#this man puts on a facade of calm cool collected because the impulsiveness of his youth had the biggest cost he could imagine

[10thmusemoon]

yue qingyuan, my beloved princess with disorders...

[after-witch]

Oddly enough Pearl played by Mia Goth reminds me a whole lot of the Smiling Man. The similarities aren't all there, but being quick to anger is the big one. Pearl being insane, impulsive, and violent creates a more 'mentally disturbed' image compared to The Smiling Man. He's tricky, manipulative, and seemingly 'nonchalant'. That's until a literal tween outsmarts him, not once, not twice, but thrice (excluding Dark Waters). It's then we can start to see him losing his cool, I can imagine him tightening his grip ever-so-slightly every time Ollie would shut him down in Empty Smiles. However, it's clear as day Pearl is a psychopath, but I guess that's all a part of being human. The Smiling Man, on the other hand is not. Something about him, an otherworldly being that takes the form of a young, notably human, man, showing normal human emotion is so attractive. Imagine him raising his voice at something slightly bothering him, something you'd think no one, let alone the Smiling Man, would get upset over. Getting emotional. And then, bam, the next second he's fine. Perhaps giving you a certain look, making you feel like you're the one in the wrong, a faraway look in his eyes. God knows what he could be thinking, if anything at all. That's just how the Smiling Man is. Sighhh, life isn't fair. Is asking for the Smiling Man to fool me (and all his devoted fans) over and over again, and trap me in the mist so he'll be the only thing I see for the rest of time too much to ask for? Either way, it's been far too long since my last ask and I NEED to have your take on this. Also good luck with job interviews <33

Oh, what a wonderful message to wake up to!

Imagine him raising his voice at something slightly bothering him, something you'd think no one, let alone the Smiling Man, would get upset over. Getting emotional. And then, bam, the next second he's fine.

I think it would take him a lot to raise his voice! He does so like to appear calm and collected. But then yes! Any seemingly stronger emotion is immediately smoothed over.

Spoilers for the book series behind the read-more!

In some of my vague-daydreams-to-turn-into-fics where the self-insert character ends up being his servant, and they have this longstanding relationship where he finds that he'd like to keep this servant around for reasons he doesn't really understand, there's usually a moment where he does wind up raising his voice a bit--but just once, and it's so uncharacteristic for his normal demeanor that it's truly shocking.

For me, I wouldn't view him as yelling or shouting or screaming in any sort of wildly uncontrolled manner. But even him raising his voice a little when he's gotten all heated--like "You dare to..." or "You really think you could..."--is a rather horrifying prospect. Because when that gentlemanly facade he puts on cracks even a little? You know you've fucked up. Majorly.

And sure, he'll smooth it over quick, and you'll wonder if you ever heard him raise his voice at all. But it doesn't change the goosebumps that ran up your arm, or the shiver that went through your body. He is older than you, and stronger than you, and has seen things your human mind couldn't fathom--and do you really think you could best him in any way?

I think the most we see him losing control in canon is in the first book, when Ollie not only rejects his offer, but reveals how she's gotten the info she needs to escape and starts releasing the scarecrows' souls with water. And he's standing there with his mouth all big and creepy, looming over her, threatening her, looking afraid, but he can't do anything to stop her. Because he's desperate, he's lost, this is unexpected and a dire situation.

"Seth looked less human now. His grin still took up half his face, but the eyes above were malevolent. “Little fool,” he said. “I am older than you. I am stronger than you . . .”

But then he snaps back once she says she'd bet her life on being right on how to escape, and his eyes had "almost a look of wonder," and he bows and is all 'courtly' again.

But in Empty Smiles, we also see him getting so frustrated with the repeated denials, to the point that he's irritated ("Save me from stubborn girls") and gives up a chess game without a word, and actually frowns when Ollie goes into the funhouse. (But! We know the frown is perhaps because he doesn't want her to go in for reasons that aren't just preventing her from getting the key…)

In terms of his stronger emotions, I think it's a bit scarier for him to remain calm and collected but for a little tell, like how Ollie started to feel like she could tell when his smiles were happy or not, when he was pleased or displeased, etc. His little sighs, or irritated expressions.

In a human, these expressions, little things, mean nothing at all. But in him? Who is normally so unnervingly polite, so relaxed, in control... it's unnerving.

(On a not-really-related note, sometimes I think about the imagery towards the end of Empty Smiles, of Coco and Brian getting to the carnival and seeing him, but not really seeing him properly at first, because his face is all hidden by shadows and there's nothing but the wild carnival lights behind him. Siiigh.)

Is asking for the Smiling Man to fool me (and all his devoted fans) over and over again, and trap me in the mist so he'll be the only thing I see for the rest of time too much to ask for

It is NOT. Although I often debate on whether I'd rather be trapped in the mist so he's the only thing I can ever interact with forever, or whether I'd rather he use up my soul until it's dry and crunchy and feed it to his dog Hound. Both sound appealing...

Thank you for sending in a smiling man ask, 'non!! They make me happy. And thank you for the well wishes re: job search!

[izazov]

Another part of the soulmate fic. The Civil War one. It wasn’t fun writing it. I’m determined to finish this fic. I hope I will. Other parts are here: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven.

Tony’s fingers are not as steady as he would like them to be as he flips through the pages depicting the ways the Avengers should be reined under the collective will of the UN. 

Even though he is not an expert, Tony has had enough dealings with lawyers to know this thing looks solid and thorough. Not in the least like an idea of an overeager bureaucrat, reaching far above his station.

Tony closes the document, his eyes catching on the front page, the words Sokovia Accords taunting him with memories of senseless destruction, scraping open a wound that never really healed.

(A city falling from the sky, bringing death and destruction, and all of it because of him.)    

“It is just a rough draft,” a voice intones in what could pass as mild in anyone else. Tony drags his eyes away from the pages, glances up at the general turned Secretary of State. He is standing near the window, arms crossed over his chest, regarding Tony with a smile on his face. Benevolent smile of a wise and kind man. There is only one problem with it; there is not a single kind bone in the body of Thaddeus Ross. “Experts from all over the world are working on polishing it even as we speak.”

The corner of Tony’s mouth twitches faintly. “Rather liberal waste of everyone’s time and money,” Tony says with feigned nonchalance. He carefully puts the copy of the Accords down on the large mahogany desk in front of him, leans back in his chair. “Or is that just politics in general?”

“Waste, Stark?” Ross says, ignoring the jab completely. He lets out a soft, amused sound. “You might not have noticed, or you elected to ignore it, but the Avengers’ popularity has been on a steady downward spiral ever since New York.” Moving away from the window, Ross slowly circles the desk, forcing Tony to look up to meet his gaze. It is an obvious intimidation tactic, and this is hardly Tony’s first rodeo, but it doesn’t stop his stomach from twisting with something akin to dread. 

(Tony keeps it carefully hidden. Ross, not unlike a shark, can probably scent blood.)    

Tony tilts his head in acknowledgment. “There is no denying we have made some rather big and public mistakes,” Tony admits in an even voice. “We are working on amending those.”

Ross’ answering smile is pure condescension. “And just how long do you think that throwing money at people will keep them docile?”

