The Long Way Home

by ironmess

Summary:

Two years after the Blip, Steve and Tony are... civil. They fight side by side, speak without shouting, and call each other teammate instead of friend.
But when the multiverse begins to fracture, Tony Stark’s name becomes headline fodder once again—this time as the government’s most wanted criminal. With few allies, fewer resources, and a battered van as their command center, the team reunites in a stretch of forgotten woods that need as much mending as they do.
They have one last mission. Save the world. Again.
Only this time the cost is personal.
Morgan is missing.
And Tony will tear apart every universe to bring her home.

Notes:

Hi there! This is a culmination of all the things I've ever wanted for a post-Endgame world—Tony alive, Steve still around, and the two of them just talking it out while they take a long trip down the continent. Also, team as family. Good stuff.
Hope you like it!

Chapter 1: Fairbanks

TONY

 

The pen slipped—another graph ruined. 

“Shit!” Tony shouted, crumpling the page. 

Ten hours of work, frozen fingers, and now this. Goddamn mittens. Goddamn cold.

The humidity was even worse than the cold. It seeped into his joints like poison. His nose was frozen, and the tips of his toes were excruciatingly numb. There was no amount of coffee—no cup warm enough—for his stiff, uncooperative fingers.

He stared at the ruined paper. His handwriting had gotten progressively worse—each line tighter, more erratic. The equations looked like a nervous snake, looping and strangling itself into nonsense.

The door of the van cracked open with a bang. The screech of rusted metal hit his ears even before Steve’s voice did.

“Stark! What’s wrong?”

Steve stepped inside, already halfway into a fighting stance. His long coat creaked as he moved, the scarf around his neck shifting slightly out of place. With those thick mittens raised, he looked like a ninja Michelin Man.

Tony sighed and leaned back against the small wooden seat, exhaling hard through his nose.

“Nothing, nothing,” he said quickly, clearing his throat. He brought one freezing finger to his temple, trying to massage the ache through the wool of his cap. “I just ruined a whole day’s work. These stupid mittens don’t let me write properly. And I’m actually writing—which, in itself, is stupid.”

Steve exhaled, visibly relaxing. He stepped closer and glanced down at Tony’s notebook, frowning faintly.

“That looks… interesting,” he muttered. “Maybe you can salvage it?”

Tony huffed and ripped the page from the notebook, folding it into a crumpled ball. Steve raised an eyebrow as Tony tossed it toward the already overflowing bin.

“It was bullshit anyway,” Tony muttered.

Steve hummed thoughtfully. The table in front of Tony was buried under a mess of unorganized papers, half-dead markers, and candy wrappers. An empty mug sat beside a flickering lamp doing its best to illuminate Tony’s improvised workstation.

“I think you need to clear your head,” Steve said gently. “You’ve been at this too long. We’re drinking hot chocolate outside.”

Tony exhaled and rubbed at his eyes. The idea was tempting. He’d been planted on the wooden bench for nearly ten hours, ever since they parked behind the dispensary. His joints ached. His brain felt like static.

He glanced down at his pages—formulas, loops, chaos. He felt no closer than when he’d started.

“…Fine.”

He slid out of the bench, trying to drag his frozen limbs to motion. The van was a couple of degrees colder each hour. The sunlight had banished and the cold, freezing wind was crystallizing ice on the windows. 

Steve held the door open for him.

Tony thought it was dumb—trying to squeeze past Steve’s body in the narrow doorway was more uncomfortable than just grabbing the handle himself.

But when he caught Steve’s watchful gaze, he realized he wasn’t just being polite. He was making sure Tony actually got out.

As he stepped into the snow, a scrap of newspaper fluttered against the van’s tire. The headline was half-buried, but he caught the words: " STARK TECH COLLAPSE—MANHUNT CONTINUES ." He kicked snow over it

The night was pitch black, the silence broken only by the soft hum of wind brushing through the trees. The only light cutting through the emptiness was the bonfire ahead, where the rest of the team sat gathered in a loose circle of flickering orange.

Tony dragged his feet toward the fire, the cold biting at his cheeks. As soon as he stepped within the fire’s reach, the warmth began to loosen the stiffness in his joints. His fingers, half-numb and twitchy, started to feel like his own again.

“He’s alive!” Clint announced, raising his mug in salute.

Tony rolled his eyes and sank down onto a somewhat acceptable log beside Natasha. Without a word, she shifted her blanket—an absurdly fluffy green thing—and draped a corner over his lap. He didn’t protest.

“Rogers said there was chocolate,” Tony said, patting his shoulder in an attempt to restore circulation.

Steve was already at the pot hanging above the flames, the metal swaying slightly with the wind. He crouched, ladled the hot liquid into a battered mug, and—after a pause—plopped in a single marshmallow.

“Brooklyn Special,” he muttered, handing it over.

Tony let out a small, surprised grin. “Thanks, Cap.”

He took a careful sip. The cocoa was too hot, too sweet, and absolutely perfect. The heat bloomed through his chest and belly, washing away the last traces of cold.

It had been two years since the Blip. Two years since the world snapped back into place—and promptly cracked at the seams.

Tony had barely survived it. The Snap, the fight, the fallout. He should’ve died that day, and some days, it still felt like he had. The arc reactor was gone, but the damage lingered. His right arm had taken the worst of it—burned straight through the nerve endings, fried down to the bone. Bruce and Wakandan tech had done what they could. Now it was mechanical, sleek and quiet, like everything Tony built... and like everything he built, it needed constant maintenance. Oil, recalibration, a full power cycle every few hours. And it was a bitch in the cold.

He flexed it absently under the blanket, feeling the servo lag that always came with subzero temperatures. It stung a little less now—at least when he didn’t think about it too hard.

They were supposed to be ghosts. Under the radar, off the grid. SHIELD wasn’t what it used to be, but what was left of it had eyes everywhere—and those eyes were trained on them. “Unregistered enhanced individuals,” “post-Avengers destabilizers,” “potential global threats.” The phrasing changed depending on the mouth, but the message was the same: keep moving, don’t be seen, don’t make noise.

They’d only been on the road for a week. Just long enough for the van to start smelling like old socks and coffee grounds, and for everyone to start pretending they weren’t watching each other too closely. They’d met in Fairbanks—quiet, cold, off-the-map enough to regroup without catching attention. Since then, they’d been heading south, tracing the first clusters of strange energy readings Bruce and Tony had picked up in their last quiet, obsessive week of work before everything changed.

Tony hadn’t explained much. Just that the data was wrong—wrong in a way that made his skin crawl and Bruce go quiet. And that if they didn’t track the anomalies, someone else would. Someone with fewer morals and worse aim.

“You think you can enhance the heating, Tony?” Bruce asked, rubbing his hands together for warmth. He was lucky he’d gone back to pink these days—otherwise the whole government-hunting-us angle of the trip would’ve fallen apart by day two.

“The van gets brutal at night,” Natasha added. “If it snows again, no one’s getting any sleep.”

Tony sighed, nursing his half-empty mug. The heat was burning his fingers, but he didn’t care. At least it meant he could still feel them.

“No. We’re out of copper wire, the inverter’s on life support, and I’m pretty sure half the insulation in that tin can is being held together by Clint’s protein bar wrappers.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Clint, predictably, said what everyone was thinking. “Can’t you just… invent something?”

Four pairs of eyes turned to him. Tony groaned.

“I can invent a thousand ways to heat that rusty coffin,” he said, voice tight, “but I can’t do jack shit without parts. No scrap, no circuits, no magic Stark junk drawer. We’re working with duct tape and hope out here.”

“But…” Steve started gently, brow furrowed, “you invented time travel. Isn’t this kind of a… minor problem?”

Tony opened his mouth, a quip already halfway to launch, but a sudden sharp pain in his arm cut him off. He flinched, groaning, his hand flying to his right shoulder as if he could manually shut down the nerves screaming under his coat.

He yanked down the zipper, freeing the arm from the sleeve. The prosthetic gleamed dully in the firelight, its red casing coated with a thin sheen of frost. Circuits chirred and ticked under the cold, unhappy with the drop in power.

“What’s wrong?” Steve asked, immediately on his feet, his posture shifting into crisis mode.

Tony extended his arm over the fire, palm up, rotating the prosthetic like a slow-turning turkey.

“I’m running out of power,” he muttered, jaw tight. He hated this—being exposed, vulnerable. Again. And in front of them. “The arm’s internal heating is failing.”

Bruce moved beside him, concern etched into every line of his face. “But don’t you have the reactor?”

Tony didn’t answer.

The silence stretched. Steve nudged closer. “Stark?”

Tony closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. Then, with visible reluctance, he lowered the arm.

“It’s powering the van,” he said.

Steve raised his eyebrows.

“What? Tony, what do you mean?” he asked, voice edged with concern.

Tony clicked his tongue and slipped the arm back into his coat with a sharp tug. His other hand stayed wrapped around the mug of hot chocolate, fingers flexing slightly as the heat pulsed through his knuckles.

“When we found it, the battery was almost dead. I rerouted a few things, made it run off the arc reactor instead.”

He paused, thumb running along the chipped rim of the mug.

“Didn’t you notice we didn’t need gas for three days?”

Steve’s mouth tightened. A flicker of embarrassment crossed his face.

“I thought it was just... a really good van.”

Tony barked out a quiet laugh and took another sip, stalling. Of course Steve thought that. The man would trust a stray dog if it looked like it had a purpose.

“No, Rogers. I’m just a really good mechanic.”

Steve cracked a smile, and for a moment, his eyes lingered on Tony’s. A second too long. A little too soft.

“Anyway…” Bruce cut in, shifting awkwardly. “We need something else to power your arm now. Can’t you make another battery?”

Tony made a face, hugging the mug closer to his chest like a heat pack.

“I’m not Strange—I can’t conjure tech out of thin air. I need materials.”

“Then we get the materials,” Steve said, all command again. “Make a list. We’ll have it by the weekend.”

“Cap, no.” Tony’s tone sharpened. “We don’t have the time. We need to be in Vancouver in a week, remember? I can manage.”

From his patio chair, Clint let out a lazy huff, stretching like a cat.

“Jeez, Stark. You’re already pretty useless without your tech. Take out the arm and you might as well be dead.”

Tony didn’t look up. Just took another long sip of chocolate and swallowed it like a pill.

“Watch it, birdbrain. I can still short-circuit your brain into fudge pudding.”

Clint gave him a mock salute. “Sounds delicious.”

“Alright, alright,” Steve interjected, raising both hands like a referee. “Relax. Leave it. Tony, can you help me get the beds ready?”

Tony rolled his eyes at the obvious subject change but didn’t argue. He handed the now-empty mug to Bruce and pushed himself up from the ledge.

As he and Steve headed toward the van, Clint whistled.

“Don’t forget protection!” he called.

“Grow up,” Nat added, dryly—though the smirk on her face was disappointing.

Tony didn’t look back, but the grin tugging at his mouth was impossible to miss.

Things with Steve were… okay.

Not warm, not easy, not the way they used to be. But steady. Functional. Civil.

The whole saving-the-universe thing—the time heist, the final battle, nearly dying side by side—made reconciliation inevitable. There were no apologies, not really. Just a quiet, mutual understanding that whatever broke between them couldn’t matter more than what needed fixing around them.

The two years since the Blip were full of committees, disaster relief, and endless meetings. They became a team again—this time not on the battlefield, but in courtrooms, press conferences, and reconstruction panels.

They testified together in front of the UN. Sat side by side through military debriefs and humanitarian briefings. Steve spoke calmly. Tony did not. They annoyed each other exactly like old times—but there was a current of something more patient beneath it now. A shared exhaustion. A bruised sort of respect.

They worked.

They co-led post-Blip infrastructure task forces, took meetings with local governments, and reviewed supply chains for refugee zones. When no one else could get a country’s displaced population relocated, they did it—together, late at night, over too much coffee and shared silence.

Steve taught at a trauma recovery center on weekends. Tony funded its rebuild and pretended not to watch him do it.

They spent hours in temporary headquarters, huddled over maps and logistics reports. They didn’t talk about the past, not out loud. But every now and then, Steve would pass Tony a report before he asked for it. Tony would bring Steve black coffee the way he used to like it.

They weren’t friends. Not exactly. But they weren’t enemies anymore either. There was too much history for comfort, too much affection for distance.

They were something new. Something still figuring itself out.

And now they were on the run again—together, again. A different kind of war. A different kind of quiet between them.

Tony opened the door for Steve with exaggerated flair. Steve just rolled his eyes. 

The lamp was the only light source. Its flickering glow barely lit the narrow interior, casting soft, uneven shadows along the walls. The van smelled like old metal, cheap upholstery, and the faint burn of overused wiring. The cold clung to the ceiling like moisture, seeping into the corners no matter how many layers they wore.

Steve stepped in, ducking his head to avoid the crooked overhead cabinet. The ceiling was low enough that he couldn’t quite stand straight, and the whole van creaked faintly beneath his weight. Behind him, Tony climbed in with a shiver, slamming the door shut against the wind. The sound echoed through the cramped space.

Inside, it was cluttered but lived-in.

The kitchenette, wedged into the left wall, had two ancient burners stained with years of use and a sink that squeaked when turned. A few cracked mugs were wedged into the dish rack, and a box of instant noodles teetered on the edge of the counter. Across from it sat the dinette—two narrow benches, their cushions worn thin, framing a scuffed table littered with notes, wires, and a half-dismantled circuit board.

The overhead storage compartments were held shut with duct tape. A sleeping bag was rolled haphazardly on the upper bunk above the driver’s seat, and someone's boots—probably Clint’s—had been shoved carelessly beneath the bench. A jacket hung from the coat hook by the door, still damp with snow.

The floor had a slight lean. Everything felt tilted. Lopsided. Temporary.

Steve’s breath fogged in the air. He glanced at the small heater in the corner. It buzzed but didn’t hum—barely holding on, like the rest of them.

This was home, for now. Four walls of plastic and steel. No comfort, no peace—just a little warmth, and just enough space for five people who still didn’t know how to sit still in a room together.

“Okay, Mary Poppins. Pass me the blankets,” Tony said, already lowering the table to double as a bed with practiced clicks and jerks.

Steve bent down to grab the plastic bassinet wedged under the cupboard—currently home to a mess of hastily folded, suspiciously warm fur blankets. Tony had modified them with copper wire to retain heat. The circuits were unstable, likely to ignite if someone breathed on them wrong, but when he’d presented them to the group with a smug grin, no one protested. They just shrugged and took their chances. Warm was warm.

“Tony…” Steve started, that gentle persuasion already creeping into his voice.

“Save it, Cap,” Tony cut in, grabbing the stack of blankets from his hands. “I told you—I don’t want any deviations from the mission.”

“It’s not a deviation,” Steve said, his tone firm but patient. He reached up to the rope net overhead and pulled down two lumpy pillows. “We need every player on top form. You’re running low, and you know it. We can find what you need at the next stop.”

Tony shook his head. “With what money, Steve? My assets are frozen. The only cash we brought is almost gone. I can’t access my offshore accounts until we get to the Caribbean, and that’s still weeks out.”

Steve shrugged, annoyingly casual. “Then we don’t pay for it.”

Tony let his mouth fall open.

“You’re shitting me,” he said, grinning. “You, Captain Morality, want to steal something?”

Steve rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest. The motion looked stiff—probably a struggle with the size of the coat he was stuffed into. He looked like a reluctant winter soldier wrapped in three layers too many.

“I think we’re way past petty theft by now,” he said. “They’re hunting us for much bigger indiscretions.”

Tony laughed, sharp and unexpected. “That,” he said, “might just be the understatement of the century.”

Someone—probably with government clearance and a grudge—had leaked false reports linking Stark technology to a series of disasters across the continent. Train derailments, power grid collapses, buildings going down in blue light and smoke. Accidents, the media called them. Stark tech gone wrong. Some of the headlines didn’t even bother with nuance: Billionaire’s AI Ghost Still Haunting the World.

The public bought it. The government—newly elected, fascist-leaning, and trigger-happy—ran with it. The president called Tony ““a woke virus in a metal suit” on live TV. Said he was the reason America couldn’t “move on.” That the Blip had made people like him unstable. The newly instituted SHIELD issued a detainment order within forty-eight hours.

“Listen,” Tony said, tugging a folded blanket from the bin and shaking it out with one arm. “I appreciate your concern, but I don’t wanna waste time on some stupid malfunction.”

Steve didn’t answer right away. He was crouched beside the bench, pulling out the makeshift mattress they’d wedged underneath it earlier, but his eyes didn’t leave Tony’s. 

God, those eyes—still too soft for someone who’d seen the world end. Eyes that shouldn’t hold that much quiet endearment.

“Your health isn’t a stupid malfunction, Tony,” he said gently. Then, after a beat, his voice lowered. “You seem to be in pain.”

Tony exhaled, jaw tightening. He smoothed out the thin blanket over the bench cushion, movements slower than they needed to be. His hand drifted to his shoulder, rubbing the joint absently. The ache was constant now—a dull, hollow throb beneath the metal, always there, always humming just beneath the surface.

He was in pain. Every day.

But pain wasn’t what kept him awake at night.

“Steve…” he said, quieter now. “I need to find her.”

Morgan had vanished three weeks ago.

One moment she was there—sitting cross-legged on the floor, drawing in one of his notebooks, telling him her favorite color was "moon silver." The next, she was gone. Just... gone. Like the Blip, all over again. No dust this time. No drama. Just a flicker of light, a sound like glass cracking, and empty air where his daughter had been.

He’d screamed her name until his throat was raw. Torn apart the room with his bare hands. Friday was offline for a software update, and by the time he got his systems running, there wasn’t a single trace of Morgan in the house. Not a hair, not a signature. Not even the warmth on the cushion she’d been sitting on.

He didn’t sleep. Didn’t eat. Just ran simulations, rewound security footage, dug into quantum decay and temporal shadows and whatever the hell else might’ve stolen his daughter from her bedroom.

And then Bruce called.

Said he’d picked up something strange—fractures in space-time, real ones, starting up north. Tony didn’t hesitate. He rerouted his jet toward Alaska that night, systems barely calibrated. Halfway there, the news broke: Stark Industries tech involved in a string of “accidents.” Tony Stark now considered a person of interest.

By the time he touched down, his assets were frozen and his name was being dragged across every screen in America. He had to ditch the suit by the border and torch half his gear before crossing into Fairbanks.

And now he was here. In a van, in the snow, with a dying arm and too many people trying to help in ways that felt too soft.

Steve nodded, lips pressed into a thin, sad smile.

“I know you do,” he said softly. “But you need to be in shape to do it.”

Tony didn’t respond. He stared down at the makeshift bed, smoothing a fold in the blanket he’d just laid out. His fingers paused at the edge, pressing into the worn fabric like he could will the tension in his chest to settle.

The silence stretched—but it wasn’t uncomfortable. They’d grown used to these moments. The quiet between words. The weight that didn’t always need filling.

Steve moved to the overhead cabinet, lifting the creaky latch with care. He rummaged around—past a tangle of old chargers, rolled socks, a dented travel mug—before pulling out a small cloth-wrapped bundle. He unrolled it slowly, deliberately, like it might be fragile.

Then, with a flick of his wrist, he placed a small, gold-foiled sweet on the table in front of Tony.

Tony blinked. His eyebrows lifted.

“You didn’t!” he said, the surprise lifting his voice like he was five seconds from breaking into a grin. “I thought those were all gone!”

Steve smiled, settling onto the bench across from him. The van creaked slightly under his weight.

“I stashed a few,” he said, picking up another one and spinning it between his fingers. “Was saving them for a special occasion.”

Tony eyed him suspiciously, but the twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

“And what occasion would this be?” he asked, already hearing the setup coming.

Steve grinned and slipped the sweet back into his coat pocket like he was holding it hostage.

“When we get your arm fixed.”

Tony rolled his eyes, tossing the edge of a blanket toward the foot of the bench with one hand. But there was a smile tucked in there—quiet, reluctant. Real.

“Fine,” he said, giving in. “I’ll make a list. We can get what we need at a hardware store big enough.”

Steve’s expression brightened—subtle, but unmistakable. The tension behind his shoulders eased just a bit, like he'd been holding his breath and didn’t even realize.

“And you’ll enhance the heating?” he added, hopeful now.

Tony leaned back, dragging a hand through his hair and exhaling.

“Yes,” he said, like the word weighed more than it should. “I’ll enhance the heating.”

The way Steve’s face lit up twisted something in Tony’s chest.

He looked away, back down at the half-made bed, and busied himself straightening the second pillow—pretending he hadn’t noticed the warmth blooming behind his ribs.

 

---

 

They found a big enough hardware store about five hours south, on the outskirts of British Columbia—a warehouse-sized place with broken neon signage and a parking lot wide enough for the van to disappear into.

The plan came together during the drive. Bruce took the wheel, gripping it like he hadn’t driven in a while but didn’t want to admit it. Natasha and Clint sat up front, mapping out their entrance, exits, camera angles, and blind spots like they were robbing a small fortress. Which, technically, they were.

In the back, Tony and Steve lounged across the makeshift beds, trading naps and sarcastic commentary. They didn't contribute much to the strategy session—except to interrupt Clint every time he got too loud.

“Do you have to narrate every aisle, Barton?” Tony muttered, one arm draped over his eyes.
“You’re not the one trying to sleep next to a live podcast,” Steve added from across the van.
“I’m projecting for clarity,” Clint shot back.
“You’re projecting because you love the sound of your own voice,” Tony said, without lifting his head.

Natasha ignored them all, as usual.

Small things filled the space—Steve refolding the blanket that kept sliding off the bench, Tony flipping through a beat-up notepad and adding to his parts list in between eye rolls. The heater made its familiar stuttering hum, and Bruce kept glancing in the rearview, occasionally reminding them they were still technically fugitives.

Once they parked, Bruce immediately claimed the only real bed in the van and threw up a makeshift wall of cardboard panels to muffle the noise. It was well past 4 a.m.—they’d been running on fumes since six the previous morning.

Barton and Nat were running on what Tony could only describe as a medically irresponsible amount of gas station coffee. Fully caffeinated and disturbingly enthusiastic, they slipped out into the night toward the hardware store.

That left Steve and Tony on van duty.

They had two monitors running, salvaged from a scrapyard back in Fairbanks and jury-rigged into something halfway operational. Tony had rewired them to draw power directly from the van—which was running everything off an ancient, wheezing battery that couldn’t hold a charge to save its life.  Tony had grumbled more than once that the whole thing was sucking juice like a newborn goat and giving back half of it as static.

The first monitor tracked rupture activity across the continent—Tony and Bruce’s pet project. Right now, the biggest anomaly glowed an angry red near Toronto, blinking like a warning beacon. Every now and then, a flash of light lit up the road beyond the windshield—barely visible to the eye, but more than enough to spike the readings. Each time, Tony scrambled for his notepad and started scribbling down numbers like they were sacred.

The monitor was duct-taped to the inside of the windshield, right next to the rearview mirror. Wires snaked out of the back like tangled veins, stretching up across the ceiling. They used to hang loose—until Steve had snapped, grabbed a roll of duct tape, and secured everything with the grim determination of a man fixing a collapsing barn. It was still a trash setup, but at least now it was tidy trash.

The second monitor, propped against the windowsill, was for “the heist” as Clint insisted on calling. Tony had hacked into the hardware store’s security feed earlier that evening, rerouting the camera streams into their recycled screen. The footage was a jittery mess of grainy black-and-white, flickering every time someone moved too fast or walked out of frame.

Steve had taken the driver’s seat, gripping the wheel absently, like holding it made him more useful. The engine was off, the keys long pulled, but he didn’t let go.

Tony dragged two blankets from their makeshift bed pile, tossing one over Steve’s shoulders before collapsing into the passenger seat with a sigh. The vinyl was cold. Everything in the van was cold.

“This is the worst TV show I’ve ever seen,” Tony muttered, eyeing the grainy monitor as two black-and-white shadows—Nat and Clint—darted past a shelf of industrial tubing.

Steve muffled a laugh, shifting under the blanket so he could see better. The wool bunched at his side as he leaned in.

They sat in silence for a while. A firefly floated past Tony’s window and landed on the frosted glass, its tiny body pulsing with warm, steady light. It stayed there, blinking softly, like it had nowhere else to be.

Tony stared at it with narrowed eyes. It glowed so easily. No wires. No stolen power. Just light, uncomplicated and whole, wrapped in something small that knew exactly what it was doing. He felt a ridiculous pang of envy.

Across from him, Steve absently sketched in his notebook—small, simple drawings done with the easy precision of someone used to observing quietly. A rusted bolt from the van’s floor. The tangled cords above the windshield. One of Clint’s arrows, sketched from memory. The Iron Man helmet.

Both of them knew Nat and Clint didn’t need backup. But it felt better to stay alert. Just in case.

Tony turned his attention to the rupture scanner. The red dot in Vancouver pulsed slowly, like a warning light in a heartbeat rhythm. He exhaled through his nose, annoyed by the very existence of it. Steve caught the shift, eyes flicking toward the screen.

“Is it worse?” he asked, voice low.

Tony shook his head. “No. Still the same.”

Steve hummed and nodded. A flash of white light blinked down the road in the distance—brief but sharp.

“That one?” he asked, nodding toward it. “Should we be worried?”

“No,” Tony replied quickly, too sharp.

Steve looked down again, his shoulders tensing just a little. His hand stilled on the notebook, and his mouth settled into a soft frown.

Tony sighed and rubbed a hand across his eyes.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “No. That was just a normal energy fluctuation. We’re near the magnetic north pole, so the field’s unpredictable—small electromagnetic pulses can trigger visual distortions. It’s technically natural, just... more active in winter.”

Steve looked back up, expression softening. “Thanks for clarifying.”

A pause. He tapped the corner of the notebook against his knee. “I can monitor it too, you know. If you teach me. I want to help.”

Tony glanced over. Steve was giving him that look—earnest, steady, full of quiet conviction. That classic Captain America brand of I-want-to-make-the-world-better, now pointed squarely at Tony’s least-maintained monitor.

Tony rolled his eyes but smiled, faintly.

“Okay,” he said. “It’s a long-range multiband field scanner. The screen’s tracking localized spikes in EM and background radiation variance. See this baseline?” He pointed to the wavering green line on the lower half of the screen. “That’s the norm. If it deviates, you watch how, when, and if it corrects itself.”

Steve nodded, focused. “Like watching for a skipped heartbeat.”

Tony blinked, surprised. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “Exactly like that.”

Tony shifted the monitor slightly toward Steve, fingers brushing against his arm as he adjusted the angle. He talked quickly, pointed, tapped, flicked a switch here or there. Steve leaned in, eyes tracking every movement like it mattered, like it all meant something more than blinking lines and color-coded noise.

Tony showed him where the readouts looped into warning patterns, how the red pulses differed from natural interference, and how to tell the difference between a magnetic flare and something real. Steve took it in with quiet intensity, nodding slowly, scribbling notes in the margin of his notebook even though he’d never used a field scanner before in his life.

There was something grounding about it. Tony’s hands moved with practiced ease, explaining through motion what words didn’t always catch. And Steve didn’t interrupt, didn’t joke, didn’t fill the space with commentary. He just watched. Focused. Present.

For once, Tony didn’t feel like he was talking to prove something. He was just... sharing what he knew. And Steve was listening like it mattered.

Just as Steve was trying to repeat one of Tony’s core principles—something about signal strength versus baseline variance—the power cut out.

Both monitors blinked black. The heater gave a low, dying groan and went silent.

“Shit,” Tony muttered, sharp and tight.

He stood up too quickly, the blanket slipping off his shoulders as he bent over the dashboard. The cold hit him instantly, like a slap to the chest. His fingers ached as he pried open the panel of makeshift wiring, breath fogging against the brittle air.

The battery was shot. Completely drained. The old cables could barely hold a charge, and what little energy they carried was leaking into the system like water through a cracked pipe. They’d been running too much, for too long, off something that should’ve died two states ago.

Steve stood too, already sensing the problem.

“What’s wrong?”

“The battery can’t hold a full cycle anymore,” Tony said, trying to keep the frustration out of his voice and failing. “I can reroute power straight to the monitors, but we’ll lose the heat.”

Steve glanced out the windshield. Snow had started falling again—fine, silent, and steady.

His jaw tightened. “Do it.”

Tony’s hands moved fast. He couldn’t afford to hesitate. If the scanner went dark again, they might miss something. A flicker. A pulse. A shift in the rupture pattern that could lead him one step closer to Morgan. He couldn’t afford to lose a second. Not now. Not ever.

The temperature in the van dropped almost immediately. Cold crept back into the space like smoke, quiet and merciless. His hands shook as he rewired the output, snapping old plastic connectors together and praying they’d hold. With a sputter, the monitors blinked back to life—the red dot in Vancouver still pulsing, the grainy black-and-white feed showing Clint and Nat ducking behind a shelf of paint cans.

“There we go,” Tony exhaled, shivering as he dropped back into the passenger seat. He yanked the blanket up again, but the chill had already burrowed into his joints. His right arm had started to stiffen, the metal freezing up against the delicate skin at his shoulder socket.

Steve noticed. Of course he did.

Without a word, he stepped into the back of the van and grabbed the plastic lawn chair Natasha had liberated from a bigot’s front yard in Yukon. He dragged it beside Tony’s seat and gathered as many blankets as he could carry in his arms—his whole body moving with deliberate, no-nonsense efficiency.

He sat down close—close enough their legs touched, close enough their shoulders pressed. Then he draped the pile of wool and fleece over both of them like they were building a fort.

Tony flinched at the contact, then didn’t move.

The cold was still there, lingering in the air, but under the blankets, it felt muted. Distant. His cheeks warmed—maybe from the layers, maybe from the heat radiating off Steve’s body, or maybe just from the fact that Steve had done it at all. For all his soldier’s silence and clean-cut control, the man knew how to wage war on the cold.

They sat like that for a while. The only sounds were the faint hum of the re-powered monitors and the muffled hiss of snow brushing against the windshield. The van creaked occasionally as it settled into the cold.

Tony shifted under the weight of the blankets, adjusting his arm with a small wince. He felt Steve glance at him but didn’t look back.

“Thanks,” Tony muttered eventually, voice quiet. “For the... strategic blanket maneuver.”

Steve gave a soft huff, not quite a laugh. “Basic field tactic. They teach it in the ‘How Not to Let Your Teammates Freeze to Death’ chapter.”

Tony let out a small breath, half amusement, half exhaustion.

“Should’ve paid more attention to that one.”

“Well,” Steve said. “You were busy inventing half the tools they’re still teaching with.”

Tony smiled faintly, eyes on the monitor. “Yeah. That does sound like me.”

Another pause.

“You know you can talk to me about it, right?” Steve asked gently. “I know I’m not Nat or Banner, but…”

“But you read a shitload of therapy books?” Tony quipped, trying to deflect—trying to drag them back into something lighter. Something safer.

Steve frowned, shifting under the blankets. His knee bumped against Tony’s, a small, unintentional touch that lingered.

“No,” he said, voice quieter now. “But I care about you. I hope you know that.”

Tony stared at the monitor, jaw tight. This wasn’t them. Not really. They didn’t talk like this. Their reconciliation had always been action over words—shared looks, small sacrifices, backing each other up when it counted. They never discussed the Sokovia Accords. They’d never even unpacked the phone Steve sent. After the snap, after the return, having each other again had been conversation enough.

But still. The words settled somewhere in Tony’s chest like a soft weight.

“I do,” he said finally, eyes still fixed on the red pulse in Toronto. His voice was low but certain.

Steve gave a small smile and shifted again, settling deeper into the flimsy plastic chair. He let his head rest back against the wall of the van, exhaling like something inside him had loosened.

Tony sighed, body sinking into the seat beside him. Maybe it was the cold, or the near-loss of the signal, or just the sheer exhaustion of holding everything in—but he let himself lean in. Slowly, cautiously, like testing gravity, he rested his head on Steve’s shoulder.

Steve’s breath hitched. Barely audible. But he didn’t move away.

“I care about you too, Cap,” Tony whispered, his voice low and stripped of anything performative. It didn’t even sound like him.

Steve turned his head slightly, pressing his cheek against Tony’s hair. His exhale was long and quiet, full of something Tony didn’t have the energy to name.

“Good,” Steve murmured.

They stayed that way for a while, watching the red pulse blink like a heartbeat, the snow outside thickening into white blur. Eventually, warmth pooled under the blankets, shared between shoulder touches and slow, steady breathing. Tony’s eyelids drooped first. Steve’s followed.

The van door slid open slowly, a cold gust sneaking in behind it.

Nat stepped in first, quiet giggle escaping her as she tugged the duffel bag higher on her shoulder. She moved quietly, her boots silent on the floor. Clint followed with a smirk and a muttered joke about stealing from an actual bank next time.

Then they both froze.

Steve and Tony were still in the front seats, tucked beneath layers of wool and fleece. Tony’s head was still resting on Steve’s shoulder, one hand curled near the hem of the blanket. Steve had shifted in his sleep, head now tilted to rest against Tony’s. Their brows nearly touched, breath shared in the narrow space between. His posture was soft, relaxed—his body unconsciously drawn toward the man beside him.

Clint raised his eyebrows and opened his mouth.

Nat slapped a hand over it before he got a word out.

She didn’t speak. Just looked for a moment—soft, unreadable. Then she carefully stepped around them, reached up, and adjusted the cable feeding power to the monitors. She flicked a switch, checked the battery load, and rerouted the output to the ignition system without making a sound.

Clint eased into the back, dropping the supplies in a heap and giving the sleeping pair one last look.

“Bet my last protein bar they won’t even talk about it tomorrow,” he whispered.

Nat gave the faintest shrug. “When have they ever?.”

She slid into the driver’s seat, turned the key, and pulled them back onto the road—engine humming low, heater kicking on just enough to fight off the worst of the cold.

Steve and Tony didn’t stir.

Chapter 2: Quesnel

TONY

 

They reached Quesnel just after ten, the road smoothing into something passable as civilization. The sun had been up for hours, and as they traveled farther south, the cold finally began to ease—not by much, but enough that their breath didn’t fog the windows quite as heavily. Snow still dusted the treetops, but the air had lost its bite.

Bruce had been the first one up. He’d made breakfast with grim determination, boiling instant coffee in an old kettle over the portable burner and slicing what could only generously be called bread. It was dry, dense, and unforgiving—but he laid it all out on a tray and served it to each team member like it was ambrosia.

Tony was already elbow-deep in wires by then.

He sat at his makeshift workstation—a foldout table bolted to the floor with scraps of aluminum and sheer desperation—working on a miniaturized arc reactor. The prototype was meant to handle all their onboard energy needs: power rerouting, internal heating, scanner stabilization. A personal grid, built from nothing.

Every bump in the road rattled his tools. The van groaned around him, and the crick of stressed metal kept dragging his memory back to the cave in Afghanistan. Back to the first arc reactor—slapped together with scrap, under threat, under pressure. Ironically, the tech had been better then. At least he’d had raw materials.

This time, he was cobbling together progress from half-frozen parts and charity.

Fortunately, the hardware store back in British Columbia had carried a few branded StarkTech flashlights—cheap, mass-produced, and already outdated by ten years. Tony had grinned when he saw them. He’d stripped them for every inch of wire, every sliver of microcapacitor, every recyclable circuit.

Even the thinnest filament in StarkTech was a hundred times more efficient than the copper garbage threaded through the van. His tech, even when mass-manufactured for the consumer market, still outclassed what most people considered modern wiring.

Now, he soldered with precision, hands steady despite the chill still lingering in his bones. The miniature reactor hummed gently on the bench beside him—warm, bright, alive.

Once it was time to switch drivers, Clint took the wheel with Bruce riding shotgun, eyes on the scanner mounted near the glovebox. Natasha climbed up into the bunk above the cabin, curling into the nest of blankets with a book she’d been pretending to read for three days.

Clint started some ridiculous road game about license plate letters and Bruce, against all odds, humored him. Their voices drifted between the occasional bumps in the road, light and familiar.

Tony stayed at his workstation, hunched over the mess of wires and circuit guts spread across the table like the insides of a dying machine. He’d been rerouting power lines, trying to balance output from the failing battery and the mini-reactor—just enough to keep things stable without burning anything out.

He didn’t look up when Steve settled across from him.

Steve didn’t speak right away. He scanned the spread of wires, eyes flicking from tool to tool, forehead slightly furrowed—not in confusion, but in quiet concentration. Tony could feel him thinking, reading the system like a puzzle instead of a problem.

“Need help?”

Tony exhaled through his nose, resisting the old, immediate urge to tell him to sit back down and let the grown-ups handle it.

Steve wasn’t an idiot. He knew his way around systems. He’d flown the quinjet enough times, installed surveillance tech, handled basic field gear. And he was gentle—always gentle. Never hovered. Never pushed.

Still, something in Tony’s chest bristled. This was his domain. His armor, his offering, the only thing he could control.

“I’ve got it,” he said—not unkindly, but not open either.

Steve didn’t flinch. Just nodded once, leaning back slightly, still facing him. He didn’t move far. He didn’t press. He just stayed— present , quiet, anchored.

After a beat, Steve pulled out that battered sketchbook he always kept tucked into his coat. The same one he filled with little moments—faces, hands, street signs, fire escapes. He flipped to a blank page and began to draw, the soft scratch of pencil the only sound between them besides Clint’s dumb road game echoing from the front.

Tony kept working, hands deep in the snarl of cables. But something tugged at his attention.

He glanced up—and caught a glimpse of the page.

A quick, clean sketch of a familiar skyline. Slim lines. Towering shadows. At the center: a silhouette unmistakable in its shape, even half-finished. Avengers Tower. Or what it used to be.

He looked away fast. Too fast.

Steve didn’t seem to notice.

Tony’s fingers stilled for a beat before he forced them back into motion. The wires felt colder now. Or maybe that was just the way memory slipped in through the cracks.

“Missing the good old times?” Tony asked, not really expecting an answer. More like a reflex—something to fill the quiet.

Steve didn’t look up. He kept working on the drawing, shading the big “A” at the top of the tower with slow, deliberate strokes. His fingers moved gently, like he was restoring something instead of recreating it. Like it still meant something to him.

“I don’t know,” Steve said, voice low. “We were different people back then. Different world, even. But something about this trip… it takes me back.”

Tony hummed softly, tightening a screw into a plastic mount, the metal biting cold through the thin layer of his glove.

“Yeah,” he murmured.

Back then, Thanos had only been a nightmare in the back of his mind—one no one else believed in. Pepper was still in his life. The team still answered when he called. The universe hadn’t cracked in half yet, hadn’t stitched itself back together with blood and guilt and desperation.

He missed those days, yeah. Sometimes he’d wake up and smell the coffee Clint used to burn in the kitchen, or hear Thor laughing down the hall, or see Bruce cross a room with a stack of journals and a theory that wouldn’t let him sleep. And he'd ache for it—for the simplicity of what they tried to build before it all went sideways.

But he was also glad it was gone. That life—the gleaming tower, the press conferences, the hopeful blueprint of a team—it had always been too polished, too fragile. Glossy and bright and already cracking beneath the surface. They were never built to last like that. Not with secrets. Not with fault lines running silent between them, waiting to split open.

And Steve—

Steve hadn’t betrayed him yet. Not with silence. Not with fists. Not with the shield. Not with the cold, metal certainty of leaving Tony bleeding and half-frozen on the floor of a Siberian bunker.

But even then, back in those early days, he’d never really moved in . Not the way the others had. Not the way Tony had hoped he would.

He slept there, trained there, briefed and debriefed—but he never unpacked. Never hung anything on the walls. Never left his boots in the hallway or his jacket draped over a chair. Never let the place soften around him. Never let it become anything more than a base.

And somehow, Tony had ignored it. Had told himself it was just Steve being Steve—distant, disciplined, old-school. But now, years and wars and too many silences later, he wondered if that had been the first warning. The first crack.

Because maybe Steve had already known. Maybe he’d already chosen what he would keep and what he would walk away from. Maybe the Tower had never felt like home to him because Tony was never going to be.

And that—that still caught Tony off guard. Even now.

He’d built a place for all of them. And Steve had never really lived in it.

The thought landed like a bruise, slow and familiar. Years-old resentment stirred in Tony’s gut, rising hot and sharp in his throat. His hands clenched tighter around the screwdriver, his grip white-knuckled.

“Why didn’t you move in?” he asked, voice low but brittle.

Steve looked up, brows raised. “Move in where?”

Tony didn’t glance at him. “The Tower.”

The air in the van shifted. The hum of the engine and the occasional bumps on the road were suddenly louder than the silence that followed.

Steve set his pencil down, carefully, like the paper beneath it might shatter.

“I told you,” he said slowly, “I wanted to see the world. That was the plan.”

Tony scoffed under his breath, twisting the screwdriver into the reactor housing with too much force. “I mean after the grand rediscovery tour. When you came back.”

Steve’s jaw tightened. His brows furrowed.

“I don’t know, Tony. I was trying to figure myself out. I had just woken up in a world that didn’t make sense anymore. I needed space. Clarity.”

Tony slammed the panel closed with a metallic clack, fingers shaking. “I made a whole floor for you,” he said, voice flat and cutting. “Custom-designed. Do you have any idea how hard it was to find authentic 1940s furniture in good condition? I burned through a month’s worth of profits on that floor.”

Steve blinked, caught off guard. His voice softened, hesitant. “I didn’t know you did that.”

Tony shook his head, not looking at him. “Of course you didn’t.”

“But I was lost back then,” Steve snapped, the calm cracking in his voice. “I wasn’t ready to throw myself into some massive team fantasy just because you built it.”

Tony’s head jerked up, eyes sharp. “But you went with SHIELD,” he shot back. “You picked them over us. Over me. You preferred some crappy apartment in Boston and Fury’s secrets over the team you asked me to fund.”

Steve’s jaw clenched, something flaring behind his eyes. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Tony! I did what I could. I moved into the Compound eventually, didn’t I?”

“Oh, eventually ,” Tony scoffed, voice rising. “After we broke half the world.”

“Because you couldn’t trust anyone who didn’t follow your plan!”

Tony stood halfway from his seat, the reactor nearly slipping from his lap. “Because everyone kept secrets from me—including you.”

The air inside the van went razor-sharp. Cold. Still.

“Guys, don't. ” Nat’s voice dropped down from the bunk above, flat and cutting. “Not again. You don’t need to tear into each other to make a point.”

Bruce had already turned around in his seat, face tense, watching them like a bomb that might still go off. From the front, Clint’s eyes flicked quickly to the rearview mirror, checking their faces in quiet beats, jaw tight.

“Oh, relax, Nat,” Tony scoffed, the words automatic, a little too sharp. “We’re not gonna blow the van up just because we’re arguing. You can all stop acting like we’re made of flammable gas.”

The silence that followed wasn’t tense—it was weighted.

Bruce didn’t even turn around. He just said, flatly, “Last time you two fought, it wasn’t exactly a great day for anyone.”

Tony froze. Just for a second.

The words hit harder than they should’ve. Before he could stop it, the memory surfaced—steel walls, fractured ribs, a red-blue blur swinging that damned shield like it meant justice. The cold that seeped in after the fight, deeper than any ice could reach.

Steve muttered, voice tight with frost, “That’s low.”

Tony turned to look at him.

Steve was hunched forward slightly, fists clenched against his knees, chest rising just a little too fast. His jaw was tight, eyes dark. He wasn’t angry—he was hurting. And Tony knew that look. He’d learned, over years of war and worse, how to read every version of Steve Rogers—and this one always hit the hardest.

The ache came fast, blooming low in Tony’s chest. Familiar. Unwelcome.

He hadn’t meant to hurt him. Not like this.

But that was the thing about them—they knew exactly how to wound each other. Years of shared battles, betrayals, and silences had made them fluent in causing pain.

And still—still—when Steve folded in like that, when he wore his disappointment like armor that didn’t quite fit, Tony couldn’t hold onto the anger. Not for long.

Whatever resentment he’d carried into the conversation slipped away, replaced by that quiet, persistent thing that always crept up when Steve was a little too Steve—too earnest, too vulnerable, too good in ways that made Tony feel cracked open.

He didn’t want to be the one who put that look on his face anymore. Not again.

“No,” Tony said at last, the word falling out on a long exhale. “He’s right.”

He looked down at the arc reactor in his lap, thumb brushing its edge. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to fight with you, Steve. I’ve done enough of that to last a few lifetimes.”

Steve didn’t say anything. He just nodded, slow and small, gaze cast toward the floor. There was something hollow in the way his shoulders sank—like the apology landed in a place he wasn’t expecting.

Tony looked around the van, the mess of wires, the worn faces of the people still here. Still with him.

“I’m really grateful you’re all here,” he added, voice softer now. “I know I’ve been... tense. I just—there’s a lot riding on this.”

“Of course we’re here,” Clint said from the driver’s seat, voice unusually steady. His eyes met Tony’s in the rearview mirror, clear and unblinking.

Tony offered the smallest smile, fingers curling back around the reactor. The silence settled for a moment, not heavy—just calm.

“For what it’s worth…” Steve said, voice quiet but certain: “ it was a mistake.”

Tony blinked. “Huh?”

Steve looked up and met his eyes. “Not moving in. I should’ve taken the offer. I regret it now. Things might’ve turned out different.”

It hit like warmth in the chest—unexpected, fragile. Something Tony hadn’t let himself imagine in a long time. He felt the sting of nostalgia try to sneak in, but this time it was gentler, sweeter than bitter.

For a second, the ache loosened.

“Yeah,” Tony said, barely above a whisper. He let his eyes linger on Steve, just for a moment. “Maybe.”

And then, quietly, he bent back to his work—but his hands moved with more steadiness than before.

 

---

 

They drove until noon, pushing through rough backroads and patches of slush, making the most of the time Tony needed to finish the miniature reactor.

At some point, Natasha climbed down from the bunk and slid into the booth across from Steve, holding up a dented metal tin with a raised eyebrow. He nodded, already reaching to clear the table.

The chessboard was one of their weirder scrapyard finds back in Yukon—worn, uneven, and missing several pieces. They’d filled in the gaps with bits of copper wire, a cotton bud twisted into a pawn, and, most controversially, an old Iron Man action figure Clint had forgotten in the bottom of his backpack. It had replaced the black bishop, and Natasha insisted it could jump like a knight. This had led to multiple arguments and exactly one black eye—for Clint, not the action figure.

Natasha always played white. She always won.

They pulled into a forested campground by early afternoon, snow still clinging to the shaded dirt. Bruce volunteered to handle check-in, posing as Tony’s newlywed husband with the kind of deadpan ease that made the bit land far too well.

Tony leaned hard into it. He cracked jokes the entire drive through the lot, calling Bruce “honeybunch” and loudly asking about honeymoon discounts until Natasha threatened to push him out the side door.

Once they parked and the van was powered down, Clint and Nat took over setting up the fire pit, roasting a few half-frozen onions and potatoes they’d rescued from a forgotten bin in the dispensary. Clint claimed the smell alone was “three stars minimum.” Natasha didn’t argue, but she did quietly pocket the better of the two knives.

Tony wasted no time. The second they settled in, he hauled out the stolen equipment from the hardware store and threw himself under the van with grim determination. He was going to get the engine running clean, fully wired, and energy-stable if it killed him. At this point, he figured it just might.

A few hours later, he was half-buried under the van, legs stretched out into the fading daylight, grease streaked up both wrists and a smear of something unidentifiable across his cheek. Sparks spit occasionally from the junction box he was rewiring, but he barely flinched.

He didn’t hear the footsteps at first—too focused on the way the new wire mesh was refusing to seat properly. He cursed under his breath, tightening the bolt until his shoulder protested.

Then something warm bumped lightly against his side.

A bowl appeared near his elbow, steam curling into the cold air.

“Dinner,” Steve said simply.

Tony blinked and slid out from beneath the van, eyes adjusting to the fire-lit dim. Steve was crouched beside him, holding two chipped enamel bowls, one in each hand, like he was balancing something fragile.

Tomato, potato, onion—Clint’s “foraged from a truck stop bin” special. The scent was... edible. Which was saying something.

Tony raised an eyebrow. “Clint’s greatest culinary masterpiece?”

“Apparently,” Steve said, noncommittal. He made no move to praise it. Just handed one bowl over and sat down beside him with the other.

Tony blew on his spoon and followed suit. The soup was hot—burned just enough to make him wince, but not stop. It was rough, earthy, probably under-seasoned—but it wasn’t bad. And more than that, it was warm. After hours under the van with nothing but half-dead wires and frozen bolts, that counted for a lot.

They ate in silence. Their shoulders brushed once. Then their knees. Steve didn’t move away. Neither did Tony.

Their bowls balanced in their laps, steam rising between them. A soft wind rustled through the trees. The fire crackled where Clint and Nat still worked on something that involved too much smoke and far too much confidence.

Tony didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. Not with Steve next to him, grounded and quiet and here.

Then Steve spoke, voice low

“Thank you.”

Tony looked over, spoon halfway to his mouth. “For what?”

Steve gestured vaguely toward the van, his shoulder brushing Tony’s with the motion—just a nudge, but solid. Familiar.

“For all the work you’ve put into the van,” Steve said, his voice quieter than usual, low and thick with something Tony couldn’t quite name. “You’re always fixing things, improving them. Giving us better equipment, better odds. I don’t think I’ve ever actually said thank you for it.”

He glanced down, and his hand settled in his lap—close, almost brushing the one Tony used to hold the bowl.

Tony let out a short, breathy laugh, more out of habit than humor. “It’s just what I do,” he muttered, flexing his shoulder.

The movement pulled at the rig—wires coiled across his upper arm, the small arc reactor taped into place just below the seam of his coat. It looked messy, half-finished, barely held together. But it worked. For now.

Steve glanced at it. Not with judgment. Not with pity. Just saw it.

“Well,” he said, warmth slipping into his voice, “lucky for us, what you do is pretty damn incredible.”

Tony smiled despite himself, the edges of it crooked and reluctant. His eyes drifted to the space between their bowls—to the nearness of their hands.

“You’re just trying to bribe me,” he said, nudging Steve’s knee with his own, “so I build you noise-canceling headphones to block out Bruce’s snoring.”

Steve laughed, low and honest, stirring his soup. “Yeah, well. Worth a shot.”

They went quiet again, but the silence wasn’t empty. Their knees stayed touching. Their elbows brushed once, then settled.

The fire crackled somewhere off to the side, and the cold air bit a little less with every slow bite. Neither of them moved away.

They just kept eating, side by side, as the night stretched around them.

Then came the crunch of boots against gravel—measured, careful.

Bruce appeared from the shadows beyond the firelight, holding a tablet close to his chest. The screen’s glow painted the lower half of his face, making his frown sharper than usual.

“Tony,” he said, just loud enough to break the quiet. “You need to see this.”

Tony straightened, instinct kicking in before his bowl even hit the ground. Steve set his aside too, already halfway to his feet.

Bruce handed over the tablet without preamble. The screen showed a map—jagged lines, glitchy patches of energy signatures, and at the center of it all, that pulsing red dot.

Only it wasn’t still anymore. It was moving.

Tony’s stomach dropped.

“How fast?” he asked, eyes locked on the data.

“Faster than before,” Bruce said. “And it’s not fading—it’s stabilizing as it travels.”

Steve leaned over Tony’s shoulder, squinting at the trajectory. “Where’s it going?”

Bruce hesitated. “South. Across the border. Into the States.”

teve’s breath hitched. Tony froze.

The tension between them snapped taut in an instant.

By the fire, Natasha’s head lifted sharply. Clint stopped mid-motion, a half-peeled onion in one hand. They were on their feet a second later, already crossing the distance with silent, practiced efficiency. No questions—just attention.

“Shit,” Steve muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. His voice was rough, cracked at the edges. “We need more time before we cross the border.”

Tony stared at him like he’d just been slapped.

“Well, we don’t have more time,” he snapped, the words sharp enough to cut. “In case you haven’t noticed, this thing doesn’t care about our timeline.”

“I know that,” Steve said, brow furrowing. “But we can’t just storm the United States border like it’s a joke—”

Tony yanked the tablet from Bruce’s hands, holding it up between them like a weapon. His finger jabbed at the pulsing red signal, now crawling steadily southward, leaving glitchy interference in its wake.

“This could be Morgan, Rogers.” His voice cracked with fury. “ My daughter. And I swear to God, I will cross that fucking border with a nuke strapped to my back if it gets me to her.”

The words landed hard.

Steve’s jaw clenched. He didn’t flinch—but his eyes darkened.

“We all want to find her, Tony,” he said, quieter now, but no less firm. “You’re not the only one who cares.”

“Then let’s go!” Tony shouted, stepping forward. “What the hell are we waiting for?! Let’s go get her!”

Steve opened his mouth, but whatever he was about to say got swallowed by Tony’s fury. His hands moved wildly, as if he could physically force the world into motion.

“And don’t pretend this means the same to you,” Tony snapped, eyes locked on him. “You’ve made your choices before. I just—I don’t know which side I fall on anymore.”

The words were like a slap, not loud, but precise.

Steve flinched—not physically, but something behind his eyes slipped. His breath caught just slightly, like he'd taken the hit straight to the ribs and didn't want anyone to see the bruise.

The silence that followed was thick and cold.

Clint took a step forward, tension bristling in his shoulders. Natasha shifted in, gaze locked on Steve, ready to intercept whatever this was becoming.

But Bruce cut through it first.

“We’ll cross it,” he said, calm but steady. “But we need a plan. We won’t get far if we rush it and get caught before we even make it to the other side.”

That familiar instinct surged in his chest like a reflex—the voice that had kept him alive, armored and alone. The voice that said call the suit, take off, burn through anything that stands in your way . The part of him that always defaulted to isolation, because control was safer than trust, and silence was easier than loss.

But not now. Tony looked at the rest of his team. They weren’t speaking, weren’t pushing—but every pair of eyes was on him, steady and certain. No pressure. Just quiet, unwavering resolve.

These people— his people—had shown up. No questions. No explanations. Just here . Because Natasha found out Morgan was missing, and instead of asking what he needed, she spread the word like a signal flare. And the rest of them came. Bruce, quiet and worried, clutching data and hope. Clint, stubborn and loyal as ever. Steve—

God, even Steve .

They came with baggage, with history, with pain he hadn’t fully forgiven—but they came . Not because he called. Because they cared.

F or the first time in a long time, Tony realized: he didn’t want to do this alone. Not because he couldn’t. Because he shouldn’t .

Somewhere along the way, pushing them away had stopped being protection and started being punishment, mostly for himself. 

He let out a long breath, jaw tight. And when he spoke, it was through clenched teeth—but not with resistance. Just the force of trying not to feel too much at once.

“Fine,” he muttered. “Let’s make a plan. But fast.”

They moved instantly, like they’d been waiting for that cue all along. Bruce climbed into the front to scan routes, fingers already dancing over the console. Clint and Natasha spread a handful of worn maps and markers over Tony’s workstation, diving into action like it was second nature.

Steve turned to follow them.

But before he could take a step, Tony reached out and caught his arm.

“Hey.”

The word was soft. Cautious. Unpolished.

Steve looked back, and Tony saw it—the worry behind the calm, the tension wound up beneath that quiet strength. He always looked like he could carry the weight of the world. And too often, Tony had let him try.

“I’m sorry,” Tony said, low and rough, the kind of apology that scraped on the way out. Not just for the yelling. For all of it.

Steve didn’t answer right away. He just looked at him for a beat too long, like he was searching for something in Tony’s face. Then he smiled. Small. Honest.

“Don’t be.”

He reached out, hand closing gently around Tony’s elbow. It was steady. Grounding. His thumb pressed lightly over the fabric of Tony’s sleeve, and neither of them moved for a moment too long to be casual.

Tony nodded, throat tight.

From across the van, Clint looked up from a pile of half-folded maps and caught the last second of it. The quiet. The closeness. The way Steve’s hand didn’t leave Tony’s arm as fast as it could have—and the way Tony didn’t move away.

Clint didn’t say anything. He just arched one brow, exchanged a glance with Natasha—who didn’t even look up from her notebook—and let out a soft, knowing exhale.

“Right,” he muttered, mostly to himself. “Well, at least if the plan goes to hell, we’ve got unresolved tension to keep us warm.”

And then it started.

Bruce called out terrain specs from the front, fingers flying across the screen of a salvaged GPS interface. Tony patched into it instantly, overlaying readings from his own tracker—building a visual of the surrounding forest, the patrol grid, the dead zones they could vanish into.

Clint and Nat went full covert mode, redrawing border perimeters, scribbling down weak points, arguing softly over which route was more likely to have fewer boots or drones. Natasha suggested a woodland trail no one had used in years; Clint marked a cargo road used for smuggling lumber. Both agreed they’d probably need to use both.

Tony worked between them, coordinating the tech, adjusting signal dampeners, recalibrating the arc-link stabilizer in the van’s roof. 

Steve watched, memorizing the timing, asking questions only when necessary—and getting his answers in glances, gestures, half-sentences. 

Close enough that Tony could feel him at the edge of his awareness—the slow arc of his gaze, the way his hand rested on the table near Tony’s tools, never quite touching, but never far.

And every so often, their eyes met.

Brief, unscheduled moments that hung between them longer than they should have. Tony would glance up mid-sentence, mid-calculation, and Steve would already be looking. Not intense. Not pleading. Just there .

Tony didn’t say anything about it. Didn’t look away either.

Everyone moved like they’d done this before. Because they had. Because in some ways, they never stopped.

The room hummed with quiet intensity, maps unrolling, coordinates being checked and rechecked, timers marked in red ink and blue highlighter.

Outside, the wind had picked up, rustling through the trees.

Inside the van, the team fell into rhythm again—not as soldiers. Not as fugitives. Just as themselves. A little older. A little more broken. But still together.

And somewhere in the middle of it, Tony realized: that mattered more than he’d let himself believe.

By the time the maps were marked and the equipment prepped, Clint tapped his pen on the table and nodded toward the sketch Steve had drawn in the margins—an elevation outline of the border zone, rough but clear.

“So here’s the best shot,” Clint said, pointing. “We take Route 38 east until it turns into that gravel mess just before the cut in the range. There’s a forest tucked between two ridges, maybe twenty minutes out from the border checkpoint.”

Tony pulled up the topographic scan. The valley was thick with trees, elevation just high enough to drop visibility. The border sat on the other side of the mountain, fenced but patchy. Perfect for a stealth crawl.

“If we stay low, kill all signals, and use the van as temporary cover, we can hole up in the forest overnight,” Bruce added. “Then we cross on foot just before dawn. Less patrols, colder thermal signatures.”

“And the van?” Steve asked.

“We leave it,” Tony said, not looking up. “I’ll rig the perimeter. Passive defense. If someone finds it, it’ll throw off their trail.”

Natasha gave a small nod, approving.

“Rugged terrain,” she said. “We’ll need to pack light. Clint and I will scout ahead once we reach the base.”

“Then we cross,” Steve confirmed, gaze sliding briefly back to Tony.

Tony nodded. “Then we find her.”

The table fell quiet again, the plan solidifying like cement around them. Outside, the wind picked up again, rustling through the trees like it knew what was coming.

Notes:

:)

Chapter 3: Vancouver

STEVE

 

The forest was a held breath, a predator coiled in the shadows. Every sound Steve made—the rustle of his jacket, the crunch of frost underfoot, the too-loud rhythm of his own heartbeat—felt like a betrayal. The air smelled of pine and impending snow, sharp enough to sting his nostrils with each careful inhale.

They'd left the van in a cave draped with enough spruce boughs to hide a tank, Tony's handiwork—"Call it Stark-tan camouflage," he'd quipped, fingers brushing Steve's shoulder as he passed him a branch. 

The two-mile hike to the border stretched before them, every step measured, every breath controlled. Steve could feel Tony's presence at his six o'clock like a live wire, radiating restless energy just barely contained.

They traveled light. Too light. A few weapons, some blankets, canned food, and Tony's jury-rigged tech—a Frankenstein's monster of scavenged parts that pulsed faintly in his palm like a wounded bird. Not ideal, but Steve had managed with less.

Natasha shook her head, her breath a pale ghost in the cold air. "Not yet. But the border's crawling with thermal sensors." Her fingers flexed near her thigh holster, a silent tell Steve had learned to read years ago—she was worried.

Steve took a deep breath, letting it out slowly through his nose. They were too many for a stealth op. Bruce moved like a man trying not to break something, his shoulders hunched as if to make himself smaller. And Tony—Tony was a walking lightning strike, all nervous energy and suppressed genius, his fingers twitching toward his tech like a gambler reaching for dice.

"Okay," Steve turned to face them, his voice low enough that they had to lean in, close enough to share body heat. "We do this fast and quiet. If we're seen by even a squirrel—"

"—we'll have to kiss our furry little informant goodbye," Tony finished, his breath warm against Steve's cheek. Too close. Always too close.

Steve didn't step back.

They walked for about ten minutes. Ten minutes of Steve's neck prickling with every rustle, ten minutes of Tony's shoulder brushing his whenever the path narrowed, ten minutes of Clint's exaggerated tiptoeing behind them that would've been funny if Steve's stomach wasn't coiled tight with dread.

The universe gave them exactly 637 seconds of peace.

Then—a searing red line cut through the darkness, painting a stripe across Steve's chest like a targeting laser. His muscles locked, time slowing as the light crawled upward toward his throat—

"Cap, watch out!" Clint's voice shattered the silence.

Steve turned, his shield arm coming up instinctively, just in time to see the drone hovering above him, its camera lens whirring as it focused. Before he could move, before he could even draw breath—

The world exploded in blue-white light.

The repulsor blast hit the drone dead center, sending up a shower of sparks that illuminated Tony's face in jagged bursts—lips tightly pressed, his eyes burning with something raw and terrified. The shockwave knocked Steve back a step, the smell of ozone and burnt metal thick in his nose.

"Tony, what the hell—" Steve grabbed his wrist, his fingers closing around the still-glowing repulsor, the heat bleeding through Tony's sleeve to scorch his palm. He didn't let go.

Tony's eyes met his, wide and defiant and scared. "I'm not losing you to a fucking drone," he hissed.

The words hung between them - too raw, too honest. Tony's jaw clenched like he wanted to take them back.

The alarms hit like a physical blow—a wailing, shrieking cacophony that set Steve's teeth on edge. Red lights strobed through the trees, casting everything in a hellish glow. Somewhere, engines roared to life.

"Shit, Plan B!" Clint yelled, already running.

"Which is?" Bruce panted, stumbling after him.

"The one where we stop pretending we're ninjas!"

They ran. Steve kept one hand on Tony's back, pushing him forward whenever he faltered, feeling the hitch in his breath through the contact. Branches whipped at their faces, leaving stinging trails on Steve's cheeks. Behind them, the whine of drones grew louder, closer—

Then Tony's hand found his, yanking him sideways as a searchlight speared the space where Steve's head had been.

"Eyes front, Rogers," Tony gasped, but he didn't let go.

The forest spat them out into the clearing, their pounding footsteps tearing through the underbrush. Steve had been holding himself back the entire chase, matching his stride to Tony's ragged breathing, keeping close enough to intercept any threat. But now the van stood just fifty yards away - safety, escape, their only chance.

He stopped pretending.

The world narrowed to the path ahead. His muscles uncoiled like released springs, his enhanced legs driving him forward with terrifying efficiency. The distance evaporated beneath him. Where the others stumbled over roots and uneven ground, Steve moved like water flowing downhill - inevitable, unstoppable.

He reached the van in three heartbeats.

His fingers tore through the camouflage netting like tissue paper, the reinforced fibers offering no more resistance than cobwebs. The door groaned in protest as he wrenched it open, metal warping under his grip. He barely noticed. Every sense remained hyper-focused on the tree line, counting the precious seconds until the others arrived.

"Move!" The word tore from his throat, raw with urgency. He planted himself in the doorway, one arm extended toward the approaching figures, his body already angled to shield them as they boarded. "Natasha! Take the wheel, get us out of here!"

Natasha flowed into the driver's seat like quicksilver, her hands already moving before her body settled. The engine coughed, sputtered - a dying animal's last breaths.

Then Tony was there, knees hitting the dashboard with a thud Steve felt in his own bones. His fingers danced across exposed wiring, the blue glow of the arc reactor casting sharp shadows across his concentrated scowl.

A spark. A surge. The van roared to life with a sound like thunder, the entire frame vibrating with newfound power. Steve slammed the door shut with his full weight behind it, the impact shuddering up his arm. For half a second, warmth bloomed in his chest - that particular awe Tony's genius always stirred in him, no matter how many times he witnessed it.

Steve braced himself against the driver's seat, close enough to see the tension in Nat's jaw. "Take us back to the main road”

"Are you out of your goddamn mind?" Tony's voice cut through the chaos like a blade. He'd twisted in his seat, his face inches from Steve's. The arc reactor's light pulsed erratically, casting his furious expression in jagged blue highlights. "Fuck no, get to the border!"

Their eyes locked. Steve could see the vein throbbing in Tony's temple, could smell the ozone and sweat clinging to him. Natasha's gaze flicked between them in the rearview mirror, her fingers flexing on the gearshift.

Tony's voice dropped, cold and lethal. "You make us turn around, Rogers, and Siberia will seem like a lovers' quarrel."

The words struck deeper than any physical blow. Steve felt them in his ribs—that old fracture line from the shield’s impact, aching like it happened yesterday. His fingers tore into the seat fabric, the foam crunching under his grip. Some distant part of him knew this was wrong—knew the border was suicide, knew Natasha’s route was smarter—but the louder part, the part that still woke gasping from nightmares of Tony bleeding out in the snow, drowned it out.

The van’s engine whined, mirroring the tension. Steve could practically hear Fury’s voice in his head : Sentiment’s a luxury for peacetime, Captain.

But Tony’s eyes burned with something fiercer than logic, and Steve—

Steve had spent a lifetime making the hard calls. This time, just this once, he let his heart decide.

"Go to the border," he ground out, tasting copper where he’d bitten his cheek.

Natasha didn't hesitate. Her foot slammed down, pressing them all back into their seats as the van leapt forward like a hunted thing. The trees blurred past, branches scraping against the sides like skeletal fingers trying to drag them back. Somewhere behind them, sirens wailed.

The van tore through the forest like a wounded animal, its suspension screaming as it bottomed out on exposed roots. Trees materialized from the darkness only to vanish inches from their doors - a relentless strobe of bark and leaves illuminated by their lone working headlight. Branches scraped along the roof like skeletal fingers, each impact sending vibrations through Steve's molars.

He wiped sweat from his brow, eyes darting between the windshield and the flickering monitor Tony had rigged to the dashboard. The stolen military GPS showed their destination as a pulsating dot, still twenty brutal minutes away. Twenty minutes they didn't have.

"Guys!" Clint's voice cut through the engine's roar. He was half-hanging out a side window, his shirt snapping like a sail in the wind. "We've got company!"

Steve lunged toward the sound, his shoulder connecting painfully with a cabinet as the van swerved. Three black silhouettes sliced through the tree line behind them - tactical bikes with unnaturally quiet engines, their riders' faces obscured by infrared visors that glowed faintly green in the shadows. Military issue. Expensive.

"Clint, passenger seat!" Steve barked, already calculating angles. "Tire shots only. Tony-" He wrenched open the sliding door with a metallic screech, and suddenly the world was wind and chaos. The rushing air stole his breath, whipping his hair into his eyes. "I've got you. Take them out."

Clint moved like water, rolling across the van's bed to snatch his bow from its hidden ceiling compartment. Tony rose more slowly, his movements stiff with residual tension from their earlier argument. The arc reactor cast jagged blue shadows across his face as he approached.

Steve didn't think - just reached out and grabbed Tony's belt with one hand, the other bracing against the doorframe. His fingers dug into the leather, feeling Tony's abdominal muscles tense beneath. The contact sent his pulse skittering - too close, too familiar, but there was no time to dwell on it.

"Trust me," Steve murmured, the words nearly lost in the wind.

Tony's eyes locked onto his, searching for something. A heartbeat passed. Then he nodded sharply and leaned out into the maelstrom, repulsor glove already humming to life. Steve tightened his grip, every muscle in his forearm standing out like cables as he anchored them both against the violent sway of the van.

The night air smelled of pine and gasoline and something electric - maybe the ozone from Tony's charging repulsor, maybe the adrenaline singing in Steve's veins. Behind them, the bikes' engines rose in pitch as they closed the distance.

The night erupted in chaos. Even in darkness, Clint's arrows found their marks with lethal precision—thwip-THUD—one bike's front tire disintegrated into shredded rubber, sending the rider tumbling over the handlebars in a graceless somersault. The crash echoed through the trees, metal screaming against bark.

The night erupted in chaos. Clint's arrows found their marks with lethal precision—thwip-THUD—one bike's front tire disintegrated into shredded rubber, sending the rider tumbling over the handlebars in a graceless somersault. The crash echoed through the trees, metal screaming against bark.

Tony's repulsor blast tore through the darkness like lightning. A brilliant orange fireball mushroomed where the first bike had been, the shockwave rattling the van's windows. Shrapnel pinged off their rear bumper.

"Jesus, Tony!" Steve's grip on Tony's belt tightened involuntarily as the concussive force rocked them. "Tires only!"

Tony's shoulder pressed back against Steve's chest as he fired again. "Relax, Cap. That armor can survive a ten-story drop. I designed them." The second bike flipped end-over-end, its rider rolling like a ragdoll across the forest floor. "See? Walking it off already."

Before he could voice another protest, the mechanical whir of rotor blades cut through the night. A searchlight speared through the trees, illuminating the van like a stage. More headlights bloomed in the distance—a dozen, maybe twenty vehicles converging on their position.

"STOP THE VEHICLE!" The amplified voice boomed through the forest, shaking leaves from branches. "FINAL WARNING!"

Tony stared up. "Shit"

He swung his repulsor upward—just as machine gun fire shredded the road around them. Bullets sparked off rocks, tore through ferns. One round punched through the door near Steve's thigh, leaving a finger-width hole that whistled with incoming wind.

"Nat!" Tony bellowed, Steve's arm the only thing keeping him from tumbling out the open door. "Lights out!"

From his nest of blankets, Bruce rocked forward. "Are you insane? You want to drive blind through a forest at—"

"Just trust me!" Tony twisted in Steve's grip, their faces suddenly inches apart. His pupils were blown wide with adrenaline, the arc reactor's glow painting his cheekbones in sharp blue angles. "Get me to the dash."

Steve didn't hesitate. One powerful heave and he had Tony airborne, pivoting on his heel to deposit him beside Natasha with the same care one might use handling live explosives. The moment Tony's boots hit the floorboards, Steve was already moving—his shield a silver blur as it ricocheted off the nearest bike's windshield.

Natasha killed the lights with a savage yank of the controls. The world vanished into pitch black—for exactly one heartbeat.

Then Tony's hologram bloomed across the windshield, a three-dimensional sonar map pulsing with eerie blue light. Every tree, every rock, every pursuing vehicle resolved into glowing wireframes. Natasha didn't miss a beat, her hands moving with preternatural certainty as she threaded the van through obstacles the system shouldn't have been able to detect.

"Stark, you beautiful son of a bitch,” Clint muttered, half laughing, half in awe.

Tony flashed a feral grin without looking back.

The van tore through the darkness like a ghost, a screaming blur of metal and smoke. Gunfire rattled behind them—wild, frantic—but whatever noise the van made was swallowed by the chaos, lost under the roaring engines and shouts of soldiers falling behind.

Nat drove like a demon, knuckles white on the wheel. She barreled them forward with reckless speed, and Steve had to slam a hand against the doorframe just to stay upright, nearly losing his shield twice.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Tony’s voice cut through the van’s throttle, thin with urgency. “Cap—you better see this!”

Steve pushed forward, boots stumbling over the cluttered floor, just as Tony jabbed a trembling finger toward the windshield.

Ahead, a hundred feet away, was a wall of death.

Armored military vehicles lined the road—tanks, Humvees, heavy barricades thrown together like a giant’s game of blocks. Lights blazed through the smoke, spotlights sweeping in frantic arcs. A crackling voice barked through megaphones, promising immediate detainment—or worse.

“What now, Cap?” Natasha called over her shoulder, voice taut, still driving straight at the blockade like she was daring it to move.

Steve didn’t have time to answer.

Tony was already cutting the mapping hologram, elbowing Clint toward the window. His gauntlet buzzed with wild, electric-blue energy, wires glowing and sparking as he braced himself.

“I can overcharge the repulsor blast!” Tony yelled back at them. “One shot—it all goes haywire!”

Steve froze, heart hammering in his chest. He knew that tone. Knew that edge.

And he knew the arc reactor strapped to Tony’s body—knew it wasn’t built for this. It was a makeshift miracle, straining against itself every hour it kept running.

Tony was already aiming, one eye squinting against the wind, ready to burn himself alive if it got them through.

“Isn’t it going to recoil?” Steve shouted.

For a second—just a second—Tony hesitated. That tiny pause was all the proof he needed.

“I don’t think so,” Tony said, forced too casually, arm locking into position. “It’s the only way.”

Panic crashed over Steve’s instinct. No. No, not like this. Not again.

He lunged forward, grabbing Tony’s shoulders and yanking him bodily back into the van. The repulsor sputtered and whined, the faint blue glow flickering out as Steve slammed the window closed.

“Hey!” Tony protested, struggling, but Steve didn’t let go.

"You do that, and you'll lose the arm!" Steve barked, his voice cutting through the chaos. "Or worse!"

Tony shook him off, anger flashing across his face. "Then what the hell do you want to do, Cap?! We’re dead if we don’t push through!"

Steve’s hands fisted at his sides. The blockade was getting closer. So close now he could see the rifles trained on them, soldiers shifting in formation.

The weight of the decision dropped onto him like a stone.

For a split second, Steve saw it all—the van riddled with bullets, Tony collapsing, reactor sparking as he bled out on the floor. It twisted something deep inside him, something already frayed and too raw.

He closed his eyes. Forced the panic down. Forced his brain to do what it was trained to do: find another way.

“Just—give me a second!” he barked.

A thousand plans flickered across his mind. All bad. All desperate. He opened his eyes and locked on Bruce, hunched near the back bench, green already flickering along his veins.

Steve didn’t think. He just trusted.

“Bruce,” he said, voice rough, urgent. “Please.”

Bruce stared back at him for half a second—measuring him. And Steve realized how much he was asking. How much they were all asking.

Bruce gave a small, grim nod.

"Fine," he said flatly.

In one breath, Bruce kicked open the van door and hurled himself into the night.

A second later, the Hulk was there—racing alongside the van, massive fists pounding the earth into splintered craters, his silhouette monstrous in the flashing lights behind them.

“Brace yourselves!” Steve shouted, slamming the door shut behind him, voice cutting clean through the roar.

Clint scrambled back into the passenger seat, fumbling for a handhold, while Tony gripped the edge of the dinette’s bench, fingers locking down. Steve stood braced in the narrow cabin, one arm against the roof beam, body tense like a drawn bow.

