unexpectedly, Tony's hand twists around in his grip, and his fingers brush the inside of Steve's arm. And Tony's smiling, just a little; he probably thinks Steve can't see him. "I know, I know," Tony says. He sounds... fond? Like somehow he's missed being dressed down by Captain America. "Makes me feel like I'm doing something, though."

"How about this instead?" Steve asks, and he presses the the washcloth to Tony's forehead. "Close your eyes."

The change in Tony is nothing short of miraculous, as if Steve's found the one thing that doesn't hurt. Tony's clearly still in pain, but he smiles a little wider when Steve arranges the washcloth on Tony's forehead. Steve dares to leave his hand where it is, to stroke Tony's hair very lightly, and Tony makes a quiet humming noise that actually sounds good. The idea of that -- making Tony feel good -- does funny things to Steve's stomach, even though he knows Tony wouldn't want this in any other context. Tony's eyes are closed, and he pulls the washcloth a little lower to cover them. Steve is very glad Tony can't see him.

Maybe Tony trusts him now. They're not fighting anymore. They're just... here.

"Mmm," Tony breathes. "Oh, that's good. God, that's the first thing that's felt good in ages." He's still smiling. "You're the best, Steve. Did I tell you that? The absolute best."

He knows it's not what he wants, but it's close enough. "Gosh," Steve says, trying for a joke, "if I'd known all I had to do to win your affection was bring you a washcloth, I'd have done this years ago."

Horrified, he hears the words coming out of his mouth. It doesn't sound like a joke when he says it. It sounds... raw. Bitter. Sad. Which is exactly how he feels, but he didn't mean to say it. If Tony never wanted to tell him about the migraines before, that's his business. Steve can't possibly complain that he wishes Tony liked him more. That's ridiculous.

Tony pushes the washcloth back up. His gaze is utter bewilderment. "Steve, what in the world are you talking about?" he asks. "You've had my affection since the day I met you. That's not news to anyone. Least of all you. You can't possibly think I don't like you."

But I can, Steve wants to say. What is he supposed to say, though? You didn't tell me you got migraines? He can't say that. That sounds... petty and pathetic. But it's not really about that. It's about everything else. This just stands in for the rest of it.

"I mean," Tony continues, his voice hesitant, "I know-- I know there must have been things I've said to you, or done to you, that I don't remember. That I won't ever remember. And if you want to hold me accountable for them, that's fair. You should. That's still me. But I-- I can't imagine I ever stopped liking you."

God. Steve doesn't want to talk about Registration. He knows Tony cared about him; he knows it was bad because Tony cared about him. He thinks about Tony standing in the ruined mansion, crying; he shuts his mouth.

Tony keeps going. "I didn't stop liking you when you were mad at me about the Illuminati. And I-- I wanted you back on the team. With me. I still do. You think I'd want you here, right here, if I didn't like you? If I didn't trust you?" Tony lifts his hand away from the washcloth to gesture around himself. "Steve, none of the other Avengers have ever seen me like this. I've never let anyone see me like this in a long time. Everyone except you has been locked out of here since my head started hurting. This could only have been you. Don't you know that?"

That can't be right. Can it? Can it? They aren't-- he can't-- Tony doesn't feel like that about him anymore. Except maybe he does.

"Really?" Steve asks, incredulous.

"Really," Tony assures him. "That's-- that's a lot of trust, okay? So what's the matter?"

Tony's squinting up at him. It's taken him a lot of effort to put together that speech. The words are labored. He looks tired. Confused. He's clearly in a lot of pain. But he's obviously decided that Steve is more important than that.

Nothing, Steve doesn't say. He can't pretend it's nothing. Tony knows it's something. And Tony trusts him. Tony's right about that. Tony trusts him now, even if there are things he never trusted him with before. So Steve needs to trust him right back.

The door only opened for him. Tony trusts only him with this. Steve has no idea what to do with that. It doesn't make sense.

Steve clears his throat. "It's just," he begins, and he realizes he has no idea how to say this. "It's just that I didn't know you got migraines. And I know it sounds silly, but it reminds me of when you had your heart problems, how you didn't tell any of us then either. I just want you to be okay. And if it's about trust, like you say, I-- I'd like to be someone you're... comfortable with. But I understand if I'm not. Anymore."

