Why not think about times to come
And not about the things that you've done
If your life was bad to you
Just think what tomorrow will do
--
It all started with a conflict of temperature.
Tony wasn’t one for company while he worked; he couldn’t stand eyes on him when he was distracted, or when he was doing something that could be judged. He just hated being watched. However, when Steve waltzed into his workshop like he owned the place, Tony just couldn’t turn those blue puppy eyes away when he asked if he could see what he was doing.
“You keep this place so hot,” Steve complained, taking off his crewneck. “Turn up the AC, will you?”
Tony, who had this sort of unbearable need to be right all of the time, had to contradict. “What? It’s cold. I’m cold.”
He was only kind of lying. It was on the cold side of pleasant, the way Tony always kept it. Four degrees Kelvin below the Standard Ambient Temperature and Pressure, minus the pressure part, but there was a pressurized room just down the hall that was actually kept to SATP if needed. Further down the hall was the STP room, where special pressurized suits were mandatory. He wasn’t about to change the temperature he always kept it at just because some super soldier with a fast metabolism decided it was too hot.
“What’s the temperature, JARVIS?” Steve asked.
“Four degrees below SATP,” Tony said quickly. He casually manipulated a hologram of the Iron Man suit and leaned back in his desk chair just to seem cool.
Steve looked at him quizzically.
“Twenty one degrees celsius, or just below seventy degrees fahrenheit,” JARVIS explained when Tony didn’t elaborate.
“JARVIS just wants to avoid saying sixty-nine,” Tony scoffed, closing the hologram and standing up behind his table. “You’re more mature than that, J. It’s sixty-nine-point-eight fahrenheit. Or two-hundred-ninety-four-point-fifteen Kelvin. We should all just operate under Kelvin. Metric, imperial, fuck that.”
“Who’s Calvin?” Steve asked.
“Kelvin. K-E-L-V-I-N. Came up with the standard international unit of thermodynamics,” Tony rambled. “Named it after him. Like Tesla. Or Pascal. Or Newton.”
“Newton! I know Newton,” Steve said suddenly, proud of himself.
“Regular Einstein,” Tony joked. “Anyway. It is not hot. If you want, hot you should walk into the SATP room. And if you want cold, try on one of those suits in storage unit thirty-four and take a step into the STP room.”
“I don’t know half of the stuff that comes out of your mouth, Tony,” Steve said, rolling his eyes. “I’m just saying; it’s not the forties. We no longer have to stand naked in the cellar to feel cool. Let’s crank up the AC.”
“I’m cold,” Tony pouted. “I have a genuine health condition. I’m cold.”
“What, Hashimoto's?”
“Iron deficiency,” Tony stated unabashedly. “How do you know what Hashimoto’s is?”
“I’m old, not stupid.” Steve frowned, crossing his arms over his chest defensively. “Hashimoto died in 1934. I was tested for everything under the sun, before and after I took the serum.”
“Oh. Right.” Tony felt stupid. Sometimes it was easy to forget that Steve had been so sick before he became, well, a superhuman.
“How are you iron deficient? You’re Iron Man,” Steve asked, a grin forming on his face.
“Hardee har har.” Tony rolled his eyes. Natasha had said the same thing when she had found out. “Lingering effects of a blood disorder I once had. Unfortunately, unlike you, I am human.”
Steve shrugged, not asking any further. “If you’re so cold, here,” he said, tossing his sweater to Tony and hitting him in the face.
Tony pulled back, the smell of the sweater so strong that it sent Tony into a dizzying spiral. One second Steve had thrown a sweater at his head, and the next he was burying his face into his mother’s shawl, crying and five years old again, begging to not be sent away to boarding school. It happened so fast, the emotional whiplash leaving him in shock, staring at the far wall as the sweater fell to his feet and the scent left his nose
“Tony?” Steve asked when Tony didn’t retort, or even respond to being hit in the face by a piece of fabric.
Tony forced himself into the present. He felt dizzy. “Yeah?”
“You… alright?”
“Yeah,” Tony said hoarsely. He picked up the sweater, nearly falling over when he bent down, resisting the urge to bury his face in it. “What detergent do you use?”
“Uh, why? Does it stink?” Steve asked, digging for his phone in his back pocket. “I think I might have it written down for whenever I go shopping. Hold on.”
Tony was silent as Steve searched his phone. He stared at the sweater, how innocent it looked, a navy blue crewneck. How could something as inconspicuous as that make a certain funny feeling fill his chest? He felt strange; not quite pleased to find a long-lost childhood scent, but also not indifferent, and also not outright sad. It was a mixture of familiar melancholy and hurt that made Tony’s heart ache whenever a sudden memory forced its way to the front of his train of thought.
