#Technically late and technically not doing it because I mostly just write Tango but OH WELL | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

moonstruckwytch · 5 years ago

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So I was inspired by @birkholtzlovebot posting her first fic the other night and I accidentally wrote 4k of nurseydex their senior year after the first loss with Dex as captain. No one has read it but me and it’s mostly unedited but I enjoyed writing it and figured the hivemind would like to read it... so....

Full fic under the cut because like I said it’s 4k and no one needs all of that on their dash

Dex’s weekend is not off to a great start.

Samwell’s first loss with him as captain happens on Friday night in Boston. It’s not even a close game. Sure, they shut out BU’s team in the first period, but then one of their guys took out Tango and that knocked Whiskey off his game, and the next thing Dex knew he was walking back to the locker room and they’d lost 4 – 0.

He’s worried about Chowder. Hopes that he knows it wasn’t his fault. Needs him to know that. Dex knows it’s his fault. He’s the captain and he’s responsible for the team. He should have kept it together and kept BU away from C entirely. Walking back to the bus back to their hotel he can practically hear Jack’s voice in his head telling him that’s not true, but the nasty comments coming from his own internal voice are louder.

He really should rally the team, give some kind of pep talk, but he can’t bring himself to. So instead he sits silently on the bus, headphones in but not playing anything, until Nursey appears next to him. Ford walks past, gives him a sad smile, and when she and Nursey nod at each other Dex thinks it’s going to be a long evening.

Nursey, blessedly, leaves him alone on the 15 minute ride to the Marriott, or Hilton or whatever chain they’re staying at, and Dex pulls himself together long enough to hand out keys with Hall and Murray, who really don’t seem any more disappointed in him than usual. Eventually he’s alone in the lobby, holding the key to his own room, and Nursey’s gone ahead with Chowder, even though they’re staying in the same room, so Dex turns to his coaches.

“I’m sorry –“ he’s got more, but Hall cuts him off.

“Dex, you all played a good game. There’s nothing for you to apologize for. Not to us, or to the boys.” Murray nods in agreement, clapping him on the shoulder.

“Go take a shower and get some sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning.” Murray’s tone brokers no argument, and his eyes are sympathetic, so Dex nods to the two of them before heading to the elevators alone, still feeling the weight of the loss on his shoulders.

When he gets to the room and lets himself in, his first step is to drop his overnight bag at the foot of the bed closer to the window. Technically it’s the bed Nursey prefers, and usually Dex lets him have it, but he wants to be as far from the door as possible tonight. If Nursey were here it might be an argument, or he might just let it lie, a concession to the fact that Dex just lost his first game in charge of the team. He texts Nurse and C to let them know that he’s in the room and gonna take a shower, so Nursey either needs to come back now or in 40 minutes.

About 30 seconds elapse before there’s a knock on the adjoining room door he didn’t notice was there. When he swings it open, he’s face to face with Derek M. Nurse, and if that would usually be enough to set his heart racing, it’s not doing much tonight.

See, on top of the responsibilities of being captain, the stress of senior year as a comp-sci major, and the sheer terror of figuring out what comes after graduation, Dex has a less-than-small crush on Nursey. He’d come to this realization sometime over the last summer (just after Nursey waved goodbye at the South Station Amtrak stop when Dex dropped him off in May if he’s being honest with himself) and has been managing it ever since. Their friendship has gotten better – he feels comfortable calling them best friends now even – but he’s pretty sure the revelation of his feelings would send everything crashing right back down to where they started.

So, while Dex has a massive crush on his d-man partner, and usually being just inches from his face would turn him into a blushing, stammering mess, nothing is getting through the fog of the game just yet. He leaves the door open, ad goes to take his shower, leaving Nursey standing where he is.

He steps into the shower and turns the temperature as hot as he can get it to go, and if he cries a little under the water, no one else needs to know about it. And 40 minutes later, he feels cleaner. Not any better, but at least he doesn’t smell like game sweat and his gear anymore. Throwing on an old t-shirt and a pair of Samwell sweats, he remerges into the room and finds Nursey and Chowder on the bed closer to the door, both with wet hair and wearing similar t-shirt and sweat combos. Chowder has his Sharks hoodie on.

Nursey looks up at him, smirking.

“Finally,” he says “me and C both managed to shower in his room with how long you were taking. I thought we might have to save you from drowning.”

When Dex doesn’t respond to the chirp, doesn’t even tell him to ‘fuck off, Nurse’ his face goes softer. And maybe Dex wants Nursey to look at him like that sometimes, but right now it just makes him feel fragile.

“Hey, are you okay? You know how that went down wasn’t your fault.” Nursey is speaking softly, like he’s trying not to spook Dex, and that, that just makes Dex mad. But when he turns, rounds on Nursey with something sharp on his tongue, he finds the concerned faces of his two best friends in the whole world looking at him and he just, breaks down.

Dex sits down heavily on his bed for the night, trying to take steadying breaths that he can hear come out shaky and ragged, too loud in the now very quiet room.

Immediately Chowder is at his side, pulling him in tight for a hug, leaving no room for Dex to even move his arms to hug back.

“Dex! Dex it’s okay. It’s not the first time we’ve lost, and it won’t be the last. We can’t win every game. I’m sorry I didn’t block more of their shots.” He sounds frustrated with himself at that last part.

Chowder’s earnestness is endearing, and it would be easier to let it lie, but the loss isn’t his fault, and Dex can’t let him think it is.

“’S not your fault C. I lost control of the situation. I should have been more on top of it, done my job as captain.”

And at that, Nursey comes over to his other side. He seems less than sure of how to fit himself into this equation, eventually settling for resting an awkward hand on Dex’s shoulder. Fleetingly Dex worries that Nursey isn’t comfortable with his breakdown, and for a moment that comingles with a wish that Nursey would hug him the way Chowder is, which is just even more pain on top of an already bad night, so Dex shoves that to the side and figures he’ll deal with that later. When he tunes back into the situation around him again, Nursey is talking.

“Dex…” Nursey’s tone is soft again. “you’re not responsible for how the whole team plays. If BU hadn’t taken out Tango Whiskey still might have had an off day. It’s not your fault.”

And then Dex remembers Tango, slammed into the boards by a dude half a foot taller than him. He’d been helped off the ice and not allowed back into the rink for the rest of the game.

“Oh god, Tango. I didn’t even ask if he’s okay.” Dex groans, feeling worse by the second.

“It’s okay. I checked on him already. He’ll be fine, no concussion or anything.” Nursey soothes.

Dex swipes at his face, not wanting to let the tears pricking at his eyes fall. He knows neither of his friends will judge him if he cries, but old habits die hard and he’s never been one for public emotions other than anger. Call him repressed if you will, he’ll admit it. He presses the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, hoping that will help. He doesn’t know how long they sit like that.

