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He’s getting deja vu from a dinner plate.
The last time he’s had a home cooked meal, Steve thinks, it was at Sam’s DC apartment. He’d apologetically hurried through a bowl of spaghetti and meatballs because he and Natasha were being hunted back then, too. Hiding among civilians from a system designed to protect the world, ragged with grief and inconsolable disappointment; Steve feels like he’s walked this path already. Only now, standing here in Clint’s house, holding pot roast and vegetables made by Clint’s wife, he can’t bring himself to sit at the family’s table.
Whatever Wanda Maximoff did to his head leaves him feeling like a ghost, trapped between present circumstances and a dream of the past. The war’s over , Peggy had said, but Steve, plagued now with the same general malaise he feels whenever he remembers the events in DC, knows it’s not. There would always be a battle to win; nowadays, he’s less sure about who’s left to fight it. The Avengers were supposed to be different from SHIELD⸺ a team united not by what they hoped to gain, but by what they had to give. They were supposed to be better. Together . Yet they’re marked for extinction by Tony’s efforts, crippled by their own worst fears, and Steve wonders if they were always meant to implode.
His brow wrinkles promptly. No, that’s uncharitable. Despite everything, Clint still gave them sanctuary; Steve can hear him and Laura reading to the little ones in the den. Thor is out finding answers, but Natasha’s here, her hand wrapped around Bruce’s still shaking one as they talk to Fury. Tony has an empty space beside him and he’s uncharacteristically quiet as he sips coffee, but Steve can see his finger moving on the tablecloth, tracing trajectories and equations that would no doubt lead to something wondrous if not always perfect.
As leader, Steve’s own role is to punch through the roadblocks. Even if Wanda and Pietro were a problem he could solve, he doesn’t know what to do with the damage already done. As if he senses he’s being watched, Tony looks up, eyes flicking at once to where Steve is leaning against the threshold to the kitchen.
Steve pushes off and and starts walking towards the table. For a moment, he can see the growing intrigue in Tony’s expression, how he shifts subtly like he expects the seat beside him to be filled. However, Steve merely reaches over him to gather up the dirty dishes. He’d eaten his dinner standing up, as if he were refueling between missions instead of being treated to hospitality. The best he can do now is clean up.
-
When Laura finds him alone in the kitchen, scrubbing dishes by hand, she’s surprised, but doesn’t try very hard to dissuade him from doing the work. Maybe she’s too tired to argue, or maybe she senses a deeper need in his willingness to single-handedly clean up after nine people. She is Clint’s partner after all; Steve bets on the latter.
The monotony doesn’t make his annoyance go away, but it helps. Steve feels his shoulders relax as water sluices over the last plate, and the beige amalgam of gravy and soap give way to smooth white porcelain. Shaking excess water off, he transfers it to the drying rack to join the rest of the dishes, similarly clean and lined up like soldiers.
He wipes down the counter after that, thoroughly so it gleams in the dim light. It brings him no satisfaction, but Steve doesn’t think Laura would appreciate him polishing her entire kitchen.
As if on cue, Clint shows up at the door in old pajamas and a bedhead. “Leave something for the chore wheel, Cap,” he says lightly. “It’s getting pretty late.”
“Uh, right,” Steve nods, and notices the silence. It’s not total— he can pick up footsteps on the floor above, and voices coming from the den, but they’re all muted in polite observance of an unspoken curfew. Even after a day of battle, of seeing strange visions, and watching cities get crushed, the silence reminds him that this is still somebody’s home and homes followed their own timetables.
Clint watches him hang the washcloth to dry. “You ok rooming with Stark?”
Steve shouldn’t be as surprised as he is. He remembers Clint watching him and Tony by the woodpile today. He knows he hadn’t exactly kept it together.
“It’s fine,” he replies, with a smile that fools neither of them. “Let’s get some sleep.”
-
When, after DC, Steve moved into Stark Tower, he found that Tony had already heard from Natasha. Tony’s seen the leaked files, analyzed them, and even set up a series of missions for Iron Man to go and nullify any use of Stark tech by organizations in HYDRA’s network. Steve picked up missions of his own to help with the backlog and to look for Bucky, and in doing them, he dwelled less on the magnitude of what he’d lost.
Both he and Tony worked at speed, but rarely with each other. Natasha and Sam; they were Steve’s spear and standard. They thought and planned enough like him that he nearly felt like he’d found solid footing in this 21st century. Meanwhile, Tony was all futuristic tech and fiery brilliance, reckless like lightning on a clear day and just as inexplicable. He’s the reason the earth under Steve’s feet keeps shaking.
Nevertheless, life went on and villainy persisted. The rest of the team trickled in slowly, each of them orbiting closer and closer to the Tower until one fine day, the Avengers once again manifested like destiny.
In that moment, Steve stopped hesitating and went to have a serious conversation with Tony. Transparency, he insisted, and accountability: they’ve got to be fundamental; the Avengers couldn’t be like the institutions that failed them.
Tony had readily agreed, and as ever, he took it a step further, negotiating room for the future⸺systems to keep an eye out for more enhanced persons, proving grounds, and a dedicated home for what he called the world-saving sciences. Of course, he put this much thought into it. Steve wasn’t surprised, but he was strangely warmed at the notion of working with Tony, of being in step with Tony.
It was exhilarating. Without bureaucracy, ideas flowed like water. Tony... Starkarized them, as Sam put it; he outfitted everyone on the team with the latest, meticulously customized tech so they could not only protect others, but themselves to the highest extent. And if something was beyond even his considerable expertise, well, Tony’s funds flowed on to the right people like water, too. Steve pulled his own weight by strategically throwing it around on Capitol Hill until he managed to procure hundreds of acres upstate, dedicated, like Tony asked, to the current and future roster of Avengers.
