((The first part of this chapter is going to seem a bit strange, disjointed and with an odd focus; a one-sided perspective. This is done purposely and you will see why. I was trying to convey something and not sure if I did it well. xD It will be more risqúe than before.))

"Steve…?"

The air tasted funny; so funny, he could only vaguely place it a lifetime ago and even then, it was not the same. Close, but not quite.

Perhaps it was not the air itself at all but rather the tainting it endured by vile, tabooed longing; temptation submitted to without even trying.

He was where he wanted to be, how he wanted to be but most important, with who he wanted to be with. Even though everything swam with a questionable solidness, there was no mistaking the hut… The forbidden bed… Her… And God, did she draw out his inner animal; the mild-mannered Steve Rogers, reduced to a beast by the slow, innocent dip of butterfly lashes and the gasp of his name on a starved tongue.

"I'm here, Els." Maintaining that possessive, protective mantle over the much smaller female, the most natural thing in the world felt like cradling her cheek; manually realigning that breath-shortening gaze for it to mark his and only his. "I'm not goin' anywhere. Ever again."

Heat rises, the most basic of science tells us so with little contradiction (I say "little" because even basic science is not exempt from idiocy from time to time), so the compact living space of the farm hut heated quickly, hounding off the chill of night. What better way to stay warm? It served as another ace in his hand, another pro to keeping him: You'll never be cold. Not if you let me keep you warm.

With the glorious heat of friction, skyrocketing body temperatures, among tousled sheets and desiring scents mixing unashamedly, did it match anything he'd had before? He didn't think so, no. But there may have been a reason for that.

"Steve…"

He said nothing, just panted as he lined his nose with hers and poised his lips to reclaim hers once more; for the umpteenth time since his boldness was rewarded. The blonde thought nothing of the hot, damp snail trail in the wake of her hand ghosting the side length of his torso; a sweet but tantalizing touch he had resigned to only feeling in his dreams. Sweat, he reasoned, in probably the only corner of his mind that was not numbed by rapture and bliss. Goddamn it, I never knew how much chest is crammed into one of those polo shirts…

I should stop, I should rest but… she's used to a Super Soldier. She's used to stamina, strength, endurance… Shit, this is the closest I've ever come to gettin' my asthma back… But I just… can't… stop.

So he didn't. He regulated his breathing, embraced the moan, and persisted; taking his preserving oxygen directly from Elsa's healing lips.

"Steve…"

Elsa's upturned palm lay ripe for the taking on the pillow, inviting his to cover it and knot their fingers together; he did so to sate the need for the extra touch. The affectionate gesture, intimate in its intent and execution, added that extra layer to an already highly charged experience. He disregarded the curl of iron in his nostrils, or the sticky transfer of scarlet from her palm to his, refusing to let it distract him though had he been in his right mind, he may have questioned it.

"Steve."

What the Hell…?

"STEVE!"

Choking on sudden wakefulness, ripped from paradisiac ecstasy in the cruellest way and at the cruellest point, Captain Rogers scrambled upwards; zapped by frenzy and fright. The sweat, as it happened, turned out to be real; drenching the panting, gasping blonde and his bed. It seemed the sweat was not the only direct takeaway from the sleep-induced fantasy. He swatted and swiped at the other side effect with frustration and embarrassment as he stumbled from the tangle of sheets; doing his utmost not to trip.

"GODDAMN IT, STEVE, GET UP! WE'RE GONNA BE LATE!"

Perhaps spending the night in the compound to save time under Nat's watchful eye was not the best idea after all.

One Year Post-Snap

A memorial for the fallen, hosted by the ones who had let them fall.

Or that, in one of his episodes of blameful grief, exaggerated by the pomp and ceremony, was how Captain Steve Rogers had come to view that day's proceedings. The memorial that marked one devastating year since Thanos snapped his fingers.

Poetry, music, eulogies, tributes, a mixture of inclusive religious passages by various high-standing members of the main churches across New York. Addresses by politicians, and who could forget some of the best catering in the city? The worst part? In all of it? Despite the continuous guilty kicks in the gut and the left-over self-humiliation from that morning, Steve did all he could to avoid the press. Instead, he distractedly and vexingly tracked Natasha down to a table set up by the Peter Pan Bakery on Manhattan Avenue.

"You should eat, you haven't had anything yet-"

"I'm not hungry. Look… About this morning…"

"I didn't hear anything."

"Thanks, Nat."

"But say I did… d'you think it's a good idea for you to go?"

