Disclaimer: Don't own, just borrowing.

Author's Note: After much thought, I have decided the give the OPT 30 Day Challenge a go. I'm using it as sort of a writing exercise; I have a problem condensing down my stories, get kind of off track and go everywhere. It's going to be a creative challenge I think, and worth it. In case you're not sure the challenge is to write something for each prompt, and I'm aiming to post one a day. They are going to be sort of interconnected, but could be stand alones, all will be fluffy and sappy, and adorable Stony fics, and a couple of hopefully hot ones. So here we go!

Little Moments Like These

Prompt 1: Holding hands

He wasn't exactly sure when it had started, or truthfully how it even really got started. All he knew it was something that had become an anchor for him. Waking in the ice had been confusing, overwhelming. Everything moved so fast, people where different, and he was a relic from the past that no one really wanted. Especially Iron Man, the superhero of this time. He was what the world wanted. Just as flashy and over the top as this time.

Still he had been unthawed for a reason, put here for a purpose, and despite his own inner turmoil he and his new team had managed to get the job done. As soon as that dust had settled, mission over, everyone had returned to their purpose. All but himself. Once more drowning in a sea of the unknown with no life line in sight.

They tried to give him a purpose; a reason for being. A job, a team, even a place to live and interact with the others. A not so subtle attempt on Fury's part to get him up to speed. He played along, was a good soldier, followed orders and did what had to be done. Still when he was alone, with no one to fight, or train with, or referee between the others; he was still drowning. Gasping and heavy as he crumbled, desperately hoping for something, anything, to anchor him to this world, to this time.

He thought he hid it well. The others would laugh and joke with the Cap, they had no idea of those dark desperate moments when he wondered if perhaps it was easier to just return to the silent cold.

Six months awake in this place he hit his lowest point.

The storm woke him thunder and lightening rolling across the New York skyline, echoing the rattle of battles past in his mind. Shaking and gasping he woke sweat soaked and trembling, blonde hair matted to his hair. The normally, dapper, if a little old fashioned Steve Rogers a shaking, shivering mess. Mind feverish and clouded he got out of bed, stumbling and staggering into the hall. Unsure were he was headed until uncooperative feet took him to the roof. The heavy metal door caught by the high wind, crashing against the wall with a resounding clang.

Slowly he stepped out onto the roof, the rain soaking his overheated body instantly. Slowly he turned his face upwards towards the sky, the cold rain pelting him, reminding him of the ice and silence. Maybe if he where to simply lay down and give in…

"Steve?"

It wouldn't be so bad would it?

"Steve?" suddenly there was warmth at his hand, solid, and real. "Steve!" the voice finally registered, blinking slowly, he looked down into dark worried eyes. It took him a long moments to recognize the face, "Tony…" he breathed barely audible, an almost plea. The warmth at his hand tightened almost painfully, "Steve you with me? You here with me Steve?" his voice was smooth, low, and calm, "Yeah." Brown eyes held his own confidently, he shivered suddenly aware he was cold but his had was so very warm.

He looked down at the hand holding his own uncomprehending. It was real. He was really here, holding his hand tightly. Gasping he stuttered, chest clenching as he sank to his knees Tony following him down, as the turmoil inside, the fear, the loneliness finally spilled out in a painful moment of sorrow. Gut wrenching sobs, wracking his large frame. All the while he clutched tightly to the warm hand; anchoring him.

Since that night when his world became overwhelming, when he felt like he was sinking in technology, or the too flashy culture, or the tragic news that seemed to report nothing but human kind at it worst. He'd seek out Tony Stark, usually in his lab, but sometimes like now sitting in the common room tapping away on his tablet mind racing a million miles a minutes. Sitting beside him, without a word the genius would reach out a warm, callused hand, Steve would clasp it tightly. Breathing evening out as he'd close his eyes, holding tightly to his reason…his anchor.