Archive of Our Own ^beta

The last time Tony saw Steve – alive, thankfully – was back when the sheriff sent him to wake up Bruce in case any of Fisk's asshole associates ended up needing medical help. After Steve was done with them. Yep. That was Steve for you. A bit later, as Tony tinkered with the intricate yet unweildy device in his workshop, he realized one thing – although, coming to think of it, he surely knew it all along: Steve wasn't going to leave Timely. No matter what Tony did, no mater what they were or weren't to each other (and despite the fact Tony sometimes thought he saw something more there – they weren't anything really; Tony wasn't even sure they were friends), no matter all that, Steve wasn't going to be convinced to leave.

This little stretch of desert was what he was determined to protect, and he was going to die doing it; Tony could see it in his mind's eye very clearly. It sent a stab of hot terror through him on a regular basis. He had tried, on occasion, to explain to people that he could see what was going to happen – not through any kind of clairvoyance, obviously, but due to the laws of probability. And okay, all right, it possibly did sound like drunk ramblings of a madman. (Went raving mad and melted all his guns. Raving mad! That was what people whispered about him, and what do you know, perhaps they were right.) In any case, he could see it clear as day. Whatever course the events took, whatever the two of them did, Steve was going to stay here, and probably end up with a bullet in his brain.

Tony closed his eyes for a moment, trying to concentrate on his work. You didn't take on Roxxon like that, and live. Or Fisk. Not like that. Running headfirst into danger. Not without allies, not without a plan.

Well. Tony was an ally, of sorts. A useless one, old and soft and mostly drunk. Steve had sent him away so that he wouldn't get in the way. If he stayed on, all he was going to do was be a nuisance. The worst of it was, Steve was probably right. And so Tony was here, tinkering away. Doing the only thing he knew how. Hoping against hope to finish in time. Because, even if he wasn't a perfect ally, he did have allies of his own. Or used to.

The idea had snuck up on him at a weirdest moment, after he woke Bruce up and went behind the outhouse to throw up for a bit, for fun. And he couldn't start to explain to himself how come he never thought of this earlier – this particular amplifier thingy that maybe, just maybe might work. Well. In the last few years, he hadn't been trying all that hard to solve this particular problem. He wouldn't say he was exactly happy in Timely, but certain local elements – well, Steve – made things highly bearable on daily basis.

Steve.

Everyone in Timely, come on out!  Steve's voice rang out, and Tony looked up sharply. Still, his job was to do exactly what he was doing. This was where he could actually be useful.

The device was big and it was clunky, and shit to look at. Was it going to work? Yes, probably. But was the plan going to work as well? Tony couldn't say, but the hope was almost feverish inside him. As he slid what was essentially a glorified load-coil into place, he could feel in all of his body that somewhere out there Steve was probably getting shot right then, right at that very moment. And sure enough, there was a commotion outside. With a flood of relief, though, he heard Steve's voice again, carrying, resplendent in its anger. Obviously still very alive.

We can take back our government right now!

The device was too big to carry around. Hope hurting in his chest, Tony pressed the series of buttons. The buzz of connection rumbled in his bones as he repeated the coordinates over and over again. For the first time in years, though, there was a chance that the signal might reach far enough. Might.

He left the signal on, like a beacon, and let the recorded message play on repeat. Then he grabbed his gun, because yes, there was one left, one that he hadn't melted, just in case, just in case...

Come out and demand to live free!

Oh, for fuck's sake. Steve was making an honest-to-god speech to the masses, and when you are making a speech, you tend to get carried away. You don't exactly notice what's going on around you. Just one moment of inattention could be one too many.

 Come out and say no to the water stealing!

Tony ran. Stumbled. Never run with scissors, he thought inconsequentially. Never run with guns. His head was still slightly muddled with whiskey, enough for him not to really feel the nasty hit of his knee against the stone. It took him a moment to get the fucking leg working  properly again.

Take back Timely with me! Steve's voice echoed, and Tony could now see him, and he was vaguely aware of the crowd of women around him.

"Stark, what are you doing?" Carol's voice, but Tony couldn't afford to turn his head, because he could feel the moment come together, he could feel the finger of fate extend itself and point.

Don't be afraid to claim the streets...

Tony zoomed in on a guy on his knees, a target painted on his forehead. He saw him take something out of his sleeve; it was the same doodad Tony used, but this man didn't just want a drink, didn't just use it to carry around a concealed flask in his sleeve. The man half-turned around, opened his mouth to make an inane and no doubt malicious comment before he...

Tony raised his gun, and, from too far away, he shot.

And he missed.

Missed.

Was it the drink? The distance? Did his hand tremble when he saw the man point the gun at Steve's back? His heart sure as hell did tremble.

Still, at the sound of gunshot, Steve was already diving behind a barrel, and the man on his knees missed as well.

And then, for a moment, the sun disappeared from the sky and they were cast in a giant shadow and everything in the world changed.

