#shruuuug

She bristled.

4 years prior she'd run away from The Nameless Caravan and swore she'd never be beholden to anyone ever again.

Now, here she was trapped in service to a greedy, violent, dangerous crime lord who got off on telling her to do what she was told. It was as though she'd never even left the Caravan in the first place– apart from the fact that Red Moon was generous enough to pay her for the abuse.

This is temporary, she told herself as she took a deep breath in preparation. The plan is already in place. You're getting out of this. You're going to be fine. And you'll never ever ever do a job you don't want to do ever again. Just… just do this thing…

Red Moon would stay on the line. He'd want to hear it happen rather than wait for her to call back. That was just the sort of sick fuck he was. So there'd be no chance to talk to this woman. No explaining anything. Just sudden violence and the cracking of bones.

Not my thing. Malika could feel the panic attack starting to form in her chest as she grappled with the weight of going against her 16 year old self's promise not to do anything she didn't want to ever again. There was no time for that.

"Fine," she said on the line.

Nymeia, I'm sorry. If you have one more miracle left for me, I could really use it…

Three…

Malika pressed her shoulder against the closet door.

Two…

She turned the handle and readied herself to slam the door open and rush her victim.

O–

The music stopped. Malika stopped, too.

"What's happening?" Red Moon demanded.

Malika didn't answer. She didn't know. And with the music stopped it was too risky to speak.

"Sera, I can't do this. I don't want to do this. Something feels off. Something feels wrong. No. No, not with the piece. With this– this whole thing. Everything. Give the solo to Tali. It'd mean the world to her. And I just don't want to do this anymore. I'm quitting. I'm done."

"What the–?" It was extremely unusual for Red Moon to express surprise. "Lia, did you do this? Explain yourself."

"I didn't do shit," she hissed back.

The linkpearl conversation became too faint to hear. She'd moved to another room. Malika cracked open the closet door to see the violin resting on the bed. Seconds later the front door opened and closed. A quick glance out the window showed the owner of the violin leaving the house.

"Shit. She just left, boss. Without her violin."

Silence. The kind of silence that indicated that Red Moon was not pleased, but that he couldn't think of a reason to take it out on her.

"Grab it," he finally said with a sigh. "Bring me the violin. You're off the hook for the rest."

He could probably feel the radiance of Malika's relieved grin from over the linkpearl.

"This time," he warned. "Don't expect to be so lucky in the future."

Unfortunately for him, she did expect to be that lucky in the future. If there had been any doubt that the goddess of luck was on her side prior to this moment, there wasn't any longer. 

After the funeral, Bruce sends him back with the stones. Clipping branches takes time, but it’s hardly tedious: First he returns to Morag, walks past Quill’s prone, snoring figure, and returns the Power stone to its place in the timeline. Like something out of Indiana Jones, Steve thinks to himself as he does it, but it’s not his voice he hears. It’s Tony’s, because only Tony would see a dangerous, precarious situation like this and make a pop culture reference. 

They watched that one together. Just him and Tony, early on, when things were still good. Tense, maybe—brittle, but good. Before Steve knew about Bucky, or HYDRA, or Tony’s parents; before Steve realized he did in fact know how to lie, but only when it came to Tony Stark. They’d drank good beer and talked gingerly around the subject of Steve’s adjustment to the 21st century; Steve couldn’t help but think of Tony when Indiana shot the swordsman, remembering what Tony had said on the helicarrier with startling clarity, the opposite of how he’d been thinking in the moment: I think I would just cut the wire. 

Now, Steve pushes the orb back through the energy barrier, mouth pressed in a firm line. The burns will heal, in time. He has plenty of it, after all, and the pain is a cheap price compared to what he felt watching Tony die, and it’s a price he’s more than willing to pay if this works.

• 

The Soul Stone is hard, not because of the climb, or the Red Skull (although, in fairness, it does throw Steve for a moment), but because he has to watch the soul stone plummet to the earth knowing it won’t bring Natasha back. There are only so many things he can fix, and this isn’t one of them. 

“What’s done is done,” Schmidt says, sadder than Steve ever heard him in life. Turning around, Steve looks at the cloaked figure floating, weightless, a few inches above the ground. He doesn’t feel pity, per se, but there’s a misery to Schmidt’s expression that looks deeply carved. Earned. Painful. He looks the way Steve feels, standing there in the place where Nat died.

