Chapter Text
Tony was trying not to run. It wasn't working.
Out of breath, he found the landing bay in a far better state than he expected. The smoke was fully cleared by now. Tony didn't know what it had been like, really, but he’d, pictured an impenetrable cloud, a wall, a sea of smoke. Medics were already there, he saw, and the marines. Everything seemed well organized.
People were bustling around, but at the moment, they were just white noise to him, the lot of them. An obstacle to finding Steve. It wasn't fair, but hyperfocus could be like that.
Tony forced himself to stop and breathe for a moment. He took another look around, took in what he was seeing.
The cleanup was already in progress. Everything seemed in order. Vipers, like overgrown birds, shaken and disheveled, weren't being tended to yet. They looked forlorn. In another time, another place, Tony would have wanted to go over, see how they were doing, see if they could be fixed. It had to be doable. He couldn't have lost the possibility to fly now, that he was finally ready, now that he had finally passed the tests.
Still, this was just a fleeting thought. He glanced at them in passing. His mind was racing in a different direction. Darryl's voice, his words regarding Steve, were still cutting through Tony's forced calm. He's been hurt.
He needed to find out what happened to Steve. But once he did, that would be that. No doubt any more, but no hope either. What if it was something serious, something irreversible? What then? Well, then it would have been Tony's fault, obviously. His, because he didn't fix the sprinklers in time, his, because he was too slow, too inefficient, because he chatted to Steve and kept distracting him. He practically had no right to worry about his safety, now.
And then he saw Steve. He was sitting on a gurney. Actually, he was apparently trying to get up. A medic was getting into his face, repeatedly poking a stern finger at his chest. Tony couldn't make out the words, but it was pretty clear the medic wasn't done with Steve and Steve did his polite best to disagree with her assessment.
It felt unreal, like a scene from a movie. It was as if brain fog had descended on Tony's thoughts. And then it all swam back into focus, and suddenly it was real.
The intensity of pure, cool relief that swept trough him took Tony aback for a second. When did you start caring this much? How deep are you gone for him, exactly? Tony's breaths were now lengthening gradually. Still, standing there and just breathing was pretty much all he was capable of at the moment.
He tore his helmet off, tossed it aside. Okay. Easier.
Staring at Steve from a distance, he found himself overcome with a strange reluctance. He didn't need to go over, talk to him, did he? The medic was busy; Tony'd just be in the way, wouldn't he? And what could he say to Steve?
The medic seemingly gave another order. Steve tried to argue, but the medic insisted, waving her hand at Steve's damaged suit. Up until now, Tony had been fixated on his face, on the alert eyes and the vivid facial expression that better than anything else told him Steve was essentially okay. Right? But now Tony took in the whole scene again. He saw the charred arm of the suit, the scorch marks all along his right side. And then the medic was pushing something at Steve, and Tony saw it was an oxygen mask. Something untwistable in his guts twisted. Before he realized what he was doing, he was hurrying over.
Steve spotted him and a smile lit up his face despite the mask now pressed over his nose and mouth. Even if the mask hadn't been transparent, the crinkling of his eyes would have been enough. It was so unexpected that Tony stopped for a second; glanced over his shoulder to check if there was somebody else coming from the same direction as he.
No one there. There was no one there, but when he looked back, Steve's grin was melting away already, turning into an uncomfortable, controlled expression.
"Finger, please", the medic was saying sharply.
Steve glanced at the medic. "They did that already," he said, very polite and just a little exasperated. "I'm sure you have more pressing cases than me." The medic crossed her arms and Steve sighed and extended his finger as if wondering if he was ever getting it back. The medic stuck it into a small device.
"Not so bad," she commented grudgingly. "Now strip."
Steve just blinked at her for a moment, almost in incomprehension.
"But I told you," Steve was saying to the medic. There was a hoarseness to his voice that worried Tony. "Your colleague said I was fine. Looked me over. Did the oxymetry already, too. I'm all right."
"That was probably triage," Tony said sharply, coming over. More sharply than he intended, as a matter of fact, but he was now close enough to see Steve's eyes, rimmed with red. After a fire, that wasn't such a great sign. Just like the hoarseness, it meant the protective helmet had failed to do its job properly. The fact made Tony strangely pissed. "Triage," he repeated in a tad softer voice, because he wasn't pissed at Steve. "Doesn't mean you're fine. Means you're more fine than some of the other walking charcoal sticks. I know you must know that, Cap."
The medic had been rummaging around in her satchel, but now she looked up. "Sense," she muttered. "From a... you're a pilot, right? Sense from a pilot. Must be my birthday." She turned back to Steve. "Captain, please. I don't have all day."
Steve gave her a stubborn look, as if to say I do. Then he glanced around. Probably figured it wasn't okay to waste the woman's time. Sighed. He then put a hand up to the zipper of his protection suit. Hesitated. He very decidedly wasn't looking at Tony.
As a general rule, on a spaceship there wasn't any privacy. The dormitories were large, the showers communal, and everyone ran around at least half-naked at least half the time. The quarters were tight and you didn't have many options; sooner or later, everyone you knew was going to see your junk. You had to accept that. And yet, Steve, as a higher officer, had his own berth, his own shower.
