Chapter Text
Crystal goblets full of burgundy red. Women in gowns of every color, swirling about the room like so many moving confectioneries. Men in neatly pressed suits, all the shades of a black and white movie. All in all, it was a usual Saturday night at the Stark manor, New York's elite putting on a display that was part courting ritual and part Shakespearean drama. All the political maneuvering in that large oak ballroom was enough to make one dizzy.
Small Tony Stark (not so small, actually, now that he was all of fourteen years old) much preferred the solitude of his own room to this Gatsby-esque farce. Or, better yet, the familiar dorm room of his boarding school, as stifling as it was. But appearances must be kept. He was home and he was expected to attend these gatherings, lest he incur yet another lecture from his father.
Tony adjusted his tie as he made his way down the grand staircase. As he approached the bottom step he heard a door open and close, then saw a shock of red charmeuse appear in the hallway. Maria Stark, done up in old Hollywood glamour, accompanied by an entourage of servants and servant-like friends.
"Mother," Tony said as she drew close. It was the first time he had seen her since coming back to the mansion a few days ago.
Maria smiled, a thing warm but distant, like the fireplace on the other end of Tony's spacious bedroom.
"Baby Boy," she said, wrapping a hand around his shoulder and pressing a firm kiss upon his cheek. "You look more and more handsome each time a see you. Are your studies going well?"
"Yes, Mother," Tony replied.
"Good." She gave his shoulder one last squeeze and then she was off, back to the ballroom amidst the chattering of gossip.
Tony took a deep breath as he watched her disappear behind those heavy wooden doors. It was his turn now. In his mind he conjured up an image of his father, a smile on his face and a glass of scotch in his hand as he effortlessly hobnobbed with the most powerful men in the nation. Smooth and cool. Tony's shoulders pulled up a little straighter, his lips quirked up on one side. It was just so much easier to deal with these shindigs when he wasn't Tony Stark, the boy who would rather be sketching theoretical inventions and reading Arthurian legends in his bedroom. When he was, instead, his father Howard, genius inventor and sly entrepreneur. It was easier that way for Tony to glide into his family's ballroom, to entertain the rich, the powerful, the sycophantic, all three flocking to him as though it were a matter of course.
You look as beautiful as ever, Mrs. Carmichael. I could think of worse things to be doing on a Sunday than a game of polo. If Roberts thinks he has a chance in hell of passing that legislation, he should retire before the rest of his senility kicks in. Platitudes and witticisms and whatever else was in Howard's repertoire, spouted by Tony without even a thought. The night passed exactly as Tony thought it would, at least until one of his father's assistants came to interrupt a conversation Howard was having with the governor. Howard's expression turned from annoyed to shocked to. . . almost hopeful. And then he was politely excusing himself and running off. While the interruption was rather strange it wasn't entirely rare, and Tony surmised that some important business venture was the cause of it. After he watched his father disappear from the hall, Tony turned back to his guests with a smile and resumed his end of the conversation.
Many of the guests stayed late into the night. Some lingered even after that. But finally they were all gone and the mansion re-converted from decadent ballroom to old, drafty house. The servants, mostly hidden until that moment, came out of the woodwork to start their cleaning duties. Tony loosened his tie and left the room, passing by Jarvis along the way.
"Jarvis," he said, with a nod of his head and a small smile that was actually genuine.
"Sir," Jarvis said back, with a nod of his own and a warm glow in his eyes.
"Know where my old man is?" Tony asked.
"I believe he is in his study," Jarvis replied. "Attending to some rather serious business."
"Thanks, Jarvis," Tony said, changing course to head there now. He had to admit to himself that he was curious about what was important enough to call his father's attention away from the governor of New York state, even if he would never admit it out loud. As far as his father needed to know, Tony had not the least bit of interest in the family business.
Tony briefly wondered what excuse he would give for his presence, but by the time he was in the hallway housing his father's study he realized that it wouldn't be necessary. He could hear his father before he even set foot off the staircase. He made his way to just outside the door, where he stayed in the shadows even as he looked in.
"I don't give a shit what the higher ups say," his father was yelling into his phone, his usual diplomacy obviously forsaken for more heavy-handed tactics. His fists were clenched so tightly that they looked almost red, one of them threatening to break the glass in his hand. "Despite what they want to believe, he's not property of the U.S. military. It was one of our operations that found him, and we're keeping him. Do what you need to do to keep them off our backs."
