Something to hold you over during the final month of waiting. This will be a three-shot, so look out for more chapters.

Plot Summary: "Tony did not detonate. Instead, he did what Steve had feared even more. He faded away without a sound." Tony has not been the same since he returned from Space. Now he's disappeared again and Steve must confront the burden that they have both chosen to bear.

Setting: Post-IW, takes place sometime during the beginning of Endgame (AU, obviously, since I haven't actually seen Endgame). Note, I'm leaving how Tony gets back to Earth somewhat ambiguous since that is not really the point of this story.

Warnings: Language, alcohol, and angst.

Enjoy!

-Cat

Part I

It did not take long to realize that Tony was missing.

This was one of the things that had changed since... well, since everything. He wanted to say since they got Tony back in the first place. But really, it would be better to catalogue change since Thanos ripped away half of the universe.

No, that would also be unfair to the story. If Steve were being more honest, he would say since Siberia. One of the thousands of big and little things that had changed.

Before… all of that.

Before, no one would know for days on end, because Tony stayed in his workshop for days on end. Steve wondered if it was just a quality of genius, to torture oneself with binges of creation, regardless of physical or mental health. Tony would soar above such menial things until he crashed down into them like an airplane crashing into a frozen sea. Until then, he defied human limitations by surviving on coffee and motor oil and disgusting green smoothies. There was a luxury couch in the workshop, modern and sleek-lined, where he flirted briefly with sleep. His robots draped him in ratty blankets and canvas tarps, which would then be discarded on the high-quality fabric after mere hours. This, Steve noticed, was still the same.

"Tony?"

Steve was standing in the workshop now with Natasha and Bruce, noticing.

Noticing that couch, the t-shirt thrown carelessly next to it, empty mugs and glasses, prescription pills. Noticing that the workspace in comparison was meticulously organized, except one area which had clearly been subject to recent tinkering on... whatever the hell Tony's brain was stuck on. And there was a smaller workbench on the far end of the room, one with a cork-board and messy in a way that betrayed something… youthful. Tangled headphones, textbooks, loose-leaf graffitied with doodles, chemicals languishing in erlenmeyer flasks, a moldy sandwich. Steve swallowed hard. Tony clearly had not cleaned it since... well, now he was back to that uncomfortable train of thought. Steve spun back to the workshop and scanned it sharply. He noticed absence.

"He's not here," Bruce said, eyeing the chemicals and the furry mold with something like sadness. Steve remembered. And knew why.

"Who was fighting with you?"

"The Guardians of the Galaxy. Quill, Drax, Mantis. There were two others with Stark, a wizard and a boy called Spiderman," Nebula reported dispassionately. They were in a conference room, gray sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows. It was just Steve, Nebula, and Carol Danvers. Nebula refused to look at them, instead staring out of the windows at the dreary landscape. But the fact that she was speaking to them was an improvement.

"Just you and Tony escaped?"

"The rest turned to dust. Stark's son died in his arms."

Steve paused. Then started to say, "Tony doesn't have-"

"Oh. God," came a soft exclamation behind him. It was Colonel Rhodes, just returning from calling Pepper. Steve's world tilted again.

"Tony?" called Steve again into the work space. No answer except his own voice echoing back. Somewhere, a robot, Dum-E, whirred sadly. Worry sputtered through Steve's chest, irrationally potent. No. No this was completely rational. Tony had not been… had not been well.

"Friday, where's Tony?"

"Boss has gone out," replied the AI blandly.

He could feel Natasha's eyes on him, steady and concerned. Concerned for him or for Tony?

"Where did he go?"

"Out," repeated the AI, with some measure of reproach.

"Can you track him?"

"He disabled all tracking software on his vehicle and devices."

Steve cursed under his breath. It seemed that he was doing that a lot lately.

"Do you have surveillance footage of him before he left?" Natasha asked, speaking for the first time since they entered the workshop. Steve glanced in her direction and found that she was still watching him.

The AI was silent for a moment, clearly hesitating.

"I know he wants his privacy, but he's still recovering. We just need to know he's safe," Steve added (pleaded).

Friday still said nothing, but a blue screen appeared before Steve and hovered there. The time stamp was for that morning, 10:09 a.m. It showed Tony stiffly picking his way through the rows of cars in the garage. Steve could not read the expression on his face, but he did see what was cradled in his left arm. Two bottles, filled with amber liquid that sloshed like oil against the sides as Tony limped.

"Tony," Steve whispered, and his fist clenched.

