i talk to god but the sky is empty
i talk to god but the sky is empty
- sylvia plath
15.
Bucky only looks up when Bruce comes into the room, tired and haggard.
"How is he," he hears Steve ask lowly, and he almost dreads the answer.
"I think he's in bed now," Bruce says quietly. He sighs, running a hand through his brunet curls before stuffing them in his pockets like he doesn't know where to put them. "This is bad."
"Yeah, no kidding," Barton says, a deep frown on his face. "I mean, really, Stark having a PTSD-induced flashback? I wouldn't have expected that in a million years."
"What are we supposed to do?" Steve says. His blue eyes are so troubled, so ashamed.
"Well, for one, we can't treat him any different," Bruce starts. Steve immediately recoils. "No," Bruce interrupts, holding a hand up. "Not finished yet. I didn't mean keep being angry with him. I meant, don't treat him like he's fragile now that we've accidentally triggered a really personal thing that we were never supposed to see. Tony already thinks we hate him - which, honestly, we act like we do, and I don't doubt some of us do - and he's just going to think we pity him if we suddenly become all buddy-buddy."
"Well...how do we tell him…" Steve trails off. "How do we tell him we don't hate him?"
"We don't, 'cause that'd be bullshit," Bucky says, startling everyone except for Natasha. "We do hate him. Let's face it." He knows it's irrational, but he's a little pissed at Stark right now. Now he can't even hate Stark without feeling sort of uncomfortable about it - at least, after seeing that raw and personal moment out in the snow - and it was way fuckin' easier when it was just him, and his anger.
Steve's face can't get any sadder in this moment, and Bucky curses the fact that his best friend can pull off such anguished puppy dog expressions. "Well, he is a jerk, Buck...but gosh, he had a flashback that might have been caused by one of us!"
Bucky sees it immediately - Steve hates feeling guilty above all else, and he sure as hell is feeling guilty now. It doesn't even matter how much he dislikes Stark - guilt is his weakness, and everyone here knows it.
"Okay," Bruce says, scrubbing a hand over his face. He looks worn out by the entire ordeal. "We go on, and we treat Tony like we would normally treat any other person we don't really know all that well. But no more slandering, or calling him out, or attacking him, alright? That includes you, Clint."
Clint rolls his eyes.
"Friends," Thor says in a voice that manages to be both quiet and authoritative at the same time. "It is with regret that I attempt to cut this conversation short, but we should retire to bed. It is late." It doesn't escape Bucky's notice that the guy looks awfully subdued, and something wrenching and old has darkened his expression.
"Thor's right," Natasha says. She is harder to read than usual. "Let's go to bed, and we can deal with this in the morning."
Led by Natasha, everyone trickles out to head to the bedroom, but Steve hangs back for a second, holding gently onto the hem of Bucky's shirt to get him to stay.
"What's up, Stevie?"
Steve just blows out a breath, looking awfully conflicted. It's a strange look on someone who almost always knows exactly where he stands. "You're okay with this, right, Buck? I can talk to the others if you're not. Especially after what Stark did to you, and you didn't really look a hundred percent on board with this… I mean, who even knows what Stark went through. He might be overreacting, or, I don't know, I just...I know it sounds bad, but I care about you and I don't want some rich prick from Malibu hurting you because we've decided to forgive him." He looks so earnest, so fierce, that Bucky can't help but chuckle a little.
"It's fine. Honestly, Stevie. And we're just bein' nice to him, it's not that we've forgiven him, so you don't even have to worry about that. If he's a douche, I'll fight him, sure, but we're just not gonna harass him. I mean, even assholes don't deserve to have to put up with PTSD flashbacks, and I've been thinkin' that we should be bigger people. Not stoop to that level just 'cause he did somethin' shitty, y'know?" Bucky quirks a tight half-smile, thinking back to his own nightmares and knowing Steve's remembering all the times he had to calm down a screaming, half-delirious Bucky in the middle of the night. For a second, something nudges at his conscience - something about guilt, something about sitting on a porch step at one am and sad-eyed boys yelling "Don't - !" - but just as quickly, it disappears.
"Okay. If you're sure." Steve still looks a little worried, so Bucky slings his metal arm around his best friend's waist and steers him gently toward the bedroom.
"I'm sure."
The next morning, Tony feels so fucking pathetic that he kind of just wants to walk down the road until he sees a car. And then jump in front of it.
