Chapter Text
There are many stories about Tony Stark. Some say he was a decent man. Some say there was no good in him at all. But I once spent six weeks on the road with him in the winter of nineteen thirty one. This is our story.
…
Rock Island, Illinois
10th January 1931
Peter could see his breath cloud in front of him in a thick vapour and he swiftly pulled his long woollen brown scarf over his nose and mouth. Over his shoulder hung his tattered satchel, but it was sturdy enough to carry the newspapers he needed for his rounds.
It was a bitter, blustery Saturday and the youngster had to blow into his gloved hands a couple of times before he saddled his bicycle and headed into the city.
His mother had ensured he ate well that morning, the delicious milk toast a rare delicacy in the Stark household and something he and his little sister, Morgan, had inhaled enthusiastically the moment the plates were set down in front of them. Their mother had simply smiled and made no comment on their appalling table manners.
His father had not appeared for breakfast. No body made any comment about it as they never did. His father would eat when he was able and ready.
Peter sped along the outer industrial area of his hometown, the blistery wind nipping at the exposed cherry red skin on his face and he bit his lip harshly behind his scarf to suppress the wracking shivers down his body. His brown cap provided some semblance of warmth, but not enough against such boltic temperatures.
He passed the closed factories and then whizzed up to the ones where there was smoke billowing from the funnels and workers were beginning to pour out of the gated entrance.
After the stock market crash, many men in the city had to find other work to support their families after their jobs were lost and factories closed down. There were only a handful that remained open, the ones that could afford to keep people on.
Peter had seen the bread and soup lines around the city on many occasions for those poor souls who had no other means of finding food, as well as apple sellers on street corners, but it was always worse during the winter when crops, fruits and vegetables only grew in small bouts.
He knew that his family were relatively well off in comparison to many people in the city, living in a modest home on the edge of town and being able to eat two meals a day. The choices were certainly slim, with tinned soup and a small loaf of bread each serving as the primary evening meal most days, but they were lucky enough to often indulge in meat dishes served with potatoes, rice, onions, macaroni or even biscuits.
Sometimes, when he and his little sister were well behaved, their mother would slip them a nickel for the weekends where they could buy a Hostess Twinkie from the local shop, or even five cents on very special occasions for twin popsicles.
Others were not as fortunate as them. They were by no means rich, but they were content.
Peter skidded to a stop outside the John Deere Plant, his tyres crunching across the thick layer of snow that had fallen the previous night. It was the largest steel factory in the city and was one of the only locations where the majority of men had been permitted to keep their jobs. It was the best crowd for the newspaper sales.
There were already a stream of workers leaving and he waved one of the papers above his head, calling out to the closest man. He was a gruff looking fellow with a stubbled chin and he dug into his pocket for the change, hands cut and calloused from a hard day’s work.
“Here you go, son,” he said.
“Thank you, sir. Much obliged to you!” Peter grinned, cheerfully, waving another paper to attract the buyer’s colleagues. “Man dies in factory accident! Get your paper here! Hot off the press, only five cents!” He hollered, gladly accepting more change from several other men.
The chestnut haired boy only lingered for five more minutes, before getting back on his bike and riding past another huge factory. This one was also closed, so he carried on down the main street back into the centre of town.
Cars whooshed past him, only a few metres away from where he was cycling in the middle of the road, wheels springing grit and damp towards him.
Peter pulled up to a stop outside the drug store, a small building nestled between two boarded up shops. He made sure to wipe his dirty black lace up shoes at the door, before entering and dropping his satchel on the counter for Mr. Miller to count.
Peter unwrapped the scarp from his face, pulling it down so he would be able to speak clearly. He had a youthful, innocent face with inquisitive coffee coloured eyes, button nose and a look of wisdom which belied his years.
He paid for the papers he had sold on his round and as the owner was completing the transaction, Peter swiftly wiped a pouch of Bugler Tobacco from the counter just before the older man turned back round to face him. The boy took the commission change with his free hand, whilst slipping the packet into the waistband of his trousers.
“Thanks, Mr. Miller,” he spoke, before exiting the store. He swung his leg over the frame of his bicycle and pedalled away again, using one hand to steer and the other to puff at a pipe.
