Disclaimer: The characters potrayed in this fic belong to Marvel and Disney. I am neither of these august bodies.

For MP: happy birthday.

Steve Rogers gets his best friend back on the same day that Captain America loses a team mate.

It's not the first time he's lost someone; nobody in his old World War Two unit - either of them - could claim that. Whether one asked the dancing girls of his war bond-selling days (sobbing over soldier brothers or ferry pilot sisters) or one enquired of the weary combatants that made up his Howling Commandos (and those men? they didn't sob. But they'd go quiet. Very quiet, and faintly, softly, almost preternaturally still. Each of them remembering a fallen comrade; fellow soldier, resistance fighter, or simply a beloved civilian in the wrong place at oh so very much the wrong time.) Everyone had experienced loss.

It was just, Captain Rogers had never thought it could go this way, might go this way, would go this way.

Did go this way.

He'd found the Winter Soldier half a year earlier. He'd found Bucky only a few weeks ago, though; buried under half-memories and programmed responses and violence and terror, hidden inside a shell of ferociously vicious competence and blank, unemotive cognition. It had taken months to coax the shattered fragments of his best friend out, to ease them together into a faint semblance, a softly jagged shadow of the man James Buchanan Barnes used to be. Months that, for all the heartbreak they'd involved, Steve couldn't help but think of as some of the best-spent time of his life.

He'd been half-terrified, half-optimistic, and entirely hopeful when he'd begun planning to introduce his team to his newly-recovered best friend (healing, slowly, carefully. But nonetheless still possessed of a particular dryness of humour, a certain sarcastic edge to his quips, that warmed Steve to the very bottom of his heart.). Well, perhaps not 'his' team, but the disparate group of fractured individuals with whom he'd saved the world.

Honestly? He hadn't really known what else to do. Because Bucky was healing, and remembering, and chafing at being kept close and safe. At seeing only Steve and Sam, and on occasion Natasha.

Natasha herself was there only intermittently; while S.H.I.E.L.D. no longer occupied any great portion of her time, the charred wreckage that was all that remained of the once-illustrious organisation bore her scrutiny. Closely. Indeed, between that and her rather public outing in the final death throes of the Hydra branch that had infected the security institution, she was pursuing a rather remarkably low profile with a single-minded determination that added a certain gravitas to her remarkable success.

But she'd promised she'd be there, as had Sam, though he'd been pretty vocal about being more than a little unsure of his welcome. (Steve would never admit it, but he hadn't been certain of his own reception; whilst neither Banner nor Stark had overtly withdrawn from the Avengers Initiative, the American Captain's determined, contrite overtures of friendship to Tony Stark after his rather remarkable sacrifice in the skies of New York had never really managed to improve their working relationship beyond a certain stiff cordiality. Steve wasn't certain why; he'd worked with soldiers and professionals - even the occasional warrior such as Thor, all his post-serum life - and had almost always managed to grow professional regard into firm friendship, even after some spectacularly rocky starts. But not with Tony Stark. Billionaire genius playboy philanthropists were apparently an entirely different kettle of fish to the average military individual.)

Still, for reasons the blond super-soldier really didn't want to examine too closely, he wanted - needed - the Avengers to meet Bucky, and not on the other side of a battlefield as the Winter Soldier.

He knew the meeting might be rocky, might be rough. He never expected the fallout.

The day started well enough; Natasha, a fast car - more comfortable than her usual sports models, especially for the two powerfully-framed men who by unspoken agreement took the back seats, leaving the more lightly-built Falcon to ride shotgun - and a short trip to one of the smaller conference centers kindly provided by the Maria Stark Charitable Foundation.

Steve couldn't quite blame Stark for not wanting a internationally renowned assassin in his own home, Stark Tower, but the potential slight to his best friend still stung, the implication that he was somehow unwelcome, that he'd been found wanting. Bucky hadn't seemed to have noticed, caught up entirely in his own thoughts.

