-Causatum-

It's unfortunate that Tony never got to make Steve drunk because the super soldier basically plastered himself with Bruce, and Bruce doesn't exactly partake in the excessive guzzling art of downing alcohol either. He did try shoving the super soldier various types of booze but in the attempt to convince Steve that it wasn't poison, he downed the first cup of everything. And Steve rejected all his offers. So thus he couldn't really remember what happened halfway through and he awoke the next morning in his bed with a massive hangover.

There was only a sticky note on the bedside table from Pepper informing him that she took the liberty of buying herself a thank you present already.

But anyway the party was about a week ago and all of them have returned to their boring lives—or as boring as a couple of deadly assassins, a super soldier, a raging hulk and a genius billionaire playboy philanthropist lives can be. Or as boring as living in the Stark—wait no, Avengers tower can be.

"Harder."

"Harder."

"Harder."

"Yes, yes, I'm pressing harder," Clint huffs, trying to put more strength into the movements of his hands.

His fingers stretch over the back of Natasha's bare shoulder blades and he rubs with more force, earning a satisfied sigh from her lips. All of them are in the indoor heated pool area, but no one is actually swimming except for Steve. Bruce is sprawled on one of the reclining chairs by the glass windows reading a book, Tony is on another chair with a martini in hand and holograms floating about him. Natasha is lying stomach down with her eyes shut close as her masseur aka Clint Barton tried to massage her back.

"Harder."

Tony didn't bother hiding his snicker as he crumples a paper hologram and aims it towards Clint. The hologram shoots past Clint, earning a surprised jump, but is swallowed by JARVIS into the virtual recycling bin.

"Fuck you, Stark," Clint growls, whipping his head around to glare.

"Don't blame me for your incompetence," Tony grins just as Natasha make a displeased sound.

"Clint, if you don't start putting effort into it I'm considering our deal over."

Clint responds with an immediate movement of his hands.

"Thirty minutes for a ten minute trade is a total day light robbery," Tony peers at them, slightly curious.

He had more or less cleared his junk folders—the ones which he stashed random fabulous ideas but they were too fabulous to be turned into reality for most—and he had been watching the assassins at their corner for a while now. It was quite hilarious to see Clint so concentrated in massaging Natasha's back that he was already sweating half way through. His muscles were stretched taunt as he worked her shoulders but all Natasha responded with was orders to press harder.

"It's a bargain," Clint grunts, breathing heavily. "You won't understand until you've knocked it."

"Sex with someone codenamed Black Widow?" Tony asks. "I'd rather keep my head thank you very much."

"I'm alive, so that's a myth," Clint paused long enough to smirk, but it was enough for Natasha to swing her legs around his neck and throw him on the floor, all while keeping a hand on the strings of the top of her bikini together. She ties it properly and let loose the archer, ignoring the coughs.

"Tash! Tash, wait!" Clint scrambles after her. "It was a joke! Come on!" He runs fast enough to catch her by the elbow. "I gave you thirty minutes, fair and square," he pleaded. "Nat, please?"

Natasha sighs and elbows him in the gut. "Don't call me that," she states. "Get on the chair. Your ten minutes has started."

Clint beams and wastes no time stripping his shirt off. He twists his neck around to test the soreness—he was quite lucky to not have it broken—and slid stomach down on the seat. Natasha squirts some scented oil they had placed at the side and rubbed her hands together to warm them up, and then focused on Clint's back.

He screamed.

"OWW OKAY OKAY I'M SORRY! TASH—I'M SORRY OKAY? FUCK FUCK OWWW—"

Tony side eyes them for a moment before quickly shifting his attention to his holograms. From those angry red lines down Clint's back, he did not want to get pulled into whatever they were doing. If Bruce showed any indication of the noises, he merely flipped a page and continued reading. Steve was the only one who came up dripping from the pool with a look of concern.

"What's going on?"

"Kinky sex," Tony replied absently.

"Owwwww…." Clint was still moaning into his forearm.

"Is he all right?"

