Break of Dawn
Two and a half bowls of soup later, and Tony finally found himself in the common lounge.
Scratch that — he found himself at the entryway of the common lounge.
The stairway came to an end and the toes of his shoes barely touched down on the final step, with his hand lingering on the banister along the way — clenching the railing with a grip nearly as tight as the object in his other hand. Both gripped down on metal with enough pressure to leave indentation marks on the calloused tissues of his palm.
He didn’t pay either any mind. Not with the sight up ahead.
For a long moment, Tony didn’t dare to cross the threshold. As if taking one step forward meant tripping some sort of invisible trap wire planted on the ground, one that would activate a profusion of alarms — all of which were sure to wake up Rogers.
The man was fast asleep on the couch. Out cold. Tony had no doubt about it; not with the way Steve’s eyes were closed, his jaw slacked open; and every couple of seconds there were soft, hardly audible snores that barely broke the distance from stairs to sofa.
Tony heard them, nonetheless. It was too quiet in the lounge not to.
He told himself — convinced himself — that was the reason for his lingering. Hesitance was more like it, not that he’d ever admit to such a thing. The sun had set sometime between his second helping of Wanda’s rich-yet-filling Sokovian stew, and even though the lounge was full of windows, the frosted glass muted the night sky and kept the stars at bay.
For what nature couldn’t provide, the softly dimmed ceiling lights gave way. Allowing Tony to make out the sketch pad resting idly in Steve’s lap, with a pencil barely gripped between his thumb and index finger — if one could even call it a grip.
With each gentle rise of Steve’s chest, the pencil got closer to falling out of its hold; playing a dangerous game of seesaw with each snore that sounded. The stairway was too far a distance to tell what had been drawn on the pad. All Tony could see was the differing shades of graphite that littered the page.
Curiosity always did win with Stark’s — it never failed. And Tony found his way further into the lounge before realizing his feet were even moving. He came to a stop only when reaching the same couch Steve laid on; with Steve’s legs stretched out in front of him, and his back supported by the armrest of the sofa.
The furniture wasn’t large by a long shot, especially not for someone of his physique. If the lack of comfort was any problem for him, there was no telling sign to show as much. He slept no different than how Tony remembered him recovering back in Wakanda. Resting without so much a crease to his brow.
It was strange. Tony watched him from where he stood, his eyes narrowing with a soft realization. Sometimes he forgot Steve was fifteen years his junior. The man always held himself with such confidence, always alluding courage and composure. Always keeping his chin up and his chin high, even when times were at their bleakest.
Those same traits didn’t just weigh him down; they aged him. Stripping him of the youth Tony hadn’t seen anywhere else but in black and white photos.
Until now, it seemed.
Tony drew closer to the sofa, unknowingly tilting his head to the side to get a better look at the sleeping soldier.
He wasn’t sure he ever saw Rogers look so young.
A snore heavier than the last rattled Steve’s chest, and Tony resisted a smirk as he approached the final steps to the couch. He used that sound to mute the noise that followed — carefully setting down the object in his hand, letting it rest against the back of the sofa.
Unfortunately for him, the effort at remaining quiet was in vain when the pencil finally slipped from Steve’s fingers.
“Wha —?” Steve was already sitting up before the pencil had even bounced twice on the floor. “What’s going on—?”
“At ease, Cap,” Tony seamlessly interrupted his half-coherent and hazy-with-sleep mutterings as he rounded the sofa, giving a firm squeeze on Steve’s shoulder in passing. “Slow your horses. No fire. You just caught me grabbing a cup of Joe.”
For what it was worth, Steve seemed to calm down the moment Tony walked by — his muscles noticeably unclenching with a heavy sigh to follow.
Tony was already at the Keurig machine by the time he seemed to realize he’d fallen asleep. He was already popping a coffee pod into the machine by the time Steve seemed to wake up.
The minute flew by without any eventful obstructions. Tony brewed a hot cup of coffee as Steve rubbed a closed fist at his eye, a few restrained grunts sounding as he tried to adjust himself on the couch — noticeably struggling more than usual.
Well, more than ever. But Tony didn’t feel like mentioning that out loud. Instead, he reached for a mug that he wasn’t entirely sure had been thoroughly cleaned. A quick examination and he decided to risk it.
“Coffee?” Steve cleared the sleep out of his voice as he looked towards the area of the lounge Tony had wandered off to. “What time is it?”
It was a fair question, Tony figured — half-asleep or not. There was little indication of day or night with the frosted windows surrounding them. Even the leaves falling from the trees outside were just darkened shadows that passed by the glass.
“Ten after seven.” Tony already had the mug to his lips when he followed up with, “Or around nineteen hundred, whatever lingo you G.I Joe’s prefer.”
A loud slurp echoed the room, right as Steve shot Tony a look that was somehow both equally confused and disapproving all at the same time.
Tony met that look with his own.
“What can I say,” he began, re-entering the main area of the lounge with a shrug. “My caffeine intake runs on a generous twenty-four clock.”
Steve’s amused huff was barely heard as Tony took a seat on the couch nearby, his grunt overtaking any other noise in the lounge. Three straight days in his workshop meant stiff muscles and an aching neck, and the cushions of the couch had no problem reminding him that he was getting far too old for those all-nighter’s.
Setting his mug somewhere close to his chest but down towards his lap, he found himself looking near the end of the sofa — right where Steve’s legs were stretched out. Reminding Tony of the last time he pulled a row of all-nighter’s in his workshop, fighting time to create the very same device that now laid beneath a pair of worn-out khaki’s.
“New skin holding up well?”
The question came without preamble. Tony gave the man a pass on his delayed response; after all, the sleep was still showing in his eyes, and the crutches he’d been using for a few weeks now were leaning against the nearest wall.
Still, with overhead lights dimmed and muted, the pulsating glow beneath Steve’s khakis couldn't be ignored. For what the pants concealed, the lack of shoes exposed.
Tony wordlessly gestured his head down towards Steve’s legs, with one foot clad in a white sock and the other wrapped in the same nanite cast Tony created for Peter just a few months ago. It was safe to say that neither of them expected the invention to be used again, so soon at that — and for one of their own.
“Uh, yeah,” Steve managed a chuckle, as tired as it sounded. “Switched out early this morning. Helen says it should finish the job well.” With both hands firm on the sofa cushions, Steve sat up a little taller on the couch, rolling his neck side-to-side along the way. “Give it a few more days and I’ll be set to return from leave sometime next week.”
“Good.” Tony took a pause to sip his coffee, making a harsh smacking sound when he was finished. “Been too quiet without you around barking orders.”
Steve’s chuckle sounded a little less tired the second time around.
“T’Challa gave his regards, by the way. Said he was expecting to see you tag-along for the trip,” Steve mentioned, almost sounding casual for the subject matter. With one hand, he grabbed his sketch pad off his lap and twisted to the side, placing it on the coffee table not much further away from Tony’s feet. “You two seemed to have hit it off well.”
Tony tried to make it seem like the inside of his coffee mug caught his attention, but even he had a feeling that his curiosity showed through — no different than the lights of his own invention wrapped around Steve’s leg.
If Steve noticed him staring at the sketch pad, he stayed mum on the matter.
“Yeah...” Tony drawled out, looking off to the side with an all-too-exaggerated expression of disappointment. He ‘tsked’ loud enough to be heard across the compound. “Shame they wouldn’t let you keep wearing that kinetic skeleton.”
Steve arched an eyebrow.
“They were afraid you’d market and sell it,” he reminded Tony.
“I wouldn’t have,” Tony scoffed, waving him off as he uncrossed both legs and stood up from the sofa, placing his coffee mug off to the side as he did — all while purposefully ignoring Steve’s ever-growing look of skepticism. “I’d create my own version — better version. Then I’d market and sell it.”
If Tony had any intent on hiding the smirk that pulled at his lips, he failed. Spectacularly.
It was just another thing Steve didn’t bring to attention.
Having taken a few steps to round back towards the man, and with a sound that managed to put every single one of his forty-seven years on display, Tony reached down for the pencil that had rolled underneath the coffee table. He was still half bent-over — and giving his knees a moment to recoup — when he motioned it to Steve.
“I see you also returned Barton’s spares.” Tony used the pencil to gesture at Steve’s ear before relenting his hold. “Equilibrium back, then?”
Steve took the pencil back in his possession, but not without a bit of color heating up his cheeks. Just like Tony’s smirk, he failed to hide it — spectacularly, at that.
Tony only expected as much, rising from his knees with the aid of the sofa’s armrest.
