Title: Credence

Summary: Tony insists he's fine. Steve insists he's full of shit. (Two-Shot) (Subject to change)

Characters: Steve Rogers (Captain America), Tony Stark (Iron Man)

Pairings: None.

Warnings: Language, some violence.

Time Period: Set Post-Avengers

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

(2)

"Steve!" Tony was still shouting at him, which Steve could really use without at the moment. He was gritting his teeth so solidly that his jaw ached.

The car was speeding down the highway at breakneck speed, but it couldn't out run the rapid torrent of gunfire.

One bullet hit the car's blinker, another lodged itself at the center of the rear license plate. A third bullet took out Steve's center rearview mirror. Trickles of glass rained down on him, but Steve didn't even blink.

He kept twisting the wheel, swinging the car in different directions, hoping to the throw off the shooters' aim. "Steve! Steve!"

"What?" Steve bit out. One of the motorcycles was speeding up, taking the lead over the others. The rider's gun was disturbingly large.

"You're bleeding! Fuck, that's a lot of blood!"

"I'm a little busy right now," he growled, concentrating on his attempts to shake off his assailants. He could feel the blood oozing down his shoulder and dripping from his elbow. The pain was agonizing but he blocked it out as best he could. The sound of roaring motors was getting louder.

Steve chanced a glance to his side; his side view mirror showed the large gun wielder right behind him, gun pointed directly at them.

Shit.

"Get down!" Steve shouted, grabbing Tony by his neck and pulling him down under the dashboard. He ducked his head as well, right when a spray of bullets flew over them.

Ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta went the bullets as they smashed into the windows, the doors, the windshield and the rear, painting the car with holes and slashes.

"We're too exposed in this car!" Steve shouted over the rapid firing. "We're sitting ducks without a roof!"

"Fuck!" Tony yelled. "Roll the top up! Roll the fucking top up!"

"I don't know how!" A bullet hit the screen in the middle of the dash. Another whizzed right past Steve's head, hitting the steering wheel. "Do it! We need cover now!"

"Goddammit!" Tony picked up his head slightly, pressing a few buttons on the car. The windshield wipers were activated, brushing over bullet-ridden glass. Tony cursed and slammed his fingers on more buttons. The wipers stopped, and a noise sounded behind them.

The trunk opened, and a platform unfolded from inside it, covering the top of the car, sealing it.

Fully encased, noise from the outside became muffled. Steve didn't relax. He sat up straight and concentrated on driving. "Who the hell are these people!?"

"The fuck should I know!?" Tony bellowed. A bullet hit the side window, shattering a chunk off it. Another sliced the exterior of the door. "They sure as hell are determined! We need to get them off our asses."

"What do you think I've been doing?!"

The motorcyclist with the large gun must have run out of bullets, because the rapid shooting stopped. A glance at the side mirror and Steve saw that they were switching positions.

"Steve — Steve! Ahead of you!"

Steve's head whipped to the front. Ahead of him was a civilian car, and he flying straight towards it. With his desperate speed and the other's moderate speed, it was bound to become head on collision. Quickly, Steve twisted the wheel, turning his car, missing the other by a few inches, and positioned himself in front of it.

Steve exhaled shakily. The speed of this car was a blessing and a curse. The highway was beginning to fill up with other civilian cars. Not good, not good, not good.

"Stark," Steve said. "Do you have anything on you? A weapon of some sorts? Anything?"

"I'm as armed as you are," Tony replied negatively. "All I have is my little carjacker, but that won't help us here."

"Then be my eyes — tell me where they are. Do you see any of them?"

Stark nodded and glanced towards his own side mirror while Steve concentrated on zigzagging past civilian drivers. No collateral damage. Maintain as minimum casualties as possible. "We've got incoming on my side. He's got a handgun."

"Damn," Steve cursed, but not from Tony's announcement. There was a car in each lane ahead of him; there wasn't a gap in sight to squeeze through to avoid the assailant. He was stuck in a driving purgatory; unable to move up or go back. "Damn it!"

"Steve," Tony called. "He's pulling up fast."

"I know, I know!"

But he couldn't move from his lane. All directions were blocked. Steve's heart picked up.

Tony was stirring next to him. From the corner of his eye, Steve saw the man bend over and pick up his jacket from the floor.

"What are you doing?" Steve asked, but Stark ignored him. He pressed a button on his door and the window rolled down. He unbuckled his seatbelt. "Stark! What are you doing? Stark!"

Tony stuck his head out the window, then pulled back quickly when a shot rang out, clipping his side mirror. Steve's heart nearly dropped.

He's going to get himself killed!

Stark unrolled his jacket, then, much to Steve's surprise, threw it out the window.

The jacket flew back in the air, towards the motorcyclist. It wrapped itself around his helmet, sleeves waving on either side of it, and the rider panicked at the sudden blindness — and in his panic, jerked his handles, twisting the bike's wheel.

The motorcycle tripped on itself, falling to the ground along with its rider. The rider was tossed onto the ground hard, and rolled down the street — down and down and down the street until they couldn't see him anymore.

Tony turned to Steve with wide eyes and grinned. "One down."

The remaining motorcyclists took advantage of Tony's open window instantly, firing through it. Bullets struck the windshield again, lodging themselves in the glass along with the dozens of others. "And two to go," Steve griped. The glass was littered with so many bullets and bullet holes that his view was nearly obstructed.

"There!" Tony suddenly voiced. "That's our exit!" Stark was pointing at a large green billboard that read VESEY STREET NEXT EXIT.

Steve grimaced. There were still two shooters left; one at his rear, and the other to his right.

The shooter behind him wasn't letting up, shooting excitingly at them whenever he was able to. If they took the exit and entered a more populated area, the chances of a stray bullet hitting a pedestrian were far too high for comfort. He needed to get rid of him.

Using his only remaining mirror to glance back, Steve saw the shooter reloading a new magazine into the cartilage. "Put your seatbelt on," he barked to Stark.

Luckily, Tony didn't argue, but he did look confused. When Steve heard the metal clicking, he gripped the steering wheel hard and said, "brace yourself."

Tony's head picked up, "Wait, what are —"

— Steve slammed both feet on the brake pedal, and the car's tires screeched as the the vehicle came to an instant stop.

Steve and Tony were propelled forward and back behind their belts. The motorcyclist behind them, so preoccupied with trying to juggle riding his bike and reloading his gun, had no time to move out of the way, and slammed straight into their car's trunk, head colliding with the rear windshield and cracking the glass, then falling to the ground.

The cars behind them all began to stop as well, but Steve gave them no time to observe the aftermath of the collision. He pressed down on the gas pedal, and swerved to the right, driving towards the exit.

"You could have fucking warned me you were going to do that!" Tony hollered at him, hand around his neck. Steve's own neck was aching from the force of the stop as well, but he ignored it and drove onto the narrow streets.

"Shit," Tony muttered. He was looking behind them, saying, "We've still got one more."

Steve didn't need Stark's commentary; he could hear the motorcycle's engine roaring behind him. "Which way do we go?" He asked breathlessly. He looked at the mirror; the rider was pulling out their gun, propping it over the handles and pointing it at them.

Tony looked up, head bobbing in attempt to peek through the severely abused windshield. "Shit. The road's closed ahead." Steve noticed it, too. A few blocks down he could make out concrete barriers, orange cones, and yellow tape. He needed to turn, and the traffic lights would be changing soon.

"Where do we go, Stark?" Steve asked fervently.

"We need to go into Barclay Street, but it's blocked—"

A bullet clipped the rear of the car loudly. "Then give me an alternative route!"

"I'm not fucking Google Maps!" Tony shouted. "I can't see through the damn glass!"

Steve grit his teeth. He unbuckled his seatbelt, brought up one knee, and kicked the windshield in. The glass crunched underneath his foot and bent. With his second kick, the whole windshield popped out of the frame, sliding down the hood, and onto the street.

Steve put his seatbelt back on. Wind splashed in their faces. "Another route, now!"

"Left!"

Steve turned immediately, right after a bullet whizzed past his ear. If he had delayed turning for one second, there would have been a gruesome hole in the back of his head.

The motorcycle took the same turn.

I can't shake him off, Steve thought. The streets were much narrower here compared to the highway, making it harder for the car to move any direction other than straight ahead. I'm a mouse in a maze, and there's a tiger chasing after me.

Cracks of gunfire sounded again. "Which way?" Steve asked promptly.

Tony looked around, eyes squinting from the harsh wind. "Ok — uh, keep driving down Warren Street, then left when you see Church Street."

A bullet cracked near Tony, and Stark let out a yelp, clutching his head. "Are you hit?" Steve asked instantly, panic creeping along his voice. "Stark! Are you alright?"

"Yes! I'm fine!" Stark hissed, removing a hand from the side of his head. Steve saw red on his palm. "Bullet scraped my head. Shit, that was close."

Too close, Steve thought. Way too close for comfort. The motorcyclist behind them wasn't abating. There'd be no way for them to reach their destination without first being taken down by a bullet. The streets were too confined, with hardly any intersections.

Apartment and commercial buildings lined up around them, with some alleyways and driveways between them. There was no where to turn, no where to lose their assailant.

Unless. . .

Steve focused on the road. An intersection was coming up ahead of him, but the light was red on his side, and cars were crossing on the opposite sides. Eyes narrowed, Steve pressed down on the gas pedal, and the car's engine rumbled in response.

