Small warning that a character has a panic attack, so please take care of your pretty little selves and bump on out if those are triggering for you. There's also a general warning that this is a story about testing painkillers, so Steve undergoes quite a few graphic injuries.
Trial 1: Observatory Phase
Method? None. We literally just discovered there was a problem, Jarvis.
Hypothesis? If Steve has a problem, then we will fix it. We're Tony Stark, of course, we'll fix it.
"You didn't tell us about this," Tony groused. Mark 42 came off in pieces, not because of necessity, but Tony needed a distraction. He needed things to fiddle with. Normally the suit came off in a single motion, but today he required a slow and gradual disassembling. "Actually, I wouldn't know, but you didn't tell me, and who is the most important person in this room right now? Yes, yours truly."
Steve, huddled over in the bed, squinted at Tony. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"This, you, this here," Tony said as he waved his hand.
Eyebrows folding together, Steve turned his head towards where Natasha was painting her nails on her lap. "What is he saying?"
Natasha shook her arm out, glossed lips pursing as she gently blew on her fingers. "For once, I'm not really sure."
Tony muttered obscenities under his breath, shedding the last of his armor and depositing it by the door. He wandered closer to Steve, hiding under the guise of flippancy, and flicked through the file hanging on the IV pole. The list was relatively mild compared to past missions. Third degree burns over 40 percent of the body, broken ribs, moderate concussion. Tony slammed it shut with dramatic flair and sat down in the lush armchair to his left.
"I consider this unacceptable," Tony declared, settling back in a slouch and throwing one leg over the other. Sweat beaded on Steve's upper lip. His shoulders shook with minute tremors.
"Tony," Steve started, but his visibly gritted together in his mouth, making it hard to speak. "I don't, I don't get it."
Watching Steve made Tony want to throw his head into a wall. Repeatedly, with a lot of force. "You conveniently forgot to mention, over the course of two years, no less, that there is no such thing as a painkiller that works on your delightfully bouncy and robust figure."
"Oh," Natasha hummed, long and drawn out, like she had just discovered something absolutely thrilling. She tilted her chin in Tony's direction. "Now I understand."
Tony glared. "Stop that. I don't like it when you do that. Also, you didn't mention this, Catwoman, and I know for a fact that after the Winter Soldier debacle, Captain Toasted Bread here was shot through four three times and fell from fifty feet in the air."
Natasha blinked. "He handled it then."
"He shouldn't have to handle it."
Steve kept flicking his eyes between them as they volleyed back and forth. "Wait, are we still talking about painkillers?"
"Yes," Tony said.
"Actually, I'm not sure," Natasha replied.
Steve growled deep in his throat, but it was too pained to be threatening, and he finished the sound by rocking forward and pressing his forehead into the mattress. His knuckles were white.
Natasha frowned, her left shoulder jerking forward in an aborted motion towards Steve. Her features rippled, and Tony felt their strange stand-off come to a close. For the first time, and probably the last, he'd won a non-verbal against Natasha. As Steve breaths rolled over them, quick and strained, Tony felt little reason to celebrate.
"How was I supposed to bring that up, Tony? Bit of a strange topic, you know. And It's not a big deal, anyway," Steve voiced after his spasm of pain had concluded.
Tony shook his head, gesturing to Steve's back. He was tempted to drag his nails down the grotesque burns marring Steve's skin just to prove a point. "This is not a big deal? Really, you're going to claim that this is not a big deal? And don't forget that I'm not arguing big deal on a scale of domestic bombing to alien invasion. I'm talking about every day, gray hairs and hangnails big deal. Stuff that affects you consistently, Steve. Shit that happens to you a lot."
"SHIELD was looking into it before Project Insight, but the research was lost after they went down. Beside, you're a mechanic, not a doctor, Tony. Steve had no reason to mention it."
Tony bit his lip until he felt like he was about to draw blood. "What part of genius don't you guys understand?" he asked, hoping his voice remained level. He narrowed his eyes at Natasha, flickers of ballerinas and red curtains flashing in his mind's eye. "Painkillers work on you. I know they do. I've seen them. Morphine, Demerol, aspirin, opioids, I know they work on you."
"How do you know that?" Steve quipped.
Tony rolled his eyes and tapped his temple. "Mind like a steel trap. Because I'm a genius."
"I have a different variation of the serum, less effective, obviously," Natasha replied.
Steve was waning, breaths evening out and muscles loosening. He looked at Tony, almost like a good night, and closed his eyes. It was a startling display of trust. Steve did that. Too often, Tony thought. Once you proved that you had something good about you, Steve trusted you implicitly. Look at the Wilson guy, took him five minutes while on a run, and Steve ended up crashing at his place while being hunted down by the entirety of the US government.
"I can figure this out. I'll get Banner in on it. He loves a good puzzle," Tony said, standing and shrugging his coat over his shoulders.
He wanted to stay, but at the same time, he knew that he shouldn't. Afghanistan never really left him, after all. Even Natasha could see that, and those memories were begging to be answered for every time Tony spent too long listening to Steve's strangled gasps for air or looking at his agonized expression.
"You're staying?" he asked Natasha. She harumphed in response. Her bare feet swung onto the bed next to Steve's calves. Tony wobbled on his heels momentarily before he quickly swiped his hand over Steve's hair. He buttoned his coat. Natasha was smiling at him, so Tony shrugged because it was no big deal and left the room. He had research to do.
Trial 2: Fuck You, Bayer.
Method? Rule Out Large Doses of Cyclooxygenase Eliminators
Sir, you are simply speaking of aspirin.
Excuse me for using the lingo, Jarvis.
Hypothesis? Probably failure, but it has to be ruled out.
Sir, that was not a hypothesis.
Tony thought about Steve's immunity to painkillers more than he wanted to admit. It wasn't so much the physical act of it, that his body simply metabolized all forms of medication before it could have any effect. Tony kept thinking about the way that Steve's shoulders had shuddered, and his chest shook, how his eyes and teeth were clenched shut and probably hurt with the force. If those burns had been any more severe... and they had been, that was the problem.
One of the worst parts was that Tony knew that Steve had been injured before that day, at a greater degree. Despite the fact that he was the Captain, Steve was often caught in the unfortunate crosshairs of being a big hitter like Hulk, Thor, and Tony himself, but not being nearly as invulnerable. He was good, though, and Tony sometimes forgot that. Steve was a genius in his own right, at least tactically. The guy knew how to be in the right place at the right time, but that still didn't change the fact that shit happened, and he got hurt.
Christ, Steve had broken limbs before. Big ones, like femurs. When Tony had peeked into the hospital room, he was always sleeping comfortably or having an easy conversation with a flustered nurse. Steve never looked like he was in pain. Tony had to give him credit. Steve couldn't lie to save his life, but when it came to hiding physical or emotional distress, the guy could eat himself completely.
Tony knew that he had a limited sample size. He hated hospital rooms, hospital beds, hospital doctors. He hated the white walls and the strong stench of antiseptic. He endured them in five minute stretches, only when he knew that one of his teammates was down and wouldn't be back up for at least two days. Tony supposed that the reason Steve's plight had shocked him so roughly was because it was first time he had ever seen Steve actually in pain. Tony considered that a problem. He wanted to, no, needed to fix it.
So for the next couple weeks, Tony kept a lookout for any signs of distress coming from Steve. He was ready to strike with his new medication, just to see. He still had to do some research about Steve's metabolism. He also needed a sample of his blood. For science.
"Damnit, Steve, your arm is hanging down to your knees, stop moving," Sam Wilson growled over the comms.
Tony, hovering in midair, perked up immediately. "What? Really? Finally!"
"What the hell, Stark?" Clint responded. "Not cool, man."
"Don't be so sensitive, Hawkguy. It's for science," Tony said as he swooped down to land next to Steve and Sam. His boots clunked loudly, announcing his presence behind their backs.
