Room by Room, revised - 1/3
This has been completely rewritten. It is no longer consistent with the current incarnation of Patiently, which is under heavy revision and which is giving me insane, awful fits.
About a million and a half thanks to 3bird (Ao3), who is basically every type of amazing and wonderful. This would be total crap without her.
The Stone Series: Part I
Room by Room
From Captain America's SHIELD file, Tony learns the following:
That Steve Rogers weighed about eighty-seven pounds before Erskine and Tony's dad administered the serum; that he was asthmatic; that he'd had a whole host of childhood and adolescent illnesses, in addition to his ongoing battle with colds and sinus infections; that his heart and nervous system were not in any sort of condition to support a soldier's lifestyle; and that he was prone to getting the utter shit kicked out of him. On a regular basis.
Mostly because he couldn't keep his damn mouth shut.
But after the serum, Tony reads on, it was as though Rogers were a new man. As though every damaged part of him had fallen away like magic. A clean slate.
He became physiologically perfect; he did not experience the effects of mind-altering drugs or alcohol because of his enhanced metabolism; he could heal at a much faster rate than normal men.
He still picked fights with bullies. He just started winning them.
From Howard Stark, Tony learned very little. This, other than that his dad was friends with Steve Rogers, is all he knows: Howard helped create Captain America and died still searching for him.
It was a greater gesture of esteem than he ever made for Tony.
It's buttfuck-o'clock a.m. on the morning after Tony was supposed to be having fantastic victory sex with Pepper, possibly in his sprawling living room with the huge windows and excellent lighting, but more likely in his bedroom with the lights off because Pepper, whatever, gets shy. Even though she's stupidly pretty and Tony's the one with weird shit installed in his body.
So instead of maybe waking Pepper up to some lovin' (she can be loose and relaxed and agreeable when she's half-asleep, every inch of self-consciousness drained entirely from her body, it's fucking beautiful), he's fact-checking the incident reports and biographies provided by SHIELD, because spies are filthy liars. They never give you enough information to be useful-just enough to make you dangerous, to form incorrect assumptions because you don't have enough data. He's mostly got the others squared away (Natasha-who-is-not-really-Natalie is absolutely not an Information Specialist, she's definitely a goddamned assassin; Doctor Bruce Banner's actually in West Bengal, not the Philippines, who is Fury trying to fool?), but this last search is dragging on and on.
"JARVIS," he asks, pressing his palms into his burning eyes because fuck, it's almost four in the morning and, for all his efforts, he isn't even getting a blowjob until whenever-Pepper-gets-back-from-DC. "Is it really so hard to pull a credit history on this guy?"
"I apologize, sir. My resources are momentarily divided."
Tony blinks behind his fingers, then peeks through them at the screen. "What else are you doing?"
There's a faint pause while Tony yawns, and then JARVIS replies, "I am discussing Van Gogh with Miss Potts, sir."
"Huh. Like, on her mobile?"
"Her tablet, sir. She is having dinner."
"Jesus," Tony sighs, because she's probably been in meetings since her plane touched down. He'd meant to feed her at some point, he really had-he'd just gotten caught up in the Tower, and how they were self-sustaining geniuses, and that they'd finally put aside some time for uninterrupted, well, all those gorgeous things Pepper'd whispered to him before gallivanting off with Coulson. Because she's cruel and mean-spirited and assumes he can work with a raging boner.
"What's she having for dinner?"
"Mixed seasonal fruit salad with a raspberry vinaigrette, sir."
"Isn't she allergic-?"
"Strawberries, sir."
"Right." Tony pages through the files projected into his living room, just sort of hanging out and being brilliant and high-tech, since that's Tony's thing. "What's she saying about Van Gogh?"
"Nothing that would interest you, sir," JARVIS says.
"Try me," Tony shoots back, skimming the annotations on Banner's spec sheets again.
"Specifically, Blossoming Almond Tree. It is one of her particular favorites. She was explaining to me the use of thick black outlines to call attention to the foreground, while the rest of the image fades out to appear half-formed and nebulous. Like the connection between human attention and human vision, sir." He pauses briefly, and Tony is startled to wonder if it's because he's talking to Pepper on the other side. "A person will focus on one or two things that catch their initial interest, and use that as a context for their understanding of the rest of the piece."
Okay, art. Ton can handle that. JARVIS has even brought up a display of the painting. It's nice. Tony can see what they mean, he totally gets that your brain compiles visual information out of what you're focusing on, and not necessarily everything that's there. "Why wouldn't I like that?"
"You sold it, sir."
Tony winces. Pepper's probably never forgiven him for the whole art-collection-thing-the part where they don't have it anymore, not the part where he gave her full authority to collect to her heart's content. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were secretly trying to steal my girl behind my back, Jay."
"Undoubtedly, sir. Here is the information on Captain Rogers."
Thanks to JARVIS, Tony touches down in Stuttgart, Germany, with the supplemental knowledge that Steve Rogers has spent the last few months holed up in a Brooklyn apartment near an old corner store and a small, dated fitness center. He hasn't made any friends; to all appearances, he doesn't seem to want to.
Which, okay. People are overrated much of the time. But the deep-seated need for human contact is grievously underrated, and these are the main reasons Tony's had lots of one-night stands, but has only managed one actual relationship. But his one actual relationship is inspiring and emotionally fulfilling, and Tony is a better person for it; the fact that Pepper does most of the work involved, and that she's probably getting a shit deal out of this in the long run, does not escape him.
It's actually something he consciously takes for granted.
The thing is, Pepper's very sharp. She's so sharp, she's so intuitive and organized, that Tony knows she'll eventually come to her senses and leave his ass.
But the other thing is, Pepper's loved him for years. He doesn't really see that changing anytime soon.
You need people in your life to keep you from going insane and to save you from horrible, gut-churning depression. It is Tony's learned opinion that Steve Rogers has chosen a very poor way to start life in the twenty-first century, and he'd honestly like to help with that. Since he's such a stand-up guy and everyone else is really dropping the fucking ball.
SHIELD must have an abominable research department if the only thing they'd thought to play on the radio, the day Rogers woke up, was a recording of a baseball game he'd actually attended. JARVIS could've done about three hundred times better; JARVIS even said so when he'd pulled the report.
Tony hopes someone was fired, because that was a monumental cockup and they should've called him in immediately. It was his dad's project. He's in possession of Howard's research notes. The whole Captain America enterprise, while not necessarily belonging to Stark Industries, surely warranted his involvement.
Even if it isn't strictly true, SHIELD should have assumed Tony would have some insight into the whole ordeal. What does anyone else have? Legends and popular culture? Because according to the official comics, Captain America is loyal to a fault. He is strong, selfless, and a glittering beacon of purity and resolve. His men love him, his superiors respect him, and he's the all-around perfect soldier. To actively dislike him is to be, in a nutshell, unpatriotic.
But at least Tony knows the comics are full of shit, which is one of the few things Howard ever mentioned in passing. He bought them for Tony regardless, but he never read an issue after the very first.
Rogers spent most of his Captain America days hawking war bonds at twelve-year-olds who, in turn, would go all starry-eyed at their parents and boost sales. And because Tony has scans of the original paperwork, right down to Erskine's signature, Tony knows that Rogers lied through his teeth at least five times to even get into the army. He knows that Rogers was crap at following orders if it was something he personally disagreed with or took offense to.
Steve Rogers became a hero recovering the fragments of the one-oh-seventh. In doing so, in saving those men, he was deliberately disobeying his commanding officer.
It's this last part that gives Tony a glimmer of hope, because everything else he's heard so far, and read, and seen-and he has, he's pored over the video footage and swallowed his discomfort and nostalgia enough to pick through Howard's old photos and letters-has not been encouraging. He feels like they have no common ground other than the shaky connection of Tony's father, which isn't a safe journey for anybody, from any direction. There's too much at stake, there; too many things Tony's willed away, and he doesn't have it in him to accept Howard as a good man and a bad father both.
He's going to make this work, if only because SHIELD didn't want him in the Avengers initiative to begin with. They just ran out of options, but Tony has plenty of spite. He'll do the job, he'll do it well, and then he'll courteously be the bigger man and tell Nick Fury to go fuck himself with a hand grenade.
So that first time in Stuttgart, the first time he meets Captain America in the star-spangled flesh, Tony has resolved to do this right, to maybe hold his personality in check a bit: give Rogers a chance to get used to him by degrees. It's frustrating, he knows this, because while Tony can be charming and flashy with cameras, can be charitable at arm's-length, he's-difficult, up close. There are people who won't be in a room alone with him, because they're overwhelmed, or because he pisses them off.
A lot of people actually like Tony Stark before they end up meeting him.
Dialing it back isn't an effort Tony makes lightly. It's also not something he's very practiced at.
But Rogers wouldn't have gotten to know him through the media, or his business ventures. He wouldn't have been around for the Jericho fiasco, for the-the accident, or Iron Man's inception. So he has a chance, here; he can make a good impression. He can foster a working relationship with someone he has historical ties to, with someone who got along with his dad. A man who might possibly get along with Tony, because he hasn't learned yet that nobody else does.
But after Rogers says, "Mr. Stark," in colorless acknowledgement, Tony realizes Iron Man must have his own file; that Rogers will have surely read it; and that there is nothing about Tony he could possibly respect or agree with.
All of Tony's expectations bleed out, because in the end it won't matter that he knows what pitfalls to avoid (Bucky, Peggy, time travel); to take his time with anything (everything) Rogers needs to be brought up-to-date on; that Tony had every intention of going about this the right way.
Because Steve Rogers will never want to be Tony's friend. They're too different, ideologically, and what was Fury thinking, bringing him into this?
So Tony says, "Cap'n," and it just slips out, deliberately casual, deliberately opposite the polite (if distant) greeting Rogers offered first.
Rogers says nothing, just breathes heavily beside Tony and stares down at the dark-haired god on the marble steps.
But the tone has been set; the die has been cast.
Tony's problem is that, once he starts down a path, he can't make himself stop.
"Can we adopt Bruce?" He asks via JARVIS on the flight back to the helicarrier, faceplate down and external speakers off because he likes having private conversations with his very own girlfriend. Also because his head's still ringing from Thor's ridiculous hammer colliding with Captain America's ridiculous shield.
"I don't know, Tony," she replies, tilting her head with affected consideration. "What's he like?"
"Haven't met him yet," he grins. "But he's quite photogenic in the pamphlets."
Pepper laughs quietly. Mirth is lovely on her, and her makeup's doing an excellent job concealing the faint, blue crescents edging her eyes. He's managed (barely) to catch her between meetings, and while she seems happy enough to hear from him, everything about her is tinged with exhaustion. Her phone gets excellent reception in DC-Tony made it, of course it does-so he's able to recognize how tired she is, even if she tries to keep it from him. The video quality is excellent, so Tony sees all.
Outside the perfect barrier of Tony's suit, Rogers is standing restlessly near the cockpit, the same place-and almost the same position, really the guy has no imagination-he'd been in on the ride out. He isn't even making small talk with Natasha, who is a goddamn dime, and he's mostly ignoring Tony, despite Tony's very sincere attempts at friendly conversation (Are you cold, Cap? I'd kill for latte, how about you? Or didn't they have those when you're from?).
Thor's up, too, shifting his weight in what appears to be the small-spaces equivalent of pacing, and those two should really do a photoshoot together, or a porno-Perfect Aryan Supermen. Hammer and Shield. Putting It Down.
Tony clears his throat.
"Well, as long as he's house-trained." Pepper's looking at something on the table in front of her. It's probably paperwork. Probably stuff he'll have to sign when she gets back.
"Well, we might need to make some, ah, structural adjustments," Tony murmurs, watching Loki on Iron Man's main screen while Pepper scribbles something down from the smaller window. Thor's got him on lockdown, never out of arm's reach, and keeps glancing down with a kind of contemplative fixation. There's anger in his eyes, complicated and troubled, but there are other things, too.
Loki is steadfastly refusing to acknowledge his presence. He's going out of his way to be conspicuous about it. Which, actually, Tony's pretty familiar with that.
Tony used to have trouble with other people. He's always been so wrapped up in his own head-there's a lot of interesting stuff going on in there-that he missed things, sometimes. Like how Rhodey might have a high Tony-tolerance, but eventually he flips his shit. And even though all the signs are there, Tony never sees it coming.
He tries to get a better hold on this, tries to figure people out on his own; but sometimes Tony feels like he's holding up the world, even if it's just the world of his imagination. It's hard for him to disconnect, to see what's going on around his feet; it takes effort to notice other people. It's not because he's an asshole. It's just something he doesn't think about.
