Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

It shouldn’t be Stark.

If Steve has to have someone pressed up against the wall, hands buried under shirtsleeves desperately searching for skin, it should be someone he loves, someone he likes. Someone at the very least who likes him. It should be Sharon or Peggy. Or Nat or Bucky if they’d have him, and if Steve dared. 

But it isn’t and instead of a lover’s caress he gets an elbow to the ribs, and instead of sweet nothings he gets uncharacteristic silence, and instead of passion or love (or friendship or camaraderie), he gets this and it’s not fair or right it’s -

Just Stark, really. What were you expecting?

Steve has to prevent himself from sinking his teeth into collarbone in frustration because none of this was supposed to be. They were Earth’s Mightiest Heroes. They were supposed to be able to work this out. To say sorry and forgive and forget. They were never meant to break in the first place. (Steve was supposed to die in the ice. Tony was born to burn from the inside out.)

Steve can see the evidence of their (his) failure shining out of Stark’s eyes and Stark huffs out a laugh of victory when Steve has to violently wrench his gaze away. He finds himself staring at the shield lying on the couch. This morning he found it bundled in a burlap bag and resting against his door. It used to be Captain America’s shield. It’s corrupted now; dark flecks of long-dried blood spill across the white star and scorch marks from repulsors have obliterated the paint in places. The scour marks from T’challa’s claws mar the perfect geometry, throwing off its balance. There’s a shallow dent in the rim where vibranium met starkium and won.

It's a taunt. Stark could have fixed it if he wanted to. Instead he gave it back to Steve, a brutal reminder of what happens to obsolete weapons now out of fashion. Steve wasn’t going to let Stark hand it over as if it were just another possession that didn’t mean anything to either of them. Anger sustains their relationship these days. Their interactions are built around accusations, feints, and appeals. If they stopped that would mean that what happened between them was history, set in stone. Too late to change. Steve had marched straight into Stark’s office and -   

It turned into this.

Flesh hits drywall hard enough to clack and Stark stops grinning. Steve shouldn’t be angry but it shouldn’t be Stark, so somehow that all balances out.

Stark chokes back a snigger and Steve has to stop himself from digging fingers into shoulders. He takes his anger out on the shirt buttons instead. Stark’s dark head knocks against the wall under the assault and when he opens his mouth Steve just knows something poisonous is about to come tumbling out. That’s all Stark has left for him anymore and today with the dull glare of the shield behind him, Steve just can’t. He moves to cover Stark’s mouth with his own and then thinks better of it. He sinks his teeth into the cords of the Stark’s throat instead so that all he manages to exhale is a hiss.  

The sound goes straight to Steve’s groin. His body is much less conflicted about Stark than his mind. Stark's the first person, the first solid warmth Steve has felt in months and there’s still too much of the scrappy kid he used to be to not take what he can get. Blood pools in his groin under his sweats and he rocks himself unconsciously into Stark’s hip before he realizes what he’s doing.

Stark stops moving and it takes Steve a few seconds to notice. He pulls back to stare down. He’s larger than Stark and has him crowded against the burgundy wall of his own office but it’s Steve who’s fighting to even his breathing as adrenaline floods his veins in confused violence or lust. He can’t seem to do anything about the trembling of his arms.

Stark is standing unnaturally still, impervious to Steve’s turmoil. He looks… smaller, warmer; more human than the untouchable mogul that has been ruling Steve’s life since his return. Stark’s just staring at him, brown eyes dark and wide and confused, and for once Steve can’t find a hint of dismissal or condemnation. He’s not looking at Steve like he’s a problem or a threat but like a puzzle Stark can’t quite figure out. There’s nothing guarded in his expression just uncertainty mingled with curiosity.

Stark looking at him without hostility didn’t used to be rare and suddenly Steve needs more. He needs to recapture something of Tony and not of Stark. He runs his lips lightly across the other man’s collarbone and the skin under his mouth shivers. Tony’s ticklish, his mind remembers from some dark box labelled before. Then he gathers his courage and seals his mouth over Stark’s.

Tony tastes warm and bitter. Like coffee. Like he would have a lifetime ago, before everything went sideways.

Steve has only ever kissed a handful of women and never a man so his technique might be rusty but it really doesn’t matter because Tony comes back online all at once. He wrests control back because Tony is Tony, but something instinctive in Steve fights the handover anyway.  

“Hands,” Tony bites out when they break for air which isn’t the order Steve thought was coming next.

He realizes he has Stark’s hands pinned to the wall, palms aimed back and away so non-existent repulsors can’t fire. Steve drops his wrists like they burn. He wants to mumble sorry but the word sticks in his throat. Apologies are never just apologies between them.   

Fortunately, Tony has never waited for Steve to catch up before forging ahead. Wrists free, he snakes one hand between them to dip under the waistband of Steve’s sweatpants. He palms Steve through his boxers and Steve lurches forward, driving himself into the pressure. Anything feels better than repetitive drive of his own hand.

“Easy, Rogers,” Tony says, not unkindly, but the use of his last name almost throws Steve out of whatever uneasy peace he’s made with the situation.

Tony is opening his own belt one-handedly with impressive dexterity but Steve can’t wait. The few experiences he’s had with men were in places and times where speed was a necessity. He knocks Tony’s hand out of the way and undoes the man’s trousers himself before shoving his own sweatpants and boxers down around his thighs. He lines their lengths up as best he can and strokes.

A frisson of pleasure runs through Steve but watching a similar response ripple across Stark’s face might be better. It’s not an altruistic joy. It’s competitive at best - running right up to the edge of vindictive. Captain America would never feel such a thing but Steve isn't him anymore. He's just Steve Rogers now and Steve Rogers wants to claw his way through Stark to Tony and this seems as good a way as any. Every instinct in him screams at him to get them both off as quickly as possible but he keeps his strokes languid and even until the last of tension in Stark’s shoulders bleeds out.

It’s nearly surreal to be touching Tony in a way that doesn’t hurt either of them but God, it’s better, so much better than being alone in this place that no longer feels like home. Steve starts speeding up, the raw pleasure a prelude to -

Tony catches Steve’s wrist and despite the disparity in strength Steve lets him. Tony slowly readjusts them, lets Steve press into his hip again, then spits into his hand and coats Steve’s erection as best he can. Then Steve gets with the program. He rubs himself off on Tony at a punishing pace as Tony pours encouragement into his ears. His voice is the last thing Steve wants to hear. He closes his eyes and tries to pretend that it’s anyone else’s skin. He knows this will ruin them, he knows he started it. Part of him wants to tell Tony to shut up but years of associating sex with silence has him biting his tongue.

