Freeway, Chapter Two

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The Stone Series:  Part III
Freeway
Chapter Two
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The city's heavy with fog today when Steve runs. In the oppressive gloom of early morning, streetlights like distant, rubbed-out stars, he's the only man on the planet. He can't see more than a dozen yards in any direction, buildings and cars and trash cans easing into and outta his field of vision like smoke. The small handful of people he encounters are pale and abstracted, ghosts in a world where all the edges have dropped away. They're not real. They hurry on without looking at him, and even after the sun starts to stretch and bleed over the horizon, nothing comes to life.

It brings Steve to the bottom of the ocean, depthless and timeless and alone. Full darkness beneath a distant, watery circle of light that does nothing to dispel the gloom. For a handful of terrible moments, he wonders if he ever left. If he's just been dreaming this whole time.

The thought stays with him longer than it should, heavier than he can bear. Overpowering, enough that he wonders how it can't be true.

Slick with sweat and hollow in the pit of his chest, he fumbles his way into his apartment. There's a jolt of adrenaline twisting anxiously up his spine. There's the unshakable feeling of a gaping hole at his back.

There's the distinct smell of french toast and maple syrup in the air around him.

Steve looks up sharply at the man in his kitchen.

"Helped myself," Barton says over his shoulder. "Hope you don't mind." He shoots a cursory grin at Steve and turns back to the skillet. He's picked out in silhouette from the lamp above the stove, and the compact bulk of his torso and bare arms are solid and real.

Steve rubs his palm over his face, wipes the sweat from his eyes. He can already taste cinnamon, and his stomach rolls over with sharp interest. "Depends. There any for me?"

"Naturally. Get cleaned up, Cap, I can smell you from here."

Steve laughs, short and relieved. All the darkness drains outta him, and here in this time and place-watching Barton cook is like watching him shoot: precise, efficient, cocky-he feels like he can breathe.

He doesn't know why the agent's here, but it's-unexpectedly nice. Coming home to someone. Sharing a meal. A kindness he never expected. He wonders how he'd've felt if he'd been running to something, instead of away from ghosts. If that sticky black despair in his belly could've been banished sooner, could've never come at all.

After breakfast, Barton collects their plates. Waves Steve off when he tries to take over dishwashing.

"You cooked," Steve points out.

"In addition to breaking and entering," Barton reasons. His hands are quick and efficient, flashing under the water. He's quiet after that, his eyes on his work, and Steve leans back against the counter and kinda wants to ask about Natasha. If she's okay, if he's allowed to call to ask. If they're sorta friends now.

"So Professor X wants to meet with you again," Barton eventually volunteers, drying his hands. "He can't always make it into the city, guy's got a full schedule, but he says you're welcome at the Institute whenever you want."

"Decent of him," Steve says. Barton looks up.

"That's pretty ambiguous, Cap," he says, eyes keen. There are lines cut deep into his brow where they knit together. "But Fury says he'll cut your counseling sessions down to twice monthly if you don't mind making the drive."

Steve looks away, jaw firming. He wonders if it's common knowledge, how he's not-okay. That he's not handling everything as well as he should. He wonders who else knows, or if it's just SHIELD. He wonders if Tony knows.

"Steve," Barton says quietly.

Steve looks up. This close, he can pick out the faint stain of red across Barton's cheeks. There was probably a lot of sun in South America. He tries not to wonder how many people Barton killed.

"Is-how is Miss Romanov?" Steve asks.

"Banged up," he answers, his voice going soft and clipped. He's moving around the kitchen, putting things away. "A few new scars for the collection."

Steve clears his throat. "Scars?"

"She's like a roadmap, Cap, you should see her. It's nuts." Clint's got this half-smile playing on his lips, and Steve thinks, Huh.

Part of Steve unhappily tries to imagine the condition Natasha must be in, bloodied and damaged. Another part inadvertently pictures her naked. He flushes; Barton raises an eyebrow and smirks.

"So," he says, slipping his shoes back on. "I'm free all morning. Wanna go to the zoo?"

The zoo doesn't actually open 'til ten. They get there about eight, and Barton sneaks them in through an employee entrance.

Only Steve doesn't realize he's doing it at the time. Truth be told, he's kinda excited about seeing the tigers.

Steve also didn't realize Barton meant, specifically, a petting zoo.

"Hello, precious," Barton murmurs, perched on the first slat of a rickety wood fence. He's got the head of a donkey cradled in his hands. The sign says her name is Martha.

"Agent-," Steve begins, but Barton cuts him off.

