Widows: Part 2

The mission wasn't going well.

Steve was in the kitchen making lunch, and Morgan was doing a puzzle in the living room. It was a new one she'd gotten at Christmas, a big floor puzzle of the solar system with 50 pieces.

"Steve," she called, holding up something red, "where does this go? It doesn't fit."

"I don't know, sweetheart; I'd have to look at it. Don't forget you have to turn 'em around sometimes."

He took his newly assembled cheese sandwiches and had just placed them on the griddle to brown when Tony burst in the house along with a gust of wind and a scatter of snow. He'd been with the physical therapist out in the garage, and his hair was wet with sweat.

"How was it?" Steve asked him, stirring the tomato soup. He looked wiped out.

"Ugh," he said without elaboration.

"Steve!" Morgan called again, sounding frustrated. "This one doesn't go anywhere!"

"It goes somewhere, Morgan. Keep trying. She's doing a puzzle," he explained to Tony. "Maybe you can help her while I finish lunch."

Tony's face slumped into an expression even more tired than before, but then it snapped into a determined smile accompanied by a sarcastic one-fingered salute. Steve smiled back, feeling something warm in his chest, a blip of pride and happiness. They were a working team again, even if the current mission objectives only included the successful completion of grilled cheese sandwiches and a kid's puzzle.

"Okay," Tony said brightly, steering his wheelchair into the living room, "what do we got? Space puzzle? I haven't seen this one, but having once been to space, I am confident in my abilities. Let's take a look at your piece that doesn't fit—"

"No!" Morgan snapped, ramming the piece under the sofa where Tony couldn't get a look at it. "I want Steve to help me!"

In the kitchen, Steve tensed.

"Well," Tony said with relative calm, "Steve's making lunch, so—"

"You make lunch. I want Steve."

Dammit.

"Unfortunately, I can't make lunch." Tony's voice was more brittle this time. "It's Daddy or nothing, baby."

"Nothing!" Morgan said, picking up steam. "You can't do anything! You—"

A hot, bright burst of phosphorus flared in Steve's chest: she couldn't bully Tony. It wasn't allowed, not when Tony was so hurt, not when he was trying so hard.

"Morgan Collins Stark!" Steve snatched the griddle off the stove and stuck it on the counter as he marched out of the kitchen. "You will not speak to him that way! Apologize right now!"

Immediately, he realized he'd made a tactical error: instead of looking cowed, Morgan leapt to her feet, rounding on him in fury.

"Rawr!" she roared, actually roared, like some kind of beast, her face scrunched in defiant rage. Looking directly at him, she drew back her pink-socked foot and gave the puzzle box a determined kick, sending puzzle pieces all over the rug.

"Morgan Stark!" Steve shouted again, feeling himself go red in the face. "Pick that up!"

"No!" she shouted back. "You're mean, Steve! Mean!"

"Go to your room! That's an order!" He stabbed a finger towards the stairs.

She gave one last inarticulate snarl, kicked the empty box, and punched Steve with her tiny fist as she pelted past him. A minute later, the bedroom door slammed.

There was a horrible silence.

"So," said Tony, staring at the scattered puzzle, "that went well."

"I can't believe she did that," Steve said, shocked at both her behavior and his own. He had lost his temper with a four-year-old.

"I can." Tony nudged a bit of Saturn with his toe. "You missed the three-nager stage, but I didn't. She told me she hated me about once a week. Pepper, too. Once, she called me 'stupid, stinky, poop-face.' So, y'know."

"She hit me." Belatedly, Steve rubbed the spot on his thigh. It had been a pretty hard punch, too, at least for a preschooler. She'd meant it.

"Yeah. Impulse control doesn't run in the family."

"I never yell at her, Tony. Never. Really."

Tony smiled wryly. "Oh, me neither. Never. Except, of course, when I do." There was a beat. "Morgan Collins Stark, huh? That sounded good. Very parental. I'm guessing your mother called you by the whole kit and caboodle when you stepped in it, too."

"Yeah," Steve said absently, still feeling stunned. "I was 'Steven Grant Rogers' every time I came home bloody or muddy or both. I should apologize," he added, thinking aloud.

"Not right now. Give it ten minutes to settle or it'll just be more roaring."

"And she owes you an apology–"

"Forget it."

"But–"

"Forget it." He went to the stairs, transferring painfully onto the stair lift. "I'm going to change into something less smelly."

Steve watched him go, then went to the kitchen, covered the soup pot, and turned off the stove. He ate a grilled cheese sandwich, staring at the stovetop, too angry to taste it. Morgan would have to eat a cold one, he decided, though he'd make one fresh for Tony. He wiped his fingers on a dishtowel and then picked up the puzzle, retrieving the hidden piece from under the sofa: Jupiter's Great Red Spot. By the time he was through, his anger had seeped away. Tony was right about the ten minutes, though Steve wondered just who the time was actually for.

