#alsimb

___________

“Hey.”

“Hi.”

Steve pauses in the doorway, and Tony looks at him from the bed, propped up against the pillows. He’s back to the way he looked just after the detox; pale and thin and drawn, haunted around the eyes. The seconds tick back and forth between them, like the tapping of fingers on a heavy, impatient hand.

“You’re alive,” Steve says and his voice catches, throat tightening, but Tony’s mouth quirks up, deepening the lines on his face as he gestures with one pajama-clad arm.

“I’m immortal,” he says, and Steve detaches himself from the door frame with a shake of his head, smiling slightly too. Tony is still looking at him as if he might suddenly disappear, and his voice is not quite light enough as he says, “I need to apologize to your mother. That was quite a number I pulled, apparently.”

“It’s fine,” Steve says, then pauses. “You don’t remember?”

“Not really,” Tony says, rubbing at his eyes. “Which is probably better. You know, since my dignity is becoming a rapidly endangered creature.” He waves a hand, fingers wiggling. “Oh look, there it goes. Too small to be seen.”

Steve crosses his arms, not wanting to say anything, but Tony looks at him and stops, arm dropping.

“No?” he says, shrugging one shoulder. “No. Okay.”

“Tony,” Steve says, because if neither of them can laugh then something was inherently wrong, and he doesn’t want to admit to that, not yet. But now Tony is looking at him like he’s waiting for the blade to drop, and it’s real and raw and vulnerable; such a sudden change that Steve realizes it’s not – it’s simply been there all along, waiting for him uncover it.

“Steve,” Tony says, mimicking his tone, and Steve looks away, down at his hands.

“I’ve been talking to Pepper. And Clint. And Natasha.” He says, and even his sentences are unsteady, stumbling their way out of his mouth.

“A formidable trio,” Tony says, but his eyes are wary now, sharp despite how tired he looks.

“Yes,” Steve says, “But I didn’t want to ask them about…I mean, it would have been wrong to –”

“If you’re going to ask,” Tony says, cutting him off. “Then ask.”

Steve stares at him, because it’s a ruthless demand for both of them, but fine, fine. So he takes a breath and says, quite steady now,

“Is it terminal?”

Tony laces his fingers together on top of the sheets; considers Steve for a long moment.

“Yes,” he says finally, and it’s a great big stone of a word, dropped into the ocean. “If they don’t find a cure.”

“SHIELD?” Steve asks.

“Yes.”

“Right. Okay.”

Tony’s yes is still sinking in somewhere, cold and heavy and hard, but the feeling is muted in Steve’s chest like someone’s turned down the volume, because that is – and has always been – his greatest trick, and he’s playing it now; calmly, desperately.

“I have another question,” he says, and Tony smiles again, fleetingly, as if to say of course you do.

“Is this why you’ve been so okay with…us?” Steve asks, gesturing between them, and it hurts; it hurts to ask because what he really means is have you just stayed with me all this time because you don’t want to die alone?

Tony stares at him, searching his face, and Steve waits like he’s done for the last several days, waits for Tony because he’s scared he’ll lose sight of him if they get too far apart.

“Interesting question,” Tony says slowly, and Steve’s fingers curl into his palms at Tony’s blank face and blank voice, devoid of anything that would give him away. They seem to be playing a game now, of who can take the most and care the least. “Is your absolute decency the reason why you’ve been so okay with us?”

“What?” Steve says, and then shakes his head, drawing back. “No, okay, you are not doing that now –”

“Doing what?” Tony asks, and Steve is sure he’s being goaded now but it doesn’t stop him from clenching his jaw against the things he could possibly say in that moment, and was everything a joke to you –

Tony laughs, then, interrupting Steve’s internal tirade, and says,

“See what I mean?” he says. “If I’d been looking for someone to be so okay with, I would’ve found someone who argued less and worshipped me more. Pepper could’ve found me one of those on ebay.” He picks at the sheets, fingers running over material. “But…”

There’s always a but, isn’t there, Steve thinks. Always, always, always.

“I guess having a time limit makes you grow up rather fast,” Tony says. “So I guess it made me…I just – I don’t have time to waste. At all. With you.”

It’s a confession of sorts, but a different one from what Steve had expected. It strange; it doesn’t feel any less like a punch in the gut.

“So,” Tony continues, still not looking at him. “Yes, I’ve been selfish, you’ve been great, und so weiter. And now we’ve got that out of the way…” His fingers curl on the mattress. “You’re free to leave.”

He looks up the, finally; meets Steve’s eyes an assuredness that is like a follow-up slap in the face, and Steve doesn’t even have to ask what? because he’s been heard it before, just another version of this, different person, same situation. He’s not the same person he was back then, but his reaction is the same.

“No,” he says, and Tony’s eyes flick between his, surprised. “You don’t mean that.”

“Yes, I do,” Tony says. “Shit’s happened, things are just – you can’t… you’re not obligated to stay with me –”

“I know,” Steve says. “I know I’m not.”

“Then why –” It’s Tony’s turn to look frustrated now, forehead creasing. “Look, Steve, this isn’t about being good or whatever, it’s about me and how ugly it’s going to get before I die, okay?”

“Not everything is about you, Tony,” Steve says, and he’s not sure if he’s actually trying joke or not. “You’d think I get a say in this, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, but –” Tony looks like he wants to shake Steve, if he had the energy to get out of bed. “This isn’t the movies, okay? Nothing ends up pretty, it probably won’t get better, and a sick person – no, a sick me – is not just something you can handle. No matter what you think now –”

“I don’t think it’s up to you to assume what I can and cannot handle,” Steve says, sharper than he’d intended, and Tony cuts off, looking at him.

“I know what I’m doing,” Steve says, softer. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”

“And how would you know that?” Tony asks, and Steve supposes he’d always known they’d reach this point, the exchange of secrets and pasts uncovered.

“I had someone,” he starts, wishing he’d planned it better; cue cards, maybe. “Someone close to me, for a long time. During our last year of high school, she got lung cancer.”

Tony’s mouth forms a little oh of understanding, but Steve carries on, focusing on Tony’s hands, lying on the sheets.

“Anyway, I was with her through the whole thing, and it’s been like…five years now. She died, I survived, and now I’m here.”

It helps to be brash, sometimes, to stop it from overwhelming him, remembering it all. But Tony just looks at him, catches his eye and says,

“You were in love with her.”

Steve looks at him.

“I was.”

“And you’re willing to do that all over again?”

It’s an honest question; one that Steve’s been asking himself since that night in his mother’s apartment.

“Yes,” he says, and Tony shakes his head, a rueful expression coming across his face.

“Masochist,” he says, and Steve snorts.

“Coming from you,” he says, and Tony smiles because touché.

They breathe again, the sudden rush of air unfreezing the scene, and Steve gestures to the door.

“Anyway, Bruce says I need let you rest, so…yeah.”

“I thought you were staying,” Tony says, and he looks almost frightened for a second.

“I am,” Steve says, smiling at him. “I’ll be right outside. Well. In the lounge. Nosing through all your stuff.”

“You do that,” Tony says, settling back. “JARVIS will kick your ass.”

“JARVIS loves me,” Steve says. “Call me if you need anything.”

Tony closes his eyes, and the blinds close by themselves as Steve leaves the room, which will never not be creepy but also very cool. He wonders what JARVIS has made of their conversation, then realises he’s considering the opinion of an AI.

He does settle down in Tony’s lounge, but he’s been there enough times to know basically everything in it. He opens the bag he’s brought with him and takes out The Fault In Our Stars – Darcy had given it to him at the beginning of the holidays because what else did teachers do apart from read more books? On the inside cover, she’d written JOHN GREEN IS KING IF YOU DON’T LIKE HIS BOOKS WE CAN NO LONGER BE FRIENDS. And now he’s about half-way through, and he actually really likes it. It’s beautiful because it’s true and false in all the right places and he has conceded to the fact that John Green is, indeed, king.

He’s just turned the page when he hears Tony calling for him.

“Steve. Steeeeeve. Steeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeve.”

He rolls his eyes and stands up, book still in hand, and walks back to Tony’s bedroom.

“Yes, Tony?”

“I’m bored,” Tony says, looking at him with baleful eyes.

“You’re supposed to be resting,” Steve says. “Focus on that and you won’t be so bored.”

“Resting is boring,” Tony says, crossing his arms. He’s very small amidst the sheets, a lone figure in a giant double bed. “I am bored.”

“Well, you have to stay in bed,” Steve says. “Orders from up high, okay?”

“Boo,” Tony says, looking ready to pout. “You whore.”

“Hey,” Steve says.

“That was a Mean Girls reference, actually,” Tony says. “Don’t tell me you haven’t – no. Just don’t.” He thumps his head against the pillow and looks up at Steve. “Secondly, stop hovering, I feel bad for making you hover.”

Steve looks around, but there are no chairs in Tony’s room. He looks back at Tony, who smiles, hopefully.

“Fine,” he says, and walks forwards. “Move over.”

“I win!” Tony says, and lifts up the covers so Steve can climb in. Even with the two of them, the bed is massive.

“You’re such a kid,” Steve says as they settle into position; Tony propped up on his many pillows, Steve sitting beside him. Tony’s foot finds Steve’s under the blanket and curls around his ankle.

“I’m reclaiming my childhood,” Tony says, pulling the sheets up to his chin. “Like, the one I never had.”

Steve looks down at him, one hand finding his hair, and Tony shifts closer under the covers and asks,

“What’re you reading?”

Steve shows him the cover.

“Darcy gave it to me.” he says.

“Huh,” Tony says, turning Steve’s hand to read the blurb. “Ironic. The story, I mean.”

“Yeah,” Steve says, smiling a little. “But I’ve never told her about Peggy, so…coincidence.”

“Peggy?” Tony says. “Pretty name.”

“I thought so,” Steve says, and flicks open the book.

“Do you normally read stories about cancer to children?” Tony asks, and Steve looks at him.

“You’re not a normal child,” he says. “Do you want me to start at the beginning?”

“No, just wherever you’re up to,” Tony says, closing his eyes. “If I fall asleep, that is a complement, okay?”

“Okay,” Steve says, and starts reading, one hand still in Tony’s hair.

His voice is calm and familiar, and Tony’s pretty sure he hasn’t heard anything so soothing in a long time. The last thing he hears is Steve saying,

“As he read, I fell in love the way you fall asleep: slowly, and then all at once.”

Yes. Ironic, indeed.

_ _ _

Steve tells Bucky about Tony because…it’s Bucky, and he had been there during Peggy and he had been there in the aftermath; he had always been a part of Steve and he always would be. Tony just shrugs and agrees, and Steve knows he’ll talk to someone about Peggy – Pepper, probably, or Rhodey. Steve thinks that, from what Tony’s told him, Bucky and Rhodey should go out for drinks.

So Steve tells Bucky, and he’s not sure which is worse: the fact that he wants to cry or the fact that he can’t. He can’t even put a name to it – maybe that is the worst thing, having no stats or data to tamp down the fear of the unknown, just the threat of time hanging over them and an agency that won’t give him anything.

Bucky goes all tight-lipped at the mention of SHIELD, and Steve is too tired to push the subject. So he just looks down at his hands until Bucky says,

“Trust Tony Stark to have his own personal illness.”

And Steve laughs, just a little, because yes, that was true. That was Tony, through and through.

_ _ _

Tony thinks that maybe, in a past life, he was probably Jesus. Because for all things he’d done wrong in this one, he’d gotten Steve.

And that counted for a lot.

Bruce tells him he shouldn’t collapse again if he changes his entire lifestyle and takes his medicine like a grown up (or something along those lines – Tony pulls his pillows over his head and whines until Bruce goes away). Later, when he’s civilised enough to talk, Bruce puts a bright array of pills in front of him and stabs him in the neck with a silver cylinder. Tony flails at him, but he’s used to it by now, the shock and flow of the suppressant, pressing through his veins like an iron across a dress shirt (though if this was what it felt like to be ironed, he felt sorry for the shirt).

“And these are all suppressants, I suppose,” he says, poking through the pills. Bruce puts a glass of juice in front of him and Tony starts downing the pills, making a face after each one. “Or rather, you hope they are.”

Bruce sits down opposite him and takes off his glasses, polishing them on the hem of his shirt; a nervous habit, Tony’s seen it enough times.

“Well, you knew from the start,” Bruce says, and Tony nods. Of course he had. “An illness like yours…it’s unique, it really is.”

“Yeah, I feel really special,” Tony says, draining the juice, wishing it was vodka. He wishes everything was vodka. “But does that mean you’ve given up on me?”

“What? No, of course not,” Bruce says, and he looks so sad and offended by the idea that Tony backtracks.

“Hey, I wouldn’t blame you, I was just asking –”

“You’re at the top of Medical’s priority list,” Bruce says. “There’s just all this…” he pauses, putting his glasses back on. “We’re trying everything we can think of, Tony.”

“It’s okay, I believe you,” Tony says, and he does. It’s just a question of whether he’ll stay alive long enough for them to figure it out, and they both know it.

_ _ _

Tony has a love/hate relationship with SHIELD’s security. They hadn’t let him design any of it, which was smart; anything he did near it was heavily restricted and closely monitored. He had to hand it to them; SHIELD was good.

But he was better.

“JARVIS, baby,” he says, and the screens light up all around him, like Christmas decorations. “Let’s do this.”

“SHEILD seems to have updated their encryptions,” JARVIS says, and Tony smiles.

“Of course they have. Challenge accepted.”

It is harder than last time; there’s certainly a lot more cursing and red screens. Tony doesn’t want to move in such a way that gets him detected – he’s had enough of Fury for a lifetime, no matter how short that lifetime may be.

It’s when he gets through to his file in Medical’s database that things get interesting.

“They didn’t show me that,” Tony says, and JARVIS focuses in on the little red file that’s refusing to open. “Run the new decryption program,” Tony says, and sits back as information comes out in bits and pieces. It’s…research, apparently, research they haven’t deigned to tell him about. It’s not concrete enough to scream CURE, but it’s certainly…

“Where the hell are they getting this from?” Tony mutters, fingers pausing over the keys as JARVIS runs up against another barrier.

“There seems to be a separate file on the origins, sir,” JARVIS says. “It links out of Medical.”

“Plus a different encryption? Curiouser and curiouser.”

Tony prods at the new file, but he’s not sure if he wants to risk it quite yet. It’s so heavily protected that even he has to pause, but that does pose the most interesting question of why. Why was the basis of their research so damn important?

“SHIELD has not exactly had a clean record with their processes,” JARVIS says and Tony snorts.

“SHIELD doesn’t have clean anything,” he says. “Sneaky bastards. I’m not sure whether to be flattered or not, having them do this for me.” He pauses, fingers tapping against his chin. Of course, there were always ulterior motives. Fury was hardly doing this out of the goodness of his heart. Oh no. There were multiple reasons why SHIELD could be playing him. He’s dangling by a thread of pills and shots, and nobody knows – or controls it – better than SHIELD.

“There’s an incoming call from Lieutenant Colonel Rhodes, sir,” JARVIS says, and Tony perks up, taking his eyes away from the screen.

“Give me,” he says, and JARVIS connects the call.

“Honey bear!” he says, and Rhodey laughs on the other end.

“Wow, I didn’t get patched through to Pepper this time,” he says, and Tony sits back on the couch, pouting even though Rhodey can’t see him.

“Aw, don’t be like that. I was probably drugged at the time.”

“Sure you were,” Rhodey says. “But yeah, I just wanted to call and say I’m going to be back home next month, okay? So I’ll miss your Gala, unfortunately, but –”

“Gala?” Tony asks, and then smacks himself on the forehead. “Oh my God, that stupid Gala. I totally forgot.”

“Well, Pepper hasn’t,” Rhodey says. “So I’d check in with her if you don’t want to suffer the last minute wrath, okay? Remember last year?”

“Yes, I was a perfect little angel all the way through,” Tony says, and he can almost hear Rhodey rolling his eyes before he says,

“Actually, I hear you’re on a responsible streak. Pepper’s been rather impressed.”

“What? Lies. If I’m losing my reputation with you there is something wrong with the world.”

“Yeah, no, Pepper’s been telling all about it,” Rhodey says, and Tony narrows his eyes at his tone. “And also, I’ve been catching up on the news for the last few months, and you come up quite a bit –”

“Okay, I am leaving this conversation,” Tony says, “Because you are not Rhodey. My Rhodey does not read gossip magazines, this is not normal –”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I get bored,” Rhodey says. “Besides, I’m sure you’re still causing havoc elsewhere. You always are.”

Tony looks around at his screens, all of which are still hacking into SHIELD’s secure files.

“You bet I am,” he says, and to him, it sounds like a promise.

_ _ _

It happens for the first time at the coffee shop, and Steve is completely unprepared when a beautiful blonde woman comes up in to the counter and says,

“Steve Rogers?”

“…yes?” he says, and she smiles, holding out a hand.

“Hi. Christine Everhart, Daily Bugle. Can I ask you a few questions?”

Steve stops, alarm bells going off all over the place, and has the mad urge to say no comment and run away. Isn’t that what you were supposed to do? He glances around for Darcy but she’s somewhere in the kitchens. Damn it, she’d have enough sass to deal with this. He didn’t want to be rude, but he also didn’t want to –

“Hey, Steve.”

A voice comes from behind them, and Steve looks around to find Clint, of all people, poking his head out from the back. He stares, and Clint gestures to him.

“We need to go – it’s an emergency,” he says, and then looks at Christine and says, “Sorry.”

“Oh, but –” she starts, but then Clint all but drags Steve away from the counter and out of the woman’s sight.

“What’s wrong?” Steve asks as soon as they’re out of earshot. “Is Tony okay?”

Clint looks at him, and then laughs.

“Dude, I just said that to save you,” he says. “You weren’t supposed to fall for that too.”

“Oh,” Steve says, and exhales. “Well then. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome, buddy,” Clint says, just as Darcy comes out of one of the storage closets and walks over to them.

“Don’t thank him, thank me,” she says, adjusting her apron. “I’m the one who thought of it. Honestly, she looked she was going to eat you alive.”

“That’s reporters for you,” Clint says, and reaches out to tuck a stray piece of hair behind Darcy’s ear. She smiles at him, and then looks back at Steve, who suddenly has trouble arranging his facial expression. She just raises an eyebrow, cool as anything, before saying,

“Anyway, I’ll go hold down the fort. We’re about to close, anyway. And we’ve got to keep your cover, don’t we, Golden Boy?”

“Thanks,” Steve says, rolling his eyes at her, and she grins before ducking through to the front of the shop.

“Want a lift home?” Clint asks. “Car’s out the back.”

Steve has met both Clint and Natasha a lot more over the past few weeks, but they’re still rather mysterious to him. He has no idea what they do for a living and he’s not sure he wants to, either. Clint, however, is slightly more approachable than Natasha (who still scares Steve unless she’s with Pepper).

