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“And you, Kang, can do nothing to escape the flat of my ebony blade!” the Black Knight cried, bringing the blade down on the murderer called Kang with a heavy, violent swing. The man flew upward from the force of the swing, his body landing at the end of a perfect arc with a loud clang! His fingers twitched visibly, his just suffering palpable in the air.
The Black Knight glanced down at his hands, seeming half shocked and half impressed with himself. “I struck in desperation— frenzy, almost— but I downed him! How, Grand-Master, how?”
“I gave him supreme power over the Avengers, mortal,” the Grand-Master answered. “You are not of their serried ranks.”
“A trick,” Kang coughed out weakly, and Steve had half the mind to boot him in the cheek for his crimes. “It was all a trick.”
The Grand-Master raised a hand; his whole body was alight with an aura Steve could feel against his skin, warm and cool on his skin all at once. “Now, I must depart for new games… new galaxies to conquer. And, as I restore you valiant ones to your long-ago mansion, think of Kang, and have pity.”
The Black Knight seemed worn from the effort of his valiant swing, Goliath’s hand coming down to steady him. He leaned into the weight of it, huffing out a tired, but victorious laugh. Steve couldn’t help but match the smile.
“We’re home free, and hardly worse for the wear. But Kang lost his chance to restore Ravonna to life,” the Knight asserted.
Goliath gave the Black Knight a pat pat on his shoulder with his large thumb. “Never did trust a guy who takes side-bets on a chess game.”
“Right now,” T’Challa interrupted. His voice was more serious than that of the others in a way Steve was fond of; he commanded attention, commanded respect. “We have something else to attend to, Goliath.”
“Aye, Panther, for I do sense that we are truly of one mind!” Thor, in contrast, was boisterous. He took up space and used it well. He reminded Steve of friends he’d made among the soldiers he’d fought with— after a few drinks, at least. His voice held the kind of warmth one might feel after having a drink themselves. “Though the Black Night was not one of us when he struck, we now should make him so!”
The Black Knight seemed re-energized at the assertion alone, his eyes glimmering not unlike his sword. “If that means you’re making me an Avenger, I accept! Though my home is in England now, I’ll answer the call when you need me!”
And though T’Challa’s face was obscured by his mask, his grin was audible. “We ask no more, friend,” he said.
“Right,” Steve agreed proudly. “And now, just in case he’s forgotten what that call is… Let’s hear it one more time.”
Avengers, assemble!
The mansion the next night was quieter than normal; everyone seemed to be recovering from the exhaustion of the day prior. Steve understood, but couldn’t quite empathize— he felt more awake, more alive, almost buzzing with the feeling of a job well done.
Rather than spend his time tossing and turning in bed, he decided to wander the mansion, figuring some newfound appreciation for the home he’d missed briefly couldn’t hurt. He roamed the halls, stopping every so often to sketch a particularly nice looking painting or furniture arrangement in his little pocket notebook.
He’d stopped, then, at an image hanging up of the Avengers in the main room of the building, just above the fireplace. It was sweet and homely, somewhat matching the feelings that blossomed in Steve’s own chest. He always felt that sense of not-quite-nostalgia after inducting a new recruit; there was some feeling of Look how far we’ve come that he wouldn’t shake even if he could. It was pride, in a way, though not for himself.
“Having a late night wander, Winghead?” a voice greeted from behind him— Iron Man’s, it was clear. There was no world in which Steve wouldn’t recognize those words, that tone.
“You could say that,” he answered. “What about you?”
“I heard you walking.” Iron Man shrugged, taking a step forward to stand beside Steve. He crossed his arms, and the helmet tilted ever so slightly upward; even in the dimly lit room in the middle of night, he could make out those ice blue eyes of Iron Man’s, focused on the image Steve had been looking at moments prior. “I figured I would keep you company.”
Steve smiled, pocketing his little notebook and resting his thumbs in the waistband of his pajama pants. “There’s no better company I could ask for, Shellhead.”
“Aw, shucks.”
“You know, I always thought Tony Stark would be the one to master time travel. When I first got here, I half thought he must have a time machine laying around somewhere.”
