Archive of Our Own

Day 1

Tony wakes up without a clue of where he is, and only a very vague idea of how he ended up there.

He can tell he's outside. There's an earthy scent in the air, like moss and grass, and the surface he's lying on is cold and soggy. Contrasting that is the unmistakable warmth of sunshine on his face, bright even through his closed eyelids. His arms are held against his sides by some material that's wrapped around him, and as he tries to shift his legs, he realizes it covers him all the way, from shoulders to toes. It clearly isn't too thick, considering how he can feel every pebble under his back. The impression he gets is of being swaddled, not of being tied up, which is what he would expect based on his hazy memories of recent events.

The last thing he remembers clearly is taking a cab from the city hall to the hotel in Oslo. He stepped out, and then—he thinks he was attacked, probably kidnapped, but the details are a disjointed mess of masked figures and futile attempts at fighting them off and commotion all around him. He might have been on an airplane afterwards, but he's not sure about that part. The number of gaps in his memory is disconcerting. Adding up those and the headache, he guesses he was drugged.

All in all, kidnapping definitely seems like the best bet for what happened. It's not like it's his first time. It's also far from the worst, considering that he's not in excruciating pain, just slightly bruised and chilled.

He opens his eyes, trying to brace himself for anything and everything. The first thing he sees is still a profound shock.

Steve Rogers sits a few feet away from him, focused on digging through the contents of an army green rucksack.

It's been months since Tony last set eyes on Steve, back in Siberia, when everything went to hell. Steve has changed during the time he's spent as a fugitive, his all-American perfection giving way to a dark-dyed costume and a scraggly beard that shouldn't look good, and yet, he still manages to pull it off. Of course he does. That doesn't make Tony any less annoyed at seeing him. More than annoyed, though, he's confused.

"Rogers? What the hell are you doing here?" Tony growls, shrugging off the gauzy fabric he's cocooned in and pushing himself up to a seated position on the grass he's been resting on.

Steve turns to face him, his expression stern. "Saving you from getting kidnapped. You're welcome."

"If you're expecting a 'thank you,' you're out of luck." Tony glances at the surroundings past Steve. It's a serene highland view: nothing but grass-covered hills, low bushes, and a rock here and there. Not a single sign of civilization to be seen. "Some rescue, by the looks of it. Do you even know where we are?"

"Can't say that I do," Steve admits, "but without me, you'd be locked up in some terrorist hideout by now. Not to mention that I've kept watch all night, making sure you don't freeze to death. So, yes, Tony. The least you could do is to thank me," Steve says, the tone of his voice about as patronizing as it's possible to get.

The thought of Steve watching him sleep definitely doesn't make Tony any less annoyed. He hates the idea that he's been so vulnerable, entirely at the mercy of the person he'd least like to face in the entire world—and it's all the worse because not too long ago, he would've been ecstatic for Steve to be looking after him like this.

Really, he'd rather be dealing with terrorists; facing actual bad guys would be a much simpler situation, one where he could just focus on surviving and escaping.

Even though Steve probably does deserve some gratitude, Tony can't help lashing out at him. "Well, thank you. Thank you so much for meddling in my affairs and completely screwing them up."

"You mean you would've preferred the possibility of torture, then?" Steve crosses his arms and stands up to tower over Tony.

Tony stands up as well, and even manages to do it without tripping on his strange blanket or wavering too much, even though he feels woozy from whatever sedative is still in his system. "I would've preferred for you to leave me alone. How were you even around to butt in? Why would you be in Norway?" Tony frowns at Steve, his simmering anger rapidly building up towards fury that's ice-cold and white-hot at the same time. "Have you been stalking me?"

"You should be glad my team is keeping an eye on things," Steve returns, a sharp edge to his voice that says his mood mirrors Tony's. "You have no idea how much we're doing to sort out your messes. Yes, I did follow you to Oslo after we intercepted a message hinting at this kidnapping—something all your people clearly missed!"

It stings that Steve's team picked up intel that all of Tony's network of tech and skilled specialists failed to notice, but he has no reason to believe that's anything other than an isolated incident. Steve's probably just making a lot of noise about it to goad Tony. He probably shouldn't let it get to him.

Then again, why should he make an effort to be civil around Steve?

"So, it didn't occur to you to, I don't know, just let me know about said intel? Warn me so that I'd be prepared?" Tony scoffs. "You just had to show up in person, to brag about what a great job you're doing and ask for a pat on the back?"

"If I'd tried to contact you about this, would you have listened?" Steve asks.

As if Tony hadn't read Steve's letter a hundred times, and kept staring at that flip phone, half hoping, half dreading to hear it ring—not that he'd ever admit any of that to Steve. "As it happens, I am willing to listen when you tell me important stuff that's directly relevant to me, instead of keeping it to yourself because of whatever convoluted excuse you happen to come up with."

Steve's expression shifts ever so slightly; it's still angry, but Tony thinks there's some regret in his eyes, too. Clearly, Tony's words hit home. "This is a completely different situation," Steve says.

"Is it? From where I'm standing, it's yet another example of you being a condescending jerk, assuming you know what's best for everyone without bothering to ask what they think. Well, let me tell you what I think: I've had enough of it, and I've had enough of you," Tony snaps at him.

"Fine!" Steve barks, his hands raised in fists. Tony does his best not to shrink back, even if the look is undeniably intimidating. At the back of his mind, he sees Steve crouched over him, shield raised. "You want to get rid of me? You want to deal with everything yourself?" Steve goes on. "Fine. Have it your way. Enjoy the outdoors, Stark."

With that, Steve turns around and walks away.

Staring at Steve's retreating back, the full picture of the situation finally starts to sink in for Tony. Beyond Steve, the round shapes of hills stretch out all the way to the horizon, and Tony can't spot as much as a single radio mast. He has no idea where he is, and he's just pushed away the only person sharing this predicament. Probably not the smartest move.

He blows out a breath and turns his attention to what's in front of him. In his hurry to storm away, Steve left behind the rucksack that he was digging through earlier. Tony realizes it must be a parachute container; the fabric that's currently tangled around his legs would be the chute itself. Since it wouldn't have enveloped Tony on its own, Steve must've wrapped it around him. That thought brings back his earlier anger.

It makes no sense for Steve to be here watching out for him. Steve hates him. Steve probably never liked him very much. Tony let himself believe that they were friends, but that was just wishful thinking because he liked Steve too much.

If Steve had ever cared for Tony at all, he would've told Tony that Barnes murdered his parents.

Steve is an asshole and Tony is better off without him. He can find his way back to civilization on his own.

He sits down next to the parachute container and starts taking stock of what he has to work with.

Steve doesn't look back.

He might've been able to keep his calm and stay reasonable if not for the fact that he's spent all night envisioning a completely different course of events. Now, he feels like a naive idiot. He's angry at Tony, and he's also angry at himself, for letting himself hope that something good could come out of this mess.

He'd originally planned to prevent the kidnapping without having to talk to Tony at all, but after ending up out here, and after keeping an eye on Tony as he slept through the sedation, he'd almost started looking forward to having a conversation. He hadn't been expecting overflowing gratitude, or that Tony would forget all the bad blood between them at the drop of a hat, but he'd thought Tony would at least acknowledge Steve's helpfulness, even if it was in a quippy, off-hand manner. More than that, he'd been sure Tony would see that the smartest course of action would be to stick together, just for the sake of survival. During the quiet hours of his vigil, Steve had painted an entire picture in his head of the two of them traversing the wilderness together, the shared predicament bringing them closer and helping them put the past behind them.

Of course, Tony squashed those fantasies as soon as he woke up. He as good as said he'd rather face actual torture than accept any further help from Steve.

Steve stops to take in the rugged character of the landscape around him. It's beautiful, in its unspoiled way, a view that has probably stayed unchanged for thousands and thousands of years. His decades in the ice were a blink of the eye compared to this.

As he keeps on walking, going around one of the countless hills surrounding them, as if to put that physical barrier between himself and the man he can't stop thinking about, his anger slowly dwindles away. It's first replaced by annoyance, then regret, and eventually, despite everything, concern.

He didn't make that much of an effort to convince Tony that they should face this situation together. He let Tony's first, indignant reaction get the better of him and lashed back, because it stung so badly, after months of trying and failing to stop thinking about Tony, and after that fragile hope he'd been nurturing all night.

He's abandoned Tony out here in the untamed highlands. Tony, who's used to five-star hotels and an endless arsenal of gadgets. Steve assumes the kidnappers took everything he had, leaving him with nothing but the clothes on his back, which are as ill-suited for the setting as Tony himself. Tony was prepared for summer weather, and wherever they are, although the sky is clear and sunny, the air is brisk. The current temperature can't be much above 50.

Should Steve go back? Try to make amends?

It occurs to him that he left the parachute and the simple survival gear in its container with Tony. It's not much more than a pocket knife, a compass and some fire starting tools, and it's probably for the best that Tony has those. Steve, who was tied up only briefly while trying to rescue Tony, managed to escape with a knife he'd grabbed from one of the kidnappers. It's much better than nothing.

Steve will make do. Hopefully, so will Tony. Besides, even if he struggles, that shouldn't be Steve's problem. Tony didn't want help, Steve reminds himself. He's just getting what he asked for.

Steve makes his way up the next hill in front of him to get a better impression of the lay of the land. From the top, he sees, as he'd already assumed, that the wilderness stretches on into the horizon in every direction. He can't see any houses or any other signs of human activity. He does see several rivers and small lakes, so at least finding water won't be a problem. Food might be more of an issue, but he can keep going for some time before he needs to worry about that. Above all else, the main challenge will be finding his way back to civilization, and then to his team, without getting caught.

