Okay, time for the a/n. First though, I need to give a shout out to Ecri, who has been so kind, generous, wonderful and encouraging to me! Thank you so much hon for all the detailed reviews! Ecri is awesome and I just had to write something to show my appreciation. :D

Now, in regards to this actual mess of a story, let me say that this is what happens when you poke a lazy muse with a pointy stick. It might seem a bit jumbled and disconnected (it probably is) and some words and phrases may be repeated (intentionally) but I hope everyone has as much fun reading this mix of humor and angst as I had writing it. There are some themes I had in the back of my mind while writing this that I didn't include so if anyone's curious, PM me and I'll tell you all about them.

P.S. There is a Captain America vs. Iron Man scene in here. If anyone's interested in something like that...;)

It starts on a Tuesday. Driven by the need for nourishment, Tony finally wanders up from his lab and into the communal kitchen. He's so focused on searching through the numerous cupboards for a suitable snack that he barely glances at Steve, who is hunched over the sink.

"Hey, Cap," Tony absently greets, throwing open doors and pushing his way through boxed pasta and jars of peanut butter.

"Hey, Tony," Steve returns through gritted teeth.

"Are you mad at me?" Tony inquires, bending down to the lower shelves and selecting a bag of pretzels.

"No." Steve's answer is followed by a grunt.

Tony doesn't look up from examining the expiration date. "Are you sure? You sound mad. I can't think of why you would be, though. I haven't seen you in, like, a week."

"I'm not mad," Steve repeats, voice tight. "And it's been ten days."

Satisfied that the pretzels are still edible, if only a bit smashed, Tony stands. "Aw, you were counting the days. That's so sweet," he grins to himself and turns to face the soldier. A gasp steals away the rest of his intended teasing and the bag of pretzels slips from limp fingers.

"What the hell happened to you?" Tony questions in shock, taking in Steve's appearance.

The entire front of Steve's iconic suit is damaged, the material fraying and black, as though it's been exposed to intense heat. His hair is dirty, though not singed, protected as it had been by his helmet. Angry red blisters litter Steve's face and the tips of his fingers, his palms having been beneath his gloves. An entire section of his right shoulder pad is missing and Tony can only imagine what happened to it.

"Amahz Kareem," Steve sighs tiredly, setting down the dishcloth he'd been using to gingerly wipe the remaining soot off his cheeks.

"Who's he?" Tony blinks uncomprehendingly.

"Was. Who was he," Steve corrects, lackluster.

"Oh," Tony eventually replies when Steve gives no indication of further elaboration.

Steve wets the rag again, wincing as his fingers came under the spray of water, before carefully smoothing the material over his forehead.

"What are you doing here?" Tony blurts.

Steve raises a skeptical eyebrow. "Last I checked, I lived here. Unless you've decided to kick me out?"

"Yes. Wait, no! Well, I mean, yes, you do live here. No, I haven't kicked you out," Tony hurriedly babbles. "I meant why are you here and not in the hospital?"

"No need." With a passive survey of his burn-littered hands, Steve shrugs before glancing up at Tony. "It'll heal." He gives a small smile.

Tony gazes incredulously at him, too stunned at Steve's casual dismissal of his injuries to say anything. Steve lowers his head again, tilting it to the side.

"It's a shame about the suit though."

The next time it happens, Tony's waiting in the back of the quinjet. Finally, Steve slowly limps up the ramp to join him.

"What the hell was that all about?" Tony inquires, stepping in front of him and halting his further progress into the jet.

"What was what?" Steve queries innocently.

"You know exactly what I'm talking about." Tony stares pointedly down at the bulky bandage around Steve's thigh.

"Oh, that." Steve feigns enlightenment.

"Yes, 'that'. What else would I be referring to?" Tony throws his hands up, exasperated.

Steve chuckles quietly.

"Why'd you let that happen?" Tony questions, taking a step closer.

"I didn't ask for the stairwell to collapse on me," Steve reminds, an amused smile still in place as he carefully lowers himself onto one of the seats.