Chowder and Nursey seem to be having some sort of silent conversation above his head, and the next thing he knows Chowder is pressing a soft kiss to his hair and unwinding his arms from around Dex’s shoulders.

“I’m gonna go call Cait,” he says. “You should get some sleep, Dex.” He gives a pointed look to Nursey and leaves their room, the adjoining door shutting with a click.

Without C’s arms around him, Dex feels suddenly cold, and the room seems even more silent, his sniffling attempts to not cry that much louder. Nursey moves away from him and his heart sinks, fearing more proof that Nursey was only comforting him because Chowder was there, but he’s back in a moment. Dex hears the TV turn on and listens as Nursey flips through channels until landing on some late-night program on the history of space travel, turning the volume down low. They sit in silence for a while, listening to a monotone man drone about shuttle specs and astronaut fatality rates.

“Hey. Let’s get you into bed.” Nursey says suddenly, pulling the covers down on Dex’s bed and putting a hand on his back until he shifts so he’s sitting in the middle. Dex thinks this is going to be the end of the interaction, but then he sees Nursey grabbing the pillows off his own bed, and the blanket he always brings with him on the bus.

“Move over Poindexter,” he says, continuing with “you’re not crying yourself to sleep alone tonight. Move.” And climbing into the bed next to Dex.

“Ah, fuck.” He says immediately after he’s settled, climbing back off the bed and padding to the door to turn off the lights. Now the room is illuminated only by the glow of the TV, and when Nursey climbs back into the bed, he slips and arm around Dex’s shoulder and settles them both against the mountain of pillows he’s created behind them.

Dex goes willingly, decidedly not thinking about how he’s got his arms wrapped around Nursey’s torso, his head on Nursey’s chest, their legs tangled together. He’s not thinking about the fact that Nursey is slowly rubbing circles into his side with one hand and carding his fingers through Dex’s hair with the other. He’s not thinking about any of this, because he’s too busy crying into Nursey’s t-shirt.

Incrementally he settles down, slowly, rough sobs fading into sniffles, into low hiccups which eventually also die out. And then its just the sounds of their breathing mingling with the history channel, and Dex still doesn’t feel better necessarily, but he does feel a little calmer.

Nursey’s voice is still soft when he asks the question, almost like he’s scared of what Dex’s answer might be. “Do you want me to stay here tonight, or get back in my own bed?” Dex just wraps his arms tighter around Nursey in response, not trusting his mouth and his brain to work together well enough to avoid telling Nursey how he feels here and now.

He falls asleep like that, Nursey’s warm arms still around him.

---------------------------------------------

When Dex wakes up the next morning, much more sun is coming through the windows than there should be. He groans and reaches for his phone before registering the fact that his pillow is Nursey’s chest, and Nursey’s arms are solidly wrapped around him, holding him where he is. The next realization is that Nursey is also awake and watching him. That fact will have to be tucked away for examination later.

“Nursey… what time is it?”

“Good morning to you too Dexy. It’s about 9:30 right now. I figured you could use the sleep.”

Dex groans. “We missed the bus. I lost my first game as captain and we missed the bus. Hall and Murray should just replace me now.”

Nursey’s arms tighten around him for just a split second. “I wouldn’t worry about that if I were you.”

“What… what does that mean?”

Before Nursey can answer the (very good, very reasonable) question, a knock from the adjoining door, and Chowder’s voice.

“Nursey? Are you guys up? We’re coming in!”

“We? Who is we?” Dex asks, but he doesn’t have to wait long before he finds out. Chowder pops his head into the room and is immediately followed by Lardo.

“Dude” she greets him “rough night.” She nods to Nursey, a knowing look in her eye, and only then does Dex realize that he is still in bed with Nursey holding him. He extricates himself as gracefully as possibly, pointedly ignoring the pout Nursey gives him, and goes to hug the former manager.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

“C texted me. Told me that you’d lost, and it was your first. I called Hall and Murray and convinced them to let me keep you three for the day, with the promise that I’d have you back on campus by 5 tonight.”

“I still… what?”

Lardo looks at her phone. “I’d love to give you a deep explanation, but we’re going to be late if you don’t hurry up, so get dressed. Come on C.”

As she heads to the door, she looks back. “We’re getting brunch. It’s not Jerry’s but it’s almost as good. You have 15 minutes.”

With that, Lardo and Chowder head out to wait in the Lobby, and Nursey and Dex prepare to face the day.

Face washed, teeth brushed, and wearing everything except something warm, Dex regards his captain’s hoodie with suspicion. He’s still not sure he deserves to wear it this morning, and he could just ask to trade Nursey for the day. But while he’s considering, Nursey takes it from his hands and sticks it over his head, looking almost unbearably fond when Dex’s face reappears through the collar. Yet another thing to think about later. Once Dex has his arms situated, Nursey pats him on the chest right above the C and grabs their bags.

When they meet Lardo and Chowder in the lobby, they’re herded out to a familiar looking jeep, which Dex is pretty sure belongs to Holster. Something about Lardo being in charge for the day feels calming, and he feels a little more settled in his own skin, though he’s still concerned about how the rest of the team is handling the loss.

A five-minute drive and a little bit of Nursey’s infuriatingly upbeat music (who on earth handed him the aux?) later, they’re parked outside what looks like the Boston version of Jerry’s. This is to say that it looks like it’s seen better days, might have margaritas on the menu, and definitely does the sombrero thing on birthday’s despite the fact that it’s not primarily a Mexican restaurant. Dex see’s a couple familiar faces waiting for them.

“Brahs!” Shitty is emphatic as ever, pulling each of them into a tight hug that somehow smells residually of weed, despite the fact that Dex has been around him long enough to know that he’s totally sober at the moment. For one, he’s fully dressed, though that might be a condition of the fact that they’re going to a restaurant. Holster and Ransom offer him fist bumps and matching commiserating smiles, and he wants to ask how they dealt with their first loss, but he’s being herded, along with the rest of them, into the place by Lardo.

They end up at a round table booth. Dex is squished between Ransom and Nursey, Holster to Ransom’s other side, and Chowder, Lardo and Shitty on the other side of Nursey. It would feel claustrophobic with anyone else, but this is his team, his group. The only people missing are Jack and Bitty. He says so and Shitty laughs.

“Not by their own choice you know. Bitty threatened to cancel the photoshoot for the book he’s working on, and very nearly convinced Jack to take off from practice to be here.”

Dex looks at him aghast.

“We told him not to under any circumstances” Lardo pipes up from behind her menu. “But don’t be surprised if you get a phone call from both of them this evening. They’re worried – and Jack wants to talk to you.”

