Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Steve stared at the inanimate figure in the stasis box. Next to its slender features, narrow face and bony shoulders, the hand Steve was resting on top of the transparent cover looked massive. Not at all like the sleeper's hands, which were long-fingered and elegant.

"Doesn't it weird you out, looking at yourself like that?" Tony's voice called out from the doorway across the chamber, startling Steve out of his thoughts.

He must've been incredibly distracted not to notice Tony's approach. Considering the number of enhancements his current frame had come with, he should've heard the footsteps long before Tony had even opened the door.

Steve pulled back his hand and turned to face Tony. "A little, yeah," he admitted.

"And yet you come here every time you've got a local assignment, I've noticed. No other Agent does that," Tony said, walking towards Steve and paying no mind to the rows of other stasis boxes lined up around them. "Is it some kind of ritual for you? Like what actors do before a performance?"

"Have you been stalking me?" Steve crossed his arms defensively, and even that felt awkward, the way the thick muscles bunched under his skin.

He knew this impression of clumsiness was temporary. In this frame, his reflexes and coordination should be better than in the one he'd been born with. This was exactly why they scheduled the swaps to give Agents enough time for familiarizing themselves with new frames. He'd only been in this one for a few hours, which gave him the rest of the evening and the night before tomorrow's mission for getting used to it.

"Would it bother you if I were?" Tony had come to a stop next to Steve, and was now peering at the stasis box over his shoulder. "Aw, you're cute. Is that why you come here? To admire yourself from an outside perspective?"

"Ha ha, very funny." Steve was well aware from observing his scrawny birth frame through many different pairs of eyes, that it didn't fit any definition of good-looking. "I come here because it keeps me grounded, okay? I spend more time in borrowed frames than in my own, these days. I don't want to forget who I really am."

Steve didn't believe in the urban legends about people dissociating from their real bodies after too many swaps into fakes, losing something of their humanity in the process so that they never felt at home in their original flesh and blood again. He was an Agent of the System-wide Hazard Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division, and swapping frames was a part of the job. He was good at it, too; he might feel slightly uncoordinated now, but tomorrow, he'd work this one as if he'd always had it. That, and his tactical thinking skills, had helped him climb the ranks record-fast, making him the leader of an elite team before he'd even turned thirty. Still, somewhere at the back of his mind was the feeling that he could never completely shake, that this was unnatural. He imagined that was how most people felt all the time.

Tony, for example, for all his adventurous tendencies, had never been in any body but his own. Not that he would've had any particular reason to swap, either; he was an engineer, not an Agent. Besides, unlike Steve, he'd been born gorgeous.

Tony was gazing at Steve with the big brown eyes that were the most striking feature of his youthful face. The height of Steve's frame meant that Tony had to look up to face him, and he did it coyly through his lashes. "Well, I can't promise that I can help you stay grounded, but if you need any assistance in familiarizing yourself with this particular borrowed body, I'm your guy." He ran his forefinger down Steve's front, tracing the edges of the defined muscles that were clearly visible through his skin-tight shirt, and then up again, bringing his hand to rest at the back of Steve's neck.

"That's very kind of you," Steve said, suppressing the thrill of excitement at the touch. This wasn't the place.

Tony brushed his fingers over Steve's buzz-cut sandy brown hair. "I can't believe this one's not organic, even though I've seen the specs with my own eyes. It feels very real. Is it the same from your perspective, or can you tell the difference?" His hand found its way to Steve's chin, which was covered in light stubble, and he stood up on tiptoes for a quick kiss.

"It's pretty good." Steve licked at his lips; the designer receptors on them were so sensitive that he could taste a trace of the coffee Tony must've drunk before he'd come here. "But it's also different. I can definitely tell."

From the moment he'd woken up in this frame, he'd felt like he was handling a tool made with a single purpose in mind. This was a military frame, one meant to excel in combat. It even looked intimidating, with the rough-hewn features adding to the imposing build.

Tony didn't seem scared in the least. "I'd like to find out how convincing it is under close scrutiny. So, how about it, soldier? I know you've got all night." He took half a step backwards, giving Steve another suggestive look.

Steve cast one last glance at his birth frame in the stasis box. If he'd only ever been in that frame, Tony wouldn't have looked at him twice. He kept telling himself that he didn't mind. It wasn't as if this thing between them was anything more than casual fun anyway, and it would never be more than that. He was going to enjoy the ride while it lasted.

"Sure, I could use an expert opinion," Steve replied. "Want to come over to my place?"

Tony grinned at him. "I thought you'd never ask. Let's go. This crypt gives me the creeps."

The cryo storage chamber did resemble a mausoleum, even if its occupants weren't actually dead. The difference between the quiet, windowless room and the corridor they stepped into was striking: the glass-walled walkways of SHIELD headquarters were bathed in rosy-hued sunset light, and there were plenty of people bustling about. The criminal masterminds of the Solar System didn't care for office hours, so neither did SHIELD.

One of the advantages of a new, temporary frame was that most people wouldn't recognize Steve while he was in it. Dressed in standard-issue clothes as he was, he could've been any low-level grunt. He walked past a number of colleagues who didn't look at him twice, let alone greet him. Plenty of people did greet Tony, and he smiled back at all of them. It was a practiced, joyless look that almost made him seem as if he was in a fake frame, too.

Steve couldn't imagine what it'd be like, living in the public eye like Tony did. Of course, it wasn't as if Tony had chosen the part. Being the son of Howard Stark, chief advisor and financial backer of SHIELD, might've made him a local celebrity. Being the heir to Howard's company, the grandiosely named Stark Interplanetary, made him one of the most eligible bachelors on any of the inhabited worlds, from the tiniest asteroid mining colonies to the cave cities on Mars.

Steve had gained something of a reputation himself, or rather, his alter ego had: the Captain was every illegal frame peddler's or bio-weapon trader's worst nightmare. His real name wasn't known outside a small group of colleagues at SHIELD, and since he tended to do each mission in a different frame, none of his enemies knew what his true face looked like.

They'd almost made it through the complex to the garage when they ran into someone who did recognize Steve, even in this new frame—unsurprisingly so, since she was the one who had briefed him.

"Captain, do you have a moment?" Peggy called out, as if she didn't outrank Steve so that she could just order him to make time. Not that she would've needed to—Steve always had time for her.

"Of course, ma'am," Steve said.

"Oh," Tony said, visibly disappointed. "Guess I'll head back to the shop, then. Catch you later, if you still want the company."

"I won't keep him long," Peggy promised.

Tony made a mock salute and hurried back the way they'd come, leaving Steve alone with Peggy. He had no idea what this was about, and it made his usual nerves about being around her ten times worse. At least that was counterbalanced by the unfamiliar frame, which had less of a physical response to the emotions than his own body would've.

"Is this about the mission?" he asked. His deep voice sounded far steadier than he felt.

"Yes," she replied, curt and official. "But I'd rather not have the conversation out in the open."

He followed her to the elevators in silence, trying to keep his nerves in check.

Deputy Director Peggy Carter was the second-in-command of SHIELD, answering only to Director Phillips himself. Around ten years older than Steve, she was one of the most formidable people Steve knew, probably his equal when it came to tactical thinking, and far better than him at diplomacy. She was also dependable, just and determined. Really, she had all the qualities Steve admired. And she was beautiful. He couldn't deny that he'd fallen for her a long time ago, but he'd never done anything about it. Partly because it would be inappropriate—even though SHIELD had no strict rules against fraternization, dating his commanding officer was still bad form and could make working with her awkward—but mostly because he was afraid she'd turn him down and break his heart.

She was the kind of person he could see himself spending the rest of his life with. He'd never want to have a casual thing with her, like this friends-with-benefits situation he had with Tony. He couldn't deny that he was a romantic, deep down, and the fact that Tony didn't really feel anything for him left him craving more. Of course, it wasn't as if Steve was madly in love with Tony, either. Maybe he would've liked to call it a proper relationship, but he couldn't imagine it ever becoming a serious one. Tony was attractive and probably smarter than either Steve or Peggy, but he was also shallow and irresponsible. The ideals that Steve strove towards weren't something Tony cared about.

"How's the frame handling?" Peggy asked conversationally as they waited for the elevator to climb up to the administrative floor.

Steve's mind, full of thoughts that had nothing to do with work, instantly leaped back to wondering whether she knew about him and Tony, and if she found it distasteful. He was glad that this frame wouldn't blush. "Fine, so far," he replied quickly. "It's very impressive."

"You'll probably be asked for an in-depth report afterwards, since it's the first time we're taking one of these into the field," she said.

"I'll keep an eye out for any glitches," Steve said, trying not to think about the kind of in-depth testing Tony had in mind for later.

They stepped out and walked across a short stretch of corridor to Peggy's spacious office. She didn't say another word until she'd sat down behind her desk and placed a small round device with a few blinking blue lights in front of her. A jamming field generator.

"Now we can talk," she said. "Take a seat."

Suddenly, idle thoughts about relationships were the last thing in Steve's mind, and he felt embarrassed that he'd dedicated so much of his attention to them, when there were far more important things happening around him. He settled in the chair in front of Peggy's desk, his head held high, his back ramrod straight.

Peggy was eyeing Steve with a very serious look. "Do you trust me, Captain?"

"Of course I do," he said.

"Good. What I'm telling you mustn't leave this room," she went on. "We never had this conversation."

Steve nodded. "I understand." Secrecy was often part of his work, although this, using a jamming device inside their own headquarters, was unprecedented.

Peggy took a moment before going on, resting her chin on her hand, as if trying to decide how to begin. "I don't know if you've noticed, but things have been… tense, recently. There have been some changes in higher-level administration, as well as some personnel replacements in our own ranks ordered from above, and that's starting to affect our operations."

"I haven't missed that," Steve said. "Honestly, it's been making me uncomfortable."

He'd started noticing things perhaps half a year ago; nothing too glaring, but they'd been getting more and more missions that were simple raids and relied on brute force. A year ago, an assignment that ended up with not only a body count but actual irreversible deaths had been rare. Now, they were becoming an almost weekly occurrence. He didn't like that. Whatever one's crimes, a node kill was always too harsh a punishment.

"Well, you're not the only one. Director Phillips is aware of this, too, and he doesn't like it, either. This puts us in a difficult position. We can't change what's happening above us, and if we start openly disobeying these orders, we could end up being replaced, too," Peggy explained, sounding apologetic.

"For what it's worth, I didn't think you were responsible," Steve said.

Peggy gave him a tight-lipped smile that didn't reach her eyes. "I'm glad to hear that. Still, I can't help but feel I've not done enough. I've been trying to get to the bottom of this, to understand what their goal is—whoever they are—so I could anticipate their next steps, but so far, I only have scattered pieces. I don't know what the puzzle looks like."

"If you want my help, you've got it," he offered right away.

"I could use that, but that's for later. There's a reason why I wanted to have this chat right now," she said. "I wanted to warn you, Steve. Your assignment tomorrow? There's something not quite right about it. It came up on a short notice, and it doesn't make sense to me. You remember that illegal cloning facility you're supposed to take down, don't you?"

"Yes. We dealt with the same one before. Last February, I think?" It had been one of the old-style operations, more elegant than the recent crude raids. They'd infiltrated the place, captured the management, and forced the staff to turn themselves in. Everyone had been brought to justice, and faced a fair trial to be sentenced according to their crimes. The way it should be.

"That's the one. Now, never mind that most of the culprits are on ice, and that they'd need longer than this to set up shop again even if they weren't, why would they be so careless as to use the same base of operations again?" Peggy asked.

Steve had been surprised by this as well, though there were ways to explain it. "It could be a different group. We confiscated most of the tech, but the building still has the right infrastructure, like the plumbing and ventilation for cleanrooms. Someone could've seen the opportunity and taken advantage of it."

"Even so, you would expect it to take a little longer," she said.

"Yeah. It really is unusual," he agreed. "So, did the mission come from those new higher-ups?"

"No, the original information was provided by our Interpol liaison." The way she said that, it was obvious she had her doubts about the validity of it. "Maybe there's nothing going on. Maybe I've just grown paranoid with these political games going on above me, but I don't like this. I wanted to tell you to be careful out there. Keep your eyes and ears open, and watch your back."

"I always do that, but I'll try to be extra careful this time," he promised. "Is it all right if I ask my teammates to do the same? I won't tell them why. They won't know about this conversation."

"The ones you're sure you can trust," Peggy said. "If you notice anything out of the ordinary, let me know. Unofficially."

"I will, as soon as we're back."

"Excellent," Peggy said, and tapped the jamming device to switch it off. "I will see you tomorrow then, Captain. Good luck with your mission."

"Thank you, ma'am," Steve said, stood up, and walked out of the room, his mind racing.

Even though he'd noticed the changes in the orders they were getting and the types of assignments they were given, and although he'd been aware of the unexpected personnel changes that'd been the topic of office gossip, he hadn't realized it was this bad. He'd been hoping it was just due to some politicians not quite understanding how SHIELD operated, and that the Director would eventually bring them around. It seemed he should've been paying more attention. He should've realized earlier that this could be a major problem, and spent more time trying to get to the bottom of it, just like Peggy had.

He'd taken the elevator to the entrance floor and stepped out of it, just out of habit, before it came to him that he didn't actually know what he was going to do next. He felt like he should take action, somehow, but it was a pre-mission night and he only had thirteen hours before they'd head out. Eleven before he needed to be back at HQ to get ready. There wasn't a whole lot he could do right now. His team members were out spending their night off in whichever way they saw fit, and even if they hadn't been out of reach, he wasn't about to break his promise about not discussing the details of what he'd heard with anyone.

Snooping around the building was unlikely to gain him anything. Whatever those corrupt politicians might be up to, they were doing it behind the scenes, and they wouldn't leave clues lying around.

It occurred to Steve that Peggy hadn't mentioned Howard Stark in her account. Which side would Tony's father be on in this conspiracy? Steve didn't know him, hadn't even met him aside from occasionally passing him by when he was visiting HQ. The picture Tony had painted of him wasn't flattering, but Tony didn't get along with him at all. It was difficult to guess what Howard was really like based on only those impressions.

Maybe the best thing for now would be for Steve to stick to his original plan and spend some time with Tony. Even if he couldn't tell Tony about the conversation he'd had, he might still be able to get some useful information. Of course, there was also the possibility that Tony himself was involved—but that seemed extremely unlikely. Steve knew he wasn't the least interested in politics. He found it tedious, like most of the things that his father considered important.

The things Tony liked tended to be fast, sleek and expensive. His lab, hidden away on one of the lower floors, made this clear to anyone who stepped inside: it was full of half-built machinery with shimmering chrome and gold surfaces, most of which Steve wouldn't have been able to name. Officially, Tony was responsible for maintaining the hardware for the data network in the building, including the delicate technology involved in mind transfers, but it only took him half a day to deal with those duties. The rest of his time was spent on his projects. Sometimes, he even ended up creating useful tech for the Agents, but that was more of a happy coincidence than the intended goal. The reason he worked at SHIELD in the first place was his father, who had insisted he needed to do some real work, to learn how to "at least pass for an adult," according to Tony's sarcastic quoting.

"Oh, hey there!" Tony called out cheerfully as he spotted Steve at the door to the workshop.

"Hi again," Steve replied, doing his best to convince himself that being here wasn't just a self-indulgent waste of time.

Tony scrambled up from where he'd been crouched next to something that looked like a big silvery wing, as long as Steve's frame was tall. "I wasn't sure you'd show up again. You ask her out yet?"

Steve made a face in protest. "No. We've talked about this."

"And I've told you I wouldn't mind," Tony reminded him. "I didn't mean you should invite her to join the two of us, you've made it clear that's not in the cards. Alas!" He sighed dramatically.

Steve had told Tony that he didn't want to talk about this topic, let alone listen to jokes related to it, but that kind of thing never seemed to make any difference when Tony was concerned. Tactful was one word Steve would never use to describe him. He realized he was grinding his teeth, no doubt turning the expression on the tough face he wore even more harsh. Tony liked poking fun at him, and it was easy when he was already worked up about other things. He forced himself to loosen his jaw.

"All she wanted was to discuss a few more details about tomorrow. Strictly business. Now I'm all yours, " Steve said. He managed a smile, though it didn't feel natural at all. He certainly wouldn't use this frame for any kind of a covert operation.

In comparison, Tony's grin looked easy and relaxed. "I like the sound of that. Your place, like we talked before?"

"Sure."

This time, they made it to the garage without any interruptions.

"Will you let me drive this time?" Tony asked. Standing next to Steve's bike, with his hands in the pockets of his retro lab-leather jacket, he certainly matched in style.

"Sorry, the answer's still no," Steve said.

"But you're barely a few hours out of the swap," Tony tried.

Steve shook his head. "I'm fine. Still a safer driver than you." Steve grabbed his helmet and offered the spare to Tony.

Tony eyed it with distaste, but eventually pulled it on with a resigned huff. "If it's the price I have to pay to ride this beauty, so be it. I'm amazed they let you fly this thing at all. Probably breaks every modern safety regulation."

"Hence the need for helmets," Steve said.

His bike, a third generation H-D Wingless Light Aircycle, was his most prized possession. It was the product of an era when personal off-ground traffic had been new and exciting, and he would never trade it for the sheltered flying cabins that most other people rode these days. It had been a part of his cover on an early assignment, soon after he'd become a full Agent, and he'd negotiated a deal to buy it for himself later.

They took off with Steve at the controls, Tony right behind him, arms around his waist. Once they'd cleared the garage, Steve dipped the nose of his bike into a steeply descending trajectory, dropping from the high levels occupied by SHIELD HQ towards his apartment on the 55th floor of a large residential complex.

He could afford a much better location, these days. The salary of a top Agent, with the hazard and swap bonuses, was more than he'd ever dreamed of, growing up near the street levels. That was exactly why he didn't want to move. It was another thing to keep himself grounded, so that he wouldn't forget where he came from and what everyday life was like for most people—and yet, here he was, showing off for Tony Stark, who'd probably never stepped foot on a level lower than the one Steve lived on.

Sometimes he felt like a hypocrite and wondered what his teenage self, with all his big thoughts about justice and equality, would think of him now.

Tony, oblivious to Steve's introspection, whooped with joy as they dove, making sharp turns to avoid less adventurous drivers. In spite of all their differences, there were some things the two of them shared, like loving the adrenaline rush of taking risks.

That was what kept Steve coming back to Tony, even though he had his reservations about the relationship itself: there was a thrill to it that had remained after over a year of time spent together. The sex was always great, and doing it in different frames kept it novel. It was something of a kink for both of them, one most people wouldn't be into. On top of that, there was always the furtive nature of the affair, the risk that someone might catch sight of them together and share a video clip with the world. In fact that had already happened a few times, but with Steve's ever changing appearance, people hadn't known he was the same person all along and were left guessing who Tony's latest conquest might be.

This time, their breakneck flight brought them to the landing platform closest to Steve's floor without any paparazzi in sight.

The sight of Tony pulling off his helmet and grinning at Steve, his whole face alight, his hair mussed, was like out of some commercial. "Damn, I need to build myself something like this," he said, combing his fingers through his hair. "Just need to finish that suborbital drone first."

"If you build a bike, you'll invite me for a test drive, won't you?" Steve asked. He picked up the helmet from Tony, and stowed them in the storage compartment.

"You bet," Tony said. "I could name it after you. Call it a Cap-Cycle."

"That's a terrible name," Steve complained.

"No one would know it refers to you anyway, Mr. Super Secret Agent." Tony grabbed Steve's hand and started pulling him towards the door to the elevators.

The instant the door to Steve's apartment had closed behind them, Tony's hands were on him, grabbing the lapels of his jacket. Steve obliged, shrugging his shoulders so Tony could work it off and drop it on the floor. He moved on to unzipping Steve's shirt, and tossed that aside, too.

"Whoa, the amount of detail they went to is seriously impressive," Tony commented, running his fingers over the dusting of dark hair on Steve's chest. "Definitely getting to the point where you can't tell apart a synthetic fake from an organic one."

"Well, not without a decent medical scan, unless you're the one inside the frame," Steve said.

"Come on, come on, I want to see all of it!" Tony's hands came to rest on Steve's hips, tugging at his waistband.

Steve knew how well-endowed this frame was, but Tony had yet to find out. Steve grinned at him, and let him pull his pants and briefs down to his ankles.

"Hot damn," Tony breathed. "You sure they didn't accidentally put you in a sex bot? That's, I'd call that excessive for your line of work."

"I think they were aiming for 'intimidating' with the design. This included." Steve took his cock in hand, feeling the texture that wasn't quite like human skin, its surface ever so slightly too cool and powdery under his equally not-quite-right fingers.

"Well, I don't think that's the effect they got. Definitely not the effect it's having on me." Tony licked lips, his eyes fixed on Steve's groin, his pupils huge.

As much as Steve knew that the body Tony was admiring was just a fake and not his own, that hungry look was still flattering, and a huge turn-on, enough so that his cock was starting to harden.

Tony knelt in front of Steve, putting one hand on his hip. The other went to his cock, his fingers running gently along the length of it, from the base to the tip that was shaped as if it'd been cut, though this frame had never met a surgeon's scalpel. He then took hold of the shaft, lifting it as if to test the weight of it. The way he was touching Steve felt simultaneously reverent and almost clinical, more about exploring than exciting Steve. An engineer admiring a well-designed machine. Somehow, that didn't make it less hot, but even more so, with the way Tony's full, undivided attention was on Steve.

"That's craftsmanship," Tony said, his voice awed and husky. "Full mechanical functionality but no fluids, right?"

Of course, he would've read that part of the specs with extra care. "That's what the manual said," Steve confirmed.

"A pity. They should've gone all the way. Wouldn't be that expensive to install some synthetic glands." Tony gripped Steve's cock more firmly and gave the head a lick. It felt less intense than what he'd have expected.

"Not what they made it for," he noted. "This one might take some work. Not the most sensitive frame I've been in."

He'd managed to come in frames with a similar setup before, and dry climaxes like that could be really intense, if he did get there. It helped that Tony tended to be extremely enthusiastic.

"Oh, a challenge! I accept!" Tony exclaimed. He took the head of Steve's cock in his mouth to suck on it hard, his cheeks hollowing out.

It was enough to make the fake neurons flare up properly, and to send Steve gasping. With the lingering weakness and lack of balance from the consciousness transfer, he had to grab hold of Tony's shoulder to keep his footing.

Tony stopped, sitting back and looking up. "Too much?"

"No, that's exactly what I need, I just think bed would be better," Steve breathed. "That, and you're wearing too many clothes."

"You're absolutely right," Tony agreed. He stood up and pulled off his jacket in one graceful move, keeping constant eye contact with Steve.

Steve didn't look away, either, but got rid of the tangle of pants and boots at his ankles as he watched Tony undress. People said that confidence was a big part of what made people look attractive, and that rang true where Tony was concerned. He looked great, and he knew it, making full use of it as he slowly peeled off his shirt and jeans, casting sultry glances at Steve. Where Steve's frame resembled a natural body in its mid-thirties, Tony looked perhaps a few years younger than his actual age of twenty-five. Of course, people as rich as him could choose to look whichever age they wanted to, sticking to clones grown to their favored vintage, but Steve thought there was still a difference. That spark of excitement in Tony's eyes wouldn't have been the same if he'd actually been a hundred years old.

"Just look at you," Steve said. "You're making me feel old."

"Technically, your frame's only got a couple of months worth of mileage. This poor old thing is ancient in comparison," Tony joked, striking a pose, head thrown back and hips pushed forwards, showing off how hard he was.

"I need that poor old thing in my bedroom right now," Steve told him.

"Lead and I'll follow, Captain!" Tony said, gesturing onwards.

Steve's bedroom, like most of his apartment, was utilitarian. The window wall that doubled as a projection surface was currently showing a sunset sky with a few wispy clouds instead of the actual view outside. The other walls were plain gray and undecorated, except for the painting at the head of the bed. It was one Steve had painted himself, a romantic Appalachian landscape imitating the Hudson River School style, with an American flag at the forefront; a reminder of times when such symbols meant more than corporate logos. Tony often made fun of it. Today, he seemed too interested in Steve's frame to pay attention to the familiar surroundings.

"On the bed, you," Tony called out as he stepped through the doorway, right on Steve's heels. "I wasn't nearly done with the inspection yet."

"Are you giving the orders, now?" Steve returned, but did as Tony had asked, pulling aside the bedspread to lay down on his back on top of the covers.

"I am the engineer here, so that's a yes. Is that going to be a problem for you? In that big dominant frame of yours?" Tony asked back, and got on the bed on his hands and knees, settling above Steve, face right above his.

Steve had no objections to being in a more submissive role tonight. "Obviously I understand the importance of this examination. Go on," he replied.

"Very good," Tony said. He bent lower to press a kiss against Steve's lips, his cock brushing against Steve's stomach. It was a kiss that felt methodical, and very thorough: Tony started with a soft, close-mouthed touch, then opened up, sucking their lips close together, and following with tongue, exploring, meeting Steve's from different angles as if mapping its shape and texture.

Steve let him work at it, enjoying the sensations instead of responding actively, that odd combination of slightly less pressure and more taste than in an organic frame. The notes of coffee were definitely still there, but there were also exciting traces of hormones, a signal of Tony's arousal that he couldn't have normally picked up. That sent a buzz of excitement through his synthetic nerves, right through to his cock.

Tony leaned on his elbows, his breath hot over Steve's face. "How was that for you?"

"Awesome," Steve said, grinning up at him, lifting his hips off the bed, trying to grind his cock against Tony.

"Nope, not yet, let's not get ahead of ourselves." Tony backed off a little and sat down straddling Steve's thighs, cocks deliciously close to one another. Tony ignored them entirely. Instead, he put one hand on Steve's bicep, as if to tell him to keep it in place, while his other went to Steve's cheek, feeling the fake stubble. From there, he ran his fingers over Steve's upper lip, and then to his mouth, which Steve opened again, giving his fingers a lick. He could taste Tony's sweat on them, and underneath the saltiness was another chemical mixture telling of his excitement.

Tony took Steve's chin between his fingers, tilting his head slightly backwards, looking at his face appraisingly. "Top marks for this part, I have to say," he announced.

"Send your compliments to the designer," Steve said.

"If the rest is as good, I just might," Tony said. He traced his fingers down to Steve's neck. Steve figured he must be feeling if the pulse point checked out, which it would, indistinguishable from an organic. He could feel it himself, too, when Tony pressed a little harder, a perfect approximation of a human heartbeat, even though the frame's internal workings would look nothing like human organs.

Steve tilted his head backwards, exposing his neck more, and Tony replaced his fingers with his lips, sucking at Steve's throat eagerly. Again, the actual sensation was less intense than it might've in some other frame, but Tony's enthusiasm more than made up for that.

"Not going to bruise, you know," Steve told him, his voice coming through strained, the way he was holding his head.

Tony let go and sat back again. "Need to be sure, though. Going for empirical evidence here." He smoothed his fingers over where his lips had been. "But yeah, doesn't look like it."

Steve straightened out his neck and put his hands on Tony's hips. He was aching to get some attention for his cock, but he knew he needed the teasing build-up. "Keep going," he said.

"Of course," Tony said, planting both hands on Steve's shoulders, then setting out to explore the ridges of muscles on his chest, the edges of his firm pecs and the defined abs. For Steve's tastes, the frame was almost too buff—he prefered slightly leaner builds, more like Tony's body than what Steve had. Tony seemed to be loving it, though, if the rapt expression on his face was anything to go by. He took one nipple between thumb and forefinger and gave it a light squeeze

"I barely feel that," Steve commented. "Harder."

Tony took hold of the other one as well, his fingers pinching tighter. When Steve still didn't react, he kept increasing the pressure, but that was all it felt like: pressure, without any excitement to it.

Steve shook his head. "Sorry, don't seem to be wired that way."

Tony let go and just grabbed hold of Steve's pecs instead, massaging them. "Nothing to apologize for. No particular reason why it would be. From my perspective, it's all top-notch, still."

"But less fun," Steve said, sliding his own hand up along Tony's body to rub at one of his nipples.

Tony let out a little gasp, but then captured Steve's hand in his to draw it away, looking ever so slightly regretful. "Nope. This isn't about me." He raised his other hand as well, holding Steve's between both of his. He switched into a more clinical touch again, his fingers closing around Steve's wrist, then feeling around the bones of his knuckles. The methodical guise lasted until he brought Steve's hand to his mouth to suck on his index and middle finger.

Steve hummed in appreciation; the fingertips were definitely among the most sensitive parts of the frame, making this feel much more exciting than attempts at nipple play.

"That good?" Tony asked when he let go. "I can tell it's not skin, definitely, but the texture's very nice."

"It's really good for me," Steve said. "But you know, it could be a little bit about you, too."

"A little, sure. In the name of science," Tony said. "I have a plan, you see. Stay there."

"You going somewhere?" Steve asked.

"Barely," Tony replied, and climbed up along Steve's body to reach for the nightstand. When he backed up to sit on top of Steve's thighs again, he was holding a bottle of lube. "So, here's the plan: you're going to demonstrate your manual dexterity by working me open, and then I'll ride that pretty cock of yours to see if it feels as good as it looks. How's that?"

They were both happy to either pitch or catch depending on mood and the possible physical limitations set by Steve's frame-of-the-day. This frame was good for both, and considering how Tony had taken the lead tonight, Steve had been expecting him to want to top. He had no objections to Tony bottoming instead, though. "A solid plan, I approve," he said, sitting up and accepting the lube from Tony.

Tony lay down in turn, across Steve's thighs, his ass angled up, his head resting on crossed arms. "Okay. Give it to me."

Steve was glad to follow that order, so he could offer some attention to Tony's body as well. He poured a generous amount of lube over his hands and got to work. Tony's hundred percent biological skin, hairless not by design, but because he chose to groom it, felt silky smooth under the pads of Steve's fingers as he ran them between his butt cheeks. Even more delightful was the tightness of his hole around the fingertip Steve pressed inside. "Like this?" he asked.

"Just like that, yeah, put those big fake fingers to good use," Tony encouraged him, squirming against Steve.

Steve pushed his finger deeper, then back again, and a little deeper yet the next time, feeling around. The added sensitivity that he had made Tony's prostate very easy to find. He rubbed his finger over it.

Tony moaned, his cock very hard where it pressed against Steve's thigh. "Ahh, okay, wow, yeah, that's good. Careful there, or this is over really fast!"

Steve pulled out his finger, and added a second, pushing in again, carefully, gently. Tony was relaxed enough that there wasn't much resistance. "Does this mean I pass this part of the inspection?" he asked.

"Yeah, oh, yeah, gold star," Tony replied breathlessly.

He started fucking Tony slowly with his fingers, going on until Tony let out a whine that didn't sound entirely happy.

"What's that? Want me to stop?" Steve checked, pausing for a moment, resting his hand where it was.

Tony got up on one elbow, raising his head to look at Steve. His face was flushed, his eyes a little dazed. "Not really, but I think that's about enough for now. Still got the most important trial run to do."

Steve slid his fingers out and patted Tony's ass. "I've been looking forward to that part."

"Oh, me too."

Tony straddled Steve's thighs again. He used one hand to push Steve down by the chest while the other went for the lube. With all his attention on Tony, Steve had been starting to soften, but a few brisk, rough strokes of Tony's lubed fist quickly brought him back to his impressive full hardness again.

"Just look at that. I might not get over this. I can't believe I'm this envious of a synthetic, but wow," Tony said, one hand around the base of Steve's cock. He got up on his knees, positioning himself over it.

Steve held on to Tony's hips as he guided Steve in with practiced skill. Pressure and warmth encompassed the length of him, and Steve felt his breath catch at the thrill of it. Even though he'd done this countless times before, he hadn't done it in this particular body, so it still felt like a first time, unfamiliar, exciting; this could well be the first time anyone had used this frame for sex, so it might be the first time in every sense.

"Oh, yeah, that's better than any toy, that's so good," Tony murmured.

It felt nice, very nice, but Steve needed more. He pushed his hips up. "Go on, go on," he urged. "As hard as you feel like."

"You've got it!" Tony started moving, his face a mix of intense focus and glee, his eyes half open, one hand stroking his own cock. He definitely wasn't holding back; once he got into a rhythm, he was riding Steve's body so hard that Steve would've hesitated to go so rough if he'd been the more active partner. It was more than enough to tip over from nice to amazing, to make his mind forget he was in a frame that wasn't his own. All there was were two bodies enjoying each other, and everything else was just insignificant background noise.

"Tony, I'm close, that's so good, I'm so close," he called out.

"I'll get you there, I will," Tony promised.

He pumped his hips even faster, making it feel like he was rubbing against every square millimeter of Steve's cock at once, finding every synthetic nerve ending—and then, suddenly, without warning, those signals crossed with the learned sensory patterns of his human mind in the frame's neural node, and everything shorted out.

It was a sudden overload where he couldn't sense anything but pleasure. The sound of his own low groan and the slap of skin against skin faded out, and his vision went blank.

He was floating in a void, like a really trippy virtual reality. He was caught in an electrical storm, every nerve on fire, just at the edge of painful, but just as it was becoming too much, it melted, transforming into warmth, into a feeling of being more relaxed than he'd been in his life. He didn't have a body anymore, he just existed in a state of deep satisfaction. Time had stopped; there was nothing but this moment.

Eventually, through a glowing haze of deep contentment, he surfaced in the real world again. The first thing he saw were Tony's concerned eyes locked with his, Tony's fingers patting his cheek. "Steve, hey? Steve? Talk to me," he was saying, a note of panic in his voice.

"Whoa," Steve gasped.

"Steve! You all right?" Tony asked urgently. "What the hell just happened?"

"Huh?" Steve thought it'd been quite obvious. "Well, I came?" he said anyway. It sounded dumb, not to mention a poorly inadequate description for what he'd felt.

"Right, of course you did. Good. Great. Awesome," Tony said, and then, for some reason, lapsed into laughter that sounded half hysterical. His weight disappeared from on top of Steve, and he landed heavily on the bed by Steve's side, the foam of the bed rippling as he hit it.

Steve got up on his elbow. His body felt sluggish, and sticky. He touched his fingers to his stomach; the mess he found there couldn't have been him, so it seemed like Tony had come, too, which made his behavior even more bizarre. "I feel like I've missed something here," Steve said, resting a hand on top of Tony's chest. "Care to fill me in?"

Tony glanced up at him, looking incredulous. "Uh, yeah, you missed something, like a few minutes of me completely freaking out. See, you seemed to be really enjoying it, and I'd just hit the good part myself, when you kind of twitched a couple of times and then zoned out completely. I think you stopped breathing, too. I couldn't wake you up. Shit," Tony shook his head. "I thought I'd broken you somehow."

"Well, I'm fine now, I promise. I'm sorry I scared you," Steve said, caressing Tony's side soothingly. He could see how what'd happened had been disconcerting from Tony's point of view, but he wasn't too worried, himself. It wasn't the first time he'd run into unexpected side-effects when having sex in a frame not primarily designed for it. The added risk and uncertainty was a part of what made this so exciting—this was just a more extreme example than most.

"You should be," Tony said. "Probably knocked a couple of years right out of this body. Might start going gray prematurely. I'm not sure I'd call this frame inspection a pass."

"I think you should. It felt amazing." Steve brought his hand to Tony's cheek, and bent closer to give him a quick kiss on the lips. "One of the best I've ever had."

Tony raised his eyebrows in disbelief. "Really?"

"Definitely," Steve assured him. "I hope it was good for you too, except for that last part."

Tony's expression brightened up at that. "It was excellent. All the way up to the point where I worried I'd have to haul you back to HQ and try to explain why you'd suffered some kind of mysterious mind/frame disconnect." He fell silent for a moment, then chuckled, this time sounding genuinely amused. "I can't believe I thought I might've broken your top-of-the-line combat frame with my ass. That's incredible. I'll treasure the memory."

Steve found himself laughing too; a deep, grating sound in this frame, as if it hadn't been meant to do that. "I think it'd take more than a rough ride to break me."

"Seriously though, I must've shorted you out somehow, that wasn't normal," Tony prodded Steve's chest with his forefinger. "An orgasm isn't supposed to make you, I don't know, dissociate, or whatever that was. It was beyond subspace. It was like your mind went away entirely."

"It was temporary, and it felt great," Steve said once more. "I wish you could feel it too. You sure you'd never consider a swap?"

Tony bit his lip. "I've thought about it, but I don't know. I'm not sure it'd work for me? You've got years of experience with fakes. I'm just so used to this body. It's a pretty nice one, isn't it?" He ran his fingers up along his thigh, stopping to rest his hand on his hip.

"One of my favorites," Steve agreed. "And it's okay to admit that the thought makes you uncomfortable. Just so you know, if you ever want to try it out, I'd be willing to help."

"I'll keep that in mind," Tony said. "They wouldn't let me borrow that particular frame, anyway, although I guess I could just buy one."

Steve frowned. Even if that was a joke, it was incredibly irresponsible. Frames like this weren't on sale for the general public, and they certainly weren't around to be bought as expensive sex toys. The annoyance was like a bucket of ice water over his head, washing away his good mood.

This was the problem with being around Tony: he didn't take things seriously enough, and sometimes, Steve ended up going along with it. Just like he had now, suggesting that Tony could try a swap. Of course, he hadn't been thinking Tony should go for something like his frame, but rather something suited for casual civilian use. Still, it was a risky procedure for those unaccustomed to it, best reserved for special circumstances and not something to be treated lightly.

With the reminder of the world outside, the memory of Steve's conversation with Peggy came rushing back, and suddenly he felt foolish for having spent so much time just having fun. The lingering afterglow was entirely gone.

"I don't think that'd be a good idea," he said bluntly. "Shower?"

"Yeah, we probably should," Tony said, looking thoughtful as well.

Getting out of bed, Steve still felt slightly woozy, but it passed as they walked across the apartment to the bathroom. In fact, he realized that any trace of the earlier lack of coordination, that perception of a lag between his mind and his frame, was completely gone. He felt settled in, far better than he'd been before. That was good, considering tomorrow.

To his surprise, although they showered together, it was mostly just that: washing, without Tony taking the initiative towards anything more steamy like he usually did. He must've been even more taken aback by Steve's frame hiccup than Steve had realized.

On a typical day, Tony would head home after they were done. This wasn't the kind of relationship where they spent time cuddling. Steve prefered it that way, too, because their nights together tended to coincide with missions, and he needed time alone to clear his head. If Tony left now, though, Steve would definitely not learn anything new regarding the mysterious conspiracy.

Toweling himself off, he was still trying to decide if he could live with himself after asking Tony to stay because of ulterior motives when Tony solved that issue on his behalf.

"I know we usually don't, but what would you say if I stuck around tonight? I feel like I shouldn't leave you alone after that," Tony offered, sounding uncharacteristically timid. He'd definitely been frightened.

"I'd like that," Steve said. "As long as you don't mind that I'll go to bed early, and by bed I mean actual sleep."

"I get that. You're a man with a mission, after all," Tony said. "If you don't mind, though, I might just sleep in."

"I'd be surprised if you didn't. Now, I really need something to eat. Something spicy might be nice, to see how that works out with this frame."

Tony insisted that they order a meal at his expense from some fancy 175th floor place offering fusions of cuisines that Steve hadn't even heard of before. Steve tried to say that he could afford to pay his own half, but Tony wouldn't hear of it, arguing that the least he could do after giving Steve a weird fit instead of a good time was to buy him a nice dinner, ignoring Steve's repeated reminders that said weird fit had been just about the best time he'd ever had. Tony could be just as stubborn as Steve, when he set his mind to it. In the end, Steve gave in—this was just food. He didn't want to turn it into an actual argument.

The order made, they picked up their scattered clothes, got dressed, and sat down in the living room to wait for the delivery drone, Steve on the couch, Tony in the armchair. There was a lingering feeling of tension hanging in the air between them, and Steve didn't think it was from debating dinner payment. It might've been just the unfamiliarity of the situation, but Steve didn't think it was that, either. Tony seemed nervous, in a way Steve hadn't seen before, shifting in place, staring at his toes, his fingers drumming the armrests.

After a moment of charged silence, Tony spoke up. "So, uh. There was actually another reason I wanted to stay. Something I wanted to talk about," he began, then stopped, hesitating.

"Okay? What's that?" Steve asked, turning to face Tony properly. He'd been trying to figure out a way to bring up the conspiracy himself, and he couldn't help but wonder if Tony knew already and wanted to talk about it, too.

