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Yes. That was bribery.

The thing about space is that he actually cannot breathe. Other than that, it's nice.

He always wanted to go to space as a child.

He sacrifices himself for New York City, and that's a little thing some would call irony or, as Pepper would say Tony being difficult again, trying to prove everybody wrong. He doesn't end up dying but it's thought that counts, right? Turns out CPR isn't necessary, all it takes is a Hulk. Tony is pretty okay with not dying, if he's honest, even if it lessens the impact of the gesture. Suffocation is an awful way to go he's found, and next time can't somebody just shoot him? You'd think, given his line of work it wouldn't be so much to ask for.

The moment he inhales—and sweet Jesus, why doesn't anybody appreciate how good air feels whistling through lungs? He is going to start pushing technology for air purification the moment he get can get his hands on a StarkPad and—his mouth starts moving again, to hold back the tears.

The moment he inhales Tony is hit by relief so profound all the muscles in his body go slack and he's only 60% sure he hasn't peed himself.

His suit takes care of it, just like Tony built it to, because when nobody jumps to your defense and you've been at siege for years, the only choice you have is to make yourself untouchable, impenetrable. The mask hides his expression on the way to the Swarma restaurant and when it opens to let Tony eat, there is no evidence on his face to suggest anything other than confidence.

Across the table, Roger's face is just as unhelpful as his own, giving nothing away, but it was the first thing Tony saw upon revival. This is nothing to read into; he reads into it anyway.

He is not good with people but the laugh that leaked out of Captain America when Tony inhaled was full of happiness. The sound wrecks something in his chest, tightening his gut, and he should be angry at the damage but wants to listen to it anyway. He's never taken care of his body, why start now?

Nobody is laughing now though, eating Swarma in the ruins of the city he loves fiercely like a child. New York is as close to home as he'll let the word come.

His insides feel hollowed out when he looks outside the shop window. He chews on his food and it tastes like guilt, like you should've done more, like there is going to be a death toll, like if only you had figured this out sooner, aren't you supposed to be the genius here? Tony keeps trying to say something, silence crushing and accusing and he wonders if they blame him for not seeing this coming, if they'll kick him off the team with politely apologetic faces.

I'm sorry, they'd say, we tried but it's just not going to work. It's not us, it's you.

Swallowing past his dry mouth, he tells himself to stop acting like a kid with a crush. He did attempt to die for the mission, that'll keep him around until the next disaster at least when Coulson comes calling with that squished look of disagreement and—

Coulson is dead, Tony says out loud without meaning to, as it hits him. It's just, he's dead.

The rest of the team looks up, as the knowledge sinks into their pores. Clint digs his nails into his forearms so casually Tony wouldn't have noticed, if he weren't so good at that trick himself. The archer looks wrecked, like all the bones in his body are splintering under the weight of his guilt. It's not your fault, Tony wants to say because he's the one that brought Loki back to the base. But words are never going to be enough and he knows exactly what it feels like to have the product of your hands and your brain turned against what you were trying to protect in the first place.

They hijacked his free will; even the idea of it is so violating that Tony shudders in his seat. The world makes less sense than it did twenty-four hours ago and magic is real and what can mortals do in face of that?

Wait, Bruce swallows, looking green around the edges, Coulson is dead?

And, well. Shit.

Glances flit around the table like a merry-go-round. It's Captain America who finally steps up, voice gentle like he's approaching, well, like he's approaching an emotionally fragile, skittish human being who could at any moment turn into an indestructible rage-monster and lay waste to a city already in shock.

Loki got him, Rogers explains as Clint tries to sink into his chair, shoulders hunched up to his ears.

And where was I? Bruce asks, knowing the answer. The question lingers in the air.

Eventually, Natasha squares her shoulders and looks him in the eye. You were fighting me, Bruce.

An angry, wounded sound is ripped from the back of his throat, half-Hulk and half-human. They are all superheroes of the finest caliber Fury could find, have faced down terrorists and Nazis and deranged alien princes. They have defeated magic and science and death despite all odds and logic. And still, the sound makes everybody at the table flinch.

Bruce stands, unsteadily, breathing hard. I'm just gonna go, he manages through clenched teeth, fresh air. He stumbles out into the wreckage like a drunk.

The silence left behind is thick with unspoken things, nobody meeting his eyes over the table top. Tony wants to apologize, wants to dig nails into his skin, wants to kick himself for the way his mouth says all the wrong things without trying. Clint looks sick with emotion and vulnerable and he'ssorry, he didn't mean to say it out loud. He wonders—if all three of them claim responsibility for Coulson's death, than did the man technically die three times?

Clint and I will follow him, Natasha says, standing with her shoulders back and chin firm in the structure of her face. She looks like she could go another ten rounds, fight another invasion and this woman is human, how is that possible? Even Thor looks ready to sleep for a week straight, the skin around his mouth and eyes sagging. Make sure he stays out of trouble.

When he's calmed down, Tony tells her, bring him back to Stark Tower.

