Of course, by now Tony has grown long accustomed to an empty bed again, and so he knows it can't possibly be the coldness of the pillow next to him that is getting to him. But sometimes, when he's finally closed his eyes to sleep, he can see Steve looking over at him from the other side of the sheets, can feel the heat radiating from his body, would almost swear he hears the other man breathing, light and warm against his skin.
No, he has to remind himself. Has to remember the weight of a coffin in his hands instead of the feeling of fingers gently intertwined. Has to remember the ghost-white, blood-stained body in the shredded uniform instead of the glow of super-soldier skin under his fingers. Sometimes, he wakes up, convinced it was just another nightmare, that it will only be a moment until he feels Steve's fingers running through his hair and hears Steve's familiar mutter of,it's okay, shhh, you're okay, it's okay.
Sometimes, instead of sleeping, he sits on the edge of the bed and flexes his fingers in and out of the armor, because maybe if he does it enough, the skin underneath the metal will finally disappear and leave him to be the empty shell he pretends to be, he wishes he could be. The whir of nanites and the flash of gold and red is mindless, hypnotizing, and -- if the bed next to him is empty, easier to fall into than alcohol.