Glancing back in the direction he came from, Steve spots something that he takes for a bird, at first: there's a small dark shape in the air. After a few seconds, he realizes it's moving strangely, too static to be anything living. Now that he's focused on the object, he notices the thin cord leading from it towards the ground. It's a kite, of all things.

Tony's flying a kite.

That doesn't make any sense whatsoever to Steve, but clearly, Tony's already working on some ingenious solution for getting back home.

Any concerns Steve might have had for Tony were clearly misplaced. He'll do just fine.

Tony squints at the slightly fuzzy image on the cracked lens. The view looks similar in all directions, but he thinks there might be a structure of some kind by the largest lake he can discern in the distance. It's too rectangular to be a natural feature; it might be a house or a hut of some kind. It's difficult to estimate the distance to it, and he's got none of the advanced functionalities that the OS in his glasses usually offers. It took all his skills and genius, not to mention a lot of fiddling, with only a simple knife for a tool, to extract the remaining intact components. The best he could accomplish was the current setup, with a camera and a transmitter on the kite, and the paired display on the lens.

He got lucky in that his captors didn't realize that his broken glasses weren't just glasses. They took everything else he had on his person, including his watch, which unfortunately looked more obviously electronic than the glasses.

He should've implanted a tracker on himself. He's considered that many times, but in the end decided against it, mainly because of the security risks of its details ending up in the wrong hands. As things are, absolutely no one knows where he is. Himself included.

Focusing on the view again gets him no closer to figuring out his geographic location. He's convinced he's somewhere high up in the north, going by how cool the weather is for late June and the complete lack of trees. Russia seems like a good guess.

Wherever he is, from the survival perspective, he's slightly concerned about the weather. If early afternoon is like this, the night will probably be chilly. It might even get to sub-zero Celsius. He'll need shelter or he'll be in trouble.

The possible hut is definitely too far for him to reach in one day, but he's fairly sure he can do it in two. Aiming for it is the only plan he's got, so far. It easily beats wandering aimlessly on the fell, hoping for some miraculous rescue.

As he starts reeling in his kite, he gets a bird's-eye view of his immediate surroundings. Steve is standing on top of a nearby hill. He's facing Tony, clearly still trying to keep track of him. Tony scoffs.

He ignores the voice at the back of his mind that wonders if it was irresponsible to leave Steve on his own. Steve has plenty of outdoor survival experience. Besides, it's Steve's fault they're here in the first place. His welfare shouldn't be Tony's problem.

He keeps pulling at the paracord until he's recovered his precious tech, and turns off the devices. The batteries should last several days if he only uses them for this, and really, there's not much else he can use them for. Well, except maybe for recording last messages, in case of the worst, but he won't need that.

He's getting out of here, no question about it.

He packs up all the gear, slings the pack on his back and starts to walk.

Since Steve's vantage point on the hill has given him no obvious destination to aim for, he decides to head for another, even higher, hill that stands above all the others nearby. It's not too far away; he figures he can reach the top before it gets too dark. He takes off at a jog to stay warm.

He tries to keep an eye out for potential shelter as he goes. The lack of trees complicates things—as does the fact that he left the parachute with Tony, so he has no materials to work with except what he can find around him. Not that he's in desperate need for shelter; his uniform is sufficient for most weather conditions.

He travels around several smaller hills, and stops to drink when he comes across a stream in a valley. The water is cold and tastes perfectly clean. It's too bad he doesn't have a bottle to carry some with him, but considering the number of lakes and rivers he saw from above, this is just a slight inconvenience.

Things could be a lot worse, he notes to himself once again.

He could bring himself to enjoy this, being alone in the wilderness, only worrying about the very basic necessities of life. The simplicity of it is soothing. No one knows where he is, so there's no need to think about lying low, and since he's alone, he can momentarily forget all concerns about his team as well. There are no Accords out here. No Avengers, either. Just fresh air, sunny blue skies, an endless expanse of greens and browns, and the many textures of the pathless ground beneath his boots.

As he starts his way up the side of the highest hill, the sun is getting closer to the horizon, signaling that the day grows late. With dusk, cooler temperatures will soon follow. He can see some clouds gathering in the distance.

He hurries on.

Towards the top of the hill, the terrain grows more rocky, in places steep enough that he needs to use all his limbs to scramble upwards. He enjoys the challenge. It does cross his mind that if he happened to slip and injure himself out here, he could end up in serious trouble, but he's not overly worried. He's agile and he heals fast. He doesn't slow down.

As fast as he's been moving, daylight is turning to twilight when he makes it to the top. Most of the valleys are shrouded in shadows. Unsurprisingly, he can't spot any human settlements, just more hills and lakes. Then again, with these lighting conditions, he can't see very much detail. There could be a whole village hiding in plain sight, if they happened to have the lights turned off.

It annoys him that he was too slow and too late to reach this perch within the full light of day. He's not too tired and could easily keep walking through the night, but there's no point to it if he doesn't actually have a destination. It would make far more sense to stop, rest, and wait for the morning, so that he can get a proper view.

He backtracks to the rocky outcrop he crossed earlier. It doesn't take long for him to find a nook between boulders that offers a modicum of shelter. It won't keep him dry if there's rain, but it will protect him from the worst of the wind that's starting to pick up. He'll also be hidden from view in the unlikely situation that someone comes looking for him. It's never a bad idea to be prepared, even if there's been no sign of Tony's would-be kidnappers making a reappearance.

He wishes he had something to eat. It's been well over twenty-four hours since he last had anything, and even that was a sandwich instead of a proper meal. A way to light a fire and something to burn would be good, too, but he has no easy way of getting either of these. He'd have to descend to the valley, where he wouldn't have any shelter. Since he's not about to starve or freeze overnight, he decides to stay where he is, try to nap, and look for food tomorrow.

Steve settles into the recess between boulders, pulling up his knees and crossing his arms. It's not particularly comfortable. A rock presses against his tailbone. He tries to shift, only to end up with a sharp ridge digging into his ribs.

He'd sleep better on a softer surface, even if it's out in the open. He considers looking for an alternative location. In some strange way, it'd feel like giving up.

He's used to napping in all kinds of extreme circumstances. This shouldn't be any different. Besides, there's an additional advantage to the crevice he's hiding in compared to most other places: it's in the shadow. He already knows from last night that the sun doesn't entirely set here, suggesting that they must be above the Arctic Circle. Beyond his niche, it's still not entirely dark, bright sunlight lingering just above the horizon.

He stays where he is, his cheek resting against cold, hard rock, and closes his eyes. Some light seeps through his lids, making sleep even more elusive.

His mind keeps wandering to Tony. Is he trying to sleep as well? Has he found shelter? Has he found food, or is he as hungry as Steve is?

Is he thinking about Steve, too?

Steve presses his forehead against his knees. Tony won't be thinking about him, he tells himself. Or if he is, it's just to wish that Steve is feeling miserable.

He should've stayed away. He should've let the kidnappers take Tony, and left it to the remaining Avengers to sort out the situation.

He should learn to let go.

He's just never been any good at that.

Day 2

Tony wakes up to the cold.

His fire has dwindled to embers, no longer enough to warm up the small lean-to he's put together, and he's shivering in his summer suit. The shelter isn't much to write home about, anyway, since the best material for supports that he was able to find were the same thin twigs that he used for the kite's frame. It took him most of last evening to work them into a structure sturdy enough to hold up the parachute fabric in a triangular space he could barely fit in.

The night has been miserable. He's desperately tired, since he can't have slept more than a few hours altogether; short fits between feeding more sticks to the fire and trying to drive away the cloud of mosquitoes that are out for his blood. It also didn't help that the ground underneath the parachute fabric is uneven with pebbles that he missed while clearing it out, and the sun stayed above the horizon all through the night, as if it'd forgotten how to set properly. Now, it's on the way up again.

Tony closes his hands into fists and blows at them to warm his half-frozen fingers, then reaches behind his back to scratch at the countless bites spotting it. His stomach is rumbling, and he has no food.

He hates everything about this situation.

"Screw you, Steve," he tells the quiet wilderness around him.

Wherever his kidnappers were taking him, it would probably have been warmer. They might even have fed him. Of course, they might also have stuck needles under his fingernails. Can't know for sure.

He's mad at Steve anyway. For meddling in his affairs, giving the impression that he actually cares.

Tony sits up. He can't do anything about the mosquito bites, but hopefully, the cold and the hunger aren't insurmountable issues.

He's still got a pile of sticks left for firewood. He uses one to stir the embers, adds a few more on top, and blows on them. It takes a few tries before the fire picks up again, and much longer before it burns bright enough to drive away the chill. Luckily, the rising sun helps, so he manages to stave off impending hypothermia for now.

Next on the agenda is breakfast. He's made his camp close to a small lake, and he's hoping to catch some fish, because that's the easiest source of calories he can think of out here.

He's never been one for fishing—just like he's never cared for the outdoors in general—but none of it seems too complicated. In the end, all this survival business comes down to practical thinking.

The gear he's got includes a few hooks. He unravels a length of paracord to reveal the thin inner strands, which will make the fishing line. All he needs now is bait. That requires digging around for worms. Not something he's ever envisioned himself doing, but hey, at least dirt under the nails is less painful than needles.

When he gets home, he's going to spend a week in the Jacuzzi.

He puts together his makeshift line and hook, drops the bait into the lake, and sits to wait. It's a very long wait.

He can feel a headache building up, probably due to the lack of sleep, lack of food, and lack of caffeine.

He absently wonders how Steve is doing, and whether he's as miserable as Tony is. Probably not. He's probably slept like a log, used to the wilderness as he is, and caught a dozen fish with his bare hands. He'd probably laugh at Tony if he saw him right now, frowning at the placid surface of the lake in front of him like it's a complex engineering problem, hoping against hope that the local wildlife will be dumb enough to swallow the bait.

