'Don't ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody.' Steve let the book fall open on his chest, the last line lingering in his mind as he closed his eyes, a deep breath sweeping away the last vestiges of the make believe world his existence had been limited to for the past several hours.
Rubbing his fingers thoughtfully over the redish orange cover, the cardboard smooth and cool beneath his fingers, Steve sighed, feeling somewhat distanced from the here and now, a strange melancholy lingering in his chest.
Catching up on all the literature he'd missed over the course of 70 years was both maddeningly daunting, as well as enormously exciting, and Steve never tired of picking up a new novel, but on occasion he found himself being drawn into something that he hadn't quite been expecting, as the case had been earlier this evening.
Rolling onto his side, propping himself up on an elbow, Steve slid the book onto the top of the small pile resting near the bedside table, knowing that it would probably linger in his thoughts for several days, and he might be back for a second read through before moving onto the next title on his list.
For now though, it was bedtime, and he got to his feet, shoulders rolling and arms coming up in a stretch as he shrugged off an evening's worth of stillness. A trip to the bathroom and a glass of water later, and he pulled back the covers, sliding into blissfully cool silk that immediately moulded around his body and settled to his body temperature.
A quick glance at the neon numbers glaring at him from the bedside table told him that it was nearing 2am, and Steve stifled a yawn. 2am wasn't exactly running himself ragged, Superserum allowing him super stamina, but his mind wanted what his mind wanted.
Stretching slightly, his feet sliding along smooth material into cooler regions of the bed, Steve brushed a hand over the wide empty expanse to his right, and shrugged. It was worth a try.
"Jarvis, Is Tony still in the workshop?" he asked, rolling onto his back to face the ceiling, not sure he was ever going to break himself of the habit, and not really trying very hard to (he'd seen the stupidly adoring smile Tony wore when he saw Steve do stupidly endearing things).
"Yes, Captain. Do you require Sir's attention?" Came the prompt response, the formal British tones infused with just a hint of something beyond what technology could accomplish, but Steve could never quite put his finger on.
He answered, "No thanks Jarvis. I was just- Where is he on the scale at the moment?"
The scale was a little in-joke among the Avengers, coined one particularly memorable day, some 92hours into one of Tony's infamous insomnia jags. The idea had likely originating from Clint, but had been adopted by the rest of the group over the course of the day, starting with the archer informing them over breakfast that Stark was at the stage of "Could be building a bomb, might just be changing a bulb".
By mid evening he'd progressed to Natasha's devised stage of "There might be a sentient desk lamp in the library ". And at 11pm things had culminated into JARVIS shutting down the lab and informing Steve that "Sir has just entered 'Burn my eyebrows off exhausted", and would the Captain be so kind as to encourage him to bed, in whatever way necessary.
Since then the 'scale' had been expanded several times, suffered several vigorous additions and reworking's, and was truly a work of practicality in deducing the state of Tony's Exhaustion.
"Not to worry, Captain, Sir is only just starting to progress beyond 'B.O.S.I.A.C', I predict it'll be several hours before he enters 'Was I dissembling or assembling?, and then a further hour after that before 'Everything needs repulsors'".
Steve huffed a breath, half laughter, half exasperation. B.O.S.I.A.C, or Bosiac was the one term Tony had been allowed to coin himself, when he'd stumbled across a hastily penned "Swivel Chair. Swivel Chair. Swivel Chair, weeeee." in the margin of one of Steve's sketch books and had forcibly extracted the whole story from his lover (Forcibly. With Feathers).
Bosiac, of course, was Box Of Scraps. In A Cave.
Which was basically Tony speak for 'Actual Genius at Work', with a small complementary element of 'Leave me the fuck alone'.
"Thanks Jarvis, I'll leave him to it then. Although – Can you let me know if he falls asleep at his workbench again?" Steve asked.