At least he has too much emotional garbage to be a legit sociopath. He takes small comfort in this.
Years ago, when she first started working for Stark Industries, Pepper was just another secretary they'd thrown at him. It was something that happened every few months because he was fucking up a lot: with the (constant) drinking and the (neglected) paperwork and how often he (never) went to meetings. He was still brilliant, he's always been brilliant, but even to this day he can't be bothered with details that exist outside his realm of focus.
But the Pepper-who-was-his-secretary became the Pepper of today, who was his PA for years, who is now his acting CEO since he's busy being Iron Man, and who is also his girlfriend (which is still sort of like being his PA all over again, just with more sex and less free time).
Single-handedly, she managed to take his measure that first day: she identified his various and sundry issues, and quietly maneuvered him into the role of a functional employer.
She's become indispensable to the convolution of his daily life. And at some point she learned to actually like him, which is more than Tony ever asked of anybody.
"That's-wait, structural-?" The-Pepper-of-today looks up at him, immediately suspicious. But not worried-suspicious, so Tony definitely feels they've grown as a couple.
The first time they met, Tony'd had a bitch of a hangover. It was an evolve-or-die moment: she was fearless, efficient, and could not be bullied or ignored. Her frank disapproval manifested itself in small, horrifying ways throughout that day, and by the time five o'clock rolled around, he was torn between firing her and giving her a promotion. He settled with making her his personal assistant.
Tony had to learn, very quickly, to preempt her brutal vengeances for every missed deadline, his obnoxious and ongoing commentary during meetings, and the general drunken disorderliness that was his life before (and a little bit after) the advent of Iron Man. Typically, punishments ranged from Pepper drowning him in paperwork; locking him in his office; hiding his booze stash; canceling his dates; and, on very rare occasions, worst-case-scenario occasions, threatening to leave his company entirely.
If you've screwed up badly enough that even Pepper Potts won't fix you, you're basically fucked forever. And, left to his own self-destructive tendencies, Tony would probably last a week at the outset.
What an embarrassing epitaph: Here Lies Tony Stark, Genius Billionaire Playboy Philanthropist, Died When Left to Own Devices.
Tony would still like to keep Bruce, though.
"Negligible structural adjustments," he answers promptly. "Just a few expansions. For comfort's sake."
"All right," she says, a smile tugging at her mouth; she knows to pick her battles. Even after all this time, in spite of his behavior and how well she knows him by now, she still trusts him. It's sweet. "But Tony-we've had this conversation, remember. There are rules."
"I know, I know," he sighs. "Anyone can come stay with us as long as there's space, but I can't refer to them as pets or bots. Since they are people and deserving of respect." Even though he has the utmost respect for his bots. Since he created them, and they are his progeny. So what if they're a little janky at times.
"And?" Pepper prompts. Tony can hear someone speaking behind her and feels a sudden flash of guilt-she takes care of everything, she's in meetings Tony himself should be attending, she does most of the high-profile presentations and runs his goddamn company. She keeps his ego in check and compensates for his ridiculous personality quirks without question, even if she doesn't understand them. She acts as a filter between Tony and the rest of the world so the two might hope to one day understand each other.
She does her level best for him, which is more than anyone else ever has.
"And... I can't force anyone to stay against their will," Tony says, "but I am allowed to bully them into friendship."
"At my express disapproval," Pepper replies, "yes."
"It is the only way," Tony says solemnly. "I must wear down the enemy forces."
"Speaking of enemy forces," Pepper says slowly, "those texts-"
"Oh," Tony says wonderingly, "I thought maybe you didn't get them. Since you didn't respond to a single one."
"We are not teenagers," Pepper says patiently, "and I'm working. And if you were texting-while-flying again, Tony, so help me god-"
"Hands-free," Tony admits. "Voice-to-JARVIS."
Pepper rubs the bridge of her nose and closes her eyes, lashes dusting her cheeks. She takes a few deep breaths. "Fine. That's-fine." She pauses. "But I think you need to cut Steve some slack. He probably isn't used to your mentally unbalanced system of backhanded compliments."
"What system! I don't have a system. And I'm just trying to be friends." He pauses. "Also don't call him Steve, I don't even call him Steve. It's weird." Tony complains. "And I haven't complimented him once!"
"Right," Pepper says dryly. Tony adamantly refuses to recall telling Steve, You look great for a nonagenarian, because he has no idea what she's talking about. Really.
"When are you eating lunch?" He asks, absurdly thinking about, well, maybe ditching this parade and flying to meet her. He could be there in-probably fifteen minutes. If he left now. He could order some slacks and a button-down en route, JARVIS knows his measurements, and they'd be off the rack but at least he wouldn't be in wrinkled clothes at a nice restaurant.
Or maybe they could just go to a burger joint down the street, or a diner, something simple-it wouldn't matter if he had wrinkled clothes, she might like that-
"Oh, I'll probably grab something from the lobby," Pepper says, shuffling something that sounds like paperwork and glancing off-screen while she blatantly lies to his face. Tony knows it's a lie, because when Pepper's in super work mode, she forgets things like eating (hypocrite!), and also to go to the bathroom. It's really not good for her kidneys, which means Tony is a terrible influence on her health. It's not something he's proud of.
"Make sure you do," is all he manages to say, at a loss, and there's some faint static-Tony'll have a look at that when she gets back, that kind of service is unacceptable-before she excuses herself.
"Hey," he says at the last minute, just before she hangs up, and she meets his eyes. The clear blue of her own glow like chips of glass. "You really-you do a lot for me, Pepper, and I appreciate it. I want you to know that." He wants to tell her he loves her, but the words are caught in his throat. He'd said it once before, when he was very intoxicated and she was very unhappy, and he'd bookended it with some other carefully constructed but ultimately piss-drunk phrases designed to make her less upset with the circumstances. He figures it didn't stick, so he gets a pass on it. Like it never happened at all.
He also wants to say how he doesn't know what he'd do without her. This is even harder, but least it's something she already knows.
"Thank you, Tony," she says, amused and slightly frazzled. "I'll see you when I get home. Be careful."
She hangs up, which is just as well. His throat is still too tight for anything more.
They get back to the helicarrier and Tony tries to ignore Captain Has-A-Point-About-Acquiring-Allies on his way to cargo. Rogers has his mouth in a tight line, but he doesn't say anything when Tony turns away from him; just sets his shield against a wall and walks out.
Tony pulls off his armor, exhausted, and drops the banged-up pieces unceremoniously onto the floor. It's scratched all to hell and he won't be able to touch up the paint until he gets home. JARVIS runs diagnostics almost constantly, so connectivity and function aren't problems at this point, but he should probably double-check the plating just to be sure. Wouldn't do to have a huge chunk of his armor break off during a fight.
Fury's tucking Loki in, probably with threats of grievous bodily harm, and if he manages to get any information out of the bastard at all, Tony can watch the surveillance records when he isn't near-comatose.
When he gets to his bunk, all he wants is a shower and a solid ten hours of sleep. What he finds is a black file folder with a blue sticky-note on it: brief 0800 command deck. Inside, it contains information about the tesseract-incomplete HYDRA research notes from the war, collected (and likely heavily truncated) SHIELD data, a whole packet of information from the thermonuclear astrophysicist Erik Selvig-and a primer on gamma radiation.
There're also a couple of papers from Doctor Banner thrown in, even though they aren't directly related. Tony reads these first. Then he reads the primer. After, he reads both papers a second time.
He peels off his clothes when he's finished and burrows into the repulsively small bed in his assigned bunk.
Four and a half hours later, he crawls back out.
He manages a shower, and just as he's trying to figure out the last time he ate-it's precisely the moment between digging socks and boxers out of his suitcase that the question comes to mind-he finds a few packages of blueberries. Probably Happy slipped them in, or Pepper, because they are kind and patient parents. He snags one and settles in with the SHIELD and HYDRA data. He saves Selvig's for last, and takes his time; this, at least, doesn't appear to have redacted information or blatant, gaping holes.
An hour later, he cleans up (nicely) and meets the day with the exciting buzz of new information in his skull and a fresh suit on his back. It more than makes up for his abysmal sleep schedule.
"It's not that kind of thing, Mister Stark," Agent Phil Coulson says, like Tony's never heard that before. In his experience, it's always that kind of thing.
"C'mon, take a weekend. I'll fly you out to Portland-"
But Phil just smiles in a polite way that is sincere and also like hitting a brick wall, and motions for Tony to join the meeting.
When Tony joins Rogers and the others, they're talking about Loki instead of the tesseract. He blows through that pretty quickly, focuses on the real problem-a theoretical energy source to get the tesseract to boot up-and then he gets to meet Doctor Bruce Banner. It's everything he hoped it would be.
He also plants his little JARVIS-babies virus.
Natasha seems distracted, Thor is listening with rudimentary interest, and the Captain looks lost. But Bruce is seriously awesome, and is probably going to become one of Tony's favorite people ever. He's small and funny and incredibly brilliant; he keeps his gestures and commentary neat and tidy, like he's constantly restraining every part of his body. He should go unnoticed, should be wholly innocuous, because that's how he carries himself. Instead, he's impossible to overlook: the giant green elephant in the room. Because of who he is.
He's got a monster inside of him, and Tony wants to make friends.
Tony finishes lecturing in record time, because he's more interested in playing scientists with Bruce than making people feel intellectually inferior.
"Is eating not your thing?" Tony asks, sidling up to him. He comes bearing fruit of the blue and berry variety. "Is the Hulk more manageable when you're hungry?"
"I wouldn't ever call him manageable, exactly," Bruce murmurs, brows knit above his glasses, the lenses reflecting endless lines of quantitative data. It's everything they've collected on global radiation levels specific to the tesseract's own unique gamma signature. And wow, those frames have seen better days. "If it's all the same to you, the sooner we find this thing, the sooner I can get off this flying death trap and go home."
"I'm sure you have nothing to worry about," Tony replies absently, studying the numbers over Bruce's shoulder. "As an aside, where is home?"
Bruce purses his lips. "I know I don't," and there's something seriously off about his tone. "And-Kolkata, I guess. For the time being."
"You guess?" Tony presses, but Bruce just wants to talk about work for awhile. Tony indulges him for about seven and a half minutes. Then he's trying to broach the you-should-come-live-with-me,-seriously,-I-can-grow-you-some-real-choice-shit-bro conversation when Rogers walks in on them. He shoots Tony a pretty irritating glare, like Tony's a child who deserves to be reprimanded for talking about soft drugs, and honestly it's like everything he does just rubs this guy completely the wrong way. Like that's Tony's fault.
When it comes up in conversation, he doesn't find Tony's computer virus even moderately cool. But between Rogers breaking and entering, Bruce's frank suspicions, and the demonspawn program progenated by JARVIS, who is Tony's soulmate, they find out about SHIELD's Phase Two more or less as a unit. The kind of unit with dysfunctional parts-they do their respective jobs well enough, they just don't exactly fit together.
Only then Fury shows up, and Thor, because Natasha's done some more of her sick manipulative spy shit and ferreted out Loki's angle.
There are two things Tony notices in the ensuing shitstorm:
That Bruce fucking hates it here; and that Natasha is sending mixed signals bordering on the bizarre. Tony has no idea how you can possibly feel responsible for and guilty about someone who fills you with abject terror.
In the end, Bruce's observation is entirely accurate: they're all just a chemical mixture. And then shit gets real.
The phase-two-is-tesseract-weapons-production-and-wow-that's-not-okay confrontation, which is basically Tony and Bruce and Rogers versus Fury and Natasha, bleeds out into a dozen smaller arguments. Useless, hurtful, insignificant and irrelevant: the validity of feeling a certain way, infamous reputations, how SHIELD is constructed from lies and mania.
Tony can see error easily in everyone but himself, but his own words taste silver on his tongue: sharp and bright and worthy.
There's a span of a few seconds where Rogers isn't even antagonizing him, and in a kind of backwards way might be defending him against Fury's jibe on the origins of Stark Industries. But by that time Tony's already seeing red, and he's on a roll. So he lets off some steam by aiming at every wound his words can reach.
The thing about Rogers, though, is that he let Tony get away a lot at the beginning of their association: a million small snarks and jabs and petty insults, a deliberate air of irreverence and disrespect. So Tony's a bit surprised to find himself on the cusp of a physical confrontation. With Captain America.
So maybe some people just have a long fuse. So what.
A small part of Tony curls in on itself at Bruce's declaration. Even though he's got his hands full with the two hundred pounds of all-American muscle doing its best to crowd his space while smelling really nice, (because that's apparently a forties intimidation tactic), and even though he's trying to figure out how to signal JARVIS, telepathically, to start wiping all Phase Two files, and the tesseract data in general for good measure, he takes a moment to make a promise.
