Archive of Our Own ^beta

Retrograde amnesia is a form of amnesia where someone is unable to recall events that occurred before the development of the amnesia, even though they may be able to encode and memorize new things that occur after the onset.

Retrograde amnesia is often temporally graded, meaning that remote memories are more easily accessible than events occurring just prior to the trauma (sometimes known as Ribot's Law after the 19th Century psychologist Théodule-Armand Ribot), and the events nearest in time to the event that caused the memory loss may never be recovered.

While there is no actual cure for retrograde amnesia, “jogging” the victim’s memory by exposing them to significant articles from their past will often speed the rate of recall.

--http://www.human-memory.net/disorders_retrograde.html

Steve came to gradually, surfacing from some half-remembered nightmare where everything was cold and dark. Slowly, that vague impression of having been caught in a disturbing dream grew into the feeling that something was very wrong.

It wasn't that familiar ache in his bones saying that he was ill or had been in a fight or possibly both, nor was it the unnerving, drowning on dry land constriction of breath or an anxious bout of palpitations. All of those were suspiciously absent. In a way, he felt quite good, but that didn't help with the wrongness.

It was as if his entire body were bloated, somehow, all his limbs too heavy, his clothes tight against his skin in a way he didn't remember ever feeling. He had no idea what this meant, but it was more disturbing than the fading memory of his nightmares, because it was as tangible as anything.

Trying to ignore that sense of foreboding, he opened his eyes.

He was in an entirely unfamiliar room that seemed cozy enough. A background noise that he had been tuning out so far turned out to be a radio, with the announcer excitedly explaining the details of some baseball game. Before he'd made sense of who was playing whom, he caught a glimpse of himself, and all interest in that game vanished.

His arms looked gigantic. They couldn't possibly be his, but there they were, resting by his sides on top of a blanket. The T-shirt he was dressed in seemed ridiculously tight, and made it obvious his torso was just as muscular as his arms.

What in the blazes was happening?

He felt vaguely nauseous and oddly detached at the same time; he was looking at himself, but it wasn't his body he was seeing. It was like something from those science fiction stories Bucky was so fond of. As if someone had transplanted his brain into someone else's body.

Steve sat up, staring at hands that didn't look familiar, but that still moved when he decided to move them. He brushed his fingers against a bicep that was thicker than his thigh should've been. It felt perfectly real, and he could feel the touch, the pressure of the tips of his fingers against his skin, against these impossible muscles he seemed to have grown overnight.

In all his life, he had never even dreamed of looking like this. He'd dreamed of looking normal, a regular guy. Of not getting his skinny behind handed to him in every fist fight he got into, but this—if it hadn't screamed wrong at him loudly enough to drown the sound of the radio, he would've been incredibly impressed. As it was, he hoped he was going to wake up properly soon, because this made his skin crawl. Or rather, the skin that couldn't possibly be his.

The door to the room opened, and a lady dressed in some kind of a uniform stepped in, carrying a clipboard.

"Good morning," she greeted him, paused briefly to glance at her watch, and added, "Or should I say, afternoon?"

The look on her face was friendly enough, and she was talking as if there was nothing unusual going on at all. That didn't help with the fact that the unnerving situation had Steve at a hair's breadth away from panicking. It took all his resolve to hold on to some semblance of calm. He was sure there was an expression of wide-eyed shock on his face—whatever that looked like right now, because no doubt his face would be as unfamiliar as the rest of him—and his voice came through shaky and desperate as he spoke up.

"Please, you have to tell me—what's happened to me?"

The lady gave him a reassuring smile. "It's okay, just take it easy. I bet you must be confused. You were injured in the line of duty, and you were unconscious for a long time, but you're all better now."

That made even less sense. It sounded like she had to be talking to someone else. In the line of duty? Him?

Steve remembered trying to enlist—at least twice? Or more than twice? Somehow, his memories were a little hazy on that, but he had definitely tried, and he'd been turned down, more than once. He was too sickly, too scrawny, to be allowed to do his part. He didn't have this body which looked like it belonged to someone who could be posing on recruitment posters.

He simultaneously wanted to curl up in the corner and ignore everything, hoping to wake up as himself again, and to leap up and try to run away. As it was, he'd never been one to hide, so he stood up. Moving felt strange, the bed creaking under his weight, and he couldn't help but wonder how fast he could run or how hard he could punch now.

"No," he told her, shaking his head. "There's been some kind of mixup. I'm not fit to be in the line of duty. They wouldn't even let me enlist. This isn't me," he spread his arms.

There was the slightest frown on her brow, but her smile stayed on. It looked too calculated to Steve. "Of course it's you, Mr. Rogers," she said, slowly, cautiously. "That's your name, isn't it? Steve Rogers?"

How could she know who he was when he didn't look at all like himself? Should he even be telling her anything? And if he didn't, what else could he do? Should he give in to the impulse to push her aside and rush out of the door?

He had no idea where he was and what was going on, and surely, she'd know more about it than he did. If he kept her talking, maybe she'd tell him.

"Yes, it is, it's just that I don't look like this," Steve said.

She glanced at her clipboard, then at him again, still holding that friendly, neutral expression. "What's the last thing you remember?"

That was a good question. Steve tried to think back to what had happened before he'd woken up here. Had he fallen asleep? Maybe hit his head? Was this some kind of hallucination? He couldn't remember anything like that, but really, his memories seemed somehow jumbled as it was.

There were those times he'd tried to enlist. There were some fights he'd picked. Bucky had saved him a few times. He'd been doing just fine on his own and hadn't really needed help. Then Bucky had enlisted, and Steve had tried to. It was all kind of fragmented, like older memories tended to be, but there were no newer ones. Certainly nothing that could explain where he was now, and nothing that felt really recent.

"I'm not sure," he admitted.

"That's okay. As I said, you've been through a lot. It's no wonder you're having trouble making sense of it all," she said. That only made him more frustrated, since he had no idea what he might've been through. "Does the name Captain America mean anything to you?"

It sounded like something out of a pulp or a comic, but he was sure he'd never heard it before. He crossed his arms. It felt like maneuvering a pair of tree trunks.

"No," Steve said. "Should it?"

Tony was rarely at a loss for something clever to say, but as Fury paused the security camera video they'd been watching, he found himself just staring at the screen in disbelief.

"Well, I'll be damned," he finally said, to fill the silence.

"Indeed," Fury said.

Tony hadn't known what to expect; Fury had simply called him in for some unspecified consultancy stint. Tony had been mildly annoyed at the lack of specs for what he'd be dealing with, but he'd assumed it'd be the usual "our own engineers couldn't get this to work so please sort it out asap" type of deal. Never in a million years could he have guessed that SHIELD had found Captain America, alive and well, and looking not a year older than when he'd gone missing.

"When was this?" Tony asked, waving a hand at the screen. He'd been too busy staring at Cap to pay attention to the time stamps.

"Just about two weeks ago," Fury replied.

"Two weeks, and you've kept this to yourself? Nick, I'm starting to think you don't like me!" Tony complained. "So, why bring me in now? You want me to design him a new costume to go with that shield prototype I've been tinkering with?"

"Eventually, maybe," Fury said, his eye on the screen, his expression thoughtful. "See, it's been two weeks, and he's still like this."

Tony frowned. "Wait, so he really doesn't remember? I thought that was a ploy. We know he's smart. If he can't trust the people around him, surely he'll do his best to hide his identity."

"You think we didn't consider that?" Fury returned, sounding mildly annoyed. "That was my first reaction as well, but it doesn't seem to be the case. He genuinely has no memory of the years he spent as Captain America."

"But he still remembers his civilian identity?" Tony asked suspiciously. "That seems awfully convenient."

"Trust me, Stark, we've tested this extensively. He remembers most of his life up to the point when he was recruited by Project Rebirth, but nothing that came after," Fury said. "Apparently, the time he spent frozen left him with some minor brain damage that's caused this amnesia. Our doctors are still trying to work out the specifics."

That sent a chill down Tony's spine, and not one of the fun kind. Brain damage, minor as it might be, never failed to sound terrifying. Cap had always been described as a tactical genius and an overall intelligent person, and the thought he might've lost that brought up a wave of sympathy stronger than Tony would've expected.

He'd heard so much about Cap growing up, any mention of the man tended to irritate him. As a kid, he'd adored Cap, but it hadn't taken too long for him to grow old enough to realize that Cap represented an impossible ideal, a yardstick dad would always hold him against that he'd ever measure up to. Cap reminded him of all too many conversations with his dad he'd rather forget. Then again, in spite of himself, beneath his annoyance and envy over that perfect and flawless image of Cap that dad had kept referring to, Tony had always been curious. He'd never stopped wondering how the real person would hold up to all the hype.

It was a depressing idea that Cap might've returned to life as only a shadow of himself.

"He's going to get better, right? If he's still got the whole super soldier serum situation going on, he should heal pretty fast." Tony tried to keep his tone casually disinterested. He was pretty sure Fury could see right through that.

Fury's expression grew even more serious. "I wish I could say he will. The good news is, his cognitive skills don't seem impaired in any way, but as for the memories, all I've got from the specialists who've been working with him is that he may regain some or even most of them, but there's no guarantee. So far, they haven't made any progress. That's where you come in."

"Now you've lost me," Tony said. "I've got an impressive resume, but last I checked, I didn't have a psych degree."

"No, but you've got something no one else has: an extensive knowledge of his time as Captain America—"

"Which a ton of historians and Cap enthusiasts also have, in far more detail that me," Tony pointed out.

Fury ignored him. "—courtesy of someone who knew him well. More than that, you resemble your old man enough to count as a familiar face to him."

"Well done. That's about the worst thing you could say. You want me because I look like dad. Ugh," Tony groaned. "There are people who actually knew Rogers who are still alive, you know. Peggy Carter ring a bell? Founding member of your fine organization?"

"I did consider bringing her in, but I'm not sure that would be doing either of them a favor," Fury noted.

"Fair enough." Tony couldn't claim Fury was wrong. Now that he thought about it, asking a person with Alzheimer's to help an amnesiac didn't exactly sound like the most solid of plans.

"You know, with all this protesting, I'm starting to get the impression you don't want to do this," Fury went on.

Tony wasn't sure what he wanted. For a person Tony had never met, Captain America came with a serious amount of baggage. No doubt working with him would be an ordeal, and he wasn't at all convinced he could actually help. He wasn't a shrink, and he wasn't his dad.

He couldn't deny he was intrigued, though.

"I'll give it a shot," Tony decided. "I mean, who'd say no to a chance to meet Captain America. Even if he doesn't remember that's who he is."

Steve couldn't believe how boring the future had turned out to be.

It sounded so exciting—imagine all the technological advances! Flying cars! Robots! Men in space!

What he'd gotten instead was being a guinea pig and passing time in a military base he wasn't allowed to exit unaccompanied. Also, apparently flying cars hadn't been invented yet.

He was fairly convinced he really was in the future. That was one of the few things he felt sure about. He'd seen enough of the world outside that he didn't think anyone could possibly stage all that, not to mention all the mysterious advanced doohickeys he'd seen during the various medical tests he'd been through.

He'd thought he'd met plenty of doctors and nurses in his previous life, but that had been nothing compared to the past few weeks. He'd given so much blood he'd started to joke he might run out, to receive horrified comments that they wouldn't do anything to actually harm him. He'd had various kinds of pictures taken of his brain. He'd found out that he could run on a treadmill really fast and seemingly for an indefinite time, which was great, but also kind of disturbing for how different it was from what he was used to.

