A/N This is something I wrote a short time back, just kind of exploring the father-son relationship between the Starks for something else I was writing. I think I hit way off with this and I know the idea's been played on before, but I felt guilty for not posting anything for such a long time so... here ya go! Hope you enjoy!

I don't own IMAA.

Tony had never been particularly outspoken when it came to his inner thoughts, and even Pepper, seemingly so affronted when he purposely left her in the dark about something, had begun to ease up on badgering him for information or an explanation for his actions. But when it came to the nightmares, well… Those were impossible to keep secret. Many a time he'd awoken, curled up in a recliner at the Rhodes' house or arms tucked under his head on the desk at the armory, shivering and feeling impossibly cold, morose, and lonely as he tried to recuperate from the shock of revisiting his worst fears and memories during the night.

He'd hoped, though, that the return of his father would ease the nocturnal attacks, relieve some of the stress and guilt and remorse. However, even though these feelings were somewhat abated, this didn't stop the nightmares from returning full-fledged after nearly a month of dreamless slumber; now a bit different, but somehow even more painful knowing he had more now to lose than ever in his life.

This nightmare, this manifestation of his terrified thoughts and weaknesses, was no different than any other in itself. There difference came in the abrupt departure from it. The feeling of someone touching his arm resulted in his eyes flying open, shoulders jerking back as he flew into a defensive pose, eyes squinting as he blearily tried to adjust to the semi-darkness. When he saw his father, watching him apologetically, taking a step back, he tried not to frown. He focused his attention on calming his erratic heartbeat, breathing heavily as his throat had seemed to close in his blind terror.

Rhodey had learned not to wake him during the night during the second week that he had begun living with his best friend and his mother. A similar reaction had been evoked from the then sixteen-year-old, which had resulted in the inventor breaking down for the first time since the crash. And all Rhodey said, all he could say, was You're going to get through this. Not You're going to be fine or Everything's going to be okay, but You're going to get through this. Something Tony had been immensely thankful for.

"Dad-" Tony began, only to have his arm sweep across the kitchen counter he had been sleeping on and knock a glass off the edge. He grabbed for it as it fell, but combined with his grogginess and half-deliriousness he missed it, his fist hitting the side of the bar as the tinkling of broken glass filled the air. He simply stared at the shards scattered across the linoleum floor.

"I'll get it," Howard began to offer, but Tony dismissed him with a wave of his hand.

"Let me," he responded, his voice slightly hoarse as thought he'd been screaming; and in the dream, he had been. Hopefully his shouts had been confined to his subconscious.

Thankful for the darkness, as he was sure his face must be crimson with shame, he fetched the broom out of the pantry, half-hoping his father to be gone when he returned, though knowing he wouldn't be. His reaction had been silly and childish, and he felt incredibly foolish for acting the way he did. Occasionally, on nights the night terrors had claimed him once more in the armory, Pepper would gently wake him and they would walk around outside, talking and trying to reassert some feeling of peacefulness. Rhodey had been the one to confide in him that when he needed to calm down in the city he would find a rooftop. But his dad didn't understand the way they did, understand that some nights he was better left alone. Some days, as well. He tried to smother the bitter thoughts threatening to flare up inside him once again as he began sweeping the glass as his father watch; there were a lot of things Howard didn't know about his son now.

And then Howard was asking a question, so painfully obvious but still hesitant. "Do you want to talk about it?"

In front of his eyes, Tony could see the nightmare unfurling; his friends, family, their wide eyes staring at him in terror. That sleek, horrible disembodied voice, knifing through his heart, whispering Choose who's next. You've already chosen once. And then the crunch of metal, the shattering of glass, screech of rubber, knowing something was terribly, terribly wrong…

No. He repeated this to himself firmly in his head, forcing himself back to the present, the broom handle clutched tightly in his hands. Those memories would not plague him during his waking hours, as well. He refused to let them control him.

He became aware once more of Howard scrutinizing him, trying to decipher the forcibly neutral expression on his son's face, and he began to sweep once more.

"No, thanks," he said quietly. This was something he had to endure alone, not tug everyone else into his misery. The rest of his days were fine, relaxed; or at least as relaxed as he'd ever been. Everything was fine. He didn't want to ruin the balance he had finally seemed to create in his life by shoving the all-too-real pain and self-deprecation into everyone else's faces.

He tried to think of something, anything to say to break the unbearable silence, but he continuously drew a blank. As much as loved his father, and was thrilled to have him home again, he couldn't help but think that Gene Khan had kept a part of him. Their easy banter, inventing sprees, even their silences, which used to span for hours as they thought and planned but still felt safe and welcome, was replaced with this feeling of scrabbling for the right thing to say, hoping to please, to satisfy him so that he wouldn't pry further.

"Tony," Howard said with a breathy sigh, "you know you don't have to…" He trailed off, his usually charismatic demeanor replaced with one of doubtfulness, as though not trusting himself to speak. With so much he wanted to say, so many thoughts racing through his mind, it seemed impossible that he could draw a blank when it came to directing his thoughts at the young inventor. He wanted to apologize, apologize for not being there when his son needed him most, for missing the most crucial times in his life. He wanted to tell him he was proud, so incredibly proud of him for overcoming and accomplishing so much with seemingly so little. Most overwhelmingly, he wanted to plead for a second chance at the relationship with Tony he used to share with him. To learn about his aspirations and fears. To learn about his opinions and various escapes through science and friendships. To learn how to appease his pain and loss, understand what he felt and why. Instead he forced a smile, slightly wry, not meeting his eyes. "Good night."

"G'night," Tony responded quietly, his eyes lifting from the floor as he watched the man turn to disappear down the corridor. Suddenly panic gripped him, telling him that he was missing an opportunity to make amends, to start all over. Missing the chance at his father. "Wait! Dad."

Howard turned back, and suddenly the shame was back, the spiteful emotion burning inside his chest, making it hard to concentrate, and he toed the glass still on the floor with a scuffed shoe. Then he closed his eyes and said, in what was meant as a whisper but filled the entire room, "I can't lose you. Any of you." Trying to strengthen his voice to smother the slight tremble in his undertone, he continued. "I lost Mom all those years ago, and it hurt. So badly. So I centered everything around you, promising myself I would be everything I couldn't…couldn't be for her, for you. And when I lost you, I broke for a while. I became dependent on Rhodey and Pepper and Roberta. Now you're back, and that's great. It's fantastic. But it's terrible and wonderful, wonderful I even get a second chance with you, terrible because now I know how badly it would hurt to lose you again. To lose any of you. To know…that…" The corners of his eyes were prickling, and he leant the broom handle against the crook of his elbow as he pressed his palms into his closed eyelids, igniting little sparks behind them. "I'm just not strong enough to lose any of my family," he finished a bit lamely.

His eyes still averted, fearing rejection or criticism, the strong, warm arms that wrapped around him in what he knew to be a hug caught him by surprise, and it took him nearly five seconds to relax and return the gesture, pressing his face into Howard's shoulder as scalding tears streaked down his cheeks. And as his father whispered, "It's okay, I know, I know," he thought that just maybe it was okay to believe that things might actually turn out okay.

Giving into these emotions will only bring you heartache and pain later on, a voice whispered darkly in his mind. Remember the plane crash. Remember your mother.

And for the first time, Tony ignored these thoughts. He was through living in the past.