"Tasha said you'd pull that crap. We have names, man. Use 'em." His face is open enough that his words don't sting. He has dimples. His fingers move in soothing circles around Martha's ears, and bent forward half-into her pen, he looks like a misbehaving kid. With very strong arms.

"Clint, then," Steve tries, and earns a clear look of approval. "So how'd you and-Natasha-meet?"

"Classified," Clint says. He hops down off the fence. "Mostly classified, anyway. She's allowed to talk about it; I'm not."

"Can you talk about," Steve pauses. He's not sure how to ask how SHIELD picks up a sniper who doesn't use a gun, puts him on an elite team to protect Earth from space aliens. "How you got into this line of work?"

"Oh, sure. When I was a kid I ran away and joined the circus."

There are goats. Baby goats with square pupils and tiny goat hooves. Steve's on his knees petting them, fascinated how they keep butting the tiny stumps of their horns into his palms. "The circus?"

"Yep." Clint's wandered over to the horse, Melvin. "Some people just aren't cut out for the regular song and dance of growing up, Cap. Especially if circumstances are such that," he trails off, seemingly distracted by Melvin whuffling into his shoulder.

Steve waits. One of the little goats nibbles on the knuckle of his thumb. It's black and brown with bits of dried alfalfa on its back. Steve is utterly charmed.

"Anyway, if you're willing and you're young, you can be made into pretty much anything. I eventually-outgrew the circus. Did a few things on my own. Got picked up by SHIELD along the way, and the rest is history."

"What was it like?" Steve asks, straightening. There's a twinge in his chest, looking at Clint and his careless affection toward the animals. It's not something Steve would've pegged. He feels it's somehow vital, though.

"Had its good parts," Clint says, implying there were maybe some awful parts. "I got to practice archery until I was better than anyone alive, so there's that."

He doesn't say it with ego, like Tony would've. It's just another fact about Clint, like the color of his eyes or the shape of his forearms. Steve isn't sure what to do with that kinda honesty, the kind that supersedes modesty.

"But I did learn a couple of things," Clint says after a while, "before I left." He wanders back over to Steve, brushing off his hands. "We had elephants, zebras, lions. Horses for the contortionist act, a couple of honest-to-god dancing bears." He smiles fondly. "Animals aren't like people, Steve. They aren't malicious. You treat them okay, they're always happy to see you."

There's a llama craning its head toward Clint, snuffling for food. Steve knows it's a llama 'cause that's what the sign says, under Mildred. Clint smiles and scratches her gently under the chin. "They don't take sides when everything goes to shit."

Steve nods, trying to follow, but all he can think about is a drawing of a trained monkey. Feeling trapped, on display. Ultimately useless.

"Nat used to take me to pet stores after missions that went south," he continues, eyes crinkled at the edges. He looks away from the llama, up at Steve. "To play with the puppies."

Steve watches, mouth dry. Thinks how Bucky used to drag him around town after his parents died, get him outside as often as he could. Not for the first time, he tries to reconcile how an assassin can be a decent sorta person.

Clint stretches his arms above his head, scanning the area. His mouth quirks. "The most important thing, though, living in a circus-" he looks over at Steve, shoving his hands into his pockets. "You throw a bunch of freak acts together, expect them to put on a show. What d'you get?"

"What?" Steve asks helplessly.

"A family," Clint grins. "Regardless of what comes after."

That's about when Security spot them.

Steve keeps to himself for the new few days. In his spare bedroom, over a fresh drop cloth, he sets up an easel and tentatively starts painting. He uses a lotta water at first, thin washes and small concentrations of pigment. Lets them dry, experiments with different levels of opacity and studies how the colors bleed together, or how they don't. It's relaxing, it doesn't have to mean anything, and it's almost pretty. It's a nice way to kill time.

Now that Steve only needs about four hours of sleep, he's hard-pressed to fill the silence.

He doesn't call Tony back, 'cause he doesn't know what to say. He does call Natasha, but her voicemail picks up. Disapprovingly, he wonders if she's already on another mission. If she's hurt somewhere, if she's still hurt from before.

Around lunchtime on Sunday, he calls Fury about Professor Xavier.

"You're penciled in for a week from tomorrow, seven a.m. sharp." He says after a few minutes. "He can manage the second and fourth Monday of every month, if you're available." As if Steve has anything else to do with his time other than wait around 'til someone needs him.

"Thank you, sir." Steve says, picking at a spot of red paint on his palm.

"How you holding up, Captain?" Fury says after a beat, and it's not that he sounds hesitant. Just that he probably feels obligated to ask, but is ultimately uninterested in the answer.

"Fine," Steve says, short and to the point 'cause he's not in the habit of wasting someone's time.

