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Author’s Note: Sorry I haven’t been around in a while! I promise I’m still making progress on my other works. For all your patience and support, he’s a little fluff piece I’ve been mulling over for a while. My (probably) one and only take on a 5+1 things storyline.
1
The smooth steel of the elevator doors opened without a sound and Steve Rogers took his first look at his new home.
To his quiet shock, the penthouse of the newly christened Avenger’s Tower was simple, sparsely decorated, and rather beautiful. He moved slowly into the foyer, dropping his two duffels, and observed the open, brightly lit space with awe.
Warm woods mixed gracefully with sharp silver and black in perfect harmony, and coupled with a mixture of angular framed couches with plush leather upholstery, the space felt comfortable and warm.
The soldier found himself moving to the thick glass without thought, the floor to ceiling windows displaying a skyline that was both familiar and strange. Standing near the glass, overlooking the city he used to call home, Steve felt the weight of loss settle in his chest, driving away the warmth. He was living here, but it wasn’t really his home. He didn’t have a home.
“Spangles!”
Steve turned from the window to level the intruder of his moping with a glare.
“Stark,” he replied dryly, watching the self-proclaimed genius-billionaire-playboy-philanthropist strut across the spacious living toward him.
“You’re early,” Tony Stark said, coming to stop outside of arms reach of Steve, tucking his hands into the pockets of his jeans. The soldier eyed the careful distance with a raised brow, but let it pass.
Unwilling to admit he didn’t have anywhere else to go, nor many things to pack, he merely shrugged and strode toward the kitchen. He noticed Stark sidestep him, keeping the same distance between them as he moved.
Looking for a distraction, Steve opened the slate doors of the refrigerator and peered inside.
“Where’s all the food?” he asked, frowning at the dismal contents of the fridge, then back to Stark.
The man shrugged, pulling his phone out and turning back toward the elevator.
“Stark –“ Steve called, closing the doors and frowning at the man.
“Order in if you’re hungry,” he replied lazily, raising a hand in farewell without turning around. He made it to the elevator, turned, and gave Steve an obnoxious grin as the doors closed.
Steve scoffed, turning back to the fridge, and opened it again to stare blankly at the still-empty space.
He shouldn’t be surprised, he mused, glaring darkly at the bright white shelves standing nearly naked before him. Why would a billionaire learn how to cook when he could just order food from anywhere in the city? Steve snorted. He wouldn’t put it past Stark to order food from outside the state, let alone the city, and have it delivered to his home.
Steve gave up and grabbed a water bottle, shut the fridge door, and moved back to the vast windows.
Tony Stark could build a tower in the sky, fill it with rooms, call it a house, but it wasn’t a home. Steve sighed, frowning. Even at their poorest, his mother had worked to keep fresh bread on the table and some vegetables in the fridge. That was a home. Steve turned, eyeing the wide-open space of the room with distaste now, and frowned.
This wasn’t a home. This was a billionaire condo that wanted for nothing, but was missing everything.
2
Steve jerked awake, his heart pounding in his ears and his breathing too loud in the quiet, dark room.
Shivering despite the sweat-slick shirt clutching to his chest, he pulled the sheets around his waist from where they were bunched around his feet, and sat up. With shaking fingers, he traced his bedside table for the lamp. Upon finding it, he ran his hand around the object, searching for a chain. Coming up empty, he turned to the device and searched for a switch.
He couldn’t find one. It was too dark. The water was rising around his waist, the cold piercing his skin, cutting him with its insurmountable chill.
The lights in the room came on slowly, staying dim, and Steve looked around.
“Captain Rogers, are you well?”
Steve blinked. He was in Avenger’s Tower -- perfectly safe and far from any ice. Slowly, he felt his body grow warmer, as if the temperature of the room were rising steadily.
“Captain Rogers,” the voice called again, perfectly crisp and polite. “Do you requite assistance?”
“No, no I’m fine,” he responded, remembering Jarvis’ question. He turned back to the lamp next to his bed and searched it.
“Where’s the switch?” he mumbled, frowning at the device, whose smooth rim was unhindered by any recognizable mechanism to turn it on.
“If you need light, sir,” Jarvis said slowly, as if the AI was explaining a difficult concept to a child. “You need only ask.”
Steve scowled up at the ceiling. “I don’t want to ask, I just want to turn it on by myself.”
