1/4 I think it'll be, maybe 1/5

[simmysim.livejournal.com]

Title: Watchmakers, P1
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 8000
Pairing: Steve/Tony
Summary: The Skrulls won, shit.
Author's Note: TREMENDOUS thanks to onewayfreak and cruelest_month, seriously you guys, seriously.
Warning: This is not nice to Tony. Like at all. This is the hurt to the comfort :| I mean like comfort will follow but right now is just bad.





Mary Jane Watson-Parker isn't dead.

They're pretty sure, anyway. Her injuries had been severe, but nothing the right doctors with the right tools couldn't handle.

At the time she was injured, however, the resistance would've been lucky to have a box of unopened Band-Aids, and McCoy had been uncharacteristically frank. "You have two options. Take her to a hospital, or . . . I can make it painless."

She had been left at a Skrull occupied hospital -- the only functioning hospitals left -- seen by a doctor, and that's as far as they could afford to follow.

It had destroyed Peter.

It's possible she's in worse shape now, but more than likely she was fixed up, cleaned up, and packed away to an internment camp, as, from all indications, the offer of sanctuary Skrulls gave in exchange for surrender had been legitimate. Most humans that took it could still be accounted for, from time to time, popping up as trophies, pets, fugitives of the current established power, pointedly not dead.

There's a chance, even, that Mary Jane's living comfortably in one of the experimental Human Habitats, a near perfect imitation of a normal, free life, monitored and delivered in daily doses by Skrulls. The odds of that are slim, though, as they're inhabited by the easily duped and intimidated, and she's neither of those things.

Peter obviously wishes he'd been strong enough to let her go, rather than sentencing her to a potential lifetime of servitude and humiliation. He hasn't said as much, and he eats like real man, he talks like a real man, swings from tree to tree with just as much grace as a real spider, but his eyes are eerily dead, voice hollow and bitter.

Steve Rogers would like to tell him he's wrong, that he made the right choice. That choosing otherwise would've been the same as giving up. And even though that the tiny, tease of a hope hurts, there really would be nothing worse than the crushing knowledge that she's dead, having absolutely nothing left to fight for.

Steve knows this because Tony Stark is dead, and he would trade anything for a hope.

It's probably an odd thing that he understands the level of pain Peter's going through, a wife and a friend are hardly -- but then, Tony had been . . . something. To him.

Steve hadn't been eager to define his relationship with Tony. So he hadn't. Tony was Tony; he was what Steve needed, when he needed it. A person who saw him as Steve, knew his flaws as well as his virtues. Unquestioned support, an almost uncanny understanding, even when they -- disagreed, and Steve refuses to think about those last months, Registration, because regret and pain of betrayal on top of mourning the man is a bit more than he can fully handle at the moment.

But of course he can't help it, his mind spins in that direction without his consent; it had been so easy not to just look at Tony rather than say how the sight made Steve's chest tighten, easier to bask in his presence than say how much it meant, and Steve's becoming more and more sure if he'd just taken that first step, a lot of mistakes, a lot of the deals Tony had forced himself to make . . . wouldn't've happened. It wouldn't've been demolished so completely.

At the very least, he'd have something to label the profound hole the other man had left behind.

He's pretty sure that hurts worse than just . . . not knowing.

"You know they picked today on purpose," Peter's voice is empty as ever, broadcast directly into Steve's ear and startling him back to the here-- a cramped space surrounded by untamed pines, and now -- which was apparently picked on purpose?

"Today?" Hank Pym asks, sounding distant, voicing Steve's confusion.

"It's Independence Day," Janet answers. "Happy birthday, Cap."

Steve just nods, fingering the rim of his shield. He'd forgotten completely. Keeping track of months and days had hardly seemed important, given the circumstances, although the muggy east coast summer should've been enough of a reminder. They'd certainly been hiding outside in it long enough the past few -- what, it had to've been weeks, now, if it's already July.

"I doubt the general Skrull population is aware of the significance of the fourth of July. If they even know we call this month July," Hank says, pretending to focus on some last minute adjustments to the large ring of machinery, a sort of hatred emphasizing the word Skrull Steve's never heard from the man before. It'd be worrying, that he's still fiddling with the machine this entire operation hinges on, if Steve didn't know it as something to keep his gaze and hands busy. He's gotten quite good at coming up with ways to do that, since being rescued. "And who would they be trying to rile up? As far as they know, all humans are being kept safe in prisons. Or dead."