He'd talked to more shrinks than he could count, been interviewed, gone through all sorts of neurological tests, and looked at pictures ranging from ink blots to photographs of people, trying to guess at how he was supposed to react to them.

Aside from pictures of Bucky, whom he of course could recognize, even though in some he'd looked older than Steve remembered, a few other people had shown up multiple times. There was a pretty lady in a uniform, an older man with glasses and a lab coat who was clearly some kind of scientist, and a slick-looking fellow with a moustache. The last of the three was the only one who seemed vaguely familiar, but Steve couldn't tell who he was or why Steve would know him, and his interviewers hadn't told him, either. They wanted him to remember that himself.

He was thoroughly fed up with this life as a test subject. What made it even worse was, he couldn't make up his mind whether he believed any of what they'd told him. He'd been told he'd forgotten years of his life, and he'd been told he'd used to be a hero during those years. It all sounded very unlikely when he couldn't remember any of it. Then again, he had no better explanation, either. Why else would they be putting him through all this, and going through all this trouble trying to make him remember? For some kind of sinister experiment, it felt incredibly convoluted.

Sometimes, he entertained the thought of trying to escape. He knew he was strong and fast now. He might be able to fight his way out. But what would he do then? Where would he go? He had no money. He didn't know anyone outside this place. All the people he remembered would either be dead or very old.

Today, as on most days, Steve had had breakfast and gone for a walk with one of his regular chaperones, Agent Coulson. Now he was back in his room, lying in bed. He was doing a lot of that, these days, interspersed with reading and doodling, watching TV and listening to the radio.

The future really wasn't very exciting for him.

For now, he didn't feel like he wanted any background noise, but just stared at the ceiling, lost in thought as he waited for the day's first appointment. There would inevitably be one before lunch—there always was.

Indeed, at around eleven, a knock on his door heralded the end of his free time. Today's visitors were Director Fury, the man in charge of the base, and another man Steve hadn't met before, with dark eyes, dark hair, and a carefully styled beard and moustache. Instead of the various SHIELD uniforms and lab coats Steve was used to, he was wearing jeans and an expensive-looking black jacket over a T-shirt with some logo Steve didn't know.

"Mr. Rogers, this is Tony Stark. He was quite eager to meet you," Fury introduced him, with a sideways glance at Stark, who responded with an oddly unprofessional eyeroll.

Steve sat up, but didn't bother to get off the bed. He was long past caring about trying to be courteous. "Going by the lack of white coat and stethoscope, I'm going to assume you're a psychologist or a counselor of some sort."

Stark shook his head. "Nope, guess again."

"Well, you're too young to be anyone I met in the past, unless you were a baby, and you're remarkably well preserved," Steve said.

"Ouch," Stark said, pulling a face. "You'd honestly think I could be seventy?"

"Well, they've told me I am. I find that hard to believe, too." Steve shrugged. "It's the future, I have no idea what's possible and what isn't."

"Well, it seems like you two gentlemen can take it from here," Fury spoke up again. "Play nice. If you need anything, you know the number."

He exited the room, leaving Steve alone with Stark.

"You mind if I sit?" Stark asked, simultaneously walking over to the desk chair to sit down before Steve had even answered. He didn't seem to care too much about manners, either, then.

"If you're not a doctor or a counselor or anyone who knew me, why are you here?" Steve asked.

"Maybe I'm just an avid fan," Stark offered, with a sarcastic edge to his voice.

At least this appointment seemed a little different, which meant less boring. Steve wasn't opposed to that. "That's a new one," he said. "You want my autograph?"

"Funny, usually I'm the one handing them out." Stark flashed a perfect film star smile at Steve, and somehow, something about that felt familiar. The man's name sounded familiar, too, like Steve should recognize it. Stark. Where had he heard that before?

"So, I take it that I don't remind you of anyone? Dad would be so disappointed," Stark added, right on cue.

Suddenly, it all clicked into place. Mr. Stark. A celebrity handing out autographs. That photo Steve had seen of the man with the moustache. That was Howard Stark, the famous billionaire inventor Steve had seen at the Stark Expo, which he'd visited with Bucky. This man definitely looked a lot like him.

"You're Howard Stark's son?"

Stark seemed genuinely surprised at that. "Oh, so you do remember, after all?"

"I just remember seeing him on stage," Steve clarified. "I didn't know him. I don't remember ever meeting him. I guess I must've, though, I've been shown his picture half a dozen times in attempts to jog my memory."

"You didn't just meet him. You were close friends. At least that's the impression I got from him. He liked you a lot." There was something odd to Stark's tone, a restrained emotion Steve couldn't name.

"Me? Why would a famous industrialist like me that much?" As soon as the question was out, Steve realized what the answer must be. "Wait, I know. He didn't like me. He liked Captain America."

"You can't blame him for that. Everyone liked Cap. Lots of people still do. The thing is, though, dad was one of the few who knew the man behind the superhero. He also liked Steve Rogers," Stark said. "He always liked you more than he liked me, really."

Well, that explained those emotions Stark was trying to keep in check, then.

All this talk about Howard being such good friends and liking Steve so much was starting to make him wonder if he should be reading between the lines, as unlikely as that was. "Just to be clear here. You don't mean he and I were, um, you know, involved?"

Stark laughed out loud at the question. "Oh lord, no, definitely not, though I half suspect dad had a crush on you, that would explain his obsession."

"Obsession?" Steve repeated, no less confused.

"He spent a lot of time looking for you after you went missing. Even after he accepted that you were gone, he never stopped talking about you. Boy, did he ever talk about you." Stark made a disgruntled face. "Steve this, Steve that. Cap here, Cap there. Cap and Steve everywhere."

"I think I got the gist of it." Steve still didn't really understand it, though. How could someone so rich and famous have been so taken by him? Becoming Captain America, however that had happened—he'd not been given any details on it—must have completely changed him. "Unfortunately, I'm not that person anymore, if I ever was."

"But you are," Stark said, without a moment's hesitation. "You were that person long before you became Cap. The thing that made Cap so special was his personality, that's what everyone says. What they did to give you those powers—the super soldier serum, vita-rays and whatnot," Tony waved a hand as if this was old hat, though Steve had never heard those words before, "that could've all gone horribly wrong. But you were the perfect candidate, and you became a hero and a legend. You, Steve Rogers." He fell silent as if embarrassed by the passionate outburst, which had sounded half bitter, half admiring, and left Steve feeling like a fraud.

This made no sense. All of this had to be some kind of an experiment. Stark couldn't be telling the truth; Steve simply wasn't that special.

"That's not true. I'm no hero. The only thing special about me is that I'm very good at getting into trouble, which I've clearly done again, even though I can't remember how," Steve said, sitting up straight, looking Stark in the eye. "Why are you really here? Why are you doing this? Are you even related to Howard Stark?"

Stark sighed, shook his head, stood up and spread his arms. "Yes! Yes, I am, and I've meant every word I've said. This isn't easy for me, either, by the way," he declared, clearly feeling as frustrated as Steve felt. "I'm repeating all those platitudes I grew tired of a long time ago, and you're not even listening! Honestly, I'm not sure why I'm doing this. Mostly because Fury had run out of reasonable options, and was grasping at straws. This one doesn't seem to have worked, he'll need to reach for another. I'm done here. Good luck regaining your memories. Could try hitting your head really hard, that always works in cartoons."

With that, he stormed out of the door.

Steve stared after him for a long time, trying to make sense of what all that had really been about. Stark had seemed sincere, but most of the things he'd said hadn't made much sense. Really, the conversation had only left Steve more baffled than he'd been before.

Tony kept walking through the complex, ignoring the SHIELD staff he saw, not slowing down until he'd reached the garage. He was glad he'd driven here himself and didn't have to talk to Happy, because he didn't feel like talking to anyone right now.

He sat down behind the wheel and leaned the back of his head against the headrest, letting out a heavy sigh.

Yeah, that had gone well.

Tony still couldn't decide how he felt about Rogers. Annoyed as hell. Frustrated.

Impressed.

Maybe, maybe, though he didn't want to admit it, the tiniest bit attracted.

Whether he remembered being Cap or not, there was something incredibly compelling about Rogers. Not just the fact that he was hands-down one of the best-looking men Tony had ever laid eyes on, but the intensity of his personality. Even all that self-deprecation couldn't mask it. Not to mention how he managed to remain so composed in a situation that must be unimaginably difficult to deal with. Tony was half convinced he'd be a gibbering wreck if he found himself in the future, unsure who he could trust, missing a large chunk of memories, and his body transformed into an entirely unfamiliar, albeit physically stronger one.

Really, Tony had probably been a bit unfair and expected too much of Rogers; it was a lot to ask of him to take what Tony was saying at face value. Maybe he should've stayed longer, tried harder, but he'd just been too frustrated.

He couldn't shake that grudge he still held against Rogers just because Rogers was a large part of why he'd never gotten along with dad. Which was also unfair, because Rogers had been under tons of ice at that point, and had had nothing to do with it. But it was what it was.

Tony jumped in surprise when someone tapped on the car window. It was Fury, of course, now glancing at Tony through the glass.

Tony wasn't particularly eager for a debriefing. He opened the window. "I was just leaving. You'll need to find someone else to sort your Cap problem."

Fury crouched closer to Tony, leaning on the side of the car. "I don't think so. You made more progress today than anyone else has done so far."

"Then they must've been incredibly bad at it. I wasn't exactly getting through to him. If you were eavesdropping on us, you may have noticed he wasn't listening to a single word I said," Tony pointed out.

"Oh, I think he was, and more importantly, by our reckoning, that memory of the Stark Expo is the most recent one he's come up with after he woke up." Unlikely as that was, Fury seemed pleased, maybe even impressed. "That was actually right before he got recruited by Dr. Erskine."

"I'm inclined to think that was a coincidence," Tony said. "He'd probably heard of dad plenty of times before the Expo, and that helped. Doesn't mean anything."

"Be that as it may, I'd like you to keep trying," Fury said.

"Eh, I don't see the point," Tony said, and pressed the key to close the window.

Unfazed, Fury withdrew from it and gave Tony a wave. "See you around."

Damn him, but he knew Tony all too well.

Tony had meant what he'd said; he didn't believe he could get anywhere with Rogers. He neither needed to nor wanted to keep banging his head against that particular, very handsome brick wall.

He drove away and tried to distract himself with the finishing touches on the Tower, a dozen unrelated design projects, and setting right all the damage he'd done when he'd thought he was dying. Pepper was still mad at him, and didn't seem like she'd be letting go of that any time soon. Maybe it was for the best that she was so busy as CEO they barely even saw one another.

To think he had imagined the two of them might be headed for something serious. Of course that had been too good to be true.

He tried not to think too much about that.

He also tried not to think about Rogers, but completely unasked for, his mind kept straying back to the man. To that occasional, charming hint of sass he'd seen. To that frustrating mixture of stubbornness and self-doubt that made him want to grab Rogers by the shoulders and give him a good shake. Not to mention the breadth of those shoulders. And those beautiful blue eyes.

Really, Tony was quite proud of himself that he was able to resist for all of five days before he gave in and returned to Fury's doorstep, asking if he could meet Rogers again. He fully expected a smirk and an 'I told you so'. Instead, he got a rather serious look.

