I've been followed by either two persistent anons, or a single extremely bored one, to post what I have of the Watchmakers fic I started back in November of last year.

I warn you that it's been in my "chop shop" folder for about four months now, which means entire sections might seem very familiar, because they were lifted for other fics.

oh fast summary: tony was captured by skrulls steve is going undercover to get him
i start and stop scenes a lot
there is probably three or four "first kiss" scenes i was playing around with in here
i am straight up c/ping the entire word document, not even rereading for errors, suck my dick
HERE YOU GO ANONS. YOU ARE PROBABLY NOT EVEN GOING TO COMMENT :|||





Title: Watchmakers
Rating: R
Word Count: 8000
Pairing: Steve/Tony
Summary: The Skrulls won, shit.
Author's note: Thank you to cruelest_month, onewayfreak for overseeing and cheerleading : )) also, dorcas_gustine is why this is being posted.



The Skrull's home world is nothing more than a glorified dustbowl. Bolet has little affection for the barren, red skied planet; small, eternally dry, save the few especially horrid periods of humidity. Few species can survive on the terrain, most of them alien, sentient, and each bird's chirp sends Bolet into a sort of childlike wonder.

The lush, plant-rich Fort Dupont Park has a steady stream of Skrulls. Couples, children, the elderly; their enthusiasm reminds Steve of children at a theme park, and the sight would be charming, if they weren't the result of a hostile takeover. Circumstances what they are, he's just annoyed.

Steve had always enjoyed the park, although more for historical value than view. He'd hoped to set up the Wardrobe there before heading in, central, enclosed, and far enough away to keep from any interfering Skrull technology. He'd been pleasantly surprised to find it relatively intact, the causality list limited to the park's sign, hastily scribbled over in Skrullish. It'd be ideal, if only it weren't crawling with Skrulls themselves.

Still, he can make do. There are secluded enough areas, and blending seamlessly with a crowd is always a plus. No one spares a second look at the young Skrull lounging on the grass, staring off into distance.

"Lucy checking in," Steve says, as loud as he dares. There's a long, stretching silence. "Professor?"

Steve does his best to not shuffle restlessly, as it'd probably be at odds with trying to appear relaxed and mellow. "Lucy, looking for the professor."

Mild irritation is just beginning to turn to worry when a voice finally crackles in his ear. "Sorry, I'm here. Me being the professor," it says. "I was in the bathroom, sorry Lucy. You took your time setting up. Anything happen?"

For a second, Steve's sure he's talking to Peter, but no, Pete hasn't been in such high spirits in months. Danny, or Clint, maybe? "I need a secure line as soon as possible." He's itching to tell of Tony, not so eager to tell them about the mass miscalculation of innocents. No one likes throwing out the baby with the bathwater.

"Good or bad?" Professor asks. "What am I saying. It's bad, right?"

"A little of both," Steve concedes.

"Alright, we'll have a connection for you when you contact us next," Professor says. "If you copy, I'll send the first visitor."

"Copy," Steve says.

An egg shaped cluster of tech suddenly jumps out of apparently nowhere, and Steve nabs it out of midair. Makes a face at the goo dripping from his palm. "Lucy welcomes him. He's fine."

"And the Professor's glad to be rid of him. Good luck."




Intel reported fifty humans residing in former Washington D.C.. Steve thought it a surprisingly low number, nearly all other Skrull colonies are populated by thousands. He hadn't questioned it, though, knowing D.C. to be the nerve center of the Skrull's budding society, it made sense that humans would be restricted to small, containable, controllable numbers.

Humans required to keep the power running, the water flowing. Humans to repair temperamental and still required human technology, prepare for unpredictable, and what the Skrulls saw as terrifyingly strange, weather changes.

Humans that are largely ignored and seen as inferior, but as far as they had been able to tell from the outside, there hadn't been any signs of human slaves. Steve had then assumed that Tony was an exception, as he so often is.

Intel was wrong, though, humans walk to the streets, vastly outnumbered by the Skrulls, but far more than fifty; Steve estimates at least three hundred humans imprisoned here, possibly double that.

The numbers alone aren't a problem. They're going to be rescued just the same, and Steve had expected some error; D.C.'s security had been impenetrable, made the information they gathered on the colonies planted over what used to be New York, what used to be Montana and Canada, what used to be California, seem easy. But to be so off is worrying. It means there's no guarantee any of the information on the colony is accurate, and Steve would be better off flying blind than relying on a map of some other country.

He sets up the Wardrobe in what used to be Fort Dupont Park -- Skrullish hastily slapped on top the old sign, the park hours crossed out.



*

Tension he hadn't realized was building in his shoulders releases the moment he opens the door and finds Tony. It's a surprisingly intense relief, as though he passed some test; the other man not wandered away or taken, but settled, cross legged on the couch in the front room.

Damp hair and in an oversized button up, pajama pants and socks. The armbands are hidden from view, but the collar is still there, and he suspects one doesn't go far without the other. His expression is still guarded, though, and there's a patch of scarred skin Steve hadn't noticed before, curling up and behind his ear.

He watches silently as Steve crosses the room, deposits four bags bulging with fresh foods, all Skrullish, all that's available, the alien crops planted practically the moment they landed, stocked on the shelves of grocery stores, just like that.

"These were Bolet's favorites," he explains, somewhat lamely. He wasn't sure what Tony would prefer, he'd grabbed anything Steve had a faint impression was good. He hadn't left Tony with much. He dumps them all out in one go, the rounder of the foods rolling off the table to the ground.

Tony's still silent, but he looks more amused than terrified, so Steve considers it a bonus, decides to press his luck and actually hold out a bunton roll that has Bolet practically salivating.

Tony's stomach groans audibly before he caves, taking the food.

Steve indulges in the misguided sense of victory.

Because Captain America is a symbol of hope, the Skrulls tortured and attempted to kill Bucky -- would've, if Steve hadn't actually risen from the dead. And because they compromised, Teddy and Xavin -- kids, just kids -- were dragged into this war, imprisoned and murdered publicly.

Because he'd betrayed them, Crusader was killed. Because Johnny Storm and Ben Grimm were important to Reed, they were swarmed and killed on sight. Sharon -- had something broke so deep in her she can't even say; can't even look at Steve.

Each loss is a physical blow, a savage beating Steve woke to, and found it all blurring into one horrendous ache. Impossible to fully conceive, let alone to mourn properly.

But Tony was not lead blindly to his death, Tony is sitting in front of him, gnawing on real food; Tony can be saved. Steve can save Tony. He didn't lose this.

And he knows Tony coming back to life, or, never being dead, is some sort of reward. As if it makes up for what's happened, as if it even had anything to do with Steve, personally. But he does. It's a relief, a sudden burst of support he's not sure how he would've managed without. It's something he can lean on, a raft.