The blockade loomed ahead—steel and concrete and fire.

No time left.

The Hulk let out a furious roar and slammed his hands against the rear of the van—not to throw it, but to lift it.

The entire frame groaned in protest as the Hulk heaved the van up and over his shoulders, cradling the metal carcass like a battering ram. Then, muscles bunching, legs coiling, he jumped—

Launching them into the air in a sickening, soaring arc. For a terrible heartbeat, the van flew.

Inside, everything became weightless. Loose cables whipped through the air, Tony slammed into the side of the table, Steve threw an arm out and caught him by instinct, steadying them both. Their bodies pressed together briefly, breath hitching as gravity seemed to vanish.

Gunfire rattled below them, but the bullets fell short, swallowed by distance and night.

The van tilted forward slightly—and then gravity returned with a vengeance.

The Hulk landed first, knees digging deep into the frozen ground, taking the full force of the impact onto himself with a teeth-rattling grunt.

The van slammed down across his broad shoulders, bending and warping but staying miraculously intact.

Steve stumbled, thrown hard into the cabin wall, the shield clattering to the floor. Tony lost his balance too, but Steve's hand clamped tighter around his arm, hauling him upright.

Outside, snow and mud exploded upward, trees shivering from the shockwave of Hulk’s landing.

With a final, exhausted growl, the Hulk staggered a few more steps and dropped the van roughly into a cluster of gnarled trees at the forest's edge.

They were through. Barely.

Inside the van, everything rattled and groaned. The steering wheel hung at a crooked angle. Sparks fizzled at the broken dashboard. Natasha cursed under her breath, prying her hands off the steering column.

With a last pathetic shudder, the van’s battery died, plunging them into darkness.

Only the sound of their heavy breathing, the faint creak of metal, and the echo of the Hulk’s deep, ragged roar filled the silence.

“Shit,” Natasha muttered, voice small in the sudden stillness.

Steve shoved open the mangled door, boots sinking into snow and debris.

“Barton! Go sing the lullaby!” he barked, already moving.

Clint nodded, grim and breathless, scrambling toward the looming figure of Hulk, whose growls were already softening under the familiar cadence of Clint's voice.

Inside the van, the rest of them peeled themselves free of the wreckage—bruised, battered, but alive.

They had made it.

In the distance, sirens began to scream. The Americans were coming—and fast.

“To the tunnels!” Natasha shouted, her backpack slamming against her shoulders as she sprinted forward.

They scattered into the trees, adrenaline still roaring in their veins. Clint and Nat led the way, darting ahead like bloodhounds on a trail. They’d found the tunnels days ago—an old, half-forgotten underground railroad system abandoned during the Blip, left off any updated maps, untouched by modern patrols.

According to Natasha, most people didn’t even remember they existed.

Branches whipped at their legs. Frosted leaves crunched under their boots. The sky overhead was starting to lighten—faint strokes of gray and violet slicing through the heavy dark.

They didn’t speak. Just ran.

Their breath misted in front of them, hot and fast, as they pushed deeper into the forest. Their shadows stretched and blurred across the snowy undergrowth, the ground growing rougher, heavier with every step.

Finally, tucked behind a collapsed ridge and half-swallowed by wild ivy, they found it: a rusted steel vault door, thick as a bank's, bolted into the earth like an afterthought.Ten inches of solid metal.

Tony didn’t hesitate.

He stumbled forward, panting, and planted his palm against the lock.

The gauntlet on his hand buzzed to life—energy spiraling outward in a controlled, concentrated burn.

The metal screamed under the heat before it buckled, and with a groaning screech, the door crumpled inward.

Steve caught Tony by the elbow—just briefly—as the blast pushed air back at them. His grip wasn’t rough. Just grounding. Making sure Tony didn’t overbalance, didn’t fall into the newly opened gap. Tony didn’t pull away .

They rushed inside, one by one, boots slamming down the old concrete stairs swallowed in black.

The last one through, Steve reached up and pulled the crumpled door shut behind them. He shoved his shield against it, bracing, as Tony dragged himself forward, arc reactor casting a low blue glow.

Without needing to be asked, Tony fired the laser again—welding the twisted metal back into something almost solid. Sealing them in.

The hiss of melted steel filled the dark like a breath being held.

Silence. Thick, heavy, absolute. No gunfire. No shouts. No pounding boots behind them.

Only the rush of blood in their ears, the harsh scrape of their own breathing, and the slow realization that—for now—they were safe.

“Damn,” Natasha whispered, breaking the silence, voice thin and a little disbelieving. “We actually did it.”.

Steve turned slowly, lowering the shield from the door with a heavy scrape of metal on stone.

The faint blue glow from Tony’s arc reactor cast long, broken shadows across the narrow tunnel walls—catching the sharp cut of Tony’s jaw, the tension still locked into the lines of his shoulders.

His armor was battered, his breathing uneven, but he was standing. Alive.

Steve’s eyes found him in the half-dark, and for a moment, neither of them looked away.

Tony glanced up—just a flicker, just a shift of his head—but the glance caught and held, threading between them like something solid.

The world around them slowed.

The adrenaline hadn’t burned off yet. It still thrummed under their skin, making every breath sharper, every heartbeat louder in the thick, stifling dark.

Steve realized he was still too close. Close enough that he could feel the lingering warmth radiating off Tony’s battered body, see the fine tremble in his fingers as the repulsor light flickered and dimmed.

Tony’s hand drifted lower—tentative, cautious. Steve felt the brush of Tony’s knuckles against his.

A small, deliberate touch. Barely anything. Steve felt it like a current slamming straight through his ribcage.

Tony’s fingers curled, slow and uncertain, until they were loosely wrapping around Steve’s hand—just the barest ghost of a grip, fragile as breath.

Steve's jaw locked, every muscle in his throat tightening against the surge of feeling that cracked him open from the inside out.

Tony’s voice was a whisper, so low Steve almost missed it:

“Thank you.”

Steve couldn’t speak. Couldn’t even summon the air to try. He just tightened his hand in return, steady and sure, anchoring them both.

And he nodded—once, rough and small—as if that could possibly be enough.

For now, it was.

The others rustled softly behind them—shifting gear, catching breath, murmuring low reassurances—but in the space between Steve and Tony, the world had narrowed to something private, something shattering and fragile and real.

The darkness pressed in around them. Neither of them let go.

"Steve."

The voice barely cut through the haze at first—low, clipped, edged with impatience.

"Steve."

Steve blinked, torn out of the gravity of Tony’s hand wrapped around his, the steady thrum of heat where their skin touched.

He turned his head reluctantly.

Natasha stood a few feet away, one hand planted on her hip, the other shining a flashlight beam farther down the pitch-black tunnel. Her eyes flicked between the two of them—sharp, knowing—but she didn’t comment.

"You’re taking point or what?" she asked, voice dry, but not unkind.

Tony’s fingers slipped from Steve’s hand as the words landed, slow and reluctant, like he didn’t really want to break the contact but knew he had to.

The cold rushed back in immediately, settling heavy between Steve’s ribs.

"Yeah," Steve said roughly, clearing his throat. "Yeah. Let’s move."

Tony stepped back first, his hand brushing down the edge of Steve’s arm as he turned—another brief, unspoken apology—or maybe a promise.

The moment unraveled between them, delicate as thread pulled too tight.

Steve hefted the shield back onto his arm, muscles moving on instinct, and took the lead. The others fell into line behind him—Tony, Clint, Bruce moving like ghosts through the crumbling tunnel.

Natasha brought up the rear, the flashlight's faint blue light casting long, shifting shadows along the cracked walls.

They moved forward in silence, boots crunching against old gravel, breath misting faintly in the cold, forgotten air.

The ground sloped downward. Deeper into the dark.

Steve could still feel it. The memory of Tony’s hand in his. The heat that hadn’t quite faded.

And he knew—without looking back—that Tony felt it too.

 

---

 

They walked for hours.

The tunnel seemed endless—pressing in around them, damp walls dripping steadily, the stale, metallic smell of old water heavy in the air.

Steve’s eyes strained against the dark, catching only what little the flashlight beams could reach: cracked pipes, graffiti faded by mold, rats scattering ahead like flickering shadows.

Tony moved steadily in front, head bent over the battered tablet.

The pale blue screen lit his face in sharp relief—half map, half pulsing red dot.

He barely looked up, navigating by instinct and stubborn focus. They were close now. Closer than they'd ever been.

When the dot finally stopped moving—just a few miles ahead—there was no celebration. No words. Only the shared, bone-deep understanding that they had to keep moving.

Exhaustion dragged at them.

Their boots scuffed heavily against the moss-slick concrete, the quiet splash of underground streams following them like a ghost.

The buzz of adrenaline from the night’s chaos had long since drained, leaving them brittle and aching.

The silence, broken only by footsteps and shallow breathing, was almost a mercy.

After the third hour, Steve quietly switched places with Nat at the back.

Clint, ever the opportunist, immediately attached himself to her side, muttering about spiders while she steered him toward every cobweb she could find.

“Cap, can we talk?” Bruce’s voice came low between footsteps, just for him.

Steve adjusted the weight of his backpack, his muscles stiff and slow, and let himself drift slightly back until they were walking side by side, a few paces behind the others.

The air felt heavier here. Colder. Like the walls were closing in, listening.

Bruce’s hands stayed shoved deep into his jacket pockets. His shoulders hunched against the damp chill.

“Look,” Bruce started, eyes locked on the uneven ground ahead, “I’m not gonna dance around it. Nat and I are worried.”

Steve frowned slightly, giving him a sidelong glance before setting his jaw.

“What for?”

Bruce didn’t answer right away.

Instead, his gaze flicked toward the group ahead—toward Tony, whose voice drifted back to them, sharp and tense as he argued with Natasha about which turn to take next.

Steve followed the look without meaning to.

“At some point,” Bruce said, voice tight but steady, “you need to stop compensating for Siberia with him.”

Steve’s breath caught. The words hit like a sudden drop in temperature.

He kept walking, forcing his stride to stay even, but the old weight cracked open in his chest—the heavy, sinking shame he never quite outran.

He didn’t let it touch his face.

“I don't know what you are referring to, Banner. That happened almost ten years ago.”

Bruce exhaled, a slow, steady sound in the damp tunnel.

“Exactly.”

Steve clenched his teeth so tightly his jaw ached.

The memory of frozen metal, of Tony’s blood against ice, of the shield slipping from numb fingers, rushed through him before he shoved it ruthlessly aside.

“If this is about the Hulk, I'm sorry, Bruce.” His voice dropped, a rough rumble scraping through the narrow space between them. “It was the best decision I could make at the time.”

Bruce hummed under his breath, the sound unreadable. He kept his eyes on the broken concrete, careful with his words.

“You made a lot of decisions today, Cap.” A beat. “Some of them appeared misguided.”

Steve inhaled deeply through his nose, fighting the prickling heat rising in his throat.

His gaze drifted again—unbidden—toward Tony.

The blue light of the tablet danced across Tony’s features, highlighting the faint shadows under his eyes, the tension etched deep into his frame.

Steve’s hand twitched at his side. He hated how much he wanted to reach out. How much he didn’t think he had the right.

“I appreciate your concern.” The words came out clipped, flat. “I will keep it in mind.”

Bruce nodded, accepting the dismissal without pushing.

“Thank you.”

The tunnel swallowed them again—their footsteps lost in the cold drip of unseen water, the hush of exhaustion clinging to their backs.

 

---

 

Mercy came in the fourth hour.

The red dot on Tony’s tablet nestled easy above them, just a few feet up a battered service ladder.

They were finally out of the core tunnels— the outskirts of the city now, past the border perimeter and the last line of security.

If the old maps were right, they'd surface in a forgotten residential zone, a scattering of lofts tucked between the mountains.

Tony exhaled sharply, breath misting out in shaky plumes of frost.

Steve stood beside him, close enough that their arms brushed in the tight space.

Steve caught his eye, offered a small, steady nod.

“Whenever you’re ready,” he whispered.

Tony swallowed, jaw flexing as he tucked the tablet back into his battered bag. No hesitation, no second-guessing. He grabbed the ladder and started to climb.

Steve followed immediately, flashlight beam jerking across the crumbling walls with each step.

The only sounds were the scrape of boots on rusted rungs and Tony’s soft grunts as he pulled himself up—higher and higher, toward whatever waited above.

At the top, they worked together, hands bumping, fingers fumbling as they unscrewed the old hatch.

Sunlight spilled through the cracks, slicing into the darkness for the first time in what felt like forever.

They both blinked hard, eyes struggling to adjust to the sudden burst of color, of life.

For a moment, a long, quiet moment they just breathed it in. The silence filling with something like awe. Something like gratitude.

Tony lifted his hand, pointing toward a battered structure just ahead.

"There," he said, voice rough.

A two-story country house, squatting at the edge of a clearing.

The place was a ruin: wood siding cracked and bowed under the weight of too many seasons; vines strangling the windows; the roof half-caved, tiles scattered like broken teeth across the overgrown yard.

Behind them, the rest of the team clambered up from the tunnel, shaking off the dirt and cold like dogs shaking water from their backs.

Steve rolled his shoulders, muscles stiff and aching, then adjusted his grip on the shield.

He moved first, stepping carefully toward the house, Tony falling into step beside him.

The front door creaked under Steve's careful push. The air inside was stale and sweet with rot. Every floorboard groaned under their weight.

Steve’s pulse hammered in his ears.

He could feel Tony’s breath, uneven and quick, brushing the sleeve of his jacket.

Without thinking, Steve reached sideways. his hand found Tony’s mechanical one.

Tony’s fingers curled instinctively around his. Steel. Solid. Somehow warm.

Steve let himself hold onto it, just for a second longer than necessary.

He pulled out his flashlight with his free hand, sweeping the beam slowly across the abandoned room. Peeling wallpaper, overturned chairs, spiderwebs trembling in the draft.

He swung the light toward the far corner—

And a blur of movement cracked the air.

Steve jerked back, shielding Tony instinctively, but it was too late.

A sharp, sticky thread whipped through the air, pinning Steve’s wrist clean to the wall with frightening precision. Webbing.

It took his brain half a second longer than it should have to register what that meant. He spun his head around, every muscle tensed to fight—

and froze.

There, crouched in the shadows, stood a boy. Skinny, shaking, draped in a threadbare hoodie. A mess of brown curls fell into wide, terrified eyes that looked far too young to be carrying so much grief.

Steve heard Tony’s breath catch sharply beside him.

The boy took a step forward, hand half-raised like he couldn't believe what he was seeing.

And with a voice that cracked straight through the dusty stillness, he whispered:

"Mr. Stark?"

Chapter 4: Vancouver II

PETER

 

Peter had been taught, from a young age, that every fall came with a lesson. Some were fair. Some were brutal. But every one of them came with something that made his heart a little stronger, his mind a little sharper.

Over the years, grief had taught him lessons too. Lessons that were unpredictable, relentless. He had learned how to live with absence, how to hold love even when it hurt. How to let the memories sharpen him instead of destroy him.

And sometimes, when the weight became too much, grief taught him how to guard himself a little better.

Tony Stark wasn’t supposed to be here. That much was undeniable. The deep, bone-deep ache he carried—etched into every breath these last two years—was proof enough.

The tears he shed, the days when he wandered like a ghost, the anger that sometimes rose in him like a tidal wave of resentment— all of it pointed to a single, undeniable truth:

Tony Stark was dead.

Peter had watched him fall. Watched him save the world, save all of them, with a snap of his fingers and a strength Peter still couldn’t comprehend. 

He had watched him leave in a blaze of glory, wrapped in a final act so devastatingly beautiful it broke the world apart and stitched it back together in the same breath.

Peter knew the facts.

He’d repeated them over and over, in therapy sessions, over quiet dinners with May, in long, stuttering conversations with Happy when the grief got too big to swallow.

He had fought with the guilt until it shaped itself into pride. He had learned to hold onto the simple honor of having stood at Tony’s side, even for just a moment.

He had learned to let go of that desperate flicker of hope, the stupid, stubborn piece of him that imagined Tony reappearing one day, with his crooked grin, his ridiculous sunglasses, and a plan outrageous enough to make everything okay again.

He had learned that once someone gave their last breath, there was no coming back. No loophole. No second miracle.

And yet when he saw him, standing there, solid and real and impossibly alive Peter moved.

Against every instinct. Against every warning flare screaming in the back of his mind. Against the weight of hard-earned knowledge. 

He launched himself forward.

A choked sound tore out of him, some broken mixture of a sob and a laugh, as he slammed into Tony’s chest with desperate, clumsy force.

“Oh God, Mr. Stark,” Peter gasped, the words catching against the thick, rising knot in his throat. 

His fingers fisted into Tony’s jacket, clinging like a lifeline, willing the tears to stop even as they burned at the edges of his vision.

Tony staggered under the sudden impact, arms caught halfway between surprise and instinct. Then, after the barest pause, he pulled Peter in tighter. Solid and warm and there.

Peter pressed his face harder against the fabric of Tony’s coat, breathing in the impossible reality of him. 

A body that should have been cold. A heartbeat that should have been silent.

"Kid, what are you doing here?" Tony’s voice was gentle but firm, threading concern through every syllable. "What’s wrong, are you hurt? You shouldn’t be here”

A shaky, helpless laugh escaped Peter’s mouth at the irony. He shook his head. 

He tried to pull himself together enough to answer, but Tony—ever the anxious man, ever the fixer—was already charging ahead.

"Where’s your suit?" Tony asked, stepping back just enough to pat Peter’s shoulders and sides, searching for the familiar blue and red under the hoodie.

Peter sniffed hard, forcing himself to stand a little taller, determined to hold on to whatever scraps of composure he still had.

"It’s in my backpack," he muttered, shifting the bag awkwardly over his shoulder. "I was just looking around and…"

And then... the vortex. The ripping, howling thing that had swallowed him whole. 

Tony wasn’t waiting for more explanations. He caught Peter’s wrists and tugged the sleeves of his hoodie up with brisk, searching movements.

"What happened to your web-shooters?" Tony demanded, turning Peter’s hand over, inspecting the devices with a scowl of disgust. "I sent you a new design last month. These are—" He flipped Peter’s arm slightly, frowning harder. "These are old. Outdated."

Peter gaped at him, mouth opening and closing without sound, like a fish floundering for air. The words scrambled in his brain, too fast and too slow at once.

Tony kept moving, relentless.

"And why are you wearing these ragged clothes?" he muttered, stepping around Peter now, inspecting, studying, the way he always did when he didn’t have enough information and didn’t like it. "I just bought you a new backpack. Did you lose it already?"

Peter froze under the weight of the words. They hit him like a sucker punch—sharp, breath-stealing, vivid. Echos of May, of the life he was starting to build with Tony climbed through his mind. 

"And why, in God’s name, are you here?!" Tony scolded, voice rising into a raw, almost panicked edge.

"Tony."

Cap’s voice cut through the room like a blade.

Peter flinched at the sound, his tunnel vision finally cracking. Until now, all he had been able to see was Tony; alive, impossible, burning so bright it drowned out everything else. Cap’s low, deep voice forced him to look up, forced him to see the rest of the room. His confusion deepened into something colder.

Standing across from him was not the old, frail Steve Rogers Peter had grown used to. The man who had worn history heavy in every step.

This man was broad and solid. His houlders stretching the fabric of his winter jacket, his beard trimmed neatly against the strong line of his jaw, his hair cut short. Vital. Sharp. Young.

It didn't make sense.

And behind him, another ghost. Half-cloaked by the shadows near the broken doorway, stood the impossible figure of Natasha Romanoff. Alive. Silent. Her sharp green eyes flickered between Peter and Tony, scanning the scene. A soldier assessing an unknown threat.

"He's not from here," Steve finished, his voice flat, like delivering a verdict.

Tony whipped his head around, frowning sharply, disbelief etched across his face.

"Of course he isn't, idiot. He's from Queens."

Steve didn’t answer. He just moved forward, slow and deliberate, every step radiating controlled power.

Peter felt the weight of his stare land squarely on him—heavy, cold, measuring.

"Kid," Steve said, voice dropping low, almost dangerous. "How did you get here?"

Peter swallowed hard. The sheer force behind the question pinned him in place, made the tiny hairs on his arms stand on end.

"I—I don't know," Peter stammered, trying to straighten his back, trying to meet Steve’s rigid stance with some scrap of his own.

It was useless. Steve towered over him like an immovable wall.

"Think," Steve ordered, voice roughening, the edge of a threat bleeding into the word.

He took a step closer. Peter stiffened.

He didn’t realize he had instinctively shifted back until Tony moved—swift, decisive.

"Back the fuck off, Rogers," Tony barked, stepping between them so fast Peter barely registered the movement.

Tony shoved Steve squarely in the chest, the sudden motion sharp enough to slice through the thick air between them. Peter flinched, half-expecting Steve to stand there, unmoved, solid as a mountain.

But there was a faint, mechanical whirr, something Peter barely registered before Steve actually staggered back a step.

For one stunned second, Peter could only stare.

Tony stood between them now, planted like a shield, chest rising and falling with furious, uneven breaths. The soft glow of the arc reactor pulsed steadily under his layers, casting a faint blue halo across the tension-wound space.

"You’re way out of line," Tony growled, eyes narrowed with something fierce, furious, and deeply protective.

Steve didn’t blink. His gaze stayed locked tight on Peter over Tony’s shoulder, cold and demanding.

"How did you get here?" Steve repeated, louder now, voice raised enough to echo against the crumbling walls. “Answer me!”

Peter flinched at the intensity— but it was nothing compared to the fury that lit up Tony's face.

"Don't you talk to him like that!" Tony snapped, scandalized, like the words themselves were a betrayal.

Peter felt the tension crackle between them, thick and electric. He had never seen them act together before. The last time he'd been in the same room with both of them was the day he lost Tony for good.

He knew their relationship was complicated. Fiery at the best of times. Explosive at the worst. 

Right now, it was teetering dangerously close to the edge.

Thinking fast, desperate to stop whatever was about to ignite between them, Peter yanked his backpack around and dug out his laptop with shaking hands.

"I was following this," he blurted, flipping open the lid and turning it toward them.

The screen lit up, bright against the gloom. A map of magnetic energy, pulsing and flickering with furious, impossible spikes. Chaotic lines twisted across the display, impossible numbers scrawling angry circles around the city’s layout.

Tony’s face went pale the second he saw it. The blood seemed to drain from him in an instant.

Bruce rushed forward, snatching the computer with both hands, eyes scanning the data furiously. His mouth dropped open, frozen somewhere between shock and horror.

"Pete, when did you record this?" Bruce asked, his voice tight, eyes flickering with faint hues of blue.

"About three weeks ago," Peter said, raking a hand through his hair.

He pointed at the screen, to a jagged, frozen frame where the magnetic spikes flared brightest.

"I was investigating this point—it’s where the readings were strongest. I got there, and then—" He broke off, the memory too tangled to explain cleanly. The pulling, the tearing, the disorienting twist through the air. "I got sucked into some sort of—"

"Portal," Tony finished for him, his voice low and unsteady.

The truth was dangling just out of reach—close enough to touch if he dared.

"Yeah," Peter nodded faintly, throat tight. 

Tony pulled out his phone without breaking eye contact. His fingers tapped the screen twice, fast and sure, then he brought it to his ear.

A moment later, a voice crackled through the speaker. Robotic, distant. Tony’s face froze. His eyes widened just slightly.

"Hey, Pete," he said, voice deceptively calm. "Where are you?"

The voice on the other end murmured something Peter couldn’t quite catch. Tony nodded once, slow, mechanical.

"Okay. Great. No, don’t come here. No, I just wanted to check in. Yes... yes, we’re okay.  Yes... I’m sure. Okay. Love you too, bye."

The words hit Peter like a fist. Love you too.

His breath caught hard in his chest. The world tilted, spun off its axis. His Spidey senses flared like a thousand needles scraping across his skin.

This wasn’t his world. This wasn’t his Tony.

Tony pocketed the phone and walked over to him— close, searching Peter’s face with wide, worried brown eyes.

"Stark, you know the protocol," Steve said behind him, stepping closer, voice tight. "He could be a Skrull."

Tony’s jaw clenched hard enough to crack steel. "You’re walking on thin ice, Cap."

"I’m just trying to look out for you," Steve shot back, tension simmering between the words.

Tony’s mouth flattened into a grim line.

Peter swallowed the lump in his throat, met Steve's accusing gaze without blinking. "I’m not a Skrull," he said, voice steady. 

It was time to face the music. The terrible truth. The undeniable fact that explained the unexplainable. 

"I'm from another timeline. Another universe."

The room went still.

Only Clint gasped out loud, blinking between the others, clearly baffled by their relative calm. Natasha just rolled her eyes at him.

"Peter," Bruce chimed in from behind his laptop, eyes still glued to the screen. "These models are incredible. Did your Tony help you set this up?"

The words stabbed deep, sharper than Peter was ready for. He swallowed again, voice cracking.

"N-no," he stammered, each syllable like broken glass in his throat. "No, he didn’t."

Tony frowned, confused. "Why not? What a jerk."

Peter let out a strained, aborted laugh.

"He..." He looked at Tony—at this Tony, alive and whole and warm—and felt the confession choke him.

"He was busy," Peter finished, voice barely above a whisper.

The silence that followed was thick, suffocating. Peter could feel the pity gathering in the room like a storm cloud. Luckily, no one pushed him.

"Wait, guys," Clint burst out suddenly, waving a hand. "Are we really just gonna accept that he's from another universe?"

Everyone groaned in unison.

“Barton, he's been studying the rifts, he got sucked into a portal, he’s wearing different gear, has a different haircut, and most importantly," Natasha said dryly, "he’s not the kid Tony just called"

She crossed her arms and leveled Clint with a stare. "Of course he’s from another universe."

Clint huffed, muttering under his breath as he turned away to pretend to inspect the broken window. Something about always being the only normal one among "a bunch of freaks."

"Okay, kid," Steve said with a rough exhale, stepping into the space between Peter and Tony.

Peter felt a hollow pang as Tony allowed it—no resistance, just a quiet step back like he trusted Steve to handle it.

“Start explaining. From the beginning ” 

Steve squared his stance, shield hooked loosely over one arm, gaze steady. Someone dragged a few battered crates into a rough, lopsided circle. Bruce crouched cross-legged near Peter’s laptop, frowning into the glow of the screen. Clint leaned against the peeling wall, arms crossed, scanning the exits like there might still be enemies hiding in the dust. Natasha stayed half in the shadows, always ready.

Tony didn’t sit. He paced, slow and restless, the faint mechanical hum of his arc reactor threading through the quiet like a second, more anxious heartbeat.

Peter perched on the edge of an overturned trunk, backpack clutched against his chest like armor. He started speaking before he was ready. The words tumbled out unevenly at first, then faster, steadier.

He told them about the rifts—how it had begun with strange things, almost laughable at first. Buildings that grew extra floors overnight. Streets that twisted into unfamiliar routes. People forgetting places they had walked every day of their lives. He had thought it was nothing—bad memory, construction mistakes, maybe some gas leak messing with the neighborhood’s heads.

But then the readings came. Cold, brutal numbers that didn’t lie. Magnetic fields spiking into impossible shapes. Distortions that didn’t belong to Earth—or any known reality.

Across the room, Steve shifted. The scuff of his boots against the battered floorboards drew Peter’s eye instinctively.

He caught the glance Steve threw toward Tony—sharp, assessing, not distrustful exactly but wary, like he was bracing for a fault line to crack open between them.

Tony didn’t meet his gaze. He kept pacing, but Peter noticed the slight hesitation in his step, the way his jaw clenched tighter for a breath before smoothing out again.

Peter pressed on, dragging his focus back to his story. He told them about the biggest spike—how it had appeared just south of Vancouver. How he’d gone alone to investigate, notebook and camera slung over one shoulder, feeling more like a scientist than a hero.

How he had seen it—an invisible ripple tearing through the world—and how it had yanked him sideways, off his feet, through a tunnel of light and noise and vertigo. He said he woke up here. Hours ago. Or minutes. Time felt broken, like everything else.

Tony had stopped moving by then.

He stood frozen near the broken window, one hand resting unconsciously over the arc reactor like it was a shield.

Steve stayed near the doorway, weight braced into his legs, watching Peter the way a soldier watches a minefield—ready, but reluctant.

Peter tightened his hold on the backpack, feeling like his chest was a drum being beaten too hard. He swallowed, the silence pressing on him from all sides. He felt like he was on trial.

"I’m not here to cause trouble," he said, softer now. "I’m just trying to figure this out. Same as you."

For a long moment, no one spoke.

Steve was looking at Peter—really looking. Something softening, something almost guilty in the set of his mouth.

"We believe you, kid" Steve said finally, voice a little rough.

Peter let out a breath. The tension eased—but not all the way. For a moment, the room seemed to breathe with him—slow, cautious, like it wasn’t sure if it was allowed to settle.

Tony's glance at Steve was sharp, fleeting, almost defensive, like he couldn’t decide whether he was grateful or bracing for the next blow.

Steve held the look without flinching, something unspoken passing between them, old and frayed at the edges.

Peter tucked his chin down against his backpack, pretending not to notice. He wasn’t sure what was more dangerous—whatever was happening outside, or whatever still lived, raw and unfinished, between the people he had just stumbled back into.

 

---

 

The silence broke first at the seams. After a few slow, wary minutes, the team eased—not toward Peter, but into motion. Bruce pulled him aside with a steady hand at his shoulder, murmuring that sleep deprivation and hunger made them sharper-edged than usual. Peter nodded, the words sinking into the hollow space in his chest.

Once they decided he wasn't a Skrull in disguise or a multiversal assassin, survival instincts took over.

Bruce and Natasha started hauling whatever furniture hadn’t rusted through into the center of the living area—wobbly chairs, a lumpy mattress, a crate that looked ready to splinter. Their boots scuffed the cracked floor as they worked, moving with the unspoken efficiency of people who’d built shelters before.

Clint attacked the piles of old supply boxes like a man on a mission, tearing the cardboard apart with quick, brutal jerks and slapping it over the windows with strips of duct tape. Each panel muted the light further, sealing them inside.

In twenty minutes, the space was unrecognizable—a low, breathing cavern of stale air, plywood scent, and the thick, metallic tang of humidity. 

That left Tony and Steve crouched by the duffel bags, pulling out cans like scavengers picking through a wreck. Peter hovered nearby, trying not to look too eager—or too grossed out.

Tony held up a can of Spam between two fingers, expression somewhere between disgust and resignation. Steve just laughed under his breath and dropped a dented can of beans onto the pile, then something that might have once been Campbell’s soup. It made a hollow clunk, like setting down a brick.

Peter watched, wary, as Tony dumped everything into an ancient pot. The food sloshed together into a bubbling, oily mess that smelled like hot metal and cafeteria floors. He caught a whiff of it and had to swallow down a gag.

"Couldn't you guys have just bought ramen noodles?" Peter muttered, eyeing the bubbling disaster as Steve handed him a bowl that looked like it had survived three separate wars.

Steve grinned, easy and a little mischievous, like they’d had this conversation a dozen times before. He bumped Tony’s arm lightly as he passed him another bowl.

"Tony picked the supplies last time. There were complaints," Steve said, voice low and warm, like he was sharing a private joke. "He overruled them."

Tony clicked his tongue in exaggerated annoyance, the sound sharp but familiar, like an old record crackling back to life. His metal fingers drummed a restless pattern against the side of the bowl before he jammed the ladle into the pot with a theatrical sigh.

"We’ve been over this," Tony groused, voice rich with the weight of an argument repeated a hundred times before. "I’d rather risk botulism than eat fluorescent noodles and powdered broth. At least this crap has protein."

Steve shook his head, still smiling as he bumped his shoulder lightly against Tony’s in silent agreement—or maybe just because he could.

Peter smiled, quick and stupid, warmth pooling in his chest before he could stop it. His eyes lingered on the gleaming metal fingers wrapped delicately around the ceramic bowl. The artificial digits moved with surprising grace, each joint whirring almost imperceptibly as they adjusted their grip.

Peter cleared his throat, his voice catching slightly. "Mr. Stark, can I ask you a question?"

Tony rolled his eyes, swallowing a mouthful of the garbage soup before fighting down a flick of disgust. The late afternoon sunlight, escaping through Clint's makeshift cardboard curtains, caught the flecks of gray at his temples. 

"Kid, you stopped calling me that a year ago." A hint of exasperation colored his tone, but the crinkles at the corners of his eyes betrayed his fondness. "Just Tony is fine."

Heat rushed to Peter's cheeks, coloring them a deep crimson. He dropped his gaze to his own untouched plate, suddenly fascinated by the swirls of sauce. 

"Why are you wearing the suit?" His voice was quiet but filled with genuine curiosity. "We're just eating."

Tony frowned, his brow furrowing as confusion flashed across his face. He exchanged a quick look with Steve, who sat cross-legged on a salvaged cushion nearby, a loose smile tugging at the edges of his lips.

Steve nodded at Tony's right arm, raising his eyebrows slightly. "I think he means that," he offered gently. 

Tony's eyes widened with recognition, his gaze dropping to his metallic limb. "Oh! Yeah." He flexed the gleaming fingers, the joints whirring softly. "Uhm, I lost my arm in the Snap. Replaced it with something better."

Peter's smile faltered, the corners of his mouth dropping as he swallowed hard. His shoulders tensed visibly beneath his worn hoodie. He pushed through the ache, blinking rapidly, trying not to let the grief show on his face.

"Oh, I'm sorry."

Tony shrugged, spinning the spoon in his half-full bowl, the dull scrape of metal against ceramic filling the momentary silence. Peter suspected he was just procrastinating eating the haunted concoction.

"Meh, it could've been worse," Tony said casually. Maybe too casually, his fingers drumming an anxious rhythm against the broken wooden floor. He glanced up, eyes suddenly sharp with curiosity. "Why? Did my counterpart manage to somehow conserve the arm?"

Peter's jaw tightened, muscles working beneath his skin. He stared down at his food, consciously trying to relax his shoulders that had gone rigid at the question. The weight of unspoken loss hung in the air between them.

"Uhm, yeah," he muttered, voice barely audible over the distant sound of wind rattling the abandoned house's loose shutters. He shoved a spoonful to his mouth without thinking, an automatic motion to fill the uncomfortable pause. A second later, his tongue protested violently at the assault of flavors. "God, this is awful." he choked out.

Steve laughed then, big-hearted and free, the sound bouncing off the walls and cutting through the tension like sunlight through storm clouds. His eyes shone with genuine mirth, looking at Tony between closed eyelashes, the fondness unmistakable. He leaned over and patted Tony's shoulder playfully, his broad hand lingering for a moment longer than necessary.

"Maybe the other Tony knows how to cook with the spare arm," he mocked, nudging Tony's side with a familiar ease that spoke of something Peter wasn't prepared to name. 

Tony pressed his lips together, strongly trying to contain his smile, but the crinkles around his eyes and the soft flush across his cheeks betrayed him. The shine in his eyes matched Steve's, something private and warm passing between them.

"I'll poison the next one," Tony threatened without heat, his metallic fingers intertwining briefly with Steve's retreating hand. "Let's see if you like it better then."

Peter shrugged, not missing a beat. "I'm sure it'll be an improvement."

Steve's laugh started again, louder this time, infectious in its sincerity. It caught the attention of the others scattered throughout the abandoned house, who drifted toward their little circle like moths to a flame. Soon they were all huddled on the creaking floorboards, a chorus of creative insults aimed at Tony's culinary disaster. Natasha declared it "biological warfare," while Clint dramatically clutched his throat and pretended to collapse. Bruce quietly suggested that even the Hulk wouldn't touch it.

Tony looked utterly defeated, flopping onto his side with a theatrical groan, his metal arm gleaming in the fading light. "You're all ungrateful heathens," he murmured into the worn floorboards, waving his hand dismissively. "Just wait. You'll all wake up with microchips in your brains. Then we'll see who's laughing."

Somehow, miraculously, the tension from earlier vanished like morning mist. The food was forgotten, replaced by increasingly ridiculous stories and hushed laughter that felt dangerously normal in their abnormal world. As darkness fell completely, they settled down to sleep in their makeshift beds—blankets spread across the floor, bundles of clothes serving as pillows. Peace reigned in the quiet house, broken only by occasional mumbles about minor logistical things—who had next watch, where they'd find more water tomorrow.

They'd talk about next steps in the morning. Now, they just needed rest.

Peter drifted off, too tired to tell dreams from reality. Shadows shifted lazily across the walls, turning into half-familiar shapes. In the corner of his eye, he thought he caught a glimpse—Steve’s hand resting around Tony’s, their fingers loosely tangled together like it was the most natural thing in the world. Peter almost smiled at how ridiculous it was. 

 

---

 

The morning broke quiet over the mountain ridge, filtered through a veil of fog that clung to the trees like breath on glass. The cold had dulled slightly, but the air still bit at the lungs when inhaled too fast. From the broken windows of the loft, the city below shimmered faintly under cloudlight—distant, orderly, unaware.

In the stillness that followed the last bowl of instant oatmeal and a pot of something that might’ve passed for coffee, the team divided tasks. Natasha laid out the plan with quiet efficiency, the edge in her voice softened by exhaustion. Clint had gone out at dawn and returned grinning, having liberated a dusty white fumigation van from behind a crumbling service station. It sputtered up the hill like a dying animal, but Tony nodded his approval with a faint “she’s got character,” and no one argued.

Bruce and Peter had been chosen to scout—selected not for skill, but for anonymity. The two least likely to be recognized by a suspicious civilian or a government drone.

They dressed quietly, layered jackets and scarves, more for the disguise than the weather. Peter had found a red knit cap in one of the scattered boxes and tugged it low over his curls. Bruce carried a list of essentials: batteries, non-perishables, medical supplies, anything that could pass as ordinary.

Peter felt a kind of nervous energy buzz under his skin—not quite fear, not quite excitement. Just the feeling of movement again. Of purpose. Bruce noticed, of course. He always did. The scientist bumped his shoulder gently against Peter’s as they stepped outside, a wordless reassurance.

The path down the mountain was slow, half-covered in frost and old pine needles. Mist curled around their ankles. Neither of them spoke for a while. There was no need.

From up here, the city looked serene. Beautiful, even. But Peter’s stomach coiled tight with something unspoken. Like a song playing in the wrong key. Like a painting hung just a little crooked.

He didn’t say anything. Not yet.

They reached the edge of the city just before noon.

It unfolded below them like a postcard—rows of pale storefronts, quiet sidewalks, mountain haze still hanging over the rooftops. Bellingham, Washington. A small city with clean grids and well-kept signage, nestled neatly between forest and sea. Peter had never been, not really—just glanced through historical profiles in class, studied its transport routes the night before jumping through a rip in reality.

But standing there now, staring down at the first streets curling into the urban sprawl, something felt... off.

Not wrong, exactly. Just tilted.

The flags on the light posts were a shade too saturated. The fonts on the welcome banners didn’t match the ones from his research. The bus stop ads were written in a slogan-heavy style that didn’t exist back home.

Bruce said nothing, just adjusted his scarf and started walking. Peter followed, heart thudding too loud for the soft, sleepy air around them.

It was a quiet city. Too quiet for a Saturday. Like someone had cleaned it up for a show, and forgotten to invite the audience.

And as they passed the first cafe, where a young couple laughed too softly over coffee that steamed too perfectly, Peter felt it again.

Like he had stepped into someone else's memory of this place. Not the real thing. Just a cleaner version, missing its cracks.

“Dr. Banner?” Peter’s voice cut gently through the stillness. 

They crossed the sloping sidewalk toward a small, unassuming dispensary tucked between a laundromat and a shuttered bakery. His hands were stuffed deep in his jacket pockets, the morning chill lingering on his knuckles. “What happened after the Blip? I mean... how did you guys deal with it? All of it?”

Bruce slowed a little, letting the question settle before answering. He glanced at Peter, then out toward the pale city street, where everything looked too clean for how messy the world had really been.

“It was hard,” he said finally, voice low. “Really hard, at first. People came back to homes that weren’t theirs anymore. Jobs gone. Families that had changed or moved on. Whole governments collapsed overnight. Some countries had presidents who no longer had a constituency. CEOs returned to companies that didn’t exist.”

He let out a short, wry laugh, not bitter—just tired. “It was chaos. You had half the world celebrating, and the other half looking around wondering how they’d just lost everything again.”

Peter nodded slowly, gaze drifting down the quiet street. Back home, his close circle had all been Blipped together—him, Ned, MJ, May. The return had been jarring, yes, but at least they’d had each other. At least they’d been disoriented side by side.

“Yeah,” he murmured, voice low with memory. “Same in my world.”

He didn’t say how bad the first few weeks were—how the world buckled under the weight of reappearing people, how the headlines had screamed about border collapses, displaced populations, international panic. How some governments had fallen twice, once from loss, then again from sudden return.

But Bruce nodded, like he heard it anyway.

“We pushed through,” he said gently. “Here… Tony and Steve led the charge. They oversaw this massive global response—relief programs, housing reform, food redistribution. They got world leaders to agree on laws that should’ve taken a decade to pass.”

Peter blinked at that, a little surprised.

Bruce chuckled, the sound tinged with quiet awe. “I was floored. I mean, it was Tony and Steve. If you’d told me back during Sokovia they’d become the world’s best crisis diplomats, I’d have laughed in your face.”

There was real warmth in his voice now. Not nostalgia, but respect. Admiration.

“It’s not perfect,” Bruce added. “Still a lot of fallout, a lot of pain. But for once… it feels like everyone’s at least trying. Like we’re all facing the same direction.”

“They seem… closer now,” Peter said, voice tentative. He hesitated just long enough for the weight behind the words to become obvious. It wasn’t casual curiosity—it was something deeper, something he’d been turning over in his head since the moment he saw them together.

Bruce glanced at him, a soft, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

“Oh, you caught that too, huh?” His tone was light, but not dismissive—more fond than amused. “Yeah, they’re getting along. Took them long enough. I think they realized the world wasn’t going to heal if they kept blowing each other up every time they were in the same room.”

Peter nodded, shoving his hands into his pockets. Memories of Berlin flickered in—snagging Cap’s shield, trading punches with Bucky and Sam, watching Ant-Man go giant for the first time. He’d known the fight meant something big, even then—but he never could’ve guessed just how deep the cracks would run afterward.

“So are they friends now?” The words slipped out too quickly. They sounded too hopeful, too young. But he couldn’t help it. He needed to believe they could be okay again—together.

“Of course they’re friends,” Bruce said, voice quieter now. “Even when they were at their worst—when it hurt the most—they still had each other’s backs. That never changed.”

He paused, letting the words settle between them like dust.

“And whatever else is between them…” Bruce shrugged, but it was measured. “It’s complicated. They’re too similar in all the wrong ways, too different in all the right ones. That’s what drives them crazy. But I guess it's also what makes them so…” He paused, a crooked grin forming. “...addicted to each other.” 

Peter smiled faintly. That sounded about right.

“They do kind of orbit each other,” Bruce added, more to himself now. “It’s messy. But it works.”

“For now” Peter chipped in, the joke cautious. 

Bruce snorted, shaking his head. “For now,” he agreed, smirking.

Ahead, the small dispensary came into view—nothing flashy, just a plain storefront tucked between overgrown hedges and an old wooden sign faded by time.

Bruce slowed, glancing over his shoulder at Peter. His voice came softly, careful not to break the moment. “What about you, Pete?” he asked. “How did your world cope?”

Peter swallowed hard. His mouth opened, but the words caught like static in his throat. The pain was still there—tight, sharp, undiminished.

“Uhm,” he muttered, forcing the words through. “Something similar. A lot of chaos.”

Bruce didn’t press. He just gave him a long, quiet look, and something shifted behind his eyes. Something sad. Understanding. Older than either of them.

"Peter, you don’t have to answer if you’re not ready,” Bruce said softly. “But... he’s not around anymore, is he?”

Peter blinked hard. His chest tightened with the kind of hurt that didn’t fade, no matter how much time passed or how many times he pretended it did. He shook his head slowly, unable to look up.

“No,” he said, and the word cracked as it left him. “He isn’t.”

It landed between them like a dropped stone.

Bruce stepped closer, no hesitation in the motion, and wrapped an arm around Peter’s shoulders. His warmth was steady, grounding. He wasn’t as tall as Steve, not as imposing as Tony—but the comfort was real. Solid. Familiar in its own way.

“I’m sorry,” Bruce whispered, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “That must be really hard.”

Peter nodded, throat too tight to answer right away. He bit down on the wave rising in his chest, forced it back. His eyes burned, but the tears stayed in place—for now.

“It is,” he finally said, voice small and raw.

Bruce didn’t respond. He just stayed beside him, steady and quiet, letting the silence settle without needing to fix it.

Peter didn’t feel judged. Just... understood. Like someone had made space for the weight he was carrying without asking him to put it down.

They stood there for a while, the soft hum of the city muffled by distance, by the hush of the street. The wind shifted, lifting the edge of Peter’s hoodie. He pulled it tighter around him.

The dispensary sat quietly in front of them—modest, forgettable. Just a door and a sign and a hundred things waiting on the other side.

Bruce didn’t push. He waited.

Peter took one last breath, shaky but deeper than the ones before. Then he nodded and stepped toward the door.

And Bruce followed.

 

---

 

They made it back around sunset, the sky stretched wide with bruised shades of pink and gold.

Between the two of them, they hauled enough supplies—food, bandages, bottled water, and a suspicious amount of junk snacks—to last at least a week.

Bruce had tried to carry most of it, but in a rare (and slightly show-offy) moment, Peter ended up lugging nearly everything uphill. When Bruce slowed down to catch his breath, Peter even jogged backward for a few steps, grinning over his shoulder just to rub it in.

The old loft came into view, weather-beaten but still standing stubborn against the cold wind.

Parked outside, the stolen fumigation van leaned crookedly into the dirt, a few more supply bags stacked around it like half-forgotten luggage.

Near the doorway, Clint and Natasha were busy—going over gear, checking weapons, murmuring back and forth with the kind of easy shorthand that came from too many years of surviving together.

Inside, the air hummed with a low tension.

The anomalies were getting worse. According to the last scans, the biggest spikes were gathering right in the heart of the city—a storm building just out of sight.

“Hey, kid,” Clint called out when they got closer, tossing a lazy salute. “Need a hand with all that?”

Peter shook his head, nearly disappearing behind the ridiculous mountain of bags he was balancing.

His sneakers crunched over the gravel as he trudged the last few feet.

“Jeez, Banner,” Natasha said without looking up from the notepad she was scribbling on, “you could’ve at least carried one.”

Bruce lifted his hands in a half-hearted defense, a sheepish smile tugging at his mouth. “Hey, he insisted. I’m just respecting youthful determination.”

Peter huffed a breathless laugh and dumped the bags onto the growing pile near the backpacks and survival gear Clint and Nat had been organizing.

The load hit the ground with a satisfying thud, kicking up a small cloud of dust.

Peter dug through one of the bags and pulled out a bright, glossy comic book—its colors almost too vivid in the gray light. The title screamed across the top in bold letters: "Earth’s Mightiest Heroes."

The cover showed the six classic Avengers, mid-battle pose, looking way too perfect to be real. It looked brand new—printed maybe a few weeks ago at most.

“Look what we found!” Peter said, holding it up proudly, his grin breaking through his nerves. “We don't have this one back home.”

Clint gave a low whistle, eyebrows shooting up as he snagged the comic from Peter’s hands.

“Damn! They made me hot as hell. Can I open it?”

Peter flushed, the back of his neck going warm.

“Uhm...”

He didn’t know how to explain it without sounding stupid.

Luckily, Bruce stepped in, voice easy and kind.

“He wanted to wait and open it with Tony,” he said, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Peter shot him a quick, grateful glance. It was silly, he knew—but he’d wanted to share that moment with just Tony.

“But we, uh… brought you these,” Peter said, like he was making an offering. From the pockets of his jacket, he pulled out two golden-wrapped sweets. “Dr. Banner said you guys loved them.”

Clint’s eyes lit up the second he spotted the foil. Even Natasha, cool as ever, leaned in with interest.

“You found Ferreros?” Clint asked, practically gleeful.

He snatched one, unwrapped it in record time, and popped it into his mouth like it was the last good thing on Earth. His groan of satisfaction made Peter smile.

Natasha, more composed, turned hers over slowly, examining the wrapping with the scrutiny of someone disarming a bomb.

“They changed the branding,” she murmured, brow furrowed. “I don’t remember this font.”

Bruce gave a casual shrug. “Yeah. That, and the company name’s different now, too. Thought it was odd.”

Natasha didn’t answer, but her gaze stayed fixed on the foil, as if trying to piece together a puzzle no one else had noticed yet.

Peter gently nudged Clint’s arm.

“Can I?” he asked, holding out his palm.

Clint paused just a second—just long enough to make Peter wonder—then handed the comic back with a grin and an exaggerated wink.

Peter cradled it carefully, the glossy cover warm from Clint’s hands.

“Oh! I also found this!” he remembered suddenly, laughter bubbling up as he bent over another bag. After a few seconds of rummaging, he pulled out a crooked little figurine—clearly meant to be Thor, though the resemblance was… generous. The paint was chipped, the proportions were all wrong, and the hammer drooped like it had given up halfway through battle.

“It’s Thor,” Peter said proudly. “God of Thunder!”

Clint howled, grabbing the figurine and twirling it through his fingers like it was pure gold.

“Holy hell,” he laughed. “They gave him noodle arms. This is a war crime.”

Nat leaned over his shoulder, smirking with mild horror.

“That’s not Thor. That’s a tax accountant with a hammer.”

Peter grinned, warmth blooming in his chest. He turned toward the house, heart light, just as Clint made a dramatic swoosh sound and teased the figurine for having tragically short hair.

But before he could reach the porch, Natasha’s voice caught him—low, careful.

“Peter. Wait.”

He turned, brows raised.

She was watching him steadily, arms folded, her tone gentle but unshakable.

“Just give them a minute, will you?” she said. “They’ll be out soon.”

Peter frowned, just slightly. His fingers tightened around the comic book, the glossy cover creasing under his grip. He nodded, stiff and small, the motion more reflex than response.

Bruce gave his shoulder a soft pat as he passed, then settled beside him on the porch without a word.

The quiet stretched for a beat before Peter pushed himself up and joined Clint and Nat at the van. He helped sort through the supplies, doing his best to stay focused as they unloaded bags, took inventory, and stashed everything into organized piles. Cans were tucked into backpacks, medical supplies arranged into a makeshift kit. They mended two sleeping bags with duct tape and determination, the silence between tasks filled only by the sound of rustling fabric and the occasional muttered joke from Clint.

About half an hour later, the loft door creaked open behind them.

Steve stepped out into the fading light, movements too measured, too careful—like someone trying not to make a sound on broken glass. His face was composed, but only barely. His eyes were red-rimmed, lashes still damp. There was a faint flush across his cheekbones. His hair was mussed at the sides, like he’d dragged his hands through it too many times. And when the wind caught his coat, it showed the slow, deliberate way his chest rose and fell—like every breath was something he had to work for.

He blinked once, twice. His gaze caught the group around the van, and something in his posture faltered—just a hitch, a moment of pause.

Then, with a practiced swipe of his thumb under one eye, he tried to erase the moment. His expression settled into a rough imitation of a smile, stiff around the edges, a little too bright.

“Bruce, Pete,” he said, voice pitched to sound casual, but landing just short of steady. “How’d it go?”

He sniffed once, quiet and sharp. “You get everything?”

Bruce nodded, offering a quiet, steady smile. “Yeah, Cap. We’re good to go.”

Steve returned the nod, exhaling slowly like he was trying to physically force the tension out of his chest. His shoulders rolled back a little, but his breathing still had that uneven hitch underneath.

“Yes, just—uhm—Tony will be out in a second,” he said, the words rushed and a little too high for his usual calm tone. His hand drifted to the doorframe unconsciously, grounding himself. “He, uhm... had to tighten a few bolts.”

The excuse hung awkwardly in the air.

Bruce gave a soft hum of understanding, choosing not to press. Instead, he turned to the others and gave a small wave, a silent signal to start loading up.

Clint slung a bag over his shoulder with a grunt and headed for the driver’s seat, tossing a set of keys from hand to hand. Natasha followed close behind, her eyes flicking once to Steve—reading him, maybe—but saying nothing.

Peter hesitated for just a second longer, then quietly tucked the comic deeper under his jacket and followed them to the van.

Peter climbed into the back of the van, settling into a spot across from Steve. The fumigation van was cramped and patched together, with only one real seat bolted behind the driver’s cabin—Natasha had claimed it immediately, flashing a smirk as she dropped into it like a throne.

A few minutes later, the side door rattled open, and Tony swung himself up into the van, tossing his battered backpack into a heap without ceremony. He didn’t say a word. Just slid onto the bench seat beside Steve—close enough that Peter could feel the air shift between them, but not quite close enough to touch.

The silence stretched, heavy but not hostile.

Natasha lingered for a moment, as if giving Tony space to say something, anything. When it didn’t come, she rapped her knuckles lightly against the partition wall and called back, “Alright, we’re good to go!”

The van jolted into motion, gears grinding with a mechanical groan.

Peter kept his head down, fiddling absently with the comic book in his lap. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Tony—arms crossed, jaw tight, gaze fixed with grim determination on one of the faded fumigation posters peeling off the wall. Steve sat rigid beside him, hands resting loosely on his knees, muscles wound tight under the pretense of calm.

They weren’t touching. But they weren’t apart, either.

Still orbiting.

The van shuddered as it rumbled down the uneven mountain road, its frame groaning like it was protesting every turn. The interior smelled faintly of motor oil and lemon-scented bug spray, the fumigation logo on the outside peeling just enough to make the whole thing feel like a joke.

Peter sat cross-legged near the back doors, his backpack resting against his knees. The comic was in his hands again—creased now, corners curled slightly. 

He cleared his throat, trying to sound casual. “Uhm… Tony?” he asked, the name still feeling a little unfamiliar in his mouth. “I found this and I thought maybe you’d want to check it out?”

Peter held up the unopened comic, hands tentative, and watched with quiet relief as Tony’s scowl eased—melted, even—into something gentler. A flicker of real warmth touched his face.

“Of course, kid,” Tony said, voice softer than Peter expected. He shifted slightly, edging away from Steve just enough to pat the narrow cushion between them. “Come on. We’ll read it together.”

Peter moved without hesitation, sliding into the sliver of space. It was cramped, his knee pressed lightly to Tony’s, his shoulder brushing Steve’s arm—but no one adjusted, no one pulled away.

Peter tore the packaging open with barely restrained excitement. The cover gleamed in the dim van light—stylized, bold lines capturing the six original Avengers mid-battle: Hulk, Black Widow, Thor, Hawkeye, Captain America, and Iron Man. All together. All united. A proper team.

They flipped through the pages eagerly, heads close, the comic stretched across their laps like a shared treasure. Tony let out a low, delighted laugh as he skimmed the panels, tossing off amused quips about the character designs and cheesy dialogue.

“Look, Rogers,” Tony said, tapping a speech bubble with mock outrage, “they actually gave you my sense of humor. That’s slander.”

Steve leaned in, squinting at the line. His mouth twitched. “Please. At least they didn’t draw me like a Renaissance beggar. Look at Barton’s pants.”

Tony chuckled again, the sound deep and warm, and Peter felt it echo through his shoulder where it leaned against him. He smiled without meaning to, caught in the easy rhythm of their banter.

They kept reading, shoulders pressed just enough to notice, legs brushing now and then with the van’s every rattle. The comic was ridiculous in the best way—big splash pages, dramatic poses, dialogue thick with bravado. A version of themselves too exaggerated to take seriously, and yet, strangely familiar.

Steve tossed out the occasional dry remark, aimed with surgical precision at Tony’s ego. Tony fired back with playful scorn, his voice warm and edged, like every comeback was a challenge thrown across a familiar battlefield. But some of the comments lingered a little longer, came a little softer, said more than they should’ve. A touch too sincere. A glance too direct.

Peter shifted where he sat between them, cheeks warm. The way they sparred—quiet, knowing, flirtation dressed in sarcasm—made him feel like he was eavesdropping on something not entirely meant for him. He buried his focus in the comic, trying not to blush too obviously.

Then Tony turned a page and paused, one hand resting on the spine, the other still warm against Peter’s side.

“Huh. That’s weird,” Tony muttered, pausing a third of the way through the comic. His fingers tapped lightly against the panel. “This suit… I designed this for you.”

Steve leaned in, brows furrowing as he studied the image. The suit was a variation of his classic blue-and-white—more streamlined, the star at the chest edged in gold, catching the light even in ink. It was elegant. Sharper. It had a distinct Stark feeling to it.

“I don’t recall that one,” Steve said, brow still furrowed.

Tony’s voice dropped, almost thoughtful. “You wouldn’t. I never got to give it to you.” A beat. His throat worked around the words. “I finished it just before Germany.”

Peter, wedged between them, didn’t move—didn’t dare. He could feel the shift in the air, the way Steve stilled.

Steve turned, surprise flickering in his eyes. “Then how… how would anyone know about it? Are you sure it’s not just coincidence?”

Tony didn’t answer at first. His gaze stayed fixed on the page, hand resting still against the edge.

“I remember it,” he said at last, voice quiet and firm. “Every line, every plate. I—I revisited it a few times. After you…” he trailed off, his shoulders hitching with a shallow breath, “after you left.”

Peter’s fingers tightened slightly on the edge of the comic, heart thudding.

Steve swallowed, but before he could say anything else, his head snapped up.

“Peter,” he said, sharp now, eyes narrowing slightly. “Where did you find this?”

“It was just a normal dispensary in the city,” Peter said quickly, flipping the comic over in his hands. “They had a whole shelf of them. This one’s from last month, I think—but the series has been running for a while.”

Tony took the book from him, turning it over, eyes narrowing. His thumb brushed the barcode, then the fine print near the bottom. His frown deepened.

 “Why would anyone draw this lineup?” he murmured, more to himself than to Peter. “The Avengers haven’t looked like this since 2016.”

Peter watched him tap the comic once, fingers lingering like the paper might offer answers. His expression had shifted—no longer amused or even confused, but something heavier, distant.

The van rolled to a slow stop, the tires crunching over gravel. From the front seat, Bruce’s voice cut through the quiet, laced with something more than surprise—something like disbelief.

“Uh… guys? You maybe wanna see this.”

Peter barely had time to exchange a glance with Tony before they all scrambled toward the front, pressing close to the windshield. The van’s engine ticked as it cooled, the only sound inside the sudden silence.

There was the statue.

Massive. Gleaming under the bruised sky. Six towering figures frozen mid-battle, all unmistakable in form: Thor, hammer raised high. Natasha, sleek and coiled. Clint aiming a perfect arrow. Bruce—not Professor Hulk, but Bruce—mid-transformation. Steve, shield aloft. And Tony, arm extended, repulsor blazing.

At their feet, half-buried in rubble, was a sculpted corpse—Thanos, stone-faced and defeated.

Peter’s breath caught in his throat.

Below the scene, carved into the pedestal in bold, triumphant letters:

 

LONG LIVE THE AVENGERS.

PROTECTORS OF THE REALM.

FALL OF THANOS - 2019

 

 

Notes:

:D

Chapter 5: Strangerville

TONY

 

Tony bolted from the van, the door still swinging as he hit the pavement.

Voices called after him—muffled protests from the others—but the sound was drowned beneath the chaos of city noise: brakes shrieking, engines humming, a distant car horn blaring. None of it touched him.

He stopped at the base of the monument, breath sharp in his chest, and stared.

The inscription was clean, deliberate—mocking.

FALL OF THANOS — 2019

His eyes flicked over the words, disbelieving. It wasn’t just wrong. It was impossible.

Thanos didn’t fall in 2019. That year, the Titan won. Half the world had turned to ash. They hadn’t reversed it until five years later—2024—after grief, after loss, after everything.

How could they have gotten it so wrong?

He reached out on instinct, pressing his fingertips to the smooth edge of the white marble, half-expecting it to vanish under his touch—to glitch or blur or crack, to reveal the lie.

But the stone held fast. Cold. Solid. Real.

“How is this even possible?” Bruce asked behind him, his voice low and shaken.

The others gathered slowly around the monument, forming a silent perimeter of disbelief. Footsteps shuffled on concrete, clothes rustled in the breeze. No one spoke.

Except Peter.

He moved on instinct, already dropping his backpack and yanking out his laptop. Fingers flew over the keys, the screen casting a blue glow on his focused face.

“Mr. Stark,” he called, voice taut with urgency. “What’s your scanner picking up? What’s the joule signature?”

Tony blinked, caught between memories. The question hung there, unanswered, too long.

Steve stepped closer and nudged him gently, hand brushing his shoulder. The silent hey, we need you now was louder than anything.

Tony inhaled sharply, blinked again, and raised his mechanical arm. The scanner bloomed open, casting a flickering blue light across the marble.

The data streamed across his wrist screen, numbers and symbols flashing in rhythmic pulses.

“It’s off the charts,” Tony said quietly, eyes locked on the flickering numbers. “It’s like… there’s some kind of—”

“Rupture,” Peter finished, stepping up beside him. His voice was low, certain. Like he’d already suspected it. Like he’d already felt it.

The silence that followed settled over them like fog—thick, uneasy. A collective breath held tight in their chests.

Then Clint, ever the blunt instrument, shattered it.

“Wait—did we just, like, step into another universe?” he asked, throwing both arms in the air. 

Tony’s jaw locked. The weight of the moment pressed against his spine like a vice. He didn’t want to say it—saying it made it real—but the data didn’t lie. Nothing else made sense.

“Yeah,” he muttered, voice low. “Looks like it.”

He didn’t have to look to know Steve had gone still beside him, but he glanced anyway—just long enough to catch the Captain’s gaze locked on the statue. Steve’s face was unreadable, but his eyes… they were fixed, wide, disbelieving. 

There it was, carved in stone: that suit. The one Tony had built, quietly, obsessively, never delivered.

The one that had sat in a vault collecting dust while they tore the world apart.

Peter’s voice broke through the weight of it all, tentative and weirdly bright. “Hey… welcome to the club.”

Tony turned to him. The kid’s grin was cautious, testing the water with shaky humor. Something about it tugged at Tony’s ribs.

A huff escaped him—half a laugh, half surrender. “Right,” he said, shaking his head. “Multiverse club. Should’ve brought jackets.”

Beside him, Steve was still staring at the statue. Still seeing something Tony couldn’t.

Tony didn’t touch him. But God, he almost did.

The conversation that followed blurred into a fog of overlapping voices and unfinished thoughts. Words like “timeline,” “parallel,” and “anchor points” floated in and out of Tony’s focus, but the sharp thrum in his temples dulled most of it. Peter was pacing, talking fast. Bruce had his hands shoved into his pockets, brow furrowed. Natasha was quiet, always scanning. Clint kept swearing softly under his breath, like the profanity might stitch logic into the impossible.

Tony barely heard himself when he finally said, “We need to know what this place thinks happened.”

That was the line that cut through the rest.

Plans came together in stilted agreement. They didn’t have much gear. They didn’t have allies. But they had each other, and for now, that had to be enough.

They split the tasks quickly.

Bruce and Natasha would try the official route—whatever passed for local government or security. Natasha said she had a few names from old SHIELD databases. Bruce just nodded and rubbed the bridge of his nose like he already regretted it.

Peter and Clint would move through the city in wider circles, ask questions, blend in. Peter had the baby face and charm; Clint had the snark and a knife in every boot. That pairing was either genius or reckless. Tony didn’t want to think too hard about which.

And that left him and Steve.

The day before had ended in a slow, sharp unraveling—words hurled not like weapons, but like truths too raw to swallow. Tony had accused Steve of crossing a line, of treating Peter like a threat instead of a scared kid far from home. Steve, in turn, demanded Tony admit he’d let his guard down, let emotion cloud judgment. That he’d risked too much, too fast.

It didn’t explode the way it once might have. No shouting, no breaking things. Just a quiet burn. A cold kind of hurt. The kind that left them sitting too still, speaking through clenched teeth and careful silences. No one stormed out. But no one stayed close, either.

Tony was tired—tired in the kind of way that sank into his bones, that made the effort of holding himself together feel like armor he’d never be free from. And with Steve, it was always like this: one step toward honesty, another toward a cliff’s edge. He wanted to lower his defenses, to let things breathe. But if he did… if he opened that door all the way… he wasn’t sure what would be left of him if Steve didn’t step through.

The library was an old strategy. When you landed in a warzone and didn’t know what year it was, you found a timeline. It wasn’t glamorous, but it worked.

Steve had volunteered immediately. Tony didn’t ask why.

Now, as the others dispersed and the statue of the Avengers loomed behind them, he adjusted the strap of his bag, felt the weight of the tools inside, and turned to the man at his side.

Steve’s expression was tight. Focused.

“Library’s ten blocks,” he said, not quite looking at Tony.

Tony nodded.

They walked side by side through the city, boots striking pavement in a rhythm that didn't quite echo their own.

At first glance, it all looked normal—people out with dogs, kids biking to school, the hum of a city waking up.

They walked by, laughing and bright-eyed, holding coffee cups with tiny StarkTech logos on the sleeves. One passerby waved at them, completely unfazed—like they were just out for a stroll, the world as it always should’ve been.

The tension between them wasn’t sharp. It was heavy. Familiar. The kind that swells between two people who know how to hurt each other and are terrified they still might. Their arms brushed once, then twice—neither moved away the third time.

Around them, the city thrived. Buildings gleamed, the streets were clean, even the air tasted a little less poisoned.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Steve muttered, breaking the silence. 

Tony followed his gaze.

Across the street, nestled between a minimalist coffee shop and a boutique pet bakery, was a cheerful independent bookstore. Its front display window gleamed with overexcitement—rows of pastel hardcovers stacked like a Pinterest board gone feral. But front and center, set on a tiny podium framed by LED lights and paper-cut shields, stood a single book, proudly upright:

Unity Before Chaos: Captain America’s Diet and Regimen

A small American flag poked out of the display like a garnish.

Tony let out a bark of laughter, pressing a hand to his chest. Something warm—not quite fondness, not quite disbelief—bubbled beneath his ribs.

“Well,” he said, nudging Steve with his elbow, “I’m sure it sells like crazy. If the results are accurate...” He gave Steve an exaggerated once-over. “I mean, the arms alone.”

Steve sighed, but the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth was real, if reluctant. “It’s not even my book.”

“Sure, sure,” Tony said with a grin, already rewriting the back cover in his head. He lifted his hands theatrically, framing an invisible marquee in the air. “‘Abs Like Justice, Morals Like Steel.’”

Steve didn’t respond—just shook his head and kept walking—but Tony saw it: the way his shoulders relaxed, the small, almost shy look he shot at the window as they passed.

A kid darted past them, laughter trailing behind like a tail. He wore a bright green Hulk mask, oversized for his small face, with padded muscles stitched into the sleeves of his hoodie. His parents jogged after him, holding a reusable shopping bag stamped with the SHIELD logo.

He glanced sideways at Steve, who had also slowed slightly to watch. Neither said anything, but Tony felt the shared pulse of thought between them: This world is different.

Up ahead, the library came into view.

A beautiful old building, restored to perfection—arched windows, clean limestone walls, a gold plaque over the entryway that read “Stark-Rogers Civic Archives.” Tony’s breath hitched.

Steve stopped next to him.

"...Well," Steve muttered, blinking at the name.

Tony stared, then exhaled a quiet, stunned laugh. “Apparently we went halfsies on public infrastructure.”

Steve let the door swing open for him, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. “About time.”

They stepped inside.

“Yeah, why didn’t I think of that sooner?” Tony muttered as they crossed the threshold. “Would’ve saved me a lot of cash.”

Steve shrugged beside him, the corners of his mouth twitching. “You would’ve spent it all anyway. Fast cars. Giant letters on buildings. Playing dress-up with the rest of us.”

Tony opened his mouth, a retort loaded and ready, but the words never made it out.

His eyes swept over the interior of the library, and for a moment, he forgot how to breathe.

Vaulted ceilings arched overhead, painted in soft hues of blue and gold. Sunlight poured in through enormous stained-glass windows depicting stylized scenes of history—not wars, not battles, but moments of rebuilding. Reconciliation. The Avengers were there, again and again. Not fighting, but shaking hands. Teaching. Standing on stages with children at their feet.

Bookshelves lined the marble walls, perfectly organized. The kind of order that only comes from peace long maintained, not just hard-won. The air was quiet and warm, heavy with the scent of paper and sunlight filtering in through high windows.

But it was the banner above the central desk that made Tony stop in his tracks.

A massive poster stretched across the wall—ten, maybe twelve feet wide—vibrant and unmissable. In it, Captain America and Iron Man stood side by side, their poses proud but not aggressive, framed by a golden sky. Steve’s shield rested at his side, not raised. Tony’s palm was open, repulsor dormant. Between them, a plaque read in bold white letters:

"The Founders of Peace – Celebrating Five Years Since the The Fall of Thanos"

“Shit,” Tony breathed, almost a whisper. “They… really pulled it off.”

His eyes stayed locked on the poster overhead—on the clean lines of Iron Man and Captain America standing shoulder to shoulder, not a crack between them. Not a scratch on the world behind them. “Never lost to Thanos. Never lost half the universe.”

Next to him, Steve didn’t answer. His shoulders were rigid, his jaw set tight. He stared down at his boots like the ground had something important to say.

“How do you think they did it?” Tony asked, voice rough with a strange kind of awe. “Was it timing? Luck? Maybe they had better—”

“I just need a minute,” Steve cut in, low and quick.

Tony blinked. “Wait, what?”

Steve still didn’t look at him. He turned on his heel and moved fast, boots echoing against the polished floor as he made a beeline across the library.

“Rogers!” Tony called after him, keeping his voice low out of habit, glancing around like the poster itself might judge him.

But Steve didn’t stop. He shoved open the door marked RESTROOM and stepped inside, the door swinging back on a quiet squeak.

Tony hesitated. Then muttered under his breath, “Great. Leave me standing here with the weird utopia propaganda. That’s not unsettling at all.”

There weren’t many people in the library. The few patrons scattered among the shelves moved with the kind of reverent hush Tony had come to associate with places like this—too quiet, too clean, too still.

He jogged a few steps and slipped into the bathroom after him.

The bathroom was empty. Immaculate. Cold tiles, spotless mirrors, and the faint, sterile scent of lemon cleaner clinging to the air.

Steve stood at the sink, hunched slightly, hands braced on the porcelain as he splashed water onto his face in sharp, practiced motions. It was almost military—controlled, mechanical. Like if he moved fast enough, it would all stop hurting.

Tony stopped in the doorway, chest tightening. Steve was crying.

Not sobbing—Steve Rogers didn’t sob—but his lashes were wet, his nose slightly pink, and the rigid set of his jaw was a dead giveaway.

“Steve,” Tony said softly, stepping in. His voice barely carried over the steady drip of water. “Hey. What’s wrong?”

Steve inhaled sharply through his nose, straightening like someone had pulled a string through his spine. He turned toward the mirror, avoiding Tony’s reflection, and reached for the paper towels.

When he finally spoke, his voice was clipped, distant.

“Nothing. I just got dizzy.”

The lie clattered between them like a dropped shield.

Tony didn’t push. Steve’s eyes were steel, begging him not to. He knew that look—the unspoken boundary. One more step and it would all cave in.

So he swallowed it. Bit back the worry, the instinct to call bullshit, and nodded.

“Okay,” he said, just above a whisper. “Okay. Let’s get to work.”

Steve gave a stiff nod, like that was all he needed—permission to keep the mask on.

Tony turned, the soft whir of his mechanical arm the only sound between them as they left the sanctuary of the mirror behind.

Tony started with the video archive, eyes scanning through news reels, interviews, and grainy footage stitched together into glossy documentaries. Steve, predictably, drifted toward the shelves—rows of books bound in celebratory covers, chronicling the timeline in curated detail. His fingers moved reverently along the spines, pulling volumes like they might hold a truth he’d missed the first time.

The story was hauntingly familiar. The children of Thanos arrived first, tearing across the globe like a violent storm. Then came the Mad Titan himself—inevitable, unstoppable.

The battle unfolded in Wakanda, just like it had in their world. Armies clashed. Heroes fell. Dozens were injured, some severely. The fight raged, desperate and brutal.

But here… they won.

They stopped him. Stopped the snap before it ever happened.

Thanos was defeated, his gauntlet wrested away before he could reshape the universe. There was loss, yes, but not like the loss they knew. No ashes. No five years of silence and ruin.

They called it The Fall of Thanos. The world had celebrated for a month. 

The first truly global holiday, celebrated across every nation. Streets were named after it. Schools closed in its honor. Entire festivals bloomed from the memory of that single day.

And at the heart of it all—like saints carved into stained glass—were the Avengers.

Tony felt a quiet, rising heat in his chest every time his counterpart’s face flashed across a screen or page. Standing tall. Smiling at podiums. Accepting medals with practiced grace. Buildings bore his name. Research centers. Energy initiatives. Even a hospital.

And the thing that changed everything… was painfully obvious.

They had stayed together.

In this world’s timeline, they were unified when it mattered. The Iron Man suit danced through Wakanda’s airspace, a blur of fire and metal. On the ground, Cap’s shield flared with each throw. Thor's lightning crackled like wrath from the heavens. When Thanos struck, they struck back—together.

He fell beneath a combined blast of lightning and a high-powered repulsor surge. It wasn’t strategy. It wasn’t luck. It was synergy. It was trust

Tony made his way back toward the history section, the quiet hush of the library settling over him like dust. He spotted Steve standing ramrod straight in front of a shelf, a hardcover gripped tightly in his hands. His shoulders were tense, like he’d been holding the same breath for minutes.

The book’s title caught Tony’s eye before anything else.

How We Did It.

The cover was glossy, triumphant—an almost-too-perfect shot of him and Steve standing side by side, smiling like war hadn’t left teeth marks in their bones. Like they were the kind of men who figured it all out.

“Oh,” Tony murmured, a touch too dry. “You found the bestseller.”

Steve startled slightly, then closed the book with a firm thump , the sound echoing too loud in the quiet room. He didn’t meet Tony’s eyes as he slid the book back into place with deliberate care.

“Uh. Yeah,” he muttered, voice oddly flat.

Tony’s brows pulled together. He tilted his head, watching him. “And? What does our literary masterpiece say?”

Steve shrugged, too casual to be convincing. His fingers drummed once on the shelf, then curled into a quiet fist. “Just… standard stuff. Teamwork. Combined strength. You know.”

There was a pause. Something unspoken trembled in the air.

Steve cleared his throat, gaze flicking sideways. “You’re still married to Pepper here,” he added, voice quiet.

Tony blinked. That landed harder than it should’ve.

“Oh,” he said after a beat, softer now.

