Archive of Our Own

Big—gulping—desperate lungfuls of air.

“Tony, Tony,” Steve said, both hands on his side, trying to pull him back to the present.  “Don’t go there.  Stay with me.”

Curled into a loose ball, fists jammed against the arc reactor, Tony shook under Steve’s hands.  Although his eyes were squeezed shut, Tony was not dreaming.  He just was not fully there, either.  “Come back to me,” Steve said, soft but persistent.  “Stay with me, it’s okay.  You’re safe.”

Between one gulping breath and the next, Tony moaned, “I’m sorry.”

Steve wanted to strangle somebody, but the only somebody around was Tony, and Tony needed him to be calm.  “You’re home, Tony,” he reminded.  “You’re with me, we’re okay, we’re safe.  We’re in our bed.  You can feel it, feel it under you?  You’re not alone, Tony, I promise.”  He rubbed Tony’s icy skin with his own warm palms.

Tony started hyperventilating.  Steve cursed internally.  He knew there was so little, so damn little he could do, but it still felt like his own fault, like watching somebody bleed out in front of him, when things got worse before they got better.  “Hey, hey, hey,” he hushed, sliding his arm under Tony’s shoulders, hauling him up against his chest.  “Hey, hey,” he repeated, soft, close.  “Listen to me.  I know, I know you’re scared, and I know you don’t believe me, but I’m here, Tony.  We’re home, we’re safe, nobody can hurt you.”

I checked all the locks, and all the doors, and I’ll kill anyone who compromises that, he added silently.  “Believe me,” he pleaded.  “We’re okay.”  He still threw up when he thought of enemy soldiers’ faces all caved in, the gore and viscera exposed beneath the wide-eyed humanity, but he would strangle the men who had done this with their own guts, if given half the chance.  He wanted to do unspeakable things to the people who hurt those he loved.  He quelled the anger by pressing his cheek against the top of Tony’s head, insisting, “It’s okay.  It’s okay.”

It was not, it never would be, but finally, Tony’s breathing hitched, and his trembling body melted in Steve’s hold, his hands limp claws that hooked into Steve’s shirt.  “It’s me,” Steve assured, feeling more of the terror abate, leaving exhaustion and uncertainty in its wake.  “I’m here.  I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Tony did not respond.  Steve—well, he would be lying if he said he did not want Tony to, but he did not push it.  He just wished there was some way he could rip the monsters out of Tony’s head and pummel them into submission.

“It’s okay,” he promised again.  “We’re—”

Tony patted his arm.  His breathing still had a sharp edge, like he had narrowly outrun a monster.  Steve wanted to beg, Show me its face; I’ll rip its heart out.  Instead, he made his hold soft and welcoming, affirming aloud, “I’ve got you.”

Tony rasped, “I almost drowned, that time.”  His shaking kicked up; Steve squeezed him, willing the fear away.

“Feel me?” he asked.  Tony nodded against his chest.  “We’re together, Tony.”  He did not say, Safe and sound at home.  He knew Tony could deduce that, on some level, but there was a shaking, terrified beast inside Tony convinced it was being held at gunpoint, and Steve could not rip away a gun he could not see.  The best he could do was the best he could do.  “We’ll get through this.”

Tony sobbed, once.  Steve knew it was hard to hear.  He knew it did not help.  He also knew that it was the only way through.  “Just hold onto me,” he said, using one hand to cover the vice-like grip on his shirt.  “Hold onto me.  I won’t let you go.”

Tony shivered and held on.  “I’ve got you,” Steve promised.  “I swear to God, Tony—”

There was nothing else he could do.

. o .

“Do you know who I am?”

It was not a rhetorical question, even though Iron Man and Captain America had spent more time on the field than most partners-in-crime.  Never mind the off-the-clock relationship Tony Stark and Steve Rogers had.  Tony eyed the kitchen knife in Steve’s hand and asked through the helmet’s filtration, “You see something?”

Steve stared straight ahead, looking beyond the metal.  There was something burning in the kitchen.  Tony said, “J., mind turning off the stove?”

