He wakes up alone, of course. Rolls into the spot where Tony had been, but it's just as cold as the rest of the bed. He's been gone for a while.
He gets up, stretches, meanders toward the computer. Tony's got him trained now, he gets up and he checks the internet. He's like a real modern day man.
He sits down and jiggles the mouse and braces himself for porn, or another one of those mazes where something pops out at you. He didn't appreciate that one at all.
He's expecting something fun, most of them are. But when the screen comes to life, he's looking at a text heavy page entitled "Are you Depressed?"
For a brief, tiny second he thinks Tony left it there as a mistake, that he was looking for himself. For a brief little second he tries to shake it off but it's no use. He tries to imagine Tony feeling that way and he can't. Angry, maybe, but not… sad.
It shouldn't make him uncomfortable, shouldn't make his brain buzz with a sick sort of anxiety, this one little line of text, but it does.
The background is yellow. Why would anyone make the background yellow?
He tries to close the browser, and a little dialogue box pops up. "Don't do that."
He tries to change tabs, and gets "just read it."
He could just get up, of course. But he's fairly certain that if he does that, he'll get a lecture from Jarvis.
And he's sure he's not depressed, completely sure, so there's no harm in reading it.
Yellow background? Really?
He takes a deep breath. He's not depressed. He's upset sometimes, sure. Anyone would be if they went through what he did. If they woke up and the world didn't need them anymore.
He reads, barely comprehending. There are little notes in the margins, most of them on topic. Most of the writing's on the list of symptoms. Mostly simple things like "yes" or "maybe" or "not this one," but Tony's also underlined 'irritable' three times and then put a check mark next to it.
Next to 'feelings of worthlessness' he's written, "I'm Steve Rogers, I'm competent and caring and no one would ever love me if it wasn't for my magnificent ass."
So much for this not being directed at him.
His ass isn't that great.
There's another note next to "loss of interest in favorite activities" – Tony's scrawled, in his broad, almost childish capitals, "do you even have favorite activities?"
He flicks his eyes over every little note, over the blatant, overenthusiastic underlining of "loss of sex drive," and thinks he should start at the top again, should actually read everything, but he doesn't really want to.
Tony doesn't understand.
Maybe he used to be depressed, once, was probably definitely depressed before the Battle of New York and then after it, for months, but he's not anymore. Tony just doesn't get it, he's too carefree and composed and put together to get it.
He sighs and looks at the screen and thinks about it, thinks about all of those days he didn't get out of bed, all of those times that he wished he'd just died when he brought the plane down, the way he was prepared to.
He'd prepared to die, he'd prepared to be with Bucky again and then he'd woken up instead and the world wasn't the same, and then he wasn't the same.
He knows he's still not the same but he's better now, closer than he was. It's not noticeable anymore.
Except clearly, it is.
He comes back for dinner, against his better judgment, thinking that they're spending too much time together, they're spending way too much time together if Tony can see through him like this.
They're just spending too much time together.
And Tony's wrong. He'd decided that soon after he left, wishing he'd stayed so that he could refute Tony's claims one by one. Instead he'd gone to the library, and he hadn't gotten the same information but he'd gotten some things that were close enough.
Tony's wrong. That happens. All the time.
So he comes over a little on edge, a little ready to fight, a little ready to stare him down and tell him in no uncertain terms that he can't just pass judgment on something he can't possibly understand.
He just never gets an opening.
It's like Tony's just going to pretend Steve never read anything, which is fine, completely fucking fine except he know that's not how it's actually going to be.
He bites his tongue and smiles and lets Tony kiss him hello like everything's fine, and he can tell Tony's going through the same motions.
They talk about Tony's day, first, and some inconsequential things, and over time Steve stops being mad and just starts being sad because he likes this, he likes this so much. He doesn't want it to end.
And then Tony brings up SHIELD, and maybe it's just to play nice but he doesn't defend that decision, can't seem to anymore in his head.
"I'm not gonna quit," he says instead.
"I know," Tony says. "I wasn't asking that."
Steve looks down at his meal and answers the question. "Yeah, I'm looking forward to it."
