Steve, not for the first time, comes to the conclusion that there must be something wrong with him.
Tony's draped across half of the couch in the living room, clad only in sweatpants and an old worn band t-shirt. His entire guise leaks nonchalance, a dispassionate timidity that somehow whispers "overlooked, unnoticed, disregarded" yet Tony is simply a man that demands to be seen, to be listened and respected; his presence demands attention.
Steve is completely confounded by the dichotomy of Tony Stark.
Before he even realized that Tony Stark was Iron Man, he would always puzzle on the elusive, and quite crude, sarcastic and eccentric CEO. Oftentimes he would be directed straight to the red-and-gold plated "bodyguard" when he started asking some of the questions on his mind to the bountiful S.H.I.E.L.D. agents about the Stark Corporation Chairman. Iron Man would simply stare at him with those glowing blue eyes, silent; Steve honestly thought that the machine didn't have a voice modulator whatsoever.
"I'm… I hear he is quite like his father. At least, in appearance and madness." Was the first thing Ironman had ever replied. Steve stayed still, a little shell-shocked, sure, but mostly thinking. On the short occasions he had spent with Tony Stark, for his bi-weekly cultural debriefings, Howard Stark had never truly crossed his mind, at least not in matter of comparison.
Tony seemed to let off this arrogant front and in all brutal honesty he was just snarky, rude and flagrant in what it was he wanted; it was almost impossible to get any other words besides "egotistical" and "genius" (except from Fury, who seemed to have every word available to man synonymous to "narcissistic" and a broad study of psychology that he seamlessly attached to Stark without batting his eye) from anyone else.
He couldn't stop the words before they had left him. After a two minute verbose tirade on the enigma that was Tony Stark to Iron Man of all people, Steve was left a little flushed and embarrassed—well, more than usual. He had claimed that he would be the one to decide who Tony Stark was and said, in a stern voice, that "Tony kind of reminds me of Howard, but those similarities are the greatest difference between them; it's like… the more they're alike, the more they aren't" and that was when he had stopped talking.
He spoke like he was enamored with the eccentric genius despite a handful of meetings and awkward greetings\confrontations. Things between himself and the enigmatic CEO had become stranger after that, knowing now that he had practically spilled his heart out to Tony while in disguise made the whole situation make sense but at the time it all just seemed incredibly connected yet not connected at all.
Back to Tony on the couch, then.
Steve shakes his head and clears the wave of fond nostalgia—a term not exactly associated with Steve Rogers and memories. Thinking back on the past, about Bucky and Peggy and Howard and the days that he had all but left behind hurt less this time around, the ever present ache in his chest that screamed that he didn't belong, that nothing was right was hampered by the stronger sense of acceptance found in each easy, slightly lopsided grin; in each awfully hidden chuckle; in each friendly jostle, each awkward embrace; each time their eyes met; each time they fought each other and together.
There's something inexplicably odd in the air this late morning, something out of place that doesn't belong. Steve sighs as he clenches the edge of the sink, muscles pulled taut and tense across the broad expanse of his back. The cotton white shirt is stretched to the seams, the fabric stretched to its limits. Steve runs a still damp hand through his hair and tilts his head back, exasperated.
Tony wasn't right. It was damn near visible by the darkness that clung under his eyes from an irregular lack of sleep (because he had lived with the Avengers for over two years now, lived under the same roof with Tony for a year and a half of those two years and knew that the best that could ever be claimed for Tony's health was a healthy dose of insomnia, malnourishment and some anxiety). No, this kind of lack of sleep had nothing to do with the plans for the Quinjet half scribbled on napkins and loose sheets of paper, nor a new upgrade for the Iron Man suit—it was the kind of sleeplessness that's found hand-in-hand with shuddering frights that come out with the darkness, the kind of insomnia… you'd prefer to actual sleep.
The problem here was that the kind of insomnia that qualified such symptoms typically resulted from emotional unease and Tony was volatile, absolutely and completely unnerved by the idea of opening up that speaking in the open about what was bothering him would be close to impossible. The hands clenching the ledge tighten and a nearly mute groan emits from the appliance. Steve wills his hands to loosen their grip and he looks uneasily towards the living room vicinity.
That… that wasn't the sink this time.