"I guess it's just a coincidence that they picked the White House, too, then," Peter says. He's hidden in the trees above them, both by foliage and Dr. Strange's spell. He's probably got a fantastic view of said lawn, and the masses of Skrulls lounging on it. Steve can hear the general clatter of a picnic behind him, doesn't feel like facing it, just yet.

"Well," Hank mutters, shrugging.

"It's gloating," Peter says. Steve has to agree, but isn't particularly bothered. The Skrull Queen holding a rally on the White House lawn on Independence Day stirs something deep and cold in Steve, something more than rage, but it's nothing compared to the damage she's already caused.

"And that should be it," Hank says blandly, finally pulling himself away from the large metal ring. "Fingers crossed, everyone."

Three of the five of them -- Peter's probably using his fingers to keep balance and Bruce Banner's not aware of much at the moment -- do. Steve hardly dares to breathe until Hank flicks on the ring, watches the Wardrobe hum to life, red, blue and yellow dashing across the top of it in a way that still, after all this time, seems ridiculously futuristic and almost alien.

After a moment, and another hum, it blends into the forest floor, metal ring vanishing into grass and twigs. Hank puts a hand flat on the ground, runs it over the area the Wardrobe had just disappeared, and meets no resistance. He stands, tests his weight in the center.

So far, so good.

Jan glances at Steve, and he refuses to return it just yet, staring intently; they've gotten this far before. The advanced network communicator in Hank's ear comes to life with an audible click. "This is Edmund. The Wardrobe is up and ready for final run."

"Copy that," Maria Hill says, although you'd have to know who was on call that day to tell, the scrambler makes her sound more machine than human, let alone any human in particular. Resorting to such tactics, scramblers and codenames, but they literally tore apart children's walkie-talkies to make this system, and as such, it's incredibly easy to stumble on and overhear. They had access to better technology, but old analog signals are the only thing they could get past the Skrull's dead zone without setting off alarms.

With humanity in the state that it's in, setting off alarms is something to avoid at all costs.

Jan hands Hank a bright orange bouncy ball, and he covers it in the glue-like substance that's supposed to make all the difference this time. "Sending our first visitor through the Wardrobe," he says.

"The Professor is ready and waiting." It sounds eerily like Iron Man. It's not the first time Steve's noticed this, but his jaw still tightens.

Hank drops it into what now looks like a random patch of forest floor. It vanishes.

They wait.

"The Professor has welcomed your visitor. He's . . . well, roasted."

Peter swears softly above them, Jan takes a quick breath, looking at the ground.

"Copy that," Hank says, apparently undeterred. "Second visitor, doubling his . . . coat?"

"Fur coat, correct," Hill says.

He all but globs the lube on the second toy -- a yo-yo this time -- the excess dripping from between his fingers to the forest floor.

"Here he goes." The yo-yo drops, vanishes when it should hit the ground.

"Professor welcomes your visitor. He's in fine shape," But before it can sink in, "Requesting a third and forth visitor, same coating, to confirm."

"Copy," Hank says, holding out a hand and gets a rubix cube. He eyes Jan, then globs the larger toy with the coat.

"Third visitor is fine. Professor waits for the fourth."

"That's all I brought," Janet says, sheepish, but smiling with tentative hope. This is the farthest they've gotten. "Well -- here." She takes off one gold, loop earring Steve hadn't even noticed she'd been wearing.

Down it goes, and they wait with one collectively held breath.

"The Professor is happy to say he's fine. Operation Narnia is cleared to go," It's possible there's a pleased inflection in the mechanized voice. Steve does a poor job of not thinking of Tony. "Good luck, Lucy."

"Thanks," Steve says, and there's a second click as the advanced network switches off.

"This is it, Steve," Hank says, Jan busying herself with the second kit she finally has a reason to be busy with. "Last chance to back out."

It's obviously meant as a joke, or at least lighten the mood, but the most Steve can manage is a grimace as he sticks out his arm for the ridiculously large needle Jan's holding. She doesn't bother with a pinch, but he barely feels it.

"It's more or less an advanced hologram. It's primitive, really," Hank babbles, in stark contrast to the near stoic man he was seconds ago as Steve's skin morphs, or appears to, settling on bright green. They covered this before they left, several times. Reed likened it to the walkie talkies, said it's easier to smuggling a canon through airport security than an automatic rifle. But Hank seems to finally be allowing himself to get excited. Or maybe nervous. Steve's not entirely sure about anything where Hank is concerned, lately.

He's pretty sure the hologram's finished when Hank looks away, pale, crouching beside the Wardrobe, disassembling it.

