Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1049756.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Marvel
  Relationship:
      Steve_Rogers/Tony_Stark
  Character:
      Steve_Rogers, Tony_Stark, Bruce_Banner, Obadiah_Stane, Pepper_Potts,
      Jarvis
  Additional Tags:
      Explicit_Language, Sexual_Content, Rape, Self-Harm, Physical_Abuse,
      Sexual_Abuse, Verbal_Abuse, Angst, Suicidal_Thoughts, Suicide_Attempt,
      Alcohol_Abuse/Alcoholism, Drug_Abuse, Underage_Rape/Non-con, This_is_not
      Happy
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-11-18 Words: 14846
****** nights like this, i become afraid ******
by sleeponrooftops
Summary
     He never expects it to happen like this.
Notes
     Notes—
     i. For the first section of this, it’s going to be a lot of summary.
     I don’t want to dwell on the beginnings of everything, but I do want
     to really get into things during Iron Man, although I am going to
     still be skipping around during that period. This is ultimately a
     superhusbands fic, but it centers around Tony and the getting to that
     point, so Steve isn’t going to come in for a while, hence some of the
     summarizing. But yeah, there’s that.
     ii. THIS HURTS. I’ve been trying to write a Tony angst story forever,
     but they never come out right, and then, one day, Erin said something
     that is the entire catalyst of this story, and it just happened. I’m
     so sorry, though, because it hurts so much, and I felt so drained
     while writing it, but oh my goodness, I’m so pleased with it.
See the end of the work for more notes
Tony isn’t sure when it begins, but he knows how it ends.
 
It ends the day he watches Obadiah tumble into the arc reactor and burn apart.
 
It begins, he thinks, when he’s fifteen, just after he’s started at MIT.  The
summer before, he’s finally convinced his father to let him truly have his own
lab, walled off where he can work in peace and not bother Howard Stark, and
while Obadiah’s visits were always common, his father had usually been there or
within shouting distance.  Now, though, with his own lab, Obadiah starts to
visit when Howard isn’t there.  At first, he just fiddles with Tony’s things,
picks random items up and studies them, all the while chatting with Tony about
his upcoming first year, and the bond they’d already had is solidified even
more.  For once in his life, Tony feels like he has a father.
 
The first time Obadiah touches him, Tony tries to just brush it off as a
friendly hand on the shoulder, a little pat to remind him he’s not alone, but
the way Obadiah’s hand rubs over his back and settles at the dip there for a
moment makes him want to squirm away.
 
The second time is about a week after that, and Tony’s got his hands busy in a
projection when Obadiah’s hand rubs over his thigh, and this time, he jerks
away in surprise, though he refrains from looking over at him.
 
It doesn’t happen again for almost two weeks, and then Tony is sweating under
the unforgiving heat of the car he’s working on, and so he’s only in a pair of
spandex shorts and a black shirt, his hair sticking to his neck and his
forehead.
 
“Hey kiddo,” Obadiah’s voice floats down to him, foot tapping at his ankle, and
Tony carefully maneuvers himself out from under the car, waving before he sits.
 
He reaches for a rag to wipe his hands and then stands, stretching and twisting
his torso so that his back cracks.  “What’s up?” Tony asks, going over to find
his water bottle.
 
Obadiah follows him, looming a little too close when Tony turns, bottle halfway
to his mouth.  He swallows thickly and tries to step back, but a table is
behind him, and he collides with it painfully at the same time Obadiah plucks
the bottle from his hands.  He starts to say something, but then Obadiah’s
hands are on either side of him, resting against the tabletop, and Tony finds
he can’t speak.
 
“Oh, Tony,” Obadiah says softly, his hand leaving the tabletop to brush slowly
up his thigh, settling to squeeze his ass.  Tony jumps, trying to jerk away,
but Obadiah cages him in.  “Not this time,” he says, his voice low and
dangerous, “You’ve been playing hard to get far too much lately.”
 
“I’m not—I wasn’t—Obadiah, please,” he pleads, trying to duck out from under
his arms, but then Obadiah’s hand flies forward, catching him around the
throat, and Tony gasps, fingers coming up to claw at his hand, trying to tear
him away.
 
“Be good, and I’ll be gentle.  Deal?”
 
Tony nods furiously, and he forces back tears as Obadiah releases his throat. 
His hand slides down, and Tony squeezes his eyes shut, but nothing happens for
a nearly a full minute until he hears Obadiah groan, and he opens his eyes on
instinct, looking down.
 
“Take your pants off,” Obadiah says, and Tony shakes his head.
 
Obadiah grabs at him and hauls him over onto his front, rips down his shorts,
and presses him against the tabletop with one hand, the other jerking himself
off.  When he’s gone, Tony curls up under the table, knees pulled tight against
his chest, and cries until he’s sick, his whole body aching.
 
It’s nearly a full week before he gets up the courage to tell his mother, and
he’s halfway across his lab when the door opens.  “No,” he says, staggering
back a step as Obadiah closes the door behind him.
 
That night, he sits beneath the spray of the shower, curled up and leaning
against the glass wall, just staring at the opposite wall.  He can still feel
him all over him, inside of him, and his chest clenches, his stomach churning. 
He needs to vomit, but he can’t find the will to get up.
 
Finally, he gets sick of sitting under the water, and he gingerly gets to his
feet, wincing with every step.  He pauses by the vanity mirror to look at his
mottled skin, bruised black and blue all over his torso, and he doesn’t dare
turn around, doesn’t want to know what that looks like.  Instead, he towels
himself dry, finds a pair of sweatpants and a loose white shirt to wear, and
then sneaks into his father’s office.
 
The first time he got drunk, he was thirteen, and he honestly hadn’t meant to,
but the welt he’d had across his face from Howard’s ringed hand had stained his
cheek bright red for days.  The second time, he had just turned fifteen, and
he’d been careful about it, staying in his room and wasting the night away. 
This time, he locks himself in his bathroom, hides in the corner, and drinks
until he passes out.
 
When he wakes the next morning, he’s so hung over he can barely manage to
stand, but he can’t feel the ache of his body, and that’s all that matters.
 
MIT is a godsend until the holidays, where he’s forced to go home because he’s
underage, and they’re afraid of what he might encounter while there
unsupervised and without class to distract him.  He gets wasted every weekend
even when he has classes, but it’s not until after his first Christmas break
that he starts experimenting with whatever he can get his hands on, whatever
will make the buzzing in his head go away.  His first Christmas break, Obadiah
rapes him twice, and he wants to mark it somehow, that it’s been three now, so
he can remind himself, and he’s not sure if he should count it as four, but the
first time feels like it was, and so he digs four straight lines into his thigh
and watches the blood slide over his skin and drip drop onto the tile floor.
 
The novelty of slicing open his skin only lasts a few minutes before he’s
sighing and looking for something else.  That’s when he finds his mother’s
prescription pills, and he tries mixing those with alcohol.  The next morning,
he almost doesn’t wake up.
 
This goes on for three years until he’s eighteen, and MIT will finally allow
him to hang around because he’s an adult now, and Tony is halfway through his
first Christmas break at MIT when there’s a knock on his dorm door.  He goes to
answer it, loose from the eggnog and humming holiday tunes under his breath. 
When he pulls open the door, he’s actually smiling.
 
He feels like the air is pulled from him when Obadiah is suddenlythere, this
presence that Tony wants to scream and hide from.  “Nice room,” Obadiah says,
pushing his way in.  Tony moves out of his way with quick movements, jerking
backward, his whole body rigid with fear.
 
Obadiah lets the door close softly, locks it, and then turns to Tony.  “Get on
the bed.”
 
“No,” Tony says, reaching blindly behind him for one of his laptops.  He’s been
working on an AI recently, and he’s still working out the kinks, but if he can
manage to have him discreetly call the police, he might be okay.
 
“Tony,” Obadiah sighs, reaching forward, lightning quick, and snatching his
wrist, twisting it painfully until Tony lets out a soft noise, body curling
with the movement.  “If you don’t comply, I’ll be forced to tell your father
what’s been going on between us.”
 
“Go ahead, tell him!” he screams, shoving at Obadiah and trying to run for the
door.
 
Obadiah grabs a fistful of his hair and yanks him backward, throwing him at the
floor.  He starts screaming, so Obadiah claps two hands against the sides of
his head, and he falls silent instantly, whole body sagging beneath him. 
Suddenly, there’s four of everything, and Tony stops fighting.
 
He leaves two hours later, and Tony drags himself over to his desk, yanks open
the bottom drawer, and fumbles blindly for the pills he stole from his father. 
He thinks maybe he’d be dead if the community assistant hadn’t been doing a
floor room-check and Obadiah hadn’t left the door unlocked.  When he wakes up,
he’s in the hospital, and then he’s on suicide watch, and his mother is crying,
and his father is just staring at him, his eyes dead.
 
He lies through his psych evaluation, lies every week he has to visit with the
school counselor, lies until he’s back to work, and, if everyone hadn’t thought
he was the freak before, they certainly do now.
 
And then, his parents die.
 
The visits from Obadiah don’t stop.  He drinks himself into alcohol poisoning
one night, so he lies and says he was drugged at a party, so Obadiah calls the
hospital and lies and says Tony had called him panicking.  He meets this
beautiful girl, Pepper, that he wants to give his heart to but doesn’t know if
he has a heart anymore.  And then they’re just gone.
 
Obadiah rapes him the night after he finds out, shouting the words his father
never dared use to his face, failure, loser, freak, useless.  He stays that
night, holding Tony close to him, and he tries to stay awake, but he’s so
exhausted that he drifts off into a fitful sleep, and, when he wakes, it’s
because Obadiah slaps him out of slumber and then demands he rolls over.
 
He puts Howard’s gun to his mouth that night, but he thinks of Stark Industries
in Obadiah’s hands, and he knows he has to do this one thing right for his
father, and he puts the gun away.
 
