The winter morning air in Brooklyn carried a crystal-like clarity. The snow that had stopped falling just two hours earlier had thrown the footprints on the street into sharp relief, and the solid tracks where the softly falling snow had been trampled underfoot were still visible.
Behind the brown wooden window frames and cool-toned glass, steam rose above a cup, twirled nimbly through the air, and vanished. Then the aroma of coffee spread through the whole house, warming the feet that had gone stiff with cold after crossing the snow-covered street.
Stark and Steve sat side by side on the sofa in the Hell's Kitchen psychiatric clinic. Steve was using tongs to turn the charcoal in the fireplace, while Stark used the armored hand of his suit to flip the cookies warming on the rack above it.
He glanced back toward the kitchen, where Schiller was busy brewing coffee with a moka pot. Stark turned back to Steve, raised an eyebrow, and said, "I'm sure Schiller's been much more normal lately."
"Do you remember how long it's been since we last had coffee here?" Steve adjusted the charcoal with his head lowered. Firelight reflected on his face. Captain America's blue eyes had always reflected every kind of light with startling clarity—morning glow, sunset, or flames. Whenever he looked at fire, it was as though someone had lit a lamp inside a block of ice.
"He hasn't been this patient in a long time." Stark flipped the cookies as he spoke, his tone tinged with reminiscence. "He didn't even have time to stop and make himself a cup of coffee."
"That's always a good thing, Tony." When Steve relaxed, his speech took on a slight Southern accent and cadence, perhaps inherited from his mother. Like someone from that era, he said,