"Good, good. Seeing more of the city? Expanding your horizons?"

"...Sir?"

There's the sound of a phone ringing in the background, and what's probably Maria Hill's voice snapping a sharp command. "I've got to take this, Rogers. Keep me posted on your progress."

It's right around the time they hang up that Steve realizes: Natasha probably got Bruce to call him, to invite him over. Clint was probably under orders, too.

So he isn't surprised when, later that night, Tony knocks on his door.

Operation: Socialize Steve Rogers. It leaves a bad taste in his mouth. If he wanted to make friends, he'd damn well go out and make them.

"You don't call, you don't write," Tony says as he shoves his way into Steve's apartment. "You don't tell funny anecdotes about that time you broke into a petting zoo with fucking Legolas-"

At Steve's blank, irritated look he pauses and rolls his eyes. "Fine, fine, with fucking William Tell, who then had to tranquilize three security guards-"

Steve'd felt bad about that.

"And you don't even invite me." Tony looks around at Steve's apartment, eyebrows raised. "This place is depressing. You should spend maybe zero percent of your time here whenever you can help it." He wanders into the living room, skating his fingertips over the coffee table, tapping the casing of the old radio in the corner. A well-dressed and complicated tornado of scrutiny who keeps touching things.

"Can I help you, Tony?" Steve asks shortly, crossing his arms.

Tony leans down to study a silver picture frame that's probably older than Stark Industries. It's small and square, polished to a high gleam. Not a lick of tarnish anywhere on it. The matte window is a perfect circle, cleanly hiding edges worn ragged in the cradle of a pocket watch. Once upon a time.

"Yeah," he answers, distracted. "You can stop living here. You can live somewhere else instead. Oh, you have a peace lily." It's on the dining room table. He's looking at it speculatively, like a goddamn plant means anything at all in the world.

"There is nothing wrong with my apartment."

Tony looks at him blankly, eyebrows raised. "It killed my buzz just walking in here, Cap."

"Buzz," Steve starts, adamantly refusing to follow the tailored curve of Tony's slacks, the supple shape of his thighs. "Tony, have you been drinking?"

"Are you seriously asking me that? On a Sunday night?" He settles onto the couch, arms spread over the cushion tops. Tilts his head back, sags bonelessly like he's trying it on for size. "I feel like no one lives here. There's no mess at all. You don't even have a TV." It's like the guy doesn't even need to pause for breath, and Steve can feel offense roll over hot in his head, start to churn into true anger. "You should pack an overnight bag. Like right now. Come home with me before I kill myself."

It's not 'til he feels his nails digging into his palms that Steve realizes he's clenching his fists. "Get outta here, Tony," he bites out. He's done with this shit.

Tony looks up, lips in a fine line, eyes hard. "Oh, what, and now you're mad at me for no reason whatsoever."

"You barge in here," Steve snaps, "insult my home with every damn word comes outta your damn mouth. And you wonder why I'm mad?"

Tony stands up, looks conflicted and angry and confused. "I'll just," he starts, and Steve jerks his thumb toward the door.

"Please," Steve says. Like it's a command.

The color drains from Tony's face. Wordlessly, he goes.

Steve keeps to himself after that, spending long, solitary hours at the gym or working on his painting. On Wednesday, he goes to that same cafe Natasha introduced him to. He feels outta place without her company.

He thoroughly cleans the apartment, though there's not much needs doing. Steve's pretty regular with upkeep. He takes care of his things.

He spends some time on the internet looking at interior design websites. Just to see.

No one calls, no one drops by unexpectedly. It's almost a relief, except when Steve wonders, uneasily, how the others are doing. If everyone's okay.

He sleeps in short, dreamless bursts. Wakes up every morning feeling like he's missing something.

The next Monday, Steve leaves at five-thirty a.m. for Westchester. The interstate's pretty light on traffic, outbound, and his bike handles like a dream. The wind's cool on his face, slips through his hair like kind fingers. It's nothing like riding during the war. It's relaxing, refreshing. No detritus from bombs, no swathes of road fallen into disrepair. He doesn't have to focus on anything.

There's a place between the lightening sky and the clean blur of asphalt where he doesn't have to think about how Bruce is trapped with the other guy 'til he dies, how Bruce hates himself for it. How Steve hasn't heard anything about Thor's condition yet, if the guy's even okay. How Natasha might be injured and bleeding out someplace, how Clint is probably murdering someone from a distance in a faraway city. With the same hands that curled lovingly over the lonely heads of horses.

