Author's Note: Special thanks to Krystaltheelemental for staying with this story since the beginning. Your constant reviews and support make this story possible, so thank you!
Additionally, all readers, make sure to check out the note in
Chapter 1-Prologue about the summary. Thank you!
Thirdly, there is a mild reference to chapter six in here. Make sure you read it before proceeding.


Confusion

Saturday morning started just as it always did, with Tony waking up at the blaring ringing of his Stark Phone. He was drawn across his massive bed in an awkward angle, with one foot hanging off the side. Barely moving, he sluggishly slew his arm across his nightstand to grab the phone. He brought the screen to his face.

It was 9:55; quite early for Tony. His junior assistant had left him an email message. It read:

Reminder: You thank Ms. Potts in five minutes. You have a call with the sales department manager at noon. James invited you out sometime in the evening.

Tony groaned as he squinted his eyes. The screen was far too bright for the morning. Then he yawned and typed out his response:

Thanks, kid.

Tony waited for Peter to respond, but no messages came. He was a little hurt by that. He started to feel sickly all over again.

He needed coffee. Tony slumped out of bed, cracking his back and his neck. He felt stiff and sleepy all over.

After last night's Chinese dinner, Tony had curled himself up in his bedsheets, pulled out his Stark Phone, and watched videos until three in the morning. He actually had been doing a good thing: he was researching physical therapy. For Steve's sake. So initially, he spent five hours watching bubbly skinny women in leg warmers talk about "balancing your inner core." Or something. He wasn't really listening.

Today was the day that he was maybe probably possibly going to work on another one of Steve's prescriptions: physical therapy. But Tony was more than hesitant. He was probably ten years older than Steve, and he was going to have to demonstrate movements; special moves that he was most likely unable to do at the age of forty-two.

But on the plus side, he wasn't running laps around a field track. He was going to do simple stretches. Should be a piece of cake. Right?

Tony groaned again. He really needed coffee. He dragged his feet to the kitchen and reluctantly began firing up his hand-built espresso machine.

There had once been a time, short after when Tony announced that Stark Industries would drop their weapons manufacturing department, when Tony went through a strange phase. In order to keep the company stocks high, he proposed plenty of project ideas; things that Stark Industries could pick up on to fill their income gap. Way before deciding on robotics, he suggested things like kitchen appliances, movie theater software, even sound systems, and many more things he'd like to forget about.

And of course for every proposition, Tony had to provide visuals.

On the plus side of his strange endeavor, he ended up owning all of the scrapped projects; hence, the coffee machine. On the down side, Tony was stuck with the terrible memory of carrying a refrigerator around, up and down stairs, in and out of rooms, for three hours straight. At least he had Rhodey's help with the refrigerator. But still, Tony was wearing a suit at the time. They both were.

Rhodey hadn't shown up since he took the day off. In all honesty, Rhodey deserved a day off. He didn't even work for him.

The coffee machine made some whirring and clicking noises, and then began to pour the rich black liquid into a large mug. The coffee had three shots, just how Tony liked it. It was simple Colombian brewed coffee. The one expensive thing Tony could go without was expensive coffee. It was usually too rich and just… gross.

At a convention where he was trying to promote his Stark Industries Instant Coffee and Espresso Maker, some snob-of-a-product-tester asked for Kopi Luwak coffee. Tony just threw some sugar into a black Egyptian brew and hoped for the best result. The tester hated it, and the project was scrapped weeks later.

After some research, Tony discovered why the test failed. Apparently Kopi Luwak was a kind of coffee in which the coffee beans get digested by an Indonesian cat and then torn out of the cat droppings. And it sells as the fourth most expensive coffee in the world.

After that, Tony appreciated cheap gas station coffee way more than the average man.

As the normal, cheap, delicious coffee poured out of the machine, Tony took the time to glance at the digital clock adorning the wall. With bright red numbers, it read 10:02. Tony grumbled. He was already late.

Since when were thank-yous scheduled? It was tedious and, frankly, unnecessary.

Where was that stupid planner of Peter's anyway?

Tony began to look around the kitchen, and, finding nothing, moved on to the living room. He lifted a pillow and looked underneath. Tony grumbled in frustration and moved to the loveseat, he fished his hand through the cushions. Something teased his fingers. He grabbed onto the object and pulled it out, revealing a shiny metal chain. Steve's dog tags.

