Archive of Our Own

It wasn't worth it.

It's the one thing he can never tell anyone, now. It's what he should've told Steve two days ago, when Steve could still hear him. When it could still make a difference. When he still had the chance to apologize and fix their relationship, even if just a fragment of it. When there was a slight chance that Steve could still love him.

Because Steve had loved him — and wasn't that the worst part of it, in the end? Steve had loved him, first as a friend and a teammate, then as a lover. Steve had loved him — the man who showed him the future and gave him a home. The man who lied to him, who lay next to him in their bed every night and pretended that everything was fine while keeping secrets that he knew Steve would never forgive him for. And wasn't that the worst thing he could've done? The worst kind of betrayal?

He keeps hearing Steve's voice in his mind, nearly hysterical as Tony stood in front of his prison cell, his eyes shining with tears that never fell as he glared at Tony and yelled, you made this war! You ruined us! You threw away everything that we built together!

Despite everything, Steve never broke up with him. Never said that they were over. Not when he found out about the SHRA, not when they met at the mansion in the wake of Bill’s death, not in any of the fights they had. So Tony let himself cling to that hope. He'd stop Project Wideawake from running. He'd win the war. It would take time for Steve to forgive him, he knew, but he'd make Steve see reason, eventually. They'd talk it out and they’d get over it, because they’ve always gotten over everything, and maybe then Steve would kiss him and they'd be together again and they'd heal and become stronger for it.

It was that thought that kept him going.

But he didn't let Steve see the tears running down his face, that day in the Raft. He kept the faceplate down, made their encounter as impersonal as he could. He hid himself from Steve, just as he'd hidden the SHRA and the Illuminati from Steve. Because he never learns, does he. He let Steve think he didn't care, made it look like it wasn't killing him to see Steve like that, injured and upset and behind bars and hating every fiber of Tony's being. He swallowed hard and tried to make his voice as steady as possible as he called Steve a sore loser.

And still Steve didn't break up with him.

So Tony turned away and left Steve in that cell, believing that he'd get one more chance, one more day, a thousand days to fix their relationship.

Somehow, something went wrong. Tony must've done something wrong.

Steve died hating him, and now all his hope is gone. Now Steve lies dead in front of him, his Captain America uniform torn on the shoulders and thighs, his shield placed strategically on top of him to hide the bullet wounds on his torso.

Bullet wounds Tony couldn't save him from because he never predicted this.

Some futurist he is.

Now, with the helmet off, he lets his tears run down his face freely. But again Steve can't see them, can’t hear a single word of Tony's confession, will never know how much the war truly cost him.

Tony stands up, leaves his helmet on the chair. Steps closer to Steve's body, reaches out gauntleted hands to touch his face, runs armored fingers gently over his cheeks.

“I'm sorry,” he says, a hand cupping Steve's face. It's not enough to say it, now that Steve is gone. Maybe it would've never been enough, after everything Tony's done. “I'm sorry, Steve,” he says anyway, choked up, because it's all he can do now, his face only inches away from Steve's. Tears fall from his eyes and land on Steve's cheek, and maybe he shouldn't be touching Steve's body at all but he can't bring himself to stop or care. Nothing matters right now. He leans in to press a soft kiss to Steve's forehead, like he used to sometimes when Steve was asleep next to him, like he used to before he ruined everything between them. Steve's skin feels cold against his trembling lips, and it's wrong. Steve is supposed to be warm, he's supposed to be alive, he's supposed to wake up and open his eyes and smile at Tony and say hey, Shellhead.

Tony moves, his lips brushing softly against Steve's damp cheek before pressing a gentle kiss to Steve's lips. “I love you,” he says against them, lingering there. He's done this before too, too many times to count, just to feel Steve's lips curve in a smile, feel Steve's breath against his face.

There's nothing now. Steve will never smile at him again. Steve will never breathe again.

The sob that escapes Tony's mouth sounds too loud in the room, and Tony covers his face with gauntleted hands.

What am I going to do, he wants to ask Steve, knowing he will never get an answer. What am I going to do in this world without you. How am I going to live.

He doesn't know how long he stays there. He does his best to wipe his own tears off of Steve's cheeks with his armored thumbs, as gently as he can. Maybe Steve would hate him for this. Maybe Steve would tell him it's too late. Tell him that this is all his fault and get your shit together, Director Stark, and that Tony doesn't have any right to be in here.

He should leave. He should put his helmet back on and walk out of this room and step back into the pouring rain and fly away and spare Steve's body from his presence.

He stands up straight, forcing himself to take a deep breath and trying to get himself under control again. He was mostly under control when he came in, safe behind the helmet. He rests a hand on the shield, touches the dry blood splattered there with his fingertips.

His own blood. A reminder of their last fight, as if Tony needed one.

What are you waiting for, Steve? Finish it. A plea disguised as a challenge.

But Steve's eyes widened in horror, glistening with tears as he focused on the broken faceplate and Tony's half exposed face. And Tony knew that no matter how angry Steve was, Steve wouldn't kill him. Because Steve was good, and because Steve—

Steve had loved him.

His vision becomes a blur of red, white and blue, and he blinks and blinks as more hot tears form in his eyes and run down his face and neck, and he would do anything to trade places with Steve right now.

He knew, the entire time, that he may not make it through the war. He'd been prepared to die for it, to do what heroes do, what Steve does — to put himself on the line to save other people. And it was Steve who was supposed to survive the war, it was Steve who was supposed to live through all of this, not Tony, never Tony.

Breathe, Extremis reminds him. No matter what he feels now, he needs to keep going. He doesn't trust anyone else to do the job he's doing. Because it's his responsibility to keep doing everything in his power to keep people safe.

Breathe.

But all he manages is a gasp before another sob racks his body, and then another, and this time they don't stop, this time there is no strength left in him to fight them. He slides to the floor, helpless, defeated, curling in on himself and burying his face in his shaking hands.

Tony sleeps in the workshop or on the helicarrier or on the couch in the penthouse. Anywhere but the bed he used to share with Steve before the war.

He dreams about his memories of Steve whenever Extremis forces him to get some sleep. Dreams about Steve yelling at him about the SHRA and about cloning Thor and about Bill’s death. Dreams about Steve kissing him after missions and right after waking up in the morning and while visiting him in his workshop. Dreams about Steve on top of him, making love to him slow and sweet. Dreams about Steve on top of him, hitting his helmet with the shield again and again until half of Tony’s faceplate breaks and falls off and Steve looks at him with eyes full of anger as Tony begs him to just finish it. He dreams about Steve surrendering with tears running down his face.

He dreams about Steve bleeding out on the courthouse steps over and over and he wakes up crying, every time.

He stands in front of the crowd in Arlington and tells himself he can do this, he can say the words written on the paper in his hand, he just needs to read them out loud, he just needs to focus. But his hands are shaking too hard and he can barely see through the tears and the cold rain that falls into his eyes and he feels too exposed without the armor covering his body and his face. It feels like it hasn't stopped raining since Steve died. It feels like he hasn't stopped crying since Steve died.

It feels like somebody’s carved a hole in his chest that will never heal.

He blinks his tears away and looks at the paper in his hands. Maybe there was a reason you had to be on the other side of every argument, he reads. He doesn't need it, not when Extremis shows him the letter clearly in his mind's eye. It's just so he can hold something in his hands. It's to ground him.

“It… wasn't supposed to be this way,” is what comes out of his mouth, and that's not what he wrote for Steve's eulogy and he needs to fucking focus. I don't know if I can do it without you, he reads, and the words threaten to choke him. I certainly won't do it as well. He swallows hard. He feels nauseated. He can't say any of it out loud. Not here, in front of everyone.

He stifles a sob. Tears his gaze away from the paper, risking a glance at the crowd, and for a second, just a second, sees him there — in his Captain America uniform, shield strapped to his arm, standing in the front row, in the rain, staring at him.

Tony gasps, blinks, and Steve is gone.

Everyone's eyes are on him, but his search desperately for Steve, for a hint of red, white and blue in a sea of people dressed in black. Steve isn’t there. Steve was never there. Steve is dead. That’s why he’s here. That’s why they’re all here.

It's really him, he said when Logan showed up on the helicarrier just to open Steve's casket and check that the body in there was really Steve's. Steve’s dead. You’re going to have to accept that.

But maybe Logan was right. Maybe Tony is the one who can’t accept it.

Maybe he's just not getting enough sleep.

He closes his eyes and hot tears run down his face and his throat burns with the effort to stop crying and none of the words he prepared seem good enough now. Still, he should be able to say them. He should say more. He should honor the man he loves, instead of letting everyone see what a mess he truly is. Instead of proving to everyone that he never deserved Steve's love.

He bows his head and walks back to his seat next to Carol. Lets Sam Wilson speak instead, and Sam's speech is beautiful and inspiring and everything Tony's should've been. It's what Steve deserves. Sam registered just to be here. That's the kind of devotion Steve deserves. It's the kind of devotion he should've gotten from Tony and that Tony couldn't give him.

