Chapter 1:
Baby, I miss you and I swear I'm gonna change, trust me.
Remember how that lasted for a day?
I say, "I hate you," we break up, you call me, "I love you.
A harsh right hook sent the bag spiralling out of control, only to be brought up short by the responding jab. A loud thud echoed through the near empty gym as Steve drew his gloved fists in tight, skipping and weaving in time to the music that pumped through his headphones, the occasional jab meeting the resistance of the punching bag.
Ooh, we called it off again last night,
But ooh, this time I'm telling you, I'm telling you
Tension that he'd been carrying about with him for the past few days warred with his sense of responsibility, and Steve threw himself into the work-out. He'd hit the gym twice every day for the past week, often three times, yet still hadn't managed to rid himself of the unease that had settled over him. He couldn't stand the hopelessness that this current situation made him feel- he just wanted to fix everything. Unfortunately, this wasn't something he could actually fix, and it was frustrating him something awful.
As was the fact that Tony was refusing to be reasonable. This shouldn't surprise Steve- actually, it didn't surprise Steve, but he'd still hoped… watching Tony slowly crash and burn was just about killing him- hence the frustration. The intense workouts did however, do a fairly decent job of numbing him into a state of exhaustion, as it had tonight.
A roundhouse kick ended his evening session, and Steve stilled, doubling over to rest his hands on his knees as he breathed steadily through his nose, dragging a forearm across his face, wiping away sweat and brushing his damp hair back.
We are never ever ever getting back together,
We are never ever ever getting back together,
You go talk to your friends, talk to my friends, talk to me
But we are never ever ever ever getting back together
Grabbing his drink from the bench and straightening, one hand settling on his hip, the other bringing the bottle to his lips, Steve sang, "Like- Ever", before taking a long drag of water.
A growl from his stomach and a glance at his watch, he pulled the headphones from his ears and headed toward the showers.
After a long workout to top off an even longer day, he was really looking forward to being clean and dry. Then he was going to slump in the lounge with the rest of the team and devour as many pizza's as they'd though to order, while watching what would no doubt be a terrible movie, as it was Clint's turn to pick. If it was a boring enough movie, maybe Tony would even fall sleep for a few hours, assisted by the calming influence of Steve's fingers in his hair.
Which was no doubt why, as he started to peel his drenched shirt over his head, the blaring klaxon of the Assemble alarm started to sound.
"Hawkeye, Widow – status?" Steve shouted as he ran, knowing that JARVIS would relay the message within the building.
Sure enough, within seconds, Clint's voice was being piped into the hallway, "On the move Cap- we need five to gear up. Quinjet?"
Steve banked a corner and slowed only slightly as the elevator doors swept open before him. "To the Penthouse, JARVIS", Steve said, continuing as he started to ascend, "If I'm not at the jet when you guys get there, go without me, I'll take the bike."
"What about me?" Bruce's calm voice broke in.
"Go with the jet, on standby. At least until we've assessed the situation." Steve replied, "I'll contact Fury enroute and get a SitRep- I have something I need to do before I leave."
Bruce's immediate chuckle and "Good Luck", mirrored Steve's feeling's exactly, and suddenly feeling foolish for his optimism, he changed his command, "Aah, actually – workshop, please, JARVIS"
"No." Steve's voice was stony with disbelieving, anger and concern.
Tony, half encased in his signature red and gold, visibly blanched, stilling as he looked up from where he was sitting on the floor of the workshop, propped up against the workbench behind him. Slipping his hand into the gauntlet he'd been attempting to fiddle with, the screwdriver slipping from lax fingers, he protested, "I swear I'm battle ready! -just a minor glitch in the gauntlet's firing-"
Crossing the room in several large steps, Steve cut him off, "Tony. You've been running a fever of 104 for three days. Not to mention the dizziness and throwing up everything that comes within three feet of your mouth. You really think I'm going to let you anywhere near a battlefield right now?"
"Wait- you're, you're benching me! You? The same guy who fought last month with his arm half hanging off?" Tony snarled back, pushing himself to his feet, grip tight enough on the bench edge that Steve could hear the metal groan.
"That's slightly different Tony, and you know it. I was already part of the fight, before I got injured, and I was already healing. And I didn't spend the two days before light headed and swaying all over the place because I refused to be in bed where I belonged. It was an all hands on deck situation. We needed everyone."
