Archive of Our Own

Three Months After the Battle of New York — 2012

Tony Stark still couldn’t quite believe he was here.

Some days, the thought hit him out of nowhere—usually when the tower was too quiet, or when his chest felt a fraction too tight—and it left him staring into space, replaying everything that had happened.

Especially after his heart stopped. Especially after what he saw.

Okay. After almost dying. After saving the world. After discovering that the universe was far bigger, darker, and louder than he’d ever imagined. Those were the kinds of experiences that cracked you open, whether you liked it or not. Tony had always been good at pretending he was unbreakable, but the truth was, he’d been collecting wake-up calls for years.

Still, nothing quite compared to the moment Thor pressed Mjölnir to his chest.

That… did something to him.

It rewired his understanding of reality, of gods and monsters and timelines that refused to behave. It made his mind stretch in directions he hadn’t known existed. And after that—after New York, after the hospital lights, after the taste of blood and ozone in his mouth—everything else followed like a domino effect.

He asked Pepper for time. She agreed.

Because they needed it. Because sometimes love didn’t disappear—it just changed shape. Because Tony Stark, at the end of the day, was technically a single man who had very nearly died twice. Once by his own reactor. Once, lightning saved him instead of killing him.

They loved each other. They always would. But there were moments when they worked better as friends than as a couple, and both of them were self-aware enough to admit it, even if it hurt.

And then more things happened. Too many things. Enough that Tony’s thoughts started to feel like overheated circuitry, sparking and refusing to shut down. When the dust finally settled, he invited his new teammates to stay at the tower.

Almost all of them said no. Ungrateful bastards. He’d even designed custom apartments.

Still, he told them the doors would always be open. Bruce stayed—at least for a while. But even Bruce had a life outside of post-alien-invasion cleanup.

"I have to go to Europe, Tony," he’d said gently. "There’s a research opportunity. A university position. They really want me there."

Tony let him go. Because Bruce was his friend. Because sometimes letting people leave was the only way not to trap them. And because Tony himself had a lot to untangle.

Especially when life refused to stay simple.

It started the night JARVIS spoke up while Tony was pacing his mansion, tablet forgotten in his hand, thoughts looping dangerously.

"Sir," JARVIS said, voice smooth but careful, "while reviewing the Battle of New York footage—as per your request—I discovered material that may be of interest to you."

Tony stopped. "Show me."

He saw everything. Security cameras from local shops. From his own tower. Drone footage. Angles he didn’t remember existing. And then—there he was. Himself. Older. Hair lighter, almost silver-blond. Not dead. Not broken. Just… different.

He swallowed. Okay, future Tony was officially entering silver fox territory. Noted.

But it wasn’t just that. It was the suit. Nanotechnology—years ahead of where Tony currently was, but unmistakably his work. His logic. His fingerprints all over it.

And then there was the other video. The one he shouldn’t have replayed so many times.

Steve Rogers—older. Time etched into his face, not cruelly, but honestly. Pulling back his hood. Speaking quietly to the Steve of now.

That one lodged itself somewhere behind Tony’s ribs and refused to leave.

Maybe that was why he was back at the tower now. The message from JARVIS blinked onto his tablet as he stood by the window.

"You instructed me to monitor the Avengers’ status, sir," JARVIS said. "All are well and currently engaged in independent missions. However, Captain Rogers has remained inside the apartment you provided him here in the tower for the past month."

Tony froze. "A month?" he snapped. "And you’re telling me this now?"

"The captain explicitly requested privacy," JARVIS replied. "He asked that his location not be disclosed. However, I believe it is relevant to mention that he has been researching several… specific topics extensively, sir."

Tony exhaled sharply through his nose. Of course, he had.

So here he was now—standing outside Steve Rogers’ door, knocking like he didn’t own the place. Like he didn’t have the access codes memorized out of habit. On one hand: Chinese takeout. In the other, questionable confidence and what he considered his best Steve Rogers–appropriate outfit.

Steve Rogers. Teammate. Soldier. A man who somehow carried more internal ghosts than Tony did, which was saying something. The same man who, when Thor and Loki had been sent back to Asgard, had mentioned taking a trip across the United States.

Because he didn’t have a home. He was looking for one.

Tony hadn’t known what to say then. Steve had climbed onto that ancient motorcycle—still didn’t know where he’d gotten it; probably S.H.I.E.L.D.—and disappeared down the road.

Tony knocked again. The door opened.

And Tony Stark knew, instantly, that he was screwed. Completely and utterly screwed.

Because Tony had always been observant. He appreciated beauty. He noticed details. And standing in front of him now—wow. Sometimes Tony forgot that Steve Rogers had gone into the ice at twenty-seven. Because the man in the doorway looked very much like he belonged to that age.

Sweatpants hung low on his hips, just enough to reveal the unmistakable line of a Calvin Klein waistband. A slightly fitted baseball T-shirt—Dodgers?—clung to muscle that had clearly not gone to waste. His blue eyes were bright, sky-clear, framed by exhaustion and something quieter underneath. A bit of scruff shadowed his jaw.

And his hair—God. The once perfectly neat blond was gone. Now it was messier, darker at the roots, as if brown were threatening to break through. Like he’d stopped trying to tame it.

Tony swallowed.

"Tony," Steve said, sounding surprised—and not entirely unhappy. He tried to smile.

Tony blinked.