Steve turned around, his face a shade paler than was healthy. He lifted his good arm to his ear and spoke into the comm. "It's not what it sounds like," he said wearily.
"Are you in pain?" Tony asked, stalking closer. He began walking around Steve, letting the suit give him a holographic display of Steve's dislocated shoulder and the limited blood flow to his extremity.
Steve clenched his teeth, side-eying Tony. "A bit, yeah."
"Would you let me put it back in?"
Sam Wilson stepped between them, as if his mortal form could thwart Tony. Ridiculous. Did Thor feel this way around them? "Oh, hell no," he groused. He wagged his finger in Tony's direction. "Absolutely not. You are not a doctor."
"Um, actually—"
"Medical doctor, Stark."
Steve rolled his eyes. "It's fine, Sam, really."
Tony retracted his gauntlet and retrieved the vial and syringe from where he'd stored it in the armor over his forearm. He waved his hand out in a dismissal of Wilson. "Now call off your guard dog."
Sam stepped back, but he looked like he'd eaten a lemon straight up before he did so. Tony poked the needle into the vial and filled the syringe. "Speaking of, why do you have a guard dog, Cap? I mean, he knows that you're the one with the serum who can leap tall buildings in a single bound, right?"
"Steve's an idiot."
"Hey!" Steve protested, an expression that he would never admit to, but that was definitely a defiant pout. "Ouch!" he exclaimed, pulling his arm back from where Tony had grabbed it and inserted the needle. He threw Tony a betrayed look.
Tony put his hands up in the universal sign of peace. "You said I could!"
Wilson ignored Tony and put his hand on Steve's uninjured shoulder. "How do you feel?"
"Oh, so now you're on my team?" Tony asked.
Steve pursed his lips. "I don't feel any different than usual."
"How long does it take to work?" Sam asked Tony.
"If it were effective, it should've decreased his pain right away," Tony replied dejectedly. He stepped closer, setting his hand carefully on the elbow that connected to the dislocated joint. "I guess we'll have to do this dry. I have other ideas, Cap, don't worry."
Wilson edged forward, and his expression was patently skeptical. "I still don't think you should be putting his shoulder back in." When Tony flicked his eyes to the right, he could clearly see Sam clutching a strap on the back of Steve's uniform. Ridiculous. He was even hanging on Steve's coattails.
"Excuse me, but I have a computer in my head that has more processing power than the combined weight of Harvard's graduating class."
Steve gave Sam a look that seemed to communicate something significant to them. In Tony's eyes, he could see Steve pleading, "Dad, please let me play with the cool kids."
"Fine," Sam conceded. "But if you mess this up," he threatened.
Tony grinned quickly and patted Sam's shoulder. He loved winning. "Now you know the drill, Cap. I don't count; you don't tense up."
Then he pushed Steve's shoulder back in, letting Jarvis calculate where and how much pressure to apply so he could do it perfectly. Steve bent over immediately, shouting obscenities that were impressive even to Tony's ears. It was all fine and great until Jarvis called attention to the fact that Steve's blood pressure had swooped dangerously low and his blood-oxygen levels were getting tetchy. Tony shot forward and gripped Steve's arms, eerily at the same time as Sam, who didn't have a computer in his head, and together they got Steve sitting down.
"There you go, breathe through it," Sam soothed, crouching next to Steve.
Tony looked around in a slight panic, arms twitching uselessly. "Jarvis?" he asked quietly.
"I believe you are supposed to do something comforting, Sir."
Tony's expression twisted up, and he internally reminded himself to adjust Jarvis' empathic skills. Tony needed more help for times like these.
"I would recommend platonic physical contact, Sir. Verifiable sources point to high levels of success with this practice."
Tony warily watched Sam pat Steve. "Uh, okay," he whispered. Tony reached out and gently rested his hand on Steve's head. He was half-tempted to start saying there, there now, but that seemed outdated. Steve did have very soft hair, even though it was all sweaty and sticking up from battle and his cowl. Tony wanted to know what kind of conditioner he used. He probably didn't even use any, the perfect bastard. Oh, that's right. Comforting. Tony sorted his fingers a bit through the messy blond strands.
"Shit," Steve snorted, half-laugh and half-groan. He looked up at Tony. His skin was still too pale. Sweat dried near his temples. "It had time to heal, that's the problem. Healed in the wrong spot, and you had tear it back out."
Tony and Sam simultaneously blanched.
"All better now, right?" Tony asked quietly. His stomach churned.
Steve heaved a sigh, rubbing a hand over his head and bumping into Tony's as he did so. Tony awkwardly stepped back. "Help me up, would ya?" Steve asked.
Together, Sam and Tony found a way to hoist Steve up without touching his bad arm. They carefully began escorting him towards where SHIELD had medical tents waiting, just to be sure. After Steve slipped into one, with a sheepish smile in their direction, Sam shoved his hands in his pockets and faced Tony.
"It is a problem, you know. I get that. After DC? He fronts well, but they took three bullets out of him and he was awake for it. Nothing they could do. 'Course, afterwards the doctor said that his nearly split-open brain kept him in and out, but still. No one deserves to deal with that, especially not in a job like this. Surgery without any pain medication? It's virtually torture every time he steps on the field."
Tony swallowed. "Yeah, it is."
Unperturbed or unconcerned, Sam plowed on. "So, just. Thanks, man. And I do trust you, I just...Worry. I'm the worried friend. Suppose you are too. I hope this works out. And besides, who woulda thought that Tony Stark was nice?" he finished, throwing a wicked grin at Tony as he started walking off to join Steve in the medical tent.
"Hey!" Tony called out after him. "That was completely uncalled for!"
Sam chuckled, and his expression was inordinately serious. "Not really."
God, Tony hated compliments.
Trial 3: Here's to You, Bela Lugosi.
Sir, this seems offensive, and rather...counterproductive.
He's been dead for decades!
Method? Large and continuous doses of opiates.
Hypothesis? Checked with Steve's DC docs, said they tried morphine but they didn't go over the maximum dosage because lawsuits are bad. SHIELD records show that Steve wasn't critically injured during his time with the Strike team. We're starting from scratch, Jarv.
Again, sir, this is not a hypothesis. I can direct you to several resources which could refresh your memory on how to compose one?
Don't be a dick, Jarvis.
I am a product of my environment, Sir.
"Why is it that we always meet this way?" Tony asked as his bed rolled to a stop next to Steve. Bruce and the attending doctor clicked the brakes on the wheels, ensuring that Tony couldn't like, scoot his way out of the room.
Steve, his legs dangling off the side of the bed, frowned. Lines of pain that Tony was now familiar with were etched into his face. "Tony, we live together."
The guy was infuriating sometimes. It was in an oblivious, kind of adorable way, but still. Even while there was a doctor perched on her knee behind him, prepping him for at least a hundred stitches to take care of the foot long gashes on his back, Steve maintained his boy-next-door, Captain Brooklyn persona. The Avengers were called out on a mission to save Cape Canaveral from a mutant lizard. It had had claws that could shred concrete, and Steve got swiped into a brick wall. Of course, a petty wall didn't stand a chance against the mighty Captain America, and Steve bounced right back up, but he had some epic, weeping wounds to remember the moment by.
Tony had met his unfortunate end against the immediate post of a large bridge and suffered a concussion to match. Thank God for Thor's eternal protective nature and magical hammer, because Steve had stressed before the mission that he only wanted to bring out the Hulk if it was necessary. So three hours and one soggy, pissed off god later, they were clumped inside of a hospital room, and Tony was ready to strike with his new meds for Steve.
"You know what I mean," he grumbled. "Now let me experiment on you." He started patting down his body and panic zipped up his spine when he realized that he didn't know where anything was. "Where's my stuff? Where's my suit? What'd you do with my suit?"
