Chapter Text
1918
“Sar… Sarah, you are going to break my hand, you daft woman!”
“I hate you, Joseph Seamus Rogers, I hate you so much and I hope you experience the pain of childbirth in your lifetime!”
Sarah let out another loud shout as she felt another contraction. Joe knelt at the side of their bed, wincing as his wife squeezed down on his hand, her blunt nails digging into his skin, leaving half-moon shapes where they pressed.
“Once more, Mrs. Rogers, I can see the head!” said Betty Moore, Sarah’s midwife.
After a few more minutes (and a few more agonizing screams from Sarah and shouts of pain and protests from Joe), Betty pulled out a little, blonde boy.
He cried, he cried so loud, but he was so small, so fragile looking. Betty cleaned him off carefully, taking care as the baby fussed and cried still. After Betty wrapped him in a clean, pristine, new blue blanket, she handed him down to Sarah, whose brow was still beaded with sweat, and she looked so tired, bags under her eyes from the three sleepless nights she had been in labor.
Joe slumped in the arm chair by the bed, tears in his eyes. “A little boy,” he croaked out. “Just like you said, love. Our little boy.”
Sarah cradled him close to her chest. The baby was still making soft, pathetic sounds, but he was calming down, warm in the arms of his mother. She brushed what little blonde hair he had on his tiny scalp with her fingers softly. “He’s a Steven, I think,” she whispered. “Steven. And Grant, after your father.” She looked at Joe with a smile on her lips. “What do you think?”
“Steven Grant Rogers,” Joe said, playing with the name on his mouth. “Steve Rogers.” He pulled the chair closer to the bed and he reached out to hold Sarah’s hand. “Now that sounds like the name of an American.”
1970
Howard Stark isn’t there for the birth of his son. He is in Malibu, California, working on the newest Stark headquarters for the West Coast. He tells Maria, “The future is in California”, but all she hears is that he’ll be gone until July, when she’s due in May.
Edwin Jarvis, their butler, is there, however. He’s the one who holds her hand when she tries to push, she tries so hard. But nothing is working, the baby is just too stubborn, and she thinks very vaguely that it must be the Carbonell in him that makes the baby so persistent to stay inside her.
The doctors say she has no choice, she has to have a Cesarean, because that baby is not coming out. They try to make it a joke, but Maria only hears that there has to be a surgery; they have to cut her open to get the baby out. She agrees because Starks don’t show fear, even if they’re only Starks by marriage.
She names the baby boy Anthony, because Howard had told her to name him so. She gives him the middle name of Edward because Edward was her own father’s name.
He has such dark hair, she thinks, as she holds him. Even though he’s a child, she can already see so much of Howard. His nose, his eyebrows, the set of his mouth. He’s fussy already, so cranky, so quickly, the only time he’s calm is when he sleeps, which is seldom.
But he opens his eyes and she sees herself in him too, not all Howard. Not all of this baby boy is Howard Stark. Because his eyes—the way he sees—are hers.
And she thanks God that he is not all Howard.
1925
Steve is seven, and he is small. His ma says he won’t be forever because some boys get tall later. She tells Steve to stick to his drawings, to stick to his books, because being smart is more important than being tall.
Steve is seven, and he is weak. He can barely help old Mrs. McDonald with her groceries up the four flights of stairs. She still gives him a quarter for his help, the trouble he went through, because she pities the poor boy who wheezes feebly at the top of the stairs, his breathing made difficult by the asthma.
Steve is seven, and he is helpless. His father smashes a bottle of whiskey against the wall near him and his mother is crying, her hand clutched to her face, the purple bruising peeking out from between her thin fingers. Get out here, you useless little maggot! his father shouts, his eyes bloodshot and his words slurred.
Steve is seven, and he doesn’t want to be who he is.
1977
Tony is playing in his room, a small wrench in his tiny hand, an open circuit board splayed out in front of him. He’s so young, and he’s told Jarvis so many times that he is going to make himself a robot if it’s the last thing he does.