Tony latched onto that like a particularly tenacious dog with a chew toy "And what if this one is as well? What if you need me? Thor's not here – I'm your only areal support- what if you need me!?" he exclaimed, incredulous and defensive on the surface, but plaintive and desperate beneath.
"We do need you! I need you! Alive, which is why you're not going!" Steve shot back, and then lunged forward to shoulder the weight of the toppling armour as Tony moved too suddenly and stumbled.
Tony pulled away sharply, and Steve threw his hands in the air and watched as Tony managed to steady himself, bodily using the heavy workbench as a crutch. Cradling his helmet to his chest, Tony snapped back, "You really think you could stop me?" the strength of the suit bolstering him in a way that the pallor of his waxen skin did not.
Steve wasn't fooled. He didn't think he'd have to. He doubted Tony could get two foot in the air without face planting at the moment. But then- he also knew Tony, and no one did stubborn, pigheaded and brilliant quite like a pissed off Tony Stark.
"I'll tie you to the bed If I have to" Steve threatened.
He wouldn't. And Tony likely knew that.
"You'd lose my trust if you did. You wouldn't risk that" Tony snarled back.
Steve nodded his agreement, "Just like you'll lose mine if you put being Ironman above your own health. And apparently you would risk that."
Tony glowered at him, stare baleful and unforgiving of Steve's harsh demand. And then Tony made his choice.
Not the one he'd wanted to make, if the rage filled shriek and red/gold blur that sailed through the air and smashed into a set of wall shelves on the other side of the room was indicative of anything.
Steve didn't judge. He knew, first hand, how much that decision had cost Tony, and if anyone understood a little rage induced throwing of objects, it was Steve. Still, he sighed when Tony crossed his arms defensively and turned away as he reached for him.
"Hey – I'm sorry. I am. I just – you're not in any shape and it would be more-" Steve tried placating, his hands settling on Tony's drawn up shoulders.
"I know- I know. Just - It's fine, Steve. Go. Just -go." Tony answered defeatedly.
Steve shook his head, running his hands down Tony's arms as his shoulders slumped dejectedly, "Tony-"
"Go! Your team needs you, Captain. I'll just be-" Tony was getting waspish, and sarcastic again, which didn't bode well for Steve and the continuing of this conversation.
With a sigh, Steve pressed a quick kiss to sweaty hair and damp skin. "Please- get some rest" was all he said, before turning and leaving the workshop.
Tony wasn't known for his graceful surrenders, but then, he wasn't really known for surrendering at all, so Steve was counting it as a win.
Abandoning his bike against a half demolished wall, Steve stooped low to press flat, seeking cover against the half demolished building that the wall belonged to. He had a feeling this was going to be more 'End of the World' than 'Lazy Sunday Afternoon'.
Whatever or whoever was responsible for the damage was also somehow jamming their communications. Steve had managed to decipher a few garbled words from the cacophony that was still streaming from his ear piece, but beyond a general feel that the enemy was causing them no end of grief, he was going in blind.
Step one, locate the enemy.
Staying low as he scrambled across a pile of concrete and rubble, Steve rounded the corner of the building, looking for something large enough to have caused the varying degrees of destruction that surrounded him. Something large enough to blot out the last rays of the setting sun. Something that towered over the Manhattan skyline.
At the end of the street, half hidden by the early evening shadows, stood a man.
On the shorter side of 6", the plumper side of healthy and the older side of 40, he was in all senses of the word; average.
His clothing was clean- too clean, and too well pressed. The creases of his dress pants slightly off-centre, and his buttoned down shirt ill-fitting, still holding its manufactory stiffness, fold lines visible where the shirt pouched around too broad shoulders. Behind the off the shelf geometric design that was his tie, Steve cold see buttons that attempted to gape across a too large stomach, yet held tenaciously to their cloth. Balding at the crown and temples, his thinning hair was slicked back along his part line, hair that would have been almost distinguished with its touches of natural grey, an abomination of cheap watery hair dye.
This man was a desperate, deranged, crazy kind of dangerous.
Step 2: Locate his team
Steve took two tentative steps forward, his gaze going high and wide as he searched for a flash of red and black, or deep purple somewhere in his field of vision. He knew he wouldn't see the cloaked quinjet, but considering the extent of the damage in the surrounding streets, he wouldn't be surprised to see green.
