An Anchor in the Storm

Snow burned Steve’s lungs with each breath, sharp and sterile as the ridges carved the horizon into hard angles. The HYDRA compound sat low in the valley like a bruise beneath the gray sky. He signaled to Tony—two fingers, then down—and Tony’s visor dipped in acknowledgment, metal gleaming dull in the flat light. The others were flanking wide through the trees. It should have been a clean sweep.

The blast wasn’t sound so much as absence. A pressure rolled over them, and the world’s hum shut off. Steve felt it in his bones first, then in his ear—silence where chatter had been. Tony’s HUD sputtered, flickered, and died. The arc reactor glowed steady in his chest, but every motorized piece of the suit stuttered into stillness.

“JARVIS?” Tony said, reflexive. Nothing answered him. A heartbeat later, Steve’s comm cut into static and then was gone.

Hydra didn’t wait. The doors of the compound blew open and men poured out, white snow kicked to gray. Steve lunged without orders, shield up, instincts tightening everything into simple lines: move, strike, protect. A rifle barked and he spun, deflecting, the round ricocheting into a wall with a sharp spit. Tony’s gauntlet lifted—and didn’t fire. He swore under his breath, fingers flexing uselessly.

“EMP,” Tony bit out, eyes flicking to Steve’s. “Five-mile radius if they were feeling spicy.”

“Then we fight,” Steve said. He didn’t need a plan; he needed Tony on his left. Tony nodded once, jaw hard, and moved.

They split the first wave together. Steve took the lead, using the shield like a blade through air, knocking two men sprawling before a third rushed him with a baton. The jolt rattled up his arm when it connected with his bicep—non-lethal but mean—then Steve grabbed the man by the collar and used his momentum to send him into the snowbank. He was aware of Tony beside him, hearing the heavy crunch of boots and the solid thud of armored knuckles against a jaw. The suit wasn’t flying, but Tony’s body remembered how to fight inside it. He used his weight and precision, landing a knee, an elbow, turning a soldier’s taser around until it cracked against its owner’s ribs.

“Tell me you have a backup plan,” Tony panted.

“Keep moving,” Steve said.

The second wave came with a spray of bullets that chewed the snow at their feet. Steve threw his shield. It whirled, clipped two rifles, and came back to his hand. Tony grabbed a third attacker by the forearm and twisted, ignoring the grind of metal-on-metal from his frozen servos. Something in the gauntlet sparked. He didn’t look. He didn’t have time.

They lost track of the team. The hillside exploded in a pop of gunfire and then went sickeningly quiet in Steve’s ear. No feedback, no coordinates. The Quinjet on the ridge sat dark, inert in the whiteness. All that mattered narrowed to the four meters around them and the next breath.

They fell back toward a stand of scrub pines, the snow deeper there. The trees gave them angles. Steve shoved Tony behind a trunk as a grenade skidded toward them, silent as a stone. He kicked it away and covered Tony without thinking. The concussive thump rattled the branches and dumped snow over them in a cold cascade.

Tony sputtered, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes were wild and focused, both. “Okay. Hate this. Hate it. Ten out of ten, do not recommend.”

Steve tipped his head toward the east wall of the compound. “Control room’ll be inside. We end this at the source.”

“Without power and without me at a hundred percent.”

“You at sixty is enough.” It came out before he could stop it. The truth didn’t need sugar.

Tony’s throat worked, and he nodded. “Flatter me later, Rogers.”

They moved low, using the dead zones between patrols. Steve counted beats in his head the way he had in alleys in Brooklyn, the way he had in Europe’s broken streets. Two HYDRA agents turned at the same moment; Steve closed the distance in three strides, shield up, and slammed one into the wall. Tony caught the other by the vest and used the dead weight of the suit like an anchor, dragging the man down and pinning him. His gauntlet whined and then failed again when he tried to power a pulse. He swore, went back to basics, and put the man down with a clean jab.

They slipped inside through a service door that protested with the tinny screech of frozen hinges. The hallway beyond smelled like bleach and oil. Fluorescent lights flickered unsteadily on emergency power—the EMP had gutted everything but the backup systems. Their breath fogged in the cold, curling and vanishing.

Steve led. Tony kept pace, steps heavy but controlled. They came up on a stairwell and stopped, hearing boots on concrete above. Three men. Two rifles. Steve tapped Tony’s forearm twice. Tony drew in air, shoulders squaring under the dead weight of the armor. On Steve’s count, they went.

