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You're pragmatic to your core. Oh sure, you can wax poetic to get your way, to hook the crowd, sell to the masses, but in your own head, in your own heart: you keep things as clear and concise as you can.
Steve?
Well, you do try.
Steve is an exception. He always is for you. In your head, in your heart, he's gravity - the force itself. Not a thing you're pulled to, but that inexorable, relentless force dragging you along wherever it wills, without mercy, without hope of escape.
Current theories suggest that gravity provided the stability needed for the universe to survive the earliest period of rapid expansion - the big bang. Without that cosmologically small interaction, the universe would have collapsed before it ever really formed. The universe only continues to survive because gravity is helping to maintain its delicate balances.
Everything in the universe - from time to matter - is affected. Nothing is free. Well, except neutrinos…you smile and shrug to yourself. Exactness doesn't matter in sappy, romantic metaphor.
...
He takes you to school twice a week in the Avengers gym. It's habit now to ignore the thick, tantalizing bulge of his muscles, the strong jaw, the kind blue eyes. You love him. You always will. Having his friendship means more to you than anything physical ever could. You love him, and that's enough. It's worth the occasional stab of heartache when he smiles at you too long, or gets his heartbroken by someone else.
You don't love him like a brother or harbor some secret passion. You love him as you always have - as Shellhead for Winghead. Forever and without limit.
Being his confidant - being a friend he comes to for help, for comfort, for anything - it makes burying whatever else you might want worth it.
You get up for the ninth time after being tossed around the mats. He grins that boyish grin. He gives you notes about your form, your follow through. He's talking.
You didn't even notice your were staring at his mouth until he licks his lips. You lick yours too. It's mirroring. Basic response. Impulse and instinct.
Did he notice? He's not frowning. He didn't notice.
You take no chances. You turn a little to the side, inviting him to walk with you to the locker room. You talk about the armor upgrades to segue to his new costume. You promise quinjet upgrades and just keep talking. He's always happy to listen to you rattle on and on.
You split up at the showers. You take a hot shower in deference to your aching shoulders, but end with a spray of ice water in your lap. It's just a physical response. You love him too much; need his friendship too much to let a passing prurient fantasy damage it.
He's not out in the hallway before you - which is unusual. You drag your feet and saunter extra slow until you hear the door open behind you. Steve catches up with a big smile and gives you one of those wonderful one-armed hugs.
You can't help but smile back at him. Of course, you want to go to lunch.
He's Steve. He's gravity dragging you wherever he goes. You love it. You love him.
…
How do you end up in bed?
Lunch was just lunch. The same thing you've done a zillion times. He teased you; you teased him. Sometime after the second shared basket of fries, he touched your hand on the tabletop. When you looked up, he very pointedly put a fry in his mouth and licked the salt off his lips.
You were so used to ignoring an interpretation of Steve's actions as anything but camaraderie that you didn't consider it possible that he was flirting.
Not until you went back to the tower.
Not until he got you alone in the elevator.
Now you're trapped you're in a corner. He kisses you quick and shy all in a rush.
You stare up at him, feeling the pull of him in your chest. "Steve?"
"Tony," He says back, smiling. He keeps you in his arms and kisses you again, slower, hungrier.
You try to think, but nothing works like it should. You can't move; you can barely breathe. He's smiling and kissing you and telling you he's always thought about this, telling you he wants you.
"Please, Tony. Lay with me."
You respond. You kiss him, cling to him, and answer everything he's said with promises. You're good at making promises to him. He holds on so tightly you struggle for breath until the elevator dings.
You let him pull you out of the elevator, down the hall, into his room, onto his bed. He's everywhere at once, touching and kissing and whispering. Sex is easy.
Sex with anyone else is easy. You tremble and struggle and forget where to put your hands, what to do. Everything feels too hot, too much. He's patient and loving and tearing you apart.
When he's finally moving against you, pushing, thrusting, and riding you, you can't hold in the whimpers any more. You can't even find your voice, just making helpless animal noises. He kisses your neck and shoulders.
"Stay with me," he grunts, stuttering and losing his pace for a moment. "Tony?"
You reach back to the hand on your hip and put yours over his. He puts his thumb over yours, and it's like your holding hands while he moves inside you. He takes as much as he gives, working a hand beneath you in a steady rhythm. You're close, so close. He's inside you, all over you. And you love him so much it hurts.
"I'm here," you whisper when your brain finally realizes he needs the reassurance, too.
You're here. You're his. You've always been his.
…
Skrull.
LMD?
Mystique? Or other shape shifter?
Alternate Universe Steve?
Mind control? You can't really figure anyone having an agenda that uses a mind controlled Captain America to thoroughly take you apart in bed.
Skrull. You decide, feeling a little sick.
You shift off his chest, planning to sit up in bed, but his reflexes are whipcord quick even in his sleep. Steve rolls after you and pulls you to his chest, spooning you from behind.
He breathes in sharply, then settles, then sighs. You close your eyes.
You love him. Love him. Love him.
No.
You love Steve. Clearly, this is not Steve.
He loves you as a friend. He loves you as a brother.
