The bed dripped when Steve slid into it, although the blankets -- all million of them, approximately. They'd cleaned house at that convention for comfort, and because Tony always had been complained about being cold and Steve had remembered, of course he had - didn't shift quite yet. Comfort wasn't the goal here then, and Tony wasn't sure he could blame him. He'd offered up Steve's bed in a moment of crazy decision making, his head in a hundred places and his heart in a hundred more and now he didn't even know how to deal with his own choices. They hadn't done this in years, and even back then --
Tony closed his eyes again, trying to close off all the sensations in the room to get his head to stop buzzing, to get everything to slow down again so maybe he'd be in a place where he could breathe but it didn't want to work.
"Yeah," he said, stilted, because god he hoped that was true, that they'd all done right for Natasha when she'd been too willing to give too much of herself. "I think. We had to have." Because if they hadn't, how could any of them out there in the future live with themselves?
"Steve." There was more, he knew. Tony could tell, and it was just sitting there in the darkness, filling up the space and making it worse than it'd already been. Another thing to not talk about, maybe, but Tony didn't think that was really flying anymore. He hadn't for a while, had been reminded of the fact by Bucky fucking Barnes of all people, but he didn't know what to do with it all, didn't know how he'd handle it if he opened up and left everything spill out.