Chapter 4: 1943
There were some things that he could never tell anyone. There were some things that were just too private, too personal.
Like the time he found a baby bird with a broken wing up on their roof and tried to nurse it back to health. How he'd cried when his father found it in the little box in his room and threw it out the window. How he had run down to see the little broken body on the sidewalk. How the little bird's eyes were still open.
He must have been around eight years old when it happened, and the little bird still appeared in his dreams every now and again.
No one knew the story, and no one ever would. Tony Stark didn't appreciate people knowing his weaknesses. He didn't appreciate people seeing beyond the front he put up. It was there for a reason, after all.
There were some memories that were meant to stay as such. Because the minute the words left his lips, he would be validating the event. It would be real, because someone else knew about it. As far as he was concerned, there had never been a little bird with a broken wing.
And as he watched Steve Rogers sobbing on the floor outside Peggy Carter's room, as broken as the tiny feathered body on the sidewalk those many years ago, the two tears Tony Stark shed ceased to exist the moment he hastily smeared them away.
The car ride back was completely silent. To Steve's utter relief, Tony didn't ask any questions or bother with idle chitchat. In a situation like this, especially with two grown men, talking would be too much work.
In fact, Tony's silence was more precious to Steve than any words could have been. He didn't want to talk. He didn't want to explain what he was feeling, because no amount of words could possibly convey the deep, resonating ache he felt throughout his entire body. The ache of letting go of everything he once knew.
He wondered what Tony thought of him now. The promise he had once made to himself that he would never cry in front of Tony Stark was now blown to bits, and he couldn't take it back. His weakness had been seen.
On any other day, he would have been absolutely humiliated. But today was different. His emotions had been sucked dry and he wasn't sure when he'd ever be able to feel anything but despair.
Tony parked the car and the two men walked to the elevator silently. The ride was long and slightly tense, but it wasn't of much consequence to either of them.
It was only when they reached Steve's floor that Tony chose to speak. Steve had just gotten off the elevator, so Tony pressed the hold button to keep the doors from closing in his face. "I don't really know much about what to do in these types of situations, but I do know that Pepper would ask you something like 'Is there anything you need?' So, is there anything you need?"
Steve was quiet for a moment before he turned to look at Steve. "Some alcohol would be nice."
Tony snapped his fingers. "Alcohol, wonderful suggestion. I know just what to get. Wait here."
He jammed his thumb against the button for his floor, and when the doors opened he headed straight to his best liquor cabinet.
"JARVIS, wine glasses," he instructed as he searched through the array of bottles. Aha. He found it near the back, still unopened: an elegant bottle of 1943 Chateau Mouton Rothschild. It had been a gift from an overseas investor and he'd been saving it for a special occasion.
Assisting Captain America in mourning the loss of his beloved 1940's life seemed like a pretty good reason to pour a glass or two.
"Your glasses, sir," JARVIS chimed, two glasses rising up from the countertop. Tony grabbed them along with the bottle and headed back down to Steve's floor.
He found Steve standing awkwardly in the living room area. He had taken off his jacket and by the looks of his embarrassed expression had hidden it somewhere so he wouldn't be forced to stare at it. Tony didn't mention it.
"Dinner is served," he proclaimed as he poured the wine into the two glasses. Steve sat down on the couch and examined the bottle.
"1943. Good year," he said softly.
Tony handed his teammate a glass and held up his own. "To 1943," he said, clinking his glass against Steve's, who smiled sadly before downing the entire drink. Tony's eyes widened a bit but he said nothing as he refilled the glass.
In hindsight, he had thought that he'd just stick around for a few glasses of wine and then leave Steve to his thoughts. But he certainly didn't expect his fellow Avenger to get as chatty as he did. Whenever Tony would think about leaving, Steve would start saying something and he felt obligated to stay.
But it actually wasn't all that bad. Even with a slow and slurred voice Steve Rogers was a very eloquent storyteller. Tony sat and listened attentively as the man went on and on about the war, his friend Bucky, meeting Peggy, and his days before the super soldier serum. He even suffered through some stories about his own father, and what a good and brave man Steve thought he was.
Tony realized about halfway through the drunken rambling that this was a side of Steve that no one else had seen before, at least in this decade. There was a light in his eyes as he talked, a light that Tony recognized. It was a light that could only come from the wonderful and secure feeling of being home. And it made sense, because these memories were his home.
What must it be like, to have to say goodbye to the time you called home? To say goodbye to all of the people you loved, and to all of the things the way you knew them? Tony couldn't imagine. He knew what it was like to say goodbye to a former life, but at least he was in the same time period.
So that's why he listened. He knew that today was Steve's last day living in the past. And by telling Tony all of his stories, he was validating their existence. He was ensuring that someone would know they had happened.
And by leaving his memories with Tony, he could feel better about letting them go.
Steve woke up on the couch to the harsh and blinding light of sunshine.
"JARVIS," he croaked, hastily covering his eyes, "Blinds!"
"Right away, sir," the robotic voice replied. Grey blinds lowered to cover the windows and Steve breathed a sigh of relief.
"Thank you."
He looked around at the room. Tony was nowhere to be found, but his presence was certainly apparent. Two empty wine glasses sat on the glass coffee table and the empty bottle of Chateau had rolled under the couch.
After picking up the mess, Steve decided to head to Tony's floor. He wanted to say thank you, and try to gauge just how much of a fool he'd made of himself last night.
When he made it up to Tony's apartment, he was surprised to see Pepper Potts arriving through the elevator.
"Good morning, Miss Potts," he greeted her. She looked up in surprise and smiled.
"Good morning, Steve. How are you?" she asked cheerfully, setting her briefcase down on the dining table and opening it to examine some papers
He smiled grimly and walked to the table. "I'll be honest with you and say that I've been better, ma'am. But I really wanted to thank you for setting up the meeting with Peggy. It meant a lot me."
Pepper's eyebrows furrowed and she looked up at Steve in confusion. "I'm sorry?"
Steve blinked a few times, unsure of what exactly she was confused about. "Um… The meeting at the nursing home, with Peggy. Tony told me how you arranged everything. I was thanking you for setting it up for me."
She was silent for a few moments, and then looked up at him with a strange expression on her face.
"Steve, I was out of town for a conference all week. I never set up a meeting for you."
Author's Note: Eeek! Plot twist! You like?
Tell me in the reviews, and I hope you're still enjoying my semi-fast updates!
6/17/12 note:
To a kind reviewer that pointed out to me that Steve can't get drunk: Lovely point, thank you! I didn't really explain that very well, but I was thinking it was more like a placebo effect. There was alcohol, he was sad, so he was drunk. Kind of like he was subconsciously mimicking the effects. Make sense? Thanks for your input!