steadfast_tin_soldiers

Half of Steve’s brain believes that this could be one of those side effects from time spent in the water that SHIELD is always testing him for. He’s finally having a breakdown, or at the very least, he’s having auditory and visual hallucinations. The other half is prepared for the crazed weirdness of the twenty-first century because of Howard’s son can fly, it seems only logical that there are other Steve Rogerses too. Clones, he decides, even if the other Steve negates that. What can possibly be weirder than clones? Buck used to carry around science fiction dime novels, though Steve himself generally went for detective stories (or romances, if that was all he could trade for). Clones played pretty heavily in plot lines across the board, though they were usually horribly disfigured or brainless.

The man staring at him seems effected by neither.

At least he does look somewhat different, not in age exactly, for the elasticity of his skin was the same as he saw whenever he looked in the mirror. His eyes are the same blue, flecked with a little less green than they had been growing up, and framed by too-long lashes. His height is the same, though their footwear is different. Sneakers make him feel a bit shorter than the man he’s looking at in his boots seems to be. Jawline, shoulder span, stance-- No. It’s the color of his hair that’s decidedly off, brassy, almost, as if it’s artificial. Steve’s gaze zeroes in on that singular imperfection as he pulls his hands from the pockets of his brown bomber jacket. He might not have a weapon, but that doesn’t mean he’s unarmed.

“Think I’ll stand,” he said in a way that sounded good-natured, even jovial to Tony after that initial outburst, but is obviously guarded and wary to his other self. He’s regained his composure, that’s for sure, but only because his weight is now properly on his back foot and his limbs are loose.

One doesn’t have to ball one’s fingers into fists to be ready be prepared to fight. Besides, Steve can spring into action, literally, before most people can pull the trigger on their weapons.

“How about I stand and you get on with your explaining.”

Damn that bleach blond hair-color. They could have washed it in purple shampoo a few times to cut the brassiness, but he and Tony were otherwise occupied. Steve doesn't regret that. It was always going to be awkward, having this discussion, whether he came in brassy blond or with knee-length pastel rainbow curls. He's looking at himself now, and Tony really did do a good job with the haircut, but how does he look so much younger? Maybe there's some distortion in his own mind when he sees himself in the mirror, because this guy...

Well. That's irrelevant. More important is the stance, and it makes Steve want to laugh a little in recognition. Of course, at this point in his life he was more of a boxer-brawler, before the months of SHIELD-sponsored lessons in krav maga and taekwondo. The last thing he wants is to fight himself, though. He does plenty of that already.

"If I hit you, I'd just end up with my own face hurting," he says wryly, considers a moment, and sits on the dais leading up to the altar. It puts him at a tremendous physical disadvantage, should they come to blows, but he knows he has backup. And the other Steve does not know, and will hopefully not find out.

"I'm you. From the future," he says, dimly aware this is straying into meme territory but choosing to ignore the irony. "Someone you could potentially end up being, at least, if events in this world go the way they did where I come from. And you don't want events to go the way they did where I come from, because if they do, half of the living things in the universe will die."

"I know that sounds nuts, and I know you already feel like you've given everything you could, because I feel that way, too. But the universe isn't fair, so you're gonna need to hear me out."

Technically, Steve doesn’t have to do anything. He feels outnumbered right now, even if there’s just a supposedly older version of himself sitting alone in front of him, and while he never minds being the lone soldier in a fight against an army, he doesn’t like walking into a situation where he doesn’t and can never have the strategical advantage. Not if what this man tells him is actually the truth. If he’s truly from the future, and his memory is as good as his own, he already knows what could and will happen.

Steve doesn’t like it. Steve doesn’t like the location. He doesn’t like the exhaustion in the other’s voice. He doesn’t like the spot he’s in. And he doesn’t like how distrustful he is of himself.

“You’ve got to appreciate the spot you’ve put me in. If you’re me, from the future,” saying it sounds so stupid that he finds his stance shifting slightly towards center again, “then you know I don’t take well to being lied to.” And he’ll sniff it out too. It took him exactly thirty seconds to dismantle the room he woke up in. The lighting in here isn’t as good as it had been at the SHIELD facility, but if he can pick out the strangeness in a half listened to baseball game, a not-quite-right hairstyle, and an off-kilter uniform, he can find something wrong here too.

More than just that odd hair color.

“You’re going to have to give me some proof.” Steve only has faith in one thing, and that’s the guy who used to be worshipped every Sunday in this church. Nothing else beats out God. He clings to that notion now more than ever, even if God’s gotten himself a facelift too, just like the city.

