He makes it through the day. He thinks about Tony once, twice, too many times to count. Every time his breath catching in his throat.
He can control his emotions. That's fine. He can push them down and focus on his job. He can do that.
It's not that simple.
Everything he does reminds him of Tony. And that's perhaps understandable because this whole job is built on things Tony hates, things that Steve hates.
It's hard, hating something together, now that they're not.
He tries to focus on the work and forget but that's not how it works.
So he focuses on his work, and he remembers. Over, and over again.
He spends the day going through chat logs and phone calls and all of the damning evidence, even though he really isn't supposed to. He's looking for some reason to get mad, to decide that these people don't deserve this, that SHIELD is violating their privacy and making targets out of innocent people.
He doesn't find any.
He finds evidence, tons of it, that leads him to agree that these people are threats, to think that SHIELD need to take action.
He finds a lot of evidence that makes him want to give up his hope in humanity, actually.
And he can't help being suspicious that he's been set up to feel this way. That someone has been giving him the files without any shades of grey, so that he'll stop looking so closely.
He wants to stop, wants to quit reading and believing these terrible things, but he can't. Somewhere, one person will be innocent. He knows this as he pores through every little shred of evidence. One person. That's all it takes, and then this will be worth it.
He doesn't find one, not the first day. That's okay.
Or the second day. That's fine.
Halfway through the third day, he begins to worry that he hasn't found at least one person who deserves the benefit of his doubt. Is he becoming jaded?
It's possible.
He's spent the last three days feeling broken and tired. He needs to make a change.
He thinks about going out, after work, but then his mind is full of Tony again, Tony's suggestions, the places Tony wanted to take him, if Steve could have just been a little more okay with the thought of being a couple in public.
It's like it's impossible to escape, like Tony is everywhere. In every little thing he does.
It's easy to let himself wallow in the pain of it, but he doesn't because he knows it's his own fault.
Tony is everywhere because Steve's putting him there. Every little thing he does, everything that happens to him, it's Tony he thinks of. Tony who he imagines talking to, laughing with, for the one split second before he realizes that he can't.
He hates himself for it.
He'd realized even within just a few weeks of arriving in the god damned 21st century that he was doing this, with Peggy. Turning his life into a series of new experiences that only had any significance to him because they mattered to her. Because he mattered to her.
He doesn't know when he started doing it with Tony. He wonders if he's been deluding himself, if he's not any better than he was. If he's living at all, or if he's just chosen people to live for.
That's got to be why this is so hard. It's not that he somehow needs Tony, or loves him, or wants to be with him. They're not compatible. He's known this from the very first fucking second that they met.
It doesn't hurt because of that. It hurts because he's selfish. He wanted Tony, and he doesn't have him anymore.
That's it.
That's all there is.
It hurts different than losing Bucky. It hurts so different. That was love. That was devotion. And trust and understanding, and he blinks, because he can't cry about this at work. He can't do that.
Losing Tony isn't even close to the worst that he's ever felt. He repeats that like a mantra, every time Tony's stupid name pops into his stupid head.
He's felt worse. He's being selfish. He was using him, and he let him go, and of course it's going to hurt, for a while, maybe a long time.
It should hurt. He should have to pay for his mistakes.
He should be able to hold it together better than this.
God, he wishes Tony hadn't broken up with him.
He doesn't know if he can take it, doesn't know how long he'll have to pretend that he's okay.
He works through his lunch because he's not about to spend a moment without something to distract him.
He works for hours, before he remembers. Tony didn't break up with him.
But boy does it feel like that.
On Thursday, Natasha shows up at his desk as he's about to leave.
He puts on a cocky grin. "Checking up on me?"
"Something like that."
She puts her hands on her hips, makes it evident that it's his turn to speak, now.
"Infamous spy and all, thought you'd be a little more discreet."
"Well, word got out about your age, figured we'd throw you a retirement party."
He raises an eyebrow, leans back. Tries to make it evident that it's her turn to speak, now.
She does. "Join me for a beer?"
He considers it, a second. "I don't drink."
"Cheese fries, then."
He could go out with her. They could talk about – well, something. It would be a change of pace. A chance to forget about Tony.
He looks at her for a moment, so it doesn't seem like he's rushing. And then he says, casual, "I have plans."
"Crying into your pillow doesn't really qualify as 'plans'."