“Asking for it to turn on would qualify as turning it on by yourself, would it not, Captain?”
Steve frowned. “No, you are turning it on,” he countered.
“If I may, it is you who instructs me to turn it on. Other than the physical mechanism of flipping a switch, you are theoretically doing the same motion.”
“But I want the physical mechanism,” Steve growled, running a hand over his eyes.
“Ah, then I cannot help you there, Captain,” the AI responded cheerfully.
“What ever happened to doing things on your own?” Steve grumbled, pushing aside the bed covers and moving to the wardrobe. He wasn’t going to be able to sleep again tonight, so he might as well get some exercise.
“Again, we disagree on what constitutes action and inaction,” Jarvis replied evenly. Steve just frowned as he pulled off his sweaty shirt.
“You do almost everything for Stark,” Steve argued, his mind’s eye recalling Tony Stark pacing the living room, giving order to his AI about grocery lists, security protocols, and schematics for some kind of repulsor upgrade -- all in one breath.
“Indeed, I am outfitted with a great many functions,” Jarvis agreed, sounding rather smug for a computer, Steve thought. “But Captain,” Jarvis continued. “How is it that I am capable of such an impressive array of feats?”
Steve halted his steps toward his bathroom, pausing to look up at the ceiling in question.
“You’re a super computer with artificial intelligence,” Steve replied, repeating Natasha’s explanation of the disembodied voice in the ceiling the first day they all moved in.
“That is correct,” Jarvis said. “I am a program, simply running on quite a complex, detailed code that was created, Captain.”
Steve frowned again.
“My code was written and designed to give me each function I am now capable of, and without that code, I am nothing.”
Steve considered this.
“Remember, Captain, that I would be nothing without my creator. I would be a shell of circuits and wires. Not dissimilar to an empty suit of armor.”
Steve started and looked up at the ceiling again in suspicion. “Armor, Jarvis?”
“Yes, Captain. Without Tony Stark, I would be empty circuits. Without Tony Stark, you would have a very large, rather heavy suit of titanium alloy. Nothing more.”
3
Growling lightly, Steve tossed his new Stark Pad across the couch, crossed his arms, and leaned back.
“Someone wrong, Steve?”
Steve turned to meet Bruce’s gaze, trying to keep the scowl off his face. Bruce’s raised brow told him he’d failed.
“I can’t take notes on that thing,” he explained, the last word ending with a growl aimed at the Stark Pad sitting innocently on the couch.
Bruce chuckled and put his book down, looking at Steve with clear amusement.
“I can’t tell where I’m pressing, and my fingers are too big for the screen,” Steve continued, embarrassment starting to overshadow his frustration. No one else had trouble with these things. Thor didn’t count – he wasn’t human.
“Ask Tony to modify it for you?” Bruce suggested, picking his book up again.
Steve grunted something unintelligible and stood, making his way out of the small den and out into the dining room.
“’Sup Cap?” Clint called from the kitchen counter. Steve turned to lift a brow at him. The man was literally perched on the counter over the coffee machine, frozen in the act of poking at it with an arrow.
“You look like someone’s given you a colonoscopy.”
Steve grimaced at the archer. “Looking for paper,” he explained vaguely, continuing his march down the hall and into an unused room that functioned as a private office.
Pulling drawers open proved fruitless, and he straightened to gaze around the room.
“Steve?”
Steve flinched at Natasha’s silent entry and turned to face the spy.
“Where can I find paper?” he asked, trying to keep his tone even.
Natasha’s brow rose. “Stark doesn’t use paper,” she said evenly, as if it explained everything. Steve frowned.
“So he doesn’t even keep a bit in the tower?” he asked, skeptical.
“Believe it or not, Stark doesn’t keep things he doesn’t need.”
Steve stared at her in disbelief. Tony Stark was a symbol of excess and wealth. He’d hardly believe the man curbed his billions to only include things he needs.
“Perhaps I’ll amend that,” she added as she sashayed out of the room silently. “He doesn’t keep things he doesn’t want.” She leveled him with a rather significant look that he didn’t understand, before disappearing back into the hall.
Natasha always seemed to understand Stark – whether to outline his erratic sleep schedule, or translate Stark’s gruff words before the man had his coffee. But Steve was dubious now.