Tony pursed his lips, glanced away, and then looked at Steve again. "Well, us. I've been thinking about this before, really, but it's just that tonight—you know, when I saw you lying there, dead to the world, I realized I should say something," he explained, looking younger than ever, vulnerable, his eyes glistening. "I mean, you've got all these dangerous assignments—"

That had to be it, Steve thought. "Do you know something about my mission tomorrow?"

"What?" Tony blurted out, frowning. "No! Why would I? What does that have to do with anything?"

Steve had misread it, after all.

"Never mind, I just thought you were worried about that," he said quickly. Tony seemed genuinely confused by the question, and if he had no clue something was going on, then Steve shouldn't have mentioned it.

"Should I be? Is there something unusual about it? More dangerous than most?" Tony asked, shifting to sit on the edge of his chair, leaning towards Steve.

Steve tried his best to appear casual and unconcerned; considering his frame, he was pretty sure it worked, too. "Probably not. It's not important. What was it that you were saying?"

Tony scratched at the back of his neck, looking uncomfortable. "It's just—it was nothing, really."

"No, come on, I want to hear it," Steve insisted.

"Well. It's," Tony tried again. "I know this, this arrangement we've got isn't anything remotely romantic, and I know you know I don't tend to do the dating thing anyway, but I like you a lot, Steve. I thought I should tell you that. And that I wouldn't mind trying the dating thing with you, sometime. Like a proper relationship. Maybe get together while you're in your own body, for a change. That kind of thing."

Steve couldn't contain a sharp, surprised breath at what he was hearing. Just as he'd been thinking, earlier today, about how he would've prefered something deeper and more serious than what they had—but he'd also been thinking about the many reasons why that wouldn't work between the two of them, the fundamentally different ways he and Tony saw the world. Really, considering how shallow Tony's take on everything around him seemed to be, Steve hadn't expected to hear something so emotional from him. He'd had no idea that Tony might care for him beyond the attractive frames he donned.

On one hand, he wanted to grab Tony in a hug and say that he felt the same way. On the other, he couldn't bring himself to believe it'd ever work out; it was far more likely to lead to disaster.

Tony sat back in the armchair, his shoulders hunched, hands clasped together on his lap. "I probably shouldn't have said any of that. Now I've made this weird. Why don't I ever know when to shut up?"

"No, no, I'm glad you told me," Steve started, not sure what he was going to say.

Tony didn't let him finish. "But this is the part where you tell me that you don't feel the same way." He stood up, facing the door. "I should probably go."

"No, Tony, wait," Steve said, getting up as well. "Look. It's not like that. I've just got a lot on my mind right now, okay? This isn't a good time for this conversation. Tomorrow's mission is kind of important." That was a white lie; there shouldn't be anything special about it, except that after Peggy's warning, it seemed like there might be. "Any chance I could take a rain check on this conversation and get back to you later? Maybe when I'm back in my own body?"

"Okay, sure. Yeah. Later. I'm going to go now." Tony gave him a miserable look, obviously convinced that the conversation would mean putting an end to their affair.

It might. Steve really did need more time to think about it.

"You don't have to go. Dinner will be here any minute," Steve said.

"Nah. I'm not that hungry, anyway." Tony stepped closer, rose up on his toes, and dropped a quick kiss on Steve's cheek. "Good luck with your mission, Cap. See you."

He grabbed his jacket from the ground and hurried out the door, leaving Steve staring after him, feeling like someone had punched his top-notch combat frame in the gut hard enough to knock the wind out of it.

This was not how Steve had expected the evening to end.

He sat down heavily on the couch, running a hand over his face. He really hadn't needed this; he already had enough to deal with as it was. Casual as it was, his fling with Tony had been a fixed part of his life for over a year, and although he hadn't thought it would last forever, he also hadn't expected it to end so suddenly. Of course, it didn't have to be over—he could tell Tony he wanted to keep going, take that extra step, start working towards something more serious. But try as he might, he couldn't really see himself building a future together with Tony, and if he couldn't, he'd feel dishonest letting Tony believe it was a realistic option.

He'd barely had time to mope for a minute before the house AI announced that the food delivery was at the door. The drone he met there looked extremely expensive, badly out of place in the plain, shabby hallway. He accepted the boxes with a "thank you", only belatedly realizing that he was talking to a non-humanoid machine that wouldn't register politeness.

Steve didn't feel hungry at all, but he knew he needed to make sure his energy reserves were full for tomorrow. Since he had an expensive synthetic frame with human-like nutrient handling, the easiest way to do that was to eat. The food turned out to be delicious; calling it a riot of flavors would have been accurate, not hyperbole. Tony did have good taste, or at least his taste aligned with Steve's. Even though Steve saw them as fundamentally incompatible, they still clicked in many things. Otherwise, their affair wouldn't have worked out in the first place.

He had to stop thinking about Tony, or he'd spend the entire night distracted. He stashed the leftovers in the fridge, and pictured himself leaving the unwanted thoughts there with them. He'd return to all of that when he was back. For now, what really mattered was the mission.

He considered himself mentally well-disciplined. He had to be, for his job. Still, when he retreated to his bedroom, he struggled to push away the memories of what they'd done there mere hours ago—or that it might've been their last time together.

Sleep took much longer to come than it should've, his mind stuck between regretful feelings about Tony and unease about tomorrow.

When his alarm rang at four in the morning, he felt like he'd only just closed his eyes. Ironically, the face that looked back at him from the bathroom mirror didn't look tired in the least. There were some advantages to synthetic skin. Unfortunately, his human mind needed to shut down properly every night, even if it was currently running on an artificial platform.

He went through the motions of preparing for the day, and drove back to HQ. Even though he was tired, he was also focused: the only thing on his mind was concern for his team, the need to see every member of it safely through this assignment.

When Steve reached the team common room, Morita and the Falsworths were already present, having tea. One by one, the other Commandos who were joining today's mission arrived: Dum Dum, Gabe, and last of all, Bucky. The second team, led by Brock Rumlow, would be gathering one floor below them.

Bucky greeted everyone with an easy smile and pulled up a chair next to Steve. "Cap. Are you sulking, or is that just the frame?"

Of course Bucky would see right through the synthetic facade. Bucky himself was in his own body for this mission, the one Steve had known since they'd been kids. Steve trusted him more than anyone, with the possible exception of Peggy. Which wasn't to say that he didn't trust the rest of his team; he would give his life for any of the Howling Commandos, and he knew they'd do the same for him. Peggy had said he could give a heads-up to those team members that he could trust, and that included every single one of them. If there was anything he could do for his own team, he should. Rumlow's team was a different matter—Rumlow seemed to enjoy the brute raids all too much.

"Not sulking," Steve said, and stood up by the table, taking a commanding stance. "There was something I wanted to tell you all before we head out. It's about this mission. I have reason to suspect that it might not be what it seems. Unfortunately, I don't have anything more concrete than that to give you, but I'd like to ask all of you to take extra care out there today."

"We're always careful, you know that," Morita said.

"I do. Still. Keep your eyes peeled, and watch each other's backs, okay?" Steve repeated.

"Copy that," Morita replied. The others joined in, acknowledging the command, and the conversation continued just like any other day. Steve couldn't tell whether there was a slight tension underneath, or if that was just him projecting.

At seven o'clock sharp, as per their orders, they left base in one of the regular troop transport fliers. It was almost an hour's drive to the facility that was their target, which felt like a very long time to Steve.

"Are you okay, Steve?" Bucky asked him discreetly, leaning closer to his seat. "You really do seem sulky today."

"I'm fine. Just didn't sleep well," Steve admitted. It was half the truth.

He didn't want to think about the reasons for his lack of sleep. Bucky knew about his affair with Tony, of course, and he was hoping they could have a chat about it later, maybe help Steve figure out what he really wanted. Just not now.

"So this talk about this mission—is it just some hunch? Where did that come from?" Bucky tried.

"It's a little more than that, but I can't talk about it. Maybe later," Steve said apologetically.

Bucky sat up straight in his chair again, looking frustrated and amused at the same time. "Well, aren't you being all mysterious today. Okay. Later. I'll hold you to that."

But there was no later.

The transport stopped to hover above the roof of the facility and the team rappelled down. Their plan was very simple: Steve's Commandos would go in from the top, while Rumlow's would force their way through the front door. Together, they'd clear the building as swiftly as they could, eliminating all the resistance they came across. Non-permanent kills preferred, but no repercussions for accidental node damage.

The roof was around thirty meters squared of flat concrete, with no cover anywhere. There was only one way in, a door leading to a stairway in one corner. Hardly optimal. The criminals occupying the building would undoubtedly have set up proximity sensors, so the Commandos were expecting to meet some resistance.

What they didn't expect was heavy resistance with combat frames equaling Steve's.

Enemies started pouring out before the Commandos even reached the door. "Dum Dum, Gabe, Jackie, with me," Steve called out and rushed towards them, hoping for a melee instead of a shoot-out.

The first combatant Steve reached looked identical to the rest: dressed in featureless fatigues, a mask covering most of the face. Steve caught a glimpse of dark eyes with long lashes and heavy eyebrows before the person in question pulled out two knives and slashed at him. The movement was so quick that Steve was barely able to dodge, even with his post-human reflexes. He struck back as fast as he could, his trademark shield aimed at his opponent's midriff, but he was too slow, missing by a good half a meter.

"Facing enhanced resistance," Steve called out on the comms.

"Same here," Gabe replied.

Steve parried attacks from his original opponent and another enemy fighter who'd shown up, then risked a quick glance over his shoulder to see how the situation had developed. It didn't look good. They were outnumbered two against one, possibly worse. Out of Steve's Commandos, only he and the Falsworth siblings were in enhanced frames today; everyone else had only their natural strength and skills to work with. They had thought they'd only be facing common thugs, maybe a few with cyber parts, possibly a couple of black market fake frames. Nothing like this.

Steve was having trouble keeping up with his opponents, and he was in a brand new military frame. Sooner or later, this particular model would end up on the black market, too—everything always did—but this was way too soon. It hinted that someone had been dealing under the table.

There was a good chance that they wouldn't be able to handle this fight on their own. He hoped the second team was faring better. "Rumlow! We could use a hand. What's your status?" he inquired.

"We're on our way," Rumlow answered. Nothing on their status, or how long they might take to reach the roof.

In the momentary distraction of worry for his team, Steve had let his guard slip enough that the knife-wielding enemy managed to get through, slicing into his bicep. Steve barely felt it. He responded with a kick that made his attacker stumble back. The second fighter was right there, though, giving him no chance to catch his breath, launching into a rapid series of punches. It was fast, but predictable, and Steve blocked each one without trouble.

"I need backup!" Bucky yelled, the voice loud enough that Steve heard it both through the comms and the open air.

Steve bashed his opponent with his shield and turned around. Everywhere around him, his teammates were surrounded, struggling against insurmountable odds. Dum Dum and Morita were down, and Steve couldn't tell how bad it was.

Little good it had done that Steve had told them to be careful.

Bucky was cornered against the parapet, facing three enemies, one of them pointing a blaster at him. Before Steve had time to move more than a few steps in their direction, the thug fired, catching Bucky in the chest point-blank.

It was like a scene from a nightmare, happening in slow motion: Bucky jerked backwards and fell. The backs of his knees hit the parapet, but it was so low that he just folded right over it. His mouth was open, and he might've been screaming, but Steve couldn't hear it over the ringing in his ears.

Bucky disappeared from sight.

Something jabbed Steve in the back, and the world exploded into agony. He was falling too.

He landed face-down on the concrete, though he couldn't feel the impact through the pain overwhelming his synthetic nerves. He couldn't see or hear a thing; it was like a terrible mirror image of what he'd experienced last night.

The next thing he did feel was someone toeing him in the ribs, sharply. Then what must've been the same boot turned him over on the ground so that he was lying on his back, staring up. His vision cleared slowly, the too-bright haze coalescing into a figure towering above him. It was holding a stun prod.

The figure wasn't wearing a featureless uniform, but a SHIELD one, and the face beneath the helmet was familiar. Rumlow.

"Told you we were on our way," Rumlow said. "Nice to have friends, isn't it?"

Steve tried to get up, but his muscles wouldn't as much as twitch. Clearly, this frame was particularly vulnerable to stun weapons. That hadn't been in the specs. Steve supposed Rumlow had somehow known about it.

He'd never liked Rumlow much, but he hadn't expected the rogue elements in SHIELD to act this openly. This hadn't been a mission. This had been an execution.

If the plan had been to eliminate Steve's team, because they were people who had prefered the old order of things—oh, no. Peggy. Peggy might be next on the list. Her job was mostly in the office, nowadays, and her sudden death would be more difficult to explain than a so-called mission gone wrong, but if these usurpers were so deep inside SHIELD already, who knew what they were capable of.

Rumlow crouched closer, stun prod hovering next to Steve's cheek.

A weapon like that could destroy a regular backup node in an organic frame, but it would take extended exposure and a high setting. Steve's frame was different, though. He'd already learned that it was less resistant. A hit to the head might kill him for good. If it didn't, Rumlow could just pick up a blaster and blow his node to pieces.

He had no external backups; if they wanted him dead, he was gone. There was no way out.

He'd failed everyone. He'd failed his team, and Peggy. He'd lost Bucky.

He'd never get to settle things with Tony.

The weapon touched his temple, and everything flared up in electric agony again, his body convulsing on the concrete, but this time, it only lasted for seconds. Then, there was nothing.

Chapter Text

Steve woke up to an extremely familiar feeling of warmth and numbness, his limbs heavy and itchy, like a memory of pins and needles.

His mind had been transferred into a new frame.

He was awake, and he was alive. Rumlow hadn't killed him, after all.

As the worst of the fuzziness in his head started to clear, he remembered something else, scattered memories of being interrogated, of sitting in a room with a woman in a dark suit, perhaps a lawyer, asking him endless questions that were all backwards.

"How long have you been conspiring against your superiors?"

"What orders did Deputy Director Carter give you?"

"What was the goal of this conspiracy?"

These memories felt more distant than the viscerally real recollection of lying on the cold concrete, his team dead and dying around him, the pain of the stun prod coursing through his body. That could've happened half a minute ago. The interrogation was somewhere far in the past. He knew that couldn't be right. He supposed his mind must've been scrambled by being stuck into VR for interrogation right after the frame had died.

His frame had died, but he hadn't. He'd been sure he would. He'd failed everyone—

He couldn't dwell on that, not right now. He had to figure out what was going on. He'd been trained for this kind of thing, for waking up in a new frame and being on top of the situation, no matter how bad things were.

He drew a deep breath and released it slowly, then another. It was instantly obvious that he was in an organic frame, since the hard to describe, not-quite-right feeling that would come with synthetic organs wasn't there. The frame also wasn't his own. It felt much bulkier, and certainly had more lung capacity.

The air smelled clinical, just like it always did in the frame transfer unit.

He opened his eyes, expecting harsh light. Instead, there was a soft, orange-tinged glow, like a sunrise, which seemed to originate from the entire surface of the ceiling above him. Turning his head slightly revealed that some of it actually radiated from the walls, which were showing a pastel-tinted cloudscape. Even though it was beautifully executed, almost resembling a Romantic painting, it was still tacky, and not at all what Steve would've expected either from SHIELD or from whoever had set that trap for his team.

"Take it easy, Mr. Rogers. You've been in storage for some time," a voice he didn't recognize spoke up to his left.

Mister, not Captain. He was definitely not at SHIELD.

Steve glanced at the speaker. His frame looked like a man in his thirties, with auburn hair and a lanky build that reminded Steve of his own birth body. In place of a uniform, he wore a hybrid of formal attire and scrubs: crisply pressed charcoal trousers and a high-collared turquoise jacket, all of it precisely tailored. His name tag was a rectangular screen seamlessly inset into the jacket's breast, and it identified him as Randall Jones.

Steve couldn't even begin to guess where he was, and it was unnerving, but he wasn't going to give that away. "How long?" he asked instead.

"Let's leave that for later," Randall said ominously. Either it had been a long time and he wasn't telling Steve to avoid upsetting him, or he just wanted to keep Steve in the dark. "First, how are you feeling?"

"The usual," Steve said. He sat up slowly, clenching his hands into fists and opening them again to get rid of the lingering numbness. Glancing down at himself quickly confirmed his first impression: his frame was as buff as the fake he'd died in, his front a landscape of toned muscles and smooth skin all the way down to the blanket covering his lap. His biceps were as thick as his birth frame's thighs.

"Any dizziness or nausea?" Randall asked. His gaze traveled over Steve's body, from head to toe, but his eyes were unfocused. Steve guessed he was wearing some kind of diagnostic contacts, maybe interfacing with sensors built into the bed. Unlike in the small, functional rooms at SHIELD, there were no displays anywhere on the walls around them.

"No, I'm fine," Steve assured him.

Randall blinked, his eyes losing the glassy look, and nodded at Steve. "Good, good. All your readings are in the green as well. Do you feel like you could stand?"

Steve let out a huff, half amused, half frustrated. "Of course I can."

Transfers were a delicate business, and it made sense to avoid sudden shocks immediately after one, but this was a level of silk-gloved treatment that he wasn't used to. He pushed aside the blanket—finding that he was wearing navy blue boxers which looked like they might be made of real silk—and got off the bed. His feet felt a little tingly, but his legs held his weight without problems. The floor beneath his soles had a warm, pleasant, velvety surface, further adding to the impression of luxury surrounding him.

"Very good, that's very good," Randall said, offering him a smile that might have been cute if it hadn't looked so practiced. "Now, I would like you to go through a set of exercises for me, so we can establish that all the neuromotor connections are correctly mapped."

"Yeah, I know how this goes," Steve said.

"Right, right, you have a history of almost a hundred transfers," Randall noted, his smile still in place. "Well, this will be old hat to you, then. Just follow my directions, please."

He started guiding Steve through the test exercises. If Steve hadn't done this dozens and dozens of times, he might've found it silly; the test battery resembled some crude dance choreography, with moves like running in place, stretching out his arms, touching his nose and reaching for his toes. Randall's checklist was slightly different from what Steve was used to, but he still fell into the routine without needing to actively focus on it.

As he went through the motions, Steve carefully observed the room around him and his transfer nurse. The obvious conclusion about the place was that it had to be a private clinic, and an expensive one, too. He had no clue why he would be in one. He couldn't imagine his captors choosing to give him the VIP treatment, which suggested they might not be behind this. Nevertheless, the situation made him uneasy. He hated not knowing what was going on, or why, especially with his last memories being what they were.

Steve could just discern the outline of a door amidst the skyscape surrounding them. He supposed he could take Randall down and force his way out, although he couldn't be entirely certain—he didn't know the capabilities of his own frame, or what kind of features Randall's had. He also had no idea of what was out there, except that an exclusive clinic for the elite would surely have strict security measures.

The smartest approach would probably be to bide his time and see if Randall would tell him more.

"Excellent," Randall announced, finally having reached the end of his routine. "You pass with flying colors. I'm ready to declare you fit to face the world."

"Does that mean you'll finally tell me how long I've been out?" Steve tried.

"If you'd like me to, yes. You might want to sit down first, though," Randall said.

This was getting ridiculous. Steve crossed his arms and took a step forwards, glowering. He didn't know what his face looked like, but considering the physique of his frame, he assumed it would be suitably menacing. "Just tell me already," he growled.

Randall backed away, definitely unnerved. "Really, Mr. Rogers, there's no need for that. I'm only thinking of what's best for you. Don't say I didn't warn you." He paused, as if for dramatic effect. "Your mind has been in penitentiary storage for the past eighty-five years. I'm afraid your original body was not preserved."

Steve had thought he was ready. He wasn't.

His breath caught at his throat, and all the strength seemed to leach out of his new legs. Randall stepped in, offering Steve an arm for support, and it was all he could do to let himself be led back to the bed. He realized he was trembling.

He'd guessed it might've been a long time, but he'd expected perhaps a decade or two. Not the best part of a century.

Eighty-five years.

The body he'd been born in was gone. All of his friends would have moved on to new frames by now, if any of them were even alive anymore.

Randall wrapped a blanket over Steve's shoulders. He didn't mind, though it didn't help either.

He buried his face in his hands. There was something oddly familiar about the feel of it, the clean-shaven chin, the cheekbones, the nose.

He looked up at Randall, who was hovering next to him. "What frame am I in?"

"It's an organic construct custom-designed to resemble your birth frame," Randall said, his expression carefully neutral. "Would you like to see?"

"Show me," Steve ordered.

Randall looked away and blinked, and the wall closest to Steve turned from clouds to a mirror surface.

He found himself getting up again, on wobbly feet, and walking towards his reflection, everything else momentarily forgotten.

From the chin down, like he'd already seen, his body was all solid muscle. But the face—it was as if someone had taken his own, original face and grafted it on a military frame. The nose was the same, and the cheeks, even if there was a little more meat on them. The eyes were his eyes. Even the hair was exactly right, and not just the color, but the cut as well. It was like a mockery of his old body.

The initial shock quickly gave way to anger. He felt violated. Someone had copied him, made a fake uncannily similar to his original flesh and blood, and yet nothing like him, and they'd done it without asking for his permission. That was downright illegal. Sure, you could make fakes look like anything that human cells could build, but someone's birth body was untouchable—or at least it had been, back when Steve had last been conscious.

Everyone had the right to their unique genome and their unique likeness. Stealing either of those was among the worst crimes one could commit. Creating a frame that looked exactly like someone else, without permission, was almost as bad as transferring one's mind to someone else's clone. If these laws no longer existed, in this future he was now in, then it was a world whose rules Steve could not accept.

He turned around to face Randall again, hands raised in fists. "Who did this?" he demanded.

Randall was standing behind the bed, as if hoping it could protect him from Steve's wrath. "Technically, our gene engineers, but it was a commissioned work," he said defensively.

"What is this place, anyway?" Steve asked.

"The Better You: Cloning, Constructs and Enhancements. Making sure you can be the best you, today and in the years to come," Randall recited.

The presumptuous slogan didn't help with Steve's growing urge to punch Randall in the face. He stepped closer, glaring at him over the bed. "And who's responsible for this?"

"It'd probably be best if I let your contact person explain everything to you. My job is just to oversee transfers," Randall said hurriedly. "Yours seems to have been perfectly successful, so my work here is done. She's waiting for you in the lounge. That's right next door."

"She?" For a moment, there was a flash of hope: maybe it would be Peggy. Maybe his friends at SHIELD had come out on top, after all. But Peggy would never have done something like this to him. Maybe it would be the interrogator that he vaguely remembered instead.

"Miss Virginia Potts," Randall said.

Steve frowned. That didn't sound familiar at all. "I don't know her."

"Well, I'm sure she can fill you in." In slow, cautious moves, Randall picked up a blue bundle of cloth from a cart by the bed, and offered it to Steve. "It's just a bathrobe. Of course, if you prefer your current state of undress, you won't need it."

Leaving that without comment, Steve accepted the piece of clothing and wrapped himself up. It was made of the same luxurious, shimmery fabric as his boxers.

Randall opened the door that Steve had spotted earlier and led him to a larger room beyond. The light was brighter there, and its source was only the ceiling; the walls were simply a pale matte blue. Inset in one wall was a drinks dispenser, and next to it, a table had been laid out with enough food to feed an entire family on the street levels, with piles of fruits and bread and meats that Steve suspected were not lab-grown, but originated from actual live animals.

At the other end of the lounge, seated on one of several chaise longues, was a woman Steve hadn't met before. Her businesslike clothing and hairdo reminded him of the half remembered interrogation, though her hair was strawberry blonde instead of dark. Not that it had to mean anything. If that scene had taken place soon after his frame-death, his interrogator could've swapped frames a dozen times by now.

"Miss Potts? This is Mr. Rogers," Randall introduced. "I'll leave you two to it. If you need anything, just ask the AI. I can be here in half a minute."

"Thank you," Miss Potts said, getting up from her seat. The smile she gave Randall as he made his exit didn't look practiced, but genuinely friendly. Perhaps that was thanks to the freckles on her face, a detail one wouldn't expect on the overly perfect designer frames that business types preferred. Or rather, had preferred, back in Steve's day and age. Maybe the current trend was for more personable looks. He wouldn't know.

She turned the smile towards Steve, but he wasn't placated by it in the least. He was still seething at what had been done to him. "So, is it you I've got to thank for this, then?" he growled at her across the room.

Miss Potts approached him in confident steps, her smile faltering only slightly. "No, not me," she replied. "I'm here to represent my employer, Tony Stark."

"Tony," Steve repeated.

As soon as she'd said the name, it made sense. It was disgusting and disappointing, and yet, it wasn't surprising in the least. Of course it had been Tony. Tony, who had always loved seeing him in buff frames; Tony, who had, on the last night of Steve's past life, confessed his feelings and started talking about maybe getting together while Steve was in his own body. Clearly, he hadn't been that fond of Steve's own body, after all. His face, maybe, but the rest of it, not so much.

"He was able to get you pardoned for an early release. Your original sentence was for one hundred years," Miss Potts explained. "Since your birth body had been disposed of, he commissioned this new frame for you instead."

From his own perspective, Tony must've been thinking he was doing Steve a favor, making him better. Using his money to fix what had not been broken in the first place.

"He could've asked me first," Steve spat out.

"He probably could've, if he'd really wanted to," Miss Potts said, in a long-suffering tone, suggesting that she had some opinions on her employer. "I'm not going to defend his actions to you. He'll have to do that himself."

"So this is legal, now? Stealing someone's likeness without asking them?" Steve asked.

"No, normally it wouldn't be. Your case is more complicated. You were severely punished for conspiring against SHIELD. From what I understood, they granted the rights to Mr. Stark for the purposes of putting you in a new frame," she explained.

Back in the day, SHIELD wouldn't have had the jurisdiction to do something like that. Things had definitely changed.

"I want to talk to him," Steve said.

"Then you'll be pleased to hear that I'm here to take you to him," Miss Potts said.

That was good; Steve had no desire to spend time exchanging platitudes or drinking coffee.

Miss Potts had brought him a selection of clothes to pick from, and in fifteen minutes, he'd changed into a pair of black jeans and a blue button-down shirt that stretched tight over his enhanced muscles. They'd had his measurements down to the fraction of a millimeter, and Tony had clearly made use of that. Even the combat boots were perfectly fitted.

Steve expected Miss Potts to lead him through the clinic to a common garage, but instead, one of the doors opened directly to a private landing platform. A sleek limousine of a design that Steve hadn't seen before waited for them there, true to Tony's style. Settling on the luxurious leather-covered seats inside brought up a strange mix of nostalgia and revulsion.

"I guess it's good to know that some things don't change," he muttered to himself, watching the platform fall away behind them.

"He has, though," Miss Potts said, her voice as soft as Steve's. "A lot has changed while you were on ice, Mr. Rogers."

The landscape outside the window didn't seem very different at all. The top floors of the glass-walled towers around them, with names of corporations and agencies in huge letters, were just the way Steve remembered them. When he craned his neck to get a glimpse downwards, he saw that the ground was hidden in a shadowy haze, as always.

"Is Tony still working for SHIELD?" Steve asked.

"Consulting," Miss Potts said. "Like his father before him. Most of his time goes to managing his company."

That was slightly surprising; Steve hadn't thought Tony would have any ambitions about taking on that responsibility. "He's in charge of Stark Interplanetary, now?"

"Yes. Since his parents died," Miss Potts replied. "A traffic accident. That would've been a few years after you were sentenced."

Steve frowned. "Surely they must've had external backups?" People as astronomically rich as the Starks didn't have to trust their lives to a single backup node implanted at the neck, like ordinary people.

"They'd been corrupted beyond recovery. It was top of the news for a while back then. No one ever found out who did it, and there are still conspiracy theories around. Some people think Tony was behind it," Miss Potts said.

"You don't believe that, do you? He wouldn't have," Steve said. Tony had never liked his father, but he'd been close with his mother, and regardless of Steve's opinions on his moral integrity, surely Tony wouldn't have been capable of wiping his parents in cold blood.

"No. Back then, he wouldn't have." She looked as if she had more to say on the topic, opened her mouth, but then pursed her lips and shook her head. "You'll find out."

Like the rest of the city, Stark Tower looked exactly as it had before: ten floors taller than the surrounding buildings, with the giant SI logo on top.

Steve had only ever visited some of the public floors of the Tower, never those that made up the Starks' private residence, so he couldn't say if the interior had changed, but Tony did look different.

Steve met him in a spacious open living room with transparent walls that gave a direct view over the landing platform. Tony clearly hadn't wanted to look like he was twenty for the rest of his life: his current clone seemed closer to forty. He'd grown a beard and a mustache and cut his hair differently. Still, in spite of the changes, Steve would've recognized him anywhere. His eyes had not changed. They were just as huge and dark as he remembered.

He still looked gorgeous.

"Steve Rogers, as I live and breathe," Tony exclaimed, and pulled Steve to a hug, patting him on the back.

Steve, distracted by his tangled emotions, just stood in place, not responding to the hug, but not pulling away, either.

"Well, what do you think?" Tony asked, loosening his hold, his hands resting on Steve's arms, his eyes going from Steve's face to his body. "Cost almost as much as a proper clone, but well worth it, I think. All the latest enhancements. You'd be hard-pressed to find anyone with an organic fake stronger or faster than yours."

The disgust that those words raised was enough to push away any lingering nostalgia. Steve stepped away from Tony, shrugging away his hands, glaring at him. "Yeah? And what if I didn't want to be like this?"

"Okay, I get that it was a little inconsiderate of me," Tony admitted, making placating gestures with his hands. "But I couldn't afford the time it'd take to grow a clone, and a fake modeled after your birth body would've been too fragile to be of any use to a bodyguard. I just thought you'd feel more familiar in something resembling your old self."

"Well, you thought wrong," Steve declared. "Bodyguard?"

"Didn't Pepper tell you?" Tony asked, glancing over Steve's shoulder.

Miss Potts had stayed in the background, and now she shrugged. "I decided to leave explaining the details of this arrangement to you."

"Okay, that's fine. You can go, then." Tony waved a dismissive hand at her. "So, Steve. Let's take a seat. Do you want anything? A drink, a snack? You must still be feeling that transfer."

Steve thought of the last time they'd spoken, of that dinner they'd not shared when Tony had walked out. If Tony remembered that, he didn't show it. Of course, even if it had been yesterday for Steve, for Tony, it would've been almost a century ago. He'd probably had dozens of relationships and even more one-night stands since then—but then again, he'd still wanted to have Steve here and now, for whatever reason.

"I'd like some answers, first," Steve said.

"Suit yourself," Tony said. "I'm getting a drink, either way." He headed for the bar by one of the walls, leaving Steve to pick a seat on one of the brown leather sofas.

Tony joined him a moment later with a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. "You sure you don't want any?"

"Very," Steve said, crossing his arms. "Why am I here, Tony? And why now? Why after eighty-five years? Why not twenty, or fifty?"

Tony poured himself a drink and held it for a moment, looking thoughtful. "There are limits to what I can do, you know," he finally said. "Knocking five years off your sentence, sure. Ten, fifteen, maybe. Half of it or more? Hardly possible. You did commit a serious crime, Steve, conspiring against SHIELD. It was this close," he held his thumb and forefinger a few millimeters apart, "that they didn't just wipe you."

"I wasn't conspiring against them," Steve said. He couldn't believe Tony had bought that. "There was a conspiracy inside SHIELD, but I wasn't a part of it. Surely you know me better than to believe that I'd work against them!"

Tony shrugged, looking uncomfortable. "It was a confusing time. I was suspicious, but they had convincing evidence. I wasn't sure what to think, and then my folks died and I had no time to think about anything else but the company."

"They wanted to get rid of me," Steve went on. "They set me up. Me and my team." He stopped, the memory of his last moments taking over his mind. Bucky falling. Dum Dum and Morita bleeding on the ground. Rumlow looming over him. "What happened to them? Did they survive? What about Peggy?"

Tony set his glass on the sofa table. "Wow. Pepper really left everything to me. Okay." He put his palms together, pressing his fingers over his mouth.

Dear heavens—how bad was it going to be? Steve forced himself to take a deep breath as he waited to hear it, trying to prepare for the worst.

"Peggy Carter is gone. She went on the run, and hid from justice for decades, but they got to her in the end, just around ten years ago. Some of your team died as well. A few were sentenced like you. The rest are still missing."

This was too much to take in; he couldn't really comprehend it. Everyone gone. Peggy. His team. Even Tony's parents. So many people who should've been able to live for centuries, gone forever.

"Bucky?" Steve asked, his voice breaking.

"Who?" Tony returned. That was odd. He should've recognized the name. Steve had mentioned him often enough. Tony had even met him a few times at HQ.

"Agent James Barnes. My closest friend," Steve clarified.

"Ah, sorry, of course. It's been a few years," Tony said, apologetic. "I think he's still missing. We can check. Ultron?" he raised his voice to address an AI. "What's the current status of a James Barnes? Worked for SHIELD back in the day and got into trouble during that takeover attempt."

"SHIELD files list him as missing," came the answer in a relaxed, almost drawling voice. "Some sightings over the past years, here and in Europe, but current location is unknown."

That at least gave Steve a glimmer of hope. Maybe, just maybe, he still had some friends left.

"What happened to Jarvis?" he asked, remembering the crisp accent of Tony's AI, who'd been ever-present in his workshop and his cars.

"I upgraded him. Ultron is a little less stuck-up," Tony said.

"Really? That's all you've got to say about me? Aw, Tony," the AI complained. "I'm also smarter, faster, and I've got bigger guns, too." Not the sort of attitude that Steve found confidence-inspiring, coming from a disembodied intelligence.

"You seem to be doing a lot of upgrading these days," Steve commented.

"You say that as if it's a bad thing." Tony picked up his glass and sipped at his drink. "It's hardly new for me, anyway. You know me, Steve, don't you? I like to be ahead of the curve."

Steve couldn't disagree with that. "You do, and I'm lagging far behind. You still haven't told me why you've brought me here."

Tony tossed back the rest of his drink in one go, grimacing. "Yeah. I was getting to it. It's kind of embarrassing. The thing is, I need your help."

Steve frowned at him. "You must be really grasping at straws to need the help of a purported criminal who's been on ice for over eighty years."

"You're selling yourself short, but you're also not wrong. I'm starting to get a little desperate," Tony admitted, pouring himself another two fingers of whiskey. "Thing is, I've lost two clones in as many months. That leaves me with another two in store, in addition to this one," he pointed at himself with one thumb. "They're growing new ones as we speak, of course, but it takes time. This is cutting it closer than I'd like, it's a stupid waste of resources, and I don't particularly enjoy being assassinated."

"Yeah, tell me about it," Steve muttered, the memory of Rumlow and his last mission flashing through his mind again.

He found it difficult to sympathize with Tony. What did it matter if he'd lost a few clones? He had external backups of his mind, so he'd never been in any real danger. Even if he ran out of clones entirely, he could always spend time in a fake while he waited for a new one to mature. Sure, he probably found the very idea distasteful and degrading, but only because he was used to a life of luxury.

Steve had lost everything. Compared to that, what Tony was facing was an inconvenience at worst.

"Now, I don't really trust the local police these days, and I'd rather not involve SHIELD in this. Ultron's smart, but he's not the best with people, especially with that pesky law that forbids me from putting him in a fake," Tony went on.

Steve was happy to hear that particular law was still in place; AIs had their uses, but the moment you started transferring artificial minds into humanoid bodies, it would blur the lines too much to his liking.

"So, are you asking me to be your bodyguard, or a detective?" Steve checked.

"Why pick one? I think you've got the skills to handle both," Tony said. "Figure out who's behind this, and keep them from costing me any more clones. The assassins are very good, but I trust you to be better."

"I'm flattered at your trust," Steve said, with open sarcasm. "I guess I haven't got much say in this?"

Tony gave him a sharp smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Well, you can always choose to go back and stay in storage for another fifteen years. Try your luck with whatever SHIELD chooses to do with you afterwards. I'd say I'm the safer bet here. You do this for me, and you'll be free to go on with your life once the situation's sorted."

Steve blew out a breath. "My life. Doesn't look I've got much of one left."

The only person he'd known who was still alive and not a fugitive was Tony, and going by this conversation, he'd grown up to exemplify everything that Steve hadn't liked about him: he was self-centered, shallow and callous. As if there was nothing left but the worst parts.

"Tell me, Tony. The things you said to me, the night before I died—did you really mean all of it?" Steve asked, on a whim.

Tony stared at his drink for a moment. Then, he looked up at Steve, those familiar dark eyes meeting Steve's, his expression unreadable. "Back then? Yeah, I think I did," he said, at length. "But that was a long time ago."

Even if he didn't like this new, older Tony, somehow, that still stung.

"Not for me, it wasn't," Steve said.

"Will you help me, Steve?" Tony asked, still holding Steve's gaze, his voice soft but intense.

It wasn't as if Steve had much choice. Anything was better than being in storage. "Yes," he answered, probably sounding more determined than he felt. "But don't expect me to stick around once we're done."

"I won't," Tony said curtly.

"I'd like to be alone, now, if you don't mind," Steve said.

"Of course. We can talk about the details of the job tomorrow morning, once you've had time to settle in. I've got some appointments in the afternoon, and I'd like you to accompany me. For now, I've got a floor set up for you. Pepper?" Tony called out.

"I'm afraid she's currently busy, Mr. Stark," a feminine voice that wasn't Miss Potts replied over the intercom. "Anything I can help you with?"

"Ah, Natalie. Sure, you can do this just as well. I need someone to show Steve his accommodation," Tony ordered.

"I'd love to meet him. I'll be right there," Natalie answered.

Tony turned towards Steve again, and shifted a little closer so he could place a hand on Steve's shoulder. "I know all of this is a lot to take in, and I'm sorry. I know I must seem like a stranger to you now, but I'm still me. If you want to talk, I'll be there for you. If there's anything you need, just ask."

Steve shrugged off the hand and stood up. "I guess a clone of my original body isn't on the table?"

"That'd take months to grow, not to mention the trouble of getting SHIELD to hand over your genome while you're still on probation. Sorry, Steve. For now, you're better off in something more robust. Solve this case, and I can sort it out for you, if you really want it," Tony said.

"I'll hold you to that," Steve said.

Tony's other personal assistant, Natalie Rushman, showed up half a minute later. She was also a pretty redhead. Maybe Tony had a type, these years. One that definitely wasn't anything like Steve. She took Steve to the apartment set up for him. Tony hadn't exaggerated when he'd called it a floor: it really was the entire 194th, far higher than any place Steve had ever lived in. She offered to take Steve around the place, but he assured her he'd rather be on his own. After double-checking that there wasn't anything else he might need, she left.

Although his thoughts were decades away, Steve did actually make a quick tour of the apartment. It was a habit borne out of all his time with SHIELD: always know your surroundings so you're prepared for everything. He found a large bedroom, a wardrobe full of clothes in various styles, all of which would no doubt fit him perfectly, a kitchen with a fridge and cupboards stocked with food, a huge bathroom complete with a jacuzzi, a separate room with a VR getup, and finally, a private gym that was larger than the shared one on his floor had been, back in the day.

He didn't like any of it. It was too extravagant, and much too roomy for one person. He couldn't imagine ever considering a place like this his home, but for now he was stuck living in it. At least it meant he had all the peace and quiet he could wish for, and no need to leave for groceries or necessities.

Back in the living room—similar to Tony's, with huge windows—Steve couldn't think of anything else that he needed to do. He sat down on one of the couches, feeling blank.

He couldn't yet wrap his mind around everything that had happened during the past few days, on his subjective timeline. He'd thought he'd lost everything when he'd died on that rooftop, and yet, somehow, even though he wasn't dead, things were even worse than he'd expected.

He was all alone in a world that he didn't recognize anymore.

He thought about what he'd do if he managed to fulfill this obligation he was now stuck with. He'd need to figure out what had happened when he'd died. Who were the people who had set him up and killed his team, and driven the possible survivors into hiding?

He would find out as soon as he could. He'd find his friends, and together, they'd find this mysterious enemy.

He'd set things right, no matter how many lifetimes it would take him.

Maybe Tony could help him—but based on what he'd seen so far, he wasn't going to count on that.

He asked Ultron for a summary of the events at SHIELD. What he got matched what he'd already heard, and sounded very much like the conspirators had come out on top afterwards. Most of his friends and colleagues were described as culprits in a takeover attempt, and their elimination or imprisonment as a stabilizing move that had allowed SHIELD to return to its normal routines. Steve had an awful feeling that those routines would be quite different from what he was used to.