"He will be," Natasha replies with a smirk, her hands trailing Clint's back gently now.

Clint makes some sort of a whimpering noise but those quietened down when Natasha starts to work her hands from the top of his spine and down his shoulders. It was amazing how the archer suddenly became pliant and a moan slipped from his lips.

"Oh fuckkk—"

The sounds that followed after became increasingly inappropriate but it seemed like neither Clint nor Natasha cared. Steve turned away to hide the rising flush to his face and walked back to the pool's edge to make another lap, but Tony called him.

"Hey, Cap."

Tony is staring at the way Clint is shamelessly groaning with a kind of interest.

"I want one."

"Want one what?" Steve turns to face him.

("Just a bit harder, Tash.")

Tony stretches his arms up and beckons Steve closer. "I'll do you if you'll do me."

("Yeah, that's the—nghh—")

Steve looks positively scandalized, and Tony laughs. "I guess Pepper wouldn't mind, really," he grins, sizing the soldier up and down. "But we'll need a bigger bed. All that gorgeous couldn't possibly fit."

"What are you talking about?"

("Hahh…ngghhh…")

"A massage, what else did you think?" Tony rolls his eyes. "Come on, big boy."

Maybe Steve is too used to following orders, because he finds himself next to Tony who is picking through the bottles on the floor. "Lavender, jasmine, rose—why are they all so girly?—lotus, musk—ah, musk is good," he nods, and pushes the bottle into Steve's hands.

"But I don't—"

"I'm sure you're given someone a massage some time in your life," Tony says, looking at him. "I'm not asking for a professional do—just work those knots out of my back. I've been sitting in this thing all day and it hurts," he grins. "I promise you'll get your turn. After me."

Steve gives it a thought for a moment. No harm earning a back rub. "Fine," he agrees. "Give me a moment."

He goes over to where he had set his towel and pats himself dry before walking back. By then Tony has strips his wife beater and tossed it carelessly on the floor, allowing his arc reactor to glint in the light. Tony catches Steve staring at the device longer than necessary but did not comment, only to lie himself stretched out down.

Steve has experience with back rubs—his mother used to give him some when his body was aching from the constant flu viruses he caught, and he returned the favour from time to time when his mother's back ached from the household chores. That was before she passed away and after that Bucky took over. Bucky used to—

"You can stare at my ass later, stars and stripes," Tony mumbles into his forearm as he settles comfortably. "Work those hands."

"Bossy," Steve mutters under his breath, but he leans forwards and spreads his hands over Tony's back.

The mechanic hums in satisfaction with his eyes closed, but thankfully he did not exude weird noises like Clint was doing.

"Ahh—not too hard, super soldier."

"Sorry."

It was easy to forget that he is a lot stronger than he was in the past for something he hadn't done in a long time. Minutes passed by quickly and soon enough there was a loud smack coming from the other reclining chair, followed by a pained whine and protest.

("Do you always have to do that, Tasha?")

("Blood circulation. You're as white as a chalkboard.")

("You forgot those red stripes you made.")

("Get up, Clint. My turn.")

("Fine. Fine.")

"Hold on a moment," Tony shifts, easing his chest up for a moment to flip the cushion from the top of the chair lower down to his neck. This allowed a slight elevation for his arc reactor so that it wasn't pressing so uncomfortably. "That's better," he sighs to himself, wriggling back into a comfortable position.

Steve continues his hand movements when Tony stops moving. "Does it hurt?" he asks.

"Hmm?"

"The thing on your chest."

"Uh no, it doesn't," Tony answered. "It's an arc reactor, by the way."

"It was in your file, but I didn't really understand much of it," The soldier admits. He knows a vague one sentence of how Tony had invented it during his Afghanistan capture, but the scientific jargon just blew his mind. "But it goes into your….flesh…"

"Brilliantly noted, Sherlock," Tony nods. "It has to be close enough to my heart as possible so the electromagnetism is at its strongest to make sure those metal bits in there don't kill me."

Nonetheless it's a brilliant invention.

