Title: The Roughest Day 7/11
Authors: seanchai and elspethdixon
Rated: PG-13
Pairings: Steve/Tony. Also, various canon ships, including Peter/MJ and Luke/Jessica/Danny.
Warnings: Some violence, and probably a little swearing, at some point. Fluff. Eventual melodrama. Blatant shipper fic.
Disclaimer: The characters and situations depicted herein belong to Stan Lee and Marvel comics. No profit is being made off of this derivative work. We're paid in love, people.
Summary: Steve is in a motorcycle accident, Tony catches a cold, and someone is after the New Avengers.
Note: /text in italics/ signifies communication via extremis. Ya'll know the drill from RR&R.
And again, our thanks to angelofharmony and tavella for the wonderful beta job.
Chapter Seven
Steve had initially planned to corner Tony when he came home from work, but this plan had been foiled by the fact that Tony hadn't actually come home from work. At first, Steve had assumed he was staying late and forcing the secretary to work overtime again, but when it hit eight o' clock, and the rest of them had already eaten dinner, he concluded that even Tony wouldn't stay at work this late, and that he was probably hiding in his lab again.
The lab-slash-metal shop occupied the entire sub-basement of Stark Tower, and was a long elevator ride down. Actually, it was two elevator rides down; you got off the normal elevator in the basement and entered a second, hidden elevator, which required you to verbally dictate a pass code into a voice-recognition security system. Steve would have considered it a ridiculous level of precaution, but he'd seen some of the things Tony worked on down there, not just for the Armor, but for the Avengers and for SHIELD. At least it didn't involve sitting in a barber's chair, like the secret entrance to Nick Fury's headquarters once had.
Usually, Steve could hear the whirring noises of machine tools as soon as the elevator doors slid open. Now, though, they opened onto silence. For a moment, he thought that he'd been wrong, that the lab might be empty, but the lights were on. Tony never left the lights on.
"Tony?" Steve called, walking around a half-gutted Quinjet engine. There was no response. He turned slowly, looking around.
Tony was slumped over a lab table, head resting on his folded arms. He was wearing jeans and a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and his hair was a mess. "Tony?" Steve said again.
He didn't move. Had Tony actually fallen asleep down here? Steve crossed the room and stood over him, touching him gently on the shoulder; he could feel the fever-heat through the thin fabric of Tony's dress-shirt, more noticeable then it had been this morning.
"Hmm?" Tony lifted his head, blinking up at Steve with bloodshot eyes, a slightly disoriented expression on his face. "Steve?"
Steve should have been annoyed that Tony had managed to overwork himself into actual illness for a second time, but instead, he found himself grinning foolishly down at Tony. Tony's eyes were red-rimmed, and his eyelashes were clumped together as if he'd been sleeping. Under the bright, fluorescent lights of the lab, his cheekbones and jaw line were sharp angles, and his eyes were a pale, slate grey. "You missed dinner," Steve told him.
Tony frowned slightly, brows drawing together. "Oh," he said. "I didn't realize it was that late."
"It's eight o' clock," Steve said, moving his hand to the back of Tony's neck. "If you don't get upstairs soon, Spiderman will start the movie without you."
"Movie night's on Friday," Tony said. He leaned back into Steve's touch, a thoughtful expression on his face.
Steve tightened his hand slightly, still smiling. Even if Tony had managed to over-work himself to the point of collapse, he'd be better once he'd gotten some rest. And when he had; they could talk. He'd been planning to say something immediately, to get all of the stupid misunderstandings out in the open and clear them up. To get verbal confirmation, from Tony, of what he'd finally realized was true. To finally get to say, "I love you," himself.
But Tony was obviously genuinely sick now, and it wouldn't be fair to make him have that conversation when he was in this state.
But that didn't change the fact that Tony loved him. Tony had always loved him. And Steve couldn't stop grinning like an idiot. "That was in the mansion," he said. "Remember? We changed it to Sunday."
"Oh." Tony blinked up at him, obviously only processing things at about half speed.