“At once, sir,” J.A.R.V.I.S. replied.

Tony did not realize his mistake until the click of the stove launched Steve from his crouched position to a full-body spring.  Tony thought, Good thing I have the armor, as the suit caught the knife before it could dig in.  One hand holding Steve’s wrist, the other holding the knife, Tony asked, “Why don’t we sit down?”

Steve just stared at him, unnervingly quiet.  Then he said, in perfect Italian, “How many are there?”

Tony weighed his options.  Responding in Italian was probably a bad idea.  He started, “There’s no one else—” and Steve tripped him.

Steve really slowed down for his teammates, Tony thought, staring at the ceiling and as Steve trounced about the room, overturning furniture, making himself skittish with the noise.  He was one wrong move away from a swan dive through the nearest window, Tony thought, pushing himself to a seated position.

Still speaking in Italian, Steve snapped, “I know you have them!”

“Steve,” Tony said, quietly broken on his behalf.  “There’s no—”  He stopped.  “They’re all gone.”

Steve buried his hands in his hair, like he knew that, some part of him recognizing the truth.  Then he let out a brief, inhuman wail.  It made the hairs on the back of Tony’s neck stand up. 

Tony dared to step closer.  “You’re in New York,” he announced, even though Steve shook his head, almost hurting himself with the force of it.  “It’s—”

“Stop lie to me!” Steve said, his message breaking along with his voice.  “I’m not stupid!”  He looked around at the carnage he had created, face ashen.  “Where are they?” he asked desperately.  “They were here!”

Tony drew in a fortifying breath.  “Cap,” he said, rewarded by those haunted eyes looking at him, hopeful and hopeless at once.  “They’re all gone.”

It was like cutting the strings to a puppet.  Steve’s knees folded, and he hit the concrete floor with an audible crack.  Tony winced, but Steve did not make a sound.  One hand reached out, almost on a whim, feeling around for something.

Tony narrated every step: “I’m coming over.  I’m not gonna hurt you.  We’re on the same team.”  He stayed about five feet apart.  It did not matter—Steve could take him down from across the balcony room—but it was comfortingly close without crowding.  “This is a loss,” Tony acknowledged, “and there’s no—”  Tony struggled to verbalize what he never wanted to say: There’s no fixing it.  There’s no right answer.  There’s no—“There’s no going back.”

Steve just stared at the floor, eyes red, not blinking.  His fingers flexed again, almost dragging over the concrete, searching for something.  “Steve?” Tony tried, gently.

Steve said nothing.

“I’m so sorry,” Tony offered, even though it made his own throat tight.  “I wish I could—”  He let the sentence hang, unfinished.

Steve’s fingers stilled, then twitched.  He whispered, desperately pleading, “They were people.”

Tony could not respond to that.  Not a single phrase existed in either language to convey his shared sorrow.  So, he said, “I’m coming closer.  I’m not gonna hurt you.”  He matched action to words.  Then he slid his metal hand towards Steve's.  “I know you’re hurting.  I don’t want you to do it alone.”  Steve could hurt him, badly.  Tony did not care.  Steve’s anguish was palpable; it felt like a heavy fog Tony could not cut through any other way.  “I’m here,” he insisted softly, squeezing his hand.  “I’m too late, but I’m here, Cap.”

Steve did not look at his hand, never mind respond to his voice.  Tony talked quietly, reassuring him.  Steve hunched forward.  Tony tensed when the door slid open, but Steve just collapsed forward, forehead pressed against the concrete, grieving silently.

Tony let go of his limp hand to unlock the gauntlet, pressing his own hand against Steve’s bowed back instead.  His posture was eerily perfect, almost prayerful.  He did not shake or make a sound, but Tony knew he was weeping.

The door slid shut behind Bruce.  Small mercies.

. o .

“I, um.”  Tony hated it.  He hated asking, he hated needing, he hated—well, he hated that he could already feel the trembling in his bones, the uncertain foothold before the precipice.  “I can’t—”

Sitting on the couch, Steve encouraged, “C’mere.”

