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Pain greets him, pain and the inside of his eyelids. He blinks, or tries, and discovers that his eyes are glued shut. It takes a long moment’s effort to pry them open, and longer to convince himself he wants to.
The light when he finally succeeds is entirely unwelcome, bright white light that seems to come from everywhere and nowhere. A few more blinks resolve the world into some kind of order. There is fog. Fog and bleak concrete gray and nothing else. The man is lying on the pavement, tiny pebbles tearing into his skin.
He pushes himself up to get away from the tiny rocks, painful out of all proportion to their size. Instead of easing the discomfort, the small relief brings all the other sources of pain sharply to his attention.
His arms and legs burn against his clothes as though scraped raw. There’s enough dust ground into his jeans and his sleeves to support that, though he can’t see any point in uncovering the injuries when there’s nothing he can do about them. And he must have hit his head, because it feels as though someone has thoughtlessly cracked it in two.
There must be some reason he’s out here--wherever here is. He scowls at the fog, which is not helpful in establishing location. But surely he should remember something about traveling, or a car...
There’s nothing.
Okay. Start at the beginning, work forward.
Clenching his hands into fists, he shoves at the pain in his head, trying to force it to give up some scrap of information. He’s here because...
Who is he?
He lays his head gingerly back down on the cold concrete--the sharp pebbles are marginally preferable to his head exploding. It doesn't help much, but it does quiet his head to a dull ache rather than the all consuming roar it became when he tried to move.
But the pain won’t be going away anytime soon, and some part of his brain, presumably the part without the concussion, seems to think that lying down in the middle of the road is a bad idea. He pushes an aching elbow under him, draws his knees up, and pauses a moment to catch his balance, before climbing unsteadily to his feet.
The world on two feet is really not much more helpful than it had looked from the ground. There is fog and bleak gray concrete. The only difference is that up here he can see not only the concrete road, but also the featureless gray buildings that surround it. A part of him had wanted to see a crashed car so at least one of the million questions running through his head would be answered, but if there was one, it was hidden in the vast fog that seemed to cover everything in sight. He can't stay on the road. And it isn't likely that he’ll find anything useful by walking blindly into the fog. The boring industrial building just to the side of the road is probably his best bet, at least until the weather clears.
Having a plan, even a plan that isn't very good, calms him remarkably. He straightens up, absently brushing the dust off his sleeves and jeans, and feels something in his back pocket. Digging it out, he’s pleased to find a wallet, though inside is only a driver’s license. His, or at least it feels like his, and if it is then his name is Anthony Stark and he has black hair and blue eyes.
Tony Stark . That feels right, at least. He tucks the wallet away, silently repeating the name to his concussed memory.
As he gets closer he begins to wonder if the building, which looks like a warehouse, is in use at all. The dirt and grime are thick enough that he begins to see them not as signs that no one has cleaned recently, but rather as evidence that no one has used this place in a long time.
Tony bends down to grab the handle of a wide garage door, but although it rattles on its tracks, it won't budge an inch. If there had been a lock, perhaps he would have tried to pick it. He isn't sure if he can pick locks, but then there’s very little he is sure of at the moment. Since it seems to be locked from the inside, Tony walks farther around the building. Just a few yards away, the skeleton of a fence marks out what might have once been a packing area, littered with disintegrating cardboard. But set into the warehouse wall behind the mess is a rusted door, hanging open a crack, so Tony decides to call it a win.
Inside, the air is clear of fog and thick with mildew and rust. A few windows set high in the walls break up the darkness, daylight gleaming through the cracks between the wooden boards, but the shadows are too deep for the light to pierce them. Dark stains linger on the cracked concrete, as though whatever might once have been stored here had leaked when dragged away. Farther back is only dust and shadows--no solid shape to hint at useful crates or boxes at all. He begins to wonder whether getting in had really been worth the effort.
A flicker of movement under a distant window catches his attention. Whatever it is vanishes into the shadows without trace, and Tony frowns at it. If there are rats, it’ll be the first trace of life he’s yet seen around here. He shoves the door open wider and steps inside, clearing the way for the dim light to illuminate as far as it could.
They are not rats.
Tony steps backward again instantly, but the returning shadow doesn't calm the growing rustle of movement, nor does it help the shivers of horror that grip him. Two shapes move out of the darkness with a slow, hitching motion that seems painfully human, but their features are caked in blood, too much to make out detail, except that their arms are bloody stumps. They look like--
--How is it that he knows what a landmine victim looks like, and why does the thought strike a deeper note of horror than even this sight?
