Title: After Silence
Author: stalkerbunny
Summary: In one universe, Tony Stark loves music more than engineering and Steve Rogers was a child star. And love can be nice, even if it doesn’t heal all wounds.
Pairings/Characters: Steve/Tony, Hank/Jan, Howard/Maria, Thor, Clint, Wanda, Rhodey, Pepper, Loki Carol, Pietro, T’Challa.
Word Count: 14K
Warnings: Alcoholism of a minor character, child abuse (mainly verbal), drinking and implied drug use (of a minor character).
A/N: So, this was supposed to be a fluffy band!AU, but then Tony’s daddy issues took over the show. Sorry? Also, recipient specifically asked for no heavy drug use, I really hope you don’t consider alcohol a drug…? :’3 As for that one minor character, he probably decided it was a bad idea after the events of the fic (because it made him do something nice, blegh).
Betaread by windwrackedstar who was awesomecakes and did a thorough job on this on very short notice. All the remaining mistakes are all mine. ♥

Part One - Part Two



Now

The sofa in the tv-studio was a bit too small for six people, but somehow the chairs around had been ignored in its favour anyway. Steve sat on one side, his back straight in a way that looked confident to someone who didn’t know him well. Carol, Wanda and T’Challa were to his left, Carol calm and Wanda with a small smile. Clint was sitting on the armrest, jiggling his leg and drumming on the guitar he was holding in his lap, never completely still. Thor was leaning onto the back of the sofa, arms crossed.

"And now we’re only waiting for one final member…" the interviewer, back of his head and shoulders visible, was saying when Tony walked in to perch next to Steve on the arm of the sofa, the only seat left available on it. There were shadows under his eyes, pronounced in the studio lights. Steve turned to him, asked something too quietly for the microphone to catch, but Tony just shook his head, gave him a strained smile.

The interviewer turned towards the camera, smiling in a slightly nervous way.

"I’m pretty sure these guys don’t need an introduction… but for those raised in a barn, we’re here today with The Avengers! You’ve been in the limelight for over five years now, over half a decade. Does it seem like a long time?" At the last, he turned back towards the band.

There were a few glances back and forth before Steve cleared his throat to reply.

"Well, said like that--" he began, only to be interrupted by Tony.

"What he’s trying to say is you’re making us all feel old, stop it." He jokes, and Steve glanced at him, smile hovering on his lips.

"Right. What I was going to say is that it hasn’t seemed like a long time at all. The band’s had its ups and downs, but that’s just… how it goes. I’ve shared some of the best times of my life with these people and with others who are not members at the moment… and I’m glad to be where we are now. We’ve all worked hard for it."

"Save the speeches, Steve," Clint snorted.

Carol smirked.
"What he’s saying is that it’s like marriage," she said. "In sickness and in health, and so on."

In the bright, unforgiving studio lights, the light flush on Steve’s face was obvious. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but instead turned towards Tony. Their eyes met and some wordless message was exchanged there. Less than half an hour after the broadcast, that video clip would be all over the internet, but in that moment it was just the two of them.

"Talking about people who are and aren’t here today… you have quite many original members still, right?" the interviewer interrupted cheerily.

This time it’s Thor who answered.
"Depends how you count," he pointed out.

"Yes, for instance I joined relatively late," Steve hastened to say, and then added a bit sheepishly. "Though we’ve never… that is, the band line-up has always been pretty fluid, so there wasn’t ever much sense to count the years."

"Ah, yes, Tony and Thor, you were there in the very beginning, right?" the interviewer asked.

"Yeah," Tony answered. "It was mostly Janet’s idea. I, Janet and Hank were at the same university, and Don…"

"Worked at the cafeteria there," Thor said easily. "Was studying medicine back then."

"Yes, we all kind of ended up not using our respective educations," Tony said, smiling at Thor, before turning to Steve to lay a hand on his shoulder. "It’s only Steve here who grew up in the business," he jibes good naturedly, causing Steve to shake his head, though he doesn’t dislodge the hand.

