Work Text:
January is cold. It hurts Tony's bones, all the way down into the warm gushy center that the world is convinced he doesn't have. He hides away in blankets and sweaters and prays for the sun, prays for a warmth that goes beyond the outside world– one that can take the twisted, lying voice in his brain and make it silent.
Make it go away.
A warmth that will spread throughout everything in his life.
A warmth called Love.
The windows are frosted, and the heat is on. Tony wraps himself in another blanket and tiptoes through his home that doesn't feel like a home, keeping to the corners, the walls, trying not to disturb the other inhabitants, trying to remain unseen so they don't remember that he has never belonged there. Not with them, and not with anyone else.
There are those destined to be sad. Those that will forever be on the outside looking in. The lonely children who grow up to be lonely adults, always looking up at companionship like a balloon let go from too young hands. It drifts farther and farther away, and the one who let it go– so untrained and unused to holding onto things– is left standing there, wondering where they went wrong, why they couldn't hold onto it like everyone else can.
A chill rumbles up his spine, and he jerks, his fist closing tighter on the edge of the blanket. He sniffles and holds back a cough, leaning against the wall and forcing his body to calm. In the kitchen, the smell of fresh brewed coffee dances through the air, promising a physical warmth and a familiar comfort. If he can make the last few steps, he can fill his mug and go back into hiding, return to being unseen so he doesn't compromise the tenuous acceptance, his fragile place on the team. He can continue making weapons and armor for them so they won't remember that he's useless, that he's not one of them.
That he's only ever been an outsider.
But those last few steps go past the doorway to the living room, and they are all bunched together– happy without him. If he was seen, if he accidentally reminds them of his presence, they may finally realize that he's not worth keeping around.
His own dad didn't even like him. Loved him, maybe, out of obligation. Like everyone else in his life. Tony doesn't want to be an obligation. He wants love that's unconditional– but that's the thing with want; it's not a necessity, is it? Wanting something doesn't mean he'll ever get it. That he even deserves it.
He never had many friends, not even as a child. He was so much younger than his school peers, and they were too caught up in their own egos at being outshined by someone so much younger to ever consider him anything other than competition.
He's unlovable.
Howard had told him that on more than one occasion. Screamed it at him, even. Lamented that he had this ridiculously sensitive child instead of a man, despite Tony's brilliance.
But he is Maria's child, through and through. 270 IQ, perhaps, but with Maria's heart. Howard resented him for that until the day he died.
Tony takes a deep breath and with that a step. Again and again until he's standing in front of the coffee pot, a travel mug gripped in one hand, the other holding the blanket in place. The kitchen is too bright, the overwhelming scent of others too heavy. This is their space; he has no right to be there.
He may pay for it, but it's not his.
The light is dim; only the lamp above the stove is on. There's a faint scent of popcorn, of curry for dinner. Five plates sit in the sink, waiting to be washed. Five forks. Five glasses.
On the counter, a clean setting sits. It's confusing and strange. The plate sitting there sparkling with a fork and glass on top. Tony can't, for the life of him, understand why there's an extra place setting. It looks too clean compared to the dishes in the sink. The dichotomy is upsetting. He can't look at it anymore; besides, there's coffee.
That's all he needs, right? If he believes it, it'll come true. It's how he's lived his life up to this point anyway. He's gotten by, hasn't he? He's made it this far despite being unlovable, too sensitive, and far too smart for his own good. All the things people shouldn't be. Had he wanted a good life, he should have been different. Better.
Not him.
Everything is always his fault, in one way or another.
His eyes are wet but not spilling over; he's well practiced in stopping them. Tears don't get things done. They don't prove his worth. It was a lesson hard learned at a young age, but taken and studied. Perfected.
But it's getting hard to breathe.
The coffee maker is right there. All Tony needs to do is fill his mug and make it back down to the workshop. Then he can throw himself into whatever and pretend the hurt away. He can pretend that he's okay and not lonely and not sad and just fine, thank you.
He can pretend that he's not a stranger to even himself.
Another chill hits, and he sniffles.