Because he's, like said before, so fucking pathetic.
By the time he's fully coherent, there are noises coming from downstairs already, indicating the start of breakfast. For a moment he isn't sure whether to feel hurt or not that nobody woke him up, but then decides it's better if they don't feel like they need to take care of him. Or maybe they do pity him and thought he needed more sleep, like some kind of delicate flower. At this point, it doesn't even matter - the searing humiliation of yesterday sits like a big growth of mold inside of him, numbing him to everything he's feeling and thinking.
As soon as Tony pads downstairs, a hush stretches over the kitchen. Everyone is here except for Ms. Rogers - Sarah - and he dimly recalls someone mentioning yesterday that she's gone to visit a family friend for the day.
"Good morning," Steve says cordially. His smile crooks. "Uh - you have a seat in-between Clint and Bruce, if you want to eat with us."
Tony decidedly does not have a choice, but he mumbles thanks anyway and sits down between the archer and his science buddy.
"How are you?" Bruce asks softly as soon as Tony takes a seat next to him. "Sorry, we would've woken you, but we thought - "
"It's fine." Tony's voice is raspier than he expected, and he clears his throat, cheeks blushing red. "I guess I needed the sleep."
Clint finishes doling out eggs on his plate. It's almost painful, the way he pauses before turning to Tony. "Do you, uh, want eggs, Stark?" Tony glances Barton's way and realizes the other boy is holding out a bowl full of scrambled eggs and a serving spoon and is waiting, his silence strained but not impatient.
"Thanks," Tony mumbles, and it's so soft that for a second Barton frowns as if he hasn't heard it properly.
"No problem," Barton says after a second, sounding like he's at least trying to be friendly before turning away to talk to Thor (whose smile keeps twitching every time he looks at Tony).
Tony knows what happened yesterday is bothering them - fuck, it's bothering him for sure - and he knows, with a sick sort of feeling in his gut, that now he won't even ever know where he stands. Before it was easy, the disgust and the loathing that told him clearly what Barnes and the others thought of him and his actions. But now...what if they're nice to him? What if they're nice and Tony gets soft, starts believing they like him and then -
And then -
Don't be so melodramatic, Stark.
Anyway, Tony thinks as he tries desperately to remove the darker thoughts from his mind, Romanoff is the only one acting remotely fucking normal here. When he glances up at her, she's watching him with intent, but her face is just as impassive and indifferent as usual. It's a small grace, but in that moment he's surprisingly grateful for how poker-faced she's been toward him. Sure, maybe it means that she's more unforgiving - more of a realist - but it makes him feel normal. And normal's...good. Helps to ease his fluttering heart back into his chest.
After breakfast, they all decide to go outside and make snow forts, since the blizzard from last night's gone again and it's left tons of fresh new powdery snow. Barton suggests that they go sledding sometime soon - maybe tomorrow, after the loaders clear out the roads with their snowplows and they can drive down to the nearby hill - but for now, they content themselves with the lush whiteness spread out in front of the house.
The thing is, Tony actually enjoys this - snow sculpting or whatever - just enjoys using his hands to create in general. He's honestly a left-brained person, but if he had more of a creative gene, he'd probably be into sculpting. While he can't draw anything that isn't geometrical to save his life and doesn't really know the difference between good and bad art (and isn't that subjective anyway?), he thinks there's something quite beautiful in shaping something until it's just the way you wanted it, molding something by touching it directly, bare skin to creation.
Settling down on his knees in the snow, he begins by carving out a rectangular base with rounded edges, the blueprints for his fort already building in his mind. On a whim, he adds a landing platform to the blueprint, thinking idly that if his snow building were real, he'd want a place where planes could land and take off - a tower tall enough to let them straight into the clouds like birds. That's kind of who he is, he supposes - reaching toward the sky, wanting to touch it, always seeking more.
While building, he notices that nobody says anything, even though he can feel the glances ever so often directed his way. Tony would say it feels nice. But honestly, it's just creepy and reminds him of how he basically has to be a pathetic, pitiful loser in order for people to actually pretend to like him. He tells himself firmly not to remember why exactly these people are all suddenly acting neutral - if awkward - around him, reminds himself of the burning humiliation of last night whenever he finds himself even remotely caught up in the enjoyment of building his fort.