There was a beat of silence, which was inexplicable for such a sophisticated program, but not for someone thinking about a past event that had worried them, and when JARVIS answered, it was with a level of thankfulness that no none would credit with being dis-human. "…With expedience, Sir."
Steve startled slightly at the 'Sir,' a warm feeling flooding his chest as he recognised the term of address for what it was. Respect, approval, warmth, value. It was JARVIS's choice of address for his creator, his father, and was solely used for that purpose, it was the highest form of admiration he could bestow with just one word. Steve had never heard it used by JARVIS to anyone else.
And he'd just used it with Steve.
Humbled by the honour, Steve only nodded his thanks, knowing that JARVIS would see.
It was gratifying to know that Jarvis had such faith in him, though Steve would have given it back in heartbeat if he could undo the event that had precipitated it.
Even now, weeks later he could hear JARVIS'S panicked voice, volume raised to an actual shout. He'd never heard JARVIS sound more human. Or more terrified.
In the end, it had been anticlimactic, but Steve still added the entire event to those that haunted his sleep at night.
Tony, asleep at his work bench, plagued by a nightmare, had somehow managed to fall from his stool, hitting his head on the corner of the workbench, and had then managing to pull several hundred pounds of gold-titanium alloy down on top of himself. Out cold, he'd lay on the hard cement floor, blood slowly pooling beneath his head.
And JARVIS, aware, having seen, cataloguing vitals, trying to rouse…completely cut off from the outside world, his main servers down for upgrades, had watched on for hours, helpless….
In the end JARVIS had managed to communicate verbally with Dummy, finally convincing the helper bot to blast music at such a decibel that it had annoyed The Hulk enough that Bruce had broken from his hour of mediation to go tell Tony off.
Thankfully it hadn't been too serious on Tony's part, a few bruises and a moderate concussion his only injuries.
For JARVIS though, it had been one of the worst experiences of his existence, and the fact that Steve recognised that, and took actions to make sure he never had to go through it again, on JARVIS's own merit, as opposed to Tony's, was the prompt behind the rare display of gratitude from the AI.
Even though he was the only person in the room, the air still felt like it was heavy. Hanging stale and cold around him, all earlier comfort and lazy tiredness forgotten.
Steve wondered if JARVIS remembered. He knew the AI had memory banks, but he wondered if the program associated thoughts or feelings, emotions with specific memories. If picturing Tony lying on the cold concrete of his workshop made him feel something like the empty roiling mess that sank to the pit of Steve's stomach and sat there, dense and rotten.
"JARVIS, can you- I need to see him." Steve spoke loudly, and before he finished the sentence, an image appeared on the display sunk into the wall to his left.
And like a breath of fresh air, the room lightened again, the sense of foreboding that had been clawing its way into his mind dissipating, replaced by the same giddy feeling that only ever occurred when one person was within his sights.
And what a sight.
Tony was dancing, head thrown back, face turned to the ceiling. His eyes were screwed tightly shut and his arms spread wide. He was spinning in place, hips swaying to a beat that Steve couldn't hear through the visual-only feed. His lips were moving, and Steve didn't know if he was singing along, heckling the bot that awkwardly shuffled around him in some stylized robot-dance, or simply yelling, but Steve found he truly didn't care.
It was enough to watch as Tony dipped and cavorted about the workshop, a wrench clenched in one fist, the other an empty extension of grace.
Even with grease dotting his entire body, great smears of black across his left cheek and down his neck. Even with hair that looked like the victim of an oil spill. With torn, burnt, filthy and ill-fitting clothes.
Steve still felt his breath catch.
He could've lay there forever. For another 70 years. Watching this. Just watching Tony.
But even as he thought it, Steve felt anther yawn break free, and mind calmed again, he shrugged the blankets higher around his shoulders, curled Tony's favourite pillow into his arms and scrunched down against it. His eyes slipped closed on the image of Tony's wrench meeting the metal rod clenched in Dummy's claw, as a mock sword fight began some 50 stories below.