That familiar, hollow ache unfurled in his chest—quiet, but deep. Their breakup had never been loud or cruel. Just a slow unraveling in the face of grief and different callings. After the Snap, everything was broken, and when it came time to rebuild, he had thrown himself into the world, and she… hadn’t.

He never held it against her. Not really. Not everyone is meant to give their life away to the greater good. But somewhere along the way, he realized he needed someone who would burn with him, not pull him back from the fire.

“What about…” The words caught. He couldn’t say her name.

Steve didn’t make him.

He offered a small, almost reverent smile. “She’s finishing second grade,” he said softly. “You say she gets bored easily.”

Tony let out a breath that was half a laugh, half a sigh. The ache cracked a little, letting something lighter through.

“Tell me about it,” he muttered, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I had to invent time travel just to get her attention.”

Steve chuckled, the sound low and strained, and gave him a watery smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Tony tried to swallow it down—the ache, the panic, the tight, gnawing dread that had settled behind his ribs ever since Morgan disappeared. He focused on the pages in front of him, on the grain of the old book's spine, on the warm hum of the arc reactor in his chest. Anything but the hollow space she’d left behind.

It didn’t work.

The weight of it surged, sudden and brutal. The thought of her alone—somewhere, maybe scared, maybe hurt—clawed at the inside of his throat. For a second, he couldn’t breathe.

Steve’s hand landed on his shoulder. Warm. Steady. Grounding.

Tony flinched, not away from the touch, but into it.

“We’ll find her, Tony,” Steve said quietly, voice thick with sincerity. “I promise you we will.”

Tony wiped the stubborn tear that slipped down his cheek, swiping it away with the heel of his hand like it hadn’t happened. He exhaled slowly, shaky but grounding himself.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Yeah, we will.”

Steve’s smile was soft, still laced with something raw. His hand remained where it was, steady on Tony’s shoulder, like he knew moving it might break the moment’s fragile truce.

Tony lifted his own hand, slowly, instinctively—seeking contact. His fingers brushed against Steve’s, then closed around them. A wordless gesture. A reaching out.

Steve didn’t pull away.

Tony pressed their joined hands gently to his cheek, grounding himself in the warmth, the reality of Steve’s presence. For a second, he let his eyes close, just to feel it—flesh and blood and steady breath. He had almost forgotten what it was like, to feel safe.

When he opened his eyes again, Steve was watching him, gaze open and unguarded. The kind of look that always made Tony feel like Steve saw too much and still didn’t look away.

“Thank you,” Tony said, voice rough and full. “Thank you for being here.”

Steve’s brow creased, a faint frown tugging at the edge of his expression—not from confusion, but from the weight of it. His eyes glossed again, emotion welling quietly.

“Of course,” he whispered, voice barely more than breath. “Tony, of course I’m here.”

The moment stretched a second longer, soft and suspended—but then it frayed, pulled back by the weight of everything waiting beneath it.

They stepped apart gently. Not fully, not with distance, but enough to signal that whatever had bloomed there for a heartbeat was being packed away again. Not buried—just shelved, for now.

He cleared his throat. “So,” he said, his voice level, almost clinical, “what did you find? Any revelation as to why they won?”

The question was a formality. He already knew.

Steve’s shoulders stiffened, just slightly. Saw the way his gaze dropped—not in shame, but in calculation. Deciding how much honesty to give.

“Yes,” Steve said, after a pause. He didn’t sugarcoat it. “We agreed on the Accords.”

There it was. No fanfare. No surprise. Just a fact. 

The tension grew, stretching like wire between them. Familiar and unwelcome. The air, warmer a moment ago, cooled by degrees until it felt like something fragile might crack.

Old wounds didn’t need much to sting.

“Ah. Right,” Tony said, voice too smooth, too clipped. “Well. I could’ve told you that. We didn’t need to travel to another timeline to learn it.”

It was meant to be sardonic. Maybe even funny, in that bitter, pointed way Tony sometimes wielded like armor. But it fell flat between them, heavy with things neither of them wanted to say out loud.

Steve didn’t laugh. Didn’t rise to the bait. Just nodded once, slow and tight, his jaw clenched like he was bracing for something heavier than the words had carried.

“Should we head back?” he asked, his voice measured—controlled in a way that made Tony's shoulders tense all over again.

Tony let out a quiet sigh, pressing his thumb to the bridge of his nose before dragging his hand down his face. The rawness behind his eyes was fading, but the weight in his chest stayed put.

“Yeah,” he muttered. Then, after a beat: “Also, I’m getting weird vibes from that Nat poster over there. Is her ass always that—heroically emphasized?”

Steve followed his line of sight, eyes flicking up to the towering, celebratory display across the library entrance. The poster of Natasha Romanoff was ten feet tall, and the pose… well, it certainly wasn’t subtle.

He shrugged, deadpan. “Never looked. Why? Is she hot?”

Tony choked on a laugh—too loud for the silence of the library. It punched through the tension anyway, ricocheting off marble and paper and the ache in his chest.

“Jesus,” he muttered, half-grinning as they turned toward the exit. “You’ve been sitting on that line since 2012, haven’t you?”

Steve didn’t answer, but his smirk gave him away.

They walked back through the stacks side by side, shoes muffled on the thick carpeting, a few passing glances from the librarians trailing after them like falling leaves. Outside, the afternoon sun had started to tilt westward, casting long shadows down the buildings that lined the street.

The world out there looked calm. Peaceful. Like a lie dressed in soft light.

Tony shoved his hands into his coat pockets and didn’t say anything more. But as they stepped out together into the city, he noticed the way Steve walked a little closer than before.

 

---

 

They regrouped in a quiet park on the east side of the city, a rare sliver of stillness tucked between shining buildings and tree-lined paths. The recon had returned a strikingly consistent story.

In this world, the Avengers never fell apart. There were no Sokovia Accords as they knew them, no ideological fracture that splintered them down the middle. Instead, Tony and Steve had collaborated on a new framework—an international agreement where the Avengers retained autonomy, stepping in only when sovereignty wasn’t at stake. It was messy, but it worked. 

From there, Tony had launched a global prevention initiative. He made his case—loudly, relentlessly—that waiting for the next threat wasn’t an option. And, somehow, the world listened. With Steve’s backing, the Avengers grew into something bigger than they'd ever been: not just a team, but a full-scale network of enhanced individuals united under a common cause.

Doctor Strange had been recruited early. Even Spider-Man—young, bright, eager—had a seat at the table from day one. And when the signals of Thanos’s arrival began to stir, Captain Marvel answered the call without hesitation.

They didn’t scramble. They didn’t improvise. They were ready. Thanos fell the same day he arrived. No Snap. No grief. No loss.

Tony sat in the circle with the others, knees bent, elbows resting heavily on them. His hands—scarred, calloused, one metal—hung loosely between his legs, but his shoulders were coiled like wires. The grass underfoot was soft, the sunlight mild, the air filled with the occasional chirp of birds. None of it touched him.

A slow, bitter heat crawled up his throat.

This other Tony Stark—the version of himself from this world—had never been dragged hollow-eyed through five years of absence. Never had to lead with a smile while the guilt rotted him from the inside. Never had to claw his way through broken glass just to keep what was left of a family from falling apart. Never had to catch Peter as he crumpled into dust in his arms—those quiet, terrified whimpers etched into his memory with the kind of permanence that time couldn’t dull. 

This version of Steve Rogers had never driven a shield into his chest like it was the end of something sacred. This Tony never knew the way it rattled through his ribcage, the searing pressure at his core as vibranium bit into metal and skin. Didn’t had to deal with the memory that clung to him—phantom pain beneath the arc reactor, the echo of breath caught too high in his throat, as if the moment had been carved into his body.

And yet here they were—in a world where none of that had happened. Where Tony Stark was still whole. Still shining. Still standing side by side with Steve Rogers like they hadn’t torn each other apart.

He stared at the neat park path curling through trimmed grass and benches stamped with little Avengers logos. All of it looked so clean. So untouched.

A part of him, deep and mean and tired, thought: You didn’t earn this.

He clenched his jaw and looked away, trying not to let the others see it on his face.

“They all live in Avengers Tower,” Bruce said dryly, a hint of bitterness tugging at his mouth. “One big, happy family.”

The words landed like a weight between them.

No one responded. They didn’t need to.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was heavy with everything they hadn’t said in years. A shared grief, a mutual understanding of what they could’ve had, and what they’d let slip through their fingers. A team that never learned how to be a team. Not when it mattered most.

In the end, their flaws had shouted louder than their loyalty.

They decided to find a low-profile motel to spend the night—something small, forgettable, and quiet enough to serve as a temporary base of operations. Their counterparts in this universe had vastly different fashion senses and public personas, which helped, but Natasha still insisted they all wear her unsettlingly effective shapeshifting makeup to avoid turning heads. Clint grumbled, Peter flinched at how cold it felt going on, and Bruce asked if it was FDA-approved. Nat just smirked and slapped a second layer on him.

The motel they found sat on the edge of town like a faded memory—one floor, fifteen rooms, a flickering neon vacancy sign barely clinging to life. The air smelled like tired pavement and pine trees. Its only advertised amenities were “breakfast 8 to 10” and “hot water (most days).” It was perfect.

Their cash was running out fast. It was a small mercy in a crooked universe that this place still accepted their currency without question. No scans, no suspicion—just a half-interested clerk behind a foggy plexiglass window who barely looked up from her soap opera to process the transaction.

Tony handed over the bills and received two battered keycards in return. No questions asked. No curiosity. Just the dull clack of the register and the low hum of the motel’s ancient ceiling fan stirring the warm, stale air.

He gave one of the cards to Bruce and slipped the other into his jacket. The fabric was stiff with road dust, heavy with exhaustion. Then he turned and started the slow walk toward their rooms, feet dragging, mind already bracing for the stiff mattress waiting for him.

The hallway smelled like old bleach and forgotten summer nights. Dim lights buzzed overhead, casting long shadows on faded carpet.

Behind him, Peter and Steve followed.

The division between them wasn’t discussed, wasn’t decided—it just was. Natural, inevitable. One room for the others. One room for them.

Tony’s step faltered just slightly when he heard Steve’s heavier boots trailing close behind, but he didn’t turn around. Didn’t comment. The silence between them settled like mist—cool and close, not unwelcome, but hard to see through.

He dropped onto the screeching bed first, choosing the one furthest from the window—half out of habit, half because he had zero faith in the insulation powers of decades-old motel glass. The mattress groaned like it was remembering a better time, and Tony immediately laid a towel down between him and whatever ancient mystery lived in the comforter.

Peter bounced into the room with the kind of energy that only teenagers and golden retrievers could muster, claiming the middle bed with a soft “oof” and settling cross-legged on top of the covers. His backpack hit the floor with a thud as he dug out his charger.

“Wow,” Peter said, plugging his phone into the nearby outlet. “This is just like a summer vacation.”

Tony snorted and held up the motel pillow like it might try to bite him. “Kid, if this is your idea of a vacation, I need to have a long, judgmental talk with your universe’s version of me.”

He gave the pillow an experimental squeeze. It didn’t bounce back.

“Damn. These must be older than you.”

Peter gave him a polite, tight-lipped smile. Tony fluffed the pillow again, trying in vain to give it shape, then tossed it back down with a sigh.

“Or even Cap,” he added dryly.

That earned a genuine laugh from Peter, and for a moment, the room felt almost like something close to normal.

Steve unzipped his duffel bag and laid it open across the bed, methodically picking through a small stack of folded clothes. His movements were quiet, deliberate.

“If you guys don’t mind,” he said, almost to the room itself, “I’m gonna take a shower.”

He didn’t wait for a response. Tony gave a vague wave of acknowledgment as Steve disappeared into the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind him. The faint rush of water followed soon after.

Tony stared at the door for a moment longer than necessary.

“Hey, I have cards. Wanna play?” Peter’s voice broke the silence, bright and hopeful.

The kid was already dragging the small desk closer to the beds, balancing a deck of worn cards on its edge. He perched on top of the covers, grinning down at Tony with open expectation.

Tony exhaled and swung his feet to the floor.

“Yeah. Sure,” he said, voice softer than he meant it to be. Then, rubbing his hand over his face, he added, “But let’s get room service first. I’m not suffering through beans again.”

Peter beamed like Tony had just offered him a five-star meal.

They played a handful of card games—strange hybrids of poker and Uno that Peter claimed were classics in his universe. The rules made little sense, half of them invented on the spot, but Tony didn’t mind. He let the kid deal, let himself lose, let the rhythm of it keep his mind busy.

There was something about this Peter that tugged at Tony’s chest. Something quiet and worn.

He sat straighter than he should’ve had to at that age, like no one had told him he could rest. There was a gentleness to the way he spoke, the way he smiled—like he’d learned to cushion every word, just in case it hit too hard. Like he’d gotten used to walking through the world on eggshells.

His Peter was light, eager, always ready with a joke or a hand offered without hesitation. This one moved like he was used to catching pieces of himself before they hit the floor.

Tony watched him laugh at a ridiculous bluff and felt it, that sharp ache of recognition.

This Peter carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.

And worse, he looked like he carried it alone.

After three chaotic games of Catch the Hulk—which Peter swore was an actual game and not just a tactic to watch Tony flail—Steve stepped out of the bathroom.

Tony looked up from his hand of mismatched cards and promptly forgot the rules.

Steve was flushed pink from the heat, damp blonde hair curling slightly at the edges, darker from the water. He wore a soft gray t-shirt that clung slightly to his chest and arms, the sleeves loose but just short enough to show the slope of muscle beneath. His sweatpants sat low on his hips, casual and worn, like they belonged in a drawer labeled Private: Domestic Rogers Only. Water trailed down the length of one arm, gliding across veins and tendons like it had somewhere important to be.

Tony stared longer than he should’ve. His gaze skimmed over collarbones, down the curve of Steve’s throat, then snapped back to his cards before he could get caught.

He hadn’t seen Steve like this in a long time. Not layered in tactical gear or stiff with armor, not bloodied or shouting orders. Just—Steve. Barefoot and blinking, toweling water from his hair. 

There was something disarming about it. Something real. Human.

And for Tony, who knew how easily myth could swallow a person whole, it was like seeing the man underneath the monument. The softness hidden behind all the strength. A reminder of what he’d missed, what they’d lost, and maybe—just maybe—what was still there. 

“Smash.”

The voice snapped Tony out of his thoughts.

“Smash,” Peter repeated, grinning as he pointed triumphantly at his three one-of-spades.

“You’re kidding me,” Tony groaned, staring down at the mess of cards on the desk like they’d betrayed him personally. “It’s not even the third round .”

Peter shrugged with the shameless glee of a sore winner. “Well, that’s enough victories for me.” He stretched back with a satisfied sigh, arms overhead and spine popping. “Is the water good, Captain Rogers?”

Steve was folding his towel and arranging his clothes into impossibly neat piles on the dresser. “Hm? Oh—yeah. It’s hot enough.”

That was all Peter needed to hear. He sprang up—actually leapt—and snatched his clothes with theatrical flair. “My turn!”

A moment later, the bathroom door clicked shut behind him, the sound of rushing water replacing his chatter.

Silence fell.

Tony adjusted the cards in his hand, aimless. Steve kept his back to him, still fussing with his clothes like they needed military precision. The room felt stagnant without Peter’s noise in it.

“I ordered room service,” Tony said after a pause, voice low and casual—too casual, like he was trying not to step on a landmine.

They were divided by Peter’s bed in the middle of the room. It might as well have been a wall. The space felt smaller than it was, too warm, the kind of quiet that made everything else feel loud. Steve stood near the bathroom, towel in hand, his muscles pulling taut beneath a plain undershirt as he dried his hair in slow, distracted motions.

“Oh. Cool,” Steve replied, almost like an afterthought. He crossed the room and hung the towel carefully over the curtain rod, lining it up like a soldier folding a flag.

Tony watched him, chest tight. Ever since they'd seen the monument—those impossible stone versions of themselves locked in victory—Steve had gone quiet. Not angry. Not sharp. Just… still. Like something inside him had settled in the worst possible way.

“Hey…” Tony murmured, already regretting it the moment the word left his mouth. “Uh… are we good?”

Steve glanced up from where he was plugging his phone into the wall, slow and reluctant. The dim light from the bedside lamp caught on the faint red circling his eyes—exhaustion clinging to him like an old bruise, half-healed but still sore. His features were composed, steady as always, but there was something raw behind the stillness.

“Yeah,” Steve said, but it landed without weight. He hesitated, then added, “I think so. Are we?”

Tony exhaled through his nose, quietly. The question lingered longer than it should have. He was so tired—tired of the theater, the quiet power plays, the way they danced around the past like it wasn’t still living in their bones.

Here, in the soft hush of the motel room—three twin beds, one lamp, nothing but highway static outside the window—he just wanted to lower the shield. Just for a minute. Just be.

“I want to,” Tony said quietly, his voice softer than he meant. It made him wince. “There’s just… this thing. Keeps circling in my head.”

Steve sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hands folded. He looked over, caught in the pale glow of the ceiling light—sharp angles softened by the quiet.

“Are you okay, Steve?” Tony asked, quieter now.

Steve didn’t answer right away. His gaze dropped, and he crossed his arms tighter over his chest, like he could hold something in with sheer will. He closed his eyes for a breath. Then:

“No.”

The word landed with more weight than Tony expected. Just one syllable, and yet it cracked something open.

For a second, Tony didn’t know what to say. That kind of honesty from Steve was rare. It wasn’t how they usually spoke—years of armor and snark and silence had made sure of that. But now, stripped down to a single, unguarded answer… Tony felt his cynicism falter. It didn’t feel like weakness. It felt real.

He stood slowly, the movement unsure—like approaching something fragile. Steve was still perched on the edge of his bed, elbows resting on his thighs, fingers loosely knotted together. His shoulders were hunched, drawn inward like he was trying to take up less space. His chest rose and fell in careful, practiced breaths—control masking whatever was cracking underneath.

Tony crossed the narrow space between them, then sat on the edge of Peter’s bed. The mattress dipped beneath his weight, and their knees bumped—just lightly, but Steve didn’t move. Tony didn’t either.

“What's wrong?” he asked, voice low, almost cautious.

Steve exhaled, sharp and ragged—like the air cut on the way out. He scrubbed a hand through his damp hair, fingers dragging it back from his face, like he needed a clearer view just to say it.

“This world… it’s messing with my head,” he said, the words clipped and measured. Like if he said them flat enough, they wouldn’t unravel. “I keep thinking about the Accords. About Sokovia. About… about Siberia.”

Tony’s jaw tightened, a familiar tension crawling up his neck. They never talked about it—not really. No apologies, no real acknowledgments. Just years of missions and measured distance, burying everything beneath the tidy veneer of civility they called teamwork.

“And what are those thoughts like?” Tony asked. His voice wasn’t sharp, or soft—just careful. Measured. As if saying it the wrong way might close whatever fragile door had cracked open between them.

Steve’s fingers curled tightly around his knee, the muscle in his forearm flexing. His knuckles brushed against Tony’s thigh, barely a touch, but it grounded them both in the moment.

“I was so sure about what I did,” Steve whispered, the words barely rising above the soft hum of the motel room’s ceiling light. “So convinced it was my only option. The one where I got to keep my soul.”

Tony’s chest tightened. The ache came swift, familiar. He hated Steve in that moment—just a little—for always framing it that way. But mostly, he hated the flicker of hope inside himself that still wanted to believe they could’ve chosen differently. That things could’ve turned out better than they had.

Steve’s gaze dropped to his lap. He lifted a hand, gesturing vaguely toward the world outside—the monument, the peace, the version of them that got it right.

“But seeing… this,” he murmured, “I can’t help but wonder… did I fuck up?”

The words landed like a slap—sharp, unfiltered.

Tony felt the bitter heat of resentment rise in his chest, uncoiling too fast to stop. Images crashed through his mind: the snow-packed bunker, the cold gleam of the shield, blood spattered across fractured armor. He bit down on the taste of it, but it still slipped out.

“I don’t know, Steve—did you?” he snapped.

The silence that followed was immediate and deep, like a line had been crossed and neither of them knew how to uncross it. Steve flinched, just barely, but it was enough. The hurt in his eyes was unmistakable.

Tony exhaled hard, dragging a hand over his face. His voice was rougher when it came again, quieter, regret bleeding through the cracks.

“Sorry. That was—look, I’m listening. I want to understand. I want to be here for you. It’s just…” He glanced away for a second. “It’s still painful. For me too.”

Steve looked at him, eyes glassy, his lips just beginning to tremble before he pressed them into a thin line. He nodded once, like he had to give himself permission to go on.

“I see this world,” he said, voice quiet but steady. “I see how… happy everyone is. How we saved them here. And I just keep having one selfish, terrible thought.”

Tony’s brow knit, his tone lighter but cautious. “What selfish thought could Captain America possibly have?”.

Steve smiled—small, worn, almost self-deprecating.

“In this world,” he said, voice low, “they got everything we wanted. The team, the Tower. They defeated Thanos. They sanctioned a better version of the Accords.”

He inhaled, slow and deep, like he was bracing himself against the weight of what came next.

“I envy this world,” he said, finally. The words came soft, but they landed hard. “I know I shouldn’t. I should be happy for it. But I envy it so deeply it makes me feel rotten. I envy their peace. That they didn’t fracture. That they didn’t lose each other. And most of all…” His eyes lifted, meeting Tony’s with something unbearably honest.

“And most of all,” Steve repeated, voice barely above a whisper, “I envy that this Steve Rogers got to keep you.”

Tony’s breath hitched.

For a second, everything inside him stalled—then surged forward, like his heart had missed a step and was racing to catch up. It thudded hard against his ribs, fast and loud, like it hadn’t been prepared to hear those words.

“Steve…” he said, voice catching on the edges of something raw and real.

“I’m sorry, Tony,” Steve said—steady, no hesitation in his voice. “I need to be honest with you. I’m done with these… these walls between us.”

He reached out—carefully, like a question—and slid his hand into Tony’s. Just enough for their fingers to brush, to anchor them both to the moment.

“I haven’t changed my mind,” Steve said, his eyes steady, urging Tony to hold the moment with him. “I still believe in what I stood for—the Accords, how intervention should work, and…” He hesitated, breath hitching. “And about Bucky. About his innocence.”

Tony flinched, the old reflex sharp and immediate. His instinct was to pull away, armor back up—but Steve’s hand tightened, just enough to ground him. The heat of his grip steadied something inside Tony.

“But I do regret how I did it,” Steve continued, voice lower now. “The way I handled it. The way I hurt you.”

Steve’s eyes shimmered in the dim light, the first tears catching on his lashes, held back only by stubborn force of habit. His lips parted, trembling with the effort it took to speak through the knot in his throat.

“I regret how I handled everything,” he whispered, voice fraying at the edges. “How I—I hurt you like that.”

The words broke him mid-sentence. A quiet crack slipped into his voice, and then the dam gave way. Tears tracked down his face, unhidden now, and he didn’t blink them away. Didn’t try.

“I’m sorry, Tony,” he said, shaking his head as if it could undo everything. “I’m sorry I kept it from you. I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you, that I—”

His voice caught, snapped. “That I just—”

And then he folded. His shoulders curled forward like they couldn’t bear the weight anymore, and the breath he let out was sharp and broken, like it had cut on the way up.

Tony moved before he could think. He reached out, cupped the back of Steve’s neck and pulled him in, firm but careful. Steve sank into him without resistance, his whole frame trembling as he pressed his face into Tony’s shoulder.

His fingers curled into Tony’s jacket, gripping like a lifeline, like the apology had left him emptied. The heat of him, the rawness—it was all there in the way his body shuddered, in the muffled sounds pressed into fabric, in the scrape of beard against collar.

“I’m sorry too,” Tony murmured, his voice thick against Steve’s hair. He held him tighter, like anchoring both of them. “I was an asshole. I still am.”

He meant it—not as a joke, but as an admission. He'd let his anger guide him, let fear and control take the wheel when trust felt too fragile. He’d lashed out instead of listening, broken things instead of bending.

Steve let out a small, wet chuckle, muffled where his face was tucked into Tony’s shoulder. His breath hitched once, then eased, his whole body gradually uncoiling like a cord finally given slack under the steady weight of Tony’s arms.

His voice came low, warm against Tony’s neck. “Well,” he said on a long exhale, “it only took us what—ten years? But we finally said it.”

Tony didn’t laugh. Not at first. Something caught in his chest, something quiet and heavy. He held on a moment longer, just breathing him in.

And then it hit—soft but solid, like a truth finally allowed to land.

It was the first time they held each other. Their first hug, their first embrace.

No battlefield between them, no blood on their hands, no mission waiting. Just Steve, soft and real and steady in his arms. No armor. No anger. Just them.

He exhaled shakily, and with it went the tension he was carrying. The knots in his chest began to come undone one by one, slow and quiet. His hand drifted up, fingers threading gently into Steve’s hair, combing it back with a kind of reverence. Steve let him, leaning into the touch like it had always belonged there.

Warmth bloomed in his chest, bright and unfiltered. Like the first time he flew, like the first time something he built actually worked. He pressed his cheek against Steve’s temple and closed his eyes. How had they gone so long without this? How had he? This wasn’t peace through strength or redemption through sacrifice. This was something else entirely. Something simple. Something good.

They pulled apart slowly, the quiet stretch between them filled with something lighter now—easier. Steve's hand slipped from Tony’s shoulder but didn’t go far, fingers brushing down his arm before resting at his side. Their eyes met in the low light, and for once, neither of them looked away. The air between them hummed—less like tension now, more like relief.

Tony let out a breath that turned into half a smile. Steve mirrored it, a little sheepish, a little stunned.

Then the bathroom door creaked open.

Peter stepped out, toweling his hair and blinking at the two of them. He froze mid-step.

“Wait,” he said, eyes darting between them and the empty nightstand. “Where’s the food?”

There was a beat of silence—and then both Tony and Steve laughed, quiet and breathless, like the weight of the world had shifted just enough to let the sound out.

Tony shook his head, already moving. He crossed the room quickly, snatching up the motel phone in one swift motion. The receiver was pressed to his ear, his voice low, clipped, more sigh than sound. One hand anchored itself to his hip, fingers drumming lightly as he waited for someone on the other end to pick up.

Behind him, Steve had already settled cross-legged on his bed, sketchbook in his lap, pencil moving in slow, sure lines. Peter, freshly showered and grinning, flopped down beside him, still towel-drying his hair as he pointed at something on the page, clearly offering unhelpful commentary. Steve didn’t look up, but his mouth curved, pencil never pausing.

Tony hung up the phone with a sigh and stood still for a moment, just watching them. Something soft tugged at the edges of his chest—something close to calm.

He picked up his tablet and opened the scans. The map blinked to life, its red spikes still flaring stubbornly around the monument like a pulse that wouldn’t settle. He watched the pattern loop again, quiet and unchanging.

Behind him, Steve’s pencil scratched softly over paper, Peter’s laughter low and bright beside him.

Tony sat on the edge of the bed, screen flickering in his hands. The numbers hadn’t shifted. The anomaly was still waiting.

But for now, for this one moment, everything else was still.

Notes:

Hope you like it!! Thank so much you for all the coments, they truly power this thing

Chapter 6: Strangerville II

TONY

 

Breakfast was objectively terrible. The toast could have doubled as a paperweight, the eggs were pale and suspiciously wet, and the bacon looked like it had been pan-fried in regret.

It was, hands down, the best meal Tony had eaten in weeks.

They gathered at the narrow motel table just after eight, elbows brushing, knees knocking under the uneven wood. The overhead light buzzed softly, catching on chipped mugs and cheap silverware. Something about it felt absurdly domestic—unreal in the best possible way.

They all looked better for it. Cleaner. Softer at the edges. Bruce’s curls had finally surrendered to the comb, no longer a cloud of lab-sweat and static. Clint had shaved, leaving a pale, unfamiliar patch under his bottom lip like proof of another life.

Steve had insisted on fruit. Of course he had. Even if the apples looked like they’d been plucked from a sandbox, he made sure everyone took a slice.

Natasha didn’t argue—just commandeered a butter knife and started cutting the apples into neat little pieces, dusting them with sugar and a bit of cinnamon from a packet she’d swiped from the coffee station. Peter stared at the bowl like it was a magic trick.

Tony watched him take a bite, wide-eyed and reverent, like someone discovering gravity for the first time.

For a brief moment—just a flicker in time—it felt like something else. Not a desperate mission. Not five exhausted fugitives chasing rips in the universe. Just a group of people, sharing a meal. Laughing, eating fruit. Something simpler. Happier. 

Once the last strip of bacon had vanished and coffees were refilled—lukewarm, but passable—Peter swung his laptop onto the center of the table with a satisfied clack.

Crumbs dotted his hoodie. His eyes were bright.

He tapped a few keys, bringing up a map filled with pulsing data points and overlapping gridlines. “The main spike’s coming from about five meters beneath the monument,” he said, fingers still flying across the keyboard. “That’s where the energy signature’s strongest.”

Then, without hesitation, he reached across the table and snatched a buttered slice of bread from Clint’s plate, stuffing half of it into his mouth as he continued, muffled, “That’s what I traced anyway. Dr. Banner might’ve gotten something else.”

Clint looked personally offended. Peter looked entirely unrepentant.

Tony handed Peter a napkin with a dry look, wordless but full of intent. Peter blinked, then sheepishly wiped his mouth, trying to look innocent with crumbs still clinging to his cheek. Multiverse or not, Tony still felt at least marginally responsible for the kid. Okay—more than marginally. A lot.

“No, Peter, mine gave the same results,” Bruce chimed in, leaning forward with his coffee cradled in both hands. A small smile tugged at his lips. “But I wanted to ask—What’s your gamma flux reading? I picked up something... odd.”

Peter swallowed his last bite and rubbed at his mouth with the napkin like he could scrub away the mess faster. “Uh, around 150.5 millisieverts per hour,” he said, glancing over at his screen. “Why?”

Bruce frowned, his mouth tightening into a flat, unreadable line. The easy quiet of the table shifted almost imperceptibly, the hum of conversation dimming.

Tony caught the look—too practiced not to notice the tension threading through Bruce’s shoulders, the way he tapped his thumb once against the side of his mug like he was bracing for impact. Tony’s mind jumped ahead, already chasing the shape of the worst-case scenario.

“Did you check the output curve?” Tony asked, voice low and clipped. “Could be bleed-over from the geomagnetic field.”

Bruce didn’t hesitate, but his hands curled tighter around the chipped coffee cup. The steam from it fogged gently against his glasses.

“I did,” he said. “Recalibrated it three times. It’s not the field.”

The words landed like a stone. Peter’s fingers froze over his keyboard. His eyes went wide—recognition dawning fast.

The kid leaned back slightly, eyes still locked on the screen. “Oh, no. Really?” he muttered. “You don’t think that…” But the sentence trailed off, unfinished, the implications too big to say aloud.

Bruce only shrugged, rubbing his chin, his gaze distant. “I don’t know,” he admitted quietly. “We’ll have to get closer to be sure. But if I’m right…”

Peter gave a low, impressed whistle, shaking his head as he reached—casually, far too casually—for another one of Clint’s buns.

“Alright, that’s it,” Clint grumbled, yanking the plate protectively toward himself.

But Peter was already grinning. With a flick of his wrist and a quick thwip, a neat line of webbing snagged the plate midair and zipped it back into his hand.

Clint gaped to protest, mouth halfway to another complaint, but Steve cut him short with a sharp look and a raised hand.

“Banner,” he said, voice clipped, the edge of frustration finally showing. “What are you getting at?”

Bruce opened his mouth, hesitating just long enough to measure the words—but Tony beat him to it.

“The fluctuation is propagating faster than any known wave pattern we can track,” Tony said flatly.

The sentence landed like a dropped wrench. He leaned forward slightly, fingers laced in front of him on the table, eyes locked on Steve. The seriousness in his voice rippled across the room. Steve held the stare, but his brow furrowed, lips parting like he wanted to ask but couldn’t quite form the question.

A beat of silence stretched.

“Okay,” Natasha said dryly, folding her arms as she sat back in her chair. “I’ll say it, since Cap’s too proud to. What does that mean? We have no idea what you guys are talking about.”

Tony snapped. “It means someone is messing with this Earth’s electromagnetic field.” He tapped the table once for emphasis. “On purpose.”

“Tony, you don’t think—”

The world snapped.

The floor heaved like something alive beneath it. Plates skidded. Coffee sloshed. The overhead lights flickered once—twice—and then the whole room pitched sideways in a thunderous jolt.

Mugs shattered against tile. A chair toppled. Natasha caught herself with one hand on the table, the other already reaching for the knife tucked into her boot—instinct, muscle memory. Clint dropped to a crouch, hand out to brace Bruce, whose coffee hit the floor in a flash of steam and glass.

The breakfast cabinet gave a screech of protest as it tipped forward toward the elderly woman seated beneath it.

Steve was already there—his body a blur. One arm swept around her waist, pulling her clear; the other shot up, catching the edge of the falling shelf just before it crushed them both. His feet slid on the linoleum, boots grinding for purchase as the cabinet groaned above him, but he held.

Tony had no such grace.

The quake knocked him off-center. The floor gave a sharp tilt under his boots. His hip slammed into the table edge, and he staggered sideways, eyes wide, arms pinwheeling for balance—

A sharp thwip cracked the air.

Webbing caught the back of his jacket and yanked. Peter, half-crouched on the table, braced himself with one foot on a chair, both hands gripping the webline. His shoulders flexed, teeth gritted, as he hauled Tony back to safety just before the tray of silverware clattered to the floor beside him.

Dust puffed from the corners of the ceiling. Somewhere outside, a dog barked. A car alarm wailed two streets over.

The ground stilled—too fast, too sudden. Silence clamped down like a lid.

Everyone froze, still locked in the last motion they’d made. Hands braced. Breath caught. Muscles tense.

Tony turned, chest still heaving, the end of Peter’s web clinging to the front of his coat like a lifeline. Their eyes locked—wide, shaken, a flicker of gratitude buried beneath the adrenaline. Tony reached up and tugged the web free with a shaky hand, exhaling hard.

The earth was quiet again. The quake passed as suddenly as it came, leaving behind a silence thick with confusion. Chairs scraped. Coffee sloshed. People looked around as if expecting the walls to speak.

Tony stood near the table, breath tight in his chest, wrist already lit up with diagnostic readouts. His hand trembled slightly as he adjusted the monitor.

“That shouldn’t have happened,” he muttered, scanning the data, pulse still quick. “There aren’t any colliding tectonic plates beneath us.”

Steve helped the woman steady herself, offering a quiet word and a hand to her shoulder. When he turned back to the team, his voice was clipped, steady.

“Alright,” he said. “Breakfast is over. Gear up. Suit up. We’re going to the monument.”

 

---

 

Ever since they raided the warehouse, Tony had taken it as his pet project to build ragged, barely functional suits for all of them. It wasn’t pretty work—but it was his kind of art. 

He’d scavenged from abandoned supply depots and forgotten basements, tearing through crates of old tactical army gear. Bulletproof vests for him and Steve, sleeves with reinforced widow bites, arrows modified to string an electric wave. Every scrap he could salvage, every bolt and wire he could bend into something useful, he did—sleep or sanity be damned.

The almost toy-like arc reactor he built from flashlights and cheap plastic was plastered to his chest with duct tape and rope, wires running down his torso in thick, haphazard knots. It powered his arm through inelegant cables that Steve had carefully sewn into the lining of his undersuit, needle clenched between his teeth, stitching in silence late into the night.

His newest gamble—two flying boots, stitched together from hollowed drone parts and stripped tech—thrummed with unstable energy beneath him. He’d barely managed a test jump before strapping them on and hitting the ignition, launching a hundred feet into the air while Peter shouted something that could have been awe or panic.

Luckily for him, he was still a goddamn genius, so they worked. Wobbly and a bit unstable, sure—but potent enough to let him cruise the skies again, a streak of jerry-rigged hope across the skyline.

Tony landed hard, boots skidding across the stone plaza just as a bright blur of red streaked down beside him.

The central plaza loomed ahead, where towering monuments of their alternate selves stretched between treetops and adorned street lamps. Bathed in early light, the statues cast long, warped shadows across the cracked pavement—larger-than-life, idealized in stone, arms raised in eternal triumph.

Tony barely spared them a glance. His breath came short and sharp, heart pounding in his ears as their boots echoed across the empty square.

Spidey landed with a whoop, sneakers thudding lightly against the pavement. “That was awesome,” Peter breathed, eyes wide, practically vibrating with energy. “I’ll check the top!”

Before Tony could respond, Peter launched himself again—one fluid motion, a web shooting up and anchoring to the edge of the towering monument. He flipped midair, twisting like a gymnast, then landed with a soft thud on the marble crown of Thor’s statue, perched above the plaza like a bird on a lightning rod.

“Whoa,” Peter muttered to himself, hands on his hips as he surveyed the area from above. “You guys have got to see this view.”

Tony swept his wrist scanner in a broad arc across the plaza, his makeshift HUD lighting up with a chorus of blaring warnings and unreadable spikes. The numbers were climbing—too fast, too erratic. Whatever was coming, it was close. The soft blue light of the arc reactor on his chest flickered in response, whining softly with strain.

His stomach twisted. This wasn’t just another surge. The anomaly was intensifying, fracturing like a fault line under pressure.

Behind him, footsteps pounded against the cracked pavement.

“Tony, what the hell?!” Steve’s voice burst through the rising hum, sharp with panic and short of breath. He jogged to a stop beside him, dragging in air between his teeth. “Why did you fly away like that?”

Tony didn’t look up, fingers dancing across the panel as he recalibrated the readings. “I needed a test run,” he muttered. “Thought it was a good time.”

Steve stared at him, incredulous. His chest still heaved from the sprint. “You didn’t even test them?!”

Tony’s smirk was thin, brittle around the edges. “I had a hunch.”

Peter’s voice rang out from above, high and sharp—cutting through the static in Tony’s ears like a whipcrack.

“Mr. Stark, watch out!”

Tony barely had time to turn. A glint of metal hurtled toward him from the monument’s shadow—spinning, jagged, fast. His eyes widened.

Then red flashed across his vision.

Peter swung in like a bolt of lightning, twisting midair with perfect, acrobatic precision. His web shot out in a clean arc, snagging the chunk of shrapnel inches before it could collide with Tony’s head. The impact yanked Peter sideways, but he stuck the landing, boots skidding across the marble with a breathless grunt.

Before Tony could even process the near miss, a strong hand clamped down on his vest and yanked—hard.

He stumbled back with a gasp as Steve dragged him to the ground, practically tackling him out of the way. They hit the pavement in a tangled heap, Tony’s elbow knocking against Steve’s shoulder just as the Captain rose into a crouch above him, shield raised.

The next second, something slammed into the vibranium with a shriek of impact—metal ringing against metal, the force rippling through Steve’s arm and down into Tony’s chest where their bodies touched.

Tony looked up, breath caught, heart pounding. Over Steve’s shoulder, the sky tore.

A ragged gash split the air above the monument—glowing at the edges, pulsing like an open wound. From its depths, flickering shapes began to crawl through: limbs too long, spines twitching unnaturally, movements like corrupted animation. They flickered and buzzed like broken holograms—glitching, screaming with high, metallic howls. Creatures, but not of this world.

He engaged the boots with a sharp hiss and a crack of energy. The thrusters spat out streaks of blue flame as Tony rocketed skyward, the wind whipping around him, light sparking off the fractured arc reactor on his chest. Below, the plaza unfolded—monuments towering like gods, shadows sliced by searchlights, and the ground writhing with movement.

The creatures came into view like a swarm of insects crawling from a wound in the world. Dozens, then hundreds, surged around the base of the monument, their limbs twitching with stuttering glitches, bodies half-phased like broken projections. Their skin shimmered between metal and flesh, faces distorted by static. They moved fast, too fast, crawling over marble and stone, screeching in impossible tones.

"Shit, shit, shit—" Clint’s voice rang out over the comms. He’d just skidded to a halt, eyes wide as he reached for his quiver. “Why are they always so ugly?”

Tony looped high and blasted downward, the recoil rattling through his cobbled-together suit. One of the creatures was already lunging for Steve—until Tony’s repulsor caught it square in the chest, sending it spiraling across the pavement in a burst of sparks and fluid.

“They’re protecting the monument!” Steve shouted over the noise, slamming his shield into the skull of another creature that had leapt onto the steps. It crunched like glass, and the body shimmered and vanished before hitting the ground.

Clint fired three arrows in rapid succession, the shafts singing through the air before exploding in a web of electric pulses. Three creatures jerked and convulsed mid-leap, falling into a tangled pile.

On the far side of the plaza, Bruce let go. The Hulk roared into being, landing with enough force to crack the stone beneath him. With a bellow, he swept his massive arms through a cluster of enemies, sending bodies flying like debris in a storm. He grabbed two by the legs and swung them into a third, clearing a path through the chaos.

Natasha was already in motion, darting between limbs and snapping jaws, moving with the precision of a scalpel. She dropped into a spin-kick, elbowed a creature off its feet, and jabbed her Widow’s Bite directly into another’s throat. Her fists moved too fast to follow—five attackers, five strikes, and none of them stood after.

Peter soared above them, laughing—not out of mockery, but pure thrill.

“Catch me now, you freaky glitch-goblins!” he whooped, webbing two creatures against the marble shoulder of his world’s Thor statue. He vaulted off the hammer and zipped between trees, spinning a net in midair that wrapped three more monsters into a screeching, tangled knot.

Blue light rippled from Tony’s boots as he kicked higher into the air, the shaky propulsion flaring with every sharp twist. Beneath him, the monument plaza was chaos—dozens of the glitching creatures crawling from the tear in the air, limbs twitching with jagged motion, like corrupted code made flesh.

Steve shouted something below—Tony didn’t hear it, not over the rising hum of his boots and the pulsing alarm in his HUD.

Then—movement. A flicker of shadow.

A clawed limb slashed from the side.

Tony jerked midair, barely dodging—his balance tipped hard, altitude dropping—

“Mr. Stark!” Peter’s voice cracked through the comm.

In a blink, red and blue streaked across his line of sight—Peter somersaulted through the air, webbing a creature mid-lunge and slamming it into the Captain America statue with bone-rattling force. Stone dust exploded around the impact.

Peter launched himself off a lamppost, webbing a cluster of the flickering creatures mid-air and slamming them into the monument base with a gleeful shout. “Boom! That’s three! Who’s keeping score?”

He didn’t see the one crawling along the arch behind him—fast, low to the ground, its limbs twitching unnaturally.

Tony spotted it from above. “Kid—!”

Too late. The creature leapt—claws out, fangs glinting.

Peter turned just as it launched, eyes going wide behind the mask. “Oh—”

Tony dropped like a missile, boots flaring blue. He crashed into the creature mid-air, shoulder-first, knocking it clean off trajectory. They hit the stone together, Tony grunting as he pinned it down with his knee and blasted its chest with a half-charged repulsor.

The thing screeched once—then crumbled into smoke and ash.

Peter landed in a roll nearby, kicking up dust. “Okay. That one snuck up on me,” he said, brushing dirt off his shoulder. 

Tony pointed a finger at him, breath short. “You get one smug victory lap per battle, not three.”

Peter lifted both hands. “Lesson learned. Confidence dialed down.”

Then a fresh wave of shrieks echoed from the monument—another rift beginning to tear open.

Tony glanced at him. “Dial it down faster.”

And just like that, they were moving again.

More creatures burst through the rift—crawling over marble limbs, flooding down statues like a wave of glitching insects. The air turned thick with smoke and ozone, their high-pitched screeches blending into a wall of sound. Arrows flew, web-lines snapped, fists cracked against chitin. For every one they downed, two more skittered out from the rupture.

“Stark!” Steve shouted, shield up.

Tony didn’t hesitate. He caught the angle, aimed fast. The blast fired from his gauntlet with a high-pitched whine, slamming into Steve’s shield like a thunderclap. The vibranium absorbed and redirected it perfectly—an arcing whip of energy slicing through a wave of creatures and hammering the base of the monument’s plaque.

“Rude,” Natasha muttered, kicking a creature away from Steve’s face with a clean, vicious spin.

It was useless. The swarm kept coming. Multiplying. Endless.

Smoke rolled across the plaza, dense and acrid, coating the air with heat and grit. Tony swerved hard through it, eyes locked on the next wave of creatures swarming the base of the monument—when something slammed into his side.

A shriek of metal tore through his suit.

Claws raked across his right boot. He fired back on instinct, repulsor blazing, but it was too late—the boot sparked, systems frying. His balance went with it

He crashed hard onto the stone, metal arm shrieking as he skidded across the ground. His back slammed against the edge of the monument base—his vision blurred, ribs protesting with a sharp flare of pain.

“Damn it—” he barely managed, disoriented.

A shadow moved in the smoke. Fast.

The creature came at him full force, a blur of limbs and shrieking static. His systems were too slow. His arms too heavy.

And then it stopped—colliding not with him, but with Steve’s shield.

Steve stood over him, braced in a low stance, the impact rocking through his frame. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak at first. Just stayed there, his shield firm and his body a wall between Tony and the chaos.

Tony looked up at him, breath caught sharp behind his ribs. Smoke curled around them, dulling the edges of sound, muting the chaos behind the ringing in his ears.

“You alright?” Steve asked, his voice low, steady despite the mayhem. He didn’t move, just stood there above him, blue eyes scanning his face for anything out of place.

Tony reached up, fingers finding the back of Steve’s neck, and used him to pull himself upright. His grip lingered longer than it needed to—grounding himself. As soon as his feet were under him, he lifted his other hand, firing a clean repulsor shot just past Steve’s shoulder. The creature going for his throat dropped in a heap of sparks and smoke.

“Been better,” Tony murmured, the words barely louder than a breath.

Steve’s arm came around his waist instinctively, holding him up even though Tony was already steady. He didn’t pull away. Instead, he dipped his head, resting his forehead gently in the crook of Tony’s neck. His breath was warm there, a soft exhale that shivered down Tony’s spine. Just a second. Just a touch.

But it settled in Tony’s chest like something vast.

Steve chuckled softly, close enough to feel. “No more flying for today,” he said, voice full of something lighter than worry—gentle and protective, almost fond.

He stepped away. They turned around. They were surrounded.

The plaza had become a battleground of shadows and smoke, the statue looming like a cruel monument above it all. Creatures hissed and shrieked, crawling over rubble, walls, each other—flickering with glitching edges and warping limbs. They closed in with no rhythm, no pattern. Just relentless hunger.

Natasha was slowing down. Her strikes were still precise, but her movements lagged by half a breath, hair matted to her face with sweat and dust. Clint was leaning against a broken piece of the monument, his quiver nearly empty. He loosed one arrow, then another—two perfect shots, but there were too many. His fingers trembled at his side, reaching for bolts that weren’t there.

Behind them, the Hulk roared—raw, thunderous—but even that sound carried strain now. He swayed beneath the weight of them, dozens of creatures latched onto his shoulders and legs, clawing and dragging. He spun, smashed, ripped bodies free, but for every one flung into the sky, five more crawled from the fissures and latched on. Even rage had its limits.

Peter skidded beside them, breathless. His suit was torn across the shoulder, one glove smoking. “This looks bad…” he muttered, voice thinner than usual, trying for lightness but failing.

Tony could barely answer. His ribs burned every time he drew breath. His HUD flickered, red and orange alerts stacking up like static. The broken boot dragged behind him, sparking occasionally. He tasted blood in the corner of his mouth. This would’ve been easier in the full suit. Easier when he was younger. Stronger. When the world didn’t already feel half lost.

Steve stood beside him, silent. Then: a quiet click of leather as he tightened the straps on his shield. It gleamed, scratched and dented but still whole. Still ready.

“I’ve seen worse,” Steve said.

Tony huffed, breath wheezing in his chest. “Yeah, you live for the encore.”

They fought.

It was slower now, more desperate. Every strike was calculated for survival, not style. Steve’s shield cracked against skulls, splintering jawbones and knocking enemies into each other like dominos. Natasha fought close, brutal—twisting bodies with the full weight of her legs, elbows jabbing throats. Clint resorted to stabbing with broken arrows, the last bolts gone. Peter clung to the statue’s shoulder, using his height for leverage—webbing two, three creatures together and flinging them away, only for more to climb in their place.

Tony barely got off another blast—his gauntlet sputtering, his breath catching. The air reeked of smoke, burning plastic, ozone. His arm ached. His chest was lead.

And then—

A flash of light.

Not just light—radiance. The sky ripped open above them with a crack of thunder and brilliance. The clouds split as if slashed by the hand of a god.

A spear of lightning carved through the swarm, white-blue and blinding, slamming into the plaza with a sound like the world cracking in half. The impact sent bodies flying—creatures flung backward in streaks of light, incinerated mid-screech. The force cracked the pavement, split stone, vaporized the air.

A second pulse followed—golden, controlled, precise. It whipped through the chaos in a tight arc, slicing across the enemy line like a celestial blade. The creatures disintegrated in bursts of vapor and heat, their forms blinking out in shimmering static.

Tony lifted his head, shielding his eyes. His HUD blinked, struggling to adjust. Then he saw them.

Thor descended like wrath incarnate—lightning dancing from his hammer to his fingers, his cape a red slash against the blackened sky. Mjolnir gleamed in his hand, still sparking from the strike.

Beside him, Captain Marvel hovered in the air—gold light coiled around her arms, her body a burning sun. Her eyes scanned the battlefield, calculating, cold. She fired another beam, and it cut a perfect line through a dozen more enemies.

A streak of metal tore through the air like thunder cracking open the sky.

“Alright, Walmart Avengers,” came a voice over the loudspeakers—synthetic, sharp, and unmistakably smug. 

Tony froze. Every hair on his neck stood upright.

“Party’s over. The grown-ups are here.”

An Iron Man suit dropped from the sky in a burst of white-blue light, landing hard in a three-point pose that cracked the pavement under its boots. It rose with slow precision—controlled, menacing—and turned just in time to fire a clean repulsor shot into the face of a creature lunging toward it. The alien dropped, twitching. Smoke curled off its body.

Tony stared—and something in him lurched. The armor was familiar in a way that hit bone-deep. It wasn’t one of his newer builds, nothing bleeding-edge or hyper-optimized. It was old-school. Clean. Efficient. A version he'd once sketched in the early days of sleepless nights and hopeful drafts. Red and gold, more angular than graceful, with shoulder plating he’d abandoned after realizing how hard it was to stretch in. It wasn’t beautiful—but it worked.

“Rogers, I’m at the statue,” the suit announced over the comms, calm and clinical.

With a flick of its wrist, it launched a miniature pulse grenade toward the central plaque. The explosion was compact but devastating. Stone shattered. Metal screamed.

Beneath the debris, nestled in the cratered earth, was the source—an engine of tangled wires and humming, living matter. Pulsing. Almost organic. Black veins throbbed through coils of circuitry and gleamed with a sick, oily sheen.

Tony stepped forward, breath caught in his throat. “That’s—”

Before he could finish, the Iron Man lifted its palm and obliterated the device with a single, brutal blast.

No hesitation. No analysis. Just execution.

Ash rained from the sky. Slow. Weightless. Final.

The creatures had turned to dust—snuffed out like candles in a vacuum. Their shrieks gone. Their weight lifted. The plaza fell into eerie silence, broken only by the hum of residual energy crackling along the edges of the broken monument.

Tony lowered his metal arm. It felt heavy. Wrong. His fingers twitched once, then stilled.

The adrenaline dropped out from under him like a trapdoor.

Pain screamed back in—white-hot, radiating from his ribs, his spine, his skull. His legs buckled, boots skidding on the scorched stone. He tried to brace, but the trembling in his arm betrayed him.

Across the haze, he saw Steve turning toward him—eyes sharp with panic, lips forming a name.

And just beyond him, the other Iron Man. Standing tall. Untouched. Watching.

“Cute effort,” the modulated voice crackled, almost amused. 

Tony’s knees hit the ground.

His vision blurred—Steve’s face warping at the edges, ash curling through the air like smoke in water. Splotches of black danced across his sight line. He caught one last glimpse of Steve lunging toward him.

Then the world vanished.

 

Notes:

Whew!

Chapter 7: Strangerville III

STEVE

 

The Quinjet hovered above them, wind kicking up dust and debris. The cold, expressionless faceplate of the other Iron Man turned toward them, gave the slightest nod, then pivoted to face the open ramp.

An invitation. Or a command. Hard to tell.

Steve hesitated. Just a breath.

He didn’t trust them. Not this world. Not these Avengers. But when he looked down at Tony—limp in his arms, chest rising unevenly, a bruise already blooming dark beneath his jaw—he knew there was no choice.

Every inhale was shallow, strained. Like it cost Tony something just to keep breathing.

Steve adjusted his grip carefully, avoiding the ribs he knew were cracked, his palm catching the heat of a fever rising fast. “Let’s move,” he muttered, nodding at Peter.

They carried him up the ramp into the Quinjet. No medical bay waited for them—just the narrow, metallic space behind the cockpit, lined with jump seats and storage panels. 

A collapsible stretcher with wheels, usually strapped to the side wall for emergencies, had been pulled out and locked in place. That would have to do.

Steve laid Tony down as gently as he could, wincing when a quiet rasp slipped from his throat. Peter hovered nearby, hands clenched at his sides, eyes wide.

Iron Man stood a few feet away, silent. Watching. Waiting.

The message was clear: We’ll help him. But on our terms.

Steve crouched beside the stretcher, one hand braced near Tony’s shoulder, the other still hovering over his chest, not quite ready to let go.

The soft wheeze of the hydraulics marked their takeoff, followed by the muted hum of the Quinjet settling into motion. Captain Marvel sat at the controls, her hands steady, gaze fixed forward. No one spoke.

This world’s Tony Stark stepped out of the armor and sank into the co-pilot’s seat with the ease of someone used to filling space. He didn’t glance back.

Behind him, the suit remained upright—still, imposing. It stood like a statue, hands at its sides, the faint glow of its arc reactor pulsing with indifferent calm. A sentinel at rest, but not asleep.

He hadn’t left it there out of mistrust. It was muscle memory. Instinct. The same way someone leaves a light on in an empty hallway. Something about the gesture said: just in case.

It was casual. Effortless. The way things had always been.

Nat and Clint sat on either side of Thor—this version of him younger somehow, cleaner. His hair was cropped short, gold and neatly combed, no wild braid or thunder-worn tangles. The red cloak draped down his back like it was part of a uniform, not a legacy.

He sat with an ease that didn’t belong in the cramped, tense space of the Quinjet. Shoulders loose, legs wide, posture open. He wasn’t on edge like the rest of them. In fact, he looked almost entertained.

His eyes were fixed on Steve, studying him with a kind of idle curiosity, like someone flipping through an old book and finding familiar lines written in a stranger’s hand.

A small smile tugged at his mouth—not mocking, just vaguely amused.

He knew there was no danger for him here

“It is most remarkable,” Thor said at last, his voice thick with an Asgardian accent, each word blooming in the metallic hush of the Quinjet. “You are the very image of our Captain—in bearing, in gaze, even in silence.”

Steve flinched.

This Thor was different—open-faced, bright-eyed, adorned in burnished gold plates and heavy red drapes that hung from his shoulders like ceremonial armor. There was no caution in him. No restraint. Just the unfiltered awe of someone who had not yet learned when to stay quiet.

“Thor, what did I tell you about talking to strangers?” came the other Tony’s voice—dry, amused, impossible to miss. He didn’t even glance over his shoulder, but the grin was obvious in his tone, hanging in the air like a private joke.

Thor only shrugged, unconcerned, and turned his gaze toward Peter instead. His eyes swept over him with the same open curiosity, head tilting slightly as if fitting a new piece into an old memory.

“The spiderling bears resemblance as well,” Thor said, eyes narrowing slightly. His golden hair shifted as he turned, catching the light like polished metal. “Are you certain he is not the one from Queens?”

There was no malice in it—just genuine confusion, spoken aloud like a thought that didn’t quite wait for permission.

The ride was short. Quiet in that particular way that made every sound feel louder than it should be.

After about twenty minutes, Captain Marvel’s voice cut through, sharp and steady. “We’re docking in five.”

“Good,” the other Stark said, pushing up from his seat and stretching like he hadn’t been in a life-or-death situation just hours ago. He moved around the cockpit with easy familiarity, then stepped toward the suit waiting beside him like an old friend.

Steve caught a glimpse of him just before he disappeared inside the armor. His hair was a bit longer, combed back with a small flair that curled slightly at the ends. His goatee was thicker than usual, neatly trimmed. He wore a faded Black Sabbath T-shirt over a dark long-sleeve undersuit, paired with black jeans and scuffed boots—like the mission hadn’t touched him at all.

Then the suit closed around him with a hiss. The Iron Man armor came to life with a soft whir of servos, metal plates adjusting into place with practiced grace.

Steve stood slowly, gaze already drawn to the far corner of the Quinjet where Tony lay. The bed looked too small, too exposed. His chest rose in shallow rhythm, each breath a quiet effort. The bots had begun to move, gliding the bed toward the exit with their usual efficiency.

Steve stepped forward without a word, his hand finding the edge of the frame. 

“I got it,” he said firmly. His fingers curled slightly, unintentionally bending the metal under his touch. 

The Iron Man helmet turned toward him, head tilting just enough to acknowledge the gesture. There was no threat in it. No warning. Just observation—curious, maybe even considerate.

“Worry not, False Captain,” Thor boomed, his voice echoing off the Quinjet’s walls like it had too much space to fill. He stepped closer and placed a massive hand on Steve’s shoulder—steady, almost reassuring, but far too heavy to ignore.

Steve tensed instinctively. The weight pressed into him, not painful, just solid. Like being acknowledged by something ancient.

“We have a medbay at the Embassy,” Thor continued, smiling like it was obvious. “The Fake Stark shall rest there, and be well tended.”

Steve clenched his jaw. He didn’t respond at first. The phrasing— False Captain , Fake Stark —sat wrong in his chest, even if Thor meant no harm by it. Maybe especially because he didn’t.

Bruce spoke up before the moment could tighten further.

“Thank you,” he said gently, stepping forward. “We just want to make sure Tony gets there safely.”

His voice was calm, his eyes soft as they landed on Thor—measured, grounding. It was enough to let the tension ease just a little.

Thor shrugged, the gold plates on his shoulders catching the overhead lights with a soft glint. He looked genuinely entertained, as if the weight of what had just happened barely grazed him. Then, without another word, he turned and strode out of the Quinjet alongside Iron Man—two myths stepping back into their own world.

Captain Marvel lingered near the ramp, arms crossed, posture tight. She didn’t follow. She watched. Her eyes tracked every movement like a sentry, sharp and unreadable, tension coiled just beneath the surface. A guard dog waiting for a signal that hadn’t come yet.

Steve exhaled through his nose and gave Peter a quiet nod. Wordless, practiced. Peter moved to the other side of Tony’s bed and took hold of the frame.

They pushed in sync, careful not to jostle him. Tony didn’t stir.

The metal beneath their hands was still warm from the Quinjet's engine heat. Outside, wind whispered against the open ramp, carrying the sterile scent of landing fuel and the sharpness of city air.

Clint, Nat, and Bruce fell into step behind them, a loose formation. No one spoke. The quiet wasn’t hostile—it was just heavy, like everyone knew they’d crossed a line they didn’t quite understand.

They stepped out onto the terrace, the sound of boots and wheels muted by the open air. The heliport stretched wide around them, concrete clean and unblemished, the skyline flickering beyond in sterile shades of blue and steel.

At the far end, a figure stood waiting.

He didn’t move, didn’t shift his weight or glance around to assess. Just stood—spine straight, shoulders square, hands clasped neatly behind his back. He was motionless in the way of someone trained to be, like he'd been standing there for hours and would continue for hours more if ordered.

The suit he wore was bright, the blue vivid beneath the overcast light. Padded only lightly at the chest and shoulders, it fit like regulation—not armor, but uniform. The white stripes across his torso gleamed, spotless and sharp, as if cleaned by hand that morning. Maybe they had been.

Steve slowed.

The man waiting for them smiled, small and exact, as if he’d rehearsed it. His hair was trimmed into a perfect military cut, combed to the side with an almost unnatural precision. Sunlight caught on streaks of gold in the blond, glinting like polished brass. His jaw was clean-shaven. His eyes, startlingly blue, took everything in without flicker or shift.

He looked like a still from a recruitment poster—like someone had peeled him from a frame and dropped him here, frozen in place.

Iron Man strode past him without pause, the mechanical thud of his boots echoing faintly against the terrace floor. He didn’t stop. Didn’t offer a greeting. Just gave a short nod—barely a flick of the chin—before shifting his attention elsewhere entirely.

Already deep in conversation with the building’s AI, his voice carried through the comms in quick, clipped bursts—asking for energy readings from the breach site, stress data on the Quinjet’s hull, real-time mapping of dimensional residue. 

“Captain,” the other Steve greeted, voice steady, his smile precise—tight at the corners, controlled like the rest of him.

Steve felt a strange rush of vertigo. The man standing before him was a copy down to the smallest details. The faint line at the edge of his eyes, the clean curve of his upper lip, the subtle reddish tint in his cheeks—all familiar, all correct . But put together, they felt unreal. Like seeing his own reflection move before he did.

He stepped forward and extended a hand.

“Captain,” he returned, his voice quieter than he meant it to be.

They shook. Grips firm, perfectly measured. Neither overpowering nor yielding.

The other Steve met his gaze head-on, holding it just long enough to press something unspoken between them. Not aggression. Not even doubt. Just a quiet appraisal, as if sorting through every difference he couldn’t name.

Like he was making a list.

“Tony—uh, my Tony—is hurt,” Steve said, the words catching slightly at the edge of his breath. “Could we use your facilities to treat his wounds?”

He didn’t look at the other Steve as he spoke. His eyes drifted instead to the man lying still on the bed—lips parted in uneasy sleep, brows faintly drawn even in rest, as if resisting something even now. The kind of resistance that came from pain, not will.

The other Steve’s brows lifted, just slightly. A flicker of surprise passed across his face—not judgment, just calculation. Something reassessing behind his eyes.

“Yes, of course,” he said after a beat. “Follow me, please.”

They moved through the Embassy in silence, footsteps soft against polished marble floors. The hallways were wide and immaculate, lit by warm recessed lights that cast a gentle glow across clean lines and curated art.

The air smelled faintly of lemon polish and something sharper beneath—sterile, but expensive. Doors opened ahead of them with quiet precision, the building responding like it had already anticipated their path.

At the front, the other Steve walked with steady confidence, never needing to look back. He stopped at an unmarked door, pressed his hand to the panel, and the lock clicked open.

“This is the medbay,” the other Steve said, pausing at the doorway and gesturing them inside with a smooth, practiced motion. His hand barely moved, fingers flicking in a controlled arc—more command than invitation.

The room beyond was bright, sterile, and humming softly with quiet machinery. A faint scent of antiseptic hung in the air, clean but sharp, grounding.

A man in a crisp white lab coat stood waiting near the far wall, a tablet in one hand, the other resting calmly at his side. He looked up as they entered and gave a polite nod in the other Steve’s direction—efficient, respectful, but not warm.

“You can leave Stark here,” the other Steve continued, his voice steady, already turning toward the corridor. “We’ll begin the briefing in the conference room.”

Steve’s brows knit, the crease between them deepening as he stepped closer to the bed. His hand tightened around the frame, knuckles whitening against the metal.

“I’m not leaving him,” he said, jaw locked, the words pressed between his teeth.

The other Steve blinked, his posture stiffening with surprise. His gaze flicked briefly from the bed to Steve, as if recalibrating something he’d assumed.

“Huh,” he murmured, brow still raised. “I don't think he’d be well enough for the meeting. We can brief him later.”

His voice remained even, but there was a pause—small, subtle—like he was trying to figure out why it mattered.

Steve’s frown deepened, his grip still firm on the bed frame. “What? No,” he said, sharper now, the edge of offense clear in his voice. “I’m not leaving him alone.”

The other Steve’s mouth shaped a silent oh , the realization settling a beat too late. He shifted where he stood, his eyes darting to the others behind them—Clint, Nat, Bruce—looking for support that hadn’t been offered.

“Can’t you just leave him with one of them?” he asked, gesturing vaguely over his shoulder. “We need you for the meeting, Captain.”

His tone remained formal, but the discomfort was starting to show in the way he didn’t quite meet Steve’s eyes.

Steve’s jaw tightened, shoulders drawing back slightly as he braced for an argument. The response was already forming, sharp and immovable—but before he could speak, a hand tugged gently at his side.

Peter.

He was standing close now, eyes steady, voice low but certain. “Steve, go. I’ll stay with him.”

His fingers lingered at Steve’s jacket, not pulling, just anchoring. A quiet offer, not a push.

Steve stared at the masked face in front of him. The lenses gave nothing away, but the voice had been steady—calm in a way Peter didn’t always manage. Spider-Man was more than capable. His comms were synced, his instincts sharp. Steve knew that.

But the idea of leaving them— leaving Tony —alone in this place, surrounded by strangers who wore familiar faces, didn’t sit right. Not in his gut.

Still, the pull of duty was strong, dragging at the edges of him. The fractures in the world weren’t going to wait.

He bit down on his lower lip, the tension settling deep in his chest, low and aching. The decision didn’t come easy. It never did.

“Fine,” Steve said at last, his voice low and tight. He stared down at the Spider-Man mask, holding the gaze as best he could through the mirrored lenses. “But if anything happens, you call me. Immediately.”

He turned, eyes snapping to Clint. “Barton, you stay with him.”

Clint gave a short nod, already stepping forward. His hand closed around the bed frame, steady and sure, and Steve felt the faint resistance as Tony’s weight passed out of his grip.

Together, Clint and Peter wheeled the bed into the medbay. The door hadn’t fully closed yet when Steve caught one last glimpse—Tony’s side, darkened with blood, his shirt clinging to the wound.

Steve’s chest pulled tight, breath shallow as the doors slid shut between them.

 

---

 

The conference room was just one floor below the medbay. Without a word, Steve turned and took the stairs, footsteps steady against the polished concrete. A few seconds later, the other Steve followed, boots catching on the echo as he muttered something under his breath.

The walls were pristine—smooth concrete warmed by ambient lighting, every surface engineered to feel expensive without drawing attention to itself. Glass panels along the hallway offered glimpses of interior courtyards too symmetrical to feel natural.

Steve moved at a calm pace, but his eyes missed nothing. He noted the placement of cameras, the blind spots. The way each hallway angled toward choke points. Every door, every exit. His mind marked it all—habit, instinct. A map, just in case.

Natasha walked at his side in silence, her arms crossed, her expression unreadable as always. Bruce trailed a few steps behind, hands tucked into his pockets, his eyes flicking up toward security panels and motion sensors like he couldn’t help himself.

The other Steve walked ahead, unbothered, moving with the kind of ease that came from knowing no one would stop him. Every step of his felt practiced—efficient, but never rushed.

Even the air felt too controlled. Filtered, conditioned—just enough to make him miss the scent of blood and metal he’d left behind.

The other Steve held open the glass door, his posture picture-perfect, one hand on the handle and a polite, practiced smile set in place. 

Natasha and Bruce stepped in first without a word, their movements quiet, unhurried. Steve lingered for half a second, casting a glance over his shoulder—up the hall, toward the way they'd come—before following them in.

The room was wide and sleek, more polished than he expected. A long, dark table ran the length of the space, framed by high-backed chairs that looked expensive but unused. The floor was carpeted in soft gray, the kind that absorbed sound, and floor-to-ceiling windows lined one wall, offering a panoramic view of the town below—quiet streets, sharp shadows, neatly ordered blocks.

Thor was already inside, lounging in one of the chairs with casual ease, one arm draped over the back. Captain Marvel stood near the window, arms crossed, bathed in the pale light spilling in through the glass.

They looked calm. Settled. Like they’d been here for hours and nothing outside these walls could touch them. It didn’t feel like a military debrief. It felt like a boardroom—sharp, quiet, and under control. 

The Iron Man suit stood silently in the corner, motionless in standby—its arc reactor casting a faint blue glow against the glass wall. It looked more like a sculpture than armor, a sentinel placed just so.

At the head of the table, the other Tony Stark sat reclined in the central chair, spinning it slightly back and forth with one foot against the floor. His eyes were fixed on his phone, thumb scrolling, expression unreadable.

Steve watched as his counterpart took the seat at the far end of the table, directly opposite the other Tony. A large screen behind him lit up with maps, data feeds, and pulsing markers.

“Okay. Let’s start the meeting,” the other Steve said, his voice even, the kind that didn’t invite questions. As the chairs slid back, Steve moved to the one closest to the door—quietly, instinctively.

“It’s 1617 hours on the 17th of February. Present are: Iron Man, Captain Marvel, Thor, Captain America… and three guests.”

At the far end of the table, the other Tony let out a quiet laugh—low, amused, and just loud enough to carry. He was half-turned in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, thumb skimming casually over the screen of his phone. 

Steve glanced at him—at the way he slouched comfortably in the high-backed chair, at the easy sprawl of his limbs, like this wasn’t a briefing about a multiversal threat but a routine check-in before drinks. His arc reactor blinked faintly through the faded fabric of his shirt, barely visible beneath the soft folds. He looked younger somehow—no, not younger. Just… lighter. Like nothing here had ever managed to weigh him down.

“The subjects to discuss are: Multiversal fractures. Contingency plan. City cleanup. And—unwanted visitors.”

Steve’s jaw tightened. The phrasing wasn’t aggressive, but it landed sharp. Clean. Like they’d already been sorted into a folder and labeled.

Before he could respond, Thor’s laugh rolled through the room—loud, unbothered, and echoing off the polished walls like something too big for the space.

“Come now, don’t be so cold, Captain!” he said, grinning wide. “They are most well-received guests!”

He turned his gaze toward Steve with unfiltered curiosity, eyes bright. There was no malice in it—just that unmistakable expression of someone seeing something strange and endearing for the first time, like stumbling across a cat video in the middle of a war report.

The other Steve nodded, pen scratching quietly against the notepad. “Any other items to discuss?”

“I want a full report on Tony’s state within the next hour,” Steve said, the words firm, landing like a command.

The shift was immediate.

Across the table, the other Steve’s pen paused mid-word. His brow creased, not sharply, but enough to register surprise. Not annoyance—just something slightly off-script. His eyes flicked up, studying Steve like a line in a briefing he hadn’t expected.

The other Tony’s fingers stilled on his phone. He looked up—not annoyed, but caught off guard, like he hadn’t expected to hear his name spoken aloud, let alone like that. The look he gave Steve wasn’t sharp, but it lingered. As if unsure whether he’d misheard. 

He didn’t say anything. Neither did anyone else. The silence wasn’t loud, but it pressed in around them—air caught in the walls, waiting to shift.

Natasha’s eyes flicked to Steve, then to Bruce. Bruce glanced back. Neither said a word, but the message passed between them easily.

“Uhm. Okay. Yeah,” the other Steve said after a beat, shifting in his chair. He scratched something down in his notebook, posture a touch stiffer now. “Noted.”

Steve gave a small nod, jaw tight. No one else moved.

The room didn’t reset immediately. The interruption had unsettled the rhythm—just enough to make the silence stretch.

The other Steve glanced back down at his notes, distracted, eyes moving without focus.

Carol cleared her throat, sharp enough to draw everyone’s attention. “Cap—the riffs on the west coast are closing. When we took this one offline, it helped stabilize the field. But the readings are still off. We’re likely to see another one open within the next few hours.”

The other Tony let out a low sigh and made an exaggerated show of checking his watch, elbow propped on the armrest like he had all the time in the world.

“I’d say… seventy-five minutes. Give or take. Depends on the game tonight.”

His tone was light, almost flippant—like this was all part of a familiar pattern, nothing to worry about.

Across the table, the other Steve gave a small nod, unbothered. He didn’t react to the tone, didn’t correct him—just made another note in his pad, as if the timing was the only thing that mattered.

“Okay. Thank you, Stark. Danvers,” the other Steve said, eyes on the page as his pen moved. “Thor—how are things looking in the East?”

Thor shrugged with one shoulder, the motion loose and unconcerned. He reached for Mjolnir and flipped it once, letting it spin briefly before catching it in his hand..

“Still the same,” he said, tone almost bored.

The other Steve gave a small nod as his pen moved across the page, precise and unhurried.

“Alright. We stick to protocol,” he said, not looking up. “We monitor the anomalies, respond if the readings spike beyond threshold. The West team should stabilize the next rift on schedule.”

He flipped to a new page, underlining something as he spoke.

“We’ll need to send a recon team to examine the remains at the monument—get a clearer picture of the entry point.”

His voice was calm. Efficient. Like he was walking them through a fire drill.

Captain Marvel gave a thoughtful hum, arms still folded as she leaned slightly toward the table.

“We can run a full perimeter sweep at the next portal site. Loop in local authorities, prep for civilian evacuation if needed.”

Across from her, the other Tony made a face, scrunching his nose like she’d just overcomplicated a grocery run.

“Is that even necessary?” he said, waving a hand. “Just send the B-Team—they’ll be done in twenty minutes, tops.”

Carol rolled her eyes. “I told you not to call them that.”

Tony huffed a laugh, tossing his phone on the table with a lazy spin. “One of them doesn’t even have a driver’s license. I think the nickname is—”

“Three-block perimeter should be enough,” the other Steve said, cutting in without looking up. His tone was neutral, unbothered, like he hadn’t heard the joke at all—or heard it and chose not to care.

Steve watched the exchange in silence. The way the other Tony slouched in his chair, hand draped loosely over the armrest. The small tilt at the corner of his mouth, too practiced to be genuine. The lazy flick of his eyelashes as he glanced toward the ceiling, already losing interest in the conversation.

Carol gave a small nod, already turning her attention to the tablet in front of her. The other Tony didn’t say anything—just flicked his phone back into his hand, eyes dropping to the screen like nothing had just been discussed.

Across the table, Bruce shifted in his seat. His hands were loosely clasped in front of him, fingers twitching against each other, the movement small but constant.

“Uh—sorry to interrupt,” he said, voice a little too soft for the room. “You guys know about the rifts? We’ve been tracking them for weeks, but this is the first time one’s actually pulled us into another universe.”

The other Steve turned toward him, brows knitting faintly. His posture straightened, just a little—shoulders tightening like they expected a salute. For a beat, he didn’t respond, just looked at Bruce, surprised to be spoken to so plainly. His eyes flicked down to the man’s clothes, then back up to his face, as if recalibrating who exactly was talking.

“Dr. Banner,” the other Steve replied, his tone gentle, almost patient. “We can give you a full briefing packet after the meeting. The rifts first appeared about a year ago. So far, they’ve caused little more than isolated disturbances—misplaced weather patterns, mild magnetic shifts. Nothing critical.”

Before the explanation could continue, Natasha cut in.