"No, but you could have moved out of the way," Tony argues.

"Despite what you might think, Stark, I'm not faster than the speed of falling rubble," Steve counters, leaning back into the seat, his head coming to rest on the parachutes strapped to the wall behind him.

"Yes, you are," Tony retorts.

Steve merely smiles that small smile again. "It's no big deal. It'll heal."

The time after that scares Tony so badly he has nightmares about it for weeks. Furious, he storms through the SHIELD infirmary, frightening the nurses and flipping off the guards who attempt to block his path to room I-29. He wants to slam his fist down on the thumbprint scanner that is currently locking the door. The little device would crumble beneath the power of his fingers, armored as they are in the suit he's been too soaked in adrenaline to remove. But he knows that if he breaks it, it will create a mess he has neither the inclination nor the time to fix. So instead he orders Jarvis to hack the system. In seven and a half seconds flat, the door slides open and Tony stomps into the room.

Steve's laid out straighter than a ruler on the thin mattress. Machines beep a rhythmic tempo, like the beat of a pop song, into the otherwise quiet room. It takes less than three steps for Tony to cross the tiny room and stand over Steve. He wants to make himself glare sternly at Steve's face but his attention is drawn to the gauze wrapped in layers around the captain's throat. Steve's eyes open and he gazes up questioningly at Tony. Knowing that Steve's not allowed to talk, and, honestly, relieved that the soldier won't be able to deflect the conversation, Tony dives in without preamble.

"You know, when someone's holding you hostage at knife point, you're not supposed to move," he lectures, almost conversationally.

It should be obvious. It's supposed to be common sense. But Steve's remarkably stupid (no, it's not bravery. It's stupidity. Tony's sure he knows the difference.)

Steve's eyebrows crease.

"I shouldn't have to tell you that. Anyone with half a brain and even a shred of self-preservation knows that," Tony continues in the same tone that masks his true panic.

Nothing he can do will erase from his memory the image of Steve purposefully thrusting his exposed neck onto the sharp blade of a knife. There's no amount of alcohol that will allow him to forget the way Clint's blood-slicked hands kept slipping off Steve's throat while they waited the agonizing minutes for the medics to arrive. And no matter how many times he fired his repulsors into the son of a bitch who thought it was a good idea to threaten Captain America, the impression of Steve's split skin will always burn in his mind like the reflection of direct sunlight behind his eyelids.

"So you want to explain to me why you helped slit your own throat?" Tony demands, voice suddenly devoid of any emotion but righteous anger.

Steve makes a motion in the air and Tony knows he asking for a pen and paper. For a moment, Tony considers denying him because after the stunt he pulled, the last thing Steve deserves is to have anyone cater to his every whim. But his genuine curiosity and hot anger want an answer. So Tony yanks off the clipboard that was attached to the end of the bed and shoves it at Steve.

Despite the awkward angle at which he has to write, Steve manages to scrawl out an explanation. He hands the file to Tony, who snatches it impatiently. There, in Steve's hand writing, made more sloppy by the unusual circumstances, are words that Tony hopes will bring peace of mind.

Couldn't let him have any leverage.

They aren't comforting and Tony lets Steve know this by glaring fiercely at him. Steve's shoulders hitch up in a slight shrugging motion and he reaches again for the pad of paper. Reluctantly, Tony relinquishes it. After a moment of writing, Steve gives it back. There's an arrow drawn to the doctor's notes on the predicted recovery date. Above the arrow are three words Tony is quickly becoming sick of hearing.

It'll heal.

After promising himself that he wouldn't let it happen again, Tony feels guilty as hell when it not only does happen again, but this time it's his fault. Per his habit, he's been down in his lab for several days, working on a new project. There are a lot of things he loves about his suits but one of the things he loves the most is that there's always room for improvement. All he has to do when he gets inspiration for a new modification is to install the required equipment to the armor and maybe add a few new programs to the hard drive when necessary.

