Pictures of You (Pictures of Us)

There are no pictures of you,

Anywhere

There are blank empty spaces

In your life;

And maybe you've resolved to

Cover

them

up

But I'm here to fill them

Up darling;

I'm here to staunch the bleeding

Mend the torn arteries

Help the blood flow through you

-Social Hemophilia,

The Empty Spaces Around You

At first glance, the inside of Tony's tower is sleek, spacious, and contemporarily modern; full in a way only Tony can make the spaces around him full. There's certainly a lot to look at, which explains why Steve misses it at first. It's just a small thing really, but the open gaps it leaves are conspicuous and once Steve notices he cannot help but notice all the time. And he can't help looking either, eyes ransacking every room looking for the objects that will fill up the bleeding gaps.

At first, he thinks the gaps exist solely in the common areas, in the shared spaces Tony has created for them. That would make sense, Steve thinks, for Tony not to impose his life onto them, even if they are all living together in his building. But then one day Steve finally goes down to the workshop, gets past the reinforced doors, and solemnly realizes that the gaps, the blank spaces, don't solely exist in the common areas-they permeate Tony's life. Because if Tony has blank spaces in his workshop, the room that can be said to encapsulate his very being, then...the spaces must live inside Tony, too.

Don't get Steve wrong, there are paintings everywhere, hung up on every wall of the tower: on the common areas several Mark Rothko's dress the walls, Tony's penthouse is riddled with Pollock paintings, and his workshop is encompassed in the abstract works of artists like Barnett Newman and countless others Steve doesn't yet recognize. The problem isn't that Tony's walls are bare or empty. Those aren't the gaps, the blank spaces Steve is referring to-not at all. See the thing is, Tony's tower, his penthouse, his workshop, have absolutely no pictures-anywhere. And Steve doesn't get it, doesn't understand how Tony-whose life must have been filled with opportunity, who got to do and experience so much more than the average person-has no personal pictures whatsoever of his moments in life.

Steve thinks of his mother, who kept family pictures on every shelf and determined to hang one up on every wall, who kept pictures on her vanity, who insisted on Steve keeping an old family picture of him, his mother, and father atop his nightstand. He remembers what his mother said about pictures, how they are tangible reminders of the relationships we build, of the people we meet, of those we love. How they are more than an event frozen in time, but how they are physical ties to those around us, how they speak to the fullness of one's life.

Now, looking around at the shelves lined with trinkets, tiny statues, and ornamental pieces, Steve wonders at the emptiness of Tony's life. He feels ashamed, for not noticing it before, for believing Tony had not wanted for anything, for believing he'd been spoiled by his family's richness. There are no family photos in his home (if the genius even considers it a home), no personal photos of Tony as a child or an adult, no photos of him or Pepper or Rhodey, no photos of his parents.

Tony's tower is beautiful. And after only a few weeks, Steve's floor has the warm impression of a well lived in home. Tony's penthouse, on the other hand, resembles a lived in hotel room: few personal items strewn throughout, a clean cold sterility all about. Sometimes, Steve thinks Tony's rooms resemble the pages of home catalogues, everything purposefully placed. Either way, Steve knows that if Tony were to pack up his clothes, his meagre personal belongings, his rooms would resemble high priced hotel rooms waiting to be rented out to the next potential tenant.

Steve waits for the others to notice, for a quiet conversation to begin in the early hours of the morning as they all meet in the communal kitchen to make breakfast and drink their respective cups of coffee.

But weeks pass and no one ever does.

Months pass and no conversation has yet been had.

Half a year passes and Steve resolves to plug up the gaps and stop the bleeding.

He buys a camera.

He's been living with Tony for months now and they're friends, he'd go so far as to label them best friends. Tony's helped him acclimate, more than any one else, more than the others and certainly more than SHIELD. The genius has explained the internet, cellular phones, satellites, tv, the current vernacular, how to work microwaves, and has even gone grocery shopping with him once Steve admitted all the food choices proved too overwhelming. They're still Tony and Steve though, and occasionally they butt heads. In their defense, they really can't help it, they're different enough that a lack of arguments is impossible: Tony's impulsive and brash, while Steve is patient and relatively calm. They clash, but often work through it; their arguments usually ending with each of them having a beer and sitting down to watch tv along with the rest of the team post-battle, both of them promising to do better-or at least try to.

In the privacy of his thoughts, Steve thinks they've become a family of sorts, like that show "Friends" Tony and Clint introduced him to a few weeks ago. Except that some of them have superhuman abilities, one's technically an alien, two are assassins/spies, one turns into a massive green creature, and one is smarter than all of them combined. But the thought makes Steve glad, happy in fact. After his mother passed, Bucky was his only family and it's nice now, to not be so alone anymore, to have people he can go to with his problems even if they occasionally end up sparring instead of talking. They've developed a sort of rhythm with each other and Steve is comfortable, practically at peace, so when he looks up and notices those gaps again, he doesn't hesitate to pull out his new camera and snaps a picture of them lounging around watching tv.

"Was that," Tony pauses, cocking his head to the side as if making sure his eyes haven't deceived him, "was that a camera flash, Rogers? Did you just take a picture of us watching 'The Leftovers' in our pajamas?"

