my old blog got hacked

Rhett scoffed at the idea at first. There was no way Wabang had enough people to warrant a flower shop. Plus, folks had plenty of land, they could make their damn bouquets if they wanted. 

Apparently people were lazy. It also helped that you sold wine and little knick knacks in addition to floral arrangements. Jars of speciality honey from a local farm, the wine from a nearby vineyard. Dish towels with funny sayings and food related puns. 

It wasn’t a store Rhett would go into, nevertheless pay attention to. But Amy wanted to go and it wasn’t like Perry was going to take her. 

There was a decent sized crowd outside the store, listening to the mayor drone on about how great this was going to be for the town, not just for Wabang but also for the surrounding area. Out of all the places to be on the ‘precipice of an economic boom’, Wabang did not come to Rhett’s mind. 

Before he could roll his eyes anymore, the mayor introduced the owner of the shop, you. 

God, you were beautiful with your bright eyes and dazzling smile as you spoke about how welcoming Wabang had been to you and how helpful when it came to making your dream a reality. Rhett was instantly smittened. 

But he couldn’t just go up and talk to you. For one, you were busy cutting a red ribbon with stupidly giant scissors. 

Second, you were luminous, vivid. Everything he wasn't. 

Rhett knew he didn't offer much, if anything. His life was directionless; all he did was work on the ranch and ride bulls when he could (when his right shoulder wasn't acting up). He would just drag you down. So instead, he settled for the chances he could walk past your shop and peek into the window for a glimpse of you. 

It was fucking pathetic. His family would give him so much shit if they found out. And yet, it was the highlight of his day, seeing you arrange a case, talk to customers. Rhett especially loved it when he caught you giving the floral arrangements to clients. The corners of your eyes would crease and the bridge of your nose scrunched up when you revealed your creation. It also allowed him to linger by the store window, to bask in your warmth for a little bit longer. 

“Do you think they're pretty?” Amy asked one day while they were walking down the street. 

Rhett let out a confused hum, turning his attention from your store window to his niece. 

“The owner. You always look in their window when we pass by,” Amy explained with a giggle. 

“It's just an interesting store,” Rhett grumbled, shoving his hands into his pockets as he began walking again. 

“Then you should go inside!” Amy called out as she ran after him. 

If only it was that easy. 

—----------

Several months later Rhett was now standing in front of your door, rather than your window. 

He should go in. He had zero reason to not go in. Rhett actually required your services. So it wasn't as if he was just going to stroll in there with no plan. Or worse, use Amy as a guise (God, he hated when Perry did that). 

It was just….the thought of being in your presence, speaking to you. Having a conversation. Rhett wasn't much of a talker, never had been. Why would he, when hardly anyone was interested in what he had to say? 

And the truth was, he didn't have to go in. He could figure this out on his own. 

But when would his next chance come along? 

It was the unclear answer that gave him the courage to turn the handle and open the door. 

Your shop felt warm and inviting. One wall was filled with shelves, dedicated to displaying various colorful vases. In the middle, a designated ‘flower bar’ where folks could create their own bouquets. Amongst the store were various house plants and knick knacks. 

“Hi! Can I help you?” A sweet voice caused Rhett to turn around, the air exiting his lungs upon seeing you. 

He could only nod, at a complete loss for words. 

You waited for him, to see if he would expand. When he didn’t, you simply smiled and asked, “What can I do for ya?”

With fumbling hands, Rhett got out the photo from his jacket, “Um…I need help identifying these flowers. They’re the wedding flowers she had and I wanna draw the bouquet as like a….like a gift. Figured it would last longer than getting a bouquet but I uh…I need help identifying them. I wanna look them up so I can get the details right.”

This was going horribly. He should have just bought a magnifying glass off of Amazon or find someone who could digitally restore photos. 

“Do you know where they got married?” You asked, extending your hand out for the photo. 

“Yeah, uh, here in Wabang,” Rhett answered, running a hand up and down the back of his neck, hoping his body was just warm and not turning a bright red. 

“Oh, well that makes it much easier!” Rhett gave you the photo and you motioned for him to follow you to the counter. You got out a book that had a beautiful embossed floral design on the cover.

