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“Captain,” Fury drawled pointedly. “Is there a reason you’re not in medical?”
“It’s nothing I can’t handle,” Steve responded easily with an unnaturally smooth shrug of one shoulder. “Medical’s resources are better spent on those that don’t have a healing factor.”
Tony didn’t know exactly how he knew it was a lie. He couldn’t pinpoint any physical signs as to what he was or wasn’t lying about, specifically. For the most part, it was that little nudge in the back of his mind. That hindbrain instinct that often read people better than the more cognizant part of his brain did. That part of his brain knew that Steve was full of shit, the rest of his mind just so happened to agree entirely. That he was hurt far more than he would willingly divulgue to Fury or anyone attached to SHIELD. Or maybe anyone at all, if he could get away with it. Bruce might get enough to fill three full charts and send almost anyone else to the morgue, but only if he pressed.
He caught Nat’s speculative stare from across the table but gave a subtle shrug. He knew nothing and no one could prove otherwise. Not even the resident spies.
“If you’re certain…” Fury said leadingly.
There was no way that Tony could know that Steve was lying through his teeth. There was no way he could possibly know that the serum enhanced designation just as much as it had enhanced everything else. He was clueless, then, about the subtle pheromones of a severely injured enhanced Omega, not easily scented–that would defeat the purpose of survival biology–but just enough to trigger hindbrain response, might just possibly be what drew the alpha in Fury’s pointed speculation or Nat’s acute concern.
“I am,” Steve asserted confidently.
Tony was just a beta. What did he know?
Which was funny in its own way because what Tony knew was Steve.
He knew the subtle pinch between his brows. He knew that the set of his shoulders and his jaw meant that he was compensating for something, hiding something. The slight tightness in his forced-causal tone meant he was lying through his teeth. The quick glance at Tony meant he knew that he knew but trusted Tony to not out him when he didn’t want or need the fawning.
But Tony, of course, knew none of that. Of course he didn’t.
Tony dropped his hands into his lap and swiveled his chair, rocking it side to side enough times to fall into an uninteresting, predictable pattern. He discretely reached out, resting his hand on Steve’s thigh in a subtle show of support.
Yes, Tony knew Steve, sometimes better than he thought maybe he knew himself. Tony read the signs. Signs and tells he’d spent months and months quietly observing and adding to that section of his mind that’d been labeled Steve ever since their first tumultuous meeting. Yes, he knew that Steve was hiding more than he was showing. But yes, Tony trusted that he had his reasons, that he knew his body well enough, knew SHIELD well enough not to offer anything more than he had to.
What was it? What injury had he sustained that he was so adamant against talking about?
Tony had been focused enough on the team’s late arrival to the scene and his own role in the battle that the only attention he paid to the rest of the team was whatever had come through verbal comms. He trusted them, he realized, maybe a little bit belatedly. He trusted all of them to pull their own, to do what they needed to do. To trust Steve’s plans just enough to put them into action and make them work. They always seemed to work, even the more unconventional strategies.
Steve was sharp like that, Tony thought with a fond curl of admiration that he carefully kept off his face.
Steve’s hand closed tight around his own, fingers lacing together like second nature. Latching on like Tony’s hand was an anchor point, a tether that would keep him grounded. Just a little on the side of too much that told Tony that whatever pain Steve was in, it was enough to distract him from the careful moderation of his strength he usually employed.
Tony very carefully did not utilize the calming, grounding pheromones that betas were known for and capable of using at their own discretion. Not only would it highlight that Steve wasn’t quite as okay as he was claiming but…Tony didn’t quite have that right, did he? Especially not around company of any sort. He wanted to. Wanted it dearly. He wanted to let loose the many many things his fore and hindbrain agreed on with Steve in their focus.
But he wouldn’t. Tony did have some self-control.
Fury swept from the room without a backwards glance and Tony realized that he’d missed the majority of the debriefing. He’d answered whatever questions had been sent in his direction with an almost robotic clarity, his mind fully focused on the tight grip of his hand in Steve’s, hidden beneath the table. A secret tether of care and support, just between them.