Tony’s mouth thins into a flat line. “An interesting sentiment coming from a politician.”

Ross doesn’t even blink. He leans against the table, inclines his head toward the copy of the Accords lying there. “The number of countries backing up the Accords is growing by the day. Eighty seven, Stark.” Ross pauses, gives Tony time to process that information. “That is the current number of countries that are opposed to Avengers dealing their special brand of justice inside their borders without their official approval.”

“Special brand of justice?” Tony repeats in a low voice, his eyes narrowing a fraction. A spark of anger flares in the pit of his stomach, bright and hot, but Tony ignores it. Ross is pushing his buttons, trying to get him to do something, well, something Stark-like. Much as Tony would enjoy it, he cannot. He cannot afford to let his guard down around this man. Especially now. With what’s at stake here, Tony’s pride is small sacrifice to make. “Our mistakes notwithstanding, but the Avengers are not common street thugs.”

Something glimmers in Ross’ eyes; like sunlight catching on the surface of a frozen lake. “Public opinion is fickle,” he says in a soft voice. It makes Tony’s skin crawl. “One day you’re a lauded hero, and the next people are calling out for your blood. Though, it is hardly something I need to tell you, Stark.”

Tony blinks, his mouth curving into a strained smile. 

(There is a vast difference between Tony’s name being dragged through mud in the press and the same happening to the Avengers. Tony is so used to it by now, it barely registers. Also, it is hardly without merit. But the Avengers? Whatever their faults, whatever their mistakes, they are heroes. One pure thing in Tony’s life.)

“The Avengers are not a boy band, Sir,” Tony says slowly and carefully as he looks up at Ross with a calm he doesn’t really feel, tasting bile on his tongue as that last word rolls off his tongue. It’s an almost physical pain, having to mince words when all Tony wants is to knock the slimy son of a bitch flat on his back. Right in the middle of his damned office. “We are not after fame or public adoration. I know this might come as a surprise,” Tony remarks, squaring Ross with a unblinking gaze. “But the Avengers don’t operate with hidden agendas. We have only one. A pretty straightforward one. Saving lives.”

Ross’ smile grows sharper. “And how many of the lives you saved were placed in danger by your actions?” Ross says. Tony barely stops himself from wincing, his stomach roiling with guilt. Ross doesn’t say Sokovia, but he doesn’t have to. The single largest smear on the Avengers’ good name.

And it is all Tony’s fault.

Ross lets out a soft sigh before turning and walking over to sit in the large chair on the other side of the desk. 

“It seems you might have gotten the wrong idea about the purpose of this meeting, Tony.”

Tony’s spine goes stiff, all alarm bells inside his mind going off at once at the sudden change in the atmosphere. Shifting in his seat, Tony tilts his head, his mouth curving into a wry grin. “Oh, I doubt that.”

“No one wants the Avengers gone.”

Tony swallows a snort of disdain, flicks his gaze toward the thick document on Ross’ desk. “No, not gone. Just collared and leashed.”

Ross’ smile tightens at the corners. “I believe under supervision is more appropriate term.”

Tony’s gaze locks on Ross’ for one moment, his lips curving over his teeth. He tried his best, but he is done playing nice. “I like my version better. It cuts through the bullshit.” 

Other than the slight arching of an eyebrow Ross doesn't react. “I would hardly call collateral damage numbering in hundreds of civilian lives bullshit,” Ross intones mildly. “Discounting millions in property damage.”

Tony doesn’t even blink this time. “And what makes a bunch of politicians at UN qualified to play the angel on our shoulders?” Tony remarks in a dry voice. “The Avengers are led by Captain America and, personally, I’d always trust his moral compass over that of some pen-pushing bureaucrat.” Pausing, Tony allows his mouth to stretch into his most insolent grin. The kind that used to make he vein on Nick Fury’s forehead throb. “No offense, Sir.”

But Ross merely tilts his head to the side; looking far, far too composed and smug for Tony’s peace of mind. “Moral compass? Come now, Stark, we are not living in a fairy-tale. Honestly, that is something I would have expected from Rogers, not you.”

“Who is notably absent from this meeting,” Tony says in a flat voice, even as the mention of Steve’s name tugs at something vulnerable and afraid in the middle of his chest. He can all too easily picture Steve’s reaction to the Accords. It sends a shiver of dread across his spine, forces Tony to fold his fingers into fists to prevent them from trembling. “He is the official leader of the Avengers. I’m not even on active duty.”

Ross waves a dismissive hand, leans forward in his seat. “Regardless of your current status, you are the most prominent face of the Avengers. Besides,” Ross pauses, his smile stretching wide, showing off his teeth. Tony presses his lips together, tries not to think of sharks. “You sponsor them, act as their spokesperson. That makes you more than qualified to be here.”

“I make no secret of my work for the Avengers. It still doesn’t make me the leader,” Tony insists, even if Steve is the last person he wishes to be here. It’s a foolish impulse, one Steve would not appreciate in the least, wanting to keep Steve as far as he can from Ross’ machinations, but not one Tony can actually control. It throbs deep within him, fierce, possessive and desperate.

A shadow flickers across Ross’ face for a split second, and, for the first time since Tony was showed into his office, Ross looks less than composed, disdain seeping through the cracks in his facade.

“Rogers is a fine soldier,” Ross says, his voice clipped. “But his mentality is that of another time. A time that has long passed. There is no denying he is useful in his... unique way, but his ideals are outdated.”

Tony clenches his teeth against the fury that swells within his throat, swallowing words that are too revealing, rooted far too close to that secret space inside Tony’s heart no one is allowed to see. 

(Not even the person whose name is carved there.)

“You do know there is an entire exhibit right in this town dedicated to those outdated ideals, embodied in the persona of Captain America?” Tony says, arching an eyebrow in question. “Approved, among others, by the President?” 

(Tony says the words as a challenge. But it doesn’t change the number of times he had accused Steve of the same thing. Of being rigid, unwilling to compromise, far too entrenched in his ways.)  

Ross’ smile is all teeth. “I was a soldier, Stark. I know how bravery, honor and sacrifice can boost morale in time of crisis. I am also a realist.” Ross pauses, squares Tony with a cool gaze. “Each time your team goes out, there is new footage of screaming civilians and crumbling buildings. You think honor and bravery are on the mind of an average citizen as they watch you in action?”

Tony glances down, stares at his clenched hands, forces them to loosen. When he looks up, Ross is watching him closely. He grins. “I imagine there is also a certain amount of gratitude and awe in there somewhere,” Tony says, but even to his own ears his attempt at a joke falls flat.

“Try accountability, Stark. Oversight. Control,” Ross says, flatly. 

Tony’s grin turns brittle on the edges. He knows exactly where this is leading, what is the entire purpose of this meeting. It leaves a bitter taste in the back of Tony’s throat, twists in the pit of his stomach. But it doesn’t come as a surprise. Not even a little. “And how exactly do I fit into all of this?” 

Ross remains silent one long moment. Tony isn’t certain is it a calculated pause, aiming at Tony’s impatience, or merely Ross weighing his words. With this slimy son of a bitch, Tony wouldn’t be surprised if it were both.