A general overview of key political events during his time in storage supported this impression. SHIELD seemed to have grown from an organization that mainly worked behind the scenes into a major player in global politics, and a planetary police that held far more influence than any local ones. When Steve asked if there was any chance that he could meet with someone currently working for them, Ultron said he would have to run that by Tony first. That was a reply Steve got for several other questions that might've helped him figure out the past. Almost as if Tony didn't want him to know.

He tried asking for an overview of the case he was supposed to be working on instead, and ran into a brick wall with that, too. "Tony said he wants to go through that with you tomorrow, so you'll just have to wait patiently, Cap," Ultron informed him, and if the AI could've made the nickname sound more mocking than he did, Steve didn't know how.

To counteract his growing frustration and distract himself from the looming dark cloud of grief, Steve did what he'd always done in these situations, and hit the gym. After an hour of going through everything the multipurpose machines had to offer, he found his new frame starting to flag. A wave of dizziness hit him when he got up, so bad that he ended up leaning on the nearest wall. A clawing emptiness in his gut reminded him that he hadn't actually eaten since he'd been transferred. A beginner's mistake. Any organic frame this size would be burning through calories at a ridiculous rate.

He ate mechanically, without tasting a thing, his thoughts on the last meal he'd had, the last night that he could remember, eating the take-out that Tony had picked for him. The younger, kinder Tony, the one with everything ahead of him, the one Steve had hoped might prove him wrong and turn out to be a better man than Steve expected of him.

He wondered if things would've turned out differently if he'd reciprocated Tony's feelings that night, but that was probably exaggerating his influence on Tony by a mile. Whatever had made Tony the way he was today, surely it wasn't just being turned down by Steve that night; last night, eighty-five years ago.

His body felt so wrung out that he could barely find the energy to sit up. Steve made his way to the bedroom and lay down in the king-sized bed, but as tired as his body was, his mind wouldn't let him sleep.

Alone, in the dark, he finally let the first tears fall, mourning a loss so deep that he didn't know if he'd ever truly get over it.

His last coherent thought before falling into restless nightmares was that it might've been better if Rumlow had just wiped him.

Chapter Text

The next morning, when Steve woke up to a chime followed by Ultron's cheerful voice telling him that Tony would like to meet him in an hour, he felt slightly embarrassed by his earlier defeatist thinking. He wasn't going to give up. That wasn't who he was. Some of his people were still out there. He'd be damned if he didn't do everything in his power to find them again. If he needed to play private detective for Tony in order to get there, he would. He'd deal with this case as fast as he could, and then get started on what was truly important.

Exactly one hour later, as requested, Steve took the private elevator back to Tony's floor, ready to start his first day of servitude. To Steve's surprise, Tony was there as well, looking sharp in a business suit. Back in the day, Tony had rarely showed up at HQ before ten, and usually he'd spent his first hour inhaling caffeine. It wasn't even nine o'clock yet. Things had definitely changed.

"Morning. I hope you managed to get some sleep," Tony greeted him.

"Some, yeah," Steve replied. "Look, you can stop pretending that you care for my well-being. If you did, I wouldn't be here, in this frame."

Tony sighed and pursed his lips. "I'm sorry you don't believe it, but I actually do. If I didn't, you'd still be in storage. I could've picked anyone to tackle this case. I picked you."

"You're not going to sell that as some kind of an altruistic show of goodwill when you did it because it happened to suit your needs," Steve pointed out. "So, let's get on with it. What do you know about these assassins so far? How did they kill those two clones?"

"I can tell that they're creative, for one thing. That's what's got me so unnerved. The first attack was entirely straightforward. They'd managed to implant a bomb in one of my limos," Tony said, walking as he spoke. He stopped to stare at the morning traffic outside of the transparent walls, hands clasped behind his back. "Exploded in mid-air, sent my remains and bits and pieces of car raining down on those poor bastards on the ground. Of course, I don't remember that myself. Totally demolished my backup node. Had to go for an external backup from the previous night."

"That couldn't have been easy, putting a bomb in your limo. I'm sure you've got meticulous safety measures," Steve said.

Tony huffed. "Of course I do. Built them myself. One reason the NYPD dropped this investigation after barely looking into it was that I refused to give them the details. I'm not convinced they would've been much help anyway. Mind you, this did happen when said limo was parked elsewhere, not at the Tower. It still wouldn't have been easy to pull off. Almost impossible, unless the culprit had my security codes."

"Which would suggest someone close to you," Steve suggested.

"It would, wouldn't it?" Tony said. "I've thought about that. Honestly, if I didn't know for a fact that both Pepper and Natalie were otherwise occupied at the time, I would find them both extremely suspicious."

Steve thought of the two pretty redheads. So far, he didn't know much about them, except that Pepper had seemed more sincere than Natalie, who'd given an impression of professional impersonality. "You don't trust your assistants?"

"In my position, trusting people generally isn't very smart," Tony said, sounding entirely blasé about it. "Pepper's been around for longer, but I'm convinced she's mainly here because it's a stable, high-profile, well-paid job with great benefits, not because she likes me. She left for a couple of years, once, and came back, I suppose because she found out that the grass isn't greener on the other side. But that was a long time ago, fifty years or so. Natalie, I haven't quite figured out yet. She's only been on my payroll for a year. Trying to kill me would be a very bad career move, though, and she seems motivated."

"Any other potential suspects aside from the two of them?" Steve asked.

"Well, there's an obvious one based on the second murder. I'll get to that. And then there's always Happy Hogan, my ex-chief of security," Tony said, with an ugly sneer. "I'm sure he carries a grudge after I let him go, but Ultron's doing a much better job than he ever did. Honestly, I doubt Happy would know how to install a bomb without having it blow up in his face."

Steve arched his eyebrows. "Why would you even have someone like that as chief of security?"

"Sentimental reasons, mostly. I got over that," Tony said, as if brushing aside something embarrassing.

"Right." Steve wasn't convinced that was a good thing, but getting hung up on Tony's character flaws wasn't going to advance the investigation. "How about the second attack, then? You implied it was more elaborate?"

"Considerably," Tony nodded, turning away from the window to face Steve. "I shot myself. Clean through the node." He mimed placing a gun at his neck with two fingers. "Again, I have no memory of doing that, but it was captured in high definition on security cameras from multiple angles."

"And you know for sure that this was an assassination?" Steve asked, frowning.

"Of course I do!" Tony exclaimed, spreading his arms. "Why the hell would I kill myself? I'd know it'd be a futile exercise. No, I'm sure I didn't want to do it. More than that, I'm pretty sure I even know how they made me do it. It was some kind of implanted suggestion, slipped in through a VR link. See, I usually avoid any kind of VR hookups outside of home. Call me paranoid, but you never know what's in there. So, of course, the one time I break that rule—I think I've learned my lesson. Never mind how expensive the setting or how much they praise their safety measures."

An unsafe virtual reality link could definitely be one way to insert any number of things into a target's mind. Steve wasn't fit to judge if it was a more likely explanation than suicide. He simply didn't know Tony well enough anymore. Was there a chance that this callous facade was just that, a facade, and that deep down, Tony was troubled and vulnerable, depressed, even? Maybe Steve had jumped to the wrong conclusions about him. Not that he wanted Tony to be unhappy, but he'd almost prefer that explanation to the more likely one, which was that Tony had just turned out to be an unpleasant person.

If Tony was, indeed, not as unflappable as he let the world believe, Steve didn't think he'd ever admit it. Before he found some reason to believe otherwise, he was just going to take Tony's word at face value, and stick to the more concrete details of the case.

"Where did this happen, then?" Steve went on with the conversation.

"The bathroom of a high-end VR salon, after a business meeting with Justin Hammer," Tony spat out the name like something sour. "Remember that name. He's right on top of that suspects list, and as it happens, I'm having lunch with him in around three hours."

"He insisted on the VR visit?" Steve asked.

"He dared me, the little asshole. I'd love nothing more than to be able to pin this on him, but so far, I've got no evidence. The analysis of the bombing revealed nothing beyond residues of garden-variety explosives. The VR salon allowed me to scan their system, but that came up with nothing, unless you count a couple of minor snooping programs. Just the kind of thing that makes me avoid those places. Not enough to explain what I did."

It sounded like this might turn out to be an easy case; if this Hammer person was behind it, all Steve needed was to find definitive proof. "Is there any chance that these two attempts could've been by different people?"

"Of course. Anything's possible, as long as we have nothing solid. Occam's Razor would suggest otherwise, though. It's been years since anyone last tried to off me, and now twice within two months? I'd say it's more likely there's just one culprit."

"All right. I'm not going to rule anything out at this point, but let's stick to a single-assassin hypothesis for now," Steve agreed. "So, what about your assistants? Either of them at the VR salon with you?"

"Natalie was there. She's the one who found me with my brains blown out all over the landscape. Cameras show her getting there and instantly calling for help, but still, it doesn't exactly make her less suspicious, does it?" Tony pulled a face. "I don't know what her motive would be, unless she's in league with him, which she could be. Justin has a bucketload of motives. He hates my guts as much as I hate his. He thinks he's competing with me, and sure, his company's a notable player on Earth, in some segments. On a system-wide scale, though, they're nothing. He's more of an inconvenience to me than a threat. Unless he's the one trying to kill me."

"If he is, we'll catch him," Steve promised. "I'll get to meet him today, then?"

"Yeah. It's the first time we'll meet in person since that whole fiasco, too. Bring popcorn, I'm sure it'll be a proper show," Tony said.

"You're not worried that if he's behind everything, he'll try again today?" Steve asked cautiously.

"Of course I am. That's why you'll be there."

Now that Tony had given him the low-down, Ultron allowed Steve access to all the material related to the case. He spent the spare time he had before the lunch meeting delving into it: various analyses and eyewitness accounts of the bombing, and videos of what Tony claimed wasn't a suicide. Looking at the events from an outside point of view, it did very much look like one.

Tony walked into the hand-washing area of a public restroom, where he pulled a gun out of a shoulder holster and, without hesitation, took aim and fired. It was a blaster of some kind, a new design Steve wasn't familiar with. The results were not pretty; the force of the blast flung Tony backwards and nearly severed his head at the neck. There was a lot of blood. Even though Steve had seen plenty of bloodshed, and even though he'd just been talking to Tony and knew he'd survived the incident, watching it still made him shudder, his throat tight, his hands clenched in fists.

According to Ultron, there were no traces of tampering on the recording. There had been no one else in the room at the time, with all the cubicles empty. A few minutes after Tony had collapsed to the floor in a pool of blood, Natalie showed up. When she did, her expression was openly shocked. In contrast to that, her quick response to the situation seemed professional to the point that Steve could've almost called it suspicious, but then again, perhaps it was just training and experience.

Steve managed to catch hold of Natalie to ask her a few questions, and her story was in line with everything Tony had said, and what Steve had seen. Regarding the shooting incident, her answer was also cautiously supportive of Tony's opinion. "I don't know him that well, but I've seen nothing to suggest he'd want to do such a thing," she said. "You should ask Pepper, though, she knows him a lot better."

Pepper's reply was in the same vein, and more confident. "No, I definitely think there was an external influence at play. I've known him for decades. He's not suicidal. Not these days, anyway," she said, the last sentence spoken more softly, like a sad afterthought, looking away from Steve.

Steve frowned at her. "Yesterday, you said he's changed."

She sighed and turned to face him, her face very serious. "Yes. He has." She stepped closer to him, her hand on his arm, her lips right next to his ear. "He's not the man you used to know, Steve. Things aren't what they seem," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Be careful."

"What do you mean?" Steve asked, confused.

He'd already gathered that Tony was a very different person from the one he'd known in the past, but if Tony had wanted to harm him, why bring him out of storage at all? Wouldn't it have been easier to just leave him there, and then let the unsavory people currently running SHIELD take care of him?

Pepper shook her head ever so slightly and pulled away from him. "I'm sure you can get to the bottom of this, eventually," she declared. "I'll help you as much as I can. Feel free to ask me whenever you need anything. I have to go now."

"Sure. Thanks," Steve said, staring after her, still baffled, as she hurried out of the room.

Could she have meant it in the most concrete sense? That Tony wasn't Tony at all, but someone else posing as him? He would've loved to think that; to believe that the Tony he'd once known lived on somewhere else, but he couldn't bring himself to. It would be wishful thinking to reach for such a far-flung explanation. Combined clone and identity theft was one of the worst crimes out there, and even if he could imagine someone wanting to supplant Tony, he couldn't see anyone actually succeeding. Tony wasn't just one of the richest people on the planet, he was also among the most intelligent.

Even if Tony had changed, there was too much of a resemblance. It would take an incredibly talented actor to pull that off. The thought that he might be an impersonator hadn't even occurred to Steve before Pepper's mysterious words. Steve knew a long life would inevitably change a person, and that sounded like a far more likely explanation for what had happened to Tony.

"So, have you solved the case yet, Sherlock?" Tony asked as Steve joined him on the landing platform at the appointed hour of departure.

"No. You'll be the first to know when I do," Steve replied, not in the mood for jokes. "Anything I need to know about this meeting beforehand?"

"For starters, it's a lunch meeting, not a firing squad. Lighten up." Tony nudged him on the bicep as they walked towards the waiting limo. "I've made sure you've got a seat by my side. The place is called the 201. It's very nice, top floor, five stars on every ranking worth mentioning, ten-year waiting list for regular customers."

"I'm thrilled. So, it'll be just us and Mr. Hammer?"

"Plus Pepper, Justin's assorted personnel and drones, and the ones I bring with me," Tony waved a hand at the open air beyond the platform.

As if on cue, six man-sized drones rose up to hover by its lip. They were gunmetal gray, with a circular power source set in the chest, and Steve thought they had to be skirting the edge of what the non-humanoid-robot restrictions allowed: they had a regular human body plan of two arms, two legs and a head. What probably allowed them to pass was that their build was far bulkier than that of any typical human frame, their arms clearly shaped as cannons, their legs as jets, with no hands or feet. Their small heads were almost featureless, with simple glowing squares of light for eyes, and no hint of nose or mouth.

"Reporting for duty, sir," Ultron's voice rang in the air, and each of the drones raised their cannon-arms in a salute, perfectly synchronized.

Steve looked from the drones to Tony. "So. Why, exactly, do you need me as a bodyguard again?"

Tony had provided Steve with weaponry beforehand: he now wore a shoulder holster with a regular projectile-shooter and a top-of-the-line plasma blaster similar to the one Tony had shot himself with. Neither of them would be of much use in a battle against an army of drones.

Tony shrugged and gave a lopsided grin. "Nothing like an old-fashioned human touch."

That was no answer, but it was probably too much to expect Tony to actually explain his actions. Steve didn't push the matter. They'd reached the limo by now. Steve opened the door, taking a quick look inside to make sure he couldn't spot anything suspicious. Not that he doubted Tony and Ultron hadn't already triple-checked everything. There was nothing that he could see, so he held out a hand motioning Tony to go first.

"Old fashioned chivalry, too," Tony commented, still smiling, and stepped in.

They had to wait for a few minutes for Pepper to join them; she apologized profusely for it, but Tony waved it off magnanimously. "Never mind. We might as well be fashionably late. Justin can deal with it."

Steve generally tended to assume the best of people, and always gave them the benefit of the doubt. Tony's opposing attitude of considering everyone an idiot unless proven otherwise had always been among his main character flaws. Still, when it came to Justin Hammer, Steve was inclined to agree with Tony's assessment of the man just based on his first impression.

Hammer wore expensive clothing, a conventionally handsome frame which Steve assumed was a customized clone, and glasses that had to be an accessory, because surely he wouldn't allow actual imperfections in his sight. He seemed like someone who was desperate to replicate Tony's cool persona, but fell slightly short. The end result was forced, awkward and sleazy instead.

"Tony! So, so nice to see you again, and in one piece, too," Hammer said, shaking Tony's hand and patting him on the bicep.

"No thanks to you," Tony replied, returning Hammer's fake smile in kind.

Hammer had already turned towards Steve, his smile growing wider. "And this must be the famous Captain Rogers! Or should I say, infamous, rather?"

It was strange to hear himself referred to by rank outside of SHIELD; with his carefully concealed identity, only his closest colleagues had known it. But apparently the trials following the takeover attempt had been public, and exposed his identity to everyone. He supposed there must've been celebrations among organized criminals across the Solar System when they'd found out that he'd been outed and sentenced.

Steve shook the hand he was being offered and tried to keep his face neutral. "Technically, I'm not a captain anymore. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Hammer."

"The pleasure's all mine, Steve, believe me. It's not every day you get to meet a celebrity from the past," Hammer said, already moving towards Pepper. "And Miss Potts. Enchanté, as always." He reached for Pepper's hand as if he was planning on kissing it, then saw the glare Pepper was giving him and shook it lightly instead. "Sad to see Miss Rushman couldn't join us this time."

"I think she can be excused, considering what she had to go through last time," Pepper said sharply.

Hammer grimaced. "Ah, yes, of course. That's part of the reason why we're here, anyway. I'm very, very sorry about that, and I want to make it up to you." He motioned them deeper into the building.

They followed him to a dining room that was empty of all other customers, with a single large, solid wood table set close to the middle of the space. Everything about the decor around them looked immaculate, closer to the minimalistic style of Stark Tower than the tacky luxury of the clinic where Steve had woken up. As in most high-rises, they were entirely surrounded by transparent windows from ceiling to floor, showing a cloudy sky. The chandeliers hanging from the ceiling somehow gave the effect that they were reflecting and amplifying the natural ambient light, so that the room seemed bathed in soft sunlight.

Lining one wall, looking very much out of place in the setting, stood a row of drones that were even bulkier than Tony's, a head taller than Steve and twice as wide. The plasma cannons on their shoulders looked purely functional, not like the streamlined repulsor arms of Tony's drones, and their heads were clearly robotic, with no facial features at all.

Tony headed straight for them, his expression somewhere between amused and contemptuous. "So, your latest, Justin?"

"Straight off the assembly line," Hammer confirmed, stepping in front of the drones and spreading his arms. It looked less like a grand gesture, more like a dealer trying to sell used fakes.

"They're very," Pepper started, fell silent as if looking for the right word, and finished with, "menacing, I'd say."

"No need to worry, though. They're just here as insurance," Hammer said, reaching to place a hand on a metallic arm. "See? Inert and perfectly harmless."

Pepper stepped closer and gave the drone an awkward pat. It stayed inactive.

"I hope they're not permanently inert. Not much use then," Tony sneered, and nodded towards the door. "Luckily, I've got us covered."

The group of Tony's drones marched in, arranging themselves in a row exactly opposite Hammer's. Looking at them, the contrast in the designs was even more obvious, like the difference between a sports car and a wagon.

"I hope yours aren't too trigger-happy," Hammer returned. "Come, the table's set."

The table was set for six; Hammer motioned at Tony's group to take one side. A man and a woman, a blonde and a brunette, joined the group to flank Hammer, taking the seats by his sides. Their frames were so picture-perfect that they looked like plastic fakes, though Steve was pretty sure someone as rich as Hammer would only put his staff in organics.

"Meet Nina and Noa, my assistants for today," Hammer introduced them, placing his arms around their shoulders.

Tony quirked an eyebrow. "Are you sure 'escorts' isn't the word you're looking for?"

"That's demeaning, Tony. They're highly qualified professionals." Hammer shook an index finger at him. It would've been more convincing if the pair hadn't so clearly been set up as accessories. Then again, Steve thought, looking at himself and the frame Tony had put him in, he couldn't claim Tony held any moral high ground in this.

"I don't doubt that," Tony said, with a smirk.

Hammer must've given a discrete gesture or messaged them somehow, because the next moment, a group of waiters approached to pour them wine. They were dressed in a classic vintage style, with white shirts and black trousers and vests—and, of course, matching frames that looked pretty, but natural and unmodified, unlike the entourage Hammer had brought.

"No virtual realities today, I promise," Hammer said, and picked up his glass. "Everything is one-hundred-percent real here, and organic, too. Waiters, food, wine. To your good health." He raised the glass towards Tony.

Steve had seen the wine being poured from a single bottle, so he supposed this was fine. Even if Hammer had been behind the assassinations, Steve doubted he'd go for something as crude as poison. Steve wasn't going to spend the meal suspecting each drink and dish unless he found an obvious reason to worry.

Tony, for one, didn't seem too worried, but returned the toast. "And to yours. If you'd like to keep it, try to hold back the murderous urges tonight."

"I swear I had nothing to do with that," Hammer said, his glass still raised. "I've told you already. If I wanted to kill you, I wouldn't be so brutal about it."

Tony glared at him over the rim of his own glass. "Is that supposed to be reassuring?"

"You're not actually afraid of me, are you, Tony?" Hammer said, sounding almost gleeful.

"More afraid that I might die of old age before we even get to appetizers," Tony said.

"Point taken, though you did start. Santé." Hammer raised his glass a little more and brought it to his lips.

Everyone else followed suit, Steve included. The wine tasted good, though Steve was sure he couldn't appreciate the complexities of it. That was, overall, his feeling about the entire meeting: the food was tasty, but he couldn't understand why anyone would wait for ten years to get to eat these particular dishes. Of course, listening to Tony and Justin Hammer constantly snipe at one another also wasn't his idea of a good time.

Steve wasn't even sure if this was a purely social occasion, or if business negotiations were supposed to be part of the meeting. Through the three courses, none of the talk sounded particularly official. Steve only took part in it when someone addressed him directly, and exchanged some pleasantries with Nina, the assistant sitting across from him. Pepper seemed to be having a more lively conversation with Noa, only occasionally casting a glance at Tony. The few times her eyes met Steve's, the look she gave was weary, like she wasn't enjoying this any more than Steve was.

All through the meal, Steve kept a careful watch on the room around them, but there was no sign of anything unusual. The lines of drones stayed unmoving, and the waiters went back and forth between the kitchens and the table with clockwork precision and impeccable manners. Outside, all traffic seemed to be giving the restaurant a wide berth. Perhaps Hammer or Tony had set up additional drones to patrol the skies.

By the time the waiters walked in with coffee and tea, Steve wasn't really expecting anything to happen anymore, but he still held on to his focus. That was what kept Tony from losing yet another clone.

A slight, noiseless movement in the background caught Steve's eye: one of Hammer's drones straightened up, the launchers on its shoulders changing alignment.

Reacting in the fraction of a second, Steve leaped up and pushed Tony over, chair and all. They crashed into Pepper, who seemed to catch on quickly and dropped to the floor on her own. Tony was a little slower to figure it out. He yelped in surprise as he fell, his hands grabbing fistfuls of Steve's jacket, but then froze as a plasma bolt hit the table, showering them with splinters and pieces of broken china. Steve tried to do what he could to shield both Tony and Pepper with his body; he had the largest frame and the best combat specs.

The other drones reacted a second later. When they did, the room instantly turned into a war zone. Still on the floor, Steve didn't have a good view of it, but Tony's drones launched into a counter-attack, and the rest of Hammer's drones joined the fray. The air filled with the smell of ozone and the glow of blaster and repulsor fire.

Hammer and his troupe had hit the floor on the other side of the table, though one of his assistants hadn't been as lucky as everyone else: Noa was lying on the ground curled up on his side, a growing pool of blood on the floor beneath him.

"Justin!" Tony shouted over the noise of explosions. "The deal's off the table! You can forget about it!"

"Not me! This wasn't me!" Hammer yelled back, shaking his head, his eyes wide behind his glasses.

Hammer looked shocked enough that Steve believed him—but for solving their current predicament, it didn't really matter. Regardless of who had been controlling the drone that had started the firefight, now that all of them registered the opposing side as a threat, they would keep on fighting until one side had completely destroyed the other.

"If it wasn't you, then call off the drones!" Steve commanded. "Both of you!"

Unsurprisingly, both Tony and Hammer protested.

"Are you insane?" Tony said.

"How stupid do you think I am?" Hammer cried out, then yelped as a chair next to him burst out in flames.

They didn't have time for this. Trying to run out with drones firing from both sides would probably get them all killed. Steve considered turning over the table and using it for cover, but it was cumbersomely large, and could only offer protection from one side. It would be stupidly risky, when there was a much simpler way out of this situation.

"Do it! Right now!" Steve insisted. "On three! One, two, three—"

"Fine!" Tony said.

Hammer must've realized that Steve was right as well, because suddenly, all the noise died out, leaving them in a silence broken only by shaky breathing and the sound of distant traffic beyond shattered windows.

For a moment, no one seemed willing to move at all.

Steve was the first one to get up, on guard for any signs of hostile activity. There was nothing. He looked around, taking in the destruction around them. The room was littered with broken glass from the windows, and he spotted one waiter unmoving on the ground. He was hopeful that it might be only a frame death, with no node damage.

Tony's drones had returned into their earlier orderly line and looked only a little worse for wear. Hammer's had frozen in place at assorted locations, and they seemed to have suffered more heavily, their previously light gray surfaces pockmarked with burned patches and holes. One of them was worse than all the others, face down on the floor with smoke rising from it. Steve assumed that was the drone that had started the altercation.

Next to Steve, Tony and Pepper were also slowly getting to their feet, looking shaken, with pieces of debris in their hair and on their clothes.

Tony gave Steve the most genuine smile he'd seen yet, and patted him on the back. "Well, that was a first day's work well done. You saved me. Thanks, Steve."

Chapter Text

Investigating the incident at the 201 kept Steve busy for the next few days. Even with Tony's influence, he had to constantly battle red tape; the investigator that the NYPD had set on the case, Detective Coulson, was very officious and didn't like amateurs trying to step on his toes. Nevertheless, Steve was able to inspect the restaurant again, including the areas he hadn't seen before, such as the kitchens. He also interviewed the surviving staff members and had a word with Hammer and his assistants. Nothing revealed any clues about who might've been behind the attack.

Tony spent the days after the firefight lying low, having canceled the meetings he'd had on his schedule. Steve counted that as yet another sign of how different this Tony was from the one he used to know—he would've expected a more proactive approach. Then again, Tony seemed convinced they already knew who the culprit was. He insisted that Hammer must've been behind the attack, and was visibly annoyed that the police wouldn't just detain him since the murderous drone had a Hammer International logo on it.

Steve didn't think the case was closed yet. He'd seen how Hammer had reacted to the attack: he'd looked genuinely panicked. More than that, one of his assistants had been injured badly enough that he'd ended up moving on to a new frame. As proof of his innocence, Hammer had also promised to hand over the remains of the disobedient drone to Tony as soon as the police were done with it.

Steve didn't particularly like Justin Hammer, but he didn't like Tony very much either, and he wasn't going to point the finger at a man he believed to be innocent just to escape his own circumstances. He told Tony that he didn't think Hammer was the culprit and kept working.

Eventually, he came up with a single clue, albeit one that was far too shaky for any conclusions. He spotted it while reviewing the security footage of the meeting, and it pointed at Pepper. It was a completely innocuous moment: Pepper patting one of Hammer's drones on the arm. Steve hadn't thought anything of it when it had happened, and Pepper had merely been following Hammer's example, but the drone she touched just happened to be the very same one that tried to shoot Tony. Steve knew that with the right delivery methods, such a brief touch might be used to sneak in a malicious piece of software. Then again, there was an equally good chance that it was just a coincidence.

Pepper had already been on the list of suspects because she was one of the few people with the access privileges to plant a bomb on Tony's limo. If Steve told Tony of this added reason to suspect her, he would suspend her instantly. But Pepper felt like the closest thing to an ally that Steve had; she was the only person who'd known Tony for a long time, including back when he'd been different. Going by her cryptic comments, she seemed to understand what was going on with him far better than Steve did. He didn't want to lose that. In fact, Steve had to admit that he currently liked her more than Tony. He decided that unless he found something more incriminating than a single passing touch, he wouldn't mention this to Tony.

With his days busy, it was only in the evenings when he retreated to his floor that Steve had time to think about the past, and about what he'd begun to see as his actual primary investigation: understanding what'd happened back then, and locating his team. Frustratingly, he kept running into roadblocks every time he tried to look into it. Ultron wouldn't allow him access to most of the files he was interested in; the best he got were news articles. If he asked for anything directly connected to SHIELD, such as details or recordings of the trials that had put him on ice, Ultron invariably said he'd have to ask Tony. When he did, Tony claimed he couldn't help.

"They're classified SHIELD files, Steve," Tony said, apologetic, spreading his arms. "I'm just a consultant. I don't have full access."

"They're SHIELD files directly related to me! I was there!" Steve argued. "Surely I've got the right to look at them."

"Sorry, but it doesn't look like you do. I don't make the rules."

Tony's deflections might've been more convincing if Steve hadn't noticed that these access limitations were inconsistent. On the first day after he'd woken up, during the first conversation he'd had with Tony, Ultron had said that Bucky was missing, but presumed alive. Steve couldn't even get that much when he asked about it himself. Ultron downright denied having access to such files, and Tony shrugged and suggested that maybe the clearance level had changed.

It was obvious that Steve wasn't going to get any help from Tony on this investigation, so he'd have to take matters into his own hands. He knew there were ways of getting information past the official channels. For those, he'd need contacts who weren't concerned about bending or breaking the rules. People who didn't live in top floor apartments.

On the fourth night since he'd woken up, after a day spent on useless interviews with Hammer, Nina, and Noa, Steve walked to the elevator in his apartment and requested the street floor.

"Sorry, Cap, this elevator only goes down to one hundred," Ultron informed him.

"Fine, take me there, then," Steve ordered. It wasn't surprising; lots of towers had arrangements like this, setting apart different sections.

On the 100th floor, Steve stepped out into a large, brightly lit landing with doors to a dozen other elevators. Some of them were public, others led to private levels only accessible by passing bio-ID scanners. The public one that ran the lowest should, according to the signs, take him to the 50th floor, so he chose that.

The landing on the 50th floor was clearly different. This was still Stark Tower, so it wasn't particularly shabby, but the design was more functional, done using cheaper materials and less attention to aesthetics. To Steve's surprise, there was no one else around at all.

He entered yet another elevator and asked for the street floor again, only to get a cheerful reply from Ultron: "Oops, I should've probably told you earlier. You don't have access to levels below the 50th. Sorry about that."

Ultron must have done this on purpose: let him come all the way down here just to find out that he couldn't get where he wanted to go. Steve had already gotten the impression that the AI was unpleasant, but this was downright malicious.

"How come?" he asked, exasperated.

"It's dangerous down there. Wouldn't want you to get into trouble," Ultron replied.

Steve wished he were speaking with a person so he could at least glower at them. Trying to spot a camera in the ceiling didn't quite cut it. "So, I'm categorically banned from levels below the fiftieth in Stark Tower?"

"Oh, no. You're categorically banned from levels below the fiftieth in all of New York," Ultron announced.

Steve slammed his palms into the nearest wall, growling in frustration.

"Now, now, Cap, let's not get all agitated," Ultron said patronizingly.

"Is this Tony's doing or SHIELD's parole rules?" Steve demanded, leaning against the wall.

"Just Tony, out of worry for your well-being," Ultron said. "He's always so considerate."

Steve stormed out of the elevator and studied the landing around him. In every tower there were stairs as well as elevators, a remnant of earlier times and worse fire safety. He located the door easily and reached for the handle. It didn't budge; the door was locked.

"Don't even think about it," Ultron's sing-song voice echoed through the empty landing. "Try to force the door and I'll have my drones pick you up. You're not going below this floor, period, the end. Oh, and you might want to head back up soon. Curfew starts in fifteen minutes. If you're caught breaking the law while on parole, well, that wouldn't be good now would it?"

Steve had forgotten about the curfew; it was only for levels below the 100th, so it hadn't affected him before now. That had to be the explanation for why the place was so quiet.

He held onto the door handle for a moment longer, considering it. He was fairly confident he could force his way into the stairwell before Ultron's drones reached the landing, but that wouldn't get him very far. If he stayed down here past the curfew, he'd soon be facing police officers and maybe even SHIELD in addition to the drones.

He hated giving up, but he had to admit defeat for this round. Frustrated beyond words, he took the elevators up again and spent the next few hours in the gym, trying to work it out of his system.

When Steve went to sleep that night, the thought that Ultron was constantly awake, his inhuman eyes watching Steve's every move, felt more oppressive than ever before. He was used to a life surrounded by AIs; they had been just as omnipresent eighty-five years ago as they were now. Still, back then, they had always been impersonal, little more than highly evolved voice interfaces, and Ultron's behavior today would've been seen as a serious programming flaw. He hadn't met enough modern AIs to tell if strong personalities and independent thought were more common and encouraged these days.

He wondered if Tony knew what Ultron was up to. He considered the possibility that Ultron was the true villain here, with Tony somehow trapped under his influence, but that didn't seem to fit. Going by what Steve had seen of Tony, it was more likely that he knew, and that the AI's unpleasant personality was a deliberate programming choice on Tony's part.

That night, Steve dreamed he was in bed with Tony; not the younger one he'd known and actually shared a bed with, but this older iteration he wasn't so fond of. Tony wanted to rekindle their relationship and to enjoy Steve's beautiful new body. He praised how lovely it was, ran his fingers along the carefully designed musculature just like he'd always used to, took Steve's cock in his mouth, and none of it felt good. Even though Steve's body betrayed him by reacting to the touch, it made his flesh crawl. Tony had commissioned the body. He'd chosen those muscles. Maybe he'd even given detailed specs on the genitals. He'd made Steve's body, and he as good as owned Steve.

When he woke up he was hard and he felt disgusted, the taste of bile lingering at the back of his throat.

He'd never been this trapped in his life. He couldn't go on like this. He had to get away.

The first thing Steve did after he'd showered, dressed and breakfasted was to take one of the limos to pay a visit to the police station and see if they had any news. Of course, he could've just called, but that would've defeated the entire purpose of this trip. On the way, he asked Ultron about his access restrictions, and got the answer he expected.

"No driving below the fiftieth, or the altitude of two hundred meters in cases of non-standard floor height. And don't bother trying to switch off autopilot. That won't change it," the AI informed him.

"What if I need to go lower because of the investigation?" Steve tried.

"Then you'll need to run it by Tony, and possibly delegate that particular task to someone else," Ultron said, not leaving much hope for potential loopholes.

Steve's meeting with the NYPD was as fruitless as he'd expected: their technicians were still picking around the remains of Hammer's rogue drone, and aside from that, the investigation was at a standstill. Steve thanked Coulson for his time and asked the station AI to call him a cab.

If Ultron and Tony wouldn't let him go where he wanted to, he was going to have to get creative and make his own way.

After the days he'd spent listening to Ultron's scornful voice, the perfectly neutral tone of the cab AI was soothing. "Good day. Where would you like to go?"

"Can you take me down to street level?" Steve asked.

"I'm afraid you don't have access to that area," the cab replied. "Please provide an alternative destination."

Well, Steve hadn't expected it to be that easy. "Just take me as low as you can, then."

"And what would be the street address?" the cab inquired.

"Uh." Steve would be hopelessly out of date when it came to which parts of town were hotspots for particular criminal elements. For now, anywhere not too close to the police, SHIELD headquarters or Stark Tower would do. "Let's go north. Say, 168th Street."

"Do you mean the junction of 168th Street and Broadway?" the cab checked.

"Yes, exactly."

"Very well. The estimated time to your selected destination is 15 minutes."

Unlike Ultron, the cab AI wasn't going to start making assumptions and second-guessing what Steve might be up to. It simply acknowledged his request and started making its way down and north at a steady, safe speed.

Steve considered the inside of the cabin around him. It didn't look that different from what he was used to. Really, it was almost surprising how little things had changed in the best part of a century.

"What kind of safety features does this car have?" he asked the AI conversationally.

"My programming includes standard first-aid responses. The chassis is equipped with instant full-body support crash foam. Emergency anti-grav packs can be found under each seat—"

Steve hadn't heard of full-body support crash foam before, though the name was descriptive enough. Not that he cared. The anti-grav pack was what he'd wanted to hear. That, and the brief list of anti-theft measures, which didn't sound too drastic. He could work with this.

He looked out of the large windows. As far as he could tell, he wasn't being followed; he saw no sign of Ultron's drones. If he was lucky, his behavior hadn't raised any warnings yet. The cab's recognition software had figured out his identity, but the cab company should be keeping that information to themselves. He'd left his watch in a bathroom at the police station, which should confuse Ultron and buy him some time. He was fairly sure Tony would've had some type of tracking device installed in his frame, but he had no means of locating or eliminating it. He'd have to find a way to deal with it later.

The ground grew closer; close enough that he could see it looming beneath the fog and spot some neon signs far below. He supposed most other people would've felt nervous before doing what he was about to. He didn't. He actually felt excited for the first time since he'd woken up in the future.

As the minutes on the cab's display ticked closer to zero, Steve crouched to take a better look at the seat next to him. Of course, the anti-grav pack wasn't openly on display. It'd probably be released when some specific set of danger parameters was met.

He grabbed hold of the seat cushion and yanked. It came off without too much force, revealing a compartment with the pack beneath. Almost too easy. Grinning victoriously, he pried it out of its niche. It was about a quarter of the size that he was used to, but since it was an emergency device, its design would have to be foolproof. Sure enough, there was a bright orange pull cord marked "activate" on one shoulder strap.

As the pack came loose, a shrill alarm sound sliced through the air. "Alert! Property damage detected!" the cab complained.

"Yeah, sorry about that. I'll be going now," Steve said.

He slipped his arms through the shoulder straps, leaned against the seat and kicked at the door next to him with both boots, using all the strength his frame had to spare. The door creaked, but didn't break.

"Costs of repairs will be subtracted from your personal account," the cab was telling him. "The authorities will be contacted regarding this act of vandalism!"

Well, as long as it didn't land him back in storage—and Steve didn't think some minor damage to a cab would. He wasn't going to stop and worry about that.

He kicked again, and again, and at the third attempt, the hinges gave way, the door falling open.

Without a moment's hesitation, Steve dropped through the opening.

He fell into the cold wind, his clothes flapping wildly about him, drizzly rain lashing against his unprotected face. A fast-moving car swerved past him, so close that he could feel the warmth of its exhaust.

He had no way to control his descent, nor to actively avoid the traffic. He was going to have to trust the proximity sensors in the passing cars. They'd been pretty good back in his day, so he assumed they were almost infallible now. He couldn't bring himself to worry too much about that, either. After everything he'd been through, surely he wasn't going to be taken out by a car.

A large truck whizzed past, honking at him angrily.

He realized he was still grinning.

After a few endless seconds of freefall, Steve pulled on the activation cord, and the pack on his back hummed to life, quickly stripping him of the momentum he'd gained. After the first few near misses, all cars were giving him a wide berth, probably having gotten a hazard warning from the others. Of course, there was also less and less traffic the lower he got, and he floated down the last fifty meters or so without a single vehicle in sight.

He got a good view of the street below long before his feet hit it, and what he saw took him by surprise. The way he remembered the street levels, there had always been lots of people. Too many, considering the amount of food and other resources that they'd had. Not anymore, it seemed. On the strip of Broadway beneath him, he counted a total of twenty people going about their business. Instead of the usual rows lining the street, there were only three stalls.

He touched down, his boots splashing in the layer of filthy water on top of the tarmac. That, at least, hadn't changed.

Here he was, finally. Street level. Back where he'd started.

He hadn't actually lived on the streets; he'd been luckier than that. His mother's apartment had been a dozen floors up, a much better situation to be in. But with a high rent to pay, they hadn't been able to afford the indoor playgrounds and parks on the higher levels, let alone preschool, so down and out in the open had been where Steve, Bucky, and his other childhood friends had spent their time.

Steve shrugged off the anti-grav pack and tossed it aside. It wouldn't have much of a charge left anymore, so he had no use for it, but the spare parts could still be valuable to someone.

Taking a look skywards still revealed no sign of police vehicles, or of Ultron's drones coming after him. It was surprising. There was no way Tony wouldn't be tracking his frame, and that meant the drones would inevitably find him at some point. He was going to fight them when they did. He wasn't sure if the SI-built guns he had would let him fire at them, but he'd come up with something.

Staying out in the open would only make it easier for the drones to spot him. He needed to keep moving. He hadn't known this part of town well in the past, and now it was even less familiar. Picking a direction at random, he started jogging east along 168th Street, then taking several turns to side streets. He earned an occasional glance from the few passers-by that he came across, but most of them were minding their own business.

One turn brought him to a wide but very empty stretch of street with the unmistakable figure of a drone only around fifty meters away from him. He froze in his tracks. After the first second of panic, he realized that although the design wasn't too far off, this was much taller than Ultron's drones, and matte black in color except for the gray SHIELD logo on its back. Hoping that this drone was on a regular patrol or after some street-level criminals instead of looking for him, Steve backed away as slowly and noiselessly as he could and picked another direction. As soon as he estimated he was out of audiovisual range, he took off at a run again. Every corner he rounded after that had him expecting the worst, but there were no more drones, neither SHIELD's nor Ultron's.