That's the thing, isn't it? Steve hates to be lied to, and he's not that great at lying. There are some things that just...shouldn't be shared, not all at once, not here, not now. And Tony expects him to be able to know which things those are and to keep them on the down-low. But he's going to have to offer more information, rather than less, if he wants to be believed or accepted here.

He already knew what proof he would offer up here, knew that he would be asked, and this is a dangerous one to offer, but it ought to destroy the 'clone' theory at the very least. "One of the last things Schmidt said to you," he tells him quietly. "'You could have the power of the gods, yet you wear a flag on your chest and think you fight a battle of nations. I have seen the future, Captain. There are no flags."

He remembers hearing those words, remembers the strength of his revulsion in that moment. Then, the last few seconds before the plane crashed, planning his doomed dance with Peggy while wondering what he had really become. The crash, the ice, hypothermia setting in, and thinking 'well, I can still die, at least'. Letting go. He never told anyone. He has to assume this Steve hasn't, either.

Now, he just has to hope this one doesn't conclude he's some kind of Hydra agent, or Red Skull himself in disguise.

"He was wrong," he adds, folding his arms across his knees. "Nations change, rise and fall. You start looking out the window and seeing a bigger world than you realized was there. A greater universe. Bigger problems than you imagined, more complexity than any human should have to navigate. The flags are less and less relevant, but they're still there, and when they stop standing for a nation, they start standing for something bigger."

"We've always been fighting for free will. Not the sovereignty of a particular government or people. That's the part he never got, and never could. Stars and stripes and self-determination. That's our flag. And that is exactly what's at stake here."

Those are some pretty words. Both Steve and Tony think that, though only one’s face can be seen and that one isn’t rolling his eyes the way the other is. Tony’s not a conspiracy theorist, but he still believes in one big planet-wide government. He’s less concerned with America, with national identity. Maybe all it takes is being on the surface of another planet, of a moon that isn’t their own, to realize the bigger picture. But this isn’t his conversation. Not yet. He has a feeling that it will be soon, though he doesn’t really fancy himself a good Serrano. He and Steve don’t talk alike. Not by a long shot. And what Tony might have to say isn’t so inspiring.

Steve, for the speech, and the message, and the recall back to the moments before the water crushed the future he was meant to have and ushered him to a future he doesn’t like very much, just looks grimmer. Thin lips press together so tightly that they might not bother being there at all. It’s obvious that he’s thinking. He’s weighing the words and fitting them into place like plastic pieces on a map in a war room. He doesn’t compartmentalize like Tony does, he doesn’t analyze everything in the blink of an eye, and when he thinks, it’s visible on his face.

Tony can’t see the two. The best FRIDAY can do for him is give him heat signatures. The quiet unnerves him and he can’t help himself but react.

“Steve.” He’s keeping his word, even if they’re on a mission. It’s always just Steve between them, and the younger man is the only one that can hear him anyway. His even younger self might have super hearing but Tony’s technology compensates for that and for any other high tech listening device that could be laying around. “Give him less heroic details. He’s you. Embarrass yourself. Mention that hotel room, once upon a time.” Because who else would know about the photographer? Every last trace of the man himself is gone, much less records of a night or two while on the road.

You just want to hear more about my torrid affairs, is what he wants to say to Tony, and doesn't. He's not sure he'd take that well to embarrassment, or even ribbing from a stranger. Which he is to this Steve, at least until he can prove himself.

On the other hand, Tony has a point. Steve gives other people pep talks. He rarely receives them, and rarely takes them in graciously, because he's a knee-jerk contrarian. And kind of a little shit. From the expression on his younger self's face, Steve thinks that what he's said has rung true to him, but maybe something more is a good idea.

He wants to tell him about Bucky. You can get him back. You can still save him. That would be a disaster. He'd be gone in the blink of an eye, and nothing would stand in the way of him going after his old friend. He's got to know, but not yet. Instead, Steve opts to split the difference between his urge and Tony's, and sighs.

"You don't have to do it alone, though," he tells him quietly. "You're gonna find friends in unexpected places, whether I point you to them or not. Like that dive in Des Moines. And the Shangri-La Inn."

He smiles, half from nostalgia on his own behalf. "Coconut cream pie with Hershey's chocolate ice cream on the side. Absolutely no nuts."

The Shangri-La hadn't had room service. It was a cheap little hourly-rate hole, but his photographer buddy had walked to the cafe across the street and brought food back for him, just as a ploy to keep him naked and in bed for another couple hours. It had worked.