His father often smoked a pipe on evenings after supper and he was not allowed to try, so like every naturally curious youngster, he took the opportunities into his own hands.
Peter passed St. Peter’s catholic church (he’d always liked the building as he could pretend it was named after him) and coasted along a suburban street, before turning onto a long, tree-lined driveway leading to his home.
It was a large house, with a detached garage and woods surrounding the property. Before he reached the side door, he was suddenly struck by a freezing snowball which knocked him off course and he collapsed in a spectacular heap in the snow.
The pipe had been dislodged from his mouth, but he was quick to respond to the sudden assault. He gathered the snow in his hands and fired one back at the giggling little girl across the driveway, who fell backwards in a comical overexaggerated play of ‘dead’.
The two children lay for a moment in blissful contentment from their little game, before the sound of a car engine could be heard from the right. It was the family’s green Buick Series 50 approaching.
Their father was coming home.
Both immediately leapt to their feet, dusting off the snow that had gathered on their coats. They stood and watched as the car appeared in the driveway and Peter, in a quick flash after his thoughts caught up with his body, buried the fallen pipe in the snow with his foot.
The car drove past and Morgan, bubbly and bright as always, was grinning from ear to ear as she chased after the vehicle when it pulled into the garage.
Peter only stared after her.
…
A little later on in the evening, Peter was sitting in the kitchen with his textbook and workbook out on the table, the latter open on a blank page.
The school couldn’t afford to give the students many subject related books, so all of their work had to be recorded in a single notebook and because there were not enough teachers, Peter and Morgan were taught together. They had the basic education books for maths, science and literature but nothing else.
They were both sitting at the table doing their homework whilst their mother was cooking the usual vegetable soup. The eldest Stark excelled in maths and science at school, whereas his little sister’s strengths lay in reading and writing, as well as home economics. She was writing fluently in her own workbook and Peter’s remained blank with a complete lack of inspiration.
Virginia Stark sensed her son’s struggles when she heard the pencil drop on the page and the distinct short puff of air exhaled in frustration. She stilled the wooden spoon in the pan and moved over to him, bending to his height.
“I’ll help you with it later…” She whispered, conspiratorially, resulting in a pleased smile from the boy and she kissed his cheek, ruffling the unruly curls at the back of his head, affectionately. “You go fetch your father.”
Peter nodded and made his way up the wooden stairs onto the landing, where the lamp from his parents’ bedroom was casting a bright glow down the corridor.
The door was half open and his father walked into sight, but he wasn’t facing the boy, occupied with removing something from his grey suit trouser pocket and placing it on the double bed.
Peter, standing in his burgundy and yellow sweater and hands hooked in his pant pockets, watched cautiously from a distance. He was fascinated by the mysteries of his father’s ritual as it was something he very rarely was able to witness.
Tony removed his tie and gracefully lay it on the bed beside some keys and rosary beads Peter had never seen before. He removed a holstered Colt 45 and placed it next to them, movements careful and precise.
“Papa?” Peter spoke, softly.
Tony sensed his son’s presence even though the term of address was uttered so quietly. He hummed in response.
“Dinner’s ready.”
The older man removed his suit jacket and placed it over the gun. “Thank you.”
Peter walked back down the corridor, dismissed.
When his father arrived in the dining room, both children were silent and well-scrubbed. They listened to him prey for their dinner and all made the sign of the cross, before beginning to eat the most substantial meal of the day.
…
The next afternoon, Peter dressed in his Sunday best – a wool brown suit and tie with grey knickers, knee high socks and his smart brown boots. Morgan was dressed in a pretty black dress with a frilled white collar.
Tony, clothed in a dark grey toned suit and matching trilby hat perched atop his dark hazel tinted curls, went to start the car whilst his wife washed the dishes from a lunch of leftover soup from the night before.
Peter was the first to slide into the backseat where the engine was still running, as his mother had taken Morgan upstairs to brush her hair again. She was nine and was largely capable of dressing herself, but sometimes needed a little extra help.
“Peter,” his father spoke.
“Sir?”
“It’s a wake, so I don’t wanna see those dice.” Tony was resting his arm across the seat as he locked coffee coloured eyes with their smaller twins, pinning his son with the sternness of a firm parent.
