Whatever It Takes

Y/N’s heart honest-to-god squeezes in her chest when Clint drops to his knees next to her, baseball mitt clutched tightly in his hands.

His breathing is labored, and she can see tears beginning to collect in his eyes as he hugs the mitt closer. “Lila,” he breathed, eyes never leaving the mitt in his hand.

“Holy fucking shit,” Rocket murmurs from somewhere in the circle. “It worked.”

It’s the phrase on everyone’s minds.

Y/N slips her hand into Clint’s once he stands up, squeezing three times. It’s okay. We can do this. We’ll get them back. She sees Harley’s hand come up to clasp Clint’s shoulder on his other side; behind Clint, they shoot each other looks filled with more emotion than either of them can explain.

Clint hadn’t stopped feeling like a father because he had lost his kids; the instincts were still there, and there was no shortage of lost kids loose in the compound the past few years. Harley had lost his mom and his sister in the snap, and the grief in his eyes mirrored Clint’s. The two had managed to keep each other grounded, tethered to the Earth by something other than gravity.

The sound of Tony clearing his throat stopped her waxing poetic about found father figures. He clapped his hands together, a small smirk curving across his lips. “I know how much you all love hearing me speak,” he started, ignoring the groans and quips from around the circle. “But I’m gonna turn this one over to the Captain. Cap?”

Y/N admired him as Steve stood straighter, his eyes taking in every face around him. Every whisper of doubt that had circled him late into the night and early into the morning– the doubt that Y/N had spent hours chasing away with confidence, hope, and her unwavering belief in him– faded and dimmed as grim determination set in. It was in the set of his shoulders, in the blue of his eyes, and in the certainty of his words as he began to speak.

“Five years ago, we all lost. We lost friends. We lost family. We lost a part of ourselves. Today, we have a chance to take it all back,” Steve says. His voice is certain in a way that infuses the team with the same battle-readiness that he always carries. “Know your teams. Know your missions. Get the stones, get them back. One round trip each. No mistakes. No do-overs.”

The room is silent except for Steve as he casts a glance at every one of them. “Most of us are going somewhere we know– that doesn’t mean we should know what to expect. Be careful. Look out for each other. This is the fight of our lives. We’re gonna win.”

“Whatever it takes,” he swears, eyes never wavering from Tony. “Good luck.”

Heat sparks in Y/N’s chest as he speaks, and she’s reminded, for the millionth time, that this is the man she loves. Every single time, it hits her like a lightning strike to the chest; it charges every single molecule, and she buzzes with the electricity of it.

Steve turns to look at her, his eyebrows pulled together in confusion. She flicks an eyebrow upward, a silent question. His stare is puzzled, but his smile is amused. “You’re glowing,” he says, simply.

She wants to say that she absolutely is not, but it does happen occasionally. Mostly when she goes off on romantic tangents in her head– and her cheeks redden slightly when she remembers that he knows that. A pinch on her arm draws her attention to Harley as she hears Bruce and Tony readying the machines.

The portal opens and the light is almost blinding.

The smile on Harley’s face and the hope in his eyes are radiant. “You better finally teach me that handshake when we get back, Sunshine,” he demands, scrunching his nose. “See you in a minute.” He winks.

After that, it’s a leap of faith.

“As far as I’m concerned, that’s America’s Ass!” Scott pipes up, his voice tinny in Y/N’s ear.

She rolls her eyes despite her secret agreement. Steve Rogers was eye candy from every angle, no matter what he was wearing. Since, of course, the plan has already gone to shit and Past-Steve had the scepter, they’d had to adapt– which is why she’s in a supply closet tugging on a pencil skirt and a blouse, ignoring the chatter in her ear as the rest of them do their parts. She slides on the glasses that Tony had given her to make her look “more innocuous” (whatever that meant). She has mere moments before she’s supposed to orchestrate a run-in with past-Steve. “Alright, I’m good to go. Just say when.”  

She has time to take a breath. And another.

“When.” Steve’s voice in her ear is a caress that jolts her into action.

She exits the storage closet, bumping right into past-Captain America and stumbling to the ground. She plays the part of the bumbling ditz ever-so-perfectly. “Oh, god. I’m so, so sorry. Oh, my God– You’re Captain America. I just bumped into Captain America. Is that treason or something?”

“Somebody give her an Oscar,” she hears Scott mumble in her earpiece.

Past-Steve’s lips tip into a smile, and he places the case down before stepping forward to extend a hand to her, ever the gentleman– exactly what they had counted on (“Listen, doll. I was always a sucker for anyone in distress– make it a pretty damsel like you, and you probably could’ve swindled me out of my shield,” Steve had said with a laugh).

God, she ached to cup his cheek, to press her mouth to his soft lips, to brush back the strand of hair that fell over his forehead. He clasped her hand in his and pulled her to her feet. “Miss? Are you okay?”

She hardly heard him as she noticed her Steve approach from the corner of her eye. She shifted her attention back to past-Steve before he could notice. Past-Steve looked concerned, eyes scanning her for injuries, his hand not leaving her arm where it had come to steady her.

She tilted her head to the side, wondering why she had to restrain herself. Distracting him was her role, wasn’t it? And even if he rejected her, Steve Rogers would never be anything but gentle in his dismissal of her advances.

