Summary: There was potential there, the glimpse of a thought that these extremely independent, highly dangerous individuals could become so much more than just a team – that they could become a family. They just had to survive each other first. Rated for language.

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Author's Note: This is the second incarnation of this particular story, the first having been scrapped after the release of Iron Man 3 and the vehement insistence of my beta, a pox upon her for it. It picks up right after the events of that film, but does not reference any leaked information from Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D., Thor: The Dark World, or Captain America: The Winter Soldier. Additionally, none of my other works are prerequisites necessary for understanding or enjoying this piece, although it takes place in the same general universe and there will be allusions to previously published stories of mine. Please enjoy.

We Band of Brothers

"You must remember, family is often born of blood, but it doesn't depend on blood. Nor is it exclusive of friendship. Family members can be your best friends, you know. And best friends, whether or not they are related to you, can be your family."

― Trenton Lee Stewart, The Mysterious Benedict Society

…

"The most important thing in life is your family. There are days you love them, and others you don't, but in the end they're the people you always come home to. Sometimes it's the family you're born into, and sometimes it's the one you make for yourself."

― Candice Bergen, Sex and the City

Chapter One

The mess on the helicarrier was slowly filling with new recruits and battered veterans as the evening wore on, the tables occupied with an odd conglomerate of young and old in the days before Christmas. A table in the corner, however, remained conspicuously empty, save for one, lone occupant. Captain Steve Rogers sipped calmly at his soup as a group of green agents lingered in his blind spot, whispering. His stare at the opposite wall remained blankly unwavering as his grip on the spoon tightened in response to what was occurring behind him. Maria Hill sighed to herself as she watched the tableau unfold in a similar manner for the third time that week.

It had been nearly two months since Clint Barton and Natasha Romanoff had amicably parted ways with SHIELD, retreating to the Barton family ranch in Oklahoma, and Captain Rogers had been mostly alone in the interim weeks. One of the new agents whispered softly in another's ear and Maria saw the Captain's shoulders tense at whatever they'd thought out of his range of hearing. Squaring her shoulders, she moved to join him at his table, sending her coldest glare in the direction of the loiterers.

"You look like you could use some company," she offered lightly as the young recruits quickly scattered. The Captain glanced up at her, one side of his mouth quirking in a half smile.

"Company, or a rescue?" he asked with mild amusement. Maria shrugged, taking his reply as an invitation and sliding into the seat across from him.

"Whichever you prefer." She could feel the gazes of the other agents in the mess, cataloging their every movement as they watched the novel scene unfold. The Captain seemed unaffected by the scrutiny that had her on edge, and she forced herself to relax as she continued. "Honestly, you look like you needed a friend today."

He hesitated for a split second and then gently set his spoon down. "What makes you say that?"

"I'm observant," she informed him, ripping a piece from her chicken salad sandwich and popping it into her mouth. "You've sat alone for weeks now, seemingly ignoring everyone around you, but today, the recruits look to be getting through that silent wall and bothering you. That's not normal."

He rubbed a hand across his brow as she tore off another bite. "Bucky always said I was awful at poker," he muttered to himself, oblivious to the questioning glance she gave him. He watched her for a moment with tired eyes, and she tried not to flinch under the quiet inspection. Suddenly, his gaze zeroed in on her sandwich. "That's portable, right?"

She made a show of inspecting it, trying to lend some levity to the situation. "Last I checked, yes."

Her ploy seemed to work, based on the slight tightening of the corners of his mouth. Twitching his head to the side, he pushed back from the table and headed towards the exit. Picking up the rest of her meal and her drink, Maria quickly followed him, resisting the urge to wave at the nosy occupants of the mess.

She trailed him through the winding corridors of the repaired, docked helicarrier, her interest piquing when he snagged two coats from a rack and popped a hatch, climbing through to the bow that bobbed with motions of the harbor. The Virginia air was chilly in the evening, winter settling in for the long haul, and Maria gratefully accepted the warm jacket he offered her. He slipped the remaining coat over his broad shoulders and some of the tension in his face eased.

"Not a fan of the cold?" His resultant smile was slightly brittle and Maria wanted to hit herself.

"Not particularly, no," he replied, turning to face the open ocean and allow her a moment to curse her lack of a brain–mouth filter. "But, Bruce and I once talked about acclimating, after New York, and I can't let something like unease with the cold to affect my performance in any way."

"So you sit in the night air and stare at the ocean," she finished for him, polishing off her dinner and drink, moving to stand at his side. He nodded, still contemplating the Atlantic even as she studied him. After a moment of silence, she realized what she was seeing in his expression and murmured, "You miss them."

"Yes," he replied candidly, in a move that surprised her. "They weren't really my team, but they were a team."

"But that's not all," she murmured to herself. She searched his face for a moment, trying to see past what he was letting her see. "What's really bothering you?"

He blinked owlishly at her, somewhat caught off guard by her insight, and she bit back on the urge to point at herself and reiterate, "Observant." Clasping his hands in front of himself, he leaned forward onto the railing, propping one booted foot on the bottom pipe, and sighed. "Stark."

Maria couldn't help snorting a laugh as she relaxed into a similar position beside him. "Stark bothers everyone," she told him with a smirk. "It's his purpose in life."

The quip earned her a laugh, but the smile soon melted from his face. "He never called." He flicked his eyes at her, judging her comprehension. "I thought he'd call."

And everything suddenly made perfect sense. "With the Mandarin."

"Yeah." He picked at the fraying cuff of the jacket as the wind picked up a little. "Director Fury flat out told me that I wasn't allowed to go."

"I bet there was more to it than that," she muttered beneath her breath, rubbing her hands along her arms for warmth.

He grinned hollowly. "You could say that."

…

"He doesn't want your help!"

The exclamation echoed loudly in the office and Steve nearly took a step back in the face of its vehemence. Instead, he felt his gaze narrow dangerously and a bit of the Old Steve, the Steve that was used to battle and command and his own time period, emerge.