“No, sir.”
Peter looked out of the window, very aware of the man’s observant gaze lingering on him through the rear view mirror. He was grateful when the girls arrived quickly.
They drove through town towards Mr. Rogers’ estate, pulling into the circular stone laden driveway dwarfed by a beautiful, large Victorian house. There were crowds of other families and individuals, all dressed in their best clothes as they traipsed into the mansion.
The interior hallway was stunning, archways donned with maroon curtains and chandelier lamps hanging from the ceiling, yet the dark mahogany left the large space feeling dark and cold.
There were lots of mourners milling about the place; old women, working men, scruffy children – people who appeared very out of place alongside such an ornate interior and fancy furniture.
Tony removed his hat and steered his family through the throng into the ante room, which was quiet and sparse of any people. There was an open casket with huge bunches of white roses and other flowers surrounding the coffin, as well as a couple of candles.
Peter, head level with his father’s shoulder, moved over to the coffin to pay their respects.
“I don’t want to go,” Morgan whispered from behind, her small hand tugging onto Virginia’s plain black dress.
She immediately bent down and held her daughter’s hand gently. “It’s alright, honey. Come on.”
“No, I’m scared.”
Her features softened in understanding and she relented, standing back and placing her arm over the little girl’s front for comfort, whilst her husband and son approached the casket.
The coffin was in front of a fire resting on a bed of ice and buckets were placed strategically underneath to catch the drips of water.
Peter, brow furrowing in confusion and curiosity, glanced towards his father as they kneeled, who noticed his musings. His son had always been inquisitive, and both parents had naturally become attuned to this.
“Ice helps preserve the body,” he explained.
They preyed and after a few seconds, Peter couldn’t sustain his interest any longer, peeking over the edge to chance a quick look at the dead man. His skin was very pale and waxy, and he had pennies on his eyes.
He pulled back the moment he sensed his father moving to make the sign of the cross and Peter followed his lead, unsure of the correct etiquette for such a formal occasion.
“Who’s got a hug for a lonely old man?” A friendly voice called.
Peter turned and grinned; both he and Morgan rushed over to Mr. Rogers, delighted to see the old man. He was in his seventies and still retained his handsome looks despite the age displayed in the wrinkles on his face, but he had clear eyes the colour of duck egg blue and he had been like a kind grandfather to the children.
“Pepper. Tony. Good to see you,” Rogers greeted, warmly, embracing the kids on both sides. “Did you bring the necessary?” He whispered for only Peter to hear and the boy nodded, surreptitiously.
“Yes!” Morgan whispered in excitement.
“If you excuse me, I have some urgent business with these young’uns,” Rogers addressed the parents and he lead the siblings away, one hanging on each arm.
Tony watched them depart, quietly amused.
Mr. Rogers took them down to the basement and played Bottom’s Up, which the kids (especially Peter) were very gifted at and both leapt into the air in elevation when they won.
“Yeah!” Peter cheered.
“Winner! Winner!” Morgan laughed.
Rogers had removed his black suit jacket, the sleeves of his crisp white shirt rolled up as he sat on an old wine crate, mopping his perspired brow with his handkerchief. He was pretending to be devasted with his loss.
“Call the cops. I know hustlers when I see ‘em,” he gravelled.
“No hustle ol’ timer!” Peter joked.
“Pay the man!” Morgan jumped in.
Rogers pulled the boy aside, sliding an arm around his shoulders in a paternal gesture.
“Upstairs, jacket pocket in my study. Before I change my mind,” he supplied, a twinkle in his eye.
Peter smiled and scampered off, running up the stairs to the first floor where the corridor was just as glamorous as the ground floor. He hooked his fingers into his trouser pockets again, searching for the old man’s study as he slowed to a walk. He eventually found the right door at the end of the hallway and he slowly pushed it open, noticing light coming from a couple of lamps inside.
It was a large room, with a fireplace and ornate rug on the mahogany floor, along with two comfy burgundy chairs and a sofa where a man in his early thirties lounged smoking a cigarette, a glass of whisky sitting on a table beside him.
It was very dark because the curtains were drawn.