“I’m glad you know where they got married. It makes it much easier to identify. Also, considering WaBang has hadn’t a floral shop until this year and the nearest one was over an hour away, I’m assuming these are flowers native to Wyoming,” you explained, flipping through the pages. 

You looked up through your lashes, “I can tell you what flowers they are and you can look them up. But am I safe to assume that as an artist, you’d rather have your references in person?”

“Oh uh, I’m not…I’m not an artist,” He mumbled, shaking his head as he shoved his hands into his pockets. A nervous habit he couldn’t seem to break. 

“You’re creating art. Last time I checked, that makes you an artist…..” your voice trailed off, waiting to hear a name. 

“Oh! I’m Rhett. Sorry.” How could he forget to introduce himself? “Yeah, having something I could look at and observe up close would be great.” 

“Well Rhett, I’m more than happy to recreate that bouquet for ya. But I don’t have some of these flowers in stock, so it’ll take some time to order them,” you explained, “Probably like a week or so? If I have your number, I can let you know when they arrive.”

Rhett looked up, eyes wide in disbelief, “You want my number?”

Your nose scrunched up as you nodded, “Yes. I would love to have your number Rhett. Would hate for you to come in and I don’t have what you need.”

Rhett would do it. In fact, he even tried to assure you so. 

“Well, I might need another photo just to ensure I’m accurate. How will I let you know?” You countered. Fuck, you had a great point. 

So Rhett fumbled with getting out his phone, hands shaking as he passed it off to you. 

“I’ll give you my number too if that’s alright. Just so you aren’t wondering who’s texting you.” Your giggle was so endearing, Rhett couldn’t help but smile, couldn’t help but feel his shoulders drop and relax. 

He nodded, a small, slightly lopsided and totally sweet smile, “Yeah, that’s fine.”

You handed Rhett back his phone, “I’ll let you know if I need more info! And when I get them in.”

Rhett nodded, secretly (and seriously) hoping he didn’t look like an idiot with how hard he was smiling. 

“I'll uh, see ya around?” He practically asked. You nodded eagerly, saying your goodbyes as he quickly got out of the store. 

Rhett felt like he could finally breathe again once he was out of your store. That went well, right? He had your number, though it was intended to give updates regarding a gift for his mom. But he also had another chance to see you. Granted, once he was done with this project, he wouldn't have a reason to go into your shop. Maybe for Amy’s birthday, he could get her flowers. 

The vibration of his phone broke Rhett out of his thoughts. It couldn't be….could it? 

His eyes widened when he saw your name attached to the text. He nearly dropped his phone when he read your message. 

He clocks you on a Tuesday at half two in the afternoon.

He's in the armchair by the window — good sightlines, old habit — and you're at the table with a datapad and a posture that has been declining for the better part of an hour. He'd noted it without categorising it at first, the way you note weather. Then you reached for your coffee and your hand had a slight lag to it, and he looked properly.

Glassy eyes. Page 91, first indicator.

Breathing pattern — laboured, nasal. Page 91, third.

The sway. You keep listing two degrees left and correcting before it gets anywhere. Page 92 has a diagram he'd thought was overly literal at the time. It is not overly literal.

He closes the book on his thumb, gets up, and crosses the room.

"You are sick," he says.

Not a question, more like a field assessment.

"A little," you say, which he takes as a confirmation. "Don't worry about it, I can —"

"You should be resting."

"I will. Once I finish this section."

He looks at the section, then at that stubborn look of yours. He consults Mr. Guile.

"Would you like chamomile tea or masala chai?"

You blink. "What?"

"I think the chai is better." He finds the line. "Warmth should feel intentional, not incidental." He looks up. "Chamomile is more incidental."

"Says who?"

"Says Mr. Guile." He says it the way someone says says the manual — simply, as information. He's already turning toward the kitchen. "I'll make both."

"You don't have to make —"

But he's already gone.

You're not entirely sure how it happened.

One moment you're at the table, fully intending to finish the brief. Then there's a blanket around your shoulders. It’s the big fluffy throw from the back of the couch, Wanda's, unmoved for four months. You're on the couch with two mugs are on the coffee table in front of you.