Tony's eyes moved from the street to Steve, widening considerably. "You better not be doing what I think you're doing. . .Steve!"

Steve ignored him and kept his eyes on the approaching intersection.

"We're not going to make it — Steve, we'll be hit!"

Steve held his breath as they zipped past the red light —

— and by some miracle, none of the passing cars hit them. Many did honk.

Tony let out a loud breath, "God damn it, Rogers! I saw my whole life flash before my eyes! Who the fuck gave you a license!?"

No one, Steve wanted to say. Never got it. "Where's our guy?" Steve said instead.

Tony turned around, then scowled harshly. "Shit — he's still on our ass."

Steve grit his teeth. He drove around a car that was ahead of him, and his eyes landed on an advancing narrow alleyway between two apartments.

There.

He didn't waste any time; before he could miss his chance, and before Stark could argue against his idea, Steve drove the car towards the mouth of the alley.

The car was far too wide for the opening, and the sides scraped against the walls in a loud screech. Sparks were flying, until finally the car was halted between the walls, completely stuck in between.

Steve didn't allow himself the satisfactory feeling of having his plan work out. He unbuckled his seatbelt and reached over to unbuckle Tony's. "Come on, let's go!"

He climbed over the steering wheel, out the windshield frame, and slid down the car's battered hood, feet landing solidly on the pavement.

Tony climbed out of the car as well, but much slower. He sagged down the hood, and collapsed against the vehicle.

"S-Shit. . ." Tony wheezed, and Steve was on his side instantly, a hand on his back to steady him.

"What's wrong?" It was a stupid thing to ask, but Steve couldn't stop the words from flowing out. The full effect of the broken reactor was finally showing its face, Steve realized. He could feel the rapid trembling from Tony's back, a grim sign that all the adrenalin from the chase was leaving his body.

"Gotta go," Tony gasped, hand clutching his chest, the arc reactor burning with color underneath his stained dress shirt. "It's happening f-faster than I thought . . . fuck . . ."

"Can you walk?"

Tony nodded heavily.

"Then let's go," Steve grabbed his elbow and pulled him along, out of the alleyway. Their discarded car's headlights stretched their shadows, making them dance along the brick wall.

The jammed car completely blocked the entrance of the alleyway, leaving only one exit on the opposite side, just as Steve had wanted. It gave their assailant a stalling obstacle, that in return gave Steve and Tony a head start to make their escape by foot. Steve was riding on the hope that their assailant treasured their motorcycle, because if not, they can just easily discard the bike and climb over the car.

Tony's feet were clumsy as they scrambled down the sidewalk. They looked like a pair of drunken fools, but even so Steve would have chosen that scenario over the one they were currently in.

Steve glanced at Tony. "Do you have any idea who these people are, or why they're so hell bent on killing us?"

They stopped at a crossing, lights blaring red as the cars passed. "No," Tony said, almost sagging against Steve as they waited for the light to change in their favor. "Probably one of my more d-dedicated fans. . .desperate to take a selfie with me. . ."

"This isn't the time to be telling jokes, Stark."

"Could've fooled me. . ." Tony slurred.

Steve frowned grimly. They crossed the street when the traffic light blinked in affirmative. "This is serious. People are out to kill us!"

"Minor details," Stark murmured, waving his hand clumsily.

"Not for me. This is a major detail for me. Just because you don't care about your well being, doesn't mean I don't. I think we need to call Director Fury and let him know —"

"No."

Steve blinked. "No?" He repeated in disbelief. "Tony — we need help! Fury could send —"

"Drop it, Rogers."

Steve didn't. "I won't, not until you listen to me. Be reasonable, we need—"

"What part of no don't you understand," Tony hissed firmly, stopping. He shoved Steve's arm away. "I am being reasonable. I've never been more reasonable! I don't need anything. I don't need help, and I sure as hell don't need S.H.I.E.L.D! So quit pestering me about it."

"You do need help, Stark!" Steve shot back. "Look at you! You can barely stand! How can you tell me you don't need help when you look like death warmed over for you? Stop acting like a child and start thinking reasonably."

"Oh, that's rich — this coming from the guy that just tossed away our car so he could take a stroll around the city. Definitely reasonable, Rogers."

Steve narrowed his eyes, "I didn't have a choice and you know it. Stop being immature and just accept the help!"

"Oh, fuck you," Stark snarled, turning around in a whirl and stomping away. "I should have never let you come if I'd known you'd be so fucking annoying!"

Steve threw his hands up in exasperation and followed Stark's angry strides. "You're just proving my point!" It really was like dealing with a child, though Stark's tantrums were more vulgar and counterproductive.

Tony was grumbling under his breath. Steve didn't bother attempting to listen to his words, he was sure they mainly consisted of profanities. Tony shot Steve a sour look when he saw that he was still behind him. "Again with this fucking game, Cap?"

"Worked the last time." Three steps behind him should be far enough as to not entice him, although Steve knew Stark was aware of his proximity, and vice versa. Steve didn't care. He'll continue to follow Stark, no matter how angry the other man, until he was reassured that Stark was alright.

Tony rounded a corner, but froze when a vicious cough tore itself from him.

It was only when the coughing wouldn't stop and Stark was doubled over that Steve threw away any hesitations to piss Stark off more and approached him, firmly slapping him on the back.

"Fuck — off," Stark gasped weakly, any heat in the words extinguished by his breathless voice.

When the coughing fit finally — finally — subsided, Stark was left leaning heavily against the brick wall, hand clutching his chest, breaths coming out loud and ragged.

Steve's heart thundered in worry. His hand remained on Stark's back, hoping that the contact would be some sort of comfort for Tony, because that's the only comfort he had; he had nothing but his presence to offer Tony.

"Oh s-shit. . ." Stark moaned, hands gripping his knees hard, knuckles white as a sheet to match his face. "That's not — not good . . . fuck."

Steve's expression was pained with sympathy. "God, Stark, that didn't sound good. What — how can I help? What do you need?"

Stark shook his head, "Just. . .just get me to Dina."

Dina. . . That's right. The pharmacy, Steve recalled. His friend has his spare reactor. I have to get Stark to her. He felt like he had had that conversation a lifetime ago, yet his throbbing shoulder was memory that it wasn't. How did we go from a party with politicians to this?

A sound Steve heavily dreaded filled the air, and his body tensed so hard he stopped breathing. He recalled the familiar noise instantly: motorcycle engines. No, not now.

Steve didn't wait to see how far away the bike was, or if it was near them at all. He grabbed Stark's arm and hauled it around his shoulders, heaving the man onto his unsteady feet. His shoulder seared with pain at the movement, but Steve overlooked it. When Stark's only complaint was a groan, Steve felt panic webbing up his throat.

He looked around him. Where to go, where to go, where to go? Buildings, apartments, stores, lights — nothing looked familiar to him. 'It's louder and brighter, too, but, it's still New York,' that's what he had told Johnson earlier — what a joke. New York now is nothing like the old New York. It was a brick maze.

Steve swallowed down his panic. Think! Don't go off on tangents. He looked at the small sign hanging on the same pole as the traffic light. Spring Street, it read. Steve paused. That name sounded familiar. Where did he recognize it from. . .?

Steve blinked. Of course. Adrenaline coursed through him when he realized he knew what to do. He roamed the streets carefully. Come on, come on, where is it...there! His eyes landed on the familiar green and white ball that sat on top of a green pole, then to the stairs that led underground. The subway!

He tightened his hold on Stark and practically dragged him across the street. Stark's feet were a dangle of messes, tripping over one another every other step.

Climbing down the stairs was a larger struggle, and it was becoming dauntingly obvious to Steve that Tony was losing whatever energy he had left with every rasping breath.

They reached the bottom step with drained huff. On the platform, Steve twisted in attempt to reach his back pocket without jostling Stark. He pulled out his wallet, and, with one hand, awkwardly took out his MetroCard from its sleeve. He swiped the card at the turnstile and pushed Tony through the rotating gates, before swiping for himself and following.

Stark was looking around in a daze. "The hell. . .?"

"Subway," Steve answered. The platform was empty, not a soul aboard. Strange. Usually it's bustling. He caught sight at the digital display that hung on the sealing: 4:08AM. Steve almost gawked. This is probably the longest night of my life.

Underneath the time, there was a digital timetable of the train schedule: DOWNTOWN C TRAIN . . .2 MINUTES. Steve blew out a lengthy sigh. Good. Good. Things were working out smoothly so far.

"Why. . ." Tony mumbled from beside him, pausing to catch his breath. "Are we. . .in the subway. . .?"

"It's faster." Steve looked down the tunnel. He could see the train's lights at the end of it. Good, it's coming.

"I. . .fucking hate. . .the subway."

"I'm sure the feeling's mutual," Steve murmured absently. The train's wheels screeched on the rails, earning a wince from both him and Tony. When it passed them, a gush of air slapped them both.

The train slowed, the grinding noise becoming louder, then stopped completely. The doors opened, and a handful of people came out, not even sparing a glance at the two of them. The automated voice sounded from inside the train, "THIS IS A DOWNTOWN LOCAL C TRAIN. THE NEXT STOP IS CANAL STREET."

"Come on," Steve said. He grabbed Stark's elbow and boarded the train.

"STAND CLEAR OF THE CLOSING DOORS, PLEASE." The automated voice said, and Steve could have sworn it was purposely sounding condescending. The world's laughing at me, Steve thought.

The doors closed behind him with a beep and a swoosh.

