So, part 2 of 3.

For general information, this doesn't have any particular timeline (I am kind of bad at that). It's obviously after the Avengers movie, and the team has worked together some but not a lot.

Chapter warnings: Violence, probably mistakes of the technical variety, an OC as a bad guy. (And unbetaed, as always. So sad.)

Last time:

"Going somewhere, gentlemen?"

Tactical error number one: getting caught up with concern for a teammate such that their surroundings were neglected. Too bad this wasn't a training exercise. Knowing his mistake did little to fix the result of a man and his three armed lackeys having found them.

"Richter," Tony greeted. There was something in his voice that sent a shiver trembling through Steve's gut. It was cold and dark and oily, and Steve had never heard that tone from Stark—Iron Man suit or not. "Nice of you to join the party."

Richter was not a big man, probably somewhere between Tony's height and Steve's. He was older than Steve would have anticipated from a man in the business of kidnapping—maybe sixty-five to seventy. His hair was almost white, eyes too pale to even really be called blue, and he was thin in that frail manner of old men. The only thing that made him intimidating was the gun he pointed at Steve's face.

"You killed three of my men," Richter said, the strength of his deep voice at odds with his frail appearance. "You should have remained asleep, Captain Rogers."

"Steve's not in the business of killing," Tony said bluntly. "Don't you read the papers?"

"You killed them?"

It might be strange, but Steve felt a little better hearing the surprise in the old man's voice. He was not the only one who was shocked by Tony's behavior.

Richter smirked, and that was just a creepy look on that pale, age-spotted face. Steve felt Tony tense beside him, and he silently willed the man to not do anything rash.

"You're a rude man, Mr. Stark, responding so poorly to my hospitality," Richter's accent was strange. It was not German, for one. Steve knew a German accent, and that was not it. Russian, maybe? Czech? Something with a harsher edge to it. Apparently Hydra was recruiting from all over the world now.

"I've always been a poor guest," Tony rejoined. "It's a character flaw. I'm working on it."

Steve blamed the fact that he could not hide his smile on the lingering drugs in his system. That snide statement was so very Tony. The sheer sarcasm in it eased something in Steve's gut, and just like that, the world snapped into focus.

It was like looking at a battle plan from above. Richter first, with his gun inches from Steve's forehead. The guy on his right, aiming low, in Stark's general direction. The two on the left, both focused on Steve.

These people wanted Stark alive. Steve did not know their purpose or why they would hurt the man, but they were not going to kill him unless they had no other option. Captain Rogers, on the other hand, appeared to be expendable. Richter's threats, while focused on Tony, were aimed at Steve. The man was using him as a point of leverage, and that was just irritating. Steve was not going to be the chink in anyone's armor.

"I really did not want to play this card so early in our negotiations, Mr. Stark, but you really leave me no choice," Richter said. He lowered the gun, aiming it at Steve's leg, his knee—a torture shot. "You have three seconds to drop your weapon and agree to help me, or I will shoot your friend."

Steve met Tony's strained gaze calmly. He saw Tony's hand tighten on his stolen weapon, and he offered a small smile.

Richter was a powerful man, but he was too accustomed to people being too afraid of him to react. If Tony gave up, Steve would be dead in a week. This escape attempt had been started, and Steve was not going to let it fail here. Not when Richter had so stupidly placed himself in arm's reach.

The look of surprise on the old man's face was almost amusing when Steve's hand shot out and grabbed the gun. He shoved it to the side, heard the wild shot, and took the weapon with ease. Using Richter's body as a shield against the men on his left, he lunged for the man on the right. He made the mistake of trying to shoot Steve instead of Tony, the sudden shift of targets making him too slow to prevent himself from being slammed skull-first into the wall. The next shot was from Tony, and Steve saw a man drop out of the corner of his eye. He spun, his elbow taking out the final man.

The shots drew the attention of the two sentries in the hangar. Steve dragged Tony out of the doorway. Seconds later, two more men were down, easily taken out when they rushed stupidly through the door.

It was at that point that Steve realized his last, final error.

Richter.

How simple it was to forget an old man amidst the chaos of a gunfight. He felt the burn in his arm before realizing that shot had not come from Tony, and he dropped in an instinct to avoid another hit.