That wasn't surprising, either. The former assassin had been particularly broody in the last few weeks, and Steve would have had to be blind and dumb not to realise that the timing had coincided exactly with Maria Hill's delivery of a certain dossier. The file hadn't been particularly voluminous, certainly only marginally larger than that which Black Widow had obtained through her Russian contacts, but it had been illuminating.

The Winter Soldier had certainly been sporadically, competently active in the decades following the second world war. But it hadn't been until the ninteen-sixties that his presence had shifted from a myth-like whisper to the unstoppable, terror-inducing rumor that had characterised his reputation until his eventual rescue and redemption. Steve wasn't sure what caused the shift, though there were hints and clues scattered through both sets of files; by the sixties his brainwashing was complete, the time frame of re-wiping and return to cryogenic slumber needed to prevent him breaking through his mental conditioning on each mission, whilst minimising his physical deterioration, was well-established data. That knowledge alone would have allowed HYDRA's mission planners to elevate him from a clumsily functional murderer to a finely honed scalpel of a weapon in his masters' hands.

And by the seventies, the prosthetic arm was both present, super-strong, and functioning perfectly. Despite careful, thorough re-reading, there was nothing in either set of files to suggest how or when it might need repair or maintenance, though, and that worried Steve. The arm was like any mechanical equipment in that it would certainly need some form of upkeep, and given that it was crucial to his best friend's functioning, that warranted close attention. Like any good military planner who had found a problem, Rogers came up with a solution: The arm became simply another good reason for Bucky to meet Stark; develop the social contact and familiarity before he needed the engineer's expertise to repair the prosthesis. Or to build a new one. (If and when he chose to be honest with himself, Steve knew that that was the main reason why he'd been so keen for Bucky to meet all the other Avengers. Whilst Barton would understand the impact of brain-washing and mind control - and not hold it against someone - and Banner would be the last person to judge a man on his past, Stark has always been a wild card, and Steve would prefer that unpredictable brilliance on his own side - or at least not actively working against him.)

"Not recommended" for the Avengers Initiative indeed: Fury had been planning on soldiers, on gifted warriors and military strategists, on spies and operatives well-able to take orders and follow them. Not on maverick geniuses with a penchant for observation and thinking and making up their own minds.

Tony Stark had upset all those plans, and done so with style, panache, and a sheer, gutsy follow-through that still left Rogers breathless when he thought about it. And Stark had succeeded beyond every realistic expectation very pointedly without being a soldier. Perhaps that was why they still only barely got along; too different in perspective to ever really meet. But that wasn't today's problem.

Today's issue was simply getting Bucky out of the house, introducing him to a man who might be able to help with the maintenance of that arm, getting a little social interaction going and - hopefully - doing so without the ex-assassin alienating the engineer completely (the way Steve himself had managed on his own first, fateful meeting with the inventor). Or vice versa; Stark's brashness engendering a complete refusal on Bucky's part to seek his help at any future point.

Yeah. About that. . . Steve drew a breath, released it in a silent sigh even as he felt Bucky stiffen in the seat next to him.

"Listen, Buck," He started, paused. Chose his next words very carefully. Bucky deserved the right to make up his own mind about people, make his own acquaintances as he saw fit . . . but there was so much riding on this. That arm would at some point need maintenance. HYDRA-free maintenance, which meant not-by-ex-S.H.I.E.L.D.-techs maintenance. And when it came to mechanical engineering? Stark was the undisputed best.

Swallowing, Rogers ignored the odd thought, the observation that - despite their own initial animosity and ongoing antipathy - his own upgraded suit and repaired vibranium shield had scrupulously been produced to exquisite standard by the unorthodox inventor. That had been, he was sure, at S.H.I.E.L.D.'s request, or Coulson's. Bucky didn't have that safety net.

"Stark, Tony Stark, is . . . well, he's Iron Man because he made the suit. Invented it. Then re-invented it, over and over. He's still the best pilot of any iteration of it the world has seen, even if he's a bit . . . rough around the edges. Loud. Rude. Arrogant. Sometimes self-destructive. He's. . . he's not like Howard. He's never lived up to Howard, and he won't thank you for pointing out any familial similarities."

