CHAPTER TEN- July 2038

"Whiskey, neat," Tony ordered, rapping his knuckles across the marble top. He kept his head relatively low and his tinted glasses on, covering yet another shiner. One of these days, he thought, I'm really going to ruin my beautiful face.

"Thanks for coming."

He turned to see Sam standing beside him in her long red bridesmaid's dress. The gold jewelry and shoes shone like a beacon, more Iron Man than his very own wedding.

"I was so excited I could hardly pick a suit," he replied, downing his whiskey and tapping the counter again. "Keep 'em coming." He slipped a one hundred dollar bill into the Murano glass jar.

"Champagne?"

Sam looked at him quizzically, adjusting her shawl across her shoulders and arms.

"You're old enough right?"

"In several countries," she said, "not this one."

"I won't tell," Tony mumbled, swiveling to grab one of the pre-poured flutes from down the bar and handed it over. His eyes flicked towards the tables. "You and that boy seem cozy."

His daughter blushed, rousing mixed feelings in Tony. Love and affection: he could remember the beginning but also the end, and now he resisted watching Sam go through the same.

She didn't take his bait. "How are Big Sam and Parker?"

Tony hardly let the pour end before ripping the glass up to his lips. He tapped again. "They'll be fine. We'll all be fine."

"I can come see Wilson—"

"Not necessary," Tony blurted, straightening. "He'll be out before you can visit." He continued to look out over the tables of guests, some trickling onto the dance floor in the center of the hall. It all took him back. He'd worn a grey suit, for Pepper, to match the free-flowing feel of her lace gown. No fabric was delicate enough to match her beauty that day. Everyday. Back then. He missed her neck and the way her hair would shift over it when she concentrated. Her head always lolled to the right when she worked. He used to rub her neck for her, call her lopsided, kiss her right cheek and push her head to the other side. He called it 'evening her out.' He'd expected to see her among the souls of Mephisto, just to catch a glimpse; the ghost of her, the fantasy, anything was better than nothing. Except nothing was all he got, no glimpse, no ghost, which felt much worse. Maria Stark had looked right at him, and as all moms do, she knew. His mother had come back just to see his misery and relive her disappointment. He couldn't think about it anymore; that was the goal: distraction. Tony only showed up to this event to avoid silence with the team at headquarters.

Seeing your departed loved ones in Satan's grasp will do that to you. Obviously, you don't exactly want to talk about it with 'others.'

"The chicken was dry." Tony swirled his whiskey. "Should've had the steak."

Tony tried not to notice the disappointment on Sam's face. "Really," she whispered, "nothing?"

He watched Bucky and Natasha approach, relieved. "Oh thank god, you can dance with Terminator here." Tony patted Bucky once on the chest, asking "make it 40s-style and real awkward. You know, just be yourself."

Natasha gave them both a look.

"What? I'm gonna go terrorize her date." Tony swooped off before anyone objected.

Natasha delicately grabbed the untouched champagne from Sam's hand. "I'll take that."

"I don't suppose anyone would like to fill me in on what happened last week," Sam thought out loud.

"I'll tell you when you're older," Nat answered, taking a large sip, scrunching her face a little as the bubbles attacked her nostrils. "I'm gonna need something stronger."

Stoic, quiet Captain Barnes surprised Sam then. "Do you want to dance?" It was a sheepish question from a very bulky man.

Sam looked up at his face for the first time. His hair fell forward, strategically covering several cuts and minor, yellowing bruises. She stumbled for words. "I…think he was joking," but even as she said it, the retreating Tony swiveled around and made a little hand gesture for dancing legs before continuing his b-line for Lucas. "Also," she added, "I genuinely can't dance."

"No one can these days," Bucky replied, flicking his eyes over the crowd of celebrators, "clearly."

"Here we go with the 'back in my day' speech…" Nat finished the glass.

"No," he buffed, "that's not the point. I'm about 70% sure Stark actually meant that as some sort of order." When the ladies continued to stare at him in confusion, he added, "it's a delicate points system I've developed."

Nat baulked. "Did you just…make a joke?"

"Leaving a 30% chance of being nicknamed-to-death for disobeying. Any bets on which references this time?"

Sam enjoyed the jabs at her father's expense. "Did it take you twenty years to figure the points out?"

"Four, actually," Bucky played along.