Clint drives a non-descript black car that’s not too old and not too new, and smells slightly of pizza when Steve gets.

Something hisses at him from the backseat.

“Why have you got a cat?” Steve asks, pointing to the carry cage. Clint glances at it and chews on his bottom lip as he pulls out into the traffic. A pair of green eyes glares at Steve from behind the wire.

“Um…” Clint says, “Well, long story short, I have a cat, but I can’t keep him.”

“Okay...” Steve says, and then pauses. “You’re not going to just dump it somewhere, are you?”

“No, of course not,” Clint says, looking offended. “What kind of heartless bastard do you think I am?”

“Sorry,” Steve says, “I just thought –”

“Yeah, yeah, all good,” Clint says, waving a hand. “Anyway, I was thinking…” he looks across at Steve. “Darcy says you’re good with animals.”

Steve side-eyes him, because a) Darcy, huh, and b) that was a weird request. Especially coming from a guy like Clint.

“I have a dog,” he says, and Clint smacks the steering wheel in mock-rage.

“Damn it! I was so sure I’d find a loving home this time,” he says, and Steve laughs.

“Well, we could see…I don’t know. Thor’s very friendly, it could go either way.”

“You have a dog named Thor?” Clint says, laughing again. “Oh man, that’s awesome.”

“What’s the cat called?” Steve asks, and Clint shrugs.

“Dunno. He didn’t take kindly to ‘Fluffy’ or ‘Stop Scratching Me’, so…”

“Sounds vicious,” Steve says.

“He just thinks he’s above everyone,” Clint says, sounding fond, and Steve glances back at the cage. Clint drums his fingers against the steering wheel and says suddenly,

“Do you think Tony would want a pet?”

Steve considers it, but all he can imagine is Tony with a robotic kitten.

“I’m not sure,” he says.

“I’m sure he would if you asked him,” Clint says, and Steve looks at him. “What, it’s true. Can you try, please? I really don’t want to put him in a shelter.”

Steve turns and looks at the cat properly for the first time. It’s a sleek, skinny creature with black fur, and it looks at Steve with royal disdain.

“We can bring him up, I guess,” he says, and Clint grins.

_ _ _

Thor goes berserk. Steve tries to shut the door on him, but Thor just bulldozes his way through and jumps up at Clint, who’s got the cage in both arms.

“Maybe this wasn’t a good idea,” Steve says, trying to wrestle Thor away.

“The cat’s doing fine,” Clint says, and it’s true; the cat’s just hunched down in the cage, looking at Thor like dogs are so lame.

“Thor – no. Shush.” Steve gives Thor a hard look, and the dog stops barking and sits down instead, tail thumping against the floor.

“I’m letting the cat out,” Clint says, and opens the cage door before Steve can protest. The cat jumps down in one graceful movement, and Thor lowers his head towards it, tail wagging harder.

The cat gives him a look that says more than any animal should be able to manage, before turning and winding itself around Clint’s legs. Thor, undeterred, noses after it, and it’s kind of funny: such a large dog following such a small cat.

“We should call him Loki,” Clint says, and Steve is mildly surprised that Clint knows that reference.

“Yeah,” he says, as Thor gets too close and Loki swipes at his nose with one paw. “God of Mischief. Tony’s going to love him.”

_ _ _

So that is why Steve finds himself on Tony’s floor with an armful of cat and really no explanation. When Tony opens the door, Loki just glances at him before tucking his head back into Steve’s arm.

“What did I miss?” Tony says, and lets them both in.

Steve pitches the pet idea to Tony over Bruce’s newest tea blend, and lets Loki loose on Tony’s apartment. The cat walks across the coffee table and starts typing gibberish on one of the screens as his paws go over the keyboard.

“Plus, he kind of reminds me of you,” Steve finishes, and Tony looks at Loki and then back at Steve.

“I remind you of a cat?” he says, and Steve laughs.

“Well, sort of,” he says, and then adds, “I think cats sleep more.”

“I’m on a strict sleeping schedule now, thank you very much,” Tony says, but he’s considering it, Steve can tell. He puts on his best sincere face and waits for Tony to give in.

“If,” Tony starts, “and this is a big if, okay, if I keep the cat, will you do me a favour?”

“Depends,” Steve says, carefully. “What is it?”

“Well,” Tony says, and his fingers twist together. “I have this…event coming up, and I was wondering if you – you know – wanted to come with me? Or something?”

“Is this the Gala everyone keeps mentioning?” Steve asks, and Tony nods, looking almost guilty.

“Yeah, it’s kind of this thing I hold every year. It’s not really…for anything, it’s just…the Stark Gala, and I have to go –” he breaks off, shaking his head. “You know what? Just forget it, it was a stupid idea,”

“No it’s not,” Steve says, and his hand comes down over Tony’s on the table. “That’s not a favour, of course I’ll go.”

“You will?” Tony says, and he sounds more disbelieving that ever.

“Sure,” Steve says, even though he doesn’t quite know what he’s agreeing to. “As long as you’re okay to go out.”

Tony makes a face at that.

“Yeah, I’ve been cleared. It’s classy enough to be acceptable, apparently. It’s not like one of my party parties. Also, I have to start showing my face in public before the rumour mill goes off its head. I’m not dead yet.”

Steve’s hand tightens over Tony’s, and Tony looks at him, shrugging.

“Just saying.”

“Yeah, well,” Steve says, taking his hand back. “That’s fine then.”

“It’s kind of…big,” Tony says, looking down at his tea. “So you’re not like…obliged to, or anything.”

“I know,” Steve says, because he’d been crossing lines ever since he’d first met Tony; maybe it was time to cross another. “Actually, funny story, today at the coffee shop…”

He tells Tony about the reporter, who recognises Christine’s name, surprise surprise. Tony gets this look on his face: the one he always has when they bring up his sordid pre-Steve past.

“You slept with her, didn’t you,” Steve says, rolling his eyes, and Tony punches him lightly on the shoulder.

“I was young and stupid, don’t judge me,” he says. “You’re the only person left who doesn’t.”

_ _ _

They end up on the couch – well, one of the couches – and Tony obviously has some sort of point to prove because he all but jumps Steve and pins him against the leather (or at least, he tries). Steve just laughs and adjusts their positions, because there is so much room they might as well be on a bed. The thought of that is…well, Steve tries not to think about that because Tony’s lips are on his neck and he’s not sure if thinking too much is going to help his situation.

Steve is just getting comfortable, with Tony half on top of him, legs entangled, with Tony stops and says,

“Steve.”

“Hm?” he says, hand carding through Tony’s hair.

“Steve, the cat. It’s staring at us.”

Steve turns his head sideways and sees Loki, curled in the corner, watching them with wide green eyes.

“Ignore it,” he says, fingers running along Tony’s spine, but Tony says,

“It’s creepy,” and continues to stare Loki, who stares at back at him, impassive.

“Loki,” Steve says, waving an arm at the cat. “Loki, shoo.”

The cat looks at him, and his expression is clear. I was here first, bitches.

Despite humans being the much more developed life form, the scene ends with neither of them wanting to move, so Steve just waves his hands and laughs, while Tony groans and says,

“I’m being cockblocked by a voyeuristic cat, Steve, get it away –”

_ _ _

And so it goes on. There are times when Steve can forget there is anything wrong with Tony, which is almost worst because then it comes rushing back to him, crashing over his head like a flood. He should be used to it, but it’s the reopening of old wounds, and if anything, it’s worse.

They don’t talk about it; they’re trying to distract themselves like it’s a mutual agreement, and Steve is almost glad to argue. It’s certainly works.

“You can’t just keep giving me things,” he says when the Suits Debacle comes up. “I’m serious, Tony.”

“Well, so am I,” Tony says, throwing his hands in the air. “It’s my money; I can do whatever I want.”

“Yeah, but not like this,” Steve says. “You just – you know I can’t pay you back for all of the stuff you’ve given me.”

“You’re not supposed to pay me back, that’s why it’s called a gift,” Tony says.

“I feel like a kept woman!” Steve says, and Tony stops.

“Okay,” he says, rolling his shoulders. “Okay, fine. I’ll stop giving you...stuff. Some stuff. But after the Gala okay? There’s a dress code, it’s basically a sin not to follow it. Alright?”

 So they go Tony’s tailor, which is a rather surreal experience because Steve has only ever been to a tailor once in his life (which probably explains why Tony has n number of suits and he has one).

They bump into one of Tony’s associates (not surprising but always awkward for Steve) and they’re introduced as Steve gets measured and fitted and generally violated by the assistants.

“Harvey Spector, personal lawyer,” Tony says, and Steve shakes the man’s hand. Harvey looks like a high-class lawyer through and through; a shark with a smooth smile and an already perfect suit.

“Steve Rogers, I presume,” he says, and Steve nods (everybody everywhere seemed to know his name, why even bother) and Harvey smirks.

“You’re going to cause quite a storm, I’m sure,” he says, and Tony clears his throat, pointedly. Harvey looks at him and shrugs.

“Your Gala, your fault,” he says, and laughs at Tony’s expression. Kurt, the tailor, comes through with the samples, and Tony steers Harvey away, talking in low tones.

Steve can hear snatches of their conversation as he gets suited up, the two of them reflected in the mirror. Harvey says something like,

“Is Pepper being a little paranoid?” and Tony shakes his head before saying something too low for Steve to hear, hands gesturing as he does so.

It takes a ridiculous amount of time to fit one suit, and by the end, Harvey is still there, talking to Tony. Finally, Kurt says,

“Okay, you’re done, we’ll get it to you in a couple of days,” and Steve tries not to breathe out too obviously before turning around.

“Bill, please,” Tony says, not looking up, and Steve pulls his jacket back on as Tony signs the cheque and stands up.

“I’ll see you both on Friday,” Harvey says, shaking hands again. “Pleasure meeting you, Steve.”

“Is it strange to be scared?” Steve asks on the ride home. Tony leans across the backseat and kisses him on the cheek.

“Nope,” he says. “Not at all.”

_ _ _

The suit gets made and finalised, and Steve thinks it might have been worth it just to see the look on Tony’s face when he trail-runs it.

“Don’t, oh my God,” Steve says as Tony comes towards him with a glint in his eye. “You’ll wrinkle the suit, you’ll wrinkle the –”

The suit survives. Just. And then Friday rolls around, and it’s for real; Steve does up his cuffs and straightens Tony’s collar and Happy picks them up at the door in full uniform.

“I’m never been to the Plaza Hotel,” Steve says as he does up his seatbelt, and Tony looks at him, surprised.

“It’s not bad,” he says. “We’re in the Ballroom; seats about five hundred. You’ll love it.”

“Wait. I thought this was just dinner?” Steve asks, and his palms are already starting to sweat.

“Well, yeah,” Tony says. “But you dance, don’t you?”

“Uh…” Steve says, pulling at his collar. “A little bit, maybe, but I can’t –”

“You’ll be fine,” Tony says, waving a hand. “I’ll teach you,”

“But –” Steve asks, and it’s a total role reversal to from when he’d taken Tony back to Brooklyn (except Steve mucking up tonight meant a whole lot more than Tony mucking up in front of his mother).

“It’ll be fine. Here, have this,” Tony says, and he opens a compartment in front of the backseat and –

“Tony,” Steve says, as Tony pours him a drink that is definitely not apple juice. “I thought you weren’t supposed to –”

“Hey, I’m not having any,” Tony says, handing him the glass. “Just you. Go on, it’ll help.”

“I don’t think…” Steve says, but takes it anyway. The liquid gleams at him, a rich amber colour, and he drains the glass, letting the alcohol burn his throat.

“Better?” Tony asks, watching him.

“Slightly,” Steve says, and Tony smiles.

They get plenty of warning because there’s a complete jam of overly expensive cars coming up to the Hotel. Steve leans across Tony and stares out of the window, glad for the tinting, and stares at the mass of lights and movement and oh God, the Hotel is massive when you’re right under it –

“We’re up,” Happy says, and stops the car. “Boss, do you want –”

“I’ve got it,” Tony says, one hand on the door. “Oh, and have the Aston waiting, okay? We might need it.”

“Sure thing,” Happy says, and Tony opens the door. Steve slides across the backseat and steps out after him, just as Tony says,

“Jesus, should have brought sunglasses.”

It’s less like stepping into a movie and more like walking into a solid wall of sound and light. Steve freezes for one long, terrifying moment before he feels Tony’s hand on the small of his back. He blinks and walks forward, trying to hear Tony over the roar of movement all around them.

“Just smile,” Tony says into his ear, so close it was probably indecent, “Look where I look, and keep smiling.”

“Who smiles this much?!” Steve says as Tony steers them towards the honest-to-God red carpet. Tony’s answer is lost in the sudden flash of cameras, snapping like insects all around them.

“Mr Stark! Tony! This way, Tony –”

Steve has the mad urge to shout “Manners!” right back at them, but Tony’s taking it all in stride, smiling graciously and posing in a way that doesn’t look like he’s trying. Steve follows him, trying not to squint, trying not to blink, trying not to let his face cramp from smiling –

The reporters come in tightly timed rounds, descending on them in a blur of feral smiles and recording devices, firing questions like well-aimed bullets. Tony makes appropriate comments about the Gala and Stark Industries and the guests and friends and sponsors, and Steve is thankful Pepper’s drilling has finally gotten somewhere. He tries to melt into the background each time, but he can feel the reporters’ eyes raking over him like he’s their next meal. They’re nearly at the stairs when one woman thrusts a microphone into Steve’s face and asks,

“So, Mr Rogers! Tell us, what’s the best thing about Tony?”

Steve glances at Tony, throat dry, and oh God this was going to haunt him forever if he said the wrong –

“Just one thing?” he replies weakly, and everybody laughs like he’s said something hilarious.

“Thanks, darling,” Tony says, hand still on Steve’s back. “Now, haven’t we got a party to start?”

They escape up the steps and through the front doors. Steve has to refrain from sagging against the wall in relief.

“You did pretty well,” Tony says, even as guests start gravitating towards him. “I’m impressed.”

“I need a drink,” Steve says, and Tony laughs. “I need lots of drinks.”

“Don’t worry; we have a strict press-restriction policy inside,” Tony says. “And lots of drinks.”

It takes an agonising half hour just to get through. Steve gathers that Tony not being out in public frequently was a big, big deal, and nobody could pass them without saying hello. The remarks range from concern to downright inappropriate, because everybody also had the inherent need to comment on Steve. He’s not sure whether to be offended or just embarrassed. He watches Tony instead, and it’s fascinating, because this element seems to fit Tony like a second skin. He doesn’t seem entirely normal to Steve, but he’s acting so natural that it doesn’t seem fake, either. It’s as if Tony has stepped onto a stage, and his guests are certainly lapping up his performance.

Finally, finally, they reach the Grand Ballroom. It’s rather (read: very) aptly named. Steve stands at the edge of the room, stunned, before Tony laughs.

“Your face, honestly,” Tony says. “I’ll never get tired of that.”

“I hope not,” Steve says, and Tony grins at him before they’re directed to their table. The seating plan is set spread around a polished expanse of floor, which sits right underneath the biggest chandelier Steve has ever seen. Candles cast a warm glow over the tables, and it’s as if everything is bathed in gold; warm and bright and beautiful. Light dances off jewellery, watches and wine glasses, and Steve wonders just how much wealth is settling down all around them.

He sits before he can feel nauseous.

“Ah, here they are,” Tony says, and Steve looks up to see Pepper making her way towards them, followed closely by Natasha and a mild-looking gentleman Steve recognises as Agent Coulson. He’s only met him briefly, but his SHIELD status immediately put him on the same level as Natasha and Clint (if not higher and therefore scarier).

“How’s it been, Steve?” Pepper asks, and Tony makes an offended noise.

“What about me?” he asks, gesturing. “Nothing? No?”

“The reporters told me you were suspiciously well-behaved,” Pepper says, patting his hand. “Well done.”

Natasha sits down on Tony’s other side, and takes her jacket off. She’s also wearing a suit, finely tailored, and Steve finds himself automatically wondering about weapons. She catches him staring and smiles, raising her eyebrows slightly.

“Is Clint around?” Steve asks, and she nods.

“Somewhere,” she says.

“Probably on a ledge in the ceiling,” Tony says, breaking off his conversation with Pepper. “And then he’ll get bored and start shooting tapioca pearls at people.”

“I’ll get Clint to shoot them at you if you go off script,” Pepper says. “Have you got the notes?”

“What notes?” Tony says. “This is why you’re CEO, Pepp: you do the long speeches, I get the short ones.”

There’s a live band playing beside the dance floor, and the familiar sound of jazz runs smoothly beneath the chatter, just loud enough to be heard. Steve smiles slightly. Jazz reminds him of Peggy; always did and always will. The only difference is that it’s sweeter now; instead of bitter. He’s thankful for that.

At around 5:30, Pepper stands up and walks to the podium in the centre of the room. It’s funny watching Pepper in this element too – she’s less flashy than Tony, but just as commanding. The room falls silent as she taps the microphone, and Pepper smiles, light catching her face. There are still scars on her cheek, but they’re almost invisible with makeup and she has her hair down. Steve glances across at Natasha, and he thinks he can detect a fierce softness to Natasha’s face as she watches Pepper give her speech. On anyone else, the expression would be a contradiction; on Natasha, it just makes Steve smile.

Pepper sums up the successes of Stark Industries over the last year and thanks a lot of famous names and companies, all of whom seem to be in the room. Steve slides slightly lower on his chair, because it’s really starting to sink in, just how out of place he was.

“And now,” Pepper says, wrapping up, “Let me hand over to the man of the hour. Tony Stark, ladies and gentlemen.”

The guests are less restrained when it comes to Tony; cheers break out across the room and Tony receives it with a gracious hand, stepping onto the podium with his trademark grin. Pepper sits back down and mutters something which sounds very much like a prayer.

“Well,” Tony says, leaning against the lectern. “It’s certainly been an interesting year.”

The audience laughs. Pepper narrows her eyes.

“And a lot of you have been asking: how did it change me, exactly? Because apparently, I have changed. A little bit.” Murmurs of agreement from the guests; high-class versions of no shit, Sherlock.

“Well,” Tony continues, “I don’t want to be dramatic –”really, Tony, really “– but I have to say that some things…they will change you. And I’ve had a few of those.” He looks around the room, and Steve catches his eye. There must be something in his expression because Tony’s smile turns slightly more sincere. “And they’ll also teach you that life is too short to be sitting there, listening to me talking.” He pauses again at the laughter. “So really, I just wanted to echo Pepper – actually, can we just have another hand for Pepper, she’s done such a great job, always have, always will –” the audience cheers and Pepper goes a little pink, but she looks pleased, if a little surprised. Tony blows her a kiss and she rolls her eyes, gesturing for him to continue.