“No matter how it may seem, the purpose of this meeting is not to threaten-” 

Tony lets out an incredulous huff of breath, barely managing not to roll his eyes.

“- or coerce,” Ross finishes in a soft, almost friendly voice. “The Accords are not a ploy to have the Avengers disbanded.”

“Yeah. Because having our metaphorical balls in your hands is reassuring,” Tony remarks, wryly. After a beat, squaring Ross with a flat look, he adds, “Sir.”

Ross doesn’t react beyond a minute shake of his head. “It is how the world functions.”

Tony lets out a dry chuckle, shifts in his seat. He doesn’t take his eyes off Ross for a moment.  “I suppose since producing an army of super soldiers didn’t work out so well, having the Avengers on your beck and call is the next best thing.”

Ross’ expression turns blank, his mouth pressing into a thin line. A hollow victory, given the document still lying on Ross’ desk. 

“United Nations, Stark,” Ross says slowly. “The Accords represent the will of the world, not solely the US government. And certainly not my own.”

“Yeah, you seem really torn up about it,” Tony forces through gritted teeth.

Ross gives him a flat look. “I do share the opinion the Avengers are a team consisting of highly unpredictable and dangerous individuals, in need of outside supervision.”

“And we are supposed to... what, exactly? Just roll with it?”

The corner of Ross’ mouth twitches, curving faintly. “The Avengers’ cooperation would make the entire matter of implementing the Accords smoother. I believe the show of goodwill on your part would be in all our interests.”

Tony snorts in disdain, his spine stiffening. “Not exactly the pronoun I would use.” Tilting his head to the side, Tony considers Ross silently one second. “Besides, aren’t you jumping the gun? You talk about implementing a document that, at the moment, is worth less than the paper it is printed on.”

“At the moment,” Ross agrees, leaning back in his chair, his mouth forming a lazy smile. The need to wipe the smug expression off the bastard’s face becomes almost painful. “It is merely matter of time when it will no longer be the case.”

Tony’s mouth curves into a grin. “I seem to remember having a similar discussion with a would-be god who led an alien army. He also didn’t think much of the Avengers.”

Ross lets out a soft sigh. “I understand you feel protective of your team. That is an admirable quality. But you are a smart man, Stark. A businessman. You understand how the world works,” Ross says, slowly and carefully. “This meeting? It is carrot, not the stick, Stark. You should perceive it as such.”

Tony goes deathly still. Only his heart defies the chill that seems to have permeated down to the marrow of his bones, pounding wildly against his chest. “I am not about to play a devil’s advocate for you,” Tony grits out, standing up. Fury and outrage burn bright and hot in the hollow of his chest. Taking a deep, steadying breath, Tony clamps down on it. Ross may be a slimy, manipulative bastard, but he is also Secretary of State. “I’m not your man.”  

Turning on his heel, Tony heads for the door of Ross’ office. He has his fingers an inch over the knob when Ross calls out after him.

“Your team is one large incident away from instigating the ratification of the Accords. That, Stark, is a fact.”

Tony screws his eyes shut for a brief moment, releasing a shaky breath. Then he cranes his neck, squares Ross with unflinching gaze. “Yeah, well. If that happens we will deal with it. As a team.” 

Tony doesn’t wait for Ross’ reply. He wrenches the door open and strides out of Ross’ office without looking back.

(But not before seed of doubt takes root in the darker parts of his mind.)  

***

Soft sound of bare feet scuffing against tiled floor is Tony’s only warning before a flick of light switch illuminates the room, and the sudden shift from darkness into light causes a sharp stab of pain behind Tony’s eyelids. It joins the already existing ache, throbbing dully beneath Tony’s temples.

“Fuck,” Tony curses under his breath, squinting at the figure standing stock-still in the doorway. “Steve?” he guesses, going mostly by the shoulder span belonging to the blurry figure in the doorway. And the spark of warmth that surges from within Tony’s chest, chasing away some of the chill and weariness clinging to, seemingly, every cell in Tony’s body.

(Some. But not all. Not even close.) 

“Tony? I didn’t- You weren’t supposed to return until next week.”

Slowly, the white dots disappear from Tony’s vision, and he is gifted with the sight of Steve Rogers dressed in white T-shirt and grey pajama bottoms, with his hair in disarray, and his eyes still sleep-soft, smiling at Tony.

It’s a testament to how tired Tony feels that his heart gives only the smallest lurch at the positively adorable sight Steve is currently presenting.

“Yeah,” Tony says, his face twisting into a grimace as he gives a small half-shrug. “I cancelled a couple of meetings.”

Steve blinks, his eyes darkening as a deep furrow appears on his forehead. Tony follows the direction of Steve’s gaze, then scrubs a weary hand across his face when it leads him to the glass in his hand. “Seriously, Steve, it’s way too late,” throwing a quick glance at his watch, Tony amends, “too early for your special brand of disapproval.”

Steve’s mouth tightens, his frown deepening. 

Tony swallows a frustrated noise when he identifies that expression as the ‘Captain America is disappointed in you’. He isn’t a big fan of that particular expression. Tony gives Steve a flat look, bracing internally for a lecture he knows is about to come, but doesn’t relinquish his drink.

The lecture never comes. 

Steve merely sighs, runs his fingers through his hair, mussing it even more in the process. The frown doesn’t disappear from his face but it softens into something that is not quite resignation but not far from it. “It’s not disapproval, Tony. It is concern,” Steve says - sighs, really - and moves away from the doorway. Tony’s gaze follows him as he rounds the sofa and takes a seat next to Tony.  

Steve’s gaze flicks briefly toward the glass in Tony’s hand, only to return, intent and searching, to Tony’s face. “You know, sleep might be a better idea than that,” Steve remarks in a quiet voice, inclining his head toward Tony’s drink. 

The corner of Tony’s mouth twitches in an approximation of a smile. “Probably,” he concedes. He tears his eyes away from Steve’s face, crushes the irrational need to close the distance between their bodies, and simply bask in the warmth and comfort of Steve’s skin. Without having to think, or feel, or do anything but breathe. “But you don’t get a vote, Rogers. You can’t get drunk.”

“Not sure I follow that logic.”

“I get that a lot.”

Steve lets out an amused snort. Tony shoots him a dirty look. “It may come as a surprise,” Steve says. “But it’s not like I’ve never been drunk.”

Tony arches an eyebrow in question. “Captain America, drunk?” he says. “Now, that is one story I need to hear.”

A shadow of sadness flickers in Steve’s eyes, but disappears quickly. “Maybe one day I will tell you,” Steve says, mouth quirking faintly. “And I wasn’t Captain America then.”

Tony looks away, twirls the glass in his hand, takes a sip. “I can’t imagine that. You not being Captain America.”

Steve heaves a long-suffering sigh. “I know you saw the pictures, Tony.”

Tony glances at Steve from the corner of his eyes. He is tired, his head is killing him, and there is far too much alcohol in his blood. He really shouldn’t test his brain to mouth filter in this state. Especially around Steve. Perhaps Steve is right and he should go to sleep. 

It is a sensible decision. And it lasts about five seconds.  

“I don’t mean the muscles, Rogers. No matter how much of a gift they are to anyone with working eyesight,” Tony hears himself blurt out.