The cart was fairly empty. There was a family of some Asian descent sitting in the center seats, three children slumped against one another, asleep. At the far corner, a pale and ragged looking man sat by himself, his business suit looking as if it hadn't been washed in decades.

Steve guided Tony to the blue seats at the far end of the cart, isolating themselves from the rest of the train's inhabitants. Taking their seats besides each other, Steve wondered how strange they both must look – two men, one in a full suit, the other in a stained dress shirt with a blue glow underneath it, both bleeding and exhausted, drenched in the smell of sweat and alcohol and blood.

Actually, Steve thought sardonically, we probably don't look any different from the average New York subway rider.

The pain in his shoulder was ebbing away. The healing wonders of the serum were finally getting to work, and Steve could almost hear the skin and muscles healing themselves. The exhaustion, however, was ever present.

Tony fared much worse, which concerned Steve more than his blood-soaked shoulder. The cut from the passing bullet had stopped bleeding, but it left a splash of red on the side of Stark's head. His breathing was horribly labored, and the simple task of inhaling and exhaling seemed to be a painful struggle for Stark.

What worried Steve the most, however, was the man's silence. Since boarding the train, Stark hadn't uttered a single word. The only sound he emitted was his harsh breathing.

The subway train shook before it began moving, leaving the station behind it. The cart swayed as it accelerated in speed, and darkness with the occasional light whipped past the windows. A row of stops was listed on top of one window in a long, digital board, and Steve was flooded with relief when he saw that Fulton Street was one of the stops.

"Only three more stops," Steve murmured to Tony.

Stark, slumped in his seat and blinking at nothing, rolled his head to look at Steve. His words were horribly slurred and slow when he asked, "How'd y'know. . .this train'd take us. . ."

"This is one of the trains I transfer to when I go to the Brooklyn Bridge," Steve answered in a calm voice, a complete contrast from the panic he was feeling.

"Sightseeing. . .?" Stark grunted. "And y'never invited me? Rude. . ."

"You never struck me as the type that would like that sort of thing."

"There's . . . a lot you don't know about me."

"Oh yeah? Like what?"

"L-Like. . ." Tony swallowed thickly, throat constricting. "Like. . .I've never been on the bridge. . ."

"You've never been on the Brooklyn Bridge?"

Stark nodded. "Drove on it . . . never walked it . . ."

"You've never walked across the Brooklyn Bridge? That's ridiculous."

"S'true. . ."

Steve shook his head humorously. "That's so sad, God, what kind of New Yorker are you, Stark?"

"A busy one."

Steve smiled. "I'm sure. How about this: next time I plan to go, I'll let you tag along, return the favor of you letting me tag along today. Hopefully, it won't be as eventful as today was."

Stark hummed. "Hopefully."

"Sound good?"

"Good."

The train was beginning to slow down, jostling on the tracks. The automated voice announcing: "THIS IS CANAL STREET. TRANSFER IS AVAILABLE TO THE N AND R TRAINS" as soon as it entered the new station.

When the train halted to a stop, the doors slid open.

"THIS IS A DOWNTOWN LOCAL C TRAIN. THE NEXT STOP IS CHAMBERS STREET."

The woman in the Asian family shook what Steve presumed to be her children awake, ushering them out of the train in a language he didn't understand.

On the far end door, a woman with short, messy hair entered the cart, eyes scanning the train for a preferable seat. She was staring curiously at the business suit clad man that sat at the end of the train. The man hadn't moved since they boarded, and appeared to be deep in sleep.

"STAND CLEAR OF THE CLOSING DOORS, PLEASE." The doors closed, and the train continued on its route.

Steve found himself staring at the woman that entered the train, waiting to see where she'd take her seat. However, his attention was quickly whisked away when Tony began coughing again.

Stark's hand was on his mouth in an instant as he tried to suppress the fit, but it was useless. The coughs kept punching out of him, one more strangled and ragged than the previous one. When he heaved the last one, he was left gasping for breath.

Stark pulled his hand away from his mouth slowly, then stared at it, transfixed with horrifying fascination. There was blood on it.

Steve didn't know who cursed first, him or Stark. "Jesus, Tony —"

"T-This isn't . . . " Stark coughed again, blood trickling down the corner of his mouth. His head lolled, resting on Steve's shoulder. "Worse — it's w-worse than I thought — Steve . . ."

The way Tony said his name, the way it crawled out of the man's mouth with so much effort, made Steve's insides crawl. "Just keep your eyes open, we're almost there."

"Miscalculated it . . . it w-wasn't," Tony shuddered violently, raspy gasps clawing their way out from his throat. His words were muttered frantically, and Steve had trouble deciphering most of it. "It's a faster one — trying something new . . . I didn't — didn't think it would . . ."

Steve's eyes bore into him with horrible concern. "Don't talk, just take deep breaths. Breathe, Tony. Concentrate on breathing."

Tony gave no indication that he had heard him. Delirium was blaring through his eyes and in his speech. "Have J.A.R.V.I.S run a s-scan — have him . . . have him do something. He knows — he can figure it...out and —"

His insistent mumbling was becoming more frantic by the second. Steve shook him lightly by the shoulder, brows creasing. "Tony, please — just calm down. Relax — breathe. It'll be alright . . ."

He trailed off involuntarily, his attention wandering onto the woman on the train that was staring at them. But it wasn't her staring that had him absorbed — it was her hand.

Her hand . . . that was reaching for her back, pulling something from under her shirt . . .

Time suddenly slowed, or Steve abruptly began thinking in velocious speed.

It's four in the morning, and she doesn't look tired, Steve thought quickly. She hadn't sat down yet — she walked into the train looking around — she'd been staring at that man, like she's wondering who he is — trying to figure out who he is — trying to figure out if she knows who he is — her hair's messy — like she just took off a hat — or a helmet — one motorcyclist left —

Steve shoved Tony off the seat and onto the ground the moment the woman pulled out a handgun.

He propelled himself off the seat and darted, feet scrambling as he bodily pushed the woman with all his might before she could even fire the weapon.

They landed on the floor, the woman gasping as her back was slammed to the ground. The gun was knocked out of her grip.

The woman grunted, but recovered herself quickly. She pulled her arm back, and slammed her elbow on the side of Steve's head. His vision went black and his ears rang for a brief moment, and he fell of sideways.

Steve blinked. His senses returned to him. He saw the woman reaching for her gun, grabbing it, and pointing it towards Tony, who was trying to get up. Damn it!

Hastily, he kicked the gun out of the woman's hand, and it slid under a seat. "Stay down, Stark!"

He aimed a kick at the woman's face, but she was fast. She evaded it, twisted away from him and stood up, kicking Steve in the ribs. She's strong, he thought, as his breath was knocked out of him.

But Steve was stronger. She went in for another kick but Steve grabbed her foot, twisting it. She was back on the ground, and this time it was Steve scrambling to stand.

He heard Tony cough, and he turned. He knew his mistake the moment he did it. His attacker greedily took advantage of his distraction; she was standing now, and in her hand was a curved knife. Now, where the hell was she hiding that?

She didn't hesitate. Advancing on him, she slashed, aiming for the throat. Steve leaned back, but the point of the knife clipped his skin. He hissed, mostly in irritation rather than pain.

She was incredibly agile, swiping left and right without pause. Steve was so preoccupied trying to avoid getting sliced up that he couldn't land a hit on her without the risk of getting something cut off.

The train was beginning to slow down, Steve could feel it. "THIS IS CHAMBERS STREET. TRANSFER IS AVAILABLE TO THE A, E, 2, AND 3 TRAINS."

Her knife nicked his cheek, and Steve grit his teeth. That could have been my eye.

He shot his arm out and grabbed her wrist. He squeezed it, hard, feeling the bones grind beneath his fingers. She cried out, but the knife didn't fall.

Her other hand was moving, quick. She pulled something out of her pocket — this woman is way too resourceful — and Steve didn't have time to register what it was.

She jabbed it in his stomach, and Steve felt the air leave his lungs. Electricity coursed through his body, shocking and rattling his insides. He squeezed his eyes tightly, unable to move as the voltage burst inside him, his vision going white.

The hand in his grip was trying to move downward. She was still trying stab him, even though some of the voltage was going through her due to the contact.

The knife was moving down, closer and closer to his throat, Steve could almost feel the coldness of the steel on his skin.

The electrocution was waning his strength with each volt. He was beginning to struggle in holding his grip on the woman's hand, trying to keep the knife in her grasp from stabbing him.

But then a shot rang out, and the woman's eyes went wide. The knife fell from her hand, the electricity stopped, and blood blossomed from her stomach.

Steve stepped back in shock. Where — ?

He looked around. Stark was holding a gun with one hand, the other was balanced on the seat, keeping him upright. Where the hell did he get a gun!? Steve thought incredulously — but as soon as he thought it, he remembered. The woman. She dropped it.

The train stopped and the subway doors opened with a beep. The routine announcement boomed from the speakers. The woman had both hands on her bleeding abdomen, mouth gaping.

Steve acted quickly. Without penance, he kicked the woman square in the stomach as hard as he could. The force of the blow pushed her out through the open doors, falling hard on the concrete of the platform.

"—STAND CLEAR OF THE CLOSING DOORS, PLEASE."

The doors shut, and the train moved along, as if nothing happened, leaving behind the bleeding woman in the station.