“What was it like?” Steve asks, meaning the moment when Schmidt held the cube and disappeared. It doesn’t even register that he’s spoken until Schmidt is looking at him and speaking back. 

“Death would have been preferable,” comes the reply. Steve doesn’t have to go far to remember Tony’s slack, expressionless face, how sickeningly wrong it felt to see death in a place it didn’t belong. It would be unbearable to even imagine that moment for more than a second if Steve didn’t have an extra vial of Pym particles tucked away in his belt. 

“Yeah,” Steve mutters. “I know what you mean.”

Natasha would be proud of him, the way he punches Skull clean through the side of the mountain on his way out. 

* 

Returning the Reality stone is…complicated. 

Rocket and Thor had conveniently forgotten to mention how they got the stuff out of Dr. Foster—maybe Thor didn’t even know, since he’d been having a conversation with his mother at the time, according to Rocket’s later recounting of events—which means Steve is left standing over a sleeping stranger with a syringe filled with dangerous miasma with no clue what to do. 

He can hear Tony in his head again, a welcome rupturing of the tension that’s making it hard for Steve to even breathe, let alone think his own thoughts: stick ‘er with the pointy end. 

It’s solid advice, actually. But for a moment, all Steve can think about is how dearly he misses that voice in his ear, his head, his life, even though he’s lived less than seventy-two hours without it, but that’s seventy-two hours (plus/minus seven years and change) too long. He’s getting impatient, putting things back the way they were just to get to where he should have been all along, and he doesn’t want to waste a minute watching Dr. Foster sleep when he knows he could be spending that precious time getting back to Tony. 

Life, Steve’s learned too many times in too many devastating ways, is too goddamn short. Tony didn’t hesitate, in the end, so Steve won’t either. Not now.

Holding his breath, Steve sticks Dr. Foster with the pointy end and then runs like hell.

* 

The Sanctum Sanctorum is remarkably unscathed despite being surrounded on all sides by Chitauri carcasses and broken alien tech. Dust from the rubble and ash permeates the air so thickly it’s like trying to breathe plaster of Paris without a mask. Steve coughs as he knocks on the front door, grateful all over again to be cured of his asthma. 

The person who opens the door is far from expected, but like Nat told Scott that fateful day back at the compound, nothing’s crazy anymore. 

“You’re not who I was expecting,” they say, lackadaisical like they’re not surrounded by dead aliens that just fell out of the sky. Bruce and Stephen had told him the Ancient One was a bit, well, strange, but Steve certainly wasn’t expecting this much archness wrapped up in sunflower yellow. 

What, did Big Bird suddenly decide to take up transcendental meditation? Tony’s voice snarks. Steve bites his tongue for a second to hold off the snort threatening to escape him. The Ancient One raises an eyebrow (or lack thereof) at him with a smirk. 

“Is he close, still?” 

Steve’s thoughts go silent so fast his head spins. “I’m sorry?”

The Ancient One steps forward. “I’m sure you are,” they say. It feels dangerous, standing out here on the front steps like this, but if the Ancient One doesn’t flinch at being exposed, then neither will Steve. They hold out their hand with a beatific smile. 

“I won’t ask how it all went,” they whisper conspiratorially, “but do tell me one thing: is Bruce alright?”

The Time stone flashes a vivid green from the safety of its cradle of dense foam inside the carbon steel suitcase, which Steve holds out to the Ancient One like one would a box with an engagement ring inside. 

“Bruce is fine,” he says. The but goes unspoken. One look at Steve and the Ancient One knew exactly what his plan was, apparently. He’s still reeling from their earlier comment. He watches the stone float up from the suitcase and drift toward the amulet resting against the Ancient One’s stomach; their hands flicker and move as it opens with a whisper of metal and gears that reminds Steve poignantly, painfully, of Tony. 

There had been a couple of years there, the good ones, when he’d spent a lot of time watching Tony in his workshop, learning the ways in which Tony’s genius applied itself to the world. Everything from DUM-E to JARVIS to the suits to their comms to the reactor powering the tower to proprietary satellites to pasta carbonara, Tony’s mind was capable of it all, and then some. And it all lived inside a man who drove Steve crazy with anger and frustration and awe and lust and who gave Steve so unbelievably much without asking for anything, anything in return except Steve’s friendship and trust and instead Steve had given Tony the awful truth about his parents two years too late.