Tony would have thought that a prospect of seeing Steve nude for the first time would be a happy occasion, but: What if he's hurt, underneath that suit? What if he's actually hurt?
Steve picked that moment to look up at him with something in his eyes that, in someone else, would have been bordering on panic.
"Hey, it's only fair", Tony blurted, trying to make light. He shrugged. "After my towel fiasco, I mean," he added by way of explanation. He managed not to say I showed you mine, now you show me yours, or something in that vein, thankfully. Still, even what he did say only turned Steve's cheeks a warmer, pinker hue. And it was a stupid comment, stupid. Tony should have played it cool. He felt his own face heat up in response, although he wasn't prone to actually blushing, thank gods.
A sharp clearing of the throat from the medic made them look away from each other's eyes, abruptly, as if they'd been caught. Steve compressed his lips and started unzipping his protection suit down the front. Underneath, he had a black tank top over a gray tee, just like everyone else. While in any other circumstances Tony would have made a comment to himself – something about it being a size too small, to the joy and happiness of anyone who saw Steve – now he was staring intently at Steve's right arm. The sleeve of the suit looked ripped. And charred.
Tony fumbled for something inane to say, a comment to divert attention, to mask his eyes that had gone wide with worry. Anything.
A barbecue accident? He was going to throw it out there, offhandedly, nodding towards the char marks on Steve's suit. He choked on the words. They just wouldn't come out.
Steve peeled the sleeve off. It wasn't stuck to his arm, but it nevertheless reminded Tony of a second layer of skin. He sucked in some air, audibly, in sympathy. Underneath, the skin was red and looked a bit raw, but it wasn't really that bad. With a little care it would be all right. The medic nodded once, to herself. For a moment she almost looked as if she was going to smile at Steve, but then she changed her mind. "I'm going to give you a little something for the pain, anyway, even if it's not all that bad," she said, and before Steve could say anything, she unceremoniously stuck the shot into his upper arm .
"I already got an analgesic," Steve remarked, resigned.
"Not enough of it, evidently" the medic snapped. "I'm letting this air out a moment, then I'll dress it. Better to be on the safe side."
Tony let out a breath, slowly. Steve looked at him. Tony opened his mouth, aware he was just standing there like an idiot, essentially waiting for Steve to take the rest of his clothes off. In the end what he managed to say was: "Hey, Cap. You all right?"
Steve just nodded, because he was talkative like that and you could always count on him to pick up a conversation if it was limping.
"Go on, then. Hurry," the medic said, and, albeit reluctantly, Steve obliged. He pulled the rest of the protection suit off. He was now in his top and fatigues. The clothing didn't seem damaged anywhere else. Steve obviously didn't have any other burns.
Tony wasn't sure if he could handle seeing him strip any further, now that it would – essentially – be just for fun. I'm just waiting here so I can talk to him afterwards. But he had no idea what to say to him and was now seriously escape as a possibility.
"You?" Steve asked after what seemed like enough time for a birth and death of a star. "Okay?"
And – oh, hell – off came the top.
Tony gave an amalgam of a nod and a shrug. Either it was nonchalance incarnate or he looked like he was having a fit. No way to know, really. He very much wasn't staring at Steve's bare chest.
The fatigues would be next, sweet gods. How's he supposed to handle this? Was it really necessary to make people strip in the fucking landing bay? The medbay was small, true, and already full of wounded pilots, and they probably transported only serious cases over there. But still.
Desperately, Tony looked around. Yep. A number of people was in various stages of undress, or sat there wrapped in blankets, while even more of them waited to be further harassed by the medical staff.
"Is this really necessary?" Steve muttered, his hands lingering on the waistband of his pants. "The legs are fine."
"I've no doubt your legs are very fine," the medic said dryly. "I still need to inspect them for trauma."
She was right. The legs were indeed very fine. Not that Tony had had any doubts.
As Steve was putting the fatigues back on, the medic frowned. She appeared too be listening to her comm.
"You there," she said, and it took Tony a moment to realize she was talking to him.
"Yeah?"
"You seem like a sensible person." She tossed him two small packages. "Wipe your hands with a disinfectant, then apply this crap to his burn. You're not doing anything anyway. I'll be back in a jiffy."
And just like that, Tony and Steve were left alone. It was perhaps a ridiculous thing to think, in an overcrowded landing bay turned field hospital, but that was how it seemed to Tony.
Still very naked from waist up, Steve sat back down on the gurney. Kind of heavily. The movement was, if anything, devoid of his usual grace. Were his eyes getting a tad bleary or was Tony imagining it? Must be the painkillers at work.
"Blanket," Tony muttered and grabbed one from the pile next to the gurney. He was about to toss it to Steve, but his hands had a different idea altogether. Before he knew it, he was wrapping it around Steve's shoulders, ever so gently, taking care not to touch the cloth to the injured forearm..
"You don't have to," Steve said so softly that for a moment Tony wondered if he'd heard him at all.