He reached Stark and helped him onto his seat, gingerly prying the gun out of the man's hands. "I told you to stay down, Tony, hell."

"Looked like y'needed help," Stark mumbled, glassy eyes staring beyond Steve.

"Yeah, well, I didn't. You're lucky you're a good shot."

Stark snorted. "Was aiming for her head."

Steve grimaced at the weapon, unsure of what to do with it. I might need it, he thought. Who know's who else might be out there trying to kill us. . .

Tony seemed to be reading his thoughts: "S'got no ammo."

"What?"

"Gun . . . used t'last bullet. Useless now."

Steve frowned, but internally shrugged. With his sleeve, he wiped the gun all around, hopefully erasing his and Tony's fingerprints. He dropped the weapon on the ground and kicked it away from him.

The business suited man hadn't moved or even acknowledged that he was aware of the commotion. Not even the gunshot roused him from his deep sleep. I hope he's alright, Steve thought. Maybe he's one of those homeless people that live in the subway. . .

"Steve," Stark panted suddenly. "How many . . . more stops . . . ?"

"We're reaching it now, don't worry." Steve's eyes pierced into him. "Why, what's wrong?"

Stark shook his head. "Hard to . . . breath. Don't feel . . . so hot . . . "

Steve mentally cursed. He reached for Stark's wrist, feeling for a pulse. His skin was uncomfortably clammy and cold, and his pulse was — damn it, his pulse was beating a mile a second.

"Just hold on a little longer, alright?" He said, because he really didn't know what else to say.

Stark shook his head, hand clutching his chest. He groaned, squeezing his eyes shut.

"No, no — come on, Tony. Keep your eyes open. Look at me."

With obvious struggle, Tony's eyes opened slightly, hazy eyes staring into Steve's clear ones. "That's it, come on. Just look at me. We're almost there."

Tony's jaw was clenched so hard that Steve could have sworn he could hear his teeth grinding. His chest heaved with every breath, then convulsed when a cough tore itself from him.

His hand latched onto Steve's forearm instantaneously, crushing it under his grip as he gasped for air. Steve didn't care. He kept Tony upright as the other man hacked out each cough, drops of blood sprinkling from his mouth.

With a final wheeze, Stark crumbled against his seat. "Tony — no, please, just stay awake." Stark moaned when Steve shook him; he didn't know if it was a moan of pain or annoyance. "Come on — don't you want to hear the story? About Natasha? Come on, I know you do."

Stark cracked one eye open. "Better be . . . damn hilarious . . ."

Steve huffed out a small, tired chuckle. "If you don't stay awake, you won't find out."

"THIS IS FULTON STREET. TRANSFER IS AVAILABLE TO THE A, J, Z, 2, 3, 4, AND 5 TRAINS."

"There, you hear that?" Steve asked. "We made it. Fulton street, right? We're there. Just hold on a little longer, OK?"

Tony made a strange noise, like a mix of a hiccup and a whimper. His back arched slightly, and the hand on Steve's forearm squeezed even tighter. "Heart — shit, oh God — I can feel it," Stark was gasping now. "It's hitting it — it's hitting the pacemaker — Jesus."

Steve paled. That doesn't sound good — that doesn't sound good at all. Steve felt his heart rate pick up, and he could hear his blood pumping. Stark's condition was worsening expeditiously, it was obvious just by looking at him. Fast, fast, fast. I have to move fast.

The train began screeching, indicating that it was slowing down. Steve looped his hand under Stark's shoulder and helped him up. "Come on, let's get you standing. That's it — easy, easy."

Stark's feet were wobbly, but they kept him upright. Steve navigated the man's arm over his shoulder and took on most of his weight, not minding the burden.

The shrill noise from the train halted, and the subway came to a stop with a huff. The computerized announcer began his periodic broadcast. Steve and Tony were out of the cart before the programmed voice said, "—STAND CLEAR OF THE CLOSING DOORS, PLEASE."

Steve spotted the staircase that led aboveground and adjusted his grip on his load before he made his way towards it. He stared at the stairs with forbearance. Climbing down the stairs with Stark practically slumped around him was difficult, but climbing up . . . well. He'll find out.

Carefully, one step at a time, they clambered up. It wasn't so much Tony's weight that gave Steve trouble, rather, it was that Steve was apprehensive to jostle Tony further and aggravate his already sensitive state.

When they finally reached the top, the cool night air breezed past their faces. Steve's shoulder was throbbing from the strain. Stark's full weight was now completely burdened on Steve. Tony was clutching his chest so hard, Steve was afraid he would tear out his own flesh.

"Tony? Tony, come on — stay with me," Steve implored anxiously, but Tony only responded by shaking his head, audibly gasping.

Steve focused on his task. He glanced up, quickly taking in his surroundings. Downtown Manhattan, even at four in the morning, was bustling with noise.

He twisted his head around, looking for the store. CVS, CVS . . . come on, where the hell is it!? Steve swallowed down panic as best he could. He saw a whole line of franchise stores, but not the one he needed.

It wasn't here. It's not here, Steve thought in alarm. How could it not be here? Tony said it was here — he said Fulton Street!

Across the street — nothing.

To his right — nothing.

To his left — nothing!

Steve paused, then blinked twice.

Slowly, with moderate disbelief, he turned around, and at the center of the building, in large, red letters, was a sign that read: CVS PHARMACY.

Steve wanted to laugh — or scream.

He hoisted Tony more upright, and walked towards the glass doors that automatically slid open for them.

Fluorescent lights glared at him, cool air conditioned air wrapped around him, and a young man behind counter looked at him funny.

"B-Back," Tony wheezed, and Steve didn't need him to elaborate. He smiled at the young man at the counter politely, then made his way to the back of the store.

They passed aisles of chips and candy, then aisles of hair products and health products before they reached the back where a large counter met them. Above the counter were neatly aligned red letters that read: Pharmacy.

Behind the counter, a young woman sat on a tall seat, legs crossed, one hand holding a cellphone near her face, the other drumming along the surface of the ledge. She wore a white coat, had her hair pulled back in a tight bun, and seemed very occupied with whatever her phone was showing her.

Without hesitation or pause or preamble, Steve approached the counter. "Are you Dina?"

"Welcome to CV — oh my God!" When she finally glanced away from her phone and at her guests, she almost fell off her chair.

Steve disregarded her shock. "Are you Dina?" He asked again, even though it plainly said so on the name tag attached to her chest. Can never be too sure.

"Yeah — yes, it's me. That's me."

"Stark called you, before —"

"And you and Mr. Stark, um, right. Yeah, yeah — I got it. Hold on, give me a second," she said, startled, putting her phone in her pocket. "Oh man, oh man, oh man."

She trotted around the counter and stood in front of them. She was so short, Steve found it almost comical that she was actually a college student.

She looked around nervously while she rummaged through one of her coat's pockets. "Oh God, you guys are bleeding . . . Oh man, please tell me my manager didn't see you. I'll definitely lose my job if there's blood on the floors."

She pulled something out of her pocket and grabbed Stark's hand gingerly, frantically muttering other concerns that Steve didn't care for.

She was holding some sort of small, boxed object with a tiny needle at the end of it. She pressed it onto Stark's thumb, mumbling, "sorry, sorry," then pulled it away when it made a small beeping noise.

She glanced at Tony's ashen face with panic and worry. "God, Mr. Stark, you said this was going to be no big deal. Why did I believe you," she whined in her airy voice, looking at her small contraption, tapping her foot impatiently while she waited for it to do something. "You did not warn me about this."

Stark picked up his head marginally. ". . . always complainin' . . . " he huffed, before dropping it tiredly.

"Can you help him?" Steve asked, impatience seemingly contagious.

"Um, probably, I don't know, maybe," She brought her thumb to her mouth and began biting her nail. "I just — I need to see what the readout is. It'll just take minute, then I can — you know, help. Um, were you with him? When it started — from the beginning? He really didn't tell me much on the phone. He certainly didn't tell me about," she gestured at them nervously, "all this."

Steve nodded, hoisting Stark upright when he was beginning to sag. Stark groaned, but contributed nothing more.

Dina winced slightly in sympathy. "Ok, good, good. Can you tell me his, you know, symptoms? How long he was conscious and all that? It'll help — could give me something to work with."

"Right," Steve racked through his memories. "He's been disorientated and in pain for a long time, and he threw up in the beginning, after —"

"He threw up? Oh, good, good, good. That's good. Ok, that's—" she stopped, jumping slightly. "Oh God, I'm sorry — I just completely interrupted you, oh man, I'm really sorry. Please, keep going. Just ignore me."

Steve nodded slowly. "Right . . . he threw up, then he complained that his heart was hurting, and he was constantly out of breath. Just recently he was coughing up blood."

Stark's head lolled, muttering ". . . drama queen . . . "

"Blood? Oh, that's a relief." When Steve shot her a strange look, the girl quickly amended, "No, no, no, I mean, that's bad, obviously. That's really bad — not bad bad, you know? I just mean that, blood is good for me. As in, it helps me narrow down what this is . . . "

She stopped talking when her little device made small, shrill beeping noise. She looked at it, her face changing from confusion, to contemplation, to blankness, and then to understanding. "Oh! Alright — yeah, I know this. I can figure this out. You came to me just in time. I think I've got the right things to help — oh, but that means . . . yeah, we need to hurry. We should hurry."

She turned around and went back behind the counter. Steve assumed he was supposed to follow her, so he did so, dragging Stark along. Behind the counter was an open door, and Dina beckoned them inside.