Nausea churns in his stomach, but he swallows hard and edges forward again. If they’re hurt... “Can I help you?” he calls, trying to keep a calm, level tone. It can’t be as bad as it looks, surely, or they would already be dead. Some sort of accident?
One of them makes a faint gurgling sound that could have been pain or warning, and then they both move with a sudden and impossible speed, blurring in the dim light. Too fast--Tony yelps and ducks instinctively, but the dodge takes him farther into the warehouse. A thin spray spatters across his arms and hisses on his shirt with the tang of acid.
His body reacts without his concussed brain’s input, and Tony backs up to put himself squarely between his attackers as they approach again. At the next gurgle, he throws himself down and toward the door. Behind him, thin cries of pain echo hollowly against the warehouse rafters, but Tony doesn’t look back, slamming the door closed and gasping for breath. The fog, he decides, is much preferable to the stench of blood and mold.
Not human, then. Hostile. Okay. He needs a weapon, fast. A rock would work. Anything.
A dim gleam of metal draws him to the edge of the road. It’s a long wrench, already stained with red. He doesn’t want to spend too much time pondering the fate of its owner.
He’s a far more paranoid man walking away from the warehouse. When he had entered, he was worried about his memory and the weather. Now he’s worried for his life, and anyone else who might wander innocently into this place. Whatever those things are, someone has to find out what was going on.
Tony pauses on the thought that he ought to fix this, distantly startled. Surely he should report it to the police, the army...someone.
He shakes his head very gently, letting the confusion rest to sort itself out, and walks as quickly as seems wise down the street. It might be hard to find anything in the fog, but he certainly isn't going to stay by that warehouse.
Through the fog he can catch glimpses of streetlights, and other warehouses, ones that Tony has no intention of investigating. A car, parked and silent in the gutter, is a looming but familiar presence.
Then something moves, a shadow in the fog. He grips his wrench harder and lifts it, pulse leaping to a race in preparation.
The wrench is already in motion before Tony's brain finally catches up with what he’s seeing. He hisses a gasp and tries to change the weapon’s momentum, but if his reflexes had ever been up to the task, they certainly aren’t now.
The swing comes just short of a pale head of hair, the slight, inoffensive young man ducking back at the same instant. A crash jars Tony’s wrists; the wrench glancing off a metal trash can lid. Either the man’s reflexes are much better than Tony’s or the combination is just enough, and the lid is only a bit dented, but even so it had been far too close. Tony drops his wrench to his side, guilt as fierce and sharp as his headache had been earlier filling his heart. “I'm sorry!” he gasps at once. “I'm so sorry.”
Just under the words, a strange echo hums in his head, whispering that he has a great deal to be sorry for...that an apology isn’t good enough--never good enough.
Which is probably an effect of the concussion. Or else--no, definitely concussion.
The other man steps a bit cautiously inside the reach of the wrench, lowering the makeshift shield. He’s wearing a grayish shirt and jeans, lightly spattered with a darker color Tony decides he is going to call paint. “It's all right,” he says, sounding rueful. “You ran into those creatures?” He doesn't wait for Tony’s answer, which is too obvious to need words anyway, and went on, “They’d make anyone jumpy.”
Then the man smiles. He’s otherwise unremarkable, really, but everything in the gloom seems to brighten at his smile.
Tony smiles back, and automatically rubs a hand through his hair--then winces when his head sets off several small explosions to remind him why that isn't a very good idea.
“Are you hurt?” the man asks, the smile shifting at once into concern.
“Yeah, I seem to have been in an accident,” Tony admits. “I think I have a concussion or something, because I'm having trouble remembering things. The only reason I know my name is that my wallet said I was Tony Stark.” He isn't quite sure why he’s saying so much when he doesn't even know the man’s name, but it doesn't feel strange. For some reason it feels like he knows this man. Or ought to.
The man looks downright worried. “I think I should stay with you,” he says. “You shouldn't be alone with a concussion. Especially not...here.” Worried, about him, and for some reason it makes Tony feel warm inside. The feeling is familiar. Like an echo of something that had happened again and again.
But there are more pressing concerns. “I don't suppose you know how to hot-wire a car, do you?” Tony asks, looking at the car-shaped bulk of shadow.
