Chapter Text
Tony Stark was a futurist – everyone knew that. But, few knew why he was so obsessed with looking towards the future: pain lived in the past. And the past always did love to come back to haunt Tony in the worst possible ways.
Like now.
The thirty-three-year-old billionaire had been in the middle of chatting with yet another old white politician, schmoozing to get the man to help smooth the way for more green energy legislation, when his new assistant, a brilliant young woman named Pepper, went to the microphone. Tony kept half his attention on the senator’s prattling – okay, so maybe it was more like ten percent of his attention – while the rest fixated on the redhead. She was smiling and welcoming the guests to the event, thanking them for donating to the Maria Stark Foundation. The usual. And then she seemed to become, dare Tony think, practically giddy. “And tonight’s special guest is one of my absolute favorite bands. Known for their unique talent for combining performance art with rock and roll, they have helped define the sound of the generation,” she gushed. “I hope you will all join me in welcoming to the stage O Captain!” Clapping, the woman almost tripped (Tony could barely process it) in her excitement to move off to the side of the stage.
O Captain, Tony thought, rolling the name around in his head. For whatever reason, it sounded familiar. Maybe Pep had played their music or talked about them before? Or –
The lights on the stage dimmed as the band moved into place. A drummer, a keyboardist, a bassist, two guitarists… nothing revolutionary so far. Tony tipped his head to the side and narrowed his eyes at the shadowed figures; there was something strange about them. Maybe it was the fact four of them seemed rather muscular – more bodybuilders than musicians – but there was something else, something he could not quite put his finger on, that unsettled him. Electric anxiety began to blur under his skin as his eyes kept drifting back to the central figure. “Excuse me, senator. I believe I’m needed,” Tony said abruptly, cutting the politician off mid-word without a thought. Then, in a buzz of motion, he began to push his way through the crowd.
But it was too late.
The lights came up, and Tony’s entire world tipped carelessly to the side as the band came into view. His breath caught in his throat, choking him, as he took in the broad shoulders, strong jawline, and bright blue eyes of the lead singer. Even after fifteen years, Tony felt like he could map out every line of that body with his eyes closed. And it made him sick.
Steve Rogers. At his event.
Jaw clenched so hard it made his teeth ache, Tony began to push through the crowd with renewed vigor. He was going to have words with Pepper about who she had invited to perform. Meanwhile, on stage, Steve was flashing the crowd an easy smile and wrapping his hand around the microphone stand. “Thank you all for your warm welcome. We were so pleased to be invited to this event, as the Maria Stark Foundation’s efforts to help wounded soldiers is a cause near and dear to us. Before O Captain was even a dream to us –“
Tony tuned the rest of the speech out, or tried to anyway. Even just the sound of Roger’s voice made Tony want to disappear with a bottle of vodka. But no, he had to be working on that whole sobriety thing; just his luck. By the time he had reached Pepper, the band had begun to create such a racket that even trying to talk to the redhead was fruitless. Besides, she practically had stars in her eyes as she swayed along to whatever Rogers was growling out; Tony doubted she would even pretend to acknowledge him so long as the band was performing. Lips curling into a deep pout, Tony folded his arms over his chest and pointedly refused to look at the lead singer. Instead, he let his eyes wander over the other people on stage to at least have something to do.
He snorted to himself. They looked like an entire mess. The drummer, a blonde man, had ripped the sleeves off his purple shirt – probably to show off his ridiculously oversized biceps as he pounded away at his instrument. One arm was covered in a full sleeve tattoo that was all vivid neon colors; he was too far away for Tony to discern the details, but it looked garish from where the genius stood. The drummer’s smile was practically manic as he bobbed along to the music with his head, probably flinging sweat everywhere.
To the dummer’s left was the keyboardist, who appeared to be the only woman in the band. She was honestly stunning, with keen green eyes and scarlet hair. But there was something in her expression that made it seem more like he was looking at a particularly well-honed knife than a woman. Beside her, dressed all in black, was a tall brunet man with thick, long hair and a thousand-yard-stare. Tony was impressed that the man could even manage to play his bass; it seemed like his mind was anywhere but there. He was broad, though considerably more stocky than the lead singer who Tony definitely had not looked at.
