Work Text:
They had won, but it had been a battle of attrition, as the military personnel would've put it. They had won, but oh, the cost. Not to them, personally, save for the usual spread of bruises and broken bones, but the city...it had been reduced to crumbled buildings and a lake of fire. The air stank of burning flesh, acrid and putrid and nauseatingly sweet.
“Evac! Go help evac the civilians!” Steve had shouted at them, and they'd scattered in all directions.
They'd taken up rescue operations after the battle, but there hadn't been much to save. The destruction didn't matter. They could rebuild, rebuild, rebuild – humans were good at that, at destroying themselves and building their lives back up. Glass can be blown anew, concrete re-cast. Lives...those weren't so easy.
“Power levels at 22% and falling, sir,” JARVIS informed Tony.
“Yeah, yeah...” Tony scooped the last of the survivors out from a crumbling skyscraper (they were screaming, and it probably wasn't from the thrill of an Iron Man chauffeur), turned on a dime, and landed heavily on the ground. Natasha and Clint immediately began checking them over for injuries while Thor cleared the last of the debris from the streets.
“Roll call?” Tony asked abruptly, as he scooped up a piece of rebar and pried loose his misshapen gauntlet. “Anyone need to go on one of those ambulances?”
“Fine,” Clint and Natasha said together, busily wrapping bandages and burn dressings.
“I am well,” Thor rumbled.
“Great. Bruce? Oh,” he spotted the scientist, de-Hulked, against a bank of debris Thor had piled into a corner. Natasha and Clint had helpfully laid a blanket over him. It was still snowing, and while the battle and the rescue and fires kept them warm, that wouldn't last too long. “Where's Cap? Usually he does the roll call.”
Thor shrugged. “I last saw Friend Steven assisting with the flames. I do not know his present location, but I am sure he is well.”
“Yeah, me too, but I'd like to double check.” Clumsily pivoting, he attempted to use the thrusters, which promptly spluttered and died.
“Sir, with power levels at 17% and damage to the thrusters, it is unadvised to attempt sustained flight.”
Tony sighed, not even dignifying that with a response, and began to jog.
He found Steve easily, red and white and blue against skies smudged by smoke and asphalt scorched by flames. Steve sat among the piles of the dead, the remaining ambulances having left with those that might be saved. He'd taken his helmet off, and snow was collecting in his hair.
Tony jogged over, trying very hard not to look at the burnt bodies. He thought burn victims were the worst, after torture victims. “Cap? Any injuries we should know about?”
Steve shook his head. A cut on his head dribbled blood, thin red trails through the soot on his face. He stared blankly at the charred remains surrounding him, little embers still smoldering in flesh. The snowflakes melted on contact.
Tony followed his gaze and tried not to wince. “Not your fault, Rogers.”
“I know,” Steve said wearily, closing his eyes. He didn't sound convinced.
(“JARVIS?” Tony said privately.
“Captain Rogers has two cracked ribs, numerous lacerations and contusions of varying severity, and a sprained wrist,” his AI reported, and Tony let out a relieved breath. “There are no life-threatening injuries, but I would suggest reinforcing his next iteration of flex-armour.”)
“I just thought,” Steve continued, opening his eyes again to survey the corpses, “if I had - ”
“Stop it,” Tony interrupted, flipping open his faceplate (he needed the air anyway). “You did the best you could. We all did.”
“What if that's not enough?”
“It'll have to be.”
“Tell that to them,” Steve said bitterly, waving at the bodies, and Tony had nothing to say to that. They did fail these people, and Steve was the leader, so he'd take most of the fall, because that was what the leader did.
Tony'd seen the file, the pictures. He knew what the pre-Serum Steve Rogers looked like. The current Steve Rogers had at least 6 inches and 100 pounds of muscle over his prior self, but it was so easy to see the small, asthmatic kid from Brooklyn in the weary lines of the super soldier's face.
Ice age aside, Steve Rogers was only about 25. And he'd already lived two lifetimes of loss, led his teams through a war, an alien invasion, and all the monsters of the week; he had to watch the media dissect and criticize his every move, every decision on the field, on the good days and the bad, what if, what if, what if.
A college-aged kid, barely past drinking age, had piloted war-planes and stopped armies and was expected to save the world over, and over, and over again.
None of their lives were easy, to be fair, but sometimes he was reminded that Steve's been dealt the toughest hand of them all.
“C'mon,” he extended his ungauntletted hand, fingers already numbing in the cold. “Let's go get cleaned up, make sure Bruce is in one piece, and go for food.”
With a last twist of his mouth, Steve took his hand, pulled himself to his feet. Tony...didn't quite put a hand over his shoulders as they threaded through the wreckage, but he made sure to tug on Steve's sleeve and right him when the man stumbled.
He knew that Steve would probably be back tomorrow, to help with the cleanup. That was what he usually did.
This time, his own ribs willing, Tony might come with him.