Morgan accepted his apology with nonchalance, as if she could barely remember the incident, and she was perfectly happy for him to carry her downstairs for lunch. Afterwards, he turned on the television, leaving her with singing trucks as he made his way back upstairs.

Tony had never made a reappearance.

He got stuck in his sweatshirt. The material was damp, and he didn't have the strength to fight with it, so Tony pulled it back down and curled up on his made bed, shivering. There was an absolutely terrifying fish lurking in the corner of the room, big and weird and ancient-looking, dead white and eyeless, up from the black reaches. Tony buried his face in the mattress so he couldn't see it. Not real. Not real. Not real, he thought. Losing it. Losing it. Losing it.

He was a millimeter away from the edge of a cliff, and his four-year-old was doing her utmost to shove him right over. It was absurd: the whole scene downstairs had been more comic than tragic. Defiant preschooler in unicorn sweater versus Iron Man and Captain America was inherently funny, particularly since Iron Man and Captain America had unquestionably lost. Only, somehow, it wasn't funny at all. Tony started to shiver, freezing cold in his damp clothes, and then his eyes filmed over. The tears were hot, hateful, little things, burning with salt and self-pity.

"Tony?" There was a knock at the door. "There's lunch."

Tony didn't even try to answer. He had no strength left to keep up appearances.

"Tony?" Steve called again, then tried the knob, easing the door open just a crack. "Tony, are you—?"

"Help me," Tony croaked. "I can't get out of my clothes."

Steve hurried over and helped him sit up before peeling off his damp sweatshirt and the tee underneath. "Why didn't you call me?" he chided. "You're freezing."

"Because," Tony said through chattering teeth, "my four-year-old made me cry. It's humiliating."

"Oh, Tony." He rubbed at Tony's goose-pimpled arms. "Let's get you some dry–"

Tony saw the white fish in his peripheral vision, and he whipped his head around towards it. What the fuck was it? Like a…what were those living fossil ones? Coelacanths? He was seeing fucking phantom coelacanths now—

"Tony?"

Shit.

He turned back towards Steve slowly.

Steve was looking at him.

"I've got to lie down," Tony said weakly, closing his eyes as he shifted back onto the mattress. And Steve…Steve came, too, easing down alongside him. Snagging the extra comforter at the foot of the bed, he covered them both, all the way up to their chins, then he pulled Tony to his chest, just as he had that night in the hospital. Under the blanket, he started rubbing consoling circles on Tony's back, his palm big and warm. His whole body was big and warm, the realest, most solid thing in a shaky universe, and Tony clung to him, pressing his face against Steve's flannel shirt, the fabric soft under his cheek. Why, Tony wondered, was this alright? Why was rubbing his face against Steve's chest suddenly something they both allowed?

"It isn't real," Steve murmured, his hand still rubbing slow circles.

"What isn't?" Tony asked, but it was just a reflex. The jig was up.

"Whatever it is you can see. The water. The fish."

"Bruce told you." He should have known; Bruce never could keep a secret.

"Yes. That day we came to the hospital."

"Well, I had another scan a couple of weeks ago, when it didn't stop. Bruce took me to a private clinic, and they didn't find anything." Tony wondered if Steve already knew this, too. "Which means I'm just crazy." It was the first time Tony had stated the fact aloud. The admission did not feel like a load off; instead, it made him vaguely sick.

"You're not crazy," Steve said calmly, still rubbing those slow circles on Tony's skin.

"What would you call it, then?"

"Stress."

"Stress. Right. Tell me, Cap, you see a lot of bait fish when you feel the pressure?"

"No," Steve said with a dry smile. "These days, it's mostly you trying to drive me insane. Though Morgan is giving you a run for the money." His hand moved to Tony's neck, massaging the spot at the base of his skull, coaxing a massive release of tension in Tony's shoulders. Then, quietly, Steve asked, "What happened to the pills, Tony? Bruce told me you had some. They don't work or you aren't taking them?"

Tony snorted; he was going to sue the good Dr. Banner for some truly gross HIPAA violations.

"Tony?"

"I'm not taking them," Tony admitted with a sigh. Steve had moved on to the muscles on either side of his spine. It felt so good to be touched in a way that wasn't clinical. It felt so good to be touched at all. He was used to being touched constantly–Pepper's casual hand on his shoulder while he washed dishes, Morgan in his lap while he read emails on his phone–and he hadn't realized how much he missed the contact, not until now. He would say or do things, he realized, things he wouldn't say or do otherwise, to keep Steve's hands on his body.

"Why not?"

Case in point: his knee-jerk reaction was to tell Steve to fuck off and mind his own business, but he wouldn't, not right now.

