Work Text:
Surrender by KayMoon24.
I, KayMoon24, there by state that The Dom has my full written permission to use my work/fanfiction, "Surrender", for his show, video, critique and the like, with rights to Marvel Studios as original rights holders for their characters.
Steve awakens at the start of a scream; large hands entangled in the silver glint of barbwire, his body moist from his own blood, face first in the suffocating dirt that's filling his mouth, filling his nose. His temples throb in his head, aching from the shallow breathing that has possibly gone on for hours since he fell. He thrashes wildly, legs lost in the hectic motion, and teeth chattering. There's a sharp, frightful chill in his throat, raw and thirsty—so thirsty. He wrenches, unable to stop his shivering, feeling the freezing cold along his sides that furiously turns burning hot at his neck, pulsing with irrational terror that's splashing through his veins like a cry for help, long gone, long lost in a battle that's only in his head. With all his strength, he rips the edges of his bed frame apart, unable to feel the splinter of the wood as it enters into his rough palms. All he understands is that he can't get up—get upgetupgetupgetup—men are dying, boys are dying—am I dying?—is all he can think, twisting around, desperate to see his legs. Oh, he'd seen the hospital tents. The countless flesh-less bodies rotting in the sun. And they're the lucky ones. It's the amputees that suffer—there isn't enough alcohol, bandages, or doctors to go around. If he's hit. If he's down…he'll die. He knows he'll die. But it won't be quickly.
His blond brows furrow together so tightly that he's afraid his head might explode. Please Dear Lord, don't let it be this way. Not this way. Please…
He feels slowly down his own body, shaking fingers trailing under the drawstring of his pants to his hip bone, and finally to his thigh. His left leg is there. Next to check his right. There. He's okay. Oh God, somehow, somehow he's okay. That's reason enough for Steve. He shutters in a breath, and forces himself to stand—only for some reason, the dirt is too soft—he's falling—he's falling and his eyes won't open and why should he even try any longer? It's blackness. It's only blackness…
Steve hits the carpet with a shock that leaves him breathless. His firsts are coiled like hard rocks formed into the soft down of his sheet. His legs are pulled to his chest. One arm is cradled around his head, fingers clawing at his own short hair. He blinks, his eyes open, his jaw locked. He's in his room, he tells his shaking body. He's alone, in his room, in Stark Tower. Out of the corner of his blurred vision, the bright red eyes of a digital clock states a cold hard fact to him:
September 30, 2013. 2:27am.
It's 2013. And I'm alive. I'm alive. I'm alive. I'm alive. I'm alive.
A flicker of plain licks at the side of his head that's so sharp he can't stop it from hurting him, from digging into him, deep, deep inside.
And no one else is.
He knows better than to try to stand now. He'd lose it. He'd lose it bad.
So, for a while, there's nothing but that same, empty mantra that makes his lips move silently, as if he's too nervous to make a sound. He's waiting for it. A sound of a gun, the anticipation of a bomb. The silence before the rain of gas that floats along the fields, hell bent on covering up all of Steve's dreamt reality.
His cheek is pressed hard into the soft flooring, and he rocks a little, trying to keep the concrete idea that he has all of his body parts. His throat is ripped raw from screams he doesn't remember. He's so thirsty that when he finally feels the slickness of water dripping down to touch his lips, his tongue instantly reaches out.
He doesn't mind the salty taste.
Tony doesn't bother to turn on a light when he meanders into the kitchen around 3 am that same morning. He's used to being alone; specifically alone at this time of night, and thoroughly enjoys it. Tony had always been more active at night—and with the way he never saw his father's shadow in the morning sun—he figured that it was probably a stroke of genius that ran in the family bloodline. Everything was quieter a night, more focused, and just burning with potential. Everyone and everything was gone. And it was always just him and his thoughts.
That didn't mean that he didn't need a means of keeping his thoughts aware. That means was coffee. Coffee in pretty much any time of the day Tony felt was especially useful for a meaningful existence. It was always the perfect finish for a long night of working down in his workshop. Tonight was certainly looking promising—he'd finally developed a way to calculate the final dimensions to a new type of blaster. He cracks open the cabinet above him easily, fingers reaching in with a filmier stretch. He gripped the handle of the mug and brought it down while twisting the handle of smooth sink faucet for water. He was just reaching into the shadows that held the latest model of a Persian coffee maker when he noticed something peculiar.