The first man never saw the shield; the second fired wild, bullets sparking on the railing before Steve barreled into him and drove him down, forearm at his throat. Tony took the third, angling his body to absorb the impact as the man swung a baton into the side of his helmet. The hit rang, sharp and ugly. Tony staggered, then surged forward, catching the baton mid-swing. He wrenched it free and tossed it down the stairs. His laugh came out breathless, edged. “You’re paying my deductible.”

Steve hauled the second man into the shadow of the landing. “Come collect.”

“Tempting.”

They forced the last door together, shoulders taking the brunt. The control room smelled like overheated plastic. A tangle of shattered consoles blinked weakly, some trying to reboot and failing. A single tech was inside, pale and sweating, hands flying over a keyboard that wouldn’t respond. He looked up, eyes wide behind wire frames, and reached for a sidearm that wasn’t there.

“Don’t,” Steve said, voice even.

The tech froze. Tony was already at the panels, fingers skimming over burnt circuits, assessing damage by instinct. His suit creaked with every movement. He grimaced. “They cooked it good. Localized EMP emitter built-in. Shielded generator, but not enough to save the toys.”

“Can you stop it from pulsing again?” Steve asked.

Tony popped an access panel with the tip of his gauntlet and peered inside. “Maybe. Manual fail-safe. If they were smart, they—ah. Okay. Not that smart.” He looked up at Steve, and for a second Steve saw past the armor to the man—the razor attention, the relentless will. “Buy me thirty seconds.”

Steve nodded and turned as the hallway erupted again with the stamp of boots. He met the first man in the doorway, shield snapping up, and drove him back with a controlled force that sent him crashing into a desk. Another rushed; Steve planted, pivoted, let the weight roll through his hips, and sent him tumbling with a shoulder check. He felt rather than saw Tony wrenching, metal complaining, and then a spark—a real, good one—jumped from his hands.

“Now!” Tony shouted, and slammed the manual kill switch. The lights hiccuped, went dark, then stabilized at a low, steady hum. The hair on Steve’s arms settled. The oppressive silence shifted into ordinary quiet, the kind with a heartbeat in it.

Tony leaned against the console, breathing hard. “Okay. That stops any repeat blasts. Not bringing your toys back, but it buys us a chance.”

Steve scanned the room, pulse gradually slowing. He stepped closer to Tony, just enough that their shoulders nearly touched. “We’re cut off.”

“Quinjet’s dead, comms are toast, and my suit is… decorative.” Tony looked at him, pupils blown wide in the low light. “So we do this the old-fashioned way.”

Steve nodded once. “We get out. Then we figure out where we go.”

“Lead the way, Cap,” Tony said, mouth quirking in a brief, tired smile. He pushed off the console and stood straight, every line of him set. “I’ll be right behind you.”

They stepped out into air that bit through layers, the compound behind them quiet except for the whine of failing backups. The sky pressed low, flat and pale. Wind dragged knives across exposed skin. Tony flexed his fingers like he could will warmth into them through the unresponsive gauntlets.

“Status report,” he said, because silence made everything too loud. “Suit’s a paperweight. Comms are fried. My dignity’s… not great.”

Steve’s mouth tilted, but it wasn’t humor. He scanned the ridge lines, noting the drift patterns and the line of trees that might give them cover. “We need altitude out of their patrol range and shelter before full dark.” He shifted his shield higher on his forearm, then crouched in the lee of a snow-crusted boulder. He unbuckled the small, battered pack slung across his back and pulled out a flat waterproof pouch. “Map.”

Tony blinked. “Of course you have a paper map. Do you carry a sextant too?”

“Compass,” Steve said. He held it up. The needle trembled and settled. He laid the map across his thigh, gloved hands sure and precise as he unfolded it along cold creases. He found their position by terrain: the compound’s marked grid, the river cut like a vein through two ridges, the old service road half-buried under snow. He traced the lines with one finger, mouth tightening. “We’re here,” he said. He tapped a small cross-hatched zone. “And here—” he slid his finger northeast, “—there’s an old SHIELD safehouse. Decommissioned ten years ago when they shut down the Alpine corridor. It should be shielded from localized pulses. Independent generator.”

Tony leaned in, fogging the corner of the page. “How sure are you?”

“Enough to bet on it.” Steve folded the map back with neat, economical movements and stowed it. He adjusted the strap of his pack. “Three, maybe four miles as the crow flies. With this weather, call it five along the tree line.”

Tony glanced down at his legs, at the dead weight of the suit. “I’m not exactly aerodynamic.”

“I’ll set the pace. We keep to the pines where we can. Conserve heat.” Steve stepped closer, hands going to the locks at Tony’s shoulders. “We need to strip some of the plates. You’ll freeze in the wind if you sweat and then stop.”

