The drunken night in with Bucky had proven effective enough that Steve was more than willing to go for Round Two on his next day off work. In the meantime, yes, there was the manhunt to deal with along with a quick assassination he'd covered for Coulson while he was out of town for his nephew's graduation. Weird lives they led, where two such things could be combined on a Thursday.

But by Saturday, he'd informed Bucky that they ought to go bar-hopping and Bucky had heartily agreed. Steve swirled his beer around the smudged glass while he listened to Bucky's constant flirtations with some tall blonde or curvy brunette. It had been a week since Tony left. On Monday and Tuesday, Steve had reached a hand out to the other side of the bed before remembering that he'd never wake up next to Tony again. On Wednesday he'd considered staying home from work.

He didn't really want to be here, with Bucky and all these strangers; it was empty and not what he was looking for. But the thought of spending another night alone in his apartment was almost enough to spring tears in his eyes.

He just wanted Tony to come back.

He lifted his head as a pissed-looking blonde lady climbed up on the stool next to him and ordered a martini. She glanced over at him and did a double take, manicured brows raised.

"Bad night?" She had a pretty voice.

Steve looked down into his beer. "Bad week."

"What happened?"

"Breakup."

She hissed through her teeth. "Rough."

He nodded, listening to Bucky's never-ending refrain. The woman'd probably be set to go home with him in another two minutes, from how confident he sounded. He turned to the blonde lady.

"How are you, miss?"

She shrugged. "Just got dumped. Wasn't too serious, but that doesn't mean it's easy getting dumped."

He squinted at her then.

"Wait – are – Sharon?"

She blinked, and then a sort of horrified recognition lit up her face. "Steve?"

"Yeah, pediatrics, right?"

"Yeah, I remember you. Hey listen, I'm really sorry about skipping out on coffee way back when, something came up, and –"

He shook his head. "Don't worry about it. It actually worked – worked out. At least – for a while. Met someone at that coffee shop."

Her brows furrowed. "The breakup?"

He nodded. "The person I was seeing, actually worked at that café, so…"

She giggled. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't laugh, that's just. Agh. Well you're welcome then. For as long as it lasted, anyway."

Steve scowled and emptied the rest of his glass. This conversation was depressing. "Yeah, guess so."

She nudged his shoulder. "Hey. The bar is where we drink our sorrows away. No sense in wasting time, right? Shots!"

Much tequila later, Bucky had come back to the bar after leaving with a girl, and Steve was ranting to Sharon, who nodded enthusiastically to every word.

"You know when you lose something so – so goddamned perfect for you, exactly what you need –"

"Yeah, I know what you mean, man!"

"– and something just so beautiful and – and god, I felt like he actually needed me, you know? He's been through so much stuff that he didn't deserve, and then he left right when I was starting to help him –"

"– wait, he?"

"– so even though we both made mistakes, and he's the one who walked away I feel so guilty for it ending, like the part I played in all this might have – ruined him for good or something, you know?"

Sharon swayed in her chair. "Yeah. Was he like – a druggie?"

He shook his head. "No, he didn't do drugs, he didn't do anything bad, he had bad things done to him."

She frowned into the next undignified burp. "That's terrible, man."

He nodded. "It is, it really is."

"I'll drink to that!"

And they did. Again, and again, and again. Enunciation got progressively more butchered, he and Sharon talked and griped and bitched about boys, and he was pretty sure they performed a soulful duet cover of Taylor Swift's Shake It off at one point. He and Sharon roared some victory chant as they slammed three back-to-back shots of tequila, and that was the last thing he remembered.

Steve was a large guy – but the black-clad bouncer in front of him was a second Goliath. His stony face opened up into a wide a grin when they walked up and he caught sight of the shorter man at Steve's side.

"Hey, Tony!" The affectionate tone sounded strange in his gravelly, accented voice.

"How you doing, Big P? I haven't seen you in a while."

"Just another night, and yourself? What brings you around here?"

Tony smiled and gestured beside him. "Steve here has never been on the inside of Degree Zero. Figured tonight's the night we should change that, yeah?"

