Chapter Text
Tony always thought that, if the world were to end, the person he'd want to have by his side was Steve Rogers.
The world… hasn't ended. Not really. But it sure as hell feels like it has. And Steve…
Steve isn't by his side.
There's no point in thinking about Steve — Steve's broken promises, Steve's shield hitting the chest plate of his armor with super soldier strength, breaking the arc reactor in half. Breaking Tony’s heart. Steve, keeping secrets and then leaving. Steve, sending him a letter and a burner phone like that's an acceptable way to apologize.
There's no point in thinking about Steve. But Tony's never been good at keeping Steve out of his mind — not when they were teammates, not in the two years they've been away from each other.
Sometimes, he thinks he can still feel the flip phone in his pocket. Sometimes he reaches for it, only to remember that he left it with Bruce, back on Earth.
Sometimes he misses it.
Sometimes, he wishes he could still go to his contact list simply to stare at Steve's name like he used to whenever he couldn't sleep at night.
Sometimes he thinks it'll be like this forever.
“This is day twenty-one...” Tony pauses, taking a second to redo the math in his head. “Uh, twenty-two. Tricky thing, keeping track of time up here.” His damaged helmet stares back at him, eyes glowing, recording him. Recording a message he doesn't even know if Pepper will ever find, but he needs to say goodbye now, and she needs to be the first to hear it, because she's been there for him this entire time.
“I don't know if you'll ever see this, Pep. God, I hope you do, I hope— I hope you're still there, all of you— Rhodey, Happy, Bruce…” Steve, his merciless mind insists.
He'll never even know how many people he's lost. He thinks about Peter, about the way he can still feel the kid's weight in his arms — can feel it fading away, disappearing as Peter disintegrated right in front of him — and he wonders how many of his loved ones have had the same fate. Perhaps everyone, he thinks with a heavy heart.
Tony lets out a long sigh, his eyes falling closed. “I wish I had a different reason to record this message, but… We did everything we could. Me and the blue meanie back there.” He turns to look at Nebula with a soft smile on his face. She's been a good friend to him in these twenty-two days. Their eyes meet as he spots her sitting at the table where they've played paper football together. She's still keeping an eye on him.
Tony takes a deep breath as he stares at his damaged helmet again. “There's nothing left to do. Oxygen will run out tomorrow, and that'll be it.” He doesn't tell her how Thanos almost killed him. How, even if they had enough oxygen to survive a few more days, he'd die from starvation or dehydration soon anyway. Pepper doesn't need to hear about any of that. “Remember I said no more surprises? Well, I was really hoping to pull off one last one, but it didn't… didn't work out this time. I guess I just wanted to say I—”
He's not sure what he wants to say.
Pepper has stuck with him through the hardest times of his life, first as his assistant, then as his girlfriend and CEO, and then as whatever it is they have going on now, because they're not together, but she's always been there — a constant in his life ever since she started working for him, and even more after he became Iron Man.
And then she broke up with him because of Iron Man, and still she stayed. And she kept trying, kept taking him back each time they broke up, and Tony thinks that deep inside she knew it was hopeless each time. That he was too much for her. He never blamed her for it, of course. He'd be too much for anyone.
He wants to tell her he's sorry for everything. He wants to tell her he loves her. He thinks that maybe now she will finally be able to move on, find someone who will make her happy and won't build a dozen Iron Man suits right after promising her that they're going to stop avenging and settle down.
He settles for, “I miss you, Pep. I really hope you're okay.”
Tony reaches for the helmet to stop the recording. He feels so weak, so tired, and he thinks he should probably lie down before he passes out. But as his fingers make contact with the cold metal of the helmet, he knows he can't let himself fall asleep before recording another message.
It's his last chance to do it, after all.
He starts the recording. Glowing eyes scan him again, bathing his face in white light.
Tony squints a little as the light hurts his eyes, and tries to sit up straighter.
"Hey, Cap—" the old nickname slips out naturally, as if Tony had never stopped calling Steve that, and the pang of longing that comes with it makes his chest ache. What he and Steve had — whatever it is that they had — is long gone now. The grief Tony still feels is a weight he's been carrying with him for the past two years. A weight he's been unable to let go of.
Or maybe unwilling would be a more fitting word for it.
He's not sure where to start. He doesn't know how to talk to Steve anymore, and this is why he never called — how could he even begin to put into words the mess of anger and sadness and betrayal and hopelessness and love that threatens to overwhelm him whenever he thinks about Steve?
He needs to pull himself together. He has things he needs to say to Steve, and Steve might never get to hear any of it and Tony will never get an answer, but he needs to get it off his chest anyway.