Tony tried for a joke, found his mouth too numb for it. He nodded and let Steve work. Fingers, sure and gentle, popped the release points he’d learned after too many times dragging Tony out of armor—battlefields and rooftops, elevators and labs. The chest plate stayed; the reactor’s housing was a stubborn constant. Steve removed forearm bracers and thigh segments, lowering them carefully to the snow. Without the extra metal, Tony’s silhouette shrank a little. He shivered despite himself.

Steve’s hands paused at Tony’s elbow as if they wanted to settle there. Instead he straightened and scanned the horizon again. “You good?”

“Define good,” Tony said through chattering teeth. “Let’s get moving before my extremities file for emancipation.”

They took the trees. Steve broke trail, calves cutting through drifts like they weren’t there. He moved with a soldier’s economy, choosing paths that dipped into natural troughs and arced around exposed rock. Tony followed, matching the churn of Steve’s boots in the snow because it was easier than thinking. The wind shoved at his back, then his side, then into his face, a relentless presence. He listened to the rhythm of Steve’s breathing, low and even, and focused on keeping it in range.

“Left,” Steve said once, voice carrying just enough. Tony veered without arguing. He was grateful for orders he could obey.

They halted under a stand of firs when the gusts surged, branches creaking overhead. Steve used the lull to check their bearings again, his glove covering the compass, shielding the needle from the wind. Snow had clung to the line of his jaw and to the knit of his cap. He looked like a propaganda poster come to life—stubborn, steady, all forward motion.

Tony blew into his cupped hands and didn’t look at Steve’s mouth. “I’m going to have frostbite in places I don’t want to explain to medical.”

“Keep wiggling your toes.” Steve’s eyes went to Tony’s boots. He stepped closer and thumped a hand against Tony’s calf, brisk, encouraging. The warmth of his palm bled through layers and made Tony’s skin ache with wanting more of it.

They pushed on. The trees thinned and opened onto a slope that had been a service road once. White swallowed it whole, but the mild indentation remained, a ghost path. Steve pointed. “Down and then up the ridge. The safehouse should be tucked into the far side.”

“Should,” Tony muttered, but he followed, careful of where he set his feet. Twice he slipped on ice glazed over packed snow; twice Steve’s hand caught his bicep and steadied him without comment. The second time, Steve didn’t let go right away. His thumb pressed through the fabric into Tony’s skin, hot, a tether. Tony’s breath hitched, then evened. Steve’s hand fell away.

They didn’t talk about the silence in their ears, about the team and the unknown. They didn’t talk about the way the world had narrowed to a shared path through cold. They walked, and when the light retreated behind the gray, they walked faster.

An hour stretched and blurred. The cold became background noise, something to manage rather than fight. Tony’s mind tracked useless details: the rhythm of Steve’s shoulders under his jacket, the neat way he avoided sapling clusters, the habit he had of checking on Tony every few minutes—just a glance back, a quick measure. It made something inside Tony unclench.

“Ridge,” Steve said finally. He angled them up the last slope, using his hand to break the crust and create footholds. The wind tried to shove them sideways. They leaned into it, heads down, pushing through. At the top, Steve crouched and scanned the valley below. Snow had softened every line, but there—in the shadow of a rock face, half-hidden by drifts—was the dark split of a roofline and a chimney cut flat with no cap.

Steve exhaled, and it sounded like relief. “There.”

Tony followed his gaze and saw the rectangle of a door, the suggestion of a covered porch caved under weight. He wanted to sag, but he didn’t. Steve was already moving, choosing a switchback path that would keep them out of the worst of the wind. The last hundred yards felt longer than the miles before. Snow came up to Tony’s thighs; Steve plowed a trench for him, then reached back and took his wrist, hauling him the last step onto the shallow porch.

The door was iced over. Steve knocked the edge of his shield gently along the jamb, cracking brittle frost. He tested the handle. Locked. He set his jaw and put his shoulder to it. Wood groaned. The latch held. He stepped back, adjusted angle, and drove forward in a controlled burst. The door gave with a heavy pop, flinging stale cold air in their faces.

Inside, darkness. The kind that felt like being underwater. Steve went in first, checking corners by habit before he called, “Clear.” He hit the wall with his gloved palm until he found the old toggle. He flipped it. Nothing.

Tony’s heart sank and then steadied. “Generator?” he asked.

“In the back,” Steve said. He was already moving through the narrow space by memory, brushing past a small table, a chair covered with a dust sheet, a shelf with a row of canned goods. His hand touched Tony’s shoulder as he passed, a grounding point in the dark. “Stay here. I’ll bring it up.”