He's almost finished with an upgrade that would allow his suit to attack independently of him. Codenamed 'Watchdog', Tony's vision is that this feature will enable his suit to operate as not only a tool for him to control, but also as a separate member of the team. If for any reason he has to remain in the Tower while the others go on a mission, the suit could potentially accompany them and function as well as if he were inside it, neutralizing threats and clearing the path for the rest of the Avengers.

Fairly certain that the program is finished, Tony begins the final checks. And that's when it all goes to hell. He doesn't know how it happens but someway or another, the program becomes activated as he's running the last test. Without warning, the suit lights up and begins firing. He ducks beneath his worktable and cringes as sparks rain down every time the rogue robot hits a piece of equipment.

Through all the repulsor blasts and exploding computers, he thinks he might hear the sound of the door opening, but he can't be sure until he sees a familiar pair of boots running across the shiny floor. Then a fist grabs his collar, yanking him out from under the table a second before it's overturned and fire fills the space it occupied. Tony squeaks as he's shoved behind Steve's broad frame.

"What the hell did you do to it?" Steve inquires, jerking Tony to the side when a bolt of energy flies too close to them.

"I was only trying to make it better," Tony preemptively defends.

"Great job," Steve congratulates dryly.

They dodge another shot and Steve manhandles Tony into the relative shelter afforded in the space behind the metal lockers lining one end of the room.

"Can you shut it down?" Steve questions, peering around the corner of the lockers to watch as the Iron Man suit rips apart a welding torch.

"I don't even know how I turned it on!" Tony helplessly protests.

Steve rolls his eyes.

"What about you? Where's your shield?" Tony deflects.

"In my quarters," Steve replies, turning his face into his shoulder as a well placed shot hits one of the many display screens, sending a flurry of glass slivers into the air.

"What's the point of having it if you just leave it in your room, where it's completely useless?" Tony complains, drawing his knees up to his chest.

"You're lucky I happened to be walking past here when I was or you'd be toast right now," Steve reminds.

"That's low," Tony mumbles, too embarrassed to come up with a clever retort.

Steve sets his jaw. "I guess we'll have to do this the old fashioned way. Stay here," he orders the billionaire before diving away from their hiding place.

"Wait. What's the old fashioned way?" Tony calls, poking his head out.

Steve doesn't reply. He's busy sprinting across the room. As soon as the Iron Man suit notices the motion, it singles him out as its next target. Steve drops to his knees, his momentum carrying him all the way into the opposite wall. He uses the wall as a spring board, pushing himself off of it and straight into the path of the robot. Programmed as it is, the armor is not expecting the illogical move and is unprepared for the full weight of the super soldier that collides with its legs. It crashes to the ground, where Steve immediately pounces on it.

For a brief moment, they are equally matched, Steve struggling to gain supremacy and the suit attempting to dislodge him. When he lifts a hand to reach for the helmet, the suit has an opening and stars burst in front of Steve's eyes when the metallic fist connects with his temple. The armor rolls out from under him, poised above him, the palms glow as a fatal blast of energy is charged. Steve arches his back and plants his hands and feet before executing a prize worthy back flip.

Unimpressed by the stunt, the armor changes tactics. It grabs him by the back of the neck and slams his skull into one of the few pieces of furniture still left standing. Steve blinks away the black spots that swim in his vision and reaches up to grip the arm that's holding him. He dips his shoulder, dragging the arm into position over it before jumping up on his toes and lowering the arm at the same time. The resounding crack is sharp and echoes in the room as the metal creaks and bends after hitting the bones in his shoulder. Steve winces as his shoulder protests but he ignores it and takes advantage of the fact that the suit has taken a second to assess the damage to its appendage. He kicks at the armor's legs, angling his strike so it hits the joint in the back of the suit's knees.

