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James Barnes @youllshootyoureyeoutkid
He won’t be Steve Barnes and no way in hell am I gonna be James Rogers, but we’re hitched and that’s that. #whatevs #ilu steeb
“Thanks for the wedding invitation, Mrs. Barnes!” It comes out more angry than jocular and he’s glad this is just a phone call; the conversation would be decidedly different in person because Steve has an uncanny ability to read Tony’s microexpressions.
Steve doesn’t respond to his anger, only says, “It was a sudden impulse on Bucky’s part, and once he gets an idea in his head—”
“Oh, please. If Steve Rogers doesn’t want to do something, he doesn’t do it. Don’t act like Barnes coerced or manipulated you into it, because you’re incapable of being coerced or manipulated,” Tony replies waspishly.
“Put it like this, then: Sometimes it’s very hard for me to refuse Bucky anything,” Steve says, and Tony could just scream at the affection obvious in his voice. He wishes Steve would ever sound half that fond half the time he talks to or about Tony. He still wishes so many things about Steve, still wants so many things from Steve.
“Clearly,” he snorts. “And tell Barnes his tags are just about the stupidest things I’ve ever read.”
“I’m a little mad at him right now, actually. I wanted to tell our friends personally and he went and announced it on Twitter, of all places!”
Tony hears Barnes’ muffled voice raised in what is presumably a defense of his behavior.
“No, you’re an indiscreet, insensitive clod and my attorney is drawing up annulment papers as we speak,” Steve retorts laughingly. “Sorry, Tony. I was actually going to call you to tell you and invite you to a small get-together for our friends. It’s next weekend; do you think you’ll be able to come?”
“I dunno. I mean, my schedule’s packed, plus there’s the chance you two will be gross and newlywed-ish. I’m not sure I won’t go blind.” He’s speaking flippantly, but he truly has no idea if he can endure seeing Steve and knowing that he’s actually, legally tied to Barnes and out of Tony’s reach forever.
“Well, in the interests of preventing some poor seeing-eye dog from being subjected to your tender mercies, we’ll refrain from any gross newlywed behavior, so please come, Tony.”
Damn Steve’s irresistible earnestness, Tony is helpless but to accept the invitation. When the designated night arrives, Thor makes a jovial toast to the couple’s lasting happiness and Tony raises his glass (of vodka) not to their wedded bliss but to Barnes’ stunning ability to slip seamlessly back into Steve’s life and take it over.
One glass turns into two turns into him half-conscious and drooling on Clint’s shoulder in a cab while pouring his heart out, which is a bad idea with Clint, who witnessed Tony and Steve’s abortive romantic relationship first-hand from its inception.
“You had your chance, Tony. You had hundreds of chances and you knowingly blew them all! You don’t get to act all emo and butthurt about this,” Clint says, not a trace of sympathy in his tone or demeanor.
As he’s dumping Tony’s drunken self into bed, Clint tells him, “Get your shit together before talking to Steve again. Let him be happy, for God’s sake.”
Before he passes out, Tony can only think he’s not sure that’s possible, any of it.
He doesn’t remember that thought two days later, but that makes it no less true. He calls Steve, who is honeymooning in Prague, and complains about what Clint said because he has perfect recall of that.
“Oh, Clint shouldn’t have said that; you have the right to feel however you want,” Steve tells him, and how messed up is it that he’s getting sympathy from the very person he’s hurting over?
“Tell that to Jerky McJerkerson,” Tony bitches and then sighs. “I mean, I get why he said it, ‘cause he and the others were always dealing with the fallout when I was a dick to you.”
“We’ve been very fortunate in our friends,” Steve says, ever focusing on the positive. He means that their friends always looked after Steve when he fell into the doldrums after Tony acted cruelly and they always forgave Tony for it. Judging by Clint’s words, though, those times have not been forgotten.
“Steve…” Why did you choose Barnes? Why wasn’t it me? Didn’t you love me? The questions are too humiliatingly vulnerable to push out, and Tony supposes that’s always been part of the problem. He has never been able to open himself up, even when Steve has silently, gently asked for it, even when Steve has deserved it like nobody else ever has.
“Oh, Tony,” Steve murmurs feelingly, perfect understanding ringing in his voice, his clarity of perception lessened not one iota by being half the world away. His compassion and empathy are just two of the many qualities that make Tony love (and sometimes hate) him.