Walking back to the couch, resigned now to use his Stark Pad, he mused that Stark just didn’t like anything that wasn’t obnoxiously advanced or stamped with his name across it. Paper just wasn’t good enough for Tony Stark, Steve thought darkly as he slumped back against the couch.
Three days later, Steve sat at the kitchen table beside Thor, guarding his eggs from the god, when the resident genius practically crawled into the kitchen.
“Hey, Tony,” Bruce greeted, eyes looking up from the stove to observe the sleep-deprived inventor.
“Mghh…” Tony replied vaguely, making it to the counter and melting into a bar stool.
“How fortuitous, Man of Iron,” Thor called, distracted from his offensive against Steve’s plate and looking over at the man. “You have arrived just in time to break your fast with us.”
“Inside voices,” Tony grumbled from the heap slumped atop the counter.
“Are you hungover, Stark?” Steve asked, frowning at the man currently draping himself across their kitchen counter. The man turned his head to give Steve a glare.
“Tony has been in his workshop,” Bruce announced before Tony could reply, flipping his omelet with finesse. “Working on a project for me. Thank you, by the way,” he added, tipping the omelet onto a plate and sliding it in front of Tony.
The genius let out a moan that sounded ridiculously indecent, and managed to sit up enough to start inhaling the food.
“OhmigodbruciebearIloveyou,” he mumbled around the food, nearly indecipherable.
“Ah yes,” Thor boomed, smiling at the pair. “Warriors bonding over shared sustenance. ‘Tis a noble and lengthy tradition.”
Bruce quirked a small grin while he loaded the frying pan with more ingredients and Tony continued shoveling food into his mouth. Comfortable silence reigned in the large kitchen until Tony finished his plate.
“That was heavenly,” he exclaimed, looking down at the plate as if he could will it to fill itself again. “But I’m afraid I don’t deserve it, Brucie bear.”
Bruce looked up at him again, giving the man a look that managed to ask, ‘Oh really?’
“Now, I’ll kill anyone who breathes a word,” he began, pointing his fork threateningly at Steve and Thor, “But I wasn’t able to fix it,” he finished, not looking at all contrite, in Steve’s opinion.
Bruce sighed. “That’s alright, I didn’t expect you to,” he said, looking glum. “It was an impossible task. Thanks for trying at least,” he finished, giving the man a small smile.
Steve watched Tony’s face fall slightly and frown, but it was gone again in a second. “I’ll keep at it,” he declared, leaning back on the stool and adopting a confident smile. “Nothing some old-fashioned Stark Stubbornness can’t solve.”
Bruce and Steve shared a snort, then looked at each other and grinned.
“An Iron will to match your armor,” Thor said, smiling happily over at Tony.
The genius rolled his eyes. “The suit isn’t made of iron,” he argued, “it’s a special combination of a titanium alloy and…”
His eyes suddenly glazed over as he halted mid-sentence.
“Tony?” Bruce asked after a full 30 seconds of silence. “What –“
“That’s it!” Tony exclaimed, eyes turning bright as he jerked up and stared at Bruce.
“I don’t –“
“I’d tried a combination, but it wasn’t able to resist heat strong enough to meld them,” he said, talking over Bruce while looking around frantically. His eyes paused on the loose-leaf paper Steve had spread out before him.
The billionaire leapt off his stool with surprising energy, and snatched up Steve’s paper and pencil, ignoring Steve’s indignant grumbling.
“Bruce, look, what if we…”
Bruce had come over, frying pan still hanging loosely in his hand, and watched as Tony began sketching frantically across the papers. Steve watched the man’s fingers fly over the page, equations spilling onto two sheets of paper now. The movement was mesmerizing.
Four pages later, and Tony had half the table covered in the most ridiculous looking equation and a drawing of a machine, his speech rapid as he explained to his fellow scientist. Steve didn’t understand a word.
“This isn’t enough…” Tony mumbled, frowning down at the table, now covered with paper. The man’s eyes came up to stare into space, a manic gleam taking up residence in his dark irises.
Tony sidestepped the table and approached the wall, holding several of the pages filled with his tiny, cramped handwriting.
“J, pull up a sketch framework,” he ordered.
The wall lit up with a soft blue light as Tony approached it, and Steve’s eyes widened as the man began drawing atop it, consulting the papers now and then.