Putting the camera down, Steve looks around to see the others have turned towards him. Natasha has arched an eyebrow in silent question, beside her Clint is trying not to snicker, Bruce is calmly watching him, and Thor is happily smiling at him having learned what cameras are, and that it is traditional to smile when one's picture is being taken.

"Uh, yeah," Steve says, turning back to Tony, feeling sheepish. "Is that a problem?"

For a moment, Tony looks dumbfounded as if he honestly cannot comprehend just what Steve is doing.

"Nope, no problem. But that's not gonna, like, end up on the internet, right? You don't have some secret blog detailing our unbelievable moments of domesticity? Because I gotta tell you, that would definitely ruin our reputation as superhero badasses. Just saying, Logan and Johnny would never let us live it down, and you know Wolverine is going to outlast us all, the bastard."

This time, Clint can't hold back his snicker and even the corners of Natasha's lips have turned up in amusement.

"What? Tony what are you talking about? Of course, I don't have a blog. I just took a picture. It isn't going to end up on the internet or the tabloids either. I'll probably just frame it and put it somewhere."

Tony simply looks at him, for what feels like a solid straight minute before he turns back to work on his tablet.

Across the room, he meets Natasha's eyes and when she smiles warmly at him he thinks perhaps he wasn't the only one to notice. Clint merely grins and winks in his direction; Steve doesn't know what to make of that.

When the episode ends and Tony leaves, mumbling something about schematics he forgot to send R&D, the rest of the team walk with Steve to the kitchen where he deposits their empty bowls of popcorn.

"What?" he asks once he turns around from the sink to see them all gathered around, silently watching him.

"I told you he's oblivious, Nat," Clint says only to get elbowed in the ribs by Natasha. She's looking at Steve as if she would an interrogation suspect causing unease to curdle in the pit of his stomach.

"When did you notice?" she asks, straight to the heart of the matter.

"A few weeks after I moved in," he says, to which she nods. "When did you?"

"When I was undercover as Natalie Rushman," she calmly replies, leaning against the stove.

"Wait, sorry I'm obviously missing something here. Notice what?" Bruce asks, looking from Steve to Natasha, confusion plain on his face.

"Our Man of Iron's lack of midgardian pictures," Thor replies causing all of them to look over at him in surprise. Of course, he'd noticed, Steve thinks. How could he not notice something so out of the norm after they had all been showing him what normal homes looked liked, after showing him tv shows in an attempt to help him-and Steve-understand the time's traditions. "He has many a painting, but no picture of himself, his friends, or his family."

"I never noticed that before," Bruce quietly says.

"You wouldn't," Clint says non-maliciously, merely stating it like it's a fact of life. "You were on the run for too long. I didn't notice until Nat pointed it out. And before anyone says anything, she always notices." Steve sees Natasha smirk at that.

"Why didn't any of you say anything about it? It's been months," Steve says not without a touch of irritation. They noticed and did nothing. But then again, for six months he did nothing either.

All of them look at him and he gets the unnerving feeling that he's missing something important.

"Steven," Thor begins and his eyes hold a wisdom Steve can never hope to achieve, not in his lifetime. "It was not our place."

"Cap, I hope you know what you just started, because if you honestly don't we are all fucked," Clint states and Steve's confusion grows exponentially.

"What are you talking about?" he asks, leaning back against the counter, crossing his arms. He knows his posture is defensive, but he can't help it. He's confused and they know something he doesn't, but won't explain it to him and his frustration is increasing by the second.

"Oh, fucking hell! Do we tell him or do we let him stumble around, trying to figure it out?" Clint asks the rest of the team.

"It is not our place, my friend. These are matters for our Captain and our Man of Iron to resolve amongst themselves. Intruding would only serve to further complicate their situation," Thor responds, his tone serious, but Steve swears he can see a hint of mirth in his eyes.

"Thor's right," Bruce says, thoughtfully. "It isn't our business, let them figure it out."

Steve merely stands there and watches as they all nod to each other before collectively exiting the kitchen, leaving him swimming in his confusion. He doesn't understand what they mean. All he did was take a simple picture. How does that change anything? Tony's his friend, he wants to see the genius happy, wants to help him make this more of a home for him. His rooms still resemble home catalogues and Steve can't exactly explain why, but he hates it. This is their home and Tony has yet to make it his.

The next time Steve takes a picture of them is a week later when they are back at the same shawarma place they went to after defeating the Chitauri. Tony had graciously offered the owners the money to rebuild the restaurant and it had become tradition for them to eat there after a particularly hard battle (as long as none of them were in medical and could still walk).

This time it had been doom-bots they had faced. The team didn't usually go out to deal with Doctor Doom's messes, but for some reason the Fantastic Four had been unreachable, so Fury called the Avengers in to handle the situation. Needless to say, none of them were pleased; especially Tony who seemed to have a personal vendetta against the super villain's tech.

They're all seated at their usual booth by the window, close to the exit just in case. Him, Tony, and Bruce are seated on one side while Natasha, Thor, and Clint are on the other, facing them.

"Fucking doom-bots, man," Tony says, slumping further into his seat while they await their meals. He has a gash on his forehead, a result of a hard hit that sent him crashing into a building.

