Archive of Our Own

“I have packed sandwiches,” Steve Rogers said.  “I will be keeping them with me until lunchtime.  Lunchtime will be held at exactly 1300 hours.  If you need a snack, you may get one.  I expect good behavior from everyone.”  He gave a particularly withering look in Clint Barton’s direction.  “And I do mean everyone.”

Sitting in the front seat of the open van, Tony Stark enjoyed the show.  It wasn’t every day Captain America stood in a parking lot dressed like a summer deluxe Ken doll scolding a group of grown adults on basic human decency.  “Anyone gets lost, they will return to this van,” Rogers said firmly.  “Anyone forgets where the van is—report to me.  You all have been given my personal telephone number.  Do not misplace it.”

“I misplaced mine,” Barton said at once.

“No, you did not,” Rogers replied, fixing the full force of his glare on the archer, who was sitting on the van doorstep beside Thor, who had a pair of noise-cancelling headphones on.  “That is strike one.  Three strikes, you will be benched for half an hour.”

“Damn,” Sam Wilson said, impressed.

“No swearing,” Rogers grunted.  “That is your only warning.  There are children and families here.”

“I like how the children aren’t part of the families,” Tony said, fishing out one of the juice boxes on the floor in front of him.  “These are free to good home, right?”

“They are,” Rogers said, looking at him warily.  “Don’t drink them all at once.  Anybody gets sick, you will report to me,” he addressed the group.  “You are all grown adults, but if you must, I have prepared a first aid kit in case of emergency.  We are not leaving this park until 1900 hours, unless there is a compelling reason to.”

“Define ‘compelling reason,’” Barton said.

“Be quiet,” Rogers replied.  Looking around, he added, “Any questions?”

Natasha Romanoff arched her eyebrows at him.  Peter Parker, who had been standing beside her and maintaining perfect silence but vibrating visibly with excitement, finally blurted out, “OhmyGodwe’reactuallyinDisney.”

“Great,” Cap said flatly.

“I have a question,” Bruce piped in meekly.  He was still seated in the back of the van.  Tony had almost forgotten he was there.  “Can I stay?”

“No,” Steve said, turning to face him, glare formidable despite the blue aviators.  “If you want, you may accompany me.  We will be riding, in order—”  He pulled out a list.  An actual list.  “The Tea Cups.”

“Yes,” Peter Parker chanted.

“The ‘Matter Horn.’”

“Yes,” Peter Parker repeated.

“And the . . . Big Thunder Mountain.”  Steve grimaced, then tucked the paper in his pocket.  “Remember: today is a privilege.  It can be taken away.”

“Cap’s gonna murder us,” Barton said, awed.

Cap sighed, met the eyes of each member of his team individually, and finally said, “All right.  Now scram.”

Barton was off like a shot, surprising a bemused Thor.  “BARTON, I SAID NO RUNNING,” Cap shouted after him.

“I got him,” Wilson assured, then raced after him with a gleeful whoop.

“Aw, guys, wait for me!” Parker called, then yelped as Romanoff snagged his shirt mid-step, sending him flat on his back.  “Hey—”

“You’re with me,” Steve announced grimly.  “I promised your aunt I would keep an eye on you.”

Parker looked momentarily devastated.  Then he brightened: “You did say Tea Cups, right?  Captain, sir?”

Cap really could look pissed off for a guy in Disneyland, Tony thought, chucking his empty juice box into the footwell.  “I did,” Cap said grimly.

“Can we get ears?  Oh, Ned is gonna flip when he sees this.”  Parker did a weird forward jump that put him back on his feet, then spontaneously closed the gap between him and their fearless leader, hugging Cap with an audible crack.  Cap looked like he would rather be on the Moon than the Disneyland parking lot, but he made no noise of discomfort.

“Okay,” he said neutrally.  “Thor—”

The god of thunder removed the headphones.  “Yes?”

“You’re also with me.  You two,” he gave Romanoff and Tony a meaningful look, “get lost.”

“Ouch,” Tony said, placing a hand over his chest.  “I’m hurt.  Really, I’m just—”

Cap scowled.  “You are a grown adult in Disney World—”

“Disneyland,” Parker chimed in.

“I’ll ask, son,” Cap said.

“Yes, sir.  Captain sir.”

“This was your idea,” Cap reminded Tony.

It was.  Tony was already patting himself on the back for it.

The Ken doll outfit, he felt, was particularly inspired—sun yellow button-up, sky blue shorts, and a bright pink ascot.  “Because,” Tony had said, when Cap had shown up at his hotel door, at five in the morning, looking murderous despite the getup, “it’s native.  You gotta blend in.”

Thankfully, California was just weird enough that they had, in fact, seen three people wearing the exact same outfit, in their hotel alone.  That seemed to put Cap at ease, even if he had received an undesirably high number of admiring looks from the general public.  Stealth zero, Tony’s private enjoyment—priceless.

“I’m sure you can figure it out,” Cap said, mistaking his lengthy self-congratulation for genuine confusion.  “Get a candy.  Eat a . . . dole whip.”  He grimaced saying it.  “What is that?”

“It’s like ice cream,” Parker piped in.  “But with pineapples.”

Cap sighed.  Tony grinned.  Bringing the kid along had been a last minute decision—and he hadn’t expected Parker to actually respond to him pounding on his door at six in the morning, asking if he would like to abandon a very prestigious science convention to enjoy a day of revelry at Disneyland—but this.  This was priceless.

“Okay,” Rogers said, looking at his new quartet.  “Let’s go.  I want a coffee.”

“I thought caffeine didn’t work on—”

“I’ll ask, son.”

“Sir, yes, sir.”

. o .

They were about half a mile away from the van when Tony realized—

“We forgot Bruce,” Tony whispered to Romanoff.

Romanoff said sagely, “Some men want to be forgotten.”

A cold chill ran down Tony’s spine, but he still whispered back, “That’s really deep.”

Parker practically walked between them to ask, “What are we whispering about?”

“With me,” Cap ordered him.

Parker slumped, dragging his feet noisily against the asphalt.  Tony called back, “He’s fine with me,” and preened inwardly when Parker lit up with joy.  “I’ve got him.”

“I don’t trust you,” Cap replied calmly, giving them both an unimpressed look that popped Parker’s enthusiasm like a balloon, shoulders slumping.  Not oblivious to his effect, Rogers glanced at Romanoff, who arched both eyebrows.  He looked, just for one micro-iota-of-a-second, chagrined.  Then he said blandly, “Okay.  But with me.  No wanderin’ off.”

“Tell me more about this place,” Thor asked Cap.  “Darcy spoke of it highly.  The most . . . magical, place on Earth?”

“Happiest,” Tony chimed in.

“I’ll ask,” Cap shut him down.

Tony stuck out his tongue at Cap’s back.  Parker snickered.  They shared a brief high-five.  Great moment, really.  Like having his very own minion, Tony thought affectionately.  Then he scowled at the thought of being Gru, and said aloud, “He’s your kid after midnight.”

Cap said grumpily, “We won’t be here that long.”

. o .

They immediately wandered off.

Wasn’t exactly hard to do, Tony thought, almost affectionately, (what was wrong with him?  Was this the “Disney magic” he had heard of?), as Cap and Thor proceeded ahead of them, Thor earnestly telling a story Cap was morally obligated to listen to in its uninterrupted entirety.  They’d be busy for at least two to six hours, Tony thought cheerfully, turning to his two unexpected companions—well, technically, he had cosigned the kid, but he had kind of figured Romanoff would split as soon as they passed through the ticket booth—and said simply, “Where to first?”

Parker beamed at him.  “Mr. Stark, we’re here.”

Ah, right.  Minion—not mastermind.  Tony looked at Romanoff expectantly, but she just held his stare long enough for him to remember, Dead men tell no tales.  With a repressed shudder, he looked around, saw a poster with a pirate skull on it, and said, “How about pirates?”

. o .

They made it all the way to the loading dock before Tony’s phone rang.

“Mr. Stark,” Parker said, scandalized, as the gates opened and Tony boarded the boat after him with a bored, “Y’ello?”  “We’re getting on a ride,” Parker hissed, self-explanatorily.

“Ah, Mr. Rogers.  I’ve been expecting your call.”  Then he hung up.  It was very satisfying.

Parker sighed in relief and exasperation, whispering, “Put it on silent.”  Tony did; already had, and since when did minions give orders, huh?  He flipped Parker off, then froze because oh shit oh no don’t do that in front of children, but Parker merely said, “Thank you,” as their boat swept off into the darkness.

Kids these days, Tony huffed, throwing an arm around Parker’s shoulders in retaliation.  Parker merely vibrated with excitement under him.  Beside him, Romanoff was still as a statue.

Tony yawned loudly just as a talking skull told them to get lost, oofing when Parker elbowed him in the gut.  “Shh,” Parker told him without even looking at him.  Tony thought about elbowing him back, then decided that would be too childish, scowling and retracting his arm.

Parker squeezed his arm in apology, then yelled loudly when their boat careened down a short hill.  Tony was simply glad they had chosen to sit in the back, safely out of the splash zone.  “Take that, Walt Disney,” Tony whispered, to himself.

Parker squeezed his arm again.  Tony shooed it away.  Apology not accepted, he thought, not at all tapping a foot to the beat of the silly pirate song.

. o .

“I gave you one directive,” Steve Rogers greeted ominously at the exit.  “Do you remember what it was?”

Tony lifted his chin.  “No.”

“Try this,” Thor said, thrusting a turkey leg dangerously close to his face.

Tony and Rogers both grimaced.  “Not now,” Rogers told Thor, pushing his arm away while Parker said meekly:

“I wouldn’t mind—”

Thor handed it off.  Cap took Tony by the arm and tugged him off to one side.  “I asked one thing,” he said, not quite whispering but definitely in dangerously close to scolded by the teacher territory.  “Why’s that so hard for you?”

“Lighten up,” Tony suggested, reaching up to turn that frown upside-down.  Cap caught his hand mid-reach.  “It is the happiest place on Earth.”

“I have seven people to look after,” Cap said, almost patiently.  “I don’t need you causing trouble.”  To Thor and Peter Parker, he added sternly, “Wrap it up.”  Parker took a nauseatingly loud bite of turkey leg; Thor chuckled in approval, thumping him on the back of the shoulder.  Cap turned back to Tony with a stern look, somewhat alleviated by the pink ascot just beneath his chin.  “Can you behave for one goddamn minute?”

“So, we can’t swear, but you—”

Cap’s frown did not change, but he did look redder around the ears.  At last, he snapped, “Just stay with the group.”

Then he turned and told Parker firmly, “Finished.”  Parker surrendered the spotless bone.  “Jesus,” he muttered, impressed, and chucked it in a trash bin, ten feet away.  “All right.  As one—”

“Tiki Room,” Parker said, licking his chops.  “We have to.  It’s a—”

“Okay,” Cap intercepted, maybe feeling peaceable, or maybe just done with arguing, for the moment.  “Tiki Room.  Then Tea Cups.”  He tapped his breast pocket, and its secret list, meaningfully.

“Sure, sure, yeah,” Peter agreed, looking up at Thor, awed.  “Mr. Thor, sir.  You’re really tall.”

Thor beamed.  “Yes, I am quite a bit larger than any mortal.”

“Thor,” Cap gritted out, “ixnay on the immortali-tay.”

“Actually, that should be—”

“Stark.”

“Rodger dodger.  Tiki Room.”  He pointed in a cardinal direction.  They proceeded the opposite way.

Well, he thought, trooping after them, there go my people, and I must follow them, for I am their leader.

. o .

“Sit,” Cap ordered him.

Tony stood near the bar with both arms crossed.  “No,” he said, “it doesn’t look cool—”

At least, that was as far as he got before Cap forcibly pushed him into a wooden chair.  He might have made a slightly undignified squeak.  Air forced from the lungs, he thought, glaring at Parker, who snickered, and Thor, who just beamed.  “What?” he snapped.

“You two are marriageable,” Thor remarked, which probably had a slightly different meaning in its original all-tongue, but, frankly, had the delightful effect of making Cap trip into his own chair, his flush less visible in the semi-dark room but still there.

“No,” Cap said firmly.  Even as the lights dimmed, he repeated, “No, no.  Stark and I are—”

“Barely on speaking terms,” Tony finished, winking at him.  “Got you.”

“Stop it,” Cap whispered.

Parker beamed at both of them, looking overjoyed.  Romanoff sat across from him, sipping what looked like a gauntlet out of a children’s book, full of some sort of blue liquid.  Thor complained, “I want to try it.”

“Get your own,” Romanoff replied.

Thor stood up.  Rogers immediately followed, nearly knocking over his chair as he ordered, “Stay.”

Snickering, Tony offered Thor a very sincere frown, then wink, then fist-bump, as if to say, Don’t mind him, he’s just a cad.

To be fair, Cap was the unofficial leader of seven highly unpredictable people.  Including Parker, who snorted the blue drink out his nose; Barton, who apparently texted Rogers incessantly; and Thor, who was midway through a very touching and lengthy tale of his own adventures with Brother Loki when the lights, thankfully, went out completely.

“Woo.  Spooky,” Parker whispered.

Tony kicked him under the table in mock rebuke.  It felt good when Parker went, “Ow.”  Because: Yes. I am boss dog. 

The good feeling didn’t last very long: a very heavy, almost cement-like foot promptly pinned his own to the floor.  Tony whined a soft protest.  Steve Rogers ignored him, scanning his phone under the table.

Tony finally texted him, footsy? has it come to footsy? which made Rogers release him.

Indulging his inner child, Tony rested his own foot on top of Rogers’.  Rogers pinned it again with an audible clunk.  Romanoff cast Tony a dry look over her glowing blue beverage, as if to say, I saw this coming, and I did nothing to stop it.

Tony flipped her off.  Parker was looking at the ceiling, anyway, along with Thor, who had finished three glowing blue tankards.

Then the birds began singing.

. o .

“Steve,” Tony whispered, begging for his life.

Cap ignored him, as he had been for the last ten minutes, but the pressure on his foot was increasing, expressing some dismay of his own.  Tony finally texted him, don’t break my foot :( and Cap at least moved it away.

Tony then did what any wise man would do—he made a break for it.

He wasn’t sure how he landed in Steve Rogers’ lap.  He recalled leaping to his feet and flinging himself towards the nearest emergency exit, and then, he was—being emphatically hugged.