Steve says, “From pretty much day one, you—you put me on a pedestal, like some glorious paragon of humanity you were unworthy of touching. Even when we were at our best together, there was always this—this unbridgeable gulf between us because of your poor self-image and my reticence. Whenever I thought I was beginning to close the gap, something would happen to crush my hopes and send me into despair. Eventually it started to become more than I could handle, and then Bucky came back.”
Good old James Buchanan Barnes, Tony thinks with a frown. While Tony was getting washed farther out in a sea of drunkenness and sex with strangers to avoid the possibility of being with Steve, Barnes reappeared in Steve’s sphere, offering the comfort and distraction of an old, dear friend, leading to the two of them spending more and more time together (and Steve spending less and less time hung up on Tony) until Steve’s broken heart was a thing of the past and their lifelong friendship took a sidestep into romance. Barnes, Tony knows, is unafraid to show how he feels, brashly straightforward, and honest in his regard; he says what he means and means what he says, no pretenses, no games. Those qualities won Steve’s friendship years ago and, when Barnes began making amorous overtures after his return, they won Steve’s heart.
“As long as I’ve known you, Tony, you’ve hidden behind one mask or another, and I got tired of only ever being allowed brief glimpses of who you really are,” Steve tells him, voice soft. “I wish you would love yourself more and treat yourself better. I wish you weren’t so ashamed. You wanted me but thought you didn’t deserve me, and I was never able to convince you otherwise. That’s why nothing ever happened between us.”
Tony knows, has always known. Before a wave of self-loathing can drown him, though, Steve continues, “It’s not your fault, Tony. When it’s not right between two people, it’s not right—that’s life—but you will always, always have a friend in me. You know that, right?”
“Yeah, I know,” Tony answers, managing to sound wistful instead of bitter. He thinks he doesn’t even deserve that much, because Steve really is just so much better than him, than anyone. Steve is some sort of angel descended to earth who unwittingly makes filthy sinners everywhere want to repent for their wicked ways and walk the path of righteousness.
“I’ve never heard such a load of crap in my life,” Steve snaps, sounding more than a little irritated. “You are not a filthy sinner, Tony, and I am not an angel, and I’m certainly not better than anybody. For crying out loud, do you not remember the ugly, screaming fights we’ve had?”
Tony almost has an aneurysm, realizing he voiced his thoughts. “I’m pretty sure I was drunk for most of them, so it’s all very hazy,” he prevaricates once he’s collected himself.
“Even so, Tony.” Steve emits a frustrated groan. “This is what I’m talking about, this ridiculous belief of yours that I’m better than you. If there’s that kind of psychological inequality in a relationship, it’s doomed to fail, and I know one phone call with me is not going to change your mind about yourself. I don’t think a million phone calls with me would change your mind”—his speech slows as realization dawns—“because I’m the source of the problem.”
Tony’s mind is racing with unaccustomed terror. He knows with a nasty, fatalistic certainty what Steve is going to say.
“I think you need to start seeing a therapist. Until you get some help, we shouldn’t have any contact.”
No. No, no, no. “Steve—”
“I love you, Tony. Take care of yourself.”
He hangs up and Tony can’t get out of bed the next morning. He spends the majority of the next two days sleeping. On the morning of the third day, Rhodey shows up and manhandles him into the shower and then looms over him until he eats breakfast before driving him to a small, pastel yellow house in Washington Heights inside which awaits a petite woman who introduces herself as Elena Marcos-Yarbrough.
“Okay, am I supposed to know who you are?” Tony inquires, eyes darting around the interior of the house. The décor is sparse but not cold, neither strongly masculine nor feminine; it is all neutral and comfortable.
“You should,” she says, ushering him into a room in the back of the house while Rhodey makes assurances that he will be waiting. She closes the door behind her and continues, “Your personal assistant called and made the appointment yesterday.” She gestures at the boringly beige couch situated on the far wall, a fake bamboo plant rising behind it. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”
As Tony flings himself sullenly onto the couch, silently cursing Rhodey and Pepper for conspiring against him, he notices the numerous framed diplomas and certificates hanging on the walls. He breathes, “Oh, God, you’re a shrink.”
She merely smiles at the epithet. “I prefer ‘clinical psychologist,’ but yes. I take it your visit is a surprise to you?”
“That’s not quite the word for it,” Tony grumbles.
She holds out a clipboard with several pages of paperwork and a ballpoint pen attached, but he just glares at it and says, “I don’t like to be handed things.”
In response, she lays it on the coffee table in front of the couch and says, “You’ll need to fill all of it out before we can begin.”