He pulls up to the mansion, parks his bike, and doesn't have to think about bullshit fights with Tony when all Steve wants is to get along, to stop wanting things he can't have. To strike a medium between being at Tony's throat and being at his feet. Maybe resist the urge to ruin everything by being in his arms.

End of the day, Steve's starting to not like himself much.

He meets with Charles in the study. Immediately, it's as though a shadow lifts from his mind.

But then he gets a good look at the man.

"Steven," Charles says lightly. "So nice to see you again."

Steve wants to say something in kind. Instead he blurts out, "You feeling okay, sir?"

Charles raises his eyebrows. He looks awful-rough, exhausted. Like he hasn't slept, like he's aged five years. His hands rest on his knees, loose and open, like he's willing himself to keep them from knotting together. After spending some time with Bruce, Steve recognizes this habit.

"Thank you for your concern," Charles says, hands folded on his big oaken desk. "But I assure you, I am fine."

Steve doesn't say anything, but he does look away. The room has huge windows opening to a view of lush green grass that stretches for miles. There are small, flowering trees just outside.

"How do you feel about gardening, Steven?"

Steve thinks about it. He wore durable jeans since he had the motorcycle out today, and there's a plain t-shirt on beneath his button-down.

"Let's find out," he says.

Two hours later, Steve decides he loves gardening.

The work isn't particularly difficult, but it's monotonous. Charles gives him an untilled patch of land and talks him through preparing the soil, what seeds to plant and where. Then there's fertilizer, and general instructions for pruning and weeding when the time comes. He gets into a rhythm, gets dirt under his nails and grass stains on his knees. Everything smells like earth.

Bucky's parents had a victory garden, but Steve's mother never did. It's good. Working with his hands is good.

By the time Steve realizes they haven't had a single conversation about the ice, or Being Captain America, or how lost he is in this big, new world, Charles is saying, "It was lovely of you to come, Steven. I hope to see you again in a couple of weeks."

Then Charles shakes his hand. On the ride home, Steve feels relaxed and accomplished. He feels useful, valued. The sun is warm on his head and the back of his neck, and he doesn't feel lonely at all.

When he gets home, he calls Tony. Figures it's probably time.

"Shit, shit, sorry, hang on a minute, Cap."

Steve tries not to get irritated all over again. There's some noise in the background, the heavy whirr and metallic thud of mechanized parts, and Tony saying, "Yeah, there. No, a little-fuck, Dummy, there is no possible way you're mine, I blame poor parenting, JARVIS this is on you-"

Steve sighs and counts to five.

"-regret to inform you, sir, that Dummy's functional behavior protocols are the direct result of your fondness for grain alcohol," is the distant reply.

"Don't pull that substance-abuse crap on me, Jay, we've already been down that-"

"This a bad time?" Steve finally asks, and he twists his voice into something curt. Latches on to whatever he can to drown out the affection he feels, hot in his ribs, at the sound of Tony in the place he loves best. Steve's still supposed to be mad at him, 'cause he's pushy and rude and insulting. 'Cause you can't let people get away with any of those things or they'll never turn out decent.

It's always upside-down with this man, Steve thinks. How I feel, how he feels. How we don't fit together 'til we do.

"No no no," Tony assures. "Just had to take an active hand in a routine upgrade since my children are functionally retarded. Wanna go see Wicked with me?"

"What," Steve begins, baffled.

"It happens with the kids when you drink too much," Tony explains. "Especially during the developmental stages, since-"

At a loss, Steve asks, "What's Wicked?"

There's a faint pause. Then Tony says, cautiously, "You, ah. You liked Wizard of Oz, right? It's like that. It's a musical."

Steve thinks about flying monkeys. Then he thinks about ruby slippers that can take you home, just 'cause you wish for it hard enough.

"Okay," he says.

"Good. Great!" Tony sounds relieved. There's a moment of silence, workshop background noise. Steve waits it out. Eventually Tony says, "Last week. It occurs to me that I may have gone about things the wrong way." He doesn't sound repentant, but there's a thread of anxiety in his voice. "So: would you like to come over and watch a movie with me and Bruce some time? Standing offer. Bruce likes to cook, so I can guarantee both dinner and breakfast. We can have a slumber party."

Steve washes the soil from his hands. He's holding the phone pinched between his ear and shoulder, the way he's seen people do countless times. It takes a minute to get the hang of.

Then he thinks about what Tony's saying.

"Jesus christ," Steve mutters, blowing air outta his mouth in a long, low breath as understanding finally hits. "All that song and dance for-goddamn. All you had to do was ask, Tony."

"That a yes?" His voice is hesitant. There's a faint tapping sound like nervous fingers on a countertop.