Peter didn’t know the man and it was difficult to clearly see his face in the poor light.
“Hello,” the man greeted.
“Hello…”
“Peter, right?”
“Yes, sir.” The boy couldn’t stop fidgeting with his hands out of nerves.
“Sir? You don’t have to call me sir. I’m not your Pa,” the blonde chuckled, taking a drag of smoke.
“No, Mister Rogers.”
“Call me Steve. No, call me Uncle Steve.”
Peter smiled politely at the joke and glanced over to one of the seats where he could see Rogers’ jacket on the back of a desk chair. He considered going over to find the money but felt too intimidated and didn’t want to impose any more than he probably already had.
“What do you want?”
“Mr. Rogers sent me to get his jacket.”
“Why don’t you come back later, huh? I’m busy.” Steve said this fairly pleasantly, but his tone sounded final and leaving no room for argument.
Peter couldn’t wait to get out of the room. He felt like the walls were rapidly closing in on him with every second he spoke to the man.
“Yes…sir,” he murmured, leaving and closing the door behind him.
…
When night fell, all of the guests gathered in the mansion’s grand parlour, where Mr. Rogers stood in front of the grand fireplace to deliver a speech.
One of his men tapped a glass with a spoon and a quiet hush soon followed amongst the crowd as all eyes were drawn to the elder patriarch with instant respect. He had a written speech in his hand.
“Hello, hello! I want to welcome you all to my home. It’s good to have so many friends in this house again. Since Mary died, it’s…well…it’s just been me and my boy, rattling around in these rooms…” He unfolded the piece of paper, but after a moment, decided against reading from it. “I had this speech prepared, but it would be dishonest of me to say that I knew Danny well…but lose one of us, it hurts us all.”
There were quiet murmurs of approval.
“I’ll tell you what I do remember though, and Finn will remember this too. Danny on the high school football team. A champion game: down six points, ten seconds left to play, four yard to go. Danny tackles his own quarterback.”
Bright laughter spread through the room.
“Mistakes…you know, we all make’em God knows.” He looked towards a stiffly smiling Finn McGovern, Danny’s brother, who just continued to listen. “Let’s drink to Danny’s honour. Let’s wake him to God-”
All around the large space, the whiskey bottles came out and followed Rogers’ lead as he raised his own. “-and hope he gets to heaven at least an hour before the Devil finds out he’s dead.”
Peter watched as the crowd cried “Amen!” and drank together, echoing Mr. Rogers when he announced, “To Danny!”.
“And now, our good friend, Finn McGovern, will say a few words. Words, I’ll wager, that have a little more poetry than mine,” Rogers continued, which was followed by applause as the dark haired slightly large man took the stage. He was hugged by the old man, before he took out his own written speech.
His hands were visibly shaking.
“Thank you, John. My brother Danny wasn’t wise, nor was he gentle and with a skinfull of liquor in him…he was a pain in the ass.”
There was gentle laughter.
“But he was loyal and brave, and he never told a lie…He’d have enjoyed this party. Me and the family, we want to say thank you to our generous host. Where would this town be without Mr. John Rogers. God love you.”
Everyone murmured in warm approval of the statement, some men clapping in appreciation of the old man, who bowed his head humbly in response.
McGovern turned to Mr. Rogers then, stuffing his crumpled paper into the inside pocket of his waistcoat. “I’ve worked for you many years now, John, nearly half my life…and we’ve never had a disagreement…but…”
Rogers was watching the man steely, body tense and ridged and a strange sense of suspense seemed to be engulfing the two. It wasn’t immediately obvious to everyone in the room.
McGovern suddenly sniffled, his voice raising a few octaves. “I’ve come to realise that you rule this town as God rules the earth…you give and take away-“
He never got to finish his statement.
Peter’s father swiftly moved forward, a seemingly friendly exterior through an offered hand as he firmly, but gently, grabbed hold of Finn’s arm and lead him towards the door at the back.
Steve Rogers was following closely behind, as well as a few other men who had been standing beside Finn.
Peter had noticed this confusing turn of events and trailed behind the group as they walked out into the cold night, just as the band started playing a cheerful Irish gig at the silent request of Mr. Rogers.
