Archive of Our Own

Tony didn't turn around when he heard footsteps approach the common room. He already knew who it was without even having to check the Mountain's internal scanners, because only one Avenger moved with that much purpose and that clear a rhythm in his steps. Tony called out "Morning, Steve," and hid his smirk in the nearest tree branch.

"It's irritating that you always know it's me," Steve declared. His distinctive footsteps quietened as he drew up to watch what Tony was doing. "Do I even want to ask what you're doing?"

Tony didn't move away from his task. "I'm checking our Christmas tree for bugs."

"Oh," Steve said, ever eloquent. "The A-force techs finished installing that new biological-matter scanner in the med lab yesterday; I can carry the tree up there for you, that might save you some time?"

"Sweet of you to offer, Cap. I didn't mean that kind of bug." Tony waved the small device in his hand in Steve's direction for a moment.

"Oh." Steve never saw the problem in repeating outfits or words. "Find any?"

"Not yet." Tony returned his attention to the tree, holding the device over the next set of branches and carefully moving it along. The light stayed green. "Doesn't mean there isn't one."

"Why are you—?"

"Because of where the tree came from."

"Maybe we should consider shopping at a different lot if this one delivers trees with bugs in them."

"That's what I love about you, Rogers," Tony raised his voice so he could be heard over the rustling of the branches, "your unceasing pragmatism. Ah. A-ha. There you are." Tony emerged from the tree, face reddened from scraping past a myriad of pine needles in search of his quarry, and he held up the device in a victorious pose. "Tada!"

It was the first time Tony had looked at Steve since his entrance into the room. Steve's face, a combination of pleasing angles and a brightness that always spoke to Tony of earnestness and life, seemed a little ruddy. Perhaps he'd been chasing T'challa's robo-panthers again on the higher levels.

Steve moved his earnest face closer to the small device. "What am I looking at?"

That was another thing Tony liked about Steve Rogers. None of the pretense of businessmen that had too-often drowned Tony in his younger years, an unceasing parade of toadies kissing up to Tony's reputation and money. Steve Rogers said what he meant. You could trust what he said, and Tony did, often and implicitly.

Not always. Sometimes Steve would get a madness upon him, a stubborn idea that stuck in his head; a maniacal intensity that couldn't be shaken or beaten loose. Tony couldn't relate. Ha.

"A bug," Tony said. Steve pulled a face, exaggerated enough that should the childhood lie about wind changing ring true, he'd have to skip the next batch of official Avengers photoshoots. Not that they did that often, and even less so now they were a truly independent outfit. "A bug trapped in a box."

"A bug you trapped in that box."

"Precisely." Tony took pity on Steve. "We get the tree every year as a gift from Latveria, in return for—I honestly don't remember. It may have been the Dark Dimension invasion. Or perhaps it was a bribe to stop us continually abusing his time platform. Anyway. We're promised the most Doomesque tree in return for our services to Latveria."

"Doomesque?"

"Latverian slang for cool," Tony resumed his sweep of the tree, pushing the device back into the thick branches. "If you believe that sort of propaganda." Tony did not, although a few years ago he might have, but that was before the Latverian media machine tried its best last year to insist goodbye meant "Gall, Outrage and Oppose Doom Because You'reall Extremelybadpeople."

"Latveria sends us a Christmas tree every year," Steve sounded out the concept slowly.

"That's it."

"And they come bugged."

"Sometimes." Tony probably sounded more cheerful than he should be.

"And we don't...burn them to the ground as soon as they arrive?"

"And cause a diplomatic incident? That's a brave idea. Fetch the extinguisher, I can summon the suit, a handy repulsor blast should cause a good enough conflagration—" Tony looked at Steve then, taking pity on him again; Steve did look a little stunned. "I believe Doom thinks it would be rude not to bug the tree. An insult to our intelligence."

"I don't mind being insulted if it means not being spied on."

"Another four minutes and we can avoid both."

"Four minutes," Steve repeated. He paused. "I'll go get us something hot to drink."

Tony made a noise under his breath; he was pretty sure that Steve had known him long enough to understand that grunt as the combined affirmative and appreciative response it was. Tony refocused on scanning, logically moving around the tree in a clockwise motion, continuing his upward progress. It was easier as he rose, the circumference of the tree narrowing, the density of the branches lessening.

By the time Tony was at the top of the tree, balancing on a folding ladder to reach the crown, Steve was walking back through the door with two mugs balanced easily in his hands, striding forward like the idea of spilling the contents was an impossibility. It couldn't have been Steve's intention to make Tony feel suddenly awkward, like all his limbs were the wrong length and walking was as difficult as skating on ice, but just one glimpse of Steve's easy grace always managed to evoke the sensation anyway.

Abruptly aware that he was a person made of nerve endings and muscular contractions, Tony climbed down the ladder as slowly as he dared without making it obvious Steve had ruffled him. Time had done nothing to Steve's ability to affect him like that. After years of fighting alongside him, and too-often against him, Tony had resigned himself to the fact that his skin would probably permanently hum in Steve's presence. His body was attuned to that particular radio station and always would be.

Extremis had felt like an extension of the sensation, and sometimes, Tony still felt an ache for it, even in this completely new bioengineered shell he called his body. Being around Steve felt like a call, the kind of call that Extremis used to provide answers for. Tony would have to continue to grow accustomed to that lack of a response; it wasn't like a manual existed that could tell someone how to cope with Phantom Operating System Syndrome.

Tony managed to exit the enticing whirlpool of internal regrets threatening to overwhelm him in time for Steve to get close enough to hand over one of the mugs; their fingers grazed as Steve passed one to him. Tony's fingertips felt the spark and ignited him with it; he clenched the mug too-tightly in compensation, to help him focus on remembering how to stand and smile and act like a regular human. A character to comfortably assume, so Steve couldn't peer too closely and realize Tony was performing the role of a lifetime: aka, man who was not helplessly in love with his best friend. He should have the muscle memory for it down already; he'd been playing a version of this character for nearly a decade and a half now.

"All the bugs squashed?" Steve asked, stepping back to gaze at the empty Christmas tree, his gaze narrowing like he could maybe spot one of Doom's nanotech creations with just his naked eye. If anyone could do it, Tony considered, it would probably be Steve Rogers.

"They're all fried and neutralized," Tony said. He put the device on the edge of the nearby table so he could put both hands around the mug. The ceramic surface was still hot, even though the kitchen was several floors above and Steve had taken the stairs, both up and down again. More of that beneficial super-soldier strength and speed rearing its head. "Thanks for this."

"My pleasure," Steve said.

Tony wasn't sure how running up and down stairs for a drink counted as pleasure, but he wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth, or a mug of hot, free coffee in its glorious glossy black surface.

"Don't look too pleased," Steve warned him. "It's decaffeinated."

Tony shot him an arch look over the top of the mug. "It's free coffee. Fetched for me. Who complains about that?"

"Some people do."

"Not me."

Steve glanced at the tree. "Thought it was best, considering the time."

"You're up at this time, before you judge me."

"I suppose that's true. I keep getting my timezones mixed up here, that's all."

"I keep forgetting where we are too," Tony pulled a wry face. "I thought I'd be up early enough to get this done before anyone woke up. Well, it's been a good enough run, I guess."

"A good enough run of—bug sweeping?" Steve's eyebrows knotted in open confusion.

"Well, yes, that. And the tree itself. I like the drama of it. Everyone goes to bed, no tree. Everyone wakes up—" Tony gestured illustratively. "Tree." He sipped at his coffee and regarded Steve calmly. "I suppose I could still partially maintain the surprise, if you go to bed now. Then you can still be surprised by how I decorate it this year."

"You're doing it yourself this year?"

"I—decorate the Avengers Christmas tree every year?"

Steve's face creased like he was having to puzzle through an unexpected math problem. "I guess I always assumed you brought people in to do it."

"All by hand." Tony clapped Steve on the shoulder with a spare hand in illustration, companionably squeezing his shoulder for a second before letting go. "But I'll take it as a compliment that you think my decorating can masquerade as professional."

"But—you do it alone? Every year?"

There was a hint of something in Steve's voice that sounded like dismay. "Yes," Tony said, drawing out the syllable, eyes sliding up to meet Steve's gaze in trepidation. Was Steve angry? An angry Steve was never a pleasant Steve to deal with. An angry Steve spelled weeks of slammed doors and passive aggression during fights and cold quips in the meeting room.

"You could have asked me to help," Steve said. There was a thread of something through his voice that Tony couldn't identify and Steve's expression was carefully blank.

"But then you wouldn't have had that warm moment of surprise on seeing the tree." Tony shrugged. "I don't mind the task. It's nice to contribute something to the season before work bogs me down. This week in December tends to be the only time my schedule isn't squeezing the life out of me."

"I just—I don't think I like the idea of you doing this alone, in the small hours of the night, year-in, year-out." Steve put his mug down and squared his shoulders. "Now the cat's out of the bag, you have to let me help."

Tony barked an amused sound that could be a laugh. It was a little bitter. "Oh, I have to?" He carefully waited until Steve opened his mouth, ready to splutter, before crashing over him with, "I don't suppose I'd mind some help this year."

Steve huffed quietly. "You always say things in the nicest of ways."

Tony beamed like it was a brilliant compliment. "I already moved the crates to one of the storage closets. Help me get them out?"

"Sure," Steve said, his voice low and easy.

"Let me get that one," Steve offered; it was nice that he'd only paused for a few moments while he watched Tony struggle.

Tony lowered his arms and turned his head to squint at Steve in the dim light of the storage closet. Steve was smirking. Tony probably couldn't blame him. "I got it up there to start with."

"Mmmhmm," Steve murmured, starting to shuffle so they could swap places.

"It's heavy," Tony added.

The closet was dark and small, but not too dark that Tony couldn't see the amused expression Steve angled at him. "I think I can manage," Steve said. The amusement was in his tone, too. Super strength, of course. Sometimes Steve was so solid and real it was difficult to remember how spectacularly unreal he was.

"I'm just saying," Tony said. He could hear the mulishness in his own tone, but he hadn't been able to erase it in time. There was something about Steve that had him permanently off-kilter. Still, it was the best move, and Tony had been wearing his armor at the time in order to lift the crates on his own; he didn't have the armor on right now, so moving to let Steve pick it up was the smartest option.

There were plenty of these storage nooks that T'Challa's architects had ended up building into the mountain, but the Celestial's inners weren't exactly uniform; the Wakandans had done their best with the shapes they'd been forced to work in. The little closets fulfilled their purpose, but they probably weren't designed to store two bulky superheroes in at once. There wasn't all that much room to swap places, but it hadn't occurred to Steve to step outside the closet itself to make the switch. It hadn't occurred to either of them. The problem of it being such a small space hadn't quite yet become apparent; they'd alternated getting the crates out, until Tony started to struggle with the last one, and Steve entered to see what was taking him so long.

