For jinxquickfoot (ao3) who said "I adore your Winn fics but my Marvel fangirl wants to ask if there is any more MCU based usa123 fics headed our way in the future?"
A/N: I wanted to wait until December 16th to post this for maximum impact, but with everything going on, I figured I'd share it early. Hope you enjoy!
It came around every year. No matter how much he drank, or how many pills he swallowed, to pass it by, to numb the pain, it still arrived. Like clockwork. Just like the 364th day before it, and just like the 364th day after—or 365th with leap year but he wasn't ready to get into that at this juncture.
On the first anniversary, he'd drunk himself into a stupor and missed a final worth 50% of his grade. It was only after Rhodey had explained the situation to the professor that Tony was allowed to retake it at a 10% deficit once he'd sobered up.
He promised he'd do better after that. And he did. He drank and swallowed and sometimes injected, but never to the point of full blackout. Rhodey wasn't happy, but technically Tony was maintaining his promise.
All those high-priced grief counsellors were right: with time it got better. On the actual day, it hurt a little less. What they hadn't mentioned was how blinding the pain could be other days of the year. The triggers were random: seeing his mom's favorite flower, tinkering down in the lab, hearing that song. It was banned from the Tower, SHIELD and any other building Tony had access to, especially after Groban released a cover of it. It topped the charts for an unending series of weeks, during which Tony holed up in the Tower unless absolutely necessary, for fear of hearing it.
He learned to manage his triggers, his grief, the mind-numbing sense of loss. Some days he had more success than others.
He took the day off work every year. He didn't accept meetings, no matter how urgent, or any sort of conferences. Didn't go into the office or check his phone. It was his day to hide in his room, with all media off, and pray that this was the year the world just passed him by.
In her early years, Pepper had jokingly referred to it was his Dark Day. She had stopped once he'd trusted her enough with the real story.
Rhodey always texted him, clockwork, asking if he needed anything. Tony never responded. A bottle of his favorite bourbon found its way into his kitchen anyway. And a note. He threw it away without looking. Always. A constant.
When he finally pulled himself together, each year, he dragged himself to their graves. Laid flowers. Talked to them. His mom mostly. Sometimes his dad. It got easier, after the discovery of Starkium. Maybe they had had something in common after all.
But the one thing he absolutely did not do was work. Which was why he almost didn't hear the call to Assemble.
Though his phone was off and JARVIS was on Do Not Disturb, it was hard to miss the sounds of the team clomping through the hallways below him.
Half-conscious, he tried to ignore them, tried to stick his head into his incredibly expensive pillow and drown them out. But he couldn't. Not this year.
He popped his head up, glared at the ceiling, and mumbled out, "What is it, J?"
"The Wrecking Squad, sir. In Midtown."
Tony groaned. "Would it kill these guys to take the day off?" Still, he began hauling himself out of bed.
"Are you sure, sir?"
Tony shook his head. "Not in the slightest."
By the time he had suited up and flown to Midtown, the three-man Wrecking Squad of Bulldozer, Piledriver and Thunderball had leveled half a city block. Natasha and Clint were trying to escort civilians to safety, while Steve and Sam were facing off against the Crew's three members.
"It's a good thing I'm here," Tony said into the comms as he slid into the fray next to Steve.
"I thought you didn't work today," Natasha replied. Because of course she knew, even though he hadn't told her. It was all over the records though. It wasn't like he'd kept it a secret.
"What's today?" Steve asked, before dodging a right hook from Piledriver.
"Battle first, small talk later," Natasha snapped before her comm went dark.
"What's the plan, Cap?" Tony asked as Bulldozer charged him. He fired up the thrusters and easily rose into the air, catching the back of Bulldozer's armor and throwing him into a nearby building—after, of course, checking that it was empty.
"Stop the damage, save the civilians, don't die," Steve grunted, locked in the middle of hand-to-hand with Piledriver. He rolled, coming up behind Piledriver, who turned around surprisingly fast and caught Steve's kick.
"Help Sam!" Steve ordered as he was sent spinning through the air. He quickly picked himself back up and lunged at Piledriver anew.
"On your left, sir," JARVIS intoned, seconds before Tony spotted Bulldozer charging him in the HUD.
"In a sec," Tony said, loosing a blast, which bounced harmlessly off Bulldozer's armor. This might be more work than he was expecting.
Good. He needed a distraction.
He set his jaw and got to work.
It was only later, when The Wrecking Crew was all secured, that Tony realized they hadn't heard from Steve for a while.
His heart sank.
"Where's Cap?" he demanded into the comms.
"Last I saw him, he was on Madison and 50th," Clint reported.
Tony was there only seconds later.
"Where are you, Oh Captain, My Captain?" he called, hoping, praying Steve would respond.
"Here." It was little more than a whisper. Barely audible.
Tony turned down the alley and there he was, leaning against the wall with one arm, slightly bent over, the other clutching at his chest. Even from here, Tony could see he was struggling to breathe.
"I need medical. STAT," he called into the comms before racing over to Steve.
"What's wrong?" he asked, face plate popping up as he mimicked Steve's posture on his free side.
"Can't… breathe," Steve gasped.
Tony bit back an assortment of snappy responses. "Where's it hurt?"
"Chest," was all Steve managed, before his eyes rolled back into his head and he careened toward the ground.
