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blancheludis · 8 months
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Incredible New Drone Footage Flies Over the Latest Eruption of Iceland’s Fagradalsfjall Volcano
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blancheludis · 11 months
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Absolutely no pressure as I'm sure you're busy and writing isn't something you can (should) force, but is a sequel to "too scared to dream" on ao3 still in the works? It's literally one of my favourite fics of all time and I'd DIE to see the aftermath of what happens 🥹 Love your writing <3
After getting your message I immediately felt the urge to write - and I did get some notes down, but work doesn't leave much time at the moment.
So, I want to write more for this story - it was supposed to be a longer piece but I compromised to get it written at all. Your kind words definitely pushed it up my priority list. But I can't promise whether I'll manage to write it soon.
Thank you so much. It's so nice to hear someone still likes my writing, even though I've been absent for what feels like ages!
I wish you all the best!
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blancheludis · 1 year
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This is the promised Marvel Trumps Hate fic for the wonderful @t0nystark1er​. @marveltrumpshate​
Thank you for bidding on me!
---
Fandom: Marvel
Characters: Tony Stark / Steve Rogers, Morgan Stark, Peter Parker
Tags: Getting Back Together, Kid Fic, Age Gap, Hurt and Comfort, Falling in Love, Tony Stark is a Good Parent, Steve Rogers is a Good Parent, No Powers, Meet Cute, for the kids, Constructive Conversation, Marvel Trumps Hate 2022
Words: 11.756
Summary: “I wanted a family,” Steve says, although he is tired of fighting. “And I loved you, but I didn’t think you could settle for my dream.”
Tony stares at him, his lips soundlessly forming the word settle as if he struggles to comprehend it. A lifetime of fury simmers in his eyes, a memory of all the people who told him he does not measure up. And perhaps Steve deserves every single bit of it.
“I thought we were happy. And then you just pack up your things one day and leave.” Tony somehow manages to make happy sound like an insult. “You fight for every fucking little thing but you couldn’t fight for us.”
“I’m sorry,” Steve says and does not expect Tony’s answering sneer to hit so hard.
“Yeah, me too,” Tony lies. “We're done. Let’s just hope that our kids do not become best friends so we won’t get the chance to disappoint each other again.”
---
“Dad, we’re going to be late.” A tiny hand pushes at the tablet Tony was doing was some last-minute work on, growing more insistent when he does not look up immediately. “Dad!”
“I heard you, Morgoona. I’m not yet deaf.” Tony scowls when his daughter giggles, making a show of it that he knows will set her off.
He turns the tablet off and scoops her up as he stands. “Let me tell you a secret,” he says and tickles her as he does. “There’s no being late when going to the park.”
Morgan’s laughter is the most beautiful sound in the world. Already, she sometimes looks like Pepper, scolding him when he works too much or when he is being too silly. But other than his late wife, she is still easily charmed and forgives him all of his trespasses.
Still, she only lets him continue his shenanigans for a few moments before she squirms until she is back on the ground. “But I don’t want to be the last on there.”
Not taking no for an answer, she takes his hand and drags him out of his office. She already has her shoes on – and changed into a dress without a single grass stain on. She is serious about this entire business.
Tony hides his smile as he is getting out jackets for Morgan and himself. His daughter has not yet learned the advantages of being fashionably late, of making a grand entrance. Admittedly, he hopes making the right impression is not yet an issue for soon-to-be first graders. Then again, he has never really played by any social rules.
“Daaad,” Morgan calls with growing impatience.
Tony cuts her off by throwing her jacket over her head. “I’m already at the door,” he then says, not hiding his laughter anymore. “You’re making me wait.”
With all the mighty outrage of a five-year-old, Morgan rips the jacket off and glares at him, one hand on her hip. For a moment, she looks so much like Pepper that something in Tony’s heart cracks, deepening old scars.
“You said no surprise attacks,” Morgan says, very much offended, but she does not protest when Tony helps her into the jacket.
“I said no sneaking to scare your old man when he’s working,” he corrects her gently and tugs her ponytail back into place. “You don’t want to give me a heart attack.”
Briefly, she looks like she is considering just that, but then she says, “I want to go to the park.”
“All right, Morgoona,” he says and relishes her tooth-gapped grin. “Off to the park it is.”
He slips into his own jacket, smiling at her impatience. Already, she is so different from him. She is smart, of course, he never expected anything else. But she has friends, too, loves playing with others. She is the best of both worlds, perfectly combining Pepper and him. And once she is grown up, there is no doubt she will be terrifying.
As they make their way to the park, Morgan keeps her hand in his for all of three minutes before she is off, inspecting bugs on the sidewalk or unabashedly staring into windows. She never runs too far and always stops at street crossings to wait for him. At her age, she does not yet know what real fear is, but she knows what her dad looks like when he is afraid. Or sad. She is a good kid, and sometimes Tony cannot fathom how he could have been blessed like this.
The park is already full with running children. School starts in one week, and to make it easier on everybody, the school organized an afternoon of games and fun so that everybody could get to know each other beforehand. Morgan is excited to make new friends. And Tony, well, he is here to observe which parents he needs to do a deeper background check on.
Letting Morgan go off to school will be a big step. Up until now, she has been in day care in SI’s tower and he could check on her whenever he felt the need to. School is a whole new level.
Being a parent is still the most wondrous thing that ever happened to Tony. He never thought he would have children, much less be a good dad. Morgan’s life has already been tinged with tragedy, with losing her mother before she could ever be held by her. But it was surprisingly easy – and utterly terrifying – to step up and become an actual parent. Morgan is the most precious thing in his life.
A tug on his hand rips Tony out of his thoughts. Morgan looks up at him with both amusement and impatience. “Can I go?”
“What are the rules?” Tony asks and catches her hand in his, not yet ready to let go of her.
Morgan sighs but then dutifully recites, “Always stay within 300 feet of you. Don’t cross any streets. Don’t eat or drink anything from strangers. Don’t go with any strangers and scream if anyone tries to make me. And,” she raises her hand to show off her sparkling pink bracelet, “always keep JARVIS with me.”
Tony nods, satisfied. She is usually sticking to the rules, too, instead of only reciting them. Already, she is a much better kid than he was – although he also prides himself on being a much better parent than he ever had, barring perhaps Jarvis.
“But, Dad,” Morgan says with her negotiation face that she learned from Rhodey and which is hiding nothing. “I can drink something if the teachers hand it out, right?”
If you clear it with me first, he wants to say but manages to keep his paranoia in check. Almost. “Only from the teachers.”
The invitation also promised snacks. Tony hopes that does not mean chocolate, because keeping an eye on dozens of children is hard enough without them being on a sugar high.
“Love you, Dad.” Morgan hugs him and, as always, waits for him to say it back.
“Love you, too.”
And she is off, showing not the faintest trace of hesitation when running towards the other children. It leaves him a little bitter, thinking back to his own childhood, spent in their too-large and too-empty mansion, sneaking around to avoid catching his own father in a bad mood. It is so easy to be a better father than Howard Stark.
Tony looks down at himself to make sure, one last time, that he looks as normal as he ever could. He is not here as Tony Stark, owner of Stark Industries, but simply as a five-year-old’s father. The other parents will find out soon enough who he is – Morgan loves talking about his work and their little inventions together – but it is important to him that she gets to make a first impression on her own.
He should mingle a bit, get a feel for the teachers and the other families. It would be easy enough to put Morgan in another school, even on short notice, but he wants her life to be as normal as possible. Even if that means to curb his protectiveness and accept that she might have to experience some bumps.
With a sigh, Tony contemplates pulling out his sunglasses. But he is not here to hide. He is here as a father and he will do a good job of that.
  “Dad.” Morgan’s voice easily pierces the jumbled sounds of children playing– or maybe Tony is simply attuned to hearing her no matter what other distractions are around. Nothing else matters as much as her.
With barely an excuse to the couple he was talking to, he is already rushing off to find her.
“JARVIS?” he mutters, even as his eyes are scanning the crowd. She did not sound too far off.
“To your left, by the swings.”
Without JARVIS they would have been lost. Tony had no idea how to take care of a child, all the lessons he took and the books he read forgotten the moment he was home with that little bundle of a human being in his arms and the ghost of his dead wife hovering over his shoulder. JARVIS saved them and, no matter that he is an AI, he loves Morgan just as much as a real person would.
“Dad,” Morgan calls out again, distress now clear in her tone.
It almost has Tony running, and if there were not a dozen small bodies to navigate around, he would.
As soon as he sees her, he lets out a deep breath in relief. She is fine. She is still here. A little boy sits next to her on the ground, holding his knee even while he tries to keep a brave expression.
After a few long strides, Tony is next to them and runs a head over his daughter’s head to make sure she is real.
“What happened?” he asks, smiling at the boy who looks up at him with wide eyes.
“Peter fell from the swing,” Morgan explains, almost imitating JARVIS. She has heard him give status reports hundreds of times, after all. “His knee hurts.”
It is likely just a scrape, but blood is welling up and, at this age, every bad thing feels like a betrayal.
“I’m Tony,” he greets the boy with a smile. “Let me have a look at that.”
Without hesitation, the boy takes away his hands and presents his knee, trusting a stranger so easily that Tony makes a mental note to talk to his parents later. Do they not know about simple safety rules? And where are the boy’s parents anyway?
Very carefully, Tony prods the skin around the scrape and then lets Peter move his leg to make sure there is nothing more severe lurking underneath the surface. Satisfied, he gets a small first-aid kit out of his bag. These days, he is always prepared for any emergencies. Morgan likes to climb trees, even though she is not very good at it, so they know how to deal with scrapes and bruises.
“This is going to burn a bit,” Tony says as he unfolds an antiseptic wipe.
“I know,” Peter says and bites his lip. He sounds like he is holding back tears, but Morgan takes his hand and the smile that breaks out over his face is real.
“I scrape my knees all the time,” Morgan whispers as if it is a secret that her sense of self-preservation is as non-existent as her father’s.
“You do?” Peter’s eyes go wide, and Tony would bet this is the beginning of a wonderful friendship. One that will likely push him into having a heart attack long before his time. Although it is not impossible that Peter might temper Morgan’s thirst for adventure. Supposedly, some children know what caution is.
Right when Morgan enthusiastically nods her head and Peter is distracted, Tony lightly presses down the antiseptic wipe and cleans the wound. Except for a tiny gasp, Peter makes no sound.
