Chapter Text
“Time,” Steve pants as he skids to a halt in the basement of Avengers Tower, slapping his hand to the panel on the wall to close the doors behind him. His chest is heaving with breath and he’s sweating buckets, though he doesn’t care in the slightest because his whole body is thrumming and energised from the exercise. Outside, the sun is already creeping up and the day is already promising to be a glorious one.
“You completed the run in two hours and fifty-eight minutes, beating your previous personal best by three minutes,” Jarvis says, and Steve punches the air delightedly, grinning.
“Not bad at all,” he says breathlessly, walking across the garage towards the elevators. There’s a bottle of water on the floor by the elevator, left there on his way out earlier that morning, and he stoops to grab it as the elevator doors slide smoothly open.
“Thanks, Jarvis,” he says, twisting the cap off the water bottle and draining half of it in several easy swallows. Bracing his hands on the smooth chrome rail at waist height, he leans back against the wall of the elevator, smiling to himself as the elevator takes him up towards the communal floors. He’s not ever managed to run that route in under three hours before, which can only mean that he’s finally back to full fitness. It’s taken way too long in his opinion; just over seven weeks of gradually building up his strength and energy, having to be careful about how much he attempts to do without rest.
Seven weeks. Seven whole weeks of recovering, looking back on his time in the multiverse and learning from it. He doesn’t miss being there, but he does still miss the characters he met, particularly SJ. He’d had a dream a couple of nights ago – a real dream, not a multiverse experience – that SJ had turned up at the tower and Steve had adopted him and Fury had gone absolutely spare and Natasha had taught SJ how to dance. He’d woken up feeling close to tears, frustrated and miserable that SJ was gone, far out of his reach. It had taken him a while to realise that he was mourning SJ and the others and not just missing them; before he’d made it back home they’d all seemed very real and very much alive, and he hadn’t immediately registered in his own head that they were dead.
It's not just SJ and the others that have been on his mind; it's also been seven weeks of living in the tower without Tony there, trying not to feel unhappy with how empty it seems. He hasn’t heard anything from him, but he didn’t really expect to. Tony made it quite clear that it was down to Steve to decide what he wanted from their relationship, and he’d act accordingly whenever Steve finally did decide.
Seven weeks of time to recover and sort his head out, and Steve thinks maybe that he’s starting to come to a few conclusions. Tentative, fleeting conclusions that are constantly creeping up on him at unexpected moments and then abandoning him when he actually tries to lock down on them. He’s almost given up on trying to force his thoughts in any direction, and is instead just allowing himself to be content with the simple ache in his chest that misses Tony. He’s starting to think that maybe that’s enough anyway.
He knows Clint is in contact with Pepper and sort-of Tony (annoying him by sending him pointless picture messages, according to Natasha) and Clint says Tony is safe and healthy and working his ass off. Pepper is apparently rather taken aback by his new and improved work ethic, though still wishes that he would stop bumping his own projects to the top of his schedule.
God, but Steve misses him.
Clint is sitting at the island counter in the communal kitchen when Steve walks in, fiddling with an arrow. There are more arrows and loose fletchings scattered over the countertop, alongside a screwdriver and something that looks suspiciously like a mini blowtorch from Tony’s workshop.
“So, the no weapons at the kitchen counter rule lasted all of a week and a half, then,” he calls out as he walks over.
“These are tools, not weapons,” Clint replies, turning around and grinning at Steve.
“Arrows, Clint,” Steve says, amused, and Clint glances at the carnage on the table and then grimaces.
“Sorry?”
“I’m in too good a mood to be mad,” Steve says honestly, stretching his arms above his head and grunting in satisfaction as his spine stretches and relaxes. “Ran under three hours.”
“That what you were running before your excellent adventure?” Clint asks, and Steve nods.
“Yep. Quickest I’ve ever done, by three minutes,” he says, and leans forwards, intending to stretch his back some more. He gets halfway down and feels his sweat-soaked shirt sticking uncomfortably to his back, catching under his arms. Wrinkling his nose, he stands up and peels it off, finding a semi-dry spot and wiping his face on it. The air conditioning in the tower is of course working perfectly, and the room feels fresh and pleasant against his sweaty skin.
“Aw, come on. Now that’s just,” Clint says in a tone somewhere between awed and exasperated. Steve lowers the shirt from his face to see Clint pointing an arrow at him, presumably because he’s trying to make a point. “I am totally not gay but seriously, you are like porn. If I sent a photo to Tony now he’d combust.”
Steve folds his arms across his chest, trying not to be amused. Clint just raises both his eyebrows and spreads his hands apart, gesturing at Steve and then pretending to swoon, wrist pressed to his forehead.
“Clint.”
Clint straightens up in his seat, folding his arms across his chest in a mirror of Steve’s pose. “Steve.”
“Stop it.”
Clint grins. “I’m making you uncomfortable, aren’t I?”
“Yeah, little bit,” Steve says dryly, reaching for his water bottle again and feeling rather conscious of every flex of muscle as he does. He’s not trying to show off, honestly, he’s just thirsty.
“Not used to guys being open with the attention?” Clint asks, eyes on the arrow in his hand. He reaches for the blowtorch, and then remembers Steve is there and puts it back down again.
Steve makes a thoughtful noise, shrugging one shoulder. “Still not used to the attention, no matter who it’s from,” he says, and takes a swallow from the water bottle before putting it down. “You spend most of your life as someone who never gets a look and then suddenly you’re someone who’s turning heads all over the place.”
“Wow, you’ve clearly attended the Stark seminar on humility,” Clint snorts, and then pulls a contemplative face. “So, you ever banged a dude?”
“Clint!”
“I’m just asking.”
Steve shakes his head, wondering how he can have such awful taste in friends. He’s clearly going to have to make some more, ones that don’t seem to consistently have winding him up as the top item on their to-do lists. “You really aren’t being very helpful.”
“Ha, that’s almost exactly what Tony said.”
Steve huffs, pinching the bridge of his nose for a second before looking up. Clint is still looking at him, clearly waiting for an answer. “Shall I do the abridged version of this conversation? No, I have never banged a dude,” Steve says, making air quotes with his fingers, and Clint chokes with supressed laughter. “No, I never indulged in any helping hands with the fellas during the war. Yes, I have kissed a guy before, but it was over seventy years ago and was the result of a game of dare that got out of hand.”
Clint looks positively gleeful, shaking with restrained laughter. “Captain America played gay chicken and lost.”
Steve stares at him, nonplussed. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Gay chicken – never mind. Did you like the result?”
“I didn’t not like it. I didn’t really anything it.”
“Alright. Continue.”
“Yes, I’ve thought about kissing Tony. No, I can’t think of any objections.”