Steve blinks, the amused expression fading from his face, replaced by something carefully guarded. “Then what do you mean?”  

“You,” Tony says, waving in Steve’s general direction. He has no clue what is he trying to say, but it does little in stopping the words from coming out of his mouth. “That whole truth, justice and American way you got going. And stubbornness... God. You’re probably the most stubborn person on the face of the planet, Rogers. That’s not the serum, that’s you.” 

Steve regards him silently one long moment before looking away and giving Tony a perfect view of that chiseled jaw as it clenches tightly. “Not all I am,” he says in a soft voice that sounds almost rueful. Then, he bows his head, lets out a soft, humorless chuckle. “But it is what most people see.”

Tony swallows around the swell in his throat. “It’s not a bad sight,” Tony says in a low, hoarse voice, his fingers tightening around the glass in his hand. Everything about this situation seems surreal, from the chaos inside his head and the tightness of his chest, to the curve of Steve’s neck and clench of his fingers in his lap. “I’ve seen much worse.” 

Steve lifts his head sharply, squares Tony with a wary gaze. “You don’t like it all that much.”

“When we first met, yeah,” Tony admits with a casual shrug. Steve blinks, his forehead creasing. “I pretty much wanted to punch you all the time. Don’t give me that look, you wanted to deck me just as much.”

“Only because you made it your mission to provoke me,” Steve points out. He is still looking at Tony with careful eyes but there is a hint of a smile in the corner of his mouth. 

“Okay, can’t argue with that,” Tony concedes. “But you grew on me, Rogers. Even that scowl you- yeah, that’s the one.”

Steve gives him an unimpressed look. It is somewhat diminished by the way he tries and fails to contain a smile. “Gee, Stark, a fella could get all sorts of ideas after a compliment like that.”

A huff of laughter leaves Tony’s throat. And for a moment - a tiny fraction of a second - Tony feels at peace. Right then and there, sitting in companionable silence next to Steve in the Avengers’ common room in an ungodly hour of the night, Tony is content. Not a single doubt, need, or desperate longing clouds his mind or constricts his heart. It’s a good feeling.

And it shatters when Steve blinks, gestures vaguely in Tony’s direction. “So. Rough week?”

Tony lets out a short bark of laughter, shakes his head. “You could say that,” he says, rubs at his forehead. “If Pepper ever comes to her senses and decides to step down as a CEO, I’m moving to a deserted island. I’ll live off coconut and entertain myself by making sand castles.”

“You would get bored in less than a day,” Steve says, his eyes gleaming with mirth. “And then there would be explosions.”   

Tony arches an amused eyebrow. “On a deserted island? You give me too much credit, Rogers.”

“I’ve seen you bored, Tony,” Steve points out mildly. 

“If you’re referring to that incident with the explosive arrows, it was mostly Barton’s fault.”

“You nearly blew up the gym,” Steve says, slowly and carefully. “The one next door to Bruce’s lab.”

Tony grimaces. “Yeah, I forgot to factor in that detail.” 

After the dust cleared, and no one, thankfully, turned green, Bruce refused to speak to Tony for a week. Natasha looked very much the same, but Tony knew better than to remain alone in a room with her, Barton was an asshole as always, Thor wasn’t even there, and Steve kept looking at Tony with disappointed eyes. It wasn’t a fun week. 

Tony exhales a heavy breath, rubs at his temple, his face drawing into a grimace.

“Headache?” Steve asks, a note of concern clear in his voice. 

“Yeah,” Tony says, his mouth thinning into a tight line. Maybe he is getting too old for juggling two separate lives. There was a time when a week of board meetings - no matter how mind-numbing dull they were - couldn't drain him of almost all energy. The only saving grace in the entire week was setting up the September Foundation Grant. And seeing Pepper. Despite how bittersweet that felt.) 

(Tony will never not love Pepper. No matter how deep and permanent Steve Rogers has wormed his way inside Tony’s heart, a part of it will always belong to Pepper.)

And then there is Ross. Tony is taking a huge risk by not telling Steve about the meeting with Ross, one that could very well blow spectacularly into his face. 

(Tony is worried. No matter his parting words, Tony can all too easily imagine Steve’s reaction, and it... chills him down to his very core. Fills him with dread so potent it almost seems it has turned into a separate entity, inhabiting the space behind Tony’s ribcage. ) 

“You won’t need this anymore,” Steve says abruptly, his face set into an expression of resolve. Before Tony has time to think of a protest, Steve is taking the glass out of his hand and setting in down on the coffee table. Tony narrows his eyes at Steve, a few choice words - none very polite - forming on the tip of his tongue, all forgotten when Steve fixes him with a unwavering gaze. “Turn around.”

Tony blinks, perplexed. “What?”

“Turn around,” Steve repeats, a touch of exasperation lacing his tone. 

Tony tilts his head, gives Steve a look of narrow-eyed suspicion. “Why?”

Steve huffs out a heavy sigh. Tony is pretty sure it is his version of rolling eyes. “One day you’ll do exactly what I say without questioning me, Stark, and I’ll faint from shock.”

“You don’t faint, Rogers. Except from severe blood loss. Sometimes not even then.”

Steve arches an eyebrow in challenge. “You are free to call my bluff anytime you want, Tony,” he says. “Now turn around.” 

“You are an extremely bossy person, Rogers,” Tony grumbles, but obeys. “Anyone ever tell you that?”

“I might have heard it mentioned a time or two,” Steve says in a casual voice. Then, without a warning, he moves forward on the sofa, until he is sitting directly behind Tony, and,  judging by the warmth Tony can feel emanate from Steve, leaving very little space between their bodies.

Tony’s throat goes dry instantly and his heart does that little stuttering thing Tony has come to equate with having Steve in close proximity. “If you do something childish now, Rogers, I swear-” Tony starts but his words dissolve into a rather embarrassing noise at the first touch of Steve’s fingers massaging his shoulders.  

“Feels good?” Steve asks, sounding smug. Tony cannot find it in himself to hold it against him. Not while his fingers are working magic in relieving the tension from Tony’s body. 

Tony screws his eyes shut, leans further back, until his head is almost resting against Steve’s shoulder. “Fuck yes,” he says, not caring about the breathless quality of his voice. “That’s quite the talent you got there, Rogers.” 

Steve lets out a soft chuckle. “Glad to be of service. FRIDAY, could you dim the lights a little, please?”

Tony, who still holds his eyes closed, barely registers FRIDAY’s reply ‘Of course, Captain,’ far too focused on the touch of Steve’s skilled fingers, leaving small tendrils of warmth in their wake.    

The next few moments - or it could be hours, Tony cannot say for certain - pass in silence, disturbed only by the increasingly embarrassing noises coming out of Tony’s mouth. In all honesty, Tony stops trying to contain them somewhere in the first minute of Steve’s magical fingers kneading his sore muscles.

It occurs to Tony, in that small part of his brain that is still capable of drawing conclusions, how careful Steve must be, how mindful of his strength. How those fingers could easily break Tony in two, and instead they are gliding along his neck and shoulders, applying just the right amount of pressure to turn Tony’s body into jelly and mind into mush.