"Come on, come get it," he mutters at the lake. "Premium worm. Only today, just for you."

He's never had any scruples about talking to himself, but here, it somehow feels wrong when it's otherwise so quiet. It bothers him more than he would've thought that he has no one to talk to, no one at all. He's so used to having at least Friday or one of the bots around.

He imagines this whole outdoor adventure thing could be fun if he were here with someone he likes spending time with. Pepper or Rhodey, for example. With Pepper, they could mutually bond about the many things that suck, maybe even cuddle to stay warm. Rhodey might actually like it out here—except that his legs will need a lot more work before he can handle terrain like this again.

Thinking about Rhodey just brings Tony's mind right back to Steve. If not for Steve and that whole mess with the Accords, Rhodey wouldn't be in that situation.

Steve had some nerve, expecting any gratitude from Tony.

Somehow, it seems his thoughts always end up circling back to Steve. The irony doesn't escape him.

He's so deep in thought that he almost misses the first gentle tug at the line. The next one is more insistent. Success! As carefully as he can, Tony reels in the line and pulls up his breakfast.

The fish isn't much longer than his hand from heel to fingertips, and the amount of meat he gets out of it once he's burned it to a crisp on the fire leaves him almost as hungry as he was to start with. He eats the skin and tries to suck every ounce of nutrients from the bones.

He could stay and attempt to catch more fish. That might be smart. He doesn't know when he'll next come across a body of water large enough for fishing. Then again, if he makes it to that hut today, the food situation might solve itself. He's counting on that.

The breeze is still favorable for flying his kite, so he uses it to check his position and make sure he has the correct compass bearing. He doesn't see Steve. The hut looks closer than yesterday, but his skills at estimating distances and hiking speeds haven't magically improved overnight. He knows he won't be any faster today than he was yesterday, considering how tired he is, not to mention that it's painfully obvious his shoes are poorly suited for covering long distances. He expects that before the day is over, his blisters will have blisters.

"Just one more day," he tells himself aloud. "It's just walking. I've faced worse."

He puts out the fire and starts packing up his camp.

Steve wakes up from a nightmare of wandering through an endless wilderness, searching for Tony, who's always one step ahead of him.

He hisses out an angry breath and promises himself that he won't think about Tony today. He needs to focus on his own survival instead of obsessing about someone who doesn't want anything to do with him.

He gets up and steps away from his rocky refuge, stretching his limbs; one of his legs has fallen asleep. At least he's not desperately cold, even though looking at the frost-coated blades of grass here and there, the temperature outside must be close to freezing.

What he is almost desperate about is the hunger, but first things first. There's a reason he spent the night up here.

Steve heads back to the highest point of the hilltop at a brisk pace.

The sun has climbed high enough by now that all the valleys are bathed in warm light. Squinting against the brightness, Steve scans the landscape around him, turning around in a slow circle, searching for any sign of human presence: buildings or tents, sunlight reflected from a polished surface, or smoke from a campfire.

His hopes go up when he catches sight of a faint trail of smoke not far from where he stands, until he realizes its most likely source. Considering the distance, the chances are very high that it's Tony.

Steve takes a breath, pushes away the thought, unclenches his jaw, and continues his search.

He's almost concluded that his effort was for nothing when he notices the shape at the nearer shore of a distant lake. It's so tiny that even his eyesight isn't enough to make out any details, but he thinks it could be a small cabin. Even though it's too far for him to be sure—there's still a chance it could be an oddly shaped solitary boulder—it's close enough that he thinks he should be able to reach it within a day, if he keeps up a good pace.

It's the best plan he's come up with so far. Tony has probably spotted the place as well and is on his way there, but following his earlier decision, Steve doesn't linger on that thought, not when he's finally found something to be hopeful about.

Since he doesn't have a compass to keep track of his bearing, his ability to memorize things comes in handy. He commits to memory all the main landmarks between the possible cabin and his current location: hills with recognizable shapes, the largest patches of scree on slopes, and the patterns of rivers and lakes. The large one next to his destination should make navigating to it a simple matter.

While he's considering his immediate future, Steve's eyes land on a flock of grouse-like birds sitting on the slope ahead of him. He'd been thinking of fishing for breakfast, but this could be a much faster solution.

He picks up some rocks of a suitable size and approaches the birds as slowly and stealthily as he can.

He's not quite Hawkeye when it comes to hitting targets, but Steve has super-soldier abilities and years of practice aiming his shield. The very first rock he throws catches one of the birds hard enough to stun it. The rest let out panicked clucking sounds and run and take off around Steve as he rushes forward to grab his prey. He wrings its neck to kill it as quickly and painlessly as he can.

He hangs the carcass by the feet. The bird is fairly big; he'd guess its weight at close to two pounds. Enough to last him the whole day. He just needs to figure out how to cook it, because he's nowhere near desperate enough to consider eating raw poultry.

He makes his way down the hill. The rocky slope opens up into a valley with a narrow lake at the bottom. The shorter route around it and towards the hut that is Steve's ultimate goal would be to the right, but there are bushes at the far end of the lake, to the left, which he could use as firewood.

It's an easy choice to make. He might waste a few hours, but he'll be able to travel faster when he's not half starved.

Steve was wrong in claiming that he'd saved Tony from torture, Tony thinks. The word is as good a description for his day as any. It's simultaneously full of suffering, and incredibly dull and monotonous.

The landscape offers no surprises; it's scenic, sure, but it stays exactly the same, hour after hour. At least the weather is equally stable. It's not as sunny as yesterday, with some clouds in the sky, but the temperature is mild enough that the cold stays at bay as long as Tony keeps moving. Unfortunately, he needs to take regular breaks to get off his feet. He can feel the inflamed skin of his soles with each step. He still has a constant background headache, too, which he thinks is mostly because he's so damn hungry.

In the early afternoon, he comes across a herd of caribous—or some animals that resemble those, anyway. He's extremely tempted to stop and try to figure out a way to hunt down one of them. He can think of several designs for a trap, but they would take time to implement, and he really doesn't want to spend another day out here. He sighs and keeps going, leaving the animals to continue their grazing undisturbed.

The thought of nice sturdy walls around him and the prospect of getting out of this miserable middle-of-nowhere are what keeps him pushing onwards.

Occasionally, he glances in the direction where he last spotted Steve. Once, he thinks he sees a figure on a hill in the distance. He wonders if Steve is still stalking him. It would be hilarious if Steve were as obsessed with him as he is with Steve, but that's probably just wishful thinking on his part.

As the evening draws inevitably closer, he stops at a stream to drink and to soak his burning feet. It feels amazing, partly because the water is so cold that his toes soon turn entirely numb. He considers sinking his head in the stream as well, since that might offer him some relief from the gnawing headache, but that would be asking for hypothermia.

When his teeth start chattering, he has to admit he can't sit here much longer, even though the thought of standing up again makes him want to scream.

He must be pretty close to that hut by now. Surely, he'll be there by the end of the day.

He grits his teeth and pulls on his socks and shoes. A wave of dizziness washes over him as he stands up. Hunger and exhaustion. He's so tired, he imagines he could lie down on the moss by the stream and nap.

He needs to check his position to be sure how far he is from his destination. He could unpack the kite, but again, that'd mean sitting here longer and getting even colder. Unless he's willing to stop properly and make a fire, he has to start moving.

He heads up the nearest hill, swearing under his breath, telling himself that every painful step brings him closer to home. He pictures himself reaching the top and seeing the big lake and the hut in the next valley.

Of course, because everything about this damn situation sucks, it turns out there's nothing worth mentioning in the next valley. Rocks and grass. A few birds. No hut.

Tony slumps to his knees, hanging his head. "Fuck this. Fuck all of this. Especially you, Steve Rogers," he mutters once again.

He can't keep going for much longer. If he knew he was getting somewhere soon, he could keep pushing, but looking at this view, he must still have hours left to go. He simply doesn't have that in him.

So much for sleeping indoors tonight.

He starts his slow trudge down the hill, looking for a suitable place to set up camp.

Steve struggles to get a fire going without supplies. Creating a spark is not the issue; his enhanced strength makes that part easy, as long as he has a few dry sticks. But with the unfamiliar plant life around him, finding the right materials for tinder, kindling and firewood takes far too long. Everything is slightly moist with dew, and the bushes that are the closest thing to a forest here have such thin branches that most of them won't burn for longer than a few minutes.

It's incredibly frustrating. He's starving, he has his breakfast right there, and he can't eat it until he gets this fire lit.

He ends up wasting several hours on his quest for breakfast, or rather, brunch—even after the fire is done, it takes him a while to pluck, gut and barbecue the bird. By the time it's thoroughly cooked, it looks much smaller. He's tempted to wolf down the whole thing while he's at it, but he resists. Better to ration and make it last longer, so he can avoid going through this routine a second time today.

When he sets off again, retracing his steps around the lake, he realizes that with all the time he's spent on food, he might not make it to the hut by the end of the day. Then again, since the sun doesn't set and he's not particularly tired, there's no reason for him to stop for the night. Besides, the faster he moves, the more likely he is to get to the hut before Tony. Maybe he can avoid an awkward second encounter altogether.

He keeps going through the day and well into the twilight, pausing only to drink and to eat the rest of his brunch bird, until the gathering clouds turn the landscape dark in spite of the midnight sun. With so little light left, moving in the often slippery and rocky terrain turns perilous. Gaining more headway over Tony isn't worth chancing a broken ankle.

