Chapter Text
Big man in a suit of armor. Take that off, what are you?
It was hard to breathe, Tony found. His brain cataloged the possibilities with the clinical, detached air of a bystander- had he broken a rib and punctured his lungs? Was the crumbled enclosure he'd been left in blocking the circulation of oxygen? He hoped he wasn't having another anxiety attack.
Presently, it came to him that he should probably call for help. He knew death was a possibility- hell, a likelihood- if he remained down here. He contemplated, for a moment, whether that was a bad thing or not. After weighing the pros and cons ( who else is gonna help Rhodey get better? It's your fault he's... ) he found himself wondering who to call.
Pepper was the first person that came to mind. She could put on a suit, move all these rocks- no, no they were taking a break. And it was exactly because of things like this that they were doing so. He allowed himself the luxury of missing her, aching for her, for exactly fifteen seconds before considering other options. Bruce was in hiding again. Fury... there was no way he was contacting Fury.
Finally, he spoke aloud. "Call Natasha." It hurt to speak. He didn't really think anything inside him was broken, though it wasn't as if the suit were functioning well enough to tell him. Barnes and Rogers had really done a number on it- no, he wasn't going to think about that. Not now. He felt mildly surprised that the suit was intact enough to connect when he heard a tinny voice from its speakers, echoing loudly where he lay.
"Stark?"
"I fucked up, Romanov."
It didn't take long for them to arrive, her and Vision both- he wondered dimly if he'd carried her, but no- that was the heliocarrier. He groaned at that: the heliocarrier meant paperwork, and that meant that other people knew.
Vision came first, appearing suddenly beside him and kneeling down gracefully, touching his wrist through the suit. Tony tried to offer a grin when he was assured he'd be retrieved shortly but he was fairly certain his face looked like more of a grimace.
By the time he and Natasha had created a pathway to reach him, he found himself panting. It was a lack of oxygen; the sudden sunlight and light breeze on his face made him feel woozy. He tried to sit up but was halted by a firm hand on his shoulder. "Stop."
To her credit, Natasha said nothing when she saw the state he was in. Her face wore a complicated expression- lips flat, eyebrows suspiciously still when she gestured above for a stretcher to be lowered from the heliocarrier. She looked at his damaged arc reactor closely, but did not touch it. "Can you fix this?" she asked him.
"I'll need help," he said. She nodded once.
As his stretcher was lifted, he caught a glimpse of her carefully picking up Captain America's shield and hugging it to her chest.
###
It was on his bedside table when he awoke. The shield, that was. Lit by a patch of sunlight pouring in through the window as if it were some holy thing, claw marks and all. Tony groaned and closed his eyes.
What did it mean, that Rogers had listened to his fallen blithering? He cringed to even think of it. It had seemed so important at that moment, more important even than his pride, that Steve lose something from this fight. It wasn't fair that he walk away whole when Tony was left forever changed from the encounter.
What a stupid thought that had been. Rogers had tossed the shield aside as if it had meant nothing to him at all- no, worse, like it was a relief, like he'd been waiting for an excuse to drop the burden of being Captain America. To just be Steve Rogers, defender of murderers, criminal and destroyer of...
Tony needed to derail this train of thought immediately. That, however, proved to be a problem: Tony's mind just didn't work the way he asked it to. It charged on, forcing it's destructive and tank-like way through blocks and walls. It was an unruly and illogical thing, sometimes running circular, repeating the same track over and over. And right now that track was Steve's face above his, perfect features contorted in primitive rage, arms raised for the final strike. Tony could tell already that a part of him would forever exist in that moment.
"Stark."
A distraction. Blessed relief.
Natasha had with her two glasses of water, both with long straws. She handed him one as she sat, cross-legged, at the foot of his bed, sipping her own and looking for all the world casual and nonchalant, as if they were meeting perhaps at a park bench or in a grocery store aisle. Nothing in her face indicated that she'd just exhumed his body from a collapsed fortress in the middle of nowhere. She was good at her job, he had to give her that.
"You look like hell," she told him conversationally.
Tony didn't need a mirror to confirm that yes, he did in fact look as if he'd just been beaten within an inch of his life by two geriatric super-soldiers. His aching face and ribs were confirmation enough.
He glanced under the sheet and noted that his bruised and battered body had been stripped to his underwear. "Well, you got a nice show out of it," he said, referring to how she'd helped him install the improved arc reactor, risky as it was. He wondered if she knew the significance of it, that he'd trusted her to hold his heart in her hands and not crush it.
Natasha didn't snort, but the tip of her nose and the corner of her mouth twitched minutely, as if she would very much like to. "Absolutely," she said, only a trace of wry sarcasm audible in her voice. "You know it was my dream come true to strip your bloody, sweaty self."
Tony grinned, which made the cut in his lip sting. "Damn straight."
When she looked pointedly at the glass in his hands, he gave in and took a long drink. Cold in his empty belly. He shivered.
