Steve turned and walked away without another word, picking up his coat and shield from the floor.
Tony's gaze followed him, a smirk tugging at his lips.
"Really? You're just going to turn your back on me after all that?" he called. "Before you point that perfect Boy Scout rear in my direction, shouldn't we finish what we started?"
Steve paused mid-step.
Tony straightened, tossed his coat aside, and began rolling up the cuffs of his crisp white shirt. He looked like a ringside commentator suddenly deciding to jump into the match.
With his enhanced body, a bullet from a 7.62mm rifle would barely scratch him. Taking a punch from Steve Rogers wasn't a risk—it was an opportunity to make a point.
"You really want to fight?" Steve asked, turning slowly to face him.
Tony's grin widened. "I'm willing to oblige. I just hope your shield's as tough as your mouth."
Steve glanced at him. "Put on the armor, Stark."
"What armor? This—" Tony flexed his wrists, "—is the armor for you."
Steve's brow furrowed. Without the suit, Tony was just a man. An enhanced man, perhaps, but nothing Steve couldn't handle.
Still, before Steve could walk away, Tony closed the distance with quick, shuffling footwork, the kind used in professional combat sports.
"I'll knock you out with one hook," he warned.
Steve's lips twitched in disbelief. "Without armor, you're just a guy with a bit of training."
The words had barely left his mouth when Tony exploded forward.
From two meters away, his hook came in fast—so fast the rush of air broke the sound barrier.
Steve's instincts screamed. He brought his shield up just in time.
Metal met flesh with a ringing clang.
The impact launched Steve backward into the wall, knocking the wind out of him. He hit the floor hard, his defense rattled. Only the Vibranium absorbed enough force to keep the building intact.
"You…" Steve scrambled to his feet, stunned. "You're not wearing armor."
"Captain America isn't the only one enhanced by serum," Tony replied, smug. "Without armor, I'm still a superhero."
The satisfaction in his voice was obvious—he'd wanted to prove something, and he had.
"It's not too late to surrender, Cap," Tony added.
Steve's jaw set. "I can do this all day."
"God, you actually said it," Tony muttered before charging.
They collided—shield against fist. Each strike sent dull thuds echoing through the room, their movements a blur. Steve's reflexes let him block the majority of Tony's punches, each one absorbed by the shield's center.
Still, Tony's reaction time was razor sharp. He countered as quickly as Steve attacked, forcing the fight into a deadlock.
Steve would dodge, letting his shield ricochet off walls before slamming into Tony.
Tony would catch it mid-flight, headbutting Steve in retaliation.
They fought until the light outside faded. Finally, both men collapsed onto the floor, drenched in sweat and breathing hard.
Steve's face was swollen, bruised, and streaked with blood.
Tony's hair was a mess, his suit coated in dust.
For all the strength he'd used, Tony had pulled his punches just enough to avoid serious injury. A full-speed hit could have killed Steve—and that wasn't a headline he wanted: "Iron Man Kills Captain America."
Still, Tony couldn't resist a jab. "Phew… you look terrible." He pushed himself up, brushed off the dust, and retrieved his jacket.
He walked over and dropped a small bottle and a folded note in front of Steve.
"Here. You still owe Carter a dance—go make good on that. The most important thing for a superhero is keeping his word. She's waited long enough."
Steve looked at him through bloodied eyes. "What is this?"
"A gift you need," Tony said, heading for the door. Sunset light cut across his face. "Welcome back, Captain. Ten bucks says you'll fall in love with this crazy world again."
When Tony left, Steve slowly sat up, wincing. He read the note, hesitated, then uncorked the bottle and took a sip.
In seconds, his wounds closed, the pain fading as if it had never been there.
He stared at the bottle, realizing he'd misjudged Stark. A man who'd go this far for someone he called an 'enemy'… wasn't the man Steve thought he was.
The tape clicked in its reel, replaying Peggy Carter's interview again and again. Steve watched in silence, the words etching deeper into him each time.
When the sun dipped low, he stood, bottle in hand, and left the memorial hall.
The sanatorium's white-painted walls were faded and yellowed, climbing vines twisting along their surface. Inside, warm incandescent lights lit the halls.
Following the room number a nurse had given him, Steve opened a door. The sunset spilled in, casting an orange glow across the room. Curtains were drawn back, the breeze carrying the scent of the outside world.
By the window, a lone bed sat bathed in that light. Outside, branches swayed, their shadows spilling over the white-haired woman sitting quietly.
Steve's breath caught. His heart was heavy, full of things he couldn't put into words.
After a long pause, he finally spoke, his voice rough. "Peggy…"
She turned at the sound. For a moment her eyes widened, joy breaking through the years.
"Steve?"
He stepped closer. "I'm sorry," he said softly, "I missed our dance."
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