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From the very first whisperings of the plan, Tony Stark had expected to die.
Maybe this was why he decided to kiss Pepper with a finality, that neither of them could really understand at that moment, or why he had recorded a goodbye message for all his friends and family—he knew intimately what the absence of a loved one did to a person.
He didn’t know how he managed not to sob his way through it. It took only one take, and afterwards he closed his eyes with a serene, yet strange sense of calm.
That was it.
Now, it was time to prove that he was an Avenger, that he could really lay himself on that wire and give up all he was, and had ever been, for the sake of the universe’s continued existence. After all, what was one Iron Man, compared to billions of lives? It would be just Fate collecting his debt to them, for cheating death countless times, for not having his heart skewered by shrapnel of his own making, for not getting stranded in space after annihilating almost a nation, for not getting revenged by his own creation—for not freezing to death in Siberia.
Maybe this ironclad conviction—that he was not returning, once he stepped on that awful, awful battlefield, that there was nothing else to lose anymore—was the reason Tony had the courage to do what he did.
And it was really so much easier than he ever dreamed it to be.
Steve was so warm, and soft, yet still firm and powerful underneath his fingers; the way he melted under Tony’s touch, as he tangled a hand into the short strands of blond hair at the back of Steve’s head and pulled him in for a searing kiss.
They didn’t get the chance to talk about it, not with the battle fast approaching—nor with the rest of the heroes assembling around them: slowly, but surely becoming an army, with Steve and Tony at the helm as their commanders. They couldn’t afford the emotions, they couldn’t afford feeling distracted, because it would end up costing a friend’s life. There was no place for the irreplaceable warmth between them—not anymore. Not when this was the last stand, the chance to finally end the ceaseless pain of the last five years.
From the way Steve looked at him, eyes unfocused and watery, lips still red, but trembling as he choked down the tears he wasn’t allowed to shed—he knew as well, that there wasn’t a chance they were both walking away from this alive.
Even if that kiss meant something, even if that kiss meant everything, there was nothing for them anymore in a future they wouldn’t share. In a future, where Tony Stark won’t even exist anymore, undone by the fighting and defeated not by the enemies, but by the endless power surging through the Infinity Stones into the body of one fragile human.
Maybe he shouldn’t have been the one to offer himself for that sacrifice, but Tony knew that it was the role the Fates had cast him into, and there was no going back anymore. Not for the bittersweet ending that was his marriage, nor for the pools of endless blue Tony wanted to sink into until he drowned, nor for the grief for a life they could have had. It was only heartbreak and anguish that was left for Tony Stark.
It felt cathartic to gasp out those words that meant so much to him, the words that have changed his life, for better, or worse. The words that have made his life. Because in the end, he was nothing else anymore, not Tony Stark, nor Howard Stark’s son, nor the legacy he had to carry on.
“I… Am… Iron Man.”
Tony didn’t think Hell was supposed to smell this clinical. Or this annoyingly bright, he grimaced, as he peeked his eyes open. No, Hell was supposed to have tiny devils poking at you with their pointy little pitchforks, as you boiled in red hot lava, and told you all your sins, like how you missed your best friend’s wedding, because you have been too busy being laid out unconscious in a hospital bed, after straining your second-hand heart.
Huh. Maybe Hell really was a hospital after all.
Tony hoped against hope, that maybe after dying, he would be spared the pain from this plane of existence, but that too seemed to be a very futile wish on his part, as sensations started coming back to him slowly, but surely.
First, came the pain. A rather dull, throbbing burn in his right arm, a kind of agony that seemed both so close, yet so far away from him, like his own body was lying miles away, still abandoned in the debris of battle; and an acute, crushing sensation in his left, like a heavy weight was laid on his forearm, cutting off the circulation, a nerve-deep buzzing. His head pounded, ached, like it wanted to split open—or more like it was competing for the title of the year’s most ass-kicking hangover.
Then, came the sounds. The steady beeping of an ECG machine, that felt way out of place for a dead man, the quiet shuffling outside the door, and soft, familiar snores beside him.
Only then could Tony finally open his eyes long enough to take it all in. He really was in a hospital, blindingly bright and white and smelling like cheap, disgusting antiseptic—not one of SI’s private rooms. There were flowers on multiple tables by the far wall, cards, gift boxes, and crude drawings of a red and gold figure were piled so high upon them, their thin legs seemed to bow and bend outwards, nearly unable to take the weight.
Tony didn’t realize what felt so strange in the way he had to turn his head to look over the room, to see where the door was on his right. Everything felt so much like floating, like nothing really mattered around him, like his body was not even his. This was just what death brought him.
But when he turned his head back to the left, and looked down, reality suddenly seemed to come to a halt around him, a crash into freezing cold water, one you would only do on a dare when you are young and brash.
Tony was not dead.
He really was in a hospital.