“No, I don't, but I'm sure you do.” Faint embarrassment slips fleetingly across the man’s face. “I mean...”
“You know me?” Tony asks, but he’s almost sure it’s true. It feels true. It feels more true then anything has since he woke up.
“Yes, I know you, Tony,” the man says, smiling. “We're good friends. And I know that you can hot-wire this car.”
On closer approach, it isn’t his idea of a good car. It’s old and rusty, and if it runs at all it will be a miracle. Tony can't remember what kind of car it is; the answer seems just on the edge of his memory, but like so many more important answers, it won't come any closer. But Tony is absolutely certain that it isn't the kind of car that he would drive if he had a choice.
It’s unlocked, though, which is a start. He checks the ignition with a faint hope that whoever had abandoned the car had left the key inside too, but, of course, there’s no such luck. At least the gas gauge reads at half a tank. Hotwiring looks like their best option. He sets his wrench down on the dashboard, in easy reach, and gets to work, leaving his new companion to watch his back.
“So what's your name?” Tony asks, dragging out the appropriate wires. He’s almost certain that hotwiring is illegal, but apparently that hadn't stopped him from learning it, because in spite of all the things he can’t remember, he’s doing this almost by instinct. He looks up after a moment of silence. “Don't want to tell me?” He’s more curious than upset. If they’re such friends, maybe the man wants him to remember on his own.
The skinny stranger opens his mouth, but no sound comes out.
“Suit yourself,” Tony says, turning back to the car. Which is being far more cooperative than his companion at the moment. Someone’s hotwired it before, and the leads are bare.
“Roger,” the man behind him says with a sigh. “My name is Roger.”
The car starts with more of a cough than a purr, but Tony’s pleased that both the car and his new, or maybe old, friend Roger had done as he asked. He gives the engine a little gas, and carefully tucks the wires back into their bundled friends. “Well, Roger, jump on in. Next stop: anywhere but here.”
“Not a chance, Tony. If you have a concussion, then I'm driving,” Roger tells him in a tone that doesn't allow for arguments.
Tony grins. “Just as well,” he says, sliding into the shotgun seat. “I would never want to be seen driving this clunker.”
Roger laughs, a bright peal of sound, as he climbs behind the wheel. The laughter should have been completely incongruous with the bleak atmosphere. Instead, it feels as though everything had been waiting for his laugh. The fog clears just a little around the car. Tony wonders exactly how much his concussion is affecting his perception.
“I'm glad to see that even without your memory you haven't lost any of your personality,” Roger remarks absently as he puts the car in gear. The direction hardly matters.
“We really must be friends,” Tony says to Roger, whose eyes are on the road. “I think you actually mean that.”
“Of course I do,” Roger says, with the kind of conviction that only those that truly believe in what they say can manage. A bit startled at the force of his insistence, Tony doesn’t answer. He lets his eyes slip closed, shutting out the constant glare of the fog.
It’s a few minutes later when a wail of emergency sirens draws his gaze out the window. The fog is thin enough at the moment to see a columned building some distance ahead, with broad stairs in front, and his eyes go instantly to the blue figure standing there. Blue, with a proud white star.
Tony’s mind says Captain America , with a deep jolt like he’s crossed the wrong wires . Tony remembers him, remembers the symbol that stood for something--peace, justice, all the best parts of the American way.
Then he sees that Captain America's hood is off, revealing his all too human face, blond hair softening the effect of a strong jaw. He remembers Steve Rogers and he can't stop. A thousand pictures... a million memories... all forcing his attention at the same time... Conversations, arguments... fighting together against all odds... Laughter, sparring, basketball games, sitting comfortably in silence.
There’s blood on the blue leather, in wide gashes, and Tony can hardly see the attackers, but Cap’s surrounded by them, dark shadowy figures that rush over the blue figure and bear him toward the waiting ambulance. An ambulance, which is possibly what Steve needs, with all of the blood, but--those things aren’t friendly, definitely not, and what they might do with Steve doesn’t bear thinking about. Steve. He can’t--he can’t let--
“Steve,” he says aloud, voice half-choked by the flood of memory. “Please, I remember him. We have to go after him. Follow the ambulance!” He turns his head to plead with Roger.
“All right,” Roger agrees, and the engine growls in dismay as the car picks up speed faster than it should, following the sound of the siren’s wail. Then he jerks the wheel with a muffled exclamation, and there’s a heavy thump.