Tony wondered who the 'he' his father was discussing was. He wondered about the circumstances of the call.
"That's what we have lawyers for. If any of them weren't working on this as of five minutes ago, they're fired. In the meantime he's to be transported to my estate immediately, understood? Just so long as we're clear."
His father hung up the phone with a loud thud that had the phone shaking for a moment. Eyes the color of a blue flame looked up, directly at where Tony was hidden in the shadows.
"Oh, for the. . ." And here Howard sounded as frustrated and angry as he ever was with Tony. He got up from his desk, crossed the room, and glowered hard enough that Tony took a step back. His voice, when he spoke again, was low and foreboding. "I'll deal with you later, Tony."
And then the door slammed on Tony's face.
Tony didn't go to sleep that night. Instead, he camped out beside the pool, doodling circuits underneath soft blue lights. From this vantage point he could see both the heli-pad and part of the private road that led to the mansion. Whoever the 'he' his father was waiting for, Tony would be able to know when he arrived. Who, he wondered, could be so important to his father? Tony had never seen Howard display this particular mixture of concern and righteous anger over anyone. Not even, Tony thought, a small pain in his chest, over his own son.
Dawn was barely breaking when it happened. The soft, hazy light of morning had started to creep over the rolling hills and perfectly manicured gardens of the Stark Mansion. The noise came first, that unmistakable almost-chugging of a helicopter propeller. Soft at first, then almost deafening, the sound sending small vibrations through the earth as it came close. It landed spot on in the middle of the pad, stilled, shut off, and then there were several men coming out of it, escorting what looked to be a wheeled cot.
Tony stood up. Walked closer. The man on the cot was big and blond, and that was about all Tony could make out before he was rushed inside, medical paraphernalia in tow. Tony waited awhile. Ten minutes. Half an hour. Until most of the men were leaving his house, until the helicopter was spinning away, and only then did Tony make his way inside and toward the guest rooms. It was easy to find where the man had been placed because of the medical personnel going in and out of the room. Tony stood outside and caught a glimpse as the door opened and closed.
A man with handsome features prone on a large bed, oxygen mask over the lower half of his face and IV dripping into his arm. And his father. . . his father, Howard Stark, sitting by the man's side, head in his hands and a tender, hopeful expression on his face. The last thing Tony saw was his father reach for the man's hand, and then the door shut for good.
Strange, but all of the sudden it felt like Tony's lack of sleep had caught up to him. He felt so very tired. Too tired to make heads or tails of what was going on, too tired to ponder over the fact that Howard Stark could make an expression like that. Tony headed back to his room, where he fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.
~*~
Despite promises otherwise, Howard never did show up to "deal with" Tony. It was Jarvis who was sent in his place, a tray of assorted breakfast foods in his hands. He placed them on Tony's bedside and went to open the blinds as Tony slowly woke. His clock read four in the afternoon; still much too early.
"Good morning, young sir," Jarvis said, moving the tray to Tony's lap as the young man sat up. "You'll be pleased to know that your father has smoothed things over with your school. You can return as soon as the end of this week."
"I wonder how much he had to donate this time to 'smooth things over'," Tony said. He took a bite out of a slice of toast as he watched Jarvis move about his room, straightening things up bit by bit. "I see he couldn't be bothered to come lecture me himself."
"Master Stark is sadly preoccupied."
Yes, well, he was always preoccupied. Tony put his toast down, not really all that hungry. He wanted to blame the mystery man for his father's absence, but knew that Howard probably wouldn't have dealt with this himself regardless. Imminent expulsion from his boarding school was, after all, something that tended to threaten Tony Stark every now and then. No big deal.
"Your headmaster has a suggestion for your restlessness."
"Is that what they're calling it?" Tony asked, with a noise that was half-scoff, half-chuckle.
"He's concerned that it might be boredom that drives your more. . . rambunctious endeavors. He feels that you might obtain more stimulation at a higher level. Perhaps enrolled in a university."
While Tony had no doubt that he could handle university-level coursework, he wondered if this was just the school administrators attempting to pawn him off onto someone else. At any rate, he wasn't particularly averse to entering college at some point in the near future. "I suppose my father already has an opinion on the matter."