“You’re doing very good,” Tony reassures him and gets a watery smile in return. “We’ll put a band-aid on and you’ll be as good as new.”
Now that the initial danger is averted, Morgan is grinning wildly and jumps with excitement. “We have Batman band-aids.”
“That’s cool.” Then Peter swallows and his excitement visibly dims. “My Dad thinks Batman is stupid because he has so much money and doesn’t use it to help people.”
“He does so.” The most adorable scowl overtakes Morgan’s face and Tony hides his smile as he takes out their pack of band-aids.
“I know,” Peter agrees, but only in a whisper as if his father will jump out behind him.
“We have other band-aids, too,” Tony offers and shows off their collection like a merchant on a bazar.
There are animals, flowers and superheroes, even a few dinosaurs. Tony probably went overboard when letting Morgan choose her own band-aids, but if a little speck of colour or a cute animal can take away from the pain of getting injured, that is a small price to pay.
With a hopeful expression, Peter points at a Batman band-aid and Tony complies promptly and moves with a bit of a flourish that makes both children giggle.
“There you are,” he says, once the band-aid is in place. “Good as new.”
They look down at the bat symbol covering the scrape as if he just invented the arc reactor all over again.
“Thank you, mister,” Peter says. A few tears still cling to his eyelashes but the pain is already half-forgotten.
“Tony is fine,” he reminds the kid as he packs the first-aid kit back up. When he looks around, briefly, there are still no other adults making their way over to them. “Where are your parents?”
Immediately, Peter looks like he has done something wrong and thinks Tony wants to tattle on him.
“My dad has to work, but my aunt took me,” he says quickly and grows faster still with every following word. “She said she wanted to get coffee an asked me to stay here. And I did. We didn’t go anywhere. I didn’t mean to fall off the swing and –”
“Hey, kiddo. Peter, was it?” Tony interrupts him with a gentle tone and waits until Peter has taken a deep breath and nods. “You did nothing wrong. Accidents happen all the time. And you were with Morgan and she called me. It’s all good.”
The tears are back, making Peter’s eyes look so much larger. “Really?” he asks, his lower lip wobbling.
“I promise.” Next to him, Morgan moves her head up and down so emphatically that her hair flies everywhere. “Now, off you go and play.”
They run off almost immediately, the pain forgotten, although Peter keeps looking down at his knee, smiling when he finds the Batman symbol still there, for everybody to see.
Tony finds himself a place to sit where he can keep an eye on Morgan and her new friend. They do not separate once for the rest of the afternoon and he is glad that they seem to get along so well.
At some point, a red-haired woman approaches the two of them and Tony instinctively tenses up, ready to run over at one wrong move. But Peter hugs her without hesitation and then shows off his band-aid, explaining the situation with lots of animated movements. When he points at Tony and the woman turns to look at him, he waves, making no secret of inspecting her right back. They are all just trying to keep their children safe.
  One week later, on Monday morning, chaos reigns. It is the first day of school and although they have packed and repacked Peter’s backpack a dozen times over the past days, something was always not right. Books, a wide array of pencils and even an empty lunchbox litter the path to their entrance door. And when Steve finally got Peter to put on his shoes, he abandoned the task halfway through to run back into his room and find his special silver pen.
Usually, Steve is doing all right with containing their chaos. Mostly because he knows that it could easily get out of hand if he does not stay on top of it. But this last week was so full of excitement and fears and nervous rearranging that he gave up fairly quickly.
“Do you think Morgan will sit next to me?” Peter asks as he comes hurrying back to the door, clutching his silver pen like it is the holy grail.
Steve smiles reassuringly while holding out Peter’s other shoe with quiet insistence. They really need to get going. “It sounds like you got along very well.”
“She’s sooo smart, Dad. And she’s also five.” For the past week, they have barely talked about anything else. Morgan this, Morgan that. They have to become friends or Peter will be heartbroken.
In truth, Steve was really worried about sending Peter to school early. He remembers very well how it was when everyone was taller than him. Having someone his own age there will do Peter good.
“I’m sure you’ll be good friends,” Steve reassures his son as he gets down and taps Peter’s foot until he finally slips into his shoe.
With no less reverence, Peter adds, “And her dad is nice, too.”
Yes, the Batman band-aid. Steve could only just prevent that Peter squirreled it away to keep after they finally took it off his knee. It almost turned into an argument. Over a band-aid of a fictional superhero who prefers stalking the streets at night instead of using his billions to actually change things. But Steve does not want to burden a child with his sometimes radical views. And he should also not judge a stranger he never met on the kind of band-aids he carries around for his daughter.
“We might meet him today and you can introduce us.”
When Natasha came home with Peter and they showed off his scraped knee, Steve felt like the worst father in the world. Who misses their kid’s first-grade meeting and is not there when he gets hurt? Peter might not yet see it this way, but it is its own lesson when parents tend to be absent from important events, even with a proper excuse like work. Steve’s mother had to do double-shifts so often to keep them fed and pay Steve’s medical bills, and he really cannot hold that against her, but there was always a small voice in the back of his head wondering whether she would have come even if she did not have to work. He does not want Peter to ever feel the same.
About five minutes – and another frantic search through the backpack to make sure they really have everything they need – later, they are finally out of the door and ready to go to school for the first time.
They have barely made it on to the school grounds when Peter starts waving at someone in the crowd.
“Morgan,” he calls, shrill enough that several people turn their heads. “Over here.”
Immediately, there is a shout back. “Peter!”
The girl, Morgan, is small and dark-haired and grinning at Peter like he is the reason the sun rose today. It is utterly endearing. She is tugging at her father’s hand to get him to come towards Steve and Peter and –
The world comes to a sudden standstill. Time loses all meaning as the crowd around them vanishes, all the bustling and noise gone as if they are completely alone.
It is Tony. The thought echoes loudly in Steve’s mind before it fully registers. Tony Stark. His Tony. Only he has given up all rights to possessiveness when he left. It has been ten years. Ten years and Steve has gotten exactly what he wanted – a child, a family – the very reason why he ended his relationship with Tony, only not in any way he ever thought. And now here Tony is, with a child of his own.
He looks good, too. Older, of course, they both do. No expensive suit, no sneer fit for annoying board meetings. Just a father and his daughter on the first day of school.
Steve notices, too, the exact moment Tony recognizes him. Someone else might not have noticed any change in his expression, but Steve sees Tony’s guard go up, the slightest unhappy tug on his lips. It hurts to be the obvious source for Tony’s visible discomfort, even though Steve does not have a right to that anymore, either. It resembles, too acutely, the pain he felt when he was packing his things to leave the tower for the last time as if this misery was not his own fault.
As they come closer, Morgan impatient and Tony with visible reluctance, Steve sees Tony reaching for his breast pocket and he would bet all he has that there are sunglasses in there, that Tony is debating whether to hide away. Steve feels the same, after all, only his preferred strategy was always to run forward and get things over and done with.
Too soon, there is no more distance between them and the children squeal as if their luck has come full circle and all is well in life. Steve looks at them and wishes things could be so easy, wishes he could just put on a smile and ask Tony how he has been, as if the last words they exchanged had not been deeply cutting insults, as if they had not gone out of a relationship of four years with only scars and bone-deep regret.
For a brief moment, Steve considers pretending that he does not recognize Tony. Just to spare the kids a scene, of course. But that would be unfair. Instead, he takes a deep breath and does what he does best: take the first step.
“Tony.” Steve almost winces at how rough his voice sounds. So much for being smooth and making this uncomplicated.
It is not much of a consolation that Tony does not sound much better. “Steve.”
They stare at each other, almost cataloguing what changes the past ten years have made. There are wrinkles in the corners of Tony’s eyes that must deepen adorably when he laughs, which he is very much not doing right now. But other than that, he is still the same Tony. His face is soft when he looks at someone he loves – Morgan, now, not Steve – but he is otherwise alert.
“Do you know each other?” Morgan asks, cutting through the tension only to open the doors wide for terrible awkwardness.
“No,” Steve says quickly, and bites his tongue as soon as the word is out.
Tony looks at him shrewdly, something like disappointment passing through his eyes. Then he turns to his daughter. “We did. Although it’s been a long time ago.”
“That’s great,” Peter exclaims, looking up at Steve with unbridled enthusiasm. “Then we can play together after school.”
Which means he will have to see Tony again. Outside of school. That is – good, of course. But, right now, Steve wishes Peter had befriended literally anyone else. Instead, he will have to find the right words to apologize. And somehow deal with the growing ache behind his sternum that feels a lot like regret.
“We’ll see about that,” Steve hears himself say and looks only at his son.
A ringing sounds over the courtyard and the crowd’s noise pitches, bringing them all back into reality. Saved by the bell, Steve thinks with growing hysteria. And then Peter is clinging to him with a strange mixture of desperation, happiness and impatience. This is a big day and only just now does Steve remember that he has to send his son out into the world right now, where he cannot protect him as easily.
He is only vaguely aware that, next to them, Tony is saying goodbye to Morgan, giving her some last advice or encouragement.
Much too quickly, the children are off, running hand in hand towards the entrance door, not looking back even once. Only then, when the noise of dozens of children is gone and the parents around them are trickling out of the yard, does Steve realize the bell did not save him at all. On the contrary, it took the only buffer he had between himself and Tony away, leaving them all alone and with no good excuse not to talk.
While Steve is still staring at the school, pretending to look for a last glimpse of Peter, Tony’s eyes are already on him, heavy and expectant in a way that leave Steve out of breath. Finally, he cannot push it off any longer.
Tony’s face is hard, all sharp angles and none of the warmth he held only moments ago. His voice, though, when he speaks is casual enough. “So, you got your dream family, huh?”
If Steve did not know Tony so well, he might have missed the hurt, the veiled accusation. It is not the overwhelming kind. It has been ten years, after all, and even though Tony liked to nurse his wounds, he was also always good at building something new. Something better, even.
No, if anything, it is Steve who has to admit defeat. “Peter’s not mine. Well, he is, but I adopted him. His parents were friends.” It is not      quite the dream he had when leaving Tony because he wanted more from life, because he thought he was not yet finished exploring, always expecting to end up with a house and pretty wife and two happy kids. He swallows. “And you –” He trails off, unsure how to go on from here.
“Very much mine,” Tony says and he cannot hide the pride in his tone. Does not want to, perhaps. “I married Pepper. Some say it was inevitable. Morgan got the best of both of us.”