He need not have worried. Richter only got off the one shot before Tony reacted. Steve spun in time to see Richter hit his knees, blood spreading across the front of his shirt. The man was as good as dead, bleeding heavily from his gut, but he still held his gun. Though shock filled his face, he lifted the weapon, one last attempt to kill them. Steve watched, fascinated by this wild show of desperation, and yet not at all worried. Even with a bullet in his arm, he was fast enough to avoid getting shot, even if he had been alone. Which he wasn't.

Tony kicked Richter in the face.

Steve blinked, stunned at the viciousness of the blow, that kind of violence not meshing in his head with Tony Stark. Richter went down, out for the count, but Tony did not stop there. He fired again, and if Richter had not been dead yet, he certainly was after that execution shot.

A quick look at Tony revealed something Steve had never wanted to see in his friend. He flinched at the next several gunshots, fired in quick succession. The soft clicks of a man attempting to use an empty gun were loud in the following silence.

Steve risked a glance at Richter and had to turn away to keep from losing his gorge. Stark had emptied his gun into the man's face. There was nothing left that marked that skull as human.

"Tony."

It was a low call for attention, but it worked. Steve knew better than to bark at a man in shock. Tony blinked dumbly at him for a moment, then dropped the now useless weapon. He took a breath, turned, and took another gun off one of the fallen men.

"Let's go."

This would need to be addressed, but Steve recognized that it was neither the time nor the place for it. He scrambled to his feet and followed Tony, skirting the edges of the hangar on the off chance that anyone remained.

No one came.

"How's your arm?" Tony asked as they reached the exit and peered outside at the landing pad—empty of human life, but there was the helicopter.

"Just a graze," Steve assured him. He had checked, and the bullet had not really penetrated. "It's already stopped bleeding."

"Super healing," Tony said with a distant smile. "Would you look at that? Hydra has really gone to the dogs. They used to hold the most advanced technology in the world—were decades ahead of their time. Now look. They're stealing my tech just like every other lowlife on this fucking planet."

The casual disregard was not unexpected. Steve trailed along quietly, knowing this man was a heartbeat away from losing it and not wanting to trigger anything before they were safely at home. Or at the very least on the ground, in a safe place.

"Does that mean you can fly it?" Steve asked, because Tony always did seem to do better when he was talking. Also, even if Tony's company had designed this helicopter, that did not mean the man really could fly it.

"You're in luck, Cap," Tony dropped into the pilot's seat and handed Steve a headset when he climbed into the copilot's chair. "It won't be Air Force worthy, but I should be able to avoid killing us with this bird."

It was practice, he supposed, that had him aware of more Hydra soldiers coming for them. He was out of his seat again, taking the gun from Tony without needing to ask this time. Crouching by the open door, he watched as at least four men ran across the hangar floor, waving guns and shouting.

Tony was right. Steve was not a great shot—another thing he would have to work on, he thought dismally, but he was not really one for killing people. Even so, he had the men ducking for cover when he laid down some ground fire. This gun was not designed to hold more than fifteen or sixteen bullets, and he had not checked to see how many were left. Fortunately, the rotor blades were spinning faster, and Tony was shouting something he couldn't hear. Probably for him to hang on.

Steve fired off a couple more shots as they took to the air, then ducked back, not dumb enough to think the enemy wouldn't fire wildly in the hopes that they could take down an armored helicopter. They did, of course, but he was back in the protection of the copilot's chair, and then they were cutting across the landscape, moving faster than Steve had thought a helicopter could travel.

"We are in fucking Afghanistan," Tony declared, and Steve could hear him through the radio in the headset, now that he had it in place. He also heard the sharp bark of laughter and saw Tony's hand tighten on the controls. "That is so typical."

"At least this time it was only a few hours," Steve offered. Tony laughed again, shooting Steve a hard grin.

"Captain Rogers, you are the single most delightful person I have ever had the pleasure of working with," he said. His hands danced over the controls, and an LED map of the landscape appeared in front of them. "Okay, Cap. Geography quiz time. Mountains to the north and east, a whole lot of desert to the southwest, and Pakistan behind us. I'd say the nearest military base is Kandahar International."

"My geography is pretty limited to the US and Europe," Steve admitted. "But that little dot—is that an airport?"

Tony glanced at the display, at the little dot marked Qandahar.

"Look at that," Tony beamed. "Only about seventy miles north of us. Try the radio frequencies, Cap. See if you can pull up someone with an American accent."

