All That is Gold
Day 281
They’ve settled into their familiar clockwork rhythm. As frequently as his schedule allows, Steve comes to Tony’s lab with a cup of coffee. Sometimes, he does his paperwork; other times, Tony uses his muscles to move things around the lab.
They are… awkward friends. Some of the jokes they used to share don’t quite fit anymore in light of recent event, leaving terse silences that Tony extricates himself from. He doesn’t know if they can ever go back to being more than friends – despite the undeniable attraction he still feels for Steve, he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be ready to trust Steve with his heart again.
There are still some ways where they fit like they used to, though, and in those moments where Steve shows Tony a video of Sam’s atrocious falcon costume, or when Butterfingers proudly presents to Tony a mess of colored lines Steve taught him to scribble.
But there are lots of little things that are... off. Steve stiffens whenever Tony accidentally touches him, and he waits for Tony to wave him in the lab before he enters. Where Steve used to deftly shy away from any talk about the war or his past before Peter, he starts bringing bits and pieces of it into their conversations. I used the Stark AdheSeal Bandages to stop Bucky’s bleeding and save his life, Steve had said when Tony had rambled its flaws.
It had taken Tony aback, because when the news was wildly spreading about the 107th’s miraculous rescue and Steve’s heroic, life-saving acts as doctor, Stark Industries had faced backlash over their stolen weapons that were used against the American battalion. He had always known that Steve was disturbed by Tony’s past and haunted by his own past. For Steve to begin speaking of it openly made Tony realise that perhaps they didn’t know each other as well as they thought, and it sparked something in Tony to learn that not every mistake he made in the past led to death, that Steve was willing to share that part of him with Tony.
The most disconcerting change, however, was how Steve would cut himself off mid-laugh, swallowing back the laughter as if he’d done something wrong. In fact, he’s doing it right now.
It irks Tony, and it’s well past time Tony asked Steve about it. After all, communication is, apparently, the key to everything. “Why’d you stop?”
Steve’s eyes widen, caught between surprise and panic. “Stop what?”
“Laughing,” Tony drily says, swiping away the blue hologram between them so he can read Steve’s face better. “You’ve been weird. You stop laughing, and you’re shifty and fidgety and you stand at the door like a goddamn vampire stranger until I invite you in. If you’re uncomfortable here, you don’t have to come, you know?”
Tony really doesn’t want to fight with Steve, but, really, it’s inevitable with the way they both crash, their jagged edges hurting and cutting into each other before finding a place to fit together.
Shifting awkwardly in his chair, Steve runs a hand through his hair, his fingers catching at some of the unbrushed tangles there. “I don’t come in because I wait for your permission.” His words are halting but steady, as if he’s thought of them carefully and is weighing their sins against his tongue, and Tony can only stare as Steve goes on, “I used to never ask for it from you, just assumed and went on. During your welcoming party at Peggy’s I just assumed you’d need help. That first fight of ours – about the young woman and her child – I assumed I knew better. And with Peter and you, I assumed so many things so blindly, and I’m sorry. I need to stop assuming and to stop taking charge of everything like I’m still in the battlefield.”
What can Tony say to an admission like that? To hear such a truth given freely and sincerely hurts something in Tony, like an arm rebroken to set it right, those words dislodge a misplaced piece of Tony, shifting it just so, making it both harder and easier for Tony to breathe, to be.
“Well, consider this blanket permission for your vampire self to enter this lab, with extra special entrance privileges if you bring your little menace with you,” Tony eventually settles on saying, and it comes out less nonchalant than intended.
Even after their massive fight, Tony had never rescinded Steve’s access, and as much as Tony is still wary of Steve, Tony knows that here in his little kingdom of his creations, he’s as safe as he can be.
And knowing that Steve has so carefully restrained himself, has taken the effort to look into himself to understand and learn, it settles again something deep in Tony, as if one of their jagged edges has finally pierced deep enough to burrow itself forever in him, slotting messily in some lonely, forgotten corner of Tony’s heart, that has ached since before birth.
Day 289
Steve’s slumped against the wall across the chemical testing labs, the results crumpled into a tight ball in his hand. He’ll have to ask for another copy to be printed to give to the parents, and usually he’d feel guilty for overworking the chemists, but he can’t bring himself to really bother.
As Head of Paediatrics, Steve cherished the chance to save lives, putting smiles back on children’s faces by making their lives less painful, and giving them the chance to have better, easier lives. And the hardest part of the job is to tell their parents that their child has less than a year to live, and worse, to explain to the children themselves that they have to stay in bed, they can’t go out to enjoy the sun, to chase their dreams as their friends can.
