They lived in between breaths. Began. Ended. Loved. Lost. Danced. Fought. Kissed. Ignored. Shoved. Fucked. Swam. Cried. Promised. Lied.

It was the only place they could exist and still live. Could live and love each other without tearing the universe apart. Because it was just them and nothing else. The world was quiet in between breaths.

There was no place louder for them.

Everything screamed in between breaths. The brush of skin against skin. Pulling. Pushing. Kneading. Touching. Tasting. Feeling.

But nothing was louder than the silence at the end.

Because they could not live in between breaths. No one could. You must inhale. You must breathe again or never again. You lived or died.

And sometimes, if you were very unlucky, you did both.

Tony Stark was fortunate. He was not lucky. People often made the mistake of mixing up the two.

He was fortunate to be a multi-billionaire, but that was something he worked damn hard for. There was no luck involved. He built the Stark empire himself. He could have blown his inheritance and let his genius brain deteriorate in the back of a crack house somewhere, snorting coke off of a stripper's tits.

He was fortunate to have the Iron Man suit to protect himself and the world around him. He was fortunate to have an arc reactor glowing in his chest to keep him alive. He was fortunate that he had his own jet and didn't have to sit through sixteen hour flights while a baby cried somewhere in the background and the lady next to him gave him the weather report by treating his $300,000 suit as a handkerchief because tissues were apparently so 2008.

None of that was luck. Those were all things he'd worked for.

In fact, Tony Stark considered himself to be rather unlucky. He had never won the lottery. He had never found a penny on the ground and all day had good luck. He had never wished on a shooting star and had all his dreams come true. He'd never found the pot of gold at the end of a rainbow; although he'd heard enough leprechaun jokes as a kid because of his height to last him a lifetime.

In the end, between breaths, he would be just as unlucky. Because his heart would beat again, and he would live.

But he wouldn't.

Not really.

What no one ever tells you is how much it fucking hurts when your heart skips a beat. It is not romantic. Your stomach does not flutter. Birds are not chirping. The world does not continue to spin while you stand still.

Your vision goes black and you start to pass out from lack of oxygen to your brain.

That is what happens the first time Tony Stark meets Steve Rogers.

And Thor.

Yes, the God of Thunder is there too. See? Not romantic. Thor's hammer crashes against the Captain's shield and they level an entire forest. Tony Stark is knocked 300 yards off his feet and onto his ass. His heart is pounding in his ears and when he tries to sit up, he hears it pause as it skips a beat, and then his eyes are rolling back into his head.

His heart beats again, and the only birds he's seeing are the cartoon blue ones flying in a circle above his head. And that chirping sounds a lot more like ringing in his ears. His stomach does not flutter, it fucking churns and threatens to crawl up his chest cavity and out of his mouth like one of those freaky ass frogs he saw on Animal Planet a few weeks ago. If anything, Tony is the only thing spinning while the rest of the world stands still.

Tony and Steve do not get along when Nick Fury assembles the Avengers. Tony is the Justin Timberlake of this boy band and he only flies solo, while Steve wants to turn this ship into a chorus group where no one is the star. But have you ever heard of a gospel choir having a number one hit on the Billboard charts? Tony Stark only knows how to be the best, and he'll do whatever it takes to get there. He doesn't know how to sit in the back seat. That's why he buys ridiculously expensive cars. They only have two seats. There is no 'back'. It's a metaphor for life. Tony also owns a plastic Buddha.

Tony is also the Lance Bass of the group, but shhh! Let's not talk about that yet.

Tony likes to push buttons and Steve walks around with a bullseye on the center of his chest with a star painted in the middle, so really, he's just asking for it. Limits are put to the test, because yes, even Captain America has limits. Tony got Steve to say 'damn' the very first day they met. It almost wasn't even a challenge after that.

But then the game changed and angry retorts and blatant disapproval turned to playful banter and sought-out company. 'Stark' changed to 'Tony' and 'Capsicle' changed to 'Steve'. An arm thrown around a shoulder was done in earnest camaraderie to a good friend instead of to purposefully induce anger from a new acquaintance. A hand was shoved away in playfulness rather than to break unwanted contact.

Steve was the best game of all. It wasn't a game though, not really, when you were the one who had everything to lose like Tony did. But what are you supposed to do when you're in love with your best friend? 'Nothing' was not a word in Tony's vocabulary most Mondays through Saturdays. National holidays excluded.

