I know I should be working on the sequel for Seeing Through the Eyes of Icarus (another Stony fic, please have a gander at it) but I watched Cloud Atlas and this wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote it. That movie is a work of art, no matter how much James D'Arcy's roles tickle me pink.
As a fair warning, this was written between midnight and 8am with no sleep and less caffeine. This is unedited. And I do not own the cover image, I found it on Google Images. Credit to whoever did this fabulous edit!
Rated for swearing, disturbing death sequences, and mentions of sexual activity and prostitution.
Reviews are appreciated and those who leave them are adored!
Disclaimer: I own nothing under copyright.
Steve frowned as he looked at Stark more closely. Something about the man seemed familiar but he had no idea what. Or how.
It was intangible, a sense of presence or memory that couldn't be explained. Like when you meet someone and swear you met them before, only to find out that they lived in Tennessee their whole life while you have never left New York before now. Or maybe coming across a painting of a dream you had, only you were not the one to paint it. An incredible, compelling mystery.
Each word and gesture that Steve heard and saw spoke as loudly as if they were broadcast on loudspeakers. A tilt of the head, a compliment on Banner's "enormous green rage monster", subtly sticking something under the control console. They were polished and well practiced. They told all about his natural curiosity and clever mind and distrust for everyone around him.
Then their eyes met, and it was the closest thing to a religious experience that Steve ever had. A heady, hazy film settled over his brain for a moment and everything faded away. Only Tony- Stark- was left.
An image flashed across his mind of another set of clever brown eyes, but this time accompanied by soft skin and a tinkling laugh. The combined scents of sweat, sex and vanilla filled his nose.
Steve shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut. Why was he thinking of that now? Why was he looking Tony Stark dead in the eye and thinking of Nella Acerbi? That was years ago, even for him, and she had died before he went into the ice.
Footsteps echoed. They were Stark's, Steve could feel it.
When he opened his eyes and looked up, it was to see those eyes analyzing his face. A wrinkle started between Stark's eyebrows as he looked his fill, confusion tightening his mouth. "This is gonna sound nuts," Howard's son stated.
It was hard not to snort. Everything around them was already nuts.
"But have we met before?" The question that burst from Stark's lips startled him just as much as Steve. It was obvious in how his eyes went wide for a fraction of a second and he immediately began playing with his sleeve.
"You know, I honestly don't know," Steve admitted.
Steve Rogers stared at the ship in the harbor, wondering how such a thing could be so huge and still float. It was beautiful from anti-fouling paint to black funnel caps. The name Titanic gleamed at the prow even from this far away.
Thank God for miner's strikes, he thought with a grin at Jim. Otherwise they would have been on the rickety old Baltic and not this grand lady of the sea. "Can you believe it?" Steve asked his best friend with an exhilarated laugh.
"Told you you're my lucky charm, punk," Jim replied, putting an arm around broad shoulders. Grey eyes gleamed happily as he took in the view.
That, Steve couldn't refute. Whenever he showed up at Bucky's work, or the pub with him, or (this time) the White Star ticket offices, good things happened. This time it was a notification of their transfer to third class berths on the Titanic.
"C'mon, let's get in line," Jim urged, and they shuffled in behind a family of seven for the inspection queue.
In the time that they spent waiting to be loaded onto a tender, Steve and Jim laughed and joked, talked about all the pretty girls and tough guys waiting for them in the States. Truthfully, just getting out of Ireland was enough for Steve. Since his mother died, there was nothing left for him here but bad memories.
They passed inspection (no lice, teeth are fine, no signs of TB, etc.) and were loaded onto the small steamer in due order. By the time the last of them were processed and the mail bags loaded, it was nearly dark.
But that only made the ship they were headed to more beautiful, in Steve's mind. The lights shone like beacons in the dark and music wafted from the upper decks. Up close, Titanic looked too big to be allowed, almost endless in the length of her riveted hull and scraping the clouds with her spotless white superstructure, buff funnels ascending through the clouds.
Something else on the upper decks caught Steve's eye too, a person. He was one of the upper crust obviously, in his beautifully tailored tuxedo, but there was something else that drew the eye. And it wasn't the shining crystal of the glass in his hand.
Their eyes locked, and Steve felt the breath leave his body. Those eyes were gorgeous, glowing amber under the dim electric lights.
"Stevie?" Jim's voice brought him back to earth.
"Huh?" Steve grunted, blinking stupidly. When he looked back at the railing, the man was gone.
His best friend leaned in to whisper, "Don't, Steve. You're already on thin ice here, you don't need it in the States too." Jim always was looking after him, or trying to. Even now his face was serious but there was something sad about the way he gripped Steve's shoulder tightly.
It was too bad that Steve couldn't control his desires. Those sinful, impure thoughts of hard muscles and straight lines where he should want delicate curves. Just a year ago he had taken Jim and run when the town realized that the only way to get to him was through his friend, and nearly lynched them both.
Still, Steve let out a huff and rolled his eyes playfully. "Not like it would happen anyways," he said in a low voice, barely able to hear himself over the shuffling of the other passengers as they transferred to the bigger ship, "I have as much chance of getting that as Titanic has of sinking."
Satisfied, Jim gathered his bags and shuffled up the gangway.
With a last look up at that railing, Steve followed. Yeah, that would never happen.
Two days later, he was drawing people on deck when someone shouted, "Thief!" In the middle of a sketch of the harried dog walker, he dropped his supplies.