He was young, he remembered barely coming up to his mother’s waist, his grabby hands begging to be held. He was five when he was first sent to boarding school. He felt the gritty, swollen and raw eyes after crying for hours, in the car, in bed, silently behind textbooks too large and heavy for his little hands to hold. Then, he grew up, and realized that Jarvis wasn’t going to come back and he may as well get to work and move on. Mom and dad didn’t love him. Whatever.
Tony’s heart hurt for his younger self.
“Spring meadow. Three in one, whatever that means,” Steve said, ripping Tony out of his thoughts. “Why?”
“It smells like the detergent we used when I was younger,” Tony shrugged, ignoring how unsteady he suddenly felt. He threw the sweater on over his shirt, the scent overwhelming him. He felt jittery and anxious and sick, stuck in the sweater, stuck in the smells.
“I don’t think Tide pods were a thing back then,” Steve said, joking.
“I know. But the scent certainly had been invented,” Tony said, still a little disoriented. “Uh, I need to go.”
“You okay?” Steve asked, suddenly serious.
Tony pulled the sweater off. He needed to get out. His stupid genius brain wasn’t working and he couldn’t think of a proper excuse. “I need to go,” he repeated.
“Wait.” Steve stopped him, concerned. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m fine. I’m cold. I need a warm shower or something,” Tony said, his mouth dry. He flung the sweater at Steve and walked away quickly, leaving him in the workshop alone while Tony made a beeline for the elevator.
Jesus Christ, Tony thought to himself sourly, pushing the button to his floor. Behind the safety of the closed doors, he sighed and leaned heavily against the handrail. The elevator was all mirrors for walls, and he frowned at his reflection; he looked too old.
He remembered Steve’s confused face at his sudden departure and, cursing under his breath, he reached for his phone.
Had a random idea about the cold and quantum levitation and superconducting magnets in the Iron Man suit, Tony texted Steve. Sorry for walking out on you.
Sure, Steve texted back almost immediately, letting Tony know that he didn’t believe his bullshit. Hope you’re okay. Sorry if I said anything wrong.
I’m iron deficient. I was cold.
Uh huh.
Tony just left it alone. He stepped out of the elevator on his floor and found his bedroom. He sat on the edge of his bed, his head in his hands.
Keep it together, Tony thought angrily. What the fuck, Stark. This can’t happen.
But he was only five. He remembered the smile on his father’s face as he ripped Tony from his mother and shoved him in the car with two suitcases. He remembered the bright grin as the car pulled away, Tony looking back at his mom and dad still in the doorway with tears streaming down his face. He remembered the way his father put his arm around his mother’s waist, bringing her closer, their love obviously rekindled as the burden on both of them disappeared into the horizon.
I didn’t deserve to feel that way, Tony thought suddenly, bitterly.
His heart hurt.
–
It didn’t become an issue again. Tony didn’t let it. Steve didn’t mention Tony’s random walking out again, and naturally, Tony didn’t bring it up either.
But whenever Steve got too close, Tony was suddenly filled with memories. Watching the cleaners do laundry. Climbing into clean bedsheets. Ana Jarvis wrapping Tony in warm towels, fresh out of the dryer as she put his clothes away. Going through his parents’ closet after they had died. The large donation pile. Tony was reminded of the old mansion, with the walk-in closet in the master bedroom filled with dresses that his mother used to wear. He just couldn’t bear to donate them.
Therefore, Tony needed to avoid that stupid scent, and by extension, Steve. Sometimes Tony would just breathe through his mouth to save him the trip down memory lane. But after about two weeks of Steve bothering him and Tony not having the heart to push him away, Tony decided to at least try. He came up with a plan to desensitize himself. He bought the same Tide pods that Steve used, and at least once a day, he’d open the large, orange container and take a big inhale.
It was ridiculous. He was basically huffing laundry detergent– and it wasn’t even working. The scent still left him with his head in his hands, sitting in a dark room, contemplating his childhood. The sinking feeling in his chest would return without fail each time. It was awful. He was addressing issues long in the past that didn’t need addressing anymore.
At least he got better at hiding what he was feeling; he “recovered” faster, and could snap himself out of it more easily. One time, Pepper walked in on him while he was sitting in the armchair, lost in thought, and he quickly pretended to be asleep. What other explanation would he have for sitting in a dark room at four in the afternoon on a Sunday? Almost getting caught like that did kind of wake him up a bit at least, because he realized how idiotic the whole thing was and relocated the Tide pods to the staff laundry room. Someone else would use them.
It wasn’t an issue until it was. Until Tony got slammed into a building by a crane and Steve got shot in the arm. Then it became a real, real issue rather than just a one-off thing that he could ignore. As in, Tony could recognize that this response to stimuli that reminded of his childhood was not normal, and maybe he needed psychiatric help.
