Archive of Our Own ^beta

Buzzing gives way to a click, as Tony finishes with the clippers, drops them by the sink clogged with dry, bleached hair. Looking away from the mirror, determined to not meet his own gaze, Tony instead focuses in on a microscopic detail, inward. Instructs Extremis to pinpoint and kickstart the hair follicles on his scalp – he has to look sharp for what's coming next.

"Tony. You're not a weapon." The disgust, the hurt in those eyes. The unshakable belief that Tony can come back from this.

Upon waking in the hospital, Steve then Sal tried to convince Tony that the lives lost, the fucking brain control wasn't his fault. The way they both spoke to him, Steve with increasing horror, Sal speaking playfully like he was a fucking wilful toddler… Tony grips too hard and cracks one side of the sink, before letting go entirely. Still doesn't meet his own eyes.

Exiting the bathroom, Tony reflects on how both men, in their own stubborn ways, helped Tony. The soldier and the hippy. The idealist and the contrarian. Both helped him get a handle on the actions, the direction he must take. He feels the urgency, and as the futurist, he can see what's coming. He needs to plan for every contingency.

Tony walks across his restricted floor of the tower, gunmetal gray and chrome and looking far emptier now that the Peacekeepers are gone. Tony knows he has a lonely path ahead of him, but he mustn't dwell. Too much to do.

He stops at the new console and computer rig he set up only weeks ago, threads the bundle of wires leading from the supercomputer through the back of the modified chair, pulls bottled water and snacks from the mini fridge under the desk. One real possibility is damage to Extremis or himself – the events of the last week have shown Tony just how much he's a weak link in the chain. Tony needs to – has to – see this through.

Rubbing his eyes, he perches on the modified desk chair, pulls off his tank top soaked with fearful sweat – feeling too much like a cornered animal. Wills Extremis to open sesame – he needs the secret port at the back of his neck that not even Maya knows about.

Connects the woven rope of wires to this direct access to his spinal column, dutifully straps in and leans back – uneasy, restless, red eyed. Surrounded by metal, wires, tasting metal or blood at the back of his throat. Tries not to think of H. R. Giger. Begins the slow back up of his brain.

Closes his eyes, wonders if it's possible to rest.

Overlaying a digital concept onto a biological brain leaves imperfections. His brain still ruminates on events, despite continued attempts to kill the running process. He still needs to think it through in a human way.

So he lets it roll, sits with it even though Steve is the last person he wants to consider, given how he predicts the next six to twelve months are likely to go.

||Loading T.S Memory 102004dfaiifin…|| Extremis flashing up warnings, starting and stopping processes, Tony flails as he comes to, clunking his soulmark cuff against the side of the hospital bed. No clink of handcuffs though. His heart beats fast – the idiots – he should be restrained.

"Tony." That deep, half hopeful and half angry tone Steve only reserves for Tony.

Here we go.

Dismissing anything irrelevant, Tony checks his messages before he even opens his eyes.

One voice message – Jack Kooning, Secretary of Defense. Left 33 minutes ago.

Sighing, Tony knows this means the clean up has started. The NSA is working hard to suppress the truth. So many lies to protect Tony. And worse, he now owes Kooning a large favor, something that can't be cashed out in dollars.

Opening his eyes, blinking at the fluorescent brightness, he looks over at Steve, standing a few feet away, cowl shredded, a hint of dried blood at the corner of his mouth. Face unreadable apart from the storm in his eyes.

"How are you feeling?"

Sore, cotton-headed but alive, is how he wants to answer but instead he answers with another question. "Are Maya and Saul here?"

Steve frowns. "They're en route."

Sitting up, Tony pops his pillows behind his back before responding. "Good. There's some tests they need to run. In the meantime you should restrain me. I'm a danger to the public."

"Not according to the press you're not. Also, we both know restraints won't hold you."

"That's why you're here," Tony surmises as he feels some of the tension release in his shoulders. Steve can restrain him, knows his armor overrides.

Since the Air France flight went down in the Atlantic, Tony's spent too much time just reacting to events when the problem was his head all along. He's the danger.

Maya and Saul can help him get to the bottom of this.

In the meantime, he's trapped by Steve's gaze.

Occasionally Steve looks at Tony like he gave him the moon – or like he remembers Tony was the first person to show him the moon landing. Those moments of soft regard are becoming fewer, with longer and longer gaps in between each moment. Tony longs for Steve's approval, his fond affection all the more now it's dwindling, often replaced by quiet disgust at Extremis.

Extremis isn't even the worst thing that's happened to Tony's body in the last ten years.

Today, Tony receives a hard look. Steve's judged him and found him wanting.

Minutes tick by. Processes in his mind start and stop, Tony has to kill an analysis of Steve's body language twice as he waits for Steve to speak.

"You could have found another way, Tony. I know you could."

Not likely, Steve. That damn Peacekeeper I built gripped you so hard. I've never heard you shout out in pain like that.

He'd been terrified. Steve's one of the few people who truly matter to Tony. He'd sacrificed himself before to save Steve, he'll do it again whenever necessary. That's how this hero thing works. And Steve will always be the better person. The world needs a man like him.

Steve would like the full truth even less. Tony had utter faith in Extremis. To reboot him, rebuild his heart, his fried synapses, his dead brain. Bring him back.

Before Tony can reach for the water jug, Steve is there, pouring a glass of water, pressing the straw to his lips. Strangely intimate even as he radiates frustration.

"You were dead for 37 minutes, Tony. I crawled over to you, used your armor overrides, broke your ribs trying to get your heart beating before the medics took over. You weren't there. You were gone, Tony." Steve's voice is rough. "Why would you do that?"

Tony grips the glass for himself, finishes taking another sip and places it back on the table attached to the bed.

"When you attack an assailant with a gun, you aim the shield at the hand holding the gun, right?"

Steve nods, wary.

"The Peacekeeper models were weapons, molded after me. I was the hand. I'm also the gun. I did what any of us would do in that situation."

"Tony. You're not a weapon." Steve looks revolted at the thought.

Looking up into Steve's eyes, Tony wonders why Captain America, the man who he helped set a legal precedent in terms of personhood, who is no longer property of the US army, would be so deliberately naive on this subject.

Frustrated, Tony still can't believe just how much he loves Steve, even when he's wrong.

|| He quickly stops the memory replay with a $ kill 149, not willing to follow that thought when he's already made his mind up. Tony doesn't want to dwell on the upcoming sacrifices and compromises. Especially when Steve is already halfway out the door.

For what needs to happen next with the SRA, the USA needs Tony Stark. However much his actions will aggrieve Steve and many other heroes.

Thoughts of disappointing Steve lead to thoughts of other people he loves. Losing Rumiko because of his own stupidity, his own arrogance, his short-sightedness.

If she didn't know Tony, she'd still be alive.

He's fit now. Extremis gave him a clean bill of health. But whenever he thinks of Ru, he feels tightness, pain around his chest, like he's still wearing the earliest version of the chestplate. He can't breathe, and every day is like agony.

Tony deserves this.

Six hours. A mere six hours to back up his brain – all his memories, losses, mistakes, plans and regrets. Tony only craves a drink 47 times during the upload. The regular AA meetings are doing the job.

Backing up his brain leads to thoughts of forgetting. Deleting the people he's loved and lost. Not Bethany – that was a case of right person, wrong time. But Rumiko. Whitney. Stev… not possible. Tony's seen Eternal Sunshine of The Spotless Mind. Fanciful. Not true to real life.

BACKUP COMPLETE. LOAD DIRECTORY LIST FOR BACK UP DRIVE? SEARCH DATA?||

Guessing that his thoughts drift towards forgetting and deleting because of what comes next, Tony refuels with a protein bar and electrolyte drink before issuing the command $ SEARCH for any and all instances of ADMIN ANTHONY EDWARD STARK'S soulmark – internal thoughts, visual evidence, mentions.

Results take a few minutes to come through. //57,066 instances found//

Blinking, Tony guesses that glancing at it every time he had a shower added up.

Although he considers it unlikely, there's always the outside chance this hard drive makes it into the wrong hands. Of course, it does carry data on recreating his technology – but he's dismantled entire organizations using his tech and he's ready to do it again. That's not what worries him.

Tony is guarded about the initials under his cuff. Doesn't even like to shape the letters in his mind. A habit that started when his career as Iron Man began; he was certain he'd meet his end within a couple of years, if not months.

Privately, Tony can admit it. The one thing the free love movement got right is that it's okay to love freely. That it's not disrespectful to your intended.

Every bookstore has a whole shelf of memoirs, stories of people who were able to overcome hardships, using their soulmark as a guiding light, the knowledge they hadn't met their soulmate yet an indicator that brighter days were ahead.

Stories that are supposed to be inspirational but have always left Tony feeling lost. Even after fixing his heart. Stupid, irresponsible to keep falling in love. Soft, his father would say.

Whitney will never forgive him, and veers between wanting to kill him or keep him as a pet.

Heart rate spiking, Tony remembers how he sobbed as he removed Ru's blood from under his fingernails.

Steve. Who will never know. Tony missed his chance there – once when things were good between them, Steve would have been kind, gracious. A supportive ally once he thought enough time had passed after Tony's declaration. Or maybe… no, it seems unlikely. Steve's not that way inclined, nor would he have any interest in Tony. Not worth entertaining.

Tony would laugh if he knew he wouldn't dissolve into tears. He's run out of time for any form of declaration, now that he knows he has to support the SRA – though he will do everything in his power to delay, delay, delay. Delay the moment where Steve can no longer disguise the disgust in his eyes as he looks at Tony.

Everyone he loves leaves, one way or another.

$ DELETE all 57,066 instances on back up, Tony orders Extremis, wondering what it would be like to forget the initials on his arm, to remove them completely. But it's a desecration, an act of self-harm, only legal in two countries – one of them Latveria. Tony's a futurist, a dreamer, but even he can accept when something he wants is impossible.

FILES DELETED.

Tony unplugs, knowing he has to ask Steve for one last favor – keeping the backup safe. Who else can he trust on this? He sighs, calls Kooning back instead.

"Was Tony Stark right?" yells the reporter, looking for a reaction, his dictaphone held tight in his hand, the copper of his soulmark cuff faded in the grey light.

Keeping his face impassive, Steve wishes the question, the media frenzy didn't hit so hard. Steve has his reasons for surrendering. In no way does it mean he agrees with Tony.

Press questions follow in a barrage as the reporters seek their angle, a sliver of understanding. Steve pays them no mind, feeling as worn, as frayed as his uniform looks on this grim, gray day. Weather like this reminds Steve of the smog in the thirties and forties, how his mother had to ban him from setting foot outside on the days it was bad.

Pushes away the disgust he's felt ever since Tony lay in the dirt, stared up at him, demanded he finish it – finish him. Shoves down the additional shame at being pulled away by civilians. It all takes great mental energy.

So many voices, faces, witnesses, gawpers, camera shutters going off, whirling drones. And choppers up high. Because there's finally someone for the authorities to make an example of – and Speedball never got to stand trial.

Steve swallows, the handcuff clinks against the vibranium of his arm cuff as he follows the US Marshals who clear a route to escort him into the courthouse. He's wearing his personal cuff. No state mandated cheap plastic covering for Captain America. Made by Tony Stark himself, one of a kind.

He wonders if it's Tony's doing, Tony's wishes, and why he didn't come take it back. Knowing exactly how much it cost to make, Steve hates that it's still his best option to hide his soulmark. Hates that his self worth, his comfort is wrapped up in Tony.

Heart beating fast, Steve takes deeper breaths, determined to not let this circus – or Tony – get to him.

Ahead, laser sight on the agent's back. Right in between the L and the I.

Adrenaline floods Steve's system. No time to waste. Steve shouts out a warning as the shot rings out.

Steve takes the bullet, movement hampered by the handcuffs. It's a big slug, the impact throws him back, and the US Marshal catches him. The crowd panics, active shooters love that – where are the SHIELD agents?

Hurts like a S.O.B. but as soon as someone can dig the bullet out he'll be fine – so why is Sharon leaning over him with dead eyes?

Ringing, electronic fuzz in Steve's ears.

Muzzle pressed to his stomach. Three efficient shots reverberate –

Steve forgets to breathe. Pain branches through him followed by leaden numbness. Sharon crying. He needs her to make sure the people are safe –

Fades out.

Muted body. It won't do what he tells it to do. Loses consciousness, fades back in –

Gurney rolling across asphalt, the judders wake up the pain, the wave of oblivion threatens to pull Steve under. He focuses on Sharon's hand, the sound of her voice, the whisper-electric of her phone. The coolness of the vibranium cuff on his arm, soulmark thankfully still concealed. Always a compulsion to check.

"He's bleeding really bad, Nick… drifting in and out…"

Don't worry about me, Sharon. I'll be okay, he wants to say so badly. But his tongue is sluggish, thick. Dry. His mouth won't form the words. He hears his throat click as he struggles to speak –

Pauses. Watches Sharon cry. Distantly aware she – she's involved – she –

Blacks out, hard to say how long. Unconsciousness is seductive, pulling him down into its embrace.

The lurch of being loaded into the ambulance –

Firm pressure on his stomach. Big clever hands. He expected to see Tony today. He – stop thinking of him –

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. The paramedic's watch. To Steve's ear it sounds slow –

Bright light shone in one eye, then the other.

Siren sounds like it's down a tunnel –

"We're almost there, baby – just hang on."

Sharon. He needs to let her know. She is special to him. Her hand rests on his cuff. She won't remove it when he's gone, but just in case. She needs to know.

"Sharon, you were always special. You make me so happy –"

Fades out and in again. Opens his eyes just enough to see the tears rolling down her cheeks.

Where's Tony? A desire to explain crystallizes. To come clean. Why he's been so stubborn. A new urge, unable to be acted on.

"'ony." he manages.

White light. This is it –

Smoke stings his eyes as Steve pants, scrambling up the cliff, ignoring the rope ladders rolling down for the troops. They need to get under cover. He leans back, bellowing at the men to keep up. Sees countless fallen soldiers, scattered across sand. What remains of the artillery on the beach is now molten slag, thanks to Jim.

The waves behind him sound soft compared to the guns of the ships firing, the deep drone of aircraft and the crack of distant gunfire. The deep boom of the enemy artillery further down the coast. He scrambles over the top, fistfuls of dry grass, heart thumping. The sky is full of paratroopers. specks in the sky. And Bucky is holding a German soldier up, other hand driving his knife deep between the ribs, blood bubbling up, the heavy MG 42 kicked to one side.

The soldier twitches, life extinguished, as Bucky smiles flatly and drops the body. "I knew I'd beat you up here, Cap."

D-Day. Normandy.

This isn't right – he can't be here. Why –

Toro drops down next to Steve as Bucky drops the body and hoists the heavy machine gun on his back. A bead of sweat runs down Steve's face from the heat as Toro reports that the enemy are running across the cliffs like ants from a kicked over nest.

Steve rattles out the orders and starts pulling as many soldiers as possible over the side of the cliff as they reach the top. "COME ON BOYS," he yells, "We got 'em running scared!"

He pulls each man to their feet until they've got the idea and start pulling up their fellow soldiers and Steve takes a run across the scrub, Bucky not far behind.

What is this – it feels too real to be a hallucination –

Steve spots a sudden movement, takes a deep breath, throws his shield

– a white light envelops him –

– exhales with shaky lungs, barely hearing the doctor as he says there's nothing more he can do.

She's passed on.

Stares at his mother. So still. Looks so small. Her cuff loose on her wrist, a singular white lily embroidered on soft, black fabric. He knows the initials underneath so well. She let him look with a child's innocence. The rules are different when your soulmate is dead.

Despair washes over him, the wave building deep from his stomach, he clutches her hand as the doctor murmurs in the background.

She'll never celebrate with him over his. Steve's own soulmark hasn't developed yet. He's stunted, behind. He needs more time.

Her hand is limp, the doc asks if he's got anyone else –

White light –

Arnie sits beside him on the step. Steve focuses on his face, and his moving lips, not the bustling people and other kids around him. His cuff feels uncomfortable, it's new. He can't stop rubbing his finger under the edge of it. It's a soft black fabric but the seam is wonky. He should unpick and resew it. He tries to focus better on Arnie's words even though it goes against everything he's learned in Church.

"We don't believe it. That Jesus was marked with the Tetragrammaton." Arnie shakes his head.

People touched Steve less after his mother died. Partly because she was the one who embraced him the most, partly because he was expected to man up now.

And they don't touch him at all now his soulmark came in. No one wants a sickly soulmate.

Arnie still grasps him by the other arm, rubs his back.

Steve remembers this. There's so much he wants to say. How there's more to soulmarks than they're ever likely to know in their lifetime. How he misses Arnie and wishes – he wishes –

White light –

Mortars go off. machine gun fire tink, tink, tinks across his shield as he moves forward among the soldiers, the destroyed brickwork. Someone's home... What battle is this? Adrenaline kicks in, dry mouth. Familiar.

"Steve – Two o'clock high! Heads up!" Buck again. He crashes into Steve. When did he get so big? He's always been so responsible, beyond his years, checks if Steve is okay.

"I'm fine."

He feels lucid, it's not – it can't be a hallucination.

White light –

Behind his shield, picking up speed, dodging fire. The keep in the distance. Spots Master Man about to hurl a rock right at him.

Steve knows where and when he is. Red Skull is working on a nasty occult nightmare behind those walls. Demons. Steve will stop him. But many, many good men will die.

No, he can't do this again. But he has to – he protects the men in that puffed up Nazi's way, yells, "GET DOWN." But he knows he can't be everywhere. He'll do the rounds through the red cross tents in the early hours, still covered in grime, eyes gritty.

Why is he here again? Is he in some lab, strapped to a table, is this a mind trick of Faustus, has the Red Skull got him again?

But no. Nothing is being manipulated. As Master Man flies at him in exactly the same way, the crunch of glass under Steve's boots, the way he tells the soldiers he'll handle him, the rapidly healing cut inside his cheek leaking wet metallic, it's all too real. All too exact.

It can't be faked.