“So I just wanted to say thank you again. Thank you for all your contributions, thank you for being here, you all look fabulous. Have a great night!”

The guests burst into applause as Tony steps off the podium, and he stops by several tables to shake hands. Steve glances around and sees Pepper smiling, so it must have gone alright. He can hardly ask over the sound of clapping, and then Tony is back, flopping down in his chair and smiling.

“Okay,” he says, “where’s the food?”

Dinner comes in so many courses Steve loses count, and he has never taken so long to eat one meal. The waitressing staff works with frightening efficiency, but Steve still has the urge to stand up and help with the plates. Instead, he talks to Coulson, who is surprisingly nice, and listens to Tony and Pepper bicker over the entrée. People kept coming over to talk to them and ogle Steve, which made him incredibly self-conscious of his eating. He was still figuring out which forks to use with which course and he hadn’t gone wrong yet, but the effect would be ruined if he dropped roast duckling on his suit.

The windows are dark by the time people start dancing, and their shadows follow them around the room, sliding off the pillars that stretch up to the ceiling. It made the whole affair even more surreal and slightly romantic, but maybe that was just because there was a singer in front of the band and Steve had been drinking with his meal. He wasn’t drunk – not even tipsy – but there was a warm buzz in his chest and he wasn’t so worried anymore. Coulson is dancing with Pepper and Natasha disappeared just after dessert, leaving Tony and Steve alone at the table.

“Well,” Tony says, leaning back in his chair and looking at Steve. “How’s it been so far?”

“Not bad,” Steve says, putting his glass of wine down because Tony’s eyes keep flicking to it. It must be torturous, sitting in this room. Tony’s been perfect for nearly two months, but Steve doesn’t want to push it.

“Everybody loves you,” Tony says. “I might have to get jealous.”

“Going by that philosophy, I would be jealous of people all the time,” Steve says, and Tony laughs.

“Bull,” he says. “People just pretend to love me because I throw good parties.”

They sit in companionable silence for a while, watching the guests, before Tony catches sight of something over Steve’s shoulder and says, “Boo, here come the cavalry,” and Steve sees Natasha coming back towards them, accompanied by Clint, whose suit is not quite up to par. It makes Steve feel a little better, actually, just to see Clint’s no-fucks-given attitude in the middle of such a grand room.

“Want to dance?” Tony says suddenly, and Steve looks back at him.

“You just want to escape,” he says, and Tony pouts.

“Come on, Steve, I was going to teach you anyway, remember?”

Steve deliberates for a moment, and then says,

“Fine,” because obviously his judgement was a little skewed tonight.

They stand, and Tony takes his hand and leads him over into the crowd. The next song begins just as they find their positions, and thank God, it’s slow. Less chance of trampling Tony or other unfortunate incidents. The singer is sitting at the piano, smiling into the microphone as she starts singing.

“I want a little sugar in my bowl,

I want a little sweetness down in my soul,

I could stand some loving, oh so bad,

I feel so funny, I feel so sad…”

“You’re good at this,” Tony says, close to Steve’s ear. “I don’t even need to teach you.”

“We’re literally just standing and swaying, Tony,” Steve says, trying not to laugh. “There’s not much skill in that.”

“You’d be surprised,” Tony says, and his hands are warm on Steve’s shoulders.

Steve can feel people looking at them from the tables, but he can’t bring himself to care anymore. The music is beautiful and Tony is close enough to kiss. He wonders if Tony can see it in his face, because towards the end of the song Tony asks,

“You want to get out of here?”

“Yes,” Steve says, and then backtracks. “I mean, no, if you need to stay –”

“Oh, stop being so selfless,” Tony says as the singer bows and the guests applaud. “I have a car cleared and waiting if you want it.”

“I –” Steve looks around, and then back at Tony. “Are you coming too?”

“Of course,” Tony says. “So?”

“Okay then,” Steve says, unable to hide his smile. “Let’s go.”

_ _ _

Their escape is quicker than Steve thought it would be, mostly because Tony just waves at Natasha and pulls Steve away, while most of the guests are too preoccupied with themselves by this time of the night. Tony strides through several STAFF ONLY doors like he owns the place (he didn’t, Steve’s asked) and then they’re at a back door and out into the open air, the street lights and sounds of Manhattan traffic bringing Steve back down to normal. He can’t tell if he’s sorry or not.

“Oh, baby,” Tony says, and Steve realises he’s talking to the car, which is waiting for them like Cinderella’s silver carriage. “Oh, look at her.”

“Your affection for your cars is vaguely disturbing,” Steve says as they get in. It’s a two-seater Aston Martin that’s come straight out of a James Bond movie, and the interior is just a sleek as the outside. Tony guns the engine and drives like the road is a racetrack.

“Aw, don’t be jealous,” he says, one hand on the steering wheel. “Besides, I’ve seen you with that old bike I restored.”

“Fair enough,” Steve says, and Tony laughs. “I’m not accepting that as a gift though. That is too much.”

“It can be your Christmas present. And New Year’s.” Tony says.

“It’s August,” Steve says.

“So? I’m not a conventional kind of person.”

Steve rolls his eyes. There’s something digging into his back, and he shifts around and finds a folded piece of paper, poking out from the edge of the seat.

“What’s this?” he asks, and Tony glances over.

“Oh, that’s where it went.” The corners of his eyes crease as he smiles. “Rhodey was injured for ages last year, and he read too much and got too civilised and then he started sending me all these quotes and bits of poetry – you probably know half of them anyway.”

Steve unfolds the paper and reads the first one.

I am so clever that sometimes I don’t understand a single word of what I am saying. – Oscar Wilde

“Are they supposed to be aimed at you?” he asks, and Tony laughs again.

“Probably,” he says. Steve reads on.

Being alone never felt right. Sometimes it felt good, but it never felt right. — Charles Bukowski

He scans down the page, and the name Richard Siken jumps out at him.

“Hey, I know Siken,” he says. “I mean, I like his stuff.”

“Oh yeah?” Tony says. “Quote me something?”

“What?”

“You know, add something to the list. Rhodey will be impressed when he gets back.”

“Oh,” Steve says, and racks his brains. He has Siken’s book back in his apartment, but there’s only poem coming to him at right now but it’s kind of…

“It’s not a test,” Tony says. “I’m not going to laugh at you; poetry can be weird as shit.”

“Okay, there’s this – it’s just because we’re in a car, okay. But it’s like…” Steve clears his throat. “You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won’t tell you that he loves you, but he loves you. And you feel like you’ve done something terrible, like robbed a liquor store, or swallowed pills, or shoveled yourself a grave in the dirt, and you’re tired.” He pauses, not looking at Tony, and takes a breath. “You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and you’re trying not to tell him that you love him, and you’re trying to choke down the feeling, and you’re trembling, but he reaches over and he touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist, and you feel your heart taking root in your body, like you’ve discovered something you didn’t even have a name for.”

There’s an odd silence in the car after he finishes; a pregnant pause in which Tony looks at him and Steve feels acutely embarrassed, wanting to take back all his words but very much unable to.

“Well,” Tony says after a little while. “Do I get to touch you now?”

Steve stares at him, and then laughs.

“Eyes on the road, mister,” he says, but what he really means is are you implying that you…

They arrive home, and there’s something stretched taut between, like current through a wire. Steve’s not sure when it appeared, but it’s almost like the pull of a magnet, and he kind of wants to press Tony against the back of the elevator and kiss him like he wanted to at the Gala. He doesn’t, however, because 1) there were cameras and 2) the old lady from the 14th floor gets in the elevator with them. They stand in silence for an agonizing few seconds before they reach Steve’s floor, and the door opens, waiting for him to get out.

“Um,” he says, looking back at Tony, who looks as frustrated as Steve felt. “Thanks. For tonight. I’ll –” he makes an awkward calling gesture and Tony nods, because the old lady is already reaching for the button.

The door closes, and the elevator starts to rise without him yet again, and he’s so sick of the feeling, imagining Tony going up to his apartment alone, he’s so –

“God dammit,” Steve says, and lunges for the stairs.

_ _ _

Tony is ready to throttle the old lady, but Pepper probably wouldn’t appreciate the paperwork, and Tony’s been on such a good streak lately it would be a shame to ruin it now.

He arrives on his floor alone; ready to have a good bitch at JARVIS, and he’s nearly at his door when he hears footsteps sprinting up the stairs.

Tony pauses, and two seconds later Steve bursts through the emergency door and skids to a halt in Tony’s entrance hall. They look at each other: Tony blinking, Steve flushed and out of breath.

“Um.” Tony says, and then that’s as far as he gets because Steve is backing him into the door with a solid thud, back hitting the wood. Steve has his hands in Tony’s hair, protecting his head, but Tony doesn’t really care about getting a concussion at the moment because Steve is kissing him like the world’s about to end, hard and fast and desperate, and it’s all Tony can do to keep his feet under him.

He fumbles with the lock with one hand, because he can’t really call JARVIS, but then the door opens and they tumble inside, stumbling through until they hit the back of the couch.

“Whoa,” Tony says, because he kind of needs to breathe, and the lighting in his apartment is just enough for him to see Steve’s face, lips red and swollen with kisses. “Okay.”

“Yeah,” Steve says, running a hand through his hair. “Um. Sorry. I kind of just…attacked you.”

“What? No,” Tony says, and drags him forward by the front of his shirt. “Don’t be sorry. Just keep going.”

They make it to the bedroom after bumping into two different tables and knocking over a vase, but then they’re there and it doesn’t matter anymore. They’re shedding around ten thousand dollars’ worth of clothing on the floor, but for once, Steve doesn’t seem to care. Tony’s just thankful that he had the foresight to order such a big bed, because surely, surely, this was the only reason to use it now.

_ _ _

Later:

“Hey, Tony?”

“Mm?”

“We should do that again.”

“Steve, how old do you think I – Jesus Christ!”

“What?”

“How did that damn cat get in here?!”

“His name is Loki, Tony. And I don’t know, maybe he was here first.”

“I don’t care what his name is, he’s a creeper and this is my bedroom!”

“Don’t be so dramatic. Look, I’ll go put him outside. And then have a shower.”

“Ooh. Can I come?”

_ _ _

Much later:

“Hey, Steve?”

“Yes?”

“I think I ripped your shirt. By accident.”

“Huh. Damn.”

“I’ll buy you a new one.”

“No you won’t.”

“I’ll buy you a new one on sale.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“You didn’t seem to mind.”

“Come over here and I’ll show you how much I don’t seem to mind –”

_ _ _

Finally:

“You know,” Steve says, not even bothering to turn his head. “That was my first time.”

“Hm?” Tony says next to him, also unwilling to move. “What, with a guy?”

“Well, yeah,” Steve says, yawning. “But I mean…ever.”

“Ever?” Tony asks, and the pauses. “Ever?”

“Don’t sound so shocked,” Steve says, and it’s an effort just to make complete sentences. Tony, however, sits up so fast he bounces the bed.

“Are you fucking me?” he says, looking down at Steve, who glances up at him.

“Not right now, I’m not,” he says, and Tony draws back, mouth dropping.

“My God, Rogers,” he says. “You little – I can’t believe no one has tapped this,” he says, gesturing to Steve. “Like…holy shit. Oh my God. Oh my God I just defiled the All American Virgin. I feel like Satan.”

“Tony,” Steve says, waving a hand at him. “Shut up. And cuddle.”

“So demanding,” Tony says, but he lies back down so Steve can roll closer.

“You like it,” Steve says, and Tony hums.

“I just…” he says, and Steve groans, because talking was really beyond him now. “So you and Peggy never…?”

“Nah,” Steve says, mumbling now. “We would’ve, but…”

“Huh,” Tony says, and then, “Sorry, I have no filters left.”

“You’ve never had filters,” Steve says, but it comes in a jumble of words, and Tony laughs.

“Sleep?” he says, and Steve nods against his neck, one arm coming around to circle Tony’s torso. He’s asleep before Tony can say good night (well, good morning, actually).

The last thing he feels is Tony’s heartbeat, fluttering under his hand.

_________________

Notes:

And here is the song they dance to (and yes, the fic is named after). I've actually had a playlist from Day One that could turn into a ficmix later on...

Secondly, if you haven't read any John Green or Siken, go do so immediately. Seriously.

______________

Tony bans Steve from seeing him for the next week.

Or rather, Bruce bans Steve for him, because apparently Tony is too out of it to even hold a phone. Steve googles his ass off until he has a grasp on what Tony’s going through, and pesters Bruce for updates when the man calls him.

It doesn’t exactly make him feel better.

He wants to ask Bruce about Tony’s illness, too; he wants details and statistics and second opinions, and it’s morbidly familiar to him, the need to know, to be prepared. It uncovers old scars that have lain in his gut for a long time, a dull ache that rises through him when he’s lying awake at night, alone in an oppressively empty darkness, checking his phone for messages that were not going to arrive. Old habits die hard.

He wonders if he’s ever told Tony about Peggy. No, probably not. Better not to.

Steve takes extra shifts at work, sleeps too little and thinks too much, and by the seventh day he is ready to charge up to Tony’s apartment and knock down the door.

He doesn’t, however. Respect for Tony’s wishes prompts an appropriate amount of self-restraint, and that is something he’s rather skilled at.

People excuse his mood because they’re all still wrapped up in the aftermath of the Tower disaster. It’s been confirmed that there were no deaths, and that it wasn’t Tony’s fault, but the reports peter out at further investigations are underway. An explanation comes out a few days after, but it’s nowhere near the truth so Steve doesn’t pay attention. Bucky is busier than ever, and Steve refrains from grilling him about it. He takes Thor out for longer runs instead, or staying at the gym until he tires himself out. It’s a method he’s been using for years, and it doesn’t fail him now.

He’s getting ready to go out again on the eighth day when his cell phone rings. He snatches it up, heart leaping, and the caller ID finally, finally says Tony.

“Hi!” he says, and gets a pained groaning noise in reply. “Tony? Tony, are you okay?”

“Not so loud,” Tony’s voice says, hoarse and raw, but definitely still the best thing Steve has heard in days.

“Sorry,” he says, lowering his voice. Thor circles around his legs, and Steve pats his head absently as he says, “How are you?”

“Shitty,” Tony says, “but better.” He pauses. “I…thanks for not coming to see me.”

“It’s fine,” Steve says, and the stress of the past week lifts slightly. “Can I see you now, though?”

“Now now?” Tony says, and it sounds like he’s smiling. “Sure. Why not. I’ll get Happy for you.”

“What? Why?” Steve asks, looking around for a change of pants. He wasn’t going to visit Tony in running shorts, for God’s sake.

“Oh, I’m not at the apartment,” Tony says, and Steve can hear running water from his end. “I’m out at my house. I’ll get Happy to pick you up, yeah?”

“Okay,” Steve says, and they hang up before Steve can say the only thing he wants to, which was I missed you.

_ _ _

Happy arrives in a car that’s just short of being a limousine, and Steve fidgets in the backseat with jeans that are too old and a shirt that’s too tight. He has a terrible knack for misjudging his size – he’d been a tiny stick of a kid, and still hadn’t gotten used to his growth spurt, even now.

He chats to Happy along the way, which calms his nerves somewhat; the man is invariably easy to talk to, with enough dirt on Tony’s escapades to write a book.

“It’s been pretty quiet lately, though,” Happy says, glancing at Steve in the rearview mirror. “You’re probably the first person to see him after last week.”

Steve wonders how much conversation Happy gets in his job; if he was friends with Tony or just an employee. He hasn’t exactly seen Tony with a multitude of friends. Maybe his staff were his friends. The only other person he’s heard Tony mention regularly was a man called Rhodey, and he was apparently overseas at the moment.

The conversation stops as Stark Mansion comes into view; mainly because Steve was in a middle of a sentence and promptly forgot what he was going to say.

The house looks like it’s risen up out of an architectural magazine – it's pretty much like a castle, except classier; old school, but sprawling comfortably into this century. The grounds spread out as far as the eye can see, the grass cut so cleanly it looks like velvet, and a driveway unwinds like a red carpet, right up to the front steps.

“Something, isn’t it?” Happy says, and Steve can only nod as they pass through great iron gates, sculpted high above their heads, and accelerate smoothly up to the house.

“Does Tony live here all by himself?” Steve asks, almost unwilling to get out. Happy parks and opens the door for him, which feels strange, and says,

“Sometimes. He mostly stays in the city, but it’s good to rest out here.”

Must be lonely, Steve goes to say, but then they're on the steps and JARVIS’ voice says

“Good afternoon, gentlemen. Mr Stark will call for you later, Hogan.”

“Sweet,” Happy says, and turns to go, smiling at Steve as he passes. “Have fun.”

It seems rude, to drive someone all this way only to be dismissed, but then again, that was Happy’s job. Steve was never going to get used to this.

“Please come in, sir,” JARVIS says, and Steve pushes open the door, wiping his feet before stepping inside.

He’s greeted with a massive entrance hall, complete with a sweeping staircase and chandelier, hanging heavy above his head. There’s a sudden stillness to the house, silent and empty, that sends shivers down his spine. He’s almost scared to breathe in case it disrupts the air.

“This way, sir,” JARVIS says, voice at a tastefully low volume, and he directs Steve down one of the hallways and through to the kitchen. He glances at each passing room, and they are all equally lavish in the same, empty way. Some are obviously under construction, with white sheets covering the furniture. It reminds Steve of a morgue for one horrible moment, and then he can’t get rid of the image. He pulls his jacket tighter around himself and tries not to scuff his shoes on the carpet.

Tony is standing in the kitchen, nursing a mug in his hands, looking out of the window. Steve knocks gently on the door, and Tony starts, looking around.

“Hey,” he says, voice short. “Thanks for coming around.”

“I wanted to see you,” Steve says, and the distance between them is almost palpable, his words falling into the gap. Tony looks wary; his shoulders are hunched and his eyes are usually wide, dark against his pale skin. His fingers are locked tightly around the cup – any tighter and it just might shatter. Steve walks forwards and glances out of the window.

“Nice house,” he says, and Tony shrugs. He’s in an AC/DC t-shirt with a blazer jacket over the top, dark pants low on his hips. He smells like soap and cologne, and Steve realizes the main difference is that for once he is completely clean-shaven. He still looks slightly ill and incredibly tired, but at least he was well enough to make an effort.

“Makes me look like a pig,” he says, and Steve has to smile at that, trying not to nod.

“Well, it is very big for one person,” he says, and Tony spreads out his arms, almost spilling whatever he’s drinking.

“I’m a very big person, in case you haven’t noticed,” he says, and Steve mutters,

“I think you mean very big ego,” just loud enough for Tony to hear, and they both laugh. It’s the brightest sound Steve has heard in the house, and it makes it a little easier to talk amidst the polished tiles and pristine surfaces. He’d thought Tony’s apartment was fancy – but at least it was messy and lived in, not like here. Not like this.

