Chapter Text
Steve's first impression of the future is that it is wrong. Everything is in the wrong place, it smells different, the roads are different, his usual haunts are no longer there, the music is different, there are too many cars, too many people, the buildings are too tall, the city is too big— it's all wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong.
Steve's first impression of the people of the future aren't any better. He meets a slew of strangers when he first wakes up, doctors, nurses, agents. All faceless, all in a rush. He gets checked over, tested, and measured. He gets questioned, and questioned, and questioned even further. It's invasive and tiring, and it puts Steve on edge.
If this is the future, there sure isn't much to show.
Then suddenly there's too much. Loki wreaks havoc on Earth, and all of a sudden Steve is shunted together with a group of strangers who seem to get along about as well as oil and water. Dr. Banner acts as passively as he can in order to blend into the background, agents Romanov and Barton stand aside in silent solidarity, and Tony Stark flaps about with combative rage, seemingly intent on pressing every single one of Steve's long forgotten buttons.
Steve says some things he shouldn't have, and Stark says some things he shouldn't have. He doesn't think either of them are sorry. Steve can't bring himself to care. He's too busy trying to overlay Howard's image over that of his son, older than Steve ever got see Howard. They're terrifyingly similar, both in appearance and presence. Steve's not sure this isn’t all some huge practical joke.
They don't mesh, they fight, they hiss, and they break apart with no love lost. All Steve feels as he's shuttled back to the SHIELD facility is a deep longing for his Howling Commandos. His team.
Then Loki kills agent Coulson, and they all wordlessly form back together. Steve doubts they all have the same reason for trying to make the Avengers work again, but he thinks they all have the same goal. With that, they surge forward. The fight, they hurt, but ultimately, they win.
And just like that, Steve slides back to where he first started. New York is all wrong. Everything is in the wrong place, it smells different, the roads are different, his usual haunts are no longer ther—
Steve struggles with living in Stark Tower. He'd been dubious when Stark had initially made the offer, believing it to be a rich Alpha's attempt at acquiring and keeping an Omega. But apparently he had made the same offer to Dr. Banner and both agents Romanov and Barton. Steve considers declining, but his belief that a commander should be with their soldiers wins out. It's how it was in the war. He's the last one to move in.
He still gets ferried to and from SHIELD headquarters several times a week. They've got a plan for him, apparently. An integration process. They hand him reports encompassing the past seventy years. They put him into a room where they screen reels of people— scientists, politicians, actors and actresses— explaining who they are and their roles in history. They're clips, he's told. Bits of history he missed. Steve has difficulty accepting that this is his reality, and not some awful, unending nightmare.
He learns about the war he was in. The war he fought for his country and its people. They call it World War Two. Fortunately, there’s not been a World War Three. He briefly thinks the world has learned and come to work together for its united benefit, but then he learns about other wars. Korea, Vietnam, Iraq, Afghanistan. It's truly terrible, but what's even more terrible is that on some deep, ashamed level Steve is glad this still seems to be the same. War he knows. War is familiar to him.
They tell him about other things. New technology which everyone and their grandmother has access to. SHIELD agents introduce him to a modern television— all thin, and sleek, and humongous, and with the reels in colour! They introduce him to modern computers, modern typewriters, modern phones (without any wires attached to the wall!), and it's all too much for Steve. He loses his temper and shouts at the agents that it's too much, and they don't bring it up again. Steve's unsure if he's grateful or not.
He learns about more things. The Civil Rights Movement. The Biological Rights Movement. Watergate. The Cold War. The first man on the moon. The Bay of Pigs invasion. John F. Kennedy’s assassination. Modern medicine. They teach him about vaccines, the eradication of polio, the plunge into creating suppressors accessible to all genders and not just Omegas. He gets a crash course on contraceptives— pills, liquids, metal you can put into your body— and gets offered all of them. He must look like he's about to yell again, because they quickly move on and show him a calendar that is supposed to help him manage his heats. It's only accessible on a modern phone.
Steve ends up yelling at them again.
The thing is, Steve does try. He spends most of his alone time in the new world trying to understand it. He reads books specially provided by SHIELD, as apparently libraries are no longer the haven of knowledge as they were back in his day. And isn’t that odd, having to refer to his time as ‘back in his day’.