“If we combine the two elements here,” he explained, hand moving rapidly across the large expanse of wall, Bruce’s eyes trailing his every movement. The papers had now been discarded on the floor around Tony’s feet.
Steve and Thor shared a glance of incomprehension as the two scientists plowed through Tony’s idea. The billionaire would occasionally wipe away an equation with a swipe of his hand, or use him thumb and forefinger to magnify a certain area of the schematic, which was slowly becoming more complex as he added parts to his creation. Slowly, the drawing and equations turned into what looked like a new machine for Bruce’s lab, and it suddenly hit Steve.
Tony Stark didn’t use paper. He couldn’t. Paper couldn’t keep up with his mind, it wasn’t flexible enough to adapt to his rapidly moving thoughts. Paper was 2D, and Tony Stark thinks in 3D.
Steve found himself with a sudden frightening respect for the man’s brilliance.
4
“It’s beautiful, Steve,” Natasha said quietly, her eyes transfixed on the canvas she held delicately in her hands. Steve blushed, rubbing the back of his neck absently.
“Happy Birthday,” he repeated again, giving her a small smile.
She met his grin with a bright, beaming smile – and Steve suddenly felt like he was the one getting a gift.
“I’ll have it framed,” she declared, eyes drawn again to the colors.
Steve chuckled. “If I’d know you would have like it so much, I would have made more for you,” he admitted.
“And if I’d known you could draw so well, I would have asked,” she replied, giving him a delicately raised brow.
“You could hang it in here,” Bruce suggested from the couch, eying the bare walls of the common room. “Liven up the place a bit.”
“Are we doing that, now?” Clint asked after a loud slurp of his margarita. “Because I have some great pics we could –“
“No,” Natasha said firmly, eying the archer severely.
“What?” Clint pressed, smacking his lips. “They’re colorful.” Natasha snorted before throwing a pillow at his face with deadly speed.
A hand reached out and caught the fluffy projectile before it made contact with Clint’s face, and the archer patted Thor’s massive forearm gratefully before sticking his tongue out at Natasha.
The next time Steve walked into the common room, his eyes were quickly drawn to the far wall.
Directly in the center was his brightly colored oil painting of St. Petersburg hung proudly, framed in an elegant dark wood.
~~~~~
Over the next two weeks, his painting gained companions. Bruce was the first to add to the wall, seeming to stick to the theme by hanging landscape shots he sheepishly admitted to taking during his travels.
Thor was next, deciding to part with the destination theme, and instead following the hand-made aesthetic Steve began. Thus, Steve walked into the common room on a Wednesday to have his eyes assaulted by an assorted of framed printer paper covered with splattering colors – some made by the God’s giant hand, others by what appeared to be Mjolnir stamped proudly onto the white background.
Steve clutched his side, tears spilling from his eyes as he laughed.
Clint departed from any sort of theme, and instead taped up candid photos of the team taken from random viewpoints. New ones often appeared randomly with no rhyme or reason, some less flattering than others.
“I have no bad sides, Barton,” Tony quipped, glaring at Clint, then over the archer’s shoulder at the frankly unattractive photograph of the genius sleeping with his mouth open on an unfamiliar couch.
“And how did you even get that photo?” he asked, crossing his arms and glaring suspiciously at the archer. “You don’t have access to my workshop.”
“Not through the door, no,” Clint replied, giving the man a cheeky smile.
Steve watched with amusement as the inventor tried to manhandle his way around Clint to take the picture down with, predictably, little success.
“Damn spies,” he heard Tony grumble as he admitted defeat.
~~~~~~
Over the next two weeks, someone began posting the candid photos beyond their little wall of artistic chaos. The first was a shot of Bruce wrapped around his tea mug pinned to the gleaming fridge with an “I <3 NYC” magnet Thor had bought, and it was quickly followed by one of Thor with a beaming smile on his face as he chased ducks in Central Park.
Before long, the fridge was covered with inexplicably captured shots of the team, even a few of Pepper, accompanied by hand-drawn doodles. Steve was especially proud of the quick sketch he’d drawn of Fury haranguing the team at headquarters.
“Not another one,” Bruce groaned over his box of Chinese takeout, eying the rather unflattering photo of the doctor passed out on the floor of the living room after a particularly exhausting Hulk-out.