Yeah. This had been a terrible idea. He was officially in deep trouble now.

Tony Stark had always known how to recognize beauty.

Human beauty, architectural beauty, the kind you could analyze, market, package—he’d built an empire on it, in one way or another. He understood symmetry, presence, the way certain people pulled attention without trying.

But Steve Rogers, standing there like this— Wow.

For a split second, Steve truly looked twenty-seven. Not the living legend. Not the man frozen in propaganda reels and war footage. He looked like someone who belonged to this era. Like he could be any guy who worked out too much, drank protein shakes, and jogged in the mornings—except there was something about him that gym-obsessed civilians never quite had.

Weight. History. Stillness.

Tony swallowed.

Steve was beautiful. Tony wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t blind to it. But this—this version of him—hit differently. It knocked the air from Tony’s lungs before his brain could catch up.

Steve watched him closely, like he already knew why Tony was here. As if this visit had nothing to do with JARVIS tipping him off, and everything to do with the quiet fact that Steve Rogers—America’s golden boy, adored by millions and resented by just as many—had been sinking into something dark and private.

Steve crossed his arms in the doorway. One brow lifted. There were faint shadows under his eyes, his skin a shade paler than it should’ve been.

Needs sunlight, Tony thought. Maybe Malibu—

No. Stop.

He wasn’t here to fix Steve. He was here because he wanted to understand him.

"Tony?" Steve said again, distracted now. "I asked what you’re doing here. Did something happen?"

Tony shook his head. "What, I can’t visit an old friend? Teammate. Battle buddy."

Steve studied him, frowning. "Is that something you usually do? Because the last battle was months ago, and we barely talked. Then there was… the shawarma place."

"That was barely a conversation," Tony shot back. "No depth. No emotional bonding. How am I supposed to know my teammates if we don’t actually talk? We’re a team now. Forever. Very dramatic. Possibly with merch."

Steve’s brows drew together. Darker now—almost brown. Is that happening already? Tony’s brain supplied, unhelpfully.

"I think you’re looking for something else, Stark," Steve said carefully. "You doing checkups on everyone?"

Tony gestured vaguely, hands moving like they always did when his thoughts raced. He remembered the shawarma. The taste of it. How badly he’d wanted it after touching death.

"Things," he said. "But seriously—can’t I catch up?"

Before Steve could stop him, Tony stepped forward, tapping Steve lightly on the arm as he slipped past. Familiar. Casual. Too easy.

"Come on, Rogers. I just want to know how an old pal’s doing."

"Tony— I think you should—" Steve hesitated. "Please. You should go."

The words hung there. So did the tone. Tony ignored both. He took in the apartment and stopped short.

Oh.

The place he’d designed for Steve—painstakingly, annoyingly—was meant to balance past and present. Vintage lines softened with modern edges. Tony had suffered through fashion magazines and design blogs to make it feel right. A place Steve could breathe in.

It was all still there. Just… buried.

Art supplies crowded the corners. Half-finished paintings leaned against the living room wall. Takeout containers littered the counters. Shopping bags from Ross, Walmart, and places Tony refused to mentally acknowledge were stacked near unopened boxes. Books lay scattered across the floor. Notebooks overflowed the table alongside old magazines and cold coffee cups.

It wasn’t dirty. It was chaotic. Like the apartment of a twenty-seven-year-old who didn’t know what to do with himself.

Tony took a moment to process. Then he turned.

Steve stood a few steps away, wearing a small, almost guilty smile—like a kid who knew he’d done something wrong but didn’t regret it entirely. He kept his distance, though, as if afraid of crossing an invisible line.

"I—shit, Steve," Tony said slowly. "I don’t even know what to say. Did you Google ‘college dorm rooms’ and use that as inspiration?"

Steve ran a hand through his hair, then rubbed the back of his neck. Caught. "I can explain. Really."

Tony frowned. He knew he had no room to talk—his own spaces were disasters of a different kind—but this was Steve Rogers. The man documentaries are described as disciplined and precise. And the same man who’d locked himself inside the tower for over a month.

"So," Tony said, "you going to explain? Because right now I’m having flashbacks to touring frat houses."

"I don’t really understand what you’re saying," Steve replied defensively. "But you’re the one who showed up unannounced. You said this was my home. I can mess it up if I want."

"Yes, but—" Tony gestured around them. "Not like this, Steve."

Steve sighed, picked up a discarded shirt, then another, dumping them onto the large couch. "Next time, you could text," he said dryly. "That would help."

Tony snorted. "Sure. Next time, I’ll send a warning so you can prepare. Very domestic of you."

The apartment was messy, not filthy. Bags everywhere. Art Tony didn’t recognize—because he did recognize art, thank you very much. The paintings in the corner were unmistakably Steve’s. Nature-heavy. Abstract. Emotionally, in ways Tony didn’t have words for.

Steve began tidying instinctively—stacking, hiding, shifting things out of sight. Tony just watched.

He’d expected a fight. A sharp exchange. Something loud. That was usually how these things went with him. But Steve looked at him differently. Like a lost dog. Like someone waiting. Hoping.

When things were organized—Steve organized, anyway—he stepped back in front of Tony.

"You came to talk," Steve said. Not a question. "Right?"

Then, before Tony could answer—

"Let me guess. You saw the tower footage. You saw me fighting my other self."

Tony blinked. Wait. What?