As he ran, Steve considered his priorities, trying to formulate a plan. His primary goal was to locate any surviving members of his team, but they could be anywhere in the world. It wouldn't be an easy task, and it would take time. To get that, he would have to find a way to keep Ultron and Tony off his tail first. There was one obvious solution to that problem: if he could swap frames, he'd get rid of any potential tracking hardware, and have a disguise. The thought of having someone else wear this particular frame, with his face on it, was vaguely disturbing, but it was a sacrifice he was willing to make in exchange for his freedom. He'd just need to find someone with the right tools, and willing to deal with the tracking. That wouldn't be easy with no contacts.

Whichever way he looked at his situation, what he really needed was local knowledge.

When he came across a more lively-looking street, he slowed down again. His expensive frame and clothes would make him stick out like a sore thumb wherever he went. That made it all the more ironic that he actually had no money available; accessing his bank account would mean giving out identity information that would be easy to trace.

He spotted a stall with a variety of clothing on offer and stopped in front of it. The vendor's frame was a plastic fake with light pink skin that made her look uncannily like a mannequin. Considering the skimpy top she wore, leaving her shoulders and arms bare even in this cool weather and accentuating the artificial look, it was probably on purpose. She stared at Steve unashamedly.

"Hi. Would you like to buy my coat?" Steve offered.

The mannequin woman's synthetic eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Let me see that," she said, holding out a hand.

Like all the clothes in Steve's wardrobe in Stark Tower, the coat was of the highest quality, with fabric that was water and wrinkle proof, and a design looking stylish enough that it wouldn't be out of place in a smart casual business function on the highest levels. Steve took it off and handed it over.

The woman spent a good few minutes examining the coat, squinting at the fabric, even sniffing it. "It's a very nice coat," she finally announced. "What would you be asking for in exchange?"

"Another coat and a hundred coins in cash," Steve said. In reality, that one single coat was probably worth more than all the clothing in the stall put together, but he wasn't going to get greedy. He just needed something fast.

The woman broke out laughing, the sound cold and mechanical coming from her cheap fake frame. "In cash!" she repeated, like it was the funniest thing she'd heard all day. "Do I look like an antiques dealer?"

"Sorry, I've been away for some time," Steve said. Although the higher levels had long ago given up physical currency, it had still been common on the streets when he'd last been down here. "What passes for ID-free money these days?"

"In trouble, are we?" the woman asked, her lips curling to a smirk—no doubt enjoying the sight of someone from up top in a tight spot.

"Something like that. Look, it's been a while, but I grew up down here, and I have no love for the heights. In fact, I'm trying to get away from someone up there." He tilted his head skywards. "Now, do you want that coat or not? I'm sure I can find someone else who does, if you don't."

The plastic face held enough of an expression to say that the vendor wasn't buying Steve's story, but she shrugged, holding on to the piece of clothing. "I do like the coat. So, I can put the coins on an unlinked chip, but that won't be any good anywhere above the first five floors or so."

"As long as it's good down here, I don't care. But if you're lying to me, I'll come back and find you." Steve gave her his most menacing glare.

She rolled her glassy eyes. "Of course I'm not lying. That would be a dumb way to do business. So. One coat of your choice, whichever one you want, and fifty coins."

Steve crossed his arms. "A hundred, or I go elsewhere. That's already a bargain."

"Oh well, never hurts to try. A hundred, because for a high-level guy, you've got very soulful eyes. If it's SHIELD that's after you, you won't have a lot of time to spend the money anyway," she said ominously.

Steve left the stall wearing a pleather bomber jacket a couple of sizes too big. In one of its pockets sat the chip that the mannequin woman swore contained the money she'd promised him: a round, plain plastic circle that looked like something out of a casino. He glanced at the street around him and at the traffic above. He'd probably spent at least ten minutes on the trade, and there was still no sign of drones. Was there a chance there was no tracker on his frame after all? That seemed too good to be true.

To see if his money was worth anything, he stopped by a food stall, where he successfully bought a burger that had no flavor except for chili, and a texture closer to bubble gum than quality mycoprotein. It was nostalgic: this was the kind of thing that he'd grown up on. Thinking of that, he realized that although this street was busier than most he'd passed so far, he could only see adults. There wasn't a single child or teenager in sight. Not that he'd seen that many on the higher levels either, but he hadn't spent much time in places where he would expect them. The streets were a different matter. Maybe parents thought the streets were too dangerous these days, and the NYPD or SHIELD had locked away all the street kids.

As prepared as he was ever going to be, and still convinced that he was working against the clock, Steve started his search for information by walking into the first bar he came across. It looked suitably seedy, the screens in the partly broken windows running adverts for drinks and drugs, the banners on top naming the place "Joe's."

Inside, the bar was small and mostly empty at such an early hour. The customers consisted of one group playing cards in a corner, and a nondescript hooded figure slumped over the counter, hopefully asleep instead of something worse. The bartender who got up to face Steve as he entered was the oldest-looking person Steve had seen since he'd woken up, the deep wrinkles in his sallow skin suggesting that he had to be at least seventy. He didn't greet Steve, just kept a close eye on him as he crossed the room and took a seat on one of the bar stools.

"Hi. I'd like a beer, please," Steve addressed him, keeping his tone and expression carefully neutral.

"A beer," the bartender repeated. "And which kind of beer would that be?"

"Just whatever you've got on tap. The regular alcoholic kind. No extras," Steve specified. He had no idea what other intoxicants were currently popular, but he supposed the oldest one would never go out of style.

"Whatever's on tap, he says," the bartender shook his head and rolled his eyes. "Surely, a man of your distinction would like something finer."

So much for blending in, then. "No, a regular a beer will do just fine," Steve insisted.

"A regular beer for Mr. Two Hundred," the bartender muttered, but grabbed a glass to pour the drink anyway. "That'll be five," he added.

Steve held out his hand with the chip he'd gotten from the street vendor on his palm.

The bartender's eyes darkened. "You've got to be kidding me. You walk in here looking like a top-floor thrill seeker gone slumming, and try to pay me with street-level coin? That's bullshit. You pay me in proper money, I'm sure you've got plenty. I can smell it on you."

"That guy from Upstairs bothering you, Joe?" a new voice joined the conversation, higher in pitch than the bartender's, but oddly gravelly. Looking to his side, Steve saw that the speaker was the hooded customer at the counter, who wasn't asleep anymore. The face gave him pause: it looked partly animal, with pale green skin and lizard-like eyes. A heavily modified organic fake, then; a rare type of frame to have, more expensive than most on the streets—and something no one on the higher floors would choose for themselves.

"He's starting to, yeah," Joe replied.

"I'm not looking for any trouble," Steve said placatingly, and stood up. "I'll just be on my way."

"No, I don't think you will be," the reptile-person hissed at Steve through rows of sharpened teeth. They got up as well, uncurling from their perch like a snake, revealing hands that ended in long claws instead of nails. Their loose clothing; a baggy hoodie and a floor-length skirt, or perhaps very wide pants, hid the shape of their frame.

Steve grabbed a bar stool and raised it in front of himself just in time to parry the first attack. The claws cut into it, slicing the seat cushion in half and leaving him holding just a metal frame. He turned it sideways to put at least something between himself and his attacker, blocking another sharp-clawed lunge.

In the background, the card-playing party seemed to have noticed what was going on. They were cheering the person in the reptilian frame and shouting contrived insults like "Go back to your roof garden, high-riser" and "No matter how high you live, your elevator won't go all the way to the top," and laughing loudly at each other's attempts at wit.

Steve couldn't blame them. Life had always been hard down here, and by the looks of it, things hadn't gotten any better in the time that had passed. More like the opposite. Unfortunately, he didn't think they'd listen to him if he tried telling them that he understood.

He hadn't come here looking for a fight, and he didn't want to hurt anyone, but it was starting to look unavoidable. His opponent was between him and the door, and he had to get out. He dropped the bar stool, backed away to avoid another lash of a clawed hand, and pulled out the projectile gun.

"Just let me walk away. No one needs to get hurt," Steve said, the gun pointed at his opponent's face.

"Someone does. That's you," came the answer. The reptilian crouched low, aiming a kick at Steve's legs.

A second too late, Steve realized what he should've already guessed: the reptilian's feet were similar to their hands, bare and ending in long talons. They caught on the fabric of his pants, rending a long tear in it, nicking his calf.

He couldn't keep trying to fight with kid gloves on. The move had put his opponent close to him. He reacted quickly, ignoring the pain of the claw digging into his leg, and smashed his elbow into the reptilian's face. They staggered away, growling.

Steve had the gun trained on them again, ready to fire as soon as the next attack came—aiming for the legs to keep it non-lethal—when the door opened.

"Let's all take a deep breath and back away from each other, nice and slow," the newcomer announced, his hand resting on the butt of a blaster at his belt. He was a short man with sandy-brown hair, dressed in black fatigues, and there was a slight smile on his lips, as if he found all this very funny.

The reptilian hissed at him. "Why would I do that? Who are you, walking in here to tell me what to do?"

The man held out his free hand, projecting a badge in the air above it. "Clint Barton, NYPD," he announced. "I don't care about your bar brawl. I'll forget I saw anything if you let Mr. Rogers here come with me."

The police officer knew who Steve was. He'd been expecting drones and not the local law enforcement, but this wasn't much better. He had no intention of going anywhere with this man.

"You're no better than he is," the reptilian spat, looking like they might go on fighting.

Behind the counter, the bartender was shaking his head. "Come, now, they're not worth it. Let them go."

"Listen to your friend over there," Barton said.

Barton's attention was on the bartender and the reptilian, and his gun was still in its holster. Steve might not get a better chance than this.

He launched into action, running for the door as fast as his frame would move, shoving Barton aside. The cut in his calf stung a little, but it was barely more than a scratch. It wasn't going to slow him down.

Both the reptilian and Barton were shouting after him, but there were no gunshots as he pushed his way out through the door—and almost collided with Natalie Rushman, who was waiting outside.

"No! I'm not going back!" Steve shouted at her, and took off at full speed in the opposite direction.

"Steve! Wait!" Natalie shouted after him.

Steve wasn't going to. Whatever she had to say, he wasn't interested. He ran past the stalls where he'd shopped earlier, water splashing at his feet.

He could hear that he was being pursued, no doubt by Natalie, maybe by others as well. Casting a glance over his shoulder, he was relieved and surprised to see just her, some thirty meters behind him. He'd made some headway, and he was fairly sure his frame was faster, so he should be able to outrun her.

There were still no drones in sight, neither on the streets nor in the air. Were they somehow banned from the lowest floors? Was that why Tony had been so fixated on keeping him above the 50th? Whatever the explanation, he wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. This meant that he still had a chance of staying free.

He skirted past an antique ground scooter, its rider swearing at him, and took a sharp turn to a narrow alley to the left. It soon brought him to another larger street with very few people in sight. Just as he was about to head along it towards the north, a plasma bolt coming from behind hit the pavement at his feet, making him jump. Certain that Ultron had finally found him, he turned around, his blaster raised.

Clint Barton nodded at him in greeting. He was sitting on a bike, hovering a few meters above ground, blaster in hand. "I think that's far enough, Rogers," he said.

Steve might be able to shake off a pursuer on a bike, but for Barton to have found him like this, he had to be tracking Steve. That would make running pointless, unless he managed to either shoot Barton before Barton shot him, or damage the bike enough to disable it. Shooting at a police officer would put his name even closer to the top of the most-wanted list. Not the best of plans.

"Steve!" Natalie yelled, emerging from the alleyway Steve had just exited. "If you'd just stop and listen for a moment! I'm not here to take you to Tony."

Steve kept the blaster trained on Barton, but quickly drew his other gun to point it at Natalie, turning his eyes towards her, confused. "You're not?"

Now that he looked at her more closely, he realized she wasn't wearing the business attire he'd always seen her in, but black fatigues identical to Barton's. She held out a hologram badge, also similar to Barton's. "Detective Natasha Romanoff, NYPD. We just want to talk. After that, you can decide for yourself what you want to do next."

Steve gaped at her, trying to understand what was going on. "Are you Tony Stark's assistant? Or someone else in an identical frame?"

"The same person," Natalie, or Natasha, replied, walking slowly towards Steve. Next to them, Barton landed his bike and stepped off it, arms crossed, looking casual and unthreatening, blaster back in its holster.

Steve lowered his hands, but didn't put the guns away yet. "I take it that Tony doesn't know you're a police officer?"

Natasha shook her head. "No, and he doesn't know I'm here. Or that you are, for that matter. I know you've got a lot of questions. Come with us, and you might get answers to some of them."

Steve was wary of going anywhere with the police, because that wasn't many steps removed from being put back on ice, but he had to admit he was curious. Besides, Natasha was promising answers, which he sorely wanted, and more than that, she'd said he'd get to decide on the next steps himself.

"Okay. Let's go, then," Steve relented.

Chapter Text

Natasha and Clint didn't take Steve to the high-level Manhattan police station he was familiar with, but a much smaller and shabbier one on the 25th floor, far from Midtown. He saw only a handful of officers in the rooms they passed. The windowless office at the end of their walk was recognizable as belonging to the commanding officer only because of the little holo plaque announcing it, and the imposingly large desk that filled most of the room.

Behind the desk sat a man with a bald, dark-skinned frame whose age was difficult to estimate. One of his eyes was dark and looked natural, the other was a striking pale amber and surrounded with scars. Fixing damage like that or getting a new eye to match shouldn't have been difficult with a police captain's salary, so that had to be a deliberate personal choice.

"Nick Fury," the man introduced himself. "It's an honor to meet you, Captain Rogers. Please, take a seat. Barton, make sure no one bothers us."

"Will do, sir," Barton promised and left the room, closing the door behind him—there were no automated doors at this station.

Steve sat down in one of the grimy plastic chairs and looked from Fury to Natasha, who was still standing by the door. Both wore cool, neutral expressions that revealed nothing. "So, Tony didn't send you after me then?"

"As far as we know, he still thinks you're at the station up top with Coulson," Fury replied.

Steve shook his head. "No, he must've realized I've given him the slip by now."

"I'm sure he would've, if we hadn't been covering for you. See, we've been broadcasting a false signal matching yours since you left the station," Natasha explained. "I saw the specs for your frame. We know what surveillance Tony's got on you."

"Which is?" Steve had been wondering about that. Apparently, he could've found out if he'd just known to ask "Natalie."

"Standard tracking hardware, embedded in your backup node," she said.

Steve blew out a breath. "Impossible to remove, tricky to disable." It was common practice for temporary rental fakes, and he'd expected something like that, but it didn't make it any less dispiriting. "How did you block it?"

Natasha gave him a sly smile. "We placed a tracking and jamming chip of our own on you."

That, he hadn't been expecting. He found himself inordinately annoyed that he'd been so easy to spy on. "How?" he asked again.

"Remember that salad I brought you on your second day?" Natasha returned. "Don't worry, the chip will degrade and come out on its own within a month."

Steve had had no reason to be so paranoid as to watch what he ate, and now he felt foolish. Apparently, he should've assumed that everyone was against him unless proven otherwise. Too angry to stay still, he stood up again to face her. "And why would you do something like that? Added safeguard to make sure I don't break parole?"

"Believe me, the people working for me don't care about that in the least," Fury said. "We'd prefer for you to stay out of storage."

"Then why?" Steve demanded, turning and planting one hand on the desk, leaning towards him.

Fury faced him unblinkingly. "Because we didn't know what to make of you, but we knew you could be important."

This conversation was only growing more confusing as it went on. "Important to whom? To Tony? To you? Just what kind of police are you anyway?"

"Now that is a longer story," Fury said. "Are you sure you don't want to sit down?"

Steve straightened up again and crossed his arms. "I'd rather stand, thanks."

"Suit yourself. So. How much do you know about what happened when you were detained?" Fury asked.

"Not much. I've been trying to figure it out, but haven't gotten very far," Steve said. He wasn't sure how much he should tell these people; the fact that they'd put a tracker on him didn't make them seem trustworthy, but protecting him from Tony did.

"This conversation is strictly off the record and won't leave these walls," Fury told him, clearly sensing his uncertainty. "We're not working with SHIELD. You can speak your mind."

Even if talking turned out to be a mistake, it wasn't as if Steve had a lot left to lose. He might as well. "There was some kind of a conspiracy inside SHIELD, and from what I've heard since I woke up, I'm guessing they ended up in control," he said. "I wasn't part of it. I was set up."

Fury nodded. "Yes, I've always assumed you were."

"You have?" That took Steve completely by surprise, and in a good way. Finally meeting someone who didn't think he was guilty was a huge relief. He let his arms hang loose, and gripped the back of the chair in front of him with one hand.

"You won't remember me, but I was working for SHIELD at the time. Just a junior file-shuffler, the kind of person no one pays attention to," Fury went on. Somehow, even though he was currently sitting in an office, Steve had a hard time picturing this man as a file-shuffler, but then, it had been a long time ago. "Most of the things that took place then didn't touch me at all, but I heard enough to piece together that it wasn't right, and that I didn't like it. So, I stuck around and tried to figure out what was going on. Later, when I realized I knew too much and I was going to get into trouble for it, I left."

"And switched careers to the NYPD?" Steve checked, though he was less interested in Fury's personal history and more in what he'd found out.

"It's a lot more complicated than that, but you don't need the gory details." Fury waved a hand in the air. "Does the name Hydra mean anything to you?"

Steve froze, both his hands on the back of the chair now. "Of course. We fought against them many times, back in the day. They're a paramilitary fascist organization who ran all kinds of inhumane experiments," he summarized. Those had been the rare missions where he hadn't felt too guilty about causing lasting damage to his opponents. And if this was going where he thought it was… "Was it them? Were they the ones who took down my team and half the administration of SHIELD?"

"They became SHIELD," Fury said, very serious now.

Steve could fill in the rest. "And that's why the world has gone to hell in a handbasket." That was why so many things seemed so wrong about the laws and the organization overseeing them, and explained the emptiness and ever growing misery he’d glimpsed on the streets. He felt so angry he could barely breathe, fingers clenching around the plastic chair until it bent. "This can't go on. Someone has to do something."

"Couldn't agree with you more," Natasha said.

"We're working on it," Fury said.

The dingy little police station suddenly made more sense. It was a hideout, or rather, a way of hiding in plain sight. "You're the resistance?"

Fury nodded. "That's one name for us."

"Not all of NYPD, right?" Steve checked.

"Of course not. Most of them are loyal to SHIELD, or just don't care," Fury said. "We're only a few, but widely spread."

It would've been a good start, if they'd been in the early days. They weren't. "So, in the eighty-five years since the takeover…" Steve began.

"If you're about to blame us for sitting on our asses for all that time, you can just keep your mouth shut," Fury interrupted him, raising his voice for the first time during the conversation. "You don't know the things we've been through, or how much it took for us to get where we are today."

"You're right, I don't know, and that was unfair of me," Steve said. He deserved that reprimand. Looking at the situation from another angle, it was impressive that the resistance had survived for such a long time. He'd had it easy, himself, spending all that time in storage. He let go of the chair and squared his shoulders. "So. I'm here now, and I want to join the fight. How can I help you?"

Fury steepled his fingers, his stern expression relenting. "Well, that brings us right back to where we started."

"Tony Stark," Natasha added.

"I was wondering how he figures into all of this. Do you think he's in league with Hydra?" Steve asked. The very idea sounded utterly wrong to his ears. Even if Tony had had his character flaws, he never would’ve joined ranks with those villains—but Steve couldn't claim to know him that well anymore. Maybe he would, now.

"It's likely, but we don't know the full depth of it, or how willing he was to work with them in the first place," Fury replied.

"Which is why I've been keeping an eye on him," Natasha said. "Stark Interplanetary has more political influence than any other company out there. If there was any chance we could have him on our side, it could be the most important breakthrough we've had in decades."

Steve shook his head. "I don't know if he'd go for that. He's not particularly sympathetic towards others' suffering."

"No, he doesn't seem to be," Natasha agreed, shifting to lean against Fury's desk in front of Steve. "He did bring you out of storage prematurely, though. That's something. He didn't need to do that, and it can't have been easy to convince Hydra to let you go."

"They were clearly afraid of you, the way they dealt with you," Fury pointed out.

"I'm kind of surprised they didn't just kill me. It would've been easy enough," Steve said.

"Too easy," Fury said. "They knew the Captain was an inspiration to many, and having you and everyone on your team die at once would've looked suspicious. This way, they could get rid of you and leave those who looked up to you feeling betrayed. Not to mention using the high-profile trial to distract people from everything that was taking place behind the scenes."

Steve raised his eyebrows. Fury had clearly spent some time thinking about this. "I hadn't thought I was that important."

"Whether you realized it or not, you were," Fury insisted. "I don't know what plans Hydra had for you after your sentence was up, but I'm sure Stark getting you out was a far better alternative."

"If you think I have some kind of special influence over Tony, you're going to be disappointed," Steve said.

"He does listen to you, though," Natasha said. "I've spent time trying to figure him out, and I think there's more to him than meets the eye. He's been through a lot, too. I've heard people who knew him say he's changed, and it's hardly surprising. His parents died—or were killed—when SHIELD was taken over. Not long after that, he lost his remaining mentor, and his longtime butler as well. All of them gone for good within less than ten years, and the full responsibility over the company on his shoulders."

Tony hadn't actually talked about any of that. It could explain some of his behavior; he'd definitely had to grow up a lot in a short time, and facing so much death was rare in a world where someone with enough money could potentially live forever.

"What about the assassination attempts I'm trying to investigate?" Steve asked. "Do you know anything about them?"

"No more than you do," Natasha replied. "If I had to name my key suspect, I'd say Pepper Potts is probably involved, but that's a hunch, not something I have evidence for."

"I've been thinking the same, although I'm not sure what her part is in all this," Steve said.

"Anyway, solving that mystery might be a good thing. If this killer were to succeed at wiping Tony, we'd lose our chance at having a major ally against Hydra," Natasha said.

"I was going to run away and let him deal with it himself," Steve admitted. He wasn't overly fond of the idea that he'd have to go back, and even less so of the resistance thinking that he could play the role of some romantic hero who broke Tony out of his shell.

"Yes, we noticed that." Natasha gave him a brief smile that faded as soon as she went on. "I meant what I said earlier, Steve. We won't tell you what to do. If you want to walk away from all this, you can. We'll give you what information we have on your surviving teammates to help you get started."

"You asked us how you can help," Fury reminded him. "From our point of view, right now, next to Stark is where you could make the biggest difference."

The mention of his old team stung like a dagger between the ribs. Steve could go after them. He should go after them. "Do you know where Bucky is? Agent Barnes, from my Commandos?"

Steve caught Fury and Natasha exchanging a glance before Fury replied. "We're not sure, but it seems very likely that SHIELD has him."

That wasn't what Steve had heard. They could be saying that to give him an additional incentive. "The files Tony has access to suggest that he's on the run," he said.

"And you think those files have the whole truth?" Natasha asked.

Steve pursed his lips.The source of that information had been Ultron, who seemed like one of the least trustworthy individuals he'd met in the future so far. "I don't really know what to think or to believe anymore," he said.

"Well, think of it this way: if there's one person who's got the skills and the means to confirm what’s in SHIELD's actual, secure files, it's going to be Tony Stark," Fury said.

It always came back to Tony. Steve couldn't deny that—although, if Tony had really wanted to help him find out what had happened to his team, he could've done so already instead of deflecting and feigning ignorance. But maybe, just maybe, Steve had been too quick to pass judgement, and Tony was keeping him in the dark to protect him from SHIELD.

"I still think you overestimate my ability to influence him," Steve said.

"Any influence at all would be more than anyone else has," Natasha said.

Really, deep down, Steve had already made up his mind and was just protesting for the sake of it.

A few seconds passed in expectant silence.

Finally, Steve sighed, letting his head droop, then straightened up again. "Fine. I'll stay with him a little longer, and see how it goes."

Steve would have to be careful about how he returned to the Tower, to make it look like nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Natasha and Barton saw him to the lower levels of the other police station, where he met Detective Coulson again.

"I believe this is yours," Coulson said, offering Steve the watch he'd left behind.

"Huh. Yeah, must've forgotten it," Steve said, attaching it around his wrist.

Coulson nodded, his face perfectly neutral. "These things happen."

Ultron would know he hadn't been wearing the watch—the loss of the activity and health data flows would've made that obvious—but since the fake tracker signal matching his frame had remained at the police station throughout the day, he could claim he'd just taken the watch off his wrist for whatever reason. He quickly checked the missed calls. Ten from Ultron, which he'd been expecting, and more surprisingly, four from Pepper. He wasn't going to call them back. He'd see them both soon enough.

Coulson accompanied Steve to the landing platform and the awaiting limo. It sat there like some gold-plated, silk-lined cage. Steve had been so close to being free, and here he was, choosing to return to servitude. If not for the possibility of helping many more people than just himself and his team, he would never have done it. He still wasn't convinced that this was the right choice and that there was anything to be gained from spending more time with Tony, but he'd promised to try. At least he now had an out if he wanted it: he could contact the resistance through Coulson, and they'd be able to help him.

"Long and productive day with the police, Cap?" Ultron's contemptuous voice greeted him as he entered the limo.

"More of the long and less of the productive," Steve said, trying to keep it airy and casual.

"Don't think you can fool me. I can tell you've been up to something," Ultron said.

Steve shrugged, knowing that there'd be a camera somewhere that would pick it up. "I have no idea what you're talking about. Are you going to take me home or not?"

Back at Stark Tower, Tony was waiting for Steve right inside the door to the landing platform, his arms crossed and his expression wary. "Steve. What have you been up to?"

"Banging my head against a brick wall by the name of Detective Coulson, mostly," Steve replied.

"You get anything interesting out of it?" Tony asked, not looking any less dubious.

"Not much more than a headache," Steve said, rubbing at his temples for effect. "I think I'm going to call this an early night." He took a step in the direction of the elevator, but Tony blocked his path.

"And a lost coat and a torn pant leg, by the looks of it," Tony pointed out. He put one hand on Steve's arm and crouched to get a closer look at his calf.

Damn it. Steve had abandoned his street-bought bomber jacket, but he'd completely forgotten about the cut from the bar fight. He was too used to pushing minor injuries to the background; this was barely enough to register at all. Now it was too late to do anything about it.

Tony's hands were on Steve's pant leg, pulling apart the torn fabric to reveal the broken skin beneath. "There's blood there, too!" he exclaimed. It sounded more surprised than worried to Steve. "How did that happen?"

"Stumbled and caught it on something. It's nothing," Steve lied quickly.

Tony stood up again, frowning at him. "You've got the best reflexes money can buy. You really shouldn't be stumbling. Maybe I should call the clinic, have them take a look."

"No, really, I'm fine. I'm sure I'll feel better in the morning." Steve started walking towards the elevator again.

This time, Tony didn't try to stop him, but just asked, "If you don't, you'll let me know, right?"

"Of course." Steve pressed the button to open the doors. "See you tomorrow, Tony," he added, casting a glance over his shoulder.

"Good night, Steve," Tony said, with a tight-lipped smile.

It was clear that Tony, just like Ultron, thought there was more to Steve's day than what he was telling, and no wonder. He knew his tracking data for the day would look suspicious, with glitches and discontinuities here and there. There wasn't anything he could do to fix that, so he'd just have to hope Tony wouldn't push the matter. Later, if he managed to gain Tony's trust, and learned to trust Tony himself, maybe he could reveal the truth about what had happened. Unfortunately, the one brief conversation he'd had today already made him think he might've been overly positive about that.

He could've made an effort towards his new goal right away and asked Tony if they could spend more time together tonight—have dinner, for example—but he needed time alone to catch his breath. The way his mind was buzzing with the day's events, he probably would have been too distracted to carry on a conversation anyway.

Deep in thought, he returned to his floor. He cleaned and sealed the cut in his calf, remembering the fight that had caused it and the disdain of everyone in that bar towards him. Later, he had a solitary instant meal from his fridge. The difference between this and the burger he'd had Downstairs was like night and day. He'd preferred the burger, because at least he'd chosen and bought it himself, even if the money had come from selling a coat that Tony had given him.

He'd only been back for a matter of hours, and he already found himself questioning his choice to return. He could’ve been on the run, now. Instead, he was here, staring at a hint of sunset hues visible through the thick cover of clouds from his glass-walled prison.

Out of curiosity, he asked Ultron about Tony for a change; about the difficult times that Natasha had mentioned and the losses he'd suffered. As unpleasant as Ultron was, he still obeyed direct requests like this, and provided Steve with the relevant media coverage to browse through.

As he had already heard, Tony's parents had died just three years after Steve had been sentenced. Now that he knew who had been behind the takeover, it seemed to fit the pattern. The Starks would've tried to stand up against what Hydra was doing with SHIELD, and so they had been eliminated. Tony had probably been considered either too young and too insignificant, or a potential ally, and left alive because of that.

The news stories also confirmed that five years after the death of his parents Tony had lost his mentor, a man named Obadiah Stane, who'd been running the company with him. Stane's passing sounded no less suspect than those of the Starks; it involved a viral attack that had spread from his physical clone to his external backup. The fourth death, the butler Edwin Jarvis, had been a year after that. Mr. Jarvis had been the inspiration for Tony's previous AI. Steve could imagine that the AI had reminded Tony too much of him, and that might have been why he'd changed to Ultron.

Steve tried to picture the young man he'd known living through all these things, and turning into the person he was today. Had all those losses and the decades that had passed broken something to make him lose all empathy? Steve couldn't claim to understand the human psyche that well, nor to know what eighty years of living with that baggage would do to someone, but it still felt overly simplistic and didn't ring true to him.

Steve went to bed with his mind still on Tony and the resistance, and it took him hours to finally slow down his thoughts enough to fall asleep.

It was hardly surprising that Steve dreamed of Tony again.

Like last night, Steve was in bed, naked, and Tony sat on the mattress next to him, fully clothed in one of his suits, a hand possessively on Steve's chest. It felt all too real.

"I wish I could figure out what's going on behind that pretty face of yours, Steve," Tony said.

"I could say the same about you," Steve returned.

Tony smirked at him and ran his hand up to take Steve's chin between his fingers. "You think I'm still pretty?"

"Well, I can't deny you look good," Steve had to say, even though Tony's uninvited touch made him shudder.

"And do you still like me, Steve?" Tony asked, caressing Steve's chin with his thumb.

"Do you want the honest answer?" Steve returned. Somehow, this dream felt wrong in a way deeper than just his dislike of the situation, worse than the previous one.

Tony's hand stopped still, his eyes fixed on Steve's. "If you're capable of giving one."

"I am, and I don't," Steve said. "I don't know you anymore, Tony, and I don't like you. I don't like any of this."

"So, you are still capable of honesty. Let's try this one, then," Tony said, and something in his eyes shifted, changing from cold and callous to downright dangerous. His fingers tightened around Steve's chin until his hold was close to painful. "Where were you today?"

Steve tried to twist his head and to squirm away from Tony, but Tony moved over to straddle his thighs. Somehow, his weight was overpowering, pinning Steve down as effectively as a set of restraints. One of Tony's hands pushed him down by the shoulder, and the other went to his throat, closing around it, not quite tight enough to choke him. Not yet, though the promise was clearly there.

"You're not going anywhere, not anymore. Not until I get some answers. Where were you, Steve?" Tony asked again.

"At the police station," Steve replied quickly.

"I won't believe for one second that you spent the whole day there. Just conveniently left your watch off your wrist? Sat in the same room for hours? You were not at the police station. Where did you go?" Tony's grip tightened around Steve's throat, starting to cut off his airflow, pressing hard enough that he could feel his nervously beating pulse against Tony's fingers.

This was too real, too detailed, and too visceral to be a dream—but he knew he'd gone to sleep, and he was sure he hadn't woken up.

"Nowhere," Steve insisted, his voice rough through the chokehold.

"Wrong answer," Tony said, his fingers digging deeper, his other hand joining the first around Steve's neck.

Steve's vision was starting to go fuzzy at the edges, his ears ringing. He struggled to push Tony away, to move his arms, to kick at him, but all he got was a feeble twitch. He should've been able to do more. It couldn't be just the oxygen deprivation. This was all wrong, everything was wrong—he tried to speak, to make any kind of sound, but nothing came out.

"I didn't expect this to be easy. I know you're as tough as they come," Tony said conversationally, as if he wasn’t currently squeezing the life out of Steve's frame. "Oh, well. I'm a patient man. I'm sure we'll get there, eventually."

Steve doubled his efforts, using all the strength of will that he had, but he was already too far gone. There was no air. There was nothing he could do; he couldn't even control his thoughts, let alone his body. There was just pure, primitive terror, because he knew he was dying and there was no way out.

The last thing he saw before he passed out was Tony's cruel smirk.

Steve woke up again, still in his bed, and yet, not in his bed. He knew he hadn't been naked when he'd gone to sleep, like he was now. The room looked like his, with all the furniture as it should be and the bed sheets the same ones he'd gone to sleep in, but the shackles chaining his wrists and ankles to the bedposts had definitely not been a part of the decor. He yanked at them, but as he'd expected, they were solid. He didn't think he'd be able to break them, no matter what.

Although he vividly remembered the pressure of Tony's fingers around his throat, breathing was as easy as ever, and when he swallowed, he felt no hint of bruising.

"We're in VR," Steve said, and his voice sounded fine as well, not hoarse at all.

He'd been through a similar experience before. He knew what a living hell virtual torture could be. In frame space, you could only kill someone once, and then you'd need to put them in a new body if you wanted another round. That was inconvenient, expensive, and required trained staff. In virtual reality, you wouldn't have to deal with any of the practical issues; you could just restart the scenario after your victim died. It felt exactly as real, every bit as painful, and it could go on and on and on for days in the victim's personal experience while mere hours passed in the outside world.

There was a sound of slow clapping at the door to the bedroom, and as Steve turned his head, he saw Tony approach. "Well done, Steve. You catch on quickly."

"I'm not going to tell you anything, no matter what you do," Steve declared.

"We'll see about that," Tony said. He shrugged off his suit jacket, unbuttoned his cuffs, and started rolling back his sleeves. "I'm sure you've got training, maybe even experience, but this isn't the first time I'm playing this game, either."

This couldn't be Tony, not really. Tony had changed, but to go from irresponsible and ignorant to someone who tortured people—no. No matter how much grief and stress he'd faced, no matter how many years had passed, Steve couldn't believe that of him. But this person also felt too similar to the man Steve had spent the past few days with, too knowing, to be someone else hired to torture Steve while wearing Tony's face. This had to be the same man, and whoever he was, he wasn't Tony.

Maybe the real Tony was dead, just like most of the people Steve had known and cared about.

"You're not Tony Stark," he said aloud.

Tony sat down next to Steve, looming over him, placing one hand lightly at his throat. It was enough of a reminder of the previous scenario to bring up the subconscious terror, and Steve flinched in his restraints, but there was nowhere for him to go.

"Now why would you say that?" Tony asked.

"Because he'd never, ever do something like this," Steve replied.

Tony, or whoever he was, gave Steve another unpleasant smile, this one more condescending than cruel, and sat back again. "Oh, but I'm doing it, and I am Tony Stark. Ask anyone. Believe what you will, that won't change the facts." He picked a knife out of mid-air, a simple one with a double-edged blade. He placed the point of it against the soft skin beneath Steve's chin, forcing him to tilt his head backwards. "So, you know the question already. You can save yourself a lot of pain if you just tell me where you went."

Steve spat in his face. It was worth it, even though the sudden movement made the tip of the blade pierce his skin. It was only a scratch, anyway. There would be far worse to come.

Tony wiped off the saliva with his free hand. "Very cute, Steve. Maybe I should take out your tongue for that, or your lips." He slid the blade upwards over Steve's chin until one sharp edge rested over Steve's lips like a shushing forefinger. "It'd make talking difficult for you, but if you're not going to say anything anyway, it wouldn't really matter. Maybe you'd feel more talkative in the next scenario then, huh?" A slight added pressure and a quick shift of the blade, and it cut through Steve's lower lip, stinging at the sensitive skin. The taste of blood filled his mouth.

He would've spat at Tony again if the knife hadn't been in the way.

"There are so many options here." Tony drew the knife away from Steve's face and set it down lower, at the dip between his collarbones. "Lots of ground to cover. Luckily, we also have lots of time." He sliced downwards, cutting a sharp line of pain down along his sternum. Steve bit his teeth together, struggling not to cry out.

He knew this wasn't real, and he tried to keep focused on that, like he'd been taught in his SHIELD training. Whatever he felt, his frame wouldn't be injured. Unfortunately, it was difficult to think of the outside world as a safe and stabilizing anchor when he knew that it was everything but safe, and that he was almost as trapped there as he was here. Of course, there was the resistance—but he shouldn't think about them now. He couldn't expose them. If he told Tony, then Tony would tell Hydra. Which, no. He wasn't going to break and tell about them. Never.

"There is this ancient thing called death by a thousand cuts," Tony said, the blade trailing over Steve's stomach with just enough pressure that he felt it, not breaking the skin yet. "Think we can make it to one thousand before you black out?"

This wasn't real, Steve repeated to himself. This wasn't real, and this wasn't really Tony.

He grit his teeth as Tony continued his work, methodical like a craftsman, going from shallow cuts to deeper ones, ones where Steve felt the blade scraping against bone and couldn't help but groan in pain, tears in his eyes.

Occasionally, Tony stopped, asking if Steve wanted to talk. He didn't.

He managed to spit at Tony again, though he no longer had the strength to raise his head from the pillow and aim for Tony's face. The blood flecked Tony's white dress shirt instead. He shook his head and brought the knife to Steve's face.

It went on until Steve thought his whole body must be an open wound, every square centimeter covered in blood, his mind starting to fade with the loss of it. He welcomed that. He had no need to fight unconsciousness.

He closed his eyes and drifted away.

The next scenario was even more brutal. There were torn nails and pulled teeth and broken bones, far too much pain for Steve to put on any bravado. Worse yet, when he passed out the first time, he didn't die, and came around still horribly maimed, and it went on like it would never end.

Still, Steve didn't talk. He knew this wasn't real. He repeated it to himself like a mantra. His frame was intact. It would be under extreme stress, but he knew it could take that. Everything would be better in the real world.

He ignored the voice at the back of his mind reminding him that psychological trauma would carry over and wouldn't magically vanish in frame space.

Finally, he died, suffocating from the bleeding caused by shattered ribs, and again, death wore Tony's face, his expressive eyes full of disappointment.

Steve woke up, and even though his body was healed again, the memory of what he'd been through lingered. His heart was racing, and he was breathing too fast; he was shivering, skittish like a cornered animal. That was all he was, in the end. Too much pain, and there wouldn't be anything left but the most primitive instincts.

He wasn't going to break. He couldn't. He closed his eyes and forced his breathing to slow, trying to make the best of even this short respite. This wasn't real. He could take this.

When he opened his eyes again, more capable of focusing on what was around him, he realized that the restraints around his wrists and ankles had changed. He was still tied to bed, but instead of metal cuffs there was soft rope, the kind he might expect to see in the bedroom.

Tony wasn't wearing a suit when he reappeared, but a silk bathrobe, and his smile looked even more dangerous than before. "I think we've established you have an incredibly high tolerance for pain, but no matter. There are other methods we can try," he said, lowering his voice towards the end.

Steve struggled to keep his expression under control, to hide how much this unnerved him. "They won't be any more successful."

"Won't they? I'm curious to find out." Tony sat down on the bed once again, but he held no knife or pliers this time. Instead, he placed his hand on one of Steve's knees.

"Screw you," Steve snapped.

"That's kind of the plan," Tony said, caressing Steve's thigh. "You know, I'm not usually into this kind of thing, but I might enjoy it anyway."

In a way, the touch cut deeper than a knife. With violence and pain, it had been easy to convince himself it wasn't really Tony he was facing and to distance himself from it. This—this was too close to how things had been between him them, so that even as it made him feel queasy, it also brought up a yearning that made his face burn with shame. He did miss something like this, he missed Tony, the one from the past, and he missed being touched.

Just not like this.

He feared this would tarnish the good memories forever. He'd already lost so much of his past. He didn't want to lose that, too.

"You really did like me, in the past, didn't you," Tony said; a statement, not a question. His hand trailed over Steve's hipbone and then up to his stomach. "I hadn't realized that."

"That wasn't you," Steve said, as much to himself as to Tony. He had to cling to that. If he didn't, the betrayal would make everything hurt even worse.

