Bonus Features

Collected Memories

FANDOM: Marvel

SHIP: Stony

LOGLINE:

Over the years, Tony has recorded a multitude of voice logs as a way to preserve memories of the people closest to him.  One sleepless night, he decides to listen to a few of Steve's. 

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Tony's POV

Not all nights are created equal. Some are endless voids, begging to be filled with something other than restless busy-work and distractions. Perhaps sleep would fix the problem, but it also happens to be the root of the issue; the longest nights are always the ones when my brain is too loud to sleep.

I slipped into bed next to Steve about an hour ago, mostly to quell his worries. He's snoring softly, even though he claims he doesn't ever snore, and his limp forearm is flopped around the small of my waist. It's almost cute enough to convince me to stay in bed, just to watch the pillowcase flutter under his breath until I can't help but fall into my own fitful sleep.

I extricate myself from his grasp as carefully as I can manage, put a pillow in my place, and tiptoe to my workshop. I know the path well, even in the dark. I don't turn on the overhead light, just a small one by my desk, and pull up a holographic screen. "Voice logs," I say.

"Password?" F.R.I.D.A.Y chirps.

"Steve's Sweet Ass."

"Access granted."

The screen changes, and I'm presented with a series of virtual folders, each labeled with the name of someone close to me, and my favorite picture of the subject. Not necessarily the most flattering picture, but my favorite. They're sorted in order of closeness, proximity, amount of logs, and though there's a wide variety, each folder has one thing in common: they're all recorded and logged from my glasses, and no one—and I mean no one—is allowed to know about them.

Maybe it's creepy. I like to think of it as an auditory diary, a way to categorize and compartmentalize my life. A way to feel a person's presence, to analyze their speech patterns, to remember them when I can't be there. Creepy or not, it comes in handy on nights like this, when my brain is on a treadmill and my boyfriend's on REM.

I bring up Steve's folder. Hundreds of logs of various lengths pop up. I lean back in my chair and let it roll away from my desk, clasping my hands behind my head. "FRIDAY, be a doll and shuffle all, won't you?"

"Shuffling all."

There's a short pause before Steve's warm voice starts dancing out of the speakers. It's a log from about half a year ago, when Steve moved into the tower with me. A text transcription scrolls down the screen line-by-line as he speaks.

Steve: [laughing] No, you— Tony. Stop it.

Tony: Stop what? I don't know what you're talking about.

S: You're such an ass, give me that.

T: Ooh, Mr. America said a naughy word! Am I rubbing off on you, already?

[unintelligible background noise, laughter]

S: I'm moving out.

T: On what grounds?

S: My boyfriend won't give me back the feather duster.

T: Oh, sorry, but there's a stipulation on page six paragraph twelve of the contract you signed—oh!

The recording comes to an end, and there's a few moments of silence before it cycles to the next one, dated for a couple months later.

Steve: [out of breath] I saw a really cute dog on my run.

Tony: How cute, on a scale of 1-10?

S: Un-ratable. He was a super fluffy, some kind of German Shepherd mix. I swear he winked at me, Tony.

T: Big whoop, I can do that too.

S: Are you jealous of a dog?

T: No...

S: We should get a dog.

T: Ha, with our schedules? That's basically abuse.

S: Aw, come on. We could get one of those tiny ones you could fit in a backpack.

T: That's actually abuse.

[Distant sound of running water, mixed with off-key singing]

[Sound of door opening]

[Steve shouts]

Tony: What song was that?

Steve: It's called 'knocking is important'.

T: Then lock the door next time, dork.

I'm chuckling to myself until the next log comes on, and the smile immediately drops from my face. It's a segment of a conversation I have nearly memorized, now. One that I've gone back to on multiple occasions, and that leaves me with the most to think about.

It was late when I recorded it, not quite as late as it is right now but late enough that Steve's voice was husky. Sultry. Slow and deliberate. Late enough that thoughts poured out more easily, coaxed with a few cups of wine.

Tony: You never talk about (your family).

Steve: Well, there's not much to talk about. We were a small family. Never had much. Never needed much.

T: Do you miss them?

S: Sometimes. It's been a long time. A long, long time.

[Pause]

S: They didn't live to see me again. They died thinking that I was lost forever. I know it's counter-intuitive, but...I can't help but feel a bit guilty about that, sometimes.

T: Guilty? It wasn't your fault that you ended up on ice.

S: It was my fault, though. It was my decision to take the plane down, the cryogenics were an accidental side effect.

[Another pause]

S: I'm sorry, that was...dark.

T: No, I'm sorry, I probably shouldn't have brought it up.

S: No. No....I'm glad you did.

"FRIDAY, pause."

The log comes to a halt, frozen on a wavelength I can reach out and run my fingers through. Steve's words are still ringing in my ears, heavy with raw emotions I can barely begin to unravel. Even in the silence, it feels like he's in the room with me.

"Tony, what are you doing?"

I jolt. To my surprise, Steve actually is in the room with me— bleary-eyed and all, wearing only his pajama bottoms, leaning against the doorjamb for support. Mo is perched on his shoulders, and she uses his arm as a springboard to hop onto my table, mewing at me like she's equally confused as to why I'm not in bed. Indignant, even.

I consider Steve for a long moment, and then turn back to my desk, raising my hand to dismiss the program. It would be easy enough, just a quick flick of the wrist and they'd be neatly filed away, my little secret until it comes time to draft my will.

Almost too easy.

I drop my hand.

"Come over here," I say, "and I'll show you."

I think it's time to log a new memory.