The bouncer smiled and nodded at Steve. "Your wish is my command, buddy."

Tony shot him a thousand-watt smile that made Steve's stomach jump a bit and then he was leading Steve by the arm past the bouncer and into the building. Tony had insisted they go to a club tonight for some reason, and had hung up on him after ordering him to dress in black. Steve had been to clubs before and had a nice enough time, but Tony's excitement seemed a little out of proportion.

"Come into this room so we can get our coats!"

"What? Tony –"

"Nah, this way Steve –"

"Tony, we didn't pay to be in here –"

"That's fine, Piotr lets me in for free whenever he's working the doors. In here!"

The two of them crossed the threshold into a cool tiled room illuminated by steady black lights. The bass of loud music thumped gently from somewhere else in the building. The walls held racks of fluffy white fur coats, dozens of them, and jars of what looked like body paint. Steve stared.

"Uh…Tony? What's happening here?"

Tony grabbed a furry coat, smiling as he slipped it around himself. "Degree Zero is owned by this Russian family and they all live to be kinda weird – they keep the club at freezing temperature so that you can dance and drink as much as you want and not, you know, pass out or overheat. They give you coats because duh, hypothermia, but they've also got neon paint and stuff because the whole ballroom has nothing but black lights in it."

Steve shook his head. "Where the fuck have you taken me…"

Tony laughed, ripping a huge coat off its hanger and holding it out to Steve. "Steve, live a little, I promise you it'll be loads of fun."

Steve bit back a sigh and took the offered coat. "You are not putting body paint on me."

Tony's grin turned downright evil. "The hell I'm not. I'm gonna smother you in it, hot stuff."

Steve shook his head again, panicking a little. "No no no, I draw the line at the furry coat."

Tony got up in his space, container of bright green paint materializing in his hand. "Better stretch your line now muscles, it's coming whether you want it or not."

Steve sighed, and Tony whipped his arm out with surprising speed, smearing a quick football-style line of paint on either of his cheeks.

"Cute."

Steve looked at him. "Then I get to do you."

Toy laughed again. "Woah, Steve, you haven't even bought me fine Russian drinks yet! Patience is a virtue, you know."

Steve's smile turned a little bit soft while he stared at Tony under the black lights. It had been a month since their first date, and despite his sultriness Tony had taken things very slow so far, keeping their relationship around PG-13. Steve didn't push; he was an observant man, and he had noticed some things about his boyfriend over the past month.

The first thing he'd noticed about Tony was that sex made him skiddish. He seemed to enjoy the concept, and he could carry heated conversations that would make a prostitute blush, but any time he and Tony had progressed to anything beyond kissing he got anxious. As soon as Steve realized this was a quirk that probably wasn't going away, Steve had backed off and let Tony call the shots.

"Tony you can hardly talk about patience."

Tony scoffed, already busy smearing body paint in squiggly lines down his neck. "I. Am the most patient – eh – man in existence. Hey, use your artistic talent to make my face awesome."

Steve laughed. "Your face is awesome already Tony."

Tony rolled his eyes. "Don't I know it. Paint me like one of you French girls, baby."

Steve stepped in close, dipped his fingers in the red paint Tony handed him. He thought for a second, decided to go tribal, and made quick work of Tony's face.

"This is…an exercise in basic geometry." Steve's tongue stuck out absently as he drew a circumscribed triangle in the center of Tony's forehead, some dots down the bridge of his nose, and sideways triangles on his cheeks.

Tony looked up at him with adorably wide brown eyes. "You making me ugly?"

Steve shook his head, finishing up. "Actually it looks pretty cool. Take a peek."

They both turned toward the mirror, Steve looking like an All American quarterback and Tony looking like the king of some South African tribe, except for the puffy white coats. Tony's grin smooshed the cheek triangles.

"This looks fantastic! You should quit your day job."

Steve laughed. "And what, put glow paint on ravers? No sir."

"I'm sure that's a marketable skill, somehow. So when we go in there, there'll be lots of flashing lights and it'll be freezing, but once we grab some drinks and dance a little then you'll warm up and feel fine."