Trapped, a moth in a lampshade – a passenger in his own body, watching his younger self fight. He still feels his muscles burning, his fist connecting with Master Man's nose. Going through the motions – and noticing where he would have fought tighter, brought in the moves he's since learned in his new life.

He's an extra consciousness in his own mind. Chafing to take over, but he won't. He can't. Not at such a crucial time. Where he could alter everything.

Smashing the shield into the mad Nazi bastard, he wishes he had Tony by his side. Even now. Tony would figure it out, what's safe to do, what he should avoid. The last time they talked… Steve swallows as he checks the other super is down for the count. He needs –

White light –

"Damn it."

The filth of battle gone, boots shining. He stands in the oval office apologizing to President Roosevelt for swearing.

The President calls Captain America his good luck charm, just as before, and Steve knows he can't do this without Tony. Tony who pulled him out of the ice, who welcomed him into a new century, who…

Had Steve locked up.

Pushed hard for the SRA.

Knew that everyone who registered would have to make the worst, most unacceptable compromise. Uncover their soulmark for the database, "as an identifying mark".

Yet he still wants Tony's help. To help him get back to his own time. What does that say about Steve? That he's so quick to want Tony's help when all he's done lately is manipulate and obscure the truth. All the while Tony wears a cuff himself. Protects himself.

Steve stands through the press conference in a daze, thoughts of Tony building up into a storm. Luckily his younger self is in full control.

White light –

"What do you want, Stark?" Steve snaps out from the dugout.

It's dark. He remembers the sour, hostile feeling in his stomach but being unable to keep away. History repeating.

Ah.

Yankee Stadium.

"Just one question." Tony's suit is rumpled, he's still wearing his tie – still 'on' but his voice is gruff, like he's been swallowing back unshed tears. Shit. It's been a year since he lost… her. A patch of his gold cuff shows. It's Extremis. It looks all wrong. Even Thor's cloak wrapped around Tony's arm as a make-shift cuff looked better than this.

Steve again hopes Tony's not drinking. The concern overlaps with his past self's angry expectations.

Disappointment in Tony is the most intense way Steve expresses his feelings for Tony. Like a kettle on the stove whistling as the steam escapes, it's a pressure valve for his bottled up emotions. Unfair to Tony, it's a long standing failing for Steve. Highly likely it's why Tony never came to him with this Project Wideawake plan. Steve was all out of chances.

As Steve gets closer he sees the strain in Tony, he knows the awful crime Tony will accuse him of having a hand in before Tony even frames the question. The assault of Happy Hogan, a civilian. This is the wrong Tony, the wrong time for Steve to ask about time travel. For the first time he hopes the white light swallows him up sooner, but CH-CHUN-CH-CH-CHU-CH-CHUNK, the stadium lights are thrown on.

They both shield their eyes.

No, he needs a scientist he can ask questions, not somebody who he'll just hurt, make suspicious… shit, Tony's face when he pressed the electron blaster into his armored glove. He'll never forget.

But Steve's wonderful, stubborn, deeply maddening team who need to be less protective of him are trying to save him from Tony and all Steve can see is the betrayal in Tony's eyes, no, the resignation as finally

White light –

"…and now look up, my boy…"

He's jumped to a time before Tony, a time he was still called boy instead of a man.

Doctor Erskine shines a yellow light in his eye, looking at his retina. Steve can also see the branches of blood vessels silhouetted in the light, like he's lying on his back looking at sunlight below trees in winter.

"Yes, very good, we'll just need to draw some blood now for the final tests… and of course, a partial check of your soulmark."

Steve wonders if he's managed to control the time jumps – shifting to Tony as he thinks of him as holding the answer. Instead he only held more questions, and now another scientist who may be able to help him understand what's going on. Is Steve able to manipulate this, whatever's happening, now? The rattle in his chest, the way the seat of the chair sticks to the back of his legs, the goose pimples on his skin all help to ground him in place and time.

As Erskine takes a number of blood samples – practiced at getting the most out of Steve's collapsing veins by now – Steve knows he won't get a better chance. In the next room Steve will begin his new life and the scientist, his mentor, the man who believed in him, will die.

Once Steve partially undoes his cuff so Erskine can see one of the initials, it elicits a nod and a mumbled "very good," as he ticks a box on his form.

He's the only person to ever set eyes on it, and he finds it unremarkable. Steve wishes he felt the same. With a scientist in front of him, he focuses on the question – is it wise to change the past?

"It's action and reaction, my boy – a ripple in time's pond."

He sure feels like a flat stone skimming across the water, making no real contact with anyone.

But it confirms everything he assumed. His heart squeezes in his chest at what must come next.

Steve takes the serum, absorbs the rays – is transformed only to witness one of the greatest men die. Starts his new life reacting to the injustice, killing a Nazi – but always too late to make a real difference.

He needs to find a way out of this without breaking time or losing his head.

Holding Dr. Erskine as he bleeds out, Steve vows to not return here. And trusts he'll know the perfect opportunity when he sees it.

White light –

His nerves feel bloodied, numb. His stomach sour – like he's been drinking on an empty stomach. Tony's brain makes that connection more and more. As though it's an inevitability that he'll crawl back into the bottle. That it's just another indulgence, this sickness he has – the need to explain, to fucking justify the shit he's done. Crying his eyes out for hours, expelling, vomiting his confession, rationalizing every sin. A purge that did nothing to assuage his guilt as he glanced up from his helmet from time to time at Steve's body.

The most infuriating man in the world at times – and also the best he's ever known. Dead. And it may as well have been Tony that held the gun, squeezed the trigger. He put him there. On that cold slab.

Tony's encased in the suit more and more. As a matter of necessity, he tells himself. None of his aides at SHIELD are keen on the way he can monitor security feeds while gazing over their head, focusing on the right satellite needed as he stares unseeing at the wall. He forms the right expression a second too late in conversation. He cuts in too early. He looks like shit. He makes everyone uncomfortable. Nervous.

But for Sharon, on this day of all days, he makes an effort, wears the uniform. Leaves the suit in his office, two levels down. It doesn't make a lick of difference in the face of her own unrelenting grief, guilt, and pain. She was there. Held him in his last moments. Tony feels an unusual pang at that thought. What on earth would he have said to Steve if he had been there?

Anything. Anything other than You're a sore loser, Captain America.

Sharon comes at him like an angry hurricane. Threatens him when he blocks her way into the morgue. He's trying to explain, forgets to pretend to flinch as she shoves her finger in his face.

"Look, Sharon, something's happened, and I don't want you to be shocked."

"What the hell are you talking about? You fucking snuck his body out of the hospital last night without telling me and now what?"

Tony crosses his arms. Remonstrative body language is doing nothing here. There's a 78% chance Sharon Carter finds such body language from Anthony E. Stark phony or insincere, one of the background algorithms in his brain helpfully supplies. An 85% chance she's learned how many SHIELD agents he's… Tony slaps down the process with a quick $ kill 79 as he tries to appeal to her better sense. SHIELD had to secure the body.

He's tired. Extremis can only do so much. So it comes out wrong. "He's the only perfect super-soldier specimen in the world." I couldn't let anyone else touch him or worse – he was so paranoid about his soul mark. A lot more than a guy from the 1940's should be.

"He was your friend, Tony," Sharon bites out. "Don't call him a specimen."

"You know that's not what I meant… damn it." He wants to cover his face. Longs to call the armor.

"Then what has happened to him?" Sharon seems calmer now but he expects this is just a lull while she gathers information.

"I don't know…"

This is a nightmare. He and Sharon shouldn't be having this conversation. Steve should be alive, getting a suspended sentence because he's a national treasure. Tony doesn't deserve him, but America needs him. And Sharon too – he's never seen her like this before. Hollow-eyed, sallow, vengeful. Maybe they were soulmates. But why would Steve not want to shout that out loud, let his friends know he's found the one?

Tony escorts her into the morgue, bypassing the biometrics and scans with Extremis.

"My God," she exclaims and as Tony suspected, the body – Steve – is looking even worse than he did just two hours ago. His ribcage is more prominent, the lines more apparent on his face, all muscle gone. Limbs like sticks.

"We're still waiting for the labs but our best guess is that the super soldier serum started breaking down as soon as he died. It's unexpected though…"

Tony trails off. He and Sharon notice it at the same time. Steve's arms are now so spindly that his cuff is loose. It's still the one Tony made him. Vibranium. Only the best for Steve. For his Winghead. But the weight, the way the arm rests means it's slipped down.

Steve's soulmark is uncovered.

A harsh intake of breath from Sharon. Tony swallows. Not quite comprehending.

But there it is.

T.S.

A bubbly feeling almost escapes, flowing up from Tony's stomach. He's afraid it might be laughter, but more likely it'll be deep sobs. How can this be? He prods Extremis to make sure the process for breathing is still working.

"Oh God. You knew about this all along, didn't you?" Sharon rounds on Tony. "You couldn't wait to rub my face in it!"

"No – this is as much of a surprise for me as it is fo–"

"Did – did you reject him? Is that why he was always so – so sad when we talked around our soulmarks?"

"No. I didn't –"

"Or was he just convenient to have around when you weren't trying your hardest to be heterosexual?"

"Sharon, I had no idea." He can't get sidetracked by her swipe at his sexuality. Eyes darting over to the mark again, he knows something is off.

A new process starts up, his subconscious choosing to analyze, look at the facts unfeelingly, unflinching. Tony knows what his true signature, his true initials look like – different to the public signature and thumbprint he uses to sign off on paperwork. When he drank hard, he acted like a hopeful, naive teenager, writing his initials over and over until the inevitable sick wave of hatred hit and he'd burn all traces.

|| Results…|| the process intrudes his conscious thoughts (processes 10 through 50) and he accesses the new file, stomach churning. The T is not a match with the natural hand of Anthony E. Stark. The horizontal line extends out 2 cm further, cutting above the first curve of the S. According to handwriting experts, a long line that cuts into the space of the second initial is a sign of brilliance, capriciousness, and indulgence with elements of – Tony throws a $ kill 84 at it, aware that most self-assigned experts are con artists. Wishes that Stephen Strange wasn't avoiding him right now.

A single thin straight line. He should tell Sharon. He should. When he comes back to himself, a mere second has passed.

"What did you do, Tony? Why did you push your soulmate away in support of the SRA?" Her eyes glint dangerously and Tony is very glad that he has an improved healing factor. He's sure Agent 13 would like to stab him right now. Shakespearian. Awful.

He should say something. It's cruel to not tell her.

Would she even believe him? He wouldn't. Yet more bullshit out of his mouth. So he says nothing about the nature of the mark, and focuses on what she's insisting he did. "At no point did I push Steve away" – half lie – "He distanced himself from me" True – he detested Extremis. "I never picked the SRA over Steve." A complete lie – he calculated the odds and realized very quickly that Steve would never speak to him again. "You can't think I wanted any of this." Ends on a raw, guttural sound, despite his best efforts.

He should be cried out by now.

"Really? You're now running SHIELD, while he's, he's…"

She can't say it. His heart clenches in sympathy even as he defends himself. She doesn't know about Kooning blackmailing him. He thought the whole helicarrier knew by now. But he did place her on compassionate leave – the gossip may not have reached her yet.

He rubs at the place where his soulmark sits on his underarm, encased in gold undersuit and Kevlar. This is the only secret he's able to keep.

Sharon thought the SRA was the best solution, Hill had told Tony this proudly – as though Sharon was the only person who could love Steve and still disagree with him. He tries to appeal to that side of her, even now when her cheeks are damp with tears.

He doesn't mean to raise his voice.

"Damn it Sharon, I was trying to do the right thing. I was trying to save us from this. You think seeing him this way, seeing his soulmark now isn't killing me?"

Shit.

He ignores the probabilities, the warnings that flash up in his brain to block what's coming.

She doesn't form a fist. She slaps him.

"You don't get to say that, Stark. Your initials might be on his skin, but I was the one to hold him at night, I was there with him when he died. You weren't there."

She pulls her glove off to remove the SHIELD issue black band from under her uniform – an extra precaution for agents. Removes the metal cuff from Steve's arm so tenderly, so she can cover up his mark properly with her own. She shoves the vibranium in Tony's hands, the coolness of the metal contrasting with the hot angry throb in his face – "I quit."

He deserves this.

– can't move. He's trapped. Cold. Ice. He wasn't awake the first time. Why is he awake? Eyes open, never frozen shut. Trapped. Heart beating out of his chest. A blur that can only be Namor. Steve was just now meeting Sam for the first time, jumping forward to resigning and becoming Nomad against Sharon's wishes – there's seemingly no order to the way Steve leaps through time. Paralyzed, he can only watch as Namor throws the ice and Steve into the ocean.

Please, not the submarine. He can't face the first meeting, the concern in Tony's eyes when you could still see his eyes through the faceplate. When he still wanted to be human. He can't –

Thank God…

White light –

"THEY'RE ONBOARD, THEY'VE INVADED," someone on the ship-wide comms yells as Steve throws himself into the fray, riding the consciousness of his past self as he kicks the head in of one of the Skrull soldiers.

Has to be the Kree-Skrull war. The future of his past.

Hawke– no, Goliath swings past, sending Skrulls flying with the force of his mass and they work together to secure and seal the breach. God, handling threats seemed so simple back then. It feels more wrong than ever to be here, especially knowing everything that follows, the repercussions of this battle.

Steve watches the battle wage outside, fails to ignore the way Tony flies and fights, with a graceful economy, like he was born for space.

Heart clenching, Steve follows the path of Captain Marvel, a seemingly unstoppable force, as he flies through ship after Skrull ship – a practiced, controlled destruction. Calls on God to turn Steve's head away, help him avoid reliving the moment where he witnesses Mar-Vell's death on Earth. The losses never stop hurting.

Fighting alongside Clint again. Taking in the controlled might of Thor in action here in space. Steve aches for these simpler times. Where Tony honest-to-God used rollerskates in battle and Steve's heart soared at the sight.

The force of a more recent memory hits hard.

Tony, faceplate up in the ruins of the mansion. A tear rolling down his face, as he pleads "Tell me, Steve! Tell me what I can do! What can I do to make it stop?"

Steve's answer had been practical, straightforward. Join me. Denounce the act.

When did the rot set in within their friendship? While he blames Tony's experiment with Extremis, Steve wonders what else he missed.

Vision behind him breaks his spiraling thoughts: "Captain America, we have need of you on the command deck…"

White light –

Fatigue kicks in. It's all mental, but Steve doesn't try to take over from his past self, resigns himself to just being the passenger as he fights Hydra again, wonders if Red Skull's torturing him again. Gut wrenching to keep reliving losing battles, good men, friends, unable to use his hindsight to protect his people.

Nearly shouting Bucky, when Steve's fighting alongside Rick. The loss of Bucky is still so raw. The guilt –

White light –

No.

NO.

Not this one. Not this moment in time. Bullets ricochet off the shield on Steve's back as he runs across the encampment in the heavy rain.

Did he bring this on, thinking of Bucky?

Please, not this. His heart hammers in his chest, faster than it should when he's moving at this speed. He makes his past self nauseous with worry, tries to back off, settle down at the back of their shared brain.

He's relived this day over and over, but never with this much detail. In the daytime he sticks to the events but his nightmares create a worse scenario.

The worst day of Steve's life.

"Steve, we can't let that drone get into Nazi hands!"

No. No. No. Steve shouts from the backseat of his brain. Don't let this happen again.

They leap onto a motorbike, full of foolish optimism. On the day they're both blown up.

The day Bucky dies only to be turned into someone unrecognizable – the Winter Soldier. The very antithesis of all he holds dear, what he fought for.

Steve can't go through this again.

Damn the risk to the future. He has to save him.

"I can make it Cap! I can make it!" – Bucky flings himself at the plane.

"BUCKY, WAIT!" He grabs at Bucky.

He – fails because the –

"Got it, I got it, Ste–

No, not again –

NOT AGAIN.

White light –

The lurch of joining a body with an even heartbeat, no cortisol flooding his system, even though his thoughts are back in 1945.

Takes a deep breath, knocks on the smart wooden door in front of him. Steve recognizes he's in the mansion –

"Come in!"

– and this is Tony's study. Opening the door, he sees a younger Tony with rolled up shirtsleeves, a curl escaping his gelled back hair, a cigarette in his mouth, which is only framed by a mustache.

Concentrating hard, with a circuit board on the desk, a soldering iron in one hand, and a pool of liquid solder in a handy little divot on his utility cuff, Tony greets Steve with a wide smile, genuinely looking pleased to see him. He puts out the cigarette in the glass ashtray beside him.

"Ah, Captain. How can I help you today?"

He shifts as if to stand up, to shake his hand but Steve waves him off. "Don't get up on my account." He was always so formal at the start of Steve living at the mansion. Steve now knows it was nervousness, fear at having his secret discovered.

Tony. Always keeping a secret.

Considering Tony's sick, so close to death, having to charge his chestplate constantly, he's looking really good.

Asking for Tony's input on a technical issue the Avengers are having with the comms, Steve explains how the electrical interference gets worse around cell phone towers.

Steve doesn't want to be here. Overlayed across his emotions are those of his past self's which can't move past Tony's generosity, his good looks. His hope that one day – he and Tony –

"Of course, Iron Man did let me know, I'm sorry I didn't come to you to discuss it earlier. I've been tied up. Sorry, let me just finish up here, this prototype is actually part of the answer… shit." Tony, distracted for a moment, touches the iron to the place where his wrist meets his metal cuff.

Steve leaps to his feet to help him but it's Tony's turn to wave him off.

"Stand down soldier, I'll be okay. Just need to nip downstairs to the workshop, get a compress on there and one of those handy gel wraps for after. You stay there, I'll be back in a couple of minutes."

In his haste to leave, Tony knocks the wastebasket over with his foot. Crouching to tidy up the mess while Tony's gone, Steve sighs fondly at the empty bottle of whiskey. Tony and Iron Man like to hole up in here many evenings and share a drink and – Oh god, I never realized just how bad his drinking had gotten before the first time he quit.

