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Steve switched on the autopilot and leaped out of the crash chair. He tore off his uniform, ripping it at the seams and wherever it was weakest, throwing it to the floor in smoldering rags. He shouted through the pain because he was alone; he didn’t have to pretend it didn’t hurt like a sonofabitch. He could feel the flesh of his back blistering. The scorching heat of the napalm ignited his nerves.
As soon as he was free of the tattered, melting uniform, he fumbled with the med kit he yanked from its place on the bulkhead. The analgesic spray was first and the immediate relief of it was near-orgasmic. The burning pain cooled to a simmer and even though it hurt, it was nothing compared to the pain before. Steve bent over double, panting. He definitely overused the numbing spray, all over his back and his ass and his thighs, but he hadn’t experienced so much intense, white-hot pain since the vita-ray chamber, and he was all on his own to take care of it.
“Go on without me,” Natasha had said. “It’s an easy one, you’ll be fine.”
Fine my burnt-off ass, Steve thought. Slowly, he stood, and he wiped the tears from his eyes. Oh, he’d heal. It would be a week, maybe a little more, even for the worst of the burns, if Dr. Cho couldn’t science something faster for him, but until then… He pawed through the mess he’d made of the med kit until he found the liquid bandage spray. It would do until he could get to the infirmary. He was more conservative with the bandage, using it only to seal the wounds. The analgesic was already wearing off, the pain spiking, but he was ready for it now. He could grit his teeth and deal with it.
He just couldn’t wait to get back to HQ.
Steve limped back to the cockpit to check his flight progress. ETA to base was seven minutes. That gave him just enough time to find something to wear so he didn’t traipse through HQ in his birthday suit. (Natasha would love that, she’d probably pretend she thought he was McDick until she could make a crack about relative size of his manhood; Nick would not love that, and Steve would probably end up apologizing to Kate in HR again… not that he’d mind that.) He glanced at the HUD, checking for any enemy craft, and once he decided he was clear, he limped back toward the cargo area.
There had to be something to wear.
He knew he wouldn’t find one of his own spare uniforms. The one Nuke had burned was his spare. He found one of Natasha’s backup catsuits and an extra set of the neoprene underwear Rhodey wore under War Machine. Those definitely wouldn’t fit. He couldn’t find anything else, not even any old stashed sweats for Dr. Banner post-Hulk or another flightsuit for a pilot. All he could find was a scratchy wool blanket. It was better than nothing, he guessed, and was wrapping it around him like a toga when the first shockwave rocked the quinjet.
Steve stumbled to the cockpit in time to see the IFF lit up with a foe’s information and to hear the autopilot screaming about a missile lock. He punched the button to take back the controls and hauled back on the yoke even before he was in the pilot’s seat. The jet climbed, so steep the g-forces nearly knocked him out. Steve shoved the yoke forward and turned it, sending the jet into a twisting freefall. He gripped the edge of the seat hard with his knees as he floated out of it and looked at the HUD, searching for–
There. Just like he thought. Frank Simpson. In a jet. Chasing him.
Steve swore. Since he was alone, he got very, very creative.
Nuke fired off another set of missiles. Steve yanked and shoved the yoke, dancing the quinjet through the sky, but it wasn’t enough. One of the missiles exploded nearby, punching a fist-sized hole into the jet’s hull. It started venting atmosphere and small, unsecured items.
Items like the blanket.
Steve kept swearing.
He was two minutes out from HQ, so he tried to radio for help. War Machine and Falcon could be in the air by the time he got there if he could just stay alive. All he got was static. Steve searched the HUD and found that the explosion had taken out his comms. He kept swearing. The only thing that came to mind were the dummy missiles in the tubes, flares meant to distract mostly harmless enemies like Spot, or the giant queen bee the other version of himself had faced. He set them both to explode at a certain distance and fired them. He hoped there was someone in the control room paying attention to the skies.
And then, because he was angry and naked and hurting, he looped the jet around for a head-on run at Simpson. He toggled the quinjet’s guns and squeezed the triggers, watching through the HUD as Nuke’s jet bobbed and weaved. Steve armed two more missiles and fired them both amid the steady stream of gunfire. The spectacular orange-yellow fireball that engulfed Simpson’s old F-4 was far more satisfying than it should have been.
Steve turned the quinjet around and put it back on the right heading. He was five minutes out from HQ now, close enough to initiate the pre-landing checklist. The first item: intact landing gear. Which he no longer had, thanks to Simpson’s napalm attack.
He groaned.
Fury was really going to hate this.
Steve slowed the quinjet as much as he could and set the set the autopilot, aiming for a cushy-looking cluster of trees at the edge of one of the landing fields near HQ. He hoped the crash wouldn’t leave the jet beyond repair, but it was the best he could do.
Then he found the double-sided industrial tape stowed under the co-pilot’s seat. If he was going to to do this, he was going to make it as not-unpleasant as possible for anyone who had to see it. Including Nick, who would no doubt see the video later if he didn’t see it live.
And he was going to make Nat feel bad for making him take this mission on his own.
Steve unpacked one of the parachutes and taped out the message he wanted to send. He got handfuls of glitter from what remained of his utility belt and sprinkled it over the tape. The parachute was black, so the contrast of the gold glitter was aesthetically pleasing. He gave the parachute a shake just to make sure the glitter stuck, and as the autopilot began the first gentle crash imminent warnings, he re-packed the chute. He winced as he stepped into the harness. It was going to chafe.
When the autopilot started screaming the crash alert, Steve hit the button to lower the boarding ramp. The jet began its descent and Steve threw himself off of the ramp.
There were no explosions when the quinjet hit the trees and he breathed a deep sigh of relief. Probably maintenance would be able to salvage it, then. He almost waited too long to pull the line for his parachute because he could see the crowd gathered at the edge of the landing field. Tinybot was there. Damn it. Steve bit back another string of curses and pulled the line and braced for the jerk. The cool air felt nice rushing over his blistered ass and back, but it was weird and uncomfortable and made him feel a little panicky the way it rushed all up and around his flopping junk.
As he aimed for the edge of the landing field and glitter floated down around him, he glanced up.
SORRY NICK sparkled in the sunshine.