"Every person down there, drop your guns!" Like in a dream, the bodiless voice echoed through the town, and as Tony turned his head, he saw the ship – a firefly class transporter – come into view from behind a stone formation outside the town like a second sun, big and malevolent and utterly beautiful. "Get down on your knees, put your hands behind your head, or I will blow a new crater in this little moon!"

Despite the distortion over the speakers, Nick Fury's voice was unmistakable, as it boomed over their heads, over the houses and fields, over horses and pigs and people alike; and then, as everyone around him started dropping to the ground, arms raised high in the air (because people can't follow simple instructions), hands protectively covering eyes and, in only a few cases, hands behind heads, Tony watched naked fear conquer the faces around him. He found himself on his feet, however, whooping and dancing, dancing and whooping in the dirt, because it worked, it worked, it worked.

Now, this was a big old ruse and it could have easily failed to have the desired effect; anywhere else, it would have. Tony didn't worry, though. None of these people have ever seen a spaceship, not even Fisk. How would they know if it had guns or not. Because firefly class ships were simple freighters, as dangerous as an old, docile ploughing mare.

But then, even before the ship quite touched down, the ramp opened, and a stream of people, armed and ready, started swarming to the ground. His heart leaped at the familiarity of shapes in their mismatched body armor, Coulson and May and Quake, Hill and Clint, and also others. And there was Fury in a long black coat, standing at the ramp, a megaphone in his hand, cool as if he's just stepped out of a bath, and yet managing to be intimidating somehow. The man would probably be intimidating in his bathrobe. "Nobody move!" he shouted. He didn't sound particularly invested in it, but then again, he didn't have to be.

Tony glanced towards Steve, still behind his barrel, and Steve was still holding his gun at the ready, intent on something, aiming. Alive, so perfectly alive. Everything else lost importance in comparison to that. Tony laughed out, waved his hand recklessly. "Relax," he  almost sang. "These are my people!"

"Stark!" Fury barked, and it took Tony some effort not to try and stand a little straighter. "Why the hell did it take you this long to make contact? We thought you were dead!"

Steve shot his gun.

For a moment, in the reining silence that followed, nothing moved. And then the guns of Tony's old friends, like in a nightmare, turned on Steve, and everyone was yelling at the sheriff to get down, get down, get down. Tony dived in front of him, yelling himself, because you never know when a gun might go off, when a finger might jerk involuntarily, and a bullet end up in a wrong, blond head, and make Tony's world narrow down to a single bullet hole, forever.

He stood there, in front of Steve's barrel, hands held high, palms out, and took in Coulson and Melinda May and Daisy and Maria Hill. They looked older, and no wonder, and a little sheepish perhaps. They looked safe, also, and familiar, and Tony would have enjoyed the sight of them a hell of a lot more if only they stopped pointing guns at Steve.

"Whoa, whoa, stand down, stand the fuck down" he heard himself rattle off, as if from a distance. "What is this, the point-a-gun-at-Steve-Rogers-day? He's all right. Him and him and him and her," Tony was pointing out Fisk and his goons, still on their knees or cowering on the ground, "now, if you could take them into custody, that would be fabulous." And then he pointed at the place where the one they called Grizzly had knelt until very recently. Now he was sprawled on the ground, with a trickle of blood down his temple, his hand still clutching the gun. Tony looked back at Steve, whose eyebrow twitched in response.

"He was going to shoot Stark," Steve told Coulson, almost off-handedly, as he got to his feet dusting himself off. And that was Steve for you, one minute he was shouting calls to justice and insurgence, all passion and fire, the next minute he was cool as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening at all.

Steve. Looking out for Tony, as always. But, then again, Steve was simply like that; he'd try to protect everyone, anyone. That was one of the reasons Tony just couldn't possibly look away whenever he was in the room. That, and the way his hair fell into his eyes; but just a little bit. Really. You'd have to be crazy to think this was about looks.

Tony gazed at him, just for a moment, and their eyes met. Steve's face was smudged, his white shirt yellowish-red with dust, and he sported an array of scratches and what was going to turn into bruises – later – around his face and forearms. And yet – blessedly unharmed in any major way. Relief.  For a millionth time he wished Steve was his to touch and hug and fuss over. To put his arms around his torso so that no one saw how badly his hands were shaking. His.

Still, as Steve's eyes sank into his own, there was a moment of peace, of quiet understanding – both of them were there, miraculously all right, and the day wasn't a disaster after all, and they didn't really need to talk to convey what they were both thinking – we're okay. Everything was, for the moment, okay. The release of tension threatened to turn Tony's knees into jelly; hell, maybe Steve would even be in the mood to help him walk if he played this right?

As Coulson and the others rounded up Fisk and his cronies, Fury strode over.

"Fifteen years, Stark? It took you fifteen years to make contact?" he was saying, and at that very moment, Tony was going through the motions of "Steve, meet Nick Fury, I told you about him," and "Fury, this is sheriff Steve Rogers," and, simultaneously, Steve was saying "Where exactly are they taking them, Tony? Where are they taking them?" These words penetrated the haze of relief that was taking over his mind. Oh, of course Steve was now worried someone was going to treat the bad guys unjustly.