One week after his parents die, he hires Pepper without telling Obadiah, and
then he discovers he has an escape.  He changes all the locks on his parents’
house, sets up print-coded passwords for the labs, as well as his office at
Stark Industries, and he hides.
 
Tony doesn’t tell Pepper about Obadiah, though.  And so, when he’s sitting in
his father’s office and sorting through some paperwork, trying to finish tying
everything up so that he can let Pepper handle most of the work, the door
opens, and Obadiah walks in.
 
Tony looks up and then just sits there, frozen as he watches him smile
pleasantly at the woman who let him in.  He locks the door once she’s left, and
then he turns to Tony, and his smile drops.  “You can’t just lock me out of
your life, Anthony,” he says quietly, and Tony tries to respond and finds he
can’t breathe.  Obadiah walks slowly over to him, puts two hands on his desk,
and leans forward, getting in his face.  “Tony?”
 
“Not here.  Please.”
 
Obadiah looks at him for a long moment before nodding.  “Let’s go for a drive,”
he says.
 
Tony swallows and nods, pushing back his chair and standing.  He gets his
jacket, and then they’re heading for the door.  Tony waits until Obadiah’s
pulled it open before he makes his move.  “Shit, sorry, I need to let Pepper
know I’ll be out.”
 
He steps away before Obadiah can reach him and forces himself to walk calmly
back to his desk.  He pulls up a quick command on his laptop, fingers dancing
over the keyboard, and Obadiah steps away from the door when he straightens. 
“All set,” he says, flashing him a brilliant smile.
 
They head downstairs, and Pepper doesn’t look up when they pass her, but Tony’s
phone does buzz in his pocket.  They take the elevator down to the garage, and
Tony lets Obadiah walk ahead of him as they approach his car.  He slips his
phone out, checks the message, Mister Stark, he is one of the head chairmen on
the board, I will not call the police without a sufficient reason. When he
looks up, eyes wide and face flooded with fear, Obadiah is holding the
passenger door open, smiling.
 
“We have a lot to talk about,” he says.
 
Tony stares at him for a long moment before he nods once, straightening and
rolling his shoulders back.  He will not go down without a fight, he decides,
and so he walks over, getting into the car.  They get lunch, and it’s there
that Obadiah hands over his parents’ will and says, “I’ve highlighted the part
you’ll be interested in.”
 
Tony flips through until he finds the yellowed part, which details the large
influence Obadiah will have in Stark Industries.  Tony reads through it
multiple times before he hands it over and nods.  “We need to talk about the
shit that’s going on here, then.”
 
“What shit, Tony?” Obadiah asks calmly, so Tony glares at him.
 
“It needs to stop.”
 
“It won’t.”
 
Tony holds his gaze until their waitress returns with their food, and then he
flashes a brilliant grin up at her, flirting shamelessly until she’s blushing
and smiling widely.  When she leaves, Tony lets his face drop back into
indifference, and he looks over at Obadiah.  “Then neither will that.”
 
“You really think you can take what I’ve given you and use it on others?  You
have nothing outside of me, Anthony.”
 
“You think college was only studying?  Come on, Obadiah, you can’t be that
naïve.”  Anger flashes across Obadiah’s face, and Tony allows a small smirk to
lift up the corner of his mouth.  “You want to play games, Stane, bring it on.”
 
Tony waves their waitress over, orders a scotch, and settles into his seat,
grinning.  Obadiah just continues to glare at him.
 
That night, when he goes home, he doesn’t turn on any of the lights, and he
just walks through the house to his room.  “I’m selling the house,” Tony says
quietly.
 
“Good,” Obadiah says from behind him, and then the door is shut, and Tony
starts undressing before Obadiah even turns around.
 
That night, he lies there, face turned into the pillow, and it doesn’t hurt as
much, he realizes, when he doesn’t pay attention to it.  When Obadiah flips him
onto his back and reaches for his dick, Tony slips out from under him and
shakes his head as he gets off the bed.  He pads naked across the room even as
he talks.  “I’ll be in the lab,” he says as he opens one of his drawers and
pulls out a pair of sweats, “You can stay here.”
 
“Tony—”
 
“The lab is print-coded, and the glass is bulletproof.”
 
And then he leaves, and he doesn’t sleep until he looks up as one of the
security cameras shows Obadiah leaving late next morning.  Even then, he
doesn’t sleep, just goes back to work, and that’s when he realizes if he just
locks himself down here, he can escape.
 
This becomes their game.  For the next sixteen years, they do this—Tony flirts
and fucks random women, spends all of his free time in the lab of his new house
in Malibu—California is so far, he thinks he can get away, but Obadiah follows
him there, too—and does everything in his power to push Obadiah away, but it
just brings him closer until he’s just there, almost always, and Tony gives up.
 He stops trying to push him away, starts letting him in, and then one day he’s
waking up in Afghanistan, and he starts to heal.
 
He finds a friend in Yinsen, and the dull aches in his body start to fade away
until he learns how to smile again, how to throw himself so far into his work
that he doesn’t know how to come out.  He starts to understand what it is to be
okay.
 
For brief moments when he’s lying awake in the dead of night, with Yinsen
snoring nearby, he thinks that maybe he should just build the missile, should
give them what they want so they’ll kill him, let them end it for him.  He
comes close one time until Yinsen realizes what he’s doing, and Tony almost
tells him about Obadiah, tells him everything, tells him why he doesn’t want to
be alive, but the look on Yinsen’s face tells him that they can’t have that
kind of friendship, and he shoves it deeper inside of him.
 
Eventually, when he gets home, after everything, after the cheeseburgers and
the press conference, after locking himself in his lab for two days straight
and recalibrating Jarvis’ security system until even he would be hard-pressed
to get past it, he goes upstairs without thinking, and Obadiah is sitting in
his living room.
 
He doesn’t see him at first, too preoccupied trying to see straight through his
exhaustion, and he’s at the stairs when he feels a hand on his arm, and then
he’s wide awake, stumbling backward.  “No,” he says, and every burst of fear
he’d tried to stamp out, every moment of feeling he’d pushed away, comes
rushing back until every nerve in his body is alight, and he feels tears well
in his eyes.
 
“Please, no,” he begs, backing into the wall.
 
“You’ve been hiding from me,” Obadiah says softly, coming forward, and Tony
lets out a soft whimper when he cages him in, hands on either side of him on
the wall.  He turns his head away and squeezes his eyes shut, and he is a grown
man, he shouldn’t be so terrified of him, but he can’t help it, and he’s so
tired.
 
Obadiah’s hand is on his crotch with no warning, and Tony reacts violently,
jerking his knee up so it connects between Obadiah’s legs, who stumbles back
with a grunt.  Tony lets his good hand fly free, fist landing on his jaw, and
when he lifts the bad one for a sucker punch, Obadiah catches his fist and
bends his arm backward.  Tony swallows the shout of pain and keeps going, puts
all of the fight training he’s been hiding from Obadiah to use and attacks him,
arms flying up to block his blows and fists connecting over and over again
until Obadiah lands a punch in his bad shoulder, and Tony buckles a little,
sagging.
 
Obadiah’s large hand closes over his throat, and his head slams against the
wall.  His vision goes black for a second before he gasps, trying to kick at
Obadiah, but he presses his whole body against him and spits in his face.
 
And then he lets loose, beating him until his breaths come in ragged, harsh
pants, and he’s in a crumpled, bleeding heap on the floor, struggling to push
to his feet.  Obadiah lands a sharp kick to his shoulder, sending him sprawling
back onto the ground, and Tony just lies there as he yanks down his jeans, and
he’s not conscious when it’s over.
 
——
 
He never expects it to happen like this.
 
Tony’s coming up from the lab after a four-day binge, finally hungry and maybe
thinking about taking a cat nap, and Obadiah is fixing himself a drink when he
gets upstairs.  He grunts as he passes by him, and he’s halfway through making
a sandwich when Obadiah’s hand rubs over his shoulder and settles at the back
of his neck, squeezing lightly.
 
Tony shrugs him off, and says, “Wait, okay?  I’d like to eat in peace.”
 
That gets him a backhand against the head, and he jerks forward a little with
the blow, gritting his teeth.  Obadiah doesn’t press it, though, and so he
finishes his sandwich, turns around, and is immediately doubled over, Obadiah’s
fist in his gut.  He pats a hand over Tony’s back before he helps him stand,
and then he tightens a hand over his hip and flips him quickly, slamming him
against the counter.
 
“No,” Tony says sharply, pushing back against him, and Obadiah’s hand comes
down on his neck tightly, throwing him forward so his face bounces off the
counter.  He cries out as his nose crunches, and then he’s bleeding, and he
can’t breathe through his nose.  “You fucking—”
 
Obadiah squeezes tighter, choking him, and his other hand makes short work of
Tony’s pants, ripping them down as he kicks open his legs.  “Be quiet,” he
commands, and then he’s two fingers deep with only spit slicking his way, and
Tony yelps without meaning to, trying to squirm away.  Obadiah just presses
harder, forcing his head against the counter until his chest is at a painful
angle, and all he can feel is all the sharp edges pressing in around him.
 
His breath starts to hitch in his throat, and his chest is so tight that he
doesn’t know if he could scream even if he wanted to.
 
Pain flares brightly through him when Obadiah shoves inside, too dry and too
quick, and Tony gasps out his name, trying to reach a hand up to claw at his
chest, to make it stop, but Obadiah slams him against the counter, and he feels
like he’s dying.
 
At the same moment he realizes he’s having a panic attack, something sharp and
thin rings in his ears, and then he can’t move.  Seconds tick by, and then
Obadiah’s laying something on the counter next to him, and he wants to die.
 