Tony shivered at the thought.  Or maybe he just shivered.  “No, I’m a mess, I—”  Then, afraid he would slip off the edge if he did not find solid ground soon, he crawled into Steve’s arms, trying not to think about how musty he was after the six-hour flight.  “This?  Me?  Is on you.”

“’m okay with it,” Steve said. 

“I just want to get the plane off me.”

“Okay,” Steve said.  Just that, okay.  Not why or what’s your move, but okay. 

It was not okay.  If it was, then Tony Stark would be able to take a shower without working himself into a frenzy.

“I didn’t think it would be a problem,” Tony ground out.  “I didn’t—” Think, he did not need to add.  “I don’t want to go home,” he added.  “We just got here.  We just. . . .”

“Yeah.”  Steve rubbed his side, apparently not alarmed by the sweat.  How dare he not mind?  Part of Tony wanted to snap at him, to sneer at war dogs all huddled together in the mud, piping on about Steve’s lack of standards while Steve was busy trying to survive the deadliest war in history. 

“S’okay,” Steve added, almost like he could hear the mean little voice that needed attention to be placed elsewhere.  “I don’t mind.”

“I am not beneath this,” Tony seethed.

Steve held him together.  “Would it help if I came with you?”

Tony bit back his immediate furious response.  He had not come to berate Steve.  He had come to do this—to ask for help.  Hearing it tugged on his collar painfully.  “Um,” he managed, which wanted to be both an emphatic yes and no.  I don’t want to need you, or anyone like you.  I want to be me.  To be free.  Why can’t I be above this?

“You don’t have to,” Steve said.  “You don’t—”

“I’ll dream about it if I don't,” Tony admitted, grimacing.  “I don’t want to dream about it.”  Please help me.  There’s a monster under my bed.

“Okay,” Steve said.

No more, no less.  It was infuriating.  It was calming.  Tony could not pick a big fight about it.  Steve stood with him on the precipice, neither pulling him away nor pushing him towards the edge.  “I want to try,” Tony said, wincing at himself at how childish it sounded.  “I make no promises.”

Steve kissed his temple and said, “Then let’s try.  With no promises.”

. o .

Malibu was pleasant.  Warmer than New York, which was nice. 

Steve disliked the cold.  Images of himself in a block of ice could be haunting enough to send him into long stretches of silence.  If he was lucky, someone would happen upon him and persuade him that he was not frozen at all.  If he was unlucky, it could take hours to reconnect.

He was not truly afraid of the cold, to go near it, to immerse himself in it, but he had punishingly little control over his reactions to it.  When ice touched his skin, he shut down.  It was how he survived.  Yet too often, his same survival strategy prevented him from living.

So, when Tony asked if he wanted to spend the colder months on the warmer coast, Steve was happy to oblige. 

He liked the idea of getting out of the city for a while, even if the idea of getting out of the city frightened him.  He was not sure why it frightened him—it was not like he had not seen the world, at least, the European theater part of it—but then he realized that the last time he had left home, he had returned in the wrong century. 

It took more courage than he would have liked to get on the plane.

“I wasn’t worried, with Loki,” Steve admitted as Tony worked on a crossword puzzle next to him, one of Steve’s icy hands gripping Tony’s leg.  “Guess I had other things on my mind.”

“Permutations,” Tony said, gaze focused on his crossword puzzle.  “Sort of—mathematical sentences.  Order matters.”  He deliberated over an answer, then wrote semaphore.  “So, A-B-C doesn’t bother you, but B-C-A does.  Going to war is one, two, three, A-B-C.  Flying for leisure. . . .”  He filled in another word: lepton.  “That’s B-C-A.  Two-three-one.  Shift the order, the whole experience is new.  Ask me sometime why I shower at night.”  Then he looked up expectantly.

Steve did not need to ask: he could see the answer.  A-B-C.  Not B-C-A.