A man was running, giving panicked glances over his shoulder at his pursuer. Something gold or brass shone from his fist.
Before he realized what he was doing, Steve lifted up a tray that was sitting beside him and threw it at the man. Bemused, he watched the man crumple. It had hit him in the head.
Out of breath, the man giving chase skidded to a stop. "Thanks," he said, wiping his forehead on the back of his hand. He reached down and snatched a pocketwatch from the lax hand of the thief, tucking it into his coat carefully.
"No problem. Just trying to do what's right," Steve answered. He stepped back and allowed the man his space, conscious of the fact that the entire deck was watching.
When the man whose watch was stolen straightened, it was a shock to realize that this was the same person who had haunted his dreams for two nights. An angular, tan face with high cheekbones and playful brown eyes that bored straight into Steve. "Have we met before?" he asked in a rough American accent.
"I don't think so," Steve said, mouth suddenly dry.
"Wait, wait... " the man mumbled, examining the face several inches above his.
Steve wasn't sure whether or not he wanted to be remembered. It's not like he had done anything other than stare.
"Sorry, it slipped away," the man said with obvious disappointment. He offered a hand. "Tony Stark."
"Steve Rogers." When he shook the offered hand, he was surprised to feel callouses. This wasn't a man who sat doing nothing.
"I need to get back or dear old Dad will flay me alive. See you around, Rogers?" Stark asked with a quirked eyebrow.
It nearly gave Steve a heart attack. "Yeah, sure. Anytime. I'll be right here," he stammered, not quite sure whether he could believe this was happening.
With a mischievous little wave, Stark scurried up the stairs and back into his gilded world.
The man who tried stealing Stark's watch groaned and made to get up. Steve hit him with the tray again.
This was a bad idea from the start, and he blamed it on Bucky. If it weren't for his friend deciding that this elitism thing was bullshit and joining the dockworkers' union (dragging him onto the map with him), Steve wouldn't be running like hell.
Bobbies shouted at him to, "Stop, in the name of the law!"
Steve only ran faster. If he got caught, God help him. For skinny guys like him, prison was a death sentence.
The moment he passed into St Giles, he let out a relieved sigh. Immediately it turned into a gasping cough.
It would be easy to lose them in here, among the slapdash construction and squalor. The police were barely tolerated in the rookeries at the best of times, and more often than not they avoided it. Most everyone else did, too. There was a reason behind the phrase, "filthy as a St Giles cellar," and Steve was seeing it first-hand.
The bobbies fell behind, swearing as their shoes were ruined by the muck of the gutter and they tripped over the homeless. "We'll get you yet!" one shouted after Steve.
By then he had already climbed to the second story of one house, jumped to the balcony of another, and dove into a room in a third. Immediately he wished that he had stayed on ground level. "Err, hello!" Steve coughed and covered his eyes.
The room he had landed in was like he imagined any other in the area: bare, tiny and dark. The woman in it was something he never thought to see. No matter that she was probably a whore (the room stank of sex and she was bare as the day she was born) there was something beautiful about her face that Steve had managed to see.
"Usually my clients come through the door," the woman said in a husky voice. It sent shivers down his spine.
"I, uh, I didn't know this was your room, sorry for intruding. Hiding from the bobbies, you see," Steve explained in a stutter.
"In that case, you can stay as long as you like," the woman told him. She sounded amused, and from the creak of the bedsprings she readjusted on the bed. Hopefully she was covering herself.
When Steve took the chance and peeked, he turned red and immediately tried to purge the image from his mind. God almighty, this was what a woman looked like. Sister Sarah would whip him raw if she ever knew about this.
"You can look, you know. I'm not shy," the woman said dryly.
"I am," Steve mumbled.
"Virgin?" she asked casually.
"Yes," Steve blurted out.
There was silence for a moment. It was just long enough for Steve to get the feeling that there was something wrong with his answer.
"Oh," the woman said, "I didn't expect that."
Sourly, Steve bit out, "I can tell you it's not by choice." The few girls that he had ever really been interested in were more interested in Bucky. Not that he blamed them. Who would want a skinny strip of nothing like him?
There was another creak, and suddenly soft hands were on his chin. "Nice blonde hair, pale skin…" she murmured, turning his head this way and that, "Now let me see your face."
Shocked, Steve let his hands fall away and found himself dumbstruck by the face in front of his.
Whoever this woman is, she could be far more than a whore with a face like that. There was something proud about her dark features. Dark eyes roved his face thoughtfully and hair the color of shadows spilled down bare shoulders. Steve dared look no further down than that, so he busied himself examining the cupid's bow of her lips and stubborn chin and carved-glass cheekbones. "On the thin side, but a few good meals would fill you out. And those eyes…" she said, thumbs stroking right below them, "Whatever girl turned you down was nothing to cry over, sweetie. Those eyes could turn a clergyman gay."
The thought made Steve laugh a little. The parish priest as a buggerer was something he never thought he'd imagine. "Why are you in a place like this? You're beautiful," he told her, dead honest.
"Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies," the woman said with a mischievous chuckle.
"Well if I'm going to stick 'round here for a few hours, I'd better find something to call you," Steve said, fishing for a name. It didn't feel right to just call her 'the whore', even in his head.
"Antoinette," she answered immediately, then cringed. As if to protect herself she backed away to sit on the bed, looking down at her knees rather than him.
"You don't like your name?" Steve asked. It was nothing new to him; there was a reason his best (only) friend preferred the name Bucky to his given name of James.