“You know that positivity is not just the absence of negativity?” Clint says cautiously. “Like, you can’t decide something is a good idea just because there’s nothing to say it’s a bad idea. You have to think it’s a good idea because, well, because it’s a good idea."
“Okay,” Steve says, rubbing at his forehead. “Maybe I quite like the idea.”
“Aaaaand touchdown!” Clint says, throwing his hands in the air. “Conclusion reached, that’s time ladies and gents, please don’t tell me anymore of your ideas about Tony.”
And despite Clint once again reaching Bucky-levels of annoying, Steve finds he’s laughing. There’s a funny sort of feeling in his stomach, a lot like butterflies, and the feeling only intensifies as he thinks about his admission. Kissing Tony…it’s true; now he’s letting himself contemplate the idea, he’s finding that maybe it wouldn’t be completely awful. Maybe okay. Maybe even pretty swell.
“So, if you would bang Tony and you hate being without Tony and you feel like a better person when you’re around Tony…?”
“Yeah,” Steve says, drumming his fingers on the countertop.
“Yeah?” Clint asks.
Steve blows out a breath, knowing exactly what Clint is actually asking. The ‘yes’ is on the tip of his tongue, another admission waiting to come out into the open, but before it can, Jarvis is interrupting, his voice quiet and calm.
“Captain Rogers, Dr Richards is on the line. He once again says it’s urgent.”
Steve sighs, folding his arms across his bare chest again and leaning sideways, checking his hip against the countertop. “I’m not in,” he says, as Clint sniggers. There’s a pause, and Steve holds his breath.
“I’m afraid he knows you are here, Captain,” Jarvis says apologetically. “Johnny Storm saw you out running this morning as he was returning home. He has informed Doctor Richards that you appear fit and well, and that you were heading back into the tower. Doctor Richards is insisting that he needs to speak with you urgently, as he has spoken with Doctor Strange.”
Steve’s stomach lurches, and he exchanges a look with Clint. “Strange? He’s back in this dimension?” Clint asks, sounding guarded.
“It would appear so, Agent Barton.”
Steve blows out a breath. He is perfectly fit and well again and could probably move on with his life quite happily after his stint in the multiverse exactly as he is now…but there’s a part of him that will always want to know how this happened to him, even if he’s managed to work out why. And besides, his experience could really be of use to Richards and the others who are interested in finding out more about the multiverse. With that in mind, he makes a decision.
“Patch him through,” Steve says.
Richard’s voice comes through the speakers almost immediately, sounding annoyed. “About time. I’ve been waiting for you to get back to me for weeks.”
Clint pulls a face and shows the ceiling his middle finger. Steve bites down on a laugh. “Yeah, sorry. Fury’s orders,” he says. “Had to be back at full strength before I let anyone poke about in my brain again.”
“You know if you’d come in sooner we would have been able to draw more conclusive data-”
“I’m sorry, was the point to get data about your freaking pet multiverse theory or to help Steve?” Clint butts in angrily, before Steve can say anything. He shoots Clint an exasperated look, because he appreciates the solidarity but he’s most definitely fit and well enough to be fighting his own battles. Especially when the battle in question is nothing more than an awkward phone call with an overzealous scientist.
There’s a pause, and then Richards speaks again. “This whole experience could hold the key-”
“Yeah, you’ve said that before,” Clint says rudely, and Steve sends him a warning look which he of course completely ignores. “Now what do you actually want?”
Richards sighs, sounding put out. “Stephen Strange is back. He can help us look at any traces of magic left in your consciousness, maybe he even knows who did it. Either way, he seems interested in helping.”
Steve jumps in before Clint can piss Richards off too much. Frankly, if Richards is going to go delving about in his brain, he wants him on side. “Okay, when is he available to-”
“This afternoon,” Reed says immediately. “He says he hasn’t got much time to spare.”
Steve pauses, thinks for a moment. “Okay,” he says.
“Whoa, whoa, time out, not okay,” Clint says, slashing his hands violently through the air. “This afternoon? Don’t we need to call a team meeting or something? Is this going to be safe? What are you even planning?”
“Of course it’s safe,” Richards says dismissively. Clint sends Steve a meaningful look, shaking his head insistently from side to side. Steve frowns back; surely if Richards says it’s safe, it will be safe? They wouldn’t put him in danger just for the sake of sating their curiosity, surely?
“You can guarantee it’s safe?” Steve says, and Clint emphatically mouths ‘no.’
“Yes,” Richards says, now sounding impatient. “We wouldn’t do anything that would permanently damage you, Captain.”
Steve raises his eyebrows in a ‘there you go,’ face which he directs at Clint, who is still shaking his head, mistrust etched into every line of his face and countenance. Steve ignores him, and carries on talking to Richards. “Okay, this afternoon is fine. Thank you, Doctor Richards. Shall I come by the Baxter Building?”
“Yes. One O’ clock. See you later.”
The call disconnects without further ado and Steve reaches for his shirt, slinging it over his shoulder. Out of the corner of his eye he notices Clint is still looking far from happy, annoyed frown firmly in place. He’s got the shaft of an arrow in one hand, a stray purple fletching in another, turning it over and over between his fingers.
“Hey. Stop with the frowning, it’ll be fine.”
“You know the Fantastic Four became the Fantastic Four because Richards miscalculated something?” Clint says pointedly, chucking the arrow shaft back onto the counter with a clatter.
“Okay. I’ll tell him that if he’s going to miscalculate again, I want invisibility.”
“Oh ha fucking ha, joker,” Clint retorts, and then looks down for a moment, staring at the fletching that’s between his fingers. “We can’t lose you again, Cap,” he says to his shoes. “Seriously.”
Steve suddenly feels bad for not taking Clint’s obvious – and understandable – concerns seriously. “I’m sorry,” he says honestly. “But you can’t – I’ll be fine. If you guys start leaping in to protect me from everything that could go wrong-
“This is Richards, it probably will go wrong.”
“Clint, he knows what he’s doing,” Steve says firmly. “I need to do this, and I trust that he’s not going to do anything that’s going to hurt me. If it helps, you can come with me.”
Clint looks at him for a moment and then nods, though he still looks unsure. “You need to tell Tony.”
“Don’t,” Steve says, before he can stop himself, spine prickling at the way Tony’s name is casually thrown into the conversation. He’s not sure what to make of the fact that Clint thinks that Tony needs to be a part of this – Steve and Tony aren’t together, Steve doesn’t need Tony’s permission or say so-to do anything, Tony doesn’t need to know everything that’s happening to Steve. “He doesn’t need to come back just for this.
“He’d want to be here.”