An agonizing question that had dominated most (if not all) of Steve's heed since that rude awakening. Even through the duration of the ceremony, he had tuned in just enough to applaud when everyone else applauded and to acknowledge when someone greeted him; small talk pushed the boundary. What should have been a time for reflection for his fallen friends (Bucky among them), had become an involuntary period of obsessive brooding. There was no easy answer: He was damned if he did, and damned if he didn't; either one would carry a consequence, so he opted for the one that would impact him, but not Elsa.

"She's expecting me, I promised her she wouldn't have to go through it alone."

"What, she clicks her fingers, and you jump?"

"She's oblivious to all of it and I'm doin' my best to keep it under wraps. Far as she knows, I'm there as a friend, nothin' else." Lips pursed (nothing to do with sealing in the flavour of desiccated coconut stuck to her lip gloss) and flaming head cocked ever so slightly, Nat could do nothing but stand back and watch his heart/dick decisions bite him in the ass. Steve noticed and appreciated the concern and knew, hoped, she would understand. "But… if that changed, all she'd have to do is tell me how high."

"Jesus, Steve."

"One year, huh?"

"Yeah… One year since we screwed the pooch."

At another table, two old friends greeted each other with a hug and a clap on the back. They pre-dated the Snap, they pre-dated the Avengers; Hell, they even pre-dated Tony and the very first Iron Man suit, eye rolls and exasperation galore.

"How're you doin', Tony?" Rhodey, true to his usual casual sedateness, inquired; mid-embrace.

"Uhh… Good. Tired. I mean… Part of the process, right?" To be fair, he looked it. It seemed even the Genius, Billionaire, Playboy (retired), Philanthropist could not yet find the meeting place between instinct and technology where a parent's sanity could be concerned.

"I dunno, man, I'll take your word for it. But you're tellin' me the master tinkerer hasn't figured out a hack for parenthood yet? No… fancy helmet do-dad to translate her thoughts so she doesn't need to cry to get what she wants?"

Tony, blinking as the cogs in his head finally creaked to life again, ground to a halt by being awake for eighty-seven hours (wait, what time is it? Is it eighty-eight?) straight; not being the best sleeper in the world did not help matters.

"You got a patent on that, Rhodes?"

"Nah, man, it's yours. You look like you could use it." Easily diverted and hyper-stimulated from exhaustion, caffeine and sugar (the proof consisting of little more than a drained coffee cup and a greasy napkin remained on the table) had spotted something; something that did not extend to or include idle chitchat of his new daughter.

"Yeah, well, speaking of looking one way or the other… Cap looks toasted." If his friend's overly obvious bite of reluctance did not rouse Tony Stark's interrogative curiosity, their joint gazes meeting on a somewhat harassed looking (if tanned) Steve Rogers deep in covert conversation with Natasha certainly would.

"He's uhh… He's been back and forth to Wakanda." Iron Patriot (or War Machine), whatever your nostalgia) finally admitted, clinging to the hesitation as long as he could for discretion's sake. But it would not be enough, typical to Tony's compulsive attention to detail.

"Wakanda? What for? T'Challa was dusted."

"Tony, I swear to God, if I tell you-"

"Yeah, yeah, if you hear it elsewhere, you'll know it was me, c'mon…!"

"I mean it, Tony!"

"Rhodey, how long we known each other? Have I ever given you a reason not to trust me?"

"Not helpin' your case. Like, at all."

"Just… Why. What's in Wakanda?" Eyes narrowed and dissecting every single cagey flicker of his old friend's eyes to the person in question, Tony hated being kept in the dark. And God knows, Steve had done enough of that. "Wait, lemme guess, don't tell me! He's cartin' his little red wagon 'round for Vibranium scrap for another shield?"

Once more, the beat of should I, or shouldn't I plagued James Rhodes but knowing Tony as he did, he had already said too much to back out now. He would not relinquish it so easy, the proverbial dog with the proverbial bone that he now had to satisfy or be badgered until he yielded.

"Barnes' widow."

That… That took a second.

The sudden blip of massively uncharacteristic caught-off-guard disbelief and the taken aback jostle of a painstakingly styled head proved it. Another second ticked by before Tony Stark instantaneously readopted that cocky, self-assured, uncompromising air that made Tony… Tony.

"Uhh… I'm sorry, I think there was a glitch in my Matrix for a hot second there, because I thought I heard you say: "Barnes' widow"." Rhodes may have been given the barest of a bare second to interject but knew it to be pointless so the sarcastic near tirade got underway without interruption. "Barnes like… James Buchanan? The One-Armed Wonder? Hydra's Wet Dream? The Original Popsicle? The Barnes to Steve's Noble?" As if that weren't bad enough… "Then you go ahead and imply that someone married him?"