"I believe he has already spoken to his associates at Wharton."
Of course. It was rather ridiculous how his father kept pushing him toward the economic side of the family business, despite Tony's inclinations toward science. Or maybe Howard did so because of it. Maybe it his way of saying, "Sorry, you're just not good enough to do what I do."
"It's nice to know he's just as involved as ever when it comes to planning out my life," Tony said.
"The last time I checked," Jarvis said, a small smile on his lips, "you were very much in charge of planning your own life, sir."
As Jarvis left the room, Tony couldn't help but smirk a little at the sentiment. I am the master of my fate, he thought. I am the captain of my soul. Feeling just a little bit better about life in general, he got up and started getting ready for the day. A few inquiries found that his mother was off to Paris, his father to Arlington. Tony wondered if the impromptu trip had anything to do with the mystery man, who was currently being attended to by a small army of doctors, nurses, and security personnel. Curious, Tony made his way toward the man's room. He was in the hallway when he heard a scuffle, a rush of footsteps as the aforementioned army was set into a frenzy, and a yell.
"Bucky! Bucky, don't!"
Apparently Sleeping Beauty had woken up.
When Tony got the the guestroom door, he was treated to the sight of several servants trying to hold down a rather disoriented, very strong man. At Tony's footsteps, the man looked up, clear blue eyes going a little bit wide.
"Howard?"
Tony frowned. As he stepped closer, out of the shadows and into the light, he saw hope and recognition in the man's eyes fade into something else. . . a little curiosity, maybe. A lot of confusion. Tony was close enough for him to touch now, and that's exactly what he did, warm fingers ghosting over the side of Tony's face.
"No. You're not Howard."
"I'm his son," Tony said.
The words only seemed to confuse the man more. His eyebrows knitted together, creating creases over his handsome features. "That's not possible. . ."
"Mr. Rogers," said one man, and Tony recognized him as one of the leading scientists in Stark Industries' research and development department. "Don't worry, you're safe. You're in the Stark family home right now. We'll explain everything once you're lucid enough. Mr. Rogers, can you tell us what your last memories are?"
The man's eyes closed as he laid back, his expression pained. His voice came out as a low whisper. "Bucky. . ."
The scientist shared a long look with his associates before turning back to the man. "Of course we can talk later, after you've had some time to get your bearings."
When the man didn't say anything, a few people started to usher everyone else out. Tony found himself back in the hallway with the rest of the riffraff. His arm shot out as the lead scientist passed him, clutching onto a shoulder as the older man turned and frowned down upon him.
"What's going on?" Tony asked. "Who is that man and what's happened to him?"
"That man," the scientist said, his frown deepening, "is no other than Steve Rogers. Otherwise known as Captain America."
Tony outright laughed at that. "That guy's a little too young to fit the bill, isn't he?"
"You don't age much when you're in suspended animation, Mr. Stark. And he's been frozen in ice for the last several decades."
"I'm fairly sure that's not how cryonics works," Tony said with a scoff. "Last I checked successful temperature-induced suspended animation involved the draining of blood and zombie dogs. Very voodoo stuff, that kind of science. Most people, when they're frozen inside a block of ice, generally just die."
"Yes, well, Steve Rogers is not most people." The scientist brushed Tony's hand of his shoulder and turned to go on his way. "But I'm sure your father can tell you more about that than I can."
Tony's curiosity, however, was sated enough for now. Given the circumstances and his father's involvement, he could assume some kind of human experimentation. So his father had created some kind of superhero. Things like that happened all the time, really, and it was interesting enough to know the comics might not have been exaggerating when it came to Captain America. What was more baffling was his father's attachment to said superhero; it didn't exactly seem like the relationship between scientist and subject. Tony would have thought they might have been friends, but the Howard Stark he knew had no use for or want of friends. To a man like that, other people were no better than tools.
After that Tony went back to his room, where he took his old Captain America action figure from its place at the back of one of his bookshelves. The once vibrant red, white, and blue plastic was faded and covered with dust. Tony didn't remember the last time he had touched the thing, but he had never thrown it away or shoved it into some attic box either. It was the only toy his father had ever personally given him.