He recognizes the paralyzing weapon they’d given up on, and even though he
can’t move, he can still feel.  He can feel Obadiah’s hand on his hip, can feel
him slamming in and out, too rough, too fast, too much, and the tears start
falling before he can stop them until his body wants to shake, but it can’t,
and he closes his eyes and pleads silently for it to be over.
 
When Obadiah is done with him, he pulls out roughly and dumps Tony on the
floor, letting him sag boneless.  He does up his pants again and kneels,
tilting Tony’s face up so he can look at him.  “You have such a pretty mouth,”
he says softly, thumb tracing over his bottom lip, “I’m sorry I never made you
suck my dick.”
 
And then his hand slides lower and Tony’s eyes go wide as he struggles
desperately to move, to do anything, but Obadiah just brushes a hand over the
arc reactor and sighs.  “I’m almost glad they didn’t kill you.”
 
It all slides into place all at once, that Afghanistan wasn’t an accident, that
nothing ever has been, that Obadiah has been controlling his life every single
step of the way, and now he’s here, crouched over him, and he takes the last
thing left he has to give.
 
The arc reactor slides out easily, Tony wonders if he could just let go, if it
would be that easy.
 
And so, he closes his eyes.
 
——
 
When he wakes, it’s because Jarvis has set off every alarm in the house, and he
groans, rolling over.  His body is still heavy, and it’s so hard to move, but
he can’t die like this, not when it’s not his decision.  He forces himself
downstairs, into the lab, and then, he’s rising up as Iron Man, as the only
thing that can truly protect him from the world, and he knows this is the end.
 
When he watches Obadiah tumble to his death, he doesn’t feel a sudden rush of
relief.  He doesn’t cheer with joy.  He doesn’t feel as though a great weight
has been lifted from him.  He doesn’t feel like it’s over.  He doesn’t feel
anything.
 
——
 
After Obadiah’s death, Tony locks himself in the lab, directs all calls to
Pepper, who tries to visit him once and then just gives up, and he drinks until
he can’t feel, keeps working until he’s numb.  The fifth day, he looks up from
what he’s working on and just sits there, minutes ticking by as he stares at
nothing, his eyes dead.
 
Eventually, he gets up and walks over to the bathroom, but the door is locked. 
“Jarvis,” he says tiredly, and Jarvis doesn’t respond.  Tony frowns, trying the
handle again, but it’s still locked.  “Jarvis,” he says, his voice lilting
toward a whine.
 
“Sir, if you insist upon killing yourself, I will make it difficult.”
 
“I hate you.”
 
“I don’t believe so, actually.”
 
“Jarvis, open the fucking door, or I will recalibrate your system using the
government’s base code.”
 
“That would only prove unfortunate for you, sir, as your security system would
then fail.”
 
“I will put Dora the Explorer on loop!”
 
“Nothing you can say will persuade me otherwise, sir.  In fact,” he says, and
then, suddenly, everything is powering down.
 
“You’ve got to be fucking—”
 
“Go to bed, sir.”
 
“I will—”
 
“I have performed a system-wide shutdown, sir.  The house is in lockdown, and
the only rooms now accessible are your bedroom and the library.  Please proceed
out of the lab.”
 
“Jarvis—”
 
“As a warning, I am initiating protocol seven, sir.”
 
“For fuck’s sake, you’re going to electrocute me, really?  Fine, I’m leaving. 
Asshole.”  He storms out of the lab, waits a moment, and then turns, trying to
open the door.  “Jarvis!”
 
“As I have said, sir, the only rooms open are—”
 
“Fuck off, okay?  Just fuck off.”  Tony storms upstairs, tries to go into the
living room, but Jarvis has created a force field, and he nearly breaks his
nose when he smacks into it.  He grumbles a continuous stream of profanity as
he climbs to the second level and goes into his bedroom.  “Can I at least
shower, dickhead?”
 
“You may, under supervision.”
 
“The fuck is that supposed to mean?”  Tony stands in the middle of his room,
arms folded over his chest, glaring at the wall.
 
“Your shower will be fifteen minutes in total, and I will use whatever means
necessary to stop you from harming yourself.  You may use the toilet after, and
then you are to sleep.”
 
Tony obeys, storming loudly into the bathroom.  After he’s finished—and Jarvis
does electrocute him once when he tests him, reaching for his razor—he climbs
into bed and turns on his side, and he finds he can’t close his eyes. 
Everytime he does, he sees Obadiah’s face, and it makes his chest ache until he
jerks upright, folding over as he presses his fists against his chest, trying
to push the pain away.  His breath comes in short gasps until he takes his arms
away to wrap them around his knees, and curls himself in a ball, pressing his
face against his thighs.  He feels like he’s imploding, something eating him
away from the inside out, and he just wants it to be over, just wants his chest
to explode and leave him to fade away.
 
“Jarvis,” he chokes out, lifting his hands to dig into his hair and pull, nails
scraping against his neck and scalp, “Jarvis, make it stop.”
 
“Sir, would you like me to call for anyone?”
 
“No,” he manages, and then he’s screaming, his chest so tight it feels like
someone has reached inside and is squeezing his heart.  He screams until his
throat aches, until his nails cut open the back of his neck and blood trickles
down around to his chest, until the tears come, great, heaving sobs that tear
through him, ripping at him until all he can feel is the pain of them.
 
He drops onto his side at some point and lies there, shaking.  He scratches at
his arms and his thighs and his chest until his skin is raw and bleeding in
spots, and then he just holds his head with both of his bloody hands and cries
himself to sleep.
 
When he wakes in the morning, he can access his bathroom, and he stares at his
pale skin with its red patches in the mirror before he opens the medicine
cabinet and takes two Advil with a swallow of water before he turns on the
shower.  He starts off trying to actually clean himself, but it’s too much
effort, and so he sits down in the corner and lets the water beat over him,
lets it calm him and wash away the dried blood.
 
Jarvis turns off the water after a half hour, and Tony quietly mumbles,
“Thanks, Jay,” before he forces himself to his feet and drags himself out of
the shower, going back into his room and slipping under the blankets.  He
doesn’t sleep, but instead stares at the wall for hours until Jarvis makes a
sound like clearing his throat and says, “Sir, Miss Potts has prepared you
lunch.  Your presence is required downstairs.”
 
“Okay,” he says quietly, but he doesn’t get out of bed.
 
After a few minutes have ticked by, Jarvis sighs and says, “Sir, it is
pasta—your favorite.  There are a pair of sweatpants in the second drawer that
you have shown preference toward, and a comfortable shirt is in the drawer
below.  Please get up.”
 
Tony doesn’t move.
 
“Sir.”
 
Tony turns over onto his side and pulls the blankets up over his head.
 
“Sir.”
 
“Just—not right now, okay, Jarvis?  Please, just—just leave me alone.”
 
“Sir, I must insist—”
 
“Jarvis—”
 
“Tony.”
 
Tony blinks because that’s not Pepper’s voice, but he doesn’t believe it was
Jarvis’ voice, and so he throws the blankets off, sitting up.  He frowns, but
Jarvis doesn’t speak again until Tony sighs and gets out of bed, and then, very
quietly, he says, “Thank you, sir.”
 
——
 
Things start to get better.
 
He starts to piss off Pepper again here and there, starts to make her sigh in
frustration and then smile when she thinks he’s not looking, starts to do some
serious work on the suits, starts to act like Tony Stark again, going out and
slowly getting back into the groove of parties, women, and the right balance of
alcohol.  Jarvis stops acting like a dad, Tony stops locking himself in the lab
for days on end, and the only thing left he has to battle is the silence that
lingers when he tries to sleep, and that’s usually why he only cat naps here
and there, curled up in the sunlight, and he knows it’s going to start to show,
that he’s running too fast for too long, but he doesn’t care right now, can’t
care right now.  If he stops, he’ll break.
 
It happens sooner than he expects.  He flirts shamelessly with the reporter,
and while she’s certainly not the first woman he’s slept with since Obadiah’s
death, she’s fast and full of energy and too rough.  Her hands are like little
slaps of electricity darting over him, and it makes his throat tight until he’s
just fucking her to get it over with.
 
As soon as she’s asleep, he’s gone.  Jarvis gives him four days in the lab
before he sighs, “Sir.”
 
“Bedtime,” Tony says in response, and he goes to drop onto the futon he’s
brought down into the lab because being anywhere else isn’t safe enough.
 
He does this routine for quite some time and manages it, though.  He battles
with Whiplash in Monaco and comes out alright, he does the Nick Fury dance and
doesn’t get too burned, but then the arc reactor starts failing, and one day he
just sits there, lets his chest ache and ache and ache until Jarvis is
threatening to call Pepper, to call Natasha, to call anyone, but he just keeps
sitting there.  He sits there until his heart starts to fail, and then Pepper
is tearing into the lab, screaming for him, and he sags against his desk,
gasping out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
 
She steadies him, helps him out of the burning, smoking core and into a new
one, and then she helps him to stand and stagger across the lab until they dump
onto his futon.  She leaves him there, goes to find him water, and then she
sits by him, hands flitting nervously in her lap until she just sighs and
stares at him.
 
“Tell me what’s going on,” she says softly, and Tony shakes his head.
 
“Nothing,” he says, and she doesn’t believe him, but she doesn’t push it,
either.
 
——
 
He tries desperately to make things work with Pepper, multiple times, until one
day he just sits down and cries, and she pulls him into a tight hug and
whispers, “It’s okay.  I know.  I’m going to take some time off, if that’s
alright.”  He just nods and leaves her, unable to look at her because he’s so
afraid he’s going to spit it out, he’s going to tell her why he can’t make it
work, that he’s too broken for anyone.
 
That night, he tries so hard to sleep, and instead, when he’s been awake for
three hours, he drinks until he passes out, and even then, he only sleeps for a
few hours.
 
