#capimevents

Okay. Okay, Tony thinks, shutting his eyes in order to calm himself down, trying not to get distracted by the view of pure darkness. He notices he is shaking, and he needs to stop, because the power going down means his ventilation system was cut, and he only has so much air to figure out what to do.

Tony can vaguely hear sounds coming from outside, but they’re all distant. The armor has a comm system for a reason – the layer of metal is too thick to allow for conversation. Inside of it, right now, the loudest sound Tony hears is his own breathing, sharp intakes of air as he uselessly tries to move his arms. He’s pretty sure they’re not broken, but they’re too weak to lift the metal – and besides, Tony’s brain immediately thinks, this doesn’t fucking matter, what would standing up even do, Jesus fuck, he needs to concentrate here.

Tony’s body jerks when he feels something slam against his chest. Since the Hulk would have thrown him like a rag doll, and Clint and Natasha know hitting the suit would break their fingers, it must be Thor or Steve.

Tony inhales sharply. He can feel blood buzzing in his ears, the pain in his abdomen making him see white spots.

Don’t faint, he tells himself. Don’t you fucking faint. If you faint here, you’re not gonna wake up.

He can feel weight being laid over his chest, like someone is draping themselves over him, and it hits his torso right in the spot, making Tony let out a groan of pain.

“Tony?! Tony, can you hear me?”

The sound is faint, but it doesn’t matter. Tony would recognize that voice in hell.

“Loud and clear, Cap,” Tony says, focusing on calming down his breathing, because he’s making the little air he already has even scarcer by hyperventilating right now. Steve must not hear him, though, because the next thing Tony feels is another strong slam, and he realizes Steve must be trying to ignite the reactor manually. It’s not a bad idea in itself, but it’s pointless, since the blow broke the main connections. Steve might get it to glow again, but as far as getting Tony out of the suit goes, it would be useless.

“Cap,” Tony tries, but his voice is too weak, too soft even for Steve’s superhuman hearing. “Cap, this isn’t gonna work.”

Steve must grab his shoulders, because Tony feels something pulling him up. His heart is pounding, his body shaking as he tries to gather his thoughts in order. Steve doesn’t know how the armor works, Steve is not gonna be able to get him out. He needs to think, needs to find a way.

He opens his eyes on reflex, and it’s so dark. It’s so fucking dark, and for a moment Tony tries to breathe and can’t manage to, doesn’t find air.

No, Tony thinks. No, not yet, it can’t be—

But there is no air, he can’t find it, he feels his lungs inhaling desperately, but there’s nothing coming in.

The suit was made to be removed via voice command. It was not made to be dismantled. Tony engineered it perfectly, because he’s brilliant like that, clever enough to design his own coffin and guarantee no body would ever come out of it.

You’re not a body, some distant part of his brain says, but it’s hard to hear. Not yet.

The slamming happens again, and Tony has lost control of his breath by now. He keeps inhaling and exhaling frantically. He’s probably cut his air supply by at least a third now. Maybe half.

“Tony?! Tony, talk to me,” Steve says, his voice sounding loud but also distant, and a part of Tony’s brain thinks ha, now you want me to talk, Cap, isn’t it funny how these things happen. Steve must say something else, but Tony’s mind is flying now, making calculations. He can feel blood roaring in his ears, his head is getting dizzy, and he’s going to faint, and he fucking can’t, if he faints that’s it, it will be over, and it can’t be over like that, it can’t be possible, but—

But it will be, Tony thinks, eyes darting all over the huge and unforgiving darkness, trying to find even one glimpse of light that’s not there. He distantly feels what he imagines is Steve grabbing the armor, but Steve can’t fix this, he needs help and Tony can’t help, he’s fucking useless, he can’t think of anything except air, air, air.

He’s going to die, he feels it in his bones. He’s going to faint and die because of one of his weapons, like so many others, and—

There’s a loud, cracking noise when the chest plate is ripped off, and Tony barely has the time to process it before an invasion of bright, blinding light in his eyes, and the wind on his face tells him the faceplate is gone.

He’s panting; he keeps breathing desperately, the air coming inside feeling foreign in his lungs. His vision is unfocused. His eyes blink desperately to adapt to the light, and he’s still shaking.

