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All around Steve, the sounds of battle rang and clashed in a symphony he knew all too well. Fires burned from the concrete and steel guts of the home Tony built for him and the other Avengers—Steve’s family—and belched acrid smoke that filled his mouth and nostrils with its stench as he inhaled a gasping breath that made his lungs and his battered ribs ache; made his eyes water something fierce. He pulled himself to his feet, muscles protesting the movement and eyes frantically scanning the battlefield.
Several hundred feet away shimmered crimson and soot-worn gold. Tony. Blood slid down the contours of his dirty face, but it did nothing to dull his fierce beauty as he raised his right arm.
No. Oh, no, Steve thought, and the fear curdled in his belly.
The infinity stones blazed to life in all their terrible glory.
And I needed you. As in past tense.
Steve had failed Tony before—he hadn’t been there when Tony had first faced Thanos—he’d die before he’d do it again.
He ran, pushing himself to movemovemove, legs churning faster even than when the Benatar had landed and Tony had limped out, supported by Nebula but carrying with him the single thing Steve had been unable to find for weeks, until that very moment: hope.
A silent prayer to a god he wasn’t sure he even believed in anymore and Steve stumbled, sliding the last precious few feet. The momentum sent him knocking into Tony, tumbling them both onto the ground.
“Fuck, Steve, no,” Tony said, his wide-eyed gaze finding Steve’s the way it did regardless of whether they were alone or floating in a sea of people.
“Yes,” Steve said, lips curving into a tremulous smile, “together,” and locked one hand around Tony’s gauntleted hand and the other around his forearm.