McGovern’s men were walking ahead to a car parked in the circular driveway, one getting behind the wheel and starting the engine, whilst the other opened the passenger door.
Finn was leaning heavily on Tony, clearly drunk and overwhelmed by the evening’s proceedings. Steve caught up with them and attempted to aid the man from his other side, but Finn roughly swiped his meaty arm away with a snarl.
“I’m going to bury my brother, then I’m going to deal with you,” he threatened, darkly.
Stark rolled his eyes by the drunken rave of a man who had definitely downed too many bottles.
“Uh huh, sure, Finn, sure. You’ll take care of all of us once you get a good night’s sleep,” he responded, helping him into the car, which pulled away instantly.
Mr. Rogers approached the two remaining men from behind. “Is he alright?” He asked in slight concern.
“Yeah, he’s fine,” Steve spoke, casually. “Just too much to drink. I’ll talk to him.”
“Take Tony with you.”
“No, Pa, I’ll be-“
“Take Tony with you,” Rogers reiterated, sternly. His tone, like his son’s, also left no room for argument, but this was the voice of a wiser older man with infinitely more life experience and authority which his only son could not refuse. “Just talk. Nothing more.” He walked back towards the house.
Peter watched the interaction carefully from the front doorway and his father turned to meet the boy’s gaze. His eyebrows narrowed as he wondered what Peter had heard and whether he had understood anything, but before he could address this, Peter bowed his head and walked back inside the mansion.
The whole room was alight with the delightful music of a much loved Irish composition and the majority of attendees had taken up an energetic dance in the centre, linking arms and holding hands as they swung and dipped to the tune.
Peter sat off to side, tapping his foot and clapping in time to the music, laughing as he watched his little sister giving the adults a run for their money as she tap-danced with the others.
A girl with blonde hair, dressed in a hand-me-down formal dress approached him and took his hand, asking him to dance. He stood but declined the offer apologetically. Across the room, Peter’s father was also standing on the side-lines watching the dance, chewing on his last bite of a pickle sandwich as he placed his plate on a nearby table.
Once the joyful tune had finished with a crescendo of instruments, a short silence dissolved into the sound of a piano being played with gentle fingers on keys. Peter did not recognise the tune, but his father did as an Irish Air and when Peter looked over, he saw Mr. Rogers sitting at the grand piano playing.
The room slowly went quiet.
Tony moved towards him once the older man caught his eye, placing his half drunk whiskey glass on the shiny black cover of the instrument, joining him on the piano stool.
Peter had never seen his father play a musical instrument before and was mesmerised by the scene as Tony played the song with Mr. Rogers, although rather hesitant at first, but then gradually moving with more ease after a few moments.
The song was melancholic and delicate, but also rich with emotion and it was clear by the way his father’s tense shoulders dropped and body relaxed that this was a significant piece of music which somehow resembled the connection he and Mr. Rogers shared.
Their hands moved in concert and it was as if no one else was in the room with them, it was like something magical that words could not explain.
Once the melody finished with a soft appraisal of chords, the crowd applauded, moved by the sheer magnetic beauty of the music and the chemistry between the players.
Peter clapped along with the others, grinning in pride and awe at his father’s musical ability and the genuine moment of affection when Mr. Rogers smiled at the younger man and slung a warm arm around his shoulders, much like he had done with Peter earlier.
…
Later on, after the Stark family had returned home and retired for the night, Peter sat up in bed with his flashlight on his small Lone Ranger comic book.
He wasn’t the best writer, but he loved reading stories and it was helpful that these books had a short piece of text on the left hand page and a single, captioned black and white cartoon on the right.
There was a drawing of an open window with curtains billowing in the wind and the caption read: ‘moonlight streamed into the room’.
He was pulled from his reading when Morgan knocked gently on the door and shuffled in, clutching her favourite teddy close to her chest.
“Petey?”
“What’s up?”
“I had a nightmare,” she whispered, not wanting to wake their parents up. “It was about Mr. Rogers’ house.”
Peter shone the torchlight towards the shadowed figure, seeing the pale face and slight trembles wracking his sister’s frame. “It’s just a house, a big house. There’s nothing to be scared of, go back to bed.”
