Obliteration of fifty percent of Earth's residents doesn't look pretty. One hour past Decimation, survivors find themselves standing on the brink of civilisation collapsing under its own weight. Day-to-day operations grind to a halt because talents and manpower – the crucial cogs and gears in this goddam machinery – are just gone. Rhodes turns on the TV to find a man wearing a sombre expression standing behind a wooden podium. His light grey, two-piece suit has clearly seen better days. He remains among the living, and to him the people turn to for consolations – some enlightenment to make sense of it all.
"Guys, it's the President."
"– a tragedy that nobody can make either head or tail of. Analysts, scientists all over the world are still running the numbers. There will be a time to mourn for our losses, but for now, for today, we dry our tears. What we need is courage and determination to salvage what is left, so tomorrow happens. Today is not the end."
Steve sinks deeper into his armchair. His eyes glaze over a montage of downtown Manhattan – or what's left of it – playing after the President's speech. There's marginal difference between that and the Hulk throwing a fit between 43rd and Park Avenue, but he knows better because Bruce Banner is only off his peripheral view running his own numbers and making calls, most of which went unanswered. Thanos didn't care if he'd wiped out fifty percent of the population that mattered, and something inside Steve shrivels at that very thought.
We don't trade lives.
Why is Steve Rogers here, and the one guy who can fix this not?
"Steve?" Bruce calls out from his workstation. He's holding out a phone. "It's Pepper."
Colonel Chester Philips told him he'd signed more of those condolence letters than he would care to count. That was in the 40's. Since then, Steve started counting himself and in the grand scheme of thing, what's one more after some tens of thousands? Plenty of practice to go around.
He takes the phone from Bruce and clears his throat. "Pepper? It's really good to hear from you."
Courage, the President said. Courage.
"It's Tony. I can't – he was in the spaceship, and I can't reach him –"
It's a sooner or later thing when they sign up for this Avenging gig – probably sooner. When things go sideways, somebody has got to pick up the pieces. When ominous giant donuts started hanging out in their skies, Steve figured this was it. He rolled up his sleeves when Bruce spoke over the burner phone. Bruce, not Tony, and that made all the difference. That educated him instantly on the kind of odds that was stacked against them.
"After all that's happened between you two, I know what I'm about to ask is too much."
"For what it's worth, Pepper? I'm sorry for what happened. Not one day go by without…" Words, really? What use is all the apologies? All just too little, too late.
"But, if you can bring him back…" Pepper is crying again, and he wishes someone is there with her. Someone else who doesn't have a spare combat suit disguised as a briefcase. Maybe if that were the case, Pepper wouldn't have to beg for a favour over the landline and Steve didn't have to tell her that they might just bury an empty casket at Arlington.
"Please? It's all I'm asking."
"You know I will."
He hasn't started hoping since Tony was declared MIA on national news. He isn't going to start now, with or without a promise made. After Pepper hangs up, Steve decides to wash down the aftertaste with some semblance of results from Bruce's investigations. Some of the overwhelming volume of number crunching should be informative.
"The Iron Man suit isn't responding or emitting any signals." Bruce brings up a holographic projection of Tony's latest body scan. "It's too advanced. I've only seen it once for some twenty minutes. It's part of him –"
"Part of him?"
"It's…" Bruce taps at the centre of his own chest. "Tony implanted some storage device for nanomachines, I'm not too clear myself, where the arc reactor used to be. If we can locate the suit, we can locate Tony. I'm not seeing anything on my sweep, so either the suit is down or it's far too advanced that it escapes conventional tracking algorithms. I pray it's the latter."
"It's going to be anarchy." Natasha saunters through the door and promptly mutes the TV. "All the other terror that this planet has experienced, at least we can see it coming. When people face things they don't understand, they react. Some run and hide. Some, by instinct, attack."
Rhodes crosses his arms over his chest. "Really, Nat? Violence is the first thing that comes to mind? Have a heart."
"This isn't the time for your bleeding heart. When our country's defence is down, everything in it is just sitting ducks, ripe for the taking –"
"There are no borders anymore! Some alien warlord just beamed himself to Wakanda, lay waste to a country equipped with bleeding edge military defence and weaponry, tore us apart like hot knife through butter –"
"That's enough." Steve's voice, so chillingly impassive quenches further dissent. He starts heading for the door. He knows his team, and he knows what this is. Reacting. "You're right. Security should be our top concern, but so is the welfare of those who survived. The world doesn't end in that snap. We have work to do." He steps out of the room. "We can mourn on the side."
The first ten steps he takes were supposed to take him to the washroom where he can either shower or drown himself in the sink. He can't quite disregard Natasha's talk of impending threats because the 21st century has taught him things, and not taking peace and safety for granted is one of them. Especially when all of Tony's mad rambling comes true in all the worst ways. And for all the opportunities that Steve could've done something to stop them, he did not. So, this is him trying to right his wrongs. Still too little, too late.
Steve looks into the mirror before him and sighs. His two guests of non-Earth origin are housed upstairs. Thor, he trusts with his life. A king who's willing to lay everything down for a brother he believes in all his heart to be good, if only… severely misguided. But the trigger-happy space raccoon who punctuates the common tongue with bad language words, that, Steve does not trust. He wonders every time he makes his way upstairs if he'll find a carcass on the floor – seems like the sort of thing that would happen given time. This evening is no different, and when Steve opens the door to Thor's room without knocking, he skilfully tunes out the litany of cusses hurled his way, choosing instead to focus on the holographic blipping dot and vectors and a blueprint of a spaceship shaped like a swallow.
