Here is what happens: Tony is sixteen and stupid and his parents are dead because Howard apparently didn't understand the need to drive sober.

Here is what happens: Tony is silent because he does not know what to say (do not speak ill of the dead) his mother always reminded him, and so he keeps his mouth shut.

Here is what happens: He is silent while Obie arranges the funeral, he is silent when Aunt Peggy looks around and says a big home like this can be lonely and offers for him to live at hers, and he is silent all the way up until Obie asks how he would like to proceed.

"You can handle it," Tony says brusquely, uncaring and ignoring that he holds 60% of the Stark shares. (Ignoring that he is the heir, that he is expected to take charge, as though he, sixteen and stupid, would know what to do next.) "You have more experience anyway."

Obie smiles, relieved, perhaps, that the sixteen year old fuck up isn't going to throw a temper tantrum to do something as stupid as try to take over the company in his father's death.

"And you?" Obie asks, "What will you do?"

Tony shrugs.

"Fuck is if I know," he says crudely. Tony pulls off his stupid black suit and his pasty gray tie and throws them onto his couch, ignoring Obie's exasperated sigh of Tony, so many emotions drenched in that one word and likely, none of them pleasant for Tony to think about. "I need, I need," his mind races, "I need time off." Tony's hands shake and he is grateful that the stupid tie is already off his neck. "I'll come back later, but right now..."

"I understand," Obie says quickly. He puts a hand on Tony's shoulder, "Your funds...?"

"Just," Tony exhales roughly, "Just let them be. I'll put them in an RRSP or something..."

It is not the answer that Obie wants to hear, Tony knows.

Obie wants more for Tony, wants Tony to be more.

Obie wants Tony to invest, to get stocks or mutual funds, something profitable to use with his long time horizon.

But Tony doesn't want to think about stocks or money (he doesn't want to think of his own dwindling time horizon or his own mortality, not after hacking the morgue database and seeing the report of the bodies— not his parents, not anymore, just cold corpses cooling in a too-expensive coffin six feet under).

"Thank you," he says to Obie instead of using all those words (empty, meaningless words that sum up to Tony understanding his own stupidity but being too damn pig headed to spare a thought to his future). He's been saying thank you a lot, lately.

To people at the funeral.

People at his father's (his?) company.

Those vultures at the bank.

Two pretty, empty little words that make everyone look at Tony as though it were him that died instead of his parents.

Tony does not cry. (Maybe he wants to. He does not know. Maybe it will make him feel better. He doesn't do it, either way.) Instead, he takes a sleek red sports car from the garage and makes his way to the nearest Denny's.


People are staring.

And okay, yeah, fine.

Steve is staring.

(And, well, that's okay, right? It still counts. Steve is a people, too. A weird, super-serumed, souped up, out of time person, but still. A person. Part of a group of persons. AKA people.)

And yeah, fine, he's staring, but it's hard not to. He may not know much (try anything) about the 21st century, but Steve is pretty sure that most people don't go to (overpriced) 24-hour diners (grease spots) in button down shirts and shiny black dress shoes.

And yet.

The man in the second corner booth doesn't seem to mind, silk white shirt rumpled and back pressed against the red faux-leather of the peeling booth's skin.

Sleek black sunglasses sit over his eyes, the red on his nose indicating that he's either been crying or drunk (maybe both, who's Steve to judge?) as he digs into his $2.99 french fries (so expensive, Steve thinks despairing).

The man is subdued but he looks unused to it, as though there is a joke sitting on his tongue so long as there was someone who wanted to hear it.

Steve both likes that look (it reminds him of Bucky, when Steve was coughing and Bucky was torn between omigod my best friend is dying and Stevie, I got the greatest pun about poverty, wanna hear?) and dislikes it (he always wanted Bucky to just tell him the joke, forget that he was on death's doorstep).

Half of Steve wants to walk over, ask for a conversation, maybe even make a new friend, but people nowadays regard that kind of behavior with suspicion (maybe they always have, but back in the Depression, people pitied Steve... sickly, poor little Steve... enough that even if he had considered stealing something, they would just let it be).

So he lets it be.

Leaves the guy alone, enjoys his burger (he's always amazed by how much food he can eat nowadays, how much is available, and how good it tastes) and is just about finishing up when five men approach the rich man.

Steve can already tell that this won't bode well, but he waits.

"Tony Stark?" One man sneers, trying to act tough in his faded shirt and ripped up jeans (Steve is told that's fashion these days but he's never had much sense for these sorts of things, and besides that, he can't quite understand why they wouldn't want to wear nice clothing).

The rich man (Tony Stark? Stark, Steve thinks, trying and failing to ignore the pit in his stomach, is a common enough name...) takes off his sunglasses and Steve starts when he realizes it's not a man but a teenager (around Steve's age, Steve who is only 18...).

"Who wants to know?" Stark (no, that hurts to much, it's impolite, but Steve needs to think Tony and push away the image of a grinning Howard) asks lightly, baring his teeth in a grin at the five men (how many rich men have the name Stark?) and lounging back, an elbow resting on the booth's faded red seat. "If you're here for a booty call, I've gotta apologize, you're not pretty enough for..."

He's cut off by one of the men dragging him from the booth and throwing him against the floor.

"We'll be short," One of the men says, smiling lightly, mockingly, "Ten thousand in cash is all that we want. Barely a dent in the Stark million, hm?"