As Past Steve picks up everything that needs to go back in the basket, Steve wills the white light to come. He'd rather risk being thrown into a situation where he's being shot at, than relive this point. Sure enough, Steve picks up the burnt fragments of paper as best he can, and grabs the book of matches alongside. He wonders if writing your initials and burning the evidence is still something people do in the future. Is it something Tony does? Steve remembers running out of paper and using the inside of the matchbook, nearly forgetting to burn that too. But Tony would be more careful, wouldn't he?

Standing up, staring at the logo of a nightclub on the tiny matchbook, feeling that it still contains several matches, Steve knows he should drop it in the wastebasket, forget about it. But he's hyperware of Tony's celebrity status, the scrutiny the Avengers are under, and how intrusive the press can be. Obsessive fans have combed through their garbage at the mansion. He decides he should set fire to it, just in case.

"Sorry about that," Tony strides back into the room, shutting the door. "Let's see if we can get this little gadget to work, shall we?" So intent on the task at hand, the gel patch in place on his wrist, he doesn't look at Steve.

Past Steve tucks the matchbook in his pocket, telling himself he only wants to dispose of it properly.

At the back of his consciousness, a more mature Steve knows better. The discovery he makes today is life changing, as soon as he gets to the safety of his room – that slight difference between penmanship and soulmark triggers Steve's discomfort, his restlessness. His inability to settle down, seize happiness where he can.

Ashamed of betraying Tony's privacy, he never comes clean with what he knows.

A man out of time and luck.

He still dreams of Tony.

White light –

It's a bright day, not immediately identifiable to Steve, who's walked into many a bodega with Sam, to order two chopped cheeses, bicep brushing against Sam, handing over some crumpled bills, the air sticky. The owner always smiles at Sam – he's known everywhere. There's no glint of recognition for Steve, so this is before his identity is revealed to the world, when his friendship, his partnership with Sam is pretty new.

Only when they leave, the shop door jingling, does Steve's memory align with what's happening in real time – his stomach drops knowing what comes next. He holds the door for a woman and her three kids. The little girl exclaims "He's so taaaaall," looking up at him with bright brown eyes, hair in bantu knots.

Maybe, Steve reasons, he can temper his emotions better this time around. Knowing what's coming.

A woman with slicked back hair leading into a bouncy bun, wearing large gold hoops – matching her cuff – sees him holding the sandwich, flicks her eyes down at his Italian leather shoes and kisses her teeth. How does that song by that English band go? "Everybody hates a tourist?"

"Hey, Shoba, he's with me," Sam claps Steve on the back, "And I promise he's no food blogger or dodgy investor looking for a new grift, just a working class man who enjoys good food."

And lives in a billionaire's mansion and lets said billionaire buy him expensive shoes, Steve thinks guiltily, not for the first time. An echo of what he felt before. Memories upon memories. A kaleidoscope. "My friend's kindly showing me around, ma'am," he explains, "I'm hooked on the chopped cheese – I've missed a lot while I've been away."

Her eyes soften a fraction. A friend of Sam who's been away? Could mean a tour of duty, could mean prison. He wasn't looking for sympathy, just stating facts. "We could do with some help at the community kitchen on Thursday, Sam's got the details."

"I'll try my best to be there," Steve nods and Sam whispers "he's always working hard, but I'll bring him along if he doesn't pick up another shift."

Another shift is their little code for an Avengers assemble. Steve shrugs at Shoba, "sometimes they're a man short. Or I have a deadline at my other job, but I'll try my best."

The commercial artist cover can only do so much.

They take their leave and walk in companionable silence to a nearby park.

He takes a bite of the sandwich. It's good, the salt of the cheese, mingling with the soft meat, the grease sinking into the bread. There's not been many time jumps where he has a chance to eat or even sleep so he savors the taste, the sensations. He starts people watching – a natural consequence of always being on guard.

Steve's body doesn't know the score because he feels the roil of nausea as he notices some differences in the crowd even though he's already lived this, he already has educated himself.

He stops in his tracks. Unsure where to look. Because half the people in this park in Harlem, of various genders and backgrounds – a real cross-section of New York –

They're not covering up.

No cuffs.

He can see soulmarks on full display.

It occurs to Steve he's lived this moment before, it shouldn't affect him this badly. But he's in a whirlpool of shock and disgust, rubbing his own basic leather cuff roughly against the leg of his jeans and Sam tells him to stop staring as he guides him to a nearby wooden bench – Steve reads the dedication almost by rote. Clarence, loving father and husband, enjoyed sitting with his friends here, setting the world to rights. There are cigarette burns on the arm. Steve stares at them as he takes deep breaths.

A hand on his shoulder. He remembers the gentle understanding in Sam's eyes seconds before he turns. Disorientating. The world spins for a second.

"No one got around to telling you, huh? About the free love movement in the sixties, civil rights? More and more people breaking free from western religion?"

Steve shakes his head. The main people who keep Steve informed are Sharon – who tends to put the interests of SHIELD first… And Tony. Who is always distant and disinterested whenever the topic of soulmarks and soulmates comes up, often leaving the room. Iron Man's not much use either… he…

Old thought patterns. Damn. They're the same person. Tony was very ill at the time. He didn't think he would make it long enough to find his soulmate. It would have been painful to speak on it.

Sam lets out a long sigh, "Of course not. No wonder this threw you. Okay. Let's eat our sandwiches, you try not to stare at anybody, and I'll break it down for you."

Steve glances away from a man with a G.J. in a firm, decisive stroke on his forearm. He had no idea the letters came out silvery-pale on the darkest skin tones. He concentrates on his food, and Sam's description of the way things are now.

How it's about freedom, and equality, and not waiting for fate to catch up. Getting out there. That many African Americans are descended from slaves used to living with soulmarks on display, but were made to cover up by puritanical European settlers, as a form of control.

He leaves the horrors of slavery unspoken, the punishment given to defiant slaves was a desecration, a denial of person-hood – a large brand used to disfigure the skin. A desecration that persists to this day in war zones and genocides. Steve came face to face with holocaust victims, the lost generation who lost whole families and their future happiness in one fell swoop.

"Also everyone covering up makes it easier to suppress the truth, making it easy to deny that mixed race soulbonds are possible, that same sex bonds are possible, that a young woman is not simply chattel to be married off by her family as they please…"

Sam's passionate. Steve likes that about him, even if his feelings swirl, an uncomfortable ache in his chest. "You sound like you're about to go ahead and take your cuff off right away."

An elbow to Steve's ribs and a "hah" sound through the nose. "Sure, in an ideal world. It was an ex who got me into it, with her reasoning that body autonomy doesn't end at abortion rights, that folk should have a choice as to whether they bare all. And that the person you're sleeping with has a right to know that they're not the one but that doesn't mean you can't share a connection."

Sam pauses, looks across at the line of trees up front.

"But I'm a hero now. I have to protect my identity. And my loved ones. And my soulmate, whether I've met them already or we're yet to meet. But I don't need to tell you that," He gestures to Steve's arm. "You know how it is. That's a dangerous identifying mark to have out for all to see."

If you only knew, Steve thinks regretfully. Why he never opened up to Sam about his flawed soulmark, he's uncertain. Never felt like the right time. And Tony's initials… it was so fragile he couldn't make it real by speaking it out loud.

"It'll take some getting used to, but you had me at freedom," Steve jokes.

"Seriously man, let's go back to my place. I've got some books that you can borrow – I should at the very least play you a couple of the speeches you missed. You'll love it."

Steve nods, and they collect their trash. In less than a decade they'll both be running through the sewers to avoid Tony and SHIELD and the tangled web Tony has woven – connecting himself with the Bush government and shadier people still. Steve swallows, and scrunches the remaining foil from his sandwich into a ball.

Steve was left with no choice. It was the right thing to fight against a Superhero Registration Act that required soulmarks to go on file. It didn't matter how secure Tony made the files. It wasn't right.

And he couldn't risk Tony knowing about his own soulmark.

White light –

Striding across the threadbare carpet, the stench of cigarettes, urine, mold, cheap liquor, and unwashed sweat; the funk of men not looking after themselves, rises up to meet him. Steve makes fists in his uniform gloves, trying to get a grip on his temper before he reaches the right door number. He'd never forgive himself if anything happened to Tony.

The Bowery flophouse.

Steve burns with shame as he rides along with his past self, remembers he's already yelled at Tony in front of Jan. Knows it will get much, much worse.

Lounging on the bed, shirt rumpled, Tony greets him cheerfully and offers him a drink. As if their last angry chat had never happened.

Steve's made so many mistakes in his life, failed so many people.

Years passed before he was ready to acknowledge the damage he inflicted on this day. Because he couldn't reign his temper in.

He still owes Tony an apology.

"Tony, Tony… why? Just tell me why. You're an intelligent man – you know what you're doing to yourself with every single drop of drink."

Raising his glass to drink, Tony half-listens as Steve lists his many attributes. Looking back, a lot of it sounds so shallow, centering on his company, money, how women find him attractive.

Could Steve have reached Tony, connected with him here had he been more forthright about his own feelings, the need for him to still be an Avenger? Instead of falling back on the trite measurements of success men are supposed to find important. He'll never know. Instead he's again asking Tony why he's wrecking his life through drinking.

Sam's pointed comments on his PTSD come back to Steve now as Tony closes his eyes, still clutching the bottle in his hand. Feigning stillness. Like his father.

Fury rises.

"Answer me, Tony. Stop sucking on that bottle and answer me." He smacks the bottle out of Tony's hand, and his heart beats fast as Tony looks up at him, says "Or you'll do what? Beat me up?"

Tears in Tony's eyes as he chases after the bottle in the hopes that the contents haven't entirely emptied out on the floor.

The events blur as Past Steve gives his parting shot – that a man has to want to be helped – and at that point, hidden at the back of his consciousness, Steve wants to sob. Now that applies to Steve also, a man too ashamed, too stubborn to ask for help or reassurance in regards to his soulmark.

Following the events of the flophouse fire, where he notices smoke, realizes the building's been set on fire, and fights Firebrand for a brief moment, Steve realizes this is why Tony didn't come to him with his concerns about the Guardsmen.

A jolt of recognition. This is where the decay set in. Why Tony would never let him in. Why he'd rather paralyze Steve than talk it through.

…The EMP attached so easily to Tony's gauntlet at Geffen-Mayer, such a tiny device… Tony shouted out in pain.

Brain buzzing with memories overlapping memories, heart heavy, Steve carries Tony out of the building down the fire escape. He's lost muscle tone, stinks of boozy sweat. He admonishes himself not to care about that when Tony suffers, he –

Now, that's different –

Blue light –

Different. It was supposed to be different.

"It wasn't supposed to be this way."

Unable to leave after choking up at the podium, painfully aware of how the press are reporting it – he cuts the feed in his brain, he opens it up again, like pressing all his fingers into a bruise. Extremis keeps a running analysis each time forcing him to kill the process dead over and over, he wants to wear the armor, be completely impassive, and fuck he wants a drink, and he absolutely can't admit that to Carol, same as he can't tell anyone about the real funeral he's hosting the next day, nor the soulmark on Steve's arm. The one he was never meant to see.

First chance he gets, Tony returns to the helicarrier. Once the President and the dignitaries leave, no one wants to talk to the man who got Cap killed. Except Kooning, but he can go fuck himself. Tony's the man in charge, the responsible party. He should have steeled himself to give the eulogy he was meant to give. Too soft. Stark men are made of iron and here's another way he's failed the family name, failed Steve one last time.

No time for Tony to return to Steve's side, ask his corpse questions he'll never hear the answers to, as he keeps looping the footage – the memory – of Steve's bare soulmark over and over and over. No time to do that now as he returns to the helicarrier, stomach like a coiled spring, nodding distantly to agents saluting after Dum-Dum barks "DIRECTOR ON DECK."

Steve should be here. His people all think he killed him. He'll have to make major changes in order to weather this storm. Win them to his side. Extremis begins a process in the background for identifying employee incentives that will go over well. He lets it run, ignores it as he steps into his office, locks the door with his mind.

No one else on board knows they didn't bury the real Steve Rogers today, that Tony has hidden the real casket among his private crates, masquerading as an old Iron Man suit he's supposed to be adapting for his new squad. No suspicion that he, Jan and Hank will send him off correctly tomorrow. Who remains of the original Avenger lineup. Tony slides down against the door, boneless, really taking in his office as a whole for the first time.

Although he spends so much time dealing with electronic data inside his mind, his brain stuttered to a halt when it came to decorating this space. He doubted he'd use it apart from when privately meeting or dressing down an agent. In a moment of weakness, Tony consulted with Kenjiro Fujikawa's personal assistant. Izumi realized quickly that Fujikawa Industries should honor Tony's accession to Director of SHIELD correctly, while also commemorating Rumiko.

Staring at the kanji on the wall, they blur as Tony lets the sobs overtake him. The gift was genuine, but to think about losing Ru a mere year ago the same day he held Steve's funeral is unbearable.

家族 means family. Ru died in his arms the day after the Avengers mansion burned, and he lost the Avengers, his own family. Steve resented that Tony had to cease the funding. As if he wanted to end the very best days of his life.

No drink in this room, Tony made sure of it. The helicarrier is not dry, but it's not far off.

尊敬 means respect. Crowd monitoring, Extremis, means he heard every whisper, joke and snicker at his expense from his peers. His former friends and so-called allies bonding over his public disgrace. And the agents outside the door think he's a liability, can't believe he hung onto the job when Cap died on his watch.

名誉 means honor, something he no longer has. Kenjiro would never speak to him if he knew to what depths Tony has sunk. Associating with criminals, seeding a conspiracy to achieve his own ends, even the way in which he accused Steve of having a hand in Happy's brain damage.

高慢 means pride. Tony has none left. Did it die when Kooning threatened him with blackmail? No, it withered the day Tony went to the other illuminati members with his insights on the SRA, when he realized that very few people would listen – and he'd lose Steve's fond regard.

Fuck, he needs a drink. He shakes, feeling like he could come apart.

Just as seductive is his need for the privacy and protection of the armor. It's hidden, just behind the Hinomaru, the ball of the sun in the center of the wall, behind his desk chair.

Raw need compels him to trigger the call to the armor, to encase himself in the only tomb he deserves. But as the doors bearing the red sun slide apart, and the armor comes at him to assemble around his body like the ghost of an old lover, he pauses. Stares at the recess from which his helmet shot out. Rattles off an access code, a birthday he no longer needs to remember, but is always etched in his heart. The recess slowly regurgitates a long, thin metal box and Tony tenderly places it on his desk. Orders the armor off, and to hide itself again.

Wiping his tears away with his thumbs, Tony makes the decision as he opens up the box.

The cuff is made of the same gold alloy as his armor. Holding it up to the light, Tony feels the lightness, the balance of the cuff. The traditional sakura design is detailed but elegant – Tony isn't an artist, but he remains satisfied with how he rendered the metalwork.

Incorporating cybernetic connections and channels for the undersuit to pour into means there's no loss of movement when he's in the suit.

He focuses on the design because otherwise he has to focus on why he's choosing this now. Still in the box sits the very flat canister that resembles a hipflask, which will lie just on top of his soulmark. Tony chose an acid that's caustic, and will do the job if the cuff is ever tampered with, but without causing serious damage to his limb, his hand.

Clipping the canister into the underside of the cuff, Tony's thoughts one again turn to Ru, and to Steve. They'd both disapprove. And Whitney? He'd rather not dwell on how she would take it.

He slaps away the process that starts analyzing the different scenarios with a hurried $ kill 107.

Sweating, Tony pulls off his jacket, his tie, goes to roll his sleeve up, but decides to just shuck his shirt off entirely.

He's clammy, hair sticks to his forehead. He's really doing this. Swallowing, he retracts the gold band around his arm, the section of his undersuit, absorbs it back into his body.

Avoiding looking at his soulmark directly, Tony lays his arm down in the new cuff. Activates it through Extremis. It shuts gently and after a series of clicks, it's done.

Should something happen to him, or the connection with Extremis is dropped, it won't open. And if it's prised off…

His secret is safe now.

Humid, close jungle, vines hanging across his face.

Hoping he's not revisiting the Savage Land, Steve bats away the vines and a large insect from the back of his hand. Feels smaller midges settle on the back of his neck. Stomach tickling, Steve looks down, sees a vivid blue butterfly perched on healed skin under bullet holes, surrounded by rusted brown stains. A larger hole gaping in his shoulder.

His vibranium cuff is gone, replaced with a plain black fabric one. He mourns the loss of something Tony created, despises himself for even caring.

Matching when he – flashes of the laser sight – stone steps – Sharon – ambulance.

He should be dead.

Hearing rustling of foliage, the THWACK of a blade meeting plant fiber moving closer, Steve readies his fists, sweat pouring down the back of his neck, lightens his steps. The shield is no good in vegetation this dense.

THWACK

THWACK

A jolt of recognition, followed by confusion.

Tony, Bowie knife in his teeth, another larger serrated knife in his hand, plain black cuff. Wide blue eyes but there's no glimmer of recognition in them. Dressed in 1930's style clothes, sporting a Van Dyke beard.

Fake, it has to be fake. Red Skull has Steve laid out on a slab somewhere, torturing him through strange dreams of Tony dressed as an adventurer, having his Indian Jones moment.

1930's Tony pulls the knife out of his mouth, re-sheaves it in his belt. "What are you, a circus performer? Human cannonball who used too much gunpowder, ended up in the Amazon?"

Heart beating in his chest, Steve can't believe he doesn't know who he is. "Tony?"

"And a fan to boot. Of course, I'll sign your copy of Marvels." He looks Steve up and down, "No idea where you came from. But, dropping pins, I'm a good muzzler. Allow me to demonstrate right against that tree."

Face growing warm at the queer slang coming from Tony's mouth, Steve admits, "I don't think I should be here. I should be dead."

"Oh me neither, my belle. I've been living on borrowed time." Tony's hand twitches in front of his chest, and Steve's stomach drops at the obvious tell.

Wanting to explain just how wrong this is, Steve tries again. "Tony, I –"

But Tony licks his lips, steps into Steve's personal space, whispers, "I'm not hearing a no. How about I get on my knees and blow you?"