Tony turns his head to look out the window, and immediately wishes that he hadn't. The dark creatures are scattered across the road now, and running toward the car, in a blur of motion almost too fast to see; Roger can't drive a block without swerving for at least three of them. The fog hides them until the last possible second, so they seem to appear out of thin air. Or maybe they do appear out of thin air, for all Tony knows about the habits of creepy minions of evil.
With every swerve of the car, Tony is glad that Roger had insisted on driving. His head screams at him louder every time, and even worse than the pain is the nausea. It’s bad enough that Tony, head down and gritting his teeth, barely even notices when another dark thing slams into his window to smear blood all over it before sliding back off with another of Roger’s sharp turns.
“I can see a sign for a hospital, I think that’s where the ambulance went, but these things are all over the place,” Roger says. “We’ll have to fight them to get in.”
Roger’s swerves are impressively precise, never a skid or an over correction, but the many sudden lurches still make it difficult for Tony to focus on what he’s saying. The car was the best option available, but his stomach is making its disapproval known. “I don't know how much help I'm going to be, with my concussion,” Tony admits, feeling a little stupid at his weakness.
“Don't worry, Tony.” Roger spares half a glance away from the road, an impressive feat considering the density of the obstacles. “I'll watch your back.”
If there were time, Tony might have spent a long moment being quietly amazed at how Roger always seemed to have the right thing to say. But all he had time for was a slight warm feeling at his words before the brakes slammed on with a squeal, leaving them illegally parked in a loading zone in front of wide hospital doors. Tony grabs the wrench from its place between the seats. He and Roger exchange a glance, both making sure the other is ready. Then Tony opened his door to face the shadowy humanoids.
These seem more tenacious than the creatures he had encountered before, if slower. He hits one with all his might not even pausing when the force of the blow causes his arms to ache and tremble. It takes several hits with his wrench before he finally has the first one down. The second snarls at Tony, and a flailing arm hits him in the head. Tony smacks it with his wrench in retaliation until it too falls unmoving.
He looks across to see how his friend is doing. Roger has apparently taken four of them out with... a manhole cover. Roger uses a unique method, but it’s obviously effective.
There aren't any more in the immediate vicinity, and Tony lets himself relax a little, taking a slow breath. But as the adrenaline starts to fade, Tony's head decides now would be a great time to hurt, and he stumbles back against the car. He clutches his wrench tighter, worrying that something will attack now that he’s vulnerable.
“Don't worry, Tony. I've got you,” Roger says, his voice easing Tony's headache from sharp pain to the dull throb he'd had before.
Tony pushes away from the car’s cold support, and manages a smile of reassurance. “I’m fine. Let’s go, before more of those things come.” He doesn’t wait for an answer, moving toward the hospital doors. The whole entryway is as gray and dingy as everything else in this fog, but perhaps the air will be clearer inside.
“Just be careful,” Roger says. Tony decides not to dignify that with a response.
The doors are automatic, opening smoothly at their approach. The moment Roger clears them, they slide closed again, with a faint hiss. That ought to be normal, or even a good sign, but somehow it feels more like a trap snapping shut. Tony only chokes back the need to go and make sure they open from the inside by reminding himself that Steve is somewhere in here and there isn’t time to spare. If they really have to, he thinks he and Roger between them can probably break the glass.
Inside, the hospital isn't any less eerily empty than the streets, but at least the bleak gray has been replaced by white. Or at least a color that might have once been white, long ago. In the time since it was new, it’s become some kind of grimy light brown color, with splashes that look suspiciously like blood, both fresh and dried. Tony decides that he never wants to meet the interior decorator that had designed this town.
The signs are as dingy as everything else, but at least mostly legible, and one arrow clearly claims to point the way down an elevator to Emergency. It seems like as good a place as any to start looking for Steve, since the ambulance had vanished and must have unloaded somewhere. Tony starts to say as much to Roger, when he sees a sign tacked to the elevator door that’s far more out of place. It’s on bright white paper, in red marker, and across the top in large letters it reads TONY STARK.
“Do you see that?” he asks instead, uneasily.
Roger frowns at the notice. “I see it,” he confirms.
There’s more written below, and Tony moves a little closer--not too much--and squints to read it.
Tony , it says, go back now. I mean it. Go back, you’ll have all the memories you actually want, everything will be the way it was before you were stupid enough to try this. You don’t want to remember anything past this door. Promise. Signed, Tony Stark.