Clint flipped him the bird as the archer scoured the double-doored fridge to find an empty space. He frowned as his efforts proved fruitless – there wasn’t a single space for another photo on the rest of the fridge.
“Time to conquer another realm of Anthony’s wondrous abode!” Thor boomed, raising his takeout box.
Tony looked up from his tablet – his own takeout abandoned to Natasha’s scavenging – to watch Clint consider the rest of the space.
“Go ahead,” he called flippantly, looking back to the schematics, “there’s nothing else I want to put up anyways – have at it, Katniss.”
Clint sent another errant finger to the now distracted genius as he prowled around the living room.
Steve paused.
The living room was open, clean, and simplistic, and though evidence of the tower’s residence were scattered about the space – Clint’s comic books, Bruce’s never-ending souvenir mugs always half-empty, Natasha’s knitted afghans tossed across the back of the couch, Mjolnir keeping hostage Steve’s New York Times on the coffee table – there weren’t any personal touches of Tony Stark.
Steve could remember the three pictures his Ma always kept: one of her and Pa on the vanity table, the solemn photo of all three of them on the unused China cabinet in the living room, and next to that, the one of him and Bucky in the mud as babes.
It wasn’t much, but those three photos came with them to each small apartment they lived in. They were on the table next to his Ma’s hospital bed when she passed.
“Where are yours?” he asked quietly, eyes still roaming the bare walls of the beautifully created penthouse floor. Where was Tony Stark’s family?
“Come again?” Bruce asked, glancing up at Steve from across the table. Steve cleared his throat and returned to his takeout.
“Nothin’” he said quickly.
Natasha watched his for a moment, eyes piercing, before continuing her attacks on Tony’s unwatched takeout.
Steve looked up again to watch Tony fiddle with his tablet. What kind of life must a man have to not want mementos of his family? Did Tony Stark keep his family photos in a dusty old box somewhere, or are they merely kept private; sitting atop gleaming surfaces of his workshop, or next to his bed?
His eyes caught on the chaotic mess of color that was the fridge – everyone’s face plastered haphazardly next to silly drawings. Maybe Tony Stark had a different definition of family.
5
The elevator ride up to the Penthouse suite was cramped, but comfortably silent. Six superheroes leaned heavily against the rails as the carriage moved to the top floor swiftly. Bruce’s head dipped slowly until it rested against Thor’s left bicep, the god looking down to grin sleepily at the mop of tangled dark hair.
Steve crossed his arms and gave up on his forced parade rest to lean slightly against the railing. He was utterly exhausted. The mission had lasted days, and he’d been on a two-day stint for SHIELD before that. Overall, he hadn’t slept well in a week, and his body ached something fierce.
The doors opened silently, but no one seemed particularly inclined to exit. Finally, taking initiative, Steve pushed off the wall and made his way into the vast living room.
Following his lead, the five other Avengers trudged out.
“I’m going to sleep for a week,” Tony announced, his voice thin and raspy, arm held protectively around his ribcage.
Steve turned to observe the man carefully, noting the still pale face and slight grimace with concern. In the months they’d been living and fighting together, he’d rarely seen Tony show signs of pain so readily – to see it now unnerved him.
“Aye, a restful slumber is well in order,” Thor grumbled in agreement, shifting his arm to support the now semi-conscious Bruce. “But first, I would see to it that my fast be broken. I am so hungry I could easily feast upon a boar!”
Clint chuckled weakly, then wobbled on his feet. Natasha balanced him carefully with a stern look.
“I want a bath,” Steve practically sighed, imagining the luxurious warm water washing away the soreness in his muscles. He straightened, suddenly excited. “I want a bath,” he repeated, more confidently now. He turned to Natasha. “May I use your bathroom?” he asked. “I don’t have a tub in mine.”
She leveled him a very stern look.
Feeling as if he had committed some social faux pas, he backtracked immediately. “Or not,” he said. “Clint?”
The archer scoffed. “Don’t have a tub,” he mumbled weakly, eyes drooping closed. “There are no tubs,” he added, his head falling onto Natasha’s shoulder.
Steve’s mind worked through Clint’s statement sluggishly before fully comprehending his words. “There isn’t a bathtub in the penthouse?” he asked, frowning, looking to Tony. The man seemed to pale even more.
