Steve hasn't slept much in the past three days and tonight is no different. He gave it a good try earlier, when the fatigue felt all-consuming and sleep couldn't possibly elude him— or so he'd thought. After half an hour shifting every which way in search of a comfortable position, he dozed off for what felt like just a few minutes, then jolted back to consciousness with his heart pounding in his chest. Steve was frustrated but not surprised. His body seemed to have adopted a policy of aggressive resistance against any and every effort to relax.
He was staring up at the ceiling wondering how to fill the long, quiet hours until sunrise when FRIDAY's voice broke the silence. It wasn't what she said so much as the urgency with which she said it that made Steve bolt out of bed and break into a run as soon as his feet hit the cold tile floor.
Steve slowed only slightly as he approached Tony's workshop, a spark of doubt cutting through the adrenaline for the first time. It was hard not to feel like he was invading Tony's privacy, stepping into this space when Tony wasn't around to grant access— or deny it. But before Steve could hesitate, the door slid open for him. FRIDAY's permission would have to suffice; who was less likely to violate Tony's trust than an AI of his own design?
Most of the workshop was still dark. FRIDAY helpfully illuminates a direct path to a door that Steve would bet money wasn't there before. He is familiar enough with the hallucination stage of sleep deprivation to know that he hasn't reached it yet. Still, reality does take on a distinctly surreal feel when Steve presses his hand to the palm reader and triggers a hidden door opening onto a secret chamber.
He sees the cradle, recognizes it for what it is, but he's stuck on the sight of it, the shape of it. It looks like a casket. Why he'd make that association now, why it would hit him like a punch to the gut, doesn't follow logic. They held memorials for both Tony and Natasha, but neither had a casket. Natasha's body couldn't be recovered, and Tony...
Tony had—
Tony had given Rhodey specific instructions. Steve hadn't pressed for details, but Tony had given Rhodey specific instructions, and they held a memorial without a body, and FRIDAY just led him to a secret chamber in Tony's workshop with a only regeneration cradle inside. It's impossible, and he's out of his mind for even considering it, but a wild wave of hope washes over him and Steve runs up to the cradle so fast that he has to brace two hands against it to absorb his momentum.
From over the edge of the cradle, Tony Stark stares back at him, alive.
"Is this real?" That isn't what Steve meant to say, but it was the loudest thought in his head, and when he opened his mouth to speak it just escaped.
Tony clutches at the rim until his fingers turn white, but manages to keep his expression schooled, the panic mostly off his face. His eyes are a little wider than normal, but well, maybe Steve won't notice. (God, what a fucking thing to ask, when Tony himself isn't sure where the border of reality is. When it comes down to it, he's pushing the envelope, defining a new kind of reality.)
"Well, I didn't give FRIDAY specific instructions in that particular area," he drawls, "but I assume everything's made to according to plan." Because somehow, even in the middle of a minor panic attack, Tony's brain leaps straight for innuendo - even if the joke falls a little flat. It's the easiest coping mechanism to latch onto, the one that allows them both to steer clear of anything dangerous like emotions. "Do you ask that question every time you see someone naked, Cap, or am I just special?"
He grins at Steve as he forces himself to sit up, and the grin is just a hair shy of a manic rictus, but it's there, and that's what counts.
("Boss, your vital signs-" Friday insists quietly in the background, and Tony mutters something out of the corner of his mouth at her, waving the displays away with a hand.)
"I know there are some clothes around here somewhere - or I hope there are, anyway. At least a towel." Tony frowns at the room. Had he remembered clothes? It seems like so long ago, and, to be fair, getting everything in working condition had been more important than preserving his modesty (not that he's ever had much).
(And speaking of a lack of modesty - or, rather, vanity - if he just so happens to look a few years younger, a few pounds lighter - well, he can't help it if he took advantage of the opportunity to shave a few years off, can he? What does it matter, in the scheme of things? How is it any different from Botox?)