Chamomile on the left. Masala chai on the right, steaming.

"I started the chai first," Bucky says, from the kitchen doorway. "Because it takes longer. So they'd finish at the same time."

You open your mouth, but close it when he disappears again. Something smells like stock.

You look at the mugs. You look at the blanket, which is tucked around you with a thoroughness that suggests it was not casually draped. You look at your hands, which are not holding a datapad. This is already a problem you don't know how to address from inside a throw blanket.

He comes back with a bowl, sets it on the table, sits in the armchair across from you, and then goes still.

You watch him look at the soup, your bundled self in the blanket, and then your arms. Oh. Look at the blanket. He does the geometry.

He reaches for the book — pages to a section and reads it twice, lips moving slightly.

Then he picks up the spoon, fills it, and holds it out with the steady focus of someone who has decided on a course of action and wil be seeing it through.

You stare at him.

"Chapter 6," he says. "Section 4. Helping the cared person manage themselves when independent movement is restricted." A pause. "You can't really get your arms out."

"I could get my arms out."

"You'd lose the warmth." He says it plainly. "Sustained warmth is essential to the recovery environment." The spoon is still extended, patient. "Mr. Guile is pretty clear on this."

You look at the spoon. You open your mouth.

His face does nothing, which you're learning is how Bucky looks when something has gone the way he hoped.

The paracetamol kicks in somewhere around the second bowl.

You'd told Bucky the soup was good.

He'd said I know, not with arrogance, just as a fact — he'd checked the recipe three times.

Then your eyelids had started going. You'd said his arm looked like a good place to put your head, which wasn't the most coherent sentence you'd ever produced. He'd said okay before fully processing it, and now you're out cold against his left shoulder.

He hasn't moved in thirty-seven minutes.

Your head is on the metal arm, cheek against the seam where the plates meet. Before you went under you'd said the coolness was refreshing, which he is still turning over. He looks at the arm the way he sometimes does when he forgets to not look at it — cataloguing. The weight of it, and the horrendous history of it. All the particular cruel uses it's been put to.

And then your breathing evens out completely, and you make a small sound that isn't quite a sigh. Your head gets heavier against the metal, and he looks away.

He picks up the book. Chapter 7: Giving People Space Without Disappearing Entirely.

He reads the same page twice. The third time it goes in. He turns it, careful not to shift his shoulder, and keeps going.

Common room, approximately four minutes later

Sam has a photo. He took it from the doorway and has been studying it on his phone with the quiet reverence of a man holding evidence of something he wasn't sure he'd live to see.

The composition is, objectively, a lot: Bucky Barnes, straight-backed, stone-faced, reading a self-help book with his metal arm operating as a headrest for the one person in this compound who had previously survived every intervention anyone had attempted.

Steve had tried asking, back in February. Straightforward, sincere, the full concerned-captain approach. You'd thanked him and kept working.

Sam had tried the peer angle, the hey I'm also tired let's both take a break angle. Clint had once faked a rolled ankle specifically to redirect your attention and you'd called the medic yourself and filed an incident report.

Natasha had silently placed herbal tea near your workstation three times over two weeks. You'd drunk all of it without ever technically agreeing to anything, and kept working through each cup.

Bucky read a book and made soup before he knew for certain you'd need it. And is now a piece of furniture.

"He started the chai first," Steve says. He'd been in the kitchen. He'd watched the whole tea operation without intervening because he hadn't known what he was watching until it was done. "Because it takes longer. So they'd both be ready at the same time."

Sam looks up from his phone. "He planned the timing."

"He planned the timing."

A beat.

"I've been trying to get them to rest since February," Steve says.

"I know."

"I used the captain voice."

"I know, Steve."

"Bucky used a book."

Sam puts his phone in his pocket. From the common room, the particular quality of silence that means someone is asleep drifts through the doorway.

Natasha hasn't said anything. She's been leaning against the counter for the past six minutes, coffee in hand, watching Steve process this in real time, and she finds it extremely interesting.

"Chapter 6," she says.