"You're shaking your head," Tony says, with this little, soft smirk. "At least make an effort when you're lying to me."
He shrugs. "Fury's got me on some strategic committee or something."
"And that's a bad thing?"
"I shouldn't be on any committees. I should be the guy delivering mail."
Tony fixes him with that exasperated, 'you're wrong' look of his, and Steve gets this feeling, can see Tony circling 'feelings of worthlessness.'
But it's not worthlessness. It's just the fact that he needs to work for his success. At least once in his life.
Tony shoves another bite of food in his mouth, talks around it. "You're a brilliant strategist, though. You decimated me at Risk."
Steve rolls his eyes.
"Really. I'm a genius. I know what I'm talking about."
"Uh-huh."
"Okay. You're right, I have no idea what I'm talking about." He pauses, like that's the end of it, and then says, almost as an afterthought, "Also, I let you win."
Steve knows that's bait but he's not above rising to it. "No you didn't."
"Yes I did."
"No, you didn't."
"Absolutely did."
"So let's play. Don't let me win this time."
Tony grins. "Risk is such a boring, spiteful game."
"Chess?"
"I will beat you at chess."
"Yeah," Steve says. "Probably."
"I'll beat you at Mancala, too. And Monopoly. And poker. We should play more games."
"We should play more Call of Duty."
Tony smirks. "I actually did let you win that one. You're a terrible shot. There's a reason we didn't play online."
Tony's insulting him. That's good. He's not treating him like he's fragile.
He decides to reroute the conversation. "I just don't want to be doing something I'm not qualified for."
"I know," Tony says. "That's why we didn't play online."
"I was talking about the job."
"Oh," Tony says, grinning. "Yeah, well, you're qualified."
"Mhmm."
"You've read every wikipedia article on every war ever. That's gotta count for something."
Steve almost chokes. "You said you wouldn't check the internet history."
"Like you have anything to hide." Tony smirks. "Anyway, I didn't. It's not hard to extrapolate when I get five texts a day about things that happened forever ago."
"Oh."
"You should really use the e-mail I made you. Also, have you heard of MASH? I feel like you would like that. It's all about how war is hell. It's a comedy."
Steve frowns.
"They do it well."
"No, I —" he shrugs. "The only reason I got this job is because I used to be Captain America. That's not a qualification."
"Still are."
"Pardon me?"
"You said you used to be Captain America. You still are."
Steve frowns.
Tony rolls his eyes. "God, are we still doing that?"
"Doing what?"
"Pretending you're not Captain America."
"I'm not."
"It's not a thing you just stop being," Tony says, stuffing food into his mouth as though it's strengthening his point. "I haven't used the suit in a while, but that doesn't mean I'm not Iron Man."
"You used it yesterday to fly to a convenience store."
Tony smirks. "So you did see the video."
"You texted it to me."
"Well, that's not the point. Just wait. Next alien attack, you'll be right back in that tight little spangly number."
"Alien attacks don't just happen."
Tony raises an eyebrow.
"Not anymore, anyway."
"Agree to disagree," Tony says. "And I really don't know why I'm arguing with you. I think we both know you should just quit this job, like you quit being Captain America."
Steve grits his teeth. He didn't quit. He just.. isn't. "I didn't quit."
Tony doesn't seem to hear that "Cap was such a good nickname, you've gotta admit that. And you're not answering to bacon cheeseburger anymore, so I'm really out of options."
Steve doesn't answer.
"What if I came up with another reason to call you Cap. Like, uh, what's got the word 'cap' in it? Uhh, capricorn, capricious, copernicus — nope, not that one —"
Perfect. He's off topic. He's just gotta ignore him and he'll eventually stop talking.
"Umm, cap it off, pop a cap in your ass... oh, that's a good one, because I would like to pop a cap in your ass, metaphorically speaking and all."
Tony squints at his plate, like this is some very important subject. "No, but that's no good, because in that case I'm basically calling you jizz, and –"
Ignoring him isn't working. Ignoring this whole thing is the whole fucking problem. He puts his water glass down maybe a little too hard, voice maybe a little too harsh. "Can we talk about the website you left me?"