“The Clumsy Cap act was cute, don’t get me wrong,” he started to say, his one hand flopping around without any direction — he always had a tendency to speak with his hands. And boy, were they moving. “I didn’t want to spoil everyone’s fun by reminding them you were nearly torn apart with two-hundred decibels of strictly explosive sound.”
Tony slowly sat back down on the sofa across from Steve, with only the coffee table separating them. He didn’t kick up his legs this time, looking Steve head-on; ensuring no ounce of his expression could be missed.
“After all,” Tony airily said, with his head cocked to the side — and his eyes dead-set on Steve’s. “Peter’s liver wasn’t the only one to grow back.”
Steve acknowledged Tony’s statement with only a look, one that said more than his words ever could — Tony wasn’t the least bit surprised; the man was always like that. Always spoke with his actions, always said more without a voice.
A slight arch of the eyebrow, a bit of a bob to his head — Steve suddenly looked down at his lap and the pencil in his grasp, both hands holding each end with his thumb caressing the pink eraser.
“You didn’t mention that to him, did you?” Steve’s question was almost too quiet to hear.
Yet, no different than the light snoring from earlier, Tony heard. It was still too quiet in the lounge not to.
“Nah.” Tony gave a casual shake of his head as he reached forward for his coffee mug. “Kid’s dealing with enough guilt as it is. Last thing he needs to hear is how the star-spangled-banner almost got ripped to shreds.” Tony lifted the mug to his lips, but stopped short of a sip. “He deserves to be involved in things, but...some things are still better left under wraps.”
Tony took a swig of his coffee, and left it at that.
It may have been a few weeks behind them now, but he still didn’t care to be reminded of the immediate aftermath that resulted in Wakanda — with the defeat of a monster that nearly took them both down along with it.
Those first twenty-four hours that followed death and destruction were a nothing but a blur of oscillating emotions. Thinking about it for more than a few passing seconds was hard enough. Tony didn’t dare dwell on it any longer than necessary.
Judging from the way Steve kept his focus on his pencil, the feeling was mutual.
“He still spending the weekend?” Steve’s voice gained a bit of volume with the change of subject, though not without him having to clear his throat first. He even gave Tony a glance along the way, breaking away from the pencil to look towards him.
“Yep.” Tony, however, was looking at nothing in particular when he answered. “Happy’s stuck in traffic on I95 — crack a window and you’ll probably hear him blaring the horn from the highway. Man has less patience than me, I swear. But they’ll be here shortly.”
Just like that, Tony shot his attention back to Steve — immediately gesturing his mug forward.
“No training, though, capiche? Indefinite recess, vacations all around. We all deserve a break.” Tony stopped mid-sip of his coffee to say, “Don’t get me wrong, that ‘new skin’ does wonders, but don’t think it can uphold you trying to outrun Wilson with a still partially broken femur —”
“Tony,” Steve chuckled, reaching over to the coffee table and placing the pencil ontop of the sketchpad. “You don’t have to worry. We’re all taking it easy.” Steve leaned back against the sofa with a soft smile to follow. “You’re right, a break...a break is much needed.”
Tony resisted his laugh beneath the rim of his mug.
“Understatement of the year, right?” he half-said, half-drank the coffee — once again staring off at nothing in particular. His mind seemed to be too heavy with thoughts to stay in the present moment. Something was always popping up, squeezing through the walls he’d put in place and taking him away to a time that no longer existed.
“And some year it’s been,” Steve murmured in response, matching the same volume as his earlier snores. Only heard because it was too quiet not too.
Tony managed to hide his not-so-subtle scoff inside his mug. The swig that followed stifled what would’ve otherwise been a slew of expressive discourse neither of them would benefit from.
Jeeze, a year? Try the last month. The last few weeks alone felt like a decade spent two times over.
Sometimes, it was hard for Tony to remember that just a few months ago he’d been introduced to a magical wizard — a sorcerer, of all wildly bizarre things. One who came into their lives to tell him that Tony’s association with Peter was more than enough to get the kid killed. And it had nothing to do with Iron Man, nothing to do with Spider-Man — only his wealth.
It was a toll that nearly made him push the kid away for good — because damn it to all, he wouldn’t be the reason any more people suffered due to his namesake.
All that felt like five lifetimes ago.
The last year — Tony blew a sigh into his mug before taking another sip, both cooling down the coffee and desperately trying to release the built-up pressure in his chest — the last year had been a whirlwind, nonstop string of events that he was still processing, to this day.
The night Peter snuck into the compound. The Collar City Bridge. The re-assembled Chitarui attack in Brooklyn, the burning building. The bunker under the ocean. The damn painkillers, the...the breaking of barricades that allowed him to see the kid as more than a mentee.
The road trip, and the sudden crushing reality check that followed. The locker room, the black eyes. The camera — OsCorp. Queens, to the jet in the sky. Hope in Wakanda, then fear in Wakanda.
Death.
Life.
One thing after another — it was a never-ending avalanche of change, each event slowly but surely leading him here. Leading them here.
He wouldn’t have expected any of this at the beginning of the year. He wouldn’t be able to fathom even a piece of it two years ago.
And though he wouldn’t dare endure the agony of repeating any of it again, Tony could say, without a shadow of a doubt...he was thankful for all of it.
“Tony?” Steve’s voice was barely loud enough to disturb the air, but in the silence that had followed, it resounded the four walls of the lounge. “Was there something that you needed?”
Tony blinked, torn from the thoughts he hadn’t realized carried him away. The present moment seemed to meld and fuse with the past, and he had to blink a few times to get his bearings straight. When he did, he looked away from the nothing-in-particular to return his gaze head-on.
Steve looked at him with that slight arch to his eyebrow, and the small incline of his head — the look that said more than his words ever could.
Tony smiled. Heavy and weary, and tight on his skin, but still.
“You caught me.” With a cluck of his tongue, Tony reached towards the table, letting his mug rest somewhere out of reach. It was almost empty, anyhow. “I didn’t come down here to check on your brittle old man bones — I knew full well you were five days and three hours from removing that new skin and doing jumping jacks in the gym.”
Steve frowned. “Didn’t Bruce get on you for reading our medical reports?”
Tony was too busy looking down to give Steve’s remark any response. He leaned further forward, placing both his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands in front of him — all while letting his head hang low in the space between.
The only thing that caught his attention were his shoes, with the heel of his right foot bouncing incessantly against the marble floor. His feet could’ve been on fire and he would’ve known no different.
His thoughts were too heavy to stay in the present moment.
“I, uh…” Tony trailed off, his voice drifting away without anything to come after. For a second that very well could’ve been a minute, the silence had a sound. “I couldn’t make that decision, you know.”
The lounge was still quiet, but Tony’s voice managed to be even quieter.
Steve adjusted himself on the sofa, just slightly, as if lifting himself up would better his hearing — fully healed, Tony knew, because yeah he checked up on his teams medical reports. As if the fact was even remotely surprising to Rogers.
It wasn’t that Steve couldn’t hear, nor was it because he’d returned Clint’s hearing aid’s a few days before.
Tony’s voice just failed to hold any volume.
It was hard enough to dwell on those first twenty-four hours; the morning that followed death and destruction. Speaking of it forced the pain to the surface, bringing an ache to his chest worse than any damage from shrapnel could ever do.
“One way or the other — yes or no…” Tony squeezed the hold on his hands, letting his chin rest on his knuckles along the way. “I couldn’t do it.”
Tony was glad that, even with sleep crusted in the corners of his eyes, Steve caught on to what wasn’t spoken. He wasn’t sure he could vocalize that moment again — the emotions were still raw and inflamed, and the light of his own technology on Steve’s leg reminded him just how fresh that morning was. Just how recent it all had been.
How close they came to death.
The terror, followed by the unfathomable grief.
Sometimes Tony swore he still saw the glow of purple when he closed his eyes. Tinting his dreams like a filter, with lavender that laced the edges of his anxiety and reminded him of what he very well lost.
And just scarcely got back.
Even if a time were to arrive where his thoughts weren’t quite as heavy as they were now, Tony wasn’t sure he’d ever lose the feeling of that moment; the debilitating conflict of bringing Peter back to life. It would always be blended together with past and present; sticking with him long after time went on.
“I, uh…” Tony roughly cleared out the cobwebs from his throat. It took a second for the swelling to go down, clearing way for his voice to return. “I don’t believe I’ve given you enough credit, when all’s said and done. For making those tough calls.”
Peering up over the clasp of his hands, Tony found that Steve had been staring at him all along. And even with a bit of sleep still clouding his eyes, the blue that reflected back at him was vivid as ever.