"Sorry, sweets," Tony drawls. He picks up his plate and smashes it against the head of the nearest goon, eyes narrowed as he says, "Like I said, I'd rather we just not date. I'm looking to stay single, not a lot of commitment, y'know?"

"That's fine," A member in a bright yellow hoodie throws a punch, "Just a little cash, no more than you give those little whores in the tabloids..."

Tony's face turns to stone and he grabs the punch, flipping the man over expertly (martial arts training, perhaps? Steve ponders), "hate to break it to you, darling, but..."

At that moment, two of the men smash into him and he goes down hard, a surprised grunt yanked out of him when a piece of the broken plate cuts a sharp line into his temple.

Steve has had enough of this.

"Hate to cut in, boys," his voice is steel, none of Tony's light teasing play, "But I'd like to join in the fun."

It's barely even a fight.

He takes them down, the remaining three in quick succession, barking someone call the cops and an ambulance as the bleeding Tony watches him with a furrowed brow.

When he's done fighting, Tony smiles nervously at him, "Hey, handsome," Tony's fingers clutch a large piece of the broken plate, ready to swing it at a moment's notice, "Sorry, can't pay you much for the save, but..."

"I don't care," Steve cuts in sharply, voice short. He examines the wound on Tony's temple and frowns, "How do you feel? Dizzy? I need you to stay awake, okay?"

Tony blinks. He looks startled, but his answer comes out a bit subdued, "I'm fine."

"Good," Steve sits back, relieved. His head spins from the adrenaline rush, "Wait for the paramedics, okay?"

Tony looks like he wants to protest, but some blood makes it's way to his brow and drips on his eyelashes.

"Yeah, okay," he laughs a tad hysterically, as though only finally realizing the severity of the situation.

"Okay," Steve whispers.

They sit in relative silence, Tony's hands still on the plate and Steve too tired to care.

When the paramedics arrive, Tony drops some car keys in Steve's hand.

"A reward," he says.

"I can't drive," Steve turns red. He spent his years on the battlefield and when he could learn, it was too late. He had become a soldier, doomed to die on the field.

Tony laughs, "Then sell it. I don't care."

Steve frowns, "How about I accompany you to the hospital to make sure you're okay instead?"

Tony blinks at Steve, a suspicious frown on his lips as he cautiously murmurs, "Okay, sure," and plays with a loose thread on his fancy (ruined) button down shirt. The paramedics guide him to the ambulance and he frowns at Steve, as though Steve is a puzzle that he cannot figure out, "Thanks."

Even that sounds like he's suspicious of Steve.

It's alright, though. Steve doesn't mind. He's seen battles, and he understands.


Tony comes out of the hospital room with a long, jagged scar neatly stitched up on the side of his face but otherwise he looks none the worse for wear.

"Oh, it's absolutely magical," he says lightly when Steve asks after his well being, "I feel absolutely nothing."

"Oh, that's not good," Steve worries, fiddling with his cup of water that a kind nurse gave him a few hours into his waiting, "If you can't feel anything, your nerves could be damaged or..."

"No pain, I mean," Tony rolls his eyes, "My nerves are fine."

"Oh," Steve looks down, face red, "Right. Sorry."

Tony offers him a pitying glance, "It's fine," he mumbles," You were concerned." Tony says it like it's a lie, though, and resigned, he continues, "So, let's talk reward. Obviously you've gotten fame by saving me, but cash-wise I was thinking a sum of..."

"No!" Steve yelps.

The sound surprises even him and he turns steadily more embarrassed.

"Sorry, I shouldn't have cut in. I just- I don't need money. I have more-" way more, SHIELD offers an amazing income so long as Steve punches the people that they direct him at, "-than enough."

"Oh," Tony looks put out, "Then you want..."

"Nothing!" Steve waves his hands in the air. Then, cheeks turning a bit red, "Well, um. I'm heading to Orlando-" or, rather, a HYDRA base stationed there. SHIELD offered a ride but Steve had politely declined, not wanting to spend the rest of his life strapped in a helicarrier, occasionally let out to punch people like a dog "-so if you have a map that I could borrow? Or, um," he falters at Tony's darkened expression, "If that's too much to ask, just general directions are..."

Maybe he's overstepping his boundaries again. It's hard to tell what's okay and what's not okay, these days.

Tony, though, surprises him by laughing. "A map, he says," Tony chortles, shaking his head, "Are you overstepping- no, man. Heck, forget a map, I could give you a ride."

"Oh, well," Steve blinks, "You're not planning to kill me, are you?"

"Dude," Tony offers Steve a flat stare, "You saved my life. It'd be a bit ungrateful if I decided to put a bullet through your skull, don't you think?"

"Right," The 21st century is confusing. You can't talk to someone on a bus but you can ride in a car with a random stranger? Steve is lost, "That would be lovely. The ride, I mean. Not the bullet."

Ugh.

Steve had been a lot more eloquent when all he had to say was a flowery version of let's go beat up some Nazis.

"Thank you."

"Yeah, well," Tony shrugs. Smiles a bit at Steve, "It's the least that I could do."

It isn't.

Not by a long shot.

But Steve can appreciate the kindness that Tony is offering without pointing that out and making things awkward.

"Alright, then," Tony yawns, a body wide motion that makes his arms stretch up and his shirt lifts with his heaving chest, "Let's go on a road trip."