Chapter 1: To take a breath, Press a kiss.

"…Cordially invited to, blah, blah, blah-" his hand hovered over the massive pile of paperwork on the far left of the desk and then across the ever-growing collection of papers littering the floor. The words 'Children's hospital' caught his eye on the letter and with a sigh, Tony dropped it onto the table pile.

He reached for the next non-descript envelope, sliced the screwdriver beneath the flap and opened it, sliding the sheath of papers out. His eyes saw columns and numbers, and he immediately dropped it on top of the children's benefit letter, with a resounding, "Pepper."

The next letter to hand was already open, and in bright red pen Pepper had written across the front – 'Tony, these patent motions require your signature, do not send them back to me for a third time without signing them!"

Again, he wavered, hand hovering over Pepper's pile for a devilish moment, before he tossed them on top of the subscription magazine and an advertisement for the annual Superhero costume bash on the other side of the desk.

Pepper's pile was already dauntingly high, and despite what she no doubt thought, Tony didn't deliberately set out to cause her more work (regardless of what he sometimes might indicate with his behavior).

It usually just 'sort of happened'.

The next three envelopes ended up on the floor unopened, the large font on the front proclaiming "Better health, better wealth!" – and he recognized yet another copy of the patent motion envelope; Pepper no doubt thought she was funny.

His plans for well-earned revenge were thwarted by the appearance of an eye-catching pink envelope, with silver edging. He crowed excitedly, reaching for it with an eagerness he would deny if asked- but these were always absolute comedic gold. Pepper had an exquisite sense of humor that dovetailed perfectly with Tony's own.

She handpicked only the best of the best of his crazy fan mail to forward on to him.

He tore the letter open, ignoring the make-shift letter-opener in favor of excited ripping.

It never occurred to him to wonder how a letter that had already been approved and vetted by Pepper could still be sealed.

The envelope carried a faint scent. Not floral though, something earthier and muskier, Tony liked it. He hoped this was another marriage proposal; Steve loved those.

Jealous Steve was all kinds of adorable.

The card inside was quality stock, a creamy white with a slight sheen to it, and as he slipped it from the envelope, lifting it to read the glossy black scrawl meandering across the front of the paper.

To take a breath,

Press a kiss.

Lips to lips,

For what you miss.

Tony's brow creased as his eyebrows drew together in non-plussed confusion. He felt the first vague stirrings of unsettlement, disquiet, but couldn't help lifting it again to re-read. The angle of light revealed more writing on the reverse.

Smaller text, messier. It felt cruel.

When death approaches,

A life must end.

Steal another's breath,

Brother, lover, sister, friend.

Tony tried to stop reading, tried to –

Break the cycle,

But once per affection true.

Recieve the kiss of life,

Choose the one to die for you.

The paper dropped from numb hands-

His mouth was open; he could feel the coldness of the room invading the warmth, feel his tongue flicking across his lips in frantic confirmation that he should be able to draw air. Should be able to breathe.

'Inhale,' his mind screamed, 'Inhale!', but there was no knowledge, no instinct, no memory-

There was just…nothing there.

He shoved back from the workbench, the wheeled stool shooting out from beneath him to rocket across the room and ricochet violently off the opposite workbench, screeching to a stop on its side in the center of the workshop.

"Sir?"

JARVIS did not sound overly concerned, as it was not altogether unusual for such a thing to occur in this particular workshop. The AI seemed a strange blend of amused, bemused, curious and exasperated.

JARVIS!

Only, as Tony mouthed frantically at the air, he realized, one cannot speak, if one cannot breathe.

JARVIS though, bless his perfect coding, immediately started to comprehend that all was not well, (a silent Tony always, always meant trouble – in one form or another) asking more urgently, "Sir? Do you require assista-?"

Tony nodded frantically, hands coming together, his right fisted on his left palm, drawing them upward in front of himself repeatedly. JARVIS, his fucking genius AI, instantly recognized the ASL sign for 'help,' responding immediately, "I'll alert one of the- Sir! You must disable the workshop blackout protocol! You must-"

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!

