Chapter Text
Less than a minute.
That’s how long Tony had to redirect the nuke and send it through the portal splitting open the sky above New York before it detonated.
Less than a minute.
Pepper’s phone just kept ringing and ringing and ringing and Tony didn’t know if he was heartbroken that he wouldn’t get to say goodbye, or relieved that he wouldn’t have to hear her cry.
Less than a minute.
The seconds were ticking away and Tony put every bit of power he could into his thrusters, forcing himself and the bomb straight towards the sky, climbing higher and higher until he burst through into a whole other world.
Less than a minute.
Space was supposed to be empty, but it was crawling with life, with aliens, with machines hell bent on destroying his world, and then the nuke exploded and it was glorious in some sort of horrifying way.
Less than a minute, and JARVIS faded out and all Tony could see was darkness.
They say your life flashes before your eyes when you die, but Tony knew he was dying and he wasn’t seeing anything.
But he could hear was mother’s voice in the back of his head, singing that sweet song about little wonders and small hours, and time falling away–
And then Tony was falling away, down and down through the empty void, the wormhole closing beneath him, and Tony thought that he had never been more terrified to fall than he was right now.
Less than a minute, and it would all be over and Tony thought that he had never been more terrified to fall than he was right now.
And then everything went black.
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“Dunno why you stepped in, I could’a taken care of myself. The guy wasn’t even all that big.”
“Right. Which is why I’m pickin’ ya up outta the trash, huh?”
“Shut up! I would’a been fine!”
“You were holdin’ a damn trash can lid. You weren’t fine!”
The argument was enough to startle Tony wide awake, and he came back to himself with a coughing fit, choking on a harsh inhale, breath catching in his chest.
Everything hurt and he was completely disoriented and what the hell was that god awful stench and why was he lying on garbage?
Oh.
Oh, he was in a dumpster.
What the hell?
Tony closed his eyes and counted to ten before opening them again, but somehow he was still in a dumpster.
Why… why was he in a dumpster? Did he fall out of the wormhole and into a trash heap? That didn’t seem right. Where was the rest of the team? Why was everything so quiet? There should have been screaming and explosions and jets flying over head and–
“I’m just saying, you didn’t have to intervene.” The voices were closer now, arguing louder. “I’m fine!”
“Dammit I think ya busted your nose again.” This one, soft and rolling with an unmistakable Brooklyn accent. “I gotta set it soon as I can.”
“Just bloody is all.” a loud sniff. “Doesn’t really hurt.”
“You know I can tell when you’re lyin’ dummy. Let’s just get home and get ya cleaned up and then we can—
Two men came around the corner of the alley and stopped in their tracks when they saw Tony sprawled out in the pile of filth.
The first was tall and brunette, a cocky tilt to his head, with a smile and no doubt a snarky comment already forming on his lips as he looked Tony over curiously, blue eyes flicking over Tony’s jeans, around the dirty alley and back to Tony again.
The other was blond and tiny, no more than five and a half feet at the most, bony and sickly looking, with a bloody nose and stubborn scowl on his face that said he couldn’t give two shits about what Tony was doing in the trash.
He was also entirely familiar, and Tony couldn’t stop staring at him, his mouth falling open a little bit as he realized exactly who the blonde reminded him of.
…Steve?
“What’r’ya looking at?” the blonde scowled harder when Tony didn’t look away, folding thin arms against a thinner chest, the spark in his eye just daring Tony to say the wrong thing. “You got a problem with me?”
“He’s probably lookin’ at your damn bloody nose and wondering how the hell someone your size got in another fight!” the brunette scoffed, pushing the shorter man lightly. “Quit being such a punk.”
To Tony, “What’r’ya doin’ in the trash, huh? I know Brooklyn nights can be rough but I gotta say I never woke up in an alley after one. What happened to you?”
“I–I–” Tony cleared his throat, trying to find his voice. “I’m not really sure.”
He glanced around the narrow alley, at the brick buildings rising on either side of him. There was a distinct quiet that spoke of no traffic, and beneath the smell of the trash was a lack of pollution or even the scent of food carts or local restaurants. There were definitely not enough people on the street to be Manhattan, but that would mean he wasn’t in Manhattan anymore, and that– that was impossible, right?
Right?