Now that he'd had a bit of time to wrap his head around the premise of this club (he was donning fur and body paint, c'mon), Steve could actually see the genius of it. "So they force guests, via their survival instincts, to have fun?"

"Smart, right?"

"Diabolically so."

Tony shrugged. "They keep it pretty exclusive actually. Once people go here they come back pretty often, as you can imagine, but they're kinda picky about their patrons."

Tony grabbed his hand and led him down the hall, the music pumping louder and louder until speech was impossible and the bass vibrated in his chest. As flashing lights outlined sudden thick crowds of bodies, the air got so cold so quickly that Steve gasped, not that Tony or anyone else could hear it over the music. Suddenly his and Tony's furry white rave coats were necessities that Steve couldn't imagine being without. The music's volume and the crowd's energy were at odds with the bone-cracking cold, and Steve had a moment of confusion so powerful he almost laughed.

Tony turned around to face him, his red tribal paint glowing against his skin. He leaned up into Steve's space, grabbing the back of Steve's neck and yelling in his ear. "How do you like it?"

Steve grinned despite himself, leaning down and kissing the side of Tony's head. His hair was soft and wonderfully warm on his lips – Steve wanted to bury his face in it.

"I'm freezing, Tony!"

Tony looked up at him, and Steve's eyes adjusted enough to see the wide sparkly look they got when he was ready to have some fun.

"Drinks?"

He nodded, and let Tony weave him through the crowd to the bar, tended by three neon-clad people. A pale blonde woman in a furry orange jumpsuit smiled at them and leaned against the counter.

"Priviet!"

Tony smiled widely at her. "Ztrastvuitie! Vui znaete angliski yazik?"

"Da, kanechna! What can I get you boys?" Her accent was surprisingly minimal.

Tony turned to look at him and yelled, "They serve great vodka here!"

Steve nodded, and turned to the woman. "Two vodkas, please!"

She started preparing two glasses in record time, and set two drinks neatly in front of them. Tony picked it up, holding it out to her as if in toast.

"Thank you!"

She smiled. "Pajalusta!"

The woman walked down the counter to help other guests, and Steve took a drink. It was strong, and burned like fire all the way down his throat. He resisted the urge to cough, but his shivering abated a little. Fog coated the glass between his fingers.

He leaned in toward Tony. "You speak Russian?"

Tony shrugged and kept yelling. "A little! I'm pretty shit at it though!" His accent sounded good, if its similarity to Bucky's perfected Russian was any indication.

"When did you learn?"

Tony opened his mouth, but hesitated before forcing out "college!"

Another thing Steve had learned: Tony did not talk about himself. Oh, he talked all the time; he could ramble with the best of them. But when Steve asked him questions about his life or family, he shot off some witty remark and slung some question right back at Steve – usually inappropriate, probing, or obscene – until Steve forgot what he'd asked him in the first place. It'd be hours later when Steve realized that Tony had managed, yet again, to wriggle his way out of Steve's personal questions.

In that regard, Steve didn't really know a whole lot about Tony. He didn't know anything about his parents, or where he grew up. He didn't know what he did for a living – which Steve could not be upset over for fear of being the World's #1 Hypocrite – and he didn't know about a single childhood friend or role model of Tony's. The prior twenty-eight years of Tony's life was a void to Steve.

What he did know about his boyfriend was that the corners of his eyes wrinkled when he smiled wide enough, and that he could rant to Steve about electrical currents and efficient energy resources for hours if he let him. He knew that when the conversation turned personal (at least on Tony's end; he loved hearing Steve Stories as he'd called them), something in Tony's eyes hardened and dimmed like cooling metal. Something terrible had happened to Tony – half of him almost didn't want to know what could scar a man like him so deeply. Nonetheless, Tony was an undeniable optimist. He threw himself into Steve without looking back, trusting that tomorrow would come and that things would probably turn out alright.