“No tubs in Stark Tower,” Clint confirmed, nodding solemnly against Natasha’s shoulder. “That way, you can’t fall in,” he giggled. Natasha hushed him sharply, hoisted him higher on her shoulder, and moved in the direction of their rooms.
Steve blinked. He was so completely, utterly exhausted. He just wanted a good soak. Irrational anger surged through him.
“Of all the things,” he muttered angrily, turning to glare at Tony. “You can make talking coffee machines, super intelligent computers, and telephones the size of matchboxes,” he growled. “But you draw the line at the simple comfort of a bath? What’s wrong with you?”
Tony just stared at him, eyes wide and face paling.
His anger washed away as quickly as it had come. Steve shook his head and rubbed his eyes tiredly.
“Sorry,” he grumbled, looking up again. “Forget I said anything.”
The genius was still staring at him, but now there was a haunted look in his eye. Exhausted, Steve wasn’t willing to delve into his teammate’s issues. So he turned around, stalked off to his room, slammed the door, and fell face first onto his bed without removing a single piece of clothing. He was asleep in minutes.
After giving him a full day of rest, Fury called for Steve to come into headquarters for a follow up assignment. Though his body was technically recovered, Steve still felt unprepared, and for the first time, was rather resentful at being called into duty.
Still, like a good solider, Steve pushed forward.
Two days later and a Hydra agent interrogated with success, Steve returned to Avenger’s Tower dirty and exhausted. Again.
Pinching the bridge of his nose, he ambled out of the elevator and into his quarters. After dropped his bag and his shield in their designated shelves in his closet, Steve moved to his bathroom. And halted.
At the far end of the enormous tiled room sat a gleaming tub. Steve thought it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Slowly, he walked over to the side and ran his hand across the faucets reverently.
“Stark Tower’s first and only bathtub,” called a voice behind him. Steve spun around to see Natasha leaning casually against the door jam, lazily observing her fingernails.
“What?” he asked weakly.
Natasha watched him carefully for a moment, then pushed off the door and prowled into the room. She halted next to him, and ran a delicate finger over the rim of the gleaming new tub.
“Clint asked for a pool.”
Steve blinked sluggishly at her, unable to find the connection between his question and her response.
“What?” he asked again, the back of his mind chastising him for his fantastically eloquent response.
“Pepper wanted these asymmetrical fountains in the lobby,” Natasha pressed on, ignoring Steve’s question. The assassin smirked lightly, as if the idea of interior design was entertaining.
Steve sighed. “I don’t understand what you’re trying to say, Natasha,” he admitted, pinching the bridge of his nose again. He really just wanted to get into his new tub and sleep for days.
When he looked up again, Natasha was frowning at him with the look she generally reserved for Tony when the man returned from some stunt. Disappointment -- Steve’s mind provided him. She was disappointed in him.
“There are no bathtubs, rooftop pools, Jacuzzis, or even fountains in Stark Tower,” Natasha said quickly, her voice sharp. “This is including Tony’s private residence.”
This finally struck something for Steve. A very unusual quirk he could find no logical reason for existence. Unless it wasn’t logical.
“Tony is…scared of water?”
Natasha met his eyes again, and Steve got the distinct feeling that she was sizing him up.
“How do you feel about ice?”
Steve flinched slightly, pushing away the chills that came at the thought of icy arctic temperatures and dark water. Shaking his head to clear it, Natasha’s words sank in. Tony felt the way about water as he did about ice. He frowned.
“Afghanistan?” he asked quietly.
He had read Tony’s file – a good Captain knows all his teammate’s strengths and weaknesses. So he’d spent almost three days at SHIELD, reading through each of his team’s files. Even his own.
At the end of his three-day study, he’d learned about Clint’s deafness – a fact he still didn’t quite believe, despite having seen the man’s high tech hearing aids – and its source – one of his first missions gone wrong. He’d poured over the volumes of Thor’s family’s history, all thousand pages of Loki’s colorful romances, Thor’s exile, and Odin’s military feats.
He cringed through Natasha’s long list of missions and successes, his admiration and respect growing each minute, while also imbuing him with a solid amount of fear for his new teammate’s skills.
He’d even read with fists clenched about Bruce’s childhood. The next time he’d seen the man, he had given him a massive hug, heart breaking a little at the tense line of the doctor’s shoulders.
