Disclaimer: I don't own the Avengers, or any of the characters used in this fic. They all belong to Marvel and their respective creators. I only own any original characters that I choose to include, as well as any original plot ideas.

Chapter 37: Let's Not Pretend

A/N: The recommended tune for this chapter is "I Am Only One" by We Are The Fallen.

"I know you're not crazy about the idea," Tony murmured, and groaned quietly, an ice pack pressed against a steadily swelling jaw. "But... Dammit, Cap, it's all we've got."

Steve nodded, staring up at the blank slate of dark sky, drew breath in through his nose. Tony was right. He didn't like the idea at all. He didn't like knowing that, once again, he was expected to place his life in the hands of another, expect that he would be taken care of. That had gotten him into a lot of trouble more than once before, and it was high time that he started to take control of his own life and his own fate.

But, were he to voice those concerns, he would be far too easily called out on it. It wasn't just about being in control of his own choices. He couldn't stomach the thought of trusting or working with a man, a god, who had put his own personal interests above those of the planet's inhabitants.

In his line of work, in his life, deities had been beings to be trusted, depended upon in the most difficult and sorrowful times. They were not like men, having ascended to a state above that of carnal humanity, seeking to bestow peace and love and hope above all things. But this man, he thought, imagining all of the hell they had been forced to see and endure, was nothing like anything he had ever chosen to believe in. It seemed a perversion, to believe so heavily in something, hold out hope, and come to see that the gods, at least these ones, were merely people of another realm, solely dedicated to war.

And it got him to wondering: Were the Asgardians all that there was in regards to gods? Or were they, too, a part of some greater purpose?

The man shook his head. It hurt to think on those things, to try and explain one thing while another defied it almost entirely. Best to put them away for now, he decided. Tuck them deep into his pocket and dwell on them another day. Namely a day where time was not so crucial.

"I know," Steve replied finally. "I just... I have a hard time believing Thor. He's no liar, but he's been wrong far too many times for me to put all my faith in him. In Loki." He swallowed, turned to look Tony in the eye. "Don't you think that Thor's being too... relaxed about all this? I know they're brothers, but that doesn't excuse what he's done. I've already seen people die, you know. Too many. I'm so tired, Stark. Tired of all the death..."

Without a word, the billionaire sat down beside him, clapped him on the shoulder.

"Dammit, Rogers," he huffed, "we all are. And I know that a lot of it is my fault. The death. I mean, I know you didn't see it all, weren't around when we shipped people off to Afghanistan, but... There's a lot that I should still be blamed for." A laugh. "But I guess people figure, 'Oh, well, he's the Iron Man now. He can't make those mistakes anymore. He can't do any wrong.'" And a sigh. "But they're just ignoring all the terrible things I did. All the people my weapons helped kill. I destroyed families, lives, and I made a fortune off it. Don't get me wrong. I don't really even like the guy. But I guess I'm kind of stuck in the same damn boat with him. I screwed up, and there's nothing I can do to take it back."

"But you made the effort to change."

Tony shrugged. "Yeah, well, I really sucked at it. Still do." He grunted, swiped at his eyes. "I mean, until about a week ago, I couldn't stand my own kid. My kid, Cap. Mine. The one thing I was always too selfish to give a damn about. And I only managed to swallow my pride because Bradley was so taken with that bastard. And because I... started to remind myself of my old man."

Steve stared. "What?"

"I didn't want to be like him. So I just hiked up my damn skirt and decided to suck it up, roll with the punches. And I kind of figure that it's a universal thing, you know? To want to be a better person than your old man."

Nodding, Steve smiled. "Yeah. I guess... You know, you're not such a pain after all, Stark. Kind of a nice guy." Tony made a face at that, as if to question why Steve hadn't thought he was a nice guy before. "And, uh, sorry I... er..." He motioned with a fist, miming hitting himself in the face. "Sorry about the jaw."

"Don't sweat it. I promise to hit you back during the next argument."

# - # - # - #

"That was one hell of a throw," he chuckled, leaning across the counter.

The woman bristled, her hair nearly standing on end as she eyed him, a finger moving about the inside of the empty shot glass before pouring herself another helping. Something to keep her steady, he thought, and watched as Natasha downed the thing with a very visible frown knit into her forehead. She was still mad, and she wanted to make sure he knew it.

Clint let out a heavy breath, knowing that the conversation he was trying to strike up was an unsolicited one. Even so, they couldn't keep on like this. They couldn't keep pretending that the other didn't exist.

"We heard from Fury and Hill," he said casually, turning his back on her in hopes that the gesture would lighten her mood. "Headquarters is trashed, but they got out all right. Hill says they can't resort to operating out of the Helicarrier because of how quickly the invasion forces are descending. Might get them caught up in it. They've moved into the underground until things are back up and running. Better than nothing, I guess."

"What do you want, Clint?"

As much as he wanted to, the archer refused to turn around, instead staring at the wall and biting the inside of his lip.

"For this to stop. I'm done pretending you don't exist, Nat. It just doesn't work."

"Yeah? Well, maybe I need an extended vacation. You ever thought of that?"

The hawk whirled around, moved hurriedly around the counter and yanked the half-empty bottle away from her, holding it well out of reach before finally dropping it onto the tile. Natasha's eyes grew wide and angry, one arm coming up to strike. He mimicked the movement, grabbing her wrist and pinning it to the top of the bar, holding the other behind her back as they stared at one another.

"I'm done with all that," he said, struggling to keep his tone level. "I don't care what did, or didn't, happen. It's not important."

"Why the sudden change of heart?" Natasha snapped. "Last week you were still ready to sling your accusations like arrows."

They could die. That was all there was to it. Each day, there was a chance, even if it were small and virtually unseen. At any moment, one or both of their lives could end, leaving the other to potentially regret everything that had and had not been said. On the morrow, they would head back out, do everything they could to end this hellish onslaught, and the archer didn't want to go out there swinging if it meant having to stand by the side of a grave, or be buried in one, at the end of it all.

Particularly if they had been snuffed out without ever speaking again.

"I don't want to go out like this." His voice was rising, steadily but surely. "I don't want to wake up in a year and remember that you're gone. I don't want you to regret not saying something beforehand."

"Since when do you care what happens?!" It was just the alcohol talking, and Clint knew it. "When did you start caring about how I feel?! Did you ever, Clint?! Did you ever really give a damn?! And how would I know?!"

"You should know because I love you!"

They both stopped, Natasha's eyes losing their fire and the archer relinquishing his grip. They could only stare at one another.

He had never been quite so open about it before, telling her with subtle little things like offering his coat in the rain or just moving across the couch to keep her warm. But saying it, and so loud, was something else entirely. It was new, and it scared the hell out of him, true as it was.

"Can we just stop?! I'm tired of trying to be mad at you, Nat! You know I suck at playing pretend, and–"

She cut him off, pulled him in, her arms thrown over his shoulders, their mouths pressed together. She was tired too, her silence said. Tired of fighting, of being angry, of trying her hardest to hate. It was tearing the lot of them apart, turning them into little more than a collection of spoiled children in a perpetual daycare.

Natasha sat back, the scent of alcohol still lingering on her breath as she allowed him to fold her into his arms.

Burying her face in the crook of his arm, she curled in on herself as best she could, didn't seem to mind when he took to stroking her soft red locks of hair with a hand.

"You should know... I really do hate him," she said, and the archer could have sworn her voice had cracked.

Clint nodded. "Yeah. Me, too."