Steve closes the door behind him. "Thor, what is this?"
"Rabbit here has been trying to locate his friends –"
"He has friends?"
"Hey, listen here you fuc–"
"We parted ways with the Guardians on their ship called the Benatar. There's not a lot to go on, but if they respond to our signal, we know they're alive."
"Or someone on their ship is," Steve argues.
"We get their location as well, and an estimate of how close they are to Earth."
"If they're not friendlies?"
Thor's eyes sneak sideways to where Stormbreaker is leaning innocently against a table leg. "We're also reaching out to another ship. When Thanos and his Children lay siege on my people…" and Thor's voice cracks. Even a god's charade can only hold up so much. "He swore to spare half of us. I ordered my friends, brave warriors they are to lead our people someplace safe where Thanos cannot reach. As for those who refused to go…" Steve notices how Thor's hand glides over the handle of a dagger that he carries on his hip, too ornate to be a commoner's tool. "My heart is with you and the Avengers, Captain. But I have my responsibility over the people of Asgard, as does Rabbit to his family."
Rocket's ears droop, though he continues to type on his keyboard as if the words didn't matter.
For the next couple of weeks, Steve goes around the country on his Harley in a weak attempt of keeping himself useful during the waiting. To be sure, he doesn't know what of. A final onslaught that ends all? The Asgardian spaceship or the Benatar to finally ping "hello"? What if this is as good as it gets?
But first, he puts Natasha's concerns to the test. He reclaims his identity – not as Captain America, but a man on the luckier side of Decimation. He shaves clean, puts on the colours of the flag on his back. He comes onto national TV and pledges to help rebuild the nation the best he could. He steps off the stage – hands miraculously uncuffed – with an admission that in the end, it really does take a Mad Titan to unite them all. Despite all the milestones they hit one week after another, news from the Guardians or Asgardian survivors remains elusive.
He works until the life force is drained from his body, and he sleeps however much he can before the nightmares end it. It's a wash, rinse, repeat until one midnight, Rocket cannonballs into his bedroom and chucks a tablet at his head.
"Listen to this, listen!"
Steve accidentally taps on the screen in his haste to throttle his intruder when that voice plays from the speakers. "…part of the journey is the end."
Steve sits straighter in his bed. "Tony?"
"When I drift off… think of you… always you…"
"What's this – where did you get this?"
"It's from the Benatar!" Rocket snatches the tablet and keys in something, and the audio stops. "They've also been ping-ing these coordinates. They've changed since half hour ago, but only by a bit, not even a full clip! Don't think they can make a jump either."
Steve shoves the blanket off his feet and gets off his bed. There's something important happening here but he's too afraid to call the shot. Rocket looks up at him with a blank expression on his face.
"You mentioned coordinates. You know where they are?"
"Yeah, but all I know is they're drifting in space."
"So?"
"So, space is a pretty big place, Captain. We need to know exactly where they are if we want to get to them, not approximately, but exactly. And we don't have a ship of our own to begin with. And unless you have a couple of space suits hung up in your wardrobe, I don't see how we're going to get there at all!"
"Captain!" Thor's voice positively boomed in the stillness of the night. He navigates past the splinters and hinges that were once a proper door. "Rabbit has shown you the records? That Stark still lives?"
Even now, he hasn't hoped. "It's just a recording, Thor. There's no guarantee that he's alive."
"Then, let's make sure. I'll go. We have the coordinates."
"The coordinates aren't definite. The ship is drifting, and we don't have a ship to launch a rescue mission." Nothing they don't already know. "You're supposed to wait here for your people. You can't leave now."
"We shan't waste any more time." Thor advances on Steve. The god has no malice in him, but the wrath in his eyes chill Steve to his bones. "The longer we wait, the further away they'll be from its last known coordinate. And when they drift too far away, even a miracle can't save them."
A miracle, eh?
Bloodthirsty aliens from outer space, Infinity Stones, magic… all stuff of nightmare, all real. They have one of those miracle workers on the Avengers' speed dial, haven't they? Can't believe it took him this long to even consider this. Wong runs the Sanctum Sanctorium in Stephen Strange's absence, and there he remains until a new Sorcerer Supreme is appointed. Steve explains and asks and begs for Wong to help, to wave his magic wand and open up that portal to the Benatar. It's suicidal, it's foolish, yes, he knows the odds.
"You're not the first to ask me this, Captain. Dr Banner called five minutes after my plumber turned into dust, saying that this is happening elsewhere and if I could help… reverse it?" Wong laughs wryly. "He called last month, asking if I could help out with the search of Tony Stark. And just ten minutes ago? This. I'm a Master of the Mystic Arts, not a magician."
It takes every star in the galaxy to be aligned for Wong's portal to pop up within the Benatar. Not one inch off – exactly within. That's Rocket's explanation, which he supposes isn't an exaggeration since Bruce's version is just as morbid. So accidentally summoning the portal in vacuum or splicing the hull or an engine cube would vent everyone on board into space. He got it, loud and clear.
He used to have one pain-in-the-ass genius-mechanic-engineer to crunch these data for him.
This is why he doesn't do hoping anymore. Dangling that morsel of hope before his nose only to yank it away? Moving on is mercy. Steve vaguely remembers nodding and marching right out of Thor's room, not yet willing to give in to logic and common sense. For this stubbornness, he suffers. He finds himself in the Quinjet somehow, absent-mindedly going through the armoury to oil some guns. Not that they need oiling urgently, but it's either this or punching holes in walls.
