"Does that hurt?"

Steve hissed, but shook his head. "Tell me when it does."

A drop of green liquid rolled down the tip of the syringe and landed on Steve's seven-inch gash, steaming and sizzling and searing, but the wound knitted shut and he found that the yellow pallor had left his arm.

Singed uniform clung to him like a rejected lover. Wincing as some of the skin stuck to the outfit, Steve peeled away his Captain America suit while Tony rinsed his hands off. Most of the minor cuts and scrapes were already on the mend, almost to the extent that Steve could see his skin growing back over the wounds.

"What was in that thing?"

"Poison. Designed specifically to counteract your accelerated healing. Problem is, it didn't, it'd just take forever. I sped up the process a little bit."

"Took the bullet for me, Stark?"

"Not quite. Energy shields don't count."

Tony toweled off his hands and grabbed a chocolate chip cookie from the plate while Steve pulled on clean clothes. Thor made them in one of his bipolar-depressed moments when he thought about his brother. They tasted like sadness, tears, desperation, nostalgia, and Poptarts.

"Cookie?"

"Nah."

"Weight-watching, are we, Rogers?"

Tony nudged Steve.

"Not hungry."

"Come on. Captain America would never pass up a cookie. Eat it."

Steve took the cookie that Tony shoved in his face. He grimaced.

"These taste like sadness, tears, desperation, nostalgia, and… is that chocolate Poptart?"

"You taste it, too."

"Is this Thor or Bruce?"

"Thor."

"Huh. Who knew."

He gulped down the rest of the cookie and wiped his hands on a napkin drawn from his pocket. "Napkin?"

"Just set it down."

Tony sat down next to Steve on the workbench. He smiled at the floor and leaned on Steve's shoulder.

"Civil War."

"Not that again."

"Come on, for old time's sake."

"That was unpleasant for both of us."

"Eh. I just call it sexual tension."

"No, that is not—Tony, I died."

"Nu-uh, your soul was just knocked out of your body. You're the new Strange."

"Shut up."

"Whoa, cool it, Steve, no need to get all feisty on me."

Steve sighed.

"What is it about you that makes you so abrasive?"

"I don't know, my money, my hair, my Tower, my brains, my ego… my rocking abs… did I mention my money and my brains? Oh, and that not-so-little guy down th—"

"Okay, okay, too much, too much."

"Not what you said last night."

"Oh, stop it, you."

Steve blushed and swatted Tony lightly on the head. Tony indignantly punched Steve in the gut, but it just bounced off and a certain billionaire ended up with a very sore left hand.

"Ow!"

"You started it."

"You're evil."

"And you're rich."

"How does that relate to anything?"

"I don't know, you tell me, genius."

"I really wonder why I spend time with you sometimes."

"Then I best well get going."

Steve stood up and Tony clung onto him.

"I jest, I jest."

"As do I."

Tony yawned. "Tired?"

"Very much so. What're the others doing?"

"Clint's on a date—"

"Who?"

"You know who."

"Oh."

"Bruce and Thor are out for groceries; they want to try brownies—"

"I thought I hired people to cook for us."

"I let Coulson take 'em. SHIELD's short on cooks. Besides, cooking is fun, and it's easy."

"Steve. You underestimate my disastrous culinary skills. I burn water and my Jell-O is runny. How the hell can it be runny? You just stick that sucker in the freezer and voila, but it's always either runny or frozen solid!"

"I'll teach you tomorrow. But right now, there's a huge bed upstairs with our names written all over it."

Steve steered Tony into the elevator, wounds already cut, sutured and closed, old and new.