Helplessly, Steve thinks, Yes. What Steve says is, "I'll keep it in mind."

"Do that," Tony says earnestly. Tap, tap, tap. Clink, clink, clink. Steve wonders what he's even working on.

After another silence, Steve says, "All right, then. Goodbye."

"Wait, Steve," Tony says in a rush. "Are we okay? I really need to," he trails off. Clears his throat. "I just feel like it's been rough between us lately and. I'd really, really like it not to be, so if you could tell me what I did-I'm not the best at, at figuring that out-"

"For future reference," Steve replies, "telling me how awful my home is won't make me wanna visit yours. Opposite, actually."

Tony swallows. Steve can hear it. Thinks about the slow ride of his adam's apple, the stretch of his neck when his head's thrown back.

"Sorta makes you an asshole," is all he says.

"Noted," Tony replies tersely.

Three days later, Steve finds himself in Tony's living room in front of a huge television set. The movie they're supposed to be watching has to do with ghosts and vacuums, far as he can tell. But they're not really watching it.

What they're really doing is arguing.

"Do you have to be a hardass about every goddamn thing, Rogers?" Tony's not exactly shouting, but he's raised his voice by degrees.

"For chrissake, Stark, he's not an animal-"

"He's not in a cage," Tony hisses. He's got an ugly look in his eyes, one Steve recognizes: it means Tony's about to go for his throat. It means, Everything special about you came out of a bottle.

Except, for whatever reason, what Tony actually does is grab Steve's wrist, lean close like he's telling a secret. "Look, it's only a temporary solution. I know it's not ideal, but it's all we have right now."

From the couch, Bruce says, "I'm right here, guys." He sounds tired, if not especially annoyed.

The problem's that, when Steve got here, he found Bruce naked in the kitchen. Steve didn't take issue with the nudity, and he definitely doesn't take issue with Bruce. But he draws the line at keeping somebody doped up for convenience's sake.

"We're working on something else," Tony assures him, guiding him back to the loveseat by his elbow. "I promise we are." He leans down again and says, quieter, "No one should carry that much stress around. No one should be afraid in their own damn home." He turns his head, and his cheek brushes Steve's temple. "He can be himself like this. Okay?"

"Okay," Steve admits. He slowly lets go his outrage: Tony's right. Steve isn't happy about it, but Tony's probably right.

"Glad that's settled," Bruce snorts. "Can we get back to the part where I've never actually seen Ghostbusters?"

"Endeavoring to remedy, endeavoring to remedy," Tony laughs, a soft sharp sound. He restarts the movie.

Steve, as a rule, has trouble falling asleep. His body doesn't need much to start with, and even after a full, physically exhausting day, it's hard for him to find peace enough for rest. So he's not sure how it happens here, of all places.

But, next thing he knows, he's waking up to the sound of hushed voices.

"-said she'd be home in an hour or so, but she didn't mention Clint."

"They should've both been in Boston. It was a joint mission. Fury probably knows I hack their SHIELD files, but I can't see why he'd bother to plant false information."

There's a hand in Steve's hair, and someone sitting on the arm of the loveseat where Steve's been napping.

"Would she tell us," this is Bruce's voice, "if something happened to him?"

"I don't know," Tony says quietly. "Eventually. We might hear it from Fury first." Bruce is silent after that.

Steve doesn't wanna wake up, doesn't wanna know what they're talking about or if anyone's hurt. Tony's fingers move in soothing patterns through his hair, dip down over his neck, and for a moment Steve lets himself pretend.

Then he carefully sits up. Tony keeps his palm curled over Steve's shoulder, thumb resting against Steve's pulse. He says, "Rise and shine, Cap."

"How long was I out?" Steve asks, self-consciously straightening his t-shirt where it's rucked up around his waist. Tony watches with interest. In the low light of the living room, his eyes catch warm and gold.

"Half the movie," Bruce says around a yawn. "Maybe an extra fifteen minutes after the credits." He's leaning back into the couch, boneless and relaxed. His lashes are dark against his cheeks, and by the time they flutter open, Tony's hand has fallen away. Steve's suddenly colder for the loss of it.

He's about to say something like, Thanks for having me over. He's about to go home to his empty apartment, 'cause it's the right thing to do. 'Cause Steve is not a bad person, and if Tony can't keep his damn hands to himself, Steve's gotta know when to leave.

It's not any consolation, realizing Tony's as attracted to Steve's stupid body as Steve is to Tony. How Tony doesn't seem to care about who gets hurt, pursuing Steve at all.

So he means to leave. He really, truly does. But then his stomach growls, and instead he says, "Didn't someone promise me supper?"