Tony looks up, surprised, put off, and then he frowns. "Later."
"Why not now?"
"Because I – there's a – look, can we just – later?"
Steve shrugs. "Fine."
"Do you want some wine? I think you should have some wine. I probably shouldn't finish two bottles by myself."
He's not exactly sure how Tony lures him here, how he manages to get Steve to lay down on the bed with him when they're both fully clothed and not watching TV, how Tony manages to be the one sitting up straight and tall and Steve's the one to be curled up next to him, head resting on Tony's chest. More of his shoulder, really, because the prime real estate has been claimed by a battery.
Maybe it's not that Tony lures him here, into this position, so much as this is what Steve wants, to be held like this, to be passive and comfortable and cared for.
He hasn't been comforted like this since he was a child. Wouldn't have allowed it. Shouldn't need it.
Tony exhales, long and slow. "So you read it."
"Yeah."
"And?"
"You're wrong." It feels good, somehow, to say that.
"Rarely."
"Pretty often," Steve says, his lips curling up a little bit in the corners.
"Okay. Pretty often."
That's not his line. That's not how this works. How's he supposed to distract him if he won't take the bait?
"Steve?"
"Where'd you even get the idea that –" he cuts himself off, not sure how to finish that. Not sure if he's okay with finishing it.
"I googled 'loss of sex drive,'" Tony says, and Steve can hear the hint of a smile in his voice, this odd, prideful lilt that seems to be asking if he can believe how easy it was.
"What?" It's so far from the answer he's expecting that he almost laughs.
"Depression was like the third option, after erectile dysfunction and stress."
"So you just –" he does laugh, a little harsh, disbelieving.
"Okay, obviously I didn't just jump to conclusions. Did you even read all of my notes? That took a long time."
He inhales, long and slow. Yeah, he read 'em.
Tony's silent for a moment, his hand moving absently up and down Steve's back and Steve wants to get up but he doesn't want to get up so he doesn't.
"I hope I'm wrong," he says, finally. "You can't really think I'd – look, I love you, and I care about you probably a lot more than you think because I'm not really good at, well, you know. And I'm trying to be a better person and and all that crap and I just really think this is something we should talk about."
Steve doesn't say anything.
"I mean, don't take this the wrong way but you're kinda not how I've heard about you. You know, how I'd expected."
There's really not a wrong way to take that.
"Or well, you are," Tony adds. "Sometimes. A lot of times. There are a lot of things that are great about you. I'm not trying to say that's not true, obviously. I mean, but then there are a lot of times where I just can't even imagine how you could ever have led men into –"
He stops, he must stop because he can feel Steve stiffen against him.
"I'm not expressing myself well," he says. "I don't mean it like that."
"Okay."
"Is that all you're gonna say?"
"Yes."
"Great."
"I think you're doing a great job on your own," Steve says. "Keep talking and maybe I really will start hating myself."
He half expects Tony to jump on him for that, but he doesn't. He just strokes Steve's hair, looks at him with that tortured, conflicted look he's so good at.
He doesn't want to make him feel that way. He doesn't want to hurt him.
Tony sighs. "I just want to know what you think. What you actually think."
He's silent, trying to find words. He can't. He can't imagine letting himself say any of the things Tony wants him to. He can't admit to that sort of weakness. It's bad enough that he's letting Tony hold him like this, bad enough that he never wants him to let go. His concern makes Steve feel terrible and wonderful at the same time.
"Babe?"
He shrugs, snuggling closer to him, drawing Tony's arm tighter around him.
"I'm not depressed," he finally manages, and it sounds worse on his tongue than it has in his head, all day.
"But you're not very happy," Tony says. "Are you?"
And Steve shrugs again.
"I don't wanna make a big deal out of nothing," Tony says.
"Then don't."
Tony sighs, again, and maybe that's going to be the theme of the night, Tony sighing. And he reaches down for Steve's hand. "Can we just talk about it?"
"Not much to talk about," Steve says, playing with Tony's fingers because it's a distraction.
