Author's Note:
This site won't let me post links, but this story was written in response to capim-tinybang's 2018 Tiny Reverse Bang Amnesty Week, in response to a beautiful piece of artwork you can find at archiveofourown DOT org SLASH works SLASH 15099626. The art is definitely worth your time for a peek and kudos/comment.
*waves hello* Since this takes place during the scene where Tony and Steve say goodbye at the end of Avengers: Age of Ultron, I have borrowed some lines of dialogue from the movie. This is a new fandom and a new ship for me. Also, because 2018 has thus far repeatedly kicked my ass on a personal level, it's been a while since I've written fic. Please feel free to comment; I'd love to hear your thoughts, whether you leave a smile, a frown, constructive criticism, or a poem. ;) All I ask is that you please remember that there is, in fact, a human being on the other side of the screen. Thank you for reading!
"I will miss you, Tony," Steve says from beside him as they walk across the grass, and though there's nothing particularly remarkable about his voice, Tony still can't resist turning his head so he can peer at his face for just a moment—
(In a quicksilver flash of whimsy, he thinks of the Sirens luring ancient mariners to their deaths with their hypnotic voices. The thought flickers and vanishes.)
—to gauge Steve's sincerity. That's all. Not so Tony can admire the blue gleam of his eyes; the glitter of his lashes in the sunlight; the little ruts etched between the sandy, twin slashes of his eyebrows. Never that.
(He'd laugh at himself if he weren't so pathetic.)
"Yeah?" There's no hollow ache in his stomach and his chest when he thinks about leaving Steve there at the new Avengers facility. There isn't, ok? "Well, it's time for me tap out." Relief that Steve hasn't asked him to stay makes Tony a touch breathless.
If he— If he asks him to stay—if the words Don't go slip out of that pretty, pink mouth, wrapped in a plea, not a command, Tony would maybe possibly definitely consider it; that would be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad idea.
Because if Steve is fire, Tony is gasoline, and Tony has just enough self-awareness to realize it would only take a single stray spark and he would gladly ignite.
They talk for a few minutes more about a simple life of family and stability.
When Tony looks at Steve, he wants to stay. When he looks at Steve, he wants to call his armor, suit up, and hit the sky, letting wind and distance create a buffer between him and the man wearing a uniform Tony designed for him. When he looks at Steve, Tony wonders just how strong the solid stretch of those broad shoulders is. He wants to test it—wants to curl up against Steve's chest and make himself small, so small that neither the memory of his father's alcohol-slick breath, the casual brutality of his father's fists, nor Obi's betrayal, can touch him. Worst of all, he wants to tuck his head under Steve's chin and breathe his secrets into the gentle cup of his collarbone.
I'm the man who killed the Avengers. I saw you all dead. I felt it. The whole world, too. Because of me. I wasn't ready. I didn't do all I could.
When Tony looks at Steve, it isn't the legend or the super soldier he wants; it's the man.
Tony tells Steve none of these things, though, glass-fragile inside, where no one can see it, shielding himself with a whitewater rush of words instead. Their conversation leaves Tony very happy he's wearing shades. Hopefully, the tinted lenses hide enough of his eyes that Steve can't sense the uncomfortable emotions roiling inside Tony.
In the end, Tony drives off, leaving nanofragments of himself back at the Avengers compound, whether Steve realizes it or not.
Back in his bedroom in Malibu, Tony unzips his bag and finds an unmarked manila envelope lying on top of his clothes. His fingers fumble with the metal clasp, and he rolls his eyes. "Fuck," he mutters as he slides a single sheet of paper from the envelope and manages to catch its sharp edge with his finger. A red drop blooms blood-bright at the bottom right corner, just beneath the space where S. Rogers is inked in strong, neat script. Tony's eyes track upward from that spot on the page, his pulse beating hard enough that he can taste it in the back of his throat.
Part of a forearm and all of a hand, long-fingered and short-nailed, graced with downy hair Tony can almost feel beneath his fingertips if he concentrates, are drawn in pencil, hyperrealistic, in the foreground. Steve's hand. It reaches back toward the top of the page, fingers curved in an elegant arch Tony wants to travel with his lips, and gives the impression of stopping short of touching what's sketched there: Tony himself lying on his side in a bed, legs bent and curled in like he's hiding from something.
A nubby, checkered blanket is pulled up over him, covering his entire body from his neck down. His hands, folded as if in prayer, lie caught beneath his cheek and a fat pillow. His mouth sits slightly open, lax and soft. But his eyes are closed, lashes and perhaps dark thoughts casting deep shadows on the thin skin below. His hair sticks up in jagged, haphazard spikes. All except for a thick chunk that's somehow pulled low and comma-shaped over his forehead. Above the entire drawing hovers a dialogue bubble, and inside it reads, "I don't trust a guy without a dark side." Words Tony remembers speaking to Steve when they were arguing about Ultron—and secrets.
It's him. It's him. It's unmistakably him, lying in the bed he and Steve had shared at the Barton farm. Eyes closed, Tony permits himself a moment of weakness—allows his trembling fingers to trace over and across the paper, imagining Steve watching him sleep. Imagining Steve watching him and wanting to touch. But no, that can't be right...
Tony bites his tongue until he tastes copper. Only then does he open his eyes. Ignoring his still full bag, he dashes out of his bedroom and to his workshop, where he locks himself in. The drawing he drops into a drawer that he locks. After five minutes, he unlocks and reopens the drawer, and with a heavy sigh and his mouth curled bitterly on one side, he removes the drawing and places it on one of his drafting tables.
Tony works. He calculates probabilities; draws schematics; welds and hammers; ignores JARVIS' crisp Sir, Captain Rogers wishes to speak with you; drinks cup after cup of strong coffee; stays awake until his body decides for him. Then, and only then, does he do what he's been fighting so desperately not to do.
He slumps over a table and sleeps, muscles twitching occasionally, head filled with images of Captain America's broken shield and their friends' broken bodies and finally, finally, finally Steve's broken body and his even more fractured words: You could have saved us. Why didn't you do more?
Question for you, dear reader(s): How do you feel about the Avengers: Age of Ultron movie?
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