Steve turns. "What?"

"That's the chapter. Recognising When Someone Needs Care." A sip of coffee. "He told me about the book last week. He was very enthusiastic about the soup section."

"He highlighted it," Steve says, slowly, because he'd seen the book on Bucky's side table and the pencil marks in the margins.

"He highlighted it," Natasha confirms.

$ tag @twentytomidnight @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @froggibus

“Hm… No, I-” he murmured something soft and unintelligible while pressing his face further into the pillow that cushioned him.

“Yes, yes,” you informed him playfully, nudging your nose against the side of his neck before pulling away. There was an audible sound of discomfort when you relinquished your comfort and moved off him, settling on your haunches.

Bob shifted, lifting his head enough so that his chin was resting on the plush surface of the pillow as he peered over at you with exhaustion. One of his hands pulled out from under the pillow, settling against the mattress to hold his weight. His fingertips were coated in wisps of darkness. It didn’t travel higher than his knuckle, just a steady occupation that he was holding back. You frowned at the sight of it, and then tore your attention back to his face. He was bleary-eyed, blinking slowly, too slowly, as he breathed through his nose and scrunched his face.

You savoured the sight, flickering your eyes across his expression with familiar endearment. “Hey, baby blue,” you shifted closer and laid a comforting kiss upon his cheek, the soft pressure causing him to whine and lean into the affection. “Are you gonna get up for me? Yeah? C’mon.” His eyes closed easily when your hand found its way into his tussled hair, pushing it from his face and scratching your nails gently against his scalp in a soothing motion. “I’m going to get some scissors and cut a couple of inches off.”

“You should cut me open,” Bob murmured, pushing himself up enough to crawl into your embrace. Somehow, it felt so much worse when he wrapped himself around your figure with desperation, as if you were the pillar of security in a disaster. He was so cold.

It caused your breath to lodge itself in your throat, brutishly thrown into the sensation of his state. He was just a man. A pitiful man with the unfortunate circumstance of his mental disorder warping into something undeniably dangerous. It was distressing, not what he could do but what it did to him. That was worrisome. Unbidden, there was a welling of tears touching the waterline of your eyes. You hated this, feeling the very physical evidence of his struggle. “I’ll cut you open and remove everything that pains you. How about that?”

“Hm… I’d like that.”

“Alright,” you pulled away hesitantly, unwrapping his hold with careful guidance. “I want you to sit here, and I will get some scissors, alright?” You asked him, cupping his face gently in your hands and tentatively stroking his cheekbones in circular movements. Already his hair was falling over the back of your hand, as if it was shielding his face. “Let’s get you feeling a little less like a blanket monster, and more like Robert Reynolds.”

“No, no, come back,” he tried reaching out, sighing dramatically when you climbed off the bed and headed out the room. It was quiet when you left, as if his bedroom was being swallowed by something bigger than himself. And perhaps it was. He could see it, crawling silently from the tips of his fingers and drawing wispy tendrils along his wrists before retreating to his knuckles. It didn’t go further than that. Bob had been pushing so hard to keep it at bay, exhausted by the efforts of constant struggle that it forced him to blink back the stinging in his eyes. He felt like an exhausted child in that moment, frustrated by how heavy his limbs had become.

You padded quietly into his bedroom with a towel thrown over one arm, a pair of scissors in one hand, and a spray bottle and comb in the other. You kicked the door shut behind you with the careful push of your foot. Bob was sitting on the edge of the rumpled bed, duvet bunched up and hanging off the edge. He was staring at his spotted socks and taking short, sudden breaths.

“C’mon, let’s sort that mop of yours,” you stepped up to him, throwing the towel and scissors on the bed beside him.

“I’m tired,” he exhaled quietly, leading forward until his forehead was pressed against your abdomen. Bob lifted his arms, wrapping them around your waist to hold you close. He didn’t want to let you go again, not when he needed the closeness and support that you so sweetly provided.

It felt impossible. You never knew the exact thing to do when he was like this, there was no solution to this topple of emotional state. Bob couldn’t be dragged or coaxed out of it, your only option was to be at his side and offer support. It made you feel useless. Nothing made you feel so incapable than when he was like this.