Problem seemed like the right word, Tony thought, because as he shuffled aside, awkwardly negotiating the small space, Steve put a hand on Tony's hip to help him turn in the right direction to make it work more easily. Tony opened his mouth to mutter an automatic protest at being man-handled, but the words died in his throat, a lump of intention that got stuck, because Steve was close. So close. Tony couldn't explain what was happening for a moment. Something had happened to gravity, or the thermostat, or the floor was shifting beneath them, or—something. Problem, trouble, not normal. Definitions thumped through Tony's brain and then disappeared. Steve was close, and they were staring at each other, and Tony's skin was static electricity; Tony's body was genetically manufactured perfection, so why did it suddenly feel like his old chestplate was clamping down on him, digging spikes into his heart?

There wasn't much space between their faces, Tony realized. It would only take the slightest movement. It would only take the slightest moment of bravery. He could close his eyes and press forward and they—they would be kissing. Tony would be kissing Steve. Was that a thought that he should be having during a waking hour? He didn't know. Words felt impossible. Steve's lips were parted a little and his chest was heaving like he'd run a mile, like he wanted Tony to kiss him, and Tony felt warmth rush through him. He wasn't in a closet; he was standing on a precipice, wasn't he?

"Tony," Steve said, and his voice sounded rough, and Tony had to be imagining that, surely? Tony clenched one hand into a fist, digging his nails into his palm. He felt so unreal that he needed the sharp pain of it. It was wishful thinking. It had to be.

"I'll hold the door open," Tony said rapidly, and side-stepped fully out of Steve's way toward the door. He had to move fast, lest he take his wishful thinking and run with it. It had to just be fanciful daydreaming kicking in, because as he pushed the door open with one heel, he also managed to hallucinate a disappointed expression on Steve's face.

Steve lifted the crate down easily and Tony tried not to stew over that fact; he levied his dismay at his overactive imagination by bossing Steve around, directing him where to put that crate, and which decoration to start with first. Out in the bigger room, with space between them, reality was easier to grasp onto.

Tony let Steve struggle untangling the lights for five minutes before stepping in to rescue him; he tried to tell himself that it was because he was enjoying the equalization of their inadequacies, not because he was still rattled by imagining Steve might have wanted to kiss him.

"Let me, I've had practice," Tony suppressed a smirk, taking over the task as Steve apologetically stepped aside. "Barton somehow figured out I was pretty good with wires. Do you know how many times he summoned me over to his apartment to untangle his entertainment system?"

Steve flashed him a cool, skeptical glance as he headed for the box of decorations that Tony was unwrapping, taking over the job of carefully peeling bubble wrap from the items packed within. "Um—should the question be how many times until you snapped and took scissors to it?"

Tony stopped suppressing his smirk. "You know me too well. Only it wasn't scissors." Steve looked confused until Tony held up his hand, palm forward.

Steve quirked a smile at that. "So that's why he was bitching a few years back about how to paint over scorch marks.”

"Well. Let's just say it's not the first time I've shot at Clint's head for recreational purposes."

"You two are supposed to be on the same side, y'know."

"He's the one who decided to start out our interactions declaring me his arch-nemesis." Tony paused as he finished untangling the lights. "Or should that have been archer nemesis?"

Steve just shook his head in amusement.

After testing the lights and wrapping them around the tree, Tony levered the lid off the next box and pulled a face. He'd left a list for Bethany to finish acquiring some of the things he needed – fresh tinsel was always necessary, because somehow it never survived the season – but apparently she'd added mistletoe into the mix and there was a tray of it nestled above the tinsel with a post-it note saying "Enjoy!" Maybe he should fire her, especially because she'd added a little pink-highlighter heart to the note, but that would be a mean thing to do considering the season. And also dumb, because despite the Controller incident, Bethany was the best damn Head of Security he'd had for a long time. Tony pulled out a sprig and frowned at it.

Tony squinted over at Steve. "Mistletoe, yes or no?"

"Uh," Steve said, helpfully. "Is it a good idea?"

Tony shrugged. "Is anyone dating anyone at the moment?"

Steve's shoulders squared as he seemed to be very interested in checking a bauble for blemishes. "Aren't you and Jan—?"

Tony pulled a wry face. "Not really. We weren't anything formal. Besides, she’s adopted a handful of teenagers, and doesn't have time for anything fun, so we're just… friends. We're friends. It's good."

Steve frowned at that like he didn't fully believe it, but looked up for his next question. "Weren't Jen and Thor a thing?"

Tony shrugged. "Hm. I did wander in on Jen and Blade necking last week, so either she and Thor are no longer a thing, or they're a thing where kissing other people is okay, which doesn't render mistletoe as a bad idea."

"Carol and Rhodey—?"

"Yeah, Carol might not be too impressed," Tony narrowed his eyes at the mistletoe. "That probably shouldn't make me more inclined to hang it."

Steve laughed.

"How about you?" Tony asked. He wasn't quite brave enough to look at Steve directly as he asked; he gathered a bundle of the mistletoe together instead, sniffing at it tentatively, tugging at the ribbon the bunch was tied with like it might unravel easily.

"Oh, you know me," Steve huffed a half-bitter laugh. "It's probably for the best." Single, then, Tony surmised. Steve cleared his throat. "I'm sorry about you and Jan," Steve added, because he was never not going to change the subject when conversation skirted close to his vulnerabilities.

"I'm sorry for my stock prices," Tony said, glibly, because he was never not going to resort to humor when conversation edged too close to pain. "And I'm sorry she's not here right now, because she could fly this right up to the rafters for us."

"Because you can't fly," Steve said.

"I'm lazy," Tony said, which was a blatant lie, and they both knew it, or Tony wouldn't be up at this time of the morning trimming a tree, but Steve let the lie pass and Tony was glad. There had been an early holiday season when Tony had tried to decorate the tree while in the armor, and Tony had been glad no one had been around to see it, because surprisingly enough, bootjets and flammable foliage weren't always a great combination.

"So, no mistletoe then?"

Tony tossed the bundle of mistletoe and glanced around the room consideringly. "I think I'm gonna put some up by the main door, just to be a brat. Come hold the ladder for me?"

Steve didn't stop Tony, probably realizing it was useless to try, but he did continue to look dubious as he steadied the ladder.

"Out with it," Tony said, lifting up the bunch up to the door frame and securing it with a piece of duct tape, a.k.a. the substance that kept the universe together.

"Just—the location. I thought maybe you'd put it in the corner, if you were gonna hang it. Here's dangerous." Steve squinted up at Tony. "Anyone could end up underneath."

"That's true," Tony said cheerfully. "Lucky for us, there's not a single unattractive Avenger on the roster at the moment."

Steve pulled a noise which either meant he hated that Tony had said something like that, or maybe he didn't like the implication that they'd ever had an unattractive Avenger. It was true, Tony thought idly, that superpowers tended to land squarely on the conventionally beautiful. They suffered for it, enough; maybe the pretty faces were compensation, the result of some sort of cosmic karmic balancing for all the shit they went through.

"Can you say the same about the Agents of Wakanda? You wanna kiss Blade? Gorilla-Man?"

Tony whistled under his teeth as he started to descend the ladder, because maybe Steve had a point. "That would be worse than a case of stache rash, that's for sure."

"Anyone," Steve repeated, lecturing with impunity, "even me."

Tony grinned at him. "You should be so lucky." He dusted his hands on his pants and ushered for Steve to fold up the ladder; he took it from him as he grinned up at his handiwork. Anyone coming into this room would be surprised by it. It was an excellent placement. When he glanced across at Steve to gloat at how great this idea was, Steve was frowning. Captain Killjoy, Tony thought, carrying the ladder back over the tree so he could hang the higher ornaments more easily.

His overactive imagination was clearly still malfunctioning, because just for a second, Steve's frown seemed almost like disappointment again.

Steve helped him put the tinsel on the tree next, before they both started to hang the individual decorations. A lot of them needed retying, or needed ribbon looping through holes. There was always something soothing about trimming a Christmas tree; Tony loved this part of his holiday tradition. It was nice doing it with Steve too, though. Maybe he'd been doing it alone for far too long. Maybe he'd been selfish to hold onto it as a solo task for all these years.

"So what are your plans this year? For the actual day, I mean." Tony stared at the current bauble in his hands, his distorted face a smear of color in the silvery surface. "Back to your usual soup kitchen?"

"Ah, no," Steve said. Tony glanced over to where Steve was staring at a china figurine that looked particularly small and fragile in his large hands. It was an amusing figurine—a replica of Thor but with angel wings and a halo, somewhere there was a matching Loki with devil horns and a tail and an inexplicable Santa hat to complete the ensemble—but Steve stared at it like it was invisible to the naked eye. "Not this year."

There was a blankness to Steve's voice that made Tony's gut twist uncomfortably.

"But you love it there," Tony blurted out, cursing his own lack of subtlety. It was a well-known fact to everyone that Steve didn't really deal well with discussions that covered emotions or feelings. Oh, he could do it at a passable level, if you distracted him well beforehand, or he'd just spent four hours on a battlefield and had no energy left to keep up the wall around his emotions. But a Steve like this, days from their last skirmish, relaxed by this apparent rare respite from imminent disaster...Tony was playing with fire, really. He held his breath. His words were just as likely to send Steve running as get him an actual response. Tony braced himself for Steve to put down the figurine and mutter about needing to sleep after all.

Instead, Steve moved the Thor figurine to the tree and slipped it over one of the branches, staring intently like it might throw its tiny hammer and fly off he wasn't careful.

"They, uh, decided it wasn't a good idea for me to go this year," Steve said, slowly, because he was brave, he was always so damn brave, it was always so inspiring. Bravery wasn't always on battlefields, facing down impossible odds, sometimes it was staying when you wanted to run, and opening your mouth, and saying that most damaging of things: the truth. "The, uh. The staff asked me not to go. The veterans that usually attend were—they're worried—they're—" Steve coughed uncomfortably, eyes still tracing the mini-Thor. "They're scared of me. Of him. The other me."

"Steve," Tony breathed, because there weren't really any words that he could string in a row to reassure him.

"It's fine," Steve said, in that wet-eyed, tight-throat, shoulders-bunched way which meant the direct opposite, but he'd made himself vulnerable enough for now. "I understand."

"You can understand things and they can still suck," Tony said, magnanimously swallowing back the impulse he had to tag that's what she said onto the end; it wasn't just his own vulnerabilities that had him running for humor.

"I suppose," Steve shuffled, nudging a crate in his anxious, fractious movement with his ankle. "Maybe we should put some of the empty crates away so it's easier to move around the tree?"

"Oh, logic," Tony said dismissively, but picked up the empty tinsel crate to indulge Steve's preference for keeping a tidy workplace.

Steve, because he was an eternal show-off, picked up the three other empty crates in one hand, dutifully following Tony to the storage closet. Tony thought it was just Steve's practicality raising its head, and his need to control things sometimes – he wanted Steve to feel comfortable after making him talk about something so unpleasant, something Steve had probably been stewing silently over for weeks – but then Steve somehow moved too quickly, too sharply, and he was holding up the last crate to push onto the top shelf, and the door he'd been propping open with his foot closed.

There was lighting in the closet, dimmer than the fluorescent floodlights of the main spaces in the Mountain, but bright enough for Tony to see the expression on Steve's face. He seemed fractious, somehow. Edgy, like there was another sentence trapped in his mouth that might gut him open again, a syllable with edges sharper than any blade.