"Technically, I just resized it smaller," Tony is still talking. "But hey, those other dudes Obi hired couldn't do it, so I guess it's really my genius after all."

Sometimes Steve wonders how Tony does it. Tony talks about the past things in his life like it doesn't matter to him—he throws words around like it happened to someone else, like it's a one-off simple mistake that he waves away carelessly. But at the same time Tony doesn't talk about it. Steve is aware of weapons dealer Tony and the aftermath of the incident from S.H.I.E.L.D's file. The press was also extremely busy during that point of time.

A terrorist capture is of no laughing matter, because Steve knows what interrogation and torture is like. Having someone you thought was your closest friend betraying you isn't something so simple either. Sometimes Steve thinks about the possibility of being captured by HYDRA should he ever fail, and he shudders. Sometimes he wonders if Bucky would have ever done something so horrible that Obidiah Stane had done, and he doesn't even finish the thought.

Yet Tony seems to go on like nothing has happened—and the only proof of it is the arc reactor sticking out of his chest. That's the thing keeping him alive, powering his suit, telling everyone in the world that Tony Stark has been through so much and will go through more.

"I'm glad you made it," Steve says.

Tony turns his head so that he can look at Steve. "So am I."

About a month passes since Tony found Steve's sketchbook in storage before he decides to give it back to its owner. He has kept it in his possession ever since he found it but he doesn't know why. Giving it back to Steve wasn't his first thought. Steve probably assumed everything he owned in the past was long and gone—and there wasn't really a need to correct him.

What would Steve do with his past military records? Would he want it? Would it hurt more to hold something that dragged him back to the past, knowing that it was and forever will be the past?

What would Steve do with the recording of his supposed last moments? Listen to it, reminiscence, cry, and never let go?

"I understand where you're coming from, Tony," Pepper says with a sigh. "But let Steve decide. It's not yours to choose."

"You're right—you're always right, what am I saying," Tony mutters, tossing the sketchbook between his hands. "But what if he—"

"Tony," Pepper pins him with a look. "You owe him that much."

"Me?" Tony does a double take. "What do you mean me owing him? He's living in my tower, using my stuff—"

"You terrorize that poor decent man enough with your mouth—"

"I could do much worse—"

"—and all he wants is to apologise in which you still haven't let him—"

"I told him I accepted! How is my fault that I—"

"But did you mean it?" Pepper is sitting very close to him at the edge of the bed now. "Did you?"

Tony stops fidgeting with the book. "…I don't know," he answers after a while, and then he squints. "Are you really not cheating on me with blondie?"

Pepper flicks his forehead. "Go give that to him and don't come back till you're done."

"Can't I do it tomorrow? Look, it's nearly two a.m. and—"

"And you know Steve is still in the gym."

"How do you know that?"

"JARVIS," Pepper answers simply as Tony glares at his ceiling.

"TOASTER!"

"Go on down."

"Peppp—"

"If you don't do this now, you're going to procrastinate till the end of time, isn't that right, Mr Stark?"

Tony opened his mouth and then closed it. "That's absolutely right, Miss Potts. God, I hate it when you're right," he says, but his eyes are affixed on her mouth. "Which is…all…the…time—"

A finger lands on his lips before he could kiss her.

"After you do it," Pepper tells him. "If you deal with it like a responsible adult then maybe…"

"Maybe…?"

Pepper just shrugs and climbs back under the covers. "Don't take too long."

Tony huffs and steals a kiss anyway. "You promised," he reminds her, grinning. "I'll be back."

She waves a hand at him as he strides out of their room that dims automatically as he leaves. He really doesn't want to do it but he knows he should. He's flipped through the entire sketchbook a few times, and it bugs him more and more whenever he sees the worn cover of it. He tries not to think about why.

The sounds of impact on the punching bag can be heard even before the elevator door slides open. Tony pads quietly behind the man working out—watching how his skin is glistening with the effort exerted, the tense posture and controlled ragged breathing. It only takes about twenty seconds more for the punching bag to fly across the room like a rocket and burst upon its impact on the wall.