Perhaps he was illuminated by the burning foliage of a nearby park, but his presence suddenly seemed to startle the man at the far end of the street, if the overstated double take was to be believed. As the man looked up from his awkward stoop, Steve realised that he'd actually been engrossed by his phone of all things, the gleam of the familiar Starktech catching the brightening moonlight as he fumbled to shove it back into the leather satchel he had slung over one shoulder. It wasn't until he pulled his hand back out, that Steve realised all the fumbling hadn't been just returning the phone. A spherical object, its glossy black form mostly lost to shadow, but with enough angular gleam to just make out in the dusky light. The lines of pulsing digital blue creeping across its surface were much more visible.
He turned and lobbed it at Steve.
It sailed through the air, a steadily deteriorating arc, to land with a skidding thud several feet away. Steve crooked his head at it, watching it wobble back and forth before stilling. When nothing happened after a second, idle curiosity had him stepping towards it.
"Cap!"
A purple blur smashed into his side, propelling him towards the nearest building, Clint's uncharacteristically panicked voice "Move! Get Down!".
Steve felt the heat of the blast radius tickle the back of his neck a sensitive pink.
Steve rolled to his feet, crouching low to remain behind the burnout shell of some poor civilians Jeep Wrangler. His ears still ringing from the explosive boom, he reached blindly for where he thought Clint had ended up, half beside him, half beneath.
"Hawk- Hawkeye!" He choked on the acrid smoke clinging to his nasal passages and lingering in the air around them, making his eyes water. "Clint- report!"
He wasn't truly worried that the archer was mortally injured, as the hacking rasp Clint was making sounded more irritated than anything else.
He gave the other man half a second to catch his breath, and then Clint was wheezing out a reply "A-Okay here. Just a little singed. Welcome to the p- Hmm, maybe Nat's right. Not a party. Welcome to 'majorly pissed' on fifth avenue. Glad you could make it."
Steve snorted. He supposed he should just be glad Tony wasn't there to encourage the wisecracking and banter. "Glad to be here. What's the situation?" he started to lean backward, intending on getting his head past the wheel to get a glimpse of the open street, but Clint's hand found the collar of his uniform and reefed him back in.
"I'm advising against that, Cap. If he sees you, he'll throw another of those little firecrackers." Clint explained, continuing, "Or worse. He's got himself quite the bag of tricks. "
Leaning back against the still warm metal of the vehicle door, Steve thumbed at the useless comm in his ear, confirming "He's jamming the signal?"
"Yeah – mostly. We get snatches from each other and Shied occasionally, but it's too garbled to make any sense of. Nat- she's behind the Stark Industries billboard about 30 feet up the road- Nat managed to speak to Fury and arranged an Evac for Banner-"
Steve started, alarmed, "Bruce? What happened to-"
Clint grimaced, answering, "He's- okay, we think. The first ball thingy landed beneath the quinjet as we were landing. Bruce hulked- naturally. He attempted to 'SMASH' Mr original out there, but – I don't know. There's a force-field or a barrier or something around him. Hulk hit the thing fuelled by all his hulk rage, lit the surrounding three meters up with glowy blue electric sparks and then keeled over- reverting to Bruce straight away. Nat managed to get him out of sight while I played chicken with the lunatic- so I'm assuming that Shield has their best and brightest working on the problem." He waited a beat, as if deliberating, and then continued, "I'd feel a hell of a lot better having our best and bright-"
"No. Tony's not-" Steve refused adamantly.
Clint cut across him placatingly- "No- not out here. He'd get himself killed. Just to run science back-up. Someone can get what's left of one of these ball things to him- even half dead he's a hell of a lot better and brighter than Shields best."
Steve shook his head as he tried to explain, "He's more than just a bit off colour- He was trying to get into the armour before I left- sitting on the floor in his workshop. He was too dizzy to stand up while the armour deployed properly."
Clint nodded in agreement, replying, "Yeah I know- I saw him this morning, white as a ghost- looked like crap. But he created the suit –how's this go? In a cave with a box of scraps? We're sitting ducks out here- and I do mean sitting. Nat and I can't get close to him. Bullets, arrows, knives- nothing gets through the barrier- and everytime one of us pops our head up, he throws a ball. Tony woul-"
"Tony would drag himself into the workshop, examine an explosive with hands that couldn't hold a screwdriver steady this afternoon! I don't doubt that he'd be able to work out a way to disable the things, but he'd half kill himself in the process! And that doesn't even begin to cover what he'd do once he'd worked out how to stop this idiot- he'd be long gone before the Shield agent he duped worked out he wasn't in the workshop! And then he'd show up here…where some idiot is throwing live grenades and he can't even stand-up straight!"