Everything went into slow-motion. Tony helped Steve push the last crate onto the top shelf. Steve's body crowded his. It was so warm, but there was a nervous energy below that, and a caged sort of hunger, in Steve's eyes, that made Tony's heart leap. Three times, now. Three times in quick succession, and Tony couldn't be imagining this, could he? Steve wanted to kiss him.

The thought nearly made Tony laugh out loud; it was ridiculous—he managed to swallow it back. He knew to the very base of whatever code he was made from that if he did, this moment would shatter. They were a balanced see-saw right now, a load held by a crane that was straining to its limit. One push and everything would fall. It felt almost like they were frozen; Tony thought he was holding his breath, although he couldn't be sure.

There was a difference, Tony thought, in the trapped still air of this moment, between bravery on a battlefield and bravery when it came to emotional...anything. Steve had been brave to talk about the soup kitchen and his feelings about it. Steve was brave to be looking at Tony now like this, a question loaded with desire on his face that Tony wanted to answer. Desire for Tony. There was no way that Tony was making it up.

But it was his turn. It was Tony's turn to be brave. He was moving before he'd even fully processed that thought.

Bravery was contagious and tasted like black coffee.

But bravery had a short fuse until it burned out and Tony pulled back from the kiss, eyes wide, an apology ready to fall from his lips. It stuck in his throat at the look on Steve's face.

Steve's eyes were wild and close. His breathing was ragged, disproportionate to the amount of exertion for a single kiss. Tony stared back at him, just as startled, just as wrecked, and one of them made a noise, Tony wasn't sure which one of them it was, but he knew one thing – it didn't matter.

"Tony," Steve said again, and there were sentences in that utterance, there were paragraphs, there was a whole damn novel of meaning, and Tony was moving again, less bravery, more need. He needed Steve to keep kissing him. Or to not stop kissing him, because Tony's surge of bravery had unlocked the thing simmering between them; it had knocked the whole dam down and they were both drowning in each other.

Steve pushed him against the shelves and it hurt, it should hurt. Tony had a shelf-edge digging into his back, but he couldn't feel it. He couldn't feel anything but Steve. Tony had kissed people in easy passion before, a crescendo culmination of desperate pining. He'd been in love, and opened his heart to it, over and over again. That was just how he was built; he never threw himself partially into any relationship, no matter how fragile the premise or how easily they could crash and burn. He was hurt repeatedly by this character flaw and never learned his lesson over it; sometimes he wondered whether it was part of some twisted self-harm cycle, but that was just when he let the small pessimistic voice inside of him speak.

If there was pain from the shelves digging into him, Steve's lips against his were a balm that took away all sensation but sheer, transcendent bliss.

"I had to," Steve said nonsensically, tearing his mouth away briefly to press warm, wet, desperate kisses along Tony's jaw, "sometimes you just—you're so—"

Tony swallowed up his words in another eager kiss, because otherwise he'd argue that maybe, technically, he made the first move, hadn't he? "I am," Tony replied, just as coherent as Steve, "I am very so."

"Don't mock me," Steve breathed, "you're making it hard to think."

"Oh, I'm making it hard to think—" Tony kissed him again, sliding his hands into Steve's hair, and how was that perfect too? It was just hair, it shouldn't feel like he was touching a live wire with his bare fingers, but the noise Steve made when Tony ran his fingers over his scalp sounded like he was living and dying all at once.

Steve's mouth found Tony's neck and latched on; his large hands circled Tony's waist, fingers splaying, holding him in place. "Thought about this," Steve murmured, and oh, if those words didn't go right to Tony's dick, "for so fucking long."

Tony's vision split, doubled, ricocheted, because Steve was hard too, unmistakably so; his bulge briefly pressed up against Tony's; Tony's fingers clenched hopelessly against Steve's skull. The tiny storage closet was an embrace, holding them together. Tony's hand scraped against the firm body pressed against his own, urging Steve to thrust their hips together again; he nearly yelped when Steve's hands slipped lower, cupping his ass, lifting him up, pushing him onto the shelf so he was perched awkwardly. He would fall if Steve moved. Tony widened his legs automatically, guiding Steve in closer, and his hands locked together around Steve's neck as Steve's lips returned to his.

"Thought about it too," Tony admitted, right into the slick, warm space of Steve's mouth.

Steve pulled back far enough to hit him with such an intense expression that Tony shuddered against him. "Good," he said, simply, before kissing him again.

It shouldn't feel so good, for something that was just kissing. Steve seemed content to hold him there and maul him with his mouth, and it felt so perfect that Tony couldn't find it in himself to stop it. He didn't know how long they were kissing for – time surely had to be passing, but Tony couldn't wrap his mind around that concept, not when his brain was chanting Steve's name, over and over. Tony might have been saying Steve's name too, in tattered scraps of noise that fell from his throat like a desperate prayer to a god Tony didn't believe in.

Tony closed his eyes and sank into the sensations. His body was alight, feverish. The world had narrowed down into a universe of sensation, stars being born in the slide of Steve's tongue in his mouth.

He knew Steve pursued every action in his life with single-minded focus; Tony had never truly properly considered how it would be to have all that dedication concentrated solely on him. Steve was an ocean wave crashing over all his storm defenses, devastating everything that Tony had built walls to protect. This was the kind of kiss that had the potential to change everything. Whenever this kiss ended, Tony would be opening his eyes to a different state of reality. O brave new world – Tony's brain was fracturing, spinning – that has such kisses as these in it.

It was probably good that he hadn't tried to kiss Steve under the mistletoe. He'd probably have fallen promptly off the ladder and embarrassed himself.

If the ensuing kiss had felt like this, Tony might not have cared.

Even though they were both undeniably aroused by the kissing, neither of them made any move to stop. Tony abstractly wondered whether he could come like this, small grazes of contact. He was starting to think so, Steve's kisses growing less coordinated; they were more just breathing into each other's mouths right now, and it was still unbearably incredible.

Tony was gearing up to be brave again, to open his eyes and beg Steve to abandon the tree, to come to his room, to take some of these impossibly good kisses to a soft surface. He was feeling feverish at the thought of that, Steve's heavy body pressing him to a mattress, holding him still, devouring him whole – when something external froze the moment solid.

"Oh my goooodddd," a voice yelped from outside, and Tony stilled immediately. Tony still had his eyes closed, but he could feel Steve stiffen against him, and not in the fun way that had been looming if the kissing had continued much longer. "Does that mean I have to kiss you?"

Robbie, Tony realized slowly. It was Robbie. And from his words, it was clear he wasn't alone. Tony opened his eyes and found Steve wordlessly staring back at him. There was a hint of panic on Steve's face that Tony identified with; he didn't want the Avengers to see them both like this, seconds out of a passionate clinch.

"It's optional," Jen said. "If kissing me sounds so appalling."

"Not appalling," Robbie squeaked, sounding slightly panicked.

"That placement has to be Stark's galaxy brain misfiring again," Carol's voice said, carrying stridently across the room to the storage closet. Carol had always been strong, but apparently her voice was powerful too; at least, it seemed to work on Steve, visibly instantly sobering him.

"Doesn't look like he finished what he was doing," Jen said. "Ooh, that means we can help, right? Team bonding?"

"It's better to ask first, when it comes to Stark," Thor's voice rumbled.

Steve shot Tony an odd sort of look – certainly there had been no asking first when it came to this kiss. Tony shrugged and grinned at Steve, because the alternative was probably starting to gibber, and, somehow unbelievable, Steve grinned back, white teeth bright in the dim space, and it felt exactly like one of those moments on the battlefield, when they'd both done something in perfect unison and laughed together afterward in buoyant glee.

"Awkward," Tony sang under his breath as loudly as he dared; Steve's hearing was excellent, he'd hear it.

Steve nodded, shrugged, and gently let Tony down to his feet, pulling his hands away and pushing at his hair, straightening it out as best as he could.

"You should take a moment to calm down," Steve's voice held a strange note to it, but he was already standing straighter, pushing his shoulders back, calming his breathing. "I'll let them know you're storing boxes and that we're working on the tree." He put a hand on Tony's shoulder, heavy and warm, and he looked Tony directly in the eye. "I'll see you out there."

Tony nodded, already starting to feel smaller somehow, like he was shrinking.

"Later," Steve said, a single word that seemed laden with promise; it was a word that stopped that shrinking sensation in its tracks. Steve slid sideways gracefully, and pushed out into the room, Tony moving back so he wouldn't be so visible.

Unlike Steve, Tony was still trying to regain control of his body. Holy shit. He forced himself to count his breaths, inhaling for four, exhaling for eight. Holy shit holy shit holy shit. He could feel the ghosts of Steve's kisses on his lips. If this hadn't really happened, if Tony had gone insane and lost his mind… he wasn't sure sanity was something he wanted to chase.

How long had he fantasized about kissing Steve for? Years now. It had been a virus of a thought, a daydream for so long that Tony classed it as just one of those idle fantasies to drag out only when he was single and horny. He only knew it was more than that when he saw Steve bleeding out on the courthouse steps at the denouement of the first Superhero Civil War (he tried his best not to remember there had been a second one; he tried his best not to think about the ramifications of that, because there were questions about his soul Tony wasn't ready to hear the answers for); it was only then that he knew he'd lost the war. They all had.

When Steve had returned to life, Tony had just been so desperate. He'd spent so long pleading and begging helplessly to the void for Steve to come back. Just him being alive was enough. Him wanting to fight again by Tony's side was already more than he'd dared to hope for. Wanting for more than that had felt stupid, selfish, impossible; it had never been something he'd thought about seriously pursuing. He and Steve were flammable, incendiary; Tony had just been too pleased Steve was there to linger on anything but that relieved joy.

A world without Steve Rogers in it made no damned sense to Tony Stark, and that was a tenet to live by.

Thinking about Steve's death, as temporary as it had been, was enough to clear Tony's head so he could brave company.

No one was looking in his direction when he emerged from the closet and Tony was glad of it. Stepping out into the main room felt like seeing the sun for the first time, too bright and overwhelming. He blinked a few times and took a deep breath before sidling up to the other Avengers.

Steve had obviously already given permission for them to join in the decorating: a Tony of ten minutes ago might have taken umbrage at Steve taking such a liberty, but that Tony hadn't been kissed to within an inch of his existence by Steve Rogers. The poor bastard, Tony thought giddily; what a listless, unfulfilled life he'd been living.

"Looking good," Tony called out, gaining him a full row of faces turned his way: Thor, Robbie, Carol, Jen, and Steve. T'Challa wasn't there; he took his role as leader much more seriously than any Avenger ever had, and was probably in his office, brooding. Or maybe he was healthily getting enough sleep, unlike the rest of them. "Why the early morning?"

"Couldn't sleep," Robbie sighed.

"We were hungry," Thor said, edging a look at Jen, who flushed and wouldn't meet anyone's gaze. Tony smirked. Jen always did get hungry after sex.

"Got in late," Carol grunted. Her gaze drifted from Tony to Steve, too speculative. "You?"