The woman, Antoinette, let out a breath. It sounded like relief. "Not really," she answered with a bitter smile.
"What should I call you, then?" Steve asked.
Antoinette thought for a moment. "Toni," she said, as if testing it out, "You can call me Toni." The little smile she gave him said that she preferred that immensely.
"Alright then Toni, I'm Steve," he answered with a dip of his head. In the corner he noticed a pile of papers and grew curious.
"Oh, those, don't bother with those. They're nothing," Toni rushed to assure him.
"They must be something if you keep them," Steve said, watching the woman on the bed. If he weren't in such unfamiliar territory, he would find Toni's ease with her own nakedness appealing. His hands itched to draw her.
There was a silence as Toni worried her lip, deciding. "You can look at them," she said finally, "But don't laugh!" She looked fierce as she scolded him.
Steve had no intentions of it. He picked up the pile of papers and found himself in awe of what he was seeing. There were designs for machines, equations with symbols that he had never seen before, and sketches of a set of armor labeled Iron Man. In the middle of leafing through them he looked up. "You made these?" he asked, just to be sure.
"Why else would I have them?" Toni snapped. Her arms were crossed over her breasts and one leg thrown over the other, defensive.
"These are brilliant," Steve told her unflinchingly, "I don't know much about maths, but it's enough to know that this is revolutionary. I've never seen anything like this. And the machines… This part right here, on this textile machine would save fingers from getting chopped off, exactly like Bucky was saying he and his old coworkers wanted. And the drawings, the drawings are amazing. I publish my work and I wish I could get my lines that smooth." He reverently stroked the paper right beside a sketch of a mechanical boot with some kind of gun on the bottom.
Toni stared at him, and if he wasn't mistaken, her eyes looked a little shiny. "Are you being honest when you say that?" she asked in an extremely composed voice.
"I don't think I've ever been more honest," Steve said firmly. For the first time he looked at her, really looked. From dainty feet to the crown of her head he looked at every detail, and found them all suddenly dear to him. Even the star-shaped birthmark on her chest and scars on the insides of her wrists.
Later, Steve would say that was the moment he first fell in love.
The last thing Steven Rogers expected was to find in his front yard that morning was one of those revolutionaries that had declared the Colonies' independence. He should leave him there. It would be nothing but trouble to do anything else.
He picked the man up and carried him inside anyways. It was too early for anyone else to be awake, so it was safe enough. Hopefully.
The man stirred when he was put into Steven's bed, but did not wake. That was probably a good thing. What he saw was a nasty gunshot and probably painful. The thought made his own side spasm, never quite recovered from the French and Indian War.
With a wince, Steven stretched and took a step back. The area the stranger got shot in was too dangerous for him to operate on, no matter how good he got at it back then. He'd have to get Doctor Banner and pray. Thankfully it looked like he was tough, there was a large star-shaped scar already over his breastbone.
It was surprisingly easy to convince the man. While most people were unsure of him because of his unstable moods, Steven had never been afraid and he seemed to appreciate that. So when he was asked to save a stranger, who was probably a fugitive now, he gave Steven a look and asked for a bowl of water, a cloth and a candle.
Several times during the operation Steven had to practically lay on top of the man to keep him from thrashing. It was lucky they had already gagged him. The noise was enough to make them worry as it was.
Nearly an hour later, Doctor Banner declared the surgery done as well as he could. "As long as he rests and doesn't strain himself, the stitches should last. Call on me again if he gets a fever or wakes within a few hours," he said, with a sidelong glance at the man on the bed.
"Thank you," Steven answered with a shaky breath. If at all possible he had wanted to stay out of this fight, but it looked like that was no longer an option. He had brought it in his front door, literally.
"Do you have any idea what you're doing?" Doctor Banner asked wryly.
"Not a clue," Steven answered honestly.
Understanding, Doctor Banner clapped a hand to his friend's shoulder. "Welcome to the revolution," he said with a grim kind of mischief in his smile. He departed without further pleasantries, knowing when he was not wanted.
Once he closed the door, Steven leaned on it and took a deep breath. For a moment he held it, then let it out slowly. The last time he was in a war, he lost the man he loved. Those eyes still haunted him, grey and filled with regret as he fell from that cliff. Was he ready to get involved again?
He reminded himself that he didn't have a choice, not now. Conscious that he needed to look like everything was business as usual, he went down the side stairs into his shop. The sign was flipped and he pumped the bellows, put more fuel on the fire. There were a few orders expected today.
Whenever he was between customers Steven checked on his houseguest, only to find him the same way he was left: unconscious. That didn't stop him from invading the blacksmith's thoughts the whole day. Who was he? Why was he fighting? What did he hope to gain from this?
Right before dinner Steven closed the shop and banked the fire. It was time to see to the mysterious revolutionary in his bed.
This time, the man was awake. He was trying to sit up, only to lose his balance and fall back with a yelp of pain when the door opened. "Would you help me get some water?" he requested through gritted teeth.
Immediately Steven filled a cup with some water from a pitcher nearby. It was an exercise in gentleness to help the man sit up against the headboard and drink it.
As the man gulped it down, brown eyes watched Steven intensely. Once he finished the cup, he let out a sigh of relief. "I didn't think there were any revs in this neighborhood," he said, "I'm glad I was wrong."
Remembering Doctor Banner's words, Steven's lips twisted upward. "I wasn't one. It looks like I am now though," he said. "Steven Rogers."
"Tony Stark," the man replied with a cheeky little salute.
For the second time in his life, Steven fell into someone's eyes. And it terrified him.
