THANKS TO BRUCE'S GENIUS—and a little creative recklessness—the prototype time machine was technically working. Though if you counted a grown man aging backward into a drooling infant and then forward into a ninety-year-old in under thirty seconds as "progress," the definition might need some revisiting.

Steve had stepped outside because the lab walls were closing in. Because watching Scott Lang age backwards while Bruce tried to remain calm had shaken something loose in him. Something he couldn't let the others see.

He closed his eyes and took in a breath.

Cool air. Faint rust of metal in the wind. The low hum of power coursing through the compound behind him.

Then—

A noise.

A familiar, unmistakable rumble of an engine tearing through the distance.

His head lifted.

There, slicing around the curve of the long driveway, was a flash of silver and black. An Audi R8, gleaming in the afternoon sun like it belonged on a different planet from the dust-covered ruins around it.

The car sped toward the entrance, fast—too fast—before screeching to an awkward halt a few feet too far from him. Then it reversed slightly, as if making a show of arriving late to a conversation that hadn't started yet.

The window rolled down.

And there he was.

Tony Stark.

The man himself, sunglasses glinting, jaw slightly clenched in that smug-yet-tired expression he'd perfected over a lifetime.

"Why the long face?" Tony called, voice casual but laced with something heavier. "Let me guess: He turned into a baby."

Steve exhaled, a soft, breathy laugh slipping past his lips despite himself. Of course. Leave it to Tony to show up and defuse the tension with sarcasm sharp enough to cut glass.

"Among other things, yeah," Steve muttered, standing as the door swung open and Tony stepped out. "What are you doing here?"

"That's the EPR Paradox. Instead of pushing Lang through time, you might've wound up pushing time through Lang. It's tricky. Dangerous. Somebody should've cautioned you against it."

"You did."

"Oh, did? Thank God I'm here. Regardless, I fixed it," Tony replied, lifting his hand to reveal a sleek, silver device strapped around his wrist. "A fully functioning Time-Space GPS. I just want peace," Tony said. He raised two fingers in a tired peace sign. "Turns out, resentment is corrosive, and I hate it."

Steve studied him. No armor. No mask. Just a father, torn between love and duty, standing in the ruins of yesterday with the tools to fix tomorrow.

"Me too," Steve said finally.

Tony nodded slowly. "We got a shot at getting these stones, but I gotta tell you my priorities: Bring back what we lost? I hope, yes. Keep what I got? I have to, at all costs. And... maybe not die trying will be nice."

"Sounds like a deal," Steve said, extending a hand.

Tony took it, gripping firmly. The tension eased between them, like a fog lifting.

For the first time in a long time, Steve felt like they were on the same side again.

Tony let go and turned toward the back of the car, popping open the trunk. Steve followed, his boots crunching on gravel.

Inside sat something wrapped in a soft flannel blanket and resting beneath a well-loved stuffed dog. Steve's heart caught in his throat when he realized what it was.

The shield.

His shield.

Howard's gift.

The last piece of the man Steve used to be.

"Tony, I dont know...," Steve said quietly, eyes fixed on the round silhouette beneath the blanket.

Tony raised a brow. "Why? He made it for you." He nudged the dog aside with one hand. "Plus, honestly I have to get it out of the garage before Morgan takes it sledding."

Steve chuckled. The ache in his chest didn't fade, but something in it softened.

With reverence, he lifted the shield, slid his arm through the leather straps, and let its weight settle over his forearm. Like coming home.

"Thank you, Tony," he said, voice low.

"Yeah, yeah. Keep it quiet. I didn't bring gifts for the rest of the team," Tony grumbled as he shut the trunk. "Speaking of—which, we're getting the gang back together, right?"

"We're working on it."

✧˚ · .

Six stones glowed in the air above them, each suspended in time. The Soul and Power Stones blinked cold and distant, buried in the vast silence of space—2014. The Reality Stone bled a deep crimson, flickering like a warning flare over Asgard, 2013. And then there was New York—2012—alive with the golden pulses of the Space, Mind, and Time Stones, glowing against the chaos of a younger, more reckless world.