In the end it doesn’t matter that it’s Stark. Steve breaks. He takes what he can, what Stark has offered. Steve doesn’t bother with a warning: he’s silent as the grave as he paints Tony’s already slick skin and already ruined shirt.

He breathes in and feels the cloud of lust receding. When he raises his head Tony’s studying him with guarded eyes but Steve’s gaze is drawn magnetically to the remains of scar tissue marring his chest. Tony is Iron Man. It’s a fantastic contradiction insomuch as Steve has never had trouble understanding Iron Man and has absolutely no idea what to do with Tony Stark.

The man tries to pick himself off the wall and Steve doesn’t let him. His hand smothers the scar across Tony’s heart as he pushes Stark back.

Wrong move.

A snarl bursts out of Tony and Steve snatches his hand back at the tone even if the curses pass him by. It probably merits another I'm sorry. Steve can only hope that his hands stroking loose and soothing at Stark's sides is interpreted as the apology he can't bring himself to say.

It shouldn’t be Tony but goddamn it if Steve won’t finish the job. He’s nowhere near as experienced as Stark so he just jerks Tony off, scraping his own fluids off Stark’s abdomen to use as lubrication. Tony lets his head fall backward against the wall and finally stops talking but the sharp breaths he takes are still too loud for Steve’s comfort. He knows it’s not the forties but anything not furtive and quick still seems decadent and inefficient. It’s not Stark’s fault he grew up in different time but it’s yet another incompatibility. When Steve did this last it was with -

His mind stumbles over the name, drags him back to the present instead.

Tony comes with his eyes closed, breath stuttering. Steve studies his face. There should be revelation. Instead he learns nothing.  

An eternity passes in the space of minutes, momentous in its hollowness.

Tony’s eyes are still closed, no more in a rush to face this new reality than Steve is. When he finally speaks his voice is desperate and annoyed in equal measure, like he’s betraying himself by having to ask. “Why?”

Steve doesn’t know how to answer. Frustration is already creeping back, afterglow cut short because nothing is different. Tony is still Stark is still Iron Man and they’re still stuck. The shield on the couch is still damaged. Tony must have known this wouldn’t help them. Maybe he just went along with it to prove that point to Steve.

“Forget it,” Steve says, pulling his boxers and sweatpants back over his hips. He feels the wet patches on his legs rub themselves into the material.

Stark reopens his eyes and for a moment he’s still Tony. He’s not the pristine playboy darling he plays for the media or the uncaring, egotistical genius that Steve has occasionally accused him of being. The red mark just north of his collarbone serves as a reminder of his fragility; physical proof that Steve can still affect the world around him.

Then Stark shakes his head in disbelief and between breaths Tony disappears. He fixes his clothing as best he can and saunters over to the drinks cart, all artifice as opposed to grace. He pours himself a finger of scotch, thinks better of it, and adds a second as he leans against the side table. He doesn’t offer Steve one. “So is this going to be a regular thing with you?”

“No.” The answer is immediate. It had no right to be Stark and it occurs to Steve then that it had no right to be him for Tony either. “What about Pepper?”

Stark’s eyes turn glassy. Steve can’t tell if it’s anger or regret. “What about her?”

Steve never learned what happened with the two of them. He never asked and Stark’s not going to tell.

“Forget it,” Steve says, voice hoarse. “This - It won’t happen again.”

Stark downs his drink in a single swallow before turning and dropping his glass back in the cart. It hits the tray with a deafening clank and his hands are already moving to pour himself another. Steve resents the twinge of guilt he feels at Tony’s lack of moderation.

Stark looks back over his shoulder. “You still here?”

Steve grits his teeth at the dismissal. “We’re not finished.”

Stark gives a short, giddy laugh. “We were finished a while ago, Rogers.” A long while. Siberia, Ultron, SHIELD, before even. Stark turns away. “Get out. And take that with you.” He motions towards the shield. “It’s yours. You're welcome.”

Now Tony admits it’s Steve’s. Only now that it’s damaged, no longer a symbol of righteousness. Steve glowers and flips the shield from its resting place into his hand. He tries not to relish the ghost of fear that flickers across Stark’s face. The simple weight of the shield on his arm is anchoring, like the return of a missing limb he never realized was gone. It feels like courage.

He wants to say more, to plant himself like a tree, but today is not that day. Tomorrow though; tomorrow is another chance to set things right that Steve fears they'll let pass them by. Another in an endless stretch, trapped together and alone.

“We’re not done,” Steve promises as he walks out.  

Behind him there’s the sound of shattering crystal. He doesn’t look back.

Since Steve came back Stark owns his life. He lives under Stark’s roof, eats his food, punches SI’s extra-strength heavy bags into submission every night for hours. He obeys the rules; the ones the lawyers have made explicit and the ones that Steve gleans from the hesitation in Vision’s voice and the reproach in FRIDAY’s silent, lagging fulfillment of his requests. He’s sure on the days his chest aches for no reason that Stark even owns the air he breathes.

It’s no reprieve that the man’s scarcely around to rub it in. Even in his absence Steve can feel the spectre of Tony Stark looming over him. It’s baked into the clean lines of the Compound’s design and the array of takeout menus on the fridge. In the inexhaustible supply of food and heat and creature comforts that serve as markers of his omnipresence. It shouldn’t matter: Stark’s housed, clothed, deployed and paid Steve to varying degrees since he woke. Only now is it oppressive, knowing how little Stark thinks of him. It exceeds common decency in sinister ways.

It leaves Steve feeling ungrateful and spiteful as he chafes behind invisible bars. He’s trapped by Stark’s generosity and the only respite is that Stark sees through the charade as easily as Steve does. It’s a gilded cage, one he walked into willingly. The BARF technology that was Bucky’s best chance is the intellectual property of SI and when T’challa had suggested sending it to Wakanda Stark had said, No. If he wants it, he comes here.

He didn’t mean Steve. He meant Bucky. Steve had screamed inside and swallowed it down. He couldn’t let Bucky go alone. What were all Steve’s pride and principles worth next to his best friend’s life? Nothing, as it turns out. He’d turned into the type of hypocrite he’d always hated - someone who claimed sacrifices were necessary but couldn’t make any of their own. He couldn’t sacrifice Bucky’s chance.

They went back. Steve had braced himself for a trial or a fight or forgiveness. He meticulously planned what he’d do if he got each one. He’d stepped off the plane onto US soil and surrendered himself, literally and metaphorically, to the powers that be.

Stark hadn’t even bothered to show up.