So, the eternal bachelor with a bit of a drinking problem and a lot of a time management problem managed to build himself a real family, even though he always said he did not want one. A hint of bitterness coats Steve’s tongue but he suppresses it quickly. None of his own failings are Tony’s fault.
“Congratulations, then,” he says and means it. “Pepper’s taking care of the company, then, while you’re here?”
Tony’s face falls, but he smooths it over into a polite mask so fast that Steve would have missed it if he did not know Tony so well. Had known him. “Pepper, she –” He breathes, in and out. “She died. It’s only the two of us now.”
It is like a punch in the gut. Not just the news about Pepper. The entire situation seems to only now crystallise into reality, mercilessly crashing into Steve. It could almost be funny, how they separated ten years ago only to now end up in the same space again.
“I’m sorry,” Steve says, pushing the words out through the sudden stricture in his throat. An hour ago, his only worry was to get Peter to school on time. Now, everything is different.
Tony scoffs but does not look Steve in the eye. “It’s hardly your fault.”
But in a way it is, or it feels that way right now. “No,” Steve tries again. “But I’m sorry for leaving like that. I –”
Tony’s eyes snap up and push the air right out of Steve’s lungs. “You didn’t want to be tied down by an old man. Money is not all in life, I know.” The words are coated in acid, burning with an accusation that is not entirely directed at Steve, although it hits all the same.
It was never about the money. In fact, he never much liked the person Tony was when he acted like other rich people thought he should. Wealth and character are two very different things. But neither their relationship nor his leaving was ever about material things.
“No,” Steve disagrees softly. “That’s not what I meant.” And he cannot bear that Tony believes that.
Tony’s face is still a mask, disinterested, just on the offensive side of polite. “It doesn’t matter,” he says and, on the surface, even sounds like he means it. “We moved on. Life is good, now.”
“It is. But –” Steve looks at the school, knows for a fact that Peter and Morgan are sitting together. That it is very likely he will see Tony more often now. “I need you to know that it was never about your age. It was never about your money either. I just –”
As he is still searching for the right words to continue, Tony cuts him off, his tongue sharp, no mercy for either of them. “You wanted someone to come home on time to have dinner with. Who didn’t like to get drunk so much.”
A much-needed calm settles over Steve. Because this, right here, has always been an issue with Tony, this willingness to think the worst of himself and automatically assume everybody must see him as the problem. 
“Don’t put words in my mouth,” Steve says, involuntarily straightening his shoulders as if bracing for a fight. As if Tony does not know full well how to hit under the belt, and hard.
“What then?” Tony asks, his lips stretching into an ugly smile, showing too many teeth. That is a clear challenge.
They are in the middle of their children’s elementary school yard, all alone by now, but still in view of dozens of kids and their teachers. This is not the right place to have a heart-to-heart, especially not one that is ten years too late. But this is where they have found each other again and, with one painful exception, Steve does not tend to simply walk away.  
“You always wanted to please everyone,” he says simply, even while knowing he cannot leave it at that.
“Yeah,” Tony drawls, face unreadable. “And you always wanted to fight everyone.”
Steve ignores that, mostly because Tony is not wrong. He spent so much of his life fighting, he is tired of it. “I wanted a family. And I loved you, but I was afraid you’d never be satisfied with anything we built.” He hesitates but then decides to go all in. “I didn’t think you could settle for my dream.”
Once again, the world around them falls away. This time, however, it feels more like a betrayal.
Tony stares at him, his lips soundlessly forming the word settle as if he struggles to comprehend it.  
“I think we’re done here,” he then says, his tone utterly precise. And, without waiting for an answer, he turns around and leaves, long strides with his back straight as if he is quietly expecting Steve to stick a knife into it.
Quietly, Steve curses himself. What did he expect would happen? He never wanted to lay the blame at Tony’s feet and managed to do exactly that anyway.
“Tony, wait,” he calls, even while he is rooted in place. What if Tony comes back? What if he does not?
“What?” Giving up the pretence of calm, Tony whirls back around. “You left me because I wasn’t enough for you. Because you wanted more, even though you never told me what that was. You never told me you were unhappy. You never gave me the chance to be better. And now you dare to tell me I wouldn’t settle for you?”
Ten years or not, a lifetime of fury simmers in Tony’s eyes, a memory of all the people who told him he does not measure up. And perhaps Steve deserves every single bit of it.
“That’s not –” Steve tries to argue, but does not get the chance.
“I thought we were happy. And then you just pack up your things one day and leave.” Tony somehow manages to make happy sound like an insult, an arrow to the chest. “You just decided I wasn’t enough. You fight for every fucking little thing but you couldn’t fight for us.”
It is the truth. Perhaps it was not so simple back then, but Steve gave up and there is no arguing that.
“I’m sorry,” Steve says and does not expect Tony’s answering sneer to hit so hard.
“Yeah, me too,” Tony lies. “Let’s just hope that our kids do not become best friends so we won’t get the chance to disappoint each other again.”
  Of course, the kids become best friends. It was entirely inevitable. Tony is glad for Morgan. Making friends is important and good. He just could have done without having to deal with Steve on a regular basis.
It has always been the same with them. They come from different worlds, have different views on just about everything. One wrong word, and they were off. They have always been good together too, though. Understanding each other wordlessly, pushing each other to be better. Tony felt like he could be entirely himself with Steve. No masks, no hiding behind money. He obviously felt wrong.
After their fateful meeting on the schoolyard, Steve’s words have been circulating endlessly in Tony’s head, popping up at the most inopportune moments. It is true that, back then, Tony never thought about having a family of his own. He had his hands full with the company and with working on being able to look himself in the eyes in the mirror. But they never even talked about it. Steve had never been shy to talk about anything, never hesitated to start arguments. But not this. Instead, he left. Simple as that.
Tony was a mess, after, although some part of him always knew it would happen. That is what people did, leaving him behind. Pepper did, too, in a way, although it is unkind to think of her death that way. The world does not turn around him, he has learned that by now.
But still, Steve. Life is good now. Morgan and he have found a rhythm. She is growing up happy and Tony has made his peace with growing old this way. Why did Steve have to crash back into his life now?
The doorbell rips Tony out of his thoughts and he quickly drains the last of his morning coffee. Playdates are a thing in his life now. Playdates with Steve Rogers’ son. Here he thought he had already paid for all of his mistakes earlier in life. Obviously not.
Before Tony can even make it to the hall, Morgan has run down the stairs – sounding like an entire group of excited elephants – and opened the door with a loud squeal, greeting Peter like he is her salvation.
By the time Tony reaches the door, two rosy-cheeked children have run past him, Peter greeting him with breathless carelessness and Morgan shouting at him they will be out in the yard. There is nothing he can do other than wave after them and then face the man standing on his porch. With a sudden flash of vindictiveness, he hopes Steve feels as awkward as he does.
Tony’s arms cross of their own volition and he catches the motion too late to stop it. In a desperate try to appear less defensive, he leans against the doorframe.
“Steve,” he greets shortly, and hates how good Steve looks.
It is nine o’clock on a Sunday morning. Other people might be grumpy about having to be out and about at this hour, dragged through the city by their hyperactive child who is way too excited at the prospect of digging up worms in the garden. Other people might guard their expression when meeting a guy they left with barely a word ten years ago. Instead, Steve’s face is almost hopeful. Tony wants to smash that hope into pieces – after finding out what there is to be hopeful about.
“Tony,” Steve says, his tone strangely reluctant as if he had to gather his courage first. “You have a nice house.”
Right. Okay. This is the kind of people they are now. Commenting on each other’s houses like Karen down the road. Next, Steve will give his opinion about the colour of the hydrangeas.
“Kind of you to notice,” Tony replies, having to force his teeth to unclench. “When will you pick up Peter?”
It does not give him any satisfaction to see Steve flinch at that. They were good together once, and he does not want them to hurt each other.  
Steve straightens, still doing the same thing he ever did when needing to meet something complicated or important head on. “I was hoping we could talk.”
Oh, no. Tony worried this would happen. Their last conversation was devastating enough. They should just leave it at that. It is over.
“I wasn’t aware there was anything more to talk about,” Tony says, proud of how even his voice remains. He really, really is not awake enough for this.
But Steve looks at him, meets his eyes in that unflinching way that preceded so many fights. And, to be honest, so many earnest, good conversations, too.
“I never said you weren’t enough.” 
Great. There it is. Steve liked to say so many things, never holding back. But when it mattered, when it concerned their relationship, he just hid away all his grievances and ran. How else is Tony to interpret that other than that he did not measure up? 
“Ah, straight to the heart.” Tony smirks, falling back on his favourite defence mechanism – riling the other guy up until they do not want to have the conversation anymore. “Next, I should duck in case you’re throwing a punch, which is your second-favourite thing to do.” 
“Tony.” The familiar reproach in Steve’s voice washes over Tony, makes him waver, just a bit. “I – I was so young –” 
“Go on, you’re doing brilliantly,” Tony says, one eyebrow raised. “Insulting my age is always the way to go.” 
Steve looks briefly at his hands, twisting his fingers around each other. Then he straightens again, his face so earnest it hurts.  
“When you talked about the future, it was always about Stark Industries. About new inventions that would make life better for everybody. Green energy and medical devices.” He shrugs, half-resigned. “It was never about us.” 
That makes Tony pause. It is nonsense, of course. They had countless conversations about all sorts of things. He is not much of a dreamer, at least not when the lights are on. But they must have talked about it.
“Because I was a fool who thought you’d be there in that future with me.” Or rather he hoped that was the case. If anyone had doubts about the strength of their relationship, it was Tony. Steve leaving did not come as much of a surprise, really, rather the lack of a fight about it did. Usually, people liked to recount all of his flaws, all of the reasons why he did not measure up.
“Some people don’t have the brains and means to change the entire world,” Steve says, his eyes focused somewhere above Tony’s shoulder. “Some of us can only just about imagine what they want for their own life.” 
That just makes Steve sound like the greatest hypocrite on earth. If anyone spent all their waking moments thinking about what changes are needed and how to get them done, it is him. He took on every fight, no matter what chances of winning he realistically had.
“I don’t remember you spewing so much bullshit,” Tony snarls, wondering whether he should simply shut the door in Steve’s face. It would be satisfying, if only for a moment. There are things he needs to say, still. “But all right, you felt neglected. Thankfully, it’s over. We’re doing fine on our own. I’m not interested in bringing up our history every time the kids have a playdate.” 