"Are you going to stay?" he asked her when she shifted on his bed so that her back was pressed to the wall. He followed her gaze to the shield, and then quickly looked away again. Her bedroom in Stark towers remained untouched the long months she was away; he didn't even have surveillance cameras installed there.
"Not long," she replied honestly. "I need to leave tonight."
Tony tried not to let the disappointment show on his face; he knew better than to ask where she was going. "Right, well. I just. I guess I wanted to tell you. I mean, considering the circumstances-"
She smiled then, a real smile- something he'd only seen on her once or twice before. It showed the tiny gap between her front teeth, made her nose spread a little. He was struck, not for the first time, of how pretty she was, in a distant sort of way. A framed piece in a museum titled Affetto Red. "You're welcome, Stark."
###
Anthony Edward Stark was very, very good at a select range of things. And the rest, well, that was what money, computers, and robots were for. It didn't matter that he oftentimes forgot the limits of the human body he was stuck in: he had reminders to eat, to sit down before he collapsed. There was always someone to prevent him from killing himself on accident and, on several occasions, to stop him from doing it deliberately as well. It was a flawed and less-than-healthy system, but it'd worked so far, had it not?
What Tony was really good at was disappearing into his head so deeply that he forgot himself, and everything else, entirely. He could hypo-focus for hours, days at a time, on a project. An idea. Numbers, calculations, sheet metal, the sickly-sweet smell of engine oil. He was excellent at forgetting how much he hated himself.
Rhodey proved to be an ideal distraction, and though guilt tugged somewhere at the back of Tony's mind for using his friend's misfortune- misfortune that was unquestionably his, Tony's, fault- to cope, well. Somebody had to do this, right? He was productive. He was useful. He was necessary. He had to keep telling himself that.
Long hours spent with a cloth over his eyes, turning ideas over in his head ( If I fused the device to his spine- no that wouldn't work, I'd have to sever the cord, too risky. But if I... ) kept leading him back to one James Buchanan Barnes. Much as he hated to think of the man, that arm of his... he would never admit, even to himself, that it was an inspiration. An absolute masterpiece of bio-engineering.
To think of Bucky by name was unacceptable. To picture his face was to picture his mother's face as he murdered her. It was to think of Steve's face, contorted in rage. It was to be reminded of that flash of pity- no. No. He would not think on that. The arm, think of the arm.
Sitting up, Tony whipped the cloth from his eyes and began to rapidly design Support System 1.0 for Rhodey's legs.
###
He didn't hear the announcement that he had a guest.
Well, he heard it in that his brain was dimly aware that sound-waves in the form of spoken, automatic words were hitting his ears. But the words themselves didn't breach his thoughts- he was too focused on Support System 4.0. It was almost perfect...
"Tony."
That one word, from that particular mouth, was enough to force him to drop his wrench. Spinning around and lifting the visor of the welding helmet, he was flooded with emotion upon seeing Pepper's face.
"Oh," he said. There were no words to describe this. "Oh, I-"
His mouth didn't know what to say, but his arms knew to reach for her. His heart knew it belonged to her, and it made this manifest by pounding at nearly twice it's recommended pace. "Pepper!"
She smiled and laughed, looking pointedly at his grease-slicked hands. Oh, of course, of course, that pantsuit she wore was not to be touched with oil. Stupid Tony. Grinning like a golden retriever with its head sticking from a car window, he nearly tripped over his feet to hurry to the sink, scrubbing almost violently at his hands and nails. "What brings you here?"
"I was in the neighborhood." She waited patiently for him to dry his hands, to toss his helmet and apron aside before grabbing her up in a bone-creaking hug. "A little birdie told me you've been busy."
A little birdie? Tony strongly suspected it may be a little spider. It didn't matter. He had Pepper in his arms and he somehow accidentally had some of her hair in his mouth and everything was Pepper, Pepper, Pepper. "I missed you so much."
She hugged back for a long minute before gently patting his arm. "Tony, I need to breathe-"
His eyes were moist and the smile stretching his face made his cheeks ache when he released her and took a step back. His mouth wanted to call her horrible things like darling, dearest, dear. He worked hard to keep it shut. He used to make fun of people who said things like that but really- she was darling, dearest, dear.
She looked at the Support System 4.0, curiosity in her clever eyes as she tried to figure out how it worked. "What's this for?"
"Oh that," Tony said. "That is... for Rhodey."
Pepper's smile faltered a bit. "Right," she said in more somber tones. "I heard about the... accident."
Guilt dripped down the back of his throat, flooding his stomach like acid. Even after releasing Sam and the others from the refined prison (some had forgiven him. Wanda, for one, had come home to Stark Towers. The others...) it continued to eat him alive. "Yeah," he said. Some might not hear the small rasp in his voice but Pepper-
"Stop it, Tony," she told him immediately. "Stop tearing yourself apart over this." Her arms folded over her chest, her chin jutted just a bit. Stubborn as ever. "You didn't mean for it to happen."
