Disclaimer: not mine. I have to admit, I only know Avengers in movieverse form, but I've seen a lot of pictures from the comics of Tony flying Steve around while in the Iron Man suit, and this was inspired by them.

Summary: Steve and Tony learn to fly together. Literally. This was written with friendship in mind, but it can be preslash if you prefer.

Grounded, Midair

It begins as a simple enough idea, with a highly utilitarian goal in mind. Inspired by a fight in which it really, really would've helped to have another man in the air- despite the initial hesitations of both involved parties- Steve and Tony are learning to fly together. Literally.

Not in a plane, no, not anything that simple- they don't typically have planes with them, after all. What they do have is the Iron Man suit, with enough propulsion to easily manage even Steve's added weight. So. So, it's a cool, sunny Tuesday afternoon in early fall, and they're staring at each other in an empty field somewhere a hundred miles north of Manhattan.

Tony had sighed with annoyance at Steve's instance that this not take place over concrete- but at least he seemed genuinely sorry after suggesting they try it over water.

The field isn't bad. The grass is high and plush and Steve thinks he might be inclined to enjoy himself here- well, on a picnic or something like that. This, maybe not so much.

But when Tony cocks an eyebrow, Steve nods his assent. It's for the greater good, after all.

The positioning is an interesting challenge.

They try- unsuccessfully- a few different options. The first attempt has Steve hanging onto Tony by the ankles, which works, sort of. Until they realize that Steve has no use of his arms. And Tony doesn't either if he has to use his hands for propulsion. Not to mention he has trouble compensating the augmented length, which means before all is said and done Steve has been run into the ground more times than he cares to remember.

Thank god Tony's agreed to keep it under ten feet elevation until they get it right- and thank god he's sticking to that.

The second attempt is a kind of bastardized piggyback, but with the suit's limited flexibility and Steve's topheavy form, it ends up more with Steve riding upright on a horizontal Tony, like some kind of ridiculous flying horse. The Iron Man mask is closed and Steve can't decide if Tony is vibrating with anger or laughter.

Steve will not, he vows silently, mention "Tonyback rides". In any case, this is not a viable option if they want to maintain any type of gravitas whatsoever. He can hear Clint's jibes already.

The third variation has Steve on Tony's shoulders. The fourth has him more or less in Tony's arms.

Steve is staring, slightly frustated, into the forest at the edge of the field when suddenly a metal arm wraps tightly around his waist. Tony pulls him close, roughly, without preamble, and instinctively Steve coils his arm around Tony's shoulders. The metal is surprisingly cool beneath his skin. Carefully he balances a foot atop one of Tony's, shifting his weight pound by pound until he's pretty sure he'll stay upright by that foot alone.

For all that he's standing on a metal man like a little girl dancing on her father's feet, this feels oddly natural. He can't believe they didn't think of this first.

"Should've thought of this first," Tony gripes. "Ready, Cap?"

"One for the money," Steve says, and offers a willing smile.

Flying in a plane is one thing- and to be honest, after everything, Steve's not even too keen on that anymore. But flying- like a bird, in open air- is something completely different. After the first few feet, Steve finds himself honestly clinging to Tony- none of this polite, one-armed business. His heart is pounding like it hasn't this century. He's got the Iron Man suit in a veritable bear hug, both arms tight around the neck, chin digging into the metal where the collarbone would be. Tony is silent, focused, holding Steve just as tight as Steve's holding him, the joints of his gloves digging uncomfortably into Steve's lower back.

Because of this, Steve's not really sure how it happens. All he knows is that one second he's forcing himself to look down at the ground, and the next he's looking up at the sky with no breath left in his lungs.

"Shit." The word echos metallically as the Iron Man mask unfolds. Tony crouches beside him.

"I'm fine," Steve gasps, assessing the damage- bruises, mostly, maybe a slight concussion, but nothing that won't heal in a day. He struggles to sit up. A metal hand guides him.

Tony doesn't look bewildered or repentant or even all that concerned, but it's the first Steve's seen of his face in hours, and somehow that's enough. That, and the tiniest edge to his voice when he intones, "I dropped you."

"Yeah."

"Fuck."

"Yeah," Steve agrees, finally pushing himself back to his feet.

"Done for the day," Tony decides, and Steve is all too ready to follow him to the car.

