'iya! So, obviously, I don't own Marvel. Marvel owns me. IT OWNS EVERYTHING.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy this story, and I would love a review or two. Seriously, it would be appreciated so much.

Also, this story is about American people. Set in America. I'm English. So, if I make any mistakes, or they seem stereotyped, please let me know.

Same goes for if you spot any errors.

Thank you so so much.


It was getting dark earlier, Tony mused, as he stood by one of the many huge windows of Stark Tower, his eyes unfocused as he absentmindedly stared at the blinking lights of the Chrysler Building, lit up in all its glory like a Christmas tree. Now, Tony was not one for pointing out the obvious, and as he reminded himself with a rather forced viciousness, of course it was getting dark earlier. It was November, closer and closer to winter with each passing day, and the nights were drawing in. Not even the city beneath him, the artificial hue of Manhattan's glaring, unceasing lights, could hold back the wave of nature that rolled over the skyline.

But then, he'd been less sharp recently. More shaky. Like an old man, he thought scornfully. To be honest with himself, though, they all had. The events Loki had caused, the terrible, terrible things he'd done, had shaken them all. Tony swore, if he ever got his hands on the bastard, he'd mur-

The elevator doors opened with a ching, announcing the arrival of Pepper, and he shook himself together so his eyes focused, and turned away from the window. She'd gone to get coffee. Tony was all in favour of just going downstairs and finding that rather wonderful coffee maker he'd got free for investing in the company, but Pepper had disagreed. "Who'd turn down the chance to go into Manhattan, only if for a coffee?" she'd said; Tony had volunteered himself as an example – after all, this was what this mock feud was about, right? – and she'd giggled, pushed him playfully and given him a light kiss before sauntering to the elevator with her elegant lilt, and disappearing behind the doors with a winning smile. God, he bet she'd broken hearts before he'd known her.

It had taken her exactly fifteen minutes and thirty two seconds to get the coffee, Tony confirmed to himself as he slipped a glance to his watch. Yes, thirty two exactly. He looked up and smiled a greeting. She moved towards him, handing him a paper Starbucks cup, which he took off her with murmured thanks and held tightly, the paper rough against his palms, letting the sudden warmth flood through his body. Pepper came and stood by him, taking a sip of her own coffee, and they both looked out at the view, standing in silence as they drank. The sky grew darker, washing over the city, and still the lights of Manhattan shone out. Tony checked his watch. Half past six.

"It's getting dark out," Tony offered as way of conversation, then immediately regretted it. Urgh, dammit. Small talk. He'd never done that, and Pepper knew. She grinned and punched him softly on the arm. "Well done, braniac," she chuckled, and Tony felt his cheeks grow hot. "It's called winter."

He chugged down his coffee in one go, swallowing with a gulp, and shook the feeling off. Stupid, stupid. He was even slipping in front of other people now. Idiot. "Sorry, Pepper," he mumbled. "After all that stuff with Loki, well, I'm a bit slow." He offered an apologetic smile.

Pepper sighed affectionately. "No need to apologise, silly."

She leant her head on his shoulder as she finished her coffee. Tony threw his paper cup into the bin, and missed, which earned him raised eyebrows from Pepper, who after finishing hers, placed both cups neatly in the bin. When she was next to him again, Tony kissed her gently, pulling her towards him. She responded, their mouths moving against one another. His hand went to the small of her back, clutching at the thin material of her shirt. Her own hand ran small circles on his back, which soothed him somewhat. Then her hands went considerably lower, and Tony was suddenly anything but calm. Flushed, he pulled her firmly against him and she responded eagerly, their lips mashing against one another with a new found frenzy. They sank to the floor, hands roaming and tongues lashing wildly, until breathing became a priority and they finally pulled apart. Chests heaving for breath, Pepper grinned wickedly and grabbed Tony's hand. "Shall we?" she said huskily, motioning her head in the direction of their bedroom, and Tony was only too happy to oblige.

Manhattan was aglow for them, that night.

Afterwards, Pepper went to sleep with her head tucked in the crook of Tony's arm whilst he lay awake and stared at the ceiling. After his eyes grew accustomed to the dark, he could spot bumps in the paint on the ceiling. He'd been having trouble sleeping, lately. When he finally fell asleep, his eyes would close, and Loki would be there, laughing at him, while chaos and havoc rained down all around him, and all his comrades screamed in pain, wide eyed, begging him to save them, or put them out of their misery – it changed night to night; then he'd awake – his eyes would snap open and his breath would catch, and he'd be in his own bed with his own Pepper lying asleep beside him. No nightmares for her. She smiled and snuffled in her sleep, and was totally unaware of Tony as he sweated and panted, and tried to forget and go back to sleep. Yet still, the dreams would be there, lingering patiently, lurking at the frayed edges of his consciousness.

Tony sighed and clambered out of bed, easing Pepper away from him. He wrapped a sheet around him, shivering slightly at the sudden change in temperature. He rubbed his eyes as he padded softly out of the room and pressed the elevator button. It snapped to life and he punched in a number. The elevator hummed complacently as it swiftly sped upwards. The doors slid open and Tony stepped out. He was back in the room he had been in earlier, when he'd been contemplating the darkness. Manhattan was still lit up. The city that never slept. It was just as well, really. You couldn't see the stars, and so the city made up for it. The people of Manhattan had no need for the stars.

JARVIS' voice interrupted his inner monologue. "You're up late, sir."