"I really should make one that's stronger for you," Tony says, and Steve jumps and whirls around.

"Tony?" he blinks, wiping the sweat from his brow. "What are you doing here?"

Then his gaze switches to the decapitated punching bag across the room and he glances back at Tony again quickly looking guilty and ashamed. "Um, I…I'll pay for that."

Tony smirks. "Cap, I think all the bags I have have been replaced by you already, so it's technically yours."

Steve glances guiltily at the stack on the side because it's true. "I didn't mean to break them."

"Don't worry about it, muscle boy," Tony says, head already churning with possible reinforced designs. "Titanium core, how about that? That should withstand your brutal assassination."

"You don't have to," Steve gives a small smile, but he sighs and walks over to the mess of sand on the other side. A broom and dustpan is placed against the wall like this was entirely expected, and Steve works on getting the floor clean. "So…why are you here?"

Tony shifts the book between his hands. "Why are you here?" he counters. "It's past your bedtime."

"I don't have a bedtime," Steve frowns.

"Sure you do. It's usually three in the morning and you get up at six."

"How do you—"

"JARVIS," Tony answers simply and crosses his arms. "I'm pretty sure three hours of sleep isn't enough for a guy whose metabolism runs four times more than us lowly humans."

"I've slept enough in the ice," Steve replies neutrally. "And you're not qualified to talk to me about sleeping habits."

"Low burn, Cap."

It's entirely strange how Tony actually wants to talk to Steve, maybe—but the latter doesn't want to. For once. Tony knows why the captain stays up late and punches the hell out of his equipment because Tony does the same with his metal toys. He knows the feeling. He knows why.

"In any case," Tony holds up the book in his hands. "I'm here because I brought you something,"

Tony keeps his eyes trained on the sketchbook in his hands. He doesn't want to look at Steve's expression because he doesn't want to be on the receiving end of any of those looks. Fingers reach out to the book and they're trembling—but they grasp the cover firmly and Tony drops his grip. Steve is silent. He doesn't stutter in surprise which makes Tony wary. Daringly Tony chances a glance at the other's face.

It's blank.

The gym is eerily quiet except for the flipping of pages as Steve thumbs through them slowly. Tony just watches—the hands, not the face—until the end flips shut.

"Where…"

Steve's voice is slightly raw, but strong.

"I have a couple of stuff of yours from my dad," Tony says. "Military records, mostly. Medical records if you want. Some films you starred in, which are hilarious, by the way—"

"Thanks," Steve interrupts, and it's soft. "Thanks, Tony."

"No problem."

Tony watches Steve staring hard at the book, thumb caressing the cover over and over. It stays like that for at least a minute until Tony notices that Steve's hands are trembling so hard that his wrists are shaking.

"Hey, you should...uh, sit down."

"I…y-yeah," Steve nods breathlessly. "Yeah."

He all but sinks to his feet and sits on the floor because he doesn't know if he can move a few paces. It's still a big shock to hold something he thought he's lost forever. It doesn't seem real. Steve can still remember the moment when he scratches out the outline of the dancing monkey. He was sitting behind the stage, feeling cold and soaked from the miserable performance and rain. He had wondered if everything was a mistake. And then Peggy had given him a reason for it not to be.

It doesn't seem that far away.

But in reality it's been years. At least seventy years.

When Steve closes his eyes he still can picture the sketches he tries to draw of Bucky after his best friend falls into the ice. He had broken three pencils from the amount of desperate gripping because he was so afraid he was never going to see Bucky again—and he wasn't—and he needed to remember. Remember how Bucky looked like and never forget.

The sketchbook still has the roughed edge wherein he had torn pages out of because none of the pictures looked like his best friend. The Bucky he knew was always strong and brave and saved him one too many times. But the Bucky he draws are all scared and panicked expressions that is seared into his memory when Steve fails to grab his hand.

