Warning: sexual content.

Summary: Steve longs, Kamala mopes, Clint reminisces, and Miles just tries not to be too awkward.

After Steve's mother died, Bucky used to keep him warm at night.

He'd always had problems with maintaining his body heat, even as a child, swinging between running dangerously high fevers and his body turning to ice. What blankets they had were threadbare, worn through from years of use, and so the night after his mother's funeral, Bucky crawled into bed with him, shaking his head when Steve had tried to protest and covering Steve's body with his own.

Bucky was heavy. Unlike Steve, he'd been big, with broad shoulders, long arms, and thick thighs. Even as they grew older and Bucky became leaner, willowy with feline grace, he'd retained a sort of stocky charm, solid and warm as a hot summer day. Steve can't count on his fingers and toes the icy winter nights he would have died, unable to keep himself warm in the harsh, thundering cold.

Steve remembers one night in particular, before the serum, before Dr. Erskine. Before the ice.

Like all nights, Bucky had ignored Steve's half-hearted protests and boxed him in with his arms, face pressed into the raggedy pillows beside Steve's head. Steve remembers shivering at the way Bucky's breath tickled his neck, his ear, big hands tracing absent, feather-light circles up Steve's sides and along his arms. To his embarrassment, he'd felt stirrings in his groin, unable to stop the way he'd hardened as he felt Bucky smirk at his ear, huffing out a breathy laugh.

"So that's why you never let me take you out on dates with any dames," he'd drawled, mouthing his way up Steve's neck with a chuckle.

He'd silenced Steve's stammering apologies with a kiss, slipping a hand Steve's trousers and gripping him tightly in one hand. There had been no more apologies after that, only heat and rippling pleasure arcing up his spine like white-hot bolts of lightning.

After, Bucky stopped pushing Steve to come with him on dates, only dragging him along when they came across a couple of ladies like them, banding together for a night out. Bucky never took him dancing—though Steve used to cast wistful glances at the dance floor, even an innocent dance with his fella would've attracted the wrong kind of attention. Two boys a payment away from living on the streets of Brooklyn would never be equipped to deal with that.

There were nights when they pulled their thin mattress from the hard wooden slats and laid it on the floor with all the blankets, low to the ground so the neighbors couldn't see them through the windows, and Steve had pushed Bucky down on it, straddling him, muffling sharp cries as Bucky snapped his hips up, grunting and red with the effort to keep quiet.

Then Bucky had shipped out to Europe, and then there hadn't been time for anything else, too busy trying to find him, too busy fighting, too busy mourning him after he fell.

After—after the war, after the crash, after everything—Steve had looked Bucky in the eyes, searching, and knew with a sinking gut that Bucky remembered nothing of those few nights when he'd crawled into Bucky's lap, letting him unbutton his shirt and pull it down his shoulders, press kisses up his neck, hot and hard. Instead, he'd seen pain, the anguish of a man who'd been set on fire and had destroyed the world trying to put the flames out. All of that warmth had been ripped away, leaving him crumpled, fractured.

Some days, Steve wishes he could go back, do it all over, slip into Bucky's waiting embrace every day, every night, so that maybe Bucky would have remembered. He'd have cornered him behind tents, snuck out to hotels and brothels with him, broken rule after rule, violated agreements, crawled through hell and back. Anything for Bucky. He would have carved a home there for these memories, in the shared space between them, and even if he failed, he would have so much more to hold close.

In the end, it didn't matter. Bucky hadn't wanted to remember anything. After everything that's happened, Steve can't blame him.

It's strange to be sitting in a conference room dressed in costume and unmasked, and yet Miles sits stick-straight in a swivel chair across from Iron Man, Black Widow, and Vision, fighting to keep from fidgeting as Secretary Ross reintroduces them.

" … As you know, we are very lucky Mr. Morales has decided to join the team. Unfortunately, Colonel Rhodes remains unavailable, but as you've all already met, I don't believe we need to continue formalities. Mr. Morales?"

"Ah—yes." Miles clears his throat. "I'll be, um, working with you all for, uh, an extended amount of time, so … thank you," he says lamely.

