The night's darkness folded around the Tower, the solitary "A" on the side a bright beacon in the city. The building itself was sparsely lit, the laboratory within the top floors illuminated just enough to be noticeable. All was quiet, all was calm...save for the scrape of a stool rolling from bench to bench, echoing in the space. The beeps and clicks of the digital readouts were unremarkable, at least to the man concentrating on his task. Bending over a mounted magnifying glasses, Tony Stark fiddled with the gauntlet beneath it, tools poised and delicately maneuvering the armored plates. While the Iron Legion had its own automatic repair and assembly interface, he still looked out for his own suits (with JARVIS' assistance, the only other being he could trust to do the job right). Wires had been frayed during the most recent bust-up between the team and some radical insurgents, the armor knocked around enough to cut into them. It was a miracle he hadn't been electrocuted in the confrontation, particularly if they had broken through the under layer and tapped his skin. Oh, well. The armor was due for diagnostics, anyway; this just gave him the excuse.

Blowing out a breath, Tony laid down his tools for a moment, sat back. He'd been laboring over his suit for hours, the task of installing his much-worked-over sentry mode consuming him until it had been completed. Coffee and espresso cups littered the work surfaces, despite Bruce's mild reprimands to clean up after himself. Even with taking in enough caffeine to make an elephant jittery, he felt the burn of exhaustion in his eyes, his body. Still, the shadow looming at the back of his mind was there, waiting for him to fall into slumber and spring its attack. If he slept tonight, the nightmares would come. He knew that. Unconsciously, he rubbed the center of his chest, the ridges of stitched skin and muscle having planed down to be slightly smoother. It was a habit he picked up after his surgery, when the nights stretched on and he felt the gnaw of fear (improbable and ridiculous as it was) that it had been for naught. That one single metal barb had been missed, that for all his efforts he would still end up dead due to his mistakes and follies. The touch anchored him, reminding him that he was still alive, could feel the change and could heal from it.

Shaking his head, Tony scrubbed at his face before scooting in close to the table and picking back up his tools.

"JARVIS, gimme some more light," he commanded. Squinting at the wires, he muttered, "Worked in a cave once, not doing that again."

Slowly, the light over the work station increased, sharpening the fray of the equipment in hand.

"Yes, sir," JARVIS acquiesced, the tone in his smooth voice becoming a touch wry. "That's certainly an experience that need not be repeated."

Tony dipped his chin, repairing the gauntlet with delicate, steady gestures. Setting everything down once more, he flicked his wrist, the sensors implanted beneath the skin summoning the gauntlet and making it assemble swiftly. Flexing the armored fingers, he looked it over, judging the work to be good. It would require testing in the morning. There was more to be done in the meantime.

"Show me a full suit readout, J. I think something was giving way in the right booster during flight mode."

JARVIS complied, a scanner going over the assembled suit in the corner. "Yes, sir."

A knock against the open glass door at the far end of the room drew his attention, made Tony pause in his endeavor. His body tensed as he pivoted on his seat; everyone had gone to sleep, hadn't they? Tired blue eyes beneath ruffled blond hair met his, the taller form looming in the door frame hesitantly. Relaxing, Tony gave the new arrival a clipped nod; it was only Steve.

"Up late again, I see," the captain remarked obviously, tucking his hands into his jeans pockets and stepping over the threshold. It was common now, finding one member or another of the team awake during the late hours. Every one of them had their reasons to stay awake, keep the monsters at bay from their minds in the blackness. Sometimes a little companionship helped do so.

"Well...couldn't sleep," Tony pointed out, combing his fingers through his dark hair before rising from the stool. Heading over to the coffee maker, he poured himself the last of the brew, belatedly glancing at Steve and gesturing at it. Steve shook his head at the silent offer, instead turning his attention to the schematic on the digital screen. Shrugging, Tony swallowed some of it, wincing at the burn and the taste. Too long on the burner, again, but it would have to do.

"Me, either," Steve murmured, exhaling sharply. It was nothing new; lack of sleep had blotted his existence since well before he woke up from the ice. However, he couldn't blame it on ill health, a raging battle, or his fluffy mattress tonight. The set of his jaw was hard, something that Tony was able to recognize; he'd seen it in the mirror too often for his liking over the last few years. Stark sauntered up to him, pushing up the sleeves of his layered tee and sighing.

"Figured I might as well get some work done. Sometimes it helps," Tony confessed, taking a sip of coffee and blotting his finger along one of the displays, pulling the technical scan of the right leg forward. To be honest, it didn't help much, other than by pulling his mind away from whatever was disturbing it, but he could appreciate it for what it was worth. He was not rebuilding his cocoon; he was reinforcing his life to make sure that didn't happen again. Turning over the thought in his mind, he settled on the one thing that actually grounded him, helped him put away the nightmares. "When Pepper's not around, at least."