"After your first album, you lost your bassist, so you were looking for new members, right?"
"Yeah, we were…"

*

Four years ago

In the evening, Kirby's Diner & Club had a certain old world charm. The lowered lights gleamed off of the worn vinyl seats and the wooden panelling on the walls. Granted, it had a mish-mash of styles; for instance, not one lamp in the place was like another. All together, however, the impression was rather homey. One side of the room held a small stage and a dance floor facing it, though when less space was needed, removable tables and chairs encroached on it. That evening, only half of them were in use.

The foursome ensconced in one of the aforementioned booths at the moment seemed unaware of their surroundings. Their table was covered in the remains of a recent meal, mostly empty plates and glasses pushed towards the center of the table or stacked together.

"Guys, you need to take this more seriously," Jan said, leaning her elbows on the table with the air of mild frustration. "The record’s doing well, but that just means we really should be on tour, which we can’t do without a bassist!"

"I could do bass, if we had someone else playing the guitar," the blond man at her side added.

"Hank, I've told you, there's nothing wrong with--" She began, only to be interrupted by a defensive shake of his head.

"It's not that Janet! I just like playing bass, it's not like it's that much easier," Hank began irately.

The looming argument was stalled as the other blond at the table raised a hand brandishing a french fry stolen from Tony’s plate, and proclaimed with solemn intonation.

"Janet, Hank surely we can agree that all instruments are equally worthy, and, indeed, capable of creating beautiful sounds!"

At his side, Tony was sitting curled up, handheld against his knees as usual. He didn’t even glance away from its blue glow during the conversation.

"Don’s drunk," he said easily. "Your turn to deal with him."

Janet sighed, but didn’t really seem terribly put out.

"Sure," she replied. "But seriously, if we ever want to make a second album, we need some more members. Personally, I think we should talk to Bruce one more time…"

"Didn’t go that well the first time, did it? Not to mention we’d have to find him first…" Hank muttered, and Janet sighed.

"I guess so. Anything new on the ever powerful internets, Tony?" she asked with a wry smile.

"Hm? Oh, yes… well, Namor McKenzie has heard about Destruction of Atlantis, if not the actual songs. He’s convinced it’s about his ex-band and got pissed off," Tony explained gleefully.

Hank snorted.

"Yeah, right, because the word ‘Atlantis’ obviously can’t be about anything else. Conceited ass."

"Uhuh," Tony replied distractedly, fingers flying over the keyboard a bit faster. "Possessive too. I think he’s still angry about the time I remixed his songs, and that was years ago. Not that he can prove DJ Iron Man was me, and besides, it’s not like I got any money out of it. I mean, it was essentially free advertisement."

Janet’s smile gained a slightly devious edge, right before she affected an entirely innocent expression.

"Possessive? Well, you’d know, Mr. It’s My Toy No One Touch It," she said, earning a wounded glare from him.

"Janet! You can’t use things I did in kindergarten against me… Miss Bee."

Janet sniffed. When she’d been six years old, she’d had an unfortunate infatuation with a certain sweater with vivid black and yellow stripes. Personally, she still though the colour combination suited her quite nicely.

"I’ve seen the pictures, you were adorable," Hank offered, and Janet beamed at him.

"Shut up, you," she said affectionately.

Don, meanwhile, was giving the world in general a sunny smile that usually signalled he was drunk enough either to do something destructive and/or embarrassing to everyone involved or to fall asleep where he stood.

"Ok, I think we’d better get our thunder god home," Janet said, giving him an apprehensive look. "Hank, you make sure he stays on his feet and I’ll… uh, I’ll make the way. Too bad we’ll be missing the music… Tony, remember to go home before you’re kicked out."

"Yes, mom," Tony quipped, this time glancing up at her with a smile. "Good luck with Thor."

Janet shook her head, and then started to navigate a safe route out as Hank supported Don behind her. Tony looked after them just long enough to see if they had any amusing mishaps and then returned to his handheld as none did.