The knowledge that Tony is here, is alive, is safe now, behind four walls, is almost dizzying. It feels like the reason for each step he takes, and he's not entirely sure how he was managing just hours before.

Hungry enough to not comment on Steve's stare, Tony inhales the food, and the sight is enough to make Steve hungry. he picks


Tony's watching his movements, and Steve hands over the egg. He hesitates for all of a second, as if expecting to be bitten, then takes it.

Turning the device this way and that, the scarred, deformed fingers on his right hand hindering his movements just slightly. "This is Reed Richard's technology," he says, finally.

"Yeah," Steve says, swallowing thickly. "He gave it to me."

Tony grimaces. "You made it into the Baxter Building?"

"He gave it to me," Steve repeats. "We ended up blowing Baxter Building after they took New York, and Stark Tower. This was made from spare parts."

His lips tighten, but he doesn't protest, staring at the device as some would an old photograph, tracing one of the winding creases.

"This is definitely Reed's design," he repeats. He twists it, presses three buttons that blend seamlessly into the surface of the device, activating it. Steve had to be shown how to do that six times by both Hank and Reed.

His eyes widen as it comes to life in his palm, hovering just slightly. "This is --" Abruptly, he snaps it shut and off in a series of quick movements Steve didn't even know was possible.

"You shouldn't be showing me this," Tony says, then stands and leaves the room.

He's got a limp. Steve hadn't noticed that before, either.

*

"You hear about the attack on the north west colony?"

Ziph, an elderly, well worn Skrull is sitting up, stretching one arm around to a sore muscle in her back; no doubt a relation to the knot that's digging into Steve's lower back. He could do the same; manipulate the combination of force field and hologram to and relieve the nagging pressure, but Steve would rather not overtax the device for something so menial.

Hank assured him a dozen times over it'd take more than a simple stretch to milk it dry, but he's not going to risk it. Finding himself stuck unable prove his Skrullishness, or worse, having it suddenly shorting out, because he couldn't stand one mild ache, is not an option.

The heat is worse anyway, and shows no signs of letting up, but Steve'll take planting seeds in high eighties over waiting days on end in a foxhole in high nineties. This is easy. Mindless, but easy.

Steve goes to wipe the sweat from his brow, knows he only succeeds in smearing dirt on his forehead, reaching for his quadrilanth seed of the day.

"You mean the snow storm?" J'onn asks, sitting up, resting on Steve's opposite side.

"Yeah. The attack."

"Humans can't control the weather, Ziph," J'onn reminds her, his tone tolerant. The two bicker like an old married couple, although as far as Bolet knew, neither one had ever been married, least of all to each other. It had driven Bolet crazy, and is wearing at Steve, but not quite the same reasons.

The field is populated by scattered elderly and weak, and the slow, tedious work should be right up Bolet's alley, the lazing, underachieving Skrull that he is. It was a source of deep shame for him, though, from what Steve can gather-- the gaps in Bolet's knowledge grow wider and scattered in accordance to rather unpleasant personal facts -- he'd suffered from some sort of break down, and felt the assignment of light duty to be a punishment.

The undemanding, menial job was the second reason he'd been picked for Steve. The bulking, unusually large size being the first.

Steve can't be bothered, not with the shame that shadowed Bolet, or irritation with coworkers. He goes through the motions numbly, focusing on the countdown of his dwindling seeds, each one a second that he has to endure before getting to actual work.

"So, a green monster just happens to attack the same day a freak snow storm hits the north west colony, the same hour a mutant starts tearing up York?"

"Humans aren't that organized," J'onn says, shaking his head and picking through his seeds idly. "And if it was some big plan, it was a stupid one. That green thing was destroyed, and that mutant. And I think you're forgetting how unpredictable weather on this planet is. It rotates, you know. They called them seasons."

Her expression sours, and Steve's reminded once again of how truly ugly the species is. Bruce had gotten away fine, Steve knows, so the rumor that Molly Hayes had been harmed is probably greatly exaggerated, and he has full confidence in Ororo. Still, he can't help but bite at the inside of his cheek.

"Even if it wasn't on purpose, they're still out there, just outside our force fields, and they're angry," Ziph says. "You've got grandchildren. Tell me out comfortable that makes you feel."

"It'll pass," J'onn sighs. "They can't last out there. They'll surrender or die. Sad, really," he shakes his head, sighing. "He loves them, too, if only they had bowed before Him."

"Yeah, I'm crying," Ziph says flatly.

"Bolet!"

Ziph and J'onn have no real reason to duck so quickly, busying their hands with nothing. The director is nothing like a regular, human conceived boss, more there to guide and train than supervise, and while demand has been great, and he's been riding them hard as of late -- the shack is far enough away he can't make out what they're saying, let alone what their hands are up to.

"Yeah, right there." Steve is eager for the excuse to stand upright, dusting off his slacks of dirt, careful to mind the already growing crops as he makes his way into the shade.

"You're furthest along, you know that?" Jon't, squat, even by Skrull standards, has to crane his neck up to peer at Steve properly, which he does, arms crossed.

Steve glances behind him; he did leave a good few feet ahead of the rest. "Sorry?"

"Normally I gotta ride you all day to get performance like that," Jon't says.

Steve shrugs. "Sooner I get done, the sooner I can leave."

Jon't smiles. It's a pleasant one by Skrull standards, but it sends a chill down Steve's spine. "Not today. This way," he says, jerks his head the right, and Steve follows him around the side of the building. "I recruited some help, you're gonna be in charge of em," Steve stops short at the sight; half a dozen human women and grade school kids, maybe eight years old, clutching at each other's hands, flinching at Bolet's appearance, and Steve immediately knows why Bolet's imposing figure was picked for this. "Start em out the far left fields, heading in. We'll meet in the middle if they're halfway decent."

"These are volunteers?" There are tears silently, steadily running down the cheeks of a girl in a Fantastic Four t-shirt. She ducks her face in a woman's jacket when she sees Steve look her way.

"More or less," Jon't says. Steve doesn't hide his disgust fast enough, but it's thankfully misread. "Obviously there's the language barrier but it's not exactly engine repair. Even a kid can dig a hole. Buckle down, you've still got your own load to finish."

He gives Steve an encouraging nod and heads back to his shack. And Steve ushers his group of slave laborers around to the more secluded, far left fields.

The temptation to reveal himself is almost unbearable, but not worth the risk, not when Steve still knows so little. He sticks to grunting Skrullish, using hand gestures to explain the task that's expected of them.

Tears continue to flow from the same girl as before, this time joined with pleads to go home, for her mother, her brother.