Carol holds his hand, slides her fingers through his. She's handling everything really well. Sam is handling it really well. Everyone here has their shit together except for him. They all probably hate him. Carol should, too. Steve certainly did.

“Do you want me to stay with you?” Carol asks very seriously later, when they leave the funeral together. “I don’t think you should be alone.”

“No, I’m—” he says. He doesn’t tell her about the nightmares. Doesn’t tell her that he thinks he just saw Steve in the crowd. Wonders if she noticed his gaze wandering through the crowd the entire time, looking for Steve. “I'm good,” he lies. “I’ll be fine.” He doesn't think she believes him.

Steve is standing in the middle of the living room when Tony gets home.

Tony barely manages to hold back a scream.

He stands paralyzed in the armor, heart pounding loudly in his ears as he watches blood leak from the bullet wounds in Steve’s chest and stomach, painting the front of his suit red and pooling on the floor at his feet.

It’s not Steve. Steve is dead. Tony knows Steve is dead, he saw the body, for fuck's sake. He sat in a room with the body for hours, sobbing his heart out, wishing Steve would wake up, wishing he had died on the courthouse steps in Steve's stead. He just came back from Steve’s funeral.

“Steve,” he breathes, and Extremis tells him there's no one else in the room. That he's alone in the penthouse. “No… It can’t be.”

Steve walks towards him, blue eyes locked on Tony's, and still Tony doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink, scared Steve will disappear again if he does. “You're not—” Tony says, lifting up the faceplate. “You're not here.”

“You're right, Tony,” Steve says, standing in front of Tony now, lifting one gloved hand to touch Tony's cheek. “I'm not.”

Tony flinches at the contact, a shiver running down his spine. He shouldn't feel Steve's touch at all. Steve isn't real.

The plates of the armor fall one by one at Tony's feet, like he just gave it the command to disassemble. Except he didn't. He doesn't remember doing it.

Steve's hand cups his face, the other resting on his waist. Tony can feel the touch through his undersheath, the weight of Steve's hand. He pulls the undersheath away from it and wishes Steve didn't have gloves on. Longs to feel the warmth of Steve's hands against his bare skin.

Steve used to touch him like this once, used to touch him with love. Steve used to lean in and kiss him softly and hold him close, hold him tight in a way that made him believe things would be alright. Now Tony doesn’t know if he wants to lean closer to this Steve, or if he wants to run away.

There's a million things he wants to say. What comes out of his mouth is, “I saw you.” His voice is weak, but he's sure of it now. It feels more real now that he's finally voicing it. “I saw you at the funeral, you were there in the crowd—”

“My funeral,” Steve says, so quietly, dropping his hand from Tony's face. “So many of my friends weren’t there... Most of the ones who stood by me until the end didn’t dare show up… They thought you’d arrest them.”

“I—” Tony feels tears forming in his eyes. He blinks, trying to breathe, to remind himself that this isn’t real, that whatever this is, it’s happening only inside his head. It's Extremis malfunctioning, it has to be. Just a glitch in his code, something he can fix later. The thought doesn't comfort him. “I wasn’t going to arrest them,” he finally manages. “I wouldn’t, not for coming to your funeral, I—”

Steve smiles, but it’s cold and insincere. “But what reason do they have to trust you?”

Tony shakes his head. None, is the answer to Steve’s question. The resistance has no reason to trust him. He’d known from the beginning that he’d lose Steve’s trust. That he’d lose so many of his friends. He lets his eyes fall closed and swallows down a sob. Waits for Steve to hold him or push him away or tell him what an awful person he is.

It takes him a moment to realize he no longer feels Steve.

Tony reaches forward, his fists closing around nothing but air as he opens his eyes. Steve isn’t there anymore. Steve was never there. Steve is dead.

“Steve,” he calls weakly, looking around his living room, his eyes searching for any trace of him, any trace of blood on the floor, for anything that indicates that Steve was actually there. He finds nothing. “Steve,” he repeats in a whisper, but there’s no answer.

The reality of it dawns on him again and he's forced to accept what Extremis’s readings keep telling him: he’s alone.

He walks to the place where Steve stood bleeding when he got home. His shaking hands cover his face as he sinks to his knees at that very spot and a broken, wet sound escapes his throat.

It’s his fault. It’s all his fault.

You made this war.

“What am I going to do without you, Steve,” he says, sobbing, his arms wrapped around himself as he curls up on the floor.

The only answer he gets from the empty room is complete, unbearable silence.

He dreams about Steve on top of him.

Steve's shield repeatedly collides with his helmet until Tony feels the faceplate crack, until error warnings flash before his eyes, and he thinks that this is it, Steve is going to kill him now, it's all over. He presses his palm flat against the star on Steve’s suit, trying to push Steve away, but Steve hits him again and again and his repulsor fires through Steve's chest without him giving the command. Everything stops. Steve collapses half on top of him. Somebody's screaming, and Tony's paralyzed in terror under Steve's lifeless body— What has he done? He killed Steve just like he killed Mallen. He killed Steve. He needs to move, needs to get Steve off him, needs to get out of the armor, needs to get out, but the armor is offline and he’s trapped inside it and the chestplate feels too heavy, too tight, pressing down against his chest until he can’t breathe, and he tries to scream but no sound comes out—

He jerks awake, shaking, his eyes wet. He looks around the workshop in the dim light, looking for evidence that he’s home, that he wasn’t just fighting with Steve on the street.

It wasn’t real, he tells himself. It didn’t happen that way. He sits up on his cot, plants his feet firmly on the floor, swallowing hard, nauseated, his heart still pounding. I didn't kill him, he thinks, firmly.

But in a way, he did.

He closes his eyes, rests his head against the wall behind him. Breathes deeply trying to slow down his heart rate and wonders if it’s going to be like this forever.

He feels the thin mattress of his cot dipping and his eyes shoot open again.

Steve is sitting there, watching him.

Tony stops taking the armor off. Stops letting people see his face. Stops looking at himself in the mirror.

He sees Steve everywhere he goes, now. He runs diagnostics and tests, trying to find out what’s wrong with Extremis or what’s wrong with him, and the answer always seems to be nothing. He isn’t even sure if he truly wants to find a solution to this. If not seeing Steve anymore — not seeing him ever again — would be a relief or an even worse kind of torture.

Sometimes Steve shows up when he's alone. Sometimes Steve shows up during missions. Sometimes Steve is there when he wakes up in the morning, caressing his face. Sometimes Steve just sits on Tony’s couch, wounded and bleeding, but vanishes as soon as Tony tries to touch him. He always, always appears when Tony wants a drink.

There’s a wall of screens in front of him now and all of them show Steve — Steve fighting, Steve standing in the street with his shield strapped to his arm and smoke billowing behind him, close-ups of Steve’s face that leave no room for doubt about his identity. Before Tony has time to wonder whether he’s hallucinating this too, Maria storms into the room.

“Tony! Why weren't you answering on the comms, I need you to—”

“Do you see it—” Tony asks, pointing at the largest screen. The armor’s voice filters aren't enough to hide the desperation in his voice. “Do you see him too?”

“Yeah,” she says, exasperated, like she knows that Tony's been seeing Steve this whole time. Like she's noticed. “This is real, Tony. And you need to deal with it.”

Tony turns his attention to one of the screens again, looks at Steve's face. “He's back?” he says quietly, more to himself than to Maria. “How is that—”

“No,” a different voice answers — Steve’s voice. Tony's head snaps to look at him. “Still dead.” Steve grimaces, the front of his uniform again covered in blood.

“Tony, look at me,” Maria says firmly, and Tony's eyes linger on Steve for a second before he turns to her, reluctant to let Steve out of his sight. She sighs. “I need you to take care of this. Can you do that?”

Tony opens his mouth to speak, his eyes catching a movement behind Maria. Steve is standing there, pale eyes fixed on him, raising an eyebrow like he's the one waiting for Tony's answer. Like he's unimpressed by Tony's behavior.

“Tony,” Maria says again, impatient.

Tony swallows. It's a good thing he's wearing the faceplate. That Maria can't see the way his gaze flickers to the side to focus on Steve's face instead of hers.

“I can,” he says. Lies, maybe. To her, to himself, and to Steve. “I'll deal with it.”

Carol asks him, too gently, if he’s sure he can handle this mission. If he really doesn’t want to assign it to someone else. He puts on his helmet and assures her that he’s going to be fine. He’s lying. It's clear, by the look she gives him, that she knows it. He’s grateful she doesn’t call him out on it.

As it turned out, the Steve he and Maria saw on the screens that day really wasn't his Steve somehow coming back from the dead. It was Steve from before the ice, a Steve who has never met Tony or any of the Avengers, who accidentally traveled here from the 40's with the rest of his team, the Invaders.