A chill shakes Tony, fear and dismay. If he wrote that-- “What does it mean?” he whispers.
Roger doesn’t seem frightened, or even particularly startled. He studies the paper, and shakes his head in something that looks a good deal more like fond amusement. “Pretty clear it’s a warning of some kind,” is all he says. “We can go back, Tony. I’ll get you out of here.”
This hospital, this town, has something to do with Tony’s own memories. “No,” he says at last, his voice hoarse. “Steve’s through there--I have to know.”
There’s a pause, and Roger’s mouth twists like he’s trying to decide whether to argue with Tony. “All right,” he agrees at last. “If you’re sure. It’s your decision.”
The elevator door slides quietly open. Tony is fairly certain neither of them signaled for it, but he steps inside, with more confidence than he feels. Roger follows him.
Tony is just realizing that there aren’t any buttons on the inside when the door closes. He looks up, and his breath catches for a long moment. Scrawled across the metal door, in red, dripping letters, is another message.
Tony, you’re such an idiot.
He barely has time to process this, or Roger’s exasperated glance at the words--still not startled--before the doors open again. There’s a desk not far ahead, covered in papers. “I have to figure this out,” Tony mutters, moving toward it.
Roger’s hand grasps his shoulder with a sudden, gentle pressure. “It’s going to be okay, Tony,” he says, soft and very sincere.
“Of course it is,” Tony agrees, with a firm nod to boost his confidence. He’s paying far too much attention to Roger’s hand. For some reason, it makes everything around it feel so much warmer. Tony finds himself looking into azure eyes that were suddenly far, far too vivid, and he looks away. He began to sift through the papers, more out of a need to avoid Roger’s piercing gaze then any actual expectation of finding something.
The papers are old but not ancient, and the first one appears to be a list of patients’ names. Steve's name isn't on the list, of course. The names, though...the names are familiar. With each of the names, faces appear. Sal Kennedy --long gray hair like a hippie, a wisdom that inspired fondness and admiration. William Foster --brave, and strong, and loyal.
It’s the next one that makes him pause, though. Happy Hogan .
He starts to remember again. Happy’s friendship...his support...a thousand small memories.. . It’s only slightly less disorienting this time than the moment he’d seen Steve. And Tony can't think--can't reason. There’s a room number written on the patient list. Tony doesn't say anything; he glances at the room signs and runs down the hall, the wrench falling from his hand with a loud clatter.
He can see out of the corner of his eye that no one’s been here in a long time. All the rooms are disgusting, filled with dust, grime, and cobwebs. But for some reason that doesn't stop him from running to see Happy. Nothing else matters. The fact that the entire hallway is breathing in and out doesn't matter. The voice calling his name from behind doesn't matter either. When he comes to the door, Tony crashes through without thinking about it, and it’s only then that his impromptu run begins to seem strange.
This room is far less disgusting than all the others. There’s actually color here: the floor tiles are a light peach and there’s a coverlet on the bed in the middle of the room that matches them. To one side is a light blue table with red and yellow flowers beginning to fade, and pictures of Happy as Tony remembered him. Giant machines line the back of the room, showing vital signs of every kind. But all of that fades as Tony sees the room’s sole occupant.
The man in the bed is only a shadow of Tony's memory of Happy Hogan. Only an echo of the person in the photographs. He has a IV in his arm and a tube in his throat. The ventilator attached to the tube seems to be the only thing keeping him breathing, and every time his lungs inflate the room breathes with him.
He goes to the bedside, with a heavy feeling of obligation, and then...
A conversation... with Happy's wife... Pepper... “You just have to think it... Right?” ... “...It would just be a equipment malfunction.” ... “...No one would ever know. Not even me. Not for sure.”
“But I would.”
I remember praying... praying for a miracle... even as I... even as I killed Happy... I killed him.
For a second Tony can't tell the difference between his memories and reality. Then he realizes this time he isn't watching it happen in his head. It’s happening here and now, the flat line of the heart monitor echoing inside his skull.
“No! No!! Don't do this to me! Not again. Please not again,” Tony cries, almost screaming at the man in the bed. But the flat line goes on, and on.
“Tony,” Roger calls, shaking his arm and trying to get his attention.
“It's my fault,” Tony says, voice cracking under the pain. “It's my fault he's dead.”
“Tony!” Roger shouts, as he physically forces Tony to turn around and look him in the eye. “I know you did everything possible to help him. And If you think for one second that Happy would want you blaming yourself, you obviously don't remember nearly as well as you think you do.”