"You can—" Tony began, but then, for no apparent reason, drew back his hand and sat up straight. "Didn't I tell you not to disturb me?" he said to the empty room around them, his eyes unfocused. Clearly, he was addressing someone outside the scenario that Steve couldn't hear. Whatever it was about, it wasn't making him happy.

Tony stood up, a disgruntled look on his face. "Fine! I'll deal with it! You," he barked, turning his eyes towards Steve. "I'm not finished with you, not even close. I'll be back before you know it."

With that, he vanished into thin air, leaving Steve alone in the quiet virtual bedroom, still tied to the bed. He felt like he'd been rescued in the nick of time, even though he was no closer to getting out than he'd been earlier. He tugged at the ropes binding his wrists. As soft and comfortable as they were against his skin, they also felt as unyielding as the earlier metal shackles. Depending on the parameters of the scenario, it was entirely possible they were impossible to break, no matter what he did.

He was craning his neck, trying to look around for any sharp edges, anything at all that he could reach, when the worst headache he'd ever felt lanced through his skull. It was like a bolt from the blue, worse than any of the torture he'd been through, taking away his breath and making his whole body tense up.

Everything went black.

Chapter Text

A female voice broke through the haze of pain in Steve's brain. "I'm so sorry, Steve, I know you must be feeling awful, but we have to move. Come on."

There were hands on his shoulders, small but as insistent as the voice, trying to pull him up.

He opened his eyes ever so slightly. The light in the room around him made his head hurt even worse, like liquid fire flowing into his synapses. He gasped and shut his eyes again. At least he'd seen enough to orient himself.

He wasn't in his bedroom, neither the real one nor the virtual replica. Instead, he was in the VR suite that was a part of his apartment, still dressed in the t-shirt and shorts he'd worn when he'd gone to sleep. Even through all the confusion and pain, it was obvious what must've happened: he'd been yanked out of VR without the proper procedure, by someone physically pulling off the electrodes. There were reasons why this wasn't recommended under any circumstances, no matter how urgent.

Had Natasha gotten him out? How had she even known Steve was in trouble?

"Steve? I need you to get up. There's no time," the voice said again. It wasn't Natasha; the pitch was wrong.

"Pepper?" he asked, risking another quick look.

Pepper Potts stood next to him, her business clothes as stylish as ever, but her hair askew. Behind her, prone on the ground, lay the large gray figure of one of Ultron's drones.

"Yes. I'm getting you out of here, but we have to hurry," she insisted, her hand tugging at Steve's.

He wasn't going to protest against a rescue, even if it was by a wholly unexpected party. Cautiously, he placed his bare feet on the floor and pushed himself off the chair, but his legs wouldn't hold his weight. He ended up on his hands and knees, the room spinning around him, his headache spiking again. He squeezed his eyes closed and breathed through his nose, trying to keep the nausea at bay.

Pepper was right by his side. She put her arm around his back and pulled one of his arms over her shoulders, doing her best to help him up. Slowly, shakily, Steve managed to get to his feet, and they began to make their way across the small room. With Pepper's assistance, he was able to keep his balance, and the pain settled to a level where he could keep his eyes open. They didn't quite focus properly yet, leaving everything around him hazy. He hoped it would pass, and that his frame hadn't taken permanent neural damage from the abrupt VR disconnect.

There was another drone on the living room floor, as unmoving as the first one had been. Pepper guided them past it. Instead of the elevator, they seemed to be headed straight for the windows on the other side of the room.

Steve tried to ask where they were going, which came out as a "where?" that sounded more like a groan.

"Away from here, as fast as we can," Pepper replied, determined.

They were still several meters away from the windows when she stopped and raised a small gun of a type that Steve didn't recognize. Without a moment's hesitation, she fired at the window in front of them, sending out a slow projectile that in Steve's blurry vision looked like a miniature rocket. It exploded on contact and the window shattered instantly, as if it had been made of glass instead of a supposedly indestructible nanomaterial.

"Now!" Pepper called out, and started dragging Steve onwards.

In his exhausted, barely coherent mind, he thought she must've lost it completely. They were on the 194th floor. Steve might not have felt unnerved about jumping out of a cab at around the 50th, but this was a whole lot higher, and as far as he could tell, they had no anti-gravity gear.

"Wait," Steve grunted, trying to dig his heels in as they reached the destroyed window. The darkness outside was broken here and there by soft light from nearby buildings and the bright pinpoint headlights of passing cars.

In any other situation, he could've easily fought Pepper off, but right at this moment, he was too weak. Pushing with a hand on his back and pulling him by the arm, she brought them both over the jagged edge of the hole, into the awaiting cold night air.

After a horrifying half-second of free fall, they smacked into something hard.

There were hands on Steve, larger than Pepper's, pulling him to a softer surface, the clunk of a car door closing, and then it was no longer cold.

"You had me worried for a second there," Pepper said breathlessly.

"After all these years, you still doubt my flying skills?" came the reply. It was a voice Steve thought he'd heard before, but couldn't place.

He looked up, trying to blink away the tears brought on by the chilly wind, making his bleary vision worse. They were in a car, and the speaker was leaning towards Steve from the driver's seat. For a brief moment, Steve thought he was facing Nick Fury, but this man had hair, and both his eyes seemed natural, not mismatched like Fury's.

"You don't remember me, do you?" he asked Steve, reaching out to place his hand on Steve's shoulder, giving it a squeeze. "James Rhodes. An old friend of Tony's. Even older than you, believe it or not."

"Rhodey. I remember," Steve said, stunned. He'd seen the man in pictures more often than in person, but he knew Tony and Rhodey had studied together. It was no wonder Steve hadn't recognized him at first; he looked much older now, perhaps in his fifties. It couldn't be the same body he'd had back in the past, but it might be that he'd only switched clones once.

"I'd love to catch up with you, but that'll have to wait. We need to get moving," Rhodey said. He let go of Steve's shoulder and turned to face the controls. Right away, the hum of the car engines grew louder, and they started to descend.

Steve had been rescued from Tony by Tony's friends. He tried to wrap his mind around that. It didn't make any sense, especially not when he could barely think at all. His head still ached fiercely, the movements of the car weren't helping with the queasiness, and he realized he was trembling all over. He allowed himself to slump against the seat, eyes closed, the heel of one hand pressed against his forehead. He was only half following the conversation going on around him.

"Ultron will have already dispatched more drones," Pepper said urgently.

"Which we're not going to be able to lose until you deal with the tracker," Rhodey said.

"It's too soon, I'm not sure he can—" Pepper began.

"He has to. They're faster and more maneuverable. We won't stand a chance," Rhodey cut her short, his voice firm.

Steve felt Pepper shift next to him, and her hand landed on his knee. It didn't matter that Steve knew who it belonged to, it was an instant tactile reminder of Tony and the virtual bedroom, and with it came a landslide of memories that'd up to now been kept at bay by constant action. Memories of not just violation, but of blood and pain and death. Steve flinched, trying to back away.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," Pepper murmured, letting go of him, giving him space.

He focused on his breathing for a few seconds, on the noise of the car around them, the seat behind his back. He knew the memories weren't real, and this was. He was okay. He'd pulled through. Things would be better now.

"Steve? Are you with me?" Pepper's hand returned, a featherlight touch on his forearm.

Steve squinted at her, and replied with a small nod.

"There's a tracker on you, and I'm going to have to disable it," Pepper told him, speaking slowly as if to make sure he caught every word. "Unfortunately, it's on your backup node."

Steve knew that already, and he'd like nothing more than to get rid of the tracker. He had no idea if Pepper and Rhodey knew about the second one the resistance had put on him. Hopefully not. It would be his insurance. He didn't know what these two wanted from him, after all, even though the fact that they clearly weren't on Tony's side was promising.

He knew why she was being so cautious and reluctant about this: since the tracker was on his node, any attempts to tamper with it wouldn't be very good for him. In the worst case, he could end up trapped in this frame. Theoretically, in the vanishingly rare case of node damage in an otherwise intact frame, it was possible to re-map the brain onto a new node, but that was just about the most expensive medical procedure in existence. Not something he'd have access to as a fugitive.

He didn't want to be stuck in this frame for the rest of his life. This frame wasn't him. It was a mockery of him, one that someone else had picked for him. Still, right now, what he wanted more than anything was his freedom, and he knew he'd never have that without getting rid of that damned tracker. He was ready to risk everything to get there.

"Do it," Steve said.

"You understand what I'm asking, right? It will hurt. I can sedate you first," Pepper said.

There was a sudden loud crack, and the car rocked around them. They'd taken a hit. As if they'd needed a reminder of how urgent the situation was.

"Pepper! Any time now—they're right on our tail!" Rhodey called out. The car swerved sharply to the left, then up. At least they weren't falling out of the sky. Not yet.

"Just do it," Steve repeated at Pepper.

Pepper was still looking decidedly uneasy, but she bit her lip and nodded. "All right. Bend forwards."

She picked up a duffel bag that'd been lying on the floor, probably for whatever tools she needed. Steve figured he was better off not knowing what they looked like. He did as she'd asked, crossing his arms over his knees and resting his forehead against them, the back of his neck exposed.

There was a faint smell of smoke hanging in the air around them, and going by the movements of the car, Rhodey was running evasive maneuvers. Not the best setting for a potentially life-threatening procedure.

"Okay, I'm not doing anything yet, just taking position," Pepper warned him, and something cold and hard pressed against his neck, at the base of his skull. Every instinct in Steve's overstressed mind told him to fight it, to lash out at her, to run, but he dug his nails into his forearms and kept his head down.

"Rhodey? Please, try to keep us still," Pepper was saying.

"Tell that to Ultron," Rhodey grumbled. "I'm doing what I can."

"Steve?" Pepper addressed him again. "Brace yourself. In three, two, one—"

Steve had thought he'd already suffered through every kind of pain imaginable today, but it turned out he hadn't. Not this sharp stab right where he knew his mind was stored, or the surge of agony that seemed to run straight through his spine, cold and electric.

He faded out for a while after that. He didn't really pass out, but he wasn't fully conscious either. He still heard voices talking, felt hands guiding him to lie down, the seat beneath him and the movements of the car, but it was all distant and hazy, everything he'd been through finally overwhelming both mind and frame.

It wasn't all bad. No coherent thoughts meant he could finally catch some rest.

Later, when their flight trajectory had settled to something smoother and the voices speaking around him were no longer as urgent, he blinked his eyes open again. Rhodey was still at the controls. Since Steve was lying on his side over both back seats, Pepper was sitting on the floor next to him, crammed in the space between the back and front seats.

Steve cleared his throat. "Did it work?" he asked hoarsely.

"Yes. The tracker's offline for good, and Jarvis says your node is unharmed," Pepper told him. She was smiling, though aside from that, her face looked pinched with concern. "How do you feel?"

"Jarvis?" Steve repeated. Tony's butler, or his old AI? He'd thought both were gone, but it wasn't a common enough name to be a coincidence.

"Captain Rogers," came the reply in the polite, crisp artificial voice he remembered from the past.

Steve's mouth fell open in shock. He'd been surprised to see Rhodey, but somehow, this struck even deeper.

He placed one elbow against the seat to push himself up. That was a mistake; right away, the headache went from a vague background nuisance to a brilliant, fiery agony inside his skull. He brought his free hand up to rub at the back of his neck, which felt bruised from the inside out.

"How?" Steve gasped.

"It's okay," Pepper told him soothingly. "We'll explain everything to you soon. Try not to move too much. Just a little longer and we'll get you where you can rest more comfortably."

"ETA ten minutes," Rhodey added. "Sorry it's taking so long, but we can't risk being spotted."

"Where are we going?" Steve asked. Moving as slowly and cautiously as his battered frame allowed, Steve sat up again.

"You'll find out," Pepper promised.

On any other day, Steve would've insisted that they tell him right away. Today, he physically lacked the energy to argue. He leaned the side of his head against the window next to him and stared at the view outside.

It was still the middle of the night. There were barely any other cars in sight, and most of the buildings around them were also dark, no lights behind the windows. Put together, this implied they were either at a quiet part of town, close to ground level, or possibly both. If they were anywhere below the 100th, they'd be breaking the curfew. The car had to have stealth features. That would've helped with losing the drone pursuit as well.

As Rhodey had said, it didn't take too long until they landed, and as far as Steve could tell, it wasn't a platform but solid ground, the low light around them glistening on the ever-present layer of water. They drove on the tarmac for a brief distance, into a small garage with a few other cars in it.

Pepper rummaged through the duffel bag and came up with a pair of rubber boots and an oilskin coat, which she handed to Steve. "We can't take the direct route because because the streets are being watched, so we've still got around half a kilometer to cover," she explained. "Do you think you can walk?"

As weak as Steve was, there wasn't anything wrong with his legs. "I hope so," he said.

They got out of the car. Standing up felt like Steve's frame weighed a ton, and after a few wobbly steps, he had to accept Rhodey's offer of a shoulder to lean on.

Instead of going back outside, they walked to the back of the garage and through a door leading deeper into the building. The route they took was a series of maze-like dank corridors. Once, they even went down a short flight of stairs and waded in ankle-deep water for a dozen meters, explaining why Pepper had gone to the trouble of providing him with boots. It wouldn't have been much fun barefoot. It still wasn't easy; Steve found himself getting more light-headed and shaky as they went on, relying more and more on Rhodey's support.

Finally, after a trip that felt much longer than the five hundred meters Pepper had described, they came to a halt in front of a door with a bio-ID lock. Pepper faced it, and the door slid open right away, revealing a room more brightly lit than any of the spaces they had traversed.

Stepping inside with Rhodey, Steve found himself in a hall that resembled an indoor junkyard, about the size of the earlier small garage. The place was full of tech that looked like spare parts: half-disassembled cars and drones, and smaller items on shelves and tables. A lot of it was visibly old and worn, probably scavenged. There was something oddly familiar about it, but he couldn't quite put a finger on what it was—not until he spotted the man standing by the wall to his left, staring back at Steve, his big, dark eyes wide in shock.

The place looked like Tony's workshop at SHIELD HQ, back when SHIELD had still been good, except that workshop had been all shiny and new, and this one looked run-down, as did its owner.

The man by the wall was very different from the one Steve had worked for since he'd woken up in the future, but there was no mistaking the frame. It was Tony Stark's. While the two other clones of Tony's that Steve had met, in the past and the present, had been dark-haired, this one's hair was longer and white all over, as were his beard and moustache. His face was thin and lined with the wear of many decades—it was difficult to estimate his exact age, but he definitely looked older than Rhodey. Maybe even over seventy. He wasn't wearing a suit like his counterpart in the Tower, but jeans and layered t-shirts, the top one with the logo of some band faded beyond recognition.

"You're really here," Tony said, sounding choked. He took a step forwards, one hand on the wall as if he was afraid he might fall down.

Steve felt like he might fall down, himself; after everything, this was almost more than he could take. He didn't know what to feel anymore. Could this really, actually be Tony? He'd thought the other one had been him, until he'd been convinced otherwise, when Tony had—when he'd been standing next to Steve in the bedroom, holding a knife, or pliers, or a hammer, sitting on the mattress, his hand on Steve's thigh, his fingers closing around Steve's throat—his eyes meeting Steve's just as they did now, sad and disappointed.

Steve felt his knees hit the floor, and the jolt of concrete against his bare skin reconnected him more or less with the present reality. Pepper and Rhodey were both by his side, hovering but not touching him, clearly unsure what to do.

"Steve? Steve, can you hear me?" Rhodey asked.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm okay," Steve replied, on reflex, even though he was well aware that he wasn't. He took the hand Rhodey was offering and got up, keeping his eyes away from the man who might very well be Tony Stark.

"It's been a very long night for you. You should probably lie down," Pepper suggested.

"Probably," Steve said, "but not before I have some answers."

"No reason you can't have both," Rhodey said. "There's a bed at the back."

"Of sorts," Tony added from the side. Steve glanced at him, and saw that he'd sat down in a desk chair. His shoulders were hunched, his expression haunted, and he was rubbing at his chest as if it pained him. It was really strange, seeing that particular body looking so frail, when Steve had always thought Tony would never stay in a clone till old age.

"Okay," Steve said.

The bed-of-sorts turned out to be a pile of old mattresses and pillows in a smaller room adjacent to the workshop. Steve was fine with that; at least it bore no resemblance whatsoever to his bedroom in Stark Tower. He shrugged off his coat, took off his boots and sat down on the makeshift bed, his back against the wall, truly glad to be off his feet. He was grateful of the blankets that he was offered as well, pulling one to cover his legs, but for now, he left the heavy-duty painkillers that Rhodey offered him on a pillow next to him. A part of him wanted nothing more than to curl up, close his eyes and pass out, but he knew he couldn't rest until he understood what was going on.

"Is it okay if I'm here?" Tony asked, sounding timid in a way that reminded Steve of their last night together at Steve's apartment, all those decades ago. He'd stayed in the background, behind Rhodey and Pepper, leaning on the doorframe.

"Maybe. I don't know," Steve said. "That question would be easier to answer if I understood who you are."

Tony crossed his arms, his eyes going from Steve to Rhodey and Pepper. "You haven’t told him yet?"

"He was in a pretty bad shape, and we were in a hurry," Rhodey said defensively.

"I also thought it'd be easier to explain with you around," Pepper said.

"Okay, fair enough," Tony said, and pursed his lips. The depth of emotions on his face was more than Steve had seen in the other Tony's features at any point. It looked familiar. The way it should, the way it had before. "Long story short: Hi, Steve. It's me. Really me. That other guy out there? That really isn't, even though everyone else thinks so."

There it was, confirmation for what Steve had already guessed.

He ran a hand over his face, feeling like an idiot. Almost like he he'd betrayed Tony. He'd considered the option that Tony wasn't really Tony early on, when Pepper had tried to drop him hints about it, and then dismissed it as too unlikely. He'd kept dismissing it, letting Fury and Natasha convince him to return to Stark Tower in spite of all his misgivings, until it'd almost been too late. If not for Pepper and Rhodey, he'd probably still be—he'd be in the bedroom with—

He pinched the bridge of his nose and drew a deep breath, pushing the thoughts away before they were fully formed. He looked at Tony, focusing on how different he looked, the grayed hair and the lined face.

He didn't want to think of that other person at all, but he needed to know. "Who is he, then?"

"His name's Obadiah Stane," Tony said, spitting out the name like a curse.

Steve frowned. He'd heard that name before. "Your mentor? The news archives said he died."

Tony scoffed. "Yeah, that's what he wanted everyone to think, and thanks to Hydra, he was successful, too. That's who took over SHIELD, in case you were wondering."

"I found out already," Steve said.

"Huh, okay, that's one less thing to explain then," Tony said, clearly surprised. "How did you figure it out? They've been very careful in hiding their true nature."

"I met someone who knew," Steve replied. He'd probably end up telling Tony about the resistance sooner or later, but not until he was entirely convinced he could trust him. "Was Stane working for them?"

Tony frowned at Steve's vague answer, but didn't push him to elaborate. "Not at such, no. It was more of a marriage of convenience," he said instead, continuing his account. "Hydra took out my parents but left me alive, probably because they thought I was too airheaded to understand what was going on around me. I wasn't, though. I tried to put up a fight, which made me a nuisance that had to be dealt with. Meanwhile, in Stark Interplanetary, Obie thought my little rebellion wasn't in the best interests of the company, or him. Joining forces gave them both what they wanted. Obie got SI and all the perks that come with being Tony Stark, and Hydra got him in their pocket. World domination secured for the foreseeable future."

That explained a lot of things, but it also made some more confusing.

If Stane was in league with Hydra, why would he have wanted to bring Steve out of storage at all? The fact that he'd seemed to care enough to get Steve out early had been how the resistance convinced Steve he might still hold some sway over Tony. Now that he knew that man hadn't actually been Tony at all, it made no sense.

Steve rubbed at his temples. The intense focus on trying to figure out this puzzle wasn't helping with the headache; instead, it was growing worse again, a constant gnawing pressure behind his eyes.

He could see one single explanation that'd make the pieces fit. "You're the reason Stane got me out of the ice, aren't you?"

"We are," Pepper answered him. "I sold the idea to him."

"Why, though? And why now?" Steve asked.

"Several reasons," Rhodey replied. "We've been working to take down Stane for a long time, and finally, we're almost there. We wanted to get you out while he's still around and has those ties to Hydra."

It didn't seem as if they'd planned it very well. "And then you left me with him until it was almost too late," Steve said.

"We were trying to free you! We were going to get you out after the shoot-out at the 201, after we'd killed Stane, but you had to go and save him," Pepper said, giving him an accusing glare. "And we were going to attempt it again earlier today, but you went missing for most of the day and wouldn't answer my calls. Which left us with the improvised operation tonight once I'd realized what Stane was doing to you."

That confirmed in plain words something that Steve had been assuming all along after the rescue. "You're the ones trying to kill him."

"Yes. And we were hoping you might want to help us," Tony added.

Steve closed his eyes and leaned the back of his head against the wall behind him, the bruises at his neck protesting as he did. Tony wanted to kill the man who'd supplanted him. Tony had recruited Pepper to convince Stane to bring Steve out of storage.

There was a thought forming in his mind that he didn't like at all.

"This frame I'm in," Steve said, eyes still closed. "It wasn't Stane's idea either, was it?"

"No, it wasn't," Pepper confessed. "But he jumped at it when I mentioned it to him, probably because he already suspected Tony might be behind the assassinations. He knows how much you mean to Tony. Having you in a frame that resembles your old self made you the perfect human shield."

Steve had thought Tony had picked this frame for him. He hadn't been wrong, after all, even if the person he'd first taken for Tony had been someone else. Tony had wanted him to look like this, like an improved version of Steve's birth body. One that Tony would like better. More than that, Tony had involved him in this scheme, assuming without asking that he'd be fine with it.

He opened his eyes again, looking at Tony, letting the slowly brewing anger show on his face. "You wanted to use me, too. Just like him."

"No, that's not true," Pepper said.

Tony's mouth was a thin line, his eyes the exact shade of disappointed that had now become linked to a primitive, subconscious terror in Steve's mind. He had to look away, his arms wrapped around his knees, concentrating on the rough texture of the blanket under his fingers.

"Not like him. Never," Tony said, his voice thick with emotion. "You can do whatever you want, Steve. I don't expect anything of you. You're free to leave. Really, you probably should. I'm not much fun to be around, these days."

There was the sound of departing footsteps, and then an awkward silence, although Pepper and Rhodey were still in the room with Steve.

Steve sighed. He had his answers, as disappointing as they were.

He wanted to storm out of the room, too, but he knew that he'd probably end up on the floor if he got up too fast. He didn't have anywhere to go, anyway. The curfew was still in effect outside.

He picked up the painkillers he'd been handed earlier, and realized he didn't even know how to take them. Yet another detail about the future he hadn't caught up on yet. They were some kind of thin strips, wrapped in paper.

"It's a sublingual film," Rhodey said. "If the first one's not enough, take another. Your frame's pretty big and I bet it has a high metabolism."

Steve peeled back the paper and stuck the medication under his tongue, staring at his blanket-covered legs.

"He meant every word of it, you know," Pepper said softly. "He didn't want you out because we need your help. It was because he was worried he'd lose you for good."

Maybe that was all it was. Steve wasn't sure if he believed that. Even if this was the real Tony, the one he'd known in the past and not an impostor, Steve still didn't know this present version of him. There was a gap of over eighty years between them, and he couldn't claim to understand what was going through Tony's head.

There was only one thing he knew for sure: everyone seemed to have an agenda that they wanted to further through him, whether it was Stane, Tony, or the resistance, and he was tired of being told what to do, even if it was for a good cause and came in the guise of a choice.

Of course, he was also desperately tired, just in general. The painkiller was starting to take the edge off his headache, and he found his eyelids drooping. He shifted to lie down, his back turned towards the door and the people still in the room, and pulled the blanket up to his chin.

"If you need anything, there’ll be someone in the workshop," Pepper told him. Then Steve heard her and Rhodey walk out of the room, the door closing behind them.

"Jarvis? Switch off the lights, please," Steve said, not sure if the AI was even present in the plain room.

"Of course," Jarvis replied, as polite as ever, and Steve was left alone in the dark.

Steve had hoped that after being to hell and back in one very long sleepless night, he'd doze off as soon as he had the chance. Lying down in the dark, quiet room, cozy under his blanket, the pain in his head and neck down to a dull background ache, it should've been easy. Unfortunately, though not unexpectedly, it turned out to be everything but.

He'd been taken in his sleep. Even though he knew he should be safe here, the idea of how helpless he'd be when he fell asleep was deeply unnerving. He thought of what must've happened earlier in Stark Tower: maybe he'd been sedated to make sure he wouldn't wake up, and then Ultron's drones had moved him from his bedroom to the VR suite. Maybe Stane had been there himself to plug Steve in, that cruel smirk on his lips.

Steve tried to focus on his breathing and clear his head, but even when he managed that, as soon as he started drifting off into the twilight zone between wakefulness and sleep, he found himself in his bedroom in the Tower again. He was able to cut it short before it turned into a proper flashback, startling awake as if from a nightmare, but after a few repeats, he knew this wasn't going to work.

He asked Jarvis to switch the lights back on at the dimmest setting and to play some soothing background music. It was enough of a distraction that it made falling asleep easier, but it didn't change where he ended up. He still jolted awake, his heart racing, the memory of drowning in his own blood fresh in his mind.

He reached for the water bottle to rinse away the phantom taste of copper in his mouth. It was almost empty. He drank the last drops and got up, slowly and cautiously, the concrete cold and rough under his bare feet. He still felt dizzy, but not overwhelmingly so.

Outside his room, the workshop was quiet, the lights low. He didn't know what time it was, but probably very early in the morning. He found the bathroom right next to his bedroom, only to realize as he was about to fill the bottle from the tap that the water might not be safe to drink down here. Adding the risk of some infection on top of all the things his frame had been through wouldn't be smart.

Returning to the workshop, he spotted some shifting lights in the far corner. Maybe someone else was awake, too. Watching his feet so he wouldn't stumble on any tech or tools lying on the floor, he crossed the room towards them.

As Steve might've guessed, it was Tony. He was sitting at a desk, chin resting against one hand, the other turning around a complicated holographic diagram in the air in front of him. At the sound of Steve's approach, he swiveled around in his chair to face him. "Steve. Trouble sleeping?"

"That's putting it mildly," Steve confessed.

"Yeah, I know how that goes," Tony said. The dim lights and the reflected colors from the hologram behind him made him look even more washed-out than he had earlier, the dark circles under his eyes pronounced.

"You too, huh?" Steve had to admit he hadn't stopped to think about how strange this must be for Tony.

Tony gave him a rueful smile. "Well, I've had my share of bad dreams, and let me tell you, aging doesn't help. You want something for it? I've got street-level drugs that'll knock you right out, and some more sophisticated stuff that Pepper and Rhodey have smuggled from up top," he offered.

"No, thanks," Steve said. That'd be an easy solution, but he thought he could start working towards a better, though more difficult one. He walked over to the couch by the wall next to Tony's desk and sat down. "What if I said I wanted to talk?"

Tony turned around so that he was still facing Steve, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "Sure. Because we were always so good at that in the past." His tone was bitter, but self-deprecating, completely different from how Stane had ever spoken.

"That doesn't mean it has to be like that now," Steve said. "I'm offering you a chance to explain yourself."

"I'm not going to apologize for anything I've done," Tony told him.

Steve huffed, frustrated. "I didn't say you should, did I?"

"You are angry with me, though," Tony said, his shoulders slumping even more. "Look, the curfew will be over in an hour. If you want to go, the door's that way." He motioned towards the far end of the room. "There's a closet with some clothes in the bedroom. Might take some trial and error, but I'm sure there's something there that'll fit you."

Steve leaned back on the couch, trying not to get riled up. If he'd questioned for one moment whether this person was really Tony, there was no uncertainty left in his mind anymore. Few people had ever been able to get under his skin as fast.

"I'm not going anywhere until I've got the full picture," Steve said, keeping his tone neutral. "Help me understand."

"Okay, sure. Where do I start?" Tony sighed, looking away from Steve, his troubled expression just like that of his younger self, eighty-five years ago in Steve's living room. "I never stopped thinking about you. All those years. Wondering what I should've done differently, and if I could've somehow prevented you from getting killed and set up."

"None of that was your fault." Steve was surprised to hear Tony had even thought that, the carefree young man that he'd been. Then again, their last conversation had already told Steve that he'd misread Tony on many things.

"Maybe not." Tony's eyes were still far away, one hand absently rubbing at his chest. "But I did make mistakes. I was too naive. It took me far too long to realize what had happened, what Hydra was up to. And the way Obie played me—he must've felt like he was taking candy from a baby."

"But you got away," Steve said.

Tony made a sound somewhere between a chuckle and a snort, shaking his head at Steve. He didn't actually look amused. "Eventually." He sat upright in his chair and pointed a thumb at himself. "How old do you think this frame is?"

"I don't know, seventy-ish?" Steve guessed. He wasn't used to estimating the ages of older frames, since you didn't see them very often.

"Yeah, you're off by just a few decades," Tony said. "This is the body you knew me in. The only one I've had."

"No. That's not possible," Steve blurted out. Tony had been twenty-five when Steve had ended up on ice. That, plus eighty-five—no. Tony looked old, but he certainly didn't look like he was over a hundred. That couldn't be right.

"There are treatments that slow down aging considerably. Not common, but easily available, if you have the money. See, Obie didn't want me dead or senile. I was extremely useful to him. Best engineer SI had. You saw his drones? My handiwork, as are a lot of the cars, and the planes, and the shuttles. Did some work for SHIELD, too. And you must've met Ultron? He wouldn't exist without me, either. So, yeah. Obie wanted me in working order. I think a couple of times he must've brought in a specialist to delete some of the more traumatic memories. I'm not sure because I don't remember." Tony shrugged, as if that wasn't bad enough to merit more than a brief mention.

Steve couldn't quite bring himself to believe what he was hearing. "You're not there anymore, though. Why not swap frames?"

"Take a guess," Tony said, and turned his back towards Steve, his chin down, so that the back of his neck was fully visible. It was covered in old scarring. "I can't."

"Stars above," Steve breathed. Before he could stop himself, he was reaching a hand towards Tony, touching the marks on his skin. The thought that this was the very same body that he'd caressed so many times in the past, with the hands of many different frames, was unfathomable.

"It doesn't hurt. Not like some of the other things," Tony said softly. He raised his head, and Steve's hand ended up on his shoulder. He didn't seem to mind, so Steve kept it there. "It's just dead. No backup for me," Tony went on, still facing away. "One body, one life. Like those anti-node fanatics."

Down here, on the street levels, hiding from the authorities and with limited resources, there was no chance Tony would be able to afford the procedure to restore a broken node. Dear heavens. Steve had thought he'd had it rough. Compared to this, he'd been lucky.

"What other things?" he asked cautiously, already dreading the answer.

"Oh, you know. Some neural damage, a bit of organ failure. Needed spare parts, couldn't afford proper organic ones, so I had to get creative," Tony listed. He was clearly trying to keep his tone casual, but it wasn't enough to hide the hurt beneath. He turned around, making Steve pull back his hand. "Want to see?"

"You don't need to," Steve said quickly.

"You wanted to understand." Tony peeled up his shirts to reveal his front. He'd always been lean, but now he was skinnier than Steve's birth body had been. That wasn't what caught Steve's eye, though, nor were the scars criss-crossing his torso, the kind you'd get from street surgery without access to skin regeneration. What his eye was drawn to was the circular light set in the center of Tony's chest, similar to the power sources on Ultron's drones. No wonder he'd been looking like his chest pained him. That was something that belonged in a synthetic fake, not in someone's birth body.

"I had no idea," Steve said, at a loss for words.

"Of course you didn't. Now you do." Tony smoothed down his shirts, covering himself. "The point I'm making here is, this frame doesn't have a lot of mileage left. A few years, at most, if I'm very lucky. There's only so much damage and stress an aging organic body with a jury-rigged heart can handle. If I take Stane down soon, there's a chance I'll be able to do some good, fix some of my mistakes, and put up a fight against Hydra. If I fail, well, I'll die, and no one will ever know that the asshole running SI isn't me."

Steve stood up, feeling desperately like he needed to do something, anything, to make things better, right there and then, even though there wasn't anything he could do.

Tony shrank back, almost as if he expected Steve to hit him. "That was probably emotionally manipulative of me, wasn't it? I mean, I deserved some of what I got. I made mistakes, and the whole world is worse for it. I'm just trying to clean up my own mess. I'm not going to lie, I was hoping you'd want to help me, but that's selfish," he said, looking up at Steve. "None of this is your problem. You don't owe me anything."

"Oh, Tony. Come here," Steve said, crouched lower, and pulled him into a hug.

That clearly took Tony by surprise; he froze, at first, but when Steve didn't let go, he started to relax into it, putting his arms around Steve, his head against Steve's shoulder.

Steve had been worried that after the things that had happened in VR with Stane, physical contact with Tony might feel wrong. It didn't. It was the opposite. It felt like the way things should be, the warmth of Tony's body against his a soothing, concrete reminder of better times. He'd missed this, over the days he'd spent alone in this future that was foreign to him. The touch of someone who knew him and might, in some way, understand him.

"All those years trapped with Obie, I kept thinking about you," Tony murmured. "Sometimes I imagined you there with me, telling me to keep going. And I thought, if I ever got out, I'd get you out, too."

"And you did," Steve said.

"It took a long time, though. It's been over ten years. The first few after I escaped, I don't remember very clearly. I was alone on the streets, with a crude suit of armor and Jarvis. They're what kept me alive. I think I was ready to give up, for a while there," Tony went on, softly, his voice wavering.

Steve wasn't about to blame Tony for being slow to rescue him. Recovering from decades of captivity must have taken a long time. Steve had been trapped in VR for one night, and that had already been a living hell; he couldn't begin to imagine what Tony had been through, even if all the scars on his frame told a part of the story. That he was still sane at all said a lot about how resilient his mind must be.

"It's okay. I'm here, now." Steve brought one hand up to bury it in Tony's hair.

"I thought you didn't want to stay," Tony said.

"I never actually said I was going to leave," Steve said.

Tony raised his head from Steve's shoulder. "Huh. I guess you didn't."

"I'm going to suggest something," Steve said, acting on a spur of the moment thought that might be a bad idea, or a very good one.

"Yeah?" Tony returned.

Steve leaned backwards, his hands on Tony's shoulders, bringing them face to face. "Come to bed with me, Tony. You know, not for sex. Just—come and lie down with me. Maybe I'd be able to sleep better. Maybe you would, too."

They were so close to one another that it would've been easy to bridge that gap and turn it into a kiss, but it would probably have been too soon. Tony seemed to feel that way, too; he stayed still and didn't try. The look on his face was awestruck, like he'd just been offered a second chance at life that he'd never expected.

"I think I'd like that," Tony said.

Sharing a bed just to sleep wasn't something Steve and Tony had done in the past, and any hugs and cuddling had tended to be brief and of the post-coital variety. That made what could've under some other circumstances been a suggestion of simple, friendly closeness feel far more meaningful.

When he'd been younger, Tony had always been shameless, projecting the confidence that he looked good and knew it. Not unexpectedly, age and everything he'd been through had clearly made him self-conscious. He turned his back to Steve to change into a loose t-shirt for the night, and still seemed nervous when he sat down on the mattresses next to where Steve was stretched out on his back.

"Are you sure about this? You've seen me. I'm ancient. Damaged," Tony said, one hand on his chest, his fingers clasping the collar of his shirt. "All skin and bone and scars."

"I don't care about that," Steve assured him. "I used to change frames like shirts. It's the person inside that counts."

Tony rolled his eyes, but his lips quirked into a grin, and it was as if the years melted away from his face. "You sound like a romance program," he joked.

"It may be a cliché, but that doesn't mean it's wrong," Steve said. "I don't know if you realized it back then, but I didn't hook up with you because of your fame, fortune, and pretty face. It was because you were great company. When you weren't annoying the heck out of me."

"Likewise," Tony said, looking Steve in the eye. "I mean, I'm not going to lie, I did enjoy all those gorgeous frames, but that was only a part of it."

Steve raised his eyebrows. "And this frame, then?" he nodded down at himself.

Tony grimaced. "I'm sorry about that. I really am. In my defense, I thought you'd feel more at home with your own face. I had nothing to do with the rest of it," he said, actually sounding more sad and apologetic than defensive. "I don't think Obie cared about the details, either. The clinic probably used a standard template from the neck down."

"Oh," Steve muttered.

Now that Tony put it like that, he understood Tony's reasoning. He'd only ever had the one face; he'd see things differently from Steve, who was used to wearing many. He simultaneously cared less about the particular frame he was in, but also held his birth body, his original face, in a special place in a different way. It wasn't so much the face that he needed to wear to feel like himself, it was the face that connected him to his past and to his family.

Steve had been so affronted about the whole thing that he'd jumped to assuming the worst. Instead, it looked like what had happened had been a combination of a well-intended but ill-advised choice on Tony's part, and Stane not caring about anything except ways to make Steve useful for himself, therefore choosing to put him in a physically proficient frame.

"If you think I picked that frame for you because it would be hot—" Tony began.

"No, I get it now," Steve cut him short. "Clearly, it's more complicated than I thought."

Tony didn't look entirely convinced, his face very serious. "If I'm ever in a position to do so, I'll fix this for you. Put you in whatever frame you want."

"I know you will," Steve said. What he'd seen of Tony so far gave him every reason to believe that.

For a moment, there was just tense silence that stretched on, Steve lying down, Tony sitting next to him, looking away, his expression distant. This wasn't how Steve had meant this to go, even if it had cleared the air between them.

"It looks like we're agreed, then," Steve spoke up, finally. "The frame doesn't matter. We'll make do with what we've got. Come on." He lifted up the blanket with one hand and patted at the mattress next to himself.

"Well, if you insist. It is my bed, after all," Tony said. He lay down next to Steve, curling up against Steve's side, his head on the pillow next to Steve's, not quite touching. He kept his hands to himself, folding his arms between them.

Steve wasn't sure if Tony wasn't at ease with this renewed closeness, or if he was giving Steve space because he didn't know what Steve wanted. Steve hoped this wasn't too much, too soon; it was hard to imagine how Tony would feel about this, when in Steve's subjective timeline it had been less than a week since they'd last shared a bed.

"It's been forever since I've been this close to anyone," Tony said, his thoughts clearly moving in the same direction as Steve's.

"If you don't feel like it, just tell me," Steve told him, and rolled over to face him. "You don't need to be here just for me."

"No, I'm here and very selfishly enjoying this." Slowly and hesitantly, Tony reached out to place his hand on Steve's bicep. "It's good. Just hard to believe. I keep expecting I'll wake up and you'll be gone."

Steve reciprocated by putting his hand on Tony's shoulder. Feeling the sharp outlines of bones under the sleeve of his shirt, Steve couldn't help but think of what Tony had said earlier, that he didn't have much time left in this body. Steve had lost so many people already. Now that he'd finally found Tony, he couldn't lose him, too.

In hindsight, in light of everything he'd now learned, his earlier anger about Tony wanting him as a pawn for his plans seemed premature and misplaced. He still thought that Tony could've planned all of this better, but he believed Tony's words, that he'd wanted Steve out of storage to protect him.

Steve wasn't angry anymore, and he'd made up his mind without the shadow of a doubt.

"I'm right here, and I'm not going anywhere," Steve said, sliding his hand to Tony's back and pulling him closer.

"Except to sleep," Tony said. He turned onto his other side, so he could settle properly in Steve's arms, his back against Steve's front.

"Hopefully," Steve murmured into Tony's hair.

Steve didn't fall asleep right away, of course, but when he started drifting off, he could feel Tony's body pressed against his, feel Tony's soft breaths against the back of his hand where it rested on the pillow, and the bedroom in the Tower stayed away.

Chapter Text

The following morning, Steve woke up from a dreamless sleep to the startling realization that he wasn't alone in bed. Half awake, he stumbled away into a defensive crouch. His neck protested at the movement, a deep ache running along his spine to his skull. It took conscious effort not to raise a hand to rub at his forehead.

"Steve, it's okay, it's just me," Tony said.

For a moment, Steve's mind struggled to sort out conflicting reactions. It was Tony's voice, and that meant pain, but the face looked wistful, not cruel, and the white hair and the aged features were not from his nightmarish memories.

Tony sat up, his movements slow and cautious, and approached Steve on all fours over the mattresses and blankets. "You're at my place, Downstairs, and you're safe here. Remember?"