"Because I already have a fun little history with sedatives," Tony said, arching into the contact. "After New York, they put me on Xanax, and I wound up eating them like Tic Tacs. I couldn't handle it. If Pepper hadn't—" he swallowed. His substance abuse was an open secret, but a secret all the same. He wasn't used to talking about it.

"Bruce told me this one is pretty safe, Tony. He said the risk of addiction with this stuff is really low."

"Low, but not zero. I don't trust myself with it."

"Could you trust me?" Steve's voice was soft and serious. "I could dispense it for you. That way, you wouldn't have to worry about it."

Tony hesitated.

"You can't keep white-knuckling this, Tony. That isn't a viable option."

"I know."

"So?" Steve's hand had stopped moving, but its heat and weight still felt nice on Tony's skin.

"So…the bottle is in my sock drawer."

"Okay. I'll take care of it for you." Tony expected him to get up then, dig the bottle out and leave. It would have been an opportunity for a graceful exit from whatever inexplicably weird embrace they'd found themselves in, but he didn't, just resumed rubbing Tony's back like he wasn't in any particular hurry. Then: "Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure," Tony agreed, though he had absolutely no idea what was about to come out of Steve's mouth.

"Are you still hallucinating?"

Tony considered, glancing around for any flashes of fish, shifting his feet to check for the slosh of temperature-less water. Nothing. More importantly, the edge-of-the-cliff hopelessness was gone. Not completely, not forever, but he'd taken some steps away from the abyss.

"No," Tony said finally, pulling away enough to get a look at Steve's face. It was calm, but there was a tension in Steve's body now that made the expression feel like a veneer. Something was happening, something Tony couldn't quite get a bead on.

Or maybe he just didn't want to.

"Did I help?" Steve nodded his chin, a vague feint towards whatever was currently going on between them, and Tony knew it was a big question, no matter how casually Steve had just tried to deliver it.

Two kittens, Pepper whispered in Tony's ear, smiling. And then: Promise me you won't let yourself be lonely. Not for my sake. Tony shivered, even though he was warm under the covers, and he moved closer to Steve, letting his cheek rest against the flannel again. He shut his eyes, breathing, thinking. It had been one thing to be held by Steve in that hospital bed, half out of his mind with grief.

Allowing it now was something else.

Allowing it later would be something else beyond that, even if the two of them agreed to the guise of 'help.'

Pressed close, Tony could still feel the tension in Steve's body as he waited for Tony's answer, and Tony toyed with the idea of putting his hand on Steve's throat, sliding his fingers up under Steve's chin, finding Steve's racing pulse. You want to know if you're helping, Steve? he'd say then, with Steve's pulse speeding away under his fingers. Is that what you really want to do? Help?

But Tony wasn't ready to ask those questions, not least because he didn't know himself what he wanted the answers to be. For now he wanted whatever this was to stay weird and nebulous, wanted Steve to remain a comforting but undefined field. So he kept his hand off Steve's throat, sliding it over Steve's waist instead to tug the back of Steve's plaid shirt out of his jeans, trying to decide if he liked the way it made Steve's breath catch in surprise. And yeah, he did like it. Still, he didn't pull the cotton undershirt out with the flannel; he left that tucked in, keeping intact that thin barrier between his palm and Steve's skin as he stroked the small of Steve's back. And he only gave himself exactly one cycle of breath before he sat up.

"You helped, Steve," he pronounced, finally answering the question as he sat on the edge of the bed. "Will you get me a clean shirt? I'm going to go work for a while."

Steve got up immediately. "What do you want?" His voice sounded almost normal, just a tiny bit too fast, just one drop of adrenaline past baseline.

"A pair of jeans and a button-up from the closet. One with a pinned sleeve. And the button-hook from the top of the dresser."

Steve retrieved the clothes and the button-hook before digging the big bottle of Seroquel out of the socks. He started to go, but Tony called to him before he was out the door.

"Steve," he said, "I have a question, too."

Steve nodded.

"What did Pep say to you that day? I know she said something."

Steve's gaze dropped to the floor, and there was a long pause, so long Tony decided he wasn't going to answer at all. But then: "I can't tell you."

"Why?"

"Because…" he looked for the words, "it would tip the scales too much. It wouldn't be fair. Now I'm going to go make you a new sandwich. You've got to eat lunch."

"Tip the scales," Tony muttered, drawing a button slowly through its buttonhole. Tony had a sneaking suspicion he knew what Pepper had said, anyway. Hot, blond, and bossy: my natural successor. Steve had been anointed.

The question was what Tony wanted to do about it. And when.

"So," said Dr. Nakamura, "tell me about your concerns."

Tony snorted, hating her already. She could clearly see what the problem was, but she wanted him to say it out loud, scrutinize his word choice, his body language.

"You don't want to be here, do you?" she said neutrally, and even her neutrality set him on edge.

"What gives you that idea?"