The coffee make was already on, humming just under the rush of the following purified water before him, and stared up at him with the gentle glow of a 'full' indicator button with a positive green colour. Tony stopped, eyes narrowing, before he quickly looked around. The faint glow of his Arc Reactor under his tread-bare t-shirt seemed to be also on the off ends tonight, showing him nothing beyond the reach of his arm. Tony quickly cleared his throat, and stared straight at the table before him, hoping that he'd just absentmindly forgotten that, yes, he certainly did make coffee two hours earlier. And for some reason it was still hot and still filled to the brim. Like how he often forgot that it was impossible to pick up Thor's hammer, or that he'd somehow lost that email from Pepper about that CEO meeting tomorrow.
"Uh," He began quietly to no one. "Hello?"
There was a short start from the darkness before the billionaire, the shifting of a motion just out of Tony's peripheral vision, and the scraping of the bottom of a mug against a surface.
"Whoa," Tony called, his dark eyes wide. "Did—did I scare you?" Tony squinted, and in the faint rustle of the retreating shadow, he noticed a glint of blond hair.
Tony blinked. What? No way. Why in the world would a man that gets up with the God-awful sun every damn day like it was a religious practice ever be up this late?
"Steve?" His entire tone gave away his bewilderment.
The shadow froze, clearly alarmed and a bit put off from being caught in the act. There was a shifting sound, and finally, a response.
"Hey—Tony, I was just leaving." Steve's voice drilled into the air like he about to be interrogated. Tony could only shake his head in genuine disbelief, a small smile sketching onto his lips.
"Cap, what the hell? Didn't you go to bed like," Tony did quick mental math in his head. "Seven hours ago?"
"Yeah." Was the short answer that Steve gave, already halfway in retreat into the large living room. Tony quickly followed suit.
"'Yeah'? So,what, you decided to randomly wake up and make coffee for me? Don't tell me you're warming up to me just yet, Rogers. Because, honestly, I have no idea what to do for you in return."
Tony smirked into his jest, eyes already bright at just the smell of the caffeinated drink wavering from the crook of the kitchen. He was curious now. It wasn't often he got company this late. And heck, even at that, it wasn't often that something surprised him out of the usual routine in his twisted life. He certainly couldn't say that coffee with Steve Rogers at 3 in the morning would be an event he'd bet money on happening. He leaned against the door frame a little, only catching the briefest of Steve's movements as he padded back to the hall.
"That—that was a joke, Rogers," Tony continued, unable to stop himself, finding strangely that he didn't want to let this strange quirk go. "What were you doing in there?"
"Just wanted some coffee," Steve's voice came out in a tight mumble, which caught Tony off-guard all the more. Steve made a pretty good point about speaking clearly and with confidence. It wasn't too terribly often that Tony would walk by a sitting room and there would be Bruce and ol' Star Spangled Annoying himself, talking quietly about how Bruce should have more confidence in his tone, about who he is, breathing from the diaphragm in some ridiculous speech lesson.
Ooh-kay. Tony breathed out, internally, preparing himself. Something definitely wasn't right here.
"Well, hey, come on. Don't just rush off. You obviously made coffee for a reason. But something tells me it wasn't just to enjoy my pleasurable company."
That made Steve stop, even if it was slowly. He paused by the high-rise of the crystal glass of a window to where Tony could use the moonlight to see what Steve was up too. But it wasn't anything too condemning. He was just in his usual pajama wear. His hair was a bit messed up from sleep, and one of his hands was wrapped tightly around the base of a coffee mug. The free hand was using its fingers to scrape silently at the edge of the cup, fingernails chewed down to the cuticle. Those details were a bit odd for the usually controlled and presentable 'leader'. But it was when Tony finally looked into Steve's eyes that he noticed what was truly wrong.
Steve's eyes, usually bright blue and obnoxiously good natured, were clear-looking. Almost faded. The translucency of his blond brows were tucked in tightly, bringing about worry lines across the Captain's nose and around the edges of his eyes, darkening his whole look. They looked troublingly tired. They looked distantly angry. And, perhaps most shocking of all to Tony: they looked…well, shit, Tony really, really didn't want to admit it, but… they looked scared.
When Steve didn't respond, Tony thought it best to try a different approach.
"I'm sorry if I freaked you out back there. I honestly had no idea you were even sitting there. You should've said something."