"I'm not entirely sure that's a good idea, but I guess you might as well. Just don't expect it to go as smoothly as last time," Fury warned him.

Tony didn't think it'd been particularly smooth last time, but well, when did anything ever go smoothly in his life these days, anyway?

He went in expecting Rogers to be even more annoying than last time, after Fury's briefing that since Tony's visit, Rogers had been growing less cooperative by the day. What he didn't expect was the thousand-yard stare and the bags under Rogers's eyes that made him look like he hadn't slept since they'd last met. The unfocused, distant look quickly shifted to sparks of anger as his gaze met Tony's.

"What did you do to me?" Rogers growled, leaping up from his bed into a defensive hunch that made Tony stop in his tracks right at the door.

Tony raised his hands, palms outwards in a placating gesture. "Excuse me? I don't know what you think I did, but as far as I can remember—and I've not had any problems in the memory department—all we did last I saw you was talk."

"I've had enough of people lying to me," Rogers declared, as if he hadn't even heard what Tony had said.

Honestly, Rogers was hitting a level of intimidating where Tony was starting to think he should've at least brought a repulsor glove, or maybe the whole suitcase armor. Since he hadn't, he'd have to rely on his charm and his well-trained poker face instead.

He didn't move aside from lowering his hands, and kept his voice level. "Look, I don't know what everyone else has been saying to you, and I guess my word isn't worth much, but I promise I've not lied to you once. Could you at least tell me what you're accusing me of?"

"Would I be asking what you did if I knew?" Rogers returned. "Ever since you were here, every time I've tried to sleep, I've ended up having nightmares. I keep waking up. Can't stay asleep. You must've done something. I don't know, some kind of hypnosis."

That explained the haggard look, then. Tony knew how that went; he'd lost enough sleep over nightmares about the shit he'd gone through in his past. He could sympathize with that. Unfortunately, the leap of logic Rogers had gone for to explain his bout of bad dreams was so ridiculous, it was difficult to take the whole thing seriously.

"I've been accused of a lot of things, but hypnotic suggestion? That's new. Kudos for creativity."

"It's obviously linked to your visit. That's when it started," Rogers insisted.

Rogers hadn't slept properly in several days, he had been in a difficult place to start with, and he didn't trust any of the people around him. Maybe it was kind of inevitable he'd latch onto some ridiculous convoluted explanation instead of the straightforward one that actually made sense.

"Try this on for size," Tony said, doing his best to reel in his exasperation. "Maybe the reason you're having those dreams is that my visit actually worked to jog your memory, like Fury hoped it would. Can you describe them? I'm willing to bet most of them are real events from your past."

"That's what the others tried to tell me too, but that's bullshit," Rogers said. "Sure, I can't remember more than fragments. Some of the are about war. They feel," he stopped, shifting in his place, looking away from Tony, his eyes going distant again. "Well, they do feel real. Like they could be memories. But there's so much there that isn't real. Ray guns. An evil creature with a red face, like some kind of demon."

"No, those are real, too. They're not even that weird, as weird things go," Tony assured him. The Red Skull, energy weapons—it wasn't surprising Rogers would be confused by all that if he didn't know what those things meant, but how could he not? "Haven't the SHIELD folks explained anything to you?"

"I told you the last time. They don't. They claim they don't want to mess with the real memories," Rogers said.

Either that, or they didn't want to hand out partly classified information to someone who was a potential security risk, as long as he was as unstable as he now was, Tony thought. They could've left out those parts, though. It seemed entirely counterintuitive.

"Well, now that really is bullshit."

"I haven't told them any details of my nightmares, though," Rogers added.

Right. Talk about Rogers being stubborn. Fury had said he wasn't cooperating. Maybe that meant Tony was actually doing a better job here than he'd thought he was, again. At least Rogers was talking to him, for whatever reason. Maybe it was that subconscious memory of his friendship with Howard—which was a thought that Tony really didn't need right now. Howard needed to stay out of this. This wasn't about dad. This was all about Rogers.

He needed to think fast. If he was getting through somehow, what should be the next step? Clearly, SHIELD's approach hadn't worked. Maybe this called for something drastically different. Thinking outside the box. He'd always been good at that.

He took a step towards Rogers, his hands in his pockets, aiming for a casual, non-confrontational look. "Okay. Say what. I think you've been sitting around in this dump for long enough. How about a change of scenery? I find that sometimes helps with bad dreams. Plus, my place is a lot nicer than this. Still a bit under construction, but very centrally located, nice views, and we can order takeout instead of that rubbish cafeteria food they've got here."

If Fury had a problem with this, Tony was willing to fight him. Rogers deserved better. Besides, Fury might even be okay with it. After all, Tony's success rate so far was way higher than that of the trained SHIELD specialists.

Rogers didn't move an inch, though at least he looked slightly less like he was about to make a run for the door or punch Tony in the face. "Give me one good reason to trust you," he said.

Tony shrugged. "Honestly, I don't think there's anything I can say to convince you, but how about this: at least it's going to be different."

Steve didn't trust Stark, so his instinct was to say no, but right now, that was his instinct about pretty much everything. Resist, refuse, don't collaborate. He'd tried the other alternative earlier, and that hadn't gotten him anywhere.

He didn't trust Stark, but he didn't trust Fury either, nor any of the SHIELD staff he'd met. Some of them seemed nice enough, like Agent Coulson, his regular chaperone for his brief trips outside the complex, but how could he be sure that wasn't just a front?

Back when he'd still been his skinny self, people had always assumed he was as weak as he looked, which was why he'd done his best not to show any sign of weakness if he could avoid it. He was still holding on to that, but it was becoming trickier every day he went on like this, without sleep, without a single friendly face around him.

He didn't trust anyone, he still had no explanation for anything that'd happened to him, and he was so tired he could barely think straight anymore. All he wanted was to curl up in bed—his own bed in his own room, at his own place in Brooklyn—and sleep through the night without dreaming, and then wake up looking and feeling like himself again.

He didn't have any of that. Whatever the truth was, it was depressingly clear he would never have that again. That world was gone now, and that life no longer existed.

He was so tired, and nothing seemed to make any sense, and nothing seemed to matter anymore. He couldn't see a future for himself. Either he'd stay institutionalized indefinitely, because that was really where he was right now, or he'd make a run for it and spend his days as a fugitive. Considering how powerful SHIELD seemed, he wasn't sure how long he could keep that up.

He could just as well go with Stark. Anything would be an improvement to being stuck here as a guinea pig. Besides, if he did want to make a run for it, it'd be easier if he wasn't surrounded by SHIELD agents.

"Fine," Steve told Stark. "Let's go, then."

It took him about two minutes to gather the few changes of SHIELD-issue clothes that he'd got into the gym bag they'd also given him. Those and the handful of photos they'd let him keep, of Bucky and the few other people he didn't remember, were currently his only possessions.

How he wished Bucky were around, but that was another thing of his past life he was pretty sure was gone for good. He supposed Bucky must be dead, because otherwise, surely they would've brought Bucky to meet him instead of the son of some purported friend Steve didn't even remember having.

Bucky was in his nightmares, and the other people from the photos were there, too, the scientist, the lady in the uniform, and Howard Stark, but Steve couldn't remember any details. He did remember that Bucky was in some kind of trouble, and Steve had to help him; that was another thing about his nightmares that just felt wrong to him. In reality, it had always been the other way around, with Steve as the one in trouble, and Bucky pulling him out of it.

If everything he'd been told was true, then it made sense that these might be memories and not nightmares, but he just couldn't accept that. Besides, if these were memories, he wasn't entirely sure he wanted them back. A lot of them, even half-remembered, left him feeling shaky and nauseous for a long time after he woke up.

Maybe it wasn't a bad idea to try sleeping somewhere else for a change.

Steve tucked the photos safely in his pocket and followed Stark out of the room. They met Fury in the corridor, but surprisingly, it seemed like he wasn't opposed to Stark's plan; after a brief conversation, they continued on their way through the SHIELD complex to the garage. Stark had a streamlined, fast-looking sports car, probably one of the most futuristic things Steve had seen yet. That definitely matched Steve's memory of Howard and the Stark Expo.

As tired and as desperate as he was, Steve found himself feeling a little curious. "This doesn't fly, does it?" he asked, nodding towards the car.

"Nah, not unless you count going from zero to sixty in under three seconds." Stark patted the car's hood, a fond look on his face. "I do have other things that fly, though."

"So, you own a bunch of planes and helicopters?" Steve asked, as they took their seats.

Stark gave Steve an enigmatic smile. "Nothing as mundane as that. Just you wait."

That made Steve even more curious. Maybe he'd made the right call here. This was definitely more interesting than the drab SHIELD routines. In spite of himself, Steve found himself starting to warm up to Stark.

He couldn't trust Stark, he reminded himself. It was still possible Stark had some kind of an agenda here. From what Steve remembered, Howard Stark had been a showman, and there was every reason to believe Tony Stark was just the same. As pleasant and as charming as he seemed, Steve didn't know him or understand him.

The drive was short, and the views were already familiar to Steve from his brief visits to the city outside the complex. Even if he'd always had someone accompanying him and he'd never been allowed to go very far, he'd almost grown used to the futuristic look of Midtown. Nevertheless, it was always a strong reminder of how much things had changed, and how alien this world was to him.

Their destination, it turned out, was one of the countless huge skyscrapers, this one flanked by a pair of cranes, some parts of it apparently being built or rebuilt. They parked in a large underground garage, and took an elevator ride that made Steve's ears pop. A few weeks ago, the disembodied voice that greeted them inside the elevator, which Stark introduced as "Jarvis", might've unnerved Steve, but by now, he'd seen enough of modern-day technology that he could take a talking elevator with a shrug.

At the end of their ride waited a residential floor that was easily the fanciest thing Steve had seen in his life.

"It's all kind of basic now," Stark said modestly. "There's going to be art on the walls, some more furniture, matching carpets and that sort of thing. But for now, the WiFi works, the bathrooms work, the coffee maker works, and there's a guest room with a very nice bed. Let me show you that first."

Stark took him past a lounge with large windows overlooking the city to a corridor with several doors, opening one of them to reveal a room that was three times as big as the one Steve had had at SHIELD. The bed was twice as big, too. It looked very luxurious, even if there weren't any paintings or expensive-looking decorative objects about. No doubt those would follow later.

"The bathroom's behind that door at the back, with fresh towels in there, and that door over there is the wardrobe, with plenty of storage space," Stark explained. There he was, probably one of the richest people in the country, if not the world, showing the place to Steve like some concierge introducing a hotel suite to his top customer. It felt absurd.

"Stark, why are you doing all this?" Steve asked, once again.

"Come on, you're my guest, please, call me Tony," Stark said, with one of those easy smiles he seemed to have a lot in store today. "Let's say I'm doing it because I think three weeks of SHIELD's hospitality is enough to make anyone lose their minds, and I'd hate to see that happen to you. Is that okay?"

"All of this is more than okay. Thanks, Tony," Steve said, looking around the room again. Definitely different and a change of scenery. With so many new things around him, maybe he'd have so much to think about, the nightmares would stay away.

"Any time," Tony said. "Now, I'll give you some time to settle in. I think I might order something to eat. Anything you'd like?"

He'd not been asked what he'd like to eat since he woke up. Just that small thing seemed monumental. "What are the options?"