There's a brief pause. Agent Romanoff's expression is blank and unreadable as she looks at him, and Miles can't shake the feeling that she's calculating something. Vision smiles politely at him, inclining his head. Even stuck at headquarters, still under probation, the hero is civil and mild as ever, and Miles can't help but appreciate that.

There was a time when Miles would have sat in here with nearly a dozen of the greatest, most powerful superheroes in existence. Now, that team—or at least, this side of the team, if the rumors were true—is reduced to three of the most controversial.

When he'd first brought up his decision to his parents, his father had reacted as badly as he'd expected, and they'd argued, Miles insisting it was all for the greater good, his father telling him to leave it to 'some other clown in a suit'. His mother had followed him out to the porch when Miles had stormed out of the house and had taken his face in her hands, pressing a firm kiss to his brow and making him promise to come back safely. She'd walked back inside without another word.

Now, with a duffel bag packed, set to reside with the rest of the team at Avengers Tower, he's still not sure whether or not he made the right choice in joining up. It had seemed the only decision at the time, knowing how badly the team would be reduced and overwhelmed with the loss of Iron Man. But the team, or at least how it's currently being run, works in ways Miles will never accept. It's why he's tried so hard to keep his friend Kamala from joining up. Fellow superhero or not, he didn't want her to end up with so much blood on her hands, a painful truth that would surely happen if she became an Avenger.

"Let's go, Underoos." Miles is so lost in thought, he doesn't realize debriefing is over until Tony Stark nudges his shoulder with the back of his hand. "I've been told you need a place to stay and Ross wouldn't let me build you a doghouse."

"Um. Thanks, I guess," Miles mutters under his breath.

"Oh, don't worry," Tony tells him as he leads him from the conference room. "It would've had everything. You'd get your own specially made mattress with Egyptian cotton sheets, my latest TV model, indoor plumbing, of course, and your shower would have to be ... "

Stark keeps jabbering through the entire car ride and all the way up to the top floor of Avengers Tower, describing the hypothetical doghouse with increasing fervor. At first, Miles wonders if maybe Stark really was going to make him live in a doghouse, but as he watches Stark devolve into random mechanical jargon and wild hand gestures, he realizes with a jolt that Stark is nervous.

The idea of Tony Stark, renowned genius and business mogul, ever being nervous, is incredibly difficult for Miles to comprehend. Stark is, after all, a man defined by his arrogance, from the confident way he walked to the self-righteous way he fought crime. It's odd to say the least, and so he turns his gaze to the room before him, refusing to dwell on that thought.

Stark Industries, sophisticated as it is, still reeks of home and comfort, its floors filled with plush chairs and sofas, breakrooms with warm light filtering in through the windows. The topmost floors, however, are so entirely different from the rest of the tower that Miles almost wonders if they'd somehow switched buildings. There's no other word for it—the Avengers' ex-headquarters is beautiful, with its white floors and glass windows. There are enormous elevators and spiraling glass stairs with silvery metal railings. Somehow, despite the busy, futuristic design, it doesn't feel cramped or crowded.

Miles can imagine this place bustling with heroes, but now, it feels a little cold, the echoing emptiness a sharp contrast to the bright afternoon light and the the gleaming floors. There had been rumors, before the Accords, that Stark Industries was planning to move to a different location so that the entire tower would belong solely to the Avengers. Miles supposes there's no point now, not with gossip hinting at Stark Industries filing for bankruptcy in the near future, and certainly not with only three—four—Avengers to claim these floors.

"So the main kitchen's on this floor, as is the living room and the dining room. Hangar's to the right and the labs are to the left." Stark leads him up a metal staircase curving up in a graceful arc parallel to the floor-to-ceiling windows. "Your room's on the third floor with Vision. Romanoff's on the floor below, and I'm two floors above you."

The housing floors are markedly different from the rest of the tower, which is all futuristic sophistication and open space. Here, there is a mixture of elegance and of intimacy, warm and muted colors blending with Stark's signature tastes. It's immediately clear that these floors are mean to feel like home. The corridors are wide and expansive, brightly lit and warm. Miles estimates that there are about a dozen rooms on this floor alone; knowing only two of them are in use seems strange and sad.