When he wakes, he goes down into the lab, but he’s only there about an hour
before he’s yawning, and he’s actually hungry, truly hungry, for the first time
in a long time.  He has Jarvis order Chinese takeaway, takes a bath while he
waits for it to arrive, and then he snuggles up in his actual bed while Jarvis
puts on a special on sea turtles, and, when he finally falls asleep again, he’s
calm.
 
Tony’s life starts to settle again, and he discovers how to make it work.  He
cuts out the women, focuses on his work, and he forgoes the public, just
letting himself heal.  He doesn’t sleep or eat on a regular cycle, but he’s
getting better at remembering to do those things, as well as bathe and drink
less alcohol and more water.
 
Tony starts to find peace again, and so he decides to set the final gears in
motion, to leave behind Malibu and all of the horrific memories it holds, to go
back to New York and try to start over.  He knows he’s been getting ready for
this moment for almost a year now, with contractors swarming all over his new
building for about that time, and his floor is livable when he says his
goodbyes to Pepper, leaving Stark Industries in her capable hands.
 
He’s happy.  And so, it only makes sense that the world should choose that
moment to fall apart.
 
Loki invades the Earth, sets the Chitauri on New York, he nearly dies—he keeps
thinking about how much better it would have been if Bruce hadn’t saved him—he
gains a set of new acquaintances, Bruce comes to live with him, and he can
finally talk science without confusing the masses, and he finds a surprising
friendship in Steve that makes him ache a little.
 
And when it’s all gone, the silence settles again, and Tony slowly starts to
fade.
 
——
 
It’s been almost four months since the Chitauri invaded, and Tony’s built this
little world that just works.  He sleeps once every three days, though
sometimes he catnaps.  Bruce makes him food on an almost regular basis, as well
as convincing him to do yoga every twelve hours, though he refuses to meditate
with him, and he even starts drinking the tea that Bruce keeps leaving on his
desk.  He ignores Nick Fury with every possible fiber in his being, and he’s
actually doing a pretty damn good job at that, which he considers a success. 
He more or less pretends Natasha and Clint don’t exist, and that’s fine by
them, and Thor’s back in Asgard, though he had enjoyed the week after the
Chitauri when he was forced to stick around, and he’d shown up at the Tower
after only a few hours with Fury and asked for a bed for the week.  Tony and
Bruce had passed the time trying to get things done, failing because Thor kept
asking questions, and instead they’d just watch movies and gone out for lunch
every afternoon and played games and trained, and it had been fun, Tony
realizes.
 
Even with all of that, though, nothing has amounted to the time he’s spent
getting to know Steve.  After their initial rough start, they’d parted friends,
and then, about a month after the Chitauri, after Bruce had sufficiently
annoyed Tony about clearly wanting to see Steve, he’d given him a call, and
they’d gone out to dinner.  And now, three months since then, it’s a regular
thing.
 
“Your date is here,” Bruce says, and Tony grunts.
 
“He’s not my date,” he mumbles finally, trying to kick his way out of the wires
he’s tangled in, “We’re not dating.”
 
“You are, actually.”
 
Tony pokes his head out to stick his tongue out, so Bruce just laughs and
shakes his head.  He finally gets his foot loose, and he means to go get
cleaned up, but then something catches his eye, and he drifts off back to work
until Steve’s letting himself into the lab.
 
“Hey Bruce,” he says casually, waving, before he comes around the corner and
sighs.  “Tony.”
 
“Shit fuck,” Tony responds, and then something ignites and sends a shower of
sparks bursting away from the suit.  Tony sighs and pushes away from it,
offering Steve a cheeky smile.
 
“You’re not dressed,” Steve says, and Tony snorts.
 
“Very astute observation, Captain Obvious.  I’ll be back, quick as you like.” 
He jumps to his feet, taps Steve on the chest, and then heads off while Steve
shakes his head, smiling.
 
“He’s in a good mood,” he says to Bruce, who shrugs one shoulder.
 
“He always is on date night.”
 
Steve sighs, “It’s not a date.”
 
Bruce laughs derisively, so Steve folds his arms over his chest, and so Bruce
looks up at him, grinning.  “Steve.  You’re dating Tony Stark.  He’s denying
it, you’re denying it, it’s pretty obvious what’s going on here.”  Steve opens
his mouth to argue, but Bruce holds up a hand.  “Listen, you can fight me on it
all you want, but this thing you two have been doing for the past three
months?  That’s called dating, and don’t even give me the well that’s not what
we did in my time because I know for a fact that whatever the hell this is
isn’t what we do in this time either because shit.  I have never seen him move
so slow.”
 
Steve folds a little, frowning.  “What do you mean?”
 
“Okay, usually, and disclaimer, I’m only really going off of the general
knowledge of Tony Stark, but three months is like three decades for him.  I
have no idea why he’s moving this slow with you, but he is, and you’re dating,
so get over it.”
 
“We’re dating,” Steve says softly, and Bruce nods.
 
“Yes, maybe you should talk to your boyfriend about that so he’s on the same
boat before I do something drastic.  Jarvis is even annoyed with you two.”
 
“It’s rather tedious, watching you dance around one another, Mister Rogers,
when it is very clear what is happening.  I also must say that I am very
pleased with this outcome, as Mister Stark—”
 
“Hey-o, let’s not let the AI spill any dirty secrets,” Tony says as he comes
in.
 
Steve turns, and his smile is instantaneous.  Tony is dressed to the nines, as
he always is, but he’d sent a text to Steve earlier in the day saying that
they’d be going fancy tonight, and so they both look dashingly handsome.  While
Steve’s in simple black and white, though, Tony is wearing a grey suit over a
wine-colored shirt.  “Ready, America?” he says, smiling fondly at Steve.
 
“If you keep calling me that, I’m going to come up with an embarrassingly
stupid nickname for you,” Steve threatens, and Tony just laughs loudly, turning
to head back out of the lab.  Steve casts a glance back at Bruce, who winks,
before he leaves.
 
He tries twice to discuss the whole dating thing, but Tony is so loose and
happy tonight that he decides against it, instead just enjoying their dinner
and conversation.  When they pull up in front of Steve’s apartment because he
took a cab earlier, Steve sighs and looks over at Tony, who’s already putting
the car in park.  “Do you want to come up?” he asks, and Tony holds his gaze
for a moment before nodding.
 
And so they get out and go up to his apartment, which is a two-level loft, and
Tony looks around appreciatively as Steve dumps his keys in the bowl, shrugs
out of his jacket, and turns on the lights.  Tony laughs softly when the lights
come on, displaying the books everywhere, and Steve rolls his eyes.  “Just
living up to your public image, I see,” Tony teases, nudging Steve before he
steps further in, undoing the buttons on his suit jacket.
 
“Shut up,” Steve says softly, “Scotch?”
 
“Oh, yes,” Tony says with a small smile, dumping onto the sofa and spreading
his hands over it.  “This is nice,” he compliments when Steve hands him a small
glass before sitting next to him.  Tony takes a slow drink, savoring it before
he swallows, and he hums.  “Oh, yes, this is nice.”
 
They sit in silence for a bit, just enjoying the presence of each other,
drinking slowly, until Steve sighs and turns.  “Tony—”
 
“Don’t ruin it,” Tony says very quietly, and Steve frowns.
 
“What do you—”
 
Tony downs the rest of his drink before leaning forward and placing the empty
glass on the coffee table.  He doesn’t look at Steve when he says, “I know you
talked to Bruce.”
 
“Tony, what the hell is going on?”
 
“Nothing,” Tony snaps, looking up at Steve, “Nothing is going on.  We’re
friends, going out to dinner and having a nice drink afterward.  Don’t ruin
it.”
 
“I’m not—this isn’t—” Steve stops with a frustrated sigh before he finishes his
drink and puts it down, as well.  He sits, straight-backed, for a few moments
before he turns, and Tony doesn’t have time to jerk away before Steve is
kissing him.
 
It’s not Obadiah, though, and Tony knows that.  He can feel it, in the way
Steve’s hands are so much bigger as they touch him, carefully, one hand on his
jaw, the other pressing against the front of his shoulders.  His mouth is
softer, easier, asking, and Tony realizes almost too late that he’s going to
pull away, and he kisses him back, though he doesn’t move, too afraid.  He
wants to clutch at him so bad, to grab fistfuls of his shirt and haul him
closer, but he stays where he is, terrified it might turn into something else,
something dangerous.
 
“Tony,” Steve exhales when they part, and Tony squeezes his eyes shut, trying
to calm his shaking hands, but then Steve reaches for them, holding them
tightly.  “Tony, talk to me.”
 
Tony shakes his head, leaning away, but Steve pulls him back, kissing him
harder this time, and Tony forgets where he is, just gives in and grabs at
Steve, scooting closer to him as he opens to Steve, lets him in.  It’s so good,
and then Steve’s hand tightens on his shoulder, and all Tony can feel is the
way he wouldn’t be able to breathe that well because his face was pressed into
the pillow, Obadiah’s hand squeezing his shoulder and pressing him harder
against the bed, relentless and using him, and Tony jerks away with a broken
noise.
 
Steve frowns at him, but Tony can’t see him, can’t see anything but Obadiah’s
angry face.  “Tony,” Steve says softly, reaching for him, and Tony wants to
fight so badly, but he shoves that feeling away because Steve is holding his
hand, and he knows it’s Steve’s hand.
 
“I can’t do this,” Tony whispers, and then he’s gone.
 
——
 
It begins unnoticeably, and for that, he’s grateful.  If Bruce had been able to
see it happening all along, he would have broken so much faster, but this way,
he can hide for so long, he can keep stamping it down until he’s beginning to
convince himself that he’ll be okay even though he knows he never will.  This
thing is going to haunt him forever, and he will never be able to leave it
behind.  It is a scar now, touching the most intimate parts of his being. 
Without it, though, he doesn’t know who he would be, and that’s what scares him
most.
 