When Steve’s fingers reach the back of Tony’s neck, rubbing at a particularly good spot, a moan slips from Tony’s parted mouth. Just for a second, Steve’s fingers still against the skin of Tony’s neck - not pulling away, nor resuming their previous activity. As if Steve is waiting for something.

Swallowing deeply, Tony opens his eyes, but otherwise remains perfectly still. “Am I making you uncomfortable, Rogers?”

“I wouldn’t exactly call it uncomfortable,” Steve answers in a somewhat strangled voice. A beat later, Steve resumes the massage, and Tony releases a breath he wasn’t aware he’d been holding. 

Tony’s eyes flicker shut again. It is taking way too much of his energy to keep them open. Energy that is better spent concentrating on the sheer bliss that is slowly spreading through Tony’s tired body. “I don’t care anyway. It’s your fault, by the way. You’re too good at this. How did I never know you are good at this, Rogers?”

“You never asked.”

“I didn’t ask now.”

“You want me to stop?” Steve asks, his fingers slowing minutely.

“Don’t you dare,” Tony sputters, snapping his eyes open. “If you stop now, I’ll do something drastic. Not sure what, yet, but it’ll come to me. And it will be loud and messy, and you’ll scowl for weeks.”

“Well, when you put it that way, I better not stop then,” Steve, the smug bastard, drawls in an amused voice, but doesn’t stop. Tony can live with that. Just this once. 

A few more moments pass in silence, Tony’s headache all but gone now, making it all too easy for Tony’s thoughts to stray into forbidden waters. Waters in which Steve’s fingers are sliding down Tony’s sides and under his shirt, his mouth hot and wet on Tony’s jaw...

Swallowing thickly, Tony forces him mind into compliance, wincing inwardly. This is embarrassing at best, pathetic at worst. He is a grown man, for fuck’s sake, not a teenager with a crush. And he needs to start acting that way. 

Tony takes a deep breath, straightens and starts to pull away. For just one moment, Steve’s fingers tighten on Tony’s shoulders as if trying to prevent him from moving away, but they relax almost instantly, allowing Tony to put some much needed distance between them.  

“You ever think about changing careers, soldier, I’ll hire you,” Tony blurts out in a strained voice, looks at Steve over his shoulder, and freezes. Perhaps it is the dimmed light, or Tony’s imagination, but in that moment, there is nothing but raw longing etched onto every feature of Steve’s face.

Steve’s lashes flutter, his mouth sketching a strained sort of a smile. He shifts in his seat, putting more space between them. Irrationally, stupidly, it makes Tony want to grab him by the wrist and tug him back. “I’ll consider it,” he says in a voice far too casual to be anything but fake. He ducks his head, his shoulders stiffening fractionally. 

Tony blinks at Steve, dismayed, having absolutely no idea what just happened.

“I never wanted to be a soldier,” Steve says suddenly. He keeps his gaze trained on his lap, but Tony is pretty sure he is seeing something else. Something long gone. “Not really.” 

Tony shifts in his seat so that he is facing Steve. He glances down, frowns at the sight of Steve rubbing at the palm of his right hand. “What did you want to be?” Tony asks in a quiet voice, folding his hands into fists in an effort to stop himself from following a very unwise impulse and reaching after Steve’s hand.

(Maybe Tony knew it already, but simply chose to forget it along with so many of his father’s stories about Captain America. But that was then. Now, Tony wants to know everything about Steve Rogers.)  

A dry chuckle escapes Steve’s mouth. “You’ll laugh.”

Tony half-shrugs, his mouth stretching into a shadow of a smile. “It might happen,” he agrees. “I can be bit of a jerk.”

Steve snaps his head up, his eyes locking on Tony’s. A myriad of emotions swirl inside Steve’s gaze, shifting with dizzying speed, settling finally on something fond, if a bit sad. 

“Comic books,” Steve says in a voice that has no similarities at all with the confident and strong voice Tony is used to hearing. It tugs at Tony’s heart, and swells inside his throat, making him want things that are far, far more dangerous than his silly fantasy from moments ago. “I wanted to draw comic books.” 

Tony’s eyes widen in surprise. That wouldn’t have been Tony’s first guess. “So instead of drawing superheroes you became one,” Tony says, the corner of his mouth lifting in a smile. “There’s never the middle ground with you, is it Rogers?”

Steve looks up, a small furrow developing between his eyes as his gaze travels across Tony’s face. “I wanted to serve my country. This,” Steve indicates at himself, smiling ruefully, “was never my goal. Sometimes it seems more like a price than anything else.” Tilting his head to the side, Steve gives Tony a wary look. “And you are handling this information with surprising restraint, Stark.”

“Such a suspicious mind you have in that pretty head of yours, Rogers.”

“It is called experience. Years of it.”

Tony grins, flicks his gaze at Steve’s hands, something tight uncoiling inside his chest when he finds them loose. “How come I’ve never seen you draw?” Tony asks. Then, lowering his voice suggestively, he adds, “You could draw me like one of your French girls.”

Steve blinks, gives Tony a look of mild exasperation. There is, however, a tiny flush rising on his cheeks, visible even in the dimmed lighting.

“I’ve been out of the ice for years now, Tony,” Steve points out. “I’ve seen the movie.”

Tony’s grin widens. “Good for you, Rogers. But that doesn’t answer my question.” Pausing, Tony wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. “I can clear my schedule for tomorrow if you’re up for it.” 

Steve straightens almost imperceptibly, his jaw setting in that familiar stubborn way, and Tony suddenly remembers why playing any game of chicken with Steve Rogers may not be such a smart idea.

“Sure, Stark,” Steve deadpans. “Will you be providing a necklace too?”

Tony opens his mouth, takes in the gleam of resolve in Steve’s eyes and bursts into laughter.

“You’re something else, Rogers,” Tony says when he stops laughing. Steve gives him a small half-shrug, his expression softening with an almost sheepish smile. Tony shakes his head before squaring Steve with thoughtful eyes. “But seriously now. Why aren’t you drawing anymore?”

Steve glances away for a moment, his spine going stiff. “I do, but not often. It’s- I guess it’s not the same anymore.”

“How so?”

Steve scrubs a hand across his face. “After the ice, everything I wanted to-” Steve breaks off, clears his throat, his face drawing into a grimace. “Then there was no time, and then suddenly I could see colors, and it-” Steve visibly bites back the rest of that sentence, his eyes becoming guarded. “It doesn’t really matter now, anyway. Being a soldier wasn’t what I wanted for myself, but it is who I am.”  

Tony sighs, rubs the back of his neck. “I guess we never really talked about it, did we?” He doesn’t elaborate on what it is, but he doesn’t really have to. The way Steve’s mouth tightens and his brow furrows are clear indication he knows what Tony is referring to.  

“We did,” Steve says after a moment of silence. His tone is flat, giving away nothing. “Right at the start. You made yourself quite clear.”

“Okay, remember when I said I can be a bit of a jerk? I was a major jerk that time,” Tony says in a weary voice. 

“We both were,” Steve concedes.

“But it’s not like that with us anymore. We’re friends, right? And friends should talk to each other about important stuff. And this,” Tony gestures between them, “is pretty damn important.”