Dex isn’t entirely sure he’s prepared for that phone call, but it will be nice to hear from both of them. He then decides it’s now or never and turns to Ransom and Holster.

“What did you guys do when you lost your first game as captains?” he asks, because honestly, he isn’t quite sure he remembers.

“Called Jack to freak out.” Ransom says casually. “Dude was captain for 3 years, plus the Q, and the stuff with the Falcs. He knows a thing or two about losing.” Holster looks a little less pleased, but Dex knows that his rivalry with Jack is mostly superficial.

“Once we talked to Jack, we sorta just, watched sitcoms” Ransom continues. “Put together a list of the best episodes of Holster’s favorites and stayed in the attic for the day.”

Dex nods. That, makes a certain amount of sense actually. Holster jumps in.

“You probably remember Bitty sort of corralling you all that day, and stress baking. He dealt with you guys so we wouldn’t have to.”

Dex thinks about that, and hopes that Ford, Tango and Whiskey are managing the rest of the team. Especially because Nursey and Chowder are here with him. Almost as though reading his brain, Nursey speaks up.

“Just got a text from Ford. Everyone is fine. Whiskey is making muffins with Tango, and Tricky and Marsh want to know if you’re okay. Hops and Bully say hi.”

“The team will get it. First loss as captain feels like a bigger deal than it is. You feel responsible. But it’s really not your fault.” Holster says.

Chowder pipes up. “Remember how Bitty packed off to Providence the day after he lost that first game?”

Nursey presses his knee against Dex’s. “The point is, we’ve got your back, Dex.”

The rest of brunch passes in a blur. There’s eggs and hash browns, and a cinnamon roll that Dex is pretty sure is bigger than his head. Shitty orders something sweet that probably has too much alcohol in it for a Saturday morning, and they laugh, and joke and it feels like home for a while. A couple hours later the checks have been dealt with, and they’re getting ready to go their separate ways. Dex feels lighter than he has in the past 12 hours, and that’s in no small part due to the fact that he’s just missed these people. It might also have something to do with the easy way Nursey threw his arm around Dex’s shoulders in the diner, or how their knees stayed pressed together under the table.

On the 30-minute ride back to Samwell, Chowder and Lardo chat up front while Nursey sits with Dex in the back. Dex is quiet, happy to just listen to his friends and bask in the moment, but he is acutely aware of the way Nursey has inched his hand closer to Dex’s own until he’s grabbed it completely. Dex hopes he isn’t bright red at this, but doesn’t say anything – too busy running the morning through his memory, thinking and overthinking waking up in Nursey’s arms, and the fact that Nursey was just watching him.

Lardo drops them at the Haus, and after they’ve hugged her goodbye, the three of them head inside. The kitchen has cleared out except for Ford, who just nods to them, and looks pointedly at Nursey. Nursey shakes his head in response, and Dex isn’t going to press what that means at the moment. Instead he grabs Nursey’s wrist and pulls him down to the basement bungalow, and if Nursey seems surprised by this, he doesn’t say it.

“Do you mind staying? Do you have time?” Dex asks, realizing that he didn’t ask before taking up Nursey’s time.

“For you I’ve always got time, Dexy.” Nursey replies, smirking, but there’s something warm behind his eyes that Dex hasn’t noticed before. He glances to the bed, and produces his laptop from his bag.

“Movie?”

“Sure.” Nursey shrugs, and climbs up onto Dex’s bed, settling like he belongs there, and oh fuck Dex should not let his brain go down that road. Nursey looks over to see Dex staring, and pats the bed.

“You gonna join me here or stand there and stare?” and then Nursey fucking winks.

“Are you hitting on me?” Dex asks, before he can stop himself. Fuck fuck fuck fuck no don’t ask that, his brain practically screams at him.

“Nice of you to finally catch on.” Nursey laughs, and his eyes light up. “Now are you gonna join me or not?”

“Finally catching on? What?” Dex is frozen in place, not sure how to process the sudden left tilt his world seems to have taken on.

“Oh, I don’t know Dex. I’ve only just slept with you last night, spent all of brunch trying to make you laugh, and held your hand the whole way back from Boston. And that’s just the past 24 hours.”

Dex tries to cast his mind back over the past month or so, trying to see if there’s a pattern he’s missed in Nursey’s behavior. Has he been so caught up in making sure Nursey never found out about his feelings he completely missed them being reciprocated? There was the time Nursey brought him coffee in the comp-sci lab, for a full week when he was pulling all nighters trying to get ahead early in the semester. The time Nursey stole his hoodie and wouldn’t give it back. The time, times, Nursey has made sure he actually eats when he gets lost in a code, so focused that if Nursey puts something in his hand and tells him to eat it, he will. He’s lucky Nursey hasn’t taken advantage of that to comedic effect. There’s more he’s sure but that seems to be enough proof to him, and he’s been standing here staring at Nursey with an open mouth for too long already. Dex scrambles for something eloquent to say to respond, but what comes out instead is.

“Can I kiss you?”

Now it’s Nursey’s turn to freeze. It’s a much shorter moment than the one Dex had, and he covers admirably well, smirking and replying with “I thought you’d never ask.” Before patting next to him on the bed again.

Dex doesn’t waste any time with that, climbing up next to Nursey and getting in his space. Once they’re face to face however, he’s not really sure what to do. It’s Nursey who leans in first, tilting his head to meet the angle Dex is at, grabbing one of Dex’s hands with his own, the other coming up to gently cup Dex’s jaw. Once their lips touch Dex feels a little like he can breathe again, and it’s slow, and soft, and overall, just, nice. It’s not Dex’s first kiss, not even his first kiss with a boy, but it’s certainly the one that’s felt the best so far. When they eventually break apart, he’s pretty much ready to keep doing just that for the next month.

“So. Movie?” Nursey asks, smirking at the blush Dex can feel spreading across his face, heating up his ears and flushing down his neck. Dex takes a breath and decides to be brave, however.

“I think I’d like to just do that again if you don’t mind.” He says, and Nursey blushes this time, nodding and already leaning in.

Dex’s weekend did not start out great. But it’s certainly getting better.

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2x4swrites · 8 years ago

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Tango+Cash angst???? hhhhaaaa im posting this at 12:30 at night it is what it is

It was just hard sometimes, you know? Just... hard. Rough to deal with. Not fun. Gabe isn't sure how to describe the situation outside of that. After everything, when he'd asked Kiki if she was really into him- because he may not have been into her, but she was sweet and pretty and he could've seen settling down with her -she'd told him no. She was gay. Which was cool, because he got to respond with "no shit, I'm gay too," and they'd promptly formed the first official 'gay but we haven't told Ray' club. Which was sort of fun, but mostly just sucked.