Natasha, the only one not injured out of the three to be on the mission, single-handedly defeated villain of the week, collected her boys, and got them into the quinjet all under fifteen minutes. It was incredibly impressive and Tony owed her a million new shoes.
“I need you to tend to Steve while I get us out of here,” she instructed Tony, who was somewhat on his feet. His faceplate was up, but the rest of the Iron Man suit was still holding his body upright. Steve was in a seat with his entire left side covered in blood. Priorities.
With all of his injured neck (whiplash! Hooray!), Tony nodded stiffly while she hopped into the pilot’s seat. He released the armour and stepped out of it, but stumbled and had to grab onto Steve’s chair due to the sudden lack of support– God, he really hoped he didn’t rotate a vertebrae or something serious like that.
“Let’s see it, Cap,” he said, kneeling down, ignoring the protest of his back.
Steve gingerly withdrew the hand he had pressed hard against his left upper arm. Blood quickly spilled onto the floor, everywhere, and Steve still smelled like that stupid detergent he was using. The metallic, copper scent mingled with the clean smell and–
Tony was fifteen. There was a cut from his eyebrow dripping blood into his eyes. He could taste blood in his mouth as well– he had been biting the inside of his cheek, something he still did when upset. The remnants of the plate that his dad had thrown at him were strewn across the floor, and Jarvis was pressing a paper towel to Tony’s forehead.
“Tony?”
“Mhm?” Tony asked, blinking twice. He had been staring at Steve’s arm, zoning out. Steve was bleeding. Right. That was the issue at hand. Tony was biting the inside of his cheek.
“You’re very pale,” Steve said.
Tony shook his head. He could still feel where the cut was on his face, and it stung, but Jarvis kept pressure on it even though Tony kept drawing away. “I’m fine.”
At those words, Natasha looked over at them both from the pilot’s seat and Tony avoided her gaze. He grabbed a fat wad of gauze from the first aid kit and tried to focus, continuing to bite the inside of his cheek as he did so. He examined Steve’s arm to look for the source of the blood. A teammate was bleeding out. Focus.
Jarvis’s hand was cold against Tony’s warm face. Jarvis ran cold. Tony ran cold most of the time as well, but his face was flush with anger and shame and he could feel it course through his veins. His throat was raw from the shouting and angry tears were streaming down his face. Rage bubbled up inside of him, because his father could just walk away while Tony was left on the floor, surrounded by glass, feeling as completely and utterly broken inside as the plate.
“There’s an exit wound,” Tony said, his words far away. He felt like he was going to puke.
“Good,” Steve said in relief.
The shards of glass were digging into Tony’s hands. He had a cut on his chin as well, but it wasn’t bleeding as much as the one on his forehead.
Tony tried catching Natasha’s eye from behind Steve; he was sure he looked panicked enough, he just needed her to look at him. He needed out. Steve had gotten shot and Tony was going to make this about himself if he didn’t get out of here soon, he could feel some sort of emotion rise inside of him. Tony tried to telepathically get her to make eye contact, but she was still trying to get the quinjet high enough.
Tony layered the gauze around Steve’s upper left arm, covering both the entrance and exit wound. He used a tensor bandage to keep it all together. He realized with growing horror that his hands were shaking; a sort of tremor that was more embarrassing than impairing his work. He quickly busied himself by securing the tensor bandage with impatient hands. Steve was going to notice, he was sure. He pressed his hand harder against the wound, the way Jarvis was doing to his forehead.
“Put pressure,” Tony instructed, his mouth dry and his words blocky.
Steve’s hand covered his, on top of the wound, and Tony withdrew his hand like he’d been burned. He looked at Tony quizzically, but Tony had finally caught Natasha’s eye from behind him.
“Stark, I need you for a sec,” Natasha said nonchalantly, standing up from the pilot chair.
Tony straightened up. He almost couldn’t feel the pain in his back due to adrenaline and his legs felt like jello. “You’re gonna be okay?”
“Yeah. Thanks,” Steve said, his voice unsure. He kept his hand clasped tight on his arm.
Tony tried to even out his breathing, but it just wasn’t happening. He was angry. Shame built up inside of him, and the glass shards in his skin provided little relief from the mental agony he was in. His feet took him to Natasha, automatically, mechanically, feeling Steve’s gaze bore into the back of his neck. Jarvis’s hands were ghosts.
He reached Natasha after what seemed like years, who pulled the dividing curtain closed behind him so it was just them in the cockpit. Concerned was a rare look on her, but she pulled it off.
“You okay?” she asked, eyeing him.
“Yep,” Tony breathed out.
“You sure?”