Usually, he prefers apple, but damn that pie had been good.

It doesn’t matter to Tony that he isn’t completely up on what Steve’s talking about. What Steve says doesn’t matter as much as the act itself does. Speaking to his younger self is fine, but Steve needs to relate to him. Or rather, he needs to get that younger man to relate back to him in some ways. Sharing a secret? That’s the best way to do it.

You don’t become the head of an international corporation without learning how to win over those opposed to, or at least bothered by, the cause you’re trying to promote. Tony can schmooze the best of them. Except for Steve Rogers. Steve managed to one-up him on that, though Tony hadn’t been a hard sell in the end. The cracks had been there for Rogers to exploit, like water eroding a crack in the ground into a canyon. It just hadn’t taken much time. Tony’s not made of very strong stuff, it turns out.

Not any more. A lung full of fifteen year old will do that to you.

Tony still can’t see the reaction, but he can tell that the blob of white-red-orange that is the younger Steve has shifted positions. Hunched? No. He’s likely sat himself down as initially requested, on a slat of unbroken pew, across the cracked tile of the sanctuary from the older Steve.

“No one makes ice cream like that anymore,” Steve says, elbows resting just above his thighs, hands dangling between them. He’s smiling, but still wary. It’s progress, at least. “I can’t read half of the ingredients on the carton these days.” It’s better than being gobsmacked, at least, and he’s changing the subject to make sure that he isn’t completely put off. At least he believes, now, that the man with the brassy hair and his same exact face is the man he’ll become. He’ll have to make sure to straighten out his hair before that. “You didn’t come here from the future to talk about pie. You said there’s gonna be a whole lot of death. Tell me how to stop it.”

It's progress. Steve-the-elder finds himself relieved, letting his shoulders sag a little. He keeps still otherwise; sudden moves, he knows, might just end poorly. He smiles back, though, and it's far less wary. "Give it about a year and half. Then the clean eating fad will catch on and you'll have all kinds of options."

"I'd stay out of Whole Foods, though. It makes me feel eight different kinds of weird about the direction Western culture is trending in."

...but he digresses. Sobering, he interweaves his fingers in front of his knees. "It's not a simple fix. But I'll tell you as much as I can. In a couple days, Fury's going to drop by with a mission. The...cube. The energy source Hydra had used to power their weapons. It's about to be stolen. I'll give you the details later, but Fury's going to want your help getting it back. The thing is, it needs to be destroyed, not retrieved."

"It's one of six similar objects. Gems or stones. Bringing all six of them together gives a person that can use them an insane amount of power. More than should exist in the universe. You've seen what the cube can do by itself. I'm sure you can imagine."

"The person who's about to steal it has another stone. If we can get both of them and destroy them, we could save the world a hell of a lot of trouble. And by we, I mean--"

He pauses and says quietly, "Sorry, Tony, but I know I hate surprises. Better if we be up front."

To his other self he explains, "I have a friend on standby. Upstairs. He figured you and I would do better without him interfering, but I don't want you to think I had an ambush waiting. We need help, not a fight."

He ought to have known that there would be a double cross. It made for good theming, with the two identical blonds side by side, perfect eyes staring at him. Tony can’t take it. If he hadn’t been in his armor, he would have ran his fingers through his hair or beard and tried to tug them out. His annoyed huff is translated to one man’s ear while the other, in front of Steve, is on his feet again. His stance hasn’t changed, he’s not itching for a fight now that he has a good idea of what’s expected of him, but he has a feeling he knows who Tony is and he doesn’t exactly like it.

That’s not Tony’s fault. He’s gotten along with his father, sometimes more and sometimes less, but the flying man in the suit traveling around the obnoxious tower of wealth and power that pierces the long forgotten skyline of New York doesn’t sit too well with him. Fury’s filled him in on Stark and he’s done his research.

It’s strange, but other than Peggy, who doesn’t yet know he’s alive again, Stark is the closest tie he had to his past. And it’s all right there, in a paper dossier, on his desk.

The man that enters the room, through the archway leading behind the sacristy to the bell tower and the pastor’s offices, doesn’t look at all like the one that flashes on the television a few times an evening. His face is bruised. He’s wearing a t-shirt and jeans that look ill fitting with a ball cap rolled up and shoved in his back pocket. There’s white at his temples and shot through his hair. There are lines on his face.