"Carol, Natasha," Tony yelled. "How do you feel about going with them, seeing about their civil liberties being protected and stuff?"

"Not particularly enthusiastic," Natasha shot back coolly, but she went, and Carol said "Yes. There has been enough violence already. It's enough."

Fury rolled his eyes but waved okay to his team, who rounded up the prisoners into a nearby building.

Tony hooked one hand under Steve's arm (Steve acted all stiff and surprised, as usual) and the other under Fury's (who looked mildly outraged). "You and you and me," Tony said resolutely. "Saloon. Drinks. Now."

***

Steve hated the fact that Tony drank so much, but after a day like this, who wouldn't need a drink or two? Everything in moderation, like his mom used to say. He was nursing his whiskey as leaden tiredness slowly crawled along his limbs, conquering new territory without much resistance. They'd bought a bottle and were now seated at one of the tables. He was watching Tony's face, alive, animated, aglow with curiosity as he tried to question the newcomer, Fury, who was in turn questioning him.

Tony had indeed told Steve about all of this – once, when he was very drunk – and even though Steve believed him, wanted to believe him, it seemed too fanciful: that story, how his ship was attacked, and how Tony propelled himself in a shuttle and crashed on this... little moon, as Fury called it, even though it didn't seem quite so little to Steve. It was a planet, really. The desert itself was huge, to start with, let alone everything else. But, if you traveled through space, your idea of big and small would be affected by that, surely. And this Fury was Tony's – boss? Commanding officer? Steve couldn't be sure; a good part of that story had been muttered and muffled and only semi-comprehensible. I was a consultant and an industrialist, and then, when we deflected, I was a mechanic. They all, as far as Steve understood, used to belong to this government agency called SHIELD, but when they discovered  the sort of thing their agency had been doing, experimenting on people, they changed sides in this huge interplanetary war, and very soon after that, Tony's ship got shot down and he ended up here.

Here, in this backwater, as Tony put it; Steve had bristled at that a bit. And not one ship landed here in 15 years. Not one. And I of course don't have the technology to build myself a fucking ship out of nothing.

"So you live here as a, what, a crazy inventor now?" Fury was saying.

Tony shrugged, as if that was of no consequence whatsoever. "I made a fortune – once again – on this planet; then I lost a fortune; now I'm in Timely." He never mentioned anything about his change of heart, about melting down his guns, nothing. He could go on and on about that to Steve, once he got into his cups, but now, not a word. Perhaps it didn't matter to him as much as Steve thought it did, after all. Perhaps nothing here did. Tony's real life had come calling.

"This," Tony now said, pointing at Fury's black leather coat, as if wanting to change the subject, "used to be brown."

"That's done and over with, Stark," Fury said curtly. "We lost. I take it you heard?"

There wasn't any way Tony could have, though; that much Steve knew.

Tony didn't even blink at that. "No, but I figured. And seeing you flying over in that piece of junk made it clear enough. And I'd told you that war couldn't work."

"You told me it was not how wars worked," Fury corrected gruffly. "And I never asked for your pearls of wisdom, just your skills as a mechanic."

They were brusque with each other, but Steve could see an underlying affection there – easily spotted in Tony, because he knew Tony well, and he knew Tony had bucketfuls of secret affection for nearly everyone he chose to have in his life. But Fury, too; Steve could see he cared about Tony, Steve just wasn't sure Tony saw it. He cared, and he was pissed at Tony for not making contact earlier, pissed that Tony let him believe him dead for so long.

"In any case." Tony poured himself another drink. "Can't say I'm sorry to hear it's over. Shitty things, wars, in general."

"Perhaps some wars need to be fought," Steve said quietly, and Tony's eyes flashed at him. Not angry, but not not.

"And perhaps some are over before they begin," he countered.

Fury was frowning at Steve slightly as if he'd forgotten Steve was there. And Steve wasn't sure why he'd even said anything. Maybe he just wanted Tony to look at him for a moment. He wasn't a part of this conversation. How could he be? He was just a small town sheriff. When the civil war (the one after which Tony ended up melting down his guns) ended, Steve had still been too young. A space war he couldn't even begin to imagine. For him, a battle was what happened today; a town as a battlefield; two or three casualties. He didn't deal in wars and armies and legions of the dead.

These are my people, Tony had said, and surely they were. The townfolks had already dubbed them 'people from the sky'.

"I should be going," Steve said, as amiably as he could, raising to his feet. "We should appoint a new judge, and there's a lot of work to be done."

"You sit down, Sheriff," Tony snapped, pinning him down with that gaze, and honestly –  for that gaze Steve would have done anything. This was their game, precisely. Steve called Tony 'Stark'; Toy called him 'Sheriff'. Move along, citizen, nothing to see here. And on the surface, that was that; just two guys that weren't particularly close, and even found each other irritating most of the time. It looked like that to Steve sometimes, too.