The chaos in his head does not silence Natasha's approaching footsteps. She touches his arm lightly, and in measured tones, she says, "They'll do it. It's not impossible, but there's quite a few kinks to iron out. Bruce is getting the math right. Rocket is mapping out the Benatar's dimension. Thor is talking Wong through some space physics and… magic."
For all he knows, there may be other ways of getting Tony back in one piece with much higher certainty. Maybe asking Wong to carve a hole in the very fabric of space is the stupidest of the options. Hindsight is twenty-twenty, and Steve thinks he'll concern himself with the what-if's after the ship blasts apart with Tony in it.
Sometimes, you gotta run before you can walk.
"You were right, Nat." Steve stops abusing the oil rag and sets his sidearm on his lap. "Staying together is more important than how we stay together. I gave up on him when he hadn't."
"Steve! Steve – dammit, stop hitting me in the leg – Steve! You gotta see this!"
Rocket's furry head is the first to poke through the Quinjet's entrance, and by pure reflex, Steve manages to catch the tablet that Rocket chucks at him. The screen is still projecting a blinking red dot on the centre of multiple concentric circles. Nothing Steve hasn't seen before.
"It's jumping, Steve," Bruce says, having climbed up the narrow strip of stairs after Rocket. A small smile is playing on his dry lips. "In the last hour alone, the Benatar has jumped past Jupiter, and I'm guessing at this rate, it's probably in Mars' orbit." Steve looks up at Bruce, perplexed. "Don't you see it?" Bruce comes forward to shake Steve a bit by his arms. "They're coming home! Here, to Earth! I – we," and Bruce glances at Rocket, "have confirmed the trajectory. Tony's coming back!"
It hurts in the depth of his throat. His prayers, answered. His fears, eroded. And Steve says slowly, "We don't know that yet."
"Steve –"
"If it's coming for us, we're meeting them prepared."
"It's Tony, Steve – listen!"
"Suit up and be on standby until that ship enters our atmosphere. Other countries will be watching the skies. Tell them we got this. Rocket, send note to Wong and Thor, tell them to put their plan on hold. We need them on defence. Bruce." He turns to Bruce, expecting green fists to make a paste of his skull. But, he can't, can he? "If you can't get the Other Guy going, you stay back. We may need backup for this one, so alert the Secretary of Défense."
Then they all file out of the Quinjet, all but Steve and Natasha. Their steps are heavy, no hurry in their paces. They're way past celebrating little victories.
"We should tell Pepper." Natasha says, breaking up the silence. "Tony will want her to be here. We'll keep her with Bruce until it's clear."
He's way past celebrating, then. He's broken inside. He's given up. He has, on Tony, when Tony hasn't. Not his first time. Tony's coming back, and he can't bring himself to believe so.
"This is going to work, Steve," Natasha says finally, with such surety that Bruce and Rocket were searching for when they came in here. Nothing Steve could provide. Not like this.
"I know it will." His voice cracks as he turns to her. "Because I don't know what I'm going to do if it doesn't."
It doesn't matter what's on the Benatar. It's salvation regardless. Be it Tony Stark – alive and well – or that fight he's been waiting for. The other shoe that was supposed to drop. Between that wretched ambition and Earth, here stands Steve Rogers.
What more could he lose?
By late evening, the Quinjet has been prepped and flight paths have been arranged in advance. They know it's entering the north hemisphere, and then North America…
"It's time," Thor declares, and the Avengers gather on the grassy compound outside Exit E. There's no sight of the Benatar yet, but the clouds are parting. An anomaly is passing through.
Steve watches a tiny breach in the skyline. "I don't suppose Ross would let the Avengers handle this."
Natasha's eyes track the descent of said anomaly. "Bruce is taking care of their radars." And it's working beautifully. It hasn't been shot at yet, has it? He doesn't see Ross and his posse poking their noses into Avengers' business. But they're taking no chances and no hostages if it comes down to it. Pepper Potts understandably wasn't the happiest civilian when she learned that instead of champagne and confetti, the Benatar is getting mounted artillery gunning for it. As a rubbish token of apology, she's allowed to stand with them on the fields with Steve's express permission, and only after she swears to him that she'll seek shelter the minute something doesn't look right. She has more than earned her place with them that night.
"He doesn't like me talking about you, or about what happened in Siberia but Captain," Pepper sighs, "for what it's worth, he's not… holding a grudge against you. He hasn't been for a long time."
Well, if they're going to have The Talk, Steve supposes now is as good a time as any.
"The rare two times you and your friends were spotted in Milwaukee, I think, and you appeared on national TV, he rolled his eyes so bad I thought I heard them pop in his skull."
He remembers that incident, and boy it was a doozy. "Bet he was the one behind security detail that midnight. Pretty thorough. Almost locked down all exits out of town –"
"Save for the one that goes past Greenfield." Pepper smiles. "They were not Ross men'. Armed and guarded to the teeth, sure, Tony wasn't sure what you would do if they accidentally crossed your path."
"'Cause we're all weapons of mass destruction in his book."
"Tony's instructions were clear: maintain civilian order and leave Rogers and his company alone. The exit was cleared for only one purpose. You got out fine, didn't you, Captain? And it's been like that ever since. Any time Ross gets a sniff of your trail, Tony intercepts them. You've got some close shaves, but he's been watching over you. All of you."