Captain America. World War II hero. National icon. A lost and disoriented man, on the cusp of mourning everything he had once known.
Tony dusted off the action figure and placed him back on the shelf. Closer to the front this time.
His father came back just several hours later and disappeared into the guestroom not long after. And with that, even with the added commotion of Captain America, some sort of normalcy returned to the Stark household. Everyone receding to their favorite dark corners, doing little to venture out into each other's spaces. Tony was sure he knew where his father was to be found and he generally avoided that section of the house. He had a feeling that if he didn't, he would be treated to the sight of his father being kind, of his father being warm. Just the thought of it made something twist in his stomach. Memories came unbidden of the few times in his life when Tony had been bedridden and sick, when he had felt small and scared, and the only attention given him was some maid sent with soup.
But those things didn't matter right not. Tony wouldn't let them. Instead of dwelling on it, he had phone conferences with his school advisers about how graduating early would actually work for him and looked up applications. MIT and Caltech. He was sure to get into both, as his connections and preternatural intellect ensured him a place at any university he chose. Applying to only these two schools would make it clear enough to his father where his interests lied; furthermore, when the time came he'd be able to choose between a vibrant college town and sunny California. Both options were appealing in their own ways.
Over the next few days Tony would, every now and then, come across Steve Rogers as he carried out his day to day life in the mansion. Steve sitting by the pool, reading the newspaper. Steve in the library, using two fingers to navigate the internet on the latest Stark laptop. In some of the old propaganda posters, Captain America had that perfect movie star smile, but Tony hasn't seen Steve's lips quirk upwards once. In fact, they were almost always set in a small frown and accompanied by little crease marks. And Steve's eyes always look so darkly serious, slight bags underneath them to speak to a lack of sleep. They had brought the man back to life, but he was hardly more than a ghost.
A few times, curiosity and boredom getting the better of him, Tony would hack into his father's computer to access files on Steve Rogers. Most of it was dreadfully boring. The documentation didn't even speak to the creation of Captain America. Instead, it started with his disappearance and the endeavors of Stark Industries to recover his body and shield (the metal of which was worth no small amount of money). Even the interesting things were reduced to dull lists and technical write-ups. There was one particularly macabre list, compiled after Steve had awoken. It was a list of friends and family that Stark Industries had attempted to track down. A list of names, and beside most every name one word. Deceased.
There were videos as well, but they were as dry as the texts. Most of them were medical tests. Some of them were interviews. Steve, sitting in the too large guest room he was being kept in, answering questions for some disembodied voice. It was easy enough to imagine one of his father's workers sitting off to the side reading from a sheet of paper.
"Mr. Rogers," said the voice on one of the videos. "The last official record of you was in 1945. An experimental drone plane was stolen; you and James Barnes boarded it just when it took off. According to eyewitness reports, the plane exploded while over the North Atlantic ocean. Do you remember this incident?"
"Yes."
"Was this the last incident you remember before waking up in the Stark mansion?"
"Yes."
"In your own words, exactly what is the last thing you remember?
Steve Rogers was a man frozen in his twenties, but the haunted look on his face made him look closer to his real life. The shadows of the room danced over his conventionally perfect features as he looked down, looked away from the camera. His voice, when he spoke, was calm and steady. Too much so.
"The last thing I saw was Bucky dying. At that moment, I felt like it didn't matter if I lived or died. . . and then I was falling."
*~*
Not two days after Steve's arrival, a black sedan with Virginia license plates drove up the meandering driveway to Stark mansion's front door. Tony sipped on his morning coffee as he watched from an open window on the second floor. He was expecting government, maybe military. Instead, he watched as a handsome woman his father's age stepped out of the care, followed by two young children who bore some resemblance to her. Steve came out to meet her, and as they hugged on the shallow stone steps, there was an actual smile on Steve's face. Though anyone who saw it would be hard-pressed to call it an entirely happy one.
"Peggy," Steve said, stiff words floating up to the window, "it's so good to see you."
At least her smile was genuine, even if it was tempered by the fact that she looked close to tears. "Steve. I can't believe it's actually you."