He's sick. Just a cold, going by the symptoms, but still sick. Maybe more than a cold, judging by the shivers and the dull ache that is spreading throughout his body. It's inconvenient– he learned that at a young age too. If he's sick, he can't be useful.
So he'll pretend that away too.
The first step is coffee, superficial warmth and energy that will at least help him to work, even if it's not up to the standard it should be. If only he can fill the damn mug.
But just like the condensation on the windows, he's frozen. He's made it this far, but he can't seem to go further.
Deep inside, Tony feels a longing. And although he's not exactly sure what he's longing for, he knows there's something. He knows he's tired of pretending, tired of acting like he's okay when he's not. The false bravado has become tedious, taxing, exhausting. It's like wearing weights on every limb but never growing stronger from it.
And he can't fill his cup.
One tear slips free, and he hastily wipes at it with the back of his hand. No one can see him like this. No one can know that he's not really cocky and loud and sure of himself. No one can know that he's been playing the part his father wrote for him since he was old enough to hold the rest of himself in.
It was easier before he invited five others to take up space in his home, but he thought, maybe, that they could be the family he dreamed of, the family he prayed for.
But all he did was decrease the amount of space for himself.
"Pour the coffee, you fucking useless waste of space."
He's surprised at how rough his voice sounds and even more so when it occurs to him that he hasn't spoken aloud since their last mission, four days prior.
"Do it. Pour the coffee, asshole!"
"Hey." There's a warmth against his back. Arms come around, gently taking the mug from his fist with one hand and the other pulling the carafe from the plate. Tony stands, shocked and unable to react, as the hands pour the coffee for him. "Don't talk to my friend like that."
It's Steve.
He replaces the carafe, twists the top of the mug closed, and presses it back into Tony's hands. Tony looks up at him, eyes wide and disbelieving. He doesn't know what to say, how to respond. He doesn't know what to do now that someone has seen that he's not… that he is…
He can't pretend if they know he's doing it.
The hands come to rest at his shoulders, and still, Tony can't move.
"Tony? You don't look too good."
Blood rushes to Tony's face. "I-I'm sorry," he stammers, "I know I need a shower."
Steve shakes his head. "No, I don't– I don't mean that. Tony–" One of those hands comes up to press against Tony's forehead, and Tony's eyes follow it the whole way. "You're boiling! Tony," Steve says, carefully turning Tony around so they're face to face, "you have a fever."
"I'm fine."
Steve frowns. "Nat," he calls out, "where'd you put that thermometer?"
Tony hears rustling from the living room as Natasha extracts herself from the pile of everyone on the couch. When she enters the kitchen, it's in pajamas and a furrowed brow.
"It's in the bathroom, what– oh, Tony."
Later, he'll blame the haze on what he finds out is a 102 fever, but at the moment, all he can think of is that she knows now too. And the others will eventually. His cautiously, carefully, meticulously crafted persona has disintegrated like a dry leaf under an over-zealous boot. The only protection he's ever had against his loneliness and being an outcast is gone. Gone.
And he's on display.
And he breaks.
Tony's face crumbles, and he lets out a choked sob. "Don't–" but he can't finish what he's going to say. He doesn't even know what he is going to say. "I'm sorry," he verbalizes instead.
Nat shakes her head. "You look like you got the same flu that Clint had. Come on," she holds out her hand, "you must be freezing."
He looks back and forth between her and Steve, confused, wary.
"No more hiding, Tony, you're as much a part of this team as any of us." Soft hands push at Tony's back, herding him into the living room. He's too confused, his brain too muddled with sickness and sadness and years of trauma to fight it.
"Move," Nat demands to Thor and Clint, "Tony's sick. He gets the couch."
"There's room on the couch for all of us," Clint grumbles, but he's standing. His nose is still red, still a little dry where he used tissues a little too roughly, and Tony feels awful that he didn't even know Clint was sick. He watches as the archer disappears into the bathroom, listening curiously as he opens the vanity and fumbles around, gathering.
