Disclaimer: I don't own the Avengers.

The Stranger is very, very big.

Tony huddles quietly behind a tree to watch him, shivering a little and hugging his arms around himself. The wound at the centre of his chest throbs and burns, thin trails of yellowish discharge leaking out of the sodden moss-pack he'd bound there to stop the blood. He's so – he's so tired, and he's been running so long, and now – now there is another danger, and Tony is very much afraid.

Because the Stranger is different from any Two-Legger that Tony has seen before. He's so very tall, and he has a broad, broad chest and great muscled arms, and his hair is an odd bright yellow colour like honey. He has a fire, good and strong and red, built close by a little hollowed cave in the craggy rock face, a fresh-killed deer lying nearby. A haunch is cooking, propped neatly on three sticks, sizzling and dripping fresh juices into the embers, the savoury smell wafting through the crisp cold air and reaching Tony's hiding place.

He's so hungry. Tony's small, he's always been small, and he'd run and run and run, desperate and hunted, away from his tribe, away from the altar of sacrifice and the stone knife cutting into his chest. And when he had finally fallen into a grassy hollow, sobbing with exhaustion, he'd had nothing to stay his hunger, just his deerskin and his amulet and the round, bleeding wound in his chest, carved deeply in the symbol of a god-gift, a sacrifice.

The throbbing pain of the wound spikes suddenly as he shifts the wrong way, and Tony lets out a soundless hiss and claws at it. And oh, it hurts, it hurts, and he just wants to lie down and rest because he feels too hot and too cold and dizzy all at the same time, but the Stranger is too close and too large.

And then Tony's knees buckle and fold beneath him, and he falls to the ground with a little stumbling thud.

Everything is hazy and painful and growing darker, darker, and as Tony's eyes close he sees the Stranger turn towards him, his teeth bared, a great stone axe gripped in his hand.

Tony is warm.

He's wonderfully, wonderfully warm and comfortable, and something soft is wrapped around him. His eyelids struggle open and he sees warm red fire-sparks dancing in the darkness – and for a moment, a lovely moment, he thinks he is a child again, wrapped in his mother's bearskin, safe and close by her fire.

And then he remembers, the fire! The Stranger! and frantically draws himself into a tight defensive ball, letting out a terrified sobbing breath. Where is he – why is he by the fire, in the Stranger's cave? What has the Stranger done?

'Shh-shh,' someone murmurs nearby, and Tony's head jerks towards the sound, trying to see in the dusky firelight. 'Shh-shhhh,' and the voice is strange, deeper and more rumbling than the voices of Tony's tribe, but quiet, gentle. And Tony needs to run, run far away – except that his head is so heavy, and he is so warm, and the fur is so soft.

And he slips back into sleep.

When he wakes next, watery dawn-light is streaking across the sky and filtering inside the cave-hollow. The fire is still burning slowly, and Tony is still warm and comfortable, still tucked in a pile of soft skins. The wound in his chest is just a dull ache, not the burning pain of before, and the pad of soiled moss is gone.

He moves his head, and there is the Stranger, sitting by the fire and stirring something in a bark container strung over the low flames. Tony huddles into the skins, watching, afraid yet fascinated.

And then the Stranger looks up, and sees him watching, and the movement of his hand stops. His eyes meet Tony's, and Tony catches his breath in fright and huddles against the cave wall, pulling the skins with him to make a sort of cocoon, a flimsy barrier in case he is about to be attacked. He watches, unblinking, hardly daring to breathe.

The Stranger puts down his tool. And then, very, very slowly, he holds out his huge hand towards Tony, palm outwards and upwards. Tony watches him warily, baring his teeth a little, not yet a snarl but a warning. But the Stranger simply holds his hand there, waiting, waiting; and his knife is lying on the ground between them, and there is no threat in the lines of his body.

Tony lets out a little breath he's been holding. And he's trembling, but he slowly reaches his own hand out, tentative and uncertain, and brushes the fingertips against the Stranger's calloused palm. And the Stranger smiles a little, his eyes soft, and wraps his fingers around Tony's.

'Steve,' the Stranger says, and points his thumb to his own chest. 'Steve.' His name. He searches Tony's eyes, and then points at him with a questioning look.

'Tony,' Tony whispers after a moment, pointing his own thumb at his chest. Steve smiles at him and strokes his thumb gently over the back of Tony's fingers, as though Tony's hand is something delicate and breakable.

