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“Tony, we can still resched—”

“And admit defeat?”  Hobbling forward, Tony huffed, “Sounds like quitter talk to me.”

Steve eyed his partner.  He still looked rough around the edges.  His gray flannel was open at the collar, exposing dark bruises along his neck and collarbone.  They went all the way down, staining the left side of his torso.  After his ordeal, Tony was lucky to be alive.

To say that the mission had gone south would be an understatement.  Hydra cells were already notoriously difficult to sweep, and on their latest raid, Steve’s instincts had led him astray.  Although Iron Man’s infrared scanners had indicated that the facility was empty, Steve knew from previous raids that lower levels tended to be more guarded than upper levels.  Even without visual confirmation, he had made the call to send Iron Man above to sweep the upper level in a pincer maneuver that should have worked out to them meeting in the middle.  Instead, it had nearly cost Tony his life: the upper level had been chockfull of sand traps—hard-to-detect explosives that Hydra had crafted specifically to work around Iron Man’s infrared scanners.

At least the Iron Man armor could take a beating.

Steve could hardly bear to look at him, but Tony had shrugged off the mistake with the typical Tony Stark disregard for his own wellbeing.  “I just think this might slow down my rowing speed, is all,” Tony complained, after examining the bruises on his ribs.  The suit hit the wall with enough force to liquefy a human person; that Tony was alive to complain about his upcoming kayaking adventure with the kid was proof that his armor was a miracle.  “Not that I’m not worried about it,” he jested, applying a Darth Vader bandage to a small tear in his skin above a massive welt.  “I’ll still shatter the record.  I’m not canceling the trip,” he added at Steve’s evidently dire expression.  “Kid’s been dreading it for weeks.”

Steve knew that.  But as team leader, he did have certain executive powers.  He could exercise them.  “I could bench you,” he reminded, arms folded across his chest as he watched Tony shuffle along.

“Right,” Tony agreed brightly.  “And then I would have to usurp you.  Along with my dear friend Bruce—”

It was actually impressive how Bruce Banner could phase through solid walls when he did not want to be involved in personal conflicts.

Clint did offer to accompany them, “in case they needed to kill something,” which Tony somehow graciously declined.  “Not that I’m not flattered,” Tony said, as Clint mournfully followed them while they packed the Chevy, “I just don’t think murder goes well with my coffee.”

“Sounds like you need a new cup of coffee,” Clint said mulishly, but he did relent at Steve’s stern look.  Clint stood in the compound driveway and watched them leave, Bruce at his side, looking markedly more relieved.  Thor and Natasha were nowhere in sight, but Steve had no doubt that they were going to enjoy their three days of anarchy.  Steve actually grimaced at the thought of what state of affairs he would find upon his return before twisting around to focus on the drive ahead.

The campsite was far less dire than Tony had advertised it to be.  There was an actual clearing among the trees, with no sharpened stakes or heads upon them in sight.  The car was parked not far from their plot of land, and the trails leading up to it had all been clearly marked—civilization was hardly far from the rugged interior.  Lewis and Clark would have wept with envy at their well-groomed plot of dirt, pre-prepared for their arrival.  “Cozy,” Tony decreed, throwing his backpack down onto the ground.  “Should be a nice place to set up—”

Crunching footsteps heralded the arrival of the real stars of the hour.  Steve pivoted to the boys wandering up the trail.  Neither looked happy, but Peter was already flushed with a sunburn, speaking in a low but anxious whisper to his friend: “It’s not that I don’t like the idea, I just have a—okay, I don’t like it.  I’ve got a bad vibe, all right?”

“But camping’s cool, right?” his friend—Ned—replied.  Tony had allowed a plus one, not because Tony wanted more teenagers on site but because Tony did not want his one teenager crawling into their tent during a thunderstorm or other cataclysmic event seeking consolation.  Odds were good that the dynamic duo would huddle together, Tony insisted.  Steve just gave him a look that said he knew nothing of being a father, even if he was not Peter’s father, or even uncle, or even long-lost uncle twice removed.

Anyway, odds were good they might have two teenagers in their tent if there was a bear, but at least they were good kids, by the sound of it.  Steve’s immediate impression of Ned Leeds was that he also liked Star Wars, thought Tony was “funny,” but not in a humorful way, and wanted to camp because it was “something to do.”

“So, where’s the—oh,” Peter said, in the same tone as one discovering that food would not be provided, a sort of crumpled trumpet sound to the end of his tone.  It was the same tone he had used when Tony proposed camping as a bonding experience.  Not a trip to Paris or a hightailing adventure on the Andes, but a simple, arduous, replicable camping trip—ostensibly to bond, objectively to see what the kid could do.  “This is—wow.  I—don’t know what to say.”

“No need to thank me,” Tony said.  Ned let out a nervous sort of laugh, leaning his shoulder into Steve’s.  Steve looked at him, about to ask what he thought he was up to, before Tony crouched to sift through his bag and Peter got a full glimpse of his neck and yelped:

“Oh my God!”

Tony froze.  “If it’s on me,” Tony said, “just get it off.  Don’t tell me it’s on me, I don’t need to know what kind of spider it—”

“What the hell happened?” Peter blurted out.  Ned was tense as a board next to Steve.

“Oh, that,” Steve said, tone sour even as he said it.  “That’s just Avengers—”

“We don’t have to talk about it,” Tony cut in gruffly, pulling out a handful of tent poles.  Perking up, he added, “What we do have to talk about is which one of you miscreants is helping me set up the tent.”  Dumping the poles out, he added, “Parker, get your ass on the grass.”

Forgetting his immediate distaste for concern, Peter fell to his knees beside Tony, looking torn between offering immediate aid and casting worried looks back at his friend and Steve, then Tony.  His hands reached towards Tony, who was too busy arranging the tent poles into a line to notice the aborted solicitation as Peter grimly set his hands back on his own thighs. 

“First rule of assembly,” Tony said, pulling a burnt instruction manual out of his bag and holding it up; Peter stared at it, agog, “there is always a wise man who has dumbed it down for a very unwise man to follow.  Discern the wise man’s original path.”

Still gawking at Tony, Peter asked weakly, “What does that even mean?”

“Invent thine own wheel or die,” Tony said, sitting back on his heels.  Peter’s gaze flicked pointedly to the bruises at his collar.  Tony whacked his knee with a tent pole; Peter jumped away from it.  “Time’s wastin’.”

“Can I help?” Ned asked.

