"I never got to say goodbye to my father. There are questions I would've asked him."

The pieces fit together, but the wiring wasn't quite right. The coating on the wires had been burned through; they couldn't be fixed. I would have to replace them. I made a mental note to do so, and began picking all of the ruined ones out. The machinery was delicate, but I had fixed it dozens of times before. It was nothing I couldn't handle.

"What is, and always will be, my greatest creation... is you."

Wires set aside, the pieces fell apart, no longer held together. Come to think of it, the pieces were more worn out and burned than the wires had been. I knew I should have replaced them at some point, but I couldn't remember…before Hammer tried wreck the Expo? It was possible. When you start to die, and things snap into perspective, the little things like pieces of your armor suddenly become less important. The people you love, the things you care about…they become important. Small trivial pieces didn't matter so much. But now that everything had settled down, I suddenly had time and a broken suit on my hands.

"Pepper, I have been called many things. Nostalgic is not one of them."

I set the burned pieces down. I knew how to fix anything, but there were always times when things just had to be replaced. It was annoying, bothersome, and mainly an inconvenience. I knew that if my father were here now, he would be scolding me for letting the pieces get to this state before being replaced.

What if it had failed when you need it, Tony? Machines only work if you take care of them. They do their job, but one little problem could easily create a bigger problem.

I told the Howard Stark in my head to be quiet and let me concentrate. He did, but he still hovered over me, that disapproving scowl on his face as he watched each move, noticing each mistake I made, but not going to point any of them out. He believed in learning from mistakes, and once I made a mistake learning how to jumpstart a car, I never made it again. Anything that would have gotten me killed he criticized right away. The minor things he left me to figure out. Such as the fact that putting the wrong cables in the wrong spot was a big mistake when starting the car.

The Howard in my head looked at my armor with the same critical eye that I had while trying to find to find all the broken spots. But his was the eye that pointed out that it was an impractical color, or that at some point, there would be too many parts of it that it wouldn't fly.

For some inexplicable reason, though, the color irked him the most. Stealth? No, not with this suit.

I have others for stealth. Besides, I got this to fly. You never got off the ground. I thought bitterly to myself. Frustrated, I threw a broken piece onto the table. There were so many burned parts, replacing them would be a bigger pain than I thought. The crate with the stuff Fury gave me on the other side of the room sat there innocently, the half finished shield propped up against it. In retrospective, it was his, all of it. It seemed to me that he had spent half of the latter part of his life with his head years in the past, trying to rebuild what he felt responsible for destroying, throwing his head into his work. It haunted him. I could have accepted that as an answer, I realized, but he was away in his work so much that I didn't see that. It was easier to understand that his work was more important than his family than that ghosts of millions of people that he'd helped to kill chased him.

My mind drifted with the sound of the static on the radio. It became rain, falling, on a gloomy day in Cambridge…

It wasn't a sharp pain when they died; the way people thought it was. It was a numbness. Its really incredible how much pain comes from the absence of feeling. It's a raw hollow aching that doesn't really seem to go away. I remembered feeling it as I packed to leave to their funeral and thinking that it was going to be strange going home to an empty house. I hadn't been sure what to do with it and, over the years, I'd learned to live with it.

Everyone had said they were sorry for my loss. It was strange, because it hadn't felt like my loss. It felt like losing two people that I was somewhat acquainted with. It wasn't until after the funeral, after graduating MIT, after going home on a more permanent basis a couple years later that it actually occurred in my head that they weren't coming back. Some people had talked about the oddity that I hadn't seemed really affected by it, others commented on the strength they thought I displayed.

I hadn't been strong. I had just become good enough at lying that I could convince myself that the hollow aching feeling wasn't real. I took the company then, and ran it the way I thought it should. Not the way Howard would have run it, just my way. I was able to convincingly lie again, except this time to everyone else that I didn't particularly care that I was alone. Nobody saw through it. They just accepted that Tony Stark was a loner, never to settle down, had everything in his life under control. They all bought it.

Except Pepper.

She seemed to realize that every day, questions hounded at the back of my mind that only Howard could answer, answers that I wanted for the sole reason that, without him, they could never been answered. She understood it, and more than that, she said in a silent way that it was okay to not have a clue what I was doing. That I didn't have to be alone, and that it was okay to not be the person everyone thought I was.

There were other things I missed as well. My mother's gentle touch, a calming presence when I was up late struggling to get the thing I was building to work properly. My father's rare look of approval and pride when I managed to fix something and find a problem he couldn't. That one time…

I smiled at the memory. It was a rare one, a happy one.