Tony’s veins felt like live wires beneath his skin. He felt too hot and too cold at the same time. He could still smell blood and his brain unhelpfully supplied him with the ghost of that stupid detergent, and fuck, he wanted Jarvis so bad. He closed his eyes and clasped his hands tight together, rubbing them together, and there was no glass that he could feel but he swore there were little pinpricks in his skin. His hands were cold.
“Sit down,” Natasha said, gently guiding Tony into a sitting position on the pilot chair.
“I’m okay,” Tony mumbled, totally not okay.
“I’m sure you are. What can I do to help you?” Natasha asked, right in front of Tony, and she smelled like Natasha and that helped so much.
“Stay,” Tony gasped out pathetically, grasping onto her hands. He opened his eyes.
She was very much Natasha. While there was some certain distrust– the whole double-agent Natashalie thing still kind of shook Tony a bit– she was rooted to Tony’s thirties/forties. When she was with the Avengers, she tended to stick to… being herself. She never dyed her hair some wild colour. She always smelled the same. She spoke in the same voice and used the same vocabulary. Most importantly, she did not exist in his life when he was fifteen and getting plates thrown at him.
He kept his grasp tight on her hands. Her hands were very much her own hands. They weren’t old and weathered like Jarvis’s was; they were surprisingly soft, with calluses from her job. Her face was her own, her hair the same red as it has always been. She smelled like battle and grime and lavender. And then Tony was back in the cockpit, in the pilot seat, his hands and clothes covered in Steve’s blood.
“I’m good,” Tony said with finality. His voice shook less. His hands shook less. He was still gripping onto Natasha’s, though.
“Take a minute,” she instructed.
Tony did. Then he took a minute more, counting the seconds in his head. At a hundred and twenty seconds, he let go of her hands and collapsed backward in the chair, drained.
“I’m gonna go check on Rogers. I’ll be right back,” she said, giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
Tony nodded. He stared out the window. He didn’t know how he was feeling. Empty.
Natasha was gone maybe five minutes, maybe twenty. It didn’t matter to Tony. He flexed and relaxed his hands, but they were so cold from underlying panic, and red. They were so red. Blood was drying under his fingernails and whenever he balled his hands up into fists, the red would flake, little tiny squares and other geometrical shapes fitting together like pieces of a puzzle.
“He’s alright,” Natasha said, emerging from the dividing curtain. “What happened to you?”
“Dunno,” Tony supplied unhelpfully.
“You should talk about it.”
Tony knew he should. But there was no point. There had been loads of things thrown at Tony before and after that fateful plate; things like wrenches. Newspapers. Candlesticks. He ran his fingers over the scar left on his eyebrow, but Steve’s dried blood got caught on his skin and Tony rubbed and rubbed until he was sure the blood was gone.
He leaned forward in the chair with his elbows on his knees, staring at nothing. He was checking out, he could feel it. There was nothing he could do to stop it. He could smile wearily and force out a word or two, but ultimately, he was lost inside of his own head. His stupidstupidstupid head.
He was broken. Always had been.
Natasha walked over to him and gently pulled his stupid head towards her until he was resting against her hip. She ran her fingers through his hair as he stared, unblinkingly, at the vast sky ahead of them. It kept him grounded, somewhat; touch always seemed to. He felt like a shell, and she was being so nice.
Eventually, Tony got kicked out so that she could pilot. Eventually, Tony sat next to Steve, trying to make polite conversation while his brain threatened to consume him every ten minutes. Eventually, Steve asked if he was alright.
To which Tony had no answer, but answered still automatically, because he was fine. His mouth was moving before his brain was thinking and he was on autopilot. Steve gave up with this funny/sad look on his face, and the next thing Tony knew, he was in his ensuite, showering in scalding hot water, and his tears were getting mingled with the stream and he couldn’t tell if the sting was from crying or the soap in his eyes.
So many nights. So many nights where Tony nursed his injuries alone in his bedroom, as young as nine.
Some things never change, Tony thought bitterly, finally tending to the bruises that decorated his spine.
–
When Tony read the report for the mission, he pulled a face at what he saw.
Stark suffered a moderate anxiety attack after tending to Rogers’ injury (mentioned above). Romanoff assessed and concluded that it is unlikely to repeat nor have an effect on future missions. Follow up and further action is recommended but not necessary.
It was Natasha’s handwriting. Tony scoffed and tore it up. It was simply a photocopy, so it had no effect, but it still made him feel better.
–
Steve had read the report. That was the only reason Tony could think of that would lead him into being overly kind to Tony these past few days. Tony, in return, locked himself in the workshop for a day so he didn’t have to talk to anyone.
Alas, Steve had made him soup, and Tony couldn’t stand the kicked-puppy look on Steve’s face.
