What Was Never Said

But I still believe in
The dreams we've been dreamin'
The hope that we built on
Is never too far, it's never too far
If we choose to turn and let these walls fall down

The deliveryman who showed up to Avengers HQ had an over six-foot stature, broad shoulders, dark blonde hair, and an offensively ugly caterpillar mustache. He buzzed the intercom with one finger and waited, box in hand, for a reply.

The intercom clicked. "Residence of the team formerly known as the Avengers, who is this?" recited a tired-sounding Tony Stark.

"Eh, yeah, I've got a package 'eah fo' Tony Stawk," drawled the terrible Jersey accent.

Tony sighed. "Drop it off on the stairs, I'll pick it up later."

"Ah, sorry, I need a signa'chuh."

There was another sigh, an unintelligible grumble, the sound of a chair scraping backwards, and the click of the intercom.

The deliveryman was nervous. Because, of course, he wasn't a deliveryman; this was all a cover-up, and now, after all this time dodging travel regulations and the authorities, the hard part was about to start.

Tony opened the door, caught sight of the man on the doorstep, and staggered backwards. He looked like he hadn't shaved or slept in a week. "What the hell?!"

"I just came to talk." Steve Rogers—because, of course, it was him—bent forward and whispered, "I didn't know if Ross had our security feed."

"What?" Tony stared at him like he'd grown another head. "No. This isn't Big Brother. Is anyone else with you? Is the Red Bucktober gonna jump out of a corner or something?" He craned his neck out the door and glared suspiciously at the 'delivery van'.

"No, no," said Steve, waving his free hand, "it's just me."

"Is that a mustache?" Tony's nose wrinkled in revulsion. "Oh, god. Please tell me that's not real."

"Tony."

The Captain Voice took both of them by surprise. After catching his bearings, Tony narrowed his eyes, and Steve had the good grace to look sheepish.

"I think we need to start at the beginning," he said more kindly.

Tony stared flatly through his rectangular glasses. "I can't take you seriously with that get-up." He stepped inside and waved over his shoulder. "Come on, in, get in here."

With that, and a deep breath, Steve put his foot forward, and stepped back into Avengers HQ.

Tony poured himself a scotch. Steve, of course, did not. Instead, he sat on the arm of a couch in the conspicuously empty common room and picked at the mustache on his face.

The adhesive was sturdy. Peeling it off stung and made his eyes water. A quick, loud ripping sound, and it was off his face, and Steve winced and pressed his wrist to his lip.

"Oh, thank god," breathed Tony.

Steve rolled his eyes and folded the fake mustache. "It's not that bad."

"It really is."

Steve snorted and stuck the offending object in his pocket. Same old ribbing. Same old Tony.

Tony strutted around the kitchen island like a peacock, as he was wont to do, but something about the way he stared at his shoes in the meantime gave it an edge of melancholy. He leaned his elbow on the counter and took a sip of scotch, not looking at Steve.

"How did you know?"

Steve lifted his head. Something about his tone was foreboding. "What?"

"You said you knew." Tony's voice was dark, but then he covered it over with a thin veneer of his usual snark. "You also said you didn't know it was him, which, to be honest, that was a little confusing in the heat of the moment…"

So. This was it. Just like that, they were back in a grimy bunker in Siberia, and Steve sighed with the weight of all the words he wished he'd said.

"I…" He shook his head and tried again, more businesslike. "Arnim Zola had me and Romanoff cornered in a bunker right after DC."

"The dead German scientist?" Tony raised an eyebrow, apparently actually interested.

"Swiss." Steve said it with a wince; that point had been nailed home with a missile barrage. "And yes. He'd downloaded his consciousness onto a vintage computer."

Tony gave an unhappy snort of a laugh. "I thought I was the first one to do that."

"You did it," Steve said feebly, "better?"

"Wow, who made you roll over and show your belly for me?" Tony spat at him.

"Look, I'm trying, all right?" Steve cried, hands flying over his head.

Just like that, boiling point was reached. Tony fixed Steve in a long, unhappy look. Steve threw out his jaw and turned away. Tony topped off his glass, and the temperature simmered down again.

Tony had a hand in his pocket, the other one swirling around the contents of the glass as he stared into them. "What did the dead Swiss AI have to say?"

Steve looked up and sighed. He knew Tony was steering this in a direction neither of them wanted to go—and yet, it was exactly where they had to.

"He hinted at—" The grainy footage reappeared like a ghost to haunt him, and Steve winced. "Well, you know what it was."

Tony's eyes were dark and staring into somewhere far away.

"He talked about shaping history." It still made his blood boil, but grief kept his voice low. "About making changes when it wouldn't cooperate. And there was an article—he only had it on the screen for a second—the front page of the newspaper when," he winced, "when Howard passed."

Tony stuck his tongue into his cheek. He was desperately upset, almost shaking, barely staying under control. Steve stared at his clasped hands.

Tony was deathly quiet. "Did you know Dad was on HYDRA's hit lists?"

Steve lifted his head, eyebrows twitching upwards.

"I found their names in Romanoff's leak after the Triskellion went down." Tony took another sip, his voice rough. "Didn't know they went through with it."