Bruce hurried forward and raised his arms in a sign of peace. "Hey, hey, I had Jarvis take it off you when you were unconscious. It's safe."
"I want it back," Tony demanded. He was good at demanding things. He was also worried. "Please. I'll even say please. I just want it back. I need it." His head hurt, and he wanted the doctor to clear him for pain medication as soon as possible. "Are you even sure it's okay? Why does—stop moving," he growled. Every time he blinked the lights behind Bruce's swaying form flared with a wicked intensity.
"Tony, it's okay," Bruce said urgently.
Clamping a hand to his left ear, Tony hunched forward and said, "I know everything's okay. Why are you saying that?"
"Excuse me, Doctor Anderson, Sarah, could you give us a minute? We're going to sort this out here. Thank you," Steve was saying in the background, in his infuriating, stupid Captain voice.
Tony whipped his head to look at him, which was a mistake as everything blurred, and argued, "Why are you saying that? What—oh, shit. Shit."
Apparently everyone in the room besides Tony knew when he was panicking. That was embarrassing. That was really, really embarrassing. Heat flooded his face. A heavy weight settled over his chest. He inhaled except there was no air left. He knew there was, damnit, he knew. But he couldn't get to it, he couldn't breathe. A rushing tingling sensation flooded his hands and toes. Maybe all of his blood wasn't reaching his extremities anymore. Everything was so loud. The wheezing coming from his mouth sounded like a chainsaw. His throat was closing. He was getting air through a straw. He was tumbling through blackness in a portal. There was no place that was safe. Except his suit. His suit was safe. He would be safe there.
"Tony, sit down okay? You can't walk anywhere right now." That was Steve's voice and those were Steve's hands firmly manhandling him back onto the bed.
"Steve, you shouldn't be moving either," Bruce whispered. Tony jerked his head up and remembered that Steve was hurt; he was still bleeding in rivulets. Tony was the idiot who was freaking out and forcing him to move.
Steve rolled his eyes—Steve did that a lot, and no one but Tony really ever saw—and said, "It's fine. Don't give me that look, Tony. I'm just fine. Focus on you, okay? It's just you and me and Bruce. Focus on that."
"Breathe with us, Tony. On our count," Bruce said, and he was perched behind Steve, and both of them were so damn calm, like this was no big deal. "In through your nose, out through your mouth." He repeated that, and Tony narrowed his eyes and concentrated his attention on their voices. A large majority of the time, he had severe oppositional defiance issues, but not that often when it was Steve, and not when he knew it was for his own good.
Eventually, he calmed down. It was hard, and it took several minutes, but he did it. When he was finally able to focus on something that wasn't his imminent death, Tony saw that Steve was sitting right next to him, and Bruce was hovering next to Tony's shoulder, a hand on his back. Ugh, so much support.
"How ya feelin'?" Steve asked, with big earnest, blue eyes. Tony hated him.
Tony tugged his hand through his hair, trying to shake out the tremors still rumbling through his body. Then—. "Hey! You're bleeding all over my sheets. Get off."
Twisting his back in a sad attempt to prove Tony's accusation, Steve laboriously heaved himself up once he saw that he was indeed dripping blood. As Bruce escorted him the spare few feet to his own bed, Tony hated Steve even more because he was currently miles of bare skin and six pack abs. He made Tony feel old. Then again, who didn't feel old around Steve? The kid was like, a kid. Once Steve sat down, in a crumpled, defeated manner, Tony forgot about his own feelings and stared unhappily at the way Steve was paper-white and stiff with pain.
"Seriously, Tony, are you okay?" Bruce asked, probably for the both of them.
Tony exhaled deeply. "Yeah, I am." He was exhausted, his head hurt, and he was shaky with adrenalin, but the room was dripping with friendship and Tony had to diffuse the situation. "Now will someone please go get my suit?" And he said that in the direction of Clint, who had just arrived, where he was leaning against the door jam.
"Don't give him that look. It's cheating," Bruce reprimanded.
Affronted, Tony frowned. "What look?"
"You and Steve, you give people looks. Steve's is at least accidental. He's just himself and people give in to his pout. But you give people this-this Bambi look and they bend right away."
Open mouthed, Tony looked over at Steve and whispered you manipulative bastard.
Steve winked.
"I hate all of you," Tony announced. Just as he said it, Natasha, followed by the two doctors who'd left previously, walked into the room and formally handed Tony an IV bag full of liquid. "Jarvis said you wanted this."
"Not you too," Bruce muttered from the corner.
Natasha glared and haughtily lifted her chin. "It's for science, Banner."
"That's my girl," Tony preened, and Christ, the friendship was everywhere. He handed the bag to Sarah, as Steve had enlightened Tony of her name, and she drilled him on the composition and potential side effects of it. "You're a SHIELD doctor. We employ you. I swear you won't get sued, even if Cap here did kick it," he explained.
She threw him a dry look as she hooked the medication up. "That's not what I'm worried about, Mr. Stark. I don't like not knowing what I'm giving my patients. And lay down, Steve. You still need stitches."
Steve settled down on his stomach, his head turned towards Tony. The doctor spread another thin layer of antiseptic over his skin and pulled on her gloves.
"If it works, you should feel it within ten to twenty minutes," Tony warned. Steve nodded in response, but was poked into submission by Sarah.
So they waited. Five minutes dragged by while Steve's teeth audibly ground together, and his hands bent the steel rods underneath his bed. He held it together well, even though it had to be torture to feel his skin be pinched and pulled together by a needle. It was the little pains that sent someone overboard, not that you could tell by looking at him. At some point, Thor walked in. He quickly explained that he was late because he had leftover steam to blow off. It was still raining outside.
"Now open it up all the way," Tony instructed at the eight minute mark.
Steve's eyebrows drew together. "Feels weird," he said.
"Good weird? Bad weird?" Tony questioned.
Steve didn't answer but to swallow and close his eyes. A minute later, his eyelids flew open, and he gave a startled groan as he sat up without warning. Swearing under her breath, the doctor stumbled back. Bruce must have had some ethereal sense of Steve's health, because just as Steve put his hand to his bare stomach and threw up over the side of the bed, there was a bowl there to catch the mess. Steve visibly wobbled, and Bruce grabbed the back of his neck to steady him. Steve moaned something unintelligible and retched again.
"Are you done?" Bruce asked.
Breathing carefully, gaze focused on the floor, Steve nodded. "Yeah, it passed. Just hit hard." He looked at the doctor and grimaced. "Sorry about that." He wiped his mouth off with the tissue Bruce handed him, and he downed a glass of water that Clint had passed over. "We can finish now. It wore off." Steve returned to his position on his stomach. He looked...He looked just bad. Tired.
While Tony stared at the ceiling, an awful sense of defeat and guilt roiling in his gut, Thor moved between the beds and sat down on the floor, back against the wall. He silently convinced Steve to loosen his grip on the rail by saying, "You will collapse your resting place continuing like this, Captain. My hand will fare much better."
So there they waited, Clint and Natasha guarding the door, Bruce crouched forward on the chair in the corner, and Thor, the god, sitting on the floor and holding Steve's hand while he panted through the pain.
"That, uh, that didn't work," Tony said, breaking the quiet. Regret gnawed at the inside of his mouth.
"You'll come up with something better," Steve mumbled.
Sure he would.
Trial 4: Laugh, I Nearly Died
Again, incredibly morbid sir.
Jarvis, the Rolling Stones will never be morbid. Educate yourself.
Method? Nitrous oxide and a couple other fun things.
Hypothesis? Perhaps happy gas will do the trick this time.
It would be foolish to continue this conversation.
You're learning, Jarv. You're learning.