And now Tony's mission is to send the Invaders back to their own time. To capture them without harming them, to put them in quarantine and prevent them from interacting with the world. Even the smallest bit of information that they find out about the present day could change the past, and therefore change everything, and that's a risk Tony isn't willing to take.

It shouldn’t feel this hard. Tony is the head of SHIELD, and, as Carol reminded him, the person they call on when impossible things happen. Tony's the right person to deal with this kind of situation. He’d be ready to deal with it, if Steve weren’t one of the Invaders. If the idea of having to face Steve now — a Steve who's still alive but isn't from this time, a Steve who can't stay here, a Steve who won't know Tony when they see each other — didn't feel like the worst idea in the world right now.

“You're the strongest person I know,” she says, putting a hand on his shoulder, and part of him wishes he weren’t wearing the armor right now so he could feel her touch, and part of him is grateful his face is hidden behind the faceplate.

He doesn’t feel strong. He wants to tell her he doesn’t know if he can do this job anymore. If he ever really could. He wants to tell her he sees Steve everywhere he goes now and he doesn't know why and he doesn't even know if he wants it to stop or not. He wants to tell her that he needs a drink. That he needs a meeting. She’d understand him. She always has.

He doesn't say any of it.

“How many times do I have to remind you that Steve's death wasn't your fault?” she asks when Tony turns around to leave.

Steve stands only a few feet away from him, wordlessly reminding him that it is his fault.

Tony swallows hard. The armor’s voice filters aren’t enough to hide the quiver in his voice as he answers: “At least once more.”

Meeting Steve is, as Tony predicted, a terrible idea.

Reach out to him as a friend, Carol suggests over comms, but Tony can't do that. He can't allow Steve to find out about his civilian identity, or the identity of any of the Avengers. Steve can't know that in his future, they are friends. That they are more than friends. That he's Tony's lover and enemy, that he's the man Tony loves and the man Tony betrays and the man who gets killed because Tony isn't good enough to prevent it.

So he doesn’t take the armor off when he walks into the room where Steve is being held. He doesn’t lift up the faceplate. He keeps his face and his emotions hidden and tells himself that this creates a barrier between them, that the armor is enough to separate him from this whole situation, separate him from Steve. That he can keep his distance, keep it impersonal like he did that day in the Raft while Steve was still alive. That he can do the work, go home, and forget.

Steve glares at him from the couch he's sitting on and struggles against the metal restraints wrapped around his torso and arms as Tony explains why he and his friends need to be detained until they can be sent home. The anger in Steve's eyes feels so familiar Tony thinks it should be comforting. It is anything but.

This Steve doesn't know him, has no idea who he is or what they'll become or how everything will end.

“You have that sense about you,” Steve says then, and he isn’t struggling against the restraints anymore. His gaze is fixed on the glowing eyeslits of Tony's armor with an intensity Tony knows intimately. “You carry the guilt of someone in charge. With all this power and all these weapons at your disposal, the question is… who did you kill, to get where you are?”

You, is Tony’s immediate thought, and suddenly the Steve in front of him changes. The restraints are gone, the blood dripping from the bullet wounds on his chest and stomach stain the front of his uniform. Tony lets out a strangled sound in his attempt to hold back a scream and Steve stares at him with cold eyes and blood running from the corner of his mouth.

Tony turns away, closes his eyes, covers the faceplate with gauntleted hands and wonders for the millionth time if he's going insane and if Steve can hear his pounding heart. Maybe he just needs to run a diagnostic again and he'll find out what's wrong. The one thing he knows for sure is that he shouldn’t have come here. He should’ve asked Carol to do this for him. What made him think he could do this, what made anyone think he could do this?

“Are you alright?” Steve asks from behind him, sounding genuinely concerned.

Tony tells himself to breathe. He feels like crying again. He doesn’t remember ever feeling so grateful that Steve can’t see his face, and he never wants to take off the armor again.

He opens his eyes and there's another Steve in front of him, this one covered in blood. He offers Tony a cruel smile that doesn't look like it belongs on his face at all. “You're not alright, are you, Tony? You're not doing well at all. Are you going to tell him how he dies?”

Tony doesn't answer. He turns around to look at the other Steve — the one from the past, the one who's still alive. There's no blood on him. No bullet wounds. Only metal restraints and a worried look on his face.

“What is it?” Steve insists, standing only inches away from Tony now. “What’s wrong?”

“You—” Tony pauses, trying to think. You'll die because of me, he thinks. You'll die and take a part of me with you and I'll never be whole again. He can't tell Steve that. He can't tell Steve anything. He does his best to keep his voice steady, and feels grateful for the voice filters. “You’re right,” he says. “I do feel guilty. My— Someone I loved died, and it was my fault. And I wish I had done things differently. I’d do anything to change it, to save his life, if I could. But I can't.”

He’s crying. He’s always crying, these days. He wonders if Steve can tell. Steve was always good at reading him, even in the armor. Steve was always good at everything.

“Changing the past like that wouldn't be right,” he continues, trying to convince himself as much as he's trying to convince Steve. “It doesn't matter how much it hurts. How lost I feel without him. How I—” The other Steve, the one in his head, moves back into his field of vision, refusing to be ignored by Tony, and Tony needs to get out of here, he needs to be alone, he needs—

He needs a fucking drink.

Tony shakes his head, trying to clear it. Forces himself to focus on the real Steve from the past, whose eyes are still on him, instead of the Steve from his hallucinations. Forces himself to speak again like nothing’s wrong, like this encounter isn't killing him. “So I can’t let you change the past with knowledge of the future to come. I truly am sorry, Cap.”

“It’s okay,” Steve says, and his eyes are softer now. “I think… I think I believe you.”

Tony nods. Wishes he could find comfort in Steve’s words. In anything. “That’s a start.”

When Steve asks Tony what the Civil War was, and about Tony's friend who died, Tony nearly loses all his resolve. He wants to say it was you and you weren't just my friend and I lied and I betrayed you and you died hating me. He wants to say you made me happier than I ever thought I could be, but I ruined it all because I couldn't choose you, I couldn't put you first.

He gives Steve an answer as vague as he can manage. No details. No names. No nothing.

“I'm sure it was very hard for you,” Steve says, his tone all too familiar, his hand on Tony's shoulder. A touch Tony can't feel through the armor. A touch he longs to feel again. “To do what you knew was right.”

Tony wants to tell Steve the whole truth, all the things he was never able to say. He wants to tell Steve about everything he's done and about all the people who died because of him. He wants to fall to his knees and beg for Steve's forgiveness.

“Thank you, Cap,” he manages, and his voice doesn't sound like his own, even through the voice filters. But if Steve notices it, he doesn't say anything. “You have no idea what it means. What it…”

But Steve is already walking away. Tony watches him go, all the words he can't say stuck in his throat.

The Steve that lives in Tony's mind puts a bloody hand on his armored shoulder. “He would hate you, if you told him the truth,” he whispers viciously. “If he knew about everything you've done.”

Do the work. Go home. Forget.

Tony's failing miserably at this last part.

In the end, the mission was a success. They sent the Invaders back to their own time. Nothing about the past was changed. Everything was restored to the way it was before.

Everything back in its place.

Which means Steve is still dead.

Tony told the Invaders with as much conviction as he could muster that he wouldn't change the past even if such an opportunity was given to him. Yet he can't stop wondering what would've happened if he'd done everything differently. Maybe he should've told Steve about the SHRA as soon as he found out about it, even if Steve would just dismiss his concerns. Maybe he should've joined the resistance like Steve wanted him to, chosen Steve over everything that he believed was right, even if he knew he wouldn't be able to protect anyone that way, that things would get so much worse, and maybe—

Maybe Steve would've died anyway.

Maybe Tony would've died too, and maybe that would've been better.

His hands shake just a little as he pours whisky into a glass. Steve would hate him if he saw him now, sitting in his armchair with the lights off, only the undersheath covering his body, a drink in his hand. Sitting alone with a bottle of Johnnie Walker like he told Bob he wanted to do. It feels like that conversation happened a lifetime ago. It's ironic that this is the wish that came true.

He rubs fingers covered in gold against his cheeks in a futile attempt to wipe away tears that he knows won't stop coming. He holds back a sob and stares at the liquor inside the glass and hates himself for even thinking about drinking it. He's a failure. He's everything Steve always despised, now.

Maybe it doesn't matter, anymore. Maybe nothing matters, without Steve.

He lifts the glass to his mouth, but a movement by the window makes him pause before his lips can touch it. He blinks the tears away from his eyes, trying to see. There's a man standing there, and it’s—

It's Steve.

Steve is standing there, shield strapped to his arm, silhouetted against the large window, the city lights behind him. There’s no blood on his suit, this time. Steve is beautiful, and Tony—

Tony can't do this right now. It's too much, after his last mission. Because this Steve looks so much like the one Tony just sent back in time. Because this Steve is dead. And Tony knows exactly why he’s here.