Yet, other times, when he tried to sum up their relationship, he got a different result. He, himself, was guilty of always standing too close to Tony, leaning on the bar right next to him as he delivered a lecture on the evils of drink (he meant it, too), invading his personal space; and Tony never moved away, never withdrew. He invaded Steve's space right back. Elbows on the bar, unabashedly touching, feet under the table; sometimes, Steve suspected, Tony pretended he was far drunker than he was, so that Steve would have to help him home; sometimes Tony made a ruckus on purpose (Steve suspected) in front of the Sheriff's office so that Steve would have to come out and take him into custody for the night. Steve was happy to – and then they would talk and talk, and suddenly Tony would seem far less rowdy than five minutes before. And there was that one time, when Tony genuinely was black-out drunk, and Steve had to put him to bed, and Tony held Steve's hand so hard and just wouldn't let go, and so Steve sat with him until Tony fell asleep, still holding his hand. The next day, neither mentioned it. Neither of them ever mentioned anything of the sort.

And now, here, Tony seemed more distant with every word, every sentence made him even less Steve's than before. This was Tony's real life, his ticket out of here, and he was going to go, and Steve was going to stay, and that was going to be that.

Still. You sit down, Sheriff – sharply – and then Tony leaned his knees into Steve's under the table, and Steve's own legs straight out refused to obey. He wouldn't have been able to stand up at that moment even if he wanted to. (He didn't.)

"So, what do you do now?" Tony asked Fury, never moving his knee away from Steve's under the table, and for a millionth time Steve wondered if this was all a joke to Tony, a way to push Steve's buttons. He... hoped not.

"None of your business unless you join," Fury shot back. "And probably not even then."

"Okay, tentatively count me in," Tony said. "Now spill."

Steve half-listened, and thought: the way Tony ran to save him today, the way he leapt in front of Steve to protect him, that was no joke. It was stupid and reckless – and really brave too – but no joke. And now he wanted Steve to stay. Maybe he wanted to spend more time with him while he still could? Maybe this was his way of saying goodbye?

"We're trying to stay in the same biz as before," Fury explained curtly, "but on a lower budget and technically outside the law."

According to what Tony had told him the same biz as before was dealing with corruption, with criminals protected by legal structures, with what a normal police couldn't or wouldn't deal with.

Oh, Tony commented now. Vigilantism. Lovely. And Fury said, Oh, please, sue me. And Tony asked, Are you outlaws, then? and Fury said, Only if they catch us, bitch. And Steve put two and two together and remembered Tony's comment about how the ship is a freighter, not any kind of fighting ship, and so he asked: And the low budget you get, it's from smuggling? And Fury raised an eyebrow at him and almost smiled, as if to say hey, you're not so stupid, then.

And while Tony explained how, for years and years, he couldn't make contact and today he happened to think of how to make an amplifier for his comm. that really worked, and as Fury related how they had been relatively close and how they caught the signal and just shot over here with full 5.5G , whatever that meant – Tony's knees disappeared away from Steve's. Still, that you sit down, Sheriff burned pleasantly hot in Steve's belly, and he now extended the whole length of his legs under the table, touching Tony's shoe with his own, and Tony promptly hooked an ankle over Steve's. This was even more liberty then they usually took with touching each other. It was not a time for subtlety. And Steve thought this is it, then. He's leaving.

Even later, Fury rose and said he had some work to do, and as soon as he was two yards away, Tony turned to Steve and in what seemed like a completely sober voice, said: "Walk me home?" Which he'd never ever asked so openly before.  "I don't think I can stand up straight."

And Steve nodded. "All right, Stark." Heat and cold mixed in his belly because this was most probably a goodbye, forever, and what if something finally happened between them because of it, and oh, what if this was goodbye?

***

All the tiredness fled Tony's joints when Steve's hand encircled his waist; Tony's arm was thrown over Steve's shoulder as Steve effectively half-carried him, even though Tony never needed help walking less than at that moment. His feet felt light as a hummingbird's wings. No one would have thought he spent the day drinking and shooting and raising his old life from the dead as if he were a magician. A stab of nausea would spoil the fest now and again – an awareness of what could have happened if Tony ha been just a second too late, if Fury and his crew had been just a light minute too far. Still, it only emphasized the fact that everything had worked out, somehow, and they were gloriously alive, and Steve's arm around his waist was warm and solid and fit there perfectly, as if it was meant by the 'verse to be there at all times.

Tony wasn't happy, though. To be happy, he'd have to forget the fact that this was, technically, the last time they were together like this. Their last night. He wasn't going to throw himself at Steve, but hell, he wasn't far from it. Together, they were a Molotov cocktail made of mixed signals. Did Steve really want anything with Tony beyond, well, endless talking and gratuitous touching? Yes, probably. Was Steve aware of any of it? Tony wasn't so sure. And even if he was aware, did he actually want to give in to the impulse? Tony liked him too much – no, to hell with that: he loved him too much to pressure him. No, not even now that they had no time left.