"It's morning," Steve said, looking confused at the line of dubious expressions that turned his way.

"Only you think this is morning," Tony assured him and then he nodded at the tree. "Thought I'd get this set-up while my diary wasn't trying to eat me alive."

"Serves you right for writing your schedule on a cannibal's face," Jen joked.

Tony thought he might resent them, crowding in on his job, and interrupting that blissful, unreal kissing, but instead, he just felt warm, seeing them all work together to help him with the task. Yeah, maybe Tony had hoarded it to himself for too long.

Everyone seemed to be having fun. Tony tried to just settle into the moment, but he did feel a little disconnected, like he was watching himself do this with his teammates. Everyone else seemed fully engaged with the activity.

Well, everyone but Robbie. Robbie seemed distracted, taking his time to loop in new ribbons to some of the decorations, occasionally staring off into the distance and sighing. Tony waited until he could naturally sidle in closer and kept his voice low, leaning in and pulling out a length of ribbon with exaggerated casualness.

"Something in particular keeping you up?" Tony muttered. He didn't look Robbie directly in the eye; he knew that made it easier for the teen to talk about vulnerable things.

"Not really," Robbie lied, and then sagged. "Sorry, yeah, obviously there's something in particular, it's 5am and I'm willingly awake."

Tony grinned briefly. "I hear you. Caffeine is the only thing keeping me running at this time of year."

"At every time of year, you mean," Robbie snarked, and then looked guilty like he'd only just realized who he'd been overly familiar with. "Uh, sorry. I'm just tired."

"Nothing to apologize for."

Robbie pressed his mouth into a line, like he didn't agree. "If you say so."

"I do. And I'm the smartest guy in the room."

That earned him an eye-roll. "Sure you are," Robbie muttered.

"Seriously. C'mon, what's keeping my favorite Ghost Rider up in the small unsociable hours?"

"Eh, just—the holidays, you know. Not always the best memories for Gabe. I wanted to give him a good time, but—I dunno what to do, he's been so down recently." Robbie shook his head. "I'll figure it out."

"You could bring him here. We'll be doing something here at the base."

"Yeah?" Robbie looked so hopeful at that, Tony couldn't bear to admit he'd just decided it was even happening.

Tony shrugged. "Why not?"

"Yeah, okay."

"Is Gabe still young enough to write Santa a letter?"

Robbie laughed. "Gabe has an amazon wishlist as long as the list of supervillain research homework I've got left to do."

"Hm." Tony slipped out his phone; he tapped at it furiously a few times. "Guess it's empty now."

Robbie's eyes widened. "Uh—I can't—you know I can't accept something like that—"

"Too bad, it's not for you anyway." Tony beamed and wrapped an arm around Robbie's shoulders companionably. "Suck it up, you work with a billionaire, you should get some perks for having to put up with that."

"I… suppose that sounds okay?" Robbie wrinkled his nose, still looking dubious.

Tony beamed back at him.

As Thor lifted Robbie up onto his shoulders so the youngest Avenger could put the star on top of the tree, Steve drew up alongside Tony, his gaze fondly traveling over the scene.

"I heard what you said to Robbie," Steve murmured, keeping his voice carefully low. "That was sweet."

"What can I say," Tony said. "I was in a good mood. Can't think of any particular reason why."

Steve huffed a laugh; Tony risked a glance to the side to see a hint of a pink hue in Steve's cheeks. "Maybe it's excess holiday spirit."

"Is is?" Tony blurted out the question louder than he meant to; he wrenched his gaze away from Steve, staring intently at the tree instead. There had been too much of something in that question. Too much honesty, maybe. Too much desperation that the kiss had been just holiday spirit too.

"Oh," Steve said, his voice deceptively neutral, "well, that's the good thing about the world." He starts to move away from Tony's side, shooting him an almost wicked smile, probably because everyone else's attention was on the tree and not them. "It's always a holiday somewhere."

Tony's smile was immediate and irrepressible.

"How about you help me clear these empty crates into storage?" Steve asked, nodding over at the storage closet with a knowing light in his eyes.

Tony's smile ratcheted up into a grin. "I think I can give you a hand with that."

Steve basically hurled all the empty crates at once up onto the top shelf and then threw himself at Tony again.

The door hadn't even fully closed when he shoved Tony back up against the shelves. Steve was insane.

But, he was also an insanely good kisser, so there was that.

"I can't believe you spoiled Robbie's brother like that," Steve murmured, and Tony braced for a lecture, but Steve just added, "that was really hot," with a soft groan that made Tony's body light up brighter than the Christmas tree they'd just finished trimming.

"Glad you approve," Tony muttered back, before licking into Steve's mouth and trying not to delight at the muted noises Steve was making. "The others are just outside."

"I know," Steve said. Whined, even. Oh, Tony's ego was going to be problematic, if Steve was just going to continue to make so many needy, eager responses like that. "I couldn't wait."

Yep, it was definitely gonna be a problem, if Steve was going to continue saying things like that.

"What are we doing?" Tony asked, after kissing his way along Steve's perfect jawline, and then hungrily claiming Steve's lips again with his own.

"Kissing," Steve said, because he was an irritating little shit sometimes; Tony didn't know why he liked him so much, but he did, even when Steve was at his worst. Steve pulled back and leaned his forehead against Tony's, his breathing rough again. "I meant what I said out there," Steve said, softly. "It's...usually a holiday somewhere in the world. I'd—I'd kind of like to—"

"—celebrate them with you?" Tony guessed, his heart thumping. Steve was kind of nuts if he thought that his words had been remotely clear, but Tony couldn't blame him; clear thoughts were difficult right now.

"I wanna see if we can." Steve's gaze flickered to the door, like it was see-through, like he could see the others beyond it, before he returned to staring intently at Tony. "I don't—the others—"

Tony swallowed in realization. "We can't be long in here, the others would talk," he said, slowly. He worried about what to say next; would us be the wrong word? He found himself holding his breath. "Do you...want to tell people about this?"

"God, no," Steve said, fast, reflexively.

"Of course. It's none of their business. We can keep it quiet. Between us."

"Just until we're—" Steve gestured awkwardly. "Sure. You know? Sure. I don't want to be lectured at if--"

"Oh, I totally get it. I'm onboard. No one needs to know we're… trialing an extended holiday celebration," Tony stumbled over the phrasing, but Steve nodded fervently, like Tony was doing a good job. "The last thing I was is a Carol Danvers lecture about inter-team dating." He froze. "Uh—celebrating."

"You can say dating." Steve took a deep shuddering breath. "I'm okay with that."

"Whatever you want," Tony said, meaning every word.

He meant it at the time.

It wasn't like Tony wasn't still having a good time. It was hard to explain.

There was definitely a major plus side – Tony was never going to have the impulse to erase his brain again, because here was a fact he never wanted to forget, never wanted to unlearn: Steve Rogers was an incredible kisser.

Apparently, impossibly, the thing Steve seemed to want the most was to keep kissing Tony.

And that was fine. It was – it was more than fine. It should have been enough.

Tony had to be fucked up, because… it wasn't enough.

It was good – Tony couldn't deny that – it was amazing. They barely could be alone in the same room together for more than a few seconds before Steve's mouth found Tony's, and they were kissing like the end of the world was imminent.

To be fair, in their line of work, it often was.

And Tony couldn't remember having such a stress-free December before in his memory of ever.

Well. It wasn't stress-free. They were still cleaning up remnants of the War of the Realms, pockets of creatures that Malekith had conveniently "forgotten" to inform that the war was over. There was all the usual and ever-present strain of the ongoing threats – Starbrand, the Power Elite, the Supreme Squadron, the Russians. Namor. Doom was probably planning something too; he always was. Tony's company was imploding in new and horrible ways; he felt like someone was yanking on his strings somewhere, but he hadn't managed to figure out yet who was trying to fuck up his life this time. There was always someone.

But Tony hadn't felt the stress like he usually did, like an actual weight on his shoulders. Who knew that kissing Steve was the balm he'd been missing his whole life?

The fact it wasn't enough...was baffling.

At first, the interruptions had felt somewhat exciting:

They didn't always get interrupted, but there were a few hairy moments of nearly being seen before Tony caught on to the fact that Steve had a little bit of a danger kink:

Or when Steve dragged Tony away mid-Christmas dinner to kiss him silly in the kitchen:

But if Steve had the danger kink he seemed to, it didn't really explain the way he kept sneaking out of Tony's bedroom at different times of the night:

Tony wondered whether he was wrong about Steve's danger-kink, so he tested it out:

It was good. Kissing Steve continued to feel nothing short of amazing. Tony was being stupid if he thought it wasn't enough. That was it; it was just Tony's brain misfiring. Probably some sort of semi-buried instinct for self-sabotage: Tony did deserve good things, every now and again, dammit, and what was Steve Rogers, if not a good thing?

He was overthinking it. That was all.

Tony had a headache. It felt like he'd constantly had a low-grade headache for the last couple of weeks. When Steve was kissing him, he could forget about it, but as soon as Steve wasn't there, it was back, pressing against his temples, making his skull feel tense.

It was probably stress. As stress-free as December had felt, January was pushing back with a vengeance. The only thing making it bearable was the moments when Steve was kissing him, because the kisses still felt impossibly good, but Tony was starting to suspect Steve was as much the root to his stress as the salve for it, and it was making him cranky.

Everything was fine when Steve was right there, but at night, Steve sneaking away before dawn, Tony felt like he was nothing but a goddamn fool.

It didn't help that professionally – both as an Avenger and as an industrialist inventor – he felt like he was stuck going in circles. On the work front, Tony was still sorting out paperwork from the collapse of eSCAPE, still trying to figure out who was yanking strings behind the scenes, and aching in guilt for not being able to save Friday.

On the Avengers front, they've all still been stuck with clean-up after clean-up, courtesy of the supposedly-over War of the Realms. Tony doesn't mind it, not too much, now the odds are in their favor and they're just hunting down pockets of leftover creatures and monsters that haven't gotten the memo yet that they'd lost.

Today was an additional headache of clean-up, too – four different pockets of creatures rearing their heads at once. T'Challa was hunting down Rock Trolls in Greece; Thor and Jen were battling Hel-Hounds in Australia; Robbie and Carol were chasing a rumor of a herd of Bilgesnipe in Tennessee; Steve and Tony had been left to deal with a group of Dark Elves causing havoc across downtown Manhattan.

Dark elves weren't Tony's favorite opponents, but they weren't exactly difficult. Tony took on Malekith's realm once on his own with nothing but his armor, a bunch of rage, and a half-assed plan fueled by being fucking pissed off that the Mandarin was paste and still causing trouble beyond the grave. Chasing down four or five with Steve at his side? Child's play. Exhausting, body-wearying child's play.

They managed to keep damage to a minimum, a fact Strange didn't agree with when he dropped by to pick up the unconscious Dark Elves; he disappeared with them in a flourish of showy magic, promising to dropkick them through one of his portals back to where they came from.

Tony scowled as Strange disappeared with his unconscious quarry. He really hated magic.

