nasafic:

(so i was listening to some melancholy music and thought, fuck it, might as well write a fic! it’s angsty and outside my brand a bit but i promise next time we’ll be back to our regularly scheduled programming.

angst, hurt/comfort, established relationship)

“It’s my fault,” Tony says dully.

He’s sitting on the couch, a stack of papers in his hand. Steve closes the door carefully, kicking off his shoes and slowly rounding the corner into the darkened room. There’s a glass of seltzer water on the table; Tony wants a drink.

“What’s your fault?” Steve asks.

Tony huffs, a jagged sound, and waves the papers in the air. His hands are shaking. “The adoption agency turned us down.”

Steve feels something drop out of his chest.

“It was, ah – my alcoholism. Past alcoholism. Couldn’t risk it.”

“You don’t know that,” Steve says numbly, even as he runs through the other possibilities. Was it their lifestyle? Was it their jobs as superheroes, was it their sexuality? Was it how busy they were, was it how often they were in danger, was it just that they weren’t good enough people?

Tony snorts, shakes his head. “They’ve approved other people in dangerous situations,” he says. “I doubt they approve alcoholics.”

“Stop,” Steve almost snaps. “Jesus, just -“ He sighs, dropping down onto the couch text to Tony. “It’s going to be okay. We’ll be okay.”

Tony just shakes his head. It’s hard to tell in the darkness, but Steve can just make out the glint of tears in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice rough. “I’m so sorry. I wanted to give you a baby.”

Steve doesn’t say it’s okay, because it isn’t okay. He and Tony wanted to have a family: wanted to have a kid to teach and raise and love, wanted to expand their family to include one more. Wanted a high chair at the kitchen table, baby socks kicking from the couch, toys strewn over every available surface.

“It’s not your fault,” Steve says, wrapping an arm around Tony’s shoulders. Tony almost falls into him, tucking his face up against Steve’s neck. “And even if it was, I would forgive you.”

Steve feels the way Tony’s breath hitches, the warm wetness against his neck, and has to press his own eyes closed against a wave of tears.

“We’ll be okay,” he manages, tightening his grip around Tony’s shoulders. This isn’t what they wanted, not at all, but it’s what they need: each other. No matter what, Steve still has Tony. “We’re going to be fine.”

The rejection letter is a bold white in the darkness. Carefully, Steve pries it from Tony’s grip and sets it on the coffee table. Then he closes his eyes and buries his face in Tony’s hair. He doesn’t need to look at that tonight.