Steve reached down and took him by the elbow, pulling him to his feet. "Come on," he said. "We're watching one of the Indiana Jones movies. I need you to help me point out all of the historical inaccuracies."
Tony didn't say anything, looking at Steve with a solemn expression for a long moment. "Steve, I-" he broke off, looking away. "That sounds like fun."
"Or you could just go to bed, " Steve said. "You sound tired. "
"I'm fine. " Tony offered him a little half smile. "And anyway, I wouldn't want to miss you making fun of the Nazis. "
"Great. " Steve steered Tony toward the elevator, one hand on the small of his back. "You can eat something, too. "
"I'm not hungry, " Tony said, not resisting as Steve pushed him forward. "I ate earlier. "
That was a lie, since he'd had gone straight from his office to his lab, but Steve decided to let it pass. He couldn't find it in himself to be annoyed at Tony right now, no matter how annoying Tony tried to make himself.
Once they were in the elevator, Tony leaned into Steve's side, shoulder resting against his. It was unusually demonstrative for him, but then, Tony was always a little more open and unguarded when he was tired.
"You seem happy, " Tony observed quietly.
He was still grinning like an idiot, Steve knew. It was ridiculous to be this happy just because Tony was standing next to him, but this was exactly what he'd always wanted, even if he hadn't entirely realized it was possible until Carol had said something. Tony's voice had been the first thing Steve had heard when he'd woken up from the ice; he had been one of the first people Steve had really connected with in this time.
Even before they'd been sleeping together, he'd known that he could happily spend the rest of his life making fun of movies with Tony, and sparring with him, and fighting alongside him.
"Any particular reason?" Tony continued, voice unusually subdued. He had to be exhausted; anyone else would have had the sense to stay home from work today.
This was the perfect opportunity to say something, but Tony wasn't really in any sort of shape to hear it. Steve would tell him in the morning, after he'd gotten some sleep. Until then, the knowledge that this was real, and could be permanent if Steve just said the word, was enough. "No reason," he said. "I'll tell you tomorrow."
Steve dropped his hand as the elevator doors slid open, and Tony straightened, taking a step away from him. The rest of the New Avengers were already waiting for them in the living room, as was Danny Rand, who was sitting on the far couch with Luke and Jessica Jones, a giant bowl of popcorn on his lap. Iron Fist spent more time at the New Avengers' various gatherings than Logan did; Steve needed to remember to offer Rand a slot on the team one of these days. He'd been on a team with Luke before, and they were obviously close. Anyway, Peter kept insisting that they needed a ninja, and Steve had just about given up on convincing Daredevil to try being a team player.
He still wasn't sure how Tony had gotten Logan to join, unless it involved judicious bribery.
Peter and MJ were cuddling together on the other couch, and Jessica Drew was curled up in one of the room's two armchairs. Jarvis and May were conspicuously absent; Jarvis did not share Peter's taste in movies.
Tony sat down heavily at the end of the nearest couch, opposite Peter and MJ. Steve glanced at the empty armchair across from Jessica Drew, and then deliberately walked past it and sat down right next to Tony. He was going to say something tomorrow; there was no more need to hide things.
"Okay, come on, somebody turn on the movie," Peter said. He turned to Tony, "Where have you been? We're watching an Indiana Jones movie; you know you don't want to miss Cap mocking the incompetent Nazis."
"Man, none of the rest of you can do anything for yourselves." Luke leaned over and punched the "play" button on the ridiculously complicated remote for the DVD player, and the black screen faded into an image of giant gong, and a title card that was mostly obscured by a blonde woman with obviously curled hair.
"There are no Nazis in this one," Tony said, with the air of one making a dire pronouncement. He shifted a little closer to Steve, so that their arms were brushing. "This is the evil temple cult one."
"If there aren't any Nazis, then who's going to spend the whole movie racing him to find the artifact?"
"Nobody," Luke informed him. "This one's the bad one. There are stereotypical natives, too."