The Steve from the future looks just like him in every way, minus the hair color, but Tony looks almost a decade older than he ought to have been.

The younger Steve’s eyes soften, narrow and then widen in that expressive way Tony has known him to have sometimes. Usually it’s not directed towards him. Usually it’s not full of sympathy. Steve can see through him, just like the one that has become his lover has been able to do for some time now. “Not sure if I should be thanking God for this opportunity or cursing him,” Tony jokes. “Twins. I’ve always gotten in such trouble with twins.”

He doesn’t offer his hand to the other Steve but he does give a generic head nod that so many men are familiar with as he stands beside the other.

“Hi. Tony Stark. But you knew that.” He almost wishes he had left the armor on. “Thanks for your help, kid. We’re going to need it.”

Steve is sure he'll pay for the double-cross later, but he'll find a way to make it up to Tony. He knows his own temper, and how his moral code is constructed, and if this younger version feels used at any point, for anything he's not in favor of, he will let them know it, and it might be violent. He doesn't want to fight himself; even if he's got a leg up where skills and techniques are concerned, it wouldn't be easy. And he really doesn't want Tony fighting him; they're finally making progress.

He stands up when Tony comes in, too, but his body language is conscientiously calm and passive, hands in his pockets. "You're terrible," he tells him with a little smile. "Don't forget we're in a church, here."

And yet, the way he angles his body toward Tony, the posture he takes---well, Stark might not be able to tell, but Steve imagines his younger self will be able to read the body language: Subtle, but affectionate. Almost proprietary.

"I have a pretty good idea what you're thinking," he tells the younger Rogers. "You're going to meet the other Tony Stark soon enough, and you...will find there's some personality conflict."

That's excessively diplomatic, but whatever. "But he grows on you. He's one of the good guys. And he's not his father."

“You make me sound like genital warts,” Tony half complains, but the younger Steve is very good at reading situations for more than lies and for sudden jumps. He can see the attraction between the two. He can see the affection. Even Tony is displaying it, in a quite accidental way. It causes his eyebrows to bunch up until Tony turns that charm back towards him. He can see the appeal. And he can see that these two men have been through a lot. Together and apart. It gives him the hope he never thought he’d have for making connections. “Don’t listen to me. Or take me too seriously. I don’t really hate you. He doesn’t really hate you,” Tony corrects. “But he’s grown up knowing all about you. So cut him a little slack. And maybe stick around when this is over.”

The information here is coming at the other Steve like it’s gushing from a pried open water hydrant, flooding the streets. It’s a lot. It’s almost too much, and he lifts just one hand as if that might stall the two. “I think we’re getting ahead of ourselves.”

Tony nods and steps forward, he’s got one hand in his pocket and the other makes a grand gesture. The projector in his wrist watch flickers on the dark wall, showing a simulation he had prepared years ago about the Chitauri invasion. “I don’t want to go into too much detail, but you win. There’s just some things we need to make sure don’t happen. When you capture Loki, you’re going to put him in a cell designed for the Hulk— Hands down, Rogers. This isn’t the time for questions. You’ll meet all of these people in a few days. Okay, so there’s going to be a purposeful distraction by the SHIELD agents Loki has brainwashed, or at least, he’ll be expecting it. We’re going to keep that from happening. And that’s going to be the biggest point of change. What we have to do is make Loki think he’s won. He needs to open the portal so that the Chitauri can invade. They’re aliens. He told you it was gonna get weird.”

Tony glances at his lover. Lover. Such a strange word.

“So we are going to have to fake it and protect everyone, as usual.” And Steve and Tony need to learn to work together. “We’re going to take care of the rest just as soon as the invasion starts. We need Thanos to think that Loki failed properly so that he doesn’t come to Earth any time soon. We can’t handle him. Not yet.”

It’s a lot of information. He knows that. He just hopes it’s not too much. They really do need his help here.

"Tony, don't be ridiculous. You know I can't catch genital warts," Steve tells him primly, unable, even in the face of his younger self, to refrain from exchanging smartassery.

He quiets down obligingly when the other Steve calls 'uncle', looking at the floor to hide a smirk. For as strange as this situation is, he feels like he's adapting pretty damn well. Even his alternate is coping better than he was afraid of. Surely another shoe will drop before much longer, but he'll take a moment of relief in the interim.

Alas, it is only a short moment. He doesn't interrupt Tony's explanation, nodding once or twice in support, but once he trails off, he takes over. "The thing is, the cube has one of the stones we need to destroy, but Loki's going to show up carrying the other, in a kind of staff. Do not let anyone know that's what he has. I'm not sure he even knows what it is, himself, and if not, it needs to stay that way. He's not the one we're most worried about, but he's still a ruthless killer."