“You can start a fire,” Tony instructed.  “Steve’ll help.”  He cast a pointed look at Steve that said, Won’t you, Steve?

Steve cast a pointed look back that said, Will I, Tony?  Ned looked at him, though, and Steve knew that holding his ground on the issue would only create undue stress among the youngsters, so he said aloud in a benevolent tone, “All right.  Fire starting it is,” and trudged off to find some sticks.

“Aren’t we starting a fire?” Ned asked.

“Yes,” Steve said without stopping.

Ned hastened after him.  Peter said behind them: “I don’t know how this goes.  I’ve never actually camped before, Mr. Stark.”

“That’s good,” Tony said.  “Nothing to corrupt your uninhibited creativity.”

Shaking his head a little and wondering how long it would take before Peter was begging for intervention, Steve continued his trek up the trail for some fodder.  Ned continued hurrying alongside; Steve forced himself to slow his pace a little, to a more comfortable idle.  “Where’re we going?” Ned asked.

“Into the woods,” Steve replied.

“Well, I—yeah,” Ned agreed, and they thankfully did not talk again for almost an hour after that.  Ned instead followed along, never more than five steps away, as Steve gathered enough shrubbery to supply kindling for at least three days. 

“All right,” Steve declared at last for the youngster’s benefit.  Inexperience was no teacher at all, and he was trying to be gracious.  Tony might be the “throw them in the deep end” type, but Steve believed a little slack could go a long ways.  Erskine had certainly given him some lead when he needed it.  “That should work.”

Ned just looked at him, wide eyes and arms full of sticks that Steve had handed off.  “You don’t talk much, do you?” Steve asked.

Ned shook his head mutely.

Nodding once, Steve advised, “Now, don’t let anybody walk on you,” and then pivoted back towards camp.  Ned followed.  His sticks clattered with every step.  “You never been camping before, have you?”

“No, sir.”

“Steve is fine, son.”

“Yes, sir—Cap.  Sir.”

. o .

Peter’s jutting art piece might place in a competition, but the sweat on his brow reflected that he was aware that the structure might not be fit for human habitation.

“Nicely done, son,” Steve congratulated anyway.  “You have assembled your first tent.”

“Oh,” said Ned, with the dawning realization of one about to embark on a far more ambitious quest than originally intended.  “Is that what that is?”

“Yes,” Steve said, before Peter could fumble the explanation, too.  Tony was nowhere to be seen.  “Where’s Tony?”

Scratching the back of his neck nervously, Peter swiveled around in every direction and said, “He said he’d be back—”

“Miss me already?”  Carrying a makeshift spear in one hand, Tony said, “Which one of you boys would like to learn how to fish?”

Ned sidestepped behind Steve.  Peter swallowed hard.  Steve told Tony, “Shouldn’t you be—”

“Living my fullest life?”  Pointing the spear at Steve, he added, “Let’s trade: I’ll take your kid, and you can—”

“It’s cool, Mr. Stark,” Peter interjected, a bit breathless and more than a bit pale.  “I’d love to—fish.”

“Wonderful,” Tony said, swiveling the spear tip around to point at Peter.  “If you do it right, I’ll teach you how to dress and filet it.”

Peter looked like he would rather run up the side of a mountain than learn the aforementioned tasks, but he trudged dutifully in the footsteps of the master, who looked pretty pleased to be endowing one of his many skills to a prodigy.  “We should get the fire goin’,” Steve told Ned, who was still hiding in his shadow.  The sticks shivered with the force of Ned’s agreement.

Steve helped him get the fire going, explaining all the while how to avoid catching yourself or your tent on fire.  He even brought up the benefits of burning an open flame: “Don’t need to worry about the carbon monoxide;” “You know about that?”  At Steve’s evidently harder-than-intended look, Ned clammed up again.

On the bright side, they did achieve their end goal. 

Steve was considering the best way to tidy up Peter’s art project without starting over when the kid himself reappeared on the trail, soaked to the gills and holding a large fish to his chest.  “Look at you,” Steve congratulated.  Peter looked away.

Ned crowed: “You got one!”

“Y-y-yeah,” Peter chattered, still clutching the fish to his chest.  “Yeah.  I caught it.”  Grim but proud, he met Ned’s eyes and added, “I caught a fish.”

“With your bare hands?”

Flustered, Peter said, “It—I—it was like it was moving in butter.”

“Dude—are you serious?”  Ned moved away; fish in hand, Peter joined him for a conference that carried, despite the hushed voices.  Steve let them have their feigned privacy, moving up the trail towards the lake.

Part of him feared he would find a very cantankerous Tony sitting by the lakebed, high and dry.  But he should’ve known the man he chose to hitch his wagon to: Tony was standing ankle-deep in the water, pant legs rolled up, a proud trio of yellow fish piled on shore.  “I’m starting to think—” Steve began, making Tony startle violently.  He gave Steve a very affronted look, notching his bloodied spear over his shoulder like a rifle as he waited for Steve to finish: “—we should’a brought Barton, after all.”

Sniffing once, Tony said, “Competition—sours the very nature of a leisure activity.”  He pivoted the spear back towards the water, then paused to look at Steve, eyes bright in the harsh light of late afternoon sunlight.  “That’s why I brought you, city slick.  You make me look better.”

“Only reason,” Steve agreed, eyeing the water’s edge warily.  He still had his own socks and shoes on and no intention of removing them without strong incentive.  Tony clearly had a handle on the fishing side of things, anyway, and like he said: the whole trip was a leisure activity.  On a mission, Steve would do anything the job called for, but on his days off, he liked kicking up his heels as much as the next guy, sitting out on the porch with a cold beer and enjoying the atmosphere.  The people had changed, and the music, too, but the sentiment was still there. 

He had no trouble explaining the ropes to the kids, but he still found it odd that Tony’s choice of a leisure activity was something that so closely resembled work.  Then again, Tony’s idea of relaxation was working twelve-hour days in the lab, on top of a full work-day.  He built things with his hands; he lived and breathed firearms, the art of landing a strike.  Iron Man’s day off definitely looked like Tony Stark standing in ankle-deep water, a fresh-made spear roving over the dark water intently.  “You’re an odd one,” Steve acknowledged, content to stand onshore and nurse the fantasy of sitting on a porch with his polished billionaire of a partner instead of his wilderness adventurer.

“Yup—love you, too,” Tony said, making Steve smile.

. o .

The snook was great.

