It is moments in the middle of battle that Steve forgets he’s in the twenty-first century. Surrounded by his comrades, covered in blood and soot and dirt, fighting the enemy, he may as well be with his Howling Commandos taking out HYDRA in Germany.
He is thrown back into head-spinning reality, though, every time he sees a corpse of someone not human, aliens with more cunning than anything anyone has ever faced. Aliens with the ability to deceive, to disguise themselves as allies until their death, where their true face is finally revealed.
Will Steve be wrong in his choice, or will he be right and save a friend? That is the question he confronts every day since the Skrulls were discovered to have infiltrated Earth.
Breathing deeply after sweeping through Skrull soldiers, Steve feels a pang at the memory of Nick Fury’s body mangled by a Skrull blade pegged by the entrance of SHIELD headquarters. Nick was the first casualty of the many, many more heroes that have fallen in the past months, mistaken for a Skrull and murdered by friends with little hesitation.
Walking unsteadily, he scans around the battlefield, now that the height of the skirmish has finished. Mostly Skrulls, but he thinks he sees Rogue’s unchanged form amongst a pile of corpses, arms crossed over her chest as if in a coffin. Steve spares a moment for her, for the other X-Men team members he would have to tell at the school when this was cleaned up.
Sam lands from above as Steve finishes his search: Tony wasn’t in the rubble. It was better Tony remained gone, even though Steve was worried about him.
Catching his gaze through flight goggles, Sam says, “the rest of the Skrulls have retreated to their ships.” Steve cannot see Sam’s eyes through the infrared, though the droop in his gait, metal wings lowering, indicates Falcon is tired.
Steve nods to dismiss him. “Good work with interference out there.”
Despite Steve’s tone, Sam lingers by him, goggles piercing through the cowl. “I’m sure your real husband is fine. The Skrull is somewhere around here, though.”
They hadn’t spoken it aloud, so Steve’s eyes widen. He didn’t expect his suspicions to be noticed by anyone else, or to have them so readily supported.
Sam’s mouth twitches upwards on one side. “Yeah, I figured it out. Don’t think any of the others have, but maybe MJ? Maybe.”
Out of the Avengers left, Steve can only confirm that himself, Sam, Clint, Wanda, Rhodes, and MJ are their real selves; Clint was the one who killed Steve’s Skrull, while the other impersonators were killed by one of the other five. That left Peter, Natasha, and Tony under suspicion.
And Steve knows Tony hasn’t been Tony, at least not for the past few days. It was around the time after Clint killed Steve’s Skrull, actually, that Tony started acting strangely.
Steve aches for his husband, even though a villainous copy of him was nearby.
“How?” His voice comes out like gravel, torn from thirst.
Sam’s wings retract as his mouth pulls into a considerate line, mind running with a cobweb of thoughts. “Far as I know, he only had one tell: the way his behavior changed before this fight. He was…cruel, almost. His face twisted up, with something like glee. Like he wanted the Skrulls to die. And that’s not Tony. He gets mad, sure, but not enough to wish for bloody murder on anyone, not even Skrulls.”
Steve finds himself nodding at every clipped sentence. He lets out a little hum in agreement. “You’re right. But pal,” he’s assaulted by memories from the past days clashing in his mind at once, so his teasing smile comes out as a grimace, “that’s far from his only tell.”
Sam huffs, a flash of his teeth visible for a quick grin. “Course not. Could never claim to know your husband like you do, Steve.”
His attention is caught by an approach. When Steve sees Wanda, he relaxes his tense posture.
Wanda looks at them both, then says gravely, “Spider-Woman told me she saw Tony go into that hotel lobby,” she nudges her head behind her, where a dilapidated building stood taller than the rest, “and he hasn’t come out for a while.”
Steve could only imagine what the Skrull was doing in there. Sighing in resignation at MJ’s observation, he nods to Wanda and Sam in farewell. He starts for the building, stepping over bodies and rubble.
He remembers the last night Tony was actually Tony. Steve couldn’t get the image of a Skrull dead in one of his Captain America suits out of the back of his lids. It got to him the way things usually didn’t, sticking to his skin and refusing to leave him alone. He took a long hot shower and dressed in comfortable sweats before the team was meant to have dinner together.
When he arrived in the common area kitchen, though, no team members had gathered around the table. It was just Tony, dressed in his favorite maroon hoodie and his hair delightfully messy, setting Italian takeout from Steve’s favorite restaurant out on plates while a bouquet of flowers decorated the kitchen island.