Taking a deep breath through his nose, certain that this is a test that he's worried he may fail, Steve takes in a whiff of pure, unwashed Tony – the mix of fresh sweat, metal and salt woven through a deep musk that always drove Steve mad on the training mats. He's not felt the desire rise up in months, not even when face to face with Tony – what the hell is happening to him?

A deep booming roar rings out nearby: OUGH, OUGH, OUGH, OUGH.

Steve turns around, looking for the animal, but Tony grabs him by the shoulder – and Steve's missed that sensation more than he'd care to admit. "It's a jaguar – and don't worry baby, I'll protect you."

He's smirking as his eyes dance across the outline of Steve's chest, his abs, knows how it must sound but it's clear he's the expert in these parts. "We've got to keep moving, I'll have to show you a good time later. What's your name, sweetheart?"

"Ste-"

Blue light –

In a workshop, similar to Tony's in the mansion, Steve spins around. Crates of materials, welding equipment to one side, a station with a soldering iron and stacks of PCBs. Numerous tools, components, transistors in buckets bolted to the walls, power hammer, fabricators and curing stations.

Something is missing.

There's no Iron Man armor.

An alert goes off on one of the floating monitors and there's a nearby clang – the sound of someone smacking down a wrench on a metal workbench. "Another one? How am I supposed to get anything done when the multiverse keeps…"

He trails off, like Tony does when he's having a major breakthrough.

He sounds like Tony, just younger…

Footsteps approach –

Purple light –

Smell of antiseptic. Observation window. Beyond, Tony lying unconscious, hooked up to machines.

Steve stands still, stays silent and hopes he's not noticed.

In a black leather jacket, a huge blond man stops leaning his head against the window, shaking his head, glaring at Carol. With a jolt, Steve realizes it's him.

Well, a different version of him.

He's younger, grim faced. A little hard around the eyes. Bulkier. And Steve understands that slight twitch to the mouth, imperceptible to most. He's terrified.

"It's time to shit or get off the pot, Rogers."

Carol's also wearing civvies, but it's like she got back from a series of meetings, her shirt's all creased.

Other Steve continues to shake his head.

"You don't understand, Danvers. It's not that simple." His voice is rough, eyes red rimmed. He glances at Tony over on the hospital bed. So still.

Shit. He remembers a similar conversation with the Carol in his universe. Except he learned later she had been blackout drunk at the time. So it never came up again.

"I think it is that simple, you're so used to being unhappy that the idea of going for it, grasping hold of something you want, scares you."

"Why would you want this, don't you two have a thing?"

Steve doesn't think he's normally that judgemental about other people's relationships. He just hopes Tony's not her sponsor in this universe.

"That's over, it was never that serious, anyway. Don't deflect the question, Cap. Answer me. Do you think you could make each other happy?"

"But my soulmark…"

"Fuck the soulmark, think about the cancer – there's so little time. But you need to make a decision. Before you go on this mission. So I know you're coming back."

Cancer.

This Tony has cancer.

"You've gone too far, Danvers. I've told you, I'm not suicidal. I don't need a SHIELD doc poking around in my brain." Other-Steve is jabbing his finger in Carol's impassive face.

"So prove it. Show me you have something to live for. Soulmarks be damned."

Steve lets out a gasp at the simple truth of it, and they both whip around, in surprise. Other-Steve instinctively reaches for his shield.

Blue light –

Catching his breath for a few seconds, Steve leans against rough stone, certain he just escaped grave injury. He appears to be behind a very large statue. Looking up Steve realizes it's of him in full uniform, striking a heroic pose. His mind is reeling. Clearly he's no longer hopping through time – he's jumping through realities.

And he's not the only Steve having issues with Tony.

Was Carol right? Could he have ignored his defective soulmark and gone on to be happy with Tony?

Would it have been enough?

While reliving his past over and over it's become clear that Steve's feelings are the strongest when he's angry. He was frustrated with Tony so many times. And the last year has been absolute hell.

Tony closed himself off – mainly from Steve. He had assumed it was the shock of losing Rumiko. He'd seen Tony grieve before but on top of the Avengers breaking apart, on top of needing to focus on sobriety, it had been too much.

Steve spent weeks sitting in his apartment, watching the same video rental over and over or blaring the radio loud enough to stop thinking, stop wondering if Tony had kanji written on his wrist. Whether he should get in touch, try to look after him.

Briefly he himself had known the sweet relief, the false joy of thinking his own mark read W. M. Even then, he couldn't shake the feeling in Wanda's dreamscape that he needed to tell Tony… something. And. He couldn't tell her he loved her. The words wouldn't form in his mouth.

He thought founding the new team would fix everything. The serendipity of Tony catching him in midair that night at the raft.

Then Tony jabbed himself with Extremis, fell into line with the government's plans for superhero registration… and no longer had Steve's six.

Steve bumps his head into the cool stone, tired of wrestling with his own mind. No, that Carol was wrong. There was no happiness to be had between him and Tony Stark.

Two sets of footsteps approach, crunching gravel, one person hurrying after the other. Steve comes back to himself. The smell of roses drifts across and Steve glances around. Registers he's in the rose garden tucked away against one wall of the mansion. The sun is shining.

"Tony, I need to say something. It'll only take a moment."

Recognizing the voice, Steve peers around. Sure enough, it's Bruce. Looking surprisingly hale and relaxed, holding a hot dog. Likely vegetarian.

Steve's stomach rumbles.

"Of course Bruce, but make it quick. I have to go freshen up for my hot date with the lovely neuroscientist Dr. Donnell!"

Steve angles his body around the stone to get a better look at this Tony. He also looks in good health – tanned, without a shirt, black jeans, chest only covered by a black apron reading 007: License to Grill. Sporting a sleek, black cuff, perhaps made out of black tungsten. He narrows his eyes as Bruce explains, "Well, that's the thing I came over to discuss."

"Go on." This Tony is guarded but not at all to the same extent as… Steve hesitates to call the Tony from his universe "his Tony"… but… The Tony in front of him looks really good, and he starts to wonder if maybe he writes his T with an extra long arm…

"So it dawned on me as you left the barbecue just now that you had a really great day. I saw you in the kitchen this morning, seasoning the meat with Steve, then I understand you went to play basketball with Steve, sat in the sauna and showered with Steve, took a stroll in central park with Steve, then cooked for the team with Steve."

"Yeah, it's been a good day. And I'm hoping to continue that streak by picking the brain of one of New York's brightest as we pick at sushi and then we'll see where the evening takes us!"

"The big guy says you're being very stupid. And if you carry on hurting Cap, he'll throw you through a window."

Steve feels dizzy. Is the Steve here also in love with Tony?

"Hurting… Cap..." This version of Tony also appears to need a moment to digest this. "I don't see how…"

"Don't give me that crap, Tony. Hulk really would like to demonstrate his displeasure by re-landscaping this rose garden, so how about you stop pretending and tell me how it really is."

It's almost a whisper, as Tony looks down at his sneakers, all former flash and confidence gone. "I'm not good enough for him. He deserves someone better. Someone good…"

Bruce lets out a long sigh, as Steve shakes his head behind the plinth. What is he talking about? Tony's brilliant, smart, handsome, generous, why wouldn't… Steve swallows, realizing he's describing the old Tony, shallowly. Nowadays, his Tony is all bullheadedness and secrecy. Always doing it alone. Taking too many risks –

"…and I never listen, I'm so bad at opening up, even now. I know Steve thinks I take too many risks in the field." Alternate Tony is echoing his thoughts, it's eerie. "I think he needs a kind partner for that white picket fence life. I can't give him that, but I know Steve needs that stability, someone who will treat him right. Someone who isn't a man."

"Tony, what I really need is for you to stop trash-talking yourself." Alternate Steve appears. Bruce sighs, beats a hasty retreat with his hotdog, a light dance across the gravel.

Other-Steve looks young, but more relaxed around the eyes than the last Steve. But there's a nervous look in his eyes as he cocks his head at Tony. He at least is wearing more clothes, plus an apron that reads Wingmaster under a cartoon of Captain America with chicken wings in place of the usual white wings. The design is covered up when he crosses his arms, but he uncrosses them again, tries to look casual.

"Steve, I really should go get ready." Tony's not making eye contact. "It's rude to keep a lady…"

Frowning, alternate Steve gets in Tony's space, and Steve from his vantage point can see his newfound resolve.

"Give me your phone," this Steve demands. Blinking, Tony reaches into the pocket of his apron for it and quickly taps in the passcode.

"I'm texting Dr. Donnell on your behalf, and letting her know you can't make it tonight. That it's my fault. I hurt you in training. As a neuroscientist she should think a light concussion's a good reason to stay home." He hits send, slips the phone into Tony's back pocket, holds on to the pocket possessively, thumb circling the bare skin of his waist. "Now what you were saying before – I agree with one part – I do want to be treated right. Which is why you're going to stop dating around."

Tony's eyes widen, "Steve, you can't be seri…"

"Enough, Tony. You're going to stop dating because there's only one person that's right for you. Me." He pulls Tony closer, so they're chest to chest and from his vantage point, Steve squeezes his eyes shut because he can't bear it, witnessing the one thing he could never have. He can still hear them though, and damn his eidetic memory because he's never going to forget Tony's moans and gasps.

When he opens his eyes again, yes, they're still kissing, alternate Steve has backed Tony against the opposite wall. Wrapped up in each other, unlikely to part anytime soon as their arms are entwined above Tony, held in place. A form of courtship that quietly affirms that they carry each other's mark.

A beam of light, the late afternoon sun hits their cuffs. Reflects.

At least it worked out for them. Steve's chest feels tight. He's been cycling through time, through different worlds for so long. He won't stop missing Tony.

White light –

– quickly turns into golden light, surrounds him.

Just beyond, a female form, not clear. Everything is too bright. Pain lances through him. Pinned like a butterfly. Pulling him towards her.

She screams "NO!"

Sharon. She's in peril.

He remembers holding her hand in the ambulance. And – that can't be…

He's being pulled closer, a thread of gold links them now. He'll be able to help in a moment. He just needs to hold on for a couple of minutes more.

Sharon shouts "No, NO", sounding wild and sharp and broken and he wishes he could move, make sure she's okay. But sparks fall, the sound of machinery grinding to a halt, screeching metal.

Ceases the tight pulling sensation in his chest, the feeling of being brought closer.

The light blinks out, replaced with a fuzz in his head-body-limbs and bright Bright BRIGHT

Blue light –

Needing a moment to recover from the light, and the shock of hearing Sharon's voice, Steve sinks to his knees, hoping he's not in a warzone. Cold concrete floor.

Aching body, but at least the sharp pain is gone.

"Shit. Hang on, Cap, let me get things a bit more stabilized for you."

Sounds like another Tony. Young again.

Steve blinks away tears as he hears a few buttons on a console being slapped down, and an electronic whine starts up. His vision clears as he notices a shimmering opalescent forcefield go up around him.

Reaching for his shield, he realizes he's not had it since he started moving across universes.

"Okay, that should keep you here a for a while longer. Just make sure you stay within that field while I figure out just why you're pinging through the multiverse."

Steve recognizes that voice. Sure enough, when his vision clears and he leaps to his feet, he sees a different Tony, clad in a black vest and gray sweats – he's back in the workshop that contains no armor.

He seems open, amenable. But he's put Steve in a ten by ten prison. There's no Iron Man armor, so he's likely not an Avenger in this world. And he looks… almost pristine. Sure, there's a smear of grease on one pant leg, but he's not even worked up a sweat.

"Oh sorry, I haven't introduced myself yet." He reaches through the energy field, offering Steve a friendly handshake. "Hi, I'm Tony Stark of Earth-76."

Up close Steve can see the same sparkling eyes, the same well-maintained goatee. But there's a striking lack of laughter lines, a strange agelessness to this man. Steve can't tell his age, but what he focuses on are the thin lines – fissures really – that run from the bottom of his eyes down and around to the tops of his ears – plus a similar line that leads from his hairline down and across the top of his forehead before disappearing back into his hair. It reminds Steve of the Iron Man armor – the way the outer shell fits together.

It's uncanny.

To Steve's touch, his hand feels too soft, lacking the callouses that are such a part of his Tony – coming from a life of creation, repair, and innovation.

Guts turning to ice, Steve attempts a smile. Introduces himself, "Hi, I'm Steve." Grasps Not-Tony's hand and starts pulling him through into the force field.

Dirty pool.

This Tony's eyes widen for a brief moment before there's a small pop, and Steve falls back, bouncing against the other wall of the force field, which tingles unpleasantly.

He's holding a state of the art prosthetic arm.

"Cap, really – I admit I wasn't expecting that. Not–Tony laughs into his other hand. "You should see your face. Could I have that back, now?"

Steve studies the arm. To his eye it's incredible work, the skin is so lifelike. He strokes down to the palm.

"Oh damn, that tickles. Come on, give it back now. After a vampire ripped my arm off in London, I've had to make some modifications. But clearly I need to do more stress testing."

"Tony, what have you done to yourself?"

Not-Tony flinches. "It was this or death. That's usually how it goes for me across the multiverse, right?"

Steve acknowledges this with a nod, reflecting on Tony's chestplate plus everything he's had to handle since, the Tony with cancer, and Tony the adventurer with whatever technological management of his heart he could manage in the 1930's.

Passing the arm through the force field, Steve manages, "I'm sorry. I've been traveling through different worlds after moving through time and my Tony chose to turn himself into a computer, I shouldn't confuse you with him."

Not-Tony takes his arm back, mouth a flat line. "Did he choose it, or was he forced into it by the circumstances he was in? It's what my father did to save my life, he gave me another chance. I promise I am not your enemy. I'm trying to help you get back home."

Steve blinks, sits more comfortably. He always assumed Tony chose Extremis, the way he would rave about his new abilities. Not liking the reasons Tony may have been forced to inject the Extremis virus, he swallows, then remembers his manners.

"Thank you for your help. Do you know what's happening to me? I think I died and I've been revisiting my past – but now I've started skipping through universes as well. I don't know what's happening. Can this forcefield really keep me in place?"

Clicking his right arm in place, placid now, Not-Tony shrugs. "I'm not totally sure what's happening – each Steve Rogers that passes through here has a different reason. And the forcefield won't work indefinitely, but it buys us some time. Now that you're a bit calmer, I'll mold it round your body, so you can move around, eat, visit the little boy's room." He winks, and taps a few times on his tablet and sure enough the field shrinks down and snaps to Steve's body, like he's been shrinkwrapped in sparkling light.

It's clear enough to see out of as long as he doesn't move his eyes too fast.

As he sinks down on the Eames chair Tony offers him, Steve has to ask,"More than one of me has come through here?"

"Yes. You're a man on a mission, Cap. Doesn't matter what universe you're from. I've met many Steve Rogers these past few years." Tony passes him a bottle of water before taking a heavy duty desk chair, looks down at his tablet. "Oh, you're from Earth 616. Huh. And you died?"

Steve nods as he breaks the seal on the bottle, remembering Sharon's touch. Her face. Blinding pain. Surely not – no.

Glancing at Steve, this Tony looks concerned, with a spark of curiosity and determination in his eye. Steve knows that look. It means he's spotted a lead.

"Yes. Assassination on the steps of the courthouse. But normal bullets don't feel like that." Looking down at the bloody holes in his uniform.

"Any secrets you're not telling me, Cap? Something a little different about your soulmark?"

The audacity – but also the weirdness of hearing a Tony ask about it so directly – puts Steve on the defensive: "Why, is there something different about your –" he cuts himself off, staring at Not-Tony's arms. Bare of cuff, bare of soul mark.

Not-Tony sighs."Ah, I was wondering when you'd notice. Didn't have a chance to throw on a shirt. I need to make a quick call and then I'll tell you all about it." Eying Steve, no, looking through him like he's scanned him, he appears to come to a decision. "We need a specialist."

"Reed Richards?" Steve asks hopefully.

Laughing, Not-Tony shakes his head as he pulls a cellphone out of his pants pocket, makes a call. Speaks "Code red, white, and blue" into the receiver and hangs up.

"I've called in reinforcements. As for my lack of soulmark and all of this…" He gestures to his face, the seams. "Settle in for a story."

He flips a tablet round, and flips through videos and photos as he speaks – quickly, as though he'd rather not focus on what he's saying. Feels familiar to Steve. Tony does this at mission briefings, and whenever he used to come back from the UN. Extra dry and detached whenever he speaks of Madame Masque.

Not-Tony starts with a photo of a very large version of the Iron Man suit – larger even than Tony's prototype. "My grandfather was part of the World War Two effort, he invented the original Iron Man suit, a huge help on D-Day, along with Captain Carter – your supersoldier counterpart in this universe. She's amazing."

"Wow, a female supersoldier in the forties. That must have been…"

"Yes, she's incredible. I'm fortunate to count her as a friend…"

Curiosity gets the best of Steve, interjecting, "What about Steve Rogers? What happened to him?"

Not-Tony flinches. "Died in action, piloting one of Pop's Iron Men."

"I'm sorry."

"Why? I didn't know him." A beat. "Oh. You're one of the Caps that thinks there's a Steve for every Tony." He flashes a bare arm once again for emphasis. "Sorry to disappoint."

Steve swallows. He was beginning to believe it after the rose garden. And back in the hospital, the hard looking Steve had a similar issue. But it sounded like he could be persuaded…

Rolling his eyes at the thought, Not-Tony moves on. Shows Steve some shaky video of a red figure in the air doing multiple loop-de-loops, before doing what looks like a speed test. The camera shakes, there's whoops of joy coming from behind the camera. "Fast forward to the eighties, and my dad Howie revolutionized the Iron Man as a smaller piece of equipment. It's now a suit, much easier to maneuver and get in and out of."

The video cuts to a man in a boxy, yet smart looking Iron Man armor, strolling with the helmet cradled in his arm. The black trim on this model reminds Steve of the Ferrari sports cars of the same era, but he's drawn to the laughing man inside, with the mane of curls and the handlebar mustache. Charisma personified.

"He was going to set up an arena to charge people to watch races, fights and feats of strength but halfway through he had a crisis of confidence. He called it the midlife crisis in the middle of his midlife crisis." Steve has never seen his Tony smile while talking about his father, but there's a flicker of tenderness in Not-Tony.