He had survived not only Thanos, but the power of all the Infinity Stones surging through him, burning through his nerves, eating at his flesh—sucking the very life out of him. Yet, against all odds, his life was spared. Maybe he had a wish as he snapped his fingers, something he saw in his mind’s eye, that wasn’t his life flashing through his brain.
He remembered the sharp pain of power lighting up his veins, bright and hot, both wonderful and horrific at the same time—consuming him with each throbbing pulse. Tony also recalled glancing at Steve: dirty, bloodied and broken, but still standing tall, with his shattered shield, and Mjölnir sparking in his hands, radiating hope—he felt the ghost of the man’s warm, chapped lips against his own, tasted the faint trace of vanilla and mint.
Even through stones’ visions, as Tony watched the universe convalesce, witnessed the births and deaths of millions of stars, and marveled at the beauty of eternity, Steve was there, everywhere Tony looked: smiling, laughing, angry, crying—begging Tony for just a moment more.
Even now, he could recall the silent pleading in Steve’s eyes, as they broke their kiss, Tony’s own hopelessness reflected in them. He shook his head to hide his own tears, but Steve just stood there—his gaze unfocused and his face wet—even as Tony walked away with a heavy heart. God, he had hated leaving the man behind and the possibilities of all they could have had.
But now? He was alive and all the unsaid words and regrets for a future he thought would never come, were rushing back at him, flooding his mind with bright hope.
Tony was alive!
Or at least he really hoped that was the case, because there was nothing else that could really explain why exactly Steve Rogers was slumbering in a rickety hospital chair next to his bed in probably-not-Hell, his bulky frame uncomfortably curled into a ball, and one heavy hand, decorated with still fading purple-and-green bruises, was clasping Tony’s forearm tightly. Even in his unconsciousness, Steve was strong as he held on to him, like he was scared Tony would just spring up from a hospital bed and make the run for it, like he wasn’t feeling weak and tired enough to sleep for a whole week.
Although—and Tony didn’t think he would ever say this—not dying would make things a bit more complicated. Now, everything he did before the final battle would have consequences, the way he let Pepper go, the bittersweet understanding in her eyes, the tape he recorded, the way he kissed Steve, with all of those years of unresolved yearning and affection—all because he wanted to go out with a bang, and well… because it just felt right.
Or maybe Tony didn’t really want to admit to himself that he just didn’t want to die with any regrets. And not fighting for Captain America to stay with him, not bothering to understand Steve’s side of the story, nor trying hard enough to make Steve just listen to him, was a regret he had carried with himself for nearly a decade, with all the beauty and the pain of pining after the man he first admired and then despised—but deep in his heart always desired.
It was unbearable to hold back from wanting to swipe the few strands of hair that fell into Steve’s eyes, so Tony, ever the indulgent man, didn’t deny himself. He lifted his free, right hand and—
And there was nothing there.
Tony screamed.
The road to recovery was long and painful, and made only worse by Tony’s bruised and battered, but still enormous pride, as he insisted on walking it alone. It was more out of shame and trying to preserve some part of his dignity, than really trusting his own abilities, but it wouldn’t have been Tony if he made things easy for himself—for once in his life.
And the help Tony did accept was something he came to regret.
At first, Tony was immensely thankful to the Wakandans for offering him their advanced medical treatment, but when Shuri entered the room with the vibranium arm—even if it was painted the exact shades of red and gold of his suit, that should’ve signified that it was nothing but Tony’s—he couldn’t help but flinch away at the sight.
The gesture was… thoughtful, if anything. More than he deserved. Not like there was any way for them to know how many hangups Tony still carried with him, and how he still grit his teeth any time he glanced at the beautiful piece of workmanship, that now rested in the nondescript wooden box Shuri ordered be brought in after seeing the misery on Tony’s face.
It helped, to have the option to be just a bit more whole again, but Tony still wanted to recoil every time his gaze fell on it, resting innocently on his bedside table. It reminded him too much of Bucky, and while Bucky was better now, what’s more, they even managed a whole conversation together—one with less brainwashed biting and more sassy hissing on both ends—and tried, really tried to help Tony deal with a pain he himself knew intimately, well… He also reminded Tony of everything he wanted to forget.
That was how, slowly, but surely, people learnt not to try and stay by Tony Stark’s side, who took to social interactions like a wounded predator, with bared teeth and snarled threats. Most people knew when they weren’t needed. But the few who stayed, Tony learned to begrudgingly accept.
Pepper, despite their divorce, remained by his side, being the reliable friend she was always meant to be, providing the much needed right hand Tony still refused to accept was gone. Rhodey came by whenever he could, despite being responsible for supervising the unprecedented chaos that was billions of people reappearing after five years of being gone.
The most surprising constant was Steve though, a stubborn, warm shadow, accompanying Tony even on his darkest, most emotional days, with his large, wide eyes and his infuriating earnestness. Tony both wanted him to stay and loathed him for his presence. The worst thing was, he wasn’t even sure why Steve was there, why he kept coming back for a man who clearly didn’t want his help, why he continued to care for someone who was so undeniably broken, there was no way to mend him.