Here, in the silence of these halls away from parents and children and patients, Steve lets himself grieve for a moment. He’s always been fond of the innocence, curiosity, idealism of children, and he cares for each of the children placed in his trust – and as much as Steve wants to mourn the young girl who desperately wants to be an astronaut, Steve cannot let himself break in front of her or her parents. So he allows himself these few stolen minutes to gather his courage.
“Hey, are you okay?”
The voice that breaks his thoughts is Tony’s, and hearing it is always enough to lift some of Steve’s mood, no matter how dark. Tony’s forehead is scrunched up in a frown, his hand loosely holding his phone as he looks pointedly at Steve’s fist.
Steve lets out a long breath, trying to steady himself and relaxing his hold on the ball of paper. “Just confirmed one of my patients has early onset Huntington’s,” he admits quietly, as if saying it quieter would make it any less horrifying, less real, less true.
Tony closes his own eyes for a second, and Steve knows that Tony shares in his grief and regret. “How long do they have?”
“Six months, seven at best.”
“God,” Tony curses, and then, spinning his phone between his fingers nervously, “do you need anything?”
Leaning his head further back on the wall to look up at the glaringly white lights, Steve murmurs, “it’s fine,” knowing that his voice betrays him but not finding the strength to hide any better. “I need to tell her parents now, anyways.”
Tony watches him for a few seconds longer and Steve makes no move to leave, still needing to put himself together. Usually, Steve doesn’t give himself too much time to linger this fear and regret and helplessness, and logically Steve knows that the girl’s genetic mutation isn’t his fault, but, regardless, it feels like a failure and it’s one failure too many on top of the mess that the past months have been.
And then, he feels Tony lean against the wall next to him, their shoulders brushing just slightly. For a moment, Steve feels even more guilt at the comfort of Tony’s touch, but Tony decides to say fiercely, with the conviction of a conqueror, “six months is more than enough time for her to dazzle the world. And enough time for us to solve the problem.”
Steve’s mind lingers on the ‘us’, and no matter how undeserving Steve is, he finds courage and hope in it, just as he has always found plenty of both in Tony.
Day 293
Every Saturday is Peter’s day with Tony, which Steve doesn’t intrude on. He drops his son off at Tony’s door in the morning and picks him back up an hour before bedtime, and those hours he spends with Peter are the highlight of Tony’s week.
Peter has yet to solve the puzzle to unlock the very heavily modified and kid-friendly AI programmed into the watch, though Tony is sure that he’ll solve it soon enough. For now, Peter is perfectly content hearing Tony talk about some obscure mechanical concept or dragging Tony to the TV to show him the latest Captain America episodes.
“I like Iron Man, too, he’s smart,” Peter had cheerfully told Tony, “and also ‘cause it’s sort of possible to make him, right, Pops?”
The three of them have come to an agreement that Mr. Dad Tony is a bit long to say, and it was Steve who suggested that Peter call Tony something like Pops or Papa. It sticks. Tony still feels a giddy sense of joy every time he hears it.
As happy as Tony was, however, he still carefully withheld the fact that Tony had in fact built a flying suit of armor for Rhodey to protect himself. Peter could learn that himself later, but Tony hadn’t been able to resist calling Rhodey anyway. As a newly designated Uncle, Rhodey takes his job very seriously and Tony suspects that Rhodey cherishes the way Peter runs circles around Tony and makes Tony grumble about too smart, too inquisitive little menaces.
Tony’s still smiling at the memory of Peter video-calling his Uncle Rhodey when one of the attendings crashes into Tony, sending Tony sprawling to the floor on his back and his tablet crashing loudly to the ground.
The shorter, bulkier man shows no remorse, face scrunched up in disgust as he just steps over Tony.
“Hey, you got a problem?” Tony shouts at the man’s retreating back. Sitting up on the floor as he is now, he’s gaining an audience, but he doesn’t care.
The man turns around, an eyebrow raised. His nametag reads B. Rumlow. “What, you going to run and cry to the Director?”
Rage burns in Tony as he stands up, not bothering with his fallen tablet, and stalks to Rumlow, Tony’s find finally recognising the name. How dare he insult Peggy like that?
“What, you scared because you don’t have Pierce to run to anymore?” Tony hisses, “how does it feel that he doesn’t give a shit about you?”
Rumlow raises his fist, and, unconsciously, Tony flinches, taking a step back. There’s a harsh laugh in his ears. “Scared of me, Stark?”
Tony most certainly isn’t, and he’s about to give Rumlow another piece of his mind when there’s suddenly a large mass of muscles between him and the asshole.
“Doctor Hill is looking for you,” the familiar voice says, and Tony can see Rumlow’s face pale, “something about how you gave the wrong dosage of propofol? Better run, Rumlow.”
And then, Steve turns to Tony as Rumlow flees. Tony’s burning anger abruptly has nowhere to go, except maybe at Steve, who has promised Tony not to assume but is here now assuming Tony needs help and God does Tony have more than enough anger stored for Steve and how he’s now trying to move Tony.
