Who: Tony Stark, Steve Rogers (mcu) What: What a gift. Where: Their house When: July 24, Morning. Maybe still kinda night. Rating: Panic-y thoughts
Anyone who knew Tony knew that he was amazing at staying up for days on end when left to his own devices. And that when he did sleep (really, actually sleep as opposed to getting a cat nap in here and there), he went to bed extremely late and tended to sleep well into the morning. Late enough where usually by then there was commotion going on around the house; Steve having had gone out for a run and returned by then, showered and then left again in order to get coffee for when Tony did wake up.
And he’d gone to bed late last night — had crawled into the bed dead on his feet and snuggled under the blankets, pressed up against Steve like the man was just another pillow instead of an impressive number of muscles. So it was really just a point of contention and confusion when he opened his eyes what felt like only an hour or so later; wide awake without fully understanding the reason why.
The reason made itself very clear even though it was still practically dark in their room — the bright blue glow reflecting against every surface that Tony was laying in — the curve of Steve’s back to most obvious thing there. And the inability to breathe properly was there too. It felt a little like a bad dream, or a flashback or — or something. Because he’d gotten rid of this thing. Had gone through a million and one reconstructive surgeries to build and replace bits of himself and bone that had been gone for so long previously.
The feel of it was real though, just as it’d once been and Tony had to still himself completely, hand pressed just underneath the (sudden, inexplicable) arc reactor and take in a shaky, breath that stilted and stopped before it should have.