Chapter Five

It was three hours after what had been dubbed by the media "The Omelette of Doom", or what Clint had lovingly called "Family Fallout #2.5". Steve was sitting rigid and impassive next to Tony in the S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters, bruised body already healing itself with serum-induced speed, watching on grainy CCTV camera footage as Dummy put the disastrous meal down the Biohazard chute in the wall. He stifled the guilt of blaming Tony for something that was now obviously an accident. He had been making a point, he told himself. To apologize now would be to risk exposing his true… disposition towards Tony.

"Why do you even have a biohazard disposal unit built into your house?"

Steve blinked at the sound of Director Fury's incredulous tone, and was about to reply when the other man shook his head, waving away the video carelessly with a gloved hand.

"Don't even bother explaining it to me," Fury said, pacing behind their chairs, "because I don't wanna know. All I want to happen is for this little incident to never occur again, least of all at the hands of the people meant to be protecting our great country. I don't care whose fault it is; as far as I'm concerned, you're all to blame. You're just lucky no one got hurt, otherwise this would be a much bigger deal than it is right now. " Steve could not help but feel like a naughty school boy getting the age old intimidation routine from his principal. He wondered if they were still allowed to use the cane. Steve wouldn't put it past Fury to pull one out himself, come to think of it.

"Have I made myself clear, gentlemen?"

Steve heard the shifting of an icepack and a quiet grunt of assent as Tony rearranged himself. The fall, despite being inside a gelatinous tentacle, had still been cause for worry with the S.H.I.E.L.D. medical officers, especially when Tony was unable to walk in a straight line on the road and kept unceremoniously collapsing into people's arms. Natasha had commented wryly that it may have just been a ploy to get the attractive nurses numbers, but the way Tony had seemed so utterly out of it when Steve stormed off, swaying slightly and covered in goo, made Steve think otherwise. He was glad that he hadn't been there afterwards; else he might've had to catch Tony. Steve was all too aware now that if he had done so, he would have scooped his friend up in his arms with barely a thought, cradled him to his chest, and never let go.

"Captain?" Steve couldn't help it, so lost in his own thoughts as he was; he jumped.

"Sir, yes sir," he said without thinking, and almost buried his head in his hands in embarrassment. Fury ignored it, and nodded sharply.

"Good. Now get out of my building, and if you so much as put a dint on the door as you leave, I will have your wifi signal jammed periodically, randomly, and without warning for a month."

"Yes mom," Tony breathed as they walked out of the office, only just loud enough for Steve to hear, and he fought a quirk at his lip. Why on earth couldn't he just stay mad at him? His mind was trying to betray him every step of the way. Trying to make him say sorry. But oh, no. No way. Tony had been blatantly irresponsible, could have gotten himself and plenty of other people killed – an emphasis on the himself- and Steve could not let go by. Not with his track record of loss.

They did not speak on the way out of the building, nor did they speak as Tony slid into the back seat of one of his sleek, alien models of car, handing the icepack to Happy, who turned towards Steve after closing the door. Happy raised his eyebrows in question, and Steve merely shook his head and walked over to his motorcycle. Tony had helped him fix it after 70 years sitting in storage, bent for long hours underneath it as Steve sketched. He hadn't stopped making jokes the entire time, rambling almost to himself, and Steve remembered the distinct impression that Tony wanted to impress him, wanted him there to laugh with him and to just be there in his space.

Steve wondered if Tony would still want that after what he said earlier.

…

Tony sat, semi-comatose and bleary eyed from pain in the back of the car. Everything had gone wrong. Everything always went wrong. That's just kind of how it worked for him. Tony's head was pounding and he felt ill. Probably from the fumes he breathed in whilst dangling from a monstrous tentacle, he reasoned to himself. But Tony knew that wasn't quite true. He knew because the pain didn't spike and stab at him when the car passed over bumps in the road. It tore at his insides when he saw Steve's eyes flash with anger and something else, when he thought of Steve's disappointment scrawled across every feature. He had told him that he was nothing. And as Tony began to doze in his seat, clothes black and crusty with dried monster drool and tears pricking the backs of his eyelids, he couldn't help but agree.