Rogers probably thought Tony was simply being mischievous, attempting to make an escape.  He even said, in a low, close to his chest voice, “No,” and Tony wanted to offer anything, money, favors—naughty favors—but apparently the overload switch to all intelligent response was located somewhere near the middle of his back, and he was rendered incapable of smart remarks.  He sat perfectly still for the remainder of the show, even though it was unbearably long and Captain Rogers gave off heat like a furnace, which was thankfully offset by the well-refrigerated room.

People actually applauded when the show was over—few louder or more sincerely than Peter Parker, who seemed genuinely thrilled, and Thor, who knew how to be very, very polite.  Romanoff finished her drink silently, and Tony forgot to say, “Unhand me,” before Steve Rogers simply unfolded his arms, allowing him to step off the seat of his lap and reclaim his dignity.

Tony did smooth down his own shirt with reclaimed dignity, but Cap wasn’t looking, anyway, frowning at his phone.  “It’s an emergency,” he told the group apologetically.

. o .

“I’m sorry,” Cap said, apparently sincerely.  “I thought you were—”

“No, it’s fine, don’t worry about it,” Banner wheezed, face almost painfully flushed but overall in good spirits as he chugged the last juice box available.  “Really, I’m all right.”

Frowning in a different way—less disappointed, more concerned—Rogers looked him over and said, “Why didn’t you call sooner?”

“Wasn’t a problem,” Banner said, tugging at his collar anxious.  “Honestly, if I had cracked the window, it would have been fine.”

“You coulda been hurt,” Rogers said, making him flinch.  Rogers sighed, aware of his effect on people.  “Look.  Just—come with us.  It’ll be fun.”

“No, really, I—I don’t—like crowds, or the sun, or—”

“Just for a bit,” Rogers coaxed.  “If you hate it, we’ll find somewhere for you with air—coolant.”

“Condition—” Tony started, then cut himself off at Cap’s glance.  Cap’s look was hard to read, no easier with the sunglasses, but he did look back at Bruce, who nodded sheepishly.

“Yeah, all right.  That’s—fair.”

Tony could have sworn Cap brightened a little.  Cap’s voice was still flat as he said, “Good.  Then let’s move.”

. o .

Actually, it was more fun to watch Rogers herd cats than it was to call the shots.  For once.

At first, Rogers kept an arm around Bruce’s shoulders, pinning him to his side.  Bruce looked deeply uncomfortable at this proximity to power, casting furtive looks Tony’s way.  Tony merely shook his head, like he could not possibly interfere, and admired the Walt Disney fire station, where good old Walter himself had once smoked a pack a day while looking out over the happy hoards in the happiest place on Earth. 

That’s what makes life beautiful, Tony thought, wishing he had a good cigar, himself, as he watched Steve Rogers, Captain of America, argue with a human-sized dog, that was gesticulating plaintively between himself and Steve and Thor, who held out both arms joyously.  The dog trampled over, nearly collapsing into the god for a hug, then flailed comically as Thor hoisted him into the air.  “Put the dog down, put the dog down,” Rogers ordered, as the dog shook itself off once, then clasped Thor’s hand and shook it enthusiastically.  “You’re gonna kill Pluto,” Cap huffed.

“Pluto” lolled back a few steps, then collapsed on his back in an exaggerated fashion.

“PLUTO!” Barton roared from halfway across the midway, materializing next to them.  The dog had only just recovered from his original fall when he was tackled from the side by another overly enthusiastic Avenger.  Cap finally released Bruce, who scrambled to hide behind Tony, before lurching after them, hollering all the while about human decency and not causing a scene.

Pluto just wagged Clint back and forth a few times, delighted, before Rogers grasped both dog and human by their respective scruffs and pried them apart.  Pluto flung his arms around Cap, who went absolutely rigid.  Then Pluto spun to greet Peter, who had been suffocating in quiet hopefulness nearby, flinging himself onto the dog with a jubilant cry.  “Aw, Mr.—T, look!” he stumbled.

“Mr. T” looked, well aware of Bruce’s hands gripping the back of his shirt like a lifeline.  Tony smirked at their fearless leader, whose uncanny appearance seemed to deter onlookers from looking twice.  Mission accomplished, Tony thought, dutifully taking a picture of the kid and the dog from a safe distance.

Pluto gave one last wiggle before trampling off to meet other kids, quickly directing attention away from their misfit group.

Cap said sternly, “In,” and pointed to the nearest building, giving them all a very serious look.

Happy to not be on the receiving end of his ire, for once, Tony trailed after the pack curiously, noting that Romanoff had made a tactical escape sometime in the middle of the fuss.  Bruce and Peter were both staying close, while Thor hovered near Cap at his usual place, even making an abortive motion to pat him on the back before deciding against it.

They stepped inside the Main Street Cinema and were surrounded by old cartoons, playing on screens set back in theatre-like chambers.  The dark, cool, almost woodsy ambience added an amusingly subdued tint to Cap’s rant, as he turned to them all and let them have it in a voice barely above a whisper.

“You caused a scene.  You did the one thing I specifically told you not to do,” Cap seethed, glowering at Barton, who looked maybe . . . five percent contrite for his actions.

Tony glanced at Bruce and Peter, who had meandered over to a circular bench, before sidling closer to Cap and his crew.  Rogers was slowly turning redder as he looked between Clint and Thor, restraining himself from a full dressing-down with effort.  “I know we’re here to have a good time,” he said, like a “good time” should be the last priority on their list.

“Really?” Barton asked dryly.  “You wouldn’t know a good time if it hit you over the head.”  With that, he saluted, about-faced, and stepped outside.  Both Bruce and Peter looked over; they promptly redirected their gaze forward when Rogers glared at them.

“Shield-brother,” Thor offered, placing a big, gentle hand on Cap’s shoulder.  Cap scowled, shrugging it off.  He turned, partially putting his back to Thor.  Thor looked at Tony hopefully.

Weird.  Tony was now in charge.

The icing on the cake was Rogers striding up to the bench, taking a seat, and sighing as both Peter and Bruce surreptitiously scooted farther away.

Tony looked directly at Thor, then made an eloquent shooing motion towards the door.  When Thor frowned, Tony made a placating hand gesture, then pointed more emphatically at the door.  Thor then pointed at Cap directly, who had his back to them, but Tony shook his head fervently. 

Inspired, Tony indicated Bruce and Peter, then motioned towards the door again.  Nodding in agreement, Thor clasped Tony on the shoulder, then stepped over to the stage, carefully skirted Rogers, and picked up Bruce and Peter under either arm.  Peter squawked; Bruce merely trembled in alarm.

Tony waited until they were gone before approaching the bench.  “So,” he said, leaning against the railing.

Cap sighed.  “I’m not gonna yell at you, Tony.”

“No, of course not.  This is basically a library.”  Stepping up to bat, Tony sat on the bench and breezed, “Outside, that’s another story—”

“I just want everyone to have a good time,” Captain Rogers honest-to-God sulked.  “Is that so much to ask?”

“Yes,” Tony said seriously.  When Cap sighed—again—he dared to scoot closer.  “Look, you can lead a horse to water—”

“I know the saying, Tony.”

“But you can’t make him drink,” Tony finished anyway.  He bumped into Cap’s hip.  Rogers didn’t budge.  He also didn’t make Tony budge.  So, Tony stayed where he was, looking around at the silent, black-and-white Mickey cartoons idly.  “You ever consider actually having a good time here?” Tony asked, almost lightly.

“No,” Rogers said at once, surprising him.  Tony looked at him, but Rogers stared at his hands, open on his lap, clenching into fists briefly.  “I just wanna go home,” he said, and he wasn’t talking about the hotel, or the Avengers Tower.

Carefully, Tony slid a hand over Cap’s—Steve’s.  “You wouldn’t be human if you didn’t,” Tony said honestly.  “But home’s not really a place.”

“It’s a people and a time,” Steve replied, surprising him.  “That’s what Sta—Howard used to say,” he added.

Tony—squeezed his wrist, and decided to let it go.  He’d been taking the piss out of Captain America on Howard Stark’s behalf for far too long. 

It’s time to let it go, he had told himself, repeatedly, while trying not to notice how exasperatingly perfect Steve Rogers was, how morally pure yet completely oblivious to his own shadow.  Bruce was still shy and Clint was still obnoxious without him, but there was definitely a quiet that settled over the rooms he was in.

Oh, they had productive meetings, and they were a well-oiled machine in action, but behind-the-scenes, there was real tension.  Natasha, of all people, was usually his go-to person, the only one who never seemed afraid of him.  And Thor, but Thor was—well, Thor.  Also an outsider.  “I bet,” Tony said, almost sing-song in his lightheartedness, “a dole whip would cheer you right up.”

Steve finally looked at him; clearly exasperated, but also trying not to be.  “Are you saying that because you want one, or—”

“Never had one,” Tony said truthfully.  With a shrug, he explained, “Last time I was here, I was—four?  This high.”  He released Steve’s hand and held out his own to indicate the approximate height of a four-year-old.  “And Dad—” he only stumbled over the word briefly, carrying on, “—put me up on his shoulders so I could see what was going on.  I just remember him and the castle.  You seen the castle yet?”

“My Dad died before I was born,” Cap offered.

“Of course he did.”  Tony huffed, almost amused, and then clasped a hand on Steve’s knee, pushing himself upright.  “I know at least one kid in dire need of a parental figure we should get back to.”

Steve’s expression twisted into a grimace.  “Steve,” Tony said seriously.  “Lighten up.  Have fun.  No one’s gonna die.”

Steve looked up at him oddly.  Then he looked down at his hands again, opened and closed them, tightly, before nodding once.  “No.  I know.”

He stood.  He didn’t look any less tense, but at least he didn’t look so damn sad, alone and aloof.  “Where to?” he asked honestly.

Tony couldn’t stop a slight smirk.  “Tea Cups.  Of course.”

. o .

Peter and Thor had a lot of fun.  That was what counted, Tony told himself, wobbling violently as he stepped off the ride.  Peter and Thor had fun.

Peter and Thor were already asking a distracted Steve if they get in line for another round, to which Steve gave a very distracted affirmative.  Steve then caught Tony just before he pitched into a bush.

“Hnngh,” Tony concluded, staggering over to a bench next to a mouse-earred Bruce, who was quietly tapping away on his phone.  “Hnnnnngh,” Tony repeated, louder and more emphatically, slouching into Bruce, who made a soft, disappointed noise and balanced the phone on Tony’s bowed back instead.  A pair of mouse ears landed on Tony’s head.  “Hnn,” he protested, eyes shut in a vain attempt to stop spinning.

Peter and Thor laughed with unabashed delight as they tested the mechanical limits of the spinning Tea Cups a second time.  Tony wanted to retch just listening to them, keeping his eyes shut.

Moments later, an ice pack landed on the back of his neck.  Tony yelped loudly, flailing half-upright, sweeping at ice pack and mouse ears blindly.  Steve looked both confused and vaguely apologetic—not for the ice pack, no, more like the state he had put Tony in.

He had had fun.  Maybe.  It was honestly hard to tell—his face was always so stoic, like he didn’t remember to smile after seventy years of frowning.  Or, he just didn’t have a compelling enough reason.

Steve offered Tony the ice pack again.  Tony took it, pressed it to his forehead, and let out a relieved sigh.  He could have sworn Cap lit up a little, something around his eyes softening, before he asked seriously, “You need a break?”

“Me?” Tony replied, transferring the ice pack to the back of his neck.  “I live for danger.”

Cap plopped the mouse ears on Tony’s head, then said calmly, “Sure, you do.”

. o .

The Matterhorn nearly did Tony in.

At first, he was honestly excited to ride it, taking a seat behind Peter, who had commanded the front of their two-bobsled team.  With Bruce behind Tony and Thor and Steve bringing up the rear, Tony enjoyed a brief moment of, Gang’s almost all here, before they hightailed it onto the trail.

And then the endurance test began.

After a heart-pounding climb through pitch-black darkness, their sled plunged down the mountain.  It cut in and out of the mountainous interior, jerking Tony a lot harder than he expected it to, reminding him that his timeless looks hid a not-so-youthful interior.  When at last they ran out of trail, Tony climbed out of his sled with some difficulty, one hand on his lower back.

Bruce was also moving a touch more gingerly than usual, which was gratifying, even if Thor, Steve, and Peter looked completely unfazed.  “Whoowie,” Steve declared eloquently.

Whoowie, Tony thought, struggling along after them, cursing himself for not heeding the cautionary signage.  Steve dropped back surreptitiously to walk alongside him, which equally annoyed and heartened him.  “S’it lunchtime yet?” he asked.

Steve gave him a once-over.  “Yeah,” he said without consulting his watch.

It was actually almost two in the afternoon—proof that time did fly when one was having fun—and the sandwich cooler had been duly raided.  There was one whole peanut butter sandwich left.  Steve sighed, then pulled out a second cooler from under the seats, which was fully stocked.  Tony actually kissed his cheek in gratitude, which made him flush a rather delightful shade of red.

They sat on the back of the open trunk, nibbling on chips and homemade bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwiches.  It was simply a fact that Steve Rogers made the perfect sandwiches, even if no one was ready to admit to it, given that he would use it as bait.  They had argued privately over how such consistency and quality was achieved—the perfect ratio of cold cuts to condiments?  The thickness of the bread, the thick edge to the crust, the delicacy of the hand preparing it?  Sheer human perfection at work?—but never come to a frontrunner conclusion, never mind a replicable one.

Peter Parker alone ate five.  Steve Rogers ate just two—something Tony had never looked twice at, figuring Rogers knew his own appetite better than anyone else could—but didn’t turn down the rest of Tony’s second sandwich when he admitted he was too full to finish it. 

It would probably have meant more, on an interpersonal level, if it wasn’t simply who Steve, World War II and Great Depression survivor, was.  Still, Tony was, irrationally, touched; that Captain America didn’t think he had cooties, which was a ridiculous thought, one that he mentally buried in a treasure chest and pitched into the sea, for someone else to uncover, maybe in therapy, years from now.

Feeling a bit woozy from lack of sleep, excitement, and general hoopla, Tony grimaced when Peter, fidgeting visibly, finally asked, “Can we go back?”

“Go ahead,” Steve said, and Peter bounced to his feet.  “Take Thor with you.”

“Hear, hear,” Thor said jovially, standing and casting an arm around Peter’s shoulders, giving them a firm shake.  “Show me this explorer of great renown.”

“Oh, Indiana Jones?  Sweet!”

“I’ll go with them,” Bruce offered, somehow still touting the mouse ear hat in one hand and his own bag in the other.  “I’ll just—”

Alone together in the Disneyland parking lot, Steve and Tony sat, soaking in that trademark California sunshine in silence.  At last, Tony offered, “It was nice of you to do this.”