Natasha shot him a pointed glance as she followed Bruce and Thor through the door, her arm linked with Clint’s in a way that seemed intentionally leading.
Ah, so she had picked up on it. Not surprising considering that she was Natasha. That she left it to Tony to fix, though, that was a little surprising.
As soon as the room cleared, Tony turned in his chair, standing and gently tugging at their joined hands until Steve rose to his feet.
“C’mon,” Tony urged quietly. “Whatever it is, keep it together ‘til we’re back at the tower.”
“I know,” Steve bit out, just as quiet. “It hurts.”
“Yeah, I figured,” Tony admitted, gently prying his hand free of Steve’s hard grip to rest his hand at the small of his back instead. He could feel Steve tense under the touch, body held tight even as he leaned into Tony’s hand.
He dropped his hand as they exited the conference room, forcing himself to be content with the way they maneuvered through the corridors shoulder to shoulder, barely touching save for the way their sleeves caught on sleeves. It wasn’t enough but it would have to be until they were back safely on their home turf.
Tony might not have the same ingrained instincts of Alphas or Omegas, but he was security and safety conscious in his own right. Especially where his family was concerned. And that’s what they were, like it or not. This team, these people, they were more his family than Howard had ever even attempted to be. They were his.
Home turf was home. It was safe. JARVIS ensured that any attempts at planting bugs were thwarted. Any successful implementations were…unsuccessful at best (he truly hoped the randomized sounds of very enthusiastic sex was exactly what their assigned SHIELD agent signed up to listen to because that’s what they got, on a carefully selected, preset loop).
If Alpha’s were the protectors and Omegas were the nurturers then Betas were the providers.
Tony liked to think that he checked most of the boxes for each, though he would admit that nurturing wasn’t entirely his strongest suit. But providing? That he could do with unchecked enthusiasm. Especially in the form of a home, accommodations that were safe and secure even to the most paranoid of minds, his own included.
Most importantly to the current scenario, SHIELD had no access that he didn’t grant.
Which meant that when he got Steve into the elevator toward the common floor, Steve felt safe enough to drop some of his guard, to sink against him, leaning more heavily against Tony and hanging his head against the weight of pain and exhaustion.
“D’you wanna tell me what happened?” Tony asked, keeping his tone as idle and unassuming as he could despite the genuine concern that bolted through him. “We missed the start. J’ just said that you were under attack but up and moving on your own power.”
“Lucky shot,” Steve bit out miserably. He tilted his head tiredly to meet Tony’s eyes with a grimace. “Took a side hit on the bike. It’s not much more than scrap now, SHIELD’s probably got it. Got thrown but not as bad as I guess it might’ve been. Think they thought it was gonna be enough to, I don’t know, stun me? Knock me out?”
“Missed the mark on that one, didn’t they?” Tony said with a smirk. He was well aware that Steve was being intentionally vague on the severity. Taking a hit on the bike could mean a multitude of things, upto and including another vehicle slamming into the bike, which made Tony’s stomach roll just to think about so he very carefully tried not to.
Steve nodded stiffly but met Tony’s smirk with one of his own. “Don’t think they’ll ever stop underestimating me. I’m okay with that.”
“How bad?” Tony pressed carefully.
Steve shrugged with a grimace. “Pretty bad,” he admitted. “Worst of it’s on the mend. It’s gonna hurt like hell for a few days but I’m up and walking. Can’t say it’d be the same if anyone else got hit like that.”
“Concussion?” A logical assumption based on what minimal details Tony had been able to get up to that point.
“Yeah,” Steve admitted freely. “Yeah, took a pretty good knock to the head when I was thrown. Worst of it passed before we even wrapped it up though.”
Something was probably broken, more things were probably torn but, really, there wasn’t a whole lot any of them could do for that. Not for Steve. Not with his immunity to anaesthetics and pain medications. Just time and, hopefully, convincing him that it was okay to take it easy for a few days, or however long it took.
Steve grimaced again, eyeing Tony awkwardly before carefully shrugging out of his jacket. It was the brown leather one that Steve liked so much and Tony really couldn’t fault him for it. It looked amazing on him regardless of what he happened to throw it on over. But Tony’s breath caught as the jacket slid from his arms and Steve shifted, angling his left side and back toward Tony in a way Tony knew he wouldn’t generally be comfortable doing around many.