Was it the misplaced sense of loyalty Tony wished he could have had years ago on that awful day in the cold desolate lands of Siberia? Was it guilt for leaving Tony there, without looking back? Was it the pity that Tony had seen many times before, flash in Steve’s eyes? Or was it something else entirely, born out of a beautiful, stolen moment, before Tony resolved to walk to his own death?
It made the guilt rise up in his chest, warm and disgusting, and it caused Tony to feel nauseous.
If all of this, all this pain and suffering stemmed from that kiss, and the small, fleeting, selfish hope of dying without regrets—God, Tony thought of how much easier it would have been if he didn’t think of Steve and all that they could have had in a different world, if they were different people. If only he was just Iron Man in that last moment of the battle, without still being Tony Stark, would the Stones have taken more, or less than the half of him that was missing now?
There was no point in following that line of thought, Tony knew very well, but as he stared out of the window, with Steve softly snoring by his side, he couldn’t help but wonder. All he had now was a twice-damned second chance that almost perished the moment it appeared. A supernova that shone bright one moment, before extinguishing—leaving behind nothing but chaos and ruin.
But he was Tony Stark, and if anyone could domesticate chaos, like it was nothing, but a sweet, gentle puppy, it was him.
Over time, Tony decided to live. It wasn’t really a conscious decision, more of an attitude-thing for him. He wasn’t sure when exactly it happened either, but one day he was wallowing in self-pity and self-hatred—as one did—and the next he just… he gave up fighting. Tony just let it happen, let life happen, let himself be taken care of and just started longing for a future he accepted long ago wasn’t his, a world he thought he had been denied. But now tomorrow was his too.
It was only after that, that Tony spoke again. He didn’t even realize he had kept silent for weeks on end, but the way his vocal chords complained wasn’t something he could ignore. Steve placed a large glass of water next to Tony’s bed with a watery smile—having somehow remembered that Tony didn’t want to be handed things—and watched as he drank it down greedily.
The smile on Steve’s face, when Tony whispered a quiet, raspy ’Thanks’ was almost blinding.
It took Tony a while, but now that he watched Steve with something other than suspicion ringing in his head, he recognized that there was no trace of pity in the man’s eyes. Yes, sure, there was a deep-seated sadness in them, that looked outright depressing on such a pretty, patriotic face, his words carried a trace of melancholy in them, and his touch was light and tender, like Steve was approaching a deer he didn’t want to startle—but the sorrow was never directed at Tony.
Only then could he accept that Steve was not there for any reason, other than wanting to be near Tony. It seemed almost unfathomable, after everything that happened, to have the man look at him with such warmth in his eyes, especially with the way they last parted so many years ago. Steve, despite all the hurt and enmity mudding the waters of their relationship, still looked like he wanted Tony.
Objectively, Tony could understand it. He knew he was still handsome. Not because he was that vain, but because he was self-aware enough to know how many heads he turned. Or at least used to.
But like this, with his right arm just a stump on his shoulder, half his face red and torn with burns, and one grey eye staring unseeingly into the distance, it was somehow painful to look at himself in the mirror and see the monster staring back at him. There was no coming back from this. The reminder of their battle and the final, painful victory was etched across Tony’s skin forever.
Maybe if it was ten years ago—when the silver strands just started licking the side of his temple, and it was just the occasional hangover or heart palpitations that made his body ache, and not age slowly eroding him—maybe back then, Tony would have believed the adoration and the desire he thought he saw in those large blue eyes watching his every move. Back then, he would have looked more ruggedly handsome, than just a pathetic old man suffering from war wounds that would never heal.
Still, Steve didn’t seem to mind at all, not even when Tony threw a tantrum, destroying all reflective surfaces within his vicinity, nor when he hurled the tray with hot soup in his general direction—entirely missing Steve without any of his depth-perception remaining. Steve just sank to his knees next to Tony’s bed and whispered: “It’s going to be okay.”
Tony didn’t believe him.
After that, they started talking.
It wasn’t much at first, not with the way pain and loss was still at the forefront of Tony’s mind. Steve had been reading for him—even before Tony first woke up, by his retelling. Listening to his soothing baritone voice was something that remained the same as it always was, before it all went to shit, just a shred of normality Tony welcomed more than he would ever want to admit—but now Tony ventured to ask for some books. Clarke. Asimov. Tolkien.
Tony was still weak though and sometimes nodded off in the middle of a chapter. Whenever he woke up, confused and frowning, he didn’t ask Steve to explain, nor to read the passage again. Steve didn’t offer to start over either, just kept on reading, the chair—his chair by this point—facing the window. Tony never told him, but he was sure Steve knew how much he appreciated the gesture of the man not looking directly at him, giving him this shred of privacy: he was there for Tony, but not intruding in his space.