Avengers; as a force, they belonged to the defenseless; as individuals, Steve was clear that they belonged to themselves. But the essence of the team, the nurturing, seemed to rest almost exclusively in both his and Tony’s hands.
Steve was reminded of it on the times Clint joked about them going from measuring dicks to being joined at the hip, when Maria Hill started addressing memos to Cap I.M., and always whenever they were on mission and Tony casually tossed a ‘call it, boss’ or ‘what’s the plan, Steve’ over the comms.
It's light, so much light, riotously at odds with the scarlet darkness in his head.
-
The room he’s sharing with Tony is tastefully decorated with a handmade nightstand and a quilt patterned with daisies. A nightlight shaped like Tinkerbell casts a soft glow by the door, and by its meager light, Steve sees that Tony’s already taken up the far side of the bed. His first instinct is to leave, flee really; he doesn’t need much sleep anyway and there are some interesting books in the hallway shelf, but he reminds himself once again that this is not his floor in Avengers Tower.
Steve slips out of his shoes and socks and slides into the vacant spot as lightly as he can manage. The sheets are cool under his back and the natural white noise of the countryside is more pleasant than either the noise of the city or the airtight calm of soundproofed rooms. Still, it turns out getting in bed is the easy part, and sleep is far more elusive. It doesn’t take long for his terribly unsubtle tossing and turning to wake his bunkmate.
“I like sleeping on the right, but I’m not married to it,” Tony says, blearily peeking out from under the quilt. “If you got a compelling argument, I can be persuaded.”
Steve stills, blinks the ceiling for a moment. “I don’t…I don’t have a preference.”
“Mmm,” Tony sighs. “And it’s not like you couldn’t have moved my ass, no problem.”
It’s likely just meant to be one of Tony’s off-hand jokes, but Steve winces anyway. He remembers the disquiet on Tony’s face when he ripped that log apart with his bare hands; it’s not his proudest moment. Sure, he’d been jumpy and unmoored, but that wasn’t anyone’s problem but his own.
“I want to apologize,” Steve says. “I shouldn’t have lost my temper earlier today.”
Tony doesn’t reply immediately, but there’s a susurrus of shifting blankets. Steve doesn’t have to look to his side to know they’re both awake now.
“So, I guess you didn’t walk away alright after all,” Tony says.
“What?”
“We can go home,” Tony repeats the same words that had come out of Peggy’s mouth, though he couldn’t have known what Wanda had shown Steve. Yet, Steve can’t help it, he still flinches.
Tony sighs haltingly. “For what it’s worth, that’s what I’m trying to do,” he says. “Trying to end all of this.”
Abruptly, Steve shifts to his side, eyes fixed on Tony. He keeps his voice down out of courtesy, but he has to ask, “Why? I thought you had faith in this team, Tony, why do you keep finding ways to end us?”
Tony doesn’t meet his eyes. Steve can hear him swallow heavily. “You don’t understand.”
“Try me.”
This time, Tony also rolls on to his side. He’s curled in on himself, so tight that Steve can’t imagine he’d been sleeping just moments ago. His eyes are wide and bright in the velvet darkness. “You said we’d win together or lose together,” Tony says. “But what if we don’t? I was shown the future, Steve, you were all dead. And it was my fault. Where’s together in that?”
Steve’s glad it’s dark and nobody can see him shiver. He knows they’re all compromised in one way or another, but this complicates things in ways that are beyond his competence to address. Not for the first time, he wishes Sam were here because when Steve opens his mouth, what comes out is not reassurance exactly.
“All my friends are dead,” he begins, and waits out Tony’s answering groan. “Listen, not every nightmare comes true, but take it from someone who’s living yours, it⸺”
“Don’t,” Tony interrupts, features curling into familiar lines of vexation. “...don’t say it gets better.”
Steve huffs, but falls into a thoughtful silence. He drops his gaze and follows the curves of daisy petals on the bedspread. It only feels like he’s spent a lot of time being disappointed, but the truth is, the last year has been better than he can ever remember. Before that, he’d had a job and a routine in DC, but he could never shake the notion that he was there because he had nowhere else to go. But New York, Avengers Tower, Tony⸺ despite everything, it's like he’s finally arrived. These people, this team, it could only belong to the man who came out of the ice, not the one who went into it.
“I’m sorry,” Tony says eventually. “I just...can’t, I can’t see the world like you, Steve.” His eyes are far away, fixed on something Steve suspects is much higher in the sky than the roof over their heads.
“All I think about is losing you,” he continues. “And I can’t let that happen.”
In a way, Steve knows exactly what compels him to do what he does next; he’s been looking at it all day without really seeing. The solution to the Maximoff problem has always been in sheer physicality, and if, as leader, Steve’s job is to make things easy for his team, then Tony is as entitled to his efforts as anyone.
He makes a surprised noise when Steve draws him in. His body goes rigid, but he doesn’t pull away, not even when Steve rubs circles into his back and rests his chin on dark hair that’s gone curly.
“You haven’t lost anyone,” he murmurs, as Tony’s breath grows hot on his collarbones. “I’m right here.”
Tony shudders in response, but it seems to do the trick. He burrows in, wrapping his own arm around Steve’s waist. It’s needful and tight, yet so fiercely protective that Steve thinks he can weep at how terribly he needs this himself.
Tomorrow’s a new day, when they’ll put their respective armors back on and get back to arguing about trying to win wars before they start, but for tonight, they hold on.