“Any other visitors?” she asked, her voice sharper than the room had been used to. Not aggressive—just precise. Focused.

“No. You’re the first,” the other Steve replied without hesitation. His voice didn’t shift—steady, practiced, as if the possibility had already been accounted for. “But we’ve anticipated some kind of collision for a while now. Once your team appeared in the city, we began monitoring the area closely. The clash at the monument marked the rift’s epicenter.”

He glanced briefly toward the projection behind him, where faint pulses still flickered across the map. “The creatures you’ve met—shades, we call them—are manifestations from another dimension.”

Steve’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You’ve encountered them before.”

Thor leaned forward, clearly pleased to contribute.

“Marvellous creatures, truly,” he said, his tone as jovial as ever. “They flicker like flame and vanish in a cloud of ash. Fascinating little fellas.”

He smiled, as if he’d just described a rare bird rather than something that had tried to kill them.

Bruce exhaled sharply and pinched the bridge of his nose, his fingers pressing into the corners of his eyes.

“I’m sorry, Captain,” he said, looking directly at the other Steve. “I don’t mean to be rude, but—how are you all so calm? This is an incursion event. The ramifications are massive. Dimensional instability on this scale could unravel planetary structure. Memory. Time. Everything . How are you so confident?”

The room went still.

No immediate replies. No objections. Just the low hum of the overhead lights and the muted whir of the projector on the wall.

Carol glanced at Thor. Thor looked at the other Steve. A few exchanged sidelong glances, not tense—just awkward. Like they weren’t sure if Bruce was joking or just missing something obvious.

The other Tony finally set his phone down, brows drawing together in mild confusion. He leaned forward, hands folding loosely over the table, and looked at Bruce like he was trying to explain gravity to a toddler.

“We’re the Avengers,” he said, slow and deliberate, like that alone should settle the matter.

There was no sarcasm in his voice. No arrogance, either. Just the calm, matter-of-fact assurance of someone who had never needed to imagine a world where they lost.

---

 

The meeting dragged on with the rhythm of a standard briefing—efficient, well-timed, almost boring. Around him, chairs shifted, pens scratched, voices rose and fell with practiced ease.

Steve sat still, jaw tight, watching it unfold like a play he didn't remember rehearsing. The calm in the room unsettled him more than any warning siren could have. This team treated the crisis like a scheduling issue, not a fracture in reality.

It was like watching a distorted recording of themselves—every movement familiar, every detail slightly off. The other Steve spoke with the same cadence, but certain words fell flatter, clipped at the end like punctuation marks. He held himself with perfect posture, but it felt more like performance than instinct.

Thor spun Mjolnir idly in one hand, not as a weapon, but like a toy—absent-minded, restless. And Tony, the other Tony, never met anyone’s eyes. His gaze drifted from screen to ceiling to table edge, as if none of it required his attention.

It was them, but not. Like hearing his own voice played back through static—recognizable, but off in ways he couldn’t quite name. The meeting itself unfolded like muscle memory—no corrections, no questions. Just the smooth, rehearsed machinery of people who’d never needed to second-guess a thing.

This Steve didn’t need control. He already had it. A god at his right hand, a living Infinity Stone across the table, and the most brilliant mind in the world barely glancing up from his phone.

When the meeting finally adjourned, Steve didn’t rise right away. He let his eyes drift across the table—Natasha, then Bruce.

Nat met his gaze first. A single nod, slight but deliberate, the kind they used when words would only get in the way. Bruce looked more shaken. He didn’t nod, just pressed his lips together and lowered his eyes, fidgeting slightly with the seam of his sleeve.

They all felt it. The unease. The gaps in the briefing. The way the other team skimmed past danger like it was routine. The things they didn't say about the rifts. They’d need to talk. Soon. Privately.

But now, the only thing that mattered was Tony. His Tony.

Steve stood once the other Captain gave a final nod of dismissal. He thanked them quietly, polite out of habit, and stepped back from the table.

They were expected to remain on Embassy grounds—at least until the recon team returned with their report from the monument. It wasn’t phrased as a requirement, but it felt like one.

The other Steve broke off from the group with a brief promise to arrange accommodations for the duration of their stay. His words were courteous, professional.

But something in his tone—too smooth, too final—made it clear: they wouldn’t be staying anywhere else.

Steve made his way back to the medbay, Bruce and Natasha close behind, their voices low as they murmured over details from the meeting.

He didn’t listen. His pulse thudded heavy in his chest, each beat tightening the breath in his throat.

The hallway stretched ahead in perfect symmetry—sterile white walls, polished floors, sharp lighting without a flicker out of place. Even the echoes of his boots sounded too clean.

A flawless facility. A flawless world.

There was no such thing.

The medbay was just as they’d left it—silent, still, cold with that faint chemical-clean scent that clung to sterile places. As they approached, the door flickered with a soft blue-white scan, then slid open with a whisper.

Steve stepped inside first. His chest tightened as he crossed the threshold, breath catching like his lungs hadn’t gotten the signal to move on.

Then he saw him.

Tony lay in the center of the room, tucked neatly into a wide medical bed. Bandages wrapped his chest and shoulder, stark white against bruised skin. Thin tubes ran from his arm to machines that beeped in steady, soothing rhythm, every light on the monitors a small, green reassurance. His shirt was gone, replaced with a hospital tunic; the dried blood had been wiped clean from his jaw and neck. The strange tangle of tech he’d been wearing before—cables, plating, harness—was gone.

Steve didn’t even realize he was holding his breath until his knees nearly buckled.

The pressure in his chest eased, not all at once, but in slow waves, as if the room itself was giving him permission to exhale.

At the far end of the room, a man hunched over a workbench, magnifying lenses strapped to his head, carefully cleaning Tony’s mechanical arm. A tray of tools sat beside him, each instrument gleaming under the sterile lights. The soft clicks of metal echoed faintly as he worked, precise and unhurried.

At the bed, Clint and Peter were perched on either side, elbows resting on the mattress, a half-played card game spread out across Tony’s legs. They were bent low in concentration, whispering conspiratorially—like kids trying not to wake a sleeping parent.

“No, no—you’re kidding me!” Clint groaned as Peter laid down his hand. “Double smash? Two rounds in a row?”

Peter beamed, scooping the small pile of candy into his lap with both hands. “What can I say, man? The cards love me.”

But his grin faltered as he glanced toward the doorway and saw Steve standing there, still and quiet in the threshold. His hands froze mid-motion, a few pieces of candy tumbling from his fingers to the floor.

“Captain Rogers!” Peter blurted, scrambling to sit up straighter. More candy slipped from his lap and scattered across the floor. “We were just—uh, just passing time.”

Steve smiled, the corner of his mouth tugging up despite himself. Something in his chest eased at the sight.

Peter had taken off the Spider-Man mask, traded it for a faded varsity-style jacket. His bag was tossed in a forgotten heap against the wall. Hair still spiked from sweat or nerves or both, he looked—just for a moment—like any teenager in any hospital room.

“How is he, Pete?” Steve asked gently, voice low

Peter nodded, a smile breaking across his face, all nerves forgotten for a moment. “He’s good, Cap. Just resting. Lost some blood, broke a few ribs—but the arm took most of the hit. So, you know… same old Mr. Stark.”

Steve stepped closer, the rest of the room falling away.

Tony lay still, chest rising in a steady rhythm beneath the soft hospital linens. His forehead had been cleaned, a small bandaid tucked just above one brow. A dark bruise bloomed under his jaw, smeared with a thick, gray ointment that smelled faintly of mint and ginger.

“Good,” Steve murmured, the word catching at the edge of his breath. It wasn’t for Peter. It wasn’t for anyone.

Bruce and Natasha stepped in behind him. Bruce drifted toward the corner where the technician was still tending to Tony’s arm, voice low as he began to ask quiet, clinical questions.

Natasha moved to the other side of the bed. She didn’t speak at first—just reached out and gently brushed a hand through Tony’s hair, slow and careful. A small smile slipped onto her face, almost like muscle memory.

“What now, Cap?” she asked, glancing up at Steve.

He inhaled deeply, scanning the room as if it might answer for him.

“We need to grab our things from the motel,” Steve said, his voice steadying into command. “Nat, can you handle that? I’m sure this place has vehicles we can use.”

She nodded once, already calculating—eyes distant, the mission clicking into place behind them.

“The rest of you should eat. Shower. Rest. We can’t plan anything until Tony wakes up.”

“And we still need the monument readings,” Bruce added from across the room, eyes fixed on the technician’s careful work. The man was adjusting one of Tony’s mechanical fingers with gloved precision. “We don’t have our surveillance gear here—nothing we can trust.”

Steve nodded, thinking it through. “Right. Bruce, can you talk to the other Tony? Find out whatever you can about the energy spikes.”

He paused, his eyes flicking toward the bed—toward Tony, just to be sure he was still out cold—before adding, quieter:

“And ask about Morgan, too. Any information could be useful.”

Bruce straightened slightly, the lines in his face tightening. He gave a single nod, not rushed this time—measured, careful. He understood.

“After that,” Steve continued, his voice gentler now, “find your rooms. Eat something. Get some rest. We’ll regroup tonight.”

The others nodded without protest, already shifting into motion. Natasha was the first to move, slipping out with a glance toward the hallway. Bruce lingered a second longer, then followed, his hands already tugging at the cuffs of his sleeves as his mind turned elsewhere.

Steve stayed where he was.

He didn’t speak, didn’t move—just watched Tony breathe. In. Out. The rise and fall of his chest steadier now.

It took him a moment to notice Peter was still beside him, standing quiet and unmoving, eyes fixed on the same spot.

“You too, Peter,” Steve said softly, not taking his eyes off the bed.

Peter blinked, then turned toward him, surprised. “Oh—no, it’s okay, Captain Ro—”

“Steve is fine, kid,” he interrupted with a small smile.

Peter nodded, a flush creeping into his cheeks. “Uhm… Steve. I’m not really tired. I can stay.”

Steve didn’t answer right away. He just gave Clint a look—short, sharp, and clear.

Clint caught it instantly.

“C’mon, Peter,” Clint said, nudging him with a grin. “I’ll beat you over a round of fries and burgers.”

He leaned in, voice mock-conspiratorial. “Pretty sure this place has those disgustingly huge milkshakes you pretend not to like.”

Peter’s stomach growled right on cue. His eyes widened, lighting up with sudden, reluctant interest.

“Um… yeah. Okay,” he mumbled, faking disinterest.

Clint gave Steve a small wink as he guided Peter out, a silent promise to give him the room he needed. The door eased shut behind them with a soft hiss.

Silence settled again.

Only the faint scraping of tools against metal, the low hum of machines, and the sterile buzz of ceiling lights filled the space.

Steve dragged the chair over to Tony’s left side, the legs making a soft scrape against the tile. He sank into it slowly, the motion deliberate, his body finally giving in to gravity.

He exhaled—long, quiet, letting go the weight he’d been carrying.

Tony lay inches away, the rise and fall of his chest a steady rhythm Steve could anchor to. His lips held their usual flush, color returning to his skin in delicate patches. The deep crease between his brows had eased. No signs of pain. No tension in his jaw.

He was still. Whole. Breathing.

Steve leaned forward slightly, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped together. For the first time in what felt like hours, he let himself feel the relief. Just for a moment.

The meeting churned in his mind, fragments looping out of order—the rifts, the spikes in energy, the way no one in that room seemed worried. It all pointed to something bigger, something building beneath the surface. Steve could feel it, like the electric pressure in the air before a storm.

His jaw stayed tight, breath shallow. Every time he tried to make sense of it, the pieces shifted. The timing of the earthquake. The portal. The silence before it struck. He kept circling back to that moment with the team—what they’d said, what they hadn’t. It felt too clean. Too timed.

And yet… every time he reached for the thought, it slipped. Was this someone’s design? A plan unfolding behind the curtain? Or were they standing inside something that had already begun—something without a blueprint, without a hand guiding it?

The idea hovered just out of reach, blurry at the edges. A question forming.

Who could've taken Morgan?

“Captain Rogers,” the technician said softly, breaking the silence.

Steve looked up. The man was standing beside the bench, gloves off, a faint sheen of effort still on his brow. Tony’s arm rested in a glass cradle at his side—scuffed, battered, repaired with mismatched alloys that caught the light in uneven tones. But it was clean now, the joints reassembled, the wiring tucked in place. Whole, or close enough.

“I’m finished,” he said, nodding toward the arm. “I’ll leave you be. If you need anything, just press the call button.”

He gave a polite dip of his head, then stepped away with the soft professionalism of someone used to vanishing into the background.

A few steps later, the door hissed shut behind the technician—leaving Steve alone in the quiet. Just him and Tony.

Steve sighed, pushing the spinning thoughts to the back of his mind. There would be time for questions—time for the briefing, the debrief, the strategy. Once the team was rested. Once Tony was awake.

For now, he just watched him.

The hospital gown dipped low at the collar, exposing the faint, branching scars that streaked across Tony’s right shoulder—lightning-shaped, almost luminous in the sterile glow of the room. Steve hadn’t seen them this close before. They weren’t angry or raised. They shimmered faintly under the skin, like something burned into him and made sacred by survival.

The scars ran up his neck, brushing just beneath his ear, then disappeared into the edges of his hair—short now, a little uneven, cut more for convenience than style. Patches of silver threaded through the brown, subtle but undeniable. They suited him.

There was a thin slice just beneath his cheekbone, red and raw, a sharp contrast to the rest of his face—peaceful, almost soft in sleep. The lines usually carved around his eyes were smoothed out now. His lashes, darker than Steve remembered, twitched faintly as he dreamed.

Steve felt his chest tighten, breath catching in a way he didn’t expect. The thought came uninvited, simple and absolute—Tony Stark was beautiful.

Not just in the physical sense—though even now, bruised and bandaged, he was—but in the way someone could become a constant without ever meaning to. Resilience had carved itself into Tony’s features over the years, in the faded creases near his eyes, the faint lines at the corners of his mouth. Every scar, every mark told a story of impact, of resistance, of rising again when it would’ve been easier not to.

The room around them was still, wrapped in the low hum of machines and the soft gold wash of late light seeping in through the narrow window. It caught on the curve of Tony’s jaw, the arc of his shoulder, the bend in his fingers.

And in that stillness, Steve felt it—the weight of him. What it meant that Tony was here. What it meant that he could’ve been gone. 

He wasn’t sure when Tony had gone from being a teammate to being this. But he was here now. And Steve couldn’t imagine the room without him.

Tony stirred, a quiet rasp catching in his throat as he shifted against the pillows. His tongue moved slowly across his lips, cracked and dry, like even that small motion cost him.

His head turned, sluggish but deliberate, until his eyes found Steve—lids heavy, lashes clumped from sleep. He blinked once, slow and uneven.

A lazy, lopsided smile curved across his mouth, crooked and soft. Faint, but real.

“Steve,” he breathed, the name slipping out like something he’d been holding onto in sleep. His voice was raw and low, the edges frayed, but there was something almost reverent in the way he said it—like speaking it aloud was enough.

Steve smiled, the kind that crept up slowly and softened the tension in his face.

“Hi,” he whispered, voice barely above the hum of the machines.

Tony blinked again—slow, deliberate, as if each movement took negotiation. “Hi,” he echoed, lips parting around the word like it tasted good.

Steve shifted, dragging the chair a little closer with the quiet scrape of metal legs. “How are you feeling?”

Tony gave a low, breathy chuckle, the sound tugging faintly at his ribs. “High,” he said, drawing the word out with a lazy grin.

Steve lowered his head, a quiet laugh escaping through his nose as he smiled into his hand. “Yeah, well… morphine’ll do that to you.”

Tony gave a slow, absent nod, his eyes slipping closed again as he stretched his neck against the pillow, the motion barely more than a tilt.

“Tell me…” he murmured, voice thick and dragging at the edges, “last time I woke up in a hospital bed, I was missing an arm. How did I do this time?”

Steve’s smile lingered, but something in it faltered. He felt the tight pull of emotion settle behind his ribs, heavy and quiet.

“You did good,” Steve said gently. “Just two fractured ribs and a mild contusion.”

Tony smiled without opening his eyes, his head resting heavily against the pillow. “Good,” he breathed, the word light as exhale.

Beneath the blanket, his arm shifted. Slowly, he drew it out and laid it across the covers—pale fingers unfurling, reaching. Not demanding. Just open.

A silent question, waiting to be answered.

Steve’s breath caught, sharp and quiet, as Tony’s fingers reached toward him. He didn’t hesitate—couldn’t.

With slow, careful movement, he lifted his hand and placed it gently over Tony’s, like he was afraid the contact might break something. Their skin was warm where it met. Steve’s palm curled around Tony’s with instinct more than thought, his thumb brushing lightly over the knuckles as if to reassure himself this was real. That he was real.

A quiet rush moved through him—something between relief and longing, like stepping into warmth after being out in the cold too long.

Tony stirred, tilting his head slightly on the pillow, eyes fluttering open just enough to look down at their joined hands.

A smile bloomed across his face—small, tired, but full of something soft.

“Had this strange dream…” Tony murmured, voice thin and fading at the edges. “Tell me—are we really in another universe?”

Steve swallowed, the question settling like a weight in his chest. He tightened his hold on Tony’s hand, thumb tracing gently over the back of it, mindful of the IV line threading into his skin.

“Sadly, yeah,” he said, trying to keep the gravity from his voice. “I actually just came from a meeting with them—the, uh… other Avengers.”

“Oh?” Tony whispered, a ghost of mischief in his voice. “And how was it?”

Steve smirked. “Captain America could really use a sense of humor.”

Tony let out a soft, broken laugh that caught mid-breath. He winced, a sharp crease forming between his brows. “Ouch. Don’t make me laugh, Rogers—it hurts.”

Steve bit down a chuckle of his own, smoothing his thumb gently along the inside of Tony’s forearm in silent apology. “Sorry. Can’t help it. Innate charm.”

“Yeah,” Tony exhaled, the word barely a breath, soft and fond.

Tony’s eyes were half-lidded, glassy with exhaustion and medication, but steady—locked on Steve with a kind of quiet devotion. There was a warmth in them, unfocused but unwavering.

It was unlike the other Tony, who couldn’t sit still, whose gaze darted from screen to floor to anything but another person’s eyes.

This Tony— his Tony—looked at him like nothing else existed. Like Steve was the only fixed point in a world that had shifted too many times.

“You’re pretty,” Tony murmured, the words slipping out without warning, unfiltered and dazed, like he didn’t know he was saying them out loud.

Steve raised his eyebrows, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Yeah? Thought I was just a Ken model.”

Tony gave a lazy shrug. “Yeah, well… they are objectively pretty.”

The motion turned his gaze, almost unintentionally, toward the space where his right arm should have been.

And everything shifted.

Tony's body tensed first, subtle and immediate. His eyes snapped fully open, the haze of morphine clearing just enough to make the absence register. He looked down—once, twice—and then again, as if the act of not seeing it was a trick of light, a mistake that would correct itself.

“Where—where is it?” he stammered, breath catching mid-sentence. “I—I can’t—”

His chest rose too fast, too shallow. Panic bloomed in his face, color draining as his body tried to keep up with the sudden spike of fear. His hand clenched around the sheets, eyes searching wildly, heart hammering so loud Steve could almost hear it.

Steve moved instantly—two quick, purposeful steps to the display case. He lifted the arm with both hands, cradling it like something fragile.

“Here. Hey—Tony, look,” he said, voice low, steady. He reached out and gently cupped Tony’s cheek, guiding his gaze away from the panic and toward the arm. “It’s here. They just took it out to fix it, that’s all. It’s safe.”

Tony’s breathing was still shaky, lips parted, but some of the wildness left his eyes. The trembling didn’t stop—but the edge, the spiral, eased.

“Put it on, Steve,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Please.” His voice cracked like something splintering under pressure.

Steve nodded without a word and moved around the bed, careful not to jostle any of the monitors or lines. He knelt slightly, lining up the prosthetic with practiced precision. The connection clicked into place with a soft mechanical whir, the faint pulse of synced nerves humming beneath it.

Tony flinched—just once—as the contact sparked. His eyes squeezed shut, jaw tightening against the brief flash of pain.

Then, slowly, his body began to ease.

His shoulders settled back into the mattress. The breath that left him was long and uneven, but no longer frantic. One by one, his fingers twitched to life, responding to the signal.

“Jesus,” he muttered, flexing his hand and watching the metal digits curl and uncurl. “That was trippy.”

His voice was looser now, less frayed. The fear still hovered around the edges, but it was retreating—pushed back by the familiar weight of the arm, and the quiet presence at his side.

Steve let out a quiet breath of laughter, the tension in his shoulders loosening just a little. He pulled the chair back to Tony’s side, the legs sliding softly across the tile.

As he sat, Tony turned his head again, slower this time, his eyes finding Steve’s with effort.

“How’s the kid?” he asked, voice still uneven—touched by leftover adrenaline, but steadier now.

Steve glanced down, his hand hovering for a moment near Tony’s metal fingers. He wanted to reach for them— needed to—but something in him hesitated.  

Instead, he offered a quiet smile. “He’s fine. Not a scratch on him. They went to get something to eat.”

Tony gave a small nod, the motion sluggish. His eyelids fluttered once, then again, fighting sleep. He looked like he was slipping—drifting between worlds, but still trying to stay tethered.

“You should get some rest,” Steve said, voice low, the kind reserved for quiet rooms and people you don’t want to wake.

Tony licked his lips, a lazy smile tugging at the corner. “No more flying boots for me.”

Steve chuckled. “Yeah—maybe test a drone next time. Or strap them to Clint and see what happens.”

Tony let out a snort, his eyes already closed again.

“Yeah, well,” he mumbled, words melting into the pillow, “I missed being taller than you.”

Steve smiled, heart tugging at the corners. He took the chance—slowly reaching for Tony’s metal hand, wrapping his fingers gently around it.

Immediately, the prosthetic responded. The metal fingers curled around his, the grip light but sure.

Tony’s smile returned, faint but real. It lingered for a moment on his lips… then faded as sleep pulled him under again.

Steve didn’t move. He just sat there, holding on, and watched him breathe.

After a long, quiet beat, Tony’s voice rose again—barely a whisper, rough around the edges.

“Stay with me. Please.”

Steve swallowed, the words catching somewhere deep in his chest.

“Of course,” he said softly.

There was no hesitation. He didn’t need to be asked. He had already chosen. 

Chapter 8: Strangerville IV

TONY

 

They’d moved him out of the medbay earlier that evening—at his request. The sterile quiet and humming machines had started to make his skin itch. He’d asked for something less clinical, something that felt more like a room and less like a reminder that he was the only one who hadn’t walked away in one piece.

So they’d made adjustments. A portable monitor kept track of his vitals, and the IV line still snaked into his arm, delivering a slow, steady drip of morphine that dulled the pain just enough to keep him present. Not gone. Just softened.

Every breath tugged at the cracked ribs. His shoulder throbbed with a dull, static ache. He hated how much it hurt just to shift. Hated being the one in bed while the rest of the team looked whole.

Peter had asked that their rooms be connected—contingent, he’d said, like it was no big deal. The other Steve had raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue.

They’d dragged in a few chairs from the dining room, set up a couple of notepads, even managed to patch together the old surveillance gear he and Bruce had cobbled together on the road. Wires coiled like vines over the side table, screen feeds blinking to life. It wasn’t much, but it made the space feel lived-in. Less like recovery. More like control.

By the time they regrouped, just after midnight, the Embassy had gone quiet around them—hallways hushed, lights dimmed to a golden low. The others filtered in one by one, fed, showered, and slightly more human than they’d been twelve hours ago.

Clint and Peter arrived first, still trading smug remarks from their late-night kitchen raid. Apparently they’d fried every egg in the building. The scent of scorched butter still lingered faintly on Peter’s hoodie. Natasha brought in the tail end of a steak she’d grilled herself—precise, perfect, and gone in ten minutes.

Bruce had spent the entire day buried in the other Tony’s workshop, sleeves rolled to his elbows, eyebrows perpetually furrowed. He returned now with a tablet under one arm and the kind of look that said whatever he’d found wasn’t good.

Steve paced slowly across the room, his boots making soft, deliberate sounds against the polished floor. His hands were clasped behind his back, shoulders tight, brows drawn into a deep crease that hadn’t left his face all day. He moved like a machine stuck in loop—turn, step, turn again.

Clint leaned casually against the bedframe, arms crossed, tossing out half-whispered commentary about Tony’s condition that—somehow—managed to make Tony giggle.

Steve stopped mid-step, eyes fixed ahead but not really seeing.

“Say it again, Bruce,” he said, voice low but firm, like he was rearranging the pieces in his head and none of them quite fit. “I’m not following.”

Bruce let out a slow sigh, thumb swiping across the tablet in his hands. “The monument’s readings came back completely unhinged. Spikes everywhere. If the pattern holds, we’re looking at localized reality distortions—soon.”

Steve’s brow furrowed deeper. “And they’re doing nothing?”

Bruce shifted his weight, uneasy. “Well… not nothing. They’re just not treating it like a threat. Their theory is it’s residual energy—a ripple effect from the Infinity Stones being in close proximity two years ago.”

Steve stared at Bruce, the weight of it settling behind his eyes.

“And Tony’s fine with that?” he asked, voice tight, the disbelief cutting through.

From the bed, Tony scoffed, brow furrowing. “No, I’m not!”

Steve didn’t even glance his way—just shook his head, jaw clenched.

“The other Tony.”

Natasha spoke up from near the window, arms crossed, one hip angled against the sill. The soft glow from outside caught in the red of her hair, casting faint shadows across her sharp features.

“They’re too cocky,” she said flatly. “Came up with a new theory and latched on like gospel.”

She paused, then added with a shrug, “Stubborn dicks.”

From the other side of the room, Peter muttered under his breath, “So like the regular Avengers.”

Steve gave Peter a sharp look—more reflex than reprimand—but let it slide without a word.

Bruce cleared his throat, his voice quieter now. “Honestly… I don’t think they even have the tech to properly read the rifts.

“What?” Tony snapped, swatting Clint’s hand away as it poked at his metal arm. “How? They’ve got me—don’t they?”

Bruce shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable. “I mean… it’s not really my field, but from what I saw, the Iron Man suit that version of you uses—it looks... outdated.”

He hesitated, then added, “I don’t think it’s even bio-coded.”

Tony blinked. “What?” He looked genuinely offended. “I did that fifteen years ago.”

“Well, you can ask him yourself tomorrow,” Steve said, the exhaustion pulling at the edges of his voice. “Right now, we need to figure this out ourselves. What are we working with?”

Bruce exchanged a glance with Tony—an uneasy flicker of worry behind his eyes. The IV still fed morphine into Tony’s arm, his lashes low, his breath just a shade too shallow. But even dulled by painkillers and pain, he was focused. Sharp.

Razor-sharp.

“We think this might be the start of an incursion,” Tony said, voice low and steady, the gravity in it undeniable.

Peter’s jaw dropped. He whipped his head toward Tony, eyes wide. “Wait—are you serious?”

Steve let out a short, frustrated breath. “Okay, again—what is an incursion?”

Bruce straightened, his voice tight. “It’s a multiversal event. Two universes occupying the same space. Colliding.”

His fingers tightened slightly around the edge of his tablet.

“We’ve only ever theorized about it. The consequences are…”

Bruce opened his mouth to respond, tablet half-lifted—but hesitated. His eyes flicked to Tony, the unspoken worry passing between them like a silent warning.

Tony felt it too. The pressure behind Bruce’s glance. The heaviness of the word sitting in his chest. His pulse ticked a little faster.  The morphine didn’t dull the tightness in his throat. He swallowed, forcing himself upright against the pillow.

Tony let out a breath through his nose, barely a laugh.

“Immediate and unstoppable extinction,” he said, voice dry as sand. “Give or take a few minutes.”

Steve swallowed, the weight of it settling in his chest.

“Great,” he muttered. “Another world-ending threat.”

Tony pressed his lips together, but the quip slipped out anyway—dry, automatic.

“You live for the encore.”

Steve huffed, a breath too close to a laugh, and brought a hand to his face—rubbing it over his mouth like he could wipe the sound away. His fingers raked back through his hair, slow and tight, the motion more strain than habit.

His chest rose sharply, then again, heavier.

“How do we reverse it?” he asked, voice low. There was a tremble beneath the words—buried, but there. Not fear, not yet. But close.

Tony swallowed hard, the dryness catching at the back of his throat. He shifted, wincing as his ribs protested, the sheets suddenly too tight, the bed too soft beneath him.

“Tony,” Steve said, his voice cutting through the air like a wire pulled taut. His eyes locked on him—steady, intense. “Focus. How do we stop this?”

“We don’t know,” Bruce cut in, voice clipped. His jaw was tight, shoulders rigid. “We have no idea if it’s even possible.”

The words landed hard.

Silence followed—thick, immediate. The kind that made the air feel thinner.

Breaths quickened. Chests rose, fell, rose again. No one moved. No one spoke. The room just held .

Then Peter—young, sharp, impossible Peter—spoke up.

“We could call Dr. Strange,” he said, the words uncertain, almost too soft for the room.

Tony turned toward him, catching his eye. Gave him the smallest nod, encouraging.

Peter cleared his throat, trying to steady the wobble in his voice. “He, uh… he helped me with some stuff last summer. He knows more about the multiverse than anyone. If there’s a Dr. Strange in this universe, I think… I think he’s our best bet.”

Tony clicked his tongue, brow furrowing. His memory of Strange was fast and fogged—chaotic flashes stitched together. The man had handed over the Time Stone without blinking, muttered some cryptic prophecy that, annoyingly, turned out to be right... and then disappeared.

Dropped off the radar like a ghost

Tony huffed. Arrogant, dramatic, impossible to pin down—but under all that, the guy had a good heart. He almost laughed. There was plenty of that to go around. 

“That’s a good idea, Peter,” Steve said, offering him a small, genuine smile. “We’ll try to contact him in the morning.”

Then he turned to Bruce, the smile fading as the weight of reality returned. “How fast is this moving? How much time do we have?”

Bruce furrowed his brow, tapping a finger against the edge of his tablet.

“It’s hard to say. Could be years… or just a couple of days.”

“What’s your best bet?” Steve pressed, tension laced beneath the question.

Bruce sighed, eyes flicking down at the data. “Most likely… a couple of weeks.”

Steve nodded, and something shifted behind his eyes. Tony could see it—the gears locking into place, a strategy forming in real time. The way he stood a little straighter, shoulders squaring even when everything around him still felt unstable.

There it is, Tony thought. That quiet, relentless determination. The part of Steve that never let things fall apart if he could help it. It wasn’t blind optimism—it was belief. In people. In possibility.

“Okay. That’ll have to be enough,” Steve murmured, more to himself than the room. Then he glanced over.

“We’ll call Strange tomorrow. Tony—you’ll need to coordinate with Bruce and the other Tony. Get whatever data you can about the spikes. And also…” he gestured toward Tony’s still-bruised form, lips twitching, “ask him for proper armor. Please.”

Tony huffed and rolled his eyes in agreement. 

Steve let out a breath, pinching the bridge of his nose before looking around at the team.

“It’s not much,” he said, voice low but steady. “But it’s a start.”

Tony watched him—Captain America in crisis-mode, piecing together a plan from scraps. It should’ve been exhausting to witness, but instead it was almost comforting. Predictable, in the best possible way.

Steve gave a final nod. “Go. Rest. We’ll be better equipped tomorrow.”

The team began to drift apart, each slipping into the rhythm of retreat. Natasha moved first, quiet and composed, her hand brushing briefly over the back of Tony’s chair as she passed. Clint followed with a lazy stretch and a mumbled “Try not to blow anything up while we sleep,” before disappearing into the hallway. Bruce left last, deep in thought, murmuring something half-formed to himself as he walked.

Then there was Peter.

He lingered near the doorway, shifting his weight like he wasn’t sure if he should say something or just slip out quietly. His backpack was slung over one shoulder, hoodie half-zipped, curls slightly damp from a quick shower.

Tony raised an eyebrow. “You gonna hover there all night, or…?”

Peter huffed a laugh, a little sheepish. “Just—making sure you’re good.”

“I’m on painkillers and IV fluids,” Tony said, dry. “I’m great.”

Peter stepped forward, then hesitated—just for a second—before leaning down and wrapping his arms around Tony in a firm, awkward hug.

Tony didn’t hesitate. He let his hand rest on the back of Peter’s neck, warm and familiar, like muscle memory.

“Alright, alright,” Tony muttered, voice softer than the words. “Don’t get sentimental on me, Parker.”

Peter pulled back, flushed but smiling. “I’ll try not to.”

“And stop taking Barton’s money with made up games, yeah?”

“No promises,” Peter said, already halfway out the door.

The room stilled behind him, the hum of machines settling back into the quiet. Tony let his head fall back against the pillow, a slow breath leaving his chest.

“Kid loves you,” Steve said once the door clicked shut behind Peter.

Tony didn’t answer right away. He stared at the door for a beat, listening to the echo of Peter’s retreating footsteps down the hall.

The words settled in slow—warm and heavy in a good way, like a weight pressed to the chest that reminded him he was still here. Still needed.

“Yeah,” Tony said quietly, his voice rougher than he meant it to be. He cleared his throat. “Well. The feeling’s mutual.”

Steve hummed, eyes distant, thoughts clearly spiraling somewhere else.

“Do you ever think that we…”

“...aren’t around in his world?” Tony finished for him, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

He’d thought about it. More than once. The idea that some other version of him—some colder, distant version—had left Peter to figure things out on his own. The guilt of it settled low in his gut, heavy and familiar.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Real jackass, that… other-other Tony.”

Steve shook his head slowly, his gaze fixed on the empty space where Peter had stood just moments ago.

“Tony,” he said, voice quiet—not soft, but careful. “I think we died. Or... at least you did.”

Tony looked up at him, something cold creeping into his chest.

“He doesn’t look at you with anger,” Steve went on, searching for the right shape of it. “Not even resentment. It’s more like…”

“Grief,” Tony whispered, the word catching in his throat like it didn’t want to be said out loud.

Steve nodded, eyes dark with understanding. The weight of Peter’s reality pressed down on both of them—quiet, undeniable, and suddenly very real.

“Jesus,” Tony breathed, barely more than a whisper. “Poor kid.”

Silence settled between them like a blanket that didn’t warm. The kind that just reminded you how cold the room really was.

Tony shifted, wincing as his ribs protested. The bed was too soft, too big. The sheets smelled like clean linen and hospital-grade detergent. He hated it. After weeks of crashing on floor mats, in vans, in crumbling safehouses, this place—this controlled, polished comfort—felt foreign.

Across the room, Steve stood still. He wasn’t looking at Tony, but the question was already gathering behind his eyes.

He hummed low in his throat, a sound like friction—like thought trying to surface.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, voice quiet but sharp in the hush of the room.

Tony blinked, already drifting. “Huh?”

Steve’s voice didn’t rise, but it cut clean through the quiet.

“About the incursions.”

Tony shifted, and the motion lit a fire in his ribs—sharp, immediate. He winced, gritting his teeth as he propped himself a little higher. His gaze found Steve across the room.

He was standing stiff, shoulders squared, spine too straight. That posture always meant one thing: something was rattling underneath.

“I did,” Tony said, voice dry. “Just now.”

Steve turned, fixing him with a sharp look that made the space between them feel suddenly smaller.

“Before, Tony,” he said, the words rough around the edges. “Why didn’t you tell me before? How long have you known this could happen?

Tony frowned, blinking slowly. “Uh… we knew about the rifts a few weeks ago. We talked about it.”

Steve clicked his tongue, the sound sharp in the quiet.

“Don’t dodge it. Why didn’t you tell me an incursion was even on the table?”

“It wasn’t a solid theory, okay? We weren’t sure. We needed more data before—” Tony shifted, wincing, his voice rising just slightly.

Steve’s jaw tightened. “But you discussed it. You knew it was a possibility.”

Tony rolled his eyes, sharp and irritated. “Yeah, we discussed it. We discuss a lot of things we don’t run by you, Cap. You want in on the latest gamma-powered electromagnetic pulse drafts too?”

Steve looked down, his gaze shadowed. His fingers flexed at his sides before curling into loose fists. When he met Tony’s eyes again, the anger was still there—flickering low and sharp.

“You can’t keep me in the dark like this,” he said quietly, but the words carried weight. “If the world’s at stake, I need to know.”

Tony huffed, frustrated. “Believe me, if it were that serious, I’d say something.”

“Oh would you? Are you sure about that?” Steve shot back, the words out before he could stop them. Harsh. Immediate. Cutting.

Tony’s brows shot up, stunned. “Yes, I’m sure—what the hell, Steve?”

Steve’s eyes didn’t flinch. “Just like you were with Ultron?”

The name hit like a slap.

Tony froze, the breath catching in his throat. His body drew back instinctively, like the words had heat. The sharp edge of resentment in Steve’s voice wasn’t just accusation—it was personal. 

It always had been.

And in the charged silence that followed, neither of them looked away.

“That was different,” Tony said, barely above a whisper. It wasn’t a defense—it was a retreat.

Steve stepped closer, not enough to touch, but enough that the air felt charged between them.

“How, Tony?” he asked, voice low and sharp. “Because from where I’m standing, it feels exactly the same.”

Tony’s throat tightened. “Steve, I didn’t—I didn’t hide this from you.”

Steve let out a dry, bitter laugh. His eyes sparkled, not with humor, but heat—rage, hurt, something harder to name.

Tony frowned, unsettled by the way Steve looked at him—like he was both furious and trying not to touch him. Like the line between confrontation and closeness was thinning by the second.

“What’s so funny?”

Steve gave a slow shrug, mouth twitching. “Nothing. Just—took you ten years to admit you hid your murder bot from me.”

Tony’s nostrils flared. He turned to him fully, sharp and fast. “Oh, you wanna go there? Let’s go there. Ultron was the only thing standing between us and Thanos. I was trying to keep us alive.”

Steve’s eyes widened, voice rising despite himself. “He tried to wipe out the entire human race, Tony!”

Tony frowned, dismissive with a flick of his hand. “Okay—yeah, so he turned out to be a full-blown psychopath, but the plan was—”

“The plan was that we fought things together,” Steve cut in, stepping forward, his voice tight. “Not that you’d build a goddamn AI to do it alone.”

Tony’s jaw snapped shut, then opened again, sharper this time. “Well, we didn’t do that either, did we?” 

The air between them tensed—close, electric, like something about to tip.

“No,” Steve said quietly. “We didn’t.”

The words lingered in the air, gentle but heavy, like dust that hadn’t settled.

Tony looked at him then—really looked. The line of Steve’s shoulders, still tight with restraint. The furrow between his brows that never seemed to go away. The way the light from the hallway framed him in pieces, gold at the edges, shadowed everywhere else.

His chest ached.

“I don’t know what you want from me, Steve,” he said, voice low, worn thin by too many sleepless nights and unspoken things.

But he wasn’t angry anymore. Just tired. And something else. Something cracking under the weight of regret.

Steve’s jaw tightened, the muscle ticking once.

“What I always wanted,” he said softly. “The truth.”

Silence followed, quiet and wide. The room felt too still, the kind of still that pressed in around the chest.

Tony turned his head, eyes locking on the window like it might offer a way out. The glass reflected only shadows and the faint flicker of lights from the hall.

“It’s not that I lied to you,” he said, voice barely more than breath. “At least… not on purpose.”

Steve stepped forward, slow, and sat at the edge of the bed. His eyes never left Tony’s. There was no accusation in them now—only a quiet insistence. A waiting.

“I…” Tony faltered, gaze dropping to the bed. “I just didn’t want to believe it myself.”

His fingers brushed unconsciously against the edge of his mechanical arm, as if grounding himself. “I thought if I said it out loud… you’d walk away. That you’d see what this really is—what it could become—and go.”

He swallowed, the words catching on something sharp inside him.

“And without you, I don’t have a chance in hell of finding Morgan.”

The confession hung in the air, raw and unfinished.

Steve’s entire frame shifted. The tension drained from his shoulders, and the hard line of his jaw eased. Whatever fight had been coiled inside him melted into something quieter—something almost tender. His anger didn’t vanish, but it changed shape. Became understanding. Became care.

Steve reached out slowly, his hand finding Tony’s knee beneath the blanket. His palm was steady, warm even through the fabric. He gave a single, grounding squeeze—firm, sure, like it was meant to anchor them both.

“I’m not leaving you,” he whispered, voice roughened at the edges. “I promise.”

Tony’s breath caught—then released in a long, slow exhale, like something tight in his chest had finally loosened.

And the strangest part wasn’t that Steve had said it. It was that, this time Tony believed him.

“Okay,” Tony murmured, nodding faintly. He shifted, wincing as his ribs protested. “I’ll try to be more vocal next time the universe’s about to collapse.”

Steve huffed out a laugh, head dropping forward, his shoulders finally loose.

“That’s all I’m asking,” he said, quiet but sincere.

His hand lingered a moment longer, trailing gently down Tony’s shin through the blanket. Slow, absent strokes—nothing urgent, just presence. Tony followed the movement with his eyes, watching the fabric shift and crease under the touch.

Something unspoken settled in his chest. Warm. Heavy in a good way. Like trust. Like relief.

"I’m going to sleep now," Tony muttered, voice already trailing off. "Unless there’s another heart-to-heart you’ve been saving up."

Steve smiled, shaking his head. "Nope. We’re all caught up.”

His hand lingered for a moment longer on Tony’s knee before he finally pulled back, shifting as if to stand.

He didn’t make it far.

Tony’s fingers curled around his wrist, quick and clumsy, before Steve could fully register the movement. The contact was light, but immediate—enough to stop him.

“Stay,” Tony blurted, the word tumbling out before he could soften it. A flush rose to his cheeks, subtle but unmistakable. He cleared his throat, eyes flicking away. “Uhm… I’m afraid of the dark.”

Steve rolled his eyes. A crooked smile pulled at his mouth, impossible to fight off.

“Wait—wait, I can do better,” Tony said quickly, gripping Steve’s wrist tighter. “I’m afraid the other Tony’s going to stab me in my sleep and steal my obviously superior brain.”

Steve let out a quiet laugh, already sinking back onto the edge of the bed.

“And, um—just putting it out there—the temperature in here is borderline inhumane,” Tony continued, tugging the blanket higher with mock drama. “Are they insane? It’s like sleeping in a tundra.”

He faked a shiver, exaggerated just enough, and caught the faint curve of Steve’s smile in return.

Steve kicked off his shoes with a soft thud, the sound barely audible over the quiet hum of the IV monitor. “Alright, Frozone,” he said, his voice low and teasing. “Scoot over.”

Tony grinned, the sound that escaped him closer to a sigh than a laugh. “Yay,” he murmured, moving carefully, his ribs protesting with each shift. He inched to the side, the blankets rustling, making space without breaking the fragile warmth that had settled between them.

Steve climbed onto the bed with practiced ease, careful not to jostle the mattress too much. He lay back over the sheets, arms relaxed at his sides, gaze fixed on the ceiling. His breaths were slow, even—measured in a way that made Tony’s own lungs loosen a little.

Even without touching, Steve’s body gave off heat, steady and grounding. Just inches away, Tony could feel it radiating through the linen, softening the edge of the sterile room. It was the kind of warmth that didn’t ask for anything. It just stayed.

Tony let out a long, contented sigh, his body sinking into the pillows like they’d finally earned his trust. The bed no longer felt too big. Just full enough.

Steve reached over and flicked the light switch, and the room dipped into a gentle hush—shadows settling around them like a blanket.

In the quiet, Steve’s breathing stayed steady—calm, unwavering. Tony listened, counted the rhythm.

And within minutes, lulled by that quiet presence beside him, he drifted into sleep

 

---

 

The next morning unfolded in slow motion.

Steve helped him into the wheelchair—always a treat. Tony muttered something about retiring from two-wheeled transportation, earning an eye-roll and a hand steadying him more gently than necessary.

They made their way to the dining room, which looked like it had been borrowed from a high-end hotel brochure. Everything gleamed. This time, the Embassy staff served breakfast—coffee, pastries, eggs that didn’t taste like they came from a can.

Steve leaned over and told him, sotto voce, that Clint’s kitchen escapades the night before had apparently caused “a mild fire and an unfortunate amount of smoke.”

Tony didn’t even ask.

Every movement still hurt. Shifting in his seat, lifting his arm, even laughing—it all pulled at the fractures and bruises in new, creative ways. It was frustrating, and the worst part was pretending it wasn’t.

To lighten the mood, Natasha kicked off a game: guessing who’d end up injured next. A bet pool was assembled with frightening speed.

Tony refused to let Peter participate, waving him off with a dramatic “minors banned from bloodsport” ruling, even though the kid looked ready to bet on himself.

After breakfast, Steve wheeled him straight to the other Tony’s workshop.

He was still wrapped in gauze and bruises, the IV bag swaying gently beside him. Every shift sent a low throb through his ribs or shoulder, and the ache had settled into something constant—less pain, more humiliation. He felt like the most pitiful version of himself: drugged, stitched up, and rolling into a mirror.

As they reached the door, he tilted his head back slightly toward Steve.

“Before we go in,” he muttered, “give it to me straight—is he more handsome than me?”

Steve let out a quiet laugh, the sound low and familiar. “He looks exactly like you.”

Tony rolled his eyes, the motion exaggerated for effect.

“Answer the question, Rogers.”

Steve rested his hands on Tony’s shoulders, giving them a gentle squeeze, his tone light and easy.

“No one’s more handsome than you, Tony.”

Tony sighed dramatically, nodding like it was a burden to carry. “That’s right” he muttered..

The workshop was smaller—compact, curated—a miniature version of the one Tony remembered building from scratch. But this one had been molded into something personal. Lived-in. Familiar in shape, but not in feel.

It was like stepping into a memory someone else had edited

Iron Man posters lined the walls, each one rendered in a different art style—gritty sketch work, glossy digital renders, a stylized pop-art profile with a crooked arc reactor. Framed blueprints hung between them, next to photos of vintage cars and sleek electric prototypes.

AC/DC blared from overhead speakers, muffling the low hum of the wheelchair wheels rolling across metal plates. The air was thick with the scent of oil and hot metal, sharp and sweet at the same time.

Tony inhaled instinctively. For a second, he was back in that first lab in Malibu—working on the Mark II, barefoot, hungover, perfecting flight.

A tinsel-wrapped Dum-E rolled toward them from the far side of the workshop, a red bow stuck crookedly to its chassis and a tiny Santa hat strapped over one arm. It tilted its head, sensors blinking in curious recognition.

Steve gave a polite nod, as if addressing a dignitary. “Hey, Dum-E. Mind taking over for me?”

The bot beeped affirmatively, extended its claw, and took hold of the wheelchair handle with surprising delicacy.

“Alright. Call if you need me,” Steve said, already turning to go.

“You mean if he tries to murder me,” Tony muttered under his breath.

Steve shrugged without looking back. “Guess it’ll be too late by then. We’ll just keep this one.”

Tony huffed a laugh, shaking his head. He adjusted in the chair, sitting up straighter with a wince, and gave Dum-E a nod.

“Let’s go meet me,” he murmured.

A row of Iron Man suits stood at the edge of the workshop, lit by narrow strips of overhead LEDs. Each one was a slight variation on the familiar red and gold—some sleeker, some bulkier, all instantly recognizable.

Tony studied them closely, the frown forming before he realized it.

They were old. Not just retro. Outdated. Wrong.

The chest plates were thick—too thick—making movement clumsy. The arc reactor sat too deep in the core, not optimized for energy flow. The helmets bore the telltale ridges of the early HUD models, the kind that offered limited field awareness and sluggish response times.

He leaned forward slightly in the chair, eyes narrowing.

No nanotech. Not a trace. Not even the beginnings of it.

“Window shopping?” came a voice—his voice.

Tony turned, wincing as the motion pulled at his ribs.

The other Tony was leaned over a workbench, eyeing him with a smirk that was half recognition, half disbelief. It was like stepping into a funhouse mirror—distorted just enough to be weird, but still unmistakably him. With fewer lines on his face.

“Not looking for antics, sorry,” Tony shot back, the words firing off before he could stop himself.

The other Tony raised his brows, amused. He walked over casually, like this wasn’t the weirdest Tuesday of his life, and held out a packet of frozen blueberries.

“Still eat sugar?” he asked,

Tony grinned, plucked a handful of frozen blueberries from the bag, and popped them into his mouth. Cold burst across his tongue.

“Still eat dairy?” he asked around the fruit, half-chewing.

The other Tony made a face and gave an exaggerated shiver. “God, no. Causes absolute nuclear disaster in my colon.”

Tony let out a short laugh, surprised by how fast the tension drained from his chest. It was ridiculous, uncanny—but somehow, it felt easy.

His gaze drifted to the workbench where the other Tony had been hovering earlier.

Photos lined the back edge, tucked into the frame of a mounted display. Pepper, in a crisp white dress, mid-laugh. Happy beside a vintage car, holding a cigar like he didn’t know how to pose. Rhodey in uniform, blurry, saluting with a smirk. And Morgan—front and center—missing teeth and beaming like the sun.

There were none of the team. Not a single face from the Avengers. No Natasha. No Bruce. No Clint.

Not even Peter.

“How’s the missus?” Tony asked, voice light, but his eyes stayed on the photos.

The other Tony shrugged casually, already pulling out his phone. With a few taps and a flick of his fingers, a soft whir filled the room as a hologram blinked to life in the center of the space.

“If I’m not mistaken...” he began, just as the projection stabilized—Pepper, standing at a podium in a sleek navy suit, mid-speech. The volume was muted, but her expression said enough. Confident. Composed. Smiling.

“UN conference,” he added, gesturing at her like it was a weather report. “She’s still changing the world, one boardroom at a time.”

Tony smiled, eyes lingering on the projection. She looked good—poised, sharp, exactly as he remembered.

They didn’t see each other anymore, not really. Different lives. Different orbits. But she was still there, like gravity. Not just Morgan’s mom, not just a name on old paperwork—Pepper was still Pepper.

It had taken work—long conversations, brutal honesty, the kind that left both of them raw—but they’d come through the divorce intact. Not just civil. Solid. She was still one of the few people in the world who could call him out without flinching. And he still counted that as a win.

“What about you?” the other Tony asked, voice casual, but his eyes flicked pointedly to Tony’s left hand. “What happened?”

Tony followed his gaze and felt the shift immediately. The absence of the ring felt louder in the room than it should have. Of course he’d notice. They always noticed the same things.

Tony pressed his lips into a thin, practiced smile. He wasn’t used to being on this side of the mirror—being the one dodging the sharp question instead of delivering it.

“Just… different lifestyles,” he said, with a half-shrug that didn’t explain anything. “Became too incompatible”

The other Tony gave a low hum and dismissed the hologram with a swipe of his hand, Pepper vanishing in a flicker of light.

“I had that problem a while ago,” the other Tony admitted, leaning back against the workbench. “But we figured it out in the end. She’s the best thing that ever happened to me.”

He chuckled, eyes drifting toward the empty air where Pepper’s image had been. “Well… after—”

“Morgan,” they said in unison.

A beat passed, and then both of them laughed—cheeky, warm, a little stunned by the symmetry.

“Can I tell you a secret?” the other Tony said, chugging down the last of the blueberries, the plastic packet crinkling in his hand.

Tony tilted his head, resting his elbow on the armrest, lips curling into a lazy smirk.

“We’re the same person,” he said smoothly. “I know you pee sitting down.”

The other Tony broke into a grin, wide and unbothered. He looked down at his hands, thumbs idly tapping against each other, and shook his head with a soft huff of laughter—like he’d just been caught doing something only he would know to look for.

“We have another one on the way,” the other Tony said, his voice quieting, almost reverent.

Tony’s smile faltered.

Something in his chest tightened—sharp, familiar. He looked down, focusing on a scuff in the floor or the curve of his own hand, anywhere but the other man's face.

“Congratulations,” he murmured, keeping his tone even as he buried the ache rising behind his ribs.

The other Tony studied him for a beat, head tilted slightly, expression softer than before.

“Do you have another?” he asked, voice low—gentler than Tony would’ve expected from someone with his own face.

Tony sighed, the breath catching on something unspoken. His mind went to Peter instantly. To the way the kid had looked at him after the blip. And now—this new one. Another lost boy clinging to his world.

“I—uh… sort of adopted a teenager,” he said, scratching the back of his head with his metal hand, eyes flicking toward the workbench to avoid holding the other’s gaze. “And now there’s two of them. One’s from another universe. Both orphaned. So, you know…”

He shrugged, like it wasn’t still breaking him in quiet ways. “That’s a thing.”

“Wow.”

Tony huffed out a breath, a lopsided smile tugging at his mouth. “Yeah. It’s complicated.”

The other Tony’s brows pulled together, gears clearly turning behind his eyes. He leaned forward slightly, squinting like the pieces had just clicked.

“Wait,” he said slowly. “You don’t mean Parker, do you? Spider-Man?”

Tony raised his eyebrows, nodding. “Yeah. Him.”

The other Tony let out a short laugh. “That’s wild. I think I’ve talked to the kid maybe twice. Seemed... a little too eager.”

Tony’s smile came easily—automatic—but it stayed a moment too long, flickering at the edges.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Yeah, he is.”

A weight settled low in his chest. The kind that didn’t come from injury.

This other version of him didn’t know Peter. Didn’t know his voice when he was scared, or the way he cracked jokes when things got too quiet. He didn’t know the kid who’d become one of the most important people in his life.

And somehow, that felt wrong. Like something fundamental had been missed. Or lost.

“And how did you two meet?” the other Tony asked, settling back against the bench, genuinely curious now.

Tony grinned, the memory sparking instantly. “I asked him to steal Cap’s shield.”

The other Tony blinked, eyebrows shooting up. “No kidding. Is that how you lost the arm?”

Tony chuckled, shaking his head. “Oh no. That was later—battle with Thanos. I used the Infinity Stones and, well... the arm didn’t take to it.”

He held it up slightly, the metal fingers flexing with a faint whir. “Turns out even Stark tech has limits.”

The other Tony gave a low whistle. “Wow. Your suit handled that kind of power? Do you mind if I—?”

Tony nodded, already extending his arm toward him. “Knock yourself out.”

They lost track of time.

The hours blurred into a rhythm of blueprints, schematics, and half-finished jokes about bad welding jobs. The workshop filled with the soft hum of holograms and the sharper clinks of tools being passed back and forth without needing to ask. Every so often, Dum-E would roll by with a cable or an unsolicited sandwich.

They spoke in shorthand—because they could. A mix of numbers, nods, and muttered profanity that only another Stark would understand.

It didn’t take long for Tony to notice the gap.

The suit tech here was good—streamlined, elegant in its own way—but it had stopped evolving. It clung to what worked, polished the same concepts over and over. Safe. Functional. Stagnant.

“So you’re storing the entire suit in a self-contained reactor?” the other Tony asked, eyes drinking in every detail like it was a blueprint coming to life. “That’s… insane.”

Tony nodded, flexing the metal fingers once before lowering the arm. “Yeah. Nanotech.”

He wished he had the actual suit with him—something to show, not just describe. But the field rig they’d cobbled together had to do.

“It became necessary after a fight with Ant-Man,” he said, leaning back slightly. “He got inside the chest plate—tore through the cable matrix like a raccoon in a vending machine. After that, I scrapped the wiring altogether. Went with a node-triggered system, no seams, no entry points.”

He shrugged.

“Once you start thinking that way, nanotech stops being optional. It’s just inevitable.”

They slipped into something close to a trance—hyperfocused, fast-talking, tools and tech bouncing between them like instinct. Equations filled the air alongside quick banter and the occasional savage roast of their respective teammates.

At some point, Tony offered to walk him through the nanotech sequence—explaining the self-repair protocols, the adaptive mesh, the haptic feedback calibrations.

The other Tony countered with an offer of his own: a suit. Custom, if Tony was up for it once he healed. “We’ll call it a multiversal limited edition,” he’d said with a grin.

They barely noticed the sun shift across the windows. By the time the overhead lights clicked on and Dum-E rolled past with something that vaguely resembled soup, they’d worked straight through the day.

“I heard your little girl’s missing.” The other Tony wiped his hands on a shop rag, glanced over, and said it gently, almost like he didn’t want to break the spell.

Tony stilled. The easy rhythm between them faltered.

“Yeah,” he said, the word clipped, tight in his throat. “She disappeared when the rifts started.”

The other Tony nodded slowly, eyes narrowing with quiet calculation.

“You don’t think that’s a coincidence... do you?”

Tony inhaled, deep and shaky, the weight of it sinking in all over again. It was the question he’d been circling since the day she vanished.

“I—”

The buzz of the workshop’s door interrupted him. A soft chime, followed by the flicker of a holographic interface. Captain America’s image blinked onto the monitor, blue uniform sharp, posture sharper.

“Permission granted,” the other Tony said, barely looking up from his tools.

The glass door slid open with a soft hiss, and in stepped Captain America—blue uniform crisp, boots polished, posture almost surgically composed. He moved with stiff, efficient precision, like every step had been practiced in a mirror.

“Captain,” the other Tony greeted with a nod. “Need something?”

The other Steve didn’t answer right away. He stopped in the center of the room, gaze sweeping over both of them with mechanical accuracy. Then, slowly, he clasped his hands behind his back, chest lifted, chin squared.

A soldier through and through. Too perfect. Too still.

“We’ve received a few calls about an incident downstate,” the other Steve said, voice precise, with no trace of hesitation. “Can we pull up the energy readings for that area?”

Tony, still seated, smirked to himself—waiting for the obvious follow-up. Some dry remark, maybe a sarcastic jab about rural infrastructure or government panic. Something Stark.

But it didn’t come.

“Okay,” the other Tony said simply, already turning toward the main console. His tone was flat, his movement mechanical—like he was flipping a switch, not opening a door.

They barely looked at each other.

The other Tony moved like he was taking out the trash—efficient, detached, muscle memory. No questions, no spark. Just routine.

Holograms flickered to life above the console—charts, pulse maps, shifting columns of data. A color-coded web of energy readings spilled into the air, hovering in transparent layers.

Tony’s eyes sharpened immediately. His brain clicked into gear, posture straightening despite the ache in his side. Spikes. Trajectories. Heat signatures.

But something was missing. He scanned the display again, this time slower.

No gamma readout. Nowhere in the sequence. Nowhere in the margins. His fingers twitched against the armrest.

“You’re not tracking gamma pulses?” he asked, twisting slightly in his chair to face the display more fully. His shoulder pulled wrong, and the IV tugged slightly at his arm, but he didn’t take his eyes off the projections.

The other Tony paused mid-step, a frown forming as he leaned closer to the hologram. “You are?” he said, blinking. “That’s… oh no.”

His hands moved quickly, swiping across the interface to adjust the layers. Readouts blinked and rearranged. His eyes stopped, locked on a sector in the lower-right quadrant of the map.

Tony followed his line of sight.

The temperature was climbing—fast. A hotspot was blooming along the southern coast. Quiet, but steady. Accelerating.

“What’s wrong, Stark?” the other Steve cut in, voice sharp and contained—more command than question.

The other Tony didn’t look up. He expanded the projection with a quick swipe, enlarging a live feed of a coastal city. Drone footage hovered above the streets, tracking heat patterns, faint distortion lines warping the image.

“There are radiation readings here that don’t match the profile,” he said, brow furrowing. “It could mean another…”

The other Steve cut him off before the sentence finished, already making the call.

“Suit up,” he said briskly. “Send the coordinates. We’ll meet you at the site.”

Then his gaze shifted to Tony—steady, unreadable. His eyes held, just a second too long, scanning for weakness, measuring something. There was no judgment, no warmth. Just clean, professional detachment. A man executing protocol.

“Mr. Stark, are you in shape to accompany us?” the other Steve asked, voice polite in the way elevators are.

Tony let out a short huff.

He’d spent the entire afternoon hunched over a makeshift rig, pushing through the ache in his ribs to finish a prototype of his medical nanobots. They weren’t perfect, but they worked—supporting his spine, bracing around the worst of the fractures. If he had a solid enough suit and enough painkillers? He could manage. Barely. But he could manage.

“Aye aye, Captain,” Tony said, flashing a crooked grin. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

The room paused.

The other Tony looked up, eyebrows lifted, a smile tugging at his mouth—amused, maybe a little thrown. The other Steve blinked once, then again, his posture tightening as if recalibrating around something he didn’t quite expect.

“Uhm. Great,” the other Steve said, shaking his head slightly, like he was brushing off static. “I’ll see you both upstairs.”

He turned on his heel and exited without another word—steps precise, movements controlled to the millimeter. The door hissed shut behind him like a line being drawn.

The other Tony let out a sigh and slapped his palms lightly against his thighs, the sound breaking the brief silence.

“Alright,” he said, standing up. “Let’s get you a suit.” His tone left no room for argument. The moment of pause was over.

 

Chapter 9: Tijuana I

PETER

The reports came in overnight—familiar in shape, but sharper, louder, harder to ignore. Buildings shifting blocks away from where they'd stood. Sudden storms in clear skies. Entire neighborhoods forgetting their own names.

They’d seen scattered incidents before. Random. Contained. But this time, it was all coming from one place.

A single town, tucked along the outskirts of Tijuana—small, overlooked, and now pulling at the seams of reality.

The Quinjet hummed around them, a constant low vibration beneath Peter’s boots. The cabin lights were dimmed, casting the metal interior in a cool blue wash. Ten of them, packed in tighter than he liked, strapped in as the engines cut across the sky.

Peter adjusted his gloves, then his mask, then his gloves again. He couldn’t sit still. It had been a while since he flew with a team—a real team.

The last time had been with Mr. Stark.

He remembered the way it felt: soaring through the atmosphere, chest tight with adrenaline and pride. The first time he really felt like an Avenger.

It was the kind of high that could only lead to a fall.

Now he sat surrounded by legends—gods, soldiers, powerhouses. And him. A kid from Queens with shaky fingers and a stomach that wouldn’t quite settle.

The mood in the Quinjet was strange—unsettled, almost surreal. The alternate Avengers gave off a kind of quiet dissonance, like instruments just slightly out of tune. Peter felt it settle around them like fog.

Bruce and Natasha sat near the rear, heads close to Carol’s as they exchanged intel and half-laughed over old stories like this was just another Tuesday. A few seats away, Clint and Thor were mid-game of tossing something vaguely metallic back and forth—laughing loud, careless, like the world outside wasn’t stretching at the seams.

Then there were the Tonys.

They spoke quickly, low and sharp, words tripping over each other like old friends finishing each other’s thoughts. Their eyes were bright, energized, glowing with the spark of invention. They looked like they could’ve talked forever.

Steve stood just beside them, arms crossed, watching the exchange with a deep furrow between his brows. He wasn’t annoyed. Just… clearly lost. His gaze flicked between them like he was trying to keep score in a game he hadn’t been taught the rules for.

The other Steve sat alone near the front, his gaze fixed on the window.

His posture was immaculate—shoulders squared, spine straight, like he didn’t know how to sit any other way. But his hands betrayed him—resting in his lap, fingers fidgeting slightly, unable to stay still.

Peter caught the expression in his eyes—distant, unreadable at first… but beneath it, unmistakably lonely.

It passed through Peter like a shiver. Just a flicker of sorrow. But it lingered.

“Captain Rogers?” Peter approached cautiously, voice soft.

He held out a crinkled pack of gummies, palm open in offering. “Want one?”

The other Steve blinked, as if pulled from far away, his eyes landing on the colorful pile of sugar in Peter’s hand. For a second, Peter was sure he’d say no—too formal, too rigid.

But then the man reached out, slowly, deliberately, and took a few with careful fingers.

“Thank you, Spider-Man,” he said, a small, tentative smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Peter nodded, smiling behind the mask. He gestured to the empty seat beside him.

“Mind if I sit?”

The other Steve gave a small nod and shifted slightly, adjusting his posture to make room.

Peter sank into the seat with a quiet huff, his shoulders relaxing just a little. There was something about this Steve—something familiar in the way he didn’t quite fit. He looked like he was still learning how to exist in his own skin—holding himself just so, as if the right posture might make the world easier to carry.

Peter understood that feeling all too well.

“The Embassy’s amazing,” Peter said, trying to sound casual. His legs dangled off the edge of the bench, boots tapping lightly against the metal with a soft, rhythmic thud. “Do you guys live there?”

The other Steve glanced over, brows lifting slightly—as if surprised the conversation hadn’t ended.

“No,” he said, voice softer this time. “We live at Avengers Tower. In New York.”

He shifted, hands folding neatly in his lap. “But we’ve built a few embassies. One here, some in Mexico, Brazil. Others scattered around the world.”

Peter hummed, the scale of it catching up to him. His brows furrowed behind the mask as the logistics tumbled in his head.

“Isn’t that, like… insanely expensive?” he blurted, before he could stop himself.

The other Steve gave a small shrug, then tilted his chin toward the other Tony across the cabin.

“He’s insanely rich.”

Peter followed his gaze.

The other Tony was doubled over, one hand clutching the arc reactor at his chest, eyes shut in laughter. His Tony was still talking—muttering something rapid-fire with a half-smile—while Steve, standing nearby, dragged a hand down his face in mock frustration, a faint blush creeping up his neck.

Peter’s eyes shifted back to the other Steve—shoulders drawn in just slightly, jaw tight, lips pressed together like he was holding something back. 

He didn’t know what made him say it. Maybe it was the travel time, or the way everything felt slightly off. Or maybe it was just that the other Steve looked like Peter felt lately—quiet, out of place, and all alone.

“Are you two close?” Peter asked, voice barely more than a whisper.

The other Steve’s jaw tensed. He didn’t look away—his eyes stayed locked on the other Tony.

“We’re teammates. Co-leaders,” he said, the words clipped, deliberate. “We’re as close as we need to be.”

Each syllable landed like it had been rehearsed. Precise. Final. Peter understood what the words were meant to be: an order to stop.

Sadly for everyone, Peter didn't consider himself much of a rule follower. 

“In our universe—well, their universe—they had a big fight,” Peter said, feigning innocence as he leaned back slightly, his fingers tugging absently at the seam of his glove. “It was bad. The Avengers broke up after that.”

The other Steve’s eyes widened. His mouth parted, like he’d meant to say something else but got caught on the surprise.

“Oh,” he said, brows drawing in. “Really? They seem so… close.”

Peter glanced across the cabin.

Tony was seated near the center, one leg stretched out, posture loose. The other Tony sat to his right, turned slightly toward him, mid-sentence. And just above them, steadying himself against one of the Quinjet’s overhead handles, stood Steve—relaxed, half-smiling, watching them both.

Tony’s left foot rested lightly against Steve’s boot. Casual. Familiar.

“Yeah, well, they made up afterwards,” Peter said, a small smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “They just have... an intense relationship, you know?”

The other Steve frowned, eyes still lingering on the trio across the cabin. He looked like he was doing math in his head—like he needed a logical formula to make sense of what he was seeing.

“Are you guys like that?” Peter asked, slipping the question in as casually as he could.

The other Steve shifted. His gaze snapped forward, away from the scene, fixing on the wall like it offered cover.

“Not really,” he said quietly.

His voice held steady, but only just—something in the rhythm of it stuttered, like a step missed mid-march.

“We never really paid much attention to each other,” he added, posture still perfectly straight. “He does his thing. I do mine. We handle different sectors. Different strengths.”

Peter hummed, eyes dropping to his gloved fingers as he traced a line along the seam.

“So... are you friends?”

The other Steve swallowed. His throat bobbed once, and he didn’t answer right away.

“I never thought about it that way,” he said finally. “We’re teammates.”

The words came out low, careful—but something caught at the end. Not quite regret. Not quite certainty. Just... raw.

Peter grinned under the mask, smug in the way only a nosy teenager could be. There was something strangely exhilarating about watching Captain America drop the act—even for a second.

His eyes flicked to the glint of metal on the other Tony’s hand.

“Were you invited to the wedding?” he asked, tone light, almost offhand.

“Yes. We all were,” the other Steve said, careful with his words.

Peter gave a small shrug, letting it hang just enough.

“I guess that means you’re friends, right?”

A pause. The kind that stretches just a little too long.

“Right,” Steve said at last, his eyes dropping to his hands

 

---

 

The Quinjet touched down with a low hum, landing gear hissing against cracked concrete. Dust spiraled up around them, catching in the morning light like ash. Outside, the outskirts of Tijuana stretched in every direction—flat, wind-swept, and wrong.

They were in what used to be an industrial zone. Long-abandoned factories loomed like hollow bones, scaffolding rusted into twisted teeth. The buildings hadn’t collapsed, but they had shifted—walls that leaned too far inward, corners that failed to meet, support beams intersecting at impossible angles.

From inside the jet, the landscape already made Peter’s stomach twist. Something about the geometry was off. It wasn’t just visual—it felt wrong. Like the ground might fold inward if he stared at it too long.

He stepped off the ramp last, boots landing with a hollow clack. The moment the wind hit his suit, his skin prickled. His Spidey sense was already buzzing—a low, constant static under his ribs, like pressure before a storm.

To the left, Natasha and Bruce moved out together, quiet and alert. Bruce scanned a handheld device while Nat took point, steps light but precise. Ahead, Clint and Thor split off—Clint muttering something about cover while Thor rolled his shoulders like he was preparing to lift the sky.

The other Tony stepped back from the group, already suited in red and gold. His visor snapped into place with a quiet hiss, and in the next breath, he lifted off the ground—jets flaring to life beneath his boots. He rose into the air with practiced ease, cutting through the dust as he disappeared overhead.

“Right,” the other Steve murmured, eyes tracking the thin blue arc of energy as it vanished into the sky.

Dust drifted through the heat-hazed air, catching in the uneven light as the wind pushed across the decaying industrial zone. His shoulders squared, his voice cutting through the stillness like it belonged to someone used to being obeyed.

“Iron Man will run aerial recon,” he continued, already turning toward the horizon. “Thor. Captain Marvel. Sweep the perimeter. I want the full radius of the radiation mapped.”

Thor rolled his shoulders with a quiet grunt. 

“The civilian zone’s five miles east,” Carol said, voice firm as she lifted off the ground. Golden light pulsed at her shoulders, casting shifting shadows across the cracked pavement. “We should evacuate first.”

The other Steve didn’t hesitate. He gave a single, sharp nod.

“Do it.”

He turned then—eyes landing on Tony and Steve.

“The rest of you are with me,” he said briskly. “We’ll handle ground recon.”

Steve’s brow furrowed. He tugged at his gloves with a sharp motion, stepping forward as his chest lifted slightly.

“Tony can cover more ground from the air,” he said, a note of indignation slipping into his voice. “There’s no reason to ground him

The other Steve turned toward Tony with a sharp, evaluating look—just short of a glare.

Tony stood a little taller in the suit, the armor adding a few inches and a lot of presence. His helmet was retracted, and without it, the damage stood out starkly. A massive bruise shadowed the underside of his jaw, discoloring the skin all the way to his neck. Thin, healing cuts lined one cheekbone and his temple.

It all looked especially harsh under the gleam of the suit—new, spotless, high-polish red and gold. Like the person inside didn’t match the shine.

“He just suffered an injury from a flight crash,” the other Steve said flatly, like it was common sense. “If he can’t stay in the air, he’s more useful on the ground.”

Peter blinked behind the mask. The air shifted. A second later, the tension snapped.

Tony stepped forward, the suit hissing and whirring with each movement. Servos tightened, plating adjusted, the glow from the arc reactor flaring just a little too bright. 

Peter saw his hands curl into fists at his sides, the fingertips of the gauntlets flexing like they were ready to fire.

“What the fuck did you just say?” Tony barked, his chest rising hard beneath the armor. “I can fly laps around this planet and kick your ass at the same time”

The other Steve didn’t flinch. His gaze locked on Tony’s, steady and unreadable.

“There’s no need to get dramatic,” he said, voice flat as concrete. “I’m stating a fact. You crashed the last time you went airborne.”

“I fell because I was wearing half-functional boots rigged from scrap plating, salvaged wiring, and a busted arc stabilizer,” Tony snapped, the glow from his reactor pulsing brighter with each word.

His voice had gone off-kilter—fast, a little wild, like it was running ahead of him.

“Even if I handed you top-of-the-line flight tech, you wouldn’t make it ten feet off the ground.”

“Tony, calm down,” Steve said, stepping in—his voice low but firm as he reached out, laying a steady hand on Tony’s armored shoulder.

The contact barely lasted a second. Tony jerked away, the suit hissing as he shrugged Steve off with a sharp twist, his head snapping toward him with a glare.

“No, I fucking won’t,” Tony snapped, the words cutting through the air like a crack of thunder.

He took a step forward, shoulder brushing Steve aside with just enough force to send the message. The suit let out a low, reactive hum as he squared off with the other Steve.

“I brought us here. My tech. My mind.”

The lights on his suit pulsed brighter as he leaned in, face inches from the other Steve’s.

“You think I’m just some busted-up idiot tagging along? I know this world better than you. And I know you, Rogers. You walk around like you’re holding everything together—but guess what? You’re not.”

He let the words hang a beat, then spat them like venom.

“You’re a fucking poster boy coasting on my tech to make yourself feel better about whatever your conscience can’t fix.”

“Damn,” Peter muttered under his breath, watching as the other Steve’s shoulders stiffened, his posture faltering just slightly—like the hit had landed deeper than expected.

“I don’t know how things work in your world, Stark,” the other Steve said, his voice rising, clipped with restrained fury. “But here, you show respect. You're a guest in this universe—remember that.”

Tony let out a dry, humorless laugh, the sound low and sharp, echoing off the hollow space between them.

“Is that what you want? Respect?” Tony snapped, taking a slow step forward. Then his voice dropped, low and steady. “You should show me some goddamn respect, Captain.”

He jabbed a finger toward his own chest, where the arc reactor pulsed faintly beneath the plating.

“I flew a nuke into space. I snapped my fingers with five infinity stones.”

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing.

“What do you do? Throw your shield and sign autographs?”

“Stark, stop,” Bruce said, stepping in, his tone calm but edged with urgency.

“No, no,” Tony cut in, brushing him off without looking. His eyes were wild now—too bright, locked on the other Steve like a target.

“He needs to hear it from someone.”

A laugh slipped out—low, sharp, and mean.

“He’s out here playing team leader while a god and a living infinity stone let him pretend he’s in charge.”

“Tony,” Peter said softly, reaching out and laying a gloved hand on the bulky shoulder of the suit.

The armor jerked instinctively—a hard, defensive swipe—then stopped the instant Tony registered who it was. His gaze met the kid’s, and he froze. Peter didn’t flinch; he just kept his hand where it was and tilted his chin, quietly redirecting Tony’s attention across the space.

Steve stood a few feet away, unmoving. His arms hung loosely at his sides, palms slightly turned out as if he didn’t know what to do with them. His mouth was parted, like a word had been building and never made it out. His frown was drawn tight, not with anger, but something softer—more fragile.