“I don’t want to…it’s dark and scary.”
He sighed, exasperatedly and lifted the edge of the cover in invitation. She scampered over and cuddled into the boy’s side, still holding her bear as she looked at what he was reading curiously.
“Is Mr. Rogers rich?”
“Yes.”
“Are we rich?”
“No.”
Peter turned the page, holding the torch around his sister’s head as she rest her head on his chest. The second cartoon was of a dark figure with a fedora hat and the caption read: ‘a man climbed in at the window.’
“What’s Papa’s job?” Morgan asked after a moment.
“He works for Mr. Rogers.”
“Why?”
“Well, Papa didn’t have a father, so Mr. Rogers looked after him.”
“I know that,” she stressed. “But what’s his job?”
Peter went silent, eyes training off the book as he considered. He didn’t know what their father actually did when he was away, but he always took his gun because the boy had seen him disarming the weapon a few times before supper (even if he got the feeling he wasn’t supposed to).
Peter didn’t want to admit his lack of understanding, especially to his little sister, and he tried to escape back in the Lone Ranger.
“He goes on missions for Mr. Rogers…they’re very dangerous, that’s why he brings his gun…” He turned the page to another picture of the character now drawn in full light with a dark mask over his face and the caption read: ‘he had the Sheriff covered.’ “Sometimes even the President sends him on missions, because Papa was a war hero and all.”
Morgan stared up at him, sweet face contorting in disbelief. “You’re just making that up!”
“I am not!”
She grumbled incoherently but nuzzled closer and Peter rolled his eyes fondly. He clicked the torch off and placed his book on the bedside table, shuffling down to wrap his arms around her and try and get some rest.
He spent the night drifting in and out of sleep, dreaming of his father fighting bad men and performing heroic acts.
…
The next morning, Peter dressed in a smart white shirt, brown pullover vest and matching tie, with his brown knickers, grey socks and boots, before heading down to the kitchen for breakfast. It was toast and marmalade, or cereal.
Tony joined the family a few minutes after the children started eating, straightening his brown suit jacket and sitting down as his wife poured him a coffee.
“Morgan, I can’t come to your play tonight. I’m working,” he announced.
The girl’s eyes flickered to her older brother’s in curiosity. She also had been thinking about the conversation herself and Peter had the night before. “Working at what?”
“Putting food on your plate, young lady,” their mother spoke swiftly and eyed her sternly.
Peter chewed on the toast, feigning disinterest, even though he couldn’t deny the overwhelming intrigue bubbling up inside him.
“Alright, kids, come on. Clear the plates,” his father said.
Morgan took her cereal bowl towards the sink and Tony caught her gently by the wrist before she could turn away, smiling at her lovingly and pulling her into a warm hug. “You’re a good girl.”
She returned the smile, leaning forward to press a quick kiss to his cheek.
Her brother watched the interaction quietly and stood to clean his own plate.
…
Peter spent most of the day at school staring out of the window in deep thought. His notebook and science books lay open with only a few lines written as he watched the sky gradually darken with ominous rainclouds creating a grey haze across the city.
When he returned home, slowing to a stop outside the house, he glanced towards the garage.
The mystery and unspoken words regarding his father’s job still plagued his mind ever since his short conversation with Morgan the night before and it had been a heavy type of day where he had felt trapped within his own head and had no way of escaping his lingering thoughts.
A crazy idea struck him in that moment and it was the kind of idea that was so perfect, it was impossible not to go along with. He could only hope that he could find more out about his father’s secretive job if he followed through with his plan.
…
The rain finally broke the ominous cloud layer at around seven o’clock that night, huge droplets of water streaming down in bucket loads and quickly melting clumps of snow into slushy mud down the roads.
Tony opened the doors to the garage and headed towards a cupboard where he took a black case and placed it on the back seats of the car, before getting into the driver’s seat and pulling out.
The rain was so heavy and relentless that he immediately had to switch the wipers on to see the road ahead clearly. He pulled up outside the Hotel Florence, where Steve ran out of the foyer, pulling the top of his trench coat over his head for shelter, and climbed into the passenger seat.