He poked at one of the songs they’d been working on before Bruce’s dramatic break from the band before giving up on it and switching to another. Of course, there wasn’t much of worth he could do on just the small computer he carried with him, but going back to the empty apartment didn’t seem all that appealing either.

He yawned, wondering if he should finally sleep when he did. It had been a while now, a couple of nights or so. At some point, they just seemed to melt together. Somehow, it seemed like it might actually be easier to just fall asleep here, with the low chatter all around him.

A waiter pointedly clattering the dishes he was picking up woke him from the light doze he’d fallen into. In rather weak retaliation, Tony asked for a glass of water. Then, he went to check twitter and tumblr quickly, before starting a remix of one of their songs and Namor’s. Just for his own amusement, obviously. He wouldn’t even put it up on youtube when he was done. Probably.

However, after a moment, his fingers stilled, gaze instead wandering over the now empty table. The truth was, he knew Janet and Hank were planning to quit the band too. He wasn’t sure they knew it, yet, but sooner or later they’d realize they had other, bigger interests in their lives. He’d seen the way Janet scribbled elaborate sketches of clothes onto the sides of her magazines, and how Hank looked up university home pages and then read them over with a thoughtful look. Tony was pretty sure if he asked he’d say he was just considering his options.

Don might stay, he was about as hooked on making music as Tony was, but they wouldn’t make much of a band with just the two of them. And besides, Don’s old band would probably take him back in a flash, so it wasn’t like he’d have a reason to hang around.


What would he do then? Well, he could always do dj gigs, but after working with the others, making their own music, would it really be the same?

What he needed was a back-up plan…

*

The next morning, Tony woke up and for a moment wondered where he was, because his roof definitely didn’t have that many cracks in it, not even in the studio. Nor did he own a sofa as saggy as the one he was lying on. So, not at home, but at a rather--scratch that, extremely shabby apartment. To be fair, he supposed it was clean and even kind of… homey. It looked like someone had extended an effort despite the odds, as far as Tony was any judge of housekeeping.

That he wasn’t alone on the sofa wasn’t cause for much concern, especially as both himself and the man in question were both wearing most of their clothes.

Start from the beginning, last night. There had been a guy playing at Kirby’s, nice voice and pretty damn inspired guitar player, and after his performance Tony had decided to go talk to him. Turned out he had a friend with him, a gorgeous woman in red with dark curls. And then there had been drinks, until they were all three somewhere between tipsy to falling down drunk. He had a faint recollection of stumbling up a dimly lit staircase, him and the woman practically carrying the other man. She’d helped them as far as the sofa and kissed both their cheeks, and then he had apparently fallen asleep.

That explained why the guy was sleeping on him then, Tony concluded. Should probably push him off and go home. Though it was pretty comfortable here, despite the rather lumpy sofa and the fact his human blanket was a bit smelly. He’d get up in a moment…

Tony was woken from his doze by clattering. Dishes, probably.

"Nnmhwhat?" he mumbled. The clattering and splashing stopped and were replaced by a sound of approaching footsteps, which stopped right next to him.

Tony opened his eyes, and—

"Hello," he said, blinking and suddenly very awake indeed, because the man currently glowering down at him was—well, from Tony currently had a rather low perspective, which was unflattering on most people, but then this guy didn’t seem like he had an unflattering side. He was towering over him, all smooth muscle and squared jaw and… damn, those eyes. L5, azure, Tony thought in a daze, just like the first car he’d painted working at the car shop.

Then he recalled that the man also looked pretty displeased, and offered as charming a smile as he could dredge up while lying hung over on a ratty sofa under a stranger. Which was actually a pretty damn charming smile, if he said so himself.

"Uh, morning?" he offered, as the scowl didn’t disperse. He wriggled a hand free and held it out. "Tony Stark, it’s a pleasure to meet you."

*

Now

"It was all a sort of happy accident," Wanda said. "Clint managed to be in the right place at the right time for once in his life ("Oy!" Clint protested in the background) and somehow the rest of us got pulled along… I think Steve took the longest to convince, really."