Steve thought so, anyway.  Peter, who was apparently the poison checker of his friend group, took one bite, skin and all, and then spat it on the ground.  It was such a knee-jerk reaction even he seemed surprised; the beet-red reaction and blurted, “Oh my God,” startled a huff of laughter from Steve, who was halfway through his own sample, which seemed just fine.  Ned gawked at his friend, horrified, while Peter stared at the fish, then Steve, then averted his gaze quickly, like he did not want to accidentally look at Steve.  Skittering off the log, Peter paced away from camp, belatedly pursued by his friend, who tiptoed off at a more surreptitious pace.

You’d make a good stealth agent, Steve thought, absentmindedly taking another bite of his snook.  He flicked a glance at Tony, who was stretched out on the ground, enjoyably carving another spear.  They already had five—more than enough, as far as Steve was concerned—but who was he to interfere with a man’s leisure?  He was probably creating them to surround the encampment, anyway, he thought, with a gentle headshake.

Peter returned in short order, shoulders back, chin up, and reached for his snook.  When he went to take another bite, Steve advised, “You don’t eat the skin.”

Peter paused, looked at him, then averted his gaze again.

“It has a most unpleasant taste,” Steve said, which made Tony huff a little, where he was busily carving his spears.  Tony did not feel like adding to the conversation, though—maybe Tony thought it was better for the youngsters to learn the hard way, because sometimes lessons learned the hard way stuck better, more permanently—but Steve didn’t like to watch people hit the ground hard.  “The white fish is—”

Peter bit into the fish again, skin and all.  Steve resisted the urge to sigh.  Some youngsters just had to learn the hard way, he supposed—stoves were hot, snooks had a detestably soapy skin taste, almost poisonously noxious, and Peter’s face did twist up, his eyes tearing, as he forced himself through it, swallowing hard.  “It’s great,” he whispered.

Ned, Steve noted, very carefully ate his snook without the skin.  It made Steve feel a bit better—he might be a “dinosaur,” but he could still impart some good advice.  The smart ones would learn.  Peter is smart, his conscience chided.  Teenagers are just willful.  You cannot curb them.

Wondering when he had gotten old enough to think of teenagers as such youngsters, he lost track of Peter altogether as he watched Tony get up to wander off, his movements stiff and sore.  He might have been the spirit of adventure in daylight, but with the sun down and the firelight casting harder light over his bruises, his movements a bit more ginger as he shuffled from hard forest floor to a standing position, the beating he had taken was on full display.  A twinge of remorse shot through Steve; it was impossible not to offer, “You need a—” and Tony to flap an irritable hand at him, dismissive to a fault.  Tony only ever got truly waspish when he was hurt; in a way, the timing of the trip was perfect, a way to keep his mind off his soreness, as he all but limped off into the woods to take care of himself.

Two sets of young eyes fixed on Steve.  “He’ll be fine,” Steve assured them, because youngsters looked to their elders for reassurance on the trail.  Maybe Tony thought the silent way conveyed toughness, and Steve surely understood it, but the mood at the camp was worried, and a few words of comfort often went a long way.

Ned shuffled uneasily on the log closer to him.  Peter stared into the fire like it held all the answers, refusing to even look at him.  Steve repeated, “He’ll be fine.”

Nodding, Ned finally broke the tension with, “He’s Tony Stark.”  Looking between them, he seemed torn between who to go to—his friend or his guide—when a growl of thunder in the distance made him shrink in on himself.

“Great,” Peter said limply.

“Don’t worry about it,” Steve said, but Peter refused to look at him.

Ned stood up deliberately and parked himself on Steve’s log.  Steve quieted, oddly touched.  The crackling of the fire was calming, alongside the crickets in the woods.

He wondered what it would be like to camp with the rest of the crew—chaotic came to mind, with the competing natures of Thor and Clint, who came from different worlds but bore similar backgrounds of skillful experience, and Natasha, his perennial second on side missions—and found it peaceful, almost paternal, digging his heels into the dirt, looking up as he saw the faint blue light underneath Tony’s jacket.

“Storm brewin’,” Tony announced.  “Lucky night.”

Peter immediately squeaked, “You call that lucky?”

“Everybody camps in—fair weather,” Tony said, lowering himself gingerly to a log.  Peter learned yearningly towards him.  If it was not a certainty that Tony would snap at him for space, Steve did not doubt he would have shuffled over, anxious as a pup to be beside him.  “This is the real outdoors.”

“I think I’d rather just camp,” Ned piped in meekly.

Tony rocked on his log, getting comfortable, before saying, “Well.  You know the way back.”

There was a long pause.  Distinctly, Ned leaned into Steve’s side.  Steve would have shoved Clint off—Clint knew better—but he let the kid stay.  Besides: the kid swayed back to his former position, declaring stoutly, “Wolves.”

“Bears,” Tony corrected.  Across from them, Peter shivered.  Ned shrank.  “We’re not in Yellowstone.  There are no wolves here.”  Picking up one of his spears, Tony teased the fire.  “No lions, either.  Maybe next time.”

“I think I’m good,” Ned said, the bravado visibly drained from his shoulders and voice.

Tony looked at Peter.  “You’d go to the Amazon.”

“I’d go anywhere with you,” Peter said immediately. 

“He’s kidding,” Steve said firmly.  Peter finally looked at him, and Steve did not miss the real dislike in his eyes, bordering on open animosity, before Peter pointedly looked away as Tony said:

“Of course I am.”

Peter’s fingers flexed at his sides.  A thumb shuffled restlessly over his own palm.  It was not a clenched fist, but the irritation did not go unnoticed.

Oh, you don’t know anything about him, do you? Steve thought.  He was tempted to pull Tony aside, warn him that kids like Peter would die for Iron Man and Tony’s hair-raising approach to life would get them killed.  Just because Tony Stark survived in the desert did not mean everyone else would.  Yeah, you really took the easy path, didn’t you, pal? his own inner voice goaded, conjuring up the same steep path that led him to the twenty-first century.

He couldn’t help but be protective: he had lived through a war, watched people disappear in a flash of light, in an instant of carelessness, in a spook.  He could not imagine losing youngsters who did not know better to the same foolishness in a time of peace.  No matter that it was Tony’s preparation for war.  No matter that he was equally relentless, that people shied away from his hard line: You can’t just let your guard down.  There’s no possibility of “it could never happen.”  It always could.

Finally, Steve said, “We should—”

“Bunk down,” Tony finished, as a third rumble of thunder crested the horizon.  Ned was glued to Steve’s side.  Peter grimly stood, projecting confidence but radiating anxiety. 