"Good." Bucky's reply came so quietly Steve almost thought he'd imagined it. Almost.

"Huh?" Steve let the silence stretch, and though at first it seemed as though Bucky had no intention of filling it, the man eventually elaborated.

"Steve, I've still got . . . gaps. I know that. You know that. But I remember. . . some." Bucky hesitated, old hurts flashing through his eyes. "And Howard Stark was always more flash than substance, only you never saw it. He never let you see it. And given that the only real genius you ever actually met was Professor Erskine, and his 'genius' lay in making monsters before his success with you, you'd be well-excused for being taken in by Howard Stark."

"What?! No - the shield, the vita-ray machine to activate the serum. . ."

"Howard Stark worked well with others. I grant you that. He could polish their ideas and develop their innovations. And he was so showy that you didn't really notice how his own ideas never quite got off the ground on their own. At least, not during the War. Given the financial empire he left his son, that obviously changed afterwards, or his circumstances did."

Bucky took a deep breath, and Steve had to keep himself from bursting out an impassioned defense of the loud, brilliant inventor who'd built his shield, who'd stolen a plane to make it possible for Steve to parachute into a HYDRA base to rescue Bucky and the rest of the commandos, who'd . . . Who'd never gotten the flying car to work, despite what an advantage that repulsor technology would have been to the war effort.

Who'd made his money building ever more powerful weapons. Powerful, but conventional weapons; bullets, missiles, explosives . . . Steve had read the files, though he hadn't really thought about what they implied. Well, not implied, but more or less baldly stated; it wasn't Howard, but his son who had mastered semi-autonomous robotics, developed the Jericho guidance system, invented functional repulsor technology, synthesised a new element, created the arc reactor technology, invented the world's first independently-cognisant artificial intelligence. . . With a start, Steve realised Bucky might well be onto something with his assessment.

"At least Tony Stark, no matter how much he frustrates and annoys you, has demonstrated he has the skills to back his arrogance. So, no, I don't think I'll be mistaking the junior for the senior. Whatever physical similarities you might think they have." Having said his piece, Bucky lapsed back into the watchful quiet that so characterised him these days. For once, Steve didn't mind; he had a lot to think about.

But then, Bucky had always been good at that, at making him think.

Still, he couldn't help but ask - though he told himself it was for information rather than snarking - just how many technological savants Bucky had been acquainted with. It was a sign of just how far Bucky had progressed that the question didn't send him into a withdrawn brooding, or a flashback to the 'tender mercies' of Hydra's torture 'geniuses', even as he considered his answer.

"More than you, Rogers. If nothing else, the . . . person . . . who fitted this arm, or at least this version of it, was no slouch. That dossier implied I had at least a decade of missions using previous iterations of the arm, and this one? So much better."

Steve didn't have an answer to that. Bucky was right; even now, the neuro-cognitively responsive prosthesis was decades ahead of anything currently available (though scuttlebutt from Col. Rhodes via Sam suggested that Tony Stark was making headway in that area, as in so many others). In the seventies, though? it would have been almost like science fiction.

All the more reason to get Stark on-side.

Which, Steve Rogers considered about forty minutes later, was going to be rather difficult. Unless the inventor actually deigned to turn up to the meeting. Beside him, Bucky sat quietly, almost meditatively quiescent in his chair in the large, lushly appointed waiting room. The dark timbers, heavy old furniture and plush carpets couldn't be more removed from Tony Stark's sleek, modern style. But rather than oppressive, the room simply felt opulently cosy, and Rogers fancied he could almost feel a hint of Howard in the heavily stalwart lines of the large central table.

Of course, it helped that the furnishings were more old-school, more something he would have chosen himself than those typically favoured by the abrasive genius. Steve wasn't certain what to read into that; either Stark was at pains to put both Bucky and himself at ease after declining to have the ex-assassin in his own home, or - more likely - he simply hadn't thought about it.