Without thinking, Tony grabbed the spoon and shoved a spoonful in his mouth. He immediately realized his mistake when it tasted like Jarvis putting food on the table, after Howard had forgotten to feed Tony while Maria was off on a social call (week long getaway). Usually the cooks didn’t work on the weekends. That soup was the best thing Tony had eaten in three days because he hadn’t eaten since lunch on friday; Tony had been sleeping while Howard had an early dinner and sent the cooks home, and Jarvis had visited on Sunday, midday. Tony was four years old.
“Is it that bad?” Steve asked, watching as Tony’s grim smile no doubt slid into some blank expression.
He felt sick. His skin felt itchy and he couldn’t deal with all of these tastes and smells that brought back these vivid memories. Steve needed to stop this.
“It’s good,” Tony forced out, but he was going to puke. His mouth was filled with saliva. “Sorry,” he apologized and stood up, making a beeline for the washroom.
He fell to his knees in front of the toilet, retching. He gripped the sides of the toilet bowl as he grimaced, his chest on fire. After a moment filled with the most painful dry heaves he had ever felt, Tony reached up to flush the toilet and rested his head miserably on the toilet seat.
“Are you sick?” Steve said, handing Tony a glass of water. The gesture was so unfamiliar that Tony turned away to gag, his hand flying to his mouth automatically.
He swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and took the glass from Steve. “Should’ve told you. Sorry. Couldn’t keep anything down yesterday either, decided not to risk it today,” Tony lied hoarsely. He took a sip and it soothed his throat.
“Yeah. You should’ve told me yesterday when you first realized,” Steve scolded. “Why did you try it if you knew it was going to make you sick?”
“Didn’t want to hurt your feelings,” Tony said sheepishly. That part wasn’t a lie, at least.
“You should rest.” Steve was too close to him. He had a hand on Tony’s shoulder.
“I’m fine. As long as I don’t eat, I don’t hurl. I’m good,” Tony said curtly. He just wanted Steve to go away.
But Steve stayed. He forced Tony to bed, feeding him saltines, doing all of the things his mother did while Steve himself was sick, Tony was told. But Tony could only think of Young Tony, sick, in bed, with no one to take care of him. He felt feverish even though he knew he wasn’t actually ill. He could blame the glazed look on his face and the glassy eyes on sickness.
He cried silently, his tears falling from his eyes, to his temples, and finally landing on the pillow by his ear with a soft plop, and Steve was passed out in the armchair with his head back and his mouth agape.
–
Tony’s latest work bender had Steve bringing Tony down food every night.
It would’ve been a kind gesture if it didn’t send Tony into some sort of spiral most of the time. Steve’s reuben sandwiches tasted like Jarvis shoving food down Tony’s throat after he had neglected to eat for five days straight. One bite and he was suddenly in bed, the blankets a mess, his room a mess, and in the middle of it all, Tony, who hadn’t left his room in those five days straight, who hadn’t showered in longer, who was severely dehydrated and malnourished, who had given up.
Tony had been broken for a very long time.
Steve was going to send Tony into a depressive episode if he wasn’t careful. Tony was due for one anyway. He could feel himself falling apart at the seams every time he thought about how miserable his younger self was.
He smiled and choked down the sandwich, chasing it with a full cup of coffee to get rid of the taste it left in his mouth. He felt like sitting down and never getting up. He wanted to crawl into his bed and never wake up.
But as much as Steve was nice to Tony, Tony himself was an asshole. He needed to double down on his efforts to keep Steve Rogers away at all costs. He didn’t want Steve around to fuck up his brain and make him think things he didn’t want to be thinking, so he acted out in the way he knew would make Steve despise him. He didn’t follow rules and recklessly tossed himself into battle, endangering himself. He didn’t listen. He never shut up on comms and kept the innuendos flowing so much that even Clint had told him to shut the fuck up, Stark, or one of my arrows might find you instead.
Steve’s words cut like knives and he sounded just Howard sometimes, so much so that Tony braced for impact whenever Steve yelled at him. The workshop was a dangerous place for Steve to get angry. Tony expected the hammer by his hand to be thrown at him, the blowtorch, the coffee mug. He flinched whenever Steve raised his hands to make an elaborate point, making Tony feel smaller and smaller.
Because Tony was broken. But he hadn’t been born that way; he had learned. He learned to expect a black eye whenever voices were raised. That made him want to die.
“I’m not going to hit you,” Steve said, hurt and confused, all anger gone. He brought his hand down gently, slowly, so awfully considerate.
Tony mentally groaned. Flinching was an automatic reaction; he couldn’t for the life of him control it. Seeing that reaction seemed to bring Steve closer to Tony, which was the very last thing he wanted.
He pitied Tony. Tony knew that because every time he tried to pick a fight with him, Steve wouldn’t even raise his voice, much less his hands. And he still kept bringing down food whenever Tony spent more than ten hours in his workshop. It was getting to be excessive.