Then they hear it. The Benatar sure kicks up a racket with its engines working overtime and heating up like the Sun itself. The ship survived atmospheric entry – Bruce warned them that this could go hairy, but they'd beat the odds. Steve taps the communication device lodged in his ear when it comes alive with Bruce's updates. "Incoming with a steady flight pattern. It's a guided vehicle."
Steve nods once. "Listen up, Avengers. Be prepared for all possibilities. Friend or foe. Do not let your guard down. The moment it attempts landing, I want thermo and infrared scans of occupants. Rhodes, any sign of hostility, take to the sky and cover us. Thor, you're our heaviest hitter. I need you on the frontline." He takes Pepper carefully by her elbow. "Pepper, fall back. You'll know if it's him."
Thor closes rank and the very air around him crackle.
At first, Steve thought what an odd shape that is for a spaceship. A hawk-like beak at the front and wings that curve down aren't the most aerodynamic designs out there, though that shouldn't matter for shuttling through vacuum, should it? That's one intelligent question to break the ice with when Tony struts down the ramp. The second would be who, for all the grace in heavens, would colour the exterior ostensibly metallic gold and red?
"Look alive, Avengers," Rhodey's voice comes through their earpieces.
Debris lifts into the night air. It's here, it's landing, and it's magnificent. Steve looks up at the ship in awe and cups his brow with his right hand to shield his eyes. He hears a soft purr under all the engine's roar. The bottom of the ship detaches, and it lowers, inch by inch.
Nothing is on it.
"Cap, thermal cameras register two humanoid presences in the front of the ship. I don't think they're humans… their heat distribution isn't normal."
Steve raises his left arm, and a Wakandan shield forms over his fist. "Rhodes."
"Roger that, Captain."
"Thor, we go in, we take them down only if they strike first."
They creep closer to the ramp, ears cocked, weapons ready. Not even the slightest breeze or sound greet them from the belly of the ship. Bruce reaffirms that there's movement, so both are presumably alive. Why aren't they making contact?
If Rocket's blueprint were accurate, this sixty-foot long ransacked chamber housing upended tables and lounging chairs must be the cargo bay of the Benatar. Up ahead is a door, already ajar. It should take them to the flight deck.
"Air's a bit thin in here," Thor whispers again.
Something crunches under his boots and Steve cringes visibly. Cover busted. Thor raises Stormbreaker to ear level. Might as well. And then, he hears it. Weak, but close by.
"Over here."
The walls around him and the floor under him all was but a flurry, his feet carrying him at a reckless speed in a spaceship he and Thor haven't yet declared safe. He doesn't see Tony when he breaches the flight deck and regrets that this could be a trap after all. But that voice –
"Rogers?"
To his left –
"Thor? Well, this is quite a reunion."
Tony Stark, in flesh and blood, is sitting right there in the pilot's chair, grinning from ear to ear. He has aged a century it seems, haggard and exhausted, slouching in his posture. Steve takes a step forward and something else flickers. Tony's not unaccompanied. Her jet-black eyes absorb the very light in this space, and she's whirring. There's something disconcerting about her that reminds Steve of this twin bell alarm clock he had as a teenager before Bucky accidentally swiped it off the table. This is the man who made the first iteration of Iron Man with a box of scrapes. Is this what he conjured in his time of needs?
Tony gestures at his blue companion. "Allow me to introduce you my sister-in-arms, Nebula." He waves vaguely at Steve's direction. "Nebula, Steve Rogers and Thor of Asgard."
This is it. His questions, his icebreakers. Was it something about the stupid design of the Benatar or the stupid colours of the outsides –
"How many, Rogers?"
Steve couldn't. "Fifty percent."
Nebula rests her hand atop Tony's shoulder. Tony lets that. Tony never lets that. "What about Pepper?"
"She's fine, she's outside, waiting for you."
"Happy? Rhodey?"
"On the compound. Natasha and Clint made it too."
"I can smell the raccoon on you." Nebula turns to Thor. She's almost sneering, but it's all part of the act. Steve can tell – it's bereavement under all the nonchalance. Makes no sense to programme bereavement into trinkets, though. Her movements are fluid, human-like. Her knuckles are strained but so are Thor's, wrapped firmly about Stormbreaker. "At least one of them survives."
"One of what?" Steve interjects.
"One of the Guardians."
"OK. OK…" Tony's hunching over more in his seat, but his sad smile persists. Nebula grips him tightly that his undershirt bunches up under her fingers. In the low light, the bluish gleam of the nanomachines shines brilliantly in his chest.
"How's Asgard? If you're here, I suppose your people are faring better than us. Send my hugs and kisses to your beloved brother, will you? I hate to say this, but we need all the man we can spare for our next amazing quest."
"Asgard is…"
Tony's throat works up as he breathes. Newly-formed sweat beads on his forehead.
"Asgard is no more, Stark. Thanos came for us when he possessed the first of Stones. Loki held the second. Half of our people were set free, but I know not where they go. Loki stayed behind, as did other brave warriors who fought for the Throne and our people. All perished… but me."
Tony lets out a long-held exhale. "It's good to see you, Thor."
Steve looks away from the pilot's seat.
"All right then." Tony's bare feet slap on the floor and the chair creaks when he leans into it. "I gotta see Pepper."