Tony smiles, opens his mouth for some kinda snide reply that hopefully involves actual nourishment. But he doesn't get the chance to.

"If you wait around all day for him to feed you," an entirely new voice interrupts, "I'm afraid you'll probably go hungry."

Steve cranes his head around as Tony slides off the arm of the loveseat. Then Tony's taking a gorgeous redhead in his arms, willowy and smartly dressed. Steve's chest aches. They cut a perfect form.

"Hi, Tony," she says, to her boyfriend that she lives with. She's got a smile that could stop traffic. Steve can't look away from them.

"You're home early," Tony says, hands on her small waist. He looks genuinely happy to see her, but it fades somewhat. "Does that, ah. Is that a no on the Detroit enterprise?"

"It's not a yes," she says, sympathetic but brusque.

Tony's face falls, but he gestures broadly over at Steve. "That's Captain America, by the way. In my living room."

"I can see that," Pepper says, eyes shining. "Did you know? The Incredible Hulk's on your couch."

"It appears to be so," Bruce murmurs distantly.

"I just attract these amazing and talented individuals," Tony preens. "They can't get enough of me, that's why everyone has to come live in my super tower."

"Mmhmm." Miss Potts appears well-practiced at humoring him. Then she looks at Steve. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Captain Rogers."

"Ma'am," he greets, standing outta old habit. All over again, that too-big feeling settles on his shoulders like a weight. She offers her hand, so he takes it. "Pleasure's all mine."

Her soft, small fingers. Her hair glittering in the light like a new penny. The faint hint of freckles beneath her flawless makeup, and her crisp white blouse. The narrow flare of her hips beneath a black skirt.

She's breathtaking.

"What were you doing in Detroit?" Steve asks, on the off-chance it'll distract him from the beautiful woman who's engaged to the man Steve's-to the man he-

"I'm thinking about buying it," Tony explains.

"What?" Steve sputters. "Buying-Tony, that's a city, that's-"

"It's a ghost town," Pepper says to Steve. "Buildings abandoned and left to rot, or warehouses that residents burn down for sport. It has the highest crime rate in the States." She looks apologetic. "There have been talks of rebuilding, but right now no one has the time or the money to take it on as a public service project."

Tony deflates. "You don't sound terribly optimistic."

"It was a nice thought, Tony," Pepper says, and Steve wonders if she notices how his jaw goes tight. "But you can't build a Stark Tower in Detroit without personally overseeing the development. The politicians are dead in the water, the police force is impossibly outnumbered, and you can't expect your employees to brave a warzone just to go to work."

"Iron Man-" Tony says, and something crumples in Pepper's face.

Steve sorta wishes he were anywhere else.

"Iron Man is an option," she admits steadily. "But Tony Stark is in New York building Avengers Tower." She touches Tony's hand. "On the bright side, since the trip was cut short, we'll be able to spend some time together before your conference in LA."

Steve thinks about Detroit. Fixing things that are intrinsically beyond all repair. He's Captain America, after all. He could-

"-work to do in the lab, but maybe we can go that restaurant you like in Manhattan," Tony pauses, uneasy. Pepper looks bleak.

Again, Steve thinks about going home. Thinks it could be a nice evening, getting some supper and googling Detroit. Maybe make a few phone calls in the morning. He wonders if it'd be impolite to sneak out the door while Pepper and Tony are talking unhappily at each other.

Then Bruce stretches and yawns mightily. He shambles over to the three of them.

"Hi, Bruce," Pepper says, her face softening. Then she looks a bit sly. "I see we've been partaking again."

Bruce scrubs a hand through his hair. "Hi, Pepper. Did you know? Incorporeal assimilation via suction is a fascinating field of study. I'm still trying to internalize the full spectrum of practical application."

"Indeed," Pepper says fondly. "To which blend were you subjected today?"

"My dear," Bruce murmurs patiently, "that is outside the realms of this conversation."

"But what is not outside the realms of this conversation," Tony says, "is dinner."

Pepper purses her lips and turns back to Tony. "So order take-out."

"You know I hate to interact with the little people," Tony chides.

"You know I just got off a plane from Detroit," Pepper says pointedly, "after three days of exhaustive meetings. Meetings where I had to explain, carefully and repeatedly, that you want buy a city."

"I thought I'd be able to get Bruce to cook." Tony admits. "He likes to."

"I'm quite content to pass the honor on to someone else tonight," Bruce mentions. "Also, you didn't actually order groceries."

Pepper sighs. "JARVIS?"

"Yes, Miss Potts," JARVIS says promptly.