Steve finds a relatively soft bed of grass to curl up on—doing what he can to conserve body heat, since it isn't at all warm out here—and settles down for the rest of the night.

Day 3

The night is beyond miserable.

If Tony thought last night was bad, it was nothing compared to this.

He struggles to find enough fuel for a fire. The best he can manage is so tiny, it barely warms him more than a tealight. It's in no way enough to properly heat up the air in his shelter in this cool weather. He's too cold to sleep, but so tired that he knows he has to rest, which means he spends hours huddled up into a shivering ball, feeling sorry for himself and wishing he were anywhere but here.

Because things can always get worse no matter how wretched they are, in the small hours it starts to rain. The sad little fire sputters out entirely, and once it's gone, Tony realizes that it was still better than nothing, the way the chill quickly grows even more intense.

Even if his shelter keeps the worst of the rain away, it's obvious that he can't stay here. He has to get up and start moving, rain or not, or he'll freeze to death.

He packs up his camp. Fiddling with the sticks and the parachute fabric that make up his shelter is an illustration of his predicament: the cold is already affecting his fine motor functions, and he keeps fumbling and dropping things.

He has to get to that cabin. He's not a hundred percent sure of the correct heading anymore, but the weather being as it is, a gloomy early morning full of wind and rain, flying the kite is not an option. Climbing to higher ground is unlikely to provide a much better view, either, with all the mist and clouds. He has to go with his best guess.

It's probably a bad sign that his feet aren't hurting as much as yesterday. Something to do with diminished circulation to the extremities. Even though he knows it's not good, he's still glad for the relief that it offers. He tries to hurry ahead at the fastest pace he can manage, not quite a jog but at least a brisk walk, attempting to build up some body heat. Unfortunately, what he gains is quickly lost again. The rain soaks his clothing, and together with the wind chill, it leeches all warmth out of him.

Once again, he wonders how Steve is doing. Steve would probably be warm, even in this weather, with that super soldier metabolism.

All his past anger at Steve feels entirely meaningless and petty. Steve was trying to help him, wasn't he, in his own condescending way? Tony should've taken it for what it was, and put aside his grudge for at least a few days. It's obvious that the situation would look very different if they hadn't gone their separate ways.

If Steve showed up right now, Tony would forget everything and fling himself at him. Anything to feel less chilled.

Steve has only been napping for a few hours when he's roused into full wakefulness by the rain. Once again, he's thankful for his uniform, which is almost entirely impervious to it; he can easily imagine how miserable this weather would be in worse clothing. A vision of Tony shivering in the rain in his summer suit crosses Steve's mind, but he pushes it away. Tony is probably at the hut already. He'll be fine.

With the morning drawing closer, there's slightly more light by now. Steve gets up. One last sprint and he'll be out of here.

He runs and leaps over rocks, making his way around one small hill and up a larger one. From the top of it, he has a view directly over the valley with the large lake that he spotted on the previous morning. Even with the rain and the low visibility, there's no mistaking what else is there: the rectangular shape he saw earlier is a little log cabin. He can't see any movement around it or anywhere in the valley. Still, even a small, abandoned hut in the wilderness is much better than what he's had so far.

He races down the hill, barely feeling the rain lashing at his face.

From close up, the cabin is even smaller than Steve thought, barely more than a shed. There's no smoke coming from the chimney or any other signs of people nearby, and no one answers when he knocks on the door. He pushes at it, and it opens without resistance.

The inside of the building is as frugal as the outside implied. The furniture is plain wood and consists of a table, a pair of benches, and a wide platform with old, thin mattresses laid side by side in place of a bed. There's a simple wood-burning stove for cooking and heating, and oil lanterns to provide light; there's obviously no electricity here.

Steve searches every square inch of the room, and comes up with no clues regarding his location, let alone a phone. All in all, the place doesn't seem like anyone's home, but rather like some kind of a free-to-use shelter.

He sighs, frustrated. Having walls and a ceiling to protect him from the rain is nice, but he was hoping for more than that.

Although the can of tomato soup someone has left on a shelf is awfully inviting, Steve steps outside again. The rain has stopped for now, but the sky still has a thick cloud cover, promising more showers soon. The lake next to the hut is beautiful in a melancholic way, with the grays and browns and greens of the bare hills blurred like an aquarelle painting by the lingering mist. The earthy scent of soil after rain fills the air.

Steve scans the surroundings once more. As he thought, aside from the outhouse behind the hut, there are no other buildings nearby. It's only when he walks up to the lakeshore that he spots a lone tent around a quarter of a mile away. It's set up next to a thicket of bushes, its camo green color blending into the landscape.

His hopes for finding more information renewed, Steve jogs towards the tent and calls out, "Hello! Anyone there?"

There's a rustling sound from inside, and the tent flap opens to reveal a graying, bespectacled man, with lines in his face that speak of much time spent outdoors. "Hello to you," he greets, then frowns at Steve's outfit—the dark-dyed version of his uniform. "You are Captain America?" the man asks, speaking with an accent that Steve doesn't recognize, with heavy consonants and rolled Rs.

Steve crosses his arms. "I was," he says. There might be a bitter note to his voice. "Just call me Steve."

"I am Tapio," the man introduces himself, and clambers out of his tent to offer Steve his hand. He's as tall as Steve and dressed in garb well-suited for the weather: rubber boots and an oilskin coat. "Honor to meet you. Big surprise, too."

Steve shakes Tapio's hand briskly, impatient to be done with the pleasantries. "Look, this is going to sound like a stupid question," he begins, "but could you tell me where we are?"

Tapio replies by motioning at the lake and pronouncing an entirely incomprehensible word that must be its name. "I can show on the map," he adds.

"What country?" Steve has to check, because he doesn't have a clue what language that was.

Tapio seems surprised, but answers without additional comment. "Finland, north as you can go. Nearest town is…" There's another word Steve can't make sense of.

Finland makes a lot of sense, considering they were in Norway, and he suspected the kidnappers' plane might have been headed for Russia. Unfortunately, his team won't know that, so they probably haven't guessed to look for him here.

"Any chance I could borrow your phone?" Steve tries.

"What for? No connection here." Tapio spreads his arms to motion at the cloudy sky.

Steve should've expected that. Not like he's spotted many cell towers out here. "Right. Of course not."

In spite of himself, he can't help thinking about Tony. Tony would come up with some clever workaround for reaching the cellular network or a communications satellite, but Steve hasn't seen any sign of him in this valley. He shouldn't care, and yet, he can't help but wonder—there's a growing note of worry at the back of his mind that he's been ignoring so far, and it refuses to go away. Out here, this kind of weather can be dangerous for someone who's not prepared for it.

"Have you seen anyone else recently?" he asks hopefully.

"Pair of hikers two days ago. You are first person since then," the man says.

There was nothing at the hut to suggest Tony having stopped by. It doesn't look as if he's been here. Steve considers the possibility that he might've gone somewhere else instead, but this hut is the only building Steve has seen in any direction from any viewpoint. Tapio confirms that: "No house, no hut, only mountains and lakes and reindeer until the town."

"And how far would that be?" Steve asks.

"Thirty kilometers. Two days," Tapio says.

That doesn't sound too bad; Steve is sure he could cover the distance in a day, if he knew which way to go. He's not sure if Tony could've spotted the town with whatever he's got on that kite. Even if he has, Steve doubts he would've chosen to go straight for it without checking out the hut, the weather being as bad as it is.

Steve could ask Tapio for directions and leave, make his way to the town and then back to his team. He'd be done with all this. Tony didn't want his help, and Steve doesn't owe him a thing. And yet, even though he keeps telling himself that he shouldn't care about what Tony does, abandoning him in this cold and rainy hinterland would feel wrong.

Since Steve now has shelter and even some food, he decides that he might as well wait at the hut for a while, let his clothes dry, and see if Tony shows up, just to set his mind at rest.

Tony walks.

He's colder than he's ever been, so cold that he's lost all feeling in his fingers and toes, and his arms and legs are stiff and numb. It's like he's stuck in nonfunctional armor, lugging around its heavy weight, except that this useless suit is made of flesh and bone.

And still, he walks, because he knows he has to. Has to get somewhere warm, out of the rain.

He knows there's a building somewhere out here, although he doesn't know which way it lies anymore. Nothing he can do about that. He just has to keep going and hope for the best.

He's so tired, though.

Right foot, left foot, keep moving. Don't stop.

His pack is awfully heavy. He doesn't really need it anymore, does he?

After a brief struggle to work his clumsy arms out of the straps, he drops the pack on the ground and feels a little lighter. He can take one more step, and a second one, and a third.

It occurs to him that Steve is out here, too, somewhere. He should probably try to find Steve. He doesn't know if Steve knows about the building. Steve could be in trouble.

Maybe he's concerned for Steve, or maybe he's just selfish and doesn't want to be alone.

He stops again and tries to call out for Steve, but his voice is too hoarse to carry over the wind.

His knees fold. He barely feels the impact when they hit the ground.

Sitting down, he clears his throat. His lips are numb, but he takes a deep breath and shouts again, louder this time. Steve's name echoes between the hills. It's like he's cursing at the skies, or praying. Could be either. A bit of both.

Maybe if he climbed to the top of this hill, he could spot Steve, or figure out which way he needs to go.

He manages to stand up and take a few steps, but he doesn't get far until he stumbles again, and finds himself on his hands and knees.

He sits down and stares at his hands. There's dirt and grass on them, and scratches and abrasions underneath. He can see blood, but he doesn't feel any of it; it's like he's looking at someone else's hands.

He feels like he's observing someone else, in general, oddly detached from the reality of his situation. It seems very likely that he won't make it home, and yet, it doesn't feel real at all. It's like a mostly forgotten bad dream, something distant and unimportant. Like the cold, which seems to have finally left him alone. He knows, objectively, that he can't have gotten any warmer, but somehow, the cold has stopped bothering him.