Steve simply shrugged, his eyes just gazing out the window. The blue resting there seemed to reflect the zooming of the reds and golds of the traffic hundreds of yards below with a seething listlessness. "I don't know why I jumped. Just happened. I, uh, saw you comin' from a good distance away." Steve took his free fingers away from the cup and used it to awkwardly point at the center of his own chest, making a clumsy circle there, as if he didn't have the words to tell Tony that he glowed in the dark like an unnatural lighthouse of sarcasm and beguile.
Even from a good dark distance away Tony tracked Steve's arm movement well.
"Huh, well I guess ever winning at laser tag again is out of the question?" Tony's voice lifted jokingly, as if he honestly never really considered that it wasn't normal for a man to be glowing out of his chest, and he didn't sometimes feel like a machinated freak that wore way-too-thick-of-shirts year round.
A hand was suddenly brought close to his chest. It wasn't that he was ashamed of what made him function. Tony Stark had never been ashamed of much of anything in his young, aggressively progressive life. If he had it, you bet your sweet ass he'd flaunt it. But still. It was only sometimes, just sometimes, that he'd walk by a shiny piece of equipment, and catch his reflection. The over-exaggerated tilt of the circle, expanding wide, nearly taking over his entire body. He placed the palm of his hand over the circle during those moments, watching the light disappear into his flesh, and suddenly he'd appear as he was those few years ago. The word 'normal' had flashed through some newspaper headlines as if that was all that Tony was, even before…the kidnapping, but he'd never feel that again. He could still feel the heat, the dry hum of the Arc Reactor slowly heating up his hand, and it always brought him back to reality.
The Arc Reactor was everything that made Tony's reality. Or else he'd be dead. And frankly, Tony knew first hand that there were worse off things to be.
Stark swallowed, entertained by his thoughts, but feeling like there was a distinct lack of integrity to the air. Usually such a direct reference got some kind of reaction out of Rogers, where it'd be interest, or a scowl, or a quizzical look lingering off of his square jaw. But yet…nothing. Tony's eyebrow raised in the dark, his eyes zeroing in on Steve, unable to stop their analyzing. Obviously, there was a problem here. But he wasn't too good with people problems. Or people, really. So he changed his idea of Steve and made him mechanical for a moment.
First, he broke down his image of Steve to that of the image of a blown wire to this year's newest, fastest car. Rogers seemed to be built in mint condition. Perfect. Tony's fingers tapped self-consciously as the silence grew. He hated looking at Steve and seeing that stupid, superfluous word, but it was true. But that word didn't just classify that Cap was younger, stronger, and faster than him. It was that he seemed to embody everything Tony never could be, never wanted to be. And everything that maybe Howard Stark did. And that's why he spent the rest of his life looking for…for Rogers. Tony only allowed such a word that to describe his brilliant mechanics, and Steve Fuckin' Rogers. Tony huffed, leaning back into the kitchen and flicked on a black light switch. The brightly white blink of the light bulb popping on gave Tony an electrical transition to a more understandable relation to the man before him. His thoughts switched from cars to a lost radio transmission that was only broadcasting via I'm Trying Really Freaking Hard to Be Nice FM, with your belligerent host: T. Stark.
Greatly delayed, Steve blinked, and answered halfheartedly: "I guess that's your version of playing with toy guns when you were a kid." He paused. "When I was a dumb kid, I liked hunting my friends too."
Tony paled for a moment while watching the way Steve spoke so dully. "Well, you know, it was fun at the time, anyway. You could never tell who won, though. The pads fell off easily, and the laser guns never shot correctly. So it was usually after a match that me and my buddies were just glad to be out of the dark. Then we'd duke it over who lost." Tony chuckled smartly. "I'm sure that happened to you before. Some things never change."
Steve's fingers stilled for a moment over the 3.2 second ration of tapping the mug to Tony's calculating stare. He didn't respond. His eyes simply seemed to get tighter, and, strangely, Tony thought he saw the tiniest bead of sweat along a pale cheek.
Tony hesitated for a moment, a hand ruffing up his own dark hair, suddenly at a loss for the perfect phrase to say. His tongue was thrown off by the sight of a nervous looking Captain America. Oh great, is he sick or something? Tony's thoughts snapped. Fever? "But, uhm, in all seriousness. Is, ah, everything alright, Steve?"