It would be good experience, Steve thought, even if he hoped the next day would put them both at ease.  Nights were always harder, and the timing of the storm on the very inaugural night of the trip was poor.

Can’t control the weather.  Only one’s reaction to it.

. o .

Peter might have crawled into the mess of structurally unsound tent poles and called it a night, but Steve insisted on reassembling it to standard regulation while Tony disappeared inside their own tent.

“I got it—I got it,” Peter huffed, as rain speckled the camp, and Ned shuffled from foot-to-foot, anxiously waiting to see if Steve would successfully pull a rabbit out of a hat twice.  Assembling a tent is not difficult, Steve managed to hold back, before Peter, in a fit of pique, snapped a critical pole in half in frustration.

Then, in what seemed genuine accident, Peter snapped one like a twig.  “It’s fine,” Steve said, even though it was not.  High winds would disintegrate the structure.  Tony did not emerge from their tent to come fix it, either, so it was up to Steve to console the suddenly almost tearful teenager, the horrified Ned, and assemble the tent, all amid a smattering of rain.  “It’s easy to fix.”

He quickly sifted through the burnt instruction manual—oddly enough, his photographic memory of it included the singed pages—and managed to come up with a simplified version of the original tent mainframe that sacrificed three other poles but would accomplish the final goal of a stiff, upright structure with room for two people.  Slightly closer quarters, but same grounding.  No twine needed—they could acquire or make some in the morning.

What he did not account for was Peter’s resistance to change.  To be fair, even Ned seemed slightly uneasy when he started yanking poles out, already pretty soaked through and more intent on getting the job done than explaining, stepwise, what he was doing.

“Hey—hey!” Peter complained, grabbing his arm and yanking him back, a lot stronger than Steve expected.  He actually stumbled back.  Peter glared at him, chest working, and said in a spitfire string of words, “Why are you—stop that.  You’ll break it.”

You already broke it.  Biting his tongue, Steve just said, “I know what I’m doing.”

Literally shaking, Peter said, “That’s what you say,” and then drew in a very deep breath.  Frowning, Steve waited, and then a flash of white light, followed by a more menacing rumble of thunder, reminded him that they were supposed to be on task.  Instead of jolting him into action, it woke Peter up, his stuttering, forceful cry ringing out: “Y-you say shit like that a-and then you get people killed!”

Steve stared at him.  For a moment, his mind was utterly silent, like Peter had stepped out of a portal from the wrong world, just to deliver a message to him.  He could not believe the words he was hearing, from the rain-spattered, wrung-out youngster.  Peter sobbed once, a dry, soundless thing, and then said shakily, “I-I-I can’t lose him.  I don’t get what you don’t get about—”

At a loss for words, Steve just stood there, feet planted.  Finally, the first stupid words out of his mouth were, “I don’t get people killed.”

“Yes, you do!” Peter screamed.  Still holding the broken tent pole, Peter pointed it at him, like he would use it, then recoiled from himself, stepping back, almost slipping in the mud.  “You—you think it’s okay.  You think they’re dispensable.”  Biting his lip hard against tears, Peter looked away from him.  “You couldn’t care less about—”

“Stop.”  Both of them looked over at the weary but imperious voice.  Tony had thrown a windbreaker on over his shirt.  He moved like he had bark on his skin.  “Use your words,” Tony instructed.

Peter flung his arms around him.

Tony grimaced, plainly uncomfortable in more ways than one, but he did not order Peter to let go of him, and for that alone, Steve loved him.  Horrified at the mess he had made, at the trouble he had caused—and how palpably it had radiated beyond what he had thought—Steve opened his mouth to say something, anyway, but Tony just told Ned, “That’s yours,” with a chin-jerk towards the already existing tent.  Ned practically dove for the tent flap.

Steve did not look at them as he retreated to the unfinished tent, grateful to be alone.  It only took a few minutes to put it up, even if everything within and without was soaked.  As expected, it was a tighter fit than it should have been, but—“Nicely done,” Tony said, materializing beside him.  He shouldered his way inside, and Steve considered offering to sleep in the mud, except Tony would have snapped at him and they did not need any more fights.

With the practice befitting a soldier used to slipping into smaller foxholes, he shuffled inside.  Tony then crawled on top of him.  I see why you don’t bother with all the fancy sleeping pads; you have me, he did not say, not in the mood for small talk.  The hard ground was comforting, the drone of the rain helped drown out his own thoughts.  He shut his eyes, willing sleep to come quickly as he listened to Tony just breathe.

Sleep never came, but the soft rise and fall of Tony’s breath, even the restless shift as he lay constant claim to motion, comforted Steve.  He’s alive.

I didn’t get anybody killed.

. o .

Peter was not wrong, though.

Come morning, Steve could not shake the idea of how close they had come to their One Last Mistake.  They often argued over how to do better, how to improve their fieldwork.  From countless errors, they could come back, improve future outcomes.  But the One Last Mistake, as Tony called it, would be an irrecoverable error.  There would be no way to fix it, because it would kill one of them.  It might even kill both of them.

If they were lucky, Steve thought, washing cold water over his chin, it would kill both of them.  He could not bear the thought of losing Tony; he dreaded the alternative almost as much, leaving Tony to pick up whatever pieces he left and try to move on without his partner.

He knew Tony had lived a full life without him.  He knew Tony could life a full life again.  But he ached at the thought of forcing Tony to fend for himself, to walk alone in the woods.

And he simply could not imagine what it would be like to walk back to camp and find no one waiting for him.  He could lead the youngsters on—he had all the tactical and practical experience needed to do so, all the hard learned worldly knowledge to survive in two centuries—but Tony was his touchstone.  Steve found him, first, on a rock, poring over a map.  Sidling over, Steve noted the dark tint under his eyes before he slid a gentle palm over Tony’s less bruised right shoulder.  In a murmur, he asked, “What’re you doing?”

“You know me.”  Tracing a line up a trail with a pencil, Tony looked up at him, a gleam of hard bright adventure in those eyes, and finished, “Seeing what’s out there.”

Nodding, Steve glanced at the unopened tent, then looked back at Tony, who seemed unworried, scanning his map again.  “You don’t think—”

“No.”  The brisk reply was not dismissive but self-assured.  “I wouldn’t,” he said oddly, and Steve mulled over that for a long moment.  “If it were my Dad,” Tony offered, in a rare moment of hand-holding, still chewing over his map.