It takes only a second for Steve to be beside Tony's writhing form, worry laced in each crevice of his being. He's still a little damp from washing the dishes, a little wrung out from the earlier battle and the adrenaline is still pumping through his body when he finally starts to calm down. It seems that his original hypothesis is true; Tony whimpers and curls into himself for a split second before groaning painfully, eyes moving quickly under his tightly shut lids. It looks like he wants to scream or cry or shout but the body isn't responding to the mind's messages.
He's most likely dreaming, trapped in his subconscious' nightmares and Steve has known Tony long enough to understand the hellish visions that are probably plaguing the genius.
He also knows how useless and destructive waking Tony up can be so Steve grabs a hold of the clenched fist, runs a hand through Tony's sweat-matted hair and sighs.
"Everything is okay, Tony. Everything is good. Please, wake up. Wake up…"
"It's beautiful isn't it?"
She sounds so soft, so warm, like a cool summer day, like a bed of flowers, a cloud. Otherworldly; ethereal. Her name is at the tip of his tongue. He cannot speak, though; Tony is trapped in this cocoon of warmth and darkness.
Beloved lady. Wife. To love.
But he can't come up with her name.
She's still speaking, he thinks; Tony can feel the words like sugar drops falling into a pool of water, smooth and gentle, dissolving just as soon as they reach him. Feather-light as he falls deeper, deeper, but there is a warm weight pressing on his hand, holding him above the surface of absolute darkness.
"My powers-" she starts and, further away, "some effects… I'm sorry."
He accepts her strange apology in a wave of sensation. Something's odd. She wants to show him something, he can feel it, like a slight tugging at the back of his mind.
"See what… you have to lose…"
But he doesn't see a thing, only this thick void of darkness before it begins to fade away into a familiar picture; it's the top floor of the mansion.
It's them. Tony and Steve sitting on the hard hospital bed, Tony's helmet on his lap and Steve's hands are on his shoulder. Even in his mind, Tony can feel the dull ache of the chemical agent; no form of acid, for sure, and the burns are superficial. Must have been made to specifically go through his armor, then; the scald is just a product of the compound's exothermic reaction with the armor.
Tony mumbles something under his breath. It sounds suspiciously like the 'thank you' he hadn't meant to let slip, and –oh, there's the snaky little hand that fell atop of Steve's reassuring hold on his good shoulder. His head is bowed down, heavy with sleeplessness, the weight of the medication and the soothing alleviation from the balm is forcing his senses to surrender to the darkness. Surrender to the visions.
Only the scene doesn't end there. Not when Tony's body slumps forward, not when his eyes shut completely, not when Steve calls out his name to silence. It's like he's watching from the camera in the corner, an omniscient view of the going-ons without any more insight.
Steve looks weary. His hair if ruffled from the flight, his eyes are a little dull and glazed over as he spaces out and his hands move slowly to gently put down Tony's limp body. The sigh he lets out is tired in a decidedly different way and the look he gives Tony is different than the furtive little glances he catches on the outskirts of his peripheral vision, different than the worried stares, annoyed eye-rolls and the braver looks Steve has ever given him.
Steve looks equally shattered and at peace. Like the words at the tip of his tongue are burning to be muttered but are impossible to articulate. His eyes slide close as his hands brush down from Tony's shoulders to his collar bone, arc up to his neck and cradle the base of his skull. He's moved in the process from sitting beside Tony to almost completely covering the unconscious man with his body and his head tips forward, the two resting forehead to forehead.
"Tony-"
A memory springs from the growing darkness, followed by another, like a strobe light, in a constant flickering pattern of inverting darkness.
Steve laughing at Tony as he tries to rub the grease off his cheek with a dirty, oil-stained hand.
Tony and Steve laughing together on the third floor entertainment room while they try to catch him up on movies and culture.
Steve yelling at Tony for being stupid.
Tony talking to Steve after a battle. After a nightmare.
Smiles.
Glances.
Friendship.
Laughter.
Warmth.
"Do you see what you have to lose?" the voice says softly, as if consoling a long forgotten ache, healing an old wound. "Antony Stark, there is so much—"
No, no there's something wrong. The once lulling sense of warmth and comfort is fading fast. He's flinching at the biting cold that's warping through his senses and the tinges of black sprouting at the edges of his vision. The images that flashed, bright and effervescent bleed a harsh pigmented and stagnant darkness.