The words are terse, tense; it hurts to get them out when all he wants is to keep it all in.

Tony stares at him for several seconds. Steve's still pretty sure Tony can't see him very well at all, but Tony sighs. "Oh, for--" he begins, exasperated, and doesn't bother with whatever the rest of the oath would have been. Then he slides his hand out of the pile of blankets and pats the mattress next to him. "Here. Come on in."

Steve blinks. "What?"

"Get in here," Tony says. It's a very frustrated order. "Keep your boots on, or not, I don't care. Just come sit next to me."

"What?" Steve asks again. "Why?"

But, of course, because Tony asked him to, he's going anyway. Boots on. The mattress dips under his weight as he slides into the space Tony has made for him, sitting up straight even as Tony sprawls across the bed. Tony presses his face against the side of Steve's leg, which is definitely not the way Steve ever pictured getting to hold Tony, but he supposes it's better than Tony hitting himself in the face.

"There we go," Tony mumbles, directly into Steve's thigh.

Another half-remembered moment drifts through Steve's mind: sometimes smells made it worse, for his ma. Not food, unless it was a really bad one, but other smells. Perfumes. Smoke. Steve remembers his own small hands fumbling with the latches on a stuck window, trying to open it so his ma could have some fresh air.

He knows he's not exactly perfectly scentless. Oh, it's not like he's been out fighting, and definitely not out fighting something noxious, but even on his best days, large portions of his uniforms smell like leather, because they still are in places, mixed in with all the new fancy bulletproof fabrics. He doesn't want to make Tony worse. He's pretty sure Tony wouldn't have told him to do this if it was going to make Tony feel worse -- but with Tony, he can't ever be sure.

"The smell's not making your head worse, right?" Steve asks. "I mean, I don't know, the uniform, maybe?"

Tony's face is still shoved into Steve's leg. "No, you're good," he says, after a second, like he has to think about it. He tilts his head back, like he wants to make a request, and looks up at Steve for a second in the darkness. His gaze is hopeful. The washcloth on his face has tipped into his hair. "It'd be nice if you could keep, uh. Petting my hair," he says, quietly, like he's ashamed. "Makes me feel less nauseous if I've got something else to focus on. If you wanted."

Steve isn't entirely sure he deserves Tony's kindness, letting him do this; he knows he hasn't been kind to Tony. Maybe this is Tony's way of letting him make it up to him.

"Yeah," he says, softly. "Yeah, Tony, I can do that."

He tugs the washcloth down over Tony's forehead, back over Tony's eyes. He slides his fingers into Tony's hair, which is a little bit damp at the hairline, and Tony sighs in a way that sounds happy. Steve takes this as encouragement, and he keeps going.

"Oh," Tony murmurs. "That's really good."

Tony's hair is soft, almost silky, and after a minute -- a long, contemplative, quiet minute -- Tony's breathing smooths out. Steve wonders if Tony's asleep. He's probably tired. He's definitely not thinking straight. For someone like Tony, whose life requires clarity of thought, it's probably unbearable even beyond the pain.

"So," Tony says, and Steve nearly jumps. Tony's voice is low and scratchy. "Now that you're here, and now that I can, with your help, think about something other than how I feel like I'm on the world's worst sea voyage, for maybe a whole thirty seconds at a time... it's storytime."

Storytime?

Steve stares down at Tony, confused. There's a faint smile on Tony's lips. He doesn't seem like he's joking; he just seems... pleased. Steve doesn't understand. The last thing Tony should be doing right now is telling him a story.

"Whatever it is, it can wait," Steve tells him. "You're not feeling well."

Tony's lips quirk. "Oh, but this one's a very short story. And important. And you'll like it." His mouth quivers again. He's probably feeling a little better. Steve hopes so, anyway.

"I will?"

Tony nods, bumping Steve's thigh again with the side of his head. "You will. The title of this story is Why I've Never Told You I Get Migraines. A truly compelling and dramatic tale." He chuckles. He must be feeling a bit better, surely, if he's up to making jokes. And he's right -- Steve is curious about this one. "By Tony Stark, age-- age--" He falters. "Fuck. Brain's still not all online, clearly."

Yeah, Tony's definitely not at a hundred percent.

"Thirty-four," Steve informs him, helpfully.

"God, really?" Tony says. He grimaces. "Could have sworn I was younger."