They lie there, silent, again, Tony stroking Steve's hair. It pains him to admit how much he likes the feeling. How the attention is mixing with that hollow feeling inside of him, and it's not making him feel full, exactly, but it's making him feel something.
"I'm not going to push you," Tony says, sounding disappointed. "If you don't want to talk right now, that's okay. But you can't just keep pretending everything is fine."
Steve sighs, burying his face in Tony's chest, just inches from the arc reactor, mumbling into it, "Why not?"
Part of him hopes that Tony will realize he's admitting to everything, everything Tony wants him to say that he can't. Most of him doesn't. Most of him hopes they can move on and pretend this never happened.
"Because then you turn out like me," Tony says, his tone light again.
He smiles. His secret's safe. He doesn't really feel like smiling, though, he does it out of the expectation of the emotion he thought he'd be feeling, relief, instead of the one he really is which isn't actually an emotion but just this sad sort of emptiness.
"I know you're not okay," Tony adds, and he's serious again, and Steve's stomach twists into knots. "Even if you won't admit it right now."
"I'm okay," he says, and the words are supposed to stop there. "I have to be. I – I'm supposed to be perfect." He's never said that out loud, he barely lets himself think it but he's supposed to be perfect, and he's not. The serum worked, but he's changed, he's become weak.
"You're not supposed to be perfect," Tony says, and Steve can practically hear his eyes rolling. "Perfect's boring. I like you better when you're not."
He's trying so hard to hold back but the tears come anyway. He doesn't want Tony to be so nice and understanding like this. He doesn't want Tony to pretend that it's okay. If Tony finds out how damaged he is, he'll leave him. He knows that.
He tries to stop, desperately tries to hide his face and hope that Tony won't notice, but that just makes things worse. A sob escapes, and then another, and he feels Tony shift under him in surprise.
"Whoa, hey, you're okay," Tony says, awkwardly patting Steve's head as he sobs into his chest. "I didn't mean to – well, shit, everything's okay. Shh, I got you, just, uh, don't cry."
His discomfort makes Steve feel so much worse, which just makes him cry harder. He should leave, if he can't stop. He should leave because he's a worthless joke of a man and it's bad enough that he's feeling sorry for himself like this, but he has no business dragging Tony into it. Tony shouldn't have to deal with his problems. He should leave, now, but he doesn't.
It's like everything is spilling out of him, all of the pain and loneliness and guilt that's been piling up, but it's not leaving, it's spiraling into more guilt and more loneliness because he's never been so sure he was useless as he is now, curled up against arguably the most intelligent and important man in America, crying like a little kid. Wasting his time. He was supposed to represent his country but he's just a joke and the sooner everyone realizes that, the better.
Tony's hand moves in disjointed circles on his back, like he's forgotten how to move in the horror of Steve's breakdown, like he's just making himself do it because he has to.
He needs to leave.
He needs to get up and Tony's body against him is the only thing tying him down and yet it's too strong to overcome, this contact is too great to break and so he sobs and cries and leaks bitter tears onto Tony's shirt and tries not to think about what he's doing.
He has lost and will lose everyone he's ever loved and how he'd hoped he have Tony, at least, to see him through, but he doesn't deserve him.
He runs out of tears altogether too quickly, because he's not done thinking the thoughts that will bring them, but he's utterly, completely relieved, and he hides his face against Tony's chest as he catches his breath, tries to hide there forever but he can't and so he sits up, just a bit, just enough to break contact. Except for Tony's hand, which is still moving in its little circles on his back.
"I'm sorry," he says, looking at Tony's damp shirt and not at his face.
"Hey, there's nothing to apologize for."
"Got your shirt wet."
"So I'll take it off," Tony says, and he does.
It still feels like all of the attention is on him, and he doesn't want it to be. He wants Tony to focus on something else. And he can't bring it upon himself to look Tony in the face so he kisses him on the chest, slides his hand between Tony's legs.
Tony just sits there, unmoving, and then his hand is on Steve's shoulder.
"Seeing you crying is uh, not exactly a turn on," he says, sounding calm and apologetic and making Steve flush a million shades of red for being stupid enough to let himself break down like that.