Loved?

Yes, Tony thought, with a certainty brought by the fact their time together will, from now on, be measured in hours, not days and years and even decades. Yes, Tony loved Steve, desperately and hopelessly and with resignation. Because, he was perfectly sure of one thing: Steve didn't love him back. Why would he? Liked him – yes, Tony was pretty sure of that once he looked at it rationally, removing his own insecurities from the picture. But Steve liked nearly everyone. Did he want Tony, then? Yes, Tony thought so, but Steve had to figure that one on his own. Sadly, though, the two didn't equal love, and why was the fact breaking Tony's heart all over again? He was supposed to be resigned to that. No, he would have enough time to ruminate on that during the long, boring hours in Fury's firefly freighter. Because Tony couldn't stay here, now that he had a chance to leave. He couldn't stay and kill himself with whiskey and have his heart cracked a little more every day.

If Steve asked you to stay, a voice in his head asked him, with unnecessary cruelty, would you? Even thinking about it was pointless. Steve would never ask him to stay – in any capacity relevant to him – just like he would never leave Timely and come with Tony.

Tony's steps were heavier, now, but Steve's hip was pressed so close to his own, and Steve's head was inclined so that it was touching Tony's as they walked, and really, it should all have been more awkward than it really was.

"Yes," Tony whispered in answer to his own thoughts, "I would." The abrupt realization almost made him stumble.

But, since that wasn't going to happen, they could still have this one last night together, if Steve figured out what he wanted.

"Sorry?" Steve said. "What did you say?" His voice was a little strange, and a little quivery, and Tony very much wanted to kiss his face at that moment: not just the mouth, but the nose and the cheekbones and the eyes (those perfect, stubborn eyes!) and that brow of his that was always covered in floppy hair. Yes, he wanted to sleep with Steve. He also wanted to hold him in his arms all night, and to talk to him for hours, and to play with his hair, and to spend a day reading a book, head pillowed on Steve's stomach. Love, he thought, makes you utterly ridiculous. And it hurts like a branding iron, to boot.

"Nothing at all, buddy," Tony said cheerfully. "Nothing at all."

***

Tony's presence made Steve tremble with excitement. Usually, when the man was drunk, he would get floppy and clingy; he would happily fall asleep on Steve (not that Steve minded at all). But  now his body was taut, charged under Steve's hands, he could almost feel it vibrate.

All of Steve's nerves sang in tune with it. He was permeated by a super-awareness of every inch where their bodies touched. He could barely stop his thumb from drawing frantic little circles on Tony's waist, where he pretended to hold him up.

Because it was pretense. It had to be. Steve thought they both knew what they were doing, where they were going. So this show was meant for... whom, exactly? For Timely? Or for each other?

I know, and I think he knows, and I think I know that he knows, and why can't I still say anything to him regarding that? They got to Tony's porch now. Do you need any help getting to bed, Steve could ask, and Tony might answer, Your help regarding a bed is always appreciated, and it would still mean nothing! Tony might be teasing. He might be flirting for fun (he always flirted with people; never really went farther than that). He might or might not want something with Steve, and Steve couldn't know that for sure even if his body kept yelling at him to do something. This was frustrating. And had this been a Timely night like any other, Steve might have gone home, the way he always did.

Tentatively count me in. Tony's words to Fury rang in Steve's head. And of course he'd want to go – a brilliant inventor and a mechanic, why would he stay here, in the back of beyond? No, he was most certainly leaving, even though Steve was doing his best not to think about that. This was Steve's last chance.

He didn't just want to have sex with Tony, but, he suspected, that was all he could get; and that was... fine. It was. He knew Tony had a certain affection for him, and there was definitely a physical attraction between them – something that Tony never acknowledged in any way when he was sober. Steve didn't know what to think, and up 'till now, out of a desire not to spoil their friendship, Steve had held back. But this was indeed his last chance, and he knew he was going to regret it for the rest of his life if he did nothing. They had both been drinking some, but unlike before, when they'd had their moments, Tony now seemed awake and alert. Well. Steve was going to tell him – talk to him – and Tony could then say what he waned, if he wanted anything.

They were standing on the porch, and the moments were ticking by, and Tony was looking at Steve, and Steve was looking at Tony. The night was dry and starry and nearly bright, and the cicadas seemed louder and louder with every moment the two of them kept silent.

All of a sudden, the sound of cicadas was the only thing in the world. Distantly, he thought he was standing there, struck dumb. His throat was tight and as dry as the desert air, and the only thing that rang in his suddenly empty head were the goddamn cicadas.

Desperately mortified, he crossed the small distance between them. Expecting to feel hands on his chest any moment, pushing him away, Steve threw his arms around Tony stiffly, awkwardly, as if he'd never used arms before, as if the purpose of limbs in general mystified him. And he plastered a stupid, dry, wooden kiss in the middle of Tony's forehead of all places.