"Yeah, yeah, you're fine, we heard," Tony muttered as if to himself. The awareness of Steve's bare skin, so close to his fingertips, was burning its way into his synapses. His breaths were getting shorter. All he needed to do was to brush his fingers against Steve's chest; it would be an accident; no one could say it wasn't. He could...
His movements very precise and deliberate, he let go of the blanket, now wrapped warmly around Steve's shoulders, and took a step back. For a moment he allowed himself to admire his handiwork. Then he remembered he had more pressing business to attend to.
He took his time disinfecting his hands. When he finished, his breath came more easily and his heart had decided to chill the fuck out, thankfully.
He even felt so gutsy he dared a long look at Steve. Seated on the gurney and leaning back on his left hand, Steve seemed strangely at peace.
"I actually have to do this, you know," Tony said, gesturing with the package the medic had given him.
Steve shrugged one shoulder minuscully. "I'd rather have you do it than the medic." A small smile was playing around his lips, and it had to be the painkiller, it just had to be. If Tony thought those soft looks were coming from Steve himself, he might have kissed him on the spot, everything be damned.
Steve must have read some of it on Tony's face, because: "I meant, because there must be other people who require her attention." He sounded so serious. Apparently, his painkiller-addled brain didn't become scattered all over the place, the way it happened with regular people, but rather very linear, focused on just one thing while all the others faded away into a fog. His speech was just a little bit slurred, and – yeah, still hoarse, which Tony didn't like at all.
"The arm," he said. "All right, Cap?" His voice was all business, now – with an effort. But when Steve extended his forearm, Tony took it in a gentlest of grips, his fingers wrapped about Steve's wrist, his thumb resting lightly on the spot where Steve's pulse danced to a steady beat.
He thought a shiver went through Steve, but it was probably just chills. Good that Tony had given him a blanket.
Tony made as if to crouch in front of him, but it became clear at once that wasn't going to work very well. In the end he sat down on the gurney next to Steve, pulling his arm gently onto his own lap.
He swallowed. This was medical attention. He was helping out. It shouldn't feel so intimate, so much like... forbidden fruit.
He dipped a finger into the gel he was supposed to put onto the burn, then applied a smidgen of it to the edge of the reddened skin. "All right?" he asked, venturing a look up, at the Steve's face that was – oh, dammit – definitely too close to his own. Steve's eyes were big and bright – and, yes, still red-rimmed.
"It's some kind of a cooling gel," Steve said. "Feels good."
Slowly, using just his fingertips, Tony spread the gel all over the burn area in small, rhythmic circles. The gel was cool against his skin. Steve's arm was, by contrast, like a hot stove. As Tony worked to cover the injured forearm with the thick, viscous gel, Steve closed his eyes for a second, his eyelids fluttering. Tony caught it, even though he surely wasn't supposed to.
He needed to talk, to distract himself. Pronto.
"So. A chemical fire, eh?" He said the first thing that popped into his head. His own voice sounded sharp in his ears, as it cut the plushy silence that had somehow come to hang between them.
It was Steve's turn to perform the nod-shrug-nod sequence of utter nonchalance. Tony had been right. It did look a bit like a seizure.
Steve coughed. It wasn't long or terrible, but Tony knew what it meant.
"Got a lungful?" he heard himself say, and the dry throat and the absence of brains evidently made him sound pissed – again – because Steve gave him a mildly taken aback look.
"What?"
"You inhaled smoke. Didn't you?" Tony made an effort to make his voice more normal, for the, it seemed, umpteenth time during this conversation.
Tony's worry, like his attentions earlier, had to be unwanted. He knew that. The two of them had chatted over the comms, yeah, but, in retrospect, it had to be Steve the superior officer helping the green cadet stay calm. Nothing more, nothing less. Tony had no business demanding answers about his condition, but screw that, he thought and shrugged defiantly.
And what about everything else? All the little signals? Is it all just painkillers?
"Look, Tony, it's not... I heal really fast. I'll be fine." Steve didn't sound annoyed, though. A bit stubborn, maybe. He was staring at his lap. And when he looked up at Tony, for just one bright second, his eyes were smiling warmly, even though his lips were controlled. Then he looked back down. Tony could live off that look for days, if he let himself be pathetic. How deep are you gone for him, exactly? The thought surfaced again. But that wasn't what was important right now; that could wait.
"Will you put the oxygen mask back on?" Tony knew he had no business insisting and didn't care one bit.
Steve sighed, but he obliged. "Are you worried about me, Tony?"
The soft, suddenly gentle question was too much for Tony to bear. He'd finished applying the gel; he was now just holding Steve's wrist on his lap. He didn't know how to let it go without making it clear how self-conscious he was about the whole business. It was getting weird very rapidly. And Steve's question? The painkillers speaking. It had to be. Steve would never say something like that to Tony otherwise. He let go of Steve's wrist and returned the arm onto the guy's lap. It was painfully awkward, all of it.
Desperately, Tony cast about for something to divert attention.
