#ugh anything w joseph just has the potential to be so *clenches fist* this idea stuck w me so long dude

[turtle-steverogers]

Okay so I've have this idea ever since I watched Endgame and I can't figure out how to make it work pothole wise but I have to share with you.

So you know the part where Tony and Steve go back in time to the 1970s? Ever since I watched that I was like "What if something goes wrong and they accidentally end up in Steve's childhood instead??" I know you like A+ parenting from Joseph Rogers and I can't stop thinking about Steve and Tony's tumbling on top of a scene between little Steve and angry Joe Rogers.

Just imagine, first they're simply standing in front of like, a run-down building and they're both kind of confused of why they're there but then they see this little tiny kid playing with marbles or something next to the street. And Tony is busy processing the fact that they're in the wrong year and that the kid looks like Steve and that he looks so small and thin.

So he doesn't realize that Steve tenses up when they hear a shout from the building. And they look up to see a burly man come out looking mad and maybe a little bit drunk and little Steve scrambled to pick up his marbles but Joe grab him first and is yelling at him with his fingers in a vice grip around his arm.

And Tony looks at Steve and Steve is pale as a sheet and doing that thing where you revert back to how you were in that time because you haven't processed any of the feelings you had then, and Tony figures out what's going on in a horrifying abrupt flash of realization.

(And then maybe Tony steps into confront the dad, despite knowing it's going to influence the timeline. I don't know about that though because it will just cause more problems for little Steve once they leave so maybe he tries and then big Steve is like no don't! And then they have to talk about it.)

Like I said I can't figure out how to write this scene because it doesn't make any sense for both of them to somehow land in the 1920s and also how on Earth are they going to get to the '70s if they run out of Pym particles etc but I don't care because I want to see it so bad.

Oh god, logistics be damned, because i’m just picturing the scene

-

“Ah, shit--”

“What the hell?”

It happens so fast that Steve loses his footing, crashing backwards and nearly bringing both him and Tony down as he’s yanked bodily into an alleyway. He stumbles, straightens, blinking hard against the blood rushing from his head before Tony’s grip on his arm tightens hard enough that Steve winces. 

“We’re in the wrong place,” Tony says.

“What?” Steve is certain he must have heard him wrong. He must have, because the city is loud around them and cars are whirring by in what has to be afternoon traffic, children yelling down the street, some kid hawking papers and kicking up a flock of pigeons as he shouts, “Paper! Getcha paper! Family dies in horrific car accident, went straight offa the Bridge! Two cents!”

And it’s a lie. Steve knows it’s a lie, because he used to lie to sell papers for the entire two years he hawked them back in ‘25, because his dad was blowing all their money on whiskey and gin and they needed to eat. 

“Oh god.” He turns, head on a slow swivel, looking around. 

He knows this alleyway. He knows this street, the buildings, tall and laden with clotheslines, running from fire escape to fire escape like veins bleeding life into the city. 

They’re in the wrong place. They’re in the wrong time. 

He looks at Tony, who looks just as stricken as he looks back. 

“We messed up,” Tony says. “Big time. Except we totally didn’t mess up, because I am positively certain that we put in the right date and time and this isn’t New Jersey, this definitely isn’t New Jersey.”

“No, it’s not,” Steve agrees, and he looks at the street. Dares to look, because he knows if he angles himself just right, he’ll see his old building. The one he lived in with his ma and dad, then just his ma, then eventually Bucky and--

He squeezes his eyes shut. He needs to think. About the mission, about the Pym Particles that were evidently wasted when someone or something sent them to the wrong place and time. Not about the familiar smell of the city street. Dust and motor oil and the faint scent of boiled corn. Not about ghosts that are drifting around him. Not about the fact that if he cranes his neck just so…

“We need to-- I don’t know what we need to do, but we need to do something. Fuck, what year is it even? We’re-- where are we? I don’t even know where we--”

“Brooklyn,” Steve says, opening his eyes. He can’t quite breathe, the reality of the situation settling in. Tugging at his ribcage. He’s going to vomit, he thinks. Maybe. “I don’t know when, but we’re in Brooklyn. Sometime around my time.”

“Okay, so this is definitely targeted, because that is way too specific to be a random mistaken coincidence,” Tony rambles, tapping frantically on his Time-Space GPS. 

It’s no use. Steve knows it’s no use, because they’re out of Pym Particles. Collectively. And there’s no way of letting the others know about their predicament. 

They’re stuck. They’re well and truly stuck. 

Steve should feel more panicked, he knows that, but he’s stuck, incapable of moving. Of feeling anything other than abject horror as he finally gives into the urge to shift his gaze, lean slightly to the side, and look around toward his old building.