Was Pepper ever wrong? Perhaps he'd been hoping for her permission to forgive himself over this. It worked, to an extent. The smallest of weights was lifted from his shoulders, just like that. Pepper didn't hate him. Things could maybe someday be Alright.
She was looking around the workroom now and he saw her eyes alight on the flat, covered thing on a back table. He tried to hide his grimace. Natasha had refused to take the shield with her, and so he'd stuck it back there out of sight. He'd gotten into the habit of not even looking into that corner these past two months, as if it didn't exist. It worked, except for in his sleep. Damn thing was a recurring visitor in his dreams.
"Come upstairs with me," he requested. "We can order takeout. I have wine... can you stay?" He feared his eyes might give him away. He knew they looked desperate, and so he turned, already walking from the room.
"I can stay for a while," she answered, following him. When she took his hand, Tony felt his shoulders slump with relief. He laced his fingers with hers, gave them a squeeze.
Over ceviche and a lovely little Penalolen sauvignon she talked about her work, the places she'd visited. Tony hung onto her every word, starving to know more. Every question she asked him he found himself deflecting, turning back around on her. It was music just to hear her voice. Finally, he could bear it no longer.
"Pepper," he said softly, and held his arms out. She regarded him for a moment, eyes soft, before finally standing and coming around the table, sliding into his lap. She rested her chin on his shoulder and sighed and finally, for a moment, Tony felt whole.
He turned his face into her neck, inhaling, and touched his lips to her jaw, sliding his mouth behind her ear. She smelled like a forest after rain. Her hand touched his back, fingers lightly tangling in his shirt. His heartbeat picked up again.
"Pepper, I love you," he said. The words just left his mouth without consulting his brain. He couldn't not say them any more than he could avoid breathing. "I love you so much. I-"
She stopped him by kissing his forehead. "Tony. I love you, too."
His heart sank a little. That was a tone of voice that precluded a, but...
He sat back a little, let his arms slide loosely down her waist. It was an unspoken reminder: you can get up if you want. He closed his eyes and waited for the worst.
The 'worst', it turned out, were three soft fingertips touched to his lips. He opened his eyes to read her expression, then sighed.
"I guess we're still on a break, then," he clarified, and she nodded.
"I don't think you're ready for a relationship right now," she said. The words, true as they were, fell like leaden raindrops inside him. "I think you have a lot to work through that I can't help you with."
Tony didn't want to work through anything. Tony wanted Pepper back; then he could just ignore those things. Push them back and back and back until they no longer existed. A million covered tables piled in the corners of the workroom that was his brain.
In the end, Pepper didn't stay very long. She kissed him once more, her lips just barely brushing the corner of his mouth as she squeezed his shoulder.
"You're my dear friend," she told him seriously, meeting his eyes. "And I need you to be okay. If you need anything at all, please call me."
He'd nodded, croaked out a, "Of course. Always."
Two hours later found him black-out drunk on the workroom floor. He didn't remember grabbing the shield from under its tarp, but there it was, spread over his chest like an upside-down turtle shell. The shattered remains of a mostly empty bottle of jack were dripping sluggishly down the opposite wall. Had he thrown it? He thought he probably had.
Tony couldn't remember exactly when he'd started crying, but the tears made soft plink sounds falling on the shield. He laughed then- this was all unbearably stupid. He kept seeing his back turned on him as he left him behind. Star spangled bastard.
"Are you ever coming back?" he asked.
###
Three months and two weeks after the Event, a package was delivered to Stark towers. Tony would have recognized that handwriting anywhere: it was perfect, scripted; it looked as if it'd been written with the quill of a founding father. Stupid, really- Rogers was a product of the forties; why he wrote like that was anyone's guess.
The penmanship wasn't nearly as stupid as what the letter did to Tony's heart. It raced as he read it, then sank. His hands shook and halfway through he crumpled the paper, only to smooth it out and continue reading a minute later. The rollercoaster of emotion- fury, gratitude, hatred, affection. It was quite overwhelming.
He puzzled over the flip-phone for a while, thinking on Steve's words. Of course it was a flip-phone; Rogers knew how easily Tony could track a smartphone. He might as well have stated outright in the letter (which had been deliberately redirected multiple times, if the stamps were any indication): he did not want Tony to find him.
He gripped the phone hard in his fist, so hard the plastic creaked, and he had to hurriedly drop it in fear of breaking it. It was clear what this was: Boyscout had felt guilt on leaving Tony behind like that. That pitying glance- Tony felt sick with rage at the memory, his scorched pride flaming up again.
He knew exactly why Rogers was sending him this now, and despite what he may tell himself, it wasn’t to help Tony out. It was to assuage his own damn guilt so that he could push Tony out of his mind entirely.
Growling angrily to himself, Tony strode purposefully back to his workroom. He wasn’t letting Rogers off the hook that easily.
To be continued…