He'd forgotten about their surroundings. In his mind, the two of them were an island in the sea of white noise, but now he again became aware of where they were. The sea melted back into a multitude of people, milling about, doubtlessly doing very useful things, even though, for all the world, they looked as if they were aimlessly ambling from spot A to spot Be for no apparent reason.
"Nonsense," Tony muttered, unconvincingly. Aware of insufficiency of this, he jumped to his feet, looking around. A group of techs had spotted them and were coming over, damn them, bless them. Tony grabbed the nearest one by the shoulder, cordially, by way of distraction. "Cap, let me introduce you to someone. This is... Zeke."
"Janet," said Janet dryly and wriggled deftly from his grasp. "Let go, Tony."
"Yes, okay, the names. I got the point," Steve was saying with a small grin.
At the same time: "Captain Rogers was very brave," someone stated by Tony's elbow just as Steve let out an amused snort. Irritated, Tony turned to see Justin Hammer, appearing out of nowhere and insinuating himself into his personal space. Capital.
"He waded straight into the very center of the fire and extinguished it before anything else went boom," Hammer continued in his faux friendly manner, nudging Tony with his elbow as if he'd said something remotely amusing. "We all did our part, of course," he continued. "Every one of us showed a lot of courage – I, for example... Well, it would be crude to praise myself." He looked around for a moment, as if expecting one or two of the techs to step in, say something. They just sort of looked at one another uncomfortably. Hammer didn't lose a beat, though. "In any case, let us use this opportunity to end the rivalry between the pilots and the techs." He extended his hand. "Let us shake on it. What do you say, Tony?"
Tony rolled his eyes. "I say fuck off," he snapped and shoved his way past. In the sudden silence, his words seemed to echo. It was as if everyone had gone silent right then, and the whole landing bay was staring at them. Hammer's neck blushed bright red as he pretended to laugh it off.
Tony did exchange a few words with the other techs in the group, in order to make it clear to them it was only Hammer he was rudely ignoring. They seemed to get it. Still, as soon as he could, he turned to go back to the gurney, and to Steve.
"What's all this?"
The medic was back in her full, glaring glory. She rounded on the techs. "Who are you, people? Have you been looked over? Yes? Good, then, I'm sure you can find something useful to do away from here." Tony half expected her to shoo him away as well, but she seemed to have accepted him and Steve as a package deal, somehow.
Tony was distantly aware of Hammer finally moving away with the rest of the techs, but Tony didn't pay him any mind now; he lowered himself back onto the gurney next to Steve – a spot he felt he'd deserved – and watched the medic put the dressing on the wound. Some kind of clear, plasticky material clung to Steve's arm like a medusa and shaped itself around it until it practically became a part of it.
Tony cast a look at Steve's face from a corner of his eye; looked away, quickly. He was pretty sure Steve was sneaking glances right back. And it was ridiculous, but it made Tony want to smile so hard he had to fight the urge with all he had. His knees were watery, but that must have been exhaustion. He sneaked another look. For a nanosecond, their gazes met, then they both looked down.
While the medic was finishing her work, Tony and Steve let the silence stretch. Just sitting together. What was going on in Tony's chest right then could perhaps be compared to petals slowly opening, one by one. It felt warm, and red, but not like fire (he shuddered at a thought of fire). Because, up until then he could try telling himself that he didn't know Steve for real, didn't know what he was like; was he selfish, perhaps, or a coward? Tony couldn't know that. He'd seen him act kindly towards others, yes, but that didn't have to mean anything. Anyone could act kindly and patiently when there wasn't a crisis at hand. Tony'd never seen him in action before. Before, he kept telling himself that the feelings that were hatching inside him weren't rooted in reality.
Well, that was debunked now, wasn't it? Steve had rushed into the fire, alone, in a crappy suit, and done away with most of the aforementioned crisis. For fuck's sake. How was Tony supposed to deal with that? How was he supposed not to fall in love with someone idiotic like that?
"You just had to be all selfless and noble, did you?" he muttered resentfully.
"It wasn't like that," Steve said, shaking his head with some vehemence. This just rooted Tony firmer in the belief that it had been exactly like that. Because Steve had to be modest, too. Of course he did. That was just Tony's luck.
"Yeah, I'm sure it wasn't," Tony said dryly.
That stupid comment... Why the fuck did I have to say it aloud? His words had broken the spell. They had dispersed the cloud of quiet companionship that had somehow descended upon them.
"No," Steve said, and Tony had a distinct impression he just said it because he didn't know what else to say. The guy was now looking at his dressing quite studiously.
This was becoming very uncomfortable very rapidly, and when the medic seemed to zero in on Tony, as if seeing him for the first time, he almost welcomed it.
"Have you been looked over?"
"No, but I'm fine," he said quickly – too quickly, apparently, if one could judge by the narrowing of the medic's eyes. "I wasn't even here. I wasn't in the fire, I was just doing some repairs, nothing wrong with me." And, since the babbling didn't seem to work: "Look, I'm not taking the suit off here, I'm completely naked underneath; don't ask." Because of course he was. He'd tossed the towel aside and pulled on the protection suit. Aw, this should be a huge fun.