Then they were drifting away, out of earshot, into the mansion. Tony moved through the house himself, toward the back, where they reappeared to take breakfast on the veranda. He couldn't hear, this time, but he watched as they chatted, as they ate, as Steve played a round of tag with Peggy's children while Peggy looked on with a sad little smile. It occurred to Tony that they had no doubt been roughly the same age the last time they had seen each other. Now Steve would be almost believable as a son born of some indiscretion of Peggy's youth.
Eventually they said goodbye. Tony could see Steve move to walk them out, could see Peggy say that it wasn't necessary, and then Steve hugged all three of them tightly to his chest. But once they were out of sight Steve seemed to crumble, bit by bit, until he collapsed back into the chair with his head in his hands. He looked. . . tired.
It was quite likely some semblance of pity or sympathy that spurred Tony to moving. But before he really thought about it he was walking downstairs and outside. Once he got there, though, once he was just several feet away from Steve, he wasn't sure what to do. So he just stood there. Hands behind his back, feet unsteady, watching the lines of Steve's shoulders shake just so. Usually he would just default to the usual trick he used whenever he was feeling uncomfortable or awkward, but for some reason he didn't particularly want to pretend to be his father right now. Not with Steve.
"Hey," Tony finally said.
Steve looked up at the noise, and thankfully he hadn't been crying or anything equally embarrassing. The blank expression on his face settled into recognition as he looked at Tony, and he stood up with the ultra-straight posture of a military man as he held a hand out to Tony.
"You must be Anthony," he said. "I apologize for not greeting you properly before this."
"No apologies necessary," Tony replied, not surprised to find that Steve's handshake was warm and solid. "I imagine you've been fairly busy, what with adjusting to a whole new time frame."
Something flickered behind Steve's eyes before, just as quickly, it was gone again. "Still, I've been remiss not to at least say hello to my host."
"Host?" Tony chuckled a little. "Really, you're thinking of my old man. I'm just the brat that's home for a few days."
A puzzled look crossed over Steve's face. "You don't live here usually?"
Tony shrugged and helped himself to one of the chairs, hoping it would make him feel a little more comfortable. "Boarding school. It keeps both me and my old man sane. You know the saying, absence makes the heart grow fonder."
"I know it," Steve replied, taking a cue from Tony and sitting back down on his chair. "I'm not sure I've ever really believed it."
"So. . . " Tony trailed off, unsure of what to say. He wasn't even clear on the reason he had come down here to begin with. To cheer the guy up? Like he was capable of that. "Captain America. I used to dress up as you for Halloween. It's a little surreal, you sitting in front of me like this."
"Yes, it is," Steve agreed, no doubt for completely different reasons.
Tony leaned forward onto the table, fingers tracing nonexistent patterns on the silk cloth covering it. In the near distance one of the gardeners was trimming the hedges, but other than the metal clanking of the shears it was strangely quiet.
"You seem like you could use a shot of whiskey," Tony finally said. It certainly helped both his parents during times of stress.
That statement managed to elicit the smallest of smiles from Steve. "Alcohol has no effect on me."
"In that case, you have my deepest sympathies."
Steve shook his head. "It's not so bad."
And, again, that awkward silence stretched between them. Tony had been hoping to excuse himself to fetch a bottle of liquor. Steve would have had a few glasses, Tony would have snuck a few sips from the bottle, and it would have taken the edge off of both of them. Instead, they were still stuck opposite each other at this too large table, nothing to fill the space between them.
"I'm sorry," Steve said. "I'm not being much of a conversationalist. You'd think I could be more gracious toward Howard's son."
Inwardly, Tony bristled a bit at being referred to as 'Howard's son.' Outwardly, he waved his hands in a gesture of dismissal. "Don't worry about it. Like I said before, you've got a lot on your mind."
"Still, I suppose I should try to be less morbid. I should be happy that, at least, two of the people that I knew and cared for are still alive. That they were both able to live such full lives." Steve had been talking to his hands, but then he looked up at Tony. His lips tugged upward even as his eyes stayed blank. "I should feel lucky that Howard found me. Your father's always been such a kind man."
To whom, Tony wondered. He frowned as he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back, then realized the position made him look every inch the petulant child and straightened up again. "It seems like the the Howard Stark you know isn't the same person as the Howard Stark I know."
The pseudo-smile dropped from Steve's face as a confused look took over. "What do you mean? Howard's one of the nicest people I know."