“I didn’t do this,” Steve said, looking at him with real surprise.  “Tony, you did this.”

Tony made an ambivalent noise.  “Sponsored, conceptualized, and carried from start to—now, but bringing the band together?  That’s all you, boss,” Tony said, nudging Steve’s shoulder with his own.  Even if the boss let him pick out his civilian wardrobe for certain “missions.”  Tony Stark was a lucky, lucky man, sometimes.  And it wasn’t a clown suit.  It was just a great disguise.

It was a bit clownish, but Steve made it work.

“I’m not opposed to fun,” Steve said, with an air of permanent exasperation and fondness.  “I am . . . simply concerned, first and foremost, with safety.”  Shrugging loosely, he said, “If I’m stuck here . . . and so far, I am . . . well.  Be a shame to lose anymore.”

Tony leaned into him a little.  Just a little.  It wasn’t for him, so he could get away with it, the moment of apparent weakness.  “I think you’re stuck with us, Cap,” he said at last.

“Gee,” Steve said, aiming for dry and sounding sad, instead.  “It’s stupid, I know.”

“It’s really not.”

“But—”

“You don’t have to tell me.”

Steve nodded once mutely.  “Yeah,” he said.  “I don’t.”  Looking at Tony, eyes unreadable behind his sunglasses, he said, “Because you . . . already know what that’s like.  Don’t you?”

“Losing everyone that ever so much as knew my name?” Tony reiterated, leaning back and ignoring Steve’s little, almost involuntary flinch.  “No.  I don’t know that.”  But, softening, he went on: “Losing people I care about?  The people close to me?”  He nodded once.  “Yeah.  I’ve got . . . ‘experience.’”  He put it in air quotes.  “Places like this . . . oddly enough, there’s memories.  I haven’t thought about my dad, in a good light, since . . . ever.”  He shrugged shortly, then winced as it pulled at his back.  “I don’t think we did the bobsleds when I was four.”

“S’a helluvaride,” Steve agreed sympathetically.

Tony nodded, then snuck in, “That’s what she said.”

Steve sighed.  “Tony—”

“I’m—only kind of sorry,” Tony said, shimmying off the back of the car.  “I’ll be more sorry if we don’t check out the Haunted Mansion.  That’s iconic, Steven.”

. o .

Steve’s reaction was honestly priceless.

Even more so than the opportunity to sit in the nice, slow-moving, inoffensive “Doom Buggy” after an hour in the sun, the chance to bring a man almost straight out of the 1940s into the technological splendors of the 21^st century was priceless. 

Steve ogled everything, from ghostly chandeliers to passing specters, pointing out various knickknacks like Tony was in danger of missing them.  Tony kept a precautionary hand around his sleeve to prevent a premature departure, smiling a little at Steve’s sheer bewilderment.  It was everything Tony had not known to hope for.  Made up for the long queue in the hot sun and everything.

He almost wanted to take Steve through it again, see if anything changed, but there was so much to do, it felt like a crime to repeat anything, first.

They still hadn’t ridden the “Big Thunder Mountain,” but Steve said he wanted to connect with the others first.  He called Thor, of all people, who nearly shouted into the phone.  “We are in Tomorrowland!”

“That’s great, Thor,” Steve said.  “Goodbye.”

“Good tidings!”

According to Sam, he and Natasha were actually on Splash Mountain; a quick consult of the map on Tony’s phone had Steve and Tony booking it across New Orleans to see for themselves.  Just in the nick of time: as they skidded in front of the barricade, Sam and Natasha’s mighty log crested the mountain.  Natasha maintained perfect composure; Sam shrieked loudly from the front row.  Tony ducked behind Steve reflexively as a wall of water whooshed into the air, but they weren’t within the actual splash zone.  He peered over Steve’s shoulder, but Steve tugged him along the path.

Sam was drenched.  “Hey, man,” he greeted, beaming and offering Steve a hug that Steve, grimacing the entire time, returned.  “Good to see you,” he added, graciously wiping a hand off on Steve’s shirt and offering it to Tony for a shake.  Tony gratefully accepted.  Then he shrieked as Natasha put two cold, wet hands on the back of his shirt.

“Sh—oot,” he coughed, narrowly avoiding a nickel in the swear jar—finding nickels was a bitch—as he scrambled to plaster himself against Steve’s back, for protection.  “I hate you,” he told Natasha, who leaned up to kiss Steve on the cheek.

“You missed out,” Sam said cheerily.  “We got beignets.”

“Aw,” Tony pouted, genuinely put out.  “All we got was these stupid sandwiches.”

Steve nudged him.  Tony said, “Quiet.”

“We were gonna head over to Big Thunder and take a break,” Sam announced.  “We ate an ea—on-time lunch,” he said.

Tony didn’t need to see Steve’s eyes to know they narrowed behind the sunglasses.  Sam had blended well with the Avengers—he knew pissing off Cap was a sacred ritual, and that was what Tony liked about him.  They’d met in a hospital room with their flagship down and immediately bonded over good music.  Sam could stay.  At least for the weekend; and what a fine weekend to party with the rest of the Avengers, Tony mused.

“Big Thunder,” Cap repeated, still looking at them suspiciously.  “That’s just up the road.”

“‘Just’ is a big word,” Sam said, draping an arm around Steve’s shoulders, unhelpfully removing Tony’s prime shield territory.  “You seen the size of this place?” he added, directing Steve up the road.  Steve radiated just enough high voltage; do not touch energy that even impatient tourists, inexplicably yet consistently, veered around him, often without ever looking up and occasionally at the very last moment.  Falling into step in his wake was an easy way to take advantage of it.

Tony still tensed when Natasha linked arms with him.  “You’re not gonna throw me in the river, are you?”

“No,” she said, which sounded like an ambiguous maybe if he’d ever heard one.

“Please don’t,” he said.

“Now I’m thinking about it.”

Tony zipped his lips shut.

. o .

“I’m bored, Steve,” Tony whined, about twenty minutes into the line.  “Boreddd,” he insisted, planting his forehead against the back of Steve’s shoulder.

“Well, that sounds like a personal problem,” Cap replied.

Tony whined louder.  Steve tensed underneath him, and Tony thought he might chuck Tony into the river, but he just said, “Stop it, Tony.  We’re halfway there.”

“Bored,” Tony insisted, clinging to the back of his shirt and sinking to the ground.  The ground was dirty and gross and covered in a Petri dish of novel diseases, but he only sank halfway, clinging to his tether, which did not budge.  “I’m dying.”

Steve sighed.  “Not buyin’ it.”

Tony whined again.

Then he blinked in surprise when he found himself slung over a shoulder, blinking back at Romanoff, who arched both eyebrows at him.  “Well,” Tony said, kicking his feet a little just to spite Steve, “fancy seeing you here.”

Romanoff rolled her eyes.  It was pretty cheesy, Tony could admit, balancing an elbow on Steve’s shoulder and chin in hand like a Disney damsel-in-distress, musing, “This always looked more uncomfortable in the movies.”

Sam looked away from the ride to see what the fuss was about and let out a contagious honk of laughter.  “Not a word,” Steve growled.

“Sure thing, Hercules,” Sam replied.

. o .

Big Thunder Mountain Railroad—that was a mouthful—was actually fun. 

Not that the Matterhorn and Tea Cups weren’t fun—there was just a certain, how did one say it, age group that might enjoy them, and not-a-day-over-thirty-five-year-olds were slightly outside the ideal.  Approaching-fifty-year-olds loved Big Thunder Mountain Railroad, just as much as little Timmy. 

Tony’s only complaint was the seats were too damn small—doubtless to keep Little Timmy from being violently jettisoned out of the ride, but mostly to spite Tony, personally.  That was the only reason the 2,400 people per hour or bust Disney park employee cheerfully encouraged them to double-up, which was stupid and probably a safety violation, if Tony Stark was consulted.

He was not; he simply watched, not with the slightest hint of anything approaching—even saying the word privately made him scowl—jealousy, as Romanoff and Rogers doubled up.  Jealousy was for teenagers.  Like Pinky—Peter Parker.

Where the hell was the kid, anyway? Tony mused, as they climbed the first hill, Sam Wilson nearly on his lap (and he nearly on Sam Wilson’s; how the lap bar had closed was a question for God and God alone).

He really should have insisted on sitting in front of Steve and Natasha, Tony grumbled privately.  Then he wouldn’t have to observe their disgustingly couple-y configuration, which was really just Natasha huddled under one of Steve’s arms.  Sam flung both hands in the air at the first drop.  Tony braced himself for another thrashing.

Big Thunder Mountain Railroad was still “the wildest ride in the wilderness,” but it wasn’t the wildest ride in the world.  Tony had been to other amusement parks, experienced true back-killing, soul-stealing, heart-stopping entertainment.  Big Thunder was more like . . . Disney’s idea of a rollercoaster.  And that was just fine by Tony’s book: no whiplash, no absurd pitches or reality-warping G forces, just a taste of fear for one’s life.  Beautifully succinct.  Kind of a good time, with a real breeze and just enough surprises to keep him on his toes.

“That was fun,” Tony announced unexpectedly, as they looked at the in-ride photograph.  Tony believed in-ride photographs were the sole brainchild of professional scalpers, but this excursion was one for the history books, so he had allowed himself to be scalped.  His visible annoyance at their seating arrangement was completely absent; didn’t hurt that Steve had glued Tony to his side as soon as they hopped off the ride, evidently not trusting Tony to make a second escape.  Tony was fine with it, although the whole furnace business was less endearing in the midday heat.

“What time is it?” Tony asked.

Steve consulted his watch.  “1600 hours.”

Tony consulted his own watch.  “4:30,” he read aloud, ignoring Steve’s disappointed look.  “I thrive on specificity,” he said, waggling his eyebrows.  Steve grimaced.

They had completed their Disneyland journey, according to Steve’s schedule.  My turn, Tony thought.

. o .

They ate ice cream on Main Street.  Because, what was a trip to the happiest place on Earth without creamed ice?

“That’s not what it stands for,” Steve said, for the fourth time.

“It could be,” Tony said elusively, sitting across from him at the tiny wire table and taking a spoonful of Steve’s vanilla ice cream.

“It is not,” Steve insisted.

“But it could be,” Tony whispered, like it was a guarded secret.

Steve just frowned.  He certainly wasn’t turning heads as Captain America, wearing his sunglasses and ascot, his sandals deterring even the most scrutinizing passerby from looking twice.  Captain America did not wear sandals.

Actually, Captain America would look stunning as a Greek god, reimagined, Tony thought, stealing another bite of stolen ice cream before Steve covetously hoarded his bowl between both arms, glaring at Tony.  “What’s wrong with you?”

“I want some,” Tony said simply.

Steve looked very pointedly at the melting strawberry ice cream in front of Tony.  “You have some.”

“I don’t have some of that,” Tony said, swooping in for another bite.  Steve’s spoon pinned his down.  Then, like it wasn’t worth a fight, he swapped their bowls.

Tony pouted, looking down at the bowl of vanilla.  “I didn’t say I wanted all of it.”

“Tough,” Steve grunted.  Natasha and Sam emerged with their own confections—chocolate chip and mint chocolate chip, respectively.

Tony eyed the chocolate chip soulfully.  “I want some,” he said out loud.

Natasha ignored him.

“I need some,” Tony whined.

Steve told him, “Eat what you’ve got.”

Tony slumped to rest his head on covered arms, ignoring the Petri dish of germs making the abbreviated climb from wire table to unprotected face.  “Vanilla is the worst ice cream flavor,” he grumbled.  “It only pairs well with hot fudge and whipped cream.”

“Amen,” Sam said.  Steve actually rolled his eyes, eyebrows lifting tellingly despite the sunglasses, before taking another big bite of the melting strawberry.  “Mint chocolate chip is the best,” he said.

“No,” Tony said stubbornly, “no.  Blueberry.”  He salivated merely thinking about it.  “Or maybe chocolate truffles,” he added.

“Oh, yeah, how could I forget,” Sam said dryly, pointing a spoonful at him.  Tony took the opportunity, snatching the spoon from him and popping it in his own mouth with a triumphant smirk.  Empty-handed, Sam pointed at Steve, telling him, “Control your man.”

Steve rolled his eyes again.

Then his cell phone rang.  “Go ahead,” Steve said into it.  His brow furrowed.  “Uh-huh.”  Then he frowned outright.  “Uh-huh.”  With a sigh, he said, “Stay put.  Goodbye.”  He hung up.  “They lost Thor.”  His calm tone belied outrage.

Natasha arched her eyebrows neatly.  “I bet I know where he is.”

“Do you.”

Natasha pointed with her empty spoon at the castle behind them.

Steve stared at the castle for a long moment.  Tony took advantage of his distraction to steal another bite of his original strawberry ice cream.  Then Cap said simply, “Okay.”  He stood up, hauling Tony with him.  “You’re with me,” he reminded.

Tony pouted.  “I want chocolate chip,” he said.

“Too late.”

. o .

Steve dragged him down the happiest midway on Earth, ignoring or simply taking advantage of the fact that Tony’s shoes skated across the pavement.  They weren’t Heelies, they were special Stark original “anti-tripwear.”  Patent pending.

That they were also good at recreating certain iconic movie scenes in a full suit was beside the point.

Tony finally asked, “You gonna take it by siege?” and yelped as he tripped over a curb.  Steve caught and straightened him without a word.

Donald Duck stomped his foot nearby.  Tony looked, thinking it was mere coincidence, when the world’s most famous duck mimed tripping forward, then flailing to self-correct.  “That duck is laughing at me,” Tony said at once.

“Ducks don’t speak English,” Cap replied in another of those what in God’s name did you just say to me? gems.

Still: “He’s laughing,” Tony persisted, as the duck covered his beak with one wing and his belly with the other and doubled over with silent mirth.  Tony rolled up his sleeves.  “Goose, you’ve been cooked.”  He made it two steps before Steve grabbed the back of his shirt, arresting him in place.  “Let me at him,” Tony ordered, straining forward as Donald mimed a boxing pose, bouncing back and forth.  “Let me at him.”

Steve finally dragged him away, as Tony and Donald shook mutual fists at each other, before, at the last moment, Donald waved a friendly goodbye.

“I’ll kill that goose,” Tony vowed.

“Tony, this is a children’s theme park,” Steve replied moodily.

“I will cook him in the parking lot,” he assured.

. o .