Steve didn't seem to hear him. His blue eyes glanced at the weight in his hand as if he was just realizing he had the mug in a death-clutch. "Do you always make coffee this late at night?"
Cap's question seemed to come off a little short, but Tony rolled with it anyway.
"Yeah." Tony sniffed, rubbing at his jaw. "Pretty much, I do. I'm up a lot. All this exciting city life, Rogers. I can't sleep, don't know how you do it. So I use it to work on stuff. You know, 'me' time and all that reflective nonsense."
"Oh," Steve responded shallowly, as if he didn't quite get that he was intruding upon very important Tony time. "Sorry."
"Er," Tony grimaced at the one word response. "No, I didn't say that to make it seem like you were intruding or anything. Just—just you asked."
A pause.
"You want sugar or anything with that?" Tony asked, feeling his bottom teeth click against his top. Why the hell was this stressing him out so much?
This seemed to spark something in the Captain, as something flashed quickly through his clear eyes, something familiar and faintly amused. "Do…do people still do that kinda thing?"
Tony couldn't help but give a bit of a bark into his laugh. "People put all things of crap into their drinks now a days. It's kind've a fad to be obsessed with coffee. It's stupid if you ask me, but, never the less, yeah, it's still a popular thing. Pretty sure people are more addicted to it now than they are cigarettes. Speaking of which, it must've been damn nice back then, Steve. Smoking anywhere you wanted." Tony raised a curious dark brow. "Did you smoke?"
"Nah. I had asthma. Couldn't breathe anyhow." Speaking of causal culture seemed to be helping, if just a little, from what Tony could sense.
"Rough stuff," Tony responded quietly, the image of a Captain America having a asthma attack seeming too unrealistically funny to be true.
Steve twisted the cup around in his hands, his shoulders still tucked tightly together as if it was sheer willpower of his back that was keeping him from keeling over. "Not really. What was tough was when Buck—" Steve seemed to stumbled into the word,"—er, my pal, caught me stealing a pack from my old man. Cuffed me super hard across the back of my neck." As he spoke, he gingerly reached up and rubbed at the spoken part. "Think I might even still have that bruise."
Tony's mouth parted cleverly at that image too. "Your friend didn't care for your stupid antics much?"
"He was…overprotective." Steve's voice seemed to drop off again. It didn't take much for Tony to sense a change in subject was needed.
"I hear ya," Tony added, sliding back into the kitchen light and calling out. "Hey, join me in here for a second, will you? I don't get company this late. Sit down or something. You just standing there is making me nervous."
Reluctantly, Steve's eyes flashed towards the darkness of the hallway, but he found himself soon sitting at a chair around the round table in Tony's kitchen. Tony busied himself with making a decent cup of coffee. Something strong. Maybe brandy. He'd surprise himself.
"Kinda lonesome around here at night," Steve remarked quietly, staring straight down into his coffee.
Tony turned his head slightly to look at Steve, trying to keep his expression understanding. Tony didn't think it was lonely at all. But then again, he liked being around things that were cold, explosive, or inanimate. "Maybe. I don't mind it."
Tony continued scooping more and more teaspoons of cream into his coffee when he noticed the briefest movement from the Captain out of the corner of his eye. Steve's fingers were trembling, but his entire framed seemed to be shaking ever so slightly. Tony's eyes narrowed. He turned around slowly, a hand on his own drink. Steve continued to stare into the space of his coffee.
"Cold?" Tony's dark eyes didn't back down, demanding Steve to look at him.
Instantly Steve blanched. His eyes shot wide and his face flushed for a moment as he snapped his neck up to stare at the eccentric billionaire. "What?"
Tony's lips slid back into a neutral line as he took a sip from his mug, thankful for the sweet, burning warmed that kneaded through his veins. Inside he couldn't help but allow himself a glimmer of self-gratification over causing Captain America to feel self-conscious. "Your drink?"
This seemed to take Steve a second of consideration before he slowly trained his eyes back to his cool, watery coffee before him. Jeez guy. Tony wondered mockingly. You really aren't here tonight, are you?
"Ah, yeah, sorry, I didn't realize it was." Steve poked at the mug, and slid it slowly off to the side. Tony merely reached over and replaced it with his own.
"There, try that."
Steve only stared at him strangely, a smudge disbelieving. "Isn't it yours?"