As Steve retrieved his shield from where it had gotten embedded in a wall (maybe Strange had a point about the amount of damage they'd caused), Tony caught sight of an opportunistic media crew still recording the skirmish. He wandered over, lifting his faceplate and grinning charmingly, never shy of a good media encounter.

Steve joined him as the reporter wrapped up a brief interview with him; he stood out of view of the camera, keeping close to a wall, looking uncomfortable. Tony was okay with being the only one on camera; now the Avengers were an international rather than a purely-American endeavor, they could do with some good press, and Tony was exceptional when it came to that sort of thing.

He was nearly as good at it as Steve was at kissing; Tony regretted and was pleased all at once that not many people would understand how much of a comparison that was.

As the cameraman and sound guy packed their equipment away, the reporter lingered, twirling her hair in one finger, and Tony smiled winningly. This wasn't an unusual occurrence for him.

The reporter fluttered her eyelashes. "You free tonight, Mr. Stark? I could find space in my schedule for an off-the-record personal interview, if you get my drift?"

Tony barked a polite, media-friendly laugh. She was pretty in a conventional way; Tony of ten years ago would have swept her off her feet in an instant. Tony of today was exhausted, bruised, and he had a few hours ahead of him of making sure there was no lingering magic anything infecting his armor. He should really look into seeing if Shevaun Haldane would be interested in working for him again.

The reporter was still staring at him doe-eyed, waiting for a response. Steve was still leaning against the wall, looking kind of annoyed that Tony was still messing around instead of leaving immediately.

"Thank you for the offer." Tony stretched his smile into a more rueful variety. "I'm kind of seeing someone at the moment. Thanks, though."

The reporter sagged a little. "Another time, then, perhaps," she said.

Tony inclined his head in acknowledgment. "Perhaps."

She handed him a business card before turning on her heel and scurrying away with her colleagues. Tony carefully slid the card into his armor, into the panel he built in for occasions like this one. Sometimes he threw them away, if they weren't watching, but he appreciated that she left so he didn't have to do an awkward shuffle to excuse himself from the situation.

When Tony did turn around, it was to Steve looking at him with a blank expression.

Tony squinted at the face Steve was making. It resembled his pissed off expression, although Steve's fists weren't clenched in anticipation of an actual fight. "Is there a problem?"

Steve's jaw tightened. "Not here."

Tony bristled. Steve wasn't the team leader any more; that job had fallen – and fallen well – to T'Challa and he was doing excellently. Tony barely ever felt resentful when T'Challa gave him an order. Well, sometimes the orders chafed, but that disconnect was due to Tony's beautiful personality, not any particular flaw on T'Challa's behalf. As leaders went, T'Challa was... acceptable. It was a rare person indeed that Tony considered as worthy of taking orders from.

Steve used to be one of them, but right now, Tony wasn't too sure of that at all.

"You don't want to be seen arguing with me in public, huh?" Tony started to storm toward the appointed disembarkation point.

Steve preferred using the Quinjet for clean-up, but the remnants of Malekith's forces didn't cause chaos on schedule. Tony had his own issues with the Circulator, but that was more the fact his professional pride had been a little bit dented by the advanced tech still lingering inside the Celestial corpse that they called home. The Circulator could transport them to and from anywhere, but T'Challa thought it best that the technology was kept under wraps for now, so for this mission they were headed to a quiet alley where they wouldn't be seen disappearing.

"If you assume I don't want to be seen arguing with you in public and your first impulse is to immediately start an argument—" Steve started, heatedly. He matched Tony's pace, his arms swinging in that precise, sharp manner that meant he was agitated. Tony hadn't read him wrong at all, then.

"Of course it's my first impulse. I'm not going to magically have a personality transplant just because we're occasionally bumping uglies."

"Tony," Steve hissed, his gaze dropping nervously to a couple of businessmen approaching them on the sidewalk.

"Oh, please," Tony waved a gauntleted hand. "Like I don't mask and filter all the conversations we have in public areas anyway." He shot Steve a glance when Steve looked relieved at that. "So you just might as well spit it out."

Steve's shoulders tensed. "It's just—that reporter—she—When she propositioned you—"

Tony stopped walking in favor of staring at him in wild disbelief. "You're pissed off because the reporter hit on me? Steve, that's—"

"I'm not pissed off she hit on you. I'd have to be pissed off every single day if that was the case. That sounds exhausting."

"Well, that's true."

"It's just—what you said to her." Steve gritted his teeth and looked into the distance, clenching and unclenching one hand. "That you were seeing someone."

"Well, that's kind of true—" Tony meant to laugh it off, but realization came, slow and like a slug to the gut. His mouth was suddenly dry and he had to swallow hard to get his next words out. Even so, they came out in a strained hiss. "It's a standard excuse, Steve. One I tend to give reporters so they leave with a relatively okay image of me, rather than pissed off with a handy deadline and column issues to take out their displeasure of being rejected."

"Oh."

"Yeah," Tony said viciously, and resumed walking, only to change his mind two paces later to pivot on his heel and glare at Steve. "What, did you think she'd assume I meant you?"

Steve started to shake his head, but there was a guilty look on his face, one Tony didn't need Steve to verbalize to understand. "Tony—"

"Unbelievable." Tony exhaled sharply, shaking his head; something was running through his newly-constructed body, like his blood had been switched out for fizzling, corrosive lava. "So what if she did assume that? She wouldn't be wrong. And there's been rumors of us being together for years, rumors we knew were bullshit, but it's never bothered you before?"

"It wasn't true before," Steve said, quietly.

Steve could have punched Tony in the face. It probably would have hurt less.

Tony could feel his chest tightening. He felt dizzy and light-headed and off-kilter, like his foundations had subsided and the whole world was at a tilt.

Steve looked tensely, visibly unhappy.

Tony wanted to say a thousand things. Different scripts flooded through his head, all the possible dialogue options for this moment. He had a hundred different versions of this scene on the tip of his tongue. His glib professional persona wanted to say something witty. The part of him that had been a member of a strong team for so many years wanted to smooth over the atmosphere with something kind to push it under the rug. His anger wanted him to repulsor blast Steve in the chest and beg forgiveness later.

Somehow – maybe because Steve was standing there looking strung-out and a thousand miles away from happy, or maybe because Tony was exhausted from fighting and didn't have the energy to mount a defense, or maybe just because Tony was so in love with the asshole standing in front of him that he couldn't not – Tony's heart won out. And the words that came out of his mouth were gentle and open and vulnerable.

"Would it be so bad if they knew it was true?" Tony asked. His rebuilt heart was pounding loudly in his ears. It felt like he was holding it out on his palms, ready for Steve to take it.

For a moment, Tony didn't feel like an idiot. For a moment, there was something in Steve's eyes that was encouraging, a quirk of life in his beautiful blue eyes that had Tony's heartrate increasing in wild, unrestrained hope.

But that moment, if it was even real in the first place and not wishful thinking on Tony's behalf, didn't last long enough.

"Yes," Steve said.

The thing was, Tony's heart had been literally ripped to shreds and patched so badly back together that he'd been in pain with it for years. He knew what that felt like. And he thought he'd even known heartbreak before. Tony had run the full gamut of women breaking his heart: he'd been cheated on; used for his connections and money; unceremoniously dumped in favor of another; abandoned and left to die; kidnapped and tortured…

Steve's yes somehow hurt more than all of those experiences combined.

There was a low roaring in Tony's ears. He had to go. He had to get out of there.

"Your reputation..." Steve added, his voice trailing off at the end, unaware that Tony's glass insides were shattering to fine, sharp sand; Tony was a silence broken by a cry; Tony was a heart that couldn't remember how to beat.

Tony's reputation. Of fucking course. That would be the problem. That would always be a problem. Steve was a good, kind, strong person. A paragon of all virtues.

Tony was an ex-Merchant of Death with blood on his hands he'd never be clean of. He'd been such an idiot, kidding himself that he could ever be worthy of someone as pure and good as Steve. Tony was good enough to sneak around with. A warm body for a good time, but that's all he could be. Of course Steve wouldn't ever want to acknowledge Tony in public.

It made so much horrible sense. Tony hated that his initial impulse was to push it all aside. So what if he wasn't good enough to be at Steve's side? Surely the small moments with him, if they were all Tony could have, would be enough.

Tony pushed that thought aside instantly, loathing it. Hating that he thought so badly of himself to consider it. He deserved so much more than to be someone's dirty little secret. Even if that person was someone who felt as necessary to Tony as oxygen. God, Tony had been such a fool to believe he deserved any of it. Kissing Steve had felt like finally coming home, after never really having one he felt comfortable living in. But did Tony really deserve that, anyway?

No. Probably not. Tony's ego was bandied around so easily when people talked about him, like it was some massive thing, like he didn't care about anyone but himself. Like it swallowed up all the good things he did, bigger than all the charity work he did, or the hours he put in to make sure his employees were safe and protected. They were wrong. Tony's reputation might be a fucking tire fire, but he didn't deserve to be used. Not by anyone.

Not even by Steve.

"Fine," Tony said. "I'm done. Let's go."

"What do you mean by done?" Steve asked, his misery shifting into something else.

"What do you think I mean?" Tony demanded, setting off again to the disembarkment co-ordinates at an even brisker clip. His eyes threatened to sting and Tony blinked furiously. There was no way he was going to let Steve see how fucking messed up he was by Steve's words. "You, me, whatever the fuck you think it is we have going on here. It's done. I'm done."

"Tony—"

Tony choked out an unamused laugh and turned his head to look at Steve, and he couldn't hold it back, couldn't do anything but blaze his heartbreak at Steve at full force, because Tony was a fool who had let himself be vulnerable and been sliced apart for the privilege. Tony was weak enough to let Steve glimpse a shard of the damage he'd caused.

"I think you've said enough," Tony said. He glared at Steve, hating that there was still a spark of hope in his gut. That maybe Steve didn't mean it. He tilted his head. Bravery was stupid at this point, but dignity was out of his grasp, so it was all he had right now. "Unless you have anything else you want to add?"

Steve swallowed, and wrung his hands, and looked wretched. His silence was more than loud enough for Tony.

Tony had let himself have that flicker of hope, like a complete moron.

"Let's just go home," Tony said, and regretted saying even that much, because that word was wrong. How could home be an alien corpse, hollowed out and stuck in the snow, arm outstretched like the Statue of Liberty gone wrong?

He was weary now. All he wanted was to lie down and let Steve kiss him and – no, no, that wasn't a good idea. It hadn't been a good idea at all. That's probably why Tony had been so swift to agree to keep their dating (god, that was definitely the wrong word for what they had been doing) secret to start with, because he knew how much the others would disagree with it and warn them away from each other. They could work together blindingly well (see, years of die-hard, concrete friendship where they did the impossible together, again and again), but they could also be embarrassingly corrosive (Steve was lying on the courthouse steps, bleeding out, and Tony's heart emptied with it, he would never be the same again, nothing was worth that pain, nothing.)

They would have been right, to keep Steve and Tony apart, and that just made the ache in Tony's chest worse. His heart was new, but it hurt like it still had shrapnel headed directly for it. Phantom Heart Syndrome, perhaps.