"Doc, you're up," Jan says.

"Just a moment," Strange's disembodied voice hovers rather eerily over their party. "Sharon's making her trip today as well."

A sudden hum of music from the horrible alien picnic on the White House lawn grabs Steve's attention -- it's a cue the mass of Skrulls apparently recognize, their murmurs growing as they migrate from the shade toward better stage viewing positions. A shorter than average Skrull takes the podium, barking instructions, brisk and impatient and Steve imagines he's saying the Skrull equivalent of sit down and shut up.

Steve's been avoiding the entire scene, but he finally forces himself to take it in; Skrull children run about giddily, a buzz of pleasant conversation hangs over the milling mommy and daddy Skrulls. Uniformed Skrulls, security and military in general, stand on relaxed watch.

Some have taken to human clothing, it's an odd mix of usual Skrull draping and blue jeans, button up shirts. A child runs by, wearing a plaid pink dress, waving a windmill in the air and laughing. There are Skrullmade dishes laid out on white, plastic tables with plastic table cloths -- it'd all be so normal if it weren't so horrific.

The huddled Avengers watch on in silence -- Bruce and Hank excluded, the later packing the Wardrobe away with quick, jerky movements. He fumbles with some smaller bits, dropping one, and Jan puts a hand on his shoulder, squeezing once. He doesn't shake it off. Steve wishes once again Hank could've stayed behind. Putting him this close to the Skrulls, after everything he'd been through, is hardly fair. But there's literally no one else.

"Here," Hank hands over the small cube the Wardrobe collapsed into without looking Steve in the face. "It should assemble itself. Just, you know, don't put it in a high traffic area. That shouldn't be a problem, but better safe--"

"Sharon's finished, is Steve prepared?" Strange says suddenly.

"Ready and waiting," Steve says, pocketing the device.

"I sense two comatose beings there, is the Captain next to the Skrull?" Steve quickly steps away from the sleeping Bruce, toward the unconscious Skrull. "Now he is, good. Good. Oh, this will be much easier than Sharon's. Brace yourself, Steve."

Steve frowns, concentrates, but these are not apparently ways to brace yourself for a sudden mental dump, because he all but topples over at a sudden shower of images, thoughts, knowledge-- Jan puts a steadying hand on his arm, but he still stumbles to his knees. There's a voice in his head, saying things that he can't understand, until he remembers that it's in English, and he speaks it. "My apologies, Steve," Strange is saying. "The first wave is always the worst."

"Right," he says, but it sounds odd, and it's not until he catches Jan's surprised face that he realizes it was in Skrullish. The tsunami of knowledge lowers to a stream, and Steve doesn't quite feel lost in it, but it's steadily flooding his mind, making it difficult to think of anything other than -- Bolet, that isn't Steve's name, just the name of the man who's entire life is cramming into Steve's skull -- Bolet's bathroom and breakfast he had and his annoying boss and his allergies.

"This is by no means perfect. It's not nearly as extensive as their conditioning, there will be bits of missing knowledge, you'll have to be prepared to play it by ear," Strange is warning. "Carol's turn now. Good luck, Captain." It takes Steve a moment to realize the stream stopped. He blinks, shakes his head.

Hank is asking something, and Steve concentrates on each word, pieces it together slowly. He has no idea how he would manage this if he hadn't experience with learning foreign languages already, "Are you alright?"

"Yes. Yeah, I'm just . . . a little disoriented."

"A little what?"

Skrullish again, and he can't quite come up with the English word for it. "Nothing."

"The speech is starting," Peter says. "Wait -- no. She's sitting back down. But I think he'd better get out there now, any later and he'll stick out."

"Yeah. I'd better-- Yeah," Steve says, shaking his arms loose, as if getting ready to spar.

"Cap," Hank says. Steve turns, but the man's looking at the ground, just ahead of him. Jan can't quite make eye contact either, Bruce is still sprawled out limply, and Peter's hiding away in a tree. Operation Narnia. The Avengers. "Good luck."

"Thanks."

*

Bolet is pleased to find two Skrulls, two friends -- Jilt'in and Hg't -- standing guard. It's been a while since Bolet's seen them, there'd been business, he's been away for some time, a month or so, and he would very much like to greet them. But Steve is still too unsteady to risk it, and walks, with false eagerness, from the trees toward the back of the crowd.

The tail end of what Steve now knows to be a Skrull anthem dies down, and Queen Veranke stands.

Bolet has quite a few interesting emotions to share about her; he certainly admires her. The smile on her magnified face as she steps up the podium, Steve sees as manufactured, Bolet sees as soft pride.

