Pepper pointed at the large flat screen television hanging on the kitchen wall. "They're already there!"

A tired looking local reporter gravely intoned, "Tensions are mounting here as it's looking more and more like the rescue efforts won't be in place quickly enough—"

The red figure of Iron Man was clearly visible behind her and growing larger as he flew closer.

Bucky pointed at the flash of crimson. "Is that Stark?"

"Yup," FitzSimmons said together, eyes glued to the screen.

The camera abruptly moved away from the reporter and to a blue figure sprinting toward the scene.

The reporter's voice, excited now, narrated the scene. "New hope springs out of the blue as Captain America and Iron Man arrive unexpectedly."

Tony zoomed up toward the tilted scaffolding. Shield up, Steve watched from below. Rescue workers continued scrambling to get a landing zone in place.

"What's Cap gonna do?" Clint asked of no one in particular. "Just order firemen around? He can't get up there any better than the first responders can."

Natasha shrugged and stoically sipped her coffee.

The screen on the television split, showing Steve and the rescue workers on the ground, as well as Tony assessing the situation on the scaffolding. The camera helpfully zoomed in on the frayed cable before moving back to Iron Man gingerly removing one terrified-looking man from the precarious perch.

As Tony streaked down toward safety, the television screen remained split, showing Iron Man on one side and a continuing to fray cable on the other interspersed with shots of an older grim-looking man clinging desperately to an ever shakier scaffolding.

Tony yelled, "Hey, Old Glory, catch!" When he was still about a story up, Tony tossed the young man he was carrying at Steve, made a fast inflight U-turn, and shot back up the side of the building, a red streak that the camera could barely follow. Pepper rubbed her temple. "Somebody help me remember to have a word with Tony about throwing people."

Bucky looked at her. "Is that a recurring issue?"

She sighed. "Yes."

Steve easily caught the small man Tony had thrown to him. He set him down carefully, then put an arm around, obviously saying reassuring things to the now safe window washer.

"That's not the kind of thing that should be a recurring issue," Bucky said.

"No, no, it's not."

The unflinching eye of the camera showed the cable fray apart, the last steel strand snapping. A horrifying scream rent the air. The local reporter went from saying, "Iron Man streaks toward the other man in a valiant attempt—" to audibly gasping.

Tony snatched the older window washer out of the air just as he slid off the end of the scaffolding, rags and squeegees tumbling through the air. Majestically, Iron Man, in no hurry, flew toward the ground and landed beside Steve.

The window washers embraced each other, embraced Captain America, then thumped on Iron Man's armor, before the paramedics led them away.

A horde of reporters, microphones outstretched, descended on Steve and Tony

#

Concluding that the kitchen would be occupied and noisy for some time to come, Natasha and Clint gathered up their coffee, fruit, and bagels, and retreated to the seldom used breakfast nook. Natasha located a community laptop, rejoined Clint, slid the pocket door closed, and set herself up comfortably on the small casual dining table. Pretty much any one of the high end laptops in the Tower was suitable as long as it was only protected by the generic team password—currently "StarkRulez!PepperRunsDaWorld!" She opened her password protected space on the Jarvis intranet, started a new report, and began typing madly. Intermittently, she checked her notes and made new ones. Clint paced, wrote, wadded up paper and threw it against the wall.

Three hours later, Clint threw his eleventh wadded up paper ball against the wall. Natasha said, "Bring me those last two. I haven't read them yet."

"This is useless," Clint muttered as he retrieved the last two paper wads and handed them to her.

She unwadded them. One was mostly doodles. The other said:

Dear Phil, (Crossed out)

Phil, (Crossed out)

Phil you arrogant sonofabitch—(Crossed out)

Dear Phil,

I used to dream about you, about talking with you, and then I'd wake up and you were still dead. I guess I can't believe you're alive—afraid that I'll wake up and you'll still be dead, my waking nightmare for so long it's still my first thought every morning.

You accuse me, you hypocritical bastard, (Past three words crossed out) of mixed messages. But what about the granddaddy of mixed messages that you gave me? Being in an exclusive relationship with me for years and then nothing—death—for three years and there wasn't even anybody else unless I count S.H.I.E.L.D, so for you it's almost like there was still a relationship but for me there was a pain-filled void.

For a long time, I would have given anything—fucking anything—for one more day with you, to hear your voice again, and somehow I got that day and I don't know what to do with it because it's all poisoned. It's just so much easier to show my hurt and anger than to

than to—-

A long scraggly line extended diagonally from the last shaky words to the end of the page.