“Hands down, come hell or high water — you do the right thing,” Tony went on to say, nodding absentmindedly, his chin bobbing slightly against the bones of his knuckles. “Even...even when you don’t want to. You make sure...you make sure that someone does it.”
No matter how hard Tony tried, he couldn’t see each event, each decision Steve made — Queens, Wakanda — “Take Spider-Man down, at all costs,” straight to,“We don’t have time, Peter doesn’t have time.” He couldn’t see them through the lenses of before. As if they’d been shattered beyond repair, bits of broken glass that held no shape or mold.
Tony remembered the anger — for each decision, for each tough call Steve had to make, he remembered the fury. The striking betrayal he let himself believe had occurred. But he couldn’t dare touch it now.
It belonged to a different man, after all.
Tony worked his jaw to the side. “I may be long overdue for a few apologies —”
“Tony,” Steve interrupted, though they were both sure Tony’s voice would’ve simply faded away if given enough time. With a slight shake to his head, Steve insisted, “You don’t have to —”
“Ah-ah,” Tony shook his head in return, unclasping the tight fold on his hands so he could point a single digit Steve’s way. “That’s what you said last time. After the bunker? You, Barton, Romanoff taking all that glorious SHIELD blame for yourselves? Sorry Cap, you already pulled that card.” The tired smirk Tony followed up with bled away any bite to his jesting. “Shoulda kept that one in your back pocket while you could.”
Steve returned the look of good nature, with a small grin tightening the lines around his eyes.
“I appreciate the thought,” Steve chuckled, a noise that started soft and only grew softer. “But you don’t owe me any apologies.”
Tony dropped the clasp of his hands, clearing his face for Steve to see.
“But I do.”
If Steve had any immediate comeback, it wasted away in the silence that swept over them both. A single pocket of air escaped his mouth, possibly where words would’ve been, but it was all the noise he made. Otherwise staying quiet — not just because his actions were louder, but because it wasn’t a place for him to speak.
Straightening his back, Tony let both elbows drop off his knees, instead folding his arms loosely against his chest as he leaned back into the sofa.
“Somewhere along the way, I, uh...I turned you into the enemy.” Tony furrowed his brows, noticeably. “And sure, we’ve never seen eye-to-eye, never been...you know, hand-in-hand walking down the same path, but…” With a force greater than gravity itself, Tony turned his head to Steve — locking eyes, even if it were a struggle. “You were never out for blood. You were doing what you had to do.”
A few nods of his head — mindless bobbing of his neck — it was all Tony could manage before he looked away, abruptly, with a hard sniff to follow.
The rising discomfort to his display of emotions showed all the way down in how he wrinkled his nose, the way his forehead creased — each line on his brow a telling story of the events that transpired, and his wandering eyes taking the present from him.
Though hindsight was twenty-twenty, Tony could never say for sure what he would’ve done if not for Steve. He had no answer, not even a theory. And he didn’t ever care to dwell on a hypothesis; the ‘what if’s’ so far from his mind he wasn’t sure he’d ever entertain the thought.
All he remembered in that moment was being certain he couldn’t make the call. Life, or death. Take the herb, or leave it. Either way, whatever the decision — he couldn’t do it.
“Making those tough calls, it...uh...it’s a lot harder than you make it seem.” Tony tried not to whisper. But once again, his voice failed to hold any volume. “I’m sorry I couldn’t see that earlier.”
A quick, passing glance to Steve and Tony knew it didn’t need repeated, no matter how quiet he spoke. There was enough recognition in Steve’s face; beneath the sleep and the lines that told their own stories. Each an event that transpired, and each harsher than the last. He heard what Tony said — and didn’t need clarification on any of it.
The doctors later told Tony that Steve all but dragged himself out of the operating room, and nothing they could do stopped him — their drugs had no effect, and their words went on literal deaf ears.
And before Tony could’ve taken on the burden of that decision, it was taken from him. Without him ever having to ask.
“It’s hard…when it’s the people we care about,” Steve spoke up, quietly. His voice almost too soft to bear a resemblance to his moniker. “When it’s the people we see as family.”
Tony made a humming sound in the back of his throat, still looking off at the space somewhere beyond Steve — half-present, and half-elsewhere.
He heard the words Steve said. But at the same time, they rang other words in his head. The present latching onto the past, melding and fusing a moment that would stick with him forever; no different than the grief of Peter’s death, with the unbearable reality of a child’s corpse set in front of him.
“It is with the pleas from many fathers,” T’Challa had said.
Tony never did ask what that meant.
He never needed an answer.
“It’s even harder, you know…” Steve’s voice cut through his thoughts, gaining a firmness that wasn’t there before. “When we don’t have much family left to rely on.”
When Tony turned back to look at him, his face — as always — said it all.
“I understand where you were coming from with Peter,” Steve affirmed, his chin tilting just low enough that the overhead lights, though muted, didn’t strike down so harshly on him. “You don’t owe me any apologies for that.”
Tony wasn’t sure what emotion worked into the lines of his face — it felt like a bit of everything all at once, pulling his muscles in every-which direction.
It was the damn blue eyes looking back at him. Held on the face that said more than words ever could.
It all struck down on him at once.
Tony didn’t need Steve to say it outright. And for a moment, he was willing do the same favor Steve had done for him — by not speaking the obvious out loud, if only for how tender and fresh the wound still was. Years or not, in this case.
Whatever compelled him to forgo that instinct was far beyond him.
“I know it’s too little, too late — not to mention dwelling on the past is about as conducive as watching paint dry, but…” Tony let out a hard breath of air, less of a sigh and more of evacuation to his reticence. “I should’ve sided with you. On Barnes.”
His jaw audibly cracked as he worked it side-to-side. The only thing stiffer than his words were his muscles, the feeling that pulled at his neck making it hard to look away.
“You, uh...you were right about him. In more ways than one,” Tony continued, somehow able to see Steve’s expression without ever looking the man head-on. The look contoured the harsh lines on Steve’s face with soft relief, bringing back that youth only seen in black and white photos; and causing a pause in what came next from Tony. “He was, uh...he was under the influence of something. And you were...you were just trying to help him. I shoulda seen that. Back then. You weren’t just being selfish, you were...you were doing the right thing. Like always.”
Ton ran a hand through the length of his hair, ending at the nape of his neck and rubbing harshly at the tightly-knitted muscles. No matter how hard he tried to work through the stress that built up there, he’d only manage so much — no different than how his words couldn’t erase the damage they’d both done to each other.
It would only help them move on.
“There’s a reason you’re not just an Avenger — why you’re the leader of this...misfit, dysfunctional bunch,” Tony went on to say, moving his hand away from his neck so it could speak alongside with him — flapping and motioning in no specific direction. “You make those difficult calls. For the betterment of everyone…for the betterment of us. Nobody asked you to do that.”
Though the ceiling lights were dimmed, and the sun had along since departed outside, Tony could see the clear as day the expression that fell over Steve’s face. It was hard to say what exact emotion it may have been — just like Tony, it seemed that his muscles were pulled in every which direction, experiencing it all at once.
Tony let his hand drop down to the couch, if only because what followed next didn’t need anything more to accompany it.
“But you do it anyway,” he said, earnestly. “Even after being de-thawed like a frozen steak pulled from the freezer last minute for Sunday night dinner.”
Steve huffed a chuckle and looked down to his lap, all the while Tony languidly pointed a finger in his direction.
“Speaking of which,” he immediately diverted the intensity of the moment with as much distraction as he could conjure up. “Hit up the kitchen and there might still be some of Wanda’s homespun stew left.” Tony paused only to purse his lips to the side. “Assuming Wilson hasn’t devoured it all yet.”
Steve acknowledged Tony with a few nods and a barely visible smile; his head bowed low with his focus only on his hands, both clasped loosely together in his lap.
Tony wasn’t the only one with a show of rising discomfort. The color on Steve’s cheeks was scarcely hidden from display.
The moment of silence that followed wasn’t unexpected, and in many ways, it was welcomed. The air, though heavy with emotion, was still light and easy — the lull having no time attached to it, and no rush to break the quiescence.
When the time felt right, Steve looked up — craning his head towards Tony, just slightly.
“You know what I thought?” he asked, the pause that followed not intended for Tony to answer, but rather for him to find the strength to speak. “As I was going down in that plane in the Arctic? You know what I thought?”
Tony leaned further back in the sofa, the cushion of the couch taking a bit of the ache from his shoulders.
“Well,” he drawled out, quirking a small grin along the way. “If Peggy’s stories hold up, I believe it was something about a dance.”