'Tony,' he repeats, testing the name on his tongue. 'Tony.' His eyes crinkle at the edges, and then he slowly brings his other hand up, his eyes on Tony's face. Tony watches, half-fearful, as Steve's hand comes up and up and up – what is he doing? Is he going to hit Tony? Tony braces himself, just in case, for a blow.

But Steve only touches Tony's dark hair, softly, taking a curl between two fingers and rubbing. His fingers stroke the curl behind Tony's ear, and then move to his face. Tony holds his breath, wide-eyed, as Steve's thumb brushes very gently over his cheek, his jaw, his chin.

'Pretty,' Steve says wonderingly. 'Pretty Tony.'

Pretty. What does that mean? Tony tries it out on his tongue. 'Pretty. Pretty?' He looks back at Steve, his head cocked to one side in question.

Steve's smile widens, but he just repeats, 'Pretty. Now rest,' and though his words are different to the ones Tony uses, the meaning becomes clear when he pats the bedskins again. Tony pouts.

'No,' he whines, and Steve sighs and rubs his chin. Then he shifts forward and puts his hand on Tony's shoulder, careful but firm, guiding him backwards against the skins. Tony doesn't want to, but Steve is very strong and very determined, and Tony feels weak and wobbly anyway so he stops resisting, letting himself rest back onto the skins. Steve crinkles his eyes, pleased with him.

'Good,' he says, and then reaches out towards Tony's chest, towards the wound. Tony freezes and squeaks, and Steve stops, his hands splaying and spreading in the gesture that all Two-Leggers have in common. I mean no harm.

Tony watches him warily, fingers twisting nervously in the soft fur of the skins. But Steve stays still, hands staying where Tony can see them, his eyes fixed on Tony's face, clear and earnest. Only when Tony untenses a little does Steve lower his hands.

He seems to want to explain something to Tony, repeating the same few words slowly and carefully, before realising that Tony doesn't know what they mean. Tony watches Steve anxiously as he rubs a hand over his face and blows out a breath in frustration.

Then he seems to have an idea, his face lighting up, and he stretches out his hand towards Tony. Tony's not sure what it means, but then Steve points to an area on his palm. Tony shifts a little bit, to see.

It's a big gash, slit across the huge calloused palm of Steve's hand, but half healed, the edges clean and scabbed over.

'Hurt,' Steve says softly and clearly, pointing at the gash. Tony slowly raises his eyes to look at Steve's face, uncertain; and Steve's eyes smile at him a little, his face and voice gentle. 'Hurt,' Steve repeats, still pointing at his hand, and then, holding Tony's eyes, he slowly brings his pointing finger up towards Tony's chest wound. 'Hurt,' he repeats, and oh, Tony knows what the word means now!

'Hurt!' he agrees delightedly, and Steve's eyes crinkle a bit more, laughing at him a little. Then he turns and reaches behind him, and comes back with a small hollowed stone in his hand, a mortar, filled with a little mound of something.

'Medicine,' Steve says, dipping his finger into the substance. It's a strange green mash of pulverised herbs, and Tony watches curiously as Steve opens his injured hand and spreads it across the wound. 'Makes it better,' Steve says, and then he points again at Tony's chest.

Oh, medicine, Tony realises. Steve has medicine that will make his hurt chest better, and Steve is good, Steve is kind and his face is nice and he has a gentle voice that makes Tony feel safe. So Tony slowly lies back, letting his body go soft again, glancing shyly at Steve in invitation.

Steve's big hands are very gentle. He cleans the wound with warm water, and Tony flinches and squeezes his eyes shut as it throbs and stings. Steve strokes his hair comfortingly.

When it's dry, he brings back the little mortar of medicine, letting Tony see each movement as he daubs it over the angry swollen cuts. Tony braces himself, waiting for pain, but Steve's medicine doesn't hurt. It just feels cool and soothing.

Steve smiles at him when he's done, putting the mortar down. 'Good,' he says, but then frowns when Tony reaches inquisitive fingers up to probe at his handiwork. He reaches out and takes Tony's hands in his own, moving them away from his chest and positioning them firmly by his sides. 'Don't touch,' he says sternly, and Tony doesn't know the words, but he certainly knows the tone.

He mumbles half-heartedly in protest; Steve hums in his throat, a soothing sound, and pats Tony's shoulder as he stands up, moving about the little hollow to fetch something from a dim corner. Tony watches him as he comes back to the fire with another birch container, pinching something out of it and sprinkling it into the larger one hung over the fire.

