TONY
The alarm went off right in the middle of his first real shower in three fucking days.
"JARVIS?" Tony groaned, grabbing blindly for the showerhead to rinse the shampoo out of his face.
"There seems to be a security breach in the workshop, sir," the AI answered a little pensive, obviously still analyzing the situation. "The alarm was triggered by Mr. Rowan. He is currently at you working desk, going through your files. He does not seem to be in hurry, sir."
"He..." Tony sighed, turning off the water for good. "Haven't I locked the doors?"
"I am afraid you have not, sir. And Miss Potts deactivated the automatic interlocking protocols after your last–"
"Yeah, yeah," Tony said. He really didn't need to remember that. "God, I'm really out of it," he mumbled, opening the door and stepping out of the shower. "Cut the alarm. No need to call anyone."
"Very well, sir."
The bathroom was only a bit steamy. He paused and frowned, his head shooting up, meeting the eyes of his mirror's reflection.
He looked... different. He wasn't the man he used to be. The fatigue and stress of the last couple of weeks had left an impression on his skin. Aside from the black lines stretching over his upper body, he was thinner than he ever remembered being. Never before had he been able to trace his ribs with his fingers, and it wasn't a look he liked.
It wasn't bad... it wasn't anything, really, aside from different.
He felt so different.
Tony sighed and shook his head, turning to the wall. He quickly rubbed a towel through his dark hair and pulled jeans and a new tank top on before heading down the stairs. He didn't bother with socks and the tiles were icy cold under his feet while he was making his way to the shop.
And just as JARVIS had told him, Steve had the nerve to stand in the middle of his workshop, casually flipping through the papers lying on his desk, like he had no damn worry in the world. The fucker.
"What do you think you're doing here?" Tony snarled, slowly walking into the room. "If you really think you can just walk in here and get your hands on a suit, I gotta say you have no idea what–"
"I am finding out what you're hiding from me." Steve interrupted him matter-of-factly. He didn't even look up, still skimming through the notes lying around, as if Tony wasn't right fucking there. "So how's your blood toxicity these days, Tony?" he asked casually.
Tony opened his mouth, closed it.
What. The. Fuck.
"That's none of your fucking business! I don't know what kind of job description Pepper gave you, but this is not the Tuesday Night Club, Miss Marple. Now get the hell out of my workshop!"
Steve turned around but otherwise held his ground. He leaned back and stared straight into Tony's eyes. "I am your assistant. It is my job to help you and right now, I don't know how to do that."
There was something in Steve's eyes—and it took him a moment to put a name on it, because it was the last thing he'd expected to see there—it was worry. Open, unconcealed worry—and he didn't get it. Up until now he had been sure, so sure, that Steve despised him; that he'd taken the job for the money, or the fame, or whatever else he had hoped to get out of this. But Steve's eyes stared into his, like no matter what, he would be with him every step of the way.
There were really only two options. Either Steve was a really good actor, or he actually gave a shit about him. "I—look, I appreciate the sentiment, I really do, but there is nothing to help here... I'm fine," he forced the word out of his mouth.