Tony rolled his eyes arrogantly at Steve's modesty. The guy was a trip. "What? You think I spit oil or something, old man? Just try it for God's sake."
"Okay, alright," Steve gripped back, trying not to glare, and reached a hand across the drink to hoist it up. He took a small sip. It actually tasted pretty good. Warm, murky and a little over sweetened. But it was better than the bitterness that his previous coffee was. Now he wanted to shudder at the shell that was the black puddle he was forcing into his mouth—couldn't he tell how awful it was? Maybe coffee really did help wake him up.
"Well?"
"Thanks," Steve murmured as he thought, huddling down closer to the steam curling from the hot liquid. He wanted to down the whole thing right there, let it burn his tongue, scald his throat, boil his stomach; vaporize his blood just so he didn't feel so cold. Instead he squared his shoulders and wrapped both hands around the cup like it was a mini bonfire.
"That isn't the answer I was looking for," Tony pressed.
"It's good—it's fine. It's—it's great, okay?" Steve finally managed a sound that might've been a start of a laugh. "Happy?"
Tony eyed him wearily, his smile still steeled. "As I'll ever be with you, Cap."
The dark curls turned around again as Tony turned to make himself a new cup. When he turned back again, something had changed.
Tony's eyes swooped in the odd degree that Steve was sitting at, low, crouched. And there's also a small noise—the tink, tink, tink, tink, tink, of the bottom of a coffee cup continuously tapping a hard surface. Tony's dark eyes instantly found the source, his eyebrows rising. The sound was obvious that it from the rattle of Steve's hand. But Steve's thoughts were obviously elsewhere, and if the Captain was aware of the sound he was making, he certainly wasn't willing to show it.
Tony slid the back of a chair out, leaning into it, and was suddenly very aware of the ache in his haunches. He had no idea he'd been standing for so God damn long. When did he start working? Nine pm? Damn. That's gonna be fun tomorrow, He thought dryly.
"Tired?" Steve asked, his voice somber like he was echoing his own question.
Tony blinked quickly, leaning forward. "No, not really. I don't get tired till about five or so."
"Yikes," Steve continued, "Just in the nick a'time to avoid the sun."
"Oh, of course!" Tony grinned, "That thing is awful. Don't know how you face it every morning."
Steve shrugged.
"I uh, guess you won't be seeing it today, though?" Tony asked carefully, unsure of how to approach the subject of their peculiar chat. "Any particular reason for that?"
Steve seemed to pale a little more at Tony's voice, and he simply sagged in his chair, looking all the more worn and defeated. He put his elbows hard on the table and leaned against his hands, pressing his fingers into his still aching temples. "Bad dream," he finally allowed, his voice a tad unstable.
Tony shrank back a little in his seat, wanted to get up and leave. Woo boy, did he hate dealing with stuff like this. Where was Natasha when you needed her? Or Hell, Banner? He'd seriously even take Bruce right now. Bruce could talk to people. Bruce would know what to say. Maybe. Or at least better than what Tony figured he would say. Tony could talk, and talk, and talk himself out of a situation. But to talk somebody else out of one? He took a deep breath.
Steve continued to remain quiet, and, slowly, it dawned on Tony that maybe, just maybe, Steve actually didn't want to talk about it. Whatever it was. Whatever it was that made the Man out of Time, a friggin' World War hero look so terrified that he's sitting in his cloth pajamas, rattling his coffee cup. Tony sighed.
"Yeah. I get those, sometimes."
A strangled noise seemed to come from Steve's throat, as if he was planning on shutting down his voice box, and now it was being thrust back to work. "Really? Is that why you don't?"
"Sleep?" Tony's brown eyes stared at the clock behind them on the wall that now read 3:45am.
Steve nodded.
Tony cleared his throat, rubbing at a wrist. "Ah…yeah, a little."
Steve seemed to stare at Tony for a long time. "Right," he decided. The two sped into silence.