Stefanie Rogers had never been in worse trouble, no matter which way she looked at it.
War, famine and plague had devastated Wurzburg and everyone was looking for someone to blame the bad events on. Of course, they chose witches. It was expected.
That didn't mean that Stefanie was not terrified. Of course she was. Anyone in her position would be.
Her position was in a cell of the Malefizhaus. It was a specially constructed building, meant to house witches and others of the devil, and spread fear into anyone else who would dare think of using foul magics.
It also housed many innocent. Stefanie herself was among those, a God-fearing woman from the day she was born. From the screams and cries of others for mercy, they too were not witches. Eventually they all confessed.
Only Stefanie and the girl who now shared her cell had not admitted to consorting with the devil just to make the pain stop. The other girl had been thrown in here with her after the bowl of gruel they called breakfast here. She hadn't said a word since she landed on the cold stone floor, simply glared at the door. A fiery spirit like that was rare here.
Somewhere in her heart, Stefanie hoped that fire would not be smothered. It was a terrible thing to think. That would only lead to more pain and then an agonizing death. But her admiration of such a spirit would not be squashed, either.
"You haven't confessed," the other girl observed suddenly.
"You haven't either," Stefanie pointed out.
The other girl smiled proudly. "No, I have not. I will not. Why have you not? Saved yourself the pain of a length execution?" she asked curiously. It was almost too dark to see her eyes, gleaming curiously.
"I will not confess to that which I did not do," Stefanie said stubbornly.
The other girl nodded. "I did not either," she confided.
Something unspoken happened then. Connection that Stefanie thought had been lost to her was brought back in the form of this strange girl who she shared a cell with. She wanted nothing more than to curl up close to this person and not let go of her lifeline.
"In the case of my death tomorrow, I would like someone else to know my name. I am Antonia. You can call me Toni," the girl introduced herself calmly. She picked at her sparse linen shift, seemingly without concern.
"I am Stefanie. Please, call me Steffie," the blonde introduced herself.
"We do not have much time left," Toni said from her corner. She drew closer, now resting against the wall half way across the cell.
Stefanie nodded. In the sparse light she saw her hair, her pride and joy, tangled in front of her face in a golden snarl. With a grimace she tried to untangle it as best she could. "Then let us make the best of our time until we burn," she suggested, flinching when she accidentally pulled too hard.
"Let me," Toni told her. She shifted the rest of the way over to sit behind Stefanie and with gentle fingers untangled the knots.
For hours they dealt with the rat's nest that had been made of Stefanie's hair, talking quietly. New knowledge was shared and old secrets freed. There was something freeing about knowing that she was about to die. There was nothing worse that could happen, so what harm was there in sharing her deepest self with another?
Two bowls of gruel got shoved through a slot in the door for dinner, but otherwise they were left to themselves for their last day alive. It was a relief. Stefanie did not think that she could stomach a priest coming in again to try to shame her into confession.
Instead roles were reversed and Toni's hair received attention, soft despite the torture that she had gone through. No, it was her skin that was pocked and scarred and burned by it. In the dim light, Stefanie saw a star-shaped scab over the other girl's breastbone and couldn't help running her fingers over it. When Toni shivered, she quickly withdrew and put her fingers back to work on the other girl's hair. "I'm sorry."
"It felt nice," Toni told her hoarsely.
Hesitantly, Stefanie slipped her fingers from the mostly-untangled hair and ran them across tense shoulders and sharp collarbones. After a moment of delay she slid them down to finger the various marks of torture.
Toni turned around and put a hand to the blonde's face. "Can I tell you a secret?" she asked in a whisper.
The other girl's words fanned across Stefanie's face and made her shiver. In light of recent events, she could not feel ashamed of the wetness beginning between her thighs. "Yes," she breathed.
"I think I might love you," Toni said. Her words were more felt than heard, hot syllables on Stefanie's face, they were so quiet.
"I think I might love you, as well," the blonde responded. The honesty of her words shocked her.
A smile spread on Toni's face that made her glow like some angel. "Then let us make the best of this night. It is all we have left," she said. Boldly, she leaned in with a kiss.
Stefanie gasped into the other girl's mouth and allowed herself to fall back to the floor. If this was the last night that she was going to be alive, she was going to use it to live.
And live they did, that night.
When the time came, Toni could say that she was not afraid. For once, it would not be a lie.
Unlike when she was dunked under the water for those long minutes, unlike when she was burned with hot iron, her heart did not beat faster. She did not feel the urge to run away. She was ready to die.
Of course, if the choice was given to her she would live. But not if it meant confessing to things she did not do. Perhaps her pride would send her to hell, but better that than lie to God himself.
Beside her, Steffie gave her a brief smile. In the light of day her face was white, like new milk. It was a beautiful face. Toni felt cheated that she was not able to see it as they made love last night.
Wood was piled around their feet and oil poured on it. The time was almost upon them.
In the crowd, Hughard Stark gazed upon the spectacle with tears in his eyes. Despite his milling about the edge of the crowd, Toni could see her father clearly. It was not his fault, no matter how much Toni wanted to blame him for this as well as everything else.
Instead of cursing him, she smiled for him. Somehow, she could not find it in herself to feel anything but love and pity for the man who helped give her life. And made her life hell, but in that moment she forgave him for it.
It seemed that Hughard knew what she was trying to say. They had always been a family of few words beyond sniping at each other. The tears flowed down his cheeks freely now, he did not even try to wipe them away.