"Ah, well, I hadn’t actually done that sort of music before…"

*

Four years ago

Tony wondered if this was how it felt like to sit in front of an angry parent, as the gorgeous blond man was giving him a weighing look from the other side of the table. He looked around in the kitchen to avoid it for a moment, and decided he was better off with the frosty blues after all. The kitchen looked about the same as the rest of the place he’d seen. Boring, old, scrubbed to within an inch of it’s life.

"So, um, that guy snoring on the sofa…"

"Clint," the man, who’d introduced himself as Steve, said.

"Right. I wasn’t molesting him or anything. We were just drunk."

Steve looked like he was about to say something, but he was interrupted by the arrival of the woman from yesterday. Her name had been something beginning with a W. Wendy? No, more exotic. Right, Wanda.

Her hair was a frizzled cloud and there were shadows under her eyes, but otherwise she seemed enviably awake. Seeing Tony, she stopped in the doorway for a moment, and then wrapped the red robe she was wearing a bit more tightly around herself.

"Oh, you’re still here," she remarked, before making a beeline for the coffee. Ahah, maybe not that awake after all, Tony thought as Wanda drained her first cup in a few gulps and blinked.

"Morning, hm, Tony? And Steve," Wanda said, and then glanced between the two of them.

"Steve, are you... you are, aren’t you?" she said, going from disbelieving to teasing in the space of the sentence.

The man in question turned towards her defensively.

"I wasn’t doing anything!" he protested.

Wanda ignored him.

"There’s no need to give him the shotgun talk, Tony was a perfect gentleman. Even… hm, you did pay for the cab, right? It’s a bit hazy to me…"

At Tony’s nod, she continued.

"Speaking of last night, was there some talk about an open position for a guitarist at some point? Or was that just…" she made a vague gesture, "small talk?"

"Maybe," Tony replied carefully. "I was thinking I might ask him to try it out with the others. Can’t promise anything though. Think he’d be interested?"

He hadn’t been able to get a clear idea the previous evening.

"What’s your band called?" a voice croaked from the doorway. That was Clint, leaning on the jamb and looking like something out for brains.

"The Avengers," Tony replied nonchalantly, furtively looking at the others to see if there was any reaction. Wanda’s eyebrows rose a little, Steve looked blank, and so did Clint, though in his case it seemed to be more a case of his brain processing the information at a snail’s pace, because his actual words were, "I’m in."

"If you can impress my band mates, maybe," Tony replied amusedly.

"I will," Clint said, with apparent arrogance Tony would later learn was typical of him, and then lurched away from the doorway again.

Wanda shook her head.

"I can probably settle a time for you, if he’s passed out again. The Avengers, huh? But I thought you were down a bassist?"

"Yeah, but Hank has been talking about switching to that. He’s been playing guitar so far." Tony explained.

Meanwhile, Steve was looking rather lost.

"You’ve never heard of the The Avengers?" Tony asked him, pretending to be hurt. "And here I thought we were becoming famous."

Wanda laid a hand on Steve’s shoulder, patting it.

"Well, that’s Steve, he doesn’t really keep up with the latest trends," she teased cheerfully.

Steve hunched his shoulders and crossed his arms, practically pouting, and how adorable was that?

"To be honest, we’ve only made one record, with medium success. I’m frankly more surprised when people have heard about us than the other way around," Tony amended. He’d started to feel a bit sorry for the guy, and besides, it wouldn’t do to make someone that hot dislike you. He’d already made a bad enough first impression on the man.

"Ah," Steve replied noncommittally.

A silence followed, filled only by the sound of a clock ticking, and Wanda humming softly under her breath.

"So, you guys all live here?" Tony asked just to break it. He didn’t like silence very much, having grown up with an overabundance of it. It was one reason why he was so fond of music.