Whipping his eyes across the stage, Tony took in the last member of the band. The second guitarist was still muscular, though nowhere near as overtly ripped as the bassist and the drummer. His skin was an even walnut color that seemed to shine in the light, making the sharp line of his cheekbones and the breadth of his brow stand out against the darkness of the stage. Tony almost approved of him, if only because of the neat facial hair the man sported, but, alas, the man was doomed for his tasteless association with Rogers.
And Tony pointedly stared up at the ceiling, lips curled in a determined frown, as he waited for the noise to finish.
When, an agonizing thirty minutes later, the band thanked the audience for their attention, Tony whipped to glare at Pepper. “Ms. Potts, would you mind telling me why –“
“Ms. Potts!” Tony froze, dread crawling down his spine. “Thank you again for inviting us to play.” Slowly, the billionaire turned to face the man approaching them. Steve Rogers. The man had always been gorgeous, though when they had been children Steve had been a sickly little wraith of a boy. Now, though, there was no trace of illness in the broad, well-toned body the rocker had somehow squeezed into a tight white shirt and a pair of snug dark wash jeans. It was practically indecent the way Rogers was straining the seams of his clothing.
“Well, if it isn’t Judas,” Tony sniped.
Steve stopped short, the too-bright smile sliding off his face. “…Tony?”
“Oh no, you don’t get to call me that anymore. I only let people I like call me that, Rogers. And you lost that privilege years ago.” Tony took a breath, readying himself to continue his tirade, when Steve snorted.
Steve turned towards Pepper. “Ms. Potts, I thought you said Mr. Stark had approved my band performing at the event this evening.”
Shooting Tony a stern look, Pepper pulled out her best public relations voice, “Of course, Steve. Mr. Stark was aware that O Captain was performing tonight; he signed all of the paperwork. I am looking forward to Tony explaining just what he thinks he’s doing to our guest.”
“I never agreed to let him in here!” Tony insisted. “I would have never let this traitor within ten miles of any Stark event, let alone the Maria Stark Foundation gala.”
There was a part of Tony that was fascinated by the way Steve clenched his fists, causing the veins and muscles along his forearms to jump. The boy he’d known growing up would have immediately jumped in with a biting reply, so the self-restraint was new. As were the tattoos curling up Steve’s left arm, disappearing into vague shadows under the cuff of his t-shirt. “Ms. Potts, thank you for having O Captain at your event. Our manager, Scott, mentioned that you’re a fan of ours and wanted to speak to me?” Tony bristled at the obvious dismissal.
Just as he opened his mouth to demand answers, Pepper smoothly cut in, “Yes, he told you right. I’ve been following O Captain since I was in college. I went to one of your first concerts - seven years ago, I think?” The tension at the edge of her mouth eased a little as she got a little lost in the memory of the first time she had seen the band perform. “Now I own all of your art books as well as the albums. I was actually hoping I could maybe talk to you about purchasing a piece for our collection. Your artwork is … breathtaking.”
Ducking his head, the blond rubbed at the back of his neck even as the tips of his ears flushed red. “Oh, that’s, uh, very kind of you, Ms. Potts. If you’d like to maybe come by the studio, we could talk more about what you were looking for?”
“Seriously?” Tony gaped as Pepper looked at Steve with obvious, painful adoration on her face. “That would be … absolutely amazing, thank you so much. Do you need my contact information?”
Steve managed a little laugh. “I think you gave it to Scott? I can snag it from him, if that’s alright.”
“Yes, of course. He has my cell number and email. Feel free to contact me via either,” Pepper insisted. “And I’m more than happy to work around your schedule. I know you’re probably very busy preparing for the new album.” One of her hands even fluttered nervously as a little giggle bubbled past her lips.
“That’s kind of you, Ms. Potts. I’ll get back to you soon as I can.” Steve flashed her another little smile before glancing back towards Tony. “Mr. Stark.” A sharp nod, and then Steve was turning to walk backstage to where his band no doubt waited for him.
Planting her fists on her hips, Pepper turned to level her worst glare on Tony. She even arched one brow – a sure sign his life was hanging in the balance. “Anthony Edward Stark,” she said, each word snapping like the click of her heels on the polished marble floor. “Would you care to explain to me what exactly you were doing?”