She clears her throat. The murmurs die out completely, an eerie sort of obedience Steve's never seen executed over such a large group before.

"It's hard to believe," her voice travels smoothly, confidently, over her people. "That just a year ago, we were strangers on this land."

Steve arranges Bolet's face in what he hopes is a thoughtful expression, as he stares up at her face. Her smile.

It was one of the first things to greet him, when he came back this time around. Not in person like now, of course, a recorded message she'd been kind enough to send to The Avengers, when they'd still been organized enough to have a place where messages could be sent.

They'd asked Steve not to watch it. They hadn't hid it, or lied about what was on it, they were upfront when he asked. "But there's no point," Carol had all but begged. "Please, Steve. Don't."

Steve wishes, honestly, he wishes there would've been no point, he wishes that he hadn't caused all of this -- because he had. If he hadn't been so stubborn, if he'd actually listened when Tony tried to talk, if he'd expressed himself better, if they'd been a united front, if he hadn't gotten himself killed, he could've been there. When the real threat came. He could've protected Tony and everyone else, stopped this from happening, and he had to face the damage his mistakes caused.

He couldn't flinch away, that . . . Tony deserved better than that.

And so he watched. A message from Queen Veranke herself, settled on her throne, she smiled -- that smile.

"Doesn't it say everything about your people that you send a CEO and business man to attempt diplomacy with an Empress?" she laughed. "Of course, that's not all bad -- it's certainly honest. But doesn't it just say everything about your people that you were foolish enough to deliver him into our hands? Of course, maybe I'm underestimating you. Maybe you wanted to get rid of him."

As she spoke, Tony Stark was dragged in. He looked dead. An actual dead body, limp and pale, blood dripping from the face onto the floor and on a torn excuse for a business shirt. Steve had gone numb as Tony dropped to the floor in front of her throne, lifeless head lolling back, his face, bruised and beaten beyond all recognition.

"My people have a legend, it's always reminded me of our Tony Stark. It's about a young emperor driven mad by his father's untimely death. He decides the neighboring kingdom is to blame, although they were a peaceful people, who had only done good by him. He attacked, again and again, growing more ruthless, frustrated that his war wasn't giving him the results he desired -- of course there's no way for him to be appeased, and his madness grew. First with rocks, he ordered his men. Then with blades, and finally with fire. Each time the losses to his kingdom were substantial, but he continued in his mad attempt at vengeance.

"Now, his neighbors. They were simple people, farmers, they had no concept of war, they had no way to prepare for these senseless attacks. But their numbers were great, and stayed great, and finally, when the prince had laid waste to his own men . . . they picked up the rocks he had thrown at their windows, and threw them at his kingdom," she backhanded Tony, who rolled with the impact limply. "They lifted the blades from the corpses of their own people, and ran them through his guards." A blade sliced. Down Tony's stomach. Here, he had inhaled sharply, obviously unconscious but alive, and just enough surprise and hope welled up in Steve to ache even worse when it ended.

"And then, they picked up the torches."

And Tony screamed. Tony screamed and screamed and Steve . . . Steve looked away.

Now, he doesn't.

". . . . past year we've been shaken. We've been tested, we've given up more than we could've possibly anticipated -- but we survived. It's been a year of mourning. And while we'll never forget what we've lost, nor should we, let's look to a year of prosperity. We've made it. He loves us." And as everyone around Steve cheers, as he resists Bolet's encouragement to join them, she gives another muted, encouraging smile.

One that falters, because the ground starts to shake. She sends an annoyed look at the surrounding trees, which her audience follows.

"Holy--"

"What is that? What is that?"

Rising from the forest, a black mop of hair splinters the trees around him with one lazy swipe of the arm. The monster gazes on the crowd, lip curling in disgust.

"Hulk HATE puny green men," he snarls, crowd too stunned to move until the Hulk surges forward, fists high in the air. "Hulk SMASH Skrulls!"

Screams of abject terror, and the crowd scatters. Military immediately surges into action, some directing the hysterical crowd past the gate, back in to the city, others donning a collage of powers Steve recognizes as Fantastic Four based.

Steve watches the mayhem just a moment, willing Hulk toward the stage, toward a queen that's already being rushed away by her staff, but Hulk's rage is aimless. Stomping, smashing, ripping anything in reach. Recognizing the merit of getting out of that reach, he turns, melding into the crowd of screaming innocents.

