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There’s a thin crack in the paint on his bedroom wall, just next to the bathroom door. It starts at the doorframe and creeps downward at a diagonal, fading nearly out of existence before it regains it’s pencil-lead thickness, reaching all the way down until it disappears behind the baseboard. Tony wonders when it got there and how, then decides it doesn’t actually matter.
He uses the crack as a guideline, keeps his eyes from straying any further along the wall. He’s gotten to know the wall pretty well; the hairline crack, the dark blue/denim/whatever the fuck color Pepper decided on when the place was built, the crown moulding, the bathroom door with the shiny silver handle. He’s only had 48 hours to get to know it all, after all.
He hears the door open behind him, then close gently. He thinks maybe he should care that someone’s entered his room without knocking, but again, it doesn’t matter. Nothing does.
Footsteps cross the hardwood floor and walk around to his side of the bed. The ridiculously large, empty bed that he’s decided may as well be his new home. He certainly can’t face anything else in this tower. Too many memories. In the bed, too, but if he faces the bathroom he doesn’t have to see the flat sheets and bare pillow, the lack of a warm body lying next to him. He’s got it all worked out by now.
One second he’s staring at the wall and the next there’s a body blocking his view. Tony blinks, takes in black workout pants and a billowy white shirt, a whiff of sweet perfume. Natasha then.
“Kotyonok.”
The endearment is soft, tender. There’s a soft sigh and then Natasha reaches out and rests a gentle hand on his shoulder, a comforting presence that has Tony’s eyes prickling with heat. He doesn’t want comfort.
Tony clenches his eyes shut but the tears escape anyway, tracking down his cheeks and into his two-day old stubble. Natasha’s hand slides away as he rolls over, turning his back and keeping his eyes shut tight. There’s silence, and then the bedsheets rustle and she’s leaving, just as quiet as she came in, door closing with a subdued click behind her.
Tony rolls back over and opens his eyes. He studies the wall some more.
***
He slips every once in a while, his eyes flicking just a little bit further to the right, and his gut clenches and his throat tightens so painfully he wonders if he’ll be able to draw in his next breath. Steve’s dresser sits there, same as the day he left it, a pile of change in a bowl, wallet sitting next to a framed picture of him and Tony after a battle, faces grimy but grinning at the camera, with Steve’s arm thrown affectionately around Tony’s armored shoulders. The Captain America shield is propped up against the side of the dresser, still gleaming proudly from the last time Steve polished it. Tony’s eyes take it all in like a drowning man before he manages to pull them away, away from the sight of how normal everything used to be, how it will never be again, and he’s back to that stretch of wall, the only thing he can think about without losing whatever’s left of his mind.
***
Rhodey’s the next one they send to come get him. Makes sense, he’s Tony’s best friend. Maybe they think he can talk Tony out of his funk. Tony wants to roll his eyes but doesn’t have the energy. He’s pretty sure he’s not coming out of this one intact.
“Tony, you need to stop.”
Tony ignores him. There’s a heavy sigh and Rhodey sits on the bed next to Tony’s head. Tony doesn’t move, just blinks as the side of Rhodey’s leg comes into focus. There’s a short silence and then Rhodey’s reaching down and petting Tony’s hair hesitantly, and it feels good. Tony wants to shove his hand away, but can’t seem to find the strength.
Another sigh, this one quieter. “We all miss him, Tones,” he says softly, mournfully. “But you can’t keep doing this to yourself. It’s been two days.”
He runs his fingers gently through the dirty strands and Tony gives in to his weakness. He scoots up the bed and buries his face in Rhodey’s side and he can’t hold back any more, little sobs shaking out from his chest, constricting his throat. Rhodey abandons his hair to wrap both arms around Tony’s body, holding him, rocking the tiniest bit.
He’s pathetic, he knows he is, but Tony doesn't care anymore. He cries pitifully and Rhodey rubs his back, up and down, up and down, and there’s not really anything else to say.