“Well he can’t get here,” Steve reasons, because it’s true; even if they called Tony now and he managed to get his jet off the ground in the next hour, he still wouldn’t arrive in time. Clint is looking more and more unimpressed, so Steve hesitates. “I’ll call him afterwards.”
Clint still doesn’t look completely convinced, but there’s not a lot Steve can do about it. Supressing a sigh, Steve pushes away from the counter and reaches over to clap him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry,” he says, straightening up and stepping backwards. “I’m going to take a shower.”
“I still think you should be more concerned about this plan,” Clint yells after him, and Steve just rolls his eyes and walks away. It is touching – yet frustrating – that Clint’s worried, but he supposes it can be put down to the fact the rest of the team went through hell whilst he was out for the count. It still makes him feel oddly guilty in a way, though he had had his own torments to be dealing with whilst in the multiverse. It wasn’t like he had an easy ride whilst leaving them all here in the lurch.
As he heads up to his rooms, his thoughts drift back to the way Clint had so easily said that Steve should call Tony, to let him know what’s happening. He thinks about it for a moment, and finds he actually wants to. Not because he thinks anything will go wrong, but simply because it seems right to tell Tony about something like this.
Like he would if he were in a relationship with someone.
He bites the inside of his lip and pushes the thought away. He can’t call Tony, not for this. The whole point of Tony going away was so that Steve could deal with this whole multiverse experience and then work out how he felt, not to tangle the two up again.
I’ll call him afterwards, he promises himself, and doesn’t debate it any more.
“Tony!”
“Always with the shouting, what’s with the shouting,” Tony says vaguely, eyes on the circuit board in front of him, soldering iron in hand. Pepper is still shouting his name and he can hear her heels clacking on the metal stairs that lead down to his workshop. He’s been in LA for seven and a half weeks now and he actually thinks he’s been pretty well-behaved for his tenure on the west coast; he’s signed all her paperwork and completed the specs for the new tower's energy grid and even been to two whole shareholder meetings. Honestly, he’s got no idea why she’s yelling.
“TONY!”
“J, have I forgotten anything?” Tony asks, eyes still fixed on the circuitry in front of him. “Work out why she’s yelling.”
“I’m afraid I do not know,” Jarvis said apologetically. “You have actually completed all of the tasks that Ms Potts categorised as non-negotiable.”
“And you, always with the surprise,” Tony grumbles.
Jarvis ignores him and carries on. “Though it may be down to the fact she has just finished a phone call with Agent Barton.”
Tony goes very still, eyes on his hands. He’s not heard much from Clint and the others in the past few weeks; just enough to keep him comforted that they aren’t pissed at him for leaving and are simply respecting his choice to put some distance between himself and the situation. Mostly he receives photo messages from Clint. They’re often pretty random, coming in at unpredictable and ridiculous times of the day and night, and they seem to serve as a sort of pictorial commentary of life in the tower; images of empty coffee cups; some amazing array of equipment that Bruce has set up in the lab; the kitchen table covered in empty plates, newspapers and various bits of Natasha-themed weaponry. One had been of Steve asleep on the sofa in the rec room of the tower, sprawled out on his back with his mouth hanging open, shirt all twisted and rucked halfway up his stomach, the cushions all knocked to the floor.
Clint never adds any captions or words to the pictures, but Tony thinks there’s no real need. It’s oddly reassuring, getting the odd snapshot of his teammates, though the picture of Steve had made Tony feel like throwing something across the room because he hadn’t been there to see it himself.
“Tony, where are you?”
“You rang?” Tony says as Pepper’s feet hit ground level, shoving his stool away from the workbench and rolling across the floor so he’s not hidden from view behind the tool cabinet. He frowns as she marches over; she looks somewhere between panicked and frustrated and that’s never a good look, especially when he’s got no idea why she’s looking that way.
“What’s happened?”
“Clint just called, he was trying to call you, why did you not answer?”
“Busy,” Tony replies, standing up and walking over, catching her elbows with his hands. “Jarvis was diverting, Pep, whoa, calm down and tell me-”
“Clint says that Stephen Strange has appeared back in this, this dimension or whatever you call it, I don’t know,” Pepper says, frantic. “Reed Richards is organising some sort of appointment for him to go delving through Steve’s brain to find out where it went, and Steve apparently thinks it’s not a big deal and is trusting Richards, but -”
Tony’s mind stutters to a halt. Hang on – Steve is going to let Strange fuck about with his mind with only Reed Richards for supervision? Fuck, he knows Strange too well to believe he’ll prioritise Steve’s wellbeing before his own wants and needs. And Richards as well. The level of risk that they are going to consider acceptable is going to be too high, Steve probably isn’t fully recovered from the accident and they won’t give a shit if they hurt him, not if it’s in the name of magic or science-
“Hold him off,” he says, going back to his workbench and grabbing his phone. “Jarvis, remove call blocking. Pepper, call Clint back and get him to hold them off, I don’t care how he does it-”
“Okay,” Pepper is already dialling, biting her lip. She’s moving back and forth agitatedly, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “Clint? Clint yes, he knows, he says to hold him off. I don’t know, what do you normally do when you’re trying to divert someone-? No, Clint, you can’t shoot anyone, just think of – ask Natasha. Get Natasha on the phone – well go and find her then-!”
Heart thumping behind the arc-reactor, Tony lets Pepper deal with that end of the situation and shifts his focus to what he needs to do instead. He dials Steve's number, heart thudding strangely as it connects and rings. And rings. And rings. And then goes to voicemail.
"Fuck!" Tony swears. "Jarvis, where is he?"
"I'm sorry, Sir, it appears Captain Rogers is not in the tower."
Tony doesn't stop to think. "Jarvis, get the suit ready. Mark fifteen, go.”
There’s a pause.
“Jarvis!”
“Sir, the mark thirteen is the fastest model,” Jarvis says. “If speed is your priority.”
Tony nods brusquely. “Good call. Light it up.”
There’s a faint and familiar whirring and Tony watches the storage compartment in the wall open slowly, focussing on breathing in and out steadily. There’s only one thought left in his mind, repeating over and over and he doesn’t doubt it, not even for a second.
He needs to get to Steve.
Reed Richards' lab is nowhere near as great as Tony’s, is Steve’s initial thought upon entering. It’s just gone half past one and he’s only just arrived, apologising for being late. He fully blames Clint, who had done his damnest to get Steve to rethink his decision and put off the appointment; it was only when Steve told him he was going with or without him that Clint conceded and let him leave the tower. Actually, Clint didn’t even really concede; he just couldn’t physically stop Steve from exiting the building and had instead followed him with a very bad grace.
