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Steve lands on the concrete with a heavy thud, and the last thing he sees before losing consciousness is the energy fizzling and crackling around a round shaped portal in the sky.
Then, darkness swallows him and he doesn’t try to fight back.
-
Steve feels like he’s floating.
He drifts in and out of consciousness, wondering if this is how it feels to be underwater. His head throbs with a sort of pain that makes him dizzy when he tries to move, and numb when he stays still. His leg hurts too much to even be thinking about getting up, and he doesn’t even want to think about the pain that comes from what appears to be his immobilized wrist.
Someone is tending to him. Changing his bandages, cleaning over fast healing cuts and applying ointment over the bruises on his skin. There’s a wet towel over his forehead, and calloused hands helping him puke inside a bucket when he moves his head too fast and the dizziness overtakes him.
He remembers a storm. Falling through a hole in the sky.
He remembers being small, too. Being helpless brings back memories of being a little kid, sick with a cold and cared for his mother.
He remembers Gail, and the little humming noises she made after they made love, before the serum turned him into marble and stone, and the war tore him apart from her and pushed her into the arms of his best friend. His thoughts always come back to her when he’s vulnerable and hurt. When he’s anchorless.
The first time he wakes up, it’s languid and lazy, and it takes him forever to understand that he’s not having another dream.
“You gave me quite the scare, Cap,” a familiar voice says. Slowly, Steve opens his eyes until the sunlight has him squinting. Once his eyes get used to the light, he tries to get into a sitting position only to be pushed back to the bed by a strong hand.
Steve blinks again, looking at the owner of said hand. Frowns. “Stark?”
“Hi. Yes and no.” Stark smiles softly. There’s something fragile about it, only emboldened by the bags under his eyes and how pale his skin looks. Strangely enough he looks… younger. “I’m not the Stark you know,” Stark explains, as he hands him a glass of water. Their fingers brush briefly and Stark seems to still for a couple of seconds, until he shakes his head and sighs heavily.
“What do you know about alternate dimensions?” Stark asks.
Steve drags a hand down his face and grunts, letting himself sink into the pillows, annoyed at how soft they are. The bed he’s resting in is enormous, just like the rest of the room, which is filled with a bunch of old looking furniture and a few sparse trinkets. There’s an old Iron Man helmet that Steve’s never seen before, resting on the bedside table, and some art supplies. Something about this room feels oddly comfortable.
Stark is still staring at him, concern marring his tired face. Steve finds himself annoyed at how heavy the gaze feels over him.
“Enough, I guess,” Steve rasps, which prompts him to drink the water he’s been offered. “I’m going to assume I’m not in mine anymore, and that’s what you’re trying to tell me.”
Stark laughs a little. “Well, someone’s impatient.”
Stark’s sitting in front of him on an antique stool, long legs crossed. He sits straight, hands on his lap, clutching what appears to be a small tablet. Steve’s still trying to identify the things about him that make him different from the Stark he knows back home, and a part of him wonders why he's taking this so lightly.
Steve guesses he’s used to rugs being pulled off from his feet. Used to life throwing him curveballs that leave him bereft and aching for some sort of permanency.
He wonders what will happen to the Ultimates while he’s here.
“I… you arrived at a complicated time,” Stark says, apologetic. The dark shadows under his eyes contrast violently against the unhealthy paleness of his skin. Steve wonders if this Stark has cancer, too. He seems sick enough. “I’ve compiled information about this dimension for you to read when you’re better. Right now, I’m not letting you near any screens, you’ve got a concussion.”
That would explain the dizziness.
“We’ve had this conversation before, actually,” Stark says, gently. “You’ve woken a couple of times, then completely forgotten about it later. Your concussion is pretty bad.”
Curiously enough, Stark tucks him in. Steve tries to glare at him for the childish gesture, but an incoming stab of pain inside his head doesn’t let him. He’s confined to bland facial expressions until his head stops trying to kill him.
“Sleep, Captain. You may be a super soldier, but being concussed still fucking sucks.” Stark grabs the empty glass of water and fixes some of Steve’s pillows before leaving his side and walking towards the door.
