Chapter Text
It was raining.
Rain poured down like a broken dam, soaking the earth beneath. The sky, gray and heavy with pitch-black clouds, seemed to have waited for this perfect moment. Voices echoed across the open field.
Some sobbed. Others murmured complaints under their breath. But all were there for the same reason: the funeral of Howard and Maria Stark.
Tony didn't like getting wet in the rain. That's why his slender fingers held a pitch-black umbrella, matching his suit. Strangely, it seemed no one else knew how to use an umbrella. The veils on women's heads were drenched, and men's suits clung to their skin, soaked through.
Until now. Directly across from him, Tony spotted another figure holding an umbrella. Just like his.
It was coincidence. Pure accident. He hadn't even thought to look in that direction. But through the curtain of rain stood a figure more peculiar than anything he had ever seen. Partly hidden behind a tree, next to a woman—as if that thin trunk could hide the bulk of a man like that. He wore a strange kind of uniform.
Black. So much black it was almost dizzying. Not military, or at least not any military Tony recognized. The black fabric wrapped around his thick legs made the man appear even larger, almost too large to be real.
Frustratingly, Tony couldn't see his face. The umbrella, lowered just enough, covered everything from his chin up. The priest's voice echoed as the ceremony began. They were calling for him. But watching this man had become the only thing Tony wanted to do with his entire being.
"Tony," said a voice beside him—Obadiah. His beard had grown out too much in just a few days, if that was even possible. His face looked worn, sunken, older. "You need to give a speech."
But Tony couldn't look away. The man under the black umbrella lifted it slightly and stared right back at him. Tony knew. He could feel those eyes watching him.
Yet, he couldn't make out the face. He didn't know who he was or where he came from. But somehow, with every fiber of his heart, Tony felt like he knew him.
By the time he climbed the steps to the podium, his fingers were trembling. He gripped the wooden lectern with all his strength, but his head was spinning. His family—his only family—was gone. And now he stood alone among vultures in suits. Among people who might want him dead.
"Uh—" he began, folding the umbrella in his palm with a deep breath. He leaned it against the podium and raised his head to the crowd. "I don't have much to say… My mom—Maria Stark—was a kind woman." That's how he began.
As rain threaded through his hair, his words started slipping away. He didn't know what to say. What could he possibly say?
"She mattered to me," he added after a long silence. "She was a good mother and a good person."
He didn't have much to say about his father. Maybe nothing at all. But he needed to say something. At least a few words.
"And my father—" He swallowed and closed his eyes. He wanted to say a complete bastard. He wanted to dull the pain, even for a moment, without caring what the people in front of him thought. But he couldn't. "He tried," he said instead. "Tried to be a better man. I don't know if he succeeded. But he tried."
That was enough.
Tony picked up his umbrella and stepped down. He ignored the priest climbing up after him. Ignored Obadiah. Every neuron in his brain, every cell, felt like it had turned into an ant—crawling, twitching, spiraling.
He felt taken over by something else. Like he was watching himself from underwater. He was twenty-one. Twenty-one. He had good memories with his mother. But he never got along with his father.
Twenty-one. And now, he had no one left. His polished, expensive black shoes sank into the muddy ground. For a moment, he felt like cursing out Mother Nature. Why couldn't it have just stayed dry?
At the very least, he wished he could've said goodbye to his mother on a sunny day.
When he felt a large hand on his shoulder, he flinched and turned. Of course—it was Obadiah. He looked at Tony with those blue eyes, as if Tony were some lost, pitiful child.
"You're not alone," he said. "I'll be here for you."
Tony didn't believe him. He didn't believe anyone. Especially not someone like Obadiah. Not anyone tied to the company, tied to his family. It was the kind of mistrust wealth bred. Because anyone could dig a hole right under your feet and smile while doing it.
Still, he nodded. Said nothing.
He turned back toward the tree where the strange man had stood. He was speaking with the woman now.
Tony noticed something: the man was blond. Beneath the shadows of all that black, his hair was golden. But Tony couldn't see any more than that.
He walked like a soldier. The kind of walk you saw in documentaries or shaky war footage or military films. Without taking his eyes off him, Tony turned to Obadiah and asked quietly, "Obie… was there a soldier at the funeral?"
Obadiah looked in the direction Tony was staring and caught sight of the man descending the slope. "Yeah," he said. "Plenty. But most of them had secret ties with Howard, so I don't know them personally."
And then the man was gone. The woman left behind took off her military hat and whispered a few words—perhaps a final prayer for the dead—then bowed her head. Afterward, she put her hat back on and turned in the direction the man had taken.