He remembers his teachers and neighbours using the same words when talking about their memories, usually when judging Steve for the folly of being young. He and Bucky would snicker at the stories, mock the phrases, believing themselves to be indestructible because they were young and the world was their oyster. Steve is still young, but technically he’s also old. He doesn’t know what to do with that knowledge.
And so Steve reads books. He reads books, and he makes notes, and he asks questions to help him better understand what he's dealing with. But no matter how many books he reads, or how many notes he makes, or how many questions he asks, there's always more. More to learn, more to be taught about, more to be confused, and frustrated, and upset about.
Steve isn't stupid by any stretch of the imagination, but when the military chose him for Project Rebirth, they chose him mainly for his physical attributes. Or lack thereof would be more apt. He was made to be strong, to be fast, to be a symbol for the American troops. He was not made to grapple with a future he never wanted.
Nothing makes sense to him. He’s tired of always being on alert, of being careful and measured because apparently every little thing he says can be misconstrued and every little gadget built nowadays crumbles in his hands if he even so much as breathes on it wrong. His physical improvements do him a fat lot of good now. His past experiences are useless. He'd been trained to endure torture, but what can he do when what he deems to be torture is his new reality.
During the day he’s dispirited and confused, and bitterly the nights don't bring any relief. He's barely managing to wrap his head around how much the city has changed during the day, and the shift to night-time pushes home how different everything has truly become. Pitch dark skies, yet the lights are dancing in the city. New York is brimming with life. Truly, now, more than ever, she's earned herself the moniker, 'the city that never sleeps'.
He wishes that he were back home. That he could walk the streets with confidence, knowing exactly where everything was, pretending that he was ambling toward his local movie theater for an evening screening. The Heidel delicatessen would be on the third turn from his home. Further down the street, just a stone’s throw away, Mr. Papadopoulos’ newspaper comics shop. Four streets over, the seedier district starts, with its jazz joints in full swing and brimming with folks from all walks of life. Steve misses it. He misses being alive.
He tries to not be alone during these times. He doesn't want to be. He's not tried reaching out to the other Avengers since they moved into the tower, but on sleepless nights like these he yearns for them like a thirsty man desperate for water. He goes in search of the others, padding across the cold and empty hallways void of any noise, and finds no one. They’re all just as evasive as he is. They all seem to prefer to spend their free times sequestered in their private quarters.
Steve tries not to judge them for it as he does the same, but he feels he has an excuse. He hates the modern world. Hates every new thing he gets introduced to. Hates that he has to learn something before he has to interact with it, even something as simple as making himself a cup of joe. Rationally, he knows certain things haven’t changed that much, but he finds exhaustion and frustration reign supreme in his mind.
One sleepless night, as Steve is sat on the living room sofa staring out the unnecessarily large windows, trying to once again wrap his head around how this flashy, opulent city is his New York, Stark stumbles in. Steve is momentarily thrown. He looks so much like Howard he almost automatically calls out to him. Stark is dishevelled, his usually styled hair is a mess, and his fine clothes are covered in dark stains. He looks just like Howard when he was elbow deep in his flying car.
Stark blinks around the room until his eyes finally land on Steve. He tenses. “Oh. You’re here.” He announces lamely.
Steve offers a small, lacklustre wave in return. He can’t even muster up a smile.
“Couldn’t sleep?” The man asks, but doesn’t approach.
Steve gives a small nod.
Stark says nothing for a moment, then shrugs and resumes stumbling towards the kitchen. Steve turns back to the windows. He watches the lights dotting the darkness like stars in the sky. But you can’t see the stars from the city, Romanov had told him. Too much light pollution. Steve never would have thought too much light could be a bad thing. The future sure is something, he thinks bitterly.
He catches sight of Stark’s reflection grabbing a bottle and pouring himself a glass of the amber liquid. There's a stiffness to his very being. He seems guarded. He doesn't engage with Steve at all whilst making himself his drink. Once he's done, he takes a sip from his glass, nods to himself, then turns on his heel.
Steve’s heart stutters. “Um, Mr. Stark.”
Stark freezes, then after a moment swivels in place. “Please, call me Tony. Mr. Stark was my father.”