After Siberia, Steve spent most nights awake, standing on balconies and rooftops just holding the flip phone and thinking back to those earlier days with the kind of bitterly pitiful regret of the truly stupid: of course he’d been infatuated, back then. Of course he’d run away from the very thought. There’d been Pepper, obviously, and it was Tony. More to the point, it was them: Steve and Tony, oil and water, north and south, futurist and idealist, stubborn and stubborner still, always opposite in all the ways that mattered. 

Of course he’d used that as an excuse. God forbid Steve Rogers ever admit to being afraid. 

The Ancient One closes the amulet with a slow, gentle glide of their pale, steady hands. Tony’s were darker, bigger, stronger, more. Not capable of this kind of magic, but to Steve, Tony’s mind was magic. And his heart was made of pure light. He’d placed it in Steve’s hand. Steve never told anyone how it burned him to hold it, or that he’d prayed for the wound not to heal. 

He’d cried the next morning—for their losses, yes, but mostly because he had healed. It was torture, feeling one way but appearing the opposite. It was one of the ways he and Tony had come to understand each other, over the years prior: sometimes what appears on the outside isn’t the truth of what lives on the inside. 

Looking up into the Ancient One’s eyes feels like falling headfirst into time, itself. 

“I would caution you against your choice,” they say, wise and mischievous at the same time, somehow, “but I know you will set things right, when the time comes.” 

Steve closes the suitcase and nods. He tries not to think about Tony’s funeral. The way the first arc reactor Tony had ever built floated off on a wreath of flowers across the surface of the lake, quiet and all heart, the way Tony had been at the last. 

He has to go back there, one day. 

But not yet. 

* 

His past self is still lying unconscious on the glass walkway where Steve left him when he returns. Arms and legs akimbo, that charmingly ridiculous uniform stretching to compensate for the awkward splaying of limbs, Steve Rogers of 2012 looks like a child who went down for a nap, hard. In so many ways, he was a kid, back then, and yet so old. Too old, too soon. 

You’re just a little unstuck, Billy, Tony had said to him once when he’d found Steve awake in the communal kitchen at 4 AM, too riled by a nightmare to go back to sleep. At Steve’s confused look, he’d smiled—kind, soft, caring—and two days later gave him a first edition signed copy of a novel by someone named Kurt Vonnegut. 

Listen: Billy Pilgrim has come unstuck in time.

He read it cover-to-cover twice before he went looking for Tony in the workshop to thank him with a hug. One of the few they’d ever shared, and all the more precious for it. 

Steve Rogers of 2023 knows this kid won’t hesitate to seize the opportunity he’s about to be presented with.

“Look alive, soldier,” he barks. Rogers coughs and splutters and springs to his feet like something stung him right on the ass. As soon as he registers Steve, his copy, standing in front of him, he falls back on his heels into a fighting stance. It’s wobbly around the knees, but Steve doesn’t bother correcting his stance. This isn’t what he’s come to do. 

“Listen to me, and listen carefully,” he says, and then he tells him everything he needs to know. 

Bucky is alive. You can save him.

Peggy, too. You can be with her.

The war is over. You can live without it. 

You can go home. You get to have one.

Imagine it. 

Rogers looks at the time-space GPS with a degree of skepticism Steve forgot that face was capable of. After talking trees and raccoons and living Norse gods and alien armies from outer space and Titans and time travel—after Tony Stark—nothing seems impossible anymore.

Finally, finally, Rogers holds out his hand, palm to heaven. Steve’s stomach tightens painfully to remove the device from his hand, but he thinks of what’s waiting for him downstairs, and letting go has never been so easy. Rogers holds it like a bomb waiting to go off, wary and fearful, but excited, too. 

Then, he looks at Steve, lit up the way a child whose parent has just given them a whole dollar to spend might be. 

“Are you sure?” 

“More than I’ve ever been.” 

Rogers’ face tightens. “What about—” he glances down through the glass. “The others? Will they know? Will they be alright?” 

“I’ll handle it,” he says. He’s taking a page out of Tony’s book here, winging it where he’s used to planning. Bucky was proud when Steve told him his half-cocked idea to go back in time to be with Tony Stark, however Tony would have him. 