"Huh," he says, reflexively, the sound his throat makes as his chest tightens up, carefully disguised as something a person who is okay would say. "I'll keep that in mind."
She shrugs. "Tomorrow, maybe?" And she's gone.
That's good.
He wants her to be gone.
He wants to be alone.
And then he's alone, and he wishes he had someone, anyone, there for him. He's alone in his apartment and he can hear his neighbors through his wall, and he wishes he'd said yes, even as he knows that he shouldn't be so weak.
He wonders how it'd feel to crash his motorcycle into something. Because in his head, it feels good.
Not good, great. Better than he's felt in a long time. Just that thought, that image sends waves of something that feels like it could be happiness through him.
Not fast enough to kill himself. He still wouldn't do that. He'd never do that.
But the thought of it, of dashing his body against something solid, in his head it's only comforting.
It doesn't feel like pain, in his head. It feels like punishment, like energy, like anything. It feels like him slamming hard enough against something solid, something strong and enduring, just hard enough to remind himself that he isn't.
He wonders how fast he'd have to go for the world to go dark on him. How fast he'd have to go to make that permanent.
This isn't a new thought. But it's been a while.
He wonders if he can die at all.
Certainly, he can. That's what they all told him, that's what everyone's told him.
But they would have told him, if he'd had the foresight to ask, that he wouldn't survive 70 years in the ocean.
And would you just look at him now.
If he crumples up all of the blankets and pillows he owns, and a few of his clothes, he can make something substantial enough to hold onto as he shivers himself to sleep.
It's his own fault that he doesn't turn on the heat. He could do that. But it feels like giving up, like making things too easy on himself.
Besides, he needs to save his money. He doesn't know where he'll be tomorrow, five years, ten years from now, three hundred years from now.
He's slept in a lot of uncomfortable places. He's used to it. But he still can't fall asleep until he can somehow convince himself that being alone is more bearable than the cold.
He finds himself thinking about Tony's bed, fantasizing about it, when he's relaxed enough to let go of that vice that grips his heart every time he thinks of Tony.
It's not the bed he's thinking about, obviously. He'd sleep on a bed of nails and he'd sleep fine if Tony were there.
His bed is too big and too soft and too empty without Tony.
The ground is too big, and too soft, and too empty. Without Tony.
He can't sleep in the shower, or the closet. He's too big.
He could stay up all night, but at least when he's sleeping he gets to forget.
He could sleep forever, because every time he wakes up he has to remember.
He doesn't say anything to Peggy until she asks him how Tony's doing, and at that point it's been over for almost a week.
"I broke up with him," he says, in a smooth, calm voice intended to convey his deep lack of a need to discuss it. "It wasn't working."
Peggy nods.
"He was too old for me," Steve says, a few minutes later.
Peggy looks up, feigns misunderstanding. "Who?"
He frowns.
She squints at him, reaches out to touch his face. "Gerald, is that you?"
Steve brushes her hand away without smiling. "This is serious."
She smiles too. "It's not," she says, and then she lays a comforting hand on his. "But I'm sure it seems that way now."
He knows she's right, because she's always right. But that doesn't mean she's right.
"We're very different people," he tells her, and it's true, in a vast number of ways.
"Certainly."
"He doesn't value the same things I do."
"Mhmm."
"He's too -" he stops, can't think of the right word. Can't say demanding, can't say immature, or entitled or impulsive because those would be true, and they would be good reasons for them to have broken up, but they're not. He doesn't finish the sentence.
She nods.
"Aren't you going to tell me I made a mistake?"
"That's not my call, is it?"
He realizes the importance of his job.
Not the importance of what he's doing, of course. He's not stupid enough to think that he's been entrusted with something truly valuable.
It's just important that he has a job, because for those eight or ten or twelve hours of the day, he has something to do.
He's still beating his head against a concrete wall of people who refuse to be innocent, but at least it's taking up his time.
The third time she asks, he takes Natasha up on the invitation.
"You can probably still get drunk," she says, returning to their table with a pint of vodka. "Four times the metabolism, four times the alcohol. Simple math."
He takes the glass, looks at it. Takes a sip and grimaces. "I didn't know they sold vodka in pints."
She ignores that, passes him a second glass. "Sip of vodka, sip of cranberry."
He takes a longer drink of the vodka, grimaces. Doesn't touch the cranberry. He wants this to work.