In a circle a priest and confessor asked each of them if they would renounce the ways of the devil. It would spare their lives, the men cautioned.
When it came her turn, Steffie boldly announced, "I did not consort with the devil, and I am no witch or liar. If lying will spare me, then I would rather be consigned to the flames." Her spirit was incredible. It almost visibly flared as she spoke, blue eyes flashing.
The men backed away, wide-eyed. Did they see it too? "The Lord will know his own," the confessor said darkly, and they moved to Toni.
"I am no more a witch than my friend. If my innocence leads me to the flames, then so be it," Toni said, sure to speak loudly enough for her father to hear. He, if no one else, deserved to know the truth.
"Very well," the old priest said with a grim smile. He continued to the next person, a boy of perhaps eight.
Toni looked out into the crowd and saw her friends, Virginia and Jakob. They held each other for support, not even blinking. They too, she smiled at.
The last of the convicted witches were questioned, and two gave in. They were taken from the stake and allowed to live. But it would be a half-life, Toni already knew. Not worth giving up their integrity for.
That alone allowed her to struggle with her bonds, enough to free a hand. The knots were not very good. If she had time, she could have freed herself.
Rather than try, she reached out and gripped Steffie's bound hands.
As the Prince-Bishop read off the list of their names and their crimes, Toni only heard hers (Antonia Stark) and Steffie's (Stefanie Rogers) of them all. In the strangest, most horrible way, it felt like a mockery of a marriage ceremony. "I do," Toni muttered under her breath in response to this thought.
Steffie turned her head and smiled. It made the sun feel weak and harsh. "I do," she whispered back.
A torch was lowered to the wood, and the smoke immediately made Toni cough. Her eyes watered unpleasantly and tears ran down her face from the stinging. This was the first time she had wept since her mother died.
Hands still pressed together, she felt it when Steffie squeezed hers. "Toni," she hacked.
"Steffie," Toni answered. Through her own tears, she could barely see Steffie's. It was a shame, she wanted her lover's face to be the last thing she saw in this life.
"I will find you," Steffie promised, coughing with every other word, "When we are free of this torment, I will find you again." The hacking got so bad she sounded like she was about to vomit.
"I will always be with you," Toni swore. now her tears were not just from the pain in her eyes and skin and throat, it was from the pain in her heart. She wished that they could have had longer together.
Everything around her was blackened by smoke, she could barely see through it. Not the light of day nor the green of the forest were able to penetrate it. But that was alright. She could still feel Steffie's hand in hers.
It went limp.
With a scream, Toni banged her head back against the pole she was tied to. She closed her eyes and did not open them again.
When the flames were doused, the confessor found their hands still intertwined. They were buried with the other accused witches in an unmarked grave.
For several days Tony laid in the bed of the strange blacksmith whose yard he had passed out in. If the man was no revolutionary, then who was he? Why was he helping one?
When he asked those questions, blue eyes crinkled shut in a smile. "Tis the right thing to do," he answered and went back to reading aloud. It was the bible, but better than nothing.
Sometimes Tony would be able to get an actual conversation. It was not often, Steven was a busy man, but when he did it was illuminating. For a soldier-turned-blacksmith, the man was knowledgeable. Not educated, but those never were the same things.
It was life that Steven knew the most about. His stories of the French and Indian War were beautiful, gripping things that made Tony both grateful he wasn't there and longing to have been. If for no other reason than to meet James.
"Where is James now?" Tony had asked after he had heard enough about the man to fill a book.
"A gunshot made him stumble right off the edge of a cliff. I couldn't even find his body," Steven said in a rough voice. His face was that of a haunted man.
And not just figuratively, Tony realized that night. It was the first time under this roof that he didn't pass out the moment he was alone. He wished he would. Instead he saw shadows move or heard cannonfire with something other than his ears.
Then he saw a man. The specter melted through the door, semi-transparent and weightless, gazing around the room fondly. When his eyes landed on Tony, he smiled. If a ghost could be handsome, this one was, even with his hair to his shoulders and a red coat on. The dark stain in the middle of his chest drew Tony's eye unwillingly.
"Stevie is talking about you a lot, Tony," the ghost told him bluntly. His voice was deep and yet like wind whistling through the leaves.
"Are you James?" Tony asked, mouth dry. He had never encountered a ghost before.
The dark head nodded. "I don't have long, so I'm only gonna say it once: take care of Stevie. He's a stubborn punk, but I love him. I always will. I need to make sure that he has someone to love him before I go on," James said with a sad smile. There was something joyous in his eyes.
Tony swallowed and took in a shallow breath. "You mean you're… fine with this?" he asked. Hope was thudding in his chest, even as he was sure that this was a trick his sleepy mind was playing on him.
"Well yeah. Time don't really exist where I am. So I know," James told him with such certainty Tony almost believed him.
"I can do my best," Tony agreed seriously. He wasn't sure how this ghost knew what he had kept hidden deep in his heart. But it didn't matter, not now.
"Call him a stubborn punk for me, will ya?" James requested. A light was shining behind him, growing brighter by the second, but he only appeared to get more solid and block it. Color appeared, a red coat and white pants, dark hair and grey eyes. It was like he was a flesh and blood man again.
"Of course," Tony agreed easily. How could he refuse a dead man's last request?
"Thanks," James said. He sounded on the verge of tears. "Goodbye, Tony." He stepped into the light and it suddenly vanished.
The candle went out and a chill that Tony hadn't realized was in the room left. Despite that it was dark, the room was peaceful.