If he'd expected some kind of solicitous reaction, he should have known better. She just arched an eyebrow.
"Oh, you're naked under your clothes," she said dryly. "I've never seen anything like it in my life. Strip, mister. Stop wasting my time. If you're all right, don't keep me from the people who aren't" Then, to herself, she muttered something that sounded suspiciously like: "Fucking pilots."
***
The aftermath was a bit of a haze, but the sight of Tony arriving in his oil-smeared suit definitely brightened Steve's day. Tony's hair was in total disarray when he pulled his helmet off. He drew Steve's gaze like a magnet and Steve couldn't stop himself from smiling.
Tony. Tony was so competent – he'd basically saved the day. And he was coming over, right towards Steve, checking up on him, fussing over him. Wrapping him in blankets. Dressing his injuries. Good gods. He'd have done it for anyone, Steve thought at himself sternly. He'd been wrong about Tony all right. Tony worried for everyone. He cared. About Steve as much as anyone else, probably.
He didn't go to sit by anybody else's side, though, a traitorous voice in his head pointed out.
Tony had literally sat there holding his hand. His fingers had been gentle, feather-light, as he applied the gel, even though Steve could feel every callus. He'd stared at the back of Tony's hand, because otherwise he would have stared into Tony's eyes. He could now recognize that hand anywhere.
Steve hated painkillers, hated the warm, foamy feeling that enveloped you like a hot bath and made it look like a good idea to sit on a gurney with a man you're not allowed to fall in love with, and let him hold your hand, and treasure his closeness, and even close your eyes to savor it better. He really, really, really hated painkillers.
They exchanged a few words only, all in all. In retrospect, Steve could barely remember what they'd talked about, apart from asking after each other's health. It felt like more than that, though. It almost felt like something you thought about right before you fell asleep, something you allowed yourself to bask in; and then, tomorrow you ordered yourself to stop already, even though you knew you wouldn't listen.
The medic had eventually appropriated Tony for a checkup, and Steve was strangely grateful for a chance to slip away. He needed to wipe the sweat from his eyes, have a drink of water, collect his thoughts. (Collect his thoughts most of all, really.) His heart was thumping in his chest, more intensely then when he had gone into the fire. He was almost surprised the people around him didn't hear it. He could feel his cheeks heating up. He tried telling himself he was being stupid, but no use. He both wanted to talk to Tony and didn't, to sit by him on the gurney forever and to run away. Torn by the opposing impulses, he was satisfied to move away. And then, imagining the hubbub of the activity somehow camouflaged him, he stopped and took one long, lingering look at Tony, half-naked, the protection suit bunched about his waist, as the medic took his pulse and scanned him for injuries.
Natasha found him like that. She was a ghost of a hand on his shoulder, a strangely sharp hiss in his ear. "Got an eyeful?" He had enough presence of mind not to jump. He just turned towards her with what he imagined to be a small self-deprecating smile and shrugged.
"You've no reason to act pissed," he informed her quietly, as he regarded her expressionless face, her perfect eyebrows. She inclined her head noncommittally. Of course she would be angry with him, because he'd rushed headlong into danger without taking real backup – even Tony and Thor had been rather incidental. And she was probably right, in retrospect, but that was no way to gauge your decisions. When the situation was urgent and there was no time, you made the best call you could and you had to hope it would turn out okay. And you couldn't let your decisions be questioned by your troops, even if the said troops were your friends. Steve was always happy to consult with Nat and the others, but that was different. That was at his own discretion.
His thoughts still felt muddled, stale from the painkillers. He wasn't going to get into this with Natasha, not now. He just gave her a steady, unwavering look, and she blinked at him impassively for a moment; a muted battle of wills. A few seconds later Nat shrugged one shoulder slightly, looked away and turned to go.
"I believe the XO's on the line for you," she tossed lightly over her shoulder.
So, the telephone lines were working again. Oh, joy. He turned to go to a telephone on the wall by the corridor entrance. The handset didn't look too damaged.
A quiet chorus of regrets and doubts was whispering in his ear as he walked; why had he made friends with his pilots, why did he have to accept this post, where Natasha was already serving, why could he not have kept his distance, the way he should have? In the end you just watched everyone die, and you went on and on and on.
While Hill questioned him sharply, tersely over the phone – and as he answered even more curtly, he found his eyes drawn towards Tony again. He was now finished with his physical checkup. Steve fought to keep the smile out of his voice as he watched the techs surrounding him and Hope, clapping them on the back, seemingly asking them a million questions. Steve couldn't hear them over the din, but he could see Tony's grin, could see him drink it all in – the attention, the praise. Like a proud cat basking in sunlight. Steve knew this wasn't the end of it, he knew Hill would summon him to her office for a detailed report when things settled down. And then there will probably be a less formal talk with Commander Fury, too, and the old man would offer him a drink and tell him how they needed him, how he shouldn't run into danger head-first like that because he was indispensable to Eirene. And Steve would hate every minute of it, because he would feel guilty, but he'd know he'd do it again in a blink. He'd always rather rush into danger himself than send someone else to do the job, always, always.
