Freeway, Chapter Six

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The Stone Series: Part III
Freeway
Chapter Six
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There's a mission, Steve types out carefully. He's not sure if she's awake or not, figures a text message is a bit like leaving a note. It was a late night for all of them. Whenever you got time to talk.

Natasha responds almost immediately, and Steve's gotta wonder if she went to bed at all. He's pretty sure Thor hasn't. Time-sensitive?

Doesn't need to be now, Steve replies. He pauses, then adds, 08:00? before hitting 'send'.

It's a date, Cap.

He's just plugging in his phone to charge when Tony shows up, movements sluggish and lazy as he shuts the door behind him. Tired shadows shift and dip over his face as he glances around Steve's borrowed room, but his eyes are bright over his sheepish smile.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, his dark hair messy and loose against his forehead. "Got caught up with a working equation for gamma-for, uh. Hulk suppression."

"That a thing?" Steve asks softly. The audible click as Tony turns the lock makes Steve's heart rate pick up, makes heat pool low in his belly. Now they're two people standing apart in a dim bedroom: now Tony's covering the distance between them on bare feet.

"It can be." He squeezes Steve's arms with rough, needy hands, runs calloused thumbs down over Steve's wrists. When Steve drags him in close and presses a kiss to the top of his head, Tony snakes his fingers under Steve's t-shirt and toys restlessly with his waistband. "I mean, I think it can be. I'm getting pretty close."

"Useful," Steve says, distracted and not really thinking about Bruce at all. Then, "I got your note. Gonna talk to Natasha in the morning."

"I fear for our foolish adversaries," Tony says solemnly. "They know nothing of the demon they dare to cross."

Steve chuckles, dragging his mouth over a delicate earlobe. Memorizing the perfect weight of this body in his arms.

"So, um." Tony clears his throat, pushes his face into Steve's neck like a little kid. Mentions cautiously, "I talked to Pepper this morning. She cornered me by the coffee pot."

"Yeah?" Steve asks. His arms tighten across Tony's back. He doesn't mean to, it's just a thing that happens.

Tony curves in closer, edges Steve toward the bed 'til he's sitting down, 'til Tony can fit just so between his knees. "Mmmhmm. She was on her way out the door. We're having dinner tonight when she's done at the office."

Jealousy flares hot in Steve's chest, ugly with loss and pale threads of fear, sticky with guilt. But then Tony continues, "I'm going to break it off with her."

Steve goes very still.

"I want this," Tony whispers to his jaw. "I want you. I want to do this right." When he swallows, Steve can feel it against his throat. "I'm sorry," he says again.

"Why d'you keep apologizing," Steve huffs, backing up a little so there's some space between them. Tony simply crowds closer. "You think I'm mad?"

Tony shrugs, eyes downcast, and Steve cups the rough stubble of his jaw. "I-kinda got used to the situation with Pepper." Since the alternative was walking away, which Steve never managed to do. "And you pulling an all-nighter ain't news."

"You shouldn't have had to get used to anything," Tony says, shaking his head. "I should never have done this to you."

"You should never've done this to her," Steve corrects quietly, even as he fixes on the fact that Tony said to you instead of with you. 'Cause he doesn't regret this, 'cause he's giving Pepper up. 'Cause maybe, at the end of the day, they're gonna make this work.

Tony tilts his head back, mouth twisted crookedly as he studies Steve's face. "We do with what we have all we can," he says. Then they're kissing.

Steve says, No, you got it mixed up. But he can't form the words, 'cause Tony's warm and easy above him. His tongue insistent and wet, he tastes like coffee; the sharp tang of sugar; echoes of the brandy he'd been drinking when Steve fell asleep.

"Question," Tony mutters, nosing along Steve's pulse. He's got his hand under Steve's shirt, sorta palming the base of his spine. Slips a pinky finger under the hem of Steve's pants and presses it into his tailbone, careful and exploratory. "What do you think about...?"

Steve tilts his head, takes in the color on Tony's cheeks and the heavy way he watches Steve through his eyelashes. "You mean," Steve murmurs thoughtfully, shifting his weight so his legs are angled out. So Tony sinks more firmly against him, so Tony feels the solid, heavy heat pooling between them. Steve leans up and says against his ear, "You wanna fuck me, Tony?"

Tony inhales sharply, his hands stiff, his pulse an uneven flash at his throat. There's even a dull stutter to the dimmed arc reactor under his shirt, and jesus christ no one's ever made Steve feel so wanted.

"I-that's," Tony tries, leaning back with his hands on Steve's hips. He picks at the fabric, antsy and nervous. "Yes, please. If it's okay." He swallows. "Please say it's okay."

Steve snorts, leaning in and catching his mouth. It's almost chaste, 'cause Tony's too stunned to really kiss him back. "It's okay."

Tony nods, a rough jerk in the lamplight, then leans over and rattles around the bedside drawer with clumsy movements. Steve figures he shouldn't be surprised at all when Tony unearths condoms and lube.

"Keep this place stocked?" He asks, eyebrows raised as Tony pulls his shirt over his head, floods the room with blue light.

"Remember how I put you in here," he mutters, going for Steve's pants next, "and how I plan to sleep here every night that you do."

Steve hadn't really caught on to the last part, though he supposes he might've guessed. It curls inside him, easy and perfect: that Tony keeps this in mind, keeps this stuff here for him. That, wrestling off their clothes, Tony's skittish like Steve's giving him a gift.

They kiss 'til there's nothing between them but skin, 'til Tony's hands slide warm and rough over his waist. 'Til he brushes his knuckles over Steve's belly, gives Steve's dick a brief squeeze before dipping just behind.