He gets up, tries to wade across the ridiculously large bed so he can leave, and Tony catches his wrist.
"Where you going?"
He could break the hold, easily, but he doesn't. "Let me go."
"Never."
He makes it to the top of the stairs, and the fight goes out of him. He doesn't want to leave. He doesn't want to go back to his empty apartment and be alone. He's always alone. And most of all, he knows that as soon as he walks out that door, it's over. He doesn't want it to be over. So he sits on the stairs, head in his hands, wishing again that he had just died in that plane crash.
It's probably a full five minutes before Tony comes up behind him, slides strong, solid arms around him, squeezing just enough, and lays his head on Steve's shoulder. "Do you wanna talk about what just happened?"
"No." It comes out shaky and strained, like even saying a single word is too much for him.
So Tony just holds him, rocking him a bit, and Steve does his best not to ruin it by crying.
"So I guess I didn't make you feel any better," Tony says, after they've been there so long that Steve's almost falling asleep in his arms.
"I'm fine."
Tony snorts, and then he apologizes, and it's the apology that Steve hates, the fact that he feels the need to.
Still, he doesn't protest when Tony pulls him to his feet and says, like there's no room for protest anyway, "you're sleeping here tonight."
Tony falls asleep almost immediately, and Steve lies there for a while, thankful for the dead weight of Tony's body against his. Thankful for the fact that Tony's asleep, doesn't have to see him try to keep still, try not to shake.
Tony snores. Steve doesn't mind; in fact, he likes it. It makes him feel secure, and comfortable, this constant, familiar reminder that he's not alone.
He tries to focus on the rhythmic breathing, but he can't. He's mentally exhausted, it's the only reason he's still here, but with what's left of his strength he finds himself stuck in a loop of embarrassment. He wonders why Tony hasn't made him leave.
He almost leaves on his own. In fact, it's not until he wakes up the next morning, alone in the large bed, that he realizes he hasn't.
He goes into the bathroom, staring dully into the mirror. He looks like he hasn't slept in a couple of days. He also looks like he hasn't shaved in two days, which is accurate but still something he should fix.
He splashes some water on his face, watches it drip down into the sink. He'll shave when he gets home. It's bad enough that Tony's talked him into leaving a toothbrush and a change of clothes at his place.
The sound of footsteps makes him jump and he turns around, heart pounding, wondering how he's going to explain this.
It's just Tony. He smiles, says "great, you're up," and Steve smiles too, like nothing's different, but it is.
He turns back to the sink, begins to brush his teeth, and Tony comes up behind him, leans up against him, lips pressing to his shoulder.
"Don't you have work?"
"Didn't feel like it."
"I don't think you can do that."
Tony smiles, running a hand down Steve's side. "I can do whatever I want."
Steve smiles too, not quite making eye contact with Tony's reflection, but glad, anyway, to have him there.
"So, whatcha wanna do?"
Steve knows what that means.
He know what he wants it to mean, too. And he shakes Tony off, so he can rinse his mouth out. He doesn't realize how that's going to seem.
He turns and Tony's still just inches away but he's standing quietly, almost uncomfortable, and Steve knows he should say something but all he can do is close his eyes so he doesn't have to see that look in Tony's eyes. He puts his hands on Tony's hips, just above the silk of his boxers, sliding his thumbs slowly over the soft skin of his stomach.
He rests his forehead against Tony's, eyes still closed, so he can feel him there the way he wants him to be, and before Tony can say anything, because he doesn't want to hear what Tony has to say, after last night, he might not want to talk to him ever again after last night, he finds his lips, gently, softly, with his own.
Tony immediately wraps his arms around him, pulling him into a crushing hug, and this wasn't where this was going but he has no choice but to let Tony rest his chin on his shoulder and hold him tight, to feel Tony good and strong and warm against him.
God, he feels good, so good, and Steve's careful not to hurt him because he knows he could, but he clutches him back like it's a sin to leave any room between them, like if he doesn't hold Tony he's going to fall apart.