The room was dimly lit when they walked in, but burst with light when she flicked a button on the side wall. The room was filled with counters and shelves filled with small boxes and bottles.

Against the wall was a desk that was littered with papers and books and wires and broken electronics, and next to it was a pink lounge chair that looked very comfortable yet very out of place.

Dina pointed at it. "Just — put him over there, I guess. Sorry it's so messy and . . . weird. My stepmom's the manager so I get to use this room to relax and work — school work and all. Not work work. This is work work, you know, being a pharmacist . . . "

Slowly, with great care, Steve lowered Tony onto the chair with a gentleness he didn't know he possessed. Tony let out a gritty moan, but beyond that, said nothing else, eyes pinched closed.

Dina appeared beside him, dispensing an armful of boxes and bottles onto her desk. "Ok, good, thank you. So much, really. There would have been no way for me to have carried him. You know, with being small and skinny and all." She laughed nervously.

She was arranging all her bottles on the desk, moving and lifting things around with ease. She opened one of the drawers and pulled out a syringe still wrapped in its plastic.

She stopped, suddenly, and turned to Steve, staring at him curiously. The corner of her mouth twitched downward, then upward as she tried to form her words. "Oh, um, actually. You can't be in here. . ."

"What?" Steve responded instantly.

Dina jumped, then immediately began to splutter, "That's — oh, god. I'm sorry, that's not what I meant! I didn't mean it like that —"

Steve sighed. Relax, Rogers, he told himself. You're too tense. Too wired. He held up a hand, saying, "It's alright." The girl stopped stammering, and Steve continued. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you nervous. It's been a long night for us, so I'm a bit on edge."

The girl pursed her lips, nodding. Steve continued, tiredly asking, "Just . . . why can't I be here?"

Dina nodded again, swallowed, and said, "It's just — I really didn't mean it like that. I'm not kicking you out or anything, honestly. But — it's store policy. No one's supposed to be in here. Well, I'm supposed to — it's just for employees, not customers, because, you know, this is where all the medication is. So, what I mean is — I'm not supposed to leave the counter unattended. My manager'll think I'm slacking off. I'm only supposed to be in here if I'm getting something for a customer, so if there's no one waiting on the other side, and I'm in here, then — "

"I understand," Steve cut her off gently. She swallowed whatever else she had to say and nodded.

Steve continued, "I get it, I do, it's just," his eyes glanced over to Stark's form, slumped on the seat. "I don't mean any disrespect by this but . . . I don't know you. Aside from what Stark has told me about you, I don't know anything about you. How do I know I can trust you?"

Dina bit her lip, rubbing her shoulder. "That's — I don't think I can make you trust me — not with our limited time . . . Mr. Stark is definitely in the final stage by now, and if I don't start dosing him with what he needs, he'll, you know . . . All I can tell you is that I've done this before — lots of times, for Mr. Stark. That's definitely not enough information to earn trust and all but, I mean, that's all I can give you."

Steve exhaled softly, nodding. Even if he didn't trust this woman, it wasn't as if there was any other option to turn to. He was already here, so he had to settle with it. But hearing her honest answer was enough to dispel some of Steve's suspicions. He nodded. I have no choice. I have to trust her, and trust Stark's judgement. He jerked his chin towards the door, "I'll . . . wait outside then."

The young woman was flooded with relief at hearing that, her face breaking out into a large smile. "Thank you so much, I really — I really appreciate it. Don't worry, I promise I'll take care of Mr. Stark, you have nothing to worry about. I'll come out and get you when I'm done."

Steve nodded. He spared one last glance at the deeply unconscious Tony and left the room with a large amount of concealed reluctance.

The store was just as it was when he entered the backroom. There were two seats in front of the counter. Steve let himself ungracefully slump over one of them, letting out long sigh. He'll be alright, Steve told himself. He'll be fine, he'll be alright.

His knee bounced anxiously. He willed himself to be calm, but it was difficult. More than anything, he wanted to be in that room, to see what was happening, to help in any way he can.

I'd just get in her way, Steve thought. What can I do? I don't know anything about reactors. I'd just be standing there, handing her her tools like a nurse in training.

But even if that were the case, Steve would have still wanted to be in that room. He felt unbelievably distressed at having left Tony alone with a person he'd never met.

No, that wasn't it. That wasn't the source of distress. Even though he'd just met the girl, her genuine honesty and nervousness made it incredibly difficult to mistrust her. No, that wasn't why Steve was distressed.

I should be in there with him.

We're a team — he shouldn't have to go through this alone.

I should be in there.

Steve found he couldn't sit still any longer. He needed to move. He got up and paced around the aisles for a few minutes, then stopped in the health products aisle. He grabbed a box of gauze and headed for the front counter.

He chatted with the young man behind the register, giving him a false story of how he came to be injured ("Damn, dude, that sucks. Those Citi bikes were always shitty. Last week I cut my leg riding one of 'em. It hurt, but gave me a pretty sweet scar.").

He paid for the gauze and made his way back to his seat in front of the back counter. He wrapped his shoulder with ease, happy that it had finally stopped bleeding. Luckily, the bullet had went straight through the flesh, so there would be no unforeseeable complications with it later on.

Steve pocketed the remaining gauze and waited. Minutes ticked by agonizingly, but Dina never came out. He was tempted to go inside and ask her how she was doing, but was afraid he might startle her while she was doing something that required rigorous concentration.

Adrenalin completely worn off, Steve felt himself slipping into sleep, only to jerk himself awake when he felt unconsciousness slip through. Stay awake, he willed himself. Stay alert.

He managed to preoccupy himself by reading the text that was on the box of gauze. After he finished that, he began reading the labels on whatever product was within arm's reach, managing to kill an hour. Eventually, there were no more products for him to read, and he was back at staring at the wall, bouncing his knee.

Time passed so slowly, Steve could feel it. At one moment, the manager did approach him, asking him what he was waiting for. When he told her he was waiting for Dina, the woman hummed and just continued on her way.

About an hour after that, Dina walked out.

Steve stood up immediately. He felt like he was at a hospital, waiting to hear the grim news from the stoic doctor.

But Dina was anything but stoic. When her brown eyes found Steve's blue ones, she smiled slightly and said, "Sorry, it took longer than I thought. You must have been so nervous, God, I'm sorry — I lost track of time, you know, working. Did anyone gave you trouble, mister . . . um —"

"Steve," he supplied, approaching the counter. "And it's alright, don't be sorry. Everything was fine on my end," He paused, then asked, "Is Tony alright, though? Did everything —"

"Oh God, of course, I should have just opened with that — you must have been so worried, I'm sorry. No, no everything's fine, though. Mr. Stark is perfectly alright, considering. I'm just glad I figured out what it was before it completely ruined his system."

It was as if all the pressure and strain and dread from the night's events had evaporated at those words. Steve felt all the tension leave his body, like someone had pulled the drain on all his built up stress.

Stark's alright.

He's alright.

He's fine.

His shoulders felt lighter and his knees felt weaker. He rested his elbows on the counter and ran his hands through his hair. "That's . . . that is such a relief. Thank God — thank you, Dina."

The girl flustered at that, twisting the hem of her coat. "It's nothing, don't thank me — really, it's nothing. I'm just doing what I know best. It's the least I can do for Mr. Stark after all he's done for me — and I couldn't just refuse him, I mean, that would just be awful. I could never be so cruel." She chuckled nervously, saying, "Maybe now he'll finally give me that paid internship at Stark Industries that I've been hassling him for . . ."

Steve laughed. "Even if he doesn't, I'll make sure you get one."

"Oh, wow, you're so nice — thank you, I mean. That would be so great."

"It's the least I can do," he replied. He rubbed at his eyes, then exhaled softly. It's over, he told himself. Finally.

He nodded towards the door, asking, "So, Stark's fine, then? He can leave? I'd like to get him back to his place so he can rest . . . It's been a long night." More specifically, he'd like to get Tony back to the relative safety of the heavily protected Stark Tower before any other group of psychopaths decide to chase them across Manhattan. He kept that bit to himself, though.

"Right, of course, of course, obviously. You both look like you've been through . . . a lot. You guys must be tired. Um, well, Mr. Stark is conscious, but he definitely needs rest. I did give him a small dose of painkillers, so, um, yeah, sleep would be good. Yeah. His lungs are still a little aggravated, but I'm not a doctor, so I can't really tell you what to do with that except have him get them checked out. But it's not something to worry about now, so, um, it's OK if he get checked up tomorrow."

Steve nodded, absorbing the rush of information being thrown his way. "And the arc reactor?"

The girl blinked. "The arc reac — oh! That thing in his chest, right? Yeah, it's fine, I think."

"You think . . .?" Steve repeated with a frown. "What — what do you mean, you think?"

Dina shrugged. "I don't know anything about that sort of technology. That's more of, um — that's more Mr. Stark's area."

Coldness writhed inside of Steve, coiling throughout his body. It was as if a cloud of dread was forming over him. Suddenly, nothing made sense. His mind was folding in on itself with memories and past conversations and previous assumptions and questions — questions — questions — questions.

His shoulder throbbed beneath the gauze. "Wait — no, no. Hold on. We came here because Stark's reactor was broken . . . we specifically came here because he said you had a spare reactor."

"I — I don't," She shook her head, her eyes wide with confusion. "Mr. Stark didn't — he didn't mention any of this to me. I really don't know anything about reactors . . . I'm not that sort of engineer."