Steve too had had enough of the claustrophobic flight deck and the adjoining cargo bay that smells faintly of space mildew. Thor paves the way out and Steve intends to flank Tony and Nebula. He hangs back, working up to courage to finally ask about Benatar's aerodynamics when Nebula almost elbows him in the gut. The Wakandan shield activates that instant, Tony says something, Nebula shouts something –
"Stark, you promised!"
Tony has deftly manoeuvred himself between Steve and Nebula, one hand staying Steve's shielded fist, his other clutching his left side. The last time they were this close, it was bloodshed.
Tony's body is ice-cold where he contacts Steve's.
"I know. It's just for a sec. I got to, you understand?"
"You're no use to me dead."
Thor lifts Stormbreaker by an inch. "Who's dying?"
"He needs –"
"Enough chit-chat." Tony pushes past Nebula. "Pepper. Now." And Tony slumps sideways onto the door frame. Steve is closest – Steve catches him, tries to steady him on wobbling legs.
"What's wrong?" He checks Tony over. Bloodshot eyes, grey hair, clammy skin, accelerated heart beat… "Tony, focus." Tony sags further, his strength slipping by the seconds. One bloodied hand comes up to fist a corner of Steve's shirt. "No, no. We need medical, now!"
He just got Tony back.
"Rogers." Tony's breath comes in hot, and he's curling into himself. His words are hard to hear. "Pepper. Please."
They're out in the open by some remarkable team effort that involves Thor lowering Tony down shafts and ladders when it becomes painfully clear that Tony is only conscious on sheer stubbornness. When they traipse down the ramp, Pepper is already there to receive them. Steve has been supporting most of Tony's weight by now, tugging at one of Tony's useless arms across his shoulders.
"Tony!" And Pepper runs towards the Benatar. Tony just crumbles into her. This is a tale of a hard-won reunion. The kind of victory that doesn't ring hollow. The kind that burns hot as if he hasn't earned his place here.
The Benatar engines are still running. Its headlights shine so brightly on Tony like a halo above him, and Steve sees it.
"I asked for the medic." He strides closer to the mourning couple. The back of Tony's shirt – just an inch above his waist – glistens, as wet as Pepper's cheeks. "I need help, now!"
Pepper's brows begin to knit. "Tony?"
Steve is already running when Tony's falling. Not on his watch – not on his goddam watch because he'll shatter if he sees the light goes out in Tony's eyes. Blood flows between their fingers – Steve's over Tony's. The gushing heat drives Steve's own cold.
"Stay with me," Steve mutters under his breath. He presses down on the wound, puts on pressure where it hurts the most. He trades useless apologies for all of Tony's gasps and stray tears until the paramedics arrive to carry Tony someplace safe.
All Steve is left with is a pair of sticky bloodied hands again.
And then comes the waiting. What's worse was finding out what they wheeled into ER on that gurney. The lacerations, bruises, contusions – Steve could deal. Moderate dehydration and starvation? Tony does that to himself on any good Tuesdays, no problem. The stab wound that went through his left flank, that by some medical miracle had missed key arteries and organs?
They brought Tony back in pieces.
Med techs said they found trace nanoparticles surrounding the puncture. That needs cleaning up but is still nothing compared to the series of trauma surgeries necessary to fix his body. Doctors tell him Tony Stark is alive. He's stable. Unconscious. "Give him a week," they say, and Steve thanks them truly. For now, this is enough.
As for him, he doubles the time he spends at counselling. He does anything that needs doing so he doesn't have any to spare worrying, regretting and grieving. Fake it till he make it. That's all he intends on doing, and each time he thinks of a chance's chance to heal the world, he gets up and paces. Tony shouldn't have come back, but he did. Just because the impossible was possible, doesn't mean resurrection is. There are rules governing the universe, rules a scientist like Tony would understand better.
Steve drags a stack of plastic chairs from one corner to the centre of the basketball court. They were going to have another sharing session in one hour. He doesn't want to think about rules and Tony's tendency to understand them just so he could bend them.
The hard plastic and rusted metals of the folded chairs can't erase the feel of congealed blood and sweat of Tony's feverish form. It's been almost a week since.
"Steve?"
Steve heaves another tower of seven stacked-up chairs over his shoulder. "Next sharing starts in one hour."
"We recovered Nick's SUV. Empty."
"OK." The chairs land neatly on the floor, by the stage and a row of fake daffodils. Two towers of chairs down, three to go. "Anything else that we know already?"
"We found a pager by the tyres, and Nick's thumbprints were all over it."
"Was it active?"
"It was until thirty minutes ago. The batteries run out. Bruce is working on it."
The chairs will have to wait. "Can we get a record of messages from it?"
"This is alien tech."
Arguably, if Tony Stark made nanomachines like they came straight out of Larry Lieber books, then charging a pager from the nineties should've been a piece of cake.
"Didn't Tony study the Chitauri's weaponry and vehicles? What about Ultron? They're alien enough, aren't they?"
"This is… another level of alien." Natasha runs tired fingers through her stubbornly blonde hair. There's no need for disguises anymore. There's been a temporary truce between Anti- and Pro-Registration. All hands are needed on deck now, no matter which side of the Accord they happen to fall on. "Give him some time."
It's also been a week since Steve last been to the hospital. While toiling away in the communal gym on a bleak Monday morning, Pepper calls him.
"He asks for you."
Steve sighs, and stops the treadmill he was running on. "Is he OK?"
"He's out of critical care. The doctors want to keep him in for another three weeks."
"Right. Good luck with that."
"Why won't you come visit?"