He must have taken the time to pull the jacket on after-the-fact, to hide the damage underneath.
Tony hissed and grimaced in pained sympathy, immediately rerouting the elevator from the commonfloor to his own. There was no way in hell he was going to sit back and send Steve off to try to take care of this himself, healing factor or no. Nope. Not happening.
Steve’d gone out that morning in his usual t-shirt and jeans, Tony had known that much, it was a nice enough day that the jacket was probably stowed in the motorcycle’s bags as a just in case measure.
But now, the t-shirt was shredded along with the skin of Steve’s arm from shoulder to wrist, down his side and to the waistband of his jeans, darkened with the combination of blood, dirt, and grit. He’d rolled with the momentum of the throw, at some point. His back was in a little better shape than his side but still looked painful. At least the denim was a little sturdier, had withstood the abuse far better than the simple cotton t-shirt. Even still, they were torn in places, the material darkened in spots almost down to his knee.
How had Steve managed to sit through the entire debrief like that? How had he kept everyone’s attention so cleanly off of it?
Tony made a mental note to take a peek at the label of Steve’s jacket at some point. Find a replacement for the one that was undoubtedly bloodstained now.
“C’mon,” Tony urged quietly when the elevator came to a stop. Rather than a hand on Steve’s back like he would have otherwise done, like he’d done before, automatically and without thought, just another facet of their closeness that would probably never be quite close enough, Tony wound his hand with Steve’s, using the hold to pull him out of the elevator and into the penthouse.
“It’ll heal, Tony,” Steve assured him gently, his hand tightening in Tony’s despite his softly insistent denial. “I think maybe just a shower. Once I flush it out, get the dirt and stuff out, I should heal in no time. My body’s just focusing on the bigger stuff for now.”
“I’m sure it will,” Tony agreed. He knew it would, Steve’s body had yet to fail them on that account. “It’s not the first time we’ve patched each other up, is it?”
“No,” Steve admitted with a smile that was entirely too fond. “No, it’s not but–”
“No buts,” Tony countered shortly. “You’re trying to keep your stoicism and I get that. That’s nice. But I can actually sense that it’s more than you’re trying to admit. That’s a pretty damning sign and you know it as well as I do. Humor me, Steve.”
Steve didn’t respond for a long moment, fidgeting slightly with his free hand before he sighed and gave a slow nod. “Okay,” he conceded.
“Thank you,” Tony said quietly, relieved by the comparatively easy agreement, ushering Steve through the room toward the bathroom.
Getting Steve out of his shredded clothing without further aggravating the injuries proved to be something of an impossibility. Tony quickly gave up on the idea, digging through a drawer until he found the shears that he’d known he’d left somewhere, carefully easing the sharp blades between material and skin, working cautiously to avoid adding to the collection of gouges that were slowly becoming apparent.
It was easier than maybe it should have been to set aside the knowledge that he had Steve Rogers standing naked in his bathroom. Though, it probably would have been much more difficult if not for the raw state of his side and his back that made Tony’s ache in sympathy. Times like this were one of the very, very few times Tony permitted himself to saturate the small room with calm as best he could. Offering as much as he could to ease some of the very obvious pain.
He shouldn’t. He knew he shouldn’t. But…that didn’t mean he was going to stop.
Not unless Steve asked him to.
Which he didn’t.
If anything, some of the tightly wound tension in those broad shoulders seemed to ease, just enough to make having taken the chance worth it.
Even still, having Steve leaning forward against the bathroom counter, hands planted and gripping at the surface as Tony carefully worked to remove the ruined clothing, still and tense but trusting under his hands…well, some sense of distraction was inevitable.
Of course, that was just as common and normal as every bit of their interactions anymore.
It was far from the first time either had seen the other in varying states of injury and undress. Nor was it the first time one or the other had slipped away after a battle only to place their trust in the other to patch them up or reached out to the other for silent, tethering support. Spending the few hours immediately after leaning on each other in both the literal and metaphorical sense to ground themselves before they were expected to regroup with everyone else for meals or movies or whatever the plan might be.