Steve’s breath catches in his throat. Howard, again. All these reminders. Often times Steve finds it difficult to look at Stark straight on. So much of Howard is carved into his face. Not that he and Howard were especially close. Really, colleagues at best. But he knew the man, in the flesh. Had spoken with him, worked with him, laughed with him. He still can’t believe all of those memories are gone. Not just gone— long gone.
“Penny for your thoughts, Cap?” Stark offers as he swirls the liquid in his glass. Steve can smell the strong stench from this distance. He’s not looking at Steve. “That’s the kind of thing you old timers say, isn’t it?”
Steve wets his lips. He’s scared. He doesn’t like being scared. It makes him feel small and vulnerable. He motions towards the sofas. “Care to join me?”
Stark’s gaze snaps up and he eyes Steve wearily. After some time, he says, “Someone feeling lonely?”
Something like that, Steve thinks. He turns his attention back to the windows. “It’s difficult. Matching up what’s out there with what I know. Knew.” He corrects himself, jaw clenching.
He hears no movement from Stark. Not that he needs to listen out, not with the man’s reflection projected clear as a day in the windows. His mouth is twisted, brows furrowed. He looks as if he’s contemplating a very difficult problem. Steve hates that he’s a problem.
Eventually Stark ambles up to the television and from beside it grabs a long, rectangular piece of plastic with a multitude of shapes protruding from it. He holds it up. “Remote control. Learnt about this yet?”
Steve scowls at him. He has, actually. It was part of his SHIELD integration process. When he learned about the modern television, he learned about its accompanying remote controls.
“It’s fine if you don’t,” Stark barrels on, then starts pressing the buttons on it. “These aren’t exactly obsolete, but we don’t rely on them as much as we used to.” The television lights to life, painting the room in a harsh light. Steve grimaces. “This remote control works the TV.”
“Oh.” He says intelligently.
“I’m also guessing that since you had no idea what the remote did, you haven’t discovered this yet.” Stark gestures at the television with the remote control. The screen flickers, and suddenly there's an image of a man with his shirt splayed open, facing the skies as rain pelts down on him. “I wasn’t sure how keen you’d be on catching up on seventy years’ worth of history, so I put together a list of movies and documentaries to help ease you into today’s fast-paced, modern world.”
Steve nods as Stark speaks, struggling to take in all his words. It is fast paced. It is modern. He doesn’t care for it. The screen suddenly changes again, and this time it shows a neat line of images from top to bottom with words beside them. Steve recognises some of the images as posters he’d seen at his local movie theater. The words, he realises, are titles.
“How did you do that?” He asks, sitting forward.
The man shrugs. “Was easy. Just said ‘pretty, pretty please, JARVIS’, and pretty, pretty pleased JARVIS put it together.”
Steve stares at him, trying not to gape. Everything the man says sounds like gobbledygook. He might as well be speaking a foreign language for all Steve can understand him. Steve is suddenly intensely jealous of Stark. Understanding technology comes so naturally to him, like breathing. And here Steve is, stuck and feeling like he’s drowning. It’s another similarity he draws to Howard. Howard, so forward thinking and futuristic, and Steve, trying his best with what he has.
Stark holds the remote control out to him. “Want to give it a go?”
Steve doesn’t take it. He scowls at it.
Stark makes a dismissive noise and places the remote control on the coffee table. “You’ll learn. Just ask JARVIS and he’ll walk you through it, step by step. You’ll have the hang of it in no time. It's more intuitive than you think.”
Steve doubts that.
“Hey, you ever read those city mysteries during the Great Depression?” Stark suddenly asks. “The sci-fi ones, specifically.”
Steve wants to snip back at Stark, because he’s asking it like it’s an amusing joke. To him it had been real. In his mind, it’s only been about ten years since it happened. And it’s only through the SHIELD integration courses that he knows that people now refer to those years as the Great Depression. In his day, the adults would just call it ‘these trying times’.
He swallows down his surge of anger. "Sci-fi?"
"Oh, that's short for science fiction. We use a lot of shortened words nowadays."
Steve inclines his head and replies, “I did.”