Steve had to place a hand on his head, because he felt like it was going to burst. "Then what are you? Why are we here?"

"I'm — I'm a forensic toxicologist . . . " she said. "Mr. Stark called me because he was poisoned. He didn't mention anything about his arc reactor."

Suddenly, the weight of the world came crashing down on Steve. He had to blink half a dozen times in order to digest the information he was given.

Poison?

A hurricane of turmoil rendered him absolutely speechless. All he could do was stare at Dina with perturbation. Finally, when the words untangled themselves from his throat, he faltered, "he — he was poisoned?"

"Yes — I thought you knew — I didn't think he'd . . . oh God, I messed up. I should have said something . . . I just assumed you knew, or at the very least he told you. I mean, you brought him here!"

What the hell is going on? Steve swallowed thickly, trying to reign in his emotions. Get it together, Rogers. Stay level headed. He looked at Dina with hard eyes and asked, "When Stark called you, what did he say, exactly?"

She pulled at her fingers, "Right, well, um. He told me he needed to stop by to use my toxin scanner." She fished inside her lab pocket and pulled out the small device she had pricked Stark's finger with earlier. "It takes a sample of blood, and, well, scans for toxins. It's how I met Mr. Stark — his company had a scholarship program for —"

Steve interrupted her, voice heavy with overwrought. "Yes, that part I know. What else did Stark say?"

"He — I mean, after he said he needed my scanner, I asked him why, obviously. He didn't give me a straight answer, though. He just kept saying he needed to use it . . ."

Oh, good, so it's not just me he doesn't give straight answers to, Steve thought sardonically. He massaged his temple, "This . . .this whole time . . . he was poisoned? There was nothing wrong with his reactor? He . . ."

Lied, his mind supplied mercilessly.

Dina nodded, biting her lip. "It was . . .well, I don't want to make you feel worse but it was pretty bad. Whatever was in his system, it's not known — it was, like, a homemade poison. It had elements of potassium cyanide and methanol, um, but I couldn't pin it down to one singular toxin. It was a low dosage, though, so it wasn't immediately lethal. By the time you brought him here . . . his kidneys and lungs were starting to fail."

"He was dying." Steve stated.

She nodded slowly, sadly. "But if it's any consolation, um, I was able to administer the antidote just in time."

"And if it weren't just time?"

She cleared her throat. "Oh . . . well — um, his respiratory system would have shut down . . . and he would have . . . died . . . "

"Died," Steve repeated, head shaking in bewilderment. His mind was a haze of confusion, and he felt disorientation hit him at the back of the head. "He could have died — he was dying, and this whole time I thought — this whole time he made me think — God."

He stepped back from the counter, his insides quaking with incredulity. He lied to me, he lied to me, he lied to me, he lied to me. He placed the palm of his mouth over his mouth in attempt to reign in his emotions.

He lied —

— to me.

"But why?" Steve wondered aloud. Why would he lie? About something like this? What did he salvage by withholding this kind of information? What was the point?

Steve needed to sit down. Or run ten miles. Or scream. Or hit something.

Dina assumed he was specifically asking her and replied hesitantly, "Maybe he thought . . .I don't know . . . maybe he thought it wasn't serious . . . ?"

"No," Steve said distractingly. "He definitely knew it was serious..." But he still kept it from me. He downplayed it.

Steve brought his hand down, curling it into a solid fist.

Stark had said it was an arc reactor malfunction — how can I be so stupid? There was no way Stark would neglect to notice a problem with his reactor without resolving it immediately —

— There was no way Stark wouldn't be prepared for any contingency when it came to his reactor —

—There was absolutely no way Stark would willingly give away one of his reactors, old or new, to a teenage girl on a whim —

The more these realizations hit Steve, the more his dismay turned to rage.

Steve's nails dug into the palm of his hand. I should have realized how absurd his reasons were — but I didn't. I believed him. He fed me those damn lies by the spoonful and I just sat there and ate it.

Steve's narrowed eyes looked at Dina. "When did it start?" He asked. When did the lies start?

Dina played with the ring on her finger. "I can't tell you exactly . . . I don't know. But I can tell you it was before he threw up. Um, I checked his arms and neck and there were no puncture wounds, and since you're not showing symptoms, that rules out it being airborne, so . . . um . . . it had to administered orally, that's why he regurgitated . . . because, you know, throwing up helps eliminate the toxins, which was pretty smart of him to remember."

Steve snorted without mirth. "Yeah, smart."

He had more questions on the tip of his tongue, threatening to come out, when suddenly he felt a presence directly behind him. He started, hastily turning around, body tense and ready for whatever other danger happened to be behind him.

But it wasn't anything of danger. It was simply lanky, bespectacled man. He was looking from Steve to Dina with obvious discomfort. "Uh," he held up a small piece of paper. "I have a prescription . . . ?"

Dina expression changed instantly, teeth gleaming as she stretched out a wide smile. "Oh! Of course! One second, sir, I'll be right with you."

She ushered Steve to come behind the counter. When he approached her, she turned her back on the customer and whispered to Steve, "I'm sorry, you're going to hate me, but I really need you guys to leave. I'm really sorry, I know this sounds rude, but if my manager sees you guys, I'll definitely get fired. Trust me, I'm all about helping you guys and all, but, um, I need this job." She pointed towards the open door that led to the backroom, saying, "There's a back exit inside, to the right that you can use. Again, I'm really sorry. I wish I could help more."

"Actually," Steve began. "There is a way for you to help." When Dina's only response was a blink of confusion, Steve elaborated, "Stark mentioned that you bought a car with that scholarship money you won . . ."

(3)

Steve reentered the backroom with a silence that resonated off the walls. His hardened eyes landed on that insufferable pink lounge chair — and its occupant, who Steve did not want to look at right now.

Stark was sitting up on the seat, fiddling with the makeshift I.V line that connected to his forearm. When Steve walked in, he picked up his head, and their eyes met. There were bags under his eyes that were as dark as swelling bruises.

As much as Steve tried to avoid noticing, Stark looked absolutely horrendous, but at least he wasn't fighting for each breath. His eyes were glassy, his face was colorless, his skin was damp, and his expression was unreadable — and yet, anger overtook worry in Steve's mind.

They held each other's gaze for one terse minute, neither saying a word. Steve felt all sorts of emotions flaring inside his head, the only external indication that he was feeling them showing through his hard eyes.

Steve broke the silence. "Let's go," he ordered, his voice as hard as steel. He moved to the desk, opened the drawer, and pulled out a ring of keys. He clutched it in his hand and walked toward the back exit, refusing to look at Stark.

He lied to me.

He pushed open the doors hard, slamming them against the walls. The sun peered at him from the horizon, its rays zigzagging through the buildings as it announced the early hours of the morning with orange and red. Steve didn't bother to see if Stark had followed him out. He didn't care. He was angry and hurt and resentful and just plain furious.

He pressed the button on the remote key, and a car across the street made a small honking noise, headlights blinking twice. As he was crossing the street, he heard the doors he had just exited open, although not as forcefully as he had opened them. So, he did follow, Steve thought detachedly.

Steve all but threw himself inside the car, slamming the front door shut. He pushed the key into the ignition and the car rumbled underneath him. Mercedes, Steve thought, regarding the metal insignia at the center of the steering wheel. At least that's still the same.

The passenger seat's door opened, and Stark took his seat beside Steve without a word. Both men sat in silence, staring ahead at the car parked ahead of them, their headlights reflecting off the car's rear.

When the silence became suffocating, Stark spoke first; "Where are we going?"

But Steve acted first; he slammed his fist onto the steering wheel so hard, the car honked and the leather dented. Stark started violently, jumping in his seat.

"Poison!" Steve shouted at him, his filter all but forgotten as words tumbled out of his mouth before he could even think them. "You were poisoned! This whole time — this whole damn time, you've been lying to me!"

The air was stifling as neither said a word. Steve grit his teeth at Stark's silence and continued, "Dina told me, Stark. She told me there was nothing wrong with your reactor, she told me you've never given her a reactor, she told me you were dying! Lie after lie!"

Steve curled his fist even tighter as Stark maintained his silence, refusing to look at him. Another fist came down on the steering wheel, bending it further. "Say something!"

"What do you want me to say, Rogers?" Stark shot back, voice raised. "You want me to admit to my mistakes? Want me to get down on my knees and beg for forgiveness? Tell you that I was wrong, that I'm sorry? Huh? Well, tough."

Steve's eyes narrowed at his patronizing tone. "The hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It means I knew what I was doing," Stark hissed. "I'm not a fucking child that broke a vase and hid the pieces behind a curtain. I knew what I was doing, alright? I did what I had to do."

"Did what you had to do?" Steve repeated incredulously. "Is that what you call lying to me and stringing me along like a damn dog?"

This time, Stark met his furious eyes. "I told you not to follow me — no one told you you had to do anything! Why the hell are you getting so uptight about this?"

His shoulder was aching again — throbbing. "Because you lied to me, Stark! Because you were dying and didn't even have the decency to tell me!"

"I had it handled until you decided to stick your nose into my business."

"How?" Steve demanded. "How was any of this handled!? Tell me that!"

"Let me ask you something, Rogers," Stark began vehemently. "Suppose that I told you I was dying at the party — or better yet, suppose I told you that someone in that room had poisoned me. What would you have done?"

