Chapter Text
The city always slept differently in the summer. Tony could feel it, even through the half-frosted floor-to-ceiling windows of the Avengers Tower lab: a looser, humid rhythm, air thick as syrup and heavy with unfulfilled promises. He didn’t miss his old Malibu lab—hadn’t in years—but some nights, like tonight, he could have sworn he heard the ocean if he turned his head just so, and let the blue glow from the server racks pool over his eyes.
It was one in the morning. FRIDAY had dimmed the lights and auto-muted his playlist hours ago, yet Tony was still awake, hunched over the main holotable with a half-empty mug of room-temperature protein goop. He wasn’t actually working. Instead, he traced a single finger along the edge of a projected window, watching the tiny motes of light scatter and reform in front of him.
For three hours he’d been circling the same subdirectory. In another life, maybe, he could have justified it as “security diligence.” But Tony Stark wasn’t a man who lied to himself. He wanted to know, and the wanting tasted like old battery acid at the back of his throat.
“FRIDAY,” he said, voice barely more than a hush.
“Yes, boss?”
“Open the package from Berlin. Level seven clearance. And—” He hesitated, thumb absently drumming against the table, “—no backups. Don’t log this.”
“Understood.”
A new window swelled open, its perimeter painted with red caution stripes. The thumbnail was grainy, timestamped from decades back, and marked with an official SHIELD insignia. Tony braced his hands on either side of the table and expanded the file.
There were no opening credits, no music. Just old footage: a black Mercedes rolling through a snow-frosted forest road, headlights carving tunnels in the darkness. Tony recognized the model immediately. He saw the lilt of his mother’s scarf in the back seat, the nervous tilt of Howard’s head behind the wheel. Even now, Tony’s father couldn’t bring himself to look fully at the camera, even if it was just a dashboard lens.
The ambush was swift. A nondescript sedan rammed the Mercedes into a pine. The next minute was a scramble of broken glass, screams—his mother’s voice, thin and terrified—and then—
Tony’s entire body seized.
The masked man was a phantom at first, moving with deliberate, mechanical grace. He ripped open the passenger side like it was foil, dragged Howard out, said something Tony couldn’t hear over the static roar in his own ears. Then the man lifted his pistol, paused, and—
The bullet hit with a sickening finality.
Maria’s fate was quieter but no less brutal. The masked man’s hand—metal, unmistakably chromed in the moonlight—closed around her jaw. She struggled, then went still. The masked man paused, staring down at her, something unreadable in the set of his shoulders. Then he turned, and for a split second, the grainy footage caught the lower half of his face: strong jaw, lips pressed in a resigned line, hair longer than regulation.
A single word glowed at the bottom of the file: WINTER SOLDIER.
Tony’s mouth tasted of metal shavings.
“Pause,” he croaked. The image froze, Maria’s wide, unseeing eyes locked onto him. He blinked, and they became his own.
He nearly didn’t hear the elevator chime over the tinnitus roaring in his skull. The doors whispered open. Steve Rogers, still in workout sweats and a t-shirtthat barely fit over his shoulders, stepped out and scanned the lab. He moved with the measured intent of someone following a homing beacon, and Tony realized—belatedly—that he’d been broadcasting. Not on a radio, but through the invisible bond that snapped tight whenever Tony’s heart rate spiked.
Steve’s eyes swept over the chaos of the lab, landed on Tony, and instantly darkened with concern. “Hey,” he said softly, not wanting to startle. “You okay?”
Tony didn’t answer. He tried to will his hands steady, but they jittered like old hard drives on cold boot.
Steve crossed the room in three long strides. “You’re not okay.” His voice was gentler than Tony had any right to deserve, considering what he was about to say. “What happened?”
Tony’s hand shot out, stabbing at the holo-table to close the file. But too late—Steve’s eyes tracked the frozen frame, the grayscale mask, the dead stare of Maria Stark. His jaw set. The silence in the room lengthened, grew taut.
“Did you know?” Tony’s voice was so small he barely recognized it. “Steve. Did you know?”
Steve’s lips parted. For the first time in months, he didn’t look like Captain America—he just looked like a guy who’d forgotten how to breathe. “I—” he started, then stopped. “I suspected. I didn’t—Tony, it’s not what you think.”
A dry, ugly laugh crawled up Tony’s throat. “Isn’t it? My parents, Steve. He killed my parents. You knew, and you didn’t say anything.” The words tasted like blood.