Stark motions his free hand towards the windows. “Today’s world is basically modelled off of those. No idea is original, it’s all just inspired from those stories. Previously dreams, now a reality. Crazy what ambition can achieve.” He takes a sip of his drink then pulls away with a hiss. “Anyway, if you just brush up on your knowledge of those stories, you’ll find the leap to using today’s technology is more of a cakewalk.”
“A cakewalk?”
“It’s slang. Modern lingo. Means ‘it’s easy’.” Stark shoots him a raised thumb and forefinger.
Steve takes a deep breath as he thinks. Right. He could revisit the tales. That would give him something familiar to work with. “Do they have those types of novels at the library?”
Stark frowns in thought. “Doubt the physical ones have ‘em. The digital ones, however…” He briefly sucks at his choppers before announcing, “JARVIS, pull forward all the city mysteries published in New York between 1920 and 1935 and collate them into one collection. In order of release, of course. Oh, and only select the ones pertaining to science fiction.”
“Of course, sir.” Says a voice from around him. Steve casts his eyes upward. Nothing but ceiling greets him. Another thing of the future that baffles him. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to this JARVIS, Stark’s allegedly bodyless butler.
“Thank you, JARVIS, you’re a doll. Never let anyone tell you otherwise.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, sir.” The voice responds in a mild tone.
Stark chuckles to himself, as if sharing in a private joke. Without any announcement, he turns where he stands and ambles back to the kitchen area, further still, and heads towards the exit. “JARVIS will let you know when he’s finished up, and then you can start in on your homework.” He throws a half-hearted wave back, not even bothering to look behind him at Steve. “Happy reading!”
Steve stares after him for a moment too long. Finally, he turns back to the windows. He stares out into the darkness. Stares at the bright lights marring his view. He sinks into the sofa, exhaustion weighing him down, and resigns himself to waiting for a faceless helper to do his work for him.
Steve does end up making use of Stark’s collection. Extensively, in fact. He hides himself in his room with a modern computer provided by SHIELD, a thin, smooth thing that he hates handling. He learns enough to project Stark’s collection onto it. Using the computer is more intuitive than he would have thought, largely in thanks to the keyboard which is simply an easier-to-use typewriter. He hates to admit it, but Stark had been right. The future had borrowed ideas from the past and made them better.
Steve watches movies he never managed to catch in the movie theater due to either being too sickly or too busy being a weapon abroad. He watches The Invisible Man, The Gold Rush, Nosferatu, The Wizard of Oz. He watches Metropolis, but it reminds him too keenly of Iron Man, so he doesn’t revisit it. He only watches movies from his time— back in his day, Steve thinks mockingly— and no further.
He's cocooning himself in comfort, he knows, but he can’t stop. If he focuses very hard, he can pretend he’s back home. He’s happy to watch Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman pretending to be in love on screen. Happy to pretend he’s at a late-night screening and Bucky is running late because he wasn’t able to finagle leave in time. He’s happy to pretend he’s home and everything is dandy. Everything is just swell. No dear friends long dead. No parents nearly a century in the ground.
When thoughts like that begin to surface, Steve asks JARVIS to play a selection of popular tunes from his time. He recognises many of them from when Bucky had dragged him to the dance halls, determined to finally land Steve a date on his arm. He dances in his empty room at the tower as the music engulfs him. He pretends Bucky’s off somewhere with his dame of the week. He never had any problem landing them, unlike Steve. But Steve had had something better. He had had Peggy. He continues to dance, swaying from side to side, pretending he’s waiting for Peggy to walk through the door and take his breath away.
Steve is aware he’s isolating himself. He’s doing the opposite of what he needs to do. He needs to assimilate, needs to learn about this current world, needs to study up. But it’s so easy to fall into what’s familiar. What he knows. What he understands.
Fighting is familiar to Steve, and the only time he feels like himself in this modern world. The battleground he knows, even when it’s different every time. Donning his costume is like welcoming back an old friend. The shield is a heavy, missed weight in his hands. When he puts on the cowl, he’s no longer Steve Rogers, a stranger caught in time, but Captain America. He’s not exactly sure who Captain America is yet, but he isn't Steve Rogers, and that’s the most important thing.
It's still difficult, sometimes. The Avengers are good, the team move seamlessly, and he and Iron Man work like a dream together. But Stark is antagonistic, full of himself, thinks he knows better and keeps ignoring Steve’s orders. By some miracle he always ends up completing the mission, but always at the cost of injuring himself. It’s a cost Steve can’t afford.