Four months later and Steve is still waiting for the other shoe to drop. No one’s taken their pound of flesh yet. They’ve just left him to rot in Avengers Compound, free and not free, suspended in limbo as the UN, the State Department and Avengers Inc all punt around the political football that is Captain America. Without signing his name to the Accords he’s exiled from the Avengers and without the team his focus blurs. His days bleed into each other: endless meetings with doctors/agents/lawyers who stare at him with disdain that gradually turns to pity. He runs laps, round and round the Compound, burning off energy until he can finally drop into dreamless sleep.

Steve doesn’t belong here. (In this place, this time, this body.) Some days he wonders if ever he did.

The others fare better and worse. Natasha was already back by the time Steve returned. He wants to thank her for everything she’s done but the walls have ears and he doesn’t want Natasha to take any more hits on his behalf. Sam comes back with him and unlike Steve he has enough bite left to call a spade a spade. He rejects Stark’s offer outright and takes the plea deal his lawyers get him. He’s serving out his probation in DC and Steve tries not to feel like he let Sam down by not being Captain America but by being Steve Rogers instead.  

Wanda doesn’t come back. Her application for a US visa is rejected on the grounds of previous ties to a known terrorist group. She’s rerouted to the Netherlands who take more kindly to her situation. They remain heavy proponents of the Accords though and Steve is already prepared for the day that her gratitude towards her new home eclipses her hatred of Stark. Clint doesn’t come back either. He says he’s be better off in the wind and Steve just nods. No one not an Avenger ever learns Scott Lang’s name. He slips back into the US and Steve scans the daily reports for any news of his arrest.

On bad days Steve wonders if Stark knows where Lang is, where Clint is, and is just keeping the information back from Ross until Steve dares put a hair out of line. Stark has always designed his weapons with care and he is used to living among his enemies in a way Steve is not. Steve itches for confrontation, for a finality Stark won’t give him.

Steve had tried in the beginning. The Accords could wait for the more personal matters. He’d gone to Stark with a carefully planned explanation and a list of regrets written on Wakandan stationary. An accounting of whys that he’d convinced himself Tony would understand. A plea on behalf of Bucky and everything he’d been through.

Tony had just stared like he expected something more.That it?

There was a letter, Steve had rasped. He was never good with words and putting them to paper twice had been like getting blood from a stone.

Yeah, I got it. Good ol’ FedEx. Always reliable.

I never meant to hurt you, Steve had said, throat tight and forcing himself to meet Tony's eyes.

This is where it should have turned around for them.

Instead Tony had reached for the nearest socket wrench and tore through him with four words. I don’t believe you.

That’s where they’d left it: festering under every interaction but strictly off limits. They stick to the details now: the legalities of American interventionism, Vision’s visits to Wanda, Dr. Tanaka’s team. Dealing only with the symptoms and keeping far away from the disease. It’s not as if they lack for conflict - the shield is just the latest in a long line - but no one’s in the Raft, no one’s dead, no one’s fighting in the streets. No violence. No death squads. No ticking clocks. It should be better, the peace instead of the war, but the ragged broken thing inside of Steve can’t help but insist nothing’s won without blood.

Steve knows he is not forgiven just as he knows there is no version of the Accords he will sign his name to and believe in. He spends his days on house arrest interspersed with legal meetings and workouts. He watches as Bucky is set up in the fortified North Wing with a team of doctors and fails, and fails, and fails. He tries not to feel like he has bartered himself away for nothing.

One hundred and eight days gone.

One hundred and eight days and counting.

It’s two weeks before it happens again.

Steve tries not to think about his loss of restraint in Stark’s office. It’s an aberration, a mistake, and not even the most significant one in his relationship with Tony. Steve hasn’t been avoiding him but their routines have always carried them in different circles and while in the past that had worried Steve, now he’s grateful for it. Because while he may have told Stark to forget it Steve finds that he cannot. He fixates like he used to do with the Avengers’ battles; replaying it in his mind, picking apart what missteps were made and how best to correct them.

For an experience Steve has no intention of repeating it occupies more than its fair share of his thoughts. Part of that is the isolation. Despite his relative freedom in the Compound he’s still under house arrest and the agents who mill about remember that. They don’t associate with him: half on principle and half fearful of picking up the taint.

Today though, Avenger’s Compound is a madhouse: agents and officers running around in full flight. There’s a Category 5+ typhoon heading straight for Maldecia and the Avengers are all dressed up and going nowhere. The Maldecian government won’t let them in and under the Accords there’s no exception clause for natural disasters. It’s not a terrorist group or an alien invasion, goes the logic. Hurricanes are neither world-ending nor contagious except people are going to die just the same and this time the Avengers are going to let them.

No one says that out loud of course, so Steve does before Stark or some politician can convince them all that’s not exactly what they’re doing: People are going to die because a piece of paper told you to let them. Steve has no power here - the shine came off Captain America long ago - but for a single instant when he’s faced with a sea of shocked faces he thinks, All they needed was another option.   

Then Stark walks in armoured to the throat and that’s the end of that.

That was thirteen hours ago. Night’s fallen and Steve’s been locked out of the active floors. Instead he’s studying the holographic globe in the empty situation room. It’s the map Stark and the agents consult religiously every time the Avengers are called. It’s a soft blue orb with political divisions marked out. A bright band of cyan marks Accord signatory countries as it runs across North America and Europe, dotted through South East Asia and South America. It’s a stark visual reminder of how many people think Steve is wrong.

It can’t be good for people to see the world like this - from above and at will. It could fool someone into thinking they’re above it.

“FRIDAY, superimpose the radar map.”

She does, even if she never answers him anymore. The globe shudders and the data from the weather radar satellites update in real time. The swirling mass of the typhoon is approaching the Accords-blue cluster of islands that are Maldecia and Steve’s fists clench tighter with each iteration as it inches closer. From above it looks harmless, a messy swirl of colour. From ground level it is the closest thing in existence to the wrath of God.

The darkened room is momentarily lit by the harsh halogens of the hallway as someone opens the door.

“… tell Natasha to try that next. I already told…”

It’s Stark. He’s out of the armour because why wouldn’t he be? He’s got nowhere to go.

The door shuts behind him and the soft blue glow of the globe fills the room again. Steve isn’t naive enough to think Stark didn’t know exactly who was in the room before he entered and he’s proved correct when Stark’s eyes meet his without surprise. Abruptly Stark makes his excuses and tosses the phone violently onto the nearest desk.

“What are you having Natasha do?” Steve asks.

“Kiss rings, wiggle her hips, promise things she can’t deliver. You know…” Stark leans against the desk closest to the spinning orb, “or maybe you don’t. Politics.”  He’s in the dark clothes he generally wears under the suit and all Steve can see is his silhouette. “This what you’ve been up to since you tried to guilt trip the support staff?”  