“How funny is it,” he finally says, unable to keep the bitterness out of his tone, “that I never called or texted you in the past two years, and now that I'm going to die, the person I want to talk to the most is you?”
Tony shakes his head, looking away from the helmet, avoiding its eyes like he would have avoided Steve's. "I think it's because you'd get it, you know. You'd understand me right now. How it feels to be stuck… To know you're going to die, with no alternative but to wait for it to happen…”
It's interesting, he thinks, that he and Steve are so different and yet have so much in common. So much shared experience. It used to be so easy to talk to Steve before the Accords. Before he lost Steve's friendship.
“And it's ironic, isn't it, how I spent the past six years waking up in a cold sweat from nightmares about dying in space, only to find myself here now…” He lets out a chuckle, but that sounds bitter too. Oh, his dreams may not come true, but his nightmares certainly do. He might find humor in it if it weren't for the terror he feels whenever he stares out the windows of the Benatar and sees nothing but darkness.
“You'd understand this, too,” Tony mutters, his eyes fixed on his own hands on his lap. How many times, while living at the compound, did Tony get up in the middle of the night only to run into Steve in the kitchen? How many times did Steve keep him company while Tony drank coffee at 4 A.M. just to avoid falling back asleep and finding himself surrounded by an army of Chitauri again? Steve had nightmares too, of course, about the ice. Steve got it.
Somehow, even when they didn't see eye to eye, it was Steve who always truly understood him in the end. He thinks that that's why he trusted Steve so much.
That's why Steve's betrayal hurt so much.
But this is the moment people start thinking about all of their regrets, and Tony has a never-ending list of those. More than anything, he regrets not having called Steve before getting on this goddamn ship, even if just to hear Steve's voice one last time, no matter how much it would've killed him to do so.
He wants to ask Steve if there's anything he could've done to fix things between them. If Steve knows that when he left, he took a part of Tony with him.
Some words are too difficult, some feelings are too painful to say out loud.
“I'm sorry I never called,” he manages. “I carried that damn flip phone with me everywhere I went. Drove Pepper crazy. I should've called, I should've told you how I—”
No. He can't tell Steve how he feels now. There's no point in confessing his love in a message he doesn't know if Steve is ever going to hear, and even if he does hear it Tony will be dead by the time he does, and it won't matter anymore.
His feelings for Steve, however unconditional and unchanging, have never mattered, because Steve has never loved him back.
"I don't know if you'll ever find this,” he says then, like he said to Pepper, but his voice is weaker now. “I hope you're still there, Cap, you— you have to be. The world needs you, now more than ever.” He doesn't know how anyone could live in a world without Captain America, especially now. He knows that he couldn't.
All he can do is hope to God Steve is still alive, for the sake of everyone else.
He sighs, his eyes falling closed, and he wishes it weren't too late for a reconciliation.
“Please take care of them. I know you will, because that's what you do. Pepper, Rhodey, Happy, the team— Everyone. Whoever’s left, just— take care of them for me, Cap.”
He looks away from the helmet, avoiding its glowing eyes again, the eyes that light up Tony's face like spotlights. What if they're all gone? What if they're all gone and so is Steve? What if they're gone because he failed to find a way to keep Earth safe, because he wasn't strong enough to protect them?
His vision goes blurry as tears form in his eyes, and he reaches for the helmet again to stop the recording, its glowing eyes going dark as Tony turns it off. Steve doesn't need to see him cry.
He wishes he could see Steve again, even if one last time, even if for a second.
Tony puts the helmet down and covers his face with his hands, trying to stifle a sob.
“Tony,” Nebula quietly calls his name. Tony hasn't even heard her approaching, but her hand squeezes his shoulder gently as she kneels by his side, her worried eyes fixed on him. “Are you alright?”
“Yeah,” he says, and they both know it's a lie, but she doesn't call him out on it.
“Come on, you need to rest,” she says, helping him up, and Tony feels too weak to argue. So he nods, leaning into her for support as they walk, and she helps him into the chair where he's going to fall asleep and never wake up again.
He wants to tell Nebula he's sorry that he couldn't get them out of here. That she deserves better than this, better than to die stuck here with him. He can't make himself speak.
As his eyes fall closed, his mind wanders back to Steve. Steve's face was the first thing he saw when he woke up after the wormhole. After finding himself alone in space, convinced that he was going to die. Steve, with eyes as blue as the sky on a sunny day, lighting up as they looked into Tony's. Steve, smiling like Tony was his favorite person in the whole world.
If Tony could make one wish right now, it would be to wake up to those blue eyes again.