“Steve Rogers is not allowed at Stark events. Ever. Period. And the fact you managed to sneak him in here was cruel, Pep. Way worse than treating that snake the way he deserved.” Tony emphasized his words by flailing an olive on a cocktail stick before biting the fruit with an almost vengeful glee. “He’s blacklisted. If you ever invite him or his muscle-bound lackeys to one of our events again, I’ll – I’ll –“
Pepper’s other eyebrow rose. “You’ll what?”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “I won’t show up to any board meetings for a year.”
“That’s not exactly much of a threat, Tony. You don’t show up for board meetings most of the time anyway.” She let out a slow breath, clearly trying to pack her ire away into the little box where she compartmentalized everything she felt about her employer. “In all fairness, you did sign the paperwork approving that O Captain perform. You even commented that you liked the name, especially since they’re all veterans. How was I supposed to know that you have a grudge against a man you have literally never mentioned before? What, did you get denied backstage access to one of their concerts or something, Tony? Get turned down when you propositioned him drunk?”
Turning away, Tony stuck the cocktail stick between his teeth and chewed at it for several long moments. “No. I could forgive him for that.” Without any further reply, he vanished into the crowd. Maybe just one tiny bottle of vodka wouldn’t hurt.
---
When Pepper finally arranged to meet with Steve, she had to repeat to herself the mantra she used whenever she was around the celebrities Tony ran with: Celebrities are people, just like everyone else. Even Captain Steve Rogers. Her heart gave a giddy flip out of instinct; it was practically Pavlovian. She took a steadying breath before pushing the buzzer. When the door to the building unlocked, she pulled it open and headed to the elevator, taking it up to the third floor. The doors opened to a wide studio, with smooth cement floors, plain white walls, and large windows on the south-facing wall. On all other available spaces of wall were hung thirteen paintings, ranging from a pair of torn red ballet slippers to two Black men tangled in a passionate embrace.
“Pepper?” Steve’s disembodied voice caused the redhead to start.
“I just got out of the elevator,” she called, uncertain where he was.
Turning, she found the room rounded the elevator shaft. She started around the corner and quickly found Steve. The man was dressed in a paint-splattered flannel shirt and a pair of jeans that had clearly seen better days. And, perched on his nose, was a pair of thick-rimmed glasses Tony would’ve claimed made Steve look like some hipster washout. Reaching over, Steve cleaned off his brush in an old brown mug with a chip in the rim. “Sorry, I must have lost track of time. Come on in.” The brush was set aside before he rubbed at his hands with a cloth that was probably white once upon a time. “I was just working on something new.”
Unable to help her curiosity, Pepper came to stand beside Steve. Her eyes drunk in the canvas hungrily; it was practically a dream to see a piece in progress. “Oh, Steve, it’s beautiful.” The canvas was mostly a scape of greys and blacks – shadows the melted together as though the colors had been blurred by the rain. In the midst of all the darkness was the figure of a man, back bent against the rain, walking away from the viewer; the only detail truly distinguishable about him was the red umbrella held above his head, like a beacon of color in the darkness of the storm. “Is it for the new album?” One of the things that made O Captain so unique (and personally interesting to Pepper) was that most of their songs began as one of Roger’s paintings. Then he or one of his bandmates would write the song to match the painting. Once in a while Rogers would paint while one of his bandmates wrote a song – the processes informing each other. That was why each album had an accompanying art book for purchase, as the artwork was as important as the music itself.
“Probably not.” Steve’s lips twitched in an almost pained smile. “The paintings in there are the songs we’ve confirmed for the new album. Not really sure another song would fit. Plus, this one doesn’t have a one-word title, unlike the others.” He stared at the painting for a long, long moment. “The album’s called War. About our experiences serving in the armed forces.” Shaking his head, he flashed Pepper a more genuine smile. “This one’s based on one of my experiences from before enlistment, so … not really fitting. Want to take a closer look at the others? I’m sure you’re itching to see them, if you’re as wild about art as Scott hinted.”