Even from this distance, Peter could see it: the shine in Steve’s eyes, the way his chest rose with a breath he didn’t let go.

And Tony saw it too.

Everything in him—the armor, the rage, the posture—unwound all at once. Like watching heat leave a flame

“Steve, no, I didn’t—”

He didn’t get to finish.

The ground cracked with a sound like the sky tearing in half. A low, seismic groan surged beneath their feet, then erupted into a violent shockwave that sent dirt, debris, and metal screaming into the air. The factory behind them split like paper, a wall crumbling in a roar of dust and steel. Screams rose—civilian, team, it was impossible to tell.

Peter hit the ground hard, ears ringing, mask caked with grit. His Spidey sense had barely given him a second’s warning. When the shaking stopped, he staggered to his feet and looked around, heart pounding.

The landscape had split—a jagged fissure tearing straight through the middle of the zone, a chasm of collapsed ground and fractured concrete.

On one side: him and Steve, coughing in the dust, shield already raised. On the other: Tony, Thor, Carol, Bruce, and the rest of the team.

Peter’s eyes darted up—Tony had launched, but not high. He hovered halfway above the wreckage, hands braced against a collapsing metal beam. Beneath it, a group of civilians were trapped, screaming, shielding themselves from the falling structure.

Peter barely had time to shout before the groan of warped steel gave way to a thunderous crack overhead.

A building—half-collapsed from the initial blast—was coming down fast. Beams snapped, windows exploded outward in glittering shards, and the upper floors twisted midair like falling cards.

“Cap, move!”

Peter launched forward, webs snapping from both wrists. He snagged a falling support beam mid-air, slinging it sideways just enough to redirect the worst of its weight—but not all of it. The debris kept coming.

Steve was already in motion. He shoved Peter aside with one arm and caught a steel panel with the other, his boots skidding in the dust as he absorbed the blow. Chunks of brick and concrete rained down. Peter twisted through the wreckage, flipping off twisted rebar, slinging another web to snag a slab before it crushed them both.

A deafening crash. Total darkness.

The floor beneath them gave out, brittle and unstable from the quake. It cracked like eggshell, and both of them dropped—Steve first, then Peter tumbling after him.

They landed hard in a narrow, concrete corridor. Dust choked the air, and something above groaned ominously before sealing shut with a muted thud of debris.

Peter coughed, scrambling upright. His headlamp flicked on automatically, casting jittery light on cold, damp walls.

A tunnel. Old. Reinforced. Industrial.

He turned. Steve was already up, wiping blood from his temple, shield scraped but intact.

The noise above them had faded into muffled chaos—yells, metal straining, distant rumbling—but no way out.

They were alone. Underground. Cut off.

Steve’s arms were around him, steady and strong, pulling him upright from the rubble. The narrow beam of the flashlight caught his face—sharp cheekbones thrown into stark relief, eyes tight with concern.

“Kid—hey, hey! You alright? Are you hurt?” His voice was firm, low but urgent, one hand bracing Peter’s shoulder while the other hovered, checking him over for injuries without crowding him. Dust clung to both of them in the narrow, cold-dark tunnel, the silence broken only by Steve’s breath and the slow creak of settling debris.

Peter coughed, twice, the dust sharp in his throat. He took a second to scan himself—arms, legs, ribs—nothing screaming, nothing broken. Just the deep, familiar ache of overworked muscles.

“I’m fine, Cap,” he said, his voice rough but steady. “What about you?”

Steve didn’t answer. He released Peter gently, then straightened, shoulders rolling back as he took a slow step forward, scanning the tunnel walls.

Dust drifted in the beam of the flashlight, settling over broken concrete and rusted pipe.

He raised his wrist comm to his lips.

“Rogers here,” he said, voice steady but tight. “Does anybody copy?”

A burst of metallic static crackled through the comm—faint, fractured, barely intelligible.

“Cap?” The voice broke apart in the interference. “Cap, are—you… good?”

Steve leaned down slightly, as if angling his body might pull a cleaner signal from the air.

“Barton, is that you?” he asked, voice raised just a notch. “Are you injured? How’s everyone else?”

There was a pause on the other end—a muffled scuffle, then a shift in tone.

“Yeah, we’re—” Clint’s voice was cut off mid-sentence, swallowed by a burst of static.

Then a new voice broke through—clearer, firmer, urgent.

“Steve? Are you with Peter?”

“Yes, Tony,” Steve replied immediately. As soon as the words left his mouth, Peter saw the shift—Steve let out a quiet breath, almost a sigh. His shoulders dropped, the tight line of his jaw eased. . “Yes, I’m with him. He’s fine.”

A pause followed. The kind that carried weight. Steve glanced at Peter, and Peter met his eyes through the dusty light, heart thudding quieter now.

“I don’t understand where you are,” Tony’s voice pressed through the comm. “Are you—are you underground?”

Steve glanced around, turning slowly to take in the damp walls, the rusted pipes, the cracked tile under their feet. He exhaled through his nose, the weight settling in.

“Looks like it,” he said. “An old tunnel. Maybe a subway line.”

“Shit,” Tony muttered, his voice tight with concern. “We can’t reach you without risking another collapse. Steve, can you make it back on your own?”

Steve turned slightly, tilting his chin toward Peter in a silent question. Peter didn’t hesitate—he gave a quick nod, already adjusting the straps on his web shooters, fingers moving with quiet focus.

“Yes, we’re good,” Steve said, his voice steady now. He looked at Peter and gave him a small, reassuring smile—just enough to ease the edge of the moment.

“Great,” Tony replied, his voice softer. “I’ll send you the maps. I dug up a few old ones—they’re rough, but they should get you through.”

Steve shifted his wrist, nodding slightly even though Tony couldn’t see it. “Thank you, Tony.”

A beat of silence. Then—

“And Steve?”

Steve straightened. “Yeah?”

“Please take care of him.”

Peter looked down, suddenly aware of how warm his face felt beneath the mask. His chest tightened.

He felt Steve’s gaze linger, steady and watchful.

“Of course,” Steve said softly.

The line went quiet.

 

---

 

The tunnel, they quickly realized, had once been part of an old sewage system—abandoned, but far from forgotten by the air.

The stench lingered like a warning, thick and sour, clinging to the damp walls and stale air. Sludge-stained brick arched above them, and the ground beneath their boots was slick with something that looked dry but sounded wet when stepped on.

Peter wrinkled his nose behind the mask, trying not to breathe too deeply. The waste was long gone, but the memory of it hung in every crack.

Just half a mile. That’s all they needed to cross before reaching the gateway.

Peter muttered a quiet thanks to whoever handled small mercies.

He was just sidestepping a particularly rancid heap of unidentifiable trash when it hit—his whole body lit up with a jolt of static.

The hairs on the back of his neck rose like needles. His Spidey sense flared hard. He tried to move, dodge, grab onto something—but there was nothing. No time.

The world yanked sideways.

In the next breath, he was weightless—floating, untethered—staring down at his own body.

Astral projection. Great.

“Mr. Parker. Captain Rogers,” came Doctor Strange’s voice, echoing unnaturally through the walls, as if the air itself was carrying it.

Peter spun midair, untethered and blinking against the eerie stillness. He wasn’t alone.

Beside him, Steve’s astral form hovered—upright, tense, jaw locked. His arms instinctively reached for the shield that wasn’t there. His eyes darted around, scanning the shapeless dark like it was a battlefield he didn’t understand.

Then, slowly, a shape emerged through the haze. A flickering outline at first, then sharper—robes flowing, hands clasped behind his back.

“I told you to stop doing that,” Peter whined, arms curling in toward his chest as he rubbed at the ghost-feeling crawling over his skin.

“I got your message,” Strange said, tone unusually grave. “You were right, Parker. The multiverse is tearing at its seams.”

“Who’s doing this, Strange?” Steve asked, voice clipped, steady. The kind of voice that expected a straight answer.

Strange turned his gaze toward Steve, eyes narrowing—not evasive, but measuring.

“I don’t know yet,” he said slowly. “There’s something—or someone—interfering. Blocking the branches.”

Peter’s breath hitched. The space around them suddenly felt colder.

“So this is planned?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Strange gave a single, deliberate nod.

“It’s not random,” he said. “There’s a force behind it—something big. Whatever’s causing the tear, it’s deliberate.”

He rubbed a hand along his beard, eyes narrowing as if replaying data in his head.

“The energy signals were chaotic at first, impossible to track. But they’ve started to stabilize—around four fixed points. Anchors.”

He drifted closer as he spoke, the folds of his cloak trailing like smoke behind him, his presence suddenly heavier in the space.

“You need to deactivate them,” Strange said, voice firm and unblinking.

Peter straightened, fists curling with instinctive resolve. “So we do it! How?”

Strange hesitated. His lips pressed into a tight line, fingers steeled in front of him like he was choosing his next words with care.

“I need to remind you both,” he said slowly, “the stability of the entire multiverse hangs in the balance. Do you understand the magnitude of what you’re walking into?”

Steve’s eyes narrowed. “Of course, Strange,” he replied, clipped—offended. “Who do you think we are?”

Strange gave him a long, pointed look. No words. Just a silence thick with implication.

“The energy signature tearing at the multiverse is the same at each anchor point,” Strange said, his tone sharpening. “And it’s… unmistakable.”

Peter leaned in slightly, tension winding tight across his shoulders.

“What do you mean?”

Strange’s gaze drifted, unfocused now—like he was looking at something far off.

“I was confused at first,” he said quietly. “The signature was familiar, but it didn’t make sense. It couldn’t be him. His energy has been... different ever since he used the Stones. Singular. Traced into reality like a scar.”

Peter felt the tension shift beside him—Steve went still, like a statue mid-breath. The space between them stretched thin.

Strange’s eyes snapped back to focus. “Then I realized,” he said, almost reluctantly. “He has a daughter.”

Peter’s breath hitched, caught somewhere between shock and denial. A cold rush bloomed in his chest, crawling up his spine like ice water

“Morgan?” Peter whispered, the name barely making it past his throat. “She’s just a kid.”

Strange’s expression didn’t shift much, but there was a tightness in the set of his jaw as he gave a slow, regretful shrug.

“I followed the trail,” he said. “There’s no doubt. The signature is Stark’s—down to the smallest pulse.”

Steve’s projection drifted closer, the motion smooth and controlled, like a thought rather than a step. He hovered just in front of Strange, his presence radiating tension despite the incorporeal form. His posture was stiff, squared, like a soldier preparing to confront a threat, not a colleague.

“You’re not suggesting a little girl is tearing the multiverse apart,” he said, voice like ice. Controlled. Measured. Dangerous.

Strange didn’t flinch. He simply exhaled through his nose and rolled his eyes with the weariness of someone who had already run through this argument in his head.

“Calm down, Captain,” he said evenly. “I’m not claiming it’s intentional. It could be accidental. A side effect. Something as small as a child’s game gone wrong.”

Steve’s frown deepened, the lines in his face tightening with something more than frustration.

“What child’s play?” he snapped, voice sharp now. “Strange—she’s missing.”

Strange’s composure wavered. The color drained from his face, and for the first time, he looked genuinely shaken.

“What do you mean missing?” Strange’s head snapped toward Peter, eyes sharp, voice clipped. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Peter shifted uncomfortably, shoulders hunching under the weight of the question. “I— I didn’t even know if you were listening,” he mumbled.

Strange turned away, muttering rapidly under his breath. Symbols flickered faintly around his hands, but his focus was fractured—eyes wide, pacing within the weightless stillness of the astral space.

“This changes everything,” he murmured.

“Then say what you’re thinking, Doctor,” Steve ordered, voice like stone.

Strange looked up. The urgency in his face had hardened into something colder.

“The same force that took her is behind the multiversal fractures,” Strange said, his voice low and serious. “Whether they know what they’re doing or not… that’s still unclear.”

He reached into the folds of his robes and withdrew a narrow parchment, its edges curled with age. With a flick of his fingers, runes ignited along the surface—glowing briefly in orange flame before settling into place.

“These are the coordinates,” he said, pressing the scroll gently against Steve’s astral form. The symbols flickered once, then embedded like ink into the silhouette of his body. “I’ve already informed my counterpart in this universe. He’ll be expecting you.”

“Wait,” Peter asked, voice quiet as he rubbed at his temple. “What universe are you from?”

Strange’s expression softened—just slightly.

“Yours, Peter,” he said. “You can only reach me through the relic I gave you. That bond connects us. Same thread. Same home.”

Peter swallowed hard, throat suddenly dry. “So… you could take me back?”

Across the space, Steve turned toward him sharply, eyes locking onto Peter with something between hope and alarm.

Strange didn’t speak right away. Then he gave a single, deliberate nod.

“When this is done,” he said, and for once his voice carried no weight, no command—just quiet sincerity. “Yes. I’ll take you home.”

He paused, gaze settling gently on Peter.

“But I need you on this until then. I need you focused.”

A beat passed. Then:

“I trust you, Peter.”

Peter felt the heat rise in his chest again—tight and restless. His jaw clenched beneath the mask.

“Of course,” he said quietly, steadying his voice.

Strange turned back to Steve, all warmth gone.

“Captain—for this to work, Stark can’t know his daughter is involved.”

Steve stared at him, stunned. His mouth opened, but for a second, no words came. Then—

“Are you insane?” he snapped, the disbelief plain in his voice. “I’m not keeping that from him. He needs to know.”

“He only needs to know that the portals must be closed,” Strange replied, voice clipped, all business again.

Peter narrowed his eyes, watching him carefully.

“There’s something you’re not saying.”

Strange hesitated. His composure held—but only barely. His jaw tightened. His gaze shifted slightly, no longer meeting theirs. The silence pressed down hard.

“Doctor,” Peter said, softer now, but firm. “Please.”

Strange exhaled slowly, like the breath had been caught in his chest for too long.

“His daughter is behind one of the portals,” he said, barely above a whisper. “If he closes them all... he’ll never see her again.”

The words didn’t echo, but they felt like they should have. They dropped heavy into the space between them—sharp and irreversible.

Strange lifted his gaze, voice low and final.

“And if he tries to cross them… the rupture will spread. It’ll be too big to contain. Too big to fix.”

Peter’s vision swam. His stomach twisted, cold and hollow. He shook his head, a breath catching in his throat.

“No,” he murmured. “No, that can’t be right…”

“Don’t tell him,” Strange said firmly, the words landing like a command more than a plea. His eyes flicked once more to Peter. “I have to go. This is in your hands now.”

And just like that, he vanished—fading into light before Peter could even open his mouth to protest.

A split-second later, the world lurched. Peter was yanked backward, weight slamming into him as breath and body reconnected. He was back in the tunnel—cold air, aching limbs, and the weight of a secret already pressing down.

 

---

 

The first few seconds passed in heavy silence.

Peter blinked, shaking off the hollow, electric buzz that lingered from the astral separation. It clung to his skin like static, like the ghost of having been somewhere else entirely.

Beside him, Steve reached down and retrieved his shield, strapping it back into place with practiced, mechanical motions. The leather creaked. His boots scraped against the broken pavement as he started forward—each step echoing faintly in the tunnel's stale air.

They walked without speaking, shadows stretching long ahead of them. The weight of what they’d just heard pressed down like humidity, thick and clinging, filling the silence between them with something worse than noise.

Finally, Peter exhaled—and broke it.

“Uhm… Captain?” Peter’s voice came out softer than he meant it to—tentative, thin in the stale air.

Steve didn’t stop walking. He didn’t turn. Just a slight tilt of his head over his shoulder, the muscles in his back tight under the dark fabric.

“We’re telling him,” he said, flat and unwavering.

The words hit like a drop of cold water. Final. Nonnegotiable.

Peter sucked in a sharp breath. “Wait—wait, what?” he blurted, already quickening his pace to catch up with Steve’s long strides.

He stepped in close, boots skidding slightly on the damp concrete. “Are you insane? We can’t tell him!”

“What?” Steve turned, brows drawn. “Of course we can. And we will.”

He moved past Peter, steps tight with purpose, the scrape of his boots ringing louder than before against the concrete. His jaw was set like stone.

Peter moved fast—too fast for Steve to sidestep. He jumped in front of him and thrust a hand against Steve’s chest, bracing hard.

Steve’s steps halted instantly. His frown deepened as he looked down, clearly surprised that Peter’s hand alone had stopped him so cleanly. His boots scraped slightly as the momentum checked, his weight shifting back.

“Cap, I mean it!” Peter said, breath quick, voice rising. “You heard what Strange said—if he tries to cross the portal…”

“He has the right to know,” Steve said, voice clipped. “We have to trust he’ll show restraint—”

“But what if he doesn’t?” Peter shot back, panic threading through his voice. “This isn’t going to help him get her back. It just puts the rest of us in danger.”

Steve exhaled hard through his nose. “You have to try believing in him a little.”

Peter’s head jerked slightly, as if the words had landed wrong. He blinked at Steve, slow, disbelieving.

His voice, when it came, was quieter—but colder.

“Of course I believe in him,” he said. “He saved my life”

Steve locked eyes with him, gaze sharp and unmoving, like he was trying to read something buried just beneath Peter’s skin.

“Then?” he asked, quiet but firm.

Peter let out a sharp huff, throwing his arms wide, palms open like he couldn’t believe they were having this conversation. His fingers curled slightly as he spoke, the energy in his body practically vibrating through the air.

“I know him! He’s impulsive, stupidly loyal, and—let’s be honest—a little bit suicidal,” he said, the words tumbling fast, raw. His eyes flashed, wide and intense behind the lenses. “He’s going to think he can outsmart the whole thing and save her anyway. And if he tries—if he even tries—it could rip everything apart. The risk is too big.”

Steve’s jaw flexed once, hard, the muscle twitching.

“I’m not lying to Tony about this,” he barked, voice rising, sharp as the edge of his shield.

“Well it’s not about you!” Peter snapped, the words cracking loud in the still air.

Steve flinched—just slightly—but it was enough. The space between them felt sharper suddenly, colder. The echo of Peter’s voice lingered in the tunnel, heavy and unresolved.

The air between them went cold.

“I know you feel guilty,” Peter continued, quieter now but no less direct. “I know that. But we’re not risking the multiverse just so you can clean your conscience.”

Steve didn’t respond—not with words. His mouth pressed into a hard line, and his gaze locked onto Peter like it could pin him in place. His shoulders tensed, fists curling at his sides, the lines in his brow deepening with every second.

Peter felt it—the heat, the pressure—but didn’t look away. He lifted his chin, holding his ground with quiet, stubborn defiance.

“It’s the right thing to do, kid,” Steve said, his voice low, almost tired.

Peter shook his head, a sharp, frustrated motion. His hands clenched at his sides.

“It’s not about what’s right,” he said. “It’s about being responsible.” He took a step back, trying to find air in the thick quiet. “We didn’t ask for this information—but now it’s ours, and it’s on us to handle it carefully.”

Steve tilted his head slightly, something hard settling behind his eyes. The conversation shut down with him.

“I appreciate your concerns, Peter,” he said, voice colder now, more distant. He turned, body already shifting back toward the path ahead. “But it’s not up for discussion.”

Peter’s chest tightened. A flicker of dread coiled low in his gut. He knew that tone. Knew what it meant when Captain America believed in something. Logic wouldn’t move him. Nothing would.

“Steve—wait, okay?” Peter rushed the words out, stepping forward. “Fine. We’ll tell him. Together. But you have to promise me—really promise—you’ll make the dangers clear. He can’t go after Morgan like this.”

Steve stopped. Turned.

Their eyes locked. His jaw was tight, the muscle there pulsing once. Then he gave a short, deliberate nod.

“Deal.”

Peter exhaled, the breath escaping like pressure off a valve. His shoulders sagged slightly.

Whatever was happening between the two of them—whatever old wounds or unspoken things kept pulling them together and tearing them apart—Peter was pretty sure it was going to kill him.

Maybe literally.

Chapter 10: Tijuana II

STEVE

Steve pushed open the hatch. The lock gave with a dull groan, and a shaft of daylight cut through the dark. The light burned his eyes, sharp after so long in the murk—but the air that rushed in was clean. Cold. Pure.

He inhaled deeply. For a second, it was almost euphoric. After the heavy, stagnant air of the sewer, the clarity hit like a blessing. His lungs drank it in.

Then he stepped outside—and the relief soured in his gut.

Mist blanketed the street, dense and white, curling along the pavement and what was left of the buildings. The world looked off. Slipped out of joint.

Chunks of concrete hovered a few feet off the ground, unmoving. Door frames, street signs, pieces of rebar floated slowly through the fog, as if suspended in water. A stairway jutted sideways out of a wall that shouldn’t exist.

Steve’s eyes narrowed. Segments of the skyline flickered—vanishing, then reappearing half a breath later. Others twisted subtly when he looked directly at them, like they were trying to correct themselves, but couldn’t settle. Two realities layered over each other, flickering in and out of sync.

His stomach turned. 

“What the fuck,” Peter muttered under his breath, eyes wide behind the lenses. He caught himself, jaw tightening as he glanced sideways. “Sorry,” he added quickly.

Steve shot him a sidelong look—dry, a little amused, but unmistakably warm. “What the fuck indeed.”

There were people on the street—walking, talking, existing. A man leaned against a lamppost scrolling through something on his phone. Two women laughed quietly outside a storefront. A child sat on the curb, tugging a stuffed animal back and forth by one worn ear.

None of them looked alarmed. None of them noticed the floating debris or the warping skyline. They moved like the world was normal.

Steve stepped closer to the child. The little girl was singing something tuneless, the plushie clutched tight in her arms. He crouched slightly, reaching out—instinct, maybe. To check. To ground himself.

His fingers met nothing.

The girl vanished the second his hand passed through the air she occupied—gone like static being cleared from a screen.

Steve straightened slowly, pulse ticking at his throat. Whatever these people were, they weren’t here. Not really.

“I think the fumes made us high,” Peter muttered, glancing around, voice dry like he wasn’t totally joking.

Then he moved—one clean leap up to a streetlight, landing with the effortless balance only a spider could get away with. He turned in a slow circle, scanning the glitching horizon, lenses narrowing as he took it all in.

“Whoa. Cap—this is crazy,” Peter called down from the top of the light pole, his voice echoing slightly through the fog. “It’s like the horizon’s folding in on itself.”

Steve didn’t respond. He tapped the comm on his wrist, fingers brushing the edge of the mic. A burst of static crackled in his ear, sharp and distorted—until, finally, a voice broke through

“—teve? Is—… you?”

It was barely intelligible. Steve pressed the comm closer to his mouth, his tone steady despite the noise.

“This is Rogers,” he said firmly. “Can anyone hear me?”

There was another burst of static—sharper this time—followed by a clipped reply.

“—hold on a second— ”

The signal dropped with a high screech. Silence again. Steve stared down at his wrist, frowning, thumb hovering over the comm. A second later, the line clicked open again—clean this time.

“Okay, is this better? ” Tony’s voice came through, crisp and clear as morning air.

Steve’s chest tightened. His fingers curled instinctively around the edge of his shield, grounding himself in the sound.

“Yes,” Steve said, a little too breathless. “It’s perfect.”

There was a muffled laugh on the other end.

“ Thanks ,” Tony replied, voice low. “You’re not that bad yourself.”

Steve rolled his eyes, lips twitching despite himself. 

“Where are you?” Steve asked, cutting past the flirtation. “We came out in what looks like the epicenter of the rift.”

There was a pause—long enough to mean something.

“What? ” Tony’s voice came back, sharper now, laced with concern. “ That’s not possible. The vault was on the other side of the city.”

Steve shrugged, letting out a sigh as he adjusted the strap of his shield. “Well, either Tijuana is really that funky or there’s some sort of reality-bending energy here. Or tell me—have you seen any floating buildings lately?”

Tony groaned over the comms, the sound crackling slightly in Steve’s ear. “ Shit. Don’t tell me it’s all fucked over there.”

Steve glanced around at the drifting debris and glitching skyline. 

“That’s one way of putting it…” he murmured.

The place looked like a Dadaist painting brought to life—illogical, disjointed, and vaguely threatening in its wrongness. Stairs jutted from walls and stopped midair, leading to nowhere at all. Clouds drifted beneath rooftops, shifting like they were submerged in water. Light beams cut across the space at impossible angles, casting shadows in directions the sun couldn’t possibly support. The air shimmered in pockets, as if reality itself was buffering.

It was a cascade of contradictions—one logical error layered over the next, until the rules of space and time were barely holding shape.

“ Okay, I’m tracking your location, ” Tony said.

Steve gave a low hum in response, eyes following Peter across the shifting skyline. The kid was bounding between chunks of floating concrete like it was a game—arms loose, posture easy. At one point he slipped, landing awkwardly on a tilted slab, but recovered instantly with a web shot and a gleeful swing to the next ledge.

“Shit. You are in no way close to where you should’ve come out,” Tony said, voice sharp with urgency. “ There must be micro wormhole pockets folding through the rift—reality’s unstable.”

Steve adjusted his stance, gaze sweeping the warped skyline. “Damn. Love it when you talk dirty,” he deadpanned, dry as sand.

There was the faintest pause—barely a breath—before Tony answered, his voice a touch more clipped. “Just—stay there. We’ll go to you. ”

The call disconnected. 

Steve lowered himself onto a chunk of debris that looked solid enough—not flickering, not floating, not threatening to vanish from under him. 

A slow breath dragged through his chest as he set the shield beside him with care, the edge catching a glint of fractured daylight. His shoulders rolled forward, hands reaching up to knead at the base of his neck. The tension there felt fused to the bone, a long coil of exhaustion unspooling one knot at a time.

The conversation with Strange still echoed in his mind, taut and unfinished. 

Steve unfolded the parchment with stiff fingers, Strange’s looping handwriting catching the light.

Bogotá. Sucre. Mendoza. Ushuaia.

He frowned. The names hovered in his mind, familiar but distant. He reached for his phone, thumbs clumsy over the map. One by one, he dropped pins, but the flat map distorted what felt clearer in his mind. Frustrated, he switched to Tony's 3D geo-modeling app, tracing the points carefully across the virtual globe.

His breath stilled. On the spherical projection, it emerged—precise, ruthless, undeniable.

His pulse quickened. He added more cities—Fairbanks. Vancouver. Reno. Each place they’d chased down a lead, followed a spike, escaped by inches.

The line extended, unbroken. From the top of the world to its edge. A seam. A tear.

Steve stared at it, his throat dry. It wasn’t random. This was deliberate. Something—or someone—was dragging a knife down the length of the continent. North to South. One long stroke.

Steve’s jaw flexed. The phone rested in his hand, screen dimmed now, but the line still burned into his vision. A straight wound down the continent. A path with an end he didn’t want to name.

Doctor Strange’s voice echoed in his head, low and precise:

His daughter is behind one of the portals .

The air around him was stale, harder to breathe. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, sweat clinging beneath the collar of his suit. His fingers came away cold.

What would Tony do when he found out?

Would he hesitate at all?

Would he risk them all—tear through every checkpoint, every warning—just for the chance to find her?

Steve’s gaze drifted to the edge of the horizon, where the sky bent unnaturally, as if something heavy pressed against the world’s surface. A reality fraying at the seams.

Would Tony cross that edge without looking back?

The kid was right. Tony was stupidly loyal. Arrogantly brilliant.

"I would just cut the wire."

That’s what Tony had said, once—years ago, with the kind of certainty that made Steve bristle. That no-win scenarios were just puzzles waiting for a smarter man.

Always a way out.

But what if this time there wasn’t?

What if the wire was Morgan? What if crossing the line meant tearing the world apart?

Steve ran a hand over his jaw, the bristles scraping beneath his glove. The air felt heavier here, like even time moved reluctantly.

What if Tony stood at the brink, refusing to turn back?

And Steve—shield in hand, breath caught in his chest—had to stop him?

He clenched his gauntlets, fingers curling tight until the leather creaked beneath the pressure.

He wanted to believe it—that he had the strength to do what needed to be done. To stand between Tony and the edge if it came to that. To protect the world, even from someone he—

The thought caught.

Something in his chest twisted, slow and sharp. Doubt bloomed, quiet but relentless.

Deep down, in a place he rarely let himself look too closely, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to raise his shield if it meant turning it against Tony.

Spider-Man dropped beside him in a smooth arc of webbing, landing with a soft thud on the fractured slab of concrete. He spun once before sitting, his legs swinging freely over the edge like a kid on a park bench. Then, with a quiet exhale, he peeled off his mask, shaking out his curls and letting the sweat-damp fabric fall into his lap.

“The rest is coming to us,” Steve said without looking over.

Peter nodded, his hands fidgeting in his lap, fingers tugging absently at the tips of his gloves. His eyes followed a flickering glitch in the sky.

They sat in silence, the kind that didn’t need filling. Peter lounged back on the rock, arms behind him for balance, his gaze drifting lazily over the bent skyline and drifting debris like it was just another strange Tuesday.

Steve barely noticed the view anymore. His mind looped in tight circles, always spiraling back to the same fixed point—Tony.

“Do you think they’re happy?” Peter asked suddenly, his voice cutting through the hum of glitching air.

Steve turned slightly, giving him a sideways glance. Peter didn’t look at him—just kept watching the strange sky, like the question had slipped out before he’d meant to say it. A beat passed, and then he added, almost sheepish, “The other Avengers.”

Steve raised his eyebrows, the question sinking in. He let out a low hum, his eyes narrowing as he weighed an answer he wasn’t sure he had.

“I mean, they have everything, don’t they?” Steve said, slowly. The words felt off even as he spoke them, like trying on a jacket that didn’t quite fit. “Solid team, media recognition, a history of success…”

Peter shrugged, a loose, easy gesture that didn’t match the weight of the question. “Yeah, sure. But are they—y’know—happy? Fulfilled?”

Steve frowned, eyes narrowing on the drifting skyline. How could they not be? They had everything he wanted—stability, recognition, a world that listened when they spoke. A team that never fractured. A clean history.

“I guess so? Why wouldn’t they be?” Steve said, though the words rang thin even to his own ears.

Peter clicked his tongue, thoughtful. “They barely talk to each other. They don’t really need to—everyone just knows what to do.” He rubbed at his chin with a gloved hand,  furrowed. “They don’t have any fun. It’s just… mission after mission. Like clockwork.”

Steve tilted his head slightly, surprised by the observation. “Huh. Never thought about it that way.”

Peter turned around to look at him, elbows braced on his knees, fingers worrying at the edge of his mask. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I would love to get punched less by life,” he said, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth. “But there’s something about this team that’s just…”

“Stuck,” Steve said quietly.

“Yeah! Exactly.” Peter lit up, pointing at him with both hands. “They act like they’ve got the most monotonous job in the world. And they can fly!”

Steve huffed a laugh, shaking his head as he rolled his shoulders back. “I can’t.”

Peter shifted, glancing at the fractured skyline, the shimmer of a windowpane bending unnaturally in the distance. His tone was offhand, but his eyes didn’t quite match.

“Yeah, I talked to the other you,” he said, like it wasn’t a grenade lobbed into the quiet.

Steve straightened, a slow pivot of his shoulders. He tried for nonchalance, but the alert in his posture gave him away. “Oh? Did you?”

Peter nodded, curls flopping as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

"Hm. Miserable guy," he said, like it was just a fact.

Steve’s brow creased, a subtle wince passing over his face. “What?” he asked, the word clipped. “What do you mean?”

Peter met his gaze, slower now, something quiet and reluctant softening his tone—something like pity.

“He’s just… an empty shell,” he repeated. “Lonely. Out of place. Leading a team that doesn’t even feel like one.”

Steve’s lips parted, but no words came. Just a soft, involuntary “Oh,” 

His hand drifted to the edge of his shield, fingers curling along the rim. The mist around them shifted, slow and indifferent.

Peter tilted his head, flicking a pebble off the ledge with the tip of his boot.

“Did you know why the other Natasha’s leading the West Coast team?”

Steve shook his head slowly, cautious. “No.”

“They wanted better specs on the central team,” Peter said. “That’s why Dr. Banner’s not on it either. They never really helped him manage the Hulk. Just shuffled him out.”

A dull ache settled in Steve’s chest. “The other Steve said that?”

Peter looked over, curls shifting in the breeze. “No. It’s in the Embassy archives. It’s literally the official reason.”

Steve’s brows drew together. “That’s… cold.”

“Yeah,” Peter echoed, softer this time. The wind picked up, tugging lightly at the edges of his mask. 

Steve drifted back into thought, Peter’s words echoing sharper than he expected. That quiet irritation he’d felt ever since meeting his alternate self—it wasn’t just the uncanny valley of seeing another version of himself. It was something deeper. 

Now, illuminated under Peter’s blunt, boyish honesty, it came into focus.

The other Steve embodied everything he feared he might become. Too stiff. Too bureaucratic. Too distant. Not enough man, too much symbol. A version of himself whittled down to function and title. Stripped of warmth, of doubt, of contradiction. Of humanity.

“They aren’t even friends,” Peter added, the words falling with casual disbelief as he toyed with the edge of his mask. “The other Tony and Steve.”

Steve’s head snapped around so fast it made Peter flinch. “What?!”

“Yeah. He said it himself—straight-up.” His tone was almost scandalized, as if he were delivering gossip too juicy not to share.

“Did something happen?” Steve asked, still trying to catch up.

“No, that’s the thing,” Peter said with a quick, disbelieving laugh. “They never fought. Never clashed. They just… ignored each other.”

Steve blinked. Once. Twice. The implication didn’t land right.

“What?!” he said again, sharper this time—like the word had been yanked from his throat.

Peter shrugged, a crooked smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, it’s hard to believe, I know.”

Steve’s brow furrowed. He shook his head, trying to reorder the facts in his brain. “But… they stuck together,” he said slowly, as if the words might rearrange the reality. “They didn't break up. They won against Thanos because of it. They were a team until the end”

Peter’s smile lost some of its edge. “You can’t break something that was never there,” he said softly, his voice low but steady.

Steve sat still, but everything inside him was slipping. He wasn’t seeing the floating debris or the horizon folding in on itself—he was looking somewhere much further off, somewhere unreachable. 

His jaw clenched, then loosened again, like he was chewing through something he couldn’t swallow. The leather of his gloves creaked faintly as his fingers dug into the rim of his shield.

“All this time…” he murmured, not really to Peter. Not even to himself. Just out into the world, like a thought that had been waiting years to find air. “I thought that if I’d just tried harder. If I’d met him halfway. If I’d been honest—maybe we wouldn’t have lost. Maybe Thanos wouldn’t have won.”

Peter didn’t move. He stayed quiet beside him, watching with soft, steady eyes.

Steve exhaled, slow and shaky, and finally turned to glance at him.

“And now you’re telling me that none of that mattered?” he said, voice stripped bare. “That we were never supposed to be friends? That they were never close, and still—they won?” He looked at Peter like the answer might be written somewhere on his face. 

Then, as if the words sliced something raw on their way out, he said, “Are we really that bad for each other?”

Peter placed a steady hand on Steve’s shoulder—gloved fingers firm but gentle.

“Of course not,” he said, his voice quiet but sure, like it was the simplest truth in the world. “These Avengers… they haven’t learned anything new in a decade. They’ve got the same tech, the same dynamic, the same worldview. They didn’t grow. They just… kept going.”

“And now… " he went on. "They had an entire year to notice the universe was cracking open, and they didn’t lift a finger,” Peter said, his tone a mix of disbelief and faint amusement. A crooked smile pulled at his mouth. “I mean, I’m just a dumb teenager, but maybe getting your ass handed to you once or twice actually teaches you something.”

Steve watched him, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself. Peter was flushed from the climb, a sheen of sweat at his brow, dirt streaked under one cheekbone. His curls stuck slightly to his forehead, and his expression—open, earnest—held none of the hard edges Steve had come to expect in battle-worn faces.

He looked young. Not just in age, but in spirit. Unbroken. Still full of belief.

And for all that, he saw through things with a clarity Steve rarely managed. It stirred something warm and aching in his chest.

No wonder Tony had chosen him.

“I think that’s really wise, kid,” Steve said, a quiet smile spreading across his face—genuine, warm, a little worn at the edges.

“Thank you!” Peter lit up, grinning wide enough to show every tooth. The pride was unmistakable—bright and boyish.

Then, with a tilt of his head and a glint in his eye, he leaned in just enough to make it feel conspiratorial.

“Now can we talk about what the hell is going on between you and Mr. Stark?” he asked, chest puffed, voice sweetly loaded, eyes dancing with mischief.

Steve’s heart lurched, a beat caught sideways. “That’s—what are you—” he sputtered, face draining like someone had pulled the ground from beneath him.

Peter burst out laughing. “Oh, relax, Cap,” he said, doubling over to clutch his ribs. “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.”

Steve shook his head like he was trying to rattle the words loose, eyes wide, borderline frantic. 

“What secret?!” he blurted, too fast, too loud.

Peter just blinked at him, unimpressed. The kind of look you’d give a golden retriever who hadn’t realized someone tied a birthday balloon to its tail.

“That you’re in love with him.”

Steve froze. The words struck with such force that he actually staggered, boots scraping against the concrete. His breath caught halfway up his throat, eyes going wide with disbelief. 

“I—I’m—wha—?” he fumbled, blinking like the world had just tilted sideways.

All the color drained from his face. His grip tightened unconsciously on the edge of the shield beside him, fingers pale with pressure. 

He looked around, trying to ground himself—somewhere to rest his thoughts, to breathe.

That instinct, that flicker of training, saved his life.

A shriek split the air as a jagged shard of metal came hurtling toward them. He caught the glint too late for his mind to register but not too late for his reflexes. The shield snapped up just in time—metal clanged against vibranium with a deafening crack that echoed down the warping street.

He staggered back a step, bracing. Then he looked up.

They were coming.

The shades swarmed from the edges of the broken skyline, their forms shifting in and out of visibility—part smoke, part nightmare. Twisted silhouettes of things that had once been human or had never been human at all. Their limbs elongated where they shouldn’t. Their eyes, when they had them, burned like the last embers of a dying star.

Some skittered across the crumbling pavement. Others glided above it, flickering between steps like a video skipping frames. The air grew colder, thick with the scent of ash and ozone. The mist recoiled in their presence, as if the very world didn’t want them there.

“Eyes up, kid,” Steve barked, his voice cutting through the chaos like flint. He hurled his shield with practiced precision—an arc of red and silver slicing through a cluster of shades. They vanished on impact, dissolving into smoke and light.

More took their place. Behind the burst of ash, the darkness thickened—multiplying fast, crawling over the broken geometry of the street like a tide that didn’t know how to stop.

Spider-Man vaulted skyward in a blur of red and blue, thwipping webs in rapid bursts as he spiraled through the air. “We have to find their power source!” he called, voice tight with urgency.

Steve nodded without looking back, already breaking into a sprint toward a knot of shades. His boots scraped across cracked concrete, every step aimed toward the storm’s eye. 

Ahead, the rift carved itself across reality like a wound left too long untended—its edges shimmering, unsteady. The shades swarmed from its heart in pulsing waves, flickering in and out like static. 

He pushed forward, muscles burning, the sting of fresh scratches on his arms and legs sharp with every movement. The air grew thicker as he neared the epicenter—more than mist now, it felt charged, like walking into the hum of a live wire. And then—

Everything shifted.

The shades froze mid-lunge, limbs outstretched but no longer moving. Above them, the floating wreckage of buildings, severed beams, and concrete slabs hung in the air like marionettes suspended mid-act. 

The mist, once shifting and curling with every breath of wind, now hovered static, frozen in tendrils like smoke trapped in glass.

Steve stumbled a step, instincts thrown off by the sudden stillness. His boot scraped against unmoving gravel, echoing louder than it should have in the quiet. He tilted his head upward, scanning the sky—expecting motion, threat, something. 

The clouds were still. The horizon shimmered oddly, like a paused reflection on rippling water. Nothing moved.

Spider-Man hung suspended midair, one foot outstretched inches from a shade’s face—locked in motion like the whole world had hit pause.

A cold dread seeped into Steve’s chest. His joints stiffened, breath shallow. Time felt warped, slowed, like his pulse was dragging through molasses. Around him, the silence was complete—so thick it pressed against his ears until all he could hear was the hollow pull of his own breathing.

He turned toward the epicenter, the effort dragging through his limbs like wading into deep surf. Each step resisted him—thick, heavy, wrong. The shades stood motionless as he passed, frozen mid-lunge, their mouths slack and limbs mid-swing like broken mannequins.

Then he saw it.

A grotesque mass coiled out of the ground like a nest of veins and cables—tangled wires slick with dark fluid, ridged with growths that pulsed faintly. It writhed, slow and rhythmic, expanding and contracting.

The tempo matched his own heartbeat. One slow, awful thud at a time.

As he edged closer, the swirling mist peeled back to reveal a figure—rigid, unmoving, perched above the pulsing mass like a sentinel. The man stood with squared shoulders and a soldier’s stance, every line of his body sharp with purpose.

“Stand down!” Steve called out, but his voice sounded distant, swallowed by the strange air—thin, distorted, barely his own. “Do you hear me? Step away from there!”

His steps grew heavier with each one, boots grinding against the ground like they were caught in invisible tar. Every motion pulled at his muscles, resistance clinging to his limbs as if the air itself had turned dense, unwilling to let him pass. It felt like pushing through drying concrete—slow, suffocating, unnatural.

The man stood like a monument—still, unwavering. His tactical gear was deep navy, almost cobalt in the haze, trimmed with black shoulder pads and faint stripes arcing low across his back. On each forearm, sleek metal gauntlets flared back like claws, catching the dim light with a dull gleam.

His head turned, and Steve’s breath hitched hard in his throat.

It was his own face staring back—older, harsher. The jaw sharper, the lines deeper. A jagged scar sliced from brow to cheek, splitting the flesh around his left eye. The eye itself had gone milky, clouded white, the surrounding skin tinged with a raw, inflamed red. There was no recognition in his expression. Just cold calculation.

The man’s gloved hand rested atop the pulsing core, fingers threaded deep into a web of glowing blue conduits. The cables flickered around his wrist like veins alive with energy, humming faintly as if feeding off his touch.

Steve froze in place. The figure’s one good eye locked onto him—but then slid past, narrowing at something behind his shoulder. There was no warmth in the expression. No mercy. Just that sharp, burned-out blue narrowing with loathing.

His lips moved—tight, deliberate, like every word had been waiting years to be spoken.

The sound followed, slow and distorted, as if reality itself had to process the anger before releasing it.

“You’re the only one to blame for this.”

Steve turned—fast, instinctive, bracing for whatever was behind him.

The moment he did, the world lurched.

Sound slammed back into his ears like a wave. The wind roared. Shades shrieked and surged. Everything moved again—too loud, too fast. 

Steve barely got his shield up before something crashed into him, the force rattling through his bones.

When he looked at the console again, the other him was gone. 

Chapter 11: Tijuana III

TONY

 

The sky roared around him, a blur of wind and thunder pressing at the edges of his suit. The thrusters surged beneath him, raw propulsion humming through his spine, anchoring him in motion. Speed, pressure, control—it settled in his chest like muscle memory, like breath.

Beside him, Thor carved through the clouds like lightning incarnate, Captain Marvel a streak of gold and flame at his flank. They glanced his way—just a beat of surprise in their expressions as he kept pace. Tony’s mouth tilted into a smirk beneath the helmet. 

Damn right. 

His tech didn’t just keep up with gods—it danced circles around them.

The city beneath him looked like a fever dream fractured by physics. Whole blocks of buildings sheared clean off, hovering midair like forgotten thoughts. 

Segments of pavement twisted upward, weightless and wrong. What few people remained flickered in and out of existence—ghosts caught between frames. 

And the light… the light bent where it shouldn't, casting shadows in directions that defied every law he knew.

The distortions were worsening by the second. A nearby tower crumbled midair, dissolving into dust before it even hit the ground. 

Tony’s breath caught. His mind snapped to Steve—right in the center of it all, holding the line with just Peter at his side, facing a rift that tore reality apart like paper.

His stomach twisted. He didn’t want to admit it—the thought was too damning—but the anxiety crept in anyway, cold and sharp, curling its claws around his chest. It pulsed in his ears, a thudding, rhythmic panic.

Was Steve okay?

Was Peter?

The modified repulsor kicked with a satisfying burst beneath his palm—but his hands trembled, just slightly, the motion too fine to blame on flight alone.

The words he’d thrown earlier echoed back like shrapnel. 

He couldn’t stop seeing Steve’s face—how his jaw had locked, how the tight press of his mouth looked one second from breaking. That crease between his brows, deep and silent. 

Not angry. Betrayed.

Tony gritted his teeth. God, what a dumb thing to fight about. Classic Stark, really—flaring up, saying something sharp before thinking.

He hated how easy it was to slip into old patterns, how fast his ego took the wheel the moment he felt cornered. It had kept him alive more times than he could count, but it always came with a cost. 

A black mass churned where Steve’s coordinates pulsed on the HUD. Through the mist and distortion, only the suit's sensors carved a path forward. Peter and Steve’s signals flickered ahead—swift, erratic, cutting through the chaos like sparks in a storm.

“There!” Tony’s voice cracked through the loudspeakers, sharp and urgent.

He dove like a missile, twin streams of repulsor fire blazing behind him. Thor and Captain Marvel followed close—three streaks of light cutting through the chaos. As they ripped through the horde, shades scattered like ash in a sandstorm, dissolving mid-screech into the broken air.

As Tony tore through the churning wave—a dense swarm of shades, writhing and shrieking like a cloud of razors—a blur of red and blue caught his eye. 

Spider-Man, mid-swing, cut through the chaos in a tight arc, just a few feet away, his silhouette slicing clean against the storm.

He banked hard toward Peter, blasting apart a shade that was lunging straight for his throat.

“Kid!” Tony shouted, voice sharp through the speakers.

Spider-Man turned mid-air, eyes sparkling wide behind the lenses.

“Hey, Mr. Stark!” Peter called, launching off the head of a shade with practiced ease. He twisted midair, landing a sharp kick to another before it could react. “Took you long enough!”

Tony scanned the fractured terrain, HUD flickering with a hundred warning pings. “Where’s the source?”

Peter swung up beside him and nodded to the right.

“There!” he said, voice tight.

A thick swarm of shades clustered around a rupture in space—jagged and unstable. The sky above it looked torn open, as if someone had clawed through a painting. 

Light bled from the wound in unpredictable bursts, casting warped shadows across the floating debris. The edges of the rift trembled, folding in and out of themselves like breathing fabric stretched too thin. 

Reality frayed at the seams.

“Cap found it,” Peter shouted, webbing himself forward using the suit’s augmented launchers. He arced around Tony in a tight spiral, flipping mid-air to slam a shade with both feet. “I think he might need backup!”

Tony hesitated, glancing toward the chaos beyond—then back at Peter, uncertain.

Peter caught the look. “Go!” he insisted, breathless but light. “I’m fine.”

Tony dipped lower, the wind ripping past him as he angled toward the epicenter. His pulse was thunder in his ears, each beat louder than the last. The closer he got, the more the shapes of the battle sharpened—flashes of silver, bursts of movement, the metallic clang of shield against bone and void.

The thought cut through him like a blade—sharp, uninvited. 

What if he was too late?

It slipped past his focus, lodged itself in his chest. His grip on the suit’s controls tightened, metal groaning under his fingers.

He pushed the thrusters harder. The sound roared in his ears. Heat swelled in his palms. The faint trace of Steve’s biometric signature pulsed at the edge of the HUD like a thread threatening to snap. 

Then he saw him.

Steve stood in the middle of the chaos, surrounded. The shades swarmed from every side, lunging and snapping, endless. And Steve—he moved like instinct, shield ricocheting off shadowed bodies with mechanical precision, fists cracking bone, legs bracing against the broken earth. 

He dropped beside him with a concussive blast, sending a ripple through the battlefield—shades scattering like leaves in a storm. As the dust cleared, Tony retracted his helmet.

Steve turned, breath heaving. His hair stuck out in every direction, damp with sweat. His cheeks were flushed deep red, jaw tight, lips parted as he fought to catch his breath. He looked wrecked. He looked alive.

“Hey,” Tony said—quieter than intended, voice rough at the edges.

Steve’s eyes flickered toward him, but didn’t stay. He looked past Tony, breath still ragged.

Tony’s chest pulled tight. That glance away hit harder than any punch.

“Hey. Good save,” Steve offered between gasps, the words clipped but sincere.

Tony nodded once, jaw clenched, and slipped the helmet back on without a word.

The power source loomed just ahead—veins of wire crawling from its core like a nest of serpents, pulsing with a sickly, iridescent white fluid that seeped into the shattered ground.

“I tried to break it, but it doesn’t cave!” Steve shouted, leaping toward the console again. 

His shield struck with a sharp clang—but stopped inches short of the console, as if hitting a barrier made of air. Sparks flared on contact, skittering off an invisible wall that pulsed faintly in the haze, leaving the console untouched beneath it.

Tony stepped in beside him, eyes narrowing behind the HUD as streams of data poured across his vision. Gamma levels were spiking off the charts—unstable, erratic, but familiar. A handful of values blinked red, pulsing at the edge of what should be possible. 

He flagged them with a flick of his eyes, the suit capturing and storing every detail in its encrypted core.

“It’s like a barrier,” Steve muttered, frustration creeping into his voice. 

“Get back,” Tony said, stepping forward. “I’ll overpower it.” His voice was tight, focused, already rerouting power to the repulsors as the suit adjusted around him.

Steve gave a sharp nod, already moving. “I’ll cover you.”

He planted himself at Tony’s back, shield up in an instant. Each step he took scattered debris underfoot. 

As Tony powered up, Steve deflected the first shade that lunged, slamming it back with a brutal twist of his arm. Another followed, and Steve met it with force—unyielding, protective, a wall between Tony and the swarm.

Tony drew in a slow, steady breath, grounding himself. He overcharged the repulsor, the power surging through his arm like a living current. The suit vibrated with intensity, heat blooming in his palm, adrenaline biting at the edge of his focus.

He released the blast. A concentrated beam of searing blue light slammed into the console—

—for a second, nothing.

Then it erupted. The veins burst in pulses of sickly white, cracking and flashing like nerves exposed. The ground shuddered beneath him as the tendrils convulsed and sprayed, snapping back into the earth with a sharp, visceral recoil.

The shades disintegrated mid-lunge, crumbling into soot that rained down around them like burnt paper. The screeching—piercing, constant—cut off in a single breathless instant.

Silence fell, heavy and sudden. A hush so absolute it made Tony’s ears ring.

Steve stepped toward him, shoulders rising and falling with a measured breath as he tried to steady himself.

Tony retracted his helmet, the hiss of release sharp in the quiet. He turned—

And the world was still wrong. The ground trembled beneath their feet. Light bent unnaturally around them, like the air itself was rippling. Everything kept spinning, warping at the edges, as if reality hadn’t decided what shape it wanted to hold.

“Shit,” Tony muttered, barely audible. His eyes stayed on the shifting skyline, jaw tight. “I was hoping that would be it.”

The silence around them made the words feel heavier. 

Steve let the shield clatter to the ground and dropped onto a jagged slab of debris, his legs folding beneath him. He braced his hands on his knees, chest heaving, sweat running down his temple in thin, stinging rivulets. His fingers dragged across his brow, smearing ash and dirt in place of relief.

Tony watched as Peter swung away, webbing onto a crumbling beam and vaulting toward Thor and Carol, who were regrouping a few rooftops over. His silhouette darted through the haze—quick, nimble, alive.

“You okay?” Tony asked, his voice quieter now, as he took a few tentative steps toward Steve, careful not to intrude on the space still echoing with tension.

It took a moment before Steve looked up, his breath still uneven. When he did, a tired, crooked smile tugged at his lips.

“I can't do this all day,” he said, voice rough with exhaustion but threaded with warmth.

Tony rolled his eyes, a breath of relief catching in his throat. He fought down a grin as he stepped forward and sank onto the rubble beside him. With a flick, the suit peeled back in ripples, retreating to the arc reactor like ink pulled into water.

Steve glanced over, his brows lifting slightly as he caught sight of the retreating metal.

“You made nanobots,” he said, somewhere between impressed and incredulous.

Tony nodded, flexing his metal arm out of habit, the panels along his wrist still faintly warm.

“Yeah. The other Tony had all the tools I needed,” he said with a shrug. “It’s not a perfect version, but it works.”

Steve let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head as if amused by some private thought.

Tony frowned, puzzled. “What?”

Steve didn’t look up right away. “Nothing,” he said, a smile tugging at his lips. “It’s just—you made a nanosuit from scratch. With broken ribs. In one afternoon.”

His eyes dropped to his own dirt-smeared palms, then back to Tony’s arm, gaze soft. “Sometimes I forget how brilliant you are. Which is dumb,” he added with a breath of a laugh. “You invented time travel.”

Tony shifted where he sat, fingers brushing a loose bit of gravel beside him. The praise landed awkwardly, like a compliment aimed at someone else.

“Yeah, well… I gotta keep up with the rest of you,” he said, too fast, the words falling out before he could stop them.

Steve tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “What do you mean?”

Tony immediately regretted opening his mouth. He rubbed the back of his neck, stalling. “You know… I’m not a trained soldier. I can’t swing a magic hammer. I don’t turn into a ten-foot rage monster.”

Steve’s gaze sharpened, cutting through Tony’s deflection like glass.

“If I don’t have my tech,” Tony went on, voice light but brittle, “I crash and break my ribs.” He gave a breath of a laugh—thin, humorless. “Kinda lame, huh?”

He looked down at his prosthetic hand, flexing the fingers of the gauntlet as if to remind himself it was still there.

Steve reached out without hesitation, his hand closing firmly around Tony’s.

The contact was grounding—solid, warm. Tony felt the jolt of it like a live current, racing from his palm to his chest, down through his legs. It stopped his breath.

“Tony,” Steve said quietly, the weight in his voice soft but sure. “You’re a lot of things. But lame? That’s the furthest one.”

Tony fought down a blush, the corner of his mouth twitching as he huffed a quiet laugh. He shook his head, just enough to hide the way his expression wanted to soften. His fingers curled tighter around Steve’s.

“I was convinced you were mad at me,” he said, voice low, almost sheepish. “This is… unexpected.”

Steve frowned, confusion creasing his brow. “Mad? Why would I be mad?”

Tony didn’t answer right away. His lips pressed into a flat line, eyes flicking away for a breath—until he caught the flicker of realization on Steve’s face.

“Ooooh,” Steve murmured, dragging out the sound as it clicked. He gave a small, dismissive wave. “Don’t worry about it.”

Tony shook his head, the motion small but firm. He turned fully toward Steve, gaze steady now.

“No, I’m sorry,” he said, voice quiet but weighted. “It was rude. And out of place.”

Steve’s smile was soft—patient. Like he’d been waiting for Tony to say it, but hadn’t needed him to.

“It’s okay,” he said simply.

Tony let out a slow breath, something in his chest easing. He smiled back, smaller, but real.

Tony looked at Steve. The cut of his jaw still held tension from the fight, but the light caught on his cheekbones, softening it. His hair was a wild mess of sweat-damp strands, curled just slightly at the edges. There was a smudge of ash on his temple, a faint bruise blooming near his collarbone. His breathing was still heavy, lips parted, skin flushed.

And yet, he looked... at peace.

Something about him—something Tony had always noticed but never let himself name—clicked into focus with startling clarity. The strength, the calm, the ridiculous goodness etched into every line of his face. And under it all, a warmth that Tony had been circling for years.

God, he was beautiful.

The thought landed in his chest like a live wire. Tony blinked, breath catching. His heart kicked harder, the thrum loud in his ears. For a moment, he was certain Steve could hear it too.

Steve met his gaze—and held it. No teasing, no tension. Just quiet openness. A flicker of something unreadable passed over his face, but the smile that followed was soft. Gentle.

It made Tony feel like the air had thinned. Like he was standing at the edge of something vast and irreversible.

And maybe—just maybe—Steve was standing there too.

“Uhm. We should maybe head back,” Tony murmured, voice barely above the breeze. “Fix the world and whatnot.”

The wind tugged softly at the scorched edges of his shirt. The air still crackled faintly, like the echoes of a storm that hadn’t quite passed.

Steve nodded, slow. His gaze didn’t break.

“We should,” he said, but it came out quiet—too quiet to be conviction.

Neither of them moved.

Their knees were almost touching. Ash drifted lazily around them in the late light, like snow refusing to fall. The silence between them stretched, not awkward, but full. Heavy with something waiting.

Tony’s chest rose, then held. Steve’s eyes didn’t let go.

The space between them felt impossibly faint and vast at the same time.

Tony’s pulse drummed loud in his ears as he searched Steve’s face for something—permission, explanation, a way out. But all he found was calm. That steady, infuriating stillness that somehow held everything: warmth, restraint, the echo of every almost.

Steve didn’t flinch. Didn’t waver. Just waited—quiet, open, unbearably close.

Tony’s gaze dipped, unbidden.

Steve’s lips were parted, red and swollen from the fight. They looked soft. Too soft for someone who could take a punch like that. Too soft for someone who still hadn’t looked away.

Tony’s breath hitched. His fingers twitched against the dirt. He didn’t move. Not yet. But the ground beneath him felt suddenly unsteady.

He closed his eyes and drew a long, steady breath. The air stung in his chest, thick with ash and ozone. When he opened them again, he didn’t look at Steve. He turned instead to the horizon—where fractured skyscrapers floated like ghosts and light bent in impossible directions.

In that strange, broken landscape, something anchored in him. The noise inside quieted. And with that fragile clarity, he pushed himself to his feet.

He called the suit. It assembled around him in a rush of metal and light, the core pulsing steady at his chest, familiar and grounding. The hum of power steadied his nerves. When he turned, Steve was already watching him—arms loose at his sides, that easy, half-crooked smile playing on his lips.

It softened him, that smile. Knocked a decade off his face and stripped the war from his eyes.

“Need a ride?” Tony asked, offering his hand.

Steve rose slowly, brushing dust from his palms before taking it.

“Sure.”

He stepped in close—closer than he had to. Their bodies aligned, heat passing between them.

Tony’s hands found Steve’s waist, fingers curling there like he was afraid to let go. He pulled him in, arms settling around him with quiet reverence, anchoring them both.

Steve’s hands rose, brushing over Tony’s chest, then up to his shoulders. He paused there, fingers flexing—uncertain. Then, slowly, deliberately, he let them continue their path until they curled around the back of Tony’s head, drawing him in. Holding him.

Tony’s arms tightened around Steve’s waist. He dropped his head onto Steve’s shoulder—solid, warm, real—and closed his eyes. He let himself feel it all: the rise and fall of Steve’s breath against him, the heat soaked into the fabric of his suit, the tight pull in his chest like a knot slowly loosening. 

His knees felt unsteady, his body trembling not from fear, but from the sheer gravity of being held like this. From the permission to stop bracing, just for a moment.

Steve's fingers combed gently through Tony’s hair, scratching lightly at his scalp in slow, absent circles. It was soothing—intimate in a way that made Tony’s breath catch. Then Steve exhaled against his neck, warm and shallow, and Tony felt it everywhere—his skin lit up like a live wire. His heart thundered in his chest, loud enough he swore Steve could feel it too. Every nerve was tuned to the closeness, to the quiet, to him.

Steve’s nose brushed the edge of Tony’s cheek—a barely-there graze that sent a jolt down his spine. Tony parted his lips on instinct, a soft sigh slipping out before he could stop it. He felt Steve’s chest move against his with a quiet, breathy laugh, the kind that tickled rather than echoed.

With his mouth near Tony’s ear, breath warm and close, Steve whispered, “You have to turn on the repulsors.”

Tony grinned, the corner of his mouth brushing against the base of Steve’s neck. He let his nose nudge gently along the slope of his shoulder, lingering in the warmth and scent of sweat and ozone.

“I’m building to it,” he murmured, voice low and frayed with something tender.

Steve hummed in response, soft and close, his breath ruffling Tony’s hair.

They stayed wrapped around each other, unmoving. Tony melted into the press of Steve’s arms, into the solid chest rising against his. The world could split open around them and he wouldn’t flinch. He didn’t care about the swirling mist, or the eerie stillness crawling back in through the cracks. Didn’t care about the bleeding sky or the pulsing rift behind them.

How could he? For the first time in his life, he felt safe. Not armored. Not clever. Just—held.

Tony shifted slightly, his hand brushing against the grime-smudged fabric of Steve’s suit. Ash clung to the curve of his neck, sweat carving faint trails through the dirt. The blue of his uniform was dulled to charcoal, battered and frayed—but Tony didn’t care. Not about the mess, not about the war still echoing just behind them.

He leaned in slowly, deliberately. Pressed his lips to Steve’s cheek with quiet intent, letting the contact linger. He wanted to memorize the warmth, the shape of him, the subtle give of skin beneath dirt and exhaustion.

Steve shuddered at the touch. His fingers curled deeper into Tony’s hair, as if anchoring himself there.

He shifted, slow and deliberate, sliding his hands away from Tony’s back to cradle his face. 

His forehead met Tony’s, the contact soft but steady, grounding them both in a world still trembling at the edges.

His thumbs brushed along Tony’s cheekbones, rough from stubble and ash. Their breath synced in quiet rhythm, shared in the narrow space between them.

Tony closed his eyes. The pulse in his throat was thunderous. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. He only breathed—and felt.

He had never felt more alive.

“If you're gonna kiss me…” he whispered, breath hitching as Steve’s fingers traced lightly along his jaw, skimming over the coarse edge of his beard, “hurry up before the world collapses over us.”

Steve huffed a laugh, the sound warm and breathless against Tony’s lips—a pulse of air that made his heart stutter.

Tony’s gaze dropped, helplessly, to Steve’s mouth. The shape of it. The flush. The way it curved when he laughed.

He couldn’t stop looking.

“I can't,” Steve said softly, the words brushing the space between them as his nose nudged gently against Tony’s. “Not before we talk about something.”

Tony swallowed hard, throat tight. His voice came out lower, a little frayed.

“Can’t you send a memo later?” he murmured. 

Steve’s thumb traced slowly along Tony’s cheekbone, grounding him with a tenderness that made it hard to breathe.

“No,” he said, and when his eyes opened, they held Tony’s with quiet gravity. Steady. Serious.

“We need to talk. Alone. Once we figure this out.”

Tony sighed, soft and reluctant. “Can’t I get a preview at least?”

Steve’s smile deepened, slow and sure, as he slid his hands down to rest on Tony’s shoulders. “No.”

He leaned in and pressed a kiss to Tony’s cheek—gentle, warm, anchoring.

“Now get us to the others.”

Tony nodded, jaw tight with feeling, and flicked his fingers. The repulsors flared to life beneath them.

The rift stretched upward like a jagged wound carved into the sky. The rest of the team stood clustered on the edge of a nearby rooftop—the closest solid ground to the tear without being pulled in. Just a few feet away, the rift’s pointed tip shimmered with unstable light, flickering like a blade suspended in midair.

The others had arrived. The Quinjet rested on the terrace like a bird mid-landing, its ramp still down. The other Captain America paced near the edge, flanked by Thor and Carol, their gazes fixed on the rift. His team had formed a perimeter around the tear, tense and ready, as if bracing for whatever might come through.

Tony landed softly, letting go of Steve with deliberate care. His hand lingered at Steve’s waist for a moment longer—a final, grounding touch—before he stepped away and turned toward the others.

The suit hissed and folded away into the arc reactor with a low whirr. Tony rolled his shoulders once, the weight of the armor gone but not forgotten. He spotted Bruce crouched beside the other Tony, both of them hunched over some improvised console pulsing with unstable readouts.

“Banner,” Tony called, his voice cutting through the hum of machines. Bruce barely glanced up.

“Talk to me. What are we looking at?”

Peter landed hard beside him, the soles of his boots skidding slightly on the cracked concrete. He yanked off his mask, chest heaving.

“It’s all collapsing,” he said, breathless, urgency sharp in his voice. “The shades sped everything up!”

“Wait—aren’t they from the rift?” Steve asked, stepping forward.

Peter shook his head quickly. “No. The energy signatures don’t match. They’re not even from the same timeline. It’s all messed up—like each shade comes from a different universe entirely.”

Tony’s chest tightened like a vice. This was collapse on a cosmic scale. Realities bleeding into each other, timelines clashing like tectonic plates. And if each shade came from a different universe...

He swallowed hard, pulse climbing. “Shit,” he breathed.

He’d danced on the edge of this kind of power before. With the Stones. With time travel. With Ultron. But this—this was something else.

The rules weren’t just breaking; they were erasing themselves.

Bruce looked up, eyes grim behind his glasses.

“The portal’s not just unstable—it’s a shredder, Tony. It’s tearing through layers. There are holes everywhere, and they're growing.”

Tony bit his lip, hard. His gaze drifted upward, locking on the rift. Its edges crackled with violent light, jagged like torn fabric under a microscope. Bursts of matter twisted in and out of shape. Energy pulsed in uneven waves—blinding, dissonant, wrong.

He felt it then—a low, rhythmic hum resonating beneath the chaos. It tugged at him, subtle but insistent, like a scent from childhood drifting through a crowded street. Something about it was achingly familiar. Not just the sound, but the feeling it conjured deep in his bones. A recognition he couldn’t place, but couldn’t ignore.

Without realizing it, his boots hummed to life. The repulsors flared beneath his feet, lifting him slowly off the ground. He drifted toward the rift’s edge, eyes locked on the shimmering tear in the fabric of reality. 

It was mesmerizing—like staring into the surface of water just before it boils. Light rippled in waves, bending unnaturally, colors refracting in ways that made his brain stutter. The closer he got, the more impossible it felt to look away.

Slowly, he reached out. As his gauntlet neared the surface, the light thinned, then rippled outward in concentric waves. It shimmered across the metal, casting quicksilver reflections over the joints and seams of his arm.

Then it clicked.

The subtle vibration under his palm. The way the light shimmered against his skin.

He knew this.

This energy had touched him before—burned through him, changed him. It wasn’t just similar. It was the same.

His hand made contact. The surface of the rift wasn’t solid—it folded around his fingers, buzzing, searing.

And then it hit.

A surge, violent and unrelenting, coursed through him like fire laced with memory. 

The power of the Infinity Stones was sharp and absolute. It was judgment. Memory. A force too big to forget, too precise to mistake.

His lungs collapsed. Air vanished from his chest like it had been punched out by a giant fist. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t scream—only feel. The pain surged through him in a brutal wave, raw and electric, rattling his bones. His heart gave a violent lurch. His legs buckled. Every inch of his body trembled under the weight of it.

In a second, it was over. The pain cut off like a severed wire. He was weightless—hurtling backward through the air. The sharp thwip of webbing cracked somewhere behind him, distant and distorted, like it was coming from underwater.

The muffled noise sharpened, peeling through the haze like tearing fabric—until a voice broke clean through the numbness, raw and frantic.

“Tony! TONY!”

Tony blinked hard, vision swimming. Peter’s face came into focus—wide-eyed, frantic, too young to be carrying that kind of fear. 

He realized he was on the ground, half-sprawled, his body limp and ringing with static. Behind him, arms held him steady. A warm chest braced his weight. The steady rhythm of someone else’s breathing grounded him.

He felt the soft press of synthetic fabric against his cheek—Peter’s gloved hand, trembling slightly. The pressure anchored him. 

With a slow, rattling breath, Tony began to pull himself back. The tremor in his limbs dulled. His fingers curled against the ground. Sensation returned in waves: the bite of gravel under his legs, the pounding in his skull, the faint electric hum of his arc reactor still sparking beneath his ribs.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, though the words barely formed. His eyelids fluttered, heavy as lead. “I’m okay.”

His voice was too thin, too strained. Like it was trying to convince his body to believe it.

He was being shaken—gently at first, then more urgently. Hands gripped his shoulders, trying to rouse him. The world wavered in and out of focus with each jolt, like a signal struggling to come through.

Peter was crying. Thick tears slipped from his lashes, carving shaky paths down his dirt-smeared cheeks. His mouth moved in silent, fractured words, lower lip trembling—some of the tears catching there, glinting before falling away.

No. Tony wouldn’t have it.

The sight clawed at something primal in him—somewhere deep, old, and fiercely protective.

He forced his body to move, to fight through the pull of unconsciousness. His fingers twitched. His jaw clenched.

He willed himself awake.

“Peter.” His voice was a rasp, barely more than breath. He reached out, fingers unsteady, and cupped the kid’s cheek with the barest brush of his hand.

“I’m okay, son,” he whispered, thumb stroking a tear away. “I’m okay.”

He drew in a shaky breath, forcing his lungs to expand. The world came back into focus—dimmed and scorched, but steady. His gaze dropped to his arm: the metal was mangled, joints seared and plates cracked, wires exposed and trailing smoke in lazy spirals.

He flexed the rest of his body carefully. A sharp sting flared along his neck and shoulder, the skin scorched but intact. Miraculously, nothing else felt broken. Bruised, maybe. Shaken, definitely. But he was still in one piece.

“What were you thinking?!” Peter shouted, voice cracking as it finally cut through the ringing in Tony’s ears. “You could’ve—you could— I—”

Tony pushed himself upright, the weight of Peter’s arms loosening just enough. He reached forward and pulled the kid in, wrapping him up in a firm hug. Peter clung to him instantly, burying his face into Tony’s shoulder as the sobs came freely.

Tony held him close, one hand steady between Peter’s shoulder blades, the other cradling the back of his head. Letting the kid cry. Letting himself feel the enormity of almost not being here.

“Shhh, it’s okay, honey,” Tony whispered, his voice still ragged. He ran his fingers gently through Peter’s tangled curls, brushing sweat and ash from the boy’s scalp with a tenderness that made his own throat tighten. “You’re alright. I’m alright. We’re okay.”

He turned his head, Peter still curled into his side. Behind them, Steve knelt in the dust, eyes locked on Tony, his brow furrowed with worry. The ground around them was torn and uneven, strewn with sand and broken concrete, the pull of the rift settling like ash around their feet.

Peter’s gasps began to quiet, his breaths evening out in Tony’s embrace. Gently, Tony shifted, and with Steve’s steady hand under his arm, he pushed himself upright. His knees ached and his chest still burned, but he managed a nod. He reached out, squeezing Peter’s shoulder—firm, reassuring. A small, tired smile tugged at his lips.

Peter wiped at his cheeks with the back of his hand, blinking fast. Relief softened his expression, like a weight had been lifted off his chest. He opened his mouth—maybe to scold Tony, maybe to say thank you—but before the words could land, Natasha’s voice cut in sharply from across the platform.

“Uh, guys?!” she called, tension laced through every syllable.

They turned just in time to see the rift thrash. It convulsed, wild and volatile, like something furious trying to claw its way out of the sky. The edges crackled with red-gold lightning, lashing outward in jagged bursts that scorched the air. Chunks of space around it buckled and collapsed, folding in sharp angles. The portal no longer shimmered—it snarled.

With a violent tug inward, the rift collapsed on itself—a blinding pulse of light followed by a bone-deep silence. Then, from the center, a few lights flickered like dying stars… and it stretched.

A single, razor-thin line carved upward into the sky, impossibly straight. For a breathless moment, everything held still. The skyline was empty. Quiet. Waiting.

Then, from the crease—like a seam tearing open at the fabric of the world—reality buckled.

A low groan echoed through the air as the line split, widening with eerie precision. It peeled apart like steel plates unlatching, revealing a perfect square—clean, mechanical, unnatural. The rift yawned open, sliding like a massive garage door lifted by unseen hands.

The doorway stretched for miles in every direction—an impossible frame etched into the sky. Through the shimmer of a translucent veil, they saw a world untouched by collapse. No floating debris, no shattered streets, no warped gravity.

“Is that…?” Clint asked, the words barely above a breath, as if anything louder might shatter the vision.

“Home,” Bruce sentenced quietly. 

Chapter 12: Tijuana IV

THE OTHER STEVE

 

Ever since he woke from the ice, the world had itched like a sweater woven from the wrong kind of wool—too tight, too coarse, always chafing. It clung in all the wrong places, never letting him breathe.

Fifteen years had passed. And still, some nights, his dreams carried him home—to a world where the clocks ticked right, the slang made sense, and the streets didn’t look at him like a stranger.

Here, everything spoke a different language.

Even when they used the same words.

No one understood him. And worse—he’d stopped expecting them to.

They spoke in fragments—of places swallowed by the war, of headlines he’d never read, of scandals and victories that meant nothing to him. The world had become one long, unshared story. A joke where he’d missed the setup and everyone else was laughing.

Steve had been alone for so long, the ache dulled to habit.

He forgot it was loneliness.

Forgot it was anything at all.

Until the others came.

When the alternate Avengers flickered onto his screen, he didn’t feel shock—only motion. Protocol activated. Just another scenario in the playbook. Stark had drafted the models months ago, their technicians had run the simulations, contingency plans filed and cross-referenced like it was all inevitable.

Still, as he watched their faces—familiar and not—something stirred beneath the routine.

Steve hadn’t been surprised to see them. He’d planned for it—every variable mapped out, every reaction rehearsed. His hands didn’t shake when they arrived. His voice held steady.

What caught him off guard wasn’t their presence.

It was how they looked at each other.

How they spoke.

Alternate Steve’s first words to him weren’t about security measures or mission parameters. No debrief, no chain of command.

They were about Stark.

Not Iron Man. Not the suit, not the tech—just Stark.

And there was something in the way he said it. Something quiet.

Protective. Familiar.

It was the way the alternate Steve looked at him.

The way his hand found the edge of Stark’s bed—familiar, possessive. The way he spoke not to Stark, but for him. Demands made in a voice that assumed the right to make them.

Steve felt it in his chest—tight and sudden, like a misfired punch.

A sharp, quiet anguish. The kind that didn't announce itself, just settled in and stayed.

The ground was shaking. Reality split at the seams. The sky bled static and light.

But Steve couldn’t look away.

Alternate Steve was cradling Stark in his lap, their bodies drawn together with a closeness that didn’t need explanation—only history. The kind that didn’t flinch in public, not even with the world ending around them.

Peter clung to Stark’s shoulder, young fingers trembling against bloodied fabric.

It was the tenderness that undid him.

Steve felt heat rise to his cheeks, sharp and sudden. He’d seen Stark be gentle before—with Morgan, with Pepper. Quiet jokes, a hand on a small back, a look soft enough to disarm anything.

But never with him.

Because that’s not you.

The thought lodged itself and stayed, unspoken but loud.

This other Steve—this man with his face, his hands, his voice—he wasn’t familiar. Not really.

There was a softness to him, an ease in the way he spoke to his team. In the way he reached for Stark without hesitation, as if it had always been allowed.

Steve watched the way his counterpart touched him. A hand at the nape of the neck. A thumb brushing dried blood from his temple. Movements unguarded. Unapologetic.

He never touched Stark like that.

“Captain,” came Danvers’ voice, sharp over the chaos. “We’ve got incoming reports. It’s not localized anymore. The whole planet’s seeing fractures like this.”