Tony doesn’t want to, he really doesn’t want to, but then he remembers what Steve said and reluctantly goes about writing down his personal information and checking boxes and appending his signature as required.
Dr. Marcos-Yarbrough (“You can call me Elena”) accepts the clipboard back when he’s finished and invites him to read one of the magazines piled on the end table next to the couch while she peruses the paperwork and makes copies at her desk, which is on the wall opposite the couch and next to a massive filing cabinet. Tony flips with sneering disinterest through People before abandoning it for Reader’s Digest, hoping the joke sections will be good for a laugh.
They aren’t. The “Humor in Uniform” page just makes him think of Steve and he feels like his soul is crumpling in on itself.
Finally Elena turns back around in her swivel chair and looks him in the eye. “Why are you here, Tony?”
“Because Pepper and Rhodey are inveterate meddlers,” he grouses.
One corner of her mouth tips up as if in amusement at his petulance. “Why do you think they chose to meddle this time and in this way?”
“Because—” He stops. He didn’t speak to anyone after his conversation with Steve, so how did Pepper know to make this appointment for him?
He sighs, dragging a hand down his face. “Steve.”
“Who’s Steve?”
Everything, Tony doesn’t say, because that’s just a little too…something. Instead he opts for “The man I love. He got married last week.”
“How did that make you feel?” She crosses her legs and leans forward, projecting polite interest.
What a ludicrously cliché question, he thinks, and his expression must telegraph something of his disdain because she sighs and says, “I am here to help you, Tony, but I need you to work with me. Nothing you tell me will leave this room; it’s safe to express yourself honestly.”
The earnestness in her voice and mien is reminiscent of Steve; it hits Tony like a ton of lead. He looks anywhere but at her, trying to get control of himself, his fingers drumming a rapid tattoo on his knee. He considers spilling his guts—that’s what he (or his accountant, rather) will be paying her for, after all—but some part of him wants to keep his anguish to himself, hoard it like a dragon’s gold, except it’s not gold: it’s iron. Tony is all iron; he’s had to be, growing up in the shadow of the Stark name, growing up with a father like Howard.
But where has iron gotten him? he wonders in a rare moment of self-analysis. He doesn’t have Steve, he doesn’t have any friends who look at him without pity more than half the time, and he doesn’t have a shred of self-respect left. So what has he got to lose by talking to Elena, really?
Shoving his apprehension down, he says, “What was the question again?”
Elena’s smile is understanding without being condescending. “How did it make you feel when Steve got married?”
The question hasn’t become any less cliché, but he answers anyway. “Like I wanted to cry and scream and break stuff. And his asshole husband announced it after the fact on freakin’ Twitter!”
“So you weren’t invited to the ceremony?”
“No, but neither were any of our mutual friends.” He actually takes a little comfort in that. “It was a spur-of-the-moment thing in front of a JP with a couple of their Army buddies acting as witnesses. They threw a little party for family and friends a few days later and I went to that, got hammered.”
She ever so slightly frounces her brows, which are thick like Audrey Hepburn’s. “Why did you get drunk?”
“To try to forget that Steve will never be with me.” That might be the most pathetic thing he’s ever said, but he pushes on. “It didn’t work, of course. I called him while he was on his honeymoon because the friend who took me home the night of the party told me I wasn’t allowed to be a mess over Steve getting married.”
“Why did your friend say that?”
He rolls his shoulders, feeling fidgety. “Because for a long time, Steve and I danced around the possibility of a romantic relationship, but I screwed it up every single time we made any progress in that direction.” Remembering those times ties his stomach into wretched knots.
“How so?” She cocks her head inquisitively.
“I’d go out, get smashed, sleep with some random person, and then see him and it’d be totally obvious what I’d done and Steve would look so damn hurt, but he’d always try to pick up where we had left off and I’d always shut him down.” And, God, Tony is suddenly imagining how he would have felt if Steve had come around smelling like booze and sex, with mussed hair and rumpled clothes and livid hickeys, and he can barely believe how heartlessly, selfishly calculating he was or how desperately, stupidly forgiving Steve was. “Every time we took one step forward, I shoved us two steps back, and I knew what I was doing, but I couldn’t stop myself.”
“Why not?”
“Because Steve is just so good and I’m just so…not.”
“How is Steve good?”