"Well, you forgot a couple years there," Steve says, as gently as possible, and he ruffles Tony's hair. "Don't worry," he adds, lightly. "You didn't miss much."

He wonders if they can joke about it. Maybe not about Registration, because Steve knows they still disagree on that -- but about them. About everything between them. He wonders if this is okay. If it's actually over. If they've both really forgiven each other, after the Nine Realms, after everything. He waits, not even daring to breathe, to see if Tony's going to snap back at him.

Gratifyingly, Tony laughs, and, oh, thank God, they're okay. "Oh, I didn't, did I?"

"Nah," Steve says, with all the affected nonchalance he can muster. "I wasn't there either. Left early. So it was probably pretty boring without me."

Tony's still grinning. "More like pretty lonely, I'm thinking," he says, under his breath.

Okay, so Tony clearly likes him. So why didn't he trust him about this? Apparently Tony has an answer. Apparently Steve's going to find out.

Steve pats Tony's hair again. "So how does this thrilling story of yours go, exactly?"

"Well." Tony draws out the word. "Once upon a time, I was a kid and I started getting migraines. I was eight or nine, maybe. Didn't even know what it was at first. Thought I was sick with something. Didn't get any aura with them. Still don't. Just, you know" -- he waves his hand -- "all of this. It wasn't real fun. It still isn't real fun, but at least now my father's not standing here calling me a sissy and accusing me of faking it to get out of going to the family Christmas party."

Sometimes, Steve has noticed, Tony says things about his childhood without realizing how bad they are. Tony delivers this pronouncement like it's a mildly annoying memory and not part of years and years of abuse. He says it like he thinks everyone has been through something similar. As it happens, Steve has. But this isn't about him.

Steve squeezes Tony's shoulder briefly before returning to petting Tony's hair, because Tony seems to like that best. "I don't think you're faking it," Steve tells him.

Tony smiles weakly. "Thanks."

"You're welcome."

"Anyway," Tony says, "Howard didn't think I needed to see anyone about treating them. Just kept telling me to toughen up. I got them maybe every month, maybe twice a month, for about ten years after that. Then I went to Afghanistan. And, as you know, I had... some heart problems, let's say. And the cardiologist, he put me on beta blockers."

Tony pauses, significantly. Steve guesses he's supposed to know what those are. He has no idea what they are. But Tony's story seems to hinge on them.

"I'm sorry," Steve admits. "I don't know what those are."

"Heart medication," Tony says, cheerfully. "I know my track record with cardiac issues is pretty rotten, but it would have been much worse without them, trust me. And the thing about them is, they have other uses. I was really fond of the part where they kept my hands from shaking. That was handy in battle. Also in engineering. But the important thing is, they also prevent migraines."

Oh. Steve can see the answer now. "So you were already taking them when you joined the Avengers?"

"Yep." Tony sounds pleased. "So by the time I met you, I already wasn't getting the migraines anymore. So I never mentioned it, because it never came up."

"And you always had heart problems," Steve says, realizing how this must have played out. "So you were always taking the medication."

It makes sense. Ashamed, Steve is sorry he doubted him. His face is hot. He hangs his head. He's glad Tony has his eyes shut and covered.

"Well, not always," Tony corrects him. "But all the times I wasn't having heart problems, I also wasn't having any other physical problems. Funny how that works, huh? When we all came back from Onslaught, I was completely healed. No heart problems, but no migraines either. Started getting heart attacks again. Went back on the medication. Then I had that artificial heart, and I stayed on the medication. I don't know if I would have been getting migraines anyway. Then there was Extremis, and I had a healing factor, so everything was fine. I think. I wouldn't actually know." He frowns. "According to the logs, I managed to give myself a few headaches due to hardware incompatibility, but somehow I don't think that's the same thing."

That all makes sense, too. And Steve wasn't alive for most of the time when Tony had Extremis, so Steve missed even that.

"So that's why I never knew," Steve concludes. "But you're getting them again, clearly."

"Yeah." Tony sighs. "That'd be this thing's fault." He taps himself in the chest, probably a little harder than he really should have. "And don't get me wrong, I'm very glad I'm alive -- thank you, by the way -- but seeing as how the connection to my brainstem was entirely experimental, it makes sense that there were a few bugs. So I started getting migraines again. And since my heart's actually fine, these days, this is the first time since I was a kid that I've been having brain problems without heart problems."