He was twelve years old again whenever Steve wanted anything to do with him.
The breaking point was when Steve made penne a la vodka. He said he had been experimenting with recipes. While the penne was boxed, the vodka sauce was homemade, and Tony caught a whiff of it as the tupperware container was placed on his workbench and couldn’t breathe anymore.
This was his mother, using up Howard’s vodka, making pasta sauce while Tony sat at the kitchen table and watched her. She kept telling him to go do something useful, and not watch her cook because she hated when someone watched her cook, but he just wanted to be in her presence. He really did love her. But she yelled at Jarvis to take him away and Tony cried in Jarvis’ arms, mourning the family he never had. And a few hours later, a serving of pasta was placed at Tony’s spot at the kitchen table, long gone cold but as an apology.
He was eight years old again, doubting his mother’s love. And Steve was looking at him expectantly.
Tony looked up at Steve, his mouth open to say something, but the corners of his eyes pricked and his vision got blurry. He blinked quickly and looked down at the pasta.
Steve’s hopeful expression dropped and he furrowed his eyebrows. “Tony?”
“Don’t look at me,” Tony said, staring down at the cold tupperware container in front of him; he had a microwave in the lab, he could use it to heat it up, but it was cold pasta, like his mother’s. It was always cold pasta, because Tony took a long time to stop crying, and this was exactly the same. Deja vu. He was crying over pasta.
“What’s wrong?” Steve asked gently.
“Nothing,” Tony said shortly, ignoring the tears that finally spilled over his eyelids. He wiped at them.
“What’s wrong?” Steve repeated in the same manner.
Tony’s bottom lip wobbled and he caught it between his teeth. Steve moved closer and he smelled like that stupid detergent and Tony was having a full-blown breakdown over a serving of cold pasta.
Steve brought a stool over and sat beside Tony. He pushed the cold pasta away from them both and tried to make eye contact, but Tony was still looking down at the tabletop. “How can I help?”
Tony blinked rapidly, pinched the skin between his thumb and index finger, squeezed his eyes shut, tried every trick in the book but couldn’t for the life of him stem the flood of tears from his eyes. His heart was physically hurting, a dull kind of pain that made him feel so heavy and dragged down. He curled into himself, hunching his shoulders, as if just making himself smaller would ease the hollowness in his chest.
He was hurting for who he was, and now that he was an adult, he could see the neglect so clearly. Every memory he had was bad, and everything Steve did reminded Tony of something. He was broken. He had been broken from such a young age, and younger Tony didn’t deserve to feel the way he did. He was just a kid. He didn’t need to be strong. He was just a kid.
Steve hesitantly made contact with Tony’s back, his hands making awkward movements that vaguely resembled an attempt to comfort, but gained confidence once Tony realized that he didn’t want to pull away. The touch was grounding and Tony leaned into it, until his entire body was pressed into Steve’s chest and he was breathing in that same scent.
It didn’t make him feel so sick anymore. He breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth, inhaling the smell. He felt like he was seven again, but this time, he had warm arms around him.
“You wanna talk?” Steve asked. His voice was a low rumble that Tony could feel through his chest.
Tony said nothing.
“Something’s bothering you. I’ve known for weeks. You just, you just started getting so angry all the time. You were looking for a fight,” Steve admitted, his thumb drawing circles on Tony’s arm. “I wasn’t going to give one to you, but you were always so worked up, and I didn’t know how to help. I’m sorry if bringing you food isn’t the answer. I just wanted an excuse to check in on you.”
Wasn’t this what he wanted? He just wanted someone to notice. He wanted someone to see past the anger and the drugs and the acting out. He wanted someone to see the hurt underneath it all. But it was more than twenty years too late for Tony to be saved.
“I feel like something broke in me a long time ago,” Tony said shakily, as soon as he could trust himself to speak without breaking off into sobs again. “And now it’s too late to fix it. Every time I think I’ve gotten better, it gets worse. Like, maybe if I had gotten therapy at a younger age. Maybe if someone had noticed how self-aware I was at ten years old. How much I was aware of opinions and hatred and how I was perceived in other people’s eyes. Maybe I could’ve been salvaged, glued back together while the cracks were all superficial. It’s too late now. I’ve been broken for god knows how long. All life lessons I’ve learned have taught me that no matter how hard I try, I’m just going to be broken. That’s who I am. No matter how much I grow, there’s always going to be something wrong with me. I’m always going to hate myself.”
Steve was silent, and Tony worried that he had said too much. But now it was out in the open. Everything that had been bothering him.
“It’s not too late, Tony,” Steve said gently, finally.
“I’ve done the pills. I’ve done the therapy,” Tony said sourly. “I can’t be fixed. I just always feel like shit.”