He can't do this. He needs to be alone. He needs these hallucinations to stop.

He stands up and calls a gauntlet to him, his palm already aimed at Steve. “No. Just leave me alone, just—”

Steve moves just as the gauntlet covers Tony's hand, and Tony fires at him, missing by several inches and hitting the window instead, shattering the glass. Tony doesn't have time to try it again — Steve is already in front of him, the flat of the shield hitting Tony on the stomach as Steve pushes him backwards and shoves him against the nearest wall. Tony's glass slips from his hand and shatters on the floor, spilling whisky everywhere.

Steve's hand closes around Tony's throat. “What the hell do you think you're doing?”

Tony swallows hard, throat working against Steve’s gloved hand. He wonders if Steve can feel the pounding of his heart as his fingers squeeze his carotid. He wonders if Steve will go away if he closes his eyes and wishes it really hard.

Does he even truly want Steve to go away?

Now that Steve is standing so close, he's not so sure.

“Steve—” Tony tries, his voice failing him, his whole body shaking. Steve's eyes look so bright even in the near darkness, so blue, so… alive. Steve isn't alive, and yet the hand around his throat makes it harder to breathe, the warm breath against his face tickles his skin. He wraps gauntleted fingers around Steve's gloved wrist, squeezes with all the strength he can muster, but all it does is make Steve pin him harder against the wall.

“You're drinking again,” Steve says with more than just disappointment in his eyes. There's disgust in them, too. Just like that day Steve found him drunk in a motel room and knocked a bottle out of his hand and compared Tony to his alcoholic father.

A man needs to want to be helped, is what Steve told him.

“You don't understand,” Tony says just like he said then, knowing Steve will hate to hear it.

“I can't believe you, Tony!” Steve moves suddenly, breaking all contact as his hand releases Tony's throat and slips out of his grip. “After everything you put us through!"

Tony's gaze follows as Steve paces the room. Even in death Steve is angry with him. Angry about the war. Angry about his drinking. There was a time, in between the drinking and the war, when he could make Steve happy.

He'd give anything to get back to that.

Steve puts the shield back on his back and pulls the cowl off, revealing unruly blond hair that Tony longs to run his fingers through.

“Are you unhappy with the choices you made?” Steve asks, glaring at Tony. “This is what you chose. What happened to accountability, Director? You don't get to just drink and forget. You don't get to run away from the consequences of your actions.”

You made this war.

Tony lets his eyes fall closed and fights the urge to just slide to the floor and stay there for the rest of the night. He can still hear Steve pacing. “I didn’t,” Tony finally says. “I didn’t even want this job.” Maybe he should’ve told Steve this while Steve was alive. While it still mattered. “I didn’t want the SHRA to pass, I tried to slow it down, I knew it would pass and I knew you’d hate me—”

“You chose this!” Steve snaps. “I asked you to join me. I asked you to fight by my side and you said no.”

Tony shakes his head. “I couldn't.” He remembers that day in the ruins of the mansion, remembers feeling hopeful when Steve showed up, thinking that they had a chance, only to be proven wrong when he asked Steve to register. Remembers how they fought when all Tony wanted was to come to an agreement, to be a team again, to be together again like they used to.

“I couldn't join you,” he continues, and it’s no different from what he said at the mansion and he knows Steve won't listen now any more than he did then. It was his choice, but it was the only one he could make. “We would've lost. I did everything I could to keep people safe. I’m still doing—”

“And do you think drinking will help?” Steve interrupts him again. “Do you think you’ll be better at this job you don’t want—”

“Stop! Just fucking— stop this. You're not even here!” The reality of it hits Tony harder than ever before. Steve isn't here. Steve's dead. He buries his face in his hands. He can't do this, he needs this to stop, he needs it to stop—

“You're supposed to be better than this, Tony,” Steve says quietly. “Stronger than this.”

“Well, I'm not!” he yells, his voice breaking, looking at Steve again with tears in his eyes. Steve expects too much from him, always expected too much, always wanted too much.

Always wanted Tony to be as good as he was.

Tony fights the urge to reach for the bottle still on the coffee table and drink straight from it just to see the utter contempt in Steve's eyes. And maybe — maybe if he drank enough Steve would disappear. Maybe this hallucination, glitch, dream, whatever this is, would go away. Maybe Tony would be able to think more clearly, then. Maybe then he'd finally be able to start moving on.

Maybe trying to move on from Steve would be an even worse kind of betrayal.

He pushes himself off the wall, his eyes flickering to the bottle, his hand itching to grab it.

“No.” Steve moves closer to him faster than even a super soldier should be able to, gloved hands wrapping around Tony's wrists. “Don’t even think about it.”

For a moment, Tony stares into icy-blue eyes, his breath caught in his throat. Then Steve's lips are on his.

Steve isn't gentle. He kisses Tony hard, tongue forcing its way into his mouth, teeth clashing against Tony's, grazing against his tongue and lips. Tony moans, the sound getting lost in Steve's mouth, and Steve lets go of his wrists only to pull him closer, grabbing his waist with strong hands that Tony knows so well.

Strong hands that haven't touched him like this in what feels like forever. Strong hands that feel so solid, so real, and that squeeze him until it hurts. Tony can't stop more tears from leaking from his eyes, can't hold back the full body shudder and the wet, miserable sound that escapes his throat as Steve breaks the kiss and breathes heavily against his mouth. “Steve—” a shaky whisper against Steve's lips is all Tony manages for the split second before Steve presses their mouths together again — warm, demanding lips that don't feel at all like they're not real.

Tony wonders if Steve is doing this to distract him from drinking. Maybe he is. It doesn’t matter. It doesn't matter if this isn't real. It doesn't matter if there's something wrong with him, if there's something wrong with Extremis. He doesn't care.

All he cares about right now is this — the familiar taste of Steve’s lips, the way Steve’s body presses against his own, the noises Steve makes when Tony bites his bottom lip, when Tony grips his hair with his gauntleted hand and tugs. He's missed this, missed the urgency in Steve's touch, the hunger in his kisses. Missed feeling like Steve wanted him.

Steve moves, pulling Tony with him and Tony follows without a question, his lips never really leaving Steve's as they stumble into Tony's bedroom. The bedroom that used to be theirs.

It feels just like Tony remembers. Steve moves just the way Tony remembers as he takes off Tony's gauntlet and places it on the nightstand. He used to enjoy removing Tony's armor piece by piece before taking him to bed. Only now Tony realizes how much he misses that, too.

“Steve,” Tony whispers, pulling him closer, pulling the undersheath back from his fingers before he slides them through Steve's hair. Steve kisses him and Tony melts against him, his hands sliding down to Steve's chest, relishing the sensation of running his bare fingers over the scalemail of Steve's uniform again.

Steve breaks the kiss but his lips never leave Tony's skin, kissing the corner of Tony's mouth, brushing against his cheek and finally stopping as he finds the undersheath covering Tony's jaw.

“Take it off,” Steve growls against it, and Tony wouldn't dare say no. He knows how much Steve hates it when he's covered in gold, hates that Tony stores it inside his bones, hates everything about Extremis and how much it changed Tony. He retracts the undersheath completely, getting it out of Steve's way. Steve rewards him by kissing along his jaw, mouthing down his throat, biting the side of his neck. Tony moans, pushing his hips into Steve's, rubbing his half-hard cock against Steve's suit. He's completely naked in Steve's arms now, and he wastes no time getting Steve undressed too, his hands quickly getting Steve's belt and pants undone, eager to reach Steve's cock. It doesn't take long for Steve's clothes to be a pile on the floor, his boots by Tony's bed, his shield on the floor.

They fall into their bed like they did so many times in the past. It feels familiar, comforting, real. Every inch of Steve's bare skin feels real against Tony's, and he holds Steve close, touches every inch of Steve's body he can reach. Steve slots their hips together, rutting against Tony like he's been desperate to do this too, his cock so hard already, an insistent pressure against Tony's, and Tony arches into him, sensitive, craving Steve's touch. Craving anything Steve wants to give him, anything that resembles what they used to have before Tony lost everything.

“Steve,” is all he manages. It's the only thing on his mind. Steve's name, his voice, his touch, the undying, all-consuming love Tony feels for him. He wraps one leg around Steve's waist and moves against him and Steve moans, pinning Tony down against the bed with his hips. Tony shudders under Steve's body, holds onto him to make sure that's he's— no, Steve is not real, but he feels real, and it feels…

It feels like it used to.

Steve disentangles himself from Tony just enough to wrap a hand around Tony’s cock, rub his thumb against the wet head. Tony moans. Wants to cry. Remembers Steve touching him like this, before the war. When times were easier and they were happy. When Steve still loved him.