Pepper beamed at Steve. “If you are willing to tell me about the paintings, I would love to see them. And then we can discuss something for the collection?”
“Works for me.” Steve hesitated. “This one is going to be called ‘Us Against the World.’ I’ve got the song written to go with it, so maybe next album.”
“Oh, it’s named for your tattoo!” At Steve’s alarmed look, the redhead laughed a little nervously. “Fangirl, remember? I know an unhealthy amount about you. And the band.”
Steve laughed. “Right. I forget that you’re a fan in addition to a high powered personal assistant.” He shrugged one of his unfairly broad shoulders. “But, you’re right. It’s named for my tat. Same story.” Shoving his hands in his pockets, he moved to guide her through the thirteen paintings in the main part of the studio.
“This one is my favorite, I think,” Pepper said as they gazed at one of the last in the series – the two men.
“It’s named ‘Tell.’ Because of how much hell Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell put some of us through, but especially Sam and his husband, Riley.” Steve nodded to the painting. “They wrote the song together, so it seemed fitting that I painted them together.”
Pepper sighed. “You can tell how much they love one another. The way you painted them, it looks as though they complete each other. And yet, at the same time… they’re protecting one another. It’s stunning.”
“Ah, thanks.” Steve rocked on his feet, his gaze traveling down the line of the wall. “I hope they like it. They’ve not seen it just yet. One of the rare times the song came before the painting.”
The woman continued to gaze at the painting in thought as Steve pointedly looked anywhere else. He seemed disquieted, and underneath his bright blue eyes were clear smudges of sleeplessness. Taking pity on him, Pepper cleared her throat and turned to give him a warm smile. “Thank you for taking the time to show me your work. I am certain the new album will be phenomenal.”
“I’m happy to. It’s nice to have fresh eyes on my work. The band loves it, but they’re not quite as obsessed with art as some of us are.” Steve gave her a conspiratorial nod. “But, if you’re ready to move on, we can head to the actual gallery. I keep the paintings that are available for purchase on a different floor. This is really just where I paint when I’m in town.” Moving over towards the elevator, he pushed the button to go down. “I actually own the entire building. Our recording studio is in the basement, the gallery is the first floor, and our communal space is the second floor.” Steve pointedly did not mention what was on the fourth floor, even though Pepper was certain the building went up at least one more story.
“It must be nice to not have to pay rent, especially with New York prices,” she commented, trying to go for something innocuous.
“Yeah, you could say that.” Steve studied the worn surface of his boots. “I bought this place with my first royalty check for our debut album. Knew it would be nice to have someplace quiet to work. Helped that this place was just an abandoned public health hazard, so I got it cheap. Did a lot of the renovations myself, when I could.”
Pepper blinked at him. “I had no idea you were so … handy.”
The pair stepped off the elevator, and he guided her to a side door. “When you grow up poor, you learn what you have to to survive.” He punched in a code and opened the door, guiding her into the gallery. “Now, everything in here that has a price tag is for sale. If you see something you really love that isn’t for sale, I can probably paint you something similar depending on what it is.”
“Thank you, Steve. Do you mind if I look around on my own for a little bit?” She had the distinct impression that Steve was uncomfortable around her, though perhaps that was simply because he was tired.
“Not at all. I’m going to head down to the basement. When you’ve made a decision, just take a photo of the painting you want and come find me.” The man all but fled as soon as Pepper indicated she understood. Pepper desperately hoped he would be smart enough to go take a nap or something, but she had a feeling he was just like Tony: too busy to sleep. But, there was nothing she could do about it. She had one workaholic to take care of and that was plenty for her thank you very much. So, rather than worry about Steve, she turned to explore the gallery.
Several hours later, when she had finally narrowed it down to two selections, Pepper checked to make certain the photos stored on her phone were clear. Satisfied, she then turned and climbed into the elevator, pushing the button for the basement as directed. Unlike the art studio or the gallery, the basement was comfortingly dim. The walls were a rich eggplant color and the carpet a black herringbone pattern. Every few feet along the wall were art deco styled sconces in gold, with warm amber lights that created puddles of brightness in the dark. Along the hallway were several doors, each leading to different recording studios and practice rooms. Only the door at the end of the hallway shone with light, dim as it was, through the frosted glass. Pepper figured that was where she would find Steve, unless he really was taking a nap. Moving to the door, she knocked lightly on the smooth black surface. When there was no answer, she gently pushed it open and peeked in.