He suddenly wishes he did.
Some years back Steve watched Event Horizon when the replay came on because Tony told him to avoid that garbage. Instinct told him perhaps Tony, too came back wrong when he remains willingly admitted in a private suite of a modest public hospital with only two men on guard duty, decked in two-piece Tommy Hilfiger. The absence of opulence stands out more than it should, and Steve should reconfigure what stands as the new normal. Status quo has been shaken up. Dollar bills are worth much less than before. Decimation redefines values and currencies, supply and demand – fundamentals that make the world go round.
When Steve arrives at Tony's ward, he is asked rather politely if Captain America could put both hands against the wall while security check him for weapons. They pat him down, frisk him about the crotch rather thoroughly and naturally found a nondescript Wakandan dagger strapped to his boots. He looks at the blade forlornly as the guard bags it – that was a gift from the late King – and he knocks on the door.
"Tony? It's me."
Something bashes against something from inside – like metal on wood – and Steve chooses not to worry about it. A gruff voice replies, "About time. It's not locked."
He misses the eccentricity.
Despite the simplicity in décor, Tony looks plenty comfortable tucked under his blanket, nursing a glass of clear liquid. Steve plucks a stool from one corner and plants it by Tony's bedside.
"That better be plain water."
"If you say so, Cap."
"How are you feeling?"
Tony places his glass on the side table with less grace than he'd care to admit. His brown eyes seem brighter and livelier in the morning sun cascading through the windows.
"You know what? It's a fine day outside. Shall we go for a walk?"
"Doctors' orders. No."
"I'm not gonna –"
"Pepper's orders."
"Ah. Well, the good news is, only one of us will be doing all the walking because Rhodey," and Tony nods at a folded wheelchair by the bed, "knows what's best for me. Come on, Rogers. One more minute in this bed and I swear to God I'll lose my mind. Speaking of which, heads up."
Something swivels mid-air and Steve catches whatever Tony just tossed. He and Racoon would get on just fine. Flipping the device on his palm, he notes it's plain-looking, black and the size of a cassette tape. He hasn't seen this personally, but he can guess. The display is showing an eight-sided star flanked by stripes of red and blue. That, he's not familiar with.
"You fixed Fury's pager?" Steve asks, a small smile showing. "I don't think tinkering is on your list of recommended activities."
"But walking is."
"Not yet."
"Bruce called to say hey, and he asked how would I charge a thingumajig like that?" Tony swings his legs over the edge of his bed with too much glee. "So I lent him a universal travel adapter and my spare arc reactor."
Steve parks the wheelchair next to the bed. He eases Tony into it, steadying him by the biceps. What was previously unbearable is handled with care and intimacy. It's feels like forgiveness, until Tony flinches when Steve's hands reach for him.
Some wounds are not so easily healed, memories so easily forgotten. He couldn't just erase Siberia between them.
The hospital has a decent garden out front. There are parking lots on its perimeter but the hedges are sufficiently tall to block off the cars somewhat. The view is secondary – Tony was right about the weather. Having alternated his days between counselling and the training grounds for a while, Steve almost forgot how warm the sun can be on his skin, how it lightens his spirits. Not even the hooded, cautious stares a few hospital visitors levelled at them could dampen his mood. Steve acknowledges them with polite smiles. It pays to give first sometimes.
Most were not returned.
Steve pushes Tony around the garden, guided by the pebbled footway that goes in aimless circles.
"I'm surprised your bodyguards aren't following us." Steve used to know everyone on the Avenger's payroll – by extension, Tony's. Or maybe not anymore. The Accords would have brought along different financial arrangements. Same with the staffing.
"Yeah? I've got Steve Rogers. Figured that should be enough."
Steve's lips tug at a corner. "I'm a fugitive, Tony."
"Was. And those guards were Ross'. I don't see them arresting you. The Accord's been put on ice."
And the surprise of Ross actually following through hasn't really worn off. "When did you do it?"
"When I woke up. Pepper had a fit when I asked for a phone but… I can't have you lot thrown in jail now, can I? Ross' pettiness knows no bounds, which is ridiculous in the grand scheme of things. Here, hey. Can we stop here? I like the feng shui."
It's the east-facing side of the garden which is not anymore spectacular than the other. It faces a mildly graffitied brick wall, if Tony admires such a thing. Steve puts the brakes down and takes a seat on a garden stool.
"Apparently news of my uh, reappearance made national TV. And even more surprising, nobody's interested in me explaining my… misdemeanour, because that used to be a thing, right?" Tony scratches his nose. "I thought they'd at least want me to explain my outer space adventure to the President."
"How did you do it?"
"Do what?"
"Get home. Rocket ran diagnosis on the Benatar. He said it was practically running on fumes." Steve's eyes rake the collar of Tony's loose hospital gown. The bluish gleam of his chest piece is visible from the top. "You didn't hook yourself up to the engines."
Tony presses one bandaged hand to his collarbone. "This isn't the arc reactor. It's a housing for my nanomachines. By the way, you haven't seen my new suit, have you? It's nothing I ever dreamt of. It'll blow your mind."
"You were out of fuel. How did you power the ship?"
Tony falls silent. He rests his elbows on the armrests and begins slowly. "I wasn't sure we would get home at all. At first. The ship was smashed to literal pieces at some point. Nebula – I mean, I get that she's a bit odd – but she's been…" Tony takes a deep, shuddering breath. "We couldn't have done it without her. We salvaged scraps on Titan –"
"Titan?"