Tony held his hand the entire flight.  Correction: Tony sat, hip-to-hip on a private jet, working methodically on his crossword puzzle, providing the quiet distraction that Steve needed to forget how radical it was to voluntarily leave the city.  And Steve kept one hand anchored on Tony’s knee.

. o .

Watching Tony Stark go about his life was like being backstage to the greatest show on Earth.

It was big band fun, somehow in step even when none of it was scripted.  There was a rhythm to Tony’s life that Steve knew, a cadence he found both joyful and humbling.  Yet there were moments of quiet, too—quiet in thought, quiet in fatigue, or simply quiet to watch the sun set.

This was—none of them.

“You okay?”

Tony’s hands shook as he worked.  He said nothing.  Steve could tell he was there—his shoulders bunched, his demeanor went from lethargic to lightning, moving around the space like he could get away from the question if he got away from Steve.

The thing was—the door was open.  And Tony only left the lab door open for one reason.

Steve liked his place, backstage, observing.  He liked that he did not need to contribute the same way that Tony did, that Iron Man marched on without his input.  He was a soldier; Tony was a magician.  Their relationship was often a nebulous space of grounded inquiry and wistful dreams.  The artist-soldier and the scientist-magician.

“I think it’s beautiful,” Steve said, looking at the discarded remains of the latest suit.  And it was beautiful—he was not sure if Tony was capable of making ugly things—but Tony scowled at him, face almost turned away as he flickered around a cabinet.  “I think you did a great job.”

“It’s mediocre,” Tony dismissed.  His voice was deadpan but present.

Steve picked up the silver helmet.  Tony snapped, “Don’t touch it.”

Steve insisted, “It’s beautiful, Tony.”

Tony stormed over and snatched the helmet from his hands.  He looked like he might cast it aside vengefully, before dropping it.  It landed with a loud thrumming sound, unique to the suits.  Tony’s face flushed with annoyance as he glared at the helmet, then kicked it aside, after all.

Steve watched it spin off into a corner, then, calmly and quietly, walked over and retrieved it.

“No amount of armor is going to make this world safer,” Tony sneered at him.  “This is—peanuts, we need—bigger, more effective, more—”  He went still when Steve turned around, wearing the helmet.

“Is it about the world,” Steve asked quietly, “or you?”

Tony looked at him like he had never seen him before.  His eyes were wider, his expression more open.  Like he had not ever seen his own creation before—not from the outside, anyway.  And that was the terrible privilege of being the showman—he never got to see his own work, only show it.  The punchline of his own jokes did not make him laugh anymore.

“Because I think,” Steve went on, keeping his voice measured in the helmet so it would not rattle around, “that if it makes you safer, it’s an investment worth making.”

Tony strode across the space, then pressed both hands against Steve’s chest.  For a moment, Steve expected a shove, a rebuke for crossing a line.  But Tony just shut his eyes, head bowed in mute weariness, hands braced against him.  Steve rested his forehead against the top of Tony’s head.

“You’re so beautiful,” Steve whispered, like Tony would not hear it.  And he did not mean the exterior, although he always did—but Tony Stark, the Tony Stark, was magic.  Pure and simple.

Tony did not lift his head, but he slid his hands to Steve’s waist, holding on.

. o .

Tony would never quite understand Steve Rogers.

Maybe it was the way he was simultaneously so human and so not.  Not human in a way Tony was used to.  It was mesmerizing to watch him interact with the world, unimpeded by instructions.

Tony loved when Steve did not seem aware of him.  Steve delighted in simple things, like fresh clothes out of a dryer, rubbing them against his face when he did not think Tony was passing by.  Steve also liked to lounge on the carpet like sand on a beach, a book in hand, an arm tucked behind his head, at peace with his surroundings.

Yet it was watching him interact with non-living entities that most entranced Tony. 

The Roombas had been an afterthought in Tony’s ever-modernizing world.  He had spent some initial time enhancing them, ensuring that they would keep the floors truly sparkling, but then he had almost shelved them from memory.  They were as ordinary as clocks on the wall.  And like clocks, they moved in predictable patterns.  There was nothing remarkable about them.