They found Thor at the castle, all right.  “Thor,” Steve snapped.  “Get.”  He pointed in front of himself explanatorily.

Thor, who had been speaking with the Pink Princess and Her Charming Beau, looked over, then held out both arms in an expansive gesture.  “Shield-brothers!” he said, which, paired with his native-themed clothing, almost completely broke their guises, a handful of passersby pausing to look before deciding it wasn’t worth the trouble of intervention, moving on.  “I have found the monarchs.”

Steve drew in a deep, fortifying breath.  Tony valiantly hid a smile behind a stern look, aware it was breaking through a little as Steve calmly removed his sunglasses to glare fiercely at Thor.

“What did I say about wandering off?”

“I am fifteen hundred years old,” Thor reminded.  Both Princess Peach and Charming did a double-take.

Charming recovered first: “And we are happy to have you.”

“Absolutely,” said Princess Peach.  “You’re all very welcome.”

“You are most kind,” Thor said, turning to them and clasping hands with Charming, who did not wince even slightly, good man.  “The both of you,” he added, bowing to the Princess, who gratefully curtseyed.  “To think, this place of revelry is also a place of rule!”

Charming and Peach offered warm smiles, but Steve scowled.  “Thor, we talked about this,” he pleaded.  Then, remembering the tactical applications of headphones and their side effects, he sighed.  “All right.  It’s fine.  This is fine,” he said, reigning in a Donald Duck worthy tantrum.  “Let’s just go . . . and meet up with the others—”

“Should not they meet with them?” Thor asked, indicating the queenly couple.

Steve snapped.  “Thor, if you do not get over here in the next second, so help me.”

Thor, thankfully, decided to concede to his Captain over his new monarch friends.  “If you desire, they will give you a royal autograph,” Thor chortled, oblivious to the near visible steam pouring out of Steve’s ears.  “Look,” he said, unrolling a scroll with both Princess Aurora & Her Prince Phillip signed.  “See?”

Steve looked like he might shred the paper for a moment.  “Wow,” he said, in such a deadpan tone even the queenly couple winced.  He sighed.  “That’s nice,” he assured, both Thor, his optimism undaunted, and the poor queenly couple, who both resumed beaming.  “That’s very nice.”  He turned directly to the couple, offering, “Thank you.”

“You are most welcome, sir,” Her Prince Phillip said.

Steve ground his teeth audibly but managed not to bite, after all, as he steered Tony and Thor through the castle, onward to Fantasyland.

“We are now farther from the gates than when we started,” Tony announced cheerfully.

“Sit,” Steve ordered, pointing at the nearest bench.

Thor and Tony sat.

“Mr. Stark!  Mr. Stark, you won’t believe this, I saved two people—”

“Sit,” Cap ordered.

Peter Parker, arms full of paraphernalia and a sticker that said Galactic Hero!, gulped, then sat on the ground in front of Thor.  “Uh.  Are we in trouble?  Because I swear, it wasn’t me this time, Mr. Barton sir can vouch for—”

“Quiet.”

Peter shut up.  Tony stole the lion cub from the top of the pile.  Peter said, “Hey, Mr. Stark, that’s m—” and then mimed zipping his lips shut as Steve just stared at him.

Tony turned over the lion cub a few times, then chucked it at Steve.  Tragically, Steve caught it.  Perfect reflexes.

Thor held out his arms hopefully, eyes alight.

Steve ignored him, tucking the lion cub under one arm and folding his arms, glaring at all of them.

Tony pulled out his phone.  It was immediately confiscated.  Tony sighed noisily, then glared back at Cap, planting both arms on his own hips. 

Peter offered Thor a stuffed snake.  Thor beamed, draping it around his neck like a trophy.

Barton, half-eaten churro in hand, asked, “Did I miss family meeting time?”

Steve turned to look at him.  Faster than even Tony could follow, Peter Parker seized the moment: a blue fish smacked the side of Cap’s face with enough force to K.O. a mere mortal, bouncing off Cap’s chiseled jawline harmlessly.

Tony held out a hand down below, which Peter high-fived enthusiastically.  Shaking off his throbbing hand, Tony gave Parker a stern look, eliciting a genuinely apologetic shrug in response. 

Steve ignored them, asking Barton warningly, “Did you bring enough to share?”

Clint Barton looked down at his churro, snapped it into four small pieces, and distributed them.  Both Parker and Thor ate theirs; Tony grimaced and shook his head.  When Steve glowered mutely, Barton finished the rest.  “Footlong churros,” Barton said sagely.

Steve looked around.  In the exact same tone as a trick question, he asked, “Who wants a churro?”

Thor and Parker both put their hands up.  Tony didn’t take the bait, sitting patiently on the bench.  Clint said, “I could go for another.”

Steve bought them churros.  “What’s the play, here?” Tony asked, holding onto his own piping hot churro and leaning in, while Parker babbled to Thor about the choking and heat exhaustion victims he had helped.  “This a bribe?  A—”

“Truce,” Steve clarified, sunglasses firmly in place.

Tony took a slow bite off the top of his churro.  “Uh-huh,” he said around his mouthful.  “I believe that.”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Steve quipped.

Tony took another bite of his churro.

“Mr.—Cap, sir,” Parker started, “can we go—”

Steve nodded once.  Mistake: Parker dumped the stuffed animals onto him, explaining, “It’s just around the corner,” and hurrying after Clint and Thor.  “Guys!  Come on!”

“Snooze you lose, squirt!” Clint called back, scuttling off towards Tomorrowland.

Cap sat perfectly still for a moment, then, slowly, began gathering the toys into a pile.  Tony helped.  He was just such a nice guy like that.  A cast member approached, asked cheerily, “Can I get you a bag?”

“If you have one,” Steve said warily.

The cast member did—a big, translucent garbage bag that fit the dozen or so stuffed animals perfectly.  “And there you are,” the cast member said, happily handing over the Santa sack of stuffed prizes.  “Would you like to have it sent to the front gate?”

For a moment, Steve’s annoyed expression actually backed off.  “That would be wonderful,” he said, not quite sincerely but gratefully, regardless.

“I’ll have it done myself,” the cast member said brightly, slinging the bag over her shoulder.  After a brief exchange of information for future retrieval, they had the festive package carted off.

Tony finished the rest of his churro, said, “I think my sweet tooth grew a sweet tooth,” and fussed with a toothpick.

“That was nice of her,” Steve acknowledged belatedly.

“Nice of who?” Tony asked, still fussing with the toothpick.

Steve nodded absently at the place where the cast member had been.  “The girl.  Dame.  Woman.”  His cheeks flushed.  “The girl,” he finished stubbornly.

Tony patted his knee conciliatorily.

“Don’t patronize me,” Steve grumbled.

“You make it too easy, champ.”

“You know what, Stark?”

“Hm?”

“I think you’re afraid of a good time.”

Tony continued twiddling the toothpick.  “I’m—”

“This whole thing.  It was your idea.  But you’re. . . .”  He frowned deeply at Tony.  “You’re not having fun.”

Tony made a funny face at him.  Head tilt and all.  “I am having the best time,” he protested.  “I live for . . . Candyland.”  He made a vague gesture around.

“No,” Steve said, in a quiet undertone that did unfair things to Tony, undermining his outrage, “because I know what you’re like when you’re having fun.  Why’d you wanna come here, if you didn’t wanna come here?”

Tony processed that.  “One,” he said at last.  “It’s Disney.”  He stood, tugging Steve off the bench.  Steve sighed but went.  “Two.”  He made the funny face again, once more involuntarily, head tilt and frown firmly in place.  “How do you know what I look like when I’m having a good time?  I’m having a very good time.”

“Name one thing you’ve liked,” Steve said.

Tony spotted a blue and white duck waddling past Steve’s shoulder.  He rolled up his sleeves.  “Hold that thought.”

. o .

Every decision Tony Stark had ever made, in some way, had led to this moment.  Arm-wrestling a duck.

Donald used both hands—wings; semantics—to try and pin his to the table.  Tony knew instantly he could win if he wanted to, but after a few seconds, he allowed a bit of wobble to creep into his grip.  Donald immediately stood up and planted a foot on the table seat for leverage, and Tony exaggerated the wobble.  With an almighty effort, the duck pushed Tony’s faux-faltering grip against the table.  Then he stepped back and flung both wings into the air triumphantly.

Tony and Donald shook hands politely.  Then Steve Rogers had to say, “You coulda won.”

Tony and Donald both turned to him.  Donald puffed up his chest, despite being several inches shorter than Tony and over a foot shorter than Steve.  He tipped his beak up, parked both feet wide, and stuck both fists on his hips, a superhero pose if ever there was one.

Steve looked him over once, then arched his eyebrows.  Donald, inspired, sidestepped behind Tony and pushed him forward, his own champion.  Tony looked over to seeing Donald making a boxing gesture, nodding vigorously to indicate, Go get ‘em, boss.

Steve sighed and said, “All right; I concede.”  Donald patted Tony on the shoulder a few times in victory.

A cast member urged them to cluster together for a photograph.  Tony didn’t particularly want to, but he knew Steve wanted to even less, so he graciously agreed, parking an arm around the duck’s stout shoulders and squeezing once.

The picture was great; Steve still looked like an annoyed Ken doll while Tony looked like Donald Duck’s go-to hit man, dressed for a day of inviting casual fun but ready to get in trouble at a moment’s notice.

. o .

“Let’s ride one more ride,” Tony insisted, at 1700 hours.  Steve looked doubtfully at his watch, then at Tony, like he was about to point out that, tactically speaking, they ought to make the thirty-minute walking sojourn back to the car instead of wasting any more time in the park.  Then Steve sighed, nodded, and Tony hauled him off to Tomorrowland.

Tomorrowland was packed.  Astro Blasters and Astro Orbiter both had commanding wait times, but it was Space Mountain that caught Tony’s eye.  With its thirty-minute wait time, he felt sure that Steve would dismiss it outright.  Technically, they had enough time, and that technicality was apparently enough for Steve, who wanted to indulge Tony this one time.

Heart-warmed, Tony led the way into the belly of the white steel beast.  A safety spiel looped overhead, reminding riders with back, neck, or heart conditions not to embark on this stellar journey.  Tony waved off Steve’s stern look, telling him, “I don’t have a heart condition, I have a mechanical breathing problem.”  Instead of reassuring him, it softened something in Steve’s look.  Absolutely ridiculous, with the pink ascot under his chin and blue sunglasses on his head, but, Tony could admit, touching.

Tony went on to explain the varying opinions on the dangers of rollercoasters, among the fit and the frail, the firm and infirm.  As an engineer, he remarked, “I trust them.”

“I trust you,” Steve replied.

Tony could not help it; he linked arms and squeezed Steve’s.  “Thank you.”

Then, as if in direct defiance of his, I am fit and young and firm, his breath faltered in his chest.  It was a subtle thing, a barely noticeable event, but as they wound another corner—this had to be the longest queue in Disneyland, he huffed, or, at least, the longest they’d been on—he found himself gripping a dirty, disease-ridden handrail for support.  “Tony?” Steve asked.

“It’s fine,” Tony wheezed.  “Just a little—”  Out of breath, he said, gesturing at his chest.

Steve said, “Take a minute, Tony.”

Tony gripped the handrail with both hands and automatically drew in the deepest breath he could.  It didn’t get very far—even without the reactor constantly pressing against everything, a lot of delicate internal machinery had been permanently compromised.  Reconstructive surgery had done its best, but in many ways, it had only removed the weight, the exposure, and the finicky upkeep of the reactor.  The scars and damage were still very visible.

He wasn’t sure how long, exactly, he stood there, wheezing quietly.  Time seemed to slip away for a bit—maybe it was the background music, or just the pseudo-emptiness, compared to the rest of the crowded park.  A young group passed them with a wave of Steve’s hand.  The same hand came to rest on Tony’s back, not heavy but present, as his chest rattled with each inhale.

Think—lifelong smoker, his personal doctor, Allen, had said.  Removing the reactor restores—roughly ten percent of your lung function, from seventy-five percent to nearly eighty-five percent.  Ten percent might not sound like much, but when you’ve been breathing through a straw, enlarging the diameter by fifty percent is going to feel very, very good.  In a perfect world, we could just get rid of the straw.  But restoring your body to a pre-reactor state is . . . beyond our present capabilities.

Tony came back to himself and his pounding heart all at once.  Steve said, “Tony, Tony.”  He smoothed the hand down his back, once.  “It’s okay.”

If he could just catch his breath, he would be all right.  He breathed shallowly but quickly, learned behavior when deep breaths triggered violent coughing fits. 

Finally—a short eternity later—he relaxed a little.  He became aware of his shaking arms, still bent over the railing.  He also became aware of Steve almost hiding him from view, one hand smoothing up and down his back.  Of all the people to be stuck in a queue barely able to catch a breath, there were worse people than Steve Rogers, Tony thought.  Clint Barton, for starters.  Guy would probably crack a few jokes and carry on with a cheerful, “See ya real soon!”

Chuckling helplessly, Tony bowed his head a little more, shaking it at himself.  “We have the stupidest friends,” he said.

“They’re not the brightest bulbs,” Steve said, which just made Tony snicker more.  “But they’re—”

“Is that who I think it is?”

Tony sighed.

“Speak of the devil,” he said, leaning back to confront one Clint Barton, covered in Disney regalia.  Disney shirt.  Disney shorts.  Disney fanny pack.

“That’s awful,” Tony said, indicating the mouse eared fanny pack.

Clint unzipped it, pulling out a clown car’s worth of accessories—including, Tony noticed with more-than-passing interest, a handful of Star Wars trinkets—before dumping it back into the pouch.  “I wanna re-evolve into a kangaroo,” Clint said seriously.  “I want a pouch.”

“Only female kangaroos have pouches,” Steve said, which was more than Tony would have bet that Steve Rogers knew about kangaroos.

“Goddammit,” Clint said immediately.  Steve glared.  Clint unzipped his kangaroo pouch, handed Steve a coin with Darth Vader on it, and said, “That’s an IOU.”

“Good luck finding a nickel here,” Tony said, plucking the coin from Steve’s hand and examining it.  “Where the he—ck, I said heck,” he said, pointing at Steve and not pointing at the long empty corridor around them, “did you find this?”

“Star Wars shop.  You haven’t been?”

Tony inhaled slowly, then repeated quietly, “Star Wars shop?”

Clint beamed.  Then zipped his pouch, pushed Tony forward, ordering, “Ride first, shop after.  They have lightsabers.  I didn’t wanna carry it around—”

“They’ll take care of that,” Steve said absently, long strides keeping up with Clint’s frantic pace easily.  Tony went with the flow, letting himself be shoved ahead and waving off Steve’s concerned look.

