info: I'm on a writing kick. I hope you enjoy this chapter. The song mentioned is by Kay Kyser, Who Wouldn't Love You. A playlist that I listen to while writing will be added soon so you can sort of follow along with the emotions. As always, Rainymood is a key player in my writing. Augh, please enjoy this chapter. I couldn't resist the fluff...


Steve rests his head against the wall of the jet. Sitting beside him for future use is his parachute. Apparently, of all the harebrained ideas Fury has had, jumping out of a jet over the suspected Loki-Hotspot won the whole damn pig at the county fair. Meanwhile, Natasha and Clint are setting up on the ground, where their stealth will come in far more handy than falling out of the sky. Steve sighs deeply, staring up at the ceiling as the engines hum gently beneath his feet. Thor sits across from him, toying with the chute curiously.

"Stop that," Steve commands. Realizing how harsh he sounds, he softens his voice. "You don't want to damage it before a jump."

"This fabric," Thor says, holding it up without tugging any of the strings. "What is its purpose?"

Steve grunts, not quite a laugh but not the sound of dismissal. "Keeping you from being a pancake on impact," he answers.

"Pancake," Thor repeats. "The nourishing breakfast you made for me." It isn't a question, he's proud of himself for remembering such trivial Midgard information.

"That's right," Steve says, closing his eyes.

A long pause stills in the air.

"Loki will have defenses," Thor says, oddly showing human restraint in speaking.

"I'm aware."

"He will be hard to reach," Thor presses.

"I'm determined."

Another long pause fills the cabin, and Steve opens his eyes to look at Thor.

"You cared for him very much," Thor says slowly. "I care for my brother very much. I know he has done very bad things, and I cannot forgive him for what has taken, but he is my brother. I will not allow harm to come to him."

Steve's shoulders lift, his jaw clenches, his eyes meet the God of Thunder's. "I'm going to kill him."

Thor stares back, fire burning behind his brilliant eyes. "I do not think you will," he says steadily.

"You might want to think about that again."

"I will take Loki back to Asgard, I will have him under heavy guard."

Steve scoffs. "That didn't work so well the first time. And this time?" He shakes his head. "It's personal."

Thor doesn't have anything to say, but he does not look away.

Steve rests his head against the wall again, closing his eyes. "It would be nice if they would turn up the music."

On demand, the music fills the cabin from the floor to the ceiling, and Steve wishes he hadn't asked.

"What are you listening to?" Tony demanded, aghast. He reached over Steve's shoulder, pressing himself against the larger man as he tried to grab the record from the player.

Steve pressed back, keeping Tony's fingers just out of reach. "It's called swing," he said smartly. "You should listen to it sometime."

"I'm listening to it now, and I want it to stop."

"Really listen to it," Steve insisted with a laugh.

"I don't think I want to," Tony said, trying to get around Steve to turn off the ancient record player and its static speakers.

Steve got to his feet fluidly, catching Tony's wrists and placing one of the man's hands on his hip, laughter in his eyes. "Come on, Tony," he said playfully, leading the reluctant man in a hesitant dance step. "It does have charm."

"Oh, because I lack charm, and really could use more," Tony said, rolling his eyes. He didn't pull away, a silly grin plastered to his face. "You're impossible, you know."

"Impossible is such a broad word," Steve said in protest.

"It fits you."

Steve laughed, stepping widely to force Tony into a more natural dance rhythm. "I'm just a super soldier out of a test tub."

"Impossible," Tony dismissed.

"That's what everyone said."

The record stopped playing, the scratch of the needle twirling round and round playing over the speakers. Steve abruptly let go of Tony's hands, tapping him lightly on the nose with a single finger. He lifted the record from the player, sliding it back into its case and pulling another from the small stack beside the player. With all the care of a mother with her newborn, Steve placed the record on the turntable, setting the needle gently on the surface.

"Where did you find that thing anyway?" Tony asked. "Shouldn't it be in a museum next to all the other really old crap?"

"Fury found it for me," Steve answered, turning around as the music began to play. Sweeping Tony's hands back into his, he resumed the lead in the dance.

"What are you –"

"Shhh, listen," Steve interrupted, touching their noses together. Slowly, the music began to swell, the beat lively and active, begging to be danced to, and Steve intended to indulge it. "Kay Kyser," he said quietly, his swaying steps gaining a bounce.

"Some old dead chick?" Tony asked, growing more amused with every new step.

"Dude, actually. Well, he was alive when I was around, so I guess he's pretty dead now," Steve answered. "But that isn't the point, listen."

The man's voice came over the speakers, sweet and low, the right amount of static accenting the beat, the rhythm. Steve let himself whistle along, the ecstasy of happiness plastered to his face.

"You look absolutely ridiculous," Tony told hm.

"You're the dream that dreamers want to dream about," Steve sang, laughing at Tony's shocked face. "You're the breath of spring that lovers gab about, are mad about."

Surprisingly, Tony didn't pull away, he didn't have a snarky remark, he didn't brush it off. His face split into a grin, a true laugh ringing from his lips. Before Steve could start a new verse, Tony kissed him. "You are impossible," he mumbled against Steve's lips.