you jump, I jump, remember?
Tony only remembers bits and pieces from before the voyage. He remembers hating London, and not being able to wait to get back to America, New York, his beautiful mansion that was all his since his parents died. He thought it was tacky that Pepper insisted they go on the maiden voyage of the Titanic, but he figured he'd be well taken care of. And, really, who wouldn't want to sail in an unsinkable ship, at least once?
But the thing is, Tony knows ships. He knows mechanics and engineering and the basic laws of physics. He knows the law of inertia like the back of his hand; an object in motion will stay in motion.
What goes up must come down.
No ship is unsinkable, even Tony Stark knows that.
---
Tony remembers the voyage like it was yesterday.
The ship is massive, bigger than anything Tony's ever seen, but not bigger than anything he's ever designed. He feels miniscule as he stares up at it-- a feeling he's definitely not accustomed to. He lets his gaze slide over it, and over the thousands of people swarmed outside of it, and he wonders if any of them are like him, leaving to marry a wealthy heiress because of a dead father's unpaid debts.
"Aren't you going to help Ms. Romanov out of the car, Tony?" Pepper's hand at his back, voice harsh in his ear and he stands up straighter, like he's not almost thirty and Pepper isn't his sister.
"Of course, how rude of me. Forgive me, Natasha." He takes the elegantly gloved hand that peeks out of the door, drawing out his beautiful Russian fiance. She's a second cousin of Tsar Nicholas, so he can't imagine that any of this impresses her, not really. He smiles at her, a small thing as she looks up at the ship and then turns back to look at him. Natasha does not smile back at him, but he learned long ago not to expect that.
He leads her up the long, narrow boarding pass, a polite hand in the middle of her back to help her keep her balance. Not that she needs it, since he knows she's been trained in ballet and has better balance than he does, most days. He knows Pepper is watching, and he can't stand the thought of disappointing her, at least not in public.
He lets Natasha go as soon as they enter the long hallway and she's gone to her room in a flash, snapping her fingers and being followed by all of her luggage. He wants to laugh, but can't, because he can't help thinking that this marriage and trip will be the death of him.
"Come on, let's go to our rooms. We have a lot to do before dinner," Pepper tells him, appearing at his side, and he lets himself be steered into their cabin.
Their rooms are as lush and lavish as he expected, but he doesn't care. To be honest he's done with the whole wealth thing, and would gladly sell their assets and live privately in the country somewhere if it meant he didn't have to sit through another boring party or listen to Pepper berate him for drinking too much brandy.
The bell tolls for dinner, and Tony sighs as he gets up from his seat to change.
---
The night air slices at Tony's skin as he runs for the back of the ship.
He can't stand it anymore. He can't be around these people who have no interest in what he does or what he thinks. He cannot be surrounded by people who want to know if he's going to manufacture cars like his father did or does he know the Wrights? They're a bright group, he should speak to them, work with them, collaborate and Tony wants to shout at them I only work alone.
Tony does not want his life to be lived for him, his choices to be all pre-made and set out for him like his mother's dining room table.
So, he runs. He runs for the back of the ship, where he knows the highest point is and where no one will see him jump, and no one care whether or not he lives.
He makes it to the railing, climbs over and turns around, facing the dark, vast ocean. He can't see anything but the inky black of the water and sky, smattered with stars. He can't even see where the sky meets the water. To be honest, the sea terrifies him. So many lives lost and lived and so many unknown things about it still. He does not trust what he does not know, and Tony does not know the sea.
"Don't do it," a voice says behind him, startling him so badly that he almost lets go. He looks around to see a man, a tall, blonde man, looking back at him like he's a rabid dog, one arm outstretched and walking hesitantly toward him.
"What do you care?" Tony spits back at him, but the man doesn't even look fazed.
"What's your name?" he asks in response, and Tony huffs out a laugh.
"Tony Stark. How do you know I won't jump right now if you come any closer?"
“Well, I guess I don't, but you would have done it already, Tony,” the blond guy says, and Tony feels a warmth bloom in his chest, despite the freezing air. "If you were going to do it at all, I mean."
Tony makes a noise in protest, but Steve continues.
"Don't get me wrong, you can prove me wrong all you want, but if you jump, I'm gonna have to jump in after you. I can't just let you drown, you know," the man says to him, and Tony feels a swell of anger.
"Why? Does the Stark family owe you money? You and a lot of other people, pal, so get in line."
"No, because you're a person, and I can't let you jump to your death," he replies like it's the simplest answer in the world, like two plus two equals four, and Tony isn't sure anyone has ever thought of him as another person in his life.
There's silence between them for a moment, save the roar of the waves against the strong iron of the ship. Tony lets his eyes shut against the harsh wind, lets himself relax at the noise.
"And I'm really not looking forward to jumping in after you, in case you missed that," the man tells him quietly, and Tony looks back at him.
"The fall alone would kill me," Tony says. "There'd be no point."