This isn't the worst example of slave labor he's been witness to, by any means, but it's the first time it's been his job to make sure it continues, and it stirs a dark, cold rage.

Thunder rumbles a pleasant warning about an hour before the warm, light shower hits. It's a welcome relief to Steve and his slowly trudging slave labor. The kids have made the best of it, their -- not their mothers, the group is far too diverse for that, and the children refer to all of them by their given names. Whatever they are to them, encourage the children to think of it as a game, and there's even some laughter after the rain starts; a man would be hard pressed to find a kid that frowns with fistfuls of mud.

He can't place where they came from. Most human slaves are held on an individual basis, for a very specific purpose, be it pleasure or practical, kept at arms reach with their captors. This group seems to know each other quite well, and sound as if they come and go from the same spot.

It's possible they were herded in as a group from some concentration camp, then bought collectively by Jon't, but Steve truly hopes it hasn't gotten that bad, that they could get away with selling entire groups of their children.

They're all coated to the elbows in mud by the time their assigned field is finished, and the storm has brought an early dusk. Three armed Skrulls meet them at the front of the plantation, usher the group off without a word.

It's only after they're out of sight that Steve turns; the rest of the fields have been emptied. Apparently in a hurry, tools and buckets of seeds are still laying out and likely waterlogged, possibly ruined.

He nearly jumps when he spots Jon't, watching him from the window of the shack. He opens the window, just a crack and with great reluctance, at Steve's gesture.

"We're done for the day?" Steve calls out. Jon't just nods, not breaking the incredibly odd silence, one that's fallen over the entire city. The streets are empty, store fronts closed. It's only when the rain gets heavy enough for him to use the wipers that he remembers -- the Skrull's overreaction to anything that isn't a hot, humid day.

Well -- this next part might be easier than he anticipated.

*

Assuming the force field around the city would be invisible to the naked eye once inside, Steve set about memorizing the twelve thousand mile perimeter of the Skrull-carved D.C. the moment he learned where he'd be headed. He needn't have. The shield's got the same green tint inside as out, apparently a clear blue sky not worth giving up the constant reminder of what they're keeping out. Or, perhaps, what they've won.

All he needs to do is walk straight in any given direction and he'll hit it eventually. Of course, the boundaries of the inner shield are heavily guarded. Usually.

A handful of Skrull guards cluster miserably under a single umbrella -- it really is pouring now -- and can't be bothered with Steve, giving him a glance as he kneels against the very edge of the field.

He twists the device, presses the three buttons and it hums to life. He was told there's nothing to worry about once getting it in the dirt, that the egg would burrow down deep, hiding its tracks along the way, but Steve can't resist digging a few mock holes, covering them all as best he can, just in case.

, Steve buries it, gives a jaunty wave to the guards, who largely ignore him, and heads back to Bolet's stolen home.

Back to Tony.

*



"It's a parade," Kil'ag says the word carefully. "As soon as I heard about it I thought of you. Come on, you'll love it. It's like a stage on wheels, you just stand in one spot near the road and they drive by, and do a play for a whole city of people."

It is, surprisingly, Kil'ag's relentless enthusiasm that gets Steve to cave. He realizes he's made a mistake almost immediately upon finding a spot in the crowd; great seats, front row. It's the normal affair, politicians and Velnke herself waving from the backs of carriages. Someone took it upon themselves to paint the Garfield blimp green, but that's actually forgettable compared to what came next.

Steve could mistake them for humans, if he only looked once. Twice shows an exaggerated head, eyes and blown wide, arms much too spindly, hands huge, skin bright pink and near black.

They are clowns, Steve realizes after a moment. Skrulls entertaining the crowd, becoming something to mock. All humans are seen as inferior, but males in particular are something to be laughed at, held in contempt; smooth, detailed features, even Logan is downright feminine when compared to the average Skrull male. They're painted as weak. Childish in the best light, idiotic in the worst.

The Skrulls disguised as humans that flit through the audience giggle, high pitched and coy, a homophobic parody brought to life, flirting with Skrulls until they get pushed away, then fall back, arms flailing wildly, legs rolling up into the air, crying when Skrull children bat at them, running off. They trip over their own feet, fall into each other and burst into sobs, try to perform simple tricks and fail spectacularly.

"I'm really not feeling up for this," Steve says.

Kil'ag elbows him. "Come on, the best part is coming up, you'll love this."

It's a float, and Steve can make out the bright blue and reds the moment it rounds the corner.

Designed to look like the Skrull homeworld, Reed Richards and Iron Man are wreaking mayhem in the fake buildings, pulling out giggling Skrull children from the audience and pretending to horribly maim them.

Reed's body is coiled unnaturally, his abdomen and legs curling around the necks of the children, his face morphed unrecognizably in demon-like glee at his mayhem. The Iron Man faceplate is twisted as well, no mouth, but the eyes are large, metal brows drawing down in a truly intimidating look of madness. He blasts aside several Skrull cardboard-innocents with flicks of his gauntlets. Finally, a large super Skrull -- Grog-to, a rather popular Skrull war hero -- emerges from the side, waving to the crowd once, obviously fairly sheepish at the attention, before engaging in mock battle.

The crowd laughs, cheers as Grog-to grabs Mister Fantastic around the middle, tying him into a knot, throwing the body to the side. They applaud and holler as he turns on Iron Man, one solid punch shattering the metal of his chest plate, falling back.

"And what should I do with these monsters?" Grog-to laughs, the float passing directly in front of Steve now. "Mercy?"

The crowd practically howls, jeering, encouraging boos.

Grog-to grabs Iron Man by the shoulder, rips off his helmet and head in one go, practically neon red spurting up like a fountain. The crowd loses it, stomping, roaring its approval.

*

"Rogers, you're speaking on a secure line. Make it fast, it won't be that way for long."

Steve clears his throat. "Our information was off, humans are thick in the area. Hundreds, maybe more. I think there's some sort of trade happening with the concentration camps. Also, Tony Stark is with me. He's alive."

There's a pause. "How alive is he?"

"He's very alive. He's . . . " He's starving. He's weak, he's cut off and powerless, slowly going mad, but. "He's alive. He's a resource we can't afford to ignore. I advise an early pull out."

"No."

Steve nearly sputters, "The cost of pulling him out is almost non-existent, a retrieval team is--"

"Rogers. You're in a colony of beings that change shape and want to kill us, and you want to discuss why you can't bring someone you found there home?"

Oh, come on. "He's not a fake."

"As far as you know. Hell, as far as he knows. They've done that, you know, brainwashed their own people into truly believing they are who they're pretending to be."