“I didn’t guilt trip them. I told them the truth.” Steve leans his forearms on the railing safely separating his level from Stark’s. “If they feel guilty that’s because they’re good people.”

“You’re manipulative as all hell and you don’t even see it, do you?”

Steve looks him straight in the eye. “It’s the truth.”

“Yours maybe,” Stark mumbles and Steve hates that the future seems to be built on easy relativism. It only makes him grasp his absolutes harder.

On the holographic globe the typhoon is a beautiful counter-clockwise spiral as it moves towards landfall. Stark sighs. “Fri, show me the numbers I ran this afternoon. Include the probabilities.”

“Mr. Rogers does not have clearance to view those files.”

Steve nearly jumps out of his skin at the petulant Irish lilt coming from the ceiling. He’d forgotten how human Stark’s AIs can be. She seems to have inherited Stark’s pettiness as well: Captain is clearly no longer in her vocabulary.

“They’re my files. Light ‘em up.” The globe ripples once again and the two blue shades on the map splinter in a thousand more sub-shades. “Thanks, Darling.”

Stark’s globe isn’t binary, it’s mapped by degree; cyan to blue to black and every colour inbetween. There are a series of percentages attached to each country that flicker in real time, fluctuating up and down. Billions of lives quantified. Meted and measured and given a calculated cost.

Steve purses his lips and carefully keeps both hands curled around the railing to keep himself from leaving.

“You wanted to know the future?” Stark’s tone is shallow, devoid of hope. “Ta-da." He points. “First percentage is the naked probability the Avengers will be granted permission to enter.” The boldest one over Maldecia reads 8.08%. “The second is the probability they will treat us as hostile in the future if we violate Maldecian sovereignty.” Those numbers range wide, from near certainties on either extreme. The US, Steve learns, won’t really care but most of South America will turn on a dime.

“And the third one?”

“Best guess differential of how far I can move Probabilities 1 and 2.” Stark shrugs. “Team composition matters a lot. You’ll be happy to know that there are several countries who’ll trust the Avengers only provided you’re at the helm. Granted there’s a longer list of countries you’re prohibited from entering on principle. It’s nearly as impressive as mine.”

Stark’s babbling. Steve may not be a genius but he isn’t stupid. He scans the globe, watching the numbers flex and settle as the typhoon lurches closer. He can see the flawed conclusion Stark’s come to and the absolution he must want if he’s sharing it with Steve. “You’re going to let the storm hit.”

He can see the tension climb Stark’s spine. “I can’t change their minds.”

Steve tries to swallow down his anger but his voice still comes out low and accusatory.“You don’t get to hide behind projections and a piece of paper. Their government’s wrong but since they’re going to get their own citizens killed that’s fine with you.”

“They’re the ones who elected - ”

“Don’t,” Steve says too sharply and Stark’s head shoots up. “They don’t deserve to die because they chose wrong. But they’re going to because someone down there is prioritizing control over doing what’s right.”

They’re not talking about the Maldecian president anymore. Stark plants his silhouette directly in Steve’s sightline. “Which one is it, Rogers? You seem to think I control what entire countries do but in my spare time I’ve taken to licking the boots of whatever government official I can find. Puppetmaster or patsy, you can’t have it both ways.”

Steve isn’t used to inaction. He hates it. “I’m saying we should be helping - “

“- by which you mean I should be helping - ”

“No, I mean we - “

Stark’s eyes narrow, “- and I mean I because you’d be utterly useless. Pop quiz Spangles: what language do they speak in Maldecia?” Steve can’t answer and Stark knows it. “Right, so coordinating with the locals is out. Can you fly through torrential rainfall once the infrastructure washes out? Drop rubble to prevent storm surge? Prevent buildings from collapsing? No, you can’t.”

“But you can,” Steve accuses and he can see Stark falter.

“You have no idea what I’m capable of.”

“I know better than most.” Steve is hyperaware that Stark’s less than five feet from him. “I know that if you don’t do something it’s not because you can’t. It’s because you won’t.”  

“I can’t control the fucking weather!” Stark takes a step closer, ignoring the warning etched in Steve’s hunched shoulders. “I’m not the Typhoon-whisperer, you need Thor for that!”

The storm is no one’s fault. It couldn’t care less about any of them: Steve or Tony or the people in its path. It remains perfectly blameless and all they have left to turn on is each other.

Steve can’t help himself. “You should be there.”

“Yeah,” Stark says thickly, “I should be there and I’m not,” he looks at Steve, "and neither are you."

Then Stark makes his fatal mistake: he steps too close. Steve could have sworn his left hand was locked to the railing but it shoots out to grab Stark’s arm. For a moment neither of them move, they’re teetering on the precipice, spoiling for a fight to take the edge off their mutual frustration.

“You actually going to hit me this time?” Stark asks. “Because you told me sex wasn’t going to be a regular thing.”

It’s a taunt but it doesn’t matter. Stark’s broken the seal and spoken the unspeakable aloud. It’s real now. (As if it wasn’t before; fifteen days of rattling around Steve’s brain). His fingers won’t release Stark’s arm, they bite in harder.

“FRIDAY, lock the door.” Steve doesn’t recognize his own voice.

“Boss…” The electronic voice sounds cautious.

Stark’s jaw ticks as he turns to face Steve. “Do it, Fri.”

The soft click of the conference doors locking is the only warning Steve gets before he’s pushed up against the railing behind him. It’s only surprise that gets Stark that far, Steve rights himself ready to push him right back before -

Stark sinks to his knees with intent and all the air in Steve’s lungs rushes out. He can’t seem to get them to inflate again. He stays cornered against the desk, his escape forgotten in concession to more dire emergencies. Below, Stark’s clever fingers undo the button and zipper before him and Steve’s fists grip wood like a lifeline as he fights for control of his choppy, uneven breathing. The buzzing feeling rising in his stomach is mostly lust and only slightly apprehension because if Steve does this - if he lets this happen - then he can’t pretend what happened before was a one-off mistake.

This is sex. This is Tony on his knees.

Steve feels a spike of arousal so intense he’s ashamed. It’s forgotten a moment later when Tony finds what he’s looking for and his fist loosely encloses Steve’s erection to stroke as he tongues at the join between thigh and hip. The warm, wet sensation jostles the last of the fight loose in Steve. He breathes through the mounting anticipation as Tony gradually moves closer and closer...

There's a warm swipe around Steve's base. “Yes or no?”

Stark’s voice is too loud even though Steve knows it’s barely above a whisper. The last time Steve did this was in the back of a bombed-out finishing school in Belgium. Her name was Alice and Steve doesn’t know whether she lived or died.

He nods abruptly, eyes closed, but Stark must not be looking either.

