Disclaimer Note: I'm not sure which fic it was from, but I got the idea of the dream from another Stony fic. If someone recognizes it and knows the fic, let me know so I can give due credit! Also I saw a tweet that gave me the idea for the photograph. So really this chapter is just a short inspired work haha.

Tony was used to having nightmares: there was always something troubling his mind. So whatever terror of the past Tony's mind decided to focus on became his nightly burden; varying between having his arc reactor being ripped out by Obie, falling from the sky in New York, Whiplash, Ultron, Jarvis' death, Siberia and more.

Needless to say, there was a lot of material to work with. For Tony, there was no greater pain or punishment than memory.

No matter what the nightmare was, Tony always felt helpless. Helpless to protect himself and helpless to protect the ones he loved. It was a cold feeling. One that seeped deep into his mind and body. A pollution that affected him long after he had woken up.

Tonight was no different:

Tony was a kid again, back in his old bedroom, wearing a Captain America t-shirt and boxers. He was lying in bed, surrounded by various tools and mechanical parts, tinkering around with a robot he was trying to build, when he broke into a triumphant grin. He had made a break through.

Young Tony jumped out of bed, and ran towards the door. Small legs carried Tony quickly to his father's lab, as he was eager to share the innovation with his dad. He knew not to bother Howard unless it was really important, but Tony had just created his first functioning robot, and he just knew that his dad would be proud.

The keypad to his father's door loomed above him—impenetrable to anyone who wasn't a Stark. His father had tried to make it impenetrable only to himself, but Tony had always figured out a way in, much to Howard's dismay.

He stretched on his tip-toes, and his hand reached out to play with the code. Within seconds, the door had swung open and Tony was grinning with pride. Howard's head shot up in surprise, and he looked down at the young Tony with glazed eyes, a glass of whisky in one hand. In an instant, Howard was in front of Tony, anger clearing his expression.

His hand swung out hard, striking Tony to the floor.

Tony's eyes snapped open. His heart raced. "Friday, lights!" Brightness flooded the room, and Tony squinted, fighting to keep his eyes open. He didn't want to lose the fact that he was in his room—none of his younger self's Captain America posters to be seen.

He checked the clock on his nightstand: 2 am. He had gotten three hours of sleep. Not too bad, he congratulated himself and swung out of bed. There was no use of trying to fall back asleep, it was always impossible after his nightly terror.

Tony stripped off his sweat soaked shirt and hopped into a cold shower, trying to fully wake up and chase away his unpleasant childhood memories. He lathered and rinsed his hair, and scrubbed his body clean—wincing when he got to his chest.

Despite a month passing since his fight against Steve and Bucky, Tony's body was still a tapestry of purple and black welts and bruises, especially his chest, where they surrounded rough scars where the arc reactor used to be, and a new scar. This one in the shape of a half moon, marking where Steve's shield had cut through Tony's armor, digging metal from the suit deep into his skin. He cleaned the area gingerly but quickly, not wanting to view or touch his mutilated chest longer than he had to.

Each burst of pain was a reminder that he did not need.

Tony shut the water down and dried off, walking out of the bathroom while avoiding his reflection in the mirror. If people could see me the way I see myself - if they could live in my memories - would anyone love me?

A disturbing answer to his own question hung over Tony's head, and he hurriedly chased the thought away. Wrapping the towel around his waist Tony walked into his room and pulled on a fresh shirt and a pair of oversized sweats. He made his way to the window and stared out at the city below, his persistent thoughts turning to all of the bad moments of his life, conveniently ignoring all the good.

It was hard, growing up with a father who cared more about a frozen soldier than his own son, but Tony had always admired Howard no matter what he had put Tony through. Howard was rarely home, either out searching for the esteemed Captain America, or in his shop inventing, but growing up, Tony had merely wanted his dad's approval.

It was still a mystery to Tony why the opinion of his father had mattered to him so much. He supposed he should have grown up resenting Howard and Steve. One for not loving him enough, the other for stealing any love Howard had to offer.

But how could he blame them? All Steve had done was sacrificed himself. All Howard had wanted to do was save his friend. Though he was certainly bitter, Tony couldn't help but admire their resilience. No matter how hard he tried, it just wasn't in him to hate someone.

Tony tore his gaze away from the city, and walked to his dresser. He slowly knelt down to the bottom drawer and pulled it open. Hesitantly, as if he was afraid of someone walking in and seeing what he was about to do, he drew out a photograph tucked away at the bottom of the drawer.

Tony stood up and sat on the bed, gazing long and hard at the photograph showing him at age 9, on the night of Halloween. He was dressed in a perfect replica of the Captain America suit—after all, his father had designed them both. Howard was standing behind him, a hand on Tony's shoulder, looking pleased that his son and his hero were merging for a night.

Though he went as Captain America every Halloween, in the photo, Tony was grinning uncontrollably. It was the one night he could get his father to really look at him—even if it was because he was wearing a mask. Not wanting to break the spell those nights, Tony had tried his best to act like the great Captain America would have. That was something he did every day—pretend to be like his idol: Captain America.

If he could be like Cap, then maybe his dad would want to hang out with him more. If he could be like Cap, maybe Tony would be the center of the stories Howard told, instead of Steve.

So every day, Tony gave it his all to be helpful, strong, and brave—everything that Captain America was.

A hero.

And then he had met Steve, and he had been told to stop pretending. That he wasn't a hero, and that he never would be.

Tony's thoughts turned bitter the longer he stared at the picture. The photo showed Tony's small hand resting on the uniform's star in the middle of his chest, proud to be representing both America and Steve.

Tony reached up to his own chest, mirroring the action of his younger self. Only now, he was touching the scar where his hero's shield had cut him deep. Deep into his heart.

Tony got up and threw the picture under his bed. The glass shattered, but Tony didn't care.