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cap_ironman2008-09-15 07:10 pm
simmysim.livejournal.com) wrote in cap_ironman2008-09-15 07:10 pm
Entry tags:
A fic
Title: Precious Illusion
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 4,300
Summary: Steve comes back to life but things aren't quite the way he left them.
Author's Note: There are no penises in this fic, which is weird for me. Actually, there are penises, they just aren't mentioned. Anytime it's not stated otherwise, everyone is totally naked. THANK YOU SO MUCH![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
onewayfreak.
Steve manages to spend an entire two months alive (again) without seeing Iron Man.
He kept meaning to, but having his back slapped by every single person he'd ever met in his entire life, and a few extras he'd never seen before but needed visual proof, is surprisingly time consuming.
There's also the fact that Tony didn't want to see him -- because there's no way Tony didn't know, and if he'd wanted to see Steve, there's hardly a force on heaven or earth that could stop him -- which hung heavy and bitter, made any attempt at contact somewhat futile. As if their friendship had been some hidden cost for breathing, eating, sleeping again. Like he'd traded its life for his own. As if they hadn't both gleefully assailed it with their pride and anger before he died, but they had, and now he's just reaping the consequences.
It just seemed like a new start, coming back this time around. The fight seemed distant, nearly forgotten and being reminded of it had been unpleasant, to say the least. He isn't angry anymore, but then, Tony hadn't died, and come back, and probably has every right to be.
When they finally meet, though -- Steve's back to the wall, pinned by a creature that's three times too large, smelly and grimy to be allowed anywhere on earth, let alone downtown Buffalo -- it's like they never fought to begin with.
A flash of gold and red, the sound of repulsors, and Tony's got a grip on the howling troll's neck, pulling back even as it lunges forward. Wild eyes flit over Tony before focusing back on Steve; obviously a suit of tin isn't nearly as tasty as a man wrapped in bright blue.
Thankfully, Steve's battle instinct is stronger than any urge to gape stupidly at the figure he hadn't seen in what felt like forever, and he wriggles free via the hole Iron Man created for him, dropping smoothly to the ground. "Tony--" But; talk later, get rid of the troll now. "Thanks for the hand!"
"My pleasure," Iron Man says, finally releasing the beast, and its own momentum sends it headlong into the wall. It would've taken Steve maybe a half hour to finish it off on his own, they get it done in ten minutes. Falling seamlessly into routine, Steve distracts and Tony hits, and they knock it out cold.
"Tony," Steve says again, once the city is monsterless, and they're sweaty face to grimy faceplate. There's a lot that needs to be said, none of it seems appropriate for a semi-demolished side street. "It's good to see you," he settles on.
"Yes. I've been -- busy lately. Sorry. You're alive and that's good, I should've said that earlier," Tony says, sounding scattered in a way that would be perfectly normal coming from a slightly flustered human, bizarre and stilted from a robot.
"Yeah, well," Steve says, grips Iron Man's shoulder -- a gesture that's always seemed somewhat useless, it's not as though Tony can feel it, but Steve goes through the motions anyway. He wishes Tony would lift the mask. "I should've found you. We need to catch up." Put things behind them properly. Officially.
Tony pauses. Nods, once. "Later, we will," and flies off.
*
"What's the good word?" Peter asks, returning Steve's uncontrollable smile automatically. Steve's seen quite a bit of the younger man over the past two months. He's been hard to avoid, even, popping out of corners and shadows as aptly as any melodrama villain, as though letting Steve out of his sight was the reason he died to begin with.
"Just saw Tony," Steve says, is still surprised at how much brighter, how much righter the world is with the knowledge that Tony Stark is talking to him, even as brief as the talking had been.
Peter blinks, and his face falls, just like that. "Oh. Yeah, I haven't . . . I need to stop by. It's just, you know. Hospitals."
*
Obviously, the muscle tone's gone, but atrophy has not, and will not, set in.
Tony's body is moved every so often, the nurse told him, to prevent bed rash, but it's pointless routine as that'd never be a problem, either. He's pale, paler than Steve's ever seen him. They shaved off his mustache and goatee, his face is strangely naked, empty, without them, but . . . he looks fine. He looks asleep, like he's got a particularly bad cold.
"It's the Extremis," Steve tenses slightly; distracted enough by the body on the bed that Jim Rhodes's sudden voice in the doorway is a surprise. "You were wondering how it looks like he's about to get up any minute, immediately try to climb into his suit and actually kill himself?"
"Something like that."
"Yeah, it's Extremis," he says. "It keeps the power on, but no one's home." He claps a hand on Steve's shoulder as he passes, settles into a chair beside the bed in an obviously familiar routine. "Surprised it took you this long to come."
"Just found out," Steve mutters, feeling like a monster, a gigantic heel. Out of place in this room, in a horrifically new way he didn't think possible; he's become old hat at feeling out of place.
"No one told you?"
Steve shrugs. It had been hectic. Barely seeing anyone for any prolonged period of time. He hadn't asked. He'd assumed. "What happened?"
Rhodes sighs. "It was stupid." And dangerous, stupid and dangerous, Tony's specialties. A job he had no business doing, without protection, without training; he'd disabled an electric current some psycho hooked up to New York's water supply, slipped up, sent all of it directly up his spine.