Tony huffs a laugh. “If you met him, you’d know. He’s trying for sainthood or something, I swear. He grew up scrawny and poor and sickly and made it his mission to stand up for the little guy. He got into fights he couldn’t win all the time because he didn’t like bullies. He was a Boy Scout and he volunteered at animal shelters and he delivered papers so he could help his mom pay the bills. Then he had this major growth spurt and started working out so he got these incredible muscles, and he’d still stand up to bullies, but he only ever ran them off, he never tried to hurt them. Instead of going to art school—and he could’ve gotten a full ride to one, too; he’s insanely talented—he joined the Army and saw combat and horrible things and came back and was still a Pollyanna. Like, he goes to retirement homes and talks to old people and plays bingo and dominoes and whatever with them and calls it fun! He still volunteers at animal shelters, but now he also works at soup kitchens and teaches art to kids at community centers. He’s barely middle class and he still donates some of his paycheck to literacy programs. Who does that?! He’s completely unreal.”
Her hazel eyes are a touch wide with surprise, which Tony feels is the proper response to Steve’s long list of virtues. “He sounds like a busy guy. How did you meet him?”
“PR tour in Afghanistan while he was deployed there. Talk about an oasis in the desert. He was so young and beautiful and self-assured.” At his first glimpse of Steve, Tony itched to take a photo with his phone, but he had an attack of decorum and refrained, which he still rues. Steve’s eyes were so blue against the monochrome of the landscape, his smile so genuine, effortlessly cutting through Tony’s ennui. “He’s smart, too; I’d never be so gone over some brainless idiot. He’s not smart like I am—nobody really is, ‘cause I’m a genius and light years ahead of everybody else—but he’s erudite and sensible. And he’s just a good man. I mean, nobody who meets him doesn’t like him. He can be so awkward, but he’s totally magnetic anyway, and not just because he’s gorgeous. He’s just the best, most decent person you’ll ever meet.”
A few strands of auburn hair have escaped Elena’s French twist and she tucks them behind her ear as she says, “You said Steve was the reason Ms. Potts and Col. Rhodes had you see me. What did you mean by that?”
Tony has been hoping she would forget about that. “Well, the last time I talked to him, he said I needed to see a therapist and that I shouldn’t talk to him for a while.”
“Why did he say that?”
He grimaces. “I might have called him an angel and implied that I was a filthy sinner.”
The fact that she doesn’t even twitch at his humiliating statement is commendable. “And he didn’t like that.”
“Definitely not. He’s been on a crusade to improve my self-image from day one, but it didn’t really work because he became the standard by which I was measuring myself and I knew I’d never live up to that, so I didn’t even try. He realized that and now he’s cut me off.” The idea is still hard to swallow. “I haven’t gone without contacting Steve for more than two days since he came back from the Middle East. I’m addicted to him and now I’m supposed to go cold turkey? It’s just going to make me want to get drunk, which is another thing Steve hates.” Although really, in Steve, hate is just sadness combined with the determination to solve the problem. “He never came out and called me an alcoholic to my face, but his dad drank himself to death and Steve would always frown disapprovingly when he thought I’d had one too many. I actually started cutting back just so he wouldn’t look like that, at least when I was with him.”
“He probably appreciated that.”
“My liver did, too,” Tony quips.
She pauses and then asks, “Do you think Steve did the right thing in telling you not to contact him?”
That’s a no-brainer. “Steve always does the right thing, so yes.”
“You think Steve doesn’t make mistakes?”
He shrugs. “Not that I’ve ever witnessed. Maybe being friends with me.”
“If he were here, would he say that he regretted being your friend, or that it was a mistake?” It sounds like something Pepper would say.
“No. He’d probably start babbling about what a good guy I am and how I’ve been such a good friend to him, which I’ll never understand. I was and still am a dick—a bag of dicks, even.” See? He can admit it. “Steve just tries to see the good in everyone.”
“You think there’s no good in you? What about the Maria Stark Foundation and your other charitable ventures? What about your advances in green technology?” Someone’s done her research.
“Just because I do good things doesn’t make me a good person. I mean, look at Hitler. He lifted Germany out of the depression and he was one of the most twisted, evil people to ever exist.”
“Well, Godwin’s law asserted itself a lot sooner than I expected,” Elena remarks with a smirk. Tony is impressed despite himself that she knows about it. “But I digress.” She glances at the clock. “And our time’s up. I’d like to see you again next week, Tony. Can that happen?”
“Barring the apocalypse, Pepper will ensure it,” he answers, getting to his feet.
“Great. If you need anything before then, or if you just want someone to talk to, please don’t hesitate to call me any time, day or night.” She hands him a business card along with the originals of the papers she had him fill out—for his records, she says.