Not Kiki, mind you. Kiki definitely didn't suck. She's probably the funniest person Gabe's ever met, with the prettiest smile, and he just knows Kiki'll make some gal the happiest in the world one day. When she's not living with Ray anymore, because her overprotective, overly stiff brother would flip his shit if she brought home a man, let alone a woman. He'd probably drop dead from shock, and as annoying as Ray can be, Kiki doesn't want that.

Gabe's problem, however, is that he likes Ray. Like-likes him. Like, Gabe would probably do anything Ray asked, would happily marry him, and maybe thinks about Ray when he jacks off. It's that bad, and it's killing him, because Ray is gorgeous and charming and genuinely funny when he loses the stick up his ass. Add to that the fact that Gabe spends ninety percent of his time around Ray between work and hanging out with Kiki, and Gabe's ready to drop off the face of the earth. 'Goodbye, world, it's been nice, but you really fucked me over with this one and I'm kinda done.'

He guesses he can put up with it, though, because Kiki is a goddamn miracle worker when it came to confidence. The whole disguising himself as a woman to escape thing had ripped open a door Gabe hadn't even known existed, and it had been Kiki who'd finally talked him into buying himself something- first lipstick, then a pair of pantyhose, up until they just kind of started shopping for dresses together. Let it be noted that Kiki has really, really good taste and Gabe definitely owes her a big one for all her help, and all the fun evenings her expertly selected outfits had lead to.

See, Gabe had thought he was coping with the whole huge crush on his aggressively heterosexual partner thing pretty well, until he'd accidentally moaned Ray's name while he was getting fucked. Which was uncomfortable for everyone involved, and lead to Gabe getting sent home to take a shower and rub one off where he can moan Ray's name without offending anyone. That evening was kind of a problem, and it just kept being a problem, because yeah, it was casual sex, no one gave a shit if you thought of someone else, but Gabe still found the conscious effort it took not to gasp and moan Ray's name out loud really pulled him out of the moment. Raymond Tango is ruining is goddamn sex life.

He explains this all to Kiki, who is thankfully beyond understanding- they share a laugh about how he's ruining both of their sex lives, and Gabe feels relaxed for the first time in a while. Then, she gives him advice he hadn't even considered an option. She says to take a break. Get some time off work, stay home, and don't think about Ray. Cut the exposure and relax. Gabe tells her that's exactly what he's going to do, thanks her about twenty five times, and hangs up to call the chief of police. He bargains his way into two weeks off with promises to take double shifts when he's back, and when it's all settled Gabe begins to go about relaxing.

What that winds up entailing is multiple six packs of beer and a constant, mild drunkenness that leaves him feeling warm while he lays on his sofa and does nothing. It's fucking fantastic, until Ray, ever the stiff and the worrywart, calls him. Once, on his third day out. Once the next day. Twice, two days later. Gabe ends up taking his phone off of the receiver because the phone ringing is stressing him out, and he really doesn't want to talk to Ray. His mild drunkenness is progressing towards somewhere right on the edge of blacking out, thanks to Ray. At least that problem's taken care of, and at least Gabe stocked up on booze.

It takes a whole five more days before Ray shows up, physically, at Gabe's apartment. Gabe's pretty sure it's Kiki that held Ray at bay for so long, and Gabe writes a note reminding himself to thank her when he sobers up enough to not sound like a giant idiot. He leaves it pinned to the fridge. When Gabe hears the buzzer, he groans. He doesn't want this, but, wordlessly, he lets Ray up. Fuck it, he's drunk and annoyed and if Ray wants to deal with him, so be it.

Ray comes in to berate him about dickholeish-ness and leaving right before they started a big bust, and Gabe, drunkenly, tells Ray to fuck off. Ray spits right back at him that Gabe is acting like an even bigger idiot than usual, that Ray had expected better behavior even from a lug like him. That Ray can't even believe Kiki would ever be interested in an obnoxious, drunken, dirty fool like Gabriel Cash. Which is what really set Cash off. He sputters, trying to find the right words to say, to rebuff Ray's oh-so stinging critiques. Gabe settles on glaring and stating, angrily, that he's gay.

Gabe slurs out that he's "fucking gay, you asshole" and he doesn't "even like Kiki like that, fuck you!" He downs the last of his beer, tossing the bottle to the floor and letting it shatter. Ray just stares at him, blankly, and that really only pisses Gabe off more.

"I was interested in you the whole time! But now I guess I know what you really think, huh? You fucking dickface." Gabe surges forward to grab Ray's collar, clumsily, stepping on the broken glass as he does. It stings like a bitch, but Gabe's running entirely on anger and beer and it doesn't really register. When Ray doesn't reply in a satisfactory time, Gabe tugs him down into a sloppy, equally aggressive kiss. It's unpleasant but Gabe refuses to back off, until Ray's hands plant firmly on his chest and shove him back. His foot lands back in the broken glass, and this time tears start to prick at the corners of Gabe's eyes. Just because of the glass. It's just that.

Not the way Ray looks at him coolly, distantly, like regarding an insect. Not the way Ray tells him, voice flat, that he's straight, and even if he wasn't he'd never be interested in someone like Gabe. Ray turns, leaving Gabe to clean up the mess left behind. Vision clouded with tears, from the glass, Gabe cleans up the broken bottle and pulls the two shards from the bottom of his foot, bandaging the cuts. He wipes his nose on the back of his hand and drinks until he blacks out.

Gabe stops spending time with Kiki. She calls him a lot, which is nice, and she makes sure only to call him when Ray's out of the house. He appreciates it. She asks if he'd like to meet for coffee sometime. He suggests pizza and a movie at his place, so they can really talk. Kiki agrees, and Gabe can hear the smile in her voice. Gabe really loves her. He just wishes he loved her the same way he used to love her brother.

At work, Gabe transfers to a different division, starts taking only late shift. It's easier that way. He's on patrol, away from Ray, and he starts to find his groove again. Starts to feel like a real person. It's nice. Not that he doesn't miss the big busts, the excitement, but... Gabe knows this is better. For everyone. Gabe never asks about Ray, and as far as Gabe knows Ray never asks about him. Which is good. It's good. Really, this is what's best, it is.

Gabe goes back to cruising, shit he hasn't done since he was young, fresh out of college. He mostly just stuck to the bars, but he's feeling adventurous. Everything else in his life is getting revamped, why shouldn't he change this up too? Sure, Gabe knows it can be risky- he hasn't forgotten those poor kids who got murdered, including that author, and the cop who escaped trial. Gabe knows what can happen. He also knows what places get searched most often. He can avoid getting arrested and have a good time somewhere other than a motel or alley.