"Well, pretty much anything you can think of, from pizza to a top-notch wagyu steak. You name it. Italian, Chinese, Indian, Japanese—I know a very good sushi chef—wait, that wouldn't have been a thing in your time," Tony listed at such speed Steve could barely keep up, ending with, "Or burgers, maybe?"

"A burger sounds great," Steve said, relieved to have an easy alternative.

"Great, burgers it is, then. No hurry, take your time. I'll be in the lounge. If you've got any questions or if you need anything, just tell Jarvis and he'll sort it out," Tony said, heading for the door.

"I thought Jarvis was in the elevator," Steve said, annoyed at himself for having gotten that wrong.

"In fact, I'm present in most rooms on this floor, Mr. Rogers," the polite voice from earlier spoke up again.

"Think of him as the butler. I named him after good old Edwin," Tony said, then made a face. "Whom you won't have heard about, of course. Oh, well. Think of him as your invisible butler, and you're good."

"Invisible butler. Right," Steve said.

"See you later," Tony said, waved, and left.

Steve sat down on the bed and dropped his bag on the floor, wondering how abruptly things had changed. For the first time since he'd woken up, he felt like things had actually changed for the better, but now he couldn't shake the feeling that it was all too good to be true, that Tony couldn't really be this nice and that he was just doing this for whatever mysterious reason Steve couldn't even begin to guess. Maybe this was just another approach Fury had picked to try and get Steve to cooperate, another scheme to bring back his memories.

He realized that one of the reasons why he felt so good about this was that Tony hadn't as much as mentioned Captain America today. He'd just been talking to Steve, as if he was fine with Steve just being who he was, instead of some half-mythical war hero.

Steve's words stuck with Tony as he walked away: why was he doing all this, really?

Taking Steve somewhere else had felt like a good idea, in that spur of the moment, in those dull SHIELD living quarters. The penthouse in the Tower had been the logical, easy location to pick. He hadn't stopped to question his motivations. Maybe he should've.

Was he trying to make amends for dad failing to find Steve, or rather, trying to outperform dad, so he could feel smug about rescuing Steve, in a manner of speaking, when dad had failed?

Was it because he was, goddamn it, actually starting to fall for Steve, and he just couldn't stay away from the people he should stay away from? Tony wasn't going to take advantage of Steve when he lacked half his memories. That would be downright unethical, and whatever people might think of Tony, he wasn't like that. But even if Steve did eventually remember everything, it'd still be a terrible idea. There was just too much baggage there. Besides, most of the nation would probably see it as some kind of sacrilege if he started making moves on Captain America. Of course, bringing Steve to stay at his place could be seen as just that, even if it wasn't. Or was it?

God, this could go so very spectacularly wrong, but Steve Rogers was currently laying out his possessions in Tony's guest room, so it was a bit too late to have second thoughts. Instead, Tony sorted out the food order, and went through his archives to make a playlist of Cap-related media.

In less than an hour, Steve made a reappearance, and they had their early dinner of classic burgers, fries and milkshakes right there in the lounge, sitting at different ends of a long couch. Steve didn't say much during the meal, and Tony felt like he was babbling, trying to fill in the silence.

Steve had pretty much been awake for five days in a row, and he couldn't have been sleeping too well before that, either, not in the circumstances he was in. Tony couldn't blame him for not being particularly talkative.

"If you want to go and try to catch some shut-eye now, I totally understand," Tony said once there was nothing left but a pile of empty wrappers and cups on the coffee table in front of them. "If you feel like staying up a little longer, though, there's this documentary I'd like you to see."

"Let me guess: it's about Captain America." The look of disappointment on Steve's face was so obvious, Tony wanted to slap himself. He had no idea what he'd done wrong, but he hated that he had.

"Well, yes. SHIELD's been keeping you in the dark about all of it, and I thought you'd be curious. It might even help you put those nightmares in context," Tony offered. "There's a ton of documentaries and semi-fictional dramatizations around. This one I'm thinking about was one of my favorites as a kid. It's just under an hour long. But really, if you don't want to, I'll just tell you good night. That film's not going anywhere."

Steve shrugged, though he didn't look much happier. "Might as well see it now. You're right, I probably should know the whole story. So far, all I've got is vague hints from here and there."

"Really, there's no hurry, we can watch it later, or not at all," Tony repeated. "Or you can watch it in your room, or any of a dozen other documentaries, I made a list." And there he was, definitely talking too much again, or not doing it right, going by Steve's scowl.

"Let's just watch the damn thing," Steve said glumly.

Clearly, that conversation was over, so Tony bit his lip, and told Jarvis to start the playback on the nearest screen.

It was kind of embarrassing, but the patriotic trumpet solo at the opening of the film still gave Tony the chills. He'd watched the old videotape of this so many times as a child, he'd pretty much memorized every second of it, and now he was watching it with Steve Rogers sitting next to him. Even though he knew it was real, he couldn't quite believe it.

It would've felt more exciting if Steve Rogers hadn't been sitting with his arms crossed, his back very straight, his jaw set, generally looking as if he was facing torture instead of a very flattering presentation of himself and his superhero alter ego.

The documentary was a concise take on the tale of Steve Rogers and Captain America, quickly overviewing his humble beginnings to proceed onto his mysterious transformation to a superhero, the stint of publicity work he'd done with the USO, and then, finally, his rise to acclaim in the battlefield, and everything he'd achieved. Of course, there wasn't a whole lot of detail, since some of the things related to Cap had remained classified to this day, but they did mention some of his closest friends, like Howard, Aunt Peggy, and Bucky Barnes, whose fate was touched on briefly. There was even some footage of the Red Skull, the same rare few minutes that were used in most documentaries touching on Cap or Hydra. All in all, it was just like Tony had remembered: a good overview which, as far as he knew, got most of the facts right.

Tony couldn't help glancing at Steve every now and then as they watched it. Unfortunately, the look on his face didn't tell much; at best, it went from morose to blank and distant here and there, and then back to a frown again.

As the end credits rolled, Tony leaned back on the couch, determined to keep his mouth shut for once, giving Steve the space he might need.

"So, Bucky's dead," were Steve's first words, after the last note of the end credits music had finished playing and Jarvis has switched off the screen.

"Yes. I'm sorry," Tony said. Damn, Steve probably shouldn't have found that out from some random documentary. "I didn't realize they hadn't told you."

"Like I said. They didn't tell me a thing. I did suspect as much, though," Steve said, his voice husky. "It doesn't feel real. None of what they said on the film felt real. I know that's my face on those reels they showed, but..." He trailed off and shook his head.

This was the sort of situation where Tony wished he could trust himself to be tactful. He had a history of failing at that. He took the time to consider what to say. This could be a turning point. The last thing he needed here was a case of foot in mouth.

"I know I can't begin to imagine what it's like," he said cautiously, "but in case you want to talk about it, with someone who's not going to be taking notes and trying to analyze every word, well, I'm here."

"I appreciate that," Steve replied, not sounding particularly appreciative, and stood up. "I think I'd prefer to be alone now."

"Of course," Tony said. "If there's anything…"

"I'll let my invisible butler know," Steve filled in.

Tony stayed on the couch, and resisted the urge to turn his head and look after Steve as he walked out.

He had no idea what Steve had really thought about the documentary, or if showing it to him had been a bad call. Really, he had no idea what he was doing, just in general. He might be making things worse. Maybe there was something to say for having the professionals deal with the amnesia patient who probably had some degree of PTSD on top of that.

He could always call Fury and ask them to take Steve back—but even thinking about that made him feel like a traitor.

He'd just have to wait and see how things developed.

Bucky was in Steve's dreams again, and it was as vivid as anything. Bucky was in trouble: he'd ended up as a prisoner of war, and Steve mounted a daring rescue attempt to save him—except he wasn't just Steve. He was Captain America, wearing that uniform he'd seen in the documentary, fighting the enemy he'd now learned was known as the Red Skull.

He returned to base with Bucky and a large crowd of other freed prisoners, triumphant, but just when everything was good and he was as happy as he ever remembered feeling, the dream changed. Everything shifted.

It was winter in the mountains, and they were on a train, and he was trying to reach for Bucky's hand, but he couldn't, he was too far, and Bucky fell—

He woke up, gasping, feeling like he was going to be sick.

He remembered.

Bucky was dead. Steve had failed him. Captain America had failed him.

"Mr. Rogers? Do you require assistance?" a soft, yet crisp voice spoke up from the dark room around him.

Heart racing from both the nightmare and the unexpected intruder, Steve jumped to his feet, looking around for the source of the voice. The lights came on out of their own accord to reveal that he was in a room much bigger than he'd expected. He couldn't see anyone there.

It took him few more jittery seconds to remember that he was in Tony Stark's residence, and that the voice was the computer that passed for a butler in this place. Apparently, it also worked as a surveillance system.

"You were spying on me," Steve snarled, annoyed about the invasion of privacy, and embarrassed that he'd been taken so completely by surprise.

"I detected a change in your vital signs that seemed strongly indicative of distress," Jarvis returned in that perfectly unemotional, overly polite voice. "My programming required me to intervene."

Steve would've expected something like this from SHIELD; there had been security cameras everywhere, and he'd known they were following his every move. Somehow, he'd thought Tony would be different, but this was just as bad. Apparently, even his bad dreams weren't his own to deal with.

He'd been wrong about Tony. Just like he'd also thought, for a passing hour or two, that Tony saw him as who he was, as Steve Rogers, not just a debilitated Captain America who needed to be fixed, but then Tony had come up with that documentary that he'd wanted Steve to see. Trying to fix him, just like everyone else. Even if Tony had no other hidden agenda, clearly he wasn't interested in helping Steve. He was only interested in Cap.

Steve was starting to feel more and more like it'd be better if he never got his memories back. If the entire world just wanted him to be a soldier and a national symbol and never just himself, would he want to go back to that?

One thing was for sure: he was done being caged and monitored, his every step watched by someone, his every action scrutinized. He'd thought about escaping from SHIELD many times, especially during the last few days. He wasn't surrounded by SHIELD agents anymore. Maybe now was the time for him to finally do it.

"I'm going to leave the building," Steve announced. "Are you going to try and stop me somehow?"

"You're a guest here. You are free to come and go as you wish," Jarvis replied.

That was better than he'd hoped—he'd half expected that he would have to break a few doors to get away.

He got dressed, but didn't bother to pack. It wasn't as if he cared for any of his belongings, except for the photos. They went back in his pocket again.

Stepping out into the empty, quiet corridor, looking around to make sure Tony didn't show up to question what he was doing, felt strangely exhilarating. For the first time since he'd woken up, he was making a choice. He was taking back control of his life. He didn't have to just listen to what everyone else was telling him to do.

He slipped into the elevator without seeing a hint of movement. At 2AM, Tony must be fast asleep. He expected Jarvis to address him again, but there wasn't a peep as he pressed the button for the ground floor.

The brief feeling of falling at the pit of his stomach as the elevator started its rapid descent brought up the dream again, the image of Bucky falling, falling into the white wilderness so far below. He clasped the railing with white knuckles, and tried to push away the thought. It had happened in another life. He would mourn for Bucky later, when he could stop. Now, he just needed to get away.

There were guards present in the lobby, even in the dead of night, but they simply nodded at him as he walked past them and out of the door.

Outside, the city wasn't asleep either. There was less traffic than he'd seen on his forays into the world, but there were plenty of lights on around him, street lights and blinking neon signs. A steady stream of cars rolled past him, and the other pedestrians ranged from clean-cut people in fancy suits to far more suspicious and shady-looking individuals.