The communications, hologram-- they won't set off any alarms or sensors. The Wardrobe, on the other hand, is impossible to hide. But a single blip on a security check is easily ignorable in a mass crisis, when hundreds of bodies are being rushed to safety.

There are three check points between four high walls, and one force field around the capital settlement. Steve is rushed by two without so much as a blink from the panicking guards, and he hears the third -- Cim'ta, Bolet thinks she's cute -- behind the monitors, "Hey, what's--" but he's whisked by before she can finish her sentence.

It's only after the huge metal doors slam shut behind him that Steve relaxes. It's only then that it hits him fully -- their plan worked. It's a rather dizzying prospect, until he remembers that honestly, he hasn't even gotten to the hard part.

"W-was that a human?"

"I don't think so -- Maybe. Don't worry baby, they won't let it inside," A father comforts his terrified child once inside the village, the whole lot of them milling around the entrance with the general useless confusion and relief of saved innocent bystanders Steve is duly familiar with.

He's filled with adrenaline, itching to fight, run, get it out. Espionage, Steve Rogers can do. Surveillance, infiltration, covert operations, not a problem. But long-term, politically influential undercover work? Not exactly his thing. He's in the thick of it, he ought to be sneaking, doing, hitting.

His body's not sure what to make of him calmly turning, walking down a main street that's been relabeled some incomprehensible Skrullish. Bolet wants to go home, shower, contact friends. But the resistance hadn't been able to get a decent picture of what DC had been turned into since the force field went up, and the first thing Steve needs to do is scope out a decent center, a place to store the Wardrobe in relatively accessible distance from all the hotspots, and check in with the professor.

"Bolet!" A young male Skrull Bolet immediately informs him can't be ignored, is waving. Bolet and Kil'ag met four years ago, Steve learns. They'd bounced between rivals and friends. Given the times, they're now firmly locked in friends territory. They give a one armed hug, a greeting they'd picked up from local humans. Before they were mowed down or evacuated. "What happened out there? They're saying there was some sort of monster attack? Did you see humans?"

"Don't know," he says, Bolet's voice coming as a slight surprise. Deep and raspy. When he starts walking, Kil'ag follows. "There was only one, didn't get a good look at it. Bigger than any human I've ever seen."

"Doubt it was humans," Kil'ag says, thoughtfully, as they stroll. It's probably a very bad thing that Steve hasn't been able to read any of the Skrullish nailed over the original shop signs. Could Strange really have missed that large a chunk of knowledge? Being illiterate would be a huge handicap. "They haven't attacked in months, they're probably dying out by now. The ones who wouldn't go into camps, I mean."

Bolet does not care either way about humans, and Steve shrugs noncommittally. "Thing was huge, though. The guards are gonna have their hands full."

"I'm not worried. Anyway, a nice welcome home, eh?" Kil'ag laughs. "S'what you get for going to some empress's speech before saying hello to your friends. Come on, that stuff's for kids and soldiers. I thought you were over that crush on our queen."

"Just doing my civic duty," Bolet's cheeky smile comes on thoughtlessly, like autopilot.

"Yeah, yeah. You want a bit more than that. Come on to the commissary, I'll buy you a drink and you tell me about your trip before debriefing."

Steve allows himself to be led further in. The Wardrobe is heavy in his pocket, but he's got a feeling it'd be near impossible to ditch this guy without causing suspicion, and Bolet is practically aching to talk to him.

"I hope you had fun, cause it was boring without you here," Kil'ag babbles on as they walk, Steve growing more disturbed as they get deeper into what used to be a city. It'd be easier to take in if they'd done mass damage. If they'd plowed over what used to be, rebuilt in their new image. But they didn't. Skrulls are apparently practical, if nothing else.

Schools are untouched but for the flags billowing in the wind. Rows of houses, perfectly intact. Parks, grocery stores, barber shops. They just came in and took over what was already there, like some Invasion of the Pod People. He can see the skyline, relatively untouched, if not for the stonewall encasements and the few obliviously rushed constructs, it'd be hard to notice any difference at all.

Oh, those and the Skrulls.

"So, was Nimon happy to see you?" he asks, passing over a drink that Steve is pretty much going to nurse because there are green globs that look alive floating in it.

Nimon. Mutual female friend, this is teasing. He smiles. "Knock it off. No. She's fine, though." He combs his mind for news about Nimon. "She says hi. She doesn't like the weather in her settlement, it's too hot."

Kil'ag nods sympathetically. "This planet. If it's cold one place, it's hot in the other. I hear you could literally find any given temperature any time of day, just depending on where you are."