Steve blows out a breath, rocking back on his heels and starting to feel a little nervous. He tries to take his mind off it by looking around, but it doesn’t work very well. It’s nothing like Tony’s workshop; it’s all science and numbers and theory, none of the bots or machines or cars that Tony works with. More abstract. Less real, somehow.
Steve suddenly wishes he had called Tony. It's too late now, and besides, even if he wanted to he's left his phone on his nightstand after showering.
“Take a seat, Captain,” Stephen Strange says to Steve, his voice low and melodious. He gestures to the chair and Steve nods and climbs carefully into it, leaning back and exhaling heavily. Strange looks amused, like Steve is a small child finding something illogically frightening. “Relax. The tenser you are, the more uncomfortable it will be for you, and the more difficult it will be for me.”
“Easy for you to say,” Steve says, and he’s only half joking. He wants to do this – he needs to do this – but Stephen Strange isn’t exactly a warm and welcoming type of fella. He’d greeted Steve politely enough, but had been openly keen to dismiss with pleasantries in favour of getting down to business. It doesn’t help that Steve knows very little about the guy; he knows his official title is Sorcerer Supreme, and he protects the earth from magical threats. He knows that he used to be a neurosurgeon before he learned magic, which he supposes is a plus for someone who’s about to go delving around in his brain.
He’ll be honest; between Strange and Richards, Steve is starting to feel a bit like a lab rat. He’s not going to back out now though, not when he’s so close to getting some more answers. At the end of the day, he can’t really object to what the two men are planning if he gets what he wants out if it.
“I still think we should wait,” Clint says stubbornly, from where he is leaning back against Richards’ desk with his hands shoved in his pockets, much to Richards’ chagrin.
“It’ll be fine,” Richards says without turning around. His fingers are flying over his keyboard, eyes glued to the screen in front of him. “Just sit still. Strange, are these sensors going to affect what you need to do?”
Strange looks over to Richards, who stops typing and picks up a couple of small white circular disks, holding them up for inspection.
“No,” Strange says without pause. “Unless any of your equipment runs off magical energy.”
“No,” Richards says, and reaches – no, stretches – his arms over towards Steve. He doesn’t flinch, but Clint does take a large step back away from the extending limbs, a look of alarmed distaste on him face. Steve smiles fleetingly, and then sits perfectly still as Reed sticks the two sensors onto Steve’s head, one just below each temple.
“It will happen quickly,” Strange says to Richards, watching as his arms retract and he goes back to typing. “Will your sensors be able to keep up?"
“Of course.”
Steve’s eyes flick to Clint as the conversation turns back to science. Or magic, he’s not sure at this point. Noticing the glance, Clint pushes away from the desk and walks over to Steve, still looking unhappy.
“Relax,” Steve says to him, even though he’s been given the same instruction and can’t quite manage it himself. “It’s fine.”
“Only Captain America would insist that having his brain messed with is fine,” Clint snorts, kicking his toe against the leg of the chair. “What is it gonna take to get you to hold off?”
“Hold off for what?” Steve says pointedly. “What is the point in waiting?”
Clint’s mouth opens and then closes again almost immediately. He kicks at the chair leg again. “Tony,” he finally says stubbornly, looking up. “You should let Tony know, wait for Tony-”
Steve shakes his head. “We’ve talked about this,” he says. “Clint. Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere. These guys have got me.”
“You’re not listening – that’s exactly why I’m worried.”
“Ready Captain? Hawkeye, move.”
Clint turns an unimpressed glare on Richards, but does deign to step back. Strange steps up, taking his place beside Steve, bright eyes fixed on his face and now looking at Steve like he’s a particularly interesting puzzle. “I am going to delve through your consciousness and see what traces of magic are left,” he says smoothly. “If possible, I will find the window which opened up to your consciousness, push you through and follow.”
“Push me?” Steve asks, taken aback. His stomach clenches. “No offense, but I really don’t fancy going back.”
“I will have you tethered,” Strange says. “I highly doubt the place that you describes even exists anymore, so you will not, as you put it, ‘go back.’ We will merely be following the path of whoever it was that did this to you.”
“I don’t fully understand,” Steve says slowly, because he can put most of the pieces together and he’s far from stupid, but this is so far beyond anything he’s ever encountered before.
“I’m not asking you to understand,” Strange says. “I’m asking you to sit still.”
And Steve looks from Richards to Strange to Clint, hesitating for a moment before nodding. Strange says he will have him tethered, that he’s not going to let him slip away, all he’s going to be doing is looking-
Strange reaches out and his hands hover either side of Steve’s temples. Steve takes a deep steadying breath and lets his eyes flutter shut. His chest expands and then settles, and everything is quiet, only breathing and the shuffling of someone’s footsteps. He’s still nervous, and a voice in the back of his mind still wishes he’d called Tony, but Tony wouldn’t have been able to get here in time anyway.
He breathes in. Out. Tries to relax.
And then cool fingertips touch his temples and agony tears through his mind in a piercing rush of light. He feels his whole body snap taught as if electrocuted, his hands grasping spasmodically at the arms of the chair, fingers gripping so tightly the metal buckles. A strangled scream never makes it out of his throat, catching painfully in his chest as his back bows.
“STEVE!”
The shout comes from thousands of miles away, echoing and distant. Steve is torn mercilessly from his body, falling, falling through roaring wind and swirling light. Screams and shouts and cries of pain echo around him, and he twists around desperately, trying to find something to hold onto. He’s no longer in the chair, he’s nowhere, he’s falling and there’s nothing to grab onto-
God, it hurts. The wind is tearing at his clothes and hair, stinging his eyes and his chest is burning, burning where the metal went through his ribs. He’s coughing, choking, can taste blood in the back of his mouth. He lifts an arm, covering his face, trying to shield his eyes.
No, he tries to say, desperate. He’s getting lost again, he doesn’t want to be lost again, he needs to get home-
‘Was it worth it?’ a voice screams through the wind, and it’s his voice, he holds his hand in front of his face and tries to see. It’s his voice, shouting and yelling, and then the light and shadows lurch and twist and he’s there, he can see himself right there, in a dark corridor, sitting inside a steel cell barred by bars of light with Tony standing impassively on the other side.
“No.” He tries to lunge forwards but the image is ripped away from his grasping fingers. Another takes its place; Steve lying prone on the ground with his head in Tony’s armoured lap. He’s pale and not moving, and Tony’s bare hands are stroking gently across his face, through his hair. There are tears on Tony’s face, and his mouth is moving as he speaks softly to Steve.
The pain swells, twists and he feels bile rise up in the back of his throat. There are shadows and images tearing past him, just like when he an SJ had stumbled across the magic in the multiverse, but this is more invasive, more painful. He feels like he’s being dragged away in the current and he tries to scream, for help, for anyone.