So after a month of acquainting himself with the paradox that was Tony, he picked up on the tones and pauses that let him know, in this instance, that Tony decidedly did not learn Russian in college. Steve smiled anyway, and changed the subject.

"How did you even find this place? I've never heard of it before."

The glass in his hand was half empty, and Steve was already feeling the physical implications of that. This vodka was strong. Tony waved a hand, face paint glowing as the music pounded around them.

"I know one of the owners! We became pretty good friends, and then I got Piotr hired as a bouncer here and the rest is history!"

Tony tipped his glass back and finished off the glass, setting it back on the counter and smacking his lips. That was another thing; Tony drank a lot. Steve didn't think he was an alcoholic, but he most certainly drank his feelings. Feelings he would not talk about. Steve pursed his lips. Maybe this vodka buzz was making him a little bitter that Tony was keeping secrets.

Tony stood up all of a sudden, and held his hand out with a smirk. "Wanna dance? It'll warm you up!"

Steve smiled and took it, dropping down from the stool and letting Tony lead him into the crowd. It was a few degrees warmer here amongst the bodies, heat emanating from all the exercise and intoxication. Tony stopped and faced him, eyes and nose giving way to the glowing red conglomeration of circles and triangles. The song playing boomed to a quick beat, and Tony quickly started bouncing in time.

At some point in the song, the remainder of the glass hit Steve's bloodstream and things got more intense after that. Any lingering cold gave way to a soft warmth that pulsed from deep in his chest to the tips of his fingers. Tony's back was to him as the deepened and slowed in tempo. He grabbed Tony's hips and guided them against him, groaning at the mind-blowing feeling. Together they bounced and dipped and swayed to the drums, bright flashing lights catching on their own fogging breath but otherwise leaving them together in the darkness, crowded by strangers on every side.

Steve closed his eyes and let the Russian lyrics and bass vibrate his entire body up against Tony's. Tony gave as good as he got, leaning back against Steve like he was the only thing holding him up. The scorching heat pumping through Steve's body blazed hotter with every beat of the music, every sway of Tony's hips. It was completely enchanting.

Another song passed in wonderland this way before Tony swirled around to face him again, bright smile visible every time the lights flashed. He leaned up and buried his face in Steve's neck, pressing his lips to the chilly skin there and Steve couldn't have suppressed a shiver if the fate of the nation depended on it.

Tony moved up, hot breath tickling his ear. "Another drink?"

Steve nodded, knowing words were useless and rarely heard here; the bass would drown out anyone who spoke too long. Together they weaved through the ecstatic dancers and back to the bar, where this time they were approached by a man in a bright blue jumpsuit.

"Priviet!" Steve smiled, in too good a mood to mind his language barrier.

"Do you speak English?"

The man beamed. "Yes, of course! What can I get you?"

"Two more vodkas, please!"

The bartender nodded and got his glasses ready, and Steve turned back to Tony.

"This. Is Fantastic." Tony's smile was so genuinely pleased it made Steve's chest tighten.

"You like it?"

"I love it. I'm not hot, I feel like I could stay here all night."

The drinks were set neatly in front of them both as Tony laughed. "That is the goal of a club – you feel less worn out when you're not hot, so they're doing something right!"

Steve nodded, grabbing his glass and holding it up to Tony. "Thank you for bringing me here. This is fun."

Tony smirked, waving him off. "It's nothing, muscles, happy to do it." He grinned at him. Even in the dim technicolor lighting, Tony's eyes were intense and mesmerizing and Steve couldn't look away.

"How do you say 'cheers' in Russian?"

Tony leaned forward with a little laugh. "Za ztarovie!"

"Za starov-vie?"

Tony lifted his glass looking delighted. "Close enough big guy. Za ztarovie!"

Steve drank a good third of his glass, emerging to see Tony polishing off his glass in one go. Tony was a heavyweight, or at least functioned so well while under the influence that usually, Steve couldn't tell when Tony was drinking and when he wasn't. Steve got sloppy when he drank – on nights where they went out, therefore, Tony was usually left in charge of navigating the cab rides home.