"Cap. Captain. El Capitán. How are we feeling?" Tony chattered. He pushed the small cart towards Steve's bed and halted it next to his head.
Slumped in a chair with a stormy expression, a voice sarcastically drawled, "How do you think, Stark?"
Tony straightened up, looking at Steve, and pointed at Sam. "Your guard dog is crabby. Have you fed him lately?"
"Don't be a dick, Tony," Steve sputtered out.
It wasn't very convincing when he was flat on his back in a private post-op room. His breathing was hitched and shuttered by pain. Sweat clung to his forehead, and his muscles were locked in a tight tension. According to Bruce, he'd just woken up after passing out during a surgery to dig out two bullets lodged in his abdomen and thigh. The doctor had emerged from the room, bloody to his elbows, with a troubled expression on his face. "He-uh, I mean, thankfully, he passed out here and there. It got tough when he woke up again. Even if he's Captain America, we're slicing him open and hunting down a bullet. He didn't hurt anyone, of course. He was very controlled. I guess there is a dark side to being a super soldier, who knew?"
After that, he'd walked off before Tony had a chance to argue that there were quite a few negatives to being a super soldier. He could lose everyone he loved and wake up in an entirely different century, immediately after spending two years fighting a war that he will not get to see the end of. A week after that, he could be informed that now has to fight against an alien race. Oh, and by the way, he'll never experience pain relief again. Also, everyone was still dead.
"We're trying something a little different this time," Tony remarked. "More of the inhaled variety. There's nitrous oxide and couple other things that I thought I might try."
Sam's left eyebrow shot up. "You're giving him laughing gas?"
"And other things," Tony added. He carefully fixed the mask over Steve's nose. "You very obviously inhale through your nose and exhale through your mouth. Let me know how you feel and we can adjust it. If you don't feel anything, then I know to go back to the drawing board."
He flicked the machine on and ensured that the nitrous and oxygen levels were where he wanted them for a preliminary test. "You should feel it right away," he told Steve.
Sam was watching with peaked interested now, elbows on his knees. They waited silently for thirty seconds until a strange snorting noise came from Steve.
Tony leaned over him. "What does that mean?"
Steve's mouth did something weird. He made a sound that Tony wasn't quite sure that he'd ever heard before.
"Are, are you laughing?" he asked. He sat back in his chair, glared at the ceiling. "He's actually laughing."
Steve kept chuckling. Sam was looking at him like he'd just had a brain aneurysm.
"I can honestly say that I've never heard you laugh before," Tony said. "This is really weird. You do realize that it's called laughing gas just because it makes you happy, right? Not because it makes you laugh?"
The laughing persisted. A toothy, exasperated grin broke out on Sam's face, as if he couldn't quite process what was happening. Steve's laugh was also kind of contagious. He snorted a bit, too. Tony dropped his head in his hand. "What is my life?" he whispered to himself.
Then, unfortunately, his bubble was burst, and Steve's fingers locked around Tony's wrist. He roughly tugged him forward. Steve's eyes were wide and insistent, and he struggled to speak through his fits of laughter. "It's-it's not. It's not g-getting rid of the pain. I'm just...laughing. Like being tickled," a shudder rolled down his torso, "hurts," he gurgled. Tony glanced at the heaving bandages, spotted with blood, on his torso.
Tony slammed the switch down and quickly extracted the mask from his face. Steve calmed down almost immediately. He took a few hiccuped breaths and looked at Tony blankly.
"That was weird," Steve said, with an almost innocent, stunned tone of voice.
Tony and Sam looked at each other and then at Steve. "Yeah, a little," Tony replied flatly. "And you snort when you laugh," he accused.
Steve started chuckling then, for real this time. It was so unexpected that Tony followed suit solely because he was relieved that Steve wasn't looking at him with this terrible helpless expression on his face. Sam smirked and dropped his head on the bed. The guy was beat.
"It sort of worked," Steve offered optimistically.
Tony propped his chin on his hand and gave Steve a dull look. "Tony Stark doesn't do sort of, Steven."
"I know," Steve smiled knowingly.
Trial 5: Steve Is Not a Horse But His Metabolism Is So It's The Same Thing
This seems like an insult.
I don't recall programming "sensitive soul" as one of your character traits.
Method? Attempting a sedative effect this time.
Hypothesis? Assuming it doesn't work, hoping it does. Even if it does, it's a temporary solution. I don't want to put him under for shit like a concussion, or just regular pain relief.
Sir, I've given up.
Good. The world is a cold place, Jarv.
"Stark, this is Natasha."
Tony spun around his chair and threw his pen in the air. "Well, hello, Natalie. What's your pleasure?"
"We're going to need you to come in on this one."
He went laser-focus after that. If Natasha, the queen of "I can do this all by myself" wanted him to come in, then there was a serious matter of national security at hand. Either that, or she was infuriated with the team and wanted him to buy her way out of it.
"Clint's down with pneumonia. He's an idiot. Steve refuses to admit that his leg was actually broken," and she said that away from the phone and with a throaty growl, "and we're stuck until next week unless an external entity comes in."
Tony was already by then, activating Mark 42 and watching as Jarvis calculated where they were located without being told. He stripped off his watch and began pulling on the protective first layer. "An 'external entity' as in an incredibly attractive billionaire with an IQ well over the entirety of the House and Senate?"
He could practically hear her clench her fist. "Yes," she said flatly.
"Location triangulated."
"And we're off," he told her, facing the doors to the balcony as they slid open.
All he heard Natasha hiss was, "Please be qui—" before he hung up. He had to fly to Bogotá, after all.
He landed three hours later next to a broken down yellow house with hanging eaves and an oddly charming white front door. He didn't bother knocking; his boots were loud enough to announce his presence anyway. There was a rusted out kitchen to his left and a sitting area to his right. Steve's shoes were toppled over each other next to Natasha's black boots. A copy of The Fault in Our Stars was dog-eared on the coffee table. Steve was truly relentless. He walked down the hallway and took a left at the first open door.
The room was well-lit and overly warm from the sunlight pouring through the broken window on the far wall. Clint was sprawled and still on a small bed that was pushed into the corner. Natasha bent over him, whispering encouragingly and putting a wet rag on his forehead. He coughed raggedly.
"Did you even think this through?" Tony heard. He scanned the room. "Down here," the voice chimed again.
"Why are you on the floor?" Tony asked, tapping his boot against Steve's rib cage where he was laid flat on the hardwood.
Steve gestured towards his feet. "Hurts less. Gotta save up my strength to walk."
Tony retracted the faceplate. "And seriously? I'm getting shade about not thinking something through from the guy who's laying on the floor in an abandoned house in Colombia because he can't walk? But if you can protect yourself, please, go ahead."
"It was under control," Natasha said darkly as she lifted her face from Clint.
Tony crossed the space between them with two long steps and gently held her chin up in his hand. "Shit," he swore. A large black eye blotched over much of her cheek, temple, and forehead. Rage bubbled in his stomach. Clint mumbled insistently, and Natasha shushed him and pushed his arm down. He settled.
"Listen, I've got us a ride to the airport coming at nightfall. Thankfully you were guys chose a capital city to get your ass handed to you, otherwise this wouldn't be a quiet extraction."
He would've taken off the suit, as they had a few hours before dark, but he felt painfully exposed in the old house, and Steve was a rigid surfboard on the ground, Clint was sweating through the bare mattress, and one of Natasha's eyes wouldn't even open. So Tony told Jarvis to keep watch of the neighborhood, grabbed the book from the living room, and sat down next to Steve. He tried not to look at Steve's leg for too long, as it was unnaturally bent to the left, and it made Tony queasy.
"I've got another idea ready for you, Captain Lumberjack," Tony said.
Steve jerked his head in a semblance of a nod. His facial hair was scruffy and dark blonde. It was a foreign look for him. "We can probably try it when we're clear," Steve replied. His voice was tense and raspy.
