I don't trust a guy without a dark side.
A week ago...
“Not going to do it, nope, nope, not going to, nah uh, nein, nicht, nei.” Tony paced up and down in the compound, arms crossing and re-crossing as he looked down at the phone. “I will not do it, that absolute goddamn bastard left us, left me, for that fucking prick with long hair and a stupid shiny arm, not left me like that, left me like, fucking left me damn it! I can’t, I can’t look at him and not see Barnes, I can’t look at him and not see the car, my parents, everything.”
He looked over at the phone and pursed his lips. “Shut up.” He said to no one in particular, being that he was alone. He was alone a lot nowadays.
Pepper was gone, technically they were on a ‘break’ but Tony knew how those ended. The Avengers were in jail, Vision was floating around somewhere moping. Widow was on some top secret mission aka ‘get back into the good books’ and more and more Tony found himself looking at the phone.
The phone Steve had left him, and the note, so wrecked from being crumpled up, binned, thrown around, unfurled and re read and scrunched up again that it was barely readable. Tony bit his lip until it hurt. He’d almost thrown the phone out of the window so many times.
‘Call you if I need you, call YOU, YOU BASTARD!” Tony punched the large glass window and yelped. “Son of a bitch! YOU’RE NOT EVEN HERE AND YOU’RE PISSING ME OFF!” He screamed at the window.
He couldn’t deny it, he missed the red white and blue dick head. Missed the conversations, missed taunting him, missed the parties. He missed them all being together, it was all fucked up because of him.
He was off somewhere, gallivanting about with the bastard who murdered his parents, murdered them, as in physically killed them, strangled his fucking mother. How? How can he be okay with any of that? How can he look Bucky in the eyes and be okay? He couldn’t even think about Steve without wanting to break something. The second time he read the letter he punched his table and fractured a knuckle.
It had been months, over a year, no, Tony was not going to give the exact number; he had definitely not been counting the days. Months of no contact, of Steve being the ‘good friend’ and giving Tony space. He didn’t want space, he wanted Steve here right now, wanted him yelling, wanted to yell at him until no more words came to him. Wanted answers, good answers, bad answers who gave a fuck just fucking answers.
He wanted Steve to make him understand, or at least fucking try, not give him the whole sap story ‘sparing his feelings’ bullshit. He wanted to talk to him alone, no fucking Bucky or Ross or anyone but them, maybe he could punch him a few times until he felt better and no one could stop him.
Dismay struck him as he realised Steve probably wouldn’t even stop him. Steve would atone, for every bad word, every line crossed, every secret kept, with a punch, or yelling, or being hurt in any way. That was who Steve was.
Then the dismay turned to anger, because being rational was not Tony’s forte. Being angry was, yelling and acting out and lashing out at those around him was what he did best. He could remember so clearly the only time he didn’t, when he sat there in that room with his head down not looking at the paperwork being passed across the table to each shocked face of each Avenger. He knew if he spoke there’d be shouting and it ended up happening anyway, when he had promised himself he wouldn’t do this, wouldn’t try to force Steve into it. Steve didn’t work that way.
It was all his fault...
And he was sitting here blaming Steve because of Bucky. He could never forgive Bucky for what happened, the thought made him feel physically sick, he walked over, down the steps and sat onto the sofa in front of the phone.
He picked it up and twirled it around; opening up the flip case, flip case, seriously Steve a flip phone? What a prat. He could have sent him a real actual useable phone. But no, he didn’t want there to be any other options on it. Clever fucker.
There was the number, the number he could say in his sleep, the number he could count backwards. The number he could press now and do something good for once in his fucking life. Do something right. Why did right always feel so awful?
Like that time in Manhattan with the bomb and the Chitauri. That was right, and it hadn’t made him feel good in the slightest, it wasn’t like in the books or movies or what people tell you, that sense of overwhelming goodness making you know you were doing right. It was pain, and anger, and fear… So much fear. Was that how Steve felt every time he had his little justice vomit all over people. Justice vomit, he liked that. He laughed quickly, nervously and put the phone down, then picked it back up again.
For god’s sake Tony get a grip and call him!
No! Don’t call him, that prick knew what happened to your parents and never said a word! And he chose Bucky, the man who MURDERED your parents over you!
The inner turmoil was giving Tony a headache. Did he really choose Bucky, or did Tony give him no choice, did Tony take away that choice. Did Tony push him into Bucky and make it obvious that there was no way Steve could make this right again.
Tony didn’t know anymore, it kept him awake at night sometimes. He put the phone down and scrubbed his hands over his face and breathed out harshly. It wasn’t about right or wrong anymore, or the past or the present it was about the future. They needed Steve, Tony needed Steve (though loath to admit it). Banner was gone, Widow was gone, the team were in some jail (or secure facility as it was called, not floating on the sea at least, they’d be released soon, so he’d heard, but kept tagged and supervised under the act Steve had fought so hard to protect them from), Thor was probably watching on and shaking his head, not even wanting to come down here and sort it out because it was so fucked up.
Clint’s face flashed behind his closed eyelids, his face when Tony visited him when he found out where they were being held. The betrayal…
He couldn’t even stomach seeing Wanda.
He opened his eyes, picked up the phone again and sat back against the sofa, he wondered if Steve looked at the other phone like he was right now, wondered if it kept him awake at night. Wondered if he’d given up hoping by now.
He flipped the case up again and looked at the number.
Almost as if in a dream, he saw himself press the button and the screen change to say ‘dialling’. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes and put the phone to his ear.