It is hard enough, seeing Steve around all the time now. Tony could really do without the emotional turmoil every time they lay eyes on each other.  
“You didn’t neglect me,” Steve protests immediately, a frown taking over his face. “I wanted something and I didn’t tell you because what we had was good and I was afraid you didn’t want to change that. I expected rejection and replayed it in my head so often that I really, really couldn’t take the chance of hearing you say it out loud.” He pauses, takes a breath. He looks surprised he said all that. “For that, I am sorry.” 
And Tony believes him. This is what he knows best, after all, thinking about something so often until it feels real, until he cannot imagine it going any other way. It is just that he never expected Steve to do that, too. He thought at least one of them was emotionally functionable.
Silence stretches between them, while Tony wars with himself, his anger slipping away while he is wondering whether to hold on to it.
“All right,” he then says and pushes himself off the doorframe. Before he can fully decide what to do next, though, Steve pipes up again.
“Yeah. That’s what I wanted to say.” The tiniest hint of red colours Steve’s skin as he reaches up to run a hand up his neck. “I’ll pick Peter up at four. Is that okay?” 
This is it. Tony could nod and close the door and finally consider this matter dealt with. That would likely be the healthiest option, too.
“I –” he begins, then cuts himself off. He has never chosen the healthiest way before. Why would he start now? “Do you want coffee?” 
“What?” Steve stares at him, eyes wide with sudden confusion. Perhaps he is expecting a trap to snap shut around him.
“I’m not –” Tony shakes his head, already halfway to regretting his question. “I have to think about what you just said. But I’m not –” Dry laughter tumbles over his lips and he lets it. “Geez, I’ll sound like a douche if I say I’m not angry. What are we? Middle schoolers?” Tony steps back and opens the door wide in clear invitation. “Come in, have a coffee. You can tell me about that gallery opening that your son somehow managed to get my kid excited about, even though she hates clean dresses.” 
Steve does not move and Tony does not blame him for it. He is barely able to keep up with the sudden change in tone himself. People have always called him impulsive, though, so he decides to just roll with it.  
“All right?” Steve asks more than says.
Tony has to wave him in to get him to step forward. “Are you still taking too much sugar?” he asks, all while wondering what he is doing. This is way too familiar, way too close to old wounds.
“Only way to keep you from drinking my coffee,” Steve replies slowly. He is obviously also not sure whether it is appropriate to joke now. Or ever.  
“Lies and slander.” Tony decides to go all in. No use in turning back now. Things are awkward enough. “Take off your shoes. It’s bad enough that Morgan drags dirt through the entire house.” 
With that he turns around and vanishes towards the kitchen, not looking back to see whether Steve actually follows. Despite his contradictory nature, Steve is rather predictable, as Tony has learned. No matter their history, no matter the stakes, there is not a single challenge Steve will not rise to meet. Now, if only this will not end badly.
  Morgan and Peter quickly become inseparable. They have several playdates a week and still only reluctantly go home in the evening. After much internal doubt and external discussion – the kids are both only five years old, after all – Tony and Steve agreed to let them have a sleepover.
The afternoon went well. Tony barely saw the kids since they were building some secret hideout in the farthest corner of the garden, giving him some time to work while JARVIS watched over them.
Dinner was peaceful and all of them ate their greens. Nobody protested when, after the second movie, Tony sent them to brush their teeth and go to bed.
It was all a bit too calm. So, when JARVIS wakes Tony just after midnight to tell him that Peter is crying, Tony is almost glad he gets something to do – and something that is hopefully only caring for homesickness and nothing serious like broken bones or an allergic reaction.
In Morgan’s room, the kids are a miserable bundle of blankets and tears. Morgan is holding Peter’s hand but looks up relieved as soon as Tony enters. Immediately, she scoots to the side to make room for him, without letting go of Peter.
Tony briefly squeezes Morgan’s shoulder with a smile. He is so proud of her, always prepared to help, even if it is hard.
He turns towards Peter, not touching him but getting close enough that Peter can reach out if he wants to. “What’s happening, bud?”
Through a nose clogged with tears, Peter says, “I dreamt of my mum and dad. I don’t –” That breaks free a new wave of misery. “I miss them.”
Crying children really are the worst thing. Tony wants nothing more than to keep them safe, but sometimes the world is too big for their small hearts and he cannot always keep it at bay.
He settles more comfortably at the edge of the bed. While he still thinks about what to say, how to make this better, Morgan pipes up. “I miss my mum, too, sometimes.”
That just breaks Tony’s heart all over again. Neither of them can have any real memories of them, but Tony knows that pictures and stories can sometimes feel like the real thing.
“Do you want me to call your dad?” Tony asks. He was never homesick for his parents but always for Jarvis and Ana. Talking to them usually helped.  
Peter’s eyes grow impossibly wide as if he did not even think that was an option. He is halfway through a nod when he freezes. “But it’s so late.”
“That doesn’t matter, Peter,” Tony says immediately, wanting nothing more than to drive that uncertainty out of Peter’s voice. “You can call and talk to him or he can come and pick you up.”
If Steve is anything like Tony, he is not sleeping anyway but turning in his bed, wondering whether everything is all right. Worry for one’s child is not something that can be switched off.
“Really?” Peter asks, his lower lip wobbling.
“Of course. Always.” Tony looks at Peter and then at Morgan, wanting to make sure they know this is true for both of them. “He loves you so much, there’s nothing that could keep him away from you.”
Peter takes a deep breath through his mouth, almost a sob of relief. “Can you ask him to come, please?”
He sounds so small, so very young, that Tony wants nothing more than to gather him up in his arms and promise him that nothing will ever hurt him again.
“I will,” Tony says instead. “How about the two of you go downstairs and wait in the living room? We’ll cuddle up on the couch until your dad is here.”
Peter simply nods and then holds out his arms, silently asking to be picked up. Tony turns to Morgan and presses a kiss on her head. “Can you go find the big blanket for the couch?”
Morgan’s face brightens. She is visibly glad to have something to do. She is like him, that way, hating to feel helpless. And what is there to do against missing dead parents?
Then Tony picks Peter up, marvelling at the show of trust. Peter immediately rests his head against Tony’s chest.
“I’m sorry,” he says, so quietly that Tony almost misses it.
“Don’t be. We are all sad sometimes, and it’s always good to have people to help.” That is a lesson he learned the hard way and one he still sometimes forgets. If he can do his part in teaching Peter that he is allowed to rely on others, he will do so gladly.
He carries Peter downstairs and settles him on the couch, right on time for Morgan to bring their biggest and fluffiest blanket.
“You two get comfortable,” he says, tucking the blanket in place around them. “I’ll call Steve and make us some hot milk.
He watches them for a moment longer, how Morgan immediately takes Peter’s hand again, how they move into each other’s space without hesitation. It is a good thing they found each other.
Quietly, he makes his way to the kitchen, searching for a pot while he calls Steve.
Steve picks up after the first ring and sounds barely sleepy. That only proves Tony’s theory right that he was nervous about Peter being away from home, too. Parents, Tony thinks with a mocking smile for himself, always one wrong step away from a heart attack.
As promised, Steve gets on his way almost before Tony has finished his greeting, just as much for his own sake as for Peter’s.
When Tony gets back to the living room with two steaming cups of hot milk, Peter looks like he has calmed down a bit. His eyes still look too wide in his face, but Morgan got him a tissue and it sounds like he can breathe through his nose again, no new tears clogging it up.
Once he put down the milk, the kids scoot to the side to make room for him in the middle. Almost before he has settled, both of them cuddle close, clinging to him like he is their lifeline. Again, Tony’s heart aches fiercely.
“I’m scared,” Peter whispers, then grows tense against Tony as if he did not mean to say that out loud.  
“I can understand that,” Tony reassures him. “The world can be a scary place at times. But your dad is on his way.” 
“Can you stay here?”
Tony represses a smile at that. The two of them are effectively pinning him down. Not that they need to. He would not willingly leave them alone when they are sad and frightened.  
“I’m not going anywhere, bud,” he promises.
  Barely twenty minutes later, JARVIS tells him that Steve is at the door. With a sigh, Tony extricates himself carefully from the couch and the two sleeping children clinging to him. It is quite the feat, but neither of them rouses.  
He opens the door and quickly rises a finger to his lips, stopping Steve from talking out loud.  
“They’re asleep,” he whispers and gestures for Steve to come in.  
The kids lie on the sofa just as he left them, a man-sized gap between them that shows clearly where Tony was just a minute ago.  
Steve walks over as quietly as he can and presses a soft kiss to his son’s forehead, staying there for a minute, just breathing, taking in the knowledge that Peter is safe. Then he gets up and mouths, “Thank you,” at Tony. 
Tony nods and gestures at the door. It would not be a good idea to wake the children now, but they should be close, just in case.   
As soon as the kitchen door closes behind them, awkwardness rises in the air, building almost a barrier between them. This is the first time they have been truly alone in ten years. No children as buffer between them, no strangers walking by in the periphery. Just the two of them in the middle of the night.  
“Thank you,” Steve says again, this time out loud. 
Tony is not sure what to do with Steve’s gratitude. “Your son had a nightmare and wanted his father. What did you think I would do?” It comes out just a bit sharper than intended.
To give Steve credit, he ignores Tony’s tone. “He cannot remember his parents but he sometimes dreams about them. I hope it’ll get better when he gets older.” 
That, Tony can understand. They are both just worried about their children, sometimes feeling completely out of their depth.
“You’re a good father,” Tony reassures Steve and means it. “He loves you.” 
He remembers those first months at home, scared out of his mind and absolutely clueless. Rhodey used to call him just to tell him he was doing fine, sometimes every day. He needed to hear somebody say it to drown out the mounting doubt in his head. Perhaps Steve is the same, no matter how self-assured he always pretends to be.
A half-smile ghosts over Steve’s face. “It’s not how I expected it to be,” he confesses quietly and sits down at the table. It looks more like his legs are giving out, tiredness taking over now that the adrenaline is gone.  
“No,” Tony agrees. “I guess it’s not.” 
Knowing Steve, he wanted a white picket fence and a handful of children running around, a wife singing somewhere in the background with Steve himself painting in his studio, every now and then looking out the window at his little family.  
Tony himself never expected to have children, never expected wanting them. Right until Steve left him for exactly that reason, he never even wasted a thought on it. He barely got through being a child intact, why would he inflict that on another human being? Now, of course, Morgan is the single most perfect and precious person in his life and he would not trade her for anything.  