The sun went down around them, and Natasha steadily drooped like wilting flower over Clint's bedside. The moon was high when Jarvis informed Tony that the car was waiting outside. He just needed five more minutes. Tony dropped the book on the floor.
"Are you crying?" Steve asked.
Affronted, Tony wiped under his eyes. "Absolutely not. That guy—that author. That book was really—"
"Don't tell me! I haven't finished it yet."
"Seriously," Natasha whined. "I need a new team."
Tony shot to his feet. "Alright, up, up, up, we're ready to get the hell out of here. I'll take Clint. Natasha, you lead, and Steve, well, good luck." He hefted Clint up into his arms and ignored the agonized huffs of Steve getting to his feet. They were a sad bunch, and even the driver winced when Tony folded Clint against Natasha's shoulder and Steve dropped into the last seat with a suspiciously high whine.
His private plane was small, but well-equipped with a trained doctor, medical supplies, two beds, and one Bruce Banner. Thor was with Jane, and Tony didn't feel that it was pertinent to ruin their time for a mission he could compartmentalize. The doctor made a bee line towards where Tony laid Clint on the bunk pulled down off the wall. Tony left Natasha to assist and went to locate one super-soldier with a lame leg. Steve was still on the tarmac, looking up the steps with a grim but determined expression.
Tony rolled his eyes, jetted down the six feet, and hooked his hands under Steve's arms. "Hey, no, Ton—!" And they were in the plane. Tony was all for time saving. "It hurts when you bend your back, right?" he asked.
"Yeah, it—"
Tony maintained his grip and instructed, "Okay, just fall back, and I'll set you down." Steve obediently did as he was told, and they got him down without too much added pain. Bruce hurried over to them, and his face went pale at the sight of Steve's leg.
"When did this happen?" he asked.
Steve licked his chapped lips. "'Bout three days. Hurt it jumping off a roof. Landed wrong. I thought it was okay for awhile, but then I slept on it last night and it bent out."
"Shit," Bruce whispered. "Steve, your bone is at least forty percent healed in the wrong direction. That's going to hurt."
Steve choked out an unamused laugh. "You think I don't know that? When doesn't it? I'm the one who's gotta deal, anyway."
Anger that he couldn't control rolled up Tony's throat. "Do you seriously think that you're the only person who's 'gotta deal' when you go down? Don't you dare give me that shit. You're fucking wrong, and you know it. Why the hell do you think that I've been working on meds for you in the first place? Because it sucks, Steve. It really sucks watching you shake like you're about to fucking die from pain alone and knowing that there's nothing any of us can do. Goddamnit, I've been you, you ass."
Steve's eyes were wide. There was a long beat of silence, and Tony felt stripped bare.
"I'm sorry, Tony," said slowly, pleading. "I know that. And I appreciate what you're doing a lot. I'm sorry if I didn't tell you enough. It's been a long couple days, but I know that I shouldn't take it out on you guys, and for that, I apologize."
"Yeah, whatever," Tony grumbled. "Look, let's fix your leg, and then we'll see if the new stuff works."
Bruce knelt down beside them and asked, "Tony, are you sure you want to do it here?"
"Jarvis says it can be done externally. I'll hand over the gauntlets to him and let him do the work. It'll be perfect, and the longer we wait, the more it'll hurt. I just wish we had another bed."
Steve swallowed thickly, blinking up at them. "Just do it. Sooner it's done, sooner it stops hurtin'."
Brooklyn kid through and through, Tony thought.
"You might want to step back, Bruce," Steve warned. Bruce heeded his request while Tony wrapped his hands around Steve's leg.
"You know the drill, buddy," he whispered. I don't count, you don't tense up. Steve slapped his hand on Tony's armored thigh, and Tony closed his eyes and arrested control to Jarvis. Thank the heavens for artificial intelligence. There was not a fiber of Tony's being that wanted to watch this.
Steve's leg crunched into place with a harsh crack, and Steve screamed. A full-on, nothing left behind scream. Tony fell backwards to get out of Steve's way as he writhed on the floor, and Tony had to look away as he watched a tear fall into Steve's hair. Bruce and Tony both recovered at the same time and returned to his side. As Tony was positioning the IV into the crook of Steve's arm, he heard Bruce go, "Hey, hey, deep breaths. Throwing up is exactly what we don't want."
"I'm not sure how this is going to go, but it's better than nothing," Tony said. He opened up the meds to flow into the vein.
Steve shuddered. "Feels wet."
They waited another couple minutes for Steve to self-report again. There was a notable loosening of his muscles. "Feel real tired," he added.
"How's the pain one to ten?"
Steve smacked his lips and considered this with his eyes closed. "Eight, nine. Jus' tired. Can't move well. Hurts pretty bad yet. Sorry, Tony."
Disheartened, Tony slumped his shoulders. "Well, we'll wait another ten minutes, see if you're anything besides tired." After the designated stretch of time, Steve said that he could probably sleep the pain off if Tony unhooked the meds, as they weren't helping anything but contribute to a steady state of drowsiness, so Tony extracted the IV, slipped a pillow under Steve's slumbering head, and collapsed into a chair after he removed his armor. He felt like shit.
A cold hand slipped under his elbow sometime later, and he opened his eyes to Natasha cuddling down next to him. She rested her head on his shoulder and sighed. "It's good what you're doing, you know. We all agree with you about Steve." Bruce joined them after he'd thrown a blanket over Steve and quickly spread one over Tony and his limpet. He absently patted Natasha's knee. "You'll carry them off the plane, right?" Natasha asked. "I've already carried Clint once today."
"Of course," Tony replied. "That's what the suit's for."
"I know," Natasha hummed warmly. She squeezed his arm and rubbed her cheek against his chest. "I know."
Trial 6: I'm Running Out of Titles
Succinct and to the point. I admire this one.
No one likes you, Jarvis.
Method? We'll try temporarily numbing his pain receptors.
Hypothesis? Should we just skip this step?
Please.
"You guys have movie nights? That is absolutely precious," Tony announced with flourish as he marched into the unofficial Avengers' living room, which was unsurprisingly Steve's living room, on Steve's floor, where Steve was. The Captain himself was currently buried in various limbs and blankets, bits of popcorn scattered over the lumps and floor. The couch was a large sectional, and Sam, Natasha, and Clint were all clustered around Steve, who was entrenched in the large cushion in the middle.
Tony suspiciously eyed Natasha's head, as it was lolled comfortably on Steve's thigh while he sorted his hand through her hair and occasionally scratched her scalp. First of all, he was pretty sure that they weren't together, but it was hard to tell with her, and second of all, if Tony even thought about touching her hair, Natasha would sniff him out like a bloodhound and put him down.
He spun around once for dramatic effect. "And I wasn't even invited."
"There was an open invitation, Tony," Steve voiced, but he did sound guilty.
Clint rolled his eyes. "Don't even, Steve. Stark knows everything that goes on in this tower."
It was hard to take his harsh tone seriously considering that he was seated on the floor with his head resting against the inside of Steve's knee. They were such a cuddly team. It was weird, a bunch of adults being cuddly.
"Feel free to join in, Stark," Sam chimed in.
"Yeah," Steve smiled. "It's a family affair."
That word.
Tony's phone buzzed in his pocket, and as he whipped out a text to Pepper, he said, "Uh, the last time I checked, I don't have any siblings, and my parents are dead, so."
Steve's face twitched into an odd, almost flinch that made Tony's stomach tighten into a knot.
"That was rude," Natasha said slowly. He didn't know what to make of her tone of voice, except that it verged on angry and concerned at the same time.
Tony had made a misstep, if he was properly analyzing the unhappy tilt of Sam's eyebrows and the way Clint was clenching his jaw like he was raring for a fight. Time for flight.