"When they were fighting us. As far as they're concerned, the war is over. Why would they --"

"Morale," the voice snips, and there's no way this isn't Hill. "Fun. I can think of several reasons that make it plausible, and that makes it way too much of a risk. We've seen entire graveyards of nothing but Richards and Stark doubles, it wouldn't surprise me at all if they chained up a spare one, just cause it'd be fun to look at. No. Keep him in your pocket, and he'll be pulled out with everyone else if he's the real deal. Plan stays the same."

Steve calmly takes off his earpiece. He walks about three feet, and punches the first thing he finds -- which happens to be a tree -- as hard as he can. There's a loud crack, either his fist or the tree or both, and he walks back to the wardrobe. "Lucy's waiting for a visitor."

"Aw, did I hurt your feelings?"

The tree tips with a slow, deep groan, and hits the ground with a satisfyingly loud crash.

Steve grabs the second cluster of machinery when it pops through, eyes it for damage.

"Visitor's fine," he says, and shuts down the connection. Each second Tony stays in the colony is a risk. Kil'ag said he could take as long as he needed, but there's no way Bolet -- a civilian with virtually no connections or influence -- will be able to keep a prisoner of war for months on end, which this mission is looking like it could take, if humans keep being brought in. Tony getting passed along is unthinkable, and it'd be so easy to pull him out.

The Skrulls had certainly done an excellent job scaring everyone into rampant, stiffening paranoia. Maybe Steve can't blame Hill; maybe he'd doubt his own shadow if he'd lived through those months, too.

*

"It's broke." Steve should've checked it. It had started steaming on the way back, smoke trailing up from his pocket, entire crowds staring before he'd noticed.

"Yeah, I hate it when I'm an alien and I take over someone else's planet, and the technology there busts on me."

"I thought you were starting to believe me," Steve says. "You didn't want me to tell you anything."

"I believe you're definitely up to something."


"Your voice was the first thing I heard, you know," Steve says, casually. Tony not believing he's actually Steve Rogers is oddly freeing. He's well aware Tony will find out it's him, but it seems miles away. "Iron Man's voice, I mean. When I was thawed out. I never told anyone this, but for a second I was afraid the world had been taken over by robots."

"About a week," Tony says through the wad of food in his mouth, "after I was first captured, one of your men made himself look like Howard Stark, my father. He . . . beat me for about an hour, and brought up the obscure bit of trivia that I accidentally knocked over a twenty thousand dollar Ming Dynasty bowl. When I was five. That didn't convince me that he was actually my dead father brought back to life, and it doesn't matter what you say, I'm not buying that you're Captain America, miraculous alive again and just happening to be hanging out in a Skrull settlement."

"So what do you think I am?" Steve asks. "I mean, you're helping me."

"I think," Tony leans back, considers Steve, head cocked to the side. It's a wonderfully normal move, wonderfully Tony, contrasting violently with his deformed neck, chest, fingers.. "You're a Skrull with a private agenda. Obviously against the current empire, as most of you seem to be -- no surprise there, totalitarian societies tend to be unpopular-- I think you want my help in overthrowing it, and thought the only way I'd give it is if you wore Captain America's face. I'm guessing you were a young, new recruit when this started, possibly a sleeper agent, sent ahead of time, and the glorious arrival of your people wasn't nearly as holy and divine as you had been led to believe. That you hadn't really taken into consideration the mass murder and enslavement of an entire planet. I'm assuming your plans involve you taking the power in some way, and I'm hoping," he sighs. "you'll use that power to get you and your people the fuck off of earth."

Steve almost laughs. "Me being Steve is a lot simpler, but that certainly is colorful. So you think I'm a good guy?"

"I think we have a common enemy," Tony says.


*

Technically, Tony lives with the rest of the humans in renovated office buildings. Break rooms now functioned as communal kitchens, showers installed in the public bathrooms. The rooms fit one bed, and a place to hang clothes. Barely suitable for one person, and as expected there are only professionals and experts, no families.

No children. Assuming they didn't pop out of the ground like so many daisies, Steve is going to have to follow




has the report on the east side reconstruction project, Steve's embarrassingly sloppy Skrullish practically dripping from the page. He'd only had time to study the beginners Skrull books he'd picked up from the children's literature section for a day. He's fast with new languages, and he'd traced pages and pages of it, but the end result is still rather pitiful.

"Yeah, I uh," strangely, Bolet feels rather used to this predicament, his favored excuse coming to mind immediately. "I hurt my hand when I was away."

Jon't narrows her eyes in confusion. "Sorry to hear that. Anyway, thanks. I can't remember the last time you didn't leave this crap for me."



"When did you learn to read?" Kil asks, head tilting as he stares.

"I -- "

"I


Tony sleeps like the dead, one could easily think the sluggish, slow rises and falls of his chest were a trick of the eye. Not at all like he used to, tossing and turning and sometimes even muttering -- Tony Stark's mind is constantly on, constantly working. But Steve supposes, given the circumstances, his body needs all the breaks it can get.

The collar is more intricate than Steve had originally noticed, dark purple swirls and dots line the edges of it, there's a chain that he missed before as well, linking the collar with a piercing in his left ear. The same detailing are in the armbands, even with the scarring, he looks ridiculously exotic. Steve really wants to punch someone.





"Peter and Wendy were compromised. We pulled them out of Never Land," the voice says. That's-- Lyja and Jim Rhodes. Around northern Mexico and Texas, the Skrulls established their most densely populated settlement. They'd sent in two to cover their bases. There was -- well voiced concerned about sending Lyja under cover, let alone in such an important position. But they couldn't turn down her knowledge, and Steve had never doubted her; he saw the look on her face when Johnny Storm was taken out by that mêlée in New York.

Steve imagines there's quite a bit of finger pointing happening right about now, regardless what led to them getting pulled out.

"How compromised?" he asks. "Did we lose Never Land?"

"No, we took care of it. We're sending in . . . fuck, what were those kid's names? All I saw was the movie. There was a fat one and one wearing a top hat?"

"Thomas?" Steve guesses.

"Whatever, we're sending in another Peter and Wendy."




"Wouldn't kick her out of bed, s'all I'm saying."

"You wouldn't kick a human out of bed," Natle says.

"What and you would?" Ys'n says, a jovial wave his arm. "They're all so pretty, they all look like girls, even the boys. Except the ugly ones."

"Yeah, they're all pretty, except when they're ugly," Jilt'in laughs.

"I wouldn't kick one out of bed, s'all I'm saying."

"He does have a point, humans are certainly easy on the eyes," Kil'ag says. "And they come in so many different colors and shapes!"

"You're all disgusting," Tala says, rolling her eyes.

"Hey, they can't be that bad, from what I've heard about our human visitor," Hg't says, pointed look at Steve.

"Yeah, what's it like, Bolet? Any huge differences? Any extra tentacles or anything?" Ys'n asks. "Ug'tol kept saying Stark squirts like a water spout but that can't be right."