"Oh," Steve said, feeling slightly disappointed. He never seen The Temple of Doom before, but he'd watched the first and last Indiana Jones movies multiple times. He'd seen the first one shortly after getting unfrozen, and then any number of times again, once Clint was on the team. They'd watched the third one the last time Tony had been sick, after Steve had finally taken pity on him and rescued him from Simon and Hank McCoy's soap opera marathon. They'd both been fun, and better than he'd expected from films recommended by Clint.
Clint had only asked two things from movies: that they contain lots of explosions, and that they under no circumstances have subtitles (or, failing that, that they contain Errol Flynn).
They hadn't watched Robin Hood since the Avengers Mansion had been destroyed.
On screen, Indiana was now in a Shanghai nightclub, engaged in a Mexican standoff involving diamonds and poison that Steve thought might be a parody.
"I bet George Lucas wrote the dialogue for this himself," Peter announced, as a waiter melodramatically expired in Indiana's arms.
"He probably did," MJ agreed, nudging him with her shoulder. "It would explain a lot."
"Is that one of the things that's wrong with the Star Wars movies I'm not allowed to see?" Steve asked.
"We've discussed this," Tony said. He broke off, coughing, then continued after a moment, "There are only three Star Wars movies."
Jessica Drew smirked, drawing one leg up beneath herself. "Just keep telling yourself that. And anyway, the dialogue is secondary. The whole point of the movie is Harrison Ford in tight pants."
"His pants were tighter in Star Wars," Luke said. Everyone turned to stare at him. "What?" he shrugged. "They were. Statement of fact, not an endorsement."
"Star Wars had better fight sequences," Danny added. "Actually, so did the other Indiana Jones movies. What happened to this one? Did the stunt guy go on strike?"
"Maybe he read the script," Peter offered.
Steve returned his attention to the screen. Indiana and a hysterical blonde woman were now fleeing the nightclub in a car. "Why is his get-away driver an eight-year-old?" If the adorable small child was dead by the end of the movie, he was going to get Peter for this.
"Because this movie sucks," Jessica Jones said.
"Hey," MJ said. "Don't knock Short Round. He's a better actor than the bleached blonde. A better character, too."
Indiana and company were hustled into a cargo plane which then took off into the sunrise. "Oh hey," Steve said, recognizing the plane's silhouette, with three radial engines outlined against the sky. "It's a Ford Tri-motor."
"Enjoy it," Tony said, tipping his head back against the back of the couch and closing his eyes. "The Tin Goose is the best part of the movie."
From the blank looks the rest of the team wore, it was clear that Tony was the only person in the room other than Steve who actually knew what a Ford Tri-motor was, let alone why it had that particular nickname. He knew more about obscure aircraft from the nineteen-thirties than Steve did, and Steve had lived through the thirties. And Tony didn't know all about them because of Steve, either; he'd already been a walking encyclopedia on engineering history when Steve had met him.
That was one of the fun things about Tony; he was passionate about what he did.
As the movie wore on, Tony gradually slid sideways until his head was resting on Steve's shoulder. One of his hands had ended up on Steve's thigh, though Steve wasn't sure if it was intentional, or just because he was asleep.
To have fallen asleep in front of everyone like this, Tony must have desperately needed the rest. "This close, it was even more obvious that he was running a fever, and getting almost no sleep the past few nights couldn't have helped." It was lucky for him that Steve had pried him out of his lab and come up with an excuse to make him sit still for a few hours.
Onscreen, the blonde woman let out a piercing shriek as a truly gratuitous number of bugs fell from the ceiling onto her hair. Tony didn't so much as flicker an eyelash.
When the movie was over, they'd probably have to wake him up to get him to go to bed.
Good. He'd be better for the rest.
The movie went on, and on, and the female lead failed to develop a personality. MJ was right, though; the kid wasn't bad. Eventually, Indiana and his sidekick (and the girl) managed to escape from the mines, the poorly portrayed evil cult in hot pursuit. If this had been an old Douglas Fairbanks Sr. movie -- which was probably where they'd stolen it's plot from -- the high priest would have been a half-naked barbarian priestess covered in oil, and Douglas Fairbanks would also have been half-naked and oiled, and it would have been a superior film all around.