The first four months after the Chitauri had been so good, and then, like
clockwork, Tony starts to forget how to drink water again, how to eat properly,
and he gets into a routine where he doesn’t know when he’s sober.  He’s good at
being at a continuous level of inebriated, though, and so Bruce doesn’t catch
on until one day when he’s working on the Mark VII—that fucking battle, he will
never forgive Loki for the damage done to the suit—and his hand slips, and he
burns himself.  He keeps working, though, just sucking on his finger for a
moment before he’s getting back to work.
 
He does it again, though, and this time it actually hurts a little, a dull
throb that lances up through his arm before it’s gone.  When it happens a third
time, he shouts, shaking his hand.  Bruce looks up from his desk and frowns,
and he sighs and shakes his head when Tony just keeps going.
 
“Tony,” he says, and Tony doesn’t look up, but then he’s doing it a fourth
time, and Bruce is suddenly there, trying to haul him away from the suit.  He’s
too quiet, though, and Tony doesn’t hear him, so when his hands come down on
his biceps, he goes slack, just waiting for the inevitable blow, and Bruce
notices.
 
He immediately lets go, stepping away quickly, and Tony doesn’t move, still
waiting, holding his breath.  “Tony,” Bruce says softly, and it’s his voice
that reminds Tony where he is, who he is, and he shakes himself,
straightening.  He pushes to his feet and stumbles away from the suit and over
to the bathroom where he runs his hand under cool water.
 
Bruce follows him, but he’s so goddamn quiet, and, when Tony looks up into the
mirror at himself, Bruce is standing behind him, and it makes him flinch, makes
his body go tense, and he drops his gaze, trying to tilt his body out of reach.
 
Bruce’s frown deepens.  He clears his throat and steps to the side of Tony,
away from him.  “Tony, it’s me.  It’s Bruce,” he says, and Tony looks over at
him.
 
It takes him a moment, but finally he nods and says, “I know.”
 
“Why are you—”
 
“Hey, you wanna get Indian for dinner?  I’ll order.” Tony says, and then he’s
gone.
 
It keeps happening over the next month—Bruce is too quiet, Tony reacts like
he’s Obadiah, and they don’t talk about it.  Bruce starts to test it, coming in
at different angles and random moments, experimenting with Tony until he starts
to understand, and then, one day, it all unravels.
 
They’re in the lab, working while AC/DC leaks out through the speakers, and
Tony’s been eating and sleeping on an almost normal cycle lately that Bruce has
slowed his experiments.  The music drops to a quiet volume suddenly, and Jarvis
says, “Sir, Miss Potts is on the line.  Are you here?”
 
“Present, Jay,” Tony says, and Jarvis projects Pepper through the sound
system.  “Hey, Pep,” Tony greets, and Pepper explodes.
 
“How could you never tell me, Tony?  All that time, and you never once thought
that I might be able to help.  My god, you asked me to call the police that
day, and I wouldn’t, and it could have been over, but—Tony.  I don’t
understand.”
 
“Jarvis, end call,” Tony says in a voice flooded with panic.
 
Jarvis doesn’t.  “He raped you, Tony, and it’s—he filmed it.  There are so
many, and that time with the arc reactor, and—oh my god.”
 
“Jarvis.”
 
The call drops, and Bruce just stares.
 
“Don’t,” Tony says, jerking to his feet and walking quickly through the lab.
 
“Tony—”
 
“Don’t say a fucking word!” Tony shouts, stalking past him.  Bruce jumps up and
grabs at him, fingers curled tight around his arm, and he pulls him to a stop. 
“Don’t touch me!” Tony almost shrieks, going rigid as he spins, trying to pull
away.  His face is full of a terrifying fear, and Bruce lets go of him
immediately, eyes wide in shock.
 
Tony tries to turn away, but his knees give out beneath him, and he sags to the
ground, gasping out a harsh, angry breath.  He clutches at his chest, shaking,
and Bruce comes around the desk slowly, unsure if he should go near him or not.
 
And then, Tony lets out this awful, pained noise and says, “Please no.  Not
here.”
 
Bruce realizes all at once that Tony is hallucinating.  He hurries over,
dropping to his knees and reaching for Tony, who flinches away and shakes his
head, tears running freely down his face.  “Please—no.  Not again, just—just
leave me alone, please.”
 
“Tony, it’s me,” Bruce says softly, “It’s Bruce.  Not—not—”
 
“Obadiah,” Jarvis supplies.
 
“Oh god,” Bruce says, closing his eyes.
 
Silence settles over them.  Bruce shuffles closer and just tightens his hands
over Tony’s arms, pressing their foreheads together.  “Tony,” he sighs.
 
“I just want to die.”
 
“Not yet,” Bruce says, so Tony nods and leans away from him, lifting his arm to
wipe it across his face.
 
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and Bruce shakes his head.
 
“Don’t be.  I’ve seen much worse.  Hulk, remember?”  Tony manages a small,
empty laugh.  “I wouldn’t be living here if I couldn’t handle you.”
 
Tony nods, and they sit there for a moment before Tony gets to his feet and
leaves.  Bruce doesn’t think he should follow him, though he wishes he did.
 
Tony goes up to his floor, motionless in the elevator and then walking slowly
through until he gets to his bedroom.  “Jarvis, shower,” he says quietly, and
the water starts running in the bathroom as he disrobes in a staggering line,
just stripping out of his clothes as he walks through his room to the bathroom.
 
When he gets in the shower, he stands under the hot spray for long minutes
until Jarvis makes a soft noise and says, very softly, “Sir, are you okay? 
Would you like me to call for Doctor Banner?”
 
“I’m fine, Jay,” he murmurs before turning to reach for the shampoo, but he’s
just so tired, and he sags a little, arm dropping back by his side.  He
stumbles back against the wall and slides down it, leaning his head to the
side.  “Jarvis,” he whispers, closing his eyes, “Get Bruce.”
 
“Sir, would you like me to call for an ambulance, as well?”
 
“No,” he says even as he reaches blindly for his razor, his hand slapping along
the shelves until he finds it.
 
He opens his eyes and looks down at his thighs, where there are dozens of
scars, some little, some long, but they’re all old, and it makes Tony’s chest
ache.  He rubs at his chest, pressing the heel of his palm there as he counts,
and it gets so hard because he can’t see because he can’t stop crying.  He
hates this, hates that he almost left it all behind, and then it all came
rushing back, and he hasn’t seen Steve since that fucking night, and he just
wants to die.
 
There’s one missing, he realizes.
 
He can remember, with blinding clarity, every single time Obadiah laid a
fucking hand on him, and there’s one missing.  He stares at the jagged mess of
lines marking his thigh for a few, brief seconds before he dismantles the razor
and lets the blade slide across his skin.  His head drops back, thudding
against the shower wall, and the blade clatters to the floor as blood wells in
the wound, spilling out.
 
“Jarvis,” he says tiredly.
 
“Sir, Bruce is in the elevator.  Are you certain that you do not require an
ambulance?”
 
“I am not going to the hospital, Jarvis.  I swear to god, if you,” he trails
off, closing his eyes, and he thinks this would be nice, to just slip under, to
go to sleep and never wake up, this would be okay.
 
“TONY!” Bruce’s voice echoes loudly through his floor, but Tony doesn’t move,
doesn’t respond, doesn’t know why he even asked for him.
 
“Mister Stark,” Jarvis says, and he sounds afraid, which he shouldn’t be able
to.
 
Tony forces his eyes open, and he looks down at his left thigh, making a soft
noise of surprise.  He hadn’t realized how big it was, how far he’d gone, but
there’s blood everywhere, and he’s having a hard time lifting his head.
 
Bruce bangs into his room and starts swearing as he runs for the bathroom.  He
comes to a staggering halt when he sees him, eyes wide.  “Shit,” he hisses
before he yanks open the shower door and runs in.  “Jarvis, cut the water,” he
says as he drops to Tony’s side, starting to gather him in his arms.  Tony lets
out this small whine of pain, and Bruce stops, staring down at his thigh.  “You
idiot,” he says finally before jerking back to his feet and hurrying out of the
shower and into the bathroom.
 
He starts rifling through the cabinets as he says, “Call Steve Rogers.”
 
Bruce has an armful of supplies when Steve answers, “Tony?”
 
“No, Bruce.  Steve, I need you here, I can’t do this myself.”
 
“What happened?”
 
“He fucking—just get here, as soon as you can, please.”
 
“I’m on my way,” Steve says, and then the call drops.
 
“Jarvis, project his vitals for me.”
 
Jarvis pulls up screens along the bathroom walls as Bruce sets to work, tying a
tourniquet around Tony’s thigh before he reaches up and slaps him.  Tony jerks
awake, gasping.  “Stay awake, asshole.”
 
“Bruce,” he groans.
 
“Why didn’t you just talk to me, you fucking moron?” he snaps, trying not to
let his voice raise, “I would have helped you, Tony.  Fuck, you already make me
sit through those goddamn therapy sessions, but you never thought this was
something we should talk about?  Shut up,” he adds when Tony screams because he
just dumped hydrogen peroxide over the open wound.
 
“Hulk,” Tony says, his voice rough, “Don’t Hulk.  Calm down.”
 
“Oh, I am very calm, I’m just—fuck.”
 
Bruce has to stop because his hands are shaking, and he squeezes his eyes shut,
blocking out Tony.  He isn’t calm, he’s so far from calm, and he knows how his
eyes must look right now, how they’re a weird discoloration of brown and green,
but he needs to do this, he needs to stitch Tony up, and then he needs to just
keep him afloat, let Tony cling to him like a life raft, needs to be there
because he needs Tony in his life, or he doesn’t know who he is anymore.  Tony
has saved him, and now he needs to return the favor, and he takes a slow,
steadying breath, trying to pretend this is just another patient in one of his
favorite third world countries that he’s patching up.
 