"Can't sleep, JARVIS," Tony replied, concentrating on the view.

"I see. My condolences, sir."

Tony laughed. "You're the most sympathetic computer in existence."

"You made me that way, sir," came JARVIS' ever patient reply.

"That's true, JARVIS. That's very true."


It was late when Natasha got home. She'd been doing a bit of work for S.H.I.E.L.D. – nothing too important, just keeping tabs on a growing criminal organization – and she was tired. She made herself a drink, relishing the warmth that flooded through her body, and made her way over to the radiator. Light fingers skimmed the surface. Cold. She sighed. She should have known, really; the heating automatically turned off at ten. Natasha was perfectly aware she should know little things like when the heating turned off, and when to buy fresh milk, but she found herself forgetting constantly. Life with S.H.I.E.L.D. and the Avengers hardly left time for mundane trivialities.

She stumbled into the other room, flicking the light switch on. Her pyjamas lay on a squashy blue chair. People seemed to think she was one for camisoles and sexy nighties, but Natasha favoured comfort over either. She slipped out of her suit, and pulled her pyjamas on – jim-jams, as Clint teasingly called them – snuggling into the warmth. Flopping down into the chair they had just occupied, she reached for the remote and flicked through the channels. Nothing was on, just a bunch of cheesy horror movies, except the news. She paused on that and half listened as she took another sip of her coffee.

Natasha was sleepy, or she never would have slipped up. She was a spy, and had received first grade training. But she was half asleep, and his footsteps were so very light, and-

"BOO!"

She jumped, startled, and instantly rolled off the chair and sprang to her feet, gun in her hand, her expression fierce. Then suddenly, it changed to one of puzzlement.

"Clint?" she stammered.

And it was him. He wasn't in his suit, just a light blue shirt that showed off his bulging, sinewy muscles, and well cut jeans. Simple, yet well dressed, as always. It was one of his qualities she admired, amongst many. Because that was all. She just admired him. Nothing more. Just keep telling yourself that, thought Natasha with a long suffering inward sigh.

Clint grinned at her. "Like your pyjamas, Natasha."

She sighed, lowering her gun. "Shut up. It's not funny. You frightened me."

"What? Thought you were a spy, with top training and all that?" he sniggered. "You must have rubbish standards over in Russia, then."

She glared at him. He was only teasing, that she knew, but Natasha wasn't in the mood. She was tired. She'd had a long evening, and she wasn't ready to put up with Clint's practical jokes.

"I could have put a bullet in your brain," she told him.

Clint shrugged, his eyes steady. He had such lovely eyes; it always felt like they were boring into her, trying to extract her soul. It was an uncomfortable feeling, but not unpleasant. She'd been heartbroken when Loki had changed his eyes, and so glad to have them back to their familiar, natural blue, flecked with so many different colours. His eyes were a riot, and she loved them.

Shut up, Natasha, she thought, gritting her teeth.

Clint was still watching her. Finally, he spoke.

"But you wouldn't," he said.

"That's not the point!" she snapped. "You shocked me. My training taught me to react quickly when I'm shocked, so the enemy can't get the upper hand. You should know that; you got taught this shit, too. If I hadn't been so tired, I could have shot straight away."

He looked at the floor. "Sorry, Natasha," he muttered.

She studied him as his eyes were averted. "It's okay," she said finally. "Are you just here to pull a joke on me, or what though, because I'm really tired and-"

"I-I, uh, n-n-no." He was stammering. "I wanted to stay with you tonight."

Natasha watched him through narrowed eyes as he looked up, desperately trying to ignore her increasing heartbeat. When she didn't reply, he flushed and said, "If that's okay, I mean."

"Okay," she said, before she could stop herself. Damn. "But I want to sleep, okay?" she added sternly.

"Sure," Clint replied. Slowly, he inched towards her. She was suddenly acutely aware of the lack of distance between them. Clint reached out and gently stroked her cheek. She shivered from delight as he continued, his skin rough against her own. The blood was pounding in her ears like a bomb. He leant towards her, and oh god this is it, and –

"-just had word in that there are some casualties, none dead so far, but some missing still-"

"Stop!"

Natasha ran to the television. Clint looked a mixture of confused and pissed off, but she only had eyes for the screen. The scene cut to a crashed airplane, survivors being hauled out in the wreckage. The reporter continued as a voice over. "The plane, which set out at 1:45 this afternoon, was going to England today, and crashed partway there."

The reporter carried on speaking, but Natasha wasn't listening. She turned to Clint, aghast. He looked puzzled.

"Natasha?" he asked, worried. "What's wrong?"

Her eyes were scared, and Clint knew Natasha well. He knew when she was covering emotion, and when she was faking it. And right now, she looked genuinely terrified.

"What's wrong?" he repeated. "Nat, talk to me."

It still took her a moment to reply. She looked into his eyes, as puzzled and worried as hers were scared.

"You remember, Steve was going on holiday?" she whispered. Clint had to strain to catch her words.

He answered in the affirmative. "But what of it?"

Tears were spilling down her cheeks now. Without realising, he moved to comfort her. Something in her snapped when she was upset. She waved him away, fiercely independent as always, even when she was crying. Her chest heaved with sobs, but she managed to choke her words out:

"He wanted to go, he said. Reliving his old moments, probably. Or trying to replace them. Either way, Clint, he was going to England."

And suddenly cold realisation washed over Clint. Natasha's face was pained as she spat out her final words.

"Steve was on that plane."