He whispered goodbye, Tony, or he thought he whispered it, because his throat had never before produced a sound, apparently. Feeling like he might cry, he stepped back, stepped away.

***

The feel of Steve's lips was like a sunburn on Tony's skin, still there when the man pulled away. His arms were a fleeting promise of warmth as they encircled Tony, and held him tightly, tightly, like the warmest of comforters, and then, too soon, they disappeared.

The moment of closeness had effectively erased all the thoughts from Tony's head, and now all he was was capable of was a resentful: why? Why would Steve do that? Why would he take that away from Tony like that?

He might have whimpered, reaching after him.

He stopped himself at once. No. He mustn't pressure Steve.

Still, it seemed a lightest touch on the elbow was enough to make Steve freeze in his tracks. "Tony?" His whisper was hoarse.

The whispering wasn't necessary, really; they were outside, on the porch, true, but Tony's house was a bit outside of town and Tony was sure there was no one close enough to either see or hear them. And yet, he found it difficult to speak at full volume himself, for some reason.

Tony hesitated, trying to untangle warring impulses inside himself; gave up. "That was very... chaste."

Steve was standing there like he was frozen, but still firm, still not budging an inch. Suddenly, he seemed to Tony as if he was about to face down another batch of miscreants and not a, well, a semi-tipsy mechanic.

"Too chaste?" Steve's voice, its hoarseness, sent a shiver down Tony's spine. And he nodded.

"Chaste is okay. Not chaste is also okay. Very, very okay."

And then Steve's mouth was on his. Tony could feel the warmth of his lips flow into him, turn his guts to nitro. Almost involuntarily, he pressed himself against Steve, and that seemed to be what Steve was waiting for, because in two short steps he was pressing Tony against the cabin wall, with the whole length of his body against Tony's. The intensity of desire nearly made Tony dissociated, as if he'd stepped out of his own head and was watching them both from a short way away, and at the same time he was hyper aware of the pressure of Steve's lips, of his leg pushing between Tony's, his groin against Tony's stomach (because Tony had said not chaste was okay, and Steve was one literal guy, and also didn't tend to waste time). Tony's hands found a way under Steve's shirt, and in contact with his bare skin – the secret skin, the part of skin that wasn't for everyone to see! – they seemed to go crazy. Tony couldn't stop touching him, stroking, petting, squeezing, as Steve kissed and kissed him, pressing him ever tighter against the wooden wall.

"Bed," Tony breathed.

"Yes. Bed."

And in an instant they were inside, never letting go of one another. Steve half pushed, half carried him until the back of Tony's knees hit the wooden frame, and then Steve was on top of him, and Tony's hands were fumbling with Steve's belt, and then, for a while, the world went white.

***

"You asleep?"

Steve blinked into the darkness. No, he wasn't, of course he wasn't. He wasn't going to waste his last hours with Tony like that. Yet, he expected the other man to start snoring lightly, the way he usually did when he drank. Steve hadn't thought he'd get talking so soon, but then again, that was his own mistake. This was Tony Stark. Of course he was going to talk.

Steve could have listened to him happily for ages on end.

Tony was curled up next to Steve, his head pillowed on his own arm. They weren't avoiding touch, but they weren't cuddling either. Which was... unfortunate, having in mind that Steve wanted to take Tony into his arms, to cradle him and keep him to himself and never let him go. Steve also wanted to be able to say something to him, anything apart from don't leave. Do you really have to go? Tony did. Steve could understand that, could understand that what was enough for Steve – a quiet (or not-so-quiet) life in Timely – wouldn't be enough for someone like Tony, whose imagination and experience could reach the heights Steve couldn't even dream of. Tony had been forcibly held down for long enough. He should be allowed to fly free.

Steve grunted a negative. No, he wasn't asleep. Of course he wasn't goddamn asleep.

"You okay?" Tony asked.

Steve made a noncommittal noise through his nose. "Why wouldn't I be okay?" To his own ears he sounded like he was only now learning human speech, and he also sounded very much not-okay. The early post-coital bliss had faded away, and now he was acutely aware that he'd experienced something wonderful, and also that he was going to lose it forever, come morning.

"Regrets?" Tony inquired, faux-lightly; Steve knew that tone of his. It was anything but light. This sobered him up a bit. He half-rose on an elbow.

"No, Tony," he said earnestly, and now he sounded more like himself. "Never."

"Oh, good." Tony sounded relieved.

"Only..."

"Yes?" There it was, back in Tony's voice; that tension.

"That we didn't do it earlier," Steve finished.

"Say my name again," Tony said; inconsequentially. Was he desperately changing the subject  or was this something else entirely?

"Tony?" That was half acquiescence and half a what-do-you-mean.

"Yeah, like that." Steve's eyes were used to darkness, and he could see a sketch of a smile on Tony's face; it looked sad, even if Tony didn't sound it.

"It was the last barrier," Steve said.

"What?"