“I need an answer.” Tony’s hand doesn’t stop but his mouth has pulled back.

Damn him. Steve forces the single syllable past his lips. “Yes.”

Stark was just waiting for permission. He immediately licks a path up Steve’s shaft from root to head before swallowing him down. It’s almost too much but still not quite enough to silence Steve’s apprehension. It shouldn’t be Tony but it’s clearly going to be and Really, the tactician in Steve’s head reasons, Stark’s the best choice. It’s not as if he can disappoint Stark more, it’s not as if Stark will ever want more. (It’s not, the snide voice in his head says, the one the serum should have drowned, as if Stark deserves better.)

It’s not as if Tony hasn’t done this before and is proving that now, coaxing responses from Steve that he holds back behind locked teeth. Stark curls his tongue and sucks and a small broken sound leaves Steve’s throat. He quickly swallows down the ones that follow - silence the one unbroken rule.

Steve remembers the shady clubs and theatres in Brooklyn that were reserved for men of a certain persuasion. He’d always liked women too though, and that’s where Steve always thought he’d land. After the serum there had been a handful of deviant encounters and Steve’s excuses were well-worn: it was human comfort, the war having momentarily scrambled everyone’s priorities. But even if Steve never judged this isn’t something he ever wanted for himself. There was a line somewhere that he didn’t know he hadn’t crossed until now.

Trust Tony to take him so far over it he won’t be able to find his way back.  

After all, this is the future not a back alley in 1940. This isn’t two fearful-eyed men darting into dark corners for a brief few hours where they can be themselves. This is Tony Stark whose past dalliances are splashed across tabloids whenever the news cycle slows, who Steve once saw interpret cocksucker as a pick-up line instead of an insult.

Steve’s jaw is clenched closed but the small sounds Tony draws from his throat are obscene in the half-dark. The only reprieve is that at least Stark’s mouth is occupied so he can’t mock Steve for them. For his part Steve can’t bear to look down for long. He steals glimpses of Tony’s silhouette backlit by the glow of the holograms. His hair is dark where it’s haloed in blue. It’s not Stark’s colour; it’s Steve’s. Reds, golds, and browns all belong to Tony, all the seductive rich colours with warm undertones. Steve can’t let him take blue too but it’s already too late. Every time he sees this particular shade of cyan he’s going to think of Stark’s lips and this and it feels like just one more thing Tony’s taken from him.

Tony’s mouth is warm and sure, and the pleasure in Steve’s groin builds until he realizes that besides the obvious he doesn’t know how this is going to end. He has little idea to what modern etiquette requires and when he lurches his hips back Tony’s mouth just follows. He can’t figure out an appropriate warning and when he goes to ask nothing comes out except a sharp, bitten-off exaltation. He holds on as long as he can but it’s nearly too late before he succumbs to temptation and touches. He threads a hand through Tony’s hair to tug his head away.

In true Stark fashion Tony pays him no heed, just moves his mouth closer and faster and deeper.

Steve tenses and comes, fascinated and disgusted at once as he watches Stark’s throat convulse as he swallows. The hand in Tony’s hair isn’t gripping anymore, just absentmindedly stroking through strands. Steve doesn’t want to draw attention to it by pulling it back. Besides, of the two actions Steve’s is hardly the more intimate.  

Stark leans himself back on his heels and for the first time Steve thinks of the discomfort kneeling might bring. Tony just bows his head, pink tongue flicking out as his lips twitch into a half-smile. Steve smiles softly back. The moment should be massively awkward but it’s not. It’s nice. This place between them that doesn’t exist in anger or suspicion.

Steve hopes Tony doesn’t expect direct reciprocation. It’s not that Steve would leave him unsatisfied but he’s not quite sure he could manage that today and certainly not to what Steve imagines are Tony’s usual standards -

“Boss?” Friday’s voice sounds small and Steve didn’t think that possible.

Tony’s eyes squeeze shut like a man anticipating a bullet. “Go, Fri.”

“Landfall.”

His gaze flicks open at the same time as Steve’s hand leaves his hair. Behind them the blue hologram of the world shows the spinning typhoon obscuring the Eastern edge of Maldecia. The percentages in the simulations jump wildly for an instant before stabilizing. Landfall means that so far the Accords have kept the Avengers back, so far they’ve kept their word. The mission’s gone from preventative to active.

Stark immediately gets to his feet. He heads towards the door without a backward glance. “Fri, find me Natasha. Let’s see if the ambassador likes me any better after going several rounds with her.”

The door opens and closes. Steve can hear the metallic click as Friday locks it behind him. Then he’s alone.

He stays up all night watching as Stark’s future collapses into being.  

There are days when the only thing that keeps him sane is visiting Bucky. Everything that surrounds the rehabilitation of the Winter Soldier is carefully planned and scheduled - up to and including visits from Steve. We need him to focus on moving forward, the doctors had said as if it was Steve who was the jarring ghost from the past and not the other way around.

He supposes he should be grateful that Stark has banked his misplaced hate enough to allow Bucky breathing room but he can’t help but see Stark’s total abdication from the Winter Soldier’s reformation as a cheap dodge. Steve doesn’t know what he expected except more. Tony is extreme in the things he cares for - this caution is out of character and the longer it last, the less Steve believes in it. He wavers between knowing it’s easier on both of them if Bucky stays out of Stark’s line of fire, and the uneasy feeling that accompanies never knowing if Bucky could be doing better with Tony's help.

The North Wing of the Compound is strictly off limits to non-appointed staff but one of the medical technicians buzzes Steve through the door with a smile. It’s nothing more than natural friendliness but that’s rare enough these days that Steve conjures up a smile back. The rictus feels fake and plastic stretched across his face. He thinks that it didn’t used to.   

“Hey, Punk.” Bucky's leaning against the (triple-paned and bulletproof) glass with a smirk on his face. Intact and whole and alive - and the entirety of Steve’s life suddenly makes sense again even if he had to tear down every part of who he was to find it.

Steve smiles again and this time it doesn’t feel strange at all.

The doctors don’t let them leave the North Wing but they do let them into the small gym populated with physical therapy equipment and exercise mats. In the corner is a lone basketball hoop which at first seems like a cruel taunt to throw at a one-armed man and instead turns out to be their godsend: shooting hoops is a two person activity in a way that hitting a heavy bag is not.

“How are you doing, really?” Steve asks once it becomes clear he’s going to lose by a landslide. Again.

There’s a pause and Steve hopes. As much as he wants Bucky to be cured, there are days he’d settle for Bucky telling him it’s horrible, that nothing works and it’s all a trick - because then the waiting would stop and Steve would be useful again.

Instead Bucky just shrugs. “Food’s good.”