"The fact that you just rolled your eyes at me. Your closed body language–"

"It was rhetorical."

"What I think is interesting," she said, ignoring him, "is that you are here. Why did you come?"

"Well," Tony said irritably, spinning his wedding ring around with his thumb, "when Captain America tells you to do something, you generally do it."

"You generally do what Steve tells you to do?" He could hear her smiling as he continued examining the fingers of his remaining hand. "I'm not sure I entirely believe that."

"What makes you say that? You don't find me cooperative?" he asked peevishly, but she was unflappable.

"Because I know Morgan. And to hear Steve tell it, the two of you are very much alike."

Tony shrugged.

"You were very close to Morgan before you were injured." It wasn't a question. "She's told me about all the things you used to do together. You were very involved, and when you came home, she expected things to be the same."

"She's afraid of me now," Tony said, in spite of himself. He had agreed to come, but he'd told himself he wasn't going to participate.

"Yes, some," Dr. Nakamura agreed. "A dramatic change in a parent's appearance is frightening to most children, but they accept it in time. I think it's your reduced physical capability that upsets her more. But mostly, I'd say she's angry with you. She's angry you were gone, and she's letting you know it."

"She's punishing me." Tony watched the toe of his sneaker trace a pattern on the oriental carpet. There was a fish, too, and he resisted the urge to kick at it. Breakthrough psychosis, he thought. Perfect. That's what he needed at the shrink's office.

"I agree," Dr. Nakamura said. "That must be frustrating for you. It isn't fair."

"I mean, she's four. She isn't usually fair."

"Then why do you let her treat you that way?"

"I'm not 'letting' her," he scoffed.

"I think you are. I watched you. When you started to play blocks for example, she ignored you, and then when you persisted, she knocked over your tower, and you let her. You gave up."

"What do you want me to do?" Tony snapped. "I can't make her play with me."

"No, but you can speak up for yourself, tell her when her behavior is hurtful and inappropriate. And if she can't share her toys, I'd suggest that both you and Steve remove yourselves from the situation. You need to be a united front. She must understand that rejecting you does not result in her gaining the attention of her current parent of choice."

"I know that," Tony said under his breath.

"Yet you accepted her rejection. Why?"

Tony didn't answer. He had no intention of playing her game. She knew the answer to her own question, or at least she thought she did.

"You tell me," he said, knowing she'd never do it. Shrinks never told you anything helpful, just pointed you towards the garden path leading up your own ass.

"If you insist." Calmly, she moved a box of tissues to the corner of the coffee table closest to his wheelchair. "You let her punish you because you agree with her."

Tony rolled his eyes.

Dr. Nakamura continued: "You're a man with a certain degree of vanity. You've been handsome and physically capable your whole life, and now you find yourself changed. You dislike your appearance now, and it scares you. You aren't sure how to navigate the world in this face and body. You are afraid of yourself, and that reinforces Morgan's fear."

"That," Tony said, hiding his surprise, "sounded suspiciously like a straight answer."

"I'm not here to lead you on a journey of self-discovery, Mr. Stark. I'm not your therapist, though I suspect you need one. I'm just giving you my impressions. Shall I go on?"

"Go for it," he said tightly.

"You agree with Morgan that you're to blame that she was left alone. Why did you survive when your wife did not? You're Iron Man, or at least you were. Any sacrifice was yours to make, not your wife's. You feel you failed her in some way, and you failed Morgan in turn."

She reached for the box of tissues again, holding it towards his hand. He was, he realized belatedly, crying. Huh. Weird. He took a tissue to wipe his face, and the action dislodged a sound, a big, shivery sob. He gasped, shocked by it. Then he sobbed again, and then again, and then suddenly he was sobbing in earnest. He felt completely out of his body. The water was up to his waist and filled with a thousand swirling fish, and he slammed his eyes shut, unwilling to see whatever sea monster was undoubtedly lurking over his shoulder.

"I shouldn't have let her go," he gasped, trying to explain himself. "Pep should have stayed with Morgan, but we—" He couldn't continue. He had done the calculus: the battle had been all or nothing. But now Tony couldn't make the math come right, dogged by the suspicion that if Pepper hadn't been there in the first place, she'd still be alive.

It wasn't logical. 1 in 14 million, that's what the magician had said. Remove Pepper from the equation and every last person on earth would probably be dead. Morgan and Bruce and Rhodey and Happy and Peter and Steve and the barista who'd made his coffee that morning, the pretty one who'd smiled at him, handing him his cup without batting an eye, making him forget, for just a second, all the scars on his face.

"Tony," Dr. Nakamura said gently, her eyes soft behind her big pink glasses, "it isn't true. You and your wife worked together to save your child's life. You worked together to save all our lives. You saved the whole world. You deserve all good things, Tony. Try to find a way to have them."

"Can we play Candyland?"