He doesn't bother asking her if she needs a key to get in, he knows she kept her all-access pass from when she was pretending to be his assistant. Even if she hadn't, he doubts that would hold her up for long. The knowledge that a SHEILD assassin can break into all of his buildings—though not his labs, and not his mind where he keeps all of his most important blueprints anyways—should possibly worry him.

Natasha tilts her head curiously, Stark Tower?

The rest of the team looks just as confused. Did they not know? Well, they don't all have personal AI systems to hack into classified files. I don't want him to end up sleeping on street corners again, he explains, and SHEILD's room for him isn't even trying to pretend it's not a cage.

Natasha's mouth twists downward but she doesn't disagree. Her sharp nod lets him relax in his seat as she leaves, Clint slinking out after her.

Rogers' eyes are slicing into the side of his face.

Even when Thor coughs awkwardly into the heavy silence, Tony can't bring himself to turn and look at the god, knowing his eyes will have to slide past Rogers'. I regret to inform you that I must depart, Thor says, sounding genuinely sorry, alas my Jane awaits me. Thor says my Jane with such tenderness that his wrists ache like an old man in the rain. Tony slaps a wide grin on his face and closes his eyes as he turns his head. Good for you man, he says, opening his eyes to Thor's earnest facial hair, nice to have somebody waiting for you to come home, huh?

Rogers' eyes are heating up the other side of his face now, like a rug-burn.

The bell on the door rings loudly as it falls shut behind Thor's broad shoulders and then it's just him and Captain America. Tony wonders if it would be rude to pack up and leave, take the rest home for the morning. Pepper's always on his case about not eating leftovers though; he forgets or can't be bothered when fresh takeout is an order away.

And, oh shit. Pepper.

He should probably call her, let her know he'll be back soon. It's past midnight in Malibu though, what if he wakes her up? It'll be better just to show up in person, apologize if she's awake, crawl into bed if she's not. Mind if I get the check? he asks of Rogers' elbow, already gesturing to the guy behind the counter.

Um, Rogers says, surprised. Yeah, thanks, I don't really bring money with me in the suit.

Tony feels his mouth turn up despite himself, pulling a few fifties from his wallet. From shoulder to ankle, Captain America is nothing but spandex and rippling muscle; it's not subtle, and not designed with pockets. Thinking about it, Tony's probably lucky he happened to have his wallet in his jeans when he suited up. The places he goes usually have a tab under his name. Here you go, he says, trying to hand over the money to the man—probably the shop owner, he realizes—approaching the table. The owner grins, his mouth full of crooked teeth, and shakes his head.

You save my city, the man says, accent heavy, you no pay.

While Tony stares at him, mouth open in surprise, the man pushes something into his palm. His fingers closes around it immediately, even as he protests—but, we ate like half your shop, dude. The owner continues to shake his head and something like warmth spreads in his chest. He looks helplessly at Rogers for support, forgetting about eye-contact, but the man does is shrug.

The owner herds them toward the door, and winks. You pay next time.

The bell dings as it shuts behind them and Tony uncurls his hand to see a fortune cookie. He can't help but throw back his head and laugh until his throat feels like sandpaper. When he wipes tears from his eyes, Rogers is looking at him carefully, unsure if Tony is about to collapse or go crazy. He's not sure himself; the adrenalin is wearing off and the back of his mind is buzzing with white noise and he's going to have nightmares about this and he might have died today. Magic is real and aliens can suck your willpower out of your chest.

It hasn't sunk in yet, how fucked up this is, but he's afraid it'll shatter him when it does.

We're not his soldiers, Tony had said because, hello. Authority issues, trust issues, cannot-work-with-others issues—he has more issues than a magazine, more hang-ups than a laundry line, more problems than a Geometry textbook. He belongs to himself only because nobody jumps to his defense when he breathes after impact and he refuses to follow orders blindly when all of his life he's been finding better solutions.

The only thing Tony has ever been able to count on is his own brain.

He gave me a fortune cookie, he tries to explain but it's not something that can be explained with words really and Rogers looks blank, did they not have these back in the forties?

He gets a half-shrug as a response and a curious glance.

Feeling generous, Tony offers it to him. Go ahead, you'll like this.

The quirk of Rogers' eyebrows is unconvinced, but he takes the cookie with a polite thanks so he'll call it a win. For a moment, they just look at each other. Tony shoves his hands into his pockets up to the wrists, uncertainty catching him off-guard. All of a sudden he's deeply grateful that he trained himself out of blushing years ago. There's just something about Steve Rogers that makes him shy, that cuts through his bullshit and leaves him flustered, flushed.

So, he says cheerfully, cursing his brain, I guess I'll see you around then, Cap.

Yeah, Rogers says, quietly, looking lost. Like, literally looking lost, squinting at the blasted street signs and roads blocked with rubble.

Um, he says before over-thinking it, mind if I walk you home, actually? Your place is on the way. The tension seeps out of the other man's shoulders like the offer is a bathtub drain, swirling away and leaving a smile curved into the corner of Rogers' mouth. Yeah, he answers, I don't mind.

And that's how Tony ends up walking Captain America home, palms slick with sweat like he's on a first date.