Tony stood in the entryway, listening to the retreating sound of Steve’s steps, to the sudden quiet of a sealed room. His body remembered the shape of Steve’s grip, the sure weight of it. He flexed his fingers around air and waited for the hum of power to come back into the world.

The generator coughed to life with a stuttering growl, then steadied into a low, reassuring thrum. A thin line of light flickered in the ceiling fixture, then brightened. Dust motes stirred. The room was small—wood-paneled walls, a stone hearth, a cramped galley kitchen, a door at the back that must lead to the bedroom. The air smelled like old wood and colder months, stale but not unfriendly.

Steve returned with his cheeks reddened from the cold and a smear of grease across one knuckle. He shut the door with care, lifted the bar into place, and braced a shoulder against it once more to make sure it caught. When he turned back to Tony, his gaze slid over him from head to boots, quick and comprehensive. Tony’s jaw clenched at the scrutiny and at the way relief loosened his muscles despite himself.

“Heat’s going to take a minute,” Steve said. He shrugged off his jacket and shook the snow from it, draping it over the back of a chair. The knit cap came off, flattening his hair. “You okay?”

“I’ll let you know when my fingers thaw enough to text a complaint.” Tony tried to make it light, but the hollow feeling of being without his suit or a network made his voice come out thin. He rubbed at his palms, chafing warmth into them, and glanced at the blank wall where a radio should have been humming. “I hate this,” he added, lower. “The quiet. The nothing.”

Steve’s mouth softened. “I know.” He moved like he always did when the adrenaline drained—efficient, grounded. He crossed to the kitchen, opened cabinets until he found mugs and a battered kettle. He filled it from a pump at the sink and set it on a small gas burner, turning the knob until a blue flame licked up. “Sit. Get those plates off your legs,” he said, nodding to the armor Tony still wore.

Tony sank onto the edge of the table and worked the clasps loose with clumsy hands. The metal hit the floor with dull thuds. Without it, his limbs felt bare and too light. He stared at the gauntlet still clamped over his forearm, the hairline crack spiderwebbing out from the repulsor. He pictured the way that crack could have widened, could have failed, could have—

“Hey.” Steve knelt in front of him and reached for Tony’s wrist. His grip was warm and firm, gentle as he rotated the gauntlet to inspect it. “We’ll fix it later. Right now, we get warm, we rest, and we plan.”

It should have irritated Tony, that steady certainty. It steadied him instead. He exhaled, tension bleeding out with the breath. “You always like this? After?”

Steve glanced up. “After?”

“The rush goes and you turn into a very calm checklist.”

“Yes.” The corner of Steve’s mouth tipped. “Helps keep my head clear.” He set Tony’s hand down carefully and stood. The kettle began to rattle softly, steam curling at the spout. Steve found a tin of tea in the cupboard and dropped bags into the mugs. “You can be frustrated,” he said, with his back to Tony, voice even. “It doesn’t make you any less useful.”

Tony swallowed against the sharp knot in his throat. He didn’t know what to do with the ache that came with being seen. “Useful,” he echoed. “Great. Put me to work, then.” He scraped snowmelt from his hair and pushed himself to his feet. “You want me to… check the windows? Inventory the canned green beans? Because we both know I’m a real asset when I’m not wired into half the planet.”

Steve turned and handed him a mug. “I want you to drink,” he said. “Then we’ll check the perimeter together.” He nodded to the front window. “I made sure we weren’t followed. But I want to be certain.”

Tony wrapped his fingers around the mug and let the heat burn into his palms. The simple act of lifting it to his mouth, of feeling something hot slip down his throat, grounded him in a way he hadn’t expected. He leaned a hip against the table, watching Steve move through the space with ease that must have come from a hundred safehouses like this one. It struck him, sudden and visceral, that Steve had lived more hours like this than Tony had ever considered—small rooms, cold air, the sound of his own heartbeat loud in the quiet.

“You were born for this,” Tony said, not meaning it to sound like an accusation.

Steve’s hand paused on the back of the chair. He looked at Tony over his shoulder, eyes steady, open. “I was made to survive it,” he corrected. “It doesn’t mean I want you in it.”

Something in Tony eased. He blew on his tea and let himself look. Steve’s hair was ruffled from the cap, a few strands falling over his forehead. His cheeks flushed from the run through the storm. The line of his throat when he swallowed. The broad set of his shoulders under the damp cling of his shirt. Heat slid low and bright in Tony’s gut, surprising him with its speed and strength.

He didn’t look away. “You keep looking back,” he said, voice rougher. “When we were walking. Like you thought I’d disappear.”