Steve snorted and shook his head. It was not precisely an answer, but from Tony's response, he guessed they were heading somewhere populated with people who would help them. Good thing, too. Tony was getting paler, and Steve felt sick to his stomach again. Strange. He never used to get airsick.

He flipped through the radio frequencies, mostly getting static. Once, he heard someone speaking in a language he did not even recognize, and he quickly apologized and moved to the next frequency. By the time he was well and truly frustrated, the radio gave a burst of static, and then a voice crackled in their ears. He couldn't tell what they said, but it was English, and that was enough for him.

"Yes, hello!" Steve said, perhaps a bit too loud. "Who am I talking to?"

"You are entering NATO-controlled airspace," the man speaking to him sounded British. "You are not on our schedule of incoming flights. Identify yourself and your cargo."

"Ah, yes. That would be me," Tony said. "Tony Stark and Captain America. Our cargo is ourselves and whatever else is on this helicopter, which is stolen, by the way. So anything on board that you don't like—totally not our fault."

There was a flurry of cursing on the other end, and Steve could see how much Tony loved setting people on edge. Fury had warned him about this, had told him how Stark would antagonize the people around him until they were ready to lay hands on him. Then he enjoyed how his very identity prevented them from doing just that. Steve had witnessed it time and again, but this was the first time he had seen Tony in action after a somewhat traumatic experience. It seemed worse, somehow.

"We need medical assistance," Steve cut in before Tony could do any more damage. "And access to a secure phone line."

"Light up the runway," Tony said before Steve could stop him. "I am not in the mood to find another US-friendly military air base."

"Sir… Can you prove your identity?"

Steve rattled off his military rank, regiment and serial number. Tony just swore at them.

"Aircraft, you are cleared for landing on runway four. Please—"

"Sorry," Tony cut in rudely, "I am a civilian without a pilot's license flying a borrowed helicopter which happens to have my name on the side. I am also operating this bird with the use of only one arm, so you'll be lucky if I land it in one piece. If you want me on runway four, you'd better light it up in fucking rainbow flashing lights, or I'll stop at the first clear spot I see."

Steve looked at Tony in alarm.

"Please tell me you won't crash land us," he demanded.

"I'll do my best, Captain," Tony shot back. "My arm just went numb, which, incidentally, is kind of a relief."

"Are you going to make it to the base?" Because Tony's eyes were shot with red, and his face was ghastly pale, but his jaw was set, and Steve had hoped he was in better condition than he had earlier guessed.

"Considering your record with flying aircraft, I'll be damned if I let you fly this thing. So yeah, Cap. I'll be fine."

That… was not an acceptable answer. That was wishful thinking.

"Mr. Stark," the British voice cut into their conversation, and Tony snapped to attention, eyes on the distant lights.

"Yes, love?" he asked.

"…You have been cleared for landing on runway two. It is the first string of lights as you approach the airport."

"Wonderful. Make sure everyone stays inside until I stop the engine. I don't want anyone else getting hurt if I screw up the landing."

"I pulled in Major Jack Goldman. He's a pilot here to talk you through it." There was a break, and then a new voice spoke up, this one with an American accent. Southern. Very southern. "Major Goldman, sir. Let's see if we can get you safely back on the ground. First thing's first. You need to slow down. You're coming in too fast."

"You're my new best friend," Tony replied lightly, easing up on the throttle. "Let's do this thing."

Steve listened and watched, half out of determination to learn and then again worried that Tony was in much more pain than he was letting on. The last thing either of them needed was for their pilot to lose consciousness at any point during the landing.

Fifteen minutes later, though, Tony was powering down the engine and turning his shit-eating grin on Steve.

"Not bad for an amateur."

"Not bad at all," Steve replied warmly.

They were met by military personnel and hustled into the nearest building. Steve did not appreciate the chaos of the scene, so many men and women vying for their attention. It was more like a media frenzy than a military operation, and it made him angry.

"Okay, people," Tony held up a hand—just one, where normally he'd be placating the crowd with both, but his left arm hung useless at his side. Still, it had the desired effect of silencing the dozen or so people around them. "I need a phone, a drink, and probably a medic. Preferably in that order. Captain, any requests?"

"I don't think I need the medic, but water would be good," Steve offered. "I think we should call Coulson and make sure everyone else is okay."

