"Steve, come one, we're going to be late!"
Tony plucked a jacket from his very extensive closet and shrugging into it, snatched his phone from the dresser on the way out.
Steve raced down the stairs, feet clobbering loudly on the wooden floorboards. He hopped into his loafers while simultaneously shoving a roll into his mouth.
"I ef rea-fy," Steve hollered, spraying crumbs all over the polished floors. Tony rolled his eyes, snapped his fingers for Dummy to clean up the bread/spittle mess that Steve made, and straightened Steve's lapel with a flick and a smirk.
"Come on, loser, we're going to school."
Of course, Mister Rogers here didn't get the reference.
"I'm not a loser," Steve replied, a crinkle in the bridge of his nose.
"I'll show you the movie later. Now I don't want to have to use my very influential alter-ego to make excuses for your tardiness, do I, Captain Rogers?"
"Oh, you mean that one where you're an insufferable asshole all the time? Or the one where you're an idiot with no regards to his life? Oh I'm sorry, they're the same, aren't they," Steve shot back, a teasing smile plastered over his face.
Damn, Steve's really been working on that sarcasm muscle, eh?
Tony held the door open for Steve, bowing mockingly and gesturing for Steve to exit. They slipped into the car, Steve holding open the door for Tony this time.
"ESU. Be there two minutes ago."
Happy grunted, and Tony braced himself against the drag as the limousine accelerated sharply, spinning around a corner and straight into New York traffic. Tony poured two flutes of champagne, one for Steve and one for himself. "Here's to kindergarten all over again. And the best sex in all of New York."
Steve sighed, accepted the drink, and sipped at it. Tony, on the other hand, downed the entire thing and was pouring more.
"Hey, not too much."
"Sorry, mom, I thought I was the one sending you off."
They pulled up to the curb, Tony exiting as soon as the vehicle was stationary, and held open the door for Steve. Steve nodded a thanks, and checked the size of the building. Just like any other structure in New York after the nineties: needle-thin and twisting in ways thought impossible. Until some crazy architect proved it wrong. "Empire State University School of Arts. Have fun, kiddo."
"I'm older than you."
"Shut up, I'm older than you."
Tony patted Steve twice on the shoulder, and then shoved him towards the entrance (lightly, of course), snatching the glass out of his hands. Steve glanced back, waved once, and then shuffled through the revolving doors and into the building.
Tony slid back into the car, and finished the remnants of Steve's half-filled champagne. He leaped into this knowing full well the endless nights of no sleep and waking up, expecting a gentle and strong hand on his shoulder and receiving nothing. Of eating dinner alone, condemned to a life of take-out and silence. Of spending group meals without someone to prod over and over again with his finger.
"I'll miss him," he mused quietly to himself. And then poured himself something a little stronger than champagne.
Steve glanced at the tablet again, then at the sign on his wall. Seeing no connection between the two, he gave into the temptation and held the tablet up, scanning the map.
"JARVIS, sorry I have to use you, but how do I get to my classroom?"
"No need to apologize, Captain Rogers. Turn left at the next junction, and then take the second right. Your classroom is the third door on the right."
"Thank you. And, uh, tell Tony… I'll be at the Tower before ten."
"Done, sir."
Steve slipped the tablet back into his satchel, next to his drawing pad and pencils and charcoal and pastels. He followed JARVIS' instructions, arriving at a nondescript door. He reached out a hand, stopping himself at the last minute. Tony had paid for his classes, and had muscled Steve's name onto the class roster, threatening global war. Tony, usually the self-serving jerk, giving up valuable time and money just for Steve to pursue a sometimes-hobby that he absentmindedly dropped God-knows-when. Tony, who, with a wistful smile, had surprised Steve with an envelope at his birthday with a credit card, keys to a new motorcycle, and an acceptance letter from Empire State University, the most prestigious college in the world. And Tony, sitting by himself, small and alone, eating two-day old takeout in his old Black Sabbath tee and tattered sweats, before heading off to the workshop. It was just a short class, really, two hours every weekday, from 7 to 9 every evening.
Save one small issue: "field trips". Steve read the letter over and over again, at first overwhelmed by the chance to finally live a "normal" life. He never finished college, heading off into the war as Steve Rogers and returning as Captain America. Well, not really returning. But still. He missed one small detail. What he and Tony called "field trips". Basically, overseas studies. As a requirement, Steve had to travel to Europe for at least three months. And he hated that provision. And he loved Tony for making that sacrifice, and hated him for making that sacrifice, and hated himself for accepting it, and loved art so much.
Steve's hand hovered over the door handle. A quick glance at his watch revealed that he had less than twenty seconds to make a decision. Tony, turning over his latest invention over and over in his hand, staring blank-eyed at it. Steve, sketching his favorite pieces from the Louvre. Tony, sitting dejectedly in front of his TV, surfing through channels, hours at a time, waiting for Steve to finally come home. Steve, painting the Finnish landscapes. Tony, falling into his latest tryst, trying to ignore the painful ache that wouldn't go away.
And Steve pushed open the door.
Tony stared at the contents of refrigerator, digging for a quick snack to bring down to the workshop. Pepper just left, after yelling at him for not attending a single board or SHIELD meeting in the past week. And then, noticing Steve's absence, shut up and dragged Tony to the couch, where they watched How I Met Your Mother for three and a half hours. And then she left, forced to return to a job that Tony handed to her through clenched teeth and a snarl.
So Tony shuffled down to his workshop, idly rifling through scraps while sipping a cup of coffee, calculating the chances of reaching Banner. Looking down, he had assembled a sort of simple radio. No, no, this did not remind him of Steve. He wasn't doing this to himself, not again. Not after Pepper broke his heart and Steve reassembled him in the best way he knew how.
Tony called Banner. Rang once. Rang twice. Rang three, four, five, six… Tony lost count. And then he called Clint. Rang once. Rang twice. All the way until he lost count again. If Clint disappeared on an op, Natasha was gone, too. He called anyway. Rang once. Rang twice. Lost count. And so he repeated, calling everyone he knew, waiting for the phone to ring once, ring twice, and then losing count, losing himself.
Steve came home, expecting Tony to be in bed or in the workshop. He checked his room, Tony's room, and the kitchen, finding neither soul nor shadow. The soft glow coming from Tony's workshop revealed his presence. Steve padded down the stairs, trying to surprise Tony. Hopefully JARVIS would pick up on his intentions and not give away Steve's return. Steve gently shoved the glass door open, looking around for Tony's presence, perhaps on the cot pushed against the side of the lab (for their more desperate monsoons). Steve hoped Tony wasn't passed out in a depressive sleep.
He hadn't been hoping for Tony to be lying in a pool of his own blood, life slowly draining out of his eyes.