“I know, sweetheart. But you can’t stay in bed for too long when you’re like this. It’s not good for you.” Lifting the bottle, you pressed the trigger and sprayed water into his hair. He flinches at first, jolting and nudging his face against your abdomen. You did this a couple times, making sure it wouldn’t completely drench him but ensured it was coated enough make his hair malleable. It was almost amusing how long his hair had gotten, on the verge of passing his shoulders in length once you got the comb through it a couple times. There were a few knots to untangle, nothing that couldn’t be sorted with ease.

“This would be easier if you weren’t using my stomach as a headrest,” you told him with a gentle tone, tucking some wet strands of his hair back. “No doubt this will be uneven.”

Bob made a faint noise, a ‘hmph’ sound that was more of a vibration against your top than an actual response. The grip around your waist tightened a little, putting a stop to any ideas you had about moving out of his embrace.

Dragging the towel from beside him, you laid it across his shoulders to withhold the possibility of stray hairs getting under his clothes. You knew how itchy that was. Afterwards, there was a steady silence between you, with the occasional grinding of the scissors taking the few inches of hair that hung between your middle and forefinger. There was already a gathered amount of hair clinging to the towel, thick chunks of it.

Sometimes there was a squeeze around your waist, his arms clenching as he breathed and enveloped himself in you. “I’ll be finished in a moment,” you told him, raking your fingers through his hair and checking the length. “And then we can make something for dinner, how’s that?”

He made a ‘hmph’ sound again.

“I was thinking that we could make spaghetti,” you spoke softly, knowing he wouldn’t respond but that didn’t matter. “I don’t think my stomach can survive another mac and cheese. My insides will be stuffed with cheese if we don’t put our feet down.”

“I like mac and cheese.”

“Come on, tilt your head back,” you put the scissors down. He shifted, taking his forehead off your stomach with reluctance. You curled a finger under his chin, applying pressure until he was staring up at you. “There you are.” Your hands traced through his damp hair, leaving paths in their wake. Evidence of your touch. You scrunched the ends, trying to encourage those loose curls to form again. “Feel any better?”

He said nothing, watching you with quiet fondness that was undeniable in its devotion. For a moment, it seemed reality was slipping away. It wasn't the cruel grasp of that other side of him. It was the gentle coaxing of him. Just him. There was no other, no scales that tipped back and forth. Just Bob. His hand settled on your lower back, under your top and gently resting against your skin. Oh, you wet cat, you thought with amusement, smiling at the sight of him. Then he nodded slightly, a barely there motion as he soaked up the attention. “Yeah… thank you.”

“Yeah?” You pressed your lips together, feeling the soft vibration against your mouth when he melted into your touch, humming with contentment.

You blink at him, while holding a tin of sardines. Your hair is dripping onto the counter in slow intervals and you have the expression of someone who has been minding their own business and would like to continue doing so.

"Hey, Steve."

His hand is on the wall, for structural support. "Hey," he says, and his voice comes out completely normal, which is the one victory available to him right now.

"Couldn't sleep?"

"Apparently not." He breathes in through his nose, then out. "You're wet."

"Lake," you say, like that's a full answer. You look back down at your sardines. "About forty minutes out. Good one."

"It's three in the morning."

"Mm." You peel back another sardine. "Water's better at night."

He moves to the kitchen because standing in the doorway like he's been nailed there is worse. He sits at the counter. He folds his hands on the surface and looks at them and thinks, very clearly: I thought you were Gollum.

He does not say this. He is a polite person.

"Does Tony know you leave?" The question comes out more carefully than he means it to. You consider him over the tin.

"Does Tony know a lot of things?"

"That's not a no."

"No," you agree. "It isn't."

You slide off the counter. Silent — feet hitting tile without a sound — and you're already moving toward the hallway, sardine tin in hand, hair leaving a dotted trail on the floor. Small, somehow smaller than you were on the counter.

"Night, Steve. Sorry I scared you."

The sorry lands soft. You're not being arch about it. You mean it and you know you did and you're —

You've already gone. He sits in the dark for a long moment.