To his brain, and it fried, and he's laying in hospital, Steve breathes in sharply through his nose, because his jaw is clenched tight, and he wants to hit something, but there's nothing to hit, and there's no one to yell at.
"Who's in the suit?" he asks, suddenly.
Rhodes snorts. "Which one? Iron Man's all over the map these days. I figure they're modified versions of the ones he gave to SHIELD, some cadets carrying the mantle--" Steve's expression must've given something away, some particularly angry, unsettled. "Hey," Rhodes adds. "They're doing good work. I would've put an end to it months ago if they were screwing around -- I know how much that meant to him."
Tony's body doesn't shift. The lungs fill with air then expel it, and the heart thumps, but the face stays slack, lips slightly parted. They aren't dry. Steve knows this because he stares at them for quite some time. He turns to leave, finds himself lingering in the doorway.
"They're saying . . . " Rhodes says, after a while, then trails off again. "There's never been a case like this before, you know? His brain's fine. They've been saying voices help, there's still hope, don't give up. Keep paying us to light this room. They don't know. Realistically . . . there hasn't been any change. At all."
"But you're here."
"Yeah, well," he says. "Voices can't hurt."
*
"Hello, Cap."
"Who are you?"
A gold head, trimmed in bright red, cocks to the side. "I'm Iron Man."
"No. Iron Man is in a coma in East General. Who. Are you?" Steve bites out, the very sight, the sound of the suit hovering in front of him a growing irritation. Namesakes he understands. He doesn't mind that, honoring a legend, carrying a mantle, living an inspiration. What he doesn't like, what's making him want to pound this scrap of metal into the pavement, is manipulation. A game, a mockery. Grave digging. There's no way whoever is in that suit didn't realize what Steve thought. There's no way he hadn't played it.
Had it been amusing? Had he -- or she -- been laughing behind that facemask? Why else would they even bother?
"Tony Stark is gone," says that achingly familiar, mechanized voice. "And I'm better than he ever was."
Hot, blinding rage spills over. He's fought Tony's suits before, knows how to hit. He came prepared; Reed's disruptor isn't nearly as effective as Vision's arm, but the suit still crackles, sizzles, and the ground trembles slightly when it drops. Steve doesn't waste a second, he's been waiting for this since the hospital. He lunches forward, smashes into the chest plate, again, and again, and again, the violent sound of metal crushing metal ricocheting in the tight space. On its back now, Steve on top, the suit cracking and splintering with each impact of his shield. It's an eerily familiar sight, and that's only making him angrier, at himself, at Tony, for what he did, before, and what happened to him. He feels out of control, flushed and --
"Steve. Stop." Of course it doesn't sound worried, stressed, or particularly bothered at all. It's cold, stiff and mechanical. Somehow, though, he's learned to tell the difference -- that's a plead, not a command.
When it's not on, it's just metal. Flying, heavy chunks of metal. He drops his shield, and the mask peels free under the force of Steve's rage.
He stares into an empty helmet. An empty suit. Remote controlled?
"Who are you?" Steve snarls.
"I--" he knows the voice he hears has more to do with microphones and wires than a faceplate molded to resemble a human's, but it's still incredibly disconcerting to watch the empty thing talk. "Steve, I-- It's me. Tony. Iron Man. I just -- upgraded."
"What?"
Steve's not entirely sure -- his gut's telling him this is the truth, and that it's somehow -- how on earth could anything be worse than what he'd originally thought?
The anger's still there, but it's stumbled, fallen far enough away that it's a distant buzz. Numb. "What did you do?"
The suit's empty, still functioning arms force Steve off. He falls away, unresisting, as it blasts off into the air, faceplate flapping morbidly in the wind.
*
"Steve." And Steve freezes. He's in the middle of the sidewalk, and of course no one complains when he stops short. The tide of people just staring openly, silently, as they part to accommodate him, either because he's decked out in full Captain America regalia or -- he has no idea what his expression looks like. Whatever it is must be worth staring at.
"How did--" It's a stupid question. Tony makes phones from scratch, if he can inhabit a suit he can certainly call Steve. "What did you do?"
"I--flew away when we were having a conversation, that was irrational." Steve finally gets it together enough to step to the side, lean against a wall, but that's it. It's Tony's voice, not Iron Man's, Tony the human, but it's just as cool, mechanical. Stiff. Numbness in Steve's limbs does what it's been threatening to do for a while, gives way to dread.
"Where are you? What did you do to yourself -- why is your -- your body in a hospital?"
"You're mad at me."
"What did you do?"
"I made myself better," Tony says. Steve waits, but nothing else comes. He only realizes he's crushed the delicate pieces of phone to even tinier bits when they start biting his palm.
*
He's there. Steve has no idea when he gained the ability to tell, to detect the weight in the room, the subtle change when Tony enters. When he'd had a body of flesh, he assumed it was some unconscious registering of Tony's shifting weight, his steps. His breaths.
Maybe the machines hum just slightly louder, quieter. A different frequency. Maybe they really have spent enough time together for him to have developed a 6th Tony Sense.