Without thinking, Tony balled the tags up inside his fist and hurled them across the room. They collided with the wall, and then slid down to the expensive hardwood floor.

Peter must have brought them with him when he dropped off dinner last night.

Sitting back down on the loveseat with the misplaced cushions, Tony began to run his fingers through his hair. He gripped onto the dark brown tufts and curled into himself. He was almost ripping out the hair from his head; it certainly felt like he was. Tony stared dead-ahead with passive anger boiling inside of him.

Tony was so confused. He laid back against the loveseat and took a deep breath. Maybe if he just closed his eyes, he could rest here for a little bit.

Evidently, he could not. Steve was shaking him awake only just after Tony closed his eyes. He shook Tony's arm with trepidation, as if he feared his own grip. Tony mewled a good-morning yawn and batted away Steve's hands. He rolled his stiff shoulders back.

"How 'bout some coffee, Cap?" Tony asked.

Steve brought Tony his coffee mug from earlier; it was barely touched. The coffee had gone cold.

Tony frowned, remembering the agenda Peter emailed him, "What time is it?"

Steve retreated to Tony's bedroom, and shortly returned with Tony's Stark Phone in hand. Tony opened up to the locked screen. It read: 12:37. He missed his call with Pepper and his call with the sales department.

"Damn," Tony muttered, "guess I took a long nap."

Steve didn't respond.

"My own fault, I guess," Tony prodded, "for waking up so inhumanly early on a Saturday."

Again, Steve didn't respond. It wasn't his fault, Tony reminded himself, he wasn't supposed to talk in the first place.

"Okie dokie," Tony mumbled, rising from the loveseat, "let's get you moving, Big Guy."


"No, Steve, you gotta keep your back straight."

"No, no, Steve. Straight. It's called a swan-dive, you gotta look like a swan I guess."

"Does what you're doing look like a swan to you?!"

"Yes. Yes I know what a swan looks like."

"Well, you know, it's… a bird. And it's white. And they start out as ugly ducklings, but then become hot and gorgeous so all their childhood bullies feel ashamed. Now, just do the pose. Please."

"No, I most certainly will not demonstrate for you. How else will you learn? Silly goose."

"Okay, okay, okay, forget the goose. Just do the swan-dive. Swans are better than gooses anyway."

"Gooses. Geeses. Same thing."

It was ultimately depressing when it suddenly occurred to Tony that he was having this conversation entirely by himself. He was sitting with his legs crossed on the floor of his miniature-gym (he had the room only because he could afford it; he actually had no intention of ever using it), choreographing Steve's fitness regimen. Directing stretches actually proved to be difficult since Tony was unable to demonstrate anything; or else, he'd be feeling the stretches well into next week. It was also burdeningly difficult because he was teaching a near-handicapped pupil who had no way of verbal responses; they had a terrible communication limit.

Tony was aggravated. He wasn't ballistic, nor was he remotely close to angry. He was only mildly irritated. The tediousness of the situation was driving him nuts.

Steve bent over towards the ground as instructed, back slightly bent.

Tony sighed, "Close enough. Do it again, but keep your arms out. Like a swan. And then touch your toes once you're at the ground."

Steve did as he was told, or at least, how he interpreted it. His form hasn't really changed at all; it was still flimsy and too stiff. He was so rigid, in fact, it looked like his spine would snap in two if he kept rising and falling. He did the swan-dive in his typical confusion, completely arthritic and solid.

Tony almost pointed out Steve's mistake, but stopped himself. He was glad he did. Sure, Steve was doing the stretch wrong, but Tony had the captain's sensitivity to think about, as annoying as it was.

Tony continued to think like this, even as they moved from stretches to semi-curl-ups. And he felt the same as they moved from semi-curl-ups to push-ups. He was even unnerved as they went from push-ups to some bar exercises; things like bar-planks and demi pull-ups.

Steve looked like he wanted to spew out something vile the entire time he was planking. But Tony was keeping an eye on him, he knew Steve wasn't going to get hurt.

It had been this way for more than half an hour: with Tony instructing the latter, and Steve attempting to follow. And everytime Steve did something incorrectly, Tony neglected to say anything about it. He was too cautious. Dr. Romanoff had said that too much strain could hurt Steve, and that made Tony decide he that wouldn't push him, even if he needed it.