Tony was pretty sure tonight would be a takeout and cheesy movie night. It usually was following an occasion where one of their own was attacked.
Steve would probably fall asleep halfway through, if he made it that far. With his healing factor at work, he didn’t really stand much of a chance at making it to the end of the movie, especially once he’d eaten his bodyweight in food.
Chances were, his head would be on Tony’s shoulder or possibly his lap.
Always dancing along that too intimate line of close but always pulling back before they could cross that line. No matter how badly Tony really, really wanted to barrel right through it, leave it in the dust somewhere far, far behind them.
He wanted to but he wouldn’t. Not if it meant risking this closeness they’d already reached. There was next to nothing that would convince Tony to sacrifice that.
Tony forced himself to focus, turning his mind toward cleaning the torn, raw skin. Carefully and methodically removing the small bits and pieces of debris caught into the wounds and preventing proper healing, murumering quiet apologies as he went.
Steve’s opposite knee and lower leg were still covered in a dark, nasty bruise. His knee was still inflamed more than it should be, Tony noted. He didn’t seem to have much issues standing or walking on it, though, given Steve’s stubbornness, that didn’t necessarily mean it was alright. What it did mean, though, that either the concussion or something else entirely had been considerably worse than Steve had admitted. Tony was familiar with his rate of healing by now. Familiar enough to know that his body focused on healing the most severe before getting to the less critical injuries in stages. That his other leg looked every bit as painful as the abraded one was not encouraging in the least.
With a bitten back groan, Tony pushed to his feet once the torn skin was as clean as he could possibly get it. “Do you want me to cover it? Keep your clothes from rubbing?” he asked.
“Should be fine,” Steve said with a slightly looser shrug.
“Why do I even ask?” Tony huffed with resigned amusement.
“‘Cause you love any opportunity to do the exact opposite of something I say?” Steve returned with a worn smirk.
“That,” Tony said, “is exactly what I love. You know me too well.”
With that, Tony quickly dug the pads of gauze and the tape from the kit, carefully situating the large squares over the gruesome-looking wound, taping as he went. Steve didn’t argue, surprisingly. He remained still and silent, holding the same position he’d held from the start, silently giving the go-ahead that countered his own words.
Tony dropped the empty wrappers into the trash and thoroughly washed his hands, dropping the shears into the sink to be cleaned more thoroughly later. He hated to leave them but Steve would probably never not be a priority. “I think you’ve got some stuff here from the last time we did this song and dance,” he said thoughtfully as he dried his hands. “I’ll go and grab them for you.”
Steve hummed tiredly, shifting his stance stiffly until he could drop his head and press his face into the crook of Tony’s neck, long arms winding around Tony’s waist in a somewhat awkward hug given the careful distance that kept Tony from putting pressure against the covered wounds. “Thank you.”
“You’re always welcome,” Tony replied, bringing one hand to rest on the back of Steve’s neck, one place he had some certainty wouldn’t cause pain. It was only when Steve didn’t move, didn’t pull back as soon as he generally did, that Tony fully registered the scenting for what it was. He swallowed around the familiar ache of affection and ran his hand up into Steve’s hair, rubbing his fingers gently over his scalp, turning his face into the side of Steve’s head with a soft nuzzle.
Sometimes…sometimes it actually ached, just how much Tony loved this man.
“I like when you do that,” Steve murmured quietly.
“When I do what?” Tony asked.
“The calm thing,” Steve answered with a slowness to his speech pattern that told Tony that his healing factor was ramping up into high gear again for another push. Tony felt a rush of goosebumps rush over his skin at the unexpected press of lips against his neck, just over glands hidden under his skin, before Steve shifted and tucked back in. “I’m not really sure how it’s referenced now. I know you don’t do it often but...I like it when you do. Feels nice. Safe. I’ve wanted to do this, you know? Just…move in close and stay here. ‘Specially when staying away’s keeps it hurting more but even when it doesn’t hurt. Wanted to.”
