The great beast – Tony refused to call it a dragon, though he acknowledged the description would be apt – shook the entire parking garage when it roared. The force of the noise overtaxed the Mark II's sound system, speakers squealing and shrieking in Tony's ears. Car alarms went off in every direction.
This was bad. The beast had a valiantly struggling Hulk pinned to the ground with one claw, and Thor's pleading – in what he assured them was ancient dragon-tongue – did not seem to be having a calming effect. Clint had retreated to a far corner with Natasha, covering her as she hastily bound a broken arm and dosed herself with an ampule of morphine. Steve and Tony stood back, side by side, ready to jump in, each keeping half an eye on the beast's writhing tail.
Then it got worse. Fast.
Just as Thor appeared to have gotten the beast's attention, Hulk managed to get a grip and snapped one of its clawed toes like a twig. Its whole body convulsed, tail whipping through three massive columns and its back arching up, cracking and parting the ceiling. Everything after was a blur of furious sound and flame and a sickening rumble that brought Tony vividly back to his very first earthquake, clutching his mother's skirt and screaming as his toys tumbled off the shelves. Instinctively, Tony threw himself over Steve, who instinctively raised his shield to cover their heads.
Then there was silence. Thick gray dust swirled and settled in the faint, cold glow of the arc reactor. No outside light penetrated the slabs of concrete which had once been the floor of the second parking level. Tony found he had a few inches on all sides to move within the coffin-like space created by hundreds of tons of precariously placed debris. Beneath him, Steve was coughing and groaning, his face caked with the noxious dust.
"I'm hurt," Steve choked out, breath heavy and ragged. "I think it's bad."
Tony managed to bring his head around so he was looking down the length of their bodies and shined a palm repulsor toward their feet. A pair of steel rebars had pierced not only Steve's armor, but his leg as well. One had clearly shattered his shin and the other had caught the meat of his thigh. Both wounds were bleeding profusely, thick, black pools spreading slowly but steadily beneath them.
"Should I look?" asked Steve on a gasp of pain.
"No, just look at me." Tony opened his face plate and lifted his eyes to Steve's, startled and unnerved to see real fear where he had never seen anything but courage and determination. "It's okay Steve. The others will have us out of here in no time, but for now I'm going to try to get a tourniquet on you." He tried and failed to keep his voice steady and reassuring, sounding just as terrified as he felt.
Movements hampered by the restricted space, Tony slipped armored fingers beneath the fabric at Steve's throat and ripped away a long strip of it. More maneuvering, which unfortunately required Tony to rest his full weight on Steve's heaving chest and, even more unfortunately, required Steve to lift his wounded leg as best he could, saw the tourniquet firmly in place. It wouldn't help much, merely squeezing the panels of Steve's armor tighter around his thigh, but it was all they could do.
Tony's heart broke at the sight of thick tear tracks cutting through the dust on Steve's cheeks.
"I'm so sorry," he whispered, not exactly sure what he was apologizing for – for everything, he supposed, every snide comment, every backhanded compliment, every impertinent or flippant response he'd ever hurled at Steve … for the precious minutes and intense pain the probably ineffectual tourniquet had cost.
"Don't be, I'm glad you're here with me." And Steve must have been going into shock because he was suddenly both calmer and shakier, his breathing shallower but easier. "I'm glad."
Touched, speechless, Tony leaned up and gently kissed Steve's forehead. The gesture seemed so manly and meaningful in the movies, a last display of true affection for a comrade in arms, but it wasn't enough somehow. It just didn't feel right kissing the bold white A on Steve's cowl, almost like Tony was saying goodbye to Captain America and not to Steve.
So he tried again, brushing his lips against Steve's cheek and whispering something lame like 'I need you.' But that wasn't enough either. Tony had only moments left to make Steve understand, to show him that whatever they had argued about or clashed over in the past didn't matter anymore, that he'd be lost without him. So Tony tried again, pressing kisses harder and closer to the corner of Steve's mouth – still not enough. But then Steve tipped his head to the side and met the next kiss with his own, desperate and hungry, and there it was, the emotional break. And Tony knew that Steve knew, and nothing had ever felt so right before. And Tony didn't have time to be concerned that he was kissing another man, a teammate, because everything was happening so quickly, because he had to show Steve how he felt right now. Because he was just now realizing how he felt, and the universe was being so goddamn unfair.