"Long story. Anyway, we got the ship fixed and we got onboard, but we realised the fuel gauge was faulty. We thought we had a full tank. We had only one third. So, it's a Hail Mary pass, we decided to burn oxygen instead. We went past Jupiter, and I thought, this is it. We would run out of food and air, and Earth is still… so far away." Tony shifts his weight in the wheelchair. "Against all odds, we landed safely in your backyard. Did you pray for me, I wonder?"
"I did," Steve replies almost too quickly. He looks at Tony so earnestly, and the sly smirk on Tony's face fades into a grimace. "I still do."
Tony can't stand wholesomeness like his stomach can't stand wholemeal oat. He unlocks his wheelchair and wheels himself towards a tree. Classic Stark MO. Because Steve is a such a champ, he catches up to Tony, even if it means trampling over freshly watered ornamental lawn grass.
"After that fiasco with Loki invading New York, I've had nightmares."
Steve shoves his hands into his jeans' pockets. Bruce tried to clue him in during one of Tony's company parties but Tony must've made him swear not to tell. It wasn't a very meaningful chat but Steve could hazard a guess. The size of Tony's eyebags and prolonged silence despite a roomful of audience in attendance was telling enough. For the rest of that week, Steve made himself approachable but it never amounted to anything. If Tony wasn't keen in spilling the beans, then no beans shall ever be spilled.
Maybe Tony didn't trust him enough.
"I should've told you earlier. Maybe then, Ultron wouldn't happen." Tony chuckles to himself. "What I saw up there, past the wormhole… it opened up my mind. There are unfathomable threats hiding in plain sight up there, and we're down here snoozing because we've been ignorant of things we haven't encountered and don't understand. My only regret was my incapability of doing more… that I can't help you do what it takes to protect ourselves."
He should've been a better friend. "You owe nobody anything."
"The whole journey stays with me in its own twisted, perverse presentation. I'm plenty ready for my own end, but I'm not OK to be the only one spared."
"Why now?" Steve looks down to the wheelchair, not really meeting Tony's eyes. "Why me?"
Really, if Tony asked him to stand against the tree, back flush against the bark so Tony could aim his repulsor straight through his heart, it's justified. His cheeks burn with the same heat he felt coursing through his bones when he found Captain America's shield set pristine against his bed on his first day back at the headquarters.
"After the Accords, after we split up… for the first time since Fury upgraded me from Consultant to whatever this is, I got afraid. You called it, Cap. We are weak apart. The whole time I was waiting for the other shoe to drop, I'd always thought of you. I wonder if I should call first. Say something." Tony begins to hunch in his wheelchair, his posture slipping. "What a world… of difference would it make if we were fighting together?"
Steve gets down to his knees, both hands bracing the armrests. This close, he could see cold sweat lining Tony's brows. "What is it? Do you need the doctor?"
"It'll pass," Tony gasps, but this height is just right. He clasps Steve by the shoulders and grip as tightly as he could. "You need to get your shit together, Rogers."
"You're hurting – I'm calling a nurse –"
"Listen to me." Tony seethes and fists a corner of Steve's collar. "I told Pepper explicitly to deliver to you all the notes I made about the enemy, notes I made when I thought I was dying. I know you haven't reviewed the battle records with Thanos on Titan. You haven't mentioned the fucking Stones, not once and you know what? All this avoidance doesn't work, because we've been there before! We did that to each other! How did that turn up, huh?"
"Tony –"
"Just tell me," and Tony's voice starts wavering. He's pitching forward, and Steve holds him tighter. Tony's cold, nearly as cold as he was on the Benatar. "Tell me that I'm right to hope. Tell me we can fix this together."
There are consolations that Steve can offer a feverish man. But he says simply, "Some people move on."
Tony's breath hitches, and he stills. "What are you talking about?"
"I wasn't meant to be here, Tony."
Tony looks up to Steve with watery eyes, but he stubbornly refuses to let Steve up, wanting to understand. If not now, when?
"It was over for me when I crashed into the Arctic. But I came back, and it wasn't right. This wasn't my home. The people I know were not around anymore. Just me. Then, SHIELD happened. You came into my life." A tear drips off Steve's chin. He never notices when it flows. "All of you. And I chose to move on. I chose the here and now. Why is this any different?"
He can't stop the floodgate. He swipes a palm over his wet face. And in that millisecond, remorse sets in. He whispers, "Moving on was mercy." He can't even offer Tony what he needed to hear.
"You don't mean that."
It takes all the strength in his bones to lock eyes with Tony, to look past the conviction and self-assurance that seem to run in Stark veins. He's done.
"Don't I?"
Some scars don't heal even with the help of supersoldier sera. And it wasn't just Steve. As days fade into weeks, weeks into months, so did the impact of Decimation. Not saying that it began to not matter. What Thanos stole can't be replaced, and God forbid they forget what it was before. It's numbing. New routines take shape around the gaping losses where things aren't the same anymore. The same has long struck the Avengers even before Tony's return into the fold.