"I beg your pardon?"

Fury leaned forward, propping his fists on the desk. "He doesn't want your help, Captain. He hasn't called for you. He isn't making another damned declaration on national television. He doesn't want you, because Stark, by his own admission, is not a team player."

Steve mulled Fury's words over for a moment, more stung by the insinuation of Tony's disregard than he cared to admit to the director. Finally reaching a decision, he shook his head. "I still want to go. And if it can't be a SHIELD sanctioned mission for whatever reasons, then I'd like to request leave."

"Denied."

The reply was lightning fast and whipcrack sharp and horribly jarring. Steve felt his muscles tense, battle ready. "May I ask why?"

"As I said when this all started up, we are not pursuing the Mandarin. The federal government has that covered. And, we need you here," Fury replied calmly.

"For?"

"It's classified at the moment," Fury said dismissively.

Had Bucky been there, he would have seen the set of Steve's face and warned Fury that the older man was taking a terrible mistake. But Bucky wasn't there and Fury remained oblivious. "If that's all, Captain Rogers."

Steve crossed his arms and planted his feet. "It's not."

"Then you misunderstood me," Fury said delicately, fixing his eye on Steve. "That is all."

Chafing at the dismissal, Steve stalked down the hallways to his bunk and immediately pulled out his cellphone. The gadget was still disgustingly modern, all sleek lines and fragile glass, but Hill and Clint had spent a few weeks patiently teaching him how to work the small machine.

Natasha answered the phone after six rings, sounding breathless, and Steve hesitated. "I didn't interrupt anything, did I?"

She laughed aloud at him. "If we'd been having sex, I wouldn't have bothered to answer the phone," she assured him and Steve felt his cheeks flame. "I was just training. What's on your mind?"

"I know that you don't have internet access or television, but have you heard anything about the Mandarin and Stark?"

He heard her shift on the other end of the line. "No."

Steve gave a quick summary of events and then paused. "Director Fury said that I wasn't allowed to go help."

"Is that all he said?"

Steve rolled his eyes at the careful tone of her voice. "He said that Stark hadn't called me, and that meant he didn't want my help."

"He probably doesn't," she interjected gently.

"And then, when I asked for leave to go anyway," Steve continued, glossing over her objections. "He told me no."

She huffed, sounding exasperated. "Steve, if Fury doesn't want you to go, then there's a good reason."

"So you're saying that I should obey SHIELD and ignore the fact that one of my teammates is out there, battling this guy, who always seems to be one step ahead of everyone else, alone."

"I'm saying that you were given an order for a reason," she corrected. "You might not like it, but it's an order."

Steve bit back on a sigh, knowing that Natasha would take the gesture the wrong way. "Alright," he murmured. "Say hi to Clint for me."

"When he regains consciousness," she promised, and disconnected the call.

…

"So that's why you're all out of sorts," Maria mused, sniffling lightly in the cold air. He shrugged.

"I trust Natasha's judgment, but that doesn't mean I'm okay with leaving Stark out in the cold." He smiled lightly at her. "So to speak."

She chuckled. "I think that Stark is alright on his own, for the most part."

"That's not what I heard in regards to the palladium poisoning." Maria stared at him, one brow raised in silent question. He made a helpless gesture with his hands. "Nat can be very informative when she chooses to be."

She eyed him for a moment as he continued to pick at the cuff of his borrowed jacket. "Does it bother you that Stark hasn't called SHIELD? Or that he hasn't called you?"

"I can't say that I'm not offended," he hedged after a long silence. "In fact, I think I'm very offended that Stark hasn't asked for help."

He turned to face her for the first time in long minutes and found her gaze sympathetic. One pale hand hovered uncertainly in the air, ultimately returning to her side as she decided that it wasn't her place to offer comfort. He looked back over the ocean when she didn't say anything, choosing to mull over the situation rather than ask her what she was thinking.

"Steve." It was the first time she'd ever used his given name, and that alone was enough to arrest his attention. The hesitant tone and her nervous gestures gave him further pause. "You know that this isn't about you, right?"

"I'm not that self–centered," he protested, looking rather wounded.

"That's not what I meant," she said immediately and sighed, hopping lightly from foot to foot in the cold. "I'm probably not supposed to tell you this, but it's been bothering me for months and I think that you might be able to do something about it."

He leaned closer. "What happened?"

"After New York, Stark came to us and said that he wanted out of the Avengers." Steve looked stricken at the information and she hurried to explain. "He said that he'd come because of Phil, and now that Phil was gone, there was no reason for him to stay. Fury accepted that, and then did the one that that was most ill–advised."

Steve's attention was completely riveted. "Which was?"

Her smirk was brittle. "Ask him to hand over the Iron Man suit."

"Oh." His face cleared as the full weight of what she'd said hit, and she watched his expression cycle through a number of emotions. Finally, he looked curiously at her for a moment. "Is that why things have been strained between you and Director Fury lately?"

Maria laughed lightly. "Things are always strained between us, Captain Rogers. That just added fuel to the fire."

He nodded in acceptance, his mind clearly elsewhere. "Thank you, Agent Hill. I think I know what to do now."

"Here."

Director Fury looked up slowly, his eyebrow raised.

"What is this, Captain?"

Steve's face was implacably cold and he felt slightly triumphant at the careful shifting of Fury's expression in response. The director leaned back and laced his fingers together, setting his clasped hands on his desk as he waited for Steve's answer.

"This," Steve said, pushing the piece of paper forward. "Is my resignation."

The silence that followed was deafening. "Your what?"

"I am resigning my position with SHIELD, effective immediately," Steve replied. Fury was remarkably calm, though Steve could see a vein beginning to twitch in the director's neck.

"May I ask why?"

Steve nodded, resisting the urge to smirk. He fleetingly thought that he'd spent far too much time with the assassins if that was his first response. Returning his attention to the matter at hand, he answered, "You can."