Steve, on the sofa, looked up from his book. Morgan was holding a brightly colored box expectantly.

"Sure. Take it to the kitchen table."

Morgan started towards the kitchen, then frowned.

"We can play on the floor," she suggested.

"No," Steve took the box from her hands, moving towards the table himself. "Pieces always wind up under the sofa. Tony," Steve set the box on the table beside Tony's tablet, "we're playing Candyland."

Tony's expression was that of a man longing for death. "I hate Candyland." He sulked almost as well as Morgan.

"Not today you don't. We're all playing."

"Just you and me, Steve," Morgan insisted.

"No. We don't exclude people. We all play or nobody does."

Morgan pulled a face, but she still sat in a kitchen chair, pulling over the box to take out the colored cards and markers as Steve unfolded the board.

"My favorite color is green," she announced, placing a little green gingerbread man on the starting square. "What color do you like, Steve?"

"Blue."

Morgan added the blue man to the board, then she added red for Tony without comment.

"Oh," she said, staring at the unused yellow marker on the table. A hush fell over the table; the Starks had gone still, and Steve looked back and forth between them, uncertain.

"Mommy's piece," Tony murmured, sounding sick.

"Mommy's piece," Morgan echoed, her voice watery. "Yellow doesn't get to play anymore." Then, barely audible, she said, "I don't like this game."

"Morgan," Steve said, laying a hand on her back as her face started to crumple.

"Wait." Tony snatched up the yellow piece and stood it next to his own. "Wait. Yellow is going to play with me. She's on my team." He took a card off the top of the deck, then marched both pieces down the path. When they got to the right square, Tony arranged them carefully, side-by-side, as if they were holding hands. "Your turn, Cap." Tony's voice sounded watery, too, desperate.

Steve drew a card. It didn't look like Tony's, with a single colored square; he held it over to Morgan. "I've never played this game. What should I do?"

Sniffling, Morgan considered his card. "It's a candy cane. You get to go to the peppermint forest."

"Show me."

She picked up the little blue gingerbread man and moved it to the right spot on the board, then she chose her own card. "Two purples, Steve," she said, showing him her card. "That means you do this," and she hopped her piece to the second purple square on the board. The crisis, it seemed, had passed, but Tony still looked relieved when they'd finished.

"Fucking Candyland," he muttered, stowing his pieces back in the box. "I hate Candyland. I'm going to acquire Hasbro just so I can burn it to the ground."

"For your bedtime listening pleasure, I have Madeline, an undisputed classic, or It's Only Stanley, a local favorite."

"I want Steve to put me to bed," Morgan pouted. Standing silent in the hall, Steve winced. It was Tony's first solo bedtime, and Steve wanted it to go well. He could handle it, Steve reminded himself. Morgan had been his so much longer than she'd been Steve's; expertise was all on Tony's side.

"Life's tough, kid," Tony said evenly. "Tonight, you're stuck with me. Madeline, Stanley, or straight to lights out?"

"Madeline," she huffed. Apparently, Tony was preferable to no story at all.

"Oui, mademoiselle," Tony said dryly and began to read: "In an old house in Paris that was covered with vines lived twelve little girls in two straight lines. They left the house at half-past nine. The smallest one was Morgunaline."

"That's not what it says," Morgan said frostily. "Read the right words."

Steve had a sudden, visceral memory of standing center stage in front of a jeering crowd. We don't want you, asshole! Send out the girls! But he couldn't send out the girls, not for another five minutes because Becky was dance captain, and she'd broken her zipper, and Steve could see them sewing her into her costume in the wings. He started to sweat just thinking about it, and so he turned tail and went downstairs to wait. Tony wouldn't want Steve to witness his center stage humiliation, anyway.

"Well," Tony proclaimed when he came down, "that sucked."

"Tough crowd?" Steve snagged the remote and paused the television.

"I mean, they didn't throw tomatoes, but they didn't laugh at the jokes, either."

"I'm sorry, Tony. I've bombed a few times myself. Anything that would make you feel better?"

"Sure." Tony landed on the couch with a heavy flop. "I'd love a scotch and a blowjob from somebody who loves me. Sorry," he amended immediately, scrubbing a hand through his hair.

"How about a beer?" Steve offered. He went to the kitchen and returned with two bottles, handing one to Tony as he sat back down, a little closer than he'd been before, though not close enough to touch. They drank in silence; Steve could see Tony's failure replaying itself in Tony's head, his shoulders hunched practically to his ears.

"She hates me," Tony proclaimed. "I really think she does."

"She doesn't hate you."

"I could feel her resenting me the whole time."

"Still, she let you do it. You read the story. You turned out the light. You tucked her in, and she didn't pitch a fit. That's progress, Tony."

"I guess." He sounded thoroughly unconvinced. He took a deep swallow, then jerked his chin at the television. "What are you watching?"

