The ladies had been most kind! Really, to be so welcoming after all the Avengers had done to Manhattan – sorry, for Manhattan. The little shawarma shop is all thrashed and they certainly didn't expect to find anyone there, but they did; two ladies in dusty shawls were doing minor clean-ups, sweeping the floor and recovering lost crockeries. Tony just strolled in and asked for a table to seat the six of them. What do you know, they happily obliged. The older one, the one who had crowfeet, pulled out the least damaged table from a corner and set it upright in a clear space – after Thor helped displace rubbles from it. The rest of the Avengers limped around hunting for chairs.

Even if they'd closed the portal and stopped the Chitauri from laying waste to the city, the battle, in a way, forged on as government agencies and NGOs deal with the aftermath. SHIELD was stretched so thin they probably turned invisible, because Tony hadn't seen a single Agent prowling the scene, aside from those menacing-looking ones tasked with guarding Loki and the sceptre. He thought it was Fury's favourite form of entertainment – racing everyone else to sites of calamities and conspiracies. Anyway, SHIELD sent a short message that they could only spare the manpower to recover the superheroes after they had taken care of the civilians and the Avengers were just too beaten up to be of any use anyway. Suddenly the shawarma garble sounded like a good idea.

Nobody felt like talking it seemed, even Tony munched broodingly in silence. He had to pull a fragment of porcelain between the bread and that was about the most interesting event at their after-battle "party". He was tired, he didn't feel like making a joke about it. Nobody looked like they were in the mood for a joke either, but sullen as they were, at least everyone was in one piece. No ICUs needed this time around, excellent. Sure everybody had taken some hits, some maybe more, but still, no casualties. Tony took another bite.

Steve had his head propped as he dozed on, his shawarma still warm in the paper wrapping. Maybe not entirely asleep, Tony suspected, as every five minutes or so he'd suddenly jerk awake and look around at the table, as if making sure all six of them were still here, that this moment was real. He had his free hand wrapped suspiciously around his left side. There wasn't blood or intestines spilling out, thank God, and Tony hadn't asked, but going by the scorch mark on the uniform Steve probably tanked a blast from those alien guns. Thor definitely had been stabbed by something on his shoulder; Tony could see dried up bloodstains on the armour but the red cape hid the wound well. The others seemed to fare better – clothes intact, no visible traumas. Good. Very good indeed.

Tony balled his shawarma wrapping and tossed it aside.

Somebody's cell phone rang – Natasha's apparently. As she attended to her call, the rest of the Avengers stirred sluggishly from torpor. Steve's bleary eyes darted all over the places again.

"Cap, you all right?" Tony asked from across the table. Thor turned to regard Steve, his regal eyebrows tightened in a worry frown.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Yes, Thor, I'm OK. I was… I'm just making sure everyone's all right too."

"Well it's been a long day. Now that we're all fed and watered, let's just turn in and not get up for the next eighteen hours."

"Hill is sending down a Rover to pick us up," Natasha said as she slipped her phone in her back pocket. "They can only spare us one with all the evacs and crowd controls going on in other parts of the city."

Bruce stood up. "Yes, yes, we understand. Uh, it's going to be a tight squeeze but I have my own ride, so…"

"And I shall have to return to my brother," Thor said, his cape sweeping the ground as he turned to the exit. "I believe we have much to talk about. This is where I leave you, courageous friends. For the time being at least. I shall contact you again before we leave for Asgard." He beheld them with a twinkle in his eyes, but lingered on Steve. "Heal," and he regarded everyone again, "and rest well."

They felt a shred of mortal frailty in the wake of Thor leaving the eatery. Fatigue slammed into each of them twice as hard and suddenly, they just wanted to go home.

Steve shifted on his feet. "Fury isn't calling for a debriefing?"

"Not today. SHIELD's calling in favours from all over the place to help out with the clean-up and he's going to be on-site in twenty minutes. What's most urgent is the sceptre and Loki, but Thor and reinforcement are taking care of that. So anything else will have to wait."

