Chapter Text
When things got bad—not merely inconvenient or troublesome but capital-C-‘Catastrophic’—they clung to each other. Stuck like glue, pulling each other in and not letting go until the storm passed.
Steve didn’t know if it was a blessing or a curse to wake up not knowing what was wrong. He knew his head hurt, but his cylinders weren’t all firing; he didn’t place it as a root cause of his troubles. He didn’t think for a moment that he was hurt, even, despite the obvious signs that he was not in his own bed. He was irked mostly that the room felt cold. He never liked the cold. It frustrated him that he was in an unfamiliar bed, cold and weighted down by it, than that he was in an unfamiliar bed in the first place.
The man next to him reminded him of a dream he had had once, of meeting a hitchhiker on the road and discovering they were both from the same place, heading to very different destinations. He had spent the whole dream trying to convince the man, handsome in the heart sense, humorful and solicitous, to join him. The man was set on finding an oasis in the desert, but Steve had a strong premonition it was actually a washed-up wasteland. The man was determined to go and reunite with somebody he had left there. Steve was on his way to—Hollywood, or something like it. His big break in life, his chance to do good and make change, instead of being stuck on a farm, plowing a seedless field. He bargained and bargained with the man but knew, all the same, that he would never win the argument.
Holding the man’s gaze in his own, he thought, I can’t believe you’re real, even though his head was starting to turn, like he was falling out of the sky, or maybe just on a sinking ship.
“You make it to the Wasteland?” he asked, his voice much less clipped than he expected it to be, like he’d been sucking ice cubes and couldn’t make his mouth cooperate.
The man’s earth-tone eyes flashed briefly, with humor or worry, Steve couldn’t tell. That was how the Hitchhiker had been: worried and humored. “That depends,” the man allowed delicately.
The silence stretched. “You shouldn’t go,” Steve petitioned, unsure if the continuation of the dream was a sign, one he needed to listen to. “Shouldn’t go. It’s all dried up. I don’t know how I know. But I know.”
The Hitchhiker cocked his head a little to one side, thinking. Then he said, “You know who I am?”
“Yeah,” Steve said honestly. He remembered. It was one of the more vivid dreams, ice dreams. He shivered. “I met you. When I was in the ice.” He didn’t even like saying the word, ice. It conjured up the same feeling every time, cold and shivery and misplaced, like a lost ship at sea. No matter how many times he told himself he had at last been found, he had spent over 24,000 days at sea. “You’re the loner,” Steve went on. “Who’s lookin’ for someone.” The words slurred almost beyond recognition. He tried to clear his throat, and that hurt almost beyond description. “I get in a wreck?” he asked, a bit nonsensically. How would the Hitchhiker know?
But the Hitchhiker smiled at him, his brown eyes immeasurably sincere about it, like he had never even heard of a person lying or cheating or doing wrong in their life. Like he had come from Paradise, and gotten lost on the road back. “Something like,” the Hitchhiker said. Then, a deeply apologetic frown lacing his words, he added, “I’m just glad you’re okay. I’m sorry.”
Steve shook his head seriously, feeling less real than the man in front of him, like he was the dream and the Hitchhiker was the last glimpse of reality. His whole body felt wrong, disconnected. There was no pain, at least, except that stinging insistence in his head. “No, no,” he murmured. “Don’t be. Wouldn’t be the first thing that’s gone wrong. It happens.” Forcing himself to ask, he said, “Anybody else get—”
“No,” the Hitchhiker insisted. A hand found its way into his own, and he realized the contrast of cold and warmth as it was brought to his attention. “Just relax. Rest. We’ll talk later.”
“No,” Steve insisted, although he was tired and would not mind at all the opportunity to fall asleep in his own bed and wake up sober. He must be drunk, he thought. He didn’t know how—it seemed distantly improbable, somehow, someway, like maybe it was Prohibition and alcohol was too hard to come by to get wasted that easily—but it seemed likely, at least. An explanation. “I’m sorry,” he offered, feeling ill-equipped to defend himself but needing to, anyway, for being stupid enough to get so compromised. Something was off-kilter, and he was part of it, because he was off-kilter.