***
Tony escaped into the corridor, spurred on by a vague idea he'd head to the pilot's deck and have another shower. This time he'd crash into bed right after and hopefully get a few hours of sleep before his shift started again. He and Hope hadn't repaired the damage for real. They had at best patched it up; it would hold for now, but for two people to do the job of five or six or ten, and in such a short time too – that would be impossible. Still, since the acute crisis was averted, Darryl had taken a team of competent, uninjured and fresh people and began the proper works on the damage. Some parts would need to be changed, some could be repaired, but it wasn't undoable. Everything would most probably turn out all right – right up to the next disaster.
He barely made it into the corridor. When he heard the footsteps behind him, it was already too late. Steve was catching up with him.
Tony bit the inside of his cheek. He turned to wait for him, because it would probably be rude not to and because he very much wanted to. More than was good for him, in all probability.
It's stupid to have your heart beat like that in your chest, isn't it? He drummed his fingers against his suited thigh and tried for casualness. He failed even before he began, because Steve was so blue eyed, and somehow the mouse-gray top flattered his complexion even though it would have made anyone else look drab, and because, when he reached Tony, Steve stood for a moment, obviously at a loss for what to say. That was just too much. His obvious chagrin was too precious. Tony had a ridiculous urge to touch his fingertips to Steve's cheek. Just that.
Steve didn't look addled by the painkillers any longer, though. He had shaken off the effects in a record time, then; he must have an amazing metabolism. Either that or Tony had stayed in the landing bay longer than he thought. There had been a lot of people milling around, wanting to talk to him, asking about the damage, congratulating him. He'd felt almost as if he was attending one of his galas, back home. He wore his protection suit as if it were a three-piece, and he schmoozed with the smudgy and the bandaged. He smiled as if he was selling something, because that was what his lips did when he was thinking of other things. And all the while his eyes kept wandering away, looking for a blond head of hair and a pair of broad shoulders. He couldn't help it.
As far as Tony could tell, Steve did his best to stay on the sidelines, to help where help was still needed and possibly to slip away. But there were too many people who wanted to thank him and shake his hand or whatever. Only Natasha seemed to be giving him a hard time, only to keep casting worried looks at his back when he wasn't looking.
Tony's eyes had met hers over the distance, and she seemingly tried to tell him something with that look, although he had not the slightest idea what.
Strangely enough, his eyes never locked on Steve's. He was doing his best not to look over, true. Maybe Steve was avoiding him as well. Maybe what happened on that gurney was too much. For the umpteenth time Tony promised himself to stay away and leave the guy alone, especially if Steve was in a mild state of brain fog due to exhaustion and painkillers.
Still, all this made no sense now that Steve had actually caught up to him, here in the corridor.
And he apparently had no idea what to say to Tony once he did.
In the end he evidently thought it a good idea to go with, "You did very well today, Stark." Maybe because it sounded stiff, a bit too rehearsed, or maybe because he was apparently back to being 'Stark', Tony felt his lips tighten. He didn't need praise from Steve. No, bullshit. He did, and hated himself for it. And what else he needed from Steve was a whole another story. For whatever reason, that was never happening. (And still Steve came chasing after him, and Tony had no idea what that was about.)
He shrugged; said nothing. They stared at each other for a moment; a minute. When it became awkward, they both fell into step, automatically, just to save the situation.
"All right there, Cap?" Tony asked lightly. It was as if he was stuck in a loop. This seemed the one and only sentence he was able to say to Steve.
Steve swallowed audibly. Tried again. "This was your first piece of action. You acted bravely..."
You acted like an idiot, Tony wanted to snap, but clamped his mouth shut. He could just see Steve in his mind's eye, barging into the fire, all by himself. Admiration had absolutely no business showing up for something so asinine, really. I'd have gone with you, he wanted to say; didn't.
Steve rubbed his forehead for a second, as if looking for lost words. The gesture was so spontaneous and somehow endearing that Tony softened immediately. He couldn't quite look away. His throat was tight and his mind was a little foggy; he felt frozen in place. Every step they took lasted years. Steve was too close for comfort.
"Why..." Tony started. Why didn't you take more backup? If not for me and Thor randomly showing up, you'd have gone down alone. Isn't the whole military hoopla supposed to be about delegating?
But Steve had started speaking exactly at the same time: "Why do you pretend you don't give a damn?" Steve turned his head, looked him straight in the eye, with a very earnest expression on his face.
Tony blinked as if he'd been caught doing something embarrassing. "What?"
"I could see how much you cared," Steve said, his eyes piercing, and Tony was perfectly sure there was nothing of the analgesic fog left in his system.
"Well," Tony said, wishing fervently he could run away – well, all right, not run away, but retreat to somewhere else in a grandiose manner, at any rate. Very sedately. He cleared his throat. "Now that you know my dirty little secret, can you keep it to yourself or are you going to rattle it off to the tabloids?"
Steve laughed out, once. He looked mildly surprised at his own reaction.
