Author's note: Hey. I've been accused of being mean to Steve in my stories. And rightly so. Here's some more. Like my other stories, this was written a while ago so it's set some time between Avengers and Iron Man 3. Just a little one shot bonding. Hope you like it.

Disclaimer: I don't own Steve (a fact for which he must be eternally grateful), or the Avengers, or Marvel, or anything really. All I own is the laptop I type this on.

Everything was still, and silent.

His eyes opened, pupils contracting against the light. He bolted up in bed, throwing the covers away from himself and lurching to his bare feet, immediately finding himself ensnared by dozens of fine cables attached to the sensors stuck all over his arms, chest and face. His sudden actions snapped some from a monitor and tugged a small machine on a tall stand off balance, sending it crashing to the floor. He tore them off in a panic, backing away from the bed. He steadied himself against another machine, his eyes searching the room wildly. As soon as he had chance to catch his breath, he pressed a hand to his blazing chest, bending at the waist. He gasped, shuddering. There was a pad of clean gauze taped over his sternum, concealing a faint pain. He pulled the tape off, and stared at the mess that had been hiding underneath. Skin was always among the first tissues to regenerate, so he found this smooth and intact. However, behind that, the damage was still being repaired, leaving a weird depression in the middle of his chest, like a piece of him the size of a fist had been removed altogether. It was like an uneven, shallow sinkhole right where his sternum should be. He stumbled back against the wall, his fingers hovering over the horrific sight, not daring to touch it.

The room was soft white in a way that was probably supposed to be restful, and full of strange machines. The far wall consisted to floor-to-ceiling glass panels, looking onto the corridor outside and a room like this one beyond that. It was like looking into a reversed mirror. It was disorienting. Then the walls said something to him. "Good afternoon, sir," they said, making him jump out of his skin and hurriedly replace the gauze. "Mr Stark would like to welcome you back to the land of the living. Although I would advise you take it easy, sir; you've had quite a troubling week." As startling as it was, it was a familiar voice, and he tried to remember who it was.

He frowned. "Jarvis?"

"Yes, sir," it returned politely.

Jarvis. Tony Stark. He was in the Avengers Tower. The tenth floor, he realised, where they had some sterile rooms 'in case of emergencies' as Tony had said. What he'd meant was, 'in case someone gets a cold and must be quarantined'. The monitoring equipment was new. He lifted his other hand to his head, pushing his fingers into his hair as he leaned back against the wall, panting. He flinched at the hiss of the door as it was pushed open. Tony looked at him. "You know the point of being in a hospital bed is not to see how many seconds it takes you to get out of it."

"Tony," he got out, breathlessly.

Tony strode in. "Seriously, sit down. I'm getting tired just looking at you." Wordlessly, Steve obeyed, going and perching on the edge of the bed while Tony dragged a chair over and plunked down in it. Steve let out a long shaky breath, trying to be quiet about it. It didn't work. "You alright?" asked Tony.

He looked up and nodded, with an attempt at confidence. "Yeah. Of course."

Tony's eyes narrowed. "Well, that's bull," he noted. "Doesn't the Big Book of Leadership tell you not to lie to your team?"

"How long was I out?" he asked.

"Three hundred years. I'm not the original Tony Stark, I'm an exceedingly brilliant android designed to look and sound exactly like him," he said, brushing some invisible piece of lint off his shoulder. He caught the look on Steve's face. "Oh my God," he laughed, "I was just kidding, Cap! It's been six days, I swear. Man, your head must be in a weird place, didn't think you'd take me seriously."

Steve still looked like he was on the verge of a panic attack, gripping fistfuls of bed sheets, but let out a deep breath trying to shake it off. "And I try never to take you seriously," he joked quietly.

"Well, you picked an interesting time to start," returned Tony. Steve kneaded his brow with his fingers, looking stressed, and Tony chuckled again. "I'm sorry, it was a terrible joke."

Steve was shocked out of his dazed state. "Did you just apologise?" he asked, awed. "I didn't think you did that."

"Well, I suppose there's a first time for everything," he shrugged nonchalantly, keeping to himself the fact that he'd apologised to Pepper maybe several times over the last couple of years.

Steve scrutinised him, looking for signs that something was wrong. "Is everyone okay? Did something happen?" he asked, concerned.