He comes into work one day with a split lip. Technically there's a black eye too, though he covered that up with makeup. His uniform hides the rest of the bruising. No one really asks about it, Gabe came in a lot with weird bruises or shit like this. The only one who'd recognize Gabe shouldn't have gotten the busted lip on the job is Ray. Unfortunately, Gabe's early arriving and Ray's late leaving. It's the first time seeing his old partner in a month, and Gabe begs god to call down some lightning and blow Gabe out of existence.

No lightning comes. Gabe ducks his head, silently grabs what he needs, and seats himself at his desk. He stares pointedly at the files in front of him, not really reading but still refusing to look up. If he makes any more eye contact with Ray, Gabe'll throw himself out of the window. Thankfully, Ray leaves after a minute of staring. Gabe thought he was going to lose his goddamn mind. He doesn't get much paperwork done that night, and when Gabe finally crashes into bed, he can't even fall asleep. Gabe settles on pouring himself a drink and forgetting.

He could say it all ends well. That eventually they reach an uneasy truce that turns into love and it's all sunshine and smiles and happily ever afters. Gabe fantasizes about that, sometimes. Daydreams about what it would've been like to marry Ray Tango. They're just daydreams, though, and Gabe can't live in them forever. After almost a year of avoiding Ray like the plague, Gabe gave in. Resigned from the force, packed his things up, and put down the rent on a little apartment on the other side of the country. The last time Gabe say Raymond Tango was when he stopped by to give his tearful goodbye to Kiki. She'd told him never to forget her, and he promised. Said that he loves her. She nodded, cupped his cheek, and told him she wished he could've found happiness here. Ray's gaze is cold. He stiffens at her words. Gabe nods, hugs her again, and leaves.

Gabe gets a job on the police force in his new city, working traffic. It's nothing like before, but it's just the change Gabe needed. He moves up in the ranks, makes new friends, and saves up the money to adopt a dog. He's got a good thing going. Still, sometimes, Gabe wonders what Ray's doing. Imagines him, happily married, with a wife, two kids, and a dog. White picket fence and everything. Happily heterosexual. Imagines Ray coming home from work to a cold beer and a hot meal, little daughter and little son excitedly telling him about their day, how school went. Gabe can picture it perfectly. Gabe lays down in bed, his dog next to him, and tries to picture something else. Tries not to hate himself.

In reality, Raymond Tango? Wonder cop and brother to the only other person Gabe ever loved? Ray's not happy either.

No one is.

#Tango and Cash #pls excuss any typooooooos im not proofreading this shit

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terresdebrumestories · 8 years ago

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Chapter 10/24: Breakdown

✗ TECHNICAL DETAILS

FANDOM: Marvel’s MCU SERIES: SEADLA Verse, version 2.0 RATING: Mature WORDCOUNT: 4 626 PAIRING(S): - CHARACTER(S): Tony Stark, Nick Fury, Bruce Banner, Steve Rogers, Tony’s therapist and the rest of the avengers in the background. GENRE: Plot twist. TRIGGER WARNING(S): Mentions of suicide and generally low self esteem (Check the AO3 listing for a glimpse of what’s to come). SUMMARY: In which things are revealed, and none of them are pleasant. Also, Tony may or may not make Steve cry, but it’s not like he cares.

DEDICATION(S): As always, to the first version’s readers, to the people who leave comments on the fic three years after its last update, and to 2012!me, who needed to write this fic a lot.

SEADLA ON TUMBLR: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] [Chapter 4] [Chapter 5] [Chapter 6] [Chapter 7] [Chapter 8] [Chapter 9]

Tony stares at the therapist—is the guy even a real professional, or was he just acting?—until the world starts swimming, his ears buzzing with the same white noise that deafened him after his jeep blew up on an unnamed desert road. He watches the room swim in a strange kind of slow tango, arc reactor desperately trying to split his chest open even as he tries to make sense of Steve’s wide eyes and pale face. He fucked up—he fucked up and he’s screwed, and the thought of it is almost enough to pull him to his knees.

He reaches for Lorna’s—Loki’s, it’s Loki’s—knife in his pocket and clenches his fingers around the handle hard enough to hurt while he tries to breathe the storm out of his lung, the blankness out of his brain.

He hasn’t told anyone about Loki—not Pepper, who’s seen him through more shit than she should have had to, not Rhodey, who’s undoubtedly going to kill him for the omission, and with good reasons to boot. The only moment Tony even used the name—ha. He really should have guessed, shouldn’t he? Kebradalvin’s presence should have been a dead giveaway! Oh, how stupid can he get?

Months. Months of therapy, of spilling his guts out to a stranger because he thought it’d be safer than trust any of his friends with the mess of him and now—this? Well fucking done, Tony, way to prove you’re actually the idiot you thought you were.

“You said you weren’t keeping tabs on us anymore,” Bruce says from his seat at the very edge of the kitchen.

His voice is full of the same quiet challenge he’s used to coax more than one arrogant dick think of their following words with a lot of carefulness. On the side, Fury gives Bruce a wary side-eye, and Tony wants them both to shut up—to slip into silence and leave what’s left of his world alone. Hell, he’s just about ready to start praying right now—indulge the wobbliness of his knees and call for whoever happens to hear to come and get him out of this nightmare—but Fury steals the rug from under him when he says:

“We at S.H.I.E.L.D came to the conclusion that Iron Man’s safety required special monitoring.”

Tony manages to brace himself on the wall before he actually falls, but it’s a close call—and it doesn’t even really matter anyway. The room blinds him with its harsh lights, overexposed and burning at his eyes harder than the lamps thrown into his face in a darkened cave until he has to swallow against the sudden urge to vomit.

Four months—four months of his life—the thought seizes at his throat, his stomach, his chest, presses at him until he has to gasp around it, drowning in all the things he should never have said, never have confided, and he can’t make himself stop, can’t get air—

“Can’t breathe,” he gasps through sheer miracle, sliding halfway to the floor before Bruce springs out of his chair and stabilizes him, leaving Steve to try and open Tony’s collar.

Tony, meanwhile, can’t—won’t—look anywhere, at anything but Bruce—Bruce, and the way his eyes look like they’re trying to catch Tony and not let him go. Bruce, whose voice is steady and solid when he tells Tony to breath—come on, Tony, in through the nose, out through the mouth, we’ll get there.

It hurts—breathing hurts, looking hurts—but Tony wrestles himself back into some semblance of control, forces his lungs through one, two, three cycles of controlled breathing before he stops feeling like he’s about to have an out of body experience. The whole of him screams, like an exposed nerve rubbed raw, and a small part of his brain wonders if Bruce, who first used the metaphor, feels half that terrified when he hulks out.

If yes, tony is never asking the Big Guy to come out again.