Steve started off walking more or less aimlessly, but he realized that without deciding on it, his steps were headed homewards. Every now and then, he turned to look behind him, expecting someone to be following him, but there wasn't anyone that he could see. Still, somehow, he couldn't shake the feeling, half exciting and half unnerving, that he was already a fugitive. Unconsciously, he was starting to hurry ahead, his brisk walking steps turning into jogging, then running. He'd never been much good at running before, but after all the tests SHIELD doctors had put him through, he knew that had changed.

He had to admit he was starting to feel more at home in his new body, less like he was hauling around some heavy weight he wasn't used to.

Running in the cool night felt good. It felt like freedom.

He was going fast enough that he gained a few glares and mutters from people that he passed, swerving past them. He didn't slow down as he shouted an apology over his shoulder.

Much sooner than he'd expected, he found himself on a familiar street. Some of the buildings he remembered were no longer there, but many had remained almost unchanged over the decades, as if untouched by time. Unfortunately, his home wasn't among them.

There was an entirely unfamiliar building where he'd used to live.

He sat down on the stairs in front of the house that wasn't his home, feeling blank. He wasn't sure what he'd expected; he'd known that the area would've changed, and that the people who had been around when he'd been young would be long dead or very old and most likely living somewhere else.

As his breathing settled, the brief bout of joy at his newly found freedom slowly ebbed as well, leaving him with the full weight of the sleepless week behind him, and the utter hopelessness of his situation. What was he going to do now? He hadn't really made a plan. He didn't have any money, since he'd never needed that at SHIELD. All he owned were the clothes on his back and a few old photos.

He was trying to come up with something—maybe he could offer to help at some diner or store, gain a few bucks and find new friends—when a thing straight out of his nightmares landed on the sidewalk in front of him.

It was a robot of some kind, the blue glow at its eyes and chest standing out bright among the dimmer light of the street lamps. It reminded him of those mysterious weapons of his enemies in his nightmares. Hydra's weapons.

Acting on pure instinct, Steve sprung on the robot before it could attack him. He drove his shoulder into its midriff, hoping to push it off balance, and it did waver slightly, allowing Steve to follow with a high kick—

"Steve! Stop! Snap out of it, it's me!" the robot said, its arms raised defensively, and then its head opened to reveal that it was actually a helmet, and it wasn't a robot. It was Tony.

Steve stepped backwards, stumbled on his feet and slumped to sit down on the stairs again, trying to make sense of what had just happened.

"Tony—what are you—?" Steve stammered.

"Call me Iron Man. I told you I've got things that fly," Tony said, with a smile and a wink.

The armor he was wearing definitely looked impressive, more sleek and futuristic than any flying car, but Steve's awe at that was cut short when his mind finally caught up with the situation, and he realized what this actually meant.

"You've come to take me back," Steve said.

"I've come to ask very nicely that you come back," Tony said. "Which is more than you can expect from SHIELD, who, by the way, were about to launch a full-scale manhunt before I told them I'd take care of this."

Steve stood up again to face Tony properly, eye to eye. "You or SHIELD, does it really matter? You had me under surveillance as well."

"Look, I don't want to go through this at someone's front door," Tony said, with a vague backwards nod at a few spectators that had already stopped to stare at them across the street. Tony's armor wasn't exactly inconspicuous. "I'm not going to force you. If you really think SHIELD and me are the same, fine, stay here and wait for them, see how that works out for you. I bet they'll put you in chains without stopping to ask questions. If you come with me, we can talk things through properly, and I promise if you really want to leave, I won't stop you."

Steve was still angry and he didn't want to surrender, he never had, not under any circumstances. He wasn't prepared to trust Tony's word, either, but he didn't need to think very long to decide that if he had to pick, he'd rather take his chances with Tony than with SHIELD.

"Okay. You win," Steve said.

The return trip to the Tower could've been thrilling: Tony flew them back, Steve clinging to the armor's metallic surface, the cityscape whirling beneath them.

If only he hadn't been feeling like his freedom had been snatched from him, when it had been so close to his grasp.

Tony set Steve down on the walkway, and went through the very recently installed armor disassembly rig. He could practically feel Steve's furious glare on himself before he even got out of it. No doubt Steve was too angry to be the slightest bit impressed by the tech.

Steve hated him, and he hated himself for that, but really, he hadn't had much choice. If he'd let Fury have his way, Steve would've been stuck at SHIELD for good.

Tony should've expected something like this, really. From what he'd heard about Steve, he knew that trying to run when he knew no one and had nowhere to go was exactly the sort of foolhardy but brave thing Steve might do, when feeling caged and surrounded by people he couldn't trust.

He really, really hoped he could still sort this out.

"You're not really going to let me go again if I want to, are you?" Steve asked as soon as Tony was out of the armor, still standing under the night sky.

Tony had thought about this already, a lot, because he'd known it was coming, and he had his mind made up. He wouldn't have made that promise to Steve in the first place if he hadn't meant it. "I said I would, and I will. If running away is what you really want, I'll help you."

Steve's eyes narrowed. "I find that difficult to believe."

"You wouldn't get very far on your own. SHIELD has eyes and ears everywhere. Now, I may not be a spy, but I've got enough skills and resources, I could send them on a merry wild goose chase or five around the globe to help you hide," Tony said. It would be an interesting challenge, his wits against Nick Fury's, but he hoped it wouldn't come to that. He'd very much prefer for Steve to stay.

"Why?" Steve asked, still not looking the least bit convinced. "Clearly, you want Captain America back as much as the rest of them. Why would you help Steve Rogers slip away?"

"I thought I already made this clear the first time we met: those aren't two different people. There's no Cap without Steve Rogers, and no Steve without Cap. You'll always be Captain America, no matter what you remember," Tony insisted. "Besides, the way you fought me down there? That was one hundred percent Cap."

Steve grimaced, as if the reminder was somehow embarrassing. "That was just muscle memory. You took me by surprise."

"I didn't mean to," Tony said, apologetic. "The thing is, though. You've still got those skills, there's no doubt about it, and I'm sure your memories will come back, sooner or later. If you run away and hide and try to ignore them, it might be later, but eventually, they will, and what're you going to do, then? Keep hiding for the rest of your life?"

Steve didn't seem to have an answer to that, so Tony went on: "You may have dealt with Hydra and the Red Skull back in the forties, but there are still plenty of villains in the world, and not too many good guys. There's work left for Captain America."

Steve still didn't reply, but thought it over, frowning, his mouth a thin line. Clearly, Tony had hit home, just like he'd hoped he would. If Tony had gotten the right idea about Steve Rogers over the years, one thing he'd never do was to turn his back to duty.

When Steve did eventually speak, his next words weren't quite what Tony would've expected. "So, is Iron Man one of these good guys?"

"I like to think so," Tony said. "Doing my best."

"And if I do decide to stay, what'll happen next?" Steve went on.

"That'll depend on you and what you want. Right now, I'm thinking it's ridiculous o'clock and we're bickering on the rooftop. Going in and a drink would be nice. And then some sleep," Tony suggested. Steve had probably been thinking a little further down the line, but this hardly felt like the right time or place for a conversation about Steve's career possibilities in the modern world.

Steve actually followed Tony's lead when he took a step towards the door, but he clearly wasn't finished yet.

"So, that's sleep under computer surveillance, I take it?" Steve asked as they walked.

Tony cringed at the reminder. Damn Jarvis's over-sensitive nightmare detection algorithms. It should've occurred to him that Steve could set them off, and obviously wouldn't find Jarvis a soothing presence like Tony always did.

"I'm honestly sorry about that. I'll switch off the system for your room, if you want me to," he offered.

"Will that just stop Jarvis from talking to me, or will it stop him from spying on me too?" Steve returned.

"He's not spying, he's keeping an eye out for medical emergencies," Tony pointed out. "That information isn't stored, and no one sees it but Jarvis."

Steve raised his eyebrows, still not looking very pleased, which was enough that Tony got the hint: he'd not really answered the question.

He disliked the idea of shutting down Jarvis's access to Steve's bedroom entirely. Personally, he thought it was good to have that safety net. Even if Steve was a picture of health physically, it was obvious he was in a tricky place mentally, and it wasn't unimaginable that he could have some kind of breakdown—but Tony really wanted Steve to stay, and he wanted Steve to feel safe and welcome, and not like he was in yet another closed facility.

"...but yes, I can turn off everything and make the guest room totally AI-free, if that's what you prefer," he finished.

"It is," Steve said, his tone making it clear that wasn't up for any further discussion.

"Just so you know," Tony added, still hoping he could make Steve see this wasn't some conspiracy against him, "those safeguards weren't there because of you. I wrote the routine for myself. I've had my share of bad dreams."

"What would someone as rich and famous as you have nightmares about?" Steve asked skeptically.

"It's a long story, and not half as heroic as yours."

"Does it have anything to do with Iron Man, and that light shining through your shirt?" Steve nodded towards Tony.

Tony realized he'd been subconsciously tapping a finger at the arc reactor, and quickly pulled back his hand and placed it in his pocket. He hadn't been planning on opening up about his life to Steve tonight, though he probably should do that, at some point, if Steve decided to stick around. It might help them understand one another a little better, unless Steve ended up hating him for his past.

"Yes to both," Tony said. "If you really want to hear it, I'll tell you, but I'll get myself that drink first. You want anything?"

"I'm good," Steve said, yawned, and settled on the nearest couch as Tony headed for the bar.

Tony took longer than was strictly necessary to pour himself two fingers of whiskey, trying to consider how, exactly he'd tell the story. He'd not really had to do this before. The few people he counted as his friends had been around when it had gone down and knew all the details. Conversely, if he ever talked about how he'd become Iron Man in any kind of a public setting, it was a significantly cleaned-up version.

He couldn't deny he was worried about how Steve would take it—if tonight's events had told him anything about himself, it was that he cared way too much about Steve's opinion of him.

After a lot of thinking and a sip from his glass for encouragement, he returned to the seats—and found Steve fast asleep.

So much for turning off the safety protocols. The lounge didn't have the same monitoring tech anyway, just the regular detection systems in case of general hazards like fire and intrusions of crazy supervillains.

Tony had known Steve must be incredibly tired after the week he'd had, it'd just been easy to forget when it hadn't showed, when he'd been so angry and annoyed. Clearly, it had finally caught up with him. For now, Steve actually seemed to be sleeping peacefully, his face completely relaxed in spite of the awkward, half-seated position he was in.

Tony grabbed a blanket, laid it on top of Steve very, very carefully, and tiptoed out of the lounge.

Steve drifted slowly back to wakefulness from a good dream, or rather, a good memory. He'd been sitting around a campfire, and even though the night had been cold, he'd felt warm and cozy, with Bucky on one side and Peggy Carter on the other.

As he blinked open his eyes, he still remembered Peggy, like he hadn't remembered her before: a fond memory of someone who'd made him smile.

He found himself still on the couch in the rooftop lounge of Tony's high-rise home. Last night's events, his brief escape and the conversation they'd had back here, almost felt more distant and unreal than the dream.

"Good morning!" Tony's voice called from across the room. "You sleep okay there? I did consider carrying you to your room, but decided that would be wildly inappropriate."

"I slept fine, actually," Steve admitted.