“What brought this on?”
“I was just thinking. I read that book by Wells all that time ago— oh, I can’t remember the name of it now…”
Iron Man turned to look at him, his helmet tilted down. “The Time Machine, Cap? Where they have a time machine?”
“That’s the one.”
Iron Man gave an amused little laugh, shaking his head. Steve playfully punched his metal shoulder.
“I was thinking,” Steve said again, “of how much he reminds me of that Time Traveller sometimes. He was all I could think about while we were back in France— if only he knew where we were, I thought, he’d come get us.”
“Oh, maybe. Probably not on such short notice, though.”
“No,” Steve argued, smile clear on his face. “He’d do it. He could.”
“If you say so…”
“I mean, just look at you. Outfitted in that beautiful transistor-powered armor! Only a genius could put together something like that. And a genius he is.”
“Well, sure, but that doesn’t say terribly much. I mean, everyone knows the basics of time travel— reversing the polarity of the time axis within the boundaries of the time-space continuum, that is— but how one would even accomplish it? Why, it’s magic; rather, it’s science we simply haven’t pinned down yet.”
Steve stared at him a little dumbly, eyes glimmering with admiration. He thought sometimes that Iron Man was just as smart as Tony Stark— or maybe Tony had been rubbing off on him. Either way, both men were awe-inspiring. Steve wasn’t going to complain about having two genius best friends rather than one. “Everyone knows, huh? Why, Iron Man, I wouldn’t have come up with that in a million years.”
“I’m sure you would have,” Iron Man said fondly. And then, over-enunciating for the humor of it all, he added: “Because everyone knows the basics of time travel.”
“Good one, Shellhead.”
“I was thinking, too, you know. About the you from the past, and all the fight he had in him. He was inspiring, to say the least.”
Had Steve been a bird, his feathers would have puffed up at that. But all he could do was stand a little straighter, a little prouder, warm with the flattery and the bond shared between the two of them. “That’s good to hear. Here I was, thinking it was embarrassing.”
“Oh, maybe a little bit,” Iron Man said. “If only because of his uniform.”
“His uniform!”
“Oh, yes.”
“And what was wrong with his uniform, Iron Man?”
Iron Man mimed zipping up his mouth and locking it with a key, tossing the imaginary key over his shoulder. “I’d hate to hurt your feelings.”
“After all my boasting about your incredible suit…”
“That was a compliment to Mr. Stark. As far as I’m concerned, I’ve received no compliments tonight.”
“Well— Your eyes.”
Iron Man paused, then, the slight shake of his shoulders (caused by his quiet laughter, of course) slowing to a stop. He was quiet for a long moment before turning to face Steve; it was better, then, as Steve could see far better those eyes of Iron Man’s. “My eyes?”
“Yes, your eyes. You’ve got nicer eyes than any man I’ve met— your lashes, too, look as if they’ve been painted on.”
Iron Man stared, blinked hard, turned away. “Well.”
“Well?”
“I suppose I take back what I said about your uniform, then.”
Steve huffed out a laugh, bumping his shoulder lightly against Tony’s. “No worries, Shellhead. No harm, no foul.”
“Tell you what. When Mr. Stark puts that time machine of his together, we’ll go back and we’ll make fun of your old uniform together.”
Something about that loosened what few knots remained in Steve’s chest after the days they’d had; it was a sweet idea, a funny kind of thing that Steve thought he might enjoy. It was a hypothetical that would keep him up plenty of nights after that, he was sure, as plenty of other hypotheticals involving the two of them did.
“You know what,” he started. “So long as you’re funny about it, I’ll be respectful of your opinion.”
“Oh, no. By the time I’m done, Winghead, you’ll agree with me.”
“We’ll just have to see about that.”
“Yes, we will,” Iron Man agreed. “It’s a date.”
Steve smiled, reaching out to give Iron Man’s back a firm pat. Iron Man bumped his elbow against Steve’s side in response, his eyes crinkling behind the mask.
“That it is, Shellhead,” Steve said. “It’s a date.”