Between breaths and on a Thursday was when it began. Tony had begun to avoid Steve, because it was easier not to see him at all than it was to be around him and know they could never be more. He couldn't do the 'If you love someone you'll do whatever it takes to make them happy even if it means hurting yourself' bullshit. He couldn't just be Steve's friend, so if that meant taking himself out of the picture and hurting Steve as a result, then so be it. Either way it fucking sucked to be Tony Stark. He did do Steve a favor though, and did his best to make Steve go back to hating him by making snide remarks whenever they were together. It would be easier for Steve if he hated Tony. You didn't miss the people you hated.

It was hard to handle the sad, puppy-dog eyes that he gave Tony at first, the ones that asked what he'd done wrong because he didn't understand. That nearly killed Tony. But soon those puppy-dog eyes turned hard, as a dog's does when it's been kicked too many times to care anymore, and then it starts to bite back. The other Avengers did their damnedest to keep these two out of the same room because Tony wouldn't stop being a dick until he caused Steve to walk out, which got harder and harder to do because Steve started yelling back, and no matter what, no one could fix it. So they kept the two separated as much as possible.

The hour was late, and Tony was still at S.H.I.E.L.D because Pepper was throwing some fancy Board party at Stark Towers and there was no way Tony was going to that even if it was at his own house. He told Pepper she had until midnight to get everyone out or he was having Jarvis turn on the sprinklers. Pepper didn't argue, because that was a considerably mild threat compared to the things Tony usually came up with.

Tony had taped his hands and was going a few rounds with a punching bag in one of the gyms. He had AC/DC blaring through the speakers at an ungodly level so that no one else wanted to stay in the gym with him. He'd also hacked S.H.I.E.L.D's system so that the music couldn't be shut off unless Tony did it by voice command. Really, they made this stuff too easy.

One of the downsides was that Tony couldn't hear it when someone entered the room. Which didn't bother him, because he knew they'd leave after a minute once they realized Tony wasn't going to be a polite citizen and turn this shit off.

Tony jabbed right, hooked left, and went for a right uppercut, but ended up punching air. Steve stood in front of Tony in a navy blue Under-Armour shirt that clung to his torso and showed off every chiseled ridge of muscle, and a pair of black workout pants. He held the punching bag at his side.

Tony said nothing and made a grab for the bag. Steve pulled it out of reach. He gave Steve a warning glance that said he had about five seconds to give the bag back or Nuclear War level shit was going to happen. Steve didn't budge, just stared at him sternly.

"Music," said Tony through his teeth, not breaking eye contact with Steve. The music stopped playing immediately.

"Give me the bag, Rogers," Tony warned. He wasn't asking. Although he couldn't help but listen to the voice that was shouting in his head and making glaringly obvious observations, like the fact that this was the first time him and Steve had been alone together in months.

"Hit me," said Steve.

"What?" Tony spat, unamused. He didn't have time for Steve's games. He made another grab for the bag. Steve pulled it out of reach.

"I said hit me. It's obvious that you want to. So go ahead, do it."

"Listen, I don't know if you've been hanging out with that caterpillar from Alice in Wonderland lately, or if Natasha's hooked you up with some of that crazy Russian shit, but you must be on something if you think you could take me in a fight. Especially without the spangly suit."

A familiar flicker of confusion sparked in the Captain's eyes that happened every time someone made a reference he didn't understand, and a small crease formed between his brows. The look nearly ripped Tony's heart from his chest. He'd always loved that adorably lost look on Steve's face, like a kid who'd just heard a word for the first time and wondered what it meant. Then Tony could swoop in and save the day, and Steve would smile, shake his head, and chuckle. The best times were when the references made Steve blush because he'd found out something that sounded so innocent was actually very dirty.

Steve blinked hard and recovered. "That's a lot of talk coming from a man who's been acting like a child for the past three months. In fact, I think all it is is talk," Steve goaded.

Tony cocked an eyebrow, surprised at Steve's taunting. They were on pretty bad terms lately, but Steve usually took the high road when it came to the two of them. Tony owned the low road, had been walking it his whole life. The damn street sign had his name on it. He made a show of laughing, letting Steve know he thought his joke was very funny, but it was time for him to leave now. "Don't push your luck," he said, pulling the end of a piece of tape and stretching it tighter across his hand.