The move knocks the Iron Man off balance and Steve wrenches its undamaged arm behind its back, and drives the suit forward onto the same table it had slammed him into only moments before. He repeats the motion it had dealt him, though the metal is unfazed by the repeated blows. The suit powers up its rocket thrusters and shoots out of Steve's grip, flying straight for the ceiling. Just before it impacts, it returns to ground level, landing with a heavy thud behind Steve, who deftly avoids the strike by rolling under the table and appearing on the other side. He aims a punch at the looming armor. In a counterattack that shocks both Steve and Tony, the suit intercepts his arm and yanks it to the table top. In the same instant that it releases his hand, it stabs a screwdriver clean through the meat of his forearm and into the metal surface beneath. Steve cries out and Tony swears loudly, running out from behind the lockers. He knows that if even Captain America is getting his butt kicked then he has no chance at success. But he'll be darned if he stands by and watches his own creation hurt his friend.

Before Tony is even halfway across the room however, Steve's eyes go dark and he lunges forward. He slides his other arm around the helmet, securing his fingers under the chin before giving it a vicious twist. Wires break and gears grind, while alarms shriek from within the faceplate. Steve wrenches it harder and the helmet snaps free. The body clatters lifelessly to the floor. Panting heavily, Steve squeezes the head piece a moment longer before tossing it away. Tony watches it skitters over the floor, until it comes to rest on its side, where Steve's finger indentations are clearly visible. He swallows hard and is immensely grateful that he wasn't inside the suit when it malfunctioned. He's also overwhelmingly relieved that he and Steve have never actually had that contest the captain had challenged him to the day they first met aboard the Helicarrier.

Steve's labored breathing brings Tony's attention back to the situation at hand and he rushes to Steve's side, determined to make up for the damage his suit inflicted. His stomach nearly flips inside out however, once he has the chance to look at the screwdriver wedged in Steve's arm.

"Oh, gosh. That looks gross," Tony announces, holding a hand to his mouth. "I think I might hurl."

"Thanks for the sympathy," Steve mutters, grinding his teeth as he settles his free hand over the handle of the tool.

"I mean, it looks like it hurts," Tony amends, still appearing green.

"It's not so bad," Steve assures, mentally counting to three in his head.

"Yeah, it's not too deep. But we should probably wait for-" Tony starts.

He's interrupted when Steve draws the screwdriver out in one smooth motion.

"Or we could always do it that way," Tony agrees weakly.

Steve bites back a curse as he draws the injured limb to his body. He slaps his other hand over it, applying pressure to stem the flow of blood. When he catches sight of Tony's face, creased in a mixture of disgust, trepidation and regret, he smiles reassuringly.

"You were right. It's a shallow cut," he lies. An examination of the table would reveal the hole where the tip of the screwdriver had struck after going through his arm. "It'll heal in no time."

Tony looks relieved. Then he looks around the room at the wrecked equipment, overturned furniture and shattered glass, and his face falls.

Steve can't help but smirk. "I would stay to help you clean up but I only have one good arm."

"Right," Tony agrees miserably.

"Once you get everything put back together, how about you take a break from trying to improve your suits, okay?" Steve begins to leave but pauses in the doorway. "Because, Stark, you know the saying 'if it ain't broke, don't fix it'?"

Tony nods warily, already knowing what Steve's going to say before he even says it.

"It's damned good advice."

After that, Tony decides that it is inevitable and Steve is only too willing to prove him right, which only serves to tick Tony off even more.

"So, let me make sure I've got this figured out correctly. You're telling me that you let the rabid teddy bear aliens gnaw on your legs because you weren't sure whether they were friendly or not?" Tony clarifies.

"Yes," Steve affirms, rubbing a hand absently over the many toothpick-sized holes in his pants.

"What the hell made you think they would be friendly?" Tony questions, resisting the urge to slap Steve on the back of the head. "Aliens are always hostile."

"Thor isn't," Steve observes.

"He's the exception, not the rule," Tony grumbles, though he does wave at the demigod, who is taking his turn placing an order at the fast food joint they've stopped at on the way back to the Tower.

"That doesn't mean he's the only exception," Steve counters.

"Maybe he is," Tony shoots back.

"You just said maybe," Steve points out.

"Meaning?" Tony impatiently taps a foot.

"Meaning there's a possibility that other aliens might be friendly," Steve explains. "But we'll never know if we destroy them all as soon as they show up."