The door opened. "Are you alright? I thought I heard something," Steven asked, concerned as he scanned the room.
"Did James have grey eyes? Shoulder length brown hair? A cleft in his chin?" Tony asked. Before he said anything, he had to be sure.
Eyes wide, Steven agreed. "How did you know?" he asked. He left the door open and collapsed onto the edge of the bed, turning desperate eyes on the other man.
"He asked me to call you a stubborn punk," Tony said softly.
Tears filled Steven's eyes. "Is he here now?" he asked hopefully. Despite that he may not have seen the ghost anyways, his eyes roved the room.
"He told me," Tony had to take a deep breath before he said this. If he said it wrong, like he always managed to, this might be unfixable. That would break him.
"Yes?" Steven prompted.
"He told me that you talk about me a lot," Tony began again. Seeing Steven's ears go red, he continued more bravely, "He said that he'll always love you. That he had to stick around until you found someone to love you." He hoped that got the message across.
For a moment, Steven seemed frozen. "You mean…" he trailed off, a mess of emotions in his voice.
"There was a bright light and he disappeared. He went on," Tony confirmed. He smiled, but couldn't help the tears that welled up. There is something beautiful about love, no matter who it is.
Neither of them dared to breathe while the implications sank in. It could have been two seconds or it could have been forever before either of them moved.
Steven laid down on the bed and whispered into Tony's hair, "I think I might love you."
Happiness swelled up in Tony's chest. "I think I might love you too," he said back.
When he was recovered, Anthony Stark left to continue the Revolution. Miraculously he survived disease and cold and death, returning to New York victorious several years later.
Steven Rogers, meanwhile, made everything from swords to cannons for Washington's army. He was a part of the team that melted down the statue of King George III to make weapons from and his work quickly grew in acclaim. The shop burned down in 1778 but he too survived and quickly rebuilt.
They settled in Manhattan and ran the smithy until their eventual peaceful deaths.
Their names are carved on memorials to the Revolutionary War nationwide, always right beside each other.
When Toni thought about her plans for that day, she expected that they would involve figuring out something to eat, and then sleeping. A skinny, pretty blonde boy jumping in her window to hide from the coppers was not on the agenda.
She couldn't find it in herself to be angry. Not when he said such beautiful things about her work.
Her whole life, her ideas and contributions had been ignored because she had a vagina. Now, when she had nearly given up on anyone seeing them, this sickly little revolutionary jumps in and calls them brilliant.
If Toni had a heart left, she would say that he stole it the moment that word came out of his mouth.
As it was, she grinned and felt more than a little lighter. It wasn't junk. It wasn't useless. It was appreciated by someone. "You see what I do when I'm not… working," she said, not even feeling sick about her job anymore, "What about you? What do you do, when you're not being chased by coppers?" She couldn't help teasing him, no matter how fond of him she had grown.
The young man, Steve, blushed. "That doesn't happen often," he assured her with a little laugh and a hand through his hair, "I draw comics for the papers and do paperwork at the dock offices." He grimaced at the concept.
"That explains why you were running. I heard about the union," Toni told him sympathetically. If there were people hated more than prostitutes like her, it was union sympathizers like him.
"I got dragged by a friend who does the actual work out there," Steve said with the sort of bitter longing that was in her own voice all too often. She never wanted to hear it in his again.
To that end, Toni crouched on her bare dirty floor again. Just inches apart, she said seriously, "You are important. Never forget that. It's not just the meatheads out there who can change things. They burn out like matches. People like you and me, the common people who maybe can't do what they can but have the spirit to match theirs, are the soul of every revolution out there." She stared into his pale blue eyes, willing him to understand what she was really trying to say.
Something in his eyes brightened. It was enough.
Toni withdrew to her bed again, satisfied with her good deed for the day.
"Can I draw you?" The sudden question made her choke.
"What?" Toni asked. She wondered if he were more mad than she. Why would anyone want to draw a common whore when the real thing was always available?
In answer, Steven held up a piece of paper and chalk that she kept for writing her formulas and designs on. "If you don't mind, I'd like to draw you," he repeated more politely.
Though she was still confused, Toni shrugged. "How do you want me?" she asked. For once she didn't mean sexual positions.
"On your side with your left leg thrown over your right. Right arm under your head and elbow bent, left arm… Your left arm should lay on your side, with your hand hanging at your pelvis," Steve instructed in a commanding voice. When she didn't get quite how he envisioned, he got up from his position under the windowsill and his hands hovered over her body.
"Go on," Toni told him. Her heart thudded as his fingers closed around her hip, tilting her pelvis down slightly then moving her hand over it. That hadn't happened since her first day selling herself.
It was an intense thing, the artist's rearranging his model. His hands were gentler than any laid upon her since she ran off from Wiltshire, and most there. There was nothing sexual about this, but every touch sent shivers of sensation through Toni's skin with the inadvertent sensuality.
When he had her the way he wanted, Steve went right to work on the paper. Back under the windowsill, he used the gloomy daylight that dared pierce the London smog to draw by. For the most part he looked at the paper, but every now and again he would look up. Sometimes he would trace the air with his chalk, getting the motions right before he committed it to paper.
Being the center of a man's focus had always been invigorating for Toni. But this, this was something special. Long after this little revolutionary disappeared, she was sure these minutes would stay with her.
It was a long while before the drawing was complete, the sun beginning to tilt downward. "Ha! All finished!" Steven crowed, grinning down at the paper. "Would you like to see?" he asked, excited.