Natasha tells him it gets easier, and the first one's always the hardest, and the longer she talks, it's clear she talking about killing, not love, and from her tone it's clear she doesn't believe the things she's saying in either respect, and Steve guesses she's quoting someone, because if she's not then this is a massive jump in her willingness to share.
He thanks her. Wonders why she does it. He's absolutely certain that every word out of her mouth was not intended to be comfort. He's sure that she could comfort him, if she wanted to.
It helps.
He replays the words in his mind in exactly the tone of voice she says them. A little too solemn, like she knows what she's saying is bullshit.
It helps.
He doesn't get drunk, but maybe it does something, maybe it takes the edge off, because by the end of the night he's feeling – well, not great. But he feels like he can handle it.
"I think you're better off without him," she says as they part ways, patting him on the shoulder in a friendly way.
He can't seem to make himself agree.
He goes to the library.
He's done this a ton of times, for a bunch of different reasons. But this is the first time he's been in there for a DVD.
He knows, in some rational part of his mind, that he's being ridiculous. That even if Tony was wrong, and Brokeback Mountain isn't sad at all, that doesn't fix anything. But still, he has to know.
He walks with the DVD in hand, staring at the cover, barely noticing the man he almost knocks over.
"Whoa there," is all he hears, an almost friendly warning from a complete stranger. And he stops just before they collide, feels that buzz of almost-touching.
Then he feels a hand fall on his shoulder, looks up, and finds himself just inches from a black guy with a broad smile.
"Pardon me," Steve says, feeling all the worse for the fact that he immediately likes this guy. "I shouldn't have been distracted."
"Hey, no worries." He lets go of Steve's shoulder, and it's only then that he realizes his hand has been there for a bit too long. "I know how it is, get caught up in a book, we've all been there."
Steve looks down at the movie, and so the other guy does too.
"Well," he adds. "Some of us are slower readers than others."
It's sarcastic, but it's light, easy, no judgement. Steve smiles.
"Steve Rogers," he says, offering his hand.
"Sam Wilson."
He has a good handshake. Solid, firm through the arm.
"Great movie," he adds, nodding down at Steve's other hand. "Sad."
"Haven't seen it," Steve says, wondering, briefly, if he could know. If holding the movie is enough of a giveaway. Hell, wonders if Sam isn't the same way. The lingering hand, the eye contact, the smile. "Anyway, I –"
Sam frowns at him. "Hey, haven't I seen you before?"
This has happened before. His face is out there, after all. It's just that no one knows he's still alive.
He says what he always says. "I have a familiar face."
"Nah, man, I've seen you out running. You're the freaky fast one?"
Oh. He shrugs. "Could be."
"Yeah," Sam says, nodding. "Yeah. No, I could kinda – well, understandably, I recognize you best from behind."
That sounds kind of like innuendo, particularly paired with the slightly crooked grin. Or maybe – and he tenses his jaw as soon as he thinks it – that's just Tony's influence.
"You military?"
"Hmm?" Steve's clenching the DVD box too hard. Could break it. Has to be careful. Finally hears the question. "Used to be."
"Same," Sam says. "Working at the VA now."
Steve should do a better job of not being distracted.
"Here," Sam says, pulling off a corner of the already small piece of paper he's holding and scribbling something on it. "You want a running partner, hit me up."
He flashes Steve another easy grin, and walks away, looking back once as though to catch Steve watching him.
Steve looks down at the slip of paper in his hand, and at the movie he's holding, and is definitely, absolutely certain that this Sam Wilson was coming on to him.
He's not ready for that.
He sticks the number in his wallet anyway.
Leaves without the DVD.
He goes to work and he's good at his job. Very good.
It's not military strategy, but it's strategy nonetheless. And it's the only thing he has, really.
He stays late, working. Tries to go in early, but it's all it takes just to pull himself out of bed in time to put on his suit.
Tony's suit. Tony's money, at least.
He knows that he should buy a new one, but he can't. He imagines Tony's hands running down the front of it, sometimes, when he's still half asleep. When he wakes up feeling terrible but isn't lucid enough to remember why.
Tony had pestered him with calls for the first three days, and then they tapered off, and then they stopped. Completely.
He comes home and listens to his messages, and there aren't any. He checks his cell phone for notifications and there aren't any.