Tony Stark was well versed in how to make a 'grand', or at least overly showy, entrance and - in Steve Rogers' experience - found any opportunity to do so utterly irresistible. So he'd already been half-expecting the boisterous mix of panache, overly fast verbosity, and wildly gesticulating arms that accompanied the booming opening thud of the doors to the conference room just off-side from the waiting area he and Bucky were quietly ensconced in.

It was just, he hadn't also expected a grand entrance from Bucky.

Tony Stark had indeed flung open the doors, though without pausing in his rapid-fire discussion with a long-suffering (but happy, and more than a little amused-looking) Bruce Banner. Behind him, Clint Barton had been moving to lean against a wall, agile fingers running over an arrow held lightly in his hands even as next to him Maria Hill shifted to close the other door to the room. Apparently, the others had arrived via a different route and Steve forcibly quelled his irritation at the delay even as Natasha arched one pointed, perfect eyebrow at Clint, only to be met by the archer's shrug.

Obviously, an apology would not be forthcoming. Checking a sigh, Steve moved to usher Bucky into the room, only to be startled by his best friend ghosting straight past him, footsteps deliberately light and as silent as the gifted assassin he once had been.

The half-stammered greeting Banner had attempted between Stark's ongoing chatter had dribbled to nothing as Bucky had walked past him, ignoring the scientist as completely as he disregarded everyone else in the room. Moving purposefully, Bucky had come to rest in front of the large painting that dominated the end wall of the room. Being rather conventional in style, it wasn't - to Steve's well-trained eye - an example of portraiture innovation, but it was clearly the work of a master, and seeing it made his breath catch in his chest.

Howard Stark.

Howard. Older than when Steve had last seen him, but . . . Young, still, and unworn by time and cares and alcohol. Standing behind a chair in which a passably attractive dark-haired woman maybe a decade and a half his junior sat demurely. Somehow, the artist had caught Howard's brash confidence, the cheerfully roguish sparkle of his eyes and even a hint of possessive affection in the hand resting casually on the woman's shoulder.

In contrast to the masterly handling of his old friend, looking at the woman was like staring into an opaque mirror. No hint of her feelings, of her personality, was reflected in the painting though there seemed a lively intelligence to her, even through the medium of oil and pigment, that prevented her being dwarfed by the sheer weight of Howard's charisma. I guess that must be the woman Howard married. 'Maria' or something? Inevitably, though, it was the brushstroke rendering of Howard's face that drew Steve's eyes. And, Steve guessed, that had to be what was drawing Bucky's eyes as well, from the absorbed consideration he was paying to the painting.

That laser-like focus shifted, then, even as a tense silence descended on the room - no one quite sure what about Howard's picture had captured the ex-assassin's attention so completely, nor if it would set him off again - to Tony Stark.

Whose mocking half-smile in the face of such contemplation seemed - to Steve - a twisted, derisive echo of the confident grin that Howard had worn so very often and so very well.

"No wonder I keep getting told you're a brilliant, albeit self-destructive, genius with a penchant for heroism. It's obviously inherited." Bucky said bluntly, as if he and Stark were the only ones in the room. "The family resemblance is remarkable."

Steve's breath caught at that, even as his throat constricted. Even as he knew he was watching any chance of a cordial relationship between Bucky and the best chance for repair and maintenance of his arm go up in figurative flames. He could only hope Stark's explosive response - when it inevitably came - would be equally non-physical.

But Bucky was smiling. Not the large, toothy grin devoid of humour Steve remembered slashing across his face during the War nor the wild, mischievous smirk that had heralded his crazier escapades as a child. A small, faint, completely genuine smile of happiness illuminated his mouth an eyes . . . a smile of the sort that Steve had not seen grace his best friend's face since his rescue. And for that?

For that he could forgive Stark any outburst he chose to make in response. But Bucky wasn't done yet, and his next words rocked the now-frowning genius physically back on his heels even as his own reply died on his lips.