"Oh, look, time for a board meeting. This was fun. Good movie! Bye," he rambled, already halfway out of the room. He didn't have a clue what movie they were watching.
Later, he discovered that the mutant lizard from a couple months previous had procreated, which, terrifying, and the Avengers were once again called out to defeat it. This time Sam came along because he hadn't been out in the field in awhile. Not that Tony would know, as the little quadruplets were giving him the cold shoulder, and Bruce and Thor were throwing him amused grins and asking what he'd done.
Tony didn't even know. Well, he did, but he didn't.
Midway through, they discovered that the lizard had a big sister with quite a protective streak, and she was trying to rampage out of the Boston Harbor. The Avengers were split down the middle, and he thought things were going well until he heard, "Holy shit, Cap!" from Clint, who were posting lookout and trying to shoot the thing in the eye.
"What? What happened? Where?" Tony demanded.
There was a rough panting of breath. "I got 'im. Shit, you're heavy, Steve," Sam relayed. Instead of Steve's voice, they all heard a distant choking sound as Steve coughed up water.
"Is he okay?" Natasha yelled over the rush of the helicopter she was piloting.
Just as she said that, the Hulk roared and wrapped his entire body around the little sister's neck. Tony thought he heard, "HURT CAP" but that was up for debate.
"-fine," Steve attempted to gurgle.
"Stop talking!" they all chorused, eerily at the same time.
Tony jetted out of Thor's way as the god singlehandedly attacked the lizard with a renewed vengeance.
"He's not dead," Sam said, as if that was as much as he could give them at the time that wasn't depressing. "Stark, are you gonna do your thing?" he asked. It sounded like he was trying to wrestle Steve down in the background.
Thor was almost done with his task. It was almost sad how the lizard was attempting to flee. "Yeah, I got something," he replied.
Tony landed next to Sam and Steve and assessed the situation. Steve was drenched and still coughing, and he looked like a soggy, angry cat. There was a huge, open claw mark running down the length of one thigh. Another wound stretched, infuriatingly enough, down the side of his head. His ear was a mess of red, and it was a surprise that his eye was still in its socket.
Steve kept trying to hold his face, and Sam was unsuccessfully heeding his progress. Steve repeated, "Ah, shit, shit shit," as he rocked forward, like he was trying to sit up, as if Sam would let him.
"Hey, there, soldier," Tony sang, a sad stab at lighthearted. His voice shook. He planted his palm against Steve's shoulder and easily pushed him flat. "Stay still, and let me see if I can help you out, okay?"
Steve met Tony's gaze with his good eye. He nodded and stilled his tremors as much as he could. Permission granted, so Tony popped the needle and syringe out of his forearm and located Steve's vein. He injected the medication. "It should work within four minutes," he stated. "Just wait it out, and let me know how you feel as it comes, okay?"
A minute passed, then three. Tony's armored knees crackled against the pebbles beneath him.
A twitch rolled down Steve's body.
"Steve, how are you feeling?" Tony asked, concerned.
Then, as if in slow-motion, Tony watched his fist clench, and his left heel kick against the ground, right before he screamed. Steve's back arched off the concrete in a strange contortion as he flailed spasmodically. He started clawing at his chest, his throat, his face. Sam yelled, horrified, and lunged over him, trying in vain to keep Steve from injuring himself further. Steve's wrist impacted with Sam's chest, and he fell backwards, coughing harshly. Steve kept screaming, and it looked like he was being electrocuted, like he was burning alive, like Tony had personally dipped his body in acid.
"What the fuck did you do, Stark!" Sam exclaimed. He crawled back to them. Steve had rolled on his side, curling his bent limbs into a fetal position and hitting his head on the hard ground, but he flopped back, sprawling over Sam's thighs. His chest heaved up and down. The veins in his neck were bulging and his skin and face were beat red. A high-pitched wheezing, whimpering sound squeezed out of his throat.
Then, Steve's entire body froze, and a shudder rattled up his shoulders, his eyes visibly rolled up, and the tension dissipated from his muscles.
Sam scrambled to keep Steve on his lap, and he looked up at Tony. His expression was absolutely broken, and his mouth was a slash on his face. "What happ—"
"He just passed out," Tony echoed from Jarvis. "From the pain."
Sam helplessly stared at Steve. "But these—these are just flesh wounds—he's Steve."
"I meant to turn down his pain receptors," Tony replied numbly. "I think I did the opposite."
Police cars were pulling up next to them, several ambulances following behind. The sirens were loud and invasive around their huddles forms. The wings attached to Sam's back instinctively opened, and that's when Tony knew that Sam was going to stick. Even after what he'd done, the black wings just barely flicked over his shoulder, bringing him into their broken cocoon. Sam's face was the personification of accusation and betrayal when he met Tony's gaze. "Christ, Tony. You were supposed to fix this. You—you, fuck. This is your fault." Sam's fingers looked small as they trembled and sorted through Steve's sweat-damp hair in some semblance of comfort.
"Yeah, um," Tony said. He unfolded his legs, let Jarvis stand him up. "I'm going to. I'm going. This. I should just," his words petered out his throat closed. The faceplate shut, sealing him the outside world. Nausea curled in his stomach.
He left.
The panic attack came on strong and fast.
"Sir, Pepper is lounging in your penthouse. I have informed her of your imminent arrival. Arrival time is an estimate forty-two minutes. I have taken over flight controls unless a defensive situation arises. All of your vitals are perfectly fine. I have a ten mile radius of all aircraft coming in and out of your vicinity, and there are none. Deviation is planned if the occasion should occur. On my count, please inhale. One, two, three—"
And they went like that until Jarvis quietly landed him on the balcony and walked him through the suit removal. Pepper was there immediately, gripping his shaking hands and fretfully leading him to the bathroom. Pepper was tall, but she was very thin, and she could only direct him as he crumbled to his knees and threw up. Thankfully, she didn't say anything until he was done. She gently pushed him back with a hand on his chest. He fell against the wall. A cold rag wiped over his mouth. His fingers were wrapped around a glass of water.
A few minutes later, she sat down next to him. He closed his eyes as her hand sorted through his hair.
"What happened?"
His throat hurt, and every muscle in his body ached from being clenched. Steve, screaming in agony, flickered in his eyelids. He didn't want to talk, so he reached out and tugged her into his lap, pressed his face against her neck .
"Tony, Tony, Tony," she shushed, holding his face in her palms and forcing him level his eyes with her. "Look at me," she said quietly. "Just look at me."
Her hair was red and soft and warm, spilling around her neck. Her eyes were beautiful. He'd always thought they were absolutely beautiful, and so smart. So bright and aware, moving, analyzing everything around her. God, Pepper had chosen to be with him. He loved her so much that it physically hurt. Tony threw his arm over his knees and pulled her closer. He wanted to fold her up and hide her in his chest. The idea of losing her was absolutely abhorrent. Of course, that thought made him think of Steve.
"I just need you...just for a minute."
"Okay," she said. "Okay."
Trial 7: Tony Stark Shouldn't Have Friends
This seems like an overreaction, sir.
Shh, Jarvis, we're working.
Method? Reworking Trials 5 and 6. Fixing this.
Hypothesis? If we tweak the sedative component of trial five, rework what receptors are triggered from trial six, then we can hopefully create an effective painkiller.
Tony knew that he was being an asshole after what he'd done to Steve. After he'd convinced Pepper that he was fine, everything was okay, she reluctantly went to bed and he went down to the lab. He had to fix this. He was the one who had tortured Steve in the first place. It was an accident, of course, it was, but that didn't alleviate shit. He was still the one who caused him pain. It was his fault.