Steve rolled his shoulders and looked around, spotting Tony behind the bar, just like he'd been when Steve had last seen him. He must've moved since then, though, since it had still been night then, and now, there was bright daylight streaming in through the glass walls. The enticing aroma of fresh coffee was wafting from Tony's direction.

"Coffee?" Tony offered.

"Yes, please," Steve replied.

Tony walked over, coffee mugs in hand, placed his half-full one on the table, and handed the other one to Steve. Steve's fingers closed around the mug, and—

Steve was sitting by a campfire again, but a different one, and it wasn't cozy. The chill went right through him, into his very soul, biting and hopeless. Bucky was dead.

Dum Dum held out a canteen cup full of steaming coffee. "Cap, I know how you feel, but it wasn't your fault," he said.

The next thing Steve knew was the loud clunk as the coffee mug fell on the table in front of him, tipping over and spilling its contents everywhere.

Tony was squeezing his shoulder firmly. "Steve? Steve, it's okay, it's 2012, you're in the Stark Tower, you're safe."

"I'm okay," Steve breathed, blinking, rubbing at his face. "Sorry."

Tony withdrew his hand, and Steve felt a brief pang of regret at that. Since he'd woken up, the only reason anyone had touched him had been because of medical exams.

"Are you, really?" Tony asked suspiciously. "What happened? Was that a memory?"

"Yeah. For a moment, I was somewhere else," Steve said. He didn't really want to elaborate on it. "Sorry about the coffee."

"Never mind that." Tony peered at Steve with obvious concern in his eyes. "Have you had flashbacks before?"

It had been brief, but incredibly vivid. As vivid as his nightmares, except he hadn't been asleep. "No. Not like that."

"Okay, okay," Tony said, frowning. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but—we might want to contact SHIELD. They know how to handle this sort of thing. I don't, no matter all the personal experience I've got."

"No," Steve said solidly.

Tony raised his eyebrows. "Well, well. Am I to understand you're not planning on running away anytime soon, then?"

"I'm not."

Steve was starting to come around about Tony. Last night, he'd claimed he didn't think Tony was at all different from SHIELD, but that hadn't been fair. Out of all the people he'd met so far, no one else had seemed as honest.

"Okay," Tony repeated. "Then I guess we'll stay here, and wait and see if that flashback was just a one-time incident."

"I'm sure I'll be fine," Steve said, not sure he believed it himself. "I should clean this up." He nodded at the puddles of coffee on the table and the floor below it. Some had spilled on his track pants as well.

Tony waved a dismissive hand at it. "Don't mind that, I can take care of it. You go and get changed. There's a shower in your room, too, in case you want that. I promise Jarvis won't be looking."

"Thanks," Steve said. After sleeping on the couch with his clothes on, he did feel like a shower might be a good idea.

The memories were still fresh in his mind as he walked over to the guest room, and when he undressed, he took the photos out of his pocket, placing them carefully on the bedside table. Bucky, Peggy, Howard and Dr. Erskine. He remembered them all, now. Dr. Erskine, who'd believed in him when no one else had. Howard, so suave that it sometimes grated on Steve's nerves, but occasionally also a mad scientist, as reckless as Steve in his own way. And Peggy, the most determined and skilled woman Steve had met in his life, and yet always so friendly to him. But though he remembered Bucky's fall, he didn't remember the last time he'd seen Peggy or Howard, and he only had a vague impression that something bad had happened to Dr. Erskine. He was still missing so much. All he had were bits and pieces.

Focusing more on the past than the present, he showered quickly. When he glanced at the bathroom mirror, the reflection that looked back at him made him stop in his tracks. It was still him, the face and body he was starting to grow used to, but instead of a towel around his waist, he was wearing a brightly colored uniform.

He was in his dressing room, the mirror surrounded by bright makeup lights; he was getting ready for his first performance with the USO. One of the girls passed him by, patted his shoulder, and called, "Don't worry, dear, you'll do great! You're a natural at this!"

Steve buried his face in his hands, and when he looked up again, the vision was gone. He was standing in the bathroom again, staring at his pale reflection in a partly misted-over mirror.

This was supposed to be a good thing: his memories were coming back, much faster than he'd thought they would. Why did it have to be so unnerving?

He simultaneously felt like he should just lock the door and stay here, alone, because he didn't want Tony to be concerned, but also like being alone was absolutely the last thing he wanted.

Finally, the need for company and distraction won. He got dressed and returned to the lounge, where he found Tony, a fresh pot of coffee, and a box of bagels for breakfast. This time, he managed to take hold of his mug without knocking it over or ending up lost in thought, somewhere in the past.

"You never told me your story, by the way," Steve noted between mouthfuls of his second bagel. He'd been more hungry than he'd realized.

"Clearly, it's a very boring story. You fell asleep before I'd even started," Tony joked.

"I'd still like to hear it," Steve said. That should be a good distraction, something that had nothing to do with his own past. "This time, I've had enough coffee to stay awake all the way through."

"I'm not sure caffeine even has any effect on you, with that amped-up metabolism," Tony returned.

"I've no idea if it does, but it sure tastes nice," Steve said, with a shrug. "Come on, you've told me all these things about my past. Tell me something about yourself for a change."

"I guess I did promise I would," Tony admitted, turning his coffee cup around in his hands, raising it to his lips, then frowning at it, since it was apparently empty. He poured himself some more. It was obvious from his body language that he was nervous about this, which made Steve all the more curious. "I'm not sure how much you even know about me, really," Tony began, "but I used to be a weapons designer, like dad."

"You're not, anymore?" Steve checked. He had gathered that Tony ran Stark Industries, but he hadn't actually found out what it was that the company did, nowadays.

"No," Tony said sharply. "Oddly enough, having one of your own bombs blow up in your face can make you reconsider your life choices."

"Some kind of accident?" From what he could remember, Steve had the impression Howard had occasionally had things blow up in his face as well.

"No. Nothing like that. I was kidnapped by a bunch of terrorists using my weapons," Tony explained. "Later on, I learned they'd actually gotten them from my mentor, who'd paid them to kill me, but that's kind of irrelevant."

Steve gaped at him. "How can that be irrelevant?"

Tony grimaced. "I'd kind of rather not talk or think about him too much. He wasn't there, anyway, when the shit hit the fan. So, bad guys kidnapped me, and I picked up some unfortunately placed shrapnel in the process. Had to resort to some creative solutions to keep that at bay." He waved a hand over his chest, where Steve could only just see a faint blue glow through his shirt. "Eventually, I built the armor to escape." Although he was constantly talking in a light, almost dismissive tone, it didn't hide how uncomfortable he was.

"You saved yourself with just your wits to go on, even though you were injured," Steve summarized. "You told me last night that your story isn't heroic. I don't think that's true."

"I wouldn't have been in that situation if I hadn't been ignorant about a lot of bad things that were going on right under my nose," Tony said bitterly. "And I didn't get out without help, either. It cost the life of someone who was a better man than I'll ever be."

"I'm sorry." Steve felt like he should say more, but there wasn't much more he could say, not knowing the details.

"Anyway. That's pretty much it. After I got back, I did some upgrades to my armor, and I've been Iron Man ever since. Made the company switch tracks, too, so we're building less destructive tech now. Trying to balance out all the damage I did before. The end," Tony finished.

"I still think that's as heroic as anything I've heard," Steve told him.

Tony took a long sip of the coffee. "Like I said, I brought most of it on myself, and I'm not particularly proud of it. The armor's awesome, though."

Steve hadn't gotten a very good impression of that the previous night; he'd been stuck in a constant, tired haze, and either too confused or too angry to really pay attention to what it looked like. That could be another nice distraction, now.

"Any chance I could see it again?" he asked.

Tony brightened up visibly at the suggestion. "You don't need to ask twice. Though, tell you what, I've got an even better idea. How would you like to spar against Iron Man? See if you've still got those moves from last night?"

With the memories that kept popping up, unasked for, Steve couldn't cling to being just himself and not Captain America anymore. He'd have to try and accept his alter ego, even if in some way it felt like he was losing himself.

He tried to console himself with Tony's words from last night: that he had always been Captain America, and Captain America had always been him. He wasn't changing into someone else. He was just regaining a part of himself he'd forgotten about. The way he'd fought Tony yesterday had definitely not felt like someone else taking over his body. It'd been something that came from within, something that he already knew and that came naturally. He might as well see if that happened again.

"Sure, why not," Steve said.

"Great! Tell you what, take the elevator five floors down, that one's just a big empty space," Tony said. "I'm going to suit up. See you there."

Curious to see what would happen next, Steve took the elevator as Tony had instructed, and stepped out of it into a space that was much larger than could've fit inside the building.

He was in a hangar, full of enemy footsoldiers, and at the other end of it was the huge, sinister-looking aircraft that was Hydra's secret weapon. He had to stop it, at any cost, or the entire world would be in danger.

The ping of the elevator from behind him brought him back to the present with a start. He drew a deep breath and blinked. There was no hangar in front of him, just an empty floor, with outer walls consisting of large windows.

Steve turned around to see Tony step out of the elevator in his full armor. Now that Steve had known to expect him, it no longer looked menacing. It was awe-inspiring, though, like a fusion of the sleekest sports car and a medieval knight's armor, red and gold, aside from the eye-catching blue glow at the center of its chest.

"Not bad, huh?" Tony's voice came through the helmet, slightly distorted. "I considered making an entrance through a window, but decided that might be a bit too much."

"Definitely too much," Steve agreed. He wasn't going to mention the flashback. He didn't need Tony's pity or concern. "I like the armor," he said, instead.

"It's great, isn't it? Everyone likes the armor," Tony said. It was difficult to tell what his tone was. "Kind of like how everyone likes Cap. I brought you something."

Tony raised one metallic hand, showing a thing Steve hadn't noticed earlier. It was metallic, circular, and had a color scheme clearly different from Iron Man's: red, white and blue. There was a star in the middle.

He remembered that. It was Captain America's shield, although it wasn't exactly as it had been in his memories.

Steve accepted the shield from Tony, and tested the weight of it, holding it in one hand. Unlike those fighting moves yesterday, it didn't feel familiar or natural. He shifted it from one hand to the other, and raised it as if to throw it, like he felt he should. That wasn't quite right, either.

"It's not the original, in case you're wondering. That went missing when you did, so I suppose SHIELD has it now," Tony noted. "This is a prototype replica that I made. Unfortunately, vibranium is impossible to come by these days in large enough quantities. Trust me, I've tried. So, it's not the real deal, but the next best thing. The properties are as similar as I could make them."

"Thanks," Steve said. He lifted the shield in front of him in a defensive posture. It still felt a little off, like a glove that didn't quite fit.

Tony took a step back, as if appraising Steve. "If you're still in for a friendly match, guess we need to set a few ground rules. For one, I won't fly, and I won't use the repulsors. That wouldn't be fair. Also, let's keep a good distance to the windows. And try not to dent my suit."

Steve nodded. "Okay. No dents, stick to mid-floor." Suddenly, he was feeling nervous. He had no idea what he was supposed to do. It was like jumping into water without knowing if he could even swim.

"En garde!" Tony exclaimed, and took a pose like a fencer, one foot back and one hand held out.

Steve raised the shield a little higher, waiting for Tony to make the first move.

For a moment that seemed to stretch on and on, they just stood there, facing one another, until Tony finally swung one metallic fist towards Steve. Steve blocked it with the shield, but it was hardly some elegant, practiced action, just the basic reflex of protecting himself. The next punch came right after, from the other side, and Steve sidestepped to avoid it.