Fury's eyes narrowed when Steve said nothing else and he sighed. "I don't suppose there's anything I can say to convince you to stay."

Steve leaned down and hefted his old Army trunk onto his shoulder and turned, not looking back as he answered. "No."

He was almost to the deck when Maria caught up with him and he was shaking his head before she could say a word. "I'm not staying."

"I would never ask you to," she retorted immediately, skidding to a halt beside his motorcycle. "I assume you're going to get Clint and Natasha?"

"Yes," he murmured, strapping his trunk to the back.

She held out a few pieces of paper, the cellphone he'd purposefully left, and a folded map. "I mapped out the fastest route to Clint's ranch and put the address into your phone's GPS. It's also marked on the map, if you still prefer the old way, but I took the tracker out of your cell and changed the number, in case you were worried about being followed."

"Won't SHIELD know where I'm going anyway?" He sounded slightly derisive, but accepted the proffered items all the same. "Bruce said they tracked him all over the globe."

"We did," she admitted. "But Clint was careful to keep this place off of anyone's radar. I think the only ones who knew about it were the two of them and Phil. The only reason I know is because Natasha gave me the address before they left. Just in case."

Steve felt his lips twitch upwards and held the packet of paper up. "And this?"

"Your bike gets roughly twenty four miles to the gallon on a highway setting and you need to eat more than a normal human." She pointed to the sheaf. "That's every gas station and restaurant along your route. And this," she continued, extending her hand. "Is cash, to get you going."

Steve stepped back, shaking his head. "I can't take your money, Agent Hill."

"I know you're good for it," she informed him, tucking the bills away in one of his bags. "And it's Maria, sir." She smiled, the slight sadness of the expression lost on an oblivious Steve. "You don't work here anymore."

"Thank you, Maria," he said, his tone genuine as he slid the papers into his inner jacket pocket. "For everything."

"It's the least that I can do." She crossed her arms against the wind and shifted her gaze away from him. "Phil was one of my best friends, and Tony Stark was one of his. I think this is what Phil would do, if he were here. And so that's what I'm going to do."

"Are you going to get into trouble?"

She snorted. "I'm always in trouble with Director Fury," she informed him wryly. "And, if it gets unbearable, I'll just take a page out of your book." She gestured to his packed belongings.

He chuckled lightly and mounted his motorcycle. "I'll let you know how it works out for me."

"Be careful." He glanced up at her serious entreaty. "It's a whole new world out there, Captain, and you haven't seen all that much of it yet."

"I will," he promised sincerely, leaning forward with a smirk. "And it's Steve, Maria."

The knocking at the door rang loudly through the old house, and the pair of assassins stared blankly at each other for a moment. In a single movement, they unholstered Glock handguns and crept down the rickety stairs. At Clint's nod, Natasha swung the door open and both weapons were pointed at Steve's face.

"I hope this isn't how you greet all of your guests," he quipped, pointedly raising his brows at them. "Can I come in?"

"Sure," Clint said easily, flicking the safety latch on his gun and slipping it into the waistband of his jeans. "What's going on?"

Steve stepped inside the door and set his luggage on the foyer floor. "I left SHIELD."

"What?"

Their response would have been comical in any other situation, but Steve was too tired and too stressed to find any humor in their dumbfounded faces. Sighing, he motioned them into the sitting area to their left and began to explain everything, from the recent issues with the Mandarin to the real reason behind Tony's sudden decision to become a hermit.

Natasha was visibly outraged after finding out Fury's request of Tony, going so far as to stand and pace. Steve looked up at her, following her movements.

"His refusal to debrief makes much more sense now," Clint muttered, eyeing his partner's angry steps. "I had wondered why Banner had seemed so adamant that we not bother him about it."

"What was he thinking?" Natasha suddenly hissed. "Fury may as well have asked Tony to slice out a lung and hand it over. That suit is just as much a part of the man as an organ."

"I take that means that your relationship with SHIELD has just gone from amicable to bitter," Steve muttered.

"Ignoring that," Clint began, shooting Natasha a look at her soft growl. "The Mandarin is dead now, from what the last report you saw said, and that battle is over. So what do we do now?"

Steve fixed him with blazing eyes. "We regroup."

"Do you really think that's a good idea?" Clint asked softly, clasping his hands and leaning forward slightly. "That might be what we do, but the others –,"

"Are not soldiers," Steve finished for him with wry understanding. "I know that. But they've been through hell with us, and that's got to count for something."

Natasha slipped back into Clint's line of vision, catching his attention. They were silent for a long time, shifting to face each other and holding a wordless conversation that had become infamous and commonplace. Finally, Clint nodded and Natasha smiled slightly.

"We'll tell Banner," she offered. "I think he's still at Stark Tower in New York. That'll leave you with Tony and Pepper."

Steve snorted. "Do you think he's more likely to listen to me?"

"Pepper is," she retorted. "And Tony is less likely to outright refuse you than me."

Clint barked a laugh and Steve capitulated with a tilt of his head.

"We should move soon," Natasha said after a moment, shifting on her feet. "If you're right about the Malibu house being gone, he'll relocate to the Tower as soon as he can."

"Agreed," Clint said. "We should get going."

"Alright." Steve stood, crossing his arms. "It's late enough that you can pack your essentials and get some rest. Leave at first light for New York."

Clint cocked his head at Steve. "And you?"

"If Nat's right about Stark relocating, and I think that she is," he answered with a smile. "Then I need to get there as soon as I can."

"Miss Potts." Pepper glanced up from the day's newspaper on her desk, sliding it into the box of her belongings. Her receptionist stood awkwardly in the doorway. "There's a rather, well, broad man here to see you. I told him that you weren't taking visitors, but he was most insistent, and with Mister Hogan still out," she trailed off leadingly.