Steve is hovering over him, and Tony must say something, or babble, because he feels the rough texture of Steve’s gloves against his cheeks, and sees his mouth moving. His ears are still buzzing, he can barely decipher what Steve’s saying, catching only half-phrases like, it’s okay, and, breathe.

And breathe is a good idea, it’s—it’s the best idea. Tony closes his eyes, focuses on breathing. He focuses on the leather of Steve’s gloves; he can feel the weight of Steve’s body leaning over him. He ignores the pain in his torso, focuses on Steve’s voice, and he feels his head spinning less over time, his ears able to hear more. Steve repeats the same thing over and over, like a mantra, a prophecy. It’s okay. You’re okay.

Tony believes him.

Tony barely registers it when they get to the quinjet. Steve throws his arm around his shoulders and basically carries him.

Tony vaguely thinks he must be looking like shit, because Steve sits him down in the corner of the Quinjet that’s usually reserved for post-hulking out Bruce. He rests his back against the wall, and feels someone dropping a blanket on his shoulders. When he looks up, he sees Clint already turning back, and he’s thankful that Clint doesn’t say anything than what can be inferred from the blanket.

Tony isn’t sure how long it takes before the door closes, because he mostly focuses on breathing, on stopping the shaking. Hill scans him, says a bunch of stuff he doesn’t hear on the communicator. Clint sticks around, but says nothing.

When the quinjet takes off, Thor stops by and sits in front of him.

“How are you feeling?” he asks bluntly, and Tony is distantly impressed by how the question sounds honest and yet not at all condescending. “You didn’t look well over there.”

“You looked like shit, is what he means,” Clint says, and Tony snorts.

“I’m fine,” he says, and jumps when he hears someone scoffing at his side. “Jesus.” He turns and sees Natasha, sitting right by him, at just enough distance to avoid touching. “How long have you been here?”

“He doesn’t have any major wounds,” she says to Thor. “Hill said it was an anxiety attack.”

“Oh well, that’s not embarrassing at all,” Tony grunts, running his hand over his forehead. Jesus, he’s sweaty.

“Your panic was warranted,” Thor says, brow furrowing. “Had Steven not thought fast, you’d have suffocated.”

“Not helping, Thor,” Natasha interjects. Her shoulder bumps against Tony lightly. It’s comforting and just subtle enough that they can both pretend she’s not doing it on purpose.

“Well, no one suffocated in the end.” Tony recognizes Bruce’s voice coming from the door. He’s wearing his usual post-Hulk clothes, holding a cup of tea in his hands.

“Hey, buddy,” Tony says. “Sorry to steal your spot.”

Bruce’s smile is tired but honest. “Just don’t do it again,” he says, coming closer. He crouches and sits next to Tony, offering him the tea.

“Oh, you gotta be kidding me.” Tony shakes his head, even as he takes it. “Is this a punishment? Is this a test—thou must drink artisan tea to prove your worthiness of your spot on the team or something?”

“Just drink it, man,” Clint says, rolling his eyes. Tony doesn’t need to look to know Natasha is probably doing the same.

“I’m fine,” Tony insists, even as he complies, taking a sip. It actually doesn’t taste bad, but he makes a face anyway, just because. It does warm him up, and as he looks around the room he can see the half-circle they formed, basically hovering over him in the least subtle way possible. Superheroes aren’t very sneaky.

Tony’s face heats, because he hates being in this position, but there’s warmth in his chest, too. He’s pretty sure they all have other things they could be doing on the way back. That they all choose to be there instead, that’s, well.

It’s nice.

Tony takes another sip in order to not let any reaction show on his face. It’s not a serious thing, it isn’t, they shouldn’t have bothered, but… but they did.

He raises his head to assess the room one more time, going through Thor’s openly worried face, Clint adamantly looking towards the window, Natasha’s face calm even as her shoulder still touches him, and Bruce’s gentle gaze. He feels a rush of warmth and affection that surprises him, followed by a pang of disappointment.

Tony bites the inside of his cheek, because that’s so fucking typical of him – everyone showing him concern but he has to focus on the single absence, the one person who isn’t here.