They're not being nice because they like you, he repeats to himself as he finishes molding the body of his tower. He can feel the eyes watching him as he moves around the ice fort. They're being nice because you're pathetic as shit, and don't you forget.
"That's really good, Stark," Rogers says from beside him, and Tony has to stifle his flinch before turning around. "I didn't know you were an artist."
Tony shrugs a shoulder, averting his eyes. "I'm not. But I'm not half-bad at building things."
Rogers tries to smile at him, but it makes Tony want to cringe - the twitch of Rogers's mouth physically hurts with how much the guy's trying to force it. "What is it?"
"Tower." Tony starts sculpting an "S" on the top platform of the tower, just for kicks.
"Ah. That's neat."
Barnes comes up beside Steve from where he's been sculpting some weird, globby mass that's more deformed snowball than whatever he's probably trying to do. Immediately, Rogers's face brightens a little in relief as Barnes slings his arm around his friend, drawling with a slight Brooklyn accent: "Not bad, Stark. Could give Stevie here a run for his money."
Steve frowns, bats him away. "Aw, shut up, Buck."
Tony watches their little tussle with more interest than he'd ever admit to. Barnes's fingers are pressing into Rogers's shoulder, Rogers has got one hand firmly on Barnes's chest and the other scrambling for purchase on Barnes's arm. He doesn't realize how much he craves that kind of non-sexual, familiar touch until he's watching them with this knot of something akin to envy and longing curdling in his gut. Did his father ever touch him like that when he was a kid and too young to remember? he wonders. Did his mother ever do anything more than hug him - maybe cuddle him, give him butterfly pecks or Inuit kisses and neck massages. Did she? Did he?
He remembers reading once in biology, back in ninth grade, that animals that went too long without touch grew up all weird and wonky. That they weren't normal and had some kind of mental issue. That animals, in general, need some sort of contact to stay sane and grounded. He's not too weird though - he doesn't think, at least - even if he's got a multitude of other issues that could probably be chalked up to getting kidnapped and brutalized instead of a little lost love anyway. So Howard must have hugged him at least once, right? Had patted a younger Tony on the head, maybe, or touched him on the shoulder? Pinched his cheek? Something, anything?
He's so focused on looking for any wisp of memory that might have indicated Howard had once comforted him, even briefly, that he doesn't notice that Barnes and Rogers have stopped smacking and pulling on each other and are looking at him. Barnes clears his throat, roughly. "You here with us, Stark?"
"Y-yeah. Sorry. Spaced out." It feels hot and stiff under Tony's jacket, and he tugs down on his collar to let in the air, accidentally elbowing his tower in the process. The "S" smears under his jacket sleeve.
There's an awkward silence for a second, but thankfully Tony is saved from having to suffer any more of this weird, tense friendliness when a snowball pegs Barnes in the back of his head. Barnes lurches forward, and he's already scooping up a ball of snow with his metal hand and turning before Tony even has enough time to register what Barton's just done.
"I've got a metal arm, asshole," Barnes shouts, flinging snow back in Barton's direction. "You may have the best aim out of all of us, but I bet I can throw harder than you now."
From beside him, Rogers is molding snow into balls too and throwing them back. Somehow it's evolved into teams within the span of a few seconds, Romanoff, Barton, Thor, and Bruce hurling snow from behind the safety of their forts at Rogers and Barnes, who are hollering as they're continually pelted by a storm of white even from behind Rogers's weird blocky thing and Barnes's dementedly large snowball.
"Stark!" Barnes sputters, and he's laughing hard, probably not even thinking about who he's inviting to join him. "Shit - help us!"
Tony flutters closer. "Uh - do you want me to - " he starts, already taking off a chunk from the ground and molding it between his hands.
"Just help us," Rogers groans, not even seeming to care anymore that it's a Stark he's begging. "Four against two isn't fair, you guys!"
"Like Bucky said," Barton hollers back, "he's got a metal arm! Based on that logic, that's two people alone!"
Crouching behind the fort, Tony pops up quickly and flings hard, nailing Barton straight in the face. For a second, the other boy goes down gasping, and Tony feels a bolt of panic shoot through him - Barton's going to get pissed, he will, he's going to get kicked out and he's going to have to find a hotel and flight that aren't booked up somehow - but then Barton's coming back up with solid shock on his face. "Stark's got an arm," he says, eyes wide. "That felt like a missile blast."
