Say Something
Summary: "Say Something. I'm giving up on you."
Blue eyes stared at the bland white ceiling, unseeing. Eyelids dipped closed, and then opened on instinct, blinking away the lingering dryness, but the eyes remained dull, lacking that spark, that gleam, the brightness that tells of life.
Minute after hour after day, of blinking, of sleeping…of staring mindlessly into space as the world went by without him.
A man lost once to time, and now time was trying to lay claim to her favourite once again.
At least this time Steve was warm.
Tony hoped so anyway, as he smoothed non-existent creases from the uppermost of a veritable pile of blankets that engulfed the still form.
In a move that had become all too familiar, Tony brushed his fingers through soft blond hair, as he spoke in a mix of petulant demanding and shameless begging, "Say something. I'm giving up on you." There was a decidedly teasing lilt, but echoing somewhere in the depths of the words was an almost hollow ache.
Tony wasn't sure which quasi-medical professional had decided that a fortnight was a reasonable lapse of time to wait when expecting Captain America to recover from an almost vegetative state, but he'd like to ask them to defend their reasoning.
And then sick Coulson on them.
When SHIELDS med-bay staff had started to bandy about terms such as 'long-term care' and 'facility', only Bruce's heroic efforts to maintain a façade of his usual calm had allowed Tony to keep his own cool.
Captain America. National Icon. Hero.
Tony Fucking Stark's goddamn better half.
And it didn't matter which way of reasoning you came to the party with, there was no way Steve Rogers was going to end up in a long term care facility.
Not on Tony's watch.
Thankfully, it seemed that Steve had pretty much assumed the same thing, and rather than have his lover have to commit some egregious legal shenanigans to steal Steve's non-cooperative body from his hospital bed, the Captain had simply had the fore-thought to make Tony his Next-of-Kin.
Simply.
It had taken Tony the better part of the past two days to come to terms with the fact that not only did Steve apparently trust him, with his life on the battle field and his heart off the battle field… but also with his life off the battlefield.
Steve trusted him, above all others.
Tony Stark, fuck-up extraordinaire. He'd had so some variation of just about every derogatory label possible applied to himself at some point: selfish, money-hungry, egotistical, man-whore, liar, and murderer.
And yet, Steve had chosen him.
Tony really almost wished he hadn't. The responsibility was staggering, and the fear had settled as a cloying, constant blanket, somewhere beneath the stifling layer of frustration, the swirling helplessness and the all-consuming hope.
Tony would not let him down.
The white document was crumpled in one hand, hiding where Steve's neat blue scrawl deemed him responsible for the life of his lover. Tony pressed his lips to the still hand caught in his other, murmuring against warm skin, "I'll be the one, if you want me to.", and as unsure as the softly spoken statement was, the truth of the matter remained… even if Tony couldn't have faith in himself, he could at least have faith in Steve's faith.
It was odd, Tony mused, odd, how easily one maintained their courage and hope in the absence of knowledge. Yet, in the face of reality, it had all just crumbled around him.
Scans indicated significant, long lasting damage, inhibiting brain function.
Brain damaged.
Captain America.
Steve.
Tony still couldn't wrap his mind around it. He was well aware, in a peripherally scientific manner, that Steve wasn't indestructible, wasn't invulnerable. But it was Steve. Things like this couldn't happen to Steve, who walked away from 40ft falls and gunshots…he wasn't breakable. He wasn't supposed to be the one who never came back.
"Anywhere…" Tony was almost startled by the word as it slipped passed his lips unaided; his mind lost to his wandering thoughts. It was true though, hell or high water, rain, hail or shine. "I would have followed you…" he finished softly, yet it was hardly comforting, with Steve so far beyond reach.
The room was dark, the inky shadow of clouds in the overcast night sky engulfing the comforting illumination that usually crept through the windows late into the evening. Everything was the same as it had been for the past month.
With one exception.
That very first day, when everything had been touch and go, but no one had been worried it would devolve into, this, Clint had managed to commandeer a softly padded, leather upholstered, waiting room chair from somewhere.
And tonight, for the first time since the incident, that chair was empty.
And in the bed, Steve slept on, oblivious to the loss of his lover's constant presence.