Steve's eyes softened a little, his shoulders drooping a little. "I understand."

Tony risked a glance sideways, guessing that their trains of thought were not so dissimilar in that moment. "It's easier when someone's there."

It was a truth that he could not deny: Tony Stark may very well have lost his mind if not for Pepper Potts' presence in his life. No matter the arguments, the violence, the terror, she was there for him when he returned from that black crevice he crawled out of, when he crossed dimensions he was never meant to cross. Contrary to her claims, he knew of no one better to handle the stress of a life with him. And Tony knew exactly how rare and how special it was to find someone who would endure the bad times as well as the good. Holding her close, feeling her there and understanding how precious those fleeting seconds were, made it worth the pain and the sorrow that preceded their time together.

And it threw the moments apart into sharp relief, the contrast great enough to drive him into work. When he looked up at Steve again, he could see the reflection of his thoughts in his face. Sympathy, and empathy, warred on the surface. The captain understood exactly what he wasn't saying. After all, he too felt the sting of nightmares, took relief and reliance in a person who was there in the blackness of the night when the past would no longer let itself be ignored.

"Yeah," Steve commiserated, crossing his arms over his chest. Holly had to return home shortly after St. Valentine's Day, the ache returning to his heart as she pulled away several days ago. It was getting harder and harder each time to let her go, harder to face the nights alone with only her voice over the phone as his comfort. Still, he could endure it, for both their sakes. He was not the only one separated from someone; Pepper and Tony were on opposite sides of the country for the better part of weeks, and Thor was lucky to have Jane every other month or so.

Clearing his throat, Tony took another sip of coffee before speaking again, the long moment of silence between them weighing down on him.

"Did you come up here looking for a snuggle buddy, Cap?" he wondered, setting his cup aside and sidestepping the taller man. Turning his mouth down in a mock frown, he continued, "Because I'm not sure I'm comfortable with that; it borders potentially on harassment."

The captain rolled his eyes, a tiny grin tugging on his lips. "Sorry to burst your bubble, Stark, but you're not exactly my first choice for that."

Tony scoffed, "Trust me, we'd both be making due, pal. You lack certain significant parts to be appealing to me."

He could have gone on, listing exactly what parts the captain was missing just for the sake of seeing him turn a variety of different shades of red, but he refrained. That game ran its course when he found out that Steve had (very recently, granted) become very familiar with the female form, and as such, couldn't be teased about his naivete anymore. Instead, it was enough just to make Steve shift away slightly, shake his head and give him a derisive snort.

"Same with you to me."

"Good. Glad we got that squared away. Now, since you're here, you want to make yourself useful and grab me a spanner. If I don't get this booster fixed, you'll be scraping Iron Man roadkill off the side of a HYDRA tank after the next attack."

Steve grimaced, but did as he was asked. "What a pleasant picture that paints."

Taking the spanner, Tony smirked and knelt down, lifting off the plating on the armor. "Worthy of a Hallmark card, surely. 'With deepest regrets...'"

"'My condolences for your loss due to shoddy maintenance of the Mark Whatever suit. Oh, Tony, we hardly knew ye,'" Steve replied, a bitter smile overlaying the very deep reality. A loss of even one of the members of the team, no matter who it was, would be great. Tony returned the expression with one of his own, sadness creeping at the edges of it.

Pointing the tool back at his leader, he drove hard at the levity. "You're not giving the eulogy at my funeral."

Thus, with the sorrow turned over, he went about his task, the captain looking on and taking the hint. Through the remainder of the repairs, the two men traded barbs and wits, staving off the demons both men carried. For a time, at least.

xXxXxXx

At dawn, there was no sign of anyone on the upper decks, something that Bruce preferred. He had left Tony to his work the evening before, giving himself the time to settle back into himself. Every time he had to come down from the lullaby, the recovery period grew shorter and shorter, but he still had to adjust to the change mentally. Reverting to and from the Hulk was exhausting, hard enough to deal with in the presence of others. He had to shut down, shut off, from what was going on around him, from what his actions had wrought. Along with flights back spent with headphones clamped over his ears, all other sound and stimuli save for the operatic arias he indulged in blocked out, of course. It would break the remaining vestiges of the Hulk, drive it to the back of consciousness. But to make peace with what he'd done, he had to be lucid, tapped into the world around him. Confronting his anger kept him on an even keel, and he needed to do that to be able to begin again every day.