"So the sarcasm rubbed off on you in twenty years too…" Nat mumbled into a fresh drink.

"You didn't get that gene?" Bucky shaded his face but one corner of his mouth twitched anyway.

"I'm 50% sure that I did. Nature versus nurture and all, but I'm 100% sure you know him better."

"Well," Nat said, pursing her lips, "I'm only 12% sure I know why we are talking in numbers."

"You speak Russian, German, Spanish, Italian, your French is okay, English, and probably more that I missed," Bucky explained to Nat, then opened a palm indicating the other, "Sam speaks math, English, and from what Clint has mentioned, computer, correct?"

It was the most Sam had ever heard him say, and it must have shown on her face. Her clasped hands went a little slack. Her shawl slipped. Nat cut in, "you…what?"

Bucky seemed possessed with a boyishness for a moment. "I don't just brood, ya know. I'm observant, and I listen."

The ladies couldn't come up with any words.

"But you do look lovely in red. 100% Tony there."

"I think he blew a fuse," Nat said out of the corner of her mouth.

"Guess their getting lazy with the cradle though," Bucky added, pointing to Sam's exposed arm. "Bruce couldn't fix that for you?"

The playfulness in Sam's eyes died immediately. He'd gotten cocky, too friendly in his attempts at distraction. She pulled the chiffon shawl back over as much of the arm as possible.

"I'll tell you when you're older. Excuse me." Sam left. Bucky noticed something odd about her walk.

"That was smooth," Nat snorted.

"I used to be good at talking to broads."

"What century do you think it is?"

"Well," Bucky started, shrugging, "you could just tell me who the girl was. The one on the field."

"You know enough already. She was a mission, and I completed my mission. Now," Nat replaced another empty glass with a fresh, bubbling flute, "don't ever mention Sam's arm to Tony. I'm really warning you, James." She looked up at his cool blue eyes. "We don't need that shit-storm coming down on us."

"So, you're really gonna keep me in the dark? As if I haven't been there long enough," Bucky dropped off, letting his hair fall in his face again.

"I had no idea this was a pity party," Nat sipped, finally feeling the edge wear off. "Who did you see?"

Bucky paused, watching the festivities unfold, people chatting and dancing, taking pictures, drinking and eating cake. Both their gazes landed on Sam retreating, and Nat continued in a low voice.

"Every single one of us have used that girl. You were drafted, but at least your father showed you the importance of service. I…knew what the Red Room would make me, and I kept going anyway. Sam didn't get any choice. She did not get the benefit of orders. Her instruction is all over the place and at best made up of lessons designed for some other kid." The pair watched Sam awkwardly evade people through the tables, careful not to touch anyone, her head always low. "The world thinks she's part of us. We've done everything possible to keep her out. No one has ever asked her what she wants. Worse yet, nobody asked us either. We know how that feels, and we went ahead and did it to Tony's kid anyway."

Bucky could think of some joke one-liners to respond with: 'waxing philosophic on me, Romanoff,' 'are you a lightweight for champagne now,' but that gave Bucky the sinking notion that she was right. The bad bits had rubbed off on them all—the glib, deflecting humor, the trivializing of life, the compartmentalizing of loss, the total failure to grieve, and the retardation of personal growth and change. Aside from changing allegiances, Natasha was much the same person she was thirty years ago. Apart from removing brain-washing, Bucky was much the same person he was one-hundred years ago. Why? Was their only comfort as a global, galactic fighting team to be constant?

Steve still complained to Bucky about how restless he was in retirement. Although, Steve Rogers complaining was more like a vague statement of interest and then hearty praise for the accomplishments of others, followed by silence, and then checking to make sure you were comfortable in his home. He couldn't change; he couldn't just hang up his helmet and walk away. Steve had to be a protector. Bucky had to be a soldier. Natasha had to be a weaver of webs. Banner had to research something and know why things happened. Tony had to know how to fix everything.

"Honestly," Natasha finally started again, "I never realized how much I missed Pepper. Even as my fake boss, she was a really good woman. She was a great mother." Nat trailed off in thought.

"I never had a real conversation with Mrs. Stark." Bucky searched Nat's thoughtful face, noticing just the slightest crinkle at her eyes. "She did order me around a few times, 'stand here' and 'wait here' and 'not now.' She wore the pants for sure."