There's an explosion. Fire in the air, firearms firing at innocent people, their smiles fresh in Tony's memory, teasing and taunting but kind all the same; There's a missile in front of him and he scrambles for purchase before closing his eyes.
"I deserve to die" Tony thinks as he reads his name, his legacy on the side of his harbinger of death.
An explosion. Fire. An explosion of pain; fire in his chest. His life, extinguished.
"Yes, yes; finally. Sweet poetic justice-"
But no, it's not the end. He turns heartless, flesh and bone turns to steel and fire.
Always fire.
He fights; redemption is at arm's length, within reach but never in his grasp. He fights evil, fights himself, fights with his partners but knows, ultimately, that he'll never win. At the end of the day he's breathing, he's living when so many good, deserving people die. He'll rub his eyes and think "why"? The answer is never at the end of the formula. Somewhere along the way he may have messed up; wrong limits. The derivation of his life isn't coming up; the integral is lost within the components of this intricate word problem and he's probably written the fundamental theorems incorrectly.
Because at the end of each battle, at the end of each seventy-two hour day he's still alive and breathing. Either something is wrong with the world, Death doesn't like following a group of superheroes or God has a sick sense of humor.
-
He wakes up after being unconscious for a week. Those amateur villains are getting their grubby little paws on some seriously heavy mechanical gauntlets—most likely from Hammer, judging by the metal grade and the size of the explosion when the third guy tried shooting a pinpoint strike of plasma energy at Captain America's turned back.
He doesn't realize that he's in his room at Avenger's tower until someone moves beside him. Steve's there, head bowed as he scrutinizes the book he's almost crushing with his hands.
"What did Faust ever do to you? It was written a million years ago by some dude that's beyond rotting now."
"Tony!"
And he remembers again, how dark it had gotten. Blue eyes, wide with worry, lips that moved into syllables that were muted by painpainpain—
"Why?" It's hard to speak through the pain; even harder to see through the haze of darkness that's clouding his vision.
"What?" Steve leans forward, blue eyes swimming in Tony's vision.
"Why would you save me?" Then—darkness at last.
There are some many bottles on the tabletop it looks like it nears complete collapse. Half of them are empty.
The doctors say he's lucky someone found him and called 911. Lucky, they say. Like he should rejoice. Like he should be proud.
"You don't want to be saved." It's a statement. Steve doesn't look at Tony. Tony sighs, reads the words of the book upside down.
"Methinks, by most, 'twill be confess'd
That Death is never quite a welcome guest."
"I don't deserve to be saved."
When Tony opens his eyes he feels like he's seeing through a cloud of haze; someone else's' heavily prescribed lenses that cover his visage. There are fields of cotton in his mind just filling up the spaces and when he turns his head he can't feel it; doesn't feel the muscles pull and stretch, doesn't feel the bones moving when he starts to sit up.
He's riding shotgun to someone running his body. It kind of reminds him of the whole Loki incident, the way Clint explained seeing everything and not being able to move. Each hit and each swing was painful and he couldn't stop. He couldn't do a damn thing.
Tony struggled against his invisible restraints, felt a swell of anxiety and feebleness settle in the core of his being and continued to fight each movement. He watches as he sits up fully, his hand moving forward in slow jerks and finally extends fully. That's when a strong, warm hand grips his wrist and a impossibly relieved Captain comes into his view.
"Tony! You're awa-" And Tony can't help but feel a wave of relief when Steve's face drops into something more akin to confused, then panic and finally closes off completely. "Who are you? What did you do to Tony!" Steve commands, his grasp tightening on Tony's wrist.
"Alive." Tony hears a guttural stranger whisper and comes to the conclusion that it must have been himself. "I am… alive."
"That doesn't make sense." Steve growls and he grabs the other limp wrist to push the not-Tony further into the cushions. "Now I'm going to ask you a question and you're damn well going to answer me honestly or I'll get Agent Widow and she knows a thousand ways to knock a man out and more ways to make it painful, understand?" Apparently receiving his answer Steve barreled on. "Good. What did you do to Tony?"