"Yeah. My brother Pietro as well." Wanda replied. Then she glanced at her watch. "Damn, it’s… have to go get ready for work now. Have a good day, Tony, Steve," she said hurriedly, disappearing in a swirl of red satin.

And then it was only Tony and Steve again. Steve, who apparently wasn’t very talkative.

"So, I, uh, should probably get going too?" Tony said eventually, deciding he wasn’t in the mood to draw anyone out of their shell so early in the morning. "I’ll just leave my number."

He tried his pockets, but he tended to do any notes he needed to on his handheld. Too bad it didn’t have a printer on it, someone should get on that. "If you have some paper?"

Steve started and got up, his eyes scanning round the kitchen before he muttered something about getting some from his room. A moment later, he handed Tony a sheaf of thin lined paper and a ballpoint pen.

Tony wrote his name and number on it, before glancing at Steve who’d moved to the sink, rinsing the cup Wanda had left on the table earlier. There was something oddly familiar about him.

"Have I met you somewhere before?" he thought aloud, and then tried to smooth it over with a smile when Steve turned towards him with a quizzical look.

"I mean, usually I’d remember but if it was at a party or something… was I rude? Because if I was it wasn’t me," he joked.

Steve shook his head, his mouth bent into the barest of smiles.

"I’m not really one for parties, actually," he said. "At least not these days, I’ve kind of overgrown them."

Tony raised an eyebrow. Did he realize he’d just basically called everyone who did like parties immature?

"Oh, so you used to go to them then?" He said anyway, keeping his tone light. So much for giving up on it then.

Steve shrugged, still with that slightly embarrassed expression, though now there was something almost wary in it.

"Sometimes. It was a while ago," Steve said, before adding with a small self-deprecating smile, "I had a busy youth, before… well, settling down into a life of odd jobs and club performances."

Tony looked him up and down, noting how Steve flushed and then turned towards the sink when he noticed him looking.

"Youth?" he couldn’t help making it a little teasing. "You don’t seem that old to me."

And then something clicked in place, and he wondered how he hadn’t realized… sure, he’d filled out a lot from an adorably gangly teenager with freckles, but he even had that same hairstyle back then.

"Wait, you’re Steve Rogers!" Tony blurted out and could have bit his tongue when Steve turned to look at him, giving him a quite rightfully earned dubious look.

"Yes?" he replied, this time turning fully away from the sink and giving Tony his full, and slightly defensive, attention. For a moment, they just looked at each other.

"You still do music?" Tony asked, the first thing he could think of that wasn’t something totally idiotic like ‘Funny thing, I was your fan back then.‘ Even at eleven, it had been a secret, because it wasn’t all that cool to be a fan of Steve Rogers, the latest child star. Not unless one was a girl, anyway. In fact, it was all Janet’s fault to begin with, really.

She was the one who had played "Red, White, and Blue (Those Things You Do)" until Tony found himself humming along despite the utter vapidity of the song. And she had shown him all those pictures of Rogers in her magazines which wouldn’t have been a problem either because Tony didn’t really think much of him based on that.

But then she’d insisted he go with her to his concert, and somehow on that stage the scrawny boy with his silly garishly painted guitar was somehow a lot more charismatic. Something just seemed to radiate from him, even singing songs with about as much depth as an average puddle.

At the end of the concert after he’d already played one encore, he’d looked at them. There was a huge audience, but Tony could have sworn Rogers looked right at him for a moment while his gaze swept over everyone.

With a smile that was suddenly different somehow, less certain, Rogers said, "Well, there’s one more…this one’s just something I’ve been working on," and started a song that wasn’t on any of his records. Tony only heard it that once, but even years later he remembered some of the lyrics.

It was about a boy and his absent father, with the boy wondering if it was his fault he was gone, that maybe if he’d been a better son his father would have cared. ‘It’s so naïve, really,’ Tony had thought, sitting next to Janet in the dark, except that somehow there had been a knot in his throat he could barely swallow around.