Barnes whistles, and it's probably just because they're all caught up in this carefully balanced moment, but for a second he grins wide and open at Tony and all Tony can think is, uh, wow. It's one of those smiles where you're having fun and you just so happen to turn in the direction of a stranger while you're still smiling about it, but still - it's aimed at him. It almost feels like he could belong.
For the next twenty minutes, it's just a storm of volleying back and forth like a normal snowball fight, except for some reason everyone's got scarily accurate aim, even Tony. Finally, Barton shouts defeat first and collapses behind the weird ship blob - already practically demolished by Rogers's throws - that Romanoff and he had been constructing. Rogers laughs, and somehow his laugh sounds big and blond even though Tony is aware that those aren't even proper descriptors. Rogers is hanging all over Barnes even before Barton's finished his sentence, the two slumping down to the ground in the snow with their limbs tangled up.
Tony turns away to give them privacy. They're obviously juiced up on adrenaline, and it seems clear to him at least that Rogers wants to have a big mack-out with Barnes right here and now. Far be it from him to prevent two guys from some more intimate celebration, because Tony might be a douche but it would be kind of ironic if he were homophobic.
"Stark," Barnes says with some difficulty a while later, and Tony glances back and blesses his small mercies that he's not seeing anything out-of-the-ordinary. "You are feelin' okay, right? Right now?" It's intensely awkward as all three of them know exactly why Barnes is asking. Know exactly what Barnes is asking.
"Can we - not," Tony says haltingly. "I mean, I'm fine. I kind of...can we forget about yesterday? It won't happen again."
Jesus, if even the guy whose arm he broke is starting to care… No. Tony needs to be better. He let them see weakness once; they can't see it again.
"Sure," Barnes agrees readily. It doesn't escape Tony's notice that Barnes's hand tightens on Rogers's kneecap as he speaks.
"I'm tired," Barton is moaning near them, clearly audible even under the increasingly whistly wind. "Can we go inside now? It's cold."
"You whine too much," Romanoff says, except she says it fondly and in French. It just so happens to be one of the languages that Tony can speak fluently - he'd picked it up during his two-month stay in France when he was eleven.
"Okay," Rogers says, taking the helm as usual. "We can go inside and set up the fireplace or something. It is actually starting to snow harder now; we might have another heavy blizzard hit soon. Clint's right - we should go inside."
"Right about what? All he did was complain like a little girl."
"Aw, shut up, Barnes."
Once inside, they settle down and Barton lights up the fireplace. Tony thinks that he really should, by all means, not be panicking so much at the mere sight of the flames, but he is. They're in the loft again and gathered around the heat, trying to dry their damp clothing. Thor's basically stripped down to his boxers, looking like he could start sweating at any moment, and Barton's already shirtless, snow jacket and long sleeved shirt slung out in front of the fire. His science buddy, on the other hand, is huddling as close as he can to the warmth.
Tony, on the other hand, is crouched as far away as possible without evoking any sort of suspicion in everyone else. The fire is mesmerizing, fierce and vibrant; it flickers and weaves and twists like the reflection of water that is cast when sunlight filters through a water bottle.
"Aren't you cold?" Barton says to him, glancing over at where he's sitting - clothes still damp - next to a cushy-looking chair.
"You're shirtless," Romanoff points out, but Barton shrugs.
"Yeah, but Stark's all the way over there. I'm so close to the fire I could literally start burning."
This prompts a full-body shudder to run through Tony unbidden. The very image of someone burning up is enough to make him want to gag - the smell of burning flesh is something he never, ever wants to have to endure again, thank you very much.
"Come closer," Thor says from his spot ten feet away, skin around his blue eyes crinkled up. "You have nothing to fear, and offense is not intended, but you look pale and chilled, Stark."
"Uh - no thanks, I'm good," Tony stammers out. "I'm really not that cold, I just…I mean, the heat's on, so..."
"At least take off your shirt, like me," Barton says flippantly, motioning to his body. He is toned and tan in the warm firelight. "It's not healthy to have wet clothes clinging to you."
"No," Tony says, more sharply than intended. He shrinks back. "Sorry, I'm just, um, I don't want to, uh…"
"Just...what?" Barton says, and a corner of his mouth quirks up. It's hard to tell whether he's being serious or not. "A prude?"