How’re you gonna figure out being both Steves at once?

I’ll handle it. 

And if they figure it out?

They’ll handle it.

Rogers is hesitating. He doesn’t want to be selfish—that’s not in his nature. Steve smiles and reaches out, cups his hands around the one with the device and closes Rogers’ fingers around it. 

“It’s okay,” he says. You’re allowed to be selfish, when it’s the right thing to do. 

Looking at his younger self is dizzying, like vertigo. Tony once mentioned having a huge crush on Jimmy Stewart when they watched that movie as a team, which is how Steve learned Tony Stark liked men, too. That was the night his world really turned upside-down. 

Steve reaches into his belt and hands Rogers the extra vial. Enough for one trip. He’ll never get his dance with Peggy, but she’ll get hers. 

Steve will just have to dance with Tony, instead. What a hardship. 

He’s smiling, looking vaguely downwards where he knows Tony is, when Rogers looks at him and asks, “Why?” 

Steve dials the date and time and coordinates from memory. 

A week from Saturday.

The Stork Club.

Eight o’ clock, on the dot. 

The past is past, except when it’s not. Rogers is unstuck, but Steve isn’t. Not anymore. He hasn’t been for a long, long time. 

He shrugs. Smiles, easy, the way he couldn’t when he was Rogers’ age, fresh out of the ice and soul-broken, hopeless. 

“I’m home.”

*

The last test is the hardest. Steve goes down to the lobby via the elevator, carrying the scepter in one hand and the suitcase containing the space stone in the other. He’s dressed in his 2012 uniform again, and he didn’t miss the way it rides up his ass, but he’s got more important things to think about. 

There’s still a commotion happening in the lobby, the fallout of Tony’s self-inflicted heart attack diversion, but Steve manages to force himself away from where he knows Tony is to walk right up to Alexander Pierce. He would dearly love to drop the man right here and now in this lobby, audience be damned, but he has a part to play, yet.  

Steve tamps down the urge and rage long enough to present Pierce with the last stone. The look that flickers behind Pierce’s shrewd blue eyes is telling enough—Steve could punch himself, it’s so obvious. Glee, hunger, intent, all there, malicious and toxic. HYDRA, right out there in the open.

He’ll deal with it later. With extreme prejudice. 

“The cube was just a housing unit,” Steve explains, slipping back into his old by-the-book tone of voice like one slips on a pair of well-worn leather shoes. Pierce takes it with an eerie smile. 

“Very good, Captain.” At Pierce’s nod, Steve straightens, looks back with a knowing smirk, and nods in return. Rumlow would have already updated him about Steve’s words in the elevator; now the rest of it—rescuing Bucky, infiltrating SHIELD, destroying HYDRA and Pierce with it—is up to Steve. 

But first.

“If you’ll excuse me, sir,” Steve says deferentially, already moving away from Pierce toward the circle of black suits hovering around Tony and Thor like expectant vultures at the feast. His heart is in his throat, racing.

“Get your hands off me!” 

Tony.

Thor is running interference on the suits, pushing and holding them back, Mjolnir in hand. He clears a space for Steve to walk through with a nod. Steve nods back, but his eyes are elsewhere. 

Tony.

“I said let go of me, Mall Cop! I’m fine, I don’t need your help.” 

Pepper always says I’m the best at taking care of others at the expense of myself, Tony had told him once. They’d been sitting on the edge of the landing pad near the top of the tower at sunset, going over what went wrong with whatever battle had happened that day. Steve had spent the entire conversation with one hand shoved under his thigh to stop himself from reaching out to hold Tony’s, who’d put himself in the line of fire—unnecessarily—and had nearly given Steve a panic attack. 

A panic attack. How quaint, compared to a shattered heart. 

She’s right, Steve had replied, but then Pepper’s right about everything. 

Most things, Tony said. I’m still not sure if she’s right about me. 

Steve still remembers the way his hand had clenched under his thigh at those words. What do you mean? 

Tony had looked out over the city, not gloating or smug the way Steve had assumed he would be when they first met and Steve learned billionaires were a thing that existed—quite prevalently—in the 21st century, but wistfully, like he couldn’t believe he had the view at all. 

Most days I wake up expecting her to be standing by the bed fully dressed, waiting for me to open my eyes so she can tell me it’s over, he’d said, quiet so only Steve could hear, like the whole city was listening in and Tony wanted to keep this moment between them. I don’t think she’s right about choosing me. 