There's a moment of hesitation, because there's a lot he could add to this debriefing, but it's already on the edge of too much. "When this is over, there's something else you should know," he tells his alternate. "And I will tell you, I promise. But right now the less you have to deal with, the better. What we need from you is to make sure Loki gets away--without killing anyone, and with the scepter in hand--when we fake the attack he's expecting."

"And we need you to keep your head. The sceptre can brainwash people, and it can...pull aggression and emotions out of you that you might not normally lose yourself in. Be wary, especially when it's close by."

That's a lot of caveats. And if they expected the younger Steve to question nothing, they were certainly doomed to disappointment.

"What you're telling me," he says, with visible skepticism, "is to sit back and let an alien invasion happen, and the two of you will take care of it. Is that right? You can't tell me there won't be any casualties with this plan."

The older Steve grimaces. "This is triage, Rogers. There will be casualties, and a hell of a lot of property damage, but it will be less than we've seen. Fewer than will come later on, if we don't destroy the stones."

“If he’s going to let himself get captured, we’ll have the staff already,” the younger Steve points out. His mind is sharp like a tack, buzzing with possibilities. It was not wrong, in Tony’s opinion, to include him, but he also didn’t know how to explain to a goody-goody that having New York experience the invasion was vital to keeping Thanos off of their backs.

Taking a crack at it before the other blond can is probably the wrong way to go but he tries it anyway. “This had to look authentic because Thanos is pulling the strings here. Thanos is giving Loki an Infinity Stone to use in order to capture another Infinity Stone. We have to give him a show.”

“Over people’s lives?!”

Tony glances over at his Steve, eyes lingering on his mouth, though he’s looking to him for assistance here. “What do you want? A few thousand dead or roughly three and a half billion dead? And that’s just on Earth alone. There are millions of planets in this universe with millions of people—. I get it, kid. But you’ve got to try to tell yourself whatever you need to to get over this. We’re run the numbers.”

“These are people!” Steve says, stressing the people, his tone growing angry. “You’ve got to run the numbers again and keep that in your equation.”

“Little help, Steve?” Tony murmurs, unamused.

"Hey," Steve says gently, and it's hard to tell which of them he's talking to. "Slow down a sec."

He looks tired, but he's dredging up a pained little smile. "You're gonna hate me by the end of this," he tells the younger Steve. "One way or another. We were lucky, during the war. You know damned well we were lucky. We ran a lot of missions that were dangerous, and...we got hit real hard on one of them. But we never had to send anyone on a suicide mission. We never had to ask anyone to do what we couldn't do ourselves. We never had to compromise."

He shakes his head. "This is different, and I'm sorry. But listen. Thanos' M.O. is to go from planet to planet with his armies and kill half the population, without prejudice and without mercy. He doesn't need the Infinity Stones to do it--they're just a matter of making the end result quicker and easier on him. Making sure he can get to every planet. And this world is not ready to face him. If he comes here, we may or may not lose, but either way the death toll will be incalculable."

"We don't trade lives. I'm not suggesting we trade lives, and neither is Tony. What we're saying is we are already in a war that the rest of the planet knows nothing about. We have limited resources and limited backup, we are ridiculously outgunned, and our strategy has to be to buy time. Whatever we can do to save civilian lives, we'll do. But this isn't a fight we can stop before it starts."

It took a little more discussion to get the younger Steve, begrudgingly, on board. As Tony had suspected, the guy listened beat to himself, and only just. If Tony had been the one to greet him, things would have gone differently. Not through lack of trying, just through fundamental differences. Right now, this Steve is still incredibly idealistic. Tony remembers him most strongly this way, though the hardships he is to face in the future will change that.

Which brings them to one point of contention that Tony would really like to avoid.

“You can’t tell me about any of this. The other me, I mean. Hate to do this to you, I do, because holding stuff in is probably the opposite of what you should be doing, but I know myself. I’m not going to take this well. I’m going to do something really stupid to try and protect everyone from what’s coming, and what can still be coming. And— Okay, don’t take this the wrong way, but he’s going to need you to inject a little goody-two shoes in him. Know what I mean? Uh, be his friend. And stick around.”

He doesn’t want to give too much away. That’s more dangerous than not saying enough. Over the last two years of never talking to Steve, of never knowing where he is or if he’s all right, Tony can honestly say that he had a Cap-sized hole inside of him. And that’s pretty telling.