Tony gave him a look which was equal parts surprise and amusement. He feigned concentration. "Well, there was this one thing where our team leader got impaled in the chest by an angry frost giant," he suggested conversationally. "That kinda put a crimp in everyone's week."

Steve relaxed marginally. "That's all?" he checked.

"Well, yeah. What more do you need?" he asked, incredulous. "What? You thought we'd just shake it off?"

Steve let a smile soften his face. "I wasn't expecting it to make Tony Stark start apologising for things."

"Don't get excited, grampa. It's pretty much a once in a lifetime thing," he commented, pulling his phone out of his jeans. "If you thought that was weird, wait till you see Natasha's stress knitting."

Steve's jaw dropped, an exclamation of disbelief already on the tip of his tongue when he caught himself. Tony stole a glance at him from the corners of his eyes. Steve started laughing, the air wheezing through his traumatised lungs. Tony grinned. "I'm not apologising for that one. If I got you to picture Natasha knitting for even one second, you should be thanking me." Steve's laughter degenerated into a coughing fit. Tony pulled a face, shoving his phone back into his pocket without using it, pushed himself to his feet and crossed the room to fill a glass with water at the sink. Steve was bent double by the time he came back, trembling under the strain. Tony held out the glass and, shakily, Steve took it, quelling the fit with a long draught. He sat up, wincing, his hand on his chest just above the wound. He gave Tony a look. "Well, now you're just freaking me out."

Tony dropped into his chair, retrieving his phone once more. "That's a very un-Captain-like take on gratitude, but you do get points for the 21st century lingo." His thumbs flashed over the surface of his sleek little phone. "I'm just letting people know you're awake," he explained. "They'd probably kill me if they found out I waited two minutes to tell them."

"Where are they?" he asked, feeling that strong old need to ascertain where his team were and what they were doing.

"Natasha and Clint are in… one of the 'Stans', I think, doing some boring recon mission. Bruce is at Shield digging out some research he was after, and Thor's at home playing politics with the frost giants. Thor's due back in a couple of days, he hopes, but the others should be back tonight."

"The frost giants," Steve said suddenly. "How did that end? Did everyone get out okay?"

"Oh yeah. Things got a little gnarly after you and I left but the back-up ammo arrived before anyone else got hurt and another twenty minutes kicking their asses convinced them they'd bitten off more than they could chew." He put his phone away. "Looks like you kept everybody safe." Steve looked up, then redirected his gaze down at his feet. Tony leaned back in his chair. "Clint told us you pulled his ass out of the sling. Said he would've been dogfood if you hadn't stepped in. It's had a very interesting effect on him; you know, he's the one who insisted you were brought here as soon as you were out of the woods. Said you needed to wake up somewhere you recognised." Tony cocked his head to one side, looking thoughtful. "Guess that didn't really work…"

"No, it did," Steve was quick to correct. "It just…took a moment."

"Mm," Tony grunted. "Anyway, our Hawkeye's gone all soft since you pretty much died to protect him. I think he's finally starting to get over his trust issues. A couple of days ago, he sat down right next to me with a bowl of french fries." He shrugged. "If that's not trust, I don't know what is."

Steve smiled. "Please tell me you didn't repay that trust by stealing his french fries."

Tony grinned and Steve let out a groan, hanging his head. Tony's grin relaxed into a smile. "But I did ask first."

Steve's eyes shone with amusement. "Well, look at that. I'm out for six days and miss all the personal growth."

"Looks like you did," Tony agreed. "So what do you say you don't do that again, huh?"

"I'll keep it in mind."

Tony threw his hands up. "There you go lying again. It's becoming a compulsion with you. Seems like it's your own personal growth you need to worry about. Can't have Captain America's morals slipping; it'd be bad for our image. Speaking of image," he jerked his chin towards Steve's chest, "how's it looking?"

A touch reluctantly, Steve pulled the gauze away again so they could both see. Tony pulled a face. "Wow," he said. "I have a six inch hole in my chest but even I think that's really gross."

"Thanks."

"No, really, it's disgusting. Cover it up before Jarvis pukes."

Steve ignored him, looking down at it, trying not to be creeped out by the way it moved when he breathed. "I don't actually remember how I got this."

"That's okay. Clint and I remember it well enough for the three of us."