“What’s the last thing you remember?” one of them asked. “Do you remember falling asleep here?”
“I definitely don’t remember falling asleep here.” Tony swallowed back a hysterical little laugh, because the last the last thing he remember was– was–
The portal. The Chitauri. Darkness. His mother singing. Falling.
“Um, the last thing I remember–” he blinked several times, everything wrong about the situation catching up to him all at once.
He had fallen, hadn’t he? He should be dead. He should be dead. Why was he alive? Why was he in Brooklyn?
Tony pressed a hand to the arc reactor to try and settle himself, the cool metal and constant ache in his bones usually able to bring him back to himself, to stave off the nightmares he had after Afghanistan, to bring him back from the anxiety that had only grown worse with the palladium poisoning.
It was a constant reminder that he was alive, that he had survived, that he had a reason to continue on when things got dark, that he had a heart and a drive and a purpose and—
—and it wasn’t there.
His hand met his sternum, the bone whole and strong, not shattered and carved out to hold the arc reactor and Tony looked down at his chest in confusion, then up at the two strangers in an outright panic.
It had taken a few minutes for the initial shock to wear off, a few moments for Tony to straighten his thoughts out but those few minutes were over and everything about every bit of this was wrong wrong wrong.
What the hell was happening?
Tony’s chest tightened, his breath coming faster, black spots dancing in front of his eyes, all strong indicators that he was well on his way to a full blown panic attack.
“Oh shit.” He gasped, a hand over where the arc reactor should be, the other one curling into the dirt at his knees, desperate for something anything to keep him grounded. “I thought I died. I thought I was going to die– oh god the last thing I remember is–shit– did I die? Is this– what the hell is this?”
He barely registered two pairs of hands hauling him up and out of the dumpster, getting him to the ground as smoothly as they could.
“Hey.” the blonde moved to crouch in front of him, obviously concerned by the terror that crossed Tony’s face, the obnoxious tone melting to something softer. “Hey, s’alright. You’re not over there anymore, you’re in Brooklyn. Back home in the states. You aren’t over there anymore, it’s alright. You’re safe.”
“Breathe through it, soldier.” The brunette came towards him as well, big hands on Tony’s shoulders to steady his shaking, his voice low and soothing. “Breathe through it. Everything’s fine. Haven’t been home real long, have you? When did you get back?”
“Home?” Tony repeated shakily. “When did I get back home?”
“When did you get off the ship and released from your unit?” he clarified. “What unit were you in, we can at least get ya over to the center so they can help you. What neighborhood you from? We can get you home if you can tell us a few things. Come on, breathe with me soldier, we’ll get ya through it.”
“M–my unit?” Tony stammered. “I’m not in the army, not a soldier. Not in the– why would you think I was in the army?”
“You jus’ look like old man Parker did when he came home.” the blonde explained, holding Tony’s hand tight. “He’d black out and then wake up thinkin’ he was still fighting in Europe, you know? Nightmares about the war and all that. Figured you were doin’ the same thing.”
“Oh.” Tony started breathing a little easier with both of them next to him, the solid hands on his shoulders, the lighter hand in his own. “Oh, uh yeah. I mean no. Not the war. But yeah, blacking out. Nightmares. Caused by– by– I’ve got an old injury.”
Alright, at least that wasn’t completely a lie. Afghanistan and the arc reactor and everything about the last few years certainly gave him nightmares, even though the blacking out and waking up in a dumpster sure was new.
Tony was not a fan.
But his vision was clearing, heart rate slowing with the calming presences next to him, and once he stopped shaking, the men leaned away to give him some space to breathe.
“Better?” the brunette asked softly, blue eyes concerned. “Gonna be alright?”
“Thank you.” Tony put his face in his hands, then jerked away with a muttered, “Oh god, I stink.”
“You’ve been layin’ in a trash heap.” the blonde pointed out. “Why don’t you come up to our place, get you washed up. You’ll feel better once you get outta here.”
“If it isn’t too much trouble.” Tony pulled every bit of his self control together to force himself to stand, brushing the mess off his jeans and tshirt as best as he could. “I would love a wash up. Maybe a little bit to eat if you can spare it. And maybe I can figure what the fuck is going on.”
“Language.” the blonde said mildly and it was so familiar that Tony’s head shot up again, his eyes narrowing.