"I think we need to talk about a few things," Tony said carefully, avoiding Steve’s eyes. Those big, blue, devastating eyes. "And you can explain why you haven’t left this apartment in over a month."

Steve grimaced. His lips pressed into a small pout. "Yeah," he admitted quietly. "I think we should."

Maybe that was for the best. Talking. Without a battlefield. Without collapsing buildings or alien invasions. Just two people who’d seen versions of the future—and knew, deep down, that those futures carried more weight than either of them wanted to admit.

Tony wasn’t entirely sure how he’d ended up helping Steve clean.

One moment he’d been standing there, awkward and uncertain, and the next he was in motion—doing what he always did best. Asking questions. Pointing. Holding things up and demanding to know where they went, even when Steve clearly didn’t know the answer himself.

At least twice, a vein pulsed faintly at Steve’s temple.

Tony understood it. He didn’t love people touching his things either. Control mattered. Order mattered—even when chaos was the default setting.

About thirty minutes later, they finally collapsed onto the large couch in the living room. It looked like something ripped straight out of an architecture magazine—vintage lines, deliberate wear, expensive without trying too hard. Most of the Chinese food Tony had brought was gone now. Empty containers crowded the coffee table alongside napkins and chopsticks. There was only a little coffee left—Tony’s doing, of course. He’d made it while watching Steve shove things into drawers and cabinets like hiding them might somehow fix the problem.

Tony studied him. Perfectly infuriating hair. Athletic clothes. A beer in his hand.

Tony frowned.

"The beer doesn’t really do anything," Steve said casually, taking a sip. He didn’t sound tense—just mildly amused, like this was another strange discovery. "Feels like drinking water. After the serum, alcohol doesn’t really work. Nothing gets me drunk."

Tony nodded slowly. Yeah. He knew that. In theory. Howard’s old files weren’t completely useless. Still, hearing it out loud felt… odd.

"That sucks," Tony said, eyes still on Steve. "Especially when you actually want to get drunk and forget things for a bit."

Steve let out a soft laugh.

"Beer’s gotten better over the years," Tony added. "You’re missing out on some great wine, Rogers."

Steve laughed again—really laughed this time—hand going to his chest as if the sound surprised him.

Tony froze. Had he ever heard Steve laugh like that before?

No. Probably not.

He swallowed, reminding himself—firmly—that he was here to visit a teammate. Nothing more.

"Yeah," Steve said, shaking his head. "That’s a shame. Guess I’ll have to figure something out." He took another sip.

Silence settled between them. Not hostile. Just… heavy. The kind that pressed against the skin. Tony felt Steve watching him. He ignored it—because he couldn’t stop noticing how Steve’s shirt pulled tight across his chest, the line of his waistband, the sharp V of muscle at his waist. Tony drained his coffee. Maybe he needed something stronger.

He opened his mouth—

"Why are you here, Tony?" Steve asked quietly.

The tone caught him off guard. Not accusing. Not curious. Something in between.

"Why now?"

Tony shifted on the couch, keeping his distance. They sat at opposite ends, and an invisible wall stretched between them. But Steve looked—God—wounded. Like someone searching for something. Like he didn’t want to stay lost.

For some reason, the thought hit Tony hard. He had the ridiculous urge to reach out, to touch Steve’s hair, to tell him it would be okay. That this century wasn’t all bad. That losing everything didn’t mean there wasn’t light left to find.

Shit.

"As I said," Tony replied carefully, wetting his lips. "Visiting a teammate. Talking about life. Checking how you’re doing with technology. You know—no more polio. Food tastes better. Isn’t that amazing? Cell phones. Instant connection. Very sci-fi."

Steve turned toward him fully.

His eyes—ocean blue, impossibly bright—caught the light in a way Tony couldn’t explain. For a second, he felt like that teenager again. The one who’d idolized Captain America before learning he could never measure up to Howard’s comparisons.

"It’s good," Steve said. "The technology. The food. Science moving forward." A pause. "Is that what you wanted to hear? You came all this way just for that? Because you could’ve texted."

Tony clasped his hands together. "Wait—hold on. You know how to use a phone now?"

Steve blinked. "Yes."

"What else?" Tony asked, suddenly animated. "You’ve only been in this century six months."

He wasn’t doubting Steve. Not really. He was just… curious.

"Natasha taught me the basics," Steve said, running a hand through his hair. "Then I started looking things up." He hesitated. "When I moved in, I asked JARVIS to teach me what I needed. You did say we could use him for anything."

Tony stared.

"I watched tutorials," Steve continued. "Asked questions. I can use a phone. A computer. All of it."

Tony opened his mouth, then closed it. Somewhere in his chest, something twisted. He would’ve liked to help. The realization surprised him.

"How much did you learn?" Tony asked, leaning closer without quite realizing it. The invisible wall between them thinned. "Seriously, Rogers—don’t look at me like that. I want to know. I know you won’t tell me everything right now, but you’ve seen things. Learned things. You look… modern."

Steve dropped his gaze. Tony could’ve sworn his cheeks were faintly red before Steve looked up again.

"I adapt fast," Steve said. "My mind doesn’t really slow down. Everything processes quicker. Reading, understanding—it’s easier."

Tony went still. That hadn’t been in the files.

"Wait—what?" he blurted. "I need you to explain everything. Your mind—what did you eat? Did you try burgers? The computers? Vaccines—okay, you don't need those, but still. The air’s heavier now, pollution’s worse, but that happened back then too, and—"

His words died in his throat.