A soft fragrant smell of herbs drifts to Tony's nose, and he realises all at once that he's hungry, so terribly, desperately hungry that his stomach clenches with emptiness. He must make a sound of longing, because Steve looks over at him and says, 'Soon,' stirring at whatever is in the container.

It seems to take hours. Tony presses at his stomach with his hands to stave off the empty pangs, something his mother had taught him when he was a child. Food had often been short, deep in the cold winter, even for the Chieftain's family. Press your stomach and think of other things, Mother had said, and she had shown him how to mix red earth with a little water, to draw patterns and pictures on his skin and the wall of the great cave. It helped him to forget about the hunger for a little while.

The others drew animals, deer and great boar, and hunters with spears. Tony drew ideas.

First it was a pit with sticks and earth hiding its mouth, so that a wary boar might walk across it and be plunged into the trap. Small Tony's picture had been crudely drawn, but he got better at it, drawing ideas for traps and better tools to help the tribe. His pictures had helped, made things easier for his people, which was why it had hurt so much when they had let Obi – when they had stood together and bound him and laid him out on the altar to die…

'Food's ready,' Steve says, and Tony gulps and comes abruptly out of the pictures in his head. Steve is scooping something out of the cooking container into two smaller bark bowls. The smell wafts through the small space, rich and good, and when Steve offers him one of the bowls, Tony grabs it with eager hands.

He's weak and shaky, though, and the bowl tilts and nearly spills before Steve steadies it with a hand. Tony huffs in frustration and struggles into a more upright position, trying to bring the bowl to his mouth at the same time, because he's hungry, so, so hungry, and the stew smells so good it's making his head spin.

'Easy,' Steve says, his voice exasperated, and he moves around so he's slotted a little behind Tony's back, his strong warm arm bracing him. He guides the bowl to Tony's mouth, tipping it so that warm broth touches Tony's lips, and Tony slurps at it greedily, draining the liquid from the chunks of meat floating in it. It's so good, hot and savoury and wonderful.

When the broth is gone, Steve feeds him the meat, holding it in his fingers for Tony to eat. It's soft and juicy and flavoured with herbs, and Tony wolfs it down, his lips brushing Steve's fingers in his haste.

The bowl is finished too quickly, but Tony knows that you can get sick from eating too much all at once after a hungry time. He feels sleepy again, warm and content and safe, and Steve's shared his food with him and he trusts Steve. Tony curls back down into the skins and watches Steve eat, looking down shyly when Steve looks up and sees him. When Tony peeks at him again, through his eyelashes, Steve is smiling back at him. It makes Tony's stomach feel strange and fluttery, as though it's full of moths.

Steve finally sets his own bowl aside, and carefully lifts the cooking container away from the fire. He pokes at the fire, scraping at the piles of ash around the edge until it's arranged to his liking, Tony sleepily looking on.

Then Steve turns around and crouches next to Tony; and he feels Steve's hand on his shoulder, gently shifting him. Steve stretches himself out alongside him, sliding a strong arm around Tony's waist and pulling him in to fit against his chest.

It feels good. Tony mumbles happily and nestles into the warmth of Steve's body, and Steve reaches up to run his fingers through Tony's hair. Tony's eyes droop closed at the feeling, and Steve's fingers slide through his curls, stroking, stroking, stroking, until Tony drifts back into warm soft sleep.

Some nerdy stuff: Steve is a Neanderthal (Homo neanderthalensis) in this AU, while Tony is Homo sapiens (modern human). Neanderthals were a highly intelligent species closely related to Homo sapiens, but with their own distinct culture. The two species coexisted in the same geographic regions, and sometimes met and intermarried/interbred. (Apparently, most modern Asians and Europeans have about 2% Neanderthal DNA in their genomes.)

There is evidence to show that Neanderthals might have cooked using birch bark containers over their fires. They didn't have pottery or iron, but probably used bark, wood, stone and shells to make containers and implements.

Please forgive any historical inaccuracies! This is very distantly inspired by 'The Clan of the Cave Bear' because it's an interesting idea (even though I thought that book was kind of boring tbh.)

I've marked this as 1/1 chapters because it works as a complete story, but I *ahem* may possibly have Plans for continuing this fic. Anyone interested in soft caveman bunny kisses? Steve gently licking Tony's face?

Everyone who drops me a comment gets a CINNAMON COOKIE, because I love you all. *puts trays in oven*