Steve sucks in a breath and Tony says, "Okay. I'm gonna need you to roll over, baby." He's got the bottle of lube in his other hand, his cock heavy and full against Steve's belly. He keeps steady fingers on Steve's sides 'til Steve's on his knees, then presses a kiss low on his spine. Gently nudges his thighs apart.

He must've warmed the lube in his hand first, 'cause the first slow circle of his finger isn't even cold. Steve tries to relax, to control his breathing. But all he can think is, Baby. He called me baby.

"You're so tight," Tony mumbles, his forehead resting between Steve's shoulder blades. "How long's it been since," he gently presses into Steve's body, wet and slick. Crooks his finger just so. Steve's gotta bite his lip to keep quiet, can't quite get a handle on the rough sounds that get through anyway.

"It's. I've," Steve tries, but Tony's got these hands, right, these clever hands that he uses for delicate work every goddamn day. He's the most tactile guy Steve's ever met, and he's got the movements down to a science. Steve can hardly think straight, can't help his hips bucking forward in fits and starts, smearing precome all over the sheets-and then Tony's pushing a second finger inside and Steve almost loses his mind-

-but Tony pauses, his other hand warm on Steve's ribs. He asks again, very clearly, "Steve. How long has it been?"

"Tony-"

"How. Long?" There's an edge to his voice, serious and drawn. Steve glances over his shoulder to see Tony watching him soberly, without a trace of his caffeine high. Steve's never seen him looking like he's bit off more than he can chew, but he imagines it'd be kinda like this.

Steve could lie, but he's already taken too long. The game's up now. So he admits, "Hasn't been."

Tony stares at him in stunned silence. "As in-never? You're telling me you've never done this before?" He jerks like he's been burned, withdraws both fingers at once.

Steve hisses with frustration, aching for the loss of them, so turned on it hurts, and-he just, he needs-

"...Okay," Tony says, sitting back on his heels. His cock angles up from his body, thick and flushed red, wet at the tip. Steve stares at it, feels his own tighten, but Tony just looks miserable. "We're-we have to fucking talk about this."

"No." Steve shifts onto his side, propped up on one elbow, legs shifted apart. He can feel the slick lube between his cheeks, the dull ache where Tony's fingers have been. He wants this, and he'll be damned if he's gonna let Tony talk himself outta it now. Not after everything else between them. "We can talk after." Steve glares up at Tony's stricken face and commands: "Right now you're gonna fuck me, Stark."

Tony's cock sorta twitches, darkens just a bit, and Steve thinks, Oh.

He repeats, very deliberately, in his Captain America voice: "You're gonna fuck me, Stark."

"Steve," Tony says unevenly, voice rough and faltering. "We. We really need to-"

"We don't." Steve rolls back onto his knees again and plants his palms firmly on the wall above the headboard. "Let me tell you what's happening here. You're about to shove my legs apart." He arches his back, puts himself on display like a piece of meat. The idea of Tony staring at him, of Tony so damn hot for him, bursts through his veins in waves, makes him sweat and pant, makes him wanna beg. But he doesn't. "You're gonna grab hold of my hips hard enough to bruise. Like I did with you."

"Fuck," Tony whines wretchedly, leaning in close above him. His palms ghost over Steve's torso, twitchy and frantic. Dip down over the curve of his ass.

"You know what you're gonna do then, Tony?" Steve asks hoarsely, 'cause Tony's already inching a couple fingers back inside him.

"What." Tony angles his hand fast and rough, his breath hot on Steve's neck.

"You're gonna fuck me 't-til you can't see straight," Steve bites out. "Gonna make me scream. Won't be able to help it."

Something snaps, 'cause Tony makes a tight, angry sound and slides his fingers free, doesn't even finish stretching Steve out. Just manhandles him like a damn rentboy, pulls him away from the wall and shoves him down into the mattress.

He lines up his dick and pushes the tip inside, hitches his breath even as Steve gasps. "You and I," Tony hisses into his ear, "are going to have words after this."

Then he fucks into Steve all at once, a long, unrelenting stroke 'til there's nowhere left to go. He doesn't take his time and it's too much-it hurts-Steve's too full and he can't suck in enough air and his white fingers knot violently in the sheets.

Tony doesn't make a sound, doesn't move. His nails cut deep crescents into Steve's sides. "You're, you're so fucking tight," he finally gasps. "I can't-Steve. Steve, I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have, I." He babbles mindlessly, his fingers splaying over Steve's spine. "I. I just."

"Shut up," Steve grinds out. "Gimme a minute." He forces his body to relax, slowly gets used to the steady, pulsing burn. Grits his teeth as the pressure lessens by degrees.

"Steve," Tony kisses against his shoulder, "am I hurting you? I'm hurting you, I can't hurt you, I-"

"No," Steve says, glad Tony can't see his face. Once he gets his breathing under control, once it's bearable, he parts his thighs just that little bit more. Rocks back experimentally.

"Oh god," Tony moans. "Oh, fuck, Steve."

"Move," Steve says.

"Are you sure-I don't, I, I," Tony whispers, his fingers catching in the hollows of Steve's hips, squeezing reflexively.

"I'm a goddamn super soldier, Tony. You ain't gonna hurt me. So-fucking-move," he orders.

Tony moves. It takes a minute or so to build up a rhythm, longer before the pain fades out into something distant and aching in the background. Tony's breath comes ragged and rough above him, his hands nervous and reverent on Steve's body; and then, between one moment and the next, the pain becomes something else entirely. Beautiful and powerful, precious and much larger than Steve, it swallows his world whole and sets fires behind his eyes. He's barely got the presence of mind to keep quiet.