The pixelated Tony stopped besides a nondescript sedan (unusual for the flashy billionaire) and gingerly got in, flipping sunglasses down over his face. The engine roared to life, then the car sped out of the garage.

No one spoke, but Steve knew what they were thinking.

Among the thousands of big and little things that had changed, Tony was one of them.

"Friday, can you turn the tracking software back on?"

"Boss requested that I only re-activate the trackers if he is in grave danger."

"He could be-"

"Ms. Potts or Colonel Rhodes will be notified if Boss needs assistance," interrupted the AI frostily. "No one else."

Steve heard Natasha exhale, slow and resigned. "Thank you, Friday," she murmured. She turned to Steve. "He'll be okay."

"Will he?" Steve asked quietly. Because lately… lately Tony had been far from okay.

After…

"Any progress?"

Bruce removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. His hair had grown since Wakanda. It was starting to curl over his forehead. And there was a shadow of stubble on his jaw. He'd just come through the door to Tony's room, dark circles beneath his eyes and wearing the same clothes he had been wearing two days ago.

"He'll be fine, Steve," Bruce answered exhaustedly. "He's just… very sick."

"But has anything changed since he got here?" Steve pushed.

Bruce sighed. "No."

Steve dug his fingernails into his palms and said, "Okay. Get some rest."

"I have to update Pepper when she gets back-"

"I'll do it," said Steve on impulse. "Please, Bruce, you need to sleep. I'll-I'll wait with him."

Bruce scrutinized him with red-rimmed brown eyes, catching the hesitation without effort. "It really wasn't good between you two, was it?"

"Hasn't Natasha told you everything?" Steve asked warily. It had been nearly two months since Bruce returned to Earth, since Thanos had wiped out half the population. Since Tony Stark had vanished into the black expanse of space. And more than two years since Steve had felt like Captain America.

"Everything she knows," Bruce answered. "So no, not everything. No one seems to know everything except you and Tony."

"Oh," Steve murmured, lost for what to say next.

"He probably won't wake up for a few more days," Bruce said then, as if this were reassuring. What was unsaid: "You won't have to talk to him yet." Was that what Steve wanted? God, he did not even know if wanting something mattered anymore. Bruce turned away and shuffled down the sterile white hallway of the medical wing. Steve opened the door quietly and entered the dim, warm room. It was filled with faint beeps and clicks and hissing. Tony still had not opened his eyes.

He hadn't since he'd been rescued.

He was older. That was the first thing that Steve had noticed on the television following their split. But now Tony seemed ancient. His hair was lightening to gray and plastered to his forehead with sweat. Blue veins spiderwebbed underneath his translucent skin, over bones that stuck out of his gaunt face. He was far too pale, with high spots of color on his cheekbones. Infection, Bruce said. From the wound in his side. Nebula told them that it was delivered by Thanos with one of Tony's own weapons. That Tony was lucid enough to experience the starvation, the dehydration, the hypoxia before their rescue.

But they already knew this from his message. Steve shuddered at the whispered memory, the panic that was blinding.

After everything, Tony deserved a break. But then the fever had crept up like a silent assassin.

Steve prayed it wouldn't win. And he waited for Pepper.

He found Colonel Rhodes in the weights room. Mostly because he didn't know what else to do.

"Tony's gone," Steve said without any preamble.

Rhodes paused mid-bench-press and glanced at him with dark eyes. There was a slick film of sweat on his brow. He lowered the bar, his face betraying no emotion until he was upright. There was a mechanical whirr as he adjusted his legs and leaned to the floor for his towel and water. After a long swig, he wiped his mouth with a forearm and finally spoke.

"You sure?"

"Positive. Friday showed us the security tapes. He's disabled the tracking devices."

"He took a car?"

"And two bottles of what looked like whiskey."

Rhodes' expression tightened, the sheen on his face shifting in the bright overhead lights. Strangely, the show of concern helped Steve take a breath. They were on the same page, then. He and the Colonel had not exactly been the best of friends since their reunion. There was no outward sign, every interaction respectful and professional. But Steve was aware of the distance Rhodes kept, the neat package of unsaid words behind his locked jaw. Once, Steve would have wanted to heal the rift, to take the necessary steps back to friendship. But he knew better now. Words might not be enough, so he would try time. Besides, part of him (a tiny, cowardly part) did not want to find out if Rhodes knew everything about Siberia.

"Friday, did Tony mention when he'd be back?" Rhodes asked the room.