“Damn.  They better have purple,” Clint muttered.

“You have a sexual fetish for purple,” Tony told him.

“Tony,” Steve warned.

Tony flicked him the coin in payment.  Clint made a disapproving noise at the mishandling of valuable currency, but Steve caught it neatly and pocketed it.  “Space Mountain, then Star Wars.”

. o .

Tony didn’t even mean to sit next to Clint.

Clint merely distracted him with the miniature R2-D2 model until the gates in front of them opened and they automatically filed like cattle into the appropriate two-seater pens.  The cushioned seats were probably commodious for a child—not so much for the adults in the room.

“God,” Tony muttered, apparently not quietly enough, as Steve cuffed him lightly on the head.  “Ow.”

“Ha-ha,” Clint said, then whined as Steve clopped him audibly.  “Hey.”

“Be good,” Steve warned.

“How come you get a free seat?” Tony asked, gesturing at the empty space next to him.  The third or so of it still visible around his bowling ball shoulder.  Even scrunched up in his clown car seat, he still took up a heroic portion of the seat next door.

Steve frowned at him.  “Did you ask for one?” he asked dryly.

“No,” Tony admitted, elbowing Clint.  “Scram.”

“You’re not cool enough to solo Space Mountain,” Clint sniffed, gripping the rail in front of him and wriggling hard enough to shake the car.

“Stop it,” Steve warned him.  Clint wriggled harder.  “Stop it.”

Tony clocked him on the head on Steve’s behalf.  Clint stopped.  The cast member finally took mercy on them and released their car into the void.

Clint howled.  Tony gripped the lap bar for dear life.  Steve said, exactly once, “Oh, wow,” and then they were careening down an invisible slope in near total darkness.

Best ride in the entire park, Tony said repeatedly, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe it, either, that they had survived, actually shaking as he clapped Clint on the back repeatedly, who was laughing uncontrollably.  Best ride in the entire park.

His back hurt like hell, he was nauseous from the combined breathlessness before and ziplining around space after, and the unexpected sight of pure stellar emptiness was enough to put the fear of God back into any man who had seen it up close and personal, and yet—“That was the best damn ride in the park,” Tony insisted, ignoring Steve’s quiet rebuke because family theme park yes but Space Mountain wow.

He high-fived Clint, who was the only one on his level, and they ignored Steve’s “It’s half past—” in favor of dragging him to The Star Trader intergalactic outpost.

“Mother of God,” Tony said.

. o .

“Can we take home a stormtrooper,” Clint said, pointing to the life-sized stormtroopers ringed around the ceiling.

“No,” Tony replied, and proceeded to pile just about everything else into Steve’s accommodating arms.  “Hold this,” he said, and when Steve refused, added, “Please,” and repeated the cycle, ad infinitum, until, at last, even Steve Rogers said:

“Tony, I got nothing to hold it with.”

“Quitter,” Tony said, delicately balancing a 1,000-piece puzzle on top of the pile.

The pile included: Star Wars pillows, Star Wars mugs, Star Wars hats, Star Wars figurines, Star Wars shirts, Star Wars helmets, and even a Star Wars backpack.  Or three—to be fair, the fuzzy Ewok backpack was pure last-minute impulsivity, while the RD-D2 and all-black Star Wars backpacks were meant for actual use.

Ironically, it was the Ewok backpack that adorned Tony’s back as they exited the store, about $2,800 poorer but infinitely richer in spirits.

“Damn,” was all Clint said, impressed and delighted, as they both carried their own Star Wars boxed lightsabers.  Clint got his precious purple; Tony opted for royal blue.  Steve had declined one altogether, which was why he had a red Sith ‘saber being hand-delivered, along with the rest of their purchases, to the front gate for pickup.  It would take one hour for the merchandise to reach its destination—a fact that Clint and Tony were both prepared to take advantage of.

They spotted the sign at the same time, announcing in unison: “Astro Blasters.”  Steve gave them both a very disappointed look, then pulled out his phone and began a series of phone calls that ended with them midway through the Astro Blasters queue, after all.

“I’m having heart palpitations,” Tony announced giddily, gripping his chest while Steve gave him both a very concerned and very exasperated look, not nearly as happy with the turn-of-events, given his adherence to schedules.  To be fair, Parker and Natasha were snacking in Fantasyland while Thor and Banner were in Critter Country, of all places.  Sam called Steve as they neared the front of the queue to say he was just getting off the Jungle Cruise and was meeting up with Banner and Thor.

“Good, they’re all in different places,” Tony said, then giggled helplessly at the disappointment in Steve’s expression.  “Cheer up, champ—they’re just following your lead.”

“I tried to show up the master, I failed,” Clint said idly, gesturing at his Mickey merch and then Tony’s new Star Wars look.  “I only spent $500.”

“Amateur,” Tony agreed, looking him over and shaking his head.  “Where’s the rest?”

Clint flipped up his shirt, revealing four more Disney-themed shirts underneath it.  Then he patted his belly proudly.  “Snacks and a balloon.  I gave the balloon to Nat.”

“That balloon is now dead,” Tony said cheerfully.  Steve nudged him.  “I am not wrong,” Tony pointed out.

Steve and he fit in a car through clown car physics.  Honestly, if there was a third gun, Tony had no doubt Clint could have found a way, but with only two, he hopped into the car behind them and promptly blasted them in the ass.  It would have been more impressive if the laser gun actually fired, Tony thought, spinning their car as soon as possible and unleashing a torrent of fake fire upon Clint’s vehicle.

Steve gently steered them away, but the car spun wildly, turning a full revolution before Tony warned ominously, “Do that again, I will hurl.”

Meanwhile, Clint howled over the annihilating noise of Buzz Lightyear’s latest space bonanza, spinning his cart continuously at maximum velocity.  Tony fired errantly at the little Z for Zurg targets, trying to ignore Barton’s spinning as he did so.  It didn’t work.  “Barton, stop it,” he ordered, opening fire on his vehicle.  It did absolutely nothing, of course, aside from emitting intermittent laser-blasting sounds.

Steve finally turned him away again.

Tony said, “How dare you,” and spun them back.

“Tony,” Steve said, firmly jerking them forward.  “Leave him alone.”

“He’s being provocative,” Tony said, trying unsuccessfully to pry Steve’s hand off the rotator lever.  “Share,” he whined.

“No,” Steve said, and deliberately spun them. 

Tony released his gun to grip Steve’s arm automatically, then seethed, “Stop that.”

Steve swung them in the opposite direction.  Clint shrieked like a banshee.  Tony buried his face in Steve’s shoulder and chanted, “I hate you, I hate you,” as Steve levered their car back and forth.

Finally, their car locked up in the forward position, but Tony kept his face and hands where they were, growling a little at a bright camera flash behind closed eyelids.

“Whoo!” Clint said, before walking straight into a wall, which was entertaining enough to startle a little huff of laughter out of Tony, who had not relinquished his grip on Steve’s arm, in retaliation.  Clint righted himself, then swiveled and completed a perfect prat fall, collapsing face-down and cheering, “I have transcended.”

Steve halfheartedly tried to shake Tony loose, evidently intending to help Clint up the hard way, before nudging him with a foot.  “Barton.  Get up.”

“This floor is gross,” Barton said.

“Barton.”

“What privileges will I lose if I don’t?”

“Now.”

Clint sighed, pushed himself up, then bounced to his feet.  He actually wobbled a little, Tony was gratified to see.  “Serves you right,” Tony said.

Steve told him, “Don’t be mean,” before giving Clint a propelling nudge towards the true exit, through the gift shop.

“Oh, sweet, we’re going again,” Clint said, nearly making a perfect escape, except Steve gripped the back of his shirt tightly, arresting him.

A second later, Clint Barton was free, and Steve Rogers held a single Disney t-shirt in his hand.  He sighed at it like it had personally affronted him.  Its owner certainly had.  “Tony,” Steve said.

“Yes, dear.”

Steve winced, but plowed ahead, “Never again.”

Tony didn’t know if he was referring to the ride—it was a bit sugar-rush, even for his sugar-rush tastes—or the park as a whole, or maybe just team bonding, but he nodded in fake agreement.  “You’re the boss.”

. o .

They met up with Natasha and Peter outside the King’s Carousel.

Parker thought the backpack was cool.

Realizing he owned a backpack that a certified teenager thought was cool, Tony stated: “Good.  I got it for you,” and gratefully salvaged his pride as Peter, misinterpreting his act as a devotion of genuine paternity, tearfully accepted it.

“Aww,” Sam greeted, rubbing the Ewok’s head and then Parker’s, for good luck, probably.  “That’s cute.”  Then he held up an in-ride photograph worth its weight in gold: Thor and Bruce huddled together in a honeypot, both of them absolutely looking petrified.

“Did they die?” Tony asked, looking around.

Sam shook his head.  “They’re at the Blue Bayou.”

“The Blue what?”

“Sit-down restaurant,” Sam explained.

“Smart,” Tony said, proud of Banner for taking his, You have $5,000, spend it, to heart.  Food and a Norse god.  He had a super-soldier, and he hadn’t thought of it.  Then again, Tony had told Steve he’d be very proud of him if he spent fifty dollars on himself, and Steve had successfully thwarted him by purchasing only group gifts of food.  Hell, Tony had even eaten half his ice cream; had the guy made any personal purchases?

“Honestly, we are not having enough fun,” Tony said, snapping the chin strap on Parker’s mouse ear hat to make him yelp and remind him what real paternal figures were for: being bastards.  “We’re practically a family of five on a modest budget enjoying a once-in-a-lifetime vacation.  Step up, people.”  He looked accusingly at Sam.  “You haven’t even started.”

Sam rolled his eyes, held up his Stark card, and said, “Some of us prefer making memories to—”

“Oh, boo-hoo,” Tony said, rolling his eyes.  “Go buy something the person you were a year ago would gag at, and report back to the front gate in three hours.  Three hours,” he said sternly, ignoring Steve’s half-defeated, half-resigned look.  The sun was finally beginning to set, but Tony Stark was a night owl.  “Not a minute less.”

Parker saluted with great enthusiasm.  “You got it, boss!”

“I’m not your, I don’t—dammit, I do pay him,” Tony realized.  “That’s a freebie.  That’s my freebie,” Tony protested, as Steve opened his mouth to argue.  “You say fuck all the time.”  He made a very belated show of slowly covering Peter’s real ears, then turned to look at Steve and said, “Fine.  I owe you a nickel.”

Steve nodded in silent approval.  Tony removed his hands from Peter’s ears, then stepped back and said, “Okay.  Now, where the hell is Romanoff?”

Steve wordlessly pulled out his phone, painstakingly found her in his contacts, and held it up to his ear.  “Speaking.”  A beat.  “Uh-huh.”  Then.  “Twenty-one hundred hours.  Make sure to feed yourself.”  He hung up.  Tony raised his eyebrows expectantly.  “Classified,” he said.

Tony rolled his eyes, but looked around at the lights, camera, action, and declared, “Starting . . . now.”

. o .

This was revenge.  This was cruel, unusual, and all-around horrible revenge.

“This is the maximum speed?”

Steve nodded grimly.  Parker and Wilson had a decent lead, entirely because their car was let out of the gate first.

Autotopia was as advertised: the toy cars all puttered along the same two tracks at a pace that made paint drying look lively.  Hell, the speed was only the second-worst part: the worst part was the smell.  Tony worked in a garage ten hours a day, and even he was tempted to pull his shirt over his nose to put some barrier between himself and the smog they were actively creating.  The gasoline of a hundred cars all running in the same tiny area was enough to make him wheeze a little. 

Steve, who was sitting behind the wheel looking about as a happy as a five-year-old whose birthday party had been cancelled, was dutifully keeping the steering wheel aligned with the track and his foot on the floor, but the car never moved any faster.  It did stop completely when he released the gas, and Tony critiqued, “No, God, please, no,” before Steve hastily planted his foot on the pedal.

The damage was done.  Parker and Sam both had a good laugh at their expense, until, not paying attention, Parker released the pedal.

“GO, go, GO,” Sam flailed.

“I’m trying, I’m trying,” Parker panicked, jabbing at the unreactive pedal audibly.  Tony pulled out his phone to record them pulling ahead.

“NO,” Sam wailed.

Steve calmly puttered ahead of them while Tony leaned around the car and recorded the two Stooges attempting desperately to reclaim lost ground.

At the gates, Tony turned to Steve, who had the smuggest look Tony had yet seen on his face.  “First,” Steve said triumphantly.

“That’s what the man on the Moon said,” Tony replied.

Steve blinked once, then went slack-jawed.  “They put a what on the Moon?”

. o .

“What did you think ‘Moon landing’ stood for?”

Steve’s face had rarely looked more flushed.  “I thought it—you know, they put a payload on the Moon.  They put a man on the Moon.”

“Yes,” Tony said.

“Holy shit.”

Tony struggled to keep a straight face.  “That’s a nickel,” he pointed out.

Steve scowled at him.  “Then we’re even.”

Tony smirked.  “I mean, you can keep spending them.”

Steve looked stubbornly over the field as Peter Parker and Sam Wilson finally puttered into the station, looking like they had truly lost all hope.  Sam gave Steve a great big hug, while Tony glared at Peter to discourage him from doing the same.  “All right,” Steve finally said, loudly.  Sam ignored him, squeezing firmly.  Steve finally looked at Peter, perhaps expecting him to intervene, and Peter stepped up and hugged him from the side.

“This is nice,” Peter said.

Steve growled.  Sam and Peter released him, shaking hands briefly.  Sam clapped Tony on the shoulder, telling him, “What’s next?”

“Tea Cups?” Peter asked hopefully.

All three adults grimaced.  “Astro Orbiter?” Sam offered, as a compromise.

. o .

Astro Orbiter was it.  And Tony was doing so damn well.

“This is, at least, the cleanest trash can I’ve ever puked into,” Tony managed, in a slightly warbly voice.

“I’m sorry,” Peter apologized, again.

“Kid,” Tony started, and then ducked his head again, reminded that turning was not an approved option, at least at the moment.  Maybe never again.  Steve rubbed Tony’s back absentmindedly, which was nice of him.  He seemed like the kind of guy who would hold your hair back, which almost made Tony laugh—thank God, almost.  “You’re such a cheesepuff,” he told Steve, resurfacing, fixing him with baleful eyes.  “You do know that, don’t you?”