"You can say that again, Shellhead," Clint responds, spinning an arrow between his fingers. "The Fantastic Four owe us big time. Johnny owes me twenty-bucks too, I fucking told him it was only a matter of time until Doom decided to make them out of adamantium."

"I thought we placed a ban on weapons at the dinner table, Clint," Bruce says, amusement coloring his tone. Both the Hulk and Bruce are fond of Clint; the Hulk had even taken to calling the archer "birdie" or "Cupid." The smile Clint's flashes Bruce's way when he hands him the arrow makes Steve wonder if there's more to their friendship.

"Where did he even get that much adamantium from? I thought it was supposed to be rarer than vibranium," Steve wonders aloud.

"Well, for one, they weren't made of adamantium, Cap. Their external skeleton was simply coated in it, very thinly might I add. And according to JARVIS' analysis it wasn't even pure adamantium, which explains why the Hulk could smash them in the end," Tony responds while looking at—what Steve guesses— are the analyses JARVIS sent him on his phone.

"Whatever, Storm still owes me twenty-bucks," Clint states grumpily.

A minute later their food arrives and after Steve finishes his meal he sits back, silently watching them all, his team, his new family. Steve's come to realize they are, in fact, a family. Clint and Tony sometimes bicker like brothers, Clint and Natasha already act as if they're brother and sister, even Thor and the Hulk act like brothers out in the battlefield, and Tony and Bruce dubbed themselves "ScienceBros" from the get go (well, Tony did, but Steve sees Bruce's eyes warm every time Tony calls them that).

Silently, Steve pulls out his camera, hoping no one—especially Tony—notices. There's sufficient lighting so he disables the flash before he sits back, adjusts the lens, and snaps a quick photo of them. Tony and Bruce are animatedly discussing a project, Tony's french fries having become part of a sort of diagram along with Bruce's straw and spoon; Natasha, Clint, and Thor are talking about the dance reality series they watch together. None of them stop when they hear the soft click of the camera, but they all cast him an amused glance. Everyone except Tony that is, who only looks at him for a second, but in that one moment Steve swears he sees confusion, intermixed with curiosity and wonder in the engineer's eyes. Steve simply smiles back until Tony turns away, resuming his conversation with Bruce.

After that night, Steve doesn't hold back, taking pictures of them all doing even the most mundane things around the tower. He's taken to carrying his camera around with him all the time, except to missions and battles. In less than a month, Steve has taken hundreds of photographs. He's caught the menacing beauty that is Natasha and Clint sparring, he's caught Thor flying in through the common room's open balcony, and he's caught Bruce and Tony working in their labs. But he's also caught simpler moments: he's photographed the Avengers lounging around, laying on the living room floor post-battle, on the brink of falling asleep atop each other; he's photographed Tony lovingly arguing with his bots, has captured him bleary eyed in the morning before his coffee, has caught him surrounded by blue holographic displays down at his workshop grinning like a mad man, has caught him sleeping on the couch with a tablet resting on his chest, has caught him openly laughing with Clint, has captured him genuinely smiling in response to something one of them said, and has photographed him standing beside his Iron Man armor.

It's a few weeks after they went out for shawarma, when Steve heads down to the workshop, his camera and laptop in hand. He's running out of memory space in his camera and he knows there's a way for the pictures to be transferred to his computer, but he isn't sure how and doesn't want to risk trying himself in case he accidentally ends up deleting any of them. At the door, he enters the code Tony gave him and the doors open allowing him to hear the full extent of Tony's blaring music. He can't help but stop at the threshold, watching Tony argue with Dum-E. Tony arguing with his bots is one of the most adorably amusing things Steve has ever encountered, not that he'd ever tell the genius this.

"I swear, I will donate you to MIT so they can use you to be poked and prodded by the undergrads and graduates. You know how they've always wanted you and I will send you there, to a place akin to robotic hell, unless you stop trying to use the fire extinguisher every time there's only a tiny explosion. There wasn't even a fire, Dum-E!" Tony says as he gestures wildly, a screwdriver in one hand. Steve can see part of the workbench has been covered in white foam and notices Dum-E cowering in front of Tony, his claw down to the floor beside the empty fire extinguisher, the very picture of human repent. Steve can't help himself, he adjusts the hold he has on his laptop and with one hand snaps a quick picture. Steve loves seeing Tony like this, covered in grease and motor oil, shabbily dressed, his hair in perfect disarray. Down in the workshop, there is no mistaking the genius is in his element and Steve can't help but notice the way Tony's eyes shine when he's down here, surrounded by his creations and his work; the man is more at home in this space than he is anywhere else and Steve is so happy that Tony at least has this for himself.

The sound of his camera clicking causes Tony to whirl around, pointing the screwdriver in his direction. Steve grins at him; they've all gotten relatively used to seeing Steve with his camera around, gotten used to being photographed at the most random times. But still, every time, Tony gave him the same look of confusion intermixed with curiosity and wonder. This time, his brown eyes look up at Steve with warmth, wonder, and a hint of curiosity. Steve has no explanation for the sudden tightening in his chest.