He folds everything into a small, thick square, pockets it, and says, “Okay. See you next week, I guess,” before breezing out of the room and reuniting with Rhodey in what he now knows is the waiting room.
“So how’d it go?” Rhodey asks as they get in the car.
“Are you asking me to break doctor-patient confidentiality, Rhodey? I’m shocked,” Tony says with mock offense. He’s fighting to hide his dread over filling that room with his private thoughts about Steve and about himself. It feels like all the uncensored words are spilling out of the room, out of the house, trailing after him, emblazoning themselves on his skin for everyone to see.
“That only applies on the doctor’s end,” Rhodey points out.
“What’s that thing the kids say? Duh?” Tony makes a face. “But seriously, I don’t wanna talk about it. Now take me to lunch; you owe me that much for making me see a psychologist.”
Rhodey grins. “I guess I do.”
So they go to a sandwich place and Tony tries not to contemplate the Stevelessness of his existence and all the words he still has to say.
The days slide by and Tony buries himself in R&D, either at home or at the company lab. It feels good to get back in the trenches, to work with his hands again, to taste the physics and engineering jargon on his tongue. His friends all call with annoying frequency and he sees them and actually enjoys himself, which shouldn’t be a shock but is. He has, without realizing it until now, made his life so much about Steve to the exclusion of so many other things and people, which he sets about rectifying.
His weekly sessions with Elena help. At first, he feels forced to go, like some recalcitrant child: Pepper firmly reminds him of the appointment every week, personally escorts him to the car, and even has Happy report back to her that Tony has arrived at Elena’s office. Tony bears it by telling himself it’s for Steve, but as time goes on, it starts to be for himself. He and Elena sift through his mountain of issues and he eventually talks about his parents, their absence and neglect, and their sudden death and the gaping wound of unresolved emotions it left on his psyche. It turns out that’s the root of a lot of Tony’s problems, which is surprising to precisely nobody.
Six months pass rather swiftly and Tony hasn’t imbibed a drop of alcohol save for a glass of red wine with dinner every evening, and that’s another thing that’s changed: He has a regular schedule. Elena convinced him to give normal hours and mealtimes a one-month trial and it really agreed with him. He’s no longer underweight, his sleep is far less restless, and his thoughts and outlook are more positive.
He hears through the grapevine that Steve and Barnes are doing just grand in their Brooklyn brownstone, but it doesn’t feel quite so much like a knife to the heart anymore. He is still in love with Steve, and his finger has hovered a thousand times over Steve’s name in his cell phone contact list, but he’s never touched it and he knows he won’t die without the man, a strange and freeing knowledge.
A year and Tony’s seeing Elena monthly rather than weekly. He’s not a victim of parental neglect but a survivor of it, knows it represented a failing in them and not in him. He does self-talk every morning in the mirror and believes what he’s saying more and more. He attends board meetings and conferences and events and comports himself wonderfully. He’s finally famous instead of infamous, in reputable magazines for his admirable acts and not in gossip rags for his bad behavior. He can see himself clearly and knows he’s lucky that he has so many people who genuinely care about his well-being and happiness. Sometimes he can’t believe the number of friends he has, but he counts his blessings rather than wondering why anybody would be his friend, which is a massive step forward.
Twenty-one months and he and Elena agree he doesn’t need to see her again unless he backslides, which they’re both confident won’t happen. He has Pepper keep her number just in case, but he doesn’t think he’ll talk to Elena again. The notion feels a little odd, but she was always his psychologist, never his friend, and Tony has learned about lines.
Two years and he finally sees Steve again, entirely by happenstance. (To be honest, though, Tony expected to see Steve sooner, because it’s a small world when two people have mutual friends and said mutual friends are in the habit of throwing parties. Tony suspects that Steve excludes himself for Tony’s sake, but whenever he makes inquiries to that effect, the answer is always some variation of I can neither confirm nor deny your assumption. Natasha, though she is not in the habit of sparing Tony’s feelings, only says, “Tony, stop asking,” and after a while, he does.)
An art gallery he has long funded is hosting a show of works by veterans with PTSD and Tony can’t not go, the plight of wounded vets being close to his heart thanks to his friendships with Rhodey and Steve. Too, his putting in an appearance will generate more press and more awareness.
So he and Pepper attend, the pieces moving and disturbing them, just as art should do. Pepper is studying a metal sculpture from all angles and Tony’s attention wavers, his eyes alighting on a tall man with gilt hair. It’s not the first time this has happened to him, catching a glimpse of something that reminds him of Steve and makes him look only to find it’s not Steve, but this time it is. It’s Steve, and his name is out of Tony’s mouth before Tony can think of stopping it.