Steve’s hand landed on his shoulder. Just for a second.

Warm. Solid. Electric in a way Tony couldn’t explain—like standing too close to a powerful magnet during a risky experiment. They both looked at it.

Steve pulled his hand back quickly.

"I can tell you everything," Steve said softly. "But you need to relax first. Especially if you want me to explain it properly. Okay?"

Tony nodded. Yeah. Maybe this was how they did it. Piece by piece.

"All right," Tony said. "So… how does your mind work, Steve Rogers?"

And Steve began to tell him.

Tony really shouldn’t have asked.

Because the explanation he got was infuriatingly simple.

“My mind works fast,” Steve had said. “I see things faster. I learn faster.”

That was it. Just dropped there like it didn’t rewrite half of Tony’s understanding of human limitation. For a brief, reckless second, Tony had wanted to blurt out: We should open up your skull and run a few tests.

Okay, maybe not open it up. Rogers would not appreciate that phrasing. But tests? Absolutely.

Instead, Tony did something far rarer for him. He listened.

He asked questions when he had to. Let Steve talk. Let the information settle instead of interrupting it with sarcasm. Steve told him he didn’t need much sleep. That rest wasn’t as necessary. That he was always hungry—ten thousand calories a day, give or take.

Tony nearly choked on air.

“Ten thousand?” he repeated, staring at him. “I ate burgers for two days straight once and thought I’d gained three pounds.”

Steve’s mouth twitched. Tony didn’t have body image issues—thank you very much—but still. Ten thousand.

Steve kept going. Some of it matched old files Tony had skimmed out of morbid curiosity years ago. Some of it didn’t. Some of it felt… personal. Offered, not documented. Tony found himself watching Steve more than he meant to. The blue of his eyes. The straight line of his nose. The way his hair fell into his face without gel was softer and darker at the roots. Modern.

He looked better like this. Less polished statue. More man.

“And we age slower,” Steve added at one point, almost offhand. “It’s not dramatic, but it’s there. The serum pushes everything toward… optimal.”

Optimal. Literal human perfection.

“It’s good to hear,” Tony said quietly, taking a slow sip of his drink. He studied Steve over the rim of the glass. “I mean—yeah, they messed you up. But also… good serum.”

Steve’s brow lifted. “Messed me up and good? I just told you everything. Things that aren’t even in the files, Tony.”

Tony shrugged lightly. “Not being able to get drunk is tragic. I stand by that. And not being able to eat like a normal person without turning into a furnace sounds exhausting.” A pause. “But unlimited food intake? That’s kind of a superpower.”

“I cannot believe that’s what you took from all of this,” Steve said, staring at him.

Tony leaned back. “If you want, I can focus on the sushi.”

Steve blinked.

“You had at least five Japanese takeout bags,” Tony continued innocently. “And three Chinese. I helped you clean, remember?”

He had noticed everything. He always did. But this—this felt different. Like discovering a private version of Steve Rogers that the world didn’t get to see.

Steve laughed. Not the restrained chuckle from earlier. Not polite. A real laugh. Full and unguarded.

“You’re impossible,” he said. “I tell you about metabolic acceleration and neurological processing, and you’re stuck on whether I’ll ever gain weight.”

Tony lifted one shoulder. “It’s a valid concern.”

Steve shook his head, still smiling. There was still tiredness in him—Tony could see it—but it was lighter now.

“The food now is good,” Steve admitted after a moment, voice softer. “I like that I can have anything. In the forties, it wasn’t like that. You had stews. Rations. War food. Even French cuisine wasn’t what people imagine.” He huffed faintly. “I never thought I’d live in a world where I could call someone and get food from Japan, Italy, anywhere.”

He glanced at Tony. “The shawarma? That was incredible.”

Tony smiled without thinking.

“There are things I like about this century,” Steve said quietly.

Tony shifted on the couch, settling more comfortably. At some point—he honestly couldn’t pinpoint when—his legs had ended up stretched across Steve’s lap. Casual. Natural. Like it belonged there.

Steve didn’t comment. Didn’t move them away. Tony pretended not to notice that either.

“You should tell me what you like,” Tony said, tone lighter but eyes intent. “It’s good you’re talking about it. Especially if you’ve been in here for over a month. Doing… whatever you’ve been doing.”

“What do you want to hear?” Steve asked, amused.

Tony tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Start with what you like. And what you don’t.” His gaze flicked toward the art corner, then the small stack of vinyl records, then back to Steve. “Music. I always suspected there was a little rock rebel in you.”

Steve laughed again. “I don’t like rock.”

“You have vinyl.”

“I’m exploring,” Steve corrected. “Genres. That’s what they’re called now, right? In the forties, it was more limited.” He leaned back slightly, thinking. “Marvin Gaye is good. Aretha Franklin is—” He exhaled softly. “One of the best voices I’ve ever heard.”

Tony’s expression softened.

“And Radiohead,” Steve added after a pause. “They’re excellent. ‘Let Down’ is… something.”

Tony’s mouth fell open.

“No,” he said. “No. You’re telling me Captain America listens to alternative rock. Pop. Probably eighties synth. And you’re a Radiohead fan?”

Steve’s smile turned smug.

“So this is what you’ve been doing? Locked in here, listening to music? Let me guess—you’ve also watched Law & Order. And Grey’s Anatomy.”