Steve wondered about that, briefly—the intersection between professional group and family, mentor and father—and looked over again as Peter himself emerged from the tent.  He looked ruffled and about as worn as they did, but at Tony’s, “Hey, Pete,” he looked up, offered an embarrassed but brief smile, and then dawdled off into the woods a short distance.  “I like this one,” Tony said, flexing the map and showing the selected trail to Steve.  “What say you?”

Steve brushed a hand over his shoulder again, craving the physical reassurance that he was really there and not merely a figment of his imagination, that his One Last Mistake had not been made.  Tony shrugged out from under him, mildly irked, and then said robustly, “I could still pick the spelunking route, that’s not off the cards—”

“Spelunking?” Steve said incredulously.

“No,” Peter called loudly.

Tony hollered back, “Eavesdroppers eat whatever they can catch for breakfast.  Hope you like spiders.”

Peter groaned audibly.

. o .

Although Tony was tempted to force the boys to live up to his own words, Tony also wanted coffee, which meant revealing their secret stash of food, high in a tree.  “Wow,” Ned said, once he saw the pancake mix.  “We get—”

“Day three,” Tony insisted, which popped his enthusiasm like a balloon.  A breakfast hash in an iron skillet reinvigorated it.

“This is camping?” Peter blurted out, either forgetting that he was not talking to Steve or having made peace with him during the stormy night.  Steve simply nodded once, because there were many styles of camping, but the best style was one with a dedicated food supply.

“I thought it was all canned beans,” Ned admitted.

“I don’t like canned beans,” Tony replied, scooping up another mouthful of bacon, chopped potatoes, and egg.

With hot food in their bellies, they set off for the hills.  Steve knew how much Tony detested long walks, so he found it ironic that Tony selected the longest trail—literally demarcated The Longest Trail—as their route.

“We’ll take breaks,” Steve assured when Ned swallowed hard at the intended length of the trail.  Peter bucked him up, insisting that it was merely “seven two-mile walks.”

“I don’t see why that’s supposed to make me feel better,” Ned said.  “We’re not all Spider-Men.”

“But we are all Spider-Men,” Peter insisted.  “Anybody could—”

“Wear the costume,” Ned cut in.  “But that doesn’t mean we’re all built like Spider-Man—”

They argued for a bit, walking ahead.  Even Tony warmed up to the walk, so stiff-legged at first he almost waddled, but soon marching at his usual rigorous clip.  Steve started to see why he insisted on the camping trip, despite his wounds—he could not imagine Tony stewing in his cold lab or an actual ward, with nothing to look at but a sunny window.  He was still sore, but he was mobile, capable of trading words and blows if it came to it.

It was not long before Peter started looking over his shoulder to confirm that they were still with them.  Steve did not miss that his gaze always sought Tony before moving back.  “Careful,” Steve cautioned, as Peter walked into his second tree.

Peter chose not to respond, but his neck was bright red.

They paused at an outcropping around the four-mile mark to admire the fishing lake.  “That’s one hell of a view,” Steve said.

Ned looked at him like he had declared he was ceding the union.  Steve finally asked, “Is something wrong?”

“I just—”  Faltering, Ned flailed a hand and said in a stammering manner, “Didn’t think Captain America was—”

Peter nudged his friend, adding enigmatically, “He’s from Brooklyn, you know.”

Feeling a bit like the museum exhibit walked off stage, Steve pointed out in as gentle a tone he could manage, “He’s present, too, you know.”

Peter gave him a half-rebuking, half-embarrassed look that said, I was covering your hide, before scurrying to keep up with Tony, who had no patience for views.  Steve lingered with it, enjoying the sparkling lake.  He could keep up with the others with a ten-mile head start.  “It’s beautiful,” Steve insisted.

“I’m sorry,” Ned apologized.  “I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“Oh, it’s fine,” Steve said, not wanting two youngsters on the wrong side of the line.  “Everybody thinks I’m—funny,” he decided.

“Outcasts,” Ned agreed, and Steve did not miss the plurality of it.

They stood a bit longer, admiring the view, before Ned finally said, “We should catch up.”

Steve nodded in agreement, even though Tony hardly moved fast enough to set a worrying pace.  “That we should, son,” he said, aware it made him sound old timey, but Tony said calling them youngsters sounded even more grandfatherly.  It was fine in the privacy of his own head, at least.  Nobody called him funny there.  “Lead the way.”

. o .

Just shy of the halfway mark, they took another rest.

Peter seemed invigorated by the climb, hungry for more, but Tony was looking washed, wan-faced.  Sitting on a rock, carefully facing away from the group, he managed to convey reflectiveness and not exhaustion, but Steve could tell from one look that he had hit a wall.  His pace would slow by mile eight, be a crawl by mile nine.  I told you not to do this, he resisted the urge to snap.  It would do them no good.  Tony was good at conveying an air of civility in the middle of catastrophe; it was only the effortful way he breathed, and the mere fact that he was sitting on a rock at all, instead of pacing in restless circles, that showed he had hit his limit.

The reactor cut into his chest, eliminated a lot of his breathing room.  He retained a young man’s vitality in an old man’s body; he rebelled against all torn-up treaties passed between the two, the new limitations and commitments to prevent total system failure.  Steve understood the duality; for him, it was often the reverse: people treated him like a grandfather, expecting him to give out the wisdom granted by raising two generations, but he had only empty rooms, a young man’s vibrance and way of speech that was ready to take on a graveyard world.

Sometimes, he felt like they were mirror images of each other.  Two mismatched souls in mismatched bodies.  How Iron Man could be so invincible, and his pilot so mortal, bothered Steve so dearly.  He would give so much to give that genius everything he wanted, even if Tony would never be satisfied with it, because Tony did deserve more than the punishments he got.  Some might see it as justice, a balancing of the scales, for no one could fly that high and not get burned—but Tony was taking them all with him.  They should cheer for him.  Steve certainly did; he wanted Tony to win.

Either way, they were left with no easy way back to camp.

Worse, Tony was the last person in the world to admit it.

“How you boys holdin’ up?” Tony asked.  His voice was gruff, but that could have been the sleeplessness, the fuzz on the trees, anything.  It did not have to be terminal exhaustion.  But it was.

“Great,” Peter chirped.

Ned held up a nervous thumbs up.  “Good,” he said.  He sounded it, too.

Tony nodded once.  He was still breathing a bit too shallow and a bit too fast.  Peter clocked it, shuffling his feet anxiously.  He opened his mouth to say something, call attention to it, but Tony shuffled to his feet.