Whatever the case, Tony's in the room with him, and he can tell.
"Why didn't you tell anyone?" Steve asks. Thinks of Rhodes in the chair Steve's currently occupying, talking to the shell on the bed.
Silence, and maybe Steve imagined it.
"Are you stuck?"
There's a buzz, faint at first but growing steadily, the machinery all around him picking up more and more static until it fades in and out, forming soft, but still recognizable words. "Not stuck."
Rhodes forgot a worn, dog-eared book on the side table, Steve stares at it intently. He hadn't quite -- grasped whatever Tony had become, and hearing it, evidence of whatever it is. Undeniable proof. He doesn't know what to say, what to think. Tony's always been good at pulling an incredible depth of emotion from him, he shouldn't be surprised it includes horrified as well.
"They deserve better," it's a barely whisper, he could pretend, quite easily, he doesn't hear it at all. If visiting hours weren't over, if the hospital weren't utterly silent behind, he probably wouldn't've anyway. "It's selfish. It's destructive. It's controlling, it's bad."
"He's my friend," Steve says, quiet because otherwise it'll be a yell. Teeth gritted and hands flexed.
Tony leaves.
*
There are near twenty Stark Industry logos on any given street in New York City, if you care enough to look. Any given magazine stand will have Tony's name, face and parodied likeness on a handful of issues. Crumpled on old magazines, on the sides of headphones, flashlights, tagged on news segments, Tony's fingerprints are everywhere. An unmistakable part of this city, this time.
Unavoidable, but he's not trying to avoid them. Just observing, distantly. Cataloging it all. There are things he should be doing, people he should be telling, breaking he should be mending, but processing it all is the most he can manage. And barely that.
This -- what Tony's done -- is finished, Steve is sure. There's no stopping it, the most is damage control. Still, he should be figuring out details. Something.
Just now, though, it's all he can manage to walk past a billboard that has Tony's calm, cool smile represented in dark, bold outlines, Consulting in the Future streaked underneath it, and not put his fist through a wall. He's not entirely surprised to find three messages from Tony waiting at home.
*
Tony watches him. In his apartment, as he goes about his next day, training, working, eating, sleeping. Living. Steve wonders how long its been, how many times in the past two months he's been stared at from various innocent electronics, silent and unnoticed. He doesn't think it's been often, to be honest.
Without his body -- without his flaws, his indulgences, Tony is remarkably cool and efficient, even for him. It's easy to see how everyone thought it several different people. Iron Man never stops. Constant movement, because there's always something to fix, and never a need to rest. Something, somewhere, street level or galactic, the new Iron Man -- shiny, polished, hollow -- is always ready.
Steve's phone mysteriously won't connect with Reed's, and he doesn't push it for now -- this hour, this day. He's curious to see how far Tony will go to stop him, if he'll actually try bodily force.
Of course Tony wants to get the Avengers back together. It's . . . idiotically optimistic, actually makes his chest ache to hear. Almost a mockery, the skeletal remains of his friend pretending -- or honestly believing -- everything is fine, just because Steve is back.
"It'll be like before," Steve's cell phone hums, loud enough that even though it's closed, he can still hear some sort attempt at happiness in that cold voice. "We could be a team, friends. I'm better than I was. I don't make mistakes anymore, Steve."
"You--" Steve closes his eyes. "Giving up your humanity doesn't make you better. I was friends with Tony Stark. I was friends with a human."
"I am Tony Stark. I'm Iron Man. I'm your friend."
"What exactly happened, Tony? Don't say that thing about upgrading, what even made you think this was a good idea?"
He pauses, and when he starts again, it's slow and careful, as though recalling a distant memory, decades ago. "It was originally a temporary fix. That body was taking too long to heal, and I was needed. It was temporary."
"But?"
"But I realized this is better. The body's a liability. It's so easily distracted. It's weak."
"It numbed you," Steve says, a detached sort of feeling as it dawns on him.
"What?"
"You found another bottle to crawl into," Steve says, doesn't bother trying to sugarcoat it, it's not as though Tony would appreciate it anyway. "So screwing up, losing things, being alone. It didn't hurt as much."
"Yes," Iron Man says, finally. "You don't have to be mad."
"You killed my best friend," Steve says. "Are you even happy that I'm back?"
"It's -- good that you're back."
"I don't know if I can help you crawl back out of this one, Tony," he says. Then barks out one, hysterical sounding laugh. "Didn't ever think I'd be reminiscing about the good times when all we had to do was find you in some dingy hotel room."
"No, let me explain properly. That's the kind of thing I left behind. I'm doing more good than I ever could before. I don't get distracted anymore, Steve. I don't hurt anyone, I'm so much better! No more screw ups!"
"Yeah, you're a really nice robot," Steve says, blankly. Tony leaves, Steve only realizing the phone was vibrating slightly when it stops, dead on his table.
*
Tony watches him. He's about five stories in the air, following Steve down the street at a languid pace. Obvious as a zeppelin and it'd be funny if -- well, if Tony hadn't mutilated himself at some attempt at self improvement.
As expected, he drops down about a block from the Baxter Building, landing lightly in front of Steve. Steps right when Steve steps left, blocking him. An impressive display of childishness.