He tells himself not to say it – it’s stupid, it’s so goddamn stupid, but he wouldn’t be him if he didn’t want more than what he could have: “Where’s Cap?”

“Reporting to Fury,” Natasha says, and against Tony’s will, the hurt in his chest deepens. Of course. A mission report, that could perfectly well be done when they got home, that even Fury wouldn’t have demanded so immediately – that would be Steve’s priority, as opposed to checking on him. That’s. That’s just the way it is.

Tony feels a knot in his throat. God, for a genius, he sure gets hung up on the smallest stupid shit sometimes, like artisan tea or blankets or how transparently Steve doesn’t love him back.

“And people say I’m the workaholic.” Tony does his best to make his voice sound light, and he thinks it works.

Natasha’s shoulder bumps his again, and this time Tony leans back, and she doesn’t move away.

At home, Tony is a lot more calm. He makes a stop at Medical and gets his cuts cleaned and bandaged. There are no major injuries, and, though his torso aches, his ribs apparently resisted this one, so, point for his old-man bones. The doctor makes some annoying questions about anxiety medication and panic attacks, but when she mentions therapy Tony manages to escape with some excuse about having a post-mission meeting. Miraculously, it works, and in a few moments he’s in his penthouse.

The doctor recommended rest, but of course, that’s the last thing Tony wants to do. Instead, he sits down at his desk and checks the armor’s damage. Mark 56 is toast, that’s for sure, but Tony needs to look over the data of when it went down, to get it noted for his next schematics.

He gets totally immersed in it for most of the afternoon. Rhodey and Pepper both call, and Tony sends them texts letting them know he’s fine, with a picture of himself giving a thumbs up. Rhodey texts back a picture of him rolling his eyes so hard only the white part is visible, and Pepper leaves him on read, so, everything is normal.

The other Avengers come by. Bruce and Thor bring him a sandwich and stay for way longer than they should, talking and distracting Tony from his work; Clint and Natasha arrive soon afterwards.

That’s… okay, that’s the new normal, Tony guesses – more than two people interested in his well-being, for unknown reasons. He should be used to it by now, what with the whole team thing, but it’s still weird, to realize everyone around him cares.

Well.

Almost everyone.

Tony manages to spend his entire talk with Bruce and Thor never asking about Steve. He almost does the same with Clint and Natasha, almost, but, well, you see, it’s not actually his fault, the blame lies totally with Clint.

“All I’m saying is, if my arrows had a boomerang function, my array of movements would expand, like, by half. Ask Cap, he agrees,” Clint says, and, see? He brings Steve up, so it’s totally reasonable for Tony to continue the conversation.

“Is he here?” Tony asks, in a completely normal speed. Not eager at all. “In the Tower?”

Clint frowns. “Yeah? I don’t think he left since we arrived.”

“Oh.” Tony focuses on the panel in front of him, pretending to be distracted by the numbers and graphics. Somehow he was waiting to hear Steve had been at SHIELD, taking care of boring paperwork stuff; or he was at the battle site, taking care of the wreck they left behind; or, you know, that he was doing anything else that would have given him a genuine reason not to check on Tony other than the fact that maybe he doesn’t want to do that.

Tony takes a deep breath. He tries to not make it too deep, but Natasha must notice it, from the way she tilts her head in his direction. He stares firmly at the screen.

“Anyway, glad you understand, man – I’ll be waiting for them on my floor for the next mission.” Clint snaps his fingers and finger-guns at him, and Tony rolls his eyes, even though he already has a couple ideas on how to install boomerang functions on the damn arrows.

“Whatever, Katniss,” he says, and for a terrifying moment he can feel Natasha’s gaze on him. Tony sends a silent prayer so that she doesn’t try to console him because Jesus fuck, he’s already gone through enough embarrassment for a day. Miraculously, it works, and she and Clint leave a moment afterwards.

Tony spends the rest of the afternoon waiting. He wouldn’t admit it out loud, would deny it to his final breath, but, yeah, that’s exactly what he’s doing. He’s waiting and expecting and, goddamnit, hoping for the moment Steve will show up. Steve, knocking on his door like no one else in the team bothers doing anymore; glancing at him with that classic frown of concern that makes Tony want to punch him and kiss him senseless at the same time; even scolding him for escaping in the middle of his doctor appointment, whatever. Right now, Tony would take any of that, would happily accept any little thing as a small proof Steve cares.