"I was 'Sheriff'. You were 'Stark'. It was the last barrier we kept. I'm just sorry we didn't get rid of it earlier. I wish..." He shut up. He shut up before he said something stupid, like ask Tony not to go.

"Yes?"

Steve shrugged. "What I said," he finished lamely. He also noticed Tony wasn't saying anything to that, wasn't agreeing. But maybe this was perfect for him – one night together, and then he could get away, free. No strings attached, tying him to the ground. Steve didn't have it in him to resent Tony for it. He simply felt more lonely than ever, but perhaps that was just as well. He'd better get used to it.

And yet. What if he was wrong? Like he'd been wrong to wait this long, to never say anything and assume Tony would make the first step. Tony was such a riddle. One moment Steve thought he could read him so well, the next moment he had no idea what was playing around in his head.

"It's going to be boring without you," he heard himself say, the ache and affection indelibly tangled inside him, and regretted it while the words were still ringing in the air.

Tony barely waited for him to finish the sentence. "It's going to be positively miserable without you," Tony shot back. The abrupt intensity in his voice could burn through walls. He said it so quickly and so urgently that something inside Steve suddenly clicked. It left him startled. Like the world turning on its head in one sentence. Was it actually possible that he was so wrong? Yet, there was that look in Tony's eyes right now, sadness and longing, and there was the way Tony was always around, always happy to talk to Steve – at Steve, more often than not – always happy to spend time with him in an unobtrusive, easily deniable way. Could Steve really have been so blind? He remembered the way Tony rushed to his side, today, and the way he jumped in front of him when his SHIELD buddies started pulling guns at him. Oh. Oh.

"Oh," said Steve, intelligently, because at the moment he was absolutely unable to think of another word. His lungs didn't seem to be working properly. Sudden onset of excitement was heart-stopping; he wasn't used to feeling that way.

Was it possible, though? Was it possible that to a smart, brilliant, world-weary Tony he hadn't been just a friend, and hadn't been just a potential lay, but something else; could a whole really be greater than the sum of its parts?

Tony laughed softly. Steve knew his painful, self-deprecating laugh, even though, he thought, perhaps no one else around here did. He very much wanted to turn that laugh into a real thing; if only he could find his words.

"Yeah." Tony said, feigning lightheartedness, and failing.  "Oh.  Also, sorry about that."

No, no, no, Steve wanted to yell at him. Don't apologize! If Tony actually felt the same as him, if that crazy idea was possible, the most important thing was to sort out the leaving bit. They could clear the rest later. If Tony had... had feelings for him, he had to stay. They could find a way to be together, even in Timely, even though the town likely wouldn't understand. They didn't have to be exactly public – but no, that was dishonest and it wasn't Steve's way. Well. Perhaps that was another battle they'd have to fight, but if they went at it together, it would be more than worth it. As long as Tony stayed. With him.

"Do you really have to go?" he asked impulsively, voicing the foremost of his thoughts.

"Do you really have to stay?" Tony shot back, on the offense now, without allowing Steve a moment to take a breath. His eyes were ablaze, as if he were saying don't you fucking ask me that unless you mean every word.

Steve did.

And then Tony's words penetrated, and Steve stopped. Blinked. Well. Did he really have to stay?

And was Tony saying what Steve thought what he was saying, or was all of this a big delusion Steve had concocted in his head.

He considered this for a moment. "What do you mean?"

Tony huffed and deflated. "Nothing. Nothing. Sorry about that. I shouldn't have said anything. You know I can't fucking shut up. Ignore me."

From someone else, that might have been fishing for denial: no, no, I don't want you to shut up. But he knew Tony meant it, which made it worse, in a way.

Steve leaned closer to his face, hovering over Tony a little. Surprised, Tony made as if to pull back, but he didn't exactly have anywhere to go. He just slowly blinked at Steve, momentarily frozen in place. Don't try to grin, please don't try to grin...

Tony tried to grin. In the darkness of the room, it looked almost ghastly. His eyes were big and round and shiny, as if he were about to cry.

"But I don't want you to shut up," Steve said very gently.

"No?"

"No. Never." He didn't. He'd been listening to Tony chatter like a machine for years, and he wanted to listen to him chatter for many years more, and he should say something, shouldn't he? He just needed a moment to compose his thoughts.

"Huh," Tony said and gave him a quizzical look.

"Yeah," Steve said, mimicking Tony's tone from minutes earlier. "Huh."

"Okay," Tony said. And it was frustrating, all of it, because they weren't talking, really; they could as well be grunting at each other. As soon as they started to say anything real, they stopped and backtracked, both of them. It was a years-long habit, Steve supposed. Walking on eggshells. Always afraid they'd spoil more than they gained. But if they went on like that, Tony would fly off, and Steve would stay, and they would probably never sea each other again. The thought was searing. Every morning, getting out of bed, walking around Timely, going to work, dealing with Fisk and his lot – it all became just bearable because somewhere nearby Tony was sleeping in his bed or hammering away in his workshop and that later on Steve was going to run into him, as if by chance. Without that... it was hard to imagine his life without that. Without that, everything seemed gray.