"They couldn't put you back on the medication?"

"Theoretically, yes," Tony says, with a lilt to his voice that suggests the answer is actually very much no. "They could have put me back on it. They could have put me on a dozen different drugs, including ones specifically designed to stop migraines while I am currently having them. Like now." He sighs again. "The thing is, when you've turned your brainstem into a computer to fix the damage caused by deleting your memory during the time you previously turned the entire rest of your brain into a computer -- neurologists seem to think that kind of thing is above their pay grade, if you see what I'm saying." His mouth quirks. "I'd love to help you, Mr. Stark, but I'm not a computer programmer. I've gotten that one a lot."

Now Steve is just outraged on Tony's behalf. He doesn't raise his voice, though. Tony won't like it if he yells. "They won't do anything?"

Tony shakes his head and bumps Steve's thigh again with the side of his face. The pressure is clearly helpful. "I get the impression that they think I should be profoundly grateful that I'm walking and talking. And they're not actually that frequent, the migraines." He shrugs. "So, you know. I do okay." He pauses. He licks his lips. "It's-- it's a lot nicer this time, with you here. I really appreciate it. It's not that I was deliberately hiding anything from you. I'm sorry for making you feel like I was. I do trust you, Steve. I really do. It's just that it honestly didn't occur to me to mention I had them before, because I wasn't getting them. But I can see how you wouldn't feel like that was... me being honest."

At least Tony doesn't seem to be upset that Steve doubted him.

"And I just got here," Steve says. It's the last piece of the puzzle. "You've been having them again since you got the RT, but I wouldn't have known because I-- I-- I wasn't here." And I wasn't talking to you. "But now I am, and this is the first possible time I could have seen you having them. And here I am."

"And here you are," Tony agrees.

"But you didn't tell the rest of the team?"

Tony seems to have to consider the answer for several seconds. He presses the damp washcloth more heavily against his forehead. "I didn't know how they'd react. Didn't really want any of them giving me shit for it. But I-- I knew you wouldn't. No matter what else you thought about me, you wouldn't want to make me feel bad for this. I mean, I don't know if you'll still want me on the team, but--"

"Tony," Steve says. "Of course I do. Knowing you, you've already built in a bunch of autopilot functions in case this happens during battle."

"Well, yeah," Tony says, in a tone that suggests that this is obvious. "But--"

"You're here," Steve says, firmly. "You're staying right here."

All at once, Tony relaxes. Tension drains out of Tony, tension Steve hadn't even realized was there until now because Tony must have been carrying it for so long that Steve had just assumed that it was part of him: the fear that Steve doesn't actually want him here. Which is a whole lot like the fear Steve himself has also been carrying around lately.

God, they're a pair, aren't they?

"That's good," Tony says. His voice now is a little slower and quieter, as if getting through that explanation took all of his brainpower. "It's awfully nice right here."

Tony now has his forehead wedged against Steve's thigh, trapping the washcloth between them, creating some combination of cold and pressure that must be working for him, because he throws an arm over Steve's knees like he wants to keep him in place. Steve's leg is damp. There's no way on Earth he's moving.

Steve strokes Tony's hair again. "Yeah? You more comfortable like this?"

"Oh, yeah," Tony agrees, on a much more optimistic-sounding exhale. "I almost don't feel awful. Thank you."

"You're welcome," Steve says, automatically.

Tony's voice is a little clearer. "No, really," he says, in the voice he uses when he needs someone to pay very precise attention to him. "I mean that. It's been years since anyone's done anything like this for me. No one ever did this all that much when I was a kid getting migraines. So it's incredibly kind of you. I'm not just saying that."

Steve absently slides his fingers through the curling hair that's starting to reach the back of Tony's neck. Tony's probably going to want a haircut, but Steve likes this, too. He pets Tony's jaw. He's aware that this wasn't exactly what Tony asked for. But Tony's still smiling.

"I do care about you, you know," Steve tells him. "I know I haven't really... shown that, the same way I used to, and I'm sorry, but it's like you said -- I've never stopped liking you." He swallows hard. Right now, everything he thought was out of reach seems possible. Maybe now is the right time to say something. Here, now, now that they're together again on the team. Maybe it's time to take a chance. He clears his throat. "There are... a lot of things I'd do, to make you happy, if you wanted that. You know that?"