“It wasn’t him,” Steve insisted, but it came out strangled. “Tony, please. You have to understand. Bucky—he didn’t have a choice. He was—”
Tony was already standing, backing away from the table. “He didn’t have a choice?” Tony repeated. “Oh, that makes everything so much better. My mother’s head hit the dash so hard it left a dent, Steve. But he didn’t have a choice.” He was shouting now, each word punctuated by the high-pitched whine in his ears.
Steve reached for him, tentative. “Tony. Please. I wanted to tell you, but I couldn’t—I didn’t know how. I thought if I could find him first, bring him in—maybe—”
Tony flinched away from the hand. “Save it. You let me walk around this place, with you, for months, with that swimming around in your head.” He raked a hand through his hair, the movement jerky and raw. “God. No wonder you never let me near the case files. No wonder you never wanted to talk about him.”
Steve’s shoulders bunched up, his whole body broadcasting guilt. “You don’t have to forgive me,” he said, voice rough. “But you do have to listen. I never wanted to hurt you, Tony. I never wanted—”
“Stop,” Tony snapped. He scanned the room, desperate for an exit. His gaze snagged on the nearest object, a tablet, and before he could think better of it he grabbed it and hurled it at the far wall. The shatter was satisfying and totally unhelpful. Shards ricocheted off a workbench and skittered to the floor.
Steve didn’t flinch. He just stood there, letting Tony’s rage bounce off him like hailstones.
Tony pressed both hands to his temples, breath rasping. “You knew,” he whispered, more to himself than to Steve. “You fucking knew.”
The lab went quiet, save for the low hum of the servers and the distant hiss of rain against the windows.
Steve tried once more, voice worn but steady: “Tony… can we please talk about this?” His voice turned thin toward the end of the question, as if he knew the answer he’d get.
Tony didn’t look up. He barely felt the brush of Steve’s arm as it hovered near his shoulder and then retreated, as though Steve couldn’t decide whether to comfort him or let him break apart in peace.
After a long, poisonous minute, Tony made his decision. “You should go,” he said, each word a lead weight.
Steve lingered for a second, then squared his shoulders and left without another word.
Tony stared after him, hands trembling, and let the silence swallow everything else.
—————-
The aftermath had a flavour all its own: a chemical-burn bitterness, a taste Tony hadn’t had in years. Not since Afghanistan, or that first week post-arc reactor, when the world had gone abruptly silent and every new memory felt like it was being welded onto the inside of his skull.
The silence didn’t last. Not in Stark Tower.
Tony only registered the sound of the elevator a split second before Rhodey stormed in, trailed by a gust of sharp-cold Manhattan air. He was fully dressed despite the hour, his posture radiating sleep deprivation and military readiness in equal measure. As much as Tony liked having his dearest friend over to visit, there is no denying that this particular timing sucked.
“Jesus, Tony, I could hear the glass break from the guest suite.” Rhodey’s voice was a sharp edge. He scanned the room, taking in the shattered tablet, the scorched-glass tension in Tony’s shoulders, and the main display frozen on that final, damning frame. “What the hell happened?”
Tony opened his mouth, but only static came out. The footage on the wall was a constant, looping nightmare, and he could feel Rhodey’s eyes bounce from the screen to his face and back again.
Steve hadn’t left. He stood rigid by the far workbench, hands clenched at his sides, blue eyes shadowed with guilt.
Rhodey took in Steve’s position, his own Alpha instincts flaring. He planted himself between Tony and the rest of the lab, subtly blocking line of sight, an old protective habit he’d never quite lost.
“FRIDAY,” Tony rasped. “Start the file. Audio up, fifty percent.”
The screen flickered to life. Rhodey’s gaze hardened as he watched, and when the Mercedes appeared, his jaw set so tight Tony could hear the grind.
There were no questions. Rhodes was military; he recognized an execution when he saw one. But it was the way the masked man held the gun—the way he hesitated for a split second before pulling the trigger—that seemed to lodge in Rhodey’s mind, like a sliver too deep to remove.
When it ended, Rhodey looked over his shoulder, his voice low but steady. “Who sent this to you?”
“Berlin SHIELD archive,” Tony replied, voice hollow. “Apparently, it’s been on ice since the nineties. Some asshole left it in a subdirectory and didn’t think to mention it.”
Rhodey’s brows furrowed, but he didn’t say what Tony could see lurking there: that it wasn’t an accident. That someone, somewhere, had decided when and how Tony got to see his own parents’ last moments.
Steve moved at last, slow and deliberate, as if wary of spooking a cornered animal. “Tony. Listen to me.”
Rhodey stiffened, but Tony raised a hand: let him speak.