Tony had still been working on the incredibly valuable and highly volatile computer weapons system for SHIELD and had locked down external access the workshop, just in case of the improbable event that a hacker managed to piggyback JARVIS into the system. The AI still had audio/verbal capabilities throughout the tower, but Tony had isolated several of his programs within the workshop.

Tony lunged for the nearest computer console, his hands reaching for the holographic keyboard that shimmered into existence with their closing proximity.

One password typed into any electronic device in this room would be enough.

Only, Tony found, as the glaring red 'Error- incorrect password, one attempt remaining' text screamed at him from the computer screen; his own brain was going to kill him.

The holographic keyboard was perfect. Streamlined, beautiful and extremely precise.

Too fucking precise for Tony's fumbling, clumsy hands.

That were neither fumbling nor clumsy, just violently shaking because he was terrified.

And hyperventilating. Trying to hyperventilate.

Terrified that he was going to die down here.

Calm down. Tony had to calm down. He still had a minute. At least. Maybe two. He had time. He took a deep, steadying breath- except he didn't.

Oh, fuck it.

The glass wall beside the workshop entrance reverberated in its frame as JARVIS slammed the door open, Tony careening out into the corridor, running toward the elevator and help.

Only to suddenly realize, to suddenly remember. Everyone else was gone.

Gone for the day. Steve at some veteran thing, Nat and Clint doing as spies do, Bruce off sciencing somewhere, and Thor being Tourist Thor. Just off living their lives.

Tony slid to the floor in the elevator.

Hanging his coat on the hook beside the elevator, Steve toed off his boots, leaving them neatly against the wall. Shaking his head, he straightened the haphazard pile of sneakers and boots that belonged to Tony, Bruce, and Clint, lining them up neatly alongside his own and what had to be a pair of Natasha's ballet flats.

Only Thor's boat sized boots were still missing. It seemed Steve was second to last home.

He moved down the hall, letting the dull roar of mayhem and chaos draw him toward the kitchen. He slipped quietly into the room, leaning against the doorframe to observe.

Bruce was hovering over something on the stove, which explained the delicious smell that had wafted into Steve's nostrils before he'd even left the elevator. Bruce was probably the best cook amongst them, which was likely why he found himself volunteered for dinner duty most nights.

Natasha was seated at the table, while Clint had perched himself on the kitchen bench beside the stove, ostensibly to help Bruce by occasionally stirring, but blatantly a ploy to earn (read: pilfer) tastes.

Not seeing Tony anywhere in the near vicinity, (he even glanced under the table, to no avail. After that one time-) Steve stepped further into the room, pulling up a seat at the table as he spoke, "Smells great, Bruce."

Bruce turned to look at him, "Hey Steve. Another ten minutes or so I think. How was your day, you were helping out at the new Veteran center, right?",

Steve couldn't help but be impressed, as halfway through his greeting Bruce had leaned back and without missing a beat, blindly swatted Clint's wandering fingers as they'd approached the saucepan.

"Ow!" Clint sulked, hopping off the bench to retreat to a more strategic safe zone, setting up camp on the edge of the table beside Natasha.

Bruce shook his head, stirring the pot as he replied, "Oh, don't be a baby, you rotten little thief."

"Wow. Mean!" Clint shot back, thrusting his abused hand into Natasha's eye line for sympathy, only to have to throw himself off the table when she lunged forward, teeth snapping.

Steve shot an arm out, fisting his hand in the back of Clint's shirt, arresting the archer's headfirst momentum toward the corner of the table. Setting Clint on his feet with a shake of his head, Steve answered Bruce's original question, "Yeah, we're almost all set up. We've got the grand opening at the end of the month, and we're on track to get everything done by then. How was your day?"

"Long. Scientists. That is all." Bruce explained with a rueful headshake.