Tony's eyes flickered anywhere else but at the man before him, feeling all the more uncomfortable. Bad dream? He thought, a hand sliding to the Arc Reactor in his chest, rubbing the fingers around the cool metal of the outside ring. He remembered the last time he tried to go to bed early, climbing into bed with Pepper and curling himself around her warm body. At first, it was easy. So easy to just close his eyes and wait for his mind to shut down. But God, it just wasn't worth it. Too many times he'd woken her up with a scream; he'd be fighting back, fingers digging into the pillow, legs kicking, and clawing at his chest—unable to handle being tied up again, being threatened, beaten, deep down, sinking into the blackness of that hellish cave, hearing undistinguished foreign voices around him, and that presser on his chest. His chest—he couldn't breathe, there was a pressuring building inside of him, a loud, tremulous yell that still couldn't capture the pain in his chest. A hot, jagged shard was being pushed through him. He beamed sweat, swore and kicked and felt the burning as corners of his eyes explode into tears.
But yet there was Pepper. She'd wake him. Wake him long before his cries got to any audible level. Long before any of the other Avengers would ever hear him, ever know his shame. She was there, holding him together, holding him from breaking into a thousand pieces, curling around his cold, clammy body with warmth that eased his shaking. She'd wrap her arms around his chest, and crush her softness into him, closing off the light of the Arc Reactor, and soon, he wouldn't be Tony Stark anymore. He'd be nothing but a small, mass of a man that knew nothing but Virginia holding every bit of his universe to the earth with the sound of her heartbeat against him. And, somehow, through metal and blood, pain and tragedy: his would beat back at her.
He'd know he'd be okay.
He'd know he was alive.
"Is… that keeping you… alive?" Steve's voice shocked Tony out of his ramblings, his brown eyes wide, nervous for a moment that Steve sincerity was so good it could read his thoughts.
Tony chuckled faintly, taping the glowing circle in his chest. "If you want the technical answer, then yes."
Steve's voice grew faint for a moment. "May I ask how that happened to you?"
Tony glanced down at his chest, the dark depths of his eyes suddenly aglow with the blue light itself, and vocal cords internally chuckling over 'May I' 40's mannerish bullshit. "Ah, well, if we're going to be swapping stories like this, then I think we're going to need something stronger than coffee."
Before Steve could wrap his shell-shocked mind around his own question of what could be stronger than coffee? Tony had leaned up from the table, his back already to Steve as he reached just one shelf higher than the coffee mugs to grasp a quarter bottle of bourbon whiskey. Tony quickly landed two tumblers next to their mugs, and poured in generous amounts of the liquor before he set the bottle on the table between them, no need for the lid.
Tony slid the opposite tumbler across the smooth surface of the table towards Steve like he was an old hat at bar tending. The glass hit gently, bouncing a bit off of his closed knuckles. Steve quickly glanced at the tumbler and then back to the genius before him, his blue eyes equal parts gratitude and consternation. The dismay was evident in Steve's expression, even as he politely hoisted the glass up and let the burn of the whiskey ride smoothly down his throat.
Tony watched him closely out of one eye. "What? Too astringent for ya? You know, I think if I look hard enough, I might be able to find something dad might've left. Maybe even something from your time." Tony winked.
Steve frowned into his sip, nearly letting the whole of the drink wash straight down his throat, willing that long forgotten buzz of intoxication to follow. It never came.
"N-no," He stammered suddenly, already taken back that Tony was being well…this…courteous to him. This open. There was no shame, no mock, no scorn. Just…genuine friendliness. Tony cocked an eyebrow at him. Steve pulled himself together a bit better.
"I mean, no, it's fine. It's uh—good. Real good. But, ah…"
"Yes?" Tony edged on, already on his third mouthful.
Steve sucked in a breath before he finally confessed, the words tumbling out fast:
"I can't get drunk."
This caused Tony to freeze mid-swallow, his dark eyes surprisingly calm. He merely continued to finish his drink before setting it sensibly back onto the table. He then cleared his throat, folded his hands.
"What was that, Captain?"
"I said, Tony, that I can't get drunk."
Tony kept his eyes to the Captain, one hand feeling blindly for the bottle, nearly knocking it over.
"No. No way. You're shitting me."
"Believe me," Steve allowed himself a small, sad, side smile that twisted up his ill complexion and made him appear all the more vulnerable. "Sometimes I wish I wasn't."
"Wow." Was all that Tony responded with. And for a brief while, the pair was silent. When Tony spoke again, it only came out as a bit of a rumbled laugh. "That really sucks."
"So…how did that happen, again?" Steve asked, gingerly sipping his coffee, washing away the taste of alcohol for something warm and more recognizable.
Tony fixes his eyes on Steve before he begins, wondering where to start.