To Tony’s surprise, Steve didn’t have a warm response to the comment. He expected a grin or a chuckle, or a bit of both. Instead, a frown pulled at Steve’s lips and his head dropped lower than before, the dimmed lights from above barely catching onto his face.
“I hope I’m not the last one,” he whispered, only heard in a room that was quiet to begin with.
Tony creased his brow, but said nothing.
It took a passing minute for Steve to regain his voice. He had to clear his throat to get there.
“That’s what I thought,” he admitted, lifting his head up with what seemed to take more effort than it should’ve. “It was the last thing I remember thinking...I hope I’m not the last good man.”
Steve turned to look at Tony, but his eyes failed to stay there. Tony couldn’t fault him; it would be hypocritical if he did. The wall ahead of Steve didn’t hold anything worthy of their focus, but Tony knew that long before Steve let his eyes wander there.
“I’d seen too many good men die...” Steve’s voice fell hoarse towards the end, taking on a rumbling akin to gravel and stone. “My unit...Bucky.”
The timing in which Steve swallowed, so hard that his throat shook, didn’t go unnoticed. Tony reciprocated the kindness from earlier and didn’t bring it to attention. And this time, he didn’t forgo his instincts.
Steve took in a deep breath in before continuing. “I’d seen more evil men come around as all the good men left — they were taken.”
His hands were still clasped loosely in his lap, and Steve looked down towards them, unfolding the hold so that he could brush the knuckle of his finger against his eyebrow.
“I didn’t want to be the last good man…” Steve’s voice softened, “taking a nosedive off the coast of Greenland.”
Steve could’ve spoken as if the events happened just yesterday, and he would’ve sounded no different.
It was just another harsh reminder for Tony; the man he saw in those black and white photos had quite literally only taken those photos only a handful of years ago — at least for him, at least through his eyes.
The tragedy he spoke about lined the walls in museums, it was all Tony heard about growing up, it filled the pages of the history books kids today were learning about in school.
But for Steve, it only recently happened.
And through all the years they’d known each other, worked alongside each other — nearly died on the same battlefield, whether it be Sokovia or Wakanda — Tony never saw it affect him.
Not with his chin up and his chin high.
“When I woke up…” Steve trailed off, his jaw moving to the side in the pause that followed. “I was worried that fear had come to fruition.”
It seemed like an eternity before Steve looked back to Tony — really looked at him, his eyes focusing in and his attention straight-ahead.
And when he did, Tony could see the age return to his face; making it seem as if he never slept those seventy years in ice.
“Then I met Peter,” Steve said, a small, minuscule twitch of a smile following suit. Lessening the decades etched so deeply into his skin; as if the stress lines across his face were frozen by the ice of the Arctic, and melted with the warmth of his truth.
Tony never realized that same smile radiated towards him. The pull on his lips felt more natural these days; he barely ever noticed when a grin cracked the crows-feet around his eyes.
“Taking the herb…making that decision...” Steve began to say, a soft nod turning into a shake of his head. “It wasn’t as hard as you think.”
Tony kept his chuckle in his throat, though a few breathy huffs still managed to escape.
It was hard to believe that there was a time he’d been determined to keep Peter away from the team. Never fully confident in his recruit of someone so young, never fully confident in the teams would-be-response to his growing mentorship with the kid — purposeful or not.
They were so far removed from the events that started off this year, it felt foreign to even think back on what all happened.
Especially as straight ahead of him, Steve smiled; mentioning Peter with a tone only ever heard when names like Peggy and Bucky were spoken about.
“He’s a good kid,” Tony finally said, hoping that was enough to sum up the abundance of thoughts that came with Steve’s admission.
For anyone else, it may not have been. But for Steve, he was able to communicate with Tony in ways that didn’t always require words.
“And he’s lucky to have you,” Steve responded, a sincere firmness weaving through his tone.
Tony scoffed, even with the ‘Stern, robust, Captain America’ tone that flooded through the lounge.
“Peter’s screwed with me,” he tried to say. Before he even knew it, his hand was moving when he spoke. “I’m a hot, piping mess. Can’t go three days without causing trouble, my blood pressure’s so high it’s given my doctor high-blood pressure, always going one extreme or the other — Rhodey was right on the nose with that one. I’m basically —”
“His dad,” Steve cut in, almost too soft to call an interruption. The smile that followed said everything and then some. “He’s lucky to have you.”
Tony looked away, but not because he wanted to. It was by instinct, hammered into the very bone marrow of his body. He wasn’t sure if the dimmed lights showed the blush that spread across his face; he figured if he saw the tint on Rogers skin earlier, it undoubtedly could be seen on his. Looking away was more to save his dignity.
He could feel as his right heel began to bounce on the ground again, and Tony suddenly looked to the stairway leading up to the lounge; the urge for distraction making his nerves re-appear.
“He’s lucky to have us. All of us,” Tony began to ramble on — it was what he did best in a moment like this. “Though I’m a little wary on Russian Spy sharing all her assassin tactics on him — might need to limit the custody time between those two.”
Steve joined him with the sound of gentle laughter. “Pretty sure after all this, Nat’s gunna bring her training down a notch.”
“Good,” Tony quickly said, firm at that. “Kid kicked our asses out there.”
Steve gave a little laugh, but otherwise kept it at that.
Tony didn’t push it; not even with his usual nonsensical, discomfort-filled rambling. There wasn’t any need for either of them to recall their battles from before — their bruises from Queens had healed, while their wounds of Wakanda weren’t far behind.
They’d be able to put all this behind them, slowly but surely. Waging on a new war while the others laid to rest.
And most importantly, they’d be able to do it together. No small feat — one that Tony realized he’d taken for granted.
“You know,” he cleared his throat, too many times to count. “If we’re...talking...family. Metaphorically, of course…” Tony forced his heel to stop bouncing on the floor. “Peter’s not the only family in my life.”
“Of course not,” Steve didn’t waste a second, gesturing his hand out Tony’s way. “You have Rhodey, Happy. And Pepper goes without saying —”
“You.”
Steve froze, and Tony didn’t have the desire to make a joke about that. Rather, he let himself smile. A feeling that was becoming so natural, he didn’t feel the lines around his eyes wrinkle at the stretch of his lips.
Slowly, Steve returned his hand back down to his lap. His own grin followed with time; not quite as large as Tony’s, but its sincerity clear as day with every tug it made on his face.
It was a long time before either of them spoke.
“I would’ve done it all over again, if I had to,” Steve eventually said, his smile not quite lessening; rather, morphing into something else.
Tony made a humorous face, with a noticeable roll of his eyes.
“The Great Captain America, saving the day!” Tony’s 1940 Announcer Voice barely impressed either of them, yet he kept his grin when he gestured a closed ‘victory’ fist in the air. “Of course you would, Rogers.” He laughed as he dropped his arm back down onto the couch. “Lives were at risk, I expect nothing else from —”
“No,” Steve cut in, no doubt a firm interruption this time around. So much that Tony arched an eyebrow, lending his attention where he would’ve otherwise barked back with indignance. Steve waited a beat before saying, “I would’ve made that decision for you. In a heartbeat.”
Tony looked off to the side, briefly, before gravitating his gaze back to Steve.
“Which one?”
Steve simply smiled.
“Any of them.”
The lounge fell quiet, in all the ways that normally made Tony uncomfortable. Whatever time passed by — seconds or minutes — felt more like a blip than a painful encounter. The air still felt light and easy, despite the heavy emotion that poured off them both.
It was just another thing that started to feel natural to Tony.
“Need anything while I’m up?” Tony asked, standing from the sofa with a barely-restrained grunt. The only thing that reminded him more of his aching muscles was the departure of the soft cushions to ease them. “Water, juice, crackers?”
Steve shook his head with a chuckle. “Thanks, but I’m —”
“Whisky, Gin —?”
“I’m good,” Steve insisted, palm outward with a little nod of his head. “But really, thanks.”
Tony let out a deep breath of air — not a sigh, just an evacuation of his lungs — as he walked around to the back of Steve’s sofa.
“Not sure about that, to be honest with you,” he said, a loud ‘cluck’ of his tongue nearly hiding the sound that followed. “You might find yourself needing this somewhere down the road.”
When Tony rounded the couch again, the shield in his hand caught reflection from every dimmed light casting down from the ceiling. He turned towards Steve, his elbow bent and the shield pressed against his chest; with every glimmer of red, white, and blue as polished as the last time Steve saw it.
Tony couldn’t quite decipher the expression that fell across Steve’s face.
He decided ‘speechless’ was a good place to start.