Tony edged a glance at Steve. Steve wasn't looking at him. His jaw was clenched like he was mulling over something in his head, something he probably would never say. His shoulders were hunched over slightly, which was more unusual; Steve's posture was usually perfect at all times. Even in bed. Stop that, Tony commanded his brain, but it didn't listen to him.

Tony wasn't quite sure exactly what happened next, really.

It happened fast, that's what he knew for sure. If no one expected the Spanish Inquisition, what the fuck would they term an invasion of Dark Elves, because they had magic and callous mischief on their side and weren't afraid to copiously deploy both for maximum chaotic impact?

One moment Steve and he were headed to the appropriate coordinates, both of them still sulking, and the next, Dark Elves were everywhere, and Tony's HUD was filled with their outlines and power signatures. His arms stretched out to blast them; Steve's shield was whistling past his face. Steve was shouting into his comms because they were overwhelmed, and Tony assumed he was yelling for help, but instead Tony heard Steve yell for Broo to transport them home.

Something hit Tony's armor hard, and then Tony's vision blurred, and his HUD displays skewed simultaneously, the way they always did when Celestial technology interacted with his armor, and Tony realized Steve and he were being teleported away from the fight, dammit.

Tony turned on his heel as soon as the large blank walls of the Circulator room came into sight, ready to yell at Steve, to demand to know what he was thinking, there were civilians around and they were Avengers, they shouldn't be turning tail and running—

He did not start yelling.

Because on the other side of the teleportation platform, Steve was there, kneeling over Tony's unconscious body, looking absolutely distraught. Blue energy was crackling over the surface of Tony's armor.

Tony glanced down at himself. He wasn't in his armor. He was wearing all-white clothing – a t-shirt and loose pants, tennis shoes – and he was definitely, somehow, translucent.

And worse, no one was even looking at him, even though Carol had run into the room, shouting for Thor.

Tony waved his arms experimentally. "Hello?" No one responded. He had to say he actually wasn't even surprised. The lack of shock didn't stop him from staring down in dismay at his unconscious body and the blue lines crackling over it.

He was… invisible? Stuck outside his own body, somehow?

It didn't feel like the worst thing that had happened to him in the last hour, but Tony wasn't a big fan, either.

"I really fucking hate magic," Tony sighed.

Even Doctor Strange couldn't seem to see him.

"What the fucking good are you?" Tony snitted, folding his arms and leaning against the wall. He had to concentrate in order not to fall through it, which was making his brain make constant little shrieking noises, because what if he forgot to concentrate on standing and fell through the floors? Would he keep falling through the Earth itself? Perhaps he would pop out the other side, in the Antarctic – Roxxon had taken over the Antarctic; maybe Tony could do some corporate espionage while he was busy being incorporeal.

It seemed to take more concentration to lean against objects. If that's really what Tony was doing. He tried flicking Carol in the nose, he tried punching Steve in the shoulder (there was some lingering frustration), and he tried slapping Strange across both cheeks (Tony really really hated magic and Strange was the closest thing to a personification of magic that Tony knew), but there was no reaction from any of them.

"He's not there," Strange said, frowning down at Tony's body after doing a multiple number of things that looked ridiculous and were, in Tony's opinion, unsurprisingly useless.

"Aren't you supposed to be able to see into all of the other astral realms or whatever this bullshit is?" Tony asked.

Nobody could hear him either. Tony didn't know whether he felt better or not, talking like they could.

"I need to take a look at the site of the attack," Strange said, straightening up and backing away from Tony's body.

Tony glared at Strange as he swept past him to pick up the book and tools he'd brought with him.

"You're a terrible wizard," Tony informed him.

Strange didn't even flinch.

"Thanks, doc," Carol nodded at Strange.

"What do we do now?" T'Challa asked, his arms folded across his chest.

Strange drew up to him. "Keep him as he is. Continue monitoring him. Inform me if there are any changes. I have to scan for magical energies where the hit occurred, see if there's an answer there."

"I'll come with you," T'Challa said, sweeping out of the room with Strange.

"That's fine," Tony said, "leave me standing here. Invisible. Maybe disappearing. I could totally be disappearing. How would I know? I've never been really invisible before."

"You should take a break, Steve," Carol said, crossing the room to stand next to Steve, by Tony's body's bedside. "Go get cleaned up."

"I'm okay," Steve murmured. His eyes were glued to Tony's body. Probably beating himself up that he hadn't managed to save Tony; he did have a pretty big hero's complex like that. Tony probably couldn't judge, he was often the same. It was easy to beat yourself up for your failures. And Tony had more failures on his record than most.

"You're not," Carol said, "but valiant attempt at lying to me, I'll give you points for that."

"You shouldn't give me anything," Steve said, surprising both Tony and Carol by the venom in his tone. Steve's face clenched weirdly and then he relaxed and shook his head a little. "I'm sorry. I'm just—I should have stayed behind and fought the Elves," Steve muttered. His eyes were locked on Tony's unconscious body. He looked miserable, but then, he was currently vocally beating himself up for making the wrong call on the battlefield. Steve was right; he should have stayed and fought the Elves. Okay, maybe Tony was in kind of rough shape, but Broo could have teleported just Tony?

"You were outnumbered," Carol pointed out. It was somewhat reasonable, Tony supposed, but it didn't justify why Steve didn't grab whoever was at the Mountain and immediately head back out again; instead he'd hovered over Tony's unconscious body like a bad smell.

"I just—that magic—whatever hit him—I could tell it was bad," Steve shook his head, his eyes still glued to Tony.

"You did the right thing," Carol said.

Tony rolled his eyes. What did Carol Danvers know about doing the right thing anymore?

"What about the—" Steve started.

"Thor and Jen and Robbie are taking care of those elvish bastards," Carol interrupted him quickly. "Don't worry about that."

Steve's shoulders sagged, the only visible proof he'd listened to her. Carol stepped closer to him, leaning against him, letting him know he had support.

"Tony will pull through this, Steve," Carol said, softly. "He's been through worse. He came back from death. A little unconsciousness spell is nothing."

Tony invisibly glowered at her. Considering his last 'unconsciousness spell' had been a) her fault and b) probably more fatal than he wanted to think about, those weren't words he was comfortable hearing from Carol's lips any time soon.

"Sure," Steve said, his voice sounding thin and thready.

"Nothing," Steve repeated, glaring up at Strange. "Nothing?"

"So far," Strange said, also a repeat. "But I still have many options to check—"

Steve stood up, maybe the first time he had since their return to the Mountain. "Then why are you here, wasting your damn time, if there's something you could do?"

Tony eyeballed Strange. He was interested in the response too.

"I needed another baseline reading from Tony's body," Strange said, slowly. "I promise you, all my resources are focused on figuring this out."

Steve made a huffing noise through his teeth.

"Do I have to order you to leave this room, Steve?" T'Challa asked from the doorway, a deceptively light tone to his voice. Tony had heard T'Challa use that tone several times before; usually right before he competently brought a villain sobbing to their knees in seconds.

Steve flinched at that and shook his head mutely, returning to sit by Tony's side.

"This is ridiculous," Tony said, narrowing his eyes at Strange, waving his hands in front of Strange's face. "I'm right here. Hello!"

"Why isn't he waking up, Doctor?" T'Challa asked, his voice lower this time. Tony had heard that tone before; usually when he was talking about his own family. Huh. T'Challa actually gave a shit about him? Well, Tony thought, there were still some surprising new things to learn about the world that were a little more cheerful than no one being able to figure out why Tony was freaking invisible. "By all the data we have, there's no medical reason why he should still be unconscious."

"Tony's body is… an unknown factor to me," Strange shook his head. "A completely new body, built from artifical and complex cells, filled with his consciousness in a manner no one in my circle has yet encountered…. This is cutting-edge echnology we're dealing with, technology that has not yet intersected with magic. We're in unexplored territory here. Perhaps… Tony's consciousness… his soul, if I may… are older than the form it's housed in. I don't know whether his soul is quite as anchored to the body as it should be. That last blast could have merely...dislodged him from his body."

"Shouldn't you be able to see him, if so?" Steve asked, moving his gaze away from Tony's body to glare at Strange suspiciously. Tony did a quiet fist-pump, because no one could see him, but at least Steve was there, asking the right questions.

"Believe me, if I could we wouldn't be having this conversation," Strange said.

"Maybe this will anchor him," Steve murmured, his eyes sliding back to Tony's body as he reached out and took Tony's hand in his. He didn't seem to notice that Strange and T'Challa were still there. A wash of empathy swept over T'Challa's face.

"Let's talk outside," T'Challa murmured.

Tony followed Strange through the Mountain next. It was weird, walking; he had to remain focused, or his toes would dip into the steel, make it look like the corpse they lived in was trying to swallow him up. Maybe it was. Maybe it was the teleporter itself that had caused this...temporary evacuation from his body.

The further he walked, the lighter he felt. That was probably a bad thing. Or a good thing. It meant he was connected to his body, despite what Strange seemed to think. Strange did some more of his mumbo-jumbo over the teleporter, and then, seemingly satisfied, used it to disappear back to his creepy-ass mansion.

T'Challa grimaced at the platform, like it might contain secrets, before he squared his shoulders and headed for the Spine Lift. Tony was tempted to follow T'Challa, because Tony was sure he had secrets, and this was an excellent way to find out things, but when Tony looked down at himself, he was looking a little… more translucent than he had, in the med lab.

Perhaps being away from his body for too long wasn't a good idea.

Wandering the quiet dark halls of the Mountain alone was an eerie experience he wasn't keen to replicate. When Tony got back to the med lab, Steve was still sitting by Tony's bedside. Carol had gone, but surprisingly, Jan was there. Tony regarded her pretty face gently, a faint pang of regret briefly flashing through him, but he didn't feel heartbroken about how their casual dating had ended. She was lovely, and they'd had a fun time; he'd thought she was a beautiful kisser, but his memories of kissing her felt washed out now, somehow. Diluted. Steve fucking Rogers had somehow ruined even the memory of kissing someone else with his absurdly addictive kisses.

Had Tony been too hasty, yelling at Steve like that? What had he been thinking? That he was worth more than a quick lay and a warm body to kiss? Maybe that, not Strange, was the real ridiculous thing here.

But Steve had said it. Two words that had crushed any hope Tony had that their relationship could ever be more than stolen kisses and nights spent together in secret: Your reputation. Tony's reputation was too much for Steve to be able to handle an actual public relationship. And maybe Tony wasn't perfect, but no one deserved to be used. No one.

Not even Tony.

"So he's been like this—" Jan said, her voice soft. She was sitting opposite Steve, holding Tony's other hand. That was nice. Even if Jan wasn't dating him, she was still his friend. She was still important. If anyone could help anchor Tony to reality, it would be her.

"Sixteen hours," Steve said, and Tony blinked. What? That—that didn't seem right to him. He could have sworn it had only been a couple of hours.

Jan whistled through her teeth. "And Strange has no idea how to fix it yet?"

"Apparently."

Jan blew out her cheeks and squinted at Tony's body speculatively for a long moment before leaning in and pressing a quick kiss against his cheek. Tony fancied he could feel it, just a little.