"Antiques Roadshow."

"You really are a hundred years old, aren't you?"

"One-hundred and six this year. But I could be persuaded to change it."

Tony shrugged, setting his empty bottle on the coffee table, "Whatever. It's fine."

Steve turned the show back on. An appraiser, whichever blond twin, was extolling the virtues of some 18th century Massachusetts highboy. Steve watched Tony from the corner of his eye, surreptitiously studying the scarred side of his face. Steve knew what the scars felt like now: they were smooth, like burns, and slightly raised, and they'd made the tips of Steve's fingers itch with the urge to trace them. He wanted to draw them with his pencil, map the delicate interaction between the ferny tendrils and Tony's right eyebrow. In Steve's dreams, where he had less control over his thoughts, he traced over the scars with his tongue.

I'd love a scotch and a blow job, Steve recalled with a shuddery thrill he knew he should not feel. Tony had meant that, every word, but it hadn't been an invitation, just an expression of loneliness and frustration. Steve had drunk whole bottles of red wine after Bucky had died, as much as he could hold, chasing an hour or two of oblivion long after he knew he'd never run it down. And he knew that ache of wanting your lover's body when you knew you'd never, ever have it again. That longing felt unendurable sometimes, made worse because it wasn't something you could talk about.

Almost never, anyway.

"You know," Steve said carefully, with one eye on Tony and one on the television, "it's hard. Missing sex with your partner. I remember being kind of blindsided by it. It's…well, it's a very specific kind of grief."

Tony glanced at him, surprised, then his eyes slid away back to the screen. The guy with the loud suits was appraising a Captain America war bond poster, but neither Steve nor Tony commented on it. The camera shifted focus to a toy spaceship, complete with its original box. It would appraise for a bundle; space toys were hot property ever since the Battle of New York.

"Sad and terminally horny is certainly a mood," Tony said finally.

"It certainly is," Steve agreed.

"You shouldn't have to be depressed and randy at the same time. It's undignified. I thought bereavement was supposed to suppress your libido, but then I always have been an oversexed sicko."

"Well, you're in good company."

"Am I?"

"Sure. One time in group, people were going around sharing the thing they missed most about their partners. And you can imagine what they said: I miss their laugh. I miss their smile. And then we came to this one woman. She was pretty new, I remember, and she was quiet a long time. I thought she wasn't going to say anything, but finally she turned to me, and she said, 'Can I tell the truth?' And I told her 'sure,' and she said something like: 'Look, I'm not proud of this, but I'm ovulating right now, and I passionately miss my husband's dick.' And for a second she started to laugh, but then she started to cry. She was sobbing, Tony, like her heart was breaking. I know mine was. A lot of people cried that day; she'd said something real, and it resonated. I'll never forget it."

Tony hmphed noncommittally.

Steve continued: "From what I understand, there are basically two types of people: people who stop wanting sex at all when they're grieving because it feels too vulnerable, and then people who want it more because it feels like an escape."

Steve finished his beer and set the empty bottle beside Tony's. On the television, an appraiser valued some kind of medical quackery with electrodes and a spool of copper wire, all neatly housed in a handsome wooden box.

"Which type are you?" Tony asked, his gaze finally turning to Steve, and Steve was ready to meet it.

"I count myself among the oversexed sickos."

"So what did you…I mean, how'd you deal with it?"

"Honestly? I jacked off a lot and cried," Steve said with a shrug. "My handkerchiefs pulled a lot of double duty." But Tony didn't laugh, not even at the punchline; his face was serious, miserable.

"See, and I can't even do that . At the risk of way, way oversharing, all roads lead back to Pepper, and there's nothing that kills a boner quite like your dead wife. Even pornography is depressing. So I'm having wet dreams. Fucking wet dreams. At fifty-three. Because I can't…" He trailed off with a huff, rolling his eyes.

"Grief is funny sometimes."

"Oh, yeah," Tony snorted. "Waking up sticky is hysterical."

They lapsed into silence as one episode of Antiques Roadshow rolled into another. From the corner of his eye, Steve could see Tony rubbing at his neck, the tension evident in the hunch of his shoulders.

"Hey," Steve said, shifting closer on the couch, "you want me to do that?"

Tony didn't even answer, just turned his back, surrendering with a sigh. He was all sharp points under Steve's hands; Steve could feel every bone as he rubbed the mean remains of knotted muscles. Tony felt so fragile, precious as bone china, and Steve wanted to sweep him up, carry him to bed, wrap him in something soft. I'd give you that blow job, you know, if you want. I'd make you feel good, then I'd hold you after, until you fall asleep. The words were in Steve's mouth, warm and sweet, but he couldn't say them, not yet, not until Tony gave him the go-ahead.

"You're stronger now than when you came home," Steve said instead, digging in with his thumbs. "You're walking better, holding yourself up straighter. I can tell you're putting in the work."