"Can you place an order with-well, whatever takeout we ordered last time," she starts, then shoots a contemplative glance at Steve. "Except twice as much."

"At once, Miss Potts," JARVIS says warmly. "And would you also like for me to place your weekly grocery order?"

"Please and thank you," she replies sweetly.

Tony wrinkles his nose. "Why does my AI like you better than me?"

"Oh, I don't know," Pepper touches her index finger to her cheek and looks heavenward. "Must be because I'm prettier than you are."

"I seem to have been programmed with a peculiar affinity for redheads," JARVIS supplies.

"Natasha's a redhead," Bruce points out.

"It is not quite the same," JARVIS says in a very dry way, "without the freckles."

Pepper blushes.

Food safely in transit, Tony spends the next thirty-five to forty minutes talking animatedly about hammers and shields. He's got his elbows on the kitchen table, his fingers pulling clean, perfect shapes outta the air and fitting them together. He uses the word penetrate a lot, which gets kinda creative since Thor's hammer didn't actually break Steve's shield. Or crack it. Or really do much more than scuff the paint.

Eventually Bruce says, "Can it with the euphemisms, he doesn't get it," and looks apologetically at Steve.

"That's what makes it so funny." With a flick of his wrist, Tony makes the images pause their back-and-forth hammer-pounding-shield animation.

"Remember that time," Bruce says serenely, "when you tricked me into living with you? Specifically the part where you neglected to inform me of the full-time babysitting position I'd be obligated to take. The one where the baby is actually an adult billionaire."

"It doesn't even make sense," Steve mutters, forehead wrinkling. He studies the still shapes. "The hammer, yeah, maybe. But it's not like there's a hole in my shield."

Bruce and Tony go quiet and look at him. Bruce eventually takes pity. "It's not really about the imagery," he says. "'Banging' and 'pounding' are both slang for 'intercourse.' Also, Tony is woefully juvenile."

"What-your buzz wear off already, bubbletoes?" Tony asks lightly, scrolling through graphs and equations in the empty air.

"Nah, whatever you've done this time around is good," Bruce says, and Steve realizes they aren't talking about sex any more. "I'd say we can stick with it."

"Noted," Tony says, tucking his visual technology back into his tablet. Every single time, Steve thinks it looks like magic. "Still sorry about the other day."

"No harm, no foul," Bruce says, smiling crookedly.

Tony looks hesitantly at Steve.

"What?" Steve asks warily, slouching a bit in his chair.

"Are you still-?"

"Forgive the intrusion, sir, but Miss Romanov has returned. I would sincerely recommend greeting her with a first-aid kit." JARVIS says.

Steve's still thinking about that, about robots and sincerity, right up 'til he actually sees Natasha.

This is how she comes to them: in her ragged SHIELD blacks with messy, filthy hair. Mud on her hands and her scuffed face. A bloody lip and a cut above her brow.

She holds herself awkwardly like she's injured, and doesn't seem to've slept or bathed in days.

Tony's face is pale. "Natasha," he says, reaching for her, and she hisses when he touches her waist.

'Cause, while she's bleeding all over from smaller cuts, there's one particularly alarming patch of darkness high on her rib cage. She's pressing a rust-colored rag against it. Once, it may've been white. Tony looks utterly lost.

Bruce touches Tony's shoulder and offers Natasha his hand. She takes it. "Thor's back in town," she says, teeth tight together as Bruce pulls gently at the blood-soaked rag, tries to get a feel for the damage. "He brought Loki."

"What?" Steve's head snaps up. He's hung back during this, unsure what to do with his hands if someone's hurt, but always ready for a fight.

"Great, that's really phenomenal news and I can't wait to see those guys." Tony says, following Natasha as Bruce leads her to one of the master bathrooms. Steve trails behind, useless and worried. "I'm glad that Thor's recovered from his nasty scrape with Magneto and that he's bringing his special snowflake nutjob brother home with him. Now that's out of the way-can we get to the part where what the hell happened to you?"

"Classified," Natasha replies dryly, and Steve presses his lips into a thin line.

"How come you're not in a hospital?" He asks, trying to keep the anger outta his voice. He doesn't do the best job.

Expressionless, Natasha shrugs. Then she winces. "Fury wants me here for the interrogation."

"Who gives a shit what-" abruptly, Tony turns around. Steve looks past him and sees that Natasha's got her suit unzipped. Her bra's soaked with blood, which is probably why Bruce is taking it off.

Steve turns away, too, red in the face.

"-wait, what do you mean, interrogation?" Tony is apparently unconcerned with partial nudity as long as it's not happening in his line of sight. "Who's being interrogated? Are they being interrogated here?"