"At least I spoke French better than her," Nat quipped.

"Barely," Bucky chided.

Natasha gave him a look to kill. "You are in a surprisingly good mood…"

"I like to see what it is we fight for," Bucky let his mouth run loose for a moment, "for people to not know about all the other…darkness we see."

Nat said nothing, but she did turn to the party with a slightly higher regard for the lightness of mood. Humans were allowed their frivolity. They were allowed to celebrate love and have family and live carefree sometimes. The Avengers hardly remembered that; they'd seen far too much. The two stood there like wallflowers, shadowy figures envying the light.

Tony, however, was basking in compliments and accolades from Lucas who had not stopped his run down of Stark's every innovation since the '00s. The boy admitted right away to disagreeing with the 'peacocking' he accused the billionaire of imposing on the masses, those who could not wield such a large political stick. Lucas was opinionated for a twenty-two year old, even critiquing Stark's choice of whiskey. He also became suspiciously quiet once Sam came over.

"Boys," she said before sipping her coffee.

"Are you even old enough to drink that?" Tony puffed up a little, eyes still shaded under glasses.

"You're about two years too late," Sam replied flatly.

Tony eyed her formal red gown, covered shoulders and arms, the most conservatively dressed of the bridesmaids but the youngest as well. He didn't see much of Pepper. Sam's shoulders slouched a bit; she didn't have the confidence of her mother. She drank from a porcelain mug without a delicate touch, just a clenched fist.

"Your—" Tony started, "dude here was just telling me about his biostasis research at Harvard and its potential applications for us in space travel. Fascinating stuff, but—" Tony couldn't help but have fun with the kid. "—you may want to look into that power supply because its not exactly a flight-stable compound to be lighting on fire and shooting us out of orbit. Good start though."

"Arc-reactor tech could power up to what, forty pods, for an 18 month flight, allowing for minimal life support but full navigation and communications," Sam quickly rattled.

Tony peered over this glasses curiously, revealing a bruised corner of brow. "Twenty months," he corrected, "give or take weight and distance you travel by thrust."

"Among several factors," Sam conceded, eyes down.

"Sir, if I could test some of the simulated outputs of that technology, it would go a long way," Lucas jumped in.

"Down, Fido." Tony gripped the young man's shoulder without removing his eyes from Sam. "What's Harvard been teaching you?"

Sam went bug-eyed, clutching her coffee. She hadn't meant to say any of that out loud. Lucas always spoke about his research, and Sam listened, occasionally asking a leading question to have him self-correct a flaw in his logic. She never spoke of her own experiments because Lucas never asked, and she would never tell him.

"Harvard was supposed to teach me? I'm not a stud—"

"S'more!" Lila came rushing forward. "Sorry to interrupt, but will you come over for a picture?" She grabbed Sam's arm without seeing her drink, and the hot liquid spilled all over Sam's hand. "Oh god, we'll clean that up first. We gotta redo your lipstick, too. Do you two mind?" Lila's motherly round face beamed at Stark and Lucas. Lucas nodded as Tony waved his whiskey hand vaguely. "Family photo at the wedding, ya know," Lila giggled and led Sam off to the ladies' room.

That was all it took for Tony to see it. Sam's 'older sister' taking her to put on makeup in the bathroom. Her 'brothers' and 'parents' waiting near the photographer. His daughter had another family, a whole family. She was a bridesmaid and a girlfriend and drank coffee and went to Harvard. Sam was almost eighteen, and Tony didn't know anything about her. What had he expected? The more she grew, the more he saw only the Stark heritage, a mini-Howard, a mini-him. Today was the most feminine Sam had ever looked, but she was still covered and plain.

"Sir," Lucas gently started, "I've also applied for the Stark Fellowship."

"Uh-huh," Tony mumbled into his glass, watching Sam and Lila return to pose for a family photo. Sam walked so awkwardly in heels, assuming that's what she wore under the floor-length gown as did the other bridesmaids; Pepper never missed a beat in heels. She ran a company in heels, ran the world in heels, ran circles around the world in heels.

And then Sam smiled for the photo, and there she was. The angle of her jaw, the corners of her mouth, the lift of her cheekbones, the tilt of her long neck; Pepper was right there…or a piece of her.

Tony suddenly cocked his head towards Lucas. "S'more?"