It's a simple one, and he tucks it away in the back of his mind.
He will never, ever let Bruce feel this way again: that it would be better to be dead than to be himself.
Explosions go off and the helicarrier gets hit hard. It's about when Rogers says, "Put on the suit," for the last time, the time Tony agrees with; it's about when Tony's stumbling through the doorway with those warm, steadying hands at his waist and hip and rib.
But in all honesty, the realization has come in fits and starts, and maybe "You can't go by yourself," had a hand in it, too. And how Rogers stays close, doesn't peel away until he has to, until they part ways. Like he's afraid Tony will break.
So by the time they rendezvous on deck three, Tony's figured it out: the reason Steve Rogers spends a lot of time ignoring him is because Tony hasn't been saying very nice things. To Rogers. Possibly at all.
But it neatly dovetails with a second realization, and Tony learns something very important about Captain America: it doesn't matter if you irritate the piss out of him. Unless you're a seriously evil dude, he'll do his best to keep you safe.
Whether this is a nice thing, because nobody's ever done it before, or it's a shitty thing because it takes a man who doesn't even like Tony to bother with his safekeeping, is utterly unclear.
So half of Tony is starting to think, Shit. He's exactly like they say he is.
It doesn't make him feel any better.
The other half of him is dealing with a whole host of things he most certainly did not learn from the SHIELD files, the movies, the official reports, or the random bits of documented trivia. Some of them are:
The fact that, under his mask, Captain America has about three go-to expressions; they are Polite Disinterest, Express Concern, and Irritated Concern.
That, regardless of any friction between the two of them, he appears to trust whatever analysis Tony presents, and will actually defer to Tony in areas he's unfamiliar with. It's an efficient thing to do, and a mark of a good leader, to recognize the strengths of your team. Because a successful group dynamic comes from a combination of extraordinary qualities fitting together just so.
...That Steve Rogers has broad, powerful shoulders and a kind of decisive grace to his every motion, neither of which are done justice by his original costume, as evidenced by all recorded footage to date.
That his impossible metabolism causes him to sweat more freely and often than regular humans, and. Well, Tony can smell him, even when he's not super close. And the thing is, the man smells really good, and it's all the time, and it's not-cologne, or aftershave or, or soap. It's just. Clean-smelling and Steve Rogers-smelling, and it's. It does things. To Tony. Things he maybe mistook for irritation, for anger, in the beginning. Revisited, he's starting to wonder if they might be other things entirely.
All on his own, Tony's learning that he's in a little bit of trouble here.
He texts his complaints to Pepper, mostly for form's sake, up until the Steve and Tony Battle Brainwashed Guys and Clear Debris From the Engines and Basically Save the Day thing happens. So he mostly manages one message, via JARVIS, while he's suiting up.
It reads: Gotta fix helicarrier, they're making me take Steve why is this my life.
Then Iron Man gets beat all to hell, which sucks and Tony was in a pretty tight spot there for a minute. But Steve looks guilty and exhausted and so fucking relieved to see Tony's okay, and. It's nice. Steve's just-nice. So Tony absolutely does not feel guilty, he is not a child, but. He doesn't text mean little narratives to Pepper anymore.
And then Coulson dies, and Tony can't. He doesn't know what to say, or how to say it; he can't begin to internalize it, and there's this ball of fury and something like little slivers of glass all snarled up in his chest because everyone is an idiot, you can't trust anyone to get a job done and you have to do it yourself, because people are unqualified and they-they die. When Tony isn't good enough, when his hands are tied, when he takes too long and people don't wait for him, and.
...And Steve follows him out of the room, and talks to him. He isn't offended at all when Tony says some uncharitable things about a recently deceased friend. He doesn't push Tony, he just sort of gently prompts, and then he just. He closes the distance between them. He calls Tony by his given name for the first time.
He listens.
Which is just as well, because that's when Tony fills in the batshit-fucking-insane crossword puzzle-he thinks best when thinking aloud-that is Loki's master plan.
In between running Iron Man so ragged it nearly goes offline, and destroying New York, and getting thrown out top-story windows of buildings he owns, he doesn't really have the time to contact Pepper again. He hardly has time to think about it.
He tries to call her-well, JARVIS tries to, more accurately-as they're guiding the bomb through the portal. He's the only one who can do it, and he really thinks he's going to die; that this is the big one. Pepper always answers, she does, he can count on her.
Until she doesn't, and he can't.
The last human voice he hears: You know that's a one-way ticket, Stark.
Before he blacks out, wholly prepared to die alone when even JARVIS has faded into the static, he thinks: Fuck you, Steve Rogers. Me; wire. Laying the fuck down. Crawl the fuck over because we're saving this goddamn city.
Tony doesn't want to be a hero. But he'll settle for having been, at the very end of his life, a decent sort of person.
He wakes up on his back.
He's stiff and uncomfortable and heavy as the world spins: the Hulk heaving beside him, covered head to enormous toe in plaster and dirt and pieces of buildings. Natasha, her hair a tangled halo of red and a change of clothes in her arms. Clint beside her, holding his right arm at an odd angle.
Thor's hammer gleaming silver in the bright, dusty sunlight.
Captain America's hand withdrawing from where it has lain, lost and at rest, over Iron Man's arc reactor.
Tony feels wrecked. He feels like something tried very hard to digest him, but didn't do a good enough job of it to put him out of his misery. He feels like a turtle flipped over in the middle of a desert and then stomped on by some angry god.
Then his stomach growls and he mostly just feels-really, really hungry.
Well. That, at least, is something he can address.
Tony gets through dinner in his wildly battered armor, and he buys because it was his idea, and he has the most money; but he'll end up expensing it to SHIELD (well, Pepper will), so it doesn't really matter all that much.
Steve eats an appalling amount of food. Thor and Bruce do, too, and Thor even orders half again as much to go-presumably to bring to his brother, and Tony isn't going anywhere near that-but it's something you'd expect from a giant sky god and a guy who turns into a huge mass of muscle and wrath and violent insanity.
Steve is just a-non sequitur. He's big, yeah, but he doesn't move like he owns the whole world, or even like he wants to. He moves like he's trying to get just the smallest bit of space for himself, unobtrusive until there's an underdog to support, until he needs to seriously beat someone down for being an asshole. Then he just takes over.
Watching him eat like it's his last meal for a hundred years, like he's really trying to slow down and use his Polite Company manners-it's paradoxical, almost. And it sorta makes Tony want to buy him a restaurant that will cook him food all day long. To say, Here, Steve, take your time. And, There's plenty more where that came from. Maybe add that he doesn't have to hurry because the world is saved, but if he wants to be ravenous, well, he can go right ahead and do that, too.
Tony could always stop by when he needs a break from some frustrating thing that runs on electricity, and watch the show for a few hours. Just to remind himself that some people do, in fact, remember to eat. And don't need to be worried after once you've taken care of them.
And Tony might have a concussion, because he has no idea what the hell is even going on in his brain.
They leave the restaurant to rendezvous with their SHIELD escort, which has been waiting patiently about half a mile away. Iron Man hasn't been online for the last three hours, so Tony shuffles along behind everyone else until Steve glances back one too many times and actually catches him stumbling.
After that he slows until he can fall into step beside Tony. He isn't subtle about it, and he doesn't say anything at first or make eye contact. But he hooks his arm around Tony's waist like it isn't even a thing, like he's oblivious to Tony's alternate animosity and attraction, which, okay, forties.
He bears some of the weight, and Tony can shuffle a little faster for it.
"Fury wants us on the-helicarrier for the next couple days," Steve says eventually, and he's a pretty solid guy if there's hardly a pause over the unfamiliar terminology. It's heartening that he seems okay with his situation, but the implications chill Tony down to the husk of his corporate billionaire heart of hearts. To fall asleep, expecting to die, and wake up maybe wishing you had, because you've woken up having lost everything: too fucking much. Tony wouldn't even be walking, in Steve's shoes. He'd be dead from alcohol poisoning. Cashed the fuck out, because incomprehensible future coupled with complete social disconnect? No fucking thanks.
"Oh?" Tony tries. Ahead of them, Bruce is walking beside Thor with his hands in his pockets. Exhaustion hollows out every line of his body, and his shoulders are hunched close-though this is probably because the big god has a hand on his back, weighing him down. Bruce listens good-naturedly while Thor talks about his brother with broad, impatient gestures and a terribly earnest face.
Loki's been escorted back to the ship and is, presumably, once again on lockdown. It makes Tony a bit queasy, to think about the kind of power that monster has over his brother-how every cell in Thor's body shifts to needle-sharp focus whenever they're in the same room, how even when he's silent there is something howling like a wounded animal deep in his chest. How his anger at Loki can only be eclipsed by his love for him. And it's quite a lot of anger, so what does that tell you?
Tony never had a brother. He's never loved anyone like that. When Stane started stealing his things and trying to kill him, which is his closest point of reference, Tony cut that bastard loose, and he fought with everything he had, and he regrets nothing.
No, Tony knows where he stands with love. In his world, the people who love him want something from him. He thinks maybe he'd understand better if he knew what Thor wanted from Loki.
Further along are Natasha and Clint, who aren't walking particularly close together, or really saying all that much, but. There are all these little things, like how their steps are in perfect rhythm. How they glance at each other infrequently, but never miss that beat of eye contact, those small shifts in attention. Involved in some kind of wordless communication that exists in worlds Tony has never visited. Never even seen.
Steve clears his throat, and Tony tears his eyes away from his, his team. They're a team. He's responsible for every one of these assholes now. He sighs, weary, and meets Steve's eyes.
They're far closer than is currently comfortable for Tony. Also he's volunteering information, which is strange because Tony's pegged him for one of those-not Strong, Silent types, but. Not going out his way to talk to you unless he has instructions for you, or values your opinion. Which, Tony. So.
"Loose ends, I guess," Steve continues, tilting his head to indicate Thor. "Before they go home."
"Great," Tony sighs, "babysitting." He wants to go home. He wants to go home and sleep for a year. Everything hurts.
Steve glances down at him finally, and there's the smallest pull of a smile on his mouth. His eyes are blue, and close, and his breath smells like falafel-garlic and middle eastern spices and ground, fried chickpeas. He'd probably taste like cucumber sauce. It'd probably be great.
Tony wrinkles his nose, but sort of sets his head against Steve's shoulder, just to see if he can get away with it. He can always cite exhaustion. Some might call this devious, but Tony does with what he has all he can.
Steve looks like he wants to reply, but something else must catch his attention because he remains silent. But he does get a bit of a tighter grip on Tony, and it could be friendly, could simply be practical. It could be nothing, Rogers probably wouldn't even know how to cue that kind of thing; he might not even be touching Tony at all if he knew what was going on in his head.
"Tony," Steve says, and Tony jerks slightly because he's basically been sleep-walking, and Steve's mouth is close to his ear, and is this first-names business a thing now? Because no one else has died that Tony's aware of.
It's weird and intimate. He deals.
"Mm, sorry, sorry," Tony mutters, shifting back from all that companionable, patriotic heat. A sleek jet is parked, for want of a better term, a dozen yards away between a car with a hulk-shaped dent in it and a half-toppled building.
Steve's hand hangs around Tony's armored waist until the SHIELD agents usher them onto the aircraft. It falls away only when they're forced apart for preliminary medical care.
Fury asks levelly, "Am I to understand-help me, here, I'm trying to fathom how you could possibly think this was a good idea-am I to understand that after you rebuffed an alien attack, sustained mild to moderate injuries, and took a psychotic murdergod into custody that you went for-," he pauses, and glances down at the (alarmingly lengthy) report on his desk. "Fast food?"
"Not exactly," Tony hedges. "It was practically health food. It was vegetarian, even."
They're in the director's office. It's just Steve and Tony, because Bruce will probably never get chewed out (for obvious reasons), and Natasha's still having her ankle set, and anyway she and Clint are, for all practical purposes, property of SHIELD. Fury probably gave up on telling them what to do years ago. Or, whatever, he'll call them in later since Hawkeye broke his wrist or something. Tony was just knocked around a bit.
Steve was practically gutted, but since it's been a few hours, his belly's knit itself into a manageable flesh wound. It makes Tony sick to think about it.
Thor's with Loki, probably feeding him, but mostly doing a decent job of Not Taking His Eyes Off Him Even For A Second.
It's very, very unfair, Tony thinks. He's always the one who gets in trouble. And he has a headache, and there is intense, tight pain in muscles he didn't even know he had from hauling that armor around without power to offset the weight, and he wonders if this is a sign of things to come.