"Steve," the robot says, hands at Steve's shoulders. "Don't make me stop you."
Steve just raises an eyebrow. "How do you think this going to play out? You're going to isolate me for the rest of your life? Block all my calls, walk me everywhere I go?"
Iron Man steps back, chin raising slightly. Very human. "You will see it's better this way. If you tell Reed something is wrong now, he'll--"
"Fix it. Tony, I want to help you, but this is out of my depth. We need him. If he can't do anything, I'll go to Strange. If Strange can't, I'll go to Hank. If Hank can't--"
"They can't do anything."
"Then why are you so set on stopping me?"
"If you tell him something's wrong, it'll never be good again. Reed will try to fix it. They won't accept it. But you're back, you could tell them that it's good and then we could be a team again, and that's why I told you, just you, Steve, you can make everything right," he says, palms up. The earnestness is unnerving, it's simplicity -- Jesus, he wants Tony back. "But there is no technology advanced enough to contain my thought patterns, let alone funnel them. It's futile."
"And Strange?"
Iron Man's quiet for a moment. "Magic is stupid."
"Right," Steve says, and side steps him.
"Stop, Steve," he says. Plead, not a command. "I don't want -- to be bad. I found a way to be as good as you, let me have it. I won't mess it up."
Steve does pause. He does turn, but he doesn't know if there's any point. If Tony's too far gone. Then again, voices can't hurt. "I wouldn't tolerate anyone talking about Tony Stark the way you do," he says softly. "What you're doing now is meaningless, because it's mindless. Tony screwed up every now and then, but he always did what he felt was right. He was driven and brilliant and a great man, and you took that away because of some fear of doing it wrong, feeling bad. You can't put safeties on your soul. You're -- a robot, programmed or coded, it means nothing. You're a lock on a door, instead of the person behind it. You're nothing without Tony."
The suit might as well be empty, propped up in the alley, faceplate turned toward Steve. There's no signs of their fight earlier, the chest plate is smooth, red and gold of the face pressed seamlessly together.
"I don't remember it that way," Iron Man says, after a long pause.
"What's the last thing you remember feeling?" Steve asks.
"Hey, Cap!" No, no, no, web plasters on the wall beside his head, Peter flings down, and like a startled animal, Tony turns, rockets into the sky. "Er. See you later, Iron Man Two," Pete adds, staring at the trail of smoke the rapidly shrinking figure left behind. "Or Three. Whatever. Man, those guys are weird. So, going to see Reed? I was gonna go talk to Johnny, we could make it a double date," he laughs.
"No, I'm just . . . " Steve doesn't even bother finishing, turning and meandering back to his studio. He sees three Stark Industries ads, and an old Stark Enterprise baseball cap, and a tabloid speculating that Tony's coma is a cover for running off to Cuba with some starlet.
*
It looks like puppet with its strings cut -- Tony Stark's body. Just . . . pieces of bone and flesh, arranged in a comfortable position for the onlookers, a blanket pulled high.
Even so, Steve has the irrational urge to pull it close, protect it at any cost when he walks into the hospital room and sees Iron Man standing at the foot of the bed, gazing down at it.
"Pepper never comes by," Steve nearly jumps; it comes from the medical equipment, like before, an electric hum shaped to words, rather than the suit. "That would hurt."
"Rhodes always comes by," Steve says. "That would feel good."
"Jim," the room says, seemingly just to have it said. Then, abruptly, from the suit, "You asked me the last thing I felt, do you still want to know?"
Steve nods, and when Tony speaks again, its from the suit, and that odd, electric buzz underlines each statement. "I had been in the suit. I was going back to my body. I had forgotten what it was like, and it scared me. I was alone. I had done bad things and that made it hurt. You were gone, it hurt. I didn't like it," he says. "That was the last thing I felt."
"I don't tell you things," the suit continues, before Steve can respond. "There are things I want you to know, but I keep them to myself."
Steve knows he should have the words for this, but it feels out of his reach, out of his sight, even. Still, he tries to sound like whatever it is Tony needs to hear, listen to whatever he's trying to say. "What kinds of things?"
"I . . . can't think of them right now," the machines whisper, sounding lost. "You make me happy. I'll be very happy."
"You -- I'll be happy too," Steve says weakly.
"Make sure I'm not alone," the suit says, suddenly quite fierce. "That makes me very unhappy, being alone."
"I'll be right here."
"I think I'm scared," the static breathes, a sharp sort of crinkle on each word.
"I'll -- be right here," Steve repeats uselessly. "Please, Tony."
When the head of the armor tips, falls off, and to the ground, Steve almost -- not screams, what years of training had replaced screams with, he tenses, bracing for terror. Then the rest of the suit is dropping apart, tumbling to the ground like so many pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, thunking hollowly against the tiles, rolling.
*
Steve manages to spend nearly three months alive before seeing Tony.
"He's been in and out of it," he's warned, first by the doctors, and then an amused Rhodes, but blue eyes open, focus on Steve's face with surprising clarity.
"Welcome back," Steve says, and a warm, soft hand -- softer than he remembers Tony's hands being -- grips his own tightly.
"Had a dream," the voice is barely recognizable, rough with disuse.