“Stark. Wait,” Steve mumbles, already on the verge of sleeping. He watches as Stark stands in front of the door, a hand on the doorknob. “Who…who lived in this room?”
Something crumbles in Stark’s expression like shattered glass. “You did.”
Before he knows it, sleep claims him again.
-
The second time he wakes up properly, the back of Stark’s hand is gingerly touching his cheek, and Steve flinches away from it, drowsy with sleep and confused about the gesture. The affection in Stark’s eyes catches him with surprise, and he finds himself getting into a more defensive position.
“I’m sorry,” Stark apologizes politely, and grabs what it looks like a thermometer. He hands it to Steve, who can only frown at it. He guesses he’s supposed to use it on himself.
“I wanted to see if your fever had gone down,” Stark mutters, more to himself than to Steve. “Uh, looks like it did. The serum is working wonders, like always.”
Steve frowns at him, confused but still alert, trying to chase the sleepiness away. He starts to notice more things than before: the blue color of the curtains, the pictures that litter some of the walls. The way Stark’s hands are steady when he checks over his bandages.
“You’re not drunk,” he grunts, surprised. Stark flinches a little, but fakes a questioning smile for him.
“Should I…?”
“You’re always… you’re always drunk, where I come from.” Steve tries to explain. He attempts to stamp out the little bit of shame he’s feeling. “I can’t remember the last time I saw you without a drink in your hand.”
“Wow, that’s…” Stark coughs, awkward. “A little unsettling, I guess. I’ve been sober for six years now.”
“Really?” Steve feels a small pang of awe blooming on his chest, and Stark smiles genuinely for the first time.
“Yeah, I was in a really bad place. I don’t how things are with the Tony back in your earth, but I became Iron Man very young, and the weight of that kind of crushed me at a certain point of my life. But I looked up to you, or the you that belonged to this earth, and I wanted to become stronger. So, I stopped drinking.” Stark looks at the pictures littered on the wall with a soft, nostalgic expression. “I’m not going to lie to you. Every day's a struggle, especially when things are hard. Alcohol felt like a crutch, in a way. It helped numb everything.”
Stark seems to realize he’s said too much and goes quiet, awkwardly fiddling with the cuff of his shirt. “Anyway, you may want to know you shattered your femur and broke your wrist, aside from having a nasty concussion. You fell from real high.”
Steve cards his fingers through his own hair, taking a deep breath, staring at the pristine white of the ceiling above him. “I don’t…I don’t remember much of what we were fighting against, or how a portal to another dimension opened. I barely remember falling through it, Stark.”
Stark puts a hand over his own, a solemn look on his eyes. “Hey, it’s okay. We’ll figure it out, I got SHIELD working on it.”
“SHIELD?” That’s when Steve notices it: a pistol strapped to Stark’s belt. He’s not wearing a suit for an office job. “You work for SHIELD outside of the Ultimates?”
“…I’m the Director of SHIELD,” Stark corrects him, a little unsure. “Ultimates?”
“My team,” Steve swallows. Wonders if they’re looking for him. If maybe the Stark he knows is doing something, anything, in order to find him.
“Oh,” Stark rests scratches his beard. “That’s… different. Your team is called Avengers here. Jan named it.”
“Jan’s here too?”
“We need to…” Stark sighs, like whatever he’s about to say pains him. “I have to debrief you.”
And he does. Thoroughly.
They spend the rest of the afternoon talking about the differences between their worlds. Steve tenses and clenches his fists when Stark mentions Richards and Black Widow, and Stark pales when Steve tells him about Clint’s family and the things his own Stark has had to deal with.
Stark only leaves the room to bring him back food and his medicines. The sun is about to set when they talk about the war.
“I made a lot of mistakes, Captain,” Stark says. The lights are low and his face still looks sad. He still sits with the air of a defeated man. “I wanted accountability for us. I wanted us to be responsible for our actions, including our mistakes. I turned my back on our community, on our friends, with the intention of avoiding a greater evil. I was a coward.”
His voice breaks a little.
