Sad little blurb surrounding the Starks' deaths... there's some Agent Carter stuff in here, not really spoiler territory, but just fyi (and the bit about a certain waitress/actress being the future Mrs. Stark is totally just my personal headcanon, and is probably totally wrong...)

Usual disclaimers apply. Enjoy.

He wouldn't go to the funeral.

Obediah had stood outside the door for almost an hour, trying to convince him to come out, but no amount of shouting or bribing or quiet begging would make him put on his most expensive suit and get in that damned limousine out to a very public funeral service. He had grown up in the uncomfortable spotlight of fame and fortune, and he had never before shied away from it, but today was not just any day.

Today, he could not stand and shake hands with a smile, or face the false apologies of his father's business associates, or their society spouses, who were only there to gawk and gossip. Today, he could not abide the flash of paparazzi cameras or the questions of reporters. Today, he could not even stand the company of those few who were closest to him. Not that there were many of those left now. Rhodey had come by, and even though Tony appreciated the gesture, his friend hadn't gotten any further into the garage than Uncle Obie had.

He knew, of course, that this was not the healthiest reaction, and he knew he would be labeled a selfish brat before too long for refusing to attend his own parents' funeral. But hell if he could help any of that. This was who he was. And he would mourn however he fucking wanted to.

Today, that meant taking the hot rod apart and putting her back together.

He heard rapping on the door again, and reached over to twist the volume dial on his stereo higher. The knocking persisted. Finally, sick of Obediah's meddling, he slapped the 'off' switch on the stereo and stomped over to the door. Maybe he resembled more an angry twelve-year-old right now than the nineteen-year-old heir to Stark Industries, but he didn't really give a shit.

"Obie, I told you to fuck off, I don't want to go to the damned-" he sputtered himself into silence mid-sentence, because it was most certainly not Obediah Stane standing on the other side of the door. She looked vaguely familiar, this woman; perhaps his mother's age, with carefully-curled dark hair that was slowly turning to grey, she wore a dark suit and black pumps. Her hair might have started going grey, but her dark, piercing eyes were still sharp, and her raised eyebrow disapproving. He stared at the ground sheepishly.

"You're not Obie," he managed after a moment. The woman's brow quirked again.

"Worked that out, have you?" she asked, her accent crisp and British, her tone slightly amused.

"Sorry about… uh, I didn't mean to…" he rubbed at the back of his head, unsure of who she was or what he should say.

"You don't have the slightest idea who I am, do you?"

"Uh, no," he admitted, studying her carefully, "Should I?"

"We've met before," she continued, pushing past him and breezing into the garage, heedless of his protests, "Though I suppose it was rather a long time ago. You were quite young."

"Okay," he closed the door turned back to her, "Are you a friend of my parents, or something? Because I don't know what to tell you, lady, they're not-"

"Not here? Yes, I am well aware of that. I was just at their funeral," her voice was as sharp as her gaze, "I had hoped I might see you there. Imagine my surprise when Mr. Stane informed me that you were indisposed."

He knew his eyes had glazed over and his jaw had clenched, because he had become well accustomed to the way people reacted to his 'I'm pissed off and I don't want to talk to you' face over the years. Mostly people got uncomfortable and left him alone after a few seconds. This lady wasn't having it, though.

"Look, I don't know who the hell you are, or what you want, but I-"

"My name is Peggy Carter," the woman interrupted him, and though her voice was still angry, suddenly her eyes had softened and were full of something suspiciously like tears, "Your parents were very dear friends of mine, though it seems we had thoroughly lost touch before the end if you don't even know my name. And I came because I wanted to tell you how incredibly sorry I am. And, in case you were wondering, Mr. Stark, I am not saying that simply because it is what people say in times like this. Howard and A- Maria were like family to me once. I had hoped their son would be less of a cad."

With that, she stormed towards the door.

She was wrong, of course; he knew who she was now. He even half-remembered the time they had been introduced before. He'd been five or six years old. During the first Stark Expo… mostly what little he remembered was a blur, but he did remember his mother running up to a pretty, dark-haired woman and squealing like a little girl as they embraced; and he remembered the lady smiling and hugging his father too, and he thought that might have been the first time he'd ever seen Dad smile for real. And then Mom picked him up and turned so he could see the lady.

"Tony, baby, this is Aunt Peg. She's your mommy's best friend in the world."

"Hello, there, Anthony," Aunt Peg had smiled. It was the stiff, unsure sort of smile common to adults who'd had very little experience with children, but at least she'd tried.

"I liked your accent," he said softly all of the sudden, and even as she was halfway out into the hallway, she stopped and turned to stare at him.

"Pardon?"

"We were at the Expo. You bought me an ice cream. And I told you I liked the way you talk."

"Yes," Peggy eased the door closed behind her, "And then you told me all about the car you and Howard were working on."

Her eyes drifted to the half-dismantled hot rod sitting on blocks in the middle of the floor.

"I don't remember that."

"Well, you were very proud of it then," she smiled sadly, "Did you ever actually finish it?"

"Three or four times," he almost smiled then too. Their time spent together on the hot rod was one of the few times he and Howard had ever gotten along, "One of us always ended up taking it apart again. Then we'd fix it together. Maybe I…"

Maybe that's what I'm doing. Maybe I'm taking it apart so he'll come back and fix it.

He didn't tell her how desperately he wished his father would come back and fix it. He didn't seem to need to.

"Howard and I weren't always on the best of terms," she said sadly, "He could be so infuriating sometimes, how could I help it? I never understood how she put up with him. But then, love is love, isn't it? If any two people in the world were made for one another…"

"The Industrialist and the Actress?" he found himself grinning.

"Well, she spent years playing hard to get, perhaps that was how she managed to convince him to put a stop to his… ahem, habits," she shuddered at some distasteful memory and it made him laugh.

"One thing I never understood," he asked, because he was curious, and because Peggy might actually know the answer, "Why did she change her name?"

"Oh, that," Peggy waved him off as if the answer was obvious, "Why else? Some producer told her it rolled off the tongue better. And she thought it was more classic and dramatic. Ridiculous. Then again, I suppose I'm the pot calling the kettle black. Still. She'll always be Angie to me."

He nodded, his smile slipping a little as he slumped into a nearby chair and stared at the disassembled car forlornly, "It's like they aren't really gone. I keep thinking she's going to come downstairs and ask if I've eaten something in the last four hours. Or tell me to turn the music down, or go to sleep already. I keep expecting him to walk in a pick up a tool. I feel like… if I stay here, they aren't really dead. If I just keep that door shut, they aren't gone, and everything will be okay. But it's not, is it?"

"No, it's not," she said after a few seconds, "And that's alright. Right now, it isn't supposed to be. But that doesn't mean it will be this way forever."

"You mean it stops hurting?"

"No," she sucked in a quick breath and blinked away tears, "No, it never quite stops hurting. There's always an odd little ache, in the back of your heart. But it gets better, after a while, I promise it does. Eventually, it doesn't hurt quite so much, or quite so often. And eventually, one day, you'll realize that it's time to move on, and when that day comes… you find a way to carry them with you."

"Who do you carry with you?" he asked in a voice so low he wasn't even sure if she had heard him at first. Her face fluttered through a rainbow of emotions, before it settled into a wistful sort of sadness.

She studied him for a long moment, "Now, I realize you will be quite busy, but I will make this one small demand of you."

"What's that?" he asked wryly, not really caring that she had ignored his question.

"Don't be a stranger, Anthony."

He smiled faintly as she slipped through the door, "Yes, Ma'am."

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