Tony did that thing where his chin dropped and he looked up at the people staring at them, silently asking: are you still here? Why haven't you met my needs five minutes ago?

It didn't work immediately. Obviously these people were not used to dealing with Stark.

"Seriously, people!" Tony barked. "A phone! Water! It's not that hard!"

Several people broke off from the group, presumably to do as they asked. A moment later, a soldier cut through the crowd. Steve identified him as a General and automatically stood straighter.

"Sir," he greeted. The man looked startled, quickly waving his hand at Steve.

"At ease. Please. I'm General David Hamilton." It might have been a little prejudiced, but Steve was terribly relieved to hear the American accent. "Shit. Mr. Stark. Captain America. What the hell are you two doing way the hell out here?"

"Sightseeing," Tony quipped. "Sand and mountains. Can't get enough of it."

Hamilton looked over Stark and winced, and Steve was glad he was not the only one seeing the damage. It was not just his overprotective nature. Tony was seriously injured, and it was obvious to anyone with eyes.

"You two look terrible," Hamilton declared, stepping aside when several field medics appeared with gurneys and other medical paraphernalia. "What happened?"

"Nope," Tony said before Steve could even think to offer an explanation. "None of that debriefing crap. Hey! Where's my phone? I get a phone call."

Hamilton was woefully unprepared to deal with Stark in a snit. Steve offered an apologetic smile, even as the medics were rebuffed in favor of further demands.

"Tony." Steve set a calming hand on the billionaire's shoulder, felt the shudder ripple through it, and sighed sadly. The man was on the edge of collapse, and he just kept pushing himself. "Tony, it's okay. We're okay now, all right?"

Dark eyes looked to him. Tony's eyes were all pupil and bloodshot whites, too big and too wild, and Steve wondered how long it had actually been. He really had no idea how long he had been kept comatose. It could have been hours, or it could have been days. He figured only hours, basing his guess on Tony's earlier comments, but using Stark as a reliable information source was probably not wise at the moment.

Even if Tony did smile right then, looking caught between relief and giddy hysteria. Especially because Tony looked like he might start laughing and never stop.

"Sure, Cap," Tony said mildly. "We're with a bunch of soldiers. In Afghanistan. Nothing safer, right?"

Steve winced and waved off the people around them. A quick look at Hamilton had the man ordering his people away. Everyone but the medics. They would be needed.

Tony watched the people leaving, his gaze disinterested to the point of apathy. When he finally looked back at Steve, there was almost nothing left of his earlier intensity. Nothing but utter exhaustion.

"Don't," Tony cautioned him, even as Steve eased an arm around his shoulders, careful not to jar any injuries. "Fuck, Rogers. What the hell…"

"Don't make me carry you to the gurney, Tony," Steve chided, gentle and quiet. It did not matter. Tony still snorted and resisted the careful prodding. "I'll call home. The others can be here in a matter of hours. You trust me to watch your back until then?"

"I suppose it's only fair," Tony grumbled. "I spent the last fifteen hours making sure nothing happened to your comatose ass."

"Thank you for that."

"I'm not doing it again," Tony griped, letting himself be pushed onto the gurney, his entire face contorting with pain at the sudden pressure against his shoulder. "Jesus, fuck me. Watch it!"

"Try to relax, Mr. Stark." One of the medics already had a stethoscope out, and it was almost funny to see the shocked look on his face when he put the bell down and encountered metal. "What's under your shirt?"

"Yeah, leave that alone," Tony offered. Allowing himself to be led to the other gurney, Steve had a moment of surprise. With a setup like that, Tony would have normally had a field day. Even Steve had instantly thought of a bad sex joke. Huh. "Don't touch, don't scan, don't… well, just don't."

"…Yes, sir."

They were taken into the depths of the airport. Tony was remarkably quiet, but when Steve looked his way, he could see the man was still awake. He just stared up at the ceiling passing by, the fluorescent lights skimming by almost hypnotically.

Steve looked at the lights, wondering if this was what it felt like to be completely mesmerized. Not until several hours later, when he opened his eyes to stare blankly at an unfamiliar ceiling, did he realize that he fell asleep. Again.

TBC...

Next up: the aftermath. Steve wakes up, and this time it's Tony who is drugged.

As a side note: Kandahar International Airport is a real place. I don't know if there's a medical facility in it, but it is a military base, so I'm pretending there is for the sake of my story.