Tony walks out of the spacecraft slowly, leaning on Nebula maybe a little more heavily than he would like to, when Steve comes running up to him at super soldier speed. Steve gives Nebula a nod as he offers Tony his arm, and Tony takes it, clutching it with both hands, needing both support and proof that this is real and not some kind of hallucination.
Proof that Steve is really here. That the world hasn't lost Captain America, even though Tony lost Steve two years ago.
“Cap.”
Steve offers him a soft smile. “Hey, Tony.” His free hand finds Tony's shoulder and squeezes a little — like he, too, can barely believe that Tony's real. “You're safe now,” Steve tells him, and Tony thinks he sounds a little choked up. “You're home.”
Six years ago Tony survived the endless darkness of space just to be brought back home to Steve. Today, history repeats itself. Tony wishes they were still the same people they were back in 2012, he wishes that the world were still the same, and that they could start over — no history, no resentment, no heartbreak.
He holds on to Steve like his life depends on it, like Steve will disappear if he lets go. His chest hurts as he breathes, as he tries to control the turmoil of emotions inside him, because Steve is here and Steve is safe and he wants to cry in relief, he wants to lean against Steve's chest and wrap his arms around him and let the steady beat of Steve's heart chase all his worries away.
Steve wouldn't let him, would he? Steve wouldn't want him to. Steve doesn't like him like that.
But Steve's here — comforting somehow, familiar. Tony thought he'd never see him again, that he'd never see anyone again.
“I couldn't stop him,” Tony says, his voice weak and raspy as he squeezes Steve's arm with all the strength he has left.
Steve wraps an arm firmly around him, ready to hold him up, and it makes Tony's heart ache. Steve's eyes still look so sad. So broken. Tony has never seen him like this. “Neither could I.”
“I lost the kid,” Tony confesses helplessly, tears forming in his eyes again. He failed, he wasn't strong enough, he wasn't enough—
“Tony, we lost,” Steve says with a grimace, like it hurts him to admit it. “All of us.”
They weren't enough.
Tony nods, trying to hold back his tears because he fears that once they start falling they'll never stop. He finally tears his gaze away from Steve to see Natasha, Rhodey, and Bruce standing at a distance. Tony wonders how long they've been standing there, if they've been watching him and Steve this whole time.
He's about to ask about Pepper, already expecting the worst, when she comes running in his direction. Steve politely steps out of the way as she pulls Tony close, and he finds himself enveloped in her arms, his face buried in her hair. It smells just like he remembers. Familiar. Like home.
“Oh, my God,” Pepper says, squeezing him tighter. “Oh, my God, Tony, I was so worried.”
“It's okay,” he says softly, returning the hug, running his fingers through her hair the way he always liked to do. “I'm here now, Pep. I'm okay.”
But Tony's eyes find Steve's again as Pepper kisses Tony's cheek, and Tony thinks he sees a pained expression in Steve's face before Steve turns away.
“Come on, let's get you inside.” Pepper starts leading him into the compound, with Rhodey hurrying to grab Tony's other arm and help him walk. As Tony turns his head to look over his shoulder, he sees Steve still standing on the exact same spot they left him.
He still sees pain in Steve's eyes. And something that looks like longing.
Tony's probably seeing things that aren't there.
“Tony, I'm gonna need you to focus.”
It's the first time he's seeing Steve in two years, and this is what he gets, instead of an apology — Steve telling him to focus. Like he's not paying attention. Like he could think about anything other than what he just went through.
Anything but the fact that he failed, that a kid died in his arms not three weeks ago. That a kid disintegrated into ash, still holding onto Tony and begging not to die, and Tony could do nothing to prevent it, nothing but to watch it happen. So many people died because Tony wasn't strong enough to fight Thanos on his own. Without Steve. Without the rest of the team.
No matter how hard he'd tried, no matter what he did to keep his friends and the entire planet safe, he always knew something like this was going to happen. He warned Steve about it, he warned the whole team about it four years ago, that whatever he could do — whatever they could do, it wouldn't be enough. Steve didn't listen. Nobody did. Worse than that — Steve reassured him that it would be fine, because the team would always be together. Because Steve would always be with him.
Oh, Steve had never said that he was making a promise, no. But it felt like one to Tony regardless, because it felt like Steve meant it. Because he trusted Steve.
People change, he supposes. Things change. Shit happens.
“And I needed you, Steve,” he says. “As in past tense. That trumps what you need.”
That's a lie, of course, and Tony thinks that at least half of the people in the room can see right through him. Including, maybe, Steve himself. It's a lie. He still needs Steve, present tense. He will always need Steve. He thinks he needed Steve before he even met him. It's just one of the laws of the universe. Tony Stark needs Steve Rogers. He's given up trying to change that.