Okay, crisis averted, Tony thought feverishly. He didn't want to answer any difficult questions right now. Time to go on an offensive. "How come we're not talking about the fact you promptly sent Thor and me away so that you could risk your pretty neck all by yourself, oh, crap, this is inappropriate, isn't it, I went too far with this, didn't I?" he finished, failing to smile.
Steve gave his semi-amused nod, and Tony thought it was probably worrisome he could identify Steve's semi-amused nod. Also, the semi-amused meant only that there was another 'semi' in there, and that 'semi' was quite serious.
Tony realized he was staring at the slightly flattened lips; staring quite noticeably, probably. The lips were saying watch it, but a spark in Steve's eyes was definitely irreverent. Only, with him, it was usually the lips that won the round, and Tony was kind of getting lost in his own metaphors now... Still, one thing was for sure. Steve never let go completely of his Captain persona, at least not that Tony saw. It was always somewhere in the back, waiting to step out like a frowning guardsman and warn Tony to keep his distance.
Even when, like now, Steve hurried after Tony without a real reason, just to – Tony was becoming very convinced of this – chat idly to him.
Captain Mixed Signals, Tony thought ruefully, and for the umpteenth time he wondered what was so wrong with him that Steve persistently refused to take him into consideration, despite the fact the guy was obviously attracted to him...
He sighed. Took a deep breath. Remembered what they were to each other, out there in real life, outside of this corridor and this weird little conversation that seemed to contain so much more than what was being said.
"Sorry, Cap," he said, trying to sound as honest as he could and probably failing. "I... It's sometimes difficult for me to remember the hierarchy, you know? Which you probably noticed. I'm not a soldier. Well, you probably noticed that as well."
Steve frowned noncommittally. "Speaking of soldiers..." He paused for a second. "Why did you leave the academy?" he asked instead of acknowledging any of this. His voice sounded genuinely curious.
And what a diplomatic way to refer to that mess, Tony thought. He knows. He must. Why's he asking me this now? Or did Fury keep it out of the records? "I was kicked out," he said lightly. "A discipline violation, first class. Inconceivable, for someone like me, I know" he added wryly.
"I don't know what you were like at eighteen," Steve replied as if he was not sold on this at all.
Fury used to call me Hellion, Tony wanted to say, but didn't.
"Well, I wasn't a good fit," Tony said. A beat. "I'm still not." Then he realized this might sound like some weird fishing for compliments thing, so he raised his hand to stop Steve, but the protestation wasn't coming.
Steve just inclined his head and regarded him curiously for a moment. "We'll see about that, won't we," he said in the end. Tony could have kissed him at that moment, for the lack of empty platitudes and stupid words of encouragement. Or, he reflected, he could just kiss him for no reason at all. "But today was fine," Steve went on. "You kept a cool head. Did what needed doing. That was enough."
Those words, coming from Steve, warmed him like sunlight. And they shouldn't; if they came from someone else, they wouldn't have. They'd have rang empty and Tony wouldn't have given a fuck about them, but from Steve... How do I fight this? he thought. It was easier when Steve pushed him away, when he was cold. This was unbearable. Tony twisted his lips wryly and nodded. "That was exactly the reason I left the tech, you know," he said. He thought he sounded vaguely defiant. "I wanted in on the action. Not to be on the sidelines, repairing things while the others have all the fun." His cheek twitched. His stomach felt like a closed fist. The more it constricted with too much emotion, the more flippant he sounded. He needed to erase this conversation from existence, somehow; there was too much heart in it. Erase it and walk away.
"You're doing it again – the not giving a damn thing – but now I don't believe you," Steve said, and how could he sound both mild and stubborn at the same time? When exactly had they stopped walking and turned to face each other? How had they ended up so close? Tony could almost feel Steve's breath on his face, or was that just a draft? All of a sudden, he didn't know where to look, but Steve caught his gaze and held it.
"You don't have to tell me," he said calmly, soberly. "About the academy. But if you ever wanted to, I'm interested to hear the story."
So formal, so precise. That's your way of keeping everything under control, is it? When you're not exactly in control. Somehow, the realization just clicked into place . A million other situations with Steve now made a whole different kind of sense. And he was so close, so close now, and he was looking into Tony's face with that earnestness of his. There was something so fundamentally honest about him that Tony suddenly wanted to tell him the whole story that nobody but Rhodey and Fury knew in full. Not because it was so important to hide it, but because telling it to people would mean sharing the burden; it made you feel lighter, afterwards. And Tony didn't want that. It was his own, self-imposed penance, to keep that story close to his heart, always, and not let its impact lessen with time.
"I... endangered someone who was my responsibility," he said slowly. "Back in school. Out of recklessness, and because it was fun. Despite the orders, obviously. That's it, that's the whole story. I was an asshole. Couldn't stay after that."
"Thank you," Steve said, and he sounded strangely hoarse. (And it wasn't from the smoke; the smoke hoarseness had gone away as quickly as the effects of the painkillers. A freako metabolism, indeed.)