"Hey there, Cap, what brings you to the land of the misfits?" Tony amusedly asks, extending his arms in an attempt to encapture the workshop's cluttered space.

Steve makes a point of taking in the view and chuckles, holding up his laptop and camera, "Is the IT technician in?"

"For my favorite centenarian? Always. Take a seat, old man," Tony says, gesturing to a relatively clean empty chair at his desk; Tony sets himself on the one beside it.

"You know I'm not that old, Tony."

"Only a matter of time, Cap. So what can the resident genius help you with?" he asks, swiveling his chair in order to face him.

"My camera's running out of memory and I know there's a way to transfer the pictures onto the computer, but I'm not exactly sure how and I didn't want to risk any of them getting deleted."

"Gotcha," Tony responds. "You bring the camera cord?"

"Uh, no," Steve says; in all honesty he's not even sure where it is.

"Not a problem, this looks like a regular USB and I've got dozens around here somewhere. Give me a sec."

Tony spends a few minutes rifling through his drawers trying to find a USB cord. He finds one not long after and then proceeds to explain to Steve how to transfer his pictures to a file on his laptop from his camera. After his brief verbal explanation, Tony takes the cord and connects it to both the camera and laptop. Meanwhile, Steve has begun to play with Dum-E asking the bot to get him several screwdrivers.

"Steve?" Tony asks, his voice wavering in a way Steve's never heard before.

"Everything okay, Tony?" Steve responds as he pulls away from Dum-E, his concern growing when he notices just how still Tony has become. When Tony doesn't answer, Steve looks over his shoulder at his computer screen. But all he can see are the pictures of Tony he has taken; he doesn't understand where Tony's concern is coming from. Maybe some of the pictures are embarrassing?

"Tony, what's wrong?" Steve asks again, reaching to touch Tony's arm. When his finger's brush the skin of the engineer's arm, Tony suddenly jumps, startled out of whatever mind space he trapped himself in and looks over at Steve with panic in his eyes. "Tony?" Steve tries again, "What's wrong?"

Tony looks at Steve then to the pictures, then back to Steve again. "Nothing," he says, "nothing's wrong. Why would there be something wrong? Everything's great, I'm great, you're great—everything's copacetic. Nothing wrong here." When Steve arches an eyebrow in question, Tony speaks up again, gestures to the computer screen. "Your pictures, they're just, uh, they're great." Steve's pretty sure his doubt shows on his face; he isn't a photographer after all, doesn't even know how to go about developing any of the pictures he's taken, has never taken a photography class in his life. "No really Steve, these are wonderful. You have some real talent here," Tony says and Steve notices his voice has become firmer, steadier, the previous wavering gone.

Tony's compliment causes him to smile, he's pretty sure he's even blushing slightly. "Thanks, Tony."

"No problem, Cap," Tony responds, turning away from him to unplug the camera and close the laptop lid. "I renamed the folders for you so they're easier to find. Let me know if you have any problems, you know where to find me," he says, handing the camera and laptop to Steve.

"Yeah, I do," he replies warmly. "Thanks again."

It isn't until three days later that Steve truly notices.

He notices while he's scrolling through his pictures. He'd done a Google search the previous day to find a place that would develop his pictures and he'd found one just a few short blocks from the tower. He's scrolling through his pictures, trying to pick the ones he want to get developed, when he realizes most of them are of Tony. Heck, they all contain Tony. Steve realizes that all he's photographed is either Tony, the Avengers, or Tony with someone else. Either way, all the pictures contained Tony in various stages of action, movement, talk; in various stages of dress, in his armor, out of his armor, in sweats and a tank top covered in grease and motor oil from the workshop. There's a picture of Tony sleeping in a hospital bed at the SHIELD med bay after a particularly bad fight with Doctor Doom, his fingers taped, a cut on his cheek. Looking at the picture of Tony's still sleeping on that hospital bed is what causes Steve to realize something he should have known months ago.

He likes Tony, in a way that's more than friendship. Hell, he may actually be in love with Tony. And when the thought of that makes his chest constrict a certain way and his stomach feel like it's dropping, he knows he's done for. Of course, it doesn't help matters that Tony is also exceedingly attractive and has an inherent air of charm about him.

An hour later he slumps onto the couch in the common area where everyone but Tony has gathered for their weekly viewing of "Queer as Folk." He doesn't care to watch the show tonight, but finds he can't stand the thought of spending another moment alone in his room with his sudden realization, so he simply stretches out on the couch with a hand over his eyes.

"I take it you finally figured it out," Steve hears Clint say. Removing his hand from his eyes, he can see Clint sitting in the armchair to the couch's left, watching him with sympathy. He nods, ignoring everyone else.

"Want to go beat the shit out of each other?" the archer asks and Steve adds this moment to the list of reasons of why he loves Clint.

"God yes," he groans, heaving himself up from the couch.