Steve doesn’t say a thing for one long moment. He just looks at Tony with careful eyes, his mouth curving into a smile Tony doesn’t like at all. It seems far too sad. “What did you call it, a magical accident? No, don’t argue. I know you meant it. And you were right. It’s-” Steve pauses, as if searching for right words. “I was wrong in presuming us being soulmates should instantly matter to you. You didn’t know me, you didn’t particularly like me, and you sure as hell didn’t want anything to do with me.”

Steve breaks off. He glances away, his hands clenching into fists. “I know it isn’t how it used to be before,” Steve says in a tight voice, locks his gaze on Tony’s face. There is a small smile on his lips that holds no mirth whatsoever. “I looked it up.”

Tony blinks, latching on Steve’s last words in a desperate attempt to distract himself from the insistent pressure in his chest that is steadily approaching painful. “You looked it up?”

“I woke seventy years in the future, Tony. I had to re-learn great many things.”

There are lines ready on the tip of Tony’s tongue. Lines that would steer this conversation into safe waters. Conversation that is making him want to throttle himself or curl protectively over Steve, and neither option is exactly smart. 

Tony doesn’t say any of those lines. Instead, he hears himself blurt out, “And how was it before? For you?”

Steve’s eyes narrow just a fraction, turning wary. “What does it matter now?” Steve asks with just a hint of warning. “It’s in the past.” 

Tony squares Steve with a level look, and because he cannot not push Steve, even when it hurts them both, he presses on. “I’m a nosy bastard, you know that, Rogers.”

Steve straightens, his face going utterly blank. “Maybe I don’t want to-

“Pepper,” Tony sputters, watches as Steve’s face draws in confusion, his mouth still parted. “I wanted it to be Pepper.” When Steve remains silent, watching Tony with unreadable gaze, Tony lets out a sigh, looks down for a second. “Before her, I didn’t give a fuck about soulmates. Not seeing colors was a royal pain in the ass, but that was it. I had no desire to have some stranger forced at me and just go with it like it’s some great gift. These days, rarely anyone does. There are even pills to soothe the ache of separation,” Tony trails off, chances a glance at Steve, finds him looking intently at Tony. “I fucked it up. With Pepper, I mean. I didn’t tell her about you.” A dry chuckle leaves Tony’s mouth at the way Steve’s face scrunches into a near guilty expression. “Don’t do that. It’s not your fault. Pepper didn’t leave because you are my soulmate. She left me because I was an idiot.” Letting out a heavy breath, Tony drags his knuckles across his forehead. The headache, lessened by Steve’s massage is starting to come back with a vengeance. “The chances are, if it weren’t for that, I would have found some other way to ruin things with Pepper.” 

Steve’s face draws into a frown. “You shouldn’t- you are too hard on yourself, Tony,” Steve says, sounding nothing but earnest. 

Tony waves a dismissive hand, forces his mouth into a smile. “Like you said, it doesn’t matter now,” Tony says, aiming for casual but missing it about a mile. “So that’s my story, Rogers. It’s not much, I know. But I’d really like to hear yours.”  

Steve hesitates a moment, visibly battling with himself. Tony stays quiet and waits, concentrating on keeping his breathing even despite the tightness in his chest. He cannot telly why it matters now - hearing Steve talk about what he’d wanted from a soulmate - when it never did before, just that it does. 

With one long exhale, Steve comes to a decision. “Bucky always talked how his soulmate will be an heiress,” Steve says with a wistful little smile. Tony’s lungs do that complicated routine they always do when Steve mentions Barnes, where they try to simultaneously expand and contract, making breathing quite a challenge for a few moments. Steve doesn’t mention Barnes often - even if he is still following leads, scarce as they are - but at least now it’s with a soft ache in his voice, not raw misery of before. “How we’ll move to Manhattan and live the good life. I knew he was just talkin’ big, but there were times when I almost believed him.”

“He was a ladies’ man, then? Barnes?”

Steve nods. “Yeah, he was.” Steve pauses, lets out a soft laugh. “Kept trying to fix me up with a gal.”

“How did that work out?”

“I was scrawny and sickly, and I had no idea how to actually talk to any of my dates,” Steve says with a shrug. “How do you think it worked out?”

“That bad, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“And you? Were you dreaming of an heiress?”

Steve’s eyebrows shoot up. He gives Tony an incredulous look. A beat later, his eyelashes flutter, something raw and vulnerable flickering in his gaze. “I never thought about it much. I guess I was simply looking forward to meeting someone who would bother to look twice at me.”

“Those gals of yours weren’t especially bright,” Tony says, surprising himself by the vehemence in his voice.

The look Steve gives him is simultaneously amused and suspicious. “I wouldn’t go that far,” Steve says. “I really wasn’t much to look at.” Pausing, Steve straightens almost imperceptibly, lifts his chin, the look in his eyes turning almost defiant. “What makes you assume I thought my soulmate would be a woman?”

Tony blinks, opens his mouth. Then immediately regrets it because what comes out of it is, “Huh?”

“Being attracted to both genders is not a recent development, Tony,” Steve says, holding Tony’s gaze unblinkingly. “You modern folks only gave it a fancy name.”

Tony is - in a distant, still functioning part of his brain - aware that he is currently giving an impersonation of a goldfish. It’s not like he can help himself, though. Not considering the bombshell Steve casually dropped just now.

“Gotta say, Stark, I didn’t think you could be so easily shocked,” Steve says in a light, almost amused voice. But his eyes remain serious. Alert.

Tony snaps out of his daze with a shake of his head and a low chuckle. “You’re a veritable font of surprises, Rogers.”

“And this?” Steve asks, his voice gaining a defensive edge. “This a good surprise or a bad one?”

Hope flares to life inside Tony’s chest - foolish, unwanted and painful - but Tony doesn’t pay attention to it. What does it matter if Steve is attracted to men as well. “I would tell you to look up my name with a few choice phrases like sex tape, threesome and public indecency,” Tony says, watching carefully as Steve’s eyes grow wide and color rises to his cheeks with each of his words. “But I don’t think you’re ready for that. So let’s just say if you’re expecting me to judge you, it would be a case of pot and kettle arguing over which has the blacker feathers.”

A strange expression crosses Steve’s face. It strongly resembles satisfaction.               

Tony’s heart skips a beat, and that damned hope that is still fluttering inside his chest, grows stronger, more insistent. Tony bites on his lower lip to stop himself from blurting out something idiotic. Releasing a breath through his nose, he steers the conversation away from this particular minefield. “And Peggy Carter? Wasn’t she your... what’s that ancient term, sweetheart?”

Steve’s mouth draws into a wistful smile. “Peggy, she- she was something else. Fierce, brave, smart. Beautiful. For some reason she saw more in me than just a skinny, awkward guy from Brooklyn.” Dragging his fingers through his hair, Steve lets out a soft chuckle. “She shot at me, once.”

“Can’t say I’m surprised, Rogers,” Tony remarks, grinning. “You have one of those faces.”

Steve gives him a pointed look. “I’m pretty sure I have nothing on you in that regard, Stark.”

“Point taken.”

“You know,” Steve says, looking at Tony with careful eyes. “Your father was there when it happened.”