"You're Maria's boy." And the happiness, the sheer joyous relief that laced his quiet words was obvious to the entire room. "You're hers. You've got every bit of her genius and you're hers."

Silence. Weighty, almost vicious in its harshness. A deep stillness broken only by the stuttering breaths that Tony Stark seemed to be gulping. When he found his voice, though, it was calm. Precise. As sharp as a scalpel and every bit as cutting.

"I'm wondering how, precisely, a former Soviet assassin came to meet my socialite, philanthropist mother." Unspoken, but not unfelt, was the other half of that question. Did you kill her? Her and my father? Was the car accident you?

"He would have met her before she was a socialite. Or a philanthropist. Probably even before she was the brains of, driving force of, leader of, and single-handed engineer of the largest successful mass escape from Hydra since, well, Captain America's rescue of the 107th." Maria Hill said quietly, brows knotted as she looked at Stark. "I had thought you knew; Peggy Carter had a dossier about both the incident and the genius behind it filed in the S.H.I.E.L.D. archives. I assumed Fury had passed it on to you; after all, your mother was the innovative drive behind all of the truly original inventions Stark Industries came up with in the seventies, even if she seemed to abandon her passion for robotics after her marriage. Or," Maria paused, obviously considering her words with care.

"Or, she gave it up after she escaped from Hydra, having been coerced into constructing the mechanical arm that rendered their unparalleled assassin . . . unstoppable. Once Stark industries' technology branch really took off and the company became a financial powerhouse, she turned - or was pressured to turn - to philanthropy. She had had a child by that point and it would have been . . . safer."

Dimly, Steve found his mind flashing back to a pair of sceptical scientists . . . to a helecarrier hold full of Hydra weapons . . . to the pre-briefing personnel dossier containing a report detailing the perfectly timed 'discovery' of never-before-seen footage of Howard Stark praising his son as his greatest creation . . . to a pack of bloodstained collector cards splayed across a conference table.

Fury lied. Again. Still. More lies, more omissions. More manipulations.

Looking at the blank shock, the fractured heartache and soul-burning anger and a myriad of other emotions flittering across Tony Stark's face, each more quickly than the last, Steve felt his own anger rising. Fury lied, and one of my team is paying for it. Again.

In front of him, as if unconscious of his ire, Maria was still speaking. "Our files - heck, most magazine articles and fluff pieces - say you built a combustion engine for your father when you were nine. But you invented a robotic 'lab assistant' arm on wheels and equipped it with a rudimentary 'learning' program when you were ten, and nobody writes articles about that. "

"Dad and Obie wanted the missiles, and they didn't need robots, missiles were good but they had to be made better and I had to engineer better explosive compounds and the circuitry needed refining. . ." Quietly, without any of his usual bravado, Stark spoke almost to himself. ""She never talked about before she met Dad. Ever. Only, she was always worried about a metal arm. She worried it wouldn't be good enough, that the metal would fatigue, leave . . . someone . . . vulnerable . . . if the electronics failed, if it got deep-frozen too many times. I had to give her peace of mind. So I built her a metal arm. I built her Dummy, but he wasn't right. Not quite what she wanted, though I think she liked him . . . "

His head lifted, and Steve felt a dislocating stab of protective anger at the lost desolation flitting across Stark's - Tony's - momentarily unguarded face.

"That's the arm, isn't it? The one you've got. That's the arm my mother worried about. That's the arm she invented and perfected, and all just for you. Just for an assassin." Tony's voice was shaking, then, even as he stood rigid in the centre of the room.

"Did you? Did you use my mother's invention, her genius, to kill her?"

Comments and constructive criticism greatly appreciated - let me know what you think!

Author's Note:

Written because Fury is - canon - a manipulative little tosser, and while Tony Stark has massive Daddy issues, we've seen next to nothing about Maria Stark in the Iron Man/Avengers movies. Which makes this the logical next idea to explore.