Tony opens his mouth to tell Roger he was wrong, that it was entirely Tony's fault. His fault that Happy was in a coma. His decision that killed him. Before he can say a word, though, there’s a noise in the hallway.
The noise isn't a gunshot. It’s a blast. A repulsor blast, his brain reports, although it doesn't seem to want to add anything else useful.
He and Roger turn and approach the door cautiously. It looks like there’s been a fight. All across the hallway, people are sprawled in their own blood, burnt holes in their chests. And on the other side is the thing responsible for their demise.
It’s some kind of humanoid robot, or perhaps a strange kind of armor. Metallic gold and red paint gleams in the light as though wet. Tony reaches for it, slowly. The strength of the compulsion worries him, but he has to touch it, to see if it’s real, or just another warped memory.
But his hand comes back covered in blood. It isn't red paint, it’s blood, and it’s moving up his hand like a living creature. Tony stumbles back, but the blood crawls up his arm, over his wrist--he can't see his hand anymore, only the blood that had consumed it. The blood begins to fold back and build on itself, until it resembles the left arm of the thing it had come from. It’s some kind of gauntlet. A gauntlet covered and dripping with bright crimson blood.
Tony tries to get it off. Tries to scrape it off his arm. But it seems to have become a part of him, a horrifying, bloody part of him. Iron Man, his hurting brain tells him, Iron Man who was made to be a hero, and is now a murderer, covered in blood.
And when he looks again, the thing on his hand has started to solidify again, turning into a solid mechanical glove. The second it’s solid, the mechanical armor turns completely into blood and pours down itself, crumpling toward the floor, until all that’s left is a puddle of blood--and a hundred new memories. Memories that Tony wants nothing more than to forget.
“Tony, Tony...” Roger is calling his name. Probably he’s been calling it for quite a while. It just seems so unimportant.
“I am Iron Man,” Tony says, the words shaping themselves.
“That’s right, Tony,” Roger says, his hand resting on Tony's back. “You're Iron Man. You're a hero.”
“No.” It sounds like Roger's voice, but it isn't coming from behind Tony. In front of him is--Steve. Steve, covered in blood with his shirt torn off and his pants ripped, shield in hand, and Tony can't tell if he’s alive or dead. Tony’s throat closes up with guilt and dread. He came all this way to find Steve, but the knowledge crashes over him that he never really had a chance.
“He's a killer.” Tony hears it. He hears it in Steve’s voice, and all he can feel is guilt...so much guilt. Steve is right. Of course, he’s a killer. That is all he has ever been.
“That's not true,” Roger says, and he’s moving forward, throwing a punch at Steve. Tony can’t help but feel grateful to Roger. For some strange reason, Roger believes in him, but it won’t last. Steve has him turned around and throws him against the wall.
No, not Roger! Tony can’t fail Roger, too. Faster than thought, he has his repulsor glove up and ready to blast--but it’s Steve. He can't--not again. Anguish rips through him at even the thought of harming Steve. He sinks to his knees in front of Steve, his hand turned down so it can't fire. “I can't,” Tony says, broken. “I can't hurt you.”
“You already did. I died because of you,” Steve says. “Tell me, was it worth that?”
“No, it wasn't,” Tony cries. Tony remembers when the question was first asked, and it wasn’t worth it then either. He’d killed Steve. It was his fault.
“It wasn't worth it.” The words are choked, his throat closing in grief. Steve’s expression isn’t a smile. Tony remembers Steve's smile, and this is nothing like it, this grim lifting of the corners of his lips.
And then Steve is lying on the floor, cold and still. An all too familiar body, that he can remember confessing to before. And Tony can only repeat, “It wasn't worth it.”
Tears are falling so hard that Tony can't see the body anymore, but Tony doesn't want to see it anyway. Not when Steve is gone. Steve is gone. Somewhere to his side he hears Roger getting up. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters, Steve is gone.
“He’s right,” Tony admits aloud. Maybe if he warns Roger, at least one friend will escape. “I'm a killer. I killed people who trusted me--my best friends--”
“No, Tony,” Roger interrupts him. “He was wrong. You’re a good man. You’re my best friend. Look at me. Tony, that wasn't Steve. I am.”