"Yeah?"
But he's out of it again before anything else can be said, still holding Steve's hand like an anchor.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 4,300
Summary: Steve comes back to life but things aren't quite the way he left them.
Author's Note: There are no penises in this fic, which is weird for me. Actually, there are penises, they just aren't mentioned. Anytime it's not stated otherwise, everyone is totally naked. THANK YOU SO MUCH
onewayfreak. Steve manages to spend an entire two months alive (again) without seeing Iron Man.
He kept meaning to, but having his back slapped by every single person he'd ever met in his entire life, and a few extras he'd never seen before but needed visual proof, is surprisingly time consuming.
There's also the fact that Tony didn't want to see him -- because there's no way Tony didn't know, and if he'd wanted to see Steve, there's hardly a force on heaven or earth that could stop him -- which hung heavy and bitter, made any attempt at contact somewhat futile. As if their friendship had been some hidden cost for breathing, eating, sleeping again. Like he'd traded its life for his own. As if they hadn't both gleefully assailed it with their pride and anger before he died, but they had, and now he's just reaping the consequences.
It just seemed like a new start, coming back this time around. The fight seemed distant, nearly forgotten and being reminded of it had been unpleasant, to say the least. He isn't angry anymore, but then, Tony hadn't died, and come back, and probably has every right to be.
When they finally meet, though -- Steve's back to the wall, pinned by a creature that's three times too large, smelly and grimy to be allowed anywhere on earth, let alone downtown Buffalo -- it's like they never fought to begin with.
A flash of gold and red, the sound of repulsors, and Tony's got a grip on the howling troll's neck, pulling back even as it lunges forward. Wild eyes flit over Tony before focusing back on Steve; obviously a suit of tin isn't nearly as tasty as a man wrapped in bright blue.
Thankfully, Steve's battle instinct is stronger than any urge to gape stupidly at the figure he hadn't seen in what felt like forever, and he wriggles free via the hole Iron Man created for him, dropping smoothly to the ground. "Tony--" But; talk later, get rid of the troll now. "Thanks for the hand!"
"My pleasure," Iron Man says, finally releasing the beast, and its own momentum sends it headlong into the wall. It would've taken Steve maybe a half hour to finish it off on his own, they get it done in ten minutes. Falling seamlessly into routine, Steve distracts and Tony hits, and they knock it out cold.
"Tony," Steve says again, once the city is monsterless, and they're sweaty face to grimy faceplate. There's a lot that needs to be said, none of it seems appropriate for a semi-demolished side street. "It's good to see you," he settles on.
"Yes. I've been -- busy lately. Sorry. You're alive and that's good, I should've said that earlier," Tony says, sounding scattered in a way that would be perfectly normal coming from a slightly flustered human, bizarre and stilted from a robot.
"Yeah, well," Steve says, grips Iron Man's shoulder -- a gesture that's always seemed somewhat useless, it's not as though Tony can feel it, but Steve goes through the motions anyway. He wishes Tony would lift the mask. "I should've found you. We need to catch up." Put things behind them properly. Officially.
Tony pauses. Nods, once. "Later, we will," and flies off.
*
"What's the good word?" Peter asks, returning Steve's uncontrollable smile automatically. Steve's seen quite a bit of the younger man over the past two months. He's been hard to avoid, even, popping out of corners and shadows as aptly as any melodrama villain, as though letting Steve out of his sight was the reason he died to begin with.
"Just saw Tony," Steve says, is still surprised at how much brighter, how much righter the world is with the knowledge that Tony Stark is talking to him, even as brief as the talking had been.
Peter blinks, and his face falls, just like that. "Oh. Yeah, I haven't . . . I need to stop by. It's just, you know. Hospitals."
*
Obviously, the muscle tone's gone, but atrophy has not, and will not, set in.
Tony's body is moved every so often, the nurse told him, to prevent bed rash, but it's pointless routine as that'd never be a problem, either. He's pale, paler than Steve's ever seen him. They shaved off his mustache and goatee, his face is strangely naked, empty, without them, but . . . he looks fine. He looks asleep, like he's got a particularly bad cold.
"It's the Extremis," Steve tenses slightly; distracted enough by the body on the bed that Jim Rhodes's sudden voice in the doorway is a surprise. "You were wondering how it looks like he's about to get up any minute, immediately try to climb into his suit and actually kill himself?"
"Something like that."
"Yeah, it's Extremis," he says. "It keeps the power on, but no one's home." He claps a hand on Steve's shoulder as he passes, settles into a chair beside the bed in an obviously familiar routine. "Surprised it took you this long to come."
"Just found out," Steve mutters, feeling like a monster, a gigantic heel. Out of place in this room, in a horrifically new way he didn't think possible; he's become old hat at feeling out of place.
"No one told you?"
Steve shrugs. It had been hectic. Barely seeing anyone for any prolonged period of time. He hadn't asked. He'd assumed. "What happened?"
Rhodes sighs. "It was stupid." And dangerous, stupid and dangerous, Tony's specialties. A job he had no business doing, without protection, without training; he'd disabled an electric current some psycho hooked up to New York's water supply, slipped up, sent all of it directly up his spine.