Tony’s grin falters, then fades entirely. “Yeah, dear old dad,” Tony says in a low voice. He tilts his head, gives Steve a considering gaze. “I can’t imagine how strange it must be for you. Talking to me, I mean. I’m his son, and I’m older than he was when you knew him.”

Steve brow draws tight. He looks away as he shifts in his seat. Tony cannot be sure is it intentional or not, but that tiny shift places Steve closer to where Tony is sitting, not further. “It was... difficult. In the beginning. To accept that everything I’ve known is gone. It still is, sometimes,” Steve says in a quiet voice, leveling Tony with a steady gaze. “Talking to you isn’t.” At Tony’s raised eyebrows, Steve gives a one-shouldered shrug, smiles. “I never mistook you for Howard. Never resented you for not being him. Trust me, Tony, you’re one of a kind.”

“I’m just going to take that as a compliment, Rogers,” Tony says, keeping his voice casual and ignoring the tiny flutter of warmth inside his chest. 

“You should,” Steve says, solemnly. His right hand moves, but Tony becomes aware of it only when he feels strong fingers close carefully around his right wrist, unable to draw his eyes from the gleam of determination in Steve’s eyes. “I said it as such.”

So. Tony most definitely is not a blushing virgin - no matter the way his heart and his lungs try to defy that fact by failing to resume functioning properly - he knows Steve is gearing up for kissing him. It’s rather difficult to misinterpret Steve’s intentions considering the careful way he sidles closer, sliding his hand up Tony’s arm and shoulder until it rests on the nape of Tony’s neck, his fingers warm and gentle as they cradle the back of Tony’s skull.

Steve’s eyes flick toward Tony’s mouth then back up to his eyes, questioning. Tony can see Steve’s Adam’s apple work as he swallows, can hear a low hiss of breath released through parted mouth as Steve slowly leans forward. 

Steve is about to kiss him. It’s going to happen for all the wrong reasons, and it will ruin this tentative friendship they have managed to build. And having just a taste of something Tony desperately wants but won’t be able to hold onto is simply not worth it. 

Unless. Unless Tony does something responsible and mature.

(Tony doesn’t want to stop Steve. He wants the kiss. Hell, he wants more; naked skin and hungry kisses, possessive hands and teasing mouths. He wants to suck bruises into the skin of Steve’s neck and wants to feel the scrape of Steve’s teeth on his own skin. He wants the drag and press of Steve’s cock inside him and the tight grip of Steve’s fingers around his cock. He wants everything.)

But not as much as he wants to keep Steve’s friendship.        

Tony knows how strong Steve is, has seen him in action many times, but it takes only a small press of Tony’s hand, fingers splayed wide against Steve’s chest, to stop him from closing the remaining space between their mouths.

(It’s in the top three most difficult things Tony’s had to do. He is somewhat amazed by the steadiness of his hand, considering he is half-convinced his chest is moments away from falling apart from the pressure of sheer want contained inside it.)

Steve remains frozen, still half-leaning toward Tony’s face, an expression of dismay, confusion and uncertainty clear on his face. His heart is pounding an erratic beat underneath Tony’s palm. Tony pulls his hand away. The loss he feels is immediate and strong, an almost physical sensation pressing hard against his straining lungs.

“Tony?” Steve says in a small voice that is far cry from his usual steady and strong one. His hand is still resting on the back of Tony’s neck, but his fingers are trembling faintly. “Have I-”

Tony doesn’t let him finish. Doesn’t want to hear the words and acknowledge the line they have come so close to crossing. To step back from it is already taking more will than Tony knew he had inside himself.

So. Avoidance it is.    

He forces his mouth into a smile, and pulls away, his stomach twisting painfully, and his heart howling at him in impotent fury at the way Steve’s hand just drops from Tony’s shoulder, his expression that of loss, bewilderment and hurt.

“So. Anything important happened while I was away?” Tony asks. Mercifully, his voice doesn’t break. “Any new leads on Rumlow?”

It hurts to sit there with a fucking smile on his face and watch the transition from raw, naked longing, disappointment and hurt to something hard and carefully guarded on Steve’s face. But still, Tony does it. Because it is the right thing to do. The right choice.

No matter the pain that cuts through his chest like poisoned dagger.

“I-” Steve starts but his voice breaks. He looks away for a second, curls his hand into fist, pulling it into his lap. Tony feels his stomach roil when he notes it’s the hand that moments ago rested on the back of Tony’s neck. Steve inhales sharply, shakes his head. Tries again. “Natasha is following a few leads. The most promising seems to point to Lagos.”

The silence that ensues after Steve’s curt reply is stifling and strained, and makes Tony think of shattered glass lying discarded on the floor.

(What if he made a mistake? What if Steve wasn’t acting on impulse, influenced by their talk and that damned bond? What if Tony ripped his heart in half for nothing?)

Yeah, well. It’s too late for that now. Tony made his choice, and considering his list of fuck ups and mistakes, this doesn’t even make the list.

Tony clears his throat, rubs at his neck. Wishes... well, it doesn’t matter. “Good. If anyone can find him, Natasha can.”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees in a flat, emotionless voice, his eyes sparking with dark, almost vindictive light for a second.

Tony opens his mouth, but clicks it shut. The tension between them is almost palpable, reflecting in the tense line of Steve’s shoulders and the hard set of his jaw. 

“It’s late, and I’m not as young as I used to be, I think I’ll call it a night,” Tony says, watching Steve’s face carefully. Steve’s mouth tightens minutely, but beyond that, Steve remains unresponsive, and his face unreadable. Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Tony gets up off the couch. Steve watches him in silence. Tony hesitates a moment before adding in a low, tentative voice. “Thanks for the massage.”

Steve blinks up at him, his face still unreadable. “Anytime.”

Tony swallows a resigned sigh. “Night, Rogers.”  

“Goodnight, Tony.”

Tony is almost at the door when he is stopped by Steve’s voice; quiet but steady. “I’m glad it’s you, Tony.”

Tony sucks in a harsh breath, squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn’t need to ask for clarification, he knows what Steve is referring to. Just as he knows that despite everything, including himself, he feels the same.

Tony glances over his shoulder at Steve whose face is obscured by the shadows from this distance, and lets out a soft sigh. “For what it’s worth, Steve, I am glad it’s you.”

Tony waits one moment, half-hoping and half-dreading Steve’s reply. When Steve remains silent, Tony walks away, his chest tight and aching, unsure whether he just dodged a bullet or made a terrible mistake. 

***

Charlie Spencer.

That is how it starts for Tony.

With unforgiving eyes of a grieving mother and bitter words of accusation and disdain.

Lagos is how it starts for everyone else.

With a brief slip in Wanda’s concentration that results in a tragedy.

Tony grits his teeth, pretends he doesn’t hear the smug satisfaction in Ross’ voice when he makes the call.

“I’m glad to have you on board, Stark. Like I said months ago, no one wants to see the Avengers disbanded. Despite your recent mess.”

Tony shuts his eyes, swallows thickly. It leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. He holds a trembling hand against his chest, thinks of Steve.

Steve will understand. He will have to understand. They cannot go around, leaving dead bodies and ruins in their wake any longer.