I had been five, and it was during a summer in New York. Howard had come home early because he'd been having problems with the company and Mom had convinced him to let it be for the day. I hadn't known that he was coming home early, and I had been in his study, tinkering with his file cabinet, which had broken. I was young, and didn't quite get how to fix it, but I had convinced myself that I could. Several files had fallen down, along with a dark brown book. When I opened it, there were pictures, ones that I had never seen before, of people I didn't know. I had been looking through it, when I heard the door open. I had looked up to see my father standing there, surprise evident on his face to see me there, and to see me going through his things. I had braced myself for the lecture that was surely coming, but instead he seemed to deflate.

Come on, Tony. Follow me. Take the book with you.

I had hesitantly followed, unsure what was to follow. He sat down with coffee in the living room, and gestured for me to sit next to him. I was unsure, I wasn't used to spending time with him, especially alone with him. In the corner of my eye, I remembered seeing my mother watching us before vanishing into the kitchen to leave the two of us alone. Howard waited patiently for me to climb up next to him with the thick album.

I have a story for you. You may have heard something like it, but I doubt it. You're too young. But it's a story you should know. And its one I want to tell you.

I had been curious. My father usually didn't have the time to say two words to me, much less a whole story.

What kind of story?

My father hadn't answered this question right away; rather he considered it for a while. He wasn't impulsive. Never. Not even with something as simple as a story.

It's…its kind of a mix. It's a hate story, but also a love story.

Unable to process this, my stubborn five years old self had scowled. It can't be both.

Of course it can. Howard had seemed surprised at my sharp response. Give me the book, and I will explain.

I handed him the book, watching him carefully. He gingerly took it, but positioned it so that I could still see it.

This story starts…well it could start anywhere. People say it started in 1939, but I think it started before that.

That's thirty- six years ago. I had told him, as if he didn't know it already. He had smiled, amusement in his eyes shining at me.

That's right. Europe was in trouble, because people were hurting from a war that happened before. Germany, out of all of them, was the most desperate. He showed me a map that had been taped to the first page of the album, as though to make sure we were on the same page as to where Germany was.

So Germany was in trouble, he had continued, because they were blamed for the previous fight. They were hungry, and they were angry that they suffered so much. They were so angry that a darkness began to seat itself in their hearts. One man decided that he would make others suffer as his country had suffered. He promised the rest of the country that they would never go hungry again, and that they would never suffer again.

At this point, he paused looking at me, making sure I still followed. He turned the page of the album and showed me a newspaper clipping. It was in another language, but the picture was of a man standing at a podium with his right arm raised in the air. A flag with a strange four-legged spider decorated the podium. A large crowd stood before him, their arms raised the same ominous salute.

This man had a friend. This man's friend shared the same dream that Germany should never suffer again, but he…he had different ideas of how to get there. Where the man used words, his friend used force. They became in charge of Germany, and decided that they would hurt many people to achieve their ends. They started a war to achieve their goals. For a time, they were unstoppable.

Did people get hurt? I had asked. My father looked older than usual right then, and I remembered thinking for a minute that he was going to end the story there. But he continued on.

Yes, Tony. Many people were hurt.

Why didn't people stop them?

Because they didn't see. The darkness that had taken root in Germany hid the truth. They wanted someone to blame, the man gave them an enemy, and they fought to kill the enemy. They didn't see that they were hurting their own people until it was too late.

Looking into his sad eyes, I had felt my own fill with tears.

I don't like this story.

My father had looked down at me, his eyes apologetic. I had waited, waited for him to tell me he was making this up, that this could never happen in the real world, but he didn't. Hesitantly, he reached, putting his arm around my shoulders and pulling me closer.

America and its friends wanted to stop what the man was doing. America saw that the man was using his friend to build the means to hurt people. So they formed a group of brave soldiers called the SSR. They were meant to help save the people getting hurt by stopping the man from getting the means to.

In the album, he flipped the page and showed me the picture. A man that looked familiar was there, along with an older man in a uniform, and a woman who was also in uniform. An older man in a doctor's white coat was there as well. Several important looking officers were with them. The bottom read "Strategic Scientific Reserve, Washington DC, May 1940".

Now comes the important part. I tore myself from the photo to look at my father as he spoke. From the SSR, a soldier came who proved himself to be braver than the others. When he first arrived, he was smaller than the others, but he was stronger. He was stronger than any of the other soldiers combined. There was a spark in him that seemed too big for one person to handle. He once saved over two hundred men by himself.

Because he was so strong? I had asked.

