Hola, Amigos! This'll be a few oneshots which tie together in the end, one chapter for each Avenger. I watched Iron Man 3 today, and I LOVED IT. A thought ran through my head though, where were the Avengers? Had they heard of what had happened? How would they react to Tony's 'death'?

Spoilers for Iron Man 3- and very lightly for the Avengers (Seriously if you haven't either of them, go NOW. They're AWESOMETACULAR.

Disclaimer: I own nothing, unfortunately. I mean, if I did I would NOT be writing so much fanfiction and more angsty-fluffy-whump inducing scripts. Not that Stan Lee doesn't do a great job and isn't great. He's FANTASTICAL. I wish he'd just make it so I don't have to wait two/three years for each bloody sequel of each bloody movie.

Steve didn't watch as the colossal outbreak of disbelief and demand broke out on live television. His eyes hadn't trailed over and studied the news-reporters and interviewers yelling about the major, phenomenal controversy. His ears hadn't perked up as he listened to the radio, and the crowds of people gathering and debating the tragic event with a ridiculous flavour of incredulity. He didn't hear the whispers and murmurs of shock from every single person with a working knowledge of the public media and a properly functioning voice box. He hadn't read the posts and updates and live breaking news feeds all over every single social media and reports website in the entire world.

No, Steve hadn't known until he had picked up newsletter the morning after.

He had been travelling, all over the world. Since the first mission initiated for the Avengers Initiative, he had realised he wanted to discover more. To see the modernisation and revolutionising of the world he had known and come to love decades and decades ago. It was overwhelming- to finally completely comprehend that with a touch of a button or the tap of a screen, one could see and hear someone on the other side of the world in seconds. To understand that there was no particular dress code, that turning seventeen didn't mean joining the military and fighting cold, bloody wars.

And despite how overwhelming that had been, to conclusively grasp the fact that nothing in the world he had lived and breathed in would ever remain or be the same as it once was, that singular emotion in such a context did not compare to how it evolved and heightened so drastically when he had held that crisped and damp on the edges black and white paper, with a title printed in large capitals and in bold neatly at the top of the page.

Billionaire Tony Stark DEAD

No.

No.

The first humane emotion that Steve registered was harsh and persistent and crashed into him with the force of a tsunami, like a majestic, overbearing smash, colliding so viciously and intently into his very being and weakening him at the knees.

It was rage.

Anger, as pure and unyielding as it was. It beared enough of an influence for his strong hands to crush either side of the page, calloused fingertips and short-trimmed pale nails scratching roughly against the cheap thin material with unsurprising vigour, tearing it at the edges and crumbling the corners of the words as well as the photograph of Tony.

He could hear the ripping of paper; feel the tightness of his nails pressed hard against his palms through the letter, echoing in the shadow of the gritting of his teeth as they crashed together in order to stop the yell building at the back of his throat. He could sense the disbelieving widening of his eyes, the surreal dilation of his pupils.

He reread the title and corrected himself. Billionaire Tony Stark presumed dead. Believed to be dead. Convinced to be dead.

But that didn't make him so.

No, just because the public thought he no longer breathed, it didn't mean that it was true. It proved nothing. There was no body found at the scene- the scene. He only realised that in the moments he had spent standing, weak in the knees, that he hadn't gotten past the title, let alone the scene.

A part of him didn't want to. He could feel the tremors running through his body, causing the newspaper to shake ever so slightly. He could hear the thumping of his heart quicken and beat so hard against his ribs it almost made him dizzy. He realised that he didn't want to read this. He didn't want to process the words because he, or some illogical part of him, believed that once he read the words- that there would be no going back. That it would officially mean that Tony was probably dead. That he was dead.

He knew how ridiculous the notion was. Regardless of whether he read the article or not, Tony was still going to be where he was right now. Tony was still going to either be dead, or he wasn't. It wouldn't change the facts or the events or the reasons. It wouldn't change what had taken place and it certainly wouldn't make anything any easier.

He could finally feel the fury subsiding and noticed that he didn't know why he had felt so. Why was he mad? Maybe because despite how many times Steve had warned Tony, despite how many times he notified him of the risks and consequences of his actions, that he had never listened? That he wasn't able to count the times that Tony had flown into a burning, collapsing building with a breaking suit and a failing source of energy without a second thought for himself? Nor the times which he had reprimanded Tony for being so careless and ignorant of where his actions could and would land him…

And suddenly, just in that exact moment, another wave of surpassing emotions hit him. It was loss. It was loss and sadness and desperation. He could feel the moisture building behind his lashes, the harshness of the quivering in his limbs overtaking the strength used to crumble the edges of the paper.

Tony was probably gone. Tony was probably dead, and Tony was probably never coming back.

Tony. Was. Gone.

Tony was gone.

Steve heard the thud of his knees crashing against the hard, cold floor before he felt them giving out and collapsing beneath him. He noticed his vision blurring before he felt the first tear escaping the prison of his long, light lashes. He smelt the feint scent of salt before the first drop cascaded onto the floor and left a small, seemingly insignificant mark. He could hear himself clearing his throat as subtly as he could despite there being no one around and almost missed the words which had almost unnoticeably slipped past his lips.

"You son of a bitch."

His heart beat faster than ever when a strange sort of determination flowed through his system and eclipsed him. His fingers tightened from their recently loosened grip and he could sense the feeling rushing through his legs again. No. No, Tony Stark was not dead. He was presumed to bedead, but Steve knew that the bastard could come back from practically anything.

Steve managed to push himself of the floor and resisted the urge to laugh at himself. He was not going to play the role of someone who gave up so easily. He straightened himself up and forced his legs to quit shaking. He was Captain bloody America, and was a soldier. A soldier who stood and fought for good men. A soldier who stood and fought for his friends.

And that included Tony.

Tony was alive, as far as Steve could tell. It didn't matter that everyone believed he wasn't. It didn't matter that there was most likely an undeniable amount of evidence enforcing his death and passing. Steve wasn't just going to stand by when something bigger was at stake.

He was going to read the report and he was going to listen to the news. He was going to watch the interviews and fully comprehend the situation before drawing any conclusions.

But first of all, he was going to call Fury.

Abandoning the scene of his breakdown, he let his determination speak for itself through his deliberate strides and the remains of a single tear on the pavement.

Tony Stark was not dead, not because he couldn't be, but because presumed dead wasn't good enough.

Tony Stark was not dead.

What did you think? Review or throw in a PM to tell me who you'd like me to write about next! Until next time (next update, tomorrow & the day after & so on!)

Adios Amigos!

~Rose