Kneeling on the front steps is a little boy, knobbly knees folded on the ground as he leans over, rolling some marbles around on the ground with great focus. His blond hair is dirty, falling in front of his eyes, which he reaches up to push out of the way, and Steve recognizes his clothes-- the brown, wool shorts he liked to wear and a ratty gray button up pulled out of the waistband. He’s barefoot, because it’s warm out, and it never mattered if he was wearing shoes or not when it was warm out. In fact, it made his leg braces easier to wear, which are fastened around his legs at an uncomfortable angle.

“1924,” he says.

Tony stops his rambling, and Steve realizes he's been talking to him. 

“What?”

“It’s 1924.”

Tony frowns, looking at him. “How do you know?” He follows Steve’s gaze, then freezes next to him. “Oh my god, that’s not-- is that--”

“Yeah,” Steve says, feeling like he might pass out as he watches his little self shift around, tugging at the straps of his leg braces, trying to stop them from digging into his calves so hard. His fingers flex at his side, and he can almost still feel the dull ache in his knees. “That’s me. Fuck. Oh my god.”

And he remembers this. Remembers the way the marbles felt in his hand, remembers being sad because Bucky had been out of town with his family that week, so he had no one to play with. Remembers what’s about to happen next--

“Fuck, there you are, boy!” 

Steve can just make out the words over the throng of the city, knows people are looking, but it’s not out of the ordinary for the time, so no one is stopping. No one in the city ever stops. Not for business that isn’t theirs. 

“Oh my god,” Tony says next to him, and Steve’s eyes are glued on the scene as a man comes barreling out of the building, burly and tall and looming, going straight for the little boy on the steps. The stuff of Steve’s nightmares, all wild eyed and sweaty. He’d been real mean that week. Work had laid him off when he failed to show up for the millionth time, too drunk to know up from down, and Steve and his marbles had paid the price. “Is that-- who’s that?”

Steve swallows, tastes biles, makes his throat work.

“My dad.”

There’s a pause. They’re both still watching as his dad yanks on his little self’s arm. The marbles slip out of his grip. He starts crying as a few tumble down the drain, and he tries to yank himself away, tries to go after them, but he’s too little. 

“I thought he died in the war.”

Steve sways. He doesn’t know how he’s still standing. All the blood has rushed away from his head, pooling in his stomach, making it churn. He hasn’t thought about his dad in years. Hasn’t let himself.

“Yeah,” he says. “He might as well have.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

His dad is dragging him up the steps, slapping him hard across the face when he starts to wail.

“That fucker,” Tony spits next to him, taking a few steps forward, and he sounds angrier than Steve has heard in a while. It startles him, and he reaches out, grabs Tony’s bicep.

“Tony, wait-- what are you--”

“Shit, I can’t just let him--”

They tussle for a moment as Steve manages to drag Tony back. He can’t let him go out there, can’t let him mess up the timeline.

“You’re gonna fuck this up worse for us if you go out there,” Steve says, backing them both further into the alleyway. 

He doesn’t need to look to know he’s gone deadweight, crying on his way up the steps, his dad wrestling with him to stand up, quit crying, quit being a goddamn sissy.

Tony’s expression is stricken, eyes wide and tight and Steve kicks himself, remembering that Howard had not been kind either. At least from what he’s gathered. He has never considered him and Tony to be much the same in any sense, but maybe they share more pain than he thought. 

“Besides, if you go out there and try to help, he’s only going to-- he’s gonna--” Steve stops talking, mouth too dry. 

He remembers the time George Barnes had tried to intervene after Bucky had told him that Steve’s dad hit him sometimes. The beating he’d gotten that night for messing with his dad’s reputation had been debilitating. He’d had to miss school for two days, and Bucky had cried when he saw him next, apologizing for getting him hurt.

Steve had hugged him, and they’d been okay. But no one had ever tried to intervene again.

Tony studies his face, and Steve can’t look him in the eye. Abruptly, he lets go of Tony’s arm, lungs compressing. He never wanted anyone to know, and it feels like his entire soul is on display, all old pains and exposed skin. Hand-shaped bruises and cigarette burns on the ghost of himself.

He’s told himself it’s fine. War had been worse, watching his home get ravaged by aliens had been worse. But he’s learning that there is no worse. No quantifying pain. Not when it raised him.

“Okay,” Tony says, his tone quiet. Understanding. “Okay. I’m sorry.”

Steve shifts, looks down at the ground. 

“It’s fine,” he says, then clears his throat. He needs to focus. They need to focus. “We need to figure out how to get the fuck out of here.”