“I’m a what?” Steve asked flatly.

“Creampuff,” Peter said helpfully.

“I said cheese,” Tony grunted, swallowing hard.  “Don’t talk about curdled food.  Or food.  Except ice cream.”  He sighed.  “Ice cream never hurt me.”

“Should I get an ice pack, or a doctor?” Sam asked, perfectly unscathed.  Steve really knew how to pick ‘em.

“Ice pack,” Tony was forced to respond, before Steve made a completely oversized executive decision.  “Definitely ice pack.”

The ice pack did help.  He managed not to puke up the water, either, which felt like success.  “I’m fine,” he said, as the kid, the superhero, and the superhero’s sidekick looked at him with varying degrees of concern.  Steve looked bored, while Sam looked the closest to “the correct amount of worry.”  Peter looked like he might cry in sympathy, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand before Tony growled, “Don’t.”

“Can I get you anything?” he pleaded.

“Yes,” Tony said.  Peter perked up.  Tony thought frantically.  “I need you . . . to get me a balloon.”  He handed over a crisp wad of bills.  “That will heal me.”

Peter was off like a shot.  Steve didn’t bother calling after him, even though, technically, they weren’t supposed to leave the . . . “How old is he again?”

“How’re you?” Steve replied neutrally.

“Been better, chief,” Tony said, dropping the melting ice pack onto the table.  “I can’t believe—”

“You’re probably dehydrated,” Sam offered, slipping into the team mom role a little too comfortably.  “Have you had anything in the last hour?”

Now Steve looked chagrined.  “We ate a late lunch,” he said.

Sam shook his head.  Tony scowled at both of them.  “You two share a brain cell and its name is mom.”

Steve and Sam didn’t even need to look at each other to communicate their mutual lack of amusement.  “So, air conditioning,” Steve went on, uninterrupted.  “Soon as the kid gets back, we sit down, we eat.”

“We had churros,” Tony muttered, sliding his hand surreptitiously over his mouth, in a psychological attempt not to puke.

“I got seven,” Peter blurted, shoving the nest at Tony.  One Mickey Mouse ear balloon for every color of the rainbow.  How artful.

“Now we just look like we’re celebrating Pride,” Tony said grimly, as Steve took the balloons from Peter’s hand.  “Mickey Pride.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Peter offered, upbeat as always.  “I think it’s sweet, you know—”

“I know,” Tony said grimly.

“So—yeah,” Peter finished, triumphant.  Steve gave him a patented Captain America nod of approval.  Peter sat up straighter.  “Thanks, Mr. Stark,” he said incongruously.

Tony sighed.  “You are welcome, kid.”

“It’s really easy to spend a hundred bucks here,” Peter told Steve cheerfully, riding his own sugar high.

. o .

They got rid of a hundred bucks pretty easily, too.

Well—they could have, if Peter would have let them.  “Mr. Stark,” Parker hissed, frantically collecting the seven balloons Tony attempted to release into the wild.  “You can’t do that, don’t you know how bad it is for the environ—”

“Yes,” Tony said, very dryly.  “I just hate sea turtles.”

Parker gave him an unimpressed look.

Tony instructed, “Get rid of them.  I don’t care how.”

With a noisy huff, Peter said, “Fine.  I will.”  Then he scanned the area and took off with the balloons, offering a little boy dressed up like Buzz Lightyear one.

“That’s disgusting,” Tony said.

“It’s sweet,” Steve corrected sternly.

“Disgusting,” Tony insisted, shaking his head.  “My idea was cooler.”

“C’mon,” Steve said, pulling Tony to his feet.  “Let’s go.”

Sam waved idly after them.  Tony asked, “Is this when you dump my body in the moat?”

“What?”

“Great, now I planted the seed.”

Steve rolled his eyes.  “Don’t say that.”

“What?  Planted the seed?”

“That’s gross,” Steve deadpanned.

“You’re gross,” Tony muttered smartly.

. o .

It was a table for four, but it felt like a table for two. 

“What happened?” Bruce asked, immediately standing, despite Tony waving at him to remain seated.  He realized the arm Cap had solicitously wrapped around him probably only added to the image of wounded and infirm, shrugging it off impatiently.  He dropped into the chair across from Thor.

“Nothin’, what happened with you?” Tony muttered.

“Tony,” Steve warned, in his classic be nice tone.

“Be quiet,” Tony muttered back.

Steve stole Bruce’s seat.  Bruce scuttled around to the opposite side of the table without so much as a whimper of protest.

Thor pushed his chair back gently.  “I was thinking of helping the kitchen staff prepare the—”

“Siddown and shuddup,” Steve Rogers growled.

Thor pulled his chair back in.  Leaning in to Banner, he whispered, “Should I be forceful or gentle?”

“Definitely n-not—not forceful,” Banner stammered, looking like he might pass out.  “Don’t cause a—”

Thor nodded in understanding, then sat back in his chair.  Tony couldn’t help but watch as Thor reached over, very, very slowly, and clasped a hand over Steve’s shoulder.  Steve was taut as a bowstring.

“With all love and respect, shield-brother,” Thor said, “you must cease being an undesirable woman.”

A slow smirk crept across Tony’s lips.  Steve looked like he would pop his top before he would respond.

Tony almost felt bad for explaining what a bitch was—he wasn’t sure how it got that lost in translation—but hearing Thor, son of Odin, tell Captain America to fuck off, gently, was beautiful.

Finally, Steve nodded.  Thor grinned, then gave him a hard, friendly shake that scraped his chair across the floor.  “There, now, was that so hard?”

“Thor,” Steve said, quietly, but he never finished the thought, like he simply could not speak unkindly to Thor, or was too moralistic to do it in the happiest place on Earth, anyway.  He just sighed, the rigid tension seeping out of his shoulders.

Tony said, “I’m gonna go drown myself in the sink,” and Thor just gave Steve another friendly shake.

“All right, all right,” Steve grumbled, reaching up to try and pry his hand off.  “I hear ya.”

“I’ll come with you,” Bruce said immediately, scurrying after Tony like a lonely, mistreated puppy.  Tony didn’t have the heart to leave him with the two shield-brothers, reunited.

“He does grow on you,” Banner offered meekly, as Tony ducked his head under the sink carefully, washing out his mouth.  “Really.”

“Which one?”

“Uh.  Thor, but.”  He winced.  “I mean, Cap’s not bad.”

“But he’s not good,” Tony teased, resisting the genius idea to rinse his mouth out with soap in lieu of toothpaste.  He would survive until the hotel, he told himself, using paper towels to dry off.

“No, no, he’s good,” Bruce said, standing small and lonely in the corner.  “He brought us here.”

“Technically, I did,” Tony could not help muttering.

“That’s fair,” Bruce agreed quietly.

They looked at each other, briefly.

“We’re in Disneyland,” Tony said.

Bruce nodded.

An unexpected giggle caught Tony by surprise.  “We’re—”

“In Disneyland,” Bruce agreed.  Tony shook his head in disbelieving wonder, a little giddy from it all.  “You okay?  He wasn’t—”  He looked at the door, like he was waiting for someone to come bursting in, then asked sotto voice, “He wasn’t mean to you, right?”

“You’ve met him, right?”  Bruce nodded.  “Guy wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“I mean, he killed people,” Bruce said, again looking at the door.

Tony frowned.  “And?  So did we, pal.”  He slapped Bruce on the shoulder.  “C’mon, it’s Disneyland.  Perk up.  Smile.  Business doesn’t exist here.”

Bruce nodded, then looked him over and said, “I just—I hate to see you get hurt, Tony.”

Tony’s heart skipped a beat.  Sadly and grimly, he said, “Me too, buddy.”  He steered Bruce forward.  “C’mon.  It’s fine.  It happened.  Things are going good.”  He didn’t mention that he was the reason the Avengers were in California in the first place: Thor because of Jane and her motley crew, but Clint because he went where Natasha went, and Natasha, Bruce, and Steve—yes, Steve; Steve, who had apparently just settled into life in the D.C. area, breaking out of the big city into the metropolitan heart of the nation for a “change of scenery”—had all come shortly after he had gone missing and been presumed dead.

“C’mon,” Tony said quietly, not wanting to think about the world outside Disneyland, just yet.  It was a cold world out there.  “Focus up.”

. o .

“Dead men tell no tales,” the jolly roger warned them.

“Oh, God, I’m so full,” Tony complained good-naturedly, sitting in the backrow of the boat with his face planted against Steve’s shoulder.  “What the fuck did I eat?”

Steve just sighed, reminding him quietly, “Don’t be crass,” before tightening his grip around Tony as they lurched down the first hill.  “What in the world—”

“There’s a drop,” Tony offered belatedly, snickering when Steve sighed.  “I’ll let you know when.”

Steve grumbled inaudibly, firming his grip around Tony’s shoulders.

Honestly, it was—kind of relaxing.  The ride was relatively slow-moving but not droll, with plenty of treasure and mischief to observe, and the water had a very strong, not-quite-chlorinated smell, that was somehow nostalgic.  Tony dug as deeply as he could into his young memories for exact recollections, but he upended nothing useful, giving up after a while.

He still didn’t love water experiences—he took showers more than baths but liked neither—but he liked watching someone else put on a good show, and the pirates were all artfully arranged.  Steve commented appreciatively on the drunken pirates, nudging Tony gently even after Tony said he was looking, insisting that Tony notice them.  Then Steve let out an honest-to-God laugh as a trio of women, armed with broomsticks, chased three separate pirates ‘round and ‘round, terrorizing the marauders.

He laughed again at the dog scene—who didn’t love a good animatronic dog? Tony thought, amused, as Steve picked up the whistle with the clarity and speed only a super-soldier could have, mimicking it perfectly even after they passed by.

To his genuine astonishment, Steve actually asked, in an almost bashful voice, if they could see the dog again.  And the pirates, he added, like Tony was confused, but Tony just pretended to hem and haw as they walked the long way around, pretending like they weren’t circling back to the queue.

The wait seemed twice as long, the second time around, but Steve didn’t seem to mind, bright-eyed and honestly excited, and Tony kicked himself, briefly, for not insisting on repeating the Haunted Mansion, to hell with long queues.  Just seeing him get brighter and brighter, like they were really about to do something special, was worth the extra time on his feet.

Besides: “There’s a drop coming up,” Tony said, as the jolly roger droned on.  “In about five seconds.”

“I know, Tony,” Steve assured, looking around with such honest enjoyment Tony couldn’t help but smirk.

“Four,” Tony said, voice softening, “three,” barely audible above the din of the water and the diners beside them, “two,” Steve braced a hand on his knee, Tony leaned up to whisper, “One,” into his ear. 

Steve turned to look at him, expression quietly inquisitive, but Tony had already leaned back.  Then they drove down the hill, neither too fast nor too slow.  Well done, Tony told the engineers privately, looking anywhere but Steve Rogers, unsure how to say what he wanted to say.

. o .

Thank you for this, Tony thought, leaning against Steve’s shoulder, taking in the scenery and feeling honestly relaxed for the first time in a long while.  It’s been really nice, he mused, standing in the crowded New Orleans Square after dark, lit up and festive, permanently on holiday.  I kind of needed a break, he didn’t add, snapping a picture on his phone of the colorful lights to send to Pepper, who hated fun, or, at least, didn’t know how to have this kind.  I had a good day.  He took one bite of a dole whip and wrinkled his nose.  Mostly good.

“Deep in thought,” Natasha told him, nudging his shoulder.  She was wearing a blue sweater with Disneyland printed on the back.  It looked big enough to fit Steve.  She was always stealing Steve’s sweaters, under the same roof; Tony had the feeling the rapport was equal parts because I can as it was love speaks many languages.  “Kind of dangerous around here,” Natasha added.

“What is?” Tony asked.

Natasha looked him over.  “I’m glad you came,” she said unexpectedly.  “Not the same when you don’t have money to burn.”

Tony rolled his eyes, but he did lean in to kiss her on the cheek, and survived the encounter.  “I find it flattering that a Russian spy likes me for my money,” he murmured.

“Don’t push it,” she said sweetly, squeezing his arm a little too firmly.

He went to hide behind Steve again, tail not quite tucked between his legs.  “Tony, look,” Steve said, indicating a little family of ducks waddling across the path, looking for the moat near the castle.

“Yes?” Tony said, tucking a hand around his elbow, just because he could.

“They’re real,” Steve said.

“Yes,” Tony replied, squeezing his arm.  “There are real ducks here.”

Shaking his head, bemused, Steve said, “This place is weird.”

Tony kissed his cheek, too.  “That’s what makes it fun.”

Steve blushed.  He looked even sillier at night.  Really, just, delightful ensemble.  “You know what, Stark?”

“Hm?”

“You’re impossible to read.”

Tony grinned.  “Good.  I like keeping you on your toes.”

Steve sighed.  He drew in a breath to argue, then shut his mouth.

Tony leaned up and kissed him.  Full on the mouth.  Steve went still but not tense, caught between surprised and perfect reflexes, sliding a hand around Tony’s waist even as Tony flattened.  “Can you read that?” Tony asked lightly.

“Yeah,” Steve muttered, gaze flickering around, hyper-conscious of the crowd, but still landing on Tony to add with a smirk, “pineapple.  Hint of ice cream.”

Tony reached up, cupped him by the back of the neck, and gave him a very gentle throttle.  “I can’t believe I thought you were the serious one.”

Steve frowned.  “I am the serious one.”

Tony just shook his head, giving him a gentle push back, fighting his own blush when Steve stepped forward again.  “No.  No, you are trouble,” Tony insisted, pointing at him.  “You authorized a completely unapproved Disney trip.  That’s gonna get back to Fury.”

Steve muttered, “Yeah?  Who’s gonna tell?”  He looked around again, then insisted stubbornly, “My team.”

“Our team,” Tony reminded.

“Our rules,” Steve finished.

“And there are no rules,” Tony corrected, taking his hand and squeezing it.  “What do you say we ditch this popsicle stand and make out in the van?”

Steve narrowed his eyes.  “We haven’t met Mickey,” he said, like it was a criminal offense.

Tony said, “You just made that up.”

Steve pulled the list out of his pocket.  “Mickey,” he said, pointing to the fourth item on the list.

“Were you even going to mention this?”

Steve said, “Plan for the unexpected.”

“You just made that up,” Tony accused, before sighing to his toes, grabbing Steve’s wrist, and dragging him under the castle.  “You owe me big.”

“Well, I have a nickel,” Steve said dryly.

“Forget about the damn nickel,” Tony grunted.