When he opens his eyes again, they’re green, but his hands aren’t shaking
anymore, and so he gets to work.  He moves quickly, fingers sliding right back
into doctor mode, and he’d never been especially neat about his stitches, but
he’s efficient and damn good at it, so the work goes by easily.
 
“Doctor Banner, Mister Rogers has just arrived.”
 
“Send him up,” Bruce says quietly, lifting a hand to push his hair back.  He
pauses, listening, and he looks up, elbowing Tony in the stomach.
 
“What,” Tony mumbles, not opening his eyes.
 
“Just checking you’re still alive,” Bruce says softly, and Tony nods, a
sluggish movement.
 
He’s nearly finished when Steve lets himself in, running through the floor. 
“Bruce?” he calls.
 
“In the bathroom, Mister Rogers,” Jarvis supplies, and then Steve is there,
bursting into the bathroom and skidding to a halt, staring at them with an
expression of utter shock.
 
“Can you find him some clothes?” Bruce asks, not looking up.
 
Steve clears his throat and nods, and Bruce glances at him, smiling softly when
he sees the soldier in Steve surface.  He’s seen all this before, and he knows
how to handle it, and so Bruce turns back down to Tony, finishing up.  He
settles back on his heels when he’s done and closes his eyes, tipping his head
back.
 
“Bruce,” Tony whispers.
 
He doesn’t respond right away, too exhausted, too tense, and his shoulders hurt
in a way that’s not because he’s been stooped over, but because Hulk is so
close, just under his skin, and it hurts so much trying to keep him in.  But
then Tony’s hand is tugging on his, and he opens his eyes, looking down at
him.  “Hey,” he says, and Tony shakes his head, trying to hold onto Bruce’s
hand and failing.  Bruce holds it for him, both of his hands wrapped around
Tony’s, and he sighs.  “You lost a lot of blood,” he says.  Tony remains
quiet.  “You should go to the hospital.”
 
“No.”
 
“Why not?”
 
“They can’t help me.”
 
“Tony, please, they—”
 
“I won’t do it again.  Just don’t take me there.”
 
Bruce stares at him for a long, hard moment before he nods.  “Yeah, okay.”
 
“Need help?” Steve asks as he comes back into the bathroom.
 
Bruce nods, letting go of Tony’s hand and standing.  “Can you take him into his
room and, uhm—shit, I’m sorry, I’m just—” he breaks off, shaking his head, but
Steve is already nodding and coming into the shower.
 
“I got him.  Go clear your head.”
 
Bruce offers him a weak smile before he heads out, and then Steve is alone with
Tony.  He sighs as he kneels next to him, carefully gathering him in his arms. 
Tony only emits a small noise before his head lolls in against Steve’s chest,
and he’s like dead weight as Steve carries him back into his bedroom.  He
dresses him slowly, mindful of his thigh, but it makes his chest clench, seeing
the scars scattered over his skin.  “Tony,” he sighs, looking up at his face,
and then he can’t breathe.
 
Tony’s eyes are still closed, but he’s crying quietly, his chest moving in
short, pained movements as he tries to silence his choked breathing.
 
Steve quickly finishes dressing him, and then he shifts him so that he’s lying
properly on his bed.  He starts to turn away, but Tony’s hand slaps lightly
against the bed and he says, “Please stay.”
 
He turns, and Tony’s looking at him, but his eyes are so dead that he almost
looks away from him.  “Do you know who I am?” he asks, and he doesn’t know why
he asks it, but he remembers the way Tony had looked at him that night, how he
hadn’t seemed to know who he was.
 
“Steve,” he says with a slow nod, “Please.  I need—I need someone.”
 
“I’m here,” Steve says, though he doesn’t move right away.
 
“Please, Steve,” Tony says, his eyes slipping shut again, and so Steve sighs
and goes around to the other side of the large bed.  He toes off his shoes,
shrugs out of his jacket, and then he lies on his side, propping himself up one
elbow so that he can see Tony.
 
It takes a minute, but Tony digs for any strength he might have left, and he
shuffles a little closer and then turns onto his side, mindful of his thigh on
the other.  “Steve,” he says softly, and Steve stares at his back for a tense
moment before he closes the distance between them and pulls Tony against him,
wrapping his arms around him.
 
“Go to sleep, Tony,” he whispers, brushing a kiss over his ear, “You’re okay. 
You’re safe.”
 
“Thank you,” he whispers, and then he’s out.
 
——
 
When Tony wakes up, he’s hungrier than he’s been in a long time.  He’s also not
alone.
 
Steve is pressed up against him, this solid, warm presence that makes Tony’s
heart beat a little harder, that makes his chest ache because he’s not afraid. 
He’s got an arm looped around him, hand resting lightly against his chest,
fingers brushing against the arc reactor, and it’s the first time someone has
come near it that he hasn’t felt like he was going into cardiac arrest.
 
His body is so exhausted, but he’s feeling a little claustrophobic, so Tony
slowly slips out from under Steve’s arm, taking a break when he’s sat on the
edge of the bed, a hand pressed against his chest as he tries to catch his
breath.  When he doesn’t feel like he’ll pass out, he gets up and uses the
furniture and the wall to get him to the bathroom.  He swallows an Advil, pees,
and then he’s hobbling back out into his bedroom and into the hallway.  He’s
barely halfway when he stops, leaning against the wall.
 
“Bruce,” he calls weakly because something smells good in the kitchen.  Someone
is shuffling, and so Tony whines and tries to raise his voice, “Bruce.”
 
Bruce appears a few moments later, looking confused, and he sighs, shaking his
head when he sees Tony.  “You shouldn’t be out of bed,” he reprimands, and Tony
shrugs.
 
“Yeah, I also probably shouldn’t be alive, but I’m blaming you for that, so.” 
Bruce glares at Tony, and Tony rolls his eyes.  “Are you going to help me to
the kitchen or not?”
 
“Only if you left me wrap your leg.”
 
Tony nods, so Bruce comes over to duck under one of his arms, and they slowly
make their way down the hallway, past the living room, and into the kitchen. 
Tony drops his sweats before Bruce can do anything about it, so Bruce just
sighs and goes to get gauze and a pad.  He wraps Tony’s thigh up, taping it off
before he hauls him onto a stool and leaves him at the island.  Tony sits in
silence, his head in his arms while Bruce works, though he looks up when Bruce
sets a mug of tea in front of him.
 
He sips at it, just sitting there, trying to figure out what’s about to happen,
and then Bruce is setting a plate of food before him and sitting opposite him. 
“Eat,” Bruce commands, and Tony happily does so.  When he’s finished with his
tea, Bruce gets him orange juice, and then, when he’s done with that, water. 
He makes him clear his entire plate, and only when he’s got a little bit of
color in his face again, which really is still sickly pale, Bruce scrubs a hand
through his hair and says, “We need to talk.”
 
Tony nods.  “I know.”
 
“Why don’t you start from the beginning?”
 
“It’s a long story,” Tony says, and Bruce glares at him.  “I was fifteen when
it started.”
 
——
 
By the time Tony’s feeling exhausted again, both from talking to Bruce and
trying desperately not to cry and failing, and from just everything, nearly
four hours have passed and it’s late into the night, and Bruce is allowing them
a break because Tony started shaking a half hour ago.  He helps him back down
the hall and to his room, but Tony shrugs away from him at the door.  “It’s
okay,” he says, and Bruce nods.
 
“Just holler if you need me.  I’m gonna get some shut eye in the guest room.”
 
“Thank you, Bruce.”
 
“You’re my best friend, Tony—of course.”
 
Tony just offers him a small smile before they go their separate ways.  He
makes his way slowly across the room, shaking his head when Steve starts to
rise.  “I got it,” he mumbles, though he dumps onto the bed with a heavy
exhale, and he has to close his eyes.
 
“You’re shaking,” Steve says, sitting.
 
“Yeah, I’m—fuck, I’m not doing so good.”  Steve remains silent, and Tony sighs
before shifting until he can lie down.  “Here’s how this is going to happen,”
he says, waiting for Steve to lie back down before he continues, “You’re going
to ask me questions later, when I can actually fucking think, and for now,
we’re going to go back to sleep, and you’re going to snuggle with me, okay?”
 
“Okay,” Steve says after a moment, drawing Tony into his arms, and he actually
sleeps.
 
——
 
When Tony wakes, it’s late.
 
He rolls over to look at the clock, groaning when he sees it’s three in the
morning, but there’s no way he’s getting back to sleep, so he climbs out of
bed, and though his head doesn’t feel like it’s going to explode anymore, now
he can feel the pain his thigh, and he stumbles into the bathroom until he can
find Advil.  He takes too many, but everytime he tries to move, his leg screams
with pain, and he’s just so done with all of this.
 
He needs to be out, he realizes, he needs to breathe something that isn’t stale
and dead, so he grabs two bottles of whiskey from his bar and takes the
elevator up.
 
An hour later, Tony’s sitting on the edge of the Tower, just staring out at the
city, most of the first bottle gone.  He thinks back to telling Bruce
everything, to recounting the whole ugly affair, and he has to close his eyes
against the nausea that rolls his stomach.
 
“Oh god,” he says softly, shaking his head.  He downs the rest of the bottle
and then throws it as hard as he can, watching it arc away and then plummet
down.  He watches it, waits for it to smash, and then he leans forward, hands
curled around from the ledge.
 
He’s never considered jumping.
 