"That…" Tony whispered. "Who was that?"
Obadiah raised a brow. "Peggy Carter," he said. "I don't know the details, but she had a past with your father."
Tony didn't trust him. But on this, he could only hope Obadiah wasn't lying.
…
He found a lot of junk in Howard's hidden vaults.
Most of it was redacted beyond recognition—names blacked out, dates erased. Nothing much left to read. But in one of those secret compartments, Tony found a rusted, faded photograph.
Of course. Captain America—the man his father never shut up about. The photo was old, painfully old. Right beside the famous star-spangled man stood a much younger Howard Stark.
And a woman.
Tony couldn't help but think the woman resembled the one he'd seen that day at the funeral. Her face, the shape of it—it matched. Could that have been Peggy Carter?
He looked at the files scattered around him. Stacks of folders, loose papers, buried secrets.
"What the hell am I doing," he muttered with a sigh. "This is bullshit."
Every kid knew Captain America. At least for a while, no one could forget him. His heroism was legend. And Tony knew—he knew—that Captain America had once been one of Howard's closest friends.
He knew because Howard never shut up about him. Constant comparisons. Constant stories. And when Howard wasn't at home—he was always searching. For Steve Rogers.
In the ocean. On the ice. At the top of a mountain. Hell, maybe even in space. Howard never stopped looking for his one and only friend.
And Maria Stark… well, she had spent too many nights waiting. Sleepless. Numb. Drowning herself in wine, waiting for a man who was never coming home.
Waiting for a ghost might've been the hardest thing in the world.
Tony had watched his mother fall apart, night by night. That was why they fought so often. Why there had been so much silence in the house.
And then one day, Howard stopped searching. He didn't even mention Captain America anymore.
And then they died. Howard and Maria Stark, killed in a stupid car crash.
Tony closed his eyes and sighed deeply. There's no point in me being here, he reminded himself. Everything my father left behind is just garbage.
He wasn't going to do what Howard did. He wasn't going to search for Captain America. Not the way his father had wanted him to.
No.
Tony was going to look forward.
The past was the past. The future was still his. He refused to live stuck in a memory like his father did. But then—just then—he saw it. Tucked in the corner of the vault.
Another envelope.
Unopened. Whoever sent it, Howard had never bothered to open it. Tony reached out, brushing the dust off gently.
There was nothing written on the outside. A blank envelope. But inside—there was a letter. Without hesitation, Tony opened it.
And just as he began reading the first lines—he saw it.
‘To Steve Rogers.’
"Are you fucking kidding me?" Tony snapped, throwing the letter aside. No reason to read it.
Right?
But curiosity had always been Tony's fatal flaw.
He picked the letter back up. And then he realized—Howard had written it. The letter was from Howard. Addressed to Steve Rogers.
But it had never been sent. No stamp. No address. Nothing. Maybe Howard wrote it and gave up right after.
"To Steve Rogers."
It started like any other formal letter, with the recipient's name inscribed at the top in Howard's distinctive handwriting. But as Tony's eyes traveled down the page, he noticed something unusual—something that made his heart clench unexpectedly. There were dried tear stains scattered across the paper, forming small wrinkled circles where liquid had once fallen. Smudged spots marred the neat penmanship in places, and little yellowish-brown patches stained the corners and edges—unmistakable evidence of spilled whiskey. The realization hit Tony suddenly: Howard had been crying when he wrote this letter. His father, the stoic, unyielding Howard Stark, had been sitting alone, drunk and weeping, as he penned these words.
"I'm sorry," the letter began with a simplicity that belied the depth of emotion behind it. "I'm sorry I couldn't find you. You were the best thing I ever brought into this world. And I couldn't find you. I'm sorry." The words, though few, carried a weight that Tony had never associated with his father—raw vulnerability, genuine regret, and a profound sense of failure that seemed to have haunted Howard until his final days.
Tony had always thought his father's obsession with Captain America was just that—obsession. Maybe even some twisted hero-worship. But this… this was more.
Captain America wasn't just a symbol to Howard.
He was proof. Proof that Howard had once done something right. That he could be good.
And he lost him.
Maybe Howard even loved him. Who knows?
There were more lines at the bottom, but they'd all been scribbled out in black ink. Nothing else was readable. Tony folded the letter and shoved it back into the envelope.
"Jesus," he muttered. "Howard, you sick bastard. You were definitely obsessed. Creepy little shit."
He tossed the envelope back into the vault. No reason to stay here.
He left the files where they were. Maybe one day he'd come back and organize them. Though honestly—he doubted it.
