Written to: Over It - Relient K
Tony wished, not for the first time, that the tassel on his graduation cap would stop blowing in the breeze, its crimson cords tickling his nose in quite an irritating fashion. He knew Jarvis was somewhere in the crowd, probably taping the whole thing so they could watch it on the VCR later, and it wouldn't look very good if he was itching at his nose for three-fourths of the film. Jarvis, old English codger that he was, would probably sniff dramatically and dry his eyes on his plaid handkerchief and tell Tony how he had grown up to be a fine strapping young lad, how it would just be about time to buy Tony his first horse-drawn carriage so that he could go clip-clopping around the cobblestoned streets and court pretty young lasses, like Jarvis had back in his day.
He smiled to himself, the corner of his mouth tilting up, and he watched the sunlight dancing across the soft green lawn, bouncing off the stain-glass windows of the library where he'd spent many quiet hours, poring over books and business plans, getting lost in words and numbers and trying not to think about Steve.
Tony had recently been playing around with Steve's program at Steve's request, and had figured out a way to upload a whole cache of historical newspapers and documents so Steve could read them to himself or look at them. Steve had asked him if he wouldn't mind doing it, he knew Tony was busy with school and friends and whatnot, but Steve would really like to catch up on the past few decades, surely that couldn't be too much to ask? Tony had swallowed back the fact that he didn't really have too many friends -
Oh, that's Tony Stark, did you hear about his father? Such a shame!
I heard he's going to be the new CEO of Stark Industries. He must be loaded.
Bit a loner, don't you think?
- and instead he spent long hours at the library, trying to ignore the other students' stares and whispers, and trying not to wonder why they never mentioned Maria. Surely she was just as important as Howard. Surely she was. But apparently, in the grand scheme of things, she was just a faceless woman, whose only major contribution to the world was to give Howard Stark an heir.
In the evenings, when Tony got back from the library or from late labs, Steve was quiet, the only indication that he was awake a soft whispering as he mouthed the words to himself. "Vietnam," "My Lai," "Agent Orange."
"Stark." The hard k noises and hisses of the "s" chilled him to the bone, and he wished Steve good night and rolled himself into his covers, rubbing his arms and trying to erase the cold hard knot that had taken up root in his chest, spilling through his veins.
"I'm not like him, you know," he'd said one night. "I'm not."
"I know," was Steve's response, and he sounded so sure and confident of his answer that the ice in Tony's heart cracked open and gave him warmth, if only just the tiniest bit.
"Anthony Stark!"
He jerked himself back to the present, found his classmates looking at him with congratulations and unreadable expressions in their eyes. Tony swallowed, stood up, shaking out the pins and needles in his legs, and went forward, the grass swishing against the hem of his gown, to accept his diploma.
"Your last summer as a child, I'm afraid, Mr. Stark," Jarvis said playfully, ruffling Tony's hair even more than the graduation cap had. They had finished loading Tony's belongings into the car, and a bag of Jarvis's famous oatmeal-and-chocolate-chip cookies was melting on Tony's lap as Jarvis slotted the key into the ignition and pulled away from MIT's marble pillars and green lawns, away from hot plate cup of noodles and saltine cracker dinners and late nights in the library, old, aged books surrounding him on all sides with comforting yellowness and the smell of old ink and paper. "I hope you're ready to take the position at the company this fall. Don't worry, I'll make sure you're in good shape for taking it, and they'll go slow on you the first few months, of course," Jarvis said, winking at Tony in the passenger seat.
Tony missed it; he was staring out the window at the twinkling lights of the road and turning a few ideas over in his head.
" - the company's stock has been doing very well lately, so you'll find we have quite a bit of money to do some experimentation with," Jarvis continued on, unaware that Tony was only half-listening. "I've seen those doodles in the margins of your notebooks, Tony. Getting a bit old for Captain America, aren't you? A childhood fantasy, and the country is safe enough now, demand for that sort of thing - you know what I mean, vibranium shields, super serum - isn't very high right now, wouldn't you agree?"
Artificial organs - hearts, lungs, livers - for people who might have the misfortune of having defective or broken ones.
"Granted, he was quite the hero back in his day, your father knew him, as I'm sure you know -"
Sustainable agriculture, ways to produce more food for the growing population without putting strain on natural conditions.
"And perhaps he was just the thing that the United States needed, during that time -"
New forms of medicine, able to weed out defective cells and germs in a person's body, eradicating disease and sickness.
"I wonder where he could be now? No body has ever been recovered, even to this day, when we have more technology than ever before."
Tony started, looked over at Jarvis, who still seemed perfectly content to just remain talking to himself, and stared down at his lap, offering no answer.
His first day at Stark Industries was a bright, hot, August day, and men wore their shirtsleeves rolled up and women wore big-brimmed floppy hats and pale sundresses. The crush in the subway was almost oppressive, sweat and flowered perfume and the spicy hint of aftershave all rolled up into one, and Tony tried to make himself as small as possible in a corner of the carriage as the train hissed to a stop and more people got on, pressing and pushing against each other. A briefcase jabbed into his ribs, and he looked up at the owner, who just rolled his eyes and muttered something about kids playing hooky.
Jarvis had wanted to drive him to work that day, but Tony had insisted on riding the subway to work, at least for the first day. Jarvis had seen that determined set in his eye, the one that reminded him incredibly of Maria - God bless her soul - and had let him go, with a subway card pressed firmly into his hand.
The train doors hissed open at his stop, and Tony tripped out after the owner of the briefcase, wending his way in between the masses of people, keeping his subway card clutched tightly in his hand as he followed the man out the terminal and down the bright, hot street towards Stark Industries.