The Hitchhiker’s bright brown eyes went soft with confusion. “What for?”
Steve looked at him in supplication. He really was remarkably pretty, especially in full technicolor. The dream was an old Western, but this . . . he marveled at the simple presence of a hand in his own, firm and calloused. “Y’ like to work?” he asked stupidly, unsure how else to phrase it.
“It’s a living,” the Hitchhiker replied, voice purposefully light, airy, without a stake in the ground. He wasn’t Steve’s friend, and that hurt, that hurt, the sudden reality that the Hitchhiker never had been and never would be his companion.
Rawly, he managed, “I know you have to go,” even though he didn’t want to be alone. He had the shameful and embarrassing sense that if he went off on his own path and the Hitchhiker found Paradise, he, stubborn to a fault Stevie Rogers, would find only the dusty Wasteland he portended waiting for him. Maybe he should give way, follow along, but his gut, his very intuition, said, “Stay the course.” He had to. “I’m sorry,” he repeated.
“Stop apologizing,” the Hitchhiker said, firmly but without belligerence. He squeezed Steve’s hand. Steve’s whole body felt numb, but he felt the warmth, more than anything. “I’m just glad you’re okay,” the Hitchhiker said, so casually it almost slipped by Steve as a meaningful statement.
“I get hurt?” It was an oddly unsettling thought, that he could be hurt and not remember it, the thing that knocked him astray.
A hint of ineradicable sadness entered those soulful brown eyes. “What, this doesn’t look like the Ritz to you?” he asked. “You know you always were . . . more than I could ever hope to handle. So why did I keep trying?” the Hitchhiker asked, the realization making Steve’s head spin a little more.
He didn’t know quite what it meant. They had just met, as far as Steve was concerned—on the road, in passing—yet as soon as he looked the Hitchhiker in the face, he knew they had known each other for a lifetime, and he was desperate not to lose another friend. “I don’t want you to go,” he admitted, hoping a speech from the heart would work better than any scheme or petition he could come up with on the fly. “I know you believe in it, but if you get hurt—”
“I’m not gonna get hurt,” the Hitchhiker said, exasperatingly calm, like it wasn’t even possible.
Frustrated, Steve said carefully, “Now, I know you know that, I know, I know you believe—you believe what you know.” He tried to squeeze at the hand, to emphasize his sincerity, but his grip was oddly limp. He just didn’t feel strong. “I get in a wreck?” he asked. It would make sense, somehow—almost as much as gone drinkin’, except he didn’t have a car to drive, let alone crash. He’d always had a nice bike, though. “How’s the girl?” he asked mournfully. “She all right?”
“What girl?”
“My girl,” he said, stubborn and sad. “I take good care of her.”
The Hitchhiker regarded him passively for a few moments, holding secrets, and then he let go of Steve’s limp hand and backed away. Panic seized Steve: “Now, I didn’t mean—”
“Just be quiet.” The Hitchhiker stepped back, then crouched, and returned holding—well, some kind of shield. He had a feeling it had belonged to him, once, but that was probably just a dream.
“Oh,” Steve acknowledged, suddenly understanding the sadness in the Hitchhiker’s eyes, the broken, jagged edges all along the shield. “Oh.” He struggled to keep his own sorrow under lock-and-key. “Well. That’s just . . . horseshit.”
A laugh bubbled out of the Hitchhiker. He had kind of a strange laugh, the sort of funny, why’re you laughing at me? chuckle that made Steve want to give him a good ol’ thrashing, then maybe take him back home and show him off as the next big thing. Steve looked around more, tried to take in his surroundings a bit, really place where he was—“not home” and “not the Ritz,” not that that narrowed it down much—but his mind was running slow. He felt unbearably tired, like he had been awoken many times from an exhausted sleep on a trail that never ended.
“I’m gonna wake up in the wrong town, aren’t I?” he muttered, and he meant to say year, but maybe it didn’t matter, anyway, because the Hitchhiker’s brown eyes went soft again, sympathetic.