Something is clearly wrong. You'll start the scans as soon as you can get a minute alone. This is standard procedure when any Avenger behaves in a manner outside their usual patterns.
Right now, you keep your eyes closed and pretend you can have this. You pretend he's really Steve. You pretend you're in his arms because he wants you here, but only for a moment because then it hits you.
If this thing is here, where's the real Steve? Is he hurt? Is he being hurt? You don't think about him being dead because that's a dark place you'd never escape if you went there. Instead, you touch the arm draped over your hip. You find the wrist, take his pulse. Whoever - whatever he is, he's asleep.
You manage to get your phone, but now you hesitate. Whom to call? Whom to trust? If they've replaced Steve, they could be anybody. You give up and take a risk. Texting Rhodey. He's not a major player in any of the positions of power the Skrulls would most want to occupy for another invasion attempt.
Steve surprises you when he takes the phone. He's so fast. You always forget how fast when the armor isn't protecting you. He's awake. You shift to hit him hard and get away, but he pins you as a sleepy after thought with one arm and leg - and hardly any real effort. Part of you is a little ticked off that he's clearly holding back a lot more than he lets on when you spar.
He's watching you with sleepy confusion for about a minute then glances at the screen before he rolls his eyes and laughs. "I'm not a Skrull, Tony."
You feel silly. You feel paranoid as hell. He lets go and gives you back the phone. "Isn't that what a Skrull would say?"
"A Skrull would have you alone and unarmored. Most likely, it would knock you out and replace you. Replacing me gives them a lot of power in the Avengers, replacing you too gives them nearly complete control." Steve stretched his arms over his head, showing off his very impressive chest and arms with a casual flex. His eyes get a little twinkle of smugness when you have to drag your gaze away from the very fetching play of muscle and skin. "I like you. I've always liked you."
"Why now? Why today?" You ask because you need to know. After all this time, what did it? What made him want you? What made you worthy?
"You showed interest," Steve touches your mouth with fingertips. "I saw you looking today, and I wanted you to do more than just look."
It's strangely gratifying that nothing special happened. That he just wants you.
"We can do blood tests in the morning."
"Okay," you agree because you can't do anything else. You feel foolish and shy as you put the phone down. He kisses you again and cuddles you close. You feel him drifting off to sleep again and cling a little harder, a little closer.
Just before you fall asleep, you worry: Isn't this just how a Skrull would sell you on him being who he pretends to be?
It takes months. Eight independent blood tests, an awkward conversation with a smirking Wolverine, and a planet wide scan for known Skrull signals for you to accept that Steve is Steve.
Another week to stop thinking it's a midlife crisis thing and he'll get tired of you.
It's a Tuesday when it strikes you: Steve Rogers is in love with you.
You're walking into the briefing room when it happens. He's there. He's still talking to Carol about the West Coast roster. You drop your phone. You feel like a flash bang just went off in your head. You're not seeing what's in front of you. Everything sounds dull and far away.
Steve is holding your face in his hands. He's worried and probably calling somebody with medical training. You think to say it. Maybe you say it. You'll never be sure. You kiss him the way he's been kissing you all this time. You hang on for dear life and barely hear Carol's teasing wolf whistle.
He breaks the kiss. Public displays aren't something Steve likes. He likes things private and just ours. Whatever he meant to say to you, he clearly forgets when he looks at your face.
You don't know you're leaking tears until he wipes at them. The enormity of the whole thing is still ringing your bell. "I love you." You say it. You're sure you say it this time. You mean to say it.
Steve smiles soft, warm, and just for you. He kisses your temple and hugs you close - to hell with whoever's watching. He knows you. He gets it - gets that this is you trusting that it's real. That you're really doing this. Steve knows you so well that he doesn't make a big deal of it. He just holds on and says, "I love you, too."
Carol pointedly straightens a stack of reports, and Steve leads you out of the briefing room. He takes you to his office and just holds you in his arms, murmuring reassurances and promises and all the loving things he's been saying to your for the last few months.
He's patient and constant and drags you along. You go willingly, tripping and stumbling, but you always go where he takes you.
...
It's two blissful years before something tears you apart. There were little fights, little relationship problems, but you got through them. You came out stronger and closer and loved him more than you ever knew people could love.
Now, you're losing him.
"Steve, accountability isn't a bad thing." You try to be earnest, you try to keep your tone in check, but you've been fighting about this for weeks and he's not heard anything you've said. You know this is when the end really starts. This is when he takes the first step away from you. "We have to set the example - be the first ones to stand up and say: yes, superheroes will live by the letter of the law." You tried to keep your tone in check.
His eyes narrow, and his jaw tenses. He knows this is the tone you take with him now. This is the tone you perfected in the crosshairs of paparazzi, celebutants, and sneering enemies. This is how you shine on the masses, and you're using it on him.
He hates it; he deserves it. His argument is another righteous tirade. He's about to lead the Avengers into full-on vigilantism and destroy every shred of public faith and political goodwill the two of you have spent the last decade building and rebuilding for the team.
