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Steve’s shoulders are cut deep, deep to the point of nearly detaching his arm from the rest of his body, the sick lump of flesh and bone held only by a ringling string of skin. The fatal blow was just shy of reaching his heart but does that really bring any relief, really, when he’s losing so, so much blood–
Tony himself knows that the serum can only take so much, that it works only when his vital functions are at least working to some degree, and being nearly sliced in half with a vibranium sword amongst countless other injuries is far from the ideal scenario. Almost as if…
Almost as if the serum is failing Steve, for the first time.
The familiar faint stretch of repairing skin that usually appeared the moment he got an injury is nowhere to be seen; there’s only daunting blood, so much of it, staining his uniform to the point where the blue and whites get staunched by an overwhelming red. There’s blood everywhere, on the nimble trickle of liquid from Steve’s mouth and his neck and every single outstretch of exposed skin; Barnes is covered with it as he desperately tries to push it back in with trembling fingers.
“No- Steve- no!” he gasps, tears visible from this distance. “Steve, open your eyes, buddy, don’t you do this- ”
The battlefield is deadly quiet apart from Barnes’ helpless whispering. Steve’s still, so very still, only his eyelids just barely fluttering. Wilson standing right behind Barnes, wings drooping across the ground and back turned- is he crying? Natasha’s curled up against Steve’s head, brushing his forehead and his matty hair over and over, eyes full of tears threatening to drop. And there’s Tony, still slumped against a rock and used gauntlet faintly sizzling next to him, unable to do anything but just sit there, horrified.
He stumbles to his feet, unable to sit there any longer. The arm of the armor, now singed to charcoal black, clutters to the musty floor; he numbly remembers how he’d felt as he put the armor on. The gauntlet a dead weight on his arms, he dumbly felt as if he were Atlas; forced to bear Gaia on his poor, mortal back. As if he were hovering on the brink of death, ever so close, but cursed to perpetuity in that precise position. He wonders what use it was now.
Pepper startles and looks up alarmingly from where she’s sat next to him. He grimaces and shakes his head, and stumbles over.
Steve’s blue eyes, once effervescent with charisma and giddy optimism, are now clouded over with what could only be agony, just shy of being glassed over into a state of perpetual darkness. There’s blood everywhere, Barnes’ fingers trying to close the gaping wound doing no good in stopping the flow of that sickening flow of the musty liquid that’s Steve’s fucking life, goddamnit -
The soldier presses his forehead to his fallen friend(or lover? or captain?)’s chest and heaves out a deep sob, fingers still uselessly flailing around the sickly puddle.
“Bucky.” Wilson croaks out, his own tears freely falling. “Bucky, we gotta give him some breathing space, come on…”
It’s all so visceral and raw that Tony almost looks away, wonders if he even has the right to be here. These people - Barnes, Wilson, Natasha - are all the ones who stuck with him all these years, both during his time as the leader of the Avengers and as an outlaw. Where was he? Trying desperately to push all remnants of Steve away from him, no doubt. The drawings… he was such a fucking painter, scribbling over every available surface. There had to be at least a dozen of them scattered around in his workshop, vestiges of the long nights when he’d be tinkering with his machines and Steve, curled up with his sketchbook, insistent in keeping him company. Steve, and the comforting ambiance of his presence. Steve, and his pencil smudge tattooed in his right hand. Steve, and the fight, and his face smudged with detestation and fury, the full weight of his body against Tony’s armor. Steve, and his lips, his soft hair, his body that was once his to touch. The fragments flush over and they won’t stop. He now realizes that there was a tacit kaleidoscope of sunken memories in his mindscape, little nuggets of the good and bad times that shaped him who he is now ever since that first encounter in the spaceship and that the entire base of himself is crumbling at the culmination of everything. Steve, who is dying, disappearing right in front of his eyes. Or has he already?
Has he?
He lifts his weary eyes to finally look at Steve in the eye. Never will he return the gaze. God, has he?
As if that matters anymore.