Another flick across the scene to a photograph of some more sober looking models. "He built the Rescue suits instead. Started training pilots and supplying suits for the Red Cross and other aid organizations. Changed search and rescue globally for the better."

"And then we come to me. Mum wasn't in the picture, so I traveled the world with Dad, he still made sure I got a standard education, but no day was ever the same. I also learned not to bother him before noon, because of his awful hangovers." The humor falls flat here, maybe this Tony is not so dissimilar after all.

"But six years ago, the Stark Industries lab I was meeting him at was sabotaged. He was late, of course. The lab workers and I were caught up in an explosion. Let's just say I'm very lucky to be alive, and both Dad and Yinsen saved my life, at the cost of their own." A detailed body scan is the next image on screen, but it's mostly electronics apart from the brain and spinal column looking white, ghostly, insubstantial. Vulnerable.

"I have very few original parts left."

Steve's looked over enough of Tony's designs to recognize jet boots, weapons, and shielding.

Suddenly the fissures on his face make more sense.

He and the suit are one.

Steve opens his mouth, but Not-Tony snaps at him. "Don't. I don't need your pity right now."

Taking a gulp of water instead, Steve watches a portal open up behind Tony. Doctor Strange steps through, and Steve's heart clenches in his chest.

Always careful around magic users, Steve always maintained a professional distance from Stephen in his own universe. He suspected Stephen's particular blend of medical and magical expertise would reveal a truth he wasn't ready to hear.

"Tony. Captain. Let's make this quick." No-nonsense in this universe, Stephen starts drawing a chalk circle around Steve's chair.

Leaping out of his seat, sending it spinning, Tony edges closer. "Wow, not even a greeting or a morsel of affection for me. I see how it is, Stephen."

"You have a problem - no offense, Captain. You're not the problem personally, it's the situation of all these Captain Americas continually popping up in his workshop – you have a problem, you call me. I come sort it out for you. I leave, wondering why you don't call any of the other magic practitioners you know."

"You're local. And I miss your face."

Is Tony flirting?

Stephen glances over his shoulder at Tony before he starts writing runes around the circle, and scattering a mystery dust. "Hm."

"Fine." Tony looks a little deflated, but undeterred – like he just needs to find another way to get through to Stephen, and he'll have a better strategy next time. "Aren't you at least going to look over my readings? There's a weird energy resonance around him. I wondered if it was magic, but there's some weird bio-waves too."

Stephen slows his movements around Steve. "Give me that," he motions towards the tablet in Tony's hand but there's a hint of a smile there, a twinkle, like he can't resist.

Steve can't breathe, the realization almost winds him. He and his Tony were this playful at times, maybe even this flirty. When things were good between them.

It was there all along, hidden in plain sight.

Even though they didn't match.

Despite hurting each other over and over again.

Having looked over Not-Tony's results, Stephen nods, and starts to move his hands, intoning a spell. The hairs on the back of Steve's neck stand on end, the forcefield stutters for a brief second, and the sound of machinery and background noise of air con and humming computer servers fall away. His ears are stuffy, like they need to pop.

Clicking his fingers, Stephen releases the spell and the real world rushes in again. Steve yawns several times before he rids himself of that feeling of imbalanced pressure.

Stephen begins to pace. "Captain, I must ask you some questions. And you must be truthful, however embarrassing you may find them."

Steve braces himself. If this helps him get free of this never ending jumping from place to place, he hopefully never has to see these people again anyways.

"Have you ever felt a pulling sensation during one of your jumps?"

Taking another huge glug of his water, Steve nods. "Just before I got here. It was like being pulled by golden light towards someone else. I couldn't make out much detail but… Sharon. It had to be Sharon. She stopped it. I don't know why…."

His stomach rumbles. Tony passes him a protein bar and Steve nods his thanks, ripping it open and taking a bite.

Stephen turns, his cloak moving dramatically.

"Were you romantically involved with this Sharon?"

"Yes – on and off, for many years."

"Do you carry her initials?"

The processed chocolate flavor clagginess of the snack sticks in his throat for a moment. Once he swallows, he sighs. "No."

"Makes sense. Now, how long ago before the day you died was the last time you had unprotected sex?"

Heat flares in Steve's face. "We've never had unprotected sex, I wouldn't... Sharon has a SHIELD-issued injection and IUD. We're always protected."

More sharply, "As a doctor, do I have to remind you that contraception can fail?"

"Not for Sharon. She was checked over a lot." Steve feels uncomfortable at the thought that Fury probably hoped for a slip up.

"How long, Captain?"

Brain thrumming with a tension headache, Steve hazards a guess: "Eight weeks?"

Stephen mutters "That would do it."

"What are you thinking?" Steve hears Not-Tony ask as he puts his head in his hands. Sharon pregnant. It's something he always thought he'd want, but not like this. With him dead and her… she wasn't safe, in the light. But she didn't want him there, which means she was saving him from something much worse.

Looking up, he sees the two men with their heads bowed close, looking at readouts on the tablet. Croaks out, "Is she okay? I really need to know."

Eyes softening slightly, Stephen sighs. "We can check. I need to anyhow, in order to rule certain scenarios out. We can scry, have a look at what occurred on Earth 616 – but this is a one way mirror. We cannot communicate or enter the space, only observe."

Steve nods, feeling numb. Knowing that whatever he finds out he's not going to like.

Stephen performs several incantations and another, smaller portal opens, with a greenish tinge to it, like looking through a green glass bottle.

Clasping his forehead in despair, Sam listens to Tony. They're stood in the helicarrier elevator, speaking in hushed voices.

Shocked to see them working together, Steve guesses a lot changes after his death. Sam looks harried but overall quite hale, but Tony looks terrible, haunted. He's clearly not getting enough rest and he needs a haircut. The directorship is not agreeing with him. Steve still wonders if he faltered for even a moment when he heard of Steve's death.

Remembering Tony's tears, his pleading in what remained of the mansion, Steve knows he's not being fair to his old friend, to the intensity of feeling between them.

Tony grips the papers in his hand so tightly as he speaks to Sam. "My personal physician has confirmed it, Sharon had a miscarriage a little over a week ago. The scar on her stomach is from the attack that caused the miscarriage."

She lost the pregnancy. Steve closes his eyes at the finality of it.

"And she doesn't remember being pregnant?"

"It's hard to believe, but it seems Dr. Faustus turned on the Red Skull in the end. This was his parting gift to her. Perhaps he thought he was helping her." Tony twists his mouth at the thought, echoing Steve's feelings on having that choice taken away.

"The question is, what happens now? She deserves to know… but I can't bring myself to do it. She already had a nasty shock when she accidentally saw Steve's soulmark in the morgue. I don't think she can take it."

Choking up, Steve wishes he could make amends for all this pain. What a way to find out. And with no way for Steve to explain – it was never that Tony. It was more complicated. What we had was real.

Rocking back on his feet, Sam hisses, "Shit, how the hell did that happen, Stark?"

"I don't know," Tony shrugs, "I wasn't there. I don't know what she saw. All I know is she immediately resigned."

Tony's usually better at hiding his tells. But he's scarily transparent here, twitchy, like he wants someone to pull him up on this obvious lie. Tony knows. He saw.

Steve's in a daze as he watches Sam assure Tony he'll take care of Sharon, that Steve would want that. That he'll tell her the truth when she's strong enough.

Tony nods, his eyes unseeing. Steve wonders if it's Extremis or that's just the effect of thinking about Steve's soulmark. He looks as lost as Steve feels, caught between sorrow for Sharon and rage and bitterness towards Tony.

Trying not to flinch is hard when Not-Tony places his hand on his shoulder, but Steve manages it. "I'm sorry," he says as Stephen works on closing the scrying glass. "It sounds like your friends are looking after her though."

Stephen turns with a thoughtful look on his face."It was your body they wanted. So many of these situations arise when a soul is in want of a body. That's what they were using Sharon for, to pull you through."

No wonder Sharon stopped them. "But why use Sharon in the first place?"

"She's what many unoriginal minds would call the constant. Some may suspect it's your soulmarks that are connected by magic. But it's really down to something more scientific. Microchimerism."

Registering the confused look on Steve's face, Stephen relents. "She and you created life. And when a woman is host to a male fetus, even for a short while, a small amount of the fetus' DNA is present in her blood – and she continues to live with trace amounts of the DNA in her brain when it crosses the blood-brain barrier."

Steve closes his eyes. Reminds himself it was a fetus. Not his son. It didn't get that far.

"Why does that happen though?" Tony asks, voice laced with curiosity.

"Scientists think it has a protective function for both mother and fetus, but it's most likely linked with ensuring the autoimmune response doesn't react too negatively to the y chromosome."

Not-Tony squeezes Steve's shoulder as he clarifies with Stephen: "So you're saying Sharon has a trace of Steve's DNA in her brain? Fascinating."

"But this link conflicts with that of your unrecognized soulbond, Captain. How long have you suspected your soulmate was in another universe?"

Swallowing, Steve stands before he answers, moving away from Not-Tony's touch. He feels a need to move his body, feels boxed in, too warm.

"I never… I thought my soulmark was wrong, a mistake. I assumed that it was different from the initials of the person I thought it matched because I was a man out of time. Or because I was so sickly and weak as a child, a young man. If I had diabetes, asthma, an irregular heartbeat, why not an incorrect soulmark?"

There. It's out in the open now. Steve doesn't feel less burdened, just numb that it always comes back to his soulmark. To Tony, somehow.

"So it's similar to someone else's initials?"

Nods. Looks Stephen in the eye and finally says it out loud. "It's Tony's. But it's not a match on the T. The arm is way too long."

"No wonder you still believe there's a Steve for every Tony." Not-Tony interjects. They both stare at him until he brings his hands up in supplication. "Okay, okay, I shouldn't joke about it, I'm sorry."

In a low voice, Stephen mutters, "He's scared to think it might happen for him, even if he lacks his mark."

"I didn't think it was possible for me." Steve's fatigued by the enormity of it all.

"I find that hard to believe. I've met several versions of you now and you know what quality you all share?"

Steve shakes his head.

"Unrelenting hope. No matter the circumstances."

Putting a hand to his face, Steve is relieved to hear Not-Tony suggest they break for lunch, ready to order in.

At a fold out table that's covered in scorch marks, over steaming bowls of spicy, savoury pho, Not-Tony quizzes Steve. On what universes he's visited so far, which Tonys he's met. For all of his cynical feelings on his own future, it turns out that just like the Tony back home, he's an incurable romantic, wanting to know if Steve's hit it off with any of his dopplegangers.

He's disappointed to find out that Steve's not really met many so far. One was unconscious, one already taken – but he's excited by the first one, with the Bowie knife in his teeth. "Oh, I hope you see him again. He sounds fun."

Stephen puts down his chopsticks and glares at his friend. "Tony. He's seen you twice now."

"So, what, we must be a match? Remember, Stephen, my soulmark is gone now. But it sure as hell didn't read S.R. So that's not happening."

Pinching his nose, Stephen speaks quietly, "There is a lot we still don't know about soulmarks. Even their origin… is unclear. I've seen my fair share of miracles. Just write out your initials and put the poor man out of his misery, Anthony. And use an actual pen – not the swiss army knife you call your right arm."

As not-Tony scoots over to a nearby desk, roots around in a drawer for a pen, and grabs a napkin, Steve feels hope blossom in his heart once again. Maybe it could really be this easy. Even if his attraction to this Tony doesn't feel so encompassing as proto-soulbonds are supposed to, that might be good, give them time to get to know each other before they bond.

Not-Tony, silent apart from the click of the pen, scrawls on the napkin, slides it over to Steve.

It's not a match. The letters are too squat and the arm of the T is a bare wisp.

Studying his face, which he knows he's arranged to be as stoic as possible, Stephen sighs. "It was worth a try."

Staring into the middle distance, Not-Tony appears to be taking a moment. His hope is not entirely extinguished then, Steve surmises. He still feels disappointment.

"In another life, perhaps," Steve gets up and claps him on the back.

"Ha-ha, yes. Very funny," Not-Tony smiles but it doesn't reach his eyes. Steve wants to take him by the shoulders, shake him, say you do deserve love, fuck the soulmark, but he's still a stranger to Tony, doesn't want to get his back up.

Stephen dabs at his lips with a napkin before flinging it to one side. Cocking his head at Steve in an unnervingly familiar way, he seems to come to a decision. "It's time to discuss what can be done, Captain."

Having faith that these versions of Stephen and Tony can help him, Steve considers his options.

He should go back. Comfort and look after Sharon.

Grieve together.

Confront Tony, make sure he secures the database properly.

Look after his teammates. Remembering he was in custody after losing sight of his place in the world, he knows he should face the consequences.

Persuade Tony to follow his example.

Apart from holding Sharon in his arms once more, everything he's listed are the duties of Captain America, not Steve Rogers.

His responsibilities, his commitment to do right by the American public. To make sure they can enjoy happy, long lives with their own soulmates.

To be Captain America, Steve can't have a soulmate.

To find and bond with his soulmate, Steve can't be Captain America.

Now is not the time to be selfish.

His duty will have to be enough.

"I'm ready to go back," he announces.

"Ah. That wasn't quite what I meant. You don't have many options here, Captain. I can of course sever you from what anchors you to Earth 616 so you can go find your soulmate, but I cannot help you return to Earth 616."

Off-kilter, feeling like he should have picked the brain of Stephen in his origin universe after all, Steve clenches his fists. "Why not?"

"Unfortunately, I cannot sever a soulbond, not even a proto-bond. That is a profane act that has dire consequences for the magic practitioner."

He remembers after the mansion… after Wanda, Stephen visiting and asking if his soulmark was still intact, a grave expression on his face. Steve realizes he was worried for Wanda, the consequences she'd face if she'd tampered with it beyond her illusion.

So. He can't return home to Sharon.

To Tony.

The enormity of it, the wave of sorrow and regret threatens to drag him down.

Breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth, he forces himself to ask the question. "What now?"

Sighing, Stephen drags his hand through his hair, "Once I cut your remaining tie to your origin universe, you'll be more likely to meet your soulmate. When you bond with them, you'll stop traveling through the multiverse."

"And what if you don't sever my link to my home universe?"

"You'd continue to be a multiversal nomad, never able to stay in one place. Bonding with your soulmate would still help, but you'd still end up hopping universes. And the longer you do that, follow that path, the worse it is for both your form, and the shape of the multiverse. She's not really built to have a supersoldier punching holes between worlds. So, for the good of the multiverse, I have to operate. I'm sorry."

Obviously, there's no alternative. Steve's not going to endanger the entire multiverse for closure.

Pacing, letting the reality of it sink in, Steve remembers reading Jan's copy of The Time Traveler's Wife back at the mansion. The novel didn't have a satisfactory message, he much preferred Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse-5, but the notion that the titular character spent all that time waiting for her husband to turn up haunts Steve. He can't do that to someone else.

Not-Tony stands to one side, carefully not saying anything. Realizing it's unfair of him to call him Not-Tony, to other him when he's just been trying to help, Steve resolves to stop thinking of the Tony back home as… his Tony. The original Tony. They're all originals based on a certain theme, and it sounds like there really is a Tony out there who could be his. That he could belong to. Without any of the previous friction.

Feeling too numb to be elated at the thought, Steve aches to hold Sharon. Admits to himself how much he burns for Tony. Despite all that's happened between them, the fight in the mansion, the rage he felt in his cell, the mounting horror at Tony spitting out "What are you waiting for, Steve? Finish it," through his broken faceplate.

"It's a raw deal, Cap." Startled by the sound of Tony's voice overlapping his memory, Steve finds himself being pulled into a hug, and he finds he likes it. When's the last time he hugged someone since starting this journey? Since he was held in turn? Tony's so warm, wears a familiar cologne. Tony murmurs in his ear, "It's a shame you can't take your soulmate back home. But I don't think any universe can handle two of me."

Tony can't see Stephen roll his eyes affectionately. It makes Steve smile to see it. It turns out Steve can't throw caution to the wind and say, fuck the soulmark. But maybe these two can.

"Do it. Cut me free of Earth 616." he tells Stephen, as he and Tony break their embrace. His heart is heavy as he thinks of Sharon, but he knows Sam will take good care of her. Perhaps Tony will see sense and make Sam the new Captain America. Privately, Steve's always felt he'd be the better man for the job. The world will move on after Steve Rogers' death – as it did in 1945.

Bidding him to sit down again, Stephen begins to prepare, barking orders at Tony in regards to extending the forcefield outwards again. Steve blinks as the glittering light comes away from his body and surrounds the three of them.

"You deserve to be happy, you know. Don't feel guilt when you do feel it. Just remember what I said." Tony looks so young, and earnest, despite the weight of the world across his shoulder. Steve gives his shoulder a squeeze. "I could say the same to you, Tony."

Blue eyes twinkling, Tony smiles and wishes him good luck.

Stephen begins the spell to cleave Steve from his original universe. Golden light, energy shimmers, swirls, surrounds him – and Steve realizes it's pouring out from him.

The force field shimmers, then disappears.

Clutching his chest at the pain of the pull and release, pull and release.

Blue light –

Smoke and dust rises. Heavy sound of artillery, shrill sound of lasers from below.

On top of the helicarrier amid a heavy battle. Steve ducks behind an unsecured crate, shaking his head at the sloppiness.

THWAM. Another version of Steve thrown against a fighter jet. Steve winces in sympathy.

Hears Tony exclaim through the suit voice filter, "My God, I'd surrender if I thought it would get you to listen to me, Steve. But I doubt it would work. I mean, you'd never surrender to me, would you?"

"Not in this life, Stark."

Gazing across at this Tony, in a smart looking version of the armor with a see through faceplate, Steve's startled to notice a lock of grey hair hanging down. Just how long have they been fighting, here?

He remembers Iron Man scooping him up out of a tight spot hundreds of battles ago, when they were still getting to know how to fight as a team. Iron Man – Tony – joked that Steve was going to give him gray hair at this rate. Apparently he was more right than he knew.

With a jolt of horror, Steve watches Tony blow a hole in Bucky. But the hellishness doesn't end there – Bucky's body hits the tarmac as a Skrull.