Tony caresses Steve's shoulders, runs feather-light fingertips against the back of his neck, cups Steve's face and stares at him with eyes that sting with tears. The words tumble out of him in a whisper before he can stop himself. “I've missed you.”

Steve frowns. Tightens his grip on Tony's cock, squeezes until Tony whimpers. Tony gasps, hands grabbing Steve's shoulders, nails digging into his skin, but Steve doesn't let up. “Fuck— Steve.”

“Don't,” Steve says, sharp as a knife. Then he moves, and for a terrifying moment Tony's scared he will move away, that he'll leave, that Tony will end up lying here in their bed by himself. But Steve merely adjusts his position, straddling Tony's hips instead, and this, too, is familiar. This, too, is something Tony’s missed.

Tony’s hands follow Steve, reaching for his hips, thumbs rubbing circles on his skin. Steve feels as warm as he remembers. Looks just like he remembers.

Tony slides his fingers down to touch Steve’s cock, takes him in hand, fingers catching the pre-come leaking from the tip to smear it all over the shaft. Watches the rise and fall of Steve’s chest as Steve breathes. Keeps his touch light and slow and watches Steve's face and wishes this still meant something. Wishes Steve still loved him.

“I miss you.” He doesn’t mean to say it, knows that it's the wrong thing to say, and fuck, he's crying again — is he ever going to stop?

Steve touches Tony's parted lips with two fingers. Stares at him, disapproving, like Tony’s done something wrong, and that’s familiar too. Then, his gaze never leaving Tony's, he pushes his fingers into Tony's mouth.

“Get them nice and wet for me,” is all he says.

Tony obeys without a word, closes his eyes, ignores the ache in his chest. Tells himself it's fine if Steve hates him now, it's fine, because he still gets to have this. Caresses Steve's fingers with his tongue, slips it between them, thoroughly coats them with saliva. Grabs Steve's wrist with his free hand, sucks his fingers even deeper into his mouth, makes them touch the back of his throat, hears Steve's breath hitch. Wonders what it would take for Steve to let him do this to his cock instead. He wants to take his time, always wants to take his time, but Steve is impatient, already starting to pull his fingers out. Tony lets him, but not before he runs his tongue over them one last time, curls it around Steve's fingertips, teasing, opening his eyes to find Steve's fixed on him, dark and half-lidded.

Tony rubs his thumb against the tip of Steve's cock again, catches more pre-come on his fingers, feels his own cock twitch with how wet Steve is. Opens his mouth to ask in what position Steve wants him and realizes Steve is reaching behind himself. Steve doesn't say a word, but he leans in, bracing against the bed with his free hand, bites his bottom lip and lets out a quiet moan, and Tony knows he's working himself open.

Tony watches him, entranced. “Let me do that for you,” he says, breathless, but Steve just shakes his head. He gets like this sometimes, when he wants Tony to just fuck him already instead of slowly opening him up. So Tony keeps touching his cock, his own erection neglected, all his attention focused on Steve. His free hand touches every part of Steve's body he can reach, caresses his thigh, his stomach, his chest. He pinches one of Steve's nipples and Steve groans deep in his throat, blue eyes dark as he stares into Tony's. Tony does it again and again, smiling to himself when Steve gasps, his cock throbbing in Tony's hand, leaking even more, some of it dripping onto Tony's cock, onto his stomach.

Then Steve pulls his fingers out of himself, and Tony opens his mouth to protest and say that there's no way he's ready when Steve wipes his own pre-come from Tony's skin with those same fingers and resumes his mission of opening himself up as fast as he can.

Tony keeps touching Steve. Never wants to stop. Massages the tip of Steve's cock with his thumb. Wants to tell Steve he loves him, but he's scared Steve might not say it back, that Steve doesn't want to hear it, and the rejection would kill him.

Steve pulls his fingers out one final time, wraps them around Tony's cock instead, pumps him a couple of times. Then he holds him in place, rubs the wet head of Tony's cock against his ass, and pushes it in.

“Oh my god.” Tony breathes. “Steve.” It's so tight. Too tight, maybe, and too dry, but Steve doesn't seem to care.

Steve hisses, sinking down onto him until Tony is buried inside of him. Rolls his hips on top of Tony, eyes falling closed again, his skin flushed all the way down to his chest now.

Steve leans in and Tony reaches for him, sliding his fingers through Steve's hair, pulling him closer until he can just lift his head from the pillows and join their lips. Tony kisses him, holds his top lip between his teeth and tugs. Sucks. Steve groans, cups the back of Tony's neck with his hand, slides his tongue into Tony's mouth, kisses him deep and messy and wonderful, and it makes Tony want more and it makes his chest tight because he knows — no matter how much he wishes this was real — that Steve is gone.

“I'm sorry,” he whispers as they part, can't help it, knows Steve doesn't want to hear that, either. Thinks he shouldn't be surprised when Steve pulls away to sit up straight on top of him again, shouldn't feel hurt if Steve doesn't want to be close to him. He keeps one hand around Steve's cock, rests the other on Steve's hip, feels him moving, moans as Steve fucks himself harder on his cock. Can't determine if the fire in Steve's eyes is lust or anger. Thinks that it's both. “Steve—”

“No,” Steve says, reaching for Tony's chest with both hands, finding Tony's nipples and pinching them hard.

Tony cries out, digs his fingers into Steve's hip. Tugs at Steve's cock, maybe a little too hard, making Steve groan, making Steve squeeze his nipples harder. “Fuck,” he breathes, the pain sharp and unbearable, and Steve is still so tight around his cock, moving at a punishing pace. “Fuck, Steve—”

Steve doesn't say a word, just watches Tony pant and moan with that same frown on his face. Releases Tony's nipples, grazes his nails against them just to watch Tony squirm, catches them between his fingers again and pulls, cruel, unrelenting. Tony grabs Steve's wrists with both hands and can't decide if he wants to keep Steve's hands close or pull them away. He feels tears running down the sides of his face, moans Steve's name, sobs, doesn't really know what he's saying anymore, thinks he's begging, thinks that it doesn't matter.

He loses track of time, forgets how they got here, doesn't know if there was ever anything but this. Steve's hands are gone but his hips never stop moving, riding Tony's cock fast and hard and so tight it almost hurts, and Tony grabs Steve's hips with both hands, thrusts up into him and it's perfect, it's almost enough. Steve rubs his sore, sensitive nipples with his thumbs, and Tony shakes under his touch, thinks he's getting close, thinks about telling Steve that, thinks about begging Steve to kiss him again—

“Please,” is all that comes out of his mouth, and he closes his eyes shut and fucks Steve and wishes he could keep this, that he could keep Steve— “I'm sorry, Steve, please—”

Steve's hand closes around his throat. Tony's eyes shoot open. “Steve.”

“Not good enough, Tony,” Steve says. Squeezes Tony's throat like before.

Tony tries to breathe. Struggles to get air into his lungs. Tries to say that he knows, he knows it isn't, knows it's too late now. Can't make any of those words come out of his mouth. Steve leans in closer, putting more pressure on Tony's throat, pressing down against his windpipe, fingers digging into the sides of Tony's neck like he's trying to leave permanent marks. Maybe he is. Tony lets his eyes fall closed again, thrusts up into Steve, pulls Steve's hips down against him. Feels lightheaded. Thinks Steve is squeezing too tight. Wonders if Steve's trying to kill him. Thinks he'd deserve it.

“It's just not enough anymore,” Steve says again, but his hips never stop, squeezing Tony's cock inside him like he's squeezing his throat, fucking himself hard and rough and not wet enough and just right, and Steve's grip eases just a little and Tony's coming, crying, gasping for air and failing to get it.

Steve finally loosens his grip but keeps his hand where it is. A warning. A threat, maybe. A comfort, somehow. Steve's tireless, still moving, chasing his own orgasm now, and Tony moans and pants, oversensitive and helpless.

Steve's free hand grabs one of Tony's, guides it back to his cock. Tony grips it, pumps him with the same pace as his hips move, feels it throb in his hand. Knows Steve is close, too.

Steve leans in again, until he's breathing against Tony's face, his hand moving from Tony's throat to the back of his neck, his tongue finding its home in Tony's mouth again. Steve moans into the kiss and Tony makes his fist tighter and jerks him fast and hard until Steve comes, until his cock is pulsing in Tony's hand and he comes all over Tony's stomach, panting against Tony's lips.

“Fuck, Tony,” Steve gasps, resting his forehead against Tony's, not moving away this time. Tony wraps his arms around him, holds back a sob, tells himself he can't lose control now. Steve doesn't want to see him cry.

But as he opens his eyes again he sees that Steve's are wet with tears, too.

Tony wishes this meant that Steve forgives him. Wishes he deserved forgiveness. Wishes this were real. Knows he will want to die the moment Steve disappears.

Steve shifts, letting Tony's cock slip out of him, and Tony's hands cling to him, as if he could keep Steve here simply by holding on tight enough.