Steve looks up at him, eyes suddenly piercing. “You’re a good father, too.” 
He does his best. They all do. Still, he says, “Funny how that turned out, right?” From a drunk, mad inventor to a father. Life follows strange paths.
But Steve shakes his head, still full of conviction. “I always knew you would be.” 
So, they are having another heart-to-heart. It is way too late for that and the evening was emotionally exhausting enough. But they have two sleeping children in the living room and nowhere else to be but here.
Contemplating, Tony pulls out a chair for himself. Not quite the farthest from Steve, but it is a near thing.
“Then why did you leave?” he then asks, looking at his hands because he is not sure he will like what he will read on Steve’s face. “You never even asked about having children. I never even knew that was something you wanted. Instead, you just packed your things and left.” 
A bitterness lies underneath the words that surprise Tony. It has been ten years since Steve left. He has not thought about Steve in such a long time that it does not make sense that all that old hurt is coming up now, every time they see each other. They are long over that. Or so he thought. 
Steve shrugs with one shoulder. “You were so busy with your work. I didn’t want you to – ” He interrupts himself, then tries again. “I wasn’t sure what you would choose.” 
If he is honest, Tony does not know either. Life was both simpler and more complicated back then, and a family was never on the horizon for him. Still, he says, “So you decided to not give me a choice at all.”  
“You were –” Steve runs a hand through his hair, which is already all over the place. “I don’t know, seven years is a lot at that age. Next to you I felt unfinished. You had your company, you always had ideas to change the world and the power to back them up. And I – I was nobody.” 
A nobody with enough personality to make everybody else seem like grey caricatures of life. A nobody that held Tony’s heart, once upon a time.
A spike of anger shoots through Tony’s gut, sharp and hot. “You wanted to live a little before settling down with a boring sugar daddy.” That was unfair and Tony knows it as soon as the words are out.
Deep down, he is not sure he should press a point that could easily turn him into the villain of this story. Yes, Steve left him without giving him the opportunity to fight for their relationship. But what if he had asked? What if Tony decided it was more trouble than it was worth? Their roles could so easily be reversed. But they are not.
“I’m sorry,” Tony says quickly, but Steve shakes his head. 
“You’re not wrong,” he says slowly, pulling one corner of his mouth up into an entirely self-deprecating smile. “At times I just didn’t know what you could even see in me. You were successful and important and, well, everything I wasn’t.” 
Frowning, Tony leans forward, only speaking when Steve looks at him. “But you knew I never cared about any of that. You are brilliant and passionate. Nobody else in my life was as real as you.”
Tony’s life was filled with sycophants and self-serving business partners and an honorary uncle who never cared about him at all. Steve was refreshingly removed from that life, keeping Tony down to earth by reminding him what life is truly about. He loved him.
Pinching the base of his nose, Tony shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter anymore. We’re both grown-ups now.” Whatever that is worth.
He gets to his feet, suddenly restless. “Do you want tea?” 
Steve leans slightly away from him. “Tea?” 
Tony represses the urge to take it all back. What is it with him and offering beverages as a way out of awkward situations?
“Don’t look at me like that,” he pushes forward. Anything is better than to keep stirring up ancient history. “I haven’t drunk a single drop of alcohol since Morgan was born. And it’s too late for coffee.”
For a long moment, Steve simply looks at him, clearly debating whether he should insist on finishing their conversation. In the end, a desire for peace – or simple exhaustion – wins.  
“It never used to be too late for coffee,” he says lightly, thankfully ignoring the bit about the alcohol.
Tony shrugs, already picking up the kettle. “Even old guys can grow responsible.” He means it as a joke. His age has never been a problem for him. For quite some time it looked like he would never even turn twenty. Now, every year is a victory when lived well.
“You’re not old,” Steve argues, also without heat. His shoulders are relaxed now, almost slumping.  
“You just said –” Tony points out but trails off as he takes out two mugs.
“When you’re in your early twenties, seven years is a lot. But now? It’s just seven years.” Even without looking, Tony can hear the small smile in Steve’s voice. “Also, I heard that children keep you young.” 
Tony throws a disbelieving look at Steve. “Or they put you in an early grave.” 
“Or that.” 
It feels good to laugh together. Like all the ugly parts in between did not happen. Like they still fit together as if all these years and so much life did not happen to them.
In far more companionable silence, Tony finishes preparing their tea. But when he puts down the mugs, he does not return to his chair. Instead, he musters Steve and proposes, “So, how about we built a fort?”
“A – what?” Steve sputters. It is fun, catching Steve off-guard.
Tony moves on as if it is the sanest thought he ever had. “Well, we shouldn’t wake the kids or they will be insufferable tomorrow. But I don’t want them to wake up scared when we’re not there. So, the easy solution is to get some mattresses in there.” He cocks his head to the side, thinking about logistics. “Maybe not a full-blown fort, but you don’t want to sleep on the floor at my age, believe me.” 
For a long moment, Steve looks at him with such intent that Tony wonders whether he has said something wrong. Surely, that is the most logical solution. He could get the guest room ready for Steve and JARVIS could alert them if the kids woke up, but being in the same room just makes everything easier. Or so he thought.  
“Yeah,” Steve than says with a smile that almost makes Tony dizzy. “Let’s do that.” 
  If the atmosphere in the kitchen was awkward, it is now almost intimate. There is enough room between Tony and Steve that five children could pile up between them, and yet they would only have to reach out to touch each other.  
Once Tony has settled, he looks across the bed and his eyes immediately find Steve’s. It is dark and they cannot talk, but something passes between them nonetheless.   
Almost out of its own volition, Tony reaches out with his hand, leaves it lying there, palm-down on the mattress between them. Immediately, heat shoots through his body. What is he doing? What could he possibly hope would happen? He cannot pull it back, however, not without drawing any more attention to himself – as if Steve’s attention is not fully on him, burning on his skin, almost.
Then, with only the barest hesitation, Steve puts his hand atop Tony’s, squeezing it just a bit.
“Thank you for taking care of Peter,” Steve says, his voice barely a whisper.
The heat immediately turns to shame. Of course. They are not in their twenties anymore, not stupid and in love. They have grown up and got families of their own. Whatever this small, wanting part deep inside Tony’s chest thinks was going on here – Steve apologizing and slowly moving back into his life – has nothing to do with him and everything with the fact that their children are friends. Steve just wants to build a non-toxic atmosphere for Peter and Morgan. It is not his fault that everything looks different in the dark.
“Always,” Tony mouths back, glad he does not have to put energy in keeping his voice stable.
He is not sure what is happening, but he is not happy about it. Neither with the apparent disappointment at Steve’s rejection – he does not want anything from him, after all – nor with the carelessness with which Steve brushes him aside.
But then Steve says, “Good night, Tony,” and leaves his hand right where it is, warm and welcoming on Tony’s. He does not close his eyes either but keeps watching Tony in the near-dark.
And Tony looks right back, not sure why his heart is beating so fast. Not sure he really wants to know either. Life is good, and he does not want to complicate it.
They do not let go of each other all night.
  The morning comes with squealing children and so many stacked pancakes that the sugar high will last all through the day.
They move through the kitchen with ease as if they never stopped doing so, as if they always had two hungry five-years-olds firing extravagant topping wishes at them. It is chaos, but Steve somehow also feels like he is in the eye of the storm, untouched by the world outside as long as he is moving around Tony.
Last night was – strange. Perhaps it was the adrenaline crash after rushing over and finding Peter well and asleep, the crisis averted before he even arrived at the scene. He knew Peter would be safe with Tony. No matter their history, he never doubted that. And then the fort, the closeness, holding hands.
Steve’s body feels light, as if he is barely touching the ground as he walks, and he does not know what it means. Well, he has an inkling but it cannot be. They have been through this. They have tried their hand at being together and it only ended in heartbreak. And surely Tony does not feel the same way.
Each time he glances up, however, Tony is looking right back at him, only for a moment before turning back to what he was doing. They are circling each other and it is driving Steve crazy.
Once the children are satiated, they ask whether they can go to the backyard and play. Neither of them wondered what Steve was doing here, why their dads were sleeping in a half-built fort in the living room. They were just happy they do not have to separate just yet.
When they are gone, Tony and Steve are left with the chaos in the kitchen, but they deal with it quickly, efficiently, as if they have done so a thousand times before.
“More coffee?” Tony then asks, even while he is already turning the machine back on.
“Please.” Steve hands his cup over, glad for the excuse. When that cup is empty, he has to think about what to do next. They both have their lives they need to get back to. Sleeping over to make sure Peter is all right is one thing, but lingering afterwards for no good reason is another.
They settle back at the table in companionable quiet. For once, it is not awkward. Steve could imagine having mornings like this. He bites on his tongue to stop his thoughts from going any further. This is not why Tony let him stay over.
No, he is not going to ruin this, neither for himself nor for the kids, by getting hung up on non-sensical ideas. Instead, he asks about Tony’s work, which is a much safer topic for everyone involved. And he can watch Tony light up when he talks about a new project of his.
That is enough.
  Two months later, it is not enough anymore. Tony and Morgan are everywhere. Enough so that it is hard to say who is more disappointed when they go an entire weekend without seeing each other, Steve or Peter. They go on outings, they cook and eat together, they work on school projects together. They are tangled up in each other’s lives so much that it feels like a loss to go home to their own house at the end of the day. It cannot go on like this.
One evening, when Steve stands in front of Tony’s door to pick up Peter, he takes a deep breath. JARVIS must have already alerted Tony that he is here, so he barely has any time to collect himself. He has never been good with the moments before, anyway.
“Tony,” Steve greets, as soon as the door swings open.
Tony is barefoot but otherwise in work clothes. Still not too interested in lab safety.
Before he can lose his nerves, Steve asks, “I was wondering whether you would want to have dinner with me.��� 
The welcoming smile on Tony’s face does not slip off. One of his eyebrows wanders higher, though, not as much in scepticism but definitely questioning.
“Dinner?” Tony repeats, then cocks his head to the side. “We’re eating together all the time when the kids are over.” 
This could be a lifeline for Steve to duck out. Just laugh a little and say he meant a special pizza place Morgan would love. Anything to not ruin what they already have.
But he has always been stubborn. “I mean just the two of us,” Steve clarifies, clearing his throat. “No children.” 