Steve smirked behind him.  Tony could feel it.

“Oh, be quiet.”

. o .

Mickey lived in a cartoon house.

The tinkerer that lived under Tony’s skin came alive, aching to explore every nook and cranny, itching at the inherently flawed design.  It was like a kid’s dream house, and for some reason, it activated the same primal switch in Tony’s brain that said, Yes, good, make.  He wanted to get underneath the wonky stove and take it apart.  He longed, intrinsically and undeterrably, to storm upstairs and see what the attic held.  And things moved.  It was—

“Get me out of here, or I will never leave,” he told Steve, already looking mournfully at the sink, longing to get down under it and mess with the pipes, just to see what would happen.  It was the perfect playground, and he wanted at it, but he wasn’t allowed to destroy Mickey Mouse’s house in the name of science.

The Big Cheese awaited them at the end of the house.  He offered a slightly tired wave, then jumped a little, straightening his bowtie and standing high on his heels.  Steve nudged Tony forward.  Tony almost asked, Can I take apart your house for science?  Then he held out a hand.  Mickey clasped it in both of his own, shaking it once, from the heart.  “Hey, Mick,” Tony said.  “Long time, no see.”  Mickey nodded, looking up at him sincerely, and goddammit, he was not getting emotional over a fictional mouse.  “Steve, your turn,” Tony said, pulling away as politely as possible, taking a step aside.

Steve took one step closer.  Mickey held up a two-finger, civilian salute to his forehead, and lowered it.  And then, if there was any doubt, Mickey crooked his left arm, indicating an invisible shield.

Tony couldn’t say he was surprised; sans sunglasses, in full lighting, anybody looking for him would see Steve Rogers.  Still, when Steve said, “He’s not here tonight, pal,” Mickey gestured him forward so enthusiastically Steve hugged him.

“You’re a sweet guy,” Steve told him, bent low to reach him.  “You’re one tough mouse—I remember you, in the war.  Thanks for makin’ me laugh.”  Steve squeezed, then released him.  Mickey poked at Steve’s heart, then mimed a shield again.  Steve looked at him, interpreting the motion.  Tony offered no help.  “Thanks, pal,” Steve said, clasping his hand, too, in a shake.  “I’ll be seein’ ya.”

Mickey nodded warmly, then gripped his jacket in one hand and waved with the other, a simple goodbye.  Tony told him, “Say hi to Minnie,” and Mickey nodded enthusiastically, scurrying off.  Steve huffed.  Tony tugged on his sleeve.

“You’re right,” Tony said, back in the open air of the silly little town.  “We definitely needed to do that.”

Steve sighed, but he brushed a hand over Tony’s back briefly, a silent thank you.

. o .

And that was it, that was—their grand and unplanned getaway.

No fuss, no muss, really, Tony would insist, keeping his eyes open through sheer force of will as he sat shotgun, both feet propped up on the dashboard despite Steve’s warnings.

They had three bags’ worth of souvenirs in the trunk, which seemed like the correct number of souvenirs for eight people, in Tony’s books.  One last pitstop for snacks for the road—and that was it.  Bye-bye, Disneyland.  Hello, three-hour-drive.

“Do you even have a license?” Tony asked lazily, sometime after midnight.

Steve fished his wallet out of his pocket and produced a certified driver’s license, all without taking his eyes off the road.

Tony murmured, “Let me see that,” and, when Steve held it out to him, grabbed Steve’s hand and kissed the back of it.

Steve sighed.

“Get a room,” Natasha advised, the only one still standing in the peanut gallery.

“I’ll buy you an Audi,” Tony told her.  “A really, really beautiful Audi.”

“Tony, stop,” Steve said, voice tired but body language still alert.  He had a whole pack to carry home.

Tony yawned, “I can’t be stopped,” as he folded his arms behind his head.  “I’m invincible.”

“That’s not what that means, Tony.”

“How would you know?  Nerd.”

Steve fussed with the air conditioner a little, declining a witty repartee.  “I’m freezing,” Tony complained.  “Ow,” he added lamely, as Natasha chucked a hoodie at him.  “Who’s is this?”

“Banner’s.”

“It’s too small.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“Thanks.”

Tony zipped the too-small hoodie up, anyway, nearly wrenching his back out of place.  “Ow.  My back.”

“Old man.”

“Did I ask?” Tony scowled, turning to face her.  Natasha just smiled sweetly, a tablet on her lap, her feet on a snoring Clint’s lap.  He was listing towards the footwell and would have fallen without his seatbelt.  It was almost endearing, if you cared for that sort of thing.  Really, all Tony saw when he saw Clint Barton was trouble.

Our trouble, he mused, resting a hand on Steve’s thigh, like grounding himself on an alert person could pry his own eyelids more open.

It did not work.  But he was about 12% sure Natasha clocked out before him.  A man could dream.

. o .

“Up, up, up,” Steve Rogers said, opening the doors in a too-bright parking lot.  “Ladies and gents, it is 0100 hours and I expect all of you in bed before 0200 hours or I will put you there.”

In perfect solidarity, nobody moved.  “I said, it is time to go to bed,” Steve repeated.  “Up and at ‘em.”

Thor yawned.  Tony was so, so tempted to open his eyes and look at the pile of cats Steve Rogers was attempting to herd, but frankly, it seemed like a lot of effort.

“Sleep in the van,” Clint muttered mutinously.  Peter snored audibly from the backseat.  Bruce seemed to be attempting to be forgotten through silence.  Clint repeated, “Sleep in the van” before yelping as he toppled into the footwell, newly released seatbelt fwinging back into place.  “Ow.”

“Who’s next?” Steve asked, upright and cheerful.

Bruce clambered over the backseat into the trunk, opening the doors and announcing, “I’ll just—”

“Banner, no,” Tony warned, before he heard a bag that was hopefully full of stuffed animals fall after him.

Steve sighed, went around the van to help him, and Natasha made her escape.

Whining from the footwell, Clint said, “Carry me.”

“No,” Steve said, swinging a bag over his shoulder.  “I will be making two trips.  I want you all gone before I get back.”

Tony didn’t think it was physically possible to transport a bag of goodies in ten seconds, but Steve did have an uncanny propensity to catch the elevator.

“That’s one,” Steve warned.

Thor replied solemnly, “One to go.”

Almost as uncanny as Steve’s ability to spirit objects from one place to another was Thor’s to simply vanish.  Tony could have sworn he heard Thor rock the van, but when he pried his eyes open and looked back, Thor was simply gone.

“Okay,” Steve said, dragging Clint out onto the concrete sidewalk and leaving him there.  He shut the trunk, then turned to Peter, who was still snoring.  “Parker,” he said aloud.  “Peter.”

Peter mumbled indiscernibly in his sleep.  Steve knocked on the door and, to Tony’s surprise, Peter bolted upright.  “Good morning, kid,” Steve said, not unkindly.  “It’s early.  We’re heading in.  You coming?”

Peter looked around for a moment, said briefly, “Dad?” and then flinched.  “Uh, yeah, sure.  Sure.  Cap.  Sir.”  He scrambled out of the backseat.  “I’m up,” he yawned, incongruously more alert.  “Wow.  I’m beat.  Can I go home?”

“Sure, kid.  Need an escort?”

Peter stammered over several responses, that seemed to vary from, no, I couldn’t to oh, sure, that’d be great.  Steve continued shutting doors, buttoning down the hatches, before opening Tony’s door.  “I know you’re awake.”

“How could you?” Tony muttered, then cursed.

“That’s another nickel.”

“That’s like, five fucking nickels,” Tony told him, prying an eye open.  “Traitor.  I thought you were on my side.”

“C’mon,” Steve insisted, unbuckling his seatbelt.  “You, too.”

Tony grumbled, reached for the juice boxes, and surprised himself by finding one.  “Hah!  My lucky day.”

“Aw,” Parker whined.  “Lucky.”

Tony sighed.  He hated himself, but he held out the juice box.  “You mean it?”

“Shut up and take it, kid.”

“Thanks, Mr. Stark.”

“Uh huh.”  Tony draped himself over Steve, who stood pillar-straight for him.  “Mm.  I could sleep here.”

“No,” Steve said firmly.  “Barton.  Get up.”

Barton whined.  “No.  I hate you.”

“If you get up, I’ll make you coffee in five hours.”

“Fine,” Barton whined, prying himself off the pavement.

Steve alone was upright and functional, nodding at the front desk—naturally; boy scout—and instructing Clint into an elevator.  “Press 23,” he reminded.

“28.  Got it,” Clint muttered back.

Steve sighed, stepped inside, and nearly went to the 28^th floor with him as the doors started shutting.  Peter and Tony just watched, too tired to be heroes.

“23,” Steve said, just as Clint pressed another button and said, “22, here I come.”

The doors shut.  Steve nudged Tony and Peter into the second elevator.  “This was fun,” Peter said, eyes shut, almost a grimace.  “We should do it again sometime.”

“No,” Steve said.  “Once.”

“Aw.”

“Listen to your father,” Tony muttered.

“Yes, Da—Mr. Stark.”

It was a long ride to the sixteenth floor.  “Aunt May?” Parker asked, knocking on the door.

“You have a key,” Steve said, not a question.

“I do,” Peter agreed, then pointed at the door again.  “It’s in there.”  He knocked again, gently.

Steve all but picked him up by the shoulders, set him down, and thumped twice on the door with a closed fist.  Tony and Peter waited, and then, on cue, the door opened.  “Yes?” a sleepy Aunt May asked.

“Here is your son,” Steve said.

“Nephew,” Peter corrected, ears red.  “Hi, Aunt May.  Sorry, I’m late, I—”

Aunt May simply gestured him inside, then nodded her gratitude at Steve and Tony.

“Bye, thanks, guys!” Peter whisper-shouted after them.

Back to the elevator.  Tony pressed the ground floor automatically.  “No, God, Tony,” Steve huffed, intercepting them two floors down.  The doors opened.  Tony started to step out, but Steve caught him, preventing him from pressing any more buttons but the 23^rd floor.

“Wow, what a fun day,” Tony said, following Steve to the right room.  “What a fun—” he yawned, “fun day.  Should do it again, next weekend.”

“No,” Steve said.  “We said once.”  He paused outside his door.  “Go to your room,” he told Tony.

Tony looked at the keyhole impatiently.  He pulled out his wallet, selected the correct key card, and slid it.  Steve gave him a very unimpressed look.  “What?  Security,” Tony muttered, stepping inside and taking a deep breath.  Sweet, sweet hotel room.  And sweet, sweet Cap.  What the hell was that?  It wasn’t metallic, exactly, nor gym locker musk, somewhere in the middle.  Like lightning, his stupid brain supplied.

“Tony, this is my room,” Steve told him, still standing near the open door.

Tony flopped face-down on Steve’s bed, letting out a deep sigh.  “We have too many children, we need to start a Hunger Games.”

“Is that the one with Katniss?”

“You read the books, I know you did,” Tony muttered.  He yelped in surprise when the bed dipped slightly near him, whining as Steve scooped him into his arms.  “No, please, have mercy.”

“This is my room, Tony,” Steve reminded.

“No, it’s a hotel room.”

“That is mine.”

“I have a key.”

Tony whined.  “Please?”

Steve sighed.  Tony still thought he was going to be given the boot.  He blinked in surprise when Steve set him down.  “Fine.”

Tony rolled over.  “Really?”  He grinned.

Steve frowned at him.  “Uh-huh,” he said, a touch warily.

Tony star-fished across his bed.  “Wow,” he said, pleased.  “I win.”

Steve rolled his eyes, muttered, “Just for tonight,” and turned to fish around his bag.  “Go to bed,” he told Tony.

Tony tried to resist, out of spite, but he was in Captain America’s bed, which was probably the safest place on the planet.  The only thing that could make it safer was Steve, himself, who finally stepped out of the bathroom dressed down for the evening, freshly shorn.  “You shave at night?” Tony murmured.

Shrugging, Steve responded elusively, “It’s calming.”  He tugged on Tony’s shoe.  “Get this off.”

Tony made a feeble effort.  “Can’t.  Stuck.”

Steve said, “I’m sure it is.”  He tugged it off neatly.

Tony said, “I have bones in there.  How do you—”  Steve tugged off his other shoe, as neatly and cleanly.  “Do that.”

“I’ll explain when you’re older,” Steve said dryly.  “You gonna change?”

Tony looked down at himself, then made a halfhearted attempt to remove the snug, ill-fitting hoodie.  “Maaaybe.”

“You’re like this sober, can’t imagine what you’re like drunk,” Steve muttered, not meanly, leveraging Tony upright—Tony groaned at the elevation change, the pressure it put on his slumped chest—and unzipping the hoodie.  “Hm?  Nothin’ to say to that?”

“Don’t be an ass,” Tony muttered smartly.

“Smart mouth,” Steve replied, gently tugging his arms out of the sleeves.

“I’ll have you know, people pay me to be smart.  Do they pay you to be pretty?”

Steve said, “Yes, actually.”

“Goddammit.”

“You take anything?” Steve asked.

“Hm?”

“You know.  Meds.  That kind of thing.”

“How old do you think I am?” Tony scowled.  “I’m half your age—”

“I just meant—”  Steve sighed.  “Forgedduhboutit.”

“No, you think I’m old,” Tony pouted.  “Decaying.  Wasting away.”  Steve was still close enough for Tony to drape his arms around Steve’s neck, so he did.  “I lasted twice as long as Barton in the van.”

“Yes, you did.”  Steve looked him over, then elaborated grudgingly, “You looked like you were in pain.”

“Oh.”  Tony offered a smile that might have looked like a grimace.  “We’re not all sleeping beauty.”

“You sure you’re not—”

“Yes,” Tony huffed.  “I will ask, thank you.”

“All right.”  Steve slinked back, slipping out of his hold.  Tony pouted.  “Don’t give me that look.”

“I’ll give you any look I want.  What time is it?”

“0100 hours.”

“And what time is it really?”

There was a long pause.  Tony squinted at him.  In the half-darkness—they hadn’t bothered turn the main lights on, just the hall light—Steve’s expression was flat.  “It’s.  1:35,” he said, slightly unpracticed.

“Oh, see, that’s early,” Tony simpered.  “I can go all night.”

“Goodnight, Tony.”

Tony flopped back down, then complained, “I hate your pillows.”

“Not even on ‘em.”
“I know.  But I hate them.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

Steve sighed.  Tony smirked at the ceiling.  “I used to hate you.”

“Strikingly, I was not unaware.”