And that decision proved to be annoying. How the hell was he supposed to shape up his cap if he couldn't bring himself to correct him? Tony knows he's doing the wrong thing, according to biology and the doctor's orders, but he feels he's doing the right thing because it just… feels right.

His bipolar thought process was really kicking in today. This was like his third time today confusing himself.

There was a smack as Steve hit the floor. His face collided first, skidding the rough cement, followed by the rest of his body tumbling over. He lay still before groaning.

"Holy crap," Tony said as he rushed over to him. He hadn't been paying attention, and now this happened! He stood over Steve, scanning for injury.

"Are you hurt? Where does it hurt?"

Steve only groaned again as he sat up on his own. He rubbed his forehead, frowning. He had an ugly expression of hurt on his face, his right eye showing signs of watering up.

Tony froze. Steve had pulled that same look three years ago, right before their escape, when they collided heads. It was surreal.

Tony sat down beside Steve, "Hey… are you okay?"

He nodded, but he was the opposite of convincing. He wasn't helping when he checked his own body for injuries.

"Hey…" Tony breathed. His chin dipped into his chest, "Hey, hyperactive Bella Swan–"

–Steve frowned–

"-look, I'm sorry you got hurt. Really, I am. I wasn't watching. I didn't see you fall. Sorry. If only… I just wish you were better at being responsible for yourself, this work is hard for me, you know. C'mon, let's just get back to your exercises, whaddya say?"

Muteness fell in between them. It was more than uncomfortable. It was so silent that the only thing Tony could hear was the panicked blood surging through his ears. Something cold crawled up his spine. He touched his shoulder, "Steve? You okay?"

Steve's frown was dark, his jaw clenched tightly. He appeared cold with anger, his expression dead. It was the scariest he's ever looked: purely angry. Steve slapped Tony's hand off his shoulder and stood up on his own. He headed for the door.

Tony beat him there. He shielded the door handle with his body, "C'mon, Steve. Really? Are you mad? I didn't mean to make you mad, you know that Steve. You know that. C'mon, let's just shake this off, forget about it, and get back to your exercises."

Steve skirted around him. Tony kept the door shut.

"Is a Twilight reference really all it takes to piss you off? C'mon, you're better than that," Tony tried again. He was just as confused as he had been earlier. Steve's behaviour was strange; he's never acted this way before. Steve angry at him? It almost felt like betrayal. Angry? Angry for what?

"I promise I won't call you hyperactive Bella Swan anymore," Tony said.

Steve clenched his jaw further. He didn't meet Tony's gaze. Without expectation, Steve lunged for the door, he tried to pry Tony's hands from the doorknob. Steve's elbow was rutting into Tony's ribs.

Reacting as quickly as he could, Tony kept one hand firm on the doorknob, and used the other to push Steve back. But Steve kept his feet planted in the ground, he wasn't going anywhere.

Tony's head slammed back onto the door, Steve's elbow ramming into his stomach as a result. An inflation of a throbbing pain met his head and torso; and it hurt like hell. He groaned as he let his grip slip from the door handle.

But Steve didn't seize the escape. He stood by and looked to Tony peculiarly, like he was concerned. He could have looked afraid, but Tony knew better.

"Go on, get out of here!" Tony shouted, opening the door and stepping out of the way.

Steve didn't move. He kept the same look.

Tony wasn't having any of it, "Crap. I mean, just–just crap, Steve. I don't understand you. You're so... confusing. Look, I didn't mean to–Shit. You're such a child, Steve. You know that? You're a big baby! You get offended by nothing, you're picky over food and stuff, y-you can't do anything on your own. Crap," Tony shouted, turning to face away from Steve.

Steve was just so–just so infuriating. Tony didn't want to look at him him. But then again, he didn't hear Steve's footsteps leaving the gym. Maybe he's still–

Steve's expression was the same as before. Cold. Dead. Sinister. Angry. He walked out of the room, slowly, evilly, locking eyes with Tony the whole time.

Tony didn't say anything. He checked his phone on a nearby stand, reading over the email yet again. Apparently Rhodey invited him out. He would go, he decided. He hasn't been out of the house since Steve came. He needed to blow off steam. He needed a drink.

Tony left the gym and made for the elevator door. He grabbed his coat, and turned back, "Steve!" he called, "Steve, I'm going out! I'll be back tonight."