Steve felt a pain in his chest. "I knew it was a set-up."

"But you didn't know it was him." It was a guess, but Tony sounded bitter and angry.

Steve shook his head. "There was a picture of a sniper. Mask and goggles. I couldn't be sure…"

"But you suspected."

Steve nodded.

He'd suspected. He'd known all along. He just couldn't bring himself to believe it; the idea just hurt too much. To think that his best friend...

Tony gave a snort. Then an unhappy laugh. Then he started pacing and raised the glass to his lips. "I guess it would be a hard thing to bring up." He knocked back a swig and grunted, "'Hey, great job on the field today. By the way, HYDRA killed your parents!' God." He rubbed his eyes with a thumb and forefinger and pinched his nose.

"I forgot eventually." This was painful to admit. "Blocked it out. If I remembered...I thought it would do more harm than good if I said anything." Steve shook his head. This whole thing made him mad at the world and the cards they'd all been dealt; but most of all, it made him angry at himself. "I should have known."

"He was living in my Tower," Tony said bitterly.

"I know," whispered Steve.

"We were friends."

"Still are." Steve lifted his head, though the low throb of heartache was making it heavy. "Or, at least he wants to be. If you'll have him."

Tony stared into his glass and sighed. "I'm working on it."

Steve supposed he couldn't have expected anything better. His shoulders dropped anyway.

Tony swished the rest of his drink around in the glass. "You're better than Romanoff, anyway. Guess I shouldn't have expected Little Miss Muffet to crack."

"She has her reasons to keep to herself," Steve said with half a shrug. "But we know that secrets will tear the team apart."

Tony's eyes went dark. Steve realized with a jolt just who he was talking to.

The last secret that had torn the team apart had red eyes and metal skin.

He lunged forward and off of the couch. "Tony, I—"

The smaller man brushed him off and turned away. "No, you made your point. Thanks for the apology, now get out. Go. Out of the HQ. Before I tell Ross you were here."

"No, Tony, listen." He gently grasped his shoulder.

"What? What?" Tony batted his hand away. "You can't tell me anything I haven't already heard, Rogers!" He was a full foot shorter than Steve, but hissing with so much rage that it forced him to step back. "Ultron was my idea, my brainchild, and you and everyone else won't ever let me live it down. I hear it from the team, from the Accords, from Pepper, from my own head—!"

He was shouting at the top of his lungs by the end, but Steve could shout louder.

"Tony," he thundered, "I'm sorry."

With that, the whirling vortex that was Tony Stark went dead silent.

Steve could feel his heart sinking. Tony's face was etched deep with lines of grief and guilt.

"It wasn't your fault," whispered Steve.

Tony's wide eyes darkened, and he turned away. "That doesn't mean anything," he said hoarsely.

"I know," Steve sighed. "It doesn't mean anything to Bucky either."

The crease on Tony's forehead deepened at the mention of that name.

Steve rubbed the back of his neck. Man, it was hard to admit when he was wrong—but he might as well finish what he started "I should have said this sooner. It's kicking you when you're wounded, to hold a grudge. It's not like I've never done anything I regret." He waved vaguely behind him. "This past month is evidence enough."

There was a gentler look on Tony's face. The grief lingered, but the anger was replaced with a raised eyebrow. "Don't suppose you take back your decision, though."

Steve grimaced. He put his head up, stared at the ceiling, and groaned, "I can't talk about the Accords right now."

"Why not?" he snapped.

"Because I'm not supposed to be here to fight with you," Steve snapped back.

That rule had been laid down in no uncertain terms by the grumpy ex-assassin that he called his best friend, and Steve didn't have so little self-preservation yet that he was willing to disobey him.

"So you still don't support them." Tony was getting pushy.

Steve gave a rough sigh. "No, I don't. Because I don't think we're a problem that needs to be fixed."

"You mean you're not."

"No, I don't!" Steve cried desperately. "We're not—you are not the problem, Tony! If you could just understand that...!"

Tony's fingers went loose. The glass slipped and clattered, landing on the counter.

Tony was staring at him. Steve could feel a pit forming in his stomach.

How long had Tony been carrying all this guilt? This grief? This self-hatred? How long had he blamed everything on himself?

How long had this gone on, and Steve—as a leader, as a teammate, as a friend—had done nothing?

He sighed, stuck his hands in his pockets, and stared at his shoes. "Tony," he began, still searching for his words, "you're my friend. My teammate. I should have realized you were hurting sooner, I—I shouldn't have kicked you when you were down. I shouldn't have kept secrets. That's on me," he said, lifting his head. "I take responsibility for it. And I'm sorry."

Tony stared at the glass, all but empty save for the last drops of scotch. His voice sounded tight, and Steve wondered if he really would have admitted this if he weren't inebriated. "You wouldn't believe how many people have told me I'm the problem."

Steve crossed his arms across his chest as if it would protect him. "I grew up sick and poor in the Great Depression."

Tony lifted his head.

"I think I have an idea," Steve said quietly.

It wasn't a contest. It wasn't a competition. He just needed Tony to know that he understood—he knew how much words could hurt.