Tony has not only learned about robots, but also about the word “prodigy”, which is what everyone calls him. Dr. Leicester says he wants to study Tony, because Tony is so smart, so Tony visits Dr. L every Thursday. Dr. L asks him easy questions, hard questions, and sometimes he watches Tony read and watches Tony work on his robot, like he is today.
Tony is used to being watched. Lots of people watch Tony. He’s a Stark. And Starks are made to be watched.
Dr. L takes his notes like usual as Tony works on his board, pausing sometimes to ask Tony questions about what he’s doing, where he learned it, how he learned it. Tony says, books and sometimes, he says, Dad and he answers with I just learned, because Tony doesn’t know how to explain how his brain works to a guy who’s not a child prodigy. He mustn’t be very smart in the first place, if he keeps asking Tony what he’s doing, even though he is a doctor. Tony thinks he could be a doctor, especially if guys like Dr. L are allowed to be doctors.
So Tony spends a warm May day inside Stark Mansion. He does what he wants since his parents are off in Europe for the week. It’s a nice change of pace, being the only person in the house, other than Jarvis.
Not one but Jarvis makes mention that today is Tony’s seventh birthday.
1929
Steve is in the sixth grade when the stock market crashes. He comes home to his mother crying at the kitchen table. She’s not normally home when he gets home from school, so he’s a little startled when he sees her. Her face is in her hands, and her shoulders are shaking.
“Ma?” he asks, shutting the door behind him. He bolts the door with a little effort, and he drops his dirty, brown backpack on the floor.
His mother stiffens when she hears his voice, but she recovers, wiping her eyes with her hands. She gives Steve a watery, fragile smile. “Hello there, love. Have a good day at school?” she asks, grabbing a napkin and blowing her nose.
“What’s wrong, Ma?” he asks, his eyebrows knit.
Her smile falters, and she reaches up to fix Steve’s hair idly. She huffs a heavy sigh; her eyes are brimming over with water again. She clears her throat and rights herself.
“Money’s going to be a bit tight for a while now, Stevie. Mama has to look for a new job,” she tells him softly.
Steve isn’t stupid. He knows that means she got fired. But he doesn’t say that, only nods. He’s used to money being tight. Ever since his father died last year, he knows what it means to try to conserve money.
It can’t be that much worse, can it?
1981
Tony is home for the summer before he goes back to his boarding school in Massachusetts. His mom has placed him in a tuxedo for the gala they’re throwing in what is supposed to be in honor of Tony’s return, but it’s really for Howard to schmooze his way through the rich people to get more people to invest in Stark Industries. It’s all about money, even when it’s supposed to be about Tony.
Tony is cooed over and talked to like he’s stupid (he’s not, he’s seriously not stupid, why don’t these people understand that he is smarter than all of them combined, and he is twelve). But he deals with it because Howard would kill him otherwise, so he schmoozes too, and damn it if he’s not the best schmoozer in the room other than the elder Stark himself.
Tony goes by the bar and asks the guy working there for a Coca Cola. Tony hops on one of the stools and starts eating the bowl of pistachios (because pistachios are delicious and you can never have just one) next to his arm. He’s careful about not ruining his suit, it’s new, and Tony would like to not wake up with new bruises if he ruined it.
The bartender puts a glass bottle in front of him and smiles that smile that isn’t really a smile, but more like “like me so I don’t get fired because your dad is Howard Stark”. Tony gives the guy a tight grin and takes a sip from the bottle.
Before Tony sets it down, his dad comes up next to him and asks for whiskey, which is promptly given to him. Tony figures that Howard will ignore as per usual, so he takes another idle sip of his soda, not prompting conversation because, in the Stark household, you don’t speak unless spoken to.
He’s not expecting Howard to shove the tumbler into his hand and tell him, drink this, it’ll put some hair on your chest.
Tony knows better than to disobey, so he takes the tumbler and drinks.
1934
The apartment is dead silent.
Bucky Barnes turns the knob on the front door and finds it unlocked. He opens it and steps inside the house. The apartment is cold, like ice and it feels frozen, not in temperature, but in time. He calls for Steve, but receives no answer. His mother is downstairs with the car.