As he said his thank you, he stared into Tony's eyes for too long – way longer than what could be considered socially acceptable, or, well, nonsexual. And Tony was standing there, motionless like a statue, and Steve was all to close, and it took just a speck of imagination to picture Steve leaning forward and pressing his lips against Tony's and pressing his body into Tony's. Tony's breath was coming in short gasps and blood was beating in his ears.
Like in a dream, slowly, he raised his right hand and touched his fingertips to the biceps of Steve's good arm where it bulged from the gray top. It was a slightest brush, a ghost of a touch, almost not there at all.
"Tony... don't," Steve said very softly. His own voice seemed to be caressing Tony and belying Steve's own words. "Please." It was nothing like what had happened in the flight simulator. Still, the memory of that was enough to jar Tony out of his reverie, to make him take a step back and collide with the bulkhead. (How he'd love to have Steve press him against that bulkhead, but that just didn't bear thinking about.)
He knew his voice was going to be croaky even before he started speaking. "Tell me I'm crazy," he said. "Tell me there's nothing going on here and I'm just crazy."
"You're not crazy," Steve said quietly, levelly. "But I can't, Tony. Please understand."
"Why ever the fuck not?" Tony wanted to yell these words, his muscles tight with sudden frustration, but even if he'd tried, his throat was suddenly too dry to oblige.
The breath Steve took was audible. "There are... fraternization rules," he said. It was almost a whisper. "You're my cadet. I'm your captain. It's not done."
Tony frowned for a second, found a perfect solution in a blink. "Okay, so when I'm a pilot..."
"No," Steve said regretfully. "Still not possible."
This was... irritating. This heartbreaking situation, this thing that hampered something Tony had come to desire with all his heart – it was positively... irritating. "Aw come on," he snapped. "Even out here? This side of the red line? Who's gonna mind? Who's gonna care?"
"I am," Steve said simply and somehow very finally.
"And would you also care to explain that?" Tony said, then heard the way he sounded. He ran a hand over his face, shook his head. "Sorry," he said, and Steve nodded. "Long day. Just... long day."
"It's not right," Steve said, and proceeded to explain about favoritism, about the effect on the other cadets, about the importance of Steve himself following the rules, because if he was seen waving them off, everyone was going to wave them off; and the situation they were in, it was in a precarious balance, and sometimes following the rules was what actually kept you human when it would be so easy to break down and become something less than that.
And as much as Tony wanted to dismiss this, he had to admit it made a certain convoluted kind of sense. Besides, it didn't matter if he agreed with it or not. It was Steve's decision. This was what Steve wanted, and Tony could only be grateful he finally had an explanation.
He looked away. "Thank you for telling me," he said, aware he probably sounded a tad broken. Hated himself for it, because, despite all the newfound honesty, something in him protested – he couldn't let Steve know how much he actually cared, how much he wanted this.
Ridiculously much, that was how much.
He needed to shut up now and respect Steve's decision. Try to be gracious for once in his life.
"But you do think I'm hot, don't you?" he heard himself say, and then, since it was out already, he just plunged on. What other choice did he have now? "Just tell me that one thing. Just admit it."
Steve's arms rose as if he was going to grab Tony and pull him close. Then they fell back down. "Yes, Tony," Steve said softly. "I find you very attractive."
It shot through Tony like a thrill, like a lightning, and he felt it in his chest, and he felt it in his groin, warm and tight. The words that could set him on fire in two easy seconds. Pity that wasn't ever happening, eh?
You like me and you can't stay away and you come after me here, to... what? Talk? What??
"So, why are you here?" he asked. And his voice wasn't harsh. He wanted to grab Steve by the shoulders and shake his stupid ideals out of him and then kiss him silly, but his voice wasn't harsh.
Then a sudden thought occurred to him. Was that what Steve wanted? Did he want Tony to make that decision for him? Relieve him of the responsibility? Was it why he was here?
No, Tony thought, not Mr. Integrity. Not Steve. "Why are you here, then?" he repeated very softly. "What do you want?"
It didn't take a beat for Steve to respond. "How about: a friend?"
It was so frank and earnest that Tony had to stop for a moment. To swallow. To recalibrate. He stood there blinking for a second. "Yeah, all right," he blurted. "Doable."
Steve treated him with a softest small smile.
It wasn't your regular 'let's be friends' some people served you. Steve wasn't trying to let him down easy. What Steve said – he meant. That much was clear to Tony. Friends, he thought. It wasn't that bad. It was actually... very much not bad. It was the very opposite of bad. If all Tony wanted from Steve was a good fuck, he'd be calling bullshit right about now, at least in the privacy of his own head. He wasn't. If he needed any further proof of his own feelings, this was it.
It took him a moment to identify the nature of the warmth in his chest cavity. He was happy that Steve not only lusted after him, but also wanted him in his life in some capacity. Tony was feeling flattered.
I must never let him notice, was Tony's first, panicky thought.
They walked towards the elevator, side by side, bumping elbows, and Tony was saturated in warm glow, a golden feeling, as if this was going to lead somewhere, somewhere good and right, and not stay frozen mid-motion forever, the way it had to.