Something in that performance must have worked, because Tony just began to pace. "Well, what are we going to do now? You're an outlaw. I'm legally obligated to turn you in."

Steve's smile felt nervous. This was still unsure ground. "Do you want to?"

"What, after a speech like that?" The strutting stopped, and Tony lost a bit of the bravado. "No."

Steve thought it over for a moment. Hesitantly, and carefully, he hinted, "Some of us are going undercover."

Tony stopped and raised an eyebrow.

"If you hear anything on the news," Steve said like a schoolkid sharing a secret, "promise you won't turn us in?"

The slightest smile twitched up the side of Tony's face. "Promise." He walked away and added loudly over his shoulder, "And just for the record, if you were to get some additional stipulations from a third party, or maybe some mysterious gear upgrades, I want to officially claim plausible deniability that I have no idea where they came from…"

As he continued to talk, Steve smiled. Then grinned. Then shook his head, dropped it, and chuckled. Man, he hadn't felt this much annoyance and relief at the same time since this maniac woke up in the middle of a Manhattan street and started talking about shawarma, all those years ago, in a simpler time.

"Hey, don't laugh," Tony groused. "I'm serious."

Steve sighed. "You're a good man, Tony."

It wasn't exactly a direct reply, but it was sincere, and the suddenness of it made Tony stop in his tracks and turn around.

Steve's smile took on a bittersweet tinge. "I'm sorry I never said it sooner."

That tiny twitch of a smile was back. Tony tapped a button on his watch—which, it turned out, wasn't just a watch—and extended the red armor over his hand.

Steve instinctively tensed for a fight.

Tony paused, smirked, and extended that hand for a handshake.

Steve hesitated. Was this some sort of trick? Maybe it was a loophole around the whole 'don't like being touched' thing, or just a gag to get a rise out of him. But Tony hadn't made any odd movements, so Steve just smiled, and offered his hand as well.

A flash of red cracked across his jaw.

Steve staggered backward, his cheek stinging, and slowly raised a hand to his face.

"Hoo! Unh! That felt good." Tony was strutting again. "Are they—uh oh, did you lose any of them?"

Steve lifted his head, still bewildered. He could taste blood on his lip.

"Nope!" crowed Tony. "Still perfect teeth. Apology accepted by the way, thank you very much."

Son of a...Steve snorted and then laughed again. "I guess I deserved that."

"Darn straight you did." Tony preened like a peacock and seemed highly proud of himself.

They took a walk through the now-empty HQ, talking a little longer about less emotional things. Each one wanted to know how the others were doing, and both seemed sorry that they should even have to ask.

It was right as they reached the Stark wing of the building that Tony asked quietly, of his own volition, "How's Buckaroo?"

Steve took a deep breath and sighed. "Recovering. I can't tell you where."

Tony nodded and focused on his shiny shoes treading the hallway.

"He told me to let you know he's sorry." Steve couldn't bring himself to speak loudly. "For...you know. And he sends his best."

The gears were turning in Tony's head. "Send mine back. And, hey," he added lightly, "while pigs are flying and while we, a couple of grown men, are getting all blubbery and saying sorry…"

He turned a sharp corner and ducked into his lab. Steve paused outside the door, curious, and then bent his head under the doorframe and followed.

Tony was nearly concealed in what looked like a pile of junk, rummaging around like a mole in the dirt and muttering to himself, before he made a noise of victory, pulled out a long rectangular box, and set it on the workbench. Steve approached cautiously, and Tony pushed it to him.

"For the Terminator." Tony folded his arms on the workbench and waited.

Steve hesitated, then gingerly lifted the lid. What he saw made his eyes blow up to the size of dinner plates.

Holy cow.

His head flew up to stare at Tony, a million questions on the tip of his tongue, but the biggest one was are you sure?

Tony's voice was small, and his fingers fidgety. "Should be compatible with what's left of the old one. Maybe you can find somebody to couple it to the stump. I meant to put in some experimental tech, but figured he'd want something more dependable, less flashy. Best I could do, after…" He shrugged, and didn't finish that sentence.

Steve reverently refitted the lid on the box. He'd have to take this home, and present it to Bucky—and the thought that he'd be carrying this, a physical apology, made a small, warm smile spring to his face. "Thank you, Tony."

Tony smiled, and for the first time that month, it actually looked real.

Are we too far apart?
Two worlds among the stars?
You're gonna take a piece of my heart
Please don't leave...

So it's two separate ways
Or am I too late to say
I wanna fight for what we've got
'Cause I believe
In family

A/N: And that's it! Thanks so much to everyone who stuck with me here.

Stay Alive will continue to update weekly (I hope) until it's finished. Start Somewhere, Bucky's first day back at the HQ after this mess, is coming soon. But looking towards the future—would anyone be interested in a story in which Bucky and Steve told Tony the truth about his parents, long before it was a big deal in Siberia? If so, leave DECEMBER 16TH in your reviews and I'll get to work on that one soon!

Thanks again for reading! Reviews are gifts.

Special message for Guest, if you ever happen to come back here: I can't take credit for "Red Bucktober", but I am delighted that I gave you a giggle. My apologies to your sinuses. December 16th is on its way!