He almost slipped.  Steve did not allow that.  Stepping forward, he curved Tony’s arm around his own shoulders.  “Hey, hoss,” Tony greeted, chest still working overtime even though his voice was carefully restrained.  It was softer, was all—that was the difference, the thing to listen for.  When Tony got quiet, he was in trouble.  “What’s the matter with you?”

Steve needed no burnt instruction manual for that: “My feet are killing me,” he deadpanned.  “I don’t know why we picked this route.  There’s no way I’m making it back down this mountain.”

Tony breathed for a few seconds, then said, “We’ll take it slow.”  Another pause, then: “Lots of stops, if we have to.  You’re a tough guy, aren’t you?”

Squeezing his hand, Steve said, “If these kids don’t wear me down.”

“No, sir,” Ned chirped at once, so immediate it was like he forgot he was playing along. 

It was sweet, the sincerity, but it did not hold a candle to Peter’s firm agreement: “No, sir.”

Nodding once, Steve held the kid’s eyes and told him: “Lead.”  Peter turned back, a different line to his shoulders, a slight tilt to his chin, as he examined the forest, looking out for more than himself.  Ned fell into step immediately alongside him.

“The next mile is up,” Peter warned.  “After that, it’s all down.  You think you can hang in there, Cap?”

It was more words than he had said to Steve the whole trip.  The hard tone could have read as animosity to a softer soul.

But Steve heard the I’ll make you proud proclamation in that hard line.  “All right,” was all Steve said.

The kid got them up and over the hill.

. o .

“Why do you protect him?” Peter asked, skipping a rock over the lake.

Tony had already slipped off into the tent with a vague excuse about how carrying Steve down the hill was exhausting; Steve had procured peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches for the boys.  Ned had gratefully partaken, but Peter—“I’m not hungry.”

“Take one bite,” Steve had insisted.  Peter had done so.  Apparently finishing it had appealed more than passing back the once-bitten sandwich.  Steve had then offered Peter his own sandwich rather than explaining to the kid that he had not immediately prepared more sandwiches to go around as seconds.  He knew his own limits well enough to know that he could last on an empty stomach for a while, and the kid’s gratitude had been worth the sacrifice.

Sitting by the lake skipping stones was somewhat poetic for Steve’s tastes, but it was better than bothering Tony, so Steve kept it up.  Since Ned was also gratefully enjoying some time alone at the campsite, it also kept Peter from wandering off alone to dwell in utter melancholy.

“You don’t protect what you love?” Steve asked instead, looking at Peter, who paused with one hand reaching for a flat stone.

With almost jerky movements, Peter gripped his own knees.  Looking everywhere but at Steve, Peter explained, “Well, I—I do, but—”

“You still lose it.”

Peter’s eyes welled up.  He seemed on a pretty short emotional lead, the whole trip—Steve had seen people react like that after finding their loved ones in dire condition.  Tony was hardly in a state of great unwellness, but it had to be some kind of shock to see him under the weather at all.  Peter’s face flushed with embarrassment at his own reaction, but Steve said simply, “I know what that’s like.”

Eyes still glistening, Peter looked at him sharply.

Picking up a flat stone, Steve offered it.  Peter stared at it, then at Steve, then, gingerly, took the stone.  He did not immediately cast it onto the water.

Steve reached for another stone, and that was when Peter decided to say, with Steve’s eyes off him: “All I have is Aunt May.”  Steve deliberated through the pebbly wreckage, pretending like it took time to spot a good one, as Peter went on with shaky resolve, “I just—I don’t wanna lose him, too.”

Straightening, Steve turned up empty-handed.  He looked at Peter, who was still anxiously turning over his stone.  “When we lost Uncle Ben—”  He looked to the sky, but not in anger.  Remorseful anguish.  “It was like—losing him.  Again.  Dad.  Mom, too, but—I didn’t—I never knew—”  He paused, deliberately, and offered nothing at all about them, going on, “And I just—don’t know how many times.  I can do that.  How many times you can—survive that.  Before it,” he snapped the thick stone in half.  After a long, long pause, he went on, “I’m starting to really dread the next one.  I don’t want anybody else to die.  I don’t want to watch anybody—older than me, go.”

“Not all at once,” Steve said, because he was the anomaly.  He was the one-time event, and even he survived it.  The kid did not need to hear about the possibility as he went on, “You won’t ever be alone.”

Nodding shakily, Peter agreed, “Yeah.  Yeah.”  Then, rubbing the back of his hand under his nose, still gripping his two rocks, he agreed, “I—I know that.”

“We’ll be around,” Steve said, while Peter looked at him, no trace of the earlier hatred left.  Just pained sorrow, that he was a liar, and someday, he would be wrong and gone, and the youngsters would be on their own.  Maybe Tony was right, bringing them up the hard way.  Get used to it.  It won’t always be this good.

But it is, now.  It is, now.  “We’re here, now.”

“Thanks, Da—”  Wiping his fist under his nose against, Peter chucked one rock into the pond.  “It’s not you,” Peter said, voice a little strained, but passionate, wanting to tell the story as it was, not obscured by the emotions, “I used to do it to—him, too.”  He flung the second stone outward, making no effort at all to skip it.  It plunked into the pond.  “Called me his ‘ugly duckling.’  Never imprinted on anybody.  Never—”  He scooped up another rock, anything to avoid looking at Steve, and finished, “Had somebody, really, so I just—waddled in circles.  Ended up nowhere.”

“You loved him.”

Peter let out a hard, airless, humorless laugh.  Rocking a little, hugging his stomach like he was going to be sick, he managed to recover by shakily reaching for another stone, sifting noisily through the pile.  “Uncle Ben?  Oh, he was great.  He was—going to be at my wedding, you know?  Not that I’m—getting married, but—someday, maybe.  And my—my graduation.  My first apartment—”  With a hard sniff, he chucked the rock into the pond and finished, “My whole life, you know?  He was—supposed to—be there.  And now he’s just—gone.”

Brushing his whole sleeve over his mouth, Peter finished bleakly, “But now that’s—Aunt May and two jobs and—anything happens to her, I’m just fucked.”  He hiccupped once and added shakily, “I can say that here, right?”

“You can.”

They sat in silence for a bit, on opposite sides of the same log.

Then Peter inhaled deeply, said, “I just want him to live forever.”

That hit unexpectedly close to home.  Nodding once, Steve said, “I know.”  It was, Me, too.