“I keep looking because you matter,” Steve said simply. Then, after a beat, “And because I don’t want to lose you in a whiteout.”

Tony huffed a laugh that sounded too close to a sigh. He sipped again, and the bitterness of the tea grounded him further. A quiet settled, comfortable enough that the storm outside felt like a far-off thing. The generator hummed, the kettle cooled, the heat began to creep from the registers in faint waves that curled around his ankles.

When his hands stopped shaking, he set the mug down. “Perimeter?” he asked.

Steve nodded. He shrugged back into his jacket and stepped close enough that Tony could smell the cold on him, the faint machine oil from the generator, and underneath it, something warm and clean. He reached past Tony to the shelf to take a small flashlight, his chest brushing Tony’s shoulder. The contact was brief, unintentional. Tony’s breath stuttered anyway. His skin prickled like it had been exposed to sun.

Steve froze for a heartbeat, like he’d felt it too. His eyes flicked to Tony’s mouth, then away. He cleared his throat. “Windows first.”

They moved together in a wordless circuit. Steve checked locks and sightlines, keeping his body between Tony and the glass. Tony tested latches and found a long-unused toolkit tucked under the sink. Their arms bumped. Fingers grazed. In the narrow space by the back door, Steve braced one palm on the wall above Tony’s shoulder as he leaned to inspect the frame. The pose put them eye to eye, close enough that Tony could see the darker gold around Steve’s pupils.

“Looks solid,” Steve said, low.

Tony didn’t step back. “Yeah,” he answered. The word came out a whisper. He could feel Steve’s breath on his lips, warm from the tea. He could see the flutter of a pulse at Steve’s throat, the tiny flex of muscle in his jaw as he swallowed. Heat pooled in Tony’s stomach, slow and heavy. His body reacted without his permission—blood singing, skin tightening, a pull low in his abdomen that had nothing to do with fear.

Steve’s gaze dropped to Tony’s mouth again. A muscle jumped in his cheek. He smelled like winter air and worn cotton and something that made Tony’s teeth ache. The space between them felt both narrow and impossible. Tony’s lips parted, a fraction. He free-floated in the pull of it, in the hush that followed adrenaline and the promise that lingered like static.

A thud from the heater broke the moment, a metallic clank as old pipes remembered how to work. Steve blinked, stepped back, and the cold rushed into the space where his body had been. Tony let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“Bedroom next,” Steve said. His voice was too even. He didn’t meet Tony’s eyes as he moved down the short hall and pushed the door open. The room was small. There was a single double bed. The sight of it sat between them like a live wire.

Tony’s mouth went dry. He made himself walk past Steve to the window, fingers steady as he slid the lock to test it. “We’ll make it work,” he said, and he wasn’t sure if he meant the bed, the night, or the unspoken hum in the air that neither of them had words for yet.

Steve stood at his shoulder, close enough that Tony could feel the heat of him. “We will,” he said quietly. His reflection in the window looked back at Tony—tired, determined, and something else that made Tony’s pulse trip. Outside, the wind picked up, brushing snow against the glass in soft, relentless waves. Inside, the safehouse held its breath with them, waiting for whatever would come next.

They didn’t move for a long moment, both of them staring at the bed as if it might vanish if they ignored it hard enough. Tony’s mouth slanted, that twitch of humor that never quite hid the way his shoulders held tension.

“So this is… minimalistic,” he said finally. He stepped forward and pressed his palms to the mattress. Springs groaned. “Retro chic. I can respect the aesthetic choice to traumatize my spine.”

Steve let out a quiet breath that could have been a laugh. “It’s clean,” he said, checking the closet. Extra blankets, folded tight. A small dresser with empty drawers. The window held, the sash old but solid. He watched Tony’s hands flatten against the faded quilt, brown from age rather than dirt. Tony’s fingers were reddened from the cold, a nick across one knuckle he hadn’t noticed bleeding earlier now a dull line. The urge to take his hand and warm it in both of his rose, strong and unbidden.

He looked away. “We’ll figure out a rotation,” he said, voice steady. “Bed and couch.”

“Right. Scheduling intimacy with a mid-century mattress. What could be more on brand for us?” Tony’s gaze flicked up, catching Steve’s, quick silver and something raw. He stood and cleared his throat. “Kitchen next.”

The kitchen was a short strip of counter, a small fridge humming bravely on generator power, and a metal shelf with a neat row of cans and a jar of instant coffee. Steve checked date stamps, pleased to find they were in range. He opened the drawer to find cutlery, mismatched but serviceable. His mind ticked through needs—water, heat, calories, rest—as he moved. It kept him from thinking too hard about the bed down the hall, about Tony’s warm breath in the narrow space by the back door.