Sorry I scared you. Like you were the problem. Like you'd done something wrong by existing in your own kitchen at 3 a.m., eating iron-rich food after a swim, and he's the one who made a face like he was considering his exit options.

He puts his elbows on the counter. Good work, Rogers.

He tells Natasha because this is above his pay grade and Natasha doesn't flinch at anything. Natasha tells Sam because she finds it funny. Sam tells Rhodey because he also finds it funny. Rhodey mentions it to Bruce while Tony is in the lab, because Rhodey loves Tony and also because Rhodey is only human and the story is genuinely very good.

Tony says nothing.

He also doesn't move for about four seconds, which is long for him. Then he picks up his coffee, takes a sip, sets it down, and says "the filtration in the communal pool is chlorine-based, right?" to nobody in particular.

Bruce looks up. "...Yes?"

"Right." Tony picks up a wrench, and places it back down. "Just checking."

FRIDAY logs forty-seven separate searches between 2 a.m. and 6 a.m.

Freshwater mineral composition, natural lake bodies northeast United States.

Acoustic propagation over open water surfaces.

Thermal stratification lake depth summer.

Circadian behaviour patterns aquatic-

She doesn't finish cataloguing. She knows the difference between Tony researching and Tony deciding, and that second thing happened somewhere around search eleven. She files it under the folder she has quietly labelled, with no commentary whatsoever: Ongoing.

The construction takes three weeks. Tony tells Pepper it's a facility upgrade. Pepper looks at the blueprints for approximately four seconds and says "uh huh" in the tone she reserves for when she knows exactly what's happening and has decided it's not her business today.

Happy asks no questions. Rhodes asks one, "is this about—", and Tony says "facility upgrade" and Rhodes nods very slowly and lets it go.

Three weeks later he appears at your door with his hands in his pockets and says "come look at something" and walks off, and you've known him long enough to know that's as close to please as he gets, so you follow him to the elevator, down four floors you've never been on, and the doors open and, wow.

You stop.

The word pool doesn't reach it. Pool is chlorine and lane ropes and that particular echo of a leisure centre. This is — the light comes from under the water, low and warm, and the surface moves like it's breathing. The edges are uneven. Stone, or built to look like it — something uncovered rather than constructed. Along the far wall there are plants, actual living ones, trailing green toward the water.

You look up at the ceiling. Something about the shape of it is wrong in the right way.

"Mineral filtration," Tony says, from behind you and slightly to the left, which is where he stands when he's watching your face and not admitting to it.

"No chlorine. Temperature drops as you go deeper, the gradient's mapped to approximate —" he stops, recalibrates, "— it's cold at the bottom. The lighting replicates overcast conditions, direct UV in artificial spaces causes irritation so the spectrum is adjusted, and the acoustics —" he gestures up at the ceiling, very casual, very this is just an engineering note, "— the geometry accounts for how sound carries over open water. There's a frequency range that—"

You're not listening to the words anymore. You're looking at the water.

It moves the way lake water moves. Not pool water, not the flat mechanical surface of something contained. It moves like there's weather somewhere, like there's a sky above it, like it's connected to something larger than the room it's in.

And it's pulling at you, the way water always pulls, that low persistent want that you've had your whole life, and you've been in this room for forty seconds and you're already eager.

"— recalibrates every eight days, there's a two-hour window in the cycle where you shouldn't be —"

You are already pulling your shirt over your head, making Tony stop talking.

"— in the —" he starts again, and stops again, because you're stepping out of your shoes and the shirt is on the floor and you're reaching for–

"Sorry, keep going," you say, not looking at him, "the eight days thing, what happens in the window?"

"The —" Tony's voice has done something. He clears his throat. "The mineral balance resets. If you're in the water during the recalibration it'll —" you've dropped your jeans, "— it'll —"

You look back at him over your shoulder. He is looking at the ceiling.

Specifically, he is looking at the acoustic geometry of the ceiling with the intense focus of a man reading very important structural data, his jaw set and a blush colour in his face that has absolutely nothing to do with the ambient lighting.

"It'll what?" you ask.