He sees bright green eyes and a sweep of dark hair as a figure turns away and runs. A streaming cloak, snapping and fluttering in the wind. He tries to follow but the pain is agonising, and he can’t. He gasps and then he can see himself again, alone and walking slowly through a silent forest. The snow lies thick on the ground and flakes fall silently, smothering the ground beneath his feet. Blood drips onto the snow, shockingly bright against the white. He's staggering, stumbling, clutching his left shoulder where his arm should be-
The image is snatched away but he can’t be grateful, because now he can see Tony lying on the floor, armour bent and battered and Steve is standing above him, shield raised and rage etched into his features. Tony isn’t moving and Steve is swinging, swinging the shield down viciously, and Steve is screaming but not making a sound, horrified and sick and desperate-
“No!”
And he falls back into his body with an agonising wrench. The force sends him lurching forwards out of the chair, falling forwards and gasping, and strong hands grab him, keeping him from hitting the floor. All he can hear is his pulse pounding in his ears, and he can barely lift his head. The wind is gone, the light is gone and he’s back. He can still barely see; pain licks at his temples and footsteps around him, urgent and alarmed voices.
He sways dangerously and sinks further down, listing sideways. There’s a curse, and he slumps forwards into something hard and solid. He reaches out weakly, tries to push against it and get up, but he can’t, he’s too damn weak. Another bitten off swear word, and there’s a hand under his chin, a hand on his shoulder and pushing him back, tilting his face up. He screws his eyes shut against the light for a moment, forces them open, and then his heart jolts behind his aching ribs.
Tony is there.
It’s Tony who’s there in front of him. He’s in the armour, gauntlets and helmet off, kneeling in front of Steve and looking somewhere between worried and furious, eyes not on Steve but over somewhere to his right. Still gasping in air, Steve just stares at him for a moment, eyes locked on Tony’s face and trying to grasp hold of a single coherent thought other than Tony is here-
Oh god, a second ago he was watching a Steve Rogers kill a Tony Stark, swinging his shield with such sickening and determined violence, and no, he is not letting anything happen to Tony, he will kill himself before he lets anything happen to Tony-
And suddenly he understands what Tony meant by ‘it’s realisation.’ God, he knows exactly what Tony means, how he saw something terrible happen to Steve which wrenched open a raw and painful part of him, something that bursts into fierce life under his sternum.
“-didn’t tell him it was going to be that fucking painful!” Tony is bellowing, angrier than Steve has ever heard him. “You absolute bastard, Richards, you were meant to call-”
And Steve pushes forwards with monumental effort, pushing himself up and rolling forwards into Tony, his hands sliding under Tony’s arms and clutching at his armoured back. He can’t even – he just knows that some raw, newly unearthed part of him wants – needs – to be as close to Tony as possible.
“Whoa!” Tony grabs at him, alarmed as they both rock back dangerously, threatening to tip over completely. “Cap – Steve!”
Steve shoves his face into Tony’s throat and doesn’t let go. He’s shaking from head to foot, and he can now hear Clint yelling and Richards shouting back, but he doesn’t care because Tony is somehow here, Tony is here and got him out of that awful, terrible place-
“Steve,” Tony says softly, urgently, and a hand comes up to hold onto the back of Steve’s head. “Talk to me, please say something, oh god, he’s scrambled your brain hasn’t he-”
“I’m okay,” Steve manages to say, face still pressed into the curve of Tony’s neck. His whole body shudders and the edge of the suit digs into his jaw. “I’m alright.”
“Oh, thank fuck,” Tony breathes, so quiet and torn up with relief. An armoured arm wraps around Steve, pulls him close. He raises his voice again. “What the hell were you guys thinking?”
“He will suffer no lasting damage,” Stephen Strange says, sounding annoyed. “A few more minutes and-”
“A few more minutes? You nearly boxed him with thirty seconds of that shit!” Tony snaps, and Steve can hear Clint snarling, “I’ll cause you lasting damage,” in the background.
“And you, you fucking moron,” Tony says angrily to Steve, but Steve doesn’t want to hear it. He can barely think, all he can feel and smell is Tony, and his mouth is moving gently against the skin of Tony’s neck, a silent thank you, a wordless don’t leave me.
Tony’s breath stutters, exhales shakily. “Steve,” he murmurs, uncertain, all the anger gone. Steve presses impossibly closer, eyes suddenly hot and burning, and for the first time since the accident he knows what he wants. He is not going to let Tony go, not ever. He’s never going to let anyone hurt him, least of all himself.
“You’re here,” he manages to say. “Stay. Stay with me.”
And Tony is tightening his arms around Steve, forcing his head up and pressing his cheek to Steve’s, breathing rapid and harsh in Steve’s ear. “Yes," he says, and his hand is still on the back of Steve’s head. It moves clumsily, shaking as it strokes his hair. “Steve.”
Steve presses his nose against Tony’s cheekbone, nudges at him, his chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath. Tony’s beard is rasping against his skin and somehow his mouth is pressing at the corner of Tony’s, and he wants. He feels like his body is drugged, lethargic and clumsy. Tony’s breath is hot on his face, and Steve is trying to inch closer, turning and pressing his face further into Tony’s nudge by nudge, and then his mouth finally reaches Tony’s, and he never wants to leave.
Tony draws a sharp breath in through his nose as Steve’s mouth presses to his. He doesn’t move for several long seconds, and then he’s shuddering and pulling back, pressing his forehead to Steve’s.
“You fucking moron,” Tony is saying, but Steve doesn’t give a shit. “Tactical genius my ass, why the hell would you – why would you not tell me this was happening? Jesus, Steve, if Barton thinks it’s a bad idea then you know it’s a bad idea, and I’m never forgiving you for enabling Barton as the sensible one, that’s fucked up on so many levels-”
“Stop talking,” Steve manages to say, rolling his forehead against Tony’s.
“Fuck you,” Tony replies. “And fuck this. I’m taking you home. No more mind fuckery. Clint, call someone and then help me carry this son of a bitch downstairs. So help me Richards, if you’re about to complain about incomplete data I’m going to tell Sue what you just did-”
Zoning Tony’s voice out, Steve slumps forwards, forehead resting against the cool metal of the Iron Man armour. He feels like he could sleep for a week, and they’re never going to let him forget this, are they? God, he’s had it with the multiverse, he’s officially out. He doesn’t care who did this to him; he’s learned his lesson, he never wants to see another alternative reality as long as he lives, and-
And Tony’s fingers are gently stroking up the nape of his neck even as he carries on arguing with Richards and Strange, and Steve remotely thinks he can’t even be all that mad about it, if this is where he’s ended up. Tony’s hand moves, palm cupping the back of his neck. His face turns towards Steve, mouth pressing to the side of his face for a fleeting moment before he lifts his chin to snap back at Doctor Strange.