“You better not,” the Hitchhiker muttered, almost to himself, before adding more strongly, “you don’t get to leave us. We brought you back.”
Steve frowned at him, really frowned at him, trying to make something of him. “Where’ve I been?” he asked. Clarifying, he said, “What happened?”
The Hitchhiker said, “How much do you remember?”
Steve just stared at him. “If you’re asking for my rank and name—”
There was real pain, then, in the Hitchhiker’s expression. “What year is it?” he interrupted.
Steve thought about that. “Thirty-eight,” he tried.
There was a godawful moment when he thought the Hitchhiker might cry. But the Hitchhiker kept his expression in check even though his eyes were sad, sad, sad. “You sure?” he pressed.
Steve wasn’t, but he hated being called a liar. “Yes,” he said, stubborn-to-a-fault. “I am positive. It’s August.” The air was cool with coolant, which meant it must be truly sweltering outside. Why they kept—what could only be a hospital room at ice cream parlor temperatures, was beyond Steve. “1938,” he finished triumphantly.
The Hitchhiker sighed before he could apparently stop himself, then reached again for Steve’s hand. Steve let him hold it. It seemed to help—keep them together so they couldn’t drift apart. “This is a spectacular time for that giddy optimism to return,” the Hitchhiker said, so deadpan it was hard to parse the words out. “If I say, ‘Thanos,’ what does that mean to you?”
Steve thought, Thanatos. It’s Greek for death. “Misspelling,” he said.
The Hitchhiker did the same little head-tilt and frown. “What?”
“Misspelling,” Steve repeated. “You mean Thanatos.”
The Hitchhiker stared at him for a while. “Ultron?” he tried.
It was like a whisper on the wind. “I don’t,” Steve managed. “I’m sorry.”
“S’fine,” the Hitchhiker muttered, yet Steve felt he had failed a very important test.
“No,” Steve insisted. “It’s. . . .” He trailed off. There was nothing there.
“Don’t hurt yourself, really,” the Hitchhiker said nonchalantly.
Steve blew out an embarrassed breath. “I just can’t recall,” he said, hoping it was persuasive, I can’t think of it at the moment, rather than, I can’t think of it at all.
“Really,” the Hitchhiker insisted, squeezing his hand hard. “Don’t worry about it.”
“I don’t want you to go,” Steve said miserably, aware that he was whining and yelping about it, kicking up a storm like it was Pa going to War and not a stranger going off to town. He’d been too young to know his Pa, but he’d dreamt of chasing after him, almost catching his coattails before he vanished into wakefulness. It was the same echoing sadness that filled him at the thought of losing the Hitchhiker now. “I’ll be good,” he promised, both of them and neither of them. “I’ll be—”
“Do you know who I am?”
Steve stared at the man and begged the universe to supply an answer. I feel like we’re more than friends. We’re . . . the same. Whatever we are made of, as people, as living beings, you and I were cut from the same cloth. We were made to come across each other and stay the course. Why can’t we be together? “I think we’re soulmates,” he said, a bit nonsensically, and a slightly more choked but not less sincere laugh burbled out of the Hitchhiker.
After a fortifying cough, the Hitchhiker said, “I strangely was not expecting that,” but there was more humor than derision in his tone. “You know. A proposition. Awfully late in the game, Winghead.”
Winghead. “My helmet?” Steve said. He could see it, an Army helmet decorated with wings, like Hermes, the messenger of the gods. “My helmet,” he repeated to himself, awed. “The—is Pa, is he—” It was a stupid, stupid line of inquiry, and the way pain returned to the Hitchhiker’s face doused any ember of hope that may have still been alive in him. “Never mind, I knew that, I knew—I knew that,” he said, stumbling over the words in his haste to affirm them, unsteady as he had ever been.
The Hitchhiker gathered his hand and brought it towards his chin, holding it there, a mockery of thoughtfulness. Yet the sadness was huge behind his eyes, encompassing, terrible, and Steve could neither bear to look at it nor away, could only endure that long look, before the Hitchhiker said, “God, I didn’t want to bury you.”