They were heading for the industrial area of town where the factories were for the urgent business Mr. Rogers had assigned them the day before concerning Finn McGovern.
“You want a shot?” Steve asked, offering a red flask and his partner shook his head.
Rogers shrugged and took a huge gulp of whatever alcoholic concoction was inside. Tony had high suspicions that the young man was already high, but he made no comment about it.
“We’re just talking to him. Right?” Tony said.
“Sure.” Steve lit a cigarette, crumpled up the empty packet and tossed it over his shoulder, where it landed on the black case.
The rain hammered the roof of the car as they slowed to a stop in a narrow alley surrounded by large industrial brick buildings and warehouses. Tony reached around to take the case and the two left the vehicle.
As soon as the harsh sound of doors slamming shut deceased, the lid to the backseats lifted and out crawled Peter. The glass was still steamed up and vision was already blurred from the rain, but the boy could just about see the forms of his father and Steve Rogers.
There was a lamp over the back entrance to the warehouse, where Steve knocked on the large wooden doors and Peter’s father appeared to be holding some kind of long black object, but the boy could not make out what it was.
He climbed over the front seat to see them better, only to breathe too harshly on the window, causing it to fog up. He wiped it away with his sleeve, but the two figures had disappeared.
Peter made the split second decision to leave the car and approach the door, hearing voices as he crept closer. There was a tiny gap in between the doors so he could only see a hanging lamp from the ceiling and a few barrels stacked up in the corner.
He glanced to the side and spotted a smaller door beside a fire hydrants where more light was streaming from the bottom as a few planks had rotted away and he moved over to peer through the gap, squirming a little at the uncomfortable feeling of cold water seeping through his pants.
Mr. McGovern was sitting on a chair, a cloud of smoke billowing in front of him from a cigarette and Steve was sitting across from him, but there was no sign of Peter’s father.
“…don’t get me wrong, Finn. I feel for you, I do, but you can’t let a thing like that give you cause to go mouthing off. You and my dad go back many years, he’s a just man,” Steve spoke, smiling sympathetically, rising to walk behind the man. “So, what do you say?”
A pair of smart black shoes suddenly stepped in front of the gap, partially obstructing Peter’s view and when the man spoke, he realised it was his father. “Come on now, Finn. Let’s make this easy, you’ve just gotta keep your mouth shut.”
McGovern sighed quietly and nodded.
“We can’t hear you!” Steve said, voice raising in volume and the sense of threat.
“Alright.”
Rogers smiled. “Good. Thank you…and I’m sorry, I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry for the misunderstanding…and I’m sorry your brother was such a fuckin’ liar.”
He was making for the door, trilby hat in hand, when two of McGovern’s men stepped out from the shadows. They were both carrying rifles.
Finn squirmed uncomfortably in his seat, as if he was wrestling with himself on whether or not he should choose to speak. “My brother was not a liar.”
“Excuse me?” Steve’s charm was quickly dissolving into something really dangerous.
“To protect my family and keep my job, I’ll stay quiet,” Finn continued. “But don’t think I don’t know something’s going on and don’t think I won’t find out what it is.”
Peter, through his father’s legs, could see the men begin to raise their guns, but McGovern shot them a look.
“Easy, we’re just talking.” Finn turned back to Steve, who was now standing behind his chair a little to the right, a cool steeling look in his eyes. “You tell your father; my brother never stole from him. I’ve checked the books, he never stole no booze to no-one. Every single barrel is accounted for. Anyway, if he’d’a sold it, where’s the money?”
“Fuck should I know? D’you check his mattress?”
“Maybe you should check yours.”
Steve scoffed. “Look, there’s something immoral here, don’t you think so, Tony? My beloved father throws your underserving little brother the wake of his life and this is your thank you? What a hideous world this is.”
McGovern echoed the dry, humourless sound. “You think you’re so smart?! You think we don’t know? I mean, you’ve been spending so much time in Chicago-“
BAM BAM!
In a split second, Steve had whipped out a pistol and put two bullets in the man’s head, sending him whizzing to the floor.
Peter, eyes as wide as saucers, pressed his hands to his ears as more gun fire crashed around him when his father shot McGovern’s men, brass casings crashing to the ground.