Peter looked at him, and for a moment, Steve thought he might say something more, but then Peter simply turned back to the water.  They sat for a while, admiring the quiet, the ease of everybody—in whatever state they were—being alive and together.

“I’m glad he’s alive,” Peter said at last, softly.

Steve said it outright, that time: “Me, too.”

. o .

Tony was groggy at dinner but still up to s’mores.  “The art of the marshmallow,” he said, as the two youngsters, perfectly capable of deducing how to make one themselves, listened with rapt attention to his wisdom.  He offered no actual commentary, instead spearing his prize (thankfully on a fresh stick) and preparing it to a charcoal crisp, slotting it between two chocolatey graham crackers, and taking a bite.

Ned and Peter both replicated the feat.  Peter almost dropped his into the fire.

“Careful,” Steve chided automatically.  Peter gave him a quick look, then returned to his craft.  Tony never once spared him a second glance, too busy on his own second s’more, but Steve watched the kids, lingering on the ugly ducking who had never found anybody to follow because they all left too quick. 

You found somebody, he thought, looking at Tony, whose heavy Iron shadow reflected a larger-than-life mythology: an invincible man who could never, ever die.

I won’t let anything happen to him.  I promise.

“Here,” Tony said, holding out a burnt marshmallow to Steve.  Steve slotted it onto a graham cracker bed obediently.  “Move at a different pace.  Miss out on life’s pleasures.”  Putting on another marshmallow, he began toasting that one for himself, never once conceding to look at Steve.

“Thanks,” Steve said.

Tony sniffed, “Old man,” and Peter snickered into his cracker.

Steve knew it was going to be okay.

. o .

On the third day, they did make pancakes.

The catch was that Steve forced the kids to cook, because, “It’s good for you.”

Both of them took it to heart, even if their creations were so spectacularly poor that it was a miracle they did not sustain serious burns in the process.  It was a memorable breakfast, and Tony actually cracked a smile, despite another sore, restless night.  There were no storms, but even on his own bed, the genius mind hardly turned off.  He snagged sleep in bite-sized pieces, leaning against Steve’s shoulder, dozing on couches, occasionally lying down for a few hours, but rarely ever complying with a schedule.  He was up with the sun, at least, and haranguing the boys to do the same, because: “Daylight’s burning.”

The burnt pancakes were the best.  Like pseudo-father, like pseudo-son, Steve thought, as Peter apologetically plated his creation.  “Just how Cap likes it,” Tony winked, which brought such a relieved look to Peter’s face that Steve nodded affirmatively.

“My favorite,” he agreed, careful to make it earnest.

“Oh, good.”

They disassembled camp, smoothed out the fire pit, and finally piled everything into the truck for a forty-five minute drive around the lake to a kayak rental shop.  Steve sat in the back with the boys, who seemed extremely worried about the odds of being pulled over by a cop.  Tony assured that no cop in America was going to arrest Captain America, who had the best, “Aw, gee, they changed that, too?” cover story at the ready. 

Besides: once they got underway, the youngsters embraced the sheer novelty of the experience.  The flush of warm air; the utter liberation as they drove along.

The War’s over; this is what it’s like to be alive.

“This is crazy,” Ned said, anchored to Steve’s side by one arm while Peter sat across from them, both arms slung alongside the edges of the truck.  His face was free of lines, his gaze fixed on the road ahead; he looked like a kid on the best adventure of his life, on the road with his Dad, and Steve saw the sun break over his face, literally and metaphorically, as it hit Peter, too, the realization that he was, really and truly, on a road trip with his Dad.  Maybe not his real father, or even his father’s brother, or anybody in the blood family, but the Avengers were as good as, and a euphoric howl burst out of Peter’s chest.  Ned laughed in agreement, gripping Steve’s shirt and saying, “This is the coolest thing I’ve ever done.”

“We ought to do more,” Steve said over the wind.

Tony just honked the horn twice in agreement.  Peter whooped again.

. o .

Steve was surprised how much Peter and Ned enjoyed kayaking, given how bad they were at it.

Rarely had he ever seen two people more terrible at a thing enjoy it more thoroughly.  They laughed themselves to pieces over it, throwing out instructions that proved less helpful as, inevitably, the boat sprung a leak or the would-be boarder was tipped into the lake.  Steve was surprised that Tony had selected a water-based activity for their final adventure, given his general aversion to all things aquatic—except for fishing, which still allowed him to plant both feet firmly on land—but Tony sat on the dock and watched them, peaceably avoiding all the chaos as Steve attempted, with decreasing effectiveness, to reign things back under control.

Finally, he realized that the fun for the boys was not mastering the craft but simply enjoying the morning.

After they arduously pulled the second leaking boat out of the water to swap it for a more seaworthy vessel, it was high noon.  They had just gotten underway and were barely off-shore when May Parker pulled into the lot.  “Hey, boys,” she called out, just on the edge of hearing.

“Hey, May!” Peter crowed back, sticking a paddle high into the air and almost tipping himself into the water.  May held up her telephone and Peter lowered his paddle, except he overcompensated and splashed Steve, who sighed in quiet resignation as he gave Peter’s boat a gentle nudge in the right direction.  “We’re on our way!”

“Oh, you have fun!” May called, and Peter spun the boat around again, plunging further into the lake after Ned, who had not even noticed May’s arrival.

Steve was about to shout at the boy that he should not keep a woman waiting on her errands, but May took a seat next to Tony and Steve shook his head in amusement, because Tony could charm the skin off a mule deer, never mind a pretty woman, and cycled around to make sure neither of the boys were actively drowning.

Ned was actively drowning.  “Oh, I’m coming,” Steve hollered, scooting along the lake as Ned flipped himself back over, flustered but unharmed.

“I did it,” Ned puffed, and then, flopping his paddles a little, “I did it!”

“Yeah, you did!” Peter agreed, slashing his paddle against Ned’s and almost tipping both of them with the splashing wake.

“Watch your wake,” Steve instructed, cutting across the water smoothly.  “We won’t go that far.”

It took a good while to get them to master even the very basics, and they still laughed and splashed and chattered far more than the generally reflective art of kayaking called for, but Steve supposed if the kids were enjoying themselves, they would return to it, and practice made perfect.  A win-win, he decided, turning his vessel carefully around.  He then put out his paddle to halt Peter before he could crash into his vessel and tip them both, Peter’s red-faced embarrassment doing nothing to hide his toothy grin.

“This is great,” Peter huffed.  “This is totally winning, right?”

“No,” Steve said, making Peter laugh.