As for Steve, he's doing something different, too. He's leaving. Not a soul knows of his plan, but people suspect. Natasha does. It won't make a difference. He's freeloaded long enough and humble decency forbids him from hauling ass without at least finishing up what the Avengers expect him to. That's why he's been stuck in his study for the past two days, his chin propped up against his knuckles where he's camped in his armchair. Shadows dance around the furniture in the dimmed confinement of privacy, having just turned off the video recording on his computer. It's quieted down since the last seconds of the Titan battle play out on his monitor. A lethal combination of eidetic memory and decades of experience in military strategic makes sure that every flick of Thanos' gauntlet, every sweep of his feet, every weapon at his disposal – everything – has been accounted for, scrutinised and noted down. But nothing in his trainings could have prepared him for the first viewing. He nearly threw up towards the end, his eyes and mind overwhelmed by Iron Man's HUD display of battle statistics and Tony's vitals.
What Tony saw on Titan would've driven the bravest of soldier mad.
Steve finishes up the report and prints out a copy. Nothing in here would be useful against the Stones – and he knows Tony knows just as much. Tony must've wanted something else accomplished. Guess Natasha wasn't the only astute one. Steve dials Tony on his cell and decides he doesn't want to play games anymore. Consider his job here done.
"Hey, Tony? I got something for you. Can I see you now?"
Tony sounds winded. "Yeah? Come to the gym."
There is one equipment in the communal gym that Steve has never used. It's a mu ren zhuang – literally a wooden man post that occupies a small corner near the locker room. He doesn't practice with it because it's made of wood – no frills – and he has no problem ripping logs apart with his bare hands. He doesn't want to damage it because it's Tony's in all the weird ways that it possibly couldn't. For one, Tony bought it on a whim from a junkyard sale. The story goes that he was around this neighbourhood for a quick lunch when he drove past the house of a deceased Wing Chun master. The kids didn't know what to do with the Wing Chun dummy. So here it is.
Steve arrives at the gym to find Tony whaling on the man post. His shirt hangs on one of the protruding wooden arms, so it looks like Iron Man is having a go at his hat stand instead. Sweat glistens down the nooks and crannies of lean muscles and bones, and even from this distance, Steve could see the raw edge of the ugly scar above Tony's waistband.
"You just took off the bandages yesterday," Steve says as a manner of greetings before he approaches Tony with casual ease. "You're gonna rip something off."
The sound of flesh smacking wood subsides as Tony spins around, his hair and a grin plastered to his face. "Steve Rogers dissuading me from practicing. Is it the already the end of the world?" He observes the brown manila folder Steve is now offering him.
"The report you wanted. The softcopy is in the drive, also in this folder. Thought I'll hand it to you personally. Sorry it took so long."
Then only does Tony take it from Steve, but he still says nothing. He watches Steve with rapt attention, eyes calculating.
Steve drones on. "You know they're cosmic entities, right? Figuring out Thanos' footwork won't help in an actual fight." Tony can stare at him all he wants. It's disconcerting. In fact, it's fair game that he finds his own attention gravitating towards that scar to the left of Tony's navel.
Tony stands straighter, and Steve looks away.
"Perhaps. Look, we can geek over the numbers until kingdom comes, but we're not soldiers. We don't have your tactical genius and eye for pattern so this," and Tony waves the folder, "helps." Then he taps the straight edge of the folder against the side of his palm. Is he even interested in the content? "You OK?"
These days, even prayers seem rhetorical. Steve's go-to, hollow answer is already poised on his lips until he finds Tony watching him – really watching him – that he draws a blank. He's been thinking a lot since that hospital visit. Whatever the future has installed for him, however bleak it may be, he's still got some mileage to go – both a gift and his curse. If it means going through the motion until he finally croaks, he'd rather die doing what he's always wanted to do. To help. Maybe pick up the paint brush again. And that's why he's decided to go on that long ride around the continent on his Harley. He's packed. He'll start tomorrow. He's here to bid Tony farewell in person.
Tony has since put on his shirt and is thumbing through the pages of Steve's report. The pen drive sits securely in a slot, which Tony quickly finds and slips into his pocket. "Rocket picked up a distress signal from a galaxy two jumps away. Thor sees something Asgardian in it. Don't know how, but we got to take his word for it. Nebula got the Benatar running again, so we're all heading out to Andromeda for a milk run." Tony flattens his palms down the front of his shirt. "Tomorrow. Hangar Five, 7 a.m." He steps around Steve. He's leaving, the distance between them widening, and Steve has yet to say his goodbyes. "Natasha and Barton have started training new recruits in anticipation of attacks. Bruce is updating our side of defence and offense, working closely with Wakandan military. But you know this too, don't you?"
A lump rises in Steve's throat.
Tony stops walking. Only silence, and then a plea separates them. "Some people move on." His words are clear, almost explosive. "But not us."
And that is why that night, for the first time in so many weeks, Steve sleeps like a baby. He sleeps through the night, nothing shakes him, not the glare of a stray headlight nor the rustle of branches outside his window. He wakes feeling more put together than before. He's packed for his ride, remember? His makes his bed, washes up and collects his duffel bag lying by the door.
He's half an hour ahead of schedule, but he hurries up nonetheless. Duffel bag in tow, communication device stowed in his pocket. He's found it. Conviction. A renewed purpose. If not them, then who? Nobody seems surprised when he turns up at Hangar Five. Everyone's early, and when the ramp leading up the belly of Benatar is lowered, they all fall neatly into line, reporting for duty. Bringing up the rank is Steve Rogers – not yet in uniform, but he has on a worn out Avengers-issued undershirt for his morning runs.
Tony is already up front on the ramp, and from that altitude, from across the distance, he locks eyes with Steve. He's home. Tony gives him the signal – a curt nod, and a knowing smirk.
Steve fits his comm device into his ears. "Avengers, assemble!"