Steve rests his forehead against Tony's again. “It's too late, Tony,” he says, as if reading Tony's mind.

“I know, I know, just. Please,” Tony pleads, silent tears running down the sides of his face. “Don't leave me again.”

“Tony,” Steve says quietly, and there's no anger in Steve's voice now, just sadness. “You left me first.”

Tony swallows hard against the lump in his throat, against the sob that threatens to come out of his mouth, and digs his fingertips into Steve's skin so tightly he thinks he might be hurting him.

He lets his eyes fall closed again as Steve breathes in sync with him. Breathes his air and wishes he were allowed to keep this. Feels grateful for the soreness of his throat, his nipples, his cock. Hopes he'll have bruises on his neck to prove this was real. Hopes Steve will stay all night, that he'll still be here when he wakes up. Thinks about falling asleep, just like this. Relaxes his grip on Steve and caresses his shoulders instead.

Feels something wet and warm dripping onto his chest and stomach. Smells—

Smells blood.

His eyes shoot open to find blood painting his skin red, gushing from fresh bullet wounds on Steve's body.

This is wrong. Steve wasn't bleeding. He was fine just a minute ago. He was fine, they were fine.

“No,” Tony says, his fingers trembling as he touches his own chest, touches the blood to make sure it's really there. There's a lot of it now, Steve's bleeding a lot, bleeding out on top of him—

“Steve.” Shaking hands reach for Steve's face, cup his cheeks to make Steve look at him, but Steve's unresponsive, eyes half-lidded and unfocused. The only color in his pale face is the blood Tony's fingers leave on his cheek and smear over his jaw as they move to Steve's neck. “Steve,” he tries again, frantically searching for Steve's pulse point, his own heart pounding so hard he can't feel anything else other than his own pulse and his own panic, and Steve's body falls flat on top of him and he can't breathe under the weight of him, he can't breathe, he can't—

Tony squeezes his eyes shut, gasping for air, his whole body shaking. Wills his body to move, to do something, anything, but he can't. Steve is dead. Steve is dead and it's his fault, it's all his fault. The smell of blood is suffocating. He did this, he caused it, it's all his fault.

He forces his eyes open.

Steve is gone. For a second Tony still feels the weight of his body, but it quickly fades away as he looks down at himself. It fades away as if it were never there.

There's no trace of blood on his skin, only white streaks of come. He looks from one side of the room to the other.

It wasn't real, he tells himself when he doesn't see Steve anywhere.

He touches his own chest to make sure. Feels nothing but his own skin and frantic beating of his own heart. Touches the bedsheets. No blood.

It wasn't real.

He tries to slow down his breathing. Makes himself sit up, checks that there isn't a pile of Steve's clothes on the floor next to the bed. He finds nothing. No clothes, no boots, no shield. Steve is gone and left nothing behind.

Steve was never even here. None of it happened, none of it was real.

But it felt real and he's going insane and he lies back down and curls up into a fetal position and covers his body with the undersheath and buries his face in his hands and screams into them and there's no one there to hear him because Steve is gone, Steve is dead and it's his fault and it'll never get better.

The whiskey bottle on the coffee table attracts his gaze like a magnet and Tony can't look away. He wraps his arms around his knees, pulls them tighter against his chest. Maybe his life is just this, now. Maybe this is all that's left for him. His punishment, for Steve's death. He wipes his own tears with a hand that just won't stop shaking and then clenches it in a fist to stop himself from reaching for the bottle.

Steve would hate him if he did. Steve would materialize in front of him, wounded, dying, bleeding out just like he did on top of Tony not two hours ago, and—

No. He can't think about that. He can't.

His eyes still flicker to the spot by the window where Steve appeared earlier tonight. The lights are on now, turned up to full brightness so he can see everything around him. Steve is nowhere to be seen. But Tony still feels Steve's blood on his skin, still smells it all around him. It makes him nauseated and it makes him want a drink and yet he doesn't dare move.

He closes his eyes and reaches for Extremis instead, remembers that Steve would hate this too. Maybe there's nothing about him now that Steve wouldn't hate. He searches for a glitch or an error or anything and continues to find nothing. It's maddening.

He'd do anything, anything at all to have Steve back, real, alive. He doesn't care if Steve would yell at him, fight him, hurt him, as long as Steve was alive, whole, unharmed. Safe. He'd even stop his own heart. Again. Permanently. Gladly.

Tony hides his face in his shaky hands and just lets himself cry into them, hopeless. Presses a golden palm to his temple and thinks that he could simply put the gauntlet on and fire and let all of this be over, and maybe that's what he should do, maybe—

He feels the cushions dip next to him. “Look at you,” the familiar voice says. “You're a mess.”

It's— It's Steve.

“No—” Tony stumbles to his feet, his heart racing in fear of what he might see. What Steve might look like. But Steve looks fine. There's no blood on him now, no wounds. He’s sitting comfortably on the couch, looking perfectly clean and whole and beautiful. Tony loves him more than anything in the world and the pain is unbearable because Steve is dead and Tony can still feel the weight of his lifeless body on top of him and he's losing his fucking mind and he needs Steve to stop haunting him.

“But I'm here to help you,” Steve says, so calm it's unsettling.

“No. You're not.” Tony takes another step back for good measure, blinking back tears. “You’re here because I made you up, because there's a glitch in Extremis, in my brain, I don't know, that I couldn't fix yet, maybe I'll never be able to, and that's the only reason—”

“No, Tony,” Steve interrupts him. “I’m here to help you. Weren't you thinking you'd do anything to bring me back, just now? Didn't you mean that?”

“I—” Tony shakes his head. Rubs his face with his hand. Wants to say how do you know that, but of course Steve knows. Steve exists in his head. “Of course I— but I can't do that Steve, I can't just—”

Steve smirks and it makes his face look wrong and Tony stops talking as a chill runs through his body.

“Oh, Mr. Stark. But I can,” Steve says, and his voice changes, growing deeper with each word. The lights flicker off, engulfing them both in darkness. Streaks of light start to circle around him and Steve, glowing bright red as Tony follows them with his eyes, turning on the spot.

Magic? Really? Is this what his hallucinations are turning into? He must be really losing his mind. And then his eyes search for Steve again, but what he finds, instead of Steve, is someone else entirely.

Tony doesn't scream, but barely. The red demon rises from the couch and looms over him, watching him with white, incandescent eyes. Tony's breath catches in his throat. He knows who this is, but it… it can't be real.

Just like the Steve that's been haunting him all this time isn't real. Just like the Steve who showed up last night and yelled at him and slept with him and bled out on top of him wasn't real.

“Mephisto?” he manages, and he shouldn't be entertaining these hallucinations at all, but Extremis tells him this is real, that Mephisto is really here and he doesn't know what to think. “What—” he doesn't know what to ask first. What are you doing here. What do you want from me.

“I heard you, Mr. Stark,” Mephisto says, answering his unfinished questions. “When you thought you’d do anything to bring Mr. Steve Rogers back to life. You wished it really loudly. You'll be happy to know I can give you what you so desperately want.”

“Bring him back,” Tony echoes quietly, desperate hope blooming in his chest for a moment. Steve, alive again. Tony's deepest, most impossible wish. Tony swallows hard against the urge to cry again. He’s still not sure if this is truly happening or if his hallucinations are somehow becoming more and more intricate, but right now he wants to cling to this hope like it’s his only lifeline. Even if it'll break him later when he finds out it was all in his head. “You can do that?”

Mephisto grins, revealing uncanny white teeth and pointy canines. “Our destinies are made of the finest details, Mr. Stark. Some of those I am not allowed to touch. But others I can, with permission of the one involved. His death is but a stitch in time, one that I can simply… remove. It would be like his death never happened. Of course, there is a price.”

Tony nods. Of course there is a price, and he can guess what it is. “My soul,” he says, resigned. Steve would never agree with it, would never forgive Tony for it, but if this is the price, Tony's willing to pay it. He'll trade it for Steve's life, gladly. “Go ahead, take it, I just want—”

Mephisto laughs, and the sound chills Tony's bones. “Your soul? Hardly. I don't make that kind of deal anymore. No. I deal in the currency of hopelessness, despair, pain and regret. What I want is greater than any single soul.”

Hopelessness, despair, pain and regret. Yeah, Tony's got all of those. “What is your price, then?” he asks. If he's being honest with himself, there's very little he wouldn't trade to bring Steve back.

“I want the most valuable thing you have,” Mephisto says, his expression more eager now, almost hungry. “The source of your happiness, your hope, your dreams.”

Tony's brow knits together. That doesn't make any sense. Mephisto watches him think, clearly enjoying this, the corner of his lips curving in a smirk as he waits for Tony to figure it out.