A couple hours passed like this, with Tony and Steve pulling each other greedily from the bar to the dance floor and back, and the night only got more thrilling the longer they stayed there – though that could have been the alcohol talking. Tony was the one to finally pull them toward the exit, claiming that they were both probably much more shriveled from dehydration than they felt.

Once they were in the hall, ears ringing and vision spotting from the sudden lack of overstimulation, Tony pulled out his phone and called them a cab without pausing in his walk. They wiggled out of their coats, Steve stumbling a little as he wrestled his off, and then they were out the door and into the fresh autumn air. Tony was babbling about something Steve couldn't quite grasp, and he realized in that instant that he'd gone further past the tipsy landmark than he's originally anticipated he would.

"Did you have a good time?"

He turned to Tony with a wide smile. "Yes, very good. I really enjoyed that. Thank you, Tony."

Tony shrugged it off quickly. "No big deal, just glad you got a kick out of it."

"I did. But really, you didn't have to do that and you did. So thanks."

Tony got visibly more uncomfortable, and waved it off as no big deal.

That was another thing he'd gathered about Tony: his generosity was shockingly wide-sweeping, often prompting him to send Steve stupidly extravagant gifts and plan large-scale dates for the two of them. Tony was not particularly rich, as far as he'd told Steve – but he gave like someone with too big a wallet and too big a heart. It made even the ridiculous gifts (like the actual to-the-ceiling roomful of beanie babies he'd smuggled into Steve's living room one time) more endearing than they had any right to be. And as far as he'd observed, Tony expected his recipients to respond to the gifts with as much casual acceptance as he'd had in giving them. Tony seemed to feel out of place and off-balance when Steve showed more gratitude than that.

They sat on the curb while they talked and waited for their cab. Tony's head found Steve's shoulder, and Steve rested his own head on top of Tony's without thinking about it. They kept talking about the night, the body paint and its alternative uses, which devolved into a heated discussion of strange fetishes they'd heard about but did not really partake in.

It seemed like seconds in Steve's mind before the cab pulled up in front of them, and Steve and Tony scrambled into the back. Tony's head landed on Steve's shoulder again at some point on their ride back, and in barely a couple minutes his weight shifted against Steve's side in that slow way that hinted at approaching sleep. Steve smiled softly, resisting the urge to reach up and run his fingers through Tony's hair since that might wake him up. He needed the rest.

Tony hadn't been kidding that first night when he'd informed Steve that he only slept when he dropped for a few hours – what he failed to clarify, that night, was that "drop" was not meant as some sort of idiom. Tony dropped – his body finally went on strike and demanded sleep one way or another, and the another often entailed passing out standing up if it came to that. Tony falling asleep now meant he probably hadn't slept in a good three days or so. Steve really didn't want to wake him up.

Sooner than he imagined, they were parked in front of Steve's building. He handed over some cash with a murmured "thank you" before he moved Tony out of the car, doing his best to keep his motions steady and fluid so as not to wake him. He tightened one arm around his shoulders and the other under his knees, lifting him up and walking smoothly to his apartment door. By some miracle he unlocked it without dropping anything (his keys or his boyfriend, and he could only imagine how unpleasant that wake-up call would be) and shouldered his way down the small hallway into his bedroom.

He set Tony on the bed, pulled off his shoes, and tucked him snuggly under the covers. Tony slept on, curling up on his side. Steve smiled down at him for a minute, then turned the light off on his way out of the room. In his outdated, overly-yellow kitchen he grabbed a glass of water, gulping it down before filling it back up and grabbing some Tylenol for them both in case the morning didn't feel as nice as tonight had.

Tony had trusted him enough to fall asleep with him.

Usually, Tony had nightmares. Ones so bad they woke him up, made him thrash around and cry out in his sleep. It was easy to see that the nightmares were why Tony chose to stay away for days at a time, and only slept when his body gave him no choice. They had fallen asleep in Steve's bed a couple times before, and each time Tony's own subconscious woke him up before too long. Most of Steve was desperate to know what Tony dreamed about, to help and to support because Tony needed help and support, goddammit. But a part of Steve was almost scared to know. They'd only known each other for a month – part of Steve wanted to run from those dreams, pretend like they didn't happen the same way Tony pretended every time he woke up from one.