“Why didn’t you?” Tony asked curiously, unable to resist the urge to draw a slow, deep breath, saturating his senses in Steve every bit as much as Steve’s position was undoubtedly flooding with his own.
“Didn’t want t’make it weird, I guess?” Steve said with a small shrug and a shiver that suggested he was well aware of what Tony’d just done. “Didn’t want to overstep, mess it all up.”
“You’re not messing anything up,” Tony said, his hand tightening just slightly at the back of Steve’s head in promise before returning to the gentle, soothing strokes through his hair. “It’s not weird now, is it?”
“No, it’s not. I guess maybe the knock to the head earlier knocked some sense into me?” Steve said with a tired chuckle.
“You’ve taken hits to the head before,” Tony pointed out dryly. “I’ve even patched you up from hits to the head before.” He shook his head and huffed a laugh. “C’mon, someone’s bound to have had J’ put the order in already. You’re going to pass out on your feet and we haven’t even gotten you dressed yet.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Steve agreed, pulling his head back with obvious reluctance. Despite his agreement, Steve didn’t go far, just enough to meet Tony’s eyes and study him curiously for a moment. His expression shifted and he hesitated. “I’m sorry.”
Tony frowned in confusion. “Sorry for what?”
“Potentially messing things up?” Steve answered.
“I already told you, Steve,” Tony started as patiently as he could. “You’re not messing anything up.”
Steve gave an unsteady chuckle and nodded once before shuffling closer again. He didn’t drop his head again, he didn’t burrow his face against Tony’s neck. Instead, his gauze covered arm lifted until his big hand could gently cup Tony’s face and…he kissed him. Steve kissed him. A chaste, tentative press of lips to Tony’s, a little clumsy that spoke of Steve’s exhaustion but a firmness that pointed toward genuine intention, letting it linger for a too-short moment before withdrawing again.
“Wanted to do that too,” Steve admitted, resting his head against Tony’s.
“Do it again,” Tony asked, stunned and still not entirely believing that’d happened in the first place.
Steve didn’t hesitate the second time the way he’d done the first. A nose nudged affectionately against his own and then lips were on his again, and truthfully, it might have actually gotten out of hand if not for the sharp hiss Steve made, jerking back with a grimace and a hobble that suggested he’d forgotten his own injuries. His knee most likely.
“Raincheck?” Tony offered with a sympathetic wince.
“Raincheck,” Steve agreed, his expression twisting into a reluctant disappointment at the unwelcome interruption.
“Come on,” Tony said softly, nudging under Steve’s uninjured arm and taking some of his weight off his leg. It wasn’t quite as easy or straightforward, getting Steve redressed in comfortable clothes given the widespread injuries, but they managed, making their way back down to the common floor just after the food had arrived. Tony helped him to one of the couches, stuffing throw pillows under his knee and reveling, maybe more than he should, at the fond exasperation in the small smile and the sigh Steve gave at the careful handling.
But Steve didn’t stop him. Didn’t argue or protest. He let Tony fuss, catching and squeezing his hand when Tony pulled away to fill plates full of food.
Tony had been both right and wrong in his assumptions as to how the rest of the night would play out. Takeout and cheesy movies, he’d been right about that. Steve did fall asleep almost as soon as he finished eating, falling into a doze so soon and so quickly that Tony had to gently pry the plate and fork from sleep heavy hands.
Bruce took them from him to return them to the kitchen because Tony wasn’t going to be moving any time soon.
He was wrong though, too. Steve’s head wasn’t in his lap when he’d fallen asleep. He wasn’t leaning with comfortable familiarity against Tony’s shoulder, either. No, Steve had sleepily inched and wound and curled into Tony, falling asleep with his face tucked into Tony’s neck, the pain-fueled tension in his large frame noticeably absent as his weight sank more heavily against him.
Tony ignored the knowing smirk from Natasha on the opposite couch. Instead, he carefully wound one arm around Steve’s shoulders, ever mindful of what the bandages hid under the thin t-shirt, and buried his nose against the side of his head. And then he settled in as comfortably as he could to let his mind focus lazily on the movie, keeping his arm firmly in place.