Rhodey, in the spirit of the day and appropriately respectful of those who had fallen prey to the Snap, did not take Tony's bait. Nor did he point out, in the dignity of the occasion, that not only had Pepper agreed to marry someone as (often) insufferable as Tony, but she also recently had a child by him.

"You gonna let me talk?"

"If you can tell me what the Hell-?"

"He'd been living under Wakandan protection since we lost track of 'em after Leipzig, gettin' his Hydra bug out." To Tony, that meant after Siberia, when his dearest friend chose someone else. Rhodey, knowing the betrayal, could place that as the reason for the involuntarily flared nostrils and furrowed brow in the usually good-natured Tony. "He met and married a vet then got dusted with everyone else. So, Steve… he makes it his business to get out there on the regular, "helping out on the farm", comes home, pines for a bit, then gets back as quick as he can."

"Huh. And I thought "comforting a war widow" was a Stark special."

"I saw her when we got to Wakanda, while Vision was being examined. Nice girl but I think Steve's barkin' up the wrong tree." Stark, like Rhodes but did his best to hide it and so, be able to deny concern, but still continued to watch the blue-eyed Captain from far enough away.

Christ, the last time they'd spoken… What a shitshow. What an absolute shitshow. But watching him now, with a cup of coffee in one hand and a pastry in the other (neither of which he wanted, but Natasha had thrust at him anyway), crestfallen and lost, he may have admitted to the slightest twinge of pity. Had things been different, and not gone the way they had, Tony might have been doing all sorts of fussing to either A) Help Steve get the girl. Or B) Advise him to cut his losses, protect himself and walk away. Whether he could have helped him do either was another story. If there was one thing he and the incorruptible Captain America shared, it was hard-headed stubbornness.

"Think he could get hurt?"

"Nat seems to think so. But that it would be because'a Steve actin' on somethin' that isn't there."

"'Steada being led on, sure."

"Yeah."

Having apparently stared too long, radiating a similar, sympathetic melancholy to Rogers, Tony couldn't hate him, never hate him; especially not after such a cooling off period and realizing the important things.

"She's told him but… she said it's like talkin' to you sometimes."

"C'mon, I'm not that bad of an influence…" Once again, before correction could come, Tony abruptly corrected himself. "Okay, anymore. I blame Pepper."

"Remember, if I hear a Goddamn word-"

"Scout's honour! My lips are zipped and I'm throwin' away the key!" Sceptical but accepting and powerless either way, Rhodey's lips pursed (almost an exclusive for Tony and his various exploits) until his attention became flagged by a niggle in his ear which demanded his departure from the conversation.

"There's journalists strayin' beyond the boundaries and into other parts of the compound. If I don't do somethin', Nat will."

"And we can't have that. Anyway, I'd better make like the kids say and bounce. Pep's gonna need some relief cover; maybe a shower. I don't wanna say anything, I'm hopin' she'll just take the hint if I start wearin' a helmet around the house."

"Hey, if you wanna spend all your time repairing helmets, that's on you. Take care, Tony. Give my love to Pepper and Morgan and congratulations again."

"Drop by soon, we'll roll out the red carpet."

With Rhodes gone, en route to herd journalists back into the agreed confines of the memorial gathering boundaries, Tony took one last look at the conflicted hunch of Steve Rogers who, in his haze, had not moved from the pastry buffet. He was not so deep, it seemed, for the prickling feeling of staring to go unregistered.

Lifted from his melting reverie, the source was not long in presenting itself and after a moment of uncertainty, Steve found it within himself to lift his pastry-occupied hand in a sort of shy wave; lips pulled into a thin smile, dubious if the contact would be reciprocated. With a jolt in his stomach, being caught seemingly an impossibility, Tony simply nodded, lifted his own empty napkin in salute; a gesture that pulled Steve's smile further.

And just like that, the beginnings of a bridge, a small (but not insignificant) progress, had been forged. Not to push his luck though, Tony silently excused himself with a wave of his own.

Out of the immediate fray of the memorial attendees and the compound (his compound) in general, Tony's hand found his phone. With a quick, fleeting glance in his vicinity, he had to check before he sort of pissed Rhodey off.

"Pep, honey, you won't believe what Rhodey just told me."

((This is my first time writing Tony! I hope I did him justice. Let me know how I did!))