“I’ll pass that along.”

“Don’t tell the cook I threw most of it up.”

Oh. Steve winces. “Bad day?”

“No, just - ” Bucky waits for Steve’s shot to miss and ricochet the wrong direction off the backboard. “…long, I guess.”

Steve hasn’t come by since the typhoon incident and his heart sinks because Bucky shouldn’t have to wait on him anymore. “That why you’re not wearing the arm?”

“I’m beating you by twenty-two points, I clearly don’t need it.” To make his point Bucky sinks his next easy basket.

Steve catches the basketball and refuses to pass it along until the other man meets his eyes.  

Bucky gives a one-shouldered shrug. “Haven’t worn it all week.”

“Bucky - “

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not, you deserve - “

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. No need to work yourself into a twist. It just chafes a bit.” The new arm is fiberglass and plastic and silicone, built for comfort and designed by doctors. That doesn’t make it faultless.

“If it hurts I can ask them for a different one. I’ll ask - “

“Don’t."” Bucky concentrates very carefully on the basketball and not on Steve’s face. “Please don’t.”

Steve’s not even sure who he was going to name: Stark or Natasha or Dr. Tanaka. It doesn’t really matter; the residual guilt Bucky carries is aimless sometimes, encompassing everything. In the beginning Steve would rush to reassure him until Dr. Tanaka had pulled Steve aside and laid it out for him: you have to choose what you want more: Sgt. Barnes in recovery or your friend back.

Steve doesn’t like to think of how close he came to answering incorrectly.

“I promise,” he says, arms raised in surrender. “I’m sorry.” Apologies are never that difficult to come by with Bucky.

Bucky uses his good hand to rub at the scar tissue of his shoulder. “I just have to get used to it.”

“The new arm?”

“Not having one.” Bucky studies his only extant hand. “I haven’t had a right arm since 1944. The arm they gave me - the new one too - they just hid that. I lost it. It’s gone.”

Steve's eyes dart to and from the empty socket. Bucky should never have lost the arm at all because he never should have fallen. Steve should have been faster. Bucky shouldn’t have been left at the mercy of Hydra to be turned into the Soldier, to be sent to kill -

(If he had saved Bucky, he might have saved Tony too.)

Steve says none of this. He bundles all his regrets tight and stores them somewhere the world can’t see them. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Bucky narrows his eyes in suspicion.

“Well if you think I’m going easy on you because you only have one arm Buchanan, you’ve got another thing comin’.”

Bucky snorts and it’s almost the same. Steve loses the next game by a respectable eight points. If he ever actually wins, Bucky’s competitive nature might compel him to wear the new arm purely for mechanical advantage.  

“How’re you holdin’ up?” Bucky asks once the visit’s winding down. He asks that a lot these days. Steve supposes he gets it from his therapists.

“Alright.” His life is cushy comparatively.

Bucky shoots him a dirty look that’s so familiar it hurts. “Well now I know you’re lyin’.”

“It really is fine. Just… ” and because Steve is not the greatest liar he adds enough of the truth to save himself, “...Stark.”

It’s been four days since Steve’s latest mistake. He’s not as immune to them as people want to believe Captain America should be. Bucky just nods slowly like he suspects that whatever truce between the two of them is fragile enough he should let sleeping dogs lie. Steve can’t expect Bucky to understand, not when he doesn’t even understand it himself.

“You don’t need to worry about me,” Steve says, aiming for casual. “It’s really not that bad, just boring. I’ll take it over the alternative.”

He tries for a reassuring smile but Bucky’s expression is flat. “You miss it. Avenging.”

Of course he does. It’s not the same for Bucky, who volunteered once and paid for it dearly. Steve’s bones ache from the effort it takes to keep himself here, feet planted where Bucky needs him. It’s that devotion that prevents him from stealing Quinjets and diving headlong into typhoons. He can stop himself from running off but he can’t stop himself from wanting to. He is war down to his bones in a way the Starks never were even when they were better at it. 

“I want to be here. For you. The world can save itself for awhile.” That’s what everyone keeps telling him.

“I’m just saying,” Bucky says slowly, precisely, “losing every week at basketball might not be worth you giving that up.” I might not be worth it.

Steve’s throat tightens. The agreement for Bucky’s care isn’t contingent on Steve’s presence. In fact it’s deliberately extricable from it but just as Steve can’t bear to stay, he can’t bring himself to leave either. 

“You're worth it,” he says with conviction. He owes Bucky a life. Staying is the least he can do.

“Well, if you ever need to talk,” Bucky’s lips quirk, “you always know where to find me.”

It’s meant as a joke but for the longest time Steve had thought it was too late for the things he should have said and done. Now he has a second chance and his mouth feels like sandpaper and his tongue is leaden. It’s unfair that all his words and nerve are saved for Stark these days.

Every time Steve spares a thought for Tony in Bucky’s presence he feels like a traitor. Like Tony’s hands have left imprints on his skin and if Bucky looks too closely he’ll see them. He’ll know what Steve’s done and how much he’s enjoyed it and Steve would lose him all over again. Regardless of Stark’s current agenda, Iron Man tried to kill his best friend. That should be enough. What does it say about him that it’s not?

(It shouldn’t be Stark. It should have been someone else a long time ago even if all they got were dark alleyways and stolen moments. It’s one of the things Steve never wants to confess - even to himself, especially to himself - because he knows he won’t survive losing it again.)

Steve clears his throat. “I know. Thanks.”

Bucky gives a smile back, sweet and soft, and Steve doesn’t recognize it at all. That’s when he realizes that Stark hasn’t taken this from him.

No, this Steve’s ruined all on his own.

He manages to go a whole five days before he breaks his promise to Bucky. He doesn't confront Stark in his office, he corners him in the garage as Tony steps out of an obnoxious orange Audi back from some business in the city.

The door has barely swung open before Steve calls out, his ambush well prepared. “Tony.”

Stark startles. “So it’s back to first names now.” He slams the door shut with what Steve suspects is more force than strictly necessary. “Well I’ve sucked your dick, I guess I’ve earned it.”

Steve doesn’t take the bait, Tony’s clearly in a foul mood. “Stark.”

“That’s better. Wouldn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea about us.”

“I’d like it if we talked.”

Stark pinches the bridge of his nose once he realizes Steve’s strategically planted himself between him and the exit. “What do you want? Make it snappy.”

Steve needs this to go well. “Bucky’s having trouble with his prosthetic.”

“And? Not my one-armed monkey, not my circus.”

Steve forces himself not to react. He keeps his tone even and matter-of-fact. “Tanaka says the one he has is the best they can do.”

“He’s right. Helen designed it.”

“I know.”