So, it was with some surprise that Tony stepped out of his lab, late one night—or was it early one morning?—and saw Steve at the end of a hallway, giving a Roomba a pat on its round head, just like he might pat a dog.  Unaware of his human audience, Steve set a penny in front of the Roomba, which it happily consumed.

Tony surreptitiously checked the Roombas’ hoards and found, among other expected clutter, fifty-eight cents worth of pennies.

Primed to look, he caught more instances of Steve “feeding” the Roombas, always with a pat on the head or a word of presumable appreciation, low enough Tony could not hear it.

The Roombas were supposed to return to their recharge stations well before they were on fumes, but one evening, Tony was visited in the lab by none other than Steve carrying a whining Roomba in his arms.

There was a sad, almost beleaguered look in his eye, one far too mournful for a machine.  “Please fix it,” he asked.

Tony nodded, then, when Steve refused to hand over the Roomba, met his eyes.  “I will,” he said.

Steve held onto the Roomba.

“You have to let me,” Tony reminded.

Steve swallowed.  Then he mutely passed the Roomba over.

Putting it at the appropriate charging dock would have been the simple answer, but he’d promised to fix the Roomba, so he did, unclipping its battery pack and swapping it out.  The Roomba instantly tried to glide off the table.

Steve caught it mid-plummet.  Then he set it gently on the floor, where it paused a moment.  Steve did not even look at Tony, face almost expressionless as he set a penny in front of the machine, which swept it up before puttering off to new pastures.

Tony watched the Roomba go, expecting Steve to follow.

Steve lingered in the lab.  “Thanks.”

Nodding absently, Tony replied, “Don’t mention it.”  He saluted Steve with a wrench.  “It’s my special skill.”

Steve looked bereft for a moment, gaze on the wrench, like he was not sure if it, too, was alive.  Tony offered, “Nice of you to help it out.”

Steve said, “Can’t leave a dog—a ‘bot, out in the streets, like that.”

“You can,” Tony said flippantly.  “I find them.  Eventually.”  He did—but there was something in Steve’s eyes, solemn and sad, that prompted him to add, “It’s nice of you to help them.”

Steve nodded again, then turned away.  “Steve?” Tony added.

Steve did not look at him, but he lingered.  “You’re a good guy,” Tony said.  A real swell fella, he did not add, aware that it would be laying it on too thick.

Steve still walked off.

Determined to make things right, somehow, Tony opened a drawer with his handy-dandy label-maker and chased down his own Roombas, marking each of them with a new name.  They were stupid names, like Spot and Binky, but at least they were names.

Steve never brought it up, and Tony tried not to look in on the private moments of Steve Rogers’ life, the loneliest, quietest times, but he noticed the Roombas bringing home pennies, and he could not help a small smile.

. o .

A metal heart was not a gift given or received lightly.

“Take a breath,” Steve encouraged him, pausing alongside him on the walkway rather than carrying on ahead.  It would be wiser to carry on, Tony thought, hunched forward, struggling to take a breath.  While a walk on the beach was a welcome break from their everyday jobs, it still entailed getting to and from the beach.  And Tony Stark was not the same man he used to be.

“I’m okay,” he huffed, but his legs were weak, his head spinning, and he knew he could sit of his own volition or be taken to the ground by his body.  With a grunt, he lowered himself, chanting, “I’m okay.”

Steve considered him for a moment, hand on his shoulder, then eased down next to him, leaning his shoulder against Tony’s.  Tony gripped his reactor through his shirt, huffing for breath.  “Just take your time,” Steve suggested, the man who had as much of it as he desired.

Tony wanted to make a quippy remark, but he was too focused on pulling down his next lungful of air, wrangling panic with an effort.  Steve’s here.  Steve won’t let anything kill you.  “I’ll live to two hundred,” Tony decreed, decidedly breathless.  “Just to spite you and the kids.”