He was about to ask if he should call someone to look after Steve. He decided against it. Steve would just be all the more angry, and be all the more trouble for Tony to put up with.

"Goodbye," he said, softly. It was an unnatural word to say, especially to Steve. He went into the elevator and left. At least now, he was too frustrated to be confused


"Why…" Tony groaned, his face squished against the bar top, "why, why, why, why, why?"

Rhodey chuckled, slapping a hand down on Tony's shoulder, "Having fun?"

"They're singing Taylor Swift…" Tony mumbled, his words slurred.

"At least they're not singing the Beer on the Wall song."

"I like that song."

"And you don't like Taylor Swift?"

"No. Especially not when a dozen grown men are singing her songs at the top of their lungs inside a New York bar at one in the morning…"

"C'mon, it's not that bad."

"They're awful."

Rhodey was still laughing, "I've never seen you have so much fun at this place."

"Hm," Tony mumbled, sitting up. He took another glance around the bar, rolling his eyes. Rhodey was right. The singing was beyond terrible, but he was having fun.

"Rhodey, you're awesome."

He smiled, taking a sip of his lager, "I know."

"Why haven't you dropped by?" Tony asked, slurring and pouting. He was a little tipsy, but still fully aware.

"Dropped by? What do you-"

"-Why haven't you shown up for work?"

"Work?" Rhodey repeated, blinking, "I don't work for you."

"Oh yeah," Tony realized, "Well… Why hasn't Not-Pepper shown up for work?"

"You really gotta come up with a better nickname," Rhodey muttered.

"Why hasn't Not-Pepper shown up for work?" demanded Tony once more, hugging his mug closely.

The lieutenant shrugged, "Beats me. I don't know what you said to him."

"Me neither."

"What?"

"I don't know what I said to offend him. I just have bad luck with this stuff. I offended Steve today, too, for no reason at all."

Rhodey's eyes softened pitifully, "Tones…"

"Don't 'Tones" me! Just tell me what I did wrong."

"Okay, okay, okay," Rhodey began, setting down his glass back onto its paper coaster, "What were you and Peter talking about when he walked out?"

"My office, I think."

"Do you mean the-"

"-Yeah. The visions. They're mechanic. I built them. I installed a device that transports my memories from Afghanistan into viewers' heads. They appeal to the five senses. The viewer can see, smell, hear, feel, fuck it even taste what's going on. You guys both experienced them. They're not magical. They're not poisonous mushrooms. They're holographic simulations by my design."

Rhodey stilled. Then, mechanically, he picked up his glass of lager and downed the entire thing. He turned back to Tony, "Is that the truth?"
"Yes."

"Why on Earth would you put me and Peter through that?"
"It…" Tony didn't make eye contact. He traced the liquid on the bar table with his finger, "It was my contribution to the project, when I was making things. I couldn't-I couldn't talk about Afghanistan. It hurt. It still hurts. Like I said about Big Bird, he-I got confused on what I'm supposed to tell and what I'm not supposed to tell. So I built something so you guys could just figure it out on your own. Because I was too afraid to…"

"Tones…"

"What?"
Rhodey gave a sad smile, shaking his head. He patted Tony's shoulder gently, "Nothing. Never mind."
"And Not-Pepper's mad at me," Tony mumbled, pressing his face onto the bar table again.

"I can talk to him if you want."

"He doesn't want to talk to you. He wants to talk to me. Why hasn't he shown up for work?"

"Maybe he has college exams?"

"No, he would've told me."

"He's probably just helping his parents or something."

"Not-Pepper doesn't have parents. He lives with his aunt and uncle."

"... Oh," Rhodey said, "Sorry."

"Yeah…"

"We can both talk to him, how's that sound?"

Tony nodded, but he was still dazed, "Steve's mad at me too."

"Why? What'd you do?"

"I don't know. He got hurt today. My fault."

"Poor Tones," Rhodey hummed, still sadly smiling, "Say, how about the two of us go back to your place and talk things out with him, okay? Then we can talk things out with Peter."

Tony sighed in an exaggerated way, almost groaning, "Okaaay."

"That's the spirit," Rhodey said, standing up from the barstool. He slipped some cash onto the table. Tony followed him, sluggishly and stubbornly. He was not looking forward to this.