So he ducked into his lab. He didn't go visit Steve in the hospital. His world was dissolved into blue pixels and past research. Opiates. Prostaglandins. His father's research on Steve's metabolism and pain resistance. Bruce's notes on everything that he'd discovered about Steve's DNA over the course of his work before the Hulk happened. Dummy brought him coffee on an hourly basis. Protein bars were shoved into his hand by a reticent Pepper. She was good like that. Jarvis unhappily reminded him how long it had been since he'd slept every five hours.
Tony was hitting a wall. Intellectually, he knew when there was a solution just beyond him, lurking and building behind an unseen corner. He looked at the data until his eyes pulsed in his head, until everything blurred into nonsense and frustration. Anger built in his throat. He felt like he was suffocating with it. He was missing something. He was staring at an emptiness, and he couldn't fill it. It was infuriating. It was also not conducive to his ego, whatsoever. Tony had a burning need to be right, and when he couldn't figure it out, his pulse hammered and his chest ached. He could practically hear his father going, "I could help Cap. I helped create Cap, and you can't even take away his headache?"
Later, much later, exactly forty one hours since he'd hit REM sleep, the doors hissed open, and surprisingly, one Sam Wilson edged his way in. He slowly walked over to where Tony was sorting through the various chemicals he had shoved into a small fridge that on the steel counter. His hands were shoved into his pockets.
"Look—"
"Unnecessary," Tony clucked. He muttered angrily at his feet until he realized that Dummy was the adamant whirring and the bot was trying to give him a fresh supply of willow bark.
He snatched the item and tossed it on the counter. He thumped Dummy's head. "Good boy."
"Stark, man, I gotta—"
Tony hissed as he bumped into a sharp corner while he turned in his chair. "No, no need. You were right. My fault. Definitely my fault. I'm trying to fix it." He completely avoided looking at Sam's face. That sounded awful.
"Maybe if you could take a damn break from your mad scientist gig, I could get a word in edgewise, and say what I want to say."
Tony sighed. He spun around, anxiously tapped his foot against the floor. His eye kept twitching.
"I was wrong to blame you for what happened to Steve," Sam said.
"Actually, you had every reason to. There is quantifiable evidence that I am responsible for what happened; therefore, blame me."
It was strange, seeing Wilson look uncomfortable. Sam was the unflappable one, the guy who wasn't shaken by other people's emotions, frightened by vulnerability. He was so laid-back that it was effortless to be around him, and Tony knew why Steve had clung to him. Sam stepped forward. "Look Tony, you were just trying to make him feel better. I know that. It backfired. It was an accident. Accidents happen every day. I just got a little caught up in the heat of the moment. I've never had to see Steve like that before. I was rattled, I'll admit."
Tony huffed and fiddled with his fingers. "He's okay?" he asked.
"Yeah. Just sleepin' it off. Something I hear that you should be doing, too."
Tony glared at the ceiling. "Traitor."
"We were simply making small talk, sir," Jarvis replied.
"Your unnecessary concern is appreciated, but I have things to do. Thanks for the apology that I am fairly positive was hidden somewhere in that speech. Have a good night."
Turning on his heels, Tony heard Sam say, "Was I just dismissed? Have I mentioned that it's like, three in the afternoon?"
"Welcome to Stark Tower, Mr. Wilson," Jarvis said.
"Always a treat," Tony muttered.
Awhile later, he could feel his brain start to burnout. Jarvis had resigned himself to sarcastically commenting on how long he'd gone without sleep for. Fifty-two hours, to be exact. Coffee started to taste like water, and his fingers stopped twitching. Instead, they were randomly aborted a movement. Other times, he'd blink and Jarvis would tell him that over five minutes had passed. Pepper came by intermittently, but she knew there was little she could do until he basically tumbled over the edge and passed out at his desk.
He couldn't get anything straight, and the disappointment was running rampant. He saw Steve in every corner, crying and screaming in pain. Flickers of blue and red assaulted his vision every time he spun his chair too fast. Then, pretty soon, he felt like he was looking at the real Steve, the one with a heavy limp and a concerned weight on his eyebrows. The guy was always so fucking concerned. It drove Tony insane, and the Avengers have held unofficial meetings (without Steve) about how to get their captain to lighten up.
"What, why are you here?" Tony said. "Jarvis! There's an intruder."
Steve—Tony poked his forehead—was real and present in the room. "I don't think it's very fair to do that to a fella you didn't visit in the hospital, Tony."
"Oh!" Tony jumped up. "Oh, dear, okay. Hi, Steve. I can fix this. You should sit down. Yes, do that," he said, pushing Steve down by his shoulders into a chair, "you should have a blanket. Why are you walking? Dummy! I need a blanket. And food! Are you hungry? You're always hungry, aren't you? It's symptomatic of being an eight hundred pound super soldier. What do you have to eat, like fourteen thousand calories a day?" He dropped a handful of protein bars on Steve's lap, almost entangling with Dummy, who was trying to spread a blanket over Steve's lap. Steve was encouraging the dumb bot, chuckling and patting his head. Dummy whirred happily. "Water? Water is good. I bet you want water," he said. Tony turned his back to Steve, and then he aborted his step and swung back around. "I'm sorry, about what happened. I'm trying to fix it. So, yeah," he mumbled, scrubbing a hand through his greasy hair.
Steve still had a pink, irritated scar running down the left side of face. The swollen skin shone in the light when he looked up at Tony. "You don't have to apologize. I'm not mad," he explained.
Tony skittered away and dropped into his own chair. "You should be."
"It was an accident. I'm fine now, aren't I? You look like you need some sleep, though."
Tony rolled his eyes, which made his head spin woozily. Steve might have a point.
"Sleep is not my thing. Haven't you heard?"
Steve grimaced and leaned forward. He stretched his leg out, holding his thigh with one hand. Steve gave Tony a hopeful look. "Why don't you come watch a movie with us then? We haven't seen you in awhile."
Pointing a syringe into Steve's face, Tony argued, "Uh, no. None of your foolish movie wizardry. You'll pick a movie that I think is really boring and then I'll fall asleep, and all of my hard work will go to waste."
"Tony, work with me," Steve pleaded.
He had such big blue eyes, that was the problem. They were very convincing. Work with me. Psh, Tony was a consultant for the Avengers. The fact that they lived with him in apartments that he'd built for them was irrelevant. Tony didn't work with anyone. Work with me.
"Work with me," he muttered mutinously. "Work with me." He spun in his chair, head tilted towards the ceiling. "Work with me, work with me, work with me." Tony rolled his tongue around the words. "Work with me."
"Work with me!" Tony exclaimed. He bolted to his feet. Tony clapped his hands (very gently on the left side) on Steve's face. "You are a genius," he proclaimed. He planted his lips on Steve's forehead for the hell of it. He couldn't contain his excitement.
Steve blinked, beautifully unaware. "I'm not quite sure what happened here," he said slowly.
"Leave. Leave, or be quiet. Take a nap! It's a late time, isn't it?"
Steve shrugged. "I suppose it is. I'm going to let you do your thing," he added. He stood up, gritting his teeth, and started out of the room. "Thank you, you know. For everything."
Tony barely even noticed.
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
It was, unfortunately, two short weeks later when Tony was granted the opportunity to test out his latest and greatest idea of cracking the code of the evil super-soldier metabolism. The Wrecking Crew was throwing all of Brooklyn into complete disarray. They seemed like they were just working off some steam, but destroying everything in their path as they did so. Steve had insisted that Bruce hang back; they were fighting the Wrecking Crew after all. Thor and Iron Man led the charge, with Clint, Steve, and Natasha running groundwork.
Everything was going fine. Their teamwork was almost seamless. Off the field, things were still strange. Tony was hovering closer to the team, circling dinners and committing a fly-by when Jarvis told him that impromptu movie nights were being held. Normally he claimed that he was busy, that he had other stuff to do. In truth, he was intimidated by the whole affair. They were so close. They were constantly with and around and by each other. It twisted something in his chest. Inwardly he knew that the night when he'd cut Steve off at the quick about calling him family was still looming over them. He felt... bad about that.