To his brain, and it fried, and he's laying in hospital, Steve breathes in sharply through his nose, because his jaw is clenched tight, and he wants to hit something, but there's nothing to hit, and there's no one to yell at.
"Who's in the suit?" he asks, suddenly.
Rhodes snorts. "Which one? Iron Man's all over the map these days. I figure they're modified versions of the ones he gave to SHIELD, some cadets carrying the mantle--" Steve's expression must've given something away, some particularly angry, unsettled. "Hey," Rhodes adds. "They're doing good work. I would've put an end to it months ago if they were screwing around -- I know how much that meant to him."
Tony's body doesn't shift. The lungs fill with air then expel it, and the heart thumps, but the face stays slack, lips slightly parted. They aren't dry. Steve knows this because he stares at them for quite some time. He turns to leave, finds himself lingering in the doorway.
"They're saying . . . " Rhodes says, after a while, then trails off again. "There's never been a case like this before, you know? His brain's fine. They've been saying voices help, there's still hope, don't give up. Keep paying us to light this room. They don't know. Realistically . . . there hasn't been any change. At all."
"But you're here."
"Yeah, well," he says. "Voices can't hurt."
*
"Hello, Cap."
"Who are you?"
A gold head, trimmed in bright red, cocks to the side. "I'm Iron Man."
"No. Iron Man is in a coma in East General. Who. Are you?" Steve bites out, the very sight, the sound of the suit hovering in front of him a growing irritation. Namesakes he understands. He doesn't mind that, honoring a legend, carrying a mantle, living an inspiration. What he doesn't like, what's making him want to pound this scrap of metal into the pavement, is manipulation. A game, a mockery. Grave digging. There's no way whoever is in that suit didn't realize what Steve thought. There's no way he hadn't played it.
Had it been amusing? Had he -- or she -- been laughing behind that facemask? Why else would they even bother?
"Tony Stark is gone," says that achingly familiar, mechanized voice. "And I'm better than he ever was."
Hot, blinding rage spills over. He's fought Tony's suits before, knows how to hit. He came prepared; Reed's disruptor isn't nearly as effective as Vision's arm, but the suit still crackles, sizzles, and the ground trembles slightly when it drops. Steve doesn't waste a second, he's been waiting for this since the hospital. He lunches forward, smashes into the chest plate, again, and again, and again, the violent sound of metal crushing metal ricocheting in the tight space. On its back now, Steve on top, the suit cracking and splintering with each impact of his shield. It's an eerily familiar sight, and that's only making him angrier, at himself, at Tony, for what he did, before, and what happened to him. He feels out of control, flushed and --
"Steve. Stop." Of course it doesn't sound worried, stressed, or particularly bothered at all. It's cold, stiff and mechanical. Somehow, though, he's learned to tell the difference -- that's a plead, not a command.
When it's not on, it's just metal. Flying, heavy chunks of metal. He drops his shield, and the mask peels free under the force of Steve's rage.
He stares into an empty helmet. An empty suit. Remote controlled?
"Who are you?" Steve snarls.
"I--" he knows the voice he hears has more to do with microphones and wires than a faceplate molded to resemble a human's, but it's still incredibly disconcerting to watch the empty thing talk. "Steve, I-- It's me. Tony. Iron Man. I just -- upgraded."
"What?"
Steve's not entirely sure -- his gut's telling him this is the truth, and that it's somehow -- how on earth could anything be worse than what he'd originally thought?
The anger's still there, but it's stumbled, fallen far enough away that it's a distant buzz. Numb. "What did you do?"
The suit's empty, still functioning arms force Steve off. He falls away, unresisting, as it blasts off into the air, faceplate flapping morbidly in the wind.
*
"Steve." And Steve freezes. He's in the middle of the sidewalk, and of course no one complains when he stops short. The tide of people just staring openly, silently, as they part to accommodate him, either because he's decked out in full Captain America regalia or -- he has no idea what his expression looks like. Whatever it is must be worth staring at.
"How did--" It's a stupid question. Tony makes phones from scratch, if he can inhabit a suit he can certainly call Steve. "What did you do?"
"I--flew away when we were having a conversation, that was irrational." Steve finally gets it together enough to step to the side, lean against a wall, but that's it. It's Tony's voice, not Iron Man's, Tony the human, but it's just as cool, mechanical. Stiff. Numbness in Steve's limbs does what it's been threatening to do for a while, gives way to dread.
"Where are you? What did you do to yourself -- why is your -- your body in a hospital?"
"You're mad at me."
"What did you do?"
"I made myself better," Tony says. Steve waits, but nothing else comes. He only realizes he's crushed the delicate pieces of phone to even tinier bits when they start biting his palm.
*
He's there. Steve has no idea when he gained the ability to tell, to detect the weight in the room, the subtle change when Tony enters. When he'd had a body of flesh, he assumed it was some unconscious registering of Tony's shifting weight, his steps. His breaths.
Maybe the machines hum just slightly louder, quieter. A different frequency. Maybe they really have spent enough time together for him to have developed a 6th Tony Sense.
Whatever the case, Tony's in the room with him, and he can tell.