Tony twisted the shield in his grip to get a good look at it himself.
“Went back to that field and played fifty-two pick up,” he started to explain, each movement of his hand bringing a glisten to the metal. “Grabbed all the pieces, melted them down — melted down Vibranium, never thought we’d see that day.” Tony shook his head with a mixed sound of chuckle and hum caught in his throat. “Mhm. That summer home in Wakanda is looking better by the minute.”
The beat that followed as Tony admired the shield was plenty of time for Steve to speak up, if he had anything he wanted to say.
By the time Tony turned the shield back around — star facing frontward, and the glimmer of lights casting a reflection on Steve’s face — he still remained speechless.
“The good King supplied the remaining Vibranium to finish it off. Along with some other things,” Tony distantly mentioned, leaning forward and setting the shield down to the floor — right in reach for Steve to grab. It came to rest against the coffee table near his sketchpad. “Not too shabby, if I do say so myself. Think dad would be proud.”
If only out of instinct, Steve went to grab it, stopping when his hand grazed the top of the metal. No sooner than his hand touched down and he shot his head back to Tony — the expression of speechlessness gaining a bit of disbelief along the way.
“I like it, don’t you?” Tony continued to ramble to keep the silence at bay. “Sorta...symbolic, in a way. Has a very...'broken things can be put back together’ feel to it, no?”
Steve sat up a little higher on the couch, his legs still stretched out in front of him — with the nanite cast covering the limb that had nearly been as shattered as his shield.
There wasn't so much a scratch in sight.
With both hands, Steve picked it up — slowly, and gently, despite them both knowing the metal of its structure was nearly indestructible. It made its way to his lap, where he let it lay across his thighs; and he traced the design of the star with his thumb and index finger.
“Tony…I...”
Steve had to swallow before he spoke again. The waver was undeniable, as was the reflection that glistened in his eyes — though this time, it wasn’t from the lights casting down onto the shield.
“Thank you,” he all but whispered, forcing his gaze away from the shield as he spoke. Locking eyes on Tony with a smile far too soft to toughen the lines on his face.
Adding youth that Tony had only ever seen in photos.
Tony smiled in return. Heavy and weary, and tight on his skin, but he’d take the added weight of age if it meant seeing a bit more youth remain on Steve’s face.
“Well, don’t let me keep you up,” Tony finally said, his hand clasping down on Steve’s shoulder as he passed by the couch. “FRIDAY, be a dear and dim the lights. Grandpa needs a nap before dinner.”
Even halfway to the stairway, Tony heard Steve’s wet laugh, with a few sniffs lagging behind. It only broadened the smile on his face.
“Oh!” He spun around before hitting the top stair, grabbing onto the banister along the way. “Before I forget. Clear up your schedule for two Thursdays from now.” Tony gestured his hand up ahead, snapping his fingers until Steve finally craned his head over to look at him. “Need you available for tux fittings.”
“Tux —?” Steve couldn’t have looked anymore confused if he tried. “Huh?”
“I mean, your suits are fine — average at best,” Tony went on to say, “mid-tier retail with a decent tailor fitting, sure.” Re-directing his hand, Tony went from gesturing at Steve to gesturing towards himself. “But if you’re going to be standing next to moi, you gotta look your best.”
Steve pushed the shield further down his lap so he could reach over the back of the couch, insistent on getting a better look at Tony from across the lounge.
“What...exactly do you mean?” he dared to ask, slowly, at that.
“You’re my groomsman,” Tony said, point blank — as if ‘duh’ was written into the tone of his voice. “For the wedding.”
Both Steve’s eyebrows climbed up his forehead.
“Did…” he tilted his head to the side. “Did you ever ask me to be a groomsman for the wedding?”
Tony made a comical face, with his lips pursed so far off to the side they might as well have reached the bottom of the staircase.
“Isn’t that what I just did?” he answered, his voice dwindling away as, step by step, he climbed down the stairs. “Rest up, Cap! Can’t have you looking your age for the big day.”
Steve rolled his eyes and smiled, all at the same time.
While Tony departed down the stairway, he turned back to the shield in his lap; his fingers gently running over the smooth surface, with absolutely no signs of the damage it once sustained. Completely reassembled, in Tony’s words.
Broken, but put back together.
Even as he reached to the coffee table and retrieved his sketchpad, Steve didn’t move the shield. Rather, he used it as his art easel — letting his sketchpad rest against the hardened surface while he grabbed his pencil and, without much hesitation, resumed his drawing.
Distant scratching noises sounded as he moved the pencil left to right, before the side of his hand brushed away the excess lead. The differing shades of graphite deepened the trees across the hand-drawn Wakanda fields, with a noticeable sunrise tucked behind the clouds in the sky.
Even in black and white, the light of dawn that filtered through the African landscape held a vibrancy only outmatched by his shield. Steve blew a puff of air against the paper, blowing the pencil dust across the star beneath him.
Krrrrreeaaaaakkkk…
Cold.
So cold.
KrrRRReeeAAAkkkKKK…
“Ple–pl–ease...”
Nobody can hear him. Only the walls have a response, sharing in his pain — the echo of rumbles distant but encompassing. A boundless reminder that he’s alone.
He’s gong to die.
Alone.
“I..I d’n’t...”
He barely hears himself, the rattling thump of his own pulse overtaking each shivering breath that warms his mouth. The hot air escapes with a puff, visible in the freezing cold — like steam, like the fog that roams the floors. Even the blood, steadily escaping him, has lost its warmth.
His heart hammers with each beat, bashing against his chest — threatening to break out of his rib-cage.
He feels as it slows down. Weakens.
He feels the fear with each sob tearing out of his throat.
“I d’nt...’d’nt...w’n...want t-to...”
He’s afraid.
KkkkrRRRREEEAAAAKKK!
He hauls in each breath, and shakes with each exhale. His fingers scrape the cement floor, dragging through the blood that pools around him — cold as ice, and growing in size. Soaking through the material of his suit as it drenches his thighs, trailing all the way down to the heels of his feet.
Slowly, but surely, slipping away from him.
Darkness closes in on the edges of his vision — darker than the abyss that surrounds him, with gray spots closing in. Bit by bit. Little by little.
His eyelids blink and flicker — blink and flicker, blink and flicker — and his eyes roll all around, desperate not to succumb to the tug of inertia.
The pull only grows stronger.
His blinks become lethargic.
He needs to stay awake. Stay awake, and he stays alive.
Stay awake.
Stay alive.
Something cuts his strings and serves the bond to his neck, his head dropping low to his chest; brutally disconnected from the strength that kept him going this long.
He doesn’t…
KrrRRReeeeeEEEAAAAkkkKKK…
He doesn't want to die.
“...ple...ple-ase, h’lp...help me, pl —”
“Hey, hey…”
The voice breaks through the sound of enraged walls, penetrating through no different than the jagged pipe that left a gaping hole in his stomach.
The creaking groans fall distant, as do his own. Silenced by the light up ahead, cutting the darkness one inch at a time — far too dim to call a beacon. But approaching him all the same.
“I got you.” Hands clamp down on his shoulders, firmly.
Fiercely.
“I gotcha.”
He wasn’t alone.
“h’lp... m e, pl —”
“I’m going to.” He knows that voice. Even in the enduring darkness, even at the edge of his last breath, he knows that voice. “I’m right here, Pete. I’m not leaving you.”
A laugh bubbles in his chest, caught in the twisted tangles of a cry that gets the upper hand. It ruptures from his lips, exhausting all the warmth from inside of him — choking on the name with a strangled wheeze.
“...mr’...’ark…?”
The beacon of light grows brighter — two of them, one with a star. Warmth returns as they draw closer, the heat of their bodies enough to wrack a shiver through his spine.
The one hand leaves his shoulder, the other hand increases its grip. Fingers latch onto the nape of his neck, holding his head up when he’s long since lost the strength to do so by himself.
“I’m here, kid,” Tony says. “I gotcha.”
The walls groan, and so does he. The sounds of the aching pressure to the sea remain distant, but only now could he feel the fear go along with it.
He wasn’t alone.
“I’m here, kid.”
And he wasn’t afraid.
“I gotcha.”
Peter awoke with a few blinks.
Followed by a few more.
It was dark outside, and dark in his room. Far too cloudy of a night for any moonlight to seep in through his window — but just enough light from the compound’s surrounding exterior, with lampposts from the hangar bay parting through the trees; giving a slight outline to his closet and dresser drawers.
He was at the compound.
Right, of course. It was his weekend at the compound.
He wasn’t home, but…
Slowly, and with a deep breath, Peter sat up in bed.