Steve’s jaw tightened. He didn’t speak.

Danvers handed him the tablet. He took it without a word, gauntlet curling around the metal like it might shatter in his grip.

The footage stuttered, grainy and gray with static.

In Berlin, the skyline peeled downward, clouds dragging pieces of steel and glass into a fold that shouldn’t have existed.

South Africa flickered next—dust rising in thick plumes as the ground opened, slow and silent, and an entire town sank without resistance.

Then Wakanda: streets glinting under floodlights before vanishing beneath a rush of dark water, too fast, too final.

Steve barely blinked. The tablet felt heavy in his hands.

Reality wasn’t cracking anymore.

It was slipping, quiet and absolute, beneath their feet.

Iron Man landed hard beside him, the ground shuddering under the weight. His faceplate slid back with a hiss.

“The portal stretches three miles east,” he said, voice tight.

Then he stepped closer, just enough that Steve caught the edge in his tone.

“It’s bad,” Tony muttered. “People are vanishing. Buildings collapsing in real time. It—”

He paused, jaw working. “It looks like the goddamn apocalypse.”

Steve straightened, shoulders squaring against the weight in the air.

“I don’t need metaphors, Stark. I need solutions,” he said, already moving toward the alternates without waiting for a response. His steps were sharp, decisive. “Give me a plan of action.”

The weight of the armor echoed behind him, each step a dull clang that rang off shards of floating debris. Metal on fractured ground.

“That’s the thing, Cap…” Tony’s voice came low, edged with something he rarely let slip. “I— I’m out of my depth here.”

Steve slowed, but didn’t turn.

The alternate Avengers were crouched in a loose semi-circle, eyes fixed on a blinking device that their Banner manipulated with steady, practiced hands. Sparks danced across its surface, casting brief flashes of blue light across familiar faces wearing unfamiliar exhaustion.

Alternate Stark was already upright, voice quick and relentless as he rattled off instructions—words sharp, clipped, half for himself, half for the others. He barely paused for breath.

His hand rested at the small of alternate Steve’s back.

Not absentminded. Not performative. Just... natural. A point of contact, quiet but constant, as if that version of Stark couldn’t speak without knowing exactly where his Steve stood.

Steve watched from a few steps away, silent. Still.

Behind him, the heavy frame of the Iron Man suit loomed—his Tony, quiet now.

Steve shook his head, as if he could dislodge the image—the hand, the closeness, the ease—from his mind.

He stepped forward, coming to a stop just behind the alternate Stark. Cleared his throat.

The man turned.

His face was streaked with ash and blood, eyes glassy with exhaustion. A smear of soot cut across his brow, and the left side of his cheek was raw—an angry red, blistering where the heat had kissed too close. His arc reactor pulsed faintly beneath torn armor, flickering like it was struggling to keep up.

For a moment, he just looked at Steve. Blinking, breathing, trying to focus.

“Have you made any progress?” Steve asked, voice low but steady.

The alternate Stark didn’t answer right away. He glanced over his shoulder, gaze flicking to the fragments of water suspended midair—floating globes of glassy distortion, reflecting broken bits of the sky.

“Depends what you call progress,” he muttered, jaw tight. “We know this portal leads back to our universe. We know an incursion’s underway.”

He hesitated, just for a breath.

“We don’t know how to stop it.”

His eyes met Steve’s, and for a second, the bravado slipped. Just a man out of answers, standing in a world that shouldn’t exist.

Steve swallowed, the motion tight in his throat. His eyes shifted—past the debris, past the flickering device—to the other Steve.

Hard eyes met his own reflection.

“Don you have anything in your gear that could stop this?” he asked, voice clipped.

The alternate Steve didn’t answer right away. His arms remained crossed, body angled slightly—close, too close—to his Stark. Barely an inch of space between them.

When he spoke, his voice was flat. Measured.

“Do you?”

The chill in it landed sharp. No accusation in tone—just certainty. A line drawn.

Steve felt the meaning before it was spelled out.

This is your doing. You weren’t ready.

Doctor Banner rose from where he’d been crouched, murmuring something low to Spider-Man—who nodded, nervous energy radiating off him in small, fidgeting motions.

Then Banner turned to the others, brushing ash from his hands, eyes shadowed with fatigue but focused.

“We can close the portal,” he said plainly. “Or at least… we’re almost sure we can.”

Steve nodded, jaw clenched. He stepped forward, boots crunching over loose debris, and stopped beside Banner.

His eyes narrowed on the device—still humming faintly, lights pulsing in uneven rhythm.

“How?” he asked.

The Doctor pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, then glanced over his shoulder toward Danvers.

She stood a few paces back, arms folded, boots planted wide in the cracked earth. Her suit was scorched at the edges, and a streak of dried blood cut across her temple, but her expression was calm—sharp-eyed, waiting.

“We don’t know how,” Banner said, adjusting a dial with stained fingers, “but we cross-checked the energy readings. We’re certain—the rift is powered by the same force as the Infinity Stones.”

Steve frowned, eyes narrowing. “The ones Thanos wanted?”

The alternate Avengers turned to stare at him, silent, their expressions caught somewhere between confusion and disbelief.

Steve squared his stance, chest rising slightly. He didn’t look away. Refused to shrink beneath their gaze.

“Y–yes,” the Doctor mumbled, momentarily thrown. “Those. Ancient relics—each one holds a fundamental force. The power they contain is... beyond calculation.”

The alternate Stark tilted his head toward Danvers, who remained still, arms crossed, eyes sharp.

“Your girl here,” he said, nodding, “was juiced up with the Space Stone.”

Danvers blinked, the words catching in her throat. “The Tesseract,” she whispered.

Alternate Steve's head snapped toward them, incredulous.

“Yes. Didn’t you guys know that?” He stepped forward, voice rising. “How the hell did you even beat Thanos?”

Iron Man shrugged, the movement stiff—metal groaning under the strain. His helmet was off, but his eyes stayed guarded.

“We knew he was after something powerful,” he said, voice clipped. “We knew we had to stop him before he got there. So we did.”

He took a step forward, the weight of the suit thudding against the fractured ground.

“What did you do?”

The alternate Stark’s jaw tensed. He said nothing, just pressed his lips into a thin, bloodied line.

It was the alternate Steve who answered. He shifted slightly, gaze fixed somewhere just past them.

“We lost,” he said quietly.

Silence stretched between them, thick and unmoving.

Steve’s ears rang, a low hum pulsing beneath the distant crackle of the rift overhead. He couldn’t stop staring at the alternate team—whole, coordinated, calm.

They lost? How? They had better tech. A clearer grasp of the Stones. Their movements were sharp, practiced—no hesitation between them. Everything about them looked like an advantage.

What could have happened?

“They had a big fight. It was bad. The Avengers broke up after that.”

Peter’s voice echoed in his memory—quiet, almost apologetic. The kid had been fidgeting, tugging at the edge of his sleeve, eyes darting to the floor as he spoke.

The conversation floated back now, unwelcome and heavy, threading itself between the cracks of silence.

They were close—closer than most. You could see it in the way they moved, in the way they didn’t have to speak to be understood.

But there was history between them. Weight. Fractures that didn’t show until it was too late.

Maybe Steve had been right all along.

Maybe that kind of closeness—whatever it was—only led to fallout. To blind spots. To disaster.

They hadn’t even been able to stop Thanos.

“Doctor,” Danvers called, her voice cutting through the silence.

Banner shifted, glancing up at the rift pulsing above them—jagged light stretching across the sky like torn fabric.

“We think it can be seared,” he said. “With enough power, we might be able to suture it closed.”

He paused, then turned his gaze to the alternate Stark.

“But we’d need energy from both sides.”

The alternate Stark’s eyes narrowed, the idea clicking into place behind them. He didn’t speak—just stared at the ground for a beat, calculating.

“Strange said your energy’s still linked to the Stones,” Peter added, shifting on his feet. His fingers twitched at his sides. “If you can overcharge the repulsor, it should work.”

“I’ll help you,” Thor said, stepping forward. His voice was calm, but his grip tightened around the handle of Mjolnir.

The plan settled between them, and for a brief moment, a quiet calm took hold.

Boots shifted on broken ground. Glances were exchanged. No one smiled, but no one argued.

Above them, the sky groaned—cracks widening like fractures in glass. Slabs of concrete hovered unnaturally in the air, trembling. The air shimmered with heat and static, the edges of reality fraying at the seams.

Steve frowned. There was something they weren’t saying—something held back in the silence.

“Will this stop the incursion?” he asked, arms crossed, gaze steady.

Banner looked up from the device. His jaw was tight, shoulders drawn.

“No.”

The word dropped flat. Final. A death sentence.

The alternate Stark stepped forward, boots crunching over loose debris. His eyes locked on Steve, sharp and unwavering.

“But it will save our world,” he said, voice low and firm.

Iron Man stepped forward, shoulders squared, chest lifting with barely contained outrage.

“Are you insane? We’re not sacrificing our universe to save yours.”

The accusation cracked the tension wide open.

Voices rose all at once—overlapping arguments, sharp insults, and thinly veiled threats flying in every direction.

Hands gestured wildly, boots scraped against broken stone. No one was listening. Everyone was shouting.

Steve was locked in with the alternate Stark, voices low but tense, each cutting the other off.

Iron Man had turned toward Romanoff and Barton, speaking fast, hands moving sharply through the air.

Above them, the sky rumbled. Chunks of debris shifted midair, grinding against each other with the sound of cracking stone. Thunder rolled overhead, warped by strange, floating shapes of water that twisted unnaturally in the light.

Then a single sound cut through the noise.

A small voice—high-pitched, trembling with fear.

“ Daddy ?”

The voice echoed around the rift, carried on the fractured air.

Alternate Stark’s eyes went wide, mouth falling open in disbelief.

He turned sharply, repulsors flaring to life before his feet even left the ground.

“MORGAN? Baby—is that you?!”

The words tore out of him, raw and unfiltered, a scream dragged from somewhere deep and burning.

Steve stepped back, startled. The desperation in the man’s voice hit like a shockwave—too personal, too sudden.

“TONY, STOP!” the alternate Steve shouted, voice cutting through the air.

He snapped his head toward Spider-Man.

The kid nodded, already moving—one fluid leap, a twist midair.

Webbing shot out, catching the back of the alternate suit with a sharp thwip. Metal groaned under the sudden pull, the repulsors sputtering as the suit twisted off course with a loud, grinding crunch. Spider-Man hit the ground hard, boots digging into the soil as the force of the pull dragged him forward. His legs bent into a crouch, bracing.

The alternate Steve was there in an instant, arms wrapping around him from behind, anchoring them both. Together, straining against the weight, they dragged Iron Man down—repulsors sputtering as the suit fought against them.

“LET ME GO!” Stark screamed, repulsors flaring with a surge of blue light.

“WE DON’T KNOW IF IT’S STABLE!” the alternate Steve shouted back, voice tight with panic.

“YOU COULD DIE!”

The repulsors flared again—angry, unstable blue. The two holding him were slipping, boots skidding in the dirt.

Steve gave a sharp nod toward Carol. She launched into the air instantly, cutting through the wind. In a blink, she was in front of Stark—both hands gripping the armor. With controlled force, she drove him down.

The moment he hit the ground, a web shot across his chest—fast and firm—pinning him in place.

“Are you crazy?” Stark shouted, thrashing beneath the webbing. “I swear to God—I’ll nuke every last one of you if you don’t let me get to my girl!”

The team closed in, boots pounding against fractured ground as they formed a loose ring around him. The alternate Steve dropped to his knees in front of the suit, grabbed Stark by the shoulders, and pulled in close—face just inches from the helmet.

“Tony, calm down!” he shouted, voice raw. “We don’t even know if she’s really there—we don’t know if you can cross!”

Steve watched from a distance, standing still while the shouting continued behind him. His eyes shifted—slow, heavy—to the portal.

It shimmered faintly in the air, unstable at the edges. Through it, he could just make out the glow of a setting sun, low and stretched across unfamiliar sky.

Light flickered against the broken ground, casting long shadows in every direction.

The other side looked quiet. Peaceful.

His world was dying.

The air carried a constant tang of iron and something sour—like ozone and decay. The light above flickered in pulses, as if the sun itself was glitching.

The dread that had settled in his gut hours ago had spread, thick in his chest, tightening with every breath.

His people would die.

The planet he’d sworn to protect was slipping away, piece by piece.

He had given everything to this fight. His time. His body. His name. There was no part of him that existed beyond the mission. No space untouched by duty. No quiet place to return to when the noise stopped.

And still, it hadn’t been enough.

All the years holding the line. All the battles survived.

And now, with the world slipping out from under them, he felt the weight settle in his chest—not as grief, but as failure.

He was surrounded. And yet, he had never felt more alone.

He looked to the other Avengers—clustered close, hands on shoulders, voices overlapping, holding each other together in the chaos. Then his eyes landed on the alternate Steve—kneeling, shaking his Stark with both hands, fingers digging into the suit’s scorched plating, face twisted in desperation.

There was no distance between them. No hesitation.

And for the first time, Steve felt it like a sharp, clean ache:

He would’ve wanted that.

Not just the mission. Not just loyalty.

Connection. Like the alternate Steve had.

The thought lodged itself before he could stop it.

And from that, the idea began to form.

Steve walked over to Banner, who was caught in motion—eyes flicking back and forth between Stark and the data on his tablet, hands twitching at the edges of the screen like he couldn’t decide where to look.

“What do your readings say?” he asked, voice low. The chaos behind him didn’t slow.

Banner flinched, then straightened.

“Uh—the energy’s stabilized. Same signature as the Stones, but… it’s dimmer.”

“So, it should be safe to cross?” Steve asked, voice hard.

Banner blinked. “It should. But we can’t be sure.”

He shifted his weight, fingers tightening around the edge of the tablet. His eyes lingered on Stark, then flicked back to the alternate Steve—jaw tight, unspoken tension in his stance.

Steve didn’t respond. Just turned.

He stepped forward, boots crunching over gravel and scorched earth, closing the distance to where the alternates were still locked in argument—voices rising, gestures sharp and urgent.

Without raising his tone, he spoke—and somehow, it cut clean through the noise.

“I’ll cross.”

The words dropped like a switch had been thrown.

Every voice fell silent. Heads turned.

Stark froze beneath the webbing, his struggle halting mid-motion.

He stared at Steve, eyes wide—wild, searching.

“Cap, we don’t know if—” Peter started, voice low, uncertain.

“I’ll cross with one condition,” Steve cut in, not looking away from the portal. “If it’s safe, the people from our Earth cross too. You’ll give them food, shelter—and guarantee their civil rights.”

Romanoff shook her head, hair whipping around her face. “Are you insane? That’s a world disaster. People will starve—”

“Deal,” the alternate Steve said, cutting her off. His eyes stayed locked on Steve’s.

Beneath him, his Stark shifted, chest rising with uneven breath.

“Do it now. You have my word.” the alternate Steve insisted. 

Steve nodded once.

He drew in a slow breath, the air thick with smoke and ozone. His chest rose, then stilled.

If this was the end, so be it.

There was nothing waiting for him out there—not really. No home. No promises. No future that hadn’t already slipped through his fingers.

He stepped closer to the portal, the light casting sharp edges across his face. It shimmered in front of him, unstable and humming low.

He didn’t hesitate. Eyes forward, jaw set.

He crossed.

Notes:

Hi there! I hope you liked this chapter. I wanted to shift focus a bit, so we can understand our Tony and Steve better. Sorry if it's a little confusing haha

I love reading your comments but I'm bad at responding !!! Anyways thank you for reading <3

Chapter 13: ???

MORGAN

 

The sky wasn’t blue anymore. It looked like Uncle Clint’s gummy bears—the orange ones he always had in his pockets. Shiny and soft, and they changed color when you held them up to the light just right.

Morgan’s boots were already dirty. She’d promised her mom she wouldn’t step in the mud again—but the puddles were everywhere, and the ground made a funny squish when she walked on it. Now the dirt was all dry and crackly, stuck like crust around the leather.

She didn’t like wearing long dresses. Not in summer, when it was already too hot under the sun and the fabric stuck to her legs. They always got dusty anyway—especially with so many boots and horses kicking up dirt on the main road.

Morgan had to find her dad.

She needed to tell him something. She just… couldn’t remember what. Miss Alister always said she didn’t pay enough attention. Maybe this was one of those times. 

The thought slipped out of her head like a frog off a rock.  Oh well. It’d come back later. They usually did.

The thing was, she didn’t know where her dad was.

The streets were busy—wagons creaked by with barrels tied down in the back, and ladies in stiff bonnets chatted on wooden porches. Tall townsmen passed with rifles slung over their shoulders, glancing at her like she didn’t quite belong.

She’d been walking for a while. Her braid, which had been tight in the morning, was starting to fall, strands sticking to her neck.

She stopped walking to think.

Who did her hair that morning? The braid felt too high, and the clips were poking into her scalp like tiny bugs. She wanted to whine about it—but she couldn’t remember who had done it. Or who was even around to listen.

Soon enough, she found a pretty park. It was big and green, like someone had dropped a little forest right in the middle of the dusty roads and dry heat.

She liked this park. There wasn’t a playground or anything, but that was okay. Her daddy used to play hide and seek with her around the trees.

Or… was that at their house? Had she even been here before?

It was hard to tell. All the trees looked the same after a while—tall and twisty and kind of sleepy.

She climbed onto a wooden bench and stood behind one of those tall lampposts with the little candle inside. The sun was going down now, making everything look golden and quiet. The lamp flickered a little, like it was trying to wake up before night really started.

Good thing she always carried her little dagger. Mommy’s self-defense lessons were still in her brain—just like the time she got ice cream for spotting the first squirrel at Avengers Bay.

Avengers? Or, like, Champions? What was daddy’s band name again? 

“Little girl, what are you doing outside so late?”

Morgan turned at the voice and smiled. Aunt Nat was standing by the hitching post, brushing her horse’s mane with slow, careful strokes. She wore her red hair in a loose braid, sleeves rolled up, boots dusty from the trail. Her eyes were sharp like always, but her smile was soft.

She ran toward her, boots thumping against the dirt, and wrapped her arms tight around Nat’s waist.

“Nat! What a pretty horse. What’s her name?”

Natasha laughed and ruffled her hair. Morgan felt the braid come loose right away—what a pity. It had already been hanging funny, and now it was a total mess.

“It’s a boy,” Nat said, still smiling. “His name’s Bucky.”

Morgan frowned and squinted at the horse. He had soft eyes and a shiny mane. Way too pretty to be called Bucky.

“That’s an ugly name,” she said, shaking her head. “I think he should be named Megatron Alpha.”

Natasha giggled, giving Megatron Alpha a gentle pat. “Don’t you think that’s a bit long?”

Morgan shrugged. “We’ve got time. Not much else to do around here.”

The park stretched quiet around them—just dirt paths, wooden fences, and old benches with chipped paint. A water pump creaked in the distance, and someone’s buggy clattered by on the road behind the trees.

Then, she remembered. Her face lit up, suddenly serious.

“Natty, have you seen my dad?”

The world shifted—like someone tilted the whole picture sideways.

The horse began to melt, legs folding in like wax, mane sliding off in wet strands. The trees groaned, then tore themselves from the ground with a sound like paper ripping. They didn’t fall straight—they curled inward, like they were trying to hide underground.

In the middle of it all, the dirt split open. A hole shimmered into view, brown and swirling, pulling in the light like it was drinking it. Everything around it dimmed.

Aunt Nat flickered.

Her mouth moved, but no sound came out. Her face stayed calm, too calm. Like a puppet’s.

Morgan rubbed her eyes hard, until stars danced behind her lids.

When she looked again, the park was empty. No horse. No Nat. Just a squirrel, dancing in crooked circles between the trees.

Morgan stood very still. The air felt thick, heavy with the nonsensical view.

She turned around—and there was Nat again, right where she’d been before, calmly brushing Megatron Alpha’s mane like nothing had happened.

“Oh, Morgan, hi!” she said, cheerful and bright. “Do you want a ride?”

Morgan frowned, squinting up at the trees like they might tell her what was going on.

Something didn’t sit right. Horses weren’t supposed to melt. Trees weren’t supposed to fall inward like crumpled shirts. And Nat’s mouth definitely should’ve made sound.

She kicked the dirt with her boot, watching the dust scatter. Maybe it had just been a weird blink. Like a daydream that slipped in sideways.

Still… it made her chest feel funny. Tight and floaty at the same time.

Her dad would know what to do. He always did.

“Sure. Can we go to the bar?” she asked, lifting her arms with a little bounce, waiting for Natasha to scoop her up onto the horse.

They rode down the main road, hooves clopping steady on the packed dirt. The buildings on either side were made of old wood, with porches that creaked and rocking chairs that moved even when no one sat in them. Signs swung overhead— Apothecary , Sheriff’s Office , Dry Goods —all faded and crooked.

Candle-lit lamps flickered along the wooden railings, their glow wobbling in the wind. A few flower pots hung from windowsills, but the petals were droopy and tired-looking, like they’d been waiting too long for rain.

Morgan squinted at a wanted poster nailed to a post. The ink had bled from the heat. Or maybe from something else.

Nat tipped her hat to a few riders as they passed, tossing out quick hellos like pebbles.

Morgan held tight to the reins, fingers curled around the worn leather. She watched Megatron Alpha’s mane swish back and forth, silky and slow, like it was dancing to a song only horses knew.

Nat swung one leg over and hopped down from the saddle, boots hitting the ground with a soft thud. She tied Megatron Alpha to the tavern’s railing, then reached up and grabbed Morgan gently under the arms.

With a quick swoop, she lifted her down, setting her on the ground like a sack of flour with a giggle.

“Here’s your stop, little girl,” Nat said with a grin, brushing the dust from Morgan’s sleeve. “If any of these fellas give you trouble, just call for the sheriff.”

Morgan nodded. She had no idea who the sheriff was or why he’d be any good at helping her, but she wasn’t interested in a lesson. Nat had already proven herself pretty unreliable in the finding-her-dad business, so at this point, Morgan just wanted her gone.

“Bye, Auntie Nat,” she said, giving a quick wave as she grabbed the seam of her dress and hiked it up just enough to climb the tavern’s creaky wooden steps.

The sound of mumbling, clinking glass, and loud laughter spilled from the tavern windows, carried by the warm glow of lamplight. The building leaned slightly to one side, like it had too many summers on it. Its wooden walls were sun-faded and patched with mismatched planks, and a crooked sign swung above the door, squeaking with every gust of wind.

Inside, it sounded like chaos—voices tumbling over each other, boots scraping, chairs dragging, someone coughing like they meant it.

Morgan pushed the door open. It creaked loud enough to make her wince. Her boots clacked against the wooden floor—sharp little taps that echoed too far.

Silence.

The whole tavern went still. The men stopped talking mid-sentence, hands frozen over drinks and cards. They all stared straight ahead, eyes blank and glassy, llike robots that had suddenly been unplugged.

Morgan felt creeped out by it—the way nobody moved, the way their eyes didn’t even blink. But she didn’t have time to help them. She needed to find her dad.

Only one person was moving like a real human.

A man behind the counter, shaking a metal container, pouring drinks into big dusty cups, popping open bottles with a soft clink. He didn’t seem bothered at all—just watching the frozen crowd with lazy eyes.

Morgan dragged a stool across the floor—it made a loud scraping sound—and climbed on top, her boots swinging. She waved her hand to get the man’s attention.

He looked like everyone else in this dusty town: white shirt wrinkled and a little dirty, long brown work pants, and a stained apron tied around his waist. The splashes on it were all kinds of weird shapes and colors Morgan didn’t really want to think about.

“Hey there, little fella. Aren’t you a bit young to be drinking?” he said, leaning over the counter with a crooked smile.

Morgan shook her head hard, making the strands of her messy braid fly around like ribbons in the wind.

“I’m not here for a drink,” she said, sitting up straighter.

There was a big guy next to her—huge, with a beard like a mop. He was staring straight ahead, back stiff, not even blinking. He looked more like a statue than a person.

“What’s wrong with everyone?” she asked.

The man behind the counter shrugged. He was wiping a glass with an old rag. 

The glass just kept getting dirtier.

“They’re shy.”

Morgan hummed, unconvinced.

The night had settled in deep now. The lanterns flickered low, casting wobbly shadows across the warped floorboards. A soft breeze slipped through the open windows, carrying the smell of dry grass and something smoky—maybe a campfire far away. The tavern creaked every so often, like it was breathing.

“What’s your name?” the man asked, leaning over the counter, voice low but kind.

“Morgan,” she said, watching him closely.

He had a nice smile, the sort that didn’t look like it took much effort. His eyes were loose and easy too, crinkled at the corners and sparkling in the low light.

His beard looked a little sticky—maybe from spilled drinks—and his short brown hair was pushed back like he’d done it with his fingers and not a comb.

“I’m Scott. Nice to meet you, Morgan,” he said, reaching out his hand.

Morgan shook it, her grip small but firm.

“If you’re not here for a drink,” he asked, tilting his head, “what are you here for?”

Morgan sat up taller, shoulders squared like Mommy taught her.

“I need to find my dad,” she said, voice quick and certain. “I need to tell him something.”

Scott’s eyebrows lifted, and he paused with the glass still in his hand. His posture straightened slightly as he looked at her more closely.

“Oh! That seems important,” he said, setting the glass down. “What’s your dad’s name, sweetie?”

Morgan puffed out her chest, chin tilting up the way it always did when her dad was part of the conversation.

“Tony Stark,” she said proudly. “Some people know him as Iron Man.”

Scott froze. He didn’t blink, didn’t breathe. The color drained from his face all at once, like someone had pulled a curtain.

Then, without warning, the tavern windows burst open. The shutters slammed against the walls. A wild wind howled through the room, sharp and cold, knocking over chairs, flipping tables, sending papers and plates crashing to the floor.

A spiraling cyclone spun in from nowhere, twisting in the middle of the room. Bottles shattered. Glass flew. The whole place filled with dust and noise and panic.

The sound hit Morgan’s ears like thunder inside her skull. Her chest tightened—she couldn’t catch her breath. It was too loud, too fast, too much.

She screamed and turned to run, legs pumping as the wind pulled at her dress and hair.

Every adult in the tavern stayed exactly where they were.

Their coats flapped, hats flew off, hair whipped sideways like they were standing in the middle of a storm—but none of them moved. Not even a flinch. They didn’t scream. They didn’t duck. They just stared forward, faces blank, like nothing was happening at all.

Scott didn’t run either. He stayed behind the counter, still as a statue, eyes locked on Morgan as she bolted for the door.

She pushed through it just in time.

Behind her, the ceiling groaned. Wooden beams snapped and crashed down like giant matchsticks, splitting tables in two and crushing a few of the frozen men beneath them. The walls cracked, splinters shooting into the air as the building began to collapse in slow, broken pieces.

She ran as fast as her little legs could go, lungs burning, eyes stinging from the dust. The wind chased her all the way down the porch and into the street.

Then— thump —she crashed into something solid. Two legs, strong and steady like fence posts.

“Hey, hey! Morgan, what’s wrong?” a voice said, calm and steady.

She looked up to see Daddy’s friend, Steve, towering over her.

He wore a long brown coat that flapped gently in the wind, a silver star pinned to his chest catching the last bit of light. A wide-brimmed hat shadowed his face, but she could still see the blue in his eye.

“I—I’m lost,” she stammered. “I want my daddy. Everything here is strange… and—and ugly!”

Steve reached out and gently patted her head. His hand was heavy, and it made her head dip forward with the weight.

“Don’t worry, little girl,” he said with a soft smile. “I’ll take you to him. I know exactly where he is.”

Morgan beamed, her smile wide and a little lopsided where her left fang was missing. She gave a small hop, excited to leave the broken tavern behind.

“Thank you, Sheriff Rogers!”

He took her little hand in his gigantic one, his fingers wrapping all the way around hers like a glove too big for her size.

They walked side by side down the main road. The wind had picked up now, rustling the loose shutters on buildings and whistling through broken windowpanes. Dust swirled at their feet, lifting the hem of Morgan’s dress and making her eyes squint.

Old signs creaked on rusty hinges. A dog barked somewhere in the distance, but she couldn’t see it. The whole town looked like it was holding its breath—porches empty, curtains still, doors slightly ajar like they’d been left that way in a hurry.

The ugly feeling in her stomach didn’t go away. It sat there, heavy and twisty, like she’d swallowed something sharp.

The hairs on the back of her neck stood up, and her hand felt sweaty inside Steve’s. Something wasn’t right. Something was very, very wrong.

Morgan was scared. She hated being scared. It made her feel small and dainty, like a doll instead of a person.

She didn’t want to be like that. She wanted to be like her dad—loud, brave, unshakable. The kind of person fear ran away from.

So Morgan kept walking, her boots tapping beside the Sheriff’s heavier steps.

She tried not to shiver when they passed the strange lady on the porch, who was crocheting… nothing. Her lips moving like she was whispering to no one.

She tried not to look too long at the man by the feed store, standing up and sitting down, over and over, like he was stuck in a loop.

Morgan swallowed hard. Her mouth tasted like dust.

She was close to her dad. He would know what to do. He always did.

He was Iron Man, after all.

“Here we are, sweetie,” called Sheriff Rogers, his voice too calm, like nothing about the town was strange at all.

They stood in front of a one-story building that looked just like everything else on the street—faded wooden walls, chipped paint, and a porch that slanted slightly to the left. The windows were dark, glass fogged like old breath. Two crooked columns held up the overhang, one of them wrapped in rope where the wood had cracked.

Above the door hung a wide wooden sign, the letters carved deep but worn by time. It read: COMISSARY. Some of the paint had peeled off the “R.”

Steve led her inside.

The air was cooler, and it smelled like dust and something old—like wet wood that had never fully dried.

A woman stood behind the front desk, perfectly still. She didn’t look up. Didn’t blink.

Her body twitched every few seconds, like a skipped frame in a movie. The candle in her hand flickered with her—on, off, on—casting broken shadows on the walls.

She didn’t say a word. Didn’t seem to notice them at all.

“Where’s my daddy?” Morgan asked, tugging at Steve’s hand, her voice smaller than before.

Steve looked down at her and smiled. His blue eye caught the dim light beneath the brim of his hat, glinting just enough to make her pause.

“Just this way,” he said, turning toward the hallway.

They stepped into a narrow hallway, walls pressed in tight on either side.

The floor was damp, and the smell hit her right away—wet wood, moss, and something sour underneath, like old water left too long in a barrel.

Morgan’s boots splashed quietly as she walked, the sound dull and muffled by shallow puddles that shimmered in the dim light.

At the end of the corridor, Steve stopped and pulled open a heavy metal gate. It groaned as it moved, the hinges stiff. The bars were thick and dark with rust, spaced just wide enough to see through—but far too narrow for anyone to squeeze past.

“There,” Steve said, waving her inside.

Morgan stepped in slowly, her boots making soft taps on the stone floor.

“Daddy?” She called, uncertain.

It was dark—too dark. Only a single candle sat flickering in the far corner, its weak flame casting long, sharp shadows along the walls.

A small wooden stool rested beside a neatly made bed, the blanket tucked in tight.

There was no one there. No sign of her dad. 

She turned around to protest—but a sharp click of metal stopped her.

“Hey! What are you doing?” she snapped, running to the bars.

She grabbed them tight, shaking with all the force her small body could manage. The metal clanged, unmoving.

“My dad’s not in here! Take me to my dad!”

Steve knelt down to her height, his coat brushing the damp floor.

“You have to wait for him here,” he said, voice low and steady. “He’ll come. Soon enough.”

Morgan shook the bars again, harder this time. The metal clacked loud in the quiet room, echoing off the walls like a warning.

“Let me out of here! I have to tell him something!” she yelled, voice cracking with frustration.

Steve didn’t answer right away.

He slowly took off his hat and held it over his heart, still smiling that too-calm smile.

The light caught his face differently now. A long, jagged scar ran from his eyebrow to the edge of his jaw, twisting the skin in uneven ridges. His left eye was pale and cloudy—milky white, like glass gone foggy. It didn’t move.

The other eye watched her closely. 

“Just sleep, little girl,” he said softly. “All will be over soon.”

Morgan screamed—loud, sharp, as strong as her lungs could manage. The sound tore out of her, raw and desperate.

The walls began to grow—stretching upward like they were being pulled by invisible hands. The wood groaned and twisted, boards folding over each other like ribbon, sealing the corners shut.

Above her, the roof split apart with a crack like lightning. It peeled away in pieces, flung into the sky, until there was nothing left but stars—too many, too close—dripping down like hot wax, burning through the dark.

The wind came next. Fierce and wild, shrieking through the room like it was alive, screaming right alongside her. It rattled the metal bars, slammed against the walls, made her hair whip around her face.

Morgan squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her fists against them until they stung. Tears slipped out anyway, warm and fast.

She screamed, and screamed again—until the ground buckled beneath her, and the whole building groaned, cracked, and finally collapsed in on itself like a house made of paper.

Everything went dark.

No sound. No wind. No stars. Just black.

Then—

She was standing in the middle of the road.

The sky wasn’t blue anymore. It looked like Uncle Clint’s gummy bears—the orange ones he always had in his pockets. Shiny and soft, and they changed color when you held them up to the light just right.

She had to find her dad.

She needed to tell him something. She just… couldn’t remember what it was. 

Notes:

Yeez! This was a fun one to write. See you in the next one <3

Chapter 14: Tijuana V

TONY 

 

The quiet was devastating.

Not a word, not a sound—just the low hum of the portal and the pounding of Tony’s own heartbeat in his ears. The wind had died. The ground stopped trembling. Even the sky, torn and cracked just minutes ago, seemed to hesitate.

The world held its breath as the other Steve walked forward.

A shimmering light pulsed at the edge of the portal, its surface rippling like water stretched too tight. As he stepped through, it distorted him—his broad shoulders bent at strange angles, the colors of his suit melting into streaks of silver and blue.

It clung to him like plastic film, wrapping around his body as he passed through, until it was impossible to tell where he ended and the light began.

And then—he was gone.

The portal rippled once more, then stilled.

Tony could hear his heartbeat—loud, steady, too fast. It pounded in his ears like a warning he couldn’t shake. His hands trembled, clenched tight beneath Steve’s grip, knuckles pale under the strain.

The air had turned sharp, each breath cold enough to sting. It bit at the back of his throat and made his shoulders hitch.

He could only think of his little girl. Her voice echoed in his head—shaky, small, cracked open by fear.

He hadn’t been ready for that.  Not the sound of her crying. Not the panic in her words. It had gutted him.

He’d failed her.

What kind of father let that happen? What kind of man couldn’t protect his own daughter?

He was angry. At Danvers, for stepping in front of him, palm pressed flat against his chest, holding him back with that steady, impassive stare. At Peter, for firing the web without hesitation—quick, practiced. Holding Tony down. 

And most importantly, he was angry at Steve.

For giving the order to stop him.  For tightening his jaw with worry as he did it.  For tearing his voice raw shouting commands while pretending it was out of concern.

For pretending he cared—while stabbing him in the back.

Who did he think he was?

Who was he to stop Tony from reaching Morgan?

His little girl, who he hadn’t seen in weeks. Who was out there without her dad, scared and alone, god knew where.

And Steve—Steve had the nerve to look at him like that. Like he was doing Tony a favor. Like stopping him from crossing the portal was some kind of care. Some twisted act of love.

How could he miss something so fundamental? 

Didn’t he understand? 

Tony would give anything to get her back.

How could he be so damn obtuse?

“I don’t think he’s coming back…” Peter whispered.

His voice was soft, young and cracked at the edges. He sounded like what he was: a kid at the end of the world, stuck in a universe that wasn’t his, about to lose everyone all over again.

Tony didn’t turn to look at him.

The webbing still held him down, stretched tight around his legs like a barrier. It made the space between them feel wider—too wide.

He felt a sharp twist in his gut. He had been betrayed. 

The resentment settled deep in his stomach, heavy and bitter. 

“It’s only been a few minutes,” Bruce said quietly. His voice was steady, but his eyes flicked toward the portal with unease. The glow of the collapsing sky caught the edge of his glasses, casting quick, shaky reflections across the lenses.

“He’ll come back,” Steve snapped.

His tone was sharp, final.

Tony turned his head just enough to see his face. The set of his jaw. The way his eyes didn’t move from the portal.

He looked certain—so certain it made Tony shiver.

Confident, even with the world coming apart at the seams.

“If he’s not back in sixty seconds, I’m going in,” Tony muttered, low enough that only Steve could hear.

Steve’s brows lifted slightly. His lips parted, just barely, a tremble sitting at the edge of whatever he almost said.

“And if I have to burn a hole in the ground—with you in it—I will,” Tony added, voice steady, eyes locked.

He watched as Steve swallowed, throat tight. A single bead of sweat slid down from his hairline, trailing over his temple.

“He’ll come back,” Steve said again.

This time, it sounded like a prayer.

The world was collapsing at the edges—literally tearing apart, chunks of sky flickering in and out, the horizon bending like glass about to crack.

Around him, the others were already in motion.

Carol barked orders into a comm, her voice sharp, clipped. Bruce stood hunched over a tablet, calculations flying across the screen as he tried to make sense of the readings. Natasha moved between them, coordinating with someone through a secure line, speaking rapidly in different languages. Clint was unrolling maps, arguing with Thor about landing zones.

They were making plans—evac routes, fallback zones, temporary shelters, lists of names Tony didn’t care to hear.

World leaders were being patched through. Satellites realigned. Evacuation corridors rerouted through alternate dimensions.

It was chaos—organized, polished, and useless to him.

Tony didn’t give a shit about any of it.

A flicker danced across the surface of the portal—just a twitch at first, like static in the air.

Then a sharp sparkle shivered through its center, splitting it like a thread pulled too tight.

White-hot light bled out in waves, pouring across the ground, casting long, warped shadows over the cracked earth. The air snapped, tense with energy, as a ripple spread from top to bottom—like someone had unzipped the fabric of space itself.

And through it—slow, solid—Captain America stepped out.

His figure emerged from the glare, shoulders squared, shield slung across his back. The light clung to him for a moment before peeling away, leaving his silhouette sharp and real.

His jaw was locked tight, tension carved into every line of his face. His shoulders were rigid, like he hadn’t exhaled in hours.

He didn’t speak. He just nodded—once. Small. Barely there.

Tony needed nothing more.

He activated the repulsors, the familiar hum rising beneath his feet. The helmet snapped into place around his face, HUD flickering to life, scanning rapidly.

The others barely had time to step aside before he launched—boots roaring against the ground, a burst of heat and force scattering dust around him.

He flew in a tight, focused arc straight toward the portal. 

In a second, he was in. 

It was a long, endless tunnel of color and light—no clear direction, no ground beneath him, just movement.

Everything blurred together—flashes of red, gold, white, like stained glass spinning at high speed. Shapes twisted in and out of focus, impossible to name. Sounds layered over each other: whispers, static, the pounding of a thousand heartbeats. The air carried smells he couldn’t place—burnt ozone, salt, metal, something sweet and rotting all at once.

His brain couldn’t keep up. Every sense was overloaded, pushed past its limit. It wasn’t just a passage—it was like the entire force of life itself was being crammed into his body, pressed into his skin, into the lining of his thoughts.

Then, a wave of cold slammed into him.

It shouldn't have been possible—not with the suit’s insulation systems, not with the adrenaline burning through his veins, not with the velocity tearing at his ribs.

But it hit anyway. Sharp. Deep.

He kept flying, pushing forward through the current, chasing shapes and flashes of light that twisted just out of reach. They moved too fast, shifted too often—faces, places, moments he couldn’t name.

Then, suddenly, the blur began to settle.

The chaos sharpened, lines snapping into focus. The color drained from the edges, leaving something clearer.

He saw himself—arm raised, fingers curled, the Infinity Stones glowing at his knuckles.

He snapped. 

This time, his body didn’t hold. 

The blast surged through him uncontrolled. His skin cracked, metal seared, light poured out of him in violent pulses.

Peter was there, crumpled at his side, tears streaking down his dirt-covered face. Pepper leaned in close, whispering through a tight smile, telling him to rest.

Then came the funeral.

Rows of faces in black. Silence hanging heavy in the air. Cap stood still, shoulders rigid, silent tears sliding down his cheek without wiping any of them away.

And through it all, Tony felt it—that same pulsing current. The same impossible energy that radiated from the portal. 

It was here too.

It was this.

His heart pounded, fast and uneven, echoing in his ears like a war drum.

Each breath came too big, too sharp—his lungs stretched wide but still felt empty, like he was breathing in water instead of air. His chest ached. His fingers twitched. The HUD blurred with heat warnings and red static.

He felt like his body was shutting down from the inside out—cell by cell, piece by piece.

Then—through the noise, through the burn—came a voice.

Small. Clear. Hers.

“Hey! What are you doing?”

Tony’s jaw clenched tight. He opened his mouth, tried to shout—but nothing came.

The sound caught in his throat, swallowed by the thick, humming energy pressing in on all sides. It wrapped around him like static, buzzing in his ears, crushing his voice before it could escape.

The images around him shifted again, bending and stuttering like a broken reel.

This version of him flickered, unstable, blue-tinted and translucent like a flickering projection. His edges frayed with digital noise, pieces of him blinking in and out of view. He was a hologram—barely anchored, barely real.

He stood in a quiet workshop, speaking gently to a young girl. His hands moved carefully, helping her fasten pieces of armor around her arms and chest. Her face lit up with every word.

Tony’s stomach turned.

He felt dizzy. Was he dead here too?  Was this… all that was left of him? What was this place?

He pushed forward, forcing himself through the pressure, repulsors flaring hard beneath his boots.

The suit groaned in protest—metal plates grinding, servos straining. The HUD lit up in angry flashes, warning after warning blaring in red: vitals dropping, systems offline, structural instability.

He didn’t care.

“My dad’s not in here! Take me to my dad!”

The words hit him like a punch to the chest. His heart cracked wide open. That was Morgan—lost, scared. 

She was looking for him.

He clenched his teeth, pushed the repulsors harder, legs shaking with the strain.

He would reach her, he swore to everything that matter that he would reach her. No matter what it took.

If he could just go a little faster.

With a wave of hot rage, the tunnel fractured. The light split, glitching at the edges, and reality snapped into something new.

He was shot forward into another world—no longer surrounded by streaks of color, but by smoke. Thick, choking, black smoke that blurred the horizon and stung his eyes behind the visor.

He flew low over the ground, repulsors sputtering slightly as if the air itself resisted him. Below him stretched a battlefield—vast, brutal, and long-abandoned.

Spears jutted from the dirt at odd angles. Shields lay cracked and half-buried in the mud. Bodies were everywhere. Some armored. Some not. Faces he couldn’t look at, uniforms he half-recognized.

The stench was immediate—copper, ash, and something deeper, rotting beneath the surface. His stomach twisted. The heat from the repulsors barely masked the cold dread spreading through his chest.

He hovered just above the carnage, heart pounding, chest tight. 

The he saw it. The heartache pressed in—sharp, constant.

Steve’s body, crumpled on the ground, drenched in blood. Head tilted to the side. Eyes half-open, glassy. Skin pale beneath the grime and red.

And kneeling over him— himself.

The Iron Man armor gleamed in the broken light, dented and scorched. His own figure leaned forward, gauntlets trembling, hands clutching Steve’s shoulders like he could hold him together through sheer force.

Tony’s flight faltered. He slowed instinctively, almost forgetting how to breathe. His vision blurred for a second, the HUD swimming in distorted shapes as his mind struggled to catch up.

Somehow he knew. He had done this.

This was his fault.

“It wasn’t worth it,” his other self whispered, voice shaking between tears. “None of it was worth it if it meant losing you.”

Tony’s breath caught. Something inside him buckled. The armor felt tighter, heavier—like it was splintering from the inside out.

All the walls he’d built, all the rage he clung to, the resentment he kept stroking against Steve— It all crumbled in an instant.

What was left was dread.

Tears slid down his face, soaking silently into the soft lining of the undersuit, vanishing as quickly as they came.

“Let me out of here! I have to tell him something!”

The voice hit him like a jolt—cutting clean through the fog in his mind.

Tony blinked hard, the image of Steve’s lifeless body still burning behind his eyes. He shook his head, forcing it back, pushing it down.

With a sharp breath, he re-engaged the repulsors. They flared to life beneath him, the scream of the metal sharp and urgent.

He surged forward again, chasing the sound of her voice.

He flew through the tunnel, spiraling deeper into the endless loops of light and energy. The currents pulled at him, twisting his path, warping his sense of direction.

He kept going. He needed to find her.

Then —a flash of lightning 

Everything went black.

No light. No sound. No motion.

It was like the sun had vanished. Like the universe had gone still.

Small specks of dust drifted through the air, catching on broken edges of metal and shattered glass. A few loose wires hung from the ceiling, swaying gently, as if the room were breathing.

Light from the outside flickered in patches, sliding across the floor in thin lines, like a window against a moving train. The pattern pulsed slowly, rhythmically, as if the whole room were passing through something vast.

The flickering light shifted, revealing a shape moving through the dark.

It bumped against hard surfaces, its form stuttering in and out of shadow. As it turned, glints of metal caught the light—dull at first, then sharp and unmistakable.

Pieces of the armor came into view. Curved plating. Burnt red. The arc reactor pulsing faintly beneath the chest. 

The Iron Man suit.

Around them, there was nothing—no walls, no floor, no horizon. Just endless dark, stretching in every direction. 

Tony angled forward, repulsors humming as he tried to move closer— An invisible force pushed back, firm and immovable, like a barrier wrapped around the scene. No matter how hard he pressed, he couldn’t break through.

Then—an explosion.

Without warning, a wall of fire erupted in front of the armor, stretching wide, fast, blinding. It lit up the entire void in a violent flash, swallowing everything in searing gold and red.

The heat rippled through the darkness, and Tony felt it even from where he hovered—distant but undeniable.

He didn’t need context. Didn’t need time to think. In that single instant, he knew :

Countless lives had just been erased.

He looked down. Through the flickering light and curved glass, the realization hit him—this was a spaceship.

A massive viewing window stretched beneath his feet, framing the stars beyond. Below, a chain of planets.

Dozens of them, aligned in orbit. One by one, they ignited—each bursting into flame with sickening precision. No debris. No resistance. Just fire.

A silent, horrifying symphony of destruction playing out beneath his boots.

He was horrified—frozen in place, unable to look away.

But more than that, he was scared.

What kind of mind could do this?

What was this Tony thinking?

Why would he choose this— how could he even make it happen?

The fire revealed another chilling truth.

The man in front of him wasn’t wearing the armor—it was fused to him. The plating dug into his skin at every seam, embedded so deep it looked like it had grown there. His jaw was lined with scorched metal, one side of his face completely overtaken by warped plating. What flesh remained was raw and discolored, stretched thin around the burns, an ugly, blistered red that made Tony’s stomach turn.

He was barely human now. More armor than man—like the suit had devoured him from the inside out.

Tony opened his mouth to speak.

To say something—anything.

To ask what happened. To demand answers. To scream.

To confront this thing—this monster —that wore his face and, worse, his tech.

The sound he tried to make was swallowed whole—drowned out by a scream that ripped through the air.

High-pitched. Raw. All-consuming.

It wasn’t just loud—it was total. Unfiltered panic, pain, and something too familiar buried inside it. A child's voice. Fractured. Shaking.

Morgan.

The scream hit the tunnels like a shockwave, splitting them open. Light bent inward, folding space like paper until everything around him collapsed into a tightening spiral.

Tony was thrown back, repulsors flaring uselessly. The force slammed into him like a cyclone, tearing through the suit’s stabilizers, wrenching his limbs in all directions.

Metal groaned, joints cracked, systems failed.

His face stretched taut, skin pulled against pressure that shouldn’t exist. His lungs expanded beyond what his chest could hold. His heart seized—then lurched, bursting into motion and pain all at once.

Every nerve lit up. Every breath screamed.

Then, suddenly—he was through.

The pull vanished. The pressure lifted.

The suit stabilized around him, systems quiet, repulsors humming in their usual rhythm. The HUD returned to normal, no warnings, no red.

He was flying through open sky—clear, bright, impossibly blue.

Below him stretched the desert. Dry, steady ground. Pale earth and scattered brush, untouched by the chaos he’d just left behind.

Mexico. Just as it should be.

Shaking, he lowered himself toward the ground, repulsors flickering as he landed harder than he meant to.

The suit peeled back, piece by piece, releasing him. He staggered out of it and dropped to his knees, hands digging into the dry dirt.

He gasped—huge, ragged breaths tearing through his chest. He could breathe again. 

The air was warm, dusty, real. Grains of sand clung to his palms. The sun pressed gently against his back. His heart thundered in his chest, too fast, but steady.

He was still alive. 

“Tony!”

Steve’s voice cut through the haze, sharp and close.

Tony blinked, barely able to lift his head. His throat felt raw, his chest still heaving. He couldn’t find the words—couldn’t make his mouth work.

Steve was already there, hands gripping his arms, steadying him. With one strong pull, he helped Tony to his feet.

The portal behind them pulsed once more, and then again. One by one, the others stepped through—Carol, Bruce, Peter, Natasha, Clint—forming a loose circle around them, breathless, silent, waiting.

“I—I lost the kid,” Tony whispered, voice hoarse. His eyes didn’t move, fixed on some point far past Steve’s shoulder.

Steve’s face tightened, his brow folding in.

“I heard her,” Tony went on, breath catching. “She was right there. And I lost her. After the last universe—it just kicked me out.”

Steve shook his head slowly, barely a movement, his lips pressed into a thin, worried line. His hand hovered near Tony’s shoulder, unsure whether to reach for him or not.

“Tony… what are you talking about?” he asked, voice low. “What universe?”

They looked at each other, eyes locked. The worry in Steve’s face was clear—creases at the corners of his eyes, his jaw tight—but his stance didn’t change. Nothing in his body said he’d seen what Tony had just lived through.

Tony glanced around, heart still racing.

Peter was already off to the side, leaping onto a large rock and shoving Clint playfully until the archer lost his balance with a yelp.

Natasha stood with Carol near the edge of the ridge, pointing at distant markers while speaking rapidly into a comm—coordinating, delegating, already moving on.

None of them looked shaken. None of them looked like they’d seen it.

Whatever it was Tony just came from—he’d gone through it alone.

“Tony?” Steve’s voice came again, gentle but firmer this time. He gave Tony a small shake, just enough to ground him.

Flashes from the last universe surged forward—

The fire.

The screams.

The planets burning.

The lives gone in an instant.

Tony swallowed hard. “Nothing,” he said quietly. “I’m just… exhausted, that’s all.” 

Steve’s posture shifted. He let go of Tony’s shoulders, slowly, hands falling to his sides.

They stood apart.

And between them, unspoken but unmistakable…

The walls were up.

The shivers from the portal still ran down his spine, sharp and lingering, like static that hadn’t fully discharged. He could still taste it—burnt skin and ozone thick on his tongue, clinging to the back of his throat.

The air around them was warm, but the chill in his chest hadn’t lifted.

“Cap, we need a game plan here,” Natasha said, her voice clipped as she stepped closer, arms crossed, eyes scanning the horizon.

Steve nodded—sharp, focused. His shoulders straightened, jaw tightening just slightly.

And just like that, he was Captain America again.

The group gathered around him, a loose circle forming in the dust. Their voices low at first, but picking up fast—questions, numbers, scenarios overlapping.

They were facing what would inevitably become a planetary disaster. Billions of people, suddenly homeless, dropped into a world already strained at the seams. A planet where food was scarce, governments unstable, and the political climate tense enough to snap.

Tony shifted back, eyes narrowing as he brought up the HUD. His suit still carried a secure connection, and within seconds, his servers came online—smooth, silent, familiar.

He began scanning news feeds, global alerts, data logs. Headlines flickered across the screen in fast bursts. Everything felt too fast and too slow at once.

On this Earth—their Earth—a full month had passed since they’d vanished into the other Vancouver.

For them, it had only been a few days.

Tony stared at the timestamp in the corner of the feed, letting the weight of it settle. A quiet grief bloomed low in his chest for the time lost—time that slipped through their fingers without warning.

What had Peter— his Peter—thought of his absence? Had he waited? Had he panicked?

He hadn’t been off the grid this long in years. Not since before Thanos.

He shook the spiraling thoughts away, jaw tightening as he forced his focus back to the task at hand. The data streams continued to scroll in front of him, glowing softly against the curve of the visor.

He sifted through headlines, newspapers, livestreams, and social media threads—each one worse than the last.

They were still being hunted. Relentlessly.

The United States government had escalated the manhunt, especially after the Hulk’s explosive entrance across the border. That incident had thrown fuel on an already-burning fire.

The president, red-faced and furious in every broadcast, had shut down the borders entirely. The country had tilted into something that looked—smelled—like a police state.

Allied nations were under threat, pressure mounting by the hour.

“Bring me Iron Man, or I’ll bring our bombs to you.”

Tony exhaled through his nose.

The president, as usual, wasn’t big on diplomacy.

“How in hell are we gonna pull this off? We’re criminals in 116 countries,” Clint groaned, rubbing the back of his neck as he paced a tight circle.

“Well, it’s not the first time,” Nat muttered, arms crossed, eyes still on the horizon.

The conversation shifted quickly after that. The facts were impossible to ignore—there were too many people, and not enough Earth to hold them.

Soon enough, the only real option left on the table was to get the extra population off the planet.

That’s when the Guardians got pulled in.

They weren’t the bravest, or the smartest, or even the most capable individuals. But right now, they were the only allies in the universe the team could count on. 

It would have to be enough.

Tony, once grounded, was now reconnected. He accessed his overseas phantom accounts—buried deep behind layers of encryption. With a few quick commands and a handful of shadow transactions, he filled their virtual wallets.

The lift from the other world to Tijuana had been a blessing in disguise.

They were on the run, but at least this time they wouldn’t have to rely on literal copper and wool to keep warm.

No more scouting for scraps in freezing alleyways. This time, they had funds—and just enough stability to pretend they weren’t desperate.

With the resources in place and a line to the Guardians underway, a fragile sense of hope began to take root among them.

The plan—impossible as it seemed—was to find a somewhat habitable planet that could take in seven billion displaced people… and pray they didn’t spark an intergalactic war in the process.

Steve was hopeful. Tony was sure they would fail. 

In the second hour of planning, Peter hesitantly suggested involving the Sorcerers of Kamar-Taj.

They could open portals, he said, to help with transport and logistics—to make moving entire populations just a little less impossible.

No one laughed at the idea. Not this time.

With enough reflexes, some decent convincing power, and a hell of a lot of luck, they might be able to make this work.

Maybe.

“Well, luckily you guys are like gods back there, right? They have to listen to you,” Bruce joked weakly, offering a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

The other Tony frowned, clearly unimpressed. He opened his mouth—probably not to agree— but the other Steve stepped in before he could speak.

He placed a hand on Tony’s shoulder, steady, and turned to Bruce with a calm, easy smile.

“Yes, maybe something good will come out of the gigantic amount of money Tony spent on statues of ourselves.”

Laughter rippled through the group, breaking some of the tension.

The other Tony stared at his Steve like he’d just grown a second head—brows lifted, lips parted in disbelief. Then, slowly, he let out a breathy laugh. Quiet. Surprised.

By the third hour, the plan had begun to take shape. It was shaky at best and outright suicidal at worst—but it was them , and that made it just solid enough to believe in.

Once the steps were outlined, the division of labor followed naturally. The team shifted into motion—assigning, revising, layering task over task until the plan began to resemble something real.

“You can fly to Xandar,” the other Tony said, eyes on Tony. “Help the transition flow better. You’re the one who knows this world’s politics best.”

Silence fell. Heavy. Tense.

Tony didn’t answer right away. His own team had the decency to look away. They already knew the answer.

“I’m not going with you,” Tony said, the words tight, dragged through clenched teeth.

The other Tony blinked, caught off guard. “What? Where are you going?”

Tony’s fists curled. The repulsor on his prosthetic hand hummed faintly, its warmth settling against the tension in his thigh.

He stared down at the other version of himself, jaw locked, a sharp reply building in his throat—acidic, pointed—

But Steve spoke first. 

“We’re going to find his daughter.”

The words landed like stone—final, absolute—cutting through the warm dust and quiet noise of the desert in a single breath.

The other Tony shifted where he stood, shoulders twitching with discomfort. He didn’t argue. Didn’t push.

He just stood there, weighing it—turning it over behind his eyes—until finally, he dropped his gaze and gave a small nod.

“Okay.”

The teams divided from there, quiet and efficient.

Natasha, Clint, and Bruce would stay behind, working with the other Avengers to guide the displaced population through the crossing.

Tony, Steve, and Peter would continue the search for Morgan.

When Peter quietly stepped forward and said he was going with them, Tony felt something pull tight in his chest. He wanted to reach out, to hug the kid, to say something—anything.

But he was still too hurt from the way Peter held him down. So he just nodded. 

Bruce worked quickly, using Tony’s nanobots and pieces of the other Tony’s suit to rig a device that could monitor the portal’s stability.

It wasn’t hard data—not even close—but between the readings and some rough estimates, they were fairly certain they had a three-day window to maneuver.

Between the other universe Avengers, the  Kamar-Taj, and this universe’s Guardians, they’d have to pull something together.

And they’d have to do it fast. Three days. That was all they had.

Once it was time to part ways, Tony stepped forward and extended his hand.

The other Tony hesitated for half a second before taking it.

Their grips were firm—too firm, like they both had more to say but couldn’t find the words.

“I wish you the best of luck,” Tony said quietly, locking eyes with him. “There’s a lot at stake.”

The other Tony nodded. His eyes were tired, but there was warmth in them—something softer than Tony expected. Something that made his chest ache.

“Same to you,” he replied.

Tony held his gaze for a moment longer. He couldn’t quite shake the feeling—pity, maybe, or regret. Not because the man was worse than him. But because he knew exactly what that version of himself was about to carry.

The goodbyes were short, efficient, and pragmatic. No hugs. No promises.

They would see each other again.

They had to.

Notes:

Let me know if you liked it! I'll read you guys in the comments. The good stuff is just around the corner <3

Chapter 15: The other Tijuana

TONY 

 

The portal had opened about twenty miles out from Tijuana. They flew as close as they safely could, wind howling past them in thick, hot gusts. Tony held tight to both Peter and Steve, his grip firm, fingers locking around their shoulders like iron.

As soon as the first lights of the city flickered on the horizon, they dropped to the ground. From there, they'd have to finish on foot.

It was a quiet walk.

The sun hung low, casting long shadows across the desert floor. The sky glowed soft and orange, fading into cooler tones with each passing minute. A gentle breeze stirred the dust, brushing past their jackets and whistling low through the scrub.

Tony’s steps were slow, deliberate—boots dragging through the dry sand, each stride a little heavier than the last.

The other two stayed beside him, matching his pace without complaint.

A small gesture, one he noticed.  Loyalty, maybe. Or something quieter—keeping stride with an old man who didn’t move as fast as he used to.

He felt conflicted.

His brain throbbed with exhaustion, too raw to even begin untangling the universes he’d passed through. The memories blurred together—half-formed images, voices that echoed too loud, flashes of light that hadn’t faded.

He hadn’t told them what the portal showed him—what he saw and felt that no one else seemed to.

He told himself it was because of resentment. Because Peter had webbed him down. Because Steve had shouted at him to stay put. Because part of him still ached from how alone he felt in that moment.

But he knew it was bullshit.

He didn’t tell them because he was afraid.

That monster—the man fused with a machine—still floated in the back of his mind. Every time he blinked, he saw the metal pressed into burned skin, the planets burning, the eyes that looked too much like his own.

He’d gone into the portal with blind fury, ready to tear through anyone and anything to get to Morgan. Consequences didn’t matter. Nothing did.

And now… he wondered.

Was that the man he could become, if he kept going the way he was?

He wasn’t just afraid of the answer. He was ashamed that he even believed it was possible.

They reached the edge of town just as the cold began to settle deep into Tony’s bones—a creeping chill that snuck beneath the heat still clinging to the desert air. His muscles ached with each step, the adrenaline long gone, replaced by the dull throb of fatigue.

The lights of Tijuana shimmered ahead, warm and scattered, casting golden patches onto pavement and low rooftops.

They moved quietly, slipping into a residential neighborhood on the outskirts. The streets were narrow, lined with chipped concrete walls and the occasional porch light humming against the dark.

They kept to the shadows, careful with their footsteps.

Along the way, they found what they needed—drying laundry clipped to a fence, jackets slung over the backs of chairs. A few quick grabs, a silent exchange of glances, and they were dressed in street clothes again, shedding the last visible pieces of what they were.

Peter picked out a pair of worn jeans and a faded band T-shirt, tugging it over his head with a small shrug, like it didn’t matter what it said. Steve slipped into an old hoodie—gray, slightly oversized, the kind of thing that didn’t draw attention.

While they changed, Tony rummaged through a pile of abandoned belongings by a stoop and found a scuffed backpack, the zipper half broken but usable. He folded their suits with practiced efficiency, tucking them inside and slinging the bag over his shoulder without a word.

Tijuana was alive, even as the sun dipped below the horizon. The streets buzzed with music and laughter, the kind of joy that lingered in the air like smoke.

People moved slowly, unhurried—meandering without clear direction, stopping to talk, to sing, to live.

Bars spilled out onto the sidewalks, stools pulled up close to tiny tables. Glasses clinked, voices rose in bursts. Women danced beneath flickering streetlamps, skirts catching the breeze as car headlights passed by.

It was beautiful in a way Tony hadn’t expected—loud, warm, human.

The perfect place to disappear.

To everyone else, they’d just be another group of white people passing through, unsure of the language, unsure of the streets, unsure of their place. And that was exactly what they needed.

Tony spotted an ATM tucked beside a closed pharmacy, its screen flickering faintly under the neon buzz. He approached with his usual confidence, fingers flying across the keypad as he ran a series of quiet, carefully buried transactions through ghosted accounts and burner chains.

Within minutes, the machine began to spit out stacks of cash—fifties, mostly, bundled loosely into his jacket pockets and the old backpack.

No one batted an eye. In a city like this, three Americans walking around with too much money and no clear purpose didn’t raise suspicion—it was practically a cliché. 

After a quick search on Peter’s phone and a heated debate with Steve about what exactly counted as “reasonable” luxury while on the run, Tony made the executive decision.

He marched them downtown without another word, heading straight for the first five-star hotel that popped up on the map—marble steps, gold-trimmed windows, and all.

The receptionist was a young woman with long braids pulled back neatly and thick, carefully shaped eyebrows. Her eyes glittered with practiced professionalism as the three of them stepped through the glass doors—alert, assessing.

Her hand hovered just beneath the desk, fingers resting a little too close to what Tony assumed was the panic button. One twitch, one wrong move, and she looked ready to shut the whole lobby down.

Tony tensed immediately, heart skipping a beat—convinced, for a moment, that she’d recognized them. That she’d seen him.

But then he glanced at Steve and Peter.

They were both a mess—clothes wrinkled and streaked with dirt, sweat clinging to their hair in uneven spikes. Steve looked like he’d walked through a sandstorm, and Peter’s shirt had a rip near the collar.

Tony rolled his neck, which hissed in protest, tendons stiff with strain. Yeah, he probably looked like hell too.

No wonder she was on edge. They didn’t look like fugitives. They looked like they'd crawled out of a wreck.

“We were robbed!” Peter blurted, eyes wide and tone just panicked enough to sell it.

Tony bit the inside of his cheek, fighting down a grin as the woman’s expression shifted—suspicion melting instantly into concern.

“Oh no! That’s horrible,” she stammered, her accent lilting across each word. “Would you like me to call someone?” Her hand moved instinctively closer to the phone.

Tony shook his head, stepping calmly up to the counter, keeping his posture casual. He wished, not for the first time, that his face wasn’t so damn recognizable—especially down here, where American headlines still made waves.

“No, that’s not necessary,” he said, voice lowered into something tired and a little sulky. “Luckily, we had our valuables in the kid’s backpack.”

He gave Peter a sideways glance, silently thanking him for the quick thinking.

The woman’s shoulders eased, her hand drifting away from the phone. The idea of not involving the police seemed to bring her genuine relief. Tony couldn’t blame her.

“Oh, well, thanks to God,” she said with a warm smile. “Would you like to book a room then, sir?”

Her tone shifted into something more practiced, but still polite—professional relief wrapped in hospitality.

“Yes, please,” Tony said, smoothing his voice into something weary but polite. “I know it’s late, but we spent the whole day at the commissary.”

The woman nodded, fingers tapping briskly across the keyboard. Her eyes narrowed slightly, scanning the screen as a faint frown formed between her brows.

Then her expression lit up.

“Oh, yes! I have two rooms available,” she said, cheerful now. “I do have to warn you, sir—one is the Master suite, which comes at a higher price.”

Tony shook his head without hesitation, flashing her a tired but charming smile.

“That won’t be a problem. We’ll take them.”

Peter leaned casually against the desk, his arms draped over the edge as he caught the woman’s eye.

“Disculpe,” he said, the word soft and careful on his tongue.

The woman’s face lit up, clearly charmed by his effort. She turned her full attention to him as he continued, “La Master Suite tiene una cama matrimonial, ¿verdad?”

She nodded, smiling. “Sí, claro, este es un hotel inclusivo así que no van a tener ningún problema. Tu pieza está al final del pasillo, así que estarías cerca de tus padres.”

Her voice was soft and reassuring, the kind of tone reserved for local kids and late-night travelers—gentle, casual, unaware she was speaking to someone who had seen galaxies tear themselves apart.

Peter flushed a deep red, his ears going pink as a sheepish smile crept across his face.

Tony shot him a quick, puzzled glance, trying to read the exchange, but the Spanish flew past him. He caught a few words— suite, pasillo —but nothing that helped.

“Buenísimo, muchas gracias,” Peter said brightly, stepping back from the desk with a small, satisfied nod.

The receptionist turned her attention back to Tony, fingers poised over the keyboard. “I would just need a last name, then,” she said kindly.

Tony hesitated, his mind blank for a beat. Then, as always, the dumbest name surfaced first.

“Peterson,” he blurted.

The moment the word left his mouth, he felt it—Steve’s heavy, pointed stare burning into the back of his neck. Judgment, thick and silent.

Tony paid for the rooms—ridiculously expensive, of course, but at this point, comfort was non-negotiable. The transaction went through without a hitch, and they were checked in within minutes.

The elevator glided up to the top floor with a soft chime and a velvet-lined interior that reeked faintly of artificial lavender. The hallway they stepped into was long and carpeted in deep burgundy, its walls lined with ornate sconces and heavy gold-trimmed mirrors that reflected their disheveled forms in flashes.

The receptionist led the way, her heels tapping quietly on the carpet. Halfway down the corridor, she paused at a sleek wooden door and pulled out a brass keycard.

“This is yours,” she said with a polite nod.

Peter wasted no time. As soon as the door clicked open, he launched himself into the room and belly-flopped onto the nearest bed with a breathless, giddy laugh.

The woman stiffened slightly, her eyes catching the smudges of dirt and dried blood now soaking into the crisp white sheets. She hesitated for a second—clearly disturbed—but kept her expression neutral, trained, professional.

She said nothing. Tony appreciated the restraint.

Their room was a corner suite, tucked at the far end of the hallway. From the moment the door opened, it was clear—this place was built for people who liked to feel important.

Luxury clung to every surface, from the plush, deep carpet underfoot to the soft glow of recessed lighting in the ceiling. The walls were a muted gold, the kind that caught the light just right, and the curtains were thick and heavy, pooling slightly where they touched the floor.

The woman unlocked the door with a soft beep and swung it open with both hands, stepping aside to let them in.

Tony took a slow breath. The air was cool, faintly scented with something citrusy and expensive. A full wall of windows looked out over the city, casting soft reflections across polished furniture and a oversized TV.

“I hope you find everything to your liking, Mr. and Mr. Peterson,” the receptionist said, her smile unwavering.

Tony blinked, needing a second to register the words. A crooked smile tugged at his lips, and he nearly laughed—figuring she must’ve mixed something up in translation.

He opened his mouth to correct her, but before he could get a word out, Steve’s arm slipped casually around his shoulders, warm and steady.

“Thank you, miss,” Steve said, voice light, almost cheerful. “We’re excited to get our vacation started.”

Tony froze.

The woman offered one last polite smile, gave a small nod, and stepped back into the hallway.

The door eased shut behind her with a soft, deliberate click. In the thick silence that followed, Tony finally managed to collect his scattered thoughts.

“I’m sorry, what the hell was that?” he whined, turning sharply and stepping out from under Steve’s arm. His voice cracked somewhere between disbelief and irritation.

Steve, at least, had the decency to look mildly ashamed. He scratched the back of his neck, his fingers dragging awkwardly through his hair as he avoided Tony’s eyes.

“I think it’ll help with cover,” he said, glancing at the floor, the ceiling—anywhere but Tony. “You know… we’re still hunted.”

Tony stared at him for a long second, blinking slowly as if his brain needed to reboot.

Then—

“So you’re pretending we’re married?!” he snapped, hands flying to his head in disbelief. 

Steve blushed, a deep shade of red creeping up his neck and settling across his cheeks.

“No one would think a gay couple in Tijuana are actually Iron Man and Captain America,” he said, voice low and awkwardly earnest, like he couldn’t believe he was saying it out loud.

Tony stared at him as if he was going mad. Maybe he was. Maybe Steve did see some fucked up thing in the portal. Maybe this was his brain melting away.

“And Peter what? Is our son?” Tony mocked, throwing a hand in the air as he paced across the thick carpet.

“I guess that could work…” Steve muttered behind him.

The suite was enormous—absurd, really. Two large rooms connected by a sweeping gold arch, the kind you’d expect in a palace, not a hotel. The floors were covered in plush, patterned carpet that swallowed his footsteps, and the ceiling rose high above them, trimmed in ornate molding.

Soft lighting glowed from antique sconces, and the whole place smelled faintly of lemon polish. 

It sprawling and meticulously designed—every detail tailored to quiet luxury. The small living room sat just past the entryway, centered around a low marble coffee table and a deep charcoal-gray couch that faced a wall-mounted television framed by warm wood paneling.

Tony stopped mid-step, spinning on his heel.

In the room beside the window, bathed in the soft glow of city lights, lay a perfectly made bed—massive, pristine, and undeniably romantic.

One enormous, maritimal bed, dressed in crisp white linens and more pillows than anyone could possibly need.

Great.

“Well, was this part of your plan, genius?” Tony muttered, the edge in his voice fading with every word.

The sight of the bed—the soft, sunlit sheets, the absurd number of fluffy pillows, the thick, cloud-like covers—made something in him ache.

His muscles screamed at the invitation. He was tired. Bone-deep, soul-heavy tired.

Steve stepped up beside him, arms crossed over his chest, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Well…” he murmured, voice low and teasing. He nudged Tony’s shoulder gently with his own. “It’s not something we haven’t done before.”

Tony let out an unexpected laugh, short and breathless. He sighed, dragging a hand over his face, fingers pressing into his eyes.

“Yeah well. I was on painkillers then,” Tony shot back, the corner of his mouth twitching.

Steve laughed—soft and real. He ducked his head, letting it hang for a moment in that stupidly adorable way he always did when he was too shy to meet anyone’s eyes.

Tony dropped onto the couch with a groan, his legs stretching out instantly to rest on the low table in front of him. His boots thudded against the marble without apology.

“Well, I’ll text the kid to meet us for breakfast,” he mumbled, fishing the burner phone he got at the market out of his pocket.

“If I’m awake a second longer, I’m capable of mass murder.”

After the words left his mouth, flashes of the other Tony surged back, uninvited and unforgiving. Steve’s lifeless body, blood soaking into scorched dirt. The mountain of corpses stacked like debris, frozen mid-scream. The planets—whole worlds—bursting into flame, collapsing inward like dying stars.

It all slammed into him at once, behind his eyes and under his skin.

He shivered, the cold blooming from somewhere deep and unreachable.

“Tony, did you hear me?”

He blinked, the images still pulsing faintly at the edges of his vision. Steve’s voice anchored him—low, steady, familiar.

Tony looked up, finding Steve watching him closely, concern etched into the furrow of his brow.

“Uhm… no, sorry,” he said, scratching at his eyes like he could rub the memory away. “I dozed off.”

The lie came easy, dry in his throat.

“What did you say?”

Steve paused, studying him for a second longer than was comfortable. Then he said, gently, “Nothing. Just that I’m taking a shower. You should lay down.”

Tony nodded, the motion slow, almost reluctant.

His body ached in places he hadn’t even noticed until that moment, and he had to summon every bit of willpower just to push himself up from the couch.

When the bathroom door clicked shut behind Steve, Tony let out a long, quiet sigh.

His head throbbed with a dull, steady ache.

His heart felt heavier than his body.

And yet—stupidly, inexplicably—there was something warm in his chest. A soft flicker of anticipation.

He was about to share a bed with Steve again.

He grabbed one of the hotel’s complimentary pajamas from the neatly folded stack on the dresser—plain white cotton, soft to the touch—and changed in slow, careful motions.

Every movement sent a jolt through his muscles. His ribs, still only half-healed, throbbed beneath the thin fabric. The burnt skin on his neck tingled, raw and tight, each breath reminding him it was still there.

He winced as he pulled the shirt over his head, deciding—half out of necessity, half from exhaustion—that he’d deal with it tomorrow.

His shoulder ached—a deep, grinding pull that had settled into his bones.

He reached up, fingers brushing the cold metal of his arm, now bare in the moonlight filtering through the window. The surface was dull with wear, the seams tight where skin met alloy. He’d kept the prosthesis on far too long.

His nerves were tense, overstimulated, the muscles in his neck stiff and unforgiving. He needed to clean the internal ports, run a systems check, recharge the power cells.

Mostly, he needed to give his body time to rest.

He stared at the bathroom door, then at the bed—its edges softened by lamplight, inviting and unbearably close.

The thought of Steve seeing him without the arm again made his chest tighten. The idea clawed at his ribs, sharp and sudden.

What if he saw the socket? The exposed circuitry, the scars that wrapped around it like old burns?

What if he touched it in his sleep?

Would he flinch? Would he freeze?

Would he be disgusted?

Tony didn’t know what would be worse—Steve saying something, or saying nothing at all.

His hand moved slowly, absently, patting the surface of the metal arm. The coolness of it grounded him, but his thoughts kept spinning—spiraling in tight, anxious circles.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, muscles stiff, posture frozen.

The fabric of the pajama pants was soft against his legs, smooth and warm. The white tank top stood out against the charred, discolored skin along his shoulder and neck—a clean line next to something raw and healing.

He took a deep breath, steadying himself.

He had to do it. Even if it meant feeling exposed. Even if it meant going to sleep with his defenses down.

He had to trust that Steve would have his back.

But…

Did he?

He got up, the motion stiff, and began pacing slowly across the room. The tension in his body needed somewhere to go.