Tony is quiet for a long moment and leans against the doorframe in such a similar way to the first time Steve came here that Steve’s stomach begins to roil. This was a very bad idea.
True enough, Tony says, “That didn’t end well before.” His face is blank, however, no accusation, no scorn. Just mild interest. And that damned eyebrow still refusing to come back down.
“I – I made a hasty decision back then. And we’ve both changed.” Steve is grasping for straws. For once in his life, he should have thought about what he was going to say instead of immediately jumping into the deep end. Almost defiantly, he adds, “And I like you.” 
Amusement crinkles the corners of Tony’s eyes. “You like me?” he says, still not mocking. Steve is clinging to any positive sign, small as it might be. “Are you taking lessons from Peter? I heard him tell that to a frog in our backyard last week.”
Peter loves the entire world and he does not hesitate to tell it so. Most of the time, it is endearing. 
“And you let him bring that thing home.” Steve’s stomach settles a bit. They are going back into familiar territory, teasing each other. It is not what he wanted but better than another argument. 
“I’m not going to break that boy’s heart.” Tony shakes his head with a small grin. “That’s what parents are for.” 
Again, it would be easy to accept the distraction, to simply forget his question and go on as before. But Steve has never strayed from a mission. “Don’t change the topic,” he asks, growing serious once more. “It’s all right if you don’t want to.” 
Tony looks at him for a long moment. At some point in the past ten years, he learned not to grasp at any hand offered to him but to stand back and think about it.
But then, just like that, he nods. “I want to. How does tomorrow sound?” 
Steve is stunned. It cannot be that simple. He has been agonizing over this question all week. Longer, even, if he is honest with himself.
“Tomorrow?” he echoes, certain he must have misheard.
Tony’s smile widens. “Don’t tell me you need time to plan first. I’m not a blushing maiden.” He stops and, for the first time, some hesitation enters his tone. “We’ve known each other before.” 
For better or worse. Perhaps this time around they can avoid stepping into the same traps again.
“And the kids –” 
“Rhodey’s in town,” Tony interrupts him as if he is the one who planned this. He certainly seems more prepared to go through with it than Steve was. “We’ll hoist them off on him. It’ll be a lesson for him if he has to guard two hyperactive kids through the night after he bought them their weight in cotton candy.” 
The night, Steve thinks, feeling heat creep up his neck. That already sound more serious than he had ever hoped for. He thought dinner was a stretch. But having an entire night off without pressure that they have to be home at some point – it is like a long-lost freedom. And Steve means to exploit it to the fullest.
“I feel like you’ve already put more thought into this than I did,” Steve teases, feeling this wonderful lightness again. Things are looking up. 
With a smirk, Tony pushes away from the doorframe. “That’s the folly of youth, running head-first into things without a plan.” 
Steve fears he will do that, no matter what age he is. It is written into the very core of his being.
He follows Tony inside. “I’m regretting my question already,” he lies, unable to hide the giddiness in his tone. 
“No, you don’t.” Tony looks at him over his shoulder, fondness written all over his face. “Tomorrow at six? You can pick me up.” 
This is happening. Steve feels like doing a victory dance, the same one Peter does when he finds exactly the right Lego piece.
“I will,” he promises, already counting the hours.  
Briefly, Tony turns entirely towards him, his face open and eager and happy. “Looking forward to it.” 
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blancheludis · 1 year
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Myrime
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Preferred contact methods: Email: [email protected] Tumblr: blancheludis
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Will create works that contain: Angst, Found Family, Fluff, Getting Together, most AUs, Hurt/Comfort, Miscommunication, Enemies to Friends to Lovers
Will not create works that contain: Graphic Sex, incest, wing fic, Major Character Death
– Fic or Other Writing –
Auction ID: 1099
Will create works for the following relationships: Tony Stark-centric - MCU Steve Rogers/Tony Stark - MCU Clint Barton-centric - MCU Bucky Barnes/Clint Barton - MCU James “Rhodey” Rhodes/Tony Stark - MCU
Work Description: I’m offering a 2-10k fic. My favourite characters to write for are Tony and Clint and I listed the main pairings with them that I’ve done before, but I’m willing to add to that if anyone wants to. I’d be to get specific ideas or to work closely with what the bidder wants. You’re welcome to message me to see if I’ll write something you want or to ask for details. My schedule will clear up in the middle of November, so I’ll have time to write then.
Ratings: Gen, Teen, Mature, Explicit
Can pods bid on this auction? Yes - Podbids welcome!
CLICK HERE TO BID ON THIS WORK
– Craft or Merchandise –
Auction ID: 2049
Will create works for the following relationships: Tony Stark-centric - Any Universe Steve Rogers-centric - Any Universe Clint Barton-centric - Any Universe
Work Description: I am offering one embroidery piece with a diameter of 10 to 15 cm. The four pictured pieces are already finished and you can choose one of them. If you have something similar in mind (one or two characters) and can provide a comic panel reference, we can talk about creating that, too - although I reserve the right to refuse. Iron Man, Captain America and Clint are the characters I embroider most often, but I’m willing to do other characters, too. Please keep in mind that there are limits to both the craft and my skill. I will cover the shipping cost up to 20€ . The piece will be sent without the embroidery hoop or a frame.
Ratings: Gen
Can pods bid on this auction? No - I’d rather not be bid on by pods
CLICK HERE TO BID ON THIS WORK
The auction runs from October 23 (12 AM ET) to October 29 (11:59:59 PM ET). Visit marveltrumpshate.com during Auction Week to view all of our auctions and to place your bids!
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blancheludis · 2 years
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Hi! Do you ever plan on writing an epilogue to Leave the Gun on the Table? (It’s so good and has left me wanting more!)
Thank you so much for wanting to read more. Ever since I've got your message in my inbox I've been feeling more motivated to write than I have in months.
I have promised to write an epilogue before and even though it's been a while I really, really plan to deliver! This feeling of having let that story sit on that ambiguous ending has been bugging me forever, and I do want to change that.
Thank you! And I'll do my best to deliver!
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blancheludis · 2 years
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Cap - Ironman Rec Week Day 4
It’s Cap-Ironman Rec Week Day 4! Today’s theme is Tension Thursday, so here are some of my favs that have angsty elements (which all feature happy endings 😉):
A Higher Form of War by @sabrecmc
Tony is a King with a surprising number of people out to kill him. Steve and the rest of the Avengers are fighting for Pierce’s rebellion and end up with Tony as their prisoner. Oops.
The weight of the world by masterlokisev159
Out on the streets and desperate for the next drop, Tony considers the choices he’s made that brought him here, all the while searching desperately for the next drink.
Only there’s a new problem. He’s run out of money.
There’s a blizzard coming. He has nothing left.
The privilege of loving you by starklystar
“Why won’t you let me touch you?”
It’s a desperate plea, half-shouted and half-whispered, Steve’s voice cracking at the end. Tony stops in his tracks, halfway to the stairs. He doesn’t dare to turn back, and he really doesn’t want to fight, or to leave, to spend the last month of his life away from his husband and their son. But Steve can’t know, can he?
-x-
Or: Tony has palladium poisoning, but he doesn’t tell Steve and Peter
Steadfast by BoroughKestrel
Steve fell in love with Tony in 1939 after he was sent back in time by Loki. After Tony disappeared, Steve had to find a way to move on. It never occurred to him that he would meet Tony Stark again — especially a version of Tony with no memory of having met Steve before.
Overheard your heartbeat (calling me yours) by starklystar
“Tony - ”
“I wish I could promise to come home this time,” he feels the armor crawl back down his arm, continuing unnoticed over Steve’s red gloves, then up the blue uniform as Tony fights to keep Steve’s gaze firmly fixed on him.
The last eyes Tony might get to see, and he wants to be lost in them.
In the end, his entire life boils down a few simple things: “JARVIS, take care of him for me.”
———-
Or, Tony overhears a phonecall where Steve proposes, a battle happens, and a paper ring settles some misunderstandings
Nobody Panic, Everything’s Fine by @itsallavengers
Steve doesn’t get jealous. He doesn’t. Honestly.
It’s just…well- Tony’s been spending an awful lot of time with a new employee. Who’s smarter than him. And funnier. And more interesting and generally a better match for Tony than he ever would be.
But he’s not jealous. Honestly.
Leave the gun on the table by @blancheludis
Tony meets his soulmate under the worst possible circumstances. It is not just a kidnapping gone wrong. It turns out Steve and his gang picked him on purpose and they want some personal revenge. If only he had managed to say the words written on his soulmate’s arm before they threw him back out into the streets.
How to date a robot by @sineala
How do you date a robot? Even the twenty-first century doesn’t have the answers to every question. Steve will have to figure this one out for himself – after he politely rebuffs Mr. Stark’s interest, of course. Sure, Mr. Stark is handsome, but Steve would rather be with his bodyguard. So when Iron Man agrees to go on a date with Steve, Steve couldn’t be happier. He loves Iron Man with all of his heart, and their relationship rapidly grows serious. But why does Mr. Stark hate Iron Man so much? And why in the world is Mr. Stark trying to tear Steve and Iron Man apart?
Don’t Leave Me This Way by @festiveferret
Tony can see a way out, but he has to go alone.
‘Til Death Do Us Part by @itsallavengers
Steve goes on a mission. Steve dies on the mission. Or at least, SHIELD make everyone think he’s died on the mission. In reality, he’s alive and well, and still kicking ass.
If only someone had let his husband know that.
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blancheludis · 2 years
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the cat just turned in his sleep and fell off the fish tank, crashed into his food bowl on the ground, scattering food everywhere. and then, back half-twisted and one leg still sticking out strangely, he just starts eating, playing it cool.
i love that fool.
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blancheludis · 2 years
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Stumbled over season 3 of Umbrella Academy yesterday night when looking for something to watch. Thought to myself I can watch that for relaxing, they’ve got great music.
Didn’t that kick me in the face five minutes later when it turned into a full-blown musical?
My fault, really, for expecting anything else.
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blancheludis · 2 years
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Writing is not about 'telling an epic story' or 'making something that will outlive you'. Writing is about going "You know what would be fucking awesome?" and then committing word crimes
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blancheludis · 2 years
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Let’s act it out!