"What?" Steve asks,

"Oh, come on. You're definitely not beating Stark, and you barely let him out of that house. What are you doing in there, playing card games?"

Steve forces a laugh. "I'm finding uses for him."

"Come on, you know Bolet's not the kind to brag about this," Kil'ag says. "And if you're really curious Ys'n, go find some agent who spent time pretending to be one. I'm sure they can answer all your questions."

"Maybe give a little demonstration if you ask nice."

"But we've got the real deal! Bolet. You have to go get Stark and bring him out here!"

Excited agreements.

"That's it, when you're done being gross, I'll be at Oolla's," Tala gives Natle hand a quick rub and walks off.

"I think," Steve says slowly. "I'm gonna call it a night, too. I'm feeling ill."

Courses of discontent erupted from the table. "You're no fun ever since you got a slave."

"Yeah, come on, we never see you anymore."

Steve could barely process it, though. "No, I've-- I think I'm gonna get sick. Literally. I've gotta . . . ."

He supposes it's obvious.




It takes him a moment to recognize it as breathing -- Tony's breathing. For another moment, Steve thinks him awake and angry, but a closer look . . .

"Tony. Tony wake up--"

"Get off," his voice shaking with terror, jerking wildly free of Steve's grip. Steve grunts a welcome to Tony's elbow entering his ribcage. "Get off me--"

"It's just me, Tony, it's Steve."

Tony breathes heavily into his own hands, looking up at Steve between slightly damp with sweat and totally tangled with sleep bangs. Without a word he climbs out of bed, into the bathroom.

That total, utter terror. That -- that fear. When he woke, when he saw Steve's face. Not just remnants of the nightmare, Steve realizes, staring at the light leaking out from underneath the bathroom door. It's what Tony carries with him constantly, what he's not going to share, of course, with Bolet, the enemy.

Perched on the edge of the bed, he waits for Tony to return. It's probably a good thing it takes him such a long time, because Steve's only truly calmed after the first ten minutes of listening to the facet run. It takes him another five to realize demanding to know more information about him being . . . raped probably isn't fair. At least not now.

When Tony finally does come out, face scrubbed a pink that matches his scars, Steve says nothing.

Given the circumstances -- the living through what feels like end of the world -- he could've probably gotten away with holding him that night, if Tony believed him to be Steve Rogers. They'd done similarly before, when things were especially horrendous.

But he's Bolet.

So Steve counts himself lucky that Tony doesn't push him out of the room entirely, eyes just tired and accepting as Steve lays down, a full body length away on the same bed, even a little amused when Steve takes his hand, holding it tightly.

It's a dark, almost scary part of Steve that looks into that face, the scars racing up and down his neck, collarbone, shoulder, and doesn't know how he's ever going to allow anyone to touch Tony, ever again.

*

"You aren't using him," says Kil'ag.

"What?"

"Stark," he says. "You're treating him like some pet."

Steve freezes, combs his mind for some response but comes up empty. When in doubt, parrot. "I'm treating him like a pet?"

"I know what you're problem is, Bolet."

"Oh?"

"You feel guilty," Kil'ag says. "I didn't think this sort of thing was up your ally to begin with, honestly, you're a nice guy. But you seemed so set on it when you first got back."

Steve can work with this. "It's just . . . we're all soldiers, you know? We all do what we have to do in times of war."

Kil'ag laughs bitterly. "Times of war? That bastard and his friends came to our planet and -- look, you of all people don't need a history lesson. If you're questioning whether or not he deserves it, he does. If you want to do it, do it. If you don't, and you can't, keeping that thing locked up in your room can't be healthy. And, I've got to be honest, we're getting a little restless, here. They're happy to let you take as long as you like, but people want to know he's being treated properly."

Steve pretends to consider. He nods. "Yeah. Yeah, you're right."

"Good man," Kil'ag smiles, encouraging hand on his shoulder. "And you know, if you don't want to do the old fashioned," he mimics a smack, "you really could screw him. Seeing as you never go out anymore."

Steve laughs weakly along with the ribbing.



"They want me to start beating you."



"If . . . if I don't start hurting you, they're going to insist I pass you along."

"You want my permission to beat me?" Tony asks, sounding surprisingly amused.

"I don't want to," Steve says, because saying it is all he can do. He'd never done well with feeling helpless, frustration is twisting in his stomach, making his hands clench.

"You should."

"What?"

"I've tainted your entire life with death, Bolet. Your father, your brothers, your sister, they're dead. You're alone because I killed them. Not on some battlefield, not in fair play. I blew them up escaping your planet, after a failed attempt to intimidate your people," Tony says. "I killed the man whose face your wearing. I'm hated by your people and mine. If there's anyone out there who deserves a beating, you're looking at him."

"Christ, Tony," Steve says. "You screwed up, you've made mistakes because you're human. You're not a monster, you don't deserve to be beaten for the rest of your life. We both refused to compromise, we both should've been more --"

"Bolet. You're a nice guy, I can see that. You're not going to be able to justify beating me to yourself, and you're not going to feel good about doing it, even if I give you permission. You're either going to have to accept that and do it anyway, or pass me on to someone who'll actually appreciate the privilege," Tony closes his eyes, tilts his chin up. "Pretend to be Steve Rogers, you like doing that." He smirks. "And commit."

"You want me to hit you," Steve says as he realizes. It's a sick sort of feeling, this realization, he does not like pitying Tony Stark, freakishly smart, astonishing and sometimes screwed up, his friend Tony Stark. He leans in, and waits for Tony to open his eyes again before saying softly. "It doesn't matter how hard I hit you, you're not going to forgive yourself."




"Who're?" Tony asks wobbly, blinking at Steve's figure. His eyes widen abruptly and he's vomiting again. This time he doesn't bother to lift his head from the toilet. "Sorry, 'm-- who're you again?"

"Steve."

Tony barks out a laugh, harsh and loud, and then seems to regret it, losing his balance and nearly falling on his face -- Steve catches him, lifts him to his feet.

"Right, right. Cap. Heya, Cap. Fancy meet-meeting you here."

"What happened?" Steve asks.

"You ever see a group of teenagers get a dog drunk?" Tony asks. It takes Steve an embarrassingly long time to connect the dot there. "Their dads were mad. They wasted all the -- the good stuff on me."

"You're drunk?" Steve asks, feeling a pathetic two steps behind everything. "Jesus, couldn't you--"

"It's not like they gave me much of a choice," It takes a keen eye to recognize the shift and wobble as an attempt to stand. "This stuff -- a lot stronger than anything we have on Earth."


"Mmm, you look like Steve," Tony says, smiling.