Stark jabs a finger over his shoulder. "Vision's on that side of the hall. Don't worry about fighting him for bathroom space, you already have your own and I'm not entirely sure he ever pees. Or eats."

Miles nods. "I can pick and choose, right?" He opens the first door. Stark makes an odd sound in the back of his throat, but Miles isn't listening, too busy staring at the interior with interest.

Already, Miles has come to see what an amalgamation the tower is, but this room is different. Everything was clearly Stark's, all his designs, all calculated, but this—someone else entirely could have designed the room. It's traditional and small, with arching windows and white walls with curling accents, the windows smaller and framed in oak. It's barely larger than a college dorm room, the adjoining bathroom leading off to the side. Everything, from the bed to the dressers, the lamps, the ceiling fan and—is that a radiator?—is, it seems, designed to look like the inside of a brownstone in Brooklyn, with someone particularly old-fashioned living in it, too.

"Whoa, culture shock," Miles laughs. Stark says nothing, and he glances back at him, freezing at the expression on the man's face. For the barest fraction of a second, there's a stiff, fragile sort of pain there, and then it's gone, replaced by nonchalance.

"Don't worry, Underoos. The rest of the rooms aren't this outdated."He smiles, but it's off somehow. "They've all got much more style."

Miles wonders why it's so easy for him to read Stark now. When he'd worked with him before, he'd been narcissistic and rash, then harsh and cynical, and then he hadn't bothered to stick around. He remembers the bitter resignation on Stark's face at Central Park, sees the lines of exhaustion in his stance, and thinks that maybe, Stark is too tired to hold up a facade properly.

"So the rest of the rooms are advanced, huh?" he asks, and Stark grins at him.

Kamala Khan does not hate Tony Stark.

Really, she doesn't.

Okay, so maybe she had deleted all her superhusband fanfics. Maybe she'd sold all her Iron Man figurines. And maybe she'd torn up his posters. And posted angry rants about him on her Tumblr. And maybe joined a few angry protests outside his building. And sent him a few letters filled with choice phrases.

But that doesn't mean she hates him.

Okay, so maybe she did. Just a little. Who didn't? Signing those Accords was not okay. After the Avengers had deferred to the government, everyone else had taken a leaf out of their book, trying to force the heroes in line. She has her own superhero duties to attend to, after all, and it's a little difficult to fight crime, especially extremely dangerous supervillains, when you're also fending off angry law enforcement officers.

But it's also been three, almost four, years since she started fighting crime. Along with a much better—and, thankfully, wider—set of powers, she's grown used to having to fight in stealth and secrecy. Mastering the ability to sprout wings to fly away or form gills to breath underwater came in handy, especially when simply morphing the size of your body parts wasn't enough to throw the fuzz off your trail. Besides, it was a pretty incredible feat to be attending university here in New York, majoring in Journalism, while still fighting crime. She's a different person now.

And … she's met people. People like Cindy and America and Wade, who, even if they weren't supers and had no idea where she disappeared to late at night, worked so well together, laughing and fighting and talking, fitting like pieces of a puzzle they'd solved. She wants that. She wants to fight alongside people who she can stand beside no matter what and know they have her back.

Who better to talk to than Tony Stark, world-famous superhero with loads of experience, currently recruiting superheroes to join his team?

Okay, so he wasn't her first choice. Not even by a long shot. But finding other superheroes who were willing to form a team, let alone one with her, was difficult these days, especially with people cracking down so hard on them. No one wanted to get caught, even by another hero. And … she needed someone with experience. Preferably someone who could at least help her out a little with her powers, which, while wider and more useful, were starting to change a little more than she knew how to handle.

Because really, what are you supposed to do when you find out you've developed superhuman strength when you shatter your favorite mug and end up having to get stitches? Or when you learn you have superhuman speed and agility in front of an entire crowd of people in the middle of campus? Or that sometimes, when using your powers, your bioluminescence got a little too intense and not only burned through your suit, but wouldn't go out even after you stood under the showerhead for nearly an hour?