"Don't you have anywhere better to be going?" the man asked, rounding on him just as they were about to enter. "Oughtn't you to be in school right now?"
Tony looked up at him, startled. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the bright plate glass of the front lobby of Stark Industries, saw what the man must be seeing: A boy, in his late teens or early twenties at most, clear skin and big eyes and dark strands of hair almost touching the collar of his starched white button down shirt that his mother must have ironed for him just that morning, dark wash jeans and dark leather shoes that some kind individual that probably given to him for a gift for college interviews. Innocent. Unscathed. Ignorant about the true nature of the world.
He pressed his lips together, said "Thank you" without being sarcastic as the man pulled open the door, and trotted inside, goosebumps running up and down his arms at the cool air inside the building.
By the receptionist's desk, Mr. Williamson and a few other men were standing, hands in pockets, talking. When Tony walked in, they glanced in his direction before smiling and walking over towards him. The man with the briefcase, assuming they were coming towards him, straightened up a bit, fixed his face into a happy, confident expression, patting down any flyaway hairs that might have escaped his perfect coiffure. His look turned to shock as Mr. Williamson and the others held out their hands to Tony to shake.
"Mr. Grant, I see you've already had the pleasure of becoming acquainted with Anthony Stark, our new CEO," Mr. Williamson said pleasantly, addressing the man with the briefcase. Mr. Grant had the decency to look ashamed of himself before nodding respectfully at Tony and muttering something about already being late to a morning meeting and hurrying away down another hallway.
Tony watched him go, and wondered what it would be like if he really was what his reflection said.
It was early September, and Tony was bored out of his mind, doodling prototypes for artificial organs on his yellow legal pad while he was supposed to be listening to Mr. Williamson gab on about the company's third quarter stock revenues, the bright jagged red arrow cutting a smooth diagonal up across the chart. The sunlight was dancing across the smooth mahogany of the conference table, and Mr. Williamson had one of those old-man voices, a cross between history teacher and crotchety old grandfather, and Tony was trying his best not to fall asleep.
He was staring absentmindedly out the boardroom window, admiring the architecture of the World Trade Center, it really was quite beautiful -
and those planes were flying really low, weren't they?
and Tony barely heard his pencil clatter to the floor, the graphite point shattering, didn't catch Mr. Williamson's irritated glance at him -
surely they're not going to, they're not going to, they can't be, they just can't -
he reached out a hand, as if he could fix this, as if he could will the pilots to veer a different course -
they are...
A scream tore its way through his throat, and Mr. Williamson looked over his shoulder, and the boardroom erupted in confusion as a wave of noise, crashing and banging and tinkling washed over them, as they watched a black billowing cloud of smoke spilling from a gashing wound in the building only a few blocks away.
"Tony, you're okay, it's okay, I promise."
Jarvis's comforting voice swam through the confusion, and Tony grasped at it, trying to focus on the man in front of him. Jarvis was leaning over him, talking comfortingly, his voice low and soothing, and Tony wondered how he managed to keep up such a straight face. Wasn't he terrified?
He kept looking out the window of his apartment, trying to convince himself that it was just a dream, that the dark clouds of ash on the horizon were just thunderclouds gathering in the distance. Tried to pretend that the news broadcasts, all shouting about terrorist attacks and the World Trade Center and suicide bombings, were happening in another country, that surely it couldn't have happened here, not here, anywhere but here.
Silently, without speaking to Jarvis, Tony pushed away the bowl of soup Jarvis had set in front of him, and walked to his room.
"Steve," Tony murmured, running a hand over the top of the monitor. "Steve, you there?"
"Hm?" Steve's voice sounded far away, a little bit hoarse, and Tony wondered for a moment if he was getting sick. If that were possible. Or if he were just tired. "What is it, Tony? Are you doing construction at your house? I heard some noises earlier today, and I know you've always been going on about building a library or something."
Tony paused, absentmindedly stroking the top of the monitor with his thumb, collecting dust. The words stuck in his throat, all rough and jagged.
"It is September 11, 2001," he told Steve, and Steve made a noise in his throat.
"That's nice, Tony," Steve said. "Is today a special day? Your mother's birthday, maybe?"
Tony lay down on his bed, wrapping his arms around himself and hugging tightly. "Today's certainly one of a kind," he said after a moment. "I've never been so scared in my life," he whispered, and when Steve had no reply, having not heard Tony's last remark, Tony hugged his pillow to his chest and let the tears crawl down his face, wishing for the boy in the reflection to come back.
I've managed to move a bit more. I feel strong, and whatever's above me, that light blue, black surface, has started to crack. I can crack it even more if I just clench my fists, but I haven't regained full movement yet. This sort of reminds me of another time, strapped down into a chamber, screaming for them to let me out, screaming that it hurt, billions of needle point injections and a bright blue-white light, and then stepping out into the clinical light of an experimentation chamber to applause and smiles, and thinking that never before had the ground seemed so far away...
That was when they gave me another name, when they assigned me a new rank. Captain, they called me.
Captain Rogers? That sounds wrong. It couldn't have been that.
It was definitely Captain something or other.
It happened today.
That thing I said was going to happen, that really, really bad thing. I don't know how I know, I just do, I can feel it in the pit of my stomach, a hard, nauseating knot tying up my insides into pure fear.
I don't know what it is. Tony didn't say.
He whispered, "I've never been so scared in my life." I don't think I was supposed to hear.
Maybe I was.
Thinking that it could have been the latter is only more painful.