Taking the blanket from Tony's shoulders, Steve sits, pulling Tony down with him and tucking him close. He drapes the blanket over both of them, encircling Tony in his impossible warmth.
"I can't get sick."
Tony blinks owlishly, and Steve cups his face. "Not how I wanted to get you here with me… us, but I'll take it. Now," he smiles, his thumb rubbing under Tony's eye, "let's start over."
"Start what over?" Tony asks, unable to take his eyes off the gorgeous face above him.
"I'm Steve. Apparently, I don't know how to talk to someone I'm attracted to and instead say nasty things. I'm from the 40's and kinda an idiot. These are my friends–" he gestures to the other Avengers, "they're kinda idiots too. See, we have this friend who likes to give people gifts and try to sacrifice his life for them. We somehow got it in our heads that we needed to wait for you to come to us. But, Nat," he smiles, pointing to Natasha, "that pretty redhead over there? She tends to carry the one brain cell between us, and she pointed out that you may not know that we are your friends.
"And that I would like to be more."
Tony isn't sure what to say to that. Steve was his first crush, his forever crush if he's honest. The one he could look at, but couldn't have. Just as the team is the family he wants but knows he'll never obtain.
Another shiver rolls through his body, and Steve pulls him closer. "But for right now," he continues, "let's get you better."
There's a distinct tone to the words that lets Tony know Steve isn't only talking about the flu. Something flips in his belly; it feels nice, albeit foreign. He's been in the dark for so long that the candle Steve is lighting is almost blinding, but Tony blinks away the brightness and accepts it.
Clint emerges from the bathroom, handing Steve a thermometer and setting down Tylenol on the coffee table. "There's some Theraflu leftover that will get him through the night. Tomorrow, I'll head out to the RiteAid around the corner and pick up more. Been cooped up in here for too long, anyway."
Another blanket drapes over Tony. He looks up to see Thor's smiling face. "Stay warm, my friend," the god murmurs, his voice as soft as a whisper.
"I'll put the kettle on," Bruce says, standing from the armchair, "and I'll go grab the heating pad."
Tony's eyes follow him as he leaves, turning the corner in the hallway and heading to the kitchen. "I don't understand," he says, looking up at Steve and then to the rest of them. "I thought– I mean, I figured…" But he's unable to put a voice to the thoughts that have been rumbling through his brain over the last few months since the Battle of New York threw them all together.
Nat sits on his other side, one leg up so she can face him. "We thought you needed time, but we were wrong. No one wanted to push you out of your comfort zone, but we always set a place for you, just in case. Dinner, movie nights… We've been waiting for you." Sighing, she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "We should have been more proactive. Even though we knew you were hurting, we were still scared to push. And I'm sorry it took so long to figure out. It wouldn't have been pushing, it would have been inviting. You're not what you project to the public; I think we figured that out almost right away, but we still didn't change how we handled you. That's on us, not you."
"You're part of this team." Steve's lips press against Tony's head, and Tony closes his eyes, all at once overwhelmed with every emotion he's tried to hide.
"I was so desperate for this," he says, his voice barely audible, "but I never thought– there's so much, I mean– are you all sure? Nat, you said on my assessment–"
"I was wrong," she says, contrite. "I fell for the act, and I should have known better."
"What do you say, Tony?" Steve carefully shifts him in his arms, helping to turn Tony so he's facing Steve and making sure the blankets remain wrapped around him. "Wanna give this another go? And maybe– when you're better– let me take you to dinner?"
"Tylenol first," Clint says, opening the bottle, but smiling widely at Steve. "Get his fever down before he answers." He holds out two pills and a bottle of water.
"Okay," Tony whispers, taking the pills from Clint, "to all of it. But I'm not– I'm kinda a mess."
"That's okay, sweetheart," Steve answers. "You've got us now. We'll help you clean up."
Tony leans up and kisses his cheek, just a small thank you, a small step in a more positive direction.
It's better than where he was a half hour ago.
Under the blankets, in Steve's arms, and with the Avengers all around him, Tony finally, finally, begins to warm up.
It's not much, but it's a start, and he's grateful for it.