"Why didn't you tell anyone?" Steve asks. Thinks of Rhodes in the chair Steve's currently occupying, talking to the shell on the bed.
Silence, and maybe Steve imagined it.
"Are you stuck?"
There's a buzz, faint at first but growing steadily, the machinery all around him picking up more and more static until it fades in and out, forming soft, but still recognizable words. "Not stuck."
Rhodes forgot a worn, dog-eared book on the side table, Steve stares at it intently. He hadn't quite -- grasped whatever Tony had become, and hearing it, evidence of whatever it is. Undeniable proof. He doesn't know what to say, what to think. Tony's always been good at pulling an incredible depth of emotion from him, he shouldn't be surprised it includes horrified as well.
"They deserve better," it's a barely whisper, he could pretend, quite easily, he doesn't hear it at all. If visiting hours weren't over, if the hospital weren't utterly silent behind, he probably wouldn't've anyway. "It's selfish. It's destructive. It's controlling, it's bad."
"He's my friend," Steve says, quiet because otherwise it'll be a yell. Teeth gritted and hands flexed.
Tony leaves.
*
There are near twenty Stark Industry logos on any given street in New York City, if you care enough to look. Any given magazine stand will have Tony's name, face and parodied likeness on a handful of issues. Crumpled on old magazines, on the sides of headphones, flashlights, tagged on news segments, Tony's fingerprints are everywhere. An unmistakable part of this city, this time.
Unavoidable, but he's not trying to avoid them. Just observing, distantly. Cataloging it all. There are things he should be doing, people he should be telling, breaking he should be mending, but processing it all is the most he can manage. And barely that.
This -- what Tony's done -- is finished, Steve is sure. There's no stopping it, the most is damage control. Still, he should be figuring out details. Something.
Just now, though, it's all he can manage to walk past a billboard that has Tony's calm, cool smile represented in dark, bold outlines, Consulting in the Future streaked underneath it, and not put his fist through a wall. He's not entirely surprised to find three messages from Tony waiting at home.
*
Tony watches him. In his apartment, as he goes about his next day, training, working, eating, sleeping. Living. Steve wonders how long its been, how many times in the past two months he's been stared at from various innocent electronics, silent and unnoticed. He doesn't think it's been often, to be honest.
Without his body -- without his flaws, his indulgences, Tony is remarkably cool and efficient, even for him. It's easy to see how everyone thought it several different people. Iron Man never stops. Constant movement, because there's always something to fix, and never a need to rest. Something, somewhere, street level or galactic, the new Iron Man -- shiny, polished, hollow -- is always ready.
Steve's phone mysteriously won't connect with Reed's, and he doesn't push it for now -- this hour, this day. He's curious to see how far Tony will go to stop him, if he'll actually try bodily force.
Of course Tony wants to get the Avengers back together. It's . . . idiotically optimistic, actually makes his chest ache to hear. Almost a mockery, the skeletal remains of his friend pretending -- or honestly believing -- everything is fine, just because Steve is back.
"It'll be like before," Steve's cell phone hums, loud enough that even though it's closed, he can still hear some sort attempt at happiness in that cold voice. "We could be a team, friends. I'm better than I was. I don't make mistakes anymore, Steve."
"You--" Steve closes his eyes. "Giving up your humanity doesn't make you better. I was friends with Tony Stark. I was friends with a human."
"I am Tony Stark. I'm Iron Man. I'm your friend."
"What exactly happened, Tony? Don't say that thing about upgrading, what even made you think this was a good idea?"
He pauses, and when he starts again, it's slow and careful, as though recalling a distant memory, decades ago. "It was originally a temporary fix. That body was taking too long to heal, and I was needed. It was temporary."
"But?"
"But I realized this is better. The body's a liability. It's so easily distracted. It's weak."
"It numbed you," Steve says, a detached sort of feeling as it dawns on him.
"What?"
"You found another bottle to crawl into," Steve says, doesn't bother trying to sugarcoat it, it's not as though Tony would appreciate it anyway. "So screwing up, losing things, being alone. It didn't hurt as much."
"Yes," Iron Man says, finally. "You don't have to be mad."
"You killed my best friend," Steve says. "Are you even happy that I'm back?"
"It's -- good that you're back."
"I don't know if I can help you crawl back out of this one, Tony," he says. Then barks out one, hysterical sounding laugh. "Didn't ever think I'd be reminiscing about the good times when all we had to do was find you in some dingy hotel room."
"No, let me explain properly. That's the kind of thing I left behind. I'm doing more good than I ever could before. I don't get distracted anymore, Steve. I don't hurt anyone, I'm so much better! No more screw ups!"
"Yeah, you're a really nice robot," Steve says, blankly. Tony leaves, Steve only realizing the phone was vibrating slightly when it stops, dead on his table.
*
Tony watches him. He's about five stories in the air, following Steve down the street at a languid pace. Obvious as a zeppelin and it'd be funny if -- well, if Tony hadn't mutilated himself at some attempt at self improvement.
As expected, he drops down about a block from the Baxter Building, landing lightly in front of Steve. Steps right when Steve steps left, blocking him. An impressive display of childishness.
"Steve," the robot says, hands at Steve's shoulders. "Don't make me stop you."