"What was that for?" Steve asked, warily.

"True love's kiss wakes people in fairy tales," Jan beamed at him. "Tony and I aren't dating anymore, but I still love him. Platonic love is just as true as romantic." She wrinkled her nose. "It was worth a try."

"I suppose," Steve whispered.

Tony was losing time. It was hard to figure out how, at first, but then he figured out how to notice it – he would blink, and the readings on the scanning panels would abruptly shift, or Steve would blur a little, even if he barely moved.

The longer it went on, the more obvious it was. One time, Tony blinked, and T'Challa entirely disappeared. Another, Robbie stepped right through Tony's body, which was an incredibly unpleasant experience indeed.

"He's not dead," Robbie said, smiling waveringly at Steve as Tony still spluttered over that moment of horrific invasion. "I'd know. If anyone would know, I would."

"Thanks, Robbie," Steve said distractedly, still staring at Tony.

Robbie stepped closer, opening his mouth to say something, but Tony must have blinked again, because Robbie disappeared. That was weird, too weird, Tony was never going to get used to that sensation.

Then Tony took in the new scene in front of him and he made an involuntary noise, like something had wounded him, even though he felt nothing like this. Hunger, fatigue, desire, nothing physical. That sudden stab of pain must be entirely psychological, and Tony hated it, because it had happened the moment he realized that Steve was gone from Tony's bedside.

Well, that figured. There's no way Tony could have expected him to stay there forever. Still, it stung a little, that he was gone.

Thor and Jen were standing at the foot of Tony's bed, both of them looking down at Tony with matching troubled expressions.

"You can go," Thor said, softly. "I promised the Captain I would stand guard. I can do that alone."

"I don't like the idea of any of us being alone right now," Jen said, shaking her head at Tony. "C'mon, Stark, wake the hell up. You're freaking us out. And Steve's freaking us out too."

"He is...very concerned for our dearest brother," Thor said, his voice a warm rumble. Tony's eyes might have stung, if Tony had been in his physical body. Instead, he felt himself flicker somehow, which was another sensation Tony didn't like a lot. There wasn't much about this whole scenario that Tony was enjoying at all.

"I'm glad you managed to get him to go take a shower," Jen murmured. "I think he was going to become part of that chair if he'd sat there any longer."

Oh. Steve hadn't left willingly. Tony found himself headed for the door and he was halfway down the stairs toward the communal showers before he realized what he was doing. He worried briefly that he might be going too far from his body, so he kept his hand in front of his face and concentrated hard on staying on the steps; it was only when he got to the shower floor that Tony realized that he was technically about to perve on Steve in the showers.

True, Tony had seen Steve naked, and not just for hot tub fun times, or inadvertent villain escapades gone wrong; he'd seen Steve naked for truly intimate purposes, but that didn't give him any right to look at Steve naked now. Tony had just broken up with him anyway, even if a relationship implied shower-perving consent in the first place (he was pretty sure it didn't), so he was already slowing down before he realized Steve wasn't even in the showers.

Steve was sitting outside of the shower cubicles, on one of the low benches, wrapped up in a large blue towel, and he was crying.

Tony felt faint; he wasn't surprised when he looked down and realized he could see almost directly through himself. He lurched forward, wanting to console Steve, but his foot nearly dropped directly through the floor. He looked at Steve's shaking shoulders for one agonizing second before turning on his heel and running back to the stairs, not stopping until he was back in the med lab, staring down at his own comatose body.

Tony tried lying down in his body again, concentrating enough so he could scoot up onto the bed. It didn't work. He didn't think it would. When he closed his eyes, he opened them to Steve looming over him again.

This disappearing thing was starting to get really disconcerting.

Steve looked exhausted; Tony couldn't stay that close, quickly sitting up and moving back to the wall. He felt safer there, slightly at a distance.

"Still nothing?" Carol's voice floated in from the doorway.

"Still nothing," Steve replied. Although Tony was pretty sure he was the closest thing to a ghost in the room, he'd easily vote Steve's voice into second place.

Carol nodded, crossing the floor and taking a chair opposite from Steve. "How are you doing?"

"Fine," Steve said, his voice monotone.

"Don't even try lying to me again, Steve. You're not fine. Do not try to tell me that this is you being fine." Carol gestured at him. "Have you even eaten anything today?"

Steve's jaw clenched visibly. "I'll grab something later."

"Steve," Carol said, packing an entire paragraph of chastisement into a single syllable.

Steve lifted his gaze and Tony couldn't help the unhappy noise that silently left his invisible mouth, because Steve looked the very opposite of fine. Steve glared at Carol, his exhausted face managing an almost combative expression.

"Tony and I were seeing each other," Steve said.

Tony almost had to do a double-take, hearing Steve say the words out loud.

Steve sounded miserable, saying it. Of course he did. Why would he want to admit something so corrosive to Steve's reputation?

Tony eyeballed Carol warily, waiting for her to look shocked, or ask for clarification, but instead, she just looked sadder. Like it wasn't really a surprise.

"Oh, Steve," Carol breathed. Her voice was unusually soft, kinder than Tony had heard it in a long time. She didn't know Tony was there, he supposed. "How long?"

"Couple of months." Steve's words were scratchy, his throat tightening, like he hated having to push those words out too. "We were—just trying it out, y'know? And we were arguing, just before—"

Carol's face pinched with sympathy for Steve. "You and Tony always argue. I've always been pretty sure it counted as foreplay for the both of you."

"Ha." Steve's exhaled laugh was bitter. He wasn't amused by that, but then, neither was Tony, that their dynamic would be boiled down to something that didn't feel true.

"He's going to be fine," Carol said.

"How can you know that?" Steve asked, his eyes scraping over Tony's limp hand, clasped between both of his own.

"He's Tony," Carol shrugged. "It's the essence of who he is."

Steve snorted. "Too stubborn to die?"

"That's you and me. Tony's something else."

"Invincible," Steve whispered.

Carol smiled, almost fondly. Tony missed the version of Carol that looked at him like that. "Exactly," she agreed. "That's exactly what Tony is."

Another blink.

This time, Steve was slumped over Tony's body. He was asleep. Tony felt something akin to an ache ripple right through him. He hated seeing Steve like that.

T'Challa and Okoye were standing at Tony's feet. Bookends.

"How are Stark's vitals?" T'Challa murmured.

Okoye shrugged. "No change."

"And Rogers?"

Okoye's smile was brief, rueful. "Not doing so well. I had to file a formal complaint against him this morning." At T'Challa's obvious confusion, and Tony's matching invisible bafflement, Okoye explained, "Gorilla-Man. Kevin wanted to take the Christmas tree down; according to his statement, Rogers went feral, almost ripped his head off. If She-Hulk hadn't been there to restrain him—"

"It's been two months. We can't stay static, not with the threats we have still out there. We have to proceed with the assumption that Stark will be out of commission for… the foreseeable future."

Tony opened his mouth to protest, but stumbled, a rush of something washing through him. When he looked up, Okoye and T'Challa were gone again. Dammit. And Steve – he had a beard now?

Oh, no. No. No, no, no. Tony was losing way too much time now.

"Steve," Tony yelled, as loud as he could. "Steve, please, goddamit, please say you can hear me. Steve."

"Tony," Steve said.

Tony laughed in relief. "You can hear me now? Oh thank—"

"I don't know what to do anymore." Steve shook his head, staring down at Tony's body. "Why won't you wake up?"

"Steve," Tony breathed. This was agony. Where the fuck was Strange? Why had everyone but Steve given up on him? Why wasn't someone hauling Steve's dumb ass out of the med lab? What good was it doing anyone to have Steve stuck in a damn room with Tony's comatose body?

"Of course you're not going to wake up just because I ask." Steve laughed; the noise was a weird, twisted version of a laugh. "You always have to do things your own way, Tony. But who am I to talk? I'm exactly the same. I'm worse. I do the same things, over and over again, expecting different results – that's the definition of idiocy, isn't it? You deserve – you deserve so much more than this."

"You're the one that deserves more than this," Tony said, bitterly. He concentrated enough to sit down on the chair opposite Steve; looking at Steve over his own unconscious body was kind of weird.

"I should have spent more time with you when I could," Steve said. His eyes scraped over Tony's face, like he was trying to memorize every detail of it to commit it to paper later. "I wanted to. I really wanted to. But I couldn't. I wasn't fair to you, I know that. I'm never fair to anyone."

"You're the fairest person I know," Tony shook his head, confused.

"I compartmentalized what you and I were doing. I told myself it was fine. Because then I didn't have to think about what I was feeling. Not deeply. I knew I was happy and I thought that was all I needed to know. I told myself what I tell myself every time, that I can just – live in the moment. No point overthinking something that's supposed to just be about feelings." Steve huffed. "But I don't even think about my feelings. I just feel them, without knowing what they are, and then it's months into a relationship, and the person I'm with has no idea what I'm feeling, because how can they, when I don't know myself?"

"I wasn't asking to know your feelings," Tony said, slowly, even though Steve couldn't hear him. "I just didn't want to be the thing ruining your reputation. I didn't want to be something you covered up or apologized for."

"But I do it, over and over again," Steve sighed, shaking his head. "I don't just say what it is I'm feeling. If I manage to get it out in words, then these misunderstandings wouldn't happen the way they do. If I could have talked, I wouldn't have gotten too far into things with Bernie when my heart wasn't fully in it. I wouldn't have let Rachel take me over lines I wasn't happy crossing. And Sharon – Sharon wouldn't have—" Steve closed his eyes and shuddered, unable to finish the end of whatever that sentence would have been. "It's a lie that I don't know what my feelings are. I know exactly what I'm feeling, but I get scared. I get scared, and I run away. Instead of just saying what I mean."

"Steve." Tony stared at him, eyes wide. This was too much. This was too much to sit here and just listen to. But Tony couldn't make himself leave. He didn't even remember how to make his invisible body stand up anymore.

Tony had tried to make an invisibility rig so many times as a teenager. Nearly given himself cancer for the privilege. He couldn't believe he'd ever been so naive as to think invisibility was a good thing. Then again, when he finally pulled off the stealth suit, that invisibility hadn't come like this, where he couldn't touch anything. Tony wanted to touch Steve so badly right now. Not even for one of those ridiculously good kisses; just to hold him. To be the one to anchor him.

"I freak out when I try to say what I'm feeling and it's not fair. I was never fair to my past partners and I've not been fair to you, Tony. They deserved better and so do you." Steve's mouth tightened into a smile that looked too close to self-loathing for Tony's comfort. "People keep describing me as brave, but they've got no idea what that means, do they? You're brave. You're always so brave. You open your heart to everyone you give a shit about. And somehow, I think that included me, even though I don't know why. You were brave and you kissed me first when I couldn't even do that much. If you knew how many times I wanted to—"

"You should tell me," Tony demanded, instantly. "When I wake up from this in my body again, you should tell me immediately."

Steve's eyes were wet, but he wasn't crying; he was just shaking his head over and over like he couldn't believe any of this. "What the hell does it say about me, that I'd rather throw myself in front of a thirty-foot troll with just a shield to protect me, than talk about my own feelings?"