The sky was rumbling ominously when the door slid open several hours later, an oppressive growl to suit the sombre atmosphere. Tony lingered in the doorway, backlit by the safety lighting pipes of the darkened hallway. Dark rimmed eyes, set in a washed out face, pale skin showcased by the dark contrast of his tangled bedhead and unkempt facial hair.
One arm held protectively against his side, Tony limped into the room, a slow shuffling shamble, obviously favouring his right leg. Ignoring his chair, Tony padded straight to the bed, eyes riveted on the shadowed blond and sweep of pale skin, reassuring himself that nothing had changed in his absence.
His absence.
Between them, the other four members of their little superhero family had been quite adequately covering the heroics market…until earlier that evening when an organic based, engineering enhanced, horde of lab grown beasts had attacked down-town New York.
They hadn't exactly asked for his help, though.
Instead, Tony, on a return from the bathroom down the hall, had caught the tail end of a frantic conversation between two SHIELD agents, about consulting with Reed Richards for engineering help.
He'd been suited up and onsite within 10 minutes.
Because although leaving had almost killed him, Steve's disappointment and anger when he found out that Tony had abandoned the team when they needed him, most definitely would.
That had been 6 hours ago, but the situation was finally under control and Tony was back where he belonged, and everything was fine.
Steve was still unresponsive, either trapped within his own mind or… no, he had to be trapped. The alternative was too awful to contemplate. Tony himself, sporting a few busted ribs, a sprained ankle and a concussion from a high speed impact with the asphalt, was exhausted, dehydrated, malnourished, emotionally wrecked and completely raw.
Everything was fine.
Ignoring the fact that the bed had issues accommodated just Steve's serum-enhanced body, Tony slumped down on the edge of the mattress. Plastering himself down Steve side, twinging ribs and ankle be damned, he somehow managed to curl himself around Steve's upper body, with a leg thrown over Steve's blanketed form for extra purchase.
He didn't know if he could do this.
And he wasn't worrying about being caught climbing into Captain America's hospital bed.
He curled impossibly closer to the familiar warmth, wishing for all he was worth that Steve would suddenly wrap him in that ridiculous strength and smother him in unnecessary comfort.
What made Steve think he could do this 'falling in love' thing?
It sucked. It well and truly sucked.
How was he supposed to cope when it constantly felt like his heart was simultaneously in his throat and sinking through the floor of his stomach? No one ever told him that could happen. No one ever told him that love was this insane mess of contradictions. That at one point it could make him feel larger than life and on top of the world, and in the next, like the bottom had dropped out of his world…
And right now?
Lost, adrift, cold… "And I am feeling so small", he murmured, the soft undertone lost in the rumble of the brewing tempest outside.
He'd thought…he didn't know what he'd thought.
Love had been a complete unknown. Pepper had been the closest he'd ever come, but even then he'd held something back.
He honestly hadn't thought himself capable. Hadn't wanted to be capable.
Until Steve.
Steve, who had refused to let him get away with the shit that would eventually drive them apart. Or refused to react to the shit that would drive them apart, in a way that would drive them apart. Like water off a ducks back. That was how Steve dealt with all the crazy in Tony's pond.
If Tony was being completely honest with himself, which was something he usually avoided with a passion and therefore it didn't happen all that often…but, if he was being honest with himself, the word 'deserve' probably had a lot to do with his complete lack of understanding as far as love was concerned. Deserve in the sense that he didn't think he did.
After all, how could a selfish, money-hungry, egotistical, man-whoreing, lying, murderer possibly be deserving of love?
Steve had started to realise what a complete and utter lack of understanding Tony had of love, somewhere around the third time Tony overreacted to a conceived fault, sure that Steve would leave.
Tony realised that Steve knew, around the same time that Steve started to pre-empt his side of disagreements with, 'God, I love you Tony, but…'
Steve realised, that Tony knew that Steve knew, the first time the genius interrupted one of their arguments with 'I know you love me, but…'
It wasn't until now though, in this sickening state of constant worry and endless fear, that Tony truly realised he still didn't have a clue about love. Slightly amused by his epiphany and sure it would charm Steve, he quietly admitted, "It was over my head. I know nothing at all".
