#and everytime i shoved it back in the box got smaller and it was harder to shove back in

[donttouchtheneednoggle]

half 11 at night gender hits different

[rushmanatalie]

falling like the stars || ch. 2

Rating: E

Summary:  Steve and Tony learn some things about guilt, but before they can forgive each other, they must slowly find their way toward forgiving themselves.

Notes:  I'm so sorry for the *almost* two month delay. This is my first attempt at a multichapter fic and I struggle with being happy with anything I write, which just means I write two sentences and then delete them over and over again, but I think I can work with this version. Thanks for the love and encouragement, they have definitely helped me through times when I thought of just giving up on this story. Hope you enjoy this chapter!

Read on Ao3

Tony’s been through hell and back. He’s looked into the eyes of death, dared death to take him, and each time, death has granted him mercy. But when he watched Peter disappear in his arms, helpless, he wished his end would come too.

And now, standing in front of the Parker residence, he truly does wish death had come for him sooner.

He’s ashamed that it’s taken him this long, but everytime he came here, every single goddamn time, he would stop himself from knocking on that door, because the thought of seeing May in an empty apartment grieving her child (because Peter really was her child) while he was finally living the life he’s always dreamed of with a family he’s always wanted destroyed every last remaining drop of courage inside him. 

But today is different.

Today is the day Tony Stark finally owns up to the death of Peter Parker.

There’s a quick shuffling on the other side of the door, then a stillness, a vague hesitation, and suddenly it’s flung wide open. It isn’t until he’s face to face with her that he realizes he’s been holding his breath, letting it go only to say a hasty hello. She’s changed, as people do with time, but the three years look like a decade on her. A knit cardigan is pulled loosely over the white shirt and jeans that seem too big for her now alarmingly smaller frame. Her hair is speckled with grey, less than his own, but much more than most people have at her age. And her eyes. Behind the wide-rimmed glasses are eyes that have felt too much loss, too much pain. 

It’s your fault.

“Mr. Stark.” It’s not so much a greeting as it is a note of surprise.

His hands have somehow found their way into his pant pockets, an effort to hide the physical manifestation of his growing anxiety. “Tony,” he corrects nonchalantly, following it with a grimace that would have been a smile had the circumstances been any different.

They stand there in an awkward indifference for a moment longer than he’s comfortable with before she invites him in with a simple gesture toward the living room. 

Everything looks the same, if a tad messier; then again, he barely remembers how it was before. Last time he was here was when he and Steve…

No. Now was not the time for a walk down that memory lane.

May frantically shoves empty chip bags, clothes, and dirty dishes away, clearing the couch enough for him to have a seat. “Sorry for the mess, I—um...well, I wasn’t expecting company, but uh…please, make yourself at home.” She makes her way to the doorframe where the kitchen meets the living room, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear, more out of a habit of fidgeting rather than for appearance. “Would you—would you like some tea? A coffee or something, maybe?” 

“No, no, I’m fine. I’ll really only be here for a minute. But thank you.”

Another silence settles into the room, into his bones, and he almost wishes this one could last forever because he fears the inevitable question.

“So, why are you here?”

He lets it linger, lets it hang in the air for a second too long. Despite having had three years to think about his answer, he wasn’t ready. Nothing could prepare him for this.

“You know, my daughter turned one yesterday. We had this little celebration, just us, picnicking in the yard out by the lake. I mean, it wasn’t—wasn’t anything fancy. But it didn’t matter, because there was my wife, and our girl, and the sunset on the water. It was just...so beautiful. And still, all I could think about was all the people who lost that.” His eyes glance down because he can’t bear to look at her for this part. “People like Peter. So, I guess I’m here to say I’m sorry.”

She crosses her arms, leaning back against the wall in some sort of confusion. “That’s a long way to come for condolences. And to be frank, I don’t really have a need for those—”

“His death is on me.” He makes the mistake of looking up, and his heart sinks. Her expression is one he can’t quite read, yet is familiar with and understands completely. A shocking devastation, an acceptance. “It’s on me.” There’s a burning in the back of his throat, the one that is usually accompanied with tears, and he barely manages to get the words out before he chokes.

May’s silent, and somehow, it’s worse than anything he ever imagined she would say. When she finally moves, it’s toward the hallway, only beckoning him to keep up with a slight nod of her head.

She leads him to the last door on the right. It’s been years, but he knows this room well. Blue walls covered in random New York stickers and Star Wars posters, desk still a mess of notebooks and tinkered gadgets, all covered in a layer of thin dust. The closet was left open and nearly empty, his clothes packed neatly in multiple boxes on the floor.