He shoves his hands in his pockets, and he feels like the sound of his footsteps are invading the space this apartment has created.
He finds Steve in his mother’s room, sitting on the now bare mattress. His back is to Bucky and he’s hunched over. Bucky walks slowly to the other side of the bed and he sits next to Steve. He’s holding a picture frame with a photo of his mother inside of it.
She is young and she is vibrant, even in the muted colors of the sepia. She has Steve’s startling blue eyes, that much is clear in the photo.
She looked nothing like this in the last days of her life.
Steve is small, but he is smaller now. He’s curled in on himself, pulled in close, hiding himself, shielding himself. This is not the kid who gets beat up in the alleyways, willing to fight for whatever it is he believes in. This is a sixteen year old kid who has given up.
And Bucky doesn’t know how to make it better.
1986
Starks don’t back down from a challenge. Not ever. It’s a rule, it’s a code, and it’s what Tony fucking Stark does.
Maybe that’s why he starts with the lovely little needle.
Or maybe, maybe it’s because that really hot girl (Amy, Amber, Ashley, Allison? Something with an “A”) offered it to him and, hey, who is Tony Stark to say no to a pretty face?
Maybe it’s because it’s fucking easier than dealing with the shit reality has decided to throw in his fucking face.
The college guys and the college girls from MIT around him love him now because he gets the good stuff, right, because he can afford that shit because he’s Tony fucking Stark and he can afford the best fucking drugs on the market because he’s a Stark, right, and Starks are loaded.
It’s just a little prick, right, totally worth the bliss that comes after it, totally worth it, because Tony’s mind to finally fucking blank for once and he’s grateful for the silence.
1940
When Steve was a kid, he normally spent his Christmases at the tiny church up the street. He’d get dressed in the nicest things he owned at the time, and his mother would shove his hands into gloves and force a hat on his head. They would go to the midnight mass and sing in Latin and ring in Christmas with the rest of the congregation.
He doesn’t do that anymore.
Bucky’s family is Jewish, so their holiday season has already passed. Mrs. Barnes had taken care of Steve after his mother passed, so he might as well be a little Jewish, save for actually being Jewish.
But, tonight, they are going to the lighting of the tree at Rockefeller Center. Bucky has a girl on his arm, a dirty blonde with blue eyes. She laughs at everything Bucky says and hangs off his every word like he’s the most interesting person in the world. And Bucky, in turn, gives her his undivided attention, and he’s funny enough to huff a few laughs out of Steve.
Bucky is everything Steve is not, and Steve wonders how they are even friends at all.
The girl Steve is supposed to be with (“It’s a double date, Steve, no pressure.”) is a few steps ahead of him, trailing after Bucky and the girl, her hands stuffed in her large, brown coat. She’s cute. A brunette with big brown eyes. She lives in the Upper East Side and why she’s hanging out with the likes of Bucky and Steve, he doesn’t know.
Steve manages to catch up with her. She’s looking at the lights, and Steve would be an idiot not to find her beautiful. She catches him looking, and she smiles sweetly when he flushes.
“You’re only here for Bucky, aren’t you?” she asks. Steve goes to protest, but she interrupts him. “It’s all right. I’m only here for Jan.” She gives him a once-over and sighs heavily, her breath visible in the cold night air.
“To tell you the truth, I have a guy already,” she says. She links her arms through Steve’s, but keeps a polite distance between them.
“Yeah?” Steve says. “Then why are you here, on a horrible double date with me?” He smiles at her to show he’s joking, but he’s not sure it comes across because she knits her eyebrows together.
“He’s at boot camp. He signed up for the army,” she says quietly. They arrive to the tree at the center. It’s the biggest tree that Steve has ever seen, and it’s decorated to the nines. He wonders vaguely how much power the entire thing is taking up. “Didn’t want to be alone, I guess.”
Steve nods. “I know the feeling.”
1992
Tony is twenty-two when he meets Virginia Potts.
He is also hungover when he meets Virginia Potts, but he doesn’t like to talk about that part a lot.