JARVIS had engaged the suit before Tony could command it, the metal arms catching Steve before he smacked into the concrete.
"His sternum is broken, sir," JARVIS reported as the suit gently laid Steve down, his head resting against Tony's iron quad. "Badly."
"He's still breathing though, right?" Without waiting for an answer, Tony slid open the gauntlet and held his hand under Steve's nose. The exhales were thin and somewhat uneven, but regular.
"Easier, yes."
Then he heard the sirens and was lost in the bustle of paramedics.
When Steve woke six hours later, his chest was on fire, and he had what felt like a series of incisions in his skin.
"Don't you ever do that to me again," Tony said, drawing Steve's attention upward. Tony's hair was sticking up in all directions, his eyes wide and bloodshot, his mouth firmly set, as he pointed at Steve. "Not today."
He stared at Steve expectantly.
Steve managed a nod before drifting back to sleep.
Steve knew.
It was written all over his face.
They didn't talk about it. Just like they didn't talk about his dad. Especially how different Howard had been when Steve had known him. Steve had learned that the hard way back in 2012.
But he knew now, and Tony knew he knew.
Life went on.
The next year, the day before the day rolled around, he noticed a weighted blanket neatly wrapped outside his door.
Steve.
It had to be.
And if Tony slept a little easier that night, and throughout most of the next day, he didn't bring it up. Though he always made sure the blanket was around, when the day arrived in future years.
"Did you know?" he bellowed, spitting he was so furious.
"Yes."
The one word that had shattered his world.
December 16th was different after Siberia. Now that he knew they'd been murdered. By James Buchanan Barnes' hand. Though, not really, because everything he'd found about Barnes in Hydragate suggested the man couldn't think for himself if his life was on the line.
But he had done it, all the same.
Tony sunk deeper into his bed, of which he was the only occupant thanks to his and Pepper's break, and pulled the bloody weighted blanket tighter around his chin. He'd tried to throw it out when someone, presumably housekeeping, had set it out on his bed last night in preparation, but as the minutes in the night had ticked onward, and the drink didn't drown his sorrows, he'd dug it out and immersed himself in it.
If he had also downed three Benadryl to get through the night, that was nobody's business but his own.
He checked his phone now, after everything that had happened.
Four words from Rhodey: "Do you need anything?"
Echoed by Pepper.
No, he texted both of them before burying his head under his pillows again.
The grave was different this year. Now that he knew his dad wasn't at fault. That they'd been run off the road. That his father had recognized Barnes. That his mother had been strangled.
"I'm sorry," was all he could say.
The couch, his snappy last words to his father, the horrible way they'd left things—a fight blooming on the horizon, as almost all conversations between them ended those days.
That song.
That bloody song.
The year it'd hit the charts, he'd almost ruined the career of the agent who had pitched it to Groban before Natasha of all people had intervened. In hindsight, he was glad she had. It wasn't the agent's fault. They didn't know.
"So sorry."
If he'd spent that night in a vodka-induced haze, one drink shy of blackout drunk to uphold his promise to Rhodey, that was no one's business either.
Then came The Snap.
And again, his grief shifted. He'd lost, sure. Coworkers, associates, board members, Fury, Hill. Peter. But Pepper, Rhodey and Happy had been spared. How lucky had he been. To only lose one. Compared to the others, Clint.
While the rest of the world mourned the new holes in their lives, the missing spaces in their families, on the day, Tony did the same as he did every previous year.
The situation was too fantastical to explain, even to his father, who had been lightyears ahead of the technology available to him.
That year, Tony cried long and hard against their headstones.
He was attacked. A small weight, crashing into his chest, wrapping spidery arms around his neck, equally small legs around his waist, pulling him close.
"Mommy said you need a hug," his dear Morgan said, digging her head into his neck and squeezing for all she was worth.
Then she leaned her head back. "Do you feel better?"
He wasn't lying when he said he did.
"We've made up," Tony reported, two years later. "Kinda. For the greater good and all. Wound's festering, still there. We're both just choosing to ignore it for now."
That's great, sweetie, he can almost imagine his mother saying.
I'm so proud of you, his dad would say. No, he wouldn't really. But maybe, if he'd lived, they could have repaired their bond and built a real relationship once Tony figured out who he wanted to be.
"You can save them."
Tony spun around, the words so loud and audible he was sure he'd actually heard them. But there was no one around.
He looked back at the twin headstones, rested his hands against them.
"I know."
It was different this year. The Snap was now The Blip. The Vanished were back, but the Remaining had moved on. The world was settling into a strange and unprecedented new way of life while the old and the new spliced themselves together and tried to press on.
Tony was gone. Had been for months.
Nat was too.
That one still hurt. Pepper could remember all the late nights in the office when Natasha was Natalie, all the times the two of them had managed to escape from the testosterone in their daily lives, when Natasha had come back post-Snap and become an amazing role model and friend to Morgan. Against all odds, the Widow had somehow turned into a close confidant. Pepper missed her dearly.
Missed them both dearly.
On the day, she stood at two headstones, Morgan bundled up by her side.
"It's your grandma and grandpa," she explained.
They had never been before, even after all these years. Tony had always gone on his own.
"They died before you were born."
Morgan nodded solemnly.
"Are they with daddy?" she asked, turning her wide eyes up to Pepper, who tightened her grip on her little hand.
"Yes, sweetie. Yes they are."