“And it cost you your life.”
Steve tries to picture it: himself, laying on the Capitol’s steps, bleeding over cold concrete, previously bound and on his way to his own trial. Himself, over this gaunt and somber Stark, who’s been sober for six years, ramming his shield on him until his armor breaks. “You did… what you could,” Steve tries to comfort him, gruffly and inadequate. “The other me sounds like an incompetent fool.”
“No,” Stark closes his eyes, the trembling never leaving his voice. A distant, glassy look settles over his eyes. “No, my Steve was… a great man. The greatest man I’ve ever known. I miss him every day.”
It’s late, the penthouse is as silent as ever, empty and devoid of warmth. It seems like they’ve been talking for days and not hours, and Steve feels his throat sore and scratchy. He’s tired and annoyingly slow thanks to whatever strong painkillers Stark has given him, restless after spending days on this bed, and unsettled by the endless sadness that Stark carries over his figure each time he thinks Steve’s not looking.
This is a man with a spine made of iron, with a heart forged by steel and fire and the ashes of whatever life he left behind. And yet, he’s one of the saddest, loneliest human beings Steve has met.
Steve remembers feeling like that. Lost, adrift. The anger that pools in his gut at losing everything he ever loved fuels him every day, in every hit. In every act of violence, good or bad. It simmers and calms down on the steps to Bucky and Gail’s home. On the star on his chest. On the hard-earned camaraderie of the Ultimates.
But it always comes back, accompanied by the unwelcome devastation of feeling utterly, tiredly alone.
He wonders if this Stark feels the same way: Crushed by duty, isolated and abandoned. Betrayed, maybe. It’s impossible to know who betrayed who first, it’s impossible for Steve to know, being a stranger in an even stranger land.
But he does wonder. Oh, how he wonders...how must it feel to be loved with the intensity and the tenderness that this Stark possessed for this other version of Steve.
Steve’s never been the brightest at getting the hang of other people’s feelings. But he’s not a complete idiot either.
Stark looks at Steve like he’s a ghost. Like he’s drinking in the sight of him, just in case he doesn’t ever get to see him again. Warmth spreads through Steve’s chest when he thinks about it. He blames it on the feeling of vulnerability that comes from spending so many days just healing and sleeping.
“How can you trust me?” The question leaves his lips so suddenly, even he finds himself surprised by it. Stark shrugs and stands. Puts a hand on Steve’s shoulder.
“To be honest, Cap, I’d trust any version of you with my life.”
His skin burns with the ghost of Stark’s touch.
-
They develop a routine.
Eventually, Steve is able to stand up on his own and move, his bones healing correctly thanks to the serum. It would have taken months for a normal person, even years.
It takes Steve a couple of weeks, and it takes him minutes just to walk again. He wears the clothes of the dead version of him that used to live in this penthouse, eats his meals with Stark and waits for the machine that will take him back home to be ready.
He feels caged, at first. Restless and unable to think properly. Stark lets him check the news, and gives answers to all the questions Steve has about this insane world.
Stark leaves for work in the morning every day, dealing with infinite amounts of crisis and problems, and comes back more haggard and exhausted. But his eyes seem less dulled with every meal they share together and with every single one of Steve’s attempts at establishing polite conversation.
Steve isn’t good at this. Idle talking, domesticity. Those things aren’t for him, and Jan was very clear about it. He tried to do it with her, but she ended up getting bored and frustrated.
Stark is patient and open. He stopped being guarded long ago, and listens to Steve with open honesty. He doesn’t make crass jokes like the Stark Steve knows.
There are no walls around Stark, just an open, aching need to be around him. Steve finds himself opening up a little.
It makes Steve wonder about the Stark back at home. About coming back home to a life of longing and loneliness, to the emptiness even Jan couldn’t fill. It eats away at him, slowly and silently, like the anger that never leaves his being.
He wants—wants something for himself. Something selfish.
The next time he and Stark stay up late sitting on the living room’s couch just talking, when Stark wishes him good night, Steve kisses him.
It’s out of spite, at first. Spite at the openness and longing on Stark’s eyes, at his spread hands and welcoming warmth.