"Of course," Toni answered with a fond roll of her eyes. She felt all her joints crack when she finally moved and let out a sigh of relief. Stillness had never become her.
Rather than have her get up, Steve sprang to his feet and offered the paper. He shuffled his feet where he stood to her side, waiting for judgment.
It was her, but… beautiful. The tangles she knew were in her hair were there, but the lines conveyed a wildness that was missing in the real thing. The curves and dips of her torso were smooth, the pose one of casual, playful sensuality. A smile lifting the corner of her lips hinted at it. But the eyes, those drew her in the most. Even in hard charcoal on ragged paper, the eyes of her drawing were alive. Toni hadn't looked like that in years. "This is how you see me?" she asked, unable to keep the tremble from her voice.
"Yeah," Steve replied with a smile, satisfied as he looked over her shoulder at the paper.
There was nothing Toni could say to that. She didn't even try, just put a hand to the back of Steve's neck and drew him down to kiss his cheek. "Thank you," she told him with all the sincerity she could muster.
The smile on Steve's face was like she remembered the sun in Wiltshire. "I hope you don't mind if I keep the drawing?" he asked.
"Only if you give me another," Toni said cheekily.
Steve laughed at that, something that hadn't been heard in this place in a long time. "The second I can get some of my own supplies," he promised.
It had been several hours, so the coppers were probably gone. The reminder was like a kick to the chest. Toni was sure her smile was brittle as she stood up and showed her unexpected guest back to the windowsill. "Thank you for today, Steve," she said, and surprisingly meant it.
"No, thank you, Toni." Steve reached out for her hand and kissed her knuckles chivalrously, like the gentlemen used to do at her father's dinners. This meant more to her than any of them.
With a mischievous wink, he jumped back out her window and onto the roof of the next building over. From her window, Toni watched him leap from roof to balcony to ground, and scurry along the borders of walkways like a born street rat. Before he was out of sight he waved, and she returned it. Then he was out of sight, back in St Pancras proper.
Toni sat back down on her bed and took a deep breath, wondering why his departure made her want to cry. It had been nothing more than a few words with a stranger.
She should have tossed him out on his ass the minute he dove in her window, she thought angrily as she swiped the wetness from her eyes. That would have saved her a lot of trouble.
Two days later, she came back with a client to find a rolled up piece of paper on her bed. When she was alone she opened it and the biggest smile she remembered wearing was on her face. This was better than anything she had ever been given for Christmas.
The drawing was of them. Toni recognized herself how Steve saw her, lounging on her bed with careless abandon and a smile across the room at his drawn self, who was hunched under the window frame over a piece of paper. Their surroundings were dark and indistinguishable, but the foreground was impeccably drawn with her papers tucked into a corner and bedsheets crumpled. It was signed, "Your Revolutionary, Steve".
Careful to not smudge the charcoal, Toni hovered a finger over the side of Steve's face. He was more handsome in real life. But his eyes were so beautiful even in black and white that she didn't mind.
Toni kept the drawing safe and whenever she needed to remember that life could be beautiful, she looked at it. And she imagined meeting the artist again.
Steve died the following Monday in a dock workers' riot. In his pocket they found a drawing of a whore that some of them recognized and one of them returned it to her. Once he found the way to her tenement, anyways.
The news of Steve's death crushed Toni. She never really recovered from it.
Instead of withering away and dying like so many other women, she took her designs and equations with her to a nunnery, where she pretended to believe in God just enough for her work to be recognized and published. A decade later, dying of diseases caught while working the oldest profession, Antonia Stark may have even believed.
The other nuns found her drawings the day of her death and preserved them as art. They were sold in 2009 to Tony Stark for ten thousand dollars each.
It only took three days for Tony Stark to fall head over heels in love. If anyone had told him that he would, he'd have laughed in their face and said that love was for children. But here he was, running down the stairs as fast as he could.
The ship was sinking. The ship was bloody sinking! And here he was, going deeper into her bowels to find the shy Irishman who had stopped a watch-thief with a serving tray. Now that was love if he had ever seen it.
Tony swore at himself, Fury and his father equally. The goddamned spy had found him and Steve in bed together and told his old man. At Howard's word, the crew had detained Steve near the quarters allotted to the master-at-arms on E Deck that evening.
Not even three hours later they struck an iceberg and Tony's race against time began.
Ignoring everyone who tried to tell him otherwise, he had accosted one of the officers with desperate demands for directions. The Englishman had barked them at him between firing flares. Before he could tell him not to do it though, Tony was gone.
Howard wasn't as easy to ignore. "You're going to him?" the man asked incredulously, once he caught sight of his son again.
"Yes!" Tony shouted back. After that he sprinted off, too fast for the old man to catch up. Not even Fury had a chance.
Not that either of them had tried too hard, Tony thought wryly as he made the last turn. The moment he saw E Deck he skidded to a stop, suddenly afraid. There were at least two feet of ocean water already in eh corridor and it would only get deeper.
Nodding to himself, Tony abandoned his long coat and scarf. Now left in his shorter jacket, he took the last steps down and let out an admittedly girlish squeal at the temperature of the water. Freezing was too kind a word.
It took a moment, and a groan of steel, to remind Tony of the last of the directions the officer had given him. Go right, it'll be on the left, now bugger off. As fast as he could on suddenly numb feet, he took off down the corridor. At the described door, he scrabbled at the doorknob and sighed in relief when it was unlocked.