Steve opens his mouth. He's going to say something incredibly boring, unmemorable, shove this conversation as full of banalities as possible so he can run off and escape.

At first he just notices the pink flesh, out the corner of his eye. He stares, not quite processing it for a good five seconds.

Tony Stark. Ridiculously underweight and pale but walking.

Tony's walking -- because Tony is alive, and not dead -- two paces behind Ug'tol, a rather loud spoken Skrull activist who just entered the commissary, and Steve realizes he's staring, open mouthed, just a moment too late. Kil'ag follows his gaze.

He puts a comforting hand on Steve's shoulder. "He's been in our village for a month or so. He should be passed along fairly soon. Do you want -- I'm sure Ug'tol won't mind making Stark wait outside, considering. I don't think he's even allowed in here, technically." Considering? Bolet's memories give him nothing, and Steve shakes his head vaguely, still too shaken for much more of a response. Thankfully, it's enough for Kil'ag. "If it makes you feel better, he's being treated like shit."

"Oh?"

"We've all been giving him pieces of our minds," Kil'ag smiles, and the conversation moves on to mundane village business. Natle finally swore fidelity to Kn'got-- the ceremony isn't set yet, and there was a party last week where Ys'n made a fool of himself, to the surprise of no one.

It would be easier if they hadn't settled directly in Steve's peripheral vision. If Ug'tol hadn't stopped to talk to a younger female Bolet tells him is a bit of a flirt, and while they're too far away for Steve to make out the conversation, he can drink in Tony waiting, his head bowed slightly, hands clasped behind his back. He's wearing a modified version of the usual purple and black Skrull uniform, one that covers very little. Black, metal armbands, a matching collar, purple sandals that twine up to his knees, and sort of loin cloth. It's pretty obviously slave garb.

And alive.

The flow of conversation stops abruptly, he jerks back, meeting a sympathetic stare.

"Bolet," says Kil'ag, obviously considering his next words carefully. "You should arrange for some time alone with Stark. We've all had our fun while you were away, you could probably get him all to yourself for the rest of his stay."

Had their fun? All of them? What did that entail, exactly, because Steve isn't a stranger to undisciplined squadrons, he knows the lows soldiers can stoop when given absolute control over a prisoner of war. He reins those thoughts in, and focuses on Kil'ag's face. "Really?"

"We've all suffered in this war, but," he looks down, solemnly. "I don't think anyone else here has lost as profoundly as you. All at the hands of that . . . monster. I think they'd understand. You need catharsis."

Losses? There's something there, in the back of Bolet's mind, but the knowledge that Tony has been acting as an entire village's punching bag for who knows how long is a bit more prominent.

As if on some awful universal cue, Tony must've said something because Ug'tol scowls and delivers a ridiculously loud backhand, sending him stumbling back. A few Skrulls glance up at the noise, but it seems to be business as usual, they go back to their meals without a word.

"Yes, I think I'll do that," Steve says, and he's sure it sounds robotic but it's the best he can do. He starts to stand, walk over, but Kil'ag's hand on his arm holds him back. Steve barely refrains from jerking free. "What?"

"Debriefing first, remember?" he says, laughing slightly, apparently ignoring the harsh tone. "Stark'll still be here when you get back! Don't worry, I'll hold your place in line."

"Right." Right. Tony is a bonus, not the mission, Steve can't -- cannot jeopardize this. Tony's found his balance, and Ug'tol's got a hand forcing his chin up, considering the cut he made on Tony's lip with a cool disgust. Then swipes a bit of blood off with his thumb, and sticks it in Tony's mouth, for him to clean. Steve’s hands are shaking, but he manages to make it out of the commissary without hitting anyone.

*

"Ug'tol."

"Bolet," the fat, little Skrull pulls the drooping skin of his face into a smile. "I hear you've gotten in line for a ride with our guest."

"If you're finished with him," he says, casually. What he hopes is graciously. He's running thin on patience.

Debriefing had been an event -- in that Steve had to write a lot, and the ability to read and write Skrullish is still beyond him.

Thankfully, Bolet is apparently a bit of a flirt. Or, a really huge flirt. A dasher, actually, would be a more appropriate term, and the receptionist didn't have a problem with filling it out for him as he went on about some fictional wrist pain and she cooed in sympathy.

Debriefing had also been short, because Bolet is not military and didn't go on sensitive ground. Just what used to be Texas, just for a month, no he didn't bring back any fruits or animals. He has a feeling it could've been much longer, if it weren't for Bolet's apparent past with the receptionist, and Steve practically leaving one foot in the door the entire time.