One of the men fell to the floor a moment later, his eyes still open and blood pouring down the side of his face. His lifeless eyes were level with Peter’s. The boy was frozen in terror, horrified.
Steve was breathing heavily, wiping the sweat of his brow with a gloved hand.
“What was that?!” Tony demanded, angrily.
“We’re outta here.” Steve moved towards the door, seemingly shaken by his own brutality.
“Jesus Christ, Steve, fuck! What the hell are you thinking?!”
Rogers kept walking, until he spotted Peter’s hand under the small door. “There!” He pointed, and Tony turned his Tommy gun on the figure, who swiftly scampered away.
Tony barged out into the alley, brandishing his weapon and almost slipping on the wet gravel as the rain pounded down on him, but he chased the figure.
Peter quickly found his exit blocked by a huge iron fence and he cowered in defeat, slipping to the freezing cold floor and huddling in on himself, his coat becoming soaked in seconds.
“Oh Jesus…” The elder Stark stared in disbelief at his twelve year-old son crouched like a small child playing hide and seek. His twelve year-old son who had just seen everything…had seen him shoot and kill two men…seen Steve…
“Peter?”
The boy recoiled and ducked his head, too afraid to answer.
“Are you hurt?” Tony demanded in intense concern.
There was a long pause. His child crouched there in the corner of the alley in clear shock. He eventually shook his head ‘no’.
“You saw everything?”
Of course he did, but the man still had some slither of wishful thinking within him. He wasn’t an optimist, so God knows why.
A nod.
“Jesus…” Tony glanced back to Steve approaching them, mind reeling as he calculated a whole new host of dangers that came from this revelation.
His son was shivering in the rain.
“You cannot speak to anyone about this, do you understand? Not to anyone!” Tony lectured firmly.
Peter could only stare at the two nightmare figures standing a few metres away from him, listening to his father being the farthest thing from his mind in that moment. He just wanted to run away and go home, to seek his mother’s warm embrace and be reassured, to feel safe.
“Who’s this? Is this one of yours?” Steve asked. He could barely see the youngster’s face in the thick haze of rain.
“He must’ve been hiding in the car.”
“Well, can he keep a secret?” His voice was calm now.
“He’s my son,” Tony supplied, eyeing his comrade closely with dark eyes, gauging the other carefully.
There was tense pause, until Steve eventually composed himself and glanced at Peter one last time, before turning back to the boy’s father.
“Good enough for me. You take him home. I think I’ll take a walk,” he said, pulling his coat collar up. “Perfect night for a stroll.”
He turned and walked down the alley; without looking back, he waved at the guarded older man.
The drive home was silent, apart from the continuous downpour on the roof and windows of the car. Tony reversed into the garage and killed the engine, both sitting and looking at their home, neither quiet ready to go in.
“Does Mama know?” Peter asked, quietly, refusing to look the man in the eye.
“Your mother knows I love Mr. Rogers. When we had nothing, he gave us a home. A life. We owe him…Do you understand?”
The boy swallowed, thickly, his mind still replaying the gunfire over and over again.
“Do you understand?”
He turned to look at his father, who was watching him closely and expecting an answer.
“Yes.” Peter nodded.
“Alright…Come on inside.”
When he stripped down to his undershirt and pulled a pyjama top and pants over his body, Peter lay in bed facing the ceiling. His eyes were wide open, and his hands were balled into fists.
He could hear his sister’s voice outside as she was put to bed and then less than five minutes later the door to his bedroom creaked open slightly, the light from the hallway slipping through the gap. His mother approached the bed, soft hand reaching out to push some hair away from his fore-head, smiling tenderly down at him.
Peter blinked back tears; she couldn’t see them in the dark void of his room.
He sat up and wrapped his arms around her, eyes burning when he did not feel as safe and comforted as he thought he might back in the alleyway. She hugged him tightly and stroked a hand through his messy curls, eventually releasing him so he could lay back down.
Peter soaked up the light kiss his mother placed on his fore-head like a sponge. He wished he was younger, so he could cling to her and cry for her affections, but he knew he couldn’t.
When she left the room, the boy turned onto his side and closed his eyes. He didn’t sleep for the whole night.