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He’d “missed” the call. Sent it straight to voicemail, ignoring Tony in favor of a frustration laden workout. I’ll answer it later, he’d thought.
I’ll call him back.
Later.
Voicemail Box:
Tony Stark
Stark Industries office
“Captain Rogers, this is Pepper Potts, Tony’s assis-- *interference*-- m sorry. Apologies. Um, yes. *interference* I’m calling, I’m calling to inform you of Mr. Stark’s passing, as is outlined in his contract with the Ultimates under SHIELD…
Later.
Steve stares at the phone in his hand, the call screen still lit with ‘Voicemail’ at the top of the list. The light glints harshly off the screen and into his eyes. The sun is out. On a day like today, the sun is fucking out.
Still, the tears don’t fall.
“… There will be a reading of the will in the next few days. His lawyer is working to have that prepared, however, I was *interference*-- h god…”
“…continued funding of the Ultimates Initiative provided their privatization under…” Fuck Tony and his goddamn neurotic paranoia and planning.
“Captain Steven Grant Rogers, to whom I relinquish a monetary supplement of…” Fuck Tony, and fuck his money.
“… and sole proprietorship of the Iron Man suit…” Fuck his fucking suit!
Miss Potts brings him a closed manila envelope, ‘Steve’ written in a scrawling cursive front center.
Fuck Tony Stark, he thinks.
“… He’s, he’s gone, Steve. *interference* He’s really gone…”
The light shines beautifully through the chapel’s stained glass windows. Mourners fill the pews as a priest opens the service.
Steve didn’t know Tony had been raised Catholic, too, but somehow he isn’t surprised. It was part of the will: a service his mother would have been proud of, and an after party later on that his father would have loathed.
It was in his letter to Steve that Tony had admitted that he expected most people who showed would be happier he’d… passed.
Steve looks around the room and notes how few of the mourners seem genuinely affected; he balls his fist and faces forward once more.
He’d declined the request to give a eulogy.
“… *interference*…”
The coffin is simpler than he expected. Something about that pricks at the cold anger settled deep within his breast. Tony showboated so much, yet, this one simple thing, this last request for his death? He’d had the coffin pre-made and stored away. A perfect fit, unsealed, and prepped for ease of decay. Buried on private Stark land.
Greg handled the legality of the burial. If the lawyer had had a tail, he’d have left that argument with it between his legs.
There are fewer people present here. Greg made it mandatory: approved only. Fury stands beside Greg at the head of the gravesite. The lawyers and people Steve assumes Greg needs here linger not far behind. Jan holds hands with Hank while Clint and the twins hover close by. Steve feels Thor’s presence nearby. Pepper stands with Tony’s driver—Harold?— and an angry-looking dark-skinned gentleman Steve has never met before; the man wears his dress blues, colonel ranking prominently displayed. His eyes glimmer in the sun’s light.
The priest asks if anyone would like to say a few words.
Steve remains silent.
“… I don’t know what we’re going to do.”
Steve stands graveside, the mound fresh. When everyone else has already gone, the smell of must from the fresh earth still lingers in the air.
He hadn’t realized how integral Tony had been to life.
The last week had been hell. Hell. He thinks of the priest, whose words were spoken yet whose beliefs Tony did not share. Hell. Where does the atheist go, the thought looms in Steve’s mind. When a man actively refutes the power of God, where does he end up? If the repenting go to purgatory, or for the protestants, to heaven, where then does a good man go, whose soul has been tried and torn and beaten, and when death finally came, taken without notice. No time for Steve to, to…
Panic pierces his chest.
“Steven?” Boots crunch grass nearby, as Thor comes closer. Air won’t fill Steve’s lungs; it’s hot and stifling and each breath feels like glass, like asthma he hasn’t had in years, and he wonders is the serum failing, do I finally get to go only to feel his body self correct and he hates himself. He hates what he has, the life he’s given while his friend, his—his… He has to know. He needs--
“Where is he?” Behind him, breath catches, and he needs, he needs to know. “Thor… where is he?”
His enhanced hearing catches the gulp, and he spins around, fury in his breath. I couldn’t have failed. This isn’t my fault. He can’t be—
“Tell me.”
“Tony… had no faith.”
How dare you. “He believed in you.”
Thor’s eye widen. Steve can feel the tears building in his eyes, but he won’t cry. He won’t.
“Steven,” he starts, “I— I do not know.”
Hell, his mind tells him, his faith. If Thor doesn’t know, and Thor is a literal god, Norse or not, then—then…
Later. I’ll ask him later.
How the hell did Steve think he’d get a ‘later’?
-
He has a very specific memory, one he’s actively repressed, refused to think about at night when home and loneliness plagued his heart and need stirred in his body, because he’s not like that. But, now, as he stares into the brown detritus to a body no longer to rise, he thinks, maybe.
Tony… God, Tony had looked good. Tight jeans, light grey tank, bare feet, with touches of grease on his face, arms, shirt, pants, hell, even his toes had even had spots on them. Sweat made the fabric absolutely cling to him. With a socket wrench in one hand, the welding mask in the other, he’d come to the common area breathing heavily with a broad smile on his face and mania in his eyes, and Steve had never thought genius looked as mesmerizing before.
“Steve,” Tony’d breathed.
“Stark,” he remembers saying. And, just like that, a bit of the light had faded. But, Tony’d taken him down to the workshop, showing off something new in the suit and displaying a few of the new equipment and some upgrades to their own gear. He remembers a moment in Tony’s enthusiasm the other man spinning so hard that he’d almost fallen and Steve, he had caught him. Tony had gasped, and if Steve had passed off the press of something stiff as a tool in Tony’s pocket, they’d never talked about it. If Steve had adjusted his pants when Tony turned away, flustered and waving his arms about some thing or another he wanted to do, he didn’t think about it.
The way he remembers Tony’s heartbeat racing as he held him, just for that short moment…
He stands, anger like lava through Steve’s veins. The sky is bright; no clouds in sight, and Tony Stark’s corpse lay six feet beneath Steve’s feet. A soul lost.
He’s holding it together. He should leave, can’t get his feet to move. He’s getting hot here in the sun, and his teammate, his —could have had more—friend, is dead.
Shadows cast, and Steve opens his eyes to the feel of rain on his neck. He looks around, to Thor, surprised. Thor faces forward, eyes focused above, glistening. The heat in Steve’s face builds. Thor doesn’t cry. They don’t cry.
“Thor?”
The man himself swallows, muscles twitch along his face and Steve internally begs please, don’t. But, when he turns his head and his gaze catches Steve’s, a single tear trails down. Steve’s own face burns.
Thor clears his throat, and looks to the grave, “The sun doth not shine on a day like today.”
Steve cries.