"We were hungry," Steve says simply. "Team needed a break."
"And that's your call to make? Standard procedure is to get your asses back here for debriefing."
Steve doesn't wilt, doesn't look unhappy or guilty. He simply says, "We just saved New York City from an extraterrestrial threat. Wasn't gonna tell them they couldn't eat dinner." He pauses briefly. "I believe it was my call, sir."
Fury looks at the two of them long and hard, and Tony thinks: This is what it's like to have a friend. A partner-in-crime. It's pretty sweet.
Tony isn't used to making them; usually he throws money at people and they drive him around or run his company or hang out with him when he's hammering out the details for military contracts. Which he doesn't do anymore, and Rhodey still visits, so he has at least one other friend who is not in his employ.
He's probably mistaking-ugh, genuine respect, he can't really call it anything else, it's there-for physical attraction. That's what this is, with Steve. Steve, who's nice to him and probably doesn't like him at all, which makes Tony angry and grateful and debilitatingly determined. Willing to work for it, even.
"Your team, your responsibility." Fury is telling Steve. Then, to both of them, "Get out of my sight."
They're halfway down the hall when Steve puts a hand on Tony's shoulder.
"Um," Tony says, but doesn't shrug him off.
"You're limping," Steve says. "You shoulda let medical examine you."
"I'm not limping," Tony insists. "I'm just sore."
Steve purses his lips and doesn't say anything.
"Also I maybe hit my head," he allows. "But I'm fine. Natasha was limping. You should check on her."
They come to a split, and Tony's room is left and sickbay is right.
"That's-yeah," Steve says, and Tony watches him leave.
Thinks, That Brooklyn accent, he really cleans up when he wants to. He really lets it slip when he doesn't.
Thinks, Jesus fucking christ. Because that ass, holy shit.
Then Tony locks himself in his small room, strips off clothing stiff with dried sweat and dirt and a teensy bit of blood, and forces his aching body into the standing shower. Leans heavily against the stainless steel wall and soaps up. He's sluggish and tired in his bones, rinses off with arms like lead weights. He doesn't think about Steve's assets, and he certainly doesn't try to fantasize about Pepper and then give up in frustration when she keeps morphing back into someone blonder, bulkier, and of the decidedly wrong gender.
After a good five minutes of not doing either of these things, Tony presses his palms into his eyes and breathes in. Ribs twinge and his shoulders feel jostled and raw, and he can't even manage to beat off thinking about his marvelously beautiful and capable girlfriend.
Tony doesn't towel off so much as drag the terrycloth over his head once or twice, so he's still pretty damp when he falls into bed. He doesn't bother with anything more than boxers, and his body basically gives up as soon as he hits the mattress. It's bliss. It's perfect, soft clarity. He doesn't have to think about this complicated Steve Rogers bullshit because he's floating, and the world is a million years beneath him, and he's free, and-
-and his goddamn phone rings.
And it vibrates.
And the status light keeps flashing.
And then it rings a second time, and Tony wants to throw it against the fucking wall.
"What." He snaps, face pressed into his pillow.
"Oh, Tony, oh thank god," Pepper sobs, and Tony sits upright. Mostly. It hurts like a bitch in his ribs and makes his head ache.
"Pepper?" Tony croaks, and situates himself so that he can maybe doze a bit while she talks at him. Because, priorities.
"I've been trying to reach you for hours," she says tightly, her voice hoarse. She's been crying. She's still crying. "I saw the-it was on the news, I saw you, I," she can't get the words out, and she's crying into his ear and Tony can't remember if she's still in Washington or if she's home or what day it even is.
"I'm sorry," he says. "I lost power when I went through the portal." He's not making excuses, but that's what these conversations always feel like. Every time they talk about Iron Man. He loves Pepper, but there are times-steadily more frequent times-where he fucking hates talking to her. He knows what she's going to say next, he knows it by rote.
"Went through the-Tony, I saw you, I saw the nuclear warhead just. It just vanished, and then you were falling from the sky and I-it's been hours, I didn't even know if you were okay!"
"Pepper-"
"Why didn't you call me? I don't have a direct line to anyone at SHIELD except for Phil, and he wasn't answering either and I thought-"
A cold weight settles in Tony's stomach. "Pepper, please, about Phil-"
"I thought you'd died, I thought the helicarrier went down, I didn't, I," she's crying again, the kind of crying you do when you've spent the last few days handling everything as the Unflappable Pepper Potts, perfectly put-together, and then you call your boyfriend Tony Stark and he's terrible or something.
"I didn't die," Tony says softly. "I tried to call you from JARVIS. Before." Before he fell back to earth, before everything flickered and faded out and went black. Before he closed his eyes, expecting it to be the last time.
"I saw," Pepper whispers, and there it is: guilt, harsh and wet in her voice. "I thought it might've been my last chance to-I thought I'd missed-"
The sad truth is it almost was. And she had.
"It's okay, Pepper," he says, and hisses softly as he rolls onto his stomach.
"Are you hurt?" She asks, upset all over again, and Tony just wants her off the phone, just wants to sleep. But she's only worried about him and he can't hold that against her. It really demonstrates how he's grown as a person, that he acknowledges this at all.
"A little banged up," he says. "Nothing serious."
She sighs like she doesn't believe him. She always does, because she never does. It's not like he's lying to her. "I had everything salvageable moved to Stark Manor or storage. We're ready to get started with the repairs as soon as you give the go-ahead." She pauses for a moment. "When are you coming home?"
"A few more days," he says. "Thor wants to visit Doctor Jane Foster before they leave. She's sort of his, uh. Girlfriend. Thing. I guess." He scrubs a hand over his eyes because he feels like utter shit, and instead of sleeping it off he's explaining Thor's love life to Pepper. "We're keeping an eye on Loki here until he gets back."
"You're-keeping an eye on Loki-? So Thor can go on a date?"
"He lives on a another planet, Pep. They had a bridge or a gateway or something they could use to travel here, but I guess he broke it? I don't know the full story. It's probably long and involved and stupid." He thinks for a minute. "He doesn't know when he'll see her again. And he did just help save Earth. I'd say he deserves a date or two."
Pepper doesn't say anything. Tony has no idea what that means, but he's not putting her on videophone. "So I'm-," he starts, trying to let her go, but she's started talking again.
"He could stay," she says. "If he cares about her? If he might never see her again. Why doesn't he stay here?"
What? "I don't know about all that. I don't know Thor very well, and I don't know Jane at all except by reputation. I only know Thor's a god and crown prince of Asgard." It's sounds ridiculous to say it outloud, and Tony feels a headache coming on. "He has obligations to the throne." And wow, that also sounded way better in his head. "Jane's an extradimensional scientist," and that's a bit better, that's at least technically a thing now. Aliens and deep space portals and other realms of existence are all things.
"There's always someone else willing to take up the mantle," Pepper points out. It's the worst thing she could have said.
Tony hates meta-fights more than any other kind. He hates having conversations about one thing when they're actually about another.
"There isn't always someone else," Tony says, and manhandles the conversational ball back into his court. "His father's narcoleptic or something. His only brother is adopted, of a different race entirely, and also evil and insane. Pepper, I haven't slept for like twenty hours and I'd really like to pass out. Please."
"Oh! I'm sorry, Tony, you should've said. I'll talk to you in the morning, okay?"
"I'll ask you about Washington," he says. "I would tonight, but."
"I know, I know. Get some sleep."
"Bye." He hangs up and sets his phone on his bedside table, except it clatters to the floor when he misses. He doesn't bother with picking it up.
He feels so heavy, but presently he doesn't feel anything at all.
Tony wakes up to someone talking loudly at him, to rough hands on his shoulders, and he comes to, hazy and lethargic. The room's spinning just a bit, just faintly tilted on its axis, and Steve Rogers' face is tight and concerned above his own.
"What-" Tony mutters, sitting up and rubbing a palm over his face. "'S there an attack, what are you," he says, but Steve doesn't let him crawl out of bed.
"What the hell, Tony," Steve mutters, looking relieved and irritated at once. He's wearing civvies, but not normal person civvies. He's got on slacks and a plaid button-down that hardly fits around his arms, and a white t-shirt that peeks through the collar. He looks homeschooled. If a homeschooled kid were built like a brick shithouse.
"What's going on? Why are you in my room?" Tony yawns. His head aches.
"You've been sleeping for the last eighteen hours," Steve says. "You didn't come to the door. You didn't answer your phone."
Tony blinks and leans unsteadily over the bed. His phone's down there, and it's even intact. But the-eighteen hours?-the battery's probably died.
"Shit," he mumbles. He feels awful.
"You're seeing a doctor. Now."
"I'm fine-"
"You probably have a concussion. This is an order." Steve's jaw is tight, and he's such an asshole.
"I do not, and no. Emphatically no." Tony hates hospitals. People die in hospitals. And the doctors aren't half as smart as he is, and always crowding you and telling you to stop drinking, or they do open heart surgery on you in caves and sometimes commit suicide-by-saving-you and Tony fucking hates them. His only good memories about doctors involve Bruce, and those are brand new. They're basically the stem cells of good memories. They're good memories he's still trying to develop.
Steve leans down, his arms on either side of Tony's hips, and their eyes are level but he's using his size advantage to-to menace Tony. Into healthcare. Who does that.
"You can walk," Steve says firmly, "or I can drag you. Your choice."
"Fuck you," Tony snaps, and Steve hauls him out of bed by his underarms.
Tony remembers he's wearing boxers when he's standing, mostly naked, in front of Captain America. Who is currently staring, unabashedly, at Tony's chest.
Tony swallows and bites back a whole host of scathing retorts. He forces down the knee-jerk reaction to cover his arc reactor with his hands, like he could trap the light and be, when compared to the olympian perfection of physicality before him, a normal humiliated dude rather than a handicapped humiliated dude.
"That's," Steve says, voice soft, and his fingers twitch like he wants to touch it.
"Right," Tony says coldly. "Can I please get dressed?"
Steve's eyes snap up, lock on his face. There's color on his cheeks, and Tony's confused and a bit woozy and has no idea what's going on here.
"I'll wait outside," Steve mutters, and closes the door awkwardly behind him.
Tony does, in fact, have a concussion.
"You fell from the sky and were slammed into a building by the-by Doctor Banner." The woman tells him. She's skinny, in her fifties with flyaway gray hair and brown eyes. She is distinctly unimpressed with him. "Of course you're concussed." Her name is Martha or Margaret. It's hard for Tony to focus on her name tag, he keeps forgetting to double-check. It just doesn't seem important.
Steve's leaning against the window, watching her with interest.
"It was only a little one," Tony complains. "You would've told me to sleep it off anyway."
"But it might not have been," Steve insists. "It wasn't very smart, Tony."
He's talking to him like Tony's a child, and he's doing it in front of other people. It gets his hackles up.
"I don't remember asking your opinion," Tony snaps, shoving himself off the examination table.
...And promptly listing to the side, because holy fuck is he dizzy.
Doctor Meredith steps neatly out of the way, since she's a complete dick like most doctors. But Steve steadies him without hesitation, gets an arm half around his shoulders. So that's all right, even if Tony was pissed off about. Something. Whatever.
"It'll be a bit worse today," the doctor says, already turning her attention back to the paperwork in her hand. Tony has Grave Suspicions that it belongs to another patient entirely, even though she makes like she's taking notes. Tony is the heir apparent of Pretending to Take Notes, he knows what doodling looks like from the other side. "But you should feel better after that."
"Thank you, Mary," Steve tells her. Ah, that was it.
Wordlessly, Steve leads him from the room. Tony shoves his arm off, and Steve lets him.
"Look," he says, frustrated and careful. It's a strange combination, and sets Tony on edge. "I'm responsible for you. Gotta make sure you're all right. I'd appreciate it if you could work with me a little."
"Worried about me, Rogers?"
Steve looks confused, twin lines between his eyebrows, lashes dark against his cheeks as he glances down at Tony. "Course I am."
Tony has half a hundred things to say to that, mean and cutting things. But he doesn't.
He looks away instead. Doesn't quite close his eyes, but lets them fall to half-mast and forces his brain to process.
Steve doesn't think Tony is an idiot. He's just mad because Tony could've been hurt worse than he was. He is not impressed by Tony's careless attitude.
He worries about Tony. He wants Tony to be all right.
"Okay," Tony says, and tries not to think about the tight feelings that have suddenly gone loose in his chest; how good it feels to resolve something, how it's over with, and Steve's not-sulky, or mad in small, subtle ways. "So, uh. Any directives from the Director? We just hanging tight for a bit? What time is it, anyway?"
Steve smiles, and it's not his Captain America smile. It's shy and sweet.
