A/N: I've never read Thus Spoke Zarathustra - Nietzsche, but he's a famous philosopher for nihilism, which is basically the belief that nothing matters and that life doesn't have a purpose. Some pretty depressing stuff to think about.

Written to: I Could Be the One - Avicii & Nicky Romero

"Maria, just look at him!" Howard said, wrapping an arm around his wife's slender shoulders and beaming down at Tony. Tony, all of four months old, barely able to sit up by himself, had managed to push a variety of differently shaped blocks into a toy box that Howard had put in front of him. "He didn't even hesitate, not once! And you know how tricky those trapezoids are. But he did such a good job, didn't you?" Howard leaned over, pressed a kiss to Tony's messy dark hair, and Tony smiled back at him from behind his pacifier, which bobbed up and down in his mouth.

"You'll be a fantastic engineer, just like me, won't you? Who's the brilliant little engineer in training?" Howard asked, tickling Tony's stomach; Tony laughed in delight, clapped his hands, dropped his pacifier on the ground. He pouted at it for a moment before picking it up and examining it.

"No, no, sweetie, don't put that back in your mouth, it's dirty now. Let Mama wash it for you, and then you can have it back," Maria said, reaching out for it.

Howard grasped her wrist as she stood up to take the pacifier to a sink. "Come on, Maria," he said, grinning up at her. "I didn't hire Jarvis for nothing."

"It's such a trivial thing," Maria muttered, tugging at the hemline of her skirt nervously. "I wouldn't want to bother him about it when I could so easily do it myself."

Howard rolled his eyes, but she could see the firm set of his jaw that indicated he was irked about something. "Well, alright, go do whatever you want. But you can be damn sure that I didn't become one of the wealthiest men in the world so that I could continue living like an ordinary person."

Before Maria could tell him not to curse in front of Tony, Howard had shouted for Jarvis. The British butler that Howard had hired (and of course he had to be British, all butlers were British, according to him) glided into the nursery with brisk steps, bowed to Howard, gave a gentle smile and nod to Maria before asking Howard what it is the master wished for.

"Bring up a tumbler of Scotch for me, if you don't mind. On the rocks," he said, flicking his wrist to indicate Jarvis was dismissed. Jarvis nodded, though Howard had already turned back to watching Tony empty the box out and start banging the coloured blocks around as he tried to fit them into the holes.

"Anything for the mistress?" Jarvis asked, turning to her. "Would you like me to wash that for you, or give you a new one for the young master?" he asked, pointing to the pacifier in her hand.

Maria forced a smile, shook her head. "No, thank you," she said, briefly wondering if she ought to bring up the subject of why drinking at two in the afternoon - and in front of a child - wasn't good. She decided quickly that it was probably best not to bring it up, not when Howard's back was just stiff lines and tension underneath his burgundy vest and shirtsleeves.

She supposed she could tell Tony - if he were to ask when he got older - that his daddy just had a penchant for apple juice. Apple juice that didn't smell particularly good and that burned the throat when it went down. Although, judging by the determined look in her son's eyes as he banged a green pyramid into a hole, he wouldn't be that easy to convince, and she wondered how old he would be before he started questioning her about it.

She wondered what she'd say then, or if by that point Howard would already have sobered up and come down from the high he seemed to have been on ever since Stark Industries had taken off and become one of the world's most influential businesses. She hoped that would be the case; at any rate, Howard and Tony seemed to be getting along rather well, she thought, as Howard scooted himself over to lean against the base of the bassinet and loosened his tie.

Later that afternoon, as the sun was casting long shadows across New York's skyscrapers and setting the building windows afire with reds and golds and oranges, Maria cradled Tony in her lap and read him a fairy tale.

"And do you know what the princess did then?" she asked Tony, who looked up at her with huge dark eyes, his pacifier bobbing in his mouth as he sucked and looked at her questioningly. "Not even a guess?" she asked teasingly, smoothing wisps of dark hair away from his forehead and pressing a kiss to the crown of his head. He smelled like formula and milk and baby, and Maria grinned as she turned the page. Tony slapped his hands on the paper, pointing at the colourful pictures with pudgy fingers.

"Maria."

Howard's voice came soft across the nursery, but Maria flinched at the tone it held. As he approached, his steps a little shaky, Maria caught the sharp whiff of alcohol advancing in front of him. She let the book fall to the nursery carpet, its large text and pictures open for Howard to see. He toed it away with disgust and plopped himself down, cross-legged, in front of the two of them.

Maria held Tony close to her, but Tony, all of four months, smiled in delight at his father and reached out for him with chubby hands. Howard took him in his arms and opened another book, the title of which contained "Thus," from the brief glance Maria caught of it before Howard bent it over his knee and began to read to Tony in a droning voice slightly slurred with drink. There were no pictures in this one, and Tony pouted a bit, reached out for the other book that still lay open on the carpet, but Howard leaned over and pushed it towards Maria, out of Tony's reach.

"You can never get them started too early," he explained to her, as if what he was doing was perfectly logical, as if a four-month-old baby would in any way be interested by Thus Spoke Zarathustra. "Come now, Anthony," he said very sternly, "pay attention. The man who wrote this was a very influential philosopher. He's famous for the saying, 'God is dead.'"

Maria sighed and folded her hands in her lap as she watched Howard read philosophy aloud in a droning, boring voice. She wondered if it was wrong to hope that there was a God, wondered if it was wrong to hope that Tony wouldn't turn out to be anything like Howard.

Behind Maria's turned back, the blank monitor speckled with green thrummed a little bit, the green spots lighting up brilliantly for just a brief moment. When Howard looked up, the colour had all but faded away, until the monitor looked dull as always.

Steve:

I heard something today.

I don't know what it was. It was a man. The voice seemed really familiar, but I don't know whose it was.

He was reading a book, I think. It didn't sound particularly uplifting. Rather depressing, actually. God is dead? That doesn't sound good.

There was another sound, also. It sounded like a baby. But that doesn't really make any sense. I don't know much about babies, but in general, I thought you were supposed to read babies picture books and fairy tales? Don't ask me. I'm not an expert.

Are you even listening? Is anyone listening? Can anyone hear me? I mean, if I heard that man and that baby, surely there must be some way they can hear me? Or is it like a one-way mirror?

I've got so many questions. I wonder if I'll hear them again. Maybe next time, I'll be able to ask them.