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Sometimes, Tony thinks about what he could cut out of his mind.
He's had Extremis for a week now, and he's still glorying in the possibilities, the idea that now he can be better. He's not held back by his old reflexes, his old reaction times, his goddamn heart.
The thing is, now he can be better than his mistakes.
He's sitting in the tower's common area, lights dimmed, watching the sun go down, watching the city's nighttime lights come up, another paean to technology, and he thinks about what he can delete.
All his memories are organized there. Files and directories on the hard drive of his brain. A laundry list of mistakes. Sunset Bain. Tiberius Stone. The death of the Carnelian ambassador. The smell of the flophouse, burning down around him. The Guardsmen. The death of the Kree Supreme Intelligence. Mentallo. The destruction of the mansion, and all the death that went with it.
Each one is just a file. He could cut them out, permanently. One step closer to perfection. He could be a man who doesn't remember what it's like to have fought with his best friend. He could forget how much he'd like that man to be more than his best friend. He could forget what it's like to throw his life away down a bottle.
There's a familiar, broad-shouldered shape in the doorway. Steve makes his way across the room unerringly, and of all the furniture, he picks Tony's couch. He settles down with a grace that belies his size. Sometimes Tony likes to pretend it means something that Steve wants to be near him.
"Whatcha doing, Shellhead?" Steve asks, almost too casually.
Tony shrugs. "Not much. Thinking."
Steve leans back against the couch cushions. "Hard to tell with you. Could be dangerous," he says, but he's smiling. They're friends. They're good friends. It's a joke.
It occurs to Tony that Steve, too, remembers everything
"Are there ever things you've done that you wish you could forget?" Tony asks.
Steve grimaces in the twilight. "Definitely dangerous," he says, but his lips purse, like he's seriously considering it. "I still have nightmares about the war, you know." His voice is soft. "Saw a lot of ugly things, But-- somehow I don't think that's what you mean, do you?"
"I could make myself better." Tony says. Somehow all of his justifications feel inadequate, when it's Steve. "I-- wouldn't have to remember any of the mistakes."
Steve sighs. "Oh, Tony," he murmurs, and then an arm goes around Tony's shoulders, pulling hum back, until he's resting against Steve, pillowed against him. "Your memories make you who you are. You wouldn't be better. You couldn't be."
"I couldn't?"
"Nope," Steve says. "You're already the best man I know."
Steve's praise is sunshine, ambrosia, the best liquor Tony's ever tasted. If he could, he'd bottle it to keep. He almost can, now; another memory, accessed whenever he wants.
"Hey, Cap?"
"Yeah?
"Could you-- could you say that last part again?"
"Best man I know," Steve repeats, obligingly.
Maybe, Tony tells himself, this will be enough.