Steve stood up, stretching casually, hands settling at his hips. “What can I say?” he said. “I think Meredith Grey and Olivia Benson would make a good team.”

Tony laughed—full and loud this time. He looked at Steve then, not as the symbol, not as the myth. Just as a man. A man trying, slowly, to live.

Without realizing it, Tony found himself holding one of the Radiohead vinyls. He lifted it slightly.

“Oh, so we’re building a collection now,” he teased. “Careful, Rogers. Next thing I know, you’ll be wearing leather jackets. Black would look good on you.”

He exhaled, softer now.

“But really. Tell me everything you like about this century. I want to hear all of it.”

And Steve did.

And for the first time since Tony had walked through that door, it didn’t feel heavy. It felt easy.

Steve told him everything.

And God, Tony wasn’t prepared for how beautiful Steve looked when he talked about things he loved.

His blue eyes carried this impossible brightness now, alive in a way Tony hadn’t seen before—as if Steve were finally speaking about something untouched by war, duty, or survival. It transformed him. Softened the sharp exhaustion that usually lingered around his mouth. Made him seem younger somehow.

Human.

He talked about technology first. Cameras. Phones. The absurdity of carrying the world in your pocket.

"I like taking pictures," Steve admitted, relaxed against the couch now. "The new cameras are incredible. Phones too. But I don’t think I’ll ever use social media."

Tony snorted quietly. "Coward."

Steve shot him a look, amused. "I don’t want to post pictures of my food every day. It seems exhausting."

"I would’ve followed you," Tony said immediately, shrugging one shoulder. "And I don’t follow anybody."

Which was true. The idea of Steve Rogers posting blurry photos of coffee, motorcycles, or random New York streets should not have been as appealing as it was. Tony could already imagine it too clearly. Steve accidentally became internet-famous for doing absolutely nothing. Honestly, Tony would’ve handed over an entire PR team if Steve had asked.

They could’ve posted pictures together.

Tony abruptly decided that the thought needed to stay buried somewhere deep in his brain. Maybe later he’d explain the benefits of social media. Not now. Not when Steve was talking about motorcycles with growing excitement, his words speeding up more and more until he suddenly shoved his phone into Tony’s hands.

"This one," Steve said, pointing at the screen with visible fascination. "The 1903 model. The first one they made."

Tony stared at the ancient motorcycle on the screen and made a face. He liked motorcycles. Owned too many, according to Pepper. Cars too. But Steve was talking about these machines like someone describing art.

"She’s perfect," Steve continued with a small smile. "I’ve been looking into old models. Trying to find mine too. It has to be somewhere, right?" His expression brightened even more. "I used the Harley-Davidson Liberator during the war, but some of the earlier models are incredible, too. Seriously, Tony—the engineering, the speed, the sound of the engines…" He exhaled sharply, almost laughing. "Natasha’s shown me a lot of newer bikes because she likes them too, but nothing compares to Harleys."

Tony found himself leaning closer without realizing it. His hand landed briefly on Steve’s broad shoulder.

"Breathe," he said, unusually gentle. "I think you’re having some kind of adrenaline episode."

Steve blinked, then laughed under his breath.

Tony grinned. "No, seriously. I haven’t seen you this excited since those old war reels where you punched Nazis and carried weapons that desperately needed better engineering."

Steve carefully removed Tony’s hand from his shoulder.

Carefully.

And there it was again—that strange warmth lingering between them for a second too long. Something magnetic. Quietly charged. It was ridiculous how natural this felt. Like two friends discovering each other for the first time.

Steve, especially, looked so openly happy just talking to someone that Tony’s brain betrayed him with the immediate comparison of a golden retriever after a day at the park. Absolutely not. Tony refused to say that out loud. Steve Rogers would never recover from hearing that sentence.

Maybe later. Maybe through a meme. Which reminded him—"I know what memes are now, Tony," Steve had informed him earlier with suspicious confidence. "I told you, I learn fast."

Steve frowned faintly now, rubbing the back of his neck. "Sorry. I think I got carried away." His voice softened near the end. "Talking about this stuff…" Steve glanced down briefly. "I used to talk about it with Bucky. He liked motorcycles too. Most of the guys in the unit did." A quiet smile tugged at his mouth. "It was easier talking about engines when we weren’t thinking about the war."

Something uncomfortable tugged in Tony’s chest. Not guilt exactly. Something adjacent to it. He ran a hand through his hair, suddenly restless.

"No, hey," Tony said quickly. "Don’t apologize. You just looked like you needed oxygen for a second." He smiled when Steve rolled his eyes. "Keep talking. Actually, I could help you with parts if you want. Finding old models, rebuilding things. That kind of hobby gets complicated fast."

Steve’s eyes widened slightly. "You’d help me?"

Tony scoffed. "Don’t make me repeat myself, Rogers. Yeah, I’d help." He waved a hand vaguely. "Technology, searches, projects, whatever weird motorcycle midlife crisis you’re developing—I can help."

Then, quieter: "We’re teammates. Feels like we’re becoming friends too. That’s kind of the point."

Steve looked at him then. Really looked at him. There was something in Steve’s expression that Tony couldn’t fully understand yet. Something that would only make sense hours later, after another conversation entirely. But right now, Steve only smiled softly and shifted topics before the moment could become too heavy.

He started talking about movies instead. Comedies. Broadway. Theater.