They go down to the gym and spar, pinning each other to the mat countless times, dodging, kicking, and punching their way down. They don't talk and Steve is glad Clint was the one to offer. He knows that if it were anyone else—Bruce, Natasha, or Thor—they would make him talk about it, about his feelings for Tony and what he intends to do about them. Steve is glad Clint doesn't ask, doesn't talk—the only sounds their heaving breaths and a few grunts. Steve is glad, because he has no idea what to do now. Does he talk to Tony? Admit what he's feeling, what he's apparently been feeling all this time? And if Tony doesn't feel the same, what then? They work together, live together, fight together. And Steve knows this isn't merely a crush, this isn't something he'll just get over if Tony doesn't feel the same way. He knows the dynamic they have is still fragile, painstakingly built by the both of them as they both tried to get past that first fight on the helicarrier, that first horrible impression. He's team leader and Tony's second in command. What if Steve tells him and Tony feels the same way, but it all falls apart in the end? Is he willing to risk the future stability of this team, of his team?

"You're thinking too hard," Clint says, the first words he's uttered since they left the common room. But before Steve can get the chance to reply, Clint flips him on his back and pins him to the mat. Steve can't help but grin when his mind blessedly goes blank.

Tony's avoiding him, has been since the day he went down to his workshop and Steve isn't sure what to think. Again, it took him a while to notice (why does it take him so long to notice things related to Tony?) and he only realized the genius was avoiding him when he began looking through the photos he had taken during the past few days. Tony was in none of them.

Steve reasons that if Tony is avoiding him, he'll give him his space. He's never been one to impose his company upon someone when it's clear it isn't wanted. Steve struggles and fails to be hurt by this. He's noticed that even when momentarily in the same room, Tony won't even look at him, at least not directly. He'll shoot glances Steve's way, but the second Steve turns to look back Tony either strikes up a conversation with someone or leaves the room entirely, claiming he has an important project he better get to work on or else Pepper will actually fulfill her threat of strangling him. It's maddening and Steve doesn't know what to do about it.

The others, of course, have also noticed; but seem to have taken heed of Thor's advice to not get involved in whatever he and Tony have going on—or rather don't have going on.

On the third day of Tony's avoidance, Steve decides he can't handle being in the tower anymore, Tony absence a suffocating wound. He remembers the small film developing shop he researched and retrieves the address he wrote down on a yellow notepad along with the small USB drive he stored the first fifty chosen photos (again, Tony helped him how to work it, but that was ages ago, before he started avoiding him at all costs). Before he goes out, he makes sure to grab a jacket—its November, the temperatures have been steadily dropping and he may be Captain America, but he was still human-for the most part.

The shop is three blocks away and Steve walks all three blocks, leisurely stopping to look at anything that catches his eye. He brought his camera along and sometimes stops to photograph buildings, especially the New York skyline that has invariably changed so much since the '40s. There are more buildings now, seemingly towering every corner and sometimes Steve forgets just how much things have changed. He's been spending a lot of his time confined in the tower that he hasn't really had the chance to fully explore the city, its bustling sidewalks and streets all teeming with life. It all still overwhelms him, though, and the changes threaten to drown him, but he knows he can't stay cooped up in the tower forever, shut off from society.

It's time he re-familiarized himself with New York, it was the city he grew up in after all and at one point in his life he knew every nook and corner of the city, every alleyway, every shortcut, every good cheap dinner.

Steve turns a corner and when he sees a couple hoisting their daughter up in the air by both hands as they walk, he quickly photographs them and hopes the two men are truly as happy as they seem.

It takes Steve a couple of more minutes to get to the photography shop and once he does he is greeted by an elderly couple, the kind who look as though they have spent their lives happily together and are the better for it. Both women are standing together behind the counter looking over what appears to be a photo album; the shop is quiet, save for their faint murmurs. And although the shop is bereft of customers, it is by no means empty as Steve's eyes notice the myriad photographs proudly displayed on the surrounding walls; there are so many it's hard to tell what color the walls are for it appears every inch of them is covered, hiding behind various picture frames. Upon closer inspection, he realizes most of the photographs are of them, of the two elderly women standing behind the counter. And Steve can't help but think that these walls hold the story of their life, all the way from their youth, in what appears to be the American fifties, to today, to this very moment in time, to both of them together in the here and now.

For a moment, he thinks of Tony's bereft walls and aches. The feeling only serves to make him more determined.

When he finally approaches the counter, both women look up, welcoming him with warm matching smiles stretched across their aging faces. They ask him if there's anything they can help him with and Steve pulls out his USB drive and calmly explains that he wants the pictures stored in the drive developed. He also goes on to explain that each picture has a note attached to it, stating whether the photograph should be developed in color or in black and white, along with the sizes he wants them to be. Both women nod as he speaks, though they seem somewhat surprised of his specifications. When he asks them if they would be able to accommodate all that he wants, the pair merely smile at one another and one softly answers, "This is no problem at all, Steve. We designed this place with people like you in mind, so we have everything you could possibly need. And if we don't, we can always order it in for you."

Steve is immensely grateful towards them both and asks if they carry picture frames he can buy. When they answer in the affirmative, he asks if they have any recommendations for him since he's not exactly sure what he wants-just wants it to be relatively simple. With this in mind, one of them disappears to the back only to return with five different picture frames. Steve buys five, gets his receipt, and prepares to leave.