“I have trouble believing you did this for Tony’s sake,” Bruce says after Tony calms down a little, the evenness of his tone keeping Tony anchored there.

Steve’s fingers hurt where they dig into his biceps. Clint and Natasha haven’t made a move either way.

“You don’t have to believe it,” Fury replies with a slight shrug.

Tony grips at Bruce’s shoulder as tight as he holds Loki’s knife, and wishes one or two Norse gods would crash through the ceiling right now. They don’t, though, and so he clings to the tremors of anger in Bruce’s voice when he summarizes:

“You lied to us, breached the doctor-patient contract of privacy—if your boy here is even a real doctor—and set Tony back months in terms of personal progress, and you’re trying to tell us it was all for his sake?”

“I’ll have you know I am—”

“If you’re not a fraud you’re a piece of shit,” Bruce cuts off with uncharacteristic profanity, “either way, you’re seriously starting to annoy me.”

Whatshisface the maybe-therapist shuts up with a squeak and Tony—oh, Tony could kiss Bruce right now, if he weren’t too busy trying to think straight without going into another panic attack. He’s not going to prison—or wherever S.H.I.E.L.D wants to take him, that’s certain. He’s seen the kind of cage they built for Bruce. He’s seen what they think of when faced with a problem—he’s not going down without a fight.

It’s a new though, the refusal to die, but there’s no time to examine it—Tony pulls it close instead, wraps it around him like armor while Bruce—skinny, puny little Bruce with the strength of a nuke beneath his skin—continues to stare Fury down, every line of his body rigidly refusing to give Tony up.

“I think we’ve all noticed Stark’s abnormal behavior,” Fury says, as if he hasn’t heard Bruce’s barely-veiled threat, “and considering he’s mentioned wanting to bone a guy higher than Erik Lehnsherr on the public enemies list—”

Tony gags while the others gasp, mostly because he can almost hear it again—the way he wished Loki weren’t such a complicated person and—no, stop. Shut up—focus. Focus, or give yourself time to get there.

“I was thinking of dating actually,” he manages through the tight lump in his throat, mind racing over possibilities, “just so we’re clear.”

Fury twitches at the touch of sarcasm—it’s good. Piss him off, he won’t be thinking quite so well, will he? Shit, Tony was so stupid though, so naïve—for fuck’s sake Tony, focus!

“Do you really think it matters?” Fury asks with a raised eyebrow, “Did you think we hadn’t noticed you dropping off the radar on the regular? And your behavior hasn’t been going better—

“It’s called depression and suicidal tendencies,” Tony counters, the familiar, thin veneer of sarcasm holding him up against the thought of Fury rattling off all the ways he’s still failing.

If Steve’s face is anything to go by, though, it’s already too late. He steps away from Tony and Bruce, eyes wide as saucers, and while Clint and Natasha aren’t moving any more than they have since the beginning, it’s still easy to guess their surprise in the glance they share.

Think, Tony. Either Fury’s genuinely mistaken—unlikely, considering his resources and the ample evidence that Loki on a mind-controlling spree is far from being that subtle—or he’s deliberately pretending for a reason. The first problem would be easy to solve—a couple of hours, at most.

If it’s the second one, Tony needs to get out or he’ll definitely be doomed.

“Look,” Fury start, looking as genuinely regretful as they come, “I didn’t want to come through this, but you’re not giving me a choice. We are taking your assets into custody.”

“The Iron Man is a private property,” Bruce says, the threat in his voice more evident, you can’t—”

“It’s a private weapon,” Steve counters, kind enough to wince when two unknown agents slip into the kitchen.

He says something else next, but Tony’s brain doesn’t bother tracking that, caught up on Fury’s words. We’re taking your assets into custody. Not the suits. Not the armor. The assets. Dummy. Butterfingers. You.

Jarvis.

Tony’s eyes widen as if in slow motion, and then he’s on his feet, running out of the kitchen as he shouts for Jarvis to put the tower on lockdown, Fury’s rage-filled voice roaring for the agents to catch him. Tony manages to slide one of the bulletproof doors back to the hallway, at least two or three guards slipping in after him—damn, he should have made this whole process faster.

Ten more steps, barrel past another doorway—only two guards and the horrifying sound of crushed limbs follow him into the living room. He has to slam the hidden door hidden next to the chimney into somebody’s face to delay them by a precious few seconds, and clatter down the stairs with a hurricane in his lungs.

He wishes Pepper were here—he’d make a joke about actual secret staircases and forget about the phantom weight of a car battery in his hands—but by the time he realizes she’s too far to reach he’s already in the workshop and screaming his core processor access code. Think, he tells himself as he shoves the hidden panel closed behind him and locks it just in time to keep attackers out, damage control, what would Pepper do?

S.H.I.E.L.D doesn’t get Jarvis—it can’t, not ever. Tony has seen the kind of things they did with only their best brains to work on it, and the thought of Jarvis’ decades of advance on any other technology in their hands sends chills down his spine. Tony has to keep him out of anyone’s reach, that much is clear—at least this way, even if he does something horrible, it’ll be on Tony’s head, and no one else. Come on, what would Pepper do?

Not get involved with Loki, for starters. But if she did—if she somehow took a hit to the head and got herself in that situation, with the same profound conviction that Jarvis cannot be allowed into foreign hands, well...it’s not like Tony hasn’t thought of it on his own. One step down, a couple more to go. Now, as Pepper keeps demonstrating, the key to a successful career is time management, right? Right. Let’s manage time, Tony.

“Jarvis,” Tony asks, fingers clenching and unclenching around Loki’s stupid knife that won’t hold its fucking promises, “how long until Fury’s goons get in there?”

“The two in the workshops are currently being kept away from the tools by the house units,” Jarvis replies with a little more trepidation to his voice than usual, “but one of their bullets is bound to hit home, eventually. Best case scenario, you have a little over ten minutes, sir.”

“Let’s assume we’re on worst case,” Tony pushes through gritted teeth.

“Two point fifty-seven minutes.”

Too short to try going around and grabbing a suit, even if it hadn’t been a last-ditch, ‘I don’t want to do this’ reach. Alright. Pepper’s tip to a successful life number two—prioritize. Breathing first—in, hold, out, hold, in, hold, out, hold, repeat until brain starts back. Think.

Plans. They have to go. No one but Tony could have made Jarvis, but any idiot can follow a plan. If S.H.I.E.L.D wants Jarvis, they’ll need the plans or buckle up for twenty years of full-time work. Hardly the takeover they’re going for.

“Okay,” Tony gasps, blinking moisture out of his eyes, “Jarvis, I need you to send a message to Pepper, if you can.”

“The emergency line is under attack,” Jarvis warns, “Transmission not guaranteed.”