He can't find the energy to stand anymore, so he tries to crawl ahead on his hands and knees. It's frustratingly slow, and he's not sure what the point is, anymore.

It's not like he's actually getting anywhere.

He's incredibly tired.

He stops resisting the pull of gravity and settles down on the ground. It's wet, but at least the muddy soil under his cheek is soft.

Maybe he could rest a bit.

Steve has eaten half of the soup. He's tempted to finish it, but resists, so that he has some left to offer to Tony, in case he shows up. He doesn't have a watch, but he thinks he must have been waiting for several hours already. He's added more logs to the stove a few times, and his uniform is mostly dry by now.

Outside, it has started raining again. The patter of raindrops on the roof mixes with the crackling of the fire. It's very cozy, but Steve doesn't feel particularly restful. Instead, his unease grows worse and worse as time passes. Tony should have reached him already, if he were coming this way, and it doesn't make sense for him to go anywhere else in this weather.

Restless, Steve steps outside and walks around the hut, scanning the hills for any signs of movement. There are none, not even birds or reindeer, and the only sound other than rain on roof tiles is the howling wind.

He's about to go back in when he hears something that makes him stop in his tracks: amidst the wind, a voice calls out his name.

Steve strains his ears, trying to catch it again, but it's perfectly quiet. He can't help wondering if his mind is playing tricks on him; he could have sworn that was Tony calling out his name from somewhere on the fell beyond the hut.

After several more minutes of waiting and listening, he makes up his mind. He has to go look for Tony. If that was him, and he was calling out for help, Steve can't ignore it.

Following his best guess for where the voice came from, Steve heads to the wilderness again, his concern driving him to run as fast as he can. He thinks he would've been able to spot Tony if he were anywhere within line of sight from the hut, so he makes his way to a vantage point halfway up a hill where he can see the next valley.

He calls out Tony's name in turn, as loud as he can, but gets no answer.

Looking down into the next valley and the hills beyond, Steve still doesn't see any sign of a single living soul. He descends the slope all the way to the valley floor and turns around in a full circle, scanning the surroundings. He doesn't think Tony's shout could've carried much further than this, but the landscape is as still as ever.

Steve is all too aware of how vast the wilderness is. Even if Tony isn't very far, he won't be easy to find. It doesn't help that he was wearing a light-colored suit that will blend in with the terrain. At least the visibility has gotten better, with most of the mist dispersed from the valleys.

Straying further from the hut doesn't seem like a good idea, and Steve knows that his chances of accidentally coming across Tony are slim.

Maybe he imagined the voice he thought he heard.

Disappointed but not too surprised, Steve starts making his way back, picking a different route up, still looking around as he goes.

Staring into the distance almost makes him miss the clue that's right under his nose. Uphill and to the left, less than a hundred feet from him, the camo-green parachute container sits abandoned on the hillside.

He's on the right track after all. Tony has been here. It really was his voice.

Steve can't help thinking that the container is a bad omen, his constant worry growing even more urgent. There shouldn't be any reason for Tony to leave his gear behind—the only situation where it would make sense would be if he got rescued and didn't need it anymore, but that can't have happened. Steve wouldn't have missed an aircraft passing this close to the hut.

He approaches the pack, glancing up and down the slope as he goes, and it doesn't take him long to catch sight of the figure on the ground, around five hundred feet across and uphill from him. It has to be Tony; the clothing matches what he was wearing when Steve last saw him. He's face-down and completely still, so it's no wonder Steve didn't spot him earlier.

Moving even faster than before, Steve rushes to Tony's side, calling out his name again, to no effect.

He reaches Tony and turns him over, and right away, he can tell he's too late.

Steve has seen death before, and it's what he sees now, in the bluish pallor of Tony's face beneath the mud stains and the two days' growth of beard, and in the way his arms don't settle by his sides, but stay angled, unnaturally stiff.

"Oh, no, no, no—please—come on, Tony," Steve mutters under his breath.

He reaches to feel for a pulse at Tony's throat, but just as he knows to expect, the skin beneath his fingers is cold and lifeless.

Checking over Tony's body cursorily to see if there are any obvious injuries, he doesn't find anything aside from some abrasions on Tony's palms. His clothes are soaking wet. It seems like it's the weather itself that got to him: hypothermia, from the constant cold, wind and rain.

Steve briefly considers CPR, but the irrefutable truth is, there would be no point. Even if Tony wasn't too far gone—which he clearly is—and Steve managed to keep up his breathing and circulation for a while, that wouldn't serve any purpose when there are no medics around to provide more advanced care. Most of all, Tony would need warmth, as soon as possible, which would mean moving him, and Steve can't resuscitate him and carry him at the same time.

He's too late, and there's nothing he can do.

Steve sits back on the soggy ground, hands on his lap. He feels like he can't breathe; he's numb—as cold as Tony—not even sad, just unable to comprehend, let alone come to terms with what has happened.

Teardrops mix with the rainwater sliding down his cheeks.

He knew that the cold was one of the worst threats out here, but he'd been so sure that Tony would reach the hut—and really, Tony was very close, which makes it all the more tragic that he faced his end like this, alone out here, while Steve was enjoying the cozy warmth less than a mile away. Worse yet, the time that Steve spent looking for Tony after hearing his shout can't have been much longer than an hour. If only he'd spent less time hesitating, and if he'd happened to choose a different route, things could have been very different.

Steve can already feel the chill radiating from the ground he's sitting on. He should get back to the hut, and back to civilization—and he needs to take Tony back as well, and let everyone know of his fate.

Hoisting Tony over his shoulder would feel disrespectful. Instead, Steve picks him up gently in his arms, and starts his walk back. The despondent thoughts that he can't escape make the distance seem endlessly long.

Even though Steve knows that this isn't his fault— that in parting ways with Tony, he'd been doing exactly what Tony wanted—he can't help feeling guilty. Since when has he blindly followed anyone's orders if he didn't agree with them? If he'd really wanted them to stick together, he would've insisted on that, regardless of Tony's opinion. Instead, he'd let his pride get the better of him. He'd been angry and disappointed that Tony had pushed him away, and clearly hadn't missed him at all over the past months.

On some subconscious level, Steve had always thought that the rift between him and Tony was temporary. He'd been convinced that eventually, when enough time had passed, they would reconcile and things would go back to some kind of status quo, with the Avengers reunited once again. He was wrong. That's never going to happen. The Avengers might reassemble, but they won't be the same, and there will be no reconciliation for him and Tony.

Tony is gone, and he died thinking that Steve hates him, when nothing could be further from the truth. Yes, he'd been angry at Tony, furious after Siberia, and over the years they've known each other, he's probably been annoyed at Tony more often than not. Still, in many things, he's also admired Tony and respected him.

Before the Accords tore them apart, he'd often regretted that they hadn't become closer. Deep down, he'd carried feelings for Tony that he hadn't been brave enough to admit even to himself.

He should've talked to Tony and told him these things. Now, he'll never get the chance.

He probably goes through every stage of grief on his way back to the hut, aside from acceptance. He's not ready to accept this. He's not sure how he ever will be. After everything the Avengers have been through, this is such a stupid, utterly pointless loss.

Once he finally reaches the door, he pushes it open with his shoulder, still holding on to Tony. The room inside is as empty as he left it; no hikers have shown up to shelter from the rain. The pleasantly warm temperature is welcome after the chill outside, even if it can't dispel the cold numbness deep in his gut.

Steve sets Tony down on the bed, stretching out his legs and laying his arms by his sides. With the low light hiding his deathly pale complexion, it looks as if he might be just sleeping.

Steve should seek out the fisherman, ask for his phone and roam the hills until he finds a place where he can get a connection, but he doesn't feel ready. Telling someone else what has happened would somehow make it more concrete. He settles on a mattress next to Tony, his back against a sturdy wooden support beam.

Tony's cheek is still stained with mud. That's not right. Steve picks up one of the moth-eaten blankets piled up on the bed, to use its corner to wipe away the dirt. Working on that, one hand on Tony's neck to tilt his head, he makes an unexpected, joyful discovery.

He thinks he's imagining it at first, but repositioning his fingers carefully and keeping them in place—unlike he did on the fell, distracted by his initial shock—he realizes that he was wrong.

Tony isn't dead.

Beneath the ice-cold skin, a faint pulse taps against Steve's fingertips. It's no wonder that he missed it earlier, because it's terribly slow, the pauses between beats stretching out for several seconds, but it's there, nevertheless.

"Oh, thank God," Steve says, his voice stifled. "I was so sure you were gone. I've never been this glad to be wrong."

He cups Tony's face between both hands and bows to kiss him on the forehead. Of course, Tony is still deeply unconscious and entirely unresponsive—if he weren't, Steve would never hear the end of it.

In hindsight, he realizes that the time that passed between Tony's call for help and Steve finding him couldn't possibly have been long enough for rigor mortis to set in. Tony's limbs are rigid because of the cold, not death. Embarrassing as it is to admit, Steve was too horrified to think clearly, and he saw the worst case scenario instead of what was actually in front of his eyes.

As Steve reassesses the situation, his initial elation quickly fades, the earlier deep concern returning in full force. What looked like a wake has turned into an urgent wilderness rescue, and it's still not a given that Tony will survive.

He tilts back Tony's head to make sure his airway is open, and spends seemingly endless moments trying to confirm whether he's breathing. Steve's convinced that for him to still be alive, surely, he must be, but it doesn't seem like his chest is rising and falling at all. Finally, resting his cheek over Tony's mouth and nose and listening carefully, holding his own breath, Steve is able to catch a soft puff of exhaled air.