Steve grinned, "Tell me about it. Actually, on second thought- don't. Where is Tony anyway?"

"We haven't seen him, so he's likely still in the workshop. He probably lost track of time again." Natasha replied, fiddling absently with the spoon set before her.

"And the day of the week, the month…probably even the year. Thor should be back soon- he called from the subway. You should go and collect your genius." Clint added mockingly, as he grabbed bowls out of a cupboard.

Steve shook his head fondly as he answered, "Yeah- I'll go and attempt to lure him out with a mug of coffee in a few minutes. He probably hasn't eate-"

The kitchen door slid closed so hard it bounced out of its slider, somehow managing to drag itself along the runner to slam open, before closing again- slamming repeatedly. Simultaneously the lights flickered, and every electrical device in the kitchen turned on. Blenders whirred loudly, the coffee machine turning itself to grind, the dishwasher beeping its 'finished' alarm over and over and over again.

"What the hell!" Clint shouted over the noise, palming a knife as he leaped to his feet, rushing toward the nearest appliance, grabbing the plug and pulling. "STARK! Your kitchen better not be fucking haunted! I don't do poltergeist shit!"

Bruce had grabbed the blender, unplugging it and its neighboring coffee machine, and started calling, "JARVIS?! What's going on?"

"JARVIS?!"

Steve was the one to work it out, "Tony said something about Jarvis today – he had to split the system? Something to do with the nature of whatever Tony's working on... - JARVIS?! JAR- he's trying to communicate! Somethings wrong- Tony!"

Later, Steve would wonder if Tony had been sprawled on the floor of the elevator as he'd taken his time to straighten the shoes and hang up his coat.

He looked like something out of a low budget horror film.

His skin was ghastly white, the translucent blanching of shock, with spreading blotchiness coloring his cheeks with an unattractive ruddiness. The bruises under his eyes were so dark that he looked like he'd been slugged in the face, repeatedly.

And his eyes.

Blown wide; liquid brown appeared ink black, his pupils lost to the wash of hysteria.

Only his mouth outdid the horror of his eyes. A vast cavernous black hole in the middle of his face, opening and closing grotesquely, as he swallowed and choked convulsively around words that wouldn't come, air that wasn't there.

Who's fucking brilliant idea had it been to line the interior of the elevator with fucking reflective black glass?

Oh, right.

Tony closed his eyes on his reflection, determined that if he was about to die, as seemed likely, he sure as hell wasn't watching himself go.

Absently, Tony noted the unpleasant itching, and the irritating feel of sweat creeping across his skin, drawing an uncomfortable line of heat down the back of his cold and clammy neck.

Was he sweating? Huh.

He wondered who would find him.

The subtle movement of the elevator ceased, and he felt more than heard the elevator door snick open behind him, but couldn't gather the will even to attempt to roll over.

It wasn't that he didn't want to live.

He did. So much.

There was still so much that he had to do, had to offer. So many advances and opportunities and breakthroughs. Things he had to make up for, atone for; so many people he owed. So many people he wouldn't help save. So many things he wouldn't get to see.

Steve's smile kept hovering at the forefront of his mind.

So, no. Tony did not want to die.

But- What was he going to do? There was no one here to help him, and even with all his genius, nothing he could think of that would help. He had-

He'd had but minutes.

Now- perhaps only seconds.

He'd pass out soon, slip into oblivion, and then-

And then he'd die.

There was nothing he could do.

The elevator door slid closed behind him.

Tony's vision dimmed.

Only to be shocked back into clarity when the door immediately slammed open again, and the lights within the carriage went haywire, flashing and flickering. The door continued to move backward and forward, still almost silent, but reverberating through Tony's body where he lay on the floor.

What the hell was goi-

JARVIS.

Tony squeezed his eyes shut. His creation was going to be forced to watch on in helpless agony as Tony spasmed, convulsed and twitched into death.

His right hand, shaking and spasming it its fist, came up circling over his chest several times. The ASL sign for 'sorry.'