Steve’s eyes never left Tony’s. “He wasn’t in control. You have to understand—Bucky’s not that man. He was brainwashed, tortured, made into something he wasn’t.”
Tony let the words wash over him, but they slid off, oily and unsatisfying. “Does it matter?” His voice was so quiet, he could barely hear it. “My parents are still dead. And the man who did it—he’s still out there.”
Steve looked away, shame radiating from every inch of his frame. While he wanted to argue that, yes, the person or persons unknown who programmed this into Bucky are still out there and could be held accountable, all he could say was, “If I could take it back, I would. You know that, right?”
Tony didn’t answer. He watched the footage loop again, this time zeroing in on the angle of the shooter’s jaw, the ghost of hesitation before each shot. He wondered if the hesitation was mercy, or just another quirk of programming.
The silence stretched until Rhodey cleared his throat, one hand dropping onto Tony’s shoulder—solid, grounding. “You want me to call the others?” he asked quietly.
Tony shook his head. “No. Not yet.” He cut a glance at Steve. “We’re not done.”
Rhodey’s grip tightened, just enough to make it clear he wasn’t going anywhere.
Steve tried again, desperation leaking into his words. “Bucky Barnes is a victim, too. I’m not asking you to forgive him. I just—”
Tony rounded on him, anger spiking. “You want me to forgive the man who murdered my family?” His fists clenched so hard the knuckles shone through his skin. “Or just you, for keeping it from me?”
The words hung in the air, and for a moment, nobody moved.
Steve’s next words were barely audible: “Both.”
A strangled laugh ripped out of Tony, raw and helpless. “Of course. Of course you would.” He gestured at the footage, looping endlessly in the background. “Did you think I’d never find out? That you could just…” He gestured vaguely at at Steve, all tall, tough alpha of him, “Captain America your way through this one?”
Steve flinched, but stood his ground. “I thought I could fix it. That if I found Bucky first, if I could help him—maybe it would mean something. Maybe it would be worth it.”
The self-loathing in Steve’s voice surprised Tony. He almost pitied him, if he could have mustered anything but rage.
“Worth it for who?” Tony asked. “For you? For him?” His voice dropped, cold as the Arctic. “Because it sure as hell wasn’t worth it for me.”
He turned away, letting Rhodey’s presence shield him from the impact of Steve’s devastation. The screen kept playing, his parents dying in perfect, endless loop.
“He killed my mother,” Tony said, voice barely a whisper. “I don’t care if he was programmed by space Nazis or the Red fucking Queen. He killed my mother.”
Steve said nothing.
Rhodey drew Tony back a step, his arm anchoring him. “You don’t have to do this now,” he murmured. “We can shut it down.”
But Tony shook his head. “No. I want to see.”
They stood together, Tony and Rhodey facing the screen, Steve alone in the reflection, his silhouette blurred by the blue glow. The three of them were locked in a geometry of grief and guilt, none able to reach the others, not really.
Outside, the rain had thickened, washing the city in white noise. Inside, the only thing left was the low hum of the servers and the endless replay of what could never be undone.
——-
Peter had rehearsed his first day in the Avengers Tower about thirty times, not counting the full simulation he’d run in the privacy of his room with a hastily assembled lineup of Star Wars action figures as stand-ins for the world’s most intimidating scientists. He’d practiced the handshake, the “thank you for this incredible opportunity, Mr. Stark,” all despite having known the man for over a year now.
You catch one little bus and suddenly you’re on a billionaire, playboy, philantropist’s radar. Go figure.
Really though, it’s hard not feeling a sense of hero worship even by now. After all offers for upgrades with his tech, the late weekend nights working on software updates and different web formulas, and even after the one-off awkward omega-to-omega chat they’d had after he presented, he can’t bring himself to do something as small as call him Tony.
Woof. The “talk” was something he never wanted to remember, especially not now that he has to prepare himself for his first professional moment with the avengers.
Nothing in all his overthinking prepared him for the reality of the building at sunrise.
The lobby was so clean you could eat off the polished floors, and Peter suspected that somewhere, hidden in the walls, there was a whole team of invisible robots scrubbing every surface while the city slept. He stopped in the middle of the atrium, craning his neck to take in the triple-height ceilings, and nearly walked into a burbling water feature disguised as a modern sculpture.
He’d barely touched the elevator panel before the doors slid open with silent, frictionless perfection. Inside, a female voice greeted him, FRIDAY, and though to start, she was even more polite than the holographic training videos made her sound, he’d earned his fair share of sass from the AI.