Tony's looking at him. "You start thinking things you wouldn't, or . . . or you just pretend you'd never think. Cause -- cause they aren't -- it's not sex, it's always rape, it always hurts, it's -- it's -- it's always bad, it's never good. You . . . you want to scream and kill and hurt them like . . . but maybe it's not so bad if you can. . . imagine. If . . . but maybe then it's even worse," Tony says.

"Imagine what?"

"That the person doing it . . . is actually who they're pretending to be. If Steve was actually here,"

"I am here."

Tony shakes, first with laughter, then with tears. "Cause I figured out how it works. You couldn't get Steve, because he's dead. So you got me. You got my memories of Steve and because I always know what Steve would do --"

Steve kisses him.

He knows it won't work; maybe that's why he did it.





Something big is about to happen.

The sudden herd of unmarked cars within eye distance of Bolet's stolen home is a rather blatant clue.

They've figured something out, and Steve knows the smart thing is to get pulled out, but there's no way to go make a break for the Wardrobe, with Tony, and to attempt it would only uselessly tip his cards.

So instead he sits in the living room, stares at the floral print on the window curtains, hands clasped, he runs through various scenarios. The mission is top priority. Then Tony's life. He'd be a sorely valuable assist to their resistance -- and there's something about a man raised from the dead that does wonders for morale. Then Steve's. If he could fully trust Tony to listen, he'd send him out now, toward the gate, toward the Wardrobe.



"Hello, Bolet. I'm Nanu, I work with the queen, in Skrull Identity Investigation and Confirmation. I'm here to ask you a few questions." Bolet doesn't like this, not near to the degree that Steve doesn't, but it makes this moment a little easier; he doesn't have to hide his distrust.

"What'd I do?"

She smiles. "You're not in trouble. This is very routine, all we're going to do is clear up some misunderstandings, get a few signatures and be on our way."

"Alright, what'd I do that someone misunderstood?"

"I understand you've been keeping a human prisoner of war in your home."

"Yeah?"

"I understand that you've been through a lot of changes recently, but what we don't understand is what kind of changes could bring such a dramatic shift in your work performance, would lead you into heavily classified areas of research, or would lend you to harboring an enemy of war as a pet, rather than using him as intended."

Steve laughs. "That's what this is about--"

"Yes, I told you it was menial," that pleasant smile doesn't shift an inch, but somehow looks much colder. "We at SIIC have perfected the art of identifying imposters, but the warning signs lead to as many false alarms as they do real ones. Please don't take offense."

"None taken," Steve says, flatly.

"Normally this would be considered a violation of your rights as a member of the Skrull empire, but thankfully you've got someone here with no rights at all," she says with a smile. "Could you call Stark, please?"

"He's sleeping," Steve says lamely. Nanu smiles. Three Skrulls, large but not as large as Bolet or Steve, come around from behind her, storming into the house. Steve watches.

The mission.

Tony's life.

Steve's life.

"They'll wake him up," she says, reassuringly. "Why don't we take a seat."


"Do you believe this Skrull to be Bolet, son of Con'va?"

Tony stares at him, eyes blank. "No."

Nanu looks shocked, but it's hard to tell if it's a condescending sort. "And who do you think he is?"

"Steve Rogers."

And in one breath, all three operations are compromised. He could take her, he's pretty sure. Unless those three guards are super Skrulls, he could take them too, but getting out still remains the problem.

Nanu turns to Steve. "Now, why would he say that?"

Steve rolls his eyes. "Because I told him I was. It was a game, I told him I was here to rescue him. You're not seriously going to take Stark's word over mine?"

"Well, this is a bit more than his word, he couldn't possibly lie, and he is very perceptive, if nothing else," Nanu says primly. "But I suppose it's possible that you've tricked him." She stands. Moves for the door. Was it really that simple? "Come along, Bolet."

Of course not.

*

Instinct is telling him to wait.

Logic is saying knock out the driver, barrel full speed to the park, get Tony and get out.

But instinct's telling him to wait, strapped in the back seat of the van, Tony blank and robotic beside him, Skrulls on either side.

So he waits.


Is that what Tony had been talking about? Steve runs through all the destruction the Skrulls had caused, it had been as if they'd known exactly where to target. Intelligence that was eerily accurate. They'd assumed it to be by products of getting Hank Pym's knowledge, the president's. But it was more than that.



"I'll tell you how this is going to go," she says. "Emma Frost," Nanu says, coolly. "I'll be sorting this whole mess out."

Nanu shifts through his memories, in what he assumes is a gentle, considerate way. It's at a numbed distance, it feels like it ought to hurt more than it does, at least. Like it's being shielded from him, like some sort of psychic Novocain.

It's not until she finally pulls out that he realizes the white knuckled grip he had on the arms of the chair. The Skrull-- knows. Nanu steps to the side, waiting orders, waiting to tell the Skrull Queen where the last hope of humanity is hiding, their plans.

He could take her out. There are probably twenty guards at most outside, he'd take some damage, but he would have enough time before Veranke could warn them, he could get out. Maybe -- if he could get Tony to the control center. He's obviously learned enough about Skrull's technology at this point--

"There's nothing of interest your majesty," Nanu says crisply, and the adrenalin whooshes out of Steve, confusion leaving him just as tense. Had Doctor Strange left some sort of protection over his thoughts? "He's been attempting to trick Stark into believing he's his friend, Captain America, and that he's going to be rescued. It's a game that apparently got out of hand."

Tony. He hasn't shifted, but Steve can tell he's stiffened. Head still dripped respectfully, Steve can't make out his expression and he's actually glad for it.

"I see," Veranke says, considering Bolet's face for a long, eerie moment. "I've been told of your losses, my friend. I won't deny that they're profound, and you've earned every right to revenge, if that's what you truly want. But I would like you to consider what dwelling on this is doing to you. Is this human's -- this thing's -- need for retribution worth destroying your own happiness? Because you've also earned that. A happy life where you don't have to concern yourself with scum and pain. A life of creation rather than destruction."

"I . . . " Bolet's offering no help on this one. He really is a man with no interest in hurting others, he finds no pleasure in the idea of keeping Tony locked in a cage, in pain. He has no justifications.

"You may remove the human, give him to my guard," Varanke says. "They should be just outside the door." The large Skrulls move to comply.

"Wait--" Steve says, starting to stand. A small hand -- Nanu's not near strong enough to stop him, but he pauses at it resting on his chest. The mission first. Tony second.



"I didn't do anything wrong," Steve protests as they leave, trying to piece together some semblance of an argument a man who shouldn't really care would make. "I'm not finished!"

"Relax. I'll explain in a moment," Varanke says, and the screen goes black.