Steve stood with his shoulders straight and his heart leaden.

"Alright," he said quietly, his voice firm but laced with something heavier, older. "We have a plan. Six Stones, three teams. One shot."

Behind him, the others slowly approached, drawn to the light, to the mission, to the weight of what had to be done.

He turned to face them. The Quantum suits were sleek and unfamiliar, white and dark red like the uniforms of some mythic future. Yet the people inside them were all painfully real—bruised, broken, tired... but unshakably brave.

They stood together in front of the time machine like soldiers stepping into a storm.

He inhaled slowly.

"Five years ago, we lost," Steve said, his voice echoing in the hush. "All of us."

His gaze swept across them—Tony, grim and unblinking; Bruce, quiet but resolute; Scott fidgeting with nervous energy; Clint with his jaw tight and haunted; and Natasha—God, Natasha, who stood so still, her expression unreadable, yet her eyes shimmered like the edge of a knife catching sunlight.

"We lost friends. We lost family," he continued. "We lost... a part of ourselves."

A beat of silence passed like a shared breath.

"Today, we have a chance to take it all back."

The lights from the machine cast them in glints of red and gold, reflections playing across their armor like embers floating in the dark.

Steve's voice softened. "You know your teams, you know your missions. Get the stones, get them back. One round trip each. No mistakes. No do-overs."

He paused—eyes on each of them, letting the moment stretch.

"Most of us are going somewhere we know," he said. "But it doesn't mean we should know what to expect."

A chill moved through the air, subtle but electric, like something sacred was about to be broken.

"Be careful. Look out for each other."

He met Tony's eyes. The old tension between them had melted in the fires of grief. They nodded—brothers at the end of the world.

"This is the fight of our lives," Steve finished. "And we're gonna win. Whatever it takes."

Their fists met in the middle, one by one—a quiet ritual. No fireworks. Just a simple, solemn bond. As if that gesture alone could stitch together the unraveling of time.

"Whatever it takes," they echoed.

"Whatever it takes," Steve repeated in his mind—though he wasn't sure if it was for the mission, or for her.

He would bring her back. He had to.

"He's pretty good at that," Rocket said.

"Right?", Scott nodded excitedly.

"All right," Tony said. "You heard the man. Stroke those keys, jolly green.."

Bruce stepped up to the control panel, fingers flying over the interface.

"Tractors engaged," he called out.

Clint opened his hand, revealing the shrunken Benatar. Rocket eyed him. "You promise to bring that back in one piece, right?"

Clint raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah. Okay. I'll do my best."

"As promises go, that was pretty lame."

The machine started to hum. The red glow deepened, pulsing like a heartbeat. The platform lit up beneath their feet. Panels slid into place above them, rotating like rings of fate aligning.

Bruce ran to join them.

Then, just before the countdown—before the world fractured into different timelines and possibilities—Natasha turned.

She looked at them. Really looked. Her hair, braided back in a dark flame. Her eyes, fierce and shining with something softer underneath. Her lips curved into the smallest smile.

"See you in a minute," she said, voice warm and teasing.

It was such a small thing.

But something about it hit Steve like a knife to the gut.

She didn't look back.

I can't wait to see them all again, she must've thought to herself, already imagining how wonderful it would be to hold each of them in her arms.

The others tapped their GPS triggers. Suits locked. Helms slid down. The world around them spun in red and silver and sound.

The tunnel opened—a swirling vortex of light and time. The Light swirled upward like galaxies caught in a vortex. Red and gold and violet shimmered around them, dancing across their suits and helmets. As they began to shrink, the world fractured around them into streams of color and motion.

Steve felt the floor shift beneath him. Time stretched like taffy. Space folded. The past pulled at him like a tide.

His hand hovered over the trigger.

He glanced, one last time, at Natasha.

She was already gone.