Who's going to avenge my son, Stark? He's dead. And I blame you. 

The words echo inside Tony’s mind, pulse in sync with his heart as guilt and regret take shape of single-minded determination.

Steve will listen and he will see that the Accords are needed.

He will. He must.

***

Steve doesn’t listen. He doesn’t want to listen.

Doesn’t want to consider a compromise. Just sits there, self-righteousness upped to maximum, looking at Tony with disapproval and disappointment. 

Steve doesn’t ask the question - no, the fool is far too busy giving lectures on how the world works, as if Tony is the one who needs them, not the guy who cannot see past his fucking black and white morality - but Tony can see it clearly in his eyes.

Did you know about this? 

The team is splintering, lines are being drawn, sides are being taken.

(Tony and Steve have fought before. They will always fight, that Tony knows for certain, they have far too different worldview not to. But this, now? It feels like a prelude to something that goes beyond words  

When Steve abruptly stands up and leaves, Tony cannot do anything but watch him walk away, while frustration, worry and dread wreak havoc in the hollow of his chest, making his lungs strain for breath. 

The silence following Steve’s exit erupts into a chorus of voices, everyone talking and no one really listening. Tony keeps his eyes set on Steve’s, now vacant, chair, rubbing at his right arm absentmindedly, trying to get rid of the numbness spreading there.

When Tony looks up, he meets Natasha’s gaze, assessing and concerned in equal measure. He offers her an empty, practiced smile he knows she’ll see right through. 

Letting out a deep breath, Tony scrubs a hand across his face, glances at the door. 

(You love him. And you are losing him.)  

***

Peggy Carter dies.

Bucky Barnes enters the picture.

And Tony - angry and tired and terrified down to the marrow of his bones - watches as Steve takes on the world for him.

Slowly, he is beginning to realize that Steve won’t back down.

But Tony has to try.

There must be a way to salvage everything. To keep the Avengers from falling apart.

To keep Steve.

***

Tony tries bargaining. 

It’s not his best performance. He is practically vibrating with nervousness, his palms are sweaty, and for the larger part of the conversation, Tony has to swallow the anger that is churning inside his stomach. 

(He is trying to keep them together, why can’t Steve see this?)

Barnes is the key, Tony knows it, and he plays that card. 

It almost works. Almost.  

Steve almost signs. He has the pen in his hand, and even if he is obviously struggling with his decision, he is willing to sign. Tony knows it’s because he wants to protect Barnes, but he doesn’t care. 

Everything can be fixed, the Accords can be moderated, only if Steve signs the damned thing.

But Tony fucks it up by mentioning Wanda, and instead of relief at salvaging the situation, he is left watching Steve’s face draw into a scowl of angry disappointment. 

It ends with Steve striding away in a huff of righteous fury, and Tony staring after him, feeling as if he is sinking into quicksand, with no help in sight.

(You love him. And you are losing him.)

***

Begging doesn’t help either.

Tony wonders - in a distant part of his mind, the one that isn’t drowning in growing frustration and anger - whether Steve is even aware that Tony is, in fact, begging him to stay. Even if Tony is standing, voluntarily, across from him, not by his side.

In the end, it doesn’t matter.

Steve stands there, as if carved out of stone, unmovable and cold, and Tony wishes he could pull that off. Simply silence every emotion that is raging inside him and... what?

What happens now?

As it turns out, they fight.

***

“Boss, isn’t this going directly against the Accords?”

Tony opens his eyes, a huff of humorless laughter leaving his mouth. “Yep,” he says, winces at the dull throb of pain in his arm. He looks out the small window at the storm outside, tries not to think of Rhodey falling from the sky, and fails spectacularly.

“And if Secretary Ross finds out?”

“Well, in that case, I get to bunk with the old gang,” Tony says, grimaces when he recalls Wanda’s blank face and Clint’s accusations. “It should be fun.”

“Boss, you are still injured from the last fight-”

“Appreciate the concern, FRIDAY,” Tony cuts in. “But what I need is more information on this Zemo guy.” 

“Sure thing,” FRIDAY says, giving an uncanny impression of a sigh. 

Tony stares at the holographic images of a man’s face, a Sokovian soldier, with a rising sense of foreboding.

Someone - this guy one, seemingly ordinary, guy. is it even possible? - is playing them. But to what end? And why?

He is Sokovian. You need to guess why he could be a little pissed at the Avengers?   

With a tight press of lips, Tony forces his mind to concentrate on the present. He is far too tired - body and soul - to deal with the ramifications of creating Ultron right now. 

So. Barnes is innocent - well, for the bombing of UN, at least - that is something he can offer Steve as another olive branch. As for the rest, the Accords, the rift between the team, the others being locked in the Raft... 

It is bad. Not world-ending bad, not that. On some level, though, it is worse. Worse because it is them, splintering from the inside, and no matter how hard Tony tries, he cannot seem to make it right.

There is still a chance, though. To talk to Steve, to get him to work with Tony, instead against, and maybe, just maybe, they will get through this bruised and battered but not shattered.

(Tony is tired. So fucking tired. He wishes he could stop. Stop feeling, stop thinking. He wishes none of this happened. But most of all, Tony wishes he knew is all of this even worth a damn. It sure as hell isn’t worth Rhodey’s legs.) 

Inhaling deeply, Tony releases a heavy breath, his hand pressing against his chest, seeking comfort in the dull ache he feels there.

Steve is alive. And that matters above everything else. 

That means there is still a chance to fix everything.

***

Long after Steve leaves with Barnes, Tony will not move from the ground.

(He is tired and aching all over and the suit is dead. But mostly, he doesn’t want to move. It seems like too much of an effort. Later. Maybe.)

The silence after the fight with Steve - Steve - and Barnes is jarring. It makes the sounds of metal hitting metal, of metal clanking against concrete that are still echoing inside Tony’s mind louder. 

But there is no one left here - no matter what Tony’s mind is telling him - no one but Tony. 

Well. There is Steve’s shield, lying on the ground a few feet away. Discarded as if it means nothing. 

A reminder of how pathetic Tony really is.

It’s fucking hilarious, or it would be if Tony could feel anything but bitter resentment filling the space inside his chest. Space hollowed out by fury, hurt and betrayal. After everything Tony had said to Steve these past few days. After every attempt at finding a middle ground failed in the face of Steve’s unwillingness to compromise, it is a petty, spiteful remark what Steve finally deigned to acknowledge.

One final fuck you to Tony.

Dragging his eyes from Steve’s - is it his still? - shield, Tony lets out a shaky breath. 

FRIDAY should have flown the helicopter here soon, and he’ll have to stand up and walk away from this damned place, and carry on.

And he will do this. He’d done it before; walked from the ruins of his life and built it back, piece by piece, he’ll do it this time, but for now, he doesn’t want to think of feel or remember.

But he does.

He remembers Steve’s laugh, Steve’s hands gentle on his shoulders, Steve’s eyes glinting with fond exasperation. Even now, when Tony knows all those things are lies, they still seem true. True enough to hurt, at least.

(You love him. And you lost him.)

It doesn’t matter - the heart’s logic is fucked up like that - that Steve was never Tony’s to begin with.