“You know what I need?” Tony reaches for the table in front of him for support as he attempts to stand up from his wheelchair, clumsy and uncoordinated, accidentally pushing a bowl to the floor with a clatter. “I need to shave.”
Tony pushes himself upright with difficulty, feeling dizzy. This time Steve doesn't run to him and offer an arm to steady him, and all the pain, grief and resentment he's been bottling up threaten to finally spill out of him. “And I told all of you that we needed to put a suit of armor around the world,” Tony continues, pulling out the IV from his arm as he speaks. He hears an exasperated sigh that's probably from Pepper, but his eyes remain fixed on Steve as he continues, ignoring the pain in his arm. “Whether it impacted our precious freedom or not. That's what we needed.”
“Well, that didn't work out, did it?” Steve asks so quietly, like he knows he shouldn't argue but can't help himself.
Tony hates all of this.
“It could've worked!” He raises his voice without even realizing he's doing it, upset enough that he doesn't care that they're not alone, that there are people in this room who don't even know why he and Steve are arguing. “If you'd believed me, if you'd let me try again, if you'd helped me protect this planet—”
“Tony—”
“This could've been prevented, Cap,” he insists, not interested in whatever Steve was going to say. “But that wouldn't work for us, right? We're the Avengers. Not the Pre-vengers.”
“Okay, Tony, that's enough.” Rhodey reaches for him, resting a hand on his arm, squeezing a little to get his attention. “You made your point, okay, now sit down.”
“No, wait, I'm not done.” Tony pulls his arm out of Rhodey's hold without even looking at him. “I said we'd lose. Remember that, Cap? Remember what you said to me? You remember, you have an eidetic memory.”
Rhodey's hand rests on his shoulder this time. “That's enough, Tones. You're sick, come on, you need to rest—”
“I'm fine,” Tony says, stepping away from Rhodey again, pretending that the room doesn't spin around him and that he doesn't feel as weak as he does. He can't sit down and be quiet. He has things to say and Steve needs to listen.
“You said we'd do that together too. You looked me in the eye and said that. And I believed you. But guess what, Cap? We lost. And you weren't there.”
You broke your promise, he wants to say. You left me alone. All I ever did was trust you. All I ever did was love you.
“Tony.” Steve steps closer, too close, and somehow still not close enough.
“So no. I got nothing for you, Cap,” Tony says, angry at Steve and even angrier at himself. It makes him feel even more like a failure, having to admit that he doesn't have the answers Steve is seeking. It hurts that Steve is here for answers and not for him, and for a moment all he wants is to hurt Steve back. “I've got no coordinates, no clues, no strategies, no options. Zero. Zip. Nada— No trust. Liar.”
He wonders if he's imagining tears in Steve's eyes or if they're really there. He feels lightheaded, but he's almost certain that he sees in Steve's eyes the same pain he feels.
“Here, take this with you,” Tony says, one hand detaching the arc reactor — the housing unit of Mark 50 — from his own chest, the other grabbing Steve's wrist and pulling his hand towards him. He places the arc reactor in Steve's palm and swears he hears Steve gasp when it touches his skin. “You find him, you put that on, and you hide.”
He wants to tell Steve to wait — wait until he recovers so he can come along, because they're going to need everyone to defeat Thanos, the whole team, whoever's left, and Tony wants to help.
But then Steve's free hand comes up to cover Tony's, and his gaze falls to where their hands meet. Steve's skin is so warm and there isn't enough air in the room. Tony lets his eyes fall closed for a moment, willing the dizziness to go away and thinking that maybe it's time to take Rhodey's advice and sit down.
He feels naked without the comforting weight of Mark 50's arc reactor against his chest, too vulnerable without his suit, defenseless in front of Steve, who has broken his heart once, and is somehow doing it again, because he still has that power. Because six years ago Tony put his heart in Steve’s hands, handed it to him as easily as he handed him Mark 50 just now, and he always knew it would be a bad idea, but he doesn’t think he ever truly had a choice in the matter. Tony hasn't had shrapnel in his chest for five years now, but it hurts like he still does, and Tony never knew that heartbreak could feel like this.
“Tony, are you okay?” Steve's voice sounds distant, like Steve is far away instead of standing right in front of him. He thinks that the hand cupping his cheek has to be a figment of his imagination.
It takes all the strength he has left to open his eyes and look at Steve again. He tries to focus on Steve's worried eyes as his vision blurs, and he can feel his own body going limp just as Steve's arms wrap around him tightly.
He thinks he hears Steve saying his name again, right next to his ear, as everything goes dark.