"Cats confuses me," Steve admitted at one point, deeply serious. "Why cats? I understand the tragedy part, but why specifically cats, Tony?"

Tony nearly choked laughing.

Steve kept going, talking about how he’d watched recordings of The Phantom of the Opera on YouTube after reading reviews online. He wanted to see a live performance someday.

"Action movies are fun," Steve said, "but people seem more interested now in stories about emotions. Humanity. Personal struggles."

Tony rolled his eyes affectionately. Of course, Steve Rogers turned out to have indie-film opinions. Radiohead should’ve warned him. Another five minutes and Steve would probably confess to listening to Iron & Wine while staring moodily out the window.

And somehow—somehow Tony loved hearing him talk.

He sat there listening while Steve explained modern medicine with genuine awe, talking about surgeries that once would’ve sounded impossible. About treatments that could’ve saved people decades ago. About scientific progress, spoken with the kind of quiet reverence Tony rarely heard from anyone.

This version of Steve was different from the man Tony had nearly fought months ago. Steve laughed easily. Got excited over takeout, motorcycles, and vinyl records. This Steve looked alive.

"I like that people have more freedom now," Steve said eventually.

By now, they’d somehow ended up impossibly comfortable on the massive couch. Comfortable enough that Tony genuinely didn’t think sleeping there would bother him.

"When JARVIS explained that people could marry whoever they wanted…" Steve continued softly, fingers absentmindedly crinkling the bag of spicy chips in his hands. "Men. Women. Different races. Different identities." He looked thoughtful. "I liked hearing that."

Tony watched him carefully, half-smiling. "You saw a lot of that in the forties?"

Steve made a face.

"I’m surprised Captain America is saying this stuff," Tony added lightly. "Especially considering what people online assume about you."

Steve’s expression dimmed a little. "I’m not what people think I am, Tony."

For a moment, Steve lowered his gaze toward the chips in his hands. Chili-flavored. Tony had abandoned them after one bite.

"We lived around soldiers," Steve said quietly. "People existed back then, too. The community existed. But there were rules." He swallowed once. "You didn’t talk about certain things."

Then he looked back at Tony. And for one suspended second, Tony could swear Steve was trying to tell him something else entirely.

"But now…" Steve continued. "Things are different. People can hold hands in public. Get married. Build a life together without being afraid all the time." His voice softened. "That’s good."

Tony wanted to ask more. God, he wanted to. But Steve clearly struggled with certain kinds of honesty. Even now. Even after everything. Some parts of him still belonged to the forties, where emotions were hidden carefully beneath duty and silence.

So Tony surprised himself by answering softly instead.

"That’s why you belong here."

Steve looked up immediately.

"You’re not what the media says," Tony continued. "And you never will be." He wet his lips unconsciously. "You’re better than that, Steve. Honestly? You’re probably the closest thing this country has to what freedom’s actually supposed to mean." He paused. "Maybe you were always meant to see the future. Maybe this is your chance to finally have the things you used to want quietly."

Steve stared at him. And suddenly Tony felt exposed under that gaze, like Steve was seeing straight through every layer of sarcasm and noise.

Then Steve whispered, "Yeah. It’s good." His eyes didn’t leave Tony’s. "I like seeing people live without the same fear they had before." A pause. "The future’s interesting." Another pause. "Especially the people helping shape it."

It would take Tony Stark a long time to understand what Steve had really meant by that.

After that, the conversation kept flowing naturally. They talked for hours without noticing the time passing. Ordered more food twice. Steve talked about wanting to travel, see museums, explore different countries, and learn more about painting styles.

Tony mostly listened.

And somewhere deep into the night, while New York hummed beyond the windows in distant sirens and flickering lights, the conversation slowly began drifting toward the things both of them had been carefully avoiding all day.

It was Tony with a blanket draped over his lap by the time the night settled fully around them.

Neither of them had moved far from the enormous couch. Hours had passed without either noticing. New York glowed beyond the windows in soft gold and distant neon, the city quieter now, humming low beneath the tower like something alive.

Tony held a mug of coffee between his hands—coffee Steve had insisted on making himself—and Steve sat beside him, not too close, not too far. Just there.

Comfortably there.

The apartment no longer felt chaotic. Warm light pooled softly across the room after JARVIS dimmed the ceiling lamps, leaving only amber shadows and the faint glow of the skyline. Somewhere in the background, music played quietly—something slow and indie that Tony didn’t recognize, probably another one of Steve’s recent discoveries.

The atmosphere felt warm.

Too warm.

Warm enough that Tony’s chest ached with it.

He swallowed hard, staring down into his coffee before finally speaking.

“I wish I’d been there.”

Steve turned slightly toward him. Tony kept his eyes on the mug.

“You know,” he continued quietly, “when you woke up. Cold. Alone. Surrounded by strangers pretending they knew what was best for you.” His jaw tightened faintly. “Especially after S.H.I.E.L.D. basically threw you back into war the second you realized you weren’t in your own time anymore.”

For a moment, Steve said nothing.

The takeout food was long gone now. He held his own coffee carefully between both hands, shoulders relaxed beneath an oversized university sweatshirt that made him look softer somehow. Younger.

Human.

Silence stretched between them—not uncomfortable, just thoughtful. Steve inhaled slowly, then exhaled through his nose like the memory itself weighed something.