…

A week passed in the Avengers tower without incident. Steve and Tony avoided each other as best as they could, much to the confusion of their team mates. Frankly, neither of them wanted to talk about it. Steve barely left the gym, rain hail or shine, his knuckles becoming more and more bruised as the days went by. When not on a mission to destroy every punching bag from the city with his fists, Steve sketched. It was harder because of his battered hands, and the way he would get distracted and look down at his page and discover that Tony had materialized was dismaying. There he was, bold as brass, filling up Steve's book whether he liked it or not, making the guilt in his stomach twist and groan like a wounded animal. Tony sad. Tony Disappointed. Tony confused. It seemed as though the man had surreptitiously jumped Steve's mind whilst he wasn't looking and, cackling loudly, scrawled his name in sharpie across every spare surface. It was… Distracting to say the least. He was struggling to sleep, his dreams filled to the brim with ice and black sludge. He was only managing to get a few hours a night before jolting awake, covered in cold sweat and shaking and whispering Tony's name until he remembered where he was. The impersonal white lights of the gym were on more nights than not, and Steve found himself training harder and harder. Anything to still his buzzing mind, anything to push away the confusing hurt. It was beginning to show physically in his face, dark circles emerging underneath his eyes like reflections of his dreams, and he spoke little to his friends and teammates. Bruce occasionally came to the gym, standing in the doorway with a plate of food and eyes that spoke of silent understanding. He never said anything, and Steve could not help but marvel at the surprising stillness of a man with such an imposing… Condition. He would disappear silently, plate sitting innocently on a bench or the floor, and Steve would eat alone with his thoughts.

…

Natasha drummed her nails against the kitchen table in a way that normally indicated to Clint that she was going to strangle someone with her thighs. She was staring coldly at an untouched bowl of cereal in pyjama pants and slippers, her fingers tapping a harsh, impatient rhythm onto the marble counter, and Clint could tell that she was itching to stab someone with a stiletto. He smirked into his mug of coffee as he watched her, perched precariously on top of the high kitchen cupboards like an extremely amused gargoyle. He knew Natasha well; master assassin, highly capable and armed with an almost completely emotionless exterior, this frustration was a side of her that Clint had only been allowed to see through much shared suffering and close scrapes. If there is one thing Clint has learnt, it is that there is nothing that brings two people together like having to suture each others' battle wounds. Clint decided to wait it out. He watched her dark eyes as they swirled, practically aglow with an irate fury being calculated. He saw her eyes dart to the door on the left, over to the elevator doors which led to the gym, lobby and garage, and Clint grins as her hand slams against the table.

"This is getting ridiculous," she says, her eyes locking onto Clint like a sniper's scope. Clint would almost have thought that she hadn't known he was there. But this was Natasha. Nothing escapes from Natasha's gaze. Clint merely smiles down at her and swings his legs up to cross them.

"What is?" he asks, purely for the sake of hearing her talk. Clint is the only person in the entire Avengers Tower to think that Natasha is funny when she is frustrated.

"This!" she waves emphatically at the empty doorway. "It's been three weeks now. Rogers doesn't eat or sleep anymore and practically never leaves the gym, unless he runs out of punching bags. Stark, well, Stark didn't eat or sleep in the first place, but NOW all he does is sulk with his power tools in his workshop. The last time I saw him was two days ago, coming to get coffee at three in the morning. Whatever happened between those two after the breakfast thing needs to be dealt with." Clint stretched himself out lazily across the cupboard's top like a cat, letting his head hang upside down over the edge.

"And how are you going to do that, oh fearless leader?" He said amiably, balancing his coffee cup on his right foot. She was silent, and he twisted backwards further to look at her. Natasha had her thinking face on again.

"I'm going to call Fury." She said decisively, standing up from the bench. Clint stiffened, then gracefully tumbled to the ground with little more than the whisper of socks.

"Oh, no you're not!" he said emphatically, following her out of the kitchen as Natasha whips a phone out of god-knows-where. He caught her shoulder with one hand and spun her round to face him. She was too quick though, and Clint was caught by surprise (or so he'll tell you), and somehow in three seconds flat he found himself with Natasha's heel pressing his face into the floor and wrapped up like a pretzel.

"Sh, darling, mummy's on the phone," she cooed playfully to him, and he moaned up through his limited mouth space,

"But he'll make us DO STUFF! People stuff!"

There was a pause, felt Natasha shift minutely, and then he was being bent upwards by a meticulously manicured hand.

"I don't care if Fury says we have to run a freaking petting zoo for a day, Barton. If it makes those two sulking man-children pull their heads out of each other's arschlocher, we're all going to do it, and we're going to do it with smiles on our rosy. Little. Faces." She pinched his cheek and then sauntered away, talking on her phone and suddenly the emotionless agent again. Clint was left to dust himself off in the hallway. Never a dull moment in the Avengers Tower.

***A.N. uuuuuuuuuurngh I need sleep. Sorry for the break, guys, I got major writers block, and I churned out the last five hundred words in a desperate attempt to just push through it. It's completely unedited, so please don't judge me too harshly. Not to give anything away yet, but the next chapter will be super dooper exciting, so hold in there for me my darlings! reviews are my bread and butter, folks, and help me write faster. Much love to all my followers! Writer is out.***