“She’s the best there is at biometric grafting. Her technique uses - ”

“I know.”

Stark’s eyes narrow in confusion. “Then I don’t know what crime I’m being accused of. I had absolutely nothing to do with your buddy’s new arm - never even touched it.”

Steve holds his breath. “I know.”

It takes a moment for Steve's words to sink in.

“Ah.” Stark leans back against the hood of the Ferrari nearest to him. “It’s the best they could do but you think I could do better.”

“I know you can," Steve corrects. It’s weighted too heavily to be a compliment.

Stark runs a hand over his face and his shoulders drop. “No. I can’t. Or I won’t, since that’s the terminology you prefer.”  

It’s not like Steve wasn’t prepared. He knows Stark’s washed his hands of the endeavor taking place in the North Wing. Tony’s shuffled off responsibility to other parties, absolving him before he even has the chance to make the wrong decision just like with the Accords but Steve knows righteous anger will get him nothing here.

“Please,” he pleads softly and Stark’s head jerks up like he’s been slapped. “You're angry. Don’t take it out on him.”

“I’m not subtle, Rogers,” Stark says with disgust, “if I start taking it out on him he’ll know it. I’m still not building a brainwashed assassin a shiny new weapon to hit me with. Call it self-preservation.”

“I know what it is.” Steve wants to call it spite, retribution, cowardice. He can’t afford to.

“Then do you find it a touch ironic that you’re here to talk me out of my newfound technological caution?”

“Bucky’s doing better.”

“Hallelujah.”

“But - “ Steve doesn’t know how much he should disclose, “but it’s taking a long time.”

“Good,” Stark says and Steve glares, all careful neutrality forgotten. “The longer it takes to break his conditioning the stronger his legal defense for not guilty by reason of brain-scrambling.”

“He doesn’t need a defense. He’s innocent.”

Stark pushes off from the car and hisses lowly, “I know at least two people who’d say differently if they were alive to say it.”

Steve holds his tongue. This is their line. Anything further could too easily cause irreparable damage to themselves or the garage. Steve is familiar with following rules of engagement. He lets the silence stretch, tacitly granting Stark's point.

“He’s a victim too. What he did - what he was made to do…" Steve doesn't voice it aloud. "He deserves what everyone does.“

“Which is?” Stark asks flatly.

“A chance to fix himself.” He appeals to Tony's innate desire to fix, to repair.

“You really think the arm’s the problem?” Stark asks, somewhat incredulous. “I could give Barnes the comfiest, spiffiest arm in the known universe and he’d still occasionally forget who you are.”

The words sting like a blow. “He’s getting better," Steve repeats.

“What happens when he stops?”

“I won’t stop trying," he says stubbornly. "I won’t give up on him. Arm or not. With or without you.”

Stark shakes his head. “You have so much faith in people," he looks Steve in the eye, "I hate it. You believe everyone who goes through shit can come out the other side. It’s a nice sentiment - full points there - but sometimes life gives you lemons and you end up an asshole. Or you lose your legs, your arm, your mind and then…”

“Then you pick yourself up,” Steve finishes resolutely. “With help if you need it.”  

“But it alters you. Permanently.” Tony fidgets. “That’s what change is. If Barnes has stopped getting better then maybe there’s nothing more to fix. Maybe this is just who he is now and there's nothing you or I or HYDRA can do about it.”

It's odd to hear his greatest fear fall from Tony's lips. “I don’t believe that.”

Stark nearly smiles. “I know. Really, I know. I learned that lesson”

“Please, Tony,” Steve tries one last time. “The arm might mean nothing or it might mean everything. No one can make you do this but I’m asking you to try." He tries to project his sincerity.

The entreaty has the opposite of the intended effect. Frustration surges back into Stark’s frame, his mouth twisting. “Where was all this can we talk crap six months ago? You came back for him, you’ll beg for him, you'll throw yourself at my mercy. You’ll even say please. All for him. Why?”

“He’s -” Steve has to look away so Tony won't see the secret in his eyes, "he’s my friend."

“That it?” Stark asks, face stone.

“I’ll do whatever it takes to give Bucky a chance, you know that.” When Steve looks up he realizes he’s somehow said something very, very wrong.

Stark’s eyes are nearly black. “As a matter of fact Rogers, I remember exactly what you’d do for Barnes.”

Something deep in the pit of Steve’s ribcage frays. “So you won’t help him because of me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. I don’t need a reason besides the obvious.”

“You’re better than that.”   

“Am I?” Stark challenges, like he actually wants to know Steve’s answer.

It’s a trick of the light sometimes, watching Tony cycle rapidly between all the things Steve hates: proud and scorned, like Loki; the tailored three-piece suit and tie to match Pierce. The alcoholic, the iron monger; the flawed creation of a well-intentioned genius, with Ultron’s poisoned tongue. It’s more comforting than days like today when it’s much too obvious that Tony’s just a man hanging by a thread.

Steve swallows. “I’ve always thought so.”

Stark leans back on the black sportscar. “No, you didn't," he says with too much surety. "And my answer's still no.”

They’re dead in the water, the ship’s already sunk. Whatever they do now is just one last waltz before the cold takes them. Before numbness climbs limbs and sluggish blood slows -  

Steve leaves the garage before he can make a third mistake.

Steve has limited contact with the other Avengers but for a woman who nominally lives and works in the same building as him, Natasha is a ghost. Even Stark’s haunting presence is anchored to the Compound, Natasha’s is not. She drifts in and out, retreating further and further into the shell of the Black Widow.

“Did the council at least send you somewhere with a beach?” Steve asks with a small smile when he finally catches her walking off the jet and into the hangar.

Once upon a time she would have volleyed back a sly joke of her own as they corralled the rest of their team. Now she just inclines her head in greeting before taking off. He tries not to let the disappointment eat at him. It's unfair. There was no abrupt implosion, no argument, but their relationship is slipping away regardless. The more desperate Steve tries to hold on, the more intangible she becomes. When she seeks him out later for a walk around the grounds it's a rare occurrence. She leads him to the very edge of the perimeter, out of range of any of the Compound’s surveillance.  

“Is everything alright?” he asks. “Did you find Clint? Is he okay?”

“Why wouldn’t he be?” It’s a non-answer, emblematic of who she is these days, like they’re back at the beginning and she can’t trust him.

“I just need to know that he’s safe.”

“He’s safe,” she repeats blandly. She wouldn’t lie, not about this. “Laying low isn’t new to him. The American government doesn’t have the time or inclination for a full-scale manhunt. He’s fine.”

Fine as defined by Natasha has a different meaning than its accepted use but Steve takes her point. It’s difficult for him to accept that the battle is over and the crisis has passed. This is just what normal and home look like now.