Tony catches his approach and smiles, golden brown eyes glittering as they do when they’re in the privacy of their bedroom. “Hey, Winghead,” he says warmly, voice dripping with a quality that was distinctly Tony. “I told the team to rest up, that I’d take care of you tonight.”
Steve is deliriously happy, and before he can even comprehend it, he is walking towards Tony and grinning. “Oh, Shellhead,” he rounds the island and leans down, kissing his cheek, “I love you.”
“I know.” Tony does his signature wink, pushing Steve’s plate of pasta towards him.
They eat and chat, a normal dinner between them. Tony teases him, Steve laughs, and they go to bed. Tony reminds Steve that if he ever wants to talk about the Skrull, he’s there.
The next day, Tony is different. So it must be when the real Tony was taken, replaced with the Skrull. Aside from Skrull Tony’s forced doe eyes and affectionate touches, Steve knew that something was fundamentally wrong.
He reaches the hotel, the turnstiles ripped from the wall, leaving a gaping hole. Steve steps over displaced bricks and enters the lobby, ceiling caved in on the front desk. The chandelier was half off the hinges, ready to cry crystals. Flower petals cut against crushed glass vases across the glittering linoleum floor.
And as Steve is sweeping the area, a body crashes through the wall behind the front desk. Dusty dark hair crashes against the back of the desk, clothes torn and wounds spilling across skin.
Before Steve can advance, Tony steps through the new hole, armorless and aiming a gun at the figure hunched on the ground. His opponent got a few punches in, because his face is bleeding and might bruise on one side.
Tony hesitates with Steve there. His hand trembles around the gun, and he lowers it the slightest bit. His eyes soften, expression overcome with relief.
“Steve,” he lets out a breath, “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. I found him.” His grip tightens on the weapon as he looks at the figure on the floor. “I found my Skrull.”
Steve’s heart stops. His voice comes out shaky and weary. “Can I see?”
Tony nods in permission. “Come on. I need your help.”
Rounding the desk in a heartbeat, Steve takes in another Tony slumped there, barely able to lift his head. Blood trickles down one side of his face, and his body looks weak, head lolling up with exponential effort to look at him.
The beaten Tony’s expression doesn’t change at Steve’s arrival. It’s as if he expects Steve to be there. It pierces Steve in a manner he can’t understand.
His gaze is torn away from one Tony to another. A gun is pressed against his suit, his gloved hand brought up to hold it. Steve snaps over to the standing Tony’s face.
“I can’t kill him on my own,” an exhaustion permeates his tone, “he’s too strong.”
Numbly, Steve grips the gun. Tony’s face swims in his vision, encouragement in his eyes.
“Please,” Tony murmurs, “I want this to be over, don’t you?”
Steve looks over pleading Tony’s shoulder, at the expressionless Tony who watched him with interest. ‘Who will you choose?’ The defeated Tony’s eyes ask. And somewhere in those eyes, Steve thinks, he sees acceptance.
That, that right there. That’s it.
That’s Tony.
Self-loathing Tony, but his husband Tony nonetheless.
Steve hides a reaction behind his lashes. He jerks his arm up, holding the gun steady.
He stretches his arm out, pointing the gun at a crumpled Tony. Again, Tony doesn’t react, seemingly immune to anything Steve could do to him. Accepting it. Believing in Steve.
Meanwhile, the other Tony is vibrating with excitement. It takes all of him not to comment, Steve can tell, so Steve has to move quickly, now, or he’ll get impatient.
Behind the gun barrel, an inkling of a smile reaches Tony’s face. He knows Steve will choose right.
Steve swings his arm towards the gleeful Tony beside him. Before he can exclaim or question, Steve aims at his forehead. He squeezes the trigger.
As Steve registers the bullet in Tony’s forehead, Tony crashes to the floor. He does not move again.
And then, as Steve’s heart quickens in uncertainty, the dead Tony’s face warps. Steve lets out a breath as he lowers the gun. He watches until the full face and form of a Skrull is staring back at him, an eerie goblin in Tony’s clothes.
Releasing his hold, the gun clatters next to the dead Skrull, a loud cracking on the linoleum. Breathing unhindered again, Steve turns back to Tony.