"Irritate," he says, to the ceiling. "Skin. Probably. The compound ratios are off during the cycle. It's in the notes."

"Okay." You turn back to the water. "Thanks."

There is silence. In that silence, Tony Stark — who has stood in front of the United States Senate and lied smoothly about weapons technology, who has talked his way out of at least three international incidents, who once told a god of mischief to his face that he wasn't impressed — is having what can only be described as a brief internal crisis.

Get it together, he tells himself. You are a grown adult. You have a doctorate. Two doctorates. You built this room. You are a professional. They’re just your teammate.

You step to the edge of the pool.

"It's perfect," you say, and your voice has gone soft in a way he doesn't hear often, and he's still looking at the ceiling but he hears it, he always hears you, he has some kind of pathetic you-specific radar that he's been trying to dismantle for eight months with zero success.

You dive in.

The sound of it fills the room exactly the way it would outdoors. The splash and then the quality of the quiet after that particular acoustic openness of water under sky.

He built it to sound like that. He spent four hours on the ceiling geometry alone. Finally, he looks down from the ceiling.

You surface in the deep end, hair slicked back, face tipped up, and you look — you look like you're home, that's the word for it, there's no other word, and something in Tony's chest does something he doesn't have the engineering vocabulary to describe because he's never needed it before, he's never built something and had the person it was for look like that about it.

"Tony."

He makes himself meet your eyes. "Yeah."

"Thank you," you say.

Just that straight, with no angle. His mouth opens, but nothing comes out, which is a new experience.

"The chlorine," he starts, and his voice is admirably level, he's going to be proud of this later, "was a liability. You were leaving the building at three in the morning to swim in unmonitored —"

"I know why you built it," you say.

Quiet and easy. Like you're just saying a true thing.

The room holds the sound of it.

Tony looks at a point approximately four inches left of your face. He is aware that his ears are warm. He is aware that this is visible. He is thirty-nine percent certain FRIDAY is logging this and she absolutely is but she loves him so she won't bring it up unless he asks.

"I'm going to —" he starts.

"It's perfect," you say, and you're looking at him the way nobody looks at him, the way that bypasses every layer he has and goes straight to the part underneath that he doesn't let people near, and your voice is full of something easy and warm and real, "it's exactly — Tony, the ceiling. You did the ceiling for the sound."

"Acoustic geometry is a —"

"You mapped what a lake sounds like." You're almost smiling, just genuinely, uncomplicatedly happy, about something he made for you. "And then you built it."

His face is doing something. He can feel it doing something and he cannot stop it, which is intolerable.

He is a man who has control over his face, it is one of his better features, he has deployed it against foreign dignitaries and congressional committees and it is currently losing a fight with his own feelings like a complete amateur —

"FRIDAY has the specs," he says, and turns toward the elevator, because moving is better than standing here being looked at, "if you want to adjust anything. The door code is your birthday. The cycle resets every eight days, the notes are on the panel, there's a —"

"Tony."

The elevator is right there.

"Thank you," you say again. Softer, like you know exactly what you're doing to him and you're being kind about it. "Really."

Facing forwards, he steps in. "Don't mention it," he says.

The doors close, as he stands very still as the elevator moves up.

FRIDAY, after a respectful four seconds of silence, says: "Your heart rate is-"

"Don't," he says.

She doesn't. He just stares at the elevator doors and thinks, with the clarity of a man who has just had something confirmed that he spent eight months pretending wasn't true: I am in so much trouble.

You float on your back in the deep end, ears below the surface, watching the ceiling curve above you.

He built the acoustic geometry to carry sound like open air. He sourced the mineral compounds specifically. He mapped the thermal gradient of a lake by depth.

Tony did all of that.

And then he stood at the edge of the pool and looked at the ceiling like a teenager while you got changed. You pressed your lips together - you're going to be thinking about for a while.

You already knew you were keeping him. You just hadn't told him yet. 

Soon, you think, watching the light move through the water he built. Soon.

You're on your back in the deep end three days later, ears under, when the door opens.

You know it's Steve before you surface. You know everyone's footsteps. His are the most deliberate in the building.