"Stark, you know I hate repeating myself." Her voice sounds thick; there's the sound of ripping fabric, and then a quiet sigh.

"You're fine, you're good, I'm going to get this out," Bruce murmurs quietly.

"Why does Fury want Loki at my house! He already broke my tower," Tony complains.

"Bruce is here," Steve points out. He wonders if being able to follow Fury's logic is something he oughta be concerned about.

"Thor's still on our side, right?" Tony asks wearily, leaning into Steve a bit. They're roughly shoulder-to-shoulder, and Tony's got his arms crossed, cupping his elbows tightly with white fingers.

"As far as we know," Natasha says. "Fury only told me to be here and report back to him. Ow."

"Sorry, sorry," Bruce says, and something soft drops into the garbage can.

"He wants you here bad enough that he didn't let you get patched up first," Steve says, jaw working. He's gonna have words with Fury. He's really starting to take issue with not knowing where his goddamn teammates are, if they're safe.

"I'm assuming this has to do with Asgardian justice," Bruce mentions. "They were gone almost two months. If Loki hasn't been executed yet, he likely isn't going to be."

Steve thinks about Loki, outta his mind and starving for power and recognition. Thinks about Loki somber and folded in on himself. Thinks about Thor, and how he'd do anything for his brother.

"Don't think that was ever really on the table," Steve says. He can see Tony looking at him outta the corner of his eye.

"Fury instructed Thor to escort Loki here. Fury instructed me to be present at the time he makes his case, and to report back to Fury my observations and any additional information I collect," Natasha tells them. "I'm officially informing Bruce of his position as backup. Stark, Cap, ask whatever questions you want-but under no circumstance are you to provoke either of them."

There's the sound of the sink. "That should do it. If you're going to shower, just be careful where I butterflied some of your cuts. You probably don't want me stitching you up," he adds ruefully.

"Natasha," Tony asks then. He is very still. "Where's Barton?"

"If you'll excuse me," she says, in cold voice that betrays nothing, "I'm going to take a shower."

"Natasha never mentions Coulson," Steve says. Bruce has gone to his room to put his supplies away, and Pepper's in her office. "Neither does Clint."

"Wasn't he their handler or something?" Tony asks, banging around in the kitchen. Opening drawers or looking in the fridge, fiddling with things on the counter. "He seemed pretty loyal to Fury. Right-hand man and all that. And after that heart to heart we got," Tony adds, sarcastic and bitter.

Steve touches his shoulder, gently tugs him away from appliances and tableware and stills his restless hands. "I don't know," he says. "I got the impression Natasha and Coulson knew each other pretty well. Enough to talk about their hobbies, anyway," he mutters, thinking about those damned Captain America cards. The ones he never signed, near-mint with slight foxing around the edges and smeared with blood.

"I think Barton was in New Mexico with him when Thor-happened," Tony says. "Did you know? He brought me in when they were dealing with General Ross." He scratches his nose. "Even paid my exorbitant consulting fee."

Steve looks up from where Tony's drumming his fingers against his thigh. "That the guy who worked with Bruce? Before?"

"Yeah," Tony says. "I guess he has another monster, real piece of work. Not at all nice like ours." He pauses. "Fury had orders to get him on the team instead of the Hulk. So Coulson sent me to royally piss off General Douchebag, that way Fury wouldn't be disobeying a direct order when Ross inevitably refused."

Steve doesn't say anything. Eventually Tony asks, voice steady and carefully opaque, "If you knew someone was doing something stupid, and someone else ended up getting hurt. Was it your fault? For not doing more to stop them at the time?"

Tread carefully, Rogers, Steve thinks. He's not sure what Tony's actually talking about here. At length he says, "I think people make their own decisions, Tony."

"The government's been fucking with that serum of yours for decades," he sighs. "It doesn't work. They keep fucking with it and it keeps not working." He shifts slightly, and Steve suddenly realizes how close they are, alone and crowded together against a corner cabinet. "You're the only one who made it, Steve."

"I'm just," Steve says, taking a half-step back, and tries to find something, anything to say to pull himself outta this mess. Whatever else Tony is, he's got a streak of guilt in him a mile long. He'd have to, to put a nuke through a portal and come out the other end of space. To wear a suit of armor to save people instead of collecting a paycheck to kill them.

Steve knows about guilt. He wants to take Tony's palms and kiss them. Slide his hands over that tight body, work out the tension until he's loose and sweet and warm beneath Steve's hands.

The doorbell rings.

"I'll get it," Steve says, disappointed and relieved and desperately lonely. "Probably supper."

It's not supper. It's Thor and Loki.

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