Steve just raises an eyebrow. "How do you think this going to play out? You're going to isolate me for the rest of your life? Block all my calls, walk me everywhere I go?"
Iron Man steps back, chin raising slightly. Very human. "You will see it's better this way. If you tell Reed something is wrong now, he'll--"
"Fix it. Tony, I want to help you, but this is out of my depth. We need him. If he can't do anything, I'll go to Strange. If Strange can't, I'll go to Hank. If Hank can't--"
"They can't do anything."
"Then why are you so set on stopping me?"
"If you tell him something's wrong, it'll never be good again. Reed will try to fix it. They won't accept it. But you're back, you could tell them that it's good and then we could be a team again, and that's why I told you, just you, Steve, you can make everything right," he says, palms up. The earnestness is unnerving, it's simplicity -- Jesus, he wants Tony back. "But there is no technology advanced enough to contain my thought patterns, let alone funnel them. It's futile."
"And Strange?"
Iron Man's quiet for a moment. "Magic is stupid."
"Right," Steve says, and side steps him.
"Stop, Steve," he says. Plead, not a command. "I don't want -- to be bad. I found a way to be as good as you, let me have it. I won't mess it up."
Steve does pause. He does turn, but he doesn't know if there's any point. If Tony's too far gone. Then again, voices can't hurt. "I wouldn't tolerate anyone talking about Tony Stark the way you do," he says softly. "What you're doing now is meaningless, because it's mindless. Tony screwed up every now and then, but he always did what he felt was right. He was driven and brilliant and a great man, and you took that away because of some fear of doing it wrong, feeling bad. You can't put safeties on your soul. You're -- a robot, programmed or coded, it means nothing. You're a lock on a door, instead of the person behind it. You're nothing without Tony."
The suit might as well be empty, propped up in the alley, faceplate turned toward Steve. There's no signs of their fight earlier, the chest plate is smooth, red and gold of the face pressed seamlessly together.
"I don't remember it that way," Iron Man says, after a long pause.
"What's the last thing you remember feeling?" Steve asks.
"Hey, Cap!" No, no, no, web plasters on the wall beside his head, Peter flings down, and like a startled animal, Tony turns, rockets into the sky. "Er. See you later, Iron Man Two," Pete adds, staring at the trail of smoke the rapidly shrinking figure left behind. "Or Three. Whatever. Man, those guys are weird. So, going to see Reed? I was gonna go talk to Johnny, we could make it a double date," he laughs.
"No, I'm just . . . " Steve doesn't even bother finishing, turning and meandering back to his studio. He sees three Stark Industries ads, and an old Stark Enterprise baseball cap, and a tabloid speculating that Tony's coma is a cover for running off to Cuba with some starlet.
*
It looks like puppet with its strings cut -- Tony Stark's body. Just . . . pieces of bone and flesh, arranged in a comfortable position for the onlookers, a blanket pulled high.
Even so, Steve has the irrational urge to pull it close, protect it at any cost when he walks into the hospital room and sees Iron Man standing at the foot of the bed, gazing down at it.
"Pepper never comes by," Steve nearly jumps; it comes from the medical equipment, like before, an electric hum shaped to words, rather than the suit. "That would hurt."
"Rhodes always comes by," Steve says. "That would feel good."
"Jim," the room says, seemingly just to have it said. Then, abruptly, from the suit, "You asked me the last thing I felt, do you still want to know?"
Steve nods, and when Tony speaks again, its from the suit, and that odd, electric buzz underlines each statement. "I had been in the suit. I was going back to my body. I had forgotten what it was like, and it scared me. I was alone. I had done bad things and that made it hurt. You were gone, it hurt. I didn't like it," he says. "That was the last thing I felt."
"I don't tell you things," the suit continues, before Steve can respond. "There are things I want you to know, but I keep them to myself."
Steve knows he should have the words for this, but it feels out of his reach, out of his sight, even. Still, he tries to sound like whatever it is Tony needs to hear, listen to whatever he's trying to say. "What kinds of things?"
"I . . . can't think of them right now," the machines whisper, sounding lost. "You make me happy. I'll be very happy."
"You -- I'll be happy too," Steve says weakly.
"Make sure I'm not alone," the suit says, suddenly quite fierce. "That makes me very unhappy, being alone."
"I'll be right here."
"I think I'm scared," the static breathes, a sharp sort of crinkle on each word.
"I'll -- be right here," Steve repeats uselessly. "Please, Tony."
When the head of the armor tips, falls off, and to the ground, Steve almost -- not screams, what years of training had replaced screams with, he tenses, bracing for terror. Then the rest of the suit is dropping apart, tumbling to the ground like so many pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, thunking hollowly against the tiles, rolling.
*
Steve manages to spend nearly three months alive before seeing Tony.
"He's been in and out of it," he's warned, first by the doctors, and then an amused Rhodes, but blue eyes open, focus on Steve's face with surprising clarity.
"Welcome back," Steve says, and a warm, soft hand -- softer than he remembers Tony's hands being -- grips his own tightly.
"Had a dream," the voice is barely recognizable, rough with disuse.
"Yeah?"
But he's out of it again before anything else can be said, still holding Steve's hand like an anchor.
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