Bruce left almost immediately after Thor. When the Rover arrived, the remainder of the Avengers hobbled one after another into it. Natasha took the front seat and started speaking in quiet voices to the driver – another Agent, Tony supposed. He and Steve slid into the last row, behind Clint who promptly reclined completely across the length of the car.

Steve seemed oddly tense. He was still cradling his side and now starting to sport a constant grimace on his face.

Tony nudged Steve with his knee.

"What?"

"Do you need the hospital?"

Steve groaned. He let his hand fall to the seat and studied the wound with disinterest; except there wasn't anything there but a faint trail of blood and scabs. Tony whistled.

"I need one of those serum."

Steve threw his head back against the headrest. "No, you don't."

"It doesn't look that bad. Give yourself half an hour, bet you can go another round with them Chitauri sons-of-bitches."

"Still hurts like hell… this is taking longer than usual."

"Sure your healing's not as fast as Logan's, but –"

"You boys at the back," Natasha called out; she was looking at them from the rear-view mirror. "Where do you want me to drop you?"

Steve deliberated. He knew exactly where he wanted to be, but Tony suspected he didn't quite want anyone else to know where it is. Hesitantly he said, "Brooklyn Heights, 569 Leaman Place, if it's not too inconvenient for you."

She quirked an eyebrow at that, but didn't question further.

"Stark Tower please, and I think you just missed the turn there."

"What? You're not going back?"

"It's got my name on it, in case you missed that too, and I got stuff to get back doing."

Natasha turned back, this time fixing Tony with her stare albeit a mellowed version of the murderous-Widow-intent. "Tony, the top floor is nothing but rubbles. We don't know if the Tower sustained other damages, water and power supply is down – don't look at me like that – and there isn't going to be anyone around the place until the emergency call is lifted. And I don't think you should be left alone either, at least not today."

Tony couldn't win this one, not when Natasha used her this-is-final tone. So he turned to Steve instead. "Cap, come on. Say something."

Steve gave him an almost apologetic half-smile. "Natasha is right."

"Right. Fine, at least let me get my suit and be on my merry way to Malibu."

"That's not gonna happen too. Look, I have space for another."

And a beat of incredulity.

"Really? Share a bunk with Captain America?"

"You're taking the couch."

Steve's brick red apartment was tucked in a quiet, low profile neighbourhood. After Natasha waved them goodbye and they were alone on the curb, Steve caught Tony appraising the block with a scowl on his face. When he realised Steve was watching him, and that it wasn't polite to judge a home that was offered to him on good will, he cleared his throat.

"Nice place."

"Yeah. It's not a mansion or a tower, but it's clean and cosy."

It was only a matter of time before Steve question if a born-with-a-silver-spoon-Stark was going to get comfortable in a second-rate accommodation like this. Tony admitted he was many things, not all of them nice, but most definitely not pampered.

"No Steve, I don't mean it like that. I was just wondering – you know, if we're gonna have to climb the stairs all the way up to your place, I don't suppose there's an elevator? Or maybe you're staying on the first floor?" Tony sounded somewhat hopeful.

"No, not the first floor. Feeling sleepy already, old man?"

"Says the centenarian." Tony shrugged past Steve and walked moodily towards the entrance. Steve sighed and followed.

The stairway was brightly lit by natural sunlight. High windows with spotless panes and sheer drapes flapping gently with the rhythm of early evening breeze. There were little pots of well-taken-care-of cacti and aloe vera on the sills. Some watercolour paintings were hanging on the wall – no Pollock of Van Gogh but Tony still find them strangely fascinating. He wasn't sure if he'd been anywhere homelier.

"Sometimes I like to take some time off for myself. From SHIELD. From…" Steve gestured vaguely to his surrounding, failing to find the words but Tony figured he understood anyway. "Sam found this place on sale. I didn't think long, I said yes and two weeks later I was ready to move in. Home's home, you know." Then he smiled gently, seemingly more to himself than anything. "I hope you don't mind, the hall's a bit cluttered. I left a couple of paintings to dry by the window when, well, Loki happened. I actually have a spare room, but there's no bed in there. I guess I can shift the couch in." Then he realised Tony was no longer beside him.