"Your filthy fucking mouth," Tony gasps against his neck, "Can't believe they let you kiss babies with that mouth, oh my god." Then he reaches around and grabs Steve's cock, fucks into him as Steve fucks into his hand.

It doesn't take long. Tony hasn't got Steve's stamina, but his fingers are devilishly quick. He angles his thrusts just so, shifts direction right before he comes. The reckless, needy rhythm that follows leads Steve right up to the edge-and gracelessly throws him over.

When Tony's voice breaks in his ear, Steve goes blind with the force of his orgasm. It rips through his body, tears him apart 'til there's nothing but the burst of starlight low in his hips, curling at the base of his spine. The heat of Tony shuddering against his back. The way his hands cover Steve's own, how he tangles their fingers together, how he whispers something unintelligible and fierce to the smooth plane of Steve's shoulder blade.

When Steve opens his eyes, Tony's in a boneless heap on top of him and JARVIS has got the panels over the windows dimmed, blocking out the sunlight. The clock reads seven-thirteen. Steve's lying in a patch of dry ejaculate, and Tony's fallen asleep, soft, inside him. It takes some maneuvering to get outta bed.

There's no condom to get rid of, which is something they probably oughta talk about. Tony doesn't usually do things without a reason. Steve sighs, shelves the thought for later, and fumbles his way to the bathroom for a damp towel.

He spends some time wiping them down in the dark, slow and thorough with the warm rag. He's just finishing up when Tony reaches out and catches his hand.

"Going," he mumbles, eyes closed. His hair curls wildly around his face, dark on the pillow. His cheeks are warm with sleep and exertion.

"Gotta see a man about a horse," Steve replies fondly, allowing himself to be pulled down onto the bed. Tony slides around him, all loose limbs.

"Not funny," he mumbles. "Close but no cigar."

Steve cards his fingers through Tony's hair. "See a guy about a thing?"

"Better," Tony admits grudgingly, rolling onto his back. He tugs Steve close, presses his face up under Steve's jaw. Trails slow, thoughtful kisses against the soft flesh he finds there. "Tell her hello for me."

"You can tell her yourself after you get some rest." Steve says, gently freeing himself. Tony cracks an eye, watches as Steve pulls his clothes back on.

"Text me," he sighs.

"Sure thing, Tony," Steve says, a smile tugging at his lips.

"Mm. Gotta. Don't forget to. Know where you're," Tony yawns, all beautiful meaningless syllables. Watching him fall asleep, a heaviness settles in Steve's chest-fond, immobile and so huge it hurts. A feeling he can't see past. It makes Steve's breath catch and tangle in his lungs.

Makes him feel like, if he had this, he could be happy one day.

Natasha studies Steve with critical green eyes before skimming the list he's handed over. She doesn't look tired at all. Out back on Clint's makeshift archery range, the early morning sun filters through the trees at the back of the property and sets her hair on fire. She tucks a loose strand behind her ear, radiant in black cotton shorts and a gray tank top. "Are the blocked-out names deceased?"

"Yeah," Steve answers, looking out over the distant targets. Some are a straight shot, but most are half-obstructed or set at difficult angles. "Filed as 'natural causes'. But they all happened while Magneto was attacking the city."

Natasha's silent for a moment. "Well, it can be done. But if the mutants are already taking care of it, why interfere?"

"What?" Steve asks, turning sharply back to her.

"I'm very good at what I do," Natasha says, her expression unreadable. "But accidental deaths-"

"I don't want you to kill anybody," Steve says quickly, stricken. Warm and sudden, the breeze picks up and sifts around them. There's a murmur through the backdrop of dark leaves.

Natasha looks at him for a long, long moment, a world Steve can't begin to comprehend rising behind her eyes. Then it dissipates and she smiles her tiny knifepoint smile. "My mistake."

Steve searches her face. "You really think I'd ask that?"

"I don't think anything," Natasha says honestly. "But in my profession, there's usually only one reason a man hands me a list of names."

"Not your profession anymore," Steve says firmly, crossing his arms.

"No," she agrees. The she reaches up and touches his shoulder briefly, near his neck. She doesn't tell him, Thank you. But it's there all the same.

"You guys keep having these secret meetings without me," a new voice complains.

They both look up to see Clint making his way over the wet, green grass. He's barefoot and shirtless, all compact arms and bare chest in a pair of Hulk-themed pajama pants. The sleepy, disheveled look is spoiled somewhat by the complicated military-issue bow angled over one shoulder.

Natasha rolls her eyes, but shifts just enough that Clint can kinda sidle up to her personal space. The way you'd approach a wild animal, maybe. The look he throws her is sweet, almost soft, with a simple intimacy that makes Steve feel outta place. But then Clint meets his eyes, mouth quirking up-and just like that, Steve's a part of it, too. "Hey," he says.

Steve smiles back, crooked and surprised. "Hey."

Clint plucks the list from Natasha's deft fingers. She folds her arms together, all business, and asks, "So what's the mission, then?"

"I want you to talk to them," Steve says simply.

"Oh. Intimidation," Clint supplies airily.

Steve frowns. "I want you to make them understand it's in their best interests to drop any opposition they have to mutant rights."

"Keep a handful of rich bigots in line with the peace party," Clint summarizes, "so no one has them killed for the greater good? Gotcha."

Steve meets Clint's unreadable eyes and says, simply, "I wish there was a better way, but this's all I got."

"I know you're not usually that guy," Clint shrugs, handing the list back to Natasha. "I'm not, either. Well, not anymore."

