Chapter Text
Consciousness came suddenly and painfully. He jumped, jackknifing.
A blare was sounding in the air. Steve knew how to react: get shield, confront, smash.
And Tony wasn’t here. Steve’s innards clenched breathlessly.
Heart in his throat Steve rolled out of bed almost slamming on the floor, his feet slipping on the discarded suit shirt and slacks hastily thrown on the night before (God dammit, Tony). His hands fumbled onto his shield. Despite the sand of sleep gluing his eyes he ran half blind towards the sound.
His footsteps were light as they easily ran towards the center of most chaos in the Avenger’s household: Tony’s workshop.
The incessant blare was getting louder, an echoing quality characteristic of Tony’s workshop. And through Steve’s natural combat calm he felt adrenaline hitting his blood stream at the thought of Tony being in danger. In their home.
Anger came hot and swift, and he now ached to throw his shield, tear into whoever would dare intrude.
Storming into the workshop, sun flashing off of what Steve could only assume the intruder, he raised his shield—
He blinked.
Was that. . . a bugle call?
Iron Patriot (War Machine, an insistent voice of Tony corrected) was standing proudly in red, white, and blue, gauntlet over its arc reactor staring with sightless eyes into the blinding sunrise.
Out of the corner Steve caught the sight of Rhodes on the workshop couch, pillow over his head, muttering, “Make it stop. Everyday—” He looked at Tony; rumpled, unshaven, and steaming coffee mug in his hand.
Tony shrugged nonchalantly, “This is why he was put up for adoption.”