After a moment, he headed for the small kitchenette near the front of the suite. He found a glass, filled it at the sink, and drank it down in one long gulp.

The water was cold, clean, grounding.

He only wanted to sleep. To shut everything off—his thoughts, his body, the weight pressing down on both.

But then the bathroom door creaked open, the soft sound cutting through the quiet.

His time was up.

The arm would have to stay on tonight.

“Tony?” Steve’s voice was gentle, almost hesitant.

Tony took a deep breath, forcing the tightness in his chest to ease.

“Coming.”

Steve looked like a different person.

He had shaved, finally getting rid of the patchy five o’clock shadow he’d carried since they’d first jumped to the other universe. The sharp edges of exhaustion were still there, but the lines of his face had softened.

Without the dirt and dried blood, without the weight of the battlefield clinging to him, he looked younger. Calmer. Almost like himself again.

“Hey, you’re still up,” Steve said gently, a faint line of worry pulling at the corners of his mouth.

Tony didn’t answer. He just walked past him, slow and silent, offering nothing more than a glance. He sat down on the edge of the bed, spine straight, eyes forward.

Steve stood there for a second, then gave a small nod to himself.

He took the hint.

In silence, they slipped under the sheets.

The mattress dipped beneath their weight, the blankets warm and heavy. The soft linen hugged Tony’s aching muscles, easing the tightness in his legs and back—

until it brushed the raw skin on his shoulder blade.

He hissed, the sting sharp and immediate.

Steve looked over, eyes narrowing with concern. Tony stared straight ahead, willing him not to speak. Not to notice.

Sadly, Steve wasn't in the habit of doing what Tony wanted. 

“We should get a bandage on that,” Steve said, his voice even but firm. “It could get infected.”

Tony closed his eyes and counted to ten, slow and deliberate. He bit back the flash of resentment rising in his throat—too tired to fight, too raw to explain—and let out an exasperated sigh instead.

“Don’t worry about it.”

The night was still. A quiet breeze slipped in through the cracked window, rustling the curtains in slow, lazy waves. Moonlight spilled across the floor in soft strips, cool and pale.

Steve was still sitting up, eyes fixed on Tony with quiet focus.

“I’ll see what they have in the aid kit,” he said, already pushing back the covers. His tone left no room for argument.

He didn’t wait for permission. Just got up and moved.

Tony bit his lip and shut his eyes, letting his breathing slow. He tried to fake sleep—just enough to avoid the conversation.

It didn’t work.

“Tony, come here, please,” Steve’s voice called from the bathroom. Calm. Clear. Not asking.

Tony sighed, staring up at the ceiling as he weighed his options. He could ignore Steve—pretend to be asleep, shut down completely, hope the guy gave up and let him rest.

But he had fifteen years of experience with Steve Rogers.

He knew damn well that wasn’t going to happen.

Counting his losses, he slid one leg off the bed, then the other. The metal prosthesis cranked faintly under his weight as he stood, a soft mechanical groan that echoed in the quiet room. Steve didn’t seem to notice.

Tony dragged his feet toward the bathroom, the tile cool beneath his steps.

The light inside was warm and clean, casting soft gold across the pale marble countertops. A wide mirror stretched over the sink, still fogging lightly from the heat of the shower. A folded towel sat neatly on the edge, beside an open first aid kit. Everything smelled faintly of soap and steam.

He saw himself clearly for the first time since arriving in Tijuana.

Under the bright, steady warmth of the bathroom lights, he had to suppress a wince.

With only the thin tank top clinging to his frame, there was no hiding the damage. The burn scars from the portal were vivid and raw—streaks of purple, orange, and angry red tearing across his shoulder and back. Some patches had already begun to blister and ooze, skin peeled back in uneven swaths.

The damage crept all the way up to his neck, the scar wrapping around it like something that had tried to choke him.

“Great. I’m gonna have to spend a shit ton of money on plastic surgery again,” Tony muttered, turning sideways in the mirror to get a better look at the mess.

Behind him, Steve’s voice came quietly. “Does it hurt?”

Tony turned. Steve stood just besides the shower, arms at his sides. There was a sadness in his eyes—quiet and deep, the kind that wasn’t about guilt or pity, but something closer to grief.

Tony had to look away before it made something in him snap.

“Not really,” Tony said instead, voice flat. “The medbots took care of it at the moment. I guess the numbing gel’s still doing its job.”

Steve nodded, gaze dropping to his hands. He held a few small packets—gauze, hypoallergenic tape—already torn open with practiced care. On the counter beside him sat the open med kit, its contents half-spilled, and a single white bottle pulled to the front.

“Sterile saline,” Steve said again, firmer this time. “We need to clean the wound.”

Tony winced at the thought alone, his shoulder already tensing in protest. The sting hadn’t even come yet, but his brain filled in the rest.

“Do we really?” he asked, half a groan, already knowing the answer.

Steve didn’t flinch. Didn’t budge.

“Take off the shirt.”

Tony sighed, hands going to the hem of his tank top. “Not the context I thought you’d say that in,” he muttered.

He pulled the shirt off with slow, careful movements, biting down a hiss as the fabric dragged across the raw skin of his shoulder.

Steve stepped in without a word, steady hands helping him ease it over his head when he faltered, careful not to tug too hard.

Then Steve turned, walking around the bathroom with quiet purpose. He reached for the movable shower head, adjusting it over the counter. The pipes gave a soft groan as the water came to life. He held his hand under the stream, waiting, adjusting the handle with short, practiced turns until the temperature was just right—warm enough to clean, not enough to burn. The saline waited on the counter, opened and set aside, ready for use.

When the moment came—when there was no more delaying—Steve was gentle.

He stepped behind Tony, movements quiet, deliberate. His eyes met his in the mirror, searching for any sign of hesitation. Tony gave a faint nod. That was all he could manage.

Steve returned it with one of his own, then turned the shower head toward the burn.

The water hit his skin and the sensation caught in Tony’s throat—a sharp mix of relief and pain. The coolness soothed, but the pressure stung like fire across the raw patches.

His eyes squeezed shut. He bit down on his lower lip, hard, holding the sound inside.

He didn’t want to give the pain that much power.

Not in front of Steve.

Steve worked carefully—methodically, like he’d done it a hundred times.

He cleaned the wounds where the dirt had clung deepest, moving with quiet precision. Each sweep of the saline was steady, deliberate, his touch light but unflinching. He let Tony know each time he started over, his voice low, almost clinical. A quiet “here” or “again” before each rinse.

They didn’t talk.

The only sounds were the soft trickle of water, the occasional rustle of gauze, and the sharp, involuntary hiss or grunt that slipped past Tony’s clenched teeth.

“I think it’s best if you take off the arm,” Steve whispered.

Even in the quiet, the words felt loud—too direct, too vulnerable.

Tony didn’t look at him. His jaw tightened.

“The arm stays on.”

For once, Steve didn’t argue. He just gave a small nod and kept working, silent and steady.

Once the wound was clean enough, he covered the raw skin with a white cloth, wrapping it gently—just snug enough to stay in place, never tight. His fingers moved with care, brushing softly against Tony’s skin as he worked. Each point of contact sent a subtle jolt through him—warm, sharp, impossible to ignore.

When he finished, Steve didn’t step away. His hand lingered on the side of Tony’s neck, steady and warm.

Their eyes met in the mirror.

Tony could feel Steve’s breath against his skin—slow and even—raising goosebumps along the back of his neck.

“I know you’re mad at me,” Steve said, his voice calm, composed—but not cold. “But I did what I had to do.”

Tony huffed, a sharp breath through his nose, and broke eye contact. He turned his gaze down to the golden faucet, its polished surface blurring under the bathroom lights.

“Where have I heard that before…” he muttered, the bitterness in his voice barely restrained.

“I mean it, Tony,” Steve said, stepping in just slightly closer. “I just wanted to protect you.”

Tony snapped.

“I don’t want your protection, I want my daughter,” he said, the words low and raw. His eyes locked on Steve’s, sharp and unyielding.

Steve didn’t flinch. He held the stare, his lips pressed into a thin line, jaw working beneath the tension.

Tony expected him to back off. To take the hit and step away. 

He didn’t.

“At some point…” Steve whispered, his hand gliding down to rest on Tony’s shoulder, the touch light but grounding.

Tony fought the shiver that crawled up his spine, clenching his jaw, trying to hold onto the anger still burning in his chest. But when Steve’s other hand found his right shoulder—gentle, steady, warm—Tony’s muscles loosened, and his chest stopped bracing for a hit.

“You’re gonna have to trust me,” Steve said softly.

That tone.

He shouldn’t have said it like that—with that softness in his voice, that quiet endearment in his eyes. He should’ve been angry. He should’ve matched Tony’s fury.

So why the hell was he so calm?

Why did he look at Tony like that? Like he still cared, even when Tony did everything to push him away? 

“How can I trust you when you stopped me from reaching her?” Tony asked slowly, but the words rang hollow, even to his own ears. The bite behind them was slipping.

Steve didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t flinch.

“That portal almost killed you,” he said quietly, carefully—each word deliberate. “You’re crazy if you think I would’ve let you cross again without testing it first.”

His tone wasn’t defensive. Just… steady. Like the decision had cost him something too.

Tony stared at their reflection in the mirror.

Steve stood just behind him, close enough that Tony could feel the heat radiating off his chest, the soft drag of his sleeve brushing lightly against his back. And yet, despite the closeness, they felt miles apart—divided not by space, but by everything unsaid, everything unresolved.

The mirror between them reflected it all back—two figures side by side, separated by the weight of too much history.

“I already told you…” Steve whispered, his breath warm against the back of Tony’s neck, sending a slow chill across his skin. “I care about you.”

His voice was low, almost tentative—like he was afraid saying it too loud might break the moment.

Then, carefully, slowly, Steve leaned in. His nose brushed the shell of Tony’s ear, a soft pass that made Tony’s breath catch.

“Let me have your back,” he murmured. “I want to protect you.”

His hands slid from Tony’s shoulders down, wrapping gently around his waist. The touch was firm but slow, anchoring.

Tony felt it instantly—relief flooding through his chest like a valve finally loosening under pressure. He leaned back, just slightly, unable to stop himself. The warmth of Steve’s hands spread through him, grounding him in a way nothing else had in days.

Steve didn’t miss the shift. He responded without hesitation, pressing a soft kiss to Tony’s unburnt shoulder—light, reverent.

“I want to take care of you,” he said. Another kiss, just below the first. “Cherish you.”

Tony exhaled, long and uneven. Steve was warm, real, right there behind him.

And Tony wanted him. God, he wanted him.

It terrified him.

Tony lifted his hands and placed them gently over Steve’s, still wrapped around his waist. The contact steadied him, even as his chest tightened.

“I’m not trying to be difficult,” he said, the words leaving him on a tired exhale.

He looked up, searching for Steve’s eyes in the mirror. The reflection met him there—quiet, steady, waiting.

“I know you mean well,” Tony continued, voice rough. “But I can’t have you pushing me back on this. I need to find her, Steve. I need to.”

Steve nodded slowly, then leaned in, resting his chin gently on Tony’s shoulder. His breath was warm, his voice a low murmur against Tony’s skin.

“I know,” he said quietly. “I know you do.”

He paused for a beat, his arms still steady around Tony’s waist.

“But you have to let me take care of you while you do it,” he continued, voice soft but unwavering. “Morgan deserves a father who’s alive and well.” 

He placed another kiss on Tony’s neck. “Your mission is to find her. My mission is making sure you do it in one piece.”

Tony’s heart twisted in his chest. There was something unbearable in how freely Steve offered himself—without condition, without hesitation.

“I’m not asking you not to jump,” Steve continued, tightening his embrace just slightly, his arms holding Tony with quiet certainty. “I’m just making sure you land safely.”

Tony drew in a deep breath, the kind that tried to steady everything shaking inside him.

He looked at Steve’s reflection again—at the sincerity etched into his face, the calm strength in his eyes. That quiet determination he wore like armor.

He turned his head slightly and leaned into him, resting his forehead gently against Steve’s.

They stood there, still wrapped around each other, facing the mirror.

The image was striking—intimate, quiet, undeniably close.

They looked good together.

They looked like lovers.

“Okay,” Tony whispered. Somehow, it was the only word that didn’t feel impossibly heavy. The only one he could say without breaking.

Steve smiled—soft, almost relieved. “Okay” 

He pressed a gentle kiss to the curve of Tony’s neck, lingering just long enough to make Tony’s eyes flutter shut. Then, slowly, he unwrapped his arms, letting the warmth of the moment settle between them.

“Now let’s go to sleep,” he said quietly, like a promise. “We have a lot to do tomorrow.”

 

Notes:

Uff it's getting there

Chapter 16: The other Tijuana II

STEVE

 

Steve couldn’t sleep.

The bedsheets clung too tightly to his legs. The mattress felt unyielding against his back. The pillows were too plump. 

But none of that mattered.

What kept him awake—what made sleep not just elusive but impossible—was the man lying beside him.

Tony.

Steve was acutely aware of him. Of the faint rustle of fabric when Tony shifted. Of the way the warmth from his body radiated just a few inches away, brushing against Steve’s skin like static. Every exhale, every twitch of fingers beneath the sheets, registered like thunder.

He didn’t dare move. He barely dared breathe.

Tony lay on his side, his back curved gently toward Steve. His breathing was soft and measured, the kind of stillness that spoke of exhaustion more than rest. He hadn’t made a sound in hours—not a sigh, not a murmur.

The night was quiet, blanketed in a calm that felt almost artificial. Moonlight spilled through the slats in the curtains, casting pale silver stripes across the bed, the floor, the lines of Tony’s shoulder. 

Steve’s eyes had long adjusted to the dark; by now, every contour of the room was carved in dusky clarity. The folds in the blanket, the way Tony’s hair curled against the pillow, the slight rise and fall of his ribs—all of it felt more vivid than it should.

He wanted to reach out. Just to let his fingers brush against Tony’s back, maybe rest a hand on the dip of his waist. To fold himself around him, to breathe in the scent of his skin and press a kiss to the soft place where neck met shoulder. 

It was becoming a craving—this closeness. The quiet heat that radiated from Tony’s body, the almost imperceptible lift of his chest with each breath. 

Steve felt it all in his own bones, in his pulse, in the way his own lungs seemed to sync to that rhythm without meaning to.

He wanted Tony to turn around. Just roll over, meet his gaze with those sharp, tired eyes that somehow still managed to sparkle when they looked at him. 

He wanted that sheepish little smile—the one that curled up at the corners like Tony didn’t mean to let it out. The one that made Steve’s chest ache with something too big to name. 

That smile was dangerous. It was soft and disarming and slowly, maddeningly, unraveling him.

But Steve had learned his lesson.

Tony Stark didn’t tolerate being left in the dark. He needed facts, details, angles—needed to hold the whole picture in his hands before he could even begin to feel safe. 

Keeping something from him was like twisting a blade between his ribs. It wasn’t just about trust. It was about respect. And Steve had broken that once already.

And Steve was filled with secrets. Not because he wanted to keep them—God knew he hated the weight of them—but because he was afraid.

Afraid of how Tony would react. To the portals Strange had assigned them to. To the breadcrumbs of intel they’d gathered about Morgan. To the horrifying possibility that she might be behind one of those rifts, waiting. Not lost. Not taken. Just… trapped. Right there, just out of reach.

And worst of all—Steve couldn’t stop thinking about the version of himself he’d seen at the shades’ console. That cold, jagged man with a locked jaw and unmoving eyes. 

How would Tony react, knowing there was a version of Steve like that?

Steve's stomach twisted just thinking about it. Would Tony flinch? Would he pull back—not in fear, but in quiet disappointment? Would he see him differently now, knowing that somewhere out there, Steve Rogers could become something cruel? Something rigid and unyielding, cold in a way that made the air in the room feel thinner?

Would Tony start looking at him like that too?

Steve had spent years trying to be someone Tony could trust again. Someone worthy of that second chance. 

What if this ruined it? What if, after everything, the idea of what Steve could become was enough to cast doubt on who he was now?

That thought was harder to carry than any battlefield wound.

And what was that man doing? Steve could still see it—the way he stood at the console, unmoved by the chaos around him. Commanding the shades with silent authority, manipulating the portal like it was second nature. Like he’d done it a thousand times before.

What could possibly justify wielding that kind of power? What was he trying to reach—or control?

What if he wasn’t trying to stop the incursions, but feeding them? What if that Steve had crossed a line, made a choice so terrible that the man Steve was now couldn't even fathom it?

What if he wasn’t so different?

Steve’s jaw clenched, his fingers curling slightly against the sheets. The thought wouldn’t let go. It coiled around his spine and pressed cold against the back of his neck.

He couldn’t bear it. The image haunted him—sharp and rigid like the man himself. He couldn’t reconcile it, couldn’t square that hardened figure with the person he still believed himself to be. But it lingered.

And now Tony was lying beside him. Just a shift of the sheets, a single breath away. Steve could feel the subtle heat of his body under the covers, the rise and fall of his chest in a slow, steady rhythm that was maddening in its quiet intimacy.

All it would take was one movement—he could roll closer, slip an arm around Tony’s waist, press his forehead to the back of his neck and let himself breathe, let himself rest. He could let the scent of him, the warmth, the familiar weight, lull him into the first peaceful sleep he’d had in days.

He wanted it so much it hurt—deep in his chest, tight behind his ribs, like something straining to get out. The need to touch, to hold, to anchor himself against Tony’s body was unbearable.

But he didn’t dare.

Because Tony would feel it. He would feel the tremble in Steve’s hands, the guilt in his grip. He would read it not as comfort, not as care, but as weakness. As manipulation. As another silent apology for a choice Steve never should’ve made.

And in Tony’s eyes, that would be just one more betrayal.

He wanted to do it right this time. No more half-truths, no more waiting for the right moment that never came. He wanted to sit Tony down, look him in the eyes, and lay it all out—every piece of intel, every risk, every fear he hadn’t dared to say out loud.

He wanted Tony to hear it from him, not from a screen or a mission log. He wanted to be worthy of the trust he kept asking for.

If he wanted Steve after it all… well. 

Steve could only hope.

He closed his eyes, tried to let the sound of Tony’s breathing lull him into rest.

Sleep didn’t come. Only the soft rustle of sheets, the hum of the city beyond the glass, and the weight of everything he hadn’t yet said.

 

---

 

The hotel had a private rooftop reserved exclusively for the Master Suite—a sun-washed terrace framed by wrought-iron railings and shaded in parts by woven pergolas. 

Potted bougainvillea spilled over the edges of planters, their vivid blooms catching the breeze. Hand-painted ceramic tiles lined the floor in soft terracottas and blues, while local artwork—abstract, colorful, bold—adorned the stucco walls. 

The furniture was carefully curated: heavy wood chairs with bright cushions, a low mosaic table set perfectly beneath the shade, and a pair of canvas lounge chairs angled toward the sea. 

A large pergola cast dappled shadows over a perfectly arranged patio table, its white linen cloth gently rustling in the breeze. 

The table was set like something out of a dream—bowls brimming with fresh fruit, plates stacked with golden pancakes still steaming, delicate spirals of scrambled eggs nestled beside roasted vegetables. 

Small baskets held crispy breadsticks and buttery croissants, while jars of local jam and honey glinted in the morning sun. A bowl of granola sat beside pitchers of orange juice and dark coffee. 

Steve's stomach growled audibly at the sight, the scent of warm syrup and fresh citrus making his mouth water.

“Finally, some reasonable service…” Tony muttered, easing into one of the cushioned wicker chairs with a satisfied sigh. He reached lazily for a croissant, eyes flicking toward the terrace door. “Peter’s gonna be here in a s—oh, there he is.”

The kid eased the terrace door open with cautious hands, slipping through like he wasn’t sure he belonged. His eyes darted everywhere—over the lush potted plants, the low sun glinting off polished tile, the stretch of blue ocean humming beyond the rail. Wonder softened his face, jaw slack with the sheer beauty of it.

Then his gaze landed on the table. The mountain of food. Pastry. Eggs. Syrup. His posture snapped into focus like a missile lock.

“Oh my god, are those pancakes?” he howled, voice cracking with delight as he stumbled forward. 

He practically launched himself toward the table, nearly tripping over a chair leg in his haste. 

Steve watched with quiet amazement—he’d never seen Peter move with such uncoordinated, gleeful chaos. It was like watching a starved kid crash a buffet, limbs too fast for his own balance, all eyes and appetite. Well, it wasn't far from the truth. 

Tony stared, equal parts horrified and fascinated, as Peter built a towering stack of pancakes with the precision of an engineer and the urgency of someone who hadn’t seen real food in weeks. Syrup pooled recklessly, butter slid down the sides, and somewhere in the chaos, a strawberry got lost. It was a structural nightmare.

Steve, meanwhile, sank gratefully into his chair with a quiet exhale, letting the distraction wash over him. He reached for the eggs and fruit, methodical in his movements, trying to ground himself in the simplicity of breakfast.

Peter spoke through a mouthful of syrup-drenched pancake, his voice muffled but unmistakably awed. “I think I haven't had this amount of sugar since I left home,” he mumbled, cheeks full and eyes glassy with joy. He didn’t even pause between bites, already diving into the next forkful. “This is heaven.” 

Steve smiled, the corners of his mouth tugging upward as he shoveled in another bite of eggs and chased it down with a sip of strong coffee. 

The flavors hit just right—warm, buttery, real. It was a far cry from the powdered eggs and bitter instant sludge they'd been surviving on. The taste alone felt like a small luxury, grounding and comforting in a way he hadn’t realized he needed.

“Speaking of home,” Tony said, slicing his butter knife through a golden croissant with casual precision. The flaky pastry gave way under his fingers, crumbs scattering across the edge of his plate. “Are you studying anything, Pete? If you're the same age as our spiderling, you should be knee-deep in freshman seminars and caffeine-fueled breakdowns by now.” 

Peter paused mid-chew, cheeks full of mashed blueberries. He held up a finger and forced the mouthful down with an audible gulp. Wiping the corner of his mouth with the sleeve of his rumpled hoodie, he gave an awkward smile. 

“Uhm, no actually. I'm, uh... finishing my GED.” His voice was small, casual, like he was hoping they wouldn’t make a big deal out of it.

Tony's eyebrows shot up, mouth slightly ajar—equal parts confusion and scandalized disbelief.

“What? You didn’t finish high school?” he gasped, voice climbing an octave. “Why?” His eyes were wide, darting between Peter’s face and his unfinished plate like he’d just been told the kid robbed a bank.

Peter flushed, bagel frozen midair. A smear of avocado dripped slowly off the edge as he blinked.

Peter shifted in his seat. “Uhm. I lost my identity to a spell,” he muttered.

Steve blinked. “Come again?”

 “Multiversal villains.” He explained “ It was the only way to keep my friends safe. Now no one remembers me. I’m finishing my GED so I can apply to MIT.”

Tony didn’t speak. His mouth flattened into a tense line, fingers tightening around the coffee cup until it creaked faintly.

“I’m sorry that happened to you, Peter,” Steve said quietly, watching the kid. “That must’ve been a really hard decision.”

Peter gave a small shrug, trying to play it off. “Meh. I got used to it.”

They eased back into breakfast like slipping into warm water. The tension dissolved bit by bit with each sip of coffee and quiet clink of cutlery. Tony, always the strategist, launched into a half-serious monologue on potential fields Peter should pursue—electrical engineering, applied physics, maybe even bioethics.

Peter listened, amused, as Tony passionately argued for “smart nanotech” being the next frontier, waving a fork like a professor mid-lecture. Steve added in quieter suggestions—urban design, environmental systems, “anything that doesn’t blow up.”

Between bites, they began comparing their plates like tourists at a buffet. Steve poked fun at Tony’s overstuffed croissant, while Peter defended his syrup-drenched pancakes like sacred ground. At one point, Steve quietly sculpted a blueberry and cheese stick man on the rim of his plate, arms akimbo and blueberry helmet slightly askew.

Peter nearly choked laughing. Even Tony cracked a crooked grin. 

The morning sun spilled golden across the ocean, its light bouncing gently off the waves and casting soft reflections onto the terrace tiles. A breeze carried the salty scent of the shore, brushing over their skin with just enough coolness to balance the heat.

Steve sat back in his chair, coffee in hand, watching Tony lean over to refill Peter’s juice, the boy mid-rant about syrup ratios. For a second—just one second—Steve let himself believe it. That they were just three people on holiday. A makeshift family, lazy and full-bellied, basking in a morning without danger. No multiversal threats, no vanishing daughters, no impossible odds. Just sunshine, flaky croissants, and the quiet sound of waves below.

When the last bite of scrambled eggs had vanished and only Peter’s towering milkshake—thick with syrup and piled with whipped cream—remained between them, a hush settled over the table. The kind that didn’t belong in warm mornings or rooftop breakfasts. 

Steve caught Peter’s gaze across the table, just a flick of the eyes. It was enough. 

This was it. There was no safer moment. No softer place. They had to tell him.

“There’s something we need to talk about,” Steve said, his voice cutting through the morning like the first crack of thunder in a clear sky.

Tony’s hand paused halfway to his coffee. The ease drained from his face as his eyes flicked to Peter, who had frozen mid-sip.

He set the cup down slowly. “Okay…” he said, tone cautious now. “What is it?”

“Yesterday we met with Doctor Strange,” Steve said, the words landing with quiet weight. “He contacted us via astral projection.”

Tony frowned, shoulders tensing slightly as he leaned back in his chair. “What did he say?” His voice was steady, but Steve could see the sharp edge behind his eyes—ready, bracing.

Peter sat up a little straighter, brushing a few stubborn crumbs from the edge of his plate with the back of his hand.

“There’s four more rifts we need to close,” he said, voice calm but firm. “He gave us the locations.”

Tony watched him quietly, his expression unreadable. He didn’t blink, didn’t move—just stared, drinking in every word like it was being etched into him.

“They’re multiversal tears,” Peter explained, his voice steady despite the weight of the words. “If we don’t close them and they become portals, we’ll have an incursion here.”

He paused, glancing briefly at Steve, then back to Tony.

“If enough incursions happen… the whole multiverse could unravel.”

Tony fixed his eyes on Peter, sharp and unwavering. To his credit, the kid didn’t look away. His posture straightened, chin lifting a notch as he met the weight of Tony’s stare head-on.

“And?” Tony asked, voice clipped.

“They’re made by the same entity,” Peter said, quieter now, but steady. He didn’t blink. 

“The one who took Morgan,” Steve added, his voice low and grave, unable to keep it in any longer. 

Tony’s head whipped around so fast the chair creaked.

“What?!” he gasped, voice cracking with disbelief. “You know who took her? You know she’s taken?”

His eyes locked onto Steve’s, wide with something between fury and hope, hands curling into fists against the table.

Steve nodded slowly. “Yes,” he said, his voice low. “We don’t know if the tears are even deliberate. But we know her energy signature is linked to them.”

He didn’t look away, even as Tony’s expression shifted—confusion crashing into disbelief, then hardening into something colder, sharper.

“What else?” Tony asked.

Steve swallowed hard, throat tight. His pulse thudded in his ears.

This was it.

The moment he’d been dreading since they left the other universe. 

He kept his eyes steady, even as a part of him begged to look away.

“We have to close the portals. We can’t pass through or an incursion will start.” Steve’s voice was low, but steady—each word chosen like it might break something. He paused, took a breath that barely reached his lungs. “She’s behind one of them. We don’t know which.”

The air seemed to flatten.

Peter didn’t move, barely even blinked. He was watching Tony like the moment might shatter.

Steve kept his eyes on Tony, unwavering, though his grip on the edge of the table tightened.

Tony’s jaw flexed. His mouth opened, deliberate. His voice came out cold, scraped clean of anything but control.

“So you’re telling me my baby girl’s been kidnapped by some lunatic… and you know exactly where she could be?”

Peter jumped in, fast, like he could soften the blow. “We don’t know which portal it even is—”

“So it’s a 25% shot in the dark,” Tony cut him off, sharp as glass. “And if the wrong one closes first? If we seal the way through—what then? How the hell do I get to her?”

The silence that followed was immediate. Peter's mouth clamped shut. His leg jittered restlessly beneath the table, foot tapping out an anxious rhythm on the tile floor.

“We don’t know,” Steve said, and the words felt like they cracked something open in the air between them. He braced himself, spine rigid, hands curled tight on his thighs.

Tony stood so fast the chair scraped back with a sharp screech. He turned his back to them and walked toward the edge of the terrace, shoulders drawn tight. His hand lifted to his chin, fingers dragging over stubble in a restless, scraping motion—like he could grind the ache out of himself if he just kept moving. 

Peter glanced at Steve, eyebrows lifting in a silent nudge. His chin tilted subtly in Tony’s direction—go.

Steve nodded once and pushed himself up, the chair creaking faintly behind him. He followed Tony across the terrace, the morning sun casting long shadows at their feet. The stone tiles were warm beneath his steps, but a chill curled at the back of his neck. He approached quietly, stopping just a breath away from Tony’s tense frame as they stood at the cliff’s edge, the sea wind tousling both their hair.

The ocean was unusually calm, its surface gently rippling like brushed silk under the morning sun. Light shimmered across the waves in flickering ribbons, casting a quiet, golden glow that seemed to hum with stillness. Behind them, the mountains framed the scene in jagged serenity, their silhouettes soft against the clear sky.

Tony stood motionless, hands gripping the stone railing, his shoulders rigid. The sunlight caught the edge of his cheekbone, outlining his face in warmth.

“Tony, the dangers of crossing the portal are immense. The whole multiverse could collapse,” Steve said, his voice low, careful, like a hand reaching out in the dark. The words tasted bitter—like failure or betrayal—but he forced them out.

He hated saying it. Hated being the one to place another weight on Tony’s already broken shoulders. But he couldn’t let anyone else do it. Not Peter. Not Strange. Not anyone.

“We have to close them,” he continued, stepping a little closer. “You have to promise me you won’t try to cross.”

His voice barely carried over the wind.

He didn’t dare touch him. Tony’s, fingers pale with tension, tendons standing sharp beneath the skin. The ocean wind ruffled the edge of his shirt and caught in his hair. His entire body was locked in place, like if he moved, he might break.

Steve watched the slight tremor in his arms, the way his shoulders rose and fell just slightly off rhythm. When Tony finally turned, it was slow—measured—not out of calm, but restraint.

His eyes were glassy. The faint shimmer of unshed tears clung to his lashes, catching in the sun like saltwater. His jaw was tight, lips drawn into something that was almost neutral—if not for the aching crack in his voice.

“Are you asking me to abandon my daughter, Cap?” he said, barely louder than a breath.

Steve felt it like a punch to the ribs. He wasn’t prepared for it. Not for this.

There was no fury—no shouting, no broken glass, no accusations hurled with shaking fists.

There was no angry spiral, no impulsive storm of blame or desperation.

Instead there was just quiet grief. Just the unbearable weight of it in Tony’s eyes.

Immense sadness, steady and shattering.

“No, Tony, of course not,” Steve said, the words falling out in a hoarse rush. His voice cracked under the weight of them, his throat tight with the force of what he was seeing—Tony, standing there with the ocean behind him, eyes shining with unshed tears and hands trembling on the railing.

“We’ll find a way,” he swore, stepping closer, softer. “I swear we will.”

Peter stood up slowly, as if any sudden movement might shatter the fragile moment between them. He approached with measured steps, voice quiet but sure.

“If she’s in another universe, and we can trace her energy signature,” he said, eyes flicking between the two men, “we can hop over without causing a tear. There has to be a way. There always is.”

Tony looked at the kid—so earnest, so sure—and something in his expression cracked. His eyes shimmered, but the tear didn’t fall. He swiped it away with the heel of his hand, almost impatiently, like swatting a fly. Then he forced a crooked, wavering smile.

“Turn around, Peter,” he said, voice frayed at the edges. “You can’t see your old man like this.”

Steve couldn’t hold it in any longer. His chest ached with the weight of it—of watching Tony stand there, shattered and silent. So he stepped forward without thinking, his arms sweeping around Tony’s frame in one swift, sure motion.

Tony didn’t resist. He folded into the embrace like it had been waiting for him all along. His forehead dropped against Steve’s shoulder, breath stuttering out as if just now remembering how to exhale. His fingers found the back of Steve’s shirt and clutched, trembling, as they knotted into the fabric.

Steve held him tighter, one hand splayed protectively between Tony’s shoulder blades, the other curled around his waist. He could feel the tension in Tony’s muscles, the ragged edges of his exhaustion, his grief, his helpless fury—Steve took it all, anchoring them both against the morning light.

Peter didn’t hesitate. Ignoring Tony’s weak protest, he stepped in and wrapped his arms around both of them, squeezing with a force that belied his size.

Tony let out a soft, surprised laugh, the kind that cracked under the weight of emotion. Still cradled in Steve’s hold, he reached out with one hand and managed to ruffle Peter’s hair, fingers combing through the messy curls with affection.

Steve tightened his grip around them both, pulling them closer, grounding himself in their warmth. He felt it then— his own tears, sliding free, cutting a path down his cheek as he buried his face in Tony’s shoulder.

“Okay, okay, that’s enough,” Tony mumbled into Steve’s chest, his voice frayed around the edges. “You’re gonna give me diabetes.”

They eased apart slowly, like coming up for air. Peter stepped back first, sheepish but grinning. Tony lingered a second longer before finally letting go, swiping discreetly at his eyes. A crooked smile tugged at his mouth, tentative but real.

Steve watched him with a full heart, his chest tight with something too big to name. There was still so much pain, so much unresolved—but Tony stood tall under it. He didn’t fall apart. He didn’t lash out. He bore it with the same battered, stubborn grace Steve had come to love more than anything.

“So the world is fucked,” Tony muttered as they returned to the table, his voice dry. He dropped heavily into his seat, picking up a breadstick and snapping it clean in two. “And to save it, I need to close the only doorway we know of to my daughter.”

The crack of the bread echoed a little too sharply. He stared at the pieces in his hands for a beat, then sighed. “Well, at least we know where she is now. Or… where she could be.”

Peter nodded quickly, glancing at Steve, visibly relieved that Tony wasn’t tearing into them. “Yeah. And we have a game plan,” he offered. “We need to contact this world’s Strange—he’s expecting us in Bogotá. He’ll help us seal it.”

Then, more tentative, eyes flicking toward Tony, voice softening: “And he’ll also know how we can jump to wherever Morgan is.”

Tony let out a long breath through his nose, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly. He bit into the now-soft breadstick, chewing slowly, thoughtfully.

“Well,” he said at last, voice dry but not unkind, “we’ve had worse plans.”

So the mission began.

Getting to Bogotá as international fugitives was, on paper, an impossible task. The kind that would send lesser people into hiding. 

Luckily for them, there were few things in this world that money couldn’t buy—and none of those stood between them and a commercial flight.

For the first time in months, they had all the money in the world at their disposal.

They decided to spend the first day scouting the city for resources, gear, and clothes—keeping a low profile while quietly preparing for the mission ahead.

Peter, with the unshakable confidence of someone who'd done far too much for his age, promised he knew where to get fake IDs.

“I’ve done it before, Mr. Stark. Lost my identity, remember?” he said with a crooked grin that didn’t quite hide the weight behind the words.

Steve and Tony stuck together, weaving through narrow streets and busy markets. The air was thick with humidity and the scent of grilled meat, car exhaust, and sea salt. 

Steve picked up plain t-shirts, jeans, jackets, and a few backpacks. Tony, meanwhile, focused on the tech—scanning for electronic shops and kiosks where he could get components he could modify later. 

Their hands stayed busy, but their minds were somewhere else. The silence between them was mostly comfortable. Mostly.

“We’re now backpacking through South America,” Steve explained, setting down his shopping bags with a half-smile.

They were lounging by the pool under a canvas umbrella, the air thick with the scent of chlorine and citrus from Tony’s drink. The afternoon sun glinted off the tiled water, casting moving shadows on their legs. 

Tony leaned back in his lounger, sunglasses low on his nose, swirling the ice in his cocktail with lazy circles. Peter sat cross-legged beside him, sipping from a brightly colored drink with far too much garnish.

“A happy family of three, showing our teenage son the Global South as a reward for finishing high school,” Steve continued, his tone light but deliberate, like he was reading lines from a half-memorized script.

He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed loosely over his chest, eyes shaded beneath his lashes as he watched the kid sip his drink. 

“So you two are gonna keep pretending you’re married the whole mission?” Peter asked, amusement clear in the playful lift of his eyebrows, the slow grin that tugged at his mouth as he leaned back casually in his chair. “What should I call you guys? Dad and Papa?”

Tony shot him a pointed look, eyes narrowed behind his sunglasses. Without breaking eye contact, he stretched out his leg and nudged Peter firmly in the thigh with his foot, making the boy laugh and squirm sideways in his seat.

“Watch it, Junior,” Tony warned lightly, swirling the ice in his glass. He pointed at him with a stern finger. “Or there’s no Disneyland for you.”

Peter laughed louder, holding his drink aloft to avoid spilling it as he tried—and failed—to straighten up, shoulders shaking as he settled back into the chair.

Steve felt a gentle warmth spread through his chest at Peter’s teasing words, and he quickly pushed it down, looking away before Tony could notice the faint flush that crept up his neck. Married. To Tony Stark.

He shifted slightly in his chair, rubbing a thumb absent-mindedly along the edge of the table. There were worse cover ops, he supposed. Far worse.

Peter handed over the fake IDs, his grin wide and proud, eyes shining like he'd just scored the winning goal. Steve accepted them, surprised by their weight, the smooth feel of professionally pressed leather in his hands.

He flipped them open, carefully inspecting the documents inside. They were astonishingly realistic—Steve had seen enough fakes in his life to know good work when he saw it. His was an American passport, pages slightly worn at the edges, filled convincingly with stamps from across the globe. Tony’s was Canadian, equally detailed and meticulously weathered.

“Wow, Peter, these are great,” Steve said, genuinely impressed, as he thumbed through the passport, eyebrows raised appreciatively. “Really good job.”

Peter shrugged casually, taking a slow sip from his cocktail, his focus shifting more to the drink than the conversation. “It was easy,” he said, lips quirking into a half-smile. “I just paid a ridiculous amount of money. It’s almost like money really can buy anything.”

Tony’s brows knitted together as he flipped open the passport, reading the name printed inside. His expression twisted, mildly offended, as if the card had personally insulted him.

“Why am I named Rich Peterson?” he demanded, voice sharp with exaggerated annoyance. “That’s an idiotic name.”

Peter burst out laughing, nearly spilling his drink as he doubled forward, gripping the edge of the table to steady himself. “I just—think it’s a neat name,” he gasped out between breaths, waving a hand weakly in Steve’s direction. “Steve—check out yours.”

Steve glanced down at his card, brow furrowing slightly as he read it aloud. “Charles Adam Peterson.” He paused, realization dawning. He looked up sharply, raising an eyebrow at Peter. “C. A. P., really?”

Peter’s smile stretched into a mischievous grin, completely unapologetic. He spread his arms in a casual shrug. “Hey man, lame’s the name of the game.”

Tony rolled his eyes with a soft sigh, getting up to fetch another cocktail. As he made his way to the bar, Peter, sprawled out in his chair, called out playfully, “Hey, grab me another gin and tonic, will ya?”

Steve couldn’t help but smile to himself, his gaze lingering on the fake ID in his hand, his fingers tracing the name Charles Adam Peterson. It was absurd, a name so perfectly ordinary, yet it had this strange weight to it. 

For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine it—this simple life, this normal life. 

They opted for an early dinner, ordering steak and potatoes from a nearby restaurant that Tony insisted had good reviews. Afterwards, they retreated to their rooms. 

Tony spent the evening hunched over his laptop, fingers flying across the keyboard in rhythmic precision as he booked their flights online. With a practiced ease, he dipped into the airline's mainframe, gently rewriting a few key details—making sure, in the eyes of their systems at least, the Petersons had always existed.

Steve kept him company, quietly settled on the opposite side of the couch, notebook resting lightly against his knees. 

For the first time in what felt like a lifetime, he allowed himself to draw. He started slowly—careful pencil strokes tracing the outlines of the rooftop terrace, capturing the gentle curve of the pergola and the pots of bougainvillea. 

Occasionally he glanced up, taking in Tony’s furrowed brow, the soft blue glow of the laptop reflected in his eyes. The quiet scratch of his pencil blended gently with Tony’s rhythmic typing, a comforting, familiar duet in the soft lamplight.

After a moment of silence, Tony stretched out with a lazy groan, rubbing his hands over his face. "Okay, I’m done!" he exhaled, his voice light but worn. "I’m gonna take a shower, the sea salt is killing me."

Steve nodded, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he watched Tony stand and disappear into the bathroom. The sound of the water turning on echoed faintly through the door, and Steve returned to his notebook.

The way Tony had taken the news about Morgan had lifted something heavy off Steve’s chest. He hadn’t expected it to go that well—no shouting, no broken glass, no venom in his voice. Just grief, steady and quiet. 

It gave Steve a fragile kind of hope.

Maybe, just maybe, Tony could handle what he still had to say.

The water shut off with a final hiss, leaving the bathroom in thick, humid silence. A few seconds later, Tony’s voice drifted out, muffled through the steam and the door.

“Steve? Uhm, can you help me with something?”

The uncertainty in his tone wasn’t lost on Steve—it was quieter than usual, softer. Almost shy.

Steve stood so fast the chair scraped softly against the tile. He didn’t even realize he was smiling until the stretch of his cheeks made his face ache. In a few quick strides, he reached the bathroom door and knocked once before easing it open.

Tony flinched a little at the sudden entrance, towel in hand, caught mid-motion by the mirror. His brows lifted in surprise, a faint flush blooming on his cheeks from the heat.

He was standing in front of the mirror, steam still clinging to the glass and curling in lazy spirals along the ceiling. The room was warm, heady with the scent of soap and something faintly citrusy—Tony’s aftershave, familiar and sharp in Steve’s lungs.

Tony’s skin glistened under the amber light, damp from the shower, dotted with beads of water that slipped slowly down his chest and shoulder. His pajama pants hung low on his hips, clinging in places where the moisture hadn’t dried. The faint trail of dark hair below his navel led Steve’s eyes downward—past the fading scars, the patchwork of old wounds and new burns—to where the waistband dipped just enough to hint.

Steve froze in the doorway. His mouth went dry.

The damp strands of Tony’s hair clung to his forehead, curling at the edges. His skin looked soft where it wasn’t marked—real, touchable, vulnerable. His back rose and fell with quiet breath, muscles shifting beneath the surface with every movement. It was everything Steve had forced himself not to want, and everything he couldn’t stop wanting.

Steve’s breath caught, his heart thudding so loud he swore Tony could hear it. He clenched his jaw, forcing the ache into stillness.

“I—uhm. Need help with the bandages,” Tony muttered. His voice was low, almost sheepish. He lifted his hands, still wrapped in uneven strips of gauze, fingertips blotched with ointment. “Tried to do it myself. Didn’t go great.”

Steve stepped closer, nodding without hesitation. “Yeah. I got you.”

His voice came out softer than he intended. He reached for Tony’s hands gently, fingers brushing his wrists. 

“We need to do something else first.” Tony’s voice was halting, a little too casual to be real. His eyes flicked toward the mirror and then down to the floor, unable to hold Steve’s for more than a second.

Steve gave a quiet nod, his chest already tightening. “Alright.”

Tony opened his mouth as if to speak, then stopped. He scratched absently at his bare arm, fingers dragging over the skin like he needed to busy his hands. His gaze landed on the tile, fixed and unfocused.

“I need you to help me take out the arm.”

The words came soft. Tense. Like he hated having to say them at all. Shame curled around each syllable.

Something twisted in Steve’s chest. A pulse of worry. Of tenderness. He hated that Tony sounded embarrassed. Hated that he thought he had to ask.

“Yeah, I think that'll be best,” Steve said gently, stepping closer, careful not to crowd him.

Tony winced, eyes skittering away again. His jaw tensed like he was bracing for impact.

“Well—before we do it, you should know—and you can’t get mad!” he rushed out, holding up a hand preemptively. “I should’ve taken it out days ago. So the gears are a little… stuck.”

Steve blinked. His stomach dropped.

“Tony—” The word came out half a reprimand, half a gasp. Horror flashed in his eyes as he took another step forward, already scanning the metal joint. “Are you kidding me?”

Tony shrugged, lips pressed together in a thin line. “I just… don’t like being without it.”

Steve exhaled hard through his nose and stepped in, fingers curling around the metal wrist. He lifted the arm with deliberate care, turning it slightly. The plating was scorched in patches, still bearing the grime and ash from the last portal. 

A few segments near the elbow were misaligned, seams jagged. Some of the inner wiring peeked through—Tony had clearly rerouted power manually, just enough to keep it functional.

“I’ll deactivate the connection and you’ll have to pull,” Tony explained, fingers hovering over a panel near the upper seam of the prosthetic. His voice was steady, but the twitch in his jaw gave him away. “But, like—quickly. I might go into cardiac arrest if you don’t.”

“Tony!” Steve’s voice pitched up in disbelief, his eyes wide with panic.

“I know, I know,” Tony muttered, already pressing down on the first set of controls. A soft whirring clicked to life inside the shoulder. His skin around the socket flinched. “Okay, on three. One… two… three!”

Steve heard the soft click as the neural connectors disengaged. Without hesitation, he reached for the arm and gave it a firm, steady pull. There was resistance at first—just enough to make his chest tighten—but then the prosthetic gave way with a low mechanical hiss.

Tony tensed, a sharp breath slipping past his teeth, the sound too close to a whimper. Steve tried not to react, tried to keep his face neutral, but the sound stuck in his throat like a splinter. He cradled the arm instinctively as it came free, his hands careful even after it was over.

Once it was out, Steve lowered the prosthetic gently onto the counter, his eyes catching on the bare shoulder now exposed under the soft bathroom light. 

The socket was raw and uneven—a jarring blend of grafted scar tissue and cold titanium. The old trauma etched into Tony’s skin had been joined by the fresh, angry burns that climbed from his neck and collarbone in jagged streaks. The edge where flesh et metal looked inflamed, taut.

Tony let out a dry breath, his voice trying for levity. “Yeah, it’s not the prettiest sight, I know,” he said, eyes avoiding Steve’s. “You should’ve seen it before the reconstruction surgery.”

Steve swallowed, the memory scraping through his chest like broken glass.

“I have,” he said quietly, eyes locked on the angry edge of the socket.

The image was still there—burned into the back of his mind. Tony collapsing in the ruins, his suit smoking, body limp. The way the world had gone silent in that instant. The way Steve’s knees had almost buckled under the weight of that moment.

Tony hummed, a low, almost dismissive sound. “Right.”

He shifted, angling himself toward the mirror, his back bare and vulnerable. The skin was still angry in places, the burn peeling slightly at the edges, but the worst of the swelling had gone down. The damage traced from just under his neck, winding down to the edge of where the prosthetic had been, the rawness hugging the jagged metal plate that anchored the socket.

Steve stepped in behind him, just close enough for the heat from Tony’s skin to seep into his chest. He squeezed a dollop of the burn cream onto his fingers and reached out, careful not to startle him.

His hand found Tony’s uninjured shoulder first—steadying, grounding—before the other brushed softly along the damaged skin.

Tony inhaled slowly through his nose, but didn’t flinch.

Steve’s fingers moved with painstaking gentleness, spreading the cream in slow, even circles. Each pass was light, deliberate. His thumb drifted along the edge of a healing scab, and he felt the way 

Tony’s muscles twitched under the touch. Not in pain. Just... responsive.

“You’re doing okay?” Steve asked, voice low, almost hoarse.

Tony nodded, eyes fixed forward in the fogged-up mirror. “Yeah. It’s... better than yesterday.”

Steve’s hand lingered a second longer than necessary, the pads of his fingers ghosting down Tony’s spine before pulling away. 

“Done,” Steve whispered, his voice barely above breath as he smoothed the edge of the gauze down with one last tender pass. His hand hovered there for a moment too long before finally falling to his side.

Tony turned around slowly, his bare chest brushing against the back of Steve’s knuckles as he shifted. The movement was soft, unhurried—like neither of them really wanted to break the quiet that had settled between them. When their eyes met, Steve didn’t step back.

The space between them was hardly a breath. The warm lights above the mirror cast a honeyed glow across Tony’s damp skin, catching the sheen of moisture still clinging to his collarbone, the shine in his eye

“Thank you,” Tony murmured, his voice low, hushed like a secret. His gaze didn’t waver, fixed intently on Steve’s face.

Steve’s jaw clenched, the muscle ticking as he fought to keep his breath steady. The scent of Tony’s soap curled in the air. It wrapped around him like a noose. 

The warmth radiating off Tony’s body was almost unbearable at this distance, chasing the cooler air that clung to Steve’s arms.

His eyes flicked downward for a heartbeat, to the long line of his neck, the faint rise of his chest as he breathed. There was still a drop of water clinging to the hollow of his throat, catching the bathroom light like a pinprick of fire.

The tension coiled in Steve’s stomach, sharp and hot. His fingers itched with the want—God, the need—to close the last inches between them.

Tony wasn’t stepping away. He wasn’t looking away. He was just there—steady, sure, waiting.

“Steve?” Tony whispered, his voice barely above breath—low, careful, but firm.

His eyes locked on Steve’s with quiet intensity, and Steve felt the pull of it deep in his chest. It made him shiver.

He let out a soft hum in response, but his gaze had already dropped. Tony’s lips were close, too close, and Steve couldn’t stop looking at them—still slightly parted, still damp from the shower.

Then Tony leaned in. The tip of his nose brushed lightly against the shell of Steve’s ear, and Steve’s eyes fluttered shut. His breath caught. He gripped the edge of the counter beside him to stay grounded, to not lean into it too much.

“What aren’t you telling me?” Tony murmured, his voice so close it almost vibrated against Steve’s skin.

Steve froze, muscles going rigid where he stood. His heart pounded in his chest—fast, uneven, impossible to ignore. He blinked, eyes darting down, then back up to Tony’s face.

“What do you mean?” he asked, voice strained and unsteady. The stutter at the end betrayed him more than anything else.

Tony let out a soft, breathy laugh against the side of Steve’s throat, the sound low and knowing. He pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, fingers curling gently around the nape of Steve’s neck, thumbs brushing along the edge of his jaw.

“God, you're a terrible liar, you know that?” he murmured, voice warm and maddeningly fond. His gaze didn’t waver.

Steve swallowed hard, throat bobbing under Tony’s touch. His pulse was too loud in his ears. The air between them felt charged, too still.

“I—I'm not lying,” he muttered, the protest thin, barely there. 

Tony let the silence stretch for a second, thumb trailing just under Steve’s jaw, warm and sure. His touch was light, but the look in his eyes wasn’t. It held Steve there, pinned in place more effectively than any command ever could.

“Steve, yesterday you told me we needed to talk about something,” he murmured, voice calm but not soft. “We talked. You told me about the portals.”

His thumb traced the edge of Steve’s chin, steady.

“Yet you still won’t kiss me.”

Steve’s breath caught. His gaze dropped to Tony’s mouth, lips parted just slightly. 

Tony reached for his hand with quiet confidence, fingers wrapping around Steve’s with the ease of someone who’d done it before—and wanted to do it again. He lifted it slowly, deliberately, to his mouth and pressed a soft kiss to the bruised line of Steve’s knuckles. The contact was brief, but it landed like an anchor.

“So tell me, honey,” he whispered, the words barely brushing the air between them. His eyes searched Steve’s face—open, patient, impossibly kind. “You don’t have to be afraid. I trust you.”

Steve’s lips parted, but no sound followed at first—just the quiet tremble of his breath. His chest felt too tight, like his ribs were closing in around something raw and vulnerable.

“You won’t look at me the same after,” he finally said, barely above a whisper. 

His eyes darted to the floor, then back to Tony’s face.

“You— you’ll hate me.” The words stumbled out, cracked at the edges, too heavy to carry but too true to hold in.

Tony shook his head slowly, not letting go. His fingers wrapped around Steve’s hand with quiet insistence, guiding it down until his palm rested flat against the center of his chest.

Beneath the soft cotton of his shirt, the arc reactor pressed firm and steady. A quiet hum radiated against Steve’s skin, low and constant, almost like the rhythm of a heartbeat—calm, unshaken.

Tony didn’t drop his gaze. His thumb moved gently over Steve’s knuckles, back and forth, grounding both of them.

“That’s impossible,” he said, voice low but steady. He took a breath, exhaled through his nose, and stepped a little closer. Their foreheads nearly touched.

“I trust you wholeheartedly. I do. I mean, after today… Steve, no one believed in me like you did.” His free hand lifted, brushing a stray strand of damp hair from Steve’s forehead. His fingers lingered at the hairline, warm and trembling slightly. “I'm not stupid. I know what you told me was beyond risky. Hell, I don't know if I would've told me that.”

His lips twitched, not quite a smile, but something close. “I'm impulsive, I'm reckless, I'm an arrogant jerk. But you…” he hesitated, pressing Steve’s hand a little tighter against his chest, “you trusted me with this. With her. With something awful, dangerous, tempting.”

Tony's voice dropped. “I don't know why, but you did. You looked at me and thought, ‘he can handle this.’ It has to mean you see me as a better man than I see myself.”

Steve never wanted to kiss someone so badly.

His grip on Tony’s hand tightened, anchoring himself in the warmth of it, while his other hand lifted to cradle Tony’s face—his thumb grazing the stubble along his jaw, the pad of his fingers fitting gently against his temple like they belonged there.

“Of course,” he said, voice raw and steady. His forehead came to rest against Tony’s, noses brushing faintly, breaths mingling. He let his eyes close for a moment, grounding himself in the quiet between them.

“Of course, Tony,” he repeated, softer now. “You're Earth’s best defender. You’re the greatest man I’ve ever met.” His thumb moved once more across Tony’s cheekbone, slow and deliberate, reverent in its tenderness.

Tony smiled—soft, unguarded, the kind of smile that made something settle in Steve’s chest.

“So tell me,” he whispered, barely brushing against Steve’s mouth. “I promise you. There’s nothing you can say that will change my mind. Whatever this is, we’ll go through it together.”

Steve swallowed hard. He could feel Tony’s breath on his skin, could see every flicker of emotion behind those eyes. He tried to steady himself—forced his lungs to pull in air, forced the tremble from his lips. His hand was still on Tony’s cheek, thumb resting just beneath his eye.

“Besides…” Tony went on, his voice a shade tighter now, like something was pressing against the back of his throat. “I have something to tell you myself. And I'm betting it's worse.”

Steve let out a quiet, breathless laugh, equal parts nerves and affection. His thumb brushed once more along Tony’s cheek before dropping to his shoulder.

He took a deep breath—then another—and let himself follow. 

They settled onto the couch, shoulders brushing, the quiet hum of the city lights stretching endlessly beyond the terrace windows. Below them, the world pulsed in neon and headlights, but up here, it was just them. 

Steve spoke first—haltingly at first, then in slow, steady waves.

He told him everything.

About the time stop. About the other Steve. About the way the man had stood at the console, surrounded by shades—controlling them, commanding them like it was second nature. About how the light had caught his face, and something in him had gone cold. About the words he’d whispered to someone unseen, just beyond the frame. How Steve had felt the weight of it coil in his chest like guilt, like inevitability.

Tony didn’t interrupt. He listened, nodding, jaw tight. He asked precise, methodical questions. Jotted notes onto a hotel notepad with the stylus from his tablet. Mumbled possible theories under his breath. He didn’t once cast blame.

They kept talking—about what Tony had seen across the multiverse: the iron monster, the collapsing cities, the rips in reality that felt like knives. Steve had to clench his fists not to react, but Tony’s voice was steady. Honest. Focused.

And when the worst was out, the rest came easier. They talked. Really talked. About what went unsaid for years—old battles, old choices, old betrayals seen from new angles. They took turns revisiting them, not as enemies or teammates, but as people—raw, tired, too honest to hide anymore.

They talked about Sokovia. Whispered confessions in the hush of the dark, the yellow lamplight throwing soft shadows on their faces. Steve's voice cracked once. Tony reached out instinctively, grounding him.

Later, they laughed. Not loudly, not in bursts—soft, fond chuckles about the chaos of past missions, Nat’s dry wit, Sam’s music, Clint’s disaster pancakes. They sat closer as the hours slipped by. At some point, Tony’s head fell lightly against Steve’s shoulder. At another, Steve’s hand found the back of Tony’s neck and stayed there.

By the time the sun rose, low and golden across the skyline, they were half-asleep, curled into each other on the couch—quiet, peaceful, and finally, finally unburdened.

Chapter 17: Bogotá

STEVE

 

Steve felt the scrape of Tony's stubble against his cheek—coarse, familiar, grounding. The faint scent of hotel soap clung to Tony’s skin, still warm from sleep. His breath was steady, soft puffs brushing against Steve’s collarbone. One of Tony’s hands had slipped over Steve’s thigh during the night, fingers relaxed, his palm heavy in that easy, unconscious way that said: I trust you.

Steve smiled to himself, barely shifting as he sank deeper into the couch cushions. The room was dim with morning haze, the drawn curtains letting in just a sliver of golden light that glinted across the floor. Somewhere outside, a gull cried and traffic hummed, distant and slow—Tijuana just beginning to stir. Inside, the world felt suspended, quiet, held.

He let his eyes drift shut, lulled by the steady rhythm of Tony’s breathing and the distant hush of the city waking outside.

A sharp knock split the quiet, jarring in the stillness.

“Guys?” came Peter’s voice, muffled but insistent through the door. “Are you up? I wanna eat breakfast! Oh—and the flight leaves in four hours”

Steve startled upright, nearly knocking Tony’s arm away in the motion. The sudden rush of movement stirred the blanket pooled around them, and Tony blinked awake with a grunt, hand sliding down Steve’s thigh as he sat up.

Steve stood, heart racing.

“Shit. We fell asleep,” he muttered, already fumbling for his boots, fingers clumsy with urgency.

Tony groaned from the couch, dragging a hand through his messy hair. He was still shirtless, blanket tangled at his waist.

“Relax,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep. “He said we had like… four hours.”

Steve rolled his eyes, snatching Tony’s shirt from the back of a chair and tossing it at him with effortless precision. He moved fast, scooping up scattered clothes and chargers, stuffing them into his oversized backpack.

“That’s not how commercial airlines work, Tony,” he snapped, zipping up a side pocket with too much force. “You’re supposed to be at the airport five hours early for international flights!”

He turned toward the door. “We’re going, Pete!” he called, pacing around the suite.

Tony shrugged, dragging the shirt over his head with deliberate ease, like they had all the time in the world. He disappeared into the bathroom and returned a moment later, prosthetic in hand. 

The hiss of contact as he locked it into place made Steve glance up—Tony winced but said nothing.

Meanwhile, Steve zipped the last compartment of his backpack shut. The thing was crammed, but Tony’s upgrades from the night before had done their job. No scanner would pick up the arsenal tucked inside—disguised tech, cloaked weapons, and encrypted devices all masked behind a seamless signature. 

A miracle of engineering. And paranoia.

Steve handed Tony the waist bag, its weight familiar now with forged documents and backup IDs tucked neatly inside. Without waiting, he moved to the door, fingers curling around the handle.

Then—suddenly—another hand landed over his. Firm. Warm.

Steve blinked, startled, already turning to ask—but he never got the chance.

Tony kissed him.

No warning. No build-up. Just a sudden, breathless pull. His palm slid up the back of Steve’s neck, fingers burying themselves in the short hair at his nape. He yanked him close with a quiet, ragged sound in his throat—and then their mouths met, all heat and urgency.

It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t gentle. It was a collision. Tony kissed him like he’d run out of patience, like he’d waited too long, like he couldn’t wait another second.

The kiss was all heat and history, all the tension that had been simmering between them from the moment they reunited. Tony kissed like a man reclaiming something that had always been his, and he was making sure Steve knew it too.

Steve went from frozen to burning in an instant.

His body lit up like a wire finally connected—every nerve flaring to life, every breath caught and trapped beneath Tony’s mouth. He gasped, but it didn’t make it past the press of lips and teeth and want.

His hands gripped Tony’s waist without thinking, grounding himself in the reality of it—of him. Of the taste and heat and closeness. The world behind his eyelids pulsed with light. Not white or yellow or anything real. Just the overwhelming sense of finally.

Tony pulled back with a soft, deliberate break of contact, breath still warm against Steve’s lips. The kiss left a quiet sound in the air—a damp, final click that echoed louder than it should have.

Steve stood dazed, breath ragged, lips parted. His chest rose and fell in sharp bursts, like he'd just surfaced from deep underwater.

Tony’s tongue flicked across his bottom lip as he smirked, cocking his head. 

“You owed me,” he said, voice low, satisfied.

Steve couldn’t speak. Could barely nod.

He blinked, lips still parted, breath still shallow. He hadn’t moved an inch when Tony swung the door open.

“Let’s go, Junior,” Tony said breezily, brushing past Peter with a casual ruffle to his hair. “You can grab breakfast at the airport. Papa here is in a rush.”

Peter paused in the doorway, eyebrows scrunching slightly as he glanced between them. His eyes narrowed, clearly picking up on something—maybe the flushed faces, the awkward spacing, the very obvious silence.

Steve straightened instinctively, cheeks hot. He adjusted the backpack on his shoulder, shifting it forward just enough to shield the sudden tension in his pants. Peter's eyes flicked to the motion, and Steve could’ve sworn the kid’s frown deepened just a fraction.

“Right,” Peter muttered, stepping back to let them through. “Airport.”

The van ride to the airport was quiet—Tony behind the wheel, sunglasses on despite the overcast, Peter half-asleep in the back, and Steve sitting shotgun, fingers drumming nervously against his thigh. The city blurred past in warm, saturated colors. As they neared the terminal, tension settled low in Steve’s stomach.

Tijuana’s international airport sat just shy of the U.S. border, its sleek glass facade a stark contrast to the chaos it held inside. 

Ever since the President’s very public declaration to apprehend Iron Man, security had ballooned to extremes.

The American side of the border had turned into a surveillance maze, with new protocols and invasive checks—conveniently justified under the hunt for Tony Stark. Immigration controls, already strict, had grown doubly aggressive, particularly toward those trying to cross in. 

The United States had all but sealed its gates. Luckily, they weren’t planning to go anywhere near it.

Arriving an hour late—Steve late—meant chaos.

They hustled through each checkpoint, Steve mumbling apologies in a very broken Spanish while Tony breezed through like he owned the airport. Only the bag with clothes and first aid supplies got checked in; the backpack full of disguised tech stayed glued to Steve’s shoulders, masked by Tony’s clever rerouting of every sensor they passed.

By the time they reached the boarding gate, flushed and breathless, the final call hadn’t come yet. Tony stretched his arms overhead, shirt riding up slightly, and grinned like they had hours to spare.

“See, honey? You were anxious for nothing. We’re here with time to spare,” Tony said, the term of endearment tossed out with a smirk and a twinkle in his eye. He leaned into Steve’s shoulder as he added, “Peter can also get us coffee while we wait.”

Steve rolled his eyes, shifting the weight of his backpack. “Yeah, because I’m such a good plane taker,” he muttered under his breath, sarcasm lacing every word. “I know how to take planes. If it were up to you, we’d still be in our towels.”

“Oh, I saw these amazing pink bread rolls at the entrance,” Peter chirped, practically bouncing on his heels. “I wonder if they can put cream on them…”

Before either of them could answer, he was already off, swept away by the scent of sugar and his own enthusiasm.

“Double black!” Tony called after him. “And don’t forget the—”

“Cinnamon,” Steve finished without hesitation.

Tony shot him a sideways glance, briefly caught off guard. “I’m—yeah. That.”

Peter disappeared into the crowd, and Steve exhaled, shoulders relaxing slightly as he watched the kid vanish into the terminal’s flow of travelers.

“He seems like a very nice young man,” offered a woman standing in the adjacent boarding line, her smile kind and easy. “You two are doing a very good job raising him.”

Steve’s head snapped toward her, caught entirely off guard. His cheeks flushed almost instantly, the heat creeping up his neck.

Tony, on the other hand, didn’t miss a beat. With a smug grin, he reached out and hooked his arm through Steve’s, pulling them close with casual familiarity. His fingers rested lightly on Steve’s bicep, thumb brushing once in a slow, absent motion.

“Thank you! I try telling him that, but he doesn’t listen,” Tony replied in an exaggerated, high-pitched voice, tossing a mock-annoyed glance at Steve. “He won’t even let the kid play sports!”

Steve blinked, then caught up quickly, the corners of his mouth twitching. He straightened, crossing his arms with performative sternness. “Well, he has to keep his grades up,” he said, deadpan. “We can’t afford another high school dropout like your brother.”

Tony gasped like he’d been mortally wounded, clutching at his chest with dramatic flair.

“You know Jimmy finished high school eventually!” he scoffed

Steve leaned a little toward the woman, lowering his voice into a mock-conspiratorial whisper. “Yeah. After his dad bribed the headmaster.”

The lady burst into laughter, covering her mouth with one hand as her shoulders shook.

“This one’s the same,” she said, pointing a thumb at her husband. “Bad family, the whole lot.”

The man looked up from his boarding pass with a long-suffering sigh. “Claudia, stop telling strangers that. They’ll think it’s true.”

She giggled, waving a hand as if brushing off the concern. “Oh, they’re not strangers. They’re my good friends…?”

“The Petersons,” Tony cut in smoothly, reaching out to shake her hand. “Rich and Charles.”

Claudia’s face lit up. She grasped his hand warmly. “Well, it’s lovely to meet you, Mr. Peterson,” she said, stepping back with a smile. “I’ll leave you two alone now—I just had to say what a cute family you make.”

“Thank you,” Steve said with a polite smile, giving the woman a small nod.

She gathered her bags with a satisfied hum, her husband trailing behind with a half-hearted wave. They melted into the crowd, disappearing into the steady hum of the boarding area.

When Steve turned back around, Tony was already watching him—arms crossed, eyebrow raised, a smug grin spreading across his face.

“We make a cute people, some say,” Steve murmured, voice low with amusement as he stepped in close. His fingers found the edges of Tony’s open shirt and tugged gently at the lapels, pulling him nearer. “Must be my charm.”

Tony’s smile curled slowly. He leaned in until the tip of his nose brushed Steve’s, breath warm between them. “Of course. They must think I’m loaded,” he murmured, eyes dragging deliberately over Steve’s mouth, “to pull someone this far out of my league.”

Steve chuckled, low and quiet, the sound barely carrying above the airport noise. He closed the distance, letting their foreheads touch, breath mingling between them. “Well,” he said, voice a shade deeper, “you are loaded.”

Tony let out a soft huff, the corner of his mouth twitching into a crooked smile. His gaze dipped, lingering openly on Steve’s lips. “See?” he murmured, voice low and teasing. “All gold diggers, you hot people.”

The airport buzzed with noise—rolling suitcases, last-minute announcements, the clatter of footsteps on polished floors. Families clustered near gates, travelers rushed past in waves, jostling for space and order in the early morning rush.

In the middle of it all, Steve and Tony stood untouched. Just two more bodies in the stream, unnoticed. The anonymity wrapped around them like a brief sanctuary—shielding them in the blur of movement and sound. 

Here, no one was looking. Here, they were just two men standing too close, breathing in the same quiet air beneath the noise.

In that anonymity, Steve realized he could do whatever he wanted.

No shields. No reporters. No battlefield watching.

So he did.

He kissed Tony slowly, letting the moment stretch. It was brief, almost tentative—just the press of lips and breath—but it carried weight. A promise, unspoken but clear.

Tony smiled, soft and sure, his gaze lingering on Steve like he couldn't look away.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered, thumb gliding over the dip of Steve’s waist. “Did I ever tell you that?”

His voice was low. This was just for them, tucked into the quiet space between heartbeats.

Steve shrugged, a hint of a grin tugging at his mouth. “Only that you wanted to punch me in my perfect teeth. Does that count?”

Tony clicked his tongue, amusement flickering in his eyes as he shook his head. “C’mere,” he murmured, fingers curling gently in the fabric of Steve’s shirt as he tugged him close.

The kiss was slow this time. Unhurried. His hands slid down to Steve’s waist, fingers spreading over the fabric, tugging him in until there was nothing between them but warmth.

Steve let out a soft, breathy laugh against Tony’s lips, leaning into him without hesitation, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he belonged there. 

For now—for this mission, for this fragile sliver of borrowed peace—he did.

“Uhm.”

Peter’s voice cut through the quiet, and both of them startled like kids caught sneaking out past curfew.

They broke apart instantly—too fast to be casual, too slow to pretend it hadn’t happened. Tony’s hand lingered at Steve’s waist for a second longer, his fingers brushing fabric before slipping away.

Peter stood a few feet away, balancing three coffee cups in one hand and a brown paper bag in the other. His eyes darted between them, wide and awkward.

Steve cleared his throat, already feeling the flush rise on his neck.

Tony, of course, didn’t flinch.

“Sorry, kid,” Tony said, shameless and breezy, smoothing down his shirt as if nothing had happened. “You know how your dad gets overseas.”

Peter blinked, then narrowed his eyes with the kind of long-suffering patience only teenagers mastered. He handed over the coffee and the bag of pastries like it was a peace offering.

“Right,” he muttered. “Whatever you say, lovebirds.”

The boarding line began to inch forward. The mood shifted—subtle but sharp. People jostled for position, rolling bags dragging behind them. A child cried somewhere in the background; an overhead voice called for final boarding at a nearby gate.

Steve’s shoulders tensed the closer they got to the clerk. The woman was young, composed, her posture firm behind the podium as she scanned each passenger’s passport with practiced scrutiny.

When it was Tony’s turn, he stepped forward casually, handing over his Canadian passport with a polite nod. Steve, just a step behind, kept his gaze steady—but he felt his chest tighten.

The woman’s eyes flicked from the passport to Tony. Her lips twitched, a breath caught in her throat. She blinked once, twice—then her eyes widened.

Steve’s heart climbed into his throat. His grip on the strap of his backpack tightened.

They’d been made.

“Mr. Peterson?” she asked, her accent thick with doubt.

Tony didn’t flinch. He tightened his mouth into a practiced line, spine straightening just slightly.

“Yes,” he said coolly. “Richard Peterson.”

His voice held no crack, no hesitation—only that clipped, firm edge he used when cornered. The name sounded foreign in his mouth, but he wore it like armor.

The woman’s eyes lingered a beat too long. Then, subtly, she glanced toward the security guards pacing down the far hallway—close enough to interfere, far enough not to hear.

Her jaw tensed. She lowered her gaze, slid the passport across the scanner with a clean beep, and held out the boarding pass with a nod that was almost imperceptible.

“We stand with you, sir,” the clerk whispered, barely audible over the airport din. “You saved us.”

Tony blinked, frozen in place. For a second, his fingers hovered over the counter, unmoving.

Steve didn’t give him the chance to falter. He gently but firmly grasped Tony’s arm, steering him away with quiet urgency. “Thank you, miss,” he said over his shoulder, voice warm but brisk.

Tony let himself be pulled along, eyes still lingering on the woman until they disappeared into the crowd.

They stumbled onto the plane, heads down, shoulders brushing as they moved fast past the stewards' polite greetings. The cool blast of recycled air met them like a wall as they crossed the threshold, the narrow aisle already humming with passengers settling into place.

Once they slid into their seats Steve let out a long, quiet breath. His shoulders dropped for the first time in hours. The tension didn’t vanish entirely, but it loosened enough to let his chest rise without tightness. 

They were in. They were safe.

“Shit,” Peter mumbled from his seat by the window, one hand gripping his armrest. “I really thought that was it.”

His voice was low, laced with tension. He didn’t look at them—just stared out the glass, the curve of the wing glinting under the morning sun.

Steve scrubbed a hand over his eyes, the weight of adrenaline still pressing behind them. 

His voice came out hoarse. “We were clocked. To—Rich,” he corrected mid-sentence, catching himself. “You’re gonna have to dye your hair. You’re too recognizable like this.”

He dropped his hand and looked over. Tony, half-slouched in his seat, gave a resigned sigh and tilted his head back.

“I did blonde once,” he muttered, tipping his head back against the headrest, eyes closing briefly. “Hated it.”

Once the takeoff jolted them into the sky with a soft rumble, the tension finally loosened from their shoulders. The world outside became distant, clouds and blue stretching beyond the windows like a painting.

Peter shoved his headphones on, scrolling through the in-flight entertainment until he landed on some pixelated, chaotic adventure film. "It's ironic," he explained through a yawn, offering Steve an earbud with a grin. Steve gave a polite smile and shook his head, resting his arms over his chest. Minecraft movies weren't his brand of escapism.

The hum of the engines filled the quiet between them. Halfway through the movie, Peter’s head tilted to the side, his breathing deepening, headphones slipping slightly as he drifted off.

And just like that, it was quiet again. Just the low cabin lights, the muffled conversations of strangers, and the steady rise and fall of Tony’s breathing beside him.

Steve reached across the narrow gap between their seats, his fingers curling around Tony’s metal hand. He leaned forward, pressing his lips to Tony’s shoulder. The fabric of the worn hoodie was soft, faintly smelling of laundry detergent.

Tony smiled, the corners of his mouth pulling up, small and tired. He shifted slightly in his seat, his breath brushing against Steve’s cheek when he spoke.

“You can sleep if you want,” Tony whispered, his voice low, carrying just enough to cut through the steady hum of the engines. “I’ll take first watch.”

Steve shook his head, the seat creaking faintly beneath his weight. He leaned back, keeping his gaze steady on Tony’s face. The low cabin lights caught the tired lines at the corner of Tony’s eyes, softening them.

“I want to stay awake,” Steve said, voice quiet but certain.

He let his thumb move slowly over Tony’s metal knuckles. The surface was cool and smooth under his skin, the faint hum of the servos barely audible beneath the steady drone of the engines.

“I don’t know if we’ll have another quiet moment like this.”

Tony arched an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth tilting with something caught between amusement and doubt.

“Like this?” he asked, voice low.

Steve gave a small shrug, his shoulders brushing against the seat. The answer was simple, but it sat heavy in his chest.

“Quiet. Peaceful,” he said, letting the words settle between them.

Tony’s expression shifted, the lines of his jaw tightening. Then he leaned in, his movements slow, deliberate. The worn fabric of his hoodie brushed against Steve’s brow as he pressed a kiss there—warm and steady despite the cool air in the cabin.

Steve closed his eyes, a quiet breath leaving his chest. 

“We’ll have many more moments like this,” Tony said, voice steady but quiet in the hum of the cabin.

He leaned in again, closer this time, and pressed a soft kiss beneath Steve’s eye. The skin there felt warm, and for a second, Steve forgot the cold of the metal between their hands.

“I promise you. When this is over, we’ll have all the time in the world.”

Steve let the words settle in his chest. He lowered his gaze, watching where their fingers remained laced together—his warm, calloused hand wrapped around the cool lines of Tony’s prosthetic.