“Tony…” he started gently, in that calm voice of his that always sounded like he was trying to steady rough waters. “I think, in the end, it probably happened the only way it could’ve.” He glanced down briefly. “It’s the past now. I don’t think much would’ve changed.”

Tony still stared ahead, expression distant.

“But it should’ve,” he admitted before he could stop himself. “S.H.I.E.L.D. always hinted at discoveries. Things they were hiding. They told me pieces over the years, but…” He laughed once under his breath, bitter and quiet. “I was too busy drowning in my own mess to pay attention to anyone else.”

His fingers tightened around the mug.

“And I know what it’s like,” he added softly, “to wake up somewhere you don’t understand and have to survive immediately.”

Steve went still at that. Carefully, he leaned forward and placed his coffee on the table. No interruption. No immediate reassurance. He just sat there for a moment, silently organizing his thoughts.

“It was complicated,” Steve admitted at last, voice low. “They played old radio broadcasts for me. Tried to make me think I was still in the forties.” A faint crease appeared between his brows. “But I’d already heard the game before.”

Tony looked over sharply.

“I ran,” Steve continued. “They didn’t really give me time to process any of it.” He rubbed his palms together absently, as he could still feel the panic in his bones. “Honestly, I think my brain’s still stuck in war mode half the time.” His mouth twitched faintly. “PTSD, right? That’s what they call it now.”

The words settled heavily between them.

“I mostly acted on instinct,” Steve said. “Natasha says I never stop long enough to think twice.”

Tony glanced at him from the corner of his eye. Steve’s blond hair had gotten messier as the hours passed, softer around the edges now. The oversized sweatshirt slipped slightly at one shoulder, and the university logo faded with wear. Relaxed. Real.

He looked like he belonged here. Like he belonged beside him on this couch in the middle of the night.

And somehow that thought hurt. Tony still felt guilty. He should’ve pushed harder with S.H.I.E.L.D. Should’ve dug deeper instead of staying out of it. Should’ve been there for Captain America waking up in the twenty-first century. Especially for the hero he’d worshipped as a kid.

“Still,” Tony said quietly, struggling against the knot in his throat, “you shouldn’t have had to go through that alone.”

Steve looked at him carefully.

“At least I had Yinsen,” Tony admitted after a pause. “Someone who actually helped me. But you?” He shook his head faintly. “You woke up and immediately had to become Captain America again. Gods, aliens, missions…” His expression tightened. “Nobody let you just be Steve.”

Something softened in Steve’s face then. Tony finally looked directly at him.

“I should’ve been there,” he said again, softer this time. “Maybe the transition would’ve been easier if you’d had someone who actually understood.”

Steve stared at him for a long second. Then, slowly, Steve reached over. His large hands wrapped gently around Tony’s.

Warm.

Solid.

Tony froze instantly, eyes dropping to the contact like he couldn’t quite believe it was happening. For one absurd second, he felt seventeen again—awkward and breathless around a childhood crush he’d plastered across walls in secret.

Steve squeezed his hands lightly, grounding him.

“But you’re here now,” Steve said softly.

The words sounded simple, but they landed somewhere dangerously deep.

“That’s what matters.”

Tony looked up. Steve’s expression had gone open in a way it rarely did—earnest and unguarded and painfully sincere.

“We’re together now,” Steve continued. “And I think I’m adapting okay.” His thumbs brushed faintly against Tony’s knuckles before he seemed to realize what he was doing. “Maybe we both get to leave some things behind.” A small smile appeared. “Start over as friends. What do you think?”

Tony nodded before his brain could fully catch up.

Yeah. Yeah, he wanted that. He wanted to be Steve Rogers’ friend. Wanted late-night conversations and shared takeout and random discussions about music and motorcycles. Wanted Steve to stop looking so lonely in this century. Wanted Steve to stop carrying everything by himself.

They stayed like that for another quiet moment before Steve slowly let go and leaned back again, returning to his side of the couch. The loss of warmth was immediate.

Tony cleared his throat first, breaking the silence.

“So,” he said lightly, though there was something careful beneath the humor now, “now that we’re apparently friends, I think we should talk about the thing only the two of us really understand.”

Steve’s expression shifted immediately. Tony gave him a pointed look.

“Our future selves.”

Steve swallowed. “Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “I think we should.” His gaze dropped briefly before returning to Tony’s. “Especially if we actually want this friendship to work.”

No secrets. Not between the Avengers' leaders. Not between two people who had already seen glimpses of futures heavy with regret.

Tony nodded slowly. They had the entire night ahead of them.

And, as always, Tony Stark was the first to talk about the future.

“I saw it in the footage,” Tony said quietly.

His fingers tightened slightly around the warm mug in his hands as flashes of those videos returned to him again—the older version of himself with silver threaded through his hair, the sharper lines around his mouth, the confidence of someone who had survived far longer than Tony ever imagined he would.

Silver fox territory. Absolutely.

And then there was Steve. Older too. Stronger somehow. Sadder, maybe. And those fights.

“I saw all of it,” Tony continued, voice softer now. “If you want to talk about it, we can.” He glanced toward Steve briefly before looking back at the city lights outside the windows. “I mean… first you wake up seventy years in the future, and then suddenly time travel exists.” A faint huff escaped him. “That’s got to be at least a little traumatizing.”

Steve didn’t answer immediately. He sat there in silence, staring at nothing, jaw tense like the subject physically hurt to touch. The music playing quietly in the background suddenly felt far away. For a moment, Steve looked lost inside his own head.