Kamala may only be nineteen, but she's mature enough to accept the reality that she lacks discipline, and she can't get that from inexperienced heroes who can't teach her how to fight properly or utilize her evolving powers and cope with them day-to-day, or at the very least help her stop smoking every time she morphed. There's only so much one can teach themselves, after all. And the only one she knew for certain that could help her was Tony Stark. She just had to figure out how to contact him and convince him to let her join up.

Which, as it happened, was a lot harder than it looked when the only connection she has to the guy is through Miles Morales, fellow mutated superhero extraordinaire, who, besides being the most infuriatingly goody-goody friend she'd ever had, was also the most personally acquainted with the Avengers, an excuse he had used multiple times with her in an attempt to keep her from joining the team.

"Trust me," he had told her, shaking his head. "You don't want to. I wasn't even really a part of it, and I couldn't stand being around them for more than a week."

And yet she'd found out, less than a week after his latest attempt to convince her not to join up, that Miles had accepted Tony Stark's offer to join the team, which may or may not have something to do with Kamala sitting cross-legged in the East Green, ignoring the monsters that are currently attack it. She stretches her arm out, grabbing one of the strange feathery beasts when it tries to attack her, setting it on fire with a squeeze of its throat.

It's just past noon on a Thursday, so it's understandable why there weren't many heroes around to fend off the little beasts, something Kamala finds herself highly grateful for. The last thing she needs is someone like Silk or Miss America or Deadpool or—ugh—Miles himself to show up and accuse her of pouting, because Kamala Khan does not pout.

Really, she isn't pouting. Okay, yes, she's a little upset, but reasonably so, at least this time. After all, of all people, Miles knows how important it is for any hero to train and improve and learn how to wield their gifts, or curses, depending on how you looked at it. She's not about to end up bleeding out in an alley because she didn't know how to defend herself. Honestly, she has just as much potential as he does, so really, she's completely entitled to be at least a little cross with him for standing in the way of her chance at becoming a better hero.

She'd discovered his secret identity the hard way, after she'd tracked down a string of mysterious disappearances near the East River and showed up just in time to watch her friendly neighborhood Spider-Man get slammed into the ground by a sneering masked man who'd seemed to take the costume designs of The Matrix or Resident Evil a little too seriously. Not that she had room to judge, but whatever. Kamala will admit, she may have freaked out a little when she'd taken off his mask—but who wouldn't have if they discovered one of their friends was one of the most famous superheroes this side of the Atlantic?

It was the night that Kamala had discovered her accelerated healing could, to a very limited extent, be transferred to others. It also happened to be the same night she had decided she needed to find a better disguise, considering Miles recognized her with her mask still on and had immediately started chewing her out for doing 'something so dangerous', completely ignoring the fact that technically, she was a year older than him and had probably been a superhero for at least as long.

From high above her, she can hear an electronic woosh, and she glances up just in time to see none other than Iron Man land with a thud on the ground in front of her, knocking out nearly a dozen of the creatures with a blast from his repulsors. "Somebody clear the kid out," she hears him say, tinny and electronic, before he shoots away.

"I'm not a kid," she yells after him, but he's already out of hearing distance, and she watches as he twists in midair to avoid a particularly large beast that seemed intent on taking a chunk out of his side.

There's no time to run after him. Without warning, there are arms locked tight around her waist, and she wheezes as the air is knocked out of her lungs, casting a glare at Miles as he webs them away from East Green at top speed. He's already jabbering away at her her about danger and being careful and literally everything she already knows without him telling her.

"—knew you were going to be mad at me, I was going to tell you—" He just barely swerves to avoid a screaming hotdog vendor and her cart, making a sharp right. "—why I keep telling you not to join if you can't—" He launches them both up into the air before swinging them down gently to the ground, and she wriggles out of his grip, rubbing ruefully at her abdomen. "—it's not like I don't think you're—"

She holds a hand up, and he stops. "Okay—first of all," she manages, straightening, "I'm not mad because you're part of the Avengers and I'm not, because seriously, the team isn't as cool without Captain America or the Falcon, if I knew a better option, I'd take it in a heartbeat. I'm mad because this is my decision, and you tried to take control of it. Second of all, you're not the boss of me, I am entitled to decide what I want to do with myself and my life and you're not, being my friend doesn't mean you get to tell me what's right for me and what's isn't."