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, quiet and tired.

“I hope you’re right,” he said softly. “Time’s not usually on my side.”

Tony sighed, the sound soft between them, almost lost beneath the steady hum of the engines.

“Yeah,” Tony said, his thumb brushing once more across the back of Steve’s hand. “Mine either. But we’ll figure it out. Together.”

Steve felt his throat tighten. He swallowed hard, the movement sharp in his chest, and gave a small nod.

“Yeah... together,” he echoed, voice low and a little rough.

The rest of the flight passed in silence, broken only by the low thrum of the engines and the occasional shift of the air vents overhead.

Steve stayed still, letting the quiet settle over them like a thin blanket. Tony’s hand remained in his, the cool weight of the prosthetic steady against his palm.

He watched the faint cabin lights brush soft shadows across Tony’s face, tracing the rise and fall of his breathing. He let himself hold onto that—Tony beside him, safe for now.

But under the quiet, a knot stayed tight in his chest. He didn’t know how long this peace would last.

So he stayed awake, holding the moment as long as he could.

 

---

 

Bogotá greeted them with darkness and harsh light. The plane touched down with a low groan of tires against wet tarmac, jolting Steve slightly in his seat. He blinked against the sudden glare of the landing zone lights, sharp and white, cutting through the cabin’s dim quiet.

Outside the window, the night stretched vast and humid, city lights scattered against low, heavy clouds. A fine mist clung to the air, blurring the edges of the runway and making the world outside feel distant, unreal.

Steve felt the shift in the air as the engines powered down—warmer than expected, thick with the scent of jet fuel and damp earth.

The night air bit faintly at his skin as they crossed the tarmac, the chill sharp after the stale warmth of the cabin. A transport shuttle waited nearby, its harsh overhead lights buzzing, casting sharp shadows across the cracked concrete.

Steve kept hold of Tony’s hand, their fingers laced together. The cool weight of the prosthetic grounded him, steady against the restless shift of people around them.

Peter trailed close, the backpack slung over one shoulder. Steve caught the tension in the kid’s jaw, the way his fingers curled tighter around the straps. Inside, their tech rested carefully packed, disguised beneath layers of worn-out clothes and a couple of battered gaming consoles.

As the shuttle jerked forward toward the Customs building, Steve exhaled through his nose, feeling the knot of tension in his chest refuse to ease. The night outside the windows was all shadows and concrete, and the line ahead was already starting to form.

When they finally reached the front of the line, Steve felt the fluorescent lights above casting a cold glare across his face. The Customs clerk barely glanced up at first, fingers moving lazily across the worn keyboard.

But then his eyes paused on the document, his brow pinching together. Steve felt it—the flicker of recognition, the quiet shift in the air.

“Mr. and Mr. Peterson,” the man read aloud, his voice flat but edged with something sharper. He lifted his gaze now, lingering just a little too long. “Here visiting for the first time?”

The question hung between them, thin and stiff.

Steve straightened slightly, the weight of Tony’s hand still in his, cool and steady. He felt the tightness settle across his shoulders, but forced his expression calm.

Beside him, Tony stepped forward with easy charm, resting one elbow against the scratched metal edge of the desk. The move was casual, rehearsed, the kind of confidence that made strangers lean in without realizing why.

“Yes,” Tony said, voice warm and practiced. “We wanted to show our son South America. Graduation gift.”

Steve felt the faintest shift in the clerk’s expression—an almost imperceptible flicker of disbelief.

The man’s gaze slid past them to Peter, who stood there clutching the backpack like it weighed more than it should.

Peter smiled, wide and bright, every tooth on display. The kind of smile that tried a little too hard to say we’re harmless .

Steve felt the tension coil tighter in his chest.

The clerk’s pen paused mid-scratch on the form. His eyes flicked up again, this time settling on Steve, sharp and waiting.

“And how long have you two been married?”

Steve met his gaze without flinching. He kept his shoulders loose, his grip on Tony’s hand steady, even though his pulse knocked once, hard, in his throat.

“Just over five years,” he said, his voice even, calm.

A brief pause, then he allowed a small smile, careful and polite.

“Lovely spring wedding.”

The clerk’s expression didn’t change, but Steve felt the weight of the silence that followed, pressing close and thin.

The clerk hummed, his pen scratching across the form.

“And who proposed?”

The question hit harder than it should have. Steve opened his mouth, but the words caught—caught in his throat, where certainty should have been.

Beside him, Tony shifted, the warmth of his shoulder brushing against Steve’s. 

“I did,” Tony said smoothly, tone bright and easy.

Steve exhaled, quiet and slow, letting him carry them through.

“We were on a camping trip,” he continued, voice warm but just slightly unsteady, “finishing breakfast.”

He gave a small, nervous laugh and rubbed the back of his neck, glancing at the clerk with what Steve recognized as his trying too hard to sell it smile.

“I just looked at him and told him…” Tony’s hands lifted midair, gesturing vaguely like he could draw the memory into life. “‘Honey, we’ve been crazy about each other for nearly two decades.’” 

Tony’s eyes flicked toward Steve, smile faltering for half a second. Steve felt his stomach drop as the next words slipped out.

“Let’s make it official, Steve.”

Silence.

The air went sharp. Steve froze, breath caught.

The clerk’s head snapped up, his stare cutting straight through them, sudden and sharp as a blade.

“I—uhm.” Tony stumbled, his hands lifting from the counter in a half-hearted shrug. His smile faltered, thin and forced. “Ha! Sorry, uhm, that’s an inside joke.”

He cast a quick glance toward Steve, searching, voice tripping over itself as he grasped for a save.

“It’s because he’s—he’s kinda similar to—uh—to Steve Rogers. Ha.”

Peter sucked in a sharp breath beside them, the sound sharp as a warning shot. Steve’s pulse snapped to attention. He shifted his stance, shoulders tightening, head turning just enough to scan the space behind them—the exits, the guards, the glass windows reflecting too much light. 

The clerk stared, his gaze darting back and forth between them. Something shifted behind his eyes—wild, sharp, sudden.

Steve saw the moment it clicked.

The man’s face paled, mouth parting on a breathless gasp.

“¡Ay Dios mío!” he blurted, stumbling back a step. His voice rose, too loud, cracking through the quiet of the room. “You’re—you’re Tony Stark!”

The air tightened, tense as a rubber band.

Steve’s heart slammed against his ribs.

Shit.

Tony lifted both hands, waving them frantically in front of him, palms out like he could physically push the accusation away.

“What? No! Haha, that’s insane!” His laugh was high-pitched, brittle at the edges, words tumbling over each other too fast to sound natural.

But the clerk wasn’t listening anymore.

Steve saw it—the way the man’s face lit up with recognition, disbelief cracking wide open into full-blown excitement. His hands fumbled for the desk phone, for the nearest alert button, for anything.

“¡No lo puedo creer! ¡Tony Stark y Capitán América!” the clerk shouted, pushing back his chair with a sharp scrape across the floor as he shot to his feet.

The room fractured around them. Nearby office workers froze, then turned—heads snapping in their direction, conversations halting mid-word.

A second later, the whisper spread like wildfire.

“¡Son ellos! ¡Son ellos!”

Voices layered over one another. Chairs scraped, papers fluttered to the ground. Steve felt the weight of every eye in the room locking onto them, the hum of fluorescent lights drowned beneath the rising clamor.

The space shrank, too loud, too bright.

Tony was still leaning over the counter, hands raised in a desperate attempt to quiet the clerk, his voice spilling rushed, broken Spanish that barely cut through the rising noise.

“Señor, por favor—no es—mire, está confundido—”

But the man wasn’t listening. Neither was anyone else.

The room buzzed with voices, movement, footsteps converging.

Steve’s mind snapped into focus. The exits, the angles, the weight of the pack on Peter’s shoulders—all of it lined up like pieces on a board.

He turned, meeting Peter’s wide, waiting eyes. One sharp glance was enough.

“Move” Steve ordered, his voice low but solid beneath the chaos.

Peter gave a tight nod. In a burst of motion, he jumped upward, web-shooters snapping with a sharp thwip that echoed against the vaulted ceiling. His mask slid into place mid-air, covering his face in one smooth motion.

In a clean twist, Peter yanked open the backpack and snatched Steve’s shield, the familiar weight briefly flashing through the air. He tossed it across the room with practiced aim, the metal rim spinning toward Steve like a lifeline.

Before anyone could react, Peter was shooting a webline toward Tony.

“Hold on!” Peter shouted.

The web yanked Tony upward, his shoes scraping against the tile as he was lifted off the ground, suit panels beginning to slide into place.

“¡Qué carajos!” the clerk shouted, voice cracking with panic. “¡Guardias!”

The command rang out, sharp and final.

Steve caught the shield mid-air, his pulse steady, his decision made. He moved before the first guard could draw his weapon.

He spun the shield in his hand, the familiar weight settling into place, then hurled it across the room.

It hit the floor-to-ceiling window with a crack like thunder. Glass exploded outward in a shower of sharp fragments, catching the harsh overhead lights as they scattered into the night.

The air shifted, cold and sudden, flooding the room through the gaping hole.

Chaos erupted behind him. People screamed, chairs toppled, papers flew through the air like startled birds.

Guards rushed forward, voices barking through comms, footsteps pounding against the tile.

Steve caught the shield on the rebound, his body already pivoting toward the exit. Every muscle in his body coiled tight, ready to move.

He sprinted toward the broken window, the night air rushing to meet him. Beyond the jagged glass, the sky stretched open—dark, wide, and three stories down.

He didn’t hesitate.

His boots left the tile, body launching into the void. Wind tore past his face, cold against his skin, pulling at his clothes.

For one long second, there was only the fall.

He turned his head, scanning the sky, heart hammering in his chest.

And then—

A flash of red and gold cut through the dark. Repulsors roared, scattering dust and broken glass.

Cold metal fingers closed around his ribs and armpits, halting his fall in a sharp jolt.

Tony’s voice burst through the helmet speakers, sharp and exasperated right in his ear.

“Jeez, what is it with you jumping out of windows!”

The rush of air stole Steve’s breath, but he couldn’t stop the small, breathless laugh that slipped out.

“You’re one to talk!” Steve shouted, ducking low as an antenna swept past, close enough to ruffle his hair. His grip tightened on the shield, body tensing against the sharp gusts of wind. “That mouth of yours is gonna get us killed!”

Behind them, a sharp thwip cut through the air. A coil of webbing snapped around one of the building’s metal beams, stretching taut before flinging a small figure into the night sky.

The comm crackled to life in his ear, Peter’s voice dry and unimpressed.

“Guys, can you fight another time? Kinda ruining the vibe of our escape here.”

Steve caught a glimpse of Peter—compact, fast, his limbs tucked tight as he swung between rooftops, cutting across the gaps with effortless speed.

Web-lines shot out again and again, anchoring him from beam to beam, keeping pace beside them as they flew over the city. The wind rushed past, cold against Steve’s skin, the hum of Tony’s repulsors steady beneath him.

“There!” Steve called out, the wind tearing his voice thin. He pointed ahead, where the dense sprawl of the city lights gave way to a dark, uneven stretch.

A thick forest rose out of the outskirts, its canopy swallowing the light, tangled and wild beneath the night sky. Beyond the last rows of buildings, the glow of streetlights faded, leaving only shadows and the glint of distant hills.

“We can hide there. Tony, give him the coordinates. Peter, we’ll meet you there.”

“Copy!” Peter’s voice came sharp over the comms, already moving. Steve caught a last glimpse of his silhouette swinging toward a quieter part of the city, away from the chaos behind them.

Tony adjusted their course, angling them low.

The forest rushed up fast, dark green and dense, its tree line sharp against the night. They broke through the canopy in a rush of leaves and branches, the scent of damp earth hitting Steve’s senses.

Tony cut the repulsors at the last second, letting them drop into the undergrowth. They hit the ground hard and fast, knees bending to absorb the impact.

Thick trees surrounded them, trunks slick with moisture, branches tangled overhead. The sounds of the city faded into the distance, replaced by the rustle of leaves and the hum of night insects.

For now, the darkness held them safe.

Tony turned in place, scanning the area, the soft whirr of his suit retracting filling the quiet between them. Plates folded neatly back into the arc reactor, leaving him in his worn hoodie and jeans, the faint blue glow fading against the shadows.

“Great,” Tony muttered, eyes flicking across his HUD. “It’s a protected zone. Only a couple of rangers nearby. We should be somewhat safe.”

He kept turning, checking tree lines, listening for movement beyond the hum of insects and distant city noise.

Steve let out a slow breath, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders all at once. He scrubbed a hand over his face, wiping away sweat and dust.

His legs felt weak beneath him. He dropped onto a moss-covered rock beside a thick-trunked tree, the cool earth grounding him.

His muscles trembled faintly, the aftershocks of adrenaline still fading from his limbs.

“That went as well as I expected,” he muttered into his hands, voice muffled, dry.

Tony gave a small, awkward shrug, his shoulders tight with leftover tension. The dry leaves crunched faintly under his boots as he stepped closer, stopping just in front of where Steve sat slouched against the rough bark of the tree.

“Well, at least Strange will know we arrived,” Tony said, voice softer now, edged with tired humor.

The words hung in the cool air between them, carried off slightly by the breeze stirring the canopy overhead.

Steve let out a weak laugh, low and rough in his throat. His chest rose and fell, uneven, as the tension began to loosen.

“Uhm.” Tony’s voice dropped lower, rough around the edges. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, fingers rubbing at the back of his neck.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice quiet but clear in the stillness between them. “I fucked up.”

The words hung there, honest and raw.

Steve blinked up at him, the weight of the moment sinking in. Tony Stark didn’t apologize easily—and rarely like this, stripped of bravado, standing awkwardly in the dark.

“I just…” Tony started again, his hand falling back to his side. He glanced away for a beat, breath fogging faintly in the cooler night air. “Got into the fantasy, I guess.”

The forest rustled softly around them, night sounds filling the silence Tony left behind.

A small smile pulled at the corner of Steve’s mouth, tight and quiet. His chest ached with the weight of it—how easily Tony disarmed him without even meaning to.

He reached out, fingers wrapping around Tony’s hands, the metal cool against his palms, the human one warm and steady.

With a gentle tug, he drew Tony closer until their knees brushed, closing the space between them.

“Yeah?” Steve whispered, his voice low, steady despite the tightness in his throat.

He guided Tony between his legs, the forest floor uneven beneath them, damp earth pressing against the soles of his boots.

Tony let out a quiet huff, his breath brushing warm against Steve’s skin. He lifted one hand, fingers threading gently through the strands of hair that had fallen across Steve’s forehead, tucking them back with a touch far softer than his words.

“Yeah,” Tony said, his voice low but steady, “I think I liked the whole idea of it.”

He glanced away, exhaling hard through his nose, shoulders sagging just slightly.

“Until my big mouth ruined it and all.” The faintest smile ghosted across his lips as he looked back at Steve, repeating his words from before. 

“I must say,” Tony added as he leaned in closer, “I thought you liked said mouth. Guess you were just using me for my money.”

Steve let out a shaky laugh, breath catching at the edges. He tilted his head up, closing the last inch between them.

His hand slid up Tony’s chest, fingers dragging across the worn fabric, curling lightly into the collar of his hoodie as he pulled him down.

Their mouths met slow at first, lips parting with the smallest shift of breath, then deeper—heat pressing into heat. Steve’s tongue slipped past Tony’s lips, tasting, coaxing, pushing until their breaths tangled in the space between.

Tony exhaled hard against his mouth, the sound sharp. His fingers slid into Steve’s hair, threading through the strands before tightening, tugging just enough to drag Steve’s mouth open wider.

Steve gasped softly against him, lips parting further, and Tony seized the moment—biting down on his lower lip, sharp and quick, before soothing it with another kiss, rougher this time.

The tight control they usually carried cracked apart.

Steve’s hands roamed, tracing down Tony’s sides, finding the curve of his waist, then slipping beneath his hoodie to feel the warmth of his body, solid and alive. His palms dragged up Tony’s back, nails scraping faintly across muscle and bone beneath the thin fabric.

Tony groaned low in his throat and pressed forward, his hips driving into Steve’s, pinning him back until his shoulders hit the rough bark of the tree behind them. The jolt sent a shiver down Steve’s spine.

Tony didn’t stop—one hand slid to Steve’s hip, gripping hard, the other braced against the tree near Steve’s head as he leaned in, crowding all the space between them.

Steve arched into him, legs parting slightly to steady himself, pulling Tony impossibly closer.

Their bodies moved without thought—hips grinding, chests rising sharp against each other, every shift desperate, greedy, as if they could erase the space between them entirely.

Steve tilted his head, kissing along Tony’s jaw, biting softly at the hinge where jaw met throat, feeling Tony’s breath stutter against his cheek.

Tony’s fingers slipped beneath the hem of Steve’s shirt, cool metal and warm skin sliding over tense muscles, feeling the sharp intake of breath it drew.

The air between them was humid and thick, every brush of skin electric in the quiet dark.

They moved in sync, not gentle, not careful—driven by the sharp edge of everything they’d nearly lost.

In that moment, there was nothing outside the space they occupied. Only heat. Only want.

“Oh, Jesus Christ! Stop it already!”

Peter’s voice cut through the quiet like a slap.

They tore apart instantly, breathless and wide-eyed, the sudden cold air hitting Steve’s skin where Tony’s body had been a second ago.

Steve ducked his head fast, heat flooding his face. He pressed his cheek against Tony’s chest, hiding in the fabric of his hoodie. His body angled away from Peter instinctively, shoulders hunched, trying to shield himself from the weight of the kid’s voice.

Tony stood frozen for half a second, chest still rising fast beneath Steve’s cheek. His hand hover awkwardly over Steve’s back, unsure whether to comfort or laugh.

“Uhm.” Tony cleared his throat, voice rough around the edges. He lifted the back of his hand to his mouth, wiping at his lips with a quick, nervous swipe, pretending it was nothing.

“We were practicing,” he said, the words uneven, forced into casual. “You know. We have to be convincing.”

His gaze flicked toward Peter, then away again, not quite meeting the kid’s eyes.

Steve could still feel the ghost of Tony’s mouth on his own, his pulse refusing to slow. He kept his face tucked against Tony’s chest, heat rising in his neck, the bark of the tree pressing cold against his back.

Peter threw his arms wide, exasperation crackling in his voice.

“You already blew our cover!” he hissed, his words sharp enough to cut through the trees. “What is the practice for?!”

Steve winced, still half-hidden against Tony’s chest. He straightened slightly, one hand lifting in a quick, sharp gesture to quiet him.

“Peter—shh!” Steve hissed back, glancing around the dark forest, every shadow suddenly feeling closer. “Keep your voice down. You’re gonna let them know we’re here.”

The night answered with distant traffic and the soft rustle of leaves, but Steve’s shoulders stayed tense, waiting for the crackle of radios or footsteps through the underbrush.

“Oh my God.” Peter sighed as he dropped to the ground with a soft thud, limbs sprawling, leaves crackling beneath him. “I’ve gone to another universe again. One where everyone is insane.”

Tony let out a breath, still lingering close to Steve, his body warm and steady against him.

Then, with a small, reluctant shift, Tony unhooked himself from Steve’s space. He slid his hands down Steve’s arms as he stepped back, the contact breaking bit by bit. 

Without looking back, Tony crossed the few steps to where Peter sat and lowered himself beside the kid, the ground cool and damp beneath him.

“Believe me, kid,” Tony said, his voice softer now, the edge of a smile tugging at his lips, “I think we’re just as insane in every universe.”

He gave Peter a gentle bump of his shoulder, knocking them slightly off balance on the uneven ground.

Peter let out another sigh, less sharp this time. His shoulders sagged, the tension finally starting to slip from his frame as he leaned back on his hands, looking up at the canopy overhead.

He glanced between them, chewing on the inside of his cheek, hesitant but curious.

“So.” He dragged out the word, awkward and pointed, his gaze settling on Steve. “Are you like… together now?”

The question dropped into the quiet, clumsy and honest.

Steve blinked, feeling the heat rise in his chest again, unsure whether to answer or look away. Tony turned toward him, eyes soft, a tired smile pulling at his mouth.

He didn’t rush his answer.

“We’re getting there, I think,” Tony said, voice low but steady.

Steve smiled, soft and easy now, the tension easing from his chest.

“Well,” he said, letting the words stretch just enough to tease, “Tony’s already proposed.”

Peter groaned loudly, throwing his head back against the dirt.

“Ugh, please stop talking.”

Beside him, Tony let out a muffled noise of protest and buried his face between his knees, shoulders shaking with a quiet, embarrassed laugh. His hands rested on his head, fingers threading through his hair as if he could physically hide from the conversation.

Steve laughed—really laughed—for the first time in what felt like days. The sound surprised even him, warm and full in the cool night air.

He looked between them: Tony hiding, Peter groaning, both worn thin and alive.

The laughter faded, leaving something softer in its place. Even here, in the dark of a foreign forest, chased and hunted, he could feel it—something new blooming quietly in his chest.

Was this what family felt like?

Chapter 18: Bogotá II

PETER

 

 

The forest stretched quiet around them, thick with damp earth and the steady hum of insects hidden in the undergrowth.

Peter sat with his knees drawn up, the weight of exhaustion pressing between his shoulders. Beside his boot, a thin line of ants navigated through fallen leaves, weaving around the scuffed rubber as if he were just another obstacle on their path.

He watched them for a moment, tracking the trail as it curved toward the carcass of a massive beetle lying belly-up in the dirt. Its shell caught the faint moonlight filtering through the canopy, dull and cracked.

The stillness settled in, broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves and the distant chirp of something unseen.

The world felt quiet in a way that made his thoughts louder.

A few feet away, Steve slept, his breathing slow and steady beneath a pile of worn blankets. His body was curled slightly toward the tree at his back, shield resting close by within arm’s reach. The faint rise and fall of his chest was one of the only steady things in this fractured night.

Closer to the firepit’s dying embers, Tony sat cross-legged on the damp ground, his face cast in shifting shadows. He worked in near silence, the faint click of tools against metal filling the quiet. His prosthetic arm lay across his lap, panels open, joints exposed.

Peter watched the way Tony’s fingers moved—steady, precise—as he wiped grime from the gears, tightened screws, and rerouted wires with the kind of care that spoke of both routine and necessity.

It was one of the only times Tony looked peaceful.

Peter pressed the heel of his hand against his temple, trying to ease the pounding behind his eyes. His head felt like it might split open from the inside out.

In the span of a few days, he’d jumped between three universes, closed a rift that should’ve torn him apart, and faked his way through being Tony Stark’s son long enough to escape an international airport.

Now they were tucked away in a forgotten patch of forest, taking shifts to rest while the shadows stretched long around them.

Every snapped twig in the distance, every rustle of leaves, made Peter’s shoulders tense. They had no idea how long this hiding place would hold.

He glanced at the others—Steve asleep, Tony working—and let out a slow, careful breath, as if breathing too loudly might give them away.

“Kid,” Tony said, his voice low but steady, not breaking his focus. He adjusted a wire with the tip of his pliers, eyes still on the exposed circuits of his arm. “Pass me the Phillips? Should be in the front pocket.”

The words slipped out like habit, calm against the hush of the forest, the soft click of tools filling the space between them.

Peter shifted forward, firing a small web toward the backpack resting a few feet away. The nylon bag skidded softly across the dirt until it bumped against his boot.

He unzipped the front pocket, fingers brushing past tangled wires and spare parts until they closed around the cool metal handle of the screwdriver.

“Here,” he muttered, holding it out for Tony.

His gaze drifted down, watching the delicate network of wires and circuits exposed in Tony’s arm. He couldn’t help it—the problem practically solved itself in his head.

“You’re rerouting power from the wrong side,” Peter said casually, the words slipping out before he could stop them. “It has to be upstream.”

Tony’s hands stilled, mid-motion. For a beat, all Peter could hear was the distant hum of insects and the soft creak of cooling metal.

Slowly, Tony lifted his gaze, sharp and thoughtful, eyebrows pulling together as he studied Peter from beneath furrowed brows.

Peter felt the heat rush to his face, burning from his neck to his ears. His shoulders hunched slightly, fingers fidgeting with the zipper of the backpack.

“Uhm, sorry,” he stammered, shrinking into himself. “I don’t—I don’t know what I’m saying.”

The words fell flat in the quiet, leaving him exposed and awkward, his pulse thudding loud in his ears.

Tony didn’t answer at first. His eyes drifted away, distant and sharp, scanning the mess of wires as the calculations ran behind them.

Peter watched the tension in his brow, the way his jaw worked silently, as if the math was stacking itself piece by piece in his head.

Then, with a quiet click of his tongue, Tony sighed through his nose and gave a small, resigned shake of his head.

“Goddammit, you’re right,” he muttered, voice low and rough with reluctant admiration.

He reached back into the arm, fingers moving with brisk precision, stripping the cables from their sockets and setting them aside with a soft clink of metal on metal.

Peter couldn’t stop the smile that crept across his face, small but bright, warming his chest from the inside out.

Tony wiped his hand on a rag, then held out a thin silver plate, the metal cool and gleaming faintly in the firelight.

“Wanna help out?” Tony asked, his voice light. His eyes flicked up, inviting. “I’m stabilizing the repulsors. Shouldn’t be too hard if we don’t blow ourselves up.”

Peter’s grin widened despite himself.

He nodded quickly, wiping his palms on his pants before carefully taking the plate from Tony’s hands.

“Yeah. I’m in.”

They worked side by side, their voices low, exchanging fragments of equations and rough ideas to stretch their limited resources. The quiet between them felt steady, broken only by the soft click of metal and the occasional hum of recalibrating circuits.

After a while, Tony asked about his life back home. The question landed softly, but it pressed against something raw in Peter’s chest.

He spoke anyway, hands still moving, describing lazy afternoons spent building Lego sets that never quite fit together, rooftop talks stretched long past curfew, and the endless teasing over school projects and half-finished plans.

He told Tony about Ned’s ridiculous inventions, the way MJ’s sarcasm could cut through any bad day, about Aunt May's horrible meatloaf recipes. 

But beneath every memory, dread curled sharp and cold. He could barely hold onto their faces without seeing what he’d lost.

So he pushed through. He focused on who they were, not what he might have left behind. On the laughter, the warmth, the ordinary magic of being young and known.

Tony talked about the Peter from his world—how he spent long nights buried in books at MIT, living on campus but never too far to visit on the weekends.

He described the farm in quiet detail: the wide-open kitchen where the sun spilled through cracked windows, the scent of earth and old wood, and the cluttered counter always covered in baking trays.

Peter could picture it clearly—Morgan perched on a stool, face dusted with flour, while Tony and his other self argued over recipes they barely followed.

Tony shook his head, wiping a smear of grease from his palm onto his jeans.

“You—well, the other you—are a very bad cook,” he said, casting Peter a tired smile. “You’re making my baby girl develop a sweet tooth that’ll spoil her rotten.”

The affection in his voice softened the words, making them feel like something precious

Peter laughed, soft and genuine, the sound slipping out before he could stop it. But beneath the warmth, something sharp tugged at his chest.

He tried not to think about how he’d never baked with Morgan. Never saw her grin through a cloud of powdered sugar, never got to argue over sprinkles or wash dishes side by side.

That version of his life didn’t exist.

The weight of it settled heavier when he looked up and caught the sadness lingering in Tony’s eyes. Not pity—something deeper. Something that knew exactly what loss felt like.

It was too much.

So Peter spoke. He told him.

The words came halting at first, unfamiliar in the open air. How he lost his Tony. How the world kept spinning after, but felt wrong in ways he couldn’t explain.

It was strange—sitting here, telling this Tony something he could never tell his own. But somehow, in all the nights he’d imagined this conversation, the words still came out different.

Quieter. Sadder. Honest.

The forest rustled softly around them, the night breeze stirring the leaves overhead. A faint chill crept through the clearing, brushing against Peter’s skin where his jacket didn’t reach.

Tony’s voice was low and hesitant, barely rising over the hum of distant insects.

“Are you angry?”

Peter shifted, his fingers brushing over a loose thread on his sleeve. He kept his eyes on the scattered tools between them, the soft glow of the arc reactor casting faint shadows across the forest floor.

He shrugged, shoulders rising and falling with a quiet sigh.

“How can I be?” he said, voice steady but tired. “He saved everyone. He saved me.”

The words fell flat against the stillness, swallowed by the trees.

Tony’s answer came after a long pause, his voice quiet, almost careful.

“Well, but he left you alone.”

Peter felt the sting rise fast behind his eyes, sharp and familiar. He ducked his head, wiping at his face with the edge of his sleeve, quick and rough.

Peter’s voice broke softly, his words catching on the tightness in his throat.

“I mean, I would’ve liked a bit more time with him…” He drew in a sharp breath, his chest aching as the words tumbled out, quiet and raw. “There’s so much I needed to ask him. I felt so lost without him…”

The wind stirred faintly through the branches above, cool against his tear-warmed cheeks.

Tony shifted closer, slow and careful, letting his shoulder press lightly against Peter’s. The warmth of it was steady, grounding in the cool night air.

“I came back after the Snap and… people told me he did it for me.” Peter went on.

He blinked fast, but the tears slipped free anyway, hot against the cool night air. They slid down his cheeks unchecked, falling onto the dirt at his feet.

“But I never got the chance to even say thank you.”

The confession hung there, fragile and breaking.

He wiped at his face with the sleeve of his jacket, breath hitching in his chest.

“Do you think he knew?”

Tony’s gaze softened, watching him through the dim light. He didn’t answer right away.

“Know what?” His voice was quiet, not pushing.

Peter sniffed, shoulders trembling despite himself.

“That I was grateful. That he was like a—like a dad—” 

The last word broke apart on his tongue, raw and unsteady.

Tony reached out without hesitation, pulling Peter into a steady, grounding embrace. His arms wrapped firm around his shoulders, solid and warm against the chill of the night air.

Peter sank into it, the fabric of Tony’s hoodie soft against his cheek, the steady thump of his arc reactor faint beneath the layers.

Tony’s voice was low, almost a whisper, words spoken just for them.

“Of course I know, Peter. That’s why I did it. You’re like a son to me, too.”

The quiet between them stretched, filled only by the distant rustle of leaves and the soft hum of circuits cooling in Tony’s arm.

Peter let himself breathe, chest pressed against Tony’s, tears drying slowly against his skin.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, voice muffled by fabric, small and tired.

He stayed like that a moment longer, letting the safety of it settle over him.

“I know this is weird for you too. I appreciate it.” Peter mumbled.

Tony let out a quiet huff, the sound somewhere between a laugh and a sigh.

“Yeah, it’s weird as hell,” he said, voice softer now, thoughtful in a way that settled into the quiet.

Peter felt the faint shift of Tony’s chest beneath his cheek, the steady rise and fall of someone just as tired as he was.

“But… it’s nice.”

For a moment, the words hung between them, simple and pure.

“I’m grateful I got to meet another version of my kid.”

Peter’s heart sank, heavy and sudden.

There was something in Tony’s voice—too sincere, too sure—that made it hard to breathe. Like this version of their relationship had already lived through years Peter hadn’t been part of.

Slowly, gently, he unwrapped himself from Tony’s arms, his hands loosening their grip, body pulling back until cool air slipped between them.

The warmth faded too fast.

When he looked up, Tony’s eyes caught his. There was no blame in them—only quiet hurt and confusion, raw in a way that made Peter’s chest tighten.

“Sorry, it’s just…” Peter mumbled, his voice thin as he wiped his sleeve across his face, chasing the tears away.

He stared down at the dirt between them, watching a stray leaf drift across the forest floor.

“It’s hard. Hearing you say stuff like that.”

The words sat uneven between them, soft but sharp.

Tony nodded, slow and quiet. His jaw tightened for a moment, like he was holding back more than he let show.

“I get it,” he said, voice low. “I’m sorry.”

Peter shook his head quickly, wiping at his face again, the gesture fast and restless.

“No, no, you don’t have to be sorry,” he said, words tumbling out too fast, too eager to fix the silence between them.

He exhaled, shoulders slumping forward, his voice softer when he spoke again.

“It’s just… it’s gonna make it harder to leave, that’s all.”

For a moment, Tony didn’t answer.

Peter watched the realization spread across his face—slow and heavy. The lines around Tony’s eyes deepened, his mouth pressing into a thin, unreadable line.

“Oh.” His voice dropped quiet, rough with understanding. “Yeah. You’re right.”

Peter nodded faintly, the movement slow, worn thin by the weight of the night. He leaned back against the tree trunk, letting the rough bark press against his shoulders, grounding him.

For a while, neither of them spoke. The forest filled the silence with distant rustling leaves and the quiet hum of night insects.

Then Tony’s voice broke through, softer than before, almost hesitant.

“You could stay, if you want.”

Peter froze, breath caught mid-exhale.

Tony kept his gaze low, fingers fiddling absently with the tools scattered between them.

“Once this is resolved… there’s a place for you here. If you want it.”

The words hung in the air, fragile, waiting.

Peter’s head snapped up so fast his neck tensed with the movement.

For a moment, he just stared at Tony, wide-eyed and open, as if trying to memorize the exact way those words sounded in the air.

The dim light caught the edges of Tony’s face, softening the lines of exhaustion, and for a second, Peter could almost believe it—believe in a home that wasn’t already gone.

“Really?”

The word broke from him before he could catch it, too high, too raw, and far too hopeful.

Tony smiled, tired and kind. “Of course. It’ll take a bit getting used to, having two of you and all.”

He paused, a quiet breath slipping out into the cool night air, before adding with a faint huff of humor, “But hey, twins do exist.”

Peter didn’t think. He just moved, arms wrapping tight around Tony’s shoulders, pulling him close with a force he didn’t try to hide.

Tony didn’t hesitate. He let himself be held, his body warm beneath the worn fabric of his hoodie, steady and solid in a way Peter hadn’t let himself hope for.

Peter’s chest felt too full, tight with something sharp and bright that made it hard to breathe.

Could this be real?

Could he really have a home again—a place where someone waited for him, where he wasn’t just a stray between universes?

Tony let out a low, tired laugh, one hand reaching up to ruffle Peter’s hair with the familiar ease of someone who’d done it a thousand times before. His fingers tugged gently at the messy strands, leaving them sticking up in all directions.

“Well,” Tony said, voice lighter now, “I’d have to bribe a shit ton of people to fake your records. But we’ve pulled off harder things.”

Peter pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, the grin stretching wide across his face, bright and unguarded for the first time in what felt like forever.

“Thank you, Mr. Stark,” he said, voice thick with emotion.

Tony gave him a pointed look, though his voice lacked any real bite. “Tony is fine” 

Peter giggled, the sound bubbling up before he could stop it, light and breathless after everything they’d just been through.

“Tony,” he repeated, quieter this time, like tasting the word for the first time.

It felt strange. And right.

He sat there, letting the enormity of Tony’s words settle over him like the night air—quiet, steady, inescapable.

If they pulled this off—if the portals closed, if Morgan was safe, if the world survived this chaos—then maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t have to keep running.

He could have a family again.

Not just the broken fragments of one, scattered across memories and half-formed goodbyes, but something real.

A dad who built things with steady hands and terrible jokes.

A sister who dragged him into flour fights and demanded bedtime stories long after midnight.

Teammates who fought beside him and called him by his first name, not just his codename.

People to come home to.

He hadn’t realized how much he missed belonging somewhere until it was offered to him again.

Peter shifted, his gaze drifting across the small clearing until it landed on Steve.

The older man was still tucked beneath his blankets, his chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. Even in sleep, there was something guarded about the way he lay—shield within reach, jaw tight despite the calm around them.

Peter watched the quiet for a moment, the question forming before he could stop it.

He nodded faintly in Steve’s direction, his voice softer now, almost careful.

“When did that happen?”

The forest held the pause between them, leaves rustling softly overhead.

Tony followed Peter’s gaze, his head tilting slightly as his eyes landed on Steve.

For a moment, his expression shifted—something small and quiet pulling at the corners of his mouth. The tension in his shoulders eased, just a little.

His voice softened, gentler than before, touched with something almost fond.

“I guess it’s been happening for a while now.”

He exhaled slowly, the breath curling in the cool air between them.

“We managed to actually talk to each other for once. And, well… the rest came naturally.”

The honesty in his words lingered in the stillness, unguarded and calm.

Peter hummed softly, leaning his head back against the tree trunk, the beginnings of a grin tugging at his lips.

“So…” he said, drawing out the word, voice light but pointed, “is he like, going to be Morgan’s stepdad?”

The question landed with a quiet thud between them, sharp in its simplicity.

Tony’s mouth pressed into a thin, reluctant line. His shoulders tensed slightly, and he gave Peter a sidelong glance, somewhere between amused and exasperated.

“Aren’t you jumping the gun a bit?”

His voice stayed calm, but the faint flush rising along his neck betrayed him.

Peter shrugged, casual but persistent, a small smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

“I’m just saying,” he pressed, tilting his head Tony’s way. “Are you gonna go public? Announce to the world you’re dating Captain America?”

Tony let out a sharp huff, his breath fogging faintly in the cool night air.

“First there has to be a world to announce it to.”

Peter rolled his eyes, the motion exaggerated, like Tony was being deliberately dense.

“You know there will be,” he said, voice easy, confidence slipping through despite the tired lines on his face. “We’ll find Morgan, close the portals, and save the day. Like always.”

He let the words hang for a beat, then looked back at Tony, softer now.

“So I’m asking… once we do all that, where does that leave you two?”

Tony sighed, long and quiet, the sound sinking into the stillness of the forest.

He dragged a hand back through his hair, fingers raking roughly through the tangled strands, then let his arm fall back to his side with a soft thud against his leg.

“I don’t know, Pete.”

His voice was low, threaded with something worn and honest.

“It’s complicated.” The words slipped out like an old truth, familiar and tired. “There’s too much history.”

Peter’s gaze drifted back to Steve, still asleep beneath the blankets, his face calm, unaware of the quiet conversation unfolding a few feet away.

“So what?” Peter asked, turning back to Tony, voice softer but no less direct. “You wanna be with him, right?”

He tilted his head, watching Tony closely, a small, knowing smile pulling at his lips.

“I mean, I just saw it with my own two eyes.”

The words hung between them, light but pointed, as the night pressed quiet around their small clearing.

Tony didn’t answer right away. His shoulders shifted slightly, like he couldn’t quite decide whether to brush the question off or admit the truth of it.Tony let out a slow breath, his gaze drifting toward Steve, still lost in sleep beneath the thin blankets.

“Yeah, but… that’s here,” he said, voice quiet, almost distant. “South of the continent, hidden away in hotels and secret missions.”

His words faded into the dark, honest and uncertain.

“I don’t know if we can make it beyond that.”

Peter didn’t flinch.

“Why not?”

The question was simple, but it landed sharp.

Tony stared at him, a faint, tired smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth despite himself. “You’re noisy in every universe, huh?”

Peter shrugged, shoulders loose, fighting down the grin threatening to break across his face. He didn’t press—just let the quiet stretch, waiting for Tony to fill it.

Tony sighed, rubbing a hand over his face before letting it fall against his knee. The movement was tired, the kind that came from more than just the day’s exhaustion.

“Well…” he started, voice low, almost thoughtful beneath the hum of insects and the distant rustle of wind through the trees.

“My life’s a bit of a mess. Multiversal threats or not.” He glanced away, toward the sleeping form of Steve, something small and guarded behind his eyes. “I’m a divorced dad with a college-aged son and a little girl who keeps burning the garage down.”

A faint laugh slipped from his chest, dry and tired.

“I’m not sure Steve would want all that.”

Peter frowned, his easy smile fading into something steadier, more certain.

“He does,” he said, the words leaving no room for doubt. 

Across from him, Tony frowned too, mirroring the expression, though his held more hesitation than certainty.

“How do you know that?”

The question came quiet, almost wary, like Tony wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer. Peter stretched his arms overhead, a wide grin breaking easily across his face despite the heaviness of the night.

“I’m a very wise guy,” he said, voice light and smug. “Also, he’s in love with you, so.”

Tony froze, the faint glow of the arc reactor casting pale light across his startled face. Color crept up his neck, settling warm in his cheeks as his eyes widened.

“Peter!” he hissed, sharp but breathless. “You can’t say stuff like that.”

But Peter just laughed, the sound bright and unbothered, cutting through the tension like sunlight through leaves.

Tony bit his lip, fighting back a smile that threatened to give him away. His fingers drummed idly against his knee, restless but light.

“I think I miss you calling me Mr. Stark,” he said, voice dry. “Let’s get back to that—show your boss a little respect.”

“I’m just saying,” Peter went on, brushing past the joke . “Love is scarce, fleeting, and rare. You should hang onto it if you have it.”

Tony sighed, long and slow, tipping his head back against the tree trunk. His hand came up to rub at his eyes, tired and worn thin by the weight of the truth.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice rough with something he didn’t bother hiding anymore. “I hate you.”

Peter smiled, soft and unguarded, then threw his arms around Tony in a hug that left no room for protest.

“I love you too, Mr. Stark,” he said, voice muffled slightly against Tony’s shoulder but steady with meaning.

Tony let out a huff of laughter. His hand came up to pat Peter’s back—light at first, then lingering, steady and warm.

They stayed like that for a moment, letting the quiet hold them.

When they finally pulled apart, the weight between them felt lighter.

They let the conversation drift to other things—half-finished ideas, old stories, broken tech they might fix someday if the world gave them the chance.

And as they spoke, the darkness slowly lifted.

The first pale light of morning stretched through the canopy above, soft and tentative, threading between the leaves as the sun rose over the forest.

For a little while, it felt like enough.

 

---

 The city waited beyond the horizon, sprawling and restless, wrapped in morning haze and the sharp hum of danger.

Tony led the way with the ease of someone who thought they knew where they were going. He claimed he’d been to Bogotá back in the nineties, tossing the fact out like a worn souvenir.

Peter wasn’t sure what unsettled him more—Tony’s confidence or the possibility that it was less memory and more his usual habit of assuming he knew everything.

They needed to find the rift.

In theory, it shouldn’t be hard. A tear in reality wasn’t exactly subtle. Energy spikes, gravitational distortions—places where the air felt wrong and the world bent at the edges.

Somewhere in this city, there would be an unstable zone. Streets where electronics glitched without reason, shadows stretched the wrong way, and the wind whispered things it shouldn’t know.

If the rift was here, people would’ve noticed.

They just had to find the ones brave—or reckless—enough to talk about it.

Ask enough questions, follow the anomalies, and maybe—if they were lucky—Strange would meet them there, waiting with a solution they couldn’t find on their own.

Peter took the lead, slipping into motion like it was second nature. He moved through the trees in fast, silent bursts, webs anchoring him from branch to branch as his senses stretched out ahead of them.

Every crack of a twig, every flicker of movement in the underbrush, pressed against his awareness. He scanned the paths beyond the trees, searching for danger before it could find them first.

Getting out of the forest was almost too easy.

But as soon as the trees thinned and the main highway came into view, everything changed.

The world opened up—wide, exposed, and crawling with trouble.

Military vehicles patrolled the perimeter, their engines rumbling low against the morning stillness.

Men in dark uniforms lined the highway, rifles slung across their chests, scanning equipment flickering faint green in their hands. They swept the road in tight formations, methodical, practiced.

They were searching for them

Peter ducked lower into the brush, the rough leaves scratching against his neck. His voice dropped to a sharp whisper, barely cutting through the roar of engines overhead.

“How the hell are we gonna cross?”

The question hung between them, tight and urgent.

A few feet ahead, the highway stretched wide and exposed—its cracked concrete lit by the flash of sirens and the steady blur of traffic speeding by.

Above them, helicopters circled slow and heavy, their blades chopping the air, casting brief shadows that swept across the treetops like searchlights.

"We need a distraction." Steve's voice, low and sharp, cut through the low rumble of engines. His eyes, quick and assessing, flicked across the perimeter, already mapping routes. "Make them think we're on the other side of the city." 

Peter hummed, a low, thoughtful sound. Ahead, the highway's concrete shimmered, painted in shifting swathes of harsh blue light from the police vehicles. 

Morning sunlight, pale and stark, bled into the pulsing glare, mixing on the pavement in an eerie, shifting mosaic.

“Do you have a drone there?" Steve asked, his voice a low rumble. He gestured vaguely toward Tony's chest, where the arc reactor pulsed faintly beneath his hoodie. 

His hand seemed to hover mid-air, uncertain, as if Steve himself was acutely aware of the potentially ridiculous nature of his question. 

A slow, knowing grin spread across Tony’s face. His eyes, even in the dim light, held a mischievous glint. 

"I do actually, yes," he answered, a low, amused chuckle rumbling in his chest. "He can make a nice explosion a few miles away." 

Steve gave a tight, almost resigned nod. "Great.”

The plan set into motion. 

The moment smoke bloomed, thick and dark, on the distant horizon, chaos erupted. It wasn't a slow build, but an immediate, visceral punch. 

Heavy military trucks roared to life, their engines a low, guttural growl, and then they surged forward. 

Behind them, a wailing symphony of sirens heralded a full-blown parade of police cars and motorcycles, lights flashing in a frantic, dizzying display across the asphalt.

People screamed from sidewalks and car windows, voices sharp and panicked, scattering in every direction as sirens cut through the air.

Horns blared, brakes screeched, and the steady flow of traffic jolted to a standstill.

Cars collided in the confusion, metal crunching against metal, their red brake lights glowing like warning flares in the morning haze.

The air thickened with exhaust and smoke, sirens wailing in the distance, boots pounding pavement as soldiers scrambled to respond to the wrong threat.

For a heartbeat, the chaos swallowed everything.

And in that gap, they had their chance.

Peter didn’t hesitate. He shot webs fast and clean, wrapping them tight around Tony and Steve’s backs, anchoring them to his wrists with a practiced flick.

“Hold on,” he muttered, more to himself than to them.

Then he jumped.

The ground dropped away beneath them in an instant, wind tearing past his face as he pushed his legs harder than ever before. His muscles burned with the effort, the weight of two grown men pulling against his momentum.

For a terrifying second, he felt himself start to fall short—gravity dragging them down toward the concrete below.

But Steve moved fast, hand snapping out to catch a streetlight mid-swing. The metal groaned beneath his grip as he used it to pivot them forward, hurling their combined weight over the last stretch of highway.

They cleared it by inches.

The wind roared in Peter’s ears as they landed hard on the other side, limbs tangled, breathless but alive.

For a few breathless seconds, they scrambled to untangle themselves—Peter pulling at the sticky threads, Tony swatting them away with a muttered curse, Steve steady and quiet as he shook loose.

They slipped into the shadows of a narrow alley, keeping low, steps quick and careful. The noise of sirens still echoed behind them, but here, tucked between weathered concrete and tangled wires, the world felt smaller.

Downtown waited ahead—loud, restless, and alive.

They kept moving, slipping deeper into the heart of the city where the crowd could swallow them whole.

Peter slipped away from the alley, his steps light on the cracked pavement. He glanced upward, spotting a rusted fire escape winding along the side of an old apartment building.

With a quick thwip of his web-shooters, he launched himself upward, climbing fast and silent between faded brick walls and laundry lines swaying gently in the breeze.

On the rooftop, the city stretched wide below him—vendors shouting in the distance, dogs barking, car horns layered beneath it all.

He moved between water tanks and satellite dishes until he found what he was looking for: clotheslines strung tight between roof edges, fabrics fluttering in the early light.

Shirts, scarves, a few loose-fitting pants—enough to piece together something that would help them blend in.

He worked fast, tugging garments free, folding them under his arm before slipping back over the edge.

Tony, with a determined set to his jaw, tried to lead them to the main market. He strode ahead, a man convinced of his own internal compass. 

Soon enough, the turns blurred, the landmarks felt subtly wrong, and the confident stride faltered. His memory of Bogotá from three decades ago was, to put it mildly, severely lacking. 

They ended up asking a bewildered series of locals for directions, each interaction adding to the growing delay. Hours bled into the afternoon. 

"Hey, at least we sell the lost tourists skit well, right?" Tony offered, trying to salvage the moment with a forced cheerfulness. 

Steve just offered a silent, stone-faced stare. Peter, beside him, merely shook his head, a faint, almost imperceptible sigh escaping his lips.

The moment Peter stepped into the market, he fell in love. It was a riot of sound and scent, a dizzying explosion of life. 

Amazing food steamed from countless stalls, their aromas thick and inviting, mingling with the sharp, sweet tang of exotic fruits. 

Everywhere, vivid colors assaulted his eyes: mountains of spices, woven textiles draped like rainbows, and flowers bursting from overflowing buckets. 

He moved through the throng, a wide, unburdened grin spreading across his face. With Tony's cash, he snagged a big, impossibly soft knitted sweater, its wool thick and comforting. 

Then, drawn by the irresistible scent, he bought a few caramel-drenched apples, their sticky sweetness promising pure, unadulterated joy.

Finding vendors who spoke English wasn’t hard. The market was used to tourists—backpackers, weekend travelers, and city wanderers looking for souvenirs and photo ops.

But when they started asking about strange places—anomalies, weird occurrences, anything unusual—the answers all came with the same practiced smiles.

The locals pointed them toward the usual spots: the Gold Museum, Monserrate Hill, colonial churches, colorful streets where tourists snapped selfies beside murals.

Polite, helpful. Safe.

No one mentioned energy surges or disappearing people.

It became clear after the fifth conversation: either no one knew, or no one was willing to tell a group of wide-eyed gringos where the real trouble lived.

After yet another artisan pointed them toward the National Museum with a polite smile, Peter exhaled sharply, switching tactics.

He leaned casually against the vendor’s stall, lowering his voice just enough to sound like a mischievous teenager plotting trouble.

“Sabe, me gustaría darle un susto a mis padres,” he said, testing the words slowly, watching the man’s reaction. “Ellos son un poco racistas, así que quiero darles su merecido.”

The vendor paused mid-wrap of a bouquet, his expression shifting from tourist-friendly patience to something sharper.

For the first time, the man gave Peter a long, assessing look—his gaze flicking briefly toward Tony and Steve, taking in their posture, their clothes, the way they stood apart from the crowd.

The smile faded.

“Gringos de mierda…" The artisan muttered, his voice a low, gravelly rasp.

Peter, watching the shift, knew he’d found the right key. 

Once he changed his approach, information began to flow. Accusing Tony and Steve of being racist bigots who deserved a good scare—or worse—made the locals lean in. 

Their expressions changed from guarded to conspiratorial, their voices dropping to hushed, eager tones as they finally divulged tales of all kinds of truly messed-up places. 

He spent the rest of the afternoon alternating his performance: sometimes they were entitled parents planning to gentrify the city, sometimes they were about to abandon him, their ungrateful son, out on a desolate mountain peak. 

Bad-mouthing them turned out to be a goldmine of interesting, eerie stories.

Stories about places the tourists never found on postcards.

Abandoned tunnels where people vanished. Streets where the lights flickered for hours with no explanation. Cold winds spilling from caves that shouldn’t exist.

The city kept its secrets—but for the right price, and a little spite, Peter found the cracks in the story.

"Okay, so we have a lot of folklore here." Peter said, the words a casual hum as he spread his scattered notes across the small, scarred table. 

They were having dinner in a modest restaurant tucked at the city's edge, a quiet hum of distant traffic barely reaching their corner.

 Peter, with a forkful of vibrant, unfamiliar food clutched in his left hand, ate with an unselfconscious gusto that slowly, visibly, horrified Tony's face across from him.

“But at least six people told me about recent events near this cave.” Peter’s voice dropped, serious now, as he pointed a finger at a pinned direction on his phone, the screen glowing faintly against the warm restaurant light. “Snow, creeping memory loss, and overall missing people. I think this is our rift here.”

Tony immediately took the phone, his jaw tightening as he studied the location with an intense, focused stare. 

Steve, across the table, put aside his fork and leaned in, quietly reading through Peter’s hastily scrawled notes. “This is impressive work, Peter. You got a lot of information.”

He glanced at Tony’s still-scrutinizing face, a wry smile touching his lips. “I only got recommended three places to eat beef.”

Peter offered a casual shrug, a wider grin tugging at his lips. No need to explain exactly how he’d gotten the information.

"Well," he said, "I just have a face people trust." 

Tony's gaze flicked to him, quick and perceptive, a knowing twinkle in his eyes that spoke volumes without a single word.

They set out for the cave under cover of night.

Avoiding the police was still a challenge—patrols circled the streets, searchlights sweeping the dark—but between Peter’s heightened senses and Tony’s radar scans, they slipped through the city’s cracks unseen.

Quiet streets, hidden alleys, and rooftops became their path as they pushed deeper toward their destination.

The cave sat high at the top of a hill, the climb steep and unrelenting.

Peter felt it in his lungs first—each breath thinner, sharper—then in his legs, burning with effort. Still, he pushed on.

Behind him, Tony grumbled between steps, reminding them, not for the first time, that this would’ve been easier with his suit.

Steve didn’t break stride. He silenced him with a sharp glance over his shoulder, cutting through the dark like a warning.

The blue sweep of searchlights still chased their heels, far enough to run, close enough to feel.

They dragged their feet through the loose dirt, every step heavy with exhaustion and the weight of the climb.

As they neared the mouth of the cave, the air shifted—colder, thinner, humming faintly at the edges.

A lone figure hovered just beyond the entrance, suspended a few feet above the ground. His silhouette was sharp against the darkness, cloak billowing in the windless night, as still and deliberate as a painting.

“Always a drama queen…” Tony muttered under his breath, voice low but cutting.

The figure turned slowly, descending with practiced calm.

Stephen Strange landed lightly on the earth, the crimson folds of his cloak settling around him like falling ash. His face was unreadable—cool, distant, untouched by the exhaustion that weighed down the others.

“Mr. Stark. Captain. Mr. Parker. Shall we get started?" His voice, precise and cool, hung in the thin air, a greeting that was more statement than question. 

Without preamble, Strange raised a hand, his fingers moving with swift, intricate grace. Behind him, the very air began to ripple, shimmering like heat off asphalt before stretching thin. 

The solid rock of the cave entrance groaned, warping and twisting inward with an eerie, silent fluidity. 

Then, in a breathless instant, it peeled open, no longer stone but a gaping, impossibly black gateway to space itself. 

Chapter 19: Bogotá III

Summary:

A short one!

STEVE

 

Steve gripped the shield tighter, the worn leather groaning under his knuckles, edges digging deep into calloused palms.

The universe had never looked so empty. 

Beyond the portal stretched a hollow void, vast and silent.

Stars lingered in the distance, faint pinpricks of light scattered across the darkness—but they were too far, too few, like dying embers in a dead sky.

“What—what happened there?” Steve asked, his voice tight, barely steady.

He swallowed, eyes fixed on the void.

“Wasn’t that portal supposed to open on Earth?”

Strange sighed, slow and quiet, then turned slightly, his silhouette framed against the portal’s cold light.

His hands rested behind his back, the red cloak shifting gently in the breeze that spilled from the rift, its edges curling like smoke.

“It was,” he said, voice cool and distant.

“But this Earth has been emptied. All of its resources, all of its energy—gone.

What about the people?" Peter asked, his voice a strained, barely-there whisper. 

Strange simply shook his head, a slow, heavy motion that spoke of grim finality. 

"Gone, too," he murmured, the words falling flat in the cavern's heavy air.

Silence settled over them, thick and unmoving.

The portal shivered faintly at its edges, its surface rippling like disturbed water, as if the void itself breathed.

Behind it, the darkness stretched endless and cold, stark against the warm browns and muted yellows of the cave walls.

The contrast was sharp, wrong.

A dead universe framed by earth still clinging to life.

“Who could’ve done this?” Tony murmured, his voice low, almost lost to the hum of the portal.

He stepped closer to the edge, the faint glow casting sharp lines across his face.

Steve shifted instinctively, adjusting his stance beside him, the shield steady in his grip.

“I don’t know,” Strange said, his voice steady but cold. “I have my theories, but none are certain.”

He turned, gaze settling on Steve with quiet finality.

“Captain, I need you to step closer.”

Steve’s breath caught, sharp and shallow.

Beside him, Tony and Peter snapped their heads toward him, matching frowns creasing their faces, tension pulling the space tight between them.

Steve moved, his boots grinding against the rough rocks as he stepped closer. 

Each step felt heavier than the last, the chill from the portal sinking deeper into his skin.

Strange's gaze, sharp and assessing, tracked his every motion, evaluating his entire presence with an almost surgical precision.

“I’m afraid I’ve discovered the key to closing these portals,” Strange said, his voice quieter now, edged with something bitter.

A faint grimace pulled at his mouth, like the words themselves left a sour taste.

“It’s not pleasant.”

"Tell me," Steve ordered, his voice flat, cutting straight to the chase. 

Strange's eyes flicked to Tony—a swift, almost imperceptible glance—then snapped back to Steve, his gaze grim and unyielding.

"This portal was opened by two very distinct energy signatures," Strange began, his voice taking on a measured, almost academic tone. "My counterpart has informed you of it…" 

Steve didn’t hesitate. "Yes, Morgan's signature," he answered, his voice firm. 

The other one is likely the force dragging her through the multiverse."

 He gestured towards the shimmering, dark void of the portal with a slow, deliberate sweep of his hand. "This universe already has had many intrusions from neighboring realities. And they are all linked to the same signature as this portal." 

Tony’s jaw tightened. 

"So whoever has taken Morgan is also destroying planets on other universes?" he asked, his voice low and laced with cold menace.

Strange nodded, his gaze grim. "Yes. This universe is almost empty. Only a few star systems remain." 

The words landed like a physical blow. A cold dread bloomed in Steve’s gut, pulling the air from his lungs. His vision blurred at the edges, comprehending the vast, unimaginable scale of the emptiness. 

Who could commit such genocide? 

The question echoed, cold and hollow, in his mind.

"But… why?" Peter asked, his voice barely a whisper, shrinking inward.

 Tony was shaking, a low, barely suppressed tremor running through his frame.

 "To get its resources. To get more energy, more firepower," he bit out, his voice dripping with fury. "Motherfucker’s harvesting the life itself.”

Strange cleared his throat, a dry, almost reluctant sound.

 "Captain," he said, his voice careful, grim. "There's no easy way to say this." 

Steve’s jaw clenched, a muscle ticking tight. His mind, a cold dread already coiling within it, had already jumped to the impossible, horrifying conclusion. 

"The other energy signature is yours.” sentenced Strange.

A deep, cold dread seized him. It rattled through his bones, an icy tremor that expanded his chest until each breath felt like a tearing pain. His knuckles went stark white, nails digging fiercely into his skin, past the worn leather of his gauntlets.

"What?" Tony asked, his eyes wide with genuine bewilderment. "Don't be an idiot, Strange, how can it be his?" 

His voice, usually sharp, seemed to blur, distant and muffled in Steve's ears. 

He couldn't breathe. His lungs felt seized, air trapped in his chest. His pulse was pounding loud in his ears, drowning out everything but the hollow ache settling in his chest.

"The energy is Steve Rogers', is undeniable," Strange reaffirmed, his hand sweeping through the air with a swift, arcane gesture. 

In a small, shimmering bubble, a vision materialized. 

It was war.

Worlds collided, not just once, but in endless, brutal crashes. Planets exploded, their fragments streaking across the void in a horrifying ballet of destruction. Fire, ash, and blood rained through the cosmos. 

And in its grim center stood Steve Rogers. The one with the jagged scar across his face. The very man Steve had seen control the shades. 

His army of shadows and distorted beings washed away life across the universe until nothing but ruin remained.

Steve's knees buckled. A sudden, raw weakness seized him, threatening to drag him to the dirt. 

How could someone with his face, his name, his very body, commit such an atrocity? 

The question was a claw, tearing at the foundations of his being.

“Wow," Peter murmured under his breath, the sound barely audible, laced with stunned disbelief. 

"Captain, as the energy signature is yours, we might be able to close it using you as a beacon," Strange explained, his voice flat, devoid of emotion.

As he spoke, the horrifying images of war and destruction faded, rippling out of existence within the small, shimmering bubble.

Steve swallowed hard, his throat feeling dry and tight. The horrifying images still reeled behind his eyes, a grim kaleidoscope he couldn't quite untangle. 

"Do whatever you need to," he muttered, his voice strained and tight with a grim resolve.

Tony moved fast, stepping between them before Strange could speak another word. His eyes were wild, sharp with fear barely masked by anger.

“Wait a second, Strange.” His voice cut through the cave, sharp and unsteady. “You said it’ll be unpleasant. What exactly are you gonna do to him?”

He planted himself between Steve and Strange, shoulders squared, as if his body alone could shield Steve from what was coming.

Strange met Tony’s glare with a steady, unflinching stare.

“You have remnants of the Infinity Stones' energy flowing through your soul,” he said, voice calm but firm.

“I’ll channel that energy, redirect it through the Captain. If it resonates at the right frequency, the portal will destabilize and collapse.”

“Will it hurt?” Peter asked, his voice small, trembling at the edges.

For the first time, Strange’s expression softened, the sharp lines of certainty giving way to something almost gentle.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “It will.”

Then his gaze drifted to Tony’s arm, lingering there, heavy with meaning. “The power of the Infinity Stones is too much for any human to bear.”

The words landed like a blow. A heavy, cold weight. 

Before them, the portal simmered, a contained menace. It yawned, an endless black void softly breathing against the night sky, its edges indistinct against the deep, velvet dark.

“No.”

Tony shook his head hard, jaw tight, voice rough with panic. “There has to be another way. You can’t make him feel that—that kind of pain.”

The words cracked slightly at the end, raw and desperate.

Steve stepped forward, steady and calm despite the knot tightening in his chest.

He placed a hand on Tony’s shoulder, firm but gentle, grounding them both.

“It’s okay,” he said, trying to will his voice steady, the words catching slightly in his throat. “I can take it.”

Tony shook his head, twisting his body to face the gaping, dark portal. 

"No, you can't!" His voice cracked, raw with desperate fury. "You can't even imagine the sheer force of it. It'll drive you insane!"He was rambling, hysterical, words tumbling out in a frantic rush. "You don't have the proper equipment, my suit is barely functioning. The energy from the Stones can—it can—" 

Steve’s hands clamped onto his shoulders, firm and grounding, drawing Tony's wild gaze to his own. 

"Tony, it's okay. The serum will take care of it," he said softly, his voice a low, steady anchor. "We have to close it, it's the only way."

Tony shook his head, a furious, desperate tremor running through him. "No! It's not—we can—try another wizard! We don't know if this one is even good at this!"

Peter, quietly, almost wearily, murmured, "He's the Sorcerer Supreme."

Tony's head snapped toward him. 

"I don't care!" he snarled, his voice raw. "He could be God himself. I won't—this can't happen!”

The portal hummed behind them, a low, persistent thrum that vibrated through the very air of the cave.

“There isn’t much time,” Strange said quietly, his voice cutting through the rising noise, steady but urgent.

Steve nodded once, the decision already made. 

“Tony.” He reached out, steadying Tony’s face between his hands, thumbs brushing lightly over his temples. His touch was firm, grounding, holding Tony still in the chaos.

“Let me do this.” His voice was low, sure, but gentle. “Trust me. I can take it.”

Tony froze, every line of him trembling, his eyes locked onto Steve’s.

Steve held the gaze, steady as the storm built around them.

“We have to close these portals. You saved us once. Let me have a crack at it.”

Then, softer, he leaned in, resting his forehead against Tony’s, their breath shared in the narrowing space between them.

“I promise you. I’ll be fine.” he whispered, the words a solemn vow against Tony’s skin.

Tony swallowed, a harsh, painful sound. Steve could hear his rapid, ragged breathing, quick bursts in the tense quiet. 

"I don't wanna lose you," Tony whispered, his voice splintered and raw. "I can't. I- I'm not- I'm not strong enough." 

Steve kissed him gently, a soft, anchoring press to his temple. 

"You won't," he murmured, his voice quiet but absolute.

Tony inhaled a shaky breath, then he closed his hands around Steve’s, gripping tight. He nodded, a small, reluctant dip of his head. 

"You better survive this," Tony whispered, his voice rough. "Or I'll kill you." 

Steve grinned, a soft, weary curve of his lips. He finally stepped away from Tony, just enough to address Strange, his gaze hardening with resolve. 

"Let's do it.”

Strange gave a single nod, calm and unreadable. If he was surprised by the kiss, he didn’t show it.

“Parker,” he said, turning slightly, his cloak shifting with the motion, “we’ll use your webbing as a conduit. Could you do the honors?”

His voice was steady, practical, as if asking for help patching a hole in the roof instead of collapsing a tear in reality.

Peter was already moving before Strange finished speaking.

He fired a webline high across the cave mouth, the thin strand catching and stretching tight. Another shot followed in rapid succession, his movements fast, precise, methodical.

In minutes, the cave entrance was layered in a dense lattice of silk—sticky, gleaming strands weaving a tight, steady net that soon covered the dark maw of the opening

Steve drew a deep, steadying breath. He managed a soft smile for Tony, trying hard not to dwell on the fierce, worrying glint in his eyes.

Once Peter’s final web strand snapped into place, Strange moved with silent, precise steps, guiding them into position. 

Steve would be the conduit, his hands clamped onto the tight webbing, while Strange channeled Tony's raw, uncontainable Infinity Stones energy directly through him and onto the portal's shimmering maw

It started without fanfare.

No blinding flash, no thunderclap—just the sudden, crushing weight of power flooding his body.

Steve braced for it, jaw tight, shoulders squared.

He had been crushed beneath the Mad Titan’s gauntlet. Had fallen ten stories onto broken concrete. Had taken Tony’s repulsors at point-blank range.

But none of that—none of it—prepared him for this.

The energy of the Stones tore through him, raw and merciless.

It threaded into his veins like molten wire, setting every nerve ablaze.

His heart seized, then pounded violently, blood vessels threatening to rupture before the serum forced them whole again.

Pain rewrote him, nerve by nerve, and the serum fought to hold him together faster than the Stones could break him apart

He screamed.

A deep, guttural sound, as if it were torn from his throat and hurled directly into the night sky.

The sound filled the cave, bouncing off the stone walls, echoing back at him until it was all he could hear.

His ears rang from the sheer force of his own voice, echoing in the cave like a raw, animalistic howl.

It wasn’t just pain—it was his body breaking and rebuilding in the same breath, over and over again.

He forced his eyes open, fighting to see through the blinding white haze that threatened to consume him. 

He had to get his body under control, to concentrate beyond the searing pain. 

He bent, a raw tremor running through his limbs, holding onto the webbing as if it were life itself.

 He willed the screams to stop. He bit down, clamping his jaw shut, swallowing the pain away with a bitter taste. 

He could do this. 

He had promised Tony he would.

Rays of energy cracked and sparked beside him, lighting the web’s pattern in sharp, shifting colors—blue, gold, and violet flashing across the strands like veins of lightning.

The air turned electric, thick with static, humming through the stone walls and crackling in his ears.

Small bursts of light exploded across the cave, brief and sharp like fireworks gone wrong.

And then, at last, the portal began to shift.

It groaned, low and deep, as the ragged edges of the rift trembled and started to fold inward, fighting against the collapse.

The ground beneath their feet shook, dust raining down from the cave ceiling.

The air surged in all directions, an unstable burst of wind tearing through the chamber.

Steve planted his boots, muscles locked against the force, his heels grinding deep into the dirt to keep from being torn loose.

“It's working!" Peter yelled, his voice a high-pitched, frantic mix of joy and raw, nerve-wracking anxiety. "Cap, hold on! It's working!" 

Steve clenched his teeth, a painful grind, his jaw aching from the relentless strain. 

The veins in his arms corded thick, popping out against his skin, taut with furious effort. 

The portal screeched, a piercing, tearing sound. Its edges visibly started collapsing in on themselves.

Then—a tiny voice emerged. It cut through the screech of the collapsing portal, small and impossibly clear. 

"Daddy? Is that you?" 

Steve froze. 

His muscles locked, and he turned as much as he could, his gaze snapping to Tony’s. 

Tony stood, utterly shaken, his mouth hanging open in disbelief. 

"Morgan?" he yelled, the name a raw, disbelieving sound torn from his throat as he lunged forward.

The current connecting them shook, sending waves of electric pain through Steve's body. A groan slipped from his throat before he could stop it, raw and broken.

Tony stopped in his tracks, his eyes wide with a desperate hope. "Baby girl, can you hear me?" 

The voice came back, thin and trembling, anxiety dripping from every syllable. 

"Yes! Daddy!" she yelled. "Are you all right? I heard screaming." 

Tony shook his head, tears threatening to escape his eyes. 

"I'm okay, I'm okay. Are you hurt, honey?" His voice was firm, but Steve could see his hands shake.

"No, Daddy, but I’m scared,” Morgan answered, voice small and thin. “This place is weird and ugly.”

The nanotech shimmered. Tony was surrounded by the armor the next second, plates snapping into place with a low hiss and whir.

 Steve whipped his head around, seeing with horror the faceplate glide smoothly shut. 

"Tony, no!" he yelled, the sound raw, desperate, torn from his throat.

The armor hesitated, servos whirring, repulsors already heating the air beneath his boots. The dirt at his feet scorched and cracked under the force.

“She’s right there, Steve,” Tony’s modulated voice crackled through the speakers, raw and urgent. “You heard her!”

The power still surged, a raw, screaming current closing the portal. Steve’s muscles screamed back, locked in the desperate hold. 

He just needed a few more seconds. A breath more. Then it would all be over.

“She's not there, Tony!" Peter yelled, a desperate, warning cry as he launched himself in front of the armor. "She's saying it's ugly and weird, not empty space!"

The armor flinched, a subtle, metallic tremor running through its frame. 

The beam, a searing cord of energy, was still coursing from its chest directly into Steve. Every slight movement sent a thousand invisible daggers tearing through his limbs. 

"I—I have to get to her," the robotic voice said, thin and desperate, raw emotion bleeding through the modulator. "She's alone and scared!"

Steve tightened his grip on the webbing with one hand, muscles shaking violently.

He screamed as he twisted, forcing himself to turn, the current tearing through his arm like fire.

Facing Tony, his vision blurred with pain, he tried to find his eyes behind the cold, expressionless mask.

“We’ll find another way!” Steve shouted, his voice strained, breathless.“We always do.”

“But she's right THERE!" Tony bellowed, his voice a cracked, tormented sound, the energy beam on his chest flaring with his fury. 

"Tony, you'll rip everything apart!" Steve's voice tore back, sharp and urgent. "We know she's alive! We know she's somewhere connected to this universe! We'll get to her!”

Strange swept his hands through the air, fingers tracing arcane paths. Glowing magic runes spiraled out from his palms, shimmering over the portal’s violent surface. 

They shifted, twisting through a spectrum of impossible colors, before settling into a pulsating, bright orange. 

"She's not in this universe," he stated, his voice cutting loud and clear over the roaring wind. "She's using the multiverse fabric as a conduit to talk to us.”

Tony slapped back his mask, the familiar hiss of repulsors receding with a violent snap of metal. His eyes were red-rimmed, heavy with exhaustion. Wet tracks shone faintly on his cheeks.

"Steve…" he said, his voice a broken, desperate plea, catching on a sob. "She's my daughter.”

Steve's heart gave a violent lurch in his chest. Tony stood before him, utterly undone. His shoulders, usually so tightly wound, sagged, and his gaze was unfocused, adrift. 

For the first time, Steve saw him truly lost, with no idea what to do.

"We'll save her." Steve’s voice was firm, unwavering, a bedrock in the swirling chaos. "Tony, you have to trust me." 

Tony’s lips pressed into a tight, grim line. His gaze, desperate and searching, locked onto Steve's eyes, trying to find a footing in the impossible. 

Steve held the stare, steadfast, meeting the fierce intensity of Tony’s gaze with his own unyielding conviction. 

Everything hinged on this silent exchange. Tony’s world, their mission, the very fabric of hope—it all relied on whether he could believe in Steve enough.

For an excruciating second, Tony hesitated, his entire frame tensed. Then, he nodded. A tiny, almost imperceptible dip of his head. 

"I do," he whispered, the words fragile, barely a breath. Around him, the nanotech hissed, the suit peeling back from him completely, revealing his form as he added, "I trust you.”

Steve managed a soft, weary smile, tears finally tracing warm paths down to his jaw. He turned back, every muscle screaming in protest, and grabbed onto the webbing with both hands again, his grip desperate and firm. 

He screamed, a gut-wrenching sound torn from his throat, as the raw power redistributed, searing through his veins. 

Beside him, the portal screeched intensely, a piercing, tearing sound of agony.

“Morgan! Baby, we'll come back! I swear I'll find you and bring you home!" Tony bellowed, his voice a raw, desperate blend of softness and consuming fear. 

Across the closing void, the tiny voice answered, impossibly clear. 

"I know you will. You're Iron Man." 

The portal shrieked one last time, then slammed shut.

Steve collapsed onto the ground, hitting the dirt with a heavy thud. 

Numbness seized him first, a cold wave that spread fast. Pain bloomed right after, extending through his whole body. His limbs felt like they were burning, every bone screaming, threatening to splinter. 

Tony was over him in a second, a frantic blur. He cradled Steve's head, his hands desperately patting his cheek.

"Cap! Cap! Come on, stay with me!" Tony's voice was a desperate, frantic plea, sharp in Steve's ringing ears. 

Steve could barely register the sound.

"No, no, no, Steve, don't do this…" Tony stuttered, his hands a frantic blur everywhere over Steve's face and chest. "Don't you dare—you promised!”

Steve's eyelids fluttered open. The night was soft, an easy hush, the wind barely a whisper against his skin. Tony’s face filled his vision, close. His eyes, wide and wild with worry, gleamed even in the deep dark.

"I—I'm fine," Steve murmured, his voice a strained whisper, finding even the simple words a monumental effort. "We closed it, right?" 

Tony pulled him into a tight, desperate hug, cradling Steve's head against his chest. He could feel the rapid, uneven rise and fall of Tony's breathing.

"We did," Tony gasped, his voice thick and broken. "We did.”

Steve sighed into Tony's arms, a deep, shuddering release. The warmth of comfort bloomed, immediate and all-encompassing. A couple of tears fell to his knuckles, cool and wet. He didn't know if they were his own or Tony's.

Tony leaned back slowly, his eyes locking onto Steve’s, luminous in the dim light. His eyelashes shone, wet under the moonlight. His lips were slightly parted, a tender pink against the lingering flush on his cheeks. 

Steve reached for Tony's non-prosthetic hand, bringing it to his mouth for a soft, almost reverent kiss. 

"Thank you," he rasped, his voice rough and strained, raw with a gratitude he couldn't fully express. 

Tony shook his head, a small, weary motion, a few tears tracing paths across his temples. 

"No, thank you." 

Steve managed a faint, exhausted smile, then finally sank, heavy and spent, into Tony's arms. 

He gave out completely under the exhaustion soon after.