He wasn’t there.
The blankets were still resting ontop of him, though they had fallen slightly askew. The weight of sleep was still heavy in his head, nearly pulling his eyelids shut — Peter rubbed two closed fists along his face, fighting off the remnants of slumber with a stifled yawn.
It felt like he'd just fallen asleep.
Blindly reaching for his phone — knocking over a half-empty water bottle as he did — and Peter unlocked the screen, squinting at the harsh blue light that immediately greeted him. It took a passing second before he could make out the time, and even then he kept one eye squinted shut as the bright light flooded his face.
It was late, but not late enough to be early.
He stared off the wall, right where the dresser was — where the abundance of security lights from outside broke through the curtains, casting shadows across the bedroom. By the time he realized he’d spaced out, the screen to his phone went idle and shut off.
Peter let it drop down into his lap, pulling off one of the blankets along the way — suddenly feeling flushed and warm. It wasn’t uncommon; he always woke up like that after a nightmare. Always sweaty and out of breath, always feeling like his heart was trying to run a million mile race.
His heart-rate wasn’t fast, though, which was strange. And his breathing remained shallow and steady. His mouth felt a bit dry, sure, and if he hadn’t knocked over his water bottle he absolutely would’ve chugged it down by now.
But overall, he felt calm.
Peter couldn’t remember ever feeling that way when waking up from a nightmare.
He blinked again, gradually swinging his legs off the edge of the bed — hesitating on letting his bare feet drop to the floor. The longer he spent waking up, and the more the bad dream seemed to gain clarity.
Not a nightmare.
Not really even a bad dream.
Just a…
Throwing the remaining covers off, Peter hopped down from the bed and grabbed his hoodie from the floor, throwing it over his head in one fluid motion. His backpack was tossed in a corner, not far from the door to his bedroom.
He grabbed it on his way out.
The only thing worse than history textbooks, was history textbooks at two a.m.
The sound of his spoon ‘clanked’ while on the way into his mouth, hitting the outside rim of the bowl on its journey there. The crunching that followed was only amplified in the silence of the kitchen, each smack from his lips louder than the last, and enough to distract him from the four-hundred-sixty-two page World History textbook.
Two a.m, two p.m — it didn’t really matter when it came to this. It sucked, regardless of the time of day.
Peter had just dipped his spoon into the bowl of Frosted Flakes again when the dish was suddenly taken from him.
“Hey!” he protested — spoon mid-air and dripping milk onto the kitchen island. “I was still eating tha—!”
Peter’s eyes blew wide open, with his jaw dropping straight down to the toes of his bare feet. He watched, wordlessly, as Bucky took the bowl away from him, and meandered with it across the kitchen.
At least, he assumed that was Bucky. The one arm was a tip-off, at least giving Peter faith that he wasn’t entirely wrong.
But the hair...
“Who the hell are you?” Peter squeaked out, the slow but very obvious tug of a grin on his face visible even in the low lights of the kitchen.
Bucky didn’t bother turning around to see it.
“Ha-ha,” he dryly drawled out, not once breaking pace on his way to the kitchen sink. “Very funny, smart-ass.”
Yep, Peter concluded.
That was Bucky.
Again — the one arm was a dead give away.
But the hair.
“Was it gum?” Peter asked, his head cocking to the side as if that would give him a better view of Bucky’s new look — no different than before, of course, down to the over-the-shoulder-shawl that smelt oddly familiar to Peter. Very farmy, sorta like goats. Everything about him was the same. Except for the hair. “Cause that happened to me, when I was a kid —”
“You still are a kid,” Bucky’s interruption came as a mumble.
“My friend Ned and I had this bet on who could blow the most bubble gum —” Peter either didn’t hear him, or he went right over his muttering. “I won, but the bubble was super big and when it popped it all got in my hair and May couldn’t get any of it out so she shaved my head. The entire third grade class made fun of me. And then a rumor went around that I was dying. Then everyone thought I was dead —”
“Seems to be a theme.” Again, Bucky’s interruption was just a mumble.
“Anyway,” And again, Peter went right over it. “It took like, five months for my hair to grow back. It came back kinda splotchy at first. May didn’t let me buy gum for years after that. I still snuck some in, when I could, especially those Trident flavors — the cinnamon was my favorite but the peach mango was the best. You should try some, they last a long time, can chew ‘em for hours.”
Realizing his spoon was still mid-air and still dripping milk onto the kitchen island, Peter decided to shovel the last bit of cereal into his mouth.
“Do you…” Peter spoke through the smacking and chewing of Frosted Flakes, trailing off as he slowly, and gently, set the empty spoon onto the kitchen island. It also ‘clanked’ as it touched down. “Do you...chew gum?”
Peter figured that was a polite way of asking ‘what the hell got into you?’
Bucky turned to look at him — bowl still in hand, and his head craned over his shoulder.
“I cut my hair,” he answered, plainly.
At that very second, the lack of anyone’s long hair and sudden disappearance of man-buns was the last concern Peter had. Not when he realized just how close his still-plentiful-bowl of Frosted Flakes was now getting to the garbage disposal.
“You can’t waste that,” Peter argued — arm extending out like a stiff board as he wildly shook his head. “That’s perfectly good food.”
Bucky didn’t so much as blink as he dumped the contents of the bowl down the sink — head still craned over his shoulder, staring right at Peter with an expression more expressionless than anything Peter had ever seen before.
“It’s not food,” Bucky stated. “It’s junk.”
Peter made a face. “It’s —!”
“Junk,” Bucky steamrolled right over him, already spraying down the sink with the swivel faucet head and rinsing away the contents of his albeit heavy-handed bowl of sweet, sugary goodness. “It’s rotting your brain more than that shit that actually rotted your brain.”
If Peter rolled his eyes any harder, they would’ve seen the very brain that Bucky spoke about.
“Oh, come on,” he pouted, his arm dropping and his hand smacking down on his knee. “You gunna lecture me about tooth decay next?”
Bucky didn’t even look at Peter as he began rummaging in the cupboards above the sink.
“Pretty sure I just did,” he said, too dry to hold any volume; the opening and closing of kitchen cabinets nearly louder than his voice.
Peter heard, nonetheless. His lips pursed to the side as he spun back around to the kitchen island, his flannel pajama pants nearly catching on the stool when he did.
Without any distractions in place, he grabbed ahold of his pencil, biting back a sigh as his textbooks practically taunted him.
All the while, the occasional racket sounded from behind; noise of kitchen cupboards opening and closing and drawers being pulled open and then shut.
Still, even with the noise, it remained quiet. A Friday night — slash — Saturday morning didn’t offer anything of excitement for the communal kitchen. The lights were kept dimmed and the atmosphere kept reserved, no different than any other night the two of them occupied the room together.
Peter didn’t even need enhanced hearing to catch the crickets chirping outside, though there were far less sounding at this time of the year. And the technology in the compound made it so no unoccupied room was heavily cooled or heated, which only made Peter thankful for bringing his hoodie along with him. There was still a bite of chill in the small hours, with the heat only recently kicking on and warming up the kitchen.
He was still tapping what little remained of his eraser against the pages of his notebook when, suddenly, a new bowl was placed in front of him.
“What’s this?” Peter made another face as he pointed his pencil at the dish.
The legs of a stool screeched against the floor as Bucky took a seat across from him, with his own bowl in his hand and making a brief sound of clatter as it dropped down onto the island.
“Oatmeal,” he simply answered, an uptick of his chin gesturing to the much smaller bowl that now sat in front of Peter. “It’s better for you.”
Oatme —? Peter lowered his pencil, slowly, until it came to rest somewhere between the fifth and sixth paragraph of his open textbook.
There was a metal spoon dug into the center of the bowls contents — colorless, mushy oats that looked more lumpy than Peter’s mattress back home. And when Peter went to pluck the silverware out, it practically stayed stuck inside. Like...glue in mud.
Muddy glue.
Really muddy glue.
“Delicious,” Peter murmured, momentarily questioning just how edible the glue was until he looked up and saw Bucky shoveling spoonful after spoonful into his mouth.
Though he figured it couldn’t be too bad if someone else was eating it, Peter opted to leave his bowl alone so he could get a little further along in his history book. He wasn’t sure where he left off, but he decided to pick up on the section where his pencil came to rest.
It was still quiet, even as Bucky smacked and chomped on the mush of oatmeal, staring off absentmindedly at the wall behind Peter. There was nothing there that captivated his attention — Peter learned that a while ago.
It was just something he did. Stare, that is.
And he did it often.