Yeah, Steve thinks, breathing in the smell of metal and Tony, so impossibly wonderfully close. There are definitely worse places to end up. It’s a crying shame it’s taken him so long to realise it.
It takes Tony in the armour and some help from a hastily summoned Thor to get Steve back to his room in the tower. Steve’s energy is slowly returning but he’s not quite back up to speed and is still off-balance even by the time they haul him into his room and dump him unceremoniously on his bed. Tony is torn between feeling bad and feeling like Steve deserves it, the moron.
“I shall leave him in your care,” Thor says to Tony, watching with a knowing smile as Steve pushes himself into a sitting position, leaning on the edge of the bed with his elbows on his knees and his forehead propped on his knuckles.
“I’m alright,” he says, sounding tired and pissed off. “Stop worrying about me.”
“Once again, fuck off,” Tony says cheerfully, and turns to clap Thor on the shoulder. “Thanks, big guy.”
Thor nods, and then turns and leaves the room. Tony watches him go, and then turns his attention to getting out of his armour. He takes his time disassembling it, leaving the pieces stacked up in the corner of the room. Only when he’s out of it, clad in his jeans and T-shirt and barefoot, does he turn to Steve, folding his arms across his chest. God, his heart feels like it’s about to turn inside out – he’s back here with Steve, he’s so close that Tony could climb into his arms again and kiss him senseless, kiss him the way Steve had kissed him before. God, even the thought of it makes shivers go down his spine.
“Unacceptable risk, Steven Rogers,” he says sternly, and Steve just holds out the hand that’s not being used to prop his head up, not even looking at Tony as he does.
Tony capitulates, stepping over and taking Steve’s hand in his. “Sorry for pulling the plug,” he says. “But I honestly could not sit through another moment of that.”
“Neither could I,” Steve says, and then, “Clint called you didn’t he?”
“Yep,” Tony says. He’s about to make a snarky comment about it, but he sees Steve’s shoulders tighten fractionally, his mouth open as he exhales, chin trembling. “Hey, hey,” Tony says, concerned. He steps forwards and Steve reaches blindly for him with both hands, catching his hips and pressing his forehead to Tony’s stomach. Tony slides his hands onto his shoulders, feeling his own throat go tight. “What the hell did he do to you?"
“Dragged me through the multiverse,” Steve says, voice muffled. His fingers tighten slightly on Tony’s hips. “Painfully.”
“And you let him, you idiot,” Tony says.
“Don’t, it’s bad enough admitting Clint was right,” Steve replies.
"I'm seriously considering nominating bird-brain to be in charge," he says frankly. "I've got a lot to thank him for."
"He'd never," Steve breathes out heavily. "But yeah. We both do."
There's a moment of silence, the only sounds their measured breathing. Steve's thumbs move against the waistband of Tony's jeans, and Tony can feel it acutely even through the denim. He's not sure what to say, but luckily for him it's Steve who breaks the silence.
“I’m glad you’re here.”
“Careful what you say, Cap,” Tony says lightly, feeling hope burning traitorously in his chest. “That’s open to all sorts of interpretation.”
And Steve, the bastard, pushes Tony back by his hips and looks up at him, blue eyes open and piercing. “What you said about realisation,” he says, and there’s so much honesty in his gaze that it makes Tony’s head spin. “I want to be with you. I want you back here in the goddamn tower. I want you telling me when I fuck up, and I want you to let me tell you when you’re doing the same.”
And Tony has never felt so completely winded in his life. His hands smooth over Steve’s shoulders as he tries to find words, as he tries to find thoughts. Steve is still looking at him with those damn blue eyes and he can’t look away.
“Okay,” he manages. “So, you know friends can do that for each other-”
“No,” Steve says, sounding strained. He dips his head again, presses his forehead to Tony’s abdomen again. “No, I can’t-” He looks up again, awkward and beautiful. “I wouldn’t say I’m queer, I never have, I just-”
“The ends of these sentences better be good,” Tony says blankly, and Steve huffs, irritated.
“You, Tony. It’s always about you. God, why are we even talking about this?”
“Because communication is the key to a healthy, functioning relationship?” Tony suggests and it's a joke until it isn't, and it isn't when Steve’s head snaps up, eyes finding Tony's and pinning them in place with nothing more than his own bright gaze.
“Yeah?” Steve says, and he looks more vulnerable than Tony has ever seen. He wants to be the person to fix that, right now. He breathes in, lets his shoulder relax as he exhales. He can scarcely believe it, that Steve seems to have actually realised that he wants him. It’s terrifying and humbling and amazing all at once, and Steve is still looking at him openly, waiting for a response.
Waiting for Tony to decide if they’re going to do this or not.
“Yeah,” he says softly, and Steve’s eyes flutter close, relief and joy and something else flickering over his face. Tony laughs shortly because he put that expression there, and he traces his hand down the side of Steve’s tired face. “But I agree with the why are we talking sentiment. You need to be resting, and I need to be finding a creative way to ruin Reed Richards’ life.
“Stay,” Steve says, and then, “please.”
And Tony cannot – will not – argue with that word or tone of voice, not ever. He nods wordlessly and gives Steve a push. Steve acquiesces and lets go of Tony’s hips, toeing his shoes off and reaching down to pull off his socks. He doesn’t appear to think twice about pulling his shirt over his head, tossing it aside and then reaching for the button of his jeans. Tony’s mouth goes dry as Steve pushes them down his thighs and then shimmies out of them, kicking them off and then turning to crawl up the bed. God, he’s all tight muscle and glorious expanses of skin, begging for Tony to map each line and space with his mouth. He resists the urge though, watching as Steve climbs under the covers and settles on his side, on the left side of the bed.
God, but that man is beautiful.
Steve sighs, pulling at his pillow, eyes already closed. “Get in,” he murmurs, and who is Tony to deny that request. He’s glad Steve is lying on his left side because it means he’s facing Tony. Not that he’d be complaining about getting to get to see the glorious expanse of Steve’s back and shoulders, but right now he wants to be able to see his face, to catalogue every breath and commit every flicker of his eyelids to memory.
Tony unbuttons his own jeans and kicks them off and then, feeling slightly like he’s in a dream, goes around to the other side of the bed and climbs in. He leaves his shirt on, concious of both the arc reactor and the fact this is the first time they've done anything like this. “You got a tablet anywhere?” he asks as he shifts, edging closer to Steve.
“Nightstand,” Steve mumbles back.