None of this happens.

When the evening comes, Tony has accepted that he’s delusional, and he’s trying to focus on making something useful instead, like starting the schematics for the next Mark. He immerses himself into work, falling into a frantic rhythm. He creates a hundred different prototypes that, later, he knows he will examine with JARVIS and wonder what the hell he was thinking.

The answer, of course, is Steve. Obviously.

After a while, Tony decides to go get some coffee, in the hopes that it will boost his brain. He takes the elevator down to the kitchen. JARVIS informs him that it’s 10 p.m., which means he likely won’t run into any Avenger having dinner.

As expected, the kitchen is empty. Tony sets up the machine to pour coffee, enjoying the pleasant smell that starts drifting, when the door abruptly opens.

Steve walks in looking like he’s just ran a marathon. Which, considering Steve can run the equivalent of five marathons in a couple hours, is a big deal. He’s panting and covered in sweat, and when he starts walking towards the fridge, he doesn’t even notice Tony at first.

To Tony, it’s a strange experience. He watches Steve a lot – has a hard time taking his eyes off him when he’s around, in fact – but it’s rare to get a glimpse of Steve not knowing he’s being watched. Right now, he doesn’t hide how much the exercise has worn him out, and he opens the fridge and drinks half of a water bottle in record time.

“Leave a little to the fish, Cap,” Tony says, because he’s not Natasha, he can’t do this sneaky thing. He’s terrible at it.

Steve jumps a little, his head snapping to look at Tony, eyes widening at the sight of him. Tony takes in his shocked face.

“Yeah, still alive and kicking,” he quips, his tone just the slightest bit sharp, because he can’t help it – Steve was out, having a run, getting his exercise on while Tony, like an idiot, waited and hoped he’d come to check on him. “Sorry to disappoint.”

Steve frowns, but he doesn’t say anything, turning towards the fridge. He drains out the water in fast sips and immediately places the empty bottle back inside.

Tony crosses his arms. “Seriously, Cap? What is this, a college dorm? I was expecting you’d have more manners.”

Steve tenses up, and Tony can see his jaw clenching. Tony expects a reply, but instead Steve just nods. “Right,” he says, opening the fridge again, picking up the bottle and placing it under the water filter.

Tony raises an eyebrow. Something about Steve’s movements is especially tense, and Tony watches as he takes sharp, short breaths, which – well, he shouldn’t need to do, not with those superserum enhanced lungs.

Steve is still not looking at him, and Tony should take the hint and go away, he should, but there’s always a drive inside him to push and push and push when it comes to Steve. Tony is like a child. He will take Steve getting mad at him over Steve ignoring him any day.

“Are you okay there, buddy?” Tony says. He keeps his voice light, flippant, careful to not let any genuine worry bleed into his words. “Must’ve been quite a workout, to get you so beaten down.” He takes a step closer, leaning into Steve’s space.

Steve’s posture stiffens, the line of his neck and shoulders rigid with tension. He doesn’t answer.

“Oh, cool, I’m talking to the wall now. Can’t say I haven’t been there before,” Tony quips, arms crossed. A mix of anxiety and anger boils in his stomach – right, Steve wasn’t worried, but does that mean he can’t talk to Tony now? Really? Is he mad? And if he is mad, can’t he, you know, at least look at Tony to scold him? “Gotta say, that’s a bit low for you, Cap. I’d expect you’d at least do me the courtesy of letting me know why I’ve pissed you off. You usually do that so well.”

Steve lowers his head, staring at the floor. He turns off the water filter just as the bottle is about to overflow. When he speaks, his voice is low and controlled, every word seeming careful in a way Tony has never heard before, coming from him: “I’m not mad at you.”

“Really? Because I gotta say, you make a fine impression. Maybe it’s strength of habit—“

“Just leave it, Tony,” Steve interrupts, head snapping towards him. Those clear, sky blue eyes stare at Tony, unreadable, and it’s pathetic, but just that is enough to make his heart take a leap in his chest.