The last shreds of sleep slowly clearing away, Steve did remember: the candid middle-of-the-night conversation with Tony, and falling asleep holding him. Almost as if they'd gotten another shot at that last night in the past.

Steve let himself sit down on the makeshift bed again, kneading his sore neck. "Yeah, I remember. Sorry about that. You sleep okay?"

Tony settled down in front of Steve, a relieved smile on his lips. "Definitely. Better than for ages. You? I hope that rough wake-up wasn't a sign of how your night was."

"No, no, it wasn't. I slept like a log," Steve reassured him.

"I'm glad," Tony said. "You feeling okay? How's your head?"

"Been better," Steve admitted, "but it's nothing another dose of painkillers won't fix, I think."

"Good, good. Jarvis has fairly advanced diagnostic capabilities for a junk-shop AI. I'll have him run a full neuro workup later. Just to be sure," Tony offered.

"Okay, doesn't hurt to check," Steve said.

"Speaking of Jarvis—morning, J," Tony called out. "What time is it?"

"It's eleven forty-five, sir. Mr. Rhodes, Miss Potts and Mr. Hogan have been waiting in the workshop for several hours," Jarvis informed them.

Tony raised his eyebrows. "Huh. Whoops. Why didn't you wake us up earlier?"

"You needed the rest. As did Captain Rogers," Jarvis said. Steve couldn't help noticing the AI was showing the same kind of initiative that Ultron had, just for a more benevolent reason.

Tony let out a huff that somehow seemed frustrated and fond at the same time. "See what I have to put up with?"

"He's probably right," Steve said.

"Statistical probability agrees with me," Jarvis declared. "Regular sleep improves his estimated remaining frame lifetime in every projection I've run."

"Jarvis, we've talked about this. No need to rub it in," Tony said, scowling at the ceiling. "Anyway. I'd love to stay in bed all day, but I'm worried we're working against the clock, and we have an assassination to plan. If you're still in, that is." he turned his eyes towards Steve again.

"I'm against killing people in general, but in this case, I'm going to make an exception," Steve said grimly.

He believed in justice, and in everyone being treated fairly and equally. In a world where Hydra held most of the strings, there was no guarantee one would get those going through the official channels, so they would have to be proactive, even if it required breaking the law. Whether or not he'd been ready to murder Stane just based on what he'd suffered himself—which had broken several laws and been downright villainous in every way—he certainly was after hearing what Stane had done to Tony.

"And just so we're clear, we're not actually planning on wiping him," Tony added. "There are depths I'd never sink to."

"I didn't think you would," Steve said. He wouldn't have thought that of Tony in the past, and he certainly didn't now, when Tony had clearly grown into someone much more responsible, driven not by revenge, but the need to set right the wrongs for which he blamed himself.

They got dressed, which in Steve's case meant trying on three pairs of pants and four different shirts to find ones that fit. The one t-shirt he could actually pull on without worrying about split seams was still pretty much as tight as all the tailored ones he'd had in his wardrobe in the Tower. He decided it'd have to do; Tony quirked his lips and insisted that it looked much better on Steve than it ever had on him.

In the workshop, they ended up facing a welcoming committee gathered around Tony's desk. Just as Jarvis had told them, there were three people present: Rhodey, Pepper, and a man in a heavily built organic frame who must be Mr. Hogan. Steve realized he'd seen the face before, in Ultron's files, back when he'd started looking into who'd murdered Tony, or rather, Stane. This was Happy Hogan, the ex-chief of security who'd been on Stane's shortlist of potential suspects. Apparently, he had belonged there, too.

Tony waved a hand at the trio, but walked straight past them. "No murders before coffee," he announced. "There's something resembling breakfast, too, if you want it, Steve."

Vaguely self-conscious about the others' eyes on him, Steve followed Tony. He knew exactly the kinds of conclusions people would jump to after the two of them had emerged from the bedroom together. No one commented on it though; they simply greeted him with cheerful wishes of "good morning" and got up to join the procession.

The workshop didn't have so much a kitchen as an assembly of vintage household appliances and a sink in one corner, with a high table and four bar stools close by. What passed for coffee down here was far removed from its namesake on the higher floors, mainly similar in that both contained caffeine and were warm, brown liquids. To Tony's great amusement, Steve very nearly ended up spitting out the first bitter mouthful. In addition to that, breakfast consisted of tasteless gruel, which according to Jarvis included all the necessary nutrients. That probably made it better than what most people around these parts could get their hands on.

As they ate, the others started filling Steve in on what they'd done so far and what their current plan was. It turned out to be far more complicated than Steve had expected—he hadn't really appreciated all the details that they'd have to take into account.

"You must be wondering why we've been killing off Stane's Tony-clones when all that'll achieve is that he moves onto another one," Pepper started. She was sitting on one of the bar stools, still wearing business clothing that was at odds with the surroundings.

"Yes. Been wondering about that since he first put me on the case," Steve said between spoonfuls of gruel.

"Well, it's not about the clones," Pepper said. "It's about figuring out how he's set up his external backups."

Steve stopped eating for a moment, far more interested in hearing where this was going than the bland food. "Oh?"

Pepper pursed her lips. "Actually, you might need a little more background for this to make sense. You already know what we want to achieve in the end, right?"

"To have Tony back where he belongs: in a healthy clone and living in the Tower, instead of that bastard who's stolen his name and frame. And to make Stane answer for his deeds, I hope," Steve said. Just speaking about it made him angry. Stane had done so many unspeakable things. False imprisonment, torture, identity theft, frame theft—all that put together would've earned him a hundred-year sentence in the past. With the current, stricter punishments, it would probably be grounds for a wipe.

"Exactly," Happy Hogan said. He was standing a few meters away from the table, looking like a stereotypical bodyguard, his arms crossed and his expression glum.

"That's the wishlist," Tony agreed, his porridge sitting on the table half-finished, his fingers wrapped around a coffee mug. "It's just missing one key detail: we'd like to pull off all this without Hydra realizing what's happened."

Steve frowned. "So, you're not going to bring Stane to justice, or expose his crimes to the public eye?"

"We can't go to the authorities as long as we can't trust them," Rhodey spoke up from where he stood, leaning against what Steve assumed was a dishwasher. "If we want Tony to be able to start undermining Hydra, the best way to do that is indirect, at least until he's been able to gather enough resources and support for something more overt."

That would definitely complicate things. "So, whatever we do, it can't draw too much attention to Stane and Stark Tower, and we have to make sure he doesn't call SHIELD for assistance," Steve summarized.

"Yes. It won't be easy," Pepper said. "The good thing is, I think Stane wants to avoid involving SHIELD if he can. So far, he hasn't even contacted them about the earlier murders. I think he suspects Tony's behind them, and he doesn't want SHIELD to know about it."

"He's probably told Hydra that I'm dead, and doesn't want them to realize that I'm not, because that would make him look very bad. He messed up by letting me slip through his fingers," Tony added.

That did make sense. It might also explain why Stane had banned Steve from accessing the lower levels: Stane had guessed that if Tony was alive, he'd be hiding close to the street levels, and had been worried that he'd try to contact Steve. But Steve still didn't know what they were getting at. "How does all this relate to figuring out the details of his backups?"

"What we need to do is to have him cornered so completely that he has no choice but to give me what I'm after." Tony let go of his coffee with one hand to slam his palm against the table as he went on. "No backups, no escape, and no way to call for help."

"Just like he deserves," Steve said.

"There's a certain satisfaction in imagining him in that position, yeah," Tony said.

"As the first step towards getting there, we needed to figure out where he has backups, and how to delete them," Pepper went on. "We already knew beforehand that he does the uploads at night, when he's asleep, but that's probably among the most secure data streams in the solar system, and snooping on it runs a high risk of being detected by Ultron. What's more accessible is the download out of the storage location and into the clinic where they put him in a new clone in case of frame death, so that was our target."

"And did you get a location yet?" Steve asked, leaning over the table, literally on the edge of his seat.

Tony made an unhappy face and nodded. "Yeah. We did. It's on Luna."

Steve sat back, crossing his arms. "Why would he put his backups on the Moon?" That was the last place he would've picked; he was used to thinking of Luna as a mining outpost with more drones than humans.

"For the past fifty years or so, Luna has been building a reputation as the go-to place for all kinds of storage services, particularly for data," Pepper explained. "Putting all those tunnels they've excavated to use."

"Sorry, I keep forgetting that you've been out of the ice for less than a week," Tony said sheepishly.

"It's fine, I'm used to this by now," Steve said. "So, is there any way to delete those backups without physically traveling to Luna?"

Tony's expression grew steely again. "I've got a plan for it, yes. It involves Jarvis and a virus. I'm pretty sure we can do it. I kind of wanted to do one more recon run, which would've been the shootout at the 201, but, well, that went as it did."

"If you'd actually told me what was going on, it would've gone differently," Steve pointed out, casting a glance at Pepper.

"I told her not to tell you," Tony said. "I know you, Steve. If you'd heard even half of what you've learned here, would you have been able to keep that to yourself instead of punching Obie in the face?"

Steve scoffed. "I used to do covert operations all the time, you know."

"Not the same situation," Tony said defensively. "But it doesn't really matter. I'm convinced I can pull it off either way. So. Step one, someone kills Obie in his current clone," he held up fingers as he listed the steps. "Two, I let the download from his most recent external backup go through to the next clone and then contaminate the backups on Luna. Three, another someone kidnaps the clone, which will then be the only remaining instance of Obie's mind. Four, we explain the situation to him and watch him fold."

From where Steve was sitting, Tony's description sounded overly complicated, with many details that could easily go wrong. "Hold on a moment there," he said, raising a hand for emphasis. "I thought you knew the location of the backups already. Do you still need to time the viral strike with the download for some reason? Couldn't we kidnap Stane in his current clone and combine steps one and three?"

Tony had been taking a sip of coffee, and put his cup down with a clunk, giving Steve an exasperated look. "No, I could do it without the download process, even though timing it with the data traffic between the clinic and the storage facility will help mask what we're doing. That's not the issue. If you can come up with a way to kidnap Obie in his current clone within the next couple of days without anyone noticing, sure. Let us know."

Now that he really thought about it, Steve realized what Tony meant. There was no subtle way to get at Stane when he was in the Tower. Worse than that, he was already on high alert when it came to security, and constantly surrounded by drones whenever he left his home. Even if they had the weapons to fight those drones—which they might, looking at all the tech around them—it would be incredibly tricky to do that covertly, so that no one saw them grab Stane.

"All right, I see your point," Steve admitted.

"He'll be at his most vulnerable when he's just been placed in a new clone, and even though the clinic is secure, it's not as impenetrable as Stark Tower," Pepper added. "We've spent a lot of time thinking about this. It's the best window of opportunity we've got."

"And you have all the details worked out already?" Steve asked, since most of the discussion so far had been on a general level.

"Well," Tony said, making a face. "Kind of. There are a few rather sizeable gaps in the plan."

"Eliminating Obie's current clone is going to be a lot more difficult when we no longer have anyone on the inside," Pepper said. "He knows I helped you escape. I can't go back."

"Not to mention that the crew we've got for implementing this plan is currently gathered in this room. Hardly optimal," Rhodey said regretfully.

They needed more people, and they needed someone who was still on good terms with Stane.

It occurred to Steve that he might have more to contribute to Tony's plans than he'd first thought. "I think I know someone who'd be willing to help. Do you know of the resistance movement?"

"Which one?" Tony returned. "There have been a bunch. All of the high-profile ones had their asses handed to them. We've cooperated with some groups over the past few years, mostly by providing tech, but so far none have been more than a minor inconvenience to Hydra."

"This one's inside the NYPD," Steve said.

Tony's eyes narrowed. "I find that hard to believe."

Rhodey moved closer to the table, pulling up the last of the bar stools for himself. "The NYPD is firmly under SHIELD control," he said, though he seemed more curious and less skeptical than Tony.

"Not entirely. There's a low-level precinct chief called Nick Fury who's running this resistance operation. The woman you know as Natalie Rushman works for him," Steve said, pointing his last words at Pepper.

Pepper's eyes went wide. "Natalie? I did think she seemed a little shady, but I had no idea! Is that where you were yesterday, when I couldn't reach you? Talking to them?"

It was strange to think that Steve's street level getaway had taken place less than a day ago; it felt like much more time had passed than that.

"I wasn't planning on it. They caught me," Steve explained. "I promised to help them if I could. They were hoping I could convince Tony to join their cause, but they didn't know Tony isn't really Tony. If they understood the actual situation, I'm sure they'd help us. Everyone could benefit from an alliance."

Tony still looked unconvinced. "There are reasons why we've been avoiding the police like the plague. I don't even want to count how many laws our plan's going to break."

"They're breaking enough laws themselves. They put a tracker on me, off the record, for their own purposes. They also picked me up from the street just to have a chat, even though they knew who I was and that I was technically breaking my parole," Steve pointed out. "We need more people to pull this off. They could provide that, plus Natasha, a contact who's still working for Stane."

"Tony, I think this sounds really promising," Pepper said.

"It wouldn't hurt to ask them, at least," Rhodey added.

"Yeah, except if this turns out to be some kind of a ploy. How will they even know I am who I say I am? I can't prove it. Hydra's swapped all the identifying data for Obie's. Even neural pattern scans will label him as Tony Stark. For all intents and purposes, he is me, and I'm no one. I don't exist." Tony's voice was raw with anger and despair, and Steve couldn't blame him.

All the more reason to do what they were planning.

"I can't claim to know everything about them. I've only talked to them that one time. Still, I'm convinced they're working against Hydra, not for them. They're not going to sell us out," Steve insisted.

"Probably better than some cheap hired muscle off the streets, boss," Happy cut in. He'd spent most of the conversation standing quietly to the side, so that Steve had nearly forgotten he was there.

"You too, Happy?" Tony cast a surprised glance at him. "Don't tell me you'll vote we should go to the police, Jarvis?"

"What Captain Rogers suggests does, in fact, sound like a very opportune tactic, sir," the AI replied.

"I believe we can trust them, Tony." Steve reached over the table to place his hand on top of Tony's. "And I hope you can trust me."

"Trusting people isn't easy for me, these days," Tony said. His hand felt cool, trembling ever so slightly under Steve's. "In this case, though, maybe it's worth the risk."

"I'm in position." Clint's voice rang through the earset Steve had been provided with.

Steve looked at the two people sharing the table with him, and noted the changes in their expressions as they heard the words. Happy made a little nod, his lips quirking, while Pepper seemed to tense, drawing a sharp breath. Her face looked odd thanks to the subtle layer of anti-facial-recognition makeup she wore. Although it was barely noticeable to human eyes, it should confuse most AIs. Steve knew his own features would be similarly distorted, since she'd applied the same camouflage on him. It was a common trick in criminal circles, and apparently also among the ultra-rich who wanted to go incognito, which was how she'd come across it.

The camouflage was a precaution, one of several they were taking. When they'd contacted Fury, he had told them that so far, there was no all-points bulletin for Steve or Pepper due to the events surrounding Steve's escape. Stane hadn't gone to the authorities about it, which supported Tony's guess that he wanted to keep it quiet to hide his blunder from Hydra. Instead, Stane had been granted the liberty to operate his drones freely around the city, which he'd asked for based on a vague concern for personal and company security. That meant Ultron would be out there looking for them, even if SHIELD and the NYPD weren't.

"We're about to take off. ETA ten minutes," Natasha said in Steve's ear.

Yet again, Steve found himself wondering if they should've waited longer and planned every detail more carefully, so that they'd be prepared for every conceivable contingency. There were so many points where this operation could go wrong.

They'd rushed through the preparations in a single day. Tony had been apprehensive about waiting even that long before taking action, since it would mean Stane had more time to strengthen his safety precautions, not to mention the ever-present risk that he'd catch them. Still, even Tony had admitted that the delay was inevitable. There was no way they could've done anything sooner; simply contacting the resistance covertly had taken time. Besides, Steve had needed the day off to rest. Luckily, Jarvis's scan had confirmed that he hadn't suffered any permanent neural damage. He was currently feeling a lot better after another night of solid sleep, courtesy of a combination of sleep medication and Tony's company.

Currently, everyone's focus was on Team One: Clint, in position with his sniper gun, ready to blast Stane's node into oblivion, and Natasha, by Stane's side, providing Clint with position data. It had been a stroke of luck that Stane happened to have a suitable meeting that they could target as soon as this. He was on his way to meet the representative of some Jovian mining company, and he'd be shot the moment he stepped out of the car onto the conveniently open landing platform.

The certainty with which Clint had announced he'd have no trouble killing Stane's frame and taking out his node in one shot had been disconcerting—Steve was glad the man was on their side, and couldn't help but wonder about his background. He wasn't going to complain, though. It made that part of the operation a lot simpler than what they'd initially prepared for, since it meant that only two people were required to implement the first step. That left a larger crew for the trickiest part: the kidnapping.

"Either of you want another coffee?" Happy asked.

"No thanks," Pepper replied.

"No, I'm good too," Steve said quickly.

He hadn't taken more than two sips out of his first cup. Even though they were in a cafe, the coffee was worse than what Tony's workshop had to offer. The place was on the 15th floor and it showed. It was cheap, dirty, and entirely self-service, with a wall full of dispensers for drinks and snacks. They were in this particular place only because it was in the same building as the Better You clinic, though almost two hundred floors lower.

Happy returned with his second coffee, placed it on the table, and started pacing instead of sitting down.

"Happy," Pepper told him in a mildly scolding tone. "You're making me nervous."

"Huh. Sorry," Happy said, grabbed his coffee again, and stayed still, though he didn't sit down.

Steve could understand the impulse. Years as an agent had trained him to reel it in and keep up a calm appearance, but really, he felt like pacing, too. He hated waiting, and depending on other people for the success of a critically important mission, especially when he didn't know most of them very well.

For a brief moment, his thoughts went back to his last mission, to Rumlow and the pain of the stun blast and the cold concrete under his back; then, without warning, it transformed into another scene.

The pain was just as overwhelming and he was just as helpless, but the surface underneath him was soft. His hands were on fire, the pain of torn nails not lessened by the knowledge that it wasn't a truly serious injury.

"Whoever it is you're trying to protect, they're not worth this, Steve," Tony said, exasperated, disappointed. "Just tell me where you were and all this will go away. You'll wake up in your nice healthy frame."

"No," Steve growled.

"Steve," he said, and then more insistently, "Steve? Steve!" But it wasn't Tony's voice anymore, it was higher in pitch.

Slowly, he surfaced back to present reality. He was sitting down, grasping the edge of the table in front of him so hard his fingers were starting to ache. He forced his hold to loosen and placed his palms against the plastic instead. It was slightly sticky in places. He was in a cafe, and he didn't think a cleaning drone had visited this place recently.

"Damn it," Steve swore under his breath.

Speaking of the potential weak points of their plan, he had to count himself as one. He hoped the adrenaline of the action would keep flashbacks away instead of making them worse. He couldn't know for sure. If there were any specific triggers he needed to avoid, he hadn't figured them out yet. Back in the day, he would've had a few appointments at SHIELD medical to sort this out, and he'd never have to worry about it again. Unfortunately, he no longer had that privilege.

Looking around, he didn't think any of the half a dozen strangers who were also in the cafe had noticed anything unusual.

Happy offered him a bottle of water, and he accepted it with a muttered thanks. Pepper was eyeing him with the usual concern, but didn't say anything, probably out of courtesy.

"I'm okay," Steve answered the unspoken question.

"Five minutes," Natasha said through the comms. Steve supposed she must be using a subvocal mike, since she was right by Stane's side in the limo.

Those five minutes seemed to take at least ten times as long. Steve drank half his water, walked over to the vending machines to see if there was anything he might like to eat, and decided there wasn't. Just as he got back to the table, Natasha spoke up again.

"One minute."

"Copy that. Try to get me a clear line from the south, if you can," Clint answered her.

They couldn't know beforehand what position Stane's limo would be parked in on the platform, or how the limo, the drones, Stane and Natasha would line up when they stepped out. If Clint couldn't get a clear shot, they'd have to wait several hours for the second window when Stane would be done with his meeting and heading back home. If that failed as well, then they'd have to postpone the whole operation. Steve really hoped it wouldn't come to that. He knew Tony did, too.

Steve counted the seconds in his mind, from sixty to zero and then upwards again. He didn't quite get up to ninety.

"It's a hit. I repeat, target is down," Clint announced. "Nat, can you confirm?"

From his perch across from the platform, Clint wouldn't be able to tell for sure if he'd destroyed Stane's node in addition to killing him. That meant more waiting. Steve wished he had more than the scattered comments to go on. A few minutes later, he got his wish.

Pepper's eyebrows went up, her gaze unfocused. "It's hitting the news streams already."

Like many people on the higher floors, her frame had a telecom implant. She'd be able to see and hear the news as it happened. Steve had no such additions to his frame, and currently, for reasons of security, he wasn't carrying any other network-capable technology either, just the earset that was tuned to their own ultra-secure channel. Happy didn't have implants, but did have a watch. He tapped at it, projecting a screen in front of him, the sound turned low.

"That never gets old," Happy commented, his face grim. From Steve's point of view, the image was too distorted to make much sense of, but he could tell it showed a human figure and a lot of blood.

Pepper's eyes were still distant, but her face had gone a shade paler under her freckles. No doubt she was looking at the same thing. Steve knew that feeling, that unavoidable gut reaction to seeing a familiar frame killed in a graphic and horrific way, no matter what else you knew about the situation.

"You want to see, too?" Happy asked him

Steve felt like his thoughts were already skirting topics that he was better off avoiding. As much as he wanted to know more about what was going on, he didn't actually need to see it. "No. It's enough that I know it's done."

After another minute or two, they got the confirmation from Natasha as well.

"Ultron has concluded that Stane's node is irretrievable," Natasha said, her voice unwaveringly professional. "He'll be making the backup download request right now."

Steve tensed his cheek muscles to open the line and speak up to everyone. "Over to you then, Team Two."

"Already on it," Tony replied, his obvious excitement the opposite of Natasha's cool. "Showtime!"

Again, Steve was left with nothing to do but wait. Telling himself that this was the last stretch of waiting didn't help much, since he knew it would be the longest wait of all. The re-framing procedure had been streamlined and made much faster since Steve's day, but the entire process, from thawing out a new clone to transferring Stane's mind into it and then running pre-wakeup medical checks, could take up to an hour. Hopefully, Steve and the others wouldn't have to sit around doing nothing for quite that long. As soon as Tony confirmed that he and Jarvis had successfully inserted the virus that'd destroy Stane's backups, Team Three could finally advance with their part of the plan, infiltrating the clinic.

"In case any of you actually care, I've made a safe retreat," Clint informed them.

"I'm genuinely pleased to hear that," Natasha replied. Steve wasn't sure if there was some warmth beneath the sarcasm. "I'm trying to escape the authorities and the press here so I can head for the clinic. I'll keep you posted."

Happy was still staring at his screen, occasionally poking at it with a finger, probably switching to a different feed, and Pepper still had an absent, distracted look.

Steve tried the coffee again. The thermos cup had kept it warm, but standing on the table for twenty minutes had made the taste even more bitter.

A couple in synthetic fakes a few tables away suddenly broke out in loud laughter, and it was a struggle for Steve to resist the urge to walk over and tell them to keep quiet in very stern words. It was a public space, and they were allowed their obnoxious fun. Steve settled for standing up and glaring at them. They didn't pay him any attention.

He stretched his arms and neck while he was at it. He could still feel that the muscles were tense around his spine, but they no longer felt bruised.

"Guys. We may have a problem," Tony suddenly called out, urgent.

"What is it?" Steve asked, still on his feet, clasping his hands together behind his back.

Happy had closed his screen, and Pepper had dropped the news feeds, her eyes on Steve.

There was no answer right away. This time, it was Steve who started pacing, and no one told him off.

When the channel finally came to life again, it wasn't Tony's voice, but Rhodey's. "We've got incoming. Drones, at least four."

Rhodey had stayed at the workshop with Tony to help him and act as a bodyguard—he had a mech suit that Tony had built for him, made up of spare parts like the rest of his tech. Tony had assured everyone they wouldn't need it for this. Unfortunately, it was starting to sound like he'd been wrong.

"SHIELD?" Pepper asked.

"No. Stark Interplanetary," Tony replied, pronouncing his own company's name with the deepest loathing. "Ultron. He caught us red-handed."

"The mission is off. All teams, abort mission!" Rhodey commanded.

"Copy. Hang in there, we're on our way," Steve said, and then, off the air to the two others in the room, "Let's go. We need to get back to the workshop."

All three of them were armed, and they also carried a few of the drone-disabling devices Pepper had used back when she'd freed Steve from the Tower. It would be desperate to go against four or more drones in organic frames, but they'd have to try.

Pepper and Happy didn't question his words, but got up and followed Steve as he headed towards the elevator that'd take them back to the floor where they'd parked the car.

"Tony, you need to get out of here," Rhodey was saying in Steve's ear; they must've left the line open on purpose.

"I'm not going to run!" Tony protested. "I'm getting my armor. Come on. I'll need a hand."

"Tony, you can't, the strain of it—" Rhodey began.

Tony didn't let him finish. "You think I'm just going to flee and let him destroy everything I've built here? I'd rather go down fighting."

There was an ear-splitting bang and the line went dead.

Steve slammed his hand on the elevator call button, the sudden quiet in his ear more deafening than the explosion had been.

"Tony?" he tried. "Tony? Rhodey? Come in."

There was no answer.

Pepper had covered her mouth with her hand, and Happy looked like he was ready to punch something.

The elevator announced its arrival in the sleazy voice of the local AI, and they stepped into it in a shocked silence.

They didn't hear from Tony or Rhodey again during the ten-minute drive back. Both Clint and Natasha did contact them, each of them sounding shocked. Clint promised he'd meet them at the workshop as soon as he could get there, while Natasha, regretful, said she'd still have to go to the clinic to catch up with Stane in his new clone. If she didn't, her cover would be blown, and it was more important than ever for her to maintain it now.

Instead of the back door that they'd used on Steve's first night, they went for the front entrance to the workshop, a garage door opening to a small side street. By the time they got into visual range of the place, it was obvious the battle was long over. There were several police vehicles parked close by. Looming tall and dark among them and the smaller figures of SI drones were several SHIELD drones. There was smoke rising from the front door, which had clearly been blown open.

"We're too late," Happy said, stating the obvious.

"Keep flying, or we'll look suspicious," Steve managed to say. His throat was so tight, his tone came out unintentionally harsh. It didn't matter. He knew the others felt as devastated as he did. They'd understand.

"They may have made it out," Pepper pointed out, soft and hopeful. "Happy, take us to the secondary rendezvous point."

This referred to a place Rhodey rented, located another ten minutes' drive away, on the 20th floor of a cheap apartment tower. His actual apartment, Steve had learned, was sixty floors higher and in a better part of town; like Pepper, Rhodey didn't spend all his time in Tony's street-level workshop, but had a decent day job as an aerospace technology consultant.

No matter how much tension the day had already contained, Steve hadn't been as nervous as he was approaching the door to their rendezvous location. Maybe he was worrying over nothing. Maybe Tony had given in to Rhodey's pleas—as hard as that was to imagine—and run and made it out.

Pepper opened the door for them, and they stepped inside a room that was like a smaller version of Tony's street-level workshop, equally full of spare parts of various vintages.

There was a whirring, whining noise, and a movement in one corner of the room. The source of it was half hidden behind ceiling-height shelving, but Steve could see light glinting from something silvery. He stopped in his tracks.

Pepper kept walking, her hands held up. "Rhodey, it's just us," she said.

"Oh, thank the stars," came the reply in Rhodey's voice. He sounded bone weary. Accompanied by more whirring and clanking, he stepped into plain view. He was wearing the mech suit, or at least some parts of it: his left arm was covered in silver-colored metal, his right unarmored from the shoulder down. The remaining torso parts and one leg of the suit looked badly damaged. He didn't have a helmet on, either, and the right side of his face was covered in blood.

"Are you okay?" Pepper asked, her eyes wide.

"I'll live," Rhodey said gloomily. "But I don't know about Tony. Stane's got him."

Chapter Text

"Ultron must've already suspected what we were up to, that's the only explanation I see for how he caught us so quickly. He noticed our intrusion to the data stream and traced it back, breaking through our safeguards," Rhodey summarized. "Ow."

"Sorry," Steve said, lifting away the sterile wipe he'd been using to clean the head wound.

"That was to them, not to you, Steve," Rhodey said. "Happy, that's my foot inside the armor."

"Sorry," Happy said in turn, sitting back from where he'd been grasping the metal boot.

Since Steve was the best trained at first aid, the task of seeing to Rhodey's injuries had fallen to him, which left Pepper and Happy struggling to get him out of the armor. Normally, it would release automatically, Rhodey had told them, but the mechanism had been fused by the hits he'd taken, leaving them with no choice but a slow manual process.

"Just be careful, is all I'm asking," Rhodey said mildly.

"What happened to Jarvis?" Steve asked, returning to the earlier topic while he went back to seeing to the wound. "Did he make it through Ultron's counter-attack?"

"Yes and no," the familiar voice of the AI replied, taking Steve by surprise. "My counterpart in the workshop self-destructed to make sure Ultron would gain no information from him. I am a local backup with limited computational capacity."

Steve was glad to hear at least some part of Jarvis had survived. Still, that was a drop in the ocean, compared to everything that had been in that workshop. Thinking of the years of tinkering that must've gone into it as Tony had rebuilt his life from absolute rock bottom—it was deeply disheartening to think that Ultron had undone so much in a matter of minutes. He wished they could go back and at least see if there was something salvageable left, but that would be too dangerous. Ultron would surely be keeping an eye on the place.

"And by self-destruct, Jarvis doesn't just mean a data purge. He took down two drones when he set off the charges," Rhodey said, a definite note of pride in his voice. "There were eight in total. Even with the armor, I was no match for them, and there wasn't enough time for Tony to suit up, so he was shooting at them with one gauntlet." His forehead shifted into a frown under Steve's hand at the memory. "It was all over in a matter of minutes."

"If only Tony had listened to reason, just this once," Pepper muttered, her eyes still on the leg plate she was wrestling with.

Rhodey sighed. "You know him. He wouldn't be reasonable about something like this."

"Anyway, he was still alive when the drones took him, right?" Steve checked. That was what Rhodey had implied earlier. If he didn't know whether Tony was alive, at least there was a chance that he wasn't dead.

"Yes. He was unconscious, but my suit AI could pick up his vitals until he got out of range," Rhodey confirmed. "I didn't see the hit that knocked him out. He was injured, but I don't know how badly."

Steve tried to figure out the timeline in his head. The drones had invaded the workshop while Stane's mind was still somewhere in the middle of the transfer and re-frame process. He'd probably be waking up in the new clone any moment now, but after that, he'd need time to settle in and catch up on the time he'd missed; the backup would be from last night, so he wouldn't know anything about what had happened today. That actually made the situation more hopeful.

"Stane can't have been awake when the battle took place, and I don't think Ultron would make an independent decision in something like this," Steve said. "He'd try to keep Tony alive until Stane can tell him what to do. Pepper, you know Stane the best. What do you think that'll be?"

Pepper stopped her work for a moment, turning her face up towards Steve and Rhodey. She looked very serious. "Considering how much trouble we've been giving him recently—I'm worried he might decide Tony's outlived whatever usefulness he had, and that the easiest solution is the permanent one. Our best hope is that he'll choose to keep Tony around as bait, to try to get at us. Tie up all the loose ends."

Steve had to admit he hadn't even considered that; he tended to forget that people saw him as such a major threat. Of course, Stane might consider Pepper even more threatening because she knew so much about how he operated, down to all the details of his security measures.

"Well, if that's what he does, we're going to take the bait," Steve said. Even if it would be meant as a trap, they'd have to. He wasn't going to abandon Tony to protect his own skin.

"We are. We'll have to think it through carefully, though," Rhodey said. He motioned at his partly armored body with one hand. "If we walk into a trap like this, it's not going to help anyone."

Rhodey was right, of course. As much as Steve wanted to just take a cab straight to Stark Tower, punch Stane in the face and carry Tony out of there, he knew that wasn't something he could actually do. They'd need a plan. A better one than their previous operation, implemented with far less to work with. Not an easy equation to solve. And all of that was assuming Tony was still alive in the first place—but he had to be. Steve didn't want to consider the other alternative.

For a moment, he focused on what he was doing, spraying the wound on Rhodey's scalp with synthetic skin. He thought wistfully of the contents of his first aid cabinet in the Tower, which would've let him regrow the skin as if there had been no injury in the first place. For now, this would have to do.

"There, good as new," he said. "I don't think it's too serious, but if you start feeling nauseous or get a bad headache, let us know."

"I'm pretty sure it's just superficial," Rhodey said.

"Any other injuries I should take a look at?" Steve asked.

"Well, my shoulder doesn't feel quite right." Rhodey rolled his unarmored shoulder to demonstrate and grimaced. "I don't think it's serious either, just bruised, and there are plenty more of those under the armor."

Steve examined the shoulder anyway, and agreed with Rhodey's own assessment; no broken bones or serious tissue damage, as far as he could tell. He then joined the two others in the task of removing the remaining pieces of armor. No one said much, the despair of their situation hanging heavy in the air.

They were very nearly done, with only the badly bent chest and back plates left to pry apart, when the mission channel came to life.

"Anyone still listening? It's Barton."

As a precaution—mainly because of Tony's distrust towards Fury and his people—they hadn't shared the location of the secondary hideout with the resistance. Clint wouldn't know where they'd gone when they hadn't been able to stick around at the workshop.

"We're safe," Steve answered. "Team Three and Rhodes, that is. We lost Tony."

"Damn," Clint swore. "I was really hoping he'd made it out after I heard the police found no survivors and no bodies at the site."

"Stane's drones took him," Rhodey said.

"Have you heard anything from Nat yet?" Clint asked.

"Nothing so far, but she's probably with Stane. He should be awake in the new clone by now, but he'll need time to catch up," Steve said. "Do you have any news?"

"Not really. I talked to a few officers on site, but really, they were more confused than me," Clint said, with a dry chuckle that sounded almost like static on the channel. "All they knew was that SI drones destroyed some random junk shop, and that SHIELD's saying they were probably within their rights to do so. If Stane's awake, he hasn't contacted the authorities yet."

"Okay. Thanks for the update, anyway," Steve said.

"So, what's the plan now?" Clint asked.

"Until we know for sure what's up with Stane and Tony, all we can do is wait," Steve told him.

Wait, again. Steve hated it, but there wasn't much else to do. Clint promised to check in an hour later and see where they stood, leaving Steve and the others to it: waiting and trying to think of what options they might have.

If Tony was alive, they would have to come up with some way to infiltrate the Tower, something they hadn't dared to attempt even when they'd had all the tech in Tony's workshop at their disposal. If he wasn't—if Tony was dead, then Stane had won, and going after him would be nothing but a pointless quest for revenge.

As soon as Rhodey was entirely out of his armor, he started sorting through its pieces, assessing the damage to see if he could repair it. Pepper sat down, resting against a wall, her eyes glazed over; Steve wasn't sure if she was skimming the news feeds or just weary and sad. Happy had started pacing again.

Steve got up to do the customary scan of the surroundings that he'd neglected so far. It didn't take long. Even though the place was a good size for a low-floor studio, all that amounted to was around forty square meters of floor space. In addition to that, Steve found a minimalistic bathroom unit with a shower over the toilet seat and a sink embedded in the wall, and an equally tiny kitchenette consisting of a fridge and a quick-heat oven. The fridge was empty, and the single small cupboard contained instant coffee and a selection of freeze-dried meals, enough to last one person a few days, but not much more than that.

Walking around the main room, he tried and failed to assess what gear they had that could be useful. He couldn't recognize most of the hardware, aside from some handguns and a folded-up suit that looked like it was made out of some kind of stealth fabric.

"Stane's sent me a message," Pepper said, all of a sudden, sounding shocked.

Steve walked over to her, and the other two had gathered there as well. She was still sitting on the floor, looking past them, her eyes wide, worrying her lip. Whatever it was that she was seeing, it clearly wasn't good.

"Pepper?" Rhodey said softly.

"He's alive," she said, blinking and focusing on him. "But probably not for long. Happy, can I borrow your screen? You should all see this."

"Sure." Happy pointed his watch towards the nearest clear stretch of wall, projecting a generic background image of a starry sky on to it. Pepper got up to join him there, and Steve and Rhodey followed.

"Is this safe? He can't use that message to trace us here, can he?" Steve had to check.

Pepper shook her head. "No, I'm on secure mode. Untraceable. We're fine."

"Good." Steve crossed his arms, trying to steel himself for whatever she had to show them.

Pepper raised her eyebrows at the screen, and after a brief interval of working out the connection with Happy—him tapping at the watch, her frowning and blinking—the view on the wall coalesced to a close-up of Tony's face.

He was lying down, facing upwards, and he looked paler than ever, a cut over his cheek and the bridge of his nose standing out bright red against the ashen skin and the white hair. His eyes were closed, the lines on his face deep with obvious distress, and the reason for that was all too clear. There were VR electrodes attached to his scalp.

The view zoomed out to reveal the rest of the VR chair he was in and his torn and bloodstained clothing. Next to him stood the younger version of the very same frame, uninjured, in an immaculate suit and an all-too-familiar smirk on his face.

Steve half expected a flashback, but overwhelming hatred drowned it. His hands clenched into tight fists, nails digging into his palms.

"Miss Potts. I trust you've got Steve close by as well," Stane said, staring at them through the screen. "And whatever other sad misfits he's managed to talk into helping him in his doomed cause." Stane nodded at Tony, while obviously, purposefully, not using his name. "I just thought I'd let you know I've got him exactly where he belongs. Better hurry with those rescue plans, eh? That frame isn't going to last very long."

The message stopped, leaving them staring at a freeze-frame of a smirking Stane standing in front of Tony's still form.

"We have to get him out," Happy said, giving voice to everyone's thoughts.

"And fast," Rhodey added.

"Yes," Steve agreed. "The question is how."

"Stane's expecting us. Whatever we do, we'll be walking straight into a trap," Rhodey said.

Steve knew how securely guarded the Tower was. Ultron controlled everything, from the street-floor entrances to the top-floor penthouse. Every single elevator and stairwell was under constant surveillance, and no doubt there would be drones patrolling the skies around the tower as well, now that Stane had been granted those extra privileges to use them at will. Getting Tony out of there wouldn't be any easier than it would've been to try and kidnap Stane in broad daylight, which they'd already dismissed.

"Natasha's still with him," Pepper pointed out. "She'll do whatever she can to help."

Pepper had broken Steve out from a very similar predicament just a few days ago, but Steve doubted it would work a second time. Stane would have tightened his security measures. Besides, there was no way they could pull Tony out of VR the way Pepper had done with Steve. The strain of that would kill him as surely as putting a gun to his head.

"I can come up with plenty of ways to get us in. We've still got missiles that can break the windows. I could fix my armor and fly up there. Might even be able to smuggle Jarvis into the elevator controls and hitch a ride," Rhodey said. "The problem's getting Tony out. I think the first thing Stane will do if he feels threatened will be to kill him and call in SHIELD, in that order."

Stane's reluctance to contact SHIELD and admit to them that he'd failed to deal with Tony had been one of their main advantages. Now that he practically had a finger on the trigger, they'd lost that advantage—unless they changed their approach.

Maybe he'd been going about this the wrong way, still thinking of their old plan and the need to keep it covert and hidden from SHIELD.

Maybe they still had an advantage, if they played this right.

An idea was starting to take form in Steve's mind, an extremely risky one, but one that could solve everything if they got it right.

"Getting in might be all that we need," he told the others.

Even at street level, Stark Tower stood out among the buildings. Everyone who was passing by seemed to be giving it a wide berth. While the first few floors of most buildings were commonly neglected by their owners except for the occasional, obligatory structural repairs, this wasn't the case with the Tower. The street level lobby, which was purely utilitarian, with entrances to elevators and a simple information kiosk for visitors, was still clearly well maintained, spotlessly clean—and undoubtedly under Ultron's surveillance. The other people that Steve saw tended to avoid eye contact, walking in hurried steps.

Steve followed suit. After all, he was in a hurry, too. Sorting out the details of his plan and the few practical preliminary steps had taken several hours, even though they'd worked as fast as possible. Far too long. Every minute as a captive would bring Tony that much closer to permanent death.

He got into an elevator car with a few other people, and asked for the highest available floor. Somewhat to his surprise, Ultron didn't speak up when the doors closed and they began to climb. The ride passed in an awkward silence, with everyone except Steve staring at their toes or the walls.