"I remember them disarming him…" he trailed off, squinting at the far wall, where the memory was apparently being played out.

"Yeah, and they were about to smush him, and that's when you decided to tackle them like one of those crazy bear warrior people Thor talks about."

The image of nearly half a dozen frost giants overwhelming Hawkeye roared into his head. He recalled that controlled spike of panic that their archer could be as good as dead. "Right." He nodded. "Although I don't know about the beserker part. In the army there was this guy called Howlett, now he was like something out of one of Thor's stories. Huh…" he said ponderously, "I haven't thought about him in a while. I wonder what he's doing now."

Tony winced. "Um. Probably not a lot."

"Huh? Oh," he shrugged it off, "right. Forget I mentioned it. So, six days. Must've been kinda serious."

"Yeah. Six days, nine surgeries, and a whole lotta stress-eating so thanks for that."

"Nine surgeries?"

"Well, something had to hold you together," he pointed out like it was plain as day. "Frosty the Snowman smashed through the front of your ribcage like damn jewel thief. Left you a chest full of jigsaw puzzle pieces. That's not even getting started on your back. There's more metal in you than there is in me right now."

Blood red eyes gleamed just inches from his face, their tiny black pinpricks searching his own blue eyes with their deep, dilated pupils for what it wanted. The fear. The pain. Its silvery grey mouth was wide open in a battle cry but he could barely hear it. It was drowned out by the silent screaming coming from within his own body, which hung heavily on the jagged cone of ice buried so deep into his chest that the tip pushed against the inside of his body armour at his back. His spine bawled like a tormented infant at the point where the ice had separated the vertebrae. The shock of cold stabbed at his lungs with every uneven inflation; the one on the right couldn't inspire, only succeeding in pulling more blood in from the tear in its side. Shards of ribcage plucked and ripped at them. Black blood from a severed vein filled the chest cavity until the pressure forced a leak from around the entry point, dribbling darkly down the ice and pattering on the dry desert ground below. His hands gripped the giant's arm like a pair of vices, his muscles locked. Tears spilled down his face with the strain.

"Steve!" Tony yelled in pain. Steve uttered a cry of terror, letting go of Tony's arm and pushing him away where he staggered to a stop.

His free hand went to the wound in his chest. "Oh god," he gasped. He couldn't catch his breath.

"What the hell was that?" Tony demanded. "Argh, dammit, Steve, I think you broke my goddamn arm!"

That anchored Steve more solidly in the present. "Tony? Oh. No. Tony, I'm so sorry."

"Shut up," he snapped irritably. "You apologise too much. Why do you apologise so goddamn much? Are you alright?"

Steve's fingers slipped into that unnatural hollow in his chest and he shuddered but nodded. And it would be true if he could only slow his breathing down. "I'm sorry," he said again, unable to stop himself.

"Don't," Tony warned. "And quit lying, I thought we talked about that. What just happened?"

"I remembered," said Steve between shallow breaths.

"Oh. No, you had a flashback. That's what that was," said Tony, confident. Steve looked up at him. "Super vivid? Real as hell? Flashback."

Steve nodded. After all, Tony would probably know. "Right." He took a deep breath, trying to calm down, and raking his fingers through his hair wearily.

"Alright, just take it easy," said Tony, seeming to get a handle on himself as well. He held his abused arm close to his body protectively. "Jeez, I can't wait for the others to get back so you can crush their arms like a woman in labour. This is why when we wake up in a hospital bed we stay there longer than two seconds," he patronised, knowing full well how hypocritical he was being.

"You need to get your arm looked at," Steve told him.

Tony held his arm up. "Jarvis?"

"Just a hairline fracture, sir. Nothing to be worried about. Although you will be requiring a cast."

Tony groaned like a teenager who'd just been asked to take out the trash. "Really?"

"I'm afraid so, sir."

"Now I'm gonna have to go round wearing an Ironman arm all the live long , Spangles." Steve swallowed his apology before it could escape and settled for looking faintly miserable. Tony took in his kicked puppy expression and felt a twinge. "Okay, okay. There's no need to beat yourself up about it. I'd live in that Ironman suit if I could. Just wearing the arm is nothing. You, on the other hand, look like you're gonna pass out. Hey, you know you haven't eaten in nearly a week. We should order in. What do you feel like? I'm thinking something European. Italian, Greek… What d'you reckon?"