Of course, Tony has no idea that the younger Steve has done more than guess at the relationship the two time travelers have. He can smell it on them, sure, but their deference to each other and their Bambi-legged affection, and attempt to conceal affection, is all too telling.

“So are we good?” Tony asks, nose wrinkling a little. He’s not looking at the younger Steve, but at his lover. The gaze lingers before it snaps back to their subject. “There’s a lot more to tell you, I guess, but one part at a time. Okay. I’m hungry. Pizza? Not you. You have to go and brood a little. We have some work to get started for you.”

"Platonic is fine," the older Steve tells the younger mildly. He's not sure to what extent he can read what's between him and Tony, but he knows he tends to wear his heart on his sleeve, and he knows he can read body language. "You don't have to assume this is a template. Things are going to be very different for you than they were for us."

With Bucky around and needing care sooner rather than later, his alternate is bound to be preoccupied (which is exactly why he's not bringing it up yet), but he and Tony both are going to need friends.

Then again, anything could happen. He was just thinking last night that ending up in bed with Tony was inevitable.

As little as Steve-the-younger likes the situation they're heading into, he's somehow been convinced they're both sincere, and he just shakes his head at this, grudgingly amused in spite of himself. "I'm reserving judgment. But I'm going to have a lot of questions for you when this is through."

It's himself he's looking at, judging the man he might become, and that prompts the older version into one last verbal offering. "It doesn't get any easier," he says. "If anything, it gets harder and worse, but--I promise you're strong enough, and you'll get stronger. And you're gonna have backup."

It's probably tricky for Tony to read the look the two Steves exchange, but there's comfort in the familiarity of 'hang tight in the face of insurmountable odds'. It's enough to go on, with a little faith.

On the way out of the church, Steve eyes Tony in his peripheral vision. "I'm not eating pizza unless you know a place that actually makes it right."

“You dare doubt me,” Tony questioned, almost jovially, knowing that they are still in ear shot. The blond’s range is incredible, and also highly annoying. The armor’s already collapsed itself in the tower and he’ll come back and get it after they’re done with lunch, somewhere far away from the strange looks he knows the younger Steve is giving them as they leave.

They’re a few blocks away, and fully drowned out by cabs and yelling motorists and pedestrians, before he speaks again, standing against the corner of an old stone building where the traffic lights can’t see them.

“Why did you mention, specifically, about being platonic? This has nothing to do with embarrassment, but we agreed that we’re going to try to keep from influencing anyone. My other guy has Pepper. Your other guy is going to have…I’m guessing Barnes. If that works out.” He doesn’t know that he has a tell for these sorts of things.

Or that Steve obviously knows himself.

“Laying low is hard. For me usually. You did a good job of it for two years.”

"It's nothing personal," Steve says archly, evidently still doubting Tony's taste in pizza. "It's not you so much as I doubt the modern world's ability to make pizza that isn't a sugary, textureless, bland disc of cholesterol."

Which may be disheartening for the younger Steve to hear, but it's best he know now how difficult it is to find the kind of pizza he was used to as a young man. He'll cope.

He seems mildly surprised when Tony stops walking and asks his question. "Because I figured we're obvious? Or at least I am, to myself. He was already going to meet other-Tony with the idea that we're sleeping together in his head. And you have no idea how lonely he--how lonely I was at this time. SHIELD...didn't do such a great job with me. I didn't make it easy for them, I guess, but dumping me in an apartment with an undercover agent down the hall to keep an eye on me wasn't much help. Maybe if I'd had something other than work to hold onto sooner, I wouldn't--"

Pause, sigh. "Doesn't matter. He's getting Bucky back; he'll figure things out from there, one way or the other."

He leans against the wall beside Stark, slumping a little. "Nah. It's not that hard, as long as you don't mind rough accommodations. You ever been camping?"

There's a sly smile on his lips, but something more serious still lingering in his eyes.

Listening to Steve is calming. It’s in his voice, in the way he carries himself. Standing here in the shadow of a building as people just file passed them is surreal. Tony recognizes the street. He and Nebula had flown over it. The light pole had fallen into the store window across the street and two floors of the building they’re leaning against had been on fire. It’s fine now, a lighter color than before, recently power washed, or repointed, perhaps. His eyes lift towards lower Manhattan where the Stark Tower stands and he can see it, blending almost in with the sky. It’s small. Far away. Destined to crumble, really, unless they change the course of history.