Lucas, caught off-guard by the subject change, took a moment to reply. "Samantha Morgan. Sss-Mor. Coop told me it was her childhood nickname. I just thought… you gave it to her…"

Tony clenched his teeth, looking down at his nearly empty glass. "I'll see what I can do about that application if you keep working on the power supply," he said, giving one last tap on the young man's arm and walking back to the bar. "But right now, I need a drink."

Sam roamed the infirmary hall of Avengers headquarters still in her flowing red gown. She carried her change of clothes in a bowling bag formerly used by Howard Stark, another Christmas pick from Storage Basement E, and her gold shoes. No one was here to see her limp along on sore feet; the after-party celebration had moved to a bar where Sam may have been welcome but incredibly bored, so she'd opted to come visit Sam Wilson. Unsurprisingly, Lucas saw some benefit to schmoozing the 'family.'

In one room she saw MJ sitting beside Peter Parker while their children loudly reenacted a play or perhaps a dance. Sam couldn't tell from her angle at the window. MJ gave a small wave to Sam, but Peter was too busy providing the sound effects for the smiled but moved on. It was beautiful to see a family together. They weren't a strange sort of sight, but Sam always felt such a distance from that joy. All her life was 'not-quite': Clint was not-quite dad, Laura not-quite mom, Coop, Lila, and Nate not-quite siblings, the Avengers not-quite uncles and aunts. The only absolutes were Samantha was related to Tony and Tony chose to give her away.

A few doors down was Falcon's room, a soft trail of music wafting from inside.

—Over the shadows and the rain to a blossom covered lane—

When she gently pushed open the door, Sam first saw Steve Rogers sleeping in a chair, arms crossed over his chest. Then she saw Sam.

His head was covered in electrodes, face covered in an oxygen mask, and hooked to a feeding tube. This was a lot worse than Tony had let on. Samantha was shocked enough to smash her bag against the door frame trying to enter, waking Steve and dropping her shoes.

—Faint as a will o' the wisp, crazy as a loon, sad as a gypsy serenading the moon, Oh skylark—

Ever the gentleman, Rogers quickly picked up each heel and handed them back. He said nothing but smiled and offered his chair for her to sit. Sam pointed to a chair on the opposite wall, and whispered, "will I wake him?"

"No," Steve replied in a low, calm voice, "he just enjoys Aretha. How was the party?"

Sam gave him a questioning look.

"I came back here after the ceremony. Not much for dances anymore."

"It was loud, and everyone drank a lot," Sam said, putting her stuff down to drag the chair close to the bed. Steve snorted. It seemed the seventeen-year-old and hundred-and-thirteen-year-old moved at about the same pace. Samantha tentatively went to Wilson's side. "Will he wake up?"

"That's—" Steve hesitated, evaluating what Sam was old enough to hear. "We don't really know. Head trauma hasn't made the same leap as other medicine, so we…hope."

Little Sam took Big Sam's hand. His skin felt comfortingly warm. "He'll always have much bigger hands than me," she reminisced. "I used to think mine would catch up one day."

Steve absently mumbled, "yeah, there's a lot you didn't get from Stark," before taking his seat again. He was silent for a while, watching Sam and Sam. "Natasha told me about—" he waved his hand over his left side "—years ago."

Samantha didn't move.

"I never told anybody else, but I am sorry that I didn't come see you."

She remained staring at Sam Wilson's slow breath fog his mask. He wasn't on a respirator, a good sign. Little Sam, her first nickname from a friend. She could remember being sad and angry when Big Sam's visits became less and less frequent. He called less and less. Sam Wilson had taught her humor and sarcasm more than anyone else. He'd explained that having emotions and acting on emotions were two very different things. Big Sam was her big brother, more so and for longer than any Barton, and he just lay there with warm hands and slow breath.

Sam herself breathed deliberately and slow. "It wasn't your fault, so…" Her eyes met Steve's.

"I used to put newspaper in my shoes. My feet were too small," he pointed to her things on the floor, "and I see you now wear two different height of heels."

"I don't usually wear heels. Or dresses."