When he opens his mouth next, he's suddenly no longer in the kitchen sitting with Steve.
He's there, seconds before the explosion that changes his life for a second time after his parents one way trip. Soon, he's waking up in the cave, hooked to a battery, and there's blood, shadows, and faithlessness. His words aren't vocal anymore—they're gunfire. They're the screaming of the terrorist chasing after him in his first Iron Man suit, and the whimpers from Yinsen's body cooling his in hands. His blinks, fighting back the dry taste of the sand, the chill of the water, dripping in the cave, the brightness of the sun that seemed to be burning his flesh because his Arc Reactor is failing, and the suit is too hot, and the flames are too hot…
But there's hope. There's seeing Pepper's face again. There's his mother's wishes, and his father's pride. There's his company, and his ambitions, and his mind and he knows that he can't die here. He can't be the victim anymore, and before he knows it, he's telling Steve everything that comes to his mind, and, retrospectively, watches Steve's reaction. When he gets to Pepper, he notices Steve's eyes becoming darker and darker, but his shaking has evened out a little better.
When Tony finishes, he finds himself completely exhausted, and staring blearily at Steve with a look on his face that he can't quite think of naming. It's something of an expression that only people of this kind of tiredness, frankness, and suffering can wear. Tony braces himself for Steve's rebuttal. He braces himself to hear of men exploding, or burning bodies, mustard gas, and screaming. Young, practically children themselves, men, dying on German shores, lost in freezing, black waters. But there is nothing but contemplative silence. Unlike so many Tony has told his story to, he always leaves out his feelings. But now he's bared them, and he waits for any type of emotion. Confusion. Anger. Bitterness. Regret. Sadness.
But Steve continues to look on at Tony for a very long time, without saying a single word about his own past, his own battles, or his own nightmares. When Tony thinks about speaking again, digging into any other conversation, Steve speaks.
"Were you scared?"
Steve's question spurs a near shudder through Tony's body.
Tony stares hard into Steve's eyes, ripping past the clear, dark blue and finds something glistening there. Red, forlorn, and straining, trying not to show, trying not to notice the faintest trace of tears. Suddenly it all hits Tony like the force of a train. Here was common ground. The terror a man feels for his life. For his future. For his past. Tony couldn't believe how obvious it all was now. This whole time…and why he so easily noticed Steve's distress. He knew that dead, lifeless look in his eyes. He knew that fear so palpable that it drips out of one's body. He just didn't want to go there. He didn't want to admit it.
Steve watches as shadow passes over Tony's face that's dark, the cogs of his mind turning. For once in his life, Tony's pain is there on his face, visible. And incredibly insecure.
"Yes," Tony manages, his voice hoarse and unlike himself. Steve's eyes blink slowly, registering.
"Were you?" Tony forces himself to ask, because if he doesn't do it now, he thinks he'll explode from the shared, broken things they'll never say again to each other.
"I was scared, but I knew what I had to do," Steve whispered. "But now, the war is over." His eyes stare deep into Tony's, blue, and crushing, overwhelming, suffocating. An ocean of hidden sadness.
"And I'm still scared," Steve continued softly, "This future is my war."
"Steve, you—can't look at it that way." Tony tries to find the right words. Those aren't it.
"I know Tony, but," He tries to breath in, but he can't get enough air. "What people tell you, and what you feel, they don't always seem savvy."
"I know, but—" Tony finds himself scrambling for words, something he's never had to do in his entire life. He's so bad at this. Dammit, he's so bad at this. Shit. Fuck.
Suddenly, as if unable to handle talking anymore, Steve is up and on his feet. Tony matches his movements, and turns to pour another cup of coffee, practically burning his hand from working so fast for the drink.
"Tony, it's late. I really shouldn't be up." Steve says easily, noticing Tony's frantic movements.
"Just one more, okay?" I need more time. Tony wants to say, nearly dumping the whole bag of sugar into a single cup.
"Tony, I—" Just give me 60 seconds. I'll find the right thing. I'll find it.
Tony sharply cuts him off, his eyes guarded. "Steve, shut up and sit down."
"Tony," Steve's tone is exasperated, and, finally, Tony calms, turning to get a final look at his friend. He's still trembling, his hair is still a mess, and his eyes are still red around the rim. Tony knows he can't let him leave like this. He can't. He just can't.