"S-Side… effect. Not meant to happen. Something else… is here. Something dark. Something ancient" Steve releases a breath and continues, passive-features a perfect mask of flaccid aggression.
"You said this is a side effect- side effect of what?"
"Do you dream at night?"
"Stop avoiding-"
"I dream of smoke and fire; death and decay. I see the destruction of the world and the malice in the eyes of those that cause it."
"That doesn't-" Steve tries but his face is scrunching up as he loses the lucidity of the response. "Why are you doing this?"
"Sacrifices must be made. I am simply warning Anthony of these upcoming plights. I-I can't-" Tony sees a wave of darkness rush through his vision and his body slumps forward. He can feel his body better than before, a tingling coursing through his veins, his muscles and sinking deep into his bones as Steve pulls his head up, speaking in a silent tongue.
"Tony? Tony hey listen up—you remember…?"
"Losing control… last… warning." Tony mumbles.
"Hey look at me—it's Steve. You know me, Tony. Do you remember me?" Steve tries to make Tony focus but feels his friend relapsing into unconsciousness. "Tony! Do you know who I am?" Steve repeats, one hand holding Tony's chin up, the other flat and scorching against the mechanic's cheek.
"Salvation." Tony breaths and that far off look is back into his hazy teal eyes—eyes that don't shine with humor, the lack of honey chocolate making them further from human. Those eyes near and Steve can't react when Tony's lips are against his own, soft and slightly dry and pressing closer, slotting neatly against his own with a tilt of his head.
By the time Steve finds the attention to come back to the predicament Tony sighs and closes his eyes, the sight of them turning back into their natural color from the strange concoction of sapphire and emerald from before is comforting and frightening all in one. Tony's body slumps forward and Steve remains still, shell-shocked and confused.
"Jarvis!" Steve shouts to the side, turning his head to avoid yelling in Tony's ear. "I need you to call someone from the medical bay and Hank McCoy, uh, and can you please help me figure out what the hell just happened?"
Jarvis, in fact, was created with the only specified instructions to help Tony. There wasn't much else written into the program that would tell of its specific utilitarian purpose. The programming would state, in layman terms: "This A.I is hereby given free evolutionary reign so long as it fulfills its purpose and can branch out, be snarky and, hell, get its own set of characteristics, like a personality—this program is limitless only to its official objective".
See, Steve didn't know that. In fact, only three people know of the AI's initial programming and that's limited to the other scientists that Tony trusts with his life: Peter, Bruce and Reed. Don't get Tony wrong—he trusts Hank McCoy with his life, it's just that the mutant prefers to be visited and never makes house calls. Hence Steve's surprise when, after tucking Tony into an empty medical room in the top floor of the building, the aforementioned scientist lumbered through the doorway with a book bag slung across his shoulder.
"Hello there, Steven. What ever was the cause of such distress?" Hank ponders with a heavy shrug, pulling the slipping bag up over his shoulder.
"Well, there's something up with Tony and he's, well it's not—Tony…"
"I believe that I may be of assistance in this manner." Jarvis pipes up and wow, if Steve didn't know any better than he'd think that Jarvis was laughing and isn't that just something out of a Ray Bradbury book? What. Steve reads on their off time, when the other Avengers aren't going about being lousy scoundrels. "Master Tony has been having worse bouts of insomnia, spanning from five to six days per week for the past month. His eating habits have changed as well and he is currently consuming a total of two-thousand two hundred calories per day, which is odd for Master Tony. He sleep walks and suffers bouts of black outs that have lasted between two minutes to three hours. At these times he begins to speak to himself and create strange objects, always the same object."
"Well, that is mighty odd…" Hank rubbed a furry claw over his blue chin and his upper lip curled up in a pensive snarl. "I will endeavor to take a gander into his physiological symptoms, if anything shows up I will send you word but I think perhaps a telepath would be better help in this situation." Hank grinned, white teeth sharp in contrast to his form. "Still, the Professor went missing a few days back, a mishap in the danger room with one of the time-space shifting mutants and Frost is on loan to the British Government so it's fine."
"Thank you" Steve breathed out, trying his hardest not to smile. Hank gave him a little nod and a look, the same look Pepper would give him whenever he tried to make Tony remember that he was human and that billionaire-playboy-philanthropist-body of his had basic needs. It made Steve want to squirm but his soldier instincts battled the impulse down and he turned away, a sigh heavy on his lips.