It was such a wonderful, considerate thing and it took Tony back to the time before the Accords, before Ultron, when his waking moments were spent fantasising about a life they could share, and he didn’t see Steve’s vacant eyes and broken body, etched into his mind by Wanda’s uncontrolled powers.
“Can you…” Tony started, voice raspy from disuse. He almost missed Steve’s gasp as the man stopped mid-word. “Can you explain how Gandalf survived?”
“Yes, of course,” Steve replied with a smile in his voice.
Tony didn’t realize until later, that that was the first time since the final battle that he addressed someone directly.
It became so much easier afterwards. They talked—a lot. Sometimes Tony’s throat protested and his voice died down to a whisper, but even that couldn’t stop him from staying up with Steve until the early mornings. Those days, rather than screaming awake with his throat raw and burning, and with the ghost of a nightmare still haunting his mind, Tony woke up with a clear mind, and a newfound appreciation for Steve’s wits.
However the soft, warm glow never lasted long enough, and Tony’s joy always turned to frustration sooner rather than later, as he walked on unsteady feet to the bathroom. After a series of unfortunate accidents, they realized it would be better to just use plastic cups in there, rather than glass—as Tony was prone to knock everything over—and provide handles wherever they could—losing an eye not only made him clumsy, but messed with his balance as well—and seeing all these reminders made Tony want to cry, scream, rage. Or at least just destroy something.
Though nothing was quite as bad as the phantom pains of his missing arm. Every time Tony wanted something to occupy his mind, a tool or two, to fit in his hands, just to tinker with something—because he knew he was useless like this—he was reminded of the why, and the burning, scorching pain, and how, even when he stared Thanos in the eyes, the only thing on his mind was still Steve.
The vibranium arm still sat in its simple, wooden box on his nightstand, unopened. Tony felt like it was mocking him.
The first time Steve kissed him after the battle was on the day Tony was finally discharged. He was tagging along with Tony, carrying his bags and helping him navigate the lakehouse he should’ve already known like the back of his hand. Steve’s warm, calming presence in Tony’s private space was, while uninvited, not unwelcome.
He was just about to retreat to the guest room, when Tony grabbed his hand. Up to this day, he still isn’t sure why he did it. But Steve took that as a sign and leaned in.
Tony tried his hardest not to flinch back, but his body still trembled without him allowing it. He really wanted to enjoy it, he had wanted it for so long, and Steve, lovely, beautiful, considerate Steve had done nothing but care for him, even when Tony was silent and moody and hated everything.
He even wanted to lean into it and melt into Steve’s arms trembling in the air, barely hovering over his shoulders without really touching. But Steve was gentle and slow, just pressing forward lightly, and letting Tony control the kiss after a simple and quiet ’May I?’
And even through the massive amounts of denial and self-loathing, Tony could still see how much Steve wanted him. Even if he didn’t understand why someone as perfect and unruined would ever want someone like Tony, changed and destroyed beyond recognition—put together from his own broken pieces without an assembly manual. (Steve should have just asked for a refund, clearly the goods were damaged in transport.)
For a moment though, Tony still allowed himself to sink into the kiss, and took the warmth that was offered, because he was selfish like that.
Then, he pushed Steve back with a small shake of his head, gasping and uncertain, and Steve, for a super strong super soldier, went surprisingly easily. There was an unreadable look in his eyes that Tony didn’t want to decipher—it was too soft, too tender. He didn’t let Steve say anything, as he turned on his heels and fled to his own room, hiding in the comfort of being alone for the first time in months.
Somewhere along the way, Steve apologized. For everything. He did not sink to his knees and beg for forgiveness like Tony imagined it so many times, after returning broken—both inside and out—from Siberia, but he didn’t want that anymore. Steve didn’t even ask for forgiveness—as if he didn’t expect to be forgiven at all—just pleaded Tony to listen.
It wasn’t perfect, and there were too many uncertain feelings swirling in-between them to make it easy, but they didn’t end up fighting, which was already a step in the right direction. Although Steve cried, heart-wrenchingly honest and desperate, and Tony offered his single hand to hold Steve’s trembling ones, as his sobs died down to a mess of words that might have once been ’I’m sorry, I’ll never leave you, never again, please, I’m sorry.’
Tony didn’t tell Steve that he had already forgiven him long ago—back when they clung to each other as the tides of time took them back to the past—but he kissed the strong, pale knuckles of the hands holding onto him like a lifeline, whispering an apology of his own across the unblemished skin.
It was enough. It had to be enough.
They were dating. At least that’s what Tony would call whatever he had with Steve. He wasn’t sure of the exact label, but there was kissing and hand-holding involved, so: dating.
Of course, they were still part of the Avengers, and if they were already celebrities before, defeating Thanos and bringing back half the universe from a worryingly sandy consistency had elevated them to nearly demi-god status. So, going out to fancy restaurants and watching a movie was very much out of the question. But Steve brought him breakfast to bed—even after Tony wasn’t actually confined to it—and Tony has claimed Steve’s lap as his ideal seat for Avengers’ movie nights.