“What kids?” Steve asked, a fond, sad smile on his face.

“The—kids,” Tony huffed.  “With their Twitter.  And their memes.”

“What’s a—”

“Tell you when you’re older,” Tony wheezed.

Steve left it at that, using Tony’s breathless silence as a window to talk about out the kids back in his day, including their sticks-and-stones sports.  It was a welcome reprieve, giving Tony a chance to catch his breath.

Steve was patient with him.  With most people—but especially with him.  It made the whole “suffering in silence” thing easier, that was for damn sure.

. o .

Charity events, Steve had learned early on, rarely featured the actual recipients of the charity.  They were glitzy affairs for big spenders, who enjoyed mingling with the Avengers more than they enjoyed meeting the recipients of their—well, charity.  If it was not for such a good cause, Steve would have stayed home, not interested in being a show-pony in two centuries.

But it was for cancer research.  Steve could not say no to people with cancer.  At least he was not enlisted to perform in uniform.  Steve just had to show up, mingle for a few hours, and help raise money for people in desperate need.  Easy, selfless.

It was still a bad idea, in retrospect.  Steve had been cranky about showboating, and he’d never been a good actor.  His sour mood showed, but it did not seem to bother the masses, who lingered , observing him like some kind of Zoo animal. 

The only ones brave enough to approach were sweet-spoken dames.  Steve did not have the heart to tell them to leave him be, so he was trapped when their chivalrous husbands made conveniently quick rescues, interceding with a great number of crass jokes before offering an icebreaker handshake.

He had shaken enough twenty-first century hands for one night, Steve had decided, even though the night was not half over.  The clink of glasses and drone of music were both grating on his nerves.  Steve had moved past mild irritation and into real jitteriness, like something bad was about to happen, when Tony tugged his sleeve and muttered, “Wanna blow this popsicle stand?”

Steve felt better in the open air, only to rebound into high alert in the limo, resisting the urge to take the wheel and peel off.  Happy Hogan was a competent driver, and getting in a fight would only racket the tension between them, anyway.

Upon arrival, Steve fell to his knees in relief.  A nagging voice told him to check the perimeter, to get his hands on a gun before he got himself into trouble, but he ignored it.  Happy already thought he was crazy and Tony leaned patiently against the side of the car, lighting up a smoke, which prompted Steve to get up and douse it because, “Tony, your lungs—”

Tony failed to suppress a smirk that said he knew what he was up to as he defended himself with, “Can’t make them worse, can I?”  Steve took the bait, arguing that he could, steering him inside and watching Happy check the doors, just-to-be-sure.

It was not until they were sitting on a couch with a bowl of popcorn and a Spanish soap opera, of all things, before Steve relaxed.

They were okay.  Their lives were weird, and they were weird, but they were okay, and that was what mattered, at the end of the night.

. o .

Happy Hogan liked his job. 

He liked the satisfaction of occupying the cop role in a perpetual game of cops-and-robbers—all without the one-two step of civil service.  Stark’s automated security was already top-notch, but Happy took pride in a job well done. 

It was still weird, having a person-of-interest so near the client—Stark had not given Rogers a special title and Happy was not about to—but at least said-person did not interfere with Happy’s job.  Much.  He was sometimes too demanding of Happy’s security measures, like he was entitled to know how Happy was doing his job, and he was highly untrustworthy.

Had he been consulted prior to the commencement of any non-platonic relationships, Happy would likely have not recommended Rogers for Stark.  It was not that he was too old-school, although he definitely was—he had ghosts, maybe even skeletons in the closet.  Rogers struck Happy as perpetually volatile, a stranger in a strange land with no compunctions about taking out his grief on those around him.

It would be frankly naïve to entertain the alternative: that a living time capsule could ever become well-adjusted to the wrong century.  How could he forgive and let go of that much?

And yet—as Happy stepped into the living room, ready to confirm that the perimeter was secure, Happy paused at the edge of the room, momentarily stumped.