It backfires.
Stark—Tony. Tony kisses him like Steve could vanish at any moment, leaving no more than footprints on the ground. He kisses Steve like he wants to come home.
He kisses him like they’re about to run out of air, like the end is coming for them at any time and they’ll be the only ones standing among the ruins.
Like their days are numbered.
(They are.)
-
Tony shakes him awake, one night. They fell asleep together the previous afternoon, still dressed after eating dinner together in the workshop. They watched a silent movie anTony ended up dozing off, Steve following soon after.
He’s not pleased to wake up to Tony’s frantic pleas, bolting to an immediate state of alertness. “What’s going on?” He grunts, sitting on the bed.
Tony’s pale, deadly so. He’s wearing his armor sans the helmet.
He kneels in front of Steve and looks at him in a way he’s not sure he’d be able to forget. Heartbroken.
“It’s time,” Tony whispers. “It’s time to go home, we’re—we’re under attack here. Skrulls. I need to get you out of here before someone finds out about you and thinks you’re a Skrull. Before you get hurt.”
“I can fight, Stark,” Steve stands abruptly. “You can’t treat me like some sort of… wounded maiden you’re keeping safe in a tower.”
“I know. I know you’re perfectly capable of fighting,” Tony bites his lips. Takes two steps closer to him and grabs him by the shoulders. “Please, Steve. Please, I can’t—I won’t let you die again. You need to get out of here, they’re coming.”
“No—Let me help you!” Heart beating too fast, Steve’s the one grabbing Tony now, holding with a desperation he hasn’t felt in a while. “You need me. I know you do.”
“I do,” Tony admits, voice shaking. “But I need you to live, too. That’s always going to be my priority.”
“I’m not him!” Steve shouts, enraged. He shakes Tony a little.
He watches as Tony tries not to crumble in front of him. As Tony takes a step back and locks eyes with him. “You need to go home. I want you safe, Steve.”
Something inside of him finally breaks. “There’s nothing for me back home,” he snarls, angry and hurt. He wants to be furious at Tony. Wants the anger to fuel him.
"I can't picture a world where I don't love you." Tony says. He cradles Steve's face with a softness so very him that Steve feels the need to fall to his knees and beg until Tony lets him stay. "Look for me, Steve. Every me loves every you. Always."
Tony kisses him, warm lips pressing against his, moving in a gentle and sweet way. He doesn’t see Tony opening the portal with the press of a button.
All he sees is the blinding, unforgiving light.
-
His return home is anticlimactic. The signals emitted from the interdimensional portal alert SHIELD’s sensors and soon the Ultimates are called to the scene. Thor hugs him and welcomes him back with genuine joy, everyone’s else is too confused to understand what’s going on yet. And he needs to go through the contamination and quarantine process.
A day after that, he’s allowed to leave and go home.
He doesn’t expect Stark to come for him. Leaning on the side of an expensive car, stylish suit and sunglasses on, his age and his closely cropped hair make him look different from the Tony Steve got to know during the past few weeks. It hurts, and he has to look away from him.
“What are you doing here?” He snaps, tired and cranky. Stark clicks his tongue and opens one of the car’s doors for him.
“What does it look like? I came for you” Stark raises his eyebrows. “You were gone for weeks, darling, we looked everywhere for you.”
Steve snorts. “Yeah, and you had great success at that.”
Stark sighs, takes off his sunglasses. He looks a little bit better under the sunlight, blue eyes less dull than the ones Steve liked so much, but still tired. “I worried about you, Cap. Don’t be like that.”
“Did you?” Steve finds himself asking. “Did you… really worry?”
“Yeah,” Tony pats him on the back. Gestures him towards the car. “C’mon, let’s go grab dinner. You can tell me everything about your little interdimensional adventure, if you want. It’ll be fun. C’mon.”
Look for me, Steve. Every me loves every you. Always.
Steve looks at the car. At the hopefulness on Tony’s face. He knows it’s not the same.
But he never gave this Tony a chance before.
He gets into the car.
Tony would be proud.