It occurs to Steve that it's a good thing he was too dispirited to even try CPR when he first found Tony. Considering how he's hanging by a thread, a well-meant attempt at chest compressions might have stopped his heart. As it is, his condition is obviously critical.

Steve is going to do everything that he can think of to help.

Rushing into action again, avoiding the thoughts of what Tony might say if he were conscious, Steve starts working off his soaked clothes. He's as gentle as he can while doing it—not just out of respect, but because he knows any unnecessary jostling of hypothermia victims is to be avoided.

Tony's shoes are coated in mud and as wet as the rest of him. Getting rid of them and his equally wet and shabby socks reveals the damage done by miles and miles of walking in inappropriate footwear. Steve can only imagine how painful the many blisters must have been, and he's convinced that the only reason the skin doesn't look red and inflamed is that there's barely any circulation left in Tony's extremities.

The trousers—and the boxers, which must be silk and which Steve very quickly drops in the pile with everything else—are easy enough to get rid of, but the upper half is a challenge. The thin, waterlogged jacket clings to Tony's arms, and the many fiddly buttons of his dress shirt give Steve so much trouble, he ends up tearing off several of them.

With everything Tony was wearing in a heap on the floor, Steve picks up the closest blanket again and uses it as a towel, drying off Tony's skin all over. It feels deeply wrong to be doing all this with Tony so entirely out of it. He tries to work in a clinical, efficient manner, and he tries not to stare. In spite of himself, his mind briefly strays to inappropriate directions; he'd be lying to himself if he claimed he'd never wondered what Tony looks like beneath his stylish suits and his well-worn band t-shirts. He pushes aside those lines of thought by focusing on scars: not just the obvious circular one where the arc reactor used to be, but countless others as well. Some of those might be the result of their fight back in Siberia.

It's something of a relief when he's done and can move to the next step: he needs to add warmth. Moisture from Tony's clothes has seeped into the mattress Steve first laid him on, so he cautiously shifts him to a dry one, and wraps him up in several blankets, cocooning him as carefully as he can.

Finally, Steve moves away from Tony and grabs an armful of logs to encourage the dwindling embers in the stove to a roaring fire. That should keep the hut nice and warm. Still, he knows that all the steps he's taken to bring up Tony's temperature probably won't be enough; if Steve had to guess, he'd say it's well below 90 degrees. Rewarming him will undoubtedly require more advanced measures.

Steve doesn't want to turn his back on Tony again, even briefly, afraid that he will take a turn for the worse while Steve isn't there, but he has no choice. He has to find a way to get in touch with the outside world.

"I won't be long," he promises to Tony's still form, and leaves the hut to look for Tapio.

Luckily, the Finn hasn't gone far. The rain seems to have stopped for good, and Tapio is sitting on a camp stool by the lake, fishing. He casts a brief glance at the approaching Steve, and nods and hums in greeting before turning his attention back to his line.

"Hello again," Steve says assertively, walking until he's right next to Tapio to catch his full attention. "Sorry to bother you, but I need your help. It's an emergency."

Tapio doesn't seem too pleased, letting out a huff as he looks up at Steve again. "Well. What is it?"

"I found my—" Steve stumbles, looking for the right word, since Tony is not his teammate anymore, and they're not on particularly good terms—but he settles on "friend," anyway. "He was lost on the fell, and he's badly hypothermic. I have to get him to a hospital."

Tapio gives a small shake of his head. "Better hope you can warm him here. You can take my sleeping bag."

"No, that won't be enough," Steve insists. "He's very sick—he's unconscious and he won't wake up. He needs proper medical care. Please, if there's any chance you could contact the emergency services—"

"On higher ground, maybe," Tapio says thoughtfully. "I will see what I can do." He starts reeling in his fishing line.

"Thank you," Steve says. "That's all I ask."

"Your friend, he is also superhero?" Tapio asks, his eyes still on his fishing gear.

"Yes. One of the best," Steve answers, without a moment's hesitation.

"Well, you go back to him then," Tapio says, casting a glance at Steve and nodding towards the hut. "I will come to you when I have news."

"Thank you," Steve repeats. He was prepared to take the phone and go look for a signal himself, but he is truly grateful that the Finn will do that instead, so he can return to Tony right away.

Unsurprisingly, Tony hasn't woken up while Steve was away. In fact, if he's improved at all, Steve can't tell. Tony's breathing and heartbeat are still almost imperceptible and extremely slow, and his skin feels just as chilly as before.

There's one more thing left that Steve can think of to make Tony warmer.

He's sure Tony would disapprove, but as long as he makes it through this, Steve is prepared to make his case for how this is an emergency that requires any means necessary—especially since there's no telling how long they will have to wait for help, or if help will come at all.

Steve strips off his uniform, as fast as he can, before he has time to change his mind, and loosens the blankets around Tony so that he can slip under them as well. He settles with his back against a wall, Tony on his lap, and wraps his arms around Tony, hugging him close to maximize skin contact. Steve tends to run hot himself, thanks to his super-soldier metabolism, and he hopes that the added warmth will make a difference.

Never in his life, not even before the Accords, did Steve expect to end up this close to Tony. Of course, given the circumstances, there's no mistaking this for anything other than an emergency measure—Tony is so cold, he might as well be clinging to a corpse. Even with his arms around Tony's ribcage, his breaths are too faint to notice.

Now that he's stopped for a moment, with nothing to do but wait, Steve can no longer escape all the emotions he's mostly kept in check since he realized that Tony has a fighting chance to make it out of here. He's beyond concerned—he's downright terrified that what he's done isn't enough, and Tony will die. After the despair and renewed hope he's gone through over the past few hours, the thought that he might still lose Tony is unbearable.

As much as he dreads losing Tony, he's also afraid of the conversation that they'll need to have if Tony survives. It would be easier to avoid it altogether, but he can't. Not anymore. If there's anything he's learned over the past few days, it's that they really need to talk things through before it's too late.

He tries to think of what he would say, and he doesn't even know where to start.

"I missed you," he says, aloud, testing it out.

Of course, Tony doesn't answer; his head rests unmoving against Steve's shoulder.

"I know we've always struggled to get along," Steve goes on. "From the very start. After we survived that first disaster with Loki, I thought things were looking up, but it wasn't that easy. It never is, with stubborn people like us. You probably thought I was insufferable. Maybe you never liked me very much. I could never be sure. Honestly, it's not easy to tell whether you're being affectionate in your own way, or just an asshole—hm?"

Steve falls quiet when he feels the slightest movement under his arms, and realizes that Tony has taken a proper, deep breath, the first one since Steve found him on that hillside.

"Tony?" he asks sharply, and gives Tony's bicep a squeeze. Then he waits, stock still, hoping ardently for an answer, or any reaction at all. There's nothing except for another breath, this time with an audible exhale. It's not much, but he decides it's clearly an improvement.

He shifts his hand to Tony's throat to check his pulse, and he thinks it feels slightly better, as well; still far slower than it should ever be, but stronger. Unfortunately, when he rests the back of his hand against Tony's cheek, it's no warmer than before.

"You just hold on, okay?" he tells Tony softly.

He lets his fingers trail upwards, brushing back Tony's hair. It feels right, somehow. As if Steve should've done this ages ago.

He doesn't expect to ever do it again, if they get back to civilization.

"You need to make it through this, because I need to make things right. See, even if you hate me—and considering everything that's happened, I understand if you do—I've never hated you," Steve continues, his hand lingering on top of Tony's head. "I still don't. I missed you, and I know things probably can't go back to the way they were, but I can't stand the way they are now. Just looking at what happened here, these past few days—I think it's obvious we'd be better off if we could work through our differences."

For all his reputation as an inspiring speaker, Steve isn't sure he's making much sense at all. Tony probably wouldn't be very convinced if he were conscious. But he isn't, which means Steve is as good as alone in this quiet hut, and he keeps talking.

"I'm sure you wouldn't admit it, and I might not admit it myself, either, but I think the truth is, Tony, that we're better together. It's worth making an effort, even if it's difficult. Not trying at all, that's the mistake we made here, and I almost lost you because of it. If I lost you just because we're both too stubborn, I'd never forgive myself. I don't want to make the same mistake again."

He lets his hand fall, repositioning his arms around Tony. The rise and fall of his ribs is much more noticeable now, and Steve feels like he can breathe easier, himself, the knot of dread in his chest loosening a little.

"I know we can't just forget everything that's happened, but I really hope that we can still forgive each other, somehow. If we both want that, maybe we can start building something new. Learn to get along better, so that things never get this bad again. If we hadn't always kept each other at arm's length—I used to think we could've been great together. Complemented each other. Maybe we still could."

Steve is about to dive into deep thoughts on what their friendship could have meant to him as well as to the Avengers as a group, when a knock on the door startles him out of his introspection. Feeling almost a little embarrassed, he sits up straight against the wall, but otherwise doesn't shift from his place.

"Yes?" he calls out.

The door opens, and even in the low light, Steve can easily recognize Tapio's tall figure in the doorway. His eyes skim the room—scattered piles of clothes on the floor and all—until finally settling on where Steve and Tony are huddled in the corner. He stays silent for a while, taking in the sight. "Well, that is unexpected," he finally states, the tone of his voice staying neutral.

Steve doesn't care if he's recognized Tony, or what he'll make of finding the two of them like this. All he cares about is getting the help that Tony needs. "Did you manage to make the call?" he demands.

"You are very lucky—I did," Tapio says. "They will send a chopper. Less than half hour and it is here."