“Lay off him, Stevie.” the brunette shoved at him again. “Guy’s just woken up in a dumpster. He can curse if he wants’ta.”
“I’m jus’ sayin–!”
“Stevie?” Tony repeated, the name tumbling around his head, mixing with that familiar voice and the stubborn scowl and. “Is that… I mean, is it Steve?”
“Steve Rogers.” he stuck his hand out for Tony to shake. “Buck’s the only one that calls me Stevie, so please don’t do that because I kind of hate it. Sorry about the language thing, kind of an issue with me.”
“Uh, it’s fine.” Tony couldn’t take his eyes off the scrappy blonde, thoroughly unnerved by looking down at Steve, by hearing that brash, All-American tone of voice coming from someone who could be taken out by a decent sneeze.
“Steve Rogers.” he finally shook Steve’s hand, working to hide his shock over how delicate the fingers were. “Nice to meet you. Officially meet you, I mean. Wow, this is–this is kind of–”
Steve was looking at him as if he were crazy, so Tony stopped mid sentence with a sheepish smile, turning his attention to Steve’s friend.
“James Barnes.” the brunette stuck his hand out next, and Tony shook it as well, raising his eyebrows when his own hand all but disappeared in the warm grip. “But you can call me Bucky.”
“Bucky.” Tony nodded, then his eyes widened and, “You’re Bucky Barnes?”
“Sure am.” Bucky patted Tony on the back. “Lets get ya outta here and cleaned up, huh? Get you a sandwich or a little soup.”
“Got a name we can call you?” Steve picked his way through the garbage, heading back towards the street. “Or maybe you don’t remember that either?”
“Tony. You can call me… Tony.”
“Well heya Tony.” Bucky sent him a smile that had no business being that flirty. “Good to know you.”
Tony chalked his blush up to the confusion over this whole mess, and not the charm pouring from the boy with the Brooklyn accent. He was not blushing over Bucky Barnes flirting with him. No way.
“One more thing.” He said, stumbling over an uneven part of the street. “Could you tell me what year it is?”
“It’s 1942, Tony.” Bucky supplied, grabbing Tony’s arm so he wouldn’t trip again. “What year did you think it was?”
“1942.” Tony ran his hand over the posters lining the outside wall of the shop they passed.
“Uncle Sam wants you.” he muttered. “Loose Lips Sink Ships. Rosie the Riveter. Jesus fucking–”
Then he looked up at the pair in front of him, a smart-mouthed pre serum Steve, and the not-yet-a-sergeant James Buchanan Barnes.
His whole life, Tony had heard the stories of these men. He had walked through the Smithsonian enough times to memorize the displays. He had listened to Howard reminiscing with Uncle Dugan as they shared a drink at the end of every week. Aunt Peggy carried a picture of Steve in her locket every day. Poker nights with the rest of the team happened once a month at the Stark home until one by one, there were less and less of the old soldiers around the table.
And all the stories revolved around Steve and Bucky.
Steve had led the team, Bucky was always right behind him. Bucky with his rifle, Steve with his shield. Steve running headlong into a battle, Bucky cursing and swearing and screaming to wait for the rest of the team. The day Bucky fell, and the day Steve put the plane down over the North Pole.
Bucky was the only Howling Commando not to come home, Steve was the one they found in the ice. Bucky was still gone, Steve had just been saving New York with the rest of the Avengers.
They were legends, immortal tales of bravery, heroes.
But standing in front of Tony right now, they were just Steve and Bucky.
Not soldiers, not heroes. Not bitter, not hurting. Not missing and not dead.
This couldn’t be real.
“Tony!” Steve called and waved for him to hurry. “Come on! I’ll get you a sandwich!”
Captain America wants to make me a sandwich. Tony thought hysterically, starting to feel a little light headed again over the whole situation. Pint sized Captain America wants to make me a sandwich?
“1942.” Tony said out loud. “This is going to be a hell of a year, isn’t it?”
“Well, it should certainly get a lot more interesting now.” Bucky agreed, his eyes sliding down over Tony’s body in undisguised interest. “Don’t ya think?”
Oh shit.
Tony felt light headed for a completely different reason, then.
1942.
He must be dreaming.
This couldn’t be real.