The bag came at Tony's chest at a blinding speed, and he only just caught it in time so it didn't knock him flat on ass. His arms took most of the force and sent them ringing with pain, but his chest absorbed some of the impact. Anger crawled through him, clenching his jaw and making a muscle bunch in his cheek. He swallowed hard and breathed in and out deeply through his nose. "You've got five seconds to -"

Steve strode toward him and Tony reacted. Steve obviously had the upper hand in this situation. He was a god damn super soldier who could snap Tony's arm like a twig if he wanted to. But Tony was learned in the art of mixed martial arts, and he'd been taught all his life to fight as the smaller man. Skill trumped brute strength every time if you were good. And Tony Stark was...well...Tony Stark.

He feinted an elbow to the chest but went low instead, aiming a heel to Steve's shin. Steve blocked the kick to his shin and took the elbow to the chest. It was intentional, Tony knew, because Steve wouldn't even feel such a weak blow as that. Steve started to shove Tony away just as Tony hooked his leg around the back of Steve's knee, and they both fell to the floor in a tangle of limbs.

The pair grappled on the floor for what felt like hours. They pushed and pulled, fingers digging into arms and any available flesh, knees were aimed at groins as they rolled around to get on top. Steve currently held that position and had been there for the past five minutes. A lot of grunting and curses from Tony's end that would make sailors blush were the only sounds that had been made since the fight began. Neither of them had had a chance to speak, which was fine with Tony, but Steve had Tony's cheek smashed to the mat right now as he straddled his hips, doing nothing else but seemingly catching his breath.

"What happened, Tony?" Steve demanded, his breathing still slightly uneven. "What did I do?"

"Look, I get that I'm the supposed to be the genius here, but I think it's pretty obvious that you started this. I don't remember having Jarvis send you an Evite to come to the gym and start harassing me. I'll be filing a formal complaint with S.H.I.E.L.D. And unless that's a pistol in your pocket, I'm filing it as sexual harassment."

For a genius, Tony had fallen for Steve's ploy like an anvil with a lead anchor attached to it. Now he understood why Steve was taking a walk on How Low Can Tony Stark Go Lane and holy shit he had to get out of here. Because Steve wanted to talk. Tony had done his best to make that impossible these past three months. Why did Steve think he tried so hard to get him out of the room all the time?

A blush crept up the Captain's already flushed face and down his neck. He shifted against Tony so that his weight rested on his knees and only his hands were touching him now. Tony was only teasing him, but now that he'd brought attention to it, it was all Tony could think about. How many times had he wished he could roll around with Steve on the floor like this, be pressed up against him like this? The heat of anger had provided a shield for those desires while they'd fought, but now, that heat filled him in a different way, a familiar way, hitting him full force. All he could see was Steve. All he could do was feel the heat rolling off of him. It was too much to handle and Tony groaned, because life was so fucking unfair.

Thinking it was a groan of pain, Steve quickly released his grip on Tony's face and shifted it to Tony's shoulders, pinning him to the ground. "I don't understand," said Steve, suddenly defeated. There was something lost in the way his shoulders sagged and his whole body seemed to give way to exhaustion; it spoke of a battle that'd been long fought, but now the strain had become too much and he could no longer bear the weight.

That puppy-dog look was back on his face and Tony's head fell back against the mat. He groaned and slapped his hands to his face. "No, no, no," he muttered to himself, his head rolling back and forth on the ground. "That's not how this is supposed to happen. Why are you making this so god damn hard? Why couldn't you just hate me? These past three months have been a total waste! How the hell didn't any of that work? I'm Tony fucking Stark, everything I do works," he rambled on to himself, growing more irritated and indignant with Steve as he did, completely forgetting that the man himself was currently looming over him.

"What?" said Steve, breathlessly. It was all of the super soldier's weight now shifted to his arms and therefore into Tony's shoulders that broke the genius out of his manic ramblings. And he wasn't happy about it.

"I'm in love with you, you stupid, overgrown, freakishly buff, sexy shoulders, tight ass, America flag-toting, pretentious high-road walking, adorably naïve, bastard," said Tony accusingly, as if the confession was being dragged out of him against his will and it was all Steve's fault.

It was between breaths that Steve listened to Tony's confession. It was in between breaths that the realization of what he'd just done hit Tony. It was between breaths that Tony closed his eyes and waited for the well deserved punch to slam across his face. It was between breaths that Steve pressed his lips to Tony's and pulled away to meet the bewildered gaze of one stunned Tony Stark. "You sure have a funny way of showing it," Steve teased, brushing hair away from Tony's forehead.