Pepper smiled reassuringly, wishing for the heat to rise beneath her skin. Tony was busy with Happy in the hospital and sending every bit of science equipment he could find to Rose Hill, Tennessee, but he'd managed to finalize and administer a cure for Extremis in the meantime, which meant that she was disturbingly vulnerable. "Did he give a name?"

"Captain Steve Rogers."

"Oh thank God," she breathed, her body relaxing with relief. "Let him in."

Pepper knew that she was confusing her poor secretary with her sudden mood change, but Captain America stepping through her door was a welcomed sight after the events of the last few days. Walking to greet him, her feet carried her completely past the standard personal space bubble of three feet and enveloped the taller man in a hug. He flailed awkwardly for a moment, hesitantly returning her embrace. "I'm so glad you're here. Where the hell have you been?"

Backing out of the hold, she was surprised to see his face stern. "I was informed that my help was neither wanted nor needed. By the time I realized otherwise, the situation had been resolved."

She leaned back, tilting her head up to look him in the eyes. "Then you came because?"

"I'd like to know how Stark is doing." Something about his tone made her think that asking about Tony wasn't the only thing on his agenda. Finally stepping away, she sighed lightly, giving him a smile at his curious glance.

Pepper motioned him into one of the chairs in front of her desk and took her time reclaiming her seat, thinking through what exactly to tell him. "Tony is fine. Having some trouble sleeping, still, but nothing he can't overcome with a little work in the lab."

Steve nodded quietly, focusing his gaze on his clasped hands. "Do you think he'd be open to getting back together with the team?"

"Why?" Pepper asked, suddenly wary.

Steve sighed, rubbing a hand across his brow. When he finally met her gaze, he looked far wearier than she'd expected. "To heal."

She sat back in her chair, somewhat stunned, and remained silent for a long time. Finally leaning forward, she imitated Steve's posture. "He won't go quietly, you know."

"I'd never assume that of him," he replied with a blinding grin. "But I think it'll help. Everyone."

"Are you here alone?" she asked rather suddenly, remembering that there had been six of them that day in Midtown.

"Yes," he answered, his shoulder relaxing slightly. "I sent Clint and Natasha to tell Doctor Banner, so they're on their way to New York."

She smiled lightly. "As are we."

"That's what Nat figured." She raised a brow at his casual nickname for the Black Widow. He shifted in the small chair, offering her a grin. "We headed out as soon as we could."

"Well, there are a few more tasks that we have to do to close things out here, but I think that we should be able to join you soon." She smiled entreatingly at him. "Think you can help out with that?"

"What do you need me to do?" he asked immediately, to her relief.

Pepper reached out a hand for the box she'd been filling and rooted through it for a moment. Steve watched curiously as she pulled a picture from the depths and pried it from the frame. Sliding it in front of him, she picked up a silver pen and wrote a few lines on the pad of paper at her elbow.

"This is the address of the," she paused, taking a moment to compose herself as she ripped the page from the pad. "Of where the house used to be. If you can find the pieces of these robots," she continued, indicating Dum-E and You in the background of the image. "I would really appreciate it."

"Of course," he murmured. Reaching out a hand, he lifted his eyes in question. "May I take this with me?"

"Sure," she replied, leaning back in her chair. "I'll send someone to pick up whatever you find in an hour or so."

Recognizing the subtle, polite dismissal, Steve stood immediately, grasping the corners of the photograph and nodded goodbye. Pepper watched him leave, with a thoughtful expression. Picking up her phone after a moment, she unlocked the screen and dialed a number, a grin growing on her face.

"Bruce? It's Pepper."

"Hi, Pepper," Bruce greeted. "Was there something that you needed?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact," she replied, her free hand toying with the silver pen. "I was cleaning out my office and a thought just occurred to me. Are you still interested in the original super soldier serum?"

The Audi slowed to a stop near the edge of the cliff and Tony took a moment to look around at what had, only a few days ago, been his home. He hadn't planned on returning, but Bruce had called and requested that he bring Howard's old trunk with him, prattling on about the original serum and his father's notes and Tony found himself agreeing to cart the trunk from coast to coast.

Heaving a sigh, he stepped out of his car into what used to be the foyer, the weight of his freshly separated arc reactor heavy in his pocket. He'd brought it on a whim, thinking that he'd let Pepper talk him into watching one too many dramas that involved outrageously well–defined male leads performing touching scenes.

Like throwing meaningful bits of tech symbolically into the ocean.

Rolling his eyes at himself and stepping towards the ocean, he looked over the edge and nearly plummeted in his shock.

The chaos that he'd anticipated to find his lab in was notably absent, organized into distinct piles, and a very unexpected Captain America was in his shirtsleeves, sorting through the debris. Tony watched with abject fascination as Steve shifted the remains of a worktable with one hand and reached down, his other emerging with the Mark I arc reactor Pepper had insisted on keeping, still attached to the new stand.

The captain rubbed a thumb over the small plaque on the base, his lips kicking up in a half smile as he read it. Dropping the flat of the table, he rose to his feet and set the arc reactor in a pile of twisted metal that looked terribly familiar. Tony shifted to get a better view and his shoe knocked a few small bits of rubble down the side of the cliff. Steve looked up immediately, his muscles tensing in defense. The two men simply stared at one another for a long moment, and then Steve relaxed, running a hand through his mussed hair.

"What the hell were you thinking?"

Tony flatly ignored the question. "What are you doing here?"

"I went to see Miss Potts and she asked me to salvage what I could of your robots," Steve replied, dusting his hands off ineffectually. Tony picked his way down the side of the cliff to where the lab used to be and Steve pulled a folded picture from his back pocket, holding it out for the billionaire's examination. He glanced back at the mangled heap of metal and muttered, "I think this is it."

Tony inspected what Steve had gathered so far, his eyes immediately separating the pieces of Dum-E and You. He swept the area, finding the missing large parts. Nodding at the last few bits, he directed Steve. "Think you can collect those and move everything up top?"