Tony shakes himself, even though he still looks deeply disturbed. 

“Right,” he says, looking down at the Time-Space GPS. “Okay, right, okay.”

Steve turns, casting one last glance to the stoop of the rundown building. It’s empty now, and he closes his eyes, letting the tears well. He’s scared, he realizes. As scared as he was in that moment, confused why his dad hates him and sad that he lost his marbles. He wants to cry for that little boy. He wants to pull him into a hug and tell him that he’s not dirty or bad. That the pain will wane, then wax again. 

That he will survive, and keep going, just like he always does. 

-

They find the glitch in the system, the diversion sent from some future version of evil to throw them off the scent of the Pym Particles. It’s easy enough to maneuver their way through Camp Lehigh and get more, once they make it there, then the world ends again and Steve watches his friends nearly die and his shield breaks.

It’s hell. Concentrated, fast moving hell.

And then the world is still again.

He’s tired, he thinks as he sits on Tony’s dock. The rest of the team are inside, celebrating another win. Celebrating him passing a new shield off to Sam-- one Tony had graciously crafted him once they made it back home. 

He’d slipped away some time after toasts were being made, waving Bucky away when he tried to follow. He needs to be alone, just for a bit. He needs to breathe, to watch the water ripple beneath his feet and listen to dragonflies buzz over the water.

It isn’t often that he’s taken the time to slow down. To breathe, and appreciate the world as it is, whole and teeming with life. He thinks maybe now that he’s retired, he ought to do that more.

Maybe he’ll take up hiking. Or something. Maybe Bucky will join him, always being one for adventure himself. Rolling up his jeans to wade out into the waters of Coney Island, just so he can feel the sand between his toes, Becca on his back, kicking the water and splashing Steve, who’d been following close behind. 

“Spangles, I thought I’d find you out here, looking all morose and contemplative.”

Steve looks over to see Tony approaching him, limping, his arm still in a sling. It had been a near catastrophic feat, using his own gauntlet to snap Thanos out of existence, but he’d done it and made it out alive.

“Yup, that’s me, morose and contemplative Steve.” He shifts over, letting Tony sit. 

It feels final in a way. Like they’re finally past whatever barrier kept them at odds for so many years. It seems that this time, the world ending had finally cemented their trust in each other. 

“Saw you slip away from the party,” Tony says. “You okay?”

“Yeah, just needed some quiet,” Steve says. They’re sitting close enough that Steve can hear Tony’s heartbeat with his enhanced hearing. It’s a comfort. “How’s your arm?”

“Oh, you know, a little achy, a little crisp. I still haven’t been able to truly wash it, aside from sponge baths, so it’s definitely a little ripe, too, but it’s getting there.”

Steve snorts, long since used to Tony’s chronic oversharing.

“Well, I’m glad it doesn’t hurt too bad?”

“Not too bad, no,” Tony says. It’s quiet for a moment, and they watch a gray heron land on a log. Steve takes a mental picture of it to draw later. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Was your dad like that a lot?”

Steve sighs. He’s been wondering when this would come up. They didn’t talk about it after the fact-- there hadn’t been any time-- but the space between them has felt thick with the unsaid, even with everything going on.

“Yeah.”

“Shit.” He hears the shake in Tony’s voice, and looks at him. “How old were you when we were there?”

“Six,” Steve says. “It was three days before my birthday.”

“I’m sorry,” Tony says. “Did anyone know?”

“Bucky did, but no one else. He died when I was nine, and I told everyone after that that he’d died in the war. It messed him up good.” 

“Damn,” Tony says. “Look, I know we’ve had our moments. Like, really tough moments, but I care about you, yeah? I give a damn, even if I’m still learning the correct ways to show that.” He shakes his head, licks his lips. Steve watches him, holding his breath. “Just… I’m here for you, okay? I know what it’s like having a shitty dad, and mine never-- never hurt me like that, but he messed me up plenty good in other ways. So if you ever, I don’t know, want to talk about it, or just need someone who you don’t have to explain yourself to, I’m here.”

It’s the most vulnerable they’ve voluntarily been around each other, and Steve reaches out, placing his hand over Tony’s on the pier. The one that isn’t injured. His skin is warm. They’re both here, broken parts of a whole. With an exhale, Steve feels like they’ve finished a chapter, ready to start a new one, on the same page.

“Thank you, Tony. I’m here, too.”

#the steve tony make-up ficlet i thought id never write #ugh anything w joseph just has the potential to be so *clenches fist* this idea stuck w me so long dude #steve rogers #tony stark #mikey answers #mutuals <333 #mikey screams into the void #avengers fic #tw child abuse #tw abuse