And suddenly, a small device in his pocket started to vibrate.
He'd rigged it ages ago—just in case someone entered the estate without clearance. Of course, Howard had scoffed at it. But Tony had known it would work.
It could detect human figures. And now—it was vibrating.
Someone was here.
There were no staff in the house. Tony had fired everyone after the funeral. And Obadiah wasn't coming back anytime soon.
He hurried upstairs and looked out the window.
There—standing at the grave—was a tall figure. Broad. Still.
Now that he thought about it… why had they chosen to bury his parents there? Where it could be seen from the house so easily?
Had Howard chosen it for visibility?
Or— The man at the headstone lifted his head. Looked right at him. And of course—Tony, genius that he was, did what Howard would never have approved of.
He grabbed his coat.
Because he was going to find out who the hell that stranger at the grave really was.
As soon as he forced open the heavy door, he started running across the muddy ground. He hadn't had the strength to change after the funeral, and only now realized he was still wearing the damn suit.
"Nice going, Stark," he muttered to himself. "Running through mud in an expensive suit? Genius."
As he climbed the hill, he saw the man beginning to walk away from the gravestone.
He had a thousand questions, but identity came first. He ran like a madman and stopped beside the stranger.
"Wait!" he shouted.
Normally, he'd worry about whether the guy would pull a gun on him. But Tony had never seen anyone leave flowers on the grave of someone they were trying to kill. So no—he wasn't too worried about dying right now.
Besides, this man looked more like he was crying.
Breathing heavily, Tony growled, "Who are you? In case you didn't notice, you're trespassing. This is my property."
The man had massive shoulders and an impressive build. After a brief tremor, he replied without turning around:
"A friend of Howard's."
Tony frowned. "Then why didn't you come to the fune—" He stopped mid-sentence, frowning deeper.
"You did," he said.
"I did," the stranger confirmed. "But I... I wanted to see him alone."
"Alone? With a dead guy?" Tony scoffed. "Must've been a quiet conversation."
The man didn't laugh. Didn't react. Just froze.
For a moment, Tony genuinely wondered if the guy had turned to stone. But then, the man opened an umbrella he'd been holding.
A black one. Just like at the funeral.
"Are you going to tell me your name or what?" Tony asked again, irritation rising in his voice. "Or how about I just call the cops—"
The man slightly turned toward him. His face wasn't clear, but Tony could make out pale skin and blond hair.
And because his brain never shut up: 'Yeah, most blond guys have pale skin. Good job, Stark.'
"As I said, I'm a friend of Howard's."
"Then why have I never seen you before?" Tony shot back.
"I'm an old friend," the man explained. "Very old." He said it quietly, as if he didn't really want to be heard.
But Tony was running out of patience. "Your name? I'm asking for your name, man. You do have one, right? Or should I give you one? I'm pretty good at naming things."
"What, you gonna call me DUM-E?" the man asked with a trace of amusement in his voice. Then it disappeared just as quickly.
Tony tried not to react to that shift. Still, yeah—he probably would name him something like that.
"Yeah," he said. "Sounds like something I'd do." Then the man slowly lowered the umbrella.
"I'm just wondering how I didn't notice before," he said, more to himself than Tony. What the hell is this guy talking about? "But you... you look so much like Howard. How did I miss that?"
And when the man finally turned to face him—Tony stumbled back a little. Oh, he was losing his mind. No doubt about it. Muscular. Blond. Pale. That clean-cut accent. Blue eyes.
"Oh, shit," Tony muttered. "Seriously?"
Steve Rogers. Captain America. The man who was supposed to be frozen in ice or lost in some distant ocean. Yet here he stood, tall and unmistakable, a relic from the past somehow breathing in the present.
"My condolences," he said as if it were nothing, as if offering sympathy at a funeral was the most ordinary thing in the world when you've been presumed dead for decades. His piercing blue eyes studied Tony with quiet hesitation, searching for something—recognition, perhaps, or the shadow of Howard in his son's face.
And all Tony could do was curse again, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. "Holy fuck."
"Okay," Steve said—Rogers, whatever—Tony wasn't even sure anymore, wasn't sure of anything in this moment of surreal collision between history and present. "I understand the shock… But—"
Tony wasn't just shocked. He was beyond shocked, beyond stunned. He was experiencing something closer to a complete mental system failure. He was losing his fucking mind, neurons misfiring, reality reconfiguring itself around him in ways he couldn't comprehend.
Again, with more emphasis this time, the words escaped him: "Oh fuck. You're alive. How?" The question hung in the air between them, impossibly heavy.