"What I meant," Tony said with a slight emphasis, as if Steve had hovered there staring into his eyes for too long. (Tony's eyes had first been afire, then they turned into small puddles of sadness, but now they seemed refocused, lively once more.), "what I meant is – could you conceive to ever leave Timely? You know, see the 'verse, help people in need, shoot at the bad guys...?"

"...Smuggle shit..." Steve supplanted with a smile, because it was happening, it was really happening, Tony was actually inviting him along. To go away, the two of them, together. Like in a ballad (but without anyone tragically dying in the end).

"...Smuggle shit in order to stay afloat, as long as shit is not too morally questionable, yes," Tony replied without a slightest pause, a smirk turning into a grin.

The thing was, Steve could. The idea bloomed inside him, spreading petals, and he realized he'd been watering the seed of it for a very long time, ever since Tony first told him where he came from. It had been an idle dream, sure, but now it was becoming solid, almost palpable – to traverse the universe, see different planets, do good. With Tony. It turned his imagination into wildfire.

"What about Fisk?" he heard himself ask. "And Roxxon? Who is going to protect Timely against a retribution? What...?

"Are you trying to talk yourself out of it?" Tony interrupted him, a tad sharply.

"What? No, I..."

"Because you don't have to. You can just say no. No need for explanations. But in case you are genuinely just asking – Fury's people would take care of it. He wouldn't just leave folks to fend for themselves after an intervention like this. But, Steve, if coming along actually seems like..."

"Just give me a minute," Steve said, slightly overwhelmed, more with his own thoughts than with Tony's words, even though they were coming like a flood through a broken dam. "I'm trying...I."

"Okay," Tony said, calming down a little, "okay."

"So we would set things right first?"

"You can ask Fury tomorrow for the details, but yes, I believe so."

"And what... what would I do, if I tagged along?"

"A steady gun hand is always useful," Tony said. "But Steve – if you are worried about..."

"I'm not worried," Steve interjected quickly.

Tony talked right over him. "...about us, don't be. We don't have to... We can just be friends. Two friends who've fucked – sorry, I know you don't care for that sort of language – but we can just. Resume our previous..."

"In that case, I don't want to come." They seemed to be interrupting each other a whole lot more then they usually did. Still, now there was a silence. It stretched.

"But otherwise you do?" In the darkness, he could see Tony was smiling.

In Steve's throat, a frog squirmed. For a moment it was difficult to make a sound. "Yes?"

"Oh, thank god," Tony whispered.

Steve kissed him, then. It wasn't passionate, exactly, because for the moment their passion was spent, but it was steeped in relief and trepidation and new hope.

***

They slept. When they woke up, they did have a talk with Fury, who was amenable to the idea of Steve coming along, and who, as Tony later claimed, looked a bit taken with Steve, even. (To be precise, he grunted noncommittally at Tony's inquiries regarding Steve; Tony insisted this was a very good sign.)

Fisk and his crew stood trial by the new judge, Matt Murdoch. Fury did dispatch a team to deal with Roxxon as well. To be extra-thorough, Fury decided to leave a few of his people 'on this godforsaken rock' for a little while longer, to additionally train the townspeople in the lost art of opposing and inhibiiting corruption, and pick them up again on his way back from the next job. Not after another fifteen years, I hope, a woman named Daisy had quipped, to which Fury – surprise, surprise – swore under his breath and rolled his eyes.

Carol Danvers was unanimously elected as the new mayor of Timely. Steve had thought Bucky's Natasha was going to be a great help to her, but instead, she marched up to Tony and Steve and said if you think you're going to just leave me here, think again. As it turned out, Fury also wasn't opposed to taking onboard a good hand with blades. Tony insisted Fury was picky, but it seemed to Steve he would take anyone who wanted to leave. He even invited Bruce along, saying he could use a new doctor. He either lost people at an incredible rate and needed to compensate (which Tony insisted was far from the truth) or he was forming a small army.

"Where do they all fit?" Steve asked Tony when they got onboard the ship that, well, wasn't that big, everything considered. "All those people. Where do they sleep?"

"There's a lot of storage space?" Tony shrugged. "Sleeping bags, things. How should I know?"

As the ship's new mechanic (apparently, Fury desperately needed a mechanic), Tony had a cabin. It smelled of people and of bodily fluids and alcohol; not unlike any saloon in Timely, that is. Steve didn't mind. To him it sang of freedom – a freedom he didn't even know he wanted until it reared its head and beckoned. A freedom that was tightly entwined with how he could stand here and openly hold Tony's hand and didn't have to fight anyone for the right to do it. The ship cleared its landing spot; Steve could feel his stomach flip as they unglued from the ground.

"Do you guys want to play cards in the kitchen?" someone called out. Tony squeezed Steve's hand and, drunken with possibilities, Steve squeezed back.

Tony clicked his tongue. "We'll be in our bunk."

THE END