Steve opened his mouth but Stark cut him off quickly. "I'll tell you. You would have overreacted. You would have turned on your sacramental hero-complex and caused a whole scene that would have put everyone in that room in danger."

"You don't know that —"

"No, I do know that," Stark retorted immediately. "I know that because, one, I'm a fucking genius, I know how to read people, and two, this isn't my first rodeo. Believe it or not, Cap, people don't like me, and they're always more than willing to try and kill me the first chance they get. Poison? Unoriginal, but they get an A for effort."

"Then let me ask you something," Steve said slowly. "Suppose I didn't come with you. Suppose I listened to you and went back to the party, and just looked the other way, like you wanted me to." Steve paused for effect, eyes searching Stark's. "You wouldn't even have made it into the car."

"Don't be so damn dramatic," Stark responded instantly. "I knew what I was doing. I had a plan, before you came along and fucked it up."

"A plan," he repeated with a sardonic expression.

"Yes, a plan." Stark scowled. "Unlike you, I'm not a shit driver. I could have made in to Dina in half the time you took."

"Those people would have shot you dead the minute you got on the highway and you know it, Stark!"

Stark huffed a mirthless chuckle at that. "Please. Those little pricks didn't know what they were doing. They were amateurs at best."

Steve loosened his grip on the steering wheel. The leather had a deep imprint from where his fingers had curled around it. He inhaled deeply, feeling a strange mix of calm and fury. He narrowed his eyes at Stark, saying slowly, "I thought you said you didn't know who those people were."

Tony at least had the decency to look cornered. "I don't know who they are."

Steve eyes were now slits. Tony fingers twitched a briefly, but he continued through his agitation, "the hell, Rogers, I said I don't know, alright? They're probably working for the people who poisoned me — finishing the job or some shit. Why the hell do you think I wanted to get out of that party so discreetly? They would have pounced on me the moment they saw me showing symptoms. Maybe they wanted me dead, maybe they wanted me alive; who knows. This shit happens."

"Then you do know who poisoned you," it was more of a statement than a question.

"It's like talking to a fucking wall!" Stark bellowed, hands running through his hair frantically. "I don't know, OK, Steve? I — don't — know. I don't know who wanted to kill me because everyone wants to kill me, do you understand? The poison was in my drink, and I had a lot of drinks in my hand tonight. It could have been anyone! It could have been Johnson, pissed that I kept shooting down his bill. It could have been one of the Litmean brothers, bitter that I wasn't giving them a higher offer. Hell, it could have been the fucking President for all I know — he needs a scapegoat for the Battle of New York, and what better person than Iron Man himself?"

"That doesn't make sense —"

"Yes it does! Sorry to break it to you, Cap, but we're living in a fucked up world. Nobody here is united under the same cause like you and your boy scouts were back in the good ol' 40s — it's every man for himself here."

Steve spoke through his clenched teeth. "That's not true — What I'm trying to get across to you is that if you had only just asked for help, none of this would have happened. You're too paranoid, Stark!"

Hand on his forehead, Tony let out a pessimistic laugh, chest heaving as he ranted, "And you're too naive! I've been living in this world much longer than you have, kiddo, and let me tell you, there's no such thing as help. No one helps anyone without some ulterior motive. You can't trust a fucking soul down here."

"How can you say that?" Steve asked disbelievingly.

"Easily," Stark shot back. "With shit load of references to back me up."

A beat passed. Steve worked his jaw before asking, slowly, calmly, "Is that why you lied to me?" Stark looked away, breaking eye contact. Steve continued, "You don't trust me?"

The question hung in the air like an ominous cloud. Stark's hand twitched in reaction, but he refused to look Steve in the eye. The car felt smaller as Steve waited for an answer, the confined space feeling even more stifling than it already was.

Stark kept his eyes ahead. "Do you really want the answer to that?"

Steve didn't think he would, but he actually did consider Stark's question for a short moment. However, the moment he contemplated it was the same moment he realized his answer. "Yes — Yes, I do. You know why, Stark? Because we're a team. I know you don't 'play well with others', and I know we started off on the wrong foot, but we're still a team. And if we want to be a good team, then we need to trust each other. I've never given you any reason to mistrust me, or to think I had something up my sleeve. Believe it or not, I trust you — I trust you, Tony, and I'd have thought you had trusted me, too. But I guess I was wrong."

"Well, whoop dee fucking doo, Captain America is such an accepting guy. If only everyone could have the same amount of credence as you have, if only" Stark laughed morbidly. "But, sadly, we don't. No one does. And guess what? You are wrong. You're dead wrong. I don't trust you. Is that what you wanted to hear? The big confession? Here it is for you again: I — don't —trust — you!"

"Stark —"

"No, no — isn't this what you wanted? You want to know why I lied to you? Why I didn't tell you I was poisoned? Here you go; it's because I don't trust you, Cap. I just don't. I can't help it." He tapped at his head insistently. "It's built in, I can't turn it off. Automatically, I know I can't trust you; you might be the nicest guy out there, halo and wings and everything, but I know — I know that doesn't last long. Sooner or later — eventually, you'll just fuck me over. They always do."

"Calm d —"

"And I've tried the whole trusting thing," Tony jabbed incessantly, hands clenching and unclenching relentlessly. "I've tried it, Cap, believe me, I did — never produced happy results for me. I always got screwed over. I got screwed over when Fury wanted to use the Tesseract to make weapons, screwed over when Rhodey took my suit, screwed over when Romanoff spied on me —"

"Tony —"

"And I got fucked over when Obie had me kidnapped by fucking terrorists," Stark let out a strange sound; it was like a mix of a laugh and a gasp. "That one's my favorite — the icing on the whole shit flavored cake. Can you imagine? A guy you knew your whole life, a guy you looked up to, who practically raised you and treated you like a son — and all he wanted was my company — to have me out of the picture!" He let out that strange noise again. "He had me tortured — he tried to kill me — and I trusted him —"

"Tony, breathe," Steve insisted.

"Fuck," Stark was gasping now, eyes wide and wild. His hands flew to the door handle, pulling on it desperately. It didn't budge. "Unlock the doors."

"Just listen to me, Tony —"

"Unlock the fucking door, Rogers!"

Steve hands were on his door now, pressing the buttons that he hoped would unlock the doors. A click sounded, and Stark pushed through his door, stumbling on his footing the moment he touched the ground. He lost his balance, toppling to the ground, his hand maintaining its grip on the door handle.

"Tony!" Steve was outside in an instant, stepping around the car and onto the sidewalk. Tony was collapsed on the ground, his free hand clutching his chest, gasping desperately as if there wasn't enough air in the world to fill his lungs.

Steve kneeled in front of the trembling man. Stark was wheezing so quickly Steve wasn't sure he was actually intaking anything.

"Breathe, Tony," he said firmly. But Stark didn't seem to hear him. His eyes were roaming all over the place, everywhere but on Steve.

Steve frowned. He brought hand up, fluttering over Stark's shoulder, but the near contact made Tony flinch violently, back hitting the car. "I — I don't — fuck —"

"Tony, look at me. Relax. Breath — just breath," Steve pleaded, but Stark just gasped and hiccuped and shook.

And then suddenly, it wasn't Stark that sat in front of Steve, vulnerable and trembling and afraid. It was Bucky.

It was Bucky, who for days wouldn't allow anyone to touch him after he'd been rescued from the H.Y.D.R.A base.

Bucky, who would wake up at odd hours of the night, screaming and fighting out of vivid nightmares.

Bucky, who lashed out so violently when the medics tried to hold him down during an examination that Steve had to be called in to calm him down.

Steve's own breath caught in his throat at the sudden rampage of memories. Where did that come from? But his spontaneous thoughts had already made their impression. His mind made the connection with the past and the present, and Steve felt the déjà vu wrap itself around him like a cloak.

"Tony," Steve said firmly. "Stark."

When Tony's bloodshot eyes found his, Steve raised a palm. "I need you to listen very carefully, alright? I need you to follow my hand. When I raise it, I want you to inhale as deeply as you can, and when I drop it, I want you to exhale. Ready?"

Steve raised his hand up slowly, leveling it with his chin. Stark's eyes followed it, but his breathing maintained its erratic pace. "Come on, Stark, focus. Up is inhale, down is exhale. In and out. One more time."

He let his hand fall slowly, and this time Stark responded. He shakily breathed out, teeth clattering as he did so. His eyes remained on Steve's hand.

"Good. One more time, inhale." Steve raised his hand and Stark sucked in a lungful of air, shoulders shaking.

Memories assailed his mind again. Come on, Bucky, just breath. You're fine — you're OK. No one's gonna hurt you but yourself if you don't breath — There, that's it. Just inhale and exhale. In and out, in and out.

Steve dropped his hand, and Stark breathed out. He raised it, and an inhale replied. Down, exhale. Up inhale.

"I never did get to tell you that story about Nat, did I?" Steve suddenly said. Stark didn't answer him. His eyes remained glued on Steve's moving hand.

"It happened a few months ago," Steve began. Stark exhaled. "Nat, Clint and I were all down at the shooting range S.H.I.E.L.D had set up in its base. Clint was doing some target practice with his bow, and Nat and I were sitting and watching, having lunch. I think it was Thai food, I don't remember specifically. I just remember it had a lot of seasoning."

He raised his hand and Stark inhaled. "Anyway, we were pretty much just lounging around, not really doing anything productive. Then, Clint had this brilliant idea."