The billionaire was half a flight of stairs behind, leaning heavily against the wall. Steve was by his side in an instant, holding him up for support. Tony waved him off dismissively.

"It's fine, it's gonna pass soon. Give me a minute."

"I'm calling for help."

"What? No, don't." Tony grabbed Steve tightly by his shoulder, taking in deep gulps of air in deliberately slow rhythms. His irises were dilated and he had an off-coloured complexion under a thin sheen of cold sweat. Steve was going to call for an ambulance anyway when Tony clapped him twice on his back.

"OK," he said shakily, "OK. I'm good. See, just a minute."

He took another step up, and another.

"Which floor is it again?"

"Fourth."

Tony nodded and continued his climb. Somehow Steve wasn't the least relieved.

When the door to Steve's humble abode swung open, the first thing that hit them was the whiff of turpentine. In a few long strides Steve reached to a window facing the front of the apartment and opened it, letting in fresh air. The house had a certain stillness to it, like a house abandoned. Tony made a mental note to build a Dum-E 2.0 or something to keep Steve company because coming home to an empty place sounded a bit sad. It could even help open the window every morning because that smell of concentrated turpentine? If not for the serum, it's just cancer waiting to happen. Well maybe not, but it'll be a good ploy to use to convince Steve to let Dum-E 2.0 stay.

Steve leaned his shield against the wall by the bookcase. "All right. What would you like, tea? Coffee? Not sure if the orange juice has expired –"

"I'm good, thanks," Tony replied as he sunk appreciatively into the beige couch. He leaned into his seat, firm yet oddly comforting against his weary muscles, and he let his eyes slid close. He got an impression Steve was standing right in front on him, studying him from one end to the other, and if he wasn't feeling this crappy he would've kicked Steve in the knee and told him to bugger off. After sometime Steve finally moved; he was gathering his paintings from the other corner of the room and clearing his aisles. Tony might have drifted off for a while – he wasn't sure – because the next time he became aware of his surroundings there was no more shuffling of canvas in the background.

Steve was sitting across him holding two glasses of water.

"Hey," he said, extending one to him.

Tony pinched the bridge of his nose before accepting his water. He was starting to feel the aches all over his body, and suddenly he didn't feel like leaving the couch for the next 24 hours.

"You OK?"

"Adrenaline's running out," Tony admitted. "Feel like a bus just ran over me."

Steve pressed a small zip-lock bag into his free hand. Tony flipped it back, reading the label.

"Advil? Seriously?"

"I'm not sure if it's gonna work. I mean I obviously don't use it, but Bernie says it might help."

"Who's Bernie?"

"She's a neighbour."

Tony raised an eyebrow. Steve merely shrugged. "She's a nice young lady. A fantastic artist too; she blows glass."

Tony choked on his water, some of it spluttered down his front. Ignoring the goldenopportunity for a punch line, he popped two tablets and swallowed them.

"I think general anaesthesia works better at this point… still, thanks. And how's your papercut doing?"

Steve had changed out of his uniform. Aside from the small bruise on his temple (Tony bet it was going to disappear completely before sunrise) Steve didn't look like he'd just gotten out of battle.

"Completely healed."

Tony snorted in mocked jealousy. Steve laughed, a pleasant ring that broke the quiet of the room. Tony realised that the table lamps were on, and so were a few ceiling lights by the hallway leading to the bedroom. He turned to the window and saw it was dark.

"How long was I out?"

"Half a day. I didn't want to disturb you, and you obviously look like you needed the rest –"

"Pepper. I got to call her, tell her everything's OK. Oh crap," Tony's phone now lay in his palm in two pieces. "Must've crashed it in the fight. Steve, I need to borrow your phone, or your computer – you have one of those right? I got you both for Christmas or something –"

"Tony," Steve said, his head tilted at an angle to catch Tony's wavering focus. "Tony, calm down. Pepper called Natasha, and she called me after. I told her you're fine. She didn't want me to wake you up but she said she's flying back as soon as she can. Apparently aliens are bad for business, she's trying to convince stakeholders that these threats are not… going to have lasting impact on the company."