"Sure," the soldier replied, already in motion.

Tony observed him lightly for a moment, shaking his head at himself and moving to the manual override for the underground storage area. Maneuvering carefully down the stairs, he found what Bruce had sent him for and hefted it onto his shoulder.

Steve had loaded the trailer by the time he made it back to the car. Shoving Dum-E's base with one foot to make room, he dropped his father's trunk onto the trailer with a loud thud. Steve eyed it curiously for a moment, his face shifting into an indiscernible expression as he read the name painted on the top.

To Tony's slight surprise, Steve remained silent on the subject and finished securing the items in the trailer. Walking over to the motorcycle Tony hadn't noticed, he paused.

"We're, uh," Steve began. "We're getting the team back together."

Tony raised an eyebrow in the soldier's direction. "Who's we?"

"Well, everyone except you, really," he muttered, offering Tony a sheepish smile.

The billionaire snorted, crossing his arms and leaning back against the car. "Well, let me know how that goes, yeah?"

Steve hesitated, just for a second, before nodding. "I will."

Tony got into his car, offering a small wave as Steve mounted his bike and rode out onto the road. He pulled out behind the soldier and followed a circuitous path that deposited him back at his front door. Ensured that he was alone, Tony stepped out of the Audi again and slipped a hand into his pocket.

The arc reactor gleamed brightly in the sunlight, and, after a moment's contemplation, he tossed it into the ocean. Sliding back into the driver's seat, he headed for his hotel to wait for a few days of solitude.

It took longer than Tony had expected for Happy to awake from his medically induced coma and be of sound enough mind to communicate, but he was finally able to board the plane to New York. He chafed at the length of time it took to arrive at the Tower, having forgotten what New York traffic was like, and was thoroughly relieved to see the building standing tall in the heart of Midtown's rebuilding efforts.

The ride up the elevator was longer than he remembered and blissfully quiet in the wake of the dozens of photographers that had camped outside the lobby. Stepping out of the lift, he dropped his bag and stopped short.

Clint Barton was sitting rather comfortably on his couch, bare feet propped on the coffee table and one hand over the back of the sofa as the other flipped aimlessly through television channels. Bruce was outside on the balcony on the phone, huddled under a coat against the cold, and Steve was pouring Pepper a drink in the kitchen. Natasha popped up from behind the bar with a bottle of wine and Tony had had enough.

"What the hell is this?"

Pepper glanced over at him and smiled, and then, in a move that shocked him more than finding the Avengers in his Tower, directed her attention to Steve in blatant deference to his authority. The soldier handed her the glass of water and placed both hands on the counter.

"I told you," he said slowly. "We were getting the team together again."

"Yes, but I didn't think that meant in my living room," Tony sniped, stepping into the lounge proper.

Pepper turned on her stool. "They didn't have anywhere else to go, so I invited them to stay here."

"What about the SHIELD safehouses?" Tony raised an eyebrow accusingly at the assassins. "I'm sure there's plenty that survived everything."

"There are," Clint agreed. "But, as we no longer work for SHIELD, we do not have access to any of them."

Tony was stymied. "What?"

Bruce finally noticed Tony's arrival and poked his head in from the patio. "Are you explaining how none of you work for SHIELD anymore?" he asked, directing his question at Steve.

"We're getting there," the soldier answered and Bruce nodded, returning to the conversation he was having.

Natasha took pity on Tony's bewildered expression and set the bottle of wine on the table next to Pepper. "Clint and I left in October, once it was clear that we couldn't stay there with the memories or with the bulk of the veteran agents in a constant state of distrust." She jerked her head towards the kitchen, folding her arms across her chest. "Steve left when he found out what you and Fury argued over after New York, which was about a week ago."

"And this series of unfortunate events leads you to me how?"

Pepper finally stood, walking over to him with a stubborn look on her face that he knew well. "Because you're a part of the team, whether you believe it or not," she murmured softly in his ear.

"Still not a team player, Pep," he whispered back.

"But you can be, if you try," she countered.

He flicked his eyes over her shoulder to where the others were. Bruce remained occupied on the balcony and Steve was still in the kitchen, actively trying not to listen to their conversation. Natasha was looking extremely bored, picking at the foil around the top of the wine bottle, and Clint was unashamedly watching their interaction.

Ignoring the others, Tony drew Pepper back towards the elevator, out of anyone's line of sight, and looked her seriously in the eyes. "I'm not sure I'm ready for this."

"I think it's something that you need, whether you're ready for it or not," she informed him, running her hands along the lapels of his coat. "And I think that I need it too. Do it for me?"

"That is so completely cheating," he complained, leaning back against the wall and pulling her towards him by her thin belt. "And I resent that you're guilting me into this. I had enough of that from the kid."

She grinned at him. "But it didn't work for Harley, and it will for me."

"Overconfident," he informed her. Her smiled widened.

"I learned from the best."

"Overconfident cheating flatterer," he amended. "What do I get out of the deal?"

"Sex," she replied immediately. "And I let you start making a Mark Forty–Three suit six months sooner than I'd originally planned."

He pretended to mull things for a moment. "I'm fine with the sex, I think."

"You'd better be," she muttered, slipping her arms around his waist and leaning in to his body heat.

He dropped a kiss on the top of her head and watched her contemplatively. "What was your original timeline?"

"In a year."

"Brutal."

He felt her smile against his chest. "I learned that from the best, too."

Pepper had known him long enough to know when to press and when to wait, and so they stood wordlessly in the entry for a few minutes.

"Alright," he finally sighed. "We give this a trial run. For you."

Despite the close quarters and the fact that the Tower had not been designed for a large number of guests, things ran relatively smoothly for the next few days. The assassins kept mostly to themselves, only appearing to raid the kitchen or browse the cable lineup. Bruce happily holed himself up in the lab with Howard Stark's notes. Steve was a silent presence in the Tower, when he wasn't at a gym, and Tony was itching to build anything, chafing under Pepper's restrictions.