“Okay,” Tony says, in a tone that makes it clear that it’s as far from okay as possible. He raises both hands in a dramatic gesture of surrender. “Okay, I’ll leave it. Sorry for, I don’t know, existing, or whatever. By the way, I’m doing great, yeah, much better than I was when I almost suffocated to death this morning, thanks for asking, and--.” Tony stops in his tracks, because Steve has clenched his fists, and Tony’s eyes darted towards his hands and just. Stopped there. “What the fuck happened to your fingers?”

Steve reacts immediately, turning his back to Tony. “Nothing.”

“Uh, no, pretty sure 'nothing' doesn’t cause bleeding, and your hands—“ Tony circles Steve, and it must be a ridiculous scene, but he quickly catches sight of Steve’s clenched fists and, yeah, he wasn’t mistaken. “—you’re bleeding. Why are you bleeding?”

“It’s not—“

“Holy shit,” Tony says, his hand snapping and grabbing Steve’s wrist, turning his palm towards him. Steve’s hand is bandaged, but there are clear red stains of blood, spreading from his fingers to his palm. “You opened a cut, or several. You need to change these, right now, just—“ Tony’s eyes dart for a moment to Steve’s other hand, and it’s also bandaged. “What the hell happened to you?”

Steve’s other hand closes in a fist, and Tony tightens his fingers around his wrist.

“Stop that. What are you, a child?” Tony snaps, pulling Steve closer, turning towards the elevator. “Come on, I’m gonna call Bruce…”

“No,” Steve says. “Bruce’s asleep.” He plants himself in the same place, and, of course, Tony couldn’t drag him if he tried. Tony risks a glance at his face, and is surprised at the nervous energy behind that typical steel gaze. “It’s just a cut, I can take care of it.”

Tony raises an eyebrow. “Where did you even get those?” he asks. It’s a weirdly specific placement for wounds, especially with the hard leather gloves Steve usually wears. It’s almost as if he deliberately stuck his hands in a hole filled with spikes—

Oh.

Oh, no.

Tony swallows, and his face must spell out what he’s thinking, because worry flashes in Steve’s eyes, and he opens his mouth to say something before Tony blurts: “You… When you ripped off the armor...”

Steve goes rigid. His face is impossible to read, but right now Tony doesn’t need to read anything, because the conclusion is too obvious to be anything else.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Tony asks, and he sounds too mad for someone who just found out their teammate mauled his own fingers for him.

“They weren’t deep cuts,” Steve says, and now his face is easy to read, because it’s that same matter-of-factly expression and voice he uses every time in meetings when he points out Tony is wrong. “The doctor took care of it in a minute.”

“Right, that’s why you’re—“

“Like you said,” Steve interrupts, sounding perfectly calm and reasonable, the anxious energy Tony had glimpsed before seemingly gone. “Something must’ve opened while I was training. It happens. I’ll clean it up in my room and the serum will take care of the rest. Tomorrow, it will already be gone.”

Tony feels a spike of anger rising inside him. It doesn’t make much sense, but it’s as if the frustration he’s been building towards Steve the whole day snaps at once – it’s just so goddamn him, that stoic calm voice, that distant look as he prepares to turn away from Tony like he’s been doing all afternoon. Literal blood on his hands because of Tony, for Tony, and he acts like it’s nothing, like it doesn’t mean anything – and maybe to him it doesn’t, maybe this is just another moment of Captain America classic self-sacrificial bullshit, but Tony is stuck on those bandages, on the thought of Steve ripping his own flesh apart just to get Tony to breathe again.

Tony’s chest feels tight, and his heart feels huge, swollen and heavy while he can’t stop staring at Steve’s hands. It’s ridiculous, it’s pathetic, but he’s blinking too fast and his eyes are burning, and the next thing he knows, he’s holding Steve’s wrist again.

“Wait,” Tony says, and his voice sounds too soft, too weak. He wants to take it back immediately, but his mouth rushes ahead, speaking before he can stop it: “Let me do it.”

Steve blinks. “What?”

“Let me,” Tony repeats. He regrets it deeply, so much, he wants to stick the words back into his mouth again, and it must show, in the way his voice wavers. He feels exposed, all of a sudden, as if he’s asking something bigger than what he can actually say. Let me touch you, let me take care of you. “Just… Let me do it.”