He tries to convince himself, sometimes, that he's not just checking if Tony has tried to contact him. There are other people who could, after all.
And that's how he finds himself wondering why Bruce hasn't tried to get in touch. Bruce has a reason to need him. He'd said as much.
He even wants Pepper to call him. To call him, angry, to tell him how messed up, how he needs to apologize and make things right with Tony, right now. He wants that because it would tell him that he's wrong, that Tony still wants him.
She doesn't call.
He goes to work and there are expectations, very concrete and exact expectations. And the whole thing is military, it's comfort, it's familiarity. He wonders why he didn't start working there before.
He knows why.
It's just that now those things that had seemed to matter to him don't anymore. SHIELD is all he has, after Peggy, and Peggy's SHIELD anyway. He could cause trouble, but that'd lose the only thing he has.
So he does his work, and he does it well, and he's respectful, and nobody challenges him. He still spends too much time reading the evidence, too much time trying to convince himself that he's making a difference, but he still gets everything done. No one asks him what's taking him so long.
In fact, he gets a ton of praise. And he doesn't know how much of that is just SHIELD trying to keep him around, and every time he gets a compliment he feels the need to work that much harder.
Still, it makes him feel good.
It's only been a little over a week and he already feels like he belongs. Like he's a part of something. He feels more at home at work than he has anywhere in this century.
"That's how they get you," he can imagine Tony saying, but he's gotten strong enough to shake that off.
He puts on an act, with everybody there, but that's what he's always done, that's what you're supposed to do. He's the picture of confidence, of good nature, of quick comebacks.
He's always been good at those, but the serum, it seems, made him quicker.
The only thing that trips him up are the compliments, that leave him making excuses and looking at his coffee.
He's not like Natasha. He's not duplicitous. He's just not letting his issues show. She's all issues and confidence and not letting him know her.
He doesn't even know what her issues are.
She's the closest he has to a friend, after Peggy.
That's okay. He doesn't need friends.
It's enough that people are friendly, nodding at him as he walks past. That he has their respect, that he feels comfortable walking around here.
He's just walking back to his desk, and then he turns a corner and he looks up and there, down the hall, is Tony.
His chest swells with feelings that are positive and familiar and warm and then in mere seconds they crash to a pit in his stomach. It has been ten days. Ten days that feel like weeks, and he's not ready for this.
Blinks once, because it can't be him. Why would Tony be here?
Blinks twice. It is.
It's too late to avoid him without making it obvious that he's trying to.
He's not ready for this.
Tony looks ready for this, looks ready for anything, all put together and perfect the way he always does, joking with the person next to him. Joking at the person next to him, Steve corrects himself, gritting his teeth.
Tony's eyes meet Steve's from a distance, and there's nothing there, no surprise, no discomfort. Like this is some normal chance meeting, like Steve is someone he barely knows.
Steve nods in his direction as he approaches, casual. He wants to keep his tone neutral, but he can't do that so he settles on harsh. "Stark."
Tony looks at him, and he makes a big show of looking Steve up and down for the benefit of whoever he's with. Doesn't quite stop but he still slows, taking in Steve's suit – Tony's suit – eyes lingering like he's impressed. But when he speaks it's with a truncated nod and a voice full of contempt. "Rogers."
And he walks on.
It's over in seconds, if that. It's over and Steve's not ready for it to end, just as he wasn't ready for it to happen.
He's glad Tony didn't stop, didn't draw it out. Didn't make Steve bullshit his way through words he's not ready to be saying with a steady voice.
He wishes Tony had stopped.
He wants to see him again. Wants to hold him, to be held by him. Wants it so badly.
He makes his way back to his desk and he squares his shoulders, leans his head against the desk and rubs his eyes and feels violated. Why did Tony have to find him here? Why does Tony have to be in one place that he feels okay, occasionally?
He's not sure how long he sits, head in his hands, but it must be a while. And when he hears a throat clearing behind him, he jumps to attention, turns around quickly, best posture, hoping he doesn't look like he's just been napping.
It's Tony. And Tony doesn't even look at him, he just says, like it's one of his little quips, "you've been crying."
"Leave me alone," Steve says, clenching his hand into a fist.
And then Tony does look at him, but this time he's looking at Steve, not the suit, and his voice softens. "Call me, please," he says.
And then he's gone.