"Okay, fine. But why didn't you start destroying them as soon as they started using you for a chew toy?" Tony inquires.

"I thought they were just exploring their surroundings," Steve defends.

"What?" Tony blinks.

"You know, like how a shark does," Steve insists. "Sharks don't have hands and their eye sight is pretty bad. That's why they bite things, it's their way of figuring out what they are."

"How in the world do you know random stuff like that?" Tony queries disbelievingly, stepping toward the waiting cashier.

"I watch nature shows." Steve shrugs simply.

"Lame," Tony mutters under his breath. He stares up at the menu before glancing down at Steve's legs again. "You should probably disinfect those or something."

"The serum will take care of that," Steve reminds. "It'll heal fine."

It's happened so many times by now that Tony wishes he could stop keeping count in his head. He glares at Steve, who is completely oblivious, concentrating on gently maneuvering his serum enhanced body onto the couch.

"Is there any part of your body you haven't broken, burnt, cut, or otherwise injured?" Tony bites.

Steve pauses, as though in deep concentration. Then he breaks into a grin and proudly points to his left knee. "Here!"

"That was a rhetorical question," Tony snaps. "What the hell did you do to your rib?"

Steve remains silent.

"That one wasn't rhetorical," Tony finally explains.

"Oh," Steve mouths. He settles back on the cushions before answering. "Thor and I were just sparring."

"Sparring, huh?" Tony repeats skeptically.

"Yes," Steve insists, leaving out the fact that it was more of a session designed to allow Thor to blow off some steam.

"Right. So how bad is it broken?" Tony inquires, crossing his arms.

"It's just a crack," Steve assures.

"I'll be the judge of that," Tony decides, abruptly crouching in front of Steve and pressing his fingers against the chest of Steve's gray gym shirt.

Steve stiffens and raises an eyebrow.

Tony freezes a second before snatching his hands away. "Yeah, okay. That was awkward. I'll just have to take your word for it."

"I've had both broken and cracked ribs before, Tony," Steve reminds. "I know the difference. This is definitely only cracked."

"You say that like it's a good thing," Tony grumbled.

"It is," Steve returned. "Cracks heal a lot easier than breaks."

It's late on a Friday evening when it changes. Tony gets jolted from sleep by Jarvis cryptically advising him that he's needed in the gym. If it had come from Clint's mouth, Tony would think it was a crack about his physical fitness. But Jarvis is far too concerned with things like sleep schedules and his master's dream patterns to interrupt him just for a simple joke. So Tony slides out of bed, groggy and slightly annoyed. It's rare that he actually sleeps on a mattress and he was enjoying it. Yet, he knows something must be really important for Jarvis to wake him so he hurries to the elevator and selects the appropriate floor.

When the bell chimes and the doors open, he hurries down the corridor. As he draws closer to the large room that holds all the Avengers' training equipment, he can hear stifled cursing. Intrigued, he quickens his pace. He pauses just inside the doorway however, unwilling to allow himself to walk into a situation without first knowing what to expect. A cursory scan of the room shows it to be empty, except for Steve, who is sitting on the floor in the middle of what could only be described as an obstacle course. In reality, it is a haphazard collection of moveable equipment, set up to simulate different terrain and hurdles the heroes might come across on any given mission.

"What the hell happened? Didn't you see the no life guard on duty sign?" Tony quips, coming up behind the solitary soldier.

Steve whips his head around to stare up at Tony, confusion wrinkling his forehead.

"You've never been to a public pool, have you?" The blank look he receives is all the answer Tony needs. "Never mind," he dismisses. "Back to the original question. How did you manage to hurt yourself in an empty room?"

"It's not empty," Steve retorts from between grit teeth, gesturing at the obstacle course.

"Don't tell me you fell from the monkey bars," Tony laughs.

Steve glares at him.

"Wait. You did?" Tony infers, incredulous.

Without replying, Steve returns his head to the bowed position it had been in when Tony entered. It's then that Tony also looks down and he sucks in a sharp breath.