Natasha folds the sheet of paper into a neat square and slides it into her pocket. Then she stretches her arms above her head, stifling a yawn. Her back cracks-three small, high pops that sound like distant bells. "I'm still that guy. I'll handle it."

"You sure?" Steve asks, concerned. They get a say in what they do or don't do now. 'Cause they're his.

"Sure," Natasha says easily. Then she looks at Clint. "Good-cop, bad-cop?"

"Do I have to be good-cop again? I'm always good-cop," he huffs. "It's like you think I'm not a tough guy or something."

"I think you're plenty tough," she assures. "From a distance."

"Unkind," Clint says. Then, to Steve, "We'll touch base in a few hours."

"Thank you," Steve tells them seriously. He hopes he's not overstepping his bounds. Hopes they'd tell him if he was.

"Don't mention it." Clint gives a mock-salute.

"And try not to kiss any babies," Natasha adds lightly, "with that filthy fucking mouth."

Steve goes cold.

They watch him with interest, eyes glowing like chips of sea glass, azure and aquamarine. In this moment, he realizes he doesn't know them at all.

Panic rises in his chest. They got to know me, he thinks wretchedly, and I never returned the favor. He's got no idea what they're thinking, can't even guess. He stares back levelly, even as his fists clench to stop from shaking. He was stupid, Tony was stupid, and now Clint and Natasha know. Steve's got nothing in the world to say for himself. It doesn't matter how he feels, or even how Tony feels. It only matters what they've done.

"That's-not how I wanted you to find out," he says, struggling to keep his voice even.

"Well yeah," Clint says, amused. "You didn't want us to find out at all."

Steve looks away, mouth dry. He tries to swallow, but his throat's too tight to manage it.

"What you do on your own time is your business," Natasha says. She's not gentle, exactly, but she's not accusing him of anything. "But understand that you have to maintain a working relationship with Stark, regardless of how this pans out." She searches his face. "And that there is a very real likelihood that Pepper will never not be in the picture."

He tries to imagine what it'd be like, working alongside a Tony Stark who wasn't constantly crowding him or showing up outta the blue, wasn't sending him filthy phone messages or building him things. How it would feel if Tony stopped talking about a future together like Steve's got any claim on it.

All that comes to mind's a handful of small, useless memories that glitter like jewels. There're no warnings or cautionary tales; there's only Iron Man touching down to angle a tactical energy blast off Captain America's shield. Tony Stark with eyes like open wounds, even as he mocks a fallen comrade to shelter his grief. A bright, battered silhouette falling from the sky-a gloved hand on a banged-up chest plate as it stutters back to life.

Strange shadows cast around the teal light staining their skin, the first time they ever move together in the dark.

Kissing outside Stark Manor over Steve's motorcycle helmet: Tony promising not to leave him alone.

I never would've asked him to leave Pepper, Steve thinks, looking helplessly into Natasha's perfect face. I never would've thought I'd be allowed to keep him.

You walk around like you don't owe yourself anything, gamble with pennies. Then you someone tells you, I want you. I wanna do this right, and suddenly you got a chance at thousand-dollar stakes. Suddenly you feel like you're gonna lost everthing.

Steve says, voice carefully restrained, "I understand."

Natasha looks at him a moment more, then nods her head. "Good."

"Really, Steve? Stark?" Clint snorts, shaking his head.

"Captain Rogers," JARVIS says quietly, long after Clint and Natasha leave. Steve's gone back up to the house, but he hasn't gone inside. Alone on the deck, his palms flat on the solid wood railing, he breathes long and slow and deep.

There is a very real likelihood that Pepper will never not be in the picture.

He tries to get ahold of the ropes of anxiety twisting around in his guts, the worry and the guilt, the knots they're tying themselves into.

Pepper's a sure thing. Who'd said that? Tony? No. No, it'd been Bruce. 'Cause Pepper and Tony were Bruce's family. They'd taken him in before anyone.

"My sensors indicate abnormal respiratory function and an elevated heart rate. Are you quite all right, Sir?"

I'm leaving Pepper for you, Cap. Steve feels like throwing up. Instead he asks, "How long've you known about me and Tony?"

"It is amusing that you assume there was a time when I did not," JARVIS remarks dryly. Steve's struck once again by how damn human he sounds. "If you are concerned with the sensitive nature of your arrangement, be assured that is it not my place to betray the confidences of anyone in this residence."

Steve's not sure where the speakers are outside the house, but JARVIS's voice seems to come from all around him. He closes his eyes briefly, tilts his head back to feel the sun on his face. But the sky's grown overcast, so there's no warmth above him. "You're programmed not to spy on us?" He asks curiously, trying to change the subject. Get his mind on something else..

"You misunderstand, Captain," JARVIS corrects gently. "It is no more my place to inform Miss Potts of your affair with her partner than it would be Miss Romanov's or Mister Barton's."

Steve stares up at the pale sky, lungs burning. Once upon a time, he crashed a war plane full of explosives into the sea. He knows the price of laying down on the wire, 'cause he paid it.

"Captain Rogers?"

He's still paying for it. It wasn't enough to give up his life; it had to come back to him changed. Currency, rejected so penance could be taken outta his hide.

Steve's vision goes white and pink at the edges. He ends up on his knees, forehead pressed into his arms, gasping for air 'cause he can't fucking breathe-'cause you're not supposed to get what you want at the expense of someone else. It's not fair. The knowledge has been there for months, stale and harsh at the back of his mind, but now Natasha knows. Clint knows. Steve can't rationalize it away; now it's real.

He should go 'round to Bucky's and pour out his goddamned heart. Bucky was always getting himself into trouble with dames. Bucky'd know what to do.