Laying down his mat on the high walkway, he faced the eastern windows, breathing deeply and evenly before sitting down. The bite of the February air was blocked, but he inhaled as though he could feel the biting cold inside as well. Carefully he closed his eyes, folding his hands in his lap as he continued his breathing exercises. The gravitation towards morning meditation was gradual, but he found it to be the most effective way to process and handle his previous actions, allowed him to face the world with a sense of equilibrium. He might have acted rightly, or wrongly, but only through this could he act at all in the future.

In and out, in and out...

"Hey." The nearly whispered word startled him; evidently he wasn't as alone as he had perceived himself to be. Opening his eyes, he perched his glasses on his nose and looked up, nerves firing as Natasha stepped into view. She carried two mugs of tea, the steam rising and dissipating. Swathed in a loose shirt and pants, it was a departure from her normally tight-fitting uniforms. It softened her, made her looks years younger, especially with her hair left sleep-tousled. It was extremely rare to see her in such a state; she always took so much care in looking presentable. It made her appear untouchable, as though the worst of the world couldn't affect her. Of course, that was by design. Here, in the privacy of the Tower, amongst her friends, she could show herself to be the fallible human being that she still was.

To his eyes, though, she was beautiful either way. The notion rose up before he had time to quash it, and so he masked it by combing back his unruly curls, fumbling to straighten the pullover he was wearing.

After a pause that was a little too long for his comfort, Bruce cleared his throat. "Oh, hi."

Her studious smirk graced her lips, but she said nothing to that. Rather she handed him one of the mugs, nodding to his mat.

"Mind if I join you?"

It was an innocent request, one of a few that had been cropping up here and there lately. Something in their relationship paradigm had shifted, but to what he couldn't say. He did not have all the relevant data. What he did know what these instances were not unwelcome. As a general rule, women often operated at the fringes of his mind, people he just lived alongside and worked with. A few exceptions broke that rule; Betty's face swam up from his memory, her name a faint echo from the past. Ever since he'd returned to the states, he'd not heard nor seen her, and so he assumed that she had no wish to be contacted by him again. Too dangerous. But Natasha worked with him everyday, knew what he was capable of, and still she offered her time. Asking to expound on one of his papers (something she readily admitted to not having a clue about, but studied as a way to understand what his pre-Avengers work was about), or taking him along with Maria to the Rockefeller rink over Christmas, it seemed to him that she wanted to get to know him better now.

With his free hand, he gestured to his side. "Be my guest. Though, I'll warn you: I'm not going to be very entertaining company."

She snickered, lowering herself to the floor and arranging her legs artfully as she sat. "If I was looking for entertainment, I'd wake Barton after removing all caffeine from the vicinity."

Bruce grinned; much as they all enjoyed coffee, Barton was the real slave to the bean in the group. Taking a sip of the tea (English breakfast, his mind filled in the name when he tasted it), he inclined his head once more.

"Okay, then."

Together, they passed the time, watching as the sun broke free of the horizon, bright rays piercing clouds, reflecting off the windows of the other buildings beside and below them. By degrees, it was coming alive, the city that never slept shaking itself out of its stupor to do so. For the moment, it was just them, their tea, and the sunrise. No more, no less. Out of the corner of his eye, Bruce watched Natasha, with her following his lead. She was not noisy, nor obtrusive. She was the epitome of poise, her calmness enfolding over him. That was her talent, to remain solid in the face of real danger. In the faces of monsters. It was one of the reasons why she was the most effective at administering the chemical agent of the lullaby to him; she did not show fear, not of him, at least.

Just...one of the reasons. Looking at the woman, near enough to feel the warmth coming off her body, stirred his mind, drove him out of his head. Bruce looked down into his mug, taking another deep breath. The other guy was slumbering now, at rest, but the man who remained could hardly be called that.

However, the silence could not extend forever. Eventually, she nudged him with her elbow, tilting her head to the right as she nodded to the windowed wall.

"Very peaceful, the city at sunrise," she observed. Natasha relaxed her posture, rested her hand on the floor and shifted her weight to rest against it. Bruce copied her, motioning with his occupied hand outward.

"I enjoy the quiet, the solitude," he confessed.

Nat gave him a saucy grin, raising her eyebrow at his words. "And yet you continue to choose to live in densely populated areas."

Bruce chuckled softly, his wry grin disappearing after a few seconds.

"People as a whole aren't a problem. It's...singular persons that are an issue."

Natasha's mouth closed, her gaze flicking back to the glass as she pondered that. As she had since the first time they'd come in contact, she sensed the struggle boiling beneath the surface, knew how it was abated in tiny moments like this. The struggle to maintain composure, to keep the truth of the soul locked down where no one could find it. The rage, the terror...for a few moments, with a cup of tea and a sunrise, it could be forgotten, put away. She did not know the extent of the pain Bruce suffered, but she did understand it. In a crowd, one could disappear, be protected; one on one, you opened yourself up to the worst sides of the other person.