"Ah-" As he steps out of the cradle, he spots his arc reactor on a table, and that's more immediately important than clothing. Except that somehow, his neurons misfire, and he finds himself in an undignified heap on the floor in front of Steve fucking Rogers, because that's just how his life works.
"Fuck," Tony mumbles, looking up at Steve. "I'm fine, I promise, just a little glitch. You wanna give me a hand?"
Edited (tenses /waves hand vaguely) 2020-07-16 01:00 (UTC)
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
He was staring up at the ceiling wondering how to fill the long, quiet hours until sunrise when FRIDAY's voice broke the silence. It wasn't what she said so much as the urgency with which she said it that made Steve bolt out of bed and break into a run as soon as his feet hit the cold tile floor.
Steve slowed only slightly as he approached Tony's workshop, a spark of doubt cutting through the adrenaline for the first time. It was hard not to feel like he was invading Tony's privacy, stepping into this space when Tony wasn't around to grant access— or deny it. But before Steve could hesitate, the door slid open for him. FRIDAY's permission would have to suffice; who was less likely to violate Tony's trust than an AI of his own design?
Most of the workshop was still dark. FRIDAY helpfully illuminates a direct path to a door that Steve would bet money wasn't there before. He is familiar enough with the hallucination stage of sleep deprivation to know that he hasn't reached it yet. Still, reality does take on a distinctly surreal feel when Steve presses his hand to the palm reader and triggers a hidden door opening onto a secret chamber.
He sees the cradle, recognizes it for what it is, but he's stuck on the sight of it, the shape of it. It looks like a casket. Why he'd make that association now, why it would hit him like a punch to the gut, doesn't follow logic. They held memorials for both Tony and Natasha, but neither had a casket. Natasha's body couldn't be recovered, and Tony...
Tony had—
Tony had given Rhodey specific instructions. Steve hadn't pressed for details, but Tony had given Rhodey specific instructions, and they held a memorial without a body, and FRIDAY just led him to a secret chamber in Tony's workshop with a only regeneration cradle inside. It's impossible, and he's out of his mind for even considering it, but a wild wave of hope washes over him and Steve runs up to the cradle so fast that he has to brace two hands against it to absorb his momentum.
From over the edge of the cradle, Tony Stark stares back at him, alive.
"Is this real?" That isn't what Steve meant to say, but it was the loudest thought in his head, and when he opened his mouth to speak it just escaped.
no subject
"Well, I didn't give FRIDAY specific instructions in that particular area," he drawls, "but I assume everything's made to according to plan." Because somehow, even in the middle of a minor panic attack, Tony's brain leaps straight for innuendo - even if the joke falls a little flat. It's the easiest coping mechanism to latch onto, the one that allows them both to steer clear of anything dangerous like emotions. "Do you ask that question every time you see someone naked, Cap, or am I just special?"
He grins at Steve as he forces himself to sit up, and the grin is just a hair shy of a manic rictus, but it's there, and that's what counts.
("Boss, your vital signs-" Friday insists quietly in the background, and Tony mutters something out of the corner of his mouth at her, waving the displays away with a hand.)
"I know there are some clothes around here somewhere - or I hope there are, anyway. At least a towel." Tony frowns at the room. Had he remembered clothes? It seems like so long ago, and, to be fair, getting everything in working condition had been more important than preserving his modesty (not that he's ever had much).
(And speaking of a lack of modesty - or, rather, vanity - if he just so happens to look a few years younger, a few pounds lighter - well, he can't help it if he took advantage of the opportunity to shave a few years off, can he? What does it matter, in the scheme of things? How is it any different from Botox?)
"Ah-" As he steps out of the cradle, he spots his arc reactor on a table, and that's more immediately important than clothing. Except that somehow, his neurons misfire, and he finds himself in an undignified heap on the floor in front of Steve fucking Rogers, because that's just how his life works.
"Fuck," Tony mumbles, looking up at Steve. "I'm fine, I promise, just a little glitch. You wanna give me a hand?"