And just now, right this minute, it's. It's sort of just for Tony.
--
2/3
About a million and a half thanks to 3bird (Ao3), who is basically every type of amazing and wonderful. This would be total crap without her.
The Stone Series: Part I
Room by Room
From Captain America's SHIELD file, Tony learns the following:
That Steve Rogers weighed about eighty-seven pounds before Erskine and Tony's dad administered the serum; that he was asthmatic; that he'd had a whole host of childhood and adolescent illnesses, in addition to his ongoing battle with colds and sinus infections; that his heart and nervous system were not in any sort of condition to support a soldier's lifestyle; and that he was prone to getting the utter shit kicked out of him. On a regular basis.
Mostly because he couldn't keep his damn mouth shut.
But after the serum, Tony reads on, it was as though Rogers were a new man. As though every damaged part of him had fallen away like magic. A clean slate.
He became physiologically perfect; he did not experience the effects of mind-altering drugs or alcohol because of his enhanced metabolism; he could heal at a much faster rate than normal men.
He still picked fights with bullies. He just started winning them.
From Howard Stark, Tony learned very little. This, other than that his dad was friends with Steve Rogers, is all he knows: Howard helped create Captain America and died still searching for him.
It was a greater gesture of esteem than he ever made for Tony.
It's buttfuck-o'clock a.m. on the morning after Tony was supposed to be having fantastic victory sex with Pepper, possibly in his sprawling living room with the huge windows and excellent lighting, but more likely in his bedroom with the lights off because Pepper, whatever, gets shy. Even though she's stupidly pretty and Tony's the one with weird shit installed in his body.
So instead of maybe waking Pepper up to some lovin' (she can be loose and relaxed and agreeable when she's half-asleep, every inch of self-consciousness drained entirely from her body, it's fucking beautiful), he's fact-checking the incident reports and biographies provided by SHIELD, because spies are filthy liars. They never give you enough information to be useful-just enough to make you dangerous, to form incorrect assumptions because you don't have enough data. He's mostly got the others squared away (Natasha-who-is-not-really-Natalie is absolutely not an Information Specialist, she's definitely a goddamned assassin; Doctor Bruce Banner's actually in West Bengal, not the Philippines, who is Fury trying to fool?), but this last search is dragging on and on.
"JARVIS," he asks, pressing his palms into his burning eyes because fuck, it's almost four in the morning and, for all his efforts, he isn't even getting a blowjob until whenever-Pepper-gets-back-from-DC. "Is it really so hard to pull a credit history on this guy?"
"I apologize, sir. My resources are momentarily divided."
Tony blinks behind his fingers, then peeks through them at the screen. "What else are you doing?"
There's a faint pause while Tony yawns, and then JARVIS replies, "I am discussing Van Gogh with Miss Potts, sir."
"Huh. Like, on her mobile?"
"Her tablet, sir. She is having dinner."
"Jesus," Tony sighs, because she's probably been in meetings since her plane touched down. He'd meant to feed her at some point, he really had-he'd just gotten caught up in the Tower, and how they were self-sustaining geniuses, and that they'd finally put aside some time for uninterrupted, well, all those gorgeous things Pepper'd whispered to him before gallivanting off with Coulson. Because she's cruel and mean-spirited and assumes he can work with a raging boner.
"What's she having for dinner?"
"Mixed seasonal fruit salad with a raspberry vinaigrette, sir."
"Isn't she allergic-?"
"Strawberries, sir."
"Right." Tony pages through the files projected into his living room, just sort of hanging out and being brilliant and high-tech, since that's Tony's thing. "What's she saying about Van Gogh?"
"Nothing that would interest you, sir," JARVIS says.
"Try me," Tony shoots back, skimming the annotations on Banner's spec sheets again.
"Specifically, Blossoming Almond Tree. It is one of her particular favorites. She was explaining to me the use of thick black outlines to call attention to the foreground, while the rest of the image fades out to appear half-formed and nebulous. Like the connection between human attention and human vision, sir." He pauses briefly, and Tony is startled to wonder if it's because he's talking to Pepper on the other side. "A person will focus on one or two things that catch their initial interest, and use that as a context for their understanding of the rest of the piece."
Okay, art. Ton can handle that. JARVIS has even brought up a display of the painting. It's nice. Tony can see what they mean, he totally gets that your brain compiles visual information out of what you're focusing on, and not necessarily everything that's there. "Why wouldn't I like that?"
"You sold it, sir."
Tony winces. Pepper's probably never forgiven him for the whole art-collection-thing-the part where they don't have it anymore, not the part where he gave her full authority to collect to her heart's content. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were secretly trying to steal my girl behind my back, Jay."
"Undoubtedly, sir. Here is the information on Captain Rogers."
Thanks to JARVIS, Tony touches down in Stuttgart, Germany, with the supplemental knowledge that Steve Rogers has spent the last few months holed up in a Brooklyn apartment near an old corner store and a small, dated fitness center. He hasn't made any friends; to all appearances, he doesn't seem to want to.
Which, okay. People are overrated much of the time. But the deep-seated need for human contact is grievously underrated, and these are the main reasons Tony's had lots of one-night stands, but has only managed one actual relationship. But his one actual relationship is inspiring and emotionally fulfilling, and Tony is a better person for it; the fact that Pepper does most of the work involved, and that she's probably getting a shit deal out of this in the long run, does not escape him.
It's actually something he consciously takes for granted.
The thing is, Pepper's very sharp. She's so sharp, she's so intuitive and organized, that Tony knows she'll eventually come to her senses and leave his ass.
But the other thing is, Pepper's loved him for years. He doesn't really see that changing anytime soon.
You need people in your life to keep you from going insane and to save you from horrible, gut-churning depression. It is Tony's learned opinion that Steve Rogers has chosen a very poor way to start life in the twenty-first century, and he'd honestly like to help with that. Since he's such a stand-up guy and everyone else is really dropping the fucking ball.
SHIELD must have an abominable research department if the only thing they'd thought to play on the radio, the day Rogers woke up, was a recording of a baseball game he'd actually attended. JARVIS could've done about three hundred times better; JARVIS even said so when he'd pulled the report.
Tony hopes someone was fired, because that was a monumental cockup and they should've called him in immediately. It was his dad's project. He's in possession of Howard's research notes. The whole Captain America enterprise, while not necessarily belonging to Stark Industries, surely warranted his involvement.
Even if it isn't strictly true, SHIELD should have assumed Tony would have some insight into the whole ordeal. What does anyone else have? Legends and popular culture? Because according to the official comics, Captain America is loyal to a fault. He is strong, selfless, and a glittering beacon of purity and resolve. His men love him, his superiors respect him, and he's the all-around perfect soldier. To actively dislike him is to be, in a nutshell, unpatriotic.
But at least Tony knows the comics are full of shit, which is one of the few things Howard ever mentioned in passing. He bought them for Tony regardless, but he never read an issue after the very first.
Rogers spent most of his Captain America days hawking war bonds at twelve-year-olds who, in turn, would go all starry-eyed at their parents and boost sales. And because Tony has scans of the original paperwork, right down to Erskine's signature, Tony knows that Rogers lied through his teeth at least five times to even get into the army. He knows that Rogers was crap at following orders if it was something he personally disagreed with or took offense to.
Steve Rogers became a hero recovering the fragments of the one-oh-seventh. In doing so, in saving those men, he was deliberately disobeying his commanding officer.
It's this last part that gives Tony a glimmer of hope, because everything else he's heard so far, and read, and seen-and he has, he's pored over the video footage and swallowed his discomfort and nostalgia enough to pick through Howard's old photos and letters-has not been encouraging. He feels like they have no common ground other than the shaky connection of Tony's father, which isn't a safe journey for anybody, from any direction. There's too much at stake, there; too many things Tony's willed away, and he doesn't have it in him to accept Howard as a good man and a bad father both.
He's going to make this work, if only because SHIELD didn't want him in the Avengers initiative to begin with. They just ran out of options, but Tony has plenty of spite. He'll do the job, he'll do it well, and then he'll courteously be the bigger man and tell Nick Fury to go fuck himself with a hand grenade.
So that first time in Stuttgart, the first time he meets Captain America in the star-spangled flesh, Tony has resolved to do this right, to maybe hold his personality in check a bit: give Rogers a chance to get used to him by degrees. It's frustrating, he knows this, because while Tony can be charming and flashy with cameras, can be charitable at arm's-length, he's-difficult, up close. There are people who won't be in a room alone with him, because they're overwhelmed, or because he pisses them off.
A lot of people actually like Tony Stark before they end up meeting him.
Dialing it back isn't an effort Tony makes lightly. It's also not something he's very practiced at.
But Rogers wouldn't have gotten to know him through the media, or his business ventures. He wouldn't have been around for the Jericho fiasco, for the-the accident, or Iron Man's inception. So he has a chance, here; he can make a good impression. He can foster a working relationship with someone he has historical ties to, with someone who got along with his dad. A man who might possibly get along with Tony, because he hasn't learned yet that nobody else does.
But after Rogers says, "Mr. Stark," in colorless acknowledgement, Tony realizes Iron Man must have his own file; that Rogers will have surely read it; and that there is nothing about Tony he could possibly respect or agree with.
All of Tony's expectations bleed out, because in the end it won't matter that he knows what pitfalls to avoid (Bucky, Peggy, time travel); to take his time with anything (everything) Rogers needs to be brought up-to-date on; that Tony had every intention of going about this the right way.
Because Steve Rogers will never want to be Tony's friend. They're too different, ideologically, and what was Fury thinking, bringing him into this?
So Tony says, "Cap'n," and it just slips out, deliberately casual, deliberately opposite the polite (if distant) greeting Rogers offered first.
Rogers says nothing, just breathes heavily beside Tony and stares down at the dark-haired god on the marble steps.
But the tone has been set; the die has been cast.
Tony's problem is that, once he starts down a path, he can't make himself stop.
"Can we adopt Bruce?" He asks via JARVIS on the flight back to the helicarrier, faceplate down and external speakers off because he likes having private conversations with his very own girlfriend. Also because his head's still ringing from Thor's ridiculous hammer colliding with Captain America's ridiculous shield.
"I don't know, Tony," she replies, tilting her head with affected consideration. "What's he like?"
"Haven't met him yet," he grins. "But he's quite photogenic in the pamphlets."
Pepper laughs quietly. Mirth is lovely on her, and her makeup's doing an excellent job concealing the faint, blue crescents edging her eyes. He's managed (barely) to catch her between meetings, and while she seems happy enough to hear from him, everything about her is tinged with exhaustion. Her phone gets excellent reception in DC-Tony made it, of course it does-so he's able to recognize how tired she is, even if she tries to keep it from him. The video quality is excellent, so Tony sees all.
Outside the perfect barrier of Tony's suit, Rogers is standing restlessly near the cockpit, the same place-and almost the same position, really the guy has no imagination-he'd been in on the ride out. He isn't even making small talk with Natasha, who is a goddamn dime, and he's mostly ignoring Tony, despite Tony's very sincere attempts at friendly conversation (Are you cold, Cap? I'd kill for latte, how about you? Or didn't they have those when you're from?).
Thor's up, too, shifting his weight in what appears to be the small-spaces equivalent of pacing, and those two should really do a photoshoot together, or a porno-Perfect Aryan Supermen. Hammer and Shield. Putting It Down.
Tony clears his throat.
"Well, as long as he's house-trained." Pepper's looking at something on the table in front of her. It's probably paperwork. Probably stuff he'll have to sign when she gets back.
"Well, we might need to make some, ah, structural adjustments," Tony murmurs, watching Loki on Iron Man's main screen while Pepper scribbles something down from the smaller window. Thor's got him on lockdown, never out of arm's reach, and keeps glancing down with a kind of contemplative fixation. There's anger in his eyes, complicated and troubled, but there are other things, too.
Loki is steadfastly refusing to acknowledge his presence. He's going out of his way to be conspicuous about it. Which, actually, Tony's pretty familiar with that.
Tony used to have trouble with other people. He's always been so wrapped up in his own head-there's a lot of interesting stuff going on in there-that he missed things, sometimes. Like how Rhodey might have a high Tony-tolerance, but eventually he flips his shit. And even though all the signs are there, Tony never sees it coming.
He tries to get a better hold on this, tries to figure people out on his own; but sometimes Tony feels like he's holding up the world, even if it's just the world of his imagination. It's hard for him to disconnect, to see what's going on around his feet; it takes effort to notice other people. It's not because he's an asshole. It's just something he doesn't think about.
At least he has too much emotional garbage to be a legit sociopath. He takes small comfort in this.