"…They've been manipulating us for years. Almost the entire war," Tony explains, before getting Emma Frost to show Steve's counterpart he's speaking the truth.

This Steve is clearly rattled by what he's seen, as he pulls Tony aside, much closer to Steve's hiding spot. Tells him about a secret weapon he's developed, that turns Steve's blood to ice. Why would he ever think it a good idea to remove other people's abilities?

He got desperate. And after six years he just wants to level the playing field, finish this. With a start, he realizes it's Emma inside his head, leafing through his memories like a magazine. Hello sweetie. You're far from home, aren't you?

Steve resigns himself to the breach of privacy, knowing he'll likely be leaving soon. Thinks back: Yes, but I don't think I'll be here for long. Are they soulmates?

A bubble of laughter in his brain. Yes, of course they are. Steve thinks he's married to the war and Tony does love Jennifer in his own way, but these men are tied together in a way that only they can untangle.

That doesn't sound fair to you or anybody else, Steve manages, as he watches his alternate self gently place a comforting hand on Tony's armored arm at the news that Jennifer – She-Hulk – is down in the divide, where they have to set off that terrible weapon.

Fairness and justice is a lovely myth to us mutants, Steve. I stopped believing in them right around the time a number of my students were killed while departing my school.

Emma, I'm sorry.

Yes, I know you are, Steve. I suspect that mutants are going to be a thing of the past by the time this battle is done, and I have no idea what place I will have in the new world. So you'll forgive me if I'm not in the mood to alleviate your guilt.

Alternate Steve's trigger remote for the bomb doesn't work. Dispassionate, he says "Guess I'll have to head down there and blow it myself."

"Yeah, I guess we will," Tony says without missing a beat, and it hits Steve like a blow to his solar plexus, this is it. This is how it ends for them.

They pause for a moment, just looking at each other.

"What? You want me to live long enough to pick out a new mourning cuff?"

A bitten out, "Tony, don't." Steve snaps his mouth shut and looks away. Doesn't look at Tony again until he's handing him a rocket pack for the journey down.

Heart sinking, Steve wonders if in most universes where he and Tony fought each other it always ends badly.

Blue light –

Chemical fire, industrial plant.

No. This can't be. Steve doesn't want to see this. He's crouched behind a wall he knows will be destroyed in ten minutes. He wants to be gone, away. The look on Tony's face is etched in his mind, the sound of him in pain can't be wiped from his mind. He doesn't want to be here at Geffen-Meyer again.

Offering his hand to alternative Steve, Tony says the same words Steve heard the night he decided to play dirty pool. "…we don't want to fight you. Just give me the chance to tell you our plans for my twenty-first century overhaul."

Alternative Steve stretches out his hand and Steve forces himself to watch, even as he winces. He should watch from the outside the terrible way in which he disables Tony within the suit, a stark contrast with his argument that Tony wasn't a weapon, just weeks before. He sure treated him like an object that needed to be neutralized in this moment.

"Steve… thank you for doing this. I…" Tony trails off before gauntlet and glove meet, and Steve forgets to breathe as he kneels in the dust and glass. Because this didn't happen on Earth 616.

Taking a breath, Tony tries again. "Like I said I believe in what I'm doing – but I want to be sure I'm doing it the right way. I need someone I trust to make sure I am. I need your help, Cap."

Steve watches another version of himself soften fractionally at Tony's plea, and withdraw his hand without activating the EMP.

"Let's talk."

Turning away, a tear escaping one eye, Steve wonders if that's all it would have taken. To feel useful, he craves Tony to need his help. To need him. For Tony to not feel like he always has to go it alone. His soulmark was the least of their problems. He bows his head and hopes to move on before too long, choked up and trying to keep quiet amongst so many powered people.

Blue light –

Monitor room, Avengers Tower.

Empty – which doesn't seem right.

No. Steve would recognize the back of that head, that worried sigh anywhere.

"Jarvis," he exclaims, a wave of homesickness hitting his chest. Because home is never about the bricks and mortar, it's always been the people.

Jarvis swivels round in the chair, startled. Grips a paperweight in his hand ready to throw. He relaxes a fraction when he sees it's Steve, but still asks one of the questions.

"What type of cake did I bake you – that Thor ate in one go instead?"

"Battenburg." Steve always loved the colours, the marzipan.

Jarvis visibly relaxes, before getting up from his black leather chair. "I assume you're from another universe, Captain. Master Stark told me to be ready for it. May I offer you refreshments?" He takes in Steve's appearance, the bullet holes in the scalemail with a frown. "Or a fresh uniform?"

"I'm okay, Jarvis. Thank you. Stay where you are. I'm jumping from universe to universe and the jumps are so sudden I don't want to be caught with only one leg in my pants."

Smiling faintly, Jarvis nods in acknowledgment. "Understood, Captain."

When Jarvis stations himself in the underground monitor room, it's serious. This is a big one. Heavy losses are expected. Steve takes a bottle of water from the minifridge, sits in the chair next to Jarvis, taking in all the feeds.

"What's the threat?"

"An army of aliens Mr Rider calls the Annihilation Wave. They aim to destroy everything in the universe."

Blinking, Steve realizes he hadn't seen Nova in the longest time, but there he is on the screen that provides a view from Tony's helmet of a meeting between heroes. "Sounds serious."

"So serious that Mr Rider was able to halt a battle between Mr Stark and Captain Rogers before it went too far."

Heart skipping a beat, Steve asks which battle.

The Battle of New York. The day Steve's side broke everyone out of the prison in the Negative Zone.

"What are you waiting for, Steve? Finish it."

Closing his eyes, Steve lets out a shaky breath.

"Ah. I hoped that you came from a place where those events never happened." Jarvis places his hand on Steve's and squeezes.

"The important thing is that they're back to working together for the greater good. They've already worked hard at pushing back the first wave. We lost so many, but we've had no time to mourn."

Jarvis looks away, shaking his head.

Taking his turn to clasp Jarvis' hand with his other hand, Steve notices how papery thin his skin has become.

Tony lifts his faceplate and the view on the screen shifts to an external camera as he points to a sky window. At Earth. Steve realizes everyone is in Attilan.

Jarvis raises the volume but Steve can already read Tony's body language, the words on his lips: "The wave has turned away from Earth! It's heading this way!"

"Once I initiate the device, we'll have forty-five minutes to get clear," Reed Richards points out. "Which presents us with a glaring problem. Annihilus will arrive before activation. So what's going to stop him destroying the device?"

"I am," Nova declares.

Remonstrating with him that he'll die, Reed then suggests that he stay too, which of course everyone present rejects out of hand.

Steve nods at the screen as he sees Tony and his alternate look at each other, determined. The open admiration on his alternate's face eases something in his chest – he counts it as proof he and Tony could have come back from the fighting, the war, all of it if he hadn't died.

Rich, Tony, and Steve stand outside as they watch the ship carrying the rest of their friends fly back to Earth, and the annihilation wave gets closer.

"Tony, this is probably as good a time as any to tell you. back on Earth, before Nova turned up… I would never…"

"I know. I saw it in your eyes."

"You know what?" Alternative Steve looks down then up at Tony again. "I wish we talked about… us." He strokes his vibranium cuff, and Steve gasps, blinks.

"Me too, Steve. Me too."

Steve has to look away as Tony leans in, they kiss. Instead he looks at Jarvis, who silently cries.

Onscreen, Rich clears his throat, "Gentlemen. It's been a pleasure."

"Jarvis, I love you. You know what to do next. I'm cutting the feed so you don't have to see this. Thank you for everything."

Tony cuts the feed.

Jarvis puts his head in his hands.

Purple light –

Kneeling behind topiary, a small ornamental stream to his right, the sound of NYC traffic a distance away, undercutting many, many voices, Steve knows better than to stand up. He looks through a gap in the hedge, bites his lip.

The smell of greenery, earth is pleasant. Grounding.

A podium with a version of his shield as a wreath in front, a large photograph of him wearing the cowl as a backdrop.

His memorial.

Except, that's not him. In the photo, he looks harder around the eyes and – oh no. Standing to one side is the version of Carol that's all military with none of the superpowers.

What happened?

Did he ever manage to pluck up the courage to speak to the Tony here?

Watching the Tony here walk up to the podium, he's glad to see he's still alive after seeing him so still in the hospital. The sunset glints off the martini glass on the lectern, and Steve hopes it's a non-alcoholic cocktail.

Tony begins with the easy, practiced style Steve knows so well.

"Welcome to Stark Tower. Welcome to the real memorial, the one for those of us who knew the man – who worked and fought alongside him."

Steve takes in the crowd. A lot of superheroes he knows – and many that are unfamiliar. Spider-Man is wearing a different suit, he seems much shorter. No, that can't be Peter. Smaller differences throw him more – Sue is frowning, looking more weighed down than she did when she joined Steve's side.

Continuing the eulogy, this Tony admits, "I thought long and hard about how to do this. Because there was the Captain America they knew – the President Cap they knew… the man they needed…"

President? Glancing at the photo, he can't be older than 35. How did that happen? After all the secret plots and manipulation, Steve hates politics, prefers direct action.

…fighting his friends in the street…

He swallows.

"And then there was the man we knew. The man who inspired the hell out of us."

Steve wonders if Tony will deliver – has delivered – the eulogy at his own funeral, or if he's too disgraced to get much of one.

"Just by walking into the room. That was my favorite thing about him. He'd walk in the room all humble, right? Not doing or saying anything. But his presence…" This Tony makes a pained face as he looks down at the podium. "Whatever I was doing, I'd suddenly feel like I'm not doing enough. Oh God. Familiar, right?" He cocks his head and murmurs and a short burst of laughter erupts from the crowd.

Shaking his head from his hiding place, Steve wonders if he too had that effect on Tony. It was never his intention to intimidate anyone, especially not Tony, who always works and worries way too hard.

Back at the mansion, they tried a parley to talk things through – in actuality to try to win each other over to their cause. Both so stubborn. Steve remembers every word Tony spoke.

"Everyone feels inadequate next to you. God knows I always have."

How had Steve responded? With the same basic compliments he had tried back in the flophouse.

No wonder Tony had followed it up with the stinger that Steve uses this influence to his advantage, when dealing with the younger supers. How no-one wants to disappoint Captain America.

Steve closes his eyes at the memory. Hopes Stephen's severing spell worked, that he won't have to relive that one again. He'd taken it far too personally, called Tony arrogant – too certain that what he wants to happen should go ahead because Tony knows best.

Shit, he'd accused Tony of using Jan. Something he hadn't thought about in years.

Brought up Tony's alcoholism.

He stooped so low.

"I don't know about the rest of you but I was kind of hoping for another miracle. I want Steve Rogers to walk right through that rooftop entrance and bark at us to get back to work!"

That's his cue, Steve thinks ludicrously. Time to stand up. He peers at this Tony, who is making jokes with tears in his eyes. Wants to hold him. Wonders if this is the Tony that's his soulmate.

"I want time and space, impossibly, to bring Steve Rogers back one more time. Guess that's asking for one possibility too many." Tony holds on to the lectern for support. "The thing is if anyone can do it, it would be Cap. The man out of time."

A black man with an eyepatch nods – the glint in his eye is so unmistakably Fury's, it startles Steve. He wishes he could tell Sam that in this universe at least, SHIELD command isn't so white.

Shedding the playful persona, Tony looks out at the crowd. "The people are going to need something to believe in. Now, more than ever. What that something is, I do not know. But without Cap, or Thor… There is no Ultimates. Certainly not like it was." Tony looks away, and Steve can see the facade cracking as he disbands his team. Thinks of another day in the burned out dining room where his Tony admitted the heavy financial hits, his inability to keep the Avengers going.

"I know it sounds defeatist. I know. But I can't do it. I can't do it without them. The Ultimates are no more."

Tony pauses for a moment, but there's not too much noise from the crowd. They must have expected this.

"Maybe I'll find my feet in a few weeks. Maybe the hurt is just too raw and I'm not thinking straight… but I cannot imagine walking into the Ultimates HQ and not seeing them. I cannot. I hope to see some of you younger heroes rise to the occasion. You've more than proved yourselves in recent weeks. I hope you do. Cap -" his voice catches, but he continues, "Cap would hope you do."

"The legend of Captain America will live on through you." He starts pointing. "You, and you, and you." Pinches his nose, closes his eyes, a tired man with a restless, worried brain. That's Tony in every universe. "Hell, everyone here. I know asking for everyone to act like the best version of themselves is asking a lot. Especially when it comes from me, of all people. But I'm the only one of the original Ultimates left standing, so it's up to me to point it out: The world is saved, but it is hardly fixed."

True to his nature, this Tony. People like Steve save the world over and over again. Tony is the one that doesn't just save it, he tries to restore it, hell, often make it a better place. Steve knows for certain now Tony kept making the wrong choice in his sacrifice. The world needs Tony Stark far more than it needs Steve Rogers.

"And in the aftermath of chaos, there will be plenty of helpers and people giving aid – but there are others out there who are going to use this as an opportunity to grasp power, do unspeakable things. I'm a billionaire, ask me how I know!

People will need you to show up and be your best more than ever. That might mean some of you making big choices. Deciding what kind of hero you'll want to be. How far you're willing to go in the name of what you believe in."

"I don't mean to interrupt…" interjects a voice in the crowd. Jess. Spider-Woman. "Sorry, Tony, but you're talking about the next generation stepping up."

God, her voice sounds young.

"We've been talking among ourselves and we are going to keep it going. Spider-Man, Kitty, Bombshell, Cloak and Dagger."

They gather together in a group, as heroes tend to do.

"We're going to do what we can to honor Cap, Thor and you. We're going to take the new day head-on. This is just the beginning for The Young Ultimates."

Wishing he could clap, Steve's heart soars at the reminder that there will always be someone to carry the legacy forward. That the dream didn't die with him.

Tears tremble in Tony's eyes as he raises his glass. "Well, that's exactly what he would have wanted. Well then, everyone, to the new day."

Every guest raises their glass and drinks, as Tony bows out, using a silk handkerchief to wipe at his eyes. Heading straight to the Young Ultimates he claps some on the back, draws others into hugs, hands out his business card, no doubt already planning upgrades to everyone's gear.

Looking young but determined they nod, encouragingly. Steve can see it when Tony takes a big breath and releases it – his shoulders relax as he bids adieu and takes another glass from a passing server's tray, not even looking at what it contains. Frowning, Steve realizes this Tony is a drinker, likely an alcoholic.

Beautiful readings and reminiscing from others follow but Steve can't stop following Tony's path through the crowd. Talking to his friends, able to be open in a way that Tony Stark usually isn't allowed to be. Knocking back different drinks.

Cornering Tony right by Steve's hiding spot, grabbing his jacket arm, Carol snaps, "Don't you think you've had enough, Tony?"

"Au contraire, darling. I've barely begun," Tony replies, with only a hint of sluggishness to his words.

"Okay, Tony. I'm here if you need to talk."

Nodding, Tony says, "I know. It wasn't a joke up there, y'know?"

"Which part?"

"Where I keep expecting Steve to turn up. It doesn't feel real. Maybe having a body to bury would have made it feel more real." He leans in closer to Carol's ear and whispers, "As it is, I had to secure and booby-trap the coffin regardless of it being empty. While there are at least thirty knock-off super soldier serums out there on the black market, there's always opportunists."

Carol's lips part, she sighs, but before she can respond Tony's slipped back into the crowd.

Closing his eyes, Steve realizes he's judging another Tony, when he doesn't have the full story. He needs to work on this hot-headed irrationality if he has any hope of meeting his soulmate. Steve swallows down his shame, the fury that's more about his own role in the world than about Tony. Speaking to Tony from Earth-76, learning he had made some grave assumptions about his body augmentations, the way he patronized Tony back home about drinking, his life – Steve has regrets. He knows he can do better. He should do better by his actual soulmate.

Clearly this Tony, who he last saw unconscious in a hospital with cancer is dealing with circumstances that would tax anyone.

Lost in his thoughts, Steve mulls over his mistakes. Longs for Sharon. Wants to speak to Tony one last time.

It's impossible now.

The sun lowers. The cold makes women clutch their black wraps closer and the memorial comes to an end as people take their leave.

The caterers clear up, wheel their tables and the mobile bar away as the night lights turn on.

Aware he's been in this universe, this reality the longest, Steve considers standing up. But he knows any and all Tonys have the most elaborate security system on Earth, he can't risk it. Even if his knees are cold and he would like to get to know this Tony better. He should stay here.

His stomach rumbles.

The glass door opens and out steps Tony wearing the kind of white silk dressing gown with a quilted black collar Steve only sees in old Hollywood films.

"You can come out now. Everybody's gone."

Slowly standing, Steve brushes the worst of the soil off his legs. "You knew the whole time I was there?"

Tony nods, "Nanobots. It's how I also know you're not from this universe, where apparently you've also had a bad time." He gestures with the martini in his hand to the bullet holes and old bloodstains on Steve's shoulder, his stomach.

He sounds tired, drained. Like he's spent sixteen hours in the armor. Steve takes him in fully. Same build, age, grim determination. Able to charm a crowd but there's something brittle underneath.

"Yes. Looking like this, I didn't think crashing his funeral would help matters."

"Damn. Forgive me for asking this upfront before offering you refreshments, but what happened on Earth-616, to bring Galactus our way?"

Galactus? Steve wishes he could talk to Reed Richards right now.

"I don't know. I died… and I've been skipping time and now universes to meet… someone. Apparently I've missed a few things along the way."

"Sounds like a hell of a story, darling. Come in, you can tell me everything. I've still got three platters of mini sliders and some other nibbles inside. I forgot I no longer need to cater for a Norse God and a super soldier – I'm lucky you landed here, you'll be doing me a favor."

Silently offering Steve a hand to step over the topiary, even though he doesn't need it, Tony looks thoughtful when Steve accepts.

Tony's hand is calloused, and while there's alcohol on his breath he doesn't seem to be so drunk that he's out of control. Steve is content to let Tony lead – doesn't pull his hand away as they walk into the penthouse.

Blinking as he looks down at their hands clasped together, Tony shakes his head. "Who are you? My Steve would have punched me if I tried to hold his hand."