It all felt vaguely unresolved, which Tony didn't like, but he didn't know how to fix it. Part of him wanted Steve's medication to be the fix, that maybe he'd accidentally applied more meaning to that than he should have.
The battle was basically over before it started. The Wrecking Crew was a lumbering group of bullies on the playground, scaring all the little children, while the adults looked on and laughed at their imagined greatness. Thor was just laying the finishing blows while Tony hovered around a tilting bridge when Clint hurriedly said, "Steve? Where'd you go?"
It had been at least five minutes since the man in question had spoken. That was a century for Cap.
"Steve?" Tony yelled into the comm. His heart stuttered.
"The Captain's communications link appears to have been destroyed."
"We're about closed up down here, Stark. Any chance you could help search?" Natasha asked, her voice clotted and heavy, pushing against anxiety.
The bridge in question was creaking ominously. Several supports were buckling because of The Wrecker's high powered crow bar slamming into the steel. At least fifty cars were still sitting on top. He could hear people screaming in terror.
"Sir, you're required to begin action on the bridge within forty seconds, if you desire to save everyone upon it."
Tony started welding where Jarvis directed. "I'm going to need a few minutes with this. Thor?"
"I shall help the Widow," Thor reported gravely.
Clint growled into the comm. "The last place I saw him, Piledriver was nipping at his heels, but neither of them have surfaced since."
Repairing the bridge was a painstaking process. It was almost beyond saving, but Tony couldn't leave it to tip over, and abandoning all of the people trapped on top was unacceptable, even if he was stupidly distracted by Steve going AWOL. Tony focused on throwing all of the thrusters power into melting and warping the metal. It was hopelessly tilted, but he figured that he could fly everyone off once the structure was stable. Sweat rolled in droplets down his temples. His breaths rattled loudly in the helmet. Every three minutes Clint reported that nobody had found Steve.
Twenty one minutes later, just after Tony had finished operating on the supports, Thor's voice, dripping with relief, echoed over the comm. "I found him!"
"Status report, Thor," Clint replied. Oftentimes, when Steve was busy with battle, or Clint was just running oversight that day, Clint patrolled the communications between Hill, Steve, the Avengers, and SHIELD. It was an impressive task on his best day. There were several competing egos and voices yelling at him at once, but Clint was an excellent pilot. He was brilliant. Steve told him all the time.
"The Captain is unconscious," Thor started. The god was appalled by the fact that humans lost consciousness for an extended period of time. He was unaccustomed to dealing with human injury in the first place, but the idea of unconsciousness rattled him. He couldn't stand the idea of his teammates being unable to defend themselves, and they were painfully vulnerable compared to him, even when they were so strong. "His head bleeds profusely. Piledriver is apprehended. What would you like me to do?"
"I'm almost there," Clint and Natasha said simultaneously.
Tony gathered another crying ten year old kid into his arms and jetted them to safety. He had a small crowd of seven people anxiously waiting for their loved ones. "I'm stuck here for the time being," he reported guiltily. "I'll meet you guys at the hospital."
"Stark?" Natasha asked. A heavy silence followed her request for attention. "You got any pain meds?"
"Do you still trust me?"
There was a soft humming in the background. He pictured Natasha soothing Steve with a hand on his forehead. She did that all the time. "Of course we trust you," she replied, and there was something clinging unspoken after she stopped talking. Tony didn't know what it was, but it sat there, and he wanted to bite it and hide it in his chest.
"I'll bring the stuff," he concluded. He was confident in this one, much more than he'd been for any of the others.
There was a tiny voice beneath him. "Are you a drug dealer, Mr. Iron Man?" the little spider monkey of a child asked him. The kid had wide, imploring eyes as he looked up at Tony and clung to the armor's legs.
"No! Not at all. I mean, yes. Yes, I am. But not really. Why do I care about lying to you?" Tony responded. He peeled the kid off his boots, handed him over to his older brother, and even spared a wave as he left for the rest of the populace.
It took him another hour to clear the bridge. After he'd finished, Maria Hill had herded him into a conference room and made him help her argue with the uppers at the White House about how much damage the Avengers had accidentally been causing lately. This was supposed to be Steve's job. Tony completely and utterly offended the hell out of the committee, just in rebellion, and when he'd finished, Maria smirked and said, "Thank God, they'll never bitch about getting second-in-command when Steve's out again. It was also incredibly satisfying. I never said that."
Tony had Jarvis peel the suit off of him in record time. He stored it in Hill's office, leaning against a wall, and sped towards the SHIELD medical center. Clint had sent him a text that SHIELD had arrived before local paramedics, so they wanted to cut a few corners and just take him straight there.
When Tony skidded into the room, Thor was hunched over in a chair, his broad shoulders sharply defined by his cotton shirt, and he was holding both of Steve's hands. Natasha was leaning against a wall, eyes liquid and lost when she thought that no one was looking. Clint and Bruce stood uncertainly on Steve's other side. Everyone looked up at him when he arrived. He swore he could smell the anxiety dissipate from their minds. The feeling of relief swelled in his throat.
Tony edged his way in besides Thor and rested his hand on Steve's quivering shoulder blade. Steve was covered in black and blue bruises. A cold sweat glistened on his skin. He quaked with pain. His jaw was clenched tight. "Hey, Steve," he hummed uncertainly. "I've got something. I'm gonna work with you this time. Do you trust me?"
After this, after what I did.
"Of course," Steve choked out. "Gotta trust family. Got nothin' else, right?"
"You're right," Tony replied, his voice hoarse. "None of us have anything else. Gotta trust the only family we have."
Family. It was the first time he'd ever had one.
"Now the reason that I don't think that anything else has worked before was that I was working against your body, against your metabolism. When you said that I should work with you, you...broke the code, so to speak," Tony spoke steadily as he injected the first dose into Steve's IV port. "You should feel it within one minute."
So they played the game they had played for the past six months: waiting. It was a measly amount of time, but each second dragged by. He watched the clock tick, tick tick. Tony sat down next to Steve's hip.
Then, Steve's hands loosened minutely in Thor's grip. His curled-tight shoulder slumped under Tony's grasp. A slow, heavy breath tumbled out of his lungs.
"How are you feeling?" Tony asked, terrified.
Steve smacked his lips a little. His fingers clumsily tangled in the hem of Tony's shirt. "Relieved. -nks," he sighed, humming sleepily, rapidly relaxing. "Trus' family, see Ton'. Family good," Steve slurred. His hand fell out of Tony's shirt, but Tony caught it and gently returned it to where Thor was still clutching the other one. Tony, lost for words and stunned, stroked his shoulder. "Go to sleep."
Tony expected joyous celebration. He expected claps on the back, merry whistling, a small pomp and circumstance. Instead, he got Natasha's eyelashes wet and warm against the back of his neck. "You did it," she whispered. She leaned heavily against him. Clint collapsed into an armchair, his arm thrown over his eyes. He exhaled loudly. Bruce was smiling with his lips closed, pure happiness clear in the deep set of his eye crinkles, as he tucked in the blankets around Steve's slumbering form. It felt incredibly rare and previous to see Bruce smile.
Thor, still holding Steve's hands like a lifeline, beamed up at Tony.
"Steve was right. This is a good family," he announced.
Tony paid close attention to Natasha's weight against his back, the warmth of Steve's body radiating into his thigh, the way Thor was carefully returning Steve's hands back under the blanket.
"Yeah," he said. "We are."
12,000 plus words of pure fluff. I am ridiculous.
Thank you for suspending your disbelief when it come to hand-wavy pain medication for one Steve Rogers!
Until next time. :)