Immediately, Nanu is on him, hands planted on either side of the chair, face inches from his own. "You're probably wondering why I didn't tell on you, Cap," she hisses. Intense anger, laced with a sort of maniacal amusement. "No, you didn't trick me. I know where Sharon Carter is. I know where Peter Parker is sleeping tonight. Guess what, human?"

He could snap her neck. It would be easy. Distantly, he knows he shouldn't indulge such a thought -- it would cause more problems then it would solve. When two people are alone in a room and one ends up with a broken neck, it's pretty easy to piece together what happened. But Tony is unconscious, in a situation he swore he would protect him from, and the entire plan is jeopardized no matter what he does.

"What," he grits out.

"I've got plans. I'm going to use your little resistance as a diversion.




"I am going to take Stark from you," She says, and before he can protest. "For a week. At the end of the week, if you still desire him, I'll allow it. But I hope you'll be able to grow past this Bolet. He loves you."

And that is that.


*

"She's in Texas."

Steve is slowly waking, and Peter Parker's face is slowly sliding into focus. His eyes are bright.

"Mary Jane. She's in Texas. Wonderland, whatever. She's alive."

Steve stares blankly, trying to process this bizarre dream, before his surroundings


"You left him?" Steve demands.

Jim slams Steve back; still in War Machine, Steve can do little more than lean with the impact. He doesn't know Rhodes all that well, but that much raw anger on anyone's face would be startling. "Look me in the face, and tell me that I didn't do everything in my power to get you both out of there."

For a moment, Steve considers the pluses of a cathartic beating, swinging at something at full strength, feeling it crack under his fist. Then he sets his jaw, shakes his head.

Rhodes pulls back, a good

"We'll get him out, Steve. We'll get all of them." She's still shaking with frustration when she leaves.

"And we're gonna have to take a civilian filed colony by force," Carol finishes. "Nice."

"Who cares?" asks Danny.

"A dead kid's a dead kid," Logan rumbles from a corner Steve hadn't heard him slip into.

"It is possible she didn't look for the specifics -- or necessarily understand them even if she did," Strange points out.

"It's possible she'll kill us all with what she found out," Peter says "And that's where I'll place my bet."


"Still don't believe me?"

"I prefer pleasant surprises to crushing disappointments."


"


It was a selfish pain, before. When Steve wanted a hope. Now, he understands a bit better -- he understands the empty shell Peter had become. It would be nice, for Steve, if Tony is still alive. But imagining the pain that Tony is going through to make it so . . . Steve can't help but wonder if he'd be better off.


"Wouldn't this be easier in an open space?" Norman Osborn asks.

"This is as open as we can afford," Emma Frost says. She's actually wearing pants and a plain shirt, but still gives off the distinct impression of her usual long white cape whipping behind her as she turns, takes in the gigantic hall. It's easily miles long, but Steve's well acquainted with how fast such a space can fill with refugees.

"This is fine," Blink agrees. She sounds more sure, stands straighter than the last time Steve saw her, which is certainly heartening.


Carol, Lyja and Rhodes, Luke, Fury, Jasper, Natasha, Jessica.


"And now what do we do?" Carol asks.

"Now you just stand there," Emma says. "You couldn't screw this part up, even if you tried."

*

The sound of three hundred people being ripped from every day activities and dropped in one enclosed space is deafening. The collective, abrupt shuffling is enough, combined with the confused, terrified yelps and murmurs. The embarrassed ones from those pulled out of more private activities. Then the sobs. Then the cheers, the whoops, the realization that the nightmare is over, they're saved. The sound of three hundred people having a rescue they'd given up on, finally coming through.

Steve can barely hear himself think over the ruckus, the stomping and shuffling and voices.

Thankfully, that didn't seem to be a problem for Xavier.

"Cerbro's showing three humans left behind in the north Ireland settlement," he's saying. "Send Jack of Hearts in. He can be as loud and noisy as he wants, he just needs to look at them."




"You knew this would hurt," Emma is saying. It's cold and firm, her hand on the back of the girl's neck. "You knew that when you signed up to do it, too late to cave now. No one's going to die because you gave up."

Blink's blank, white eyes widen, and she screams again, guttural and loud enough to be heard even over the deafening clatter of the next group. They're a good three feet in the air when transported in, and drop collectively, shaking everything else in the room as they land. Steve tries his best to scan over each head, looking for a tall, thin figure, dark hair. Probably going to be in that slave wear again, although most of the refugees were wearing some deviation of that.



"Let go, Captain," Emma says.

"What?"

"Steve," Emma warns, and then thousands of people vanish. His world is abruptly a silent, white room, populated only by Emma Frost and Steve Rogers. "You know how I said you couldn't screw this up if you tried? I was wrong."

"What?" Steve asks, panic rising. What had he done; he certainly hadn't tried to--

"You're causing a bit of a distraction," she says flatly, and suddenly, various images of both Tony Stark and Iron Man erupt all around him, some moving in quick displays, but all silent. Tony when they first met, eyes crinkling as he leans over to share a joke; Tony when he was still Mr. Stark to Steve, it's shocking how he didn't realize how young Tony was at the time. So young the facial hair almost looks ridiculous, like a kid with grease.

"Is this . . . my head?"

"Your conscious thoughts. Which you happen to be broadcasting so loud, I can't get the stuff I need," she says. "I'm isolating you here while I pick at your subconscious."

"Help yourself," Steve mutters, but is honestly having a hard time caring either way, watching Iron Man -- he can't place the suit, exactly, it's early, one with actual rivets --

Tony suppressing a laugh, but the amusement clear in his eyes.

Tony staring at his latest upgrade with a dopey sort of grin usually reserved for first loves.

Her lips quirk upward. "See?" she says, and a scene outside Bolet's home comes up, one he didn't remember looking at, to a human girl he hadn't quite registered. Steve would've sworn he'd never seen her before in his life. "The subconscious is stupid as hell, but it doesn't forget much."


"Oh, you've got it bad, don't you?" she laughs.

"Shouldn't you be focusing on innocent lives?" Steve asks, in lieu of dignifying that with a response.

"All I'm here to do is amplify," Emma says.


"Oh, and you are as every bit perfect as advertised, aren't you?"

Steve suddenly felt quite naked; "What are you looking at?"

"Your darkest fantasies," she smiles.

"Excuse me?"

"I've seen

Tony Stark is incorrigible. Most people would call it arrogance; and she supposes it's a fine line. It's closer to ignorance, though. Innocence, if she was going to be poetic. He has an arrogance of youth she's come to associate with headstrong teenagers. People who haven't quite learned


Tony is shaking.

Steve wants to call out Tony's name, finds his voice stuck, just as his feet, just as his thoughts, in a horrified loop, no no no no.

"What am I looking at?" he chokes out.