Tony makes a noise and leans back.  He’s tried so many different ways—the first
time, he half-assed it, mixing the pills with alcohol, and he doesn’t think he
was really trying anyway; the second time, he means it, he wants it, and again
with the pills, and he should have known better than to leave the door
unlocked; the third time, he hates to count, but he’d loved the way the cool
metal felt in his mouth; the fourth time, he hadn’t meant it, and Yinsen had
known that, and he was so lucky to have known him; the fifth time, when he’d
been willing to do anything, and he hates Jarvis for stopping him; the sixth
time, with the arc reactor, and he wanted it so bad that his body actually
ached with the wanting; the seventh time, when he’d wanted it so desperately he
hadn’t even realized how close he was until Bruce was pulling him back; and
now, sitting on the edge of the Tower, it’s all he can think about.
 
No one would miss him.  It would feel so nice, just soaring through the cool,
night air, feeling it rush over him, no suit around him to suffocate him, and
then it would just be over.
 
Tony lets out a breath, a rush of elation running through him as he leans back
over, looking down.  It would be so final, so definitively over, no chance of
coming back, and the Tower is so high, it would be both so slow and so fast,
and then he wouldn’t hurt anymore, he wouldn’t have this terrible, throbbing
ache inside of him, he wouldn’t wake in the dead of night screaming, he
wouldn’t see Obadiah’s face everytime he turned around, he wouldn’t flinch away
from Steve and Bruce, he would be okay, he would have a chance at being free
and happy, finally.
 
He’s happy now, he realizes, just considering the option, and he nods to
himself, reaching for the other bottle.  He chugs half of it, and then lets out
a full body shake, grinning.  He feels good.
 
Tony climbs to his feet, closes his eyes, and steps.
 
The door to the roof bangs open, and Tony lets out a wild yell, fists clenched
tightly at his sides.  It all rushes back, how angry and terrified and
worthless he feels, and he can’t believe it, can’t fucking stand it that this
is happening again.  “NO!” he screams, whipping around, and Steve is just
there, staring at him in horror.
 
“NO!” he shrieks again, reaching for the bottle and chucking it at him. 
Alcohol sprays everywhere, and Steve ducks the bottle.  It crashes against the
door and shatters, and Tony breaks, choking on a sob as he shakes his head. 
“Go away,” he begs, “Go the fuck away, and just let me die.”
 
“Tony—”
 
“I don’t want this anymore!  I don’t want to be alive!  Get the fuck away from
me!”
 
“Tony—”
 
“Do you know why I’m up here?  Do you even understand what is going on?  Leave
me alone, Steve!”
 
“Tony, come here.”
 
“No,” he growls, stepping back.  Steve jerks forward a step, so Tony takes
another one back.  “Back the fuck up,” he snaps, lifting a hand.  “Do not.”
 
“Tony, please, just—”
 
“Shut up, just shut up.  God, I can’t fucking stand it,” he gasps, lifting his
hands to his head and letting his nails scrape against his scalp, his fingers
bunching in his hair.  “I can’t fucking stand it!” he screams, pulling one of
his hands away to bash it against his head, fingers tightened in a fist.  He
keeps doing it, over and over until his brow is bloody and Steve is struggling
to stay there.  He screams again, and then his knees give out, and he just sits
there, sobbing.
 
“Tony—”
 
“Don’t, please.  I just want to die, and I can’t.  I fucking can’t.  I keep
trying, and I can’t do it, and I just want it to be over.”
 
“Talk to me.  What’s going on?”
 
“I don’t want to be alive anymore.  Every single time I get to breathe, it
feels like some sick joke, and I hate it, and he fucking took it from me, he
took it from me, and fuck—why couldn’t you just let me die?”
 
“Who took what from you?”
 
“OBADIAH!” he screams, his voice wrecked, and it makes his throat ache, but he
keeps going because if he doesn’t tell him now, he never will, “He rapedme.  He
came into my fucking lab, and he shoved me against the desk, and he raped me!”
 
“Tony, Obadiah’s dead,” Steve says slowly, frowning.
 
“You think he only did it once?” he shouts, “You think it was just one fucking
time?  You think I’m making this up?”
 
“I never—”
 
“For years, he took and took and took, and I hate myself for letting him, and I
can’t do it anymore, I can’t live with it, I hate being here, I want it to go
away!”
 
“Tony—”
 
“I was fifteen, and my fucking father did nothing about it, and I just wanted
to be normal, to be happy, and he ruined everything for me!”  He lets out a
harsh breath, lifting one of his hands to press at his chest, and then he feels
like he’s suffocating, and he tries to get out of his shirt, but he can’t, and
he starts screaming, ripping at it until he can finally get free, and he
doubles over, pressing his forehead against his knees until it hurts.  He
scrapes his nails over the back of his neck until he can feel the warm blood
slipping against his skin.
 
And then Steve is there, his hand on his shoulder, and Tony jerks away
violently, crashing onto his back, and his arm swings freely against the side
of the Tower.  He looks over, Steve yells, and he rolls.
 
Steve launches toward him and grabs at him, catching him around the middle.  He
yanks Tony out of the air and rolls them until they’re away from the edge,
pushing Tony off of him.  “Are you insane?” Steve yells, getting to his feet.
 
“YES!” Tony screams, pushing upright.  He gets to his feet and shoves Steve
with all that he’s got.  “I want to die!  What part of that do you not
understand?”
 
“Tony, no.  It isn’t worth it.  There are so many people that will miss you,
that—that need you,” he pauses, taking a breath, “I need you.  Tony, I—I love
you.”
 
It takes him a moment to process, but then Tony’s going off, “You love me? 
Really?  After everything you’ve seen, after everything you know, you love me? 
I am fucked up, Steve, and it’s never going to get better, and I can’t do this,
I don’t want to do this.  I’m done.  I am so sick of being alive.  You really
think you love me, even knowing that?”
 
“Yes,” Steve says with certainty, and Tony stares at him for a few seconds
before he breaks.
 
He shakes his head, pressing his hand hard against his chest because he can’t
breathe.  “Steve,” he gasps, and Steve is right there to pull Tony against him,
holding him tightly.  Tony lets himself be crushed, sucks in an awful sounding
breath, and says, “Don’t let me go, please.  Just—just don’t let go, please.”
 
“I’m here, Tony.  I’ve got you.”
 
——
 
In the morning, Steve wakes first, and he smiles when he looks over and sees
Tony still asleep, his face soft and calm.  It had been almost an hour before
he’d managed to get Tony back into the Tower, and then another hour before he’d
been able to fall asleep, still shaking and crying quietly, and Steve’s not
sure if he cried himself to sleep or if he just fell asleep, but he looks
peaceful right now, and that’s all that matters.
 
He smiles when he feels Tony’s hand, tangling with his, and he lifts it slowly,
pressing his mouth to Tony’s knuckles.  Tony opens his eyes, and, for the first
time since the Chitauri, Steve sees a little light in the blue there.
 
Steve kisses his knuckles again, lingering there, before he lets their hands
settle between them, and Tony gives him a small, delicate smile that makes
Steve’s stretch wider until Tony can’t help but mirror it, ducking his eyes and
letting out this soft noise.
 
“You’re still here,” Tony whispers, and Steve sighs before untangling their
hands and shifting closer.
 
He waits until Tony looks up, and then he says, “I’m not going anywhere.”
 
Tony nods after a moment, and then he moves closer, as well, as close to Steve
as he can get, and he closes his eyes and just breathes in slowly, letting him
wash over him until Steve is all he can feel.
 
——
 
A year passes.  After a fight with Bruce and Steve that Tony will try to forget
and never be able to, one that is loud and violent and terrifying, Steve calls
up the Avengers and drops the bomb that Tony needs them, and they need to be
there for him.  Pepper flies out from California, and Nick Fury stays as far
away as possible.  They take shifts not necessarily babysitting him, but just
being there as often as possible.  They pool their resources and knowledge
until they can settle on a therapist they think will be best, and then they
meet with her, multiple times, before Bruce and Steve are satisfied.  The first
time she comes over, Tony gets so rip-roaring drunk, he can barely lift his
head, and so she orders them to stick him in a cold shower and says that she’ll
be waiting in the living room for him.  Tony appears a half hour later, still
pretty wasted, but he nods his approval, and then they’re off.
 
They have one set back, three months into therapy, when Tony’s nanny, as the
other Avengers have started playfully calling her, arrives during a screaming
match between Tony and Pepper, and Tony is so worked up he starts panicking
without even realizing it until he’s choking for air, and he drops, hitting the
floor with a hard thud.  The nanny very quietly kneels by him and talks him
through it, and that’s the first session they talk about Steve and what he
means to Tony.
 
The first time Tony asks Steve out to dinner after everything, it’s been five
months, and he’s actually nervous when he pulls up in front of his apartment
building, gets buzzed in, and knocks on his door, dressed in a suit for the
first time in what feels like forever.  His shirt is a light, light blue, and
it reminds him of Steve’s eyes, while the suit is a dark, charcoal grey.  When
Steve opens the door, he can’t stop the beam that lifts his mouth.  They’ve
been doing this weird dance where Steve stays over a lot, but sometimes he goes
home for days on end, gives Tony a breather, and that’s when Tony feels most
alone, when he starts to crack open, when it all starts to become too much, and
he always ends up calling Steve and asking him, very softly, if he’ll come
back, and he always does.  Now, though, he just smiles at him and says,
“Dinner?”  And Steve smiles like Tony’s given him a beautiful gift, and Tony
actually leans into it when Steve steps forward and kisses him, a full, long
kiss on the mouth that makes him feel warm inside.
 
After that, the dance gets a little less weird, and though Steve still goes
back to his apartment sometimes, it starts to feel less and less like his home
and more like a place he occasionally sleeps.  And then, just over a year since
everything really started to unravel, they’re on their way back to Steve’s
apartment to drop him off, and, when they pull up, Tony puts the car in park
and fiddles with the keys before he says, not looking at him, “Can I come up?”
 