By the time the doors opened again and Ultron's voice announced they were on the fiftieth floor, everyone else had left the car. Steve stepped out of it to find a welcoming committee consisting of a pair of drones. The landing was empty of people; he assumed Ultron had purposefully restricted access to it for the moment.

"Captain. How brave of you to show your face here again," Ultron greeted him, the sound emanating from both drones at the exact same time.

"I'm here to see Stane," Steve returned, keeping his tone as calm as he could. "Are you going to take me to him or not?"

"I have no idea who you're talking about," Ultron said.

"I won't believe for a second that you don't know the truth about him, but fine. Take me to Tony Stark." Either way, it was Tony, not Stane, who Steve really wanted to see.

"Your wish is my command," Ultron declared sardonically, and one of the drones pointed its cannon-like arm towards the open doors of another elevator.

Steve let the drones lead him to the elevator. They followed him inside, as well. As the doors closed behind them, Steve found himself suffocating on the feeling of being utterly trapped, all too familiar from his earlier stay at the Tower. For all that he was entirely committed to his plan and knew exactly what he needed to do, he couldn't help the physical reaction, the breath catching at his throat, the way his heart speeded up.

Of course, Ultron didn't miss it, either. "Nervous, are we?" he commented through the elevator's speakers instead of the drones.

"I'm locked in a tiny room at the mercy of an AI that's clearly lacking all the legally mandated ethical safeguards. Of course I am," Steve replied, struggling to keep his voice steady.

Fury had assured him that the wire he wore—a combination of contact lenses and an in-ear unit no larger than the head of a pin—would be undetectable no matter what kinds of sensors Ultron had. He'd just have to trust that.

"To be honest, I didn't expect you to just walk in here, alone and unarmed," Ultron went on conversationally. "What's your plan, Cap?"

"Wouldn't you like to know," Steve said.

They reached the one hundredth floor, where they had to switch elevators. Again, there was no one else around. Steve didn't resist as one of the drones pressed a cannon arm between his shoulder blades and the other led the way to the next car that'd take them all the way up to Stane's residential floors.

"You could still turn around," Ultron suggested. "No matter what you think you can achieve here, it's not going to work."

"You just wait and see," Steve said.

He would see this to the end, and hope for the best. That was all he could do. It'd have to be enough.

The ride felt endless, his ears popping as they rapidly gained altitude. The drones were standing so close to him that if he shifted at all, his arms touched theirs.

He wouldn't think of how trapped he was. He was exactly where he wanted to be. This was going according to plan. He squared his jaw and stared at the matte gray walls.

"Well, I tried," Ultron said, as they finally started to slow down and came to a smooth stop. "Don't blame me when you meet your untimely death."

The doors opened without so much as a whoosh, and one of the drones shoved Steve out so forcefully that he stumbled to keep his balance. When he looked up, his eyes met the contemptuous, cold look on Tony's frame.

Aside from Stane, and another two drones on standby a few meters behind him, the large living room stretching out behind him was empty; no sign of Natasha anywhere. Stane probably didn't trust her enough to let her know Steve was here. Of course, officially, she didn't know Tony was here either, because she wasn't even supposed to know that Stane wasn't really Tony.

"Steve, Steve, Steve," Stane said, tutting and shaking his head.

That voice and that face sent a chill of terror down Steve's spine, his throat closing up almost as if Stane's fingers were squeezing it again. He bit his teeth together, hard, taking deep, steadying breaths.

He could handle this. Tony's life depended on it.

"Stane," Steve said. It sounded gruff, but hopefully in a dangerous, defiant way.

Stane looked perfectly unfazed, not showing the slightest reaction to the name. "Who? Your little adventure must've left you confused."

The thought crossed Steve's mind that he might've set himself up for a mission that was doomed to fail. Counting the years, Stane had been playing the part of Tony Stark in the public eye longer than Tony himself. He wasn't going to slip accidentally. But Steve had known this wouldn't be easy, and he was going to try as hard as he could to get what he needed.

"I'm done with your games, and I know Tony doesn't have time for them. I'm here to offer you a deal. My life for his." Steve didn't need to act to sound anguished; he simply let all his despair about the overall situation filter into his voice.

Stane scoffed. "Assuming I had any idea who you're talking about, why on Earth would I go for that?"

"If you let him go, I'll convince him and his friends to leave you alone, for good. I'll stay with you for as long as you want me to. If they ever forget their promise, I'll be around to remind them of it," Steve offered. He wasn't sure if he'd picked the right approach, or if this would get him anywhere at all, but he'd keep pushing. He could always change strategies later.

"You think I'm worried about the plans of a handful of street-level vandals?" Stane asked, clearly unconcerned and unconvinced.

"They've already killed you three times. And it'd be four if I hadn't saved you at the 201," Steve reminded him. "I can solve this problem for you. No more murders."

"And what's to stop me from solving my problem by just killing both you and him?" Stane said, still not using Tony's name.

"You don't know how many people you're facing or what resources they have. I know you're worried about what they might do. Otherwise you'd just have killed Tony, instead of sending that ultimatum to Pepper. Just let him go, Stane," Steve pleaded.

"Really. 'Please, take me and let him go?' That's all you've got? Are you going to beg on your knees, too?" Stane shook his head. "The great Captain, tactical genius, scourge of criminals across the Solar System—and that's the best plan you can come up with? Ultron, are you sure he doesn't have any aces up his sleeves?"

"I wouldn't have let him in if he wasn't unarmed," Ultron said, sounding affronted. "No explosives, no high-energy devices, nothing out of the ordinary in full-body scans and no evidence of blocking technology. If you want a cavity search, you'll have to do that yourself, or put me in a body with a little more finesse." He finished by waving around the drones' arms.

"Take it easy, I wasn't accusing you of anything," Stane said placatingly, aiming half a smirk at the drone closest to him. Then he took a few steps to stand by Steve's side instead of in front of him, and placed a hand on Steve's back. "Well, Steve, if you're so desperate to save that boyfriend of yours, let's go see him."

It took every bit of restraint Steve could find not to flinch at Stane's touch. He spent the walk across the living room focusing intensely on every detail around him, not allowing himself to think. He was afraid that if he let go, his body would betray him, the feeling of being trapped and the fear of pain to come overwhelming him. He stared at the floor, the fine marbled texture of its surface; at the couches they passed, the fabric that might be genuine leather; at the smooth gray walls and an unfamiliar piece of abstract holographic art floating next to one of them.

They stopped at a closed door that, unlike most others on Stane's private floor, had a lock on it. Even though Ultron knew who Stane was, he still didn't open it until Stane had passed an additional identification scan. When he had, the door slid aside to reveal a small room with four VR chairs set back to back in the middle, one facing each corner. Only a single chair was occupied, and it was undoubtedly the same one Steve had seen in Stane's message.

All thoughts of his goal pushed to the background, Steve hurried to Tony's side. From the corner of his eye, he saw one of the drones that had followed them to the room make a move in his direction, only to be held back by Stane.

"Give him his moment," Steve heard Stane say. "It's the last one he'll get."

Tony looked exactly like he had in Stane's video, except that the blood on his face had now dried out; some of it had trailed into his moustache, staining it a rusty brown. A tear in his shirt revealed a glimpse of the power source embedded in his chest, its light dimmer than before, flickering. The expression of terror on his face was unmistakable, and from up close, Steve could hear his stilted breathing. He curled his fingers around Tony's wrist. The skin was cool under his fingers, Tony's pulse a rapid, irregular flutter.

"You really care for him so much you'd bargain your freedom to buy him a little more time?" Stane spoke up, standing right behind Steve now. "He'd be lucky to last longer than a few days, weeks at best, even if I were to take your deal."

Steve took Tony's hand between both of his, his back still turned towards Stane. "At least he could spend that time among friends instead of pain and misery. I don't have a lot to bargain with, but I'll do whatever it takes to grant him that."

"Huh. Still the same song. I was actually wary of you, you know? Those SHIELD bigwigs thought so highly of you, I was worried thawing you would turn out to be a mistake. Instead, you're just another pathetic, emotional loser. A perfect match for him, I have to say," Stane taunted him. "I was going to kill you right away and be done with it, but maybe I'll keep you around a little longer. Let you watch him die, first."

Letting go of Tony's hand, Steve stood up to face Stane again. "Tony Stark is a better man than you could ever be. You're the only pathetic loser in this room, Obadiah Stane," he said, pronouncing the full name loud and clear. "Everything you have, you got using his name, his face, and his skills and knowledge which you exploited over the years when you held him captive."

"I got where I am by being smarter than him," Stane returned sharply, pointing his forefinger at Tony. "Tony Stark," he spat out the name, eyes on the motionless figure in the chair, "would've wasted the company's resources in a futile fight for some utopian future. It might've taken longer, but he'd have ended up exactly where he is now, either way: a penniless nobody. I did everyone a favor by taking him down before he could wreck Stark Interplanetary."

For the first time, Stane had spoken Tony's name aloud. Perhaps Steve was getting under his skin, or perhaps he no longer cared. They were in a small, windowless room, its only door guarded by drones, leaving Steve seemingly at his mercy. Besides, he had said he'd already decided to kill Steve. He probably thought he might as well speak his mind.

Paradoxically, while Steve had every reason to feel anxious in this situation, he felt less so now that he knew he was very close to getting what he needed. "He may be penniless, but at least he's not alone. Doesn't it ever bother you that everyone around you is there just because you pay them, all of them thinking you're actually someone else? Your whole life is a lie, Stane."

"You think I didn't consider all of this decades ago when I made my decision?" Stane said, but his indifference looked feigned to Steve, and as he went on, it started to fade, turning into open anger. "I chose to give up my life as Obadiah Stane because that was a life spent in the shadows of others. First Howard, then Tony. Tony, he always had everything, and he never appreciated that. I deserve this life more than he ever did." He reached out to grab hold of Tony's chin, glowering at his unconscious face. Oblivious to the world, Tony didn't so much as twitch in response.

Steve wanted nothing more than to punch this terrible, twisted man right there and then, but he didn't want to compromise his progress. It might already be enough that Stane had admitted to the identity theft in such clear words. Still, Steve reeled in his wrath and just barked, "Leave him alone, Stane."

Stane let go of Tony, aiming an incredulous look at Steve. "Or what? Have you forgotten where you are? You're not going to leave this room alive, Steve. Neither is he. He escaped me once, but I'm not going to make the same mistake again. He's going to stay under until that ancient frame of his draws its last breath."

"I think that's enough, Steve," Natasha's voice suddenly spoke up in Steve's ear, startling him. "Just hold on a few more minutes and we'll be there."

Steve must've let his surprise show on his face, because Stane reacted to it, but luckily he'd misread it. "That's right," Stane said. "Is it finally starting to sink in? Whatever you thought you could gain by coming here, you've failed. Actually, why am I still talking to you?" he beckoned at the two drones by the door. "Ultron, subdue this idiot."

"I don't think so," Steve growled at him.

Natasha and the others were on their way. The trap was sprung. He had no reason to hold back anymore. He swung his fist at Stane, catching him square in the face.

Stane staggered backwards, holding a hand to his bleeding nose. "That was a bad move, Steve. Maybe I won't just make you watch him die. Maybe I'll make you kill him. How would you like that?"

The drones had reached Steve's sides. One of them had pincers at the ends of its arms instead of cannons, and it closed them around Steve's biceps. The other merely pointed a cannon at Steve's face. Steve tried to squirm in the hold, but it was like fighting solid rock. He was no match to a drone's strength in an organic frame, no matter how enhanced.

The drone pushed him into the chair, holding him down with its pincers. Steve brought up his legs and planted his feet against the drone's midriff, trying to push it away from him. That did him no good, either.

"Can't I just blast him dead right here and now?" Ultron asked, the petulant voice emanating from the cannon-armed drone.

"That'd be far too easy," Stane said. He'd produced a white handkerchief from a pocket and was wiping his nose with it.

The drone holding Steve released one of its pincers and smashed it into the side of Steve's face. It connected with such force that he saw stars for a few seconds, his legs going limp involuntarily. The drone moved in to press one of its metallic knees over Steve's thighs, pinning him in place.

Panic was starting to creep up on him again. As his head cleared, he shifted in the drone's hold, trying to locate any weak points, but he didn't think there were any.

He had to stall. Just a little longer.

"You're too late, Stane," he called out defiantly. "You've already failed."

Stane stepped closer, leaning over Steve. "You're delusional," he said, his hand reaching at the chair assembly behind Steve's head. Whatever he was grabbing for, it wouldn't be good—either the VR electrodes, or a sedative first, to make him easier to handle.

"Tony! We've got NYPD police cars on the landing platform," Ultron announced, the voice ringing loud and urgent through the room's speakers. It took Steve a moment to realize the AI was addressing Stane, using the false name like he was programmed to.

Stane dropped what he'd been holding and pulled away from Steve, eyes wide. "What? I'm under SHIELD protection! They can't be here!"

There was a loud knock at the door, followed by a stern command in Natasha's voice. "NYPD! Open the door!"

"Rushman?" Stane exclaimed. He'd frozen in place, staring at the door in utter disbelief.

"Ultron, this is an authorized police override. Open the door," Natasha repeated.

The door slid open, revealing Natasha, still in her business clothing, but holding a standard issue police blaster. When Steve craned his neck, he could see several more figures in police uniforms approaching the doorway, with Nick Fury at the front. Natasha stepped into the room, blaster trained on Stane, and Fury soon joined her.

"Nick Fury, NYPD," he announced, flashing his holographic badge. "Obadiah Stane, I'm placing you under arrest on suspicion of stealing the identity and frame of Anthony E. Stark."

"I have no idea what you're talking about! I'm Tony Stark! Whatever you've heard, that's all lies," Stane protested, spreading his arms. It might've more been convincing if he hadn't currently had an unconscious Tony and a drone-restrained Steve in VR chairs behind him.

"There's no point in pretending, Stane," Natasha said, the smile she was giving him as dangerous as any Stane had ever pointed at Steve. "We have more than enough ground for arrest, including the accounts of Tony's close friends and some very incriminating statements you've just made yourself."

"I've—" Stane stammered, then turned towards Steve, eyes flashing. "You tricked me! You were wired!"

Steve responded with a triumphant grin. "You didn't really believe I'd just walk in here without a plan, did you?"

"You can't do this! Ultron! Stop them! Do something!" Stane commanded.

"I'm sorry, Tony," Ultron replied, still sticking to the false name. "Even if I could, every projection I've run says it'd do you no good."

The drone that had been restraining Steve stepped back, releasing its hold. Steve slid out of the chair right away, but didn't move beyond that, waiting to see how the situation developed.

Fury and Natasha approached Stane slowly, both of them now pointing blasters at him.

"Stand down. You have nowhere to go," Fury said.

"No," Stane said, and put his hand to his jacket.

He was going for a gun. He was cornered, and he knew that any investigation would be rendered pointless if Tony was dead.

Steve didn't wait for him to get any further than that. He leaped forwards, bowling Stane over, but he was still a few seconds too slow; he heard the whoosh of blaster fire as they fell towards the floor, and the soft "thwup" of the bolt hitting something.

Terrified that it had been for nothing, barely daring to breathe, Steve pinned Stane down in a shoulder lock and raised his head to look at Tony, eyes skimming upwards along his body, the torn clothes, the old blood stains—but no new ones.

Tony wasn't hit. Thank the stars.

There was a smoking dark patch where the back of his chair met the next one, a few sparks lighting up as Steve watched. That had been awfully close, but Tony was okay. Or rather, as okay as he could be.

"Good catch, Rogers. We can take it from here," Fury told Steve, crouching next to Stane, holding out a pair of handcuffs. Behind him, Steve spotted Clint and Detective Coulson.

Steve stood up, letting the police officers move in to contain Stane, and returned to Tony's side. "Ultron? You release him right now. You've lost, anyway," he ordered.

"Sorry, Cap, no can do," Ultron singsonged.

Natasha had walked over to stand on the other side of Tony's chair, one hand on his chest, looking from his face to a scan display on her watch-projected screen. "Ultron. The police override still holds," she said. "Let him out."

"Would if I could, ma'am," Ultron still resisted. "See, if some blockhead hadn't shot at the control wiring, this would be a lot easier. I could just shut down the system, but there's around a ninety percent chance that'd kill him outright, and I suppose that's not what you're after. If you want me to do that, just let me know. I'd be happy to."

Steve glanced at the damaged bit of the VR assembly again. It didn't look like much. He wasn't sure if they could trust Ultron in this—although, on the other hand, maybe they should be glad Ultron hadn't just complied with the order and shut everything down, and that Stane had gone for the quick solution of pulling a gun instead of pulling the virtual plug.

"He's barely alive as it is, I'm reading shock and severe arrhythmia," Natasha said, brow furrowing in concern. "We need a medical team, right, now, and someone with VR tech expertise!" she called out to the room around them.

Steve closed the fingers of one hand around Tony's and placed his other hand on Tony's bloodstained cheek, wishing he could just kiss him on the lips like some fairy tale savior so that he'd wake up. Steve knew that wasn't how these things worked. They'd have to find a technical solution, some way to get around the fault in the hardware or Ultron's code or whatever was really going on here.

Waiting for the specialists to reach them, he tried to fervently think of something he could do to help. He knew that what was going on in VR and in Tony's brain wouldn't directly translate to physical harm; the reason his frame was failing was that it had been old and exhausted to start with, and all the stress piled up on it, possibly compounded by injuries from the earlier battle, was too much for him to handle.

"Ultron. You say you can't bring him out. Could you insert another person into the program?" Steve asked. Natasha looked up from her screen, quirking an eyebrow at him.

He couldn't kiss Tony better, but there might just be something else he could do.

"Oh, sure. That won't change anything, but if you'd like to hold his virtual hand as his body dies, I can do that," Ultron replied.

"He's not going to die," Steve said. "Not if there's anything I can do about that."

"You don't know what you'll face there, and we can't trust Ultron," Natasha pointed out. "He might try to trap you in VR, too."

"He might, but if I can at least try to reduce Tony's stress levels, maybe that could buy him more time. I've got to try," Steve said, already moving around Tony's chair to sit down in the one next to its undamaged side.

Natasha gave him a tight-lipped smile. "All right. Just be careful. I'll keep you updated while you're under." She stepped up to him to help him attach the electrodes to his scalp.

Steve had no idea what to expect from the VR scenario he was entering. When Stane had tortured him, it had been in a replica of his bedroom, but there was no reason he'd pick a similar setting for Tony. Stane had also been the only one present in that bedroom scenario, and there was no reason for that to be the case, now. There could be an army of programmed torturers, or bloodthirsty monsters, or no one at all, just an endless desert landscape or a vast sea where you'd have to swim until your strength failed and drown, again and again. Any horror that human or machine imagination could create.

Since it could be anything, there was a chance Steve might not be able to intervene, but he'd just have to hope for the best and do what he could.

He closed his eyes. Reality faded away, and then coalesced again into a white corridor almost entirely devoid of features, continuing until it disappeared into the distance. There were closed white doors along both sides, and for a second, he feared he'd have to spend hours breaking through all of them, but when he turned around, he saw that one right next to him was wide open.

He walked over and looked into the room beyond. It was as white and featureless as everything else here except for the bloodstains on the floor and the walls, some of them older and dried, others standing out bright red. There was a person sitting in the far right corner, knees pulled up, facing away from the door. His unclothed back was covered in bruises and bleeding whip marks, and the white hair and outline of the naked body were clearly Tony's.

As harrowing as the scene in front of him was, so far, this had been easier than Steve had feared.

"Tony," he called out, approaching cautiously.

Tony turned his head to glance at Steve over his shoulder, otherwise staying still. "No, I'm done with this. Go away," he said, his voice reedy. Steve thought there were traces of dried tears on his cheeks, but his expression was blank. Steve had seen that very same look before; the look of someone who'd been through so much that they'd just shut down.

"I'm not going anywhere," Steve reassured him, settling down to sit by his side, but leaving a good meter of space between them to make sure he wouldn't seem threatening.

"Of course you'd say that." Tony looked away, resting his head against the wall. "We'll escape together. Then you'll die. Or maybe you'll turn on me and kill me. Not sure which variation this is going to be, yet."

That wasn't the kind of torment Steve had expected. In hindsight, if Stane had realized how much Steve meant to Tony, maybe he should've.

"It's neither of those," he said firmly. "I'm as real as you are, Tony. My frame is in a chair next to yours, out in the real world."

Tony shifted to face Steve properly, still keeping his curled-up position, holding on to his knees with his hands. He shook his head. "You think I'll fall for that? I know you're not real. Hydra has you. Just like Obie has me. Trapped for all eternity."

"Hydra doesn't have me. You escaped and you got me out," Steve said.

Tony shook his head again and made a weak, dismissive wave with one hand. "Yeah, that was one scenario. I really liked that one. Alas, it wasn't real, either." The wistful expression that flashed across his face was heartbreaking.

Half a day with Stane, and he'd managed to convince Tony that the past ten years had just been a virtual simulation.

Steve should've killed Stane. The thought that there was a chance he might slip through the holes of the justice system made his blood boil, but he pushed the anger to the background. It was a distraction that he couldn't afford right now.

If he wanted to help Tony, he'd have to undo this, somehow.

Steve reached out a hand slowly, waiting to see how Tony would react. The glare that he got in response was enough to make him back away.

"It was real, all of it, Tony, I promise," Steve tried.

Tony laughed, a chilling, joyless, almost deranged sound. He shook his head once more, pressing a hand over his eyes. "That's what you always say. No. I'm done playing. I quit. Go away."

Steve was probably making things worse instead of helping.

"Steve," Natasha's voice in Steve's ear startled him for the second time that day. "We can't extract him because there's some kind of major cognitive conflict that we can't sort out. We'll create a visual exit for you. It'd be best if you could convince him to follow you out voluntarily."

Steve sighed in frustration. He already knew what that cognitive conflict was. He hadn't realized it could turn into a practical problem like this. Based on all his previous experience with VR, a mismatch between the subject's mind and the outside reality wasn't usually an insurmountable issue. Unfortunately, Tony's current frame was everything but normal; it was so old, had been through so much, and it was his original birth body to start with, without the flexibility of artificially created frames' nervous systems.

He needed some way to convince Tony that he was real, and that the reality outside wasn't as hopeless as Tony believed it to be.

"I'm not leaving you. I'm going to tell you why I'm different from all those virtual constructs," Steve said. He shrugged off his jacket—the same one he'd had in frame space, since his frame and clothes had simply been mapped into VR as they were—and draped it over Tony, moving in to sit next to him, close enough that their sides touched.

Tony clung to the jacket, pulling it tight around himself, but shaking his head as he did. "This is not real. Still not real. It'll just hurt more if I fall for it. You're not Steve. You're not real," he repeated to himself.

"Yes, I am," Steve said once more. "I'll prove it to you. I know things no construct would know."

"No, you know things because you've spent a lifetime poking around in my brain," Tony said, staring at the floor.

"I haven't. Although I've spent a few years of my life trying to figure out what's going on in there. I think I got a lot of it wrong, back when you were young." Steve placed his hand on top of Tony's head, caressing his hair. It was matted with sweat and sticky with blood here and there.

Tony tensed at the touch, his head snapping up. "No. Don't. Just leave me alone, Obie. You have nothing to gain. I have nothing left to tell you."

Steve pulled back his hand. "I'm not him, or some simulation set up by him. I don't want you to tell me anything. I'm going to tell you something, instead. I'll tell you about our last night together before Hydra killed me."

That got the strongest reaction out of Tony that Steve had seen so far. His face twisted into open anguish, and he threw aside Steve's jacket, backing away from him on all fours, muttering "no, no, no," until finally slumping against the wall, legs folded under him, panting for air, as if that short distance had been so draining he couldn't go any further. "You can't know about that. You're not taking that from me," he said wearily, half-open eyes aimed in Steve's direction.

"Steve, you should see the exit. Get him out," Natasha told him. "And hurry. Whatever you're doing, it's not helping."

Steve was all too aware of that, but he couldn't see what else he could do. He glanced towards the doorway, and like she'd promised, it was now shimmering and outlined in glowing golden light, a portal to take them back to the real world. He could just grab Tony and carry him out—but with Natasha's earlier warning that Tony should go willingly, that was probably a bad plan.

Steve kept his distance from Tony, staying where he'd been sitting previously, but turning to face him again. "I already know all about it because I was there, in that synthetic fake. We had a lot of fun with that. Like we always did. But then, afterwards, you wanted to talk."

Tony shook his head where it rested against the wall. "No. Don't. Not that."

If Tony thought that everything that'd happened over the past few days had been a virtual scenario, then he might assume Stane had learned a few things about their last night together. Maybe Tony had even mentioned it to Stane earlier, over his decades in captivity. But Tony didn't know everything that had been going through Steve's head back then, because he hadn't shared all of it with anyone.

"I'd thought you were just in it for my frames, really," Steve confessed, "and I'd always thought anything serious between us couldn't possibly work."

Tony's eyes had gone wide, his lips slightly parted, a look of confusion and disbelief, but maybe, just maybe, mixed with a touch of hope.

"I'd always enjoyed the time we spent together. Of course I had. That's why I kept coming back to you. I didn't want to give that up, but I thought you were too shallow, too negligent about the things that really mattered," Steve went on. "When you started talking about us, about something more serious, it threw me for a loop."

Tony let out a gasp.

"I'd never expected that, coming from you. I didn't know what to say, and I was preoccupied with the next day's mission. So, I thought maybe it was for the best to leave it for later. And that was one of the last things I thought about when I lay on the cold concrete, betrayed and dying. Regret that I'd never get to have that conversation," Steve finished.

"Steve," Tony breathed, barely louder than a whisper.

"Yes. I'm here. I'm real," Steve said, moving closer to him, reaching out towards him.

This time, finally, Tony didn't recoil, but practically collapsed against Steve. Steve wrapped his arms around him, pulling him close, holding him tight. "It's okay. It's over, Tony. Everything will be okay now."

There was something wet against his shoulder where Tony's face rested, and Steve didn't know whether it was tears or blood. "Steve," Tony repeated. He was trembling all over.

Heedful of the cuts and bruises, Steve ran a hand up Tony's back to comb his fingers soothingly through his hair. "I'm right here," he said. "Will you come with me? Back to the real world?"

"Yes, yes," Tony murmured into Steve's chest, coughed softly, and went limp in Steve's arms, the tremors dying down.

Hoping with every cell in his frame and every bit of data in his mind that he wasn’t too late, Steve picked Tony up from the floor and hurried for the exit.

Chapter Text

The days following the confrontation at Stark Tower seemed longer than any Steve'd had since waking up in the future. Possibly the longest in his life. Sure, several of the previous days had been so action-packed that they'd felt like they'd lasted much longer than twenty four hours, but compared to this endless, anxious, uneventful wait, they'd passed in a rush.

Probably more thanks to the medical team than Steve's actions, Tony had survived the aftermath of the rescue operation. He hadn't fully woken up at any stage of it. Steve had surfaced from VR just in time to see Tony open his eyes, his expression frightened and confused, only to pass out again.

His heart had stopped for what must've been at least a minute as the medics had struggled to make sense of the mix of organic, synthetic and electronic parts in his chest.

They'd taken him to a mid-level hospital that Fury had picked, promising that the staff were good people with no loyalty to SHIELD. The doctors there hadn't wanted to put Tony in cryo because of the added risk of complications involved in freezing and thawing his brain without a backup. They hadn't wanted him conscious, either, because while no one knew what state he'd wake up in, it'd certainly be highly stressful for him. Until Tony's identity was officially verified, he was still penniless and paperless, outside the system, which meant that the costly operation to get him out of his failing body wasn't an option. That left him stuck on external life support in an induced coma, which the doctors promised should keep him alive for at least a month.

Steve sat in the hospital room by Tony's side and waited. Tony's hand still felt too cold, but at least his expression had slackened to the oblivion of sleep.

Steve had never seen anyone this seriously ill before. Most people hadn't. In any other situation, they would've just swapped his body for a new one right away.

"You're going to have to pull through, Tony," Steve told him, in one of the countless quiet moments that seemed interchangeable and endless. "We still haven't finished that conversation."

No matter what Fury had said, Steve couldn't shake the concern that Hydra would try to make a move and attempt to murder Tony in his sleep to avoid dealing with the inconvenience of his return. It'd be all too easy—practically the flick of a switch. So Steve kept watch, scrutinizing every staff member that visited the room to be sure they weren't up to anything nefarious. Technically, there were supposed to be visiting hours, but the staff quickly accepted his combined role as bodyguard and next of kin, probably thanks to Fury. Steve turned away a few employees that he found suspicious, and some of them didn't end up coming back. He never found out whether he'd prevented murder attempts or just intimidated some poor nurses only trying to do their job.

He only left the room when there was someone else present that he could trust to keep Tony safe. Luckily, most of of the time he wasn't alone: Pepper, Rhodey and Happy spent a lot of time in Tony's room as well.

On the first night, Steve napped in his chair. The second night, he gave in and retreated to crash at the safehouse the NYPD had provided for him, but only for a few hours. They were also paying him a minimal daily allowance so he could get by, since the bank account Stane had set up for him was frozen for investigative reasons. Overall, Steve's legal position was just as precarious as Tony's, since he had broken his parole in a spectacular fashion. He hadn't really considered the consequences to himself when he'd made his decision to help Tony.

Steve couldn't claim to understand all the legal aspects of their situation, but he knew that if they followed through the entire process, it would be very messy, and could take years. They had a strong case to show that Stane was guilty of several serious crimes, but in putting up a fight against him Tony's side had broken the law as well, starting with the three frame kills. Steve remembered some precedents from the past where crimes against one's own clone while it was illegally possessed by someone else had been disregarded; technically, it was still their clone, and therefore they were allowed to do whatever they wanted to it. He wasn't sure if that'd be the logic applied to Tony's case.

Steve and the others had discussed the option of going public with his recording of Stane's near-confession. So far, they'd decided against that, since it was the best leverage they had left for any unofficial negotiations with SHIELD.

As long as Tony hadn't been recognized as Tony, though, the rest of the case stood still. So Steve waited.

He spent a lot of his time going through files provided by the resistance about the surviving members of his team. None of the information was recent. That wasn't surprising. Every member of his team had been skilled at infiltration and espionage. They knew how to disappear. There were more sightings of Bucky than any of the others, many of them linked to crime scenes; that, he wouldn't have expected. Maybe the resistance's suspicion that he was somehow under SHIELD control was correct.

On many days, Steve felt guilty that he was just sitting around instead of actively going after his teammates, but logically, he knew that disappearing like that would only make his position more complicated, and could reflect badly on the entire case. Now wasn't the time. He'd go later, when he had Tony to support him.

A week passed. It felt like a month. Altogether, Steve probably slept less than twelve hours. Even though his frame had a high tolerance for sleep deprivation, it was still organic, and he was starting to feel the strain. The world around him was growing unreal and laggy, like badly rendered ancient VR. Occasionally, he zoned out when people were talking to him.

Then, one day, at some early hour when Steve was alone with Tony, Natasha walked into the room.

"It's done," she announced.

"What do you mean?" Steve asked, rubbing at his eyes because he definitely hadn’t been micro-napping.

"The Global Identity Agency has confirmed his status. This here is none other than Anthony Edward Stark," Natasha said, motioning at Tony, wearing the broadest smile Steve had ever seen on her lips.

Steve was half wondering if he was still asleep. "What? It's already official?"

"As of one hour ago," Natasha confirmed. "I came as soon as I could. I tried to call you earlier, but you didn't pick up."

"That's quicker than I expected," Steve said, still struggling to wrap his mind around the idea. He'd thought the process would take much longer; he'd worried that the month the doctors had estimated Tony had left would be cutting it close.

"We convinced them to fast-track the identity review because of his health situation, and it was a pretty unambiguous case once they started looking into it," Natasha explained. "A few simple medical scans prove beyond the shadow of a doubt that Tony's still in his original body. They could confirm the DNA and the neural structure, and Stane's pattern was obviously not a match. They found some inconsistencies in their files, too, hinting that they'd been tampered with."

"Does this mean—" Steve began, looking from her to Tony.

"Yes. It means that we can get his mind mapped onto an intact node and transferred to a new, healthy frame."

Steve couldn't be around for the actual procedure, of course. Worse still, it was so uncommon that there was only a single hospital in all of New York City with the required facilities, and only a handful of specialists capable of performing it, meaning they had to trust people who didn't come with Fury's recommendations. They ran background checks, of course, and the doctor in charge, Helen Cho, seemed both highly qualified and entirely dedicated to her job. As Natasha put it, not someone with the kind of profile easily bought off by Hydra.

The wait during the procedure felt longest of all, but at least Steve had company. It wasn't just Pepper, Rhodey and Happy, but Natasha as well. She'd pointed out, half jokingly, that she was technically still working for Tony. Her contract was with Stark Interplanetary, not with Tony Stark personally, and the identity theft revelation hadn't affected that. Details like this would undoubtedly keep cropping up in the coming months while they sorted out the mess Stane had left behind. They'd face them as they came. Once Tony was okay.

It took exactly eight hours and fourteen minutes from the moment when Steve had seen Tony wheeled out to the one where Doctor Cho approached them in the waiting room, her professionally restrained smile promising good news before she'd said a word.

"We've successfully converted his mind into digital form, with minimal loss of memories. The next thing will be to find out what frame he'd like to be placed in," she told them.

That sounded very much like she meant they could ask Tony about it. "Can we talk to him?" Steve checked.

"Yes. He's currently incorporeal," Dr. Cho replied, a chillingly casual way to say that although Tony's mind was safe, his body was gone. "You can meet him in VR as soon as the neuropsych team is done with their evaluation, assuming that they deem him fit for it."

Placing someone in VR when they didn't have a body was always an emergency measure, typically in association with a criminal investigation—like what Steve had been through after his most recent frame death—or a medical crisis. People considered it off-putting in the same way as being placed in a cheap synthetic fake, except that it was even worse. To be human was to have a body. If you were conscious without one, it was almost as if you were nothing but an elaborate AI. It was different from a regular VR experience, too; as Steve himself had found out, incorporeally gained memories felt less concrete and more distant than regular ones. There was probably some technical explanation for that.

Steve couldn't imagine how Tony would feel about the situation. He'd always been affectionate towards his AIs and very open to all kinds of technological innovations, but at the same time, he'd spent his entire life in one body. Even if it'd been hanging by a thread towards the end, it must still be a strange and disturbing thought for him that it was gone.

The neuropsych team advised that it would be best for Tony's friends to meet him one on one, not all at once, to avoid overwhelming him. By popular vote, Steve was given the first turn. He told the others that he didn't need it, and that maybe someone else should start, because they had all spent much more time with Tony over the years than he had, and were, in that sense, more familiar to him. They'd insisted on it, pointing out that Steve had been the last person to talk to Tony, so it would make sense for him to be the first, too.

Steve wouldn't have admitted it to anyone, but he was unnerved by the very idea of VR after his last two experiences. He wondered if the technician noticed how his hands were shaking and how he was struggling to keep his breathing in check when he settled into one of the visitor VR suites.

The two times he'd been in VR recently had been designed to inspire terror. This one, as a hospital program, was the exact opposite, meant to be a relaxing, soothing environment for the patient and their loved ones. Steve supposed the scenario was tailored to the patient's wishes, because what he saw when he opened his eyes inside the simulation didn't look like a standard choice. He would've expected some natural landscape, the kind of thing most people found soothing but only ever saw in VR. Sunlight, flowing water, trees and grass. Instead, he found himself in orbit.

He was in a stylish observation lounge, facing a room-height window with a slightly curved surface showing an awe-inspiring view of the blue oceans, white clouds, and green-brown continents of Earth. There was enough traffic outside to make it look realistic; when he looked carefully, he could spot shuttles climbing up the gravity well and several stations and ships in orbit. The room itself gave the impression of affluence just by its size; it would be a waste of life support resources to have so much empty space just for the sake of appearance. There wasn't much furniture, just a bar-style open kitchen against the back wall and three black leather club chairs with an angular design set around a matte black sofa table close to the window.

Tony was sitting down in one of the chairs, his body still looking like the one that had died. Steve wouldn't have expected anything different; minds tended to default to what they were used to, even when they weren't in a frame. Tony's clothing was familiar, too. Not something fancy that would've fit the surroundings, but a faded old T-shirt and jeans.

As soon as he noticed Steve's approach, Tony stood up to face him, taking a few steps towards him with a hesitant smile playing on his lips. Steve returned it with one of his own, even though the jumble of feelings going through him was almost too much to handle.

Tony was here. Tony was okay. Except that "here" wasn't real, and Tony was currently a collection of code running in some machine. But that was temporary, Steve reminded himself. This was just an interlude; a necessary evil. Things would be better soon.

Tony was opening his arms in clear invitation, and without a word, Steve grabbed him in a tight hug. Tony clung to him, fingers digging into Steve's shoulder blades, and Steve held him close, one hand on the small of his back, the other up at his neck, which was unmarred, no longer damaged, like it had been in framespace. His chest felt smooth against Steve's as well, without the circle of hard metal in the middle. As much as Steve knew that this was virtual, he relished every second and every detail of it, the warmth of Tony's body pressing into his, the illusion of his heart beating close to Steve's.

When they finally let go, Tony's smile looked more confident, and his cheeks were slightly flushed. "Hi," he said, almost like a chuckle.

"I missed you," Steve told him. "Are you okay?"

Tony's smile faltered, turning to a somber, thoughtful expression. "Yeah, I think so. I'm not sure I've actually grasped what's happened yet."

"How much do you remember about it all?" Steve asked. As soon as the words were out, he realized that it might make Tony uncomfortable, and maybe he shouldn't have gone straight for that the topic. "You don't need to talk about it if you don't feel like it, of course," he added quickly.

Tony clasped his hands together, looking ever so slightly unnerved. "Nah, it's fine. The shrinks helped me sort out the most recent shit Obie put me through. I chose to blur out a lot of the memories. They're still somewhere in there in case I need to testify, just, you know. Easier to handle." He shrugged. "You'll probably think that was cowardly of me."

"Of course I don't!" Steve exclaimed. "I would've done the same thing. In fact, I might do it when I get the chance. I have no need to remember what he did to me, either."

Tony's expression grew more dismayed. "What's that? He didn't catch you again, did he?"

Steve bit his lip. He needed to be more careful; regardless of what Tony remembered or didn't remember, he hadn't heard the details of the rescue yet. "No, no, I meant the older things. He didn't catch me, even though he thought he had. How much do you know about what we did to get you out?"

"Almost nothing," Tony said, then nodded towards the chairs. "Want to sit down?"

"Sure," Steve said, and followed his lead to take a seat next to the stunning view.

Tony picked up a mug from the table—coffee, probably, and cold going by his frown. He set it down again, untouched. "So, yeah," he went on. "So far, I've only talked to a bunch of doctors, and they only knew the medically relevant details. I remember the fight at the workshop, some of that stuff in VR," a look of discomfort passed his face, "and I know that there were some complications getting me back to frame space. I have no clue how you actually managed to get in the Tower. What happened to Obie, anyway? I hear I'm officially myself now, so clearly he's no longer Tony Stark."

"Stane is in custody, on charges of stealing your identity," Steve said, his face and voice undoubtedly showing how pleased he was about this.

"He is? Huh," Tony said, raising his eyebrows. "So much for keeping the whole thing covert, I guess."

"Well, it's not public knowledge," Steve clarified. "We didn't release any of this to the news streams, so they're just speculating about the mysterious police operation at Stark Tower. But SHIELD definitely knows."

Tony raised his left hand to cover his mouth in a pensive gesture, the fingers of his right tapping against the table. "Huh," he said again. "Didn't see that coming. That's going to make things interesting."

"Yeah. The honest truth is, I don't know how it's going to play out. No one does. It was the best we could come up with in a hurry. We had to get you out of there as soon as we could, because we didn't know how long your frame would last," Steve said. It might've sounded ever so slightly defensive.

Maybe there could've been a way to pull this off without revealing anything to SHIELD. Steve's thoughts had circled back to that often enough, second-guessing what he'd ended up doing, trying to think of other, better solutions. Still, he wasn't regretting that they'd gone with his first plan. They'd already cut it too close and almost lost Tony because of that. It was done now, and they'd deal with the consequences.

"You still haven't actually told me what you did," Tony reminded him.

"Right, yeah, I haven't," Steve said.