For one horrible second Tony thinks Roger must be insane, or lying. His waking memory returns only a blank--he can’t remember a friend named Roger. The man could be anyone, trying to take advantage of his vulnerable state of amnesia. Then he looks at him, and he sees. Steve. Without his usual strength and power, but Tony can see Steve inside his eyes. Could see the strength of his soul. And then Roger--Steve--smiles, and he’s positive.
“Tony, do you remember?” he says, looking into Tony's eyes with intensity. “You protected these memories more than any of the others, and when you realized where they were, you went after them. I wanted to help, and I’ve been trying. But I can only help. I can't do it for you.”
“Please,” Tony begs, the floor cold under his hands and knees. “I don't want to remember.” So much pain...so much guilt.
“I know you don't want to remember. I know that all you recall right now is the death and pain, but there were good times. There was friendship and love. And you need to remember. You need to accept the bad and the good learn from them. If you don't, everything that just happened will happen again, and again, and you won't accomplish anything. And, Tony--we need you in the real world. I need you--please try to remember!”
Roger--no, Steve--is crouching on the floor with him now, their eyes level, and Tony tries to look away. There's too much; his other self was right. But Steve's grip on his shoulder is warm and unyielding, and Tony can't deny him the right to say what should be done with the memory of his death.
Learn from it. Captain America always was optimistic.
Tony looks up at Roger, at Steve. And he moves forward just a bit until their mouths were touching. He moves his lips and hopes that he will see Steve again. As he kisses Steve, he accepts everything that he recalls and remembers. All around them the world dissolves, like mist in the sunlight.
***
The first thing Tony noticed was the lack of pain. He wasn't in pain, and he was lying on a bed. It might not have been the most comfortable thing that Tony had ever slept in, but right now it was heaven. There was a small beeping sound nearby. Normally he would have found it annoying, but he found that he much preferred the happy little mechanical beeping sound to the oppressive silence of wherever it was he had been.
He opened his eyes with a little regret. The room was so clean it shone, and the smell of cleaning agents lingered in the air. To Tony, it was nicer than the sweetest perfume. The room was painted a cheerful yellow. Tony decided this was infinitely better then gloomy gray.
The he saw something that was even more wonderful than the fact that he wasn't in pain. Steve, his Steve without the blood, living breathing Steve. He was sitting in a wooden chair, had on a green t-shirt and jeans, and was looking right at Tony.
“Tony, we made it.” The second that Steve said it, Tony's heart skipped a beat. It hadn’t been a dream then. Or at least not just a dream.
“I remember,” Tony said, and his voice was rough but for some reason it seemed incredibly important to say. “I remembered everything.”
“Thank you, Tony,” Steve said, beaming at him. Apparently even in the real world Steve's smile could make everything brighter. “Thank you for coming back with me.”
"You really were there?" Tony asked, curious. His stomach growled audibly, but questions before food.
Steve offered a shrug. "Depending on your definition of 'real,' I suppose. We couldn't wake you, and Pepper said you'd found these files...well, anyway, I'm glad you're all right."
Tony wasn't sure he liked the idea that Steve had seen all the horrors his mind had made from the memories, but he certainly wasn't going to complain. If he'd refused to accept remembering, would he have reappeared in the gray outskirts, amnesiac, and been drawn in all over again by his own curiosity? He shivered, and made a mental note to write a more persuasive warning if he ever has a reason to hide memories in the future.
"I'm glad you're--here," he blurted, and cleared his throat. His grief and despair at Steve's death still churned as though fresh, even while his recent memories were insisting that of course he’s known Steve's alive. It's a strange mixture.
Steve's face lightened with a smile again. "Any time you need me, Tony," he promised, with that quiet and unquestionable sincerity. He stood up, the chair squeaking faintly under him. "They'll want to know you're awake." But he paused a moment, and stepped closer to the bed.
“About the end,” Tony said, feeling awkward.
“Yes, about that,” Steve said. Then Steve leaned forward, and their mouths met.
This time, the kiss felt real. Steve’s skin was salty with the taste of dried sweat, and smelled like he hadn’t showered. Steve’s cheeks were rough with stubble, and Tony had apparently regrown his beard while he was sleeping; it felt like two pieces of Velcro sliding against each other. It was perfect.
Steve’s hand grasped Tony’s shoulder, his body pressed against Tony’s chest. Tony retaliated by putting his arm around Steve’s back and pulling him down.
The only thing Tony cared about was their kiss. The world stayed very real and solid, but it faded into the background.