You can't do this to me Steve. People with demons don't get up at goddamn 3 in the morning and listen to other people with demons and just leave when they're finished. No one's that caring. No one's that nice. Heroes like that don't exist.
Steve tries again, this time stuck with the brunt end of the other man's silence. "T—"
"Steve," Tony urges, pressing all that he can into the name, all his sorrow, anger, frustration, everything he knew but he didn't know he knew and how much of an ass he feels, not helping, not noticing, but noticing and not being brave enough, man enough to—he turns to press the mug of hot coffee into his friend's hand, his dark eyes searching, seeking for a way to let him know that he doesn't have to leave. Yeah. That's what it's boiled down to. That he'd stay. It's okay. He wants to say. It's okay, his eyes seemed to desperately flash, and the words are stuck deep in his throat, sinking into his chest, touching his damaged heart. He's losing. Tony Stark never loses at anything, but he's losing Steve Rogers.
Steve curled his fingers along the handle, pulling it away from Tony.
"Thanks, Tony. Really," Steve pulled in a deep breath, and turned towards the hall, padding back to his bedroom. Tony could only stare after him. Gently, Steve comes to a stop. "This was…really nice."
Tony nods, unable to move. "Yeah, well. You know my dirty little secret now." That earned a slight smile from the Captain. "I'll be awake," if you need me, Tony actually felt himself wanting to add, but he didn't.
"I know," was all that Steve said. He lifted a still trembling hand and waved goodnight to the billionaire, and disappeared into the darkness without hesitation. Tony felt like the wind had been knocked out of him suddenly as he found himself sinking into a chair.
Steve Fuckin' Rogers. Always the God damn good guy. Always the brave soldier. Tony blinked hard, finding that he had a bit of rage curling around his thoughts. He knew he didn't really mean it at Steve, though. He continued to glare into the darkness, staring hard at the shadows that the light of his Arc Reactor just couldn't reach. You'll do it all alone, won't you? You'll go into battle alone. You'll stand up alone. Tony poured himself another drink, bringing it to his lips. His gaze softened as his thoughts trailed.
You'll awake up alone. You'll eat alone, if you have to. You'll survive this whole damn world, alone.
Tony shot the drink down, letting the burn soothe down his throat. He closed his eyes.
There's only a few things I can handle alone. Tony thought, swallowing thickly. But I couldn't do the loneliest of all things. No. Not after that. Not after all I've seen, all I've done. Thank God I have Pepper. Thank God. Because I'm not crazy enough. Or strong enough. Or, just maybe, broken enough to survive such a feat.
He breathed out slowly through his nose.
I could never sleep alone.
"Is this your first time losing a soldier?"
Steve's voice was eerily quiet in the chilled silence of the air carrier hold. Tony couldn't bring himself to look at Steve, but he could sense it, imagine it in the back of his mind. Steve's eyes were dark, heavy from his past. He wasn't just thinking about Agent Coulson. But Tony couldn't bring himself to even consider caring.
Back then, Tony was glad it was Steve that had cornered him. Glad that when he looked around, the room filled with the blood of a good man on it's walls, it was the Captain that filled his red tinted version, fueled his growing rage, his hate. His bitterness. Tony Stark felt played. Played with, and played at by his own game. He was a hero, God dammit! And People. People didn't just up and die like this. Knowing they won't win. Didn't make such a STUPID move to attack a God. He told Fury this crap. He didn't sign up for this. He didn't sign up to feel like he wasn't the best of the best, and that he couldn't save the world all on his own.
Because is this what being a soldier gets you? Tony's thoughts grinded together, the gears of his mind shooting livid sparks. Locker full of collector cards from a forgotten hero? So you'd what, be like him? Be like him? Your death, all for nothing?
His chest heaved suddenly as he violently rounded on Steve, because this wasn't his fault. It was Steve's. Tony screaming the words, spit flying from his mouth, his dark eyes so full of hatred right then for the war hero, he couldn't even stand it himself. So he spat it out. Every word like it was its own sentence, turning them into a weapon that would burn the prideful destitution of surviving a practically ancient war, for men that he didn't know, he didn't want to know, to disgrace the honnor and the legend that was Captain America. He cursed them at him, as if that would make them any less true:
"We are NOT soldiers!"
Tony's past words rang in his own head, chilling him to the bone.
His mug shook ever so slightly.