Near the porthole, Steve's head jerked up when the door opened. At first he was hopeful, but then his face went white. "God, Tony, what are you doing here?" he demanded, "Go, get out of here now!"
The water was only starting to creep into this room. That was good, at least. "I'm here to get you out, now shut up and help me find the key to those cuffs," Tony snapped at him. For reasons he could never say, water had always made him anxious.
"A little silver one," Steve told him. When he saw the water he started swearing creatively.
Tony searched the key cabinet and both desks but found nothing. "Dammit, what the hell!" he shouted, throwing a drawer against the wall, "Aren't there supposed to be spares!"
"If we could find some way of breaking them… They're too tight for my hands to get out of, even if I dislocate my thumb," Steve reported grimly. The section of his hands where his thumbs and palms joined looked hot and swollen.
An idea struck. "Wait just a second," Tony told him excitedly. There may not be a key, but he did see a fire axe on the way.
Using the hose spigot to break the glass, Tony hefted the axe. It was heavier than what he was used to, but it would do. It had to.
The moment Steve saw what he was going to do, he lit up. "You know how to use that thing?" he asked almost cheerfully.
"On firewood," Tony said through chattering teeth.
Steve's face fell into a grimace as he looked from Tony to the axe. Still, he held the cuffs tightly against the pipe he was chained to and closed his eyes in preparation for pain.
Carefully as he could with his muscles seizing up, Tony took aim. With all the force he could, he brought the edge of the axe down on the chain of the handcuffs.
There was no effect. All it did was glance off and barely avoid nicking Steve.
"Well shit," Tony said, staring at the chain, "Whatever the fuck those are made of, Howard would have killed to have some of it." He could swear that it wasn't even dented. With a look of disgust at the axe, he allowed it to fall into the now knee-deep water.
Hearing the splash, Steve's eyes opened. "I can't say I expected anything else," he said regretfully.
Tony couldn't lie and say he did. It was a vain, blind hope at best and he knew it. Instead of arguing, he waded through the water to wrap his arms around the shivering blonde.
"Go," Steve urged him, "Please." The look in his eyes was stricken as they darted from the rapidly rising water to the brunette holding him.
"No. I'm not going anywhere, Steve," Tony said calmly. Now that he made the decision, the worry fell away. His worst fears were coming true, but that was alright. He was right where he belonged.
"Why are you throwing your life away like this?" Steve questioned desperately. Tears started in the corners of his eyes.
With gentle motions, Tony wiped them away. "There aren't enough lifeboats anyways," he revealed with a wry grin, "It's either drown down here with you or drown up there with those pretentious assholes. I think you know which one I prefer." He would have picked this even were there enough boats.
Steve took a shuddering breath and shook his head. "I always seem to get you into trouble, don't I?" he asked.
"You know it," Tony confirmed. When it became common knowledge that he was associating with a steerage passenger, even one who stopped a thief, Howard had blown a gasket. It hadn't stopped him. Now, at the end of it all, he thought that this was worth it.
"It might be too early to say this, but I think I might love you," Steve said out of the blue.
Maybe it was because of the surprise, or maybe he meant to say it all along, but Tony said before he thought about it, "I think I love you too." When he pondered it for the few seconds that he had left before all thought became about how fucking cold it was, he realized that he did mean it.
"Where'd you get that scar?" Steve asked, unashamedly looking down the other man's shirt.
It took a moment for Tony to remember which one he was being asked about. "Oh, the star-shaped one. Accident with a welding torch," he said, embarrassed at his childhood stupidity. What he had even been trying to do, he forgot.
By then the water was to his shoulders, Steve's mid-chest. Everything was numb, from brain to balls to toes.
"This is not my favorite way to die," Steve muttered.
Tony snorted. "What, you died before?"
"Sometimes I think so," Steve admitted. Even more than half frozen, he managed to blush.
"Better than fire, I guess," Tony said with a bob of his head. The water was up to his neck now, allowing him to float up to Steve's height. It was a new experience, looking straight at him.
"If I ever again go down like this, it'd better be because I was saving the world," Steve grumbled.
Tony laughed, and then the water was over his head. There was no more air, only what was in his lungs. This was it. In his last moments he pulled himself to face the love of his life and their lips met one last time.
Their bodies were never recovered. Expeditions to the wreck found their shoes still intact, facing each other.
Howard Stark survived but Nicholas Fury and James Barnes perished in the sinking.
Tony Stark blinked and looked more closely at the American icon. "It must be a fluke. I wasn't even conceived before you went into the ice," he said with an unsteady laugh.
"Yeah, must be. Steve Rogers," the blonde man said with a smile and an offered hand. Those hands were large, capable of lifting cars but gentle enough to make things of beauty.
"Tony Stark," he returned, shaking hands, "Now, what's Catherine the Great's plan in there?" He gestured to the cell that Loki was being kept in, turning the conversation back to where it should be.
That day he said a lot of things. Most of them were not nice. Some of them were.
What he never said was that he remembered being a girl named Nella Acerbi and dying of polio with skinny Steve Rogers crying at her bedside the year after she took his virginity. He never mentioned drowning under electric lights or hiding an artist in over his head from the cops or being told to take the chance by a ghost. Most of all, he never mentioned being tortured and burned, and finding the whole thing worth it because it led him to the girl he loved. In that life and every one since.
Tony rubbed his arc reactor in the spot where a star-shaped birthmark used to be.
This was the start of a new cycle. He couldn't wait to see where it went.
It was not a perfect ending, but a perfect beginning.