Sure, it was a bit unconventional, and it also made the already delicate reunion situation just a bit more awkward, but it helped Tony, being near all his friends—whether they betrayed him and all he stood for or not, it didn’t really matter anymore—so they could all just suck it up and go back to being the good ol’ dysfunctional family they barely had a chance to become.
It’s one of those movie nights, after everyone else left and it’s only Steve and Tony remaining. They stay curled around each other, soft and relaxed, talking in hushed whispers. Tony doesn’t even remember what he said that was so hilarious that has Steve laughing with his head thrown back.
Tony’s heart clenches at the sight. This happiness, this joy, it’s something they could have had so long ago, if only they weren’t both so stubborn and hardheaded—it’s something they nearly didn’t have at all.
The way Steve looks at him—gentle and patient and adoring—Tony doesn't want him to look at anyone else this way. That’s probably a remnant of his old narcissism speaking, one that hasn’t been killed in that final battle, along with his arm and his eye, because Tony knows now that Steve could do so much better than him.
It’s the same thought that echoes in his mind, when Steve pulls him close, and buries his face in Tony’s neck, placing a warm, innocent kiss over the arch of his collarbone.
Before, it wouldn’t have bothered him at all, there’s no real further intention behind it, yet it almost overwhelms him. Tony feels a shiver run down his spine, stirring something low in his belly, a hot desire that once would have made him feel invincible, now it just turns into roiling nausea. The thought of having Steve touch this ruined body in such an intimate way—
No, Tony can’t even touch himself anymore, how could he expect Steve to want to touch him?
If Tony can’t give himself what he wants, how could he ever dream to give Steve what he wishes for?!
Tony isn’t the same man, not anymore, and he can’t even present Steve with the simplest of all things: a whole person. He’s now nothing but a broken husk of the man he once was, a shattered ghost in a body that realistically shouldn’t exist anymore.
It’s really such a twisted reality, a mirror world: billionaire, genius, playboy cursed to hate his own body, and the pleasures he all but lived for, not so long ago.
As if sensing the turmoil—or the panic—Steve pulls back, and Tony feels two large hands bracket his face, one thumb gliding over smooth skin, the other catching on the gnarly scars left by a power that could move the universe. But Steve just watches him, eyes brimming with worry and care. Neither holds the disgust Tony still expects to see.
And while Steve can’t quite see the battle raging on inside Tony—all his insecurities and hurt bubbling to the surface, trying to push him under, and drown him, looking for the clear blue of the sky, following the ray of golden light, Tony can find his way out of the depths. He still can’t breathe, but the panic isn’t so overwhelming now, that Steve is holding his focus.
Despite first being very unnerved to let anyone see the ruined half of his face, Tony liked that Steve kept looking at him and didn’t avert his eyes, not even once—even if the intensity in his gaze made Tony want to look away.
He has never been shy before, that trait just isn’t included in the Stark Welcome-to-this-world package, but Tony knows how he looks now. The burns, the ruined skin—over his face, his ear, down his neck, all the way to his hip bones, dark and coiling and terrible—that not even any kind of plastic surgery could ever erase; the white of his unseeing eye that’s somehow both too bright and too dull; and for crying out loud, he’s missing an arm! This creature, that looks back at him in the mirror, put together from mismatched parts, isn’t even something Tony wants to call human anymore.
If only Steve would just stop watching him with that warm, earnest expression, when he should be recoiling and fleeing from such a sight!
Steve doesn’t stop though. He looks on, as Tony trembles and gasps at each kiss he places on the hideous patch of skin on the right side of his neck—waiting each time to see if Tony’s pushing him away or not—whispering across the flesh that’s somehow both numb and over-sensitive: “This is the proof of your strength, this shows that you survived. You took on that awful power and didn’t succumb to it. Incredible. You are incredible.”
The words feel like a lie, and Tony gasps and averts his gaze, but Steve’s voice is steady and he waits for Tony to venture a look back at him and see the unwavering honesty in his gaze.
“When I look at you,” Steve trails his fingers down the side of Tony’s neck with a featherlight touch, like he would somehow shatter under his fingers. “I see a beautiful man. A man who was ready to give up all of himself for the world. It only took a part of you,” his eyes flick over to Tony’s right shoulder with a hint of pain. “And I might be an awful person for enjoying this, for enjoying you being here, because sometimes I think you would rather it took all of you.”
“God, Steve, I—” Tony chokes out, but doesn’t deny it. It’s a train of thought he often entertains himself, and one that never ends well.
“I can see that it hurts you. But you are not just a sum of your parts, you don’t stop being Tony Stark, because of something like this,” Steve smiles bittersweetly. “And you won’t be any different, if you one day accept that arm. Even if you only use it to build a better one yourself.”