His mind echoed the sentiment. Sorry. Sorry, sorry, god – so sorry.

It was pathetic, and nowhere near enough, but it was all he could think to give. He'd like to add 'love,' 'thanks,' 'proud' and so many others. But just- 'Sorry.'

He was so very sorry.

Steve had just stepped into the corridor when he heard the elevator door slam open, and thinking that JARVIS was trying to direct them toward the quickest means of getting to the workshop, he hurried down the hallway.

Twelve seconds later he turned the corner, not slowing as he knew JARVIS would have the door open and the carriage waiti-

The door was open, and the carriage was waiting, but it wasn't empty.

Steve threw himself into the small enclosure, dropping to his knees beside Tony's sprawled form.

"Tony! Tony!? "

Steve honestly couldn't tell if he was even alive.

He reached forward, only to freeze when Bruce shouted "No! Don't move him, Steve!"

Steve yanked his hands back to his chest, god-he knew better! Cautiously, without the previous intent to just grab and pull, Steve reached shaking hands out. One settled feather light on Tony's upturned flank, the other ghosting across the side of Tony's head, stilling against the side of his face, long fingers curling around to tangle in the short strands at the nape of Tony's neck.

Bruce dropped to his knees beside him, and glancing up; Steve glimpsed the wonder twins bracketing the doorway, giving them room, but not straying far. Looking back down as Bruce moved forward, Steve's eyes caught on the reflection of Tony's face.

His brown eyes were wide open and aware, his mouth moving as if trying to speak.

Steve had assumed he was unconscious, and he could see that Bruce was doing the same. He didn't know why – there was just, something.

The silence.

Shuffling a little closer, Steve asked, "Tony? What's wrong- are you-"

Tony was still mouthing futilely at the air, his lips forming around empty silence as he tried to-

And Steve realized that Tony wasn't trying to speak.

He was trying to breathe.

Tony's stopped twitching for an instant before a sudden body-convulsing spasm flipped him onto his back. Desperately reaching fingertips clenched at the carpeted floor and his mouth gaped wide-open.

"He's not breathing! There must be an obstruction- Tony! Tony- did you swallow something-?" Bruce exclaimed, lunging around Steve to drag his almost non-responsive friend upright, Tony's back to Bruce's chest.

The abortive Heimlich maneuver did absolutely nothing, Tony scrabbling weekly at his arms for purch-

Not for purchase, for attention.

Bruce quickly drew back, trying to get a decent line of sight. Tony convulsed in his arms, and Steve itched to reach for him.

Bruce lay Tony flat again, saying urgently "Whatever is stopping his breathing is stuck fast. Clint, I need a pen. Nat, a knife, please."

Tony reeled back. At least, as much as his slumped twitching position on the floor allowed him.

Fuck.

He had a pretty solid hunch that an emergency tracheotomy wouldn't do anything other than leave his corpse with a hole in the throat.

He needed-

The edge of his vision was a black void of nothingness. His lungs burned, so much so that he knew he was crying, as he convulsed weakly, twitching desperately on the carpeted floor of his elevator.

He wasn't getting out of this one.

And if they'd been seconds earlier, maybe, maybe he'd have had an opportunity for goodbye. But, as his eyes blinked closed of their own accord, he realized- it was too late, he was going to miss- miss-

What you miss.

He'd forgotten. In all the panic, the confusion, the fear- he'd forgotten.

To take a breath,

Press a kiss.

Lips to lips,

For what you miss.

He looked up through the tunnel of his vision, Steve's blond hair a beacon in his darkening world, and suddenly realized.

To take a breath,

Press a kiss.

A kiss.

A kiss to break the spell.

He just had to find the strength, just enough for one simple kiss, and he'd finally be able to breathe.