Steve had bitten the bullet and asked, one time – not what was your nightmare about, god no, Steve wasn't stupid. But he'd asked maybe a bolder question: what is it that you don't want to talk about? Tony had frozen, hands bunched around his black café shirt that had been thrown to the floor during his night at Steve's, and his eyes had turned into stones.

I mean, you don't sleep, you drink like a fish, you don't like to be handed things – you've got so many strange quirks, Tony, and I just wish I knew more about them. I don't want to step on some verbal landmine.

Tony had frowned, and after a bit of arguing back and forth, Tony had said, Steve, just let it go. I have my secrets and you have yours, and that's how everyone is. I'm not much of a sharer.

And Steve respected that, he did, but as reentered his bedroom and saw the peaceful lump that was his boyfriend – knowing that peace would be shattered in a few hours when Tony woke up screaming – he couldn't help but wish he knew more anyway.

He wrapped his arms around Tony's waist, buried his face in Tony's soft hair, and settled in for a couple hours of peace.

He woke up on Bucky's couch with a nauseating dry mouth and hot insides. He considered going back to sleep, but he needed a glass of water and a toilet (to piss in or puke in, maybe both), so rolled himself up into a sitting position.

"Ugh."

The headache swept the rug out from under him. Figuratively, of course.

"Wow, I didn't think you'd wake up yet!"

He groaned again, head in his hands. "Stop yelling."

"When have I ever gone easy on you, Steve?"

He shook his head. "You're an asshole."

"Guilty as charged." Steve felt the couch sink as Bucky sat down next to him. "Who was that woman you ignored me for all night?"

He took a deep breath and thought about it for a second. Last night's memory trickled into his brain one-by-one like a high school PowerPoint. "Uh – Sharon."

"Wait, like – " he laughed and Steve's head pulsed, " – like the lady who stood you up?"

"Yeah. Weird huh?"

"What'd you two do?"

Steve shrugged. "Drank, talked about how breakups suck mainly. It was pretty nice up until I can't…remember anything."

Bucky laughed again. "Yeah, you threw your fuckin' tits up, I dragged you outta there and put you to bed. I didn't know what you'd been up to with that Sharon girl, though, so I didn't give her your number or anything before takin' you away. Sorry about that."

He shook his head and instantly regretted it. "That's alright Bucky, I'm sure I made an ass of myself in front of her anyway." He smiled ruefully. "I pretty much ranted to her about Tony all night, so."

"That was probably good for you. Gotta get it out of your system, you know? Talk about it until you feel better.

"Yeah." He didn't think he'd ever feel better. It was Tony.

Bucky paused, and his voice had a bit of hesitancy in it. "…Isn't it weird, though, that the night Sharon doesn't show, you meet Tony, and by the time he's gone you finally see her again? It's like he was an era all to himself."

Like time had stopped when Tony was a part of his life, Steve thought. Like it had started back up the second he walked away. Steve looked down and bit his tongue.

"Hey, Steve, I didn't say that to – you know I didn't mean – anything by that."

Steve swallowed and looked up at him. Bucky had that wide brown-eyed look he always got when he put his foot in his mouth.

"No Buck, I think you're right. It's just hard. It's like he was a dream I woke – woke up from."

Bucky nodded. "I know. Just give it time."

After a pause, Steve took a deep breath. "I didn't drunk-dial anyone last night right?"

Bucky smiled. "Pretty sure you tried to order Italian food at one point? But that Sharon girl hung up your phone for you."

Steve grabbed his cell up from the coffee table just to make sure. He had just that one outgoing call, and – he straightened.

"Huh."

Buck blinked. "What."

"Sharon, she texted me. Musta nabbed by number at some point."

Hey Steve, I had a great time drunk-moping about our exes last night. Let me know if you'd like to do it again sometime. Sharon.

Bucky elbowed his side. "Man, you're so in."

"Shut up, Buck."