But this isn't what he's expecting and no matter how good it feels it's not what he wants and he loosens his hold and backs up, grabs Tony by the chin, hard, and kisses him, harder. He knows it's not a competition, that there's nothing he's going to prove here but that doesn't matter, it never has.
Tony takes the sudden shift easily, there's just a moment of hesitation and then he's kissing back. And he sucks down hard on Steve's lower lip and clenches a fist in his hair, tugging but not too hard, and makes this deep, guttural noise of assent, his other hand already against Steve's crotch.
And he's not expecting it, not expecting how badly he needs to be pressed against him again but he does, and so he forces Tony backwards, pins him against the wall, hands behind his head to cushion the blow.
He does it too hard, he knows that. There's a little gasp as Tony's body hits and another as Steve grinds against him, but there's no complaint, nothing that even sounds like complaint and he takes that as an encouragement, he puts his arms on either side of Tony's head, against the wall, so that he can get closer, can rub against him, can feel the way the steady beating of Tony's heart is amplified in the metal against his chest.
Steve knows it's not a competition. He knows that.
He pulls back, tugging on the corner of Tony's wet red lower lip with his thumb, savoring the flush in his cheeks. "Where's the lube?"
Tony gapes at him for a second, breathing heavily, before nodding toward the sink. "Top drawer on the left."
He lets go and Tony seems to shrink, a bit, exhaling in what could be relief but in what Steve suspects is pleasure instead, because there's this smile on his face, this broad smile that makes him feel better, for a second.
He tears himself away, grabs the lube, returning to unceremoniously rip off Tony's boxers and grab both of his wrists in one hand.
"God, I love it when you're like this," Tony whispers, spreading his legs without being asked, struggling a little against Steve's hold anyway.
Steve pushes into him with two lube-slicked fingers and Tony exhales sharply, like all of the air has been punched from his body.
"Too much?"
"No," Tony pants, "no, you're fine, keep going."
Steve kisses him again, rough, sucking hard and long like he'll never need to breathe, and Tony clenches and flexes around his fingers, so tight, so good.
He lifts him without warning, up against the wall and Tony's eyes flash with something and then close, mouth open, back arched, waiting.
He's gentle, as gentle as he can be, and it's more a logistical problem than he'd expected to lower Tony onto his cock without dropping him, he can't hold him with one hand even though he's so light. There's a moment of this clumsy, fumbling attempt to get it in but Tony's patient, even though he's not helpful, so busy rubbing his ass against Steve's cock when all he needs to do is hold still and brace himself.
He takes him hard, that's how this goes, hard and rough and unrefined. He's in control, he's absolutely in control it's just that what he wants to do with that control is lose it, he wants to pound Tony with this reckless abandon, to feel Tony's ragged breath in his ear and feel Tony's sweat streaked skin against his.
He wants to let go, it's everything he knows he shouldn't do and he wants to, he needs to.
And every time he starts to feel like he's going too hard, like he's doing something wrong Tony gasps, or moans, or grabs Steve by the neck and whispers in his ear, "don't stop," and it's okay, it's fine, except it's not.
This is everything Tony wants, everything he's asked for, all of the spontaneity and roughness and dominance, and if Steve were doing that for him it'd be great.
But he's not. He knows that's not why he's doing it.
He knows that's not why he's doing it, he just doesn't know why he is.
It doesn't fix anything. It doesn't make anything better, there's that moment of passion and then it's over and Tony's still looking at him like that, still tip-toeing around him.
"So," Tony says. "You doin' anything today?"
It's the forced lightness, the obvious implication that Steve's someone to be careful around, to be gentle with. He nods. "I told Peggy I'd visit."
"Mind if I join?"
"I don't think that's a good idea."
"Right, of course."
They dress in silence.
"Do you wanna get breakfast?"
"I can eat something there."
"How about after?"
"I'm helping Lindsey move."
"Lindsey?
"From my graphic design class."
Tony shrugs. "How about dinner?"
"I'm eating there."
"Okay," Tony says, sighing, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Well, obviously, I'm starting to sound desperate. So, just call me?"
Steve nods.