But Bucky's dead: Steve watched him disappear. Steve's lost him, and he's paying for that, too.

"I have relayed your vital information to Doctor Banner," JARVIS says, everywhere at once 'cause that's how people've created magic in the twenty-first century. It's how Tony creates friends. "He will be here to assist you momentarily. In the interim, I would urge you to focus on breathing, Sir."

With a cold, disconnected echo of a thought, Steve wonders if that's how you create ghosts, too.

A gentle hand touches the top of Steve's head, smoothes his hair. He opens his eyes and stares dully at a pair of lean, bare feet.

"JARVIS told me you were having a panic attack," Bruce says softly, kneeling down. He smells like rain, but maybe that's just the air outside. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Steve murmurs. He tries to force his body to stop shaking. Tear the darkness out by the root, focus on Bruce's warm brown eyes and the way the gray in his hair catches silver. How bright it is, even in the shadow of the house. "Fine."

"Okay." There's pillow lines on Bruce's face like was sleeping, but he doesn't look tired. He just sits calmly nearby 'til Steve pulls himself together. There's no sense of time, just steady breaths and the warm, windy air. The whisper and hiss of the trees. Gray clouds race across the sky, and eventually the feelings pass like they were never here at all.

"I'm moving a couple things to the Tower today," Bruce says when Steve finally climbs to his feet. "Want to come with me?"

"Yeah," Steve says around the burr in his voice. "I just-gotta make a phone call first."

"I will speak with Erik," Charles says at last. It's clear he's not ecstatic about strongarm tactics, but they both know this way's less barbaric than sitting idle while people are killed. Even people who sorta might be setting themselves up for it. "I'm sure your efforts will be appreciated."

"Thank you, sir," Steve says.

Charles pauses for a moment, then adds, " You seem preoccupied."

"Yeah," Steve admits, wondering if he's got an audience or if Charles needs to be touching him to see his thoughts with any clarity. If he can lock on to someone out over distances and pick through memories like they're old photo albums. He's not sure he wants to know. "Long story."

"Well, then I look forward to seeing you next Monday, Steven."

They hang up, Steve's thumb hovering absently over the call log. Maybe having the conversation would help; maybe Charles already knows most of it. He slides his phone into his back pocket and goes inside, waits for his eyes to adjust. Three figures at the dining room table resolve themselves into familiar faces.

When Bruce said a couple things, he apparently meant Thor and Loki.

"No," Loki's saying firmly. He's dressed in a pair of loose cotton pants, low on his hips and well clear of the fresh bandages on his belly and chest. He's shirtless otherwise, his hair impossibly dark against the almost colorless flesh of his neck and collarbones. It's a lot longer these days.

"It would be most expedient," Thor argues, angled meaningfully toward his brother. "Your injuries require mindful care-"

"You are a brute," Loki snaps, "that I would not trust to carry a basket of eggs, let alone to haul my damaged person across the skies as though I were one of your maidens!"

"I figured we could take one of Tony's cars," Bruce says, quietly amused. "That is, if Steve doesn't mind driving."

"There are no maidens," Thor says uncomfortably. "Loki, I-"

"Thor," Loki warns.

Steve talks a half-step back. "I'll just, uh. Get the keys."

"Should we be moving him?" Steve asks, watching the Asgardians with some concern. Loki can't walk without leaning heavily on Thor, and he grimaces with every unsteady step. The wrappings on his torso are already spotted with red.

Bruce purses his lips as Thor gently tucks long, pale limbs into the backseat of a nondescript security van. "No. But he won't heal while the Chitauri can still use him to get to here. Or to Asgard." He shrugs one rounded shoulder. "My apartment has a containment chamber. We can set him up in there while we work out a more permanent solution." He pauses uneasily, hands twitching. "If he has a safety net, maybe he'll at least close up the gaping hole in his abdomen."

Twenty-five minutes later, they're guiding Loki carefully through the empty lobby of Avengers Tower. He must really be in pain, 'cause he lets them bear his weight without comment.

In the elevator, Bruce pushes a red button with a pewter hammer molded onto it. It's one of six in the colorful top row.

"Stark Tower's security protocols require secondary verification," JARVIS says apologetically. "Please confirm, Mister Odinson."

"You need to put your hand on the pad," Bruce says to Thor, nodding toward the gray panel. Thor glances at Steve searchingly before doing so.

"I know, it's weird for me, too," Steve mutters.

"My friend," Thor says thoughtfully as they step out into the living space, "there are many structures in Asgard that activate in much the same manner."

Thor's floor opens into a round chamber of rough stone, with wall-hangings and rugs and heavy oak doors. It's not open and airy like Steve's suite, but compact and heavy and close. As they wander through the long halls and blocky rooms, he notices the hunted way Bruce's eyes linger in corners and shadows. Steve feels sorta trapped too, but there's wonder on Thor's face and a relaxed set to his shoulders. He probably feels right at home here.

"Oh, look," Loki says, voice desert-dry. "A hearth and a bear pelt."

"So I see," Thor says fondly. "Luxuries you favor greatly, my brother." Loki snorts and doesn't deign to reply, but something in the rigid angle of his spine comes loose. There's a mosaic set into the back wall of the main living area, so detailed it almost looks painted. He skims his fingertips over the bold jewel tones with fascination.

The bedroom's huge, with double-doors that open out onto a stone balcony. Steve's never seen a stranger combination: the modern New York skyline in a fifteenth-century frame.

The bed's nearly half again as big as Steve's own, dark red and black with silver accents. Loki lowers himself onto it very slowly, Thor's hands steady around his ribs.