"I need you," he murmured between kisses, his own voice lower and more insistent than he'd ever heard it, and suddenly the sentiment didn't sound so lame.
All too soon, though, Steve slipped away, head lolling back. Tony held his breath, afraid he'd begin to cry, wondering how much longer it would take for Steve's heart to stop completely, for his chest to cease its almost imperceptible rise and fall … wondering how long he could manage to stay trapped beside Steve's corpse. He had half a mind to try to blast his way out, despite having no idea how much tonnage rested above them, if there was fuel leaking somewhere, if there were innocent people crawling all over the place trying to rescue them. He'd just have to wait. He might even pray.
Minutes crawled by.
"Dear Lord …" The phrase had never passed Tony's lips with any sincerity, but it did so now. His next words, whatever they would have been were cut short, interrupted by a faint, rapid pounding directly above him. "That was quick."
"Cap! Iron Man! Are you down there?"
Tony had never been so glad to hear Clint's voice.
"We're here, but Cap's hurt!" he shouted, banging on the concrete slab as hard as he dared.
Then there was utter cacophony on all sides as debris was shifted away, blinding sunlight streaming in as the lid of their tomb was lifted. Carefully Tony stood and pushed the slab from below, anxious to get out while there was still a chance to save Steve.
The massive slab slid away to reveal Thor and the others – minus Bruce, Tony couldn't help but notice – reaching down to help him out, pulling him out of the way so SHIELD EMTs could swarm to Steve's side. Thor clasped him in a quick, crushing embrace then heartily pounded him on the back. Natasha gave him a peck on the cheek and turned to strut toward the EMTs, cradling her injured arm. Clint just shook his hand, a bewildered grin on his face.
"Now that was a miracle."
"No kidding."
Everything after was an excruciating whirlwind of debriefing (where Tony learned that the beast had been felled by a well-placed explosive arrow to the eye and had conveniently landed on top of Hulk, and that a bloodhound had to be rushed in to finally locate him and Steve) followed by hours of thumb twiddling while Steve was in surgery.
Despite Natasha's insistence that Steve probably would have been killed had Tony tried to smash or blast his way out from under the rubble, he still felt the distinct tingle of guilt at the back of his neck. He should have done more.
Tony, for obvious reasons wanted desperately to talk to Steve alone, but he wasn't about to ask the others to leave. So when the patient finally woke and everyone crowded around the bed, he held back, sharing nothing but a heartfelt smile with Steve over their shoulders.
Fury soon herded them out, promising to alert them the moment Steve was discharged.
When he got home, Tony asked Pepper to send a dozen red roses then locked himself in the workshop indefinitely.
He actually got a lot done while he was deliberately trying to distract himself with work. He added an auxiliary speaker system to the Mark II and a range extender to its emergency radio beacon. He also added an audible beacon for situations when a search and rescue dog might be unavailable. He repaired Steve's compromised leg plates, sandblasting the dried blood off with a fresh pang of guilt. And he was actually pretty proud of the clever system of internal tourniquets he devised, fabricated and installed in the patriotic uniform. They were little more than overgrown zip ties, but they would do in a pinch.
So it was that a week passed, and before Tony knew it (before he'd even decided what he was going to say for himself) Steve was limping into the workshop on crutches.
Not knowing what else to do, eager to cut Steve off before he could say 'we need to talk' in a deadly serious tone, Tony met him at the door and started gushing about his new adjustments to their gear, words tumbling out of their own volition, hands fluttering with meaningless gestures.
"Oh Tony," Steve rolled his eyes good naturedly. "Aren't you even going to kiss me?"
Normally not one to do what others expected of him, Tony made an exception in this case.
They could talk later.