Captain America. The holy man. Mr. Morals himself. America's golden boy. The paragon of virtue that Howard had never shut up about. Steve Rogers looked at him like he was the crazy one, like Tony was the one who'd somehow defied death and the laws of nature.
"Tony—" he started, and that stunned Tony even more, another layer of impossibility piled onto an already teetering stack.
"You know who I am?" he blurted out, unable to process this new information. Because—sure, his parents just died. But still. People didn't just come back from the dead every day. Especially not people his father had spent decades searching for without success.
"Of course I—" Steve trailed off, catching himself mid-sentence. His expression shifted, something guarded falling into place. His broad shoulders lowered slightly, a subtle change in posture that spoke volumes. "I know you," he said softly, his voice gentler now. "You're Howard's kid." Then he added with what Tony could only describe as a painfully awkward attempt at a friendly smile, "The genius boy."
And now Tony felt kinda guilty, an unexpected emotion cutting through the shock. He had just read a letter—an old, yellowed, tear-stained letter—written by his father to this man. A deeply personal letter that had never been sent, words Howard had never had the chance to say to the man standing before him now.
And suddenly, Tony had a much better question, one that pushed past all the others clamoring in his mind: Why the hell did this guy look twenty years old? How was it possible that Captain America looked like he had just stepped out of those old war reels, untouched by time when everyone else had aged or died?
"Let me guess," he said to himself, his brilliant mind already racing toward the most logical explanation. "The serum?"
Steve flinched briefly at the mention, a micro-expression of discomfort flashing across his face, then composed himself with military precision. "Sort of. I was... frozen." The words came out clipped, clinical, distanced from the horror they actually described.
"Frozen?" Tony repeated, the word failing to compute in his alcohol-addled brain. "Who froze you?" As if someone had deliberately put Captain America in cold storage like a science experiment.
"The ocean." Two simple words that explained everything and nothing at all.
And again, Tony had no words. Just swears, because what else could possibly express the sheer absurdity of this moment? "Motherfu— Okay. Okay. No. This is a dream. I've lost my goddamn mind." He ran a hand through his hair, as if trying to physically rearrange his thoughts into something that made sense.
"I'm sorry," said the massive blond, his voice carrying a weight that seemed to stretch across decades. His blue eyes, impossibly bright even in the dim light, filled with a sorrow so profound it seemed ancient. Then, like a cloud passing over the sun, that expression shifted—revealing something harder, a flash of anger or perhaps regret.
"I... I'm sorry for everything. I should go." He began to turn away, his movements careful and measured, like someone trying not to disturb a fragile peace.
A few meters away, a sharp voice cut through the tension, commanding and unmistakable:
"Steve!"
A woman was running toward them—older, her hair now streaked with silver, but still with a determined gait that betrayed her strength and purpose. Even through his shock, Tony recognized her immediately: Peggy Carter. His father's colleague. One of the founders of SHIELD. A living legend in her own right.
"Where were y—" She froze when she saw Tony, her words dying mid-sentence. Her sharp eyes, still keen despite her age, widened slightly in recognition. Her words stuck in her throat like they'd hit a barrier. After a second of visible recalculation, she turned back to Steve and narrowed her eyes, a wordless communication passing between them.
"Let's deal with this later," she said, her British accent clipped and professional. "Steve. We have a situation." The way she said it made it clear that whatever was happening elsewhere was far more urgent than Tony's existential crisis.
And Steve—like it was second nature, like no time had passed at all—followed her command without question. As he looked back one last time over his broad shoulder, those impossibly blue eyes met Tony's with an expression that contained multitudes: regret, curiosity, recognition, and something else Tony couldn't quite name.
"Take care of yourself," he said, the words hanging in the air like a promise or perhaps a warning.
And Tony… really wished he didn't drink so much. Really wished his mind was clearer right now. Because there were only two possibilities here, neither of which made any sense in a world that was supposed to follow rules and logic.
One: his brain was completely fried from all the alcohol and grief, hallucinating figures from his father's past in some elaborate breakdown. Very likely, given the circumstances.
Two: Captain America—his dad's living idol, the man Howard had searched for until his dying day—had somehow come back from the dead right after his parents died, appearing like some twisted cosmic joke or consolation prize.
Of course. Of course he did. Because why would the universe allow Tony even a moment of normalcy?
Because only Steve Fucking Rogers would come back from the dead just to mess with Tony Stark, just to show up at exactly the wrong moment, just to remind Tony that Howard had always cared more about finding a dead man than raising his living son.
Right?