Ok, this one came as naturally to me as breathing. I love it when the words just come to you :'). Thanks again to npeg for the editing and the advice! xx

To get you in the mood I suggest the following tracks:

"Forgive Me" - Patrick Doyle (Thor soundtrack)
"Time" - Hans Zimmer (Inception soundtrack)
"The Fight Will Be Your Own" - Steve Jablonsky (Transformers: Dark of the Moon soundtrack)

I don't own anything etc. (apart from OC)

Heroes

Barely a minute had passed since giving his orders to his team, or what remained of it, before Steve had reached the lower structure of Stark Tower. The street was swarming with Chitauri soldiers and Clint's cover would offer onlysmall relief for an attack of that volume. But it did not stop the soldier from sprinting into action, shield flying through the air and knocking a good portion of the unsuspecting aliens out with a single throw. He leapt over to retrieve it from a carpet of bloody enemies when he noticed a sight that gave him a glimmer of hope in the desperate minutes they had left. It was Stark, rather worse for wear but still standing as he looked on at the herd of Chitauri that was fast approaching from the ruins of the street.

"Stark!" Steve shouted, running over towards the Iron Man who turned, lifting his faceplate to reveal a pale and weathered Tony, a trickle of crimson running from the corner of his lips.

"Stark! There's a –"

"– A missile, I know, I got the call. My comms' transmitter is down, and so are the repulsor turbines and 89% of the other systems –"

"– You gotta' get up there before it's too late –"

"– Steve, You're not listening to me! The suit – can't – fly!" he shouted, eyes wide with raw emotion. He breathed deeply and stared over Steve's shoulder, swallowing hard with a look of true fear in his eyes. "…I can't."

Steve's mouth went slack for a moment before he pursed his lips and turned his gaze from Tony to the approaching alien horde.

"We need to find Thor –"

"– He's down for the count," Tony bit out, "Loki got him."

Steve let out a loud sigh in defeat.

This was it.

He closed his eyes and readied his shield. If he was going to die then he would damn well go out fighting. Tears and panic weren't going to stop fate.

"You still got enough juice in that thing to give these guys a little going-away present?"

Tony wanted to laugh, even just a little, he really did, but knowing what was fast approaching stopped it in his throat, and he could only crack a weak half-smile before turning to stand by Steve's side.
And just as they prepared to fight one final time, there was the roar of an aircraft above them and blue light rained down upon the mass of aliens before the craft settled between the smouldering corpses and the two Avengers, with Natasha and Clint onboard.

"I thought I told you two to take off," Steve shouted.

"You did. But I chose to ignore you," Natasha replied. "Now get on before I regret it."

Steve and Tony made a move towards the craft but stopped dead in their tracks as the earth began to shake, loose shards of concrete trembling upon the fractured surface beneath their feet and a deep rumbling sound grew above.

"Shit," Clint muttered.

Time was up, it seemed. But what they did not expect was a flash of red that held fast to the source of their fear as it appeared to be moving far more vertically than horizontally.

"Son of a gun… " Steve breathed.

Thor had managed to save the city from certain disaster by carrying the missile into the upper atmosphere. There were smiles of relief, but they were short lived as the sky rumbled above them and a distant blinding light burst like a fleeting second sun.

No matter what legend had to say, no god was coming back from that alive.

Their moment of realisation was interrupted by another swarm of alien scum that began to fire at them. Clint was quick to react to the few that attempted to attack him from behind, as was Natasha, but Steve did not see the two that were wielding powerful looking guns and fast approaching him from a blind spot. Good job Tony did. Bad thing was he didn't retaliate.

Tony leapt behind Steve and took the full force of the blast to his chest plate. The hit knocked both men off their feet in a bright flash of blue that was followed by a cloud of black smoke and dust. Clint took the initiative by ensuring their attackers had a couple of arrows lodged in their eye sockets for their trouble.

The heavy grey veil of dust slowly dissipated around him, and Steve pulled himself up, head pounding and spinning as a warm liquid dripped down his brow and a dull pain climbed its way up his side. He crawled towards the silhouette that lay motionless, catching flashes of tarnished gold and red as the light began to fight its way through the blanket of dust. Tony lay on his back, his chest plate cracked and broken. Its red sheen was blacked, and parts of the metal that surrounded the arc reactor at its centre were burnt and deformed like crumpled tinfoil, the blue light barely flickering as the device made a strange crackling sound with every fading pulse of energy. Tony's faceplate was still raised and though he was still alive, he was barely conscious, drowsy and mouth bloody.

"Tony!" Steve choked as he finally reached his team mate.

Tony coughed, blood spattering from his mouth and eyes blinking tightly.

"Remind me again why… it's a bad thing… to just… cut the wire?" he managed to say through deep rasping breaths. An attempt at humour, even when his chest felt like Steve had used it as a punching bag or it had been privileged enough to meet with the Hulk's fist. So much for that guy; he was still missing.