"You mean she's telling people who want us to start making weapons again to get lost."

Steve set his empty glass on the floor. "Yes. Anyway, I've made some spaghetti for dinner. You hungry?"

Tony contemplated the offer. He was exhausted beyond belief, sleepy, sore all over, most definitely sweaty and smelly; all rolled into one giant ball of numbness.

"Not really."

So there, somehow he got the tone of finality down that'd make even Natasha proud. He imagined Steve shrugging, going "Your loss" and proceeded to chow down his share as well. But there Steve was, good ol' Steve, sitting there refusing to go away until he was certain that Tony was truly fine.

"What did you see really? Up there."

Tony cast his attention towards the ceilings, watched the fan spin. It seemed so surreal he'd just been to space this afternoon.

"A bunch of aliens and their ships. Like in Serenity, damn Chitauri look like an army of Reavers."

Steve didn't look like he believe the answer. Tony was quite sure he meant to ask something else, something like, was it beautiful?

Was it frightening?

Breathtakingly beautiful, Tony found himself answering regardless. Not exactly to Steve of course, but yes, he knew in the cloudy recesses of his mind as the inside of the suit was getting hypoxic, that in the vacuum of space, where in nothingness there were still twinkling stardust, and gaseous nebula, and possibly glimpses of galaxies he never knew of – yes, they were breathtakingly beautiful. And from the adulation for all things he did not understand, he found a gnawing, unsettling fear, germinating from his vulnerabilities, from his impotence. Today he mailed a nuke to the Chitauri's door. Circumstances could be reversed. One of the stars could well be an alien bomb homing right to Houston. How many more Earth-resemblance in one of those gas clouds he see?

But in space, all Tony could do as unconsciousness claimed him, was watch as gravity pulled him back to Manhattan.

"Whatever it was, glad it was all over," Steve finally said, clasping his knees. "Let me know when you want to eat."

"Steve," Tony caught him by the elbow as he was getting up. "Look, I would do it myself if I could, but can you help me shift the couch into your spare room?"

"Oh, who's the centenarian now?"

"Yeah. I don't know, I guess the fall took a heavier toll on me than I'd expected."

Tony wasn't going to lie; he knew he was already living on borrowed time the moment he flew through the wormhole. Oxygen was gone (his suit wasn't equipped with a tank), and JARVIS couldn't compensate the drastic change in exterior pressure, temperature and radiation exposures. He was ready to die. And the Avengers must've realised that too. Steve definitely did. That moment Tony understood that someone just got to lay on the wire. Tony wanted to, and Steve respected that.

"You know what? You take the bed. I'll have the hall tonight."

Tony didn't bite back with stupid one liner about chauvinists or the likes. He nodded and closed his eyes again, looking every bit battle worn like a warrior just fallen from the stars. Probably. It wasn't like Steve had prior experiences to compare to. If anything, his billionaire team mate seemed to be faring worse even after all the sleep. His eyes looked like they had trouble focusing half the time, and he didn't talk with as much vigour as he usually did. As Tony inhaled deeply – Steve saw his chest expanded, heard the whistle-y sound that accompanied it – a trickle of red flowed down from his nostril.

"Tony… you're bleeding."

He blinked once, not quite understanding what Steve was saying. Then he felt something hot run down his lips. He wiped at it absentmindedly only to see a smear of red on his fingers.

"This looks bad," he deadpanned, rubbing some more at his face with the back of his hand.

"You think? Should've gone to the hospital just now, I'm calling for help –"

"I'm just going to the bathroom to wash this off –"

Tony suddenly slumped forward. Steve braced him by both elbows before he hit the floor. He didn't response when Steve called his name, read his pulse, called for the ambulance and held him tight in that dimmed living room. He welcomed this, maybe this would be more permanent – no Hulk to the rescue at least. Maybe this was salvation.