Then he finally spoke. “Why don’t you seem more disturbed by it?” he asked quietly. “I know you’ve seen impossible things, but… didn’t it scare you?”

Tony swallowed. Because the truth was—it had. Not the time travel. Not really. Seeing himself older had done something strange to him. It had felt like someone whispering directly into his ear: You survive, Tony Stark. You actually make it to the end.

And Steve survived, too.

Tony lifted one shoulder before letting it fall again. “I think…” He exhaled slowly. “I think it shocked me at first, sure. But I accepted it pretty quickly.”

Steve frowned faintly.

“Seeing myself…” Tony hesitated around the word before finally forcing it out. “Older.” He made a face. “Still sounds weird, by the way.”

That earned the smallest twitch at the corner of Steve’s mouth.

“But honestly?” Tony continued. “It gave me hope.”

Steve blinked. “Hope?”

“Yeah.” Tony glanced at him fully now. “Because apparently we’re both still around in the future. Still working together.” A pause. “Which means I probably won't die horribly anytime soon.”

Steve immediately made a displeased face.

“Oh, come on,” Tony groaned. “Don’t make that expression. You look like somebody kicked a puppy.”

Steve looked unimpressed.

“And besides,” Tony added, smirking faintly now, “didn’t you think I looked good? Be honest. I know you watched the footage too. We’re both curious people.”

Steve opened his mouth, then closed it again. For a second, he genuinely looked unsure what to say. When he finally spoke, his voice came out quieter. More honest.

“I think it surprised me,” he admitted softly. “More than I expected.”

Tony stayed silent.

“When I took the serum, they didn’t know everything it would do.” Steve lowered his gaze toward his hands. “Seeing myself older made me realize…” He hesitated. “Maybe I really will have time.”

His throat bobbed.

“Maybe I’ll actually get things back. Maybe I’ll…” He stopped himself abruptly, the unfinished thought hanging painfully between them.

Tony watched him carefully. “Feels like you’re trying to say something,” he said gently. “You know you can tell me, right?” He leaned back deeper into the couch, tone deliberately lighter. “No judgment zone. Although your future self absolutely beat the hell out of present-you.”

That finally earned a weak breath of laughter from Steve. Still, Steve didn’t answer. Tony kept watching him anyway. He hadn’t mentioned how many times he’d replayed those videos already. How closely he’d studied the way future Steve moved, fought, spoke. How the image of Steve pulling back that hood had burned itself somewhere deep into Tony’s mind.

There had been something there. Something important.

“Come on, Rogers,” Tony murmured. “Talk to me.”

Steve inhaled slowly. Then: “He told me Bucky was alive.”

Tony felt every coherent thought leave his body. For one solid second, his brain completely stopped functioning. “Wait—what?”

Steve nodded once, tense and uncertain all over again. “He said Bucky’s alive,” Steve repeated quietly. “My best friend. My family.” His jaw tightened. “He said it as he knew for certain.”

Tony stared at him. He knew the story. Barnes. Steve’s shadow was growing up. The best friend who’d fallen while Steve survived. And suddenly Tony understood why Steve looked like he was barely holding himself together. Because if someone had told Tony that Rhodey was alive after mourning him for decades—yeah. He would’ve torn the world apart looking for him, too.

“I don’t know what to do,” Steve admitted, voice rough around the edges now. “Part of me thinks it can’t be true. But the way he said it…” His eyes dropped briefly. “God, Tony, what if he really is out there somewhere?”

The brightness from earlier was gone now. No excited smiles. No laughter over music or motorcycles. Just worry. Hope. Fear.

Tony looked at him and understood something very simple in that moment: if they really wanted this friendship—whatever this thing between them was becoming—then he needed to help. Not because Steve was Captain America. Because Steve was alone. And Tony knew exactly what loneliness could do to someone.

“I can help you.”

The words left his mouth before he could second-guess them. Steve looked up immediately. Tony leaned forward slightly, voice steady now.

“I can help you search for him. Especially if you’re still unsure.” He held Steve’s gaze. “You don’t have to carry this by yourself.”

And then, without really thinking about it, Tony reached over and took Steve’s hand.

Warm. Solid.

Steve’s fingers curled instinctively around his.

“I’ll help you find Bucky,” Tony said quietly. “No secrets, remember?”

Steve stared at him like he couldn’t quite believe what he’d heard. “You’d really do that?” he asked softly. “Tony…”

Tony squeezed his hand once before slowly letting go, though the warmth lingered stubbornly against his skin afterward.

“Yeah,” he said simply. “Doesn’t seem right to leave you alone with this.” He shrugged faintly. “And if your future self wasn’t just speaking in cryptic nonsense, then we’ll figure it out.”

Steve’s entire posture shifted. It was subtle, but Tony caught it immediately—the tension easing from his shoulders, the way his expression softened as someone had finally handed him something fragile and dangerous:

Hope.

“Then…” Steve swallowed. “I think I’d like to accept that offer.”

Tony smiled faintly. “You don’t have to thank me.”

“But I want to.”

Tony shook his head. “No. We do this properly. We look into everything, and if Bucky’s really alive…” His voice gentled. “Then you’ll find him.”

Steve looked at him for a long moment after that. And then there it was again—that quiet silence that no longer felt awkward between them. Only warm.

Like somehow, in the middle of all this uncertainty, they had both found exactly what they’d needed in the other person.