He stands at the edge with his hands clasped in front of him and the expression he wears when he's decided to do something uncomfortable because it's right and he's going to see it through. Civilian clothes. The posture of a man prepared to give testimony.

You right yourself, treading water. "Steve."

"I owe you an apology," he says. No preamble.

You wait.

"The night in the kitchen." He takes a breath. "I reacted badly. You knew I was scared and you apologised for it, and you shouldn't have. That was the wrong way around."

"It's fine," you say. "I know I'm unsettling at night."

"That's not —" something moves across his face. "You weren't unsettling. I startled myself. There's a difference." He looks at his hands, back up. "I don't want you thinking you frightened me. Not the way you mean."

You look at him for a moment. The water moves.

"Bucky sent you," you say.

Steve's jaw shifts. "Bucky suggested —"

"Steve."

"He strongly recommended," Steve says, with great dignity, "that I —"

"What exactly did he say?"

A pause.

"He said," Steve begins, carefully, "that if I'd made you feel like something to be afraid of, in your own home, after a swim, eating your —" a shorter pause, "— dinner, then I needed to come down here and fix it. And that he'd read the same books I had and I should be —" he stops.

You tilt your head. "He should be what?"

Steve looks like a man completing a sentence he would prefer not to complete. "Ashamed of myself."

The word lands, while you stare at him.

"What books…" you say slowly.

"It's not —"

"Rogers."

"It was three in the morning," he says, and his voice has gone slightly desperate around the edges in that minimal Steve Rogers way that means he's genuinely suffering, "and you were on the counter and you were crouched and your hair was —" he stops, and tries again. "I couldn't see your face yet. And the sounds —"

The sounds, the eating sounds, and the methodical small wet sounds of you eating sardines out of a tin at 3 a.m. on a kitchen counter.

"Steve," you say slowly. "Did you think I was Gollum?"

The silence that follows is the loudest thing that has ever happened in this room, which Tony spent four hours acoustically optimising.

"I thought," Steve says, with the stiff precision of a man selecting every word for minimum further damage, "that you were something I'd read about."

"In The Lord of the Rings."

"I hadn't seen your face yet."

"I was eating sardines."

"The sounds were —"

"Out of a tin, Steve."

"It was dark," he says. He sounds genuinely pained. He is genuinely pained, which is the worst part, there's no performance in it. "It was dark and you were wet and your eyes —" he stops himself closing his mouth, then he opens it again. "Yes. For approximately three seconds. Before I saw it was you."

You look at him standing there at the edge of the pool — hands clasped, jaw set, the most earnest man alive — and you understand completely why Bucky sent him in person. Because Steve would carry I mentally compared my teammate to a cave creature and she apologised to me for it quietly and indefinitely, and Bucky knows him, and Bucky wasn't going to let that happen.

"Okay," you say.

Steve blinks. "Okay?"

"Apology accepted." You drift back toward the deeper end. "For the record — I have been told I'm unsettling in low light. I don't mind."

"You shouldn't have to not mind."

"Steve." You look back at him over your shoulder. "I was crouched on a counter eating fish in the dark with my eyes reflecting the light. You get three seconds."

Something in his face settles. That particular stillness he gets when something wrong has been made right and he can put it down now. He nods once, the small formal nod.

Then he looks at the pool. He really looks at it, for the first time, taking in the stone edges and the light from beneath the water and the plants along the wall and the curve of the ceiling. His face does something quiet.

"Tony built this," he says.

"He did."

"For you."

"For me."

Steve looks at the water moving. At the ceiling, and how the light comes up through it, warm and low.

You can see him putting something together that he's not going to say out loud, and you let him have it, and eventually he looks back at you with the expression of a man who has decided something privately.

"Goodnight," he says.

"Night, Steve."

He goes with the door closed softly.

You float on your back, ears below the surface, ceiling curved just right above you.

Somewhere upstairs Bucky is sitting in the dark saying well? Did you do it? . And Steve is saying yes in the tone of a man who has done his penance and would like to move on.

The water carries everything down here. You close your eyes.

He mapped the acoustics of a lake, you think. Confess, soon.

$ tag @twentytomidnight