“’Kay,” Tony croaks out, eyes closing before he can stop them.

Loki’s knife digs in his palm, between his fingers. His cheeks hurt, nose itching with saltwater dripping onto the tip. His lungs are only seconds from bursting, but he manages to nod when Jarvis announces he’s recording.

“Pepper, they’re wrong, I’m not compromised, I know I’m not, it’s—”

Tony forces his mouth shut when his voice wavers. Limited time. No babbling. Go.

“S.H.I.E.L.D wants Jarvis. Not sure why but I’m not letting them. I’m sorry—don’t leave me there!”

Something bangs outside Tony’s compartment—the metal is too thick for him to hear anything else, but he really hopes none of the bots is damaged beyond repair. There’s no time for a last-minute save, anyway.

God, he’s spent so many hours hunched over the little guys, poured so much of himself into their codes, their casings, their quirks and boo-boos, what’s he going to do now they’re—unavailable, he tells himself firmly. They’ll just be unavailable. For a while. They won’t even notice. They’re just—just—they won’t notice. They won’t hurt. Come on, Tony, you can do this.

“Sir,” Jarvis says, voice oddly gentle through the speakers, “you are running out of time.”

“I know,” Tony replies.

He chokes on the words a little, bumps his forehead against the walls to clear his thoughts—it works and doesn’t at the same time—and manages to produce a pitiful gargle:

“I’ll miss you, Jarvis.”

“Initiating Project Napoleon,” a horrendous excuse for a vocal simulator intones in a droning voice, “execution in fifty nine seconds, fifty-eight, fifty seven—”

A safe box opens next to Tony’s hand, a memory card barely larger than a thumbnail rattling into it for a mere second before Tony catches it and shoves his pants down his legs—

“—thirty-nine, thirty-eight, thirty-seven, thirty-six—”

—shoves the chip and its plastic up his anus, wincing when the angles catch at the sensitive skin there and why didn’t he—why did he have to—oh, fuck, Jarvis—

“—thirty four, thirty-three, thirty-two—”

—yanks the whole thing back up, holds in a scream as the first suit explodes overhead—

“—sixteen, fifteen, fourteen, thirteen, twelve, eleven, ten—”

—zips himself up, vaguely hopes he’ll die—

“—nine, eight, seven, six, five, four—”

—closes his eyes, breathes out—

“—three, two, one.”

Acrid smoke burns at his lung with the hiss of an air-tight door opening.

Alarms howl to life.

He falls.

{ooo}

“I’m not mind-controlled,” Tony repeats for the thousandth time, forehead braced against the glass wall of his cell, “Fury’s lying.”

On the other side, Steve looks at him with infinite sadness, the kind that says he wishes he could believe the lovely lie he’s being offered but will face the truth for a friend’s sake. The irony is not lost on Tony, and he sorts of wants to smash the expression off with a crowbar.

“He’s made an enemy to the Avengers when he tried to take your suits,” Steve points out, “and he knows it.”

“And yet you’re still with him,” Tony replies, too tired to put much venom into it.

“It’s too stupid a move to be a conspiracy, Tony,” Steve insists, infuriatingly gentle though it all.

Tony hasn’t slept or sat down since he woke up here about five hours ago, which he figures explains why he can’t even bring himself to shake his head. He doesn’t even know if this is a Steve thing or a forties thing, clinging to the possibility of brain washing, but it hardly matters. He doesn’t have any way to prove this—not when they’re all working under the assumption that he’ll try and lie his way out of this mess.

They’ve been around, the lot of them. Fury, to inform him Clint got freed by a solid knock to the head, but S.H.I.E.L.D is willing to try softer treatments. Clint and Natasha snuck in—or so their poses seemed to say—to make sure his cell was as nice as a bare, sheets-free bed and the chrome equivalent of a hole in the ground can be...and Bruce, telling him the blood samples he’d taken of all of them for study purposes have gone missing.

And Steve, presumably to assess the damage by himself, like he always does.

Too bad he’s inflicting most of it at the moment.

“I’m not mind-controlled,” Tony repeats after a long silence,idly wishing he had bars to rest his arms on, “I’ve been hanging out with Loki for four months. If he really were controlling me it’d be one hell of a long-term game.”

A shit strategy, too. What do they all think, that Tony was gonna join the dark side out of pity? Please. Loki probably knows better than try that—should know better, in any case. Tony would tell Fury as much, really, if it didn’t somehow feel like betraying someone—Loki or himself, that’s still a mystery, but betrayal is betrayal, regardless.

Besides, what could he say? ‘It’s not mind-control if he spills his git as much as I do’? Best case scenario, someone would try to use that as a way to get more intel and, well. Friend. Or at least, from where Tony’s standing there’s friendship.

Loki’s radio silence doesn’t exactly say good things about where Tony stands on his priority list.

“Maybe he’s already got what he wanted,” Steve replies, “and he’s keeping you on a leash because you’re a valuable asset.”

“I didn’t take the samples,” Tony sighs, weary of that non-conversation already.

Bruce said the safe was broken into, though the means are still to be determined. If anything, Tony likes to think he’d be smarter about covering his tracks, even under mind control. Besides, from what he’s seen of Loki, he doesn’t seem the type to hold onto useless things unless they’ve got some form of sentimental value, but well. It’s not like saying that would make his situation any better. Worst case scenario, people are going to assume he’s Loki’s accomplice, anyway.

“Honestly, the guy managed to play Thor’s all-seeing bodyguard. Wouldn’t he be a little more subtle about theft?”

Not that Loki has a big history of subtlety in this world, but still. There’s showy, and then there’s stupid.

“Tony,” Steve sighs, disgustingly weary for someone who isn’t in a cell, “are you trying to imply somebody is using you to frame Loki?”

It’s ridiculous, Tony knows—that’s the only thing keeping him from saying yes. Still, he’s been thinking and over-thinking this thing through for the past five hours, and everything else makes even less sense. He can’t be the prime target of this stint—not when S.H.I.E.L.D as personified by Fury recovered so well from Jarvis’ loss. Not when everyone is still firmly blaming Loki for this debacle...not with the battery of tests, some of which he’s imagined himself, looking for magic he’s been subjected to. So, given that he isn’t dead or being taunted with the news coverage that his fall would generate, Tony is pretty sure he’s not the main objective.

The question is, who would frame Loki, and why?

Tony as a proxy sort of makes sense—he’s big, with enough resources to be a threat if compromised—but Loki already tried to conquer the planet, it’s hard to make himself more undesirable than that. Whoever is behind this, whether it’s Fury—impossible to dismiss, although something about the idea feels off—or someone else entirely, they were clearly hoping for Jarvis as a neat bonus prize. They failed, thanks to Tony’s Afghanistan-born paranoia, but that doesn’t change anything to it.