"Oh, well, sure, I guess, but I'd still have to jump in, and if the fall didn't kill me, I'm sure the freezing water would. You ever been to upstate New York, Tony?" Blondie asks, and Tony shakes his head.
"That's where I grew up. Once, me and my dad went ice fishing, which is where you sit on a frozen lake and--"
"I know what ice fishing is, I'm not an imbecile," Tony scoffs at him, and the man holds his hands up in surrender.
"Alright, alright, sorry. You don't look like much of an outdoor guy," he says, and really, Tony can't disagree with him there.
"Anyway, so we were ice fishing, and I was about twelve at the time, and I was a tiny kid. Maybe weighed about 90 pounds, at most. I fell through a really thin patch of ice and into the water, and let me tell you, plunging into freezing water like that? It takes your breath right outta your chest. Freezes all your muscles up at once so you can't move for a few moments, so you just sink. Worst experience of my life. Really not looking forward to that again."
Tony does not want to fall into freezing cold water. He doesn't want to chance the fact that he may not die on impact. That he'll have to drown instead.
Suddenly, the man is right next to him, still holding his hand out. "I'm Steve. Now come on, take my hand, I'll pull you over and you can go back and forget this ever happened."
Steve, his name is Steve, Tony makes himself remember as he turns, but the shock that jolts through his body at the warm touch of Steve’s hand makes his foot slip, and abruptly he’s against the side of the ship. He can hear yelling, and Steve looks like he’s saying something and it takes Tony entirely too long to realize that he does not want to die.
“Come on, you have to pull yourself up. I won’t let go of you, but you have to pull yourself up,” Steve yells at him, and so Tony does, eventually catapulting himself off the top of the railing and somehow ending up under Steve’s bulk as the guards run up. Better late than never, I guess, Tony thinks, not moving from the deck.
"What is going on here?" The guard asks in a deplorable British accent that makes Tony cringe. Steve moves off of him in a hurry, obviously not wanting to get in trouble.
"Nothing is happening, I slipped while trying to get a look at the rudders and nearly fell, this man here, Steve, saved me."
Tony stands, smiling, brushing off his suit and holding his hand out to Steve.
"Thank you, sir. As evidence of my gratitude, would you kindly join me for dinner tomorrow night?"
Steve's brow has furrowed, but he shakes Tony's hand anyway and nods.
"Of course. Thank you."
Tony gives him a terse smile and nod before walking away with the guard, trying to shake Steve's warmth from his hand.
---
He finds Steve drawing people on the Upper Deck the next morning, and finds himself quite transfixed by the movement of his hands. Such big hands shouldn't be able to move the way Steve's do, and he's distracted by it, stares much too long. So long, in fact, that Steve glances up and catches him at it.
"You weren't going to say hello?" He asks, a small smirk on his lips, but Tony's still distracted, this time by how the sun makes his hair shine like gold.
"Of course I was," Tony replies, an easy smile coming to his mouth. "And I just wanted to say thank you, again, for last night. For your help and your, uh, discreetness."
"It's not a problem," Steve replies, but Tony's still talking.
"I mean, I know you must think something awful of me like 'poor little rich boy who's never had a day of misery in his life, why does he think he has the right to try that' or something similar. Am I right?"
"No," Steve answers, brows drawing together again. "No. The only thing I thought was 'what happened to make him think that he had no way out?'"
Tony stares at him for a moment, lets his breath go, and then inhales sharply again.
"Well, I guess it doesn't really matter, does it?"
"It does to me," and Steve's voice sounds so sure, so gentle, so full of everything that Tony isn't used to, and he cracks.
"I can't stand my life anymore," he says quietly, looking over Steve's shoulder at the water. "I can't stand the way that they chatter about nothing and look at me as if I'm my father or as if I'm nothing at all. I'm never good enough, either way, no matter what I do, and the worst part about it is that no one actually cares." His voice breaks, and he has to shut his eyes and snap his mouth closed.
He feels Steve's warm, gentle grip on his shoulder, his breath by his ear.
"I do, Tony," he murmurs, before enveloping him in a hug. Tony goes stiff, puts a hand on Steve's chest and pushes gently.
"What are you doing?" he asks, and Steve shrugs, pulling away.
"You look like you don't get hugged much. Thought I'd try it."
"Yeah, maybe don't," Tony tells him and Steve nods. In the following awkward moment, Tony snatches Steve's sketchbook from his hands and opens to a page.
"So what's this, are you some kind of artist?" he asks, and feels smug at the faint blush that color's Steve's cheeks.
"Sort of, I guess," he concedes, but Tony's not listening by that point. He's wrapped up in the drawings, the stroke of charcoal on the page.
"You liked this woman, then? You must have had her for a lover," he says mildly, feeling a ridiculous surge of jealousy.
"Oh, no. Not at all. That's Peggy. She was a British woman I met and stayed with. Nothing ever happened," Steve tells him, shaking his head.
---