“What about you?” she asks.

For a man who can't get sick in the world's most accommodating prison, Steve gets asked that question a lot. “I’m alright.”

She looks at him steadily but doesn’t pry further. “I was in New York. There was pushback on Colonel Rhodes.”

“Why?”

She gives him a cool look. “You. Stark. The rest of the world isn’t keen on another American in charge of the Avengers and Rhodes is a soldier in a mechanized suit. Too many similarities.”

“He’s not - ”

“We know that, they don’t.”

Rhodes has the qualifications, the experience. He signed the Accords from the off. “I’d have thought he’d be the ideal candidate.”

“He was. That’s why we proposed him. They won’t see past the suit and the rank.”

Bureaucracies have trouble looking past the stats to the person underneath. Steve could never have joined Project Rebirth if it existed in this day and age. The modern America isn’t desperate enough to accept him.

“So what happens now?” 

Natasha’s expression is bland. “I accepted the nomination. It’ll be announced Tuesday.”

It takes a moment for Steve to figure out what she means because her plans have always zigged where his have zagged.

“Congratulations, Team Leader,” he says softly, beaming. He wants to hug her but restrains himself. It wouldn’t be as welcome as it once was. “You know the Avengers were always yours, right?”

The hope in Steve’s smile fades when she doesn’t respond. He knows Natasha has never wanted this. She has always preferred the outsider’s role, keeping herself aloof and apart. He tries not to notice how she steers them back inside before he can say anything else.

One of the TVs in the foyer is playing a news bulletin for an array of bored agents.

In light of speculation that Russian defector Natasha Romanova is to be confirmed as new chairperson of the Avengers this week, we’re taking a deeper look at the violent past of the woman once known as the Black Widow...

It’s a repeat of an expose from four years ago that the news cycle has dragged back into relevance. It casts her as little red riding hood and the hungry wolf alike, complete with speculative commentary and interviews from those few who have claimed to have survived her. The names of her alleged victims scrawl across the bottom of the screen like ticker tape. It makes the list seem endless.

“Turn it off.” Steve’s voice rings out, clear and strong, and for an instant it’s like the past six months never happened. The agents leap into action, scurrying to unplug the set instead of wasting time trying to find the remote. The news anchor blinks out of existence. The chastised agents turn to face them and Steve can still taste the threat of bile at the back of his throat. “I’m sure you all have better things to be doing.”

No one wants to argue. The agents all take flight for anywhere else. Natasha seems completely unfazed but Steve isn’t fooled. They’re alone in the silent foyer but that news segment is being broadcast live for a quarter-share of America; condemnation played off as investigative reporting.

“It wasn’t unfair,” Natasha says as she takes a seat across from the dead screen.

Steve uncurls his fists and sinks into the chair next to hers. “It wasn’t true.”

“No, it wasn’t.” A Russian accent seeps into her voice, distorting the words from what he’s expecting. “Do you think the truth would have been better?”  

“Yes,” he says automatically before correcting himself. “No. I don’t know.” He deflates. “You have to hate this, Nat. You’re a spy, you can’t like your name all over the news.”

“I don’t have to like it.”

The harsh halogens are unflattering lighting for anyone but Steve can finally see how jet lagged she looks. Worn and tired under the yoke of responsibility and unable to dart for the safety of the shadows. Sometimes he thinks she’s the only one trying to hold them all together - everyone else is just trying to survive or rebuild or forget. It’s a wonder she hasn’t run off to join Clint yet.

“He can’t make you do this,” Steve says. Stark’s affixed her name to compromise, plied her with responsibilities she never wanted, and shoved her into the spotlight. Now they’re tearing her apart.

“Who else will?” Natasha’s eyes are perfectly blank as she sinks the knife in. “There aren’t as many of us as there used to be.”

“Stark’ll do it.” It’s the only answer Steve can think of off the top of his head. “He’s good at it.”

Her lips quirk. “I don’t think Tony’s up to it right now.”

“And you are?”

“Stark got eaten alive for years." Her voice doesn't betray any emotion Steve can recognize. "It’s my turn.”

Steve doesn’t know what to do with that. “Then we’ll make them love you, Nat. Like we do.”

She gives him the slightly asymmetrical smile that Steve hopes is her real one. Her words cut deeper because of it. “You don’t know any more about me than they do.”

She switches the television back on to the same awful news program. Steve knows when he’s been dismissed. He leaves her in the empty foyer to the echoing list of her real and imagined sins.

He doesn’t seek out Stark that night. Instead he takes his frustrations out on the heavy bag in the gym long past the time when the day shift’s gone home. Natasha’s back which means so is Rhodes and Steve tells himself that whatever messed-up impulses he’s had are just cabin fever. Isolation driving him to things he’d never do otherwise.

(Steve never thought he was the type of man who’d lie to himself but then again he never thought he was the type to lie.)

“You know you have a legally enforceable curfew, right?”

It’s not a voice Steve wants to hear. He leans his forehead against the bag and relishes the sound of his own heavy breathing. He doesn’t dare look up. “Did you come down here to enforce it?”

The dark line in his peripheral vision saunters forward until Steve can discern a figure in jeans and a dark T-shirt. He looks like the Tony in Steve’s better memories: comfortable and casual. Tired and not bothering to hide it. Stark always looks untouchable these days, as if he were made of nothing more than money and words, and to see him less so makes something in Steve’s stomach lurch in recognition. it's longing and helplessness tangled up with that voice that knows that even before they were never perfect.

“No,” Tony replies surprisingly magnanimously. He stares off into the far corner. “Listen, if you want to stay up - “

Steve doesn’t care what Stark’s come to offer. The unearned nostalgia roils in his gut and makes his tongue is sharp. “How was your meeting with Ross?”

He raises his head just in time to see Tony’s posture snap upright. Good. Steve can’t regret spoiling the moment; wrestling them both back down into the muck. Neither of them gets to pretend they’re who they used to be.

“That’s classified,” Stark covers stiffly as he steps up next to him.

“Of course it is,” Steve mumbles. He throws a left as hard as he can and relishes the surrender of the bag under his knuckles. He has super soldier strength; one punch would be enough to kill a man. The bag on the other hand simply comes unhooked and falls to the ground.

“What do you want me to say, Rogers?” Angry. Accusatory. Familiar.

Steve’s hands are wrapped well, white tape reinforcing joints, knuckles exposed. Weapons dangling at the end of wrists. Stark isn’t afraid, wasn’t all those times he should have been.

“Nothing,” Steve chokes out. “There’s nothing you can say.” He can’t stop himself from reaching for Stark but it’s with an open hand instead of a fist.

He stops counting his mistakes after this one.