Steve could have painted Tony in that moment: vulnerable, eyes and skin and hair glowing like fire and honey and whiskey in the light of the setting sun as it glinted off the cityscape. He was handsome, small but strong, nervous but brave, and so unbelievably worth choosing it took every ounce of Steve’s strength to keep his hand under his thigh. To not reach out and take Tony’s face in his hands and just—

Tony, he’d said softly, urgently but without force, waiting until Tony looked him in the eye to say what he’d been holding back for years and even then it was only the tip of the tip of the iceberg: You are worth choosing. 

The way Tony had stared back at Steve then is not unlike the way he looks up at him now: from the floor of the lobby of Stark Tower, roughed up and shellshocked from the battle and his brief introduction to outer space and a minor cardiac episode, but relieved and inarticulately happy to see Steve there among the suits. 

“O Captain, my captain!” Tony crows, wheezing slightly on the last syllable in a way that is far too endearing for Steve to handle, especially given his own fragile state. When Tony reaches a hand up, Steve doesn’t hesitate to take it and haul him to his feet.

Tony is alive. Standing there, in front of Steve, alive. Younger, smoother around some edges and sharper in others, beautiful like a sunset and a sunrise rolled into one—an astronomical anomaly of the rarest kind. The Black Sabbath t-shirt is singed but mostly whole, and Steve wants to linger on that detail, except he can’t. 

“You alright there, Cap? You’re looking a little blue around the gills…”

Blue. Blueblueblueblueblueblue. 

The burning light at the center of Tony Stark is so blue, a glowing circle shining out from behind that silly threadbare band t-shirt like a beacon in the night, guiding Steve home. How is no one else marveling at this? At Tony Stark, alive? 

He’s staring. At Tony’s chest. He knows he is, but there’s no helping it. Just like there’s no helping the way he reaches out and pulls Tony into a hug like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. It wasn’t long ago he’d carried this same body, suit and all, off the battlefield, crying himself hoarse even as he laid Tony out on a patch of grass in the sun away from the smoke and desolation. He’d watched this man die not seventy-two hours ago, and here was Tony, in his arms the way Steve should have held him years and years and years ago, alive. 

It shouldn’t be possible. But as he’s learned ten times over, when it comes to Tony Stark, impossible is only a matter of perspective (and a little bit of elbow grease).  

Steve muffles his hitching breaths against Tony’s shoulder, trying desperately to compose himself even as he falls apart. He’s failing, but can’t bring himself to care. Tony returns his embrace haltingly, like he can’t believe it’s happening, but then neither can Steve. 

“It’s alright, big guy. Party’s over,” Tony chuckles into his ear, nervous, patting Steve on the shoulder from under his arm in an awkward bend. “I’m fine, I promise.“ He does the unthinkable, then, Tony: he steps back and takes Steve’s hand and lays it flat against his chest so Steve can feel the strong thud of his heartbeat and the low, steady hum of the arc reactor at the same time. “See?” Tony says with a quicksilver smile, “alive and well.” 

Steve knows his eyes are wet. His hair is a mess and he’s still grieving his Tony, and that grief is a ten-ton weight in his stomach. And yet, standing here looking into this Tony’s big brown eyes, faced with that benevolent (if teasing) smile and generous heart, Steve feels young and limitless, weightless, like he’d float off the floor if it weren’t for Tony, who’s still holding his hand against his chest.

Steve knows this is selfish and reckless and his staying here could break the fabric of reality itself, but he would choose this—he’d choose Tony, warm and alive and smiling at him—every time. There are battles to be fought and truths to be told and lives to save, and he may never get to have Tony in all the ways he wants him in this or any timeline, but he’s willing to wing it and see. 

Who knows—they could very well end up married. 

Crazier and more impossible things have happened.

“Alive is good,” Steve says, locking a sob away behind a smile so big it strains his cheeks. “It means you can still pay for shawarma.” 

Tony’s face goes slack with surprise, and then he’s laughing so hard he’s cackling, leaning into Steve’s steady hand for support. Steve can feel Tony’s laugh as much as he can hear it: it feels like home and sounds like rock music and looks like sunlight spilling out between his fingers, bright blue. 

- - -