Heartfelt, Steve said, “Stop that.” He didn’t care about the emotions, or even the expression of them, but the simple, ludicrous idea that he would kick the bucket before the work was done was laughable. And he knew, like he didn’t know his own middle name or the world outside the room, that the work was not done yet.
“I’m sorry,” the Hitchhiker said wetly. “I really didn’t think I would have feelings about this.”
Sighing, Steve said, “Dammit.” Then he used the hand already close to his guy to pull him close and hug him one-armed. And Steve knew it was his guy because, with only a flickering moment of hesitation, the poor bastard crumpled forward, huddling against Steve, who was and always would be the strong one. It was the only thing he knew with absolute surety: he would always be the strong one. “Stop that,” he muttered, not meanly but simply. “There’s nothing to cry about.”
“Beg to differ,” the stranger-who-was-not-a-stranger rasped. “Really. I contest—”
“Hush.”
And he hushed.
Steve became aware, in a surprisingly secondary way, that he could not feel much. He was pretty sure he was on some sort of numbing agent, be it alcohol or medicine, and yet, as he tried to lift his right arm, it thwarted him. Repeatedly. To the point when he finally looked away from the brown tufty hair in front of him and down at his shoulder, and stared for a little while at what was missing.
“I got in a wreck,” he said mournfully, his voice sounding a lot sadder than he felt, like he couldn’t feel emotions too deeply, either.
“Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry,” the poor bastard clinging to him pled, and Steve hushed him up, said he wasn’t a crier, and realized after a brief while that there were tear tracks on his cheek.
“Hellfire,” he said, because he’d learned a curse was only a curse in isolation.
“About sums it up,” the Hitchhiker agreed, and Steve sighed, sighed half his lungs out, maybe more, and shook his head bitterly.
“My fault,” he said, because somehow, it was. He was never one for blaming others for anything, even the bullies. He shouldn’t have gotten in a fight if he didn’t want to get beat up. Clearly, he’d overstepped something, and paid the price.
“Oh, idiot,” the Hitchhiker said, with more fondness than Steve was strictly equipped to handle. “You saved goddamn everybody, and you’re sorry?”
“Yes,” Steve croaked, in his raw, worn-out voice, before the realization clicked. “What do you mean, I—”
“It’s twenty-twenty-three,” the Hitchhiker said, like that meant something, “and we beat Thanos.”
“Thanatos,” Steve corrected.
The Hitchhiker’s brown eyes were pinched with pain, unspoken suffering. “Thanos,” he insisted quietly, and Steve, for once, knew better than to argue. “You don’t remember me. Do you?”
“I do!” Steve insisted, outraged and pained at the implication that he didn’t, clawing forward with an arm that wasn’t there before finally using the one that was to crush his soulmate in a hug. “Dammit, don’t you go. Don’t you dare.”
“I won’t,” the Hitchhiker muttered against his shoulder. It did not seem sincere.
Steve gave him a little shake, insisting, “Don’t. Please.”
“I won’t,” the Hitchhiker said again.
Steve said, “I won’t go without you.” He meant down the road, but in his heart, he felt the true meaning: I won’t go on without you. “We can go. We can go,” he promised, and he meant, To the Wasteland, because he’d rather find Hell with his guy than Paradise without him.
“No. You rest,” the Hitchhiker said, misunderstanding him, but God, his eyes were so damn heavy, it sounded so good, like a hot bath after a long march. He felt gritty and mishandled, like he’d taken a tumble, been run over by a horsecart. He felt rough, like damaged goods. He wasn’t sure there was much of value left to him. Maybe that was why the Hitchhiker wanted to leave, he thought mournfully, imagining his uselessness, lame and missing an arm. “Don’t go,” he pleaded, forcing his raspy voice to cooperate.
The Hitchhiker sighed and Steve thought, No, no, no, but the man just said, “Yes,” with conviction.
And Steve allowed himself to drift off again.
. o .
Steve awoke hurting a tremendous deal, so he put all his pain in a box and locked it under his bed, where he kept his hopes, dreams, fears, and sorrows.