"I don't think that's true, Tony."

Tony bids him to sit on the plush white leather couch that could seat an entire football team, before he moves to the kitchen island behind it. Hearing the sounds of Tony preparing food, Steve's surprised that Tony returns with only one plate piled high, before handing it to Steve. "Aren't you hungry?"

"Not particularly," says Tony, as he sits down next to him. Steve glances over just in time to watch the flex of the muscles in Tony's back as he leans forward to grab the cocktail stick out of his drink, pulling an olive off with his teeth. "Back to the previous subject – how would you possibly know how my Steve felt? Bold of you to assume all the different versions of you are as secure in their masculinity."

Swallowing, Steve turns to Tony on the ridiculous couch after placing his plate and bottle of water on the coffee table. He admits, "I've visited this universe once before."

"I think I'd remember seeing two Captain Americas walking around. I wouldn't hesitate to take that photo op. Where was I?"

"Lying unconscious in a hospital while he – Steve stared at you from the observation window. And Carol tried to talk to him."

"I guess that means you know." Tony taps his head. "The cancer."

Steve nods. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It's not sympathy I need, just the assurance that this world won't break apart once I shuffle off this mortal coil. Those kids, their team, are just the first step."

"Always the futurist. In every universe."

"I'm delighted to hear that's the case. I'll drink to that." After raising his glass, taking a gulp of the martini, Tony chews on another olive, eyes flickering to Steve's face, his body. Reminded of the Tony he found hacking through the jungle, the way he wanted to service him, Steve tries not to flush.

An uneasy silence.

"So. You and he never…"

"God, no. My Steve was as straight as an arrow. I'm sure of it. And even if he wasn't, he was kind but he thought me a degenerate. He'd probably want a sweet little househusband to wait on him hand and foot. I love… loved Steve, but he was very… traditional. Wouldn't even enter the strip club for my bachelor do. Stood outside." Tony exaggerates his baffled face, shakes his head.

"You're married?"

"Uh, no. Never made it to the altar. She tried to kill me. Long story." Tony winces, whispers, "Not a story for today."

Steve picks up a slider, eats it in two bites. Well seasoned beef and good cheese hit his tastebuds, followed by the tang of the sauce, and the bite of the crisp pickle. He picks up another, realizing just how hungry he is and demolishes it. He considers how best to break the news. There's no good way. Wiping his lips with a napkin he sighs.

"During my brief visit, Carol tried to convince him to say something to you. From what I could understand, you weren't… soulmates."

Dropping the cocktail stick on the coffee table, Tony covers his face with his hands as he leans forward. Steve can't tell if he's laughing, crying or both from the sound he's making. His shoulders shake.

Shit, Steve's still so bad at this.

"Tony," he tries in a low voice, placing his hand on his back for support. Expecting to have his hand shrugged off, he's surprised to find Tony leans in, his head resting on his shoulder. And those are definitely tears.

Calming a little, Tony pulls a handkerchief out of his robe pocket and dabs at his eyes.

"This is the part where you tell me to man up and stop being a sissy."

Taken aback, Steve blurts out "What?"

Inhaling and exhaling deeply and visibly pulling himself together in an eerily familiar way, Tony pulls away from Steve and pokes him in the shoulder. "Go on. Tell me crying is for girls, and I need to man up."

Unable to keep the disgust off his face, but keeping a level voice, Steve says "That's not true. You're allowed to cry. Everybody cries. Who's been telling you these things?"

"Oh you know. Dad. Greg – my twin. Cap never says it, he doesn't need to. Said it, I mean. Fuck."

Twin? Blinking, Steve focuses on stroking Tony's silk-clad back, the heat of his body and the feel of hard muscle under soft fabric irresistible. He should stop, he thinks distantly, as he tells Tony what he obviously needs to hear.

"Tony, I think he'd been crying over you at the hospital, his eyes were red. I don't think he'd begrudge you crying, especially at his funeral."

"That's very kind of you to say. Especially when you don't know how truly unlikable I can be." Tony looks Steve right in the eyes, shocking him. When was the last time Tony back home had done that?

In the ruined mansion, begging Steve to listen…

He should have made more of an effort to listen.

In the here and now, Steve feels a hand on his knee. Tony asks, "Where did you go just then, soldier?"

Swallowing, Steve admits, "Remembering when I could have been kinder to my friend Tony."

After narrowing his eyes, as if to say they'll come back to that later, Tony admits, "I know he wasn't my soulmate, we weren't matched. I may have… created a private algorithm –" He cuts himself off. "God, you probably think me nefarious, a cad for sneaking around, stripping the romance from the situation, not being able to just talk to him. Now, of course… it's too late."

Steve doesn't hesitate this time. He grasps Tony's hand. "What does this algorithm do, Tony?"

"I should delete it, I can't believe I haven't yet. But it can figure out your soulmate from their handwriting – even with everyday disguised handwriting or in the cases when someone switches their writing hand deliberately. We didn't match. But it was close. So close that I wondered…" Trailing off he stares at Steve's arm, the outline of the cuff showing under his uniform.

Thoughts swirling, Steve realizes that Tony at home could have just as easily created such a tool. But he didn't seem to enjoy the potential of his own soulmark, and through Stephen's scrying window he seemed pretty rattled at the reveal of Steve's mark.

Getting up to fetch a bottle of whiskey with Japanese kanji on the bottle and glasses, Tony airily adds, "Could be a coincidence, but Fury stopped me from popping over to your universe just a few weeks ago, when we needed intel on stopping Galactus. I gather he thought I was going to waste valuable time looking for the Tony there for a tumble in the sheets."

Glad he's able to school his face into light amusement before Tony returns and pours a generous two fingers for them both, Steve explains he can't get drunk.

"I know darling, but you still have tastebuds that deserve new experiences. Don't let me drink alone." The request is not quite plaintive, more a diminished ask. Steve finds he can't say no, takes a sip and raises his eyebrows in surprise as a cool smoothness progresses into the warmth and smoke he was expecting.

Tony nods, quietly pleased. "I knew you'd like it."

Steve takes another sip before putting the glass down as he asks "So why did you want to visit us?"

"To save the world. But I had a theory. I wanted to meet you… I had a theory. But if you're dead, I don't know how it would work?"

"Well, I'm not dead exactly." Steve admits.

Tony eyes him over his glass as he takes a sip. "Elaborate. I have a feeling I'm not getting any sleep tonight. This is far too fascinating."

Feeling like he's being undressed in Tony's mind, Steve struggles with his composure as he starts to tell his story. It doesn't help that Tony requires more and more detail, asks awkward questions about why he was being led into the courthouse in the first place.

He has his own insights on the SRA, and the Civil War.

"Darling, I know he had his reasons for backing that act, because he's me. He was playing 4-dimensional chess, though probably only with three pieces left. God, though. Director of SHIELD, what a hateful, impossible job. But I'm mostly surprised at you."

"Me?"

"Yes, you. My Steve never met a problem he couldn't punch his way out of, or drive a vehicle into. You're telling me you were skulking around in the shadows, running through the sewers, when you could have been freeing the mutants, hitting Tony where it hurts – his factories where he was producing all the equipment, the Cape Killer suits, you called them? And of course, breaking and entering the training camp and giving everyone already signed up a huge rousing speech ending with the word freedom – why didn't you do that?"

Speechless, Steve can only stare. Another Tony that can mentally run rings around him.

Shit.

He keeps his breathing even, concentrates on staying calm – doesn't lurch into hostility.

Tony looks down into his glass, at the amber and sighs. "You don't have to answer. I see it all over your face. Because you loved him. You poor bastard."

Steve flinches at that. "There's nothing bad about loving another person – even if they're not your soulmate."

"Oh sure, but there's something really rather terrible about loving Tony Stark." He knocks back his drink and starts counting on his fingers. "One, it means you're a terrible judge of character, far too naive for your own good. Two, it means you're almost certainly going to be let down. Three, you're more likely to be kidnapped, assaulted, or killed. Four–"

Steve can't stand it any longer. He grabs Tony's hand in both of his, and shushes him. Surprisingly, it works. Tony falls quiet, wary. "Don't, Tony. I've ruminated so much on Tony's faults. I couldn't stop loving him, even though we weren't a match. Because for all his faults, he's a remarkable person. All of the Tonys I've met are. And you all… hate yourself, it's why many of you drink. But it's also why you always keep pushing, striving to do better, even in the face of certain death."

Shivering, Tony admits, "I suspect I'm not the Tony you really want to say that to, but it's exactly what I needed to hear today." Dragging his other hand through his hair, he admits, "That was the kick in the pants, the "Get back to work" I needed. And once I sleep off the approaching hangover, that's exactly what I shall do. Thank you Steve."

Steve loosens his grip on Tony's hand, but Tony chooses to keep holding one, linking fingers. It feels so right it's startling.

"So that was Earth-616 as you left it. But where have you been since?"

Describing his experiences as succinctly as he can takes more time – Steve switches back to bottled water to quench his thirst. He finds Tony snuggling into him again, wonders if he's falling asleep, until a bark of laughter shakes them both when Steve describes the moment he thought he'd pulled the arm off Earth-76 Tony.

"What a scamp. I'd love to meet him. The breakthroughs in bionics he must have made… phenomenal. I should concentrate on that market. There are a lot of veterans out there using ill-fitting prosthetics. They deserve better. Yes. Okay, continue."

Whispering as he describes his discussions with Stephen Strange, explaining that his soulmark is an aberration, Steve notices that dawn is approaching.

Tony tenses up at the mention of his soulmark, and Steve has to say something this time. He's never spent so long in the same spot before.

"Tony," he tries. "Do you think we..."

Rising, pulling away from Steve's body, Tony shakes his head. "I can't even discuss it. Not today. Not when… I just gave his eulogy." It's the anguish in his eyes that makes Steve swallow back his own tears. He resembles Tony in the mansion, and God, he can't add to that pain. Not again.

"You're right, of course. I'm sorry."

Tony pinches the bridge of his nose. "I should be the one to say that, it sounds like you're going to be pinging around the multiverse for a bit longer."

"True. But I think I'll be seeing you again."

"I hope so, I would like–"

Blue light –

Hands up.

The woman in the mask is saying something about cognitive decay. Yes. Tony's had to wipe his brain. Because bad people are coming for him.

Scared. Tony is really scared.

Feels bad knowing he is missing pieces. Head aches, pieces of the puzzle. Just. Aren't. There.

Head feels heavy.

Tony remembers.

Beautiful eyes, smile. Sunrise filtering through the curtains. Gentle hands. House in the Hamptons. Honesty. Long dark hair flowing across his scarred chest. Love.

"Please let her go, she was just trying to help me. We're not like that. Look at her cuff."

Sighing, she wrenches Pepper's arm hard, twists it uncomfortably. Pepper hisses. But it sinks in that the design with a singular white dove, and a pair of boxing gloves is one of loss.

A word keeps coming to mind. Happy. When he's anything but.

She screams at Pepper. Pepper knows what to do. Even tied to the chair, she's looking after Tony. While he… can't… She should be an Avenger. Tony needs to talk to Steve about it when this is over.

Reflexes, strength. Still there. Grabs her wrists. Stop Madame Mask… no, use her name. Tiffany, is it?

Tiffany. Is that right?

But the hard floor is sore on the back of Tony's head where the brain port is. Tiffany, if that's her name, God, it's on the edge of his brain, the tip of his tongue, she's sitting on him. Flicks her leg, and her foot connects with a kick to his temple. Tony sees stars.

"We used to be lovers…? Why are you doing this?"

"Because you need to pay. Tony. I care but I need to eviscerate my heart. It makes me weak. And Osborn will pay well whether I bring you in dead or alive. Above all, killing you will make me feel better."

"I'm not sure it will."

Wrong thing to say. But the truth.

She stares down at Tony, disgust in her eyes, mask impassive as always. Tony can see an unwashed man, ragged beard, shaved head in the golden reflection. Scabs, sores, broken. Blood leaking from the nose. With a start, realizes it's him.

"'m a mess," he mumbles. In his shock, he loses his grip on her wrists.

Hands around his neck. Windpipe constricted. Her lovely hair dragging across his face, tickling his nose. Pepper will think of something.

Tony thinks of different blue eyes, like steel, the edge of a shield cutting into his faceplate distantly and then it's gone. Scrabbling at Tiffan… the woman's shoulders, gripping harder and harder.

He's already hurt her enough but. Needs breath. Needs oxygen to the brain. Cuff. Cuff on arm made of armor.

Stark men are made of…

Angle all wrong. Brings arms up, lays them above his head. Submission, trust. Like their soulmarks match. All wrong but, his stomach is a pit of fear. Scared for Pepper. Fear. Needs to break free.

Attempts to break free, thrusting his pelvis in the air.

She laughs. "This isn't a bedroom game, Tony."

Tony flushes. He's weak. Keeps forgetting to eat. Keeps… forgetting. Body secondary to brain. The slave drive. That thought pops like a bubble and he decides to keep it up, distracting her, rolling his body, trying to shift her off.

She's angry now, amusement flooded by rage, as he distracts her. At least he's not hard, can't remember the particulars of the sex they had, too scared, cortisol. Can't imagine feeling that for someone who tries to kill him. A dealbreaker if ever there is one. Needs to just enrage her enough.

She lets go of his throat, slaps him, "You disgusting pig, you're just a stupid animal without that brilliant mind, aren't you?" She throws her arm back – sloppy form as Cap would say.

Tony brings his arms together, elbows down over his face, and smacks his forearms into her face as hard as he can.

Ring of metal on metal, not enough force, but it's enough to push her off him a little so he can move, scuttle like a crab towards his armor.

A slippery thought, but he grasps hold of it – she's not well, always put men's needs above her he own. Her father… she's never known a moment's peace. The thought evaporates, he can't keep it for long.

A hand clamps down on his shoulder, as he shifts his body around to look at Pepper. She looks terrified but determined.

"New cuff Tony? Very respectful for that girlfriend, or the captain. I saw you break down on live television. Or maybe you mourn what we once had…"

Tony doesn't understand what she's saying. The cuff's broken. It can't come off since… vomiting in the jungle, Nat Romanoff pensive, watching as he tried to put together tech with shaking hands, caught off guard, sweating. But not drunk, weak from a virus.

Extremis was a virus.

Tiff… Winona, is that right? Winona wrenches him backwards, down on the floor, slams his head onto concrete. Static across his eyes, a pain like migraine turned up to 11. One louder. Can't follow that thought. Ears ringing, a poor excuse of a body - man - brain, shivering, groaning, weak, tries to remember Stark men are…

Sitting on him again, Win – the woman, his ex-lover, pulls a knife from her belt and begins to jimmy at the seam of his cuff.

"…doesn't come off…" he mumbles. He can't recall why, but he doesn't want her, Pepper, anyone to see it. Thrashes his body making her knife slips, gashes his arm. She spits in his face in frustration, goes back to her work.

Blood rolls down his arm as his heart pounds and he stares up at the dark concrete ceiling. The pain fades, as does the energy to fight back.

Damaged in the last battle, and before in the invasion, gradually the cuff gives way. Heat. Pain, burning, bring Tony back to himself as she shouts, "Fuck." Drops the cuff with a clatter as the cuff is now too hot to touch.

His soulmark burns. A roiling hurt, eating into his skin. This isn't what it's meant to feel like according to all the love songs and Hallmark movies. How the fuck are they a match? Wouldn't that have come up?

A burning smell.

"Oh Tony."

She's pulling her own cuff off. His ears ring, he tries to look away.

Gripping his jaw with the other hand, she brings her arm in front of his face. It's heavily scarred, mottled white blotches. Her soulmark was destroyed with fire. A thought arises from the depths: Plane crash.

"Tony. Don't you see. Now we match."

Eyes watering from the burning sensation, Tony raises his arm, about to look…

Pepper's armor shoots Winona in the chest. All hell breaks loose, and he has to get out, get away.

– slamming into hard, unyielding metal, Steve grabs on tight, realizing at the same time it's armor. "Tony!" he exclaims. "Shellhead," the name rolls off the tongue so easily, but righting himself again he takes several steps back to take in the armor.

Beautiful, but wholly unfamiliar.

And empty.

He's in transport that feels familiar, like a larger version of a Quinjet. Familiar.

Turning around, Steve looks out the window. Space. Less familiar. Not quite in orbit of a lavender-purple planet. Hovering just above.

Eyes snap back to the armor, Steve walks around it, taking in the black paneling, impressed at the way the helmet clips to the backplate magnetically.

Right. Time to go find the resident Tony. See what they're up to.

Steve trudges along the metal corridor until he finds a ladder leading down. He can't begin to guess how long he's been traveling through the multiverse. He still has hunger cues and other bodily needs but he never needs to shave or groom like he did in life.

He's met so many versions of Tony, and he's never returned to any of them twice, apart from Earth-76 Tony who had thankfully meddled and helped him out, Adventurer Tony who certainly taught him a few things, and the Tony he is desperately hoping survives the cancer.

Truthfully, Steve knows he thinks of that Tony far more than the original Tony from home who he fought beside - and often against. But meeting or observing so many versions of Tony (and Anthony, Natasha, Ant, Toni, Antonia, and memorably, one gender-neutral Tone) melted away most of his lingering resentment. So many Civil Wars that ended in far worse ways. Universes where Project Wideawake was put into action, once the mutants were wiped out.

He hopes Tony back home is at peace. And that Sharon, Sam and the team he lived and worked with are moving on, he trusts them all to look after each other and the people of Earth. While he wishes he could be there to see it, talk to Sharon one last time, tell Tony – he doesn't know.

"Fuck. Fuck. What am I doing?"

Tony.

Steve ducks his head round the doorway, to assess the scene.

In what looks like the galley of the ship, Tony sits on a bench at the table, his back to the door. Clad in a gauzy, almost see-through purple dressing gown with fluffy trim, and not much else, he shivers, staring at two bottles in front of him.

It escapes Steve's mouth before he realizes. "Shit."

Whipping his head round fast, Tony brandishes a fork before looking Steve up and down and relaxing. "Oh it's you, darling," he says softly, "I wondered if the grass and dirt would stay on your uniform. Now I know."