“Cap—Steve,” Tony breathes, and hesitates for a moment. “Do you really think that? That the Stones did nothing to change me?”
Steve shakes his head. “The Stones might have given you new wounds, new nightmares. They gave me some too. You know, I see you in them…” he trails off, arms grasping onto Tony’s waist like a lifeline, like he would become dust swept away by foreign winds. “I see you, falling down and I can’t do anything, but just watch as your chest stops rising and I—” Steve breaks off with a shaky voice. “These wounds, physical, or mental, we’ll all carry as burdens, they’ll make our lives harder. And yours are the worst of it all, without any doubt. But—But the Stones were never powerful enough to truly change you. Don’t give them that power. That’s only yours. Believe me, please, you can make that decision to become who you want to be, Tony.”
“Steve, be honest with me. Do you really see a way out?” Tony asks quietly.
He nods in answer. “I do. Because it’s you. This is not an obstacle for your brilliant mind.”
Tony is not given a chance to reply, as Steve kisses him, warm and deep, like he would drown if he couldn’t have Tony in his arms in that very second. They have been kissing before, but this— This is more than that: this is passion, desperation, love—however broken and bent it is.
It’s more than just a kiss, it’s an invitation for more, for Steve to show him how much Tony means to him, how much he means those words.
And Tony’s done running away.
They haven’t been intimate yet. They’ve kissed, sure, and held each other through the horrors of the night, when one of them woke up screaming, with memories of blood and dust playing in front of their eyes. Hell, Steve even accompanied him through weeks and weeks of physical therapy. But sinking into bodily pleasure was never at the forefront of Tony’s mind.
Not to say that he never thought about it—he spent more time than necessary, thinking of the softness of Steve’s body yielding under his own, thighs wrapping around Tony’s waist to pull him in, to make him sink deeper, or the way the super soldier could hold him down and make Tony take it until he screams. But in his imagination, his body had always been whole, unscarred. Tony could just not bring himself to try and see if this ruined reality lived up to his daydreams or not. So he never initiated, and Steve, as if feeling the uncertainty radiating from Tony, never pushed.
But now, Tony feels Steve’s hardness against him, he knows that the sole reason is him: he is wanted and it feels both like flying and plunging into a freefall – like Icarus longing for the Sun and dying for it. But maybe, it’s worth taking the chance. Steve is here, holding Tony in his arms, warm and safe and secure, and he’s sure that Steve would be there, at the bottom of the abyss, were he to really fall.
It isn’t easy, the first, hesitant touch, and Tony wishes he still had both his hands to trail over the soft, warm skin of Steve’s chest, the hard planes of muscles, to explore his skin and to pull him closer at the same time, but this… this would just have to do for now.
Steve doesn’t let him do all the work though, he reaches for Tony with a frantic desperation, like he would drown if his hands weren’t roaming Tony’s body, or if his mouth wasn’t latched again a patch of Tony’s skin—pristine, or ruined, it doesn’t seem to matter.
He just kisses Tony with a fervour that screams ‘I long for you’, and it’s both tender like the first hesitant sprout in the spring and begging for Tony like a drowning man—like a swipe of his tongue could tell the tales of Steve yearning for him, and a sweet push of his lips could detail the endless fire consuming Steve, a thirst that can only be quenched by passion, and Tony is the sole key to his salvation.
It feels almost painful to be wanted this much, bordering on a fantasy, barely a touch away from being a figment of Tony’s imagination—but the undeniable warmth in Steve’s pleading eyes, the softness of his touch are tangible proof of its truth.
Tony gives in to the chest-deep want easily and he kisses Steve back with an almost timid fervour—a hesitant swipe of his tongue, while hot and purposeful, remains light and gentle as his hand, drawing unrecognizable patterns on the other man’s chest, when all he longs for is to kiss him deeper, pull him closer. The doubtful voice in his mind stops him short, but Steve’s teeth scrape against Tony’s bottom lip, and suddenly his brain short-circuits.
For a moment nothing else matters: the Accords, Thanos, half the world ending, Tony's injuries. Everything just blurs into a background noise, a constant buzzing reminder that they are there, that they are what shaped Tony and Steve into who they are today, but none of those can touch them anymore—they’re finally where they really belong: in the present, letting the past fall away like dry, crumbling leaves in the autumn.
It has Tony wondering, if just a shy, furtive touch can make him forget all this pain, what would an orgasm with Steve do to him? It surely wouldn't fix him, nothing could—he paid the price and he would do it all over again, if given the chance, despite how much Tony hates who he has become—but maybe, maybe there’s a chance that it would grant him salvation from these demons in his head.
Tony gasps softly, overwhelmed by the absolute focus, the sudden warm silence in his head, then pulls back—Steve, nervous and uncertain, lets him. It’s strange, the air between them feels hot and suffocating, but Tony can still somehow breathe, with Steve’s palms heavy and sure against his skin, anchoring him. Yet, he still feels himself swaying, like a solitary bird at the mercy of the wind.