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blancheludis · 2 years
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ˢʰᵃᵖᵉᵈ ˡᶤᵏᵉ ᵃ ᶠʳᶤᵉᶰᵈ
ᵐʸ ᶠᶤʳˢᵗ ᶠᵒᵘʳ ᵖᵃᶰᵉˡ ᶜᵒᵐᶤᶜ
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blancheludis · 2 years
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This thread is gold
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blancheludis · 2 years
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Hi!! I just wanted to let you know that a) i love love love your story "Forget Me Not" b) I wrote my own kind of sequel to it! I hope you don't mind. I saw your blanket permission statement on your profile and just ran with it because the idea was eating my brain!! I've linked it on ao3 but here's the link in case you want to check it out. https://archiveofourown.org/works/35822143
Thank you again for writing "Forget Me Not." It's honestly all sorts of delicious and I had so much fun living a little longer in the universe you created.
Thank you so much! I love your sequel. It all just fits so beautifully together.
I wish you all the best for the New Year!
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blancheludis · 2 years
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you have invited strangers into your home, helen pevensie, mother of four.
without the blurred sight of joy and relief, it has become impossible to ignore. all the love inside you cannot keep you from seeing the truth. your children are strangers to you. the country has seen them grow taller, your youngest daughter’s hair much longer than you would have it all years past. their hands have more strength in them, their voices ring with an odd lilt and their eyes—it has become hard to look at them straight on, hasn’t it? your children have changed, helen, and as much as you knew they would grow a little in the time away from you, your children have become strangers.
your youngest sings songs you do not know in a language that makes your chest twist in odd ways. you watch her dance in floating steps, bare feet barely touching the dewy grass. when you try and make her wear her sister’s old shoes—growing out of her own faster than you think she ought to—, she looks at you as though you are the child instead of her. her fingers brush leaves with tenderness, and you swear your daughter’s gentle hum makes the drooping plant stand taller than before. you follow her eager leaps to her siblings, her enthusiasm the only thing you still recognise from before the country. yet, she laughs strangely, no longer the giggling girl she used to be but free in a way you have never seen. her smile can drop so fast now, her now-old eyes can turn distant and glassy, and her tears, now rarer, are always silent. it scares you to wonder what robbed her of the heaving sobs a child ought to make use of in the face of upset.
your other daughter—older than your youngest yet still at an age that she cannot be anything but a child—smiles with all the knowledge in the world sitting in the corner of her mouth. her voice is even, without all traces of the desperate importance her peers carry still, that she used to fill her siblings’ ears with at all hours of the day. she folds her hands in her lap with patience and soothes the ache of war in your mind before you even realise she has started speaking. you watch her curl her hair with careful, steady fingers and a straight back, her words a melody as she tells your eldest which move to make without so much a glance at the board off to her right. she reads still, and what a relief you find this sliver of normalcy, even if she’s started taking notes in a shorthand you couldn’t even think to decipher. even if you feel her slipping away, now more like one of the young, confident women in town than a child desperately wishing for a mother’s approval.
your younger son reads plenty as well these days, and it fills you with pride. he is quiet now, sitting still when you find him bent over a book in the armchair of his father. he looks at you with eyes too knowing for a petulant child on the cusp of puberty, and no longer beats his fists against the furniture when one of his siblings dares approach him. he has settled, you realise one evening when you walk into the living room and find him writing in a looping script you don’t recognise, so different from the scratched signature he carved into the doors of your pantry barely a year ago. he speaks sense to your youngest and eldest, respects their contributions without jest. you watch your two middle children pass a book back and forth, each a pen in hand and sheets of paper bridging the gap between them, his face opening up with a smile rather than a scowl. it freezes you mid-step to find such simple joy in him. remember when you sent them away, helen, and how long it had been since he allowed you to see a smile then?
your eldest doesn’t sleep anymore. none of your children care much for bedtimes these days, but at least sleep still finds them. it’s not restful, you know it from the startled yelps that fill the house each night, but they sleep. your eldest makes sure of it. you have not slept through a night since the war began, so it’s easy to discover the way he wanders the halls like a ghost, silent and persistent in a duty he carries with pride. each door is opened, your children soothed before you can even think to make your own way to their beds. his voice sounds deeper than it used to, deeper still than you think possible for a child his age and size. then again, you are never sure if the notches on his door frame are an accurate way to measure whatever it is that makes you feel like your eldest has grown beyond your reach. you watch him open doors, soothe your children, spend his nights in the kitchen, his hands wrapped around a cup of tea with a weariness not even the war should bring to him, not after all the effort you put into keeping him safe.
your children mostly talk to each other now, in a whispered privacy you cannot hope to be a part of. their arms no longer fit around your waist. your daughters are wilder—even your older one, as she carries herself like royalty, has grown teeth too sharp for polite society— and they no longer lean into your hands. your sons are broad-shouldered even before their shirts start being too small again, filling up space you never thought was up for taking. your eldest doesn’t sleep, your middle children take notes when politicians speak on the wireless and shake their heads as though they know better, and your youngest sings for hours in your garden.
who are your children now, helen pevensie, and who pried their childhood out of your shaking hands?
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blancheludis · 2 years
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Would you be willing to add a blanket permission statement for podfics/other transformative works to your AO3? :)
Oh! Yes! As long as I find out at some point that someone was awesome enough to create something for my stuff.
Do you want to tell me what made you ask?
Thank you :-)
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blancheludis · 2 years
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Work was hell today - my cat decided to cheer me up by showing me that he’s way more flexible than me. Thanks, Hector.
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blancheludis · 2 years
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@whumptober2021 Day 19: stabbing
Fandom: Marvel Characters: Clint Barton/Bucky Barnes Tags: Hurt Clint, Stabbing, Protective Bucky, Established Relationship, NoSelf-Preservation Instincts Words: 3.271
Summary: For once, Clint wishes his boyfriend were a bit less attentive and would not insist on greeting Clint with dinner every time his archery classes run late. If Bucky would be lounging on their couch, Clint could sneak past him to get rid of his bloodstained hoodie and then greet him without looking like someone just tried to slash him open from throat to hip.
Like this, though, he has to see Bucky’s smile shatter into an expression of terror. “It’s just a tiny stab wound,” he tries to explain.
“You were stabbed?”
---
The light is on in their kitchen and Clint can see Bucky standing over their oven. His back muscles are impressive even two stories up and hidden beneath an oversized sweater. Perhaps that is the blood loss speaking, because while Clint sees Bucky clearly – like a lighthouse beckoning him close – the rest of the world is a little blurred.
He does not fancy having to walk up two stories, but he is an adult and he will manage that last part of the way home without collapsing and dying out on the street after all. Preferable, there will not be any dying at all.  
For once, Clint wishes his boyfriend were a bit less attentive and would not insist on greeting Clint home with dinner every time his archery classes run late. If Bucky would be lounging on their couch with Alpine on his belly and Lucky at his feet, Clint could simply sneak past him into the bathroom to get rid of his bloodstained hoodie and then greet his family without looking like someone just tried to slash him open from throat to hip.
But Bucky takes his self-chosen duty to take care of Clint very seriously. More so, even, than he does taking care of himself. But they are rather similar in that way, so everything usually works out fine.
Clint stops underneath the street lamp outside their door and looks down at himself to assess the damage. He is wearing his favourite purple hoodie, which is not the best colour to hide vast amounts of blood. He is still of the opinion that black is too depressing but it would have served him well today.
If he puts his hands in the pockets, he can at least hide the rather large gash in the fabric and keep pressure on the wound at the same time. It is not bleeding so profusely anymore, but part of Clint is worried that is because he just does not have that much blood left. Most of it is dripping into the gutter a few alleys away from the range, useless to him now.
Clint lifts the hem of the hoodie, intent to just take a quick peek. It was dark in the alley and all he could concentrate on was getting home, so he has not actually looked at himself beyond making sure he would somehow get home. They promised each other that, to not die when the other is not there. It is a stupid promise because accidents happen all the time, but Clint is happy to do anything that helps Bucky readjust to civilian life.
The wound runs down his right side from under his ribcage to just above his hipbone. It is deep, too. Not deep enough that he can see his guts, but that are definitely some muscles peeking out. He does not have a lot of body fat, but he guesses it is a general rule of thumb that cuts that expose musculature are at least somewhat worrying.
Also, the guy who stabbed him did not look like the type who regularly cleans his knives, so Clint does not want to think about what kind of germs are happily reproducing inside his abs right now.
Disinfecting the wound will help. And bandages. It is still bleeding sluggishly, after all.
Clint shakes his head, trying to clear it. His mind is feeling fuzzy. He is good at first aid, has to be because he has always been accident-prone, but all he can do right now is stare at the crimson covering his skin and think that he is really glad he did not die in a back alley while Bucky was cooking for him at home.
Home. Bucky.
He slips one hand into his pocket and presses against the wound, wincing when it stings. With the other, he fishes out his keys and gingerly opens the door to their apartment house. He is careful not to get any blood on it. Mrs. Cohen from the third floor is constantly searching for a reason to have them thrown out. She disapproves of their lifestyle, which is just fancy description for her thinking all gay people belong in hell.
Right, key in the lock. It is usually easier to concentrate on tasks like this, even if Nat says he would forget his head somewhere if it were not attached to his body.
There are more stairs than he remembers, but then, finally, he is in front of their door. Even before he has managed to raise the hand with the keys again, he hears Lucky coming close inside. They really have to cut his nails again at some point.
But Lucky noticing him means that Bucky will follow on his heels, ready to greet Clint with a kiss and some playful reproach for being late again. And then he will not be able to hide the hoodie – or the wound beneath it and –
The door opens while Clint is still busy picturing all the bad things that will happen when it does.
“Clint,” Bucky greets with that honest happiness in his voice that has immediate warmth spreading through Clint’s core.
“Hey,” is all Clint manages in return because he is out of breath and Bucky is swimming in and out of vision. Still, he sees the exact moment Bucky notices the blood.
His smile shatters into instant concern. “What happened?” All the happiness is gone, replaced by dread that is echoed in Clint’s bones.
“Nothing,” Clint says and fails miserably at nonchalance. It is all he can do not to keel right over when Bucky pulls him into their apartment. “It looks worse than it is.”
He is not at all sure about that because while his memory is feeling a little spotty right now, there is no erasing the sight of his exposed muscles from his brain.
Bucky must have noticed that Clint is not all that steady on his feet for he puts an arm around Clint’s waist and carries most of their combined weight. While they walk, Clint reaches out for Lucky, but is rather glad when Lucky does not follow. He does not want to get blood on their dog. It is not fair to traumatize all members of their little family. Although Alpine probably would not be. She definitely shed her fair share of blood before she came to live with them.