“I just started putting his things away,” May suddenly says from behind him. She crosses over to one of the smaller boxes in the room and pulls out a small, wooden picture frame. “I couldn’t bear to come in here. Couldn’t look at his stuff, let alone touch them.”

He follows as she sits down onto the bed, its rusted, unused springs creaking under her weight. The photo rests in her lap as her thumb traces over it with a tenderness he now knows from experience is something only parents reserve for their child.

“I wanted someone to blame. And I’m going to be honest, for a long time, I blamed you. God, at first, it was so easy to blame you. But somehow it got harder and harder to tell myself it was your fault. Because it wasn’t. Whatever happened with Thanos, the… the snap, no one could have stopped that. And even if it was you who got him involved and put him in danger, I have to be thankful that you gave him the chance to fight when others couldn’t.”

She reaches out and places the frame in his hands, gently closing his fingers around it. “It’s not on you, Tony. Don’t put yourself in that position. That guilt, it’s heavy, and not yours to carry.”

Only now does he see the contents of the photo. Who had taken the picture, he doesn’t remember, but it’s of him and Peter the night of the Stark internship banquet. Peter beams as he holds his certificate in one hand and puts up bunny ears behind Tony’s head with the other. It feels like they’d just taken it yesterday, yet the memory has faded, blurred at the edges.

Fine, you get one picture, kid. But just so you know I’d have other people pay me for this. 

When he smiles, he barely notices the tears running down his cheeks to the corners of his lips, but the bitter salt comes with a wave of relief, and for the first time in years, Tony felt free.

—————————

Seventeen chairs sit in a circle in the center of the room. Three years ago, it would have been fifty. 

Steve likes to think of it as progress. 

It’s been like this for the past two months. People come and go. Everyone has good days, bad days, days in between, but they’re here when they need it, and sometimes that’s enough.

At least, it’s enough for him.

They take turns speaking, sharing, healing. Some just sit in to listen, and he allows them to do so silently, as unnoticed figures in the back of the room, but today, he finds himself paying more attention to them than usual, looking for the familiar shadow of Natasha, hoping that this time, she finally joins.

“I thought I saw her the other day.” Nolan sits next to him, a tall man merely a couple years older than Steve himself (sans the seventy years spent in ice, of course). He’s one of the few that’s been here since day one, always open to sharing and likewise, there to listen.

“There was this girl with long brown hair walking by and she was wearing this red sweater that looked just like hers. It wasn’t until I saw her face that I really realized it wasn’t. You’d think three years later I could learn to move on, but the truth is, it just gets harder. I can’t move on, because every time I do...every time I try, I can’t help but feel guilty for it.”

The room falls into a pensive silence as all eyes turn to Steve, awaiting some sort of validation, wisdom, advice. All of which, he is aware he’s better at giving than following. Rarely does the thought occur anymore now that it’s been years, but sometimes he thinks about how much better Sam would have been at this whole thing.

Sam. The memories have gradually become less painful as parts have begun to fade away, but there are some things that never leave. He sees Sam’s smile in window glares, hears Bucky’s voice in passing cars, telling him not to make any stupid decisions until he gets back. He’s not coming back.

Steve still has to remind himself of that. It’s hard when Bucky had seemingly come back from the dead once; Steve almost expects him to turn up at any moment again. But it’s different this time. They’re gone.

Gone.

“It’s difficult, I know, but every step forward is a step forward.” Steve rests his elbows on his knees, releasing a pent up sigh. “When I came out of the ice, I lost everything. I lost people I loved. Friends. Family. And it took twelve years, but I finally found a new one. It doesn’t replace the one I lost, but it reminds me that happiness is within our reach. We just have to learn to take the little victories. And we have to try. Try to move on, because it’s what they would want. ”

When the clock strikes four, the group disassembles. Chairs are stacked back up against the wall, hands are shaken, hugs and numbers given as people slowly file out the room. Steve remains as he usually does to answer questions and exchange the occasional pleasantries with regulars, watching as the last few leave.

Just as the doors swing shut behind the final attendee, a loud buzzing interrupts the lonely quiet. He pulls his phone out of his back pocket and reads the name displayed on the glowing screen before deciding to answer.

“Rhodey?”

“Steve—” there’s a strange sense of relief in his voice.

“Rhodey, what’s going on?” Before he answers, Steve feels like he already knows the news and it fills him with dread.

“Steve, you have to get down here now. It’s Nat.”