"Sometime in the evening, Colonel Rhodes," Friday answered, with what Steve felt was an unnecessary show of warmth. "I will contact you if he decides to return later."

"Thank you, Friday."

Rhodes stood, rolled his shoulders, then headed in the direction of the showers.

"Wait," Steve called after his retreating back. "You aren't going to look for him?"

"Honestly, Rogers, I think whatever this is, it was a long time coming," Rhodes said, turning back to Steve. "I'm going to alert Pepper and let it play out for now. If he's not back by tonight, then yes, I will look for him."

It certainly was a long time coming. It was like Steve had been waiting for this. Like the entire team had been on the brink, holding their breath. For Tony to crack, explode even. He would leave a mess of damaged parts for them to pick up and fit together. Somehow, Steve believed that it would help. Not heal them, but maybe start the process. In fact, Steve had been counting on it, counting on Tony to detonate in spectacular fashion as he used to. Counting on a fight or a breakdown, something chaotic and messy but cathartic.

Most of all, he was counting on the Aftermath. For the old Tony to be born from the ashes, bright and burning with schemes. And for the rest of the Avengers to be renewed with him.

He'd been ashamed of wanting that.

Now, he was unable to reconcile himself with this new reality.

When the fever finally broke, Tony was quiet. His usual energy returned slowly. But it was frantic, vibrating beneath his silence. It made his hands shake, his few words to everyone dull, his fewer words to Steve sharp, his mood unpredictable. And worst of all he seemed… trapped. Stuck beneath sterile sheets. Bound by wires and tubes.

Even after he had ventured out of the medical bay (far sooner than he should have), he seemed to be operating from behind the walls of a personal prison. When Pepper was away, he stayed locked inside his workshop. Steve watched unseen outside as Tony paced, tinkered, sat incredibly still, then start all over again. And produced nothing.

Steve was watching a shell. A wind-up toy going in circles.

"I'll be fine, Rogers."

An observant one, apparently. But the voice that emanated from the workshop was much milder than the sporadic, razor-edged comments of the last week. Steve hesitated. Was this an invitation to enter? But before he could decide, Tony was there walking through the door. He scanned Steve critically, absently wiping dirty hands on his t-shirt. His cheeks were hollow.

"What I'm saying is, I don't need a babysitter."

"I know you don't."

"Then why are you hovering like a mute mother hen? I get enough of that from Nebula."

"We're holding a meeting tomorrow. About what to do next."

"You came to tell me that? I already know, Rogers."

"Are you coming?"

"Sure. Yeah."

He shifted his weight to his left foot, drew in a sharp breath, and shifted it back. Then he threw Steve a challenging look, as if daring him to comment. Steve did not. He was still stuck on Tony's response. Uncaring. Un-anything. And Steve was unable to come up with a way to make things better. They'd made perfunctory amends, but it was prefaced by grief. Steve was starting to believe that these weren't enough.

God, he wanted them to be.

"Tony…"

"What?" snapped Tony when Steve did not continue. And anything Steve was going to say evaporated.

"Nevermind. We can talk later."

"Yeah. Later," Tony repeated. He sounded distracted, but Steve did not trust this. Tony could sound whatever he wanted to be, even if it was the opposite. "I'm going to bed. Tired."

Steve let him limp away.

At the meeting, Steve learned the true depths of Tony's silence. There was not a single interruption, a single disagreement or tactless quip or insult. It was like he was not even there. Like the heart of the Avengers could not find a reason to beat again.

No, Tony did not detonate. Instead, he did what Steve had feared even more. He faded away without a sound.

Steve had the odd sensation that now he was trapped too. He had no other plan to heal them. The team. What kind of leader was he, that he expected his damaged teammate to be the cure? Were they even teammates? Sure, they were reunited, even working towards reconciled, but… no one here was whole.

Maybe it was Steve's fault.

"He hasn't been himself," Steve said to Rhodes. Too late, he realized that he had let his desperation show. Rhodes had the grace to say nothing, but he nodded, almost to himself. Steve cleared his throat. It clicked like the clink of two bottles of whiskey. "Do you think he'll come back?"

Rhodes stared hard at him. They were no longer talking about Tony's physical disappearance. Then, strangely, his mouth softened and the corners lifted just slightly. Steve suddenly got the sense that Rhodes knew something that he did not.

"Against all odds," Rhodes said. "Tony always comes back."

A/N: Review please! And expect a new chapter coming...eventually :)