“Want some tea?” Tony asks, putting his mug down. “I’d say no if I were you, it tastes like piss.”

“Healthy piss though, right?” Steve says, and Tony pulls a face at him.

“I’m not even allowed coffee,” Tony says, and Steve makes a sympathetic sound. “Coffee, Steve, coffee. How cruel is that?”

“Very cruel,” Steve says, standing beside him now. “But you’re surviving, right?”

“Somehow,” Tony says, and he really is quite a bit shorter than Steve; it’s kind of adorable, actually. “But barely. Barely. It’s a miracle I even woke up this morning.”

“Well I’m very glad you did,” Steve says, and Tony goes to brush it off; Steve can almost predict his retort, so he cuts Tony off by leaning forwards and kissing him.

Tony makes a surprised sort of mmph before kissing him back, thank God. There’s still a little figure in Steve’s mind waving an INNAPPROPRIATE TIMING sign, but it’s not too hard to ignore until Steve puts a hand down to steady himself and knocks over Tony’s mug.

They jump apart, and Steve looks around for something to mop up the rapidly spilling tea.

“Sorry,” he says, much more flustered than he should be. “I’ll get it –”

“Forget it about that,” Tony says, and grabs Steve before he can protest; kisses him again.

It’s very distracting. The tea stays uncleaned.

_ _ _

It’s kind of strange that they don’t discuss what’s going on between them, considering how much time they spend talking. They’re not avoiding it as such; they’re just simply going along with it, in a rush of mutual discoveries that melt into whatever they had before. They haven’t exactly blended – they’re too different for that, and God knows they argue about it – but they’ve certainly learnt to fit.

And so life goes on, in the funny way that it does; things are back to a normal that’s not normal at all, but it carries on regardless, and they carry along with it.

Reconstruction has started on Stark Tower: New York City seems to have recovered from the shock, and the Tower is no longer an open wound above their heads; it’s a healing one. Tony stays at his mansion for a good while longer; Happy ends up taxiing Steve around a lot, but he just smiles when Steve apologizes.

“It’s my job,” he says, waving a hand. “Plus, it’s good for Tony. Otherwise we’d have to deal with him being a sober maudlin and I don’t get paid enough for that.”

“Oh, he’s not that bad,” Steve says, and Happy laughs.

“No,” he says, “not with you.”

Tony isn’t completely back to normal, and okay, maybe Steve just has a high tolerance level, but he really doesn’t find it too bad, all things considered. It may be because he now has the freedom to shut Tony up by kissing him but hey, whatever worked.  And kissing certainly worked.

Steve explores the mansion like he’s discovering Narnia, and drags Tony outside to tour the grounds. It’s the same everywhere: beautiful, but empty. Tony tells him he was a child here, and Steve tries to imagine a tiny Tony running around the endless hallways or sliding down the banisters, and can’t really manage it.

As July rolls on, Tony starts getting fidgety in the mansion and comes out to the city instead. He gets a memo from SHIELD about avoiding public areas, but that’s harder than it sounds. Steve becomes increasingly aware of the people around them as they cross the street, and he keeps looking over his shoulder until Tony pokes him in the ribs and tells him to stop being so paranoid. (Really? Paranoid, him? Steve thinks it’s rather justified).

They bicker about whether Central Park is safe enough to visit, and by the time they’re done arguing they’ve reached the grass. Steve rolls his eyes as Tony grins and buys them both hotdogs. The stall owner stares after them as they walk off, and Steve is incredibly aware of how they must look; their heads tilted towards each other, shoulders brushing, even walking in sync for God’s sake –

He would have become all paranoid again if Tony didn’t constantly take up so much of his attention; he’s forgotten about it by the time they find a bench and sit down.

They stop talking in order to eat, and Steve glances and Tony and finds Tony glancing back at him; Steve is trying not to cause a mess, while Tony is simply devouring the hotdog with no attempt at decency whatsoever.

They both laugh and glance away again, looking out over the park. It’s a brilliant summer’s day; the weather is perfect, everyone is smiling, and it feels like they’re sitting in a movie.

Steve is happy.

It’s an interesting emotion to be conscious of purely because he wasn’t usually conscious of it. Most people weren’t – you only noticed it when you weren’t happy anymore; when it was missing.

But he was conscious of it now. And when he looks at Tony, he is also quite conscious of why.

_ _ _

Steve is at Stark Mansion one Sunday when he walks in on Pepper and Natasha, together in one of the downstairs living rooms. It takes a moment for his brain to realize Natasha is sitting in Pepper’s lap and consequently straddling her against the couch before he does a great double-take of TONY NEVER TOLD ME ABOUT THIS.

“Steve, hi!” Pepper says before he can escape, and Natasha turns to smile at him and Steve realizes that she’s actually applying a bandage to Pepper’s cheek. Oh.

“Hi,” he says, putting his hands in his pockets. “Is…Tony home?”

“I’ll get him,” Natasha says, sliding off Pepper’s lap and standing up. “He’s been in his workshop for hours.”

“Again?” Steve says, and Pepper nods, rolling her eyes.

“He’s been procrastinating on a project and now deadlines are looming,” she says as Natasha leaves. “Anyway. That’s nothing new, as I’m sure you’ve realized. How’ve you been?”

“Fine, thanks,” Steve says, sitting down opposite her. “I’m glad to see you’re okay.”

“Thanks,” Pepper says, and her hand comes up to touch her face. There are scars on her forehead, healing but still visible, and the bandage covers her entire right cheek, right down to her jaw. “I was lucky.” She shifts, and her hair falls forward to cover some of her face. “Thank you for being with Tony over…” she gestures with one hand, “everything. I was pretty out of it for a while, and he never listens to SHIELD, it’s a nightmare.”

“I’m not sure if he listens to me, either,” Steve says, but Pepper shakes her head, smiling.

“He does. He might pretend he doesn’t, but…” she sits back, stretching out her legs. “Actually, I’ve been meaning to talk to you – has Tony warned you about the press?”

“Vaguely?” Steve says, shrugging. “We’ve been out quite a bit. Nothing’s come up, so…I don’t know. Tony doesn’t seem to care.”

“He wouldn’t,” Pepper mutters, and then looks back at Steve with a glint in her eye, a sharp edge running under her concern. “But you probably will, when it starts. I feel like they’re just waiting for the earliest appropriate time…but if it’s too much, just call me, okay?”

_ _ _

Pepper’s prediction comes true roughly two days later, when Darcy marches up to Steve as they’re closing up shop and smacks a newspaper down on the table he’s cleaning.

“Care to explain?” she says, hands on her hips, and Steve looks down at the front page and reads GOLDEN BOY TAMES TONY STARK?

“What?!” he says, moving to pick it up, but Darcy snatches it away and dances out of his reach, running a finger down the page. “It seems that Stark Tower isn’t the only thing recovering well from the Fourth of July disaster,” she quotes at him with her eyebrows raised. “Tony Stark himself has been keeping the company of a certain Steve Rogers –”

“How did they get my name?” Steve says, but Darcy carries on, speaking over him.

“– for the past two months. The couple has been spotted frequently around Manhattan this month. Catching them Washington Square Park last week, the pair looked incredibly happy and Tony only had eyes for his new beau.”

“New what? Who wrote that –”

“Considering Stark’s infamous playboy reputation, we could all be extremely skeptical of Mr Rogers. However, Tony has not been seen with any other person outside of business for the past few weeks, and that in itself must be some kind of record.”

“That’s rude,” Steve says, giving up on cleaning and sitting down.

“Ooh, not as rude as mentioning Virginia ‘Pepper’ Potts and the power couple they were before,” Darcy says, skimming through the rest of the article. “Oh wait, no, they’re talking about Tony being a serial monogamist – is that even the real definition of that term, I’m pretty sure it’s not –”

“A serial what?”

“Monogamist. Means he’s completely faithful during a relationship, despite his usual promiscuity – gee, that’s a nice way of putting it.”

“Are you done?” Steve asks.

“So,” Darcy says, reaching the end of the page. “will Tony Stark be taking an official date to his gala next month?” She flips the paper over; fixes Steve with a hard stare. “So? Will he?”

“What gala?” Steve asks, and Darcy sighs, sitting down opposite him.

“Don’t avoid the question, Steve,” she says. “Personally, I’m a little insulted that you didn’t tell me you were dating Tony Stark! I mean, come on. Really?”

“We’re not –” Steve starts, but then he pauses. Maybe dating was the right word for it. Huh.

“Boyfriends? Lovers?” Darcy says, and Steve groans, dropping his head into his hands.

“Don’t use those words,” he says, and fends Darcy off as she prods at his arm. “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before, but…” he gestures to the paper. “As you can see, things get out of hand.”

“Guess so,” Darcy says. “I mean, okay, you didn’t have to tell me. But wow. Wow. All that time I spent worrying about you being alone, you were actually shacking up with Tony Stark. That is amazing. I would kill to work at Stark Industries. I would sweep the floor and be happy.”

“You’d better start sweeping the floor here so we can leave,” Steve says, standing up and chucking the broom at her. “I’ll finish the tables.”

“Nice to see Tony hasn’t changed you,” Darcy mutters, still sitting. “Responsible as ever, you stick-in-the-mud.”

“I’m being a good role model,” Steve says, ruffling her hair as he passes. “God knows you could do with one.”

“Says the guy dating Tony playboy Stark.”

“Oh, please,” Steve says, turning around. “Don’t get me started on your boyfriends.”

Darcy grins at him, wicked as anything, and they leave it at that.

_ _ _

“We were not canoodling in that restaurant, oh my God –”

“Well, we were playing footsies under the table, you have to admit –”

“My legs were too long!”

“And I just like encroaching on your personal space, but that’s not the point,” Tony says, waving a hand and minimizing the screen. “That was the most ridiculous one I could find; thought you’d enjoy it.”

“Yes, I am totally enjoying this,” Steve says, still standing in front of the couch, arms crossed. Tony comes up behind him and puts his hands on Steve’s shoulders, massaging the tension out of his muscles. Steve leans back into him, because good God, Tony was good at that.

“Is it seriously annoying you?” he says, and his breath tickles the back of Steve’s neck. “Because I can get Pepper to –”

“No, it’s fine,” Steve says, with his eyes closed. “It’s not that bad. And I don’t want to cause Pepper any trouble.”

“Oh, she’s good with trouble,” Tony says. “She is the queen of sorting out the press.”

“Yes, I’ve read all about it. They just can’t stop mentioning her, can they?” Steve says, and Tony laughs, chest pressed against Steve’s back.

“Jealous, Rogers?” he asks, right next to Steve’s ear, and Steve shivers involuntarily, playing it off by shaking his head.

“I’m pretty sure Natasha’s got that covered,” he says, and Tony says,

“Now that I do call a power couple,” before pressing a kiss against Steve’s jaw, and then down against his neck. His hands have just found Steve’s waist when Steve’s phone rings.

“Sorry,” Steve says, pulling it out of his pocket. Tony makes a grumbling sound against the crook of Steve’s neck, letting his head fall onto Steve’s shoulder. Steve smiles and kisses the side of his head before answering the call.

“Hello?”

“Stevie?”

Steve almost drops the phone as he jerks away from Tony, who pouts and doesn’t let go. Steve bats at his hands, steadying the phone before saying,

“Mom? Hi! How are you?”

“Confused, mostly,” Sarah Rogers says, voice dry. “Because I was down at the supermarket this morning, and I happened to pass all the magazines –”

“Mom, no – it’s not like – I can explain,” Steve says, a hand over his eyes. Tony’s hovering around him, trying to listen in.

“I’d hope so,” Sarah says, “since all my friends are ringing me up and I have no idea what’s going on. I realize you’re an adult now, but do you think you could let your old mother in on the gossip before the tabloids start printing?”

“I’m sorry,” Steve says, “It’s just…all out of proportion, and I’ve been really busy. I didn’t think it was such a big deal.”

“I’m always a big deal,” Tony interrupts, and Sarah sucks in her breath.

“You’re with him now, aren’t you?” she says, and Steve glares at Tony as he replies,

“Maybe?”

“Steve!” she says, and for an instant he feels like a five-year-old again. “That’s it. I’m meeting him.”

Steve mouths she wants to meet you at Tony, whose eyebrows rise dramatically at the notion and he mouths back what kind of meeting?

“What kind of meeting?” Steve asks, and his mother sighs.

“Dinner? Like normal people?”

Steve pauses, turning away from Tony and lowering his voice.

“Okay, now that really is blowing it out of proportion,” he says. “It’s not like we’re…”

“It’s just dinner,” Sarah says, innocently frank. “I just want to meet the guy my son has been hanging out with so much, that’s all.”

“Really now,” Steve says, and Sarah laughs.

“Really,” she says. “Besides, I haven’t seen you in too long. You still like my cooking, right?”

And that, really, is an offer Steve can’t refuse.

_ _ _

“Okay,” Tony says. “Any family quirks? Things I shouldn’t mention? Should I take notes?”

They’re in the car alone for once – Tony had said something about not bothering Happy, and Steve is kind of grateful that they’re not going to show up in Brooklyn with a chauffeur.  Besides, he gets to drive, because Tony knows he’s in love with the car.

“I don’t think so,” he says as they cross the bridge. “We’re not exactly complicated.”

“Yeah, but help me out here,” Tony says, tapping the dashboard. “I’ve never really done this whole meet the parents thing.”

Steve glances across at him. He’d been slightly surprised when Tony had agreed to come, just like that. It’s not like either of them were making a big deal out of it, but it still…meant something.

“Well…” he says, trying to think. “There’s just my mom and me. No siblings. Dad died when I was little.”

“Okay,” Tony says, and his hand squeezes Steve’s arm briefly before letting go. “So your mother, then.”

“She’s a very…” Steve tries to find the right words. “She’s not a fancy sort of person. Doesn’t like anything flashy.”

He’s trying to say we were very, very poor and she’s never gotten over that, even now, but he’s not sure how to explain it because Tony is a billionaire. He doesn’t understand why Steve uses coupons at the grocery store and has stitches up old clothes, and it’s not his fault; it’s not anybody’s fault, but it just makes them different.

“Jesus, she’s going to hate me then,” Tony says, and Steve smiles.

“No she’s not,” he says. “Just try to be appropriate, okay? No sex jokes at the dinner table,”

“Damn it,” Tony says. “That’s what she said was going to be my opening line.”

_ _ _

Steve leads Tony up the stairs of the old brownstone with a growing sense of apprehension, and by the time they reach the door his stomach is doing somersaults.

“This is worse than a business meeting,” Tony mutters, running a hand through his hair. Steve reaches out and shapes it into obedience. “I mean, I’m glad to meet the woman who raised you, but –”

The door opens, and light falls into the hallway, bringing with it the delicious smell of roast chicken.

“Steve!”

Sarah Rogers is even shorter than Tony, but she still manages to cast a commanding presence with that single word. Steve reaches down to hug her, and their hair mingles, the same shade of blonde.

“And you must be Tony,” she says, turning to him. “Can I call you that?”

“Can I call you Sarah?” Tony asks, and Steve’s mother laughs.

“Fair deal,” she says, and lets them in.

Steve hadn’t grown up here; Sarah had moved after he’d gone to college, but everything about it still feels like home to him because it was so very much his mother’s work.

Steve gives Tony a quick tour of the apartment – there really isn’t that much to see, but Tony seems fascinated by every little thing – and leaves him poking around the living room so he can join his mother in the kitchen.

“Lemon lime and bitters?” Sarah asks, gesturing to the bottle they’d brought.

“Tony doesn’t drink anymore,” Steve says, getting out plates and cutlery.

“Impressive,” Sarah says, moving to the pantry.

Steve hesitates as she passes him, and then catches her arm.

“Mom, I just – can you not mention Peggy?” he asks, and Sarah looks up at him, eyes sharp.

“Okay,” she says, and they move on. They don’t need to say much to understand each other.

Tony wanders through and tries to help, but Steve has seen Tony in kitchens before and it’s never ended particularly well. He steers Tony safely into the dining room instead.

“Nice baby pictures,” Tony says as they sit down, and Steve looks at his mother. Sarah just shrugs and smiles.

“What else am I supposed to keep on my mantelpiece?” she says, and Tony laughs. “And it’s true; you were an adorable child, Stevie.”

“Can I call you Stevie?” Tony asks, grinning at Steve, who just raises his eyebrows in a clear don’t you dare.

“You should be seen him in high school,” Sarah says as they begin to eat. “Tiny boy, nothing like he is now.”

“Mom,” Steve says, but Tony just laughs and says,

“I can’t imagine that.”

“I have photos –” Sarah says, and then cuts off at Steve’s expression. She smiles at him before saying, “I’ll be sure to sneak them onto the mantelpiece for you, Tony.”

Conversation is thankfully easy; Tony is, if anything, a smooth talker, and he’s also on his best behavior. Steve appreciates the effort; he’s personally resigned himself to an evening of embarrassment, but he can deal with it as long as Tony and his mother are getting along.

Sarah asks Tony about his job; it’s a no-nonsense, I don’t care if you’re famous I want to hear it from you sort of question, and Steve can see Tony’s surprise melting into gratitude. He complements her cooking and the apartment; Steve remembers what he said about homely not being a buyable interior design.

Steve is so focused dinner that he only notices something’s wrong when his mother leaves to get dessert.

Tony lets out a deep breath, which could be excused as oh, thank God, we survived the main course if he wasn’t so pale under the light. His hands clench on the table top, and when he breaths in again it’s unsteady.

“Tony?” Steve says, leaning forwards. “Tony, are you okay?”

“…sure,” Tony says, and one of his hands go down to pat at his pocket. “I just – need the bathroom. I’ll be right back. Start without me.”

“Are you sure –” Steve says, but Tony just smiles at him and stands up, walking out of the dining room.

Sarah comes back a moment later, and glances at Steve.

“Bathroom,” Steve says, and she nods, setting down the apple pie; Steve’s favourite.

They sit in silence for a moment, just the two of them, and then Sarah reaches out and pats Steve’s hand.

“You’re happy, aren’t you?” she says, and he nods. Sarah squeezes his hand. “Well then, so am I. I trust you’re belonging with and not to, right?”

“Yes, mom,” Steve says, rolling his eyes. It’s a philosophy she’s ingrained in him since he was a child – you didn’t belong to someone, you belonged with them; didn't complete you because you were already whole to start with. “But we’re not... I’ve only known him for two months.”

“A lot can happen in two months,” Sarah says. “Speaking of which, you should really catch me up. I mean, God, the Tower – I still can’t believe it.”

They talk for a while before Sarah pauses and asks,

“Is Tony alright?”