“I can protect myself well enough,” Tony snaps at Steve, who pulls Tony into an empty room away from prying eyes and locks the door, drawing down the blinds. Only then does Steve let go of Tony, raising his hands in an attempt at peace.
“I know,” Steve says, “but I don’t want to see you hurt, and Rumlow’s not worth another incident.”
“Oh, so it’s fine only if you’re the one hurting me?”
It’s cruel and childish and Tony has no excuse for it except that he’s pissed and his heart is still beating too fast, reeling from the little flashback he had, and he’s angry at himself for letting Rumlow get to him, and angry that there’s a truth to Steve’s words.
To Steve’s credit, he only clenches and unclenches his fist, closing his eyes and drawing a deep breath before he meets Tony head on again. While his gaze is steady, there’s a tremor in his voice. “I will always be sorry for that. And I watched you die four times because of it. I watched as Bruce kept ramping up the voltage and nearly declared your time of death,” Steve looks away, pressing the base of his palms against his eyes to stem the pressure building there, “and I just kept thinking and thinking – why’d you waste your life on someone like me? You shouldn’t have, and you shouldn’t waste your time on someone like Rumlow either.”
Part of Tony wants to shout and punch and just release all the pent up turmoil in his heart, because how dare Steve talk like that, how dare he assume that he knows best for Tony? He’s tired of feeling confused, of hurting and wondering and not knowing, of questioning his own self and every little thing. But Steve – Tony knows that Steve is trying his utmost, and the heartbreak in Steve’s voice is just wrong.
And at the heart of it, Tony understands the grief and guilt, understands it just as he himself still doesn’t believe he deserves forgiveness for Rumiko even after all these years.
“Steve,” Tony murmurs, one hand hovering over his shoulder, not quite daring to touch as Steve shies away, “Steve, you’ve got to forgive yourself.”
It’s wrong for Steve to think that Tony wasted his time on Steve. Before everything had gone to hell between them, Tony had been happy, truly and wholly content, and Steve is trying, really, really trying to be better now. That makes him a far better man than Rumlow will ever be, and Tony understands that Steve’s anger at Rumlow is also largely anger at his own self.
“I don’t regret being with you,” Tony admits as Steve finally meets his eyes. It’s a fragile thing, the hope that Tony finds there, mingled with anguish and sorrow and self-loathing, and for all that Tony still aches from Steve’s words, he knows that it will continue hurting if they both don’t move on, if they continue cutting at each other because of anger and guilt.
Continuing like this will only bring more regret.
So, as Tony finally lets his hand wrap around Steve’s arm, gentle and careful and firm, Tony confesses into the silence of Steve’s grief, the weight at last falling off Tony’s shoulders, “I forgive you.”
“Don’t say things you don’t mean,” Steve shakes his head, reaching up to take Tony’s hand away, but Tony refuses to be moved.
“If I can forgive you, then you have to forgive yourself,” Tony insists, squeezing Steve’s arm in an effort to show the depth of the truth. Steve hasn’t moved, just keeps staring blankly and confusedly at Tony, so Tony forges on. “I liked – really liked – having you in my life, and this awkwardness and weird protectiveness is… I don’t like it. I’m not Rhodey, you can stop being so tense around me, Mr. Muscle, and I’ve got some terms and conditions with this olive branch, but that frown of yours is disturbing and your moping is stressful to be around.”
Biting his lip, Steve asks, “I’m… sorry?”
Tony sighs, letting go of Steve in favour of throwing his hands in the air in frustration. “That’s the point! We’re both sorry and it’s not useful or practical and it’s making us miserable. So proper truce this time, exes can still be friends, right?”
Steve shrugs and Tony shrugs back, “I can have my lawyers draft up a contract if needed.”
That makes Steve snort incredulously, and it’s enough to break the tension. “Thank you,” Steve finally says, a small smile beginning to bloom cautiously across his lips, “I’d like that – to be friends – does that mean – can I, uh, can I hug you?”
“Sure?” Tony replies, because while he’s still trying to figure out this entire mess, he’s sure that Steve won’t hurt him, and that trust is enough for Tony to spread his arms as Steve carefully holds him, the warmth of Steve’s palm high on his back burning and calming. This familiar unfamiliar slotting of themselves against each other, the scent of Steve’s old-fashioned detergent lingering in his shirt, and the way Steve holds Tony differently now, with desperation and reverence clear in the gentleness of his grip.
“Thank you,” Steve murmurs over and over again. There’s a wet spot growing on the shoulder of Tony’s shirt as Steve begins to tremble. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Tony whispers back. Then, more firmly, “it’s going to be okay.”
And for the first time in a long, long while, Tony actually finds that he believes those words.
He finds that they are a promise.