The relief is overwhelming, and Steve has the strongest urge to press a kiss in Tony's hair, which he's obviously not going to do. Instead, he keeps his focus on Tapio. "Thank you. Thank you so much," he says, from the bottom of his heart. It feels entirely inadequate. "You've very likely saved his life."

"No need to thank me," Tapio replies modestly. "For Captain America and Iron Man? It was the least I could do."

Day 4

Tony drifts awake, in spite of doing his best to resist it.

Everything feels pleasantly fuzzy and warm; he's resting on a soft surface, and his mind is blurry enough that he neither knows where he is, nor cares very much. This is nice. He could stay like this.

Unfortunately, with the haziness slowly fading, there are too many questions bubbling up that he can't ignore. His memories are strange, and he can't make up his mind whether they're real or not. There was that nightmare of a solo hike, several days of nothing but painful walking and constant hunger and cold and exhaustion—and the least believable part of it all, there was Steve. That makes no sense at all. Why would Steve have been there?

Steve isn't an uncommon visitor in his nightmares, but this one seems different. More realistic, except for the end.

He could swear he heard Steve's voice saying things Steve would never, ever really say. That he missed Tony, and that he wanted to fix things between them. He can't remember seeing Steve's face when he said that, though. He must've imagined the whole thing.

Thinking rationally, the best explanation for everything is that he partied too hard in Oslo, and is currently sleeping it off in his hotel room, but as he grows more aware of his surroundings, he picks up details beyond the pleasant fuzziness that don't fit this hypothesis. Details like the unnerving tug of things clinging to his skin, even piercing it in a few places, that suggest he's either in a hospital, or deep in trouble.

In a slowly building panic, it strikes him that if his memories are only partly true, perhaps he was kidnapped, but he never saw Steve or ended up in the wilderness. That thought is so disturbing that it finally compels him to force his heavy eyelids open.

He sighs in relief as the view around him comes into focus and turns out to look very much like a generic hospital room, with nothing particularly sinister about it. Considering how many things he's hooked up to, he'd guess intensive care. That probably also means someone's keeping an eye on his numbers, and he can expect company, because he's pretty sure his heart rate and blood pressure just spiked.

For now, he seems to be alone. There's a window nearby, but the blinds are closed, so he has no idea what the view is like. The sunlight seeping through the seams doesn't mean much regarding the time of the day, since the sun doesn't really set at all up in the north. Assuming that's where he is. Nothing around him gives him any clues regarding that, either.

The nurse who shows up seconds later does support a northern location. She's a perfect specimen of Scandinavian beauty: tall, blonde, and blue-eyed. She greets him in slightly accented English. "Good morning, Mr. Stark. How are you feeling?"

"Fine," Tony replies, out of habit. It's not really true; now that he's fully awake, he realizes that he's so exhausted, he wouldn't mind going straight back to sleep, and his every muscle aches. He's not sure he could get up if he wanted to; his limbs are so heavy, it's as if someone upped the gravity a few G's. "Where am I? What happened?"

"You're in the hospital in Tromsø. You were airlifted here yesterday from the Finnish side of the border, with a dangerously low body temperature. How you ended up that way, we don't know," she explains, confirming Tony's guess that he is still up north, as well as the fact that the hiking trip from hell really did take place. That just leaves one crucial detail that he needs to clarify.

"Was I alone when they brought me in?" he asks.

"No, there was someone with you," she says.

That's unexpected—although now that Tony stops to think about it, how would he have been rescued if not by some do-gooder who came across him in the wilderness? From what he can remember, he definitely hadn't been capable of saving himself. Steve is the most likely option, since Tony didn't see anyone else out there, but it could just as well have been someone else.

"Was it a really buff, handsome guy who's in serious need of a shave?" he checks.

The nurse makes a mildly amused face. "I wouldn't know, I wasn't there. Whoever it was, he didn't leave any contact details, but said we should contact Pepper Potts, instead, which we've done."

That clears it up; assuming the person with him was Steve, he had no desire to stick around. He must already be on his way towards whatever hole his remaining team is hiding in. No surprises there. Clearly, those vague memories of Steve suddenly opening up about how they should start building bridges were just a hypothermia-induced hallucination.

The second part of what she said registers with a slight delay—the mention of Pepper, which reminds him of the whole wide world out there, now that he's back in civilization again. The idea of having to deal with the press or security debriefings or any other tedious, inevitable official business makes him want to pull the blanket over his head. He's way too tired and sore for all that.

"How bad is the media fallout?" he asks, unable to keep the weariness out of his voice.

"We've done our best to protect your privacy," the nurse replies. "As far as I know, the news that you've been found isn't out yet."

Small mercies. Maybe he won't have to worry about the paparazzi yet, then. He should probably try to borrow a phone so he can call Pepper. He's been missing for several days. The friends he still has left have undoubtedly been worried. On the other hand, the nurse said they've already contacted Pepper. They must've told her that he's getting better, and really, that's what he should be focusing on right now. Recovering. Not like he has a whole lot of choice, because his eyelids are drooping even though he's only been awake for a few minutes.

"If you've got nothing against it," he tells the nurse, with a yawn for good measure, "I think I'm going to take another nap now."

Steve has gotten himself a room at a hotel located conveniently right next to the hospital. It took some effort to organize, starting with borrowing a phone so that he could get in touch with his team, then having them sort out some cash for him, and finding a change of clothes that wouldn't stand out so much. Normally, Steve wouldn't even consider wasting anyone's time or their meager funds on something like this—he's used to frugal living, after all—but after the days spent outdoors with no gear, he felt badly in need of a hot shower, a proper meal and an actual bed.

The more prudent course of action would've been to leave Tromsø behind right away. He doesn't have a truly pressing reason to stick around. There's nothing more he can do for Tony. And yet—he can't leave before he's sure that Tony's going to be okay, and he really, really needs to try to have a proper conversation with him, face-to-face.

Soft bed or not, he struggles to fall asleep. Tony's condition was precarious when Steve last saw him, and his concern won't let him rest. In the end, he decides to call the hospital, and manages to get an update. With the reassuring knowledge that Tony is stable, his temperature back in normal range, Steve is finally able to drift off.

In the morning, as soon as he's finished emptying the hotel's breakfast buffet, Steve returns to the hospital. He's not sure what, exactly, he's going to say to Tony, if Tony is conscious and well enough to talk, but that doesn't even feel particularly important. More than anything, he just wants to see with his own eyes that Tony's recovering—the memory of finding him lifeless on the hillside still haunts him.

He's nearly prevented from seeing Tony at all by an officious receptionist, who is adamant that Tony Stark is not in this hospital, and that it's a ridiculous claim that he ever has been. Luckily, Steve can be very persuasive, and is eventually able to get in touch with Tony's nurse, who confirms that he can take a visitor.

Oddly enough, when Steve meets the nurse at the ward, she raises her eyebrows at him. "So, you're the man he was asking about."

"Huh? Tony asked about me?" Steve blurts out, baffled.

"You said you were with him on the helicopter yesterday, didn’t you?" she asks.

"I was, yeah," Steve admits.

Does Tony remember something about the trip back, if he asked about Steve? That's difficult to believe, considering that he was entirely out of it all through the flight, not to mention surrounded by rescue personnel who were keeping Steve at a distance. What he finds even more surprising is that Tony hasn't outright told them not to let him in the room. That's a good start.

Unsure what to expect, but cautiously hopeful, he follows the nurse to Tony's room. Even if what Steve has heard about Tony's recovery has been reassuring, seeing him is far less so. He seems to be sleeping, and with his eyes closed and his face as white as a sheet, he doesn't look so different from how he did in the hut. The assortment of tubes, wires and monitoring equipment works to underline that while he's no longer in the wilderness, he's not out of the woods yet.

Steve waits for the nurse to say that they should turn around and come back later, but instead, she walks up to Tony's bed and addresses him in a hushed tone. "Mr. Stark? There's someone here to see you."

Clearly, Tony wasn't that deeply asleep; he blinks, looks up at her, and then seems to spot Steve, his eyes going wide. "Sorry, I don't think I'm awake yet," he says. "I'm seeing things that make no sense."

"If you don't want me here—" Steve begins, but Tony doesn't wait for him to finish the sentence.

"Nah. Just expected you to be somewhere miles away by now. Good thing you're not. I need to ask you for a recap, since I don't really know how I got here," Tony replies. Steve thinks he sounds weary; his voice is hoarse, and he's not speaking half as fast as usual.

"Seems like you two have things to talk about. I'll be close by, if you need anything," the nurse says, and heads out of the room.

Steve takes a few steps towards Tony, but doesn't go for a seat. "So, how are you feeling?" he asks, because that seems like the thing he should be saying, and he's suddenly feeling very awkward.

"Like I could sleep for a week," Tony replies, which Steve thinks is surprisingly direct, coming from him. "Didn't know you could get this tired from being too cold. Then again, spending several days barely eating or sleeping might play a part, too. They were saying something about messed-up electrolytes and whatnot. Wasn't really paying attention."

"I'm just glad to see you're better," Steve says, keeping it sincere and straightforward. "I thought you were dead, when I found you."

Tony raises his eyebrows; he can probably tell from Steve's expression how bad that was. "Huh. How did you find me, anyway?"

"Mostly dumb luck. I heard you calling out and came looking for you. I'd already found my way to a cabin, and there was a local man camping nearby who had a phone, so we were able to contact the rescue services," Steve summarizes. It feels like all that happened ages ago, even though it hasn't even been a full day yet.

"You came looking for me," Tony repeats, an unreadable look on his face.

"I couldn't just leave you out there," Steve says.

Tony makes a small shrug and tilts his head against the pillows. "Actually, you could have. Would've been very easy."