"I guess you jinxed yourself," he informs Steve as they both contemplate the unnatural angle at which Steve's left knee is resting.

Steve merely prods the offending limb experimentally. Tony is again struck by the fact that the captain's pain threshold is high, probably in a way that is detrimental to his health.

"It needs to be set," Steve observes.

Tony blanches.

When Steve sees his reaction, he takes a deep breath. "Don't worry. I can do it myself."

Tony's face goes from pale to snow white. Taking pity on him, Steve nods toward the supply closet on the other side of the room.

"Can you get me an Ace bandage?" he requests.

Tony is more than happy to oblige. When he returns, Steve's face is beaded with sweat and he's breathing heavily but his knee is back in its rightful position. Accepting the proffered bandage, Steve gingerly wraps the joint in place.

"So are you going to tell me why you fell? What's got you so distracted?" Tony questions quietly. Steve opens his mouth to speak but Tony holds up a hand to stop him. "And don't give me any crap about making a simple mistake. I know you've done this course perfectly a thousand times."

Surprised by Tony's perceptiveness, Steve sits in silence.

"What's going on in that patriotic head of yours?" Tony cushions his serious inquiry in a bit of humor, which he follows up with a tap of his knuckles against Steve's sweaty forehead.

A small smile lifts the corners of Steve's lips and he meets Tony's eyes before letting his gaze slip away to a nonexistent spot in the distance. Just when Tony thinks Steve won't ever answer, the soldier's chest rises as he inhales deeply.

"I'm the last one," he states, voice soft.

"Last one?" Tony echoes, uncomprehendingly.

"The last Howling Commando," Steve clarifies quietly. He brushes a hand against his nose and his brows furrow. "Jones died Monday."

Tony shifts until he's sitting cross-legged beside Steve, their shoulders just barely bumping together.

"He died peacefully, in his sleep," Steve adds, doing his best to make it sound like he's focusing on the silver lining. "He was ninety-eight. Can you believe that?"

Tony detects the forced cheerfulness and he's never heard a sadder sound.

"He had eight kids, thirty-seven grand-kids and eleven great-grand-kids," Steve informs Tony.

There's a hidden undercurrent of longing in the words and it makes Tony feel oddly uncomfortable, not because of the topic of family but because it's something very private for Steve. Tony knows he can never confirm it, not without asking Steve some very personal questions, but he's nearly confident that the captain was planning on marrying Peggy Carter as soon as the war was over. It was what most soldiers did and with Steve holding close to old fashioned ideas and traditions, it was likely his dream to settle down and have a family with her. He never got the chance and Tony understands the heartache that comes from missed chances.

"I didn't make it to the funeral," Steve admits, eyes clouded with muted regret. "It's impossible to be in both New York fending off aliens and in Ohio attending a funeral service."

Tony intentionally brushes his shoulder against Steve's in a gesture of support.

"So," Steve sighs heavily before scrubbing a hand through his hair. "Yeah. I'm the last one left," he repeats, struggling to maintain an upbeat tone.

Tony contemplates the soldier beside him for a moment. Steve is the kind of man who would rather have a close brush with death than to allow himself to be used against his teammates, a man who would rather allow himself to be chewed on rather than risk slaughtering innocent creatures, a man who single-handedly defeated the world's most sophisticated piece of technology in order to protect his friend. And it's then that Tony can see the silver lining in the cloud of tragedy that is Steve's past.

"Last Commando, maybe," Tony concedes. "But last Avenger?" he turns his head to meet Steve's eyes. "Sorry, but you're one of six, pal. You're part of a matching set now so don't get any delusions of grandeur, okay?" Although his mouth is smirking, his gaze holds Steve's steadily, and he presses all his sincerity into that, communicating in non-verbals that speak volumes.

Steve hears what isn't being said, sees what's in Tony's brown eyes. Strength, companionship, empathy-it's all there. And it's exactly what he needs. He ducks his head shyly. Tony scratches a hand over his beard and then points at Steve's leg.

"How's the knee?" he inquires.

"It'll heal," Steve answers with a small smile.