Peter kept his focus on his notebook, and Bucky kept staring at the kitchen cabinets, occasionally breaking the lull of silence with another mouthful of oatmeal; his smacking and chomping the only real noise between them.
Two paragraphs later — four, technicality, Peter had to re-read the two paragraphs twice — and Bucky finally spoke up.
“Do all kids do their homework at two am,” he flatly asked, “or just...weird...spider bite ones?”
Peter was still trying to re-re-read the last paragraph when he used the partially-gone eraser of his pencil to scratch at his eyebrow.
“I dunno if there’s anyone else with spider bites that gave them powers,” he answered, pausing mid-scratch to give the concept a second thought. A little smirk pulled at his mouth when he looked up at Bucky. “It would be cool to meet them, though.”
Bucky didn’t share that same enthusiasm.
“Only if they don’t talk as much as you do.”
With that, he took in another spoonful of oatmeal — smacking and chomping while staring off at the wall behind Peter.
It was quiet again. Even the crickets fell short of their normal chirping. Peter wondered if the bugs were starting to doze off in the wee hours of the morning; he wouldn’t blame them — it was late-somewhat-early, and everyone deserved the rest. Little critters and insects included.
Eventually, he’d join them. He just couldn’t fall back asleep right away, not with his mind muddled and his thoughts more mushy than the oatmeal in front of him. Every time he tried to shake away the things that popped into his head, something else came along. Distracting him and begging him to address what he wasn’t remotely ready to touch yet.
Peter recalled Bucky once telling him that his dreams were his mind remembering things for him. ‘Mind’s a fucked up thing,’ he said. It wasn’t long after that conversation — taking place in the same kitchen they both sat in now — that Peter realized his dreams of what happened down in the bunker were actually nightmares. Moments he never let himself dwell on.
This dream, though…
It was different.
It was...
A heavy sigh blew through Peter’s cheeks, all as he furrowed his brows and wrinkled his nose in a way that displayed his concentration. Now wasn’t the time for that. He’d deal with it later.
Looking back down to his notebook, and taking a few glances at the textbook next it, Peter began to tap his pencil on the kitchen island. The crease to his brow grew tighter as he desperately tried to conjure the focus he needed to get the essay completed.
He’d deal with other thoughts later.
Right now, this.
The pencil began tapping louder, and faster. Peter clenched his hold on it to make himself stop.
“Shuri say when she was gunna make you a new arm?” Peter asked the question before he even realized he was speaking. So much for staying focused.
If Bucky noticed his distraction, he decided not to point it out.
Still staring at the wall, and still smacking through his oatmeal, he simply answered,
“Nope.”
Peter looked up from his books. “Want me to ask her for you?”
Still staring at the wall, and still smacking through his oatmeal, Bucky answered,
“Nope.”
Peter dropped his pencil, letting it land somewhere between the eight and tenth paragraph of the textbook.
“It’s no big deal, I’ve got her number,” he went on to say. “We talk like, all the time. Actually, just last night —”
“She said it’s being worked on,” Bucky firmly interrupted, and eagerly at that. He dug his spoon into his oatmeal, pausing at the next bite to say, “That’s enough for me.”
With that, Bucky pushed the spoon through his lips and into his mouth. His jaw working hard with each bite and chomp.
Peter nodded, his lips sucked so far into his mouth he could taste skin on his teeth.
“Cool,” he eventually said, his head bobbing to no rhyme or beat — just nodding in a way that told of his inability to stay still. “How long you think it’ll be?”
Bucky dug his spoon back into his oatmeal, forcefully lifting it out of the dish and bringing the silverware to his mouth.
“However long it takes,” he mumbled, before taking another spoonful into his mouth. His chewing and smacking somehow got louder than last time.
Peter got the hint.
The nodding finally came to a stop as he looked back to his textbook, picking up somewhere on the ninth paragraph where his pencil fell. He barely made it three sentences in before looking back up at Bucky.
“Sorry again. For breaking your old one,” Peter needlessly apologized, completely unaware of what count this put him at — and quite frankly wanting to stay oblivious to whatever number he was reaching.
Apologizing just felt like the right thing to do. And he was long overdo for doing some right things.
The look Bucky proceeded to give him had Peter doubting all of that.
“I mean…” Peter looked back to his notebook and shrugged. “I did sorta tell you I’d win in an arm wrestling contest.”
Bucky paused halfway to his next spoonful, his hand lingering with his spoon in the air for so long that Peter eventually looked away from his textbook and back at him.
“You’re a little shit,” Bucky said — clear and loud as day, before shoveling the oatmeal into his mouth.
Peter smirked.
The quiet returned, sans a few chirping crickets from outside. Bucky chewed, Peter tapped his pencil against his textbook, and the kitchen remained otherwise unoccupied.
The nearest clock — the one on the stove — told Peter it was a little halfway into two a.m. He’d give himself another hour to try and wrap up his essay — without training this weekend, it meant extended ‘Stark Internship’ time tomorrow. Peter was more than accustomed to those days meaning ‘Mr. Stark has a new invention and wants my help with it.’
But Tony told him personally that they’d be building his new suit tomorrow. And Peter wanted to get some sleep in for all that.
It was exciting to get a new suit, as much as he’d missed his old one. His first one — at least his first real one. There were a lot of memories attached to it, after all. Good and bad.
Mostly good, he figured.
A lot of bad, though.
Still.
Something about getting a new suit, it felt... it felt right. Like it was time for a change.
Plus, it was only appropriate. There was so much change in the past year; in many ways, a new suit fit right in.
The smacking subsided, and Peter looked away from the clock and back towards Bucky; where he noticed more than half his bowl was devoured and his spoon laid discarded inside the dish. He was still staring, as he always did.
Peter found his eyes drifting from the bowl of oatmeal to the goat-smelling-shawl that covered his shoulder, hiding the empty socket from view.
He couldn’t help but wonder if Bucky ever had the same thoughts about himself.
“You want a new arm...right?” Peter asked, only to suddenly feel incredibly intrusive once speaking the question out loud. He adjusted himself on the stool, so quick he nearly fell over. “Like, obviously you want a new arm. Who wouldn’t? You can’t juggle. Could you juggle before? You could learn to juggle. I mean, I wouldn’t wanna be armless. Or legless. Or —”
“You now have a words-per-minute allowance,” Bucky firmly stated, lifting the spoon from the bowl so he could point it at Peter. “Let’s start with thirty and see if you can stick with that.”
Peter paused, his lips growing tightly together as he considered Bucky’s words.
“I’d just talk slower,” he concluded — and in all fairness, he didn’t start smiling until long after Bucky’s expression of exasperation became permanently fixed on his face.
“Do you find loopholes for everything?” Bucky asked, dryly, making it very clear he didn’t need an answer.
“Depends on who you ask,” Peter answered regardless.
Bucky was mid-chomp on his oatmeal when he pointed the dirty spoon at Peter again.
“Your pops,” he stressed, taking in as much pleasure from Peter’s expression of exasperation as Peter had towards him. “How ‘bout him?”
Peter rolled his eyes and snatched up his pencil, the little-bit-of-eraser on the top beating relentlessly against the pages of his textbook.
“Mr. Stark wanted to add a mute function to the inside of my mask,” Peter murmured, purposefully ignoring the look of satisfaction that crossed Bucky’s face — his eyes dropped down to the island and landed somewhere on paragraph seven.
“It’d be a good start.” Bucky scraped the spoon around the bowl as he dug for the last remains of his oatmeal.
Peter shook his head with another eye-roll, not that either could be seen as Bucky stood from his stool; the legs screeching against the floor as he made his way to the kitchen sink.
The faucet had turned on by the time Peter broke away from his history books, looking up at Bucky even though the mans back was facing him.
“You do want a new arm…” he asked, his one eyebrow slowly reaching up to his hairline. “Right?”
The sound of running water occupied the space where neither of them spoke. The sound of glass clinked and clanked as Bucky washed his bowl in the sink, only answering when the faucet eventually shut off.
“It’s complicated,” he answered, reaching for the roll of paper towels and pulling a few down, his hand dripping soapy water along the counter as he did. “Old one had a lot of memories attached to it.”
Peter watched, silently, as Bucky single-handedly dried himself off; using the counter as a base for the paper towels that soaked up the water from his hand, before he tossed the wad into the nearest trash can.
He didn’t re-approach the kitchen island, choosing instead to plop his back against the kitchen sink, and stuff that same hand deep into the pocket of his sweats.