Steve was silent, still holding onto him.
“I don’t even think I want to be happy anymore. I’ve been broken my whole life. It’s a part of me. Who am I without the occasional suicidal thought to keep me on my toes?” Tony smiled weakly, coldly. He drew away from Steve, feeling cold where he was once pressed against his warm chest. “Sorry. I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”
“I think you’re more than your sadness,” Steve said, hurt, for some reason. “I know you. And I know how kind you are to people you care about. I know how you treat your robots and machines like people.”
Tony felt the tears coming back. He closed his eyes and just listened.
“I also know how I worry when you don’t eat, or sleep. I know how happy I am to see you. I know how grateful I am for your generosity, for letting me stay in your tower free of rent, for gracing me with your company and entertaining me with your antics and words. I know how impressed I am with your knowledge. I know how I will never grasp the full extent of your genius. I know how my heart hurts for you when I know you’re sad and alone a lot of the time,” Steve continued, an extensive list, one Tony didn’t know that he needed to hear so badly.
He couldn’t speak. His breath was coming up in hiccups. Steve pulled Tony back into his arms.
“You’re so much more than your sadness,” Steve continued. “Even if it’s been a big part of your life. It’s okay to let go of it.”
“You, you keep saying things. And doing things,” Tony blurted out. “Like giving me food or whatever. And it just, it reminds me so much of things that happened a long time ago, and I just think about how broken I was back then and how nobody cared, and I didn’t deserve to feel that way. I was a child. If I was fucked up, it’s because they made me like that, right? Now that I’m older, I can see it, but I spent the majority of my life wondering what the hell I did to make me feel so shitty all the time and I just– I don’t know. It’s not a big deal. I’m crying over cold pasta because it reminds me of my mom getting mad at me. I’m being stupid. I’m older than this. It’s not a big deal.”
“It is a big deal,” Steve said immediately. “If this is causing you this much pain, then this is a big deal.”
“It’s just not fair,” Tony continued, finding that he couldn’t stop. “I could’ve been normal. But I’m fucked up and I’ve been fucked up for years and it’s not even mostly my fault. It’s not fair. I could’ve been happy.”
Steve’s presence was warm and Tony felt small.
–
Steve changed his laundry detergent.
Tony should’ve been grateful. Happy, almost. But he wasn’t.
“If it reminds you of bad memories, then I don’t want to use it,” Steve said for the umpteenth time. Tony kept bringing it up.
“You shouldn’t have to change for me,” Tony said guiltily. He tinkered with one of the holograms on his lab bench. “You don’t get it.”
Steve sighed, and sat down on the workshop couch. “I think we need to have a grown-up conversation. Come sit beside me.”
Tony ditched the hologram and walked to the couch with an air of a kid getting into trouble. He sat down on the opposite side of the couch. “I am a grown-up, having a conversation. What now?”
“You’re an adult.”
“Yes,” Tony confirmed with a raised eyebrow.
“Then ditch this pathetic nobody understands me BS, and try me,” Steve said, stern but not angry. “I bought a different detergent because you cried in my arms for an hour about how my old one makes you miserable. Why do you want me to switch back?”
Tony sighed and held his head in his hands. It was so much easier to just dismissively state that no one understood him than try to explain.
“Use your big boy words. Come on,” Steve said, keeping the conversation light.
Tony mumbled something into his palm.
“Louder.”
“I don’t want to be a burden,” he admitted. “You, changing for me, it just makes me feel guilty. You shouldn’t have to stop cooking or buy something else just because I get a little worked up.”
“It was giving you anxiety attacks and may I reiterate, you cried in my arms for an hour,” Steve said, confused but not frustrated.
“I know,” Tony said with a huff. “I just– I just feel like a burden. You don’t get it.”
“It’s okay to take up space,” Steve said gently. “It’s okay to ask for things. Accommodations.”
“Do you know how stupid this all is?” Tony blurted out, angry with himself. He stood up and paced in front of the couch. “I can’t have people smell a certain way or else I’ll break down. This is so fucking stupid! I’m weak. The real world won’t cater to that, so you shouldn’t either. I need to toughen up. Fuck.”
“Tony–”
“You. You’ve been through hell and back. I’m just a poor wittle rich kid. Don’t you get it? I don’t deserve to be accommodated. It’s so fucking stupid. It’s like getting triggered by the colour green. It’s going to be everywhere. If you can’t go outside without freaking out, then you shouldn’t be going outside. Get some therapy instead. Don’t expect other people to cater to you,” Tony ranted, still pacing.
“Okay, let’s follow your advice then,” Steve said with a shrug.
“What?”
“Therapy. If you don’t want other people to cater to you, then start going to therapy. Maybe they’ll help you see that I want you to take up space in my life, idiot,” Steve teased.
