I have a massive issue coming up with titles for stories. Must work on that.

The Avengers. PG-13, Steve/Tony. Around 1100 words. In which Brooklyn (yes, the neighborhood) gets personified and there is, as per usual, coffee.



He’s sitting in the open window, on the sill, one leg tucked up against his body with an arm thrown across his knee, the other gently bumping against the brick of the building in time with the rhythm of the city. The metal of the fire escape feels cool under his toes. He’s got a mug of coffee in his other hand, and steam slowly curls up from the surface of the liquid.

The city pulses below him. He watches people on the sidewalks, people in light jackets, maybe a scarf, fall’s starting to encroach and the mornings are getting cooler. He can see the bus stop at the corner where people are gathered, waiting for the bus, going to work. A young boy runs by right below him, the tails on his hat flopping against his shoulders. A woman rushes after him, and although he can’t hear what she’s saying to the boy, she sounds vaguely harried.

There’s steam rising from manhole covers and out of vents in the buildings, misting and ghosting across brick and steel. He smiles and takes a sip of coffee, enjoys the warmth. He takes a moment to enjoy the heat rising out of the overlarge mug before there are footsteps behind him, and he doesn’t have to turn around to know exactly who they belong to.

“It’s cold. Why in bloody hell do you have the window open?” The voice belonging to the footsteps sounds distinctly annoyed and just a little bit tired.

“It’s cool, not cold.” He corrects and swivels his head to grin at the man behind him. Tony’s obviously stolen some of his clothes, and although the warm-up pants fit fine, the sweater he’s managed to grab is too big through the shoulders and the chest, and it hangs down over his hands, leaving just his fingers poking out. He’s got his arms crossed against his chest, his shoulders hunched. He looks like he may actually be cold.

Steve scoots over in the window and pats the empty sill next to him, which is all the invitation Tony needs to slouch down beside him, curled up on himself. He lets his legs hang out the window.

“I’m gonna need to steal that coffee of yours for a moment.” He smiles at Steve out of the corner of his eye, and Steve laughs, but offers up the mug. Tony practically snatches it and takes a very long drag of coffee before sighing happily. He holds it between his hands, and Steve swears it looks like Tony may actually be caressing the cup. The look on his face is that of pure happiness. It’s amazing what coffee can do to the man.

“You know, you’d be warmer if you put on some socks or shoes. Or both.” Steve points out, retrieving the coffee. Tony wiggles his toes and ignores the comment, although he snatches a pointed look at Steve’s own sockless-feet, before returning his gaze to the city below and around him. They’re four floors up. Tony looks wistfully out to the left, where the monumental skyline that is downtown rises out of the water.

Tony scoots over a bit, melding himself against Steve’s side and letting his head fall sideways on Steve’s shoulder. Steve transfers his coffee to the other hand and slips an arm around Tony, running his fingers over the rough fabric of the sweater.

“You’re not worried about anyone seeing us?” Steve cracks, nudging Tony lightly with his shoulder and grinning. Tony always seems to be paranoid about ending up on the cover of every gossip rag in town. He lost his faceplate battling alien robot Dinosaurs in Central Park last week and just about had a freak-out session right there in the middle of a battle because, as Steve remembers, “Oh my god, you guys, cameraphones.”

“No one’s looking for Tony Fucking Stark in Brooklyn.” Tony snorts. “People don’t realize that I exist in other places besides Midtown and the Upper East Side. I think if someone saw us right now Page Six wouldn’t be having a field day with ‘Tony Stark and Captain America: GAY!’ but rather ‘Tony Stark: spotted OUTSIDE of Manhattan!’”

Steve laughs, he can almost hear the capitalization in Tony’s voice.

“What happens when you stay at the house in Malibu?” Steve teases, brushing some of Tony’s hair out of his eyes. Tony obviously hasn’t seen a brush since he woke up, his hair is an absolute disaster.

“The world ceases to exist, I would assume” Tony replies sagely. “However, people will start noticing if I’m necking with you like a horny teenager in an open window, so can we take this inside so I can abuse various parts of you via my mouth?”

“Oh sure.” Steve says simply and stands up, carefully, he’s smacked his head on the window before, and offers a hand to Tony, who takes some time getting up, he’s still not all the way awake. Tony sneaks what’s left of the coffee before depositing the mug on the windowsill and walking Steve backwards through the loft, which ends with both of them tangled in a splay of limbs and sheets on Steve’s bed.

Steve’s gotten used to how Tony’s mouth feels, how it tastes, how Tony kisses. He tastes like metal and kisses like nothing else in the world matters, that the whole universe has been condensed to only the room he’s in. When he moves and shifts it’s all languid and graceful movements and when his hands tangle in the drawstrings of Steve’s pants, when long fingers trace his waistband, Steve can feel that Tony knows exactly what he wants to do and how he’s going to do it before he’s even started.

Tony had a good idea what Steve kissed like before he’d ever gotten anywhere near his mouth. He was pretty much right. He’s a romantic, you can tell, he’s all consideration and willingness. He moves with power and strength, and yet when he trails his fingertips over Tony’s shoulders, down his sides, he’s nothing but delicate and caring. But when those fingertips are digging into Tony’s hips, rocking and thrusting, they’re rough and hard and that just happens to be exactly what Tony likes.

When they’re curved together, sheets a mess and half off the bed, the cover tossed (mostly) over their legs, they fit. They trade long, lingering kisses and playful pokes and words and listen to the city beat-boxing and breathing outside the window, jazzing and living down on street, in concrete and brick and sky and everything in between.