It was honestly the first time Peter ever saw Bucky look anything remotely close to tired. Though exhaustion was far too a strong a word to use, there was a hunch to his posture that indicated more of an urge to sleep than what Peter felt. If any of them were leaving the kitchen first, Peter had a feeling it’d be him.
“Yeah, but…” Peter wasn’t sure why he trailed off. “New things give new memories, so...”
Peter’s attempt at words of encouragement was as remarkable as his attempt at his history essay. He shook his head, this time at himself, as he returned to the notebook on the counter.
He was surprised to hear Bucky respond.
“Just don’t want that happening again.” He was quiet, especially from across the kitchen.
Peter wondered if Bucky knew he could hear at that distance, or if he was just speaking to himself in the middle of the night; looking off in the distance with a stare, just like he always did.
There was a slight drip to the faucet in the silence that followed; leaking the residual water from the pipes after its brief use. Peter looked past Bucky and at the sink, listening as each droplet ‘plopped’ down, almost in a way that matched the beat to his pulse.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
“Memories?” Peter asked, almost matching the same volume, though not necessarily on purpose. It was hard to even broach the subject of memories, what with his dream leading him to this very kitchen at — Peter looked back to the stove — two thirty-six in the morning.
“Bad ones.” Bucky dropped his head when he answered. “Easier to avoid the problem if I don’t got an arm. That’s all.”
The dripping continued, though it noticeably lost its rhythm. Spanning out gaps between each plop of water in the sink.
Peter heard it, but this time, he didn’t try to shake the thoughts away.
Avoiding the bad memories was just problematic, after all. He never allowed himself to dwell on those moments before, and they leaked into his dreams — turning into nightmares that stole away his sleep. And his peace of mind.
The sound from the sink hit his hears no different than the noise of Bucky grounding his jaw, or the crickets chirping outside — all piercingly sharp with his enhanced hearing, but some hitting harder than others.
Months had gone by and the seasons had changed, and Peter was starting to give up hope that he’d ever remember his kidnapped-bunker-under-the-sea ordeal in full clarity. The moments after his encounter with Dmitri — after being shish-kebabed — it was mostly a blur. Everything he’d been told by others helped put together the pieces, but there were still things he couldn’t quite make out.
“I’m here, kid.”
He remembered his dreams — his nightmares — of drowning. He remembered moments where he swore he’d taken his last breath, where his lungs failed to take in anymore air, and the fear seized his last heartbeat.
He remembered being scared.
“I gotcha.”
And slowly, he was finally starting to remember more.
Eventually, when enough time passed, the pipes cleared themselves of any residual water. And the last drip brought with it complete silence.
“Maybe a new arm will...you know…” Peter broke that silence only to trail off, giving a one-shouldered shrug after a long, lingering pause. “Bring new memories. Better memories.”
It was hard to tell if Bucky spent the next few minutes deliberating on that possibility, or if he was just staring off at nothing in the kitchen. Even without any long hair covering his face, it was hard to tell what he was thinking.
Both looks could’ve very well been the same, for all Peter knew.
“You should get some sleep,” Bucky finally said, pushing away from the sink and returning to the kitchen island with heavy, tired footsteps.
“Nah, not yet.” Peter shook his head, his own voice growing a little tired along the way. “I gotta finish this first.”
Bucky passed by the side of the island he once occupied; his arm reaching over Peter’s back, going for the bowl of untouched oatmeal near the schoolbooks. He stopped once leaning forward to grab the dish, getting a good look at the pages long the way.
“Jeeze, punk,” Bucky started to say, disregarding the bowl in favor of slapping the back of his hand across Peter’s notebook. “That looks like a mess.”
Peter quickly grabbed the notebook away from where Bucky could touch it.
“I gotta clean it up,” he scampered for an excuse, flipping back a few pages until he got to the one with his title header — the first page of his essay. “It’s a re-write — uh, a...re-re-re-write, it’s...I just gotta —”
With a groan loud enough to wake the other Avengers in the building, Peter leaned back until he nearly fell off the stool — both his hands scrubbing at his face until his skin felt raw.
“I’m not good with history, okay?” he admitted, an astronomical amount of defeat riding through his tone. “I have one last shot at this and I can’t fudge it up. I think the introduction part is fine — at least, MJ said it was okay. But Mrs. Warren has all these notes on the outline and she says the conclusion is just a repeat of the introduction and I don’t know how else to go about it. I mean, what more is there to talk about? I took chapters eight through sixteen, I analyzed and summarized them — I have a whole page on the Allies and the Axis leading to the fall out from the invasion of Leyte,” Peter took a deep breath in only to blow all the air out through his cheeks. “I just can’t get it right. I suck at this.”
Peter had been far too busy rambling and waving his hand around in the air to ever notice Bucky had taken the notebook from him.
Standing behind Peter, he flipped through the pages one at a time — all as Peter continued to rant and rave and ramble on.
“It’s so stupid — chem and physics? I wrote a whole thesis on the nuclear structural and reaction chain to first-through-fourth generation gamma ray and fission anti-neutrinos. I actually used a lot of Doctor Banner’s studies for that one — showed it to him a few months ago, too. He loved it.” Peter paused to make a face. “Or at least he said he loved it. It got me to the top of my class that year, so, I mean, it had to be kinda good, right?” Peter wasn’t too sure what movements his hands were making. They moved for the sake of not staying still. “I basically wrote it in my sleep. I may have actually written some in my sleep, I don’t even remember doing the research on the electromagnetic energy decay. It just...came naturally.”
The next groan of his was a little less loud than before, but overall, that wasn’t saying a whole lot. It still ruptured through any quiet atmosphere the kitchen once had; the only person who still remained quiet being Bucky — flipping through Peter’s notebook with a deepening crease on his brow.
“History class?” Peter slapped both hands onto the island — one on his history textbook, the other on the granite counter top . “This is my third go at this. And my last. If I can’t get this essay to pass, I’m off Decathlon for the whole semester. And I mean, that — that right there there would suck so much. But then, I mean, MJ would never date me if I got kicked off Decathlon. And she’s really cool, you know, and I don’t wanna mess this up. Or my grades. My grades or MJ. I’ve messed up both already. If I mess it up even more — ”
Peter used both hands to grab at his textbook, dragging it closer to him and smoothing out the pages on both sides to force the spine open.
“I have to get this right,” Peter murmured more to himself than anyone else, his eyes narrowing with intent focus as he stared at the pages in front of him. “I have to.”
He was still kinda hungry, though.
Looking up, Peter also dragged the bowl of oatmeal closer to reach. He pulled the spoon out of the bowl, with effort — seriously, that wasn’t a good sign — and gave it a test sniff before plunging the spoon into his mouth.
It was at that same time Bucky stepped closer to his side, right in to his peripheral vision.
Peter turned his head around, frowning as he pulled the spoon from of his mouth.
“Wha?” he garbled out, a frown tugging his lips down — both from Bucky’s odd expression, and the texture of watered-down-cement assaulting his taste-buds.
Bucky held up the notebook with his one hand.
“Is this about 1944?” he asked, bewildered; and if Peter didn’t know better, almost sounding insulted.
Peter forced himself to swallow — Good Lord, he’d taken May’s meatloaf any day over whatever that was — and nodded.
“I mean, basically,” he managed around the remains of sticky oatmeal. It took a few gulps to get it all past his throat, and for a moment he was worried he’d choke and die in the most embarrassing way of all time. Death by cement oatmeal — not cool. “It’s all structured on the year and, you know — the events of World War II and stuff.”
Peter even gestured to his history textbook, as if that better clarified what he spoke of.
Bucky’s expression of sheer bemusement only grew larger by the second.
When it became painfully clear that Peter had nothing more to say — or his tongue had become entrapped in the quicksand that was Bucky’s oatmeal — Bucky tossed the notebook back down onto the kitchen island.
“You’re either a special kinda smart,” he drawled out, “or a special kinda stupid.”
Out of pure instinct, Peter went to grab another spoonful of oatmeal — hastily dropping the spoon back into the bowl when realizing what he was about to do.
Then another realization hit him.
Peter spun on the stool to face Bucky, so close that the familiar smell of goats on his shawl was stronger than ever.
“Hey, you were in—” Peter quickly picked up his notebook, flipping open the pages with the most eagerness he’d felt all semester. “Can you —?”
“Give me that!” Bucky snapped, snatching the notebook right out of Peter’s hands.
Grabbing the empty stool from across the island, Bucky let the legs screech on the floor before planting a spot next to Peter — and grabbing the spoon from inside the bowl of oatmeal, shoveling it straight into his mouth.
“For starters,” Bucky garbled around the oatmeal, “your conclusion does suck.”