Still, sometimes you were able to see the best sides of someone instead.

"I get it," she murmured, putting her cup down and patting his shoulder lightly, the butterfly caress of her fingers sliding away all too soon for his liking (though he would not admit that aloud). Sighing, Natasha tugged on one of her curls, shrugging a shoulder at him. "And you're alright with this singular person invading on your meditation time?"

Looking up at the ceiling briefly, he turned the notion over in his mind before answering. "You're interesting to talk to, at least."

She laughed then, her velvet voice smooth even in that. "I do have quite a few stories, let me tell you."

Retrieving his mug, suitably calmed by her presence, the good doctor scratched at his scruff before gesturing at her.

"Well, Barton did mention something about one time in Budapest...perhaps you'd be willing to go over that?"

Natasha rolled her eyes, but her voice trembled with the guffaws she was holding back. "It's not the nicest story."

A gentle smile creased Bruce's lips, brightened his dark eyes. "If you're going to be a part of this, you might as well contribute."

"I brought you tea."

"More brownie points for you, Agent Romanoff."

For several long seconds, she stared him down, trying to intimidate him off the topic. Unflinching, the doctor met her gaze, sipping the last dregs of his tea and waiting for her next move. Huffing under her breath, she rested her chin her hand. Perhaps it would be good to let at least one other person know about the events of the Budapest mission. Maybe then she'd have support once her side of the story was told; Barton wouldn't be able to lord it over her, then.

It would give him the chance to get to know her, too.

xXxXxXx

Downstairs, in the community workout room, Clint was taking the opportunity to show Thor the finer points of human fitness techniques, stopping at each machine to indicate their uses. The god looked on, mild curiosity in his face and plunging Pop Tart after Pop Tart into his mouth as they went. Previously he had wondered at the room and its marvels, expressing his incredulity at Midgardians improving their forms outside of battle. Clint, having overheard this exclamation, offered to better define things during one of his early morning sessions.

At the treadmill, though, Barton paused. Faltering in his speech, he shifted his shoulders, as if a chill ran over him. Thor's brow furrowed, and he swallowed his last mouthful quickly.

"Friend Barton, what is the matter?"

The archer shook his head, the skitter down his back disappearing as quickly as it had come.

"I just got the feeling that I just missed something."

Thor watched him vacillate between explaining the machine for treading and the ripple in his thoughts. This did not appear to be some sort of vision, or any phenomena of the sort. However, given who he was, he was unlikely to discount the thread of feeling. So many such things had guided him to and through past endeavors. Shortly, though, his companion reached his decision.

"Never mind. It's gone," he muttered, brushing off the shiver with nary a glance back. Mutely, Thor proffered the box of confections he was holding to his friend, waiting until he took one of the pastries and started munching for himself. Thor nodded towards another machine in the room at the far end, giving Clint the chance to move away from the mild disturbance.

"Now, tell me of this flexing bow I have heard so much of. I would suppose you are an expert on such a device, Barton."

Shaking his head, Clint led the way, chewing his Pop Tart carefully and contemplating the nagging feeling that was slipping away with each step he took. Oh, well. Must not have been important.

A/N: Hey, I'm back! I know I'm a little late with my weekly update, but hey, holidays, what can you do? :) I'm working on getting back to my usual end-f-the-week posting schedule as well. Also...that Captain America: Civil War trailer, am I right? So may mixed emotions while watching it, I can tell you that much...

No Holly this time, save by mention, but she will be returning shortly. Since I have shifted into the actual Avengers category, I'm going to try my best to represent the entire team as best I can as well the OC, but...still, this is an ongoing Steve/OC romance, so the focus will inevitably shift back to them. That being said, goodness gracious, this chapter was a hard one! I have a lot of ideas of where I want to go with this story, but I need to work on getting there, so...this happened. If my attempt at humor at the end sucked, I'm sorry. Just trying...
Also, for those of you who either don't recall or haven't read the first story: my perception of Bruce's "lullaby" is actually a chemical compound that is spread on his skin and penetrates his systems, forcing him into a cooldown. Because to me, a simple touch didn't seem to be enough, even if it is performed by the lovely Natasha (all explained in At Day's End; I was being serious when I told you guys you need to read that first. Avengers stuff happened there, too). I'm also trying to give their sudden feelings in the film more of a grounding than was presented onscreen.

I own nothing of the MCU, the Bowflex, Pop-Tarts, or English breakfast tea.

Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next one!