“I’ll go check,” Steve says, and he stands up and heads down the hall. He knocks on the bathroom door, biting his lip, and says,

“Tony? You okay?”

He hears running water, and then the click of the lock before the door opens.

“Oh my God –”

Steve grabs Tony under both arms, steadying him as Tony tries to walk forwards. He’d looked slightly ill at the dinner table; it was nothing compared to how he looks now. His skin is sickeningly white, veins snaking up his neck, frighteningly dark. His hands cling onto Steve with almost bruising force, and when he looks up at him his eyes are wide, pupils dilated.

“Steve,” he says, and his voice is strained, each word forcing their way out of his throat. “I need to leave. Now.”

“You need the hospital,” Steve says, unable to look away as he shouts for Sarah. “Mom? Mom, call an ambulance!”

“No –” Tony fumbles in his pockets and pulls out his own phone, knees giving out under him as he tries to walk. “SHIELD –”

Sarah comes running into the hallway, phone in hand, but Steve gestures at her to stop and takes Tony’s instead – Tony’s hands are shaking so badly he can hardly use his fingers.

Steve activates the phone and hits the call button; Bruce picks up, and Steve starts talking. There’s a white blanket of fear hovering above him, but he can hear himself, somehow calm, listing their details and answering Bruce’s questions as he calls in SHIELD. Steve jams the phone between his ear and shoulder and lowers Tony to the floor, a detached voice in his mind saying recovery position: move nearest leg ninety degrees from the body, lock position –

He’s aware of his mother beside him, her hand on Tony’s shoulder, and they look at each other as Steve ends the call, and he identifies the sense of déjà vu, cold and heavy between them.

Tony has gone rigidly still, one hand still clutching onto Steve, who bends down and tries to speak to him, but when he sees Tony’s face, any calm he possessed deserts him. Tony’s jaw is clenched, eyes fixed on Steve’s face, and the two of them stay locked together until SHIELD arrives, banging on the door.

There are a slew of familiar faces; Steve finds Natasha pulling him back as Clint lets the medics through, and they don’t let him go with Tony as they carry him out.

“Sorry, Steve” Clint says. Natasha still has a restraining hand on Steve’s arm. “We’ll be in touch.”

“Thank you for your co-operation,” she adds, and then they’re both gone, door closing with a sharp snap.

Steve stares after them, the sudden silence echoing inside his head until his mother lets out a small, shuddering gasp and presses her hand to her mouth.

“Mom, hey –” Steve reaches over and pulls her against him. Her head only comes up to his shoulder, and she’s smaller than he remembers.

“What has he got?” she asks, and Steve is infinitely grateful that she doesn’t ask what’s wrong with him?

“I’m not sure,” he says, and his voice is hoarse. “But I didn’t think….”

His mother looks up at him, and her jaw is set, but her eyes are shining.

“Steve,” she says, “is it – does he have…something like Peggy?”

Steve stares at her, thinking even though he doesn't want to, and her words sink into his skin and settles in his chest, cold against his heart.

“Maybe,” he says, because of course, of course that was always a possibility. His mother’s face crumples, but she doesn’t cry; she never cries. She just wraps her arms around Steve and hugs him back, and he can just make out her words as she says,

“I’m sorry, Steve. I’m so, so sorry.”

_____________

Notes:

The 'belonging with, not to' concept is beautifully explained by this .

We are gearing up towards the business end of several arcs, where things will begin to come together. Hopefully. However, hiatus may crop up earlier and/or be longer than I thought because reasons...but I'll let you know via tumblr if things get really bad.

Thanks as always to Tegan, my beta and live-saver (although any typing errors are my own. I've started noticing them all over the place...sorry!)

__________________________

"Let me through, I'm Tony Stark, let me through –"

Tony shoves his way through the mass of uniforms, Steve close behind him. The building is still burning above them, the acrid stench of smoke choking the air, ash coming down like rain. In the street below, the night has been torn open, jagged edges ripping against reality in a way Steve has never experienced before. Sirens shriek in time with the flashing lights, drilling into his head as he struggles to keep up. Tony carves a path towards the thick of it all, and they're nearly there when –

"Stark!"

A hand reaches out and yanks Tony sideways; Steve grabs him before Tony can trip and fall, and finds Natasha bearing down on them with blood on her face and debris in her hair. Her uniform is unfamiliar to Steve: a dark jumpsuit with an emblem on the shoulder, but it's more formidable than the NYPD's getup by miles.

"You idiot," she says, with an anger that is so controlled it could pass as calm. "You sneak off without telling us and then come back to the danger zone?" She grabs Tony by the back of the head and shoves him towards a waiting car, the other hand snaking out and grabbing Steve.

"Who was it," Tony says, shouting over the noise into Natasha's ear. "Who's trying to –"

They pass the ambulances lined up by the sidewalk, and Tony freezes, stopping so abruptly that Steve walks into him and even Natasha has to pause.

"Pepper," Tony says, and Steve only hears him because he's so close, but then Tony's lurching forward, struggling against Natasha's grip as medics load a stretcher into the back of the vehicle – Steve sees a flash of strawberry blonde hair, the glint of a ring on a limp hand – and Tony's shouting for her, "Pepper, Pepper, Pepper –" even as Natasha drags him back, face unreadable, gesturing for Steve to comply.

They get Tony into the car, Steve climbing in after him, and Natasha slams the door, speaking to the driver before leaving. Steve watches her pause by the ambulance as it drives off, and then she's off again, darting back into the crowd.

Tony lurches forward again, and Steve almost goes to restrain him before he realises Tony's just talking to the driver.

"Barton," Tony says, "Take me to the hospital."

"No can do, Stark," the man says, not looking back. "I'm taking you home and keeping you there."

Tony slams his hand down on Barton's shoulder, but the car stays steady.

"Let me see Pepper," he says, and his voice is hoarse. "Let me see her, dammit!"

Steve watches Barton's face in the rearview mirror. He looks vaguely familiar – then again, a lot of people did, considering Steve worked at a coffee shop.

"It'll be safer for everybody if you stay home, Tony," Barton says, and glances back, meeting Steve's eyes. "You too, Rogers."

"How do you know –" Steve starts, but Tony throws himself back against the seat in frustration, whipping out his phone and beginning to tap like a maniac.

"Stark, don't –" Barton says, but Tony flips him off without looking up and continues typing. The glow of the screen illuminates his face, bleaching it of colour.

Steve stays silent until they reach the apartment.

Barton parks and lets them out, one hand around Tony's arm until they reach the doors, where he show Hiemdall some sort of ID and walks them through, getting into the elevator with them. Steve watches Tony flipping his phone between his hands and tries to catch his eye, but stops when he finds Barton watching him.

The elevator stops at Steve's floor – how had the man known – and Tony finally looks up. Steve is hyper-aware of Barton, watching, waiting, and he knows he should go, but he can't just leave.

"I'm sorry," Steve says, and he wants to reach out, but the opposite sides of the elevator suddenly seem like an unbridgeable gap. "Let me know how she is, okay?"

Tony nods, head jerky, and doesn't say a word. Steve gets out, looking back, and Barton raises a hand and says, "Bye," so Steve does the same and says,

"Thanks…Barton."

"It's Clint," the man says, "And sorry for ruining your birthday." The doors close before Steve can reply, and he's left alone again, with his heart still in his throat.

"That's okay," he says, even though the elevator is long gone. He says it anyway because he's sure that someone, somewhere, is still listening to him.

_ _ _

They reach the penthouse and Tony stalks in, hooking his phone up to his monitors. Clint follows, lingering at the door before walking over to the kitchen.

"Excuse me?" Tony says, raising his eyebrows. "What're you going to do, follow me to the bathroom and make sure my piss is clean?"

"That's not my job, thank God," Clint says, poking around the kitchen drawers. "There's a rumour going around Medical that you actually piss alcohol. I would not be surprised but I don't want to find out, either."

"Did Banner start that?" Tony asks, pulling up several screens and spreading them out. He's hacked into the hospital feeds – if it had even constituted as hacking – and he's been watching them take Pepper in, oxygen mask over her face, before they wheel her into a ward without cameras, and he loses sight of her. "I expect him to clarify that I can do as many different wines as I please. And in different glass sizes."

Clint rolls his eyes from where he's sitting, up on the counter, and says nothing, just watches the empty screens over Tony's shoulder. Tony shuts them off, leaving the room in darkness, and heads back to the front door.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," he says, but Tony goes for the door handle anyway, even though he already knows what's happened.

"Let me out," he says, not turning around. His voice comes out foreign, even to himself. "JARVIS –"

"I'm afraid my security protocols have been overridden, sir," JARVIS says, "SHIELD has just placed you on red alert."

Tony turns then, and Clint puts up his hands, palms open.

"That code is totally overused," Tony says. "Red alert, really?"

Clint shrugs.

"Whatever it's called," he says, "You've still got a target on your back."

_ _ _

They let Tony see Pepper the next day, which seems almost too kind – but Tony's not about to complain.

He's led in through a back door, and there are SHIELD security members around Pepper's ward, blending into the hospital staff with frightening efficiency.

She's asleep when he arrives, her hair the only real colour in the room, flaming out against the pillow.

Half her face is covered with bandages.

Tony sinks into the nearest chair and leans forwards, reaching for her hand. Pepper stirs and Tony draws back, but then her fingers curl around his and she opens her eyes.

"You're alive," she says, the one visible side of her mouth curling up, and Tony grips her hand as his vision blurs for a second.

"Sorry," he says, and he's not sure if this was what apologies were supposed to sound like. "I'm…I'm so sorry."

She closes her eyes again, but her hand gives Tony's a squeeze and she says,

"You weren't…so I went looking..."

"I know, Pepp," Tony says, because he does, he knows it's his fault, he knows he knows he knows, but he doesn't want her to say it out loud; it's selfish and it's cowardly, but nothing new.

"But you weren't…" Her head turns on the pillow, but she keeps her eyes closed. "Were you with Steve?"

"Yes," Tony says, and Pepper exhales like she doesn't even have the energy to smile.

"Knew it," she says, voice barely audible, and when Tony says her name, she doesn't reply.

_ _ _

On the ride back, he pulls out his phone and finds one missed call from Steve. He opens on the voicemail message and leans back against the car seat, closing his eyes.

"Hey, it's me," Steve's voice says. "I'm really sorry about what happened. I hope Pepper's okay, and nobody else got hurt." He clears his throat. "Just…let me know if you need anything. I…yeah. Okay. Bye."

Tony lowers his arm, looking at his phone for a few seconds before putting it away. He should at least text Steve, tell him Pepper's alive but…no. He's ruined enough things for Steve, he doesn't really want to tell him oh, I nearly killed Pepper and someone's after my ass so you'd be safer without me but I kind of really need you right now –

No. Better not to say anything at all.

Tony arrives at the apartment and takes the elevator up alone, and is tempted to stop at Steve's floor even though he knows he's at work. Life goes on, and it doesn't slow down from anybody, not even Tony Stark.

Then he reaches his floor and finds Agent Coulson sitting in his living room, and every single drop of alcohol taken from his apartment.

_ _ _

The disaster runs rampage all over the news, and there's no way for Steve to avoid it. He's watched the Tower exploding more times than he can bear, replayed on every TV and laptop screen he passes, captured in newspaper articles and magazine covers, now a smoking wreck above the New York City skyline.

Steve walks to work with his head down. The sight of it makes him feel sick.

There are fewer people at the coffee shop, and even the clink of cutlery seems too loud. Everyone is having the same conversation, voices hushed, as if they're sitting by a deathbed. It certainly feels like they're next to one.

Steve checks his phone so often that he might as well glue it to his hand. He doesn't know what to do, and he hates that feeling, his own uselessness weighing down him. Tony hasn't replied to him, and it's only now that Steve realises how much space Tony occupies in his life – an area that seems to have grown rapidly and doesn't seem to be stopping. He's so used to Tony's constant presence – even just by text – that the silence pulls at him in a way he can't ignore.

It's frustrating because he really has no right to be frustrated. It's not as if Tony's obligated to contact him, but that's never stopped him before. And Steve had thought, by now, that they – they were…

They were what?

Steve sighs, trying to focus on the counter in front of him, the coffee shop, the here and now. The cup he's holding trembles, and he puts it down before he can drop it, running a hand over his face, cold against his skin.

He wants to stop thinking. He wants to stop remembering, rerunning the event in his mind; the way Tony's face had looked as the Tower had gone down, how he'd fumbled with his phone before grabbing Steve's arm and pulling him down the stairs, how his voice had sounded when he'd seen Pepper –

He wants to erase the whole thing, rewind back to just before –

Just before.

He's guilty for even thinking about just before, but it wells up inside him every time closes his eyes, threatening to pull him under. Steve wants to turn it off, like someone flicking a switch, but you can't do that to your own mind. If anything, everything's been amplified, and he can feel it in his chest, spreading like a disease.

He checks his phone again.

_ _ _

By the time he gets home, it's late afternoon, and he's about to go out of his mind. He feeds Thor and checks his phone – still nothing. He drops it on the table and searches for his jacket. He should go to the gym, or see Bucky – anything that wasn't Tony, Tony, Tony, over and over again.

Steve can't find his jacket. He goes through his apartment twice, because losing pieces of clothing wasn't something he could afford – it's not like he had that many, after all. Still nothing.

Then he realises it's still on Tony's roof.

There's nothing for it. It's like the drugs thing all over again.

_ _ _

A man with dark hair and glasses answers Tony's door, and he smiles when he sees Steve.

"Hello," he says, holding out a hand. "I'm Bruce. You must be Steve."

"Hi," Steve says, shaking his hand. How did everybody know his name? "Is Tony home?"

"He is," Bruce says, "but I'm not sure if he –"

"For fuck's sake, Banner," Tony calls from somewhere inside. "Let him in. I'm not a withdrawing invalid yet."

Bruce shakes his head, but stands back and lets Steve in. The apartment has changed – it's been tidied, and it feels emptier. Tony's lying on one of the couches with his eyes closed.

"Hey," Steve says, standing beside him, not sure what else to say. He doesn't want to ask stupid questions and are you okay? is definitely a stupid question.

"Hey," Tony replies, then says, "Pepper's alive."

"Oh, thank God," Steve says, and a weight lifts off his chest – it's such a literal feeling that he can suddenly breath better. "Is she still in hospital?"

Tony opens his eyes.

"Yes," he says, "Because she nearly died."

"Tony," Bruce says from the kitchen, and Tony sits up, crossing his arms.

"Banner," he says, mimicking Bruce's tone. "Can you stop lurking and give us a minute? I'd love to talk to Steve before I start puking on him or whatever."

"What's wrong with you, exactly?" Steve asks, sitting down.

"That," Tony says, "is a very broad question."

"He's going on an alcohol detox," Bruce says. "It's mandatory for his health."

Tony turns his head to pull a face at Bruce, and Steve catches sight of his neck. There's an injection mark there; small, but visible.

"What he really means," Tony says, "is that SHIELD stole all my alcohol, and probably has it locked up somewhere for Fury's vindictive pleasure."

"Fury?" Steve asks, and Bruce clears his throat.

"I was going to pop out for a moment, but if you can't control yourself, Tony –"

"I'll behave," Tony says, waving a hand. "Shoo. Please."

Bruce leaves, humming to himself, and the closing of the front door sends silence rushing in.

"I'm sorry about Pepper," Steve says, and Tony turns to look at him. There are shadows under his eyes, dark against his pale skin.

"Me too," he says, "but at least…well." Tony shakes his head. "I should say at least no one died, but – Pepper –" he takes an unsteady breath, jaw clenching, and Steve reaches out and puts his hand over Tony's because he's still not sure what to say. Tony looks away, but he doesn't pull back, and Steve grips his hand briefly before letting go. Tony's hand is surprisingly worn; calluses on his palm and fingers, old scars against his skin.

"Was it the fireworks?" Steve asks, carefully, even though he probably shouldn't. Tony's fingers curl in after Steve's let go and he still doesn't look at him as he says,

"No. It wasn't my – no, of course it was my fault, but it wasn't the fireworks."

"Then is it really your fault?" Steve says, but Tony just shakes his head, letting out a dry laugh.

"Somebody bombed my Tower, Steve," he says. "People don't just randomly do that unless the owner of said Tower has done something to them first." He stands up, movement stiff, walking over to the kitchen and then back again. "SHIELD is doing a piss-poor job of giving me any facts," he says, hands gesticulating. "All they're doing is fucking with my health, which doesn't even matter if somebody's after my head." He keeps pacing, looking so much like a caged animal that Steve realises that's what Tony is right now. "And now – now I'm under de facto house arrest, which isn't even safer, and I can't even have a goddamn drink."

"Hold it," Steve says, and Tony pauses, looking at him. "So – when you got shot, and now the Tower – it's…" he stops, frowning, because it sounds so strange to say, when did this ever happen in real life –

"Yeah," Tony says, filling in the blank, beginning to pace again. "Exactly that. Although, with the Tower…" he circles around the couch, running his fingers along the back. His hand brushes Steve's shoulder, but he doesn't look at him. "My guests weren't even there. I had them in another venue. And there would've been no guarantee that I would be in the Tower, so…it's something else." He's almost talking to himself now, tapping his fingers against his chin. Steve turns to watch him, following his movement across the room. "They couldn't have gotten past JARVIS, I just upgraded him; it's not a mole unless they've snuck under all my scans, which I doubt. But bombing the Tower on July Fourth – blatantly unsubtle, with everybody watching…"

"A statement?" Steve says, and Tony snaps his fingers, stopping midstride.

"Just what I was thinking," he says, and then seems to come back into himself, focusing on Steve properly for the first time. "Jesus, how long have I been ranting at you?" he asks, and Steve laughs – quietly, but still a proper laugh.

"Not that long," he says. "Nowhere near your record. Must be losing your touch, Stark."

His jibe has the desired effect; Tony smiles for the first time and walks back into the living room.

"Don't tempt me," he says, and the mood lightens, just a little. "I…yeah. It's all very dramatic at the moment, and Bruce is going to be back soon, so…" Tony comes closer, bracing his hands on the back of the couch. "Did you just come to hear me theorise, or?"

I came to make sure you were okay, Steve thinks, but instead he says,

"Well, couldn't miss the rambling even for one day, right?" and smiles when Tony laughs. "Actually – I think I left my jacket on the roof last night. Can I just…" he gestures upwards, and Tony nods, standing up straight again.

"Sure. Let's go."

Everything is exactly as they'd left it, but it's very different in the daylight. The lights are off and the decorations seem less vibrant, colours faded. Steve finds his jacket on the back of the chair, and stops at the edge of the roof.

Stark Tower is a dark stain against the sky, harsh and ugly, like someone's left a scar above Manhattan. Tony comes up beside Steve and leans against the railing, fingers tight around the metal.