But for all the detail about Clint, Thor, Natasha, and Bruce, Tony Stark’s file was comparatively bare. Steve had some ideas as to how Tony had managed that, but the fact still stood that under “Kidnapping and detainment – Afghanistan (3 mo.)”, the only things listed were the relative location of the cave, number of dead bodies left behind, and the fact that the was the first reported use of Iron Man armor.
It shouldn’t have been a huge mental leap to make that there was torture done in that cave. And yet, Steve was still caught off guard.
“Water boarding?” he asked, chest tight and voice stressed.
Natasha eyed him calmly before responding with a simple nod.
“Oh,” he replied lamely. Natasha snorted.
“Get some rest, Steve,” she said, patting him lightly on the shoulder before walking out. Steve nodded a bit belatedly, his mind still stuck on horrible images of Tony being thrust into pools of water.
“Oh, and Steve?”
The man paused mid-way in taking off his uniform, turning to the door and offering an inelegant grunt in response.
“Don’t be an idiot.”
+1
After a long enough time soaking in the tub – he’d never get over how much hot water would continue to come from the tap in the future – that even his fingers pruned, Steve stumbled from his rooms in sweats and a t-shirt.
“Spangles!”
Steve looked up as Tony’s cheerful voice welcomed him as he stepped from the elevator.
“Just in time,” the genius said, gliding down the hall and grabbing Steve by the wrist. “We are going to introduce you to Star Trek – much better than Star Wars, and don’t let Clint tell you different,” he whispered conspiratorially, his fingers tightening on Steve’s wrist.
“Get the fuck out, Stark,” Clint said from his nest on the recliner. “The original Star Wars is a golden cinematic masterpiece.”
Tony succeeded in dragging Steve to the huge couch, throwing the soldier down, and lounging back on the opposite side. He tucked his feet up under him and snagged the admittedly ridiculous bowl of popcorn from the coffee table before turning to Steve.
“You’re going to love it,” he said, popping a few kernels into his mouth.
Steve watched him for a long moment, noting the ease of the man’s posture, the disarray of his hair, and the contagious smile dancing in his eyes.
“There’s a whole lot to love,” came Bruce’s voice from behind Steve. He looked up to see the doctor coming over with steaming mugs, Thor just behind him with more – an excited grin on his face. Steve thanked him quietly, picking up his mug to smell Natasha’s home-made hot chocolate wafting tantalizingly at him.
A rather indecent sounding moan came from the other side of the couch, and Steve looked up to see Tony with his nose nearly touching the creamy chocolate greatness that was Natasha’s secret recipe.
Tony looked up to grin over Steve’s shoulder as the spy herself walked in, and Steve watched the lines crinkle at the corner of Tony’s eyes as he gave a sincere thank you and smile at the woman.
Natasha lowered herself onto Steve’s end of the couch, forcing him to move closer to Tony, and the three of them settled down together.
“Lights, J,” Tony called, tucking his feet under Steve’s thigh and curling into his corner of the couch. Next to him, Natasha wiggled her own toes under his other leg before leaning an elbow on the arm of the couch.
Steve watched his two couch companies with a fond smile for a moment before turning to the screen.
As the room lit up from the glowing light of the large television, Steve could see each resting comfortable in their own little space – Thor staring avidly as the titles came up, Clint bundled in a nest he’d created on the recliner trying to look bored, and failing, and Bruce curled up against the arm of the love seat he was sharing with Thor, seemingly content with his tiny portion.
“Indeed, a whole lot to love,” Natasha whispered, the words barely audible even to Steve. He turned to look at the spy, who was watching him carefully, a wry smile tugging on her lips.
Steve chuckled softly and leaned back, surveying the room.
Here, in this huge space high in the sky above a city he’s now come to know, Steve looked around the room and realized.
Love was in abundance.
And with love like this, Steve though, watching the excitement in Thor’s face, the fondness in Bruce’s, the sly smile of Natasha’s, the quiet happiness in Clint’s, you didn’t need much else.
Tony turned just then to catch Steve’s eye. The warmth in his eyes and the soft smile on his lips felt more like hard work earned than food in the fridge, more like an automatic response than a flip of a light switch, more normal than pen across paper, more comforting than a hot bath, and more like home than any picture could describe.