He didn't feel like he remembered anything, not like last night, but he wasn't about to admit defeat before they'd even properly started.

They went on like this for several minutes, with Steve mostly dancing away from Tony, and very nearly stumbling on his feet every now and again.

"Don't think so much. Trust your instinct," Tony told him. "Use the Force, Luke!"

"Huh?" Steve breathed.

"Sorry, that was after your time," Tony said, and lunged for Steve right after, when he wasn't prepared for it.

Steve backed away again, narrowly missing being knocked over.

He was constantly on the defensive. He'd never get anywhere like this.

He lifted the shield like some oversized discus, and swung it sideways at Tony. Tony deflected it easily with one arm, throwing Steve completely off balance. This time, he did actually lose his footing, but as he fell, somehow, he found himself dropping into a sideways roll, with the shield still in one hand. He got back to his feet as gracefully as if he'd meant to do that all along.

Before he'd really had any time to marvel at what he'd just done, Tony was on him again. Instead of dodging, he put his whole weight into a counterattack, bashing the enemy with his shield.

The Red Skull was equally matched to him, just as strong and fast, and an experienced fighter as well. Steve couldn't let his guard down for the fraction of a second. He kept fighting, matching every kick and punch, looking for an opening. He had to win, he had to get control of the plane. Everything depended on it.

The change that came over Steve was abrupt and shockingly fierce. One moment, he'd looked lost, the next, he was bouncing around like an acrobat, his attacks so finely choreographed, there was no way Tony could respond fast enough with the armor on sparring mode.

"I think that's enough," Tony said, spreading his arms in surrender.

Steve stared back at him, his face grim. "You think you can fool me that easily?" he snarled, and launched into another attack.

Tony parried his blows, one after one, and shouted, "I'm serious, Steve! That's enough!"

Steve kept going, not slowing down at all, as if he hadn't heard. As if he didn't understand who he was fighting, or where he was. He probably didn't. It had to be another flashback of some kind, but this one could have consequences a whole lot worse than some spilled coffee.

With Tony distracted by the realization of what was going on, Steve got in a particularly savage hit with the shield. He followed it with some clever footwork, and suddenly, Tony found himself on the ground. He tried to roll away, but Steve landed on his back, pinning him down.

Tony considered his options. The shield Steve was fighting with could damage the armor, if Steve was particularly lucky, but Tony was far more worried for Steve than for himself. His mind was already helpfully producing worst case scenarios consisting of broken armor and someone crashing through a window.

He had to get Steve to stop, and to do that, he'd have to take down the safety precautions a notch. He couldn't keep fighting with his hands tied when Steve was going all in, as if the fate of the world was at stake.

Tony pushed himself up from the floor, shaking Steve off, and turned around as fast as he could, trying to get in a proper punch. Steve dodged it easily, and the next one, and the one after that. Tony was still too slow, and they were getting awfully close to those windows, exactly where he didn't want to be.

He couldn't risk this going any further. He raised his gauntlet and fired a low-energy repulsor blast at Steve, who managed to deflected it with his shield, but Tony kept pushing, firing again.

The fourth blast hit the shield at an angle and grazed Steve's forehead, knocking him backwards, off his feet. He landed heavily on the floor, his eyes closed.

"Shit, no, no, no," Tony gasped, and hurried to crouch at Steve's side, using the suit scanners to check for his vitals. Nothing seemed too badly off, but they'd been in the middle of intense exercise, so it was hard to be certain.

God. He got one gauntlet off and ran his fingers along the red mark over Steve's temple. It'd probably bruise spectacularly. That was the least of his concerns.

What had Tony even been thinking, suggesting they spar? He'd seen what had happened yesterday, the instinctual way Steve had fought then, and he'd seen that flashback earlier today—he should've realized how bad things could get.

Steve blinked open his eyes and winced. "Ow. What happened?"

Tony opened the faceplate, just to be sure, before he answered. "Steve? Do you remember who I am and where you are?"

"Tony," Steve said, without hesitation. "We were fighting, and I—oh no. I zoned out again, didn't I?"

He seemed okay. He sounded okay. Thank god. "That's putting it mildly. You thought I was someone else, and you just wouldn't stop. I hurt you. I'm sorry."

Steve rubbed at the injury, frowning. "I think it's not too bad. I'm sorry, too."

"So, your memories—" Tony started cautiously.

"I may have found a few new ones. It's still like a puzzle with the pieces all jumbled together," Steve said. He made to get up, but Tony held him down with a firm hand on his shoulder.

"You could have a concussion, or worse. Even if you don't, these flashbacks definitely don't seem to be getting better. I know you said you'd rather not go back to SHIELD, but at this point, I don't see much choice," Tony said. He wasn't equipped to handle this. He had to be sure Steve was okay, and he couldn't risk something like this happening again.

"I guess you're right," Steve conceded, right away. Maybe the experience had spooked him as much as it had Tony.

Steve drew the line at Tony's suggestion to fly him to SHIELD in the armor, so, instead, Tony hurried to get out of it, and drove them over. SHIELD medics didn't waste any time grabbing Steve and pushing Tony out of the way, so he was left standing around, alone, feeling absolutely rotten about what had happened.

Because he was in a mood for a good self-flagellation, he picked up his phone and finally went through some of the emails he'd been ignoring over the last twenty-four hours. It turned out he'd missed several meetings and two deadlines. Oh, well. That barely registered, compared to the guilt of accidentally knocking out Steve. He already had the amnesia to deal with. The last thing he needed was another head injury on top of that.

The wait felt endless. Fury showed up at one point to ask Tony how he'd been getting along with Steve, and Tony almost laughed at him. "Yeah, great. I took him home, fed him, hauled him back when he tried to run away, tucked him in for the night, made him coffee in the morning, and then blasted him in the face with a repulsor. Good times."

Fury looked at him curiously. "I heard he walked in on his own two feet, and still on talking terms with you, so it can't have been that bad."

"Yeah, I guess I should be glad I didn't drop him out of an eightieth floor window, that was also on the menu," Tony muttered.

The longer it took, the more convinced Tony grew that his worst fears had been correct and Steve was, in fact, injured worse than he'd looked. When a nurse finally called for him, he was so worried, he didn't get a word out, just followed in silence. She led him to an office with Steve, Fury and two SHIELD doctors already waiting.

"Did something happen?" Steve asked him as soon as he was in the room.

"Huh?" Tony blurted out.

"You look like someone died," Steve said. He wasn't dressed in hospital clothes, but the same SHIELD-issue ones he'd been wearing when they'd gotten here, or at least similar ones. The mark on his forehead hadn't been bandaged or covered up in any way, but it was only barely visible now, like a case of mild sunburn.

"You're okay?" Tony checked, looking from Steve to Fury to the medics.

"Perfectly fine," Steve declared.

"He is in excellent physical condition, aside from that minor abrasion on his forehead," one of the doctors confirmed. "We were quite thorough. It seems that even the small lesions we saw in his earlier brain scans, which we suspected were the cause of his amnesia, have healed completely by now."

"That sounds good," Tony said, casually, as if he wasn't so happy for the news that he felt like popping a bottle of champagne right there and then. "So, does that mean he should get all his memories back?"

"These things aren't so straightforward," the other SHIELD doctor replied. "There could still be microscopic changes to his brain that we can't detect, and even if there aren't, there's the neuropsychological side to consider."

"In other words, you still don't know," Tony concluded.

"There's a lot we still don't understand about how the brain works," the first doctor said apologetically.

"What this definitely means is, there's no need for me to stay here," Steve added.

"Really? What about the flashbacks?" Tony asked suspiciously. Steve must've mentioned that to the medics, right?

"There's not much we can do about them even if he stays here," the second doctor said. "From what Mr. Rogers told us, it doesn't seem like there are any obvious triggers he could avoid. So, it's just a matter of keeping an eye on him, making sure he's in a safe environment, and seeing that he's all right when he comes out of it. If you can do that, I don't see any reason he couldn't go with you. I would like him to report back daily, though."

Tony couldn't believe he was hearing this. "Look, I'm really, really not qualified to do this. I can barely take care of myself, let alone someone else. You can see how well I've managed it so far. Steve, I think—"

Steve looked him in the eye, such a disapproving, disappointed look that Tony fell silent instantly. "It's going to be fine, Tony. No more sparring, and no more documentaries. It'll be okay."

It was beyond Tony how Steve could possibly value his company so highly that he seemed almost desperate to get out of SHIELD, but if that was what he wanted, then who was Tony to say no?

"All right, but we'll definitely come back tomorrow, so they can keep a close eye on the situation," Tony said.

Steve hadn't really lied to anyone at SHIELD. He felt fine, physically. What he'd kept to himself was that the flashbacks seemed to be getting more frequent. He'd been lucky in the sense that the ones he'd had over the last few hours had been brief and not particularly intense.

On the way back with Tony, sitting in the car, he found himself in another car entirely.

He was sitting on the back seat next to Peggy, driving through New York, and he was nervous, he couldn't deny that. Today was the big day. Of course it was scary. Still, he was going to face it with his head held high.

"Steve," Tony called out.

Steve shook his head. He was in the future, and they were on the way back to Stark Tower. He tried to focus, but it was as if the floodgates had been opened. He couldn't fight the constant stream of memories.

He was in a jeep, traveling through enemy territory with the Howling Commandos, on the way towards yet another mission. "They won't know what struck them," Bucky said, nudging his arm.

"Steve. It's getting worse, isn't it? Shit." Tony ran a hand through his hair, biting at his lip. "Maybe we should go back."

They'd reached the parking garage beneath the Tower now, Steve realized, and he didn't really remember much of the drive back, but he shook his head. "You heard what they said. They couldn't help me anyway. Might as well stay here."

Tony sighed. "Well, I'm not going to force you."

He was walking along a corridor with Howard Stark. It was such a strange idea that he'd become friends with someone so rich and famous and so different from himself.

"Penthouse, Jarvis," Tony said.

"Very well, sir," the elevator replied.

"Steve, this is Edwin Jarvis. I saved him from a fine pickle," Howard said, motioning at the taller man next to him, dressed in a flawless suit.

"For which I'll always be deeply grateful, Mr. Stark," Jarvis replied.

"I'd say any friend of Howard's is also my friend, but that might be going a bit too far," Steve said, smirking at Howard, as he reached to shake Jarvis's hand.

Tony's fingers were digging into his biceps. "I don't even know if I should be trying to shake you out of it or not. This is stupid, we should go back. I know you don't want to, but I have no clue what I'm doing, and you're starting to scare me."

They were standing in a sparsely furnished room, with large windows.

At the end of their ride waited a residential floor that was easily the fanciest thing Steve had seen in his life.

"It's all kind of basic now," Stark said modestly. "There's going to be art on the walls, some more furniture, matching carpets and that sort of thing. But for now, the WiFi works, the bathrooms work, the coffee maker works, and there's a guest room with a very nice bed. Let me show you that first."

"Steve, are you with me?" Tony asked.

That had been yesterday, hadn't it? That was the past, and a lot had happened after that. So much it felt like far longer than one day.

He'd not even been sure he could trust Tony yesterday, but he did, now. He trusted Tony without hesitation.

"Okay, a safe environment, they said, right? The bedroom is nice and safe. Come on," Tony said, one hand on Steve's back, guiding him along.

Steve knew he was losing touch with where and when he was, drowning in memories that were more vivid than reality, but there was nothing he could do.