She was right: it was a recording studio. The room was relatively small, with a couch along one wall and a row of electronics – sound equipment and mixers, she supposed – underneath the window. On the other side of the window was a small square room, where Steve was seated on a stool and strumming on his guitar. Rather than interrupt him, as he seemed to be at the beginning of a song, Pepper quietly took a seat on the couch. She would wait until he was finished; it would be rude to interrupt, or so she told herself.
The song he was playing was as melancholy as the painting upstairs, with a heavy dose of minor chords sprinkled in among the occasional major chords. He took a slow breath before leaning closer to the microphone, eyes closed as he brought to mind the lyrics he had spent most of the night writing. “Summer back in grade school, when we first met,” he crooned, “We’d argue with each other for somethin’ to do, and by your eighteenth birthday we’d fallen so in love.” His baritone voice was husky as he sang, sadness making the words hang heavily in the air. But it was the chorus that made Pepper realize what she was listening to: “In another life, I would be your guy. We’d keep all our promises – be us against the world. In another life, I’d be able to stay, so I don’t have to say you were the one that got away.”
As she listened more closely to the lyrics, it dawned on her that certain details felt achingly familiar. It told of lovers that came from two different worlds - one wealthy and one poor - that found safety in one another. The aching loneliness both felt was palpable, but the lines about the matching tattoos made the woman pause. Especially since, just once, she had seen the tattoo that Tony went to great lengths to hide on the inside of his wrist. Four words written in a hand that, if she had to guess, would match the one found in some of her artbooks. That, combined with Tony’s strange behavior from the night before, made Pepper begin to wonder if she had accidentally stumbled into something far deeper than she had realized. But that would be ridiculous, wouldn’t it? As far as anyone knew, Steve Rogers was straight. And Tony had never had a serious relationship – he claimed he was allergic to them. She was nearly certain of that, too.
But what if she was wrong?
When Steve finished playing through the song, Pepper quickly stood up and walked over to tap on the glass. Startled, Steve looked up. “Is that you, Pepper? Oh, uh, push the green button down there on the board. That’ll activate the mic so you can talk to me.”
Finding the button, Pepper pushed it and leaned down to speak into the microphone, “Yes, it’s me. I think I’ve made a selection, if you have a moment.”
“Sure, just give me a second.” Moving with the familiarity of many years of practice, he quickly hung up his headphones and sat his guitar on its stand. He then walked over to the door, moving into the dim booth. Walking over to the board, he pushed a few buttons to stop the recording and save the file. “Sorry about that. I was just trying to record the song before I forgot it.”
“I don’t mind at all, promise. It was –“ Pepper tried to find the right word before settling on, “haunting. I don’t think I’ve heard an O Captain song like it before.”
He snorted. “Is that a good thing?” His exhaustion bled into his voice, but it seemed far deeper than a single sleepless night.
“I think so,” she said gently. “It’s raw and personal. I can tell it means a lot to you. I think your fans would like hearing that from you, especially if that’s the direction the new album is going. It’s like you trust us, letting us see into your heart like that.”
“If you say so.” Steve let out a slow breath. “Did you decide on a painting?” He was clearly doing his best to avoid the conversation, and Pepper was willing to let him.
“I narrowed it down to two. I figured I would ask you if you had a preference between the two or even a recommendation. It’s going to be hanging in the atrium at Stark Tower, where there’s lots of light and –”
“Tony know you’re going to hang my art in his eyesore?” Steve gave the redhead an unimpressed look, one eyebrow arched and his lips pursed.
“Mr. Stark gave me carte blanche as far as artwork in the tower. So –“
“So he has no idea,” the blond finished for her.
Pepper deflated a little. “I didn’t plan to tell him. He never looks at the artwork anyway, especially in the atrium.”
Steve ran a hand through his thick blond hair. “Alright. Well. Which two were you debating between?” The pair easily fell into talking about the artwork and making arrangements for the purchase itself.