Obadiah says it’s time to stop sleeping with the personal assistants, that it’s unprofessional and you’re CEO now, Tony, you have to be responsible now and stuff like that. So Obie hires Virginia Potts, who is fresh-faced and eager to work and has red hair and is downright gorgeous.
And Tony tries, he tries so hard to sleep with her. He’s never tried this hard to sleep with someone, he thinks, not even when he was a teenager. But she is resilient, all Yes, Mr. Stark and No, Mr. Stark and will that be all, Mr. Stark and she just will not sleep with him.
And it’s driving Tony nuts! Who doesn’t want to sleep with Tony Stark? No one, that’s who! He’s got a line so long that it could go around the circumference of the world of people who want to have sex with him!
But Virginia Potts is not on that list, it seems, and she hands him paper after paper to sign and gets him to press conferences and board meetings on time.
One night, Tony is so smashed and so high and so gone that he does not even know where he is. All he can see is dim streetlamps and a deserted street and he is alone, so alone, and his head is starting to pound, but it doesn’t hurt, it’s just pounding, like he can feel his blood coursing through his veins.
He stumbles down the street a little more until he staggers into a phone booth and he uses the quarters he has to dial a number he didn’t even know he memorized.
“Hello?” he hears at one end and he stands a little straighter.
“Potts?” he says. “Why are you calling me on this pay phone?”
He hears a sigh and muffled talking on the other side of the phone. “Where are you?”
“Uh,” he says dumbly. He looks around. “California. Probably.” He finds the phonebook hung on the payphone. It’s fuzzy, he can barely read it, his eyes just won’t focus, dammit. “Yeah, California.”
“Don’t go anywhere, I am coming to get you. We’ll trace the call. Do not move.” He hears the receiver click down and the dial tone start.
“Where else do I have to go?” he asks the receiver, but she is gone and she cannot hear him, and Tony starts crying. He lets the phone fall and he crumples inside the payphone, hot tears streaming down his face because he is so tired and so done and he feels so fucking alone and it fucking hurts.
Pepper finds him thirty minutes later and shuffles him into the car. She examines his face and he winces at one point and her fingers come away with crusted blood, so he must’ve been bleeding at some point and he didn’t know it.
“Mr. Stark, you can’t keep do—”
“Call me Tony,” he says. “For fuck’s sake, my name is Tony. Call me Tony.”
She looks startled for a second, but gives him a faltering smile. “Then call me Pepper.”
1942
I’ve got to put her in the water.
I’m gonna need a rain check on that dance.
Peggy?
It’s
So
Cold
And
Steve
Can’t
Think.
How
Long
Has
He
Been
Under?
1994
“G-G-G-G-G-G-G.”
“Oh, goddammit, work! I programmed you right, you should talk!”
“G-G-G-G-G.”
“Jesus motherfucking Ch—”
“G-G-Good morning, Mr. Stark.”
“—rist, are you kidding m—what did you say?”
“Good morning, Mr. Stark.”
“That’s what I thought you said. Good morning, JARVIS.”
2008
“Don’t waste it. Don’t waste your life.”
And he doesn’t.
2010
He’s dying. There is no two ways around it. He is dying. Hell, he figured he would’ve died years before. He’s just pissed that this is the way he’s going. By his own invention.
But then he’s not dying, and now he has nothing to prove.
2011
They show Steve his new apartment. “They” being S.H.I.E.L.D. Steve still isn’t sure how he feels about them.
They tell him about the last seventy years in some pretty brief descriptions.
They won the war.
Phones are pretty popular now.
Televisions have color.
A black man is the President of the United States.
Steve doesn’t know what to do with any of that information. So he asks for information about the stuff he knows. His friends.
They hand him a few files, tells him to peruse at his leisure, which seems to be all he has now.
Nobody needs Captain America.
Most of the Howling Commandos are dead. Bucky has been proclaimed as missing in action, having never recovered a body from the mountains. Peggy is alive.
Peggy is alive.
He thinks about calling her once, twice, a thousand times. But he never does. He is a part of the past. He is a relic. He is supposed to be dead. So, he lets her continue to move on.
He’s just waiting to do the same.