"It'll be fine," Steve says, unable to watch Tony stare at the Tower like that; like it's still burning in front of his eyes. "The Tower – you can fix that, at least."

"Never one for platitudes, are you?" Tony says, not looking at him. "I've always appreciated that."

He sighs, blinking, and Steve hates that sound; Tony isn't that old, he shouldn't sound like he's suffered so much, like he's still suffering – though of course he is, considering all the things that's happening, the somebody's after my head and my health and –

"However," Tony starts, interrupting Steve's train of thought. "I wasn't thinking about the Tower. Even though I'm looking right at it –" he gestures with his hands, and Steve's always found that movement fascinating, watching Tony's wrists and palms and fingers, wondering what else they can do with such agility. "I'm – God, I don't even have to dignity to feel guilty – well, okay, maybe I do a little, but not really, not like I should, you know, all things considered…"

"So what were you thinking about?" Steve says before Tony can ramble himself away from point. There's a warm sensation starting in the pit of his stomach – he'd like to think it's intuition, but he's not sure.

"Oh, inappropriate things," Tony says with feigned casualness. "Inappropriate for this time, anyway."

"Such as?" Steve prompts, shifting closer.

"Kissing you," Tony says without preamble, and Steve stares at him, wondering if his eyes are playing tricks on him or if Tony is actually blushing, still refusing to look at Steve.

"Well," Steve says, and his voice comes out lower than usual, but still somehow calm; maybe Tony's cockiness has rubbed off on him, and Steve can think of no better time than now to try it out, "if that's the case…"

He pauses, mirroring Tony's stance.

"Then I am equally guilty."

Tony looks at him then, almost disbelieving, and Steve quirks an eyebrow. The warmth has spread through his torso and up into his cheeks, but he doesn't back down and they stare at each for the longest moment, neither one breathing, before Tony says,

"Jesus, Steve –"

And then there's no need for words at all because they're kissing. Tony's hands fist in Steve's shirt, pulling him in, and Steve has his hands around Tony's face, fingers curling in his hair, and it's all surprisingly gentle despite the way Tony had sounded. Steve can feel his heart, pounding beneath Tony's fingers, and they both smile at the same time, lips curving upwards against each other before they pull apart; Tony settling back on his heels, Steve straightening.

Tony exhales, biting his lip – Steve's eyes lower to watch the movement and Tony laughs, reaching out to smack him on the shoulder.

"If this is just stress relief, I will be rather disappointed," he says, and Steve shakes his head, reaching for him again becausehe can, he wants, he needs, and Tony draws back in without any protest, muttering something like, "Take two?" before kissing him again, and Steve pulls back just enough to say,

"Take three, actually," before kissing back, and he expects Tony to fight for the last word and say yesterday didn't count, but for the first time, Steve seems to have effectively found a way to shut Tony up.

It's very, very enjoyable.

_ _ _

They don't really talk about it; it just is, but in a way that feels like they've been falling towards this point for the longest time and only just realised it. Kissing Tony seems to have unlocked something in Steve, and it's sudden and exhilarating and slightly frightening, not to mention completely inappropriate considering the circumstances. It's so incredibly distracting that he can't get to sleep, and what's worse is that he's not even sorry.

He doesn't remember it being so intensive. Then again, his last memory of feeling like – well, like this – was years ago now, and the memory's been glossed over by time. He tries not to dwell on it too much. It's a honed technique of his.

He still wants to turn his mind off – but not in the way he'd been wishing it that afternoon. He now just wants to stop himself before his brain can creep into dark corners and drag him back into reality; a place where there are and will be consequences to everything, including one small action between two people out of many billions.

Steve rolls over in bed and checks his phone. It's a habit now, and he smiles when he checks his messages.

From Tony:

OH GOD BRUCE SNORES SAVE ME

From Steve:

He's staying with you?

From Tony:

Unfortunately. Detoxing is a bitch, I've got a all-hours babysitter.

From Steve:

Well, I did say you needed one.

From Tony:

You cruel, cruel man. I AM SUFFERING OVER HERE.

From Steve:

It'll be worth it.

From Tony:

How would you know the only thing you need to detox from is too much decency.

Ugh, this is going to put you off me.

From Steve:

If you doing something good for yourself is going to put me off you then I would not be a decent person.

From Tony:

Trying to imagine you as a non-decent person.

Nope.

Nothing's coming up.

From Steve:

I thought you were supposed to be a genius.

From Tony:

OOH GOOD ONE THAT COUNTS AS NON-DECENT FOR YOU

No but seriously.

I just.

Hold it.

Two seconds later, Tony calls him.

"Hey," Steve says, rolling onto his back and holding the phone against his ear.

"I mean it," Tony says.

"Mean what?" Steve asks.

"About the detoxing."

"Tony, it'll be –"

"It won't be pretty. At all. I mean, they're going to drug me up to decrease the withdrawals but…" he sighs, and it's like he's blowing away all the light-heartedness from their conversation. "I just – you don't want to see me like this. Seriously."

"I've seen worse," Steve says, and Tony scoffs.

"Oh, I don't know. I probably hold a record for high-functioning alcoholics. I'm getting stripped of one of my biggest titles, I swear."

"Yeah, no, I've still seen worse," Steve says, and the change in his voice must translate over the line because Tony stops. "But I get it. As long as Bruce is with you. Just…call me if you need anything, okay?"

"If I can even move at that point," Tony mutters, and then says, "I'll be a total dick for the next week. Month. Year. Make that two years."

"So nothing different, then?" Steve says, just to make him laugh, and it works.

"Alright, you snarky bastard," Tony says, yawning. "I'll…keep in touch. But yeah, this is all just great timing isn't it. You've been warned."

"So kind," Steve says, matching his tone. "Good night, Mr Stark."

"Over and out, Rogers."

They hang up, and Steve stares at his phone for a moment, the screen lighting up the darkness.

"Night, Tony," he says, even though nobody is listening anymore, and shuts off the phone.

___________________________

I will always be inspired by this for Steve/Tony kisses. Hooray for a nicer-ish chapter ending?

Just a quick warning: I have exams coming up in November and December, so I apologise in advance for even-slower-than-usual updates. Possibly.

"If the results are bad," Tony says, "will you dress up in a sexy nurse costume and look after me?"

Natasha rolls her eyes, walking out from behind the monitors. They're turned slightly away from him, but he can still see his scans, rotating onscreen while the data processes. Figures flick upwards on another screen, calibrating into percentages. He fidgets on the examination chair, squinting against the spotlight above him.

"I mean, does Pepper make you do that?" he asks as Natasha gets to him. "Or does she do it? Or do you both do it?"

"Jealous, Stark?" she says, smirking, and pokes him in the ribs under the pretense of removing the electrodes.

"Not if you asked me to join," he says, trying to prod her back. She's too much of a ninja to be caught.

"You sound like a desperate ex," Natasha says, throwing him his shirt so it lands on his head. "And you'd do well not to talk about it."

"Firstly, there is nothing desperate about me," Tony says, sitting up. He's sore from sitting down for so long, and honestly, you'd think they could afford some proper chairs around here. "And secondly, do you mean I shouldn't talk about threesomes or your relationship with Pepper? Because I'm sure there's some sort of anti-fraternization clause in your contract, agent."

Natasha snorts.

"That's rich coming from you," she says, opening the door. "And from what I've heard, you've been doing some fraternizing of your own."

"Lies," Tony says, following her out of the ward. "I've been an absolute angel."

"I thought Steven was the angel," Natasha says, lips quirking up.

"It's Steve," Tony says, and then does a double-take. "Wait, what? What's Pepper been telling you?"

"Enough," Natasha says. "You realise his best friend is James Barnes?"

"Bucky? The cop? Yeah, sure."

"He also happens to be the liaison officer between SHIELD and the New York Police Department," Natasha says. "Small world, yes?"

"Guess so," Tony says. They've reached a deserted area of the building, with only the tap of Natasha's shoes accompanying them down the corridor.

"Exactly. So we don't want any awkward questions, do we?" She stops at the last door and turns to face him. "No matter how pretty the civilian is."

"Hey, I didn't – that's not –" Tony tries to rebut all her points at once, but she just smiles like a shark and opens the door.

"Director Fury will see you now."

One fantastic thing after another. Tony straightens his jacket and tries not to get too close to Natasha as he walks through the door. Who knew what that woman would do next.

_ _ _

"I'm sorry, what? The sniper's been dealt with but you're increasing my security?" Tony spins around on the wheelie chair and puts his hands behind his head. "You're not making any sense, Nick."

Fury turns around from the window and pins Tony down with his one-eyed stare.

"It's complicated," he says. "And above your clearance level."

"Excuse me?" Tony says, crossing his arms. "This directly involves me and it's above my clearance level? Challenge accepted. "

"You've got a challenge on your hands already," Fury says, sitting down behind the desk. He taps the surface and the screen lights up, documents opening up across the desktop. "And this one's a bigger bitch than SHIELD's firewall."

"And that challenge would be..?" Tony asks, spinning around on the chair again.

"Yourself," Fury says. Tony rolls his eyes.

"Heard it before," he says. "Can I skip the lecture and just get an actual report?"

"Here, have this one," Fury says, sliding several files over to Tony, who wheels in to have a closer look.

"Ah, my test results," he says, the screen familiar beneath his fingers. It was his design, after all – he could see the Stark Industries' logo in one corner. "Makes for great bedtime reading."

"I don't know if you understand the concept," Fury says, "but this –" he points a finger at the files in front of Tony, forcing him to look up. "This is not a joke. This is your life. We're dealing with the one thing I thought you'd actually take an interest in, but you can't even bother getting your ass in here in order to save it." He leans in, making Tony draw back. "You want a full report? Then you need to give us the data."

"Okay," Tony says, drawing out the word. "Do you want to loosen your eye patch? You sound a little stressed."

Fury sits back, lacing his fingers together, and his expression is both resigned and satisfied, mouth curling in a way that also makes it terrifying.

"You know, Stark," he says, completely ignoring Tony's jibe, "I'd be just fine with leaving you in your high-class puddle of self-denial until you kill yourself, but we happen to have a contract, and your work is not finished yet. So you need follow orders until then."

"Not my division," Tony says.

"I dare say dying isn't your division either," Fury says. "You know what SHIELD medical predicts for you, don't you?"

"Graphically," Tony answers. "They all have issues, you should look into that."

"They're not bullshitting you in any way," Fury says, and his stare is drilling into Tony's skull. "I'd think about that if I were you."

"Because that is so healthy," Tony says. There's a chill against his back, but he blames that on the excessive air con. "Look, if you just gave me a decent update –"

"Well, considering how little time you seem to have for this," Fury says, smug now, "I assume you're more interested in the results, not the process. So you can run along now. I expect the project drafts finalized by next week."

Tony blinks, and then realises he's been dismissed.

"You know," he says, hands against the table. "This contract has two parties. And it also includes your medical team – the supposed best – doing their job. And I don't really see that happening."

"Oh, they are the best," Fury says. "But like I said: you're a challenge."

"If you don't do your part," Tony says, "I won't be able to do mine. Which would be a loss for all involved, especially you. So why don't you think about that?"

"I'd tell you how much we've been thinking about it, but hey, above your clearance level. But I can tell you that we're going to do whatever we feel is necessary and I'll thank you in advance for your co-operation." Fury stands, looming over Tony from behind the desk. "Agent Romanoff will debrief you on the rest."

"I thought you were supposed to be debriefing me," Tony says, also standing. "But you're obviously having issues with your assigned tasks today."

"You're really not one to talk about assigned tasks," Fury says. "Drafts by next week, Stark."

The door opens, and Natasha appears, arms crossed. She seems to have some sort of telepathic communication with Fury, as if both of them weren't creepy enough already.

"Well that was a gigantic waste of time," Tony says, throwing his hands up and walking out. "And you wonder why I never come in."

"Just keep your head down, Tony," Fury says, and Tony pauses at the door. "Some things are bigger than you know."

"Hollywood messages don't count as debriefs," he says, and leaves before he can cave in and look back at Fury. He's been pirate-eye'd enough for one day, thank you very much.

Natasha escorts him out of the building, giving him a rundown of procedures from here on in. Tony's not listening – anything important will be picked up by JARVIS when he gets the files, and he'll filter it through to Tony. SHIELD headquarters is a hive of activity – Tony thinks of it as an actual beehive, with Fury as Queen Bitch – but Natasha leads them through like Moses parting the Red Sea. It's only when they come out of the elevator that they bump into someone important enough to stop her.

"Barton," she says, and Clint raises a hand, eyes flicking from her to Tony. He's carrying a cage-like container, cat-sized, maybe. Natasha eyes it, and he shrugs.

"If anyone asks, I'm Rogering," he says, and Natasha nods, continuing to the exits. Tony power walks to catch up, glancing back at Clint.

"'Rogering'?" he asks, raising his eyebrows. "Is that some sort of new SHIELD phrase?"

Natasha glances at him, and she's smiling like she's hiding a smirk.

"Sure," she says. "We love new phrases."

They've reached the doors now, but Natasha swings around and stops him before he can escape.

"I mean what I said, Tony," she says, and Tony nods even though he has no idea what she's referring to. "And Fury's right – keep your head down, okay?"

"Uh huh," Tony says, and puts on his sunglasses. All this staring was doing his head in. "Give me a proper reason and I will."

He walks out before she can reply, and he's never been more relieved to see Happy waiting with the car.

'Where to, boss?" Happy says, starting the engine.

"The apartment," Tony says, pulling out his phone. He can see Happy watching him in the rearview mirror.

"I'm fine, Hogan," Tony says, and Happy looks away, smiling a little.

"Just checking," he says and Tony grins at him. It's pretty real. About eighty percent.

"And I'm about to get a whole lot better," he says, and places a call. "Hey, Pepper, hi! I've just made an executive decision." He gives Happy the thumbs up and imagines the expression on Fury's face as he says,

"Let's throw the biggest Fourth of July party ever."

_ _ _

Steve is used to Tony appearing at his apartment unannounced by now. He seems unable to call or text like a normal person – or what Steve imagined normally happened. He didn't exactly have a multitude of people contacting him on a regular basis.

He still gets a little thrill from seeing Tony's name flash up on the screen, but he's not sure if it's because it's Tony Stark or simply because it's Tony. There's a difference between the two; Steve can tell, even if he hasn't googled Tony. He's certainly not going to now he actually knows the guy.

"Hi," he says, opening the door, and Tony takes off his sunglasses, smiling.

"Hey, yourself," he says, walking in. Thor bounds up to him and demands a petting, getting fur all over Tony's suit.

"You okay?" Steve asks, and Tony looks up at him, eyes sharp.

"Sure," he says. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"I don't know," Steve says, shrugging. "You just look…tired."

"That is a nice way of putting it," Tony says, flopping down on Steve's couch. "I haven't slept for three days and I'm probably hung over. Oh, God, it's hitting me now – yup, I'm tired."

"I think you need a babysitter," Steve says, sitting down next to him. "And a liquor ban."

"Your face needs a babysitter," Tony mumbles, hand rubbing at his eyes, and Steve laughs.

"Yeah, you must be tired if that's all you can come up with," he says, and Tony pouts without opening his eyes.

They sit in comfortable silence, Steve scratching Thor behind the ears, glancing at Tony to check if he's fallen asleep. He's pale and drawn, but even like this he has a certain poise. Steve blames his jaw line – it's like someone's drawn it with a strong, smooth line; no mistakes or hesitations.

Thor huffs against his leg, and Steve realises he's been staring like a creeper. He clears his throat, looking away, and Tony opens one eye.

"Okay, I have a question for you," he says, pointing a finger at Steve.

"Is this like when you rang me at two in the morning to ask about physics because…I can't really help you there," Steve says. Tony smiles and shakes his head.

"I rang? Oh, God, I need JARVIS to filter me. Was I drunk? I was probably drunk."

"I think you were just sleep-deprived," Steve says. "But you figured it out in the end, I think? You got all excited and hung up."

"Oh, yeah," Tony says, yawning. "Thanks."

"I don't think I did anything," Steve says.

"It helps when I ramble at someone," Tony says. "And JARVIS is getting too sassy for his own good."

Steve doesn't comment on how it's possibly unhealthy to converse with your own AI all the time, mainly because he's still slightly wary of JARVIS, but he's also incredibly impressed. He handled Tony with a snarky grace that Steve wanted to bow down to.

"Anyway," Tony says, sitting up, "I wanted to ask: what are you doing on July 4th?"

Steve's stomach does a funny little flip.

"Um…nothing?" he says, and then adds, "It's kind of my birthday."

"Kind of your birthday?" Tony repeats, eyes widening. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Steve shrugs, hunching in like he always does.

"It's not a big deal –" he starts, but Tony's rubbing his hands together, smiling.

"Of course it's a big deal," he says, "it's your birthday! This is perfect – I'm throwing a Fourth of July party, and –"

"Oh God, no," Steve says before he can stop himself, and Tony looks at him, cutting off his sentence.

"I haven't even told you what I'm planning," he says, and Steve feels like he's just kicked a puppy.

"Sorry, I didn't mean – that was rude – it's just…" he pauses, looking down at his hands. "Sorry. Just – rewind, start again, I won't interrupt this time."

"Well," Tony says, "I was going to say we could celebrate both and just throw a bigger party, but…" he raises an eyebrow. "You don't seem to be into that idea."

"I'm just…not a party person," Steve says. "I really appreciate the offer, I do, but…" he shrugs again. "I have a bad track record with parties."

"But my parties are the best!" Tony says. "Seriously, best of everything, whatever you want – food, music, alcohol..."

"I'm really not –" Steve says, and then doesn't want to continue because he can literally see the excitement draining from Tony's shoulders. "I'd just be a downer," he says, trying to maneuver his way out as tactfully as possible. Tony rubs his hand along his jaw, expression rueful now.

"It's okay if you don't want to come to a party with me," he says, and Steve blinks, because…what? "You don't have to sugarcoat it, I totally understand –"

"Tony," Steve says, getting it now, "no, wow, okay, that is not what I meant."

"No, it's okay," Tony says, half-off the couch already. "It's not like the press are ever nice to whoever I turn up with, and I totally just sprung that on you – I'm surprised they haven't caught wind of you already, to be honest, considering how much time we –"

"Tony, calm down," Steve says, reaching out and grabbing his arm. "It's not like that at all."

"Really," Tony says, and it doesn't sound like a question.

"Really," Steve says. "I am totally fine with hanging out with you, but I am not okay with parties. That's it. And besides, I'd be a boring person for the press to pursue."

"They always find something," Tony mutters, but he relaxes back on the couch. "But…what're you going to do for your birthday, then?"

"Oh, same old, same old," Steve says. "Take a break, relax, that sort of thing. Don't worry about it."

"Hm," Tony says. "Okay…"

"What?" Steve asks, watching Tony's expression go from sad to sly in a matter of seconds. "What is it?"