It was a relief when Steve called everyone into the lounge one night and announced that Agent Phil Coulson was receiving a posthumous medal for valor and service, and that they were requested to attend.

"Requested or commanded?" Tony questioned beneath his breath and yelped aloud when Pepper slammed her fist into his bicep. "That hurt!"

"Good," she retorted as the others looked on with mild amusement. "You're going."

He narrowed his eyes at her. "Not if Fury ordered it."

"It's an actual invitation," Steve intervened, holding the cream colored card out for Tony's perusal. "Not a summons, as if that would matter to you, anyway."

"See? He gets it," Tony groused, leaning back into the sofa and eyeing the invitation with mistrust as he ignored Pepper's glare. It took him a moment to realize that everyone's attention was on him. "What?"

"Are you coming with us, or not?" Bruce asked softly, shooting an uneasy glance at the subdued assassins behind the bar.

"He's going," Pepper replied flatly.

Tony raised his eyebrow at her. "Could you let me answer? I think he was talking to me."

"Is your answer going to be different?" She crossed her arms, looking as menacing as she was able.

He frowned, sinking back into the couch cushions. "No."

"Then there's not an issue, is there?" She smiled victoriously.

"There wasn't an issue to begin with," Tony muttered to himself. "When is this thing?"

Steve glanced back down at the invitation. "In a week. There will be a small ceremony at the cemetery and then a reception afterwards."

"Sounds fun," the billionaire murmured in response as he stood. "I'm going to the lab."

After a moment's hesitation, Bruce followed him downstairs and Pepper watched them go with an indiscernible expression. Steve looked at her curiously as Natasha slipped out of sight. "I thought he wasn't allowed in the labs."

"There's no point in stopping him at the moment," she answered softly, acutely aware that Clint was quietly listening to their conversation. "He's upset, and tinkering with something, even if it's just the software in his cellphone, will help."

"Help him how?"

Pepper sighed, shifting so that she was leaning closer to Steve. "He misses Phil, even if he won't admit it to anyone. Even himself. The lab will distract him just enough to allow him to cope."

"Cope, or ignore?" Pepper glanced at Steve, who held out his hands in a gesture of peace. "I'm just asking. Coping is meaningful. Ignoring will just lead to problems later on."

There was a soft metallic clang and Steve cursed quietly. She raised a brow at him questioningly. "Something wrong?"

Steve let out a long groan, rubbing the palm of his hand down his face. "I had hoped that leaving SHIELD would help Clint. That Natasha would force him to grieve properly in a place that didn't remind them of Phil at every turn. Judging from the fact that Clint has just retreated to the ventilation system, I'm guessing things didn't quite go according to plan."

"Ah." She flicked her gaze towards the ceiling. "I think I understand."

"Yeah?" He looked slightly hopeful.

Pepper nodded, giving him a small smile. "Maybe they'll be good for each other."

"Or they'll come to blows," he put in wryly.

Pepper sighed. "Let's hope not."

Backing away from Steve and Pepper's conversation in the kitchen, Natasha stole quietly down to the labs, peering through the overtly modern glass walls in search of her quarry. He wasn't particularly hard to find, working feverishly on what looked to be a set of implantable commlinks, and completely ignorant of her approach.

She eyed the keypad and, on a whim, entered the code she'd been given as Natalie Rushmann and was oddly surprised when it opened the door. Ducking inside, she quietly made her way to the desk and patiently waited for Tony to notice her. It took him less time than she'd thought it would, a talent of self–preservation she was glad to see he finally acquired.

"Shit!"

Her lips didn't move, but she knew that he could see the smile in her eyes. "And here I was, thinking that I was losing my touch," she commented softly as he tried to calm himself, fiddling with the tools on his desk. "I've only been here fifteen minutes."

He glared at her, his hands finally settling. "Did you want something? Other than to give me a heart attack."

"That was my main goal," she admitted. "Did it work?"

"Sadly for you, no. Still here." His eyes narrowed. "Did Pepper send you down here? Is she checking up on me?"

"As you'll recall, I don't work for Miss Potts anymore," she replied lightly, poking one finger through the detritus on his desk. He raised a hand to shove her away, but thought better of it at the glare she sent in his direction. "I was wondering what your plans for the ceremony were."

"What makes you think that I have plans?"

She grinned at that, letting out a staccato laugh. "You're you, Stark, and you've had the knowledge that there was going to be a ceremony for the last twenty minutes. Of course you have plans."

"Oddly enough, Agent Romanoff," Tony began, his voice taut. "I had thought that SHIELD might be better suited to executing something of this nature."

His words were unexpected and Natasha found herself inexplicably curious. Leaning forward, she met his gaze and scrutinized him. Stark had been as easy for her to read as the majority of men that she met, which was part of why Director Fury had sent her to spy on him in the first place. Her ability to round out racy lingerie hadn't hurt. Cocking her head, she murmured with a sense of wonder, "You want this to be right. For Phil."

He reclined back in his chair, the casualness of the gesture belying his growing discomfort. "Are you going in a particular direction with these thoughts?"

"No," she finally said after a long pause. "No, I don't think I am."

"Good," Tony muttered. "If you don't mind, I have work to be getting to."

He mentally dismissed her, turning his attention back to the small devices littered across his anti–static mat. She watched him work, his fingers delicately tweezing at wires no bigger than a strand of hair, and finally pulled a stool over to sit on. He huffed with impatience and glared at her.

"Why are you still here? Did you not receive my not–at–all subtle hint to get out of my lab?"

"Well, you never specifically said to leave," she hedged and his eyes narrowed further.

"Get out of my lab."

"And I wouldn't listen anyway," she continued, as if he hadn't spoken. "So that doesn't really matter, does it?"