None of that solves the question of why though, and Steve seems to take Tony’s silence as a confession of guilt because he sighs and says:

“See? Even you can’t come up with a reasonable reason for us to trust you.”

“I kind of thought trust came with the ‘friends’ territory,” Tony hisses before he goes for the belt: “either I got some funny idea about us being friend or that guy Bucky wasn’t the man I thought he was.”

“Bucky didn’t try to kill himself!” Steve roars, angry snarl stopping inches away from the glass, “he didn’t suddenly decide his friends couldn’t be trusted with anything and start giving them the slip whenever he couldn’t be arsed to deal with his problems! And he certainly didn’t go from hating the enemy’s gut to pretending they were good guys in four months’ time!”

“I’m not saying he’s a good guy, I’m saying he’s not doing anything to me right now!” Tony protests, voice rising dangerously close to a yell.

Don’t do anything stupid, he tells himself, fingers clenching into fists against the glass, don’t go there.

“Right,” Steve says, voice tight and body taut, “because you’d know that.”

“I’d at least hope you guys could see I’m still using my brain!”

“Are you?”

Steve’s gaze pointedly goes to Tony’s wrist, and Tony surprises himself when he pounds on the glass hard enough to feel something give under the skin. Steve gives him a shocked puppy look, like he’d only been saying the most reasonable thing, like there’s no reason for fury to tear at Tony’s temples—his ribs, his palms—until the world drowns into a sea of red.

“Oh, of course,” Tony hisses, barely more than a breath between the two of them, “of course you’d think I’m stupid for it—”

“I didn’t say—”

“Yes you did!” Tony cuts off, bile burning at his throat like poison, “Stupid Tony Stark, with his money and his name and his brain who builds things no one else could dream of and still finds ways to try and die! Useless Tony Stark, who could do so much for the world and gets drunk and parties instead—don’t you think I’ve heard it all by now? Don’t you think I know that?”

“Tony, I wasn’t—”

“Oh, shut the fuck up, Rogers!”

Steve’s face falls, and Tony should stop, should be ashamed and hate himself—will be ashamed and hate himself soon enough—but for now he’s hurting as much as he’s ever hurt, and he’s taken it in silence long enough damnit! He’s taken it all in—the punches, the disdain, the reproaches, and fuck they’ve hurt, but to have them fall from Captain America’s mouth? From the same guy he’s admired and hated since he was old enough to remember?

Well, there had to be a last straw at some point.

“I’m a screwed up, useless piece of shit of a failure, don’t you see that? We’re not all like you—we can’t all be America’s golden boy, the poster child for everything good and righteous on this earth—some of us are just useless messes, that’s how it is! You want a lie? You want a facade? Try the guy you thought I was before this whole debacle! God, Rogers, why do you think I wanted to die?”

“Tony, you didn’t really—”

“Oh yes I did!” Tony hisses, voice dropping almost to a whisper, a thin sliver of poison he can almost feel drifting out of his body and into Steve’s ears, “believe me, I wanted to—haven’t you heard the docs? Five minutes later and I was done for, and that was the goal. But of course,” Tony continues in a more regular volume, “you don’t see that. You don’t believe that. How could you, you perfect, self-righteous ass? You don’t have to wake up every morning wondering if anybody would ever miss you, do you? I bet you’ve never even doubted you had anything to offer the world, have you? You have no idea what it feels like to be me.”

“Tony,” Steve tries again, eyes shining as his face crumbles, “I didn’t mean to—”

“You know I hate you, right?” Tony asks, voice rising with every word, “I tried to hide it—I tried to be a good teammate, a good friend, even, ha! Like I’d ever be worth that! But I hate you, Rogers. I’ve spent my entire life listening to the world rant about how perfect, how chivalrous, how painfully golden you were—all my life. Gods, the hours Howard spent looking for you, talking about you—the house was a fucking museum, your name never to be spoken in vain, and I spent so much time trying to beat you, trying to be better than you—I should have known it was a lost fight from the start! How dumb can I get, right? And the worst part is—the worst part is you—you’re—you! You don’t even have the decency to just be a random schmuck with lab-grown muscles, no! You have to go an live up to the legend! Smile at kittens, never cries, always right mister Rogers, prancing around like a gift from God while the rest of us just—just—”

Tony turns away from Steve with a strangled cry of anger and frustration, hands flailing aimlessly at his side. He wants to break something—smash a vase, rip sheets apart, kick the toilets until he dents the metal, scream into a pillow all at the same time but somehow, all of it seems so—so—stupid, and over dramatic, and Tony just—just—

“Tony, no!” Steve yells when Tony hits his forehead with the butt of his hand for the first time, “stop! Don’t do that!”

Tony doesn’t stop, hitting at his forehead again and again until a piercing headache settles in his skull for the long haul. There’s just—there’s too much. It’s all too much. The pain, the anger, the hatred, the frustration, and now Steve—what the fuck is Tony supposed to do with this? Be patient? Be understanding? Be kind? When was the world ever kind to him?

Yeah, sure, they’re the accident of birth—there’s the money, and the girls—but there’s the loneliness and despair too, there’s the betrayals and the attempted murders, and there’s the gnawing pit of emptiness inside, where he knows even Pepper and Rhodey can’t reach because they’re trying—bless their souls, they’ve been trying so hard—but Tony is just far too fucked up for it to work! And really how is any of it fair? Is that what he gets for being born filthy rich? Is that it? Some kind of cosmic punishment saying he can have one but not the other, that if he’s going to go through life not knowing what it’s like to worry about money he’s damned well gonna know what it’s like to watch everyone he loves leave though his own faults?

“Please, Tony,” Steve tries again when Tony’s hands reach for his face and settle there, as if he could make the world disappear just by not seeing it, “you don’t have to do that. This isn’t—”

“Get out,” Tony tells him, voice muffled by his fingers.

“Tony, I’m trying to—”

“Just get out. Leave me alone. I don’t want to talk to you.”

There’s a quiet gasp and a shuffle of feet, like Steve is about to protest again, but Tony doesn’t have it in him to ask again. He wipes his face instead, more surprised than he should be to find it wet, and makes his way over to the bed.

His brain feels like it’s banging at the edges of his skull when he faceplants into the mattress, the pain sharp and pointed as a knife, but he doesn’t care. He’ll hate his words—hate himself for them—soon enough, maybe. If he’s good enough a man for that. For now, the whole thing feels mostly like he’s drawn all the pus from a wound—not lighter exactly, not better by a long shot, but still feeling like it’s a first step of healing.

Steve leaves.

#MCU Fic #SEADLA #Tony Stark #Steve Rogers #MCU fanfiction #MCU #Fanfiction

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