Years ago, when she first started working for Stark Industries, Pepper was just another secretary they'd thrown at him. It was something that happened every few months because he was fucking up a lot: with the (constant) drinking and the (neglected) paperwork and how often he (never) went to meetings. He was still brilliant, he's always been brilliant, but even to this day he can't be bothered with details that exist outside his realm of focus.
But the Pepper-who-was-his-secretary became the Pepper of today, who was his PA for years, who is now his acting CEO since he's busy being Iron Man, and who is also his girlfriend (which is still sort of like being his PA all over again, just with more sex and less free time).
Single-handedly, she managed to take his measure that first day: she identified his various and sundry issues, and quietly maneuvered him into the role of a functional employer.
She's become indispensable to the convolution of his daily life. And at some point she learned to actually like him, which is more than Tony ever asked of anybody.
"That's-wait, structural-?" The-Pepper-of-today looks up at him, immediately suspicious. But not worried-suspicious, so Tony definitely feels they've grown as a couple.
The first time they met, Tony'd had a bitch of a hangover. It was an evolve-or-die moment: she was fearless, efficient, and could not be bullied or ignored. Her frank disapproval manifested itself in small, horrifying ways throughout that day, and by the time five o'clock rolled around, he was torn between firing her and giving her a promotion. He settled with making her his personal assistant.
Tony had to learn, very quickly, to preempt her brutal vengeances for every missed deadline, his obnoxious and ongoing commentary during meetings, and the general drunken disorderliness that was his life before (and a little bit after) the advent of Iron Man. Typically, punishments ranged from Pepper drowning him in paperwork; locking him in his office; hiding his booze stash; canceling his dates; and, on very rare occasions, worst-case-scenario occasions, threatening to leave his company entirely.
If you've screwed up badly enough that even Pepper Potts won't fix you, you're basically fucked forever. And, left to his own self-destructive tendencies, Tony would probably last a week at the outset.
What an embarrassing epitaph: Here Lies Tony Stark, Genius Billionaire Playboy Philanthropist, Died When Left to Own Devices.
Tony would still like to keep Bruce, though.
"Negligible structural adjustments," he answers promptly. "Just a few expansions. For comfort's sake."
"All right," she says, a smile tugging at her mouth; she knows to pick her battles. Even after all this time, in spite of his behavior and how well she knows him by now, she still trusts him. It's sweet. "But Tony-we've had this conversation, remember. There are rules."
"I know, I know," he sighs. "Anyone can come stay with us as long as there's space, but I can't refer to them as pets or bots. Since they are people and deserving of respect." Even though he has the utmost respect for his bots. Since he created them, and they are his progeny. So what if they're a little janky at times.
"And?" Pepper prompts. Tony can hear someone speaking behind her and feels a sudden flash of guilt-she takes care of everything, she's in meetings Tony himself should be attending, she does most of the high-profile presentations and runs his goddamn company. She keeps his ego in check and compensates for his ridiculous personality quirks without question, even if she doesn't understand them. She acts as a filter between Tony and the rest of the world so the two might hope to one day understand each other.
She does her level best for him, which is more than anyone else ever has.
"And... I can't force anyone to stay against their will," Tony says, "but I am allowed to bully them into friendship."
"At my express disapproval," Pepper replies, "yes."
"It is the only way," Tony says solemnly. "I must wear down the enemy forces."
"Speaking of enemy forces," Pepper says slowly, "those texts-"
"Oh," Tony says wonderingly, "I thought maybe you didn't get them. Since you didn't respond to a single one."
"We are not teenagers," Pepper says patiently, "and I'm working. And if you were texting-while-flying again, Tony, so help me god-"
"Hands-free," Tony admits. "Voice-to-JARVIS."
Pepper rubs the bridge of her nose and closes her eyes, lashes dusting her cheeks. She takes a few deep breaths. "Fine. That's-fine." She pauses. "But I think you need to cut Steve some slack. He probably isn't used to your mentally unbalanced system of backhanded compliments."
"What system! I don't have a system. And I'm just trying to be friends." He pauses. "Also don't call him Steve, I don't even call him Steve. It's weird." Tony complains. "And I haven't complimented him once!"
"Right," Pepper says dryly. Tony adamantly refuses to recall telling Steve, You look great for a nonagenarian, because he has no idea what she's talking about. Really.
"When are you eating lunch?" He asks, absurdly thinking about, well, maybe ditching this parade and flying to meet her. He could be there in-probably fifteen minutes. If he left now. He could order some slacks and a button-down en route, JARVIS knows his measurements, and they'd be off the rack but at least he wouldn't be in wrinkled clothes at a nice restaurant.
Or maybe they could just go to a burger joint down the street, or a diner, something simple-it wouldn't matter if he had wrinkled clothes, she might like that-
"Oh, I'll probably grab something from the lobby," Pepper says, shuffling something that sounds like paperwork and glancing off-screen while she blatantly lies to his face. Tony knows it's a lie, because when Pepper's in super work mode, she forgets things like eating (hypocrite!), and also to go to the bathroom. It's really not good for her kidneys, which means Tony is a terrible influence on her health. It's not something he's proud of.
"Make sure you do," is all he manages to say, at a loss, and there's some faint static-Tony'll have a look at that when she gets back, that kind of service is unacceptable-before she excuses herself.
"Hey," he says at the last minute, just before she hangs up, and she meets his eyes. The clear blue of her own glow like chips of glass. "You really-you do a lot for me, Pepper, and I appreciate it. I want you to know that." He wants to tell her he loves her, but the words are caught in his throat. He'd said it once before, when he was very intoxicated and she was very unhappy, and he'd bookended it with some other carefully constructed but ultimately piss-drunk phrases designed to make her less upset with the circumstances. He figures it didn't stick, so he gets a pass on it. Like it never happened at all.
He also wants to say how he doesn't know what he'd do without her. This is even harder, but least it's something she already knows.
"Thank you, Tony," she says, amused and slightly frazzled. "I'll see you when I get home. Be careful."
She hangs up, which is just as well. His throat is still too tight for anything more.
They get back to the helicarrier and Tony tries to ignore Captain Has-A-Point-About-Acquiring-Allies on his way to cargo. Rogers has his mouth in a tight line, but he doesn't say anything when Tony turns away from him; just sets his shield against a wall and walks out.
Tony pulls off his armor, exhausted, and drops the banged-up pieces unceremoniously onto the floor. It's scratched all to hell and he won't be able to touch up the paint until he gets home. JARVIS runs diagnostics almost constantly, so connectivity and function aren't problems at this point, but he should probably double-check the plating just to be sure. Wouldn't do to have a huge chunk of his armor break off during a fight.
Fury's tucking Loki in, probably with threats of grievous bodily harm, and if he manages to get any information out of the bastard at all, Tony can watch the surveillance records when he isn't near-comatose.
When he gets to his bunk, all he wants is a shower and a solid ten hours of sleep. What he finds is a black file folder with a blue sticky-note on it: brief 0800 command deck. Inside, it contains information about the tesseract-incomplete HYDRA research notes from the war, collected (and likely heavily truncated) SHIELD data, a whole packet of information from the thermonuclear astrophysicist Erik Selvig-and a primer on gamma radiation.
There're also a couple of papers from Doctor Banner thrown in, even though they aren't directly related. Tony reads these first. Then he reads the primer. After, he reads both papers a second time.
He peels off his clothes when he's finished and burrows into the repulsively small bed in his assigned bunk.
Four and a half hours later, he crawls back out.
He manages a shower, and just as he's trying to figure out the last time he ate-it's precisely the moment between digging socks and boxers out of his suitcase that the question comes to mind-he finds a few packages of blueberries. Probably Happy slipped them in, or Pepper, because they are kind and patient parents. He snags one and settles in with the SHIELD and HYDRA data. He saves Selvig's for last, and takes his time; this, at least, doesn't appear to have redacted information or blatant, gaping holes.
An hour later, he cleans up (nicely) and meets the day with the exciting buzz of new information in his skull and a fresh suit on his back. It more than makes up for his abysmal sleep schedule.
"It's not that kind of thing, Mister Stark," Agent Phil Coulson says, like Tony's never heard that before. In his experience, it's always that kind of thing.
"C'mon, take a weekend. I'll fly you out to Portland-"
But Phil just smiles in a polite way that is sincere and also like hitting a brick wall, and motions for Tony to join the meeting.
When Tony joins Rogers and the others, they're talking about Loki instead of the tesseract. He blows through that pretty quickly, focuses on the real problem-a theoretical energy source to get the tesseract to boot up-and then he gets to meet Doctor Bruce Banner. It's everything he hoped it would be.
He also plants his little JARVIS-babies virus.
Natasha seems distracted, Thor is listening with rudimentary interest, and the Captain looks lost. But Bruce is seriously awesome, and is probably going to become one of Tony's favorite people ever. He's small and funny and incredibly brilliant; he keeps his gestures and commentary neat and tidy, like he's constantly restraining every part of his body. He should go unnoticed, should be wholly innocuous, because that's how he carries himself. Instead, he's impossible to overlook: the giant green elephant in the room. Because of who he is.
He's got a monster inside of him, and Tony wants to make friends.
Tony finishes lecturing in record time, because he's more interested in playing scientists with Bruce than making people feel intellectually inferior.
"Is eating not your thing?" Tony asks, sidling up to him. He comes bearing fruit of the blue and berry variety. "Is the Hulk more manageable when you're hungry?"
"I wouldn't ever call him manageable, exactly," Bruce murmurs, brows knit above his glasses, the lenses reflecting endless lines of quantitative data. It's everything they've collected on global radiation levels specific to the tesseract's own unique gamma signature. And wow, those frames have seen better days. "If it's all the same to you, the sooner we find this thing, the sooner I can get off this flying death trap and go home."
"I'm sure you have nothing to worry about," Tony replies absently, studying the numbers over Bruce's shoulder. "As an aside, where is home?"
Bruce purses his lips. "I know I don't," and there's something seriously off about his tone. "And-Kolkata, I guess. For the time being."
"You guess?" Tony presses, but Bruce just wants to talk about work for awhile. Tony indulges him for about seven and a half minutes. Then he's trying to broach the you-should-come-live-with-me,-seriously,-I-can-grow-you-some-real-choice-shit-bro conversation when Rogers walks in on them. He shoots Tony a pretty irritating glare, like Tony's a child who deserves to be reprimanded for talking about soft drugs, and honestly it's like everything he does just rubs this guy completely the wrong way. Like that's Tony's fault.
When it comes up in conversation, he doesn't find Tony's computer virus even moderately cool. But between Rogers breaking and entering, Bruce's frank suspicions, and the demonspawn program progenated by JARVIS, who is Tony's soulmate, they find out about SHIELD's Phase Two more or less as a unit. The kind of unit with dysfunctional parts-they do their respective jobs well enough, they just don't exactly fit together.
Only then Fury shows up, and Thor, because Natasha's done some more of her sick manipulative spy shit and ferreted out Loki's angle.
There are two things Tony notices in the ensuing shitstorm:
That Bruce fucking hates it here; and that Natasha is sending mixed signals bordering on the bizarre. Tony has no idea how you can possibly feel responsible for and guilty about someone who fills you with abject terror.
In the end, Bruce's observation is entirely accurate: they're all just a chemical mixture. And then shit gets real.
The phase-two-is-tesseract-weapons-production-and-wow-that's-not-okay confrontation, which is basically Tony and Bruce and Rogers versus Fury and Natasha, bleeds out into a dozen smaller arguments. Useless, hurtful, insignificant and irrelevant: the validity of feeling a certain way, infamous reputations, how SHIELD is constructed from lies and mania.
Tony can see error easily in everyone but himself, but his own words taste silver on his tongue: sharp and bright and worthy.
There's a span of a few seconds where Rogers isn't even antagonizing him, and in a kind of backwards way might be defending him against Fury's jibe on the origins of Stark Industries. But by that time Tony's already seeing red, and he's on a roll. So he lets off some steam by aiming at every wound his words can reach.
The thing about Rogers, though, is that he let Tony get away a lot at the beginning of their association: a million small snarks and jabs and petty insults, a deliberate air of irreverence and disrespect. So Tony's a bit surprised to find himself on the cusp of a physical confrontation. With Captain America.
So maybe some people just have a long fuse. So what.
A small part of Tony curls in on itself at Bruce's declaration. Even though he's got his hands full with the two hundred pounds of all-American muscle doing its best to crowd his space while smelling really nice, (because that's apparently a forties intimidation tactic), and even though he's trying to figure out how to signal JARVIS, telepathically, to start wiping all Phase Two files, and the tesseract data in general for good measure, he takes a moment to make a promise.