“Can we…” Tony starts, voice raspy. He clears his throat and tries again. “Can we move to the couch? I want to touch you properly.”
Steve’s eyes widen and his breath stutters around a heavy gasp. “Yes, please—God, Tony—Is that okay?”
Tony just grins in response, a smile cracked only around its edges, the old habit of fake-it-’til-you-make-it tugging at his lips. “It will be,” he answers as honestly as he can, and he lifts off of Steve’s lap. He spares a glance to the couch, sprawling, infinitely soft—perfectly comfortable, but not the same familiarity as a bed would give. Tony decides to reconsider instead.
He grabs Steve’s hand and leads him to the staircase, hidden behind the TV panel, all the way up the winding steps to his own private suite—and Tony chalks up the fact that he never once stumbles or loses his balance, to his nervous, single-minded focus.
Tony pushes Steve down on his bed. The dark blue of the messy sheets is scattered artfully around Steve, but the man doesn’t spare a single glance for anything else except for Tony—a satisfying mirror of his own desire.
It’s heady, addicting, and just a touch too wonderful to be true—and Tony’s still waiting for the other shoe to drop. He’s scared. Terrified that Steve would now see him for what he is, what he has always been, underneath the glitz and the glamour, now that his disguise is burnt and destroyed. The star of the show tonight: Tony Stark, in the flesh—raw and unfiltered.
He wants to run and hide.
He doesn’t.
Because Steve is wonderful, patient. He gazes at Tony reverently and lets him take control. He doesn’t resist the touch against his skin, but leans into it, watching Tony with wide eyes and blown pupils, as Tony straddles his thighs again, barely keeping his balance.
Steve keeps on watching, as Tony bends at the waist and kisses the soft, pale skin peeking out from underneath Steve’s t-shirt collar, only broken by a bitten-back gasp as Tony nibbles at his neck. The sounds he makes, as Tony laves his throat in wet kisses and sharp teeth are sinful and—
Fuck. Tony wants to touch. He wants to lean over Steve and kiss him and touch him wherever he can, all that muscle, pale skin, laid out in front of him, impossible to resist. But he fucking can’t.
It’s ironic, isn’t it? Having to use one hand to balance himself and having none left to make Steve really feel how much Tony wants him—his throat tightens at the thought, and yet again Tony is left to mourn what he lost.
He remembers the vibranium arm as well, hidden in the bottom drawer of his dresser, but—
It wouldn’t do. It wouldn’t feel genuine and God, but Tony wants their first time to be realer than real.
Although Steve seems to understand his struggle, and as he leans up to kiss Tony, he gently, but firmly flips them over, so that Tony lies on his back and Steve is pressed tightly against him, wedged in the vee of his thighs. It’s wonderful, intimate, and Tony can’t even panic because the touch of Steve’s soft, plush lips against his quiets his mind.
Then, Steve traces the line of his waistband, and everything seems to stutter to a stop. It’s both too much, and not enough. It's almost like the first time Tony ever felt desire: he feels clumsy and awkward, embarrassed by almost being undone from a single, tender touch—wanting, aching so bad for it, and so terrified of being desired.
He expects Steve to start stripping them both immediately: getting ready for the main event. But the other man doesn't shed his own clothes, he just guides the shirt off of Tony's shoulders with a gentle hand and a featherlight touch; delighting equally in the soft, pale skin, and the miles of raised, red patchwork of scars. The cool air of the room makes Tony's skin prickle and he itches to pull his arm protectively across his body to hide it all, but Steve has a loose hold around his wrist and guides Tony’s left hand up to his cheek, and makes Tony look up at him, instead of averting his eyes in his shame.
Tony doesn't know what to make of Steve. He has dealt in perfection for ages, he used to make weapons with peerless craftsmanship, painted himself a flawless illusion of confident smirks and smoldering eyes, so that people wouldn't look deeper—hell, he had made a game out of it.
This is why he can spot the difference in the other man's gaze so easily: it's not just a burning desire to sink into Tony's body, to take the pleasure, delight in the curve of a back, forced into a perfect arch by the force of an earth-shattering orgasm. There is endless affection too, a devotion to Tony's very soul in there, and his heart bursts with sparkles at every soft kiss Steve places on his torn chest, the ruined shoulder, the scarred stomach, all the way down to his jutting hip bones, where unblemished white meets ruined red.
Tony just doesn’t understand—
But maybe he doesn’t really need to. He doesn’t need to think, not at all.
Not when Steve sucks on the sensitive skin, teases it with his tongue wetly and scrapes it with his teeth. It's like fireworks behind Tony's eyelids, a multitude of colors and explosive bursts of pleasure, wired directly into his brain.