“I need to toughen up. I don’t want other people’s help for that,” Tony deadpanned.
“I want you to feel comfortable in your own home.”
“I just feel like I’m asking too much!” Tony exclaimed, his hands in the air. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Well, I happen to like this new scent better anyway,” Steve said, spreading out on the couch now that Tony wasn’t sitting on it. “So I’m not going back. And after you thew up my soup and cried over a sandwich, I don’t actually want to make any more food for you.”
Tony felt oddly hurt. He stopped pacing. “Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“I, I don’t mind when you make food for me,” Tony said hesitantly.
“Well, good thing I like cooking,” Steve said with a slight smile. “But you haven’t exactly conveyed your appreciation very well.”
“Oh. Thanks, I guess,” Tony supplied, confused. Steve had a tone of voice that meant he was trying to get Tony to say something.
“You can do better than that,” Steve smirked.
“Thank you.”
“There we go. That’s all you have to do,” Steve said with finality and a wave of his hand. “I did something for you. I changed my laundry detergent. I sure didn’t have to, but I wanted to so that you’d feel better. I’ll change my cooking repertoire so it no longer includes foods that remind you of things. You always get so defensive when someone does something for you, but all you have to do is say thanks and move on.”
Tony felt defeated. Stumped.
“You’re allowed to ask for things. You’re allowed to have opinions, needs. Nobody will think less of you. Did I change after you broke down over a sandwich?”
“No, other than the fact that you keep bringing it up,” Tony stressed with a shake of his head. “Face it; you pity me.”
“I don’t pity you! See? This is you getting defensive,” Steve pointed out.
Tony sat down on the couch heavily. Steve was right. “Sorry.”
Steve sighed, his brow furrowed in thought. He turned his body so he was facing Tony. “Listen; I get overwhelmed in supermarkets.”
Tony raised an eyebrow, signalling for him to continue.
“So many choices. Yeah, I want pasta, but why are there four different brands that make penne rigate? Why are there a billion different kinds of apple? Aren’t they all just apples?” Steve continued, unabashed, open, vulnerable, everything Tony was not. “Out of all the things to overwhelm me after waking up in a different century, it had to be supermarkets.”
“I mean, it makes sense. You grew up in the 1930s–”
“You’re missing the point,” Steve interrupted. “Clint does my grocery shopping.”
“How did you get him to do that?” Tony asked incredulously. “Barton wouldn’t make me coffee for money.”
“I asked,” Steve said with a slight smirk. “I told him the exact same thing I’m telling you. Supermarkets are overwhelming. And he said sure, no problem, and I thanked him.”
“What a brilliant anecdote,” Tony said dryly.
“See? We’re connecting. Avoiding grocery stores is stupid. I’m afraid of many other stupid things, too. Automatic toilets, for one,” Steve said sheepishly.
“Well, it’s not stupid; there’s like, a logical reason behind avoiding grocery stores,” Tony explained, shaking his head. “And I mean, everyone’s afraid of what they don’t know. I can show you how an automatic toilet works, or at least put in manual toilets in the offices; I know they’re all automatic there. It’s all good.”
“Oh no, I don’t want to take up your time,” Steve said, uncomfortable. “I’ll just live in fear.”
“Don’t do that,” Tony said, genuinely upset.
Steve smiled evilly at Tony, like a shark who had caught its bait. “See how the roles are reversed?”
Tony opened and closed his mouth, resembling a fish. He frowned, his eyebrows low, as if unsure what emotion to convey. Suddenly, he burst into a grin and punched Steve’s side. “You motherfucker.”
Steve rolled with it, letting out a laugh. “Got you, didn’t I?”
“Okay, okay. Fine. You’ve made your point,” Tony said, standing up again. “But I’m special and different.”
“Yeah? How?” Steve challenged, looking up at Tony.
“Breaking down over detergent is pretty idiotesque.”
“Tony, I will fully walk to a different bathroom if I notice the urinals are automatic,” Steve argued. “This is not a competition. We are not comparing.”
“I just-”
“Was I a burden to Clint when I asked him if he could go grocery shopping for me?”
“No, but-”
“Then you are not a burden to me when I make the choice to switch detergents and accommodate your palate,” Steve argued.
It was a fair point; of course the guilt still rested high in his chest, but Tony felt a little better about the stupid things that Steve insisted on doing for him.
He sighed and slumped further into the couch. “Fine. You got me. Keep your stinky detergent.”
“Thank you,” Steve said, smiling with his arms crossed; he had won, but Tony was okay with it. “But it’s not stinky. It’s cool breeze scented.”
“What the hell is that supposed to be?” Tony scoffed, side-eyeing Steve.
“Why don’t you come closer and find out?” Steve winked.