He yells at Stark, and Stark yells back at him. He spits barbed insults at Steve, teeth bared and scent thick in the air. It almost chokes Steve with how potent it is, but he remains steadfast and strikes back just as hard. He’s not proud of what he says. Stark brings out the worst in him. But he's pent up, isolated, and scared. The only way he knows how to deal with that is to yell, and Stark is an easy target.
After each fight— both mission-based and Stark-based— Steve feels adrenaline course through his veins at a breakneck pace. He thinks this is when he’ll finally grab this new world by the horns, but it never pans out. Instead, he either ends up at the tower's training grounds pummelling a sandbag into oblivion, or in his quarters re-watching movies from his day— back in his day— and welcoming the pull that drags him back to his own time.
On one of those nights, where Steve can’t tell the difference between his wishful thinking and reality, he stumbles into the communal kitchen at some unknown time at night. He knows it’s night because the outside is blanketed in darkness. Frighteningly dark, save for all the lights, that is. God, New York would have made such an easy target during the war.
Steve’s eyes are itchy, the bags underneath them heavy, and lethargy swells through his limbs like a wave crashing onto shore. He feels decades older than he is, and technically, he is. He should be in a retirement home at his age. Or better yet, buried six feet under.
A shuffle at the counter snags his attention and he immediately falls into a defensive stance; legs apart, knees bent, arms up. It’s Stark. He’s dressed in a suit and tie, looking as rumpled as Steve feels. He must have returned from a meeting. Steve’s not sure what happens at these meetings. All he knows is that Stark heads out in a foul mood and returns exhausted.
The man stares at Steve, equally caught off guard. A moment passes, then he inclines his head at Steve, eyes jumping over his person. Steve feels his hackles rise. Stark resumes his fiddling at the counter. A glass and a bottle. The scent assaults Steve and he barely manages to stop himself from grimacing. Again?
“You hard at work catching up on modern cinema?” Stark drawls, not facing Steve.
Steve frowns. His silence eventually causes Stark to glance over. At Steve’s expression he motions up and down at him. “My first instinct was to congratulate you on a ye old romp in the hay, but then I remembered you only fell out of the ice barely two months ago.” He pauses as if considering something, then continues on, “Actually, I’d be more impressed if you managed to bag someone in such a short time. Not surprised considering your cover, but impressed nonetheless.”
Steve understands nothing.
His continued silence seems to cause Stark some concern. “You alright there, Cap?”
“Peachy keen.” Steve responds too quickly.
Stark nods his head slowly and brings the glass to his lips. Steve watches the liquid disappear, gaze falling to Stark’s bobbing throat. Stark removes the glass and holds it toward Steve with a raised eyebrow. “So, you’ll have what I'm having?”
Steve briefly falters before answering, “No. I’m fine.”
Stark shrugs one shoulder and places the glass back onto the counter. “I’m gonna make you an offer you can’t refuse.”
Steve blinks at the man. “I… see.”
“You’re gonna need a bigger boat.”
“I’m sorry?” Steve scowls, mood starting to sour. He doesn’t understand what Stark is trying to say. He doesn’t understand anything.
And Stark just barrels on. “Houston, we have a problem? Nobody puts Baby in the corner?” He takes a step toward Steve. “Gentlemen, you can’t fight in this room— this is the War Room? The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few?”
He takes more steps, bringing himself up close to Steve, too close for comfort. Steve leans back, eyes darting to find an exit. His mind is telling him he’s being cornered. This is a trap.
“How about, take your stinking paws off me, you damn dirty ape?” Stark pushes, his tone mocking.
“What the hell are you on about?” Steve snaps. His chest is tight. It reminds him of his asthma attacks, before, when he would cough, and hunch over, and believe that this was the moment he was dying. But he’s not. He’s not dying. He’s in the tower's communal kitchen, it's the middle of the night, and he's with a man who is supposed to be his teammate. Steve feels anything but safe.
Stark emits a sigh— a bone-weary one that Steve recognises all too well— and swirls the liquid in its glass. “You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”
“I usually don’t.” Steve says tightly.