"I—"

"What's the problem, Underoos?" Iron Man lands besides them both with a heavy thunk. "Half a mile away doesn't count as evacuating the—"

"I," Kamala interrupts, sniffing haughtily, "am not a kid, I'm actually older than, uh, Spider-Man here. Also, since you obviously didn't notice even though I am literally wearing a costume right now, I'm a superhero."

The face shield comes up, and Tony Stark raises his eyebrows at her. "That so? Well, I hate to break it to you, kid, but dressing up like Captain Marvel and moping—"

"I was not moping—"

"—in the middle of the East Green doesn't exactly scream 'superhero'."

"It's Ms. Marvel, first of all, and second of all, I shouldn't have to—"

"I'm glad you've met my friend Ms. Marvel," Miles interrupts hastily, squeezing her arm lightly. "I'm assuming you know who Iron Man is."

Stark sighs. "Yeah, yeah, nice to meet you. Now, if you'll excuse us, Underoos and I—"

"Stark, what's the hold-up?" None other than the Black Widow—in the flesh—appears out of nowhere, brow furrowed in disapproval, sheathing her iconic batons in her belt. Kamala forces herself not to start gushing and end up making a fool of herself.

"Why does everyone keep interrupting me?" Stark grumbles.

"The park's been cleared, we should be reporting back at headquarters. Who's this?"

"Ms. Marvel," Kamala says quickly before Miles or Mr. Stark can say anything, holding out her hand. "I'm the newest addition to your team."

"You're what?" Stark says, Miles groaning in the background.

"Is she serious?" Tony asks Black Widow, who shrugs.

"Yes," Kamala insists, quickly adding, "and I'm prepared for the training it will take to get into shape. I'm legally an adult and I do have some experience, I've been doing this for over four years, so I can be of some use already."

Black Widow regards her for a moment, and Kamala forces herself not to fidget under her gaze. "Let's bring her back to headquarters," she says finally.

"Really?" Kamala and Stark say at the same time.

"I don't believe this," Tony says incredulously. "Romanoff—"

"Stark," she says evenly, "she's a witness whose presence is unexplained. That alone raises suspicions. For all we know, she could have caused the disturbance herself."

Kamala blinks. "Wait, what? But I'm not—"

"Thank you," Stark says pointedly. "Underoos, you're taking her in. I don't want to argue with this one the entire way there."

"Hey, wait! I—"

But the heroes are already gone, and Miles is clearing his throat, holding his hand out to her awkwardly.

"I … um. Should probably."

Kamala glares at him. "You're buying me pizza," she tells him, taking his hand, and Miles groans.

Clint's at the refrigerator, poking through the last of the rice balls, when Steve and Sam come in arguing.

Admittedly, they were three weeks old, Scott having bought them from a lonely street vendor back in Tokyo, but it had been a busy few weeks after Steve returned from New York, the fire in his eyes rekindled, and everyone had known exactly what that meant. New York's a nice place, but it's not the best for hiding and keeping out of sight, which makes it painfully difficult to get basic supplies. Which is why Clint's willing to scarf down really old, extremely dry rice, and also why he's already in a bad mood even though it's only eight in the morning.

He'd love to escape and get some fresh air, but Wanda and Scott are already running recon and Sharon's off getting supplies, so Clint moves back to his sleeping bag, snatching up his tablet and skimming through the daily news. The tablet's nowhere near as nice as his old StarkPad—Tony had outfitted that one to include closed captioning on everything and altered the audio on it so he could listen through the hearing aids Tony had made him, not to mention left a couple choice porn websites in the browsing history—but he'd rather try to struggle through watching another Beyoncé video than have to listen to the argument going on in the middle of the kitchen.

They've been stuck in an abandoned apartment building for the past three days, the five of them crammed into a single dusty room, sleeping backs sprawled in a pile on the floor. He's used to the sleeping-on-floors, the lack of food and water, the lack of showering, and running low on supplies—they've been running around fighting missions and evading capture for over a year now—but the arguing is the worst part. Considering they're famouse ex-superheroes that run around nonstop with week-old monster gunk, living in too-tight quarters and avoiding being seen, it isn't surprising how often they argue. Clint tries not to partake in the shouting matches that rival the old days when Steve used to yell at Tony for disobeying orders and/or almost dying, but even he has a breaking point.