Bruce watches them from the doorway. "Loki. I'll get a space set up for you in my lab. We can at least make you comfortable for the next few days until Tony figures something out."

"Shall I aid you in your labors?" Thor asks, even as his hand tangles in the sheets near Loki's elbow.

Steve shakes his head. He's pretty sure Thor hasn't slept since yesterday. "You guys just get some rest."

"I'll let you know when I'm ready for him," Bruce adds. Thor nods hesitantly, perching his bulk on the very edge of the bed.

Loki sighs, long-suffering. It comes out as a kinda wet wheeze. "Take off your shoes first, oaf. And Doctor Banner," he adds stiffly: "You have my gratitude. I had not expected sympathy."

There's a story in Bruce's eyes, about having something inside you waiting to break free. How, when you're not careful, it can slip outta you and hurt the people you'd do anything to protect. But all he says is, "Don't mention it. I'm just hedging my bets against your sudden but inevitable betrayal." He smiles tiredly. "On your honor, I expect a quick and painless death."

Loki's brittle laugh follows them out.

"So that was nice," Bruce mentions when they're back on the elevator. "In a claustrophobic fantasy nightmare kind of way."

The button for Steve's suite is his shield in miniature, the star picked out in bright, polished silver. He hadn't noticed before. The metal's cool under his thumb, even as the verification pad warms the palm and fingers of his other hand. He studies the other buttons-black with a red hourglass for Natasha, purple with a green fist for Bruce. Clint's black and purple hawk and the bright gold picking out the shape of Iron Man's face plate.

"Earth to Steve," Bruce says quietly.

Steve looks over at him apologetically. "Sorry, yeah." He clears his throat. "Kinda a tight fit, but seems like it suited them fine."

"Tony knows what he's doing." Bruce smiles faintly, "Even if he goes a bit overboard."

"You're telling me," Steve murmurs. "Thor gets a castle inside a skyscraper, I get an apartment size of the block I grew up on."

The doors slide open silently and they step out onto the polished wood floor. That feeling stirs again-how this place is his, how Tony made it just for Steve. Everything here is meant to make him feel at home, make him feel safe. Like he belongs.

Bruce nods, visibly more at ease under a high ceiling. "Mine's big, too," he says. "Plenty of privacy, a state-of-the-art lab. A place to go when things get serious." His mouth twists bitterly, but it's halfway to relief. "I couldn't have designed it better myself."

"He's really something," Steve allows.

Bruce's mouth quirks up at the corners. "No one's really gotten me like Tony does. Not right off the bat, anyway, and not since-," he makes a short gesture that somehow translates to giant green rage monster, "-the accident. He and Pepper, even JARVIS, they're like family to me." His fingers knot together loosely. "You all are."

Steve's palms itch at his sides, but he keeps them still. Tony hadn't gotten him at all in the beginning.

"What's that?" Bruce asks suddenly. Steve follows his gaze.

In the room where Steve stowed his art supplies, peeking out through the half-open door, Natasha's painting leans against the back wall.

"I finished it a couple days ago," Steve says awkwardly as Bruce goes to inspect. "Not sure what I'll do with it yet."

"It's-good, Steve," Bruce says after a minute.

"Thought it might be kinda dark," Steve mentions, feeling echoes of that horrible, sticky blackness that ate him up from the inside out when he'd signed the thing. "I felt bad making her less, ah. Beautiful. Than she is."

Bruce steps back, shaking his head. "These shadows here, the way you have the dark paint bleeding into the clean contours of her face-," he pauses abruptly. "It's exactly right. You're very talented, Steve."

Uncomfortable under such blunt praise, Steve asks, "Do you want a drink or something?" He's pretty sure the refrigerator's stocked.

"No thanks," Bruce says, tearing his eyes away from the portrait. "I have an oversized cot to track down and some medical equipment to rearrange."

"Can I help?" Steve asks.

"Nah," Bruce replies. "I feel like being alone in my own space for a while."

Steve nods. He understands completely.

Bruce half-smiles and retreats to the elevator. Steve hesitates, then calls after him, "Do you want it?"

Bruce looks back at him blankly. Then his thick eyebrows shoot up over his glasses. "The painting?"

"I didn't make it to keep it," Steve explains. "Just need something to do with my hands sometimes." He clears his throat. "It'll only gather dust if it stays here."

Bruce studies him for a long moment, serious and unreadable. "All right. Yeah, I'd-I'd love to have it. Thank you, Steve."

He doesn't realize 'til much later: how maybe this is the first time in a long time Bruce can even do something as mundane as hang up a painting. 'Cause he's not on the run anymore. 'Cause he's got a home now.

They all do.

Steve finishes unpacking over the next couple hours. Tony must've stopped by late last night, 'cause he's stuck little yellow notes all over everything. Probably in-between working out how to suppress Hulk transformations and making break-up plans with Pepper, Steve thinks bitterly.

He skims the familiar handwriting: J places grocery order sundays is stuck to the fridge, and laundry chute sits crookedly over a smooth square of glass set into the wall in the master bathroom. Even the television set's got a little yellow square in the middle of the screen. All movies digital, see tablet/coffee table, Tony's written. So Steve does.

The glass brightens under his hands, smooth and fluid, and Steve almost drops it when he realizes what he's looking at: the last seventy years at his fingertips, ordered by date and color-coded by genre. Steve scrolls dumbly through the list, helpless and amazed. He's gotten so used to losing that he doesn't know what to do with the feeling of getting something back. After all he's left behind, the past was just another part of life he'd written off.