The Tony that belongs here might never sleep with Steve, but he wants them both to know and keep and cultivate a friendship, if only so he doesn’t miss out on tense moments made bearable by little pleasantries said by sweet blonds.

He tilts his head back before his hips hit forward and he snags the ball cap from his back pocket. It’s better to cover his head. JARVIS regularly scans intersections and traffic cameras for facial recognition. Tony would have no reason to be looking for him, but it’s better safe than sorry.

At the question, the older man actually grins. The light changes to green and the walk sign flashes. “Do I look like I’m the camping type? It’s been awhile. Not since I was at school.” He pushes away from the wall to cross the street.

European boarding schools always focus heavily on athletics as well as academics. Tony hated it.

“We are not camping as long as my accounts are good.”

"Although," he murmurs, more to himself than to Tony, "I guess that could have been deliberate on SHIELD's part, considering."

Hydra would certainly have preferred him at arm's length. Emotionally compromised and a little isolated; less of a threat, and an easier tool that way.

Well, that won't be a problem for this version of himself. If things go right, he'll have backup, someone to talk to close by other than the people he works with. Someone he can trust before he learns to trust Natasha and Sam. He reaches out and gently tucks his hand under Tony's elbow, the lightest of holds, but clinging nonetheless.

"Well, I never camped until basic training. I'm sure we could adapt." He's smiling again in the face of that grin. "Tony. How long can you really get away with using the same accounts as the other Stark? I know you're ungodly rich, but surely you'll notice something's going on within a few weeks, at least."

He blinks as if something's occurred to him, then bursts into a little flurry of laughter. "Do you realize you're embezzling from yourself?? That's groundbreaking."

Five days is a long time to have to live off of one account for most people, but it really is a pittance to Tony. He doesn’t want to come right out and say that it could be months before accounting sees odd or conflicting charges and escalates them up to Pepper. Telling a guy like Steve that sleeping in five star hotels and eating room service every day is nothing. He’s a little more sensitive to the way Rogers grew up than he had been, mostly because trying to deal around Peter’s poverty had been eye opening. Tony has never had to think about money. He wants something and he gets it. Peter and his aunt made due with so much less—

But throwing money around us the only way they’re going to do this properly. And if trying to shield his stupid amount of money, guiltily, from Steve means that they need to find another source of income? Well Tony has a thought about that.

He’s a little surprised to have the blond take his arm. It’s not bad, but just different. Unexpected. Pepper’s done that sometimes, a casual touch, and for a moment, Tony aches for that. For Pepper, yes, but also for the normalcy of a relationship. Steve is hitting all of the right buttons without knowing he’s hitting them and Tony lets his hip tuck inwards slightly, so that they’re walking closer together.

It’s 2012. DOMA hasn’t been eradicated. Marriage between gay people hasn’t been won. This is, however, New York. Brooklyn. The neighborhood is liberal. No one notices them, either as two men walking in step or for who they are. And Tony, for all of his glitz and his pomp and his prestige, likes it. Just this once.

He looks up at Steve in profile as they hit the other side of the street, somewhat admiringly and momentarily absorbed in him. That’s a nice feeling too, one that makes sense to him.

“I don’t think anyone will notice, but if your memory is as good as you say it is, how do you feel about some friendly wagers?” They’re an hour and a half from Atlantic City. That’s no Vegas but they probably shouldn’t be seen in a place the other Stark frequents.

It's probably for the best that Tony be a little discreet. Steve doesn't feel too much self-pity for having grown up in the tenements, but he's also a depression-era kid and the idea of wasting food still bothers him. Half the time if you give him an apple he'll eat the core of it. And yet, he's grown reasonably sanguine about the idea that his friend has an income that rivals the GNP of many a small European nation. It's just one of those weird facets about his life in the 21st century that he's learned to accept rather than analyze. He's developed an Alice-in-Wonderland mentality about some of these things.

Part of him wants to more or less hang off of Tony's arm, like the doe-eyed girls in the movies of his era. That might be asking a little too much, particularly in public, but he's less worried about getting chided by strangers for failing to hide the homoerotic tension between them than he is about Tony hitting his limit. The look he gets in response to his touch tells him he doesn't need to worry.

"Friendly wagers?" He raises an eyebrow. "Are you talking about off-track betting or counting cards here? Wait, I mean...I am shocked, just shocked, that you would suggest such a thing."