"In the meantime," Jarvis piped up and Steve would deny that he jumped, "I have some video feeds from last night and some information that Master Tony had requested me to have formed and separated—they are ready. Would you like to view them?"
Steve always had a problem with feeling helpless. Before the serum he just tried to help—so many fights in so many places, busted lips and broken bones; he had only wanted to help. With the serum it was possible, he could actually help it. Right now, with Tony and his strange episodes—he felt like the Brooklyn boy that was behind the diner, pummeled and bleeding.
But this? He could do this.
"Lead the way." Steve huffs, making his way to the elevator while Jarvis takes him down to Tony's lab.
The image was spayed out on the open, two separate screens. The first one was time-stamped on the bottom left corner. The image played on like a silent film, certain features and slices highlighted to pinpoint certain facts and details. The pixels made the scene shades of blue and white, like the vibrant glow of Tony's arc reactor.
The second image, the one playing in a ten second loop, was in a smaller window than the other and the images flickered as the feed restarted.
"Tony! Do you know who I am?"
"Salvation."
Lips, warm and soft. Chapped slightly as they slip into his own, locking into a perfect match.
It's slightly surreal seeing them two in a different light, even if that point of view is just the corner camera.
The next video—that's what's getting Steve's muscles tense, his jaw clenching.
"What are you doing in here and-" Tony stumbles slightly, still dazed and slightly confused but his features sober up as he looks up from his awkward half-leaning half-stumbled pose against his workshop table. "—What are you watching." He looks pale, out of it of sorts.
"Tony," Steve motions at the second screen, the one still moving," What the hell is going on? What are you doing right now?" He looks mighty pissed but Tony's a little distracted by the second video.
'I thought that was a dream' he thinks numbly until he spots the hologram Steve is motioning towards.
"What. Is. This." Steve repeats and he looks like he's going to explode before he manages to turn around.
"I swear it's not-" Tony starts and Steve's incredulous huff throws him off. "I don't know." He pauses. "Is that what you want to hear? I don't know. Hank doesn't know—he says that the only change in my physical reactions is a little disorientation. I don't know what the hell is going on with me." Tony's teeth are gritting and he straightens up, fists clenched and shaking at his sides.
"I don't—there's his voice that's talking to me, some woman and she- she shows me these things and, god, they're disgusting, they're absolutely horrible and I can't tell if it's real or a nightmare or what the hell is going on but I can't do it. There's a savior that's supposed to arise from all of this and I don't know what the hell I am doing." Tony snorts but the sound is shallow. "So there. You heard it from the horse's mouth and all." Tony grins and Steve turns, his eyes so full of emotion. It's his paparazzi smile, Steve thinks, and well if that isn't fucked up.
"Hope you're happy, if you don't mind I think I'm going to and drink away the next hour. Sure as hell beats all of-" Tony ducks his head and motions towards the video streams. "It beats all of this." He takes a deep breath, runs his had through his sweaty hair and turns, leaving before Steve has the chance to say anything.
And, well, he doesn't want to hear it anyway.
Besides, he figured Steve was the champion anyway. And in the end, it's what makes the most sense; it's what hurts the most. Brave, stupidly loyal Steve that would throw himself in harms way to ensure everyone's safety. Of course he'd be the savior, tha martyr. It only makes sense and Tony thinks that's the worse; far worse than the stench of rotten flesh and burning corpses.
Because in the end, Steve is going to have to die. And Tony-Tony just can't handle that knowledge.
Steve simply stood there, the need to chase after Tony beaten by the need to know just what was going on. He closes his eyes, turns towards the screens and takes a deep breath.
"Jarvis, un-mute, please." Steve chokes out, eyes still shut.
"Yes, Master Steven." The AI pipes up and the room fills with Tony's murmuring. Steve's heart clenches at the low, familiar whispers.
"One, just one person to save them all." Tony says to himself, eyes faraway and his hands messing around with the same metal instrument that's on his work table at this exact moment. Steve sighs and drops to his knees, crumpling in a disheartened heap. The video continues and Tony looks up at the empty space before his arms, his voice laden with pain. " Prepare yourself, Antony. Things are not always as they seem…"