And then the British Army came to rescue them. Unfortunately, they appeared to be the British Army circa 1890. "Wake up," Steve said, jostling Tony. "Rudyard Kipling's regiment has come to save them."
Tony made a faint humming sound of agreement, but otherwise failed to respond.
"Wow," Peter said, giving Steve an admiring look. "That was almost funny. And kind of bitchy."
"What?" Why was everyone always so surprised any time he joked around? "The costumes are horribly out of period. And I do have a sense of humor, you know."
Tony stirred long enough to mumble, "Yes, yes he does," without opening his eyes.
By the time the movie ended ten minutes later, Tony had fallen asleep again, his head a heavy weight against Steve's shoulder. He waited until everyone else had filed out of the living room, heading for their beds or, in Peter's case, the kitchen, before gently shaking Tony.
"Movie's over," he said. "Come on."
Tony blinked at him. "Hmm?" he mumbled, obviously only partially awake.
"Come on." Steve stood, pulling Tony up along with him, and steered him towards the living room's broad double doors.
Tony didn't actually lean on him, but he listed towards Steve slightly, their shoulders just brushing as they walked down the hall. By the time they reached Tony's room, he looked slightly more coherent.
"Sorry," he yawned, sitting down on the edge of the bed. The yawn turned into a cough, which he muffled with one hand. "I don't know why I'm so tired."
Steve could make a guess at that. "Because you're sick and have barely slept all week." He handed Tony a t-shirt and sweatpants, watching as he slowly unbuttoned his wrinkled dress shirt, exposing the clean lines of his collarbones.
"I was busy," Tony defended. He was silent for a long moment, unfastening the last button on his shirt. Then he looked up at Steve, eyes dark. Between the open shirt and the circles under his eyes, he looked strangely defenseless. "Steve, I need to tell you-" he broke off, smothering another cough.
"What?" Steve asked, pulling off his own shirt and sitting down next to Tony. The bed creaked under their combined weight.
Tony dropped his eyes, looking away from Steve. "Nothing. It can wait 'til morning."
Whatever it was, Tony was reluctant to tell him; this was the second time he'd almost broached the subject only to drop it. Steve had no idea what this thing Tony needed to tell him might be, but he wasn't going to force the matter. If Tony said it could wait until morning, then it couldn't be that bad.
By the time Steve returned from brushing his teeth, Tony was under the covers, curled up on his side. As soon as he lay down, though, Tony rolled over and wrapped an arm around him, burying his face in the crook of Steve's neck, hair brushing against Steve's jaw.
Steve slid an arm under Tony, pulling him closer. At the moment; he couldn't imagine wanting anything more.
Tony was still wrapped around Steve when he woke the next morning, and Steve had to pry his arms away in order to get up. Tony groaned, eyes opening to dazed slits.
"It's only six," Steve said, patting Tony on the shoulder. He was still running a fever, but his skin felt cooler than it had last night. "You go back to sleep. I'm going to go running."
Tony made a vague sound of assent, and curled up into a ball in the center of the bed, a dark shape in the middle of the white sheets, one arm wrapped around Steve's pillow.
At six a.m., the streets outside Stark Tower were comparatively empty; there were only a few early commuters to dodge. When the Avengers Mansion had still been standing, Steve had run in Central Park every morning -- it woke him up, and the park's trails were interesting to run through. It wasn't quite as much fun to run through uptown Manhattan, but he wasn't about to give up his morning run.
It was still cool at this time of morning; the heat of the day hadn't yet turned the pavement into baking slabs of concrete. There was a thin veil of mist hanging in the air, which was gradually burned away by the sunlight as he ran. By the time Steve returned to the Tower an hour later, it had vanished completely.
Once he had finished showering and dressing, it was nearly eight o' clock, and various New Avengers were already collected in the kitchen. May Parker was standing in front of the stove, wearing a blue-and-white striped apron, making pancakes -- she was one of the chosen few Jarvis permitted to use his kitchen appliances. Jarvis was sitting at the kitchen table, watching May cook and wearing a little smile of the sort that Steve wasn't used to seeing on Jarvis. Peter, sitting across from him, was already dressed for work, though his hair was still sticking up.