He drew upon every last little shred of energy, every ounce of stubborn will and 'fuck the world!' left in him. A hand clutching at Bruce's shoulder to drag himself semi-upright, and then bypassing the exclaiming doctor in favor of half lunging, half falling toward Steve-

But -even as his lips somehow mashed against Steve's face, Tony couldn't help but feel, through the lightheaded fuzziness of his oxygen starved brain, that he was overlooking something of monumental importance.

Steve's skin burnt like dry ice where Tony's lips pressed clumsily, warmth barely grazing his mouth before landing squarely against his cheek, nose digging awkwardly against his cheekbone.

Steve had a hint of a second to wonder what Tony was doing. Had just enough time to start to exclaim- "Ton-!" before he was cut off by the drag of those lips, the distinct, all-too-familiar feel of Tony's mouth seeking his. And he realized that he was being kissed.

Tony, incredulously, incredibly somehow passably upright, still convulsing uncontrollably and ferociously, was kissing him.

Or at least, making a very admirable attempt, taking into consideration the twitching limbs, bleach white skin, and intense shaking.

Steve, who had been working on a method of accurately interpreting this particular level of crazy, with fair to moderate success thus-far, immediately theorized that Tony was saying goodbye.

Defying death for one last kiss?

It would be a very 'Tony' thing to do.

The final and fitting grand gesture of 'Tony 'Fucking' Stark.

Only – the kiss he'd take anytime, but Steve wasn't anywhere near ready for that goodbye.

He kept fucking missing.

How the fuck hard could it be to land just one decent kiss? It was Steve; it wasn't like he hadn't had plenty of practice!

One of those ridiculous sky-high cheekbones was hard beneath his nose, and he could feel Steve's stupidly adorable little half dimple thing against the corner of his mouth.

He needed to be an inch to the right and down slightly, which would be fine if he could aim worth a fuck right now. Apparently uncontrollable convulsing and spasming wasn't conducive to good kissing. Who'd have guessed?

He tried to inch his way to the right slightly and achieved little more than burying his nose in Steve's eye socket. His fine-motor control was utterly shot. Here he was, floundering and gaping like a fish out of water, about to die, all for want of simple fucking kiss.

Vaguely he felt the arm that was looped around his waist shift so that the hand was at his side, supporting him, it's partner gentle at his shoulder, stilling him. Steve.

Steve! Steve had worked out what Tony was trying to do- of course, he had! Steve was- Steve was going to-

Steve was pushing him away.

Pushing him gently backward, toward the hard floor, Bruce's knife and Tony's death.

Somehow, with whatever coordination, consciousness and strength he had left, Tony flung his hands out, reaching.

His gaze ensnared blue as his vision was completely swept away by grey, little proverbial fireworks flashing where his eyesight used to be and white noise rushed into the ensuing blindness to greet him.

Pushing Tony away was the complete opposite of what Steve wanted to do. But Bruce was waiting with his razor sharp knife and a razor sharp idea that might just save Tony's life, while Steve holding him close would only end it sooner.

He felt Tony go limp.

Steve felt his heart stutter in his chest, an almost physical ache that spread through his veins like fire swallowed by ice. He heard Bruce's sharp intake of breath, the expletive-filled tirade from Clint, a soft puff of air from Natasha.

And then Tony's eyes locked with his, everything else fell away, and for that instant of a second, only Tony existed. His eyes, blown wide, were huge in his face, devouring Steve's attention; focused and screaming something at him. Something relevant, meaningful, something vital.

And as that intelligent single-mindedness faded away; and with it Tony's ability to focus, to see, Steve felt twin points of contact at his shoulders.

Tony's hands fisted in the material of his shirt, weakly pulling at him, so feeble that Steve might have dismissed it as trembling and shaking, except the rest of Tony was deathly still.

It almost felt like an out-of-body experience. Or like the sensation of hearing something from a very long way away. He wasn't sure if it was even happening, or if his desperate desire was fooling his senses.

Because he was moving; and not backward or downwards.

He was blisteringly aware of the heat of Steve's arms, banded across his shoulders and around his waist. He couldn't work out if it were too hot or not hot enough.