“Good morning, Peter, Boss is expecting you in his lab. May I recommend you use the handrail during acceleration?”
Peter flashed a thumbs-up at the camera and tried not to bounce on the balls of his feet as the elevator zipped upward. He counted the seconds, told himself this was just a regular day, and did his best to ignore the little voice in his head chanting, Don’t screw it up, don’t screw it up, don’t—
The doors opened. Immediately, Peter’s senses went on high alert.
The lights in the lab were lower than he expected for a work day, and the air was thick with something almost electrical. Three heartbeats stood out: one fast and uneven, one impossibly slow, and one so steady it reminded him of a tuning fork.
He took a breath and caught the scent of ozone and bitter coffee, but underneath it—like a ripple in an otherwise calm pool—he detected grief. Salt and something sour, a flavour he’d only tasted when Aunt May locked herself in her room after a particularly tough week.
He’d never been more tempted to turn invisible in his life.
Instead, he squared his shoulders, did his best to channel the confidence Tony always seemed to expect from him, and stepped inside.
Rhodey—War Machine, though Peter had never called him that to his face—was the first to notice him. He looked tired, but his eyes were sharp, tracking every movement in the room. Mr. Stark was perched on the edge of a workbench, elbows on knees, hands wringing together like he was about to wring the neck of the world’s most stubborn math problem. Captain Rogers stood off to the side, arms folded and gaze fixed on the floor, the picture of a man who’d rather be facing artillery than whatever was happening here.
“Morning,” Peter said, voice cracking on the second syllable. “I mean—good morning, Mr. Stark.”
Tony looked up, and the exhaustion in his face hit Peter like a punch. “Hey, Underoos,” he said, but the nickname sounded like it hurt. “You’re early.”
Peter grinned weakly. “You said 6:15 sharp, and I didn’t want to mess up on my first day, so I figured—traffic, right?” He shut up when Rhodey shot him a look, and the silence slammed down again.
It took Peter a second to notice the main screen behind Tony. The footage was gone—replaced by a generic Stark logo—but the blue-white afterglow lingered. Something was wrong. Really, really wrong.
He slid his gaze to Steve. Steve, who usually smiled at him with that warm, crinkly-eyed approval, couldn’t meet his eyes. His jaw was set so tight it looked painful. Peter’s heart rate kicked up.
Tony broke the silence first. “We had an… incident.” He gestured to the floor, where Peter noticed a mess of shattered glass. “I lost my temper. Not my best work.”
Rhodey made a face, but said nothing.
Peter glanced around, then tried a joke. “At least you didn’t fry the power grid again? Remember that time you—”
“Yeah.” Tony cut him off, but it wasn’t sharp, just… tired. “Listen, Pete. You want to take a lap? Maybe run diagnostics on the new Mark VII units? I’ll catch up with you in ten.”
Peter hesitated. The tension was so thick he could have webbed it and hung it from the ceiling.
He shot a look at Steve, who finally lifted his head. Steve’s eyes were red-rimmed, and Peter realized he’d been crying—just a little, but it was so weird and wrong that Peter’s own chest ached. He knew better than to ask in front of company.
He nodded, trying to look helpful, then realized his feet weren’t moving. “Um. Mr. Stark. If you, uh. Want to talk. About whatever… happened?” He let the sentence trail off, because he didn’t know the rules here, not really.
For the first time, Tony gave him a real look—one that saw through the nervousness to the squirmy, worried kid beneath. “Thanks, Pete,” he said, and it sounded like maybe he meant it.
Rhodey patted Tony’s shoulder, then turned to Peter. “C’mon, I’ll show you to the good coffee. You look like you’re about to vibrate through the floor.”
Peter followed, but not before stealing one more glance at Steve and Tony. They weren’t touching. Weren’t even standing close. But there was something invisible binding them, a cord pulled so tight it might snap at any second.
He shivered, even though the lab was warm.
As they walked down the hall, Rhodey leaned in and said quietly, “Best thing you can do is give them space. They’ll work it out.”
Peter nodded, filing the advice away. He wondered if he’d ever get old enough not to feel like the new kid, or if this was just the way it was for people who never stopped getting in over their heads.
He resolved to work extra hard, to do something worth being proud of. Maybe, just maybe, he’d figure out how to help, even if it meant just staying out of the way until the worst was over.
Behind him, in the echoing emptiness of the lab, Tony and Steve circled each other in a dance Peter didn’t quite understand, but knew was important. Maybe the most important thing in the world.
He hoped they figured it out. For all their sakes.