"That's why I'm saying he's not the same guy I call dad," Tony said, not caring to elaborate. Kindness and niceties are two things Howard had never seen fit to show his own flesh and blood son, and yet he had bestowed them easily enough on the man sitting in front of Tony right now. Did Tony need to become a superhero to garner that kind of attention? It was a mistake, coming here to talk to Steve. Tony should have just stayed away. It wouldn't have been hard; he was leaving tomorrow anyway. He started to move, about to make an abrupt departure, when Steve's hand on his wrist froze him in his seat.
"And I should feel lucky to be able to see this time period. It's really amazing, the present world."
Apparently Steve had noticed Tony's discomfort and had decided a change in topic was in order. Tony, however, wasn't feeling nearly as accommodating now as he was before the topic of his father had come up. "Well, sure. We've got the internet, ultimate frisbee, diseases you haven't even heard of and cures for ones you have."
"No. Not the inventions. The people. . . the fact that this country has become a nation that truly offers freedom for all, regardless of race or gender."
Tony frowned and wondered if he should laugh. Even the comic book Captain America wasn't that corny. "Are you for real? You're a joke, right?"
For his part, Steve just looked confused. "I assure you, I'm not joking. I'm genuinely proud of what this country has become."
"Of course you are," Tony said. "You're Captain America."
The name was said with some small amount of derision, something Steve seemed to notice but decided not to comment upon. Tony pulled his hand away and stood up.
"Really sorry," Tony said, already walking away. "But I'm pretty busy. Maybe we'll talk some more next time I'm home."
Although by that time, Tony thought, they probably would have set Steve up with a place of his own. He wouldn't have to deal with Captain America. He wouldn't have to deal with his idealized childhood hero being such great friends with his father. What on earth could Captain America, all-American beacon of all that was good and bright, see in dark, sly Howard Stark? And why hadn't Tony deserved to see even a modicum of the great man that Howard had shown to Steve Rogers?
Tony wound up back in his room, of course, more comfortable in that relatively small space than he was in the rest of the mansion. Not ten minutes later there was a knock on his door, then a deep, solid voice.
"Anthony. I'm sorry if I said anything to upset you." And of course Captain America would come to apologize when he hadn't even done anything wrong.
"Don't worry about it, Cap," Tony said, trying not to put any sarcasm or snark into the nickname. "And call me Tony. Everyone else does."
Tony hoped that would be the end of it, apology accepted and goodbye, but there were no footsteps announcing Steve's departure. He listened for a few moments, moments that seemed to stretch on and on, before realizing that Steve wasn't leaving. The other man was apparently finding the right words to say, and when he spoke his voice was much soft to be coming out of someone who was six foot two and over two hundred pounds.
"Tony," he said, "I truly am sorry. I'm still adjusting to. . . well, everything. I don't have much left in this world anymore. It seems as though you have some issues with your father, but Howard is one of the only things connecting me to this time and place. He's important to me. And even though I don't know you, you're important to me as well, if only by virtue of being his son. I'd hate it if we couldn't get along."
And what exactly could he say to that? He would be leaving in the morning anyway; might as well play nice for now. He got up, plucking a thin sliver of a book from his shelf without even having to look at where it was located. He could always buy another copy. He opened the door and passed the worn pages to Steve, who took them with a rather confused expression.
"William Ernest Henley," Tony said by way of explanation. "There's a dog-eared page in there that's seen me through some dark times. Maybe it will help for you."
Steve's large hands wrapped around the book, barely gripping it, as though it were delicate enough to break apart at the touch. "Thank you, Tony."
And then he smiled. A smile that almost, just almost, reached his eyes. It was the tiniest bit of something like genuine happiness, and it was the first time Tony had seen it on Steve's face. And somehow it made Tony feel about ten times more uncomfortable and awkward than he already was. His fingers fiddled with the door frame as he quickly looked away.
"So, yeah, enjoy," he said. "I really do have to pack, so. . . I'll see you later."
"See you later, Tony. If I don't see you before you leave, have fun in school."
Tony nodded and closed the door without looking back at Steve. He waited, listening, until steady footsteps carried Steve away, and then he went to collapse in his bed. Captain America. Just one more reason why Tony was relieved to be going back to school come morning; exactly why, however, was a rather difficult matter for him to pinpoint.