He flings the fork down with a clang on the table, and makes room for Steve at the bench.

The relief Steve feels at seeing this Tony alive, still being Iron Man is tempered by the worry that in this moment he could do so much damage.

Steve sits down next to Tony, the metal bench creaking slightly as he shifts to put his arm around him, trying to focus but still drinking in Tony in his boxer briefs, glancing at his chest, his abs, the line of hair that leads from his navel down below the line of his briefs.

Not feeling remotely ready to handle this situation, Steve knows he still needs to try. He asks gently,"What's going on, Tony? What are we doing here?"

"I think you know exactly what's going on here, Steve," Tony replies tartly. His hair's unwashed and greasy, his forehead clammy, dark smudges under his eyes.

Steve waits.

"Okay, fine," spoken more softly. "Jan's meant to rendezvous with me here within a window of around eight days. I thought I had enough booze to last me until she brought more supplies. But I miscalculated. I… didn't realize I'd be raiding the back of the cupboard where the dubious shit lives. I'm out of options."

Steve rubs his back, knowing that giving Tony the space to explain himself works best – even though he's desperate to demand answers.

Sighing, Tony gestures at the bottle on the left hand side of the table, which to Steve's eye looks like it's glowing slightly. The liquid inside is opalescent, shifts in the bottle like liquid mercury. "Behind door number one, the Zlacixxxon grain alcohol that is likely to kill me if I take a shot. Each time I run tests, the alcohol content is different, and I don't understand why. Even if it becomes drinkable by human standards, what's to stop it from increasing in proof as soon as it hits my stomach?"

Steve swallows as he lets that sink in. "And the other one?"

Thick and pink, in a plain bottle with a gold cork, it looks like an Irish cream or an eggnog, one of those rich tasting drinks people only drink during the holidays.

"Glazzicoaterlon Celebration Cocktail. Supposed to taste good, but it will also dye my tongue violet."

Frowning slightly, Steve has to ask: "And how is that a problem, Tony?"

"We're currently in Axollactaxian Space. The Axollactaxians often like to board me for spot checks, try to fine me for petty misdemeanors, but they're more receptive to bribes than the rest of their neighbors. They also primarily communicate through changing the color of their tongue. That particular shade of violet would get me the death sentence, for sure."

Taking a deep breath as he absorbs this information, Steve asks as neutrally as possible how long it's been since Tony's last drink. He knows it's important he doesn't put Tony on the defensive, it's also crucial that Steve doesn't fly off the handle or make bad judgment calls. He already failed Tony back home on this, he needs to do better by this Tony who he's begun to care for greatly. Who might be…

Tony sighs. "I've been decreasing my intake for the past few days, to cushion the blow. 21 hours without a drink so far."

A silence hangs between them. Knowing it's only going to get rougher, Steve squeezes Tony between his shoulder and his neck, in an attempt to ground him.

"Fuck, my head. I considered putting myself in a coma using the automated med bay to tide it over but until I found these bottled temptations, I thought it was time to actually try to kick the habit. I'm not having fun anymore, Steve. It's not a lifestyle that works well with multiversal or space travel, let me tell you."

He has so many questions, but for now Steve strokes Tony's back and asks him why he's out here in the first place.

Burying his head into Steve's neck, Tony admits, "It's a long story, Steve. But to give you the Cliff Notes, our universe died – so I died, but then some absolute stupidity happened with The Maker…" Tony trails off when he realizes Steve has no idea who he's talking about. "Oh, he's an alternative Reed Richards, dedicated to being a piece of shit, really into his eugenics, I'm sure you'd love to punch him. Long story short, he brought our original team back to fight a team of heroes from Earth 616, lead by the most amazing version of Carol, with this short hair, looking like a dy– lesbian…"

Wincing, Tony pulls a green coin out from a compartment in his otherwise plain cuff, and stands, dropping it in a container on the shelf, marked "Tony's Slur Jar" – it's a third of the way full. He seems to be trying, at least. Steve's eyes drop down, linger on Tony's back, his pert ass, thick thighs.

Tony explains, over his shoulder, "Jan's idea, a response to being stuck on a spaceship with us disgusting pigs, as she puts it. Anyway. Where was I?" Tony rejoins Steve on the bench. "We defeated The Maker, but not before… he unmade our Steve. Now we move between multiverses hunting down other versions of The Maker."

Steve pauses. "I'm sorry you lost him again."

"It felt like one of the dreams I still have where we're fighting together, and for that brief moment it was perfect." Tony sighs. "But, as you know better than most, you can never go back. Not truly."

Tony straightens up, looks into Steve's eyes, apologetic. "That's probably why we haven't seen each other for a while. I've been jumping between multiverses to do this job, making it harder to find me. I maybe stop on Earth 1610 for a total of a week every Earth year."

Steve chokes up as he admits, "I thought you'd died, Tony."

Closing his eyes, Tony sighs. "I regret it, you know. Every day. Sending you packing. I've spent a lot of time kicking myself, wondering if I'd missed my one chance. I hoped – I didn't dare assume I'd see you again." He shivers, and Steve holds him tight again.

Inhaling Tony's scent, stroking his back, Steve admits, "I hoped I'd see you again, you've been in my thoughts in every universe. I wondered what you'd make of some of the universes I've visited."

Like the one where a somewhat irritated Nate Romanoff took it upon himself to hide Steve from the rest of the team in the tower. "If Iron Woman starts aggressively flirting with you, that'll set us back six months, maybe a year in terms of team dynamics. I don't have time for that."

Steve kept himself hidden but there was no mistaking it, Tony as a woman was an absolute looker – cascading dark hair, same piercing blue eyes, smirk. And alternate-Steve was all too aware of it too, judging by her lingering looks, often marred with a severe frown. No wonder Tony back home thought he fell short in Steve's eyes, it was an expression Steve often made himself in a bid to not be so obvious.

His recollection breaks when the Tony in the here and now nuzzles into him again. "I do have some good news for you – the cancer's gone. For good this time." He pulls away from Steve's chest to wipe at his eyes. "I wasn't even looking for a cure, we had dropped in at a spaceport, teeming with life. And this pink-green alien with tentacles – kind of a cross between an octopus and an aardvark... no, no, I can't describe another lifeform by comparing them to Earth animals."

He pulls another coin out of his cuff, and Steve silently does the honors, clinking it into the jar as Tony keeps talking. "They laid a sucker on my forehead, told me that they can fix that. I said I still wanted my brain, my residual technopath powers, and it wasn't possible without losing my higher function… They sure showed me wrong. In a moment the headache, the pressure in my brain lifted… and I got my life back. I now have more time."

Looking into Tony's eyes again, "Tony, I am so glad to hear that, what wonderful news…" Trailing off he notices tears rolling down Tony's cheeks, holds his face in his hands and tries to wipe them away with his thumbs. He asks, "What's wrong?" Fears the answer.

A shaky laugh, without any real humor: "Turns out my alcoholism wasn't purely to do with staring death in the face. It goes deeper than I realized." A pained whisper: "I can't stop."

Summoning the kind of strength he usually needs for pep talks before battles, or those moments when an Avenger wants off the team and Steve has to guide them through making the right decision, not in haste or anger – Steve speaks.

"You've already stopped for 21 hours. That's incredible. I know you can do anything you set your mind to, and I've seen so many different versions of you who stopped drinking. Am I happy you decided to do it alone, without any support or a medic on hand? I can't say I'm thrilled – but I'm glad I'm here now, to help you."

"I don't need help," Tony mutters but it's more of a reflex than anything.

Knowing Tony needs to start making decisions, to feel more in control of the situation, Steve starts on the first step of his new plan: "Do you want me to flush these bottles out of the airlock so you don't have to look at them anymore?"

"Yeah." Tony stands. "It's time. But we can't dump our trash, Steve. I'm highly against adding to the space junk out there. We need to recycle. Bottles to be broken down by the fabricator, booze to join the organics tank. Though that Zlacixxxon stuff… no, the organics dampener should handle it fine."

Tony stands, sways, and sits down again. "Uh. That's not good "

Leaping into action, Steve raids the galley, finds dissolvable electrolytes and combines them with water, holds up the cup to Tony's dehydrated lips. Who hesitates for a brief moment before taking a sip.

"I hate this," he complains heavily after he swallows, and Steve knows he means looking vulnerable, needing help.

"I know. But if – if we're a match, you may need to get used to this treatment," Steve says as lightly as he can, his heart beating heavily in his chest. And the truth of it surprises him. He's never going to win the partner of the year award, and he understands that Tony is an independent man who likes to lick his wounds in peace. But he desires this, to be useful, to attend to Tony. It both appeals to Steve's practical nature and his transformation into the sort of man who can demonstrate his feelings, not hide them from view.

Having coaxed Tony into taking a few more sips, along with a couple of bites of a dry cereal bar, Steve escorts him to the recycling room. Wearing air filter masks seems extreme until Tony unscrews the cap of the Zlacixxxon liquor, and grey fumes rise out of the bottle. Tony's already wearing gloves, but chooses to use crucible tongs to angle the bottle to empty it.

"Very glad I didn't give in and drink that. I don't think my stomach or lungs would be intact."

While it takes mere moments to dispose of the bottles and contents, it takes a lot out of Tony, who, sweating and shivering, leans against Steve.

Removing both their masks, Steve tells Tony to take him to his quarters. Tony rallies with a smirk as he asks cheekily,"So I can show you where the magic happens?"

The flirtation is short-lived as Tony half crouches, hands on knees, and begins to dry-heave.

Hurrying now, Steve supports Tony through the gunmetal corridors as he points in the right direction, mid-heave. By the time they make it, Tony throws himself into the bathroom, and by the sound of it hurls into the toilet.

"Fuck, this is one of Jan's robes too. Fuck me, I'm a mess."

Entering the bathroom, which also contains the usual sink and mirror and a surprisingly spacious wet room, Steve watches Tony flush the toilet, pull the robe off, both the faux fur at the lapels and his chest splashed with lurid yellow bile. He glares at Steve as though he expects nothing but criticism, as he balls the robe up and throws it in the corner of the shower.

The thought that keeps plaguing Steve, that started as soon as he set eyes on Tony, gazing at the two bottles… it's rash. But it's the only option. ”Tony, you can't be alone like this," he points out. "You're in trouble. We… we need to see if we're a match."

"Darling, this is the worst time to check this," Tony says flatly, as he splashes water over his chest and face, shakily preparing his toothbrush.

Steve sighs. "I've visited so many universes with you and me. Believe me, it's never a good time."

Tony makes him wait, brushing his teeth for the full two minutes before spitting into the sink. "And what if I was hoping for a bit more romance than that, Steve?"

"There'll be time later for romance. For now, I just need to see that you're safe."

Tony stills. "That might be one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me. How depressing." He meets Steve's eyes, determined. "Okay. Let's do this."

Voice shaking a fraction as he removes the top of his uniform with a small jingle to get at the cuff, Steve argues, "You do deserve better than this, Tony."

Eyes roving across his chest and up again to his face, Tony smirks, even as he grips the sink to make sure he doesn't topple over. "Very nice, darling."

Steve doesn't say anything, just stares Tony right in the eye and starts yanking his fabric cuff off his arm with his teeth.

Lips parting, Tony can't look away, even as he fumbles with his own metal cuff. Getting more frustrated with the stretchy fabric, Steve yanks it apart with his hands.

The moment they've been dancing around stretches on, then contracts sharply as they place their forearms side by side.

A gasp – Steve can't say from who as he's transfixed on Tony's mark. That's his initials alright, the one he would write out again and again on the nights when the pain wouldn't let him sleep.

Feels a touch on his soulmark as Tony gently tracks the line of the T as it encroaches into the space of the S, wonderment on his face. The sensation lights Steve up and he pulls Tony into the shower as gently as he can with the thrum of mine, mine, mine in his heart. And the resolution in his mind that he chooses this, he's already half in love with Tony already.

Turning on the shower, Tony shucks his briefs, as Steve fumbles at the rest of his clothes, finds a way to pull his boots off halfway unfastened, slides them across the floor to the bathroom door with a clunk.

They're both naked, half-hard as Steve presses Tony into the tiled wall. Delicious friction as Tony reaches up and grabs the back of Steve's neck, guiding him into a minty kiss that's equal parts hungry and tender. Steve moans into Tony's mouth, deepening the kiss, feels Tony's strong hands grasping his hips slowly move higher and higher, and Steve knows this is what all those old songs, books and movies were driving at, right here.

As their kisses gentle, Tony's arms lie against the tile, above his arms and it feels so natural to press soulmark to soulmark, as he clasps Tony's hands in his own.

Tony sighs luxuriantly into Steve's mouth, as the endorphins and hormones take effect. Feeling lit up, warm, like he'll never be cold again. Steve breaks the kiss to smile and nuzzle at Tony's goatee, enjoying the rough scruff on his cheeks as a contrast to this floaty feeling that only occurs when a bond takes effect.

"Oh Steve," Tony groans in his ear as the water cascades down over them both. Steve checks him over, he's regained a little color, but he still needs to be treated with care, even as the friction of his cock against Steve's hip drives him insane.

Steve reaches for the shampoo, bids Tony to sit on the bench, and cleans his hair, massages his scalp even as Steve's cock aches for more, demands for attention. For almost as much attention as Tony himself. "This is lovely. But I need…. need you to fuck me, darling. I need something good to get me through the next few days. Can you do that for me?" Tony looks up at Steve, and licks his lips. "Or I can blow you, and you can tell me if I have the same technique as Adventurer Tony?"

The flush that rises from Steve's chest upwards is all the answer Tony needs as Steve focuses on cleaning his own hair and body.

Grinning, Tony exclaims, "I knew it! That you wouldn't be able to resist him if you bumped into him again! How was it?"

Returning to cleaning Tony, Steve asks, "You're not jealous?"

"I'd be such a hypocrite if I was jealous of that, darling. I'm a firm believer in taking pleasure where we can." Tony shakes his head. "Then again, I am an alcoholic so maybe my judgment is not to be trusted on that front."

"I think you have the right idea, in terms of needing something that feels good," Steve admits as he hangs the sponge up again, sits down on the bench legs slightly apart. He lifts Tony onto his lap, holds onto his hips and gives an experimental thrust, as their cocks slide together.

"Fuck," groans Tony, face looking pink. "Feel free to manhandle me in the bedroom as much as you like, darling. I'm so hot for that."

Water droplets rain down softly as Steve braces Tony on his lower back with one hand, and smears his own precome over both their cocks.

Whispering "Tony," Steve melts into the warmth of the new soulbond, as he grabs both their cocks, relishes the feel in both his hand and against his cock. Tony's cock is beautiful, just like the rest of him, and Steve fully intends to worship it the way he deserves but for now, enjoying the closeness and giving Tony a good, strong orgasm is the order of the day.

Steve wants to watch their cocks rub together, but Tony pulls his chest closer to Steve's, rocks his hips up gently for more sensation, and begins kissing him so hungrily, interspersing tongue with groaning out "Steve."

Steve knows he won't last long. Fortunately, Tony comes first, biting gently on Steve's lips as his cock jumps in Steve's hand, marking Steve as his.

Gasping, Steve soon follows, the release firing through him hard as Tony kisses him through it, their intermingled come dripping down his abs.

"Yeah, that'll do it," Tony laughs into his neck, and Steve joins in through relief, joy, love.

After, Tony takes him to bed with a quiet squeeze of his hand. Steve's pleased to see Tony's already thought strategically in terms of buckets placed around the bed, anti-nausea tablets and everything he may possibly need over the next few days.

Snuggling in bed, Steve realizes he'll need to get used to Tony draping himself all over him – something he's never had with any lover.

"Great armor, by the way. Good design."

"Mmmm?" Tony vibrates into Steve's chest.

"Yeah, you really like those anime robot cartoons, huh?"

Snorting, Tony gently tickles Steve's arm. "You could say that." Turns serious. "Listen, in the interests of full disclosure, I met him before my universe was destroyed the first time. Earth 616 Tony."

Glad Tony can't see his face, Steve asks carefully, "How was he?"

"Apart from stressed over the multiversal fuck up that was happening right in front of our eyes? He took the time to tell me to stop drinking. Which, considering the end-of-days nature of our meeting, I found quite endearing." Tony sighs. "He seemed settled in himself. Wore a very plain cuff – not that that necessarily means… anything…" He yawns. "I didn't volunteer anything about you – I was still half convinced you were a hallucination anyway. He didn't bring you up…at…all."

As Tony's breathing settles down and it's clear he's asleep, Steve strokes through his hair. He hopes that Tony back home is indeed doing better, that he forgives himself for everything he no doubt blames himself for. Wants that for him. Has faith he may forgive Steve in time.

Relaxing, knowing he's no longer falling through the multiverse, Steve luxuriates in the thought of staying put, next to his soulmate.

Gaining consciousness, Tony kicks the candles of the magic circle aside as he leaps into action, sends Ghost to the other side of the world via his stupid little phone.

Chest hurts. Blinking, Tony looks down.

The RT is heavy in his chest. The light brings on his aura.

Collapsing to the floor, Tony blacks out.

Wakes again, this time in a hospital bed. Pepper and Maria of all people are hovering, whispering quietly. Pepper in a wheelchair, looking wan.

He's clearly missed a few things. Last thing he remembers…

Connecting himself to a harddrive, the taste of metal and shame, the man in the machine, the woven rope of wires, direct access to his secrets, all blood and hardware plugged in to the software of Extremis. Constant thoughts of shame. His soulmark…

Flinching, Tony discovers a black hole in his memory. A dead end. Data not found, apart from a feeling of dread and shame around that most sacred part of his skin.

With a shaking hand, Tony grabs at the boring fabric soulcuff he's wearing, as Pepper tries to warn him.

"Tony, no, don't do that. We can get a professional in, a therapist…"

"Do we know how long ago he made that backup?" Maria whispers, ever the practical one.

Having no idea what she's talking about, Tony wastes no time, pulls the cuff off his arm.

No soulmark.

Nothing but a raised red welt. Whatever was under there is gone.

A knot in his chest loosens. Tony smiles through his tears.