However, right before he's out the door, his attention is caught by two photographs hanging beside the exit, one of top of the other. The top one reveals two little girls, arms slung around each other in a hug, one dark arm draped over a paler one. Both girls are standing in front of a rundown ramshackle house, both with pigtails in their hairs, clothed in era appropriate dresses. Below that picture, is one of the two women, standing in front of their store, clasping hands in such a way that, what can only be their wedding bands are visible. This photograph, like the top one, is also in black and white. Given the setting, Steve guesses it's only a couple of years old. He thinks they're beautiful, not only the contrast the pictures serve to each other, but the women themselves. Their obvious happiness shines through, although the lines surrounding their weathered eyes speak of hardship and those along their mouth speak of heartbreak and a hurt that at one point ran so deeply it was forever engraved upon the canvas of their body.

That's what people are to Steve, unfinished canvases whose colors are as wavering as ocean waves.

With one last glance and smile to the couple behind the counter, Steve walks out of the store and steps into the teeming life of New York.

"So, you've been avoiding Cap," Clint says as he purposefully strides into the workshop, asking JARVIS to lower the music by a mere gesture.

"Fucking traitor," Tony murmurs sending a brief glare at the ceiling. He's hunched over one of the suit's gauntlets; for the past three hours he's been working through ways of attempting to make the repulsor system stronger, his response time faster-or he would be, if he could focus. "Can't you see I'm busy here, Bird Brain?" he asks, not bothering to look over his shoulder.

"Yeah, no, I can see it, Shellhead," the archer replies, perching himself atop the other side of the workbench. "Somehow you've managed to be so busy these past four days that our dear fearless leader has seen neither hair nor hide of you. I've gotta say you've made avoidance into an art, Stark. So, what's up?"

Tony actually looks up at Clint, "What part of 'I'm busy' can your tiny bird brain not understand?"

"The part where you've been working on the same thing for over three hours and haven't made any adjustments, or written anything down, or given JARVIS any instructions besides what to change the music to," Clint says, ticking every item off on his fingers.

"You been in my vents again, Barton?" Tony asks, returning to his task of merely fiddling with the suit gauntlet.

"Tony," Clint softly says causing the genius to put the gauntlet down and meet his eyes. "You and Cap? It could work, Tones. Whatever it is you're thinking, stop. Talk to him, Tones. I promise we can get gloriously drunk if it doesn't work out."

"Have you fallen off of too many buildings, Hawkeye? Because clearly, you don't know what you're talking about. That or you totally don't care about the stability of this team," Tony retorts, hands nervously turning over the wrench in his hand.

"So what? You think you'll somehow fuck up this team more than it already is if you try something with Steve? In case you haven't noticed, Tony-which I guess you haven't being the sad genius that you are-we're all pretty aware of what's going on. The others just don't think it's any of their business so they haven't said anything, but I'm tired of Steve moping around, sequestering himself up in his floor because he thinks you don't want to see him. He thinks he did something wrong to upset you, though the poor guy has no idea what. And you? I'm sick of you holing yourself up down here, ignoring everything and everyone else around you because you're trying so hard to ignore what you figured out when you looked at his pictures."

The pictures. Tony still doesn't know what to make of the pictures, exactly; doesn't understand what Steve is doing with them at all. At first he thought Steve had been indulging a whim, maybe trying out twenty-first century cameras. But when he'd studied the photographs Steve had taken, they were...they were domestic, warm, home-y. There was a love and care in each one that overwhelmed Tony, caused something in his chest to tighten and constrict, his heart to skip a beat; because while the Avengers were in almost every frame, Tony had been in most, if not all. And it had been that last picture that had truly gotten to him, of him scolding Dum-E in the workshop, taken only moments before, but there was such care in the way it had been taken it was obvious whoever had been behind the camera had been absolutely mesmerized by the sight before him.

"I swear to god, Clint, I'm going to block access to those vents when you least expect it. Or better yet, I'm going to make them smaller so you can get stuck trying to get into them," Tony says, blatantly trying to diffuse the tension he's feeling in his bones, trying to stamp out the tiny flicker of hope Clint's words are giving him. Clint just rolls his eyes.

"He fucking loves you, Tones, and I'm pretty sure you feel the same way, otherwise you wouldn't be hiding away like you are. You're his best friend-"

"Exactly, Clint. I'm his best friend, if this goes up in flames, which it will-" There's a sudden burning inside Tony, because he knows, god he knows, because he's thought about this. How could he not? Steve was, not perfect, but Tony wanted him with an ache that caused a burning in his chest that wasn't due to the arc reactor. Steve knew him, was right alongside Pepper and Rhodey on his list of best friends. And that was the thing, they were best friends just like Tony and Pepper were best friends, and that didn't last more than six months. If he couldn't have a successful relationship with Pepper, who knew his every bad habit and eccentric temperament, how could he have a successful relationship with anyone at all, much less Steve who was Team Captain?

"Oh my god, seriously how the hell are you considered a futurist?"