***
He gets up to use the bathroom a few times, and once he makes the mistake of looking in the mirror.
He stares at his reflection, the dark bags under bloodshot eyes, the almost unrecognizable beard, the crows feet by his eyes and the smile lines by his mouth, the grey coming in at his temples. It’s an aging face, one that’s seen a lot and been through a lot, and one that used to be happy. Used to think he’d finally earned some sort of peace.
The rage wells up without warning and he punches the glass and it shatters, pieces falling noisily to the countertop around his clenched fist. He notices the blood before he feels the pain, the ugly throbbing of his hand. Grabbing a towel left next to the sink, — Steve’s towel, of course it’s Steve’s towel, because this isn’t hard enough without being reminded of him every fucking second — he roughly brushes it against the back of his hand, dislodging most of the larger pieces of glass embedded in his skin. Then he wraps the towel around the whole thing and leaves the bathroom, carefully looking at the floor as he climbs back into bed.
***
It’s a day and a night before someone else comes to visit him. He spends it like he did the first two days, doing his absolute best to think about nothing at all.
Loud, clunking steps this time, and Tony knows they’ve sent in the big gun. Too bad he doesn’t give a fuck.
“Stark.”
Tony ignores him.
Bucky walks around the bed and into his sightline.
“Get your ass up,” he says, voice tight.
Tony miraculously finds the energy to muster a snort.
He can imagine the way Bucky’s eyes narrow, annoyance and anger fighting for top spot. He’s always been good at irritating him, no reason to stop now.
Suddenly the sheets are yanked back and Tony’s exposed to the cold air of the penthouse apartment.
“Hey!” he shouts, voice hoarse from disuse. He sits up and attempts to grab the sheets but Bucky stops him, pushes him back to the head of the bed with his metal hand. Tony glares, his temper rising quick and vicious within him. It’s like he’s thawing, a hot shower after a day in the snow, little sparks tingling all over his weary body as it stirs awake again. The anger is refreshing, a break from all of the despair and hopelessness of the last few days.
Tony pushes himself out of the bed and Bucky backs up a step, still glaring darkly at him.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, huh?” Tony snarls, pushing hard at Bucky’s shoulders. He doesn’t budge, the fucking prick, but it makes Tony feel better anyway. He pushes him harder. “You have no right being here, this is my fucking apartment, this is my fucking tower, you asshole, and you think you can just come in here—”
Bucky grabs Tony’s wrists as he goes to shove him again, grip tight and eyes hard as steel.
“You’re not the only one who lost him, you know,” he says. His voice is even, but Tony can hear the struggle it’s taking to keep it that way. It’s not buried very deep, that torrent of pain and desperation, but Tony doesn’t want to sympathize right now. He wants Bucky out of his goddamn room.
“Fuck you, Barnes,” he snaps, yanking his arms out of Bucky’s grip. He knocks Bucky’s shoulder roughly as he storms past toward the bathroom.
“He needs you,” Bucky says quietly behind him.
Tony freezes in his tracks and his heart trips once before it gets itself back under control. He turns to look at the other man and finds his face impassive, nearly blank, but Tony can see the same cracks he feels in his own soul.
“He needs you right now, Tony,” Bucky continues, and this time his voice is far from even. It wobbles dangerously, full of so much loss and regret and overwhelming grief, and Tony’s legs nearly give out. He stumbles, back thumping heavily against the wall, and he slides down, face in his hands and legs drawn up to his chest.
Bucky immediately crosses the short distance between them and crouches in front of him, elbows resting on his knees and hands knotted together tightly, watching in silence as Tony breaks down in front of him.
He’s so fucking selfish. Steve’s gone, he’s fucking dead, and Tony’s here thinking about only himself, like he’s always done. Even Bucky fucking Barnes, the fucking Winter Soldier, is a better man than him, a less selfish man, and Tony can’t imagine the pain he’s feeling, after all the shit he’s been through, living through 70 years of hell and making it out at least partially whole because his best friend, because Steve saved him, believed in him, refused to hear anything other than “We’re getting him back”. And now he’s gone, Bucky’s last link to anything he really knows, and Tony’s sitting here, in his swanky penthouse apartment with fucking cracks in the walls and cracks in his soul and cracks in his fucking mind, because he’s stupid and selfish and it has to stop now. Bucky’s right, Tony’s not the only one who lost someone.