She played bashful, batting her lashes at him and looking back at the ground before gazing dreamily at him. “I’m fine, Captain Rogers,” she reassured him. “Just… wondering how to thank one of the world’s mightiest heroes.”

Past-Steve turned bashful, his cheeks taking on a pink tinge as he kicked at the ground. She doesn’t give him the chance to respond. Y/N pressed a hand to his cheek, soft and gentle, leaning up on her tiptoes. She brushes a hand over his cheekbone like she always does with her Steve.

His eyes widen, and her breath fans over his face. “Thank you, Captain Rogers,” she whispers (if her voice is a little breathier than usual, would anyone really be able to blame her?), and she allows her lips to melt against his. Her body sags against his because this may not be her Steve (some part of her mind wondered where in the hell her Steve was and why he didn’t grab the goddamn case yet) but he’s still fundamentally Steve– a contradiction of muscled and soft, tough but gentle. He smells invitingly warm and spicy like her Steve. He tastes like her Steve, lips as lush and pliant as ever. He feels like home like her Steve.

Most importantly, he didn’t hold her like he was about to break her heart.

To her surprise, his lips move slightly against hers and his hands come to rest on her waist. It’s a nice moment.

Or, it is until her Steve fumbles the goddamn case.

“Shit,” past-Steve swears under his breath, pulling away from her. “Uh– Sorry, Miss. You should get clear of this situation.” Past-Steve fumbles through his apology before rounding on her Steve. “I have eyes on Loki,” he states into his comm, informing the rest of the past-team.

“I don’t want to fight you,” her Steve says.

Y/N rolls her eyes. Why can’t one mission go according to plan just one time? Clearly, that’s too much to ask, because her stupid boyfriend and stupid past-Steve have already flung their shields at each other.

“I can do this all day,” Past-Steve argues.

“Yeah, I know. I know,” her Steve grouses.

If she leaves this up to them, they might actually be here all day. The case tips over, the scepter falling out, rolling over the edge. Y/N doesn’t check to see if the boys follow; she’s already grabbed one of the shields. She phases into the fight a step behind Past-Steve and knocks him out with a slam to the head from the vibranium shield.

She doesn’t say anything to him as they collect the scepter and place it gently in the case. Apparently, he doesn’t think she deserves the same courtesy. “What the hell was that?”

“A distraction.” She shrugs.

“That was a very hands-on distraction.”

It’s on the tip of her tongue– a snarky, thoughtless comment (“Auditioning your replacement is kind of a hands-on job.”) that will break the fragile truce of the last day or two since her conversation with Wanda. Y/N snaps her mouth shut, clenching her teeth together. Her hands ball into fists, crushing the fake glasses she had shed moments ago, and frustration boils in her veins. Before she combusts and destroys their last hope, she struts toward the rendezvous point without looking back.

“We have a problem,” Tony admits from the front seat of the car to the pair that approaches.

Things move very quickly once Tony and Steve start speaking. There are a few too many “maybe”s and “almost”s for her comfort, but the planning is seamless between the two of them, an echo of an era long past; they’ve been fractured for far too long. They’re syncing their time travel GPSs before she can blink.

“1-9-7-0,” Tony promises.

“1970,” Steve agrees.

With a nod at her and Scott, they’re gone, and practically, she knows it’s maybe going to be seconds before she sees them again. But maybe not, and this was never how she wanted to say goodbye. 

“Let’s head back,” she orders, and if her tone is far too scathing, Scott says nothing. He’s quick to count off their return.

There’s a flash of light, and she’s surrounded by familiar faces, panting but hopeful. On Y/N’s right, Steve’s mask retracts, and he’s grinning at Tony in a way that she hasn’t seen in years. She turns her head slowly, cataloging everyone, searching for injuries.

“Where’s Harley?”

Y/N’s not sure who asked but the question makes her head snap toward Clint. His face is stormy and overcast, eyes shining with something she can’t place– something she doesn’t want to acknowledge.

“No,” she says. She thinks she’s shaking her head, but movement doesn’t seem to come naturally to her at the moment. If she thinks about it, breathing isn’t so easy either.

Everyone has walked away from the platform except for her, Clint, and Steve. Y/N grabs Clint’s arms, searching his eyes. “No.” It’s a denial. It’s a refusal.

Clint’s voice shakes as he tries to speak. “It’s– he shot me with a repulsor blast. I can’t–” he tries, but the words don’t come. “A soul for the stone. He wouldn’t let it be me.”

She thinks Clint says more, maybe more of an explanation, maybe an apology. She hopes someone’s listening because she can’t hear him. It all gets muddled together– motions, breathing, sound, color. She hears screaming: gut-wrenching, heartbreaking screams and sobs.

“Let me go! It should be me!”

Her fingers hurt, and her throat is raw and scratchy; she wants the screaming to stop because it’s hurting her ears. Steve is wrapped around her, and Y/N realizes that the pain in her fingers is from clawing at his back, pushing him away.

Y/N presses a hand to her lips, a nervous habit that makes itself known on the rarest of occasions. Beneath aching fingers– even though she still can’t hear– she feels her trembling lips shape the words. It’s not a defiant scream. There’s no energy left for anger, for fighting Steve as he restrains her. It’s a desperate plea, a whimper; she begs, knees on the ground in prayer position. “Let it be me.”

Just like that, with the disappearance of Peter Parker and the death of Harley Keener, the Three Musketeers become one.