"The future is an unpredictable-"

"Don't give me that bullshit, Tones. This is Steve we're talking about. Tell me you wouldn't be happy with the guy for like the rest of your life. He already knows all of your shit habits, he's also a super hero so he won't be like Pepper, telling you he can't handle you going out there and risking your life. The guy respects the fact there will be days, weeks, hell even months where your head will be so wrapped up in whatever project you're working that you lose track of time and forget important dates, even when JARVIS makes an effort to remind you. You may be his best friend, Tony, but he's also yours. This is something you can have, Tony. Don't worry about the team-heck, at this point we're practically a family-whatever happens we'll figure it out. But we aren't a part of this equation, Tones, so stop trying to accommodate for an obsolete variable."

Tony looks at Clint for a while, measuring the honesty behind the archer's words because no matter what Clint says there are certain risks he is not willing to take, and one of those is approaching Steve about his feelings when he isn't sure if they'll be returned. Clint just sits there, letting him look. Finally, he nods to himself, as if accepting all that Clint has said.

"I'll, uh, I'll go talk to him then," Tony says wonderingly, unbelieving Clint had managed to get these words to pass his lips, when Pepper had been trying for days to come to his sense, stop avoiding Steve, and simply talk with him.

"Good," Clint nods, rising from his perch. "Hit me up if we have to get smashed, either for celebratory reasons or because misery loves company."

"Har, har," Tony says, shaking his head at the archer. "Thanks, Bird Brain," he quietly replies.

At the door, Clint turns back. "You're welcome, Tones."

A few days later, Steve returns to the tower after having gone to the small photography shop in order to pick up the developed pictures, some more frames, and a few photo albums.

"He's beautiful," both women had said as they handed him a manila envelope containing the developed photographs, their brown eyes filled with warmth.

Steve didn't need to ask who they meant; he merely smiled and said, "Yeah, he is."

He spent the rest of the day wandering New York, re-familiarizing himself with the streets and alleyways he and Bucky used to walk, his shoes stepping over those of a pair of ghosts. When the nostalgia within him grew, threatening to devour him from the inside, he decided to make his way back to the tower, to what had become his grounding point to this new century.

When he enters his apartment, it's to see Clint sitting on one of the kitchen barstools, nursing a beer, fiddling with a StarkPad. Steve wonders how long he had been waiting for him to get back.

"You know, I'm not Thor. I don't manage to lose or break my phone every other day. You can always just call, or text-I do know how to do that," Steve says in lieu of a greeting as he walks into the kitchen.

"You need to talk to your boy, Cap," the archer says, taking a swig of his beer before looking back at Steve, straight to the point. "I'm tired of this stalemate of yours. You need to go fix things. Call this my one man intervention."

Steve leans against the counter, opposite Clint, warily watching his teammate. "I told you, Clint, I don't know what I did to upset him and if I don't know, how the hell am I supposed to fix it?" he asks, snatching Clint's beer and taking a swig himself. The archer only raises an eyebrow in response before hopping off the barstool, making his way to the fridge, and grabbing an unopened bottle of beer.

"That's the thing, Cap. You didn't do anything wrong, Stark's just..." he trails off for a moment as he searches for a bottle opener and finding none, makes use of the steel counter top. "Genius just realized something is all," he says, directly gazing at Steve, standing only a few feet away from the super soldier.

"What do you mean?" Steve asks, taking a deep breath in-an attempt to steady his irregular breathing.

"Your boy figured out something before you did and he didn't react very well. Come on, Rogers, it's been weeks. You know what I mean, so don't give me that confused wide-eyed look," Clint finishes his beer and walks around to the outer side of the kitchen, grabs the jacket he had left on barstool, and promptly shrugs it on.

Steve can do nothing but nod, though part of him is surprised Clint is being this blunt. They'd barely talked about Tony at all these past few weeks, though now that Steve thinks about it, it had always been the archer trying to breach the subject of where Steve stood with Tony and whether or not he was planning on talking to the man soon. The truth was that at one point, Steve began avoiding Tony too, in a naive attempt to hide away the feelings he felt towards him.

"Clint," Steve says, flustered. "I can't just go talk to him...I don't even know what to say."

Clint steps up to Steve, stands at the threshold between kitchen and living room. "God, you two are hopeless. Just tell him, Cap. You know, that you're kind of in love with him?"

Steve opens his mouth, only to close it once more. He takes his eyes away from Clint and looks out the wide window that lines the east side of his living room. "Where is he?" he asks quietly, watching as dusk begins to settle.

"He's up on the common room balcony. Think he's waiting for you to show up, he's been up there for a while," Clint says and walks out the door.

Steve finds Tony sitting on the tiled balcony floor, feet hanging over the edge between steel bars, a haze of cigarette smoke surrounding him. This surprises Steve, who thought he knew Tony's every addiction, his every vice. For a moment, he stands there, watching Tony, eyes raking over the engineer's tense shoulders, his beautiful forearms, his wind swept hair, and the strong scrapped up hands that have forged steel. Knowing that the night is cool and that the breeze is stronger on the top floor of the tower, Steve grabs the red afghan from the couch before walking out the automated glass doors, shooting a last glance to the shelves lining the living room walls.

Without preamble he throws the blanket over Tony's shoulders, takes a seat beside the man, his own feet hanging over the edge, and says, "Didn't know you smoked."