Luke and Jessica Jones were also at the table, waiting with empty plates for the pancakes to be ready. Danny Rand, who had apparently never left the previous evening, was crouched in front of the baby's highchair, attempting to feed her breakfast. He was wearing one of Luke's shirts, along with most of said breakfast.
"Take a seat, Steven," May said, without turning away from the stove. "The pancakes will be ready in a moment." Technically, May was younger than Steve, but she always treated him as if he were the same age as Peter; he'd had no better luck convincing her that he was closer to her age than to her nephew's than he'd had convincing the other Avengers that he was older than they were.
The pancakes were wonderful. Tony, predictably, never made an appearance; he firmly believed that the only food that civilized human beings should consume before ten a.m. was coffee. Steve ate his share of the pancakes for him.
Breakfast ended, and May made everyone else wash the dishes, a chore Peter escaped by claiming that it would make him late for his first class. Steve strongly suspected that this was a rote excuse he'd used many times, possibly one that dated back to when he'd been a student himself.
Usually, Peter got himself from the Tower to the high school where he taught via webline. Today, though, Happy Hogan was driving him; that way, if anyone tried to take a shot at Peter on the way to work, there would be a witness.
After everyone had cleared out, Steve fetched his spare boots from his room -- which he used mainly to store clothing at this point, and that mostly for appearances' sake -- and sat down at the kitchen table to clean them, under Jarvis's disapproving eye. Steve had just finished cleaning and oiling the first boot when Pepper Hogan stalked in, heels clicking on the tile floor.
"All right, where is he?" she demanded, stabbing one lacquered fingernail in Steve's direction.
Steve frowned up at her. "Where is who?"
"Tony, obviously. He has a meeting at ten, and he was supposed to go over the Sikorsky design contract with me first."
"He's not in his office?" Steve asked. That was unusual. Tony might not be a morning person, but he was also never late.
"No," Pepper said. "And he's not in his lab, either. I checked."
"He must be here somewhere," Steve said. "He would have said something if he was going to leave the apartment; we've all been checking in before leaving, since we realized someone out there's after us." He put down the half-cleaned leather boot and stood, wiping Kiwi "candy apple" polish off his hand with a rag. "Anyway, I'll help you look for him."
Steve made a slow circuit of the Avengers' living quarters, which failed to turn up Tony anywhere. Finally, having checked every place else he could think of, he went back to Tony's room, pushing open the door without bothering to knock.
The lights were out, and the blinds were still drawn, but there was more than enough light to for him to see Tony huddled in the middle of the bed, in virtually the same position Steve had left him in hours ago.
A sinking feeling in his stomach, Steve crossed the room, and sat down on the side of the bed, laying a hand on Tony's shoulder. Steve could feel the heat radiating off of Tony almost before he touched him. "Tony," he said, then again, when that failed to get a response, "Tony?"
Tony made a noise of protest and pulled away from Steve's hand, curling more tightly around the pillow he was still clutching. "Leave me alone," he mumbled, not opening his eyes. "Tired."
"Tony," Steve said, putting his hand back on Tony's shoulder and squeezing, "it's nine-thirty. Pepper's looking for you."
Tony opened his eyes and frowned at Steve. "It's that late?" he rasped. "You said it was early."
Steve felt a pang of guilt; if he'd known that Tony was this sick earlier, he would never have left.
"We have to go over the Sikorsky contract," Tony went on, struggling into a half-sitting position, weight resting on his elbows.
Steve pushed him flat onto his back. It was worryingly easy. "That can wait," he told Tony, "you're sick. I'm going to call Pepper and tell her to cancel whatever you've got planned for today."
Tony didn't protest; he simply lay still, eyes half-lidded, obviously fighting to stay awake. Steve kept one hand on the center of his chest anyway, while he grabbed Tony's cell phone off the bedside table and hit speed dial two.