The familiar mischievous glint returned to Tony's eye. "There are a few other things I'd like to show you, Captain."

And that's where it began. Between breaths.

After that the two hardly breathed at all. They stopped talking only long enough to listen to the other speak. Stopped kissing long enough only to moan each other's and God's name. They strained toward each other rather than away. They no longer fought just to save the world; they fought to get back to each other.

Because it's not love unless you're willing to fight for it. Tony and Steve would – and did – fight to Hell and back to get back to each other. Tony owned Hell by the time he was through with it. And damn did the devil look good in hot rod red.

"Hit me," Steve had said, and it wouldn't be the last time. "Hit me," he would say again. And in between breaths, Tony would.

Because it's not love unless you're willing to fight for it. Not unless you have to fight each other for it.

When you fight, you win or you lose. You come out on top or you lose it all.

And sometimes, if you were very unlucky, you did both.

Tony Stark was fortunate. He was not lucky.

Some people say every heart beats to its own, unique rhythm. Some people press their ear to their lover's chest and listen to their ticking time bomb, memorizing the pattern of beats.

Steve liked quiet walks through the park, reading in the shade under a great oak tree, sitting outside of restaurants and drawing whatever caught his eye. Steve enjoyed the things you told people about in soft whispers. Anything louder would wake the dreamer. Steve liked the things that happened when the world stood still. Things that happened when the world held its breath.

Dancing was something Steve loved to do. Fast. Slow. Jazz. Waltzing.

Dancing was something that did not happen in between breaths.

Tony liked to play his music loud, liked parties that went all night, liked driving cars 50 miles over the speed limit to start a speed chase with the NYPD. Tony enjoyed the things you had to shout over the laughter of the people around you, just so they could hear you. Anything quieter and you'd put them to sleep. Tony liked the things that happened that made the room feel like it was spinning. Things that made the world hold its breath.

Snow fell to the ground, drifting down from the sky like stardust. You could not see it from the way the flakes clung to each other on this frosty December night, but each one was unique, each had its own pattern, a story of its own.

"Dance with me," said Tony, cantering to his feet and holding out a hand to his boyfriend.

Steve looked around the deserted duck pond. Not a soul was in sight. There were only street lamps around to cast shadows, and the distant sounds of car horns and the ever-present hum of New York City.

"Here? Now? You don't even like to dance, Tony. And there's no music." He put his hand in Tony's anyway, because Tony hadn't really been asking.

Both hands were bare despite the chill. Neither were cold.

Tony pulled him close and he let Tony lead. Tony bent his head down and pressed his ear to Steve's chest. A steady rhythm played, thrumming in both of their ears.

"They're playing our song," said Tony.

Dancing was something that happened in between breaths.

We never know when something will be our last. Our last words. Our last breath. The last kiss we share with someone.

The last dance.

"Let's go swimming," said Tony out of the blue.

Only it wasn't, because he said it as the waves crashed along the shore, washing over the ghost of footprints they had long since buried.

The waves recoiled, dragging sand, and shells, and spoken words. And when they came crashing again, it was an invitation.

A thread of rambling guitar tones wove through the salt-tinged air. Toughened fingers plucked the strings on the slightly out of tune guitar. It'd been found in a shed by the beach house, and would not allow itself to be tuned. The salt had gotten into the wood, as it got into everything that lived near the sea, sewing itself into the framework of buildings, the crisp flesh of fish served up for dinner, and on the tips of tongues where they had trailed along their lovers' skin.

The salt stitched up the broken things; made them better than before. Made them as they should have been all along, as it had done to the guitar. And no matter what tune was now played, something quick and lilting or something low and haunting, it reminded the listener of the sea.

Tony's back had slid down the log Steve was sitting on, next to the embers of a dying fire. Sand pushed up between his toes, packing his feet in on all sides. The deeper he wiggled his toes down, the cooler the sand became.

"Hmmm?" said Steve, like an afterthought. He was lost in the music, in the hypnotic rhythm his fingers lulled him into as they played along the guitar strings. Images of rocky, sea-drenched caves in a forgotten part of the world sprung to both of their minds in a shared daydream.

Tony was always encouraging Steve to write down the melodies he made. They were always unique and Steve Rogers Originals, and something he thought Steve could do professionally. Outside of saving the world, of course.