Stark dozing in odd places was hardly abnormal, but Happy was not even sure Rogers needed sleep, yet there he was—shut-eyed, upright but with his chin tucked against his chest.  He looked guarded.  Happy waited for him to reanimate, watching the two of them—Stark sprawled across the couch, face buried near Rogers’ hip, while Rogers sat up and still.

Happy took one step into the room and Rogers jerked, head snapping to look at him.  Stark slept on, unperturbed.  The flash of undiluted wrath passed as quickly as it had come as Rogers breathed out a long breath and then looked down at Stark.

“He must trust you.  A lot,” Happy said.  Stark slept like the dead; Happy was not surprised he did not wake.

Rogers just rested a hand on Stark’s back.  Happy thought, If you hurt him, but then Rogers looked up at him and said, “I’d never hurt him.”  At first, Happy had the unsettling feeling that he was a mind-reader—then he remembered his own statement and nodded once.

Announced automatically: “I’m gonna head out, boss.”

Rogers blinked.  The hand on Stark’s back flexed, then stilled.  Rogers nodded, and Happy turned to leave.

Sure, Rogers was dangerous, maybe even the dreaded damaged, but so was Tony Stark.  Maybe they did fit.

Maybe they did fit.

Happy only looked over his shoulder once, to see Rogers ease Stark into his arms.  It was too intimate, too personal for him to witness, so he rounded the corner and stepped outside the mansion without further comment.

Stark trusted Rogers, and Happy trusted Stark.

. o .

“I love you,” Steve said quietly.  “So much.”

Tony snored against his shoulder.  Steve rested his cheek against the top of Tony’s head, appreciating what he held in his arms.

He had not expected to find peace with Tony.  Maybe Natasha, who had known war, or Bruce, who had been desperate to find peace.  Clint and Thor had both been like brothers, welcoming a third into the mix, despite having known each other for a collective sum of hours. 

Even with his blossoming relationships with the team, Steve had not been happy.  He had almost taken Thor’s offer to join him for a “bout of merriment and jubilee” on Asgard.  He had had no reason not to take it, and maybe several reasons to try—if nothing else, it might have helped him forget, at least for a while.

But there had been another offer on the table, and he had taken it, instead.  Tony had given him a home.  The futurist had helped him find peace, with the Avengers and the new century.

Maybe it was because Tony did not always talk to him but instead existed alongside him in undemanding silence.  With the others, Steve had to put on a show, be a good leader, a good friend.  With Tony, he could just—be.

It was comforting.  It was easy.

The sun was coming up when he shut his eyes, but he let himself drift off, anyway, satisfied with his lot in life.

If he had to be stuck anywhere—he was glad it was with Tony.

. o .

Tony awoke carefully.

He had to be, because there was a warm weight draped across him, and steady, even breaths nearby, and he knew from experience that one wrong move would alter that perfect state of equilibrium.

He was not fearful, no—not at all, and he did move freely about the cabin, shuffling closer to the radiator in front of him.  Steve’s breathing did not change, but his grip tightened in response.  He held Tony like a life raft, one leg curled around both of Tony’s, one arm firm around his back.

It was still surreal to have Captain America in his bed, even if the paragon of American virtue was literally just sleeping.  He did not know what he would have expected from his childhood hero, but it was not what he found.

Steve Rogers was quiet where Captain America was loud; when they talked about the Avengers Initiative (because we’ve gotta claim this shit before the Counsel does, buddy), Steve always looked at him in a way that said, All right: talk before offering Captain America’s two cents.  Steve was not soft-spoken, but even when he gave his opinion, he framed it in few words, a less-is-more kind of guy.  He listened, too, in a way that Tony honestly did not think existed anymore—somehow, none of the stories about Cap’s bravery had ever iterated just how important Steve Rogers made people feel when he gave them his full attention.

But the people who had known Cap had memorialized him with a fondness that hinted at it.  Like it was a given, and Tony had vowed to add it formally to the records, only to decide against it, because it was his secret, along with everyone else who had encountered him.