“You could lie.  Just once.”

“I never lie,” Steve said, turning him around again and pointing him towards shore, giving his boat a firm nudge in the right direction.

“That’s not true,” Peter piped back, already paddling along.  “I’ve seen it.”

“You ain’t seen nothing, kid,” Steve said, but it was friendly, and Peter knew it, huffing once to himself in soft amusement, carrying on without further argument.

Steve sliced over to Ned, who was tangled in some reeds, and used his oar to help fish him out.  “Thanks,” Ned said.

Nodding, Steve said, “Just watch your step.”

“Yes, sir.”

Once the two were well underway, Steve followed.  Things were quieter on the return trip.  They seemed to have a better grip on things, and it was nice to know that, although the trip was just for fun, they would walk away with a few more basic skills under their belts.  Maybe it wasn’t the worst idea in the world to teach them stuff even on their days’ off, although Steve liked kicking up his feet and relaxing, too.  That ain’t the fella you’re with, he thought, as he spotted May and Tony on shore, sharing two glasses of lemonade.  “Now, where’d you get that?” he called out, his voice carrying well across the water.

Tony toasted him with it, in an,  I’ll explain when you get here, and Steve dutifully assisted the youngsters with their landing—crash landing, as it were, since Peter managed to almost run his vessel ashore and Ned flipped his vessel again, the finer mechanics of the kayak eluding the both of them.  May laughed brightly, unworried.  Even Tony huffed, barely hiding it around another sip of his drink.  Steve made sure neither of the boys were harmed by the incident, then hauled the boats ashore as Peter hurried over to greet his aunt, soaked and still smiling:

“Hey!  You made it!”

“You didn’t think I’d leave you here forever, did you?”

Peter all but wagged with glee as he introduced May to both Steve and Tony, who dutifully accepted their introductions, before insisting that they all get together again sometime.  “We should do this again,” Peter finally said breathlessly.  “This was fun.”

“Must’ve done it wrong,” Tony said, swigging back the last of his lemonade.

Steve rolled his eyes in gentle rebuke, but May said, “Well, I’m fine with that,” and Tony toasted with his empty glass.

Ned just sank gratefully into May’s car, bag in tow, and looked at Steve for a long moment, like he wanted to say more but wasn’t sure what to add.  Finally, he just said, “Thanks, Steve.”

“Any time, son.”

“I’m chopped liver?” Tony added, swilling his ice.

“Thank you!” Ned called, before shutting his door before an embarrassed blush could overtake him.

Peter dared to approach Tony, who was squinting deliberately into his cup, like he had another meeting to get to and was already late.  “Hey,” Peter said, forcing Tony to at least acknowledge him, an automatic tick of looking up at the sound.  “Thanks.”

Sniffing once, Tony lifted his chin deliberately, scanning the kid as though judging him, but Steve saw none of the hardness of the man who could make or break Fortune 500 companies with a single endorsement.  “You’re not bad,” he said, and Peter’s expression was heartbreakingly open, hanging onto every single goddamn word, a tape recorder playing and playing and playing.  “You’re not bad at all, kid.”  He extended a hand, then, and Peter clasped it in a firm man’s shake, not a trace of boyishness about him.

He held on exactly as long as he dared, until one millisecond more would have been Tony breaking the hold for him, and then Peter let go of him, and Steve knew what that must have cost him, was proud of it, as Peter said, “Thanks, Tony.”

Then he turned and left, without looking back, carefully sliding a hand around May’s shoulders, a warm, fuzzy greeting for the real hero of his life, the woman who had stepped into raise an ugly duckling desperate for a home.  Steve and Tony stood at a slight distance, watching the car drive off, Ned looking back at them the whole time, one hand raising in a brief wave that Steve returned with a nod.

It was only as the car rounded the bend, nearly gone, that Peter looked back, a long, lingering glance, and then they were gone.  Off on their own road again.

Tony swiveled his glass again.

“You never answered my question,” Steve pointed out, turning to him.  He still had dark bruises around his neck, down his collar, his chest, the traces of a lifelong job that would either kill him or put him permanently out of commission, because the odds of Tony Stark retiring were about as good as the sun going out, but Tony’s vigor was still there as he said:

“No?  I can’t imagine why.”  Then he said: “It’s easier to show you.”

The lemonade stand advertised drinks for a quarter, each.  “That’s a fine price,” Steve acknowledged.

“You want one?” asked the little girl behind the counter.  She couldn’t be more than seven.  The kayak rental owner watched her from his nearby chair with the attentiveness of a father: doting, yet confident that all would be well.

Nodding, Steve said, “Sure—I could always go for a cup.”  He reached into his pocket, pulled out the requisite change, and mused, “I can’t remember the last time I bought anything for a quarter.”

“You just don’t look hard enough,” Tony dismissed, already walking away.  Steve accepted his cup, and, “Thank you, mister,” with his own:

“Thank you, miss.”

“Sweet kid,” Tony reflected, as they sat on the dock together, looking out at the water.

“Lotta ‘em floatin’ around,” Steve agreed, sipping his drink.  He set it down, and Tony took a sip for himself.  Amused, Steve said, “You’re a thief, you know.”

Shaking his head, Tony said, “Sharer,” like it made a difference.  “Thieves take.  Sharers—”  Setting the glass back down, he made a flourishing hand gesture that was supposed to illuminate everything.

“Sure,” Steve said generously.

Bumping his shoulder into Steve’s, Tony stayed there.  It was nice—comfortable, in more ways than one.  Still here.  Still alive.  As Steve went for another drink, he actually disrupted Tony’s doze.  “Sorry,” he said.

“What for?” Tony grumbled, squeaking a hand over his eye, like the sun was in it.  “Just apologize for everybody’s crimes, now?  That your thing?”

“Something like,” Steve said vaguely.  He took two long swigs, then stood.  Tony made a disgruntled sound, but Steve said, “I saw a hammock up the trail.”

Blinking twice, Tony said, “What about me says hammock?”

Something, evidently—maybe being low enough on energy meant Tony would compromise his preferences enough to climb in.  Whoever had the idea to string it up in the middle of nowhere was inspired; the woodsy sounds were comforting, as was the distant water rippling on the lake.  Still, Steve thought the best sound in the world was Tony snoring against his chest.

Maybe someday he would get that arc taken care of and he wouldn’t snore, and Peter wouldn’t burn pancakes just the way Steve apparently liked them, and they all wouldn’t need each other so badly, but in the meantime—Steve liked things just the way they were.