Setting his tools down, he placed his palms flat on the table. "What do you want? Really?"

"You're not the only one that misses him," she murmured softly, taking no pleasure in the look of abject shock he gave her in response. "I know you're not a team player and that you think you don't need us. But, while none of us actually possesses the psychiatry degree that you seem to think Bruce has, that doesn't make us bad listeners."

"I don't need anyone," Tony finally managed to reply, his voice strangled.

She smiled at him, the gesture faintly pitying and mostly sympathetic. "I didn't put everything I saw in that psych profile for Fury, you know."

"If this conversation continues, I'm going to need either scotch or a weapon," he muttered beneath his breath, looking longingly at the drawer she knew held his secret stash of liquor.

"I'll leave," she promised and he perked up hopefully. "But you have to do something for me."

"No stripteases. I'm in a committed relationship."

"Pay attention," she advised, holding up a hand to stave off the vehement argument she knew was coming. "You weren't Phil's only friend, so you're not the only one that's mourning. Don't let your pain hurt someone else."

She hopped off of the stool and Tony suddenly leaned forward. "This isn't like you," he commented, watching her curiously. "And I can't help but wonder why the hell you're doing it."

"It's not for you," she informed him and he barked out a laugh.

"I never thought it was. It would be about Barton, if I had to guess, but I just can't fathom what you think I can do, besides fund him getting blindingly drunk." He held out one hand in question. "So?"

Natasha cocked her head at him, one slim hand on the door handle. "I read people," she reminded him simply, and quietly left the lab.

The reception hall was exceedingly formal and filled to bursting with attendees clad in black suits and mourning dresses. A quiet hush had fallen over the crowd when they'd arrived, and the lack of noise only served to lend an eerie and tense feeling to the gathering. A few brave souls picked at the buffet table that was set out, but mostly simply congregated in quiet groups.

Maria Hill sighed to herself, leaning against one of the doorways leading out of the room, and sipped at her soda. The carbonation tickled at her nose and she grimaced at the sweetness of the drink.

Suddenly unable to stand the onerous silence any more, she slipped through the doorway and made her way to the restroom, refuge of women everywhere. Ignoring the overly feminine décor of the little room, Maria went straight for the large stall in the back and locked herself in.

Breathing a sigh of relief, she leaned back against the door. The reception area had become oppressive, too much counterfeit sorrow from too many people that never truly knew Phil. Without consciously thinking about it, she set her glass on the sink and hiked her black dress up, pulling a small flask from the holder taped to the inside of her thigh. Tipping it back, she drank deeply, savoring the warm burn of the rum in her throat.

She took a moment to check her reflection in the small vanity enclosed in the stall, her gaze raking critically over her appearance, achingly aware of just how close she was to tears. Placing the flask beside her soda, she gripped the edges of the counter with shaking hands and tried to pull herself together. The drinks sat innocently in her periphery as she stared at her reflection and she glanced down, biting her lip in contemplation. Before she could think better of the idea, she dumped the contents of the flask into the glass and replaced the empty container in its holder.

Using one finger, she stirred the alcohol into the soda, nodding in satisfaction at the strength. Feeling much more fortified and able to face the crowds, she happily left the bathroom behind. Halfway back to the repressive reception, a shadow danced across her pathway. The movement caught her eye and she peered into one of the side rooms. The setting sun shone brightly through decorative sun catchers, casting mottled colors on the blandly beige carpet.

Clint Barton sat beneath the casement across from the door, his feet propped on a purloined chair. Maria frowned at the sight of him hiding away, and fleetingly thought of what Phil would do for his friend in her situation. The thought of Phil tightened her throat in unexpected misery. She raised her glass for a fortifying drink and, like Phil was standing next to her, the answer appeared.

Stepping into the room, she gave her walk a little sway and stepped firmly onto the floor to announce her presence. Clint didn't raise his head, but the subtle tensing of his muscles told her that he knew she was there.

"Here," she said, delicately holding the drink out to him. Condensation dripped from the bottom and fell to the floor, right in his line of vision. He looked up at her with bloodshot eyes and she held back a wince at the raw grief on his face. "It's not your drink of choice, I know, but I think you need it more than I do."

Clint wiped a hand down his face, rubbing tiredly at his eyes, and stared at the glass for a moment more. "What is it?"

"Rum and Coke," she answered lightly, kindly ignoring the hoarse quality to his voice. She let him stare at the proffered drink for a moment before deciding to prod him. "You need to get in there."

Clint leaned away, his face closing off. "Not really my scene."

"It's practically a funeral reception, Barton," she replied dryly. "That's not really anyone's scene. But you need to get in there and show your face and you know it." She wiggled the glass enticingly, allowing the ice cubes to clink against the sides. "So take yourself some liquid courage and get up off your ass."

Clint almost smiled as he reached a hand up and took the glass from her fingers. He eyed the play of the light on the fluid, raising a brow. "Where'd you get the rum?"

"Hip flask."

He raked his eyes over her figure and the way that her black dress smoothly hugged her curves. For a split second, he looked like himself again. "Where?"

She let herself smirk back at him, turning on her heel and walking out the door.

"You'll never find out."

Clint watched her leave with a sense of slight amusement that quickly faded when the weight of his task settled in. He threw back half of the drink, mildly impressed at the ratio of rum to Coke, and made his way into the main reception area.

Regardless of the fact that Natasha was usually the face in the crowd on a mission and he was holed up in a nest on a rooftop across the way, Clint knew how to work a room. Taking a circuitous path around the crowd, he stopped at a few of the cliques that had form and joined a conversation or two, speaking without really saying anything before moving on. Eventually settling himself in the far corner of the room, he nodded once at Maria's approving smile and proceeded to allow his mind to wander.

Movement in his eye line caught his attention and he desperately tried not to notice Tony's ambling path in his direction. The billionaire gave him a nod as he leaned against the wall to Clint's right. After a few moments of silence that neither seemed to want to break, Tony pulled a flask from his jacket pocket and unscrewed the top, pouring two fingers of a crystal clear liquid into Clint's glass.