Yes…and no. You see, when you think of strength, you think of someone having power and being able to lift heavy objects right? I had nodded enthusiastically as he continued. This soldier had a different kind of strength. He knew in his heart what was right, and he was able to act on it. It takes a great deal of courage to do what is right, Tony. This strength gave him compassion for the people around him. In some ways, this strength was his undoing, and in others, it was his strength that helped win the war. His strength lived here. My father pressed his hand over my chest, where my heart was. And that is where it counts the most.

This soldier formed a team. My father turned the page and showed me the next page. There were two photos on this page. One was of seven men, all of them in uniforms. They weren't looking at the camera, but they were laughing, smiling. The picture below it showed the woman, alone with the blond haired man from the picture above.

Is that the soldier? I asked, placing my hand next to the one with the man and the woman.

Yes, it is. They were formidable together, moving to stop the man's friend from hurting people. He looked at me, his eyes serious. This soldier may have been strong alone, but he was stronger in a team. Remember that, Tony. Alone, you are strong. Part of a team, you are unstoppable. I nodded, and he continued. This team made each other strong. The man's friend was being stopped at every turn.

Did they stop the man from hurting people?

They did. But nobody wins every time, Tony. After a while, there was an accident, and the soldier lost someone he cared about very much.

But if the person was lost, why didn't he try to find him?

My father had frowned slightly, his face troubled before explaining, Tony, sometimes, people get lost, and they can't be found again. They go away to a place where they can't be found, and we have to live on without them. It's hard sometimes, but we have to.

Was it hard for the soldier?

Very hard. He went looking for revenge.

Why?

My father hesitated, struggling with the obvious dilemma he had gotten himself into of explaining complicated and delicate topics to a toddler.

He was angry that this person went away. The darkness that the man had planted in the heart of Germany planted itself in the soldier's heart, and like any person, he wanted it to go away. He was only human, Tony. Revenge seemed like the only way to make the pain of the darkness go away.

Did he find it?

Maybe. He tracked down the man's friend, looking to make him suffer for making the person go away. But when he got there, he learned that the man's friend was about to destroy thousands of people in one strike. The man's friend was stopped. But at a price. He hesitated. Thinking back, I suppose he was struggling to explain this in a way that a five year old would understand. Death and hate are straightforward, but how do you explain sacrifice to a toddler?

The soldier gave his life to save the people he loved. In that moment, it was all he had to give.

Did he die?

Yes, Tony. The soldier died. He died, Tony, but there is something you should know. At this point, Howard had closed the book, and was facing me now. I had sensed a terrible sadness, but at the same time an urgency, as though there was something he desperately wanted me to know and he felt as though he had no other time to tell me.

In every person, there is something like the soldier that gives an inner strength and compassion, and there is something like the man that spreads darkness and death. They fight constantly inside of us all. It depends entirely on the individual which side will win. Strength is forgiving, and being brave enough to do what is right. Weakness is letting the darkness settle inside of you, and sitting by while others suffer. You must overcome it. Like the soldier, a day will come when you have to choose between what is easy, and what is right. Have trust in yourself, and when the time comes…At this point, Howard had held my eyes, each word reverberating from them to mine as he continued: you will know what it is you have to do.

Like the soldier did?

Like the soldier did.

I don't understand.

Howard's eyes reflected back at me, filled with sympathy. The innocence of a child is pitiable and ephemeral.

You will. Someday you will.

The loud sound of a wrench clattering to the floor snapped me out of my reverie. I placed it back on the table and walked upstairs, not feeling like repairing the suit anymore tonight. I thought about it, realizing that maybe that book was Howard's way of forgetting while remembering. How the story had sounded like a dark ghost story filled with ghosts that still floated around America today.

It had been a story with a moral. Nothing more than a fable. Just another lesson that Howard wanted me to learn. It made more sense to me now, now that I knew the real story. The man didn't just hurt many people, he tortured them. His friend's legacy was still alive today. And the world was filled with men whose sparks were too small to be seen.

Then I thought about my company, and what my father had used it for. He had thrown himself into building the future; eager for the redemption and hope it held for him. While Iron Man was my way of repairing the damage I had caused, he tried to repair Japan and Europe and his own personal grief with SHIELD. It all came back to legacy with my father. This company was his, SHIELD was the soldier's; it was Howard's last tribute to the man the soldier had been underneath the mask, his closure after years of searching for his friend.

In the dining room, I pulled out a box of matches and lit a candle that sat on the table by itself. I leaned close, feeling the small, yet hopeful warmth it offered. The red and gold of the flame, and the faint blue glow that emanated from the arc reactor created an arabesque of colors against the white walls of the room.

I understand now. I told the candle.

And I did.

A/N: All characters belong to Marvel. Movie quotes are from Iron Man 1&2.