"You better fucking believe it," Tony said, grunting a little as Steve worked on particularly stubborn knot. "They're working me like a dog during PT. I get so sore in that left shoulder." Tony let his head tip backwards, heavy on his neck, eyes closed. Steve wanted to kiss his exposed throat.

"I'm going to bed," Tony said a minute later, standing up, straightening himself out. "Thank you for the rub down."

"Any time. I don't mind."

"And thank you for the grief counseling."

"Did I help?"

"You helped, Steve." And then Tony smiled. It was a little smile, but it was real, with a flash of teeth. "Nice to know I'm not the only sicko around here."

Steve put on his running shoes and his wool hat. It was mid-afternoon, and Morgan was watching Molly of Denali with Stanley. Tony was at the kitchen table drinking coffee and working on his tablet. They might as well have been on opposite sides of the planet, but Steve was about to shake 'em up a little.

"I'm going for a run."

Two sets of brown eyes turned in his direction, two brows creased in laughably identical expressions of concern.

"The two of you will be alright while I'm gone," he pronounced. "Morgan, you can watch cartoons til I get back, and then we'll make brownies. How's that sound?"

"I don't want—" She started to whine, but Steve headed her off at the pass.

"You don't want cartoons or you don't want brownies?"

She frowned. "I want cartoons and brownies."

"Good, then. That's settled. What's on after Molly?"

"Word Girl," Morgan said, still frowning.

"Well, I'll be back before the end of Word Girl." He went to the sofa and dropped a kiss in her hair. "If you need anything, Tony is sitting right there at the kitchen table. Okay?" He didn't wait for an answer.

"I'll be gone forty-five minutes," he told Tony, squeezing his shoulder when he too looked ready to complain. "Alright?"

"I mean…" his eyes slid to Morgan, but then he nodded. "Have a good time."

Steve paused, gloved hand on the knob.

"I've got my phone, and I won't go far. It'll be fine, Tony. Just don't break out the jigsaw puzzles," and he slipped out the door and jogged down the ramp, breaking into an easy lope across the snowy yard. Rounding the corner of the house, out of sight of the living room windows, Steve stopped and took the phone from his pocket. He was still connected to the Wi-Fi and could control the streaming television with the remote control app on his phone. Just a couple of clicks, and he'd turned off her cartoon. If she wanted to watch something else, she'd have to ask Tony to help her, and Tony would get to be the hero of Saturday afternoon.

Steve smiled to himself, feeling clever, and resumed his run, heading for the shore of the lake. For the next forty-five minutes, he was free. Outside. By himself. He breathed deep, pulling the cold air into his lungs, and turned on some speed.

If he could finish reintegrating Tony back into the family structure, he could go running every day.

He could go to the grocery store by himself sometimes, ride in the car without listening to children's music.

He could see a movie. He could go to mass. No, wait—he could go to an art museum, see that early Renaissance exhibit at the Met.

He could trade nights with Tony, let him be on duty sometimes. He could take a really long shower, no, a bath —he hadn't had a bath in ages. He could read a paperback in the hot water and then masturbate for more than five minutes–

He sped up more, feet pounding across the soft mix of pine needles and powdery snow at the edge of the lake, fantasizing about all the glorious possibilities. He loved Morgan more than anyone he'd ever loved in his whole life, but he was tired. If he could have just a little time back for himself, just a few hours here and there when he wasn't on duty—

He was surprised when he found himself back at the house; he'd clearly overestimated the distance around. He checked his watch: he'd only been gone twenty minutes, so he took his time, stretched, stared out over the frozen lake. There were ice skates in one of the closets; he'd have to get himself some and learn. He checked his watch again: he still had twenty minutes to play with. He could probably make it around the lake again if he booked it, but his muscles were already cooling, and he was cooling along with them. Again, he thought longingly of a hot bath, but Morgan would beg him to make brownies as soon as he went in the house. What to do with twenty minutes? It wasn't much time, but he wasn't quite ready to go back…his eyes fell on the garage, and he felt only slightly guilty as he let himself in.

After all, it was Tony who'd put him in mind of liquor and blowjobs, and while it was probably bad form to jack off in Tony's workshop, Steve was an oversexed sicko, and lately he'd been feeling distinctly undersexed.

"Daddy," Morgan called plaintively.

Tony's heart stopped in his chest. Daddy. Had she even…had she called him that since he'd been home? Even once? Mostly, Morgan didn't talk to him at all.

"Yes, baby?" he said sweetly, looking up from his work, trying to play it cool, play it normal.

"Molly went off."

"It did? I can fix it for you." He hoped it was true; if he couldn't he was going to buy her a basketful of puppies, and a polo pony, and maybe a couple of hamsters.