Stark's eyes darted toward Steve, the blatant sarcasm in his voice obviously catching his attention. He dropped his hand and Tony breathed out. "He said, 'why don't we test your reaction time, Steve? Let's see how good your reflexes are'. I didn't want to, because I knew Clint's idea of testing my reaction time was shooting me with as many arrows as he possibly can. But Nat bullied me into it, so I agreed."

Hand up, inhale. "I stood on one side of the range while Clint stood on the other. Nat was on the corner, drinking her soda, watching. Clint had these special round rubber arrowheads that were supposed to just bounce off whatever they hit that he decided to use on me. He assured me they wouldn't hurt — but they did. And they hurt. A lot." Steve chuckled a little at the memory. "What I found out was either I have awful reaction time or Clint is just too good of a marksman."

Hand down, exhale. "So Clint is shooting his arrows at me one by one, and one by one I'm getting hit. I couldn't dodge any of them. But then, the weirdest thing happened. I don't know if it was from the food or what, but right when Clint let an arrow fly from the string — I sneezed."

Tony's eyebrows rose and Steve chuckled, continuing. "I sneezed so hard that I doubled over, and the arrow missed me. It flew right above my head. I didn't even know he had shot it. Nat almost choked on her soda from laughing so much. I think some of it came out of her nose, too."

Tony snorted, dropping his hand from its place on the door's handle, letting it lay on the cold, cement ground. "I bet Barton was pissed," he murmured.

Steve laughed. "His face was priceless," he agreed. He dropped his hand as well. Stark's breathing had regained its normal tune and Steve let out a lengthy sigh. He moved from his place on the sidewalk and sat himself besides Stark, letting his back rest against the humming car.

Stark dropped his face into his hands, a ragged huff pushing through his fingers. They sat in silence like that, neither saying a word, basking in the early morning sun. Stark's controlled breathing was the only sound that filled the air.

Steve reached into his pocket and pulled out the box of gauze. Tony eyed him as he held up the roll, brows raised. Steve motioned toward his head. "It's bleeding again," he elaborated. The gash on the side of Stark's head had let out a new, thin trail of blood on top of the dried one that caked his temple.

Tony didn't say anything. He simply pursed his lips and nodded tiredly. Steve unrolled the gauze and carefully wrapped it around the man's head.

"I told Dina you'd give her an internship, by the way." Steve began.

Tony snorted. "Let me guess. She wants a paid one."

"She deserves it. She's a good kid."

His eyes were faraway, gazing at the buildings without actually seeing them. "Yeah."

"She told me this wasn't the first time this happened to you — that it wasn't the first time she had to help you out."

Tony didn't say anything at first. H his his fingers along the gritty, cement floors, collecting dirt and grime. He shrugged idly, saying, "It's not like she has a choice. I control her funding." He sighed, eyes on the sidewalk. "I would just buy the patent off of her — if it didn't give Stark Industries a bad name. The minute the media sees I'm investing in toxicology, every newspaper will have the words chemical warfare as its headlines. Can't have that."

"That's why you gave her the scholarship. So she's indebted to you? You helped her so she has to help you?"

"Go ahead. Call me a hypocrite." Exhaustion painted Stark's face with dull colors. Shoulders slumped, the man simply looked tired, and Steve couldn't pinpoint whether he was from the night's events or from the conversation. He brought a hand up to rub his eyes, but Steve swatted it away.

"Don't you think she's helping you because she wants to help? Not because she owes you anything?"

Tony picked up his head, shooting Steve a wary look. "Is that what you're doing?"

Steve frowned. He finished the third loop and tore the gauze from the roll, stuffing the tail underneath the bandage. He pocketed the remaining gauze and stared into Stark's eyes as sincerely as possible. "I don't want anything from you. I just want to help."

A bird chirped from overhead, and a pigeon landed on the sidewalk in front of them, pecking the ground. Stark brought up a hand and felt his bandaged head, staring at the bird as it searched for food.

He didn't say anything for a long time. When the bird flew away, he murmured, "You said before that I'm paranoid. And you're right." Stark dragged his hands down and onto his knees, saying softly, "I am paranoid. I know I am. But I can't help it. It's not something I can just turn off. I'm just fucked up like that. You're a good guy, Steve. I know that. But another part of me knows that when the opportunity calls for it, you'll just throw me under the bus."

"I won't. . ."

"I know that!" Stark snapped, but he rightened himself immediately, hands curling on his knees. He took a shuddering breath, calming himself. "Don't you get it? That's the problem. I know you're not out to get me, but I can't help but think that you will. I just can't." Stark chuckled sadly. "It's crazy, right? I was so paranoid when I realized I was poisoned, for a second, I actually thought that you might have poisoned me."

Steve frowned sadly. "Tony. . ."

"But, see, that's the thing. I know you didn't. Deep down, I know you didn't do it. But I couldn't shut off those damn warning bells inside my head. All these scenarios just kept running through my head: maybe S.H.I.E.L.D put you up to it? Maybe someone paid you to pass me the drink? Maybe someone's blackmailing you to do it? None of them made sense, but at the same time, they all made sense."

He shook his head, eyes to the sky, laughing sadly, "I'm so fucked up."

Steve's insides gave a cold shudder at hearing Stark's broken voice. He sat up straighter, looking at him intensely. "You're not," Steve said resolutely. "After what you've been through, this is probably the most normal thing about you."

Stark snorted, cracking a small smile. "That's one way of looking at it."

Softly, Steve continued, saying, "I want you to trust me, Tony. I want you to feel like you can trust me. But I won't force you." He paused, adding, "If you don't want to trust me, that's fine. But I'll never give you a reason to mistrust me. I won't stop helping you when I can."

Tony said nothing for a long time. Then, thickly, he asked, "Why?"

"Because there are somethings people shouldn't go through alone," Steve replied without hesitation, fixing Tony with an unshakeable stare. "What happened today was something you shouldn't have had to deal with alone. When I was waiting for you inside the pharmacy, I kept thinking about what would have happened if I didn't come with you. What I said earlier, about you not being able to even make it into the car if I wasn't with you? I didn't say that just to antagonize you, and you know it." He placed a hand on Stark's shoulder, squeezing it affably. "We're a team, Tony. That means we look out for each other."

A beat passed. Tony broke eye contact, looking toward the building. The muscles in his jaw jumped as he swallowed thickly. Steve kept his hand on his shoulder, feeling the tremblings beneath it. Then, Tony looked at him, the corner of his mouth tipped upward in a tiny smirk. "You're an insufferably nice guy, Steve. You know that?"

Steve laughed, a warm smile crossing his features to match Stark's grin. "I get that a lot," he chuckled, shaking his head. He sighed, looking around, then gingerly stood up off the ground, extending an arm down. Stark looked at it for a moment, then took it, and Steve hauled him up.

He gave Tony an appraising look, then said solemnly, "I know I can't make you trust me immediately. I know that. But will you at least let me try?"

Tony licked his lips, nodding. "Sure, Cap."

With those two words, Steve felt all the distress in his body simmer into nothingness. The uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach was nothing more than air. The tension in his shoulders drained itself, and his mind felt notably more at east. He patted Tony on the shoulder, just had the man had done so many times earlier at the party. "Thank you," he said with a genuine smile. Tony returned it.

Steve took a step, motioning to the car, and said with eminent relief in his voice. "Alright. Let's go to the hospital."

Stark started at that. "Wha — the hospital?" He glared at Steve. "Why? I'm fine!"

Steve rolled his eyes. "Tony, you were poisoned. You need to get your stomach pumped."

"I'm fine! Dina fixed me."

"Dina's not a doctor and you know it."

"Fine — then let me drive at least."

Steve laughed, walking over to the driver's seat, pulling the door open. "I don't think so."

Stark groaned. "Steve, come on. No offense, but you're a shit driver!"

"How is that not offensive?" Steve wondered aloud, taking his seat. "And I'm a great driver."

Reluctantly, Stark pulled the passenger seat open and sat down with a childish huff. "Great driver my ass. Let's count all your driving offenses, shall we?" He brought a hand up and began ticking off each finger. "You went a hundred miles over the speed limit, you never turned on any of your turn signals, you crossed a red light — oh, and let's not forget, you drove into an alleyway and parked illegally."

Steve buckled his seatbelt, "Minor details." He switched the car's gear from Park to Drive and rolled the car onto the street.

Stark groaned again, but loudly this time, fully aware of his loss. He put his own seatbelt on with a huff, eyeing Steve. "Fine, since you're so hell-bent on it. You can drive. But I won't promise you that I'll be well-behaved at the hospital. I've been known to be a difficult patient, and I have to keep up that reputation."

Steve stopped at a traffic light, grinning at Stark's immaturity. "How about we strike a deal, then?"

That caught Tony's attention. "Yeah?"

"If you promise not to be difficult in the hospital, and you listen to the doctors without complaint," Steve began. "Once they release you, I'll take you to see the Brooklyn Bridge."

Stark outright laughed at that, but it wasn't a strained or mirthless laugh like his earlier ones. It was a genuine, blissful laugh that softened his features. "Sounds good," Tony grinned. The light changed to green, Steve laughed, and he drove forward.

(END)

A/N: reviews and helpful critique are greatly appreciated! As this is my first fic on this site, I'm thirsty for feedback from you all, to see if you enjoyed my writing, because I have other works in the mix. Happy Ramadan to any Muslim readers, and also Happy Father's day!