Tony twists around and then falters. He’s spotted the tablet but that’s not what’s caught his attention; the tablet is half underneath a sketchbook, and the sketchbook is open. On the top page is a trio of sketches done in what looks like green felt pen; one is a snapshot of Steve fighting what appears to be a version of himself; the second is a small kid with a stripy shirt and scuffed knees who looks suspiciously like a little version of Steve; the final is a profile of Tony, smiling gently and warmly.
His eyes feel far too warm. He debates asking Steve about the drawings now, but Steve is already breathing deeply and evenly. Instead, Tony carefully pulls the tablet out from under the sketchbook, settling back against the pillows, half sitting and half reclining.
He means to read, to check in on some data for the stress capabilities for the new suit, but he can’t. He’s got Steve right there next to him, and Tony can’t stop looking at him. God, over the past few months he’d thought he’d lost Steve in more ways than one, and now he’s got him right here next to him.
He remembers the conversation they’d had when they’d talked before he’d left for LA; Steve’s careful words and his own honest reply.
‘And if I don’t want?’
‘Then you don’t get.’
Tony’s eyes flick to Steve again, and his heart aches at how peaceful he looks. He reaches out, brushes his fingertips lightly along Steve’s jaw for a moment.
“You want, you get, Rogers,” he murmurs, a smile on his lips that he doesn’t think is going to go anywhere anytime soon.
Steve wakes up just as the sun is setting. The blinds haven’t been drawn over the windows and the last of the light is casting an orange glow over the room, long dark shadows stretching across the carpet and bed. It’s peaceful and warm and quiet, and he doesn’t want to break it.
He blinks slowly, eyes on the form that’s lying next to him. Tony is asleep; he’s lying on his back with a tablet held loosely in his hand, resting against his chest. His other arm is resting loosely over his stomach, and his breathing is steady and easily audible as he breathes through his parted lips.
Steve doesn’t think. He doesn’t question or second guess. He just shifts closer, lifting himself up on his elbow, and as he does his bare legs brush Tony’s under the blankets and a shiver goes through him. His eyes flicker over Tony’s face, taking in all the details that he’s noticed but never stopped to appreciate before. The dark of his eyelashes lying against his skin, the soft bow of his upper lip. Objectively, he’s a handsome man; Steve’s always known and acknowledged that. But now it’s more; he’s here and he’s Steve’s and that means he can act on these new feelings that are simmering pleasantly under his skin.
He wonders how any other Steves across the multiverse discovered this just like he has, and then he decides he doesn’t give a damn, leaning over and brushing his mouth over Tony’s.
Tony stirs, making a rough noise in the back of his throat. He shifts atop the mattress, shoulders inching back and chest lifting towards Steve’s, and Steve feels want uncurl warm and fluttering in his belly. It’s something he’s not felt in so long, and it disconcerts him a little how strong it is; it’s as if now he’s realised exactly what he and Tony can have, all the barriers are toppling like towers of cards.
Steve kisses him again, catching his lower lip between his own, slowly tipping his head back and gently breaking the contact. Tony moves again, lifting one leg so it bends at the knee, foot flat on the mattress. He also lifts his head from the pillow, chasing after Steve’s mouth with his own. Steve indulges him with another gentle kiss; it’s all he can manage before he has to pull back, overwhelmed by sensation and emotion.
“You drew me,” is the first thing that Tony says, before he's even opened his eyes, words gentle puffs of air against Steve’s chin.
“I did,” Steve confirms, eyes flicking to where his sketch book lies on the nightstand. Tony's eyes open slowly, and he just breathes out, not replying for a long while. He blinks up at the ceiling, expression inscrutable when he finally speaks.
“Do I read into that?”
“Depends what you’re reading,” Steve says, pulling back a little. He shoves his pillows up and out of the way against the headboard to rest his elbow on the mattress, propping his head on his fist. He feels physically fine now he’s had some rest, though is still a little shaky after witnessing the fighting between him and Tony across the multiverse. Even the memory of it makes him want to grab Tony and haul him close, promise him that he’ll never be that blind.
“Optimism and ego would say that it means you totally want all up in this,” Tony says, gesturing to himself, and Steve can’t help but laugh, short and easy. “Caution would say that it’s just green lines on paper…and it’s thrown in there with other green lines on paper which are evidently snapshots of your trip through the multiverse. So, possibly all still mixed up in there.”
Steve looks at him, serious. Tony senses the pause and glances over, his hair ruffling on the pillow. His eyes flicker over Steve’s face, down to his bare chest and back again, and Steve reaches out, fingertips dragging across Tony’s shoulder. “I’m not confused.”
Tony doesn’t look convinced. “You are perpetually confused.”
“Oh, come on,” Steve says, mildly exasperated. “I had a traumatic experience and returned from it unsure about the nature of our relationship. I actually think that’s the one time in my life I’ve been genuinely confused.”
“Yeah, I don’t know whether to be honoured or dismayed by that.”
“Tony,” Steve interrupts, and straightens his fingers out, pressing his palm to Tony’s chest, just above the arc reactor. His fingers brush over the soft cotton of his t-shirt. He can sense Tony’s defensiveness, the way he’s digging his heels in and gearing up for a fight, ready to pull holes in this from every angle. God, and people say Steve can be stubborn. “You said you’d go to give me time to think about it. I haven’t thought about anything else.”
That at least shuts Tony up. He shuts his mouth with an almost audible clack, staring at Steve with his expression wobbling between defiant and vulnerable. He stares and stares, and then exhales heavily, a huff of breath through his nose. He shakes his head and then laughs, looking down and reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose.
“You are,” he begins, and his mouth curves in a rueful smile. “You are more stubborn than I am.”
“Yeah. Might just be easier for you to go along with that.”
Tony laughs again, a soft sound, and then it fades, eyes going serious once more. “How can you be sure?” he asks, though he doesn’t sound argumentative any more. “How do you know it’s not just obligation, or you going along with what has happened in the other universes-”
“To hell with what the other universes have done,” Steve says, and reaches for Tony, pulling him close. “I like what’s happening in this universe.”
“You are ridiculous,” Tony replies immediately, but he lets himself be pulled into Steve’s front, half draped over Steve's side, one leg slotting between Steve's. “Utterly, utterly ridiculous, Rogers, how corny can you get-”
“Shut up, Tony,” Steve says with a roll of his eyes, and slides an arm around Tony’s waist, hand sliding under his shirt to press against warm skin. His mouth hovers in front of Tony’s, and he can feel Tony’s warm breath against his face.
“I should-”
“Stay, you should stay, great idea,” Steve says, rolling them over, and Tony is laughing against his mouth, tangled in the sheets, one leg hitched awkwardly around Steve’s waist. He doesn’t seem to mind; he sinks back against the mattress and slides his hands over Steve’s back, hauling him close.
“I still feel like I should be trying to talk you out of this,” he says. “For multiple reasons.”