It's not easy to scare Steve Rogers. And it's even harder to do when he's Captain America, decked out in the colors of the nation he lives to protect, impressive in high-tech fabric and gadgetry.

Back in the field two days later, though, Steve is getting antsy; sweat makes his forehead itch and his knees wobble drunkenly. Tony's got his mask open and a tight frown on his face.

"We doing this, Cap?" he drawls, holding his arms open and doing a suggestive little dance. Steve forces himself not to sigh. "No cuddles this time, though," Tony adds, as Steve positions himself at his side.

He's right, Steve knows- in the middle of a fight he'll be no help at all being carried like a child. For this to work they've got to hold onto each other with just one arm each. Steve braces himself, foot on Tony's foot, arm around Tony's neck; Tony, in turn, latches onto Steve's waist.

They lift off slowly, by inches; Steve keeps the toes of his outside foot on the ground as long as he possibly can. Then all too soon, he's in midair. His fingers tighten involuntarily around the upper arm of the Iron Man suit but he sets his teeth and resists the urge to fling himself on Tony. The motion would probably make him fall anyway, and that is a road he has no interest in walking again.

He can't see the blades of grass anymore, not even with his serum-enhanced eyesight. Wind moans in his ears and runs over his cheeks in ribbons. Tony's mask is closed and Steve thinks he might feel lonely if he didn't feel so dizzy- so, so dizzy.

It wasn't just his eyesight that improved with the serum. His balance is worlds better, and vertigo has to work a lot harder to catch him- but it's definitely caught him now. Steve's head spins. His chest tightens. Suddenly he wonders if Tony's going to remember not to go high enough that the air thins; safe inside the suit, he might forget about the limitations outside of it. Suffocation- a very real possibility- might already be setting in, and suddenly Steve is gasping, gulping, sucking in air that isn't anywhere near good enough-

His stomach swoops horribly, and oddly enough the queasiness focuses him. He's not suffocating- he's panicking, and panic is something that can be controlled.

Certain symptoms of the panic, though, cannot.

"Down," Steve growls.

Tony doesn't react.

"Down!" Steve shouts, hitting his fingers against Tony's shoulder, bringing his other arm around and whacking him in the chest. They level out, stop ascending.

Tony's voice sounds far away and Steve can't quite make out his words, but it doesn't matter. "I am going to throw up on your suit!" Steve chokes out, and then, blissfully, they begin to descend.

Acid burns the back of his throat but just as Steve makes peace with the fact that they won't get there fast enough, their feet hit grass. Pushing himself off Tony's side, Steve staggers a few steps away before vomiting all over the ground.

"Guess I should install some barf bags with the next upgrade, eh?" Tony remarks. Steve groans and throws up again.

Eventually Tony stops laughing, and Steve stops heaving. He's sitting in the dirt, head in his hands, but he hears the gently clanging footsteps as Tony comes to his side. He lifts his head with a groan. Mostly he treasures memories of the twentieth century, but flashbacks to endless flu seasons and an impossibly low alcohol tolerance can leave him alone, thanks very much.

Tony doesn't put a hand on his shoulder or his knee or anything like that, but he offers a little plastic tube that's trailing from the arm of the Iron Man suit. Steve stares blankly.

"You're in luck," Tony booms. "It's a new feature this model. Sharable water supply." Maybe it's just the residual dizziness, but something weird seems to pass across Tony's face; Steve thinks involuntarily about the man before him and wonders how thirsty it was to be captive in Afghanistan.

"Is that... recycled pee?" Steve groans, instead of asking about anything serious, and Tony smirks.

"Just drink from my arm, Captain. Hah! Things you don't get to say every day."

Ignoring the sheer enjoyment on Tony's face, Steve sucks a mouthful of cold water from the tube, swishes it around his mouth, and spits it out. He takes a smaller amount and swallows it.

"Thank you for waiting until we landed," Tony deadpans, sliding the tube back wherever it came from.

"Thanks for not dropping me," Steve sighs.

It gets better. Come to think of it, it couldn't have gotten much worse, but Steve decides not to look at it that way.

Tony doesn't drop him again and Steve doesn't throw up again- after a solid week of practicing, there aren't even any more close calls. Before long, they get the arms right, get the feet right, and master the art of ascending and descending, tilting backwards and forwards and just generally staying together.