Tony frowns, shivers into the afghan as if he's just realizing how cold he must be, pulls the cigarette away from his lips, and studies the half smoked stub while blowing smoke into the night. With a slight shrug he says, "I used to. Now, not so much; can't really be smoking on a regular basis when you've got limited lung capacity and all that jazz," all the while rubbing a hand over his arc reactor. Something about the automated gesture makes Steve think Tony isn't consciously aware of doing it.

Steve makes a humming noise in his throat that can be considered as agreement and remains silent, thoughts turning over in his mind in a futile attempt of trying to determine what to say next. But after a while, the moment passes, leaving Steve sitting atop cold cream colored tiles, feet hanging over an endless edge. He wonders how long the fall would be and shudders when he remembers jumping out of a ten story window during the war when there was no other way out of a burning building he and Bucky had found themselves trapped in.

"So," Tony says after several moments of sitting in relative silence, stubbing out his cigarette and looking over at Steve. "I have to know, why the pictures? Taking up a new twenty-first century hobby, Cap?"

Steve shrugs and meeting Tony's put upon disinterested gaze, says, "Just noticed you didn't have any hanging up anywhere-made me wonder."

When Tony's expression turns quizzical, Steve stammers to explain. "Look I-it made the place feel emptier than it is."

And this was the truth now, because even though Tony lacked the pictures, he had a network of people who cared for him-albeit it had been smaller before the Avengers moved in and somehow made themselves a family. Although Steve still notices the empty spaces and gaps, the place isn't empty anymore, Tony's life isn't as empty anymore.

Surprisingly, Tony begins laughing and Steve can't help glancing at him; watching Tony Stark give a full honest laugh is mesmerizing.

"Cap, you do know the paparazzi have like a million photos of me, right?" Tony asks, still chuckling.

"Yeah, but it's not the same," he says before he can think of it.

"Pictures are pictures, Cap. If you wanted to hang up pictures of me or of the Avengers out in the field, you could have taken them from magazine spreads," Tony responds, hugging the afghan tightly around him when a strong breeze blows through them.

Steve decides tonight is not the time for explaining to Tony the meaning behind the hand that takes the picture. Instead, he decides to turn the conversation back on him.

"Why were you avoiding me?" Steve asks looking out at the city lights, hoping for an honest answer instead of the usual deflection that seems to come so naturally from the engineer.

"You take a lot more pictures of me than you do anyone else. Why?" Tony retorts, turning back to him, looking straight at him.

Steve meets his gaze. "Why do you think?"

"I have an idea," Tony says twirling an unlit cigarette in his fingers. "I did have an interesting conversation with our dear archer today and he had some interesting things to say."

Steve snorts and turns back to look at the city again, a smirk on his lips. "Clint's not exactly subtle." Taking a breath, he ventures to ask, "Do you want to have dinner with me?"

This time, when Tony looks over at him, Steve can see the warmth in his eyes, the genuine care. In them, he sees something that he hopes can turn to love. He feels the breath he's been holding leave his lungs and smiles a smile so wide he can feel his entire face stretch with it.

The smirk Tony gives is lined with mischief, his tone softly mocking. "Why Captain, are you asking me out on a date?"

Ducking his head, Steve runs a hand through his hair before turning his eyes back on Tony. "Yes," he says, helpless to stop the blush rising to his cheeks.

Before he can reply, he sees Tony lift half of the afghan blanket only to place it over Steve's own shoulders; he appreciates the gesture-he may not feel cold the same way everyone else does, but he doubts it's a feeling he would ever grow accustomed to ever since being brought back. Their shoulders bump and Steve is acutely aware of the way Tony seems to burrow closer to him and the way his hand is lightly drawing small circles on the top of Steve's left thigh; Steve notices just how warm Tony is and fails to fight back a full body shiver. Hesitantly, making sure to project his every movement, he puts an arm over Tony's shoulders, drawing him even closer.

Below them the city is beautifully aglow, its ever present lights shining brightly into the night making it impossible to see a single star. Even perched this high up, Steve can hear the sounds of life below: the passing of cars, the honking of horns, the whistles and bells that always seem to be present in every major city; can hear the heavy shouts of New Yorker's all around, can hear the faint sound of a distant gunshot and the police sirens that follow immediately thereafter; if he concentrates enough he can even hear the groaning of steel and iron from the buildings that surround them. But more importantly, he can hear the way Tony's heart is beating, a few beats off of his own; can hear his every inhaled and exhaled breath.

When Tony's heart beat picks up, he instinctively leans his head down in an attempt to meet Tony's gaze, only for his lips to brush against the genius' own. Tony's lips are chapped from the cold and bitten, but they are talented and insistent; when Tony's tongue gently sweeps over Steve's lips, he gasps, surrenders all he is and melts into Tony, letting him take what he wants with pleasure. Later, Steve will swear his own heart painfully stuttered within his chest the moment his lips met Tony's own; will remember feeling a tingling sense of warmth everywhere Tony's skin touched his own.

"You're still going to keep taking pictures, though, right?" Tony asks once they separate to catch their breaths. His lips are cherry red and swollen, the pupils of his chocolate brown eyes are blown wide, and it takes a minutes for Steve to parse together what he's said.

"I wouldn't dream of stopping," Steve ardently responds, thinking of the framed photographs he placed on the living room shelves before coming out to the balcony.