“That's Steve,” Tony says, finally. “It was Steve. But he can't be the price, if you're offering to bring him back. Are you going to bring him back just to take him away from me? Are you—” Tony pauses, a horrible thought crossing his mind, filling him with dread. “You're not going to make him forget about me.”

“Not completely,” Mephisto says, and the smirk becomes a wide, malicious grin. “Only his love for you. Your relationship.”

“Our—” Tony says, processing the words. His brain is a fucking computer and yet the turmoil of emotions inside him overwhelms him. Hopelessness, despair, pain, regret— as the eyes that stare into his own burn even brighter, Tony thinks that Mephisto is already getting the nourishment he was after.

But it still doesn't make sense.

“He didn't even—” Tony's voice is hoarse, broken. He lets himself fall onto the couch, sitting with his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. It hurts just to think about it, but he makes himself say the words out loud. “I'm not even sure he still loved me in the end, after everything I did.” He remembers the anger in Steve's eyes that day in the Raft, the words that were yelled at him, remembers thinking that maybe Steve regretted having stopped and surrendered, regretted not having killed him. “Maybe he hated me.”

“He never hated you, Mr. Stark,” Mephisto says, the seriousness in his tone is the only thing that makes Tony want to lift his head and meet his gaze again. “He loved you. He felt betrayed by you, he resented you, mistrusted you. But he always loved you.”

Tony wants, desperately, to believe it. But how can it be real, with the way Steve looked at him when they last met? And how can Mephisto even know this?

And if it is real, if Steve still loved him, then…

No, Tony tries to say, but his voice doesn't come out. He blinks as his eyes sting with tears again. He can't do this. “No,” he manages. “That's too high a price. Ask for something else.”

Mephisto raises an eyebrow at him. “No,” he echoes. “If you want him back, this is my price. Otherwise, he stays dead. It's your choice, Mr. Stark.”

“Why,” he asks, squeezing his eyes shut. “Why is our relationship so important to you?”

“Because your love is a constant in every universe,” Mephisto says like it's an obvious statement, like there's nothing remarkable about it. “That is why it's so valuable to me.”

Every universe. Tony meets Mephisto's burning gaze in the dark again. Does that mean that Steve loves him in every universe?

“You can see it for yourself,” Mephisto says as if reading Tony's mind — which, Tony thinks, he might be. He gestures with his hand, and suddenly they're not in the dark anymore. Instead, they're standing in the middle of a prison cell, one that Tony easily recognizes as one of the cells in Project 42. He's about to ask what they're doing here when he spots Steve, wearing an awful orange uniform, sitting on his cot, and reading from a letter in his hands, his cheeks wet with tears.

“Steve,” Tony breathes, stepping closer to him and reaching for his hand without thinking, without caring if this is real or just his usual hallucination. He realizes it's neither when his fingers go right through Steve's hand. Steve doesn't acknowledge him at all, his gaze still on the paper, tears still running down his face.

“What are you showing me?” Tony asks Mephisto, not taking his eyes off Steve. According to Extremis, Tony is still in the penthouse. This prison cell, Steve, the letter in Steve's hands, it's all an illusion. The only thing that's real here other than Tony is Mephisto himself.

“This is Earth-9230,” Mephisto says. “Here, it was not Mr. Steve Rogers who was killed after the war, but you. You wrote him a letter. One that he was only supposed to get after you died.”

Tony watches Steve wipe his own face with his hand and can't help but feel jealous of this earth's Tony. A Tony who doesn't have to live without his Steve. It's Tony's turn to cry now, tears welling up in his eyes. He’s written his Steve a letter too, when he thought he may not survive the war. He's not sure why he still keeps it, but it's still there, in a drawer in his workshop.

“In that letter, you said that the war didn’t change how much you loved him,” Mephisto says. “You asked him to make sure your ideas, plans and inventions wouldn’t fall into the wrong hands. And you said—”

“That the world will still need heroes,” Tony recites, almost in a whisper. He knows this, because those same words are written in the letter in his drawer. The letter that his Steve never got to read. “And that it will still need him.”

“Yes,” Mephisto says. “But that's just one of the ways the war has ended. In this other universe—”

Their surroundings change, Steve and the prison disappearing only to be replaced by the burning petrochemical plant. Tony sees himself and Steve, both their teams forming a circle around them as he and Mephisto watch from a distance.

“I don't need to see this,” Tony says bitterly, his eyes fixed on Steve's right hand where he knows the electron scrambler is. “I've lived it.” He watches his counterpart reach for Steve's hand. Almost wants to warn him, despite knowing none of this is real. He remembers the moment like it was yesterday. Remembers the relief that came with thinking Steve was finally going to listen to him. Remembers the pain caused by the electron scrambler. The pain caused by Steve's betrayal. The ugly fight that followed. Bill's death.

“This is not your universe, Mr. Stark.” Mephisto says. “This is Earth-10208. And here, you took a different approach. Instead of insisting he should join you, you asked for his help. He could see the man behind the mask again, and decided to trust you.”

“I need your help, Cap,” Tony hears his counterpart say, and something in Steve's expression changes. Softens.

Steve lowers his right hand. Rests his left on Earth-10208 Tony's armored shoulder instead. “Let's talk.”

“That's it?” Tony looks at Mephisto again, desperate. He can't believe he's gotten so close to working things out with Steve and failed. “That's all it would've taken?”

“Yes, but it's not over yet.” Mephisto gestures towards the heroes again, and Tony turns his attention back to them.

He watches the Thor clone attack, watches them all unite to fight together. Sees Steve putting himself between Tony and Thor, shielding Tony with his own body. Sees both teams defeat Thor together. His eyes spot Bill, and he covers his mouth with his hand, tears streaming down his face.

This really is all it would've taken. All he had to do was to ask Steve for help, be vulnerable, admit that he needed Steve. It really would've been that easy. And Bill. Bill wouldn't have been killed.

“Everything was fine, after you started working together,” Mephisto concludes calmly, ignoring Tony's distress. The petrochemical plant melts away, and Tony finds himself on the helicarrier, his gaze immediately landing on Steve as Steve types into a computer. Earth-10208 Tony walks into the room still in his armor, but lifts up the faceplate to greet Steve with a smile. Steve stands up, smiles back, pulls his Tony close and kisses him.

“Alright,” Tony says, his voice weak. He looks away from them both, away from Mephisto, wiping his tears away with a golden hand. He doesn’t want to see anything else. “I get it—”

“In Earth-3490…” The world changes around Tony again before he can protest. What he sees is an outdoor wedding venue on a warm, sunny day. What Extremis tells him is that he's still in the penthouse, in the dark. Tony looks around, his eyes spotting Steve, standing at the altar next to a woman in a beautiful wedding gown.

Tony moves closer to the couple, wondering who the woman is with a pang of jealousy that he has no right to feel. But as he looks closely, he recognizes himself in her. Her eyes look exactly like his own, her nose, her lips— even her dark curly hair. Only hers is longer, half in a braid around the back of her head, half cascading down her back.

“Is that…” Tony starts, but realizes he already knows the answer. “That's me.”

Tony feels Mephisto standing next to him without needing to look.

“Here your name is Natasha Stark,” Mephisto tells him. “And you told Mr. Rogers about the Registration Act from the start, which allowed you both to find a solution together. The war never happened.”

Steve leans in to kiss Natasha on the lips and Tony can't keep doing this, can't keep watching images of a life that he desperately wishes he could be living. “That’s enough, I get it, I've seen enough, take me back—”

“Here is another universe where he lost the war,” Mephisto says, merciless. “But in this one, you both survived. And in the end, he forgave you.”

They're back in 42, but this time he's watching Steve walk out of his prison cell. Steve finds his Tony outside and holds him close, so tight it probably dents the armor, but this Tony doesn't seem to care, a large grin on his face as they part.

“He loved you, Mr. Stark. He was always going to give you another chance.”

“Stop,” Tony pleads, his voice shaking. “It's too much, I don't— I don't want to see anything else.”

Steve would've given him another chance. If he hadn't died. If Tony hadn't failed him. They would've reconciled. Somehow, for some reason Tony never understood, Steve still loved him.

But he did everything wrong. He ruined everything. He's a mess without Steve. He's not half as strong or as good at anything as he is when Steve is with him. Even now he wants to drink until all of this goes away.

This time Mephisto seems to take pity on him. With a gesture of his hand they're back in the dark. Back in the living room they never actually left. Mephisto's eyes look even brighter now, but Tony doesn't meet his gaze. For a moment, his eyes search for the bottle still sitting on the coffee table. He wants a drink almost as much as he wants Steve back.

“How—” he says, letting himself fall back on the couch, his voice broken. “How can you erase our love? How can you erase his death?”

“I told you his death is but a stitch in time,” Mephisto says. “I can easily undo that. Your love, despite having a huge impact on your life, is no different. It won't be erased completely, however. He won't remember ever loving you. He won't ever love you again. Nobody else will remember your relationship — except you. You will remember everything. And because of that, your soul will be screaming in agony forever. That is my price.”