“Don’t,” Steve tells him. “I’m ninety-four, I’m old enough to make my own decisions.”
And Tony is laughing again, and Steve is nuzzling down into his neck, shutting eyes and just breathing, overwhelmed by how right and easy this feels. It’s all warmth and comfort and shivery thrills down his spine, and he so very badly wants to know how he’s done without this before.
“I feel selfish,” Tony says, and a hand strokes down the back of Steve’s head, fingers brushing against the hair of his nape. He shifts against Tony, hand moving without permission to Tony’s thigh where it’s hitched around his waist. He drags his palm down to Tony’s knee, not knowing what the hell he’s doing, just wanting to touch and pull and hold. He presses a kiss to the dip between Tony’s collarbones, just above the hem of his shirt, shuddering with want that he’s never felt the like of before. He’s embarrassed by the sheer need he feels, the desperation that seems to have been yanked free, the urge to crawl into Tony and never let go. It’s like now he knows what he can have, the idea of losing it, of not having it, is just too much to bear.
“Easy, Cap,” Tony breathes, both hands on the back of Steve’s neck, fingers lacing together. His voice in tinged with awe, like he can barely believe what he’s seeing, what he’s realising through Steve’s actions. “Christ, I thought you wouldn't, that you didn’t-”
His fingers slide apart, his hands move so they’re cupping Steve’s jaw, fingers splayed along his cheekbones and thumbs tucked under his chin. He lifts Steve’s face, eyes flickering over Steve’s.
“You don’t get it,” he murmurs, and he doesn’t look away. “You let me have an inch, I’m taking a mile. You seriously want this, and I will probably do all sorts of things to keep you where I want you, most of them probably pretty unethical. I’m not kidding, I’ll play dirty, I’ll-”
And his mouth has been moving closer and closer to Steve’s and he cuts himself off when he reaches his mouth again, breath catching in his chest as he gently kisses him, so agonisingly, painfully slowly. Steve’s heart is thudding in his chest, and all he can do is kiss Tony back, letting himself be swept along in the current, until the words in his chest refuse to be held back any longer.
“Don’t you dare leave me again, you jackass,” Steve says against Tony’s mouth. “Or I’m going to get Stephen Strange to send me back through the multiverse so I can kick the ass of every Tony Stark in existence.”
Tony is laughing, trying to kiss Steve at the same time and failing miserably. Steve doesn’t care. He laughs too, pulling his mouth back from Tony’s and knocking their foreheads together.
“Stay with me,” he says simply, and Tony nods with hesitation, shutting his eyes and rolling his forehead against Steve's.
“If the multiverse insists,” he says, pressing his mouth to the corner of Steve’s, smiling as Steve turns his face into it.
They’ll talk more later. For now, he’s happy to be exactly where he is, with Tony. The rest of the world – all of the worlds – can wait.
“Cap, I repeat, do you need backup?”
Natasha’s voice is calm and controlled over the comms but that’s the second time she’s asked in less than a minute, which is telling enough. Steve doesn’t call her on it, just ducks sharply as another drone shoots a laser in his direction. It hits the pavement behind him, leaving a hole a foot deep and scattering asphalt in all directions. God. Just like last year all over again – supervillains really are creatures of habit at times.
“Nope,” he says, slinging his shield skywards, hitting the hovering drone in its rounded underbelly and sending it listing to the side, sparks showering down onto the asphalt below. There’s a click behind him and he catches the shield just in time to spin around and deflect a shower of bullets, fired by a drone fitted with an obscenely large gun. He waits for a pause in the firing and then lunges forwards, smashing the shield star-first into the drone and knocking it backwards. He slams the edge of the shield onto the weak neck joint of the drone, killing its power quickly and efficiently.
“Oh, fuckballs!”
“Hawkeye, what’s your status?” Steve yells as Clint’s cursing cuts through the comms.
“Fine, just - sticky arrows. Accidentally stuck a Ferarri to the sidewalk. Man, Fury’s gonna kill me if we have to pay for that.”
“Stop shouting fuckballs if you’re not actually in trouble!” Steve yells back, and he hears Thor and Clint both laughing over the comms, above the sound of the Hulk roaring in the distance. He shakes his head in exasperation and slings his shield at another drone, knocking it out of the sky. It hits the pavement, sizzling and buzzing. He grabs his shield and slots it back onto his forearm, and smiles grimly as he steps forwards to finish the drone off-
There’s a familiar whine, a blur of red and gold and then Iron Man appears from nowhere, landing on the drone with both feet and crushing it flat. Steve slows his steps and comes to a halt, a smile tugging the corner of his mouth.
Iron Man turns. The faceplate flips up, and Tony’s mouth hitches in a small, not quite smile.
“I don’t trust your track record with robots.”
“I had this one covered,” Steve says pointedly, and he wants to be stern but he’s still smiling and he can’t hold it back. “You’re supposed to be in Washington arguing with senators.”
“You know, senators can actually argue pretty well between themselves even when I’m not there,” Tony says lightly, too lightly, though his eyes are on Steve’s and he’s not looking away. “Didn’t want to take the risk. Not twice in a lifetime. Not twice in any universe.”
Steve looks around at the tail end of the fight that’s still sort of going on around them, and then thinks to hell with it. He strides over, slides a hand onto the back of Tony’s neck and yanks him close, kissing him hard. He feels Tony’s breath hitch against his mouth and then Tony’s armoured hands are sliding onto his waist, over the red and white of the stripes.
“In the middle of a robot incursion too, wow, your priorities are shot to hell,” Tony is saying, laughing against Steve’s mouth. “Who are you and what have you done with Captain America-”
“Shut up,” Steve replies, glancing up. “It’s barely an incursion.”
“Yeah, it’s really almost embarrassing,” Tony agrees. “Though I hear they’ve taken out the coffee shop on fifty-first and that really needs to be Avenged with extreme prejudice-”
“And you talk about my priorities,” Steve says, and he pulls Tony close again, about to kiss him properly when there’s the rush and boom of an explosion behind them. They both jump apart, spinning around to watch a drone smash into the asphalt in a fireball.
“Right, robots,” Tony says, snapping his fingers. “We should get on that. Priorities.”
“Yeah, probably,” Steve grins. “Go, I’ve got your back.”
“Think you’ll find I’ve got yours,” Tony retorts, and he’s off again, blasting into the air and soaring above Steve’s head, smashing into a drone and sending it careering into the side of a building.
“Going to help Barton take out the unit that’s on seventh. Call me if you need me, Cap,” Tony says in his ear, voice calm and collected, but Steve hears the words and knows exactly what Tony means.
Steve smiles. “I will,” he replies easily, and turns back to re-join the fight.