To come back here, and find Tony.

Tony on his knees, beside the chair, head down.

He's scarred.

All over. Ugly, thick patches of pink, Extremis obviously didn't have anything to do with the healing of his legs or arms, his shoulder or -or anywhere else the fire touched, Steve forces himself to look away, so as to sound normal when he talks, and not murderous.

"Oh, we've had all sorts of fun, haven't we, Tony?" Ug'tol says, bringing a hand down to toy with short, black hair. "But I don't think I'd ever be properly finished with him, and considering the circumstances, I think I could give him up. Go on," Ug'tol raps the back of Tony's head, and he stands, moving behind Steve without a word.

Steve wants to get Tony alone, wants to apologize, wants Tony to argue with him, wants to look over every inch of him, to have his hands confirm what his eyes are saying, wants to know every mark they dared to put on his body. He settles for squeezing Tony's unresisting wrist as he makes forced small talk. Thankfully, Bolet doesn't seem to have a good track record with subtly or politics, no one will think twice of Steve's fidgeting.

Ug'tol calls himself a human activist, but opportunist would probably be a more apt title. He rolls his eyes when mentioning experiments human captives were put through.

"Unnecessary, entirely. They're already beat, we can all see that. And it's not as though we want to destroy them, humans have such a fascinating culture. Very worth preserving. At least for study, don't you agree? And the fad of human pets. It's irresponsible, if I'm going to be honest. We need stricter laws, the system we've got going now -- it's cruel."

Steve didn't need Bolet's help to translate 'stricter laws' into 'legalized slaves.' "Right, yeah," he says blandly. Tony shifts behind him. Alive.

"Good man," Ug'tol says. Glances at Steve's grip on Tony and laughs. "Alright, I'll let you have fun with your new toy. Watch out, he's a spirited one!"

"Thank you," Steve grinds out awkwardly, turns and all but drags Tony out of the room.

Relatively alone in the hall, Steve can finally take him in.

He should look freakish. By all accounts, he should be a horrifying sight. Where he isn't scarred from the fire, there's lash marks, where there's not lashes, there's bone practically trying to rip free of skin fom malnourishment. Somehow, he doesn't. He still looks like Tony Stark, shaken and beaten, but Tony. Sickeningly exotic in the slave wear. Steve feels dirty thinking it, dirtier that he knows Tony was quite lucky, the flames seem to have been controlled, his body healed remarkably well, face and neck untouched.

His hands though. His right one especially, the pinky and ring finger seem permanently curled, knotted thick with scarring, only three functional fingers.

Steve's finding it extremely trying to keep his face calm, collected. There's . . . a brand, burned into the skin of his hip. Obviously Skrullish, they branded him. They branded him, as if beating and burning alive wasn't enough.

But he is alive. Tony's alive.

He wants to say something reassuring, tries to think of anything that could be overheard. He wants Tony to start rambling about some - some member of Stark Enterprise's board or a break through with his suit. Knows he can't until they go down the hall, out the parking lot, to a car Bolet was given within his first few weeks on Earth. He satisfies himself with his tight grip; Tony doesn't seem especially surprised by his fervor, limp and unresisting, obediently allowing himself to be dragged along. Although he doesn't seem, and hasn't seemed, especially anything, his face eerily blank.

He climbs into the passenger side of Bolet's stolen SUV without being told, and Steve finally releases him in favor of strangling the steering wheel. The ride to Bolet's stolen house is silent -- if Steve opens his mouth, the first thing that's going to come out is who he is and what's going on, and the sidewalks they pass, the store windows, pet stores and restaurants, dotted with green skinned aliens, is a good enough reminder of why he should wait.

Bolet's stolen house is nice, a happy yellow, two stories, probably belonged to a small family. The memory of two children's rooms, one with a Thor poster, the other with Hannah Montana bedding, confirms this. Most east coast residents were evacuated to Atlantis before the Skrulls swept in for the final time, but there was always that five percent death toll, the ones they weren't fast enough to save. Steve runs through the facts numbly, he can't care, just at this moment.

There are gnomes in the flower beds, and a wicker welcome mat in front of the door.

Steve has no idea where the keys are. Probably on Bolet's unconscious body, back in the base with -- everyone, they don't know, they think Tony's dead. He paws around on top of the doorframe, finding a spare and giving a small cry of frustration when it takes more than a second to unlock.