"Toxic masculinity?" Tony pursed his invisible lips. "Internalized misogyny?" He considered it again. "Too many blows to the head?"

"Please," Steve breathed, his voice cracking. "Please. Please. You always defeat death, Tony, that's what you do. Please. One more time. For me. C'mon."

Tony stared at Steve sadly. "I would if I could, darling." His voice cracked too, on that last word. He'd never gotten to call Steve that in person. Tony was definitely going to add that to his own list of regrets.

Steve's beard was longer; Tony must have blinked again.

"You said the last time you were with him that you argued," Carol said. She was leaning against Steve, a chair drawn up to sit alongside him; there were various boxes of takeout on a fold-away table next to them. Tony was glad she was there to help Steve, even if Carol being near his comatose body was still a very noisy personal Do Not Want.

Steve made a very loud huff, one Tony knew from years of experience was Steve Rogers for I really do not want to talk about that right now. But then Steve's eyebrows knitted together, and he pushed his mouth into a line, puffed out his cheeks, and said, "I was trying to tell him that I was worried about dating him in public because of how my current public perception would damage his reputation."

Tony stared.

What?

"No one believes you're actually secretly Hydra Cap, Steve," Carol said, using the media's sensational nickname for that perverted version of Steve that had upsettingly rocked the world for way too long, rolling her eyes for every syllable of it.

"76% of Roxx TV viewers do," Steve pointed out.

"No," Tony said, "no, that's not what you said."

"Pfft." Carol shook her head. "No one with a brain thinks you're that dude."

"Enough people do," Steve said.

To say Tony was freaking out was an understatement.

"No," Tony said, "no, you were scared about how my reputation would affect yours—" Except he hesitated then, because Steve hadn't said that. He'd just stuttered over "your reputation", and Tony had just assumed that Steve was appalled by Tony's reputation. Tony would be on the verge of passing out, if he wasn't a shade and his body wasn't already unconscious. Steve had been trying to talk about his feelings, in a failing, awkward way. And Tony had assumed the worst, ruining that attempt, and flaring up because of that assumption.

"Tony's company's tied up in public opinion." Steve shrugged. "I thought he deserved more than anyone spouting trash that he was in a – a relationship – with a Nazi."

"You're kind of an idiot," Carol said.

Maybe Carol was saying that to the wrong person.

When Tony blinked next, he was almost scared to open his eyes again. Steve would have to give up on him at some point. The world needed Captain America, he couldn't be constantly glued to Tony's unconscious side.

Steve had been brave, and Tony had to keep taking his cues from that; he opened his eyes and nearly cried out, because Steve's chair was empty, of course it was.

"Hold him steady," Strange's voice said and Tony whirled to see Steve hovering in the doorway, and Strange standing on a painted diagram, hands outstretched, surrounded by artefacts.

T'Challa and Thor were at Tony's body, holding him down by the shoulders; Carol was holding Steve back.

"I can help," Steve said.

"Your energy is too chaotic for this ritual," Strange said. "Be patient. He's here. The readings are clear."

"Of course I'm here," Tony said, scowling as Strange closed his eyes and started hovering mid-air, his legs crossed, "I've been here the entire time."

"As I suspected," Strange said, suddenly appearing standing next to Tony's elbow. Tony looked from the slightly-translucent Strange next to him, to the one hovering mid-air and chanting under his breath, and back to the astral form of Strange.

"Then why did it take you so damn long?" Tony demanded.

"I expected a little more gratitude, considering I'm saving your life." Strange smirked. "Another couple of weeks and you'd have faded completely."

"I'll thank you if your mumbo-jumbo works," Tony snarked.

"You probably won't," Strange said.

Tony opened his mouth to make a retort, something along the lines of you don't know me or is that a pathetic attempt at reverse psychology? Or maybe he was about to agree. Tony didn't know. He blinked, and the world went fully black instead.

"Ow," Tony said, trying to open his eyes.

"Careful," Strange was keeping his voice low, but Tony's head was pounding anyway, "careful."

There was something dabbing at his face and Tony tried to open his eyes again and—

"Ow," Tony said, again. "Who turned the sun up that high?"

"He's okay," Jen breathed, somewhere out of Tony's range of blurry, streaking, light-filled vision.

It felt like someone was throwing stones at the inside of his school. His body was aching all over. Pain. Huh. Hunger, too, Tony thought. Damn. Why had he wanted to be awake and back in his own body, again?"

"Rest," Steve said, the single word cracking into pieces. Tony had never heard a more beautiful sound.

"Okay," Tony said, faintly. "Sure."

It was a couple more weeks until Tony was allowed up; it would be several more weeks of intense physiotherapy.

Tony really freaking hated magic.

Perplexingly, although Steve had haunted his side every moment while he was unconscious, he was nowhere to be seen now Tony was awake. Tony would be more peeved, if he was on fewer painkillers, and if he didn't have a sneaking suspicion as to why Steve was avoiding him.

As far as Steve was concerned, the last time they'd talked (argued), Tony hadn't wanted much to do with him. Steve hadn't known how wrong he was.

As soon as the Mountain's medical staff cleared him, Tony immediately checked the Mountain's scanners to find Steve's location. He wasn't surprised to see Steve's blinking blue dot in the training room. When he straightened, intending to head straight there, Carol was standing in the med lab doorway, looking slightly awkward.

Her cheeks pinkened, seeing him. Tony hated how much friction there still was between them, in every single interaction.

"I'm glad you're awake," Carol said, stiltedly.

"Thanks," Tony said. "It's nice to be alive."

Carol nodded and then her gaze caught on the panel and what he was looking at. Her mouth lifted at one side. "You gonna go get your guy?"

Tony's inclination was just to nod once, sharply, and then run out of there, as fast as his wobbly legs would allow, but… bravery was the theme of Tony's life right now, wasn't it? Carol and he used to be best friends, best everything. They used to be as necessary to each other as oxygen. She hadn't glued herself to Tony's side like Steve had, but she had been there, regularly. She still cared, even if neither of them knew what to do with that.

"I am," Tony said. "Thanks."

Carol looked startled. "What for?"

"I'll get back to you," Tony said, and fled; bravery always came with its limits.

"Carol was right," Tony said. "You are kind of an idiot."

He'd debated standing in the doorway like a creeper and watching Steve spar with a hologram opponent – there was something pleasant about the way Steve's muscles shifted under his skin when he dodged and wove – but he was a big fan of dramatic entrances.

"Huh?" Steve said.

"Hologram off," Tony quickly said, because Steve getting punched by his training routine was probably not an excellent way to start this interaction, and Tony had goals for this particular conversation.

Steve's opponent disappeared instantly and Tony tried not to think about how close he'd come to a similar fate. Steve's face was a complex storm – like a wheel of emotions, his brain cycling him through them one by one – before it settled onto something ambiguous.

"I'm glad you're up and about," Steve said. His voice was stiff, polite, and then he paused. "You've already talked to Carol?"

Tony took pleasure in the fact that Steve sounded a little wounded at the idea that Tony would talk to Carol first, and not Steve. "We exchanged a couple of words," Tony said. Steve's face fell a little more. "About twenty-six."

Steve's eyebrows furrowed. "So how—"

"Funny story. Turns out the magic those damn elves hit me with just separated my consciousness from my body. Strange said something about an unusual fourteenth plane – it sounded like bullshit to me – needless to say… I was here the whole time." Tony spread his hands wide. "Ta-da?"

Steve's face did a strange wobble, and then his legs swayed under him a little too, but it was Steve, he rarely faltered for long. He straightened his shoulders and looked away, starting to unwrap his gloves, looking at them like he wasn't freaking out.

He was freaking out, at least a little. Tony could tell that.

"Oh," Steve said. "Well. I'm still glad you're back."

"When we argued, and you said your reputation, I immediately assumed the worst," Tony said. "I thought you were protecting your reputation from my terrible one."

"What?" Steve whirled on his heel to stare at Tony in wide-eyed, slack-mouthed confusion. "Of course not, I'd never – Your reputation is incredible, mine is the one that's a tire fire – we talked about that, just before – I never thought—"

"I did," Tony said, easily crossing the floor and pulling himself up to the ropes, to join Steve in the boxing ring because Steve seemed incapable of leaving it; Steve rallied a moment too late, at least managing to grab Tony's arms when his landing was a little awkward. "I thought you might mean that. I'm sorry."

"You heard everything?" Steve's voice was small.

"I heard a lot," Tony said. "Enough to know we both need to learn to talk to each other and use our actual words." He pulled a wry face. "That is, if you still want to. Y'know. With me." Ugh, okay, that wasn't exactly a great start at the communication thing.

"If I want to," Steve breathed, his eyes flying across Tony's face like he'd just unwrapped the greatest possible gift on Christmas morning, "Tony—"

Apparently Steve hadn't quite gotten the we're going to work on talking message either, because instead of finishing that sentence, he kissed Tony instead.

Tony immediately melted into it. It was still just as incredible.

"I was so scared," Steve said, pulling away from the kiss to rest his forehead against Tony's. "I was so damn scared I'd never see you again."

Hmm. Apparently Steve and communication had their moments. That much clarity deserved a reward; Tony kissed him again, eagerly. Steve had shaved that beard, which was a shame; Tony wondered how much convincing it would take him to grow it again.

"I was still so sure it was your reputation we were protecting," Tony murmured, wrapping his hands around Steve's waists, thrilling when Steve nestled into his arms with a noise of sheer contentment. "My personal reputation is already pretty shot to hell. And my business hasn't exactly been shining. Besides, worst case?" Tony regarded Steve coolly. "I'm a cis white man with billions of dollars at my disposal. My disgrace in the public eye would last for, what, a week?" He beamed. "America's a bit fucked up like that. That's why we left, right?"

"Tony," Steve said, looking mortified. "That's really bleak."

"I know."

"I don't – I don't think I like thinking about that."

"I know, it's terrible," Tony sighed. "I could buy my apology tomorrow, if I needed it. Snap. Like that."

"We should really work on changing it," Steve said, his jaw clenching moodily.

Tony frowned. Steve looked distinctly unimpressed, verging on angry. Tony knew that look; Steve meant business. "Can I at least get some recovery time first?" Steve looked unconvinced. "I need a lot of time. In bed. To get better." Steve was definitely being swayed. "In bed."

"I suppose," Steve said, slowly. "I am aware you're manipulating me. Enjoy it while you can."

"I plan to," Tony said, glibly, pressing forwards for another of those glorious kisses that had landed him in this mess to start with. He pulled away after another with a sigh. "We should probably find somewhere a little more private for this."

"No," Steve said, loudly. When Tony glanced at him in surprise, there was a red spot high on both of his cheeks, and Steve's hands were half-curling into fists, and Steve was frowning, but that frown turned into a gentle smile as Steve's large hand cupped Tony's cheek. "No," he repeated, softly. "No more hiding."

"Mm," Tony said, "I have had enough of being invisible for one lifetime."

Steve opened his mouth, probably to ask exactly what that meant – apparently Tony hadn't explained being able to hear everything properly – but Tony used the opening to drag him into another passionate kiss. Right out there in the open. Where anyone could see.