Steve smiled faintly and lowered his head, more relieved that the guy was still alive than impressed at his reckless act of heroism.

"Jesus, Tony, you take self-destructive to a whole new level," Natasha breathed as she knelt down to assess the damage.

"It's not all bad. Suit's still functional enough to administer painkillers." He smiled, thankful that the drugs had finally started to do their thing and numb everything, because everything had felt like it was pretty much totalled under there. "I actually feel a lil' warm and fuzzy right now."

For a guy on his last legs he looked as high as a kite.

"We need back-up," Natasha raised a hand to her ear to call for assistance.

"Better make it quick, the city's still swarming with those things," Clint added, an arrow at the ready as he assessed their surroundings. It wouldn't be long before more of them would descend upon the battered group.

Natasha began to call down the comms before Fury interrupted…

. . .

The pilot of another SHIELD aircraft, flying not far behind his comrade, flicked open the small protective cover on his gearstick with his thumb to reveal a small red button, pressing it without hesitation. His cloudy blue eyes watched as the final gift of death was successfully delivered, making its way across the open sea towards the coast.

. . .

"What do you mean there's another!?" Natasha breathed.

Steve lifted his head and the group looked at each other in disbelief.

What the hell was going on?

"I mean," Fury's voice was desperate, but still had that air of control, somehow. "The council has lost their shit and there's another missile."

Silence. Then Natasha spoke.

"Understood."

She pushed herself up and made her way towards the alien craft still humming behind them.

Steve stood quickly, causing his head to spin as the concussion began to worsen.

"These people, the city –"

"– can't be saved," Natasha interrupted. "Stark's down, there's nothing we can do to stop it."

He knew that Natasha was right, of course she was, but running wasn't something Steve was ever comfortable with. Even when the bullies kicked him down he refused to run, and the same applied to everything else in his life. He wanted to stay, to cling on to the fading light in the hope that they could stop it. Fate had been merciful the first time, but escapes like that rarely came in pairs. It still made no difference to Steve, though, who stood his ground, consumed by his pride.

He wasn't afraid of death; he was afraid of living to see it happen to other people. Good people. Innocent people.

Millions of them.

What followed in those crucial minutes was a blur. Fragments of moments laced with the chaos and confusion that smothered them all. Steve's concussion had affected his vision and hearing and there seemed to be no real sense of time; so much happened as if in slow motion. Clint dragged Tony onto the small alien craft. The sounds of screaming, both human and alien, mixed with sirens and car alarms, echoed down the ruins of New York City's streets in a dull and muffled tone. Dust clouded the sky, and the smell of fires and fresh blood stung Steve's nose and burned his eyes as a firm hand gripped his shoulder and pulled him towards the craft. But his eyes continued to study the chaos in the distance, so many people running for their lives and so many more lying motionless amongst the rubble that littered the road. He vaguely remembered Natasha shout something before the four of them were flying at great speed away from it all, away from everything they had failed to save.

Then the chaos of the city became more distant, encased within the skyline of Manhattan Island, only pale trickles of smoke offered any signs of the madness that had consumed it. And then a bright light, a wave of cold air that made his eyes sting, and where once a lively city stood atop the shimmering ocean, a cloud of smoke and death reached out towards the heavens. As the cloud began to shrink into the distance behind them, Steve turned away. He saw Clint, a hand resting on Tony to keep him stable, staring grimly at the devastation they had left behind. Tony was barely conscious but seemingly aware of the situation.

Natasha had not looked back once.

. . .

They left one scene of chaos only to enter another as Natasha landed as quickly and gracefully as she could on the Helicarrier runway. SHIELD agents, airmen and medics flooded the platform and hands reached for Steve as he stepped wearily off of the craft. There were voices shouting orders and names, hands pulling at Tony's battered, armoured body before disappearing amongst the crowd of uniforms on a stretcher. Natasha and Clint waved off the prying medics and demanded to see Fury, but before he could speak up Steve felt himself fall back atop a soft surface as he was stretchered away from the concerned glances of what remained of his team.

The atmosphere was a sea of noise, voices shouting orders, the scurrying of feet and the erratic beeping of machinery. Steve's blurry vision turned away from the bright artificial lighting of the ceiling to his side where he could vaguely see flashes of red and gold through a wall of medic uniforms. Wires and tubes streamed from monitors and in between bodies of the medics frantically attending his fallen comrade, the sound of metal grating metal as they desperately attempted to remove as much of the armour as possible to treat the broken body beneath. Steve could barely move, only managing to mutter Tony's name before darkness took him, and only silence remained.

. . .