Steve was looking at him now, serious and wary, and it occurred to Tony to wonder suddenly how he had ended up in this worn down and apparently overcrowded apartment. And how would people react to finding out that he’d once been rich and famous, even if only for a while. A name everyone knew could be baggage, though his own had far more blood on it. Not that he’d personally contributed to that, but sometimes it felt like he might have just as well.

"Yes, I still make music," Steve replied, leaning onto the edge of the sink as Tony tried not to stare at the way his muscles shifted, or the cant of his hips. "With what time I can find from my day jobs, anyway," he said, too obviously casual.

"Still keeping one, huh?" Tony said, and even he would admit that was pretty weak, as far as jibes went, except then Steve got a sort of wry look and said,

"Well, we can’t all have rich parents."
It wasn’t much, really. It wasn’t like he’d said, we can’t all have a death trader for a father which Tony had actually heard before, in those exact words.

He hadn’t really spoken to his father in years, if ever, even with the tentative peace treaty mom had brokered between them. He might like to think he had nothing to do with what he did, but he couldn’t really kid himself as to where the financial help mom kept pushing on him came from.

"I should go," he said, too abrupt probably, but suddenly he just wanted out of there.

"Uh, sure," Steve said, and he looked slightly startled but probably couldn’t care less, so Tony just made up some hasty excuse before leaving. He was already standing on the street, shivering in the cold morning air, before it occurred to him he should have called a cab first ‘If one would even come to a neighborhood this bad,’ he thought as he pulled out his phone to check the GPS and figure out where the hell he actually was.

In the end, he decided he might as well just walk to somewhere more civilized first and try not to get mugged on the way. At least the rumpled and day old clothes might be good for somethinglonely-- apartment.

*

Now

Wanda smiled at Steve, tucking a bit of her hair behind her ear, and continued.

"Tony liked to arrange all these parties at his place and basically invite everyone he knew, and what with so many of us liking music there ended up being a lot of jamming sessions. A lot of us hadn’t even worked in the same genre before that. I and Pietro had done mostly classic, for example… but then again I guess Avengers was like that to start."

*

Three and a half years ago

The party was in full swing, everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves… and Tony was sitting slumped on the sofa, looking down at his bottle as if hoping it to get a miraculous refill. No such luck, of course, and he couldn’t quite dredge up the energy to get another. Then he saw Steve, who for some strange reason appeared to be all alone and feeling awkward, if Tony was reading him right. He waved, catching the man’s attention and pat the sofa next to him when Steve came closer.

He had that cautious expression again. Tony might have been insulted if he hadn’t already seen enough of the man to know wasn’t personal. At least, he assumed it wasn’t him in particular Steve was wary about, but his sort of people in general. So if they really got to know each other, maybe Steve would decide he was all right. Or all right for a selfish rich kid, maybe. It wasn’t like Tony were really invested anyway, he told himself.

"Hey Steve," he said. "Thought you said you didn’t do parties?"

Steve blinked.

"Um, my roommates were coming so…" he began, so clearly doubting his welcome that Tony decided to take mercy on him.

"Had to look after the kids?" he interrupted at the same time Steve finished, "--and they insisted."

Then he frowned, though Tony was pretty sure he was trying not to smile.

"I think Wanda and Pietro might actually be a few years older than me, actually," Steve said, and ha! That was definitely a smile, even if it was sort of lopsided.

"You just give off this feel like you’re someone’s dad or grandfather," Tony said, then inwardly cursed his big mouth. Usually he was smoother than this, even when drunk. Clearly, whatever Wanda had put in that punch of hers, it was no good for him.

"I mean, in a good way. Like a hot grandfather. Not that I like older guys or anything. Or women. Though all of those can be nice, it’s not like I--," he rambled, and then closed his mouth tightly, before any more inane things came out, slapping a hand over his face to make sure. "Damn. Tell Wanda I hate her crazy punch, will you?"