"Actually, you might end up destroying it, one broken fan girl heart at a time," Tony joked, bending over the back of the couch and wrapping his arms around Steve's neck. "Because this heart," he tapped the bare skin on the left side of Steve's chest, "already belongs to me. And I won't go down without a fight for it."

An enticing shade of red would pool in the Captain's cheeks and spread down his smooth, pale neck, almost camouflaging the purpling patch of skin where Tony had marked him as his own the night before. He would look down, his eyes twinkling, and shake his head.

And that would be the end of that. Until the next time.

"Swimming," Tony repeated, tilting his head up to look at his boyfriend. "Let's go swimming." The top layer of sand was like silk slipping over his fingers as he rolled onto his stomach and pushed himself to his feet. "C'mon, Captain, the others are already asleep, and I've got sand in my pants. Let's go for a dip."

The Avengers had flown to Michigan to handle an attack against the city of Detroit. They'd spent the day avoiding death, and none of them were looking forward to the flight home, when Clint remembered a beach house his father's best friend owned along the lake.

The music stopped.

The sea lapped against the shore. A gull cried. The shed creaked in the wind.

The music played.

"You're swimming naked?" said Steve at the edge of the water, watching Tony strip.

"Is there any other way?"

Naked, he slunk across the sand, sidling up to Steve. "Let me give you a hand." Tony slowly undid the buttons of Steve's shirt, keeping eye contact with him. Steve watched silently, his tongue unconsciously darting out to wet his lips as Tony worked on the zipper of his shorts.

Hand in hand, they walked into the ocean. Tony started to tug Steve's hand, wanting to run and meet an oncoming wave. Instead, Steve used the momentum of the incoming tide and pulled Tony to him, wrapped him completely in his arms, and pressed their lips together.

The wave slammed into them, water trying to slip through the spaces where their bodies met, and found no such escape. The sand shifted beneath their feet, changing, rearranging; trying to unsettle them.

The pair remained steady. Two anchors for one ship. Unsinkable.

Unsinkable.

A wreck at the bottom of the ocean.

Unsinkable.

How much of it was the ship, and how much of it were the…?

Unsinkable.

The water gets colder, the farther down you dig your toes. The water gets colder, the longer you breathe it in.

Unsinkable.

Because a ship cannot sink on shore, when its feet are still stuck in the sand.

But how about a ship in the middle of a war? In the heart of a battlefield? How far out at sea do you have to be, for how long do you have to be alone, to be considered lost?

How long can you call yourself unsinkable, when the water comes pouring in?

How long can you hold your breath?

"Do you still have it?" Tony whispered, "Please tell me you still have it."

"We're in a meeting, Tony," Steve reminded the man who was draped over his back, his chin resting on his shoulder, in a disapproving whisper. He kept his eyes forward, pointedly watching Director Fury as he went through a slide show.

"I know. And I'm bored. Talk dirty to me." He tried not to smile as he licked the shell of Steve's ear.

A shudder that could only be felt by someone pressed close enough, and not visible to anyone else, ran through Steve's body. It was his sensitive spot and the quickest way to get him to his knees. Tony took full advantage of this. Often.

A few days ago, Tony had been informed that an old storage unit of his father's had been found. Most of the stuff he ended up donating, or throwing out, but there was one thing he kept for himself. He'd found a small wooden chest full of old photographs of his father and Steve together. They had their arms around each other, smiling proudly as men of war do. Others were candid shots. Some were individual shots of Steve smiling modestly at the camera. He'd been tempted to cut his father out of all the pictures and keep them for himself. Instead, he decided to give those ones to Steve.

The individual ones of Steve, however, he kept for his own private use. One in particular he liked was of Steve in his old army uniform. It was tailor made for Steve, and with his broad shoulders and trim waist and hips, he looked positively delectable. Tony had become more than a little obsessed with getting Steve back into it…And then out of it again shortly after…Using his teeth.

"We can do a little role playing," Tony whispered, knowing he had Steve's full attention now. "I'll cook us a nice meal -"

"And burn the house down," Steve whispered back, turning his head slightly in Tony's direction to do so.

"I'll order us a nice meal," Tony continued without missing a beat. "And while I'm cooking, you can come in through the front door -"

"I think I'd prefer to come in through the back, actually," said Steve archly, turning and leaning completely into Tony. A fiery glint flickered in his eyes as he joined the game.