"I wouldn't do something like that." Steve did briefly consider whether he should hurry to the nearest village when he'd first reached the hut, but really, there's no way he could've just left, not without being sure that Tony also had a way home.

"And why not? Not like you had any issues with leaving me alone when we first got there," Tony reminds him. A slight flush has appeared on Tony's cheeks, and while it makes him look a little healthier, this isn't how Steve wanted to get there.

"That was a mistake," Steve admits plainly. "One that very nearly killed you. And even though I was lucky and didn't run into any trouble myself, I could have, and I would've been worse off alone, too."

"So, you learned a lesson. Yay. Could've picked up any outdoor survival guidebook for that nugget of wisdom," Tony quips.

In spite of his resolve to stay calm, Steve can't help grinding his teeth. It's as if the days he's spent thinking about Tony, but not actually talking to him have made him forget why it was so difficult to get along with him in the first place. But Steve has sworn to himself that he wants things to change. He's not going to get pulled into another argument. He's going to try his damnedest to make Tony understand what he realized out there.

"No. There's no guidebook for this, because the lesson I learned was about the two of us," Steve insists, keeping his voice as steady as he can. "I don't want to fight you, Tony. Not anymore. I don't know if it's possible to get over everything that's between us, but I want to try."

Tony has no quick, witty reply to that. Instead, he just breathes a soft "huh," his brow furrowed.

Steve doesn't want to push it, and as anxious as the loaded silence makes him, he waits for Tony to actually say something. He clasps his hands behind his back, watching Tony's face carefully for any hint of what's going through his head, but he still can't figure out that particular, pensive expression.

When Tony finally speaks up again, it's nothing Steve could've anticipated. "Back there, after you'd found me," he begins, slowly and thoughtfully, "did you say something like this, too?"

"You can't possibly remember that—you were practically in a coma!" Steve exclaims, taken aback. Not that he said anything that he didn't mean, but he was more candid, and far more sentimental, than he'd ever be in a regular conversation.

"I'll take that as a yes, then." Tony seems amused, not angry, and from what Steve can tell, it's not in a sneering, sarcastic way.

Steve considers whether he should disclose that he had that monologue while cuddling Tony's naked body, but quickly decides against it. If Tony doesn't remember that particular detail, it's probably best left forgotten for now. "Yes. I did say those things, and I meant everything I said back then. I still do, here and now. You probably hate me, and you have plenty of reasons to. I wrote it to you once, but I should've said it in person: I'm sorry."

"For the record, I don't hate you," Tony says, not directly responding to Steve's apology. As he goes on, it's in that uncharacteristically hesitant, contemplative tone, which must be more than just a result of how tired he is. "You know, some of the last lucid thoughts I remember—not counting that very unexpected speech of yours—were about you. When I was lost in the rain, I was wondering where you were, and kept thinking that I should try to find you. That's why I called out."

"Good thing you did, otherwise I never would've found you." Steve doesn't admit aloud how surprised he is to hear Tony's words, and how hopeful they make him. There's a warmth in his chest that's more comforting than the thickest blanket in his hotel bed. "And I'm truly glad that I did. It means we get another chance, one that I don't want to waste. I hope you feel the same way about it."

"I think I might need to ask the docs to recheck for brain damage, but yeah, I do," Tony says, his tone breezy, but his expression serious, his eyes fixed on Steve's.

"First time for everything," Steve says. He's keeping it light as well.

Tony gives him a wry smile. "Make no mistake, I'm not going to make a habit of it."

There's no doubt at all that they both feel how momentous this is, underneath the banter.

Steve pulls up a chair and sits down next to Tony's bed. "I think that's the hard part done, then. Agreeing that we want to fix things."

"The hard part? No, that was the easy part," Tony says—going straight back to disagreeing with Steve, as usual. Instead of elaborating, he yawns, which turns into a sigh.

"What do you think is the hard part, then?" Steve asks, with some trepidation.

Tony, who has closed his eyes for a moment, opens them again with a frustrated look on his face. "This is ridiculous, I literally just woke up. And the hard part—that's obviously the small zoo's worth of elephants in the room."

He's right, of course. They may have agreed that they should put their issues aside, but neither of them has as much as mentioned those issues by name—not Bucky, nor Tony's parents, let alone the Accords. They'll have to, sooner or later. Even if it's just to mutually agree that they'll forget about these things and never discuss them again, which would probably be a poor strategy. Steve doesn't think they can avoid those topics forever.

No doubt there will be many more difficult conversations to come. Still, right now, Steve is pleased with the first step that they've taken, and he'll gladly focus on that.

"All that can wait. I think I should let you rest now," Steve says, and shifts to get up.

Tony reaches out in Steve's direction. Even if it's a slightly uncoordinated movement, the intent, telling Steve to stay put, is clear. "No, no. You don't need to go," Tony drawls sleepily.

He's as good as asking Steve to stay. Never in a million years would Steve have expected that. Even if Steve knows he can't stay forever, or he'll risk being confronted by the authorities, he's certainly not going to reject the request.

"Okay. I can stick around a little longer." Steve pats Tony's hand where it's resting on top of the covers, and settles into a more comfortable position in his seat.

Waking up is weird these days. Tony seems to be doing a lot of it, and every time, he's just as confused and unsure of what's real and what's not.

This time, he distinctly remembers he was talking to Steve, but it was such a wish-fulfilling, warm and fuzzy conversation that it's difficult to believe it actually happened. It seems more like a daydream—it definitely wouldn't be the first one of its kind.

Once again, he's reluctant to let go of sleep. Now, it's mostly because he expects it will confirm that Steve is nowhere in sight, and has never been around in the first place. He does manage to drift off for a little longer, but eventually, he can't avoid facing reality again.

He opens his eyes, and Steve is right there, sitting near his bed, so focused on reading a newspaper that he hasn't noticed Tony's awake.

"You're still here," Tony tells him.

Steve turns towards him, instantly folding away the paper. "I promised I'd stick around, didn't I?" he replies, with a slight smile, which seems out of place with the depression beard.

It's that look, hopeful but still cautious, that compels Tony to bite down a snide response about how he has plenty of reasons not to trust Steve's promises. "Glad you found time in your schedule," Tony says instead. He thinks it works. Not too mean, but not too sappy, either.

"I will need to go pretty soon," Steve adds. "The nurse said you'll have more visitors, from back home, and I can't be here when they show up."

"Right. Of course," Tony says. He hasn't stopped to consider it, but obviously, even if he's making an effort to get along with Steve, that doesn't do away with the fact that the authorities are still after the ex-Avengers.

Steve will go back into hiding, and things will go back to normal. Everything that happened in the wilderness will be just a bad memory. The conversations they've had here will be better ones, but just memories, nonetheless. For all that they've agreed to try and fix things between the two of them, Tony's not sure how anything will actually change.

"So, where do we go from here?" he asks aloud. He doesn't expect Steve to have an answer, but he does. The man with a plan, as always.

"I was thinking about that while you slept," Steve replies. "Obviously, we'll need more time to talk things through. Before that, you need to recuperate, and I think we could both use some space to think about what we want, going forward. I suggest we set up a meeting later, say, in a month, on neutral ground. Somewhere out of the way, to be sure no one will bother us."

Neutral ground. Tony can guess where this is going, and he can't help but roll his eyes. "Come on, Rogers. You want to go back there? Seriously?"

"I have it on good authority that it's actually a fairly popular hiking destination. Apparently, it's one of the largest wilderness reserves in Finland," Steve informs him. "And yeah, I'm serious. I think it could be a good trust-building exercise. Spend a couple of days out there and talk things through properly, for once and for all. If we get too fed up with each other and need to take a timeout, that's very easy out there."

This is a completely ridiculous idea. Tony's first impulse is to go for any of the dozen or so different dismissals that pop into his head, ranging from feeble excuses to entirely valid points, but that's what he would've done before. Now, he's decided to do things differently. "I'll agree to go if I'm allowed to bring all the modern camping comforts, plus a suit, in case of an emergency."

Steve crosses his arms. "Yes to the camping gear, but no to the armor," he says, as stubborn as ever. "It'd defeat the whole purpose of the exercise. As long as you've got the communications tech to be able to contact the outside world, that should be enough for emergencies."

Tony thinks that's petty, but whatever—if he leaves a suit within a reasonable distance, he'll be able to call it in at any time, if he needs to. He can live with that. He's pretty sure Steve expects him to do something like that, anyway.

That's the whole trying-to-get-along thing in a nutshell, Tony muses: making compromises that they can both accept. Even if it's for some ludicrous team-building activity.

"Okay. Exactly one month from now? I'll be there," Tony says. "Just send me some coordinates beforehand, so I'll know where 'there' actually is."

"I will. I'll be looking forward to it," Steve says, and because he's Steve, he sounds like he means it.

Tony thinks he won't be looking forward to it, himself. He'll probably spend the following month dreading it, both because his previous memories of that place aren't particularly great, and because he's terrified of confronting all their issues in earnest. There's a good chance that the whole thing will backfire, and this delicate truce that they've built will dissolve to nothing. Still, it's worth a shot. It's not as if things between them can get much worse than they were.

Before Tony's had time to come up with anything suitably nonchalant to say, Steve stands up. "Now that's decided, I think I'd better go."

"Probably a good idea. It'll be more difficult to go on a field trip if you're stuck behind bars," Tony says.

"Slightly. Wouldn't stop me, though." Steve crosses the few steps to the door and turns around to face Tony once more. "See you in a month, Tony." He gives Tony a wave and a smile—warmer than the previous one, and damn, but he does look gorgeous, beard or not—before exiting the room.

With the image of that smile lingering in his mind, Tony has to admit to himself that he just might actually look forward to seeing Steve again, after all.