There was a soft, low rumble, and Tony had to peek through his fingers to see that, indeed, Steve was laughing. He hadn’t thought he could look better, but with that serious frown he seemed to wear most of the time all wiped away…

Except now he was looking sort of puzzled, Tony realized, probably because he was staring at him with god-knows-what sort of expression.

"Okay, I will," Steve said, smiling a little again. "I think it was more the amount you drank, though," he added. Okay, the frown was actually kind of cute too, Tony decided with an internal sigh of resignation.

He considered asking how Steve knew how much he’d been drinking, as he hadn’t seen him there before then, but at the last moment decided that might be construed as too defensive and instead chose another tack to try.

"Now that I’ve inadvertently shared my preferences… or lack of them, if you will, I think it’s only fair I get one embarrassing fact in return."

That seemed to be a mistake, as some of the wariness had returned to the sidelong glance Steve shot him.

"Well, if you were following the tabloids back in the day…" he began, and Tony remembered suddenly that Steve Rogers’ child star career hadn’t been solely ended by just puberty. Or rather, it had already been on the wane when he’d allegedly been spotted in a gay bar. Or was it a parade? Tony hadn’t really been following the story that closely, having had other concerns at the tender age of sixteen. But still, what did Steve think of him?

"You really think I’d actually believe them?" Tony asked, his tone casually pointed. Apparently a bit too pointed, as it earned a raised eyebrow from Steve, before his face smoothed out with comprehension.

"Ah. I imagine your family has had their share of… that."

"Bad publicity?" Tony suggested. "And in my dad’s case, some of it was earned," he added darkly, somewhat aware this was probably worse than rambling about hot grandfathers earlier, but unable to stop. "But the time they decided my mum’s life was the latest scoop just because she left that bastard…" He trailed off and glanced at Steve, who was looking understandably confused, maybe even a bit uncomfortable. No wonder; the poor guy couldn’t have expected him to start ranting about his family.

"Uh, sorry, I really am talking too much tonight," Tony offered, pulling up a smile that hopefully didn’t look as fake as it felt.

"It’s okay," Steve said quietly, and Tony could almost believe he was sincere, despite the uncomfortable expression. "I’m sorry. That must have been terrible."

"Not your fault," Tony said bluntly, hoping Steve would get the clue and change the subject he’d never intended to come up. "So, how did you meet your… what did Clint use, "kooky quartet"? And what’s up with that, anyway?" he asked instead.

Steve’s face wrinkled in something like embarrassment before he mumbled something about it having been a last minute name they’d come up with for a surprise gig. No matter how much Tony prodded at him, he couldn’t get a straight answer as to how Steve had first come to know his roommates, which just made Tony more curious.

"And you? How did The Avengers get together?" Steve asked eventually, probably mostly to derail him. Well, he’d probably find out from the other three eventually.

"Well, I’d known Janet since kindergarten, more or less. Her parents knew mine and so on. We kind of drifted apart for a while, before ending up in the same university along with Hank and Bruce. Don Blake happened to work at the university cafeteria. A student of medicine, our Don."

"Oh, so that’s why…"

"We call him Dr. Blake sometimes? Yes. As well as Thor, if he’s on the stage or…" as if on cue, there was a loud crash followed by a voice bellowing out something doubtlessly poetic and manly, "…drunk," Tony finished, hoping it hadn’t been anything too expensive.

"I’d been wondering about that too," Steve said diplomatically.

"He used to play in this weird Viking metal band," Tony explained. "And if you think his stage persona is crazy, believe me, it’s nothing on his old band mates."

There was another crash, and Tony sighed.

"Okay, I guess I better go check on the damage. Hold down the fort for me while I’m gone," he said flippantly, getting up reluctantly. Maybe he could go get another bottle while he was at it.

The crash had come from somewhere downstairs, Tony decided, wandering in that direction and down the stairs from the upper level of the loft. The apartment had originally been a two floor industrial/office space. When he’d moved in, it had already been fully converted, with two bedrooms and a big living room upstairs and the kitchen and studio downstairs.