"They're coming for us, Tony. It's mutant registration with a new target. We have to fight this. Like we should have fought against that!" He snarls and snaps. He hates you; you deserve it. He doesn’t even know yet - about all the back door deals and dirty promises you've used to make Registration as weak as it's going to be. Before that, before you sold your soul to make it what it is - it was so much worse.
"The law is the law. We don't get to pick which ones to follow and which to ignore! No one elected you, Steve. You're not representing anyone but yourself!"
He looks so hurt, so shocked. Your first impulse is to apologize - to take it back, but then he stands a little straighter and his lip gets that ridiculous little sneer that never fails to make you angrier.
You're not entirely conscious of the horrible things that follow. It's how you always feel when the two of you are shouting - out of control and angrier for it.
You let him storm out like he always does when you fight. You tell yourself he'll come back. He'll have to come back when he sees that you were right. You have to get power and keep it to ensure that you can walk back whatever trouble he attracts in the interim.
...
He's sitting on your chest bashing your faceplate away chunk at a time. Extremis callously reminds you of the last time he sat there - it was a lot more fun. It was a couple months ago. It was another life.
He's not going to stop. You can see it in his eyes - the blazing hate. You've seen it when he goes after Zola, Zemo, or Red Skull. His righteous fury, his ruthless determination to stop them for good.
Except this hate is all for you.
"Finish it," you manage to grunt. He's heavy. You hurt everywhere inside and out. Death would be relief. Better dead than lying here, being killed by the man you still love - you can't help but love.
He raises the shield. He's gonna do it.
There's so much you want to say: Thank you. I love you. It's worth it. If it saves you, it's worth it.
There's yelling and people and civilians are dragging him off. He could take them without much effort, but he doesn't. He flinches and drops the shield. He doesn't look at you, but you see him. You see his heart break again with guilt and shame. You see him realize that he's actually been making everything so much worse.
You love him. You hate that he always has to screw up for himself - he never trusts you to know when he's wrong, but you love him.
You get up slowly, listening to the crowd murmur as he surrenders. You know this is a good thing. He'll be in front of the cameras. He'll have the venue to make one of his little speeches and bring the moralists to their feet. He can still help curtail the worst parts of Registration without stopping the accountability that they so desperately need.
You also know that he's over you. It hurts, but it's a clean break. Maybe you can move on now.
You know you won't, but it's a nice thought.
You limp a little and drag your armor's weight with every step, but you follow him. Of course, you follow him.
Even hating you and on the losing side of a war he never should of fought, he drags you along with him.
...
You don't think about what happened. You have Extremis. You can actually setup a loop that catches thoughts about him. ABOUT THAT. You haven't done it, but you could.
There's nothing you wouldn't give to save him, to bring him back. You sold your soul and for what? He died anyway.
You try to sleep. You hate yourself for not protecting him, for not being there. You could have been. You should have been. You should have put him in a tailored suit, walked beside him. It would have been a good visual for the cameras.
You don't bother to pretend that you don't wish you'd been there to die for him. Maybe that would have salvaged something. Maybe he'd have held you and shook you and begged you to live. Maybe he'd have hated you a little less if you died for him.
You've already watched the autopsy. You've talked to his corpse. You've lived the nightmare.
Eight decks down, six bulkheads over. He's still lying on that table. You can all but feel him. Miserably, you think it's unfair that you can still feel his pull when he's gone. It makes you laugh shrill and hysterical. You scramble for the toilet and vomit bile because you haven't eaten all day.
Two chugged glasses of water later and you have some control of the earthquake inside that made your hands and knees quiver. Climbing back into bed is mechanical, forced. And then, you have to talk yourself into sleep like you're talking yourself down from a ledge.
...
There's a certain joy in deleting your brain. You'll forget that he's dead. That it's your fault. You'll forget and forget and then when there's nothing left in your head, you'll leave your fate up to the two people on the planet who have to hate you the most: Thor and Bucky.
One you cloned and let that abomination wearing his face murder a man in the street.
The other you sent a man he loved as a brother right into a sniper's bullet. Then you failed to catch a brainwashing operation that made the woman Steve loved before and after you deliver the killing shots.
You'll forget that too.
You'll die a nobody and you'll even forget that you don't believe in God - forget what death even is.
Maybe with such a blank mind, they'll let you into heaven - let you see Steve again. You won't remember, but even the hope of hope is enough to keep you moving.
It feels good again. This plan is good. You've been adrift. You've been helpless and hopeless and miserable, but now there's hope. You'll die, but Steve's dead. So you're heading toward him again. That's it. Isn't it?
You feel like there's a light at the end of this tunnel because you're finally moving toward Steve again. You put in the final coding and smile at the screen.
That's what's really wrong now. Steve's gone. Gravity's gone. Your universe is tearing itself apart. You need him. You need him.
You finalize the commands and upload the program.
Without gravity, the universe wouldn't have survived the initial burst of rapid expansion - the big bang. Without Steve, you can't survive this war. Every day things go faster and harder - Osborne's in charge and they think he's a hero. Avengers’ tower is full of villains and they're pretending to be Avengers as if they have any right to the name. It's all out of control, but you've got hope now.
You're about to get your gravity back.
You'll be with him soon.