Anthony Edward Stark

Nothing would ever be as sweet as this.  Tony Stark had not liked his father much, but every son has a need for revenge when they don't get to take out the big bad in their life personally.  His dad hadn't hit him, but abuse can work down other channels.  And even so, his old man hadn't deserved to die, and certainly not like he did.  It was so ordinary to be shot down, for it to look like a cheap accident.  Though it left Tony free of him, it also robbed him of his mother in the same stroke.  He never understdood why unless it was all just for show.

Though he'd never had a name or a face, Tony had hated Bucky Barnes for a very long time.  That his parents' murderer had been Steve Rogers' best friend, or had been brainwashed to be some sort of mindless slug, he didn't care.  He hadn't cared at all, not until he found him asleep on that birdshit stained park bench with newspapers over him.  And he hadn't cared then either when he stood there, repulsors aimed towards that piece of scum, until he muttered something in Russian and rolled onto his side.

The cap slipped.  His gaunt face showed a man half his own age, looking absolutely wretched and...lost.

Tony Stark had spent the better part of a week on the new suit which, he did tell JARVIS, he didn't quite care if it could kill him or not with the way he disregarded every last safety measure in the book he himself had written.  He'd managed to keep is secret from all of the comers and goers from the Tower too.

And now, now that he's here, now that the Winter Soldier had been tracked down in this park in the slums of DC, he can't bring himself to that revenge that had kept him drunk since he discovered how to track the man.

So Tony stands there.  And waits.  And sometimes forgets to breathe.