"Great," Pepper said when he told her. She sounded exasperated, but not surprised. "Sometimes I miss the days when all you had to do was wait until he fell over and then plug him into the nearest wall socket." She sighed. "I'll be there in five minutes." Steve could hear worry underlying the irritation in her voice; she had known Tony even longer than Steve had, and she'd been there for the pneumonia adventure, too, as well as the various times that Tony's armor had been killing him. "Tell him not to worry. I'll cancel everything."
By the time Steve put the phone down, Tony had shoved his hand away and pushed himself up on one elbow again, rubbing at his forehead with his other hand. "Tell Pepper I'll be in in fifteen minutes." He forced himself upright, then swayed, catching himself with one hand flat against the bedspread. "Half an hour. Be ready in half an hour."
Steve took Tony by the elbows, and abruptly found himself holding him upright as he sagged forward. "She cancelled everything already. There's nothing you have to do, so just lie back down."
Tony shook his head. "No. I have to finish the X-42 project."
"You finished that yesterday," Pepper said from the doorway; Steve hadn't noticed her coming in, preoccupied as he was with Tony. "Remember?"
"I did?" Tony asked, frowning. "Oh." He sagged forward a little further, until he was slumped against Steve's side, head resting on his shoulder, and closed his eyes.
Steve moved an arm behind Tony's back, so that he was holding him in place. "Something is really wrong," he told Pepper. "Could you call Hank Pym?"
"I'll go and do that now," she said, already turning to go. She paused in the doorway for a moment, looking back over her shoulder, a worried frown marring her features, then left.
Tony coughed, and tried to sit up again, one hand on Steve's thigh for leverage. "Hank will be here soon," Steve said, tightening his arm. He wasn't sure that Tony heard him; he was draped over Steve almost bonelessly, limp and unresisting in his arms.
Steve absently began rubbing slow circles over Tony's back; he had never seen Tony this out of it before, not even when he was drugged, concussed, or drunk. It was deeply disconcerting to see him like this, when Tony was normally so together.
Eventually, Steve laid Tony back down. He promptly curled around himself again, one hand clutching at Steve's wrist. He was solidly asleep by the time Hank showed up fifteen minutes later.
Hank was wearing a white lab coat and carrying a doctor's bag identical to the one Don Blake used to use. He stopped dead when he saw Tony, looking stricken. "Damnit," he said. "None of the tests indicated that things would progress this quickly."
"What tests?" Steve asked, a cold feeling settling in the pit of his stomach. "What's wrong with him?"
"He didn't tell you." It was a statement, not a question.
Steve shook his head silently. He could think of a dozen possibilities, all of them bad. Tony had been poisoned by whoever was after them. Tony had been hit by some bizarre form of curse. Tony had caught some kind of alien flu in the Savage Land. Or it was his heart. If there was something wrong with his heart again…
"Of course he didn't tell you," Hank muttered. "I should have known. Idiot."
"What is it?" Steve repeated.
Hank's shoulders slumped, and he looked away from Steve, towards where Tony was huddled motionless under the covers. "I thought it might be leukemia," he said, "but leukemia doesn't progress this quickly."
"That's good, right?" His voice sounded calm, like somebody else's. "That it's not cancer?" If it wasn't cancer, wasn't something fatal, then they would be able to do something about it. Was that what Tony had almost told him last night? While Steve had been obliviously imaging a future with Tony, Tony had been... not just sick. Probably half-convinced he was dying. And, of course, he'd said nothing to Steve.
"There are treatments for cancer," Hank said. "This..." he shrugged. "I don't know. I don't know what it is." He wasn't meeting Steve's eyes.
"But you can do something," Steve said. He didn't let it be a question. It couldn't be a question.
"I don't know what it is!" Hank snapped, still staring at Tony. "There's nothing I can do unless I know-" he broke off, then said, quietly, "I'm sorry. Look, I can give him something for the fever, and there are a couple more tests I can run." He paused for a moment, glancing at Steve, then away again. "I can't work with you hovering, though. "
Leaving was the last thing Steve wanted to do, but if Hank needed space to work... He nodded, and tugged his wrist free from Tony's grasp.