It's a simple one, and he tucks it away in the back of his mind.
He will never, ever let Bruce feel this way again: that it would be better to be dead than to be himself.
Explosions go off and the helicarrier gets hit hard. It's about when Rogers says, "Put on the suit," for the last time, the time Tony agrees with; it's about when Tony's stumbling through the doorway with those warm, steadying hands at his waist and hip and rib.
But in all honesty, the realization has come in fits and starts, and maybe "You can't go by yourself," had a hand in it, too. And how Rogers stays close, doesn't peel away until he has to, until they part ways. Like he's afraid Tony will break.
So by the time they rendezvous on deck three, Tony's figured it out: the reason Steve Rogers spends a lot of time ignoring him is because Tony hasn't been saying very nice things. To Rogers. Possibly at all.
But it neatly dovetails with a second realization, and Tony learns something very important about Captain America: it doesn't matter if you irritate the piss out of him. Unless you're a seriously evil dude, he'll do his best to keep you safe.
Whether this is a nice thing, because nobody's ever done it before, or it's a shitty thing because it takes a man who doesn't even like Tony to bother with his safekeeping, is utterly unclear.
So half of Tony is starting to think, Shit. He's exactly like they say he is.
It doesn't make him feel any better.
The other half of him is dealing with a whole host of things he most certainly did not learn from the SHIELD files, the movies, the official reports, or the random bits of documented trivia. Some of them are:
The fact that, under his mask, Captain America has about three go-to expressions; they are Polite Disinterest, Express Concern, and Irritated Concern.
That, regardless of any friction between the two of them, he appears to trust whatever analysis Tony presents, and will actually defer to Tony in areas he's unfamiliar with. It's an efficient thing to do, and a mark of a good leader, to recognize the strengths of your team. Because a successful group dynamic comes from a combination of extraordinary qualities fitting together just so.
...That Steve Rogers has broad, powerful shoulders and a kind of decisive grace to his every motion, neither of which are done justice by his original costume, as evidenced by all recorded footage to date.
That his impossible metabolism causes him to sweat more freely and often than regular humans, and. Well, Tony can smell him, even when he's not super close. And the thing is, the man smells really good, and it's all the time, and it's not-cologne, or aftershave or, or soap. It's just. Clean-smelling and Steve Rogers-smelling, and it's. It does things. To Tony. Things he maybe mistook for irritation, for anger, in the beginning. Revisited, he's starting to wonder if they might be other things entirely.
All on his own, Tony's learning that he's in a little bit of trouble here.
He texts his complaints to Pepper, mostly for form's sake, up until the Steve and Tony Battle Brainwashed Guys and Clear Debris From the Engines and Basically Save the Day thing happens. So he mostly manages one message, via JARVIS, while he's suiting up.
It reads: Gotta fix helicarrier, they're making me take Steve why is this my life.
Then Iron Man gets beat all to hell, which sucks and Tony was in a pretty tight spot there for a minute. But Steve looks guilty and exhausted and so fucking relieved to see Tony's okay, and. It's nice. Steve's just-nice. So Tony absolutely does not feel guilty, he is not a child, but. He doesn't text mean little narratives to Pepper anymore.
And then Coulson dies, and Tony can't. He doesn't know what to say, or how to say it; he can't begin to internalize it, and there's this ball of fury and something like little slivers of glass all snarled up in his chest because everyone is an idiot, you can't trust anyone to get a job done and you have to do it yourself, because people are unqualified and they-they die. When Tony isn't good enough, when his hands are tied, when he takes too long and people don't wait for him, and.
...And Steve follows him out of the room, and talks to him. He isn't offended at all when Tony says some uncharitable things about a recently deceased friend. He doesn't push Tony, he just sort of gently prompts, and then he just. He closes the distance between them. He calls Tony by his given name for the first time.
He listens.
Which is just as well, because that's when Tony fills in the batshit-fucking-insane crossword puzzle-he thinks best when thinking aloud-that is Loki's master plan.
In between running Iron Man so ragged it nearly goes offline, and destroying New York, and getting thrown out top-story windows of buildings he owns, he doesn't really have the time to contact Pepper again. He hardly has time to think about it.
He tries to call her-well, JARVIS tries to, more accurately-as they're guiding the bomb through the portal. He's the only one who can do it, and he really thinks he's going to die; that this is the big one. Pepper always answers, she does, he can count on her.
Until she doesn't, and he can't.
The last human voice he hears: You know that's a one-way ticket, Stark.
Before he blacks out, wholly prepared to die alone when even JARVIS has faded into the static, he thinks: Fuck you, Steve Rogers. Me; wire. Laying the fuck down. Crawl the fuck over because we're saving this goddamn city.
Tony doesn't want to be a hero. But he'll settle for having been, at the very end of his life, a decent sort of person.
He wakes up on his back.
He's stiff and uncomfortable and heavy as the world spins: the Hulk heaving beside him, covered head to enormous toe in plaster and dirt and pieces of buildings. Natasha, her hair a tangled halo of red and a change of clothes in her arms. Clint beside her, holding his right arm at an odd angle.
Thor's hammer gleaming silver in the bright, dusty sunlight.
Captain America's hand withdrawing from where it has lain, lost and at rest, over Iron Man's arc reactor.
Tony feels wrecked. He feels like something tried very hard to digest him, but didn't do a good enough job of it to put him out of his misery. He feels like a turtle flipped over in the middle of a desert and then stomped on by some angry god.
Then his stomach growls and he mostly just feels-really, really hungry.
Well. That, at least, is something he can address.
Tony gets through dinner in his wildly battered armor, and he buys because it was his idea, and he has the most money; but he'll end up expensing it to SHIELD (well, Pepper will), so it doesn't really matter all that much.
Steve eats an appalling amount of food. Thor and Bruce do, too, and Thor even orders half again as much to go-presumably to bring to his brother, and Tony isn't going anywhere near that-but it's something you'd expect from a giant sky god and a guy who turns into a huge mass of muscle and wrath and violent insanity.
Steve is just a-non sequitur. He's big, yeah, but he doesn't move like he owns the whole world, or even like he wants to. He moves like he's trying to get just the smallest bit of space for himself, unobtrusive until there's an underdog to support, until he needs to seriously beat someone down for being an asshole. Then he just takes over.
Watching him eat like it's his last meal for a hundred years, like he's really trying to slow down and use his Polite Company manners-it's paradoxical, almost. And it sorta makes Tony want to buy him a restaurant that will cook him food all day long. To say, Here, Steve, take your time. And, There's plenty more where that came from. Maybe add that he doesn't have to hurry because the world is saved, but if he wants to be ravenous, well, he can go right ahead and do that, too.
Tony could always stop by when he needs a break from some frustrating thing that runs on electricity, and watch the show for a few hours. Just to remind himself that some people do, in fact, remember to eat. And don't need to be worried after once you've taken care of them.
And Tony might have a concussion, because he has no idea what the hell is even going on in his brain.
They leave the restaurant to rendezvous with their SHIELD escort, which has been waiting patiently about half a mile away. Iron Man hasn't been online for the last three hours, so Tony shuffles along behind everyone else until Steve glances back one too many times and actually catches him stumbling.
After that he slows until he can fall into step beside Tony. He isn't subtle about it, and he doesn't say anything at first or make eye contact. But he hooks his arm around Tony's waist like it isn't even a thing, like he's oblivious to Tony's alternate animosity and attraction, which, okay, forties.
He bears some of the weight, and Tony can shuffle a little faster for it.
"Fury wants us on the-helicarrier for the next couple days," Steve says eventually, and he's a pretty solid guy if there's hardly a pause over the unfamiliar terminology. It's heartening that he seems okay with his situation, but the implications chill Tony down to the husk of his corporate billionaire heart of hearts. To fall asleep, expecting to die, and wake up maybe wishing you had, because you've woken up having lost everything: too fucking much. Tony wouldn't even be walking, in Steve's shoes. He'd be dead from alcohol poisoning. Cashed the fuck out, because incomprehensible future coupled with complete social disconnect? No fucking thanks.
"Oh?" Tony tries. Ahead of them, Bruce is walking beside Thor with his hands in his pockets. Exhaustion hollows out every line of his body, and his shoulders are hunched close-though this is probably because the big god has a hand on his back, weighing him down. Bruce listens good-naturedly while Thor talks about his brother with broad, impatient gestures and a terribly earnest face.
Loki's been escorted back to the ship and is, presumably, once again on lockdown. It makes Tony a bit queasy, to think about the kind of power that monster has over his brother-how every cell in Thor's body shifts to needle-sharp focus whenever they're in the same room, how even when he's silent there is something howling like a wounded animal deep in his chest. How his anger at Loki can only be eclipsed by his love for him. And it's quite a lot of anger, so what does that tell you?
Tony never had a brother. He's never loved anyone like that. When Stane started stealing his things and trying to kill him, which is his closest point of reference, Tony cut that bastard loose, and he fought with everything he had, and he regrets nothing.
No, Tony knows where he stands with love. In his world, the people who love him want something from him. He thinks maybe he'd understand better if he knew what Thor wanted from Loki.
Further along are Natasha and Clint, who aren't walking particularly close together, or really saying all that much, but. There are all these little things, like how their steps are in perfect rhythm. How they glance at each other infrequently, but never miss that beat of eye contact, those small shifts in attention. Involved in some kind of wordless communication that exists in worlds Tony has never visited. Never even seen.
Steve clears his throat, and Tony tears his eyes away from his, his team. They're a team. He's responsible for every one of these assholes now. He sighs, weary, and meets Steve's eyes.
They're far closer than is currently comfortable for Tony. Also he's volunteering information, which is strange because Tony's pegged him for one of those-not Strong, Silent types, but. Not going out his way to talk to you unless he has instructions for you, or values your opinion. Which, Tony. So.
"Loose ends, I guess," Steve continues, tilting his head to indicate Thor. "Before they go home."
"Great," Tony sighs, "babysitting." He wants to go home. He wants to go home and sleep for a year. Everything hurts.
Steve glances down at him finally, and there's the smallest pull of a smile on his mouth. His eyes are blue, and close, and his breath smells like falafel-garlic and middle eastern spices and ground, fried chickpeas. He'd probably taste like cucumber sauce. It'd probably be great.
Tony wrinkles his nose, but sort of sets his head against Steve's shoulder, just to see if he can get away with it. He can always cite exhaustion. Some might call this devious, but Tony does with what he has all he can.
Steve looks like he wants to reply, but something else must catch his attention because he remains silent. But he does get a bit of a tighter grip on Tony, and it could be friendly, could simply be practical. It could be nothing, Rogers probably wouldn't even know how to cue that kind of thing; he might not even be touching Tony at all if he knew what was going on in his head.
"Tony," Steve says, and Tony jerks slightly because he's basically been sleep-walking, and Steve's mouth is close to his ear, and is this first-names business a thing now? Because no one else has died that Tony's aware of.
It's weird and intimate. He deals.
"Mm, sorry, sorry," Tony mutters, shifting back from all that companionable, patriotic heat. A sleek jet is parked, for want of a better term, a dozen yards away between a car with a hulk-shaped dent in it and a half-toppled building.
Steve's hand hangs around Tony's armored waist until the SHIELD agents usher them onto the aircraft. It falls away only when they're forced apart for preliminary medical care.
Fury asks levelly, "Am I to understand-help me, here, I'm trying to fathom how you could possibly think this was a good idea-am I to understand that after you rebuffed an alien attack, sustained mild to moderate injuries, and took a psychotic murdergod into custody that you went for-," he pauses, and glances down at the (alarmingly lengthy) report on his desk. "Fast food?"
"Not exactly," Tony hedges. "It was practically health food. It was vegetarian, even."
They're in the director's office. It's just Steve and Tony, because Bruce will probably never get chewed out (for obvious reasons), and Natasha's still having her ankle set, and anyway she and Clint are, for all practical purposes, property of SHIELD. Fury probably gave up on telling them what to do years ago. Or, whatever, he'll call them in later since Hawkeye broke his wrist or something. Tony was just knocked around a bit.
Steve was practically gutted, but since it's been a few hours, his belly's knit itself into a manageable flesh wound. It makes Tony sick to think about it.
Thor's with Loki, probably feeding him, but mostly doing a decent job of Not Taking His Eyes Off Him Even For A Second.
It's very, very unfair, Tony thinks. He's always the one who gets in trouble. And he has a headache, and there is intense, tight pain in muscles he didn't even know he had from hauling that armor around without power to offset the weight, and he wonders if this is a sign of things to come.
"We were hungry," Steve says simply. "Team needed a break."