Alas, it was not to be. Pain nowadays was a constant in his waking moments and he had plenty of that to go around right now, so hurray for still being alive. It wasn't as painful as he was accustomed to, still the blunt aches all over told him he was probably under some sort of medication. Painkillers. And then he heard the steady beep, beep of that blasted heart monitor. Hospital, most definitely the hospital. Now who brought him to a hospital? Tony wasn't all against the medical professionals of course, bless their souls, and he was not afraid of needles, catheters (though thoroughly unpleasant), whatever else people could think of. Dad would beat him into next Sunday if he were. No, he had better reasons to steer clear of people with stethoscopes. One, his chest was a medical miracle. Two, he had a clause in his will that says something like: if any medical procedure is done on me when I'm unable to make informed decisions at the time of the procedure, then on pain of death I will take legal actions and sue/incarcerate your thieving ass. Because nobody's going to stop trying to steal the arc reactor technology, let's be realistic. So why, pray tell, was he in a hospital?

"Hey, you with me now?"

Captain Righteous. Of course.

"Steve…"

God, how long was he out? His voice sounded like sandpapers rubbing against each other. He finally dared to creak an eye open, take in the sterile surroundings and a positively worried Steve Rogers hovering on the left side of his bed.

"It's OK, you're at the hospital."

"I know that," Tony quipped blearily. "I was under the impression that no sane doctors were going to take me in."

The bed railings rattled as Steve leaned on them. "Right. That. You scared a few nurses with that will of yours."

"Charming, right?"

"My name is on the appendix. So I told them to go ahead, but they made me watch the entire procedure instead."

Oh yes, the appendix. Tony regularly updated the appendix to include names of trusted comrades and friends who were most likely to be with him when he needed to seek medical attention. Steve's name was not a recent addition.

"Yeah, sorry 'bout that. Have to keep this safe from grubby paws," Tony said as he tapped lightly on his arc reactor.

"I understand. First time I heard about this thing though."

"Never had the occasion to bring it up."

Steve smiled. Relieved, Tony thought, which was good because he felt fine, and he didn't want a broody hulking Captain America for company anyway. When his forehead pinched, Tony knew his misery was far from over.

"Steve, I know what you're going to say, but how about we save this for another day?"

"Blunt force trauma to the retroperitoneal abdomen and thoracic region," Steve started reading off a clip pad hanging from the bed. "Presentations of hypovolemia, gastrointestinal haemorrhage. Cracked ribs? Contusions to several organs – you know what, I'm going to stop here," and he released the clip board so it swung forlornly between them, "because I'm a lot more interested in knowing when you'll stop playing hero and admit you need help.

"You don't stop caring for a team mate – or a friend for that matter, after you clock out of work, Tony."

He never doubted the earnestness of their friendship. Never doubted Steve would look at him any lesser if he decided to ask for a favour.

"Don't beat yourself up like that. And you're probably thinking I'm making up excuses, but I honestly didn't feel anymore worse than any other day."

"Any other day?" Steve repeated faintly.

"Well, this," he tapped at the arc reactor again, "isn't the comfiest thing to have lodged in your chest. To put it mildly."

Steve nodded, not probing anymore. Respect for another man's privacy. Well thank God for that, because Tony didn't feel like reciting his long list of ailments – it'd make them both cringe – and that would feel like being violated all over again. Steve sat back in his rather uncomfortable looking plastic chair.

"Just so it sticks, I got your back. Next time –"

"Rogers, Rogers."

Must've been a stale one because Steve was obviously rolling his eyes. How uncharacteristic. The Stark-ness must've been rubbing off on him.

"So I hope we're done feeling our feelings, because God help me, if you ask me to lay my head on your shoulders, slow dance maybe after every fight, I'll start using your shield as a salad bowl."

Steve looked out of the window, a silly boyish grin on his face. Amidst the lull of Ibuprofen-induced sleep, Tony decided leaning on someone else isn't really a trait of weakness at all, if anything, the complete opposite, because he'd just realised how much courage it takes to trust someone with his own fragility. And who would've guessed that the mere company of a friend was all it takes to make this hurt so much more bearable.