"Uh. No, thanks. I'm not hungry." He felt ill actually, what with all the anatomical details of his injuries swirling around in his head.

Tony raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Seriously?"

"Yeah. I think I'm just gonna stay here a while. Maybe get some more rest."

Ironman gave him a slightly suspicious look. "Okay." He shrugged. "Alright. You do that. I'll be around. Just let Jarvis know if you need anything."

"Sure. Thanks."

"No problem." Then Tony walked out and left him in peace. Steve blew out a long exhale and gripped the edge of the bed with both hands, resisting the urge to look down at his horribly mesmerising wound. He turned and pushed everything off the bed, all the cables and wires and that piece of gauze, then moved to lie down. He hadn't thought he needed any more sleep after nearly a full week of it, but a few minutes lying there gazing at the ceiling and he reached down to pull up the sheets, turned onto his side, and let the darkness close in.

An arrow split the giant's temple and burst its eye. The arm he was impaled on dropped suddenly, the ice sliding from his insides as he hit the ground with a gush of undammed blood. He could hear the giant's caterwauling now, and even the quiet impact of another two arrows as they manifested in its ear and neck. The giant staggered back and thudded into the dirt, sending a vibration through the stones and Steve's back. Blood climbed his throat and filled his mouth. He choked and sputtered, his eyes streaming. He felt the pounding of approaching feet and Hawkeye skidded to his knees beside him, looking down at him with wide eyes. "Rogers… Oh god. Hold on. You're gonna be alright. Stark, get over here, we need immediate evac!" He pressed both his hands down on the massive gaping wound, blood welling up over his fingers and washing a red tideline up to his wrists. Unable to make a noise in response, Steve squeezed his eyes shut against the agony, water trickling down the sides of his face under his mask. His throat worked, trying to clear itself of the thick liquid, which he inhaled continuously with a gagging sound. His hands clenched at his sides, shaking madly, raking fistfuls of dirt from the desert. He choked and a fine spray of scarlet flecked what was visible of his white face, tracing a crooked path from the corner of his mouth. "Hold on," Clint ordered. "Hold on." He grabbed Steve's shoulder and pulled him onto his side, still maintaining pressure on the wound with one hand. The other travelled round to a wet patch on his back. Blood spilled from Steve's mouth and he retched, trying to drag the air in between convulsions.

The freeze of the giant's ice was insinuated in his chest, around bone, lungs and heart, radiating outwards throughout his body right to the tips of his fingers. Even his blood felt cold. His malformed breath made shapes and Clint shook his head. "No, don't talk. Don't talk." He couldn't help it. He kept forcing the action. Giving in, Clint leaned close to catch the half-formed syllables. It took several tries to get them out. "Can' feel… m… legs…"

Clint clenched his jaw, closing his eyes momentarily. "I know. It's okay. We're gonna get you out of here. Tony…"

The cold was taking over, lulling his brain towards sleep, drowning the thoughts in his head. A sadness rushed up from the pit of his stomach and he gasped for air. He choked, blood surging over Clint's hands. "No," he murmured. "Not again."

"Steve, stop talking. Tony, where the hell are you?!"

"Can' do it again." The soft roar of thrusters emerged from the background noise and a thump disturbed the ground. "Can' do it…"

"Woah…"

"Get him out of here, Tony. Steve, you're gonna be okay, you don't have to do anything, you'll be alright. Can you hear me? Stay awake. Steve? Steve!"

Steve jolted awake, sitting up in a tangle of twisted sheets. He ripped them from his legs and waist and all but ran from the bed. He barely made it to the adjoining bathroom in time before he sank to his knees and started throwing up. After a week of fasting there was nothing in his stomach except bile. The pain was excruciating and seemed to go on forever, getting worse with every spasm until his head spun uncontrollably and his stomach felt like it was going to rupture. After nearly twenty minutes, it'd had been a while since he'd actually managed to eject anything and he lay slumped against the wall, his arms still clutching weakly at the toilet bowl. He was shivering from head to toe, still racked with the occasional unsuccessful convulsion. He panted, drawing the back of his forearm across his brow exhaustedly. He was alright. He knew he was alright. There was no physical reason for him to be sick, it was just a little shock. All he had to do was ride it out.