“True.” The man concedes. “But everything I just referenced relates to the movies I selected to help drag you— not kicking and screaming, mind you— into the 21st century.” He takes another sip of his drink. “It's been a month. What gives, Cap? Not enjoying my selection?”
“I’ve watched some.” Steve says carefully. It’s not a lie.
“Beyond your beloved 1930s?”
“…Some from the 1940s.”
“And?”
The silence is damning.
“Unbelievable,” Stark sighs, then mutters something under his breath as he steps around Steve. His footsteps carry him away, and Steve realises he’s leaving. “I’m too tired to have this goddamn argument.”
Steve barely stops himself from sniping back, I didn’t realise we were having an argument. This is better. He’s evading the attack. Once Stark is gone, he’s going to be able to calm down.
Except Stark doesn’t go. Just as quickly as the footsteps had faded, they return. The clear click of Stark’s shoes echo across the floor and abruptly stop beside Steve. “JARVIS, bring up a map of the world.”
Steve startles as what looks to be a map appears out of thin air before him. He barely has time to register it before Stark starts in on his spiel. “When you were a war orphan,” And Steve already finds himself bristling at the insinuation. “I’m betting the culinary height of luxury for you must have been meat and potatoes. Unseasoned, of course.” Steve clenches his jaw, but Stark either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. “And then there were war rations, which we all know is no better than dog dirt. So, during these no doubt very trying times, you must have envisioned trying new foods. Different from your usual sludge. What was that food? The one you wanted to try the most in the whole, wide world?”
Steve peers at Stark through narrowed eyes. The man is smiling at him encouragingly. Steve remains stubbornly silent. He can’t help it. Something about Stark rubs him the wrong way. He reminds Steve too much of the snake oil salesmen from his day. All charm, and smarmy, and trying to sell poison to every poor person’s doorstep they graced. The man seems practiced.
Stark’s smile wavers. "Come on.” He nudges. “Work with me, Steve."
Steve resolutely keeps his peace, but he does think. He casts his mind back. To the days he remembers as if they were yesterday. Being in Germany with the Howling Commandos. Trekking their way over the border into France, into Allied occupied territory. The food, not dissimilar to the Germans, but something else still. Something else, something extremely fragrant which had his poor, war rationed self watering at the mouth.
He opens his mouth, and it feels like the words are being dragged out of him against his will. “I remember we were in France. We were able to bunk beside their soldiers for a night. They had drafted soldiers from Morocco to help them in the war. I remember their food smelt… nice.”
Stark’s lips quirk up. “Kind of them to share.” He muses, then announces, “JARVIS, please order a selection of dishes from the most well rated Moroccan restaurant within 5 miles that is still open. Do they do mezze platters in Morocco? If they do, definitely get that.”
“Understood, sir.”
“They weren’t allowed to share.” Steve murmurs, unable to stop the words from tumbling out. He's telling a story. Sharing a memory. It’s been so long since he was able to share a piece of himself. “The French kept their troops separated from the Moroccans. Even though they were fighting for France. And the Allied powers.” He knows America did the same with the Negroes. It never did sit right with him.
“Racism isn’t anything new.” Stark says, and if you weren’t paying attention to the words, you very easily could have believed he was talking about the weather.
Steve tries to centre his breathing. He feels so... vulnerable. It's awful. Is this how the old people had felt back when he was young? Bared open as they shared a memory? And Steve had snickered at them behind his hands, too busy looking toward his own future.
JARVIS’ voice echoes through the kitchen. “Sir, I can confirm the food has been ordered from Oasis Palace, a restaurant 1.4 miles from our current location and with a rating of 4.8 stars from over 3,200 customers. The order should arrive within 40 minutes.”
Stark aims a quick smile at Steve. “There we go! Soon you’ll have your dream of trying Moroccan food come true. Modern miracles, am I right?”
“Right.” Steve repeats.
Stark makes to clap him on the shoulder. Steve can't help but flinch. The hand hangs in the air then drops to his side. He continues to smile at Steve, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Hope you enjoy your meal.”
He walks off, clearly set on departing, and Steve panics. “Could you stay?”
Stark pauses. He glances at Steve through narrowed eyes. “I thought the serum cured your allergies.”