It takes a little longer to work out turning. It takes even longer to figure out how Tony can still shoot and Steve can still use his shield. The worst of all is when Tony flies so fast he goes horizontal- that one sees a partial return to the piggyback idea, and they both agree that this is only to be used in worst case scenarios.

But the Iron Man suit is strong and the man inside it is, despite appearances, trustworthy. About a month in Steve realizes he's actually used to the sensation of being grounded, midair.

And finally, three months after they started, they are one suit and two men actually flying.

"I don't think we need to come all this way anymore."

"Don't tell me you're going to bring up gas prices."

Tony gives a genuine laugh. "Look at Steve Rogers, speaking the lingo of the new millennium."

"I like this field."

"I'm a little insulted!" Tony gasps. "You're still worried I'm going to drop you!" Steve just smiles.

It's December now. Steve has his jacket on over his uniform, and though in reality it's plenty warm, he still wishes for another layer. Inside his metal suit, Tony is oblivious to the chill. Steve watches the sky as they make their way to the center of the field; it's grey, and the air is plush and smells damp. He sighs. One thing that hasn't changed is the feeling of clouds about to snow, and though Steve thinks he's been doing pretty well lately, he still hangs onto these little consistencies.

"Ready?" Steve turns around to the sight of Tony's face disappearing behind metal. He doesn't reply, but tucks himself up against the suit, where he's come to fit like the missing piece of a puzzle.

They're not running offensive or defensive drills today. They're not practicing swoops or loops or any other nonsense like that. This is just a test run, the final test run, one last chance to be sure of themselves before going public with their new skill.

And they're ready, to be sure. Tony's arm, though metal and sharply jointed in its suit, is perfectly natural around Steve's waist. And Steve, though not a small man by any means, has learned to balance easily on Tony's foot. Pushing off from the ground, he can't help but wonder if he's finally made a real and true friend in this century. They certainly don't argue less than they used to, but they can spend time together without arguing now too.

Besides, there are some things that just make men brothers. Flying together, Steve thinks, definitely qualifies.

They zoom upwards and then drift, gracefully, over the edge of the field, above the trees. They're bare now, barren and brown, a blur of dead leaves littering the ground beneath them.

Steve breathes in deeply. The air is sharp and frigid, but for the first time in a long time, the cold doesn't panic him. Instead he is suddenly, profoundly calm.

It's a little bit lonely with Tony's mask closed. That part hasn't changed, but Steve has learned to reassure himself that there is indeed a man inside the suit, that he's not up there alone. That's plenty good enough. It's a lot more than he's had at many other times in his life.

Steve can feel Tony staring up, feel his neck bending backward without even needing to look over at him. He shifts his weight automatically to compensate- then all at once he sees what Tony sees. Tiny white flakes are beginning to surround them, on a lazy crash course to the earth. That grey sky has finally opened.

Something inside Steve is all at once very, very happy and very, very sad. He doesn't realize that he's tightened his grip on Tony until Tony slowly tightens his in response. Staring out at the falling slips of crystal, Steve finds it all too easy to think about what's changed and what hasn't, what he's lost and what he's gained.

He pulls back his cowl, wind sliding icily through his hair, and sucks in another deep breath. Tony says nothing, just keeps them moving slowly over the forest. Steve puts his head back, and snow melts into rivers that run down his forehead and cheeks.

And suddenly he's not thinking of anything else but that.

When they land, the powder is just beginning to stick on the grass. Their feet touch down in unison and Steve steps away, scrubbing the snow and the tears from his face. He sniffs a few times, nose running badly from the cold and the overflow of nameless emotion. Tony doesn't open his mask until Steve's done, and Steve knows it's on purpose.

"I didn't drop you," Tony points out, once his face is uncovered. His voice sounds hollow and deep in the stilled air, and the exposed skin of his cheeks pinks up rapidly.

"I know," Steve rasps.

Tony gives him a steady look, like he's trying to assess everything Steve isn't saying. A minute later he smiles crookedly, and turns away.

Steve casts one last glance over the grey and brown and white. It's a colorless photograph, sharp and timeless, and so beautiful that Steve has to force him to breathe slowly when his eyes start stinging again. He thinks about drawing the scene, then decides that somehow, he just can't.

He pulls his jacket tighter around himself and trails Tony to the car.