It's the closest he's come to giving voice to his feelings. And it's also perfectly deniable. Tony doesn't have to go there. They can both pretend that Steve's talking about finally taking Tony up on his longstanding request that Steve go on vacation with him to something called the "Pennsic War." Hell, maybe this year, Steve will.

But if Tony wanted to, he could answer the question Steve's really asking.

Steve waits. He waits.

He waits long enough that he's certain Tony's not going to answer him at all. That's it, then. That's a no. Even more of a no than Steve had anticipated. His heart sinks.

"Steve," Tony says. He says his name very carefully. "Steve, are we talking about the thing I think we're talking about?"

Everything in Steve wakes up, all at once, the world snapping into sharp clarity. Pay attention to this, his body is saying. Tony told him to pay attention. And he is.

Steve takes a breath. Holds it. Lets it out.

"Probably." His voice is hoarse. "If-- if you want to be. I guess it depends on what you think we're talking about."

He can't just say it. He can't. He can't make this move if it's wrong. Not after all the things he's already done wrong. It has to be Tony.

"I think," Tony says, a little unsteadily, "that we're talking about the thing we never talk about. I think we're talking about the fact that what we feel about each other is a whole lot more than what most people feel for their friends, even their best friends, and the entire world knows it." His voice grows stronger, more decisive, as he waits for a denial from Steve that doesn't come. "I think we're talking about the fact that I'm lying here with my head practically in your lap while you're gently caressing my face. I think we're talking about the fact that I've been wondering what it would be like to kiss you since the day I met you. That's what I think." He pushes the washcloth up. His eyes are blue-black in the darkness, and he studies Steve's face, as much as he can. He looks thoughtful. He looks curious. He looks maybe a bit scared. "Is that the thing you think we're talking about, Steve?"

Steve is shaky, lightheaded. He's been carrying this emotion inside him for so long that it's almost unbelievable to find it here, laid out before them. He feels like he's put down his shield after a long, long battle. He has his palm against the side of Tony's face. Tony trusts him.

"Yeah," Steve says. The word is a whispery breath of air. "That's-- that's the thing I thought we were talking about. The last part is, uh, new to me, though."

Tony snorts. His expression is fond. Still pained. But definitely fond. "Well, that's because we never talk about it."

"Suppose so." Steve's smiling.

Tony definitely sees him this time, because Tony smiles back. "So I've got another question for you."

"Yeah?" Steve asks, hopefully.

Tony pulls the washcloth back down over his eyes and presses his head against Steve's hand. "If you've had ten entire years to tell me this, why the hell did you wait until I've got a migraine? I'm not at my best. My face is throbbing. My goddamn scalp hurts. Most of the rest of my brain is telling me I should be falling asleep, and I'm trying very, very hard not to be sick all over your lap. This is the exact opposite of romantic. Please don't kiss me right now."

The words themselves are a little annoyed, but Tony doesn't sound mad at all. Tony sounds-- well, Tony sounds like he loves him.

"It seemed like the right time to say it," Steve says, only a little defensive. He's not sorry at all. "And the uniform washes, by the way."

Besides, Tony's died in his arms before. Anything he can possibly do to Steve right now is guaranteed to be better than that.

"I can't think," Tony complains. "I'm so tired." He does, in fact, sound exhausted. "I'm not ready for anything complicated."

"It's not complicated." Steve strokes Tony's jawline with his thumb. "It's real simple. I love you. See? There. That's simple. That's as simple as it gets."

It feels right, when he says it. Like this is what they always were, even if they never said.

And Tony's still smiling. "Yeah? You love me too, huh?"

It's nice to know it's mutual.

"Yeah," Steve says. "Go to sleep, Tony. I love you. I'll be right here when you wake up. I hope you'll feel better, but even if you don't, I'll still be here."

Sleepily, Tony nuzzles Steve's hand. Steve thinks that's a yes. There's still a damp washcloth all over Steve's hand. Steve doesn't care in the slightest.

"Okay," Tony mumbles. Steve knows he must be smiling. "S'good."

They haven't always been teammates. Hell, they haven't always been friends. But Steve's here now, there are no more secrets, and here he'll stay.