Tony prowled like he was cataloging threats. He opened the fridge, squinted at the small light that glowed too faintly, and shut it with a soft thud. He found a battered pan and held it up. “We’re cooking like it’s 1943.”

“Some of us excel in those conditions,” Steve said. He checked the gas again, listened to the even hiss. The closeness of the room made Tony’s presence more pronounced—machine oil and metal and a sharper note under that was just him. Steve busied his hands with the pan, heating it, pretending he didn’t notice Tony watching him from the corner of his eye.

“Don’t get too cocky, Rogers,” Tony said, leaning a hip against the counter. “If you serve me beans without at least the promise of chili powder, I’m staging a coup.”

Steve found a small spice tin in the back of the cabinet and slid it toward him. “Luck’s on your side.”

Tony popped the lid, sniffed, and made a face. “Questionable luck.” But his voice had relaxed, the snark a familiar rhythm they both knew how to dance to. He moved closer, crowding without quite touching, and reached around Steve to grab two bowls. His arm brushed Steve’s side. The contact shot awareness up Steve’s ribs, a fast line of heat. He held still, not stepping away.

“Bathroom?” Steve said, forcing his focus back. Tony dropped the bowls with a clatter that was a little too loud.

“Right. Right. Hygiene. Always important before our fine dining experience.”

The bathroom was tiny, white tile, a mirror with a thin crack across one corner. There were towels, rough but clean, and a bar of soap that smelled faintly medicinal. Tony reached for the faucet and let out a pleased hum when water stuttered, then flowed.

“Hot?” he asked, hopeful.

Steve tested it with two fingers. Warm, barely. “Eventually,” he said. He watched Tony splash water on his face, the drops clinging to his eyelashes, running down along the line of his jaw. Tony’s throat moved as he swallowed. Steve looked at the mirror instead. His own face was windburned, hair flattened at odd angles, eyes too bright. He looked like a man trying very hard not to think about another man’s mouth.

They stood shoulder to shoulder at the sink, elbows bumping as they washed the day out of their skin. Tony didn’t pull away when their hips brushed. Neither did Steve. The quiet sounded different here, softened by the steady rush of water.

Back in the living area, the heat finally began to win against the draft slipping under the doors. Steve set bowls on the small table and divided the food—simple, but hot. He had never seen Tony eat slowly, but now he did, spoon moving in methodical curves, eyes distant and then snapping back to the present when Steve set a mug of coffee within reach.

Tony’s fingers circled the mug, holding rather than drinking. “So, we’re dead in the water until the storm clears and someone notices we’re not answering?” he asked. The joke fell flat. It wasn’t really a joke.

“We’ll make a plan in the morning,” Steve said. “Hunkering down tonight is the best call.”

Tony blew out a breath. “Hunkering. I hate that word.”

“It keeps you alive,” Steve said. He leaned back in his chair, feeling the thrum of the generator through the floorboards as a faint vibration. His gaze kept drifting to Tony’s mouth despite himself. He pulled it back to Tony’s eyes and found them sharper, focused on him with an intensity that made the space between them feel charged.

“About the bed,” Tony said, because of course he would ease a moment by walking straight into it. “You take it.”

“No.” Steve set his spoon down. “You will.”

“Captain Self-Sacrifice says no?” Tony’s smile edged wry. “Your back will turn into a pretzel on that couch.”

“I’ve slept on worse,” Steve said. “You need proper rest. You do better when you do.”

Tony’s throat worked. He looked away, down at his hands. “I’m not glass,” he said, soft. It had the cadence of an old argument he’d had with himself.

“I know,” Steve answered. He did. Tony had held the line against things Steve couldn’t even name yet. But he also knew the weight of command and how to triage needs. “Still. Take the bed.”

Tony stared at him for a long beat, something like a challenge in his gaze, something like gratitude under it. “Fine,” he said at last. “But we’re not making this a habit.”

“Noted.” Steve pushed back from the table. He gathered his bowl and Tony’s, rinsed them, anything to give his hands a task so they wouldn’t reach for Tony’s wrist without thinking. He dried them on a towel and turned to find Tony closer than he’d realized, standing with his shoulders almost brushing Steve’s chest.

Tony looked up at him, eyes shadowed and bright. The muscles in Steve’s abdomen drew tight. He could feel the warmth coming off Tony’s body, the faint tremor in his breath. He could also hear the wind raking across the eaves, the generator’s steady base note, his own heart beating faster than it should.