He was in a meeting room with people in military uniforms.

He was lying in bed, staring at an unfamiliar ceiling, and someone was holding his hand. Howard? No, Tony.

He was riding a motorcycle through a forest.

"Steve? It would be really nice if you said something," Tony pleaded, but Steve couldn't, because—

He was on a plane, fighting the Red Skull, with everything he'd got.

"I don't know if you can even hear me anymore, but I'm right here, okay?" Tony said.

He was sinking, and he knew this was it, the end of Captain America and Steve Rogers. But he had done it, he'd saved everyone, and that was the only thing that mattered.

The darkness was creeping into his vision, and it was cold, so terribly cold. Everything was growing numb. It would be over soon.

He'd never been so cold and so alone in his life.

But he wasn't alone. Someone was there with him, arms wrapped around him, holding him close.

Maybe it wasn't the end, after all.

He drifted off, no longer feeling cold, but warm and safe.

By the time they'd made it back to the Tower, Tony realized he'd made a mistake. He'd been hesitant to leave SHIELD to begin with. He should've trusted that hunch. During the drive back, he'd not been able to talk to Steve for more than a few sentences in a row. Instead, Steve had kept staring ahead blankly, no doubt somewhere decades away.

He should've turned back, but he didn't want to break Steve's trust, when Steve had made his wishes so clear. Instead, he took Steve upstairs, and led him straight to the guest room. It was like guiding a sleepwalker, except that Steve's eyes were open, which somehow made it eerie as heck. Occasionally, he seemed to register Tony's presence, but it was only for brief moments, and more than once, he actually called Tony Howard.

Somehow, Tony managed to maneuver Steve into bed, where he stayed, lying on his back, unmoving.

It could've been a lot worse, Tony told himself. At least Steve wasn't physically reacting to whatever memories he was living through. If he started throwing around punches now that Tony didn't have his armor, there was little doubt about which one of them would end up knocked out on the floor.

He considered leaving Steve for a moment to fetch the armor, but he really didn't want to. Besides, Steve didn't seem threatening. Instead, he seemed terribly vulnerable, staring ahead with unseeing eyes, occasionally muttering something Tony couldn't quite make sense of.

He took hold of Steve's hand. Steve didn't even seem to notice. Was it just him, or did Steve's fingers feel cooler than they should?

The SHIELD doctors had said Steve was physically fine, but Tony knew medicine wasn't the most exact science, and they might have missed something. Better safe than sorry.

"Jarvis?" Tony said, keeping his voice low. "Track his vitals for me, okay? Tell me if there's any change."

"Very well, sir," Jarvis acknowledged.

Tony couldn't help feeling ever so slightly guilty; he'd promised Steve a Jarvis-free guest room. Then again, neither of them had known something like this would happen.

He didn't care if Steve would be angry. He just needed Steve to come out of this and be okay.

He squeezed Steve's fingers. "It would be really nice if you said something."

Steve didn't, of course, though he did blink and turn his eyes in Tony's direction, for all of two seconds. Then, they glazed over again.

If only there was something more he could do. Tony hated feeling so helpless.

It was such a strange thought that it had only been around a week since Fury had called him in to see Steve for the first time. He remembered how hesitant he'd been, and how he'd found Steve vaguely annoying before they'd even met. He would never have expected he'd grow so attached to Steve, and more than that, he would never, ever have believed that Steve might think so highly of him, because clearly, he did. He'd kept insisting on staying in Tony's company, and in his home. He'd insisted Tony could handle this, when Tony hadn't thought he could, even after that sparring incident.

He hoped Steve's trust hadn't been misplaced.

If Steve wouldn't wake up—if he stayed like this, physically fine, and yet completely dead to the world—

Tony had no idea how he'd be able to live with himself if he ended up losing Steve.

"I don't know if you can even hear me anymore, but I'm right here, okay?" he said softly.

He wasn't sure how long they stayed as they were, Steve in bed, Tony sitting on a chair next to him, Steve's hand between both of his. It felt like hours. It might've been less.

Then, Steve started shivering.

It was gradual at first, a minute tremor Tony felt because he was clasping Steve's fingers, but it soon grew into proper shudders than ran through him.

Tony let go of Steve's hand to place his palm against Steve's forehead. He wasn't sure if it felt too warm or not; he knew Steve's metabolism was higher than normal anyway, so he might have a naturally higher temperature as well.

"Jarvis? What's his temperature doing?" Tony called out.

"I have only registered minor fluctuations since he entered the room," Jarvis stated. "Nothing that could explain the chills he seems to be experiencing."

Tony got up and rummaged the drawers for blankets, but even though he piled three on top of Steve, that didn't seem to help. Instead, Steve only seemed to be feeling colder, trembling constantly now, his teeth chattering and his breath turning into gasps. His eyes had closed, as well.

Tony could guess well enough which memory of Steve's might've brought this on, but that didn't bring him any closer to a solution.

"There's got to be something I can do!" he yelled at the room around him. Jarvis didn't have an answer to that.

He sat on the bed, took hold of Steve's shoulders, and shook him, shouting his name. It was no good.

He had the terrifying feeling that Steve was slipping away from him.

There was one other way of warming Steve that he could come up with which he hadn't tried yet. It felt all sorts of wrong, but he was all out of ideas, good or bad.

Tony kicked off his shoes and climbed under the blankets with Steve, pulling him close.

It was one of the least comfortable hugs Tony had experienced in his life: the layer of blankets alone would've been enough to make it stifling, and Steve was like a radiator, even as he was still shivering from the cold that existed only in his mind. Tony held on tightly, anyway.

After a while, he realized Steve's breathing had grown steadier, and the tremors were starting to settle.

Tony moved one hand up to Steve's head, stroking his hair. "That's it. It's going to be okay. You're going to be okay," he murmured.

Steve shifted on the bed, turning onto his side, and curling up closer to Tony.

Steve came to gradually, surfacing from some half-remembered nightmare where everything was cold and dark.

He found himself in an unfamiliar bed, feeling as if he'd been ill. He was groggy and sore, and his head ached. Where was he, and how had he gotten here?

Trying to think back, he remembered everything clearly: fighting the Red Skull, saying goodbye to Peggy, crashing the Valkyrie in the ice. He also remembered waking up in the future, confused, not sure who he was; the days he'd spent at SHIELD, and meeting Howard's son, Tony Stark.

Tony was currently slouched in a chair by Steve's bed, snoring softly, the back of his head resting against the wall behind him.

Steve remembered the time he'd spent with Tony: leaving SHIELD to stay with him at Stark Tower, trying to escape on the first night, and eventually falling asleep on the couch in the lounge; the flashback he'd had the next morning, and the one he'd had sparring with Tony, which had led to them going back to SHIELD. After that, it was all muddled.

They must've returned to the Tower at some point, and clearly, he'd ended up in the guest room, somehow, but the details were hazy. The only thing he was absolutely certain of was that Tony had been there, all the way through, guiding him, soothing him, a hand on his back or on his shoulder, speaking to him to let him know he wasn't alone.

Steve sat up slowly, bringing a hand up to knead at his temples. He was slightly nauseous, but also hungry. Almost as if he were hung over, though that wasn't something that happened to him, not anymore.

Moving as quietly as he could so as not to wake Tony up, Steve got out of bed and tiptoed to the bathroom.

This time, the image looking back at him from the mirror seemed entirely familiar. Just as Tony had reassured him, he was still Steve Rogers, but he was also Captain America. He hadn't lost anything when he'd regained his memories.

At the back of his mind, he still felt as if he were a much smaller man inhabiting this tall, muscular body. That was the way he'd always felt, after Project Rebirth, and he didn't think he'd ever lose it completely.

He also knew that many people would only ever see him as Captain America, but there would always be some who didn't, some who'd be his friends, like Bucky, Howard, Peggy and the Howling Commandos had been. He hoped he could count Tony among them, as well.

When he returned to the bedroom, wearing nothing but a towel, Tony was awake, stretching his neck and making disgruntled faces. His expression lit up when he saw Steve.

"Morning," Tony greeted. It sounded more tentative than cheerful.

"Good morning," Steve returned, with a smile.

"I'll just go wait outside while you get dressed, shall I?" Tony said, unexpectedly bashful, and hurried out of the room.

Slightly confused about that, Steve got dressed, and opened the door to invite Tony back in from the corridor.

Walking into the room, Tony gave him a scrutinizing look. "So, how're you feeling?"

"Better now that I've showered," Steve replied.

"Good, good." Tony smiled, but it seemed distracted, not quite reaching his eyes. "And what do you remember?"

"Everything. Project Rebirth and my time as Captain America, all the way to the final moments before the ice," Steve told him.

"That's great news, I'm glad," Tony said unconvincingly. "How about yesterday?"

"Well, I don't seem to remember very much about how I got from SHIELD to here," Steve confessed, "but I'm guessing I must've given you a hard time."

Tony hummed. "You could say that, but it's not like you had much choice. I'm just glad you're okay. I'm not going to lie, you scared the hell out of me."

"Sorry," Steve said.

"No need to apologize. I probably should, though," Tony said, shifting nervously and glancing at his feet. "I may have done a few things yesterday you wouldn't necessarily have agreed to, if you'd been lucid."

"I'm sure it's fine. I remember that you were there for me, and it helped a lot." Steve reached to give Tony's shoulder a squeeze.

Tony shrugged it off. "I don't know. I may have set Jarvis to keep an eye on you, like I promised not to, and I may also have called in some SHIELD medics, because I was worried. As it happens, they may even be sitting in the lounge right now, just in case."

Had Steve really come through as so unreasonable that Tony would expect him to be mad about that? "All that sounds perfectly sensible to me," he said.

"I may also have ended up sort of cuddling you, because that was the only thing I could think of at that moment. I mean, it was almost like a hypothermia situation, sharing body heat, that kind of thing, but I realize I may have overstepped some boundaries there, and I'm sorry, I shouldn't have. I just didn't know what else to do," Tony said, speaking so fast, Steve almost couldn't make sense of it.

So, that was what had been weighing on Tony's mind, then.

Steve placed both hands on Tony's shoulders now, steadying him, looking him in the eye. "Tony, it's okay. It helped. I knew you were there, and it really helped. I would've felt so much worse without you."

"You're not mad?" Tony checked, as if he hadn't really heard what Steve said.

"I'm not mad," Steve reassured him. "I'm grateful, for everything you've done for me."

Tony finally seemed to relax at that; Steve could feel the tension in his shoulders loosening under his palms. "Any time," Tony said, and smiled like he really felt it, too.

"Seriously. Thank you, Tony," Steve said, slid one hand onto Tony's back, and pulled him into a hug.

Welcoming the invitation, Tony clung to him tightly. "This is much nicer," he mumbled into Steve's shoulder.

"Couldn't agree with you more," Steve said, rubbing at Tony's back.

They let go and stepped backwards, looking at one another in a slightly awkward silence.

"So, both Steve Rogers and Captain America have made it to the 21st century," Tony said.

"Yes," Steve said, "but I'll still need a lot of help settling into the modern world. I've heard there's no one who understands the latest technological advances better than Tony Stark."

"I'd be happy to be your guide! How about we start with a lesson called The top breakfast places in Manhattan for 2012? Complete with an introduction to the art of modern coffee?" Tony suggested.

"I'd love that." Steve held out a hand towards the door. "Lead the way."