“Yeah, of course,” Steve says, smiling, and he leans over to kiss Tony lightly
on the jaw before he gets out.  It’s hard, leaving him behind, letting him do
this himself, and it gets harder when Tony doesn’t shut off the car right away,
but then the engine dies and he gets out.
 
When he comes around, Steve starts to head for the doors, but Tony reaches for
his hand, tangling their fingers together, and they go upstairs like that. 
Steve pours them drinks while Tony meanders around, looking at books and
pretending like it’s his first time there until Steve hands him the drink, and
he sighs, turning.  Steve can see him trying to get the words out, and so he
lets him off the hook, just this once, “You wanna see the loft?  I don’t think
you’ve ever been up there.”
 
“Yeah, that would be good,” Tony says, and Steve can see the relief in his
face.
 
They go upstairs to where Steve’s bedroom lies, this big, beautiful thing
that’s mostly his massive bed and the incredible skylight, though there are
books up here, too, and a laptop he very rarely uses.  There’s a window, too,
with a wide, cushioned sill, big enough to fit both of them comfortably and
more.  Tony wanders over to it, setting his drink down before he shrugs out of
his suit jacket and then sits, looking out at the dark city.
 
“I never thought I’d learn to love what New York has become, but it’s so
beautiful at night sometimes,” Steve says as he comes over, sitting next to
him.  They sit in companionable silence for a while, just enjoying the nearness
of each other, slowly nursing their drinks, until Tony leans over, setting his
empty glass on the floor.  Steve opens his mouth to speak, but Tony shakes his
head, takes Steve’s glass to put it with his, and then he’s tugging him closer
with his tie, pressing their mouths together in a soft, careful kiss.  It’s
slow and easy until Steve pulls away lightly, and says, “Tony—”
 
“Shut up.”
 
“Okay.”
 
And then they’re kissing again, but this time, Tony’s more confident, and he
knows Steve, knows the feel of his hands and the shape of his mouth and the
sound of his breath and the way he moves, and it feels good.
 
They kiss slowly until Tony can’t ignore the way his pants are so tight, and he
shifts, moving so he can drop a knee on either side of Steve, settling in his
lap.  Steve breaks away, looking up as Tony looms over him, and then Tony’s
dropping down a little further, eyes fluttering shut as he feels the hard curve
of Steve’s cock beneath his pants, and he grinds down against him, pulling a
startled groan from Steve.
 
“Tony—”
 
“I want you inside of me, Steve.”
 
Steve breathes, in and out, and in and out, and in and out, before he says,
“Are you sure?”
 
“I promise,” Tony whispers, and Steve nods.
 
They clamber off the windowsill and slowly make their way to the bed, but Steve
can’t stop touching, keeps grabbing at Tony and kissing all along his neck and
jaw and shoulders, wanting every piece of him.  They separate to shuck off
their shirts and shimmy out of their pants, and then Steve is pulling at Tony’s
hands until he can tangle their fingers together and press him backward until
they tumble onto the bed.  Steve makes sure to land next to him, but Tony just
lies there next to him, and so he rolls up onto his elbow and kisses Tony slow.
 
“Are you okay?” he asks when they part, and Tony nods too quickly.  “Liar.”
 
Tony sticks his tongue out at him, so Steve leans forward, sucking on his
tongue until they’re kissing again, and he carefully moves until he’s hovering
a little, one of his hands drifting down to tug at Tony’s briefs, fingers
tucking under so he can pull.  He pulls away so he can get them off, kissing
one of Tony’s feet before he rolls onto his back to do the same, but Tony is
still just lying there, and so he leans back over, kissing him soft and slow as
he gently coaxes Tony closer until he can get him to move, bringing him up and
over.  When he settles, thighs spread and knees on either side, he looks down
at Steve with an uncertain expression.
 
“What?” Steve asks, trying not to tense up.
 
“Uhm.  Is this okay?  I mean, is this—is this what you want?”
 
“Tony,” Steve sighs, lifting his hands to rub at his thighs, “This is about
what you want.”  Tony just stares at him, and so Steve bites at his lip before
he lets his right hand slip down until he can reach Tony’s cock, fingers
curling around it and tugging up slowly.  Tony tenses, not moving, so Steve
lets his other hand drift back, running over his lower back, around the curve
of his ass and back up, settling at the dip there.  “Do you want this?” he
asks.
 
It takes a moment, but Tony nods.  “I do.”
 
“So do I.  Okay?”
 
“Okay.”
 
“There’s lube in the nightstand.  Do you want me to stretch you?”
 
“What?”
 
Steve holds as still as he can, trying not to let the rush of anger bubble up
and explode out of him, but he wishes, for the briefest second, that that
bastard was still alive so that he could strangle him.  Instead, he takes a
steadying breath and gets the lube himself, uncapping it and smoothing it over
his fingers, warming it.  “Scoot up a little,” he says, and Tony obeys.  “Let
me know at any time if you want to stop, okay?”
 
“Yeah, okay.”
 
Steve leans up to kiss him softly before he presses a finger against Tony’s
entrance, rubbing slowly before he lets the first knuckle slide in, and Tony
closes his eyes.  “Tony?”
 
“I’m okay.  Just keep going.”
 
He stretches him slow and easy, listening for the rhythm of his breathing,
watching the way he moves, and he’s so quiet, just letting it happen, that it
makes Steve’s chest ache.  He shifts a little, pressing in a little harder,
three fingers deep, and Tony emits this low, gasping moan, his whole body going
loose for a second before he’s pushing back against Steve’s fingers.  Steve
just grins and reaches again, fingers sliding over the bundle of nerves inside
of him, and Tony makes this noise that makes Steve’s cock twitch in response.
 
“I’m ready,” Tony says suddenly, and Steve nods before slowly sliding his
fingers out.  He reaches for a condom, and Tony grabs at his wrist, stopping
him.  He looks conflicted for a moment before he asks, “May I?”  Steve nods,
handing it over, and then Tony’s hand is on him, and he strokes him a few
times, grinning when Steve groans, and, like a light switching on, there’s Tony
Stark.
 
He takes Steve in slowly, his breath coming in little bursts until he’s fully
seated, and then Steve is rubbing his thumbs over Tony’s hipbones and trying
not to lean up into him but he wants him so bad.  “Tony—”
 
“Shut up.”
 
“God.”
 
“Why, thank you, but no, just me.”
 
Steve laughs out loud, and it’s like some kind of last barrier is broken
between them.  Tony shifts up, and Steve’s laughs tapers off into a groan, and
that’s how they make love.  They move slow at first, Tony easing his way into
it, hips coming up and down until he whines suddenly, arching his back, trying
to take him deeper, and Steve tightens his hold on his hips, asking.  Tony
nods, already tensing his thighs in preparation, and Steve rolls them, looping
an arm under one of his knees and hitching it up over his elbow.  Tony gasps in
surprise at the way that feels, and then Steve’s mouth is on his, and he kisses
him hard and fast, his thrusts building in pace until he breaks away and says,
“Let me hear you.”
 
He thrusts in hard, sliding over Tony’s prostate, and he tries to choke back
the noise, but it bursts out anyway, this loud moan that makes Steve press his
temple against Tony’s shoulder, pressing him against the mattress as he chases
the heat of his ass.  “Steve,” he groans, and Steve immediately starts to slow,
pulling away.  “Fuck—no, don’t stop.  That feels—” he breaks off with a low
whine, hips lifting up off the bed as his other leg comes up, hitching around
Steve’s ribs.
 
It’s not long after that before Steve’s groaning, his thrusts getting faster
and more erratic, his fingers clenched in the sheets.  Tony responds to him,
muscles jumping and tightening until he’s this little ball of energy, and then
Steve’s gasping out a rough, “Fuck, Tony,” and it sends him over, and he can’t
remember the last time coming felt this good, felt this right.  His orgasm hits
him hard, and he bows off the bed with a loud moan, clinging to Steve, who
follows him over the edge, stilling inside his tight heat.
 
When they finally come down, Tony’s grinning like an idiot, and Steve can’t
help but kiss him until they’re both breathless again, and then he drops onto
his side, gets rid of the condom, and pulls Tony against him.  “I love you,” he
whispers, kissing his mess of hair.
 
Tony stays quiet, just settled in the warm safety of Steve’s arms, curled
against his chest, and it’s only when Steve’s breathing has evened out, when
he’s almost asleep, that he says, “I love you, too,” and Steve holds him a
little tighter.
 
In the morning, when Tony wakes up, he’s alone, and he panics, starting to
scramble out of bed when he hears the stairs creaking, and he turns.  Steve
comes up with a tray full of food, and he smiles, relief flooding through him. 
They have breakfast in bed, the sun shining brilliantly through the skylight,
and, afterward, Steve puts on a record of soft, classical music, and they have
slow, lingering sex, just learning the shape of each other.
 
Later, when Steve’s trying to convince Tony to get dressed so they can actually
go out and get lunch, Tony rolls onto his stomach, looking over at where
Steve’s tugging on a pair of jeans.  “Steve,” he says softly, and he turns,
quirking an eyebrow.
 
“Yeah?” he asks when Tony doesn’t continue.
 
“Move in with me?”
 
Steve breaks out into a wide beam, nodding.  He crosses the room and leans down
to kiss Tony on the mouth.  “Yeah, okay,” he says, kissing him again before he
goes back to finish dressing.
 
Tony just shifts onto his back and smiles, and he thinks that, finally, he’s
okay.
End Notes
     MY GOODNESS.
     I’m going to keep this brief because this fic exhausted me, and it’s
     late at night right now, but I’m so excited to share this with you
     guys. It happened so fast, as things usually do when Erin is involved
     because this is onehundred percent Erin’s fault, but I’m so pleased
     that it happened. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed, and don’t forget to
     leave your thoughts!
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