He’s gasping around the tears now, trembling violently, and Tony reaches out blindly, hands finding Bucky’s clenched ones. Bucky’s still for a moment, and then his hands shift and turn and they’re clasping Tony’s firmly back.
***
It takes him a little while to pull himself together, but Bucky is silent and patient and grieves with him, holding tightly to Tony’s hands through it all. When the tears finally die down he gives Bucky’s hands a squeeze and lets go, pushing himself off the floor and disappearing into the bathroom.
He showers for the first time in days, and it feels sinfully good, and he feels guilty for enjoying it but shoves the thought from his mind and goes through the motions anyway. After the shower he takes a razor to his stubble, managing to clean it up enough that he no longer looks like a homeless man, and he cleans and bandages his swollen hand carefully.
Then he heads downstairs.
He goes to the common floor, and as he steps out of the elevator he notices that everyone is already there.
Rhodey and Pepper are sitting on the loveseat on the far side of the room. Thor is on the floor in front of Natasha, who is carefully braiding his hair into fine little strands. Bruce and Sam are in armchairs, Bruce reading a thick stack of papers with his glasses slipping down his nose and Sam writing in a small book, probably a journal of some kind. Everyone’s eyes are red.
The largest couch sits glaringly empty. Tony’s eyes fill up. That’s his spot, the side of the couch with the afghan thrown over the back, and Steve usually sits right next to him, with Bucky on his other side, and Clint either perches on the arm closest to Bucky or plops on the floor between his feet.
Now, Clint and Bucky sit in the middle of the living room floor, occupied with what looks like a giant coloring book, and they look up when the elevator chime announces Tony’s arrival.
“Daddy!”
There’s a small blur of blonde hair and blue eyes and it’s like a punch to the gut, how much he looks like Steve, and Tony wants to turn and run because he can’t do this, he can’t, Steve’s gone, how is he supposed to do this alone? Then he catches Bucky’s eye, and Bucky gives him a little nod, one corner of his mouth tilting up sadly, and Tony swallows back the panic and pastes on a smile that he knows looks forced but hopes will fool a three year old.
He squats down as Jamie barrels into him, wrapping his little arms around Tony’s neck and hugging tightly. Tony squeezes back, hesitant at first and then maybe a little too hard, but Jamie doesn’t complain.
“Are you feeling better, Daddy?” Jamie mumbles into his chest. “Uncle Bucky said you were sick.”
Tony nods, clears his throat slightly and tries to dredge up some pep. “Yep, all better, bud. Peachy keen.” His voice only trembles a little. He calls it a success.
It’s true, he does feel better, holding their son in his arms. Jamie is the spitting image of Steve, and seeing him is hard, very hard, because he sees Steve in everything the kid does. But it’s almost a good pain, bittersweet, being reminded of his husband so vividly. It’s cathartic, and soothing, to know that Steve is living on in the world, that part of him is still right here with Tony. That Tony can see that part of him every day, and he take care of Jamie and love him and treasure him and remember everything wonderful about Steve every time he looks into their son’s sky blue eyes.
Jamie shifts in his arms, tucking his head into the crook of Tony’s neck.
“I miss Papa,” he whispers into Tony’s ear. Tony’s throat closes up and he has to look up at the ceiling and blink a few times before he can reply. He swallows once, twice, then turns to press his face into Jamie’s soft blonde hair. He smells like baby shampoo, and Steve. Tony breathes deep.
“Me too, baby,” he whispers back on an exhale. He closes his eyes and breathes in the scent of their son again, sees Steve smiling gently at him behind his eyelids. “Me too.”