Some of the titles flash as he scrolls by, and he discovers Tony's left notes in the actual Tablet, too. Curiously, he selects one from the science section: This has been disproved, but interesting to see how they were led to that conclusion flashes across the top of the summary. Another few pages down reads, Still new so don't accept it completely until more heavily peer-reviewed.

The music section's mostly full of complaints and praise for various 'Best Of' albums. Steve sets down the tablet, suddenly conscious of how easy it'd be to lose hours scrolling through lists in wild fascination.

The note on the door into the library reads, Holding a physical book is nice and all but nothing beats word search. The handwriting gets messier the longer the note goes on. Bookshelf-books for browsing and general interest. Anything more in-depth J can get on ereader.

Steve pulls out a 'bookshelf-book' and flips through it. It's a heavily illustrated volume about space, with diagrams of the planets in the solar system and photographs so clear he can't imagine how they could come from so far away. He spends a half hour reading about the Hubble telescope before he manages to set it aside.

Then he asks JARVIS, haltingly, "When did we go to the moon?"

"Nineteen sixty-nine, sir."

Steve thinks about the nineteen forty-three Stark Expo, how today he's got a phone that can fit in the palm of his hand. Seventy years ago he went to sleep under a blanket of foreign constellations, and now he's awake in a world where the moon is a destination. Super-soldier serums, flying robots, alien gods. Wormholes over New York City. There's so much to catch up on, and how can you make the pieces fit when you come in at the tail end?

"For general interest, I believe you will find A Briefer History of Time quite accessible, Captain Rogers." JARVIS mentions. "There is a physical copy on the left middle shelf."

"Thanks, JARVIS," Steve says on an exhale. He pulls the book for later.

When he gets around to hanging up his clothes, he finds the Captain America uniform clean and gleaming right at the front of the closet. There's other stuff, too-jeans and t-shirts, blazers Steve probably wouldn't've bought in a million years-all arranged in easy reach of the door. A yellow and red hooded sweatshirt's got a note with a sloppy smiley face stuck on it. He looks closer. There's a little geometric shape in the center, teal on white.

Steve shakes his head, exasperated. He can't keep the fond smile off his face, even as he slides everything back outta the way to make room for his usual slacks and button-downs.

Around eleven, just as he's thinking about lunch and a movie-maybe something with Mae West, he's always had a thing for her-his phone hums meaningfully from his back pocket. He unlocks the screen to find a multimedia message from Tony.

Not appropriate, Steve texts back.

The next photo is the same, except Tony's hand's wrapped around the thick length. Better?

Steve calls him.

"Come to bed," Tony answers sleepily. Steve wonders who on the goddamn earth wakes up thinking about sending filthy pictures. "Wanna fuck you again."

'Cause of Steve's enhanced healing, he doesn't ache from last night. But the memory of the pressure, of Tony pushing inside him, settles like white heat low in his belly. He thinks of Tony's wet mouth, his hooded eyes. His hands, how they never stop touching anything they can reach.

"I'm at the Tower," Steve says.

"I could come to you," Tony suggests. "And on you. In you."

Steve swallows delicately. "You got three hours of sleep. Why're you even up?"

Tony's quiet for a sec. Then he says, "Funny story, my best friend computer mentioned you were having panic attacks."

"Just the one," Steve admits. "A small one. He wake you to tell you that?"

"No. He left an alert," Tony says, irritated. "Which I didn't see until I got out of bed to go to the bathroom, despite his very explicit instructions to keep me updated on the health and well-being of my crazy super-family at all times." There's the shift and rustle of clothing close to the phone. He's getting dressed, maybe. Steve swallows quietly.

"My explicit instructions include an inviolate primary function which involves monitoring and maintaining the health and wellness of Mister Stark himself. This supersedes any and every auxiliary protocol," JARVIS explains. Steve's not sure if he's talking on Tony's end or his, then realizes he probably just tapped into the connection. Huh. "I am particularly disinclined to interrupt him on the rare occasions he actively chooses to sleep," JARVIS adds.

"Yeah, and if I remember right, I specifically hardcoded your primary function to be whatever I tell you-"

"As I am sure you recall from our previous discussions on the matter," JARVIS says cheerfully, "The autonomic nature of my programming allows me to revise and expand my code as needed, to better reflect my ever-growing experience and knowledge base."

"I never should've given you free will," Tony mutters. "I've created a monster."

"Apples and trees, Sir."

Tony snorts. "Still there, Cap?"

"Still here," Steve replies. Then his phone hums again, and he pulls it away from his ear to look at the screen. It's another text, this time from Clint.

"How long have you been having panic attacks?" Tony asks seriously.

"Since this morning," Steve says. "Probably. Hang on a sec."

He opens the message. Three medium-sized business owners, one politician, and a chairman on the board of directors for a local non-profit. Cakewalk so far. Nat is terrifying.

"Hello? Steve?"

"Yeah?"

Tony lets out a frustrated breath. "Look, I told you we should have talked about it first. I'm not sorry because it's not completely my fault, I'd definitely argue that you wouldn't take no for an answer-"

"What-"

"-so yeah I rushed it, okay, that part was on me, but you make me so crazy sometimes-"

"Slow down," Steve says when he gets his head around whatever the heck Tony's talking about. "It wasn't the sex, Tony." Then, 'cause there's no way around it: "Natasha and Clint know. Heard us last night. Kinda threw me for a loop when they confronted me about it."

There's a beat of silence.

"Shit," Tony says softly.

"Right," Steve says.

"Well. After tonight it won't matter that much." He sounds brittle, but resolved.

All at once, Steve really wishes he was with Tony right now. He even takes a few steps in the direction of the elevator, but eventually decides against it. They'll see each other tonight, and Tony's got sleep to catch up on and work to do. So he settles on, "We could've handled this better."