And then it didn't matter because Steve's hand was sliding through the hair, cradling and supporting his head, drawing him closer.

A final Armageddon surge of adrenaline flooded his body, dragging him back from the void that loomed up before him, and Steve's lips were blissfully warm on his.

Nothing happened.

No sudden ability to breath, no surge of oxygen, no bright lights, and fanfare as the spell collapsed.

Just – nothing, except Steve's lips on his.

And if this was some cruel joke, some malicious twist meant to torture him to the very last second; Tony supposed he'd fallen for it; hook, line and sinker.

So.

Fuck it.

He'd kissed Rhodey's grandmother with more passion than this. If this was- If this was the end, his final farewell? Well, Fuck. The. World.

Steve was getting a proper goodbye kiss.

His chest had stopped aching, the agony of breathlessness forced to retreat before the approaching wall of numbness, and Tony took advantage of what felt like a borrowed instant of time, perhaps even stolen from someone set on reclaiming it, and Tony along with it.

He allowed his weight to settle, dropping limply in Steve's grasp, the sudden adjustment bringing Tony deeper into Steve's embrace, and the lips still on his huffed a breath of surprised panic.

Tony felt the air ghost over his lips, invading his open mouth like a phantom of desperation, and wondered; had it been meant to be his?

Whatever the case, it did nothing except sit stale and decaying between them, and Tony shoved aside what-could-have-been, to stick his tongue into Steve's mouth instead.

The kiss was clumsy; weightless and odd without breath to support it, but Tony persevered, pressing up slightly as Steve cottoned onto the program and gently began to guide the exchange as Tony rapidly faded.

Tony wondered why Steve still tasted of hope.

Tony hoped he tasted of sorryproudregretnoregretcouragelove.

A hand on his shoulder, unseen, unfelt, unnoticed, started to draw him away, and Tony-

...let go.

Tony slowly became aware of soft background noise, as if someone was turning the dial on a distant radio. It was little more than a quiet fuzz at the far horizon of his awareness, and he supposed, that as far as the afterlife went, it was kind of pleasant.

Much more so than the flames and pitchforks he'd figured he'd inevitably encounter.

The soft glow was lovely too.

All soft and hazy, a gentle silver through his closed eyelids.

Tony hoped to fuck that he didn't have a halo.

Tony did not want to be responsible for hell having frozen over, which would happen before he'd ever end up with a glowing ring of goodness and a pair of fluffy backscratchers.

The horrifying thought was enough for him to force his eyes open, ready to meet with whatever was next. Be it Peter and his pearly gates, vast empty glowing nothingness or a beautifully appointed engineering workshop in chrome and silver.

None of the above, apparently.

It was though, silver.

Aimlessly drifting in front of him like a stream of liquid mercury, coiling -crawling- through the air in soft wispy tendrils, like sluggish calligraphy, simultaneously beautiful and wicked.

The silver was bright against the fuzzy background of his hazy vision, and Tony didn't seem able to resist trailing the glistening snake, his eyes mapping folds and loops, all the way back to its source-

It seeped, dripped, bled dry from parted pink lips-

Steve.

Tony's tunnel vision blossomed into all its technicolor glory; the soft background noise became a cacophony of concern, fear, and surprise from the owners of the hands supporting and tugging at him.

And Tony's tongue darted out to taste the trailing dregs of silver that coated his lips.

Tony drew in a ragged shaky breath and couldn't help the grin that broke across his face when Steve' eyes widened with absolute thankfulness. The soldier leaned forward to press his lips to Tony's again with reeling fervor. His lips trembled with half-realized adrenaline as they exchanged several gentle reaffirming kisses. Steve pulled back, and Tony chased - pressing reassurance upon Steve's mouth with giddy frantic relief of his own.

Tony pulled away, silver still swirling between them as the spell dissipated, only to watch as the answering smile slowly dripped from Steve's face, blue eyes widening with panic as Steve tried to gasp for air that would not come.