It wasn’t a real box, any more than his pain was a real thing—well, the nerve part was, firings and signals sent between his body and his mind to say he was alive—but it was a real comfort, stabilization in an unstable world.
Tony was sleeping next to him. It hit him in stages—Tony, genius, billionaire, whatever, decent person, next to him. He wasn’t just there, he was close—crumpled over Steve’s bed, looking like he had fallen asleep halfway between staying and leaving, hand resting on Steve’s chest. At last, Steve realized that he was in some kind of infirmary or hospital, and he felt briefly bad about it, oddly guilty, and then he felt relieved, because he was alive.
Something bad happened, he thought, and went against his gut and reached to wake Tony, but nothing happened. His right arm wasn’t there. His right shoulder was, twitching a little, lifting plainly in an attempt, but his whole arm was just gone.
Gingerly, grimacing at it, he used his left arm instead, stroking and then grasping Tony’s shoulder, rousing him.
Tony burst awake with a gasp, then looked at him, grabbing his hand tightly, almost an attack, before letting out a beleaguered sigh. “Hey,” Tony said, sounding like he had fought a war while Steve had been gone. “Guten tag.”
“German?” Steve repeated incredulously.
Tony made a so-so noise. “Don’t mind me. Just—”
“Tony,” Steve interjected, and Tony—froze. Looked at him with wide, almost wet eyes. “How long—”
“Just—two weeks.” Tony exhaled harshly. “I thought you—"
“Two weeks?” Steve repeated incredulously, wondering what was wrong with him, that the serum wasn’t healing it. The serum. The serum. Slowly, a mountainous realization crashed over him. “Tony,” he managed. “Tony, it’s—”
“Yes,” Tony said, bland and bold as ever, not even trying to hide the truth. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s,” Steve started, and stopped, stunned, reeling. He struggled to sit up. He could not plant his right arm. Furious and devastated tears burned in his eyes.
“Hey,” Tony said, squeezing his left arm, hard enough to hurt. “Steve?”
Steve looked at him. He could look nowhere else, when Tony Stark was in the same room. “It’s gonna be okay,” Tony promised, speaking clearly and firmly, leaving no room for uncertainty. “I promise.”
“It’s gone,” Steve managed, and he wasn’t even sure which loss he was referring to.
Tony hugged him as he held on, the strong one, the stoic one, the one who’d never been broken, who wept when Bucky died and wept for what he’d lost.
But he said, “Oh, God, Tony, you’re okay,” and he meant it, so earnestly Tony just squeezed him.
“What else would I be?” Tony asked, like it was that simple.
Steve held onto him for a bit longer, awkward with one arm but no less sincere, the pain a distant memory of a thing when Tony was near and warm and close, and the reason I died, I won’t let you die, as he thought of the plan coming into motion.
“I don’t,” he started, but could not make himself speak the words into existence. I don’t remember what happened.
“It’s okay,” Tony said honestly, like it was, and maybe it was. Maybe it was. “It’s okay.”
“Don’t go,” Steve said, almost without thinking.
Tony paused, then curved a hand around the back of his head, holding it to his shoulder. They were quiet for so long Steve nearly drifted off, embracing him, his warmth, his vitality. He felt a hundred years older, weak in his powerful body. His ails had been scorched from the Earth, but his superhuman strength was gone with it. “I’m human again,” he observed, utterly nonsensically and perfectly true.
Tony said, “That’s all I need you to be,” and kissed the side of his head like he couldn’t help himself. “I just need you to be with me. Alive. I meant alive. But I’m not opposed to—”
That was really all Steve needed to hear, fumbling a little with only one arm but managing to lift his head, press their foreheads together, saying what could not be said. Tony was tense for a moment, then relaxed, sighing out his relief as he said, “Tell me you know what year it is.”
Steve tried very hard. “2022?” he managed.
Tony laughed, cupped the back of his neck to give him a gentle shake, and said simply, “Close enough.” And then he kissed Steve, and Steve’s world sank gently back into existence, manifesting exactly the way it should be.
Together. That’s how we win.