Surprisingly, Steve wasn't cold.

Wherever he was, he felt nice. Comfortable, even. He could sense he was laying on his back; he could feel the soft blanket and sheets. He wasn't in his uniform, which unnerved him just the slightest. Wherever he was, he felt safe.

But for the love of all that was holy, he couldn't open his eyes. It felt as if lead had weighed them shut; his arms were stiff at his sides; he had an awful taste in his mouth. If it weren't for his latest, vague memories of crashing into the Atlantic, he would've simply thought he'd slept for a long, long time.

Perhaps he had. When he managed to crack his eyes open, the dim light of the small room nearly blinded him, as faint as it was. A groggy, uncoordinated hand was tugged from his side, rustling the starch sheets and cotton overthrow. Steve blinked once, then twice. He focused his eyes on the beige ceiling, and when his eyes felt near normal, he pushed himself on his elbows. Black spots swam before his vision as he winced, the blood rushing away from his skull.

The room was a perfection of ordinary. From the tile to the barren walls to the small dresser—it was obviously a room that no one called their own. There was nothing personal. Nothing at all, really. Steve frowned, and for the first time realized that just because he had a nice bed, he wasn't necessarily in allies quarters'.

It took quite an amount of effort and time to push himself upright—to his feet—to the door. Steve's head pounded, but all his might went into making his footfalls light, and keeping himself from losing his balance and creating a commotion. His aching fingers wrapped around the doorknob, and slowly turned.

Outside the room was a hallway just as bland. Steve looked both ways, then decided on moving forward. He chose the direction at random.

Upon reaching a corner, Steve flushed himself with the wall. He held his breath, listening to the quiet hum of conversation. Two men walked past, oblivious, and speaking English. Steve watched them pass, listening until the sounding of their feet was nonexistent. Then he took off once more.

A left, a right, straight ahead. God, did this place have any exits? Steve turned another corner—

"Shit."

The soldier crashed into another figure, then went reeling backwards. Steve quickly analyzed the lithe frame before him, the hair, the eyes.

Steve, for the first time in what felt like forever, grinned. "Howard."

Something in Steve's stomach dropped when he reviewed the face of the man before him—such familiar eyes, that dark wavy hair—all in an unfamiliar face. It wasn't comforting when Steve realized this blinking, stunned figure, barely a man yet, wasn't Howard. This man's face was too young, his eyes too bright. Besides, he didn't even have Howard's annoying moustache.

"Sorry," the figure breathed. He even sounded like the old military inventor. If Steve's head was clearer, he might have put the pieces together. "Wrong Stark."

So I read a poem (thus the name of the title) about a year ago, and for some reason thought of this. Obviously AU, but I always wondered how Howard and Tony Stark's perspectives would have changed if Steve . . . er, thawed out a few decades earlier. So, here you go. If people like this, I'll be more than happy to continue. I got some ideas to tinker around with.

Disclaimer: No, I don't own the poem, the comics, the movies, nor the characters. I'm just a nerd that had too much time on her hands and now doesn't have enough.

Happy Thanksgiving (or Happy Random Thursday) to you all!

Stay awesome, my dudes!

~palmtreedragons