“Pretty dumb way to chase cars,” Tony admitted, folding his arms behind his head, wincing at the way it tugged at his chest.  “Waste time, I mean.  I thought it’d be . . . interesting.”

“Really.”

“Everyone grovels.  Don’t you just want somebody to spit in your face, once?  Somebody you can slug, give ‘em a real piece of your mind?”

“Your mind is a strange, scary place, Tony.”

“I’ve been told.”

“Put you in danger, once.”

Now it was Tony’s turn to be silent.

“Look, I don’t mean to bring it up—”

“You just—brought it up.”  Tony swallowed.  “I don’t have a death wish,” he told the ceiling, eyes closed.

He heard the light switch off, felt the darkness press in on him a little more.  Then the bed dipped noticeably to his left.  Hm.  Left side of the bed.  “That’s my side,” he told Steve.

“All right.  Then switch with me.”

“Mm.  Too much work.”

“S’what I thought.”

Tony fought a smirk, aware of Steve’s eyes on him as a more-than-zero possibility.  “Hey, Cap?”

“Uh-huh?”

“This like a sleepover?”

“I guess so.”

“Kinda like the old days.”

“Guess so,” Steve repeated.

“We never shared a bed, then.”

“No, we didn’t.”

“You’ve put on weight.”

“Thanks, Tony.”

“No, I mean—why do you care?” he asked honestly, blinking and turning to look at him.  He wasn’t surprised to find Steve’s eyes on him, just visible in the moonlight seeping through the curtains.  Steve could probably see him better than he could see Steve.  “It’s basically a compliment,” he went on.  “Not—”

“Skinny Steve?”

Realizing he’d pressed indelicately on a very exposed nerve, Tony said diplomatically, “That’s fair.”

Steve looked at him steadily, then seemingly made himself blink once, breaking the stare.  His eyes were hooded, looking down, as he admitted, “Things were tough.  We always wished it was better.  Wished we had enough to eat, somewhere warm at night.  Now that we’ve—I’ve got it, it doesn’t feel right at all.”

Tony hooked a foot over Steve’s.  Steve continued to look down, somewhere near his chest but not really seeing him, as he said, “We dreamed so much about tomorrow, we didn’t realize today was—ugly, but good.  There was real ugliness.  But there was real good, too.”

“I’m sorry.”

Steve finally looked at him, lamplight eyes.  “Why are you sorry, Tony?”

“Personally?  For a lot.”  Tony stifled a yawn.  “I mean, I could make you a list, but can it wait ‘til morning?”  Steve didn’t humor him with a half-smile, watching him, quiet, intent.  “You’ve been here, what,  three years?  God, it doesn’t feel that long,” he verbalized.

A rueful half-smile flickered across Steve’s lips, doused before it could become more as he said, “S’been pretty long.  Three long years.”

“I mean—it’s like, yesterday.  We met.  Cut our teeth on each other.”  Tony slunk closer, taking advantage of Steve’s open, almost lackadaisical posture to slide up to him, making himself vulnerable by curling under Steve’s chin.  Steve draped an arm around his shoulders in return, and he suddenly felt like he fit.  “If I could do it twice, I’d do it better,” he confided, into the half-inch of space between them.

“Yeah, but we don’t get to do it twice.”

“Damn shame.”

“S’okay.”

Tony listened to him breathe for a while, surprised how deep and even it was, wide awake.  If Steve just closed his eyes, he would never suspect.  “Steve?” he asked.

“Hm?”

“Thanks.  For today.”

Steve squeezed him gently.  “You’re welcome.”  And then, just before Tony drifted off completely, he heard a soft: “Thank you.”

. o .

And that was it, whole—shebang.  “How Tony Stark Lost a House and Regained a Family,” with a little extra pixie dust.

Tony found, in the days that followed, he missed the happiest place on Earth.  He missed the silliness of it all, the lighthearted planning, the spirited usurping.  He did not miss Astro Orbiter, but he did wish he had thought to take a picture of Peter Parker offering the Buzz Lightyear kid a balloon, a wholesome, heart-warming moment if ever there was one.  He even missed the things he had, looking fondly over Star Wars merch that kept appearing in his new, temporary gig, like the Stormtrooper pillow or the “Do Or Do Not” mug, wondering if he shouldn’t have carved out time for Star Tours, if he couldn’t have soaked it all in more.  He even missed the music, like Steve perfecting the pirates’ dog whistle in three notes, or waltzing down Main Street to hits from another time, with Thor and Cap ahead of him, Banner under Steve’s arm.

It all just—seemed so rosy and wonderful in Tony’s memories, enhanced by illustrative pictures and a handful of character autographs.  Sam had gotten Peter Pan to sign his satchel; Clint had racked up nearly twice as many rides as anyone else.  Natasha crushed it at the sweater game, as well as the “best park photo,” taking a sweeping night shot from the castle to Main Street that Tony bowed to as superior to any of his half-hearted attempts to document their adventure.

Tony had taken narrative photos: long queues, crowded and colorful walkways, a bowl of melting strawberry ice cream, a moodily lit eight-layer chocolate cake.  Sam had actually captured more photos of Tony than Tony himself had, including two of Tony and Cap, heads together as they walked and talked, off to various adventures, and one with Tony looking truly flummoxed at his pile of balloons.  There was also one with just Cap looking up at the castle, a man out of time, caught in a moment.  Sam had also helpfully captured plenty of on-ride photographs with Peter and Clint and even Natasha, who refused to smile but did allow him to take the photo.  He looked happy in every one, radiantly happy, and even sent Tony a picture of a powdery Mickey Mouse shaped beignet.

Hungry for lunch, Tony pushed away from his bench and the memories on his phone, rubbing his eyes vaguely.  He slept erratically under the best of times, and the worst of times were upon him, the paranoid aftermath of yet another extravagantly oversized attempt on his life.  What ever happened, he thought wearily, taking another sip from his Do Or Do Not mug, to the good ol’ fashioned assassination from the streets?  At least he could wear armor, which did nothing against a full-on military attack against his home on the water.

There was a knock on the door, even as J.A.R.V.I.S. informed him, “Captain Rogers, sir.”

“Let him in,” Tony said.

The door slid open.  “Good morning,” Steve said, holding a fresh cup of coffee, oh God, oh yes.  “You may earn this after a nap,” Steve said.

Tony pouted.  “How do you know I didn’t nap?”

“He didn’t,” J.A.R.V.I.S. said at once.

“Thank you, traitor,” Tony told him, glaring at the little box that J.A.R.V.I.S. was operating out of, in lieu of a fully functioning lab.

“You’re quite welcome, sir.  I hope you enjoy your rest.”

Tony sighed.  Steve looked him over, then said, “Disney wear you down that much?”

“You know the weird thing?” Tony said, making grabby hands at the fresh coffee.  “I’ll keep drinking this,” he warned, indicating his old, cold, but still caffeinated coffee.  Steve passed him the drink; at least he wasn’t cruel.  Tony sighed in relief as he drank it.  “Thank you.”

“The weird thing?” Steve prompted.

Tony turned the mug, smirking at the little Darth Vader on it.  “I knew you had a bit of Sith in you.”

Steve frowned.  “What’s a Sith?”

“Stop it.”  When Steve continued to look at him, unmoved, Tony frowned.  “We showed you Star Wars.”

“The one with Spock?”

Tony gripped his chest.  He was quiet for just long enough that Steve knelt in front of him and asked with real concern, “Tony?”

“We didn’t show you Star Wars,” Tony whispered.  “We failed you.”

Steve squeezed his knee soothingly, expression shifting from concerned to comforting.  “Let’s go watch it,” he offered, knowing exactly what he was doing but Tony was not, repeat not, falling for it.  “No time like the present, right?”

“You smell like soap,” Tony told him, leaning into him a bit more than strictly necessary as Steve pulled him to his feet.

“Just got back from my run,” Steve said.  “It’s—5:30.  In the morning.”

“That’s . . . late,” Tony said, nodding in agreement, the hours catching up to him.  “Oh, that’s late.”

“Early,” Steve corrected.

Tony couldn’t say how he ended up in Steve’s bed, drooling into Steve’s shirt, but at least said-shirt had Star Wars on it.  That was a big plus.

He slept through the entire original trilogy.  It was honestly devastating, knowing that he missed introducing Captain America to the Greatest Cinema of All Time, and Tony would be sad about it later, lamenting, “I didn’t see your reaction to,” or “How could I let you go it alone,” but at least he got to watch Steve’s reaction to Jar Jar Binks.

Then he said, “That’s enough Star Wars for one day,” and that was that.

. o .

“Dole whip,” Tony said, testing out the word around a spoonful of Neapolitan ice cream.  “Dole . . . hw-ip.”

Steve looked up from his book on the Moon landing.  It was kind of weird having Steve around again, kind of awesome—he was used to both one-night-stands and we’re just friends, and Steve fit firmly in neither of those categories, because he was Steve—but mostly it was . . . like, coming home.  For the first time in months, he felt at home in his own skin again, like everything was safe.

And he could not stop thinking about damn Disney World.  Land.  Oh, who gave a damn, it was Disney, and they had—“Dole whip.”

“This a hint?” Steve asked.

Tony shook his head.  “No,” he said seriously.  “No, I just. . . .”  He shrugged, replacing the spoon in the carton.  “The Disney comedown is real.”

Steve set his book down, stood up, and, to Tony’s surprise and slight alarm, gave Tony a big hug.  “What are you doing?” Tony asked, resisting the urge to huddle in his arms when answers were needed.

“If you wanted a hug,” Steve said instead, “you could’ve just asked.”

Tony thought of many wise and clever responses to that.  Then he sank into Steve’s hold, winding his own arms around Steve’s waist.  “Just don’t let go,” Tony advised.  “And everything will be fine.”

Steve assured, “I won’t.”

And everything was okay.

. o .

They told exactly no one.  Not even Bruce, who Tony told everything, the most intimate, soul-searing aspects of his life.

The world never knew that Tony and Steve returned to Disneyland, on their own, two weeks later.

Painful as it was to abstain from coffee even for a few hours on the road, Tony relished being able to sit down with his first cup in the park, along with Steve, who was pleased as punch not to be a standout tourist for the occasion, dressed in modest, neutral-toned attire.  Steve admitted the caffeine did nothing for him—rest was fulfilling and deep, and he rarely got tired unless he skipped his two-hour nightly cycle—but it was comfort food, a reminder that the world kept turning but people still craved coffee in the morning.  He was human once, too, he joked, with a wry bent to his mouth.

They sat at the little patio and watched a few street performers do a gig, enjoying the breezy, perfect morning in the happiest place on Earth.

It was comfortable, watching the wave of people go by.  A little intimidating—even Tony’s look out sense falsely alerted a few times—but mostly enjoyable.  Steve seemed to relax more, too, the longer they just sat back and allowed the stream to go by.  No sudden detonations or alien invasions—only people enjoying the morning. 

Tony didn’t know a lot about exposure therapy—he had heard the name and promptly dismissed any real desire to get over his fear of being half-drowned if that was The Way—but he figured it probably didn’t hurt to layer on a few positive, or at bare minimum neutral, experiences with crowds, to the chaos of their lives.  He wasn’t afraid of water because he had deconditioned himself to it, slowly, painfully, possibly the wrong way but a way.  Maybe exposure therapy was easier, objectively better.  Or maybe it was just the way for some people.  Maybe it helped Steve Rogers, to have a chance to look at his surroundings, rather than being forced to adapt on the fly to them.

Steve could front like nobody’s business, but Tony enjoyed turning him loose on green pasture and seeing what happened, as opposed to hauling him into deep water to see him swim.  Steve took his time, as with everything—Tony, enjoying himself, moved fast; Steve, enjoying himself, moved almost painstakingly slow, sipping at his coffee.  Tony finally drew a tic-tac-toe board on a napkin, and they played almost twenty rounds before running out of space, no matter how they folded it.  At first, it was anyone’s game, but in the end, Steve could not lose.  Tony asked him, “What’s the secret?”

Steve shrugged.  “Everyone’s got a tell,” he said elusively, drawing up another board.

He worked quietly through whatever hang-up kept him glued to his chair, announcing, “Okay,” while Tony lifted both eyebrows hopefully.

Tony half-expected a repeat performance of the first visit—“Tea Cups, Matter Horn, Big Thunder”—but Steve looked at a hard map, pointed out an attraction near the middle of the field, asked, “What’s this?” and that was how they ended up in front of a ride that made Tony gulp.

Looking up at the signage, Tony said bleakly, “It had to happen sometime.”

“We don’t have to ride it, Tony,” Steve assured.

Tony just shook his head and tugged Steve towards the queue.  At least the line was short, Tony thought mournfully, settling into the little boat next to Steve.  The instrumental was already loud, even if the words weren’t distinguishable yet

They didn’t need to be; it was all in the ride’s name: it’s a small world.

Steve sat—innocent, sweet, uncorrupted, a perfect specimen of human form—beside him, looking around, taking it all in with owlish interest.  Then he directed his attention mostly ahead as their boat glided forward.

Tony sucked in a fortifying breath, reminding himself, It is already too late to get out.

This was scarier than any hook-waving pirate, Tony thought, huddling very close to Steve.  He wanted out, and they had barely begun.  It’s just a song, Tony repeated.  Like “happy birthday.”

If a particularly spirited rendition of happy birthday was sung thirteen times in a row without intermission, it might capture the general flavor of it’s a small world. 

To those who had never heard the whimsical, celebratory tune, it was delightful and uplifting, something that spoke to human bonds on a deeply personal level.  What other song featured one’s name as the chorus line?  Yet it was not uplifting to those who shied away from the performative nature of the song, who cringed especially upon hearing their own name inserted into the melody.  To them, it was a painful experience, thankfully endured only once a year.

That was about as fondly as Tony thought of it’s a small world. 

Once every four decades was still too often, in his books.  He gripped his own knee tightly for support for thirteen harrowing minutes (excluding two brief mid-ride stops that truly tested his patience) and tried to shut it out.  He was very unsuccessful in the latter, as Steve, with far too much wonder, whispered, “Tony, look,” and pointed out—well, everything. 

From the towering, silly giraffes in the rainforest, to the whimsical, skating penguins in the arctic, to the human marionettes, like dancing Hawaiian girls to swinging trapeze artists, Steve missed nothing and delighted in everything.  He laughed aloud at times, short giggling heh-heh-hehs that he never bothered to elaborate on.  He looked like a kid who had finally experienced a real birthday party, after so many years spent never imagining there was more.

And for that—Tony would happily endure it’s a small world, after all.