"And that's your call to make? Standard procedure is to get your asses back here for debriefing."
Steve doesn't wilt, doesn't look unhappy or guilty. He simply says, "We just saved New York City from an extraterrestrial threat. Wasn't gonna tell them they couldn't eat dinner." He pauses briefly. "I believe it was my call, sir."
Fury looks at the two of them long and hard, and Tony thinks: This is what it's like to have a friend. A partner-in-crime. It's pretty sweet.
Tony isn't used to making them; usually he throws money at people and they drive him around or run his company or hang out with him when he's hammering out the details for military contracts. Which he doesn't do anymore, and Rhodey still visits, so he has at least one other friend who is not in his employ.
He's probably mistaking-ugh, genuine respect, he can't really call it anything else, it's there-for physical attraction. That's what this is, with Steve. Steve, who's nice to him and probably doesn't like him at all, which makes Tony angry and grateful and debilitatingly determined. Willing to work for it, even.
"Your team, your responsibility." Fury is telling Steve. Then, to both of them, "Get out of my sight."
They're halfway down the hall when Steve puts a hand on Tony's shoulder.
"Um," Tony says, but doesn't shrug him off.
"You're limping," Steve says. "You shoulda let medical examine you."
"I'm not limping," Tony insists. "I'm just sore."
Steve purses his lips and doesn't say anything.
"Also I maybe hit my head," he allows. "But I'm fine. Natasha was limping. You should check on her."
They come to a split, and Tony's room is left and sickbay is right.
"That's-yeah," Steve says, and Tony watches him leave.
Thinks, That Brooklyn accent, he really cleans up when he wants to. He really lets it slip when he doesn't.
Thinks, Jesus fucking christ. Because that ass, holy shit.
Then Tony locks himself in his small room, strips off clothing stiff with dried sweat and dirt and a teensy bit of blood, and forces his aching body into the standing shower. Leans heavily against the stainless steel wall and soaps up. He's sluggish and tired in his bones, rinses off with arms like lead weights. He doesn't think about Steve's assets, and he certainly doesn't try to fantasize about Pepper and then give up in frustration when she keeps morphing back into someone blonder, bulkier, and of the decidedly wrong gender.
After a good five minutes of not doing either of these things, Tony presses his palms into his eyes and breathes in. Ribs twinge and his shoulders feel jostled and raw, and he can't even manage to beat off thinking about his marvelously beautiful and capable girlfriend.
Tony doesn't towel off so much as drag the terrycloth over his head once or twice, so he's still pretty damp when he falls into bed. He doesn't bother with anything more than boxers, and his body basically gives up as soon as he hits the mattress. It's bliss. It's perfect, soft clarity. He doesn't have to think about this complicated Steve Rogers bullshit because he's floating, and the world is a million years beneath him, and he's free, and-
-and his goddamn phone rings.
And it vibrates.
And the status light keeps flashing.
And then it rings a second time, and Tony wants to throw it against the fucking wall.
"What." He snaps, face pressed into his pillow.
"Oh, Tony, oh thank god," Pepper sobs, and Tony sits upright. Mostly. It hurts like a bitch in his ribs and makes his head ache.
"Pepper?" Tony croaks, and situates himself so that he can maybe doze a bit while she talks at him. Because, priorities.
"I've been trying to reach you for hours," she says tightly, her voice hoarse. She's been crying. She's still crying. "I saw the-it was on the news, I saw you, I," she can't get the words out, and she's crying into his ear and Tony can't remember if she's still in Washington or if she's home or what day it even is.
"I'm sorry," he says. "I lost power when I went through the portal." He's not making excuses, but that's what these conversations always feel like. Every time they talk about Iron Man. He loves Pepper, but there are times-steadily more frequent times-where he fucking hates talking to her. He knows what she's going to say next, he knows it by rote.
"Went through the-Tony, I saw you, I saw the nuclear warhead just. It just vanished, and then you were falling from the sky and I-it's been hours, I didn't even know if you were okay!"
"Pepper-"
"Why didn't you call me? I don't have a direct line to anyone at SHIELD except for Phil, and he wasn't answering either and I thought-"
A cold weight settles in Tony's stomach. "Pepper, please, about Phil-"
"I thought you'd died, I thought the helicarrier went down, I didn't, I," she's crying again, the kind of crying you do when you've spent the last few days handling everything as the Unflappable Pepper Potts, perfectly put-together, and then you call your boyfriend Tony Stark and he's terrible or something.
"I didn't die," Tony says softly. "I tried to call you from JARVIS. Before." Before he fell back to earth, before everything flickered and faded out and went black. Before he closed his eyes, expecting it to be the last time.
"I saw," Pepper whispers, and there it is: guilt, harsh and wet in her voice. "I thought it might've been my last chance to-I thought I'd missed-"
The sad truth is it almost was. And she had.
"It's okay, Pepper," he says, and hisses softly as he rolls onto his stomach.
"Are you hurt?" She asks, upset all over again, and Tony just wants her off the phone, just wants to sleep. But she's only worried about him and he can't hold that against her. It really demonstrates how he's grown as a person, that he acknowledges this at all.
"A little banged up," he says. "Nothing serious."
She sighs like she doesn't believe him. She always does, because she never does. It's not like he's lying to her. "I had everything salvageable moved to Stark Manor or storage. We're ready to get started with the repairs as soon as you give the go-ahead." She pauses for a moment. "When are you coming home?"
"A few more days," he says. "Thor wants to visit Doctor Jane Foster before they leave. She's sort of his, uh. Girlfriend. Thing. I guess." He scrubs a hand over his eyes because he feels like utter shit, and instead of sleeping it off he's explaining Thor's love life to Pepper. "We're keeping an eye on Loki here until he gets back."
"You're-keeping an eye on Loki-? So Thor can go on a date?"
"He lives on a another planet, Pep. They had a bridge or a gateway or something they could use to travel here, but I guess he broke it? I don't know the full story. It's probably long and involved and stupid." He thinks for a minute. "He doesn't know when he'll see her again. And he did just help save Earth. I'd say he deserves a date or two."
Pepper doesn't say anything. Tony has no idea what that means, but he's not putting her on videophone. "So I'm-," he starts, trying to let her go, but she's started talking again.
"He could stay," she says. "If he cares about her? If he might never see her again. Why doesn't he stay here?"
What? "I don't know about all that. I don't know Thor very well, and I don't know Jane at all except by reputation. I only know Thor's a god and crown prince of Asgard." It's sounds ridiculous to say it outloud, and Tony feels a headache coming on. "He has obligations to the throne." And wow, that also sounded way better in his head. "Jane's an extradimensional scientist," and that's a bit better, that's at least technically a thing now. Aliens and deep space portals and other realms of existence are all things.
"There's always someone else willing to take up the mantle," Pepper points out. It's the worst thing she could have said.
Tony hates meta-fights more than any other kind. He hates having conversations about one thing when they're actually about another.
"There isn't always someone else," Tony says, and manhandles the conversational ball back into his court. "His father's narcoleptic or something. His only brother is adopted, of a different race entirely, and also evil and insane. Pepper, I haven't slept for like twenty hours and I'd really like to pass out. Please."
"Oh! I'm sorry, Tony, you should've said. I'll talk to you in the morning, okay?"
"I'll ask you about Washington," he says. "I would tonight, but."
"I know, I know. Get some sleep."
"Bye." He hangs up and sets his phone on his bedside table, except it clatters to the floor when he misses. He doesn't bother with picking it up.
He feels so heavy, but presently he doesn't feel anything at all.
Tony wakes up to someone talking loudly at him, to rough hands on his shoulders, and he comes to, hazy and lethargic. The room's spinning just a bit, just faintly tilted on its axis, and Steve Rogers' face is tight and concerned above his own.
"What-" Tony mutters, sitting up and rubbing a palm over his face. "'S there an attack, what are you," he says, but Steve doesn't let him crawl out of bed.
"What the hell, Tony," Steve mutters, looking relieved and irritated at once. He's wearing civvies, but not normal person civvies. He's got on slacks and a plaid button-down that hardly fits around his arms, and a white t-shirt that peeks through the collar. He looks homeschooled. If a homeschooled kid were built like a brick shithouse.
"What's going on? Why are you in my room?" Tony yawns. His head aches.
"You've been sleeping for the last eighteen hours," Steve says. "You didn't come to the door. You didn't answer your phone."
Tony blinks and leans unsteadily over the bed. His phone's down there, and it's even intact. But the-eighteen hours?-the battery's probably died.
"Shit," he mumbles. He feels awful.
"You're seeing a doctor. Now."
"I'm fine-"
"You probably have a concussion. This is an order." Steve's jaw is tight, and he's such an asshole.
"I do not, and no. Emphatically no." Tony hates hospitals. People die in hospitals. And the doctors aren't half as smart as he is, and always crowding you and telling you to stop drinking, or they do open heart surgery on you in caves and sometimes commit suicide-by-saving-you and Tony fucking hates them. His only good memories about doctors involve Bruce, and those are brand new. They're basically the stem cells of good memories. They're good memories he's still trying to develop.
Steve leans down, his arms on either side of Tony's hips, and their eyes are level but he's using his size advantage to-to menace Tony. Into healthcare. Who does that.
"You can walk," Steve says firmly, "or I can drag you. Your choice."
"Fuck you," Tony snaps, and Steve hauls him out of bed by his underarms.
Tony remembers he's wearing boxers when he's standing, mostly naked, in front of Captain America. Who is currently staring, unabashedly, at Tony's chest.
Tony swallows and bites back a whole host of scathing retorts. He forces down the knee-jerk reaction to cover his arc reactor with his hands, like he could trap the light and be, when compared to the olympian perfection of physicality before him, a normal humiliated dude rather than a handicapped humiliated dude.
"That's," Steve says, voice soft, and his fingers twitch like he wants to touch it.
"Right," Tony says coldly. "Can I please get dressed?"
Steve's eyes snap up, lock on his face. There's color on his cheeks, and Tony's confused and a bit woozy and has no idea what's going on here.
"I'll wait outside," Steve mutters, and closes the door awkwardly behind him.
Tony does, in fact, have a concussion.
"You fell from the sky and were slammed into a building by the-by Doctor Banner." The woman tells him. She's skinny, in her fifties with flyaway gray hair and brown eyes. She is distinctly unimpressed with him. "Of course you're concussed." Her name is Martha or Margaret. It's hard for Tony to focus on her name tag, he keeps forgetting to double-check. It just doesn't seem important.
Steve's leaning against the window, watching her with interest.
"It was only a little one," Tony complains. "You would've told me to sleep it off anyway."
"But it might not have been," Steve insists. "It wasn't very smart, Tony."
He's talking to him like Tony's a child, and he's doing it in front of other people. It gets his hackles up.
"I don't remember asking your opinion," Tony snaps, shoving himself off the examination table.
...And promptly listing to the side, because holy fuck is he dizzy.
Doctor Meredith steps neatly out of the way, since she's a complete dick like most doctors. But Steve steadies him without hesitation, gets an arm half around his shoulders. So that's all right, even if Tony was pissed off about. Something. Whatever.
"It'll be a bit worse today," the doctor says, already turning her attention back to the paperwork in her hand. Tony has Grave Suspicions that it belongs to another patient entirely, even though she makes like she's taking notes. Tony is the heir apparent of Pretending to Take Notes, he knows what doodling looks like from the other side. "But you should feel better after that."
"Thank you, Mary," Steve tells her. Ah, that was it.
Wordlessly, Steve leads him from the room. Tony shoves his arm off, and Steve lets him.
"Look," he says, frustrated and careful. It's a strange combination, and sets Tony on edge. "I'm responsible for you. Gotta make sure you're all right. I'd appreciate it if you could work with me a little."
"Worried about me, Rogers?"
Steve looks confused, twin lines between his eyebrows, lashes dark against his cheeks as he glances down at Tony. "Course I am."
Tony has half a hundred things to say to that, mean and cutting things. But he doesn't.
He looks away instead. Doesn't quite close his eyes, but lets them fall to half-mast and forces his brain to process.
Steve doesn't think Tony is an idiot. He's just mad because Tony could've been hurt worse than he was. He is not impressed by Tony's careless attitude.
He worries about Tony. He wants Tony to be all right.
"Okay," Tony says, and tries not to think about the tight feelings that have suddenly gone loose in his chest; how good it feels to resolve something, how it's over with, and Steve's not-sulky, or mad in small, subtle ways. "So, uh. Any directives from the Director? We just hanging tight for a bit? What time is it, anyway?"
Steve smiles, and it's not his Captain America smile. It's shy and sweet.
And just now, right this minute, it's. It's sort of just for Tony.
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