Nobody ever mentioned that Captain America had an on-switch, either, but maybe nobody else had ever had the privilege to test it out.  As it was: Tony pressed his palm against Steve’s back, just enough pressure that it was not an accidental movement.  Steve stretched like a cat.  Tony kissed the underside of his chin, delighting in the moment.  Steve murmured, “Tony?” in that deep voice that would make anyone fall in love, twice.

Tony said back, “Hi,” and shut his eyes with a pleased smile as Steve exhaled a tired laugh.

“You wake me up just to say hi?”

Tony hummed noncommittally, then added: “And I have to pee.”

Steve sighed, releasing his grip.  “Always a charmer.”

“You know it.”  Tony wriggled back, looked at sleepy blue eyes, and kissed the tip of his nose.  Steve scrunched it up belatedly.  “Also: I missed you.”

“’m right here,” Steve muttered, almost petulantly, shutting his eyes as soon as Tony wriggled off the bed.

Feeling buoyant—a nightmare-free night was a good night, indeed—Tony actually tackled the Steve-shaped lump under the covers upon his return.  Steve grumbled wordlessly, then turned onto his stomach, muttering, “Five more minutes.”

“Rise and shine, sunshine,” Tony said instead, lying on his back and exulting, “day’s not getting any younger.”

Steve just breathed into the pillow.  Tony asked, “Did you actually fall asleep?”

“Go away,” Steve grumbled.  “Or be quiet.”

Tony said, “I choose neither.”  He tried to wriggle back under the covers, but Steve formed a tight cocoon around himself, anticipating the maneuver.  “Asshole.  I’m cold.”

Steve sighed, like he was considering telling Tony to get bent, and then, flicked a corner of the covers up.  Tony scurried underneath it, pressing up against his side and resting his cheek against the back of Steve’s shoulder.  “Mm,” he sighed contentedly.

Steve breathed deeply and evenly for a few more seconds, and then, irresistibly, Tony said, “You’re like a pillow made out of marble.”

“Tony,” Steve whined.  Whined.  “Five minutes.”

Tony said, “That’s a long time,” and could almost hear Steve reply, Then go play somewhere else.  Steve held his silence, and Tony allowed, “I’ll be good.”

“Mm.”

The oddly intimate vantage of lying partially across Steve’s back and shoulders meant he could actually feel Steve fall asleep again, the tension leaving his spine in a wave.  The melodic pattern of Steve’s breathing was calming—another secret the papers somehow neglected to share, and one Tony would take to the grave; he was beginning to see why there were so many secrets regarding Steve Rogers, since people would kill for the chance to be this close to him—but he stayed fully awake to enjoy it.

Five minutes quickly became half an hour, a quarter of Steve’s standard rest cycle, and Tony knew the power nap to end all power naps was stretching on too long when Steve’s muscles started tensing before breaking out into shivers.  He rubbed firm circles into Steve’s back, and when that did not work, he murmured, “Wake up,” and felt Steve stiffen up, for a moment frozen.

“Just me,” Tony said, and Steve relaxed again.  “We’re okay.”

Steve sighed.  “Too long,” he muttered, shuffling under Tony.

Tony shrugged, then moved away so he could sit up.  “Sure, when I sleep three hours, it’s ‘not enough’ and ‘bad for my heart’—”

Steve rolled his eyes affectionately, giving him a shove that barely rocked him.  “You’re so—precious, Tony,” he said, which did dangerous things to Tony’s heart.  “Gotta be good to yourself,” he added, shuffling out of bed.

“What for?  That’s why I have you,” Tony said cheekily.

Steve shut the bathroom door behind himself firmly in response.

No, he was not like the Captain America in the comic books or even the real Captain America his Dad had spent a lifetime searching for.  He was just Steve Rogers—a hard shell to crack and the light of Tony’s life.

Wouldn’t have it any other way, Tony thought, hopping out of bed and deciding maybe-oh-maybe he could share a morning shower with Steve.

Steve made him feel brave.  And that was a precious thing, indeed.