He steered his wheelchair into the living room. The smart tv had gone back to its home screen. Grabbing the remote from the coffee table, he pressed a few buttons, and Molly of Denali came back on.

"Can I get a 'thank you, Daddy?'" he prodded. Dr. Nakamura had told him to insist on 'please' and 'thank you.' But really, he just wanted to hear his name again.

"Thank you, Daddy," she parrotted absently, and the thrill of happiness it gave him was pathetic. But Tony was the living definition of pathetic. He had no pride.

"Mind if I watch, too?" he asked, barely daring to hope.

"Okay," she said, not even looking. Still, being ignored was a major improvement over open hostility or fear. Carefully, Tony transferred from his chair to the sofa, hugging the arm, leaving plenty of space. Morgan glanced at him mildly, then turned her eyes back to the screen. Apparently, his position was acceptable. There'd been a time, not too long ago, when Tony would have flopped down beside her, and she'd have crawled in his lap, but he tried not to think about that.

Molly of Denali had become Word Girl when the phone pinged in Tony's shirt pocket. He tugged it out, glancing at the notification: a movement alert in the garage. He frowned; the usual suspect and her calico partner-in-crime were beside him on the couch. Maybe it was Monty—he clicked the notification, pulling up the view from the shop camera.

Tony blinked. It definitely wasn't a cat.

Tony closed the door to Steve's room and locked it, then he lay down on the neatly made bed, the one with military corners and a perfectly smooth spread. Steve would know he'd been in it: if it came up, Tony would just have to tell him he'd needed a place to lie down. It was probably true.

He probably would need to lie down for this.

Guts twisting with shame, Tony unlocked the screen of his phone. When the livestream came back up, he almost went into cardiac arrest: in the time it had taken Tony to flee the living room, Steve had gotten completely undressed. "Holy shit, Rogers," Tony snorted. Apparently Steve didn't do these things by halves; he was going for it, stretched out buck naked on the black leather sofa with his sweats draped over the back. The only ethical thing to do was to cut the feed, tell Steve that there were cameras in the garage.

But he didn't.

Instead, trying and failing to talk himself out of it, Tony rolled over on his stomach. He set the phone on the mattress, propping himself up on stump and elbow so he could use his fingers to pinch and then zoom on the camera view. "Oh my god," Tony muttered. "Oh. my. god."

Tony was going to fucking hate himself later.

Steve was hard now, his cut cock thick and flushed against his washboard stomach. He wasn't touching it, just running his fingers up and down the inside of his thighs, smoothing his palm over his chest. He was a lot hairier than Tony had expected; Tony had seen pictures of Steve in Howard's files, shots taken just before and just after the administration of the serum, and there hadn't been so much as a single visible curl. Probably couldn't grow a beard before the serum either, Tony reflected. But now, well…God help him, but Tony thought Steve might be nice to pet. That dense patch of hair right in the center of Steve's chest looked like a cozy place to put your fingers.

And what's more, Steve looked like he'd probably enjoy it. He was stroking his body in a slow, deliberate way, eyes closed, expression dreamy as he blew out a relaxed sigh. And the sigh sounded a lot like 'Tony.' Tony wasn't sure he'd actually heard it, but it didn't matter. His imagination was already making hay, generating the fantasies that could be playing out behind Steve's closed eyes: Tony running his hand over that big chest, thumbnail scraping over one of Steve's pink nipples, Tony sucking that thick cock with slow, sloppy enthusiasm, Tony spread out on the bed ready to…

Tony was hard, and he rutted into the mattress with a whine.

On camera, Steve licked his palm and started to stroke his cock, not too fast, but with the same easy deliberation with which he'd touched his chest. It was fucking hot, but there was a tender quality to it. Steve was careful with himself, careful in a way that Tony wanted someone to be careful with him, the way he needed someone to be careful with him.

Tony sure as shit wasn't careful. Take, for instance, the terrible fucking activity in which he was currently engaged: secretly watching Captain America masturbate and dry humping a mattress while his four-year-old watched cartoons in the living room. The guilt and shame were going to destroy him.

He wanted to stop. He almost did.

But then Steve spit wetly into his hand and resumed stroking, fucking into his fist with little rocks of his hips, eyelashes fluttering, and again he sighed, deep and dreamy, and once again, the sigh kinda sounded like 'Tony.' Tony couldn't decide if Steve was imagining that cock in Tony's ass or his mouth. Both seemed like delicious possibilities. His mouth, Tony concluded, based on nothing but the fact that he now passionately wanted to suck Steve's dick. He hadn't sucked cock in at least a decade, but the physical sensation of it, the taste and mouthfeel, came roaring back from long term storage. Surely he'd still be good at it. He couldn't imagine it was something you forgot how to do.

"Oh my god," Tony said again, grinding against the mattress. He was going to come in his pants like a fucking adolescent. This was not okay on so many levels…

And then he heard Morgan scream.