"Oh, nothing," Tony says, grinning now. "I just had an idea. I need to go." He pauses, looking down. "Can I…have my arm back?"

"Oh – sorry," Steve says, and lets go, feeling heat against his cheeks. "So uh…hope the party planning goes well, sorry about before –"

"That's totally fine," Tony says, standing up. "You just keep being you and I'll be in touch."

"Okay?" Steve says, opening the door. Tony pauses, the two of them caught in the doorway, before saying,

"Well, bye," and leaving Steve alone again, with a very possible threat hanging over his head and the feel of Tony's arm still under his hand.

_ _ _

Even JARVIS is skeptical of Tony's plans.

"Sir, Director Fury strongly advises against –"

"Director Fury can kiss my ass," Tony says, rummaging around the kitchen. "Actually, wait, no, that's disgusting. Somebody disinfect my ass right now."

JARVIS whirs around him as Tony sets a glass on the counter.

"According to SHIELD medical, you need to reduce your alcohol intake immediately, sir," he says, almost cautiously, and Tony pauses.

"Really now," he says, tapping the glass. "Is that what Natasha was telling me?"

"I believe so; it's at the top of the list. Apart from the usual negatives, alcohol is also decreasing the effectiveness of the suppressant."

"This just gets better and better," Tony says, pouring himself a scotch.

"Sir, I really wouldn't –"

"Of course you wouldn't," Tony says, and drains the glass, letting the liquid burn his throat. If SHIELD was that concerned, they should give Tony a serious report, not this cloak and dagger performance. The question isn't if they're hiding something – they're always hiding something, their secrets have secrets – it's more a matter of what is it? Tony has made them come clean-ish on multiple occasions, and he's ready to do it again…but maybe not right now. He rubs at his forehead, which has been aching for the last few hours, and then at his chest, which is seeping ice through his torso. He looks down at the glass in his hand, now empty, and sighs.

"Should I update SHIELD or Miss Potts about your extended plans?" JARVIS asks. "They did ask to be informed of any developments, sir."

"Don't you dare," Tony says, stretching and heading for the bedroom. "I don't want anybody breathing over my shoulder."

"Of course, sir," JARVIS says, and the apartment powers down around him as he closes the door. He thinks about Steve and birthdays and I am totally fine with hanging out with you and non-parties before he falls asleep, full-clothed and alone, like he's always done.

His chest is still cold.

_ _ _

The Fourth of July rolls around and Steve thinks he may be safe. Tony hasn't let anything on, or mentioned his sudden idea again. They haven't discussed the party at all, really, because Tony doesn't seem to do the actual organizing. He just waltzes in late and gets all the credit, from what Bucky's told Steve.

It's a beautiful night; clear and bright and perfect for fireworks. Steve leaves the curtains open and sits down on his couch, stretching out his legs. He's fine like this, just…fine. No work, no chores, nothing. His mother is out of state, visiting an old friend, and Steve hadn't wanted to intrude. Or add to airfares. Bucky says he's either allergic to spending money or has a fetish for saving it. Steve supposes he's right.

But right now…something doesn't feel right. It sits uncomfortably on his chest, like he should be somewhere else, or doing something, not sitting here alone with Thor asleep in one corner. It's not an unfamiliar feeling, but he doesn't want to deal with tonight, of all nights. He's in an old t-shirt and sweatpants, and this normally triggers him into relaxing, but it's not working. He glances at his phone, still and silent, and wonders if Tony at the party yet. No, he likes to arrive late and it's only nine o'clock. He's been sending Steve random birthday messages all day, but he's obviously busy now. Bucky is out celebrating, and he's known Steve long enough to leave him alone when it comes to large gatherings. Steve has always appreciated this, but now he's not so sure.

He puts on a DVD and almost falls asleep. He's been working too much, taking too many shifts. Tony's spastic timing hasn't helped either – but that's not exactly his fault. Steve could've just hung up or not replied, but he's never done that. Tony's brain seems to be wired differently from other people, and it's fascinating to talk to him, even if it was at two o'clock in the morning.

There are moments when he wonders why Tony's still talking to him, of all people. He didn't seem the type to humor someone for so long and Steve is pretty sure they're friends of some kind, but it still gets him sometimes, when he blends Tony Stark into Tony and realises who's sitting in his apartment.

There are moments when he wonders if Tony is just lonely.

Then he wonders if he is the one who's lonely.

Then he usually goes running.

He glances at his watch; it's now ten-thirty. The movie's still running, but he's missed most of the plot, and he can't be bothered rewinding. He glances at his phone again, almost willing it to ring, and –

It rings.

Steve sits up, staring, and then grabs it off the table because hey, speak of the devil, the caller ID says Tony.

"Hey," Steve says, "how's the party going?"

"I'm not actually at the party," Tony says, and he sounds like he's smiling. "Are you home?"

"Yes…?" Steve says, stomach flipping. Oh God, here comes whatever crazy idea Tony had.

"Oh, good," Tony says. "I thought maybe you were just lying and actually having a party without me – which would've been fine, by the way, but –"

"I wouldn't lie to you," Steve says, rolling his eyes even though Tony can't see him. "But seriously, why aren't you at your party?"

"Well…" Tony says, "I did turn up. But then I left, because I had other plans."

"Which were?" Steve asks, very cautiously.

"Come up to the roof and I'll show you," Tony says, and then he hangs up, just like that. Steve stares at his phone, and he's both incredibly wary and curious at the same time, which is making his insides jumble up.

He considers it for a moment, but there's really no alternative – he gets up, grabs his jacket and keys, and heads out.

JARVIS lets Steve into Tony's apartment and directs him to the stairs. Steve pauses with his hand on the door, more nervous than he should be, before stepping out onto the roof.

He's never been up here before, but he's sure it doesn't usually look like this. The whole place is decked in tiny lights – red, white and blue, of course – and one end has been decorated with in a similar fashion, with chairs set up around a small table, which is sagging under the weight of the fanciest cake Steve has ever seen. Tony is standing next to it, holding a bottle of wine and grinning.

"Surprise!" he says, and pops the cork. "And happy birthday, obviously."

Steve walks towards him, trying to speak but his jaw is still somewhere near the ground and he can't find his voice. The city stretches below them, a sea of glittering lights, and it's still breath-taking even though he's grown up with it.

"Is this a good silence or a bad silence?" Tony asks, pouring two glasses and handing him one. The liquid sparkles in the light, bubbles fizzing to the top. "Because I don't usually do this sort of thing, so…"

"Tony," Steve says, and then clears his throat because his voice has gone funny, "Tony, this is…wow. Just – thank you. You really didn't have to –"

"I know," Tony says, shrugging. "But I felt like it. Cheers?"

They catch each other's eyes as they clink glasses, and Steve laughs, looking away before he can start feeling embarrassed.

"I, uh, should have changed clothes," he said, taking a seat. "I didn't realise this was…happening."

"Of course you didn't, it was surprise," Tony says, sitting down next to him. "And don't worry, you're rocking the whole sweatpants look. Very, ah, casual-chic."

"Shut up," Steve says, bumping Tony's knee with his own. "Just because you were born in a suit."

Tony bumps back.

"That is because there's only one person who should be running around in their birthday suit right now and that is not me," he says, and Steve rolls his eyes. It's a technique he finds generally effective against Tony's more lewd comments, and it is much better than constantly blushing.

He takes a sip of wine – champagne, like they had during their first proper dinner together – and Tony does the same after a slight pause. They can see Stark Tower from here, clear against the night sky.

"I can't believe you left your own party," Steve says, and Tony laughs.

"Sometimes I don't even turn up," he says. "And I really only held this one to annoy some people." He shrugs. "After awhile I'm not that much of a party person either, I guess." He pauses, drinking again. "Must be getting old."

"I'm the one who's getting older here," Steve says. "Don't steal my moment."

"Oh please," Tony says. "You're like an old soul in a model's body. It's not fair."

Steve hopes the night is hiding whatever his expression is, and he drinks more champagne to avoid answering – which kind of backfires because it warms his insides despite being chilled.

"Besides," Tony says, looking at Steve. "I have spent enough birthdays alone to know it's pretty shitty without some company. Right?"

Steve looks back at him, thinking about it, and nods, slowly.

"Guess so," he says. "I mean…it's hard, July 4th is kind of America's birthday and that usually takes precedence, which is fine, but I don't really crowds, so…"

"Yeah, me neither," Tony says. "But screw America, your birthday is totally a bigger deal."

Steve laughs.

"Sure it is," he says. "Everybody all over the country is setting off fireworks in my honor."

"Well l will be," Tony says, and then claps a hand over his mouth. "Dammit," he says. "I wasn't supposed say that."

"No brain to mouth filter, right?" Steve says, smiling. "You've mentioned it before."

"Yeah, pretty much," Tony says, lowering his hand. "Hey, you want to cut the cake?"

He produces a very funny looking candle and sticks it in, and it lights up in an explosion of gold sparks, making Steve jump.

"Sorry," Tony says, not looking sorry at all. "I kind of invented it last night and thought it would be fun to try."

"Do I…blow it out?" Steve asks, staring at it. It's burning like a mini firework, but doesn't seem to be running out or harming the cake in any way.

"You can try," Tony says, and Steve leans forward, staring at it before closing his eyes and blowing. Tony laughs, and Steve opens his eyes to find the candle still burning.

"An invincible candle," he says, and Tony nods, also leaning in to look at it.

"Well, you can still eat the cake," he says, pulling the candle out and setting it on the table. "Whoops, now there's a giant hole in it. Sorry."

"That's totally fine," Steve says, and he can't seem to stop smiling as he cuts the cake and plates them. It has more layers than that Inception movie, and Steve has to lick icing off his fingers when he tries to eat it.

Tony eats like he's on a mission, and gets cream in his goatee. Steve points it out and laughs when Tony tries to wipe it off but keeps missing.

The candle is still burning as they devour the cake. Tony puts down his plate and sits back, checking his watch as he does so.

"It's time," he says, and Steve straightens, looking around.

"Fireworks?" he asks, and Tony nods.

"New York is about to see a whole new side of Stark Fireworks," he says, and Steve can almost hear the tm on the end. Their knees bump again, and Steve leans in, looking at Tony's watch.

"Three…two….one –"

Stark Tower lights up like a switch has been flicked, fireworks shoot out, expanding across the sky in red, white and blue. Steve sits up, head back, watching the clusters of colour fall in sparkling lines, more fireworks going off before the first ones can fade.

He's never seen anything quite like it. Gold patterns pinwheel above the buildings as each level of Stark Tower sends out a different set, one after the other, a multitude of colors flying upwards and exploding like stars. Steve can hear them crackling and fizzling from where he's sitting, the whistle of the larger ones as they shoot up to spell USA.

"Tony, they're –" Steve looks back down, strangely breathless, and discovers that Tony's looking straight at him. "They are absolutely…"

"It's nice to see someone can still appreciate beautiful things," Tony says, though he makes no move to look up.

"What, have you lost that ability?" Steve says, not looking away either, even as more fireworks light up the night in two second bursts.

"Oh, I don't think so," Tony says, and his fingers brush against Steve's, their arms touching between the chairs. "I still appreciate you, after all."

Steve finds that he has nothing to say to that, because now he can see the fireworks in Tony's eyes, brighter than all the lights in the city. Tony's fingers tangle with his own and it draws him forward – except that he doesn't really have to far move that far. Tony's eyes lower and so does Steve's, and it would be so easy just to close his eyes and…

There's a shrieking over head – another firework, no doubt, the biggest one – but neither of them look up. Steve doesn't think he could pull away even if he wanted to, which isn't a surprise because he can barely breathe. It feels like there are sparklers against his skin, setting off in his chest, and there's only one thing to –

The night flashes against his eyelids, blinding him like a sudden burst of sun, and Steve jerks back looking around, just in time to see Stark Tower explode into a fireball.

It's like watching a monster devouring a stick of candy. The top of the Tower is burning, tongues of flame shooting out from the sides. They can hear the roar of the fire even from this distance, the way the smoke is smothering the sky already, spreading out over the city. Debris is falling, massive chunks dropping into the streets below, and there is nothing, nothing they can do.

Tony is on his feet now, Steve with him because their hands are still tangled together. Tony's fingers are gripping his like a vice, numbingly cold. Steve tears his eyes away from the Tower to look at him, and finds Tony speechless for the first time.

___________________

Tony doesn't reply till Tuesday, which is fine, it really is – except that Steve has to physically turn off his phone and sit on his hands for awhile.

He also now has a plastic bag full of drugs in the kitchen.

He assumes they're drugs, of course, but that leaves a wide range of explanations and even more questions. He'd like to think it's all above board if an agent gave them to Tony (and through Pepper, of course, who just shone with trustworthiness), but you never knew…

Maybe it was a medical thing.

Maybe Steve shouldn't think about that.

_ _ _

"Sir, Mr Rogers called while you were in Malibu. Would you like to return the call?"

Tony stops in the kitchen, rolling a bottle of ibuprofen between his hands. He was usually okay with cross-country flights, but his head was aching and he really needed to sleep.

Maybe he was getting old.

Maybe he just needed that package.

"Why didn't you tell me when I was there?" Tony asks. His voice echoes in the empty room.

"I did, sir, but you were rather intoxicated at the time. I thought it would be in your best interests not to answer the call. Was I wrong?"

Tony sighs, rubbing his forehead.

"No, you weren't, of course you weren't," he mutters, pulling a chair towards him and sitting down. He feels cold; but he's not sure if that's him or just the entire house. Maybe coming back to New York had been a mistake. Or maybe he shouldn't have left it in the first place. "Okay, patch me through."

"Maybe you should rest first," JARVIS says, and his voice sounds almost concerned. "I am detecting abnormal levels of –"

"I'm fine," Tony says, cutting him off. "Just call him, okay?"

"As you wish," JARVIS says, and phone begins to ring, clear over the speakers.

"– oh, crap – I mean, hi! Hello?"

"You alright there?" Tony asks, smiling despite himself. "Did I interrupt something?"

"No, no, I just nearly dropped the phone, sorry," Steve says, and Tony can almost hear him blushing. "So…you got my message, then? The person who answered your phone said you were out of state –"

"JARVIS is not a person," Tony says, smiling at that too. "But yeah, I was away for a couple of days. How've you been?"

It's only after he's said it that Tony realises how strange that question sounds, coming out of his mouth. Must be because he doesn't ask it all that much.

"Fine, thanks. Good trip?"

"Meh," Tony says, resting his head on his hand. "Just business stuff, boring as hell. California was good, though."

"Cool," Steve says, and his voice shifts. "I've never been."

"What, to California?" Tony asks, feeling his eyebrows rise. "Seriously?"

"I've never actually been out of New York," Steve says, clearing his throat. "Anyway, I have your…bag from the other night. If you were wondering where it is."

"Oh, yeah," Tony says, even as his stomach drops and his heart nose-dives with it, making him rub at his chest. "My mistake. I can send Happy to pick it up." That plan doesn't sound as good as it usually does, but Tony's not sure why.

"I can drop it off at your apartment if it's more convenient," Steve says, and Tony narrows his eyes before he remembers it's Steve, and he was the sort of person who could teach classes on genuine sincerity.

"I feel like I'm taking advantage of you –" another unusual phrase for Tony; normally it was the other way around or he just didn't care, "– but I'll be in the city on…Thursday. You free sometime then? You know, with your one million and one jobs?"

"I'm sure I can fit you in somewhere," Steve says, and Tony can imagine him smiling too. "Around...three o'clock, maybe?"

They settle on a time and say goodbye, the call ending with a distinct click. Silence again, settling through Tony like ice; he blames the house. He can feel his heart tapping against his ribcage.

"I was not aware that you were planning to be in Manhattan on Thursday, sir," JARVIS says, and his voice system must have improved to pull off that tone. "Miss Potts did recommend that you stay upstate to rest after the Malibu trip. Agent Coulson also asks that you check in personally with him –"

"Oh God, that's it, I'm definitely going on Thursday," Tony says, looking for something to down the painkillers with. "JARVIS…"

"Yes, sir?"

Tony purses his lips, hand hovering above his glass. He tries to form a question, or questions, but there are so many that none come to mind.

"…never mind," he says finally, and the tablets taste bitter on his tongue, lingering long after they're gone.

_ _ _

It's been a week since he'd first met Tony, and here he was again, riding up in the elevator. Steve tries to smooth down his hair in the mirror, but it only makes the vials rattle around in the plastic bag. The air-con was going full-blast, but his shirt still feels too tight; too done-up.

The lift stops, and he gets out, mentally pep-talking his way to the door. He raises a hand, hesitating above the doorbell. It shouldn't be this hard –

"Good afternoon, Mr Rogers," a voice says, and Steve nearly drops the bag. It was the same voice which had answered his first phone call – the British accent was unmistakable – but there was nobody there. "Please wait while I notify Mr Stark."

"…thank you?" Steve says, craning his neck. Hidden speakers? Private intercom? Slightly creepy secretary?

After several minutes, the door swings open, and Steve is met by a rather manic-looking Tony wearing only a tank top and grey sweatpants. His hair is sticking up in all directions and there's a smudge on his left cheek.

"Hey," he says. "JARVIS didn't scare you, did he? He's my AI."

"Oh," Steve says, mind turning immediately to every movie he's ever seen with artificial intelligences. Hm. "He's…very good."

"I know," Tony says, smiling. "You want to come in?"

Steve opens his mouth, and what comes out is –

"The bag broke."

The words sound like a confession, and Steve really does feel guilty; stomach flipping as Tony goes still, eyes falling on the plastic bag in Steve's hand. Steve only sees the change in Tony's face because he's watching so closely: the way the energy freezes like colour draining out of a painting, the way Tony's jaw tightens even as he maintains his expression.

"I'm really sorry," Steve says, like he's now pleading his case. "Thor – my dog – he got hold of it and I tried to get it off him but the bag split and…nothing broke, I'm pretty sure –"

He bites his lip, almost scared to look at Tony for fear of confirmation. The plastic bag knocks against his leg, and he holds it out like he's handing over a bomb.

"Well, that's something," Tony says, and his voice sounds normal; almost too much so. "Thanks."

He reaches out, and for a second the vials are suspended between them, like a held breath, before Steve lets go and Tony takes them.

"You know, it was sort of awkward having them there," Steve says, because he'd been holding it in for days and now he was finally here… "Because I have this friend who's a cop –"

Tony looks at him so sharply that Steve stops.

"You were going to call the police?" he asks, eyebrows rising. "And here was me thinking you were just going to tweet this."

"I wasn't going to call the police," Steve says, crossing his arms. "And I don't even have a twitter."

"Uh huh," Tony says, doing the same. "What were you going to do, then?"