But Steve doesn’t go further. It’s like he doesn’t intend to tip the scales of their give and take. He just leans back and settles over Tony’s hips, his hot hardness rubs against Tony’s own and they both moan at the sensation—a wonderful melody of pleasure and desire—and Tony doesn’t know anything anymore, just that he wants more, more, and more.
Just having Steve on top of him is not enough anymore, and Tony lunges to tear at the fabric of the other man’s all-too-tight jeans—Steve acquiesces all too easily, he yields under Tony’s fingers like he’s made of molten metal fresh out of the forge, shedding his clothes without question.
When Steve settles back over him, his fingers hover over Tony’s skin—so close without touching that Tony can feel their heat. It’s so easy, letting that small spark set him ablaze, and Tony is suddenly upright, with his own pants underneath his thighs, pushed down just far enough to let him pull his own cock out—it lines up so perfectly with Steve’s own; hot, wet skin brushing against an answering hardness.
They both let out a shaky exhale at the sensation. It’s beautiful. It’s overwhelming. It’s too much, yet not enough. It’s—
It’s perfect.
There’s no fumbling, no awkward limbs, just two bodies moving in flawless harmony, a chord played with two burning souls. Where Tony shifts forward, Steve moves back and grinds down; where Tony pulls back, Steve pushes against him, eager, insatiable.
Tony doesn’t even know where to look, the sweat forming on the other man’s forehead, those beautiful blue orbs looking at him reverently, Steve’s hands mapping out the dark lacework of scars on Tony’s skin—pale, unblemished fingers caress, what Tony believes to be the worst parts of him, and Steve still whispers ‘Beautiful’ across his skin, like it’s the truth.
Perhaps it really is, Tony breathes with a stuttering sigh, nipping at Steve’s throat, and he arches into Tony’s touch, like nothing else exists anymore—the world forgotten, lost in the whirlwind of affection and tenderness that Tony almost believes he deserves.
They move slowly. Long, gentle motions rock them together, eliciting a gasp from both of them, but the friction alone is not enough and Tony groans in frustration, when he lifts his arm to hold their cocks together, but loses his balance and falls back on the bed. Steve doesn’t laugh at him, but it’s a damn near thing, and instead of it stinging, it makes an answering warm giggle bubble up from Tony’s throat too.
So, he just snakes an arm around Steve’s waist and pulls himself back up, gazing down meaningfully at their laps, where both their cocks lie, hard and heavy and leaking. Captain America is, of course, always up for the challenge, and Steve grasps them in one hand, and—
God, how is Tony already so fucking close?!
He chokes off a breath when Steve strokes them gently once, twice, then tightens his grip, and Tony is seeing stars. He pulls Steve closer—as if there was any space left between them—and looks, just looks at how perfectly they fit against each other, Tony longer but thinner, and Steve much thicker, and—
Fuck, they’re both leaking so much precum, that everything is slick and hot, and the sounds Steve’s hands make—when did he even have time to curl all ten of his soft, warm fingers around them?—flying over both of them, wringing out every last drop of ecstasy, makes Tony forget why he ever had any doubts.
Tony wants Steve, and Steve wants him, all those broken parts, and damaged interior—everything. It’s so simple.
He finally understands. His body might wear the scars that he cannot bring himself to face, but Steve has always seen the soul that lies underneath, this wonderful fire that flickers, burning higher and higher inside of Tony, until it’s crystal clear: he is not just flesh and skin, there is more of him than just a torn, broken machine.
The thought hits him like a freight train—or maybe it’s just the force of his orgasm that takes over everything, blurring all lines of reality until nothing exists, but Steve’s heart beating, burning against his own—for his own.
It goes beyond the simple connection of their bodies—their very souls are tethered by livewire, and the electricity surging between them is powerful, beautiful: it lights up Tony, like he is a million christmas lights strung together, blazing in all the primary colors until all he can see is blinding white, a moment of euphoric joy.
Inside is a kaleidoscope of light Tony would never imagine could ever be him: the bold reds of passion and bravery, the peaceful blues of trust and loyalty, the sweet pinks of sincerity and compassion, they outshine the amalgamation of darker greens and blues, faded browns of all his jealousy, his regrets, his pain.
Then, everything is overtaken by white. Clean, innocent and pure: a fresh start.
He opens his blurry eyes and sees Steve too: the bottomless blue pools of his eyes, shining wetly, tear tracks cascading down his ruddy cheeks. Tony feels himself crying too, but it's not from his heart breaking. He just sees this man, his second chance in front of him—with his sweaty hair stuck to his forehead, and panting like he had run a marathon—sees the eagerness and honesty and pure, unadulterated affection in the bright clarity of their shared orgasm.
They cry together, dams over their emotions long shattered, letting love seep through the cracks and fill in all those open wounds on their hearts.
This moment, where they are nothing more than Tony and Steve, two lost souls finding their solace—
This moment is why Tony survived.
From the very first whisperings of the plan, Tony Stark had expected to die.
What he didn’t expect was a second chance at life.