He heard the door to his room open behind him and a familiar voice. "Steve?" He wanted to sit up and maybe get off the floor but he was just way too exhausted. He could barely hold his head up. So he was helpless to move as he heard approaching footsteps. "Steve," Hawkeye came and knelt beside him, laying a hand on his back. "You okay?"

He nodded. "Yeah. I'm okay. I'm fine." His hand went unconsciously to the wound in his chest, not even noticing that it did so. Clint noticed.

"Can you stand?"

He didn't think so but he was determined to prove otherwise so he nodded again. Luckily, Clint seemed to have a good inkling how spent he was and moved to hook his arms under Steve's, taking at least half the weight and hauling him to his feet. Steve hit the flush as he made it to the sink, running his hands under the cool water and splashing it on his face. He washed his mouth out then turned the tap off. Clint supported him all the way back to the bed where he sank wearily onto the edge. Clint sat down next to him, ready to catch him if he looked unsteady, but he felt a little more balanced here. "Thanks," he said quietly, a little embarrassed. "I'm alright really."

"Yeah, I know."

"How was the recon mission?" he asked.

"The best kind of boring," said Clint.

"Good," said Steve. "So you thought you'd come down here for a little excitement? Maybe get assaulted for no reason?"

Clint laughed softly. "Tony may've mentioned his arm once or twice," he understated. "Actually when I said I was coming down, his exact words were 'He's super-gullible right now so have fun with that.'" Steve hung his head ruefully and Clint clapped a hand companionably on his shoulder. "So," he started thoughtfully, "I didn't have a chance before to say thanks for having my back."

"Sure," said Steve, shrugging.

Clint tutted impatiently, raising his eyes to the ceiling a moment. "Come on, man, don't shrug it off like that. I'm trying to tell you I'm grateful I'm still alive right now."

A perplexed frown furrowed Steve's brow. "I know, and I do appreciate it. But we save each other's lives all the time…"

"Yeah but even you've gotta admit this one was kinda above and beyond," said Clint. "I mean, you knew going into it what was gonna happen and it still didn't stop you." Steve opened his mouth to interject something and Clint hurriedly added, "And I know, you've got the serum and I don't, but you didn't know you were gonna survive it and…" he looked away a moment, holding his hands up, "it cost you a hell of a lot of find out." He fixed Steve with an earnest look. "So thank you."

A smile crept across Steve's face. It filled his eyes and relaxed his shoulders, radiating from him like light from a firefly. And suddenly, Clint got the feeling that being Captain America wasn't so different from being a Shield agent as he'd once thought. They all knew people were grateful when they swept in and saved the day. And that they would be grateful if they knew what they did for them every week. But being really, explicitly thanked for saving someone wasn't something that happened very often. It hadn't really occurred to Clint just how rare it was until now. Steve bowed his head humbly. "You're welcome," he said.

Clint nodded. Rare as it was, he was glad he'd gotten this one to hit home. "And hey, Shield has a pretty good psych department if you need anyone to help you wrap your head around things. I can recommend someone."

"I'll keep that in mind. Thanks."

Clint looked surprised. "Really?"

Steve chuckled. "Yes. Really." He pointed at own his chest with a circular motion, channelling Tony; "Did you not see this?"

Clint laughed. "I did. In way too much detail. And I'll be lucky if I walk away from this without therapy. But for now, how about ditching the hospital corners for the stupidly big sofa on Floor Fifteen? Tony's got a whole library of movies just waiting for times like this and I, for one, intend to use it."

Distraction. A blatant attempt at it. And it sounded like exactly what he needed. He'd take it. "Sounds good to me," he agreed.

He let Clint take his arm and drape it around his shoulders to support him, and together they got up and headed for the door. After all, if he let his teammates help him out when stuff like this happened, they'd be more likely to let him do the same for them should the roles be reversed. Even when you were laid up with a great gaping hole in your chest, you had to consider these things. You had to remember that there was more than one way to take care of your people and fortify your unit. There was more than one way to be a good Captain.

The End.

Author's note: Figurative schnauzer puppies for everyone who got my reference to a much-loved non-Avenger Marvel character. They may also be earned through the simple process of leaving a review. :-D Always greatly appreciated.