Clint is not sure where they are going until Bucky directs him to sit down on the downturned toilet seat. It makes sense that they are in the bathroom. That is where they keep their first-aid kit.
“You’re bleeding,” Bucky points out, sounding like he is already clenching his teeth, although Clint has not even shown his wound yet.
This is going to be fun. Distantly, Clint wonders why he thought it was such a good idea to go home. Natasha would have dealt much better with this. But he wants to be home more than anything else.
Clint buries his fingers in the hoodie, hoping nonsensically that all the blood and torn flesh will disappear if he only thinks about it hard enough. “It’s just a tiny stab wound.”
Bucky’s hands freeze halfway through opening up their first-aid kit. Once he regains his composure, brittle as it is, he immediately tugs at the hem of Clint’s hoodie.
“You were stabbed?” he asks, voice rough like it usually is after nightmares.
You should see the other guy, Clint thinks but knows better than to say that out loud. For one, Bucky would probably strangle him and remember much too late that he prefers Clint alive. Also, he knows that the other guy got away without a single scratch on him, too shocked himself, perhaps, that he drew blood. It does not matter. Kate was unharmed and that was all Clint hoped for when he stepped between her and the knife-wielding idiot.
“Oops,” he mutters, then tries to straighten but abandons the movement when it sends a spark of pain down his side. “Just a little bit. It’s really –”
He gets cut off when Bucky picks him up, just like that, one arm under his legs, the other around his back, and Clint is flying. Bucky smells like home, a mixture of dog and leather and that aftershave Steve got him. As the world spins, that is what Clint concentrates on. He does not want to pass out so he needs to root himself in reality.
A moment or an hour later, he is deposited on something soft. Their bed, probably, because the wall behind it is that nice blue colour that Sam swore would have a calming influence on them after nightmares.
“Lie down,” Bucky orders, pushing gently against Clint’s chest before he turns back towards the first-aid kit he took with them. “Do I need to call an ambulance?”
Clint scoffs. They cannot afford a trip to the hospital. They can barely afford the good bandages at the rate they are going through them. Besides, neither of them has any positive memories of hospitals and Clint would rather – well, possibly bleed out than go to one.
“No, I’m fine,” Clint says and manages to sound firm, even while the world is all wobbly around him. “I’ll just clean it and put a band-aid on it.”
“A –” Bucky starts and interrupts himself immediately after as outrage flickers over his face. He takes a deep breath that Clint instinctively tries to replicate. Their therapist says that breathing is a good tool against panic attacks and while Clint does not feel particularly panicked, Bucky might see something coming that he does not. “You will lie down right now, Clint, and you’ll let me have a look at that wound without complaining even once.”
That is a clear order and Clint is somewhat allergic to them, even when they come from Bucky. “You’re such a mother hen, Buck. I barely even feel it.”
Another deep breath and Bucky briefly closes his eyes before he stares at Clint with such an intensity that he feels immediately chastised.
“You realize it’s a bad sign if you’re not in pain after having been stabbed in the bloody stomach?” Bucky asks, sounding more strangled by the minute.
Yeah, Clint thinks, but that is for car crashes and serious accidents. For dying people. Not for scratch wounds like his.
“I’m not in shock,” he says as dismissive as he dares with Bucky looking at him like that.
“How much blood did you lose?” Now, Bucky is getting frantic, looking through the kit as if he expects to find a fresh bag of blood in there. Then he turns back to Clint, holds up a hand. “Can you see me all right?”
The honest answer would be no. But Clint sees the important parts, Bucky’s lovely face and his beautiful eyes. Somehow, it looks like he is surrounded by a halo, while the rest of the room sinks into darkness.
But Clint knows he cannot say any of that. “Bucky –”
“Why aren’t you lying down yet?”
Bucky pushes him down, less gentle than before. And then comes the moment of truth as he finally tugs up the hoodie. The cloth sticks to the wound a bit and Clint winces as it comes off.
Then, they both stare at Clint’s side, comically still for a long moment. In the comparably bright light of their bedroom, the wound looks much worse than it did outside, but, in a way, less so, too. Because Clint is home with Bucky. He is lying down so he does not have to worry about staying on his feet anymore. Sam is a trained paramedic and Bucky has him on speed dial even if he would never admit that out loud. They will be fine.
When Bucky exhales, a myriad of curse words falls out of his mouth. “You colossal idiot, Barton,” he snaps, not quite angry but definitely pissed. “This isn’t tiny. Just a bit deeper and your guts would be hanging out.”
Clint huffs. He wants to roll his eyes but the room is already spinning. “But they aren’t. I’m –”
“If you say fine one more time, I swear I’ll finish the job.” Bucky pulls the hoodie up completely, away from the battlefield that is Clint’s side.
But he is fine. Or will be. Bucky will not let him die. “Who’d feed all your pizza to Lucky then?”
Bucky glares at him intensely, but more than that it is the palpable fear behind it that makes Clint shut up. He can only imagine what a mess he would be if Bucky came home bleeding. If he did not come home at all. Even as he stepped in front of the knife, he knew he could not do that to Bucky. That did not stop him but – he is here now, anyway.
Clint drifts as Bucky takes care of the wound. It hurts enough to keep him conscious, the cleaning and the generous wash with disinfectant, the familiar, piercing pain of needle and thread. Bucky concentrates completely on the task at hand but his expression is fragile. Clint wants to wipe it away, that raw vulnerability, but he guesses the thing that will help Bucky the most is to patch Clint up.
He is not sure how long it takes. When it becomes too much to look at Bucky’s face, Clint watches his hands instead, those elegant, steady hands that Clint has seen shake uncontrollably when Bucky’s mind is visited by ghosts but that never hesitate now, not even when they are flecked with Clint’s blood.
They are so lucky. That Bucky survived the war and that Clint survived his childhood. That they found each other in a world that is often so tragic but is so full of miracles, too. They are lucky that Steve helped Bucky become whole enough again to dare to let someone else into his life, and that Natasha bullied Clint into stopping to run.
Finally, Bucky stops jostling Clint’s abdomen, apparently done with dressing the wound. Without much ceremony, he pulls the hoodie over Clint’s head but covers Clint with a blanket before he can register the sudden cold.
“I need you to stay awake for me,” Bucky says, only just a face in the darkness anymore.
Clint wants to shake his head but it is too heavy for that. “’M tired,” he says instead. This is his favourite sight to fall asleep to, Bucky close enough to touch.
“Just a bit so I know you won’t die on me in your sleep.” The words come out slowly, but Clint does not think that has something to do with his ears malfunctioning. Rather, Bucky just really does not want to talk about Clint dying. “Otherwise I’ll need to get you to the hospital, after all.”
“No hospitals,” Clint says immediately. That has been a mantra in his childhood already, one of the first lessons his father taught him.
“Hold my hand, then. And don’t you dare let go.” Bucky’s hands are the nicest and Clint’s fingers fit right into it. He would never voluntarily let go of him. “Now, how did you get yourself stabbed?”
Bucky’s voice sounds conversational, but Clint does not have to open his eyes to know he looks ready to storm out barefoot and directionless to find whoever did this to Clint. But Clint squeezes his hand, holding him back without having to say it. It is enough that one of them emptied a significant portion of their blood into the gutter today.
“Some guys were trying to rob one of my students,” he explains, remembering the stubborn bravado on Kate’s face and the abject terror lying right underneath.
“And you couldn’t have called the police?” Bucky asks without a hint of irony in his tone. As if they have ever made a single good experience with the police. As if either of them would delegate dealing with problems to others. Bucky grew up with Steve Rogers, too, the king of punching first and thinking about his own safety later. Much later. Often when it is already too late.
Clint tries to shrug but does not believe his shoulders move even an inch. “They were eyeing her in a bad way.”
That really is all the incentive he needed. Before him, Bucky nods, clearly understanding that.
“The cut is deep,” Bucky still says and then, quiet, “You could have died.”
Death has only been one wrong step away a lot of times now for Clint. Somehow, he always landed right.
“I didn’t,” he promises and clings to Bucky’s hand with all the strength he has left.
Bucky looks like he wants to withdraw, but of course, he does not. “Not yet.”
Something inside Clint’s chest breaks at that, at Bucky’s open fear that one day he will wake up and be alone again. “Bucky,” he says and pushes himself to his elbows, even though it hurts. “I’m fine.”
A shiver runs through Bucky’s body that could be laughter or a sob. Then, almost too quiet to hear and yet the loudest thing to ever reach Clint’s ears, he says “I can’t lose you.”
Clint feels the pull at his new stitches as he sits up and pulls Bucky into his arms. The world has clicked back into sharp focus, centred directly around Bucky, around both of them on this bed, the hoodie stained with Clint’s blood somewhere out of sight.
“I know,” Clint says, holding tightly on to Bucky even while he cannot make any empty promises. “But don’t tell me you wouldn’t step in between a knife and any stranger on the street if you saw them being harassed.”
Bucky stills, does not move or breathe. “It’s different when it’s you.”
It is always different when it is about the people they love. But aloud, Clint says, “No, it really isn’t.”
They stay like that for a long moment, held safe in each other’s arms. This is home. This is the one place Clint never wants to lose.
Still, he lets go when Bucky untangles himself from him. “You should lie back down.” And then, firmer, “Don’t hide it from me if this gets worse.”
The pain is a low, drumming sensation now, definitely there but not what Clint’s mind circles around. And the world, too, remains settled.
“I won’t,” Clint says and means it. He is not at all ready to leave Bucky. “Keep holding me, please?”
That is what he came home for. Not bandages and disinfectant. Only Bucky’s warmth.
“You shouldn’t move around,” Bucky argues but it is only token protest. His hands are still on Clint’s shoulders and not going anywhere.
“Then come to me. Please,” he repeats and does not have to fake the tremble in his voice. He is cold and exhausted and he knows he cannot go to sleep yet. But he can close his eyes and listen to Bucky’s heartbeat.
There is no question that he would do the same thing again, step in front of Kate and scare those idiots off, even if they had more knives than the one. He would even do it if he did not get to go home, afterwards. But he wants to come home to Bucky, always, and he wants to be held safe in his boyfriend’s arms.
“You’re an idiot, Clint. Don’t do this again.” Then, because Bucky knows very well that Clint cannot promise him that either, he adds quickly, “I love you.”
They lie down on the bed together, Clint happily cocooned in Bucky’s arms.
“I love you, too.”
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