Tony grinned devilishly. Slowly, he ran his hand up Steve's thigh, feeling the tense muscle beneath the black slacks. "And when you come through the door, I'll be so surprised because you weren't supposed to be home for another month!" His hand inched higher, slipping down to the inner thigh. Steve's breath was warm on Tony's neck, hitching just slightly as he gently started to massage his thigh, his fingers so close…

"Director Fury, I'm sorry, but I can't concentrate with the two love birds over there chirping in each other's ear," said Clint. He was leaning back in his chair, his hands behind his head, smirking.

Steve pulled away immediately, shifting around in his seat and tugging on his shirt to make himself presentable.

"Is there something you two would like to share with the class?" asked Fury, dully.

"No, sir, I'm sorry, sir," said Steve, like he was back in the army and addressing his commanding officer.

Tony slunk back in his chair, perfectly at ease and carefree. "We were just whispering sweet nothings into each other's ears. Don't worry about it, Clint. You're still the Hawk of my Eye." He winked.

"What is this 'Hawk of your Eye' you speak of?" Thor boomed. "A mighty hawk once tried to challenge me. It was a worthy foe, but the beast was slain with one fell -"

"It's a play on words," Bruce interrupted hastily, seeing Clint's eyes growing wider and wider with horror. "The phrase is 'Apple of my Eye'. To be the "Apple" of someone's eye, means that they cherish you above all others."

"I thought it was something about pie, though," said Clint, looking up, thoughtfully. "Like, 'Pie in the Sky'. Or was it Pie in the Eye…?"

"No, that was your 30th birthday party," said Natasha, helpfully, placing her elbows on the table next to Bruce's.

Clint smiled fondly and rubbed his stomach. "Mmmh. Blueberry."

"I distinctively remember it being apple," said Tony.

"Thank you," said Bruce, appreciatively, nodding at him.

"I meant the pie, but you're probably right too, Banner. About whatever you were talking about." He waved his hand noncommittally through the air. "You are the second smartest person in the room, after all, while Clint falls somewhere under that door knob over there, so the statistics are on your side."

"Hey!" Clint protested. "Can a door knob do this?" He leaned across the table and snatched a stress ball out of Bruce's hand. He attempted to throw it into the trash bin, but Bruce dove across the table to grab it and he panicked, throwing it to Thor, who threw it to Natasha, who hid it God knows where without anyone seeing her do it, and was challenging Bruce to frisk her and find out.

"Tony," Steve chastised over the shouting coming from the game of Monkey-in-the-Middle.

"What?" said Tony, holding up his hands defensively. "Clint started it."

"Yes, but you shouldn't have encouraged him. We're interrupting Director Fury's meeting."

Tony sighed. "Look, two minutes ago you were talking about wanting to stick your dick in my ass, can we go back to that?"

"EW!" Clint exclaimed, his hands clamping over his ears. "I don't want to hear about Mom and Dad's sex lives!"

"Then go to your room," Tony suggested wryly. "Actually," he hooked a finger into the collar of Steve's shirt, pulling him closer, "go stay at a friend's, because Mom and Dad are going to need the whole house tonight."

A collective groan sounded from the Avengers as they shouted things fondly at the happy couple.

And none of them had noticed, not until much later, that Fury had slipped out of the room long ago, mumbling, "I haven't got time for this shit."

Steve and Tony really were like the parents among the Avengers. They were the leaders, they looked after everyone, made sure they were all okay every day, checking in on how they were doing and what they were up to. They often let the others stay over at their house when they needed somewhere to crash for the night after a long mission, or went out to pick up Thor and Clint if they got too drunk at the bar.

And when the time came, it was just like a child hearing their parents fighting in the next room through the thin walls as they sat up in bed, unable to fall asleep. It wasn't the noise that made it impossible to sleep. They could sleep through the crashes and bangs while their friends stayed up and played video games. They could fall asleep during holiday parties when the grown-ups were having a few to drink. They could sleep through the end of the world.

It was not the noise that kept them up. It was the fear. Because these fights weren't like the others. These were not like when they argued about whose turn it was to cook dinner, who forgot to turn the hose off in the backyard, who hadn't cleaned the dishes when they said they would.

This was louder. Deeper. Sharper. Longer. Lower. Angrier. Harsher. Exhausted. Hopeless. Inevitable.

Different.

Final.