Tony shakes his head, tears falling from his eyes without his control. He wants nothing more than to say yes, bring Steve back, no matter the cost. Even if Steve won't love him anymore. Even if he's losing Steve's love forever. On the other hand—

“Changing the past isn't right,” Tony says, trying to convince himself. He knows Mephisto can see the conflict in his mind. Surely Mephisto knows that this is the second time in just a few days that Tony has the opportunity to bring Steve back to life and has to fight the temptation. Surely he also knows that it's getting increasingly difficult to resist. “I just came back from a mission that proved just that. Changing the past is dangerous, the consequences could be—”

“The consequences of this deal will only affect you, Mr. Stark,” Mephisto interrupts. “Only people's memories will be altered, and only about two very specific things. Nothing else will change. Except, of course, Mr. Rogers will be back, and will go on living as if nothing has ever happened.”

Maybe I owe Steve this, Tony thinks. Steve deserves to live.

Steve deserves to live and the world needs Steve and Tony needs Steve, even if Steve will never want him again. At least Steve will be alive. At least Tony will know that Steve is out there, fighting for what he believes in. Steve will be alive, and maybe he will get another chance to be happy.

He'll be happier without Tony.

The thought is nearly unbearable, but no worse than the excruciating pain of having to live in a world where Steve Rogers isn't alive. Where he is responsible for Steve's death.

“So. What say you, Mr. Stark?” Mephisto asks. “Do we have a deal?”

Tony swallows. Closes his shaking hands into fists. “Yes. Do it. Bring him back.”

Mephisto's eyes burn bright, his mouth curving in another large grin. “Excellent. You will sleep now, Mr. Stark. And when you wake up, he will be back.”

“Wait—” Tony says, and then it all goes dark.

Tony dreams about Steve, about a beautiful sunset and a sweet kiss that tastes like coffee and bagels, about a smile against his lips and the promise to reassemble the team. He dreams about whispered words against naked skin and quiet moans close to his ear, about waking up tangled up in Steve and feeling like there's no way life can get any better than this. He dreams about waking up in a hospital bed, and the warmth of Steve's hand against his own, about Steve with wet, red-rimmed eyes, telling him to never ever do something as stupid as stopping his own heart again, and Tony thinking that he'd do it again, he'd do it a thousand times if it meant saving Steve's life.

For a moment, as Tony wakes up, he expects to find Steve in bed with him, the dreams still fresh in his mind. But the memories come back to him, Extremis-enhanced and merciless — of Steve getting shot on the courthouse steps, of Tony being unable to speak at Steve's funeral, of his hallucinations of Steve, of how that hallucination stopped him from drinking last night, had sex with him and then bled to death on top of him in this very bed. Of the deal he made with Mephisto to bring Steve back.

The deal.

If that wasn't just one more hallucination, if Mephisto really was here, if all of that was real, then—

Then Steve is alive.

Tony searches for him with Extremis, finds him easily. Steve is in the Negative Zone. In the prison Tony created, the prison Steve hated him for creating. He finds news about Steve's hearings and about Steve being sentenced to 36 months in prison. Skims through them, his heart beating faster in anticipation as he gets up and steps into the shower. He finds nothing about Steve's death. It simply never happened.

It's not enough to know Steve is alive. He needs to see it for himself, needs to see Steve, talk to him, hear his voice. He covers his body with the undersheath, puts on the armor and flies through the window he broke the night before. There's a gateway to the Negative Zone in Ryker's Island. Tony thinks of nothing but Steve on the way to it.

Tony's never felt this anxious walking into 42 before. He stands in front of Steve's cell, his body shaking inside the armor, and watches as Steve steps closer to him, only the bars between them. The orange uniform doesn't suit him. Steve doesn't belong here.

Steve doesn't say anything, but the displeased look in his eyes feels familiar as he stares into the glowing eyes of Tony's armor. Steve had once told him that he liked the old models better. He liked being able to see Tony's eyes through the eyeslits. Tony lifts up the faceplate, letting Steve see him like he should have the last time they met.

Tony wants to touch him, wants to walk into the cell and take the armor off and hold Steve in his arms and feel that he's real. Feel his heart beating. The rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. Concrete, irrefutable evidence that Steve is, in fact, alive.

He knows Steve wouldn't let him. He doesn't know what to say now that they're both here again, has no idea how to talk to Steve, how to even deserve his attention. What comes out of his mouth is, “You're here.”

Steve's frown deepens. “What do you want, Director?” he asks, the last word said with such contempt it would've hurt less if Steve had punched him.

“I—” Tony swallows, trying to stay composed even when his voice trembles. He's uncomfortably aware of how wet his eyes feel. “I wanted to see how you're doing. If there's anything you need, anything I—”

“Yeah, I need you to leave me alone.” Steve interrupts him. “You won, Stark, you put me in here, what else do you want from me?”

Tony lets his eyes fall closed for a moment, holding back tears. It hits him now, the knowledge that Steve doesn't remember having ever loved him. That all of Steve's memories of him have been altered forever, and Tony can't tell him the truth because Steve would either hate Tony for messing with his memories like that or simply not believe him at all. Steve will never love him again. But Steve is also alive. Steve is here, back from the dead. That's all that matters. It's all that should matter.

Yet, Tony needs to be certain. He knows he won't be able to rest unless he knows for sure.

“Do you remember…” he hesitates. He wants to ask, do you remember kissing me when I agreed to reassemble the team? Do you remember our first night together in the tower? Do you remember how you held my face in your hands and told me you'd always loved me? He can't say any of that. He takes a deep, shaking breath. “Do you remember us?”

“Remember us doing what?” Steve asks, his eyes hard as they stare into Tony's. “Fighting? Or being a team, before you stabbed me, and at least half of our friends, in the back? I remember everything, especially you keeping secrets and lying to my face.”

Tony shakes his head. “I meant… I meant us… together. We were together, we loved each other, do you—”

The crease between Steve's eyebrows grows even more pronounced now. “Are you insane? What kind of joke is that?”

Just a stitch in time, Tony hears Mephisto's voice in his mind.

Mephisto was true to his word. Their relationship, their love, Steve's memories of them together, it was all erased. Just a stitch in time. It feels more important than that to Tony. It feels like his entire world is collapsing without it. Like Steve's love for him was the very foundation that sustained his world.

“I'll get you out of here,” Tony says quietly.

Steve lets out a bitter, humourless laugh. “You suddenly realized you care? Who are you making a deal with to get me out? That's how you always solve your problems, isn't it?”

You have no idea, Tony thinks. He’s used to making deals Steve disapproves of, but he knows Steve would consider the latest one the worst of them all. No, Steve can never know about Mephisto. He'd never accept it. He wouldn't understand. Keeping secrets and lying to Steve's face. Apparently that's all he knows how to do. He was too selfish and weak to live without Steve.

He doesn't say anything, not trusting his own voice. He covers his face with the faceplate just in time, as thick tears fall from his eyes and run down his face.

“You're disgusting,” Steve says, glaring at the faceplate.

Tony can't argue with that. He bows his head. “Farewell, Steve,” he says, the armor’s voice filters masking the pain in his voice just enough that he thinks Steve won't notice.

Steve doesn't answer, and Tony leaves without another word, barely seeing where he's going through the tears, trusting Extremis to guide him.

He makes the phone call as soon as he takes flight. “Secretary Kooning,” he says as Kooning picks up, fighting to keep his voice steady. “It's Tony. I need to see you.”

Tony doesn't spill any whisky as he pours himself a drink. His hands don't shake. He sobbed the whole way home, until his head was pounding and he couldn't breathe and was out of tears. There's nothing left now. Nothing left of him.

He looks around the kitchen, half expecting Steve to appear — not the real Steve, of course, but the one that lives in his head, the one that appears to yell at him and haunt him. But Steve isn't here, and Tony wonders for a moment if Mephisto took the hallucinations away, too. Tony doesn't know how to feel about it.

He finds himself wishing Steve would materialize in the kitchen, push him against the counter, punch him in the face, tell him what a failure he is, kiss him, bleed all over him. But Steve doesn't, and there's no one here this time to stop Tony from lifting the glass to his lips and taking a swig.

He finishes the first drink, refills the glass and brings the bottle with him to the living room. And that's when Tony sees him, sitting on the couch, his Captain America uniform covered in blood. He looks up at Tony with glassy, colorless, dead eyes.

The sight doesn't startle Tony. He simply walks to Steve. He's not afraid this time. He's not sure he can feel anything anymore.

This is the Steve he gets. Maybe it's the Steve he deserves. A Steve who isn't real and therefore can't be hurt by him. A Steve that's here to haunt him, torture him for the choices he's made.

Tony sits next to him. Wonders again, distantly, if he's gone completely insane. Decides it doesn't matter.

Steve just looks at him, and smiles.