“All right, JARVIS. First test for this one.” Tony’s in his suit, hyped and ready to blast the ceiling off, because what are ceilings for if not to be blasted to pieces by repulsors?
“C’mon, we haven’t got all day.”
“But Sir, it appears that Captain Rogers has entered the building.”
The name, so familiar yet distant, takes a few moments to register. Tony blinks slowly, then blinks again, suddenly feeling like he’s wading in sludge, his mind brokenly trying to comprehend what his A.I. is saying. His heart sinks, lower and lower and lower.
“… What?” he finally manages, breath rushing out of his lungs too quickly.
“Captain Rogers, Sir. I believe he does not know you are here. He has just entered the building.”
“Why—I—” Tony squeezes his eyes shut, opens them, then closes them again. His entire body seems frozen, and though he’s fought aliens and evil masterminds and has almost died one too many times, he’s incapable of acting—or thinking—rationally in this predicament. He’s not ready to confront Steve Rogers. Not now. Not right now. He’s not even ready to see him.
“He is heading your way, Sir,” JARVIS informs him.
Tony inhales, breathes out, and tells himself to calm down. “Lights off, JARVIS,” he says. “Don’t let him know I’m here.”
“Do it,” Tony barks, unease and panic rising belatedly in his gut.
JARVIS does it without protest this time, and only then does Tony relax a notch.
Barely a few moments later, he hears footsteps, and Tony’s breath catches in his throat as—oh god—Steve appears at the bottom of the staircase.
He grew a beard, is Tony’s first thought. Then he looks too sad, is his second. Steve is... he looks so different. Older than the last time Tony saw him, more resigned. There’s a certain melancholy to his demeanor—not the lack of determination or hope, but the acceptance that even Steve Rogers cannot win every fight for the universe.
“Good afternoon, Captain Rogers,” JARVIS greets.
Steve jumps and looks up at the ceiling. He still looks up at the ceiling, after so many years.
“Good afternoon, JARVIS. I… didn’t realize you were still here.” And whoa, his voice has changed. It’s deeper now, and… huskier.
“Sir has yet to move out.”
Steve freezes for a second. “Will he be home soon?”
At that, Steve relaxes a little. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, starting to walk around the lab. “I don’t mean to intrude, or anything. I just really… ” he swallows, “… I just really miss him.”
Tony doesn’t dare breathe. He watches as Steve makes his way around his desk, fingers running over the piece of metal Tony had left out on said desk in his haste to hide. Part of Tony wants to scream at Steve. Don’t touch it. Because these things, these things are his and his alone. Steve has long lost the right to have them, to look at them, to marvel at the blood, sweat, and tears Tony pours into each and every piece of his work.
But the other part of him… the part that throbs and aches with longing, the part that clamps on his lungs and twists at his heart with a feeling he doesn’t dare let himself identify… urges him to stay silent and watch Steve handle his work, unbearably gentle, unbearably delicate.
One could almost believe the part where Steve smashed his shield clean through Tony’s arc reactor was the mere creation of Tony’s own imagination.
Steve looks up and catches sight of Tony—well, Tony’s armor. Tony stands, frozen with dread, as Steve starts forward, a strange fascination in his eyes, only stopping when he’s within inches of the suit. He doesn’t move, staring at the faceplate, and for a moment, Tony is deeply afraid that Steve can see right through the armor, that Steve can see him.
“JARVIS, is this—is this a new suit?” Steve asks.
“It is a prototype Sir has been working on, Captain Rogers.”
“Steve,” Steve corrects quietly, eyebrows furrowing. “I’m not… not really a captain… anymore.”
Tony remains perfectly still as Steve continues to stare at the suit. His heart is pounding in his ears, and if he didn’t know better, he’d say his palms are dampening with sweat—and, oh, Steve licks his lips and Tony loses all train of thought, goosebumps raising along his arms and crawling up his neck.
It’s not fair, he thinks. It’s not fair that after so, so many years, Steve can still do things to him like he always has. It’s not fair, and for a moment, the thought makes Tony angry.
The anger quickly dissipates into surprise, though, when Steve lifts a hand and places it on the side of the faceplate. Tony startles, only just managing to stop himself from jerking back and giving himself away. His heart is pounding even louder now, thundering in his ears. Steve is too close. Too close for comfort, too close to him. He can only watch, almost entranced, as Steve lifts his other hand and places it on the other side of the faceplate, almost like he’s cupping Tony’s face, and rests his forehead against it, a small sigh leaving his lips.
Tony knows, in a certain part of his consciousness, that his suit is soundproof. But at this moment, right now, he holds his breath, not daring to make a sound. He can’t take his eyes off Steve—his closed eyes, his beard—darker than his once pale blond hair, the new worry lines creased into his forehead, and the unsteady rise and fall of his shoulders. Steve looks… he looks exhausted. Old. Tony has never thought of him as old, but he looks like it, now, like he has spent hundreds of years running and he has nowhere to go anymore.
“I’m sorry, Tony,” Steve whispers hoarsely, so quiet that Tony only barely catches it.
It’s too late, he thinks, a crippling sadness welling up in his chest and crawling up his throat. He exhales carefully and slowly rests his own forehead against the armor, a mere piece of metal away from Steve’s.
It hurts like a knife plunged a thousand times into his chest; it hurts like a crown of stems with thorns shrinking down on his ribs, unrelenting and painful; it hurts like hell, to know what he could have had, what they could have had, had fate let them be kinder to each other.
It hurts, dear god, to be so close, yet so far away from the person he loved.
“I’m sorry, too,” he whispers, the apology so quiet it’s not much more than breath.
His heart throbs and aches, dripping blood between his ribs.
In another world, in another universe… maybe, they could have made it.