Clint didn't say anything.
Steve sighed, "Sorry. I-"
Clint waved his apology away, "Don't. –You're right. I keep forgetting that Tony has to be assessed with a whole other set of parameters. You know I'd never do anything t-"
"I know" Steve replied.
Silence settled between them, other than the occasional pop of smouldering metal.
"So."
"So."
"So, if you two are finished braiding each other's hair, I suggest we come up with a plan to stop Mr deranged and dangerous out there. Preferably one that doesn't involve Tony Stark throwing his fever addled self into the barrier. " Natasha concluded.
The plan, as it turned out, wasn't so much a plan as a continuation of 'sitting pretty', with the occasional distractory shield throw causing retaliatory explosive balls being lobbed about the street. They'd attempted to come at him from different, and multiple angles, with all methods of penetrative fire attempted, to no avail. They'd tried simply asking, goading, demanding and intimidating him into any action other than to throw more explosives.
Shield had managed to get one slightly less garbled message through, but it amounted to little more than "We don't know. Anything. "
Night had fallen completely, and they were engulfed in a blanket of shadowy half-light. Several street lights where valiantly attempting to shine, and a few lingering areas of burning debris illuminated the area, but visibility wasn't great. The fact that the barrier had a subtle blue glow was the only advantage to the darkness. They were, in short, running out of ideas, projectile weapons and energy.
Which was why the back-up that crashed to the street in an ungainly thud of metal crunching on tarmac was a particularly welcome addition to the fight.
The grenade ball that exploded at the feet of the metal suit not two seconds later was less so.
Steve watched horror struck as fire engulfed the armour, the whoof of flames barely louder than his heartbeat thundering in his ears.
And then – gleaming metal simply stepped from the blaze as if not effected at all, and Steve rejoiced at Tony's absolute genius.
War Machine thudded along the street, firing round after round of repulsor blasts at the barrier, which held, held, held and finally- flickered, for a fraction of an instant within a second.
And an idea burst to technicolour dream life inside Clint's mind.
"Higher! Further than he can throw for contact!" Clint ordered, watching with satisfaction as War Machine climbed higher in the sky, a dull silver lost amongst the stars that dotted the evening sky.
Clint lined up his shot – arrow set and bow drawn "Okay…. Now!"
High above, War Machine opened up its arsenal, raining a fiery torrential downpour on the unfortunate barrier below. The distance extended the amount of time, and Steve and Nat were kept busy avoiding tossed grenades with increasing fervour and desperation.
And then suddenly, the break Clint had been waiting for- the shield faltered. The arrow, with its EMP blast-tip, slipped through that infinitesimal gap, and struck the centre of the bag slung over the mans shoulder.
Nothing happened.
And then simultaneously, the barrier began to falter, and the bag sparked.
Sparked and then ignited. The explosion so sudden that Steve didn't even have time to shield his face as bright light assaulted his eyes, searing white hot flashes into his vision. The first waves of flame were contained by the failing barrier, creeping along the ground with fingers of blue and white amid orange and red, coiling up the invisible wall within convoluted spirals and feathering.
The area, previously peppered with illumination, suddenly became lit by only a muted wash of fiery orange glow. One by one, like a blanket of darkness being dragged across the city, spreading rapidly- street lights, car lights, the occasional cell phone of a civilian seriously lacking in the common-sense department and a whole society of other electrical lighting methods, - all the lights went out and a portion of New York was plunged into complete darkness.
And from the epicentre of the sudden black-out, a roaring column of flame jetted into the sky. Forcibly expelled through the widening crack at the top of the dome as the barrier fell, its widening arc lit the night sky.
And in that gleam of that light, Steve caught a glimmer of dull silver from the corner of his eye. Dragging his vigilant gaze from the smouldering wreck within the destroyed dome to watch the triumphant arc of the War Machine back to earth, it took Steve a second too long to realize.
The armour was too dark. All the pilot and control lights were out.
A mess of pin-wheeling arms and legs, Tony's best friend disappeared from Steve's line of sight- swallowed by inky blackness.