It was dark when he woke, the noises from earlier only ghosts of the memory that burned in his aching mind. Steve winced as he rose from the bed and groped his side, where fresh white bandages smothered his abdomen, and small spots of red appeared as his movements pulled at the wound. Blinking a little, his eyes adjusted to the dim light of the hallway that seeped through the open blinds of the window. It was eerily quiet. No steady beeping of a life support, no breathing apparatus, no voices. Nothing, save his own deep breaths as he rose to his feet and hissed at the dull ache in his side. There was a curtain that separated him from the bed where he had last seen Tony before he blacked out, but when he pulled it aside it was empty, its sheets uneven and crimson-stained, in places.

Steve's hand hovered over the tattered linen as he froze before the emptiness. Closing his eyes and swallowing back a flood of pain he placed a hand on the bed and uttered something like a prayer. It was all he could do in that moment to resist the growing urge to break down and fall beneath the weight of all that they had lost that day. After a while he opened his eyes again, sniffed and raised his hand from the sheets to turn, but his foot kicked something metal beside the bed. He bent to pick it up, discovering that the object shone gold in the dim light of the room. He held it up to get a better look at it, and there, in his callused hand, was Tony's armour faceplate staring back at him with hollow eyes, no longer the face of the great hero that so many had grown to love and fear, but an empty shell, abandoned and without its owner. Steve closed his eyes tightly at the expressionless mask in his hand. He could not stop the tear that fell down his bruised cheek and landed on the tarnished gold mask staring back accusingly. There was a soft rustling noise behind him. Fury.
Steve didn't have to turn to know it was him.

"Doesn't matter what they say. This, it…It never gets any easier," Steve spoke quietly as Fury took a few steps towards the bed, arms behind his back.

"Stark showed all of us his true colours today. He was a good man – a hero," Fury answered, carefully.

"Is that what we are - heroes?"

"There was nothing you could have done to save them, or Stark. You know that."

Steve recalled his last vision of Manhattan as it disappeared in a cloud of unfathomable destructive force. He had never witnessed anything like it before, and according to history this was what had ended the war with Japan all those years ago. He had buried Hydra's deadly ambitions in a frozen wasteland along with himself, a sacrifice to avoid such a catastrophe. But nearly 70 years had passed and very little had changed after all. In all those years he had slept, the world had continued to turn, generations playing witness to death and destruction at the hands of men like Schmidt who never set foot onto the battlefield themselves. Men who gave orders that they hoped would bring swift victory at the simple utterance of a command, the push of a button.

His jaw clenched.

"He was right," Steve said sternly as he gripped the golden mask tightly in both hands, "We're not soldiers. And we're not heroes either. Not when it's the lives you're fightin' to save that take the fall, and not your own. Wars in this world aren't fought by soldiers. They're lost by men."

"The world still needs you, Captain."

"Does it? When things got tough out there someone decided to take the easy way out. That decision cost civilian lives, all cos' there was no faith in the fight. So you tell me that they still need Captain America, and then maybe I'll have a little faith in the world."

"We've all made mistakes. But understand that what took place today was beyond our control, and those responsible will answer for it, I assure you."

The silence of the room enveloped him as he closed his eyes. Visions of the battle, the lives he had failed to save in the countless bodies paving the streets, and the last glimpse of his beloved city before it was erased from existence in a matter of seconds all flickered within the darkness like a silent projection. Mistakes were unintentional; in what way was using a weapon of that magnitude considered a mere mistake when the consequences were so apparent? No. Firing those missiles wasn't the mistake. The real mistake was something much smaller, with far more power than any human could possibly imagine.

He squeezed the mask in his hand tighter, until its sharp edges, coarse like the rim of a tin can, began to dig deep in his hands. Narrow reservoirs of thick blood, almost black in the dim light, appeared between pale skin and tarnished gold. He should have felt the pain – he wanted to feel it – but his body was numb.

"With all due respect sir, I'd like to be alone for a while."

There was nothing that would have convinced Steve to forgive what had been done that day. Fury understood and turned to leave, but before doing so he paused to offer a few last words.

"Stark realised the value of a soldier today. The world may have forgotten that, but I still have faith in the fight. I still believe in heroes."

Steve's heavy eyelids lifted as the words flooded over him, awakening memories that forced him to relive moments from two eras. When Tony had taken the hit for him, covered him, just as Bucky had before he fell to an icy grave and into memory. But Bucky was a soldier. Tony… Tony was… Come to think of it, was he any different? …Really?

He placed the mask on the empty bed, leaving smudges of deep crimson along its edges, and stared at the lifeless face before him. Another tear left a trail down his cheek and he raised a hand to wipe his eyes.
He stopped as he noticed his blood-smeared palm.

'We've all made mistakes.'

Pls don't hurt me! If it makes you all feel any better this was emotionally crippling to write, and I've got the rest of the story to get onto paper too so I am burdened with ultimate feels everyday ;_;

As usual, comments and feedback welcome and appreciated! xx