Already standing, Tony smiles warily at him, uncaring about the wounds covering him. “Hey, honey. I’m home.”
Steve doesn’t have it in him to smile at the joke, concern overriding every other emotion. He steps towards Tony and encircles Tony’s hips with his arms, holding him upright; he has no idea how far or deep the injuries go. Tony tilts his bleeding head up, eyes flickering towards the cowl. Their gazes meet, and nothing is said for a full minute.
Steve tips his head down. At the signal, Tony wraps his arms around Steve’s shoulders. Unlike the rough surroundings around them, their kiss was soft, and utterly divine.
When Tony pulls back, amusement dancing in his eyes, he murmurs, “how’d you know it was me?”
Steve searches himself and finds he doesn’t have a good answer. He just…
“I just knew,” he replies, unable to expound.
In his mind, in his heart, in his soul, he just knew.
Tony hunts for more in his gaze, as if hungry, but leans away, moving his arms so his hands pressed against Steve’s chest, giving some inches of space. Steve doesn’t let go of him, though, else Tony will fall and hurt himself further.
Lips parting, Tony looks up, expressing something like amazement, awe. “I don’t think I could do anything in the universe to show you, or tell you, how much that means to me.”
It all comes out in one breath, fluid and rushed, eyes crackling with the energy of someone completely overwhelmed and tired and excited and-
“CAP!”
Steve is broken from a reverie, loosening his hold on Tony as he looks over his shoulder.
Clint steps inside the lobby of the destroyed hotel building, quiver armed with arrows and bow resting against a forearm. Violet shades on sharp eyes analyze the couple, and he stills. Tony and Steve look back at him, not breaking their embrace.
“Tony,” Clint hesitates, “that you?”
“Sir, yes, sir,” Tony teases. “Look behind the desk if you don’t believe me.”
Tilting his head in curiosity, Clint starts forward and rounds the front desk. They lose sight of him, but they share a humorous look in the interim.
Boots scraping against fallen debris indicates Clint’s return to them. Based on the way age lines pull at the mouth, he is impressed. “Good to have you back, Tones.”
Tony smiles brightly, so much so that Steve’s breath is stolen. Even though he’s probably been through hell in past days under Skrull capture, he smiles like nothing will ever break him. This strength is one of the many reasons Steve loves this man.
“Good to be back, Barton,” Tony says, halfway between a quip and a genuine statement.
Steve remembers the state Tony is in, and says to Clint, “Tony needs a medic. Can we get Sam or Rhodes to fly in and take him home?”
“I talked to Rhodes,” Clint touches his hearing aid, also equipped with a comm, “I can get him here.”
“Thanks, Clint,” Steve replies.
As Clint leaves the hotel building, beginning to speak into the comm, Tony shoots Steve a displeased look. “Rhodey’s gonna be so pissed.”
Steve winks. “Only ‘cause he cares, dear.”
Tony lets out a bone-deep sigh. “You gonna hold me ‘til he gets here, then?”
“Mhm,” Steve says, unable to hold back the delight in his voice.
“It’ll be a while, though,” Tony murmurs, something crossing his eyes that Steve doesn’t like. “I’m fine to stand.”
Steve’s mood dips. Somehow, he knows what this is about. “Tony,” he says delicately, “you can tell me what happened anytime.” Tony’s eyes peek behind his lashes. “Doesn’t have to be now, doesn’t have to be later, doesn’t even have to be for weeks or months or years. No matter what or when, I’m here, okay?”
Tony exhales a long breath, regarding him with relief. “Thank you. It was. It was a lot.”
And this trust, this admission, is something the team never sees. The Avengers have never witnessed Tony’s cracks, the depths beyond the visage. They hadn’t seen Steve break either. As co-captains, both men had to show strength, always. But now, in private moments like this, they can speak to one another and allow themselves to be vulnerable.
Steve tips his head in a nod. “Understood.”
Tony shifts closer, and Steve keeps him in a half-hug. “Can we,” Tony’s expression softens, and he says nothing else. Steve hums in affirmation.
They stay there until War Machine flies into the hotel lobby and lands, retracting his helmet. Rhodes looks at the couple, says nothing, and nods at Tony.
Before Tony steps away, he asks Steve, “see you soon?”
Steve smiles and nods. “See you soon.”
Tony stumbles towards Rhodes, Steve’s arms empty once again. Steve watches as Rhodes flies away with Tony, now left in the rubble.