Steve doesn’t say anything. He knows he’s being unreasonable. Stark must be tired. He’d just arrived back at the tower at a time Steve was getting up to wander around like a ghost haunting the joint. He can see exhaustion hanging off the man's frame like a curse. He should—
Stark tilts his head to the side and Steve hears an audible crack. “What the hey— I guess I can stay until the food arrives.” He tilts his head to the opposite side then rolls his shoulders. “Though I’m demanding a toll; the toll being a share of the mezze selection, of course.”
Steve tries not to show his relief too obviously. “Of course.” He repeats.
Stark makes his way to the living room. “Besides,” he says, as he throws himself back onto one of the sofas. “How many people can say they’ve witnessed Captain America trying Moroccan food for the first time?”
Steve drifts after him and takes a seat on the opposite sofa. “I didn’t realise that was an experience people were desperate to see.”
Stark smiles at him. Steve tries to smile back, but he doesn’t think he’s doing a very good job. Silence descends over them. It’s awkward. Steve barely has time to feel the discomfort settle before Stark takes something out of his suit jacket. A phone, Steve realises. He watches as the man’s thumb swipes across the screen. Again, he feels a pang of jealousy deep in his chest. Stark navigates his phone with the same grace Steve wields his shield. He wishes their roles were reversed.
He's pulled out of his thoughts by Stark clearing his throat. “Apparently France instated a law where foreign soldiers who fought for France in the war were able to apply for French citizenship. But only after 3 years of service or if they got wounded in the line of duty. It's known as ‘French by spilled blood’.”
Steve nods. “That’s good.”
Stark holds up his phone. “All the knowledge in the world at your fingertips.” Steve frowns. He says nothing. Stark’s lips quiver, like he’s trying to hold back a smile. “I’ve noticed you’ve been a bit resistant to technology.”
“I’m not resistant.” Steve rebukes instantly. He clenches his teeth and takes a breathe before explaining, “It’s just taking me a while to get to grips with it.”
“You know you’re not stupid.”
Steve shoots the man a glare. “I know.”
“And you know I know you’re not stupid.”
Steve feels his face flush. Anger boils to the surface, but he keeps quiet. Holds his tongue. He doesn’t understand why Stark keeps bringing out the worst in him. He’s better than this.
They fall back into a charged silence, but this time neither party breaks it. Eventually the food arrives. Stark drags Steve to the door to help accept the delivery. He explains the process to Steve in great detail so that when he wants to order the food he wants to try the second most in the whole, wide world, he can do so by himself. Steve just listens. He doesn’t fight it. He’s not stupid.
They carry the massive paper bags filled to the brim with food to the kitchen table. The smells accost Steve and instantly his mouth is watering. He tears into them, curiosity too strong, and takes out each and every item with such reverence it’s as if he’s dealing with crystals rather than food. Stark plops down on the sofa and leaves Steve to it, returning to fiddling with his phone.
The fragrances emanating from each dish Steve unearths whip him back to his time in France. Jostling about with Bucky on the long trek over the border. Trying to communicate with the French soldiers despite the language barrier. Hiding behind a barn and covering his cigarette with his hand as he smoked, afraid the light would catch the attention of the German war planes. Steve lets out a shaky breath. This may have been a mistake.
He looks over to the sofas, intent on calling on Stark to come join him, but the words die in his throat. Stark is slumped on the sofa, head drooping forward and arms loose at his side. His phone is dangling from his hand, hanging on for dear life. Steve huffs out a laugh. He shuffles over, making sure he’s quiet on his feet. He gingerly removes the phone from Stark’s hand and places it on the coffee table.
Stark mumbles something, but Steve can’t make out what it is. “What you saying?” He asks softly.
Stark only shakes his head in turn and tips to the side. Steve catches him and carefully lays him down on the sofa. He picks up his legs and manoeuvres them onto the sofa so that Stark is lying prone. The man curls in on himself and grunts. Steve places his hands on his hips and takes in the scene before him. Dressed to the nines, keeled over from exhaustion, and curled up like a baby. Steve never saw Howard in such a state.
He quietly pads back to the kitchen to indulge in his meal. The food he’s wanted to try the most in the world since 1943. He leaves a few select dishes for when Stark wakes up.