Natasha smoothed that one out. "This one's perfect. Sign it 'Love, Clint' and give it to Phil."

"Fuck that, I'm gonna try coded knitting.'

"You'll just end up throwing the needles at the wall."

"Well." Clint smirked in spite of himself. "More likely into the wall."

"That's what I meant." She folded his note in half.

The pocket door slid open and Phil strode in. "There you are." He waved his left hand. "I've been looking all over for you. If Jarvis hadn't told me to check here, I'd never have found you. Clint, you're the best lipreader anywhere. I need you to analyze some video we've obtained that doesn't have audio."

Natasha handed Phil a folded, somewhat crinkled piece of paper. When Clint realized what she was doing, he tried to intercept it. Reflexively, Phil kept the paper away from Clint, half turned away and unfolded it.

"No. no, no, no, nnnnnn—Natasha!" Clint's face turned red. "You—pest!"

"I love you like a brother," she chirped.

Clint threw his hands up. "I'm not too fond of you right now."

"I need a couple more hours on this report." She went to the laptop. "Almost out of juice, need to find a power pad." She closed the laptop, gathered her papers up, then pointed to the paper wads on the floor. "Somewhere over there is a very nice drawing of your car."

White faced, Phil nodded absently. Still clutching the crumpled note, he crossed his arms.

Laptop and papers clasped to her chest, Natasha paused on her way out. "Phil, you're doing that thing where you turn in to yourself instead of to Clint." She turned away.

"You're leaving?" Clint all but shouted.

She slid the pocket door closed and was gone.

With an effort, Phil unfolded his arms. Clint snatched at the crinkled paper and Phil let him have the offending note. "Clint." He caught the younger man's elbow. "I'm not good at this."

Clint set his face, determined not to scowl. "Oh, I know. When we were dancing around each other for months, you kept finding reasons to tell me you aren't relationship material."

"Not that. It's kind of late for that—as you've been pointing out. I just, my job, it feels more natural to me to not say things. Maybe I was attracted to this kind f job because that really is just natural to me, to not let on."

Clint lost his internal battle and scowled. "I'm tired of hearing about Director Coulson."

"That's not—" Phil sighed. He took the crumpled note back from Clint and reread it. Only then did Clint realize that Phil was blinking back tears. "I was always fascinated that you're so expressive, maybe because I'm just...not." He shrugged and let out a heavy sigh. "Even at that, there's so much I didn't—don't—know."

Clint turned partially away.

The older man waved the maltreated sheet of paper. "I only went through something like this for a month, fearing you were dead."

Clint yanked his arm away. "Not the same."

"No, but it helps me understand how you must feel, but then it makes me feel helpless because I don't know how to give you what you need. I don't even know what that is."

Clint jerked around and gestured with one hand. "Try!"

Phil folded his arms around Clint and engulfed him in the same kind of yearning kiss he'd given the younger man the first time he'd ever let his guard down enough to allow a moment of honest affection between them. Clint was always unbalanced by glimpses of the passion that lurked beneath Phil's cool, tightly controlled exterior. It was enticing that Phil shared those moments only with him and eternally maddening that those moments remained rare.

Clint put his arms around Phil who then leaned against the wall. The archer felt like he was going to be dragged down by some invisible weight—the responsibility on Phil's shoulders that perpetually overshadowed their personal relationship—yet somehow they stayed upright.

"I don't know what to do," Phil murmured into his ear.

"Respect my feelings."

"What does that mean? I've been trying to."

"I—" Clint rested his forehead on his lover's shoulder. "I think that's a long conversation."

Phil nodded. "I owe you that."

Clint pulled away far enough to look at Phil. "Right after work. At five."

"More like seven."

Clint raised an eyebrow. "Barnes' situation did not become urgent overnight. He's been here more than a month already."

"All right. Six."

"Five thirty."

"Clint, if I promise five thirty I'll be lying to you."

"I'm coming to get you at five thirty."

Phil grinned. "Fine. Right now, can we just have lunch together?"

Clint thought it over. "The deli across the street? Read the paper together?"

Phil nodded.

Clint went to the opposite wall and rummaged through the wads of paper. He picked one up and smoothed it out before handing it to Phil.

"That is a nice drawing of my car. What else is over there?"

Clint steered Phil out of the room. "I'm starving"."

"You've been right next to the kitchen all morning."

"I worked up an appetite doing all this recording and communicating."

"Right."