Between the two rooms there was a narrow space, more of a hallway than anything else. It looked like someone had managed to tip a chair into the large mirror installed on the wall opposite the stairs, Tony noted offhandedly. He’d have to ask how or why, but at least there wasn’t any blood among the shards littering the floor.

He wandered closer, prodding at one big shard with his shoe, and wondered idly if someone else breaking a mirror at his house was supposed to bring bad luck on him. Then he looked up, at the fractured image on himself reflected in the pieces of the mirror still hanging onto the wall. The hallway was shadowed, with the small point lights off, and with the deep shadows he looked older. Standing there gaping at his reflection with the bottle still hanging from his hand…

Tony looked away from the mirror, and then put the bottle down on the floor, but it didn’t make him feel much better.

Let’s face it, he hadn’t just looked older. He’d looked like his father, and not like he looked usually, with the sharp, conservative suits and studied cool expression and stylishly greyed hair he showed in public. Not even the man he’d seen the last few years when visiting him and mom, who didn’t look very different from his public image of years ago.

No, the closest was those times when he was a child and Howard was really drunk, when his usual posture was slumped but not relaxed. Back then, he’d prowled around the mansion like an irate lion, just looking for a reason to lash out. As if underneath the iron hard control there was a seething mass of anger and destruction, and when he was drunk it started to show.

*

Tony had feared those times as a child, had tried to keep out of his way as much as he could. To this day he wasn’t sure which had been worse: the vicious, cruel words Howard had shouted at him when he was drunk or the cold dismissal when he was sober.

There had been times when he’d tried to be a normal father, Tony supposed, if that meant showing your son around in a factory or an office, to be cooed over by employees and financers or whatever sort of people happened to be around. It had been fun sometimes, as long as Howard didn’t get distracted by something and leave him sitting in an office where he wasn’t allowed to touch anything for hours. In hindsight, Tony wondered if Howard had just used him to better his image.

His favorite times had been the very few instances when Howard had let him look at some project he was working on. When they were both quiet and Tony could pretend that… well, he could pretend anything, couldn’t he? That maybe someday he’d be able to work with his father, and he’d look it over and say "Good work Tony." He wouldn’t smile, because Tony couldn’t even imagine that. His father only smiled in press photos, and even at four Tony could tell it wasn’t a real smile.

When he was five, he happened to hear his mother playing the grand piano in one of the large, airy downstairs rooms of the mansion. The strains of it were dampened by the walls and Tony opened the door to see who was playing. As he did so, the notes hit him like a bird flying into a windowpane. Or maybe he was the bird, because for a moment the music just stopped him, seemed to stop his very heart with its sadness.

"Mom?" he asked, feeling a creeping dread, because how could anyone play something so sad while being happy, and it was his mother playing. But then she’d stopped and smiled at him, so he went closer, allowed her to pick him up, pull him into her lap.

"There," she said, brushing a warm hand through his hair. "Did you want me to play for you? Or try it yourself, maybe?"

He hadn’t thought of it, but he nodded, so she took his hands and placed them on the black and white keys.

"I’ll show you, okay?"

She did. And that afternoon, Tony found the first love of his life, something even more intriguing that the machines and blueprints in his father’s lab, something created by the simple mechanism of the piano that had a living soul of its own. That first time he could only glimpse a small part of it, in the faltering notes he could manage to play by evening, when his mother said that her fingers were cramping. But Tony could already feel a desire to be better. To be able to make music that could stop someone’s heart, like his mother could.

The fascination with technology and machines ever completely left him either, but now he had a new purpose. As much respect as he had for traditional instruments, there was never quite enough variation or control in them. As soon as he’d learned to play well enough, he started experimenting with a synthesizer, and building his own instruments to tamper with sounds after that.

There were a few rows with his father, who didn’t appreciate Tony borrowing pieces for his projects from the lab or taking apart household items. Not that he always noticed the latter. Jarvis did, but while he might tell Maria, he never mentioned things like that to Howard.

In hindsight, Tony supposed he knew why.


Part One - Part Two