And then suddenly it hurts. Hurts, hurts, hurts. It hurts because it reminds him of things he was never going to have. That dance he's promised Peggy. The date he had promised himself to suck it up and ask Peggy once the war was over. The life with the right partner he had found. Another trip to Coney island with Bucky. Watching Bucky marry the girl of his dreams and be his best man. An era of peace that he fought for.

"I'm not supposed to be here," Steve mumbles out loud.

"I knew it was a bad idea to give that thing to you," Tony mutters to himself. He sprawls out next to Steve and holds his palm out. "Give it back and we'll pretend none of this ever happened, capish?"

Steve frowns. "Why…? It's mine and…"

"Well…for one," Tony starts. "You're uh, crying."

"I'm just…just…" Steve wants to say something as he wipes at his eye—he isn't even aware of the tears—but he ends up saying completely different things. "I don't have anyone here and it's just…hard. Difficult. It's not the same. I'm never meant to be here—"

He isn't prepared for the hug that Tony pulls him in.

It's at a very awkward angle considering that Tony is smaller than he is, and his back aches from the position, but he sinks into it anyway. He leans further down and grips the smaller man tightly because he doesn't want to speak anymore.

"Look," Tony's voice is right at his ear, and it's devoid of any coy playfulness. "I'm…I'm sorry I said those mean hurtful things and you don't have to forgive me, but you're not alone. I know the feeling, trust me. You can have the world bought at your fingertips and have everybody worshipping your feet or trying to get into your bed but you can still be the loneliest person in the world. It's even worse when you know you were going to die alone. Twice," Tony swallows. "So…what I'm trying to say is that you have me. Us. The Avengers. And Pepper. And JARVIS."

Steve is still clinging on and Tony is starting to feel slightly awkward, especially when Steve is still sticky with sweat. But the grip that Steve has him in is even tighter than before, and then he realises that the super soldier is trying to comfort him.

"Tony…I am so sorry—"

"Cheating," Tony states, and he tries to push Steve away. "Cheating! I told you to stop saying that dreadful word—oh god, I'm going to break out in hives—"

There is a laugh near his ear and Steve releases him, smiling. Tony shoots him a glare and wipes at his jaw, grimacing. "Now Pep will accuse me of sleeping with you—hell, I smell like you now."

"An improvement," Steve says, and Tony gasps.

"I take back that very gay hug."

Steve only smiles, this time bashful. "Thank you, Tony."

"For existing?" Tony grins, patting the other's shoulder. "You're very much welcome."

"For giving me a new home," Steve corrects, and pushes himself off the floor.

He wanders off to strip the clothes around his hands, and Tony follows behind him, waiting for the super soldier to move the broken punching bag to the side even though he assures the guy someone will take care of it later.

A thought passes through Tony's mind when they wait for the elevator.

"Before you crashed into the water, you spoke to Peggy," Tony says, and this time he looks at Steve's face. "I have the recording of that. You can listen to it, if you want."

"I…do," The super soldier bites his bottom lip, and nods slowly. "But not today…maybe…maybe some other time when I…"

"Sure."

"Tony…" Steve starts after a while. "Will you…listen to it with me?"

"Just as long as you don't cry on me again, Rogers."

Steve laughs. "I can't make a promise that I can't keep."

"Why not?" Tony jostles his shoulder, grinning as they step into the elevator. "Those are the best ones."

A/N:

Fuck I wrote everything in past tense and then I tried to change it to present 'cause it sounded weird but I think I screwed it up more I AM SORRY FOR MY BRAIN

Yes, the last line is from TASM but because I like the Superfamily concept and had extreme 'omg Tony would be so proud' moments during TASM therefore it's there. Don't judge okay.

Officially the end, because I don't want to drag it out anymore. I love writing them together but unfortunately I don't have a nice plot to write. This basically began because I wanted them to have a feelings talk post-Avengers movie.

I might venture to write proper Steve/Tony one day. Thank you all who've read this fic. It was a pleasure jumping into the fandom with you all.

Hopefully now I can kick my ass into continuing Cantarella.