Tony made a noise of protest and opened his eyes, reaching for Steve again. "Steve?"
Steve caught his hand and lowered it back down onto the bed. "Hank's here. He wants to run some tests on you, and he needs space to work. I'll be back soon."
Tony rolled his head sideways, until he was looking at Hank. Hip lips twitched in a little half-smile. "Hey, Hank." Then his eyes widened, and Steve could almost see the puzzle pieces falling into place. "Oh hell. He told you, didn't he?" He turned back to Steve, eyes dark and full of misery. "Sorry. I was going to tell you."
Steve stared at Tony wordlessly. Behind him, Hank made a snorting sound. "I told you yesterday that you suck, right?" he said with forced levity.
Tony started to reach out for Steve again, then halted the motion, pulling his hand back. "I'm sorry," he repeated.
"I-" Steve began, then faltered. He'd been teasing Tony over this a week ago. He should have noticed that it was serious earlier; last night, this morning. It shouldn't have taken finding Tony half-delirious to clue him in that something was horribly wrong. "You-" he tried again. "Look, I'll be outside."
He fled out into the hall, then walked blindly into the living room and collapsed onto the nearest couch.
What were they going to do? Tony wasn't supposed to -- This was supposed to be their second chance. They deserved a second chance, and now Tony was... not dying, he couldn't be dying. Now Tony was sick. Again. And Steve had no goddamn clue what to do.
There wasn't anything he could do. Whatever was making Tony sick wasn't something he could fight, just like Tony's heart condition hadn't been. And at least back then, Steve and Thor had been able to shanghai a heart surgeon for him, which had given Steve something to do other than sit around feeling useless.
Steve slumped forward, resting his head in his hands. He'd been useless when Tony had been trying to destroy himself with alcohol; everything he'd tried had been too little, too late, and Tony hadn't listened to him, and Steve hadn't known what to do. So he'd left. And after that, when Tony had been in the hospital with pneumonia, there'd still been nothing he could do; the one time he'd gone to visit, Tony had been unconscious, his breathing labored, and Steve had left again, unable to sit there and do nothing. Then Tony had disappeared to the West Coast, and arguably gone briefly insane over his armor, and then his crazy girlfriend had shot him.
Steve hadn't even been able to make himself go into the hospital that time. Hadn't been able to face the thought of seeing Tony lying there motionless and broken.
What if he couldn't handle it this time, either? What if, when Tony needed him, he panicked and walked out again? He'd never forgive himself if he did.
"Steven?"
Steve started, and looked up. May Parker was standing in front of him, one hand on his shoulder.
"Are you all right?" she asked, a concerned expression on her face.
No. "Yes, I just... no," he admitted.
May sat down on the couch next to him. "What is it?"
Telling her would make it real.
May regarded him silently, her expression composed, and almost knowing.
"Tony's sick," he blurted out.
"I'm guessing it's worse than the cold he's had all week," May said.
Steve nodded miserably. "He was nearly delirious earlier. I called Hank Pym, and he said that it probably wasn't cancer. And that that wasn't a good thing." He hadn't even known that cancer had been a possibility. Hadn't realized it was really serious. For God's sake, he'd actually teased Tony for being sick.
May leaned forward, putting a hand on his shoulder again. "Oh, Steve, I'm so sorry," she said softly.
Steve stared down at the floor between his feet, blinking hard. "I don't know what to do," he told her. "Hank thinks it's really serious, and there's nothing I can do to help."
"You can be there for him," May said, squeezing his shoulder gently.
For all the good that would do, Steve thought. His presence wouldn't make Tony better. But she was right; he could at least be there for him. He hadn't been there before, but this time he would be.
There was a clatter of footsteps in the hallway, and MJ burst in, hair flying out behind her. She skidded to a stop in the doorway, grasping at the lintel to halt her rush. "There you are. We need everyone in the kitchen. Luke just got a blackmail note. From them. They're threatening his kid."