Blue eyes land on him, widen, soften, and Steve is striding over and engulfing Tony in his arms. Tony clings and clings and Steve does, too, which warms Tony enough that he lets go and looks up to meet Steve’s gaze, which is wet though Steve is smiling.
“You look so healthy,” he says quietly, as though he can’t quite credit it. “Oh, Tony, I can’t tell you how glad I am, or how relieved. I was so scared I’d done the wrong thing, and everyone assured me you were improving, but I didn’t fully believe it until now.”
“Well, you can put your mind at ease,” Tony tells him with a smile. “I’m doing better than I have maybe ever.”
“I’m so happy,” Steve says, giving Tony’s upper arm a quick squeeze. “So, what are you doing here?”
“What can I say? I’ve got a soft spot for veterans,” Tony replies. “How about you?”
“Well, I got involved in an art therapy program for veterans and some of their work is on display tonight. I wanted to show my support.”
“Of course you did.” Tony grins. “You haven’t changed at all, have you, Steve?”
“I have, though!” he insists. “I bought a pair of jeans a few months ago.”
“You didn’t!” Tony exclaims incredulously. Steve never wears jeans, and didn’t even as a child; it has always been khakis because Steve is secretly an old man.
“I did,” Steve confirms. “But then I wore them on a date with Bucky and lots of people stared and a few hit on me, so Bucky donated them to Goodwill and said I could never buy another pair.”
Tony laughs. “Barnes is a smart man.”
“I think you mean an insecure fourteen-year-old, but sure, we can go with smart.”
“Does he know you talk about him that way?”
“Yes, and he says that if he’s a fourteen-year-old, I’m a pedophile and that makes me the worse of the two of us in every scenario.” Steve rolls his eyes, but a fond smile plays on his lips.
Tony snorts in amusement. Though there has never been much love lost between him and Barnes—each recognizing in the other a desire to have Steve all to himself—he can admit that the man is sharp in a lot of ways.
“Is Barnes here?” he asks, because he would have thought they’d be attached at the hip, Steve-and-Bucky, like he knows they were as kids.
“No,” Steve says easily. “He’s not into this sort of artsy-fartsy stuff, as he calls it. I’d call him a caveman, but even cavemen had art.”
“He’s an amoeba, then,” Tony supplies, beaming when Steve laughs.
Pepper wanders over then, she and Steve embrace, and then the three of them continue touring the gallery, with Steve providing insight on some of the pieces.
At the end of the night, Steve hugs Tony and promises to call soon. Because he’s Steve, he keeps his promise and the two of them have lunch together over the weekend. Tony waxes poetic about the upcoming release of the next generation of Starkphones and Steve describes the book he’s illustrating, and as they share anecdotes about their lives, reminisce about the past, and gossip about mutual acquaintances, it’s like they haven’t been apart at all.
As they’re strolling through Central Park afterward, Tony screws his courage to the sticking point and opens up about his feelings.
“I have to thank you,” he says, “even though I felt like I was going to die for a while.”
Steve understands what he means and says nothing.
“If it weren’t for you, I would still be stuck in a downward spiral that probably would’ve ended with me dying of liver failure.”
Steve opens his mouth to speak, but Tony holds up a precluding hand. “Don’t apologize for not doing what you did sooner; I wouldn’t have been ready. Your getting married is probably the best and worst thing that ever happened to me. I might’ve just kept trying and failing with you forever if Barnes hadn’t taken you off the market and I would’ve drunk myself into an early grave. So thanks, Steve. You’re the best friend anyone could ask for.”
Unwilling as usual to accept accolades, Steve replies, “You did a lot more than I did, Tony. Thank you for lifting yourself up. Now I and everyone who loves you can have you around for a long time.”
“Yep, I’ll be here for the foreseeable future.”
“You know,” Steve says conversationally, “I’ve never much liked that phrase, ‘foreseeable future.’ The future isn’t foreseeable, that’s the whole point of it.”
Steve is lovely and amazing, and Tony is still fiercely in love with him and has accepted that he probably always will be, but that fact is no longer an albatross and his emotional well-being no longer hinges on Steve. Tony, for all that he prides himself on being a futurist, is happy right here, in the present, in this moment, walking next to Steve.
“You’re right,” he says. “Anything could happen.”
-fin-