Emma actually winces sympathetically. "You're way too smart to have fallen for any act Tony puts on, Steve. You're looking at Tony. You should see the state of his mind if you think this is bad," she sighs. "It's a shame, his mind used to be so . . . clean and linear. One of my favorites."

Steve feels sick. In Tony's head, he's a skinny, freakish mess of scars. His eyes are wide and empty, and Steve ought not be looking. This is something Tony can't control, seeing him like this is unfair.

"You left," Tony says.

Steve jumps. "I couldn't -- I didn't want to."

"You left me," Tony says again, it's hardly accusing. Just sad. Just scared.

"Tony," Steve says. "You have to understand, it was the WORLD. Everyone. All of humanity. ANY less . . . I would've..."

Tony just blinks. Dead eyes focus on Steve. "You left."

And then he's gone.

Immediately, Steve knows what he should've done. Apologized. Told him how much it had hurt him, too. Anything but excuses. "Did he--" Steve is alone in his white room plastered with images of Tony. "Emma?"

"He's fine," she appears suddenly. "His nanobots are healing him."

"You mean Extremis?"

"Whatever," she says, with a dismissive wave of her hand. "His mind is asleep. Which reminds me. We need you, Cap, are you ready to wake up?"

Abruptly, Steve is opening his eyes and is in reality again.

"Hey Cap," a child he doesn't recognize for a good minute says. "Ready to kick some Skrull butt?"

*


"He's fine," Emma grunts, looking worn and exhausted. "It's that thing in him, it's healing him. I'm going to pass out now."

And true to her word, she falls from the chair to the floor before Steve can so much as finish opening his mouth.



"Please take a moment to fully appreciate your situation," Xavier says. "Your friends and family and live are floating above you. In a few moments, they will be relocated to an uninhabited planet. They will have no memories of their time here, or earth at all. You will never see them again if you don't take what I am offering now. You will die alone, and on a strange land, for a mad woman's quest. In the next two hours, we will be sending any who wish to go with their people home. After that you'll be seen as hostile and treated as such. I'm truly sorry it's come to this."

Xavier's last words hang in the air.

"I hope they all say no," Molly says darkly. "I hope we get to beat all of them -- well not all of them. Not the ones that don't deserve it."


Kil'ag's eyes widened in horror, his mouth working. A sound of gut wrenching sorrow finally ripped out of him. "Where is Bolet? What did you do with him?"

"He's alive. He's fine."


He feels it before he hears it -- the ground shaking beneath him, and there's a heart stopping explosion of metal and fire.

A streak jets out from behind the wall, and Iron Man's taken to the sky. A second, resonating crack as he goes mach three to reach the battle, and those who hadn't stopped and stared from the first were doing it now. Tony's arms are outstretched, he climbs into an arch, looping once before slamming into the battlefield,



"And your board members take precedent over -- say, a doctor?"

"If I waited for doctor's approvals for every move I made, Iron Man wouldn't have ever existed. I'm fine," Tony says, and his smile actually reaches his eyes, and his suit is tailored sharp enough to cut. His stance is confident, he looks normal, and healthy, and charming, and everything Tony Stark should be. If you only knew Tony Stark from billboards and tabloids.

Just as his hands are healthy and whole, but his pinky and ring finger are still curved in as they had been when they were knotted with scarred, deformed flesh.

"Seriously, Tony."

"Seriously," his smile fades. "People need live their lives again. The ball needs to start rolling, and you're looking at the person who makes the balls."

"This might be hard for you to believe," Steve says. "But there are other people out there who can do the job. Other people, ones that haven't spent the last year being tortured."

"Exactly," Tony says. "I earned this."


Pepper wouldn't give any details. "It was bad." Is all he gets. It's all he needs,

"What's--" There are several glass bottles scattered on the ground, playing havoc with the city lights below. Tony's loose stance on the rim of the balcony is suddenly quite horrifying. "Get away from the edge, Tony." He uses his best Avengers voice, one that will hear little argument. It almost works, Tony pauses, looks up. Blinks slowly, taking in Steve's figure.

"You gonna save me?" he taunts after a beat. He is drunk.


"You could push me," Tony whispers, like it's a brilliant idea, a secret just for Steve, and he wraps his arms tighter around the man, as if his self destruction was a physical foe, trying to snatch Tony away from his grasp. "It'd be done -- I'm -- Steve, I'm broke, Steve. I can't be fixed."



"I wouldn't leave," Steve says, practically shaking with the conviction.

Tony laughs,

"You did before! You said you were going to save me, and then you fucking left."

It's like a punch to the gut. Steve's not sure if Tony's just trying to get him to leave or if he honestly -- either way, the answer's the same. "I'm sorry."

Tony apparently hadn't expected that, he falters what little balance he had. Steve catches him with plenty of time, pulls him back up onto the railing, but his heart still rockets up to his throat.

Tony blinks rapidly, focusing on Steve's face. "You're supposed to say you didn't have a choice, and that all of humanity is more important that one man, and if you tried to save me, there wouldn't even be a world left to save."

Steve closes his eyes. All that's true, but -- "I'm just sorry." Why couldn't Tony bring this up when he was sober? When the words would actually amount to something? Knowing what Tony had been going through and being unable to stop it had been the longest, most wretched excuses of an existence.

"You forgot me," Tony says, staring off, over Steve's shoulder.

Steve cups Tony's face, forcing it upward. "No. Tony, no. I woke up every day and my first thought was that -- that Skrull's face. And how much I wanted to kill her for putting you through this -- you. Not me or Bucky or Sharon or anyone else. All I could think about was how she was hurting you and I wanted --" he stops, because there's no way to finish what he's thinking without sounding like a monster. "




DEAD
Dum Dum
Ben Grim
Johnny Storm
Prof. X
Tony Stark (lol)
Doom
Kurt
Scott Summers
Chase
Hank McCoy
Jarvis
Crusader
Sentry
3d man
Pepper
Xavin
Teddy

CAPTURED
Wade
EMMA
Danielle Cage


ALIVE
Reed
Cho
Maria
Janet
Hank Pym
Maya
Danny


Steve's shield is under his mattress at home
Stark Industries is locked down
Baxter building is blown up
X-Men mansion is underground maybe some of the resistance are using it?

Carol is in Wonderland (California/Oregon), Storm attacked
Lyja and Rhodes are in Never Land (Texas/Mexico), Molly attacked
Luke is in Oz (New York), Wiccan attacked
Steve is in Narnia (DC), Hulk attacked
Fury is in Camelot (Montana/Canada), Strange attacked
Jasper Sitwell is in Sherwood Forrest (Colorado/Wyoming/Arizona), Juggernaut attacked
Natasha is in Hundred Acre Woods (Florida), Hercules
Jessica