It was the fear that kept them up. Fear of the end.

'The End' on the last page of a book.

'The End' that begged the question, happily ever after what?

What did you have to go through to get to the happily ever after part?

Because every story must end somewhere.

Between breaths.

And not all of them can be fairytales.

In a war there are always causalities.

On both sides.

And everyone must choose a side.

There were talks about a new law, just mutterings to begin with, that if passed, would require all people with superhuman abilities to register with the federal government as 'humans of mass destruction,' and therefore forgo their secret identities and make themselves known to the public.

And when the super heroes were asked if they would agree to such a law, there was not an echo in the room.

"No."

"Yes."

They turned to each other, confused at first, and tried again.

"No."

"Yes."

When it came to their views on matters, Tony and Steve often disagreed. They were the polar opposites of each other. But when it came to decisions that mattered, they could always expect to hear an echo in the room.

"How can you say yes?" Steve demanded, pulling his shirt over his head.

Tony pulled back the sheets on the bed with more force than was necessary. They'd had this discussion ten times today already.

"Because it makes sense," said Tony through his teeth. "The Superhuman Registration Act would provide proper training for superheroes. Think about what it'll do for the younger ones. Think about Peter."

Tony never said he didn't like kids. He said he didn't like children. Babies. Toddlers. He very much liked kids who were old enough to take care of themselves, who could speak complete and intelligent sentences, who could feed and water themselves, who could put themselves to bed, who could dress themselves, who could be left alone for copious amounts of time and survive, who could wipe their own asses, and who could get to school without any requirement needed on his part.

Which is why, perhaps, he'd gotten along so well with Peter Parker. They'd first met when Peter interviewed him for the newspaper. Tony'd liked him right off the bat, finding him intelligent and quick-witted. Not to mention, Peter actually understood the "jargon" Tony was speaking when he explained his projects.

And when Tony and Steve found out about Peter being Spider-Man, the trio grew even closer. They took the kid under their wings, teaching him as much as they could. They felt responsible every time Peter got hurt, and triumphant whenever he succeeded in saving the world, or getting an A on his Chemistry test.

And when Peter's aunt got hurt and had to be put in the hospital, and Peter asked them if he could stay with them for awhile because he didn't want to stay home alone, there was no hesitation on their part. He became the closest thing to a son either of them would ever have.

"Think of Peter?!" Steve sputtered in disbelief, pausing from getting into the bed. "I am thinking of Peter." He jabbed his finger at his chest for emphasis. "Peter's secret identity is everything to him. It protects him. He's just in high school. Imagine if the other kids found out. Imagine if his enemies found out who he really is. These secret identities allow super heroes to have lives, to have families. Making them reveal themselves to the public would put everyone they love in danger."

"Peter can take care of himself," Tony snapped, his fists curling at his sides. "And if he needs any help, I'll be right there at his side."

"It's not fair of you to do that to him, Tony. You know he'll take whatever side you do. He thinks of you as a father. Don't make him do this."

"He can make his own decisions, Steve. He's an adult. Besides, it's pointless to fight the law. Superheroes need to be held accountable for their actions. After what's happened lately with all the civilian causalities and damages to cities as a result of super-hero wars, it's made the American public begin to fear us just as much as they fear the bad guys. It's our job to make them feel safe."

The water boiled over and the kettle screamed. The waves crashed and the tide came in. They took a breath.

And the water began to flood in.

"That's bullshit and you know it," said Steve, boldly, shaking his head at the other man. "You're a good man, Tony, you've got a good heart, but just because you're a genius doesn't mean you're always right. You have to see that forcing super-heroes to do this is wrong. You're trading security for freedom."

There was nothing left to say. They'd already said it all.

They went to sleep that night, as close to the edge of their side of the bed as possible, backs turned to each other. They fell asleep with their breaths held, waiting for the other to concede, to wave the white flag and admit they were wrong.

Because surely one of them would. One of them would see the light and the fight would end. Because they loved each other.

Were in love with each other.

And they would it make it through this. They always did.

Always.

But what they would soon find out, as they stood on the battle field, looking across at each other instead of turning to their left or right to see the other at their side,

is that 'I love you,'

never meant

forever.

Thanks for reading! I would really appreciate hearing what you thought.

I may do a companion piece, I'm not sure yet.

Thank you to the wonderful, wonderful beta and friend, We Can Be Gorgeous. You are a wonderful human being.