He doesn't look shocked. Actually, he looks delighted by the prospect. It sounds like just enough of an adrenaline rush to distract from the stress and melancholy of their mission, without putting them in physical danger. If he were a puppy, he'd be wagging his tail and doing play-bows all around Tony's feet right now.

It’s a good thing that Steve isn’t a puppy then. Play-bows around his feet would just get Steve kicked and no one wants that. Not even Tony. “If I have to be weened off of my own money from a decade ago, you’re going to have to find a way to provide for me.” After a little seed funding of course. Tony is lucky, if he’s paying attention, and while he doesn’t count cards, he can calculate high probabilities in his head, see trajectory angles overlay the space in front of him, and he can make very educated guesses when it comes to odds.

Of course, what he’s planning on doing is a little sports betting. It’s baseball season and Tony knows that Steve never forgets a game. Brooklyn might not have the Dodgers anymore but he’s still painfully all-American. It’s cute. Sometimes.

Steve is his ringer. That eidetic memory of his ought to come in handy. And if there’s no New York playing today, that’s fine too. They have access to FRIDAY and she has a database full of knowledge from eight years in the future.

It dawns on him as they head to, oh Jesus, the bus terminal, that Steve himself can probably count cards too. He’s seen that strategic mind work. He can likely remember the combinations of the cards that are played. Tony opens and shuts his mouth. “All of those friendly wager poker games, back at the Tower? Did you hustle us, Rogers?”

He keeps forgetting that Steve isn’t all that wholesome. He looks it. He’s got a strong moral center. But he had been a bastard growing up sometimes, mischievous to the core. No wonder Bucky loved him.

"I'm supposed to provide for you, huh? Does that make me your sugar daddy? I never thought I'd see the day." For the first time, dimly, it occurs to Steve that Tony has never really lived without huge amounts of money at his disposal, aside from in captivity which really doesn't count. If they survive this and somehow get a chance to settle somewhere, that's going to be an interesting experience. Tony, he's sure, knows how to budget for large scale projects but he's never had to live on peanut butter and cereal for three days to make sure he doesn't run out of gas money before his next paycheck comes in.

Not an issue right now; they have bigger fish to fry. A big purple fish with an oversized chin. He files it away in the back of his mind, though, in case it becomes important later.

Tony is not wrong about Steve's devotion to baseball. He hasn't had chances to watch or read about all the games ever played since he came out of the ice, but the ones he was aware of at the time, he remembers. Also a couple World Cup matches and some horses, which he has never bet on, but he kinda likes to watch the Triple Crown races when he can. Placing sports bets would be less fun than actually playing games, but Steve is along for the ride either way, and has no qualms about using their advantage here.

He has a bit of a spring in his step, the cheer of a man living in the moment and determinedly not thinking about what's to come or what has recently passed. He gives a sly shrug at Tony's question, peering at him out of the corner of his eye. "Can't read my, can't read my, no he can't read my poker face..." He sings softly.

He listens to the radio a lot. Apparently he has an eidetic memory for pop music, too.

"But not every time, no! Just when I felt like one of you needed the experience of losing."

“I don’t know you anymore,” Tony says with an air of amusement. He’s not as full of energy as the younger man, not openly exuberant, but this beats focusing on something dreary for once. They’ve had a whole lot of that. Too much. Far too much. There will be time to further grieve but Tony is willing to let that all pass to return in force later if only to have a reprieve for a few moments. “You need better taste in music.”

Still, hearing something like Rhianna and Lady Gaga come out of Steve’s mouth is leaps and bounds better than depressing songs from the 40s that make him believe that the blond is going to pitch himself into the bay.

They stop at an exterior ATM to withdraw money, though using cash pains Tony so much, and he withdraws the maximum limit the machine allows, much to his annoyance. “Four hundred isn’t going to get us too far and if I hit up multiple ATMs, that’s going to flag someone.” He just can’t risk going into a bank—

And he’d have no idea how to even get money out of his account anyway.

Trying to watch his spending is difficult now. He has no idea how much of a nightmare world it might be once they pulled off this caper and used up the money he was sure that they’d win. Even when he was pretending to be dead and living in a workshop shed, he’d been less than frugal with his spending habits.

“Pizza. Bus tickets…that’s not leaving us a lot left over so I hope you’re in the mood to make everyone in a casino decide that they need to lose today.” He hands the wad of cash to Steve and slips his wallet back into his pants. Money is filthy. He’s not handling it more than he has to.

((This night suck. It’s been awhile.))

((nope, your writing is always good.))

Re: ((nope, your writing is always good.))

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