"Alright, okay, lay off a little," Rogers intervenes, but the look he gives Barton is one tinged more with fond exasperation than actual sternness. "But really, Stark, you're going to get a cold over there."
Romanoff, who's been silent all this time, tilts her head assessingly. Her gaze feels heavy, like it's pinning Tony down even from all the way across the room. "Is it the fire?" she asks, mildly. "Is that why?"
Cold everywhere. Cold prickling down to his bones. "What?" Tony rasps.
"Is it the fire," Natasha repeats, her words accompanied by a gesture this time.
There's a silence as everyone processes her question and - like a pin dropping - realizes why she's asking it, all at the same time.
"Stark," Barnes begins, like he doesn't quite know what to say but wants to say something anyway.
Barton's frowning at him with a really weird expression on his face, like Tony's an annoying puzzle or something.
Bruce has stilled and is watching him carefully.
Tony clears his throat. He doesn't know how to say yes, doesn't know how to say yes without the words coming out all stilted and foreign. There are six gazes weighing down on him, waiting for him to say something, waiting for him to…
"Guys," Bruce says tentatively, "I think if Tony doesn't want to talk about it, he shouldn't have to."
Tony lets out a breath he hadn't even realized he was holding. "I-I don't," he says. His mouth is dry. "I don't want to talk about it."
"Okay, then you don't have to," Rogers says gently. "We won't push." That last comment is directed at Romanoff, who looks unashamed but also a little ambivalent.
"I just don't like fire." The words come out before Tony can even tell himself not to say them. He makes eye contact with Barnes for a brief moment, whose startlingly grey-blue eyes have snapped up to look at him. "Or heat. It's not a big deal, just one of those childhood experiences or whatever. For the record, I don't like rats either. Or mice."
"Nobody likes rats," Barnes grunts bemusedly, startling Tony again.
"At least now we know you can't be an arsonist," Barton says.
Even though Rogers turns to give Barton a disapproving stare, Tony's secretly grateful for the jibe. He much prefers humor over seriousness; maybe it's a side effect from being horrible at dealing with feelings.
"Apologies, Stark, but I think I speak honestly when I say it would not be in your favor if you caught a cold," Thor says. He really does sound apologetic, but doesn't push it. "If you would rather not strip, perhaps a hot shower would do you well."
"Yeah, actually, we should all take a shower," Bruce says, pushing his glasses up his nose. "That's a good idea, Tony."
"Uh - okay," Tony says, still feeling a little wobbly as he stands. "Should I - I mean, do you guys want to take one first?"
"It's fine," Rogers interrupts before anyone else can. "Go ahead. We can wait. Also, you probably already discovered this when you came here, but the lock's broken. So just let us know when you're done."
Stumbling over his thanks, Tony disappears from the loft before anyone else can say anything. He grabs his clothes from the bedroom and flees to the shower, breathing out heavily as soon as the door shuts behind him.
He didn't realize how much of a toll these past few weeks have been taking on him until just now, as he sags against the counter and looks up into his face in the mirror. He looks terrible - dark circles under his eyes, lank hair, a sort of weariness emanating from him that's scarily visible. Okay, he tells himself, breathes in and out through his nose. Just hold on. Don't make a big deal over this, Tony, you should be grateful really that you aren't stuck at SHIELD for the holidays - or worse, at home.
Finally, after what seems like forever, he pushes off the counter and starts the shower, careful to avoid looking in the mirror as he takes off his jacket and shirt. He's trembling when the cold hits his exposed skin, and it's not only because of the icy air. Fuck, it's chilly. At least the cold decidedly gives him more of an incentive to hurry up and finish his shower, because he's already wasted at least seven minutes wallowing in his angst.
Suddenly, there's a scritchy noise and a thump from outside the door, and the door bursts open. Barnes is there, face turned to the hall still, and he's hollering, "Relax, Stevie, I just need t' get my pain meds really quick - oh, shit - "
Barnes is wide-eyed, staring at Tony through the steam. "Fuck, sorry Stark, shit, shit, I completely walked into the wrong room - "
And then he stops. Stops and stares like he can't help it.
"It - uh - it's okay," Tony stammers after a pause, more shocked than anything, when he feels the cold air from the doorway filtering in and hitting his bare skin -
Wait. His bare skin.
His chest, marred with disgusting scars, the disgusting scars that nobody - not even Pepper or Rhodey - has ever seen -
"Stark?"