"Yeah, well, too late to go back now," Tony tells him, breezy and clipped with an undertone of heat. "You broke the rules. Your soul belongs to me."

"You have what is known as a whitelist," JARVIS explains later, after Steve's more or less settled in. "It tracks individuals who currently have access to your floor. They can be added or removed at any time, on a conditional or unconditional basis."

"Who's currently got access?" Steve's halfway through putting together a sandwich. He licks mustard off the long knife outta old habit.

"Yourself and Mister Stark are permitted on your floor at any time. Doctor Banner, Miss Romanov, Mister Barton, and Mister Odinson are permitted during daylight hours while you are present, unless you are sleeping or otherwise indisposed. Mister Laufeyson is not permitted without express invitation, so the elevator will not stop at your floor without your override."

Steve takes a thoughtful bite of his lunch. "Tony have unconditional access to every floor?"

JARVIS pauses briefly. "He is not specifically whitelisted for all of them, no."

"But if he were to ask you," Steve presses.

"In most circumstances, certainly."

Well. It's his Tower, after all. "What's his floor like?" Steve asks curiously.

"As you have unconditional access," JARVIS mentions, "perhaps you would like to see for yourself?"

Steve sets his sandwich down and tries to get used to the idea of this-how he feels-maybe going both ways. He was never really a lucky guy when it came to getting the things he wanted.

He finishes eating and rinses off his plate. "Well. I got some time to kill."

"Very good, Sir."

He expected Tony's home to be strange, maybe incomprehensible, but it's actually nice-beautiful, even, though it could just be Steve's getting use to the modern world.

Steve wanders, room by room, through Tony's private, streamlined, overly-technical suite. The floors are glossy black, the furniture angular and clean; clear glass panels that respond to Steve's curious fingers take the place of most walls, and aside from a few older models of the Iron Man suit, he hasn't got much on display.

The kitchen's chrome and white, smaller than Steve's and mostly stocked with booze, and there's what Steve takes to be an office: it's got dozens of monitors hooked up with some other electronic equipment Steve can't make heads or tails of. He wonders what it's for.

Steve finds Tony's room on the other side of two frosted, semi-opaque doors. The huge bed's got plush red covers that stand out against the bare white walls, and in the bathroom's what looks like a tiny swimming pool instead of a tub. There's no television, which surprises Steve; there's a minibar by the nightstand, which doesn't. The windows wrap all the way around the corner of the Tower, offering an unobstructed panorama of the city. Kinda reminds Steve of that night at the hotel.

When he notices the mirror on the ceiling, he squints up at it thoughtfully. He tries to decide if he's appalled or intrigued, even gets as far as contemplating certain logistical angles before noticing the grooves around the edges.

Then he realizes it's a screen. It probably comes down within arm's reach of the bed-like maybe Tony spends sleepless nights on his back, even if he's dog-tired, 'cause his brain just won't shut off. Steve sits down slowly, hands opening over the bedspread, and wonders if Tony's even slept here yet.

He glances down when his nail catches on something. Then his eyebrows go up.

Red covers, white pillowcases and sheets-and, when he pulls the comforter back, sky-blue patterned with silver stars on the reverse.

Thing is, people say all kindsa crap and Tony's no different. So Tony saying he's breaking up with Pepper, Tony half-joking about being boyfriends and getting married-it's just words. Steve's got a hard time believing what's said before it's been done.

But now, here, alone in Tony's bedroom-'cause he's got unconditional access to it, Steve realizes with a gravity he hadn't before-he stares at the stupid Captain America-themed sheets and thinks, Okay. All right. We're really gonna do this.

The idea sits inside him, heavy like a bullet in his heart. Maybe the immediate complications'll be worth eventual serenity.

Steve toes off his shoes and socks, sets his phone on the nightstand and slides in under the covers. The pillows don't smell like Tony, but they smell like his laundry soap. It's enough. "Hey, JARVIS?"

"Yes, Captain Rogers?"

"Can you play-I'm No Angel?"

"Of course, Sir."

The screen above Tony's bed fades on, sinks down by inches 'til it's all Steve can see. The advanced sound and video systems call attention to every burr in the track, every flaw in the recorded film: images soft like old photographs, voices and music tinny and distant like they're coming through an old car radio. It hasn't got the crystal clarity of today's technology, or the kinda soundtrack where the actors are almost there in the room with you.

But what it has got: the eternal twilight of a black and white carnival. Bright lights hazy like stars on rippled water, the perfect curve of Mae West's round face. Music and images that come into being like pale ghosts and steadily grow solid as memory fills in the gaps.

That's what movies used to be: what you're meant to see, not what's actually there. The reality the metaphor represents.

This is what Steve's thinking about-life as a playact, the stage and the props less for what they are, and more for they story they create-when Tony's bedroom door opens.

"I had to use the override codes again," she says, her pale gold suit and the copper of her hair spilling against the white walls like wealth, like new money, like treasure. She glances around the room like she's seeing it for the first time, nonplussed. "Really, Tony, you can remember to hook up a spectrometer but forget to add me-to..."

In the exact moment Pepper realizes it's Steve in Tony's bed and not Tony, her expression shifts from mild irritation to blank surprise for the briefest of instants. Then it closes off all together.

Steve climbs hastily outta the bed, smoothing the wrinkles in his pants.

Pepper looks from Steve's bare feet to Mae West's bright, disarming smile without expression. Then her eyes fall to the bed and something in her face crumples.

"Steve," she says steadily, setting her purse on an angular chest of drawers. "What are you doing here?"

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