“Lights?” Tony asked, voice low.

“Yeah,” Steve said. He stepped around him, switched off the overhead, and left the lamp in the living room on low. The cabin fell into soft gold and shadow. It made everything feel closer.

Tony picked up his mug, then put it down again without drinking. He hesitated, and for the first time since they’d stumbled in, his bravado slipped. “Hey,” he said. “Earlier. When you—at the door.”

Steve looked at him fully. “I know.”

Tony’s mouth curved, not quite a smile. “You always do.”

Steve didn’t answer. He couldn’t without opening something he wasn’t sure he could close. He took the folded blanket from the back of the couch, shook it out, and arranged it with a care that belied the lumpy cushions. He set his shield within reach, habit and comfort both. When he straightened, Tony stood in the doorway of the bedroom, hand on the frame like he needed the support.

For a heartbeat, neither moved. The hallway light caught on the arc reactor under Tony’s shirt, a pale glow against the thin cotton. Steve’s chest tightened. He fought the foolish urge to step forward and press his palm over it, to feel the pulse under light and skin and bone.

“Good night, Tony,” he said, keeping his voice low, even.

Tony’s fingers tightened on the wood. “Good night, Steve.”

He turned and disappeared into the small room. Steve listened to the faint creak of the bed as Tony sat, the quiet rustle of fabric, the soft exhale that followed. He lay down on the couch, long enough to hold him but making his calves knock the armrest. His back protested. He settled anyway, eyes on the ceiling where shadows from the lamp played in slow movements like a lull of waves.

In the hush, he let himself feel it—the weight of the day, the cold that still lingered in the bones, the heat that had flared, fast and startling, every time Tony was close. He closed his eyes and forced a breath deep into his lungs. The couch smelled like dust and old wool. The blanket warmed where it covered his chest. From the bedroom came the faint shift of sheets, the quiet, uneven rhythm of someone trying to sleep and failing.

He stared at the door, a stripe of light spilling across the floor from the bedroom, narrow as a blade. He told himself he was watching it out of caution. He told himself a lot of things.

Eventually, the generator deepened its tone as it eased into the night cycle. The wind pressed a palm against the wall and slid away again. Steve let his muscles release, one by one, until the steady sound of Tony turning finally stilled. The safehouse wrapped around them, close and spare and real, holding them both in its small, square heart.

Morning crept in as a dim wash of gray through the thin curtains. The wind had lost its bite but not its voice, a steady whisper along the roofline. Steve eased up from the couch with a careful stretch. Vertebrae protested in dull, familiar twinges. He scrubbed a hand over his face and listened—no movement from the bedroom. He could picture the bed in shadow, Tony a narrow shape on one side, restless even when asleep. The image was too easy. He let it go.

The radio waited on the small work table like a patient with a bad prognosis. Tony had dragged it there last night, a nest of cables and parts arrayed with scattershot precision. Steve set water to heat and then took the panel off the radio with a screwdriver that had seen better days. The smell of dust and old electronics rose up.

By the time Tony shuffled out, barefoot in rumpled sweats and a Stark Industries t-shirt, Steve had a mug of coffee ready and the back of the radio open to the cold, indifferent skeleton of its guts. Tony’s hair stood at odds with gravity. Sleep lines cut softly into his cheek. He blinked at the mug, then at Steve, like he wasn’t sure which to be grateful for first.

“You’re a saint,” he said, voice rough.

“Hardly,” Steve said. He let Tony take the first sip before he ventured, “You want to look at it together?”

Tony’s eyes sharpened the way they always did when there was a problem to solve. He moved in close, hip brushing the edge of the table. “Let’s make some poor choices. Give me the bad news first.”

Steve handed him a flashlight. “These wires are burnt through,” he said. “Here, and here.” He touched two blackened threads with the tip of the screwdriver. “Heat damage.”

Tony crouched until his line of sight was level with the frame. His shoulder lined up with Steve’s thigh. He leaned forward, steadying himself with one hand on the table, fingers spread near Steve’s wrist. “Not just wires. The ferrite core is cracked. The transformer ate it.” He angled the light and swore under his breath. “And the transceiver’s toast.”

Steve didn’t need to understand every component to follow the verdict in Tony’s tone. “We can’t fix it.”

Tony sat back on his heels and exhaled. He wiped a thumb across the edge of the casing, leaving a streak in the dust. “Not with what we have. I could rig a transmitter out of chewing gum and hubris, but the range would be a couple miles, tops. And with that storm still throwing static? No one would hear us but a very confused goat.”

Steve let the screwdriver rest. The reality settled over his shoulders with the same weight as the blanket last night, but colder. “So we wait.”