The old adage of 'love being there to catch you when you fall', was full of shit…it meant 'diving off and freefalling beside you'. Making mistakes, averting and inviting disaster, enjoying freedom or rotting in the fiery pits of hell, and doing the whole fucking thing together.
"And I will stumble and fall…" the pure honesty tumbled across Steve's skin in a moist blush of air. Pressing his face against the warmth, gentle acceptance washed over Tony, because of course, now he knew, as in all examples of 'world defining love'… Steve would be stumbling and falling right beside him.
"I'm still learning to love. Just starting to crawl." Tony all but whispered, and it was okay to say that now, when no one was there to hear how uncertain and pitiful he sounded. It was probably okay to say that to Steve as well, even if he could hear, because Steve already knew what a mess he'd gotten himself into, by loving Tony.
Steve knew, and seemed to like it.
It was raining.
Drizzling really; not enough to be invigorating or revitalising, just a nuisance.
A book rested forgotten on Tony's knees, his fingers having slid from whatever passage they'd been marking, so his thumb could absentmindedly leaf through the pages. The droplets that wound their way down the glass of the window seized his attention, held it hostage, as surely as his memory held his mind captive.
It had been raining that night too.
Really raining; pouring down in heavy opaque sheets, thunder rumbling and lightning splitting the sky.
He'd refused to speak about what had happened that night.
Refused to think about it.
Just the memory was enough.
Steve's determined face as he's shoved Tony away, to safety.
Looking down powerlessly from his haven, fraught brown meeting reassuring blue as the mutilated mess of twisted metal and shattered concrete had come crashing down, burying Steve beneath.
The frantic minutes of helpless waiting, as dust settled and the area stabilised.
The agonising hours of desperate searching, every movement threatening collapse and every second beyond precious.
And finally – concrete dust encrusted skin, and closed blue eyes, rivulets of red finding path through the grey powder.
They'd said he was lucky – that even moments later and Steve might well have been dead.
Tony interpreted this slightly differently. If Steve hadn't been with him. If the lab hadn't exploded. If he'd just been faster…
"I'm sorry that I couldn't get to you." Tony sighed, and all that could be heard was guilt.
Three months, two days, 14 minutes and 31 seconds.
Tony was tired, worried and lonely. Sick, angry, guilty, ashamed, upset. Devastated.
Broken.
"And I will swallow my pride…", he said softly, leaning against the side of the bed, eyes trained on the blue locked on his, yet no familiarity of affection sparked within.
Tony wanted nothing more than to just continue living his life from the armchair beside this bed. To be with Steve.
Yet, what Tony wanted couldn't matter.
Steve was not Steve, and Tony had to do what his lover could not. What he knew Steve would want him to do.
His gaze found the brightly shining sun, from where it peaked over the horizon through the window. Despite the unfitting cheer of the morning, Tony couldn't wrest his attention back, unable to face what he knew he had to do. A blind kiss pressed to lips beneath blind eyes, and he whispered, "...You're the one that I love, and I'm saying goodbye".
He was done.
Turning, he left the room.
Left Steve.
Three months, two days, 14 minutes and 54 seconds.
The door slammed open and Tony stormed back in.
He was Tony fucking Stark. He did what he wanted.
Actually, he'd lingered outside the door, one hand on the knob for almost ten seconds. Then resolutely, he'd taken two steps down the hallway and caved.
Perhaps what Steve would want, and what he actually needed where two different things anyway.
He might want Tony to live on without him, to continue being Tony and surviving. And Tony would give that to him. It's what he'd want if the positions were reversed. But he also knew that it would take more than what 'Tony might want' to get Steve to leave. His lover would stay for as long as Tony needed him, and five minutes beside.
Stomping up to the bedside, Tony snarled, "Say something! I'm giving up on you." It was a repeat of his earlier words, from months before, but the teasing was gone, fading away behind an angry, desperate demand for Steve to just wake up.
Almost immediately Tony deflated, all anger leaving him in a wash of consuming anguish. Slumping onto the bed, he curled into Steve's chest, his voice a husky, all but inaudible whimper of choked on tears as he all but begged, "Say something..."
"T- Tony?"
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