"Tony," he says, slams the door behind them, and immediately drops the hologram, becomes Steve Rogers again. He forces Tony's gaze up from the floor. Blue eyes widen. "It's me, I--" so much to say. He'd wished constantly for just an hour, just a minute, to end things properly with Tony, to set it all straight and he finds his mouth working noiselessly. Uselessly. Overwhelmed. "We thought you were dead," he says, finally. "The fire, they sent us a video. I -- would've come if I'd known. And I know it kind of pales compared to what's going on now, but I-- I never thought I'd see you again. I have to say -- about that whole--Registration, I was wrong, in how I handled that, and I forgive you. I know you had good intentions, but you were kind of stubborn about it. But, but we both were, and I don't hold it against you."

Tony is very, very quiet. He's staring up at Steve with eyes so blank, not even surprise, and this isn't quite how Steve pictured this happening. His hands tighten in worry on scarred shoulders. "Tony?" How broken is he? Steve can't help it. Under the weight of the blank stare, he keeps going. "You never should've gone through this. It should've never gotten this bad. I should've been here, stopped this with you. I'm so sorry--"

Tony spits in his face. It lands wetly on Steve's chin, and he stops in surprise.

"You didn't do your homework," Tony snarls, wrenching free of Steve's slackened grip, glaring with such raw hatred, it's disarming. "Captain America is dead. And you don't deserve to wear his face."

"I'm alive." Steve wipes his chin clean, but doesn't approach the man whose stance is quickly resembling that of a cornered animal. "And I'm not alone, there's a resistance. Ask me anything, really, it's me--"

"And you'll answer with whatever Captain America would actually say," he says, flatly. "It's been done before. Means nothing."

"Tony," Steve says, knowing it's ridiculous to feel hurt by this. "Can't you tell?"

Tony's jaw is grinding, he's staring at the ground stonily. "Stop it."

Steve swallows down the immediate protest. The silence, but for Tony's erratic breathing, stretches. "Is there anything I could do to prove to you--"

"No. No, there's not, and even if you were Steve on some absurd covert operation, you'd be better off without me knowing. You wouldn't want such a liability in the hands of the enemy."

"You wouldn't--"

"I would. I do," Tony laughs. "Once you hacked into Extremis -- I can be bent into all kinds of shapes!"

"Tony," Steve says, wincing, not quite able to meet the frenzied blue eyes. He's being driven mad, and what he said earlier hits Steve. "They've done this before -- pretended to be me?"

Tony just stares at the ground.

"So, is that why," Steve clears his throat. "They're not letting Extremis heal you? They shut it down?"

Tony says nothing, although his gaze shifts.

"You -- this guy, this Skrull I'm pretending to be, his name is Bolet. Apparently he's got history with you, so they're going to let me -- I'm going to make sure I'll have you until this is over. Tony? No one is going to touch you. You're-- you're not going to be hit anymore. I'm going to make sure of it," Steve says. "And then we're going to get out of here, and kick the Skrulls out into deep space, and Peter is going to make fun of you for the rest of your life because you didn't believe I'm me."

Tony actually looks pained at this, his head dipping even further. Voice tight, "Stop it."

Steve stares, and it does as much good as one would expect. Utterly useless.

It's not important, just at this moment, that Tony believe him. It really isn't. It won't change the fact that Steve's going to rip off the arms of anyone who tries to touch him again, or that he's going to get Tony out of this, if he has take down the entire Skrull empire with just his fists.

It'd just be nice, if Tony knew he was saved.

"You need to get out of that getup," Steve says, feeling like an ass for not making that top priority. "Shower, actually, when was the last time you showered? Scratch that, when was the last time you ate?"

Tony watches him suspiciously. "Two weeks ago."

"How--"

"Extremis."

"That-- can do that? I thought they cut you off?"

"You all control Extremis. I have what you give me."

"But isn't that uncomfortable?" Steve asks.

"Intensely," Tony says. Steve tries not to look at the jutting hipbones, defined ribs. Upgraded from worrying to deeply horrifying, evidence of actual starvation. He drags Tony to the kitchen.

There's an incredibly poor selection, highlights being a box of graham crackers in the shape of bears, fruit juice and some moldy bread Bolet hadn't had the foresight to throw out before leaving. Steve grabs everything he can reach and dumps it in front of Tony, who sits at the kitchen table, looking more blank than defensive or scared, which Steve decides is a good thing.

"You should look for more, there's probably some cans in the pantry. I've got to go check in, I'm late already, they'll think something went wrong," he says. "So, eat, and then shower or change. Or whatever. Do whatever you want. Don't leave. You won't leave, right?"

Tony stares, and shakes his head no.