" … a horrible idea, and you know it. Look, Steve, I know how much he means to you, but—"

"You don't understand, Sam. He shouldn't be with them, he's been on ice for so long already, and—"

"And the last time he went under, it was his decision! Steve—"

"Because he—he was struggling, but running and hiding from what—happened—"

"That's his choice, Steve, not yours. And we can't handle this right now, not—"

"So Bucky's a weakness?"

"That's not what I meant, Steve. You said it yourself, he was struggling. What happens if we're running a mission and he reverts?"

"Sam—"

"What if something happens and you aren't there to shake him out of it? You know he never trusted the rest of us the way he trusts you. One of us could get injured, or he could end up running off."

Clint's had enough—their commotion is starting to interfere with his hearing aids. "Hey, pipe down," he snaps, and Steve and Sam look at him in surprise, as if only just noticing him. Figures. "Both of you are being too loud." He switches to sign, glaring at the two of them. I'm surprised no one's heard you from across the street. You're going to blow our cover.

Steve sighs, signing back, Sorry. You're right, Clint.

Clint rolls his eyes and turns his attention back to his tablet. After a mishap with a supervillain three years ago, he'd lost 60% in one ear and 50% in the other, and the other Avengers had all learned sign to communicate with him. Even after Tony had designed him aids that returned nearly all of his hearing and ran on the same element as the arc reactor, they'd continued to use sign, especially after they'd discovered how handy it was to communicate off-comm when a mission required silence.

Much as Clint appreciated the fact that the team had learned sign for him, he was rather less appreciative when he could feel Sam and Steve signing furiously at each other, the joints of their hands practically cracking from the speed and ferocity, half-whispering as they mouth at each other.

He misses the days when they'd lived at the Tower, returning from missions to dine together, with Tony already chattering about ordering food from one of his favorite restaurants, like shawarma or curry from that Thai place off 39th. They'd watch movies Steve had missed out on, Bruce cringing through the Star Wars sequels and Clint dutifully reciting lines from Monty Python. He remembers when he and Tony had tried to drag the others to a strip bar, only to find themselves restraining Steve when the super-soldier had started a fight with a handsy asshole picking on one of the dancers. He remembers the time Nat had rudely awakened him by shooting a paintball at his face before running off to join an hours-long battle with the rest of the tower. He remembers the time Thor had convinced them to try Asgardian alcohol, and Tony woke up naked in Thor's bed, Nat found herself in one of the air ducts, and Clint came to on the roof with a nasty sunburn. They'd found Steve and Thor in the kitchen, pouring a glass of orange juice and chatting animatedly with Bruce, utterly unaffected.

Those were the good days, when Steve had smiled and Thor wasn't off saving the galaxy and he could be there for Nat when she woke up from nightmares, calming her down and coaxing her back to sleep. Instead, he's in a dilapidated old apartment with two arguing team members, cold and still a little hungry. He knows he hadn't left things well with Tony—thinking about what he'd said to his friend still made him feel guilty—but right now, he'd give a lot just for everyone to be back in the Tower. Admittedly, he'd been surprised that Nat hadn't simply chosen to join them, considering both himself and the good Captain had been prepared to accept her into the fold with open arms, but seeing how well she maneuvers between the factions, between Tony and Steve ... well, Clint can't help but feel a little jealous. Only a little.

Clint hears the door close with a click and realizes the Sam and Steve have stopped breaking their arms trying to sign at each other. Sam's at the counter, pinching the bridge of his nose, shoulders hunched in defeat.

"So, I guess the plan's still on, then?" Clint asks, and Sam sighs in frustration.

nat and bruce never happened and clint doesn't have a wife and kids what are you talking about ahahaaa

Also, I am not part of the deaf community. If anyone is, or knows of someone who's willing to talk with me, I'm completely open to any advice or information you could give me.

Comments and criticisms are appreciated.