Tony’s jaw tightened. He took another gulp of coffee, not for the taste. “We wait,” he echoed. “And we ration. Generator fuel won’t last forever if we run it full tilt. We need to plan loads. Intermittent heat, minimal lights. I’ll pull the bulbs down to lower wattage.”

“I inventoried what I could.” Steve pulled a folded list from his back pocket and set it down. Their hands brushed as Tony reached for it. It was a small contact, a static snap of awareness that shocked more because they both felt it. They pretended not to.

They skimmed the list, the numbers too clean on paper to show the edges of hunger behind them. Beans, rice, canned fruit, powdered eggs. Batteries, two good flashlights, one questionable lantern. Tools, rope, a med kit with the essentials and not much extra.

“Water?” Tony asked.

“Two jugs and the tap,” Steve said. “We’ll need to boil if the filters are bad.”

Tony nodded. “I’ll check the generator housing, see if there’s a way to shave usage without risking the systems. Maybe we can keep the water on without running the rest.”

He pushed to his feet, joints popping. The shirt rode up a fraction, exposing a thin band of skin above the waistband of his sweats. The arc reactor’s glow pulsed faint under fabric, a soft, steady blue. Steve’s fingers curled against his palm. He refolded the list like it required focus.

They worked through the cabin, each finding tasks that did not require too much conversation. Steve checked the seals on the windows and the door, tacked a towel along the draft at the threshold, and stacked wood they’d dragged in last night. Tony disappeared into the generator closet with a wrench and a roll of tape, the sounds of metal against metal a familiar heartbeat. When Tony emerged, grease marked his forearm and the edge of his jaw, like war paint. It shouldn’t have made Steve’s breath hitch. It did.

They found a crate of blankets in the storage alcove, remnants from SHIELD’s idea of comfort. Steve shook one open and draped it across the back of the couch. He didn’t look down the hall. The bedroom door stood ajar, a slice of that bed visible—white sheets pulled smooth, pillows dented by the weight of a single head. The sight snagged at him, a hook, because of what it represented. Space given. Space refused.

Tony lingered halfway between the living room and the hall, hands shoved into his pockets, eyes flicking to that same wedge of white. “We could rearrange,” he said too casually. “Move the mattress out here. Make it communal, pioneer style.”

“The couch is fine,” Steve said. The words came out more abrupt than he meant. He softened them with, “It keeps me close to the door.”

Tony’s mouth pressed flat, understanding the subtext even if they didn’t name it. “Right. Guard dog vibes. Very you.”

Silence stretched, then snapped when Tony waved the list. “I’ll start ration packs. High sodium, low joy. Your favorite.”

“Save the fruit for later,” Steve said. “Morale.”

Tony snorted quietly and disappeared into the kitchen. The clink of cans and hiss of the gas line were domestic in a way that felt like a lie. Steve busied himself at the worktable, reassembling the useless radio because it gave his hands something to do. He could feel Tony’s presence in the next room the way he would feel heat from a fire through a wall—unseen, impossible to ignore.

When they finally sat to eat, they chose chairs opposite each other instead of the ends of the same side. The distance wasn’t much, a few feet of scarred tabletop, but it felt like miles. They spoke logistics because logistics were safe. Weather patterns. How long it had taken SHIELD to extract them from worse. The most efficient way to split the wood.

Between sentences, Steve’s eyes drifted and then snapped back. The corner of Tony’s mouth when he was thinking. The way his fingers tapped in a rhythm only he heard. Tony’s gaze caught Steve’s hand once, the knuckles scarred and pale, the lines across his palm like a map. He looked away quickly, as if looking too long would say something that words couldn’t.

After lunch, Tony stood, collecting bowls. He didn’t meet Steve’s eyes. “I’m going to take a look at the loft. See if there’s anything stashed up there. Old SHIELD was like a squirrel. They hid things in ceilings.”

“Be careful,” Steve said.

Tony flashed a brief smile over his shoulder. “Aren’t I always?”

He disappeared up the narrow set of steps. Steve remained at the table, list in hand and a knot under his sternum that had nothing to do with hunger. The bed existed twenty feet away, clean and empty except for the imprint Tony left behind. They had put the conversation off, both of them circling the truth like skittish animals. The cabin made everything close. It also made the distance sharper. He could feel its edges every time Tony walked into a room and stopped just short of brushing him, every time their hands passed an object between them and didn’t linger.

Evening would come. The wind would pick up again. The generator would hum on. And when they turned out the lights, there would be a couch and a bed. Two men navigating the space between them, the air heavy with things unsaid.