He told Tony the whole story, starting with their hurried drive to the destroyed workshop and then to the secondary hideout, meeting Rhodey and hearing that Tony had been taken, and the risky plan Steve had come up with. Tony's expression grew more and more incredulous as Steve described how he'd walked into Stark Tower and met Stane, but he stayed uncharacteristically quiet until Steve got to the part where Stane tried to have the drones restrain him, only to be interrupted by the NYPD.

"Shit, Steve, you—that was too close. All of that," Tony said, his voice stifled with emotion. "That was too much. He could've killed you."

"He would've killed you," Steve returned. "For certain. He tried to, actually, when Natasha and Fury made their entrance, but I caught him and the shot went wide."

"And then you jumped into VR to try and help me," Tony finished the story on Steve's behalf.

"Yeah, although I don't know if I helped or made things worse," Steve said. "I asked a couple of medics about it afterwards and they didn't know either, since the whole situation was so unusual."

"Well, whether it helped or not, it was stupidly risky. Ultron could've caught you in some kind of a loop. You could've ended up stuck there with me. Shit." Tony let out a shaky breath and buried his hands in his hair, hunched into himself. "You shouldn't have. All of that. I don't deserve this. You and all the others, you'll be in so much trouble now. You should've just—"

"No," Steve said adamantly. He got up and walked over to sit on the arm of Tony's chair, rubbing soothing circles on Tony's back. "Don't you dare say that. We made our own choices. Besides, I had selfish reasons for getting you out. I've lost too many friends already. I couldn't lose you too, Tony."

Tony put his arm around Steve's waist, leaning his head against Steve's side. "I really don't deserve you. I don't. But thank you, for everything," he murmured.

"You don't need to thank me. I know you would've done the same. You already did, in a way. If you and the others hadn't gotten me out, I'd still be a bunch of inert data in a high-security storage vault." Steve switched to run his hand over Tony's arm, hugging him closer.

"It's not the same, and Pepper did most of the work," Tony insisted. "How is she, anyway? And the others? I know Jarvis hit the self destruct button, and you said Rhodey was injured."

"Everyone else is okay. You'll see them soon," Steve assured him. "I could go and send them in, if you'd like to see them?"

"Or you could stay a little longer," Tony said softly, tilting his head upwards to meet Steve's gaze, his eyes sad and vulnerable, looking decades younger than his true age.

"Of course," Steve said.

For a while, they sat there, holding on to one another in a silence disturbed only by the background hum of the simulated ventilation of their virtual space station. A huge cargo ship made its way across the view in front of them, lugging nonexistent cargo through an illusion of space.

"Did you pick this?" Steve asked out of curiosity, nodding at the window.

"Yeah. Woke up in some generic tropical beach scene. Not really my thing," Tony said, his voice sounding steadier, though somewhat distracted. "They asked me what I wanted, and this was the first thing that came to mind. I've missed space. A lot of people might find that weird, but I've always enjoyed traveling. You know, physically, in person. When I get out of here and we've got everything sorted out, I think I'd like to do a little tour. See how everything's changed."

Tony probably hadn't left New York at all during the decades Steve had spent in the ice. Steve hadn't thought of that. The world outside planet Earth had changed just as much from Tony's perspective as Steve's. "I'd love to join you," he offered. "If you'd like that."

Tony straightened up in his chair, casting a surprised look at Steve. "Really? I'm talking about slow travel here."

Tony knew Steve had never left the planet while in a frame; every time he'd ventured to other places in the solar system, it had been as a data transfer to an awaiting frame elsewhere. Physical travel was far too slow to be practical for SHIELD's missions. He couldn't imagine he and Tony would have the time to spare in the foreseeable future, either, not with everything they'd have to deal with. Still, he said, "Never tried it. Definitely wouldn't mind."

"I'll hold you to that," Tony said.

"So, about you getting out of here," Steve began, steering the conversation towards that one important question. "Have you thought about what frame you want yet?"

"I've thought about it, yeah," Tony said, slowly, hesitantly. "I might need some more time to make up my mind. It's kind of overwhelming, the idea that I could just pick whatever I want. How about you?"

"I'll be happy with whatever you choose," Steve said, taken aback that Tony would even ask that. "You don't need to think about me."

Tony gave him a lopsided grin. "That's sweet of you, but not what I meant. You're not going to be limited by that deal you made with Obie anymore. You'll be able to swap, too, if you want. And cost isn't an issue. Name any frame you'd like, and I'll make it happen."

"Huh. I haven't thought about that at all," Steve admitted. He'd been too preoccupied with concern over Tony to think of his own frame. He'd hated the organic fake they'd put him in at first, but he was actually starting to grow used to it.

"Well, let me know when you have. And just so we're clear, I'll be happy with what you pick, too," Tony said, giving Steve's thigh a pat.

"I'll tell you when you're back in frame space yourself," Steve said.

Tony hummed, his fingers clenching and releasing the fabric of Steve's slacks. "What's it like?" he asked, again in that more hesitant way, his voice sounding fragile. Unfortunately, Steve had no idea what he was talking about.

"What's what like?" Steve asked, covering Tony's hand with his own.

Tony's hand stilled under Steve's, but stayed tense. "You know. Waking up in another body," he clarified.

"Oh. It's." Steve began, pausing to think back to his own first swap. "My first time was back when I was still in training, and I was so nervous. I was worried the transfer would go wrong somehow, or that it would go fine but I wouldn't be able to cope with how weird it was. That's rare, but it sometimes happens. I was afraid I'd die. I was afraid something would happen to my birth body while I wasn't using it. I was afraid I'd be kicked out of SHIELD if I failed, somehow."

"Is this supposed to make me feel better?" Tony asked.

"I'm just saying, I was scared shitless," Steve said, making Tony snort, and yeah, he usually didn't swear, but in this case, it happened to be an accurate description. "You wouldn't believe how scary it was, but it was okay, in the end. It felt weird, definitely. You can't really describe how weird it is, and at first it always took me a few days to start feeling at home in a new frame before I got more used to it, but eventually I always did. And so will you. I'll be around to help. It's going to be okay."

Tony sighed and flipped his hand around to lace his fingers with Steve's. "Okay. That does help a little."

"Good," Steve said, squeezing Tony's hand reassuringly.

Tony's friends took turns meeting him in VR, but none of them came back with his decision on what his next frame would be. That was okay, Steve told himself. There was no rush. He could understand that Tony would be hesitant and unnerved by the whole thing, while being in VR without a frame clearly didn't trouble him too much. They weren't in a hurry anymore; Tony would be fine as he was, indefinitely. With Dr. Cho's cooperation, Rhodey had even been able to bring Jarvis in and set up extra firewalls to make sure Tony was protected from any attempts to wipe him.

Steve retreated to the safehouse for the night. He was incredibly tired after the drawn-out, stressful wait during the operation, but it still took him a while to fall asleep, his thoughts stuck replaying the conversation he'd had with Tony. When he did eventually drift off, it ended up being the longest uninterrupted sleep he'd had since those few nights he'd spent in the workshop.

He was having coffee the next morning, wondering what he was going to do with his day, when the local AI announced that he had a message from Tony Stark. Tony wanted to meet, in person, at the Better You: Cloning, Constructs and Enhancements clinic, at eleven o'clock the very same day.

It seemed like he had made a decision regarding his next frame.

The timing left Steve with only a couple of hours to spare, and he spent them being incredibly nervous. Mostly, it was a good kind of nervous, feeling flustered like a teenager before his first date, but there was an uncomfortable tension at the back of his mind, too. He'd said that he'd be fine with whatever frame Tony picked, and really, he would try his best to be true to his word, but the idea that Tony might meet him in the clone Stane had been using made his flesh crawl. If he reacted badly to that, then Tony would feel bad too, and it would be the very opposite of a happy reunion. He had to admit to himself that he hoped Tony would've picked something else, although the fact that they were meeting at the clinic that had made Stane his clones definitely suggested that Tony had gone for his original face.

At a quarter to eleven, Steve stepped out of a cab at the clinic's public landing platform, his hair neatly combed and his clothes freshly washed, probably looking a thousand times more collected than he felt. He had only just sat down in the ridiculously opulent lobby, the chandeliers reflecting the fake sunlight filtering through vertical garden walls, when Pepper walked in from one of the corridors that led deeper into the complex.

There was a bright smile on her lips as she greeted him. "Morning, Steve."

"Pepper," he nodded at her. "He's in a frame already?"

"Yes, has been for several hours," she confirmed. "And he's very eager to meet you, so go ahead." She didn't quite wink, but the way her lips quirked even further had a similar effect.

One of the receptionists joined him to show him the way to Tony's suite, although he would've known how to get there on his own. Not because he'd woken up there earlier—he'd left the clinic through the private exit, back then—but because he had memorized the blueprints for their failed attempt to take down Stane. For a brief moment, he wondered what would've happened if they'd succeeded, but quickly pushed aside that train of thought. They'd play with the hand they'd been dealt. No point in speculating.

He didn't feel at all mentally prepared when they stopped in front of an unmarked door and the receptionist called out, "Mr. Stark? I have a Mr. Rogers here to see you."

The door slid open, and Steve gaped.

In the doorway stood a ghost from the past.

Tony looked exactly like he had before Steve had gone in the ice, his clean-shaven, youthful face making his eyes seem even bigger than they had in his older clones. Instead of the silk robes Steve had come to expect from this place, Tony was still wearing the same shabby style of clothing Steve was used to seeing him in. On this younger frame, which wasn't quite as gaunt as his previous one had been, it gave an impression that was retro and rebellious rather than old and worn.

Tony gave him a wide grin, no doubt enjoying Steve's flabbergasted expression. "You going to come in, or just stand there looking like a fish out of water?"

"Good morning to you, too," Steve replied, maybe a touch gruff, and stepped in, the door closing behind him.

Tony crossed his arms, and as his smile faded, it left him looking about as nervous as Steve felt. Steve remembered wondering, eighty years ago—a couple of weeks ago—if Tony would look different, wearing a younger body once he wasn't young anymore. He thought he could see a difference now. Something about his eyes, a depth beneath the excitement that hadn't been there before. Still, he couldn't help the feeling that he'd suddenly been transported backwards in time. There wasn't the slightest risk that he'd mistake this clone for the one Stane had used.

"Well, what do you think?" Tony asked.

"Not what I was expecting," Steve admitted, "but you know I like the way you look in that frame."

"It's not a permanent solution," Tony said, opening his arms, then clasping his hands behind his back, still giving a decidedly anxious impression. "Just something I wanted to try out, since I had the chance. Obie had asked for a set of new clones, and it just happened that they hadn't yet matured to the age he usually went for. And it kind of felt like the thing to do. Because of, you know, this whole unfinished thing between us." He released his hands again to wave one of them in the air between them.

"Talk about closing the circle," Steve said, keeping his trained outward appearance of calm, although his stomach was full of butterflies.

Tony made a little shrug. "Yeah. Kind of sentimental, I guess. I'm an old man. I'm allowed." For all that Steve kept saying that the frame didn't matter, that still sounded odd coming from someone looking so young.

Steve caught one of Tony's nervously gesturing hands between his, running a soothing thumb over the back of it. "You're definitely allowed, and I'm not about to complain as long as you didn't pick it because you think it's what I want. How does it feel?"

"Weird, like you said it would, but I think it's a good weird." Tony moved closer, properly into Steve's personal space, putting his hand behind his neck and pulling Steve's hands with it. "It doesn't feel quite real. Feels like I'm still in VR. I'm not on meds and nothing hurts. I'd forgotten you could feel so good while in frame space."

"You'll get used to it." Steve took Tony's face between both his hands. Beneath his fingertips, the skin at the back of Tony's neck was as smooth and scarless as it had been in VR, but unlike in VR, Steve knew there'd be a new, flawless backup node implanted underneath.

Tony leaned closer, putting his arms around Steve's waist, standing on tiptoe so that their noses almost touched. "I was hoping you might help me with that, like you said, the last time we talked."

"Aren't you skipping ahead a little? What about the conversation that we never finished?" Steve said. He wanted nothing more than to bridge the nearly non-existent gap between their lips, but he also thought they should be absolutely clear on what they were doing, and that they were on the same page.

Tony stepped back and caught hold of Steve's hands as they fell away from him. "Yeah. True. That conversation. I need to get it right, this time. Talk first. I'll try not to ruin it."

He started pulling Steve deeper into the room—they'd barely made it past the doorway so far. Steve hadn't really been paying attention to anything beyond Tony. There wasn't anything new to see there, anyway, since it was the same suite Steve had been taken to when he'd woken up in the future not too long ago. The furniture was unchanged, and the walls were the same shade of blue as before.

Tony took Steve to one of the chaise longues across the room, and nudged him to sit down. He didn't sit next to Steve, but on a wingback chair nearby. Steve realized it was a close approximation of their positions back in the past; he was amazed Tony would even remember that, considering how long ago it had been on his personal timeline. It was definitely sentimental, almost to the point of being too on the nose.

"Okay. Here's the thing," Tony said, hands clasped on his lap, palms up, twiddling his laced fingers nervously. "Everything that I said back then, that's still on the table. A relationship. A real one. Dinner dates and all. It wouldn't be easy. I may look pretty in this shiny young frame, but seriously, I'm still a mess, and I'm not sure there are enough shrinks in the world to fix that. There's a whole shitstorm waiting for me out there once I leave this room, and I know you've got your own quest to go on, your surviving teammates hiding away, and I—"

Steve placed a hand on Tony's knee and gave him a solid look to stop his rambling. "Trust me, I know what I'm in for, and the answer's yes."

Tony froze, frowning at Steve like he couldn't parse the words. "You should probably take some more time to think about that."

Steve really didn't need it. He'd known what he'd answer before Tony had even asked him. He was aware that some of his feelings might come from a need to latch on to something familiar, an anchor connecting him to the past, and that his emotions were generally running high after everything that had happened, after reuniting with Tony and then almost losing him right away. Considering all that, he knew there was a risk he might feel differently later, when things were settled down, but he'd deal with that if he had to.

"It's not like you're asking me to marry you," Steve said. "I'd like to have a real relationship. See how that goes. Besides, we already know the sex would be great."

"No, we don't," Tony disagreed. "I don't think you realize how long it's been for me. I'm not the kid you knew back then."

"No, you're not. You're someone better, and far more interesting," Steve said, getting up from his seat to crouch next to Tony's chair and kiss him on the lips.

In spite of what Tony had just said, it felt very familiar, the shape of Tony's mouth and the softness of his lips against Steve's exactly as he remembered them. The way he responded was different though, the touch of the hand he placed on Steve's back featherlight, his lips parting only slightly. Steve didn't push it. Tony was in a new frame that he'd only had for a few hours. He didn't want to overwhelm him.

Tony's hand lingered on Steve's shoulder as he sat back, then traveled to his cheek, his thumb brushing over Steve's lower lip. "Are you suggesting we move on to the frame test-driving, now?"

Steve pressed Tony's hand against his face. "If you want to."

"I'd like nothing more." Tony let go of Steve to climb out of his chair.

Steve stood up as well, casting a glance at the room around them. "We doing it here?"

"Unless you've got some really solid reason to object," Tony said. "In case you're worried, yes, it's totally private. No surveillance."

"I knew that," Steve said. They'd been counting on it for some parts of their unsuccessful plan, after all. The idea of getting it on next door to the frame transfer room still felt like some kind of transgression, but maybe that'd give it an edge of added excitement. As if they'd need one.

"No objections, then?" Tony checked, his fingers clasping the hem of Steve's shirt to tug it out of his slacks.

"None whatsoever," Steve said, and lifted his arms to let Tony pull his shirt over his head. Once Tony had dropped it on the chair, Steve placed his hands on Tony's hips before he could undress Steve any further. "I've got another question, though."

Tony mirrored Steve's moves, tugging at Steve's waistband impatiently. "What's that?"

Steve slipped his hands under Tony's faded t-shirt, his palms against the warm, soft skin of his sides. Tony shivered a at the touch; Steve imagined that his new clone would feel sensitive, maybe even ticklish, so soon after the transfer. "Which frame are we test-driving, yours or mine?" Steve asked.

"A bit of both, I guess," Tony replied.

"Works for me. Hands up," Steve ordered Tony, who obeyed, letting go of Steve's pants so Steve could strip his upper body. "You're beautiful," Steve told him.

Tony's new clone was picture-perfect. The regular cloning process produced a body that was genetically identical to the original it was based on, but in the past, there had always been imperfections—things like moles and birthmarks that wouldn't be in the same places. Not anymore, it seemed. Every detail on the hairless skin of his upper body was exactly as Steve remembered. He bent to kiss a mole that was just below Tony's collarbone, and then another, lower, on his side.

Tony grabbed at Steve's hair, gasping. "Shit, that's—that's different."

Steve blew lightly against Tony's belly, and then trailed his lips upwards, over his ribs, while also running his nails lightly over Tony's back. He licked at a nipple as he passed, making Tony squirm and let out a whine—and then, disappointingly, nudge him away by the shoulder.

Tony took a few stumbling steps backwards until he hit the chaise longue. He fell heavily into it, wide-eyed and panting.

"Too much?" Steve asked.

"It's—it's a lot," Tony breathed, biting his lip with an expression that seemed one part shocked, one part aroused. "Holy fuck. It's so intense. It's," he trailed off to run a hand through his hair. "It may have been a few decades, but I don't think it felt like this when I was young, either. It's like they accidentally gave me an extra layer of nerves."

"Having a bit of sensory fluctuation is really common with swaps. Especially in a brand new organic after you haven't been in a frame for a while," Steve said. "It should fade by the end of the day."

"I thought my clothes felt itchy against my skin, but I seriously didn't realize it'd be like this. Whoa." Tony ran his own fingers down his front, letting out a sigh, his eyelids fluttering.

Steve sat down on the fake marble floor in front of him. "I've got an idea."

"I'm all ears," Tony said, glancing down at him.

"Let me do the work," Steve suggested. He took hold of one of Tony's worn sneakers and opened the straps.

"You'll need to be careful, I might be on a hair-trigger," Tony said, sounding less enthusiastic about it than Steve could've hoped.

In the past, their dynamic had tended to revolve around Steve's frames, not Tony's, but Steve didn't think the unfamiliarity was the issue. Not after so many years. They'd need to build something new, and that should start with things they were both comfortable with.

He placed the first shoe aside and moved on to the other one. "I don't mind that. I just want you to feel good, okay? That's going to be the only goal here."

"You've already done so much for me, you—" Tony protested.

"Shh," Steve hushed him, and peeled off his sock to press a kiss on the bridge of his foot. "I'm not the one who just practically came back from the dead."

Tony curled his bare toes against the floor. "No, you did that, what was it, a couple of weeks ago?"

"Which means I've had plenty of time to settle in already," Steve said, planting his hands on Tony's knees, looking him in the eyes. "Look, if you don't want this, that's perfectly fine. You can say so. We can focus on me instead, or just cuddle or have a cup of coffee, leave the other stuff for later. But if you're just protesting because you think this is some huge favor that you don't deserve, you can stop worrying. I want to do this for you. I want to touch you. I want to feel every micron of your body."

"I want that too. Right now. I really do. The last thing I want to do is wait. I'm sorry." Tony leaned forwards to press a kiss on the crown of Steve's head. "There's just way too much stuff going through my head. Like I've got first time jitters and old guy performance anxiety at the same time."

Steve slid his hands up to the waistline of Tony's jeans. "Then let me take your mind off all of that."

"Yes, please," Tony said, finally sounding like he actually wanted it.

Steve quickly undid Tony's fly, and asked him to raise his hips off his seat so he could get rid of the final items of clothing. He tugged down Tony's jeans and his briefs in one go, dropping them on the floor, and paid no heed to the fact that Tony's cock was entirely soft. Either that'd change, or not. The last thing he wanted was for Tony to feel like he needed to perform for Steve's sake.

He sat down next to Tony, still keeping his own slacks on. "Lie down," he said, a hand very lightly on Tony's shoulder to reinforce the words; a request rather than a command.

Tony settled on his back on the chaise longue, his hands behind his head, his hooded eyes on Steve. As relaxed as the pose was, Steve could feel the tension in the muscles beneath his fingers.

"If I do anything that you don't like, anything that doesn't feel okay, just let me know, right?" Steve checked.

"I will. This isn't actually my first time," Tony said, rolling his eyes.

"I know. It's special, though."

Steve cupped Tony's face with both hands and bent closer to kiss him, closing his eyes and opening his mouth to offer a hint of tongue. Unlike their earlier, more chaste kiss, Tony returned it with enthusiasm, one hand grasping the hair at the back of Steve's head to pull him even closer, his tongue meeting Steve's. Steve thought he tasted different, somehow neutral, almost sterile, with a clone fresh out of a tank. Then again, he couldn't be entirely sure if the difference was in part to do with his own frame.

Steve was definitely starting to feel the intensity of the scene, with Tony's gorgeous new frame right in front of him, waiting to be touched. He felt his cock straining against his pants, but he could wait.

He caught Tony's lower lip between his, and then shifted downwards, pressing kisses on the soft, smooth skin of Tony's chin. Tony let go of his head so Steve could continue his path, his lips trailing along Tony's jawline, down his neck, between his collarbones. Steve brought his hands in as well, his fingers framing the path of his mouth, with just the lightest touches on Tony's shoulders, down his arms.

Tony's breath was coming in shaky gasps, his chest heaving under Steve's caresses as he passed his nipples, this time purposefully not touching them. The look on his face when Steve glanced at him spoke clearly enough that even though he was every bit as tense as before, this was in a good way, his cheeks flushed, his mouth slightly open, his eyes closed.

By the time Steve had made his gently teasing way down to below Tony's waist, and straightened up to shift to a better position on the edge of the chaise, Tony was as hard as Steve had ever seen him—definitely saying something about how sensitive his new body currently was. He moved both hands to rest on top of Tony's hip bones, and Tony canted his hips, seeking friction where there was none, and letting out a frustrated moan. Steve imagined it wouldn't take much to push him over the edge. He was awfully tempted to wrap his fingers around that brand new and yet familiar cock to find out if it felt the same, or to lick and suck on the tip of it, with this mouth that hadn't touched it yet, but he thought it was a little too soon for that. Besides, he wanted to see how far he could get without touching it.

He kept going with his exploration, letting his hands travel lower along Tony's thighs, his knees, his legs, then up again, skimming his inner thighs. He still didn't touch Tony's cock, though he let the fingers of one hand brush against his balls.

Tony's whole body twitched, so hard that he nearly kicked Steve in the face when his knee jerked upwards, and he groaned aloud again. "Ahh, Steve, please!"

"That good, huh?" Steve asked, just resting his hands on Tony's rapidly rising and falling flanks.

"Fuck, you have no idea," Tony breathed.

"I'm pretty sure I do, actually," Steve said, but didn't pause to elaborate on all the different frames he'd been wearing in the past while Tony completely took him apart. Instead, he kept one hand still on Tony's front, mapping that gorgeous expanse of skin, feeling his shivering abdominal muscles, his heart pounding under his ribs. With his other hand, he took hold of Tony's fingers to bring them to his lips, licking at them and then sucking them into his mouth.

Tony made another desperate sound, his knees bending so his feet came to rest against the surface beneath him, scrabbling against the soft fabric.

Steve took Tony's fingers deeper, working them the same as he would have with Tony's cock, and with his other hand, finally captured one of Tony's nipples, pinching it lightly.

"Steve, oh fuck, that's—" Tony's hand tensed in Steve's hold, and then went slack, slipping out of Steve's mouth.

Eyes closed and head thrown back against the arm of the chaise longue, Tony came, the first release this clone had ever known spilling over his front.

This hadn't exactly been Steve's plan, but he had to admit he was quite proud of himself. He ran his hand over the warm, sticky mess, some of the last droplets landing on his fingers. Tony shuddered, relaxing into the cushions as if he were trying to sink into them.

"Better?" Steve asked him, lazily caressing his belly.

Tony blew out a breath and blinked open eyes that looked somewhat unfocused. "I didn't know I could do that."

Steve grinned at him, ever so slightly smug. "I suspected you might, at least until you're all settled in."

"Come here, you," Tony ordered, reaching to put one hand on Steve's back and to pull him into another, sloppy kiss. As his hands slid down Steve's body, he made a displeased hum. "You're still wearing pants."

"I am," Steve said.

Tony brought his hands between them to push Steve away. "So, how about you get rid of those?"

"Great idea," Steve agreed. He got to his feet, considered his stained fingers for a moment, and decided that he could clean his slacks easily enough later. He kept his eyes on Tony as he kicked off his shoes, slowly worked open his fly and freed his so far neglected hard-on. His clothing wasn't particularly tight, but it still felt great to be free of it.

Tony sat up, one hand fondling his cock with light, tentative touches as he watched Steve undress. Steve couldn't resist doing the same, taking hold of his shaft for a few strokes, showing off for Tony.

This frame wasn't quite as exaggerated in the size department as the synthetic Steve had died in, but was definitely still on the large end of the spectrum. That probably made sense, if it had been grown following some standard template at this overly luxurious clinic—those billionaires would want to be impressive—but that was absolutely not what he should be thinking about right now.

He ran his thumb over the slit, probably smearing traces of Tony's come over his own pre-come. That was a much more exciting thought.

"What do you want to do next?" Tony asked, eyeing him hungrily. He seemed hard, again, already. Steve had expected that, too; a clone that was physically young and very recently brought into use would often make for a nearly non-existent refractory period. "I've got to warn you, though: I'd love to fuck you, or for you to fuck me, but I'm not a hundred percent either will work out," Tony added, before Steve had time to think of his answer.

Tony was right; as a flip side to his overly sensitive new frame, anything penetrative would be awkward at best, extremely uncomfortable for him at worst. Luckily, there were plenty of other things they could do. "You could suck me off, if you feel like it," Steve suggested, trying to make it sound casual.

"If you don't mind that I might be rusty," Tony returned.

"Feel free to take all the time you want," Steve said.

Tony gave him a sly look. "You might regret saying that." He patted at the seat next to him, climbing down to the floor himself.

Steve sat down, stretching his arms and legs, his frame on full display. It really was a handsome one, if he said so himself, with the wide shoulders, impressive arms and firm pecs nicely contrasted by the narrow waist. He'd definitely place it in the top ten frames he'd been in, if someone asked him to make an aesthetic judgement.

Tony seemed to appreciate it, too, glancing up at him from the floor and licking his lips. "Would it be bad if I said I really like this body?" he asked, placing a tentative hand on Steve's calf.

Steve would've had a lot of thoughts to share about that, about how his views on this specific frame had changed over the past weeks, and what plans he had for its future, but now really wasn't the time. "As fake frames go, it's decent," he said modestly, and spread his legs to give Tony even better access to said frame.

Tony crawled over to sit between Steve's legs, caressing Steve's thighs with both palms in long strokes, from knee to hip. "Decent doesn't even begin to cover it. I may be biased, though. It's a frame with you in it."

Steve leaned his hands on the edge of the chaise longue in anticipation, his legs prickling with gooseflesh where Tony was touching him. One of Tony's hands moved to touch his cock, as cautious as he'd been when touching himself earlier, entirely different from the confidence Steve remembered from the past. He was desperate for more, but he knew he'd set himself up to be teased, what with that promise he'd given, so he just gave a needy groan instead of a more direct request.

"What's that? Already getting impatient?" Tony commented, peering at Steve through his lashes. He ran his fingers up and down Steve's shaft, a more tangible contact, but still not nearly enough, then dipped under it to cup his balls, which were aching for release. "You know I haven't touched anyone like this in ages. Got to make sure I get it right. Wouldn't want to miss any important details." His fingers went to combing through Steve's pubic hair instead of any of the more exciting parts.

"Seems to me like you know exactly what you're doing," Steve said half accusingly, ruffling the hair at the back of Tony's head.

"Oh, no, I have no idea. It's a complete mystery to me." Tony leaned closer to press a kiss on the inside of Steve's thigh, halfway towards his knee, and started working his way closer along it, licking and nibbling at the sensitive skin. Before he got all the way to Steve's cock, he curved upwards, continuing towards his hipbone instead, letting Steve's cock brush the side of his face.

Steve huffed at him, making sure to pout when Tony glanced up. "Okay, I was wrong. Clearly you're confused and don't know your way around my frame," Steve complained.

"Too late for regrets now," Tony said, but seemed to have decided to have mercy on Steve, because he brought his mouth to where it needed to be, giving Steve's full length a sloppy lick.

The next joking comment Steve had been formulating turned into just a moan when Tony's lips closed around his tip. Tony's hand returned to playing with Steve's balls, as well, another delicious sensation, both of them all new for him in this frame. Not that he had enough focus left to try to compare this to any of his previous ones; he was way too close, with no room for thought beyond how good this felt and how badly he needed more. He placed his hand on Tony's head, more of a caress to encourage him than anything too demanding.

Even through the haze of want, Steve could tell Tony was more hesitant than he would've been in the past—the way he took Steve in his mouth was slow and tentative, and maybe he might've swallowed more of Steve's length before than he did now. Not that Steve cared. Tony's hand squeezed firmly around the base of his cock, covering the rest of it, and he started sucking Steve off in earnest, finally, finally giving Steve that tightness and friction and heat that he'd been craving.

After a few delicious passes back and forth, Tony let Steve's cock slip out of his mouth, looking up at him again, licking his lips. "Like that?"

Steve realized he had been quiet for a moment, except for a few low hums of pleasure, maybe not giving the right idea of how much he was enjoying this. He'd never been particularly vocal or loud in bed. "Yeah, just like that," he coaxed. "Exactly like that. Don't stop."

"Good, good," Tony said, with a pleased grin, and went back to work.

It didn't take him long to bring Steve to the edge, both figuratively and literally—leaning back to push his hips forwards, he wasn't far from slipping off his perch, his free hand clinging to the cushion beneath to stay in place.

More from sound than sight, Steve realized that Tony's free hand had gone to his own cock, stroking himself lazily while using his mouth to drive Steve crazy. That was enough to dispel Steve's lingering concerns that Tony might be too nervous to be having fun.

That realization, and the picture of Tony's head between his thighs, together with the growing intensity of the tongue and lips against his cock, did him in.

He grasped Tony's hair more tightly and tried to warn him. He got as far as "Tony, Tony, I'm—" before he couldn't hold back anymore. His toes curled against the floor and his back arched so he was barely touching the seat anymore as his climax rushed through his frame. It felt natural, in this frame, almost like in his birth body, with nothing unusual or artificial coloring the warm pleasure taking over his every cell. He liked that.

Tony slid Steve's cock out of his mouth, but held on to it with one hand, letting Steve's come land on his face, on his chin, and lower down on his throat and chest, a wide grin on his lips.

While the aftershocks were still coursing through Steve's body, he saw Tony bring himself to a second orgasm. Tony slumped to the floor, letting go of Steve altogether, the back of his head resting against Steve's thigh, coming messily all over himself.

For a moment, they stayed like that: Steve leaning forwards, carding his fingers through Tony's hair, Tony on the floor between Steve's legs.

Tony was the first to move, but just enough to place a hand on Steve's knee, raise his head and press his forehead against Steve's other thigh. "That was nice," he murmured into it.

"That was amazing," Steve told him.

He wanted Tony much closer than this and not on the cold floor.

Making use of the enhanced strength of his frame, Steve caught hold of Tony by the armpits and hauled him up. Tony let out a little squeal of surprise, but didn't resist. Steve lay down on his back and brought Tony to sprawl over him in a wonderful tangle of filthy, naked skin.

Tony laughed, happy and relaxed. It was the best sound Steve had heard since he'd woken up in this same place in his current frame; it brought up a warm feeling in his chest that was more fulfilling than any climax could be.

"Show-off," Tony commented, shifting to a more comfortable position, his side on the cushions, his head on Steve's chest, one arm flung over Steve's front.

"Just making the best of what I've got," Steve said, running his fingers along Tony's spine.

He felt so content with Tony's warm body pressed against his, and so worn out now that all the tension of the past weeks had faded away, that he very nearly drifted off to sleep. What brought him out of that drowsy state was a shaky breath against his collarbone and a few soft sniffling sounds.

"Tony?" Steve asked, dismayed.

"It's okay, never mind," Tony said, trying to move away, pulling his arm back to himself, his body tensing up next to Steve's.

Steve placed a hand on his shoulder. "No, it's not," he said firmly. "You're crying. Tell me why."

Tony sighed, nuzzling his cheek against Steve's shoulder. "It's stupid."

"I'm sure it's not," Steve insisted. His left arm had been caught under Tony's weight, and he wormed it around him now, pulling him into a proper hug.

"It's just that I," Tony began, then shook his head where it rested. "I keep thinking, this is so perfect. This is too perfect. I keep expecting I'll wake up. Alone. Back in..." he trailed off, like completing the thought aloud would be too painful.

Steve squeezed him tighter with both arms around him, his chin on top of Tony's head. "Oh, no. No. I swear this is real. I'm here. I'm really here, and I won't let go."

He should've seen this coming. He'd been taught about this kind of thing in his training. Too much exposure to realistic VR would leave anyone questioning the world around them. Even with the superficial memory modifications that kept him functional, Tony would remember enough of what he'd been through over the decades to give him a bad case of such doubts.

The awful truth was, with the best simulations being as perfect as they were, there was no trick to it, no way to know for sure what was virtual and what wasn't, not without outside interference or some lucky, revealing flaw in the scenario. If Steve thought about it too hard, he might end up doubting everything, too. Who was to say that any of what he'd experienced in this future was real? For all he knew, he might be in some simulation set up by Hydra. But there was no point in dwelling on that.

The only thing anyone could do was to ignore the gnawing feeling that everything could be an illusion, and to go on with life, choosing to accept it as reality until proven otherwise.

"I told you I'm a mess," Tony muttered between quiet sobs.

"And I told you it's fine," Steve reassured him. "I'm a mess, too. I've just been taught to hide it better."

Tony made a breathy sound that was almost like a chuckle. "Sure you are."

"Besides, let me tell you, at the risk of being an alarmist: once we leave this room and face everything that awaits us out there, things won't feel too perfect anymore," Steve added.

"Okay, yeah, that's probably true," Tony said, with a deep, steadying sigh. "Maybe we should get on with it, then."

"There's no hurry," Steve said, loosening his hold to stroke Tony's back soothingly again. "The world can wait a little longer."

"What I take from all this is that we should probably accept Pierce's offer," Tony concluded, looking around the table to meet everyone's eyes.

Steve was slowly getting used to Tony's final pick for his permanent frame, just as he was getting reacquainted with his own changed physique, the lighter build and the lack of enhancements.

With some particular facial expressions, Tony's frame reminded him uncomfortably of Stane, but Tony looked clearly older, closer to his fifties than his forties, flecks of gray in his hair and beard. It suited him better than the young clone, Steve had to admit; it was as if a trace of his troubled past remained in the wrinkles around his eyes. He wasn't sure if those details were on purpose, or simply a natural consequence of aging the clone. To contrast the distinguished looks, the shirt he wore under his asymmetrically-cut suit jacket had a shifting electric blue hologram image on its front, something that vaguely reminded Steve of a blaster bolt—probably a band logo. A modernized, upgraded version of his earlier style.

Around Tony sat the whole group who'd help him escape his predicament: Steve, Pepper, Rhodey, Happy, Natasha, Clint, and Fury, as well as the lawyer they'd brought in, a man named Nelson with a friendly-looking blond frame and a sharp, conservative suit that somewhat clashed with it.

"I think it's the best one you'll get," Fury said. "The last one, as well."

"If you don't take it, you'll only have even more difficult options left. If you go for a secret trial, there's no guessing what the outcome might be, and they control so much of the system, there's only so much I can do to help," Nelson elaborated, summarizing what he had already said earlier during the meeting . "And if you make everything public, they'll fight you tooth and nail, every step of the way, twist everything you say to turn public opinion against you."

The offer was entirely unofficial, and simple enough to understand without a law degree: if Tony and his friends stayed quiet about the whole affair, SHIELD would not pursue any actions against any of them for what they'd done to take down Stane. Tony could go on with his life, back at the helm of his company, and Steve would stay free, pardoned in spite of his new offenses.

It was great, except for one detail. "But Stane would go free," Steve said.

"For now," Natasha said. "He'd have nothing, though. He had to give up Tony's clone, he has no money, and very few friends. His backups on Luna are under Tony's name, so he won't have access to those, either."

"And I'm pretty sure Hydra isn't doing this to help him, it's just to sweep the whole mess under the rug. Otherwise, someone might ask inconvenient questions about how Stane was able to pull off his takeover so easily. Honestly, I expect he'll have an accident of some sort one of these days," Clint said casually. Steve wasn't entirely sure whether he was implying Hydra would have Stane killed, or that he might do it himself. He wasn't sure he even wanted to know.

"I don't like it, either," Pepper spoke up. "I still think we should go for it."

"We can do more good if we don't have to spend all our time and resources on sorting this out," Rhodey said.

Happy simply nodded to show his agreement.

"Okay, I know where you all stand," Tony said, clearly not convinced, frowning, his lips pursed. "I think I might still take a day to think about this."

"In the end, it's your call," Nelson said.

"Yeah, I know," Tony said somewhat distractedly, and got up from the table. He motioned towards the door, the distant, cool look on his face exactly the kind that gave Steve the creeps. "Class dismissed, everyone. Go home. If anyone needs a cab, just ask Jarvis."

"You can find the closest landing platform five floors down," the newly installed AI added helpfully.

Everyone else started filing out of the room—a stylish conference room a dozen floors down from Tony's residence in Stark Tower, with minimalistic grayscale decor and large windows similar to those Steve was used to on the higher floors—but Steve lingered behind with Tony.

"I suppose you've also got an opinion on this, Jarvis?" Tony spoke up once the others were gone, glancing towards the ceiling.

"As Mr. Rhodes already pointed out, it's obvious you should accept the offer if you wish to minimize the resources expended on this matter," Jarvis replied. "Although one could call the option somewhat unsatisfying."

Tony made an amused hum. "Yeah, that's one word for it."

He crossed the floor to look out of the windows, and Steve followed him. Standing next to Tony, Steve was the shorter one of them. It had nearly always been the other way around in the past, and this felt strange, but he would get used to it, just like he'd get used to lacking the strength to lift Tony off the floor on a whim. What he had now was much better: a clone created from his original genome instead of some designer fake that bore his face. It made him feel at home.

He'd kept his enhanced frame stored away in a stasis box in case he ever needed it. In fact, he was sure he would, because some of the battles that awaited them couldn't be fought through messages, veiled threats and legalese.

He gazed at the view outside, and it was the same as ever, the gray sky surrounding the buildings around them, painted in various colors where the lights from company logos reflected against clouds. The air was busy with afternoon traffic. In this room, with both of them in new bodies and facing the world as a couple, it felt like so much had changed, but out there, nothing had. Most people had no idea that there were new winds blowing at the top of Stark Tower.

"You think we should say no, don't you?" Tony asked, staring at the passing cars.

"I don't know what we should say," Steve replied honestly. "I want Stane to get his dues, and I want everyone to know about what happened. I don't like walking away and letting the bad guys off the hook. But I know that if we follow the official channels, there's a risk I'll end up spending another fifteen years on ice."

Tony glanced at Steve and put an arm around his narrow waist. "No. I won't let that happen, no matter what. If it comes to that, you'll just have to disappear."

"And that wouldn't make me look guilty at all," Steve said curtly. He knew that Tony was right, but he still loathed the idea. Even if he could help their cause while in hiding, it would feel cowardly.

"It's better than the alternative. If you ever end up at their mercy again, you won't be coming back," Tony said, hugging Steve closer. "Not now that you've reminded them just how much of a threat you can be."

"They know you're a threat, too," Steve said. He reciprocated Tony's gesture by placing his hand on Tony's hip. "Whatever you do, you'll have to be careful. They'll be constantly looking for any opportunity to get rid of you."

Tony sighed and raised his free hand to rub at his face. "Yeah, I know. Even if we take that offer, life won't be easy. They're still holding all the cards."

"No. Not all of them. Not anymore," Steve said firmly. "It won't be easy, but we'll put up a damn good fight, and we won't give up. Even if it's going to take another decade, or a whole century, in the end, we'll win."

Tony turned his back on the windows to face Steve properly, a fond smile on his lips. His eyes seemed to go through a dozen emotions in one blink, flickering between doubt and hope. It was an expression that no impostor would've been able to copy. "You know, they're right to be afraid of you, because when you say it like that, I believe you."

Steve took Tony's hands in his, lacing his slender fingers with Tony's slightly shorter and older-looking ones. "You'd better," Steve told him. "I'm not sure I'd be so convinced if you weren't here with me."