For the longest of time, they lock eyes and not-blink, not-speak, not-think – though Steve is fleetingly considering alerting the nurse or doctor in person if only to have an excuse to not be here. Tony's features crumple with a weary frown, and Steve kicks himself up from the chair, searching for a glass of water. From the tail of his eye, he sees Tony's cannulated wrist slithering under the sheets, so he pulls the railing down, and Tony grabs him. Still weak, but he holds on, and Steve stays. Tony's bottom lips tremble with exertion – so many things to say – and Steve swallows thickly.

So many things to say... not all of them are necessary.

"Steve?" A mere whisper as loud and crisp as the first ray of the sun. "… Steve?"

"… Hey."

And that is all. Tony falls back asleep by the time Steve finally locates some water and a reasonably clean straw. A wet trail glistens under those long lashes, paving down his ashen cheek. Steve thumbs it away just in time for Jessica to burst through the door with a letter in hand, the White House insignia on its header.

"A car is parked downstairs by the elevator lobby. They want you now, Steve."

The country has seen the world according to Nick Fury. They've seen the world according to Tony Stark. And Lord in heaven, they've seen the world according to Norman Osborn, too. Now, they want Steve Rogers to answer the call. It's not enough to put Osborn and the Dark Avengers on trial for their crimes. It's not enough to officially shut down HAMMER effective immediately. It's a consolation win to initiate peace accords with the Asgardians.

A new slate. The only way Steve knows how to begin to set things right. He promises to repeal the SHRA on the day he is sworn in as SHIELD Commander. Divided, they fall. And the New Avengers shall rise like a phoenix reborn, from the ashes of the War. Tony, having been discharged from the hospital two days ago, proclaims that Steve's inauguration deserves a get-together party, and boy, he throws one like he's still made of money.

As Steve manoeuvres himself to the buffet spread, people clamour around him to shake his hand and pat his back. All dazzling smiles and whooping. He sees hope and unity in every face, and for that short half an hour, Steve celebrates, too.

Only, Tony isn't in attendance. His absence echoes in his house.

"Master Rogers," Jarvis hands him a flute of champagne. "Congratulations on your inauguration this morning, Sir."

"Thank you. Where's Tony?"

A wan smile spreads across his elderly features, and he looks up to the lone window overlooking the pool. "Upstairs. He uh, seems somewhat distraught in the morning, and demands some privacy. But, morning has come and gone…"

Steve takes the hint and returns his champagne to Jarvis' tray. Tony's bedroom door is closed, and he hears nothing from inside. "Tony?" he calls as he raps on the door with his knuckles. "I'm coming in, alright?" And he finds Tony slouching on the edge of his bed, motionless, head bowed in defeat. It takes Steve a hot second to hurry forward and kneel before Tony, one large hand gently cupping his knee.

"What is it? Is it – is it the pain? Do you need, uh," Steve looks around the nightstand frantically, "painkillers? Any medication? Or do you need the doctor?"

And slowly, so slowly Tony musters the strength to look up into Steve's blue eyes. "I… don't remember how to tie my shoelaces." Steve promptly drops his gaze to the carpet, and he sees a botched mess of shoestrings crisscrossing through all the wrong holes. The knots were… to put it kindly…

Steve sighs, and his heart clenches. But, the doctors said Tony is on his speedy way to recovery.

"It'll come back to you." Steve begins to undo the mistakes. "Let me?"

"I wasn't… I didn't think of coming back. I thought… you won't…"

Won't reboot Tony when they have a chance's chance of success? "It wasn't even a question, Tony. Of course we would."

"Osborn was after the Database, Steve. The last copy was in my brain. I had to. I had to… forget. What I did to us. To you."

He could count on Tony to get himself back to speed in mere hours despite spending most of last two weeks comatose. There's no short of material should he wants to re-educate himself on the War and Captain's America's martyrdom. Just like this, a push of the button and a hard reset – a second chance reserved only for the likes of Tony Stark. Steve shakes his head and labours on the shoelaces, when he notices minute tremors beleaguering Tony's right hand. He takes it gently in his, yet the quakes do not stop.

"Since when, Tony?"

"Since I woke up. Won't stop, no matter what I do." But, Tony's a builder. Life has been crueller to Tony than he imagines. "I don't know if… this will get better."

"We'll find a way."

"If this is what it is, so you can stay, Steve – it's worth it," Tony's voice cracks. "I prayed, sometimes, and you know how rare that is," he chuckles wetly, "I prayed, that by some miracle if I could trade places with you…" The hand in Steve's shake like crazy, and it's not some residual aftermath of neuron damages. "I tried, Steve. God, I tried to make things right, to move on, but I can't."

And Tony lets go. He cradles his face in his free hand and he lets go, as Steve sits there on the floor. And all the way back by the bedroom door which Steve hasn't shut properly in his panic of reaching Tony first, he sees Jessica rooted to the floor, one hand frozen on the door knob, the other clutching a glass of what looks like alfalfa sprouts juice. Her gaze is set firmly on Tony's back, still stuttering with every sob, and she turns around quietly, shooing what must be a small group of party guests – Avengers, friends, blood brothers and sisters – to be quiet and leave.

The door closes behind her with a curt tap.

… This will get better. And that's a promise.