Hi,
I hope you liked the last chapter. I've also revised the first chapter to make it a little bit more readable, apologies for the appalling mistakes. If you find any more in any chapters, please let me know and I'll edit.
Another short one, hopefully they'll get longer, but this seemed like a good place to end.
Let me know what you think, I live off reviews!
Rose xx

Chapter Text

Steve made his decision quickly and quietly. While he'd accepted a floor at Stark towers after the battle of New York, it was always meant to be a temporary thing while his old Brooklyn apartment was cleaned up. But the weeks had stretched into months and Steve had found himself getting comfortable. He realised now what a mistake that had been.

He hadn't had many possessions to start with, most of the things on his floor being embellishments courtesy of Stark Industries. What little he had, some sketchbooks, the few surviving items from the war, clothes and, of course, his shield, were quickly packed. He left a note, succinct and to the point, folded atop the counter in the kitchen, stole the leftover broth from the night before, and stepped into the elevator. As the doors closed, he saw Thor on the couch, snuffling in his sleep, and ignored the tug in his chest.

The elevator reached the ground floor in seconds, and Steve emerged into the crisp morning seconds after that. The Levi's and layers he'd put on before leaving seemed inadequate, especially given the walk before him. His bike was still in repairs at a garage downtown, run by the great-grandson of the same man who'd run it when he'd walk by it as a child; it wasn't the sort of thing he was going to let Stark tinker with. He could get a cab, but they were so expensive, costing the same amount he and Bucky would have been able to live on for a year back in the day. The subways had changed too much, and they were noisy and crowded. Walking was the way. He'd walked farther in colder when he was young, without the advantage of the bulk he possessed in the twenty-first century.

It took longer than he thought to get back to his apartment. His hands ached as he walked and despite the sleep, he'd gotten the night before, his energy flagged after walking for not five minutes.

Walking through the apartment was like walking back into the forties. The building had needed repairs after a fire that had torn through the lower stories during his freeze, and, before the Battle of New York, he'd been staying at SHIELD. But it seemed his place had remained untouched and apart from a lack of dust indicating the place had been cleaned, nothing had been touched in his absence. Sketchbooks were stacked tidily on surfaces as he'd left them before enlisting. The monopoly board he and Bucky had found in a dumpster (with only the Scottie Dog missing) was on the only bookshelf in the place.

He stopped towards what served as a kitchen, a small gas stove probably branded as 'unsafe' by the safety standards of the day, and a sink whose water had always tasted like lead. The wooden table in the centre, the only half decent piece in the whole place, was from Steve's own childhood home. It was the table his mother had made bread on. The table she'd baked cakes on when they'd had the money. It was the table he'd sat atop while his mother cleaned his grazed knees, iced his black eyes. The table they'd sat at as he wheezed through another asthma attack. The table he'd been behind when the kind nurse his mother worked with told him she was never coming home.

He stepped into the rest of the room. He ran a hand across the back of the couch. It was propped up on encyclopedias they'd slipped into their coats after the local library had a sale and smelt of long nights huddled together when their bedroom was just too cold.

The bathroom was closed off to the side, a simple toilet-sink-tub set-up, and the only other room in the place lay off to the other side. Steve stepped toward it, breath catching in his throat as he pushed open the door.

Instantly, he was back in the first night he spent after Bucky left for the war. Alone in the room was a single bed, the single bed that had suddenly felt much to big by himself. Alone in a room without a heater on a Winter's night. He crossed the room, fell onto the bed. And like that first night, he curled up in the centre, ignoring the stale smell of 70-year-old covers, eyes on the bare walls that surrounded him, and waited for sleep to come. The bed still felt too big.

Tony woke slowly, trying to figure out what it was that had disturbed him. He let his eyes stay closed and that was when he heard it, the gentle whirring of the elevator. Instantly alert, his eyes snapped open. He did a head count, confirming what he was sure he already knew. Steve was gone.

He stood, making sure to dislodge everyone and awaken them in the process.
"What the hell Stark?" Clint was the first to grumble, with hands that scrubbed across his eyes. Tony had already made his way into the kitchen, and, on his way to the coffee pot, saw the folded paper thrown carelessly on the bench.

Stark,
Thank you for the hospitality, but it is high time I returned to Brooklyn; my apartment has been ready for some time and I must stop imposing. Tell the team I will see them on Thursday for training at SHIELD.
Regards,
Captain Rogers.

"Where's Steve?" Bruce asked the question on everyone else's lips.
Tony threw down the note in frustration, and when that didn't make him feel any better, he swept a mug off the bench, watched with content as it shattered. He grit his teeth.
"The fucking idiot's moved out."