Clint tipped the drink in his direction and took a sip, mentally grimacing at the taste. Tony was content to sip directly from the flask at intervals, maintaining the quiet bubble that seemed to encapsulate the pair.

Tony had nearly finished stash of his liquor by the time Steve spied them and made a beeline in their direction, away from the small crowd of admirers that seemed to trail him around the room. He murmured a soft greeting at them, trying to look inconspicuous as he relaxed next to Clint. A few fans started to follow the soldier, but twin glares from Tony and Clint seemed to deter them. Tipping the flask upwards, Tony emptied it and peered forlornly into its depths.

"Fuck this," he muttered beneath his breath. Steve and Clint glanced over at him, listening. "There's much more booze at the Tower and far fewer people with IQs in the double digits." Turning to them, he raised his eyebrows. "Coming?"

Clint took a second to eye his glass. "Got anything better than this swill?"

"That is premium Russian vodka," Tony told him sternly. "And of course I do. Be realistic."

"Premium it may be," Clint replied lightly, pushing off of the wall. "But it does not mix well with rum and Coke. I'm driving."

Handing his glass to Steve, he walked purposefully out of the room, pulling his keys from his pants pocket as he went. Tony detoured over to Pepper, whispering in her ear, and slipped out the same door Clint had. Steve sighed, his mind blanking for a few long moments. Finally turning his gaze to the left, he raised an eyebrow at Natasha's sudden appearance.

"Where did Clint go?" she asked quietly, her eyes locked on the exit.

Steve gestured with Clint's discarded glass. "He and Stark left for the Tower, to drink more."

"Hm." She looked strangely pleased at the notion, but ignored Steve's curious glance. "We probably shouldn't leave them alone for too long, but I don't think we should follow just yet."

"Nat, are you carrying out a plan that I don't know about? Again." She grinned widely at him and Steve sighed. "Let's not have any bloodshed with this one, please."

"Oh, they won't hurt each other," she scoffed.

He raised a brow in her direction. "I was talking about you."

She laughed aloud, drawing the attention of half of the room, and leaned back against the wall. Crossing her arms, she glanced up at him. "See? My hands are tied."

"For all the good that is going to do," he muttered beneath his breath, setting off another round of soft giggles. As Natasha quieted, the crowd lost interest in the pair and they were joined by Pepper and Bruce.

Bruce offered them a smile and Pepper looked around, turning to Steve. "Do you know where Tony went?"

"He and Clint went back to the Tower," Steve replied, trailing off at the end and she nodded in understanding.

"To drink," she finished firmly. Turning to Natasha, she stepped closer. "Should we go after them?"

Natasha cocked her head in thought, biting her lip. Grasping Steve's elbow, she pulled his hand from his pocket and checked his watch. "I think we've waited long enough. Any longer and we might be doing damage control."

"Literally," Pepper sighed. "Come on. The car's around back."

With a small gesture, she led them through the crowd to the door. Steve gave the room a parting glance, waving goodbye to Maria as he ducked out of the room. He slipped around the front of the car and opened the back door for Pepper, holding his palm out. She raised an eyebrow at him and Natasha laughed.

"Just give him the keys, Pepper," she advised. "He's unfailingly polite, no matter how we try to correct him, and he hates not being the one in control of a car."

"Too many car rides with the infantrymen, I'm afraid," he said with a teasing grin. "If you don't mind, ma'am."

Pepper pursed her lips, but dropped the keys into his hand regardless, smiling in thanks when he closed the door for her. He slid into the driver's seat and cautiously pulled out into traffic. The car smoothly navigated the streets, somewhat slower than the occupants were used to, and arrived at the Tower without delay.

Clint and Tony were at the bar when they reached the penthouse, picking through the contents. Tony had a glass of something brown in his hand and Clint was drinking directly from a bottle of tequila, which caused Natasha to sigh softly. Stepping behind the bar, she gently took the bottle from his hand and set it on the counter. Clint eyed her for a moment, looking terribly broken, and she simply stared back at him. Shaking his head at himself, Clint reached beneath the bar and began pulling out shot glasses.

With a nod, Bruce drifted towards the sofa, Steve in tow. Pepper watched Clint work for a moment and realized what he was doing, "Tony," she said softly. "I think we're going to need a bottle of vodka."

"Alright," he murmured, glancing curiously to where Natasha was handing out shot glasses to the group. Reaching beneath the counter, he rummaged around before finding what he was looking for. Dusting off a bottle of top shelf Russian vodka, he nodded once at Natasha and uncorked the top.

Clint took it from him with a wordless mumble and began to pour, beginning with the glass that remained on the counter. Bruce watched with mild interest.

"Are we expecting company?"

Clint stubbornly continued doling out shots. "It's for Phil," he muttered.

"I didn't realize you were Irish," Steve murmured, holding out his empty glass. At Bruce's questioning glance, he quietly explained. "It's an old Irish tradition, to pour a shot in memory of the recently departed.

"Clint's Irish when it suits him," Natasha commented softly, sitting delicately on the floor to Bruce's left. "It suits him tonight."

Tony dropped into the chair across from Bruce, scooting just enough to allow Pepper to sit beside him and leaving the other for Clint. Natasha directed her gaze at Clint and the others followed her suit, waiting for Clint to speak.

After a moment, Clint raised his glass in the air. "To Phil," he said simply. "The man who never stopped believing in heroes, and never stopped believing in us."

The group echoed his sentiments with soft, "to Phil's" and fell into silence once more. Steve rose and plucked the bottle from the table, carefully pouring another round of shots. With a wordless gesture, the group swiftly downed the second shot. They were quietly regarding their empty glasses when Pepper spoke and their worlds turned upside down.

To be continued in Chapter Two.