"Special occasions…" Steve drifted into thought, looking at Wilson's face, his profile warped under the plastic mask. Steve could remember being small, overlooked by other children, tormented even, saluting all those participating in the defense of his nation while he stayed at home. He remembered the desperate need to contribute, the mania of skirting rules over and over to prove he was worthy. He could see the same desperation in Samantha Stark. She was locked outside the building banging on the door, or at least, it was obvious to someone who'd been there before. It occurred to him that she would want to know not only what happened to her father but to their friend also.

"They saw the dead, Sam." Steve paused to watch the girl's face, but she did nothing. If she was curious, she didn't show it. If she was horrified, she didn't show it.

"That was the enemy last week: people who died long ago. For a few of us it was men and women killed by our own hands." It was clear he didn't want to mention the assassin past of Bucky or Natasha. He got quieter. "I think Tony may have seen your mother," Steve slowed seeing Sam slightly adjust to hear him better, "and I can't imagine how painful that would be." He leaned forward on his knees. The silence remained cold but open. Sam placed Wilson's hand on his stomach and returned to her chair, farther away, watching.

He continued, "Ghosts of those you've harmed, someone you…it's not something you forget. I wasn't there but I know what it feels like to regret what you did with the time you had…" He could feel himself slipping into his own thoughts and tried to buckle down to his point. "We all see and do things in war, in battle, that we aren't proud of, that we wouldn't do without desperation. I think Tony, I think because your father didn't have the training we had, he can't reconcile a…domestic life with his professional life. He was not acclimated to the mindset of a soldier before the wormhole opened up in New York, but he's been in the loss for…a long time."

"I think you've been thinking alone in a cottage too long."

Steve, so used to everyone else's sidebar sarcasm, went on. "I lost my parents young, but I had my best friend. Bucky never knew his mom, and he was there when I buried mine—"

"Yes, he was there for Pepper's too."

Steve stopped his rant at the mention of that awful, emotional, and chaotic day.

Eventually, Samantha composed herself enough to say, "I have no one like that, sir."

Her formality was endearing. Steve recognized the defensive distancing. "That's what worries me."

The beat that followed altered the chemistry of the room. Sam went rigid. "Did it worry you last year?" She let the bitterness gnaw at the bottom of her stomach, a low, sickening rumble that grew into a white hot anger. "What about five years ago? Ten years ago? Why bring it up now?"

"I'm just trying to empathize—"

"You see a girl, don't you? You look at me and see a little girl. Perhaps a four year old," Sam tried to reign herself in but failed. She had made it through so much and never lost control like this. "Now, try to really look at me. Sir," She spat, "I'm a lop-sided girl with a billion dollar inheritance,. I'm damaged goods with the mind of Tony Stark. I am…never going to fit here. I was outsourced. Like everything he's ever created except the suit…" It was true, but the flame burned out as fast as it came on. What remained was simply blank, empty. "Everyone here, they see me as a follow up to him, and I just…want to do something else, something he can't."

Before he thought about his words, Steve quipped, "well, you fall off the bike, you get back on."

Sam went silent, as Steve straightened himself up, regretful of his blunder.

"Ms. Stark," he finally asked, "would you like anything from downstairs?"

"Coffee with cream," she replied after a moment, "please."

Steve noted that Sam, like Pepper, was respectful even when offended.

After Rogers had left, Samantha spoke to Big Sam as if he could hear her confession. "Sometimes I wish my remaining parent were one of you, the ones who actually raised me. I know you guys, or at least I feel like I do, but I look at him… and I just don't see how he could…I understand why I feel better alone." She held his hand again. A long moment passed, and suddenly she felt so uncomfortable in that dress she could scream. "I promise, I'll be back. Just putting on my sweats, like you once said, 'it's a crime to look this good. Better save your eyes the glory.'"

As she chuckled at the memory, Sam could hear the energetic voices of those returning for the night's festivities. She gave an unseen apologetic glance to Falcon; she'd have to go now. When she picked up Howard's bag, however, Rogers was back with coffee, standing in the doorway. He wore one of the saddest smiles she'd ever seen, and in a low voice said. "You are beautiful, just like your mother."

She walked to the doorway with her things, her face reddening.

"I know he'd be glad you came."

Sam paused in the threshold. She'd found the purpose. "I'm going to fix this," Sam said, meeting his eyes, "Captain." She plucked one of the coffees from Steve's hand and left for the night. She had work to do in Massachusetts.

Skylark-sung by Aretha Franklin; released 1963 on album "Laughing on the Outside"