"I…I don't know, it was just awkward not knowing what they were," Steve says, shrugging, hunching his shoulders in. It's moments like these when he wished he wasn't so damn big; it would give Tony less of a target to pinpoint with his stare.

"Ah," Tony says, quietly. "So you want answers."

"I…" Steve looks away, because yes, that was basically it, but it sounded so rude. "I mean, it's none of my business –"

"It isn't," Tony says, and it feels like a slap and sounds like a slammed door. Steve draws back, ready to leave, but not knowing how to without offending Tony even more than he already has. Tony's still looking at him with the same unreadable expression, one hand gripping the bag, the other rubbing his jaw. His fingers smudge the stain on his cheek, and Steve focuses on that instead.

"Oh, for God's sake," Tony says, and Steve looks up, not sure what to expect but dreading it all the same, "Just…come in, it's awkward having you just standing there." He steps aside, and gestures for Steve to move. "Honestly, you looked like an overgrown puppy."

"I do not," Steve says, not moving. "But it's okay, I mean it, I can just go –"

"In," Tony says, before adding, "please."

Steve moves.

Tony seemed to be renovating; there were boxes all over the floor and the room smelled like fresh paint and the science labs at school. There were also multiple screens floating at eye-level, which Tony pulls away with a flick of the wrist, leaving Steve ducking around thin air.

"Now this," Tony says, shutting the door behind them, "is what you call messy. I've never quite got the hang of apartments."

"It's very nice," Steve says, because it is; very large and polished, much swankier than his, for sure. "I didn't realise you had a house out of the city, though."

"Oh, yeah," Tony says, bare feet tapping against the tiles as he walks over to the kitchen. "It was my father's. I prefer the one in Malibu, though."

Steve finds himself frowning at this; he settles his expression so it's less judgmental. Tony was rich; of course he had multiple houses. Each one was probably worth more than Steve would ever earn.

"Look, Tony," he says, breaking the silence. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like –"

"I know you didn't," Tony says, waving a hand. "You're just ridiculous like that. Drink?"

"Uh, no, thanks," Steve says, not quite sure how to take that comment. Tony shrugs and puts down the glass, reaching into the plastic bag instead and taking out one of the silver canisters. Steve comes towards the bar, watching as Tony slots in one of the vials and secures it with a sharp click.

"Time for my party trick," Tony says, and raises his arm, turning his head to the side. His profile is silhouetted by the window behind him: the hard line of his jaw, the sharp curve of his neck, the set in his shoulders. He's smiling, but it's a manufactured expression; just a tilt of the mouth that hardens as he presses down on the canister and –

There's a sharp shock; like lightning in a bottle, and Tony's head jerks away; he swears through clenched teeth, harsh and hard, and his hand is shaking as he lowers his arm, placing the canister back on the table. It's over in seconds, but it imprints itself in the air; a tiny, infinite moment. The scene is caught between them, like the time has been frozen, and neither of them moves until Tony blinks and exhales.

"And that," he says, "was not medical marijuana."

It's like the ground has vanished from beneath Steve's feet, and his stomach has dropped like a stone whilst his heart has taken refuge in his throat. The only coherent thought in his brain is –

"Steve?" Tony says, leaning forwards. "Hey, I thought I was supposed to be the sick one here."

Steve tries to speak and has to clear his throat, trying to rearrange his expression back to neutral. The muscles in his face seem to have frozen.

"So it – it is…medical, then?" he asks.

"I can't tell if you're more worried about my health, or if I'm doing something illegal," Tony says, pouring himself a drink and downing it in one go. "Which, by the way, this is not."

"Oh, I didn't mean –" Steve stops, realizing how his question must have sounded, and then tries again. "I'm sorry, I'm shouldn't have assumed – it was just –"

"No, no, it's fine," Tony says, waving a hand. "I don't exactly have a reputation that can defend my case."

"Really?" Steve says, and Tony's eyebrows rise.

"Did I completely miss the sarcasm or do you honestly not know?" he asks, and Steve can just imagine Bucky's I told you so face in the back of his mind, coupled with his favourite phrase of keep up, grandpa.

"I…honestly don't know," Steve says. "Well – not really. Not the specifics, I guess. And doesn't the press always exaggerate things anyway? I'm sure you couldn't have that bad."

Tony is smiling so much that the corners of his eyes are crinkling, and he laughs when Steve finishes.

"You," he says, "are officially my new favourite person. Don't ever Google me, okay? Just keep up this lovely attitude, that'd be fantastic."

"Well I definitely have to go read up on you now," Steve says, smiling, and Tony shakes his head, leaning against the counter.

"Now that's not fair," he says, and his smile is somehow both smirking and serious at the same time. "You already know my dirty little secret." He flicks at the plastic bag, still full of vials, and then back up at Steve. "What about yours?"

_ _ _

Steve is late to his shift at the art store. Tony shows him around the apartment and they talk about interior designs and apartment renovations, settling into something that was almost comfortable again. Tony walks him to the elevator and they do the awkward uh yeah okay bye I'll call you? routine that seems mandatory in situations like these.

The doors close; the lift descends. Steve sags against the wall, closing his eyes so he can't see himself in the mirror.

Not again, he thinks, finally. Not. Again.

_ _ _

Steve, Steve, Steve...

Tony's still not quite sure what to make of him, especially not after the drugs incident – no, incident made it sound to serious. It hadn't been an incident, it had been a…

It had been disaster, really. How could he have been so stupid? Well, he had just been shot at the time; it was forgivable to have forgotten things. That was a valid argument in his defense, right?

And now Steve knew – well, he kind of knew. Kind of. And that was more than anybody else, apart from himself and a few select people in his life (the only people in his life, if he was brutally honest, which he didn't have any intention of being because the vodka was several steps too far away at the moment).

And his face –

Tony had forgotten people could care so much. It had reminded him of Pepper, the way his face was like an open book until he chose to close it. It had almost hurt, watching Steve watch him, and for once Tony was glad to be stabbed in the neck. It was a distraction, at least.

It was the aftermath, however, that interested Tony. He'd expected Steve to change; to look at him differently. It was like a side effect of illness – people treated you like a bomb inside an underfed child: to be feared but also pitied.

Steve had not. Simple as that, Steve had not. After the initial reaction, it was just Steve again, arguing over decorating plans and if that couch clashed with this carpet. To be fair, JARVIS drew up most of his house plans and Pepper finalized them, so Tony wasn't all that familiar with went on during renovations. He'd only been in this apartment around three times, and these visits had always linked to Steve, who was much more interesting than say, the colour of the wallpaper.

Steve was more interesting than most things, really. Tony wasn't going to lie – when he'd first seen Steve in sober daylight, he'd been more interested in how he sounded in bed than what he actually had to say (in his defense, people generally didn't say things that interested him. At all. So if they were pretty, he'd go with the bed option. And Steve had been very, very pretty).

And he still was, even if he frowned too much. To be fair, Tony hadn't given him many reasons to smile, what with bleeding out on the pavement and medicating himself rather violently in the kitchen. This probably wasn't the usual way to get to know people, but Tony had never really been conventional, had he? But Steve kind of looked like the traditional type, except for not freaking out about bullet wounds or illnesses, so –

"Tony," Pepper says, yawning through the speakers, "is there a reason why you need to talk about Steve at three in the morning?"

"I thought you wanted me to talk about things. And people. To people. You should be proud of me." Tony puts his feet up on the coffee table and skims through a report JARVIS has brought to his attention.

"Yes, but you're missing my emphasis on three in the morning. We're in the middle of some very important negotiations and I need my sleep more than I need this conversation."

"Ouch," Tony says, and Pepper snorts.

"You know it's because I have to think for the both of us, you big baby," she says, "since you refuse to pay attention." She pauses. "I am proud of you though. Steve is very nice."

"Do you think he's too nice?" Tony asks, sliding back into the subject.

"Well, I've only met him once," Pepper says. "And you had just been shot at the time, so…"

"He asked about my arm," Tony says. "And how the investigation's going. How is it going, by the way?"

"If you actually touched base with SHIELD when you're supposed to, you would know," Pepper says, and then pauses again. "Did you tell Steve about SHIELD?"

"Hm." Tony says, pursing his lips, fingers pausing on the screen in front of him. "Maybe?"

Pepper sighs, and Tony can hear the rustle of bed sheets.

"You know how they feel about that, Tony," she says.

"I only name-dropped it," Tony says. "It wasn't a big deal. All he knows is that they do my security – though they're obviously not doing a very good job if they still haven't found –"

"They're working on it," Pepper interrupts. "And it would've helped if you hadn't insisted on skiving off to Malibu –"

"I didn't skive off, what's the point of having that house if I don't use it, right? I think I deserved –"

"And I think I deserve Venice, but do I just take the plane and fly off for a couple of days? No!"

"Well, technically it's my plane, and I did offer –"

"Tony," Pepper says, because she was obviously the sensible, mature adult here, "You and I both need to sleep. So what is the real issue here, and can it wait till morning?"

There's another voice in the background, rather familiar, and then Pepper's muted one. Tony sits up, cocking his head to the side.

"Now now, Pepper," he says, drawing out his words. "That wouldn't be someone in your bed, would it? Is this why you're so eager to hang up?"

"Shut up, Tony," Pepper says, but her voice is less calm than before. "And go to sleep."

"Oh, no, this far more interesting," Tony says. "I'm sure I recognize that voice –"

"Indeed, Stark," says the other voice, and holy shit he was right, he knew it he knew it he'd known it –

"Natasha," he says, "So nice to hear from you so soon."

"Love to say the same, but I think that's Coulson's wish," she says, dry as ever. "If you don't report in soon, we'll have to come and get you. Personally."

"Hey, just because I interrupted your sex marathon –" Tony says, but there's a rustle and Pepper comes back online.

"Don't say anything," she says, even as Tony opens his mouth. "I am going to bed; you are going to bed."

"Is that all, Miss Potts?" Tony asks, and Pepper laughs. It's a reassuring sound.

"Yes, Mr Stark," she replies. "And Tony…"

"Uh huh?"

"Just call. Or text. You know, normal things. Like a normal person. It'll be good for you."

"But that sounds boring."

"You'd be surprised."

_ _ _

From Tony:

Hey. Steve.

From Steve:

Hi, how're you?

From Tony:

Booooooored.

From Steve:

Why, what're you doing?

Wait, maybe that was a bit redundant.

From Tony:

Nah, I'm in a business meeting. You?

From Steve:

I'm at the art store. Should you be texting during a meeting?

From Tony:

Should *you* be texting during work?

From Steve:

Touché. I think your meeting's a tad more important, though.

From Tony:

It really isn't. Mostly just Pepper being a badass and me trying not to fall asleep.

From Steve:

Pepper does your business deals for you?

From Tony:

I see you really haven't Googled me. Pepp's CEO of Stark Industries.

From Steve:

I did not know that. Googling you right now.

From Tony:

Nooooooooo

No, seriously, don't.

Steve.

Steeeve.

STEVE DON'T LOOK AT GOOGLE IMAGES OMG

From Steve:

Sorry, customer.

You're not supposed to tell me that if you don't want me to do it.

From Tony:

I'm counting on the fact that you're an honorable person who will respect my wishes.

From Steve:

What makes you think I'm such an honorable person?

From Tony:

Oh please. You're the most decent person I've ever met.

From Steve:

Maybe you just don't meet enough decent people.

From Tony:

Hm. Very true. It's ok, I have you to fill the quotaadfajdfiod;fkslf

From Steve:

Tony?

From Tony:

Hi Steve, this is Pepper. I've just confiscated Tony's phone because we're in the middle of a meeting. Sorry!

From Steve:

Oh, hi Pepper, sorry about that. Hope the meeting goes well.

From Tony:

Testing.

Hey.

HEY LOOK WHO JUST HACKED INTO THEIR OWN PHONE HAHA CAN'T BE TAMED

From Steve:

...'can't be tamed'?

I think you should concentrate on the meeting, Tony.

From Tony:

The decent thing has gone to your head, hasn't it. That is-

Asdfjaksdfua-23erifj8fh8ahdfsjacf

Pepepradofdnfoooooooooooo

If you two really want to talk JUST MEET UP AGAIN I AM TURNING OFF THIS PHONE TONY.

Meanie.

_ _ _

They do, in fact, meet up again. Tony insists that he owes Steve a dinner, so they go to a different place – more secluded but just as expensive – and eat the most heavenly food Steve has ever tasted (second only to his mother's, of course.)

He discovers that he quite likes champagne, coupled with seafood pasta and Tony laughing across the table. The restaurant is bathed in warm light, and Steve's not sure if it's that on the wine that's smoothing out all the rough edges, suspending the night in a golden glow.

Tony pays for dinner while Steve's in the bathroom, which is completely sneaky because he knew Steve would've wanted to split the bill. They catch a cab back together, and Steve pays for that instead.

They say goodnight on Steve's floor, and it feels different, somehow. Maybe because this was the first time they'd been together without anything drastic happening.

"Thanks for dinner," Steve says, getting out of the elevator. He'd been feeling slightly sleepy in the taxi, but he was now acutely awake; almost painfully so. Must be because the lights were so bright.

"Pleasure's mine," Tony says, waving a hand. "Kudos to us for not ending up in hospital this time."

"Absolutely," Steve says, and then there's a lull as both of them smile but say nothing, which drags into silence as Steve realise it's the first time they've actually stopped talking all night.

"So, uh –"

"Yeah, that was –"

Tony takes a step forward, still in the elevator but only just, and Steve draws back almost unconsciously because wow, they were a lot closer than he'd thought. Tony's head tilts, and then he smiles again.

"Well, goodnight, Steve," he says, and then the door slides shut before Steve can reply properly, leaving him in the middle of his sentence.

He watches the numbers flick upwards, and has the insane urge to run up after it.

_ _ _

They bump into each other in the lobby a few days later, and Steve ends up in Tony's apartment because Tony had just brought in an art collection to put up and wanted a second opinion.

They met again a day after because Tony had decided to give Steve the art collection.

"Tony, I can't possibly –" Steve says as Tony shuffles into his apartment with several crates.

"Hey, we both agreed that they did not go with my carpet," Tony says, and dumps the boxes on Steve's couch.

"The wallpaper, you mean," Steve says, rescuing the art before Tony can handle them with any less care.

"Yeah, that," Tony says. "Anyway, you like them, right?"

"Well…yes," Steve says. He likes the collection a lot, but he's not about to admit that.

"Then what's the problem?" Tony says, and Steve finds himself with a thousand dollars worth of new art and absolutely no argument.

_ _ _

"Steve, is there something you're not telling me?"

Darcy corners him towards the end of their shift; glasses perched sternly on her nose.

"Your phone's been going off a whole lot more than usual, and the only reason you get away with it is because of your flawless track record and your inherent ability to bring in all the customers," she says. "So come on, spill."

"It's nothing, Darcy," Steve says, wiping down the counter. There were still a few people coming in, placing last minute orders. "I just forgot to turn it off."

"And you've just forgotten to turn it off for the past week or so?" Darcy says, eyebrow rising. Steve concentrates on the coffee machine, but he can still feel Darcy staring.

"What?" he says, after a few minutes. Darcy narrows her eyes, and then breaks out into a slow smile. Steve is immediately wary.

"Okay," Darcy says, grinning now. "What's their name?"

"What's whose name?" Steve says, giving her the coffee cup.

"Don't play dumb," Darcy says, writing the customer's name on the side. "The name of your oh-so-secret significant other, of course. Come on. Boy or girl? Younger or older? Hot? Smart? Hopefully both?"

"Don't jump to – Darcy! What are you writing?" Steve is thankful for the distraction but also incredibly horrified. Darcy rolls her eyes.

"Calm down, grandpa," she says, holding up the coffee cup. "It says Clint, not Cunt."

_ _ _

Unfortunately, Bucky seems to have the same idea.

"I can see the headlines already," he says, stretching out on Steve's couch with a beer in hand. "Stark Billionaire Snags New Boy Toy. You'd better watch out, Stevie."

"Don't call me that," Steve says, flicking the back of Bucky's head as he passes.

"What, Stevie or boy toy?" Bucky asks, grinning. "Because I think they both suit you quite nicely."

"You're a terrible person." Steve says, sitting down next to him. Thor circles around their legs before putting his head on Steve's knee. "I'm not going to tell you anything if you're going to be like this."

"So something is happening?" Bucky says, sitting up. Steve rolls his eyes.

"I'll tell you about Tony if you tell me about Natasha," he says, "and SHIELD."

Bucky pauses, side-eyeing Steve as he takes a swig of his beer.

"I suppose Tony told you about that," he says finally, and Steve nods.

"Naughty," Bucky mutters, and Steve leans forward. Bucky shakes his head. "Oh no, don't give me that look, Steve. I know you too well."

"I'll stop if you tell me," Steve says, but Bucky just shakes his head again.

"Legally, I can't," he says, and Steve sighs, crossing his arms. "No, Steve, I mean it. It's just…work. You're blowing this out of proportion. But don't go nosing after it, okay? I know what you're like."

"And I suppose Natasha is just work as well?" Steve asks, and Bucky pulls a face.

"Yes…and no," he says. "I met her down at The Red Room – you know, that bar on 52nd which serves Russian wine like water."

"And that's all."

"Yes, that's – hey, who's jumping to conclusions now? I'm not the boy toy here, alright? I have a girlfriend, thank you very much." He nudges Steve with his foot. "That reminds me – Connie wants to know if you're coming over for dinner on Friday. See, I'm not the only one missing your presence."

"I thought you both wanted me to get a life," Steve says, and Bucky smiles.

"And what a life you've suddenly gotten, huh?" he says, and he reaches out and squeezes Steve's shoulder. "I'm happy for you, man."

"What? Why?" Steve asks. Bucky shrugs; leans back.

"I just am."

He doesn't need to say more.

_ _ _

Before he leaves, Bucky asks if Steve's still up for a run the next morning. Steve says no for the first time in months. Bucky just smiles, and pulls him into a hug.

He doesn't need to say anything at all, this time.

_ _ _

Steve doesn't go for a run; he puts on his only suit and takes a train out of the city instead.

He buys a bunch of flowers, different from the last, and the florist smiles at him as she wraps them up. He wonders how many faces she recognizes, and how many return.

Then he walks to the cemetery.

Steve's not sure if this was normal, but he rather likes this cemetery. It's a tidy little place, tucked in behind the church. The gate always opens smoothly and the grass is always neatly cut. The statues are comforting instead of creepy, and they stand guard as he walks between them. Nothing seems to have changed.

There's one headstone in the far corner that seems separate from the rest. Steve stops in front of it, his shoes marking the grass. He feels like he should say something, but the day is too quiet to be interrupted. He leans down instead, and places the flowers on the grave. The headstone is showing its age, the engraved words less pronounced than before. He reaches out and touches it, running his fingers along the carvings.