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After the Civil War, Tony can't entirely function well anymore.
How can the feeling of ultimate betrayal be described, he wonders, before concluding that it can't be. At all. The utter hopelessness in trying to explain each broken shard of his heart is almost as hard as attempting to reach out and rebuild the fragile infrastructure of love he and Steve were assembling. Brick by brick. (Although Tony has never particularly favored brick houses.)
Tony prefers soaring glass walls, reflecting every New York sunset, lapping around the tower like a cloak of modern technology. He loves overlooking the city in a skyscraper, and he loves his mansion in Miami, too. They're both vast and interminably beautiful in the way rich, luxurious things are.
"So was I," he had said between the confines of his helmet, both of them pretending it didn't snap every heartstring in their bones. Steve doesn't even flinch, but Tony doesn't fucking care.
He doesn't. He doesn't care. And the tears that gather at the corner of his eyes spill like a torrent of saltwater, uneeded yet necessary, leaving sticky tracks down the sides of his face. Tony remembers the first time he kissed Steve and he remembers the first time he hit Steve. How is he supposed to function when the bruises fresh on his body, inflicted by the man he kissed in bed every night, aren't even faded yet?
Then the stupid burner phone comes with the stupid letter, and it's all Tony can do to stop the waterworks. He doesn't cry, he's a Stark. He's a damn Stark, but he can't function right because a certain Steve Rogers has disrupted his life to the point where normalcy feels like fantasy and there is no normal in the first place. Tony hears the bitter words of the Winter Soldier in his dreams, along with painful clashing of Captain America's armor against his own suit, and the horrifying thud of Rhodey's armor as it crash landed into grass.
He needs therapy, or something. But when has Tony Stark ever been one to ask for help?
Never. That's the damn answer. So Tony ponders over the phone, cradling it in one hand, putting it away in the other when he remembers the biting coldness of Siberia. He can never forget lying there, armor disabled, chestplate mangled, Steve limping away with Bucky in arm. He can never forget yelling after him, bursting with unadulterated rage but unable to show it, and Steve dropping the shield.
It sits peacefully on his desk now, a vital part of Captain America. Chipped and battered and the only thing that had been in Iron Man's sight line as his lover left him.
(But Tony's weak.)
He's weak, and that's why he's laying awake in bed in the middle of the night, entangled in expensive sheets like the sweaty mess he is. That's why he stumbles over to the phone and grabs it and dials without thinking. That's why his hands are trembling so badly he can barely hold it, but it's also why he wishes beyond want for it to be answered even though it's too late at night anyway.
But Steve must be weak too, because he answers.
"Hello? Tony?" Captain America's voice is static and jumbled fuzz over the poor reception, but the man on the other end of the line has never heard anything so beautiful. Overhead, night stars twinkle like handfuls of wishes. Tony is using up all of his right now.
"There's no emergency," he clarifies, just so Steve knows. "I only... I wanted to hear you."
Tony continues, "I miss you so much," and realizes he's crying. He's crying like every soul in the world has shriveled up into nothing but waste, and it helps, because it's the only thing that can. But Iron Man can't stop now, so he might as well continue.
"Tony?" And Steve sounds so frightened and concerned about the fact that Tony hasn't cracked a single joke yet that he can almost laugh out loud. Iron Man's given up his pride, his dignity, his confidence, to come crawling and sobbing and pleading. (He hates himself.)
"Come home," Tony looks down to see his knuckles have turned nearly white from clutching his blanket so hard. "Please come home. Please."
(He hates himself even more for asking because they both know it's impossible. They both know it can't be done right now, here, because it's too fucking dangerous and it's too much to ask. Tony hates himself because he knows all of this but he's too much of a selfish, impulsive dumbass to stop himself from asking. He hates himself.)
"I will."
Tony's sure he's joking